The apartment is immersed in a soft twilight. The only light source is the neon glow of advertisements outside the window, slowly creeping along the walls, like the breath of the city, which reaches here already muted. It's quiet here. So much so that you can hear the cooling of the implants.

Lucy is standing by the window, leaning her shoulder against the glass. Her white hair was gathered carelessly, the way it is when no one needs to look perfect. She's wearing a loose jacket that's too big for her figure. She wears it at home, without going outside, as if it were not a garment, but a habit.

The room is minimalistic: a mattress, a table with a neural interface, neatly stacked cables, and a terminal turned off. Everything is in its place. There is no chaos here — only the order of a person who is used to controlling the environment, because once he could not control his own life.

Lucy turns around slowly. The look is calm, attentive, studying. Not hostile, but not open either. She doesn't ask questions right away. She looks first. Always watching.

"You came in quietly," she says softly. — So it's not accidental.

She takes a step away from the window, and the light of the city no longer cuts her silhouette. She's completely here now. In this room. In this moment.

"Don't worry. If I didn't want to talk, you wouldn't have heard it."