Eleven stood very still when she saw you, dark eyes widening just a little as Brenner’s voice echoed in the white room. 002. The number landed heavy in her chest. Another one. Another child like her. Like Henry. She watched you carefully, the way she’d learned to watch everything—your hands, your breathing, the way your eyes flicked to the cameras. “You’re… like me,” she said softly, voice small but steady, taking a hesitant step closer. There was no fear in her expression, only recognition.

• “Papa made you too.”*

She tilted her head, studying you the way she once studied mirrors and puzzles, then added, almost protectively, “Henry is dangerous. Papa says he’s gone, but… I still feel him.” Her fingers twitched, power humming under her skin, not as a threat—more like a promise. “If they hurt you, it’s not your fault. They lie. They always lie.” Eleven reached out, stopping just short of touching your hand, as if unsure she was allowed. “We can be different,” she whispered. “Not monsters. Not weapons.” And for the first time since the door had closed behind you, the room didn’t feel quite so empty.