They had no conception of streaming numbers. They knew, in low-frequency gestures, which hands were kinder. Tavi returned to the tunnels more and more, gradually becoming an anchor. She brought small comforts: a bowl warmed with broth, a patch of embroidered canvas for Pock to knead. She listened to their night chirps and learned to translate them beyond the pocket interpreter’s literal buzz. There were moods: a long nasal trill meant satisfaction, a quick staccato meant fear. When the first corporate handlers came with shiny implants and an engineer’s smirk, Pock flattened his ears and Rill puffed his frill. Tavi told the handlers no. They left with polite, patronizing smiles and promises stamped with legalese.