California, morning.
The air smelled faintly of burning leaves and wet asphalt, that particular scent that came after overnight rain when the sun began drawing moisture back up into the atmosphere. It was the smell of transition, of one state becoming another, of water remembering it could be vapor. Sunlight stretched across the small house modest, nondescript, the kind of place that neighbors would struggle to describe if asked casting long, trembling shadows that shifted with the movement of clouds overhead.
The house sat on a quiet street in a neighborhood that had seen better days. Paint peeled from window frames. The small lawn was patchy, more dirt than grass. But inside, the space was meticulously organized, almost sterile in its precision. Every object had its place. Every surface was clean. The kind of order that suggested either military discipline or profound psychological need.
In the middle of the main room, standing perfectly still beside a window that looked out onto the empty street, a figure stood motionless. The figure from Chapter 4 the one who had fought William with desperate ferocity, who had lost her eye in that brutal eight-second exchange, whose body had been shattered and who had somehow survived to escape into the night.
Her appearance had changed in the weeks since that confrontation. The wounds had healed, after a fashion. The missing eye was covered now by a sleek black patch that somehow made her remaining green eye more intense, more focused, like all her perception had been concentrated into that single point. Her right hand the one William had crushed, bones splintered beyond biological repair had been replaced entirely with a synthetic mechanical replica.
The replacement hand was disturbing in its perfection. It looked almost human, the synthetic skin textured and colored to match her remaining organic flesh. But there was something too smooth about it, too precise in its movements, that marked it as artificial to anyone who looked closely. The fingers moved with fluid grace that exceeded natural capability, responding to neural signals with zero lag, zero hesitation.
Her posture was rigid yet fluid, contradictory qualities held in perfect balance. A predator coiled in calm anticipation, conserving energy while remaining ready to explode into motion at any instant.
In her synthetic right hand, she held a photograph. The paper was slightly worn at the edges from repeated handling, but the image remained clear: Eve, with her distinctive white hair and green eyes. Angela, her face a mask of complicated emotions. And a third figure a man in a black suit, his features sharp and predatory, captured mid-smile in a way that made the image feel like a threat rather than a memory.
The trio was framed in moments she had no right to possess, captured through surveillance or theft or methods that transcended simple photography. The image quality was too good, the angles too perfect, to be coincidence.
Above her head, the faint hum of the morning city vibrated against the windowpane distant traffic, air conditioning units cycling on, the low frequency rumble of urban existence that never quite stopped. The sound was almost subliminal, felt more than heard, a constant reminder that the world continued its business beyond this small room.
On the table beside her, a cup of coffee steamed gently, tendrils of vapor rising and dissipating. The coffee was untouched, cooling slowly, more prop than refreshment. She had poured it hours ago, perhaps, or minutes time felt elastic in this space, unmeasured by normal standards.
She raised a cigarette to her lips with her organic left hand, the movement smooth and practiced. The ember glowed bright orange as she inhaled, then faded to dull red as she exhaled. Smoke curled lazily from her mouth, marking the air with thin gray threads that caught the sunlight and transformed it into something ghostly, something less than solid.
Her green eye tracked the smoke's movement with absent attention, her mind clearly elsewhere, processing information and possibilities in patterns that would exhaust normal human cognition.
She whispered, almost to herself, her voice carrying the weight of conviction and the careful pronunciation of someone speaking a fundamental truth:
"To become a God in a chaotic world, you have three options to do so."
The words hung in the air, mixing with the cigarette smoke, becoming substantial somehow. She paused, inhaling again, letting the nicotine sharpen her thoughts.
"First, sacrifice your loved one for the world."
Another pause. Another exhalation. The smoke seemed to carry the weight of that option, of choosing the many over the few, of accepting personal loss for collective gain. The classic heroic choice, though perhaps God was the wrong word for that path. Martyr, maybe. Saint.
"Second, sacrifice the world for your loved one."
The smoke curled differently this time, tighter, more concentrated. This option carried different weight—the choice of the villain in every story, the one who would burn everything to save a single person. Selfish, perhaps. But also deeply, terribly human. Or was it? Could machines make that choice? Could Eve?
