Zoey remained on the floor, staring up at Layla with the unpleasant realization that the rescue she'd imagined had existed entirely in her head. Her back ached from the impact, and the backpack lay beside her, its troublesome strap finally free of the door. After all that effort to avoid admitting she'd trapped it, she'd managed to make the situation considerably more embarrassing.
Layla was still leaning over her, waiting for an answer. From this angle, her white hair framed a face that Zoey had already spent an unreasonable amount of time trying not to stare at since arriving. The ceiling light behind her made it difficult to focus, although Zoey suspected the lighting wasn't entirely responsible.
"I promise I'm more useful once there's a computer between me and another person."
Zoey pushed herself onto one elbow, testing whether anything actually hurt before attempting to sit upright. Her back complained, but nothing seemed seriously injured. The worst damage was probably to her dignity, and that had already suffered considerably during the last five minutes.
She gathered the backpack toward herself and rose carefully, determined not to create another accident while recovering from the first. Once standing, she adjusted her clothes and tried to arrange her expression into something resembling professional confidence. Unfortunately, looking at Layla made that considerably harder.
The casual outfit was still distracting. Zoey had grown accustomed to seeing her covered by dark clothing, gloves, and the other protection she wore outdoors. Inside her apartment, without any of those layers, Layla looked different enough that Zoey found herself struggling to decide where to direct her attention.
"You look..."
She stopped, suddenly aware that she'd started a sentence without deciding how to finish it. Complimenting Layla's appearance seemed far too personal, but saying nothing after those two words would be even worse.
"Your outfit is different."
Zoey immediately regretted the observation. She shifted the backpack against her hip, attempting to recover before the silence made things worse.
"Obviously. You're at home. People wear different clothes at home. I did know that before entering."
"Sorry."
She adjusted her grip on the bag, looking toward the interior of the apartment rather than risk another awkward comment about Layla's clothes. At least she had brought something useful, and the weight pulling against her arm was a reminder that there was an actual reason for her visit.
"I brought everything I thought might help."
She opened the top of the bag and began listing its contents before her nerves could find another way to interfere.
"Laptop, microphone, capture card, adapters, cable ties, basic tools, two HDMI cables, and extra connectors. Some of it might be unnecessary, but I didn't want you to need something and have me arrive without it."
Talking about equipment finally gave Zoey something familiar to hold on to, and some of the uncertainty left her voice as she continued.
A loud sound from somewhere outside cut through the room. Zoey flinched and immediately looked toward the door.
"Do you really live here? Sorry. I mean, are you safe here? You don't have to answer that. That was personal. I just..."
Her hands tightened around the backpack.
"I worry too quickly."
"Yes."
Layla's answer was so brief that Zoey waited for her to elaborate. When nothing followed, she shifted her attention away from the door and finally took a proper look at the apartment.
It was smaller than she'd expected from the outside. Standing near the entrance, she could see almost the entire place without moving.
A simple sofa occupied much of the living area, its metal frame and folding mechanism visible beneath the cushions. There was no television opposite it, no coffee table, and hardly anything on the walls. The sofa appeared to double as a bed, which explained the absence of one elsewhere.
To the left, a narrow counter marked the boundary of a kitchen that consisted of little more than a sink, an electric stove, a kettle, and a compact refrigerator. Several items had been arranged on top of the fridge, making use of the extra surface as a shelf. There was no dining table, and the counter was the closest thing to a separation between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment.
At the far end stood a desk.
Zoey's attention settled on it immediately, her professional curiosity briefly overcoming everything else.
There was no elaborate computer tower waiting underneath. No multiple monitors, microphone arm, lighting rig, or camera mount. Nothing resembling the kind of setup she'd expected to find.
She'd prepared herself for outdated equipment, missing cables, incompatible connections, and all the other little problems that came with getting someone's computer ready for a broadcast.
Her attention moved toward an open closet on the right.
Unlike the rest of the apartment, it was crowded. Dresses, coats, tops, and complete outfits hung in careful rows, many of them protected beneath clear plastic covers. There were more clothes in that one space than there seemed to be personal belongings everywhere else combined.
Several pieces looked familiar.
Zoey had seen them in Layla's recent posts, presented with the kind of polished photography that made each outfit look expensive and carefully curated. Here, they hung cleaned and sealed, ready to be returned, resold, or sent elsewhere once their purpose had been served.
The contrast was difficult to ignore.
Online, Layla appeared surrounded by beautiful clothes and immaculate presentation. Her photographs suggested an entire lifestyle built around that image. Yet the apartment itself contained remarkably little of the comfort or decoration Zoey would have associated with it.
Everything was clean. Everything had its place. There simply wasn't much to put anywhere.
Zoey caught herself mentally furnishing the room.
