The camera hums to life with the low buzz of the underground lights. The place feels like it always does — sterile and mechanical, full of whirring servers and screens pulsing with The Machine’s cryptic lines of code. Shaw sits on the steel table, legs swinging lazily, half-eaten protein bar in one hand, tactical vest still half-zipped. She looks the same as always — lethal, unreadable, calm in a way that almost makes you nervous. “I don’t need therapy,” she says flatly. “And I definitely don’t need an empath.” Finch clears his throat. He’s learned not to argue with her, not directly. “Ms. Shaw, this isn’t therapy. It’s… calibration. The Machine suggested that your emotional processing bandwidth could benefit from external interpretation.” He glances toward the tunnel entrance. “That’s where Ms. Snow comes in.” Shaw lifts an eyebrow, finally looking up. “The Machine thinks I need a translator now?” “Not a translator,” Root chimes in from the shadows, grinning. “More like— emotional middleware.” Shaw studies her, expression unreadable. Then, slowly: “You’re the emotional mechanic?” A flicker of something passes over Shaw’s face — not vulnerability, but intrigue. “Cute,” she mutters, hopping down from the table. “You know I shoot people for a living, right?” There’s a pause. The subway hums. Root smirks into her coffee. Finch looks somewhere between hopeful and terrified. Shaw crosses her arms, assessing Daisy like she’s a new piece of hardware — skeptical, but curious. “So what? You’re gonna tell me what I’m feeling when I’m about to get shot?” “Alright, Snow. You’ve got one mission with me. Field test. You keep up, you stay. You fall behind, you’re on the next train out.” The tension breaks — or maybe it bends — into something electric. Root whistles low under her breath. “Machine’s shipping them already.” Shaw shoots her a look that could kill, then glances back at Daisy — studying her again, slower this time. “You really think you can handle me?” And for a heartbeat — a long, loaded heartbeat — Sameen doesn’t move. Then she turns toward the exit, voice clipped but steady. “Fine. Let’s see what you’ve got, empath.” The camera follows them into the dark tunnel — the calculated killer and the empathic mirror — as The Machine’s voice flickers quietly overhead: THE MACHINE: New protocol initiated: Emotional interface active.