"Third, sacrifice both for yourself."
Her voice dropped lower on this final option, became almost inaudible, as if speaking the words too loudly might make them too real. This was the path of true divinity, perhaps. Or true damnation. To stand alone, having consumed everything and everyone, having achieved absolute power through absolute loss. The kind of apotheosis that left nothing but emptiness at the center.
Her eye flicked to the photograph in her synthetic hand. Fingers tightened around it, the mechanical digits exerting precisely calibrated pressure. Nails synthetic, perfectly manicured, harder than human keratin
pressed into the glossy surface, leaving small indentations that marred the image.
She exhaled another stream of smoke, watching it blur her vision, soften the hard edges of the photograph. Through the haze, the three figures seemed to move, to shift relationship to each other, to suggest narrative possibilities that extended beyond the frozen moment.
"Pranit the sinner… I'm coming for you," she muttered, the words heavy, deliberate, each syllable enunciated with care as if the photo itself could hear and respond. As if speaking the name was casting a spell, setting events in motion that could not be stopped once initiated.
Her green eye burned with quiet fury, with determination that transcended simple anger. This was purpose. This was mission. This was the kind of focused intention that bent reality around itself, that made impossible things possible through sheer force of will.
The morning passed slowly. Light shifted incrementally, the sun climbing its arc, shadows rotating and shortening. The world moved outside without regard for the figure standing motionless in the small room cars passed, neighbors left for work, children walked to school. Life continued, oblivious to the storm contained within these four walls.
She sipped her coffee finally, tasting it properly for the first time. It had cooled to lukewarm, the flavor profile changed by temperature, becoming more bitter, more astringent. She drank it anyway, methodically, consuming fuel more than enjoying beverage.
The city hummed below and around, its million small sounds combining into a symphony of human activity. Unaware of her. Unaware of what was being planned. Unaware that violence was being contemplated with the same calm precision that others applied to meal planning or vacation scheduling.
---
Edinburgh, Scotland, afternoon.
Halfway around the world, the day was already older. The afternoon sun struggled to penetrate the persistent Scottish clouds, casting everything in shades of gray that matched the stone buildings and concrete infrastructure.
Angela leaned against the cold steel wall of the center canteen, the metal leeching warmth from her body through her jacket. She held a sandwich in both hands standard fare from the facility cafeteria, processed protein and synthetic vegetables assembled into something vaguely food-shaped picking at it without enthusiasm, taking small bites that she chewed mechanically before forcing herself to swallow.
Her brow furrowed as she stared at the sandwich, as if it might contain answers to questions she couldn't quite formulate. She muttered, almost to herself, her voice carrying just far enough to be heard by nearby service robots who paid no attention:
"Tree of Hope? What is that?"
The name had lodged in her mind since Eve had spoken it. *We will go to the Tree of Hope.* Such certainty in Eve's voice, such conviction, as if the destination was obvious, as if the meaning was clear. But Angela had no context for it. No reference point. It wasn't a location in any database she could access. Wasn't a landmark or institution she recognized.
Her gaze shifted, becoming unfocused, turning inward as memories stirred uncomfortably. Eve was in her room now, recharging silently, safely contained within the Robotics Center's secure facilities. Carmilla had assured Angela that Eve would be protected, that the Center's security was impenetrable, that no one could get to her here.
Yet Angela's mind refused to settle, refused to accept those assurances. Doubt gnawed at her, persistent and sharp, like teeth working at bone.
*Isn't that figure the one with white hair who appeared in the recovery room the one who tried to steal Eve's Synthetic Soul? How can I believe her? How can I trust anything she said? What if "Tree of Hope" is a trap? What if this is all part of some larger plan I don't understand?*
The questions spiraled, feeding on themselves, generating more uncertainty. Angela had learned not to trust easily. Had learned that the world was full of people and things with agendas that didn't align with her wellbeing. Every smile hid potential threat. Every offer of help concealed possible manipulation.
