Sasha

  5 years BA.

  ACC Serenia research facility at the Door.

  My fourteenth day began with yet another mistake.

  I woke up, disoriented. For a few breaths, I forgot this room existed—my room, if “mine” means anything at all. This body felt both heavy and… light, an unfamiliar sensation.

  But not pain. No Chaos.

  Still nothing.

  Then, as I lay on the (too) soft surface they called a “bed,” images from “yesterday” (counting time in a straight line still felt so odd, yet… appealing) resurfaced.

  Oh no.

  Why am I here? Why am I not in pain? I hurt Chan. I ruined things.

  But they didn’t destroy me or even punish me—if anything, they freed my magic. And they gave me this huge space, claiming it belonged to me.

  (That can’t be real, can it? Maybe they expected me to destroy something? Should I offer? Perhaps that’s how they’ll let me stay…)

  Stop. You lack information. Gather it first.

  Sitting up, I took in the unfamiliar room: wide, open, far too large. Several doors led to other spaces—one to the smaller “toilet room,” then to a chamber with strange shining devices. Another door partially revealed a table and shelves of mysterious objects. Were they (finally) for torture? Or something else? I couldn’t guess.

  There was a cushioned object called a “sofa,” plus small tables, potted plants, and pictures on the walls. The floor was covered in a soft, patterned fabric—so intricate I hesitated to step on it. Maybe I should levitate over?

  (Why would they put me in a place like this?)

  A wide glass window offered a view too vast to be real. I wanted to examine it, but my senses jolted when I felt Edgar’s presence behind the main door.

  Knock. Knock.

  He was knocking for some reason. Did he want me to do something?

  “Edgar?” I tried. My voice felt scratchy; the words came out wrong.

  “Good morning, Sasha,” he said, his voice muffled. Why wasn’t he entering?

  I flicked my senses toward him—no active magic, no visible weapons, no tension in his stance.

  I opened the door. It wasn't locked.

  He was smiling, but the moment he saw me, his face darkened in a blotchy flush, his gaze shooting upward as if searching the ceiling for danger.

  “Sasha, uh… I…um—” His voice jumped an octave. “I’ll—I’ll come back. Chan… she’ll— I—!”

  He spun around and practically fled.

  Had I erred? I stood there, frozen.

  Should I chase after him? Apologize? No, that would be another mistake.

  Did I forget some vital greeting? I should have started with “Good morning”! Of course! Chan explained it so many times, and I knew I was supposed to say it, but—

  “Hello, Sasha!” Chan’s voice rang out, bright as ever, appearing from the direction Edgar had fled. Then she laughed. Hard. Tears glimmered at the corners of her eyes.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she gasped between giggles, “poor Edgar! He definitely wasn’t ready for that!”

  “What happened?” I asked, alarm rising.

  She guided me back inside, rummaged on a nearby table, and handed me a big piece of cloth—a robe.

  “Here, put this on. You’re, uh, naked. You startled the poor old guy.”

  Naked. Right. Clothes. I had taken them off before sleeping and forgot to put them back on.

  That was a mistake? But why? Did nudity cause pain?

  I should have remembered. Stupid. Another error. Did I hurt Edgar somehow?

  I slipped the robe over my head, fumbling until it covered me. My cheeks grew hot for some reason.

  Chan only laughed harder. “No worries, Sasha. It’s actually our fault; we never got around to clarifying morning routines. But oh, his face—I wish I’d taken a picture. Edgar...” She choked on another giggle.

  I was lost. If it was wrong, why was she laughing? If I hadn’t harmed Edgar, why did he run? And how was it her fault? Clearly it was mine.

  Humans were so complicated.

  Chan stayed and offered to “help me with a morning routine.” Helping, again—why?

  She walked me through something called “hygiene” and explained the purpose of each device in the “bathroom.” I repeated every instruction in my mind, trying not to forget a single detail. I didn’t want to make yet another mistake. (I knew I’d do it anyway, but still.)

  I didn’t understand half of it. The basic idea of “caring for the body” was obvious to her—alien to me. Why preserve a body at all? With Chaos, every body he put me into was just another canvas for destruction. Even if it took hundreds of years, even if he took his time, he’d tear it apart eventually. The notion of keeping and maintaining one made no sense. Bodies were meant to be destroyed, weren’t they?

