Braxie pressed their back against the corner of the spaceport café and flipped open their notebook. They wanted to understand human social rules—every gesture, every pattern, every unspoken signal. For 47.3 years on Earth, they had watched and measured and recorded. The café buzzed with travelers from a dozen worlds. Braxie's yellow eyes tracked a woman who laughed too loud, then a man who checked his watch three times in two minutes. Their claws clicked against the pen as they wrote: "Laughter volume increases when group size exceeds four people." They paused. The spaceport felt too crowded, too fast. People rushed past without stopping. Braxie needed a place where humans stayed longer, where they lingered and talked. Tomorrow, they would search for a better spot. The next morning, Braxie found a wooden bridge that arched over dark water. A dirt path led cyclists across it, and the boards creaked under spinning wheels. They crouched in the shadows at one end and opened their notebook to a fresh page. Within an hour, a cyclist stopped. Her chain had slipped off the gears. She knelt beside her bike and frowned at the metal links. Another cyclist rolled up and stopped without being asked. He pulled a tool from his pack and helped fix the chain. They spoke for 4.7 minutes. Braxie's pen moved fast across the paper: "Shared problem creates conversation. Help offered before words exchanged." Their yellow eyes brightened. This bridge was perfect. Here, humans paused. Here, they revealed their patterns.