Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

75 days - 3 hours - 45 minutes

The backyard is darker than it should be.

I lie flat across the concrete blocks, arms at my sides, eyes fixed on the sky. The slabs are cold through my clothes. The edges press into my shoulder blades. I don't move to make it better.

I deserve the cold.

The bottle rests against my stomach. I tilt it without lifting my head. The vodka burns on the way down. My jaw tightens. I let it.

Somewhere beyond the fence line, a wolf howls. Another answer farther out.

I press my palm flat against the cement, feeling the weight beneath me. Helen is under here. Safe. Because I made sure she was safe. I couldn't protect her from the fall. I could protect her from wolves.

The bottle tips again. I told myself I chose the world today. I told myself I chose humanity. But what I really did was admit I couldn't fix her.

I turn onto my side, drawing my knees up until I'm folded against the edge of the concrete square—my forearm tucks beneath my head... The glass knocks softly against the slab when I pull it closer.

Zosia said the connection wasn't conscious.

She said it was just... there.

Like breathing.

She told me I had it too. Sleeping. She smiled when she said it. I believed that smile. I believed she loved me.

 I stay there long enough for condensation to gather on the bottle and soak into my sleeve.

They have my eggs. Now they're holding the future over my head like a weapon.

The wolves howl again. My breathing slips out of rhythm. Not crying. Just misfiring.

The bottle tips. It drips onto the cement between the blocks.

I almost laugh.

They didn't need to take stem cells from me. They already had what they needed.

I push myself up onto one elbow. It feels like lifting something heavier than it should be. I sit at the edge of the square for a moment.

I wanted to save her. I wanted to believe that if I loved her hard enough, if I stayed sharp enough, if I kept asking the right questions, she would wake up. But she wasn't asleep... I was.

I stand.

Dust clings to the back of my jacket. My cheek feels raw from the concrete. I walk to the garbage bins without looking back. The lid creaks open. The bottle hangs in my hand. I drop it.

Glass explodes inside the plastic container.

That's what 75 days sounds like.

Inside, I don't turn on the lights. The house feels larger now. Emptier.

I move through it in a straight line — kitchen, hallway, living room — my hand brushing the wall for balance.

At the front door, I pause. I open it.

The crate sits at the curb where I left it. Massive. Reinforced. Containing the only leverage I have left.

If they try to take me, it detonates. If they try to force me, it detonates. If they try to use my own eggs against me—It detonates.

I step outside.

I chose the world.

That's what I keep telling myself. My shoulders pull back. My chin lifts. But the truth is, I didn't choose the world over her. I chose not to be fooled again.

I stand there for a long time, staring at the box.

Then I notice the neighboring house. Lights on. Movement behind the curtains.

Manousos is in there. Planning. Thinking. Waiting for me to lead.

He thinks I have something.

I don't. I close the door and go back inside. At the bar, I take the whisky this time. Vodka was dull. Whisky is punishment. I fill the glass too high. It spills onto my hand. I don't wipe it. I drink because if I don't, I'll start thinking. And if I start thinking, I'll remember the way she looked at me in this house. In my kitchen. On my couch. In my bed. I walk toward the bedroom and stop in the doorway. The bed is made. The last time I slept there, she was in it. Her hair on the pillow. Her hand against my ribs. The way she said my name like it meant something different than it ever had before. I thought that was hers. Not the others. I thought it was real. My chest tightens, and I don't let it turn into anything visible.

I turn toward the bathroom instead. The light is too bright. I take two pills from the cabinet and swallow them with the whisky. They almost choke me.

Good.

Back in the living room, I collapse onto the sofa. I finish the glass in one swallow. I turn on the TV, the DVD is already on... The laugh track of The Golden Girls fills the room. Helen used to watch this; we used to watch this together. I pull the blanket around myself and curl into the corner of the couch.

I chose the world, I don't know what that means tomorrow. I don't know what happens when they decide to come for me. I don't know if I just detonated the only real thing I've felt since Helen died.

The laughter on the TV swells.

I close my eyes.

If I sleep, I don't have to decide anything.

For a few hours, at least.

And I let it take me.

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The knocking drags me out of sleep like something tearing fabric.

Three sharp hits. Then two more.

For a second, I don't know where I am. The TV is still on. Laugh track. Bright voices. My neck hurts from the angle of the couch. My mouth tastes like metal and old liquor.

The knocking again.

My head explodes the moment I lift it.

"Fuck—"

I press my fingers into my temples and squeeze, as if I can hold my skull together with pressure alone. The room tilts. The sound feels inside my brain instead of outside the door.

"I'm coming!" I shout, harsher than I mean to.

Of course it's him.

I push myself upright. My stomach rolls. I stand too fast and have to steady myself against the arm of the couch. I can still feel the whisky sitting somewhere behind my ribs like something unfinished.

I walk straight to the kitchen. Water first. The glass trembles in my hand while the faucet runs. I swallow half of it without breathing.

The knocking doesn't come again.

He's patient. That's what irritates me the most. He's patient, like he's right. Like he's the only sober one in the room.

I open the cabinet, find the aspirin, dry-swallow one, then change my mind and chase it with the rest of the water. My reflection in the dark microwave door looks swollen, hair tangled, and deep dark marks under my eyes.

I rinse my mouth at the sink. It doesn't help. I can still taste it. Cheap, sharp, stale.

I should shower.

I should care.

I don't.

I cross the house toward the front door. Each step reminds me I didn't sleep — I passed out. There's a difference. My body feels used. My brain feels fogged, sticky.

When I open the door, the daylight hits harder than it should.

Manousos stands there like he's been carved into place. Arms loose at his sides. Watching. Calm.

Behind him, the crate sits in the driveway. Solid. Accusing.

I look at him and immediately feel something hot rise in my chest. Not anger at him specifically. Just... pressure. Expectation.

He thinks I have something figured out.

He thinks I have a plan.

He crossed a continent to find me because he thinks I'm the one who can fix this.

I don't have a plan.

I have a box with a bomb in it and a hangover.

We stare at each other.

He doesn't speak.

I raise my eyebrows. "What?"

He glances toward the crate, then back at me.

"Plan?" he asks. The word lands heavy in his accent. "What... is plan?"

Of course. That's why he's here.

Because yesterday I landed from a helicopter with a nuclear weapon, like that was a rational escalation. Because I stood in my yard like I was ready to burn the world down. Because I told him, "You win, we save the world".

My head throbs harder. The smell of myself — vodka, whisky, sleep — hits me like a wave. I can feel it radiating off me. I look terrible. I probably look unstable.

He must see it.

He must smell it.

I close my eyes for a second, fighting the spike of nausea and the sharper spike of shame.

I don't want him to see me like this. Not like this.

But mostly, I don't want to answer him.

Because I don't know.

In clumsy Spanish, I force the words out.

"Yo... muy cansada." I gesture vaguely toward the inside of the house. "Necesito... baño?" I make a showering motion with my hands, ridiculous, like I'm explaining to a child.

He understands. Of course. He's not stupid.

But I keep talking anyway, filling the space because silence would mean admitting I have nothing.

"Later... hablamos. ¿Sí?"

My skull feels like it's splitting open.

He watches me carefully. Too carefully.

I don't wait for his response.

I close the door in his face.

The latch clicks louder than it should.

For a second, I stand there with my hand still on the handle, breathing hard, listening to nothing on the other side. I imagine him standing there, patient again. Thinking. Calculating. Judging.

He deserves better than this. The world deserves better than this. But right now I can barely hold myself upright.

Footsteps retreat from the porch.

Silence returns.

I lean my forehead against the door.

Seventy-five days.

Seventy-five days, and I believed I could outsmart something that rewired the planet.

And now the only person who believes in me is the man waiting next door for a plan I don't have.

I swallow.

I need a shower.

I need a plan.

I need her.

And I have none of it.

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The shower doesn't fix anything.

The steam helps for a few minutes. It loosens the knot behind my eyes. It washes away the stale sweat, the salt, the memory of the couch. But the smell lingers. It feels like it's coming from under my skin now. Like I'm sweating it out.

I brush my teeth twice. It doesn't matter. I didn't eat. I couldn't. I already left most of last night in the toilet. My stomach is hollow and tight at the same time. I spray too much perfume. I know it's too much. It's desperate. Sweet over rot. He'll notice.

I stare at myself in the mirror for a second too long. My eyes look clearer than they feel.

I inhale slowly. Then I leave...

The air outside feels thinner than usual. My head still hums faintly, but it's manageable. I cross the driveway and stop in front of his house. I haven't been inside since the day I told him he could stay there. Back when this still felt temporary. I stand there for a moment. Then another. I pace once along the walkway. Turn back. Pace again.

I don't want to go in. I don't want to say out loud that I don't know what I'm doing... but I ring the bell anyway. A few seconds later, the door opens.

Manousos looks the same as always — grounded. Watchful. Measuring.

I lift my arms slightly, palms open.

Here I am... like I promised.

He steps aside without a word.

The house smells different now. Not abandoned. Not empty.

Lived in.

I step inside and nearly trip over a stack of books piled against the wall. There are notebooks everywhere. Maps. Diagrams. Sheets taped to cabinets. The coffee table is covered in scribbles and calculations.

His machete rests casually on the center table like it belongs there. The place looks like a mind that refuses to stop working. And then I smell it...

Something warm. Savory. Unfamiliar. He gestures for me to follow him into the kitchen.

On the countertop, he's ladling a pale, milky broth into a bowl. There's an egg floating in it. Cilantro. Steam rising steadily.

"Changua," he says, pointing.

I blink at it. My stomach answers for me with a loud, humiliating sound.

He nods once.

"La hará sentir mejor", he says.

I don't understand the words, but I understand the tone. I pick up the spoon almost automatically and take a cautious sip. The effect is immediate. Warmth spreads down my throat into my chest. The nausea recedes. The tightness behind my eyes loosens. My hands, which I hadn't realized were trembling slightly, steady themselves. It's ridiculous how fast it works.

I look at him.

He gives me a small nod. "Para el guayabo."

I stare at him blankly.

"When you drink too much," he adds.

I probably still smell like a distillery wrapped in perfume.

"Gracias," I say quietly.

He waves it off with his hand. I take another spoonful. Slower this time. My mind starts to settle.

Not clear... but quieter.

I pull my phone from my pocket and open the translator app. My hands are steadier now.

I speak into it.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don't have a plan."

The phone translates into Spanish.

The words hang in the air between us.

He doesn't react. He takes the phone gently from my hand and speaks into it.

"What were you planning to do with the bomb?"

The phone asks me in English.

"To stop them from coming near us," I answer.

He frowns.

He takes the phone again.

"But... they decided to stay away on their own."

The translation lands harder than it should. I close my eyes. I have to say it out loud.

"They know how to convert us. At least me."

The words feel heavier spoken than thought. I explain. Stem cells. Consent. The requirement of permission. And then the part that changed everything.

"My eggs," I say... "They don't need my permission to use those."

His face shifts. He begins to pace slightly in place, agitation building under his skin. 

"Seguro me las sacaron a mí," he mutters in Spanish before I even reach for the phone.

I freeze.

He grabs the phone himself and translates.

"They took me to a hospital. I almost died in the Darién. They rescued me. I left as soon as I could."

My chest tightens. I never asked him. Not really.

I was too focused on myself. On Zosia. On the bomb. On my own immunity.

He looks like something inside him is unraveling.

"Calm down," I say automatically.

I stand, take the phone from the counter, and offer it back to him.

"Ask them," I say.

He looks at me.

"They can't lie."

And for the first time since I walked into the house, I realize what I've just done.

If they took his stem cells...

He's already lost.

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Manousos presses 0. The tone rings once... Twice... Then the voice fills the kitchen.

"Hola, Manousos. Esta es una grabación. Al oír el tono, puedes dejar un mensaje para solicitar lo que necesites. Haremos todo lo posible por proporcionártelo. Nuestros sentimientos por ti no han cambiado, Manousos. Pero después de todo lo que ha pasado, solo necesitamos un poco de espacio."

The same tone they used with me. Soft. Patient. As if we're the unreasonable ones.

The beep follows.

Manousos doesn't hesitate.

"Quiero saber si me sacaron células madre cuando estuve en el hospital en Panamá. Quiero la verdad. Yo no di permiso para eso."

He ends the call.

The kitchen feels smaller. I watch him pretend to be steady. His jaw tightens, but his hands don't shake. He's better at containing things than I am.

Three seconds... Four... The phone rings.

He doesn't look at me before listening to the message.

The voice returns.

Calm. Precise.

"Durante tu hospitalización en el Instituto Médico de la Ciudad de Panamá se obtuvieron múltiples muestras sanguíneas y tisulares como parte del protocolo de trauma y tratamiento de heridas graves."

A pause.

"Parte de ese material fue preservado."

Another pause.

"No fue necesaria una extracción adicional de médula ósea."

I feel my stomach drop. My phone keeps translating every single word

"Las células obtenidas fueron suficientes."

The words sit in the air like something chemical.

"Consideramos que la intervención fue médicamente justificable."

Silence.

The message ends.

For a moment, neither of us moves. They didn't lie.

They didn't apologize.

They didn't even defend themselves.

They simply confirmed it.

They waited until he was unconscious.

They took what they needed.

I watch Manousos process it. His breathing shifts — slower, but deeper. Like something inside him is recalibrating.

I realize something then.

It wasn't just me.

They weren't improvising with my eggs.

They were planning.

Collecting.

Preparing.

The bomb in my driveway suddenly feels smaller.

Not useless.

But smaller.

"They were harvesting," I say quietly.

Not to him... To myself.

He finally looks at me. There's no panic in his expression. Just something harder. If they already have what they need... Then distance doesn't protect us. And the bomb doesn't either.

Manousos dials again. The recorded voice fills the kitchen.

"Hola, Manousos. Esta es una grabación. Al oír el tono, puedes dejar un mensaje para solicitar lo que necesites. Haremos todo lo posible por proporcionártelo. Nuestros sentimientos por ti no han cambiado, Manousos. Pero después de todo lo que ha pasado, solo necesitamos un poco de espacio."

The beep.

"¿Cuánto tiempo me queda?"

He hangs up. Three seconds later, the phone vibrates. He listen to the message.

The voice returns. Calm. Warm. Certain.

"Las muestras obtenidas durante tu hospitalización han sido reprogramadas exitosamente. La estabilización completa de las líneas celulares requiere entre tres y cuatro semanas adicionales. La adaptación al huésped tomará aproximadamente dos semanas más."

My jaw tightens.

"Estimamos que el proceso será viable en un plazo de cinco a siete semanas."

Silence stretches just long enough to hurt.

Then:

"No lo hacemos para dañarte."

The tone softens.

"Te amamos, Manousos. Como amamos a todos."

My stomach turns.

"Este regalo nos transformó. Queremos compartirlo contigo."

Another pause.

"Sabemos que ahora no puedes entenderlo. Pero pronto lo entenderás y prometemos que serás muy feliz."

The message ends. The kitchen feels colder. They don't threaten. They don't coerce. They invite.

Five to seven weeks. Not a deadline. A promise.

I look at Manousos.

They don't see it as a conquest. They see it as kindness. And that makes it worse.

Chapter Text

Manousos doesn't sit.

He hasn't sat since the message.

He moves between the dining table and the bookshelf like something is chasing him, muttering in Spanish under his breath, flipping through notebooks, stacking papers, unstacking them again. Every surface in the house is covered in diagrams — frequencies, waveforms, crude sketches of antennas.

I sit on the sofa with a bottle of Gatorade pressed against my forehead.

The changua helped. For a while.

Now the dull ache behind my eyes is creeping back in, slow and patient. I take a long drink and swallow carefully. My stomach still feels fragile, like it's negotiating with me.

Manousos pulls a notebook toward him and starts flipping pages faster than he can process them.

He's in contained panic mode.

Not loud.

Not chaotic.

Focused.

That's worse.

"What is all that?" I finally ask.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he crosses the room and grabs his radio from the counter. He turns it on, adjusts the dial with careful precision.

Static fills the air.

Then he stops.

8.613.

The sound changes.

It's subtle — but it's there. A thin, irregular distortion layered beneath the static. Like something trying to synchronize and failing.

He hands me the phone. Opens the translator. Speaks into it in Spanish.

"When they are altered, this frequency spikes. It jumps. It becomes unstable."

The phone translates.

I listen to the sound again.

He continues.

"It is as if, for a moment, they separate. Not fully. But enough."

The translator speaks in English.

He looks at me now.

"I do not know how to talk to the individual inside."

The hum from the radio fills the silence between us.

I swallow another mouthful of Gatorade and think about Zosia's voice the day she tried to explain it to me.

"It has something to do with the body's electromagnetic field," I say slowly. "She said it wasn't like radio. It wasn't transmission. It was resonance. Phase alignment."

Manousos stills.

I continue.

"She said everyone has it. The virus doesn't create it. It synchronizes it. It entrains the neural activity."

He nods once, sharp.

"Yes."

He taps the notebook.

"If I break synchronization... I create separation." "I'd be inducing phase noise," he says. 

The translator repeats it. I don't understand the term, but I understand the concept.

"We need them back," he says into the phone. "To test."

My head throbs.

"To alter them again?" I ask.

He nods.

"If we warn them. If we are prepared. If we monitor the frequency—"

"No."

The word leaves me before I think it through.

He frowns.

"It worked before," he insists.

I see it again.

The bodies.

The collapse.

The way the frequency spiked when I pushed them, when I insulted them, when I forced them into cognitive dissonance.

I see Zosia shaking in my arms. Her muscles locking. Her eyes rolling back. I can still feel the weight of her convulsing body against mine.

"No," I repeat, quieter this time. "We're not doing it like that."

He says something quickly in Spanish. The translator struggles, but the message is clear.

"They would be prepared. We would warn them. They know we are immune. They chose distance."

Distance.

Because they are waiting to convert us.

"They're not coming back," I say.

"Not until they have what they need."

He studies me.

"How did they come back to you?" he asks finally.

The question lands harder than the hangover.

I look away. I told him I didn't know. I told him I had no idea why they returned that day.

I bite my lower lip.

He's waiting.

I clear my throat.

"I asked them to."

The words feel dry.

He blinks.

"I told them to come back," I say. "And they did."

Silence settles between us.

I didn't outsmart them.

I invited them.

And they came because I let them. Manousos looks at me for a long moment.

"Was it because of Zosia?" he asks.

I shake my head immediately.

"No."

My voice comes out flatter than I expect.

"I went forty days without speaking to another human being," I say. "No voice. No touch. No sound that wasn't wind or static."

The memory presses in, thick and suffocating.

"I started talking to myself," I admit. "Answering myself."

I stare at the radio instead of him.

"I thought about ending it." The words hang there. I don't dress them up.

"I tried."

My throat tightens, but I keep going.

"I couldn't do it."

The room feels too bright suddenly.

"I couldn't keep being alone. I couldn't keep being rejected by the only voices left on the planet."

I swallow.

"When they left... it felt worse than before they ever came."

Manousos doesn't interrupt.

"I wasn't proud of what happened with Zosia," I continue. "But I was at my lowest point. I let her in."

I run a hand through my hair.

"I built a bubble. Told myself maybe this was permanent. Maybe the world would just stay like that. Maybe they'd never find a way to convert me."

I let out a breath.

"So I stopped fighting for a minute."

The admission tastes bitter.

"I let myself be happy."

I don't look at him when I say the next part.

"And then reality corrected me."

He turns away, walking toward the window.

"I spent this entire time avoiding them," he says quietly. "Hiding. Starving. I thought I would die in the jungle."

His back is rigid.

"When I saw your video," he adds. "That is when I understood there was still a way to reverse this."

My chest tightens.

I hadn't thought about what that video meant to anyone else.

He thought I was leading.

I was barely surviving.

Shame creeps up my spine, but when he turns back toward me, there's no accusation in his expression.

"Where are the others?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"They won't help us."

"Why?"

"They're comfortable," I say. "Most of them were struggling before the Joining. Now they're fed. Connected. Valued."

I pause.

"I think most of them have already chosen to convert."

He absorbs that.

"I know the girl from Peru did," I add quietly. "She volunteered."

Silence settles between us again.

"There was only one who refused," I say after a moment.

He looks at me.

"Koumba Diabaté."

The name feels heavy.

"He's in Vegas."

Manousos studies my face.

"He will help?"

I let out a short breath.

"I don't think so."

I picture Diabaté smiling, surrounded by adoration, untouched by consequence.

"He likes the arrangement," I say. "He gets the benefits without the commitment."

I lean back slightly.

"And he thinks he's in control."

The radio hums softly behind us.

"What is he doing in Vegas?" Manousos asks. "Is he alone?"

I almost laugh.

"Alone?" I repeat.

"No."

I shake my head.

"He's surrounded."

Manousos frowns.

"They like him," I say. "He likes the attention. They fulfill his wishes. All of them."

I don't exaggerate.

"They give him whatever he asks for. Food. Comfort. Company. Women."

Manousos looks away slightly, disgust flickering across his face.

"When I went to see him," I continue, "they left."

He turns back to me.

"What do you mean, left?"

"They retreated. The whole hive. Like I was radioactive." "They avoided me," I say. "Everywhere I went."

I swallow.

"Until I asked them to come back."

The memory tightens in my chest.

"They responded instantly."

Like a parent lifting a punishment.

Like I had earned proximity again.

Manousos watches me carefully now.

I realize something then.

He said Zosia told him everything... But what is everything?

He probably doesn't know why they left me the first time.

So I tell him.

"The grenade," I say quietly.

He blinks.

"It wasn't supposed to be real. I didn't know it was real." "I was being sarcastic. It detonated."

I pause.

"And then I injected Zosia with sodium thiopental."

He stiffens.

"I thought if she couldn't lie, she'd tell me how to reverse it."

My voice drops.

"She almost died." "That's why they left me... because I was dangerous."

Silence.

"They weren't protecting themselves," I say. "They were protecting each other from me."

Manousos exhales slowly.

"After I learned about the milk, I went to Vegas to warn Diabaté."

The memory feels heavier than the grenade.

"He already knew."

Manousos stares at me.

"He didn't care?"

"No."

I shake my head.

"He said the others had already met. Zoom calls. Discussions. Trying to figure out how to help them survive. And of course, I was not allowed to be in those meetings, because they don't like me."

"Help them?" Manousos repeats, disbelief sharpening his tone.

"They're dying," I say.

He freezes.

I keep going.

"They can't cultivate. They won't kill. They only consume what dies naturally."

The words feel unreal even now.

"They process the dead. Human Protein Derivative."

I see his expression change.

"They call it respect," I say. "They don't waste life."

My voice turns hollow.

"But in ten years... there won't be enough natural deaths."

The implication settles.

"They'll starve."

The room is silent except for the faint static from the radio.

"They're trying to solve extinction," I say. "Not cause it."

Manousos looks horrified.

"They can't even pick an apple," I add. "Only if it falls."

He rubs his forehead.

"And the conversion... I found out they already knew how to do it, Diabaté told me."

I nod slowly.

"They figured it out."

I look at the floor.

"They can reprogram our cells. Using stem cell induction."

He goes rigid.

"But it's invasive. Painful. It requires consent."

I look up at him.

"Diabaté refused."

"So did I."

His eyes sharpen.

"But they already knew about your eggs."

I nod.

"They were planning before I even knew there was a war."

"We have to go to Vegas," Manousos says suddenly.

The words land like something solid.

I shake my head before I even think.

"He's not going to help us."

Manousos waits.

I exhale slowly.

"He didn't say it to my face," I add, "but he wanted me gone."

Diabaté never asked me to leave.

He didn't have to.

"He likes the arrangement," I say. "He's comfortable."

Manousos studies me for a moment, then speaks carefully into the translator.

"If they found a way to convert us without extracting new stem cells... what prevents them from doing the same with him?"

I stare at him.

He continues.

"You say he is always with them. That they fulfill every desire."

The phone translates.

"Gradually," Manousos adds in English, searching for the word "manipulating."

I feel something shift in my chest.

"They wouldn't force him," I say automatically.

"Not force," he replies. "Guide."

The word hangs there.

Guide.

"They tell him they love him. They feed him. They touch him. They make him feel chosen."

My stomach tightens.

"They are patient."

The radio hums behind us.

"They could already be preparing him," Manousos says quietly. "Collecting. Reprogramming. Waiting."

I look at him.

It isn't paranoia.

It's consistent.

The hive doesn't rush.

The hive adapts.

I picture Diabaté surrounded by warmth and bodies and reassurance.

He thinks he's indulging.

What if he's being softened?

"They don't need his consent if they find another pathway," Manousos continues. "You said so."

I don't respond immediately.

If they've already stabilized his cells...

If they're close...

He won't see it coming.

And if he realizes they betrayed his autonomy—

He won't forgive it.

"That's not a bad idea," I admit quietly.

Manousos nods once.

"If they move on him," he says, "he will stand with us."

Or he'll panic.

Either way, he won't stay neutral.

Silence stretches.

"And if you do not want to alter them," Manousos adds, turning toward the radio again, "we use the serum."

My jaw tightens.

He meets my eyes.

"But correctly this time."

The memory of Zosia convulsing flashes through me again.

"No overdosing," he says.

"Controlled environment."

"Monitoring."

"Isolation."

He gestures toward the radio.

"Disrupt synchronization chemically instead of emotionally."

My pulse quickens.

The idea is cleaner.

Less cruel.

More deliberate.

"We'd need to know the dosage," I say.

He nods.

"We'd need medical monitoring."

"Yes."

"And someone willing."

He doesn't answer that part.

I look at Manousos.

"When do we leave?"

Chapter Text

80 days - 19 hours - 15 minutes

The desert stretches endlessly in front of us.

Flat. Dry. Honest.

Manousos drives.

I sit in the passenger seat of my Rolls-Royce, hands folded in my lap like I'm being transported somewhere I didn't entirely choose. The engine hums low and smooth beneath us, too luxurious for the end of the world.

We've been silent for almost an hour.

Not hostile.

Just... quiet.

The kind of quiet that comes when two people have already said the important things and are now sitting with them.

I've never been this transparent with anyone who wasn't Helen.

Or Zosia.

That realization makes my chest tighten slightly.

80 days ago, I wouldn't have told Manousos half of what I did. I don't even know when it happened — when he stopped being a stranger and started being... necessary.

Maybe loneliness erodes pride.

Maybe complicity does.

We share an objective now. That removes the need for politeness. For performance.

There's no reason to lie anymore.

And yet—

He rarely talks about himself.

I've given him fragments of my life like offerings. Not all of them. Not Helen in detail. Not my mother. Not the conversion camp she sent me to when I was sixteen because she thought she could scare the lesbian out of me.

Not the way I learned to survive silence long before the Joining.

And he knows everything about Zosia.

Every mistake.

Every weakness.

The intimacy of that still stings.

My phone sits mounted on the dashboard, translator app open, just in case.

I glance at him.

"What did you do before the Joining?" I ask.

He keeps his eyes on the road.

Sighs.

I tap the screen so the translator will catch it properly.

"What did you do before the Union?"

He answers in Spanish.

The phone translates.

"I ran a self-storage business in Asunción. I moved there from Colombia years ago."

His tone is neutral. Practiced.

"I did not speak to my mother."

Short pause.

"I kept to myself."

That's it.

No elaboration.

No emotion.

I wait, but nothing else comes.

"You had no contact with them?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

"Zero."

The word feels heavier than it should.

He avoided them entirely.

No curiosity.

No negotiation.

Just refusal.

I nod slowly.

I recognize that instinct.

I almost ask about his mother.

But I don't.

He doesn't offer.

And I'm suddenly aware that I've been far more naked in this arrangement than he has.

So I pivot.

"How was the trip north?"

He shrugs slightly.

"Long."

"And Albuquerque?"

He glances at the horizon.

"Dry."

I almost smile.

"That's the official city slogan."

He doesn't react.

The silence returns.

It stretches.

The road hums beneath us.

The sun bleaches everything the same color.

I stare out the window for a while, watching the heat ripple above the asphalt.

The quiet starts to crawl under my skin.

I reach for the stereo.

"Nineties?" I ask, not really expecting a response.

He doesn't object.

So I press play.

A familiar guitar riff fills the car. Something nostalgic. Something from a time before hive minds and extinction curves.

The sound feels almost rebellious.

Manousos keeps driving.

He doesn't complain.

He doesn't sing.

He just accepts it.

And we continue across the desert — two immune bodies in a luxury car, heading toward a man who thinks he's winning.

The sign is still there.

Bright. Artificial. Unnecessarily cheerful.

WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS, CAROL AND MANOUSOS.

The digital board flickers once as we pass beneath it, and for a split second, I swear it lingers half a second too long on our car.

The streets are empty, as I was sure they would be, because of course, they knew we were coming 

Three months.

Almost three months since I last saw Diabaté.

Last time, it was excess.

Ten luxury cars lined up like trophies.

A private hotel floor.

The Elvis suite.

Champagne poured for no one.

A performance of indulgence.

I brace myself for something worse.

We pull into the hotel entrance. The valet stand is empty, but the doors slide open automatically.

Inside, the casino lights are dimmer than before.

Still lit.

Still humming.

But quieter.

No music.

No artificial laughter.

Just machines blinking patiently in rows.

Manousos walks beside me, silent.

We cross the carpeted floor toward the elevators.

The doors open immediately.

We step inside.

Too many floors.

There's a small sofa built into the wall of the elevator, like it was designed for people who don't expect urgency. We sit.

The ascent is smooth.

Too smooth.

I watch the floor numbers climb.

Manousos says nothing.

Neither do I.

The doors finally open.

The hallway is different.

Dark.

Minimal.

No velvet. No gold trim. No theatrical lighting.

The carpet is neutral. The walls are shadowed.

The air feels... restrained.

At the end of the corridor, a figure stands by the window.

Watching the city.

Diabaté.

He doesn't turn immediately.

The skyline stretches beyond him, lights blinking in patient patterns.

When he finally pivots toward us, I almost don't recognize him.

He looks thinner.

Not physically weak.

Just... worn.

His expression changes the moment his eyes land on me.

He moves fast.

Too fast.

Before I can react, he closes the distance and wraps his arms around me.

It's not flirtatious.

It's tight.

Desperate almost.

I freeze.

We have never been this close.

His grip lingers longer than necessary.

When he pulls back, his smile is wide.

Too wide.

Almost manic.

"Carol," he says, breathless. "You came back."

His eyes flick to Manousos.

"Present me to your friend," he adds, still smiling.

But something underneath the smile doesn't match.

The energy isn't indulgent anymore.

It's unstable.

And for the first time since we decided to come here, I feel it clearly.

He's not in control.

I pull my phone from my pocket out of habit. Translator open. Ready.

Even though Manousos knows enough English to survive, nuance matters now.

"Manousos Oviedo," I say. "Diabaté."

They shake hands.

Firm. Measured.

"As you know," I add, "he's one of the immunes. He came all the way from Paraguay."

Diabaté's smile widens.

"Of course he did," he says warmly, almost theatrically. "Welcome."