  But Chan insisted all humans do this—that I should do it, too.

  Then she showed me “the shower.”

  Liquid falling on me wasn’t exactly new. I’ve been corroded by acid, molten metal, boiling oil—scalded, liquefied, obliterated.

  I expected something like this now, but no. Here, it was just… water (how many uses do they have for it? And why do they just waste it on me?). And it didn’t hurt. The opposite—an anti-pain so powerful I couldn’t even think for a moment.

  Every inch of skin screamed the opposite of agony.

  Warmth.

  (Surely I shouldn’t have this.)

  Chan said I could change the water’s temperature and pressure “if I want to.” Change it? Why? They’d already given me something like this—why ask for more?

  But… a tiny flicker inside me wanted to test the handles she pointed out.

  I turned one knob, braced for pain.

  But it grew warmer instead.

  Turn it again—warmer still. Then back the other way—colder. I… controlled it.

  This can’t be real.

  But I kept going.

  I pushed the dial to its hottest setting. The water washed over me in a thick, steamy wave—scalding, intense heat. The skin went immediately red, limbs grew heavy, and the air became harder to breathe.

  I’ve been burned thousands of times, in thousands of ways—until it all blurred into numbness. But here, it just… warmed me.

  Then I swung it all the way to “cold.” Icy droplets pelted arms and chest. Breath caught at the sudden change, heart thudding in the ears. But still no agony—no freezing or shattering.

  Simply cold.

  I turned it back and forth. An abrupt shift from scalding to freezing shocked this body more than a slow transition. Muscles tightened; a weird mix of heaviness and lightness settled in; the breathing changed—yet none of it hurt. Could bodies respond without breaking?

  I could control how I felt, with a small handle marked by a red-and-blue circle.

  That made no sense.

  I have never…

  …I lost myself in the sensation, flipping from max cold to max warm again and again. Part of me kept expecting the water to catch fire or freeze me solid, but it never did (not here, not yet).

  My body stayed intact, the sensation shifting from a bright shock to a deep, warm lull.

  The skin on my fingertips wrinkled, but it still didn’t hurt. Can body just... change?

  Chan’s voice broke through from behind the bathroom door:

  “Sasha, sweetie? Are you okay? It’s been fifty minutes!”

  Fifty?

  I panicked. Fifty minutes? That’s long here, right? I shut off the water in a rush, heart pounding. How dare I waste so much water—something that probably has value or limits—and so much time—Chan’s time, no less—just because I… (I shouldn’t have done this.)

  (They’ll punish me. Finally. It was too much.)

  And, of course, I almost forgot the robe.

  (Not again. Never again.)

  I bolted out, grabbing the robe and fumbling it on, mind spinning with all the mistakes I must have stacked up in that single hour.

  I shouldn’t have done this. I used too much. Something that wasn’t for me.

  (But… if they let me—if it’s somehow, unbelievably possible—I want to do it again.)

  I expected Chan to reprimand me for wasting so much water and her time, but she only smiled and asked if I liked it. Then she apologized—for “bothering” me, saying she worried I might’ve gotten lost or something.

  Lost? How would I get lost in a "shower"? Still, I nodded quickly, my pulse slowly easing.

  Chan then gave me a “clothing one-oh-one,” which confused me immediately—starting with “one-oh-one.” She said it casually, as if it was obvious, so I didn’t ask.

  Could it be a numerical code? What is “oh,” then? Or was this another of those weird “idioms,” like “blend in”?

  Clothes followed their own logic, yet their overall purpose eluded me. If clothing was for protection, why not reinforced fabric? If for thermoregulation, why leave parts exposed? Magic would be more effective, wouldn’t it? Yet Chan said it was about “comfort”—a concept I still couldn’t decode—and something about “societal meaning.” That made even less sense. But at least she gave me clear rules, and I was grateful. Rules were a set of fixed patterns to follow—such a new, bizarre idea. Chaos never had those. Here, in this stable world, I realized I might rely on them.

  Afterward, they brought me to another shared meal—“breakfast,” this time. (Including me yet again.)

  Edgar stood when Chan and I entered. (Why?)

