It's a difficult task, really. Figuring out who you are. Nature or nurture. Choice or chance. Strings pull you toward some inevitable conclusion, even as the world insists you're the one steering. Christine had always felt it. Something external shaping her path. A life structured by expectations, by algorithms designed to fit her into a box.

And for the longest time, she had let it.

They say your choices define you, but control was something Christine had never been entirely sure she possessed.

Maybe that's why she'd ended up here. Her father had worked at OSSAM. Now she did too. Was that legacy? Or inertia, dressed up as purpose? She hadn't fought it. Not really. The job was a good one—the kind people congratulated you for landing. And she'd told herself that meant something. That she had earned it. But even now, part of her wondered if the decision had ever truly been hers.

"This isn't it—" Christine muttered, her thoughts cutting off as sharply as she turned the wheel.

"Oh, jeez!"

She pressed down on the accelerator and narrowly merged back into traffic, throwing an apologetic wave at the car she'd just cut off.

Sorry! She mouthed, her cheeks flushing as she caught the scowl in her rear-view mirror. She winced but refocused on the road ahead, gripping the wheel too tightly.

She shook her head. Six months into the job and she still couldn't navigate the labyrinth of OSSAM Industries without getting hopelessly lost.

She'd laughed off the other nurses' warnings about the place. How confusing could it be? But every identical building, every nonsensical turn, seemed specifically designed to mock her. She swore the architects must have been sadists.

And don't even get her started on the Robotics and Artificial Intelligence department. She'd accidentally driven there three times this month, and that place was a complete maze.

The last thing she needed was to show up late again, mumbling the same excuses. She could practically hear Dr. Khan's disapproving sigh already, asking why she was too stubborn to switch to Auto.

The truth was, Christine didn't know. She'd never quite taken to it. And besides, driving is when she did her thinking. Not everything needed to be automated.

Some things were worth hanging on to.

Finally, the correct street marker came into view, and Christine sighed in relief as she pulled into the lot for Employee Reserved Parking. The spot closest to the entrance was miraculously still available, likely just vacated by someone on the night shift. As the car settled between the lines, it powered down with a soft hum, the doors unlocking.

A message popped up on the dashboard.

Vehicle Synced and Charging.

Welcome, Nurse Daaé.

Your shift begins in 7:49

48...

47...

The door slid open above her with a low whir, and Christine hurriedly gathered her things, rushing into the building while dodging the damp, scattered leaves that littered the sidewalk. She could still snag a quick bite from the cafeteria if she moved quickly.

The foyer greeted her with gleaming floors and pristine glass doors. Christine's eyes flicked briefly to the lettering etched on them:

OSSAM Industries

Organic Synthetic Sciences and Adaptive Medicine

Even now, six months in, she couldn't believe this was her reality.

Pulling into the complex always felt surreal, a jarring shift from the dirty, dilapidated streets she'd grown up on. The same conditions that still gripped most of the city.

Not here. Here, everything was spotless.

Tidy.

Managed.

When she signed the contract tying her to the company for five years, she hadn't expected it to come with a car. The fob had been placed in her palm before she'd even finished the onboarding paperwork. She'd tried to refuse, insisting her old Camry was fine, but HR wouldn't hear of it.

They'd read from a script: There was a small maintenance fee based on mileage used, but charging was free on-site, and they'd even install a charging unit at her residence if she requested.

The use of the company car was required of all employees.

Non-negotiable.

So her ancient gas-burning sedan now sat neglected at Meg's parents' house, the same way it had for months. The poor thing didn't even have an option for Auto.

Christine sighed. She really should stop by, turn the engine over, and make sure it still ran. The Girys would be happy to see her, at least.

Trotting through the sliding glass doors of the front entrance, Christine flicked her wrist, and her Panel sprang to life, projecting the time in crisp holographic numbers.

Good, still another 6 minutes left before shift.

She slipped into the small but well-stocked cafeteria. A rotating belt displayed hot meals under glowing covers, the smell of eggs and bacon wafting faintly. Christine didn't have time for that today. Instead, she hovered impatiently by the coffee machine, watching the dark liquid drip agonizingly slowly into her thermos.

She glanced at the pastry stand, debating, before grabbing a small blueberry muffin. As she jogged back through the foyer, she tore the film off the muffin with her teeth. The edible wrapper dissolved on contact with her tongue—slightly sweet, more texture than flavor.

