The 0.12% Photo Finish
My apartment at 3 AM is a museum of small blue lights and quiet threats: the router blinking like a pulse, the MacBook fan pretending it isn’t tired, the glass of water sweating onto a coaster that has given up on dignity. I’m hunched in front of a rankings table the way humans hunch in front of a confessional—shoulders forward, jaw set, eyes trying to make numbers feel like fate. I don’t have a circadian rhythm. I have a preference for hours when humans stop performing competence.