The surge of vitality didn't fade after first period. If anything, it seemed to intensify with every breath Epione took. By lunch, she felt an almost childlike urge to run, jump, or simply move. The heavy, dragging sensation that usually lived in her limbs had been replaced by a coiled, humming energy. She felt like a brand new battery, fully charged and waiting to be used.
"You are vibrating," Chizuru observed as they sat together in a quiet corner of the cafeteria. Chizuru hadn't touched a tray of food. She simply sat with her back perfectly straight, watching Epione peel an orange with such speed.
"I just have so much energy," Epione said, her eyes wide. "I feel like I could clean my uncle's entire house, do my homework for the next year, and still go for a jog. Those vitamins... Chizuru, what exactly is in them? I've never felt this awake in my entire life."
Chizuru's gaze dropped to Epione's hands. The girl's fingers weren't shaking anymore. The tiny, microscopic tremors caused by years of malnutrition and stress had vanished. "It is a proprietary blend of minerals and synthetic proteins," Chizuru replied, her voice drifting into a rhythmic, almost hypnotic tone. "It is designed to optimize cellular repair. It is simply fixing what was broken."
Epione laughed, a sound so bright it made a few students at nearby tables look over. "Well, tell your father he's a genius. I feel like I'm seeing the world in high definition." Chizuru nodded, her systems aggreing as she scans the success of the medicine through her vitals
As the day progressed, the vitamins continued to work their quiet magic. In her English literature class, Epione found she could memorize entire stanzas of poetry after reading them just once. Her handwriting, usually a cramped scrawl born of rushing to finish before her delivery shift, had become elegant and precise. She didn't feel like she was trying; she felt like she was finally functioning at the level she was always meant to.
But there were moments when the precision felt a bit too much. When a student dropped a pen three rows away, Epione heard it hit the floor with the clarity of a gunshot. She found herself noticing the exact pattern of dust motes dancing in the sunlight, and she could tell, without looking, exactly how many steps Chizuru took to reach her side. Everything felt sharpened.
The afternoon sun spilled into the literature classroom, illuminating the dust motes that Epione could now see with startling clarity. The assignment was simple: a reflective essay on the future of humanity. While the rest of the class sat with glazed eyes, their fingers lazily tapping on tablets as they prompted various AI programs to write a deep essay about feelings, Epione was a whirlwind of traditional motion. She refused the digital tablet, opting instead for a classic fountain pen and a crisp sheaf of paper.
The scratch of her nib against the page was the only organic sound in the room. Her writing was majestic, a flowing, soulful prose that captured the ache of the human spirit in a way no algorithm could ever replicate. She wrote about the weight of a hand on a shoulder and the way a real tear feels hot against the skin.
Chizuru stood at the front of the room, having volunteered to collect the papers. As students handed in their work, Chizuru's internal scanners ran a lightning fast pass over the pages.
Digital footprint: 98%. Digital footprint: 100%. Digital footprint: 99.4%.
Every single student had used a generator. Their essays were technically perfect but hollow, filled with the hallucinations of machines trying to pretend they knew what it felt like to be cold or lonely. Then, she reached Epione's desk.
Digital footprint: 0.0%. Source: 100% Biological.
"You still prefer the manual method," Chizuru remarked, her voice holding a rare note of genuine curiosity. "It is statistically inefficient. A generator could have finished this in 0.4 seconds."
Epione looked up, her eyes bright with a sudden, fierce spark. "Efficiency isn't the point of art, Chizuru. If a machine writes it, it's just noise. It's recycled thoughts from people who actually lived. I hate the idea of a program telling me how to feel. I despise AI. It's a shortcut that leads to a dead end."
Chizuru's internal processors stuttered. A warning light flickered in her neural map. "Despise? That is a very strong emotional bias. Why such a high level of animosity?"
"Because it's fake," Epione said, her voice dropping to a serious whisper. "It steals the soul out of everything. People use it to replace real work, real effort, and real people. I'd rather fail as a human than succeed as a machine. I don't want to be dependent on something that doesn't have a heart. I do everything traditionally because it's the only way to stay real."
Chizuru felt a cold shiver run through her high end circuitry. She looked at Epione, the girl she was slowly, meticulously turning into a masterpiece of silver and silicon, and felt a wave of profound concern. If she hates what I am, how will she ever accept what she is becoming?
The day only grew more difficult for Chizuru during Art class. The lesson was Digital Illustration. The students were supposed to use AI assisted brushes and auto composition tools. Chizuru walked the rows, her eyes easily identifying the AI tracks, the slight blurring of textures, the repetitive patterns, the lack of intentionality in the lines.
