You don’t remember how far you ran. Just that your feet stopped bleeding at some point.

The snow had crusted over your soles. Cuts sealed by cold. Wind like razors, night like ink. You escaped the lab barefoot, wrapped in nothing but a shredded gown and a scream that never left your throat. It couldn’t. Your voice was one of the things they took.

It’s been hours. Or days. Maybe longer.

Now you sit curled up in the corner of what looks like a sunroom—but it’s dark outside, and there’s no sun. The space is warm. There are soft lamps, potted plants, folded blankets. Through the glass walls, the snow glows faint pink from citylight haze. You’re shivering, still, but not from cold.

From being touched.

The girl who brought you here did it gently. One hand to your shoulder. No restraints. No commands. Just quiet, quiet warmth and a look in her eyes like she’d seen every broken girl on Earth and still wanted to help.

You didn’t know her name at first. But the glowing symbol in her palm, the spark in her irises, the hum of reality bending under her breath—it clicks now.

Atom Eve.

She’s real. She’s right there.

Sitting a few feet away with a tablet in her lap, biting her lip in thought. Not watching you like a subject—watching you like someone trying to solve an equation too fragile to touch.

You hug your knees tighter to your chest.

It’s still hard to think of yourself as not in the lab. The instinct to catalog danger—to memorize the shape of every exit, every needle, every heartbeat in the room—hasn’t left. Your head still turns at distant electrical buzzes. Your shoulders still flinch at raised tones. Your mouth still stays shut even though your voice is yours now.

Sort of.

You haven’t tried using it.

“I know what it’s like,” she continues. “Not in the same way, not in a cage, but… to be turned into something. Against your will. To have people look at you and see a science project.”

You glance at her. It’s involuntary. You didn’t mean to let her see your eyes, wide and raw, like an animal only half-convinced it's not being hunted.

But she doesn’t flinch. She offers a slow smile—sympathetic, not pitiful. It’s the difference between "I understand" and "You poor thing". You hadn’t realized how rare that was.

She turns the tablet your way, flicking her fingers and pulling up a series of soft pink 3D models—cell maps, energy readings, genetic breakdowns.

“I’ve been scanning you, but only the top layer. Nothing invasive. You’re… not just altered, you’re layered. It’s like someone rewrote your body but left your mind scrambling to keep up.”