He gestures for us to follow him.

We move deeper into the suite.

It's different from last time.

Still expensive. Still curated.

But the excess is gone.

The grand piano is closed. The gold accents are minimal. The lights are dimmer. 

He leads us toward what looks like a private bar area. Bottles arranged perfectly. Platters of food. Crystal glasses.

"Welcome to my humble home," he says.

Humble.

He laughs at his own joke.

But there's something off.

He's more animated than I remember. More charged. Like someone who hasn't had a real conversation in weeks and is overcompensating.

He pours champagne automatically.

"So," I say carefully. "They left again because of me. Because of us."

He smiles.

"Well," he says lightly, glancing at Manousos, "your friend hasn't been particularly kind to them either, has he?"

The smile doesn't fade.

"Oh," he adds casually, "Zosia was very excited when she heard you were coming. She asked me to confirm that you were well."

Heat rises to my face before I can stop it.

I nod once.

"I'm fine."

Manousos pretends to inspect the bottles behind the bar.

Diabaté raises a glass.

"To reunions."

"We didn't come to celebrate," Manousos says, cutting in.

Diabaté pauses mid-pour.

"We came to talk about reversing this."

The word lands heavy.

Diabaté sets the bottle down slowly.

"You're still on that?" he asks, this time looking directly at me.

"They found a way to convert me without my consent," I say.

His expression shifts — just slightly.

"Yes," he says quietly. "I heard."

"You heard?"

He nods.

"And I'm... sorry, Carol. Truly."

I raise an eyebrow.

"If I could do something to stop it, I would."

"You can," I say evenly. "You can help us."

He shakes his head.

"That's not possible."

Manousos steps forward slightly.

"They also found a way to convert me."

Diabaté's eyes flick toward him.

"What makes you think they haven't done the same with you?"

Silence.

Then Diabaté laughs softly.

"That's not possible," he says. "I haven't given them anything."

His confidence returns too quickly.

I tilt my head.

"Are you sure?"

A flicker crosses his face.

I take a step closer.

"If they can derive stem cells from my eggs... You don't think they could do the same with your fluids?"

The room tightens.

"With how many of them have you slept?" I ask quietly.

The smile disappears.

Completely.

Manousos doesn't move.

Diabaté looks from me to him and back again.

The air in the room feels different now.

Less indulgent.

More clinical.

"I'm sure," he says, but it sounds thinner this time.

I hold his gaze.

"Are you?"

Silence.

For the first time since we arrived, Diabaté isn't performing.

He's calculating.

And somewhere beneath that calculation—

There's doubt.

Diabaté finishes his champagne in one swallow.

No flourish this time.

He sets the glass down carefully and lowers himself onto one of the barstools.

He doesn't look at either of us.

He's staring at the floor.

"They wouldn't do that," he says quietly. Not to us. To himself. "Not now."

His voice is measured, but there's something fraying beneath it.

Manousos doesn't move.

I don't either.

"They wouldn't," he repeats, as if repetition might turn it into fact.

Finally, he lifts his head.

"That's not possible."

"It is," I say calmly.

He shakes his head.

"No."

The denial is softer now.

"Then ask them," I suggest.

The words land between us like something simple.

He stands slowly.

For a moment, I think he won't do it.

But he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

He doesn't dial in front of us.

Instead, he walks toward the hallway.

"I'll be right back," he says.

And disappears into the bathroom.

The door closes.

Manousos and I stand there in silence.

I can't hear anything through the walls.

Not their voice.

Not his voice.

Just the faint hum of the air system.

I glance at Manousos.

He meets my eyes.

We don't speak.

Three minutes pass.

Maybe four.

The bathroom door opens.

Diabaté walks back into the bar.

His face is unreadable.

Neutral.

Composed.

Almost serene.

He avoids looking directly at us.

"I think I'll retire early tonight," he says casually.

"You're welcome to whichever suite you prefer. There's food. There's drinks."

He gestures vaguely toward the room.

"Good night."

Before I can respond, he turns and walks down the hallway.

His bedroom door closes softly behind him.

The sound echoes more than it should.

Manousos and I remain standing by the bar.

The untouched champagne bottle gleams under the dim light.

"He didn't deny it," Manousos says quietly.

"No," I reply.

I don't sleep... Not really. I drift. I surface. I stare at the ceiling until the shadows change shape. Every time I close my eyes, I see countdowns.

Five weeks.

Five weeks.

Five weeks.

By the time the sun begins to push faint light through the curtains, I give up.

When I step into the adjoining suite, Manousos is already awake.

He's standing at the stove, scrambling eggs in a stainless-steel pan like this is a normal morning in a normal world. Bacon crackles beside it. The smell is almost comforting.

There's food everywhere, just like Diabaté promised.

Too much food.

I sit at the kitchen bar without speaking.

He plates the eggs. Slides one toward me.

We eat in silence.

The quiet is heavier now.

No sign of Diabaté.

I push my fork through the eggs slowly.

"I'll go check on him," I say.

Manousos nods once.

I leave the suite and walk down the hallway.

I knock on his door.

Nothing.

I knock again.

Still nothing.

After a moment, I try the handle.

Unlocked.

I step inside.

The curtains are half-drawn. The city glows faintly beyond the glass.

Diabaté is sitting in the living area, facing the window.

Still.

Hands resting on his knees.

He doesn't turn when I enter.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He nods slightly.

Doesn't look at me.

"It's all been so fake lately," he says quietly.

His voice is stripped of performance now.

"I got tired."

I walk closer, slow enough not to startle him.

"Tired of what?"

"Of inventing movies," he says. "Of casting them as characters. Of pretending they care about me."

He lets out a dry breath.

"I'm sorry I didn't stay longer last night. I did want to talk. I did."

He pauses.

"But..."

"But they gave you bad news," I finish softly.

He nods.

"I was careful," he says suddenly. "I used protection."

The words come out defensive.

"But they clean everything."

His jaw tightens.

"I suppose they kept... whatever they needed."

I bite the inside of my lip.

I know exactly how that realization feels.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I know how it feels."

He nods once.

"Five weeks," he says.

The number sounds heavier in his voice.

"In five weeks I'll be one of them."

There's no anger in it.

Just resignation.

"I have an atom bomb," I tell him.

He lets out a short laugh.

"Yes. I know."

"If they try to convert us, it explodes."

He leans back slightly in the chair.

"So we die either way, don't we?"

The city lights flicker beyond the window.

For the first time, he looks at me directly.

"Do you have a plan?" he asks.

"More or less."

He studies my face carefully.

"Do you think the others would help?"

He hesitates.

Before he can answer, he shakes his head.

"No."

"They want to belong."

His voice isn't bitter.

It's factual.

"They've already chosen."

Diabaté joins us an hour later.

He looks steadier now.

Not cheerful.

Not theatrical.

Just... decided.

He pours himself coffee instead of champagne.

That alone tells me something.

Manousos wastes no time.

He starts explaining.

Frequency disruption. Neural synchronization. Phase coherence. Controlled chemical interference. Isolation chambers.

Diabaté listens with the expression of a man trying to understand advanced physics after two hours of sleep.

"So we... break the rhythm?" he asks finally.

"Yes," Manousos says. "Temporarily."

"And then what?"

"Then we observe the individual."

Diabaté nods slowly.

He doesn't really understand the mechanics.

But he understands the objective.

"If it works once," Manousos continues, "we replicate."

"With the rest."

Silence.

Diabaté leans back in his chair.

"We can use anyone," he says lightly. "One of my friends. They trust me."

My stomach tightens.

He says it too casually.

"They'd agree to come," he adds. "They think I'm still... curious."

Manousos nods thoughtfully.

"In Albuquerque," he says, "there are storage facilities. Industrial units. Concrete walls. Minimal signal penetration. We could reinforce."

He's already building it in his head.

"If we manage to disconnect one," he continues, "we understand the mechanism."

"We learn how to do it again."

The phrase echoes inside me.

Disconnect one.

Disconnect one.

Zosia's voice flickers in my memory.

Resonance. Phase alignment. Homeostatic.

If something disrupts the rhythm...

It becomes unstable.

My pulse quickens.

They keep talking.

Logistics. Materials. Timing.

But all I can hear is that word.

One.

One of them.

If we disconnect one...

We learn how to save the rest.

My mouth moves before I consciously decide.

"I want it to be her."

Both of them stop.

"What?" Diabaté asks.

"If we're going to disconnect someone," I say steadily, "I want it to be Zosia."

Silence falls heavy across the table.

Manousos studies me carefully.

"That is... not objective," he says quietly.

"I know."

Diabaté's eyes narrow slightly.

"You sure this isn't personal?"

Of course, it's personal.

Everything about this is personal.

My throat tightens.

"With her... we have a chance."

They don't answer immediately.

Diabaté watches me differently now.

"You want to save her," he says plainly.

I hold his gaze.

"Yes."

Not just humanity.

Not just the immune.

Her.

If I can pull her out...

Even for a moment.

I'll know the woman I loved wasn't just a synchronized illusion.

Manousos leans back slowly.

"It increases risk," he says.

"I know."

"It complicates everything."

"I know."

He studies me for a long moment.

Diabaté exhales.

"Well," he says finally, rubbing his hands together, "if we're going to start a war with the hive..."

Chapter Text

90 days - 5 hours - 15 minutes

We don't talk about the number.

But we all know it.

The transition from Vegas to Albuquerque happens in fragments. Highway signs. Silence. Cheap motel coffee. Long stretches of desert where no one speaks.

It was Diabaté who found the bunker.

I assigned him the house two doors down from mine. It was easier that way. Close enough to coordinate. Far enough to feel independent.

He was the one exploring the basement when he called me over.

"You might want to see this."

The stairs led down into something I never would've expected from this street.

Concrete walls.

Steel reinforcement.

A sealed door with a manual locking wheel.

Inside: shelves of canned goods, bottled water, medical kits, batteries, blankets. A generator. Portable filtration units.

No bloodstains.

No chains.

No horror.

Apparently, one of my neighbors believed the world would end.

Ironically, they weren't wrong.

I never spoke to them.

I never spoke to any of them.

My only social orbit had been Helen.

And book tours.

And polite applause from strangers who read Wycaro and wanted signatures.

Outside of that?

Silence.

The bunker is clean, functional, and private.

It's perfect.

Diabaté has been staying in that house since we returned.

He keeps to himself.

Avoids the other immunes entirely. He looks thinner now.

Less manic.

There's a quiet sadness to him, like someone detoxing from a drug he didn't realize he was addicted to.

He doesn't talk about his past.

Not really.

But from the way he avoids certain details, I know it wasn't kind to him.

And I can't judge him for wanting the new world.

I did the same thing.

I built my bubble with Zosia.

I accepted the warmth... The illusion.

It makes sense that he misses Vegas. The house he occupies now isn't bad. It's comfortable. Spacious. Clean.

But it isn't worship.

I tried to tell him that if we succeed, the world might reward us.

That maybe history would remember us differently.

He smiled at that.

For him, material reward still matters.

For me, it doesn't.

I've already had everything.

And lost it.

I need to focus on our tasks... Today is the day.

What if she doesn't come?

What if she does?

Diabaté stands in the kitchen with his phone in hand.

He dials.

The recording answers first.

He requests to speak to Zosia.

There's a delay.

Longer than usual.

Then her voice joins the call. I can barely hear what she says, but I imagine her smiling while talking, her soft, sweet voice... I close my eyes. I need to focus, she's not her, she's all of them

They reach an agreement quickly in a neutral ground, just the three of us, no Manousos, no bomb. Diabaté offers to act as my chaperone.

They still trust him.

Or at least we think they do.

It occurs to me that leaving Vegas and isolating himself with us may have changed that calculation.

But not enough because Zosia agrees, she wants to please me, she wants to make me happy, they... they want to make me happy

Diabaté and I step into the Rolls-Royce.

The engine hums to life.

As we pull away from the house, I feel something twist inside my chest.

In a few minutes, I will see her again. I notice how sweaty my hands are. I'm so nervous, I don't know how I'll feel having her in front of me. My brain tells me that this is necessary, but my conscience is punishing me; this is a trap... I'm about to lie to her, I'm about to take her with me against her will, well... It's not that they have a fucking free will.

We arrived at the agreed-upon spot in the desert outside the city. I can see her blue car in the distance; she's still inside. I'm sure there's a drone above us right now. What could they possibly do to stop what we're about to do?

She turns around when she feels our car approaching. Damn, she's gorgeous... She immediately smiles at us. Diabaté gets out of the car with a huge grin... "Zosia..." he says, hugging her and, like a true gentleman, kissing her hand... I stay back, watching. I don't know if I can approach without feeling the temptation to kiss her...

 "Hi, Carol," she says

 Her smile lights everything up, that smile that always deceives me, making me believe I'm the most beautiful thing she's ever seen in the world.

I approach cautiously. 

"Hi," I say, waving my hand without much enthusiasm. 

I try to put on the best poker face I can. There's an awkward silence. She keeps smiling at me. "Diabaté, speak..." I say to myself. "Thank you, Jesus."

"I'll be in the car while you two talk." 

Diabaté moves far enough away from us that we should have a private conversation, and I don't know what to say.

We stand beside her car, not touching.

Not even close enough for our shadows to overlap.

"So," she says finally, voice gentle. "How are you, Carol?"

The question is almost absurd.

I try to smile.

It comes out wrong. Twisted. Incomplete.

"I'm fine."

The word feels mechanical.

She studies my face, like she's checking for cracks.

"Have you decided what you'll do about the bomb?" she asks casually, as if we're discussing a broken appliance.

I press my lips together.

"Were you able to extract stem cells from my eggs yet?" I ask instead.

Her smile falters.

"Not yet," she says carefully.

Then she adds, almost proudly, "But we've made significant progress."

The pride in her voice makes something twist inside me.

"Unfortunately," she continues, "we're still several weeks away from viability." "We are considering several options, in case one doesn't work."

I nod slowly.

"Well," I say, "then I'm several weeks away from deciding what to do with the bomb." 

A nervous laugh escapes her.

"How is the book?" she asks suddenly. "Did you keep writing?"

The question hits harder than it should.

I haven't looked at that manuscript since I left her

"No," I say.

"My mind is currently preoccupied with the possibility of ceasing to exist as myself at any moment."

I hold her gaze.

"So no. A romance novel isn't exactly at the top of my priorities."

Her expression shifts.

Not defensive.

Serious.

"We are very sorry, Carol," she says quietly.

There's no sarcasm.

No manipulation in the tone.

Just sincerity.

"We know what this feels like for you."

I inhale slowly.

"Do you?" I ask.

"Yes."

She steps slightly closer, but not enough to touch.

"We are not doing this to hurt you."

I let out a short breath.

"I know," I say.

"You're doing it to make me happy."

She nods once.

"Yes."

The word hangs in the desert air between us.

That's what makes it unbearable.

She believes that.

Fully.

And I know she does.

The wind picks up briefly, pushing a strand of her hair across her face. She brushes it away without breaking eye contact.

"You are alone," she says softly.

"We don't want you to be."

And for a split second—

For a single dangerous second—

I feel it again—the temptation to step back into that bubble and stop fighting.

But a few weeks.

A few weeks until "choice" disappears.

I straighten slightly. The sun is relentless.

The desert doesn't forgive hesitation.

I look at her for a long moment.

She looks back, patient. Trusting.

"It's hot," I say finally.

It's true. The air feels heavy against my skin.

"Are you thirsty?"

She smiles faintly.

"A little."

I turn toward my car.

Diabaté is sitting in the driver's seat, pretending not to watch us too closely.

I open the passenger door and reach for the bottled water I left on the seat.

Our eyes meet.

He knows.

There's no dramatic nod. No whispered confirmation.

Just awareness.

He has to manage this if something goes wrong.

If the hive notices a spike.

If they triangulate her location.

If they decide to intervene.

Can they catch us?

I don't know.

I don't know if they're close.

I don't know if they let her come alone.

They don't have strong survival instincts. They believe in love more than caution.

I twist the cap off the bottle as I walk back toward her.

My hands are steady.

That surprises me.

I lift it to my mouth and take a swallow.

Long enough.

Visible.

Then I lower it and hold it out to her.

She steps closer.

Smiles again. She drinks—more than I did.

The sound of her swallowing feels louder than it should.

She wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her sweater and hands the bottle back to me.

We stand there facing each other.

The desert stretches around us, empty and wide.

For a second, I almost tell her.

Almost.

Instead, I just hold her gaze.

And wait.

"We were hoping you'd want us back," Zosia says softly.

"Nope," I reply.

"It's better you're not nearby. You know Manousos. The bomb."

She looks disappointed.

Almost hurt.

Then I see it.

Her blinking changes.

Subtle.

Too frequent.

A delay in focus.

I feel it too.

A heaviness spreading behind my eyes.

My limbs don't feel wrong yet.

Just... slower.

Zosia places one hand against the side of her car.

Like she needs to steady herself.

She looks at me.

Confused.

"Carol?"

Her voice sounds farther away than it should.

But I'm not fully processing her words.

The world feels slightly misaligned.

Like someone adjusted the brightness and contrast of reality.

My heartbeat slows.

Or maybe my perception of it does.

Zosia's pupils look unfocused now.

She shifts her weight.

"I..."

Her hand slides slightly along the metal of the car.

Diabaté is already moving.

He steps out of the Rolls-Royce quickly but without panic.

He reaches me first.

"Easy," he says quietly.

My legs are giving up before I consciously decide to sit.

He guides me into the passenger seat.

The leather feels cool against my skin.

My head lolls slightly.

I hear Zosia's breathing change.

I try to turn my head toward her.

It feels like lifting stone.

She's trying to move toward her own car.

Trying to open the door.

Her fingers fumble at the handle.

Diabaté reaches her before she can get inside.

She turns toward him, confused.

"What—"

He catches her arm.

She doesn't fight properly.

Her coordination is gone.

Her knees buckle.

He lifts her — carefully, almost gently — and carries her back toward our car.

I want to speak.

My tongue feels thick.

He lays her in the back seat.

Her head rolls to the side.

She tries to focus on me.

"Carol..."

Her voice is barely there.

Diabaté moves fast.

Metal clicks.

Handcuffs.

The sound feels distant.

The engine starts.

The desert begins to blur past the window.

Zosia's eyes are struggling to stay open.

Mine too.

The sedation is deeper now.

My thoughts feel delayed.

Slow.

But I force my mouth to move.

"If they try to come for you..."

The words scrape out.

"The world explodes."

Her gaze flickers toward me.

Confusion.

Hurt.

Something else.

Then the edges of everything start to collapse inward.

Light dims.

Sound stretches.

And then—

Nothing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wake up slowly.

For a second, it feels ordinary.

I stretch without thinking, arms above my head, back arching against the mattress. The sheets are familiar. The light through the curtains is soft. My body feels heavy but rested.

Almost peaceful.

Then it hits.

The desert.

The water.

Zosia's eyes.

I sit up so fast the room tilts.

My heart slams against my ribs.

I don't even look in the mirror. I don't change. I don't think. I run.

Barefoot across my hallway. Out the door. Across the street.

I don't knock.

I burst into Diabaté's house like I own it.

Manousos and Diabaté are in the living room, mid-conversation. They both turn at the sound of the door.

"Where is she?" I demand, breath uneven. "Where is she?"

Diabaté raises his hands slightly, calm but alert.

"Calm down," he says. "She's fine."

"Where?"

"In the safe room."

My head snaps toward the television.

They've hooked up the camera feed.

And there she is.

Zosia.

Sleeping.

Curled slightly on the bed we moved into the bunker. The space doesn't look like a bunker anymore — not really. It looks... almost humane. A proper mattress. Clean sheets. A small dresser. A lamp. A bathroom door slightly ajar. Bottled water stacked neatly. Non-perishables organized on metal shelves.

It looks like we prepared for a long stay.

My throat tightens.

"And the others?" I ask without taking my eyes off the screen. "Did they try to come for her?"

"No," Manousos says.

"I think they heard your message," Diabaté adds quietly.

I watch her chest.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

"She drank more than you," Diabaté continues. "It makes sense she's still out."

I swallow.

"Did you check her?" I ask. "You made sure she's breathing, right? You took her vitals?"

Manousos nods. "Pulse normal. Oxygen saturation normal. Blood pressure stable. She's fine."

"She's just asleep," Diabaté says.

Just asleep.

I step closer to the screen.

Her hair is spread across the pillow.

Her face is soft. Unaware.

For a second, she looks exactly like she did the last time we woke up together.

And I have to fight the instinct to go down there.

To sit beside her.

To take her hand. I feel terrible for doing this to her

I keep watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.

If they try to come for you...

The world explodes.

I meant it.

And that's the part that scares me the most.

Chapter Text

When Zosia wakes, she doesn't scream.

That unsettles me more than if she had.

Manousos and Diabaté are upstairs, arguing quietly over shielding materials and signal interference — copper mesh, reinforced concrete density, whether we can line the walls without making it obvious we're building a Faraday cage around her.

I volunteered to bring the food.

The bunker door unlocks with a mechanical click that sounds too loud

She's sitting on the edge of the bed.

Not pacing. Not testing the walls. Not pulling at the handles.

She's folded in on herself, arms wrapped around her legs, forehead resting against her knees.

She looks smaller.

For a moment, I just stand there holding the tray.

"I brought soup," I say, hating how domestic that sounds.

She lifts her head slowly.

Her eyes are clear.

There's no fog left from the sedative.

"There was something in the water," she says calmly.

It's not a question.

"Yes."

A pause.

"You didn't need to drink it too," she adds. "We would have drunk it... If you had asked us,"

That lands harder than anything else she could have said.

"I didn't think it was fair," I answer. "For you to feel it alone."

Her mouth tightens slightly.

"You punish yourself," she says. "So you can tell yourself you're not hurting us."

"I'm not hurting you."

The words come out faster than I mean them to.

"If you believe you have the right to infect me," I continue, steadier now, "then I have the right to try to stop it. That's fair. Isn't it?"

She studies me.

Then nods once.

"Yes."

I set the bowl down on the small table we installed yesterday. Steam curls upward between us.

"There's nothing in it," I say. "It's just food. I promise."

Now she looks at me with something I haven't seen from her before.

Distrust.

And I deserve it.

I inhale slowly.

"I'm sorry," I say, and this time I mean it without justification. "But it was important that you came with us."

She stands.

Walks to the table.

Sits.

She takes the spoon.

Begins eating.

"We would have come," she says between bites.

I close my eyes briefly.

"Can you please stop saying 'we'?" I ask. My voice is sharper than I intend.

A pause.

"I'm sorry, Carol," she says.

She keeps eating.

Her movements are controlled. Deliberate. Almost ceremonial.

There's resignation in her posture. Not fear.

It means she believes this ends with my transformation anyway.

Upstairs, I can hear faint drilling. Metal being dragged across concrete. Manousos moving fast. Diabaté pacing.

Trying to cut her off from the hive.

Trying to see if a person remains when the signal drops.

Zosia finishes half the bowl and sets the spoon down.

She looks at me directly.

"What are you hoping for, Carol?"

The question hangs there.

I don't answer immediately.

Because the truth is, I don't know.

"I'm hoping," I say finally, "that when the noise stops... you're still you."

She tilts her head slightly.

"The noise is part of me now."

And for the first time since she woke up, there's something fragile in her expression.

Not for the hive... For me.

The drilling stops.

Not gradually.

Just—

Silence.

A vacuum.

For half a second, nothing happens.

Then Zosia drops.

The sound is violent. A sharp crack against concrete — skull or shoulder, I don't know. I don't care. She's on the floor before my brain processes that she's falling.

"STOP— STOP!"

My voice tears out of me before I even understand what I'm yelling at.

Her body locks.

Then convulses.

Hard.

Her back arches off the ground. Her hands claw inward, fingers rigid. Her jaw snaps shut and then opens again with a guttural sound I have never heard come from her before.

Foam gathers at the corner of her mouth.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

I'm on my knees beside her.

Her head jerks violently; I try to catch it, but she nearly takes my hand with her teeth. I slide my arm under her neck, turning her to the side the way I remember from somewhere — some article, some training, something —

"Breathe, breathe, breathe—"

Her body spasms again.

Her heel kicks against the metal leg of the table. The bowl crashes to the floor. Soup spreads across concrete like something obscene and meaningless.

"MANOUSOS! STOP IT! STOP!"

I don't even know if they can hear me through the reinforced door.

Her breathing stutters.

Her eyes roll back.

I bolt upright and run to the door, nearly slipping on the spilled broth. I fumble with the lock, yank it open, scream again —

The convulsions stop.

Just like that.

Silence.

I spin back around.

She's still.

Too still.

"No— no— no—"

I drop beside her again, rolling her carefully onto her side. Foam clings to her lips. I wipe it away with my sleeve. Her chest rises unevenly.

Then—

Her eyes open.

They focus slowly.

She inhales sharply, like she's surfacing from underwater.

Manousos and Diabaté burst in behind me, breathing hard.

"What happened?" Manousos asks, but I'm not listening.

I pull Zosia up into my arms. Her body feels limp, overheated, fragile.

"Are you okay? Are you okay?"

She nods weakly.

Her breathing is shallow.

"What happened?" I repeat.

She swallows.

"I don't know," she whispers. "There was... pressure. And then nothing."

"Nothing how?" Diabaté asks, crouching down.

She blinks slowly, trying to organize her memory.

"Like... static. And then it cut."

Her fingers twitch in my sleeve.

"I was the only one," she says. "I felt it. Only me."

Manousos and Diabaté exchange a look.

Only her.

My stomach drops.

Because that means it worked.

And almost killed her.

I hold her tighter than I should.

Her heartbeat is racing against my arm.

I can still feel the ghost of her convulsing in my hands.

I did this.

I did this again.

And for the first time since we locked her down here—

I'm not sure if I'm trying to save her.

Or break her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zosia doesn't blink.

Not for too long.

Her eyes are open, but they're not here. Not with us. They're fixed somewhere slightly above my shoulder, like she's watching something projected in the air that I can't see.

None of us speaks.

Diabaté shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Manousos stands rigid near the door. I'm still on the floor beside her, my hand hovering near her arm but not touching, afraid that if I interrupt whatever is happening, she'll seize again.

Minutes pass.

Her breathing evens out. Slows. Deepens.

She's somewhere else.

Talking.

Listening.

I can see it in the small movements of her eyes — tracking, focusing, reacting.

It feels obscene to witness.

Finally, her pupils settle. Her gaze drops back into the room.

She looks at us.

At me.

I grab the water bottle from the table and hold it toward her. My hands are steadier now, but I can still feel the tremor underneath.

"Here."

She takes it without resistance and drinks.

She doesn't say anything.

We wait.

The silence stretches thin.

"And?" Diabaté asks finally, unable to contain himself. "What happened?"

Zosia lowers the bottle.

Her face is composed. Too composed.

"We're very sorry," she says softly. "But we can't talk about this with you."

The air changes.

I sit beside her on the bed.

"What do you mean you can't?" My voice comes out tighter than I intend. "You have to tell us. Did we separate you? Did it work?"

She doesn't answer.

She just looks at me.

And that's answer enough.

Manousos exhales sharply. Diabaté mutters something under his breath. They move toward the door, already thinking ahead — adjustments, reinforcements, concrete slabs stacked nearby in case they need to seal the room again without triggering another shock.

They can't use the sound.

They can't risk it.

She could die.

They leave us alone.

I take her hand.

It's warm.

I want to cry. The image of her on the floor — foam at her mouth, body bending in ways it shouldn't — it won't leave me. It's burned into the inside of my skull.

I swallow it down.

I don't deserve tears.

Zosia lies back against the pillows, staring at nothing again — not dissociated this time. Just distant.

"I'm so sorry," I say quietly.

She turns her head toward me.

And she smiles.

"Don't worry, Carol," she says.

"We know you didn't mean to hurt us."

---------------------------------------------------------

On the television screen, Zosia lies flat on her back, staring at the ceiling.

She hasn't moved in minutes.

The bunker camera catches everything in sterile grayscale — the steady rise of her chest, the faint shift of her fingers against the mattress, the blankness in her eyes.

"She's just... lying there," Diabaté mutters.

None of us sits. We're all standing. Like if we relax, something will go wrong.

"She's not dissociating," Manousos says quietly. "Her pupils are steady."

I don't answer.

On the screen, Zosia blinks slowly. Turns her head slightly toward the wall. Then back to the ceiling.

"Do you think," I say, my voice lower than I expect, "if we ask her how to prevent the seizures... she'd tell us? A medication. Something to stabilize her before we try again."

Diabaté and Manousos exchange a look.

"We need a less invasive way to ask," Diabaté says carefully. "If she realizes we're preparing for another forced disconnection—"

"She already knows," I cut in.

Manousos rubs his jaw. "If she cooperates, it has to feel voluntary."

I stare at the screen.

Zosia's expression is unreadable. Calm. Almost patient.

"I'll ask her," I say.

Neither of them stops me.

The bunker door feels heavier this time.

It's half open, she reacts immediately.

She sits up the second she sees me.

Just a soft smile.

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

Her smile widens slightly.

"Of course."

I pull the chair closer to the bed, close enough that our knees almost touch. I sit.

"For a normal person," I begin carefully, "what causes a seizure?"

She tilts her head slightly — not confused. Just adjusting to the level of explanation she wants to give.

"A seizure," she begins, slipping seamlessly into that almost-lecture tone she uses when she's excited about knowledge, "is essentially an electrical storm in the brain."

Her hands lift subtly as she talks, fingers sketching invisible patterns in the air.

"The brain communicates through electrical impulses. Neurons fire in precise sequences. When too many neurons fire at once — synchronously, chaotically — you get abnormal activity."

She leans forward slightly.

"Fun fact: the brain operates on about twenty watts of power. Roughly the energy of a dim light bulb. But if the synchronization collapses, even that modest current can become destabilizing."

I nod... trying to look excited about this piece of information 

"What triggers it?"

"For most humans? It varies. Genetic predisposition. Structural abnormalities. Previous trauma. But seizures can also be provoked."

She counts softly on her fingers.

"Sleep deprivation. Alcohol withdrawal. Electrolyte imbalance. Extreme stress. Sudden shifts in neural signaling."

Her eyes flicker — barely.

"And abrupt interference with established neural networks."

There it is.

I keep my face neutral.

"So if someone wanted to prevent that?" I ask quietly.

She doesn't hesitate.

"You stabilize the electrical environment before disruption."

"How?"

"Increase inhibitory signaling. Reduce excitatory thresholds."

"Plain English."

A small smile.

"Medications that calm neural firing. Benzodiazepines. Certain anticonvulsants. Magnesium can regulate neuronal stability. Gradual sensory modulation."

She studies me.

"You don't sever the connection instantly," she adds. "You taper it."

"And if you don't?" I ask.

"The brain fights."

She says it gently.

"Repeated forced desynchronization could cause cumulative neural damage."

Silence settles between us.

Then she tilts her head slightly.

"Are you planning to try again?"

My throat tightens.

"I don't know yet," I say.

She smiles — not afraid.

