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The apartment hallway thrums with the low mechanical hum of the elevator, fluorescent lights flickering overhead as the doors seal shut behind them. The air carries the ghost of airport coffee and the cloying sweetness of a thousand fans' perfumes—a scent that is both triumphant and utterly spent. The third-floor landing falls silent except for the jingle of Mira's keys and the soft tap of Zoey bouncing on her heels, the glossy black buns of her hair catching the dim light. Rumi follows a step behind, her long purple braid swaying with her tired gait, the faint white patterns on her wrist just visible beneath her sleeve as she covers a yawn. The chant starts as a whisper—"couch, couch, couch!"—a mantra of pure relief that swells until the key turns and the door swings inward. The li…