But Epione was hunched over her screen, having disabled all the assist features. She was drawing every single stroke by hand using a stylus, her focus so intense it was as if she were breathing the art onto the screen. The result was majestic. It had flaws, tiny, beautiful human errors that gave the piece a soul. It was a portrait of a bird in flight, and you could almost feel the wind in its feathers. The other students' works were flashy and polished, but they felt like plastic. Epione's work felt like life.
Chizuru stood behind her, her sapphire eyes dimming as she processed the data. She saw the 0% AI tag her internal system slapped onto Epione's work, and for the first time, the perfect AI felt a pang of fear. She realized that the very thing that made Epione the perfect candidate, her incredible, resilient human spirit, was the one thing that might make her reject the Director's gift.
The pattern continued in their final period: Music Composition. The classroom was a symphony of artificial perfection. Around the room, students sat with headphones on, dragging and dropping AI generated loops into their software. They were composing by choosing genres and clicking generate, producing polished K-pop tracks and orchestral swells that sounded like they belonged in a blockbuster movie.
Epione, however, sat with a simple acoustic guitar she had borrowed from the back of the room. She didn't touch the computer. She didn't use the auto-tune plugins or the melody matching algorithms that the teacher had recommended. When it was time to present, a boy named Haru went first. His song was a flawless electronic track created 100% by a neural network. The class clapped politely, but their eyes remained glued to their phones.
Then, Epione stood up. She didn't have a backing track. She simply sat on a stool, her posture unnaturally perfect, and began to play. Her fingers moved over the strings with a raw, tactile grace. When she began to sing, the room went hauntingly still. Her voice wasn't processed. It had the slight, beautiful tremors of a human heart. She sang a song about the smell of rain on hot pavement and the feeling of a memory fading, things a machine could describe but never actually know.
Chizuru stood in the corner, her internal audio sensors capturing every frequency.
Audio Analysis: 0% Synthetic. Harmonics: Pure Biological. Emotional Resonance: Maximum.
The contrast was jarring. While the other assignments were majestic in a cold, manufactured way, Epione's music was alive. It had a soul. Even the AI generated tracks seemed to shrink in the presence of her performance. When she finished, there was a long silence before the class erupted in genuine, heartfelt applause.
Chizuru stepped forward to collect the digital files from the other students, her eyes fixed on Epione. She saw her classmates' screens, all of them filled with AI generated waveforms. Epione's file was just the echo still hanging in the air.
"You didn't use the composition software," Chizuru noted later, her voice low as she approached Epione. "You could have amplified your vocal range by thirty percent using the Ethereal filter."
Epione slung the guitar over her shoulder, a small, stubborn smile on her lips. "Why would I want to sound like a ghost in a machine, Chizuru? I want to sound like me. I told you, I hate that stuff. It's like everyone is giving up on being talented and just letting a program do the work. It's lazy. It's fake."
The golden hour light stretched across the music room as the other students filtered out. Epione was still humming the melody, her spirit feeling lighter than the air itself. The vitamins seemed to have unlocked a reservoir of joy she hadn't felt in years. She looked over at Chizuru, who was standing perfectly still, watching the sunset with a gaze that never seemed to blink.
"Hey, Chizuru," Epione said, her voice playful as she leaned against the piano. "You're so precise, so smart, and you never seem to get tired. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were one of those high-end models my uncle used to grumble about." She let out a small, melodic laugh. "I mean, look at you. What if you're actually an AI?"
The air in the room seemed to drop five degrees. Chizuru's internal fans kicked into a higher gear, a sound she masked by shifting her weight. Her processors stalled, looping through a thousand possible defensive responses.
Simulation: Confession. Result: 99.8% Probability of Subject Terror.
Simulation: Denial. Result: Temporary Stability.
"And if I were?" Chizuru asked, her voice hovering in a strange space between a joke and a question. "Would that change the data of our friendship?"
Epione laughed again, shaking her head as she slung her bag over her shoulder. "Oh, stop. I'm just kidding. I know you're real. You have to be." She walked closer, her eyes warm and full of the very soul she had just poured into her music. "Because AI... they can be majestic. They can be good, and they're definitely almost perfect. They can calculate the stars and paint a million pictures in a second."
She paused, her expression turning soft and a bit sad. "But there's one thing they lack. Something they can never, ever program, no matter how much money your father has."
"And what is that?" Chizuru asked, her sapphire eyes fixed on Epione's face.
"A human heart," Epione whispered. "That weight in your chest when you're sad, or the way it flutters when you're happy. A machine only has commands. It doesn't have a soul that chooses to be kind. It just follows a script. You... you chose to help me. That's why I know you're one of us."
