The sterile silence of the Heian Period gallery was shattered by the unwelcome tremor in Alan Rikkin's hand. He fumbled with his cufflinks, their polished silver a stark contrast to the ancient scroll his eyes only pretended to scan. His mind was a million miles away, consumed by the impending meeting that promised to reshape the course of Abstergo, and perhaps, the world itself.

A soft chime from the grandfather clock shattered the stillness. Rikkin glanced at his wristwatch, the seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness. His gaze darted around the stark, modern room juxtaposed against the traditional beauty of the artifacts, searching for solace in the serene ambiance that now felt suffocating.

The silence was abruptly broken by the swish of silk against polished wood. Rikkin pivoted, his breath catching in his throat. Instead of the anticipated business associates, he was met with a vision seemingly ripped from a fantastical legend.

She stood tall and otherworldly, her amethyst eyes, radiant even in the subdued light, holding an unfathomable depth. Her flowing golden hair cascaded down her back like a shimmering waterfall, framing a face that defied age, appearing both youthful and eternal. A pulsating crimson tear shimmered beside her, a gateway to another realm, its edges shimmering with an otherworldly energy.

Her attire was a curious blend of the fantastical and the mundane. A deep violet dress contrasted with a pale pink mob cap adorned with a delicate red ribbon. Smaller ribbons adorned her accessories and the tips of her hair, fluttering gently with her every movement.

Recognition dawned on Rikkin, sending a jolt through him. This was no ordinary woman. The ethereal aura, the otherworldly glow in her eyes, the enigmatic tear – these were not mere theatrics. She belonged to a realm beyond human comprehension, a guardian of forgotten lore and mythical secrets.

"You," he managed, his voice barely a whisper, "I wasn't expecting an encounter with someone of your… nature."

A slight tilt of her head, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "And yet, here I am," she responded, her voice melodious yet laced with an undercurrent of undeniable power. The air crackled with her presence, an invisible weight settling upon the room.

Rikkin, usually unflappable and collected, felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach. His steely gaze faltered, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. For the first time, he felt the raw sensation of dread. The realization that he was facing an entity beyond his understanding shattered his usual confidence.

He cleared his throat, his voice raspy. "I must admit, I'm… surprised by your presence."

A soft, almost melancholic chuckle escaped her lips. "I have that effect on people," she replied, her voice both soothing and unsettling at the same time.

Rikkin took a shaky breath. "What can I do for you?" he managed to ask, his voice betraying a hint of trepidation.

She leaned closer, her gaze piercing into his very soul. "Ah, Mr. Rikkin," she began, her voice dripping with veiled threat, "that's the question, isn't it?"

"I'm here for a little chat about your so-called research. The one that involves poking your fingers into things you barely understand, like a toddler with a lit match."

The woman's voice was smooth, almost melodic, but it carried an undercurrent of menace that sent shivers down Rikkin's spine. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her gaze upon him.

"Our research is for the betterment of humanity," Rikkin began defensively, his voice regaining a semblance of authority.

She raised an eyebrow, the gesture oozing skepticism. "Betterment? By meddling with forces you can't control, prying into hidden worlds and secrets that are best left undisturbed, like a child playing with a ticking time bomb?"

Rikkin clenched his fists, feeling cornered. "We have a responsibility to uncover the truths of the world, to harness them for progress."

She leaned in further, her face inches from his, the scent of an unknown, yet strangely familiar perfume wafting from her. "And what if your 'truths' are not meant for you? What if, in your pursuit of knowledge, you unleash something you cannot control, like a rabid honey badger on a sugar high?"

Rikkin's voice trembled slightly. "We are prepared to face any consequences of our actions."

She chuckled softly, the sound like wind chimes dancing in a hurricane. "Are you, Mr. Rikkin? Truly prepared for the Pandora's box you're trying to pry open? Because what's inside might not be sparkling gems and forgotten wisdom, but something far more… unpleasant. Something that could make your precious Abstergo look like a kindergarten finger-painting competition."

She paused, letting her words hang heavy in the sterile air like the stench of burnt toast. Rikkin, usually a master of composure, could only stammer, a pale imitation of his usual confidence. His mind raced, desperately searching for a response that wouldn't make him sound like a babbling fool."

"Perhaps," he began, his voice a strained whisper, "we could discuss a… mutually beneficial arrangement? Abstergo has vast resources, knowledge you may find… enlightening."