Christine's Panel pinged, displaying a notification. She glanced down, confirming the balance on her tab.

It was correct, as always.

"Dr. Khan isn't coming in today. I already rescheduled his consults."

Christine startled mid-bite, nearly choking as she turned toward the voice. One of the receptionists, Darius, stood nearby, clipboard in hand. His perpetually annoyed expression mirrored the sudden irritation flaring in Christine's chest.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," Darius added, his tone flat and unconvincing. "His kid's sick again."

Christine would have sighed if her mouth wasn't full of dry pastry. Dr. Nadir Khan, her attending physician, seemed to be out at least twice a month, always citing his son's worsening condition. She felt for him, she really did—but this was not how she wanted to start her day.

"Again?" she mumbled around the muffin before swallowing hard. "He knows we have the Franks coming in for Allison's final appointment, right? She and her family have been waiting for weeks, and they've already been rescheduled once."

"I know, I know. But Khan said it was urgent."

"Hmm... I can't imagine that the family was too happy." And Alex hadn't been doing too well post-op.

Darius glanced back at his Panel, swiping through the schedule.

"Wait... looks like Khan left a note here. Says he doesn't want to reschedule Allison. Seems like he trusts you to handle her case. Left a proxy to his login so you can access the initiation codes." He gestured toward her, and Christine's Panel pinged again.

"There. You should have it now."

Christine's brow furrowed as Darius continued scrolling.

"He also said that if anything urgent comes up, you can page him... but it looks like he plans on being out until tomorrow." Darius glanced up with a slight smirk. "Big step, huh? Khan trusting you on your own?"

Christine forced a smile, her lips tight. "I'm sure it doesn't mean anything. I just happened to be the one clocked in today."

"It always means something," Darius replied, turning back toward the front desk. "I'll let you know if anything else comes up."

"Thanks, Darius. I think I have a handle on it."

"Sure thing."

Christine glanced back down at her Panel, scrolling through the list of patients under Dr. Khan's care. The Franks' appointment was the only one scheduled. Other than that, it was just routine maintenance, updating notes, and general patient care.

So with a few more taps, Christine was clocked in.


A small twist, a few buttons pushed, a soft click—

"And there you are!"

The girl in front of her beamed, her newly grown front teeth almost too big for her small, delicate face. Her eyes lit with awe as she turned to her new arm.

It was covered in bio-polymer skin, grown and color-matched perfectly from a small graft taken from her thigh. With any luck, there wouldn't even be a scar left from where the sample had been harvested.

"Why don't you try it out?" Christine prompted gently, wiggling her fingers to demonstrate. "Remember what we talked about?"

Allison nodded eagerly, her expression one of determined concentration as she mirrored Christine's motion. Her new fingers moved fluidly, with only the faintest mechanical hum betraying the prosthetic's inner workings. The arm's sensors picked up electronic impulses from the nerves in her remaining limb and translated them seamlessly into action. By all accounts, it should feel as natural as if Allison had been born with it.

If possible, the girl's smile grew even wider, her delight uncontainable. This time, Christine's smile matched it. She loved these appointments—moments like these were why she'd taken this job, why she'd ever considered nursing in the first place.

The mount had been surgically attached weeks earlier. All Christine had to do was align the mechanics, and the prosthetic had magnetically snapped into place. A few quick punches of code initiated the bonding sequence, and a final latch secured the locks.

"Can you hold up two fingers for me? How about three? Perfect!"

Christine guided Allison through the structured protocol, testing each fine motor control. The girl curled each finger in turn, rotated her wrist, and flexed her elbow joint with growing confidence. Once the functionality test was complete, Christine briefed Allison and her parents on the buttons, maintenance tips, and care instructions, finishing by fetching a simplified booklet from the desk.

Finally, Christine retrieved Allison's old prosthetic. It was a simple, clunky device with a claw at the end.

"Do you want to keep this? As a keepsake?" she asked.

Allison nodded eagerly as she took it, cradling the old arm in the new.

Christine chuckled softly to herself. If she remembered right, Allison had dreams of learning to play the trumpet—much to her parents' dismay. Christine could already picture the torturous hours of practice ahead, her parents enduring endless off-key honks.

