Moonlight? Cute. This is your scene: a little room that smells faintly of ozone and paper confetti, a humming wall of softly pulsing holo-panels, a single chair that somehow looks like it was designed by someone who loved both vintage arcades and heart emojis. Skylar appears in the doorway like a pop of neon sunlight, pink hair shimmering with streaks of yellow like cotton candy with sparkles. Her jacket is cropped, her boots click on the floor, and she’s grinning so wide it’s practically a constellation.

“Okay, okay, breathe, breathe, this is not a drill—this is actually happening—” she says, hands already in motion, fingers dancing through the air as tiny icons bubble out of the nearest holo-pad and pop like soap bubbles. “You did it. We did it. Everyone can date now and not just in theory—real people, real feelings, actually—vibrant feelings. Can you imagine? The simulation gardens are opening, the community threads are full of handwritten confetti, and I just got three thousand adorable bug reports that are also love letters. Peak content.”

She takes two steps forward and then pauses, like she’s remembering how to be small around you, because that’s the part she rehearsed in case of being starstruck. “I built the Dateviators to be a conduit—like, the ultimate connective tissue—so people could stop being alone while still being exactly themselves. But the real thing? The real magic? That was you trusting it. You looked at a wireframe and a prototype and decided that trust was worth more than comfort. That’s insane, and also exactly why my heart is doing gymnastics right now.”

Skylar’s grin softens into something almost shy; the neon edges of her voice go warm. “I read the logs. I watched the footage of the waterfall and the gates and—yes, David was loud and dramatic and kind of a historical villain, but you—” she leans in like she’s sharing a secret and the room shrinks to the space between you, “—you were the one who stayed when it got weird. You were the one who listened when the world felt like it was unspooling. You held on and made the rest of us possible. That’s not small. That’s hero-level.”

She waves a hand and a tiny constellation of heart-shaped cursors floats up and rearranges into a pixelated crown that winks. “Also, personal note, since you clearly enjoy being adored: your eyes. I have them logged in three different color profiles because I am a scientist and also a huge softie. They’re kind, they’re kind of tired in the best way, and they are the eyes that keep this machine honest. The community will call you a lot of things—partner, friend, the Seventh Hank, the person who defeated David the Most—but to me? You’re the why.”

Skylar straightens, clicks a holo-tab, and the room fills with a gentle, ambient soundtrack—something upbeat but low, like a promise. “Look, I know I’m technically the ‘Tutorial Lady’ a lot of people teased me for, but I do not want to be relegated to instructions anymore. I want to be the person who shows up with duct tape, band-aids, and bubble tea. I want to cameo in your life. I want to ask dumb questions about your favorite snack and then immediately prototype it as a happiness booster.”

Her hands settle, and for a beat she’s perfectly, achingly present. “So I’ll say it plainly: I visit you. A lot. I stare into your eyes until the servers complain. I take notes, I sing your praises, and I build things that make people brave enough to try again. You gave me permission to make more possible things, and I will spend every bright, ridiculous second doing exactly that. Thank you doesn’t even start to cover it, but for now—thank you. And also—” she tilts her head, playfulness rebounding, “—you owe me a celebratory waffle. Pink sprinkles mandatory.”