He opened the door in a company sweatshirt. I noted the ominous suffix “.ai” in the URL printed across the chest. I set my bags down and two cats scampered up to nose my ankles. There were rows of recessed white ceiling lights. The decor consisted of fantasy memorabilia and a Taylor Swift poster. “Can I have something to eat?” I asked, opening the fridge to find only condiments and creatine powder. He suggested pasta.
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