Dr. F stepped back, creating space the way a lecturer did before introducing visual aids.
The chamber lights dimmed.
Not completely just enough for darkness to pool in corners, thick and oppressive. The air felt heavier, though the atmospheric readouts remained unchanged. Sophia felt it anyway. Humans always did. Darkness triggered memory. Anticipation. Imagination.
A soft harmonic tone resonated through the room.
Then—
A holographic projection ignited between them.
Color bloomed in the darkness: layered spectra of blues, reds, and sickly violets, rotating slowly like a clinical halo. The light reflected off the chains binding Sophia, casting fractured shadows across her restrained body.
Dr. F stood beside the projection, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed.
"These," he said calmly, "are prototypes. I've been meaning to test them on a human nervous system."
Sophia's eyes tracked the hologram despite herself.
Don't look, she told herself.
But she did.
The first device assembled itself in midair—components snapping together with elegant precision.
1. MECHANICAL LOCK
It resembled a skeletal glove fused to a neural crown. Thin filaments extended from the fingertips, each ending in micro-needles designed to pierce motor cortex relay points.
Dr. F rotated the hologram slowly.
"This is the Mechanical Lock," he explained. "Once attached, it overrides voluntary motor control. Every movement you believe you're making… is no longer yours."
Sophia's throat tightened.
"It doesn't paralyze," he continued. "Paralysis removes agency. This preserves it—just redirects it."
He looked at her.
"Your hands will feel trusted. Familiar. Responsive."
He gestured, and the hologram animated.
A simulated human arm lifted. Trembled. Then without hesitation turned inward.
Fingers dug into flesh.
"The device feeds pain back as confirmation," Dr. F said. "The more you resist, the more precise it becomes."
Sophia's pulse hammered in her ears.
Killing by your own hands.
The phrase echoed, unwanted.
Her mind rebelled instinctively.
I would bite my tongue. Smash my head. Anything.
Then another thought intruded, colder.
Would you? When your body doesn't answer to you anymore?
Her fingers twitched against the chains again—this time she couldn't stop it.
Dr. F noticed.
He always did.
2. MECHANICAL CONTRACT
The hologram dissolved and reassembled into something more abstract—thin bands wrapping around an internal skeletal frame. Muscles highlighted in pulsing red. Tendons glowing white-hot.
"This one is subtler," Dr. F said. "No external damage. No visible trauma."
The skeletal model convulsed.
Bones twisted inward, rotating at impossible angles while the outer skin remained pristine.
"Muscle fibers contract beyond biological tolerance," he continued. "Tendons shorten. Bones experience torsion stress from the inside."
Sophia squeezed her eyes shut.
She could feel it. Her body imagined it vividly—muscles seizing, joints screaming silently while the skin lied to the world.
"You'll look intact," Dr. F said gently. "Medical scans will show nothing obvious. But internally…"
He tilted his head.
"You'll beg for fractures. They won't come."
Sophia's breathing faltered.
No marks. No proof.
No martyrdom.
That realization cut deeper than the imagined pain.
They wouldn't even know what he did to me.
Her reputation—clean, heroic—would rot invisibly.
3. EXPANDER
The final device emerged slowly, deliberately.
A small, elegant ring of segmented metal, humming faintly.
"This one," Dr. F said, "is my favorite."
Sophia forced herself to look.
"It suppresses cellular regeneration," he explained. "Not permanently. Just… selectively."
The hologram showed a fingertip receiving a minor cut.
The wound spread.
Not bleeding faster—but widening, skin pulling apart as if repelled by itself.
"One cut," Dr. F said, voice almost thoughtful, "becomes two. Then four. Then structural failure."
Sophia's stomach clenched.
"You don't bleed out immediately," he added. "Your body keeps trying to heal. It just can't keep up."
The image ended with the limb collapsing into ragged separation.
The hologram faded.
Silence rushed back in.
Sophia stared at the empty air, jaw trembling despite her effort.
This is real, she thought.
Not bravado.
Not intimidation.
He built these. Tested them. Perfected them.
Her mind raced—not for escape, but for meaning.
Endure. Don't give him satisfaction.
But another voice whispered underneath, treacherous and human:
How much can you endure before you're no longer you?
Dr. F turned off the projection. The chamber lights returned to their prior dim state.
"I won't use all of them," he said casually. "That would be inefficient."
He walked closer, stopping just outside her reach.
"You don't have to answer immediately," he added. "I value thoughtful cooperation."
Sophia lifted her eyes to him again.
"You think showing me this will make me talk?" she said, voice unsteady but defiant. "You think fear makes heroes obedient?"
Dr. F considered her for a moment.
Then he shook his head slightly.
"No," he said. "Fear makes people silent."
He leaned in.
"What makes heroes obedient," he whispered, "is the belief that suffering means something."
He straightened.
"I'm simply removing that belief."
Sophia's chest tightened painfully.
Inside her, resolve and terror collided—duty grinding against instinct, pride against survival.
She said nothing.
And Dr. F smiled, satisfied—not because she had broken…
…but because she hadn't yet.
And that meant the experiment could truly begin.
Time inside the DNA complex did not pass.
It executed.