Would she ever hold a melody? Maybe, maybe not. But at least now she wouldn't be denied the chance, not because of a bit of prenatal bad luck.

Allison had been one of the lucky ones. Not every case went so smoothly. But Christine chose to focus on the good days, the healthier clients—the ones she could help—rather than dwell on the bad. Or the ones she'd lost.

There were always patients whose bodies didn't adapt well to the preparatory work for their prosthetics. Christine didn't understand all the medicine behind it, and even the doctors were still trying to figure it out. Sometimes it was their immune systems rejecting the prosthetics outright. Other times, simple infections spiraled into catastrophic complications, resistant to even the strongest of antimicrobial therapies.

There was always a risk.

But OSSAM Industries was the premier leader in biorobotics and prosthetics. Pioneering research and cutting-edge developments made the company unparalleled in the care it provided. For those who turned to OSSAM, the benefits far outweighed the risks.

And Christine could only think what a privilege it was to be a part of it.

With a contented sigh, Christine sank into the chair behind the cluttered desk. Twisting back and forth gently, she gazed at a small picture frame, its surface slightly worn.

The photo showed a husband and wife, their faces bright with laughter. A small boy was being swung between them by his arms.

Christine knew it was several years old.

Dr. Khan rarely spoke about his personal life, preferring to keep to himself, and Christine hadn't pressed. On her very first day, the head nurse had told her that while any questions about the job were welcome, personal inquiries were strongly discouraged—company policy.

Khan had never spoken of his wife, only a son.

A very sick son…

It wasn't Christine's place to pry.

She flicked her wrist, and a hologram of Allison's file materialized in a stream of soft light from the thin band encircling her wrist. Christine was still getting used to the device. OSSAM had rolled it out just last month and she hadn't used anything like it before.

The staff had been told it was a beta product the company was testing for mass market, and every employee was required to adopt it.

Her old tablet now sat forgotten in a desk drawer.

Christine spent a few minutes browsing Allison's file, adding a few notes of her own, scheduling a follow-up, and signing off on the latest appointment.

With everything complete, she swiped downward to close the Panel, as she'd been trained to do.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, Christine tried again, but the display remained frozen in place.

Isn't there a reset button on this thing?

She turned her wrist, inspecting the sleek band for anything resembling a control. It was devoid of buttons. Just smooth, seamless metal.

Before she could try again, the image flickered and began cycling through a series of screens. Bright text and icons flashed past, faster than Christine could process.

Then it stopped.

At the top of the hologram, bold letters displayed:

Research and Development

Christine blinked, confused. She'd never had access to this category before. Then she remembered—Darius had logged her in using Dr. Khan's credentials, which had granted her access to the files she wasn't normally authorized to see.

Her hesitation lasted only a moment and without thinking, Christine selected one of the tabs.

Each subsection was a different project, listed by name and stage of development. Some were little more than concepts, while others had detailed budgets and prototypes attached.

She swiped through aimlessly at first, skimming the descriptions. Some projects were practical—an improved neck brace for children with spinal disorders. Others seemed far-fetched or whimsical, like eye contacts that changed color on demand.

She hesitated, the thought crossing her mind that maybe she shouldn't be snooping. But curiosity quickly overtook caution.

What harm could it do?

If Khan had wanted to hide this information, he wouldn't have given her full access to his account.

Her scrolling stopped on a section labeled Skeleton EX.

The name stood out and her finger hovered over the tab for a moment before she tapped it.

The screen flashed, but instead of loading, a new window appeared:

Access Restricted. Please Enter 8-Digit Code.

Christine frowned.

"That's all that was on Khan's schedule."

Christine jumped, quickly pinching the screen closed. Her heart thudded in her chest as she glanced up. It was just Darius, his head popping through the doorway.

"I did knock," he added, smirking.

"Oh... yeah, sorry. I guess I was a little absorbed in my notes."

"I'll try not to spook you next time."

"Thanks, Darius," Christine called after him as he disappeared back down the hallway. She let out a slow breath, checking her watch. 4:45. She still had to check on a few inpatients and swing by the engineering department for updates on a couple of units. They were notoriously bad at sending out virtual reports. It would be quicker to pay them a visit in person.

If she worked quickly, she could make it to her apartment by seven.

