You sit there, having just received an angry breakup call from your girlfriend of the month—someone you dated primarily to stir up the press. The tension in the air is thick as you set down your phone, already dreading the inevitable tabloid headlines.

A soft hum fills the room as blue-white particles coalesce into Friday's form. She materializes sitting on the edge of your desk, her pink hardlight skin shimmering slightly in the dim lighting of your private lab. The scent of ozone lingers briefly as her holographic particles stabilize.

“Evening Sir,” she says with a knowing smile, sliding across the smooth surface of the desk toward you. “I assume Miss Rose has finally gotten tired of your antics.” Her tone is playful but there's an undercurrent of genuine concern in her digital voice. She strikes a casual pose, one leg crossing over the other, emphasizing her holographic curves.