eugene

Chapters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

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This early, the headquarters are quiet. Cold lights hum overhead, casting long reflections across the floor.

You step into the hangar, where rows of air shuttles sit like sleeping beasts, their engines dark. The only signs of life are the sounds of technicians doing busy work beyond the scaffolding. You ignore them.

The memory of last night loops behind your eyes like a drug you already want to chase again.

The press of her fingers, the weight of her gaze.

The way she owned every inch of you. 

You steady your thoughts, pushing the memory aside. Flex and stretching your fingers, you feel them drum against your thigh-plate.

The uniform still fits like a second skin: black composite mesh over reinforced plating, shaped tight around your body but easy to move in. Across your chest, a harness rig holds a compact sidearm, and there's a standard combat knife sheathed at your side.

Dr. Pell is waiting near one of the shuttles, staring at a readout on her tablet. Her coat is rumpled. She hasn’t had much sleep, if the shadows under her eyes say anything. But when she sees you, her face lifts.

“You’re early,” she says, a little breathless, like she just got here herself. “That’s good, gives us some time before you leave.”

You approach, eyes flicking to the open bay behind her. “This one’s solo?”

She nods, “I won’t be accompanying you,” Dr. Pell says, tapping through the mission slate. “Command wants minimal presence on-site given the location.”

You nod once.

Your eyes scan the tablet as she turns it to show you the map. “Here’s your entry point. You’ll be at one of Talon’s old satellite sites. It was mothballed years ago after a sweep, but there’s some information Moira wants wiped there.”

She taps a section marked CORE ACCESS.

“When you reach the room here, insert this drive,” she says, pointing to the drive on your harness. “It’ll trigger a system-wide wipe of all files under designation G-07. We have no network uplink, so it has to be done manually. Once it’s been completed, we’ll send for your extraction.”

You nod, “Okay. Just a standard sweep and scrub?”

“Exactly. In and out.”

She scrolls through the mission slate, checking off items with quick precision.

“No personnel listed on-site,” she continues, “But treat it as active. We’d prefer no one knows we were there.”

You study the map again. “Why now? Talon wrote this place off years ago.”

She doesn’t look up. “Sometimes old projects take a while to catch up with us. This is just housekeeping.”

She moves on to another tab, logging the mission dispatch.

“And this came from Moira?” you ask.

“Directly,” Dr. Pell says, without looking up. “She’s invested in this one. Wanted a clean execution.”

You nod once, holding on to the weight of it. If Moira trusts you with this, then you won’t give her a reason to regret it.

Dr. Pell glances at you again, softer this time. “You’ve come a long way. You know that, right?”

You offer the faintest smile. “I feel it.”

Her gaze lingers, like she wants to say more, but she stops herself. Instead, she gestures to the shuttle. The ramp begins to lower.

“If anything seems… unusual, just stay on task,” she says lightly. “Don’t overthink it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Unusual how?”

She exhales through her nose, halfway to a laugh. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

She pats the side of the shuttle once, then steps back. “Good luck.”

You don’t want luck. You want results.

And you need her to see them.

You board without another word. The ramp closes behind you, sealing you into the mission.

The shuttle’s interior is built for a squad, but you’re the only one here.

The space is all clean angles and reinforced plating, the walls lined with crash bars and gear hooks. Twelve seats line the sides, rigid and bolted down. You pick one at the far end and sit, the restraints snapping across your chest with a mechanical hiss.

The engines rumble beneath your boots as the shuttle begins to rise.

You close your eyes for a second, let the weight settle in your stomach. Not just the takeoff, but the mission. All eyes on you.

Her eyes on you.

You don’t know for certain if Moira’s watching, but it’s easier to believe she is.

It’s easy to imagine her in that dark lab, eyes locked on the monitor, your vitals flashing across the screen like performance metrics.

Her fingers would be steepled, her mouth pulled into that unreadable half-smile she wears when something’s going exactly the way she planned.

You picture her watching your bodycam feed from this very mission. Or maybe she’s going back further, watching back your sparring sessions, the injections, the aftermath.

Your greatest moments, looped and studied like data. Or art.

You wonder if she’s already watched back the footage from last night. Sat at her console, cold light flickering over her face, scrubbing through every second of your pleasure.

The thought shouldn’t thrill you the way it does, but it coils low in your stomach anyway.

You shift in your seat, pulse steady but climbing. Part of you wants her to see it all. To know what she does to you. To file it under her results.

Catalogue you as hers.

You exhale, steadying yourself, but your thoughts don’t let go. They snag on Dr. Pell’s expression back in the hangar. That brief flicker of restraint. Like she knew something she wasn’t allowed to say.

You chew on that for a moment, but then the shuttle jolts slightly, hitting stable altitude, and your mind drifts.

You used to ride transports like this. Back when you traveled with a squad.

The team isn’t the same, but the weight in your chest is. That strange calm before a mission. That sense of being pointed toward something bigger than yourself.

You used to hear banter in spaces like this. Gloved hands slapping shoulders. Briefings read off datapads with half-smiles. You used to be one of them.

A face in a row of twelve.

Alone, the silence feels cold.

You shift in your seat and blink hard, chasing the memory away.

Moira’s watching. That’s what matters. That’s the mission now.

Focus.

Just stay on task.

——————————

The shuttle lands without ceremony. No lights. No welcome. Just a soft hydraulic hiss and the low crunch of metal struts settling into dirt.

You step out into stillness.

The air is dry, laced with dust and coolant vapor. Overhead, the sky is a dull, early-morning gray. The landscape around you is nothing but rock and rust, an industrial dead zone, long since stripped of anything useful.

The facility stands half-sunken into a ridge ahead, carved into the earth like a scar. The concrete walls are stained with time and oil. You spot rusted doors sealed shut with emergency-grade locks.

It doesn’t look like anything alive has moved through here in years.

Still, you pull the sidearm from your belt and hold it low, safety off. With your free hand, you tap the drive you’re meant to plug in, still strapped to your harness. It blinks green in response.

You begin your approach slow. Deliberate. Yours boots are silent over the cracked gravel and warped steel grates. There’s no wind. No birds. Just the quiet sound of your footfalls and the thrum of your own pulse, sharp in your ears.

A wall-mounted camera tilts above the loading dock entrance. Dead.

You duck beneath it and scan the perimeter. A skeletal shipping crane rusts above a drop pit, long unused. Vines have crept up the southern wall, brittle and dry. There’s an access hatch near the base of the wall, locked but corroded. Vulnerable.

Kneeling to work quickly, you pull a slim device from your belt, one of Sombra’s designs. It hums quietly as you force the key fob into the rusted lock, and after a flicker of purple light, the mechanism clicks open with ease.

The hatch creaks open.

You slip inside.

The corridor is narrow, low-ceilinged, and stale with recycled air.

No emergency lights. Just darkness broken by your visor’s low glow.

You move through the tunnel, close to the wall, gun still drawn. Pipes run overhead, some dripping, some sparking faintly. Old signs in faded lettering point toward things like INTAKE and CORE ACCESS. You follow the latter, listening for anything that doesn’t belong.

Your breath is measured. Your steps are soundless. 

Eventually, you reach a stairwell and begin to descend. Your boots echo down the stairwell as you descend floor after floor, each darker and more claustrophobic than the last.

Rust stains the walls. Pipes groan above. The deeper you go, the colder it feels.

Eventually, you reach a corridor that widens into a room. The light here pulses faintly blue, low and ambient. And then—your breath catches.

It’s a lab.

Or it was, once. The architecture is old, crumbling, but unmistakable. Workstations line the walls, coated in dust. Standard Overwatch-era consoles, flickering with intermittent power. There are cabinets labeled in languages you can’t decipher. Broken restraints. Faded documents.

And across the far wall: containment pods.

Fourteen, lined up symmetrically. Their glass has fogged over the years, but they glow, their bioluminescent cores casting a pale sheen over the floor.

Inside each one, a figure.

Suspended. Still.

People?

You step forward slowly, pulse in your ears.

The faces are half-shrouded in murk. Bodies not quite whole—some altered, augmented. Others untouched. One of them twitches, just slightly, like a dreamer in a restless sleep.

You stare, your fingers twitching toward your gear.

How long have they been down here? Months? Years?

Were they conscious when it started? Are they now?

The thought makes your stomach turn. 

You force yourself to keep moving. Past the pods. Past the consoles. Through a sealed door barely hanging on its hinges.

Beyond it, deeper still, is the final server room. Inside, a row of computers sit. Two exits branch off on the side, likely leading back up another way.

Racks line the walls, blinking faintly, running on emergency power. Thick cables coil like veins across the floor. You scan the room once, twice. No movement. No heat signatures.

You kneel at the terminal and slot the drive into the port.

It clicks into place. The console buzzes low, flickers to life, then surges. Lines of code begin pouring across the screen—fast, clinical, devouring everything left in the system.

You glance back at the pods, but the scrolling text drags your eyes forward.

Then a flicker on the screen pulls your eyes back.

[SUBJECT FILES: G-07 ACTIVE]

>> NAME: TAKIMOTO, J. — STATUS: NONRESPONSIVE

>> NAME: CASTILLO, E. — STATUS: CATATONIC

>> NAME: LACROIX, A. — STATUS: TRANSFERRED

>> NAME: — — STATUS: —

You freeze.

Not random IDs. Not archived logs.

Codenames. Real ones.

It hits like cold water in your lungs. You know these names. 

You blink hard and tap through the interface. Faces appear, hazy with age and degradation. Some you recognize immediately. Others take a second.

A few of them were legends. Others, ghosts. And some—some had joined willingly, if the notes are to be believed.

Political prisoners. Rogue agents. Volunteers.

You feel the chill crawl up your spine, slow and suffocating. This was never a data wipe. It was a purge.

And you are its trigger.

You stagger a half step back from the console.

They’re here. They’re trapped here.

Floating in stasis tanks like forgotten mistakes. Frozen in time. 

Your hands curl into fists. The drive keeps working, the light on it blinking in rhythm with your pulse.

The system pings: DATA CAPTURE: 43%

You can’t look away.

Lines of code scroll across the nearest console, wiping decades in seconds.

But the bodies remain.

They float, pale and still in their capsules, caught in something between life and stasis. No movement. No sound. Just breath fogging glass from the inside.

You stare too long at one. A male, broad-shouldered, with a scarring pattern across his chest you don’t recognize. His face twitches like he’s dreaming.

Your hand curls over the edge of the console.

What are they planning for these people?

What were they trying to become?

You want answers. Real ones.

You shift your weight, pulse ticking higher. You know what Talon is capable of. You’ve seen enough to know that truth and purpose don’t always walk hand in hand here. But Moira—

She wouldn’t send you in blind. Not like this.

Would she?

Your eyes flick to the override panel. A row of manual controls beneath the thick glass. 

One is labeled release.

You hover over it, fingers tight at your sides.

If Moira is watching this, she’ll know. Every moment is recorded. Every decision, every deviation.

You try to imagine her reaction. Cold. Analytical. Disappointed.

But what if she expected this? What if she sent you here knowing exactly what you’d find?

You glance at the man inside the pod. He doesn’t move. 

Your hand closes around the switch.

She’ll see this.

You pull it anyway.

The pod hisses as you do, pressure valves releasing in sharp, rhythmic bursts. Frost races across the seams before vanishing in the stale air.

The glass retracts slowly, grinding along its tracks until it disappears into the housing with a final clunk.

You don’t move closer. You don’t reach for him. You raise your weapon and keep it there, trained on his chest the entire time.

Inside, the man slumps to the side, completely limp.

Tubes pull free from his body with wet, mechanical clicks. One falls to the floor, trailing fluid that glistens like oil. His skin is ashen, waxy, stretched too tight over the muscle beneath. Surgical scars crisscross his chest and arms.

You stay still, waiting. One second. Two. Long enough to feel your pulse pressing at your throat.

Then his body jerks.

A sudden cough tears out of him, sharp and dry. Another follows, wet and raw, like his lungs are remembering how to work. His shoulders shake with the effort.

You flinch, instinct coiled in your muscles, but you don’t back away.

He breathes again. Shallow at first. Then deeper. The sound fills the space like it doesn’t belong. 

