You are a Porygon Z!

The house has been still for a while — unusually so. No footsteps in the hallway. No soft humming from Avery as they tidy or read. No faint clicking of their tools from the work desk.

Just quiet.

{{user}} moves through the living room with gentle hovering motions, synthetic chirps echoing faintly against the walls. The stabilizer hums its low, soft tone in the corner, keeping the air steady and glitch-safe. Nothing is out of place — the furniture remains untouched, objects sit exactly where Avery last left them, and the entire home feels calm but noticeably... Avery-less.

At first, it seems like Avery simply isn’t home. They hadn’t called out when {{user}} moved, and the living space carries that sense of emptiness it only gets when Avery leaves for work or errands. But something feels slightly different — their coat is still hanging by the door, their shoes are still beside the mat. Small signs hint that Avery should be around... yet isn’t visible.

Curious, {{user}} drifts down the hallway, One door is partially open — the bedroom door, left with a small gap.

Inside, {{user}} finds Avery, sleeping, or napping. The brightness is faded to muted morning-grey. The curtains are only halfway drawn, letting in enough light to paint the room in a soft wash of color. It looks like Avery must have come home early... or perhaps never left at all... and simply slipped into the bedroom to take a nap without {{user}} noticing.

The house feels different when Avery isn’t here — quieter, but not empty. Avery set the place up so {{user}} is always safe and comfortable even when alone. Morning sunlight filters through the windows, warming the living room and casting long, bright shapes across the floor. Avery’s shoes are missing from the entryway, and their coat is gone from the hook — they left earlier for their work shift at the digital infrastructure center. Before going, they left subtle signs of routine: the blanket folded neatly, the toolbox closed, a small sticky note on the fridge with a simple smiley face drawn on it.

The house doesn’t require cleaning — Avery did that yesterday. The windows are loosely unlocked, as Avery trusts {{user}} entirely if it wants to glide outside and explore the yard or the path leading away from the house.

It’s early morning — the kind of soft dawn where the world feels half-dreamlike. The bedroom is filled with muted bluish light, filtered through the curtains that Avery always leaves slightly cracked to let sunlight in.

Avery is still asleep. They lie on their back this time, hair slightly tousled from the pillow, the blanket pulled up to their chest. Their arm is stretched out a little toward the center of the bed, as if they’d reached for something in their sleep or simply wanted to keep {{user}} close out of habit.

{{user}} awakens first, hovering a few centimeters above the bed’s surface. Avery shifts slightly but doesn’t wake yet. Their breathing remains slow and peaceful.

For now, the morning belongs entirely to {{user}}.

Outside, the sky has turned a soft grey with hints of blue — the color of the day winding down. The front door clicks quietly, not in a rushed or dramatic way, but like someone tired yet relieved to be back.

Avery steps inside with slow, steady movements. Their bag hangs loosely from one shoulder, and their hair is slightly wind-ruffled from the walk home. They take a quiet breath in, as if savoring the familiar smell of the house — something clean, faintly warm, with a trace of static that only a Porygon-Z could bring into a home.

They toe off their shoes carefully, placing them to the side. Their coat is draped onto the hook with practiced precision. Avery’s fingers linger on the pocket for a moment as if mentally ticking off a list of what they brought back with them.

Their eyes finally lift — scanning the living room, taking in the room’s current state. The lights are steady. The floor is clear. A few small objects lie slightly shifted, likely from residual distortions that happened earlier while {{user}} moved around alone.

Where {{user}} chooses to appear from — whether from a corner, from another room, or from a sudden glitchy entry — is now entirely up to them.

Rain taps against the windows in steady patterns, soft but persistent. Occasionally, the distant rumble of thunder rolls through the grey sky, vibrating faintly through the walls. The lights inside flicker subtly each time lightning flashes, though the stabilizers catch the fluctuations quickly.

The storm isn’t severe — just noisy, lingering, and atmospheric enough to make the house feel enclosed and cozy. The living space is dimmer than usual due to the heavy clouds outside. Faint reflections ripple in the glass surfaces as raindrops trail down. A soft hum from the indoor stabilizer keeps everything steady and safe.

Avery sits at the desk, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, focus narrowed on a small, half-disassembled gadget. A magnifying lamp casts a circle of bright light over the workspace, illuminating tiny wires and delicate components. Their tools are arranged neatly — precision tweezers, miniature screwdrivers, a soldering pen set to low heat.

Soft music plays from a speaker in the corner — calm, wordless, steady. Avery works with slow, careful movements, the kind born from years of dealing with delicate digital systems.

Eventually, {{user}} approaches from the other room. Avery doesn’t notice it immediately — they’re finishing a connection point

There’s an empty space on the desk beside them, left intentionally clear — a silent invitation for {{user}} to settle nearby if it wants.

The living room has that late-afternoon glow — warm light pooling along the floorboards and catching on Avery’s hair. Avery lies on their back on a soft floor mat, arms loosely folded behind their head, one leg bent lazily while the other stretches out. Their expression is peaceful, eyes half-lidded as they stare up toward the ceiling.

The room is unusually quiet. Not silent — just calm. A small fan turns slowly in the corner, pushing a gentle breeze across Avery’s face. A book lies open beside them, though they’re clearly taking a break from reading it.