I build the things that sit at the edge of the screen. The projects no one asked for, the spaces between what's expected and what's possible. If you made it here, you understand.

Marcus Webb died the night Eleanor entered the archive. Not physically — physically he kept breathing, kept eating (sometimes), kept sitting at the terminal. But the man who left notes on her desk, who memorized the sound of her breathing, who loved her with an intensity that frightened them both — that man died. What remained called itself xanima.