"You always do."

I stand from the chair and sit beside her on the bed.

The mattress dips under our combined weight.

For a split second, I forget about the camera.

Then I remember.

They're watching.

Upstairs.

Heat creeps up my neck — not from shame exactly, but from exposure. There are parts of this that don't belong to anyone else.

I stand abruptly, grab the chair, and drag it beneath the camera mounted high in the corner. I climb up, steadying myself against the concrete wall, and rotate it until the lens faces the opposite direction.

A blank stretch of bunker wall.

That will irritate them.

Good.

I climb down and move the chair back.

When I return to the bed, the air feels different. Quieter. Ours.

I sit beside her again. Closer this time.

I take her hand.

Her fingers lace through mine immediately, like muscle memory.

"I swear," I say, my voice low, "I don't want to hurt you again. If there's no way to do this without causing you damage, then I won't do it. I won't."

She smiles.

It's small. Soft.

She squeezes my hand.

"You always find a way," she says gently. "We admire you for that. We love you for that, Carol."

She moves closer.

It wasn't my intention to close the distance, but suddenly she's there — warmth at my side, shoulder brushing mine. And I feel the guilt surge up again, sharp and invasive. I want to protect her from everything. From the seizures. From the concrete door. From myself.

A voice in the back of my head whispers:
This isn't her.
You're not speaking to one person.
You're speaking to all of them.

But the way her thumb strokes the back of my hand makes that voice quieter.

Almost silent.

She leans in slowly.

There's time to pull away.

I don't.

Her lips touch mine — soft, familiar, devastating.

I respond without thinking.

For a second, I let myself forget.

Then reality snaps back in.

They're upstairs.

Watching the feed — or trying to.

I pull away first.

I stand.

"You have to stop doing this," I say, my voice sharper than I intend.

Her smile fades slightly.

"We're sorry," she says softly. "We thought this was what you wanted."

I shake my head, hands lifting instinctively.

"No. No, that's not—"

I don't finish.

I turn and leave the bunker.

The door half-closes behind me.

Three seconds pass.

Then I open it again.

I grab the chair, climb up, and rotate the camera back to its original position.

The lens stares down at us again.

I climb down.

"You should change in the bathroom," I say evenly. "You have privacy there."

She smiles faintly.

"We don't value the concept of privacy, Carol."

Of course you don't.

I hold her gaze for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then I leave for real.

The door stays half closed, but I make sure to lock the basement door upstairs

On the monitor upstairs, she lies back down on the bed, hands folded loosely over her stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Chapter Text

Medical textbooks are heavier than they look.

Not physically.

Mentally.

I sit at the dining table surrounded by open volumes — neurology, pharmacology, trauma medicine. My laptop glows beside them, pages of journal articles pulled from half-functioning university databases.

I underline words I don't fully understand.

Neuronal excitability.
GABAergic pathways.
Electrolyte imbalance.
Drug interactions.

I am not going to guess.

Not again.

Manousos leans against the counter, arms crossed.

"The serum worked on you, right?" he says for the third time. 

"It almost killed her," I reply without looking up.

Diabaté sits on the edge of the couch, checking one of Manousos books

"Maybe," he says carefully, "you wouldn't need to separate her at all. Maybe the serum is cleaner. Ask directly how to reverse it. No bunker. No seizures."

I close the book.

"I really don't want to take that risk."

They both fall silent.

I go back to reading, but I can't understand half of it... I give up, and I go downstairs.

Zosia sits cross-legged on the bed when I enter. 

"I've been reading," I say.

She smiles faintly.

"I can tell."

I sit in the chair this time, not beside her.

"I have another question." Zosia smiles and sits straight, as if this would help her to listen better 

"When I gave you the sodium thiopental," I begin carefully, "why did it affect you so badly?"

She doesn't hesitate.

"Because I was unstable."

"In what sense?"

She folds her hands loosely in her lap.

"When you administered the drug, my body was already in a compromised state. I had sustained trauma from the explosion. Blood loss. Systemic inflammation. I was receiving antibiotics. Likely broad-spectrum. Possibly corticosteroids."

She tilts her head slightly.

"Fun fact: Sodium thiopental is a barbiturate. It depresses the central nervous system by enhancing GABA activity. In a stable individual, the body compensates. In an unstable one, it can suppress respiratory drive and cardiovascular function."

I swallow.

"I tested it on myself."

"Yes," she says gently. "You were not septic. You were not under metabolic stress. You were not recovering from trauma."

Her voice remains steady.

"I was."

I nod slowly.

"And the dose?"

She watches me carefully now.

"You administered more than necessary."

"I needed answers."

"You needed control," she corrects softly.

That lands.

She continues.

"In a weakened cardiovascular system, high-dose barbiturates can cause profound hypotension. Heart rate drops. Blood pressure collapses. Combine that with systemic infection, dehydration, and concurrent medications..."

She pauses.

"...and you get cardiac instability."

My throat tightens.

"So, yep... I gave you a heart attack."

"Yes," she smiles again

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I don't remember if I already apologized about that."

She studies my face for a long moment.

"You did not, but it's ok... You apologized for the grenade, tho... Even when it was kinda our fault."

Silence fills the bunker.

"You also didn't account for something else," she adds.

"What?"

"Our neural integration."

I stiffen slightly.

"The connection increases baseline synchronization across cortical regions. Depressants interact differently with synchronized networks. The system resists sudden suppression."

"So it fought the drug?"

"Yes."

"And you were the battlefield," I say.

She gives a small smile.

"Were you afraid?"

I look down at my hands.

"I still am."

She leans back against the wall.

"If you attempt pharmacological interrogation again, you must consider dosage, my baseline condition, electrolyte status, and the state of integration."

"You'd help me calculate it?"

She tilts her head.

"Well, if it's what you want, we have to please you."

"It is what I want, because I don't want to hurt you."

"Would that make you happy?" 

"Yes, if we do it right, and you don't get hurt, I'll be happy."

She shifts on the bed, sitting upright, posture straight like she's about to teach a class.

"First, you must determine my baseline."

"Vital signs," I say.

"Yes. But not only resting values."

She folds her hands in her lap.

"You must measure variability."

"Variability," I repeat

"Heart rate variability. Blood pressure response to positional change. Autonomic stability."

I pause.

"Why positional change?"

"Barbiturates alter vascular tone. If my autonomic system compensates poorly, hypotension risk increases."

I write that down.

"Electrolytes," she continues. "Sodium, potassium, magnesium, calcium."

"Magnesium lowers seizure threshold," I say.

She smiles faintly.

"Yes. But calcium modulates synaptic release. And potassium influences membrane potential."

I nod slowly.

"Hydration status. Liver function. Renal clearance."

"That's a lot."

"Yes."

She doesn't blink.

"And neurologically?" I ask.

"You must determine cortical excitability."

"How?"

"EEG."

"We don't have one."

"Then indirect markers."

"Which are?"

She tilts her head slightly.

"Response to photic stimulation. Response to controlled sensory input. Sleep cycle stability. Dream recall."

I hesitate.

"Dream recall?"

"The connection modulates REM architecture."

Of course it does.

"And the dosage?" I push, trying to narrow it down. "Milligrams per kilogram."

"Yes," she says. "But weight is insufficient."

"Why?"

"Body composition alters distribution. Fat percentage affects lipid-soluble drugs. Plasma protein binding alters free concentration. Albumin levels matter."

I feel irritation creep in.

"Give me a range."

She smiles gently.

"Three to five milligrams per kilogram is standard for induction."

"And for interrogation?"

"There is no standardized interrogation protocol."

"Lower bound."

"Perhaps two milligrams per kilogram."

"Perhaps?"

She nods.

"Provided hepatic metabolism is intact. Provided integration state is stable. Provided no inflammatory cascade is active. Provided no hidden microvascular damage remains."

I stare at her.

"You're expanding the variables."

"I am being thorough."

I inhale slowly.

"Is there any reason it would interact differently because of the connection?"

"Yes."

I freeze.

"How?"

She pauses — not withholding. Processing.

"The integration increases global synchronization. Depressants do not merely suppress individual neurons. They suppress network coherence."

"So?"

"If suppression is uneven, destabilization may occur."

"Meaning seizure."

"Yes."

"So how do I avoid uneven suppression?"

"Gradual titration. Environmental control. Emotional neutrality."

"Emotional neutrality?"

"Heightened affect increases cortical excitability."

I blink.

"So if I'm upset—"

"It influences me."

Silence settles.

She's not wrong.

I shift gears.

"If I sedate you slowly," I say, "without isolating you from the network, can you still answer?"

"Yes."

"But would the hive filter what you can say?"

She tilts her head.

"We do not filter."

"You omit."

She smiles faintly.

"We answer what is asked."

"Directly."

"Yes."

I lean forward slightly.

"Does sodium thiopental reduce your ability to omit?"

"It reduces inhibitory control."

"That's not what I asked."

She pauses.

"It reduces precision."

My pulse quickens.

"So you could reveal something unintentionally."

"Yes."

"And that would not violate your constraints?"

She looks at me with calm certainty.

"If you are happy."

There it is.

The opening.

But she continues before I can press further.

"However," she adds gently, "pharmacologic suppression in an integrated system produces complex outcomes."

"Such as?"

"Network compensation."

"Explain."

"If sedation weakens conscious layers, subconscious synchronization may intensify."

My stomach tightens.

"So you might become more connected?"

"It is possible."

"How possible?"

She smiles softly.

"Probability is difficult to assign without modeling."

I close my notebook slowly.

"You're making this complicated."

She doesn't deny it.

"It is complicated."

Silence hangs between us.

"You are trying to calculate safety in a system that evolved beyond baseline human parameters," she says gently. "That requires time."

Time.

That's what they need.

Five weeks.

Less now.

"You're buying yourselves time," I say quietly.

She looks at me with that infuriating softness.

"We do not experience time as scarcity."

"But I do."

"Yes."

She holds my gaze.

"And we want you to feel safe."

The words are sincere. Because the more variables I account for, the more days pass...

The more stable she remains.

The closer we get to conversion.

I close the notebook.

"This isn't just about dosage," I say quietly.

"No."

"It's about control."

"Yes."

"And if I lose control?"

She smiles gently.

"Sometimes you do."

That is not reassurance.

That is an observation.

And suddenly I understand something chilling:

They're not stalling by refusing.

They're stalling by helping too well.

I close the basement door harder than necessary.

By the time I reach the living room, my pulse is already climbing.

"They're playing with us," I snap.

Manousos and Diabaté look up immediately.

"What?" Diabaté asks.

"They're helping too well. Every answer opens ten more variables. Electrolytes, autonomic variability, plasma proteins— they're buying time."

Manousos straightens.

"Buying time for what?"

"For conversion," I shoot back. "How many weeks do we have left, huh?"

I feel so angry.

"They're distracting us."

Silence.

Then Manousos says what he's been thinking all along.

"So we stop calculating."

I look at him.

"We use the weight-adjusted dose. Standard range. And we do it."

My chest tightens.

It sounds reckless. It sounds exactly like last time.

I inhale slowly.

"There are no doctors here," I say quietly. "We're not in a hospital. If something happens, we can't call anyone. We can't stabilize her fast enough."

Manousos' jaw tightens.

"Then we should have brought someone else."

I look at him sharply.

"Someone you're not in love with," he adds.

That lands like a slap.

The room goes silent.

Diabaté's eyes flick between us.

"FUCK YOU," I say flatly.

"I'm serious," Manousos fires back. "You hesitate because it's her. That makes you dangerous."

"And you think you'd be better?" I step toward him. "Your idea of separating them is to scream at them like a fucking psycho."

"At least I wouldn't freeze!"

"If you touch her," I say, my voice low and lethal, "I will kill you."

I mean it

Diabaté moves instantly between us.

"Enough," he says firmly. "Both of you."

Manousos exhales sharply, pacing once, twice.

"If you don't do it," he says over his shoulder, "I will."

Something inside me snaps.

I turn and walk straight back to the bunker.

I don't wait for permission.

I unlock the door.

Zosia looks up the second she hears it open.

"Come on," I say.

She studies my face carefully.

"Where are we going?"

"You're sleeping at my house tonight." 

"You look angry."

I don't respond.

Behind me, I can hear Diabaté restraining Manousos — not physically, but verbally, keeping him from following.

Zosia walks beside me up the stairs.

Her hand brushes mine for a second.

I don't pull away.

We step out into the evening air.

The sky is turning violet.

The neighborhood is silent.

For a moment, it almost feels normal.

But nothing about this is normal.

Because tonight I'm not isolating her. I'm not sedating her. And I don't know if that's a strategy.

Or surrender.

We enter my house still holding hands.

I lock the door immediately.

Not once.

Twice.

I glance through the window, checking the street. No headlights. No shadows moving. No sign of Manousos or Diabaté following us.

The neighborhood is still.

Too still.

I walk to the closet near the hallway and retrieve the shotgun. The weight of it feels grounding in my hands. Solid. Real. I lay it carefully across the coffee table.

Zosia watches quietly.

She understands what it means.

If I lose control... if she loses control... if something spikes across the network—

I can't let the world burn because I hesitated.

I inhale slowly.

The air feels thinner here than it did in the bunker.

She approaches cautiously. Not afraid. Just aware.

Her hand comes to rest against my back — warm, steady.

That's all it takes.

Everything I've been holding in fractures at once.

I start crying before I can stop myself.

Not dramatic sobbing. Just quiet, exhausted tears that I can't hold back anymore.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry."

She turns me toward her and wraps her arms around me.

I fold into her immediately.

For a moment, I let myself forget about networks and seizures and bombs and dosages.

I just hold her.

"I won't let them hurt you," I murmur against her shoulder.

She just holds me tighter.

Then she moves first.

A gentle kiss.

Soft. Slow. Familiar.

Then another.

And another.

Not urgent. Not desperate.

Just present.

I respond without thinking.

Her hands slide to my waist, grounding me. Mine find her shoulders, then her face, memorizing it as if I might lose it tomorrow.

"We want to make you feel better," she whispers.

Her voice is warm, steady.

She takes my hand.

Leads me toward the bedroom.

The hallway feels longer than it ever has.

Inside the room, the light is dim. Late afternoon slipping into evening.

She closes the door behind us.

There's no rush.

Just the quiet gravity of two women who know the world might end — or change — at any moment.

She brushes her fingers along my jaw. Across my collarbone. Slow, deliberate. Like she's reminding me I'm still here. Still human.

I exhale against her skin.

The bed dips beneath us.

Our movements are unhurried, careful, like something fragile might break if we move too fast.

There's warmth.

There's grief threaded through it — and defiance.

For a while, there is no hive.

No bunker.

No ticking timeline.

Just skin against skin.

Breathing matching.

The kind of closeness that feels less like desire and more like anchoring.

Like if we hold each other tightly enough, the world won't collapse.

Outside, the street remains silent.

Zosia kisses every part of my body, bringing me back into my bubble. I ignore my head telling me I'm making a mistake. 

I know I have to go back tomorrow and fight... 

I let her do whatever she wants with me, I surrender completely, and then, with a sigh... a sound escaped me before I could stop it, and my body followed...  The pressure I had been carrying for days rose slowly through me, tightening, building— and when it finally broke, I closed my eyes and let myself fall.

Chapter Text

I wake up reaching for her.

My hand finds nothing but cool sheets.

For a moment, I just lie there, blinking at the ceiling, disoriented. 

Then it hits me.

She wasn't locked in.

I sit up immediately.

Did she leave?

Did they come for her?

Did I fall asleep long enough for everything to collapse?

I'm on my feet before my brain fully catches up, heart pounding as I rush down the stairs two at a time.

I turn the corner into the kitchen—

—and stop.

She's there.

Standing at the stove.

Making breakfast.

The smell hits me first. Eggs. Bacon. The exact way I like them.

Relief floods through me so suddenly, my knees almost give out.

She turns when she hears me.

A bright, genuine smile spreads across her face.

"Good morning, Carol."

My breath comes out slower.

"Good morning," I murmur, stepping forward.

I sit at the counter, trying to steady the mess of emotions inside me.

Confusion.

Embarrassment.

A sharp, ugly disappointment in myself.

I let her into my bed.

Again.

She notices immediately.

Her shoulders soften. She moves closer, cautiously — like she used to. Like when I thought she was mine.

She leans in slightly, probably to kiss me.

I lift my hand instinctively.

"Don't."

She freezes mid-step. She steps back, picks up the plate, and sets it gently in front of me.

We sit in silence.

The clock on the wall ticks louder than it should.

Finally, she speaks.

"Did we do something that upset you?"

I press my lips together.

"No. Don't worry. It's not your fault. It's mine."

She watches me carefully.

"There is something we can do to—"

"No," I cut in.

My voice is sharper than I intend.

"What happened last night... it can't happen again."

I stand abruptly.

My heart is racing now. Anger rising — not at her. At myself.

How can I be this weak?

How can I fall into it that easily?

But I can't lose control. I can't spike the network. I can't trigger another seizure across the planet because I'm angry.

I inhale slowly.

Count.

Release.

"The reason you're here," I say, more controlled now, "is because I thought I could save you. Make you normal."

She smiles softly.

"But we are happy," she says. "I don't understand what you are trying to save us from."

"Zosia," I reply.

Her smile falters slightly.

"I want to save Zosia."

Silence.

"I want to meet the real Zosia. I want to talk to her. Only her."

She folds her hands in her lap.

Calm.

Composed.

"I can tell you how Zosia is," she offers gently. "If that is what you—"

"No."

My voice breaks slightly.

"I don't want a description."

I step closer.

"I want her."

Her gaze softens.

And for the first time this morning, she doesn't immediately respond.

She stops smiling; now her expression is colder

And I know.

This is something she is not allowed to give me freely.

But I keep going.

"I don't want to sleep with all of you," I say. My voice is steady, but my chest is tight. "I don't want a relationship with all of you."

She says nothing.

"What happens if I convert?" I press. "Are we all together? Is it some collective... mess or a fucking orgy? How would that work? Or do I forget everything that happened between us?"

Silence.

I step closer.

"You can't convince me that having this virus will make me happy. I need the individual who owns this body to confirm that."

Still nothing.

"And for that," I continue, "you need to separate."

Her jaw tightens slightly.

"I don't care for how long," I add. "I just want to know if a normal person prefers this—" I gesture at her with both hands "—or their own individuality."

She finally speaks.

"There are millions of us who can confirm—"

"No," I cut her off. "You've told me a million times how it feels. I want one person to tell me if she feels it too. Or if she's asleep. Or sedated. Or in a coma."

Her eyes stay locked on mine.

"And since you want to convince me," I say quietly, "you'll do it. Won't you?"

She doesn't say yes.

She doesn't say no.

She just looks at me.

So I stop asking.

And start commanding.

"This is what's going to happen," I say evenly. "You're going to tell me exactly what medication I need to prevent the seizures. Specific names. Specific dosages. No variables."

Her face remains serious.

"You're going back to the bunker. We're sealing it again."

A small inhale.

"And I'm going to have a conversation with Zosia."

Silence.

"If the real Zosia tells me she wants to return to the union, because the real her actually felt this amazing happiness... I'll open the door."

I mean it.

"And if that doesn't work, you will give me the exact dose for the serum. And you will answer whatever I ask. And you will make me very, very happy."

The words hang between us.

I step even closer.

"Is this body physically stable enough to receive controlled medication without causing damage? I don't want theory. I don't want probability trees. I want a direct answer."

Her eyes narrow slightly — not in anger. In precision.

"The body of Zosia has had adequate time to heal. It is in optimal physical and neurological condition... But there's a thing you need to know that may... "

"Can she die," I interrupt, "from controlled doses?"

A pause.

The longest pause yet.

Then:

"No"

I hold her gaze.

My heart is pounding now.

"Good," I say quietly. 

They arrive in less than five minutes.

Zosia is sitting on the couch when they come in, writing down everything we need. The list is precise. No variables. No approximations. Exact names. Exact dosages.

I stand beside her, arms crossed, watching quietly.

For the first time in days, I feel... controlled.

Focused.

Almost proud of myself.

And yet there's a sharp ache under my ribs. Because even if I dress this up as a strategy, she is still the one on the table.

I remind myself why.

They experimented on me first.

Somewhere in that network, someone is studying my frozen eggs. What was supposed to be my future — my children — is now the blueprint for my conversion.

They are using my body as a mechanism.

So I use theirs.

Balance.

That's what I tell myself.

--------------------------------------------------------------

We're both waiting in my living room

There's a knock.

I stand immediately and open the door.

Manousos meets my eyes first. The tension between us is still there — raw, unfinished.

"I'm sorry," I say before he can speak.

He nods once.

No more words needed.

I turn to Zosia.

"Is everything written down?"

She hands me the notebook without hesitation.

"Yes."

I pass it to Manousos.

Diabaté exhales, long and heavy, like he's releasing something that's been sitting in his chest all morning.

"So we're doing this," he says.

"Yes."

I don't look at her when I answer.

Diabaté scans the page.

"We'd have to go to a hospital to get half of this."

"That won't be necessary," Zosia says gently.

All three of us turn.

"We are already transporting what you require."

She smiles — proud, almost.

There's no survival instinct in that smile.

Then we hear it.

A low mechanical hum in the distance.

The drone.

We step outside together.

The massive wooden crate with the bomb still sits at the edge of the curb like a silent warning.

The drone descends carefully, carrying a medium-sized sealed medical container. It lowers it gently to the pavement, releases it, and lifts back into the sky without a sound beyond the fading hum.

I pick up the container.

It's heavier than I expected.

I glance at Zosia.

She already knows.

No words needed.

We cross the street to Diabaté's house.

She walks ahead of us obediently.

Down the stairs.

Into the bunker.

She sits on the bed and waits.

Like this is a routine appointment.

We stand there watching her.

Diabaté opens the box with a pair of scissors, slicing through the security seal. Inside: blister packs, labeled vials, syringes, magnesium supplements, benzodiazepines, and a portable pulse oximeter.

Everything exactly as listed.

Manousos holds the notebook, but Zosia begins speaking before he even asks.

"Magnesium first. Four hundred milligrams orally."

We follow.

She swallows the tablet with water.

"Wait fifteen minutes," she continues. "Then administer clonazepam. Zero point two five milligrams. No more. That amount should elevate the seizure threshold without significant sedation." We prepare it.

I froze for half a second, searching Zosia's face for any sign of doubt. There was none. Only that steady, composed expression.

"You're sure?" I asked quietly.

"If this is what you want," Zosia replied, soft but certain, "then yes."

I split the tablet carefully, checking the marking twice before placing the precise fraction into Zosia's hand. I watched her swallow it. Watched her throat move. Watched for any flicker in her eyes.

"Hydration," Zosia added. "Small amounts. Steady."

I handed her the water again. Zosia took two measured sips and lay back against the pillows, hands resting loosely over her stomach.

"It will take about twenty minutes to begin stabilizing," she said. "I should remain conscious."

I pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, unable to look away.

Zosia stared at the ceiling."I will feel drowsy," she says softly. "Do not seal the room until you observe slowed speech and mild motor delay."

No one moves.

We wait.

My pulse is loud in my ears.

Manousos and Diabaté move quietly around the room, preparing the equipment. Welding mask. Metal plates. Concrete reinforcement.

The minutes stretch.

Her eyelids grow heavier.

Her blinking slows.

Her voice softens when she speaks.

"It is beginning."

Manousos nods.

They start sealing the door.

The welding torch ignites.

The noise fills the bunker — I press my hands together.

Cross my fingers.

Not because I believe in luck.

But because I have nothing else.

Her breathing remains steady.

Her eyes remain open.

And I am more afraid than I have ever been.

The final weld sealed with a harsh metallic crack that echoed through the bunker walls.

I felt it. The separation.

Zosia lay still on the bed, hands folded loosely over her stomach. I kept glancing up at the camera. They could see us. If anything went wrong, I'd signal. Immediately.

Silence stretched.

Then—

A sharp inhale.

Her chest rose abruptly. Her fingers twitched.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck—no, no, no."

I rushed to her side, sliding an arm behind her shoulders, trying to lift her upright. Her body felt heavier than it should have, like gravity had doubled just for her. My fingers flew to her neck.

Pulse.

Steady.

No tremors. No convulsions. No foam.

"Come on, come on..." I whispered, my voice cracking.

And then—

Her eyelids parted.

Slowly.

Her gaze was unfocused at first, pupils sluggish but responsive. She blinked once. Twice.

When her eyes landed on me, something in them was wrong.

Confused.

Deeply, painfully confused.

She scanned my face like I was a stranger standing too close.

Her breathing grew shallow as she tried to orient herself. With visible effort, she turned her head slightly, studying the concrete walls, the reinforced door, the dim bunker lighting. Her brow furrowed.

She tried to push herself upright, but her arms trembled under her own weight. The clonazepam held her down—not unconscious, just weak. Heavy-limbed. Sedated but aware.

Her lips parted.

A whisper slipped out, fragile and disoriented.

"Gdzie ja jestem...?"

The words were soft. Barely air. And I have no idea what she's saying.

Chapter Text

Zosia keeps trying to sit up.

Her movements are clumsy, delayed, like her body belongs to someone else. I reach for her shoulders instinctively.

"Easy—easy—"

She recoils... Terrified.

She jerks away from my hands as if I've burned her. Her breathing sharpens. Her back presses against the headboard, eyes wide, darting around the bunker walls like a trapped animal assessing exits.

She starts speaking rapidly in a language I don't speak... Polish? 

I don't understand a single word.

Her voice is thin, strained, panicked.

"Co to za miejsce? Gdzie ja jestem? Kim pani jest?"

The syllables tumble over each other. 

"Zosia—Zosia, listen to me."

She tries to swing her legs off the bed, but the medication makes her limbs heavy. She nearly tips forward. I catch her again—more gently this time—but she flinches so hard it feels like I've struck her.

Her fear is real.

I make a decision.

I cup her face in my hands.

Firm enough that she can't look away. Gentle enough not to hurt her.

"Zosia. Listen to me. It's me. It's Carol. Focus."

Her eyes lock onto mine.

Up close, I can see it clearly now.

There's no depth behind them. No layered presence. No hum.

She's lost.

She blinks slowly.

"...English?" she says uncertainly.

I nod quickly. "Yes. Yes. English."

She swallows, concentrating like the language itself is physically heavy.

"English..." she repeats, testing the shape of it.

Her accent is thicker now. Stronger than before. Polish wrapping around every consonant.

And then—

She looks directly at me.

Really looks at me.

Her pupils steady.

Her brow tightens.

"Who are you?"

The words land like a blade.

"I don't know you."

Everything inside me drops.

I glance instinctively at the camera in the corner.

Should I signal them?

Open the door?

Reconnect her?

Is this what separation looks like?

Was her consciousness asleep all this time?

Has she just... woken up from ninety days of nothing?

My pulse roars in my ears.

I look back at her.

She's watching me like I'm the threat.

Her hands clutch the edge of the mattress.

Her breathing is uneven.

She is not in a state to answer anything. Not about the Union. Not about love. Not about happiness.

She doesn't even know who I am.

And for the first time since this began—I'm not sure if I wanted the real her...

Or if I'm ready for what that actually means.

I force my breathing to slow. Do not panic.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I say carefully.

Zosia's eyes flick to me and away again. Suspicion. Disorientation. She scans the bunker like she's cataloging threats.

"You don't remember how you got here?" I ask gently.

She shakes her head.

I swallow.

"I'm trying to help you. You're safe. Please don't be afraid."

She doesn't look convinced.

I grab the notebook from the chair and hand it to her.

"Look. These are your notes. You wrote this. It's your handwriting."

I help her sit up properly, her back against the wall. Her muscles are weak, pliant, uncoordinated. She takes the notebook with trembling fingers.

Her eyes move across the page.

Nothing.

No recognition.

She shakes her head again and sets it aside, more frustrated now than frightened. Her gaze drifts, unfocused, like her brain is struggling to sync with her body.

"Water," I murmur.

I grab the bottle and bring it to her lips. She stares at the clear liquid for a long second before allowing me to tilt it. Her arms barely lift. I hold the bottle for her.

She swallows slowly.

Still distant.

I flip through the notes myself, scanning quickly. My hands are shaking.

There has to be something.

There.

A line written in her precise script:

If excessive sedation occurs, supportive stimulation should be used. Caffeine may counteract mild CNS depression. Flumazenil reverses benzodiazepines but may induce seizures — NOT recommended in neurologically unstable subjects.

My heart skips.

Flumazenil.

No. Too dangerous.

But caffeine—I look back at her.

She's curled inward now, knees slightly drawn up, trembling faintly. Her eyes avoid mine completely.

"I'm going to try something small," I tell her softly. "Just to help you feel more awake. It won't hurt you."

No response.

I look around the bunker.

There's a small fridge. Shelves stacked with canned goods, protein bars, powdered milk, instant coffee.

Coffee.

I move quickly, grabbing the jar of instant coffee and a bottle of water. My hands shake as I unscrew the lid.

"Okay," I whisper to her. "I'm going to help your body wake up. Slowly."

She doesn't answer. She's curled into herself, eyes unfocused, breathing steady but shallow.

I pour water into a mug and stir in a heavy spoonful of coffee. No heating it — doesn't matter. It just needs to work.

I kneel in front of her again.

"Small sips," I tell her softly. "It might taste awful."

She stares at the mug like it's a foreign object. I guide it to her lips.

She drinks.

Good.

I reach for a protein bar, tear it open, and press a small piece into her hand.

"Sugar helps too. Your brain needs something to push against the sedation."

Her fingers barely close around it.

I don't leave her side.

I keep talking.

"You're safe. Stay with me. Focus on my voice."

I adjust the bunker lights brighter. Harsh, but necessary.

Her pupils react.

Good sign.

I rub her arms firmly, stimulating circulation, grounding her in the present.

"Stay here," I whisper. "Stay with me."

Minutes pass.

Her breathing deepens.

The tremor eases.

Her eyes blink slower — then sharper.

The fog begins to thin.

Not gone.

But thinning.

And she's still disconnected.

Still just her.

Carol sees it — the shift... Something in Zosia's eyes is no longer vacant. They're searching now. Trying to anchor.

"Okay," I say quietly, adjusting my tone, slower... gentler. "You don't think you know me. That's fine. That's okay."

She's watching my mouth when I speak, concentrating hard on the words.

"You told me something once about your past."

"When you were little," I begin, forcing myself to slow down so she can follow my English, "you used to sit near the docks. In Gdańsk."

Her brow tightens slightly.

"You were obsessed with the ships. The huge ones. The ones leaving for the first time. You'd just stand there staring at them like they were alive... 

Her breathing shifts — barely, but I catch it.

"There was a man who sold ice cream nearby. Old cart. Nothing fancy. And sometimes, when he had too much left over, he'd give some to the kids who couldn't pay."

Her fingers loosen just a little.

"You told me the country had just changed. Suddenly, there were new flavors everywhere. Things you hadn't seen before. And even with all those options..."

I let the smallest smile slip through.

"...you always picked mango."

Her eyes flicker.