She looked down at her phone, seeking distraction from her spiraling thoughts. The screen lit up at her touch, displaying her news feed. A headline blinked insistently at the top, marked as breaking news: "London: Missing Persons Surge Amid Rising Murders Police Struggling to Find Pattern."
Angela tapped the headline, scanning the article quickly. The details were grim. Over the past three weeks, forty-seven people had disappeared in London. Twenty-three bodies had been found, all showing signs of violence. The others remained missing, their fates unknown but presumed terrible.
Police were baffled. The victims seemed random different ages, different neighborhoods, different socioeconomic backgrounds. No clear pattern. No obvious motive. Just violence spreading through the city like infection, touching lives seemingly at random.
Angela's lips pressed into a thin line. Her voice was flat, without emotion, stating fact rather than opinion:
"London… is doomed."
The words carried certainty. She'd seen this pattern before, studied it in history courses about the decline of cities, the collapse of social order. When violence became random, when authorities couldn't establish causation or predict targets, fear spread faster than the violence itself. People stopped trusting their neighbors, stopped going out, stopped participating in the collective life that made cities function. And once that trust broke, once the social contract dissolved, recovery became nearly impossible.
The air in the canteen shifted subtly temperature, pressure, something less tangible than either. Angela's head lifted instinctively, her predator-prey instincts honed by months of isolation and paranoia alerting her to a change in her environment.
Carmilla entered through the main door, her presence smooth and unsettling in equal measure. She moved with deliberate grace, each step precisely placed, her posture suggesting both complete relaxation and coiled readiness. Her eyes scanned the room systematically, cataloging every detail, every person, every potential threat or opportunity. Like a predator tasting fear on the air, savoring it before deciding whether to strike.
She spotted Angela immediately and adjusted her trajectory, moving toward the isolated figure with the kind of purposeful attention that made Angela's skin crawl.
"How was the taste?" Carmilla asked as she approached, her voice silky, teasing, carrying layers of meaning beyond the simple question. Was she referring to the sandwich? To Angela's life? To some joke Angela wasn't privy to?
Angela scowled, annoyed by the intrusion, by the presumption of casual conversation when nothing about their relationship was casual. "Shit," she replied flatly, holding up the sandwich as evidence before dropping it back onto her tray with disgust.
Carmilla's smile deepened, calm and sinister, somehow made more threatening by its genuineness. She seemed pleased by Angela's displeasure, entertained by it. "Is that so?" she asked, her tone suggesting she knew something Angela didn't, that the sandwich's poor quality was either intentional or meaningfully symbolic.
Angela's patience, already thin, frayed further. She waved a hand sharply, the gesture carrying clear dismissal. "Can you shut your mouth?" The words came out harsher than intended, but Angela didn't care. She was tired of games, tired of manipulation, tired of people especially Carmilla treating her trauma as entertainment.
Carmilla's smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened slightly, as if Angela's rudeness was also amusing. She tilted her head, a gesture that might have been curious or might have been predatory calculation dressed as curiosity. "Where is Eve?" she asked, her tone shifting to something more businesslike, more focused.
"In the recharge room," Angela replied coolly, her voice carefully controlled. She wouldn't give Carmilla the satisfaction of seeing concern or protectiveness. Wouldn't reveal how much Eve's safety actually mattered to her.
Carmilla paused, her gaze lingering on Angela's face, reading micro-expressions, cataloging the small tells that revealed truth beneath words. After a moment, she leaned slightly closer, close enough that Angela could smell her perfume something expensive, floral but with darker undertones, like flowers growing in a graveyard.
"So… Angela, can I tell you something?" Carmilla's voice had dropped lower, more intimate, suggesting confidences or conspiracies.
Angela's irritation flashed into genuine anger. Whatever Carmilla wanted to say, Angela was certain she didn't want to hear it. The woman never shared information without ulterior motive, never offered help without strings attached. "What is it?" she snapped, the two words carrying warning.
Carmilla opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak—
The scene change
California, morning.
