The rotation of screens slowed.
Not stopped—never stopped—but their movement became deliberate, as though the chamber itself sensed a narrowing of focus. Dr. F dismissed several peripheral datasets with a subtle motion of his fingers, leaving only three dominant displays hovering in front of him. Each one carried a stark label, unadorned, almost archaic in its simplicity.
Dr. F turned to Sophia.
"I will ask only three questions," he said. His voice was level, precise, stripped of any inflection that might soften their weight. "Answer them exactly as you understand them. Do not speculate."
Sophia straightened slightly in the chair despite the discomfort, her restored body reacting with alertness rather than fear. "Alright," she said. "Ask."
The first screen brightened.
"Does ISA possess the capability to control or manipulate time flow?"
Dr. F asked.
The question struck her like a foreign language.
Sophia blinked. Her brow furrowed instinctively. "No," she answered immediately. "At least—not that I know. Time manipulation isn't even theoretical within ISA's accessible research divisions. It's classified as nonviable."
The LIVE INPUT screen pulsed, then hesitated—neither green nor red.
Dr. F did not react.
The second screen shifted forward.
"Project WR," he said.
Sophia's pulse jumped. It was reflected instantly on the biometric display—heart rate climbing, pupils dilating. But confusion dominated the emotional spectrum.
"I don't know what that is," she said. "I've never heard that designation. ISA projects usually use layered codenames with rotating prefixes. 'WR' doesn't match any internal schema I've seen."
Her thoughts betrayed her almost immediately.
Is this some black-level program? Something only the council knows?
The thought surfaced on the parameters screen, pale and unguarded.
Dr. F's eyes flicked to it.
The third screen illuminated last.
"And the Eight Masters," he said.
Silence.
Sophia stared at him, disbelief slowly overtaking confusion. "Eight… Masters?" she repeated. "No. There's no such title in ISA. There are directors, overseers, strategic leads—but nothing called Masters. Not eight. Not any."
Her voice sharpened with sincerity. "If this is internal mythology or intelligence misdirection, it's not something S-rank is briefed on."
The chamber recorded everything.
Her body temperature remained stable. Emotional parameters skewed toward confusion, stress, but not deception. Her thought-stream flickered uncontrollably now.
Why would he think I know this?
Is ISA hiding something even from us?
Or is this something else entirely?
Dr. F studied the screens in silence.
Then he looked at her.
"You are S-rank," he said coldly. "And you know nothing of these constructs."
She shook her head without hesitation. "I'm not hiding anything. If I were, you'd see it. I swear—I don't know."
The parameters confirmed distress, but not evasion.
For the first time since the extraction began, Dr. F's expression hardened—not with anger, but with recalibration.
He turned slightly, gesturing. "Activate cognitive stream," he said.
The chamber responded instantly.
Sophia felt it—not as pain, but as exposure. Her thoughts, previously muted from her own awareness, bloomed across one of the displays in raw, unfiltered form. Fragments surfaced without order: training corridors, failed missions, blood she couldn't look at, her parents' expectations, last night's words that still echoed where they shouldn't.
Her breath caught.
Dr. F watched—not her face, but her mind.
She truly doesn't know, he assessed. Which means either ISA is deeper than projected… or these elements exist outside its structure entirely.
He turned back to her.
"You are either remarkably compartmentalized," he said, "or you are exactly what you appear to be."
Sophia's voice trembled despite her effort to control it. "Which is?"
"An asset denied access," he replied.
She exhaled shakily, relief and fear colliding.
Then his tone changed.
"However," Dr. F continued, "uncertainty remains. And I do not operate on uncertainty."
Sophia's eyes widened slightly. "What are you saying?"
"I am changing the interrogation parameters," he said calmly.
The ceiling above them parted soundlessly.
A device descended—sleek, precise, shaped to fit the human skull. A neural extraction helmet, its inner surface lined with fine filaments that shimmered faintly with active charge.
Sophia instinctively pulled back. "Wait—"
She stopped herself.
Resistance would change nothing.
Dr. F spoke evenly, almost clinically. "This will be painful. Current technology cannot perfectly differentiate between conscious memory and subconscious imprint. However, it will extract everything relevant—from the moment you joined ISA as a C-rank to the present."
Her hands tightened against the chair's armrests.
"This isn't punishment," he added. "It is verification."
Then, after a brief pause, his voice shifted—still controlled, but quieter.
"No other captured S-rank has undergone this procedure," he said. "But you are not here as a captive anymore. You accepted alignment. That gives me latitude."
Sophia swallowed hard.
This is the cost, she thought.
Not torture. Not chains.
Truth stripped bare.
She lifted her chin slightly. "Do it," she said. "If it proves I'm not lying."
The helmet hovered inches from her head.
Dr. F hesitated—not long, but long enough to be noticed.
Then he activated the device.
The chamber dimmed.
And Sophia's memories began to surface—not as images, but as data, flowing toward a truth neither of them yet fully understood.