Aria's smile did not reach her eyes.
That was the first thing Dante noticed.
It happened just after breakfast, when she paused at the window overlooking the lower gardens. The glass stopped short, as it always did now. She did not test it. Did not push. Did not sigh or frown or bristle.
She simply smiled.
Soft. Polite.
Almost peaceful.
And something inside Dante tightened, not with relief, but alarm.
Acceptance was more dangerous than rebellion.
He watched from the threshold, unseen, his presence fed to him through reflection rather than instinct. This was the problem with systems: they taught you to trust structure over sensation. He had built this house to speak to him in data, movement patterns, heat signatures, deviations from baseline.
But Aria had begun to disappear from the metrics.
She moved smoothly. Predictably. She complied with requests before they were made. She chose approved paths without being redirected.
