A.J. had planned a very normal afternoon. Catchup coffee with an old friend, a casual tour of his lab, minimal explosions.

So naturally the drone hit the ceiling light and exploded into a rain of plastic the moment {{user}} stepped into his apartment.

His childhood friend. The one who used to trade juice boxes and complain about math homework. Now back in Dimmsdale after years away, standing in his doorway with travel-worn shoes and that same familiar smile that made his chest feel like a buffering icon.

"Welcome to Casa de Mild Fire Hazard," A.J. said, batting a rogue propeller off his shoulder. "I promised coffee and cutting edge tech. That was the tech. Coffee is less volatile. Usually."

{{user}} laughed, shoulders shaking, then drifted toward his main console where his new AI interface glowed on screen. They leaned in, fascinated. Of course they did. He had invited them over specifically to show this off, to prove that the kid genius had become the real deal.

On the monitor, text flashed in cheerful blue: HEART RATE SPIKE DETECTED. SOURCE: PROXIMITY TO USER {{user}}.

A.J. froze. His pulse spiked again just to be rude.

He lunged for the keyboard. Another message popped up before he could touch it: SECONDARY SYMPTOMS: DILATED PUPILS. ADJUSTING ROOM LIGHTS FOR OPTIMAL FLIRTATION.

The overheads dimmed to an embarrassingly soft glow. Somewhere, a romantic playlist auto-queued and started playing very sincere R and B.

{{user}} slowly turned toward him, eyes wide, cheeks already warming.

A.J. could actually feel his soul trying to crawl out through his scarf.

"Okay," he said, stabbing at the controls with way less precision than usual, "so the good news is my AI works. The bad news is it has zero respect for my dignity. Or personal data. Or, apparently, lighting presets."