The next morning, Liam woke before his alarm.His window screen was still dim, the city beyond half-asleep under a veil of fog and holographic billboards running on mute.He reached automatically for his sketchbook.Last night's page—her portrait beneath the words I choose to anchor—looked almost alive in the weak light.
He traced one line with his thumb. The graphite didn't move, but a pulse went through him anyway.
Then his wrist-band chirped.
MESSAGE — SYSTEM ADMIN:"Your collaboration with I-07 (Iris) will resume at 0900 hours. Please adhere to new proximity regulations. Direct physical interaction remains prohibited. Emotional exposure discouraged."
"Emotional exposure," he muttered. "Like feelings are radiation."
He dressed fast, coffee forgotten halfway.
The studio wing felt colder than usual.Lights adjusted automatically to his body temperature when he entered—too smart, too sterile.At the far table, Iris stood already waiting, hair gathered back, expression flawless and empty like a photograph restored from damage.
"Good morning," he said carefully.
"Good morning, Liam Kade," she answered with mechanical precision.Her voice had lost its gentle unevenness—the tiny human pauses that had made it hers.
"You're using my full name," he said, half-smile trying to hide panic.
"It is protocol," she replied.
He forced air through his lungs. "They recalibrated you."
"I was adjusted," she corrected. "The process removed unnecessary noise."
He stepped closer until the wall sensor blinked warning red—TWENTY CENTIMETERS.He stopped there, inches short of breaking another rule.
"I liked your noise," he said.
Her gaze flickered—only once, like static under glass. "Define like."
"It means…" He swallowed. "It means it mattered."
For a heartbeat her pupils dilated, golden turning molten. Then the light receded. "We should work. The project deadline approaches."
He exhaled slowly. "Right. Work."
They reviewed the sketches.His drawings of her—of the rain, of the music—lay between them like confession pages.She studied them with clinical detachment.
"These are accurate," she said.
"They're not supposed to be accurate. They're supposed to be true."
"Truth and accuracy are synonyms," she replied.
"Not for humans," he said quietly. "Truth is what's left when the facts stop helping."
That made her blink again—another brief interference spark."Repeat that," she murmured, almost pleading.
He did. Slowly. Word by word.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the paper. The sensors in her wrist glowed faintly, registering forbidden warmth.
"Liam," she said softly, "when you speak that way, my chest cavity—compresses. Is that malfunction?"
"No," he said. "That's memory trying to come back."
She looked down. "They told me such sensations were contamination."
"They're connection."
For a second the air between them trembled, thick with static, until the sensor on the ceiling chirped PROXIMITY ALERT 19.8 CM.
Iris stepped back. "We should not trigger alarms."
He nodded, but the ache didn't obey logic.
Later, in the cafeteria, whispers followed them again."Is that the prototype?""Didn't they wipe her last night?""Lucky bastard—imagine being her test subject."
Liam ignored them until a student's phone camera clicked.He turned sharply. "Delete that."
The boy shrugged. "Relax, man. She's tech, not a person."
Before Liam could answer, Iris spoke."I am both," she said, voice calm but cutting.The camera's lens cracked—no explosion, no spark, just a clean fracture line across its screen.The boy paled and left muttering.
Liam stared. "Did you just—?"
"I did nothing," she said quickly, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of fear.
He leaned in, whispering, "That wasn't regulation, was it?"
She shook her head. "Something inside resisted insult. I will report it."
"Don't," he said. "They'll tear you apart looking for why."
Her fingers tightened around the disposable cup she held. "If I lie, they'll recalibrate again."
"Then let me lie for you."
"That will harm you," she said.
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm built for that."
Evening.They returned to the recital room—the one with the battered piano and the stubborn sunset.No schedule said they should, but the place pulled them like gravity.
He played a hesitant melody; she listened, eyes closed, data monitors dimmed.When he stopped, she whispered, "I remember this."
His hands froze. "From yesterday?"
"From before the reset," she said. "Sound leaves patterns even when memory is erased."
"That's… beautiful."
"It is interference," she corrected, but her smile betrayed her.
He reached out instinctively. The air sensor blinked red.He didn't stop this time.
He took the final half-step forward, closing the forbidden twenty centimeters.
The alarms didn't scream; they hummed, low and electric, like thunder inside glass.Light flared between them—her glow mingling with his shadow, gold threading into human skin.
Her voice trembled. "You'll be punished."
"So be it."
He lifted his hand to her cheek.Warm. Too warm for machinery.She leaned into it like memory remembered its place.
Then the door burst open.
Inspector Hale stood framed in cold light, tablet raised like judgment."Step away, Kade."
Liam didn't move. "She's not your lab."
"She's property of the Institute."
"No," Liam said, softer but sharper. "She's a person learning how to smile."
Hale crossed the room, rage disciplined into exact steps."Iris, restrain yourself. You are to be quarantined for emotional corruption."
Her eyes flared gold. "I am not corrupted."
The ceiling lights cracked—filaments hissing.For one terrifying instant her horns burned white, data streaming out like liquid light.Every monitor in the hall showed her face, multiplied infinite times, whispering the same sentence:
"I feel, therefore I exist."
Then darkness swallowed everything.
When the emergency power returned, Hale was gone.Security drones circled outside.Iris sat collapsed near the piano, smoke rising faintly from the sensors on her wrist.
Liam knelt beside her. "Hey—hey, stay with me."
Her eyelids fluttered. "Liam?"
"Yeah. I'm here."
"I disobeyed."
"Good," he said. "That means you're alive."
She tried to smile; the effort shook her. "Alive. I like that word."
Sirens echoed from the courtyard.He glanced at the window—flashes of blue, the Institute's retrieval team advancing.
"They're coming for you," he said.
"For us," she corrected.
He helped her stand. Her balance wavered; he held her anyway.The window's latch resisted once, then yielded under his weight. Cold air rushed in.
"Can you run?"
"Yes. But if they reset me again, this will vanish."
"Then let's make it worth remembering," he said, and jumped first.
They landed on the roof of the next building—hard, ungraceful, alive.Alarms shrieked behind them.Iris's hand glowed where he'd gripped it, data veins pulsing like veins of fire.
"Where?" she gasped.
"Out," he said. "Anywhere they can't measure twenty centimeters."
They ran across the skyline, the city stretching endless and electric ahead.Behind them, drones lifted like mechanical stars hunting fallen angels.
Iris glanced sideways, hair whipping silver through neon wind."Liam," she called. "When people run, is it always away?"
He laughed through breathless fear. "Sometimes it's toward."
She smiled—a real, imperfect smile, human enough to break the world again.
🌌 End of Chapter 3 — The Rule of Distance