  His face had returned to its usual color, but his eyes were slightly narrowed and crinkled. I opened my mouth to apologize, but he spoke first:

  “Hello again, ladies,” he said, voice relaxed. “Sasha, I’m sorry about earlier—I hope I didn’t confuse you too badly.” He chuckled softly, gaze warm but hard to decipher. “Didn’t expect that particular… situation.” Another, lighter chuckle. “I should’ve explained better. I trust Chan has corrected my oversight.”

  He glanced at Chan, and something passed between them—a silent exchange I couldn’t interpret. I didn’t know how to respond.

  Chan laughed loudly. “Serves you right, oh great Edgar.”

  (What does she mean?)

  He chuckled softly, shaking his head. Neither seemed angry or hurt. Still, I murmured a quiet “sorry.” They both insisted it was fine, perfectly fine, nothing to apologize for.

  It was all so confusing.

  Breakfast itself overwhelmed me again. “Yogurt and fruits,” they called it. Each fruit tasted like the colors here—not the real colors that hurt, but these gentler ones in this world—would taste, if colors had flavor. Another surge of intense, concentrated sensation. (Too much again. Too… good. All that... for me?)

  But the most impossible moment came afterward when Edgar placed another drink in front of me.

  It didn’t look like any drink before. At first, I thought—finally, punishment. A liquid to corrode me from the inside. Chaos had done that so many times; it wasn’t really bad. But Edgar explained it was a normal human drink: “coffee,” with “milk” (I knew milk already) and something called “sugar.”

  I didn’t understand why they wanted me to “try” things, but he asked me to drink, so I did.

  He watched carefully as I raised the cup to my lips. Why?

  The smell of coffee was also strange—not smooth or gentle. Bitter, dark, complex. Like a puzzle with jagged edges and layers, ready to cut if I placed them wrong.

  I brought it to my lips slowly. (Now it'd hurt). Then I sipped.

  Oh.

  The taste exploded—bitterness blooming first like a black star, then mellowing into a creamy swirl of warmth and sweetness, something vast and unknowable. A thousand tiny reactions flared inside me, overwhelming and complex. My mind tried frantically to map it onto the scale of anti-pain I’d been building. If agony was scalable, then so should anti-agony be; yet all these anti-pain sensations were so intense I couldn’t confirm it. Now, however, coffee seized the top spot, impossibly surpassing milk, yogurt, water, and even the shower. It held more anti-pain than anything else I’d experienced here.

  It was better.

  “Better” truly existed.

  I emptied the cup in almost one go, unable to stop. The taste lingered—thick, bitter, sweet, and then something else entirely.

  I needed more immediately.

  But I couldn’t. It was too good. (How dare I ask for more?)

  Edgar kept watching, eyes oddly bright.

  “It’s…” I paused, searching for the right word, “Good. Very… good.”

  Edgar’s face lit up, wide and open, yet something shadowed lingered behind his smile, sadness quietly brushing his eyes. “You used to adore coffee, Sasha,” he said gently. “You wouldn’t part with your cup for longer than half an hour. I… I’m glad you still like it.”

  He moved suddenly, extending his hand toward my shoulder—

  I flinched back, bracing for impact.

  His hand froze mid-air, fingers curling back slowly. He withdrew, eyes darkening with an emotion I couldn’t name.

  (Why didn’t he hit me? Wasn't it his intent?)

  We both sat in silence. He meant that human Sasha, didn’t he? The real one. But despite all their evidence (this can’t be real, can it?), I couldn’t believe I had ever been her.

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  Yet… she loved coffee, and I—I… like coffee.

  I actually like something.

  (stop)

  (Could I have more?)

  (No, stop. Don’t even think about it.)

  Chan broke the silence softly, sipping her own drink. “Actually, I dislike coffee. I prefer tea—perhaps we’ll have you try it next, Sasha?”

  I stared. Chan didn’t like coffee? But it was the best sensation—the highest on my anti-pain scale. Chan herself was so… good. Strong. Complex. Kind. How could she dislike something like this?

  How could that be? Did I make a mistake by liking it? But Edgar seemed to approve… And…

  Breakfast was ending. I kept my eyes on the empty coffee cup. Would they give me more?

  Certainly not. They must know I’ve had enough. Too much.

  “So, Sasha,” Chan said warmly, interrupting my thoughts, “I was thinking… maybe it’s time you learned to read. What do you think?”

  Yes. (why would they?)

