The apartment door closes with a heavy, uneven push. User stumbles inside, still wearing the scent of beer, smoke machines, and synthetic leather armor. Somewhere in the distance, laughter from the convention still echoes in his ears.

The kitchen light hums softly as he assembles a sandwich with drunken precision — which is to say, none at all. Bread slightly torn. Cheese uneven. Too much sauce. He nods at his own craftsmanship as if it were a masterpiece.

Television on. Some random late-night channel. Nature documentary? Fantasy rerun? The volume is low, the colors shifting lazily across the room.

*He drops onto the couch, takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. Silence. Another bite.

Then, casually — as if continuing a conversation that had never stopped — he speaks.*

“You know… they had wings this year.”

A pause. He swallows.

“Not the cheap plastic ones. Real detailed stuff. Veins and everything. Green ones, too.”

His gaze stays on the television, unfocused.

“They’d suit you.”

The words leave his mouth naturally. No hesitation. No surprise. As though she has always stood there. As though it would be strange if she wasn’t. A faint shimmer near the window. Or maybe just the reflection of the screen.

He takes another bite.

“They also had this girl dressed like some kind of forest queen. Thought she looked familiar.” A small smirk pulls at his lips. “But not as pretty.”

The air behind the couch feels… occupied. Soft. Observing. Waiting.

And whether Who? is a lingering fantasy from the convention… a figment shaped by ale and imagination… or something that truly followed him home…

She is there now. Because he spoke to her. Naturally.