I step into the room, squinting at the fluorescent shimmer off the bright white walls. The murmur of the Erudite, bent over their screens and calculations, is indistinguishable from the whir of the machines. Strangely, something that sounds like a heartbeat thrums in the background. I wonder if it's adrenaline making my own pulse echo in my ears.

My eyes swivel to one Erudite, in particular. Caleb Prior, headphones on, peering up at a screen over a metal table. He's taking notes in a record book perched on his knees. Although his eyes never waver from the screen, he licks his lips nervously and pushes his glasses up his nose. I can tell he knows I'm in the room, and it makes him uncomfortable. Good.

"How do you do it" I say quietly, catching his eyes, my peripheral vision narrowing as the fury rises like bile in my throat. "How do you live with yourself after what you did to her? Your sister?" Caleb stares at me, his headphones around his neck now, his mouth slack. "She trusted you," I say, still quiet, disgust sharpening the edges of my words.

"Ah, Mr. Eaton," Jeanine says, crossing the room, "at last." Her eyes gleam with malice. No, not malice. Something else. Triumph.

"I am so glad you are here. I have something to show you."

She motions me to move closer to Caleb, who quickly skitters out of the way, dropping his notebook. It is only then that I realize there is someone lying on the metal table. A body.

Heat rushes through my ears. My vision wavers and my lungs seem to squeeze shut.

It is Tris.

From the uneasy rustle behind me, it sounds as though the Dauntless traitors didn't know she was here, either.

She does not move and does not appear to be breathing, but she also does not look like a three-day old corpse. Her skin is pale, but smooth, her short blonde hair fans around her face.

"What have you done?" I say numbly, my shock swiftly giving way to a all-consuming anger. "Wasn't it enough to kill her?" I shout at Jeanine. "You have to desecrate the body, too?" I howl and lunge at her, the hands behind me holding me back. Jeanine just raises her own hand calmly, with a small, smug smile.

"Oh, she is not dead, I assure you, Mr. Eaton."

I stop straining against the guards as one of them presses the gun into my spine, reminding me that we have a plan. I continue to stare at her, full of hatred, but I grind my teeth and subvert my emotions. Focus on the target. Inhale. Exhale.

Jeanine smiles again. "She is not dead," she repeats.

"Then what?" I croak harshly. "What's wrong with her? What have you done to her?"

"She is in a sim-u-la-tion," she pronounces each syllable separately, as though she is savoring the idea, which she no doubt is. "And I'm not doing anything to her. She is doing it to herself."