Kearns whispered something that sounded like a dying prayer. "Director… Chamber Nine is asking for autonomy."
"It doesn't have autonomy," Mercer replied.
"It does now," she breathed.
Sera smiled faintly.
Her creature purred louder. We woke it up. Machines dream too, little river. Now it dreams of you.
The floor rumbled.
Panels along the circular platform cracked open—just an inch—but enough to expose slivers of deeper mechanical layers.
Kearns shouted, "Director—stop it—she'll be—"
Sera cut her off without raising her voice. "It's fine."
And it was.
She could feel the chamber studying her. The sensation wasn't a single sweep anymore, not one clean pass of energy from ceiling to floor. It was layered. Curious. Like fingers pressing against glass in different places, tapping, circling, returning.
Trying again.
Again.
Again.
Not with aggression so much as fascination.
