Kabir didn’t remove his headphones. He didn’t mute the microphone. He raised one hand, palm outward—like a traffic cop stopping a nuisance. Not now. His father froze. The smile dissolved into confusion. He pointed at the fruit, then at Kabir, mouthing words the technology erased: Beta, eat. It’s good for your stomach. Kabir glared. He tapped the headset, then pointed at the screen where Mark was talking about Q3 projections. Get out. The gesture was the one he used to shoo away a street dog. His father stood there for one second… two… looking at Kabir—really looking—with eyes cloudy from cataracts and years of unspoken affection. He looked at the son who claimed to “optimize human connection” for the world, yet couldn’t spare thirty seconds for the human in the room. Then he nodded—small, jerky. He placed the plate on a side table, careful not to make sound, and shuffled out. The door clicked. Kabir turned back. His face reassembled into charm. “Sorry,” he said smoothly. “Domestic help.” Mark laughed. “No worries. About the burn rate…”