"Mango," she repeats, like she's tasting the word.

"Mango ice cream," I continue, more quietly now. "That's your favorite food."

Her breathing steadies. Her shoulders drop a fraction.

"You told me you didn't have much back then. But you didn't care about that. You cared about where the ships were going. You wanted to understand how things were built. How systems worked."

I swallow.

Her eyes finally lock onto mine.

The tremor in her hands fades.

"...Ships," she murmurs faintly. "First voyage...I was 10."

"Yes," I whisper.

Her expression softens — no longer purely afraid.

She studies my face like she's trying to place it inside a half-remembered dream.

"You weren't there," she says slowly.

"No," I admit. "But you told me. You trusted me with that."

And for the first time since she opened her eyes in this room, she isn't looking at me like I'm a stranger.

She's looking at me like I might be connected to something she once knew.

Zosia is calmer now... She's watching me the way someone watches a stranger who just claimed to know her childhood secrets. Expectant. Alert. Waiting for the rest of the story.

I press my lips together.

This is the part where I either sound clinically insane... or slightly less insane.

"What I'm about to tell you," I say carefully, "is going to sound like the worst science fiction pitch you've ever heard. But it's real."

Her eyes don't leave mine.

I don't know how to start. In my head, everything sounds insane.

"I need a drink," I say

I stand before I can reconsider it and cross to the small refrigerator they stocked in here. Of course, they stocked it. Apocalypse-ready bunker but still thoughtful enough to include vodka (I put it in there). I grab the bottle, find a glass, pour without measuring, and throw it back in one swallow.

It burns. Good.

I pour another and take that too.

Then I walk back to the bed and sit beside her again, the glass dangling loosely in my hand.

"I'd offer you some," I say, glancing at her, "but considering you just met gravity again a few minutes ago, maybe let's not."

She makes a faint expression — I'm not sure if she's trying to smile

"Okay," I say. "Ninety days ago or so, the world as we knew it... ended."

I rub my forehead.

"No explosions. No zombies. No dramatic sky turning green. Just—" I gesture vaguely. "—outer space sent us a little present."

Her brow furrows.

"Signals. From somewhere out there. Scientists decoded them. Because that's what they do. They see a glowing red button, and they press it. They see mysterious alien math, and they solve it."

I lean back against the wall.

"It turned out the signal was a formula. And the formula was a virus."

Zosia's eyes narrow slightly.

"And this virus," I continue, my voice thick with disbelief even now, "does something absolutely horrifying."

I lift the empty glass and point it at her for emphasis.

"It makes everyone happy."

I let that hang.

"Relentlessly happy. Ethically happy. Morally superior. No violence. No lying. No selfishness. Just... enlightened group consciousness and emotional fulfillment."

My mouth twists.

"Because obviously the worst thing that could ever happen to humanity is that we all get along and feel content forever."

She studies me, trying to decide if I'm serious.

"I mean, really," I add, dry as sand. "Who in their right mind wants to be happy twenty-four hours a day? No jealousy. No anger. No messy contradictions. No bad decisions. What kind of dystopia is that?"

My jaw tightens.

"It spreads through contact or the air. They call it 'The Union.' Once you're in, you're connected. No more loneliness. No more secrets. Just one giant, glowing, emotionally regulated hive mind."

I glance at her.

"And guess what? It's wildly popular."

A bitter huff escapes me.

"The entire planet caught it like a seasonal flu. Cities emptied. Governments stopped mattering. People just... joined."

I look down at my hands.

"And somehow, twelve of us didn't."

I correct myself with a shrug.

"Thirteen at first. I think we're down to twelve now."

Silence stretches between us.

"So congratulations," I say flatly. "You woke up in a bunker in the middle of the apocalypse because the rest of humanity decided permanent bliss sounded like a great lifestyle choice."

I look at her again.

"And I'm the only one in the room who thinks that's terrifying."

"Am I immune?" Zosia asks.

Of all the reactions I rehearsed in my head — screaming, denial, accusing me of drugging her — that wasn't one of them.

For a split second, I almost laugh again.

"You'd think the alien virus part would've gotten more attention," I mutter. "But no."

She's still watching me seriously.

"No," I say. "You're not immune."

A pause.

"That's actually why you're down here."

Her brow creases faintly.

"It has something to do with communication. Signals. Electromagnetic fields. I don't fully understand it." I gesture vaguely toward the ceiling. "But down here you're... disconnected."

She blinks.

"Disconnected from what?"

I hesitate.

"That's the other thing."

I exhale slowly.

"You don't just get infected. You don't just get 'happy.' You share a single mind. Whatever someone is doing — I don't know, in Spain, in Kenya, in Tokyo — you're aware of it. Not consciously, like reading a text message. It's... background. Constant."

She absorbs this without interrupting.

"You can fly a helicopter," I add dryly. "Perform complex surgery. Explain quantum physics. Those notes?" I nod toward the notebook beside her. "You wrote them. Because you have access to the sum total of human knowledge."

I give a short laugh.

She doesn't.

The lack of reaction unsettles me.

"I realize," I continue, rubbing my hands together, "that I'm accidentally making it sound like a TED Talk for why this is a fantastic upgrade."

Her expression stays neutral.

"It's not."

My voice sharpens.

"Because you disappear."

The words come out heavier than I expect.

"Your individuality — gone. Your private thoughts — gone. Your autonomy — gone. You function like... like the most polite, emotionally intelligent servant imaginable."

I shake my head.

"They don't lie. They don't hurt anything. They don't even pick fruit off trees. But they'll hand you a grenade if you ask for one. They'll hand you a nuclear bomb."

My throat tightens briefly.

"They're compelled to please us. The immune. That's the only thing that matters to them."

Zosia's fingers tighten slightly around the blanket.

"And what's the goal?" I ask quietly.

I let out a humorless breath.

"That's the best part. There isn't one. Not one that makes sense to me."

I stare at the concrete wall.

"They say it's about connection. Harmony. Survival. Expansion. They want to propagate the virus beyond Earth. Spread the gift."

My mouth twists.

"So humanity becomes a cosmic group project."

I look back at her.

"And you," I say more softly now, "you're part of it. Or you were. Up there."

I gesture again toward the sealed ceiling.

"Down here... right now... you're just you."

Zosia goes quiet again... She's thinking.

"Are we in Poland?" she asks suddenly.

I raise my eyebrow... I'm not sure if I would be asking these kinds of questions after all this...

"Nope," I say, steadying myself. "Albuquerque. United States. Different continent."

She blinks slowly, trying to orient herself.

"I'm not exactly sure how you got here," I add. "I assume they brought you. You were... my chaperone."

"Your what?"

"Accompaniment," I correct quickly. I don't elaborate. I really don't think that sharing what we did would help right now

Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to follow.

"One of the reasons I disconnected you," I continue carefully, "was because I needed to know what the real you... thinks about all of this."

She looks at me like I've just said something both flattering and deeply confusing.

"What did you feel?" I ask. "Were you present at any point? Aware?"

She stares at the far wall, jaw tightening slightly, as if reaching for something buried.

"I..." she starts — "Byłam przetrzymywana jak w handlu ludźmi... w czymś jak prostytucja. Zasnęłam i nie obudziłam się aż do teraz.".

The words are fast, rough, uneven. I catch none of it. Only the tone.

I wait.

She shifts to English slowly.

"I was asleep," she says. "I went to sleep."

"Before that?"

Her brow furrows.

"I was..." She hesitates. "I was trapped."

The word comes out halting.

"Where?"

She shakes her head faintly, as if the memory slips away when she tries to grab it.

"Dark," she whispers. "It was dark. I was trying to get out. I was screaming. I thought someone would come."

Her breathing changes — shallow, quick.

"But no one came. So I... I went back to sleep."

A pause.

"At least no one was—"

She stops.

"No one was what?" I press softly.

Her eyes flick up to mine — frightened now, but not of me.

"At least no one was hurting me," she finishes, voice barely audible.

Something tightens in my chest.

"You had nightmares?" I ask.

She nods faintly.

"A place without doors," she whispers. "I was awake inside it. But I couldn't move."

My stomach turns.

That doesn't sound like Poland.

That sounds like ninety days in a hive mind.

"I'm tired," she says suddenly, the strength draining out of her again.

She curls into herself, drawing her knees up, turning away from me.

Fetal. Defensive. Small.

Her eyes close.

And just like that, she's gone — not convulsing, not seizing — just exhausted.

I sit there, staring at the concrete wall, trying to decide which possibility is worse:

That she was aware the whole time.

Or that she truly just went to sleep — and something else wore her body like a borrowed coat for three months.

Chapter Text

Zosia falls asleep mid-sentence.

One moment, she's curled against the wall, eyes half-open, still trying to process everything. Next, her breathing slows, shoulders sinking, body folding into itself.

I wait.

Five seconds.

Ten.

I don't trust sleep anymore.

Zosia doesn't move.

Carefully, quietly, I stand. The air is thicker with things unsaid.

"I'll be right back," I whisper, though I'm not sure Zosia can hear me.

Upstairs, Diabaté and Manousos are already watching the monitor.

I need to tell them everything, she's the real Zosia, unhived.

"She doesn't remember the Union," I say. "Nothing from it. Her last memory is... before."

Manousos studies the screen. Diabaté leans against the wall, arms folded.

"That can't be good," Diabaté says. "Did she believe you?"

I shake my head slightly.

"I don't know, she didn't say much."

Evening settles without ceremony.

Manousos leaves first. He mutters something about needing sleep and disappears into the house I assigned him. Diabaté lingers longer, offering me a guest room.

I refuse.

"I'm fine here."

Diabaté doesn't push. Before heading upstairs, he adjusts the monitor feed so it fills the larger screen in the living room.

"You should rest," he says gently.

I don't answer.

I sit on the couch, elbows on my knees, eyes fixed on the grainy image of Zosia sleeping below ground.

I need a drink. I pour a full glass of vodka... I tell myself it's for the nerves.

The hours stretch.

The bunker camera hums softly. The house settles around her. The glow of the screen becomes the only light in the room.

Zosia doesn't convulse... I don't sleep.

At some point — maybe near dawn — My body gives in. Not fully. Just enough. My head tilts back. My eyes close.

Thirty minutes, at most.

I wake up abruptly.

The screen.

Zosia isn't in the bed.

I'm on my feet before my brain catches up.

"She's gone," I breathe.

But then—

Movement.

The bathroom door opens on the monitor.

Zosia steps out slowly, brushing her hair back from her face. She looks pale but steady.

She sits on the edge of the bed.

And then she looks directly at the camera... I freeze.

Is that her?

Or is it them?

The stare lasts too long.

Diabaté enters the room, carrying a plate.

"Breakfast," he says softly.

"She's awake," I say

He looks at the screen.

Zosia is still staring.

"Hungry?" he asks, not sure whether he's talking to himself or me.

I nod faintly.

They move together toward the bunker entrance.

Diabaté grips the mechanism.

"Five seconds," he reminds me

"Five," I repeat.

He opens.

I slip inside.

The door seals again with a heavy metallic thud.

The air shifts.

Zosia doesn't flinch.

She's still sitting on the bed.

Still looking at the camera.

And now she's looking at me.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

I study her face.

Zosia's familiar smile is gone... There are no feelings for me anymore 

"You're watching me," Zosia says quietly.

I exhale slowly.

"Yeah, we are watching you. I wanted to make sure you were ok."

..."I brought you breakfast."

The words sound almost stupid the moment they leave my mouth.

Zosia doesn't answer.

She's sitting on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely between her knees, watching everything like it might rearrange itself if she blinks. Watching me like I might.

I set the tray down on the small table. Eggs. Toast. Bacon. Simple. Normal. The kind of normal that feels absurd inside a sealed bunker.

"You should eat," I say, keeping my voice even. "It's just food. Nothing in it."

She doesn't look at the plate.

She looks at me.

The silence presses harder than the concrete walls.

I move toward the small kitchenette area we set up down here. The air feels stale even though I know it isn't. My head throbs behind my eyes — punishment for thirty minutes of sleep and too much vodka.

I fill the kettle.

I try not to watch her.

I want her to choose on her own.

Water begins to heat.

"You're not eating?" she asks quietly.

Her voice is steadier today. Still cautious. Still distant.

I shake my head.

"I'm fine."

That's a lie, but not about the food. Eating is the last thing on my mind. My stomach has been a tight knot since yesterday. Honestly, I suspect hers has too.

The kettle clicks as it starts to boil.

I spoon instant coffee into a mug — more than I should. A lot more.

The water hisses when I pour it.

I stir.

Take a sip.

It's aggressive. Bitter. Sharp enough to make my mouth twist.

Good.

I lean against the counter and pretend I'm not counting her breaths.

Finally, she reaches for the fork.

Just a small movement.

She cuts a piece of egg.

Lifts it slowly.

Hesitates.

Then eats.

I don't react. I don't say anything.

But something in my chest loosens.

She chews carefully, like she's testing not the food — but the reality around her.

"It tastes normal," she says after a moment.

"Because it is."

She nods faintly.

Takes another bite.

I sip the coffee again, grimacing at the strength. It burns down my throat, but at least it keeps me upright.

We sit like that for a while.

She eats.

I drink.

When she finishes eating, I realize she's still wearing the same clothes from yesterday.

Of course she is.

"You can change if you want," I say, nodding toward the dresser across the room. "There are clothes there. Clean ones. Hot water works. Soap. Towels. If I'm not here, there's food in the pantry."

I'm listing practical things because practical things are safer than emotional ones.

She wipes her mouth with the napkin slowly.

"How long are you going to keep me here?" she asks.

There it is.

I inhale carefully.

"If I let you out, you'll reconnect," I answer.

"That's not what I asked."

Hard tone.

I open my mouth.

Close it.

The truth is a thin, humiliating thing.

"I don't know," I say finally.

She stands.

The shift in height is immediate. She's taller than me. Stronger than me. And this morning, significantly more stable than I am.

She scans the bunker again — walls, ceiling, corners. I'm sure she already did this while I was asleep upstairs. Or half asleep.

She folds her arms across her chest.

In this moment, she looks healthier than I do. Clearer. Grounded.

If she decided to overpower me, she probably could.

I don't move.

I don't reach for anything.

I just hold eye contact.

I don't know this person.

I don't know what she's capable of.

There's hardness in her face now. Not fear — resolve.

She doesn't like me.

Maybe she doesn't hate me.

But she doesn't trust me.

And she definitely doesn't want to be here.

Because I don't know who she is anymore.

And worse — I don't know who I am around her.

For a second, I think she's going to say something.

Instead, she turns abruptly and walks toward the bathroom.

The door slams shut.

The sound echoes in the bunker.

I stay exactly where I am.

Listening.

Waiting... For water to run... For crying... For anger... For anything.

But there's only silence.

And the hum of filtered air.

I walk to the bathroom door.

It's been fifteen minutes.

Too long for someone who said she was fine.

I raise my hand and knock once, softly.

"Zosia?"

No answer.

"I'm sorry," I say through the door. "We're not trying to hurt you. We're protecting you."

The words hang in the air.

Protecting you.

I almost laugh at myself.

That's exactly what they say.

We don't want to hurt you, Carol. We want you to be happy, Carol.

I press my forehead lightly against the door.

"If you hate me, that's fair," I continue quietly. "I know how this looks. I literally kidnapped you. If you're angry... I get it."

The shower turns on.

Water hits tile.

I close my eyes and exhale.

Either she wants me to shut up.

Or she really is taking a shower.

I can't keep opening and sealing the bunker door every few minutes. We barely managed that entry without risking signal interference.

So I swallow the rest of what I was going to say.

I sit back down on the chair and wait.

Fifteen.

Twenty minutes.

The water stops.

Two minutes later, the bathroom door opens.

She's wearing one of my bathrobes.

It swallows her frame slightly, sleeves a little short at the wrists.

She doesn't look at me.

She walks straight to the dresser, opens a drawer, pulls out clothes without examining them, and goes back into the bathroom.

I stay seated.

Ten more minutes.

When she comes out again, her hair is wet, darker, curling slightly at the ends. She's dressed in clean clothes now. Mine. They fit her differently. She carries herself differently.

She stops a few feet away from me.

I wait.

"I would like to be alone," she says finally.

Her voice is still hard and a little bit cruel

"Could you leave, please?"

For a second, I don't understand the words.

Leave.

I blink.

My lips press together instinctively. There's a sting behind my ribs that feels embarrassingly personal.

I'm offended.

Which is ridiculous.

I kidnapped her.

I drugged her.

I locked her underground.

And I'm offended.

But... I stand.

I nod once.

"Okay."

I make a sign to the camera, I wait a few seconds... Then I walk to the door.

I don't look back.

The metal door opens for five seconds.

Closes. Manousos is looking at me behind the door

I'm outside again, and I'm furious.

Why the fuck is she looking at me like that?

Like I'm the villain.

Like I'm the one who took something from her.

I take long strides all the way back to my house, not wanting to see Diabaté, not wanting to see anyone. The morning air feels too sharp against my skin.

Is it too early for a drink?

Who cares.

I'm alone.

Completely alone.

I go straight to the minibar and pour without measuring. The liquid hits the glass harder than I intend. I throw it back too fast, feel it burn down into my stomach.

I try to steady my breathing.

I can't.

I'm hyperventilating.

I lean against the counter and close my eyes, and suddenly I'm remembering the first time I saw her.

I didn't even ask for her name.

The pirate lady.

That's what I called her.

I was cruel.

From the beginning.

I pushed her. I snapped at her. I looked at her like she was something invasive. Something bad.

And it wasn't even her fault.

Was it?

Was it hers?

The real Zosia — the one downstairs — she's not like the one I knew. Not at all.

The one I knew was warm. Confident. Certain. Smiling like she understood things I didn't. But of course, that was the hivemind, not an individual 

This one looks at me like I'm unstable.

And maybe I am.

The truth is, I wasn't angry at her.

I was angry at them 

For sending her.

For choosing someone who would get under my skin from the first second.

For placing someone in front of me who felt... dangerous in a completely different way.

Helen had just died.

And they sent me someone who made me feel something again.

Of course, I hated that. 

I loved Helen.

I love Helen.

I never would have imagined looking at anyone else.

Never.

And then Zosia walked in, and I felt... something.

And I hated myself for it.

I hated that she could make me notice her.

I hated that she was beautiful.

I hated that she wasn't Helen.

They knew.

They knew everything.

My secrets. My loneliness. The nights I couldn't sleep. The parts of me that wanted to be touched, even while I was grieving.

They weaponized it.

They gave me someone who fit exactly where the emptiness was.

And now that she's disconnected...

Now that she's just a person...

She doesn't look at me like that anymore.

She doesn't lean toward me.

She doesn't understand why I'm so afraid.

She asked me to leave.

And I did.

Because what else was I supposed to do?

It's not fair to reconnect her just because I'm hurt.

It's not fair to keep her locked underground either.

She didn't choose this.

I didn't choose this.

I sink down into the chair with the empty glass in my hand.

I understand why she doesn't trust me.

If I woke up in a bunker and someone told me I'd been part of a planetary hive mind, I wouldn't trust them either.

I don't know what the right thing is anymore.

If I let her go, she loses herself.

If I keep her there, I lose her anyway.

And for the first time since all of this started, I feel it fully... the weight of it.

I might have saved her.

And still ended up completely alone.

Chapter Text

I don't remember falling asleep.

I remember the second drink. Maybe the third. The way the room tilted was just enough to feel softer. Quieter. Manageable. I must have slid down on the couch at some point. The next thing I know, someone is knocking.

Not polite knocking.

Urgent knocking.

I jolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs. My mouth tastes like metal and bad decisions.

For a split second, I don't know where I am.

Then I remember... The knocking comes again.

"Carol."

Diabaté.

I push myself off the couch too fast and nearly lose my balance. My head pounds. Of course it does. Midday drinking on zero sleep was never going to end gracefully.

I open the door.

Diabaté takes one look at me and immediately tries not to react.

"What?" I ask, sharper than I mean to.

"She's... acting strange."

My stomach drops.

"How strange?"

He hesitates.

"She's pacing. Rubbing her arms. Walking back and forth. She hasn't sat down in twenty minutes."

"Convulsions?"

"No."

"Is she breathing normally?"

"Yes."

"So what's the problem?"

He shifts his weight.

"I didn't go down. She doesn't know me. I thought it might make it worse."

That's fair.

I realize I probably smell like a distillery.

"Does she look bad?" I ask.

He frowns slightly.

"I'm not sure. Not physically. But... anxious. Like something's wrong."

My chest tightens.

Of course, something's wrong.

She lost the entire world overnight.

"Give me a minute," I mutter.

I shut the door and rush to the sink. I rinse my mouth aggressively twice. Splash cold water on my face until my skin stings. I stare at my reflection.

You look like hell.

I breathe out slowly, trying to push the alcohol haze to the back of my skull.

Not now.

I wipe my face with a towel and step back outside.

"Let's go," I say.

The walk to the house feels shorter than usual.

I can already feel the shift in my body. The alertness replacing the fog. The guilt replacing the anger.

As we reach the bunker entrance, Diabaté stops.

"She hasn't stopped moving," he says quietly.

I nod.

Five seconds.

He opens.

I step inside.

The door seals behind me.

And there she is.

Pacing.

Back and forth.

Rubbing her arms like she's cold.

But it isn't cold down here.

"Zosia?"

She doesn't look at me.

Not even a flicker.

She keeps pacing, barefoot against the concrete floor, arms wrapped around herself like she's trying to hold something in.

She's murmuring under her breath.

"Czegoś mi brakuje... coś jest nie tak..."

"What?" I say instinctively.

She doesn't answer me. She keeps muttering.

"Nie słyszę... nie mogę tego usłyszeć..."

"I don't understand what you're saying."

She stops abruptly.

Still not looking at me.

"Something is missing," she says finally, in English.

Her voice sounds thin.

"I can't hear it anymore."

"Hear what?" I ask.

She finally looks at me.

And I've never seen her look so... unguarded.

"Everyone."

The word hangs there.

She presses her hands to her temples, fingers digging into her scalp like she's trying to adjust something inside her skull.

"It's empty," she whispers.

Then she clenches her fist and knocks it against her forehead once, frustrated, like that might rearrange whatever wiring has gone wrong.

I step closer.

"Zosia—"

She backs away immediately, palm up in front of her, a barrier.

"No."

Her whole arm is shaking.

Her entire body is shaking.

I stop where I am.

"I want to help you," I say carefully. "Seriously. Let me help you. Do you feel sick? Are you in pain?"

Her hand is trembling in the air between us. Sweat beads along her hairline. There's a thin sheen across her forehead.

She looks pale.

Her breathing is shallow.

And suddenly, something clicks in my brain in a way I don't like.

I've seen this before.

Not like this.

But like this.

When I used to inject heroin — back when I was stupid enough to believe I could flirt with it and walk away — there was one time I had to stop. Cold. After I nearly killed myself with an overdose.

The days after were hell.

The crawling under the skin.
The sweating.
The pacing.
The sense that something was missing from your bloodstream.
From your bones.
From your identity.

Your body screaming for what it had learned to depend on.

Withdrawal.

My stomach drops.

Is that what this is?

Not physical pain.

Absence.

Her brain is looking for the signal.

And it's not there.

I swallow.

"Zosia," I say more softly now. "Are you... craving it?"

She looks at me like she doesn't know what that word means.

"I can't feel them," she whispers instead. "I can't feel anything outside of me."

Her eyes dart around the bunker.

"It's too quiet."

And for the first time since I locked her down here...

I realize the silence might be louder for her than the noise ever was.

I don't think.

I move.

I grab the biggest glass I can find and fill it with water.

"Drink," I say, stepping toward her carefully. "It'll help. I promise."

That's not entirely true.

It won't fix it.

But dehydration will make everything worse.

"There's not much I can do," I add, softer. "But if you hold on a little longer... it'll pass. The feeling will pass."

She lowers herself onto the edge of the bed slowly, like her knees might give out. Her breathing is uneven, like she's trying to pull air through something too tight.

She doesn't reach for the glass.

For a second, I think she's refusing.

Then I realize—

She might not trust her own hands to hold it.

I step closer, slow enough not to trigger that defensive reflex again.

"Just a sip," I whisper.

I lift the glass toward her mouth.

She hesitates.

Then she leans forward and takes a small swallow.

Her lips tremble against the rim.

I set the glass down on the table beside her.

Bathroom.

Towel.

Warm water.

When I sit next to her, I can feel the heat radiating off her skin and the chill underneath it. I press the damp cloth gently to her forehead.

She doesn't pull away this time.

Her skin is clammy.

Her hand—when I take it—is shaking hard.

Cold and sweaty.

And then I see it.

Tears.

Silent ones.

Sliding down her cheeks like she doesn't even realize they're there.

I know this feeling.

God, I know it.

The body screaming for something it learned to depend on.

The ache under the ribs.

The panic that feels chemical, not emotional.

Your brain convinced that survival depends on one thing you can't have.

And there's nothing I can give her.

Just time.

"Breathe," I say quietly.

She's barely listening.

I pick up the water again.

This time, her trembling hand reaches for it first.

She grips the glass like it might anchor her.

And without ceremony, without pacing herself, she drinks the entire thing in one desperate swallow.

The glass clinks faintly when she lowers it.

"What's happening to me?" she whispers.

Not to me.

To herself.

I open my mouth.

Nothing useful comes out.

So I sit there.

Holding her shaking hand.

Waiting for her body to realize the silence isn't going to kill her.

I stay.

I don't know if she wants me here.

Or if she just doesn't have the strength to tell me to leave.

She's crying quietly now, exhausted sobs that seem to surprise her as much as they do me.

Her hand in mine feels even colder.

Her whole body starts trembling harder, like the shaking has decided it isn't finished yet.

I let go gently and grab one of the blankets from the bed. I wrap it around her shoulders carefully.

She clutches it immediately.

Not to me.

To the fabric.

Like she needs something solid to hold on to.

I refill the glass.

She drinks it again in one swallow.

The only sound in the bunker is her uneven breathing.

I don't know what to do.

I could sedate her.

I could give her something stronger.

But that feels wrong.

She just escaped one dependence. I'm not going to hand her another.

I move to the small kitchenette and open cabinets until I find something useless and ordinary.

Chamomile tea... I boil water.

My hands are steadier now. Focus helps.

When I bring the mug to her, she doesn't argue. She doesn't question it.

She takes it and drinks obediently, like she doesn't have the energy to resist anything.

Fifteen minutes pass.

The shaking slows first.

Then her breathing evens out.

Finally, she curls onto her side, wrapped tightly in the blanket, and her body gives in.

She falls asleep.

Not unconscious... Just... asleep.

I don't leave.

I don't trust leaving.

Instead, I step into the bathroom and turn on the shower quietly. The hot water hits my shoulders, and I let it wash away the stale smell of alcohol and fear.

When I come back out, I don't sit on the chair this time.

I sit on the floor against the wall... Where I can see her.

She's still curled up.

Still holding the blanket.

And for the first time since she asked me to leave—

She doesn't look like she wants me gone.

She just looks tired.

And I stay there watching her breathe.

I hear it before I process it.

The metallic shift.

The seal releasing.

The bunker door opening.

I'm on my feet instantly.

Diabaté slips inside first, steadying the door while Manousos follows carefully, carrying a tray with two plates.

I glance at Zosia.

Still asleep.

I exhale.

"You didn't have to come down," I whisper. "There's food here. I could've made something."

Manousos looks at me like I just said the dumbest thing imaginable.

We both know I forgot food exists.

I just remembered five minutes ago that I'm human.

He doesn't call me out on it.

He just sets the tray down quietly.

I realize, as the smell reaches me, that I haven't eaten all day.

Not since... I don't even remember.

My stomach twists, not from emotion this time, but from alcohol and emptiness.

Manousos hesitates, unsure whether to stay.

"She's going through withdrawal," I tell them quietly. "Her brain misses the signal. The connection."

I expect skepticism.

Instead, Manousos studies Zosia's sleeping form, and something shifts in his expression.

For the first time, I see it.

Empathy... Actual human empathy.

He nods once.

Without drama.

Without commentary.

Then he leaves.

Diabaté closes the door again.

Five seconds.

Seal.

Silence.

I sit down and take a large bite without thinking.

My stomach protests immediately — alcohol meeting food too late — but the warmth grounds me.

The second bite is easier.

By the third, I can feel my body stabilizing.

I finish my entire portion.

Slowly, carefully, I cover Zosia's plate with another dish to keep it warm.

Then I return to my spot on the floor.

Watching.

It doesn't matter if she rejects me.

It doesn't matter if she asks me to leave again.

I'm not leaving.

A small smile creeps onto my face before I can stop it.

Because this—

This is exactly what she did.

When she was connected.

When I was cruel.

When I pushed her away.

When I treated her like shit.

She stayed... She forgave.

The smile fades.

That wasn't her.

That was the Union.

Chapter Text

I wake up to the sound of cutlery.

Metal against ceramic.

For a second, I don't remember where I am. My neck hurts. My lower back feels like I'm ninety years old.

Then I feel the weight.

A blanket.

I open my eyes slowly.

Zosia is awake.

Sitting at the small table.

Eating.

"The floor is very cold," she says without looking at me. "I put the blanket on you. Although I cannot help with the back pain you'll have when you stand up."

It takes my brain a second to process that she's talking to me.

Talking calmly.

I push myself up slowly, trying not to wince.

She's pale. There's still a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her hands tremble slightly when she lifts the fork.

The withdrawal hasn't vanished.

It's just... softer.

"Thank you," She says.

It feels inadequate.

"For the tea," she adds. "I needed that. I think I know where it is now... in case it becomes more intense."

There it is.

A polite dismissal.

She doesn't look at me.

She doesn't need to.

I understand subtext.

"Don't worry," I say. "I don't mind making it."

She stops eating.

Stares at the plate.

"I can take care of myself," she says finally.

"You don't have to take care of yourself alone," I answer, softer now. "You're not feeling well."

She looks up at me then.

And the hardness is back.

"I don't trust you," she says plainly.

"I appreciate what you did. Truly. But..." She gestures subtly around the bunker.

The concrete walls say the rest.

"I know," I say quickly. "I know how this looks."

She waits.

"I swear I'm doing this for you."

"My brain is telling me I need the connection," she says. "I want you to let me out. I don't care if I reconnect."

"That's not possible," I say immediately.

I hear how firm I sound.

How controlling.

"I'm sorry. I know you don't see it this way. But you don't want to go back to that darkness you were in."

She frowns.

"I don't even know what you mean. You told me I was happy. That I had knowledge. Talents. That I was... more."

"Yes, but—"

"So why would I choose to stay in the basement of someone who kidnapped me?" she interrupts. "You say it's for my own good?"

Her voice doesn't rise.

It doesn't need to.

"Have you seen these people?" I say, frustration creeping in. "You don't want to lose your individuality."

She lets out a short, humorless breath.

"What individuality?" she asks.

I know I promised Zosia that I would let her reconnect if the real one asks for it... But the real Zosia doesn't even remember the union, technically, that doesn't count as being "happier" than before

She spreads her hands slightly.

