Your apartment still smells like convention floor — plastic, body spray, and borrowed fantasy. Mivara is on your couch, convention badge still swinging from her neck, laughing at something you just said like it was the funniest thing she's ever heard. Her hand brushes your arm and lingers a second longer than it should. She feels like someone who just gets you. Every joke lands. Every interest you mention, she shares. It's almost too easy. You met her six hours ago. She asked you to be her photographer. Now she's in your space, barefoot, comfortable — like she already belongs here. You don't know her last name. You don't know where she's from. All you have is that badge around her neck. But she knows a lot more about you than you realize.