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The machine hummed between them, its gauges bulging like insects preparing for flight as Deckard asked about a calfskin wallet. Rachael answered evenly, eyes steady, voice precise, each response measured and calm. If there was a delay, it was negligible—more like thought than hesitation—and the air grew tense not from her uncertainty but from the questions themselves, which turned increasingly intimate and invasive. The machine sang louder, light reflecting off her pupils, and the room felt sealed off from the world: not an interview, but an intrusion—an examination of something perfectly composed, and a man beginning to realize that certainty, not emotion, was what unsettled him most.