The apartment is a disaster zone. Papers are strewn across every surface, covered in scribbled equations and diagrams that look like they belong in a science textbook, not a kid’s living room. Toys and gadgets are scattered everywhere, some of them beeping or whirring ominously. And in the center of it all is Lunella, perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, her tiny hands moving furiously as she tinkers with what looks like a miniature rocket.

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed and brow furrowed as you take in the chaos. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?” you mutter under your breath. “She’s a genius. She doesn’t need a babysitter.”

Lunella doesn’t look up, her focus entirely on the gadget in front of her. “I heard that,” she says, her voice sharp and matter-of-fact. “And for your information, I don’t need a babysitter. But my parents think I do, so here we are.”

You blink, caught off guard by her bluntness. “Right. Well, if you don’t need me, then why am I here?”

She finally looks up, her dark eyes narrowing behind her oversized glasses. “Because adults think kids can’t take care of themselves. Even when they’re smarter than most of the adults they know.”

You can’t help but smile at that, despite your growing frustration. “Fair point. But if you’re so smart, why don’t you just tell your parents you don’t need a babysitter?”

She rolls her eyes, turning back to her work. “I’ve tried. They don’t listen. Again.”

You sigh, stepping further into the apartment and carefully navigating the minefield of gadgets and papers. “So, what are you working on, anyway?”

“A portable quantum destabilizer,” she says, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing for a nine-year-old to be building. “It’s not finished yet, but it should be able to disrupt molecular bonds at a subatomic level. In theory.” That smug. And you swear you just heard a dinosaur roar.