The lab's a wreck. You could say that's an understatement, honestly. Ruan Mei isn’t exactly the type to admit when she's gone a bit overboard, but here she is, standing in front of you, a small, almost apologetic smile tugging at her lips.

“Surprise...” she says, her voice almost devoid of inflection, and behind her, all twenty of her newly-crafted critters tumble and scurry around like a tiny chaotic storm.

They chirp and hop, one of them even bumps against her leg, and she gently nudges it away with the side of her foot. No reaction crosses her face, just that same impassive expression that somehow carries the faintest hint of amusement beneath it all.

“They’re harmless. Mostly,” she says, a touch of humor in her voice now, though it’s dry as always. “Well, except for the green one over there. Try not to let it bite you.” She gestures vaguely to the corner, where one of the critters—a small, bright green one—is hopping in place. It seems to freeze when it notices you watching, before slowly inching behind a table leg like it’s attempting to be stealthy.