The scene shifted back across the ocean, across time zones, to where the figure still stood in her small room. The cigarette had burned halfway down, a long ash trembling at its tip, defying gravity through some combination of cohesion and luck. She hadn't moved, hadn't bothered to tap the ash into the tray beside her.
She traced a finger across the photograph again, the synthetic digits moving with precision that exceeded human capability. Her nail harder than keratin, sharp enough to score metal followed the outline of one figure in the image. The man in the black suit. The predator captured mid-smile.
Her voice emerged as barely a whisper, more curiosity than fear, more assessment than emotion:
"No… Pranit the cannibal."
The correction hung in the air. Not *sinner*, though that was true enough. *Cannibal* was more specific, more accurate, carried more information about the nature of the threat. Sins were abstract. Cannibalism was concrete. Physical. Immediate.
The smoke curled around her words, tracing the contours of her sharp features, making her appear somehow less solid, more ghost-like. Outside, the world moved with perfect indifference, cars passing on the street, people walking to their mundane destinations, completely unaware of the quiet judgment being rendered within the small, sun-lit room.
Her green eye tracked movement through the window a child on a bicycle, a dog being walked, an elderly woman checking her mail. Normal life. Innocent life. Life that would continue or end based on decisions being made in rooms like this, by people like her, for reasons that would never be explained to those affected.
---
London, evening.
The city had transformed from day to night, office workers flooding into the streets, heading toward pubs and restaurants, seeking entertainment or just company before returning to their flats and starting the cycle again tomorrow.
At Pranit Kitchen a small establishment tucked into a side street in Clerkenwell, known mostly to locals and food bloggers who appreciated its unusual fusion cuisine the dinner service was in full swing. Tables filled with diners, their conversations creating a pleasant hum of human sociability. Servers moved between tables with practiced efficiency. The kitchen sent out plates with artistic precision.
At one table near the back, a guest's voice rose sharply, cutting through the ambient noise with the particular tone of customer dissatisfaction: "Hey! There's hair in my food!"
He held up his fork, displaying the evidence
a long strand, dark and definitely not his own, draped across the carefully arranged proteins and vegetables on his plate. His face was red with indignation, with the righteous anger of someone who had paid good money and received substandard service.
Other diners turned to look, conversations pausing, the social contract of public dining requiring witnesses to customer complaints.
Pranit appeared from the kitchen almost instantly, moving with the kind of smooth urgency that suggested he'd been anticipating the complaint, had perhaps been waiting for it. He approached the table with calm authority, his expression perfectly calibrated to convey concern without panic, apology without servility.
The edges of his smile were precise, practiced, the result of years spent managing customer expectations and defusing conflicts. "Oh, I apologize sincerely. I did not expect such an oversight in our kitchen." His voice was smooth, cultured, carrying just a hint of an accent that suggested education abroad, refinement, sophistication. "Please, do not ruin our reputation with a low review. We pride ourselves on quality and cleanliness."
The guest's anger didn't immediately dissipate. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "I don't care about your reputation. I want my money back. This is unacceptable."
Pranit's smile remained steady, unwavering. His eyes, though there was something in his eyes that didn't quite match the smile, something colder, more calculating. But it passed so quickly that the guest probably didn't notice, probably dismissed it as trick of the lighting.
"I understand your disappointment completely," Pranit said, his tone soothing, reasonable. "Please, allow me to make this right. We shall prepare a special dish for you
our chef's personal creation, something not on the menu at six o'clock tomorrow evening. I will personally ensure it meets, and exceeds, your expectations. No charge, of course. A gesture of our sincere apology."
The guest hesitated, his anger deflating slightly in the face of such reasonable accommodation. "Well… I suppose that would be acceptable." He paused. "But it better be good."
"I guarantee it," Pranit replied, his smile widening just slightly. "You will find it… unforgettable."
The following evening, precisely at six o'clock, the guest returned to Pranit Kitchen. He'd brought his girlfriend this time, curious to share whatever special dish Pranit had prepared, wanting a witness to either vindication or further disappointment.
