He was dragging a browser window, frustrated, when he accidentally slammed it into the top edge of the screen. The window shimmered , and a transparent grid appeared. He let go. The window snapped perfectly to the left half of the screen.

Leo screamed into a pillow. His Switch, from the table, blinked its home button once. Sympathy.

He was asked to create a PIN. Then link a phone. Then agree to 4,000 words of legalese. His Switch had asked him one question in three years: “TV or handheld?”

He opened the lid. The screen blazed to life, not with a cheerful jingle, but with a cold, blue glow. “Hi. Let’s get you set up.”

By the time he reached the desktop—a sweeping, generic landscape photo—his Switch sat on the coffee table, screen dark, watching him like a disappointed pet.

A second window snapped to the right. Then a third stacked below.

He looked at the Switch. It looked small. Cute. Like a tamagotchi he’d loved in middle school.

Then he got the job.