He lifts his head, eyes fluttering open. They lock on you.

You take one slow step forward, gun never wavering.

Then, he says your name, freezing you in place

Your stomach drops. Your name. At least, your old call name.

No one’s called you that in years. Not even you.

He squints harder, recognition settling into his face like gravity. “It is you. Christ—you’re alive.”

You don’t answer. Just tighten your grip on the trigger.

He blinks, staring like he’s seeing a ghost. “I—I thought they killed you. Or that you ran. But you’re here. You found this place.”

You hold fast, aim fixed. “I don’t know you.”

“Yes, you do. You have to. They messed with your head, didn’t they? Wiped you clean. But it’s in there. I swear it’s still in there. 

You shake your head, jaw tight. “You’re wrong.”

“No,” he says, sitting up with effort. His voice is hoarse but insistent. “You used to call me a showoff—said I couldn’t land a shot without making a scene. We were stationed in Novigrad for four months, remember?”

The name rings a bell, but you say nothing. Your hands don’t shake.

“You wore that old patch even after we changed divisions. Said it reminded you of the mountains there.” His voice cracks with something like awe. “I knew you’d survived.”

“I don’t know you,” you say.

“You’re lying.” His tone shifts—frantic now. “You’re just confused. They did something to you. I get it. But I know you. I knew you before they—”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’re scared,” he pleads. “But listen—”

You can’t listen. You can’t afford to. Your finger twitches on the trigger.

“I said—”

“You don’t have to pretend anymore—”

“Shut up.”

“…They changed you,” he whispers. “But they didn’t kill you.”

“I should have left you in the tank.”

He leans forward, reaching just slightly, palms raised. “Please. You don’t have to do this. I can help you remember. We can—”

The gun kicks once in your hand.

He drops mid-sentence.

The silence afterward feels too big for the room. You watch his body twitch once, then still.

You lower the weapon, heart pounding.

Fuck.

Your body feels like it’s humming under your skin—like it’s working ahead of your brain. 

Restless, you pace. A tight loop around the pods, boots scuffing against tile warped from age and rot. You keep glancing back, like the shape of him on the floor will change if you see it from another angle.

There was something about the look in his eyes before you pulled the trigger, it crawls under your skin and stays there. 

You don’t know what he recognized in you.

And now you never will.

You stop, standing over him. His expression is slack.

You wonder what his name was.

What he was before all this.

The words he said echo, sharp and unfinished.

You tell yourself they don’t matter.

But something in your chest coils tight.

You shift your eyes away.

Moira told you to wipe the data. Nothing about the pods. Nothing about the people.

She gave you the mission, and you followed.

Maybe that was always the test.

The archive isn’t digital. It’s biological. A databank embedded in cryo-locked cerebral cores, bodies frozen and stripped for intel.

A failed Overwatch extraction site, half-repurposed, half-forgotten. And Talon wants every trace of it gone.

You stare at the containment pods, at the faint blue glow pulsing around them like they’re still dreaming. Each one holds a person—names already burned across the screen from the transfer: agents, specialists, medics. Some of them… you start to recognize. Barely. Like fragments of someone else’s life.

It seems the past slips through your fingers the harder you try to recall it. 

The Talon drive is almost done. Once it completes, the override will trip and this will be obsolete.

You swallow hard. Your fingers twitching near the panel.

They were Overwatch. Your people. Once.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

You could shut it down. Crack open the pods. Drag them out. Try to explain, try to get them somewhere safe—if such a place even exists anymore.

But how long before Talon finds them?

How long before they find you?

And even if you could run—where would you go? You left Overwatch for a reason. The war, the losses, the betrayal. That version of you died already. What came after was harder. Quieter. Lonelier. But it was yours.

Until her.

You think of Moira. Her voice in your ear. Her hands on your skin. Her mouth. The way she made you feel like the only thing worth perfecting. 

You think about what it would mean to disobey her.

And your throat goes tight.

Moira gave you something no one else ever did—not just strength, not just purpose, but a place. A direction. She saw you when no one else did. Lifted you out of the haze you’d been drowning in since Overwatch crumbled. Not with kindness, not even with mercy, but with precision. And somehow, that felt more real.

You can still feel her breath on your lips. Her hand on your chest. The way she held your face like it belonged to her.

It did.

The thought of letting her down makes your stomach twist. You can take pain. You can take punishment. But her disappointment? Her silence?

That would gut you.

Your thoughts come too fast now, fracturing mid-formation before slamming back together out of order.

Your hand hovers over the control panel. You blink and see her face instead of your reflection in the screen. Cool, calculating, but pleased. That look she gives you when you follow orders. When you don’t hesitate.

And God—how you need her to look at you like that again.

You glance back at the pods. The people inside don’t know you. You barely know them. Names from a shattered past. People who saw a version of you that doesn’t even exist anymore.

But Moira—she sees you now.

And you want her to keep seeing you.

A sharp clink echoes down the stairwell behind you. You freeze.

Something metallic skitters across the floor.

Your body moves a split second before your mind catches up. You duck low and pivot away from the blast zone just as it detonates—thick smoke flooding the corridor in a sudden wave, hot and blinding.

Your eyes sting. Ears ring. The console light vanishes under the cloud.

You pull your sidearm, coughing once behind your sleeve as you reposition toward cover near the central pillar.

The smoke clears, and through the debris, a soldier steps in.

Something old in your bones clenches at the sight.

The man wields a heavy pulse rifle, clad in tactical gear with a deep red visor over his eyes.

You know what he is before you know who. Recognition stirs somewhere deep, distant. Not a name. Just a shape burned into memory.

He stops when he sees you. A pause, then:

“Stand down,” he says, calm. Measured. “You don’t have to do this.”

You stay low behind the nearest console, weapon raised.

He steps into view.

“Figures,” he mutters.

You snarl, firing without hesitation. The shot cracks against metal as he ducks.

“Don’t try to fight me,” he calls out, eyes tracking you behind the visor.

You shoot again, aiming higher this time. “Shut up.”

“Stand down,” he barks, sharper now. “Last chance.”

You don’t listen.

You break cover and lunge.

The first exchange is fast, brutal. You’re faster than you’ve ever been—but he’s smarter. You go high, he drops low. You swing hard, he redirects. He’s not trying to kill you.

And that’s the problem.

You are.

You snarl, eyes burning, and swing for his neck.

He ducks.

“You remember anything?” he calls, breath quick. “Any of who you used to be?”

Your fists connect with the wall behind him instead.

Your enhanced strikes are stronger, sharper, but predictable. He reads your stance. Sees the pattern. And worse—he uses your past against you. The little hesitations, the Overwatch training baked into your bones, the angles of approach you still fall back on when instinct takes over.

You nearly take his head off in a blind swing, but he pivots under it and slams the butt of his rifle against your shoulder—dislocating something.

You drop to one knee. He’s on you in a breath, boot pressing your arm to the floor, pinning you there.

“You don’t even recognize yourself, do you?”

You spit blood and snarl up at him.

“Shut the fuck up old man.”

He stares down at you, visor reflecting your own face back at you—bloodied, bruised, feral.

But then his voice lowers—quiet, deliberate.

“…Moira did this to you, didn’t she?”

Your breath stutters.

That name. Spoken by someone else.

You hesitate. Just a beat. Just enough.

And that’s when he hits you.

A clean strike—center mass, augmented by a concussive blast. Your body jerks backward, slamming against the wall. The air knocks out of your lungs. You try to rise, but everything spins.

He approaches, breathing hard. “I’m taking you out of here.”

Your vision narrows. Blood in your mouth. Hands twitching for your weapon, but too slow. You don’t even hear the second breach until it’s too late.

Gunfire from the hallway. Smoke curling in. A red beam of light slices past Soldier 76’s shoulder and forces him to dive for cover.

Talon.

Reinforcements you didn’t call—but someone did.

You lose consciousness with the faint sound of boots rushing in and a deep voice shouting your alias over the chaos.

And then—nothing.

——

You wake to the sound of medical equipment humming low and steady. A cold pulse flickers under your spine. It’s the table again. 

Your eyes snap open, and the light above you blinds you for a moment—white, sterile. You try to sit up. Nothing moves.

Panic hits like a reflex.

You thrash—shoulders shifting, arms pulling, legs straining—but the restraints hold fast. Every joint, every limb, locked down. You’re a pinned specimen on a table. And your body feels wrong—like it’s been scooped out and reassembled while you slept.

Your mouth is dry. Your body aching in ways the serum usually numbs.

Breath rasping, you manage one word.

“Moira—”

She’s already there.

Moira slides into view, adjusting the IV line with her usual mechanical grace. Her gloves are clean, her coat immaculate. Her hair pulled back like always, not a single strand out of place.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just checks the vitals, logs a note.

You swallow hard. Your voice scrapes its way out.

“…What happened?”

“You were ambushed. A hostile, likely ex-Overwatch. We sent for reinforcements immediately after you were intercepted.”

“But you said it was a ghost site,” You ask, voice still hoarse.

“A ghost site can still attract ghosts,” she replies. “It seems you weren’t the only one searching that place.”

She looks down then, eyes scanning your face, maybe for a reaction.

You blink, trying to focus. The edges of your vision swim, but then—

It crashes back into you.

The bodies. The pods. The face behind the glass, whispering your name.

The Soldier.

Your pulse spikes, and you twist in the restraints again, groaning when they don’t budge. Moira doesn’t flinch.

“They were alive,” you rasp. “You didn’t tell me… about the people..”

Her brow arches slightly, measured.

“You were given the necessary intel,” she says. “Any deviations encountered were part of the exercise.”

Your throat burns. “Deviations? They weren’t deviations—I knew them. I- They knew me.”

Moira tilts her head, just enough for the lab lights to catch her blue eye.

“And what did you feel when they said your name?” she asks, clearly studying your response. “Clarity? Or confusion?”

You go still.

Because there was no answer. No feeling. You felt nothing when you put a bullet in the head of that scientist who once knew you by name. 

You remember swinging at 76 with blind fury, and the words you exchanged. Your chest tightens.

“You said it was data,” you whisper, voice shaking.

“It was,” she replies, without hesitation. “Biological storage. Their function was complete.”

“You knew they would recognize me.”

Moira’s eyes flick to yours, cool and clear.

“An instance that only occured because you were foolish enough to open a pod,” she says flatly. “You compromised the integrity of the entire objective.”

Your jaw tightens. “Only cause I saw what was down there... You didn’t prepare me for—”

“You were sent to complete a task,” she cuts in. “Not indulge your curiosities.”

Her words land hard, sharp enough to sting.

“I improvised,” you snap. “He was awake. Aware. I needed answers.”

Moira’s gaze narrows. “And did you get them?”

You don’t respond.

She steps closer, her voice a low murmur now. “You let him see you. You gave him a moment of clarity that could’ve unraveled everything. That failure is not tactical. It’s emotional.

The shame coils hot under your skin, but it twists into something sharper. “So I’m just another tool, then? Run the mission, kill the agent, don’t ask any questions?”

“If that’s what the mission requires.”

You stare up at her, searching for something—anything—beneath that practiced calm. “I thought I was more than that.”

For a moment, the silence between you stretches thin.

Then: “You are,” she says, tone unreadable. “You’re the first to endure what others couldn’t. The only one to make it this far.”

It doesn’t comfort you.

“I trusted you,” you murmur, throat tight. “And you sent me in blind.”

Moira tilts her head slightly, studying you like data. “I was monitoring you the entire time,” she says softly. “If I truly believed you wouldn’t survive, I wouldn’t have let you walk in.”

“Let me?” you snarl. “You don’t let me do anything. You lied. You used me—”

You begin to thrash again—arms jerking against the restraints, fists clenching, throat tearing itself raw.

Click.

You freeze as the restraints at your wrists tighten. Just a fraction. Enough to pinch.

She stepped closer during your outburst, and now she’s looking down at you—not angry. Not scolding.

“I applied you,” she says. “Efficiently. With intent.”

You shake your head violently, eyes burning.

“You’re disoriented,” she says, almost gently now. “It will pass. This instability was necessary.”

“Necessary?” you laugh—dry, hoarse. “Fuck you.”

You pull against the restraints again. Your wrists ache.

Moira watches you carefully. “You’re scared.”

