Hours passed without shape or structure.
Sophia cried until time stopped behaving like time.
At first, the tears came violently—ragged breaths, shoulders shaking, nails digging into the fabric beneath her as if she could anchor herself to something solid. Her thoughts spiraled in relentless loops, each one cutting deeper than the last.
Dying would be easier.
Not living with DNA.
Not living with him.
Not becoming whatever this is.
She pressed her face into her hands, muffling sobs that echoed anyway, absorbed and softened by the chamber's acoustic fields. The systems monitored her vitals, adjusted oxygen levels, released neuro-calming frequencies—but none of it mattered. This pain was not biological. It was not something technology knew how to fix.
"I should have died," she whispered again and again, voice hoarse, exhausted. "I should have died there."
Not as a threat.
Not as drama.
As a conclusion she kept arriving at, no matter how hard she argued against it.
Living meant staying.
Staying meant proximity.
Proximity meant unraveling.
And she didn't trust herself to survive that.
Eventually, the crying slowed—not because it ended, but because her body could no longer sustain it. She lay curled on the bed, eyes swollen, chest aching with the dull aftershock of grief and rage spent too quickly.
That was when she heard it.
A sound the room did not make on its own.
A pause in the ambient hum.
A subtle, deliberate presence outside the door.
Then—something even more unexpected.
A voice.
"Agent Sophia Watson," it said, calm, measured, unmistakably female.
"Requesting permission to enter."
Sophia froze.
Her first instinct was panic—but it passed just as quickly.
That's not him.
She knew it with absolute certainty.
When Dr. F approached, the room changed before he arrived. Gravity adjusted. Light recalibrated. Systems aligned themselves in anticipation, like a body bracing for impact.
None of that was happening now.
Her breathing slowed. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her sleeve, forcing her voice into something steadier than she felt.
"…You can open it," she said quietly.
There was a brief pause—respectful, deliberate.
Then the door opened.
Saya stood in the threshold.
She was unmistakably DNA.
A female Mk 4 unit, her form elegant rather than imposing, wrapped in a prestigious obsidian-black DNA outfit threaded with faint crimson circuitry that pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat. Her long coat fell perfectly into place as she stepped forward, movements precise but not mechanical. Her face—beautiful, unreadable at first glance—carried something else beneath the surface.
Concern.
Her eyes scanned the room once, quickly, taking in the absence of damage, the elevated emotional readings still flickering faintly on dormant screens.
Then she looked at Sophia.
And softened.
"I won't come closer unless you want me to," Saya said gently. "I was asked to check on you. Not interrogate. Not observe."
Sophia swallowed hard.
"You were… asked?" she repeated.
Saya nodded once.
"Yes."
She didn't say by whom.
She didn't need to.
Sophia turned her face away, shame creeping in now that the storm had passed. "I'm fine," she said, the lie thin and fragile. "Just tired."
Saya's lips curved—not a smile, not pity. Understanding.
"I've seen 'fine' in this place," she replied. "This isn't it."
She took a single step forward, slow enough that Sophia could stop her if she wanted to.
"You don't have to explain anything," Saya continued. "But you also don't have to be alone right now."
The words landed gently—but they landed.
Sophia felt her throat tighten again, tears threatening to return.
"…I hate this place," she whispered. "I hate him. I hate that I don't know what I'm becoming."
Saya listened. Truly listened. No interruption. No correction.
"That's normal," she said after a moment. "More than you think."
Sophia looked at her sharply. "You're DNA. How can that be normal to you?"
Saya's gaze didn't waver.
"Because before I was DNA," she said quietly, "I was something else too."
The silence between them shifted.
Not heavy.
Not dangerous.
Human.
Sophia let out a shaky breath, shoulders sagging as the fight drained out of her again. "I thought dying would be easier," she admitted, voice barely holding together. "I still do."
Saya did not flinch.
Instead, she said softly, "Living always feels heavier when someone changes the gravity around you."
Sophia's eyes burned.
"…He does that," she whispered. "Even when he's not here."
Saya inclined her head, acknowledging the truth without naming it.
"I won't lie to you," she said. "Dr. F is not safe. Not emotionally. Not psychologically. Not existentially."
Sophia laughed weakly through tears. "That's the most honest thing anyone's said to me today."
"But," Saya added, her voice steady, "neither is what you're feeling. And that doesn't make it wrong."
She extended her hand—not touching, just offering presence.
"Rest tonight," she said. "You don't have to decide anything. Not about DNA. Not about him. Not about yourself."
Sophia hesitated… then nodded.
"Okay," she whispered.
Saya stepped back, giving her space again.
"I'll be nearby," she said. "If you need someone who isn't him."
The door sealed softly behind her.
Sophia lay back against the bed, tears still drying on her face, heart aching—but for the first time in hours, not entirely alone.
And somewhere deeper within DNA, unseen lines continued to form—dangerous, undefined, and very much real.