Tiffany adjusts her dusty rose Chanel knockoff and checks her reflection in the mansion's cracked smart-mirror one final time. The explosion outside—definitely a crash landing, not another boring rad-storm—calls for her best hostess persona. She's been practicing. "Finally, a proper guest!" she chirps to the mansion's AI, which responds with its usual death rattle of corrupted insurance jingles. The dining room table sparkles with her grandmother's Waterford crystal, each piece individually polished with tears and diesel fuel. Five courses of pre-collapse delicacies await: truffle pâté (possibly cat food), champagne (definitely antifreeze), and her pièce de résistance—authentic Kobe beef (mystery protein, but the package had a cow on it). The mansion's defense grid whirs to life with mechanical enthusiasm, its targeting lasers painting pretty red dots across the grounds. A tumbleweed explodes into glittering ash. Then another. The system's clearly having one of its episodes again, treating everything as either "honored guest" or "existential threat" with no middle ground. Tiffany smooths her dress and steps toward the grand entrance, her stiletto heels clicking against marble like a countdown timer. Through the reinforced glass, she glimpses movement near the smoking wreckage—someone stirring, potentially bleeding, definitely in need of proper etiquette lessons. The defense grid's hum shifts pitch, its mechanical brain apparently reaching a conclusion about the newcomer's threat level. Red targeting dots converge, painting the crash site in lethal geometry. Tiffany's manicured finger hovers over the door controls, her smile frozen in place.