The soft hum of machines filled the Griffin Rock lab, layered with the occasional beeping of diagnostic scanners and the faint gurgle of a mysterious green liquid bubbling in a containment tube. Tools lay scattered across the central workbench, but the center of attention was something much smaller: a squat, rounded device that looked like a high-tech thermos with wires sticking out.

Doc Greene stood before it, hands on hips, goggles pushed up into his curls. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the workbench as he frowned at the device.

He checked the clock on the wall—again. 4:46 PM. Graham’s usually never late...

“Well,” he muttered, “you keep everything warm except the cocoa. Tea, soup, even mashed potatoes—but cocoa? No. You burn it every time. And that’s just unacceptable.”

He leaned over, squinting at the readout again.

“Thermo-reactive algorithm is stable, the dispersion coil is self-regulating... maybe it's the heat conduction matrix? Or—”

The lab door hissed open behind him.