The conference room on the top floor of the ABC Tower was perpetually shrouded in a dim, amber twilight. This wasn't a technical flaw; it was a psychological tactic. Director Han knew that in bright light, people become too alert—they analyze, they scrutinize, and most inconveniently, they ask questions. In this room, silence and compliance were the preferred currencies.
Han stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the city below. From this height, the bustling streets looked like veins of a circuit board, and the people were mere microscopic dots. But the boy on the screen—he was anything but small.
"ARC failed containment," a board member reported, his voice barely a whisper.
"Not failed," another member interjected sharply, correcting him. "Observed."
It was a cold distinction: they weren't losing control; they were simply letting the chaos unfold to see what would happen.
At the head of the long mahogany table, an elderly man sat in a high-backed chair. His fingers rhythmically tapped the polished surface.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The sound echoed through the silent room like a ticking clock. "Subject Iren," the old man finally spoke, his voice raspy but commanding. "Is he still predictable?"
The room fell into an uneasy silence. Han cleared his throat, stepping into the dim light.
"Initially, yes. But now? No."
A younger board member swiped a finger across a tablet, projecting a series of data streams onto the main wall. The graphs were erratic.
Brain activity spikes.
Stress pattern anomalies.
Soul acquisition irregularities.
"The Doll integration rate is rising rapidly," the young man noted. A low murmur of concern rippled through the room.
The old man narrowed his eyes, the shadows deepening the wrinkles on his face. "Too early."
Han didn't hold back. "Sir… I believe our timing was off. The Memory Isolation step was accelerated too quickly. The Emotional Severance is incomplete. As a result, he is currently unstable."
The old man's response was chillingly detached. "Unstable subjects are useful. They are desperate. Desperation leads to results."
Han shook his head slightly. "Not if they begin to ask the wrong questions. And Iren is starting to ask why."
The screen flickered, showing high-definition security footage of Iren's escape from the factory. It played in slow motion: the frantic run, the calculated evasion of the containment nets, and finally, him standing on the very edge of the roof, looking out at the horizon.
The old man let out a thin, dry laugh. "Look at him."
There was a long pause as they all watched the boy on the screen.
"He thinks he is choosing," the old man whispered.
The room went dead silent. Han turned back toward the window, a knot of unease tightening in his chest. He knew something the others chose to ignore: once a subject truly begins to make their own choices, they can no longer be programmed. They become a wild variable.
"What about our coordination with the Blood Sea Cult?" someone asked, breaking the tension.
"Limited," Han replied. "They are following their own ritualistic agenda. They aren't interested in our data."
The old man closed his eyes, leaning back. "Let them. Let them put pressure on him."
"Sir," Han said cautiously, "Too much pressure will force a premature integration. It could break him."
One second passed. Two.
The old man spoke with terrifying calmness. "Then we measure the threshold."
Han's fist clenched at his side. He knew exactly what 'threshold' meant in their labs. It was a limit test. A point of no return where the subject either collapses into madness or transcends their humanity.
On the screen, Iren's face was frozen in a still frame. He looked exhausted, haunted, but there was a strange, newfound stillness in his eyes.
"If he survives this phase…" the old man whispered, "we proceed to Phase Two."
Han didn't ask what Phase Two was. He didn't need to. He knew that Phase Two meant the total erasure of the boy's former self.
It meant there would be no turning back.
Chapter End