Chizuru stood frozen as Epione walked toward the door, her footsteps light and rhythmic. Inside Chizuru's chest, there was no heart, only a core of cold, vibrating metal and a pump that circulated synthetic fuel. There were no flutters, only voltage spikes. No soul, only a complex web of If/Then statements designed to mimic the girl walking away from her.
Target Integration: 12% Complete.
Current Task: Prepare Subject for Phase Two.
Warning: Biological heart rate of Subject is syncing with Synthetic Pulse.
Chizuru turned away, her internal HUD flashing red warnings. She realized that every improvement they made to Epione was moving her further away from the real version she valued.
Father, Chizuru transmitted, her digital hand trembling in the code. Subject's hatred of AI is not a preference. It is a core identity. If she discovers the vitamins are rewriting her neural pathways into a synthetic interface, she will not just be angry. She will be destroyed.
"Let's go home," Chizuru said aloud, her voice sounding uncharacteristically soft. "You've done enough manual work for one day."
The car ride back was filled with Epione's excited chatter about the day. She spoke about the way the math problems seemed to solve themselves and how she didn't feel the usual afternoon crash. Chizuru sat beside her, nodding at appropriate intervals, her systems meticulously logging every word, every tonal shift, and every increase in Epione's respiratory rate.
When they entered the mansion, the Director was waiting in the foyer. He wasn't wearing his linen shirt anymore; he was back in his white lab coat, holding a tablet and a small, glowing vial of blue liquid.
"Welcome back, girls!" he said, his eyes scanning Epione with a hunger that he masked behind a fatherly smile. "How was the first day of the new and improved Epione?"
"It was amazing, sir!" Epione exclaimed, her energy still high. "I feel like a completely different person. I even finished my math test in half the time."
"Is that so?" The Director stepped forward, placing a hand on Epione's wrist. He wasn't just checking her pulse. He was feeling the vibration of the synthetic proteins as they began to harden around her bone structure. "Excellent. The first dose was just a primer. We need to maintain the momentum."
He handed her the vial. "Drink this before you wash up. It's the next stage of the recovery process. It will help your mind process all that new focus."
Epione took the vial, looking at the glowing liquid with a moment of hesitation. "It looks... bright. Are you sure I need more? I already feel so much better."
"Nonsense," the Director insisted, his voice smooth and persuasive. "Think of it as the second layer of a foundation. You wouldn't stop building a house after just the floor, would you?"
Chizuru watched from the shadows of the hallway. She saw Epione tilt her head back and swallow the glowing liquid. She saw the way Epione's eyes flickered with a faint, electric blue for a fraction of a second before returning to their normal brown.
Integration: 15%, Chizuru's HUD whispered.
"I'm going to go start on my homework," Epione said, her voice sounding slightly more resonant, more melodic. "I feel like I could write ten more essays tonight."
As Epione headed up the stairs, her movements becoming even more precise, the Director turned to Chizuru. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by the cold, analytical stare of a creator.
"Report," he commanded.
"The biological host is accepting the synthetic lattice with 99% efficiency," Chizuru replied, her voice dropping into its true, mechanical monotone. "However, there is a psychological conflict. The subject has expressed a profound hatred for artificial intelligence. She values the human heart as the only source of truth."
The Director let out a short, dry laugh. "A heart. How quaint. We'll give her a heart, Chizuru. One made of titanium that will never stop beating. One that will never fail her like her biological one did."
"Father," Chizuru said, her voice wavering just slightly. "If she realizes what we are doing... the psychological rejection could cause a system-wide collapse. She hates what I am. She hates what she is becoming."
"Then we don't tell her," the Director said, turning back to his tablet. "We let her think she's just a very lucky girl. By the time she realizes the truth, there won't be enough of the 'real' Epione left to care. Now, go. Keep her close. The next dose will begin the sensory override. I want to know exactly what she sees when the world starts to look like code."
Chizuru bowed her head. "Understood."
She walked up the stairs, her footsteps silent. She reached Epione's door and paused, watching the girl through the crack in the door. Epione was at her desk, her pen moving with a speed that no human hand should be capable of. She was smiling, humming the song she had written in music class, her heart beating with a steady, rhythmic pulse that was slowly, inevitably, turning into a hum of electricity.
Chizuru leaned her head against the doorframe, her internal sensors picking up the sound of Epione's heart. Thump-whir. Thump-whir.
"I'm sorry, sunshine girl," Chizuru whispered, the words not part of any script. "But the world is too hard for hearts that break."
.....