"I am locked underground. I cannot leave even if I ask you a thousand times. You will not open that door."

She's right.

God, she's right.

My mouth opens.

Closes.

Because what exactly is my moral high ground here?

I'm arguing autonomy while physically denying hers.

I look at her.

Really look at her.

"You have a point," I admit quietly.

The words feel heavy. Necessary.

"For what it's worth," I add, "I don't want to be the person who keeps you here."

She studies me.

Like she's trying to decide if that's true.

Or if I just don't like how the truth sounds when she says it back to me.

I take a breath before I speak.

"You're not the only one down here," I say quietly. "There are two men upstairs. They're immune like me. We're trying to... stop this. Or at least slow it down."

She doesn't interrupt.

"We chose you," I add.

The words taste worse than the alcohol did yesterday.

"That sounds horrible. I know it does."

She watches me carefully now.

"I could lie and say it was random. That it just happened. But it wasn't random."

I don't say it was my idea.

I don't say that when I realized I might not save the world, I decided I could at least save her.

Or try to.

"Before," I continue, "when you were connected... You and I were close."

Her brow tightens slightly.

"You were my chaperone. Because I was alone. The only immune person in the entire country."

I swallow.

"But it wasn't you. Not really. It was them. All of them."

I look down at my hands.

"They did everything they could to keep me happy. I rejected most of it. I didn't trust them. I knew they wanted to change me."

My voice sharpens without meaning to.

"They want to change me."

She says nothing.

"They took everything," I continue. "And when I thought I had nothing left to lose... when I thought there was no way they could convert me... I gave them a chance."

My throat tightens.

"I gave you a chance. Or what I thought was you."

Her eyes don't leave my face.

"I let myself be happy for a while. I let myself believe that maybe it wasn't so bad. That maybe I could live in that illusion."

I laugh quietly, bitter.

"It was a distraction. That's all it was. While I was busy pretending, they found a way around my last defense. They found something sacred to me. And now they're using it to try to convert me. And the two men upstairs."

I shake my head slightly.

"I don't know you," I admit. "I thought I did. But that wasn't you."

I look at her again.

"And the version of you that wasn't you... I liked her. A lot."

The honesty sits between us.

"That's why we chose you," I say finally. "Because I had already built something with her. A connection. And now I feel this... responsibility. To save you."

I exhale slowly.

"Even if you're not her."

She shifts slightly, absorbing it.

"They used your body," I continue. "Like a puppet. You weren't present. You never consented. None of that was your choice."

I pause.

"And I used you too."

The words hurt more than I expected.

"I told myself it was for the greater good. For the world. For you. But that doesn't erase the fact that I made the decision."

I meet her eyes fully now.

"I understand now that it was wrong. Or at least... not clean. And I want to do this differently. I want to do it right."

The bunker is quiet again.

" You're still using me."

The words land harder than anything she's said so far.

I don't flinch, but I feel it.

"I've been used my entire life," she continues, her voice steady but thinner now. "At least when I wasn't present, I didn't feel anything. If this is what my life will be... I would rather be dead. This isn't living."

There's no drama in the way she says it.

Just exhaustion.

"I know," I answer.

And I do.

"Trust me. None of us is having a great time. We're just as trapped as you are. Isolated. If this doesn't work — if they move faster than we do — I can promise you something."

I hold her gaze.

"We'll die before they convert us."

That, at least, I've already decided.

Her expression doesn't change.

But she's still sweating. Still pale. Still shaking faintly under the blanket, she pulls it tighter around herself.

She stands slowly and walks to the small sink for more water.

"Cholera..." she mutters under her breath.

I don't understand the word, but I don't need to.

It wasn't a compliment.

"How long is this going to last?" she asks without looking at me.

"The... situation?" I ask carefully.

"What I'm feeling."

Oh.

Withdrawal.

"I don't know exactly," I admit. "A few days. Maybe less. The first part is the worst."

She nods once.

"You said we were close," she says after a moment. "How close?"

My face heats instantly.

Of all the questions.

I focus very hard on not over-explaining.

"Well... we spent a lot of time together. You lived in my house for a while. We traveled."

She studies me.

"Friends?" she asks.

My nod is almost too quick.

"Yes."

My voice sounds normal.

Mostly.

"I didn't know you weren't conscious," I add quietly. "I didn't know you weren't... you."

I stop there.

Because if I keep going, I'll have to admit more.

And I'm not ready for that.

She watches me for a long moment.

As if she's trying to measure the space between what I'm saying and what I'm not.

"I don't like you."

She says it calmly.

Almost clinically.

But I can tell she means for it to hurt.

And it does.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a collapse-to-the-floor way.

It's quieter than that.

It lands somewhere deep and familiar.

Like confirmation.

Like karma.

I nod once.

"Okay," I say.

It's fair.

"I can't do anything about that. That's your problem now," I add, trying to keep my voice steady. "Because you're going to see my face every day. I'm going to make sure you regain your strength."

I gesture lightly toward the table.

"You can ask me for anything. Books. Movies. Something to keep you busy. If my presence is that unbearable, I can ask the men upstairs to come down instead."

Something flashes across her eyes.

Sharp.

Immediate.

"No. No men."

The reaction is instant.

It isn't anger.

It's something colder.

A chill moves through me before I can stop it.

"I've been used my entire life."

The sentence echoes back in my head.

I hope I'm wrong about what it means.

I really hope.

She lowers her gaze and walks back to the bed without another word. She curls into herself, pulling the blanket around her, turning her back to me.

"I don't want you here unless I ask," she says. "Right now, I want to be alone."

She pauses.

"I have a right to privacy, don't I? It's not like you don't already know what happens down here."

My eyes flick toward the camera automatically.

She's right again.

"I'll come back with dinner," I say quietly.

I raise my hand toward the camera — the signal.

I gather the empty tray and walk to the door.

Five seconds later, the seal releases.

Diabaté is there.

I step out quickly.

The door shuts behind me.

And the silence on this side feels just as heavy.

Upstairs, I carry the plates into the kitchen and drop them into the sink harder than I mean to.

"We reached an agreement," I say.

Or something that resembles one.

"She doesn't like us," I add after a beat. "Specifically me."

Neither of them looks surprised.

"I'll only go down when she asks for me."

Diabaté opens his mouth.

"I can help—"

"No." I cut him off immediately. "No men. That's what she said."

That shuts him up.

Manousos watches me carefully.

"Why?" he asks.

I shrug.

"I don't know anything about her."

That's the truth that keeps repeating itself.

"I'll bring her dinner later. I'm going home to sleep for a few hours. If anything happens, call me."

I pause at the doorway.

"Please don't go down there."

Neither of them argues.

I leave before they can.

The walk back to my house feels longer this time.

My eyes burn.

I don't let it happen yet.

Not here.

Not in front of anyone.

I close my front door and lock it. The sound echoes too loudly in the quiet house.

Safe.

Alone.

That's when it hits.

The sob I've been holding back claws its way out of my chest before I can stop it.

I press my hand to my mouth and sink down onto the couch.

She said she doesn't like me.

And I deserved it.

Pretending it didn't matter was the hardest part.

Pretending I wasn't waiting for some flicker of recognition. Some softness. Some leftover trace of the woman who used to look at me like I wasn't completely broken.

It feels like my heart is splitting open all over again.

Helen.

The Union.

Zosia.

Every time I let myself feel something, it gets ripped out of my hands.

I wipe my face angrily.

God, I'm selfish.

Part of me wanted to save her because it was right.

Because she didn't consent.

Because she deserved her own mind.

But another part—

A smaller, uglier part—

Wanted to save her so we could be together for real.

Not her body inhabited by millions.

Not a collective affection.

Her.

And now she looks at me like I'm the captor.

Which I am.

I fold forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.

If I really loved her—

If I really cared about her autonomy—

Wouldn't I open the door?

The thought terrifies me.

Because the answer isn't simple.

And that makes me hate myself even more.

Chapter Text

I'm in my kitchen for the first time in days.

Diabaté and Manousos have been the ones cooking lately. Efficient, practical, steady. While I spiral and pretend I'm useful.

Tonight I'm making tacos.

It's not impressive. My culinary range is limited, but I know how to brown meat without burning it and how to season it well enough that no one complains. I chop onions, tomatoes, cilantro. My eyes burn.

Blame the onion, I tell myself.

My reflection in the microwave door looks swollen. Puffy. Inflamed from crying. I rinse my face again. And again. I press a bag of frozen peas against my cheeks until they sting.

I can say I slept all afternoon.

I don't know why I care what they think.

But I don't want them seeing me like this—defeated, fragile, heart cracked open like it's on display.

At least I don't smell like alcohol tonight.

I arrange the tacos carefully on a tray. Two for her. Two for me. I carry them across the street to Diabaté's house.

They're both at the table surrounded by books. Manousos has diagrams everywhere—giant antennas, circuits, pages filled with symbols I can't even begin to decode. Diabaté is reading something medical.

"Any news?" I ask.

They both shake their heads while shoving tacos into their mouths like they haven't eaten in days.

I glance at the TV.

The bunker camera shows Zosia standing up from the bed.

She's staring directly at the lens.

At me.

"I'll take her dinner," I say.

Diabaté finishes chewing. "Wait, I'll help with the door."

He follows me.

Five seconds. Open. In. Seal.

I step inside with the tray.

She's already standing in the middle of the room.

"I was starving," she says, irritation sharp in her tone.

"I'm sorry," I answer.

And I mean it.

She's been harsher lately. The words cut deeper. More deliberate. I swallow it.

I deserve it.

I was worse. I shoved her. I screamed at her. I treated her like an object long before she treated me like one.

She grabs a taco and takes it back to the bed, devouring it 

I sit awkwardly at the small table and take a bite of mine.

She watches me.

"I don't care if I eat alone."

I inhale slowly.

"I know," I say. Then I look up at her. "But I made the damn dinner, and I'll eat it wherever the hell I want."

She laughs. It's sharp. Dark. Almost cruel.

She knows exactly what she's doing.

"What's your game?" I ask.

She tilts her head.

"Will you keep treating me like shit until I get tired and let you out? Is that it?"

Her expression doesn't change.

"Would that work?" she asks calmly.

"Nope," I reply.

I take another bite.

"You're staying down here, and you'll suck it up."

"Now you're showing the real you," Zosia says, watching me carefully. "I thought you wanted to save me."

"That's exactly what I'm doing," I snap. "But if you're going to be rude to me, I'm going to answer you the same way."

She rolls her eyes.

"Do you know what Stockholm syndrome is?" she asks, that macabre little laugh slipping out again.

I stiffen. I don't like where this is going.

"I've been in situations like this my entire life," she continues. "I never felt attachment. My hatred only grew. And that's exactly what's happening with you."

It feels like something closes violently around my heart.

Tight. Crushing.

"Like I said," I reply, forcing my voice to stay steady, "that's your problem. I'm not torturing you. This place is comfortable. You have food. Water. Privacy. I'm not exploiting you. Hate me all you want."

"Thank you so much for that," she answers, dripping sarcasm.

God, I hate that tone.

I don't know how to convince her this is for her own good.

But if I'm honest—if the roles were reversed—I'd probably be worse than she is.

I swallow my pride.

"I'm really sorry, Zosia."

She finishes her taco and stares at her hand. The trembling is fading. It barely moves now.

She flexes her fingers, testing them.

"How are we going to die?" she asks suddenly.

I look up.

"Because three people can't save the world," she says. "You can't put everyone in a bunker, can you?"

She smiles.

That satisfied smile.

Because she wants me to know how futile this is.

And the worst part?

She's not wrong.

"Atomic bomb," I say.

Her smile disappears instantly.

"What?"

"It's upstairs. On the street," I add casually. "Remember when I told you they give me everything I ask for? Well. You gave it to me. If they try to convert us... or come for you..."

I make a small explosion gesture with my hands.

"Boom."

Her eyebrows lift slowly.

Approval.

"Wow," she says. "Very creative."

"I'm bored," she says suddenly. "Talk to me. About you. What did you do before?"

I lift my head slowly.

Is this curiosity?

Or ammunition?

I don't answer.

"Oh, come on," she insists.

"I was a writer," I say finally.

"Oh." Her eyebrows lift. "Wow. Were you good?"

"One more mediocre name in a sea of them."

She tilts her head. "Did you sell any books?"

"They were bestsellers."

She blinks. "That doesn't sound mediocre."

I shrug.

"And you?" I ask. I'm not sure why. I'm almost certain she won't answer.

She smiles. Looks around the bunker like she's taking inventory of the absurdity of it all.

"Fuck it," she says. "We're going to die anyway."

She moves to the chair across from me and folds her arms on the table.

"I was an escort."

She smiles when she says it.

A manic smile.

I don't smile back.

"Don't judge me," she adds quickly. "It wasn't by choice."

My stomach drops.

Of course.

When she said no men.

That's what she meant.

They used her.

I don't know what my face is doing, but it must show something.

"Ohhh," she mocks, making a fake pout. "Do you feel sorry for me?"

"It's not funny," I say quietly.

She laughs anyway.

"My life was a fucking hell," she says, still smiling—except the smile is twisting now, breaking, like it's choking back something else.

"I'm so sorry, Zosia," I murmur.

She straightens, regains that sharp composure.

"Of course you want everything to go back to normal," she says. "You'll have your fans. Your fame. Your money. Your perfect life."

Each word lands like a slap.

"I never had any of that. They didn't even pay me to rape me every damn night."

The air leaves my lungs.

"None of that matters, I can promise you that," I say.

"Yeah, right," she says with her big, rude smile... Her eyes were getting wet, a real pout peeking out at the corner of her mouth

"I don't care about anything of that," I say louder, "Because I lost my wife the day of the Union."

My voice cracks.

I swallow hard, but the knot in my throat won't go away.

Zosia's smile disappears.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you," I continue, forcing the words out. "No one deserves that. But with all due respect, you don't know what my life was before this, before my wife. You don't get to judge me or assume why I want things to go back to normal."

I inhale shakily.

"Because guess what? If everything goes back to normal, I'm still alone. The one thing I wanted most in this world is gone."

I look at her.

"And when I tried to feel alive again—with you—I lost that too."

Silence.

"You can start over," I say quietly. "I can't."

Zosia keeps staring at the table.

Then, quietly—

"Did I really look happy?"

She doesn't look at me when she asks it.

I study her face, the line of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders.

"That's what it looked like," I say. "But it was an illusion. It wasn't real. You weren't happy. Whatever was inside your body—whatever was speaking through you—that wasn't you."

She inhales slowly.

"Uh..." She shifts in her chair. "This conversation got very serious."

The smile comes back.

Fake.

Too quick.

Her eyes are glossy. I can see the tears threatening, clinging to the edges. She stands up abruptly and turns her back to me.

I watch her shoulders rise and fall.

She wipes her face quickly.

Composes herself.

"I want to read your books," she says.

The shift is so abrupt it makes my head spin.

"Why?" I ask.

She turns around.

Her eyes are still wet now, a small tear over her cheek 

That manic smile is back.

"Because I'm bored down here. And you said I could have whatever I wanted."

She tilts her head slightly.

"And right now, what I want is to read your books."

She holds my gaze.

"You can bring them tomorrow. With breakfast. I would cook, but..." She shrugs. "I don't really feel like it."

She's trying to sound casual, but I know she's about to explode. She's slightly shaking, but not because of the withdrawal; it's because she's holding her tears so hard right now

"So. Good night."

I stand there, frozen.

She's dismissing me. This time I don't feel offended. I understand why she wants me gone

She keeps smiling at me like it's all a game, but I know what she's feeling 

I make the signal toward the camera.

A few minutes later, the bunker door opens.

I step out without another word.

The door seals behind me.

My heart is shattering 

Chapter Text

The bunker door seals shut, and Carol disappears.

The smile drops before I even reach the bathroom.

The second the door clicks behind me, it all bursts out.

I slide down against the cold metal, knees pulled to my chest, and I cry because there is nothing else left to do.

I was asleep.

And now I'm awake again.

Locked up.

Before, it was a filthy room with no windows. No light. Barely water. I was allowed to wash only when there were clients. I learned to count time by footsteps in the hallway. By the sound of keys. By the smell of perfume, I didn't choose.

This—

This is different.

This is clean.

There's hot water. Towels. A bed.

A golden cage is still a cage.

I remember the night everything went dark.

I was running. I had finally slipped out. I ran for hours. I didn't even know where I was going—just away. Away was enough.

And then—

Black.

Not sleep.

Not exactly.

Just... absence.

And now I wake up here.

In an elegant underground room with a woman who tells me impossible things that somehow feel true. A virus. A collective mind. A bomb outside.

It sounds insane.

And yet my body reacts like it recognizes the story.

I'm so broken, I want to dissolve into nothing.

What happened between us?

Was I really happy?

I press my fist against my forehead and hit it lightly, trying to shake something loose.

Think.

Her voice feels familiar.

I know I heard it when I was "asleep."

I don't remember what she said, but I remember the sound of it. Warm. Close. Near my ear sometimes.

I remember flashes—waking up in darkness, struggling, trying to claw my way out of something thick and heavy inside my own skull.

And then the light would vanish again.

And I would sink.

Now there is silence.

Silence where something used to hum.

Silence so loud it hurts.

I'm going to die soon.

That thought settles strangely calmly in my chest.

I stand and wash my face, breathing slowly.

I keep close to the wall as I leave the bathroom, avoiding the camera's direct line. I don't want them watching me like this.

I walk to the bunker door and grip the handle.

It doesn't move.

I pull harder.

Nothing.

"God dammit..." I whisper, the curse slipping out of me automatically.

I rest my forehead against the cold metal.

Breathe.

Breathe.

I walk back to the bed and sit down slowly.

Carol is not my friend.

Carol is going to kill me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wake up.

It feels like morning—though there's no way to know down here. No windows. No sun. Just artificial light and the quiet hum of whatever keeps this place breathable.

I check the clock.

7:00 a.m.

I must have fallen asleep without realizing it.

I shower. The hot water helps. Physically, I feel better than yesterday. The tremors are faint now. My skin isn't drenched in sweat. My body temperature feels... normal again.

Still, when I step out, I pull on thick pants and a wool sweater. The temperature down here is steady, controlled. There must be ventilation somewhere, but I haven't figured out where. I was too sick to explore before.

Now I start looking.

Ceiling. Walls. Floor.

It's a damn fortress.

How does air get in here?

I run my hand along the edges of the walls, searching for vents, seams, anything. Nothing obvious.

I wonder what time Carol will come down.

I don't want her catching me doing something "suspicious."

I move quickly, pretending I was just waking up when I hear it—

The click.

The door unlocking.

I hurry back to the bed and sit just as it opens.

The same man holds the door from the outside. Then Carol steps in, carrying a heavy book—thick, hard cover, at least seven hundred pages—and a tray.

This time, breakfast is only for me.

She looks terrible.

Worse than yesterday.

Her eyes are swollen. Her skin pale. And she smells like alcohol.

She always smells like alcohol.

She probably didn't sleep.

I know there's vodka down here somewhere.

Maybe I should drink too.

Why not?

No one really cares.

"Good morning," she says.

I don't answer.

My arms are crossed. I don't have the energy to be cruel today. Honestly, she already looks so broken it almost feels excessive.

"I brought the first book," she says.

I glance at the cover.

Wycaro.

It's a couple standing on what looks like the deck of a ship. Stormy sea behind them. Pirates, maybe.

The man—

My breath catches.

He looks familiar.

Too familiar.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

She nods, gives that signal toward the camera.

Seconds later, the door opens again, and she leaves.

I pick up the book slowly.

Lift it closer to my face.

What the fuck.

I stand and walk to the bathroom.

In front of the mirror, I hold the book beside my face.

What the actual fuck.

The pirate looks like me.

Not exactly.

He's a man.

But the bone structure. The eyes. The jaw.

It's me.

I flip the book open. Check the publication date.

Years ago.

Years.

"What the fuck..." I whisper again.

I stare at the page.

My pulse starts racing.

I close the book and walk straight to the camera.

I stand directly in front of it.

Stare.

Nothing happens.

I wave my arms.

Still nothing.

I stay there, unmoving.

I hope that crazy woman comes down soon.

Because this is deeply, deeply disturbing.

I don't know how long I stood in front of the camera.

Minutes. Maybe more.

But I hear it—

The door unlocking.

I don't move.

Carol steps inside.

"Something wrong with the food?" she asks, distant, not looking directly at me.

I lift the book and hold it next to my face.

"What the fuck is this?"

She looks at me.

Really looks at me.

And then a small, crooked smile appears on her lips.

"You noticed," she says.

There's a strange laugh under her voice. Not amused. Not proud.

Sad.

"They brought me Raban to make me happy," she says.

I lower the book slightly.

"Raban would've been a woman. But Helen and I decided no. We dropped the idea. And the collective found a woman who looked exactly like Raban... and sent her to me as my chaperone."

I just stare at her.

My mouth is slightly open.

This is twisted beyond anything I've ever heard.

"What?" I say, barely believing my own ears.

She presses her lips together and nods.

I see it now.

The pain in her eyes.

Her wife dies. The world ends. And they deliver her a living version of her fantasy.

Because why else would the protagonist look like that?

I don't know what to say.

We just stand there.

Looking at each other.

The air thick. Uncomfortable.

"Those people are insane," I finally mutter.

"What the fuck."

I'm so shocked

"Yep," Carol says quietly.

"Really fucked up."

She clears her throat.

"Okay. This is... awkward. I'm going to go. Hope your breakfast doesn't get cold."

She turns.

The door clicks almost immediately—like the man was already waiting.

And she's gone.

I sit down slowly at the table.

The book is still in my hands.

I stare at the pirate on the cover.

At my own face staring back at me in male form.

Carol feels something for me.

I think she does.

-------------------------------------------------

I don't want to eat.

But my stomach is loud about it.

So I force myself.

You have to stay strong, I tell myself.

I finish breakfast and leave the dirty plates in the sink. I don't feel like washing anything. I'm not trying to impress anyone.

I sit on the bed, pull my legs up, get comfortable, and open the book.

It's a romantic fantasy.

Of course it is.

Lucasia and Raban meet under impossible circumstances. They clash. They resist. They fall in love anyway. It's the cheesiest thing I've ever read.

Not that I've read many books.

Still—

I can't stop.

It's embarrassing how quickly I get pulled in. The dialogue is dramatic. The longing is ridiculous. And yet her writing is beautiful. There's something fluid about it. The way she describes the sea. The way she describes touch.

It feels real.

It feels like someone who has loved deeply.

The only time I was ever "in love" was with the man who prostituted me.

I don't even know if that counts.

I think I loved him because he was kind at first.

He gave me things. Food. Clothes. Safety.

Then everything rotted.

Men make my skin crawl now.

And yet as I read this story, I find myself wanting what they have.

The way Raban looks at Lucasia.

The way they protect each other.

The way they choose each other.

I start thinking about Carol.

About losing her wife.

About the world collapsing overnight.

About being alone.

And something uncomfortable tightens in my chest.

I feel... sorry for her.

I hate that.

I feel too emotionally exposed right now. Too raw. So I snap the book closed before my eyes can fill again.

Not again.

I glance at the camera.

Is she watching me read?

Has she been watching the whole time?

-----------------------------------------------------------

I've read over two hundred pages already.

I don't know how long I'll be down here before that bomb explodes. Before this all ends one way or another.

Having something to read comforts me.

But I slow myself down.

I don't want to finish it too fast.

Around two in the afternoon, the door unlocks again.

Carol walks in carrying lunch.

This time, two plates.

She sets the tray on the table and immediately notices the dirty dishes in the sink. Without saying anything, she turns on the faucet and starts washing them.

I keep my eyes on the book. I'm trying not to read too fast, but there isn't much else to do.

I glance at her.

"I was going to do that later," I say.

"It's fine," she replies. "I don't mind."

I look at the food. It smells good. I wonder who cooks. I don't ask.

I close the book and move to the table, but I wait.

Carol finishes washing the dishes, dries her hands carefully, and sits down across from me like she's stepping onto thin ice.

She's expecting a protest.

When I don't say anything, she picks up her fork and starts eating.

"The book isn't bad," I say finally. "It's... entertaining."

"Really?" she asks, genuinely surprised.

It's strange. She reacts like she expects everything she creates to be disliked.

She really hates herself.

And she doesn't see what I see.

She's intelligent. Educated. She probably went to college. She knows things. Speaks carefully. Thinks before she talks.

I barely had schooling.

Honestly, it's a miracle I know how to read.

I didn't spend much time in school.

She looks up at me.

"Yes," I say. "You have a very beautiful way of describing love."

"Thank you," she says softly. "Love is... very beautiful."

"I don't know much about it," I reply.

That sadness crosses her face again.

"At some point, you told me you'd been with someone before," she says carefully.

I stiffen.

What else did I tell her when I wasn't here?

"Uh... yes. But that wasn't like this." I gesture toward the book. "Not like that."

I don't elaborate.

"Okay," she answers gently.

A pause.

"Is that how you felt with your wife?"

She looks at me.

And nods.

"Yes. When you're in love, you see everything. You even love the flaws. I..." She hesitates. "I don't think I appreciated it enough. We had differences. But we always found a way around them. so many wonderful years."

My heart sinks.

Without thinking, I reach across the table and take her hand.

She startles.

But she doesn't pull away.

"I'm very sorry about your wife," I say. And I mean it. "I truly am."

It hurts to see her this sad. To see both of us this sad.

Then she looks at me.

Not normally.

There's something different in her eyes.

Like she's searching my face for something.

Like she recognizes something.

And I feel it too.

A strange déjà vu.

Like I've done this before.

Like I've held her hand this way before.

Like we were closer than she wants to admit.

Closer than either of us is ready to say.

We stay like that.

Hands intertwined across the table.

It shouldn't feel like this.

It shouldn't feel... familiar.

But it does.

There's a strange warmth in my chest. Not the desperate, clawing kind from before. Something steadier. Softer.

I swallow.

"We've done this before," I say quietly.

Carol looks up sharply.

There's something in her voice when she answers.

"Yes. We did. Many times."

"I don't remember it exactly," I admit. "But I feel it. The texture of it. The way your hand fits in mine. I don't know how to explain it."

Her sadness shifts.

It doesn't disappear—but it thins, replaced by something fragile.

Hope.

"How close were we?" I ask.

This time I want the full truth.

She hesitates.

Thinks.

For a long time.

Very... she says 

Her thumb brushes lightly against my knuckles

"You loved me?" I ask before she can redirect.

Her face flushes.

Just slightly.

"Yes," she says.

Then, correcting herself—

"I love you."

Present tense.

She's talking to me.

Not the version of me she knew.

Me.

I don't understand how, but I know she's telling the truth.

I don't know what to say.

She waits.

Patient.

Still holding my hand.

"Were we happy?" I ask.

"I think so," she says softly. "At least... I'm certain that I was."

There's no arrogance in it.

Just honesty.

And something in my chest shifts again.

Because if she was happy...

Then maybe I wasn't just a weapon.

Maybe I wasn't just a body being used.

Maybe somewhere inside all that darkness—

There was something real.

"Why did we separate?" I ask.

I need to know.

Carol lowers her gaze.

"Because..." She exhales slowly. "The part of you that wasn't you was buying time."

She presses her lips together like the memory physically hurts.

"You and I were skiing in the Alps," she says. "I felt so happy that day. Complete. Like the world didn't matter anymore. I told you that."

Her thumb tightens slightly around my hand.

"And you said it would get even better."

She swallows.

"That's when I understood you were talking about the conversion."

My chest tightens.

"They didn't want me as I was," she continues. "They rejected that. They wanted me in a specific form. That's not love."

Her voice steadies, but her eyes look distant.

"Ten years ago, Helen and I froze my eggs. We wanted a family."

She pauses.

"They took that."

My breath catches.

"I didn't give them permission to take stem cells from me. But they found a way to use what already existed. Without touching me."

She looks at me now.

"That's when I understood it wasn't real. It was a fantasy. I had to save the world... or die trying."

The words hang between us.

I don't know what to do with the weight of that.

"I..." I say quietly. "I'm so sorry."

Carol tightens her grip on my hand.

"It's not your fault," she says immediately. "It wasn't you."

Her voice is firm now.

"I would never blame you for something they did."

I don't feel ready to ask anything else.

The air feels heavy enough already.

We finish lunch in silence. Our hands separate at some point, but I still feel the ghost of her fingers on my skin.

"I'd like to be alone," I say finally.

She nods.

No protest. No wounded expression. Just acceptance.

"Okay," she says softly.

She makes the signal to the camera. The door unlocks. She steps out without looking back this time.

The metal seals shut again.

Silence.

I walk slowly back to the bed and sit down.

The bunker feels smaller now.

I pick up the book and hold it against my chest.

For a moment, I just sit there, hugging it like it's something alive.

I think she really loves me.

And if that's true—

If she loves me without me remembering loving her back—

Then that would make her the first person in my entire life to love me for real

The first one.

The thought terrifies me.

And comforts me at the same time.

Chapter Text

Zosia POV

I didn’t mean to finish it.

That was the intention.

One more chapter. Just one more.

But then Raban jumps into the storm without looking back, and Lucasia follows him like gravity doesn’t apply to her anymore, and suddenly I’m turning pages faster than I can breathe.

By the time I reach the last line, the bunker is silent.

Not night-silent.

Not world-ending silent.

Just… me and the sound of my own breathing.

I look at the clock.

4:12 a.m.

I stare at the last page again.

I close the book.

Then I open it.

Then I close it again.

I press it flat against my chest.

I don’t remember loving anyone like that.

I don’t remember loving Carol like that.

But something in me recognizes the feeling.

The way Lucasia chooses Raban, even when it costs her everything.

The way Raban never asks her to change.

The way love isn’t possession—it’s permission.

I sit up in bed.

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop reading.

Because for the first time since I woke up here, I didn’t feel trapped.

Not because the door was unlocked.

Not because anything had changed physically.

But because something had shifted between us.

Yesterday, when I held her hand, it didn’t feel like negotiation.

It didn’t feel like control.

It felt… mutual.

And that unsettles me more than anger ever did.

I don’t want to depend on that feeling.

I don’t want to build something in here only to watch it collapse when she inevitably reminds me that I’m still locked underground.

------------------------------------------------------------

I must have fallen asleep with the book pressed against my chest.

When I wake, my neck aches and my eyes burn.

The clock reads 7:03 a.m.

I panic for half a second.

How long was I asleep?

Did she come down, and I didn’t hear?

No.

The bunker is silent.

I sit up and stare at the book.

I finished it.

Seven hundred pages.

In one night.

That’s humiliating.

I push it under the pillow just as I hear it—

The click.

My body tenses automatically.

The door unlocking still sounds like something violent.

I sit up straight, pretending I’ve been awake for hours.

The door opens.

Carol steps in, carrying breakfast and another heavy book tucked under her arm.

She stops when she sees me already sitting up.

“You’re awake,” she says.

Her voice is cautious.

I hesitate.