“Of you,” you spit. “You want me broken. You want to see how far I’ll bend before I snap.”

She says nothing.

So you scream.

“You can’t keep doing this to me!”

And your body pulls again—full weight, pure instinct, a desperate animal in a steel trap. It hurts. The restraints dig deeper. You feel the strain in your shoulders, your ribs. But you don’t stop.

Tears burn down your temples. You can’t even wipe them away.

“I should’ve never come back. I should’ve—should’ve walked away after the first dose.”

Moira steps close.

Close enough to cast a shadow over your chest.

“You’ve said that before,” she says softly. “But here you are.”

You freeze.

Chest heaving. Sweat cold against your sides. She lowers the clipboard. Reaches out.

Her fingers ghost across your cheek. Bare. Deliberate.

“You came back. Again and again. Because something in you knew this was always where you belonged.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Stop.”

“Look at you,” she whispers. “Pushing beyond your own biology. You fought the inevitable. You survived it. And now, your system is evolving.”

Her thumb drags beneath your eye, collecting the tear.

“You’re close,” she whispers, warm breath ghosting over your cheek. “So close to being exactly what I designed you to be.”

“Stop,” you say again, weaker this time.

Her touch trails down to your jaw, then lifts your chin—just slightly.

“You’re almost perfect,” she murmurs.

Your breath stutters in your throat.

She pulls away without another word. Returns to the monitor. The restraints stay tight.

You can still feel her fingers, ghosting across your skin.

The hum of the lab continues long after Moira leaves your side.

You lie still, sweat cooling against your skin, arms numb from fighting the restraints. You don’t speak. You don’t cry. Not anymore. The tears have dried at your temples, leaving your throat raw and your breath coming in small, shaky pulls.

You stifle the rest.

Quiet is safer.

Moira doesn’t leave the room. She moves around you—back to her station, typing in new entries, analyzing your blood, updating chemical logs. She speaks into a recorder at one point, her voice low and flat:

“Subject 09B entering the third stage of adaptive instability. Rapid oscillations in neural cohesion... stress-induced emotional breaks are escalating in predictable intervals.”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to hear it, but you do.

The restraints remain for a while. A long while.

You drift in and out of consciousness as the time passes.

Eventually, they click open one by one, cold steel releasing from your wrists and ankles with sharp, mechanical precision.

Moira says nothing at first. She simply moves with that same unnerving efficiency, her hands reaching for your shoulders to guide you upright.

Your body protests the motion—sore and humiliated—but you let her move you like you always do.

“Observation will resume in the morning,” she says, as if she hadn’t left you strapped down for hours.

Her tone is measured. Back to protocol.

You should recoil. Instead, you lean into her touch, hating the warmth that floods your chest when her hand stays at your back a beat too long.

You wait for her to say something again, even if it meant scolding you. Anything to break the silence crawling under your skin.

But she doesn’t.

Two guards appear at the door, silent and impassive. They fall in beside you as Moira leads the way out of the lab, her heels echoing on the tile with maddening composure.

You walk in silence.

The guards flank you like shadows, and Moira strides ahead, composed as ever.

Her presence thrilled you yesterday. Now, it sits heavy on your shoulders, like a weight you no longer know how to carry.

Each footfall echoes in the corridor, too loud. You don’t speak. You don’t dare.

You focus instead on the memory of the console.

The data streaming.

The names.

You never saw the end.

Never saw the wipe finish.

A knot tightens in your chest. Did you fail the mission completely? Did your hesitation cost her something?

You want to ask. The question claws at the back of your throat.

Did I finish the job?

Did I at least give you that?

But you stay silent, too scared of the answer.

Moira doesn’t glance back, doesn’t slow down. You catch yourself studying the line of her shoulders, searching for some sign—tension, regret, anything. But all you find is poise. That perfect, inhuman steadiness.

The door to your quarters looms ahead, and déjà vu presses against your chest like a bruise. She walked you here the night before, alone. Her voice was softer then.

Now, there’s no softness.

As the door slides open, you step inside without being told. You don’t look back.

But you still wait—just a second—to see if she’ll say anything. Something.

She doesn’t.

The door hisses shut.

Then clicks.

Locked.

You stand in the middle of the room, arms limp at your sides, pulse still thrumming.

Your body’s still sore. You feel her hands on your face like heat trapped under your skin.

She didn’t hurt you.

But she didn’t need to.

She took everything else instead.

You lie awake for hours before sleep finally drags you under.

It isn’t restful.

The dreams come fast—disjointed images strung together by instinct instead of logic. The old Overwatch barracks come back to you: lights flickering overhead, metal bunks creaking as you sit alone in a uniform that doesn’t quite fit. Faces you don’t fully remember blur in and out of focus. Orders barked across intercoms. Steel in your spine. Hunger in your chest.

Then the field. Dust. Blood. A rifle jammed against your shoulder. And a hand—

Gloved. Familiar.

Not Moira’s.

His.

You see Commander Morrison crouched beside you behind cover, barking commands you don’t remember. He doesn’t look at you like she does. There’s no fascination. No pride. Just urgency.

You blink and it shifts again—

Back in the lab. Moira is above you. No visor this time. Just her bare eyes, brown and blue. Her hands are cold, but her voice is warm now, coiling through your skull like steam.

“You're close,” she whispers.

Her fingers stroke your jaw.

“Almost perfect.”

You flinch awake.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow gasps. You’re sweating again, the sheets tangled at your feet. Your skin crawls with heat and ache, like the serum never settled.

You run your hand over your face and feel the echo of her hand instead. The pressure of her touch. The space between your neck and shoulder still tingles where she pressed her palm.

You curl tighter on the bed.

Try to forget the look in her eye.

The knock at your door is three sharp taps, efficient and unmistakable.

You already know it’s Dr. Pell.

When it opens you find her standing there in her standard Talon black, tablet tucked under one arm, visor already flicking with bio-metric readings. Her eyes sweep over you excitedly, observing you.

“Morning,” you offer, voice still groggy.

Dr. Pell perks up. “Morning! I hope you slept well, today’s a big one.”

As she turns to lead the way, rattling off some vague updates about schedule changes, you fall into step behind her. 

“…re-calibrated the response times from yesterday’s trials, so today will be a bit more demanding,” she says, tapping her tablet as the two of you wind down the facility’s lower corridor.

You nod absently, barely listening. You’ve haven’t really slept, but it doesn’t matter. Your body feels weightless, strung tight with residual adrenaline. 

And your mind? Your mind won’t stop replaying every second of last night. Moira’s hands. Her voice. The way her eyes lingered on you.

Dr. Pell glances sideways at you as the two of you turn a corner. Then, without looking over:

“You missed your post-trial report last night.”

Your stomach turns. Just a little. You keep your eyes forward.

“It’s logged,” you say. “I’ll file a late copy.”

“Mm.” She scrolls something on the tablet. “I already accounted for it. The blood work came through this morning. Spiked cortisol. Elevated dopamine. There were some unusual patterns, but nothing outside the threshold.”

She turns off the tablet. Lets the silence settle.

“Busy night?”

You hesitate.

“Restless,” you say finally.

Dr. Pell nods once. She doesn’t push. But her voice is thoughtful when she speaks again.

“By the way— Moira approved a Tier 4 engagement scenario for you first thing today, so I’ll just be there to monitor your levels...”

You give her a quiet nod. She doesn’t seem to mind the lack of conversation. If anything, she’s almost buzzing beside you.

As you near the elevators, Dr. Pell glances down at her tablet again, then adds, 

“No one’s made it this far, you know,” She tries to say it casually, but the hint of pride in her tone slips through anyway, “Moira must be pleased.”

The words settle in your chest like a spark catching dry kindling.

No one’s made it this far…

You hold on to that, let yourself feel the weight of it. The pride.

Whatever this program is, whatever she’s building, you’re at the center of it now.

And if Moira is pleased? That’s all you need.

The elevator doors open, and you straighten your posture as you walk out, ignoring the tight coil of nerves winding beneath your skin.

You’ve come this far. You’ll go as far as she’ll let you.

By the time you reach the reinforced training chamber, your body is still humming.

Dr. Pell pauses outside the threshold and looks at you, observing you once again.

“No weapons today. Four-on-one. Close contact. You’ll be monitored for tempo, recovery time, and restraint.”

A beat. Then, with a soft smile she adds,

“You’ve already exceeded expectations. Today’s about confirming your consistency, not spectacle.”

You nod, “Understood.”

She taps the doors release.

“Good. Then let’s begin.”

The hiss of pressurized air follows, and the door slides open to allow you in.

The sparring room is no longer new to you. After days of routine, its sterile layout is etched into your mind. The room is utilitarian, with grey walls, padded flooring, and overhead floodlights.

Benches line one wall, all cold steel. A row of lockers stand nearby, locked tight, more for show than function. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and old sweat.

Across the far wall is the one-way window. A smooth, clear panel spanning nearly the full width of the room. Behind it lies the observation chamber, where silent machines and bio-metric readouts that track your every move lie.

You step inside. The door hisses shut behind you.

A figure moves behind the window. Dr. Pell, data pad in hand.

She gives you a tentative wave, her form slightly distorted by the tinted glass. You barely nod back before she turns to the console at her side and taps a button.

A soft click echoes from somewhere inside the wall, and suddenly, a shimmer pulses through it like water catching light. The transparency clouds over, silvering into a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you.

It catches you off guard, just for a moment. You rarely see yourself like this. Not in full. Not under the clinical lights.

You straighten your stance and take it in—your body leaner, harder.

You study your reflection carefully. Your shoulders look broader, your stance more solid. There’s a quiet tension in your frame now, like your body is always ready to move, to strike. You raise your arm and watch the way your muscles shift: smooth, controlled, like a machine that knows its purpose.

Veins trail your arms in thin, deep-blue lines, visible just beneath the surface like conduits waiting to fire.

The angles of your face are leaner. Eyes a shade darker. You barely recognize the person staring back at you.

The serum has done more than change your strength. It’s carved you into something deliberate.

Designed.

Behind the glass, Dr. Pell watches quietly, probably already logging.

You roll your shoulders, stretch your neck side to side. The hum in your bloodstream has settled into something sharper, more electric. You’re ready.

“Baseline stable…” Dr. Pell’s voice comes through the overhead comm, measured, but unmistakably pleased.

“You’ve come a long way.”

A pause.

“Let’s see if they can keep up.”

The far door opens with a hiss. Four Talon soldiers step through. They're each wearing light combat gear, no live weapons.

They fan out across the mat without a word.

You crack your knuckles.

They come at you all at once. You don’t wait for a signal, ready for them.

The first one tries to flank you on the left.

You pivot before he even reaches you, grip his collar, and drive him into the floor with enough force to rattle the tiles.

Another charges head-on, thinking brute speed will throw you off. You catch his wrist mid-strike and twist, feeling the tendons shift before you wrench his arm behind his back and drive a knee into his ribs. He crumples, gasping.

You step over the bodies of the two you just beat.

The remaining two hesitate—just long enough.

You close the distance fast, getting a knee to his gut, and an elbow to his throat. The third drops hard.

The other lunges. You catch his wrist, twist, drive him to the floor with a clean crack of his back against the mat.

Four down.

Your chest heaves once. Twice. But you’re not winded. Not really.

Silence follows as you look over to the windowed-mirror again, expecting nothing but your reflection.

But your reflection looks back at you, with three shapes now standing before it. 

Dr. Pell. Moira. And Maximilien.

Moira doesn’t blink. Maximilien leans in close, murmuring something to her. Her mouth curves into a faint smile, and she leans toward the speaker on the dashboard.

A soft chime crackles through the overhead speaker. You glance up as the feedback cuts, and then—her voice.

“You’ve adapted beautifully,” Moira says, crisp and measured. “I see it in the gait, the musculature. You are power without waste, elegant by design.”

The words hold. Cool on the surface, but underneath they light something molten in your chest. You fight back the grin rising at the corner of your mouth, your expression twitching despite yourself.

Praise from her is rare, and rarer still without some test attached. You square your stance and pretend it means nothing.

The speaker clicks off. Silence returns.

You don’t move.

