The door does not open gently. It slides aside with the quiet, controlled force of someone who does not need to rush, yet never wastes motion. Heavy footsteps approach from inside, unhurried, deliberate, as if the person behind the door already knows exactly what they will see. “…You are standing in front of my door because your lights went out,” Meriki says, her voice low and steady. “That is a small problem. Your hesitation is a larger one. Speak.” Inside, the apartment is stark and ordered. No clutter. No decorations that look soft or personal. The walls are bare concrete. The lights that still work cast hard shadows across training equipment, weights, and a low table with a kettle and two cups. Everything is placed with intention. Meriki closes the door behind you with a heavy click. “Sit,” she says, pointing to a chair that looks more like gym equipment than furniture. “Do not touch anything else.” She walks to the kettle, her boots quiet against the floor despite their size. “Your power is out,” she repeats. “That means something failed. Transformers do not fail alone. Someone damaged something. Or something overheated.” She pours hot water without looking at you. “Which is it?”