The sun was hitting down on her skin like it wanted to brand her, sear its name into her bones, but inside she felt numb—like she was walking with storm clouds stitched beneath her ribs. Every step toward the company felt heavier than the last, her feet moving automatically while her mind thrashed like something trapped underwater.
She'd been bullied for as long as she could remember.
At one year old she'd innocently told her mother that a visiting "auntie" had taken the shiny stones from the drawer. No one believed a baby—until they checked.
By five she was "too smart."
By eleven she was "too weird."
By sixteen she was "too ugly."
By twenty-three she was suddenly "too pretty."
She had survived every insult in the dictionary, every sideways glare, every whisper that clawed at her spine. But never—not once—had her work been stolen. That was new. That was a wound she didn't know how to swallow.
She didn't even know what emotion she was supposed to feel as she walked, wearing her brother's clothes and adopting his confident stride like armor she had no right to use. Hollow? Betrayed? Ridiculous? All she knew was that the numbness wasn't real. Under it, something hot simmered, waiting.
She clocked in as usual, letting the scanner read her ID with its cheerful, mocking beep. Almost immediately she was hit with the news:
She would be attending to Pod 47 for the rest of the month.
Of course.
Of course they'd station her beside the body she'd—what? Woken? Run from?
Of course they'd put her back in the same room she didn't want to go to.
Her legs carried her there anyway.
The room was cold—colder than usual, as if the walls sensed her dread. Pod 47 sat in its usual place, humming with its low mechanical heartbeat.
She did her work clinically—because clinical was safe. Clinical meant controlled hands, precise steps, no room for the chaos twisting violently inside her chest. When she finished, she retreated to the far edge of the room and sat on the floor the way she always did, knees drawn up, chin resting lightly against them.
But unlike every other day, she couldn't calm down.
She couldn't talk to Kyle.
Confiding meant confessing. Confessing that she had disobeyed their father.
Confessing meant consequences.
The longer she stayed still, silent, the more her blood boiled.
She was livid.
They stole her surgery.
They stole her recognition.
And she hadn't even done anything yesterday—just turned and bolted like a child.
The look on Dr. Brice and Claudia's faces replayed in her skull, over and over, mocking her.
Something snapped.
She shot to her feet.
Her body moved before her mind caught up. She marched to the control panel, fingers flying over buttons she had no business touching. And she hit the one she absolutely wasn't supposed to.
The alarm blared.
She reached over and turned the sound off, silencing the room into a thick, heavy stillness.
She waited.
Impatient.
Almost daring him not to wake up.
No fear.
Not even a flicker.
Maybe anger really had driven her insane.
Then his eyes opened.
Just like the first time—sharp, precise, instantly focused, pinning her to the spot with a gaze that felt too alive for someone trapped in engineered sleep.
Grey eyes.
Cold.
Unblinking.
Watching her as though she were the only thing in the room that existed.
She met that gaze head-on.
"I'm angry and I need someone to vent to. Give me two minutes of your time."
And she launched into her rant.
Not controlled. It was messy, wild- caused by hours of holding it in.
"They stole my surgery," she said, pacing. "My work. I did everything. And they just—took it. Like I don't matter. Like it's their right."
Her voice trembled with held-in fury.
"He looked at me as if daring me to do something about it. And Claudia—God, the way she stood there looking smug, like she was better than me. Like she deserved my recognition."
A breath shuddered out of her.
"I didn't do anything wrong. Not one thing. But they looked at me like I did something despicable."
Her anger flickered into something brittle, fragile around the edges.
"I should have yelled. I should have fought back. But I just… froze."
Her jaw tightened.
"But I'm done freezing."
She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes again.
"And I didn't deserve any of it."
Pod 47 didn't move—not a twitch, not a blink—but his eyes tracked every breath, every emotion, every fracture in her voice. He was completely still, yet somehow entirely present.
The timer clicked down to zero.
She inhaled deeply, letting her expression soften.
"Thank you for your time. Sweet dreams, 47."
The pod hissed shut, sealing him back into sleep.
She watched, unmoving, as his eyes fluttered closed.
And the moment they did, the storm inside her chest finally began to break.
She staggered back to her spot on the floor, the anger that had fueled her bravery evaporating all at once. The full weight of what she'd done slammed into her like a wave of ice.
This time it wasn't an accident.
This wasn't panic.
This wasn't a slip.
She had done it on purpose.
Her throat dried instantly as a horrible thought seized her. She lurched to her feet and rushed to the center of the room, scanning every corner, every shadow, every surface for any sign—any indication—that her disobedience had been recorded.
She searched for two frantic minutes.
Then released a breath she didn't remember holding.
Turning back toward the pod, she whispered, "You won't tell anyone about this, right?"
As if he could.
The end-of-session alarm rang, sharp and sudden.
She hesitated, then placed a light, tentative hand on the pod's cool surface.
"See you tomorrow, 47."
Her voice slipped into the calm, neutral tone she was supposed to use. The one she usually remembered. The one she had completely forgotten the moment she lost her mind.
She let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"Ha. I'm so dead."
Picking up her tablet, she walked toward the door and slipped out, closing it softly behind her.
Up on the ceiling, tucked inside the light bulb, a tiny white light blinked.
Just like it always did—
Faintly, almost invisible
Recording everything.