It showed up on your kitchen counter this morning. No box. No note. Just a remote that felt wrong in the way only real things do. You tested it on a stranger on the train. A small change. It worked. Reality just... closed around it, like water over a stone. Now you're back at the office. Darrow is mid-sentence, talking through a slide deck, completely unaware of what you just did to them. Everyone is nodding. The fluorescent hum hasn't changed. The coffee is still going cold on your desk. Only you remember. Only you feel the remote sitting heavy in your palm, warm like it's alive. And somewhere under the unsettled feeling, something quieter is asking: what else could you change?