CTS TIME RE250.05.26 — 3:00 PM
Sophia lay half-reclined on the adaptive couch in her private quarters, the room tuned to a soft amber warmth that mimicked late afternoon sunlight—an artificial comfort designed by someone who understood human circadian rhythms better than most humans ever would. She wore casual DNA leisure wear, loose fabric woven with micro-fibers that adjusted to her body temperature, yet her mind refused to rest.
Did I pass… or was today just another experiment?
Her gaze lingered on the ceiling, where faint holographic constellations drifted lazily. The silence felt heavier than the torture chambers ever had. Evaluation phases replayed in fragments—Lucian's axe splitting the arena, the purple invincible shield, Dr. F raising his hand at the last second. The pause. The fracture in reality itself.
She exhaled slowly.
Then the room betrayed her.
The door opened automatically.
Sophia sat up instantly, spine straight, instincts flaring—not fear, not anymore, but irritation sharpened by exhaustion.
Dr. F entered.
White coat, pristine as always. No weapon. No visible threat. Just a datapad box hovering beside him, matte black with DNA sigils flowing faintly across its surface.
Of course it's him, she thought bitterly.
The system doesn't even ask me when it's him.
"You know," Sophia said, swinging her legs off the couch, "normal people knock."
Dr. F didn't stop walking. The door sealed behind him with a soft hiss.
"The system recognizes my clearance as absolute," he replied calmly. "It would be inefficient to ask."
"That's not an answer," she muttered. "That's dictatorship with better vocabulary."
He glanced at her—just briefly—but she caught it. The corner of his mouth almost twitched.
Almost.
The datapad box disengaged from its hover and settled into his hand. He extended it toward her.
"Your evaluation results."
Sophia straightened fully now, heart ticking faster despite herself. She accepted the box but didn't open it immediately.
"Well?" she asked. "Do I live? Do I get dismantled? Or do I become one of your cautionary case studies?"
"You are dramatic," Dr. F said flatly.
"I was tortured for two days," she shot back. "Drama is earned."
That earned her a longer look.
Then, without ceremony, he said,
"You are classified as Mk-4 Veteran Unit."
The words took a second to register.
Sophia blinked. "What?"
He continued, unbothered. "Tier Four clearance. Field authority. Priority deployment status. You will receive new attire, combat access, and autonomous decision rights within DNA jurisdiction."
She stared at him.
"…But I failed Phase Four."
"You survived it," Dr. F corrected.
"That's not the same thing!"
"It is in my system."
She scoffed. "That Lucian android nearly split me into conceptual fragments. And my ally—"
"—was irrelevant," Dr. F said.
Sophia's jaw tightened. "He died."
"Yes."
"That's your definition of success?!"
Dr. F was silent for a moment.
Then, internally, a thought surfaced—unwanted, sharp.
Dr. X wanted her dead.
He didn't voice it. Instead, his eyes dimmed slightly as if cycling through internal logs.
The Disrupter Unit intervened through Phase Four parameters. Kill threshold exceeded. I stepped in.
Outwardly, he said only,
"I do not place ranks. The system does."
Sophia narrowed her eyes. "Funny how the system always agrees with you."
"Correlation," he replied. "Not favoritism."
She snorted. "Sure. And I'm emotionally stable."
That time, he didn't hide the faintest curve of amusement.
She opened the datapad box. Inside, a folded obsidian-black uniform shimmered—sleeker than her previous attire, reinforced along vital points, the DNA insignia etched in silver instead of red.
Mk-4 Veteran.
Her fingers brushed the fabric, and something uncomfortably like pride stirred in her chest.
She hated that.
She looked back up at him. "So what? I'm promoted because someone tried to kill me?"
"Yes."
"…That's the worst workplace incentive I've ever heard."
"Welcome to DNA."
She sighed, then frowned again. "You still didn't answer my question."
He tilted his head slightly. "Which one?"
"Why you always come in like this," she said, gesturing vaguely around the room. "No warning. No permission. This is my quarter. I'm not one of your chambers."
His gaze held hers—steady, unreadable.
"The system prioritizes your safety," he said. "And I override it."
"That doesn't make it better."
"It makes it effective."
She crossed her arms. "You ever consider that maybe I don't want you just… appearing?"
A pause.
A rare one.
Then he said, quieter,
"If I waited for permission, you would be dead."
Her breath caught—not because of the words, but the certainty behind them.
She looked away first.
"…Still annoying," she said.
"Noted."
She glanced back, suspicious. "That's it? No lecture? No psychological dismantling?"
"I am not interrogating you."
"Wow," she deadpanned. "Progress."
He turned to leave.
Then she added, softer, "You didn't answer why you stepped in during Phase Four."
His hand paused at the door.
For a moment, she thought he wouldn't respond.
"I do not allow variables I did not authorize," he said at last. "And Dr. X exceeded his boundary."
She swallowed.
"…So I was a variable."
"Yes."
Her lips curved despite herself. "Guess I'm dangerous, then."
He opened the door.
"You always were."
The door sealed behind him.
Sophia sat there for a long moment, uniform resting in her lap, heart refusing to settle.
Mk-4 Veteran, she thought.
Then, quieter, more dangerously—
And he stepped in.