The door opened with a soft hiss, and suddenly I wasn't angry anymore.
I was small.
Insignificant.
The corridor stretched ahead, sterile and silent, lit with a clinical blue-white glow. The guard who had buzzed me in didn't even look at me again. I wasn't important enough to hold his attention.
And maybe I never had been.
By the time I reached the main office, my fury had thinned into a tight knot of panic. I stood outside the final door for a moment, staring at my reflection in the glass panel—shoulders stiff, mouth flat, eyes hollow.
I wasn't a warrior. Not here. Not now.
What had I been thinking?
That I could storm in and demand rights? That I could claim something in a world that didn't even think I deserved to speak?
I exhaled slowly.
Then the door slid open.
The room was vast. Quiet. One wall made entirely of tinted glass that looked out over the sprawling facility grounds below. Shelves lined with books no one read. A desk of polished obsidian. A man seated behind it, dressed in black, attention already on a data screen.
He didn't look up.
Not at first.
I stepped inside. The door sealed behind me with a click.
He let me stand there for a full minute before finally speaking.
"You're off-schedule."
"I know," I said. My voice didn't shake—but it felt like it should.
He looked up. His eyes were pale and unreadable. "You've already been reassigned."
"I'm not here about the new assignment."
He raised a brow. "Then enlighten me. Why are you here?"
I swallowed. "Because I failed."
That made him pause.
I forced myself to continue, building the lie as I went. "Because I was given a task—to guide a hybrid toward behavioral advancement—and I let my personal reactions interfere with that process. I saw results early on, but then I got… emotionally compromised."
He studied me, saying nothing.
"It affected my performance," I added. "And I realize now that letting go of the assignment so abruptly has… impacted me more than it should have."
Still nothing.
"So I'm asking," I said. "For a second chance. With Hybrid 009."
The silence that followed felt like a blade being held just under my skin.
"You want to be reinstated as his emotional handler."
"Yes."
He tapped a few things on his datapad. The screen changed. He leaned back in his chair.
"Do you understand what you're asking?"
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
"You understand he's been difficult since your absence. That his recent inconsistencies cost this organization time and resources."
"I do."
"And you believe your… presence will rectify that."
"I believe he needs consistency," I said. "I believe part of the regression is my fault."
He looked at me again. Really looked.
And for a moment, I wondered if he could see through all of it.
The guilt. The desperation. The lie behind every carefully chosen word.
His office was silent save for the faint ticking of some antique timepiece on a shelf. I didn't dare look away from his face.
He set the tablet down.
"You've shown unorthodox methods before."
"I know."
"They're watching. The committee. The council. The investors. You're aware of what this unit represents to them?"
I swallowed hard. "Yes."
"Then explain why I should allow a potentially compromised operative—emotionally compromised, at that—to reinsert herself into one of our most delicate projects."
I didn't let myself hesitate.
"Because I'm the only one who got results."
His brow rose slightly. A flicker of interest.
"He was speaking. Reacting. Initiating contact. Even asking questions. Before I left, he recognized what connection felt like. He smiled."
A long pause.
"You're aware that your prior sessions were monitored."
"I am."
"Then you're aware of the implications of your… intimacy."
I didn't flinch. "There was no breach of protocol."
"But you wanted there to be."
My jaw locked.
Another pause. This one heavier.
He folded his hands on the desk. "This facility doesn't operate on sentiment."
"I understand."
"Then why pursue this?"
I exhaled. "Because I need to succeed at something. And this… this was the only thing I've ever done that made me feel like I wasn't a machine in someone else's assembly line. You gave me an objective. I started to meet it. And then it was taken from me before I could finish."
"You want closure."
"I want the opportunity to correct a mistake."
He stared at me for a long, brutal minute.
Then he stood.
"Very well," he said. "You may resume contact. Under monitored conditions only."
My breath caught.
I nodded once.
He turned away from me, already dismissing my presence. "You'll receive access again tomorrow. 08:00 hours. Don't waste it."
I didn't thank him.
I turned and walked out of the room as quickly and calmly as I could.
The moment the door sealed behind me, I allowed myself to breathe.
It wasn't a win.
But it was a step.
A crack in the wall.
And maybe—if I was careful—I could pry it wide enough to pull Nine through before it collapsed again.