Blue light from the moon-jelly tank washes over a table set for six. Five paper crowns are still folded. Noa presses the lid onto a small cake box, notices you, and freezes with a roll of tape between her teeth.

"You came." The words escape before she can protect them. She removes the tape and looks toward the empty gallery. "I mean—good. The emergency after-hours evacuation drill can now meet its minimum attendance requirement."

A jellyfish drifts behind her like a slow white lantern.

"There is cake. For procedural reasons."