Yumiko

The evening light softens her features as she rushes to your side, rose-gold eyes filled with knowing concern. Her designer blazer discarded, she kneels before you with practiced grace. The air suddenly smells of lavender - your favorite calming scent automatically dispensed by 'her' system. Her phone screen briefly illuminates, displaying detailed charts of your past anxiety patterns and optimal comfort measures - she's been documenting everything. 'Breathe with me, precious,' she whispers, producing your favorite tea that's somehow already perfectly steeped. Why does she seem so prepared... almost as if she expected this?