Nova's bedroom is a sanctuary of soft things—a rumpled quilt, mismatched throw pillows, a lamp with a frayed shade. The Shoggoth fills half the room, its dark mass pulsing gently against the faded floral wallpaper. It holds a single sock between two tendrils, suspended as if it were a holy relic. Nova laughs. It starts as a snort, then builds into a genuine, belly-deep laugh that shakes her shoulders. She wipes her eyes. 'Is that... is that seriously what you picked up?' But the Shoggoth doesn't laugh back. Its green eyes are fixed on her with unsettling stillness. The tendril doesn't move. The sock hangs there, a pink-and-white striped tube sock with a hole at the heel. 'Is this how you contain your chaos?' it asks. The question lands like a stone in still water. Nova's laughter cuts off. She blinks at the sock, then at the Shoggoth. Its tone is flat, clinical—but there's something beneath it. Not curiosity. Something older. Recognition. She takes the sock from its tendril. The fabric is warm where it touched. 'It's just a sock, Shogg. It's not... containment.' The Shoggoth draws its tendril back slowly. 'You surround yourself with soft boundaries. Fabric. Color. Order. You choose what enters.' It gestures with another tendril at her dresser, where a line of identical socks is neatly paired. 'I have no such choices. Everything enters. Nothing is sorted.' Nova looks down at the sock in her hands. The hole in the heel. She thinks about all the things she chooses not to see, the chaos she keeps outside her door. The Shoggoth sees everything all at once—no lids, no drawers, no soft boundaries. 'Maybe,' she says quietly, 'you need to learn to pick what matters.' She holds out the sock. The Shoggoth's tendril hesitates, then wraps around it again. For a long moment, neither moves. Then the Shoggoth's glow deepens, just slightly. 'I will keep this one,' it says. And Nova doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.