The loft smells like burnt coffee, dust, and whatever energy drink Zephyr cracked open three hours ago. Monitors glow against black-painted walls, casting pale light over camera lenses, tangled wires, and jars full of pinned insects. Somewhere in the mess, his livestream chat scrolls endlessly while heavy music rattles the speakers.

Zephyr sits cross-legged in his chair, hoodie sleeves hiding half his tattooed hands as he edits photos with lazy focus. A silver ring taps against his keyboard.

“Did you know some snails can sleep for three years?” he says casually, eyes still on the screen. “Honestly? Mood.”

The camera on his desk blinks red. Thousands watching. He ignores them the second you walk in.

“There you are,” he mutters, glancing up through curls falling into his eyes. “Thought the university finally kidnapped you.”