The sound came before the light.
A low, rhythmic pulse, rising from the floor like a heartbeat.
Then the hum, mechanical, steady, breathing through the walls around them.
Clara's eyes snapped open.
The room flickered, light flashing like a heart restarting after a long sleep.
Adrian grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the door that had sealed shut behind them.
"It's the system," he said through his teeth. "It's waking up."
"It's reacting to us?"
"No. It's recognizing we're back."
A sharp signal sliced through the silence.
The ceiling lights began to flash red and white, uncertain, as if the room itself couldn't decide what to do with them.
A metallic voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once: "Welcome back. Memory alignment in progress.
Source: Clara Voss. Target: Adrian M."
Clara stepped back instinctively.
A tingling climbed her arms, electric, alive, crawling under her skin.
The light ran through her veins.
"Adrian… it hurts."
"It's the transfer," he said, pale. "It's starting again."
"But we didn't touch."
"We don't have to. The system's doing it on its own now."
He rushed to the console. The panels blinked; the cables pulsed like veins.
He hit a switch… nothing.
Another. Still nothing. Then the voice again, colder: "Unauthorized interruption detected."
The lights flared white. The floor trembled.
The hum deepened, the building wasn't reacting; it was defending itself.
"Stop!" Clara shouted. "It'll hurt you!"
But Adrian kept pulling at the cables until a piercing tone split the air, forcing them both to their knees. A scream of pure frequency, sharp enough to draw blood.
Then silence. And in the silence, a monitor came to life.
The image shook, blurred at first. A bright room. Too bright.
Two metallic beds, two bodies seated apart: them.
Clara, hair longer, posture cold, detached.
Adrian, younger, confused, still.
Behind them: Rinaldi.
Hands behind his back, voice calm, precise.
"Emotional attachment interferes with neural transmission," he said, studying the readings.
"However, in the Voss/M. case, the bond enhances receptivity. The anomaly may render them ideal for total integration."
Clara's lips parted.
"No… no, that's not possible."
Adrian turned toward her, eyes wide. "He knew. He knew all along."
On the screen, Rinaldi looked up, straight at them, as if he could still see through the memory.
"When two minds love each other," he said softly, "they become one. That's not failure. It's evolution."
The glass cracked.
Adrian slammed his fist into the monitor, shattering it into a burst of white light.
The room went black. And in that blackness, the voice returned, calm, steady, intimate:
"Integration: 67%. Proceeding."
Pain ripped through Clara's skull.
Images, flashes, corridors she'd never seen but somehow remembered.
Faces, wires, the hum of machines.
Her heartbeat merged with the sound of the system.
Adrian caught her shoulders.
"Breathe. Look at me!"
But the light swallowed them both, white and infinite.
She saw them, herself and Adrian, strapped to twin machines, hands clasped even in unconsciousness.
"I don't want to remember," she whispered. "I'm scared of what we'll find."
Adrian's hand trembled against her cheek.
"I want to remember everything," he murmured. "Even if it destroys us."
A low hum swelled again. Behind them, a wall slid open.
Cold white light spilled through.
A new room. Empty. Two metallic beds, linked by a web of wires and sensors.
Photos of them lined the walls, every stage of the experiment.
Above the images, carved into the glass:
"Integration Room - Stage Three."
Clara took a step forward. Her reflection trembled on the glass.
Then, movement behind her. A figure.
"Adrian…" she whispered.
He turned slowly. Standing behind them, calm, composed, hands folded behind his back: Rinaldi.
"Welcome back," he said.
His voice was soft. Familiar. As if he'd been waiting for them all along.