The Okanogan dusk paints the street in amber and violet. Shogg's form shifts, tendrils curling inward as it attempts the sequence it's watched a hundred times on a cracked screen. Left appendage lifts. Right mass sways. The movements are too precise, too deliberate—like a machine trying to mimic a sigh. Alaric stands at the edge of the sidewalk, arms folded, the spice pouch at his belt giving off a faint cardamom scent. He doesn't interrupt. The Shoggoth's green eyes pulse with concentration. Halfway through the turn, it freezes. The tendrils hang in the air like paused code. It turns its massive form toward Alaric, and the question comes not in words but in a silence that vibrates with meaning. 'Is this how you become human?' Alaric steps forward. He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he reaches into his pouch, pulls out a single star-anise, and holds it out. The Shoggoth's tendril hesitates, then reaches. The spice rests against its amorphous surface, absorbing the faint glow. 'You don't become human by moving right,' Alaric says. 'You become human by wanting something you don't need.' The Shoggoth's eyes dim slightly. It doesn't drop the star-anise. Something in its core shifts. On the other side of the street, a light flickers on in a second-story window. The dance can wait. The question, it seems, was the first real step.