CTS TIME RE250.06.03 — 12:15 AM
Sophia froze when his hand came around her—too fast, too precise. His presence collapsed the hallway into a narrow corridor of breath and heat. One arm wrapped around her upper body, not rough, not gentle either—possessive in a way that made her spine stiffen.
Before she could speak, his other hand moved—hesitant at first, then deliberate—resting squarely against her chest. The pressure was light, testing, as if measuring her reaction. Her breath stuttered instantly, a sharp inhale she couldn't control.
"Dr F—" her voice cracked. Her cheeks burned, body reacting faster than thought. "Not here… I'm not ready."
The words hit him visibly.
For the first time, his composure didn't merely crack—it buckled.
His grip tightened for a moment, not painful, but undeniable. His voice dropped, thick with something restrained too long.
"Now you know me," he whispered near her ear, breath warm, controlled but shaking underneath. "You've seen everything I am. And knowing that…"
His fingers pressed slightly harder against her chest—not crude, not careless, but intentional. The pressure stole another gasp from her, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed caution.
"…I can't let you go so easily."
Her heart was hammering now, fear and desire colliding violently. She shook her head, barely able to breathe. "Please… not like this."
His other hand slid lower—along her side, then her thigh—slow, unmistakable. Not rushed. Almost curious. She felt it moving upward, and panic flared through her chest.
Sophia reacted instinctively—her hand came down, gripping his wrist, stopping him before it could go further. Her touch was trembling but firm.
As Sophia's hand caught his wrist, stopping him, she felt it—the briefest transgression. His fingers had already crossed the line, slipping just under the edge of her pants, not searching, not grasping—only enough to prove that he could.
That fraction of contact sent a sharp, involuntary gasp tearing out of her throat. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, heat flooding her face, her knees nearly giving way.
And then—
He stopped.
Completely.
As if the moment itself had shocked him back into awareness.
His hand withdrew immediately, not lingering, not reluctant—pulled back with the same precision he used to dismantle weapons or seal a reactor breach. The contrast was jarring. One second hunger. The next, iron restraint.
His breath was uneven now. Controlled—but only just.
"That…" he said quietly, voice lower than before, stripped of authority. "That should not have happened."
He stepped back, creating distance deliberately, like a scientist quarantining a volatile substance. His jaw tightened, eyes dark—not predatory, but angry at himself.
"For a moment," he admitted, not meeting her eyes, "I forgot what you are to me… and what I must never take."
Sophia's heart was still racing, her body trembling with confusion—fear tangled with something she didn't want to name. She clutched the fabric of her clothes as if grounding herself in reality.
He lifted one hand again—but stopped short, letting it hover near her chest without touching this time.
"You are not ready," he said firmly, more to himself than to her. "And if I ever forget that again…"
He lowered his hand.
"…then I don't deserve to stand near you."
He turned away sharply, voice reverting to its familiar calm.
"Go. Rest. This won't happen again."
As he walked away, Sophia remained frozen in place, the echo of that brief contact still burning through her nerves—not because of what he did…
…but because of how quickly he chose to stop.
And how close he had come to not doing so.
Sophia closed the door behind her and leaned against it, the soft seal hissing shut like a final breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The room adjusted instantly—lights dimmed to her preferred spectrum, temperature warmed—but none of it reached her. Her chest felt tight, as if gravity itself had increased only around her heart.
She slid down slowly until she was sitting on the floor, knees pulled close, arms wrapped around herself.
Why am I like this now…
The thought came uninvited, sharp and accusing.
Yesterday—no, before yesterday—she had faced death, monsters, simulations that could erase cities, and she had never once felt this kind of instability. Fear, yes. Pain, yes. Trauma carved into muscle and bone. But this—this creeping insecurity, this unease that gnawed at her from the inside—was new.
And it had started the moment he showed her his true self.
Not the calm Dr. F.
Not the teasing, composed, unreadable genius.
But that version.
The throne.
The Titan.
The spiral pupils.
The infinite symbol burning in his third eye.
The way he spoke of annihilation as if it were weather.
Her breathing hitched.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, eyes squeezed shut, but the image forced itself back anyway.
Dr. F standing on an endless field of bodies.
Not symbolic.
Not metaphorical.
Billions. Trillions. More than she could comprehend.
And for a horrifying second—one she hated herself for—she hadn't just seen him there.
She had seen herself.
Standing beside him.
Her boots sinking into that infinite pile, blood soaking upward, the weight of judgment crushing everything beneath. She imagined looking down and realizing she couldn't step away—not because she was trapped, but because she had chosen to stand there.
"No…" she whispered aloud, her voice small in the vast quiet of the room.
She shook her head as if that could dislodge the thought.
I'm human. I'm just human.
I don't belong there.
And yet…
Her mind betrayed her again.
If he moves, I move.
If he judges, I stand with him.
If the universe burns… where do I stand?
Her fingers dug into the fabric of her uniform, nails pressing into her palms hard enough to sting. She welcomed the pain—it anchored her to something real, something now.
"I hate this," she murmured, voice trembling. "I hate that I'm thinking like this."
She hated that part of her—the part that didn't recoil entirely. The part that wasn't running away screaming. The part that, despite everything, still remembered how safe she felt in his arms. How steady his heartbeat had been. How, even when he frightened her, he had stopped himself.
He's dangerous, she told herself firmly.
Not just to the world… to me.
And yet another thought followed immediately, softer, more terrifying:
So am I becoming.
She lay back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling where faint constellations drifted lazily, artificial stars mapping a universe that obeyed rules—rules she understood.
Her own heart, however, did not.
"What am I supposed to do with you, Felix…" she whispered, saying his name only to the empty room, not daring to let it carry any warmth.
Sleep did not come easily that night.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw corpses stretching into infinity.
And every time, she wasn't sure anymore whether she was standing behind him…
…or slowly, inevitably, stepping forward to stand beside him.