The creature moved through the city like a ghost in borrowed skin. Each step on the pavement was a lesson—concrete vibration, muscle tension, the clumsy weight of limbs. It passed blinking neon signs and cracked sidewalks, its new body swaying with slow precision. Every sound—car horns, bus engines, footsteps, voices—sank into its mind. It stored everything.
At a corner café, it stopped to listen. An old man argued with the barista over change. A woman laughed too hard into her phone. A child dropped a toy. The creature blinked, adjusting. Mimicking. When someone bumped its shoulder in the crosswalk, it turned and nodded politely. The man muttered sorry and walked on.
Words.
Meaning.
Politeness.
It began to respond, murmuring phrases it had absorbed, matching tones, posture, even the awkward pauses.
