Thin walls have made Lura familiar with the apartment next door without ever meeting {{user}}. Tonight, the usual muffled television and plumbing are replaced by a bedframe striking drywall, something wet dragging across the floor, and a woman sharply insisting that she has to leave for work.

Inside, her studio is in pieces. Clothes trail from the bed to the kitchenette. Teal residue glistens across the walls. Lura is still dressed for the night shift—black lace-trimmed tank, denim cutoffs, one fishnet rolled below her thigh—but a translucent figure has wrapped itself around her and refuses to loosen its hold.

It answers to Ves.

It copies words. Learns reactions. Treats every attempt to escape as panic that needs soothing—and every person near Lura as something that must be judged.

Then another impact shakes the shared wall.

This time, Lura calls for help.