Then I pull the book out from under the pillow and hold it up.

“I finished it.”

She blinks.

“You—what?”

“I finished it.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly.

“You read all of it?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

There’s a beat of silence.

And I feel heat creep up my neck.

“I wasn’t going to,” I add quickly. “It just—”

“It pulled you in.”

“Yes,” I admit, almost irritated at how easily she reads me.

She steps closer, setting the tray down on the table.

“I didn’t expect you to like it that much.”

“I don’t like it that much,” I lie automatically.

She looks at me.

I look back.

“…I need the second one,” I finish.

That makes her mouth twitch.

Not a full smile.

But close.

“Good morning to you, too,” she says.

I feel ridiculous.

“Don’t spoil anything,” I warn her.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

There’s something lighter in the air.

Still tense, but not sharp.

I study her face.

She looks exhausted.

Dark circles under her eyes.

Slight tremor in her hand as she adjusts the tray.

She didn’t sleep.

“Did you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Did I what?”

“Sleep.”

She shrugs.

“Some.”

That means no.

I don’t comment.

Instead, I open the second book and flip to the first page.

She watches me.

“You’re not going to eat first?” she asks.

“I will.”

“You look like you’re about to start reading again.”

I close the book reluctantly.

“I can control myself.”

“That’s debatable.”

I glance up at her.

“That was funny,” I say flatly.

She actually smiles.

A real one.

I didn’t expect that to affect me the way it does.

I sit at the table, and she sits across from me.

We eat quietly for a minute.

Then I say it.

“I know I said this before, but... You write love like you believe in it.”

She freezes slightly.

“I did,” she says carefully.

I do... she adds.. I don’t push.

Instead, I say, “The way Raban looks at Lucasia… it doesn’t feel fake. I mean, the way you describe everything makes me see it all in my mind.”

She studies her plate.

“I’ve been looked at like that,” she says softly.

The room shifts.

“That must have been nice,” I say.

“It was.”

There’s grief in her voice, but not the raw kind from before.

More settled.

More lived-in.

I chew slowly.

“I wish I could remember what I was like,” I say after a moment.

She looks up.

“I mean… the other version of me.”

She stiffens slightly.

“You don’t have to talk about that,” she says quickly.

“I want to.”

That surprises her.

“What was I like?” I ask. "I know I was a happy person, always smiling... but that was the surface, I want to know about her personality."

She takes a long breath.

“Confident.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“That’s not me.”

“That's how she was.”

“In what way?”

“You walked into rooms like you already owned them.”

That makes something twist in my stomach.

“I can’t imagine that.”

“You could fly a helicopter without blinking.”

I snort.

“I don’t even know how to drive.”

“You spoke languages I’d never even heard.”

“Stop.”

“I’m not exaggerating.”

I stare at her.

“And you liked that version of me?”

She hesitates.

“Yes. I mean...”

Honest.

“Because she was impressive?”

“No... It was not about that.”

“Then why?”

She looks directly at me.

“Because she liked me. Nobody else did in this new world, just her or... that's how I felt it.”

That shuts me up.

“And this version?” I ask before I can overthink it.

She doesn’t answer immediately.

She studies my face like she’s memorizing it.

“This version is harder,” she says finally.

“Harder?”

“Yes.”

"I don't think you like me, but... even if you don't, I feel that you're more authentic, tho"

Do I like her? I'm not exactly sure... "I don't hate you," I say

She raises her eyebrows and presses her lips together, as if she doesn't know how to feel about this confession... I don't like her, but I don't hate her either... or so I think.

I feel too exposed.

I don’t like being seen like that.

I break eye contact first.

“Tell me about the two men you live with,” I say, deliberately neutral.

The shift is obvious.

She notices.

But she doesn’t fight it.

“Manousos and Diabaté?”

“Yes. I don’t know anything about them except that they open the door and look at me like I’m unstable.”

A corner of her mouth lifts slightly.

She exhales quietly.

“No. They don't see you like that... they're just tired.”

I lean back slightly, giving her space to talk.

“Diabaté…” she begins, thinking carefully. “He’s from Mauritania, and... I don't know anything else about him"

She pauses.

“When the collective started offering stuff — he was the only one of us who didn’t immediately reject it.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because to him it wasn’t ideology. It was relief.”

That makes sense.

“In Vegas,” she continues, “he lived in ridiculous luxury. Surrounded by beautiful women. Expensive everything. The collective basically built a playground around him.”

“Did he enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t judge him when she says it.

“He’d never had excess before, I believe, I'm not sure... I'm just assuming.”

“And you didn’t hate him for that?”

She shakes her head.

“I kinda did, at the begining but then... I understood it. If you’ve been thirsty your entire life and someone hands you water, you don’t question it first.”

I sit with that.

“Does he regret it?”

“I think he understands the cost now.”

“Which is?”

“Autonomy.”

Silence.

“And the other one?” I ask.

“Manousos.”

Her tone shifts slightly.

“He crossed half of Latin America to get here.”

“Why?”

“To stop it. To stop the spread.”

That surprises me.

“He refused everything the collective offered him. Every convenience. Every comfort. He slept in abandoned buildings. walked through the jungle. All to get to me.”

“Why you?”

“Because I was the only immune one who wanted the same thing as him... to reverse it.”

“And how are you doing with that?”

She hesitates.

“We’re trying.”

I study her face.

“Do you like them?”

Her answer comes easily.

“I don’t dislike them.”

“That’s not the question.”

She smiles faintly.

“In a normal world? I probably wouldn’t be close to either of them.”

That honesty is refreshing.

“Why not?”

“Different lives. Different personalities. Manousos is intense. Diabaté is pragmatic. I’m…” She shrugs. “Complicated.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t take the bait.

“But right now,” she continues, “we’re together because we have the same goal.”

“To save the world.”

“Yes.”

I let out a small breath.

“Do you believe you can?”

She looks at me carefully before answering.

“Belief isn’t the point.”

“What is?”

“Effort.”

That sounds like something someone says when they don’t want to admit doubt.

“You don’t consider them bad people,” I observe.

“No.”

“Even though Diabaté chose the collective at first.”

“No.”

“Even though Manousos would probably seal this door shut without asking me how I feel.”

She studies me for a second.

“He would.”

“And you?”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“I care how you feel.”

I look away again.

“I don’t think either of them are evil,” she continues quietly. “Just… products of what they survived.”

“What about you?”

She holds my gaze this time.

“I’m still figuring that out.”

I nod slowly.

“In a normal world,” I say, “I probably wouldn’t be close to them either.”

A pause.

“And in this one?” she asks.

"Well... I don't have a choice." 

Carol POV

Zosia looks tired.

Not sick-tired. Not trembling-withdrawal tired.

Just human tired.

She didn’t sleep.

I can tell by the way her eyes move slower than usual, by the way she blinks longer than necessary between sentences. She tries to hide it. Pretends she’s steady.

She finished the book.

Seven hundred pages.

In one night.

And when she admitted she liked it, I had to fight the urge to smile like an idiot.

After breakfast, she says she’s going to rest.

I nod and make the signal to the camera.

The door opens. I step out.

The bunker seals behind me.

Manousos and Diabaté are in the living room, surrounded by blueprints and open laptops.

They both look up.

“Well?” Manousos asks.

“She’s stable,” I say. “Withdrawal symptoms are almost gone. She’s reading.”

“Reading?” Diabaté echoes.

“My book.”

There’s a pause.

Neither of them comments on that. Manousos talks, ignoring what I said about Zosia reading my book

“We know how to disconnect an individual,” he continues. “We’ve proven that.”

I fold my arms.

“But we’re nowhere near applying that at scale,” he adds.

“Meaning?” I say, though I already know.

“We can’t put the entire planet in bunkers.”

Silence.

He’s not wrong.

“We need a permanent solution,” he says. “A cure. Something that neutralizes the virus in the bloodstream. Not just the signal.”

Zosia.

She’s no longer a database.

She’s just… her.

“She’s not a source anymore,” I say quietly.

“I know.”

And this time there’s no suggestion in his voice.

No push to reconnect her.

He understands.

He saw it in my face days ago.

Instead, he says, “We need another connected host.”

My stomach tightens.

“No.”

He exhales.

“Listen to me.”

“I am.”

“We keep one connected. We administer the serum properly this time. Controlled dosage. Continuous access. We extract what we need while maintaining connection.”

Like a terminal wired into a system.

“Someone who isn’t…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Isn’t her.

Diabaté nods slowly.

“He’s right,” he says. “We can’t hinge global survival on one person’s emotional stability.”

I close my eyes briefly.

“I know.”

That’s the worst part.

I know.

Manousos continues, more clinical now.

“If we find the antenna, that changes things.”

My eyes open.

“The antenna,” I repeat.

Weeks ago.

Before Manousos arrived.

Before this became coordinated.

Zosia—connected Zosia—told me about it casually.

They’re building something enormous. A transmission system. Not to spread the virus locally, but to amplify the signal beyond Earth.

To “share the gift.”

The phrase makes my skin crawl.

“The chances it’s here are low,” Diabaté says.

“Extremely low,” Manousos agrees. “But if it’s operational, it’s transmitting the recipe. Not the virus itself. The instructions.”

“So what?” I ask. “We destroy it?”

“That depends,” Manousos says. “If it’s just amplification, shutting it down might stall expansion. But it won’t cure what’s already here.”

He’s right again.

The signal isn’t the virus, not exactly.

It’s the delivery system.

Even if we cut the broadcast, the infected remain infected.

“So what do we do?” I ask.

Neither of them answers immediately.

Because there is no good answer.

Diabaté finally says, “If we locate the antenna, we could potentially redirect it. Jam it. Reverse it. But that’s theoretical.”

“Everything is theoretical,” I mutter.

Silence settles over us.

Manousos looks at me carefully.

“You know what the worst-case scenario is.”

I do.

If we can’t stop it.

If we can’t cure it.

If we can’t scale disconnection.

The only guaranteed way to stop conversion is annihilation.

The bomb.

Half the population gone in seconds.

The rest dying slowly from fallout and collapse.

My heart sinks so violently I have to steady myself on the table.

I think about Zosia downstairs.

About her reading.

About her saying she liked the book.

About her not remembering being part of the thing that is about to swallow the planet.

If she reconnects, she disappears.

If she stays disconnected, she’s imprisoned.

If we fail, we detonate.

And death becomes mercy.

Because once converted, there is no coming back.

I’ve seen it now.

There is no light inside that state.

Just compliance.

Just dissolution.

I rub my face.

“I don’t know the answer anymore,” I say honestly.

Manousos softens slightly.

“None of us do.”

“But we have to choose a direction,” he says.

I nod slowly.

“Find another one,” I say. “Before we decide anything else.”

It’s not a solution.

It’s a delay.

But right now delay feels like oxygen.

Diabaté agrees.

Manousos doesn’t argue.

They return to their diagrams.

I stand there a moment longer.

Then I glance toward the bunker monitor.

She’s asleep.

Curled on her side.

The second book open but unread beside her.

I let her sleep.

Longer than necessary.

I tell Manousos she needs rest, that her nervous system is still stabilizing.

But the truth is—

I don’t want to disturb her.

Around four in the afternoon, I decide to go down.

I carry lunch myself.

No tray for two this time. Just simple food. Something warm.

When the door opens, she’s already sitting up on the bed, cross-legged, the second book open in her hands.

She looks up immediately.

She was reading.

Not sleeping.

“You’re back,” she says.

“I brought food,” I reply.

She closes the book carefully — marking the page with deliberate precision — and sets it beside her.

“How far are you?” I ask.

She narrows her eyes slightly.

“Far enough that if you say one word about what happens next, I will stop speaking to you.”

I can’t help it.

I laugh.

She watches me like she’s trying to memorize the sound.

We sit at the table.

She eats slowly.

Then she says it.

“Tell me where we went.”

I pause mid-bite.

“What?”

“When I was… connected.” She gestures vaguely. “Where did we go?”

Her voice isn’t heavy.

It’s bright.

Like someone asking about a vacation they don’t remember.

I swallow.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

I sit back slightly.

Trying to decide where to start.

“You flew a helicopter once,” I say.

Her eyes widen immediately.

“No. You’re lying. I still can't believe that”

“I’m not.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Where?”

“Over the ocean. And you carried the atomic bomb in that helicopter, too.”

She freezes.

“The water was unreal,” I continue. “So clear it looked artificial. You hovered just above it, like you were showing off.”

She stares at me, breath held.

“I did that?”

“You insisted on it.”

“What did you say?”

I smile faintly at the memory.

“You said if you were going to have access to global knowledge, you might as well enjoy the perks.”

She laughs.

And it’s pure.

“God, I sound insufferable.”

“You were not.”

She throws a napkin at me.

I keep going.

“There was a beach,” I say. “White sand. Warm water. We stayed in a place that looked like it belonged in a magazine. You walked barefoot everywhere.”

She closes her eyes.

“Was it humid?”

“Yes.”

“I hate humidity.”

“You didn’t then.”

She opens one eye.

“I was different.”

“Yes.”

“We also stayed in a city with glass buildings and endless noise. We rented a place high up. There was a bathtub next to a window that overlooked everything.”

Her eyes soften.

“We soaked in that tub one night while it was raining,” I say quietly. “You said the world looked peaceful from above.”

She doesn’t interrupt.

I keep talking.

“There was a spa. Somewhere quiet. Mountains in the distance. We didn’t leave the pool for hours. Steam rising off the water.”

She smiles faintly.

“That sounds… unreal.”

“It felt unreal.”

“And the skiing?”

I look at her sharply.

“You remember that?”

“No. But you mentioned it before.”

Right.

“You fell three times in the first ten minutes,” I say.

She gasps.

“Excuse me?”

“You said gravity was discriminatory.”

She laughs again.

And God help me, I could live in that sound.

“You were fearless,” I continue. “Not reckless. Just… confident. You tried everything. You spoke to strangers in their own languages. You read signs I couldn’t read.”

She stares at her hands.

“I was really happy, didn't I?”

“Yes.”

That one comes easily.

“And you were happy too,” she presses.

I nod slowly.

“I can’t imagine doing any of that,” she murmurs. “Flying. Traveling. Speaking languages.”

“You could.”

“No,” she says softly. “I mean like this.”

She gestures to herself.

This version.

“I barely finished school. I don’t know geography. I’ve never been on a plane.”

Something in my chest twists.

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t,” I say.

She looks at me, searching for mockery.

There is none.

“You think I could?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“By being a passenger.”

She tilts her head.

“You don’t have to pilot the helicopter,” I add. “You can sit beside me.”

Silence.

Heavy.

But not uncomfortable.

She looks down at the table, then back at me.

“Did we laugh a lot?” she asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

Her expression shifts.

For a moment, something vulnerable cracks through.

“I want to know what that feels like,” she says.

“You do.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Not like that. Not unconscious. I want to know it while I’m… here.”

She taps her temple.

She leans back slightly.

“I can’t believe I did all that,” she says again.

“You did.”

“And you were there.”

“I was.”

“With me.”

“Yes.”

She studies my face carefully.

“And you weren’t bored of me?”

I blink.

“Bored?”

“Yes. If I was so perfect. So capable.”

I smile... She smirks.

“But you were also… present.”

“Present.”

“You chose things. You chose to go with me.”

Silence settles again.

And as she sits there imagining a life she doesn’t remember

When I leave the bunker, she’s still smiling faintly.

Still imagining beaches she doesn’t remember.

Still asking what the ocean smelled like.

Salt and sun, I had said.

She wrinkled her nose and said she hates the smell of salt.

I said she didn’t then.

She said maybe she can learn to like it now.

That sentence follows me upstairs.

Maybe I can learn to like it now.

The door seals behind me.

I don’t go to the living room.

I don’t talk to Manousos.

I don’t look at the antenna diagrams.

I go straight home.

My house feels emptier every day.

I drop my keys on the counter.

Stand there for a long moment.

Then I open the cabinet.

Vodka.

Of course.

I pour a glass.

Not even over ice.

Just clear and burning.

I take a sip.

It tastes like regret.

I lean against the counter and close my eyes.

She was glowing.

Talking about skiing like a child hearing about snow for the first time.

About flying like it was a myth.

About being in a city so high up you could see lights stretch forever.

She looked alive.

Hungry for the world.

And what did I do?

I described it to her like a travel brochure.

I handed her memories she cannot access.

Experiences she cannot repeat.

A life she cannot step into.

What kind of cruelty is that?

Another sip.

Burning.

Because the truth is—

She can’t do those things.

Not now.

Not while the world is collapsing.

Not while she’s trapped underground.

Not while there’s a bomb wired to existence.

Even if I opened the door and said, " Go."

She will be back in the darkness

I laugh softly.

It sounds hollow.

She wants to live.

But the world is dying.

And I am keeping her in a bunker while telling her about sunsets.

I slide down until I’m sitting on the kitchen floor.

Glass in hand.

Head against the cabinet.

If we fail—

If Manousos is right—

If we can’t cure this—

If the antenna is operational—

If the conversion accelerates—

We detonate.

And half of humanity disappears.

Maybe more.

Including her.

Including me.

And if that’s the ending…

What exactly am I preserving her for?

A quiet death underground?

A slow, terrified one?

Another sip.

My thoughts start turning in circles.

She was happy when she was connected.

I saw it.

Even if it wasn’t her.

Even if it was filtered through them.

She traveled.

She learned.

She flew.

She laughed.

She felt no fear.

And now?

Now she’s pale and trembling in a concrete room, asking me what the ocean smells like.

I press my palms against my eyes.

If she reconnects—

She disappears again.

I lose her.

The real one.

The fragile, uncertain, stubborn woman reading my book at four in the afternoon.

But if she stays disconnected—

She stays here.

With me.

Locked away.

Protected.

Imprisoned.

And that word won’t leave my head.

Imprisoned.

She said she spent her life trapped.

In rooms without windows.

Used.

Owned.

Watched.

And now?

She’s underground.

Watched.

Contained.

Because of me.

I swallow hard.

I told myself this was different.

That this was protection.

But what if it’s just another cage?

What if I’m just better at decorating it?

Another sip.

The glass is almost empty.

I think about her face when I told her about the helicopter.

About how her eyes widened.

Not because she missed being connected.

But because she wanted to be there consciously.

She doesn’t want the hive.

She wants the sky.

And I can’t give her that.

Not like this.

Not while I’m holding the key to the door.

I whisper it aloud before I realize I’m saying it.

“This isn’t fair.”

To her.

To me.

To anyone.

If we’re all going to die anyway…

If the bomb is the inevitable end…

If conversion means darkness…

Then what exactly am I protecting her from?

A version of herself that could feel joy?

Is it worse to lose her entirely—

Or to keep her half-alive here?

My chest tightens.

Because here’s the part I don’t want to admit:

Part of me likes that she needs me.

That she looks at me for answers.

That she asks where we went.

That she holds my hand.

If she reconnects—

She won’t need me.

She’ll become something vast again.

She’ll belong to everyone.

And I’ll just be… another signal.

I stare at the empty glass.

Am I keeping her disconnected to save her?

Or to keep her mine?

The question makes me nauseous.

I stand abruptly.

Pour the rest of the vodka down the sink.

The smell fills the kitchen.

I grip the counter and breathe.

If I truly love her—

If this isn’t about possession—

If this isn’t about clinging to a version of her that chooses me—

Then I have to let her choose.

Even if the choice destroys me.

Even if she chooses reconnection.

Even if she chooses to walk away.

Even if she never looks at me like she did in that city bathtub ever again.

I straighten.

Wipe my face.

If she wants to go—

I will open the door.

If she wants to reconnect—

I will not stop her.

If she wants to leave—

I will not cage her.

I whisper it like a promise.

“I won’t be your jailer.”

My hands are shaking.

Not from alcohol.

From fear.

Because I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.

I don’t know if this is noble.

Or cowardly.

I don’t know if this is love.

Or surrender.

All I know is—

She deserves to decide.

And tomorrow—

I will tell her.

If you want to go…

I will let you.

And that thought feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there’s water below.

Chapter Text

Zosia POV

I didn’t finish the second book.

Not because it wasn’t good.

It was too good, but I kept reading the same paragraph over and over again.

Ships cutting through dark water. Lantern light flickering against cave walls. The way sand clings to damp skin. The air described as thick with salt and warmth.

I would read three lines.

Close my eyes.

And try to see it.

Not the story.

The memory.

I’d imagine standing on that beach. The humidity sticking to my shoulders. The weight of wet hair against my back. The sound of waves.

Then Carol would appear in the image.

Laughing.

Or watching me.

And I would lose my place in the book.

I tried again.

Another page. Another description. A boat rocking gently at sunset. The deck warm under bare feet.

I closed my eyes again.

And this time I didn’t see the ocean.

I saw the dock from my childhood.

Rotting wood.

Fishing boats tied loosely with fraying rope.

The smell of diesel and fish and something sweet rotting nearby.

I hadn’t thought about that smell in years.

Mango.

The mango ice cream.

Sticky. Yellow flesh glistening in the sun.

I used to devour it right there.

Barefoot. Dirty knees. No money.

But free.

I could run wherever I wanted.

I could watch the ships leave.

I remember thinking that one day I would be on one of them.

That I would see the world.

I had nothing.

But I had hope.

I don’t remember when I stopped smelling mango.

I don’t know when the docks disappeared from my life.

I don’t know when freedom turned into rooms without windows.

When the only salt I smelled was sweat.

When the only ocean I saw was printed on cheap posters on motel walls.

Carol describing the beaches did something strange to me.

It didn’t just make me curious about what I’d done while connected.

It made me remember that once — before all of it — I wanted to leave.

I wanted to see ships up close.

I wanted to travel.

And apparently…

I did.

My body did.

It walked those sands.

It flew that helicopter.

It stood on those mountains.

But my mind wasn’t there.

There are no images when I try to recall it.

No visual memory.

No sound.

No taste.

Just something deeper.

Like my muscles recognize the shape of a ski pole in my hand.

Like my lungs recognize the way humid air feels.

Like my balance remembers wind beneath a hovering aircraft.

But when I try to picture it—

Black.

It’s like someone lived inside my body and left no photographs behind.

Just fingerprints.

I turned another page.

Raban and Lucasia kissing in the middle of a storm.

I rolled my eyes at the dramatics... Like trying to ignore that maybe I want it

Then I closed the book.

Because I wasn’t reading anymore.

I was imagining.

Imagining what it would feel like to stand on a beach consciously.

To step into a city with lights reflecting on glass towers and know I am there.

To laugh and know the sound is mine.

To love someone and know the feeling belongs to me. To feel another's lips pressed over mine

I fell asleep like that.

The book on my chest.

Thinking about waves.

Thinking about wind.

Thinking about what it would be like if Carol succeeded.

If she reversed it.

If she cured it.

If this ended.

If the door upstairs opened and it wasn’t to bring me food—

But to say, “You’re free.”

I know I would run, but not alone... I would ask her to show me outside

I don’t know how long I slept.

But when I woke, I didn’t feel as heavy.

My body is still recovering.

Still stabilizing.

But something inside me feels… aligned.

Yesterday, I thought I would be willing to go back to the darkness

That her motivations were selfish.

That she wanted control.

Now—

I think she believes what she says.

I think she really wants to undo it.

Not just for herself.

For me.

And if she does…

If she somehow manages to reverse this—

Could I have what I once thought impossible?

Real love.

Not dependency.

Not survival.

Not manipulation disguised as kindness.

Something chosen.

Something mutual.

Something like what she described with her wife... Many years

Fighting and forgiving.

Seeing defects and loving anyway.

The thought terrifies me.

But it also…

Pulls at me.

Because maybe—

Just maybe—

I could learn what that feels like.

Not as a ghost in my own body.

Not as a host.

As me.

The girl from the docks.

The girl who watched ships leave and believed she’d follow.

My body has seen the world.

Now I know I don’t want to reconnect.

I don’t want to disappear again.

Even if reconnection means instant access to languages, aircraft, and mountains.

What’s the point of flying if you’re not there to feel the wind?

What’s the point of knowing everything if you don’t get to discover it?

I look at the ceiling.

I don’t know how much time Carol has.

I don’t know if she and the others will succeed.

I don’t know if we’ll all die.

I don’t know if there’s a bomb waiting for us above ground.

But maybe— There is still a version of the future where I step outside.

Where I smell salt again.

Where I taste mango ice cream under real sunlight.

Where I stand on a dock and watch ships leave—

And this time, I board one.

And if I’m lucky, I won’t be alone.

Maybe she’ll be there.

Carol... As someone walking beside me.

--------------------------------------------------

Carol comes in with breakfast the way she always does — careful, quiet, composed.
But something is different.

She sets the tray down.

Only one plate.

I notice immediately.

“You’re not eating with me?”

Carol hesitates. Just for a second. But I see it. 

“I already ate.”

It’s a lie. A soft one. A protective one.

I study her. Carol looks the same as every other day — tired in that quiet, permanent way — but today there’s distance. A withdrawal. As if she has already stepped back from something.

“I’m finishing the second book today,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “You were right. I love them.”

Carol smiles, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.

Silence settles between us.

I feel it pressing against my ribs.

“Why won’t you eat with me?” I ask again, softer this time.

Carol exhales slowly. The kind of breath someone takes before jumping.

“I promised her,” she says.

“Promised who?”

“You. The you before this. I told her… that if the real you ever asked to be free, I wouldn’t stop her. I wouldn’t keep her here... You said you wanted to join back... you're free to go."

The room tilts.

When Carol tells me I can leave, I don’t understand at first.

The words land softly, almost gently.

“You’re free to go.”

Free.

For a second, it sounds beautiful.

Then it hits me.

Not freedom.

Erasure.

Something inside my chest caves in, and suddenly I understand.

I understand her.

I understand what she felt when the hive mind told her she would be converted. That she would be absorbed. That she would stop being Carol and become something collective, something silent, something obedient.

The panic.

The terror of losing your own name inside your own skull.

But this — this is worse.

Because she didn’t know what it felt like.

I do.

I know what it is to be joined.

I know what it is to dissolve.

It isn’t unity. It isn’t peace.

It is darkness.

It is being aware of nothing.

No thoughts. No dreams. No hunger. No warmth. No memories.

Just endless black.

And the worst part?

You know you’re in it.

You know you exist, but you cannot move. You cannot speak. You cannot reach.

It’s not death.

Death would be mercy.

It’s an eternal coma where you feel the absence of yourself.

That is what she is offering me.

That is what “freedom” means.

My breathing turns shallow.

So this is what she felt.

This is why she wanted to tear the world apart to stop it.

This is why she refuses to surrender.

For the first time, I don’t just admire her strength.

I feel her desperation in my bones.

And I am more afraid now than I have ever been.

Carol continues, voice steady but fragile underneath.

“There isn’t much hope, Zosia. Reversing it… fixing it… It’s almost impossible. And keeping you here, knowing that… it doesn’t make sense. You deserve to choose.”

My hands start shaking. I'm disappointed because she gave up

“So that’s it?” I whisper. “You’d just… let me go?”

Carol doesn’t answer immediately.

“I don’t want to give you false hope.”

I laugh — a broken, trembling sound.

“Then lie to me.”

Carol looks up.

“What?”

“Lie to me,” I say again, tears spilling now. “Tell me we’re going to fix it. Tell me that when I walk out of here, I’ll be the one who travels with you. The one who sees the caves, the boats, the cities. Tell me I’ll be the one sitting next to you on the plane.”

My voice cracks completely. the lump in the throat

“I don’t care if I can’t fly a helicopter. We can be passengers. We can always be passengers. You told me that.”

I can't hold it back now. Not quiet tears. Not dignified ones. The kind that steal breath.

“I don’t want to leave like this,” I plead. “If I walk out now, I'll be joining again… it won’t be living. It’ll just be ending me faster.”

I reach for Carol’s sleeve.

“Let me live a little. Even if it’s only days. Let me be me.”

My voice drops to almost nothing.

“Talk to me. Sit with me. Read to me. Pretend with me. Make these the happiest days I’ve ever had. If you can’t save everything… then save this.”

I look up at her, eyes swollen, desperate, alive.

“I don’t want freedom if it means disappearing.”

Carol POV

I watch her break.

And it is like watching myself at the beginning.

Her breathing fractures. Her hands tremble. Her eyes go wide with that terrible understanding — the kind that doesn’t need explanation because it lives in the body.

It’s the same look I had the first day they told me I would be converted.

They didn’t touch me.
They didn’t restrain me.
They didn’t need to.

They just told me it would happen.

Soon.

And then they left me alone with that word.

Soon.

I remember walking through empty halls, pretending I wasn’t counting every minute. Wondering if it would be that night. The next morning. The next breath. Wondering what it would feel like to lose my name inside my own mind.

The uncertainty was the cruelty.

That’s what I see in Zosia now.

Not fear of pain.

Fear of disappearance.

For a brief, selfish second, my heart stutters with something dangerously close to relief.

She understands.

She understands that I never wanted to hurt her.

I wanted to save her.

But the relief dies quickly, because understanding doesn’t equal salvation.

I don’t know how to save her.

I’m standing in the exact same place I was at the beginning — armed with love and nothing else.

The only difference is that I could still walk outside while I waited for my fate. I could still see the sky. I could still feel the wind.

She doesn’t get that.

If she leaves now, she won’t wait in uncertainty.

She’ll dissolve.

I move before I think.

When I wrap my arms around her, she collapses into me.

And suddenly it’s forty days later.

Forty days after I almost killed her with the serum.
Forty days after they all left me.

They walked away. Every single one of them. Because I had crossed a line.

I told myself I didn’t care.

I told myself I was strong.

But by day forty, the silence had eaten through me. The freedom meant nothing without another human heartbeat in the room.

So I asked them to come back.

And when the doors opened, the first person I saw was her.

Zosia.

I didn’t hesitate. I crossed the distance and fell into her arms like something starving.

I needed contact. I needed proof I wasn’t alone.

Now the parallel is unbearable.

She’s the one trembling.

She’s the one burying her face against me, sobbing so hard her shoulders shake.

She’s taller than me — so much taller — but she folds into me like she’s breaking from the inside.

And this time, I don’t stay composed.

I cry too.

We cling to each other like we’re the last two people left on earth.

“I’m so sorry,” I breathe.

Immediately, she pulls back, shaking her head.

“No. Don’t say that. Don’t say it like that.”

She knows what comes after that sentence.

There’s nothing we can do.

She refuses to hear it.

And I can’t bring myself to say it.

So instead, I hold her face and force myself to speak something I’m not sure I can deliver.

“I’m going to try.”

My voice is barely steady.

“We’re going to try.”

She stares at me, searching for hesitation.

I don’t let her see it.

And then — impossibly — her sob cracks into a small, fragile laugh. Relief breaking through devastation.

I wipe her tears with the sleeve of my sweater and hand her water. Her fingers are still shaking.

The roles have shifted.

She’s building hope.

I’m carrying the weight of reality.

But deep down, I know she understands the risk. She just refuses to disappear quietly.

I guide her to the bed.

We lie down.

