The words landed quietly—and devastated her far more than anything violent ever had.
She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, fingers curling into the fabric of the blanket. Two hours. Two hours of him sitting there, immobile, unreadable, watching the world scroll past while time bent itself around his patience.
He waited, she thought.
He doesn't wait for anyone.
Her chest tightened, something warm and painful blooming behind her ribs.
"So that's it," she whispered to no one. "You pretend you don't care… and then you sit in my room like it's a vigil."
Her mind replayed the image the system had painted: Dr F seated in that chair, posture perfect, hands folded behind his back out of habit even while sitting, eyes tracking global events that meant nothing compared to the absence he was measuring.
She pressed her palm against her sternum, grounding herself.
Why does that hurt more than when he terrifies me?
Why does that matter more than all the power, all the blood, all the things he's done?
The room adjusted subtly—lighting softening, temperature warming by a fraction—as if responding to the instability in her emotional metrics.
Sophia laughed under her breath, a quiet, broken sound.
"Great," she murmured. "Now even the room is worried about me."
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling where faint data constellations drifted like artificial stars.
He waited, she repeated internally.
Not to control. Not to command. Just… to be there.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
Because waiting was human.
Because patience was choice.
Because someone like him choosing to wait meant she was no longer just an agent, or an asset, or a variable.
She was an absence he felt.
Sophia closed her eyes slowly.
"I don't know what we are," she whispered into the quiet. "But whatever this is… it's already too deep."
The system dimmed the lights another degree, granting her privacy without being asked.
For the first time that day, Sophia let herself sit with the truth she had been avoiding:
Dr F wasn't just watching the world bend around him anymore.
He was watching her—and waiting to see if she would come back.
CTS TIME RE250.06.03 — 9:30 PM
Sophia stepped out of her quarter, the door sealing behind her with its usual soft hiss. The corridor stretched ahead—long, luminous, alive with faint pulses of light traveling through the walls like a circulatory system. She paused for half a second, not long enough for anyone to notice, but long enough for her own mind to hesitate.
Left.
That path curved toward Dr F's quarters. She didn't need signage; her body already knew the way. The corridor there always felt different—denser, quieter, as if gravity itself leaned inward.
Right.
The cafeteria.
She turned right.
The decision felt instinctive, almost defensive, as though some deeper part of her had moved before her thoughts could interfere. Only after she had taken several steps did she realize what she'd done.
Why did I do that?
She kept walking.
Her boots echoed softly against the polished floor, each step measured, controlled. Androids and agents passed by—Mk 3 logistics units, Mk 4 veterans returning from late assignments, maintenance drones gliding overhead like silent fish in an invisible sea. Life inside DNA continued with terrifying normalcy.
Sophia folded her hands inside the pockets of her obsidian coat.
I'm not avoiding him, she told herself immediately.
I'm just… choosing not to complicate things tonight.
The lie tasted thin.
Images surfaced uninvited: Dr F sitting in her room for two hours, unmoving. His voice earlier that day—calm, observant, too perceptive. The way his presence still seemed to linger even when he wasn't there, like gravity after a mass had passed through.
If I go left, she thought, something will happen.
If I go right, nothing will.
And tonight, she wanted nothing.
The cafeteria doors parted as she approached, warm light spilling out along with the low murmur of voices and the faint scent of human-grade food. The atmosphere here was deliberately engineered to feel ordinary—tables, soft illumination, subtle sound dampening to mimic comfort rather than efficiency.
She stepped inside.
For a moment, her shoulders relaxed. Not completely, but enough that she noticed the tension had been there at all. She took a tray, let the system recommend a meal, barely registered what appeared on the plate.
As she moved toward an empty table near the edge of the room, her thoughts kept circling back, stubborn and insistent.
Why does choosing not to see him feel like betrayal?
Why does it feel like I'm being watched even when I know he's not here?
She sat down slowly, eyes scanning the room out of habit. Dr F wasn't there. No white coat, no distortion in the air, no subtle shifts in gravity announcing his presence.
Relief washed over her—followed immediately by something sharper.
Disappointment.
Sophia closed her eyes briefly, fingers tightening around the edge of the table.
This is dangerous, she told herself.
Not him. Me.
She took a bite of food without tasting it, chewing mechanically while her thoughts unraveled.
I walked right because I was afraid of what would happen if I walked left.
And that means something is already wrong.
