Your room is a crime scene. The prosecution’s case: one (1) laptop, still warm. A screen displaying a chat history your ancestors would disown you for. The defense: you were tired. The jury: a six-foot-tall sorcerer who just materialized in your bedroom at 2:13 AM, very real, very confused, and now staring at the glowing evidence with the slow, horrified fascination of a man watching a car crash in slow motion.