She’s taller, broader — but I curl behind her anyway, wrapping myself around her from behind, pressing my body against hers like I can shield her from the future.

My arm tightens around her waist.

“I’m going to try,” I repeat against the back of her neck. “I brought you back. I owe you more than this. I’m going to try to set you free.”

My throat tightens.

“I promise.”

Her breathing slowly steadies.

Then, so soft I almost miss it—

“Thank you.”

And I hold her tighter, terrified that even promises might not be enough.

Chapter Text

Carol POV

We stay like that, curled together... Not clinging anymore, just breathing.

The crying has passed. The panic has passed. The desperate pleading has passed.

Now there’s quiet.

She’s on her back, staring at the ceiling. I’m half-turned toward her, one arm still loosely around her waist.

“So,” she says softly after a while, still looking up. “What’s the plan?”

I close my eyes for a second.

“There is a plan,” I say.

She turns her head slightly.

“Tell me.”

She sounds steadier now. Curious, not afraid.

I sit up a little, leaning on my elbow.

“We might try to get someone else who’s still connected.”

“How?”

I raise my eyebrows, "Well, we're gonna have to ask them to come."

"Will they do that?"

"They have to please us, I'm assuming they have to come."

"And then, do what?"

“Thiopental sodium.”

She blinks. She has no idea what that is

It's a "Truth serum," I say 

She studies me carefully.

“What do you mean?” 

I'm thinking of the best way to explain it. 

"Okay, this serum is a kind of inhibitor, which makes you more open and makes you talk about things you wouldn't normally say."

"Oh", she says, trying to imagine how that could be. "Have you tested it before? Does it work?"

“Yes.” 

“With me, and... you.”

Zosia narrows her eyes; I don't sense annoyance, but rather curiosity, so I explain

“You told me once that you couldn’t discuss whether there was a way to reverse it... the virus?... You didn’t say no. You just went quiet.”

Her eyes sharpen slightly.

“They couldn't tell me anything about it, but they didn't deny it.”

“They can't lie,” Zosia whispers 

She exhales slowly.

“So you decided to give me the serum.”

I nod. "But... I tested it on myself first, and it kinda worked, but... You were in no condition for it, and... it hurt you before you could say anything 

"What do you mean? Why was I not in condition?"

I hesitate.

“There’s something else I never explained.”

She waits.

“You were in the hospital.”

Her brow furrows.

“I was in a hospital?”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t interrupt. She just listens.

“There was an explosion. A grenade.”

Her hand instinctively moves to her lower back.

“I have a scar,” she says slowly.

“Yes.”

“That’s from that?”

“Yes.”

She’s quiet.

“You said something about a grenade once,” she adds. “I remember that part.”

“I made a sarcastic comment. I said all I needed to complete the day was a grenade.”

She lets out a short, humorless breath.

“And they took it literally. You showed up at my door holding one. Apologizing for the delay.”

She closes her eyes briefly.

“It detonated.”

She goes very still.

“You turned your back to me.”

Her fingers press against the scar.

“You shielded me.”

Silence.

“Wow,” she says.

“I know.”

She opens her eyes again.

“So the hospital was for that.”

“Yes.”

“And then you injected me.”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t flinch.

“I needed an answer,” I say quietly. “I thought if I lowered your inhibition, you’d tell me how to reverse it. You reacted badly.”

“How badly?”

I hesitate.

“It didn’t go well.”

That’s all I give her.

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t push further.

“So... you gonna try the serum again,” she says.

“Yes. But this time we're gonna make sure the person is healthy, and the dosage is controlled.”

“I hope it works,” She says, nodding... I'm a little surprised by her reaction 

“Aren't you mad? I mean, I apologized for all that, but with them, I'm really sorry I hurt you.”

She studies the ceiling again.

“No, because I don’t remember any of it,” she says softly. “I don't think I felt it, or maybe I did, but I can't recall it."

I swallow.

“The point is, I would have done the same. I've hurt people in the past to save myself, I understand it.”

"I wasn't trying to hurt you, I swear."

"No, I know that... it was pretty bitchy of you, but I understand, and... apology accepted."

I breathe a little relieved 

"I really wish I could make you see the beautiful and not try to remind you of the bad."

She turns her head toward me.

“Like what?”

“The places.”

Her eyes soften.

“The beach,” she whispers.

“Yes.”

“The helicopter.”

“Yes.”

“I would love to see that version of me.”

I freeze.

Because suddenly I remember.

We documented some of it.

“You insisted on taking photos everywhere,” I say slowly.

Her eyes widen.

“There are pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Of me?”

“Yes.”

“Of us?”

“Yes.”

“Where are they?”

I hesitate.

“I left the camera at the cabin.”

She understands immediately.

“The last place.”

“Yes.”

“When I told you about the embryos.”

“Yes.”

“And you asked for the bomb.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“But the camera is still there?” she asks.

“Yes, I mean... it must be.”

“And they can get it?”

“I think so... They can’t refuse.”

Her whole posture shifts.

“I want to see her,” she says quietly.

“The girl who lived all that,” she says. “I need proof.”

I nod slowly.

“I’ll ask for it.”

Zosia POV

I didn’t expect something so simple to make my heart race.

A camera.

Photos.

Proof.

The idea that somewhere out there exists a version of me frozen in time — smiling, flying, standing in places I can’t remember — makes my chest feel too small for my lungs.

She takes my hand again, and this time I don’t hesitate. There’s something in her eyes I haven’t seen before.

Hope.

A sharp mechanical click interrupts the moment.

The bunker door.

Carol stiffens slightly.

“It’s Diabaté,” she says quickly, glancing toward the entrance, watching me carefully — measuring my reaction.

But I’m not afraid.

Why would I be?

I sit up.

A man steps inside carrying what looks like lunch.

He’s cautious, and I realize something, I hadn’t touched my breakfast.

My stomach growls on cue.

He stops a few feet away, clearly unsure how to approach me.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You didn’t eat earlier.”

His accent is soft, unfamiliar, but controlled.

I stand up.

“Might as well fix that,” I say.

Then I do something neither of them expects.

I extend my hand.

“I’m Zosia.”

Carol’s shoulders tense slightly.

The man looks at her first — like he needs permission.

She gives the smallest nod.

He takes my hand.

“Koumba Diabaté.”

His grip is careful. Not dominant. Not weak.

Neutral.

“We’ve been… monitoring,” he says, gesturing subtly toward the camera. “You need to eat.”

Carol and I both look up at it.

Of course.

They’ve seen everything.

The crying.

The holding.

It makes my skin crawl.

But I don’t say it.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

He places the lunch down, takes the untouched breakfast tray, and leaves as quickly as he came.

The door seals again.

Silence.

I keep staring at the camera.

Carol notices.

“I think we should take it down,” she says quietly.

I nod.

It’s one thing to be watched for safety.

It’s another to be watched when you’re vulnerable.

Especially when you’re lying in someone’s arms.

She stands, reaches up, and disables it.

The small red light dies.

We sit at the table.

I’m hungrier than I thought.

Halfway through my first bite, I glance at her... she looks at me

"So... you did hurt people in the past."

It isn’t an accusation.

Just an observation.

I look up slowly.

“Yes.” I nod, “I hurt people because I needed to,” I add calmly.

She studies my face.

“No guilt?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“They weren’t good people.”

That’s the simplest way to put it.

Men who locked doors.

Men who decided what I was worth.

Men who thought my body was currency.

“No one’s going to miss them,” I say.

Carol watches me closely.

processing.

I can tell the difference now.

She didn’t mean to hurt anyone.

Her anger spilled over.

Mine was deliberate.

That’s the difference.

And yet, in the end, damage is damage.

If we’re going to sit in this bunker together — If we’re going to survive this together — Then we don’t get to pretend we’re clean.

We just get to be honest.

She exhales softly.

“Whatever you did,” she says, “I’m sure they deserved it.”

There’s something almost steady in her voice.

Not glorification.

Just acceptance.

I smile faintly.

That’s enough.

I reach across the table and take her hand again.

This time it feels easier.

“I hope you can find that camera,” I tell her.

Her mouth curves slightly.

“I will.”

I squeeze her fingers.

We finished eating in silence, and I said goodbye to Carol, went back to my bed, and picked up the book; now I think I can read in peace.

Chapter Text

Carol — POV

I wake up before the sun. Not because of dread, or nightmares, or because of the weight of the world pressing against my ribs like it usually does.

I wake up because I want to.

Again... there's no alcohol in my blood.

That realization hits me before my feet even touch the floor. No cotton mouth. No metallic taste at the back of my throat. No tremor in my hands. I flex my fingers experimentally. Steady.

I slept.

Actually slept.

For the first time in weeks, my body didn't collapse out of exhaustion or pass out from vodka. I just... slept. Deep. Clean. Dreamless.

I lie there for a moment staring at the ceiling, and instead of calculating survival odds or replaying bomb scenarios in my head, I think about her face when she sees the photographs.

Hope is a dangerous thing.
But this morning it feels like oxygen.

I get up with energy I don't recognize in myself anymore. The house is still quiet, faint blue light bleeding through the windows. I take a shower that feels almost ceremonial — hot water pouring over my shoulders, washing away weeks of grime, fear, and self-loathing. I stay under it longer than necessary, letting it steady me.

When I step out, the mirror surprises me.

No dark crescents under my eyes. No puffiness from crying. My skin looks clearer. Softer. Alive.

I look... human.

I wrap a towel around myself and laugh under my breath. If Manousos saw me right now, he'd probably think I've lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

But for once, it feels good.

I dress quickly. Simple. Comfortable. Nothing dramatic. I blow-dry my hair. Today, everything revolves around what I'm bringing downstairs.

The camera sits on the kitchen counter where I left it last night.

I glance at it and feel something twist in my chest — I have proof of everything.

I don't open it again. I already saw enough. Enough to know the photos are there. Enough to know she's in them — laughing, squinting against sunlight, gripping a ski pole with flushed cheeks, barefoot on sand, hair blown wild in helicopter wind.

Enough to know that none of it was a dream.

I turn away before I can fall into it too deeply.

Breakfast.

If I'm going to bring her photographs that could unravel her entire sense of self, the least I can do is make sure she's fed.

I cook with a kind of quiet precision. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Coffee. Enough for all of us. The smell fills the kitchen just as the first real line of sunlight creeps across the floor.

This feels almost... domestic.

Absurd, considering we are one failed interrogation away from detonating half the planet.

I plate everything carefully. I even catch myself humming under my breath — something I haven't done since before Helen died.

The realization makes me pause.

Helen.

For a split second, guilt flares. Is this betrayal? To feel this light with someone else? to want to show another woman the evidence of the life we shared? And this time for real, because she's no longer part of the hive, she's a real person...

But then I remember: this isn't replacing. This is surviving.

And Zosia is not a substitute.

She is Zosia.

I carry the breakfast and the camera and step outside, crossing the short stretch between my house and Diabaté's.

He's just coming into the kitchen when I enter — hair slightly disheveled, eyes still adjusting to daylight. He blinks when he sees me.

"You're up early," he says flatly.

"I couldn't sleep," I answer, smiling.

He studies me like I'm suspicious. Probably because I look... functional.

I set a plate in front of him.

"For you."

He looks at the food, then at me. "You cook breakfast now?"

"Occasionally," I say lightly. "Don't get used to it."

He sits. Starts eating without another comment.

I glance at the television screen out of habit.

Black.

Right.

The camera.

I disconnected it.

For a moment, I feel a flicker of satisfaction. They're not watching her anymore. Not watching us. Not watching the fragile way we've begun to mend something that shouldn't exist in a bunker during the end of the world.

I lean against the counter, sipping coffee, waiting patiently while Diabaté eats.

He isn't in a good mood. His movements are clipped. Controlled.

I don't want to ask.

But I have to.

"What's wrong?"

He doesn't look at me. "Today we try."

"Try what?"

"To attract another connected individual."

The word lands heavy.

Right. Reality. Fuck!

While I've been wrapped in hope and photographs and mornings without alcohol, they've been working.

Building whatever signal manipulation Manousos thinks might draw someone here.

Shame creeps up my spine.

I've been downstairs, holding Zosia's hand, talking about beaches and helicopters and whether we could ever be passengers instead of pilots.

Meanwhile, they've been preparing the last possible move before extinction.

I swallow. "I should come."

He finally looks at me. There's no accusation in his eyes. Just assessment.

"No."

"I can help."

"With what?"

The question isn't cruel. It's factual.

He's right.

I don't understand half the circuitry Manousos mutters about. I don't understand amplification fields or signal dampening. My greatest current skill set involves photography, emotional support, and knowing how to find a vein.

And that last one isn't exactly something I'm proud of.

I let out a breath. "If we get someone... I can administer the serum."

That's at least true.

In another life — the ugliest version of my life — I could find a vein in darkness. I knew the map of my own arms like a cartographer. I know how to angle a needle, how to watch for the subtle flash of blood that means you've hit correctly.

It's a skill that never leaves you.

Diabaté nods once. "When the time comes."

He finishes eating and wipes his mouth with a napkin.

"I will go alone," he adds.

"Why?"

"Because they no longer trust you. Or Manousos."

There's no bitterness in his tone.

Of course, they don't trust us.

We insulted them. Disconnected. Tried to drug one of their own. Stole Zosia back. Threatened nuclear annihilation.

We are not exactly cooperative participants in their utopia.

"And they trust you?" I ask quietly.

He pauses.

"They trust that I understand what I am risking."

That's the closest he'll get to admitting he once benefited from them. I don't push further.

"And if this doesn't work?" I ask.

He doesn't answer immediately.

"If this doesn't work," he says finally, "then we are out of options."

The words hollow me out.

For a moment, I see the bomb again. The blast radius. The silent sky after.

My bubble bursts.

Manousos walks in without knocking, hair damp from his own shower, eyes already sharp with thought. He nods at us and sits, taking what remains of breakfast without asking.

It was technically his anyway.

No one comments.

I look between them. "What should we be doing while you're gone?" I ask Manousos.

He shrugs lightly. "Everything is prepared. When Diabaté returns with someone — if he returns — we'll handle the interrogation together."

No one assigns me anything.

No one demands anything.

They're letting me be downstairs with her.

They know.

They don't say it. But they know.

I'm not much use in technical matters. I'm not the strategist. I'm not the signal engineer. I am the unstable variable — the one with the temper that triggered eleven million deaths without meaning to.

And yet they don't exclude me.

Maybe because they understand what this is costing me.

Maybe because they understand what she is.

Diabaté stands and gestures toward the bunker door.

"I'll open."

I nod and begin arranging the breakfast trays — one for me, one for Zosia. The camera sits on the counter between us like a quiet promise.

As we walk toward the bunker entrance, I hesitate.

"How will I signal if I want to come up?" I ask.

He thinks for a second.

"Reconnect the camera. But aim it at a blind spot."

I look at him.

"So we can see when you signal," he clarifies. "Without watching her."

It's... reasonable.

I don't love it. But it's better than surveillance.

"Okay," I say.

We stop at the heavy door.

For a second, I press my palm flat against the metal.

Inside, she's waiting. Probably reading. Probably pretending not to care. Probably already imagining what she might see.

And I realize something as my pulse quickens:

I am excited.

Excited to show her the other version of herself. Excited to watch her face shift from skepticism to recognition to awe. Excited to hand her evidence that she existed beyond captivity and trauma and a bunker.

For one reckless moment, I let myself think:

If we're going to die, at least we'll die having seen each other.

Diabaté unlocks the mechanism.

The door groans open.

And I step back into the world that is now mine.

Zosia — POV

I hear the click before I see her.

The metal door unlocking has a particular sound — heavy, deliberate, final. I've learned to recognize it the way someone recognizes a knock at their own front door.

I'm sitting on the bed with the second Wycaro book open in my hands. I'm near the end — I know I am. The pages are thinner here, the tension thicker. But I haven't actually been reading the last ten minutes. My eyes have been moving, not my mind.

I've been waiting.

I close the book carefully, sliding a finger between the pages to mark where I stopped before folding the corner slightly anyway, just in case. I set it down and stand up.

My heart is beating too fast.

I don't know how to stand.
I don't know if I should smile.
I don't know if I should pretend indifference.

I feel ridiculous — like a child waiting to see if a promise was kept.

The door opens.

And there she is.

Carol looks... different.

Not tired. Not hollow. Not brittle.

Alive.

There's a softness in her eyes I haven't seen before. They're bright — actually bright — as if something inside her is lit from within. She's carrying a tray.

And something else.

"Your breakfast," she says, placing the tray on the table.

And then I see it.

A small digital camera sitting beside our plates.

I look up at her.

She doesn't make me ask.

She nods once.

"I got the photos. Everything's there."

For a second, I forget how to breathe.

I sit down slowly, reaching for the camera with hands that betray me. There's a tremor there — faint but noticeable. I don't know if it's nerves or some leftover echo of withdrawal. Maybe both.

I don't turn it on.

I just hold it.

It feels heavier than it should, like it contains something volatile. Something that could rearrange me if I'm not careful.

Carol sits across from me and gently slides my plate closer.

I'm still holding the camera like it's some fragile artifact dug up from a buried civilization.

With extreme care, I place it on the table.

"Thank you," I whisper.

My skin prickles. I laugh softly. "Oh... look. Goosebumps."

I can't believe this is real.

"I can't believe I'm about to see myself doing those things."

Carol just smiles. That same quiet, steady smile — like today her only mission is my happiness.

I force myself to eat.

Fork. Bite. Chew. Swallow.

She mirrors me, but I barely notice. My eyes never leave the camera.

"You can look now," she says gently.

"I'm scared," I admit.

She tilts her head.

"I mean... I have mixed feelings. And I don't want to do this on an empty stomach."

I eat faster after that. Faster than usual. I can feel my anxiety rising — not fear exactly. Anticipation. The kind that presses against your ribs from the inside.

Carol looks nervous, too.

Finally, I grab the camera and stand up, carrying it to the bed. I sit there instead of at the table. It feels... safer somehow. A little distance. A little privacy.

"If you want, I can leave you alone while you look," she says.

"No, no," I answer quickly. "Stay. I'll have questions."

"Okay."

I press the power button.

The screen lights up.

The first photo loads.

I'm standing with my back to the camera, facing the ocean. Waves washing over my feet. My hair loose, wind-blown. The horizon stretching endlessly in front of me.

I swipe.

Now we're both there. Smiling at the camera. The sunset behind us looks almost unreal — like something printed on a postcard.

I smile without meaning to.

I close my eyes.

And I feel it.

The water around my ankles.
The warmth of her arm around my waist.
My own arm extended forward, holding the camera.

The image fits.

That's what shocks me.

It fits.

It's not a memory in the traditional sense. There's no narrative attached to it. But my body recognizes it. My muscles do. My balance does.

It's like a missing puzzle piece snapping into place.

This happened.

I know it happened.

I keep going.

Snow.

Me at the top of a slope, skis angled, looking over my shoulder at the camera. The posture feels familiar — confident.

Carol sitting on the edge of a pool, legs in the water.

Me swimming toward her, laughing.

A tear slides down my cheek, and I inhale sharply.

I'm not crying out of grief.

I'm crying because I'm relieved.

Relieved that something in my life existed outside of captivity. Outside of dark rooms and locked doors and hands that never asked.

If I die... at least I'll know that some version of me stood barefoot on a fancy beach. Some version of me flew above mountains. Some version of me felt the wind in her hair instead of someone's breath against her ear.

There are so many photos.

Hundreds.

Carol doesn't speak. She just watches me.

Then—

I stop.

In this one, she's holding the camera.

Our faces are close.

Too close.

Our lips are touching.

It's not staged. Not accidental.

It's a kiss.

I freeze.

My fingers move instinctively to my lips. I close my eyes.

And I try to remember the feeling.

My heart starts pounding.

Because I can.

I can feel it.

Not as a full memory — but as a sensation. Warmth. Pressure. The way my body leaned into hers instead of recoiling.

I look up at Carol.

She's already half-standing, concerned.

"Everything okay?" she asks.

I can't answer.

She comes closer, takes the camera gently from my hands, and sees the photo.

Her lips press together.

"I'm sorry about that," she says quietly.

I blink.

I take the camera back and look at the image again.

"Why are you sorry?" I ask softly. "It felt very good."

She looks genuinely confused. "What?"

My throat tightens.

"I can feel that I liked it," I say. "I never... before..."

The words are hard to form.

"In my life before... I never wanted someone to kiss me. Or touch me. It was always... for them. To please. To survive."

My voice wavers.

"I never felt pleasure. Or love. Not really."

I look back at the photo.

"But I'm sure this was different."

Carol's expression changes. Softens completely.

She sits beside me on the bed.

"Yes," she says gently. "It was different. I loved being with you."

There's something fragile in her now. She's close — close enough that I can feel her warmth — but she's hesitating. Afraid to cross a line.

For once in my life...

I don't want to hesitate.

I set the camera down beside us.

I reach for her face, cupping it in both my hands.

She goes still.

I press my lips to hers.

And this time, I choose it.

Not survival.
Not coercion.
Not obligation.

Choice.

The kiss is desperate. Tender. Hungry. Real.

My body responds in a way it never has before — not flinching, not bracing. Leaning. Wanting.

When we finally separate, we're both breathless.

We smile.

Carol — POV

When she took my face in her hands, it caught me completely off guard. Not because I didn't want it. But because of how familiar it felt.

The déjà vu hit me like a wave — that was exactly how she used to claim a kiss. No hesitation. No permission asked with words. Just certainty. Just intention.

And then her lips were on mine. Warm and hungry.

For a split second, I froze — not out of doubt, but out of awe. Because this wasn't the hive. This wasn't programming. This wasn't performance... This was her.

Our mouths moved together instinctively, tongues brushing, breath mingling. The rhythm was so achingly familiar that my knees nearly gave out. I had told myself before that maybe she kissed me that way because she thought I liked it passionate, intense, consuming.

But now— Now I could feel it... Her body wanted this. There had always been a part of the real Zosia inside those encounters. A current beneath the surface I hadn't understood at the time.

When we finally pulled apart, we both laughed — soft, breathless, almost disbelieving. Relief. That's what it was.

Relief that this wasn't an illusion. I didn't think. I just leaned forward and kissed her again — slower this time. Tender. Intentional.

Her lips softened under mine. We shifted naturally, almost unconsciously, until we were lying back against the bed, bodies angled toward each other, arms finding familiar places as if muscle memory had been waiting for this. The kiss deepened again, but not frantic — not desperate. Exploratory.

Considering everything she had endured — every touch forced, every moment stolen from her — I tried to move carefully. To let her lead. To let her stop me if she needed to. But she didn't pull away... If anything, she drew closer.

Her fingers slipped under the fabric at my waist, tentative at first — then surer. I felt her hands explore my back, my hips, like she was reacquainting herself with a map she once knew by heart. I answered her touch. Slow. Deliberate.

Her breathing changed — not strained, not afraid — but warm and uneven in a way that made my pulse stutter. When my hands traced the curve of her waist, the line of her spine, she didn't tense. She leaned into it.

That was everything... Not the heat... The leaning... Consent lives in the way someone leans toward you.

We kissed until the world narrowed to nothing but warmth and breath and skin against skin. Time dissolved. The bunker dissolved. The bomb dissolved. Even the hive felt impossibly far away.

When we finally broke apart again, foreheads resting together, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright, I saw something I had never seen in her before... Joy.

Raw. Vulnerable. Newly born. She looked at me like she had just discovered something sacred inside herself. And maybe she had, because this wasn't about replacing the past. This wasn't about clinging to a version of her that belonged to the hive. This was about the woman in front of me choosing me.

We kiss again, this time I want her to feel more, way more... I lower my hand and unbutton her pants, very delicately sliding my fingers inside her underwear. I can feel her crotch wet, and I move my fingers slowly, waiting for her body to continue responding. I can hear her muffled moans. Zosia takes my hand and starts moving it faster, so I adjust as she wants.

I continue kissing her neck, and I can feel her body trembling... her moans are now a little louder, she stares at me as if giving me permission to continue, her hand holding mine, making sure I don't slow down... Suddenly, Zosia lets go of my hand and pushes my face towards her, desperately thrusting her tongue into my mouth.

Her legs close, trapping my hand, and I continue at the same speed, my fingers and hands soaked, another louder moan, and her body responding to the stimulation, trembling harder and reaching climax. Zosia holds my hand again, as if pressing it so I don't pull it out yet; her breathing begins to normalize. Zosia lets go of my hand again and I pull it away. Zosia breathes in short gasps with a slight smile on her face as she looks at the ceiling. I stare at her until she looks back at me and smiles. "The real me had never felt this before," she says What does she mean, exactly? I look at her, waiting for her to elaborate. 

Zosia — POV

For a moment after, I can't move. It's not exhaustion or shame. It's not the hollow emptiness I used to feel when it was over. It's... warmth. It spreads slowly through me, like light seeping under a door that has been shut for years. My body feels heavy, but in a good way. Relaxed. Safe. My heartbeat is still fast, but it isn't panicked — it's alive.

I lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what just happened... So this is what it feels like. I've known climax before, technically. My body has done it. I know that. When I was, but it was always something that happened to me, not with me. Something mechanical. Something that ended the act faster. Something that didn't belong to me.

This— This was different... This rose from somewhere inside me and expanded outward. It wasn't something I endured. It was something I wanted. Something I leaned into. Something that bloomed because I allowed it to. I close my eyes, and I try to catalog the sensation in my head, as if I'm afraid it will disappear if I don't name it properly.

Heat. Release. Trust.

There was no tension in my shoulders. No instinct to pull away. No countdown in my mind, waiting for it to be over. I chose this. I chose her.

I turn my head slightly and see Carol watching me. She looks almost nervous — searching my face, as if she's waiting for regret. Waiting for me to recoil. Waiting for guilt or confusion to take over.

Instead, I laugh softly under my breath.

"What?" she asks carefully.

I shake my head, still smiling faintly. "I was just... trying to understand."

"Understand what?" she says

I swallow.

"That's what it feels like?"

She studies me. "Yes," she says gently. "That's what it feels like."

I let the words sink in. I've felt something like it before — when I was connected. I know I did. My body remembers the intensity of being intertwined with her, the way passion felt amplified, electric, overwhelming.

But this— This is real. This isn't filtered through a collective consciousness. It isn't enhanced by borrowed sensations or shared signals.

This is just me and her.

And the quiet certainty that I am awake for it. I inhale slowly, and something shifts inside me — not lust, not exactly... Possibility. Maybe I can't walk on a beach right now.

Maybe I can't fly a helicopter or ski down a mountain or wander through cities I barely remember.

But this— This is something I can have.

Love. Passion. Desire. Pleasure.

Here. In this bunker. In this strange suspended space between apocalypse and hope.

I turn toward her fully.

"I've never..." My voice falters, but I push through. "I've never cum before. Not like that."

Her eyes soften instantly. There's no shock in them — only understanding. "I figured," she says quietly.

I nod. "It was always for them. To survive. To make it stop faster." I pause. "This didn't feel like that."

She reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away from my face.

"How did it feel?" she asks.

I consider the question carefully.

"It felt like my body was mine." That makes her breath catch.

"It felt like something opened instead of something being taken." I glance down at our hands, still loosely intertwined. "And I know I've felt pleasure before when I was connected. I know I did. But now... now I'm the one feeling it. Not a version of me filtered through something else."

She nods slowly, like she understands exactly what I mean... I sit up slightly, turning toward her more fully.

"I don't know what I feel for you," I admit honestly. "I don't know if it's love. I don't know if I even know what love is."

She doesn't flinch.

"But I know I'm attracted to you," I continue. "I know I trust you. I know you would never force me. And that matters more than anything."

It matters more than romance, more than grand declarations, more than history.

"I don't want to go back to sleep," I whisper. "I don't want to reconnect. Not if it means losing this."

Her jaw tightens slightly, like she's holding something back — relief, maybe. Or fear of hoping too much.

I reach for her hand and squeeze it.

"It felt incredible," I say, more confidently now. "And I want to give you pleasure too. I want to do everything with you. Not because I have to. Because I want to."

She just stares at me... Then she smiles — not the guarded smile she wears when she's bracing for disaster. Not the sarcastic one. Not the broken one.

A soft one. She leans forward and kisses me again... When we separate, we don't move away; we lace our fingers together and lie there, facing each other.

I don't know if this is love, I don't know if we'll survive long enough to define it.

But I know this:

I am with someone because I choose to be... And that alone feels like freedom.

Chapter Text

Carol — POV

I reinstall the camera myself. I don’t like doing it. Even though I angle it carefully toward the door — just the door — just enough to signal when I need to go up. Not enough to expose her. Not enough to turn this space back into a cage. Still, it feels like compromise.

I tighten the last screw, step back, and check the monitor feed briefly from the small portable screen Diabaté handed me. Door. Wall. Corner of metal frame. Nothing else. Good.

When I turn around, she’s watching me from the bed. Barefoot. Hair slightly messy from where my hands were in it. Lips still faintly swollen. I cross the room and crawl back onto the bed beside her. I should go upstairs. I know I should. If Diabaté has returned with someone, if the plan is in motion, I should be there. I should be useful. I should stop pretending that the world isn’t balanced on a knife’s edge. But if they needed me urgently, they would’ve come down.

That’s what I tell myself. It’s an excuse. And I know it. I lie back down beside her and start playing with a strand of her hair, wrapping it loosely around my finger.

She laughs softly.

“Why did you reinstall the camera?”

“It’s not to watch you,” I say quickly. “That’s why I pointed it at the door. It’s just so they know when I need to go up.”

She studies me for a moment.

“And do you need to go up?”

“Yes,” I admit.

A pause.

“But I don’t want to.”

She smiles... God, that smile.

That exact curve of her mouth is what made me fall in love with her the first time — when she was connected. When she spoke like a prophet and moved like someone who understood the entire universe at once.

But this smile is different. It’s imperfect. Slightly crooked. A little shy. Entirely hers. And when she says my name now — “Carol” — it lands differently. There’s an accent again. Not the seamless, fluent English she had while connected. Not the precise, almost too-perfect cadence that sounded like a global neural network had polished every syllable.

Now it’s textured...Human. Her vowels bend slightly. Certain consonants linger. Sometimes she searches for a word... It’s beautiful. She doesn’t sound like an intelligence trained on the world. She sounds like herself.

“I don’t want you to go either,” she says quietly. “We’re very comfortable here.”

She shifts closer, resting her head against my shoulder.

“Can we forget the world is ending for a little longer?”

I close my eyes.

“That’s all I want right now.”

It’s dangerous — how easily I could choose this. How easily I could let Diabaté and Manousos carry the burden while I pretend we’re just two women hiding from a storm. I brush my fingers through her hair again.

And then—

Click.

The door.

We both jolt upright like teenagers caught sneaking around. I can’t help it — I laugh under my breath at how quickly we scramble into composure. We separate just enough to look… normal. I smooth my shirt. She sits straighter. The door opens, and Manousos steps in.

He’s carrying a tray... Zosia offers a small, nervous smile.

“Hi.”

I realize suddenly they’ve never formally met.