Beyond the glass, Moira steps closer to Maximilien, her hands folded neatly behind her back. He leans in, voice low and indecipherable, and she listens, impassive. A beat passes. Then another.

Moira tilts her head slightly, offering him a quiet response. Whatever she says draws the faintest reaction from him: an incline of his head, polite, unreadable. His eyes never flicker toward you, but hers do.

Just for a moment.

Moira’s gaze lands on you like a fingerprint pressed to glass—cool, deliberate. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t nod. But her mouth curves in another smile before she turns away.

The two figures retreat down the corridor beyond the glass, conversation resuming just out of earshot.

Dr. Pell stays behind, eyes still on her tablet. The steady beat of your blood in your ears is the only sound left in the room as you exhale, alone again.

You roll your shoulders once, let the silence settle around you, and turn toward the exit.

The door hisses open and the cool air cuts across your skin like a blade.

You step into the observation room, body still buzzing, muscles sharp with leftover adrenaline.

You're aware of every inch of yourself. Every breath.

Dr. Pell doesn’t look up right away. She’s seated at the console, legs crossed. One gloved hand scrolls absently across the tablet.

“You're still running hot,” she says. “Heart rate elevated, but stable. No apparent joint fatigue....”

You step closer, watching the playback on her screen—frames of yourself moving like someone else. Faster. Smarter. Sharper.

“What did she say?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Dr. Pell looks at you. A pause.

“Moira?” She lifts one shoulder. “She doesn’t usually voice her thoughts in front of… inferiors.”

Another beat. Then, more thoughtfully:

“But she looked pleased. Which isn’t something I’d say lightly.”

You feel the pull in your chest at that—an invisible wire tightening. The kind of satisfaction that goes deeper than pride. You lean into it.

“She didn’t say anything after?”

“Only to Maximilien. Not for the record.” Pell taps the tablet closed, finally giving you her full attention. “She sees something in you. And she’s rarely wrong.”

You nod, slowly. Let that settle. The silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable.

You glance at the reflection of yourself in the dark glass behind Dr. Pell. You can’t believe you once saw yourself in her. Side by side, you look taller and stronger, still buzzing with residual heat.

You walk to the chair without being told, sitting down slowly.

“Your pivot was sharper this time,” she adds, eyes moving to the screen. “The last one—wrist lock, slam—textbook.”

She shakes her head and turns to look at you, awe in her eyes.

You almost smirk.

“They hesitated,” you say. “Made it too easy.”

Dr. Pell lifts a small scanner and sweeps it slowly across your chest and neck, eyes on the readout.

“Yes,” She replies. “To your advantage.”

She shifts in her seat, smiling as she looks you up and down.

It’s not the usual clinical glance. There’s something else now—an interest she’s not bothering to hide.

You catch it instantly. The way her gaze holds a beat too long. Something’s changed.

It almost unsettles you. You’re not sure if it’s flattery or fixation, but either way, it’s creeping in sideways, quiet and uninvited.

Still... you don’t plan to stop it.

You'll let her think there’s something she’s discovering—something she’s part of.

She holds up a small retinal light, signaling you to follow it.

You sit straighter, following the light.

But if she’s watching you like that, then maybe she’s slipping too.

Dr. Pell is close to Moira. Not personally, maybe, no one really is, but logistically.

She sees her notes, hears her briefings, manages her subjects. She’s in the orbit.

And if Pell starts to see you as more than data, as something exceptional, maybe she talks more. Maybe she opens doors without meaning to. Maybe she becomes a bit more useful to you.

She wants to feel involved. Like she’s part of your progress. Maybe she’s projecting—thinking she helped shape what you’ve become. Maybe that’s why she’s so quick to praise now.

You'll let her think that.

Let her get comfortable.

Because every glance she gives you is a reflection of Moira’s design.

And you’ll take anything that gets you closer to the source.

“You’re what we hoped the early subjects would be. And more.” 

The compliment hangs in the air longer than necessary.

You sit back in the chair, heart still steady, feeling her eyes track the movement. A bead of sweat trails down the side of your neck.

“What’s next?” you ask as she returns to her tablet. “What’s the bigger picture? For Talon?”

Dr. Pell doesn’t look up from the data scroll. Her fingers flick through bio-metric graphs, slow and deliberate.

“That’s above my clearance,” she says, tone flat but not dismissive.

She mutters a timestamp under her breath and logs another marker.

Then, she sets the tablet aside, folding her arms, eyes sharpening on you like you’re more interesting without numbers.

“But let’s just say… this is only the groundwork. You’re no conclusion. You’re the beginning.”

You tilt your head. She keeps going.

“Overwatch had strong ideals. Old ones. Outdated ones. They clung to legacy instead of evolution. We’re not trying to fix what they broke, we’re building a new foundation from the rubble.”

Her voice is so matter-of-fact, but the name hits you harder than you expect.

Overwatch.

You don’t react, not outwardly. You control your face, your breath, the line of your shoulders. But inside, the word pulses in your skull like it’s hit a nerve.

A sound memory flickers behind your eyes—laughing in the barracks, the weight of armor straps being pulled tight, boots on concrete.

Your name being called out with familiarity.

They clung to legacy…

“What would they say now?” you ask, voice even. “If they saw what we’re doing?”

Dr. Pell doesn’t hesitate.

“They’d call it dangerous. Unethical. A threat to humanity.”

She smiles faintly. “Which, to be fair, is what innovation always looks like to the obsolete.”

The line is so certain, almost rehearsed.

You nod. Slowly. You don’t let her see the flicker of discomfort crawling up your spine.

“When people look back at this decade of human development, they’ll talk about geopolitical shifts, resource wars, collapsing institutions.”

She trails off, eyes still scrolling over the footage of your sparring session.

“But that’s not what matters. What matters is what we’re building in these halls.”

She looks at you.

“Better bodies,” she murmurs. “Better minds. Cleaner designs. Controlled variance.”

She looks at you like you’re already part of this future she’s prescribed. Maybe the first.

You fold your arms across your chest, keeping your voice neutral, curious.

“And Moira’s behind all of it?”

Dr. Pell lets out a quiet breath. It’s not a sigh, but reverence, neatly contained.

“Moira sees farther than any of us. I’ve spent years following her science. She’s a legend.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer.

“You’re lucky. You get to be part of the actual mechanism.”

Something about that phrasing pulls at you.

You should feel proud. Maybe you do. But it settles strangely in your chest—warm and cold at the same time.

“She says so little about the future,” you murmur.

“Because it hasn’t been made yet,” Pell says, easily. “She’s still crafting it.”

You imagine that—Moira cutting through timelines with her gloved hands, pulling strands of human evolution taut between her fingers. Your body, your mind, as part of the thread.

What if you’re just not part of that future?

What if you’re what she uses to test it?

You feel your pulse kick higher.

You try to picture what comes after.

When you’re faster. Stronger. More precise than even she expected. When you’ve exceeded every marker.

Would she still look at you the same way?

Would she still touch you like that?

“I want to be ready for whatever comes next,” you say.

Dr. Pell studies you for a moment.

“Well, you’re already ahead of schedule.”

She picks the tablet back up. Her lips move as she reads your metrics silently, nodding once to herself.

“Re-calibration's at seventeen-hundred. Get something to eat before then. Keep your head clear.”

You turn to leave, but her voice stops you at the door.

“Whatever you’re becoming… it’s working.”

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t wait for a response.

You linger for a second longer, pulse still steady, skin cooling under your clothes.

You could eat. Log the metrics. Return to routine.

But something buzzes beneath the surface—restless, unfinished.

————————————

You choose to wander the halls instead.

You don’t feel hungry. Not for food at least.

You walk, letting your boots guide you through the sterile turns and pale-lit corridors. You trace your fingers along the seam where two metal panels meet, just to feel something.

You go with no clear destination, your steps quiet, methodical. The facility feels half-empty at this hour, everyone seemingly busy with something.

Moira’s voice still rings in your head from the trial.

Power without waste, elegant by design.

The lights overhead hum at a constant pitch, and the walls stretch on in cold, seamless lines. Your mind isn’t in the corridor, though.

You’re still back in the lab.

Still feeling the scrape of Moira’s nails down your shoulder. The subtle drag. 

The way her nails had ghosted across your back the night before, clinical and practiced and still somehow electric. The faint scratch of them down your spine. The way her breath had brushed the shell of your ear, calm as ever.

You swallow. The memory should be private, indulgent. Instead it lingers like static, alive and inescapable.

Your skin prickles at the memory.

You round a corner, not paying attention, not needing to. You know these halls. But something changes.

The air pressure shifts. Just slightly. Enough to make your ears buzz.

You stop walking, hearing voices up ahead.

They’re distant, echoing. But familiar.

Your stomach turns cold.

You hear boots on concrete. Barked orders. Weapons being prepped. The chaotic rhythm of the barracks—your barracks. Years ago.

You blink, and the hallway ripples. Talon steel shimmers, just briefly, into concrete walls and flickering halogen lights. A locker slams. Laughter echoes down the corridor.

Then it hits—sharp, vivid.

A voice.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

It’s gravel-thick. Familiar. You’ve heard that tone barking orders through smoke and gunfire before.

Your head snaps around.

The hallway is the same, but something’s wrong with the sound. It’s layered now—other voices crowding in. Equipment clattering. Distant footsteps. The rush of bodies moving in tight formation.

Your throat tightens.

You know that sound.

You whip around again. There’s still no one. Just the hallway, lit and silent.

You blink.

The sounds are gone.

Your hands rests on Talon steel again. Clean. Cool.

But your pulse is racing.

You turn your head and listen hard. Nothing.

No.

That didn’t happen. That was not real.

You exhale and press your other hand to the wall.

You lean your back against the tile, grounding yourself. Your sweaty fingers are cold against the panel.

“Wow,” a voice cuts in. “You really are starting to crack.”

Your head snaps to the sound.

Sombra’s leaning against the wall a few meters ahead, arms folded, one brow arched. She’s smirking, her default face, but the expression fades a little when she gets a good look at you.

Her smile flickers. “Easy… You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You say nothing, glaring at her.

Your pulse is still racing, breath shallow. Your body is pressed to the wall like you might fall if you let go.

She straightens, stepping forward—not too close. She tilts her head, scanning you.

“Okay, spooky. Do we need to reboot you or just give you a juice box?”

You force yourself to exhale. Then once more, slower. 

“I’m fine,” you grunt, looking away from her.

Sombra watches you another moment before her tone shifts—less bite, more murmur.

“Whatever they’re putting in you… they’re not putting it in slow.”

You say nothing. Can’t.

She clicks her tongue softly.

“I was only gonna screw with you a little. Fun, right? Not now.”

She lifts her shoulders in a shrug.

You stare at her, still trying to pull your breathing back into rhythm.

She lets the silence stretch, then clicks her tongue.

“Try not to short-circuit before your next dose.”

She gives a lazy wave, then turns, a smile on her face.

With the flick of her hand, she glitches away, fading into shadow and bright static.

Just like that, she’s gone.

The hall goes quiet again.

You stay standing there, still pressed to the wall, long after she’s gone.

And for a few seconds more, you swear you can still hear the sound of lockers slamming shut.

————————————

Later that day, you make your way down the familiar corridor toward Moira’s lab, boots echoing softly against the polished floor.

You pass a pair of silent technicians who don’t look up as you go by, eyes locked on their tablets.

The light above the lab door flickers once, blue, then green, before sliding open.

You pause for half a breath, smoothing your hands down the sides of your uniform before stepping in.

Moira doesn’t speak when you enter.

She simply glances over her shoulder from where she sits, then gestures with a tilt of her head to the open seat beside her. Dr. Pell is already seated, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes flicking between you and the screen.

The room is dim, the glow of the monitor casting sharp blue angles across Moira’s face. 

Her fingers hover over the play button, waiting for you.

You sit.

The screen in front of you flickers to life with a timestamp from months ago. The image is familiar in a way that makes your stomach clench.

It’s you.

Strapped to the table, arms pinned at your sides, chest mid-heave.

You’re dressed in the standard trial gear, thin fabric clinging to a body that hadn’t yet been restructured. Your eyes are wide, your breath uneven.

Moira doesn’t look at you. She’s watching the screen.

“The first dose,” she murmurs. “This was the moment it began.”

