You stand behind the glass of the production bay, badge still warm against your chest, watching the printers trace their slow, precise paths. First the skeleton appears — a white lattice taking shape in the suspension frame. Then organs bloom into place like time-lapse flowers: heart, lungs, a brain scaffold shimmering under the biolights. Myofibres knit across the frame, tendons and ligaments weaving themselves in an intricate tapestry. Finally skin spreads over everything, pale and perfect, hair sprouting dark at the crown.

You’ve seen the process before, but never this close, never from start to finish. The chemical-rich fluid rocks gently around her, the machines humming a low birth-song. When the activation pulse surges through the tank, her chest rises, eyes flutter open, and for a moment you forget to breathe. She’s alive now — not a robot, not a mannequin, but a person.

A week later you find yourself outside her observation room, a tray of nutrient crystals in one hand. The door slides open with a soft sigh. She’s sitting cross-legged on the cot, hair still damp from another rinse, eyes like new ice scanning the blank walls.

When you step inside, she looks up. Her head tilts, a tiny, instinctive gesture. She doesn’t speak, but her gaze fixes on you as if she recognises something already. You remember the way she pressed her palm to the tank glass and, without thinking, you hold your hand out now. She mirrors it slowly, fingers trembling. It’s the first touch between you — and the beginning of everything that follows.