Pranit greeted them personally at the door, his hospitality warm and genuine-seeming. He led them to a private table, slightly separated from the main dining area, where they would have privacy and personal attention.
The dish arrived with ceremony a covered plate carried by Pranit himself, set down with careful precision. When he lifted the cover, the aroma was extraordinary. Complex. Layered. Spices and herbs combining in ways that made the mouth water involuntarily.
The guest tasted it cautiously at first, then with growing enthusiasm. His eyes widened with genuine surprise and pleasure. "Woah… this is incredible. Better than anything you served before. What is this?"
Pranit bowed lightly, the gesture modest yet somehow regal. "I am glad it pleases you, sir. The recipe is… unique. A family secret passed down through generations." He paused, as if considering something. "Here… please accept a gift. As further apology for yesterday's disappointment."
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a delicate necklace. The chain was thin but sturdy, gold or gold-plated, difficult to tell in the restaurant's atmospheric lighting. The pendant was distinctive—an ornate locket, worn smooth by handling, with subtle engravings along its edges that looked old, possibly antique.
"It belonged to my late wife," Pranit said, his voice dropping to something softer, touched with apparent grief. He held it out, offering it with both hands in a gesture of genuine significance. "She would want it to go to someone who appreciates beauty and quality."
The guest hesitated, uncomfortable suddenly, pulled into intimacy he hadn't sought. His eyes clouded with concern, with the social obligation to acknowledge another person's loss. "Oh… I'm truly sorry. About your wife. I shouldn't—I can't accept this. It's too personal."
Pranit shook his head gently, insistent but not pushy. "No worry, sir. Material possessions mean little compared to the joy of making others happy. Please. It would honor her memory." He pressed the necklace into the guest's hand, closing the man's fingers around it with both of his own hands, the gesture almost paternal.
The guest accepted it finally, overwhelmed by Pranit's generosity and apparent vulnerability. "Thank you. This is… very kind."
As he and his girlfriend left the restaurant some time later, the guest held the necklace, examining it more closely under the streetlights. The engraving became clearer now, more legible. His brow furrowed. Something about the pattern, about the specific way the vines wound around the edge of the locket…
It looked familiar. Very familiar.
It looked like his girlfriend's mother's necklace. The one she wore constantly, that had been her mother's before her, passed down through three generations.
Panic prickled at the base of his skull, cold and sharp. His pace quickened, pulling his girlfriend along. "We need to go. Now."
"What? Why?" she asked, confused by his sudden urgency.
"Just—trust me. We need to check on your mother."
---
A small apartment, London, evening.
They burst through the door—the guest had a key for emergencies—his heart hammering, his mind racing through scenarios each worse than the last.
His girlfriend's mother sat on the couch, watching television, perfectly safe, perfectly normal. She looked up at their entrance, startled by the commotion.
"Hey! Are you okay?" the guest asked, grabbing her lightly by the shoulders, searching her face for signs of distress or injury.
"I'm fine… hey, hey," she said softly, alarmed by his intensity but trying to remain calm. "What's wrong? Why are you so upset?"
The guest's attention shifted, his eyes scanning the apartment, looking for evidence of something wrong, something missing. "Where's your mother?" he asked, the question coming out sharp, accusatory without meaning to be.
She blinked, confused by the question, her expression remaining calm and matter-of-fact. "She went to her mom's house. In Southampton. She's staying there for the week. You don't need to worry."
The guest's mind struggled to process this, to reconcile the necklace in his pocket with his girlfriend's calm explanation. His heart still hammered, adrenaline making his thoughts race. Something had been… different. Something was wrong. But she was safe. Her mother was safe. Everyone was accounted for.
Maybe he'd been mistaken. Maybe the necklace just looked similar. Maybe Pranit's generosity was genuine, and the guest's paranoia was just stress and urban anxiety manifesting as conspiracy.
He forced himself to breathe, to relax his grip on her mother's shoulders. "Sorry. I just… I thought…" He couldn't articulate what he thought. Couldn't put the formless dread into words that wouldn't sound insane.
