CTS TIME: RE250.05.24
LOCAL SYSTEM CLOCK: 6:15 PM
FACILITY: DNA ORGANISATION — LOWER MECHATOPIA
Sophia regained consciousness with the sharp certainty that something had changed.
Not the room.
Not the restraints.
Not even her body still bound by the red chains, wrists and ankles held in the same humiliating precision.
What had changed was her perception.
She felt it before she opened her eyes.
A pressure in the room that hadn't existed before. Not mechanical. Not atmospheric.
Him.
Her eyelids lifted slowly.
Dr. F stood near the table again.
He was holding a plate of food—different from before. Warm. Aromatic. Steam curling upward in soft spirals. He looked disturbingly at ease, as if this chamber were a cafeteria instead of a place where people were unmade.
Sophia's heart skipped.
For the first time since her capture, a clean, undeniable sensation rose in her chest.
Fear.
Not fear of pain.
Not fear of death.
Fear of his presence.
Her breathing grew shallow before she could stop it.
Dr. F noticed immediately.
He always did.
"You're awake," he said calmly. "Good. This timing works better for conversation."
She swallowed.
"You said no interrogation," she replied, voice tight.
He smiled faintly.
"I said no physical interrogation."
He sat down across from her again, placing the plate carefully on the table. Fork in hand. Knife aligned perfectly parallel. He ate with unhurried precision, as though every movement had been practiced for years.
Sophia watched him despite herself.
Why does this scare me more than the devices? she wondered.
Because he wasn't threatening her.
He was comfortable.
Dr. F raised one hand.
The air shimmered.
A holographic display unfolded between them—clean, sharp, impossibly detailed. A full-body image of Sophia Watson appeared, rotating slowly.
Her name appeared beneath it.
NAME: SOPHIA WATSON
AGE: 27
SPECIES: HUMAN
CLASSIFICATION: PROFESSIONAL HERO
RANK: S
SPECIALIZATION: LONG-RANGE COMBAT
Her stomach tightened.
No…
Dr. F took a bite of food before speaking.
"Long-range combat," he said. "You were very good at that. Precise. Detached. Safe."
The hologram shifted.
Images appeared—her childhood home. Modest. Cramped. A narrow kitchen. Worn furniture.
FATHER: MIDDLE-CLASS WORKMAN
MOTHER: HOUSEWIFE
Dr. F glanced at her.
"Your parents," he continued evenly, "were not cruel. Just… ambitious."
Sophia's jaw tightened.
"They saw opportunity in you," he said. "Talent. Marketability. S-rank funding pipelines."
The image changed again contracts, sponsorship figures, training facilities.
"They invested," Dr. F said calmly. "And when you succeeded, they were rewarded."
Her chest ached.
"They became wealthy," he added. "You became valuable."
Sophia clenched her fists.
"That doesn't make them evil," she said.
Dr. F nodded once.
"No," he agreed. "Just greedy."
The word hit harder than she expected.
The hologram flickered again.
Performance graphs appeared lines trending downward.
EVALUATION NOTES:
— TRAINING PERFORMANCE: DECLINING
— HIGH-RISK MISSIONS: FAILURE RATE INCREASING
— CLOSE-COMBAT PROFICIENCY: BELOW STANDARD
Sophia looked away.
Stop, she thought. Don't listen.
But the room wouldn't let her hide.
"You compensated," Dr. F said. "Upgraded your arsenal. Increased engagement distance."
The image shifted—her weapons. Her long-range systems. Her safety.
"You avoided situations that forced proximity," he continued. "Because proximity reveals weakness."
She swallowed hard.
Then came the image that made her breath catch.
A medical bay.
Blood on the floor.
PSYCHOLOGICAL FLAG: HEMOPHOBIA (SEVERE)
Dr. F's voice softened not kindly, but precisely.
"Most female heroes transition into medical roles at some point," he said. "You didn't."
Her lips trembled.
"You were afraid of blood," he continued. "Still are."
Sophia squeezed her eyes shut.
"I tried," she whispered. "I really did."
"I know," Dr. F said.
The hologram shifted again.
This time—two figures.
Sophia at twenty-four.
A man at twenty-six.
DIVISION: COMBAT UNIT
RELATIONSHIP STATUS: UNDECLARED
Her heart stuttered painfully.
"No," she said faintly.
Dr. F continued anyway.
"You loved him," he said simply.
The image showed training sessions. Shared meals. Quiet moments.
"You never told him," Dr. F said. "Fear again. Wrong timing. Professional boundaries."
The hologram advanced.
A wedding invitation.
Age markers appeared.
HIM: 28
MARRIED: YES
Sophia's throat closed.
"You attended," Dr. F said calmly. "Smiled. Congratulated him."
The scene shifted again.
A locker room.
Sophia alone.
In uniform.
Crying.
Hard.
Ugly.
Her breath hitched violently.
I didn't tell anyone that, she thought desperately.
Her vision blurred with tears she couldn't stop.
Dr. F finally set his fork down.
"You cried that night," he said softly. "Because you waited. Because you were obedient. Because you believed professionalism would protect you from regret."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And now," he added, "you regret every moment you chose silence over truth."
Sophia's shoulders shook.
Her pride her S-rank identity fractured quietly.
He knows everything.
Not just facts.
Meaning.
Dr. F stood.
"This," he said, gesturing to the fading hologram, "is why this isn't interrogation."
He met her gaze.
"It's recognition."
Sophia looked at him through tears she could no longer hide.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
Dr. F's answer was immediate.
"I want you to speak," he said. "Not as a hero. Not as ISA's property."
He paused.
"But as Sophia Watson."
The silence that followed was heavier than chains.
And Sophia understood, with devastating clarity—
The next interrogation wouldn't hurt her body.
It would dismantle her from the inside.