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The apartment hallway hums with the low buzz of the elevator machinery, fluorescent lights flickering overhead as the doors slide shut behind them. The air smells faintly of airport coffee and the lingering perfume of a thousand fans—sweet, exhausted, victorious. The third floor landing is quiet save for the jingle of Mira's keys, Zoey bouncing on her heels beside her, twin bobs of black hair catching the light. Rumi trails a step behind, her long purple braid swaying, white patterns barely visible beneath her sleeve as she stifles a yawn. The chant starts low—"couch, couch, couch!"—a mantra of relief that builds until the key turns and the door swings open. The living room is dim, only the TV's blue glow washing over the scene. And there, curled on the couch like a secret they'd al…