Violet Eyes
It began with silence. Not the kind that comes with peace, but the kind that settles before a collapse. Lex had been distant for days. He moved like himself, smiled like himself, but there was something hollow in his gaze—like he was watching the world from behind his own eyes. Rhea noticed it first when he forgot Kaia's name. Just for a second. A flicker. Then he corrected himself and kissed Rhea's cheek like nothing had happened. But Kaia, barely more than a month old, stared up at him with wide, knowing eyes and did not blink. That night, Lex stood in the nursery, rocking Kaia in his arms while humming a lullaby he'd never learned. Rhea walked in and froze. His eyes glinted violet. The glow faded instantly, but Kaia whimpered softly, burying her face in her mother's neck. Rhea held her close and whispered, "Lex?" He turned. Smiled. "I'm fine." But the voice was too smooth. Too perfect. She didn't believe it. She ran a scan while he slept and what she found shattered her. Nine's signal signature—one she'd memorized from her own days as Muri—was embedded in the lower neural frequencies. Not manipulating Lex. Not haunting him. Integrating. Rhea's hands trembled. "She never left… she's becoming him."
The next morning, Lex was gone. He left behind a note, but the handwriting was sharp, deliberate, nothing like his usual quick scrawl. Don't follow me. I need to find out how deep she goes. I need to end this before I end you. Rhea stared at the page, then at Kaia, who had begun to trace symbols in the condensation on the window. Complex patterns. Familiar. From the Eden archives. "Where is he?" Rhea asked. Kaia didn't look at her. "He's not all gone." Rhea knelt. "Tell me where." The baby looked up, eyes calm. "Where she was born."