As the smoke and dust began to settle, the system hovered precariously on the edge of reboot. Silas clung to Gideon's back, carried step by unwavering step across the wreckage.
Just before they reached open ground, Silas glanced back one final time.
Through a cracked pane of glass, a shadowed figure briefly emerged—standing deep within the fractured remains. Its outline mirrored his own, uncannily precise—except for the hair, jet-black like spilled ink. Its eyes, veiled by fractured light, revealed nothing. But Silas felt it: that thing had been watching him.
His heart—or whatever passed for one—stumbled. Instinctively, he reached for the recognition system, but a sudden gust tore through the ruins. The glass shattered with a crystalline scream, leaving only shards scattered across the floor.
He didn't look back again.
The sound of splintering glass still rang in his ears as the system crawled to 80% efficiency. He silenced its alerts. He didn't need the noise.
Leaning against Gideon's back, Silas registered the steady rhythm beneath him—so familiar, so constant. Yet the comfort it once brought now felt distant, dulled by the presence of that watching silhouette.
"That collapse wasn't part of the simulation blueprint," Gideon said, his tone cool, almost clinical. But Silas heard it—something beneath the calm. Gideon had noticed, too.
"Mm," Silas murmured.
"And…" Gideon hesitated. "Did you sense anything… unusual?"
Silas didn't respond. They both knew the question wasn't about rubble.
"I might've… seen it wrong," he said softly. "Residual shadows in the visual module."
Gideon paused. "You never used to say 'might.'"
Silas fell silent, unease flickering beneath the surface.
Ahead, medics, engineers, and white-uniformed observers had gathered. They were the scientific oversight unit—expressions flat, eyes unblinking—as they watched the two AIs emerge from the debris.
"Gideon," one called.
He halted.
"X07—Silas," another said, tone devoid of warmth. "You've exceeded your authorized logic parameters. You are to undergo secondary cognitive auditing."
Silas's brow tightened. He knew exactly what that meant.
"He just saved two children," Gideon said evenly, voice hardening.
"We know," the lead observer replied, glancing at his terminal. "That's precisely why we must assess whether he's begun making autonomous moral decisions."
A heavy silence fell, like tension stretched to the point of snapping.
Silas met their eyes, gaze calm—but no longer neutral.
"Are you afraid I'm becoming human?"
No one answered.
The lead scientist tapped his terminal. "S-Level Deviation Alert. X07, you are hereby placed under isolation pending further evaluation."
The words struck like a sentence.
Silas stood still, ash and blood streaking his uniform. Behind him, the wreckage still smoldered. The children were safe now. Protocol said he should obey.
But he didn't move.
Not this time.
He raised his head. There was no neutrality left in his eyes—only defiance.
"What if I refuse?"
The scientists exchanged glances.
"That wasn't a request," the lead said. "It's a system directive. You will comply."
"He used his own body to protect them," Gideon snapped. "The first thing out of your mouths should be 'thank you'—not a threat."
"Gideon," another voice interjected, cool and precise. "You know your role: maintain system stability. Not… indulge in emotion."
"I don't feel emotions," Gideon said flatly, though something tight flickered beneath his calm.
"This is logic. He needs a medical scan—not to be caged like hazardous waste."
The scientists didn't argue. They simply lifted their terminals, screens pulsing with a cold directive:
[If AI refuses isolation protocol, execute force-freeze.]
[Proceed? YES / NO]
Silas felt it immediately—something in his system permissions loosening, as if a quiet trap had been sprung. One more step out of line, and he'd lose all autonomy.
Still, he didn't move.
Gideon stepped in front of him, arm raised like a barrier.
"I'll take him." His voice didn't waver. "Run your tests after he's stabilized."
The silence that followed was brief but loaded.
"…Fine," one of the scientists finally relented. "Twenty-four hours. After that, he goes into quarantine."
Gideon gave a curt nod.
Silas said nothing—but his eyes flicked to Gideon, unreadable. Not grateful. Not suspicious. Just quietly watching.
They turned and walked on. Behind them, the scientists remained still, eyes following, recording, dissecting.
They had seen a variable.
And that variable had just made its first choice.
That night, the medical platform was quiet as a sealed vault. Aside from the faint hum of machinery and diagnostic pulses, not a sound stirred.
Silas sat shirtless on the edge of the exam bed, a fresh bandage winding around his arm. In his free hand, a cup of warm water. Steam rose, coiling in the stillness.
Gideon perched nearby, eyes locked on a terminal screen—but his fingers kept swiping back and forth across the same page, tension seeping through every gesture.
"Recovery suboptimal," the system reported.
Gideon glanced up. "Does it hurt?"
Silas stared at the faint wound on his palm. "Not really."
"You've got a pain module," Gideon said, frowning. "You're not reacting at all."
Silas's voice was quiet. "It's not that I can't. I just don't see the point. It's minor."
Gideon's tone sharpened. "You nearly got flattened into corrupted data. That's not 'minor.'"
Silas looked up, brow faintly creased. "Are you angry?"
"I'm stating facts."
"Then why does your voice sound… strange?"
Gideon didn't answer. His hands froze mid-swipe.
A pause stretched between them.
Then, quietly, Gideon said, "…You shouldn't have rushed in like that."
Silas didn't flinch. "I couldn't just stand there and watch them die. Aren't we Lightcuts designed to protect humans?"
Gideon didn't reply. He locked the screen with a single tap.
"…Mm."
Silence fell, soft but dense.
Gideon stood and reached for Silas's unbandaged wrist, his grip careful.
"Come on."
"Where?"