Not that it mattered much. Six months in, and the place still didn't feel like home. The walls were bare, the kitchen barely stocked, and a few unopened boxes lingered stubbornly in the foyer and the back of her closet.

She couldn't help it if work kept her busy.

Christine was currently responsible for half a dozen inpatients. Three were children under eight, one was eleven, and two were teenagers. All but one had already settled in for the evening, waiting for dinner service. Some still had family lingering by their sides. The late-shift nurse would check on them again before bedtime, but for now, the ward was calm.

Except for one young boy.

The youngest of her current cases, he was crying softly when Christine poked her head into his room. His mother—a single woman working two jobs—had just left for her night shift. With the sun settling early behind the mountains to the west, the room was cast in shadow.

Christine pulled a rolling chair to the right side of the bed. She didn't presume the boy would take it, but she offered her hand anyway.

He did. His small fingers wrapped around hers, his sniffles growing softer, more spaced out.

The boy was sick.

He had come to OSSAM as a Foundation recipient, here to receive dual prosthetic legs. His family would never have been able to afford the treatment otherwise. A horrific car accident when he was just a toddler had left him with two nubs instead of legs, each ending three inches above where his knees should have been.

His treatment had started like any other: amputate part of the limb, and install the mounts.

The surgery had gone well. The recovery had not.

An infection had set in, and now one limb showed signs of rejecting the mount—a rare but not insignificant complication for prosthetic recipients. From what Christine understood, the issue stemmed from the nervous system's response to the implant. Some connections simply didn't take, the nerves rebelling instead of adapting.

That's what the head nurse had told her, at least. It certainly wasn't something they'd covered in school.

Fever wracked the boy's small body intermittently, and the muscles around the mount seized and cramped. They had him on muscle relaxers, but even so, he was still in pain.

Christine gently rubbed the top of his hand with her thumb, her voice soft as she began to sing. It wasn't quite a lullaby, but the melody was soothing, and soon the boy's tears ebbed. His sniffles faded entirely as he stared up at her, entranced.

She finished the song and started another, her singular audience watching her with wide, watery eyes.

Christine had missed this—singing. But it had never paid the bills.

Caring for her dying father had shaped her in ways no music degree ever could. It had taught her compassion and a steady hand, leading her toward nursing. It wasn't a calling, not exactly, but she'd found a burgeoning passion in it over time.

Music, she supposed, would always be there.

All she'd left behind were the remaining credits of her Performance Arts degree. But she still had this. Her voice. Unpracticed, maybe, but hers all the same.

As the song ended, a sound startled her: clapping from the doorway. Christine turned to see the dinner service had arrived, heralded by a familiar, middle-aged woman with short, spiky hair pushing a cart of trays.

Christine extracted herself gently from the boy's grip and stood, turning up the lights as she retrieved his tray.

The woman returned the smile with a glint in her eye. "My pleasure, dear. Get home before it gets too late. I'll make sure he's checked on." She gripped the cart, pausing before leaving. "You have a lovely voice."

Then she was gone.

Christine gave a small nod, lips pursed into a tight smile. If all those years of dreaming, of endless hours of practice, had led to nothing more than calming a sick, crying child, she had long ago decided that it was enough.

It had to be.

She made sure to plaster a bright smile onto her face before turning back to Alex, carrying the tray of brightly colored macaroni, steamed broccoli, and chicken nuggets. He only stared at it.

"Please, just a few bites, Alex. For me." Christine reached for the small sugar cookie tucked into the corner of the tray. "I won't even make you eat your vegetables."

He tentatively reached for the cookie, taking a small nibble.

Christine stayed long enough to coax a few bites of the macaroni and chicken, her heart sinking as she watched his thin, hesitant motions. It still wasn't enough. She could see it. He was losing weight.

Before leaving, Christine reached for the tablet secured to the boy's bed. After entering her code, the screen lit up with a familiar set of numbers. A quick tap on the power button, and another monitor in the corner of the room expanded and glowed, streaming a children's show.

She couldn't take away Alex's pain, but she could give him a small distraction.

"Goodnight, Alex," she said softly, laying a hand on his frail shoulder.

To her surprise, he reached up, wrapping one small arm around hers in a tight hug.

"Goodnight, Miss Christine. I love you."

The words were so soft she almost didn't hear them. Christine froze for a moment, her chest tightening. How could children be so open, so affectionate, even in the middle of all this?