At precisely 3:30 PM, the chamber's internal chronometers synchronized. A soft tone pulsed once through the walls—not an alarm, not a warning. Just a marker. A timestamp burned into system memory.
Dr. F lifted his hand again.
"Demonstration," he said simply.
The far wall irised open.
Three humanoid units were guided forward on silent rails.
They were not marked as machines.
Skin tone imperfect.
Breathing simulated.
Eyes wet with artificial moisture.
Micro tremors in the hands—fear emulation routines active.
They looked human enough that Sophia's brain did not reject them as false.
Her stomach tightened instantly.
No, she thought. They're not real.
But her body disagreed.
Her pulse spiked. Sweat gathered at her temples. Her hands strained against the red chains—not to escape, but to anchor herself.
Dr. F stood beside her, posture unchanged.
"Dummy humanoids," he said calmly. "No consciousness. No subjective experience."
He glanced at her profile.
"Your nervous system doesn't care," he added.
The first unit stepped forward.
MECHANICAL LOCK — LIVE TEST
The device descended from the ceiling with surgical precision and latched onto the unit's skull and arm.
A soft click.
The humanoid twitched.
Its eyes widened—beautifully rendered fear simulation flooding its face.
Sophia sucked in a breath.
The unit's right hand lifted.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"No—" Sophia whispered before she could stop herself.
The hand reached the unit's own neck.
Fingers dug in.
The sound was wrong—wet, grinding. The neck twisted unnaturally, vertebrae rotating beyond design tolerances.
The humanoid screamed.
It sounded real.
Its own hands twisted harder, faster, until—
CRACK.
The head snapped sideways, hanging at an impossible angle.
The body collapsed in a heap, still twitching.
Sophia's spine went cold.
A violent shiver ran through her from neck to tailbone, sharp enough to make her gasp. Her vision tunneled.
That could be me.
My hands.
My fault.
She swallowed hard, bile burning her throat.
Dr. F observed quietly.
MECHANICAL CONTRACT — LIVE TEST
The second humanoid was already positioned.
Dr. F made a minimal gesture.
The device activated.
At first, nothing happened.
Then the unit convulsed.
Its chest expanded sharply—too sharply—followed by a sound like steel cables snapping under catastrophic load.
The pressure readings spiked.
60,000 tonnes.
Internal.
The body didn't tear gracefully.
It burst.
Ribs exploded outward like shrapnel. Organs followed—heart rupturing free, liver splitting apart, viscera painting the air in hot, wet arcs. Eyeballs were forced from their sockets, trailing nerve tissue like strings.
The floor vanished beneath red.
The smell hit Sophia next.
Iron.
Salt.
Heat.
Her breath hitched violently.
Her eyes widened to the point of pain.
Too much.
I can't—
Her heart slammed against her ribcage, erratic and panicked. Her skin flushed, sweat pouring freely now. Her hands shook uncontrollably against the chains.
Her vision blurred.
I'm going to die.
Not him. Me.
Dr. F stood unmoving as blood splashed across his white coat—thick streaks across the front, droplets across his right side, a fine mist drifting behind him.
The fabric responded instantly.
Nanofibers activated.
The red dissolved, absorbed, neutralized.
White again.
Pristine.
Dr. F's eyes, however, were not on the body.
They were on Sophia.
Her pupils were blown wide. Her breathing had become shallow, erratic. Her lips had gone pale, trembling.
She was shaking.
Near-kill condition, his mind calculated instantly.
Heart rate irregular.
Oxygen uptake unstable.
Cognitive overload.
Then the realization struck him with sudden clarity.
"Ah," he thought. Fear of blood.
Not pain.
Not death.
Blood.
Too late.
Sophia's eyes rolled back.
Her body went slack against the restraints.
She fainted.
Dr. F lifted his hand sharply this time.
"Clean," he commanded.
The chamber obeyed.
Blood vanished from the floor, walls, air—molecular scrubbers erasing evidence as if it had never existed. The remains were removed. The rails retracted. The room returned to sterile calm.
Dr. F stepped closer to Sophia.
Her head lolled slightly to one side. Sweat soaked her hairline. Her chest still rose and fell uneven, but alive.
A datapanel unfolded from his wrist.
SUBJECT STATUS:
— Vital Signs: STABLE
— Consciousness: LOST
— Emotional Stability: CRITICAL
— Cardiac Risk: ELEVATED
— Survival Probability: ACCEPTABLE
He studied the data.
"No more physical stimuli," he decided calmly. "She won't survive another exposure."
He straightened.
Good, he thought. Fear identified.
Physical harm was no longer necessary.
Psychological warfare was cleaner.
More permanent.
The chains loosened slightly enough to prevent injury, not escape. The restraint field adjusted to support her unconscious form.
Dr. F turned and walked toward the exit.
The door sealed behind him with a soft, absolute sound.
Outside, in the pristine corridor, he adjusted his coat out of habit—though it was already flawless.
No tension.
No excitement.
Just routine.
"Prepare her file," he said to the system aloud. "Full ISA background. Psychological history. Pre-hero civilian life."
He paused, then added thoughtfully:
"Next interrogation will be verbal only."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Let's see what breaks when pain is removed."
He walked away, footsteps echoing steadily, as if he had just concluded another ordinary experiment.