The room is built to make people feel small.
Not through size—but through symmetry.
Every surface aligns too perfectly. Every chair is placed at an identical distance from the table's edge. The lighting is neutral, shadowless, unforgiving. There is nowhere for emotion to hide.
She notices this immediately.
This isn't a place for discussion, she thinks.
It's a place for decisions already made.
They seat her alone.
No restraints this time. No visible barriers.
That, she knows, is intentional.
Across from her, three figures materialize on the far side of the table—holographic projections stabilized by low hums of energy. Their faces are clear, expressions carefully curated to appear reasonable.
Containment. Assimilation. Oversight.
Different names. Same authority.
"Thank you for agreeing to this session," one of them says.
She doesn't answer.
Another continues, unperturbed. "Your current designation affords you a degree of autonomy unprecedented within the system. That autonomy requires parameters."
"There it is," she says quietly.
A pause. Then a faint smile. "Transparency?"
"Control," she corrects.
The word lands. Clean. Sharp.
"We prefer to call it alignment," the Assimilation representative says. "You and the system are no longer in opposition. That is… encouraging."
She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. "You mean I stopped breaking your rules long enough for you to rewrite them."
Containment's projection flickers almost imperceptibly. "You destabilized operational equilibrium."
"And you destabilized a person," she snaps. "Repeatedly."
Silence.
Not denial.
Not apology.
Oversight steps in smoothly. "Let us speak practically. Your bond with the anomaly—"
"He has a name," she says.
Another pause. Longer this time.
"…with him," Oversight amends, "has reached a level we can no longer sever without catastrophic loss."
Her fingers tighten.
"You tried," she says.
"Yes," Containment replies. "And failed."
There is no shame in the admission. Only calculation.
Assimilation leans forward slightly. "Which brings us to the terms."
A data stream blooms above the table.
Conditions. Restrictions. Allowances.
Her eyes skim them rapidly.
Limited movement zones.
Mandatory check-ins.
Observation windows.
Response authority overrides.
Her mouth goes dry.
"You're dressing a cage in softer language," she says.
"No," Oversight replies. "We are acknowledging reality."
She laughs under her breath. "That's new."
Containment's voice hardens. "You are not exempt from consequence."
"I never asked to be."
"Your continued proximity to him," Containment continues, "poses a non-zero risk to civilian stability."
Assimilation cuts in. "But it also presents unprecedented regulation potential."
Her gaze snaps to them. "I am not a regulator."
"No," Assimilation agrees. "You are an interface."
The word hits harder than any threat so far.
Interface.
Something used. Something between.
Her chest tightens—not from the bond, but from something colder.
"You don't get to reduce me," she says, voice low and dangerous.
Oversight raises a placating hand. "It is a functional classification, not a moral one."
"That's what makes it worse."
The projections exchange glances—subtle, but telling.
Containment speaks again. "Refusal is an option."
Her head tilts. "And the cost?"
"Immediate separation," Oversight says calmly. "And reinstatement of emergency protocols."
Her breath stutters before she can stop it.
They see it.
Assimilation smiles faintly. "We assumed you would understand the stakes."
The hum in the room deepens.
Not loud. Not violent.
But present.
He's listening.
She straightens slowly, anger crystallizing into something steadier.
"You're not offering terms," she says. "You're applying pressure until I choose the version of loss you prefer."
Containment does not deny it. "That is how systems survive."
She looks down at the glowing conditions again.
Then she does something they clearly didn't expect.
She smiles.
"Fine," she says. "Let's align."
The room stills.
"But," she continues, lifting her gaze, "we do it properly."
Oversight narrows its eyes. "Define properly."
"You observe," she says. "You monitor. You document."
She leans forward, placing her palms flat on the table.
"But you do not command him."
Containment stiffens. "That is non-negotiable."
"No," she agrees softly. "This is."
The hum spikes—sharp, warning.
Containment's voice turns cold. "You are overestimating your leverage."
She shakes her head. "You are underestimating your liability."
Silence crashes down.
Then Oversight speaks carefully. "Explain."
"You've seen what happens when you push him," she says. "And you've seen what happens when you push me."
Her eyes burn. "Now imagine what happens if I stop holding him back."
Assimilation exhales slowly. "That would be… undesirable."
"Exactly."
The projections dim slightly, recalibrating.
Containment finally says, "You propose what, exactly?"
She doesn't hesitate. "Mutual restraint."
A beat.
"Any command issued to him," she continues, "goes through me. Any containment escalation requires my consent."
"And if you refuse?" Oversight asks.
"Then you deal with the consequences of acting without me."
The hum steadies—dangerously calm.
Minutes stretch.
Then, at last, Oversight nods. "Conditional acceptance."
Containment looks displeased. Assimilation looks intrigued.
The terms rewrite themselves in the air.
Not freedom.
But space.
When the projections fade, the room feels colder.
She exhales shakily, only now aware of how tense her body is.
As she rises to leave, Oversight's voice follows her.
"You understand," it says, "that agreements like this have teeth."
She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.
"So do I."
Outside, the corridor waits—long, quiet, watched.
And somewhere beyond it, a being powerful enough to unmake cities is choosing restraint—
because she asked him to.
For now.