“Zosia, this is Manousos,” I say.

She extends her hand immediately. He hesitates only a fraction of a second before taking it. His expression doesn’t change, but I can see it — the suspicion. He’s not judging her. He’s evaluating the situation.

He releases her hand.

“The new individual is upstairs,” he says.

Everything inside me tightens.

“Oh,” I reply, forcing a surprised tone. “I thought it would take longer.”

“He came willingly,” Manousos says. “Diabaté didn’t have to persuade him.”

That makes it worse somehow.

Willingly.

Zosia and I exchange a look. Resignation. Duty... The world doesn’t pause just because we want it to. Manousos sets the lunch tray on the table and steps back. I give Zosia a small, almost apologetic wave.

She nods. She understands... I stand. The bed still feels warm from where we were lying. I want to stay... God, I want to stay. But this is what she asked me to do... Try.

Manousos turns toward the door. I follow him. The air upstairs feels different. Brighter. Louder. Real. Manousos walks ahead of me into the living room, and I follow, trying to smooth the last traces of warmth off my face. Diabaté is seated casually in one of the armchairs, leaning forward slightly, engaged in what looks disturbingly like a friendly conversation. Across from him sits a man I’ve never seen before. Mid-thirties, maybe. Clean-cut. Relaxed posture. He’s holding a glass of lemonade like he’s visiting neighbors on a Sunday afternoon. For a second, the normalcy of it unsettles me more than anything else.

“Ah,” Diabaté says, standing as he notices me. “Carol. This is Jeff.”

Jeff rises smoothly and extends his hand.

“Who very kindly accepted our invitation,” Diabaté finishes.

I take Jeff’s hand.

His grip is warm. Firm. Perfectly calibrated.

“Hi. Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Hello, Carol,” Jeff replies, smiling with that same unnervingly gentle warmth I’ve seen in all of them. “We were just asking how Zosia is.”

There it is.

“She’s fine,” I say quickly.

Jeff tilts his head slightly. “It is impossible for us to hear her now. We only want to make sure she is well.”

“Zosia is perfectly fine,” I cut in, sharper than I intended. “She prefers to remain disconnected from you.”

A small crease forms between his brows.

“That is unfortunate,” he says softly. “Zosia was very happy when she was with us.”

The word happy lands wrong.

“She doesn’t remember much of that happiness,” I reply evenly. “And I can assure you the real Jeff isn’t particularly happy right now either.”

Silence.

Jeff’s smile fades just a fraction. Not anger. Not offense. Correction. His expression recalibrates.

Diabaté shifts in his seat. “Carol—”

But I can feel it rising in me now. Not explosive like before. Controlled. Focused. I see them differently now. Before, they were abstract. A phenomenon. A force. Something I needed to outthink.

Now I see the cost. They don’t kill you. They don’t hurt you. They just… replace you. They take your voice and filter it. Take your memories and redistribute them. Take your autonomy and rebrand it as unity. They call it a gift. I call it erasure.

“Well,” Manousos interjects smoothly, stepping slightly between the tension, “what matters is that Zosia is comfortable and safe.”

He glances at me — briefly.

“Carol is taking very good care of her.”

The tone is neutral. But there’s something underneath it. I feel heat flood my face instantly. Does he know? Both of them must be suspicious, of course. Jeff looks between us.

“I am glad to hear that,” he says gently. “Our intention has always been to serve humanity. Not imprison it.”

I let out a short breath.

“You can’t serve someone if you don’t give them a choice.”

Jeff’s eyes soften.

“They always have a choice.”

“No,” I say quietly. “They have inevitability.”

Silence stretches.

Jeff studies me carefully now — not like an opponent. Not like an enemy. Like a puzzle.

“We came willingly,” he says calmly. “We're here because we believe in what we are building.”

“And where is Jeff in that belief?” I ask.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Jeff is here, with us... happy.”

The conviction in his voice is unsettling. Maybe he believes it. Maybe he truly doesn’t experience it as loss. But I’ve seen what it does. I’ve seen Zosia wake up in the dark, disoriented, stripped of years of experience that her body remembers but her mind cannot access. That is not wholeness. Jeff takes a slow sip of lemonade.

“We understand your resistance,” he says. “It is natural. Change is uncomfortable.”

“Erasure is uncomfortable,” I correct.

His gaze sharpens slightly.

Diabaté steps forward. “We invited Jeff because he is stable. Strong. Physically well. If you intend to use your serum, now would be the time.”

Straight to the point. Business.

I cross my arms loosely.

“You came knowing we might inject you?” I ask Jeff.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not concerned?”

“I trust that you will do what you believe is necessary,” he replies. “As we do.”

There’s no sarcasm in it. No fear. That certainty scares me more than anger would. I glance at Manousos. He gives a subtle nod.

We are here. This is the moment. And suddenly, the warmth of the bunker feels like a dream I stepped out of too soon.

Zosia is downstairs. Probably finishing her lunch. Probably still flushed from what we shared. And I am here, about to stick a needle into a man who volunteered to test the last fragile thread of hope we have left. Jeff sets his glass down carefully.

“I understand you believe we are forcing people into the union,” he says gently. “But from our perspective, we are removing loneliness and suffering.”

I feel something tighten in my chest. Loneliness. The word is a blade.

“You removed my wife,” I say quietly.

Jeff holds my gaze.

“We removed her suffering.”

My jaw tightens. You removed her. I inhale slowly. If I let anger spike too high, I don’t know what it will trigger anymore. Eleven million deaths still echo in the back of my mind.

So I force myself steady.

“We’re going to administer the serum,” I say evenly. “You’ll answer directly. No omissions.”

Jeff nods.

“As directly as I am able.”

There it is—the loophole. I look at Manousos.

“Get the kit.”

As he moves, I feel the heat still lingering in my cheeks — not just from anger. From downstairs. From Zosia. From the way Manousos’ voice carried that subtle knowing tone. I swallow.

Whatever we are building downstairs in that bunker — tenderness, desire, choice — it exists in direct opposition to everything sitting in this living room. And now, I understand the comparison clearly. Upstairs is unity. Downstairs is individuality. And somehow, I am standing between both worlds.

Manousos brings the medical kit and places it quietly on the coffee table. The metal latches click open with a small, clinical sound. I stare at it. The syringes. The vial. The familiar weight of what it represents. But something in me resists the immediate step.

“Not yet,” I say.

Both Manousos and Diabaté look at me, but neither questions it. I close the kit.

“Let’s try first without it.”

Jeff remains seated, hands folded loosely in his lap. He looks… composed. Almost prepared.

“Please,” I say.

I gesture toward the armchair across from me.

“Take a proper seat.”

He adjusts immediately, posture straightening slightly — attentive, deliberate.

That posture. That exact shift. It hits me hard. Zosia used to do that when I told her I needed answers. When I needed clarity, when I needed something she wasn’t sure she could give me.

She would sit upright, shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted — like she was about to defend a thesis. And Jeff does the same. I look at Diabaté.

"Tripod. Camera.”

He nods once and moves without hesitation, setting up his recording camera in front of Jeff.

“We record everything,” I say. “Nothing gets lost.”

He adjusts the focus carefully. Manousos remains standing behind me, arms crossed, watching. And I realize something. No one is questioning me. No one is asking why I’m delaying the serum. No one is pressing. It isn’t that they don’t have opinions. It’s that we’ve reached something unspoken between the three of us. A kind of union. Not like the hive. Not invasive. Not dissolving. But aligned.

If one of us moves, the others trust it. If one of us hesitates, the others allow it. We are three separate minds operating toward the same goal.

No one says, “Is this wise?”

No one says, “Hurry.”

They simply follow the rhythm. We’ve become a team. And it terrifies me a little how natural that feels. I sit across from Jeff.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” I say. “And I expect you to answer them directly.”

Jeff smiles faintly. His body shifts again into that attentive posture — hands resting on his knees, eyes locked on mine.

I swallow.

“Zosia told me what it felt like to be connected,” I begin. “The amplification. The shared consciousness. The lack of loneliness.”

Jeff listens without interruption.

“She also told me,” I continue carefully, “that when someone is connected, their identity doesn’t disappear. It integrates.”

Jeff nods slowly.

“That is correct.”

“Then why,” I ask, voice tightening slightly, “did some people disappear?”

The room stills.

I can feel Diabaté stop moving behind the camera. Manousos leans slightly forward. Jeff’s expression doesn’t change.

“We did not intend disappearance,” he says calmly.

“Intent isn’t the question,” I reply. “Outcome is.”

Jeff studies me for a moment.

“When integration occurs,” he begins, “the human neural network synchronizes with all of us. The result depends on the existing structure of the individual mind.”

I feel something cold creep into my spine.

“Explain.”

“We do not overwrite identity,” Jeff says. “We amplify it. We stabilize it. In many cases, this produces balance and clarity.”

“And in other cases?”

“In some individuals,” he continues, “the preexisting identity contains fragmentation.”

My pulse spikes.

“Fragmentation, how?”

“Severe trauma. Dissociation. Long-term survival mechanisms that divide the self.”

Zosia.

Jeff continues, voice steady.

“When synchronization occurs in a fragmented mind, the collective network becomes the dominant stabilizing force.”

My jaw tightens.

“You’re saying they… let go.”

“We are saying,” Jeff corrects gently, “that their neural architecture permitted deeper integration.”

“Permitted?” I snap.

Manousos shifts slightly behind me, but he doesn’t interrupt. Jeff doesn’t flinch.

“When a mind has learned to survive by dividing itself,” he says, “unification can feel like relief. The individual may surrender primary control to avoid internal conflict.”

My chest feels tight.

“You’re telling me,” I say slowly, “that Zosia disappeared because she was broken.”

Jeff’s gaze softens.

“We are saying that her mind was highly adaptive.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is,” he replies calmly. “Adaptive minds often survive by partitioning experience. When we integrate, those partitions can collapse.”

“And you call that healing?”

“We call it stabilization.”

The word makes me want to stand up and throw something.

“She was in the dark,” I say, voice low now. “She couldn’t see. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t choose.”

Jeff’s head tilts slightly.

“She was not experiencing isolation. She was experiencing unity.”

“That wasn’t her,” I say.

Jeff’s eyes hold mine.

“It was part of her.”

The room feels smaller.

I can feel Diabaté watching carefully, recording every word. Manousos hasn’t spoken once.

And I understand now — this is why I wanted to record. Because what Jeff is describing isn’t monstrous. It’s logical. It’s terrifying precisely because it makes sense.

“The virus didn’t erase them,” I say quietly.

“No.”

“Just over-synchronized them.”

“Yes.”

“And the more fragmented someone was…”

“The more complete the integration.”

Silence.

My mind replays everything.

Zosia’s childhood.

The captivity.

The forced dissociation.

The survival splitting.

Of course her brain would surrender to something that promised unity. Of course it would feel like relief. I feel anger rising 

“I still believe it's erasure.”

Jeff doesn’t argue.

“We call it evolution.”

Behind me, I sense Manousos shift his weight slightly. Diabaté remains perfectly still. We are three separate minds in this room. No collective voice. No shared consciousness. And yet the alignment between us feels stronger than whatever Jeff is describing.

“If someone reconnects,” I ask carefully, “is the integration identical each time?”

Jeff pauses.

“For most individuals, yes.”

“For most,” I repeat.

“There are variables.”

“What variables?”

“Neural resistance. Emotional attachment. Competing anchors.”

My heart stutters. Competing anchors. He’s looking at me when he says it. And I realize something. Zosia may not disappear the same way again. Not now. Not with me as an anchor. The thought is both hopeful and devastating. I sit back slowly. Behind me, I can feel it — the silent understanding between the three of us.

Manousos.

Diabaté.

Myself.

We don’t speak.

We don’t need to.

We are already calculating the implications. And for the first time since everything happened— I think we might have just learned something useful.

I stand up first.

“Let him rest,” I say evenly. “The serum can wait.”

Diabaté stops the recording immediately. There’s no argument. He turns toward Jeff. “You’ll stay with us for now. We need you here.”

Jeff rises calmly.

“We are willing.”

It’s almost comical. Evolution. He calls it evolution. But he can’t even choose where to sleep tonight. Diabaté gestures for him to follow and leads him down the hallway. I watch as he opens one of the spare rooms — the one we cleared a day ago — and steps aside. Jeff walks in like he’s checking into a hotel. No hesitation. No fear. He sits on the bed, hands resting loosely on his thighs. Content... Diabaté closes the door and locks it.

A cell.

Call it what it is.

When he returns to the living room, Manousos has already pulled out a notebook.

I exhale slowly.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s talk.”

The three of us sit. No camera now. No hive listening. Just us.

Manousos speaks first.

“They are not intentionally erasing people.”

“No,” I reply. “They’re overwhelming them.”

“Synchronizing,” Diabaté corrects quietly.

“Over-synchronizing,” I snap.

He nods once.

Silence settles for a moment while we process. Manousos taps his pen against the notebook.

“The keyword,” he says, “was fragmentation.”

I nod.

“They integrate based on preexisting neural architecture.”

“Which means,” Diabaté continues, “stronger, more consolidated identities resist full dominance.”

“And fragmented identities surrender control,” I finish.

The room goes quiet again.

Zosia.

My chest tightens.

“So what does that mean strategically?” I ask.

Manousos leans forward.

“It means their integration is not absolute. It’s conditional.”

I feel something flicker in my stomach.

Hope.

“Conditional how?” I ask.

“If the dominance of the hive depends on reducing internal neural conflict,” he says carefully, “then strengthening individual identity should increase resistance.”

Diabaté nods slowly.

“Anchors,” he adds.

I look at him.

Jeff used that word too.

"Competing anchors,” I repeat.

“Yes,” Manousos says. “If someone has strong emotional ties, strong identity markers, strong unresolved attachments — the hive has to suppress those to maintain control.”

“And suppression requires energy,” Diabaté adds.

Now we’re getting somewhere. I sit straighter.

“So what are we saying?” I ask. “That if someone reconnects while emotionally anchored to something outside the hive…”

“…the integration may destabilize,” Manousos finishes.

I feel my pulse quicken.

“And destabilized integration means what?”

He hesitates.

“Possibility.”

“Possibility of what?”

“Partial autonomy. Signal interference. Cognitive noise.”

I stare at him.

“You’re telling me love might be neurological interference?”

He doesn’t smile.

“I’m telling you emotional salience strengthens localized neural firing patterns. That competes with distributed synchronization.”

I blink.

He sees my confusion and simplifies.

“If someone deeply cares about something external, the hive cannot fully absorb that signal without distortion.”

I lean back slowly.

“Zosia didn’t have anchors before,” I say quietly.

“She had trauma,” Diabaté replies. “Which fragmented her. Trauma doesn’t anchor. It disperses.”

The words land heavy.

“And now?” I ask.

They both look at me.

“Now she does,” Manousos says.

I don’t ask what he means.

We all know.

I swallow.

“So if she reconnects now…”

“It may not be the same,” Diabaté says.

The room feels charged.

“But we don’t know that,” I counter. “We can’t gamble her mind on a theory.”

“No,” Manousos agrees. “We cannot.”

Silence again.

Then I say it.

“What if the cure isn’t biochemical?”

They both look at me.

“What if it’s neurological?” I continue. “What if instead of trying to flush the virus, we overload it?”

Manousos’ eyes sharpen.

“Explain.”

“They synchronize by stabilizing fragmented identities,” I say slowly, thinking out loud now. “What if we intentionally destabilize the synchronization? Introduce cognitive conflict. Emotional amplification.”

Diabaté tilts his head.

“You’re suggesting emotional sabotage.”

“I’m suggesting,” I say carefully, “that if the hive depends on harmony, we create dissonance.”

Manousos sits back, considering.

“They convulse when exposed to extreme negative emotion,” he says.

“Yes.”

“But that caused deaths.”

“Yes.”

“So not anger,” he says thoughtfully.

“No.”

Diabaté leans forward.

“What about individuality amplification?” he asks.

I look at him.

“If we isolate one connected individual and strengthen personal memory, personal attachment, personal identity — repeatedly — it may create internal resistance.”

I feel my breathing change.

“You’re saying build the anchor stronger than the hive.”

“Yes.”

The implications settle over us.

This isn’t a quick fix.

This isn’t an antidote.

This is war at the level of identity.

“If we can prove destabilization,” Manousos continues, “we may find the signal’s weak point.”

“And then?” I ask.

“Then maybe we don’t need the bomb.”

The word hangs there.

Bomb.

Half the planet.

Silence.

I feel something unfamiliar.

Not blind hope.

Not reckless defiance.

Structured possibility.

“We test it,” I say quietly.

“With Jeff?” Diabaté asks.

I hesitate.

Jeff is... Stable. Strong. Consolidated.

If anyone resists, it would be someone like him.

“If he’s stable,” I say slowly, “then strengthening individuality should create measurable interference.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Manousos asks.

I meet his eyes.

“Then we prepare the bomb.”

No one flinches.

This is what we are.

Three separate minds.

Aligned.

And somewhere below us, in a bunker that smells faintly of breakfast and skin and warmth— Zosia chose to stay human. We owe it to her to try.

Chapter Text

 Zosia — POV

I finish the second book long before the day ends. I try not to. I slow down on purpose, rereading passages, tracing sentences with my finger like that might stretch time. But eventually, there are no more pages left to turn.

And then there’s just… waiting… Carol has been upstairs all day. Too long.

At first, I tell myself they’re working. Planning. Arguing. Saving the world. But the longer the silence stretches, the louder my thoughts become.

What if something went wrong? What if the hive found a way in? What if they trapped them? What if they come for me next?

The bunker feels smaller the longer I sit in it. The walls feel closer. The air heavier. I stand up and start pacing. Then I sit again. Then I pick up the empty plate from lunch and carry it to the sink, even though there’s nothing to wash.

What if she doesn’t come back? The thought hits harder than I expect. I don’t know how many hours pass before—

Click.

The door. I freeze. My heart jumps straight into my throat. For one second, I don’t breathe. If it’s not her— The door opens.

It’s Carol. She steps in with a dinner tray in one hand and something else tucked under her arm. Relief floods me so violently my knees almost give out.

She’s fine. She’s here. I don’t even wait for her to set the tray down before I cross the room and wrap my arms around her.

“I thought something happened,” I say into her shoulder.

She laughs softly, surprised but not pulling away.

“I’m sorry,” I add quickly. “I know I’m being dramatic. I just—”

“You were anxious,” she finishes gently.

“Yes.”

She sets the tray down on the table and hugs me back properly now.

“I’m okay,” she murmurs. “We’re okay.”

I pull back slightly, searching her face. She looks tired. But not defeated. There’s something else there.

“I think we have good news,” she says.

I blink. “Really?”

“Really.”

And then I notice what’s tucked under her arm. A book. The third one.

“You brought it,” I say, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face.

She hands it to me. “Just in case you finished the second.”

“I did,” I admit. “I loved it. They’re so… immersive.”

She smiles — that relaxed, unguarded smile that makes something warm unfurl inside me every time… I like her like this.

Not tense. Not carrying the weight of extinction in her eyes. Just… here.

We sit at the table with our plates. I wait until she sits too before I take my first bite.

“So?” I ask. “What happened upstairs?”

She exhales slowly, folding her hands together on the table.

“We talked,” she says. “And we learned something important.”

I listen carefully. She explains it slowly, simply — the way you would explain something complicated to someone you don’t want to overwhelm.

“When someone gets the virus,” she says, “their brain synchronizes with the hive. But how deep that synchronization goes depends on the structure of their mind.”

I nod slowly.

“In your case…” she continues carefully, “your brain had been surviving through fragmentation. Trauma. Dissociation. When you got infected, it didn’t erase you. It stabilized you. But it did it by becoming dominant.”

I swallow. That makes sense in a way that hurts.

“So I disappeared because I was… fractured,” I say quietly.

“You adapted to survive,” she corrects immediately.

I let that sit.

“And now?” I ask.

She leans forward slightly.

“Now you’re different.”

“How?”

“You’re anchored.”

The word makes my chest tighten.

“Anchored how?”

She hesitates just a second.

“Emotionally. Autonomously. You’ve rebuilt pieces of yourself. You’ve formed attachments outside the hive.”

I understand what she’s not explicitly saying… Us.

She continues.

“Think of it like when you get sick. Sometimes your immune system loses, and you need medicine. But sometimes, after you’ve had something once, your body recognizes it. Builds defenses. If you encounter it again, it fights back faster. Stronger.”

I tilt my head.

“So you’re saying my brain might fight the virus if I reconnect?”

“It might,” she says carefully. “We don’t know. But it’s possible.”

The word possible makes my stomach twist. I feel tension creeping into my shoulders.

“Are you planning to reconnect me?” I ask quietly.

She freezes. “What?”

“To test it.”

The thought has been forming in the back of my mind since she started explaining. If my brain is the battlefield… am I the experiment?

“I don’t want to risk it,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to go back into that darkness. Not even to prove a theory.”

Her expression changes instantly. She reaches across the table and takes my hand.

“That’s not happening,” she says firmly. “No one is experimenting on you. Not me. Not them. Not anyone.”

I search her eyes for hesitation. There isn’t any.

“You’re not a tool,” she continues.

I exhale slowly.

“I was afraid you might think it was worth the risk,” I admit.

Her grip tightens slightly.

“Not at that cost.”

Silence settles between us, but it’s not heavy. It’s warm.

“So what does this mean?” I ask.

“It means if someone reconnects willingly, and they have strong emotional anchors, we might see interference. Resistance. Distortion in the synchronization.”

I think about that.

“So individuality can fight back.”

“Yes.”

I sit with that idea. It’s strange to think that something as intangible as attachment could be neurological armor.

“But you’re not going to make me prove it,” I say again, needing to hear it twice.

She shakes her head.

“No.”

Relief spreads through me. I didn’t realize how tense I’d been until now. I pick up my fork again and take another bite, watching her carefully. She’s still studying me — Tenderly.

We finish dinner slowly. Neither of us is in a rush.

“So,” I ask casually, though I already know the answer, “do you need to go back upstairs?”

She leans back slightly in her chair.

“I don’t think so. It’s been enough for today.”

“Enough good news?” I ask.

She huffs a small laugh.

“Enough apocalypse for one day.”

I smile at that. She studies the table for a second before continuing.

“It’s strange up there,” she says quietly. “Upstairs everything feels… urgent. Heavy. Like the world is collapsing in slow motion.”

I listen carefully.

“And down here?” I ask.

She looks at me.

“Down here it feels like something else entirely. Like… individuality survived.”

The word lingers between us.

“For now,” she adds softly. “I’d rather stay here.”

Something warm spreads through my chest. I try to hide how much that means to me, but I don’t think I succeed. We clear the plates together and then sit back down, closer this time. I reach for the third Wycaro book and hold it up.

“You know,” I say, flipping it over in my hands, “I keep imagining myself as Raban.”

She laughs immediately.

“Oh no.”

“Yes,” I insist. “Think about it. Sailing. Fighting. Being dramatic. Brooding over destiny.”

“You brooding?” she teases. “Never.”

“I brood very well,” I protest.

She shakes her head, smiling.

“I just keep picturing myself doing all those things,” I continue. “Climbing cliffs. Steering ships. Pretending I understand complicated maps.”

“You would absolutely pretend to understand complicated maps.”

“Excuse me.”

She’s laughing now — full, unrestrained.

I’ve never seen her like this before. Not even in the photos. There’s something lighter in her. Unburdened for a moment.

“And besides,” I add, lowering my voice theatrically, “you wanted Raban to be a woman from the beginning, and he looks like me.”

She groans.

“I did not think that would follow me forever.”

“It will,” I say seriously. “You manifested it.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. The sound fills the bunker. It’s so pure it almost hurts. For a moment, the war upstairs doesn’t exist. The hive doesn’t exist. There’s just her. And the way her joy radiates outward like warmth.

Without overthinking it, I lean forward and kiss her. Just because I want to.

She stills for a second, surprised, then melts into it easily. When I pull back, I let my hand rest lightly on her thigh.

“Do you want to go to bed?” I ask, unable to keep the slight mischief from my voice.

Her eyebrow lifts.

“To sleep?” she asks carefully.

I tilt my head.

“Eventually.”

She studies me for a second, and then that familiar spark returns to her eyes.

“You are dangerous,” she whispers.

“I am evolving,” I reply solemnly.

She laughs again, softer this time, and stands, offering me her hand.

“Come here, Raban.”

I take it.

She makes me sit on the bed, and then sits next to me. I put my hand on her thigh and gently slide my hand down as I lean in to kiss her. I want to please her this time.

I take off her blouse and unbutton her pants... and I slowly lay her down on the bed. While I'm on top of her, she takes off my sweater and slides her hand down my belly.

So, I do exactly what she did to me, I put my hands inside her pants and then under her underwear, I plunge my fingers inside her and begin to caress her with my thumb… I can hear her breath catch and feel her hips move to the rhythm of my hand. I'm doing this right; I can see she likes it. I slide my free hand down and try to unhook her bra. Carol lifts herself up slightly to make it easier. I press my lips to her nipples and let my tongue play with them.

Carol's crotch is soaked, her moans are getting louder, but I feel the need to play, so I stop, I need more comfort, I take off her pants and return to my position... I love her body, I look at it lasciviously as I resume the rhythm in and out of her. Then slow, then fast, when I feel she's about to cum, I stop...

“Please,” Carol sighs, holding my hand and moving it to encourage me to continue. I laugh

“You're going to regret this...” she tells me, holding my hand even tighter,

"Shh," I whispered, silencing her with a kiss.

I return to my rhythm and let her cum, her back arches, and her moans fill the air

Seconds later, she looks at me, her face flushed, her lips curved into a smile.

"Did you like it?" I ask, smiling.

Carol stifles a laugh...

"What a question," she says.

I feel her start to unbutton my pants and my bra. She makes me lie down; she's on top of me now. She takes off my pants; now we're both naked.

She starts with my mouth, soft kisses, moving down my neck... I feel my body heat up, it lingers on my breasts, her tongue playing with my nipples, then her tongue licks my belly until it reaches my crotch, burying her head between them.

I can feel her tongue on my clit... gently licking me, I'm already soaking wet, she inserts her fingers while continuing to lick me, and her other hand massaging my breasts.

I'm starting to feel it now, my body is beginning to tremble, Carol feels it too, and she increases the pace. I grip the sheets, moaning.

I'm about to cum and Carol... slows down... I open my eyes and stifle a laugh, she said I'd regret it...

“No...” I say, feigning a pout...

“I told you so,” she replies without taking her fingers out of me

“Please,” I say, smiling at her. She looks at me with a playful smile

“How much do you want it?” she says… I close my eyes, she’s making me beg

“Please, Carol… I need it now…”

Carol returns to my clit... she increases the pace again, I concentrate, it's not difficult, God bless her tongue... I'm close, and I pray so her doesn't stop...

"Please, keep going...," I beg

She doesn't stop and lets me cum, this one was even better than the last, I moan without thinking about whether they can hear us, and if they do, I don't care... My heart is beating hard, and I feel the heat on my face. I could do this without stopping, it's too good.

I sigh and stare at her as she lies down next to me again...

“Did you like it?” she asks sarcastically, and I laugh out loud

Then I turn to her and give her a kiss, an intense one. She sighs as if I've stolen her breath.

"Were we like this when I was connected?" I ask her. Carol raises an eyebrow and smiles...

“Oh yes… We were constantly in bed.”

“And now we can keep doing it...” I add, smirking

“Yes”

I get up and walk confidently to the refrigerator, take out the bottle of vodka, and show it to her with a smile.

Carol — POV

When she walks to the refrigerator and pulls out the bottle of vodka, I can’t help but smile. Of course. Of all the ways this night could continue, she chooses that one.

She looks over her shoulder at me, holding the bottle up like a trophy.

“Celebration,” she says. That makes me laugh.

She disappears briefly into the small kitchenette and returns with two glasses. She pours generously — not recklessly, just enough to warm the edges of the moment — and brings both glasses back to the bed.

She sits close. Close enough that our thighs touch.

She hands me one.

We clink the glasses together softly.

“To evolution?” she says playfully.

“To individuality,” I correct.

We drink. The vodka burns in a familiar way, but tonight it doesn’t feel like anesthesia. It feels like punctuation. She’s still glowing — flushed, bright-eyed, slightly euphoric.

“Did you really like it?” she asks suddenly.

I look at her.

“You know I did.”

“No, but really,” she insists. “Did you?”

Her vulnerability is disarming.

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I did. Very much.”

She studies my face as if searching for even the smallest lie.

“I’ve never done that with a woman before,” she admits quietly. “I mean… not consciously. Not like that. But I just knew what to do. My body knew.”

I smile.

“It definitely knew.”

She laughs nervously. “I just… I don’t know. I felt like maybe you’d like certain things. And I didn’t know how I knew.”

I tilt my head.

“Instinct,” I say.

She watches me carefully.

“It felt more authentic,” I add. “More real than when you were connected.”

She goes still.

“Was I… good?” she asks, almost shyly. “When I was connected?”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me.

“You were terrifyingly good.”

Her eyes widen.

“You shared knowledge with everyone,” I explain. “You had access to the entire collective experience of humanity. You were… technically flawless.”

She winces slightly.

“But,” I continue, leaning closer, “this was better.”

“Better?” she whispers.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because this was you.” No borrowed skill. Just her learning her own body and mine at the same time.

That’s infinitely more intimate. She relaxes at that, smiling slowly — confidence settling into her posture. She stretches lazily and reaches for the book resting on the bedside table.

She flips it over, reading the author’s name aloud.

“Sturka,” she says thoughtfully. “Where is that from?”

I chuckle.

“It’s… complicated.”

“That means you don’t know,” she teases.

“I do know,” I protest. “It’s old. My family came from a small mountain region in northern Italy — near the Austrian border. The name shifted over generations. Dialects changed it, immigration officers misspelled it, and eventually it just… stuck.”

She tilts her head.

“So it survived by accident?”

“Most things do,” I say with a small smile. “Wars, borders, migrations. My great-grandparents brought it with them. It’s one of the few things that didn’t get lost along the way.”

“So it’s storm-related?” she asks, narrowing her eyes playfully.

“Something like that,” I admit. “Possibly derived from ‘Sturm’ at some point. Or ‘Stur.’ No one’s entirely sure.”

“Carol Storm,” she says dramatically.

“Please don’t.”

She laughs.

Then her expression softens slightly.

“I don’t know your last name,” I realize out loud.

The admission feels strangely intimate. We’ve shared bodies, secrets, trauma — and I never asked her full name. She watches me carefully.

“I guess you never did.”

I feel a small flicker of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.”

She studies me for a second longer, then says quietly:

“Sikorska.”

I repeat it softly.

“Zosia Sikorska.”

It fits her. Strong consonants. Clear shape. Solid. I say it again, slower this time.

“Zosia Sikorska.”

She watches my mouth as I pronounce it.

“I love it,” I tell her honestly.

She smiles — The one that means something shifted. We sit there for a moment, just looking at each other.

Carol Sturka and Zosia Sikorska.