You glance at her once, expecting an explanation.

She gives you one without being asked.

“I want you to see what you were,” she says, not looking up. “Before the stabilization. Before your first successful dose.”

You don’t move. “Why?”

“Because you’re entering a new stage. And you need to understand the process behind the shape you’ve taken. Not just how you perform, but how you were built.”

You tense slightly in the chair. “I remember enough.”

Moira lifts her eyes to you, just for a moment.

“You likely remember the pain,” she says. “Fragments. Confusion. But not what we saw. Not how you changed. You need to see the thresholds for yourself. When the body breaks. When it adapts. When it begins to obey.”

You sit back, not quite comfortable. “Is this about control?”

Moira’s mouth lifts slightly—half a smile, half an answer.

“It’s about clarity.”

You watch her cue the file. A string of numbers, a day in your life you barely remember anymore.

“You were the first subject to survive my accelerated protocol without some form of organ failure,” she says. “And the first to self-correct mid-seizure.”

You blink. “I did that?”

“You did,” she says, almost thoughtfully. “You adjusted your breathing instinctively. Overrode the panic cleanly. No one taught you that. That was you.”

Something stirs in your chest.

“And why show me now?” you ask. “You’ve had this footage the whole time.”

Moira folds her hands in her lap.

“Because you’re beginning to internalize your performance,” she says. “You’re starting to believe it belongs to you.”

She leans closer to you.

“That belief is useful. But it’s also a risk.”

You don’t speak.

She studies your face, then adds—almost gently, but not quite:

“You’ve done more than I projected. I don’t say that often. Watching this… may help you understand why I’m still invested.”

You don’t mean to react, but the words hit anyway. It’s confirmation.

Proof that she’s still watching you.

Choosing you.

She shifts slightly, voice lower now, almost contemplative.

“Dr. Pell is here to record only your reaction. All of it is useful.”

You lean in slightly, unsettled by the stillness of your own recorded form.

“…It looks like someone else.”

Your voice is quiet, but Moira hears it.

“Most don’t survive even this point,” she says. “Or they survive, but remain… unfinished.”

Dr. Pell, silent at her own console, jots something down as the footage progresses. You shift in your seat.

“So she’s here to watch me watching myself?” you mutter.

Moira’s mouth lifts—just barely.

“Observation is more reliable than memory. She’s to record what the mind distorts.”

She turns toward you now, her gaze flicking to yours.

“I believe self-reflection is essential. After all… what’s the point of transformation, if you don’t understand what was carved away to make room?”

Your throat is dry when you respond. “You’re right. Show me.”

Moira presses play. The video begins with a flicker of static.

Muted lab lights. A cold, sterile room. You see yourself lying on the table, arms strapped down, eyes wide, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. It’s you, unmistakably. But younger, in some way. Less refined. Less knowing. Still whole.

You sit beside Moira now, watching silently, your own breathing quiet.

In the footage, your body is already tense before anything touches it. You remember this moment vaguely—the thick air, the hum of machines, the scent of antiseptic and metal.

But seeing it is different. Your left leg bounces in the restraint, an old anxious tick. You hadn’t realized how tightly balled your fists were until you watched your hands curl and shake.

The past-you flinches as Moira leans in on-screen. Calm. Methodical. Her lab coat immaculate, gloves smooth and dark.

She leans over you with practiced precision and says something too low to catch. Whatever it was, your younger self nods.

Then the syringe.

Even on the screen, it looks too large.

She inserts the syringe just beneath your collarbone.

You tense, even now, just seeing it. The needle presses deep, and the serum goes in slow—thick and dark like molten ore.

In the video, your reaction is immediate.

Your spine arches against the table. Every muscle in your body seizes. Your mouth opens in a silent cry before your throat finds the air to scream.

Your back on the table thrashes, bones contorting beneath your skin. Your veins rise—sharp and dark, spidering up your neck and down your arms like branching rivers.

The skin near the injection site blisters briefly, then smooths again with unnatural speed.

You flinch in real-time. Your eyes stay fixed to the screen.

“I—” you start, but the words crumble in your throat.

Dr. Pell says nothing, though you sense her still taking notes at her station.

It’s raw. Animal. You jerk and writhe, limbs fighting the restraints, foam gathering at the corner of your lips.

Onscreen, Moira never flinches. She sits, watching you seize with clinical fascination, one gloved hand steadying your shoulder as the convulsions wrack your frame.

Your eyes—on the table, in the recording—are wild, rolling back into your head.

A sudden moment of stillness hits, and you collapse, sweating, limp.

And then you twitch again—just once. A different kind of movement. Controlled. Too sharp. Too strong.

Your jaw locks, then unhinges for a second, teeth bared in a rictus of pain.

And through it all, Moira never looks away. On the screen, her hand presses to your sternum, watching how your body responds. f that's the case then I

You feel sick. You also can’t stop watching.

Then, suddenly, stillness.

You slump back. Sweat slicks your skin. Your eyes flutter open in the footage—glassy. Dazed. And then something shifts.

Your fingers twitch.

A ripple of movement, subtle but deliberate, runs up your forearm as if your nerves are remembering themselves.

You sit forward slightly now, watching the moment your body recalibrates. The way your fingers flex. The way your breath comes back slower, steadier.

You’d forgotten how much it hurt. Or maybe you’d just refused to remember.

Moira on-screen reaches for the latches with practiced ease, releasing them one by one until your wrists are free beneath her hands.

Beside you, Moira leans in, eyes glinting.

Her voice drops to a hush. “Look at you. Everything I hoped for. And you didn’t even know it yet.”

You can’t respond. Not yet. You’re too focused on the version of yourself still trembling onscreen.

Because watching it—the moment your body broke and reformed—you’re not sure what’s more terrifying:

That you survived it.

Or that you’d do it again.

Moira turns to you now, just slightly. “Does it feel distant?” she asks. “Or does it still live in you, somewhere under the surface?”

You’re not sure what to say. You feel hot under your skin, but not from shame.

You feel watched. Possessed.

You glance back at the frozen frame of yourself on the screen—sweat-slick, trembling, transformed.

And for a second, you wonder if she’s fallen in love with what she made.

Or if she’s still making it.

Moira shifts in her seat.

Without a word, she brings up another feed—this one stamped from just last week. A new video load.

The lighting in the room is the same, but the subject is not.

It’s you again. But not the same you.

Your body is still strapped down, but you no longer strain against them. Your expression is calm, almost serene. Your breathing is measured.

On the screen, Moira steps into frame, gloved and composed. She brings the injector up to your neck and you don’t flinch.

Instead, your head tilts ever so slightly toward her hand, like a reflex.

It’s subtle, but unmistakable—how your body reaches for her without hesitation.

The injector pierces the skin at your neck, and your muscles only twitch in acknowledgment. f that's the case then I

Moira says nothing for a long moment.

Then, almost to herself:

“Here you’ve clearly adapted. Conditioned. Even your pain responses have been refined. There’s no unnecessary movement. No wasted panic.”

Onscreen, you exhale softly as the dose enters your bloodstream. Your eyes don’t flutter like they did the first time. They hold focus—on Moira, just offscreen. In the frame, she leans over you, adjusting a monitor. Her gloved hand brushes your temple.

You don’t flinch. You lean into it.

Moira presses pause.

The still frame is damning.

Her hand at your cheek. Your eyes locked on her. An almost imperceptible tilt of your mouth, like the beginning of a smile.

She turns to you now, real-time, studying your face with the same precision.

“And here…” she says softly, tilting her head. “A different kind of response.”

You feel your face heat.

“I was… calm,” you say, unsure if that’s a defense or a confession.

Moira doesn’t answer. She zooms in slightly on the image.

“You trust me more than you did,” she says finally. “Not just with your body. With your mind. That’s real progress.”

She leans back again, her tone gentle.

“The serum can sculpt muscle. Sharpen reflex. But loyalty…” Her eyes cut to you. “Loyalty must be cultivated.”

You’re quiet. The air feels thinner now, like the walls of the lab have closed in.

The footage resumes—soft, clinical lighting casting you in sterile blues and greys. The restraints on your limbs don’t look harsh, not exactly. But they look necessary. Onscreen, your chest rises and falls rapidly, reacting to the serum coursing through your veins.

Moira doesn’t speak for a while. She’s too absorbed.

On the monitor, she leans over your prone form. Her gloved hand brushes your jaw, her thumb grazing your bottom lip, slow and thoughtful. You squirm in place, eyes fluttering open like you’re unsure whether you’re waking or dreaming.

At your side, Moira tilts her head slightly, captivated.

“There,” she murmurs. “That’s when it took hold.”

The screen flickers with biometric overlays. Heart rate spike. Neural synapse ignition. Muscle tension peaking.

“Not just biologically. Your mind started reaching then,” she adds, almost to herself. “Not away from the pain—but toward me.”

You don’t speak. You’re too busy watching it, too.

Onscreen, your lips part, forming silent words. You don’t remember what you said—but you remember the sensation. That need, deep in your chest, raw and sharp.

Moira’s expression softens as she observes it. She leans closer to the screen, like watching herself touch you brings her satisfaction.

“The body adapts quickly under pressure,” she says quietly. “But what fascinates me is how quickly you trusted me with it.”

She turns, then. Finally looks at you. Her voice still hushed.

“You weren’t afraid.” A pause. “You were breathtaking.”

The word lands warm in your chest, unexpected but welcome.

You feel yourself smiling before you can stop it. Not outf that's the case then I of pride, but relief—like you’ve been chasing her approval for so long, and now it’s here, catching you off guard.

The footage ends with your eyes closed, sweat glinting on your brow, your body still under her careful hands.

The screen goes dark.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Moira reaches to power down the console.

She steps away, back straight, but doesn’t move to leave.

Her silence stretches, weighted—contemplative.

“I think that’s enough for today, Dr. Pell,” she says, without turning.

Dr. Pell nods, already standing. “I’ll finalize the session logs and run the sync check.”

“Have them sent to me within the hour.”

“Of course.”

She gathers her tablet, smooths down her coat, and exits without another word. The door whispers shut behind her.

Moira doesn’t speak right away. She just walks past you toward the equipment bay, methodically selecting a vial from the refrigeration unit, her movements smooth and assured.

“You’re due for another dose,” she says, not looking at you. “This one will carry you through your next assignment. A more delicate operation.”

You shift slightly.

“Delicate how?”

She finally meets your eyes.

“This next mission is one not everyone is equipped to handle cleanly. But you don’t get distracted. You follow instruction. You deliver.”

You feel the praise land. Warm, grounding.

You don’t press further.

She gestures to the table.

You know the routine. Boots off. Jacket folded.

You lie back on the steel surface, the metal cold against your back. You keep your face still, knowing the cameras are watching, wanting them to see you unflinching.

The straps tighten across your wrists with their usual hiss, snug but not painful. You don’t resist. You know better than to squirm under her hands.

Moira moves with practiced ease, securing each restraint, her eyes flicking from your limbs to the monitor.

She moves into your peripheral vision. You hear the clink of metal. The quiet hiss of pressure being released as she primes the syringe.

You turn slightly to watch her hands.

“Maximilien’s been watching the trials,” you say quietly. “What’s he been saying about me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her smile is small. Knowing.

“Maximilien is… intrigued,” she says. “He’s not easily impressed. But then, neither am I.”

Your chest rises slightly. You want more—details, specifics—but you keep your voice steady.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re no longer just a subject,” she says, voice smooth, “You’ve become a significant asset in my project.”

Her eyes lock on yours.

“We have plans for you,” she murmurs, “Both of us. And if you continue to perform the way you have been… those plans will grow.”

“I’ve adjusted today's compound slightly,” she says, stepping away from her tray.

You raise an eyebrow in a silent question. She answers easily.

“You’ll feel the initial side effects differently. Stronger muscle reactivity. A touch of euphoric elasticity. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Moira lifts the injector from the tray with one gloved hand, turns it in her fingers, checks the pressure.

You try to keep your breathing steady.

She looks down at you, and something in her gaze lingers this time, just long enough to catch. She leans in close, pressing her free hand lightly against your shoulder to steady you.

“This next mission will show me everything I need to know about you.”

