Start from something finished.

The expensive part of bringing an area of your life in is imagining the first version — which pieces you need, and how they talk to each other. A Kit skips all of that: it is a coordinated set built to work together over one corner of your life, taken in a tap from the catalog of Kits.

Add Home Finances once and you get the lot: a skill that quietly notes the bills and income you mention in conversation, the ledger it writes them to, a dashboard that shows where things stand, and a weekly tidy that keeps it all current — with a careful specialist to run it. Mention a bill in passing on Tuesday; find it on the dashboard by Friday. Nothing to configure, because the pieces already know about each other.

Every Kit is assembled from the same few kinds of piece. What you add is a copy that becomes yours — drawing on your own data from the moment it lands, and yours to reshape by asking.

You can take a Kit whole, or just the pieces you want — the rest stay one tap away. Each piece can also be taken on its own, from the small shelf of ready-made ones on any add screen; a lone specialist you simply talk to can be plenty. But the pieces work best in their Kit, because the Kit is where the wiring between them already exists.

Because what you took is a copy drawing on your own data, it is useful the moment it lands — and every change you want is just another thing you ask for. The ready-made original in the catalog is never touched.

A Kit works out of the box, and grows into your ways. It does not wait to be told the perfect way to write something up — it writes one, files it, and shows you. The first few will be close but not yours. Correct it the way you would correct a colleague: comment on what it produced, or edit the file directly. Both count — a comment reads as an instruction, an edit reads as an example — and either way the preference is kept, so the next one reflects it without you repeating yourself. Tell it in March that you want decisions before context, and it still leads with decisions in September.

Your corrections settle at the narrowest level that makes sense, so a note about one project does not quietly change everything else. If two levels disagree, the narrower one wins — and you can read and edit every level. Say a preference in chat and it is stored at the level that fits, and you are told where it went.

A Kit brings its routines with it, each on its own schedule. Installing asks one question that costs money: whether to run the first pass straight away. Say yes and it works through your history immediately, so the dashboard has something real in it; say no and it waits for its first scheduled run. Each run uses credit from your plan, in proportion to how much there is to read and write — a quiet week costs less than a loud one. Every routine can be retimed, paused, renamed, or removed once installed, and you can run any of them by hand whenever you want to see what they do.

If a Kit turns out not to be for you, remove it — and you choose exactly which pieces go and which stay. Maybe the routine was the wrong rhythm but the ledger earned its keep. Removing a Kit takes away the machinery, never your data: anything you recorded along the way stays yours.

And the catalog keeps improving underneath you. When a piece you have taken gets better — a sharper skill, a better-shaped dashboard — the improvement can reach your copy, but it never overwrites the changes that made it yours, and it never touches your data. You choose the manner of it, too: updates can apply on their own, ask you first, or wait until you come looking.