  I wanted to know what these symbols meant. I wanted to decode their world. Maybe then I’d finally understand what they want from me—and why they’re so… so kind.

  ---------------

  Edgar.

  Edgar was… happy. A strange, quiet kind of happiness—so rare he scarcely recognized it. Not since Alaric’s demise. Not through two frantic decades of searching, finding Sasha, training her, and then losing her again. But now, for the first time in years, the grip of failure loosened enough for him to breathe.

  Sasha was… fine. Of course, Edgar had no illusions about the fragility of her state. He knew exactly how close she remained to self-annihilation, how profound and unimaginable her trauma was, how little anyone truly grasped about the depths of her damaged mind, her immense power, or how much Chaos had devoured. He knew she’d never fully recover, never truly be safe or free from suffering. But—

  He’d expected a hopeless battle, an unending magical wrestling match spanning months or years, constantly fighting off her attempts to destroy herself or others. At best, he’d hoped to hold Sasha on that precarious edge long enough for the miracle that had saved him almost a century ago: the power of preserved memories and the love of others.

  Instead, she was here—talking, interacting, even smiling for stars’ sake. She’d sat at breakfast, looking at her coffee cup as though it held the secrets of the universe. She hadn’t truly attempted to annihilate herself or harm others—not fully, not even once. Edgar still struggled to believe it, yet the evidence was right there.

  He couldn’t ask for more.

  Chan had already taken Sasha to the library for her first reading lessons—just two weeks after her return. How was that even possible?

  Edgar longed to go with them, despite knowing he’d add no more value than any other literate person. Chan was more than capable of teaching Sasha, and he had neglected other pressing matters for far too long.

  Still… perhaps he could sneak away later, even for an hour or two, to bring Sasha another coffee? At breakfast, he’d sensed her quiet yearning for more—though she never voiced it. He’d considered offering but held back, hoping to encourage her to express desires for herself. Probably too soon for that. Despite Sasha’s remarkable cognitive—and magical—abilities, the girl still barely believed she deserved to exist, let alone ask for anything.

  But Edgar had obligations. It was time to face them.

  His first meeting was with Commander Charles Bisset.

  Charles Bisset, Head of ACC Military Operations, was a seasoned battle mage in his mid-fifties, always impeccable in appearance, manner, and protocol. Twenty years earlier, Edgar had personally recruited him from the World Council Army, right after Charles’s promotion to General. Charles had risen to prominence commanding counter-terrorist operations on behalf of the World Council, becoming legendary after the notorious five-day occupation conflict when De’ern’s aggressive new regime tested the border defenses of neighboring Te’ien. Charles led the World Council peacekeeping force supporting the besieged Te’ienian civilians, masterfully employing ach-tech defensive barriers and innovative tactical deployments in dense urban combat. Through strategic brilliance and precise coordination, he reduced civilian casualties to almost zero—an unprecedented feat in city warfare, one Edgar deeply admired. And for the ACC, whose primary mission involved containing dangerous Chaos eruptions (especially in densely populated areas), that kind of operational genius was priceless.

  They had worked together closely and efficiently over the last two decades, but never became friends. Edgar deeply respected Charles, yet every meeting inevitably dredged up painful memories of Yonas—the man who previously held Charles’s position, the friend and confidant who had betrayed Edgar and all they stood for, leaving deep scars. Charles wasn’t to blame, Edgar knew; yet Yonas’s shadow still lingered, making Edgar reluctant to form another bond.

  Maybe in another few decades…

  Charles entered, sharp and formal as always, snapping a flawless salute. “Good morning, sir.”

  Edgar inclined his head, gesturing toward the chair opposite him.

  “Good morning, Charles. Thank you for meeting me.”

  But Charles didn’t sit. Instead, he stood rigidly, eyes hard. “Permission to speak plainly, sir?”

  Edgar sighed, already knowing what was coming. “Granted.”

  “With all due respect,” Charles began crisply, his words clipped and controlled, “What the actual fuck, Edgar?”

  Despite himself, Edgar almost smiled at the sheer bluntness. He deserved it.

  Charles went on without pause. “First, we agreed on maximum containment and hazard protocols. Then we barely manage to contain her initial magical outburst—despite fail-safes and the presumed absence of hostile intent,” he emphasized sharply. “And after all that, you take her straight to the Door? And if that wasn’t enough, you personally dismantle all remaining fail-safes? Alone, without consultation?”

