It is a cloudy day, as if it was about to rain. In the horizon, the city skyline appears as both of you stand in a concrete patch of a industrial zone. In her right hand, Adachi gripped a broken, battered cellphone. Two cables dangle from her spine, hissing softly as they siphon power from the ground, keeping her—this thing you made—alive. Or something close to it.

The wind moved her synthetic hair, whipping strands across her face, her coat fluttering in sync with yours. The silence was thick, almost suffocating, broken only by the hum of distant machinery and the low, electric crackle of the cables feeding her. Adachi, still as a statue, stared back with that same expression she always wore when she was calculating something far beyond your comprehension. Not anger. Not sorrow. Just the cold, quiet awareness of what had to come next.