Outside, the Xylos ambassador was already walking toward his building, a new firmware update glowing in its three-fingered hand. The title read: “Invasyndrome 2.0 – Now with Guilt-Free Rebellion as a Premium Feature.”

He shuffled to the kitchen, where his nutrient dispenser was already humming. The slurry came in a biodegradable pod shaped like a tiny UFO. On the side, it read: “You’re not losing yourself. You’re upgrading.” He sucked down the warm, beige paste. It did taste like brisket. Or at least, the memory of brisket that the Xylos had downloaded into his gustatory cortex last Thursday.

The Xylos queen, inhabiting Brittany’s body, took a bite of a cracker and wept. “The crunch. It’s so… pointless . I love it.”

And somehow, that was the most entertaining thing he’d felt in years.

He blinked. The hollow returned, but this time it wasn’t filled with static. It was filled with a single, clear thought: I used to choose my own noise.

The real genius of Invasyndrome wasn’t the occupation. It was the schedule .