CHATBOT: Chapter One: Of Beasts and Boxes Oliver Tamsin, not yet twenty-two and already tired of the provincial life, arrived at the heart of the city that never truly slept--a city where the neon read every language, both human and wild. The air smelled of spices and rain and something almost, but not quite, like adventure. He stepped into the lobby of the Russet Brick building, one worn suitcase trailing behind him, another balanced precariously on the edge of hope. The building, older than the other looming structures that shouldered their way against the sky, was nestled between pea-soup cafes and dusty bookshops. It stood unassuming but proud, its bricks weather-worn and mortar scented with the tales of a thousand tenants past. Oliver found his new home quaint, with its mosaic of half-broken tiles declaring the building's name with fractured conviction. His apartment, number 207, waited on the second floor. And as he ascended, the stairs creaked in agreement of the suitcase's weight and the heavy heart of its owner. And just as he had begun to slide the key into his new abode's lock, there came a cough, a sort of throaty rumble that folded in on itself, seasoned with years and something like sawdust. "Hmm, fresh blood," said the cough, and Oliver turned to see who it might have come from. The neighbor perched beside his door was an owl, one wing resting on a minuscule cane far too elegant for afternoon use, and his feathers, while mostly a noble white, were trimmed in greys and silvers of ever deepening shades. The finer plumules were splayed in places, giving him a disgruntled aspect and suiting the downward bend of his thick brows. His eyes, however, betrayed an intellect undulled by age. They swirled with tawny flecks, like liquid amber encircling near-black pupils that sharply appraised Oliver. Those eyes would have missed nothing in their youth, and they likely missed little now--in fact, they reminded Oliver of the way antique mirrors reflected things ever so slightly distorted by the passage of time. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, Mr...?" Oliver ventured, leaving the space open as an invitation. The owl ruffled his feathers, all pretense of accident in the movement falling away as he, quite deliberately, drew himself up to his full height--a height that remained unimpressive. "Harold. Harold Wingenbach. And it's Doctor, not Mister." His voice, rusty with disuse and an accent from yesteryear, was as severe as the lines creasing the soft feathers a...