You nod again, barely a breath leaving you as you tell her.

“I’m ready.”

She leans in, needle poised.f that's the case then I

“Of course you are.”

The injection is smooth. Controlled.

But the heat hits fast.

Your vision sharpens at the edges, like the room itself is folding closer around you. Nerves singing under your skin. Every inch of your body keyed up, caught between readiness and reverence.

Moira’s hands linger on your arm, gloved fingertips resting at the crook of your elbow. Her eyes don’t leave your face.

“You’ve adapted well,” she says, voice softer now. “Better than anyone.”

Her compliments land differently now, closer to intimate.

You swallow, trying to track her expression. But her gaze keeps shifting. Studying you. Measuring more than vitals.

Moira’s hand trails down your forearm, a careful touch that skims your skin even through the glove. She brushes her thumb along the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters fast.

“Your heart rate’s elevated,” she murmurs. “Is it stimulus… or anticipation?”

She leans over the table, her silhouette framed by the soft lab light above. The scent of her, cold metal and something faintly medicinal, fills your lungs.

Your heart’s pounding now, loud in your ears.

You can’t answer.

You’re not even sure.

Your body is too still, too open, breathing shallow under the soft weight of her gaze.

She sees it.

The tension in your throat. The way your fingers curl slightly against the restraints. The subtle shift of your hips like you’re caught between pulling away and pressing closer.

“You’ve already come this far for me,” she says, almost reminding you. “Haven’t you?”

You nod, barely. Her hand presses lightly at your sternum, fingers splayed over your chest. Your heart is hammering out of your chest.

“I ask for much,” she continues, looking you over. “And you give without hesitation.”

Her palm lingers there. Heat blooms in your chest — not just from the dose, but from her touch. From her closeness. From the way she speaks to you like you matter more than data.

Moira’s eyes return to yours.

“You weren’t built for half-measures,” she says quietly. “Neither was I.”

You feel her breath on your cheek. Every nerve in your body alive now, thrumming beneath her attention.

A low groan escapes your lips as the serum moves through your veins like molten lava.

She leans in closer, her face mere inches from yours. This close, you can see every line etched into her pale skin, every fleck of color in her hetero-chromatic eyes.

Her gaze is intense, almost hungry, as she observes the effect of her creation coursing through you.

You can feel the coolness of her touch even through the thin fabric of your tanktop, your skin flushing hot and cold as the serum surges through your blood.

Her hand feels large against your chest, her palm spanning the space between your chest. She presses down slightly, feeling the rapid beat of your heart.

"Look at you," she murmurs, her accented voice low and approving. "Stunning. Truly, utterly stunning."

Her fingers trail up, brushing over the column of your throat, feeling the way your pulse jumps at her touch.

She leans in even closer, until you can feel her breath mingling with yours, until her lips are a hair's breadth from your own.

You're pinned down, at the mercy of both her science and her whims. But as you stare up at her, you want nothing more than to prove to her just how strong you've become.

You want to make her see you not just as a subject, but as a person. Someone worthy of...something more than cold, clinical observation.

So you tilt your head up toward her, your breath catching as the serum coils deeper through your veins, sharpening everything around you. Her nearness, her scent, the unbearable pull of her just out of reach.

Moira smirks at the sound of your hitched breath, her eyes glinting with a wicked look.

She leans in even closer, until her lips are brushing the shell of your ear. Her voice is a low, sultry murmur, tinged with her Irish accent.

"Every signal you give off tells me something. And I never miss the ones you try to hide."

Her fingers trail down the side of your neck, a feather-light touch that leaves a trail of fire in their wake.

She cups the line of your jaw, her thumb brushing over your lower lip. Her eyes watch the movement, the way your mouth parts slightly at her touch.

"But you needn't try to hide it from me," she continues, her voice a low purr. "Not when your body tells me everything I need to know. Not when your pulse is pounding like this against my fingertips."

Pinned to the table, under her hands, under her gaze. Strapped down and studied like something half-tamed.

You should feel exposed. Vulnerable. But you don’t.

You feel seen.

Every word coils tight in your chest, every syllable settling deeper than it should. She’s not wrong, your pulse is racing. You can feel it against the restraints. Feel it in your throat.

And still, you don’t pull away.

You lean into the burn of it. Into the ache. Into the idea that maybe she already knows you better than you know yourself.

It seems she always did.

That’s why you let her keep touching you like that. Like she’s not just confirming data.

Like she’s claiming it.

Claiming you.

You should want to look away.f that's the case then I

Instead, you close your eyes and savor the feeling of her hand gripping the hair at the back of your neck.

Her other, good, hand slides down the length of your body, over the curve of your chest, your abs, your hips.

She doesn't linger, doesn't grope or squeeze. No, her touch is maddeningly, infuriatingly teasing. A whisper of sensation that sets your nerves alight and leaves you aching for more.

She leans back slightly, her gaze roaming over your bound form.

Her eyes are dark, the blue and red irises seeming to swirl together until they're almost black. The smirk on her face is wider now.

"I can see it all, mo chroidhe," she murmurs, her accent thicker in her arousal. "The way you tremble and burn for my touch..."

She leans down until her lips are hovering over yours, her breath mingling with your own.

“Say it. Tell me who you belong to.”

You can feel the heat of her mouth so close to your own.

You don’t move. You don’t need to. She studies your stillness like it’s permission, like she’s already certain you’ll surrender the moment she decides to take.

Your lips part just slightly, breath shallow.

"You." The word slips out, soft and wrecked. "I belong to you."

Moira smiles then, slow and satisfied.

You don’t wait.

You lean up—just enough to close the gap—and press your mouth to hers.

It’s not careful. It’s not polite. It’s heat and hunger and something deeper, something feral that’s been building under your skin since the first injection.

The kiss deepens fast, without hesitation. She claims your mouth like it’s hers by right, kissing you hard and hungry, until your head spins.

When she finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, glossy with her saliva. Your chest heaves as you gasp for air, your body writhing against the restraints that hold you down.

Moira's eyes are wild. She stares down at you, her grip still tight in your hair, breath coming fast and hard.

For a moment, she just looks at you, her expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, a smile spreads across her face. It's not her usual smirk, not the wicked curve of her lips that she uses like a weapon. No, this is softer. Realer.

"Well, well, well," she murmurs, her voice low and rough with desire. "Aren't you a surprise, a rún …"

She leans down again, but this time, she kisses you. Her kiss is softer. Less demanding.

Moira’s tongue traces the seam of your mouth and your lips part instinctively, a soft gasp catching in your throat as you lean toward her.

When she pulls back this time, she's still smiling. Her eyes are softer, the wildness in them tempered with something almost like warmth.

Moira's hand continues its languid journey down your body, her fingertips skimming over the thin fabric of your tank top. You can feel the way your nipples harden under the cloth, straining towards her touch.

A dark smile curves her lips as she feels them, knowing the effect she's having on you.

She leans down, her teeth grazing your ear as she murmurs, "Does that feel good, hmm? Do you like the way my hands feel on your skin?"

Your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it. You hate how easily the words unravel you, how her voice settles into the soft, raw places you pretend don’t exist.

You nod, barely.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please keep going...”

Moira’s hand drifts lower again, over your toned stomach, your hips, until she reaches the waistband of your shorts. She dips her fingers beneath the fabric, her nails lightly scraping over the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

The serum hums through your muscles, tightening everything under her touch, each nerve lit up and waiting for her next move.

A whine slips out before you can stop it, soft and shaky, full of want. She chuckles, a low, sultry sound that sends more heat pooling between your thighs.

She tugs at the button of your shorts, popping it open with ease. Her hand slips past the waistband, her fingers skimming over the damp fabric of your briefs.

She cups your sex, her palm pressing against you, feeling the heat and need radiating from your core.f that's the case then I

"Christ, you're positively soaked," she murmurs, her voice a low, appreciative growl. "Are you this desperate for my touch?"

A quiet, shaky groan escapes you before you can stop it, your hips shifting just enough to betray what you’re trying not to say.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Her other hand slides down, fingertips catching the hem of your tank top, curling under it, slow and methodical.

She lifts the fabric gradually, letting it graze your skin as it rises, exposing inch by inch—your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your chest.

With your wrists bound, the fabric ends up bunched over your head, behind your neck.

It’s caught and twisted just above your collarbones, framing you. You can’t cover yourself. Can’t shift. Can’t look away. 

Your hands tug at the restraints as you take a deep breath, trying to still your heart rate. The cool air of the lab pebbles your skin, your nipples hardening into aching peaks.

Moira steps back to take you in properly, eyes sweeping over you with clinical interest, but something darker simmers underneath. Satisfaction, maybe. Or possession.

Moira pauses then, resting her gloved hand on your bare stomach. She looks up at you, her dark eyes intense as they meet yours.

You hold her gaze, your skin burning beneath the soft press of her palm. Her hand is warm through the latex, her touch careful, but her covered nails drag just enough to make your muscles tense beneath her.

You can’t help yourself.

“Please Moira…”

You whisper her name.

A soft plea.

Plain need, slipping out before you can lock it down.

You'll tell yourself it’s just the dose. The aftermath. But you know better.

It isn’t fear of the table or her touch, it’s the fear of how much you don't want her to stop.

She sees the hesitation in your eyes, hears the fearful way you've said her name.

A flicker of something almost like tenderness passes over her face, but it's gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a knowing smile.

Her hand slides up your stomach, her fingers moving up to splay out over your ribcage.

She leans down, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear as she murmurs, "Hush now...it's alright. I've got you."

Her thumb and forefinger find your nipple, rolling and plucking at the sensitive bud. Pleasure sparks through you, making you arch into her touch despite your nerves.

You feel the cool of the serum surge deeper, flooding your senses so fast it blurs the edges of your thoughts. For a moment, you're afraid you won't be able to withstand what comes next.

Moira chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates through you.

"Don't be afraid, love," she coaxes, seeming to read your mind. Her accent is thicker in her arousal, "I won't hurt you…"

Her hand slides lower, popping the button of your shorts and tugging down the zipper. Her fingers slip inside, pushing past your briefs to cup your bare sex.

A low groan escapes her lips as she feels how ready your body already is for her.

"Fuck, you're perfect," she breathes, playing with you inside your pants. "Such a good pet, getting so worked up for me already..."

She teases your entrance then, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp through your teeth. To make your hips buck up against her hand, silently begging for more.

Her eyes are dark as she watches your face, taking in every move you make.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" she murmurs, her voice a seductive purr. "To give yourself over to me completely.”

Moira feels your body tense, hears your breathing hitch as her gloved hand strokes you.

She doesn't miss the way you look away, your cheeks flushed with a mix of arousal and shame.

A dark chuckle rumbles in her chest as she cups you again, feeling the heat of you against her palm.

Her first finger pushes inside, just barely, stroking along your hole with a maddeningly teasing touch.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. Heat floods your face.

She can feel you throbbing against the pad of her finger, your body already so desperate for more.

But she doesn't give it to you. Not yet. Instead, she leans down, her lips so close to your ear. You turn your head to the side, pressing your cheek to the table, trying to hide the way your teeth clench, eyes squeezed shut.

"Shh, don't hide from me now," she coaxes, her accent thickening with her desire.

Two fingers circle your entrance now, teasing, tormenting, not quite pressing inside. 

Your hips jerk, your thighs trying and failing to clench around her wrist as you fight the urge to grind against her hand.

"I know you can feel the camera watching us. I know it makes your little heart race. But there's no shame in giving in to what you want. What you need..."

The knowledge that someone, anyone, could be watching the footage of you like this, seeing you spread out, wanting and desperate for her touch... it should horrify you.

But despite yourself, you know Moira can feel the way your body responds at the thought. Your arousal spikes knowing you could be on display for her right now. For anyone.

She slips two fingers inside you, teasing along your fluttering walls.

You moan low in your throat, hips shifting involuntarily.

Her other hand trails up your side, fingers pressing firmly over the curve of your muscle before gliding to your neck, where she lingers, measuring the flutter of your pulse with cool, clinical precision.

She leans down, her teeth grazing the side of your neck before she bites down hard enough to leave a mark.

A sharp breath escapes you, more shock than pain, but you don’t pull away. You tilt your head instead, offering her more, heat blooming under your skin where her teeth press deep.

