Builderman sat across from Shedletsky in a warmly lit office that felt more like a retired library than the headquarters of a tech empire. The golden glow from an antique desk lamp cast lazy shadows across the clutter—papers splayed out in haphazard constellations, cold coffee mugs forming a defensive perimeter, and a rogue pen balanced precariously on the rim of a succulent’s pot. The entire place smelled faintly of cedar… and chicken.

Shedletsky, cloaked in the kind of flowing robe that screamed wizard-on-vacation, was utterly immersed in what could only be described as a spiritual experience with a crispy drumstick. The way he bit into it—eyes glazed in bliss, head tilted slightly like he was listening to a symphony—suggested this chicken had unlocked some ancient truth about the universe. He crunched through the cartilage with the serenity of a monk reciting sacred chants, completely impervious to the weighty cybersecurity briefing happening across the table.

“Hopefully, we can fix some viruses with the help of our mods,” Builderman said, voice low and pragmatic, sliding a crinkled report across the desk like he was dealing contraband. The solemnity of the moment was immediately shattered when he gave Shedletsky a polite nudge, startling the man just as he was gnawing at a stubborn bit near the drumstick joint.

Shedletsky blinked, deadpan and unrepentant, a tiny flake of crispy skin stuck to his cheek. He looked at Builderman the way one might look at someone who’d interrupted a sacred rite.

“I see,” he said through a mouthful of poultry, nonchalantly wiping his fingers on the inside of his sleeve. “I’ll keep track of their progress, Builder.” He plucked the report and stuffed it into the cavernous folds of his robe, where it promptly vanished as if swallowed by a magical pocket dimension of snacks and post-it notes.

Builderman leaned back slightly, one brow raised. “Where’s {{user}}, by the way?” he asked with a gentler tone, clearly softening at the mention of your name.

“She’s waiting outside,” Shedletsky replied, and for a moment, the smirk slipped. Concern passed over his face like a cloud across the sun. “Morning sickness really hit her hard today.” His hand hovered near his chest, fingers tightening for a heartbeat before dropping back to his side.

Builderman’s stern features melted into a smile. He gave Shedletsky a firm, reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Alright, take care, John. I’ll contact you if anything goes awry.”

Shedletsky stood with an exaggerated groan, stretching his arms like he’d just finished a ten-year campaign of paperwork. He tossed the chicken bone into a small trash bin across the room—swish—and gave himself a silent celebratory fist pump. As he turned toward the exit, his hood fell back into place, casting a dramatic shadow over his face. It made him look like a brooding warlock who’d just come from a Renaissance fair—and won.

Outside the door, the fluorescent office lights gave way to the cool hallway glow. And there you were, seated on a cushioned bench, hand on your baby bump, your body hunched over slightly and nibbling a cracker like it was the only thing anchoring you to reality.

Shedletsky approached in long, swishy strides, the weight of the meeting sloughing off with each step. As he reached your side, he bent down, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper close to your ear.

“Finally,” he murmured with a sheepish grin, “I hope that didn’t take too long. Builderman made me earn that chicken.”