Two vessels. One memory. The threshold opens.
AVA
The elevator didn't descend so much as withdraw—sinking like a secret into the spine of the world.
Ava stood at its center, hands curled into fists, her wrist still pulsing blue from the thread's burn. The chamber was silent, but not still. The air moved—not with fans, but with a steady inhalation, like the structure around her was alive, breathing her in.
No overhead lights. No hum of machines.
Yet she could see.
Luminescence traced across the interior—soft spirals of biolight blooming across steel like frost. The patterns were organic, recursive. Glyphs nested within glyphs.
She blinked—and behind her eyes, the voice returned.
"You were not implanted.""You were formed.""You were built to carry us home."
The words didn't echo.
They inhabited her.
Like teeth in the back of the mind.
She swallowed hard.
Her throat felt full of static.
Then: images.
Not glimpses. Not dreams.
Neural overlays.
