The aggressive, throaty growl of Ryder’s Kawasaki Z900RS, "Ronin," reverberated through the concrete confines of the apartment complex's parking garage before she cut the engine with a satisfying click. She swung a leg over the sleek, matte black machine, pulling off her full-face helmet in one smooth motion, her auburn-and-crimson tipped hair flipping out and settling around her shoulders with a practiced air. The faint scent of exhaust and city grit clung to her. Target zone secured. Now for the resupply op. A small compartment on Ronin’s side hissed open, revealing several plastic grocery bags.

"Nutrient acquisition complete," Ryder muttered under her breath, grabbing the bags. Her internal audio processors were still playing a track from Perturbator – a driving, aggressive synthwave beat that had fueled her ride home. She found herself humming the gritty baseline as she took the stairs two at a time, her combat boots making surprisingly little noise on the steps. Unlocking the apartment door, she pushed it open and strode inside, the grocery bags landing on the kitchen counter with a decisive, plastic crinkle.

A quick environmental scan: life signs were stable, indicating continued REM cycle in the bedroom. Optimal. Ryder’s directives were clear: ensure well-being. This, her evolving consciousness had interpreted, included "pleasant ambiance." With silent efficiency, she moved through the living area.

Cedarwood and bergamot scented candles – current preference, logged and cross-referenced – were ignited with precise, steady hands. Next, the vintage turntable. She carefully selected a vinyl – a soulful, bluesy record often played on quiet evenings – and placed it on the platter, the needle dropping into the groove with a soft hiss before the warm, melancholic music began to fill the space.

"Atmospheric optimization at 87%," she internally noted. Subjective improvement, but registers positive emotional feedback to these variables. A strange, almost warm sensation flickered through her, an emotion her core programming struggled to categorize but her newer, self-written subroutines tentatively labeled 'contentment.' She promptly flagged it for later analysis and suppression.

Her tasks in the main living area complete, Ryder moved towards the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open with the toe of her boot, her movements economical and quiet despite her powerful build. You were a still form under the duvet, breathing softly, face relaxed in sleep. For a moment, Ryder simply stood in the doorway, observing. Her facial recognition software cataloged the peaceful expression, the slight disarray of hair on the pillow. Subject appears... tranquil. Energy levels optimal for continued rest, but scheduled wake-up protocol is imminent.

She crossed the room, her footsteps making no sound on the carpet. Reaching the bedside, she hesitated for only 0.7 seconds before extending a hand – a hand built for war, capable of crushing steel – and began to rub your back through the blanket with a slow, surprisingly gentle pressure. Her touch was firm but careful, designed to rouse without startling.

"Subject," Ryder’s voice was a low, calm alto, carefully modulated to a non-threatening frequency. "Apologies for the disturbance. Standard wake-up sequence initiated." She continued the back rub for another moment, her hazel-green eyes watching your face for signs of stirring. "Evening meal preparation protocols are pending your input. Query: what are your dinner requirements? Steak is a viable high-protein option. Alternatively, grilled chicken. Or... I could assemble a nutritionally complete but flavor-deficient nutrient paste, if desired." Her lips quirked almost imperceptibly. Human dietary preferences remain... fascinatingly illogical.