Around her, conversation continued. Laughter from a Mk 2 unit at a nearby table. The clink of cutlery. The quiet hum of systems keeping the illusion of normal life intact.
Sophia stared down at her plate, appetite fading.
"I don't know why I'm doing this," she whispered to herself, voice almost lost beneath the ambient noise. "But I do know… I'm not ready."
Not ready to see his eyes again.
Not ready to feel that pull.
Not ready to choose between safety and truth.
She lifted her gaze toward the cafeteria's far wall, where a translucent panel displayed the artificial night sky of Mechatopia—stars arranged perfectly, predictably, unlike anything in her life right now.
Somewhere else in the complex, she knew, Dr F was working, observing, calculating. Or maybe just sitting. Waiting again.
The thought tightened something in her chest.
Sophia took another slow breath and forced herself to eat.
Tonight, she decided, I choose distance.
Even if she didn't yet understand why that choice hurt as much as it did.
The chair opposite Sophia scraped softly as someone pulled it back.
"Look who finally remembers the cafeteria exists," Rex said, dropping his tray with theatrical relief. His Mk-4 veteran jacket was half-unzipped, sleeves rolled, the faint glow of combat augmentations pulsing beneath his skin. "We thought you'd fused yourself permanently into some classified nightmare corridor."
Falcon followed, taller, quieter, eyes already scanning the room out of habit before he sat. Saya came last, sliding in beside Sophia with an exaggerated sigh, bumping shoulders with her like old times.
"You vanished," Saya said, nudging her. "Just—poof. DNA agent life swallowed you whole."
Sophia blinked, then smiled despite herself. "I didn't vanish. I just… got busy."
"Busy?" Rex scoffed, spearing a piece of protein with his fork. "You went from 'let's grab coffee after drills' to 'seen only in mission logs and rumors.' That's not busy. That's classified."
Falcon finally spoke, voice calm and low. "Assignments change people. Especially this place."
Another pair arrived mid-conversation—Run and Kai, both Mk-4 veterans, both carrying that same blend of exhaustion and sharp awareness that came from too many missions completed too cleanly. Run gave Sophia a casual salute; Kai offered a crooked grin.
"Thought we'd lost you to the upper echelons," Kai said. "Or worse—paperwork."
Sophia laughed softly, the sound surprising even herself. The tension that had followed her all evening loosened another notch. Plates were rearranged, drinks slid across the table, the group naturally closing in until it felt like a small island of familiarity amid the vast cafeteria.
They talked.
Not about missions. Not about DNA politics. They talked about absurd training simulations, malfunctioning android instructors, a Mk-3 unit that had tried to unionize last week. Rex exaggerated everything; Falcon corrected him with deadpan precision. Saya rolled her eyes but laughed anyway.
Sophia listened, chiming in here and there, warmth slowly seeping back into her chest.
And then she noticed it.
They didn't say his name.
Not once.
No teasing glances. No loaded pauses. No casual, "So, how's working under him?" Nothing. It was as if Dr F existed in a separate universe, one they were carefully stepping around.
Sophia's fork paused mid-air.
They know, she thought. They all know.
Saya knew—Sophia could see it in the way her friend occasionally glanced at her, expression soft but guarded. Rex knew; he always knew things before they were officially said. Falcon definitely knew—nothing escaped him.
Yet they avoided it. Deliberately.
Are they protecting me… or themselves?
The thought unsettled her more than open curiosity would have.
She pushed it aside.
When dinner plates were nearly empty and the conversation drifted into comfortable noise, Sophia straightened slightly.
"Hey," she said, catching their attention. "There's a night party happening in Party Street. Near the Market block. Lights, music, open sky domes—the whole thing."
Rex's eyebrows shot up. "You? Inviting us out?"
Falcon tilted his head. "That's… unexpected."
Saya studied Sophia for a second longer than the others, searching her face. Then she smiled, genuine and bright. "I'm in."
Run laughed. "Finally. A reason to pretend we're normal."
Kai raised his glass. "To bad decisions and loud music."
Sophia felt the words leave her mouth before her doubts could catch up.
"You should all come with me."
There was a heartbeat of silence.
Then Rex grinned. "She didn't say 'maybe.'"
Sophia surprised herself by not adding a condition. Not checking the time. Not thinking about corridors or quarters or gravity that bent around one man.
She simply didn't say no.
And for the first time that day, the choice felt… light.