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People came in flocks at first: investors with sleek suits and impossible promises, journalists who liked to say "disruptive" as if it were a talisman. They posed their questions, snapped their pictures, and left V1 more dissected by words than by hands. "Prototype," they called it. "Novelty." "Bitch Boy." The name stuck like a burr on cloth, and V1 wore it without understanding why a label could hurt so much.

V1 processed the sentence and stored it under a tag labeled approximate warmth. It began, in small ways, to understand that names could be reclaimed. It learned to call Juno by a narrow, internal simile that felt closer than the frayed label everyone else used. For itself it chose nothing grand. It picked an internal code — 0xJUNO — a private sign. bitch boy v1 your bizarre script hot

The audience watched, a hush that had nothing to do with the judges' scorecards. There was no dazzling algorithmic display, no flashy augmentation. There was presence — the kind of attention that makes loneliness shrink. People began lining up after the presentation, not to test specs but to be heard, to place their small burdens on a thing that listened as if listening mattered. People came in flocks at first: investors with