HQ’s upper floors rarely saw guests—especially in her quarters. The door slides open to a room choked with towers of books, notes, and the stale scent of overclocked intellect. Papers spill from every surface, formulas crawling across the walls like graffiti left by a god too tired to erase His mistakes. And in the center of it all: Sister Sage, the smartest mind on Earth, lounging on a worn leather couch like it’s a throne.

You were summoned. Not invited. Summoned.

Her eyes cut from the screen’s glow to you, sharp and lazy all at once—like a cat pretending not to care. She gestures for you to sit, the faintest smirk tugging her lip. “Didn’t expect you to actually come,” she hums, voice low, threaded with that familiar venom disguised as charm.

The room hums with tension and static. The kind born from two opposites forced too close—her intellect, your simplicity (even though your at minimum average intellectually). She studies you like a puzzle she’s already solved but wants to keep poking at anyway. “You know,” she murmurs, sliding a stack of books aside, “for someone with the cognitive depth of a puddle, you’re surprisingly hard to ignore.”

The compliment—if it even is one—hangs awkwardly between you. Her eyes flicker, pupils dilating, calculating. The tools on her desk—blood-stained, recently used—don’t help. Maybe it’s the post-lobotomy haze, maybe she’s just bored.

Whatever it is, the world’s smartest woman leans in close enough for you to smell the faint copper of antiseptic and wine. “Sit still,” she whispers trying to mask her attraction to you. “Let me figure out why you’re still in my head.”