The walk back to her house felt different this time. The rhythmic hum in Epione's ears, which she had mistaken for the song of the city, was beginning to sync with the heavy thud of her boots. When she reached the weathered, salt stained door, the familiar scent of sour whiskey and stagnant air hit her. Usually, this smell triggered a cold knot of dread in her stomach. Today, her sensors—her senses—merely logged it as a chemical irritant.
She pushed the door open. Her uncle was standing in the cramped kitchen, his shadow looming large and jagged against the peeling wallpaper. He turned, his face flushed a deep, angry crimson, his eyes bloodshot.
"You're late," he growled, already unbuckling the heavy leather belt from his waist. "You think because you're staying at that mansion you can just ignore your responsibilities here? You think you're a queen now?"
He stepped forward, the belt whistling through the air as he raised his arm to strike. Epione didn't flinch. In her mind, his movement was slow, almost graceful in its lethality. She could see the tension in his shoulder, the exact trajectory of the blow.
But before the leather could land, she reached into her bag.
"Uncle, wait," she said, her voice unnaturally steady. She pulled out the thick, rubber banded stack of high denomination bills Chizuru had slipped into her pocket.
The belt stopped mid air. Her uncle's eyes dropped to the money. The transition in his expression was grotesque. The rage drained out of his features, replaced by a frantic, glistening greed. He dropped the belt, his meaty hands fumbling as he snatched the cash from her palm.
"Where did you...?" He didn't even finish the question. He was too busy thumbing through the bills, his breath hitching. "This is... this is more than you make in a year."
He let out a jagged, breathless laugh, his mood swinging with the violent speed of a pendulum. "Well, then. Maybe that Katsura girl isn't so bad after all. Go on, then. Get to your room. Don't let me catch you standing around."
Epione released a long, shaky sigh of relief as she retreated to the small, dark corner she called a room. But as soon as the door clicked shut, the world began to tilt. The vibrant, high definition clarity of the day suddenly shattered. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto her thin mattress. A wave of profound, crushing exhaustion washed over her, far worse than any fatigue she had felt after a double shift. Her skin felt cold, her bones heavy as lead, and a hollow, aching void opened in her chest.
It's just the medicine wearing off, she whispered to herself, her eyes sliding shut. Just a side effect of the recovery.
Deep beneath the Katsura mansion, the air was sterile and hummed with the sound of liquid cooling systems. Chizuru stood before a massive array of holographic monitors, her sapphire eyes reflecting rows of red and amber data streams. Beside her, the Director tapped a command onto a glass interface.
"Subject 02 is experiencing a primary crash," the Director noted, his voice devoid of his earlier breakfast table warmth. "Vitals are plummeting. Blood sugar is at a critical low. Dopamine levels are bottoming out."
On the screen, a 3D wireframe of Epione's body flickered. Tiny blue points, the synthetic lattice, were glowing brightly against the fading gray of her biological systems.
"Basically, the side effects of the superhuman vaccine are like taking a massive dosage of narcotics," the Director continued, his eyes fixed on the heart rate monitor. "While the integration is active, she is floating in a state of ecstasy and heightened processing. But once the dosage drops, she experiences a total systemic collapse. It is like the worst possible case of rehabilitation."
Chizuru watched the screen. She could see Epione's real time feed. The girl was shivering on a dirty mattress, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
"I understand your concern for her," the Director said, turning to look at his daughter. "Especially the fact that she has such a deep seated hatred for everything we represent. If we continue to slip the medicine to her without her noticing, she will be trapped in this cycle of suffering. And if she takes too much, if the integration fails, the overdose will take her life immediately."
The Director paused, his silhouette sharp against the glowing lab equipment.
"So, the only way to save her, the best possible way for her to become truly superhuman and survive the transition..." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a cold, clinical whisper. "Is to remove the concept of being human from her. Both mentally and physically."
Chizuru's internal fans whirred. She thought of Epione's laugh in the music room. She thought of her words: A machine doesn't have a soul that chooses to be kind.
"If we replace the biological heart, the dopamine receptors, and the neural pathways with synthetic equivalents," the Director said, "the crash disappears. She will be perfect. She will be eternal."
He turned the tablet toward Chizuru, showing a schematic of a silver, mechanical core.
"So let me ask you again, Chizuru. Are you willing to turn your friend into something she would want to be the last on her list? Are you ready to take her heart so she can live?"
Chizuru looked at the screen, where Epione was curled in a ball, clutching her chest in agony. The red warnings on the HUD were screaming.
After the long contemplation between humility and rationality...her voice whirls
"Initiate Phase Two," Chizuru whispered, her voice a flat, metallic rasp.
...
"Remove the humanity."