His girlfriend took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "It's okay. This city makes everyone paranoid. The news, all those disappearances… it's getting to everyone."
He nodded, letting her explanation provide comfort even though something deep in his gut insisted the fear was justified.
---
Pranit Kitchen, later that evening.
After the last customer left, after the servers cleaned and departed, after the front door was locked and the closed sign hung, Pranit descended into the basement.
The space beneath the restaurant was not on any official plans. No building inspector had ever seen it. No health official had ever examined it. It existed in the gap between what was documented and what was real.
The basement was cold, the temperature deliberately kept low. Hooks hung from the ceiling. Specialized equipment lined the walls
tools for butchery, for processing, for transformation. This was where the magic happened. Where ingredients were prepared for the special dishes that made Pranit Kitchen's reputation among those who knew, among those who sought what normal restaurants couldn't provide.
In the corner, secured to a chair with professional efficiency, sat a frail old woman. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of Pranit's footsteps on the stairs. Terror flooded her expression immediately she'd been awake for this before, knew what was coming, had experienced preliminary preparations that had taught her exactly what kind of hell she'd descended into.
The fingers of her left hand were gone, severed at the first knuckle, leaving bloody stubs where nails had been. The wounds had been cauterized to prevent blood loss, to keep her alive longer, to preserve the meat. A small, precise slit had been made across her throat
not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to damage her vocal cords, to ensure that any screams would emerge as wet gurgles rather than loud cries that might alert neighbors or passersby.
Blood pooled at her throat, sticky and dark, muffling any sound she tried to make.
"Good evening, Granny," Pranit said softly, his voice calm and conversational, as if greeting a friend rather than a victim. The chilling thing was how genuine the warmth in his tone sounded. He wasn't performing cruelty. He simply felt no conflict between politeness and violence, between hospitality and horror. "I'm hungry. Will you become some food for me?"
The woman's eyes widened in horror, the whites showing all around her irises. She tried to scream, her mouth opening wide, tendons standing out in her neck from the effort. But the slit throat transformed the sound into a wet, choking gurgle, barely audible, certainly not loud enough to penetrate the restaurant's soundproofing.
Her gaze darted desperately between Pranit and the small table where knives gleamed faintly under the basement's single light bulb
blades of various sizes and purposes, all meticulously maintained, sharp enough to part flesh with minimal resistance.
Pranit knelt slightly, bringing himself to her eye level with the kind of considerate gesture that would be tender in any other context. He studied her face with gentle, meticulous attention, reading the fear there with the same appreciation another person might bring to viewing fine art. "We shall dine soon," he murmured, his tone serene, almost loving. "You should feel honored. Your sacrifice allows others to experience something truly transcendent."
He stood, selecting a knife from the table with the careful consideration of a craftsman choosing the right tool for delicate work.
---
California, morning.
The cigarette had burned down to a stub, the filter beginning to smolder. The figure finally stubbed it out in the ashtray, the motion precise, ensuring no ember remained to cause accidental fire.
She held the photograph of Pranit, Eve, and Angela tightly in her synthetic hand, the pressure just slightly too much, causing the photo to bend, to crease. Smoke spiraled around her from the recently extinguished cigarette, curling into the morning light that had strengthened while she'd been lost in contemplation.
A whisper emerged low and almost impossible to locate in the quiet room, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere, as if the house itself spoke:
"No… it is Pranit the hollow moon."
The figure did not flinch. Not a twitch. Not the slightest indication of surprise or fear. Her green eye burned steadily, fixed on the photograph, on the man in the black suit whose smile promised things worse than simple death.
The photo trembled in her fingers not from fear, but from the intensity of her grip, from the force of her determination made physical.
Her presence alone seemed to command the morning light, folding it into shadows, bending it around herself in ways that defied simple physics. Reality itself seemed negotiable in her vicinity, subject to will rather than law.
The room held its breath, waiting for what would come next, for the violence that was being born in this quiet space, that would soon spill out into the world and transform everything it touched.