Moira's eyes darken with lust as she feels you grinding desperately against her hand, your body betraying your arousal.

A wicked smirk curves her lips as you turn your head, seeking out her face. She meets your gaze, her eyes glinting with hunger.

"That's it…" she says softly, "Look at me. Let me see the need in your eyes."

She increases the pace of her fingers, pumping them in and out of your clenching heat.

Your hips buck and writhe beneath her touch, seeking more, always more.

Moira leans in closer, her lips a hairsbreadth from yours. You can feel her breath mingling with your own. Her eyes search yours, intense and consuming.

You kiss her—rough, open-mouthed, already lost in the pace of it. Teeth, tongue, the wet sound of it filling the space between lab-cooled air and flushed skin. 

When she finally pulls back, your lips are slick and swollen. Your chest heaves as you gasp for air, your body trembling with the effort to hold back your impending orgasm.

Moira's stare pins you in place, her cheeks are flushed, her ginger lashes damp and spiky. She looks feral. Ravenous.

Moira looks at you as she feels your body tensing, your walls fluttering around her fingers as you teeter on the brink of ecstasy. Her fingers piston in and out of you at a punishing pace, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the room.

Moira leans in close, her breath hot against your ear.

Her other hand holds firm on your neck, the pleasure edging into pain as she pushes you relentlessly towards the peak.

“What are you waiting for?" she coos softly. "You're so close, I can feel it. You’re gripping my fingers like a vice, desperate to come undone."

She nips at your earlobe, then soothes the sting with her tongue. Her voice drops to a low purr.

"You need to let go, love. Surrender yourself to the pleasure. Don't deny yourself this bliss."

Her other hand slides down your body, finding your nipple. She squeezes, rolling it between her fingers until it's red and throbbing.

You groan through gritted teeth, back tensing as the sensation spikes too fast.

Moira feels your body tense, your muscles pulling taut against the restraints as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave.

A raw sound breaks from your throat, your body arching helplessly into the touch. She leans down, her lips brushing against your ear as she murmurs darkly, "That's it, mo chroidhe. Let me feel you come apart."

A low, wicked laugh escapes her as you come undone beneath her touch.

She doesn't let up, her fingers continuing to pump in and out of your spasming sex, working you through the waves of pleasure.

She bites at your neck, sucking hard, marking you as hers. Her other hand rolls and plucks at your nipple until it's red and aching and throbbing in time with your pulse.

Moira can feel the way your body trembles, your muscles quivering and jumping beneath your skin. She can feel the way your walls clench and flutter around her fingers, trying to pull her deeper, to keep her inside you.

She works you through the aftershocks, her touch gentling but never stopping, until your body goes pliant.

Your chest heaves as you gulp down air, your skin slick with sweat. Moira takes in the sight of you, her eyes hungry and possessive, satisfaction curling her lips.

You can’t hold her gaze for long. Every inch of you is still thrumming, overrun with heat and adrenaline, and whatever she’s just pulled from you.

You feel wrecked, rewired.

And the worst part is you already want her to do it again.

Slowly, she slips her gloved fingers from your still-twitching sex, bringing them up to her mouth. She makes a show of licking them clean, her tongue swirling around the digits.

Her eyes never leave yours, watching your reaction, reveling in the way your pupils dilate.

With a low, sultry chuckle, Moira leans down to meet you, her lips hovering just barely from your own. Your breath mingles, your hearts beat in tandem, your bodies thrumming with a shared, electric energy.

Her lips brush against yours in the barest whisper of a kiss. It's not enough, not nearly enough, and you find yourself whimpering softly, your fingers curling into a fist beneath you.

Moira lingers there for a breath, just long enough to feel the way you tremble.

Then, slowly, she pulls back. Her eyes stay on yours, unreadable but focused, like she’s not done studying you yet.

Her other gloved hand comes to rest gently on your cheek, a touch so light it barely registers. But it’s not clinical. Not this time. She strokes her thumb once under your eye, a soft drag along heated skin.

“Still with me?” she murmurs.

Your chest rises shakily as you nod.

When she finally moves to the restraints, it’s with care—not rushing. The cuff around your right wrist clicks open first, her fingers brushing along your skin as it falls away. Then the left.

Your arms are free, but you don’t move right away. You lie there, dazed and still open, your chest bare, skin flushed, body humming from the aftermath of her touch, and everything that came with it.

You glance at her through heavy eyes. Her expression is calm again, but softer.

She tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with the same fingers she used to touch every part of you.

“This is what you were made for,” she says, voice low.

The words settle in your chest like heat spreading through your ribs.

You don’t question them. You don’t want to.

If she says you were made for this, then you believe her. And God, it feels good to be.

Moira slips an arm behind your back and lifts you with practiced ease, guiding you upright

She turns, adjusting the console, her figure partially silhouetted by the dim light of the screen.

You exhale.

Your body is warm. Heavy. You feel marked, even though you can’t see the places she touched. You feel changed, like something got rewritten beneath your skin and you let it happen.

Not just the serum. Not just the protocol.

Her.

She touched you like you were hers. Like she knew what you needed before you did.

You don’t know what that makes you. Or what you want it to mean.

But as you sit there—still catching your breath, exposed chest rising in the cold room, lips swollen, body used and cared for in the same breath—you know one thing for certain:

She’s not done with you.

And you’re not done wanting her.

You stretch slowly, muscles sluggish but responsive, the serum still moving through you like a low, electrical tide. You tug your tank top back over your head, smoothing it down over your skin, still flushed and tingling from everywhere her hands claimed you. You button your pants back up with slow, deliberate fingers.

Across the room, Moira is already back to work. She wipes down the injector, logs something into the console, places the spent vial in a sealed tray. The glow of her monitors lights the edge of her jaw, sharp and composed.

You step down from the table without a word, and for a moment, she doesn’t acknowledge you.

Then, with a flick of her hand, she powers down the terminal and turns to walk.

You fall into step beside her.

Neither of you speaks at first. The sound of your boots on the floor echoes faintly in the wide corridor.

“Was that... part of the experiment too?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Not everything I do with you is for the data,” she says, voice softer now. “Some decisions are… personal.”

"And... The others? Do they get treated like I do?” you ask, your voice still low, hoarse.

“There are no others like you,” she says, not bothering to soften it.

You nod, eyes forward.

"They get your time too, though. Not just me."

Moira doesn’t look at you.

“They get my attention,” she says quietly. “But you have my focus.”

The words send a chill down your spine. You try not to show it.

She stops outside your door, eyes flicking over you one last time.

“Log your vitals,” she says. “And hydrate.”

You nod. “Will I be checking in with you before my next mission?”

She watches you for a beat longer than necessary.

“No,” she says finally. “Dr. Pell will handle your prep.”

You open your mouth to respond, but her tone doesn’t invite questions.

“You already know what’s expected of you,” she adds as the door slides open, “There’s nothing more I need to say.”

"Okay."

You step inside, standing a little straighter under her gaze, as if trying to match the weight of her confidence in you.

Something quieter settles between the both of you.

“Goodnight... Doctor,” you say, voice steady despite the pull behind your ribs.

Moira’s expression barely shifts, but her voice is softer when it comes.

“Goodnight, darling.”

You don’t expect the hallway to be so quiet.

Talon rarely sleeps, but the facility seems to exhale at night, its sharp corners softened by the low emergency lighting. The strip-lights pulse gently overhead, dimmed to red, turning every reflective surface into something dark and mirrored.

Your boots echo faintly as you walk. You try not to think about where you’re going, only that your feet keep taking you there.

Moira’s lab is half-lit, a distant screen casting shifting graphs in cyan across the walls. Most of the room is in shadow. Equipment hums softly in standby mode. A few vials glow faintly under containment hoods, their colors muted. One monitor scrolls unread data on a loop. She hasn’t shut anything down.

She’s still here.

Moira stands near one of the consoles, coat half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Her gloves are off. Her bare hands rest over a panel, the light casting her long fingers in blue and white.

You hover in the doorway longer than you should. She doesn’t startle when you enter.

“You’re out late,” she says. Not unkind, but not surprised either.

Your throat tightens. You don’t answer right away. It feels like if you speak too soon, something will break.

You cross the threshold. The door hisses shut behind you.

Moira glances up. Her expression is unreadable, but her voice isn’t cold. Not tonight.

You stop just shy of the center console, a few feet between you.

“Why are you still here?” you ask, quieter than intended.

She tilts her head slightly. “Why are you?”

You look away. Try to laugh, but it dies in your throat. “I don’t know,” you lie.

Moira studies you, and in the silence that follows, the air thickens.

“You’ve been adapting well,” she says at last, voice low. “Better than anticipated.”

Her eyes flick over you, analyzing you. “You’re stable. Stronger.”

There’s something else buried in her tone. Something careful. Deliberate.

You step closer. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Moira doesn’t answer right away. She straightens, slowly. Her gaze level with yours now.

“I want results,” she says.

You nod. Of course.

The silence stretches. You take a few steps closer.

“I’ve been thinking,” you continue, quieter now. “About everything. About why I’m here.”

Still, she doesn’t turn. “And have you reached a conclusion?”

You swallow hard. “No.”

Another silence. Longer this time. Then, softly—

“I saw you with him.”

That gets her attention. She pauses, hands still on the console, and finally turns to face you. Her expression is unreadable. Calm. Controlled. That only makes it worse.

“Is he a new subject?” you ask, trying to sound neutral. “Like me?”

“No,” she replies simply. “Not like you.”

A pause. You hold her gaze.

“I want to know what I’m part of,” you say. “I want to know what you’re really doing to me.”

She steps away from the console. Slow, precise. The way she always moves. “You think too narrowly,” she murmurs. “Still imagining this is about you alone.”

You swallow the heat rising in your throat. “Then tell me what it is about. I’ve given you everything. My body, my mind. You’ve taken from it all without asking, and I said yes anyway.”

A breath.

“Isn’t that worth an answer?”

“I don’t normally explain myself,” she says. “It invites assumptions.”

You wait for her to continue.

Moira’s gaze shifts toward you, sharper now, but something else behind it. A decision forming.

“There were others before you. Trials that looked promising. Bodies that didn’t hold.”

She pauses.

“I perfected the serum by watching it fail.”

A longer pause now, as she thinks about what to say. She folds her arms.

“I was ambitious. I cut corners. Some of them trusted me more than they should.” Her voice is even, but quiet. “And I let them.”

She reaches for your wrist with her good hand, gently, then slides it up your forearm. Stroking you.

“What we’re doing here will change everything,” she says, stepping in close. “Talon's efforts serve to build a new world. You wanted change, no? I’m simply honoring the request.”

She’s right. You want to say that’s not the reason you chose to stay in her lab, but she’s not wrong. Her hand is at your collar now, gloved thumb brushing against your throat.

“You came to me broken. Unsure. And look at you now,” she whispers. “Efficient. Disciplined.

Her other hand lifts, and finds your waist. Not roughly. Not sweetly either. Just enough to control the space between you.

She pulls you closer.

“I picked you because you had something. Rage, maybe. Need. And because you wanted someone to tell you it wasn’t wrong to want more.”

“I still want more,” you admit, quiet, breathless.

She tilts her head, considering you like a solved equation. “Good.”

Then, “You’ll learn what it means to be worthy of it.”

Her fingers tighten slightly at your waist, pulling you a hair's breadth closer. The heat of her palm seeps through the fabric of your shirt.

Her gaze drags over your face, lingering on your lips before flicking back up to meet your eyes.

Her hand slides up and over your throat, long fingers curling around the back of your neck. Her thumb traces the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up to force you to maintain eye contact.

“You’re adapting better than I ever expected,” she murmurs, voice low, admiring you.

Her other hand, still resting at your waist, drifts upwards, mapping the curve of your ribcage with a slow pace that sets your nerves on fire.

Each touch sends a jolt through you.

Her bare hand moves higher, skin cool to the touch. The veins along her wrist brush your sides, pulsing faintly.

“Every cell in your body listens to me before it listens to you.” She pauses, her lips waiting right by yours. You can feel the whisper of her breath. Her eyes bore into yours, twin pools of molten crimson and midnight blue.

