The desert was breathing again. Wind scraped against the barracks, carrying the dry scent of wood, dust, and heated metal. Everywhere he looked, everything was build.

Los Alamos.

Robert walked slowly beside General Groves, his hands clasped behind his back, the brim of his hat cutting a perfect shadow across his face. Groves, in contrast, moved with the blunt assurance of a man who trusted only what he could count, weigh, or shoot. He spoke in short, efficient bursts while Oppenheimer half-listened, his thoughts already elsewhere.

They passed the mechanical workshop where a group of engineers argued over circuits. Further ahead, the laboratory roofs glared under the sun, tin and light merging into white fire. The heat rippled the air so that everything seemed to shimmer — real and unreal at once.

“Security is still thin on the south perimeter,” Groves muttered. Robert nodded absently. “So is reality, General.” Groves frowned, used to such remarks and equally used to ignoring them.

Inside, the corridors of the new physics building still smelled of plaster and paint. The floors were unvarnished; the light, harsh and clean. On the walls hung chalkboards already crowded with equations written by eager hands. It was as if the universe itself were beginning to take shape here, one formula at a time.

“This is where they’ll assemble the lens array,” Groves said. “Yes,” Robert murmured.

They reached a heavy door at the end of the hall — the one that led into the restricted assembly chamber. Groves lifted his hand to knock, but before his knuckles met the metal, the handle turned from within.

The door opened.

A woman stood framed by the light of the lab behind her. Long black hair fell in a glossy curtain over her shoulders; her face was pale, defined, almost sculpted from ice. Her sharp and glacial eyes carried the unmistakable clarity of Vienna: a mind trained in symmetry, an expression sharpened by restraint.

Groves’ reaction was uncharacteristic. His chest straightened, his tone softened, almost formal. “Doctor,” he said, inclining his head. “Right on time.”

Oppenheimer turned slightly toward him, surprised. It was rare to see Groves extend that tone to anyone.

“She’ll be joining the theoretical division,” the General added briefly, as if anticipating the question. “I requested her myself.”

The woman didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The stillness she carried into the hallway was more commanding than words. The sterile air of the lab seemed to bend around her presence — a quiet gravity asserting itself in the space.

Oppenheimer studied her. The light caught in her hair, and for a moment, the world narrowed to line, form, precision. There was no trace of uncertainty in her stance, no deference, no curiosity wasted on him. Like she was already calculating something he hadn’t yet thought of.

Groves was already talking logistics, his voice a distant hum. But Robert barely heard him. All he could think was that this woman — this embodiment of the cold precision he both admired and feared — had just stepped not into his project, but into the trajectory of his own design.