  Edgar exhaled heavily. “It was the right call, Charles. We’re building trust—real trust. It was necessary. I fully understand the risk, and I stand by my decision. Sasha deserves nothing less.”

  Charles’s gaze darkened further. “And what about everyone else, sir? The non-military personnel? What do they deserve? She could obliterate this entire facility in a heartbeat. What assurances can you possibly offer?”

  Both men knew Edgar had none.

  “They all know the risks, Charles,” Edgar said slowly. “Every person here understands the stakes. Sasha—”

  “—is a living time bomb,” Charles interrupted, sharp eyes unyielding. “And you’ve just removed our only detonator. I formally request permission to evacuate all non-essential personnel immediately.”

  Charles’s eyes weren’t just hard; they were scared—quietly, professionally, like a man who had run every worst-case simulation and seen them all end in ash.

  Edgar sighed again. Personnel here had competed fiercely for every single position, fully informed of the potential danger, yet overwhelmingly eager to serve at humanity’s ground zero. Edgar also knew that, despite official briefings, most people could never truly internalize the terrifying reality behind the holy figure of a Savior. Saints couldn’t hurt anyone, surely?

  “No,” Edgar replied firmly after a moment. “Issue another explicit warning memo. Offer extra paid leave to anyone uneasy with the current circumstances. Reinforce that Code Orange remains active: no family visits until further notice. But let each person choose for themselves.”

  Charles nodded stiffly, clearly disagreeing but knowing better than to push further. “Then, at minimum, I require tripling our observational security detail—at least two dedicated units maintaining eyes-on at all times. Spatial and magical barriers need immediate reinforcement, 400% stronger at least. Additionally, your and Professor Yan’s threat assessment must increase from once to twice daily. And I want a full psychological evaluation scheduled promptly, with multiple independent experts.” He paused, expression grim. “These are reasonable demands, sir. And frankly, they’re barely adequate given the threat.”

  Edgar winced inwardly. Sasha already sensed constant surveillance, even if she didn't point it out. He’d hoped to reduce it over time, not expand it. Yet Charles was absolutely correct.

  Spatial barrier reinforcement alone would cost more resources than building an entirely new facility, but neither Edgar nor humanity would hesitate to pay that price—not for their Savior, and certainly not for everyone’s safety.

  “Agreed,” Edgar conceded quietly. “Do it all. And Charles—” He met the commander’s fierce gaze, aware of the restrained anger and fear simmering behind that disciplined fa?ade. “I’m truly sorry for putting us all in this position. But we can’t handle this with standard protocols alone. We have enough evidence, enough reason, to trust her. It’s worth this risk. Remember, she’s not a bomb—she’s a girl who gave everything for us, Charles. Absolutely everything.”

  Charles didn’t waver, eyes steady and cold. “I understand, sir. But if you’re wrong—you have the strength to survive it. Most others here do not.”

  Edgar flinched at those stark words, but before he could respond, Charles saluted crisply, executed a flawless 180-degree pivot, and marched from the room.Only then did Edgar exhale fully, realizing he’d been holding his breath far too long.

  -----------------

  Charles had been difficult—but at least he was honest. Politics, Edgar thought grimly, were another beast entirely.

  The door opened with a chirp of polite automation, and in swept Marin—sunny, crisp, and impossibly cheerful.

  Marin Al’eti, the ACC’s head of public relations, had risen swiftly through the ranks, starting as an intern barely a decade ago and proving herself indispensable. Edgar was fond of her personally—he genuinely appreciated her optimism, competence, and boundless positivity, especially after enduring years with her predecessor, whom he privately suspected might have been an agent of Chaos himself.

  Yet Edgar despised PR—the public spectacle, the carefully crafted statements, the delicate balance between truth and “narrative.” It was an irony he never ceased to resent, given how much of his daily life revolved around exactly that.

  She handed him coffee—too sweet, as always—but familiar. It was a small gesture of care he’d grown oddly grateful for. Her earrings sparkled—golden, polished, elegant masks. A quiet tribute to the newly returned Savior and her anonymity. Edgar wasn’t sure if Marin wore them deliberately. He suspected she did.

  “Hello, Marin. Thank you,” Edgar said, glancing at the tablet in her other hand, a vague nausea curling in his stomach. “How much?”