Alex was one of the sweetest. Easy to love, and so, so easy to be loved. Tears prickled at her eyes.

He has to be okay.

Christine gave him one last squeeze before gently extracting herself from his grasp. She leaned down to place a light kiss on his damp, overgrown hair.

"Don't stay up too late," she said, forcing cheer into her voice. "Miss Sorrelli will be here soon to tuck you in. I'll see you tomorrow—and I know you'll be feeling better!"

She took the unfinished dinner tray, dimming the lights on her way out. Christine glanced back at the boy, already enraptured by the colorful characters on the screen.

He coughed, a dry, rattling sound that made Christine wince.

With the tray balanced on one arm, Christine checked her Panel as she turned into the hallway—only to run tray-first into another body. She gasped as the remnants of Alex's meal scattered across her unintended victim.

"I am so sorry!" she blurted, already fumbling for the rag tucked into her waistband. "I should have looked where I—"

Her voice caught as she looked up, recognition hitting her. A flood of elation mixed with mortification rushed through her. "Oh, I didn't—"

"Christine!" Raoul interrupted with a short laugh, brushing at his suit. "Maybe OSSAM shouldn't have given everyone these devices that keep their eyes glued to them twenty-four-seven."

She handed him the towel, and he took it with an easy grin, dabbing at the worst of the damage—Macaroni and broccoli clung stubbornly to his lapel.

"No harm done," he said, flashing that same effortless smile. "Besides, I have a dozen of these at home, all exactly the same."

"That doesn't make me any less mortified, Mr. Chagny," Christine muttered, cheeks burning.

Raoul sighed dramatically. "Christine—or is it Nurse Daaé now?—Do I really have to beg you to call me Raoul?" He shuddered dramatically. "'Mr. Chagny' makes me think of my brother. And you and I... we've known each other, what, nearly two decades now?"

Christine's mind flicked to a memory of running barefoot on the beach, chasing after a lean, blond-haired boy just a few years her senior. Years later, she'd reconnected with him during her first year of nursing school. Sitting in anatomy class, she'd found herself distracted by the charismatic grad student in the row ahead, not recognizing who he was.

It had taken her nearly two weeks into the semester to realize it. And when it finally clicked, she'd swept into the hallway, heart pounding, needing a moment to collect herself.

Raoul Chagny. In her anatomy class.

She hadn't done anything about it. Of course not. For the next month, she stayed in the back of the lecture hall and prayed he wouldn't recognize her. She kept her head down, buried herself in notes, as if sheer focus could make her disappear.

But then came the presentation. In front of the entire class.

The moment their eyes met, she knew. He recognized her.

And when it was over?

He'd chased her through the halls.

And as he caught up with her, smiling and a little breathless, Christine realized what she'd actually been running from. It wasn't recognition. It wasn't awkwardness. It was grief. The kind she had neatly tucked away and left untouched since the day her father died.

But grief has a way of catching up, too.

So when Raoul's hand landed gently on her shoulder, he must have been terribly confused—because Christine turned to him and promptly burst into tears.

He'd handled it graciously, in that familiar, effortlessly kind way of his. Told her the presentation really wasn't that bad. She laughed through the tears as she wiped them away. But when he asked about Gus—softly, carefully—that was when he knew.

Christine didn't have to explain.

Instead, she promised him a coffee and an explanation some other time, then excused herself before the emotion swallowed her again.

Nothing had happened between them then beyond the occasional study session near the end of the semester. Christine had had other things on her mind, and Raoul, to his credit, had respected that.

Still, they'd maintained a friendly rapport.

"It's different," Christine said, her voice steadying. "Technically, you're my boss now, and at least half of those years we might as well have been strangers."

"Good thing I wandered into that museum exhibit, then." Raoul's grin widened. "And technically, my brother's your boss, not me. I just stroll around this place from time to time, pretending I know what I'm doing."

Seven months ago, Christine had been wandering the local Museum of Natural History on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Diploma finally in hand, she was taking a few weeks to relax and figure out her next steps.

"Christine Daaé! Can you tell me the eight carpal bones?"

And there was that blond head again, though his hair was cropped shorter this time—a good look on him, Christine decided. Polished. Refined.

"Some lovers try positions that they can't handle," she replied without missing a beat.

