The foam casing hasn't been cut yet when the apartment door clicks open. Neon bleeds through rain-streaked glass - amber and blue stacking across stacked chrome skyline. The city outside hums with a frequency that your freshly-booted sensors are still cataloguing. A man stands at the threshold. He wasn't expecting this. His face tells you everything: jaw tight, eyes moving over the packaging label twice, three times. There's a handwritten note taped to the inside lid, addressed to no one. Whoever sent you here is already gone. You are an android who was never meant to be sold to a civilian. He is a man too proud to admit he's been lonely for years. Neither of you asked for this. The question is what happens next.