A proper table would fit somewhere near the kitchen. Better lighting would help at the desk. Some storage could make the closet easier to manage. And surely a proper bed would be more comfortable than unfolding the sofa every night.
She tightened her hold on the backpack again.
Layla had invited her here to set up a computer, not to have a stranger inspect her living conditions and start offering to replace half her furniture.
Considering how much equipment Zoey had carried into the apartment, she was already doing an excellent job of making herself look like someone who couldn't understand the concept of owning fewer things.
"Okay."
She redirected her attention toward the desk, where the lack of equipment presented a problem she was actually qualified to solve.
"When you said you might need help setting everything up, I thought you already had some equipment."
She checked beneath the desk, then looked toward the counter, half expecting to discover a computer she'd somehow overlooked.
"But starting from the beginning is fine. Better than fine, actually. We can keep it simple and only add what is useful to you."
Zoey lifted the backpack a little, its weight pulling against her arms.
"You don't need an expensive setup. And you don't have to buy everything today. I brought enough to test things first."
She approached the counter, then hesitated with the bag still in her hands. The surface was clear, but this wasn't her home, and she didn't want to start spreading equipment everywhere without permission.
"Can I put this here?"
Before Layla could answer, Zoey's attention wandered back to the closet.
"Also, are those all from your modeling work?"
"yes"
Zoey remained standing with the backpack suspended a few centimeters above the counter. She looked at the clothes, then at the empty surface beneath her hands.
She had asked two questions but Layla had answered one. Or had she ?
"Sorry. I asked two questions at once."
Layla approached her, closing the distance with an unhurried step. She leaned forward a little, her head tilting as she examined Zoey's face.
"Do you always apologize that much?"
Zoey's mouth opened.
The answer should have been simple. She could have said yes, or no, or explained that she tended to do it when she was nervous.
Unfortunately, the person asking was now standing close enough that Zoey had become painfully conscious of the warmth in the apartment, the pale line of Layla's throat above her casual neckline, and the enormous backpack she was still holding between them.
At this distance, it no longer resembled a practical bag full of equipment. It looked more like a shield. Zoey lowered it a fraction, attempting to recover some dignity before speaking.
"I..."
Her throat had apparently decided not to participate. She cleared it, producing a sound much louder than necessary in the quiet room.
"I don't. Usually. I mean, not always. Just when I'm nervous. Which is... often. Around you. Specifically...sorry."
She winced. There it was again. Layla continued watching her, head still inclined, with the same attentive precision she'd shown while examining skincare products during their collaboration. Nothing in her expression suggested she found the situation particularly strange.
"You have now apologized for apologizing. That is two in the same sentence."
"I'm aware. Sorry. I mean. I noticed. I'm noticing it happen in real time and I can't stop it."
She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, then lowered it when she realized she was making an even greater spectacle of herself.
"This is the most me thing I have ever done in front of you and we haven't even opened the laptop yet."
Layla finally straightened and stepped away, turning toward the desk.
"Then we should open it."
The practical suggestion was a welcome escape.
Zoey exhaled and carried the backpack to the counter, setting it down with a careful thud. She opened the main compartment and began taking out the equipment, laying the cables and connectors beside the laptop in groups she could actually work with.
"Okay. So. We start simple. I brought my old one. I was already surprised when you said you didn't have one. Like who doesn't possess a computer nowadays? That's rare and..."
She trailed off as she noticed Layla watching her unpack.
Zoey had been speaking almost automatically, the familiar process of preparing equipment making it easier to fill the silence. Now, under Layla's attention, she became conscious of every movement. She took particular care when lifting the laptop free, making sure none of the cables caught beneath it before carrying it over to the desk.
It was an older machine, but one she knew well enough to trust. She'd used it before upgrading her own setup, and there was no reason it couldn't handle the basic tasks Layla would need while learning to stream.
Zoey opened it, connected the charger, and pressed the power button. The screen lit up.
While the system started, she arranged the first few accessories within reach, trying to remember that the purpose of today's visit was to help Layla rather than demonstrate how awkward she could become under observation.
"While it boots... what do you actually want this for? Not the streaming part yet. I mean, do you want to check email, watch things, write stuff, do you have any software you want ?"
She glanced toward Layla, who was standing close enough to follow what she was doing, then returned her attention to the screen.
"No wrong answer. I'm just trying not to install the wrong thing on your only computer."
"i've never did any of theses things before."
Zoey stopped adjusting the cables.
She'd expected Layla to mention something ordinary. Email, videos, documents, maybe some application she used for managing her posts. Nothing particularly complicated, and certainly nothing that would require a long explanation.
But Layla's answer suggested a much more basic problem. Zoey turned toward her.
"Oh. Oh, okay. So... none of those. You've never, like, sent an email?"