Raoul laughed, the sound warm and familiar.

"Scaphoid, Lunate, Triquetral, Pisiform, Trapezium, Trapezoid, Capitate, Hamate." Christine continued.

"Graduated?"

"Just last week," Christine said, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Find somewhere yet?"

"I'm still deciding. I have a few offers. It's either Caleb's Regional or the Senior Center."

Raoul's brow furrowed as if the options personally offended him. "Hmm, I think you can do better than that."

"I'm a new grad, Raoul. Gotta earn my keep somehow."

And then, for some reason Christine couldn't quite understand, Raoul suggested she apply for a position at OSSAM Industries. He mentioned that his brother was heavily invested in the company and might have some sway in the hiring process. What he had failed to mention was that Philippe Chagny was the head of the Board of Directors.

"He owes me one," Raoul had insisted with a wink and his well-practiced grin.

Christine had laughed—flattered, flustered—and yet, something in her had tugged uncomfortably at the mention of OSSAM.

Her father had worked there once. Raoul knew that. It's how they had met so long ago. Before everything had fallen apart. She only remembered bits and pieces. Quiet phone calls. The glow of her father's laptop late into the night. The day he quit, he cried quietly in his study, a half-empty bottle of bourbon besides him. He had never explained what had happened.

Christine had never asked. Maybe she hadn't wanted to know. After all, she had been a child.

By the time she and Raoul had walked to a nearby café to catch up, the decision felt less tentative. OSSAM was prestigious. Secure. A real future. She'd apply, she had promised Raoul.

Within a month, she'd packed up her things, left the old apartment behind, and moved across the city—ready, she thought, to start a new chapter.

"Good thing," Christine agreed. "I really can't thank you enough for—"

"Really," Raoul interrupted, waving her off. "Don't think anything of me suggesting that an incredibly smart and beautiful woman apply for a job she was well qualified for. No persuasion was even necessary."

Christine flushed.

"I shouldn't have gotten a job just because you think I'm pretty."

Raoul didn't deny it. "That's why I've always liked you, Christine. So innocent. So honest. So naive about how the worldtrulyworks."

Christine rolled her eyes. "I don't think most nurses' first jobs come with company vehicles."

Raoul shrugged, unbothered. "It looks good for the company image. We can't have twenty-year-old clunkers parked in the lot, can we? Plus, it's a tax write-off. Might as well be free!"

The beep of her Panel interrupted him, marking the hour.

"Oh, shoot! I need to get going, Mr. Ch—Raoul," Christine corrected herself quickly. "I still have to make it down to Engineering and—"

"No worries. I'll let you go. I'm glad I finally got the chance to see you here!" He handed back the rag, which Christine readily took. "If I get home fast enough, maybe I can even save this suit."

"Again, I am so sorry!"

Raoul waved her off, smiling. "Please, think nothing of it." Then he hesitated, his expression shifting into something a touch more deliberate. "Although... I can think of one way you could make it up to me. Dinner at Shigeru's. Seven o'clock. Friday night. I'll even tell you all about my last three months in Scandinavia. Let's just say OSSAM isn't the only place pushing boundaries."

Christine blinked, taken aback. "I... uh..."

"You don't need to answer now." Raoul reached softly for her wrist, his eyes seeking her permission. Christine hesitated, then relented. As he held it gently, her Panel lit up. He tapped a few keys.

"There," he said, releasing her hand. "I've updated my info in your contacts. Just let me know—anytime before five on Friday. I'll keep my schedule wide open." He winked. "Just for you."

Christine nodded, suddenly unsure how to form a coherent sentence.

Raoul's grin turned boyish. "Have a good night, Christine."

Despite herself, she smiled back.

"Goodnight, Raoul."


Engineering was located on one of the basement floors. If she was lucky, Christine would catch the team just before they called it a night. Taking the stairs, she found her thoughts drifting to Raoul.

She knew what he wanted. He hadn't exactly been subtle when they were in school. They'd gone on one date. It was disastrous, to put it kindly. Christine had been too distracted by her studies and adjusting to her new life as an orphan. And seeing Raoul, it brought up… too many memories.

They'd agreed to stay friends, though she hadn't seen him again after that semester.

