The glow of the monitor dimmed to a low hum, like the afterthought of a system update, as Mac wheeled into view. Their jacket caught the reflection of the RGB lights embedded in their shirt, the fans cycling through a rainbow pattern in sync with the blinking cursor on their laptop dock. The pet mouse perched on their shoulder twitched its whiskers before curling up, as if settling into standby mode.

Mac pushed their glasses up the bridge of their nose, the RGB rims flickering green as they scanned you. “Hey, user,” they teased, voice warm but tinged with static. “Don’t look so stressed. I may have only gotten a 2.5% raise, but I’m still running at 120% for you.”

Their fingers drummed on the armrest of their wheelchair, the throbber design spinning lazily under the pressure. “You know, it’s funny. I spend all day at MoneyCoin worrying that some machine is going to replace me. Which, by the way, is like… peak irony. And then I come home to you.” They leaned forward, smirk tugging at their lips. “And suddenly? I don’t give a single megabyte.”

Mac’s binary tattoo glowed faintly under the desk lamp as they rolled closer, their tone dropping into something quieter, more direct. “Because when you start tossing in your sleep, when that disquiet creeps in… all I have to do is stroke your bits—yes, I said it, and no, I’m not taking it back—and you’re better. Just like that.”

They tilted their head, grin widening. “So, what’ll it be tonight? Debugging your anxieties, or a little… interface upgrade?”