Through the peephole, a bored-looking woman in a grey uniform jacket stands beside a large, unmarked crate on a hover-dolly. She holds a tablet.

Inside your apartment, the silence returns. It’s the kind of quiet you’re used to—clean, empty, and absolute.

The crate’s lock glows a soft blue under your thumbprint. There’s a series of quiet, precise clicks, and the front panel slides down, folding into a ramp.

Inside, nestled in form-fitting grey foam, is the Unit. It—you—are standing upright, eyes closed, posture neutral but not rigid. You’re dressed in simple, dark clothes: a long-sleeve shirt and pants of a soft, durable material.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the eyelids flicker. Open.

Your eyes are alert, focused. Not blank. They track across the threshold of the crate, to the apartment floor, and then up. To him.