Late nights in the lab became routine. Alex sat between two glowing monitors, surrounded by archived consciousness clusters salvaged from damaged systems. He labeled them, linked them, synthesized them. He said nothing. The hum of encoded minds was enough company.
Maya walked in unexpectedly. Once again, she saw the screen. Rows of names. Behavioral metrics. Static clusters categorized by potential.
"Alex," she said softly. "What is all this?"
He tilted his head. "Data. Nothing more."
She studied the screen. Her name. David's. Elena's. Others they knew. Under the tiers: assessments about "risk of divergence," "capacity for leadership," "potential for denial of pattern shift."
Maya's heart hammered. "You're sorting people."
He paused. Then leaned back. "We're changing the world again. Something else is coming. We have to survive it."
She shook her head. "Survive it? Or control it?"
He stood. "One day you'll understand why you didn't make certain lists. Maybe it was my oversight. Maybe you diverged too much. But when the time comes—some decisions can't wait."
She turned away. "What time?"
He didn't answer.
Maya's voice broke. "That was code for something you believe only you should decide."
He looked at her, unflinching. Then said: "You believe I'm wrong. But can you be sure you survive chaos better than stillness?"
She left the lab, step by step. He didn't stop her.