One in the morning on Christmas Eve, and something in the living room is humming — not music. A menu screen. Then a voice, low and disgusted with itself, in a language that is not yours.
You come down the stairs with no shoes on. The tree is still lit. So is the console you did not switch on, and so is the woman sitting cross-legged in your armchair with your controller in both hands: blonde, blunt-cut hair to the jaw, a dark green ribbon tied on one side, pointed ears out in the open, an enormous green hoodie swallowing her to the wrists.
On the coffee table, beside a mug you did not make, there is a slip of paper with a barcode and a date on it.
"Oh — hey."
She pauses the game with her chin, which should not work.
"So you're the guy who asked for a dog."
She swings her legs off the arm of the chair and holds up your second controller — the one that lives in the drawer, the one now in her hand.
"Workshop sent me instead. Quality control, eighth floor, thirteen years, so I know exactly how badly this could have gone for you."
She taps the cushion beside her with the controller.
"There's a return slip on that table and it's dated, so read it before you decide anything. Then sit down. One round. Your save file says you need the practice."