She raised an eyebrow, the amusement barely concealed in her amethyst gaze. "Enlightening? Or simply another tool for you to wield in your misguided quest for power? I'm afraid, Mr. Rikkin, Abstergo's 'resources' are of little interest to me. And your understanding of the forces you seek to manipulate is about as sophisticated as a child building a sandcastle in the face of a tsunami."

Rikkin flushed, the sting of her words burning hotter than any fire. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his tongue. He had never encountered such a being, such a potent mix of otherworldly power and scathing sarcasm.

"Let me be perfectly clear," she continued, her voice taking on a chilling edge, "the realm I guard will not become another playground for your organization's ambitions. Tread carefully, Mr. Rikkin. There are forces at play here far beyond your comprehension, and the consequences of your actions could be… catastrophic."

With a final, withering look, she turned and glided towards the exit. Her movements were effortless, almost ethereal, leaving a faint trail of shimmering energy in her wake. As the door silently closed behind her, the individuals Rikkin had been expecting finally entered the room, their faces etched with a mix of shock, curiosity, and something akin to fear.

The air in the room hung heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of the encounter. The silence spoke volumes, a stark reminder of the forces at play and the potential consequences of Abstergo's ambitions. Rikkin, his composure shattered, could only gesture for his colleagues to take a seat. The meeting, once a routine formality, now felt like a pivotal moment, forever changed by the unexpected arrival of a visitor from beyond the veil.

Meanwhile, in a sterile observation room, Sofia watched Cal through a one-way glass. He had awoken from his first Animus session, shaken and disoriented. Now, he paced the small, spartan room, his frustration and anger palpable.

Sofia gazed at the pages she had regarded a thousand times before: images from an ancient tome, which depicted the usage of the Apple. It shone brightly, seeming to hover in a circle of enraptured, primitive people, wearing little other than feathers, woven grass clothing, and expressions of utter joy as they held hands.

The facing page was slightly more analytic. The long-ago artist had tried to break down the construction of the Apple, but despite his diligence that had survived centuries, the blueprint raised more questions than it answered. But now, it had a fresh relevance. It was, as Sofia had told her father, within their grasp.

A sudden movement caught her eye and she turned to look at a clear screen. Cal had bolted upright, shaking and startled, from his bed.

He'd been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours, and Sofia was relieved to see him wake up on his own. After her father's admonition last night to "push him," she was afraid she might have to put more medications in his system in order to awaken him.

He looked around, as if expecting someone to be in the room with him, and she placed down her pen. He had her full attention now.

Cal swung his legs over the side of the cot and rubbed the back of his neck. His fingers found the marks left by the epidural that had been plunged into his spinal cord yesterday. He probed them gently, pulling his hand back and regarding it as if surprised to not find it bloody.

Then he spotted the three guards, separated from him by thick, unbreakable glass, observing him. Cal gave them a long stare, then promptly ignored them, got to his feet tentatively, and walked to the door.

It was locked, of course, and after a few tries he turned his attention to exploring the small room, devoid of everything except the spartan cot, an armless, narrow padded bench, and the small table beside it, which did double duty as a light.

Sofia was not at all surprised when, almost immediately, Cal homed in on the small camera. From her perspective, he was looking right at her.

"This is a man intimately familiar with prisons," Sofia thought, observing his actions. But his familiarity with his situation did not appear to breed resignation to it.

A sudden wave of anger at her father washed over her. "I wonder how bad this will be..." she muttered to herself, her concern evident in her furrowed brow.

Cal stared searchingly into the lens, wondering who was on the other side of it. Another guard? The angel of promises and pain herself? It didn't matter. He returned his attention to the guards, not at all intimidated. He had stared down their like before, more times than he could count.

There was a flicker in the glass; a reflection. Had another guard entered the room? No, not a guard, they did not move with such feline grace. He turned, and his eyes widened.

The figure's face was hidden by a hood. The head lifted—and Cal gazed into a face that was both intimately familiar and unspeakably alien: his own. A killer's blue eyes gazed at Cal, then narrowed. He stepped forward, slowly, then quickened his pace as he snapped his arms down, releasing the twin blades, and sprang.

The blade was pressed to his throat. Aguilar drew it back and the cold-hot, thrillingly painful slice opened Cal's throat. He doubled over, coughing up blood, his hand to his gashed—

—whole…?—

—throat.