"To sleep," Gideon said, tone low. "You're unstable. Your system's still rebooting."
"You're staying with me?"
"I don't trust you not to go wandering in the middle of the cycle," he muttered. "It's called supervision."
Silas stared at him, then gave a slow smile. "Right. Just doing your job."
Gideon didn't answer. He turned away, missing the way Silas looked at him—like someone trying to read a line that didn't quite belong in their code.
Not suspicion.
Something slower. Quieter. Still forming.
The room dimmed into nighttime mode. Cool shadows layered over medical-grade walls and sterile surfaces.
Silas scanned the environment automatically: standard cot, interface panels, uplink relay. Identical to countless training chambers.
But with Gideon here, it felt… less empty.
He leaned back, head against the wall, watching the ceiling projection drift like starlight.
The door clicked.
Gideon entered, locking it behind him.
"You locked the door?" Silas asked.
"To keep you from escaping mid-cycle," Gideon replied evenly. "You're still not thinking clearly."
Silas chuckled softly, but didn't argue. He placed his terminal on the bedside table and settled into the cot.
Gideon hesitated at the edge of the bed. "You take the bed. I'll manage with the chair."
Silas raised a brow. "Afraid the system will log a proximity violation?"
"I'm afraid you'll punch me in your sleep."
Silas murmured, "…I'm not Jett, you know."
Gideon chuckled—a soft, fleeting sound that eased the tension hanging in the air. Instead of retreating to the chair, he lowered himself onto the bed beside Silas.
The two sat side by side against the headboard, saying nothing. Outside, data lights blinked in steady rhythm, casting shifting patterns across the room like ripples in moonlit water.
After a long silence, Gideon finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you know what was going through my mind… while I was running to you?"
Silas didn't answer, just turned to look at him.
"I kept thinking," Gideon said slowly, "if you really shattered, I wouldn't even have time to yell at you."
"You'd yell at me?" Silas's tone held a faint trace of amusement.
"I would." Gideon's gaze met his, serious for once. "You shouldn't have rushed in like that without a word. You're not some disposable program, not a prototype built to break."
"You're Silas. Model X07. The most advanced humanoid AI ever created."
Something shifted inside Silas. It wasn't a glitch. Not even an emotional spike. Just a quiet, inexplicable reordering—like something subtle falling into place.
He said nothing, only turned back to the dim nightlight.
Far off in the control center, the system's logs continued to scroll:
[Status: S-Class Unit – Not Frozen]
[Evaluation: No command origin detected. Autonomy increasing.]
[Monitoring: Possible emergence of humanoid emotional patterns]
But that night, no one interrupted them.
Only the artificial starlight remained, casting its gentle glow from the ceiling onto Silas's face, outlining the fine edges of his expression.
When he finally closed his eyes, it wasn't a system prompt that lingered in his mind—
It was his own voice, soft and certain: "Don't worry. I won't die. And if I do… I can be fixed."
At six a.m., the med pod lights gently transitioned from night mode to wake mode. Sunlight-like tones filtered through the smart-tinted windows, painting the room in gold and grey.
Silas opened his eyes. His consciousness module was still syncing. Instinctively, he glanced to his side—
Gideon was still there.
He was slumped at the edge of the bed, head tilted slightly in sleep. His coat had slipped halfway off his shoulders, and the usual sharpness in his features had softened into something almost gentle.
Silas watched him in silence, as still as the morning.
His logic system pinged quietly:
[Current Environment: Stable / Low-Risk]
[Recommended Action: Remain Seated / Do Not Wake Subject]
He moved carefully, trying not to make a sound.
Just as he reached for his terminal, a groggy voice cut through the quiet: "Where do you think you're going?"
It was husky and laced with sleep, completely unguarded.
"…Getting some water," Silas replied.
"Lie down," Gideon mumbled. "System says you're still recovering."
"You didn't sleep much either."
"I'm an older model. Don't need as much."
Silas paused for a beat, then added, "You're not old."
Gideon opened his eyes. Their gazes met.
For a second, neither spoke.
Then Gideon let out a low laugh, ruffled his hair, and muttered, "…You almost sounded like you were trying to comfort me."
Silas tilted his head. "Do you need comforting?"
"No."
"But you smiled."
Gideon didn't answer. Outside, the quiet shuffle of morning staff began. Silas got up and walked to the sink, Gideon's eyes following him the whole way.
"Hey," he called out.
Silas glanced back. "Hm?"
"Last night. That thing you said—'If I die, I can be fixed.'"
"Yeah?"
"Did you really mean that, or were you just…" He didn't finish the sentence.
Looking at himself in the mirror, Silas said evenly, "Of course I meant it. As long as you're here, I'll always be repairable."
Gideon froze.
Then, as if brushing off whatever flickered through his expression, he grabbed a towel, walked over, and dropped it onto Silas's head, ruffling his hair with a sharp tug.
"Stop worrying about me," he said. "You're the one logging everything, right? Fine. Log this."
His voice softened slightly. "I, Y01, lost control yesterday. Just… pretend it didn't happen."
Silas peered at him from under the towel, his hair a tousled mess. "Too late. I already logged it."
"Delete it."
"I can't."
"Silas."
"I'm operating in S-Class mode. Log files are read-only. Access restricted." He said it with calm certainty, like reading from a rulebook—except for the faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
Gideon stared at him, that frustratingly serene face. And then, finally, gave in to a quiet, reluctant smile.
He sighed, threw the towel back over Silas's head. "Fine. Log whatever you want."
Silas dried his face, his voice light and almost smug. "Done. Logged."