Some things aren't remembered. They remember you.
Ava
The pod pulsed once more, then fell still—like a breath held in anticipation.
Ava didn't move.
Her wrist still throbbed where the thread had touched her, but it was no longer pain—it was rhythm. Her body was adjusting. No, synchronizing.
With what, she didn't fully understand.
Yet.
The floor beneath her shifted. A vibration, soft but purposeful. The platform on which the pod rested began to rotate, the center seam splitting into a perfect circle. It lowered with mechanical grace, revealing a hidden shaft beneath the sealed cradle.
A descent chamber.
Ava's pulse quickened.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Her instincts were quiet, not alarmed.
It was as though every cell in her body had waited for this.
The pod descended into the dark, and her feet followed.
Without hesitation.
The moment she stepped onto the platform, the chamber closed behind her with a breathless hiss.
Then—blackness.
No light.
No display.
