POV: Dante
The results arrive before lunchtime.
Not on paper, not with a stamp. In the form of a discreet notification on one of the side screens, with the bland subject line that systems use when dealing with things they don't fully understand.
"Vega, Aurora tests – confidential."
I open the file.
White screen, tables, numbers. To anyone else, they would be just acronyms: levels, ranges, parameters. To me, they are something else.
First, the obvious: blood count. Iron, blood cells, platelets. No serious anemia, nothing that alone would justify the dizziness. Glucose within normal limits. Kidneys, liver, fine. A human would say, "She's tired, but healthy."
Then, further down, what really matters to me.
A hormone panel that no one explicitly requested in the email, but it's there. Herrera isn't stupid.
Estrogen, progesterone, LH, FSH... and a couple of markers that a human doctor wouldn't know how to read.
The pattern is clear.
It's not a disease. It's not "dysregulation" in the sense that a psychiatrist would write.
It's an awakening.
My jaw tenses. I feel the beat in my temple.
I rest my elbows on the desk for a second, just long enough to channel my anger into something useful.
I close my eyes.
I remember Herrera, years ago, in another room, saying with the same calm: "The parameters are not typical, but we can stabilize them."
I open the internal extension.
"Nursing," they answer.
"Noir," I say. "I've seen Miss Vega's results."
There is a microsecond of silence on the other end. They know who I am. They know I've already seen them; the system flags the opening.
"Yes, sir," says Herrera's voice. "I was going to call you shortly."
"You're not going to label this as a pathology," I say bluntly. "Not on her official file."
The doctor takes a second to answer.
"The parameters are not standard," she admits. "If this were any other patient, I would suggest referral to endocrinology. But I understand that there are... considerations here."
Impeccable euphemism.
"On her file, you're going to write 'stress, adjustment to new environment, check-up in three months,'" I say.
No "disorder," no "dysregulation." If anyone outside this floor asks for more details, let me know before you do anything.
"Management already has a direct copy," she replies, reminding me of what I myself ordered.
"I am management," I reply. "Not Valcourt. Not the foundation. Not anyone else."
I hear her swallow hard over the phone.
"Understood, Mr. Noir," she finally says. "In your story, just stress."
"And in your personal story," I add, "whatever you need to sleep peacefully. But if anyone tries to use this panel to justify medications you haven't prescribed, I want to know about it too."
I hang up.
I could leave it at that. I've already closed the most obvious door. But Valcourt doesn't just work with open doors.
I dial Sebastian's internal channel.
"Alpha," he answers.
"Aurora's blood confirms what we already knew," I say. "She's entering the phase. The pattern is clear."
"Will any human see it as anything more than stress?" he asks.
"No, if they appreciate their job," I reply. "Herrera understands the limits of her curiosity."
I hear Sebastián typing in the background.
"That gives us little time," he says. "If I can read that pattern, so can someone with unauthorized access. And the Valcourts are not known for their discretion with these kinds of findings.
"That's why I need you to track the results," I say. "Any attempt to copy, forward, or print outside of protocol, I want it on my screen."
"It's done," he replies. "I installed a filter. If the file leaves the circuit you defined, an alert will be triggered."
I nod, even though he can't see it.
I look at the numbers again.
With anyone else, I would ignore them. Here, they are just another line on the same map that connects Seraphim, the scholarship, the committee, Valcourt, and Noir Tower. I'm not superstitious, but the accumulation of coincidences demands respect.
"The doctor wants to see you in three months," Sebastian says. "Are you going to allow it?"
Three months.
In three months, if no one intervenes, her body won't be so discreet. The dizziness will be the least of her problems.
"Let the check-up be recorded," I reply. "But I don't want it to become an excuse to collect more samples from her. One extraction today, another in a few months, is enough. We're not going to give them a case study."
"Understood."
I could hang up. I don't.
"Any news from Valcourt?" I ask.
"They haven't made any direct moves yet," he says. "But one of their men asked vague questions about 'the promising new intern' at a foundation meeting. Nothing that compromises them, but the intention is clear."
"Promising intern."
The phrase tastes like meat in someone else's mouth.
"If any of them try to approach her inside the tower, I want to know before they take the second step," I order. "They don't meet with Aurora, they don't interview her, they don't invite her to anything 'mentoring' without it going through my desk."
"What if they come disguised as a scholarship support committee?" he asks, with bitter sarcasm.
"Then they won't have a committee," I reply.
I hang up.
The screen with the results is still open. I close the file and save it in an encrypted folder, duplicated on a server that doesn't bear the company's name, even though it belongs to it.
In case someone decides to delete it.
In case I have to prove, later on, that what was done with it was my decision and not that of those who wanted to use it first.
I get up.
I walk to the window.
I can't see her from here, but I know she must be leaving the infirmary right now, with the cotton still stuck to her arm, wondering why her blood matters so much to people she doesn't know.
My reflection in the glass shows me an expression I don't allow myself to show to anyone else: an uncomfortable mixture of possession and concern.
There is no clean word for that.
I could call it "responsibility," "asset protection," "risk management."
The truth is simpler and much less presentable at a board meeting:
I can't stand the idea of someone else reading her before I do. Not her reports, not her scent, not her blood.
The internal elevator is waiting.
For a moment, I consider going down to the fifteenth floor, staying at a safe distance, and watching with my own eyes as she leaves the white room.
I don't.
If I show up every time her body speaks louder, she'll connect the dots too quickly. And even though the truth is inevitable, I don't want her to reach it with more fear than necessary.
I return to my desk.
I open Seraphim.
There are accounts to settle, movements to clean up, names to drag into the light.
If I'm going to turn her scholarship into something I can look at without guilt, now is the time.
And if the Valcourts think they can claim their share of the experiment, they'll have to do it with the same numbers that today tell me one thing clearly:
Aurora Vega is no longer just a scholarship, or an analyst, or a pawn on their board.
She is a turning point.
And no one, not even me, will emerge unscathed from the day when her awakening ceases to be just numbers on a test and becomes reality in front of everyone.