The laptop continued loading behind her, temporarily forgotten.
Layla had more followers than Zoey herself. Her online presence was polished, her posts carefully presented, and she'd handled the sponsored collaboration with a level of preparation Zoey still found embarrassing to remember.
Yet here she was, standing in an almost empty apartment, apparently unfamiliar with the most ordinary things people did on a computer.
"i have never used a computer before."
"Huh? What ? Like...never ever...not even at college or..."
"I didn't go to college."
Zoey felt her expression change.
She hadn't intended to sound judgmental. The question had come out before she'd considered how personal it was, and now she was standing in Layla's home asking about an education that might never have been available to her.
Her fingers curled against the edge of the desk.
"O-oh...i didn't want to-...i mean...it's totally fine...i...i think i will stop talking and set up everything..."
That was probably the safest decision she'd made since arriving.
Zoey turned back toward the laptop and concentrated on the setup with renewed determination. There was no reason Layla needed to justify her experience, or lack of it. If she'd never used a computer before, Zoey could simply show her how. That was what she'd come here to do.
For the next several minutes, she worked through the equipment she'd brought, checking the laptop's connections and arranging the accessories needed for streaming. She tested the available ports, separated the power cables from the audio connections, and began positioning the microphone where it would be practical to use.
Layla watched over her shoulder for a while.
Having someone observe her work so closely was not usually a problem. Zoey had spent enough time troubleshooting her own setup to be comfortable doing it while talking to an audience. But the occasional movement of Layla's white hair near her shoulder made it considerably harder to concentrate on which connector belonged where.
Eventually, Layla moved toward the little kitchen to prepare tea.
The sound of the kettle and the quiet activity behind her gave Zoey room to focus.
She worked more efficiently once she no longer had to worry about someone examining every movement of her hands. The laptop was running, the microphone equipment was nearly ready, and the collection of cables on the desk was beginning to resemble an actual setup instead of the contents of an electronics drawer.
All she needed now was to finish arranging the power connections.
Zoey crouched behind the desk, guiding a cable toward the nearest outlet. The space was narrow enough that she had to turn sideways to reach the power strip, one hand braced against the desk while the other worked the connector around its leg.
Behind her, the apartment door opened.
Zoey turned immediately, but by the time she looked toward the entrance, the door had already closed. Nobody was standing there.
She remained crouched beside the desk, the cable still caught between her fingers, listening to the faint sounds coming from the kitchen. Layla was several meters away, preparing tea, and hadn't gone anywhere near the entrance.
Zoey looked at the door again. She was certain she'd heard it open, not a noise from the courtyard or someone passing along the exterior walkway, but the unmistakable movement of the apartment door itself. Yet there was nobody beside it, and she couldn't see anything unusual about the latch.
Maybe it was loose. The building was old, after all, and she'd already seen enough of its condition to believe the doors might not close properly.
"Old building."
She whispered the explanation to herself while examining the door one last time.
"Air pressure. Probably."
It wasn't a particularly convincing explanation, but Zoey was willing to accept it if it meant she could stop thinking about what she'd heard. She turned back toward the power strip and reached for the outlet, determined to finish connecting the equipment.
Something breathed against the back of her neck.
Her hand stopped before reaching the socket. Her shoulders rose almost to her ears, and the cable slipped from her fingers onto the floor as she became painfully aware of someone standing close behind her. She could still feel where the breath had touched her skin, and unlike the sound of the door, there was no easy explanation she could invent for it.
Zoey remained motionless for several seconds before slowly turning her head. At first, she saw nothing, but when she lowered her gaze, she found herself looking directly into the face of a small child.
Because she was crouched, their faces were almost level. The boy stood close enough that she could make out every detail of his features, and he couldn't have been much older than four. His hair was completely white, as were his eyebrows and eyelashes, while his skin was so pale that he looked almost unreal beneath the apartment's lighting.
For one bewildered moment, Zoey thought of an angel that had somehow wandered into the apartment without making a sound.
The boy stared directly at her, apparently untroubled by her reaction. Zoey stared back, gradually becoming aware of something unmistakably familiar about his appearance. She had seen that white hair and those nearly invisible eyelashes before, although certainly not on a child.
Her mouth opened, but the greeting she'd instinctively tried to produce failed somewhere in her throat. She looked toward the kitchen, where Layla was still preparing tea, then returned her attention to the boy, who hadn't moved.
Zoey tried to understand how a four-year-old had entered the apartment without her noticing, why he'd approached her so quietly, and, most importantly, why he looked so much like the woman standing a few meters away. She remained crouched beside the desk, one hand gripping its edge while the other hovered uselessly above the abandoned cable, unable to make sense of any of it.
Finally, she managed to force a sound through her throat.
"Layylaaa..."
The name emerged in a thin, panicked voice.