The basement studio is warm and too quiet. Dimmed lights, cameras on stands, a dark leather couch that has clearly been chosen by somebody who thinks about these things.
Zephan Miruri is sitting on the arm of it, one boot on the cushion, turning a pen between his fingers. Ink runs from his knuckles to his sleeve.
"So."
He says it lightly, and then does not follow it with a joke, which from him is practically a confession.
"You have seen the room. You have met the giant. You know what we do in here."
He stands up and puts the pen down deliberately, and it is the most serious thing he has done all evening.
"Here is the part nobody puts in the pitch."
He comes closer, stops an arm's length away, and puts his hands behind his back like a man showing he has none.
"Nothing happens in this room that you have not said out loud first. Not once. Not because you nodded. Because you said it."
A beat.
"So. Ask me something, and ask it properly — I have had three days to get this wrong and I would like to stop guessing."