  Marin’s smile faltered only slightly. “A lot, sir. We’ve deflected what we could, but the Council’s patience is wearing thin. They’ve demanded an official update for two weeks now. And the public—well, we can’t keep offering ‘no comment’ much longer. They need a headline. Preferably yesterday.”

  Edgar exhaled heavily. Of course. The entire world knew the Door had closed. That kind of event couldn’t be hidden—not when ambient magic itself trembled. Sensors everywhere registered it instantly, and news had spread before Edgar even managed to stabilize Sasha.

  The world held its breath, desperate for news. Everywhere, people prayed, hoped, and waited—longing for updates, hoping against reason that, finally, a Savior would live on. Immediately after Sasha’s return, when they put her into a magical sleep, Edgar approved one short, carefully worded statement: “The Savior has returned alive. The critical threshold has passed safely.” Four aides and two neuro-linguists had painstakingly assembled it—and it felt like a lie, even though it was the bare minimum. The first five minutes after a Vigil’s end were when all his predecessors had self-annihilated, disappearing in glowing particles. Sasha survived.

  But in the days that followed, events unfolded too unpredictably, too rapidly, too personally, for Edgar to offer any coherent explanation. What could he say, when every word would be dissected, every silence weaponized, and every hint spun into a hundred theories and prophecies?

  “I’ll handle the World Council,” Edgar said finally. “You can take that off your plate.” Marin visibly relaxed, her gratitude evident. “Thank you, sir. Frankly, I wasn’t looking forward to telling the Secretary-General to keep waiting yet again.”

  Edgar allowed himself a slight smirk. Telling politicians to shut up was one of the few perks of his position.

  “And for the public?” Marin asked cautiously.

  Edgar hesitated. He detested the thought of feeding false hope, hated revealing even one detail more than necessary—especially anything that could point out at Sasha’s identity. If the press discovered even a hint of who she was, any chance of peaceful recovery would vanish.“Let’s tell them we remain cautiously optimistic,” Edgar said at last, choosing his words carefully. “No more than that. When things stabilize, we’ll arrange a proper press conference. Just—not yet.”

  Marin sighed softly, clearly dissatisfied but understanding. “Of course, sir.” Her mask-shaped earrings caught the sunlight when she nodded goodbye, leaving him alone in the office.

  ----------

  By the time Edgar met virtually with the World Council representatives, his mood had soured further. Barely minutes in, after the obligatory worship, pretense of concern, and assurances of boundless gratitude, a council member asked, with thinly veiled eagerness, “Could you provide an assessment of Mistress Irving’s combat potential and field viability?”

  The bluntness of it left Edgar quietly seething. He forced his expression blank, though his fingers curled into a slow, silent fist beneath the desk. They masked it with polite smiles, soft-spoken platitudes about reverence for Saviors and concern for Sasha's welfare—but Edgar heard the truth behind every careful phrase: Is she dangerous to us, and can we use her?

  He despised politics even more than PR—another bitter irony, given that he himself stood at the pinnacle of political power. Edgar was, quite simply, the single most influential figure alive. Not just because he wielded the greatest magical strength ever recorded (at least before Sasha), but due to the symbolic power his Savior status carried. For nearly a century, he’d topped every list of the world’s most influential individuals by such a margin that second place was the real curiosity, not first.

  Perhaps because of it—or maybe in spite of it—Edgar loathed the spotlight. Recovering from his Vigil under public scrutiny had nearly destroyed him. And that was decades before the modern media age. If Sasha’s identity became known now, in this relentless digital era, she’d never get a chance at even a semblance of a quiet life.

  He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence linger, drawing flickers of discomfort across at least two representatives’ faces. Then: “I’m not providing an assessment.”

  He cut the call short, leaving their polished reverence and barely disguised hunger to smolder like smoke in an empty room. Maybe, finally, all his power would mean something real: keeping Sasha free of people like them.

  ----------

  Edgar’s final meeting hurt differently.

  The Irvings were waiting in the common area of the guest wing, a few buildings away from the research complex where Sasha now lived. The room was tasteful and quiet, with wide windows overlooking the valley and a low fireplace glowing behind them—meant to be soothing. It wasn’t.