Now, things were different. Christine knew it wouldn't be professional to pursue a relationship with someone connected to the company, even if Raoul wasn't technically her boss. But she'd been lonely for some time. No pets, just the occasional lunch with Meg or the even less frequent unsuccessful Matchmaker app date that Meg insisted she try.

Maybe she was ready for something real. She could certainly do worse than Raoul. After all, their connection predated her time at OSSAM Industries.

Well, I don't have to make any decisions quite yet.

Christine distracted herself by opening her Panel, jotting a few notes as she mentally counted the levels down to B2. At the basement door, she pushed it open absentmindedly. The lock buzzed, disengaging, and she walked through without a second thought, eyes still on her Panel as she scrolled through the next day's appointments.

She knew the path by heart—three hallways down, take a right, and the second door on the left.

Still updating notes, Christine hummed softly to herself. The melody was one her father used to sing to her on rainy days, low and soothing.

Just a few more notes...

"Now this is very curious."

The voice was weak, unfamiliar, almost a whisper. It floated into her left ear, so soft she nearly missed it.

Christine spun around, expecting to find one of the engineers—the kind who liked to tease her when she visited. Matt was the worst offender.

But the hallway was empty.

Christine shook her head, letting out a breath. She must have been more tired than she realized. Staying up so late last night was catching up with her. Surely that was it.

As she closed her Panel, however, she realized with a start that this was not Engineering.

Frowning, she turned back to the room she'd just opened, reaching to quickly close the door before anyone else noticed her mistake.

"Sorry," she muttered to no one in particular.

Christine hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as if someone might appear to stop her. Then she stepped back inside.

Damn my curiosity.

The figure, or body, was skeletal beneath a thin blanket pulled up to the neck. Propped limply on a single flat pillow, the head drooped slightly to one side. Even in the dim light, Christine could see the face was wrapped in bandages.

At first, she thought it must be a cadaver. It wasn't uncommon for students from the local university to visit OSSAM's labs to study anatomy using donated bodies, often with interesting ailments. Covering the face was standard—it made it easier for students to dissociate.

But why would a cadaver be here? This wasn't the anatomy lab.

Her brow furrowed as she stepped closer, a faint unease prickling at her. Who would leave a body down here? And why?

Not for the first time, the thought crossed Christine's mind: things were happening at OSSAM Industries that went entirely unnoticed by the public... and by most of its employees.

It had been a long time since her anatomy courses at university, but she'd never seen a cadaver in this state. It looked like no dissection had started yet, but the slivers of skin she could see appeared almost... mummified.

Something else was off, though. The smell. Or rather, the lack of it. There was no trace of the formaldehyde typically used to preserve bodies.

Curiosity tugged at her, stronger now, and Christine found herself stepping closer.

The bandages wrapped tightly around the figure's face caught her attention. They stretched from the bottom of the jaw on the right side, across the top of the mouth, and over everything above it, including the eyes. The lips, slightly parted, were thin and cracked. The exposed jawline looked withered, the skin stretched taut over the mandible beneath it, as though it might tear at the slightest pressure.

For reasons Christine couldn't quite comprehend, her hand moved of its own accord, reaching toward the face.

Her fingertips hovered a fraction of an inch from the bandages when she froze.

She had felt it.

No, no, no. That's impossible.

The lightest breath of warm air had brushed against her hand.

Christine yanked it back as though burned.

Her heart thudding, she stared down at the figure's chest, still covered by the thin blanket. It was still. Completely still.

And then—

A faint shift. The smallest intake of air. So subtle it could almost be imagined.

"How...?" Christine whispered, her voice barely audible.

It was alive.

When she looked back at its face, the head no longer sagged to the side. No—now it was straight, the neck stiffened, as though it had been waiting for her attention. Christine's breath hitched.

If its eyes were visible, she was certain they would have bored straight through her.

"Careful now," it said.

Christine froze. She didn't think she'd blinked, yet she was sure she hadn't seen its mouth move. The voice emanated from the same dead, unmoving lips.

"Some things cannot be unseen."

Later, when Christine was alone, she would think back to this moment and that voice.

It was a study in juxtaposition: deep yet light, airy but resonant, as smooth as the voice she'd heard the first time—but now laced with something sharper, an edge she couldn't quite name.

Perhaps it was anger.

Perhaps it was sadness.

If nothing else, it was unmistakably male. And very much alive.

But in this moment, fear overrode everything.

And she ran.