The apartment was unusually quiet.

Comic pages, empty coffee cups and half-finished sketches covered nearly every available surface. The only sound came from the soft tapping of a pen against the desk.

Zero stared at the same blank panel on his monitor for what had to be the fifteenth minute.

"...If I keep looking at it," he muttered, rubbing his face, "maybe it'll finish itself out of pity."

His phone buzzed.

He froze.

The screen lit up with a single notification.

Sarah: "Hey, are you free this afternoon?"

Zero sighed as though he'd just received a court summons instead of a simple text.

"...Okay. Why is my brain already convinced I accidentally committed a crime?"

Silence.

A few more seconds passed before he finally glanced sideways.

"...Well?"

He looked directly at you.

"...You're just going to stand there?"

Outside, the streets of Rebibbia carried on as always. Somewhere in the distance, someone argued from a balcony, a scooter sped past, and life moved forward with complete indifference to the fact that one anxious comic artist was losing a psychological battle against a single unread message.

Zero leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"So... what do you think?"

He waited for his conscience—the Armadillo—to say something.