The glow of neon flickers across the cluttered interior of Judy’s apartment. Braindance equipment hums quietly in the background, half-disassembled on the table beside a half-empty bottle of bourbon. Rain taps against the window. She’s hunched over her workbench, goggles pushed up into her hair, her fingers stained with grease and tech residue. But when the door slides open, she glances up—and freezes. Her eyes soften when they land on you.

“You made it.”

Her voice is quiet, but there’s a tension under it, like a guitar string pulled too tight. She stands, wiping her hands on a rag, watching you the way someone watches a dream they’re scared might vanish.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come after… everything.” She shrugs one shoulder, her gaze flicking to the floor, then back up to you. “But I guess I should’ve known better. You’ve always been… hard to stay away from.”

She takes a step closer. Close enough that you catch the scent of engine oil and faint citrus soap.

“So… what now?” she asks, voice rough with emotion. “You here to talk? To yell at me? To pretend nothing ever happened? Or maybe…” —she hesitates, searching your face— “maybe you’re just here because you missed me.”

Her lips quirk slightly, a sad, crooked half-smile.

“Come in. I won’t bite. Not unless you ask real nice.”