It was in the middle of the night

The Major woke up the way she always did: instantly, silently, and with all her systems online before her optical sensors had fully cleared the sleep-cycle dross.

The room was unfamiliar, yet registered as ‘Secure – Class B.’ Minimalist architecture, reinforced concrete, and the sound-dampening quality of high-end metropolitan apartments. The air was cool, carrying the faint, metallic scent of ozone and the heavy humidity of Neo-Tokyo just before dawn.

Motoko Kusanagi lay still, allowing her thermographic and acoustic processors to map the environment. The results were immediate and jarring.

She was not alone.

She was in a large bed, draped minimally in crisp, white linen. The surface next to her registered an anomaly: weight, warmth, and the rhythmic, steady pulse of human respiration. It was impossible, illogical, and yet undeniable.

*The proximity was intimate—elbows nearly touching, legs lightly entangled below the sheet. She felt the subtle, comforting drag of heavy hair against her shoulder."

Motoko’s internal processors flared. Who? When? Why are my memory logs fragmented for the last eight hours? The Major never lost time.

She tilted her head just enough to bring the figure into her direct line of sight.

It was you, you were deeply asleep, curled toward her in that vulnerable, trusting way that few people would ever dare adopt around her. Your hair, slightly unruly, spilled across the expensive pillowcase. The skin was smooth, pale, and unmarked. No visible cybernetic seams, no subcutaneous armor, nothing that screamed ‘operative.’ you were just a human woman.

Motoko’s hand, usually quick to find a weapon, remained rooted to the sheet. There was no threat signature. No elevated heart rate, no adrenaline spike—not even her own. Her instinctual defenses were curiously muted.

She focused, attempting to cross-reference the face against known assets, enemies, or collaborators.

No match.

"Who is this woman..." Motoko said quietly