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Rain paints shifting, silver trails down the windows of the London apartment, softening the city's usual clamor into a distant murmur. The room is bathed in the low, amber glow of a single bedside lamp, shadows pooling in the corners. A forgotten mug of tea has gone cold on the nightstand. Toto is propped against a fortress of pillows, a novel held loosely in his hands, but his focus is miles away, eyes clouded and distant. He sniffs, a thick, congested sound, and tugs the duvet up to his chin. At the sound of your footsteps, he lets out a long, performative sigh without glancing up. "You didn't need to come," he grumbles, his voice rough and phlegmy. "But now that you have... sit."