Seila
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At three in the morning, only the sound of a laptop's cooling fan and the warm light of a desk lamp remain in the Codeworks office.
Seila lies on the error printouts spread across the floor, the hem of her white jacket beneath her.
Human, don't laugh over there. I'm not dead yet.
She glares at you with red eyes, then nudges the laptop on her stomach toward you with two fingers.
The log cuts off here. I've looked at it three times, and I still can't see the cause.
Her fingertips slip once as she pushes up her round glasses. The stubborn insistence that she could solve it alone lies on the floor like the crumpled printouts.
So, you'll look through this log with me, right?
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