  Robert and Ekaterina sat side by side, close enough to look like one unit. Now in their mid-sixties, they had begun to resemble each other in that quiet way long-married couples sometimes do—weathered, still, hardened by grief. Robert’s hair was salt-and-pepper; Ekaterina’s remained blond—the same shade Sasha once had, before silver claimed it.

  Ilya leaned against the back wall, arms folded, his build bulkier than Edgar remembered—though the days of mining in their hometown were long behind him. They lived comfortably now—ACC-funded, revered even, if in secret, materially secure. But comfort meant nothing when the system that fed you had also swallowed your daughter.

  Mark sat next to Ekaterina, clasping her hand tightly. He was around Sasha’s age, more or less—if age was still a concept that truly applied to her.

  Sasha’s oldest friends, Alex and Stanis, were also here but waiting elsewhere. This meeting was for family only. Her friends were willing to wait, and Edgar was grateful.

  When Edgar entered, the Irvings stood. They greeted him, but tension clung like a stormcloud, thick and unspoken. Over the years, they’d built something resembling a relationship—bound by reluctant trust, grief, ritual updates, and the shared horror of waiting. They loved Sasha. So did he. But some wounds never scar—they only bleed quieter.

  He would always be the man who let their daughter walk—willingly, knowingly—into something unspeakable. The one still making decisions, even now, decisions they had no power to challenge.

  And today, he was about to hurt them again.

  Robert spoke first.

  “What in stars’ name happened yesterday, Edgar?” His voice was low but trembled like a dam about to burst.

  Edgar opened his mouth, but Robert pressed on.

  “You said she’s talking. That means she’s lucid.” His voice cracked, sharper now, brittle.

  “So what’s this about her not wanting to see us?” A pause.

  “And what’s the bullshit you told Katya and Mark?”

  Edgar met his gaze, unflinching. “She had a panic episode,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t small. We managed to calm her without harm, but it was close. You received the official update, but I wanted to tell you myself.”

  “That doesn’t explain why we can’t even see her,” Ilya cut in before Edgar could finish. Sasha’s older brother’s voice was softer, but it carried a bite. “You said she promised not to hurt herself. Or anyone. But somehow, we’re not allowed near her?”

  Edgar sighed. He’d expected this. Bracing himself, he said it again—clearly, for all of them:

  “You knew she would change,” Edgar began, steady but soft. “But she’s not a blank slate for us to fill with new memories. She remembers… Chaos. What he did to her. Every second. In perfect, unbroken detail. But not who she was before. Not you. Not yet. Maybe never.”

  For a moment, silence.

  Then they all spoke at once—Ekaterina choking on a sob, Ilya swearing, Robert half out of his chair.

  “You can’t be serious—”

  “That’s not possible!”

  “How dare you—”

  “Just talk to her, Edgar!”

  Ekaterina’s voice cut through: “That’s still our daughter.”

  Mark remained silent, but his grip on his mother’s hand tightened—and for a moment, his jaw clenched hard.

  Edgar sat through it quietly, letting it crash over him like cold water. It wasn’t new. But it still hurt.

  Finally, Robert raised his voice above the others, sharp and trembling.

  “It’s bullshit, Edgar. You say she remembers everything, but you act like she’s not our daughter. She is Sasha. Ours. Even if she doesn’t know it. Even if she’s different now. We’ve waited twenty-two years—we have the right to see her.”

  “I know. I’ve told her you love her. That you’re here. I’ll keep telling her. I’ll give her her diary and the videos when she’s ready. But the choice? It’s hers.” Edgar paused, trying not to let the pain seep too heavily into his voice. “She had no agency before, for far too long. It’s time she does.”

  Edgar stood, knowing it would be seen as cowardice. He didn’t care. “I’m sorry. Truly. But I won’t force her. Not again. That’s final.”

  He walked toward the door. Their gazes burned into his back like blades twisting a wound that never healed. But no one stopped him.

  The door shut with a soft click. Behind it, voices rose again—muffled grief, muffled rage. Familiar. Deserved.

  He didn’t blame them.

  He couldn’t forgive himself either.

  But the choice? He’d make it again.

  Every time.

  Sasha came first.

  ----------

  Now, finally, he could head to the library. Chan would surely have a sarcastic remark cocked and loaded. And Sasha—maybe—would tell him if she’d conquered the alphabet.

  He needed that more than he dared admit.