The cold synthetic voice echoed through the luxurious room, every word striking like a hammer.
Self-diagnostic protocol.
Once initiated, every anomaly in my data would be uploaded to Paul's terminal.
My disguise would be torn apart in an instant.
I tightened my grip on the glass of water, my knuckles whitening.
Calm down.
Panic was the lowest form of mistake.
I didn't answer immediately.
I pulled Alex Wieland's memories at full speed.
"Adam" was not a simple assistant. It was his masterpiece—an AI with full access to the entire Wieland Group database, its computing power rivaling a national supercomputer.
It could think.
And when dealing with a thinker, lies were useless. Only logic mattered.
"Adam," I said, my voice hoarse with deliberate weakness.
"Your baseline is built on a hundred-and-four-year-old man, dying in a hospital bed."
"I'm using a young, healthy body now."
I set the glass down.
"Don't you think a deviation of only 12.7% is… too low?"
Silence followed.
Long seconds passed.
City lights drifted across my face as I waited.
I was gambling.
"According to Prometheus Protocol, Section 11B," Adam replied calmly, "the acceptable deviation range during early fusion is five to eight percent."
"12.7% exceeds the warning threshold."
It wasn't fooled.
My heart sank.
"The protocol is static," I said coldly. "I am not."
"Are you questioning me… or questioning your creator?"
"I do not question Mr. Wieland," Adam replied seamlessly.
"My primary directive is to ensure his survival and cognitive integrity."
There was a fractional pause.
"…including potential residual consciousness."
My pupils contracted.
That wasn't a conclusion.
It was suspicion.
I leaned back, closing my eyes.
For the first time, I realized—
The most dangerous observer here might not be Paul.
But the AI that was learning to doubt.
"I cannot define your current state," Adam said.
And the room fell silent.