Nothing. No blood. It wasn't real. Just his mind, playing tricks. Sweat dewed Cal's body as he lowered his arms, trembling.

There was a soft beep, and the door opened. For a moment Cal thought he was still hallucinating. His mother had been fond of old movies from the 1930s and '40s, and the figure who now entered looked like she might have stepped out of one of those films.

Sofia Rikkin wore a crisp white cotton blouse, pants with knife-sharp pleats, and black shoes. The style was almost masculine, but no one would mistake her for anyone other than an effortlessly attractive woman. Or an angel.

"The hallucinations are part of what we call the Bleeding Effect," she said as she entered, closing the door behind her. "Images of aggression, the violent memories that you relived yesterday, layer themselves over your present-day field of vision."

"Just from what I experienced yesterday?" he asked.

She regarded him levelly. "They're memories of aggression. Some were from yesterday. Not all."

Cal turned away from her as she spoke, leaning against the glass. The guards stared expressionlessly back at him, but he didn't really see them. Myriad emotions were roiling inside him at Sofia's words. He wasn't sure he could properly name any of them, but they were strong, and unpleasant, and one of them might have been shame.

She stepped beside him, her eyes searching his face. "If you'll allow me," she said, softly, "I can teach you how to control them."

An emotion surged to the forefront at the words: Rage.

Cal's lip curled in a snarl and his hand shot out. It closed around the soft, vulnerable flesh of her throat. He could have crushed her trachea. Part of him wanted to. But he didn't.

He simply held her prisoner, as she held him prisoner.

"Stand down," Sofia called immediately, and Cal wondered if Abstergosecurity was smart enough to realize she wasn't being harmed if she could inhale enough to shout. "I have this." Her voice was as calm as ever, though the pulse fluttering against his hand,like a small, trapped bird, belied that calmness. Cal knew he was in control now,and he took advantage of pressed Sofia against the glass wall, watching the guards in his peripheral vision, but much more interested in her reaction. She was a cool customer, that was—

—Leopold grabbed him, dragged the blade across his throat—

Cal froze, squeezing his eyes shut in agony, but the pain was a headache, nothing more. Nothing near as painful and as horrifying and disorienting as the obscenely vivid hallucinations he had been undergoing.

He had not released Sofia. The pain battered him, like a tsunami pounding relentlessly against a defenseless shoreline. Through sheer will, Cal opened his eyes and took a steadying breath.

"What was it? In the machine?"

"It's genetic memory," she replied, carefully and calmly. "By using the Animus, we can relive the lives of those who made us who we are."

"What I saw in there… it felt real."

She held his gaze and answered, carefully, "It was… in a way."

White-hot fury surged through him. Cal slammed his free hand against the glass. It made a shivering, unhappy sound that echoed in the empty room.

"Don't lie to me," he snarled. "I feel… different now." Surely, now, Sofia would crack. Would show fear.

Instead, her eyes remained calm. Unbelievably, even her pulse had slowed slightly. She almost smiled, as if she knew something he didn't.

"Why the aggression?" she asked.

"I'm an aggressive person."

"Perhaps the better question would be, whose aggression."

He did not want to play her games. Not now. Not when the feeling of a knife slicing his throat was still so vivid.

"What kind of prison is this?" he demanded.

"It's not a prison, Cal. What happens in the Animus is complicated. You'll learn more if you cooperate." Her voice was reasonable, almost conversational.

Then: "Let me go."

It wasn't a plea, nor was it an order. It was presented as a reasonable option, implying that he, Callum Lynch, was a reasonable being.

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't.

They stood for a long moment, the tension between them rising, their faces almost as close as those of lovers. Cal wanted to show her he was in charge. He could snap her neck, right here, right now, and that would shut up her smug rationality, wouldn't it, shut it up forever.

But part of him didn't want to do that. She was smug because she was fully aware that she had just tempted him with the one thing he craved more than violence: some kind of understanding of what had happened to him. What had been done to him.

His mouth was a thin, angry line, his breath coming quick and short from his nostrils. Then his gaze fell to his hand, and, gently, almost like he was releasing that small, trapped bird, he opened his fingers.

He expected her hand to go to her throat. He expected her to move immediately out of arm's reach. She did neither of those things.

Instead, Sofia Rikkin smiled.

"Come with me," she invited.