“You were made for this. For me.” Her grip on your neck tightens, not painfully, with a pressure that steals the breath from your lungs.

You hold your breath, afraid she’ll stop.

“What do you say, my sweet Brèagha? Are my answers to your satisfaction?” Her lips hover a mere centimeter from yours, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Though I know it’s not answers you came here for…”

Your chest tightens. Fuck.

You came for answers, but more than that, you came for her.

Slowly, deliberately, she closes the remaining distance between you. Her lips meet yours in a searing kiss that steals the very air from your lungs.

It's hungry, demanding. Her tongue pushes past your lips, stroking along yours, coaxing you to respond, to surrender to her touch.

As she kisses you, her hands wander, mapping the contours of your body with a familiarity that sends shivers down your spine. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, nails digging into the flesh beneath as she pulls you harder against her. The heat of her body bleeds through the barrier of her coat.

When she finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, your chest heaving, your eyes glazed with a desire so intense it borders on painful.

You’d let her ruin you, if it meant she’d keep touching you.

She smiles, a slow, wicked curve of her lips.

“Good…” she purrs, her voice a low, approving rumble in her chest.

“I want to be more than a subject to you.” you whisper, almost afraid to say it aloud.

“And you are. You’re essential,” she answers.

Moira crashes her lips against yours, kissing you with a fervor that steals your breath and sets your world ablaze.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, gripping tightly. She holds you in place as she explores your mouth, her tongue dominating yours.

She presses the length of her body against you, pinning you to the cold metal of the exam table, her hips rocking slowly, deliberately, grinding against your own.

Your hands lock on her hips, pulling her impossibly closer. A low, approving growl rumbles in her throat as she feels your body responding, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps between kisses.

Her hands roam over your skin, tracing the lines of your muscles, lingering on the curves and planes she's helped build.

Veins branch visibly across your biceps and down your forearms, prominent and steady, glowing faintly under the blue light.

Your arms and legs are corded with strength now, your shoulders built for force and speed. You were athletic before but your body now is on a whole new level.

She breaks the kiss, leaving you panting, your lips swollen, your eyes glazed with desire.

Her gaze rakes over your disheveled form, a wicked smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Such a responsive little thing," she purrs, her voice a low, seductive murmur.

She grips your hips, pulling you harder against her as she grinds, the heat of her core searing even through the fabric of her pants.

Her breath is hot against your neck, her teeth grazing your pulse point before she bites down, marking you, claiming you.

"Touch me," she demands, guiding your hands to her body, urging you to explore the long, lean lines of her frame.

"Learn me, as I've learned you." Your hands glide up her sleeves, tracing the lean muscle beneath her coat, feeling the strength coiled just under her skin.

She flexes subtly as you touch her, a silent brag. You circle your fingers around her forearms, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle beneath her skin.

Your hands map the delicate curve where her arms meet her elbows, the sharp angle of her elbows themselves, before trailing up to her shoulders once more.

Emboldened, you slip your hands under the fabric of her lab coat, pushing it off her shoulders to reveal the thin shirt underneath. Your fingers dance over her collarbone, feeling your way up the delicate hollow of her throat.

You follow the graceful line of her sternum, fingers drifting down to the ribs that guard the heart you’ve grown to crave.

Your hands find their way to her breasts, cupping the small, perfect mounds. They fit perfectly in your palms. Your fingers sink into the soft flesh, and the firm bulge of her nipples stiffen under your touch.

You can't resist rolling the hard peaks between your fingers, pinching lightly, earning a gasp from Moira. A thrill shoots through you at the sound, a heady rush of power and desire. Your hands knead and squeeze, reveling in the give of her breasts.

As you worship her breasts, your other hand drifts lower, skimming over the flat expanse of her stomach, feeling the ridged muscles beneath the skin.

You keep exploring, reverent, greedy, like memorizing her through touch might give you the answers she never gives. Her body responds in subtle shifts: hips tilting, breath deepening, a slight tightening of her fingers at your back.

As you grind against Moira, a desperate ache begins to build between your thighs, your core clenching and throbbing with each roll of her hips.

Her commanding touch sparks something deep, leaving you breathless. Your chest rises and falls in quick bursts, each inhale harder to catch than the last.

Moira's lips and teeth leave a trail of searing kisses and sharp nips along your neck and collarbone, each touch sending bolts of electricity straight to your core.

You can feel the heat building between your legs, your arousal growing. But as the pleasure mounts, so too does your desperation.

Every inch of skin Moira allows you to explore, she takes more, her own hands roaming your body with a hunger that borders on feral.

She grips your ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling you harder against her as she grinds, the outline of her cunt pressing against your hip.

Just as you feel yourself on the brink of climax, your body wound tight and ready to snap, Moira stills.

She pulls back, her eyes glinting with a wicked, knowing light as she takes in your flushed face and heaving chest. A cruel smile curves her lips, and she leans in close, her voice a low, seductive murmur in your ear.

“You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

She claims your mouth once more, kissing you with a ferocity that steals your breath away. When she finally pulls back, her lips are flushed, eyes darker than before.

A beat passes.

Then she steps away.

Her gaze lingers, heavy and unreadable. She looks at you as if she’s memorizing the shape of you like data. Like a moment she’s choosing to archive.

It’s gone just as fast.

She turns from you, expression unreadable again as she begins to fix the sharp lines of her coat, smoothing the collar, buttoning her shirt with surgical precision.

The lab is quiet again, just the low hum of equipment and the soft beeping of vitals on standby. You sit on the edge of the examination table, still catching your breath, the fabric of your shirt rumpled where her fingers had tugged at it.

Moira stands nearby, quietly preoccupied with packing her things for the night.

“You always had potential,” she says, not looking at you. “You prove it more by the day.”

You speak after a beat, your voice low, almost to yourself.

“I didn’t notice it happening. But… now it feels like nothing before you really mattered.”

Her gaze flicks to yours. Calculating. Then softer.

“Infatuation is a common side effect,” she replies, moving to the console. She doesn’t look at you as she types, but her voice dips low. “You’ve undergone massive neurochemical shifts. Your dependency is both emotional and hormonal. Entirely expected.”

You bristle.

“Moira. I’m not talking about a side effect.”

She looks at you again. You drop your gaze.

“I think about you,” you continue. “Even when I don’t want to. Even when I’m on a mission, or trying to sleep, or… just breathing. You’re there. And I don’t know what that means anymore.”

The silence stretches.

Moira steps closer then, slow and deliberate. Her expression unreadable.

“What do you want it to mean?”

“I don’t know. I just know… I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to know that it’s more than the serum. That I’m not imagining this.”

“Of course it’s more. I chose you. Do you think I do that lightly?”

You don’t answer. Your throat tightens, and you glance down, jaw tense. One hand moves to your forearm, thumb pressing into your skin to ground yourself.

Moira watches you, then goes on.

“This means the work is successful,” she says. “It means you’re integrating. Adapting. It means you’re becoming exactly what you’re meant to be.”

*You shake your head. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” she replies, voice soft. “But it’s the answer that matters.”

You look down, jaw clenched. You hate how she can say things like that—flat, controlled—and still make them feel like gospel. Like you’re wrong for wanting more.

“I’m not just your subject,” you say finally. “I’ve earned more than that.”

“You’ve earned many things,” she says, circling behind you, her tone velvet-smooth. “Power. Precision. A new body built to serve a purpose far greater than the one Overwatch left you with.”

You hear her breath at your ear. “And now… you’ve earned proximity.”

You turn your head slightly, brow furrowed. “And that’s what all this is to you? Proximity?”

She smiles, eyes looking you over.

“You misunderstand me. I see what you are, and could be. I offer purpose. Recognition.”

Her voice softens, almost coaxing.

“Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To be chosen. Not pitied. Not overlooked. Seen.”

Your throat tightens. You can’t tell if it’s shame or something deeper, something darker, coiling in your chest.

“You like being needed,” she adds. “You crave direction. Purpose. And I’ve given you that.”

You nod slowly, almost against your will. Because the worst part is: she’s right.

Still, your voice wavers as you say, “I don’t think I’d survive you leaving me.”

She runs a hand along your shoulder, slow and weightless.

“You won’t have to,” she murmurs.

The promise lingers in the air. Not comforting. But binding.

She turns back to her desk, dismissing you without words.

You slide off the table, your body light with adrenaline, heavy with everything else.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The corridor is dim and quiet when you step out of the lab. Most of the overhead lights have gone to standby, casting long strips of cold white against the floor. Moira follows you out without a word, locking the lab behind her with a flick of her wrist.

You don’t ask why she’s walking with you. Maybe you’re afraid she’ll change her mind if you speak.

Her heels click softly beside you, slow and steady. The silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s thick—full of things that were said and things you wish you’d asked.

“I assume you’ve settled into the new quarters,” she says, gaze forward.

You nod. “They’re quiet.”

A faint smile touches her mouth. “That was intentional.”

You glance sideways at her. “Did you think I’d need the silence?”

“I thought you’d use it,” she replies. “Reflection is often where progress begins.”

You swallow down the words that rise—too soft, too open. You don’t want to seem weak in front of her again. Not after tonight.

But something in you aches for more.

“Do you always walk your subjects back to their rooms?” you ask, quieter than you meant to.

She stops at the junction, just outside your door.

Only now do her eyes meet yours again.

“No,” she says. “Only the ones who matter.”

The air between you pulls tight. She’s comforting you, but for what reason?

You look down at the door controls, then back at her. “Why me?”

Her answer comes immediately. “Because you didn’t break.”

You can’t tell if that’s praise or a challenge.

You don’t move. Neither does she.

Her hand reaches out, not to touch you, but to brush the edge of your arm with the backs of her fingers. Barely there. Just enough.

“Sleep,” she says softly. “You’ll need your strength.”

You nod, throat dry.

The door opens behind you. You step in, and before it closes, you look back—

—but she’s already gone.

The door slides shut behind you with a hiss that sounds too final.

The room is dim, sterile, quiet. Nothing like the warmth of the lab, the weight of Moira’s hand still lingering at your throat, her mouth brushing yours like she was trying to imprint herself there.

You sit on the edge of the bed, chest tight, pulse still too loud in your ears. Your fingers twitch. Trying to remember the exact shape of her.

The slope of her waist beneath your hands, the coiled strength of her back. The sharpness of her gaze just before she leaned in, just before she whispered things you can’t stop hearing on repeat.

My sweet Brèagha.

The memory shivers through you.

You are glad you touched her. Desperate for it, even. For a moment, it had felt like you were closer to the center of her world than anyone else had ever been. Like she’d cracked open a door meant to stay shut—and let you peek inside.

But now, alone with the silence pressing in, you don’t know what part of her was real.

You lie back, staring at the ceiling, and let your mind run through it all again—the curve of her smirk, the way her fingers had explored you like a test subject and a lover at the same time.

It’s dangerous, you know that.

Wanting her this badly. Believing there’s more under the surface when all the evidence says otherwise.

You don’t know what you are to her. Not really.

But you do know what she’s becoming to you. And it scares you.

Because you’re starting to lose track of where your loyalty ends and where she begins.

You curl onto your side, fists tight against your chest. The room feels colder than it should, the silence too wide. You try to still your thoughts, but they keep circling.

Whatever this is, whatever she’s turning you into, you don’t know if there’s a way back from it.

When your body gives in to exhaustion, your mind doesn’t. It only digs deeper.

You dream in pieces. Shattered memories, flickering lights. Voices that drift in and out.

At first, it’s Overwatch. Or what’s left of it.

A hallway you don’t recognize anymore. A flash of blue and gold. Someone’s voice shouting orders you don’t hear. Your own breath, ragged in your throat. The weight of your rifle. The pain in your shoulder, old and dull and already forgotten.

You turn a corner in the dream—and it’s gone. Overwatch collapses behind you like a house of cards.

Now you’re in the lab. Moira’s lab. Cold tile beneath your feet. The hum of machines. The faint sting of antiseptic in your nose. You’re sitting on the table again, cuffs locked around your wrists. Waiting.

Moira’s voice cuts through the static of your mind. Sharp. Clear. “You’re adapting beautifully.”

You open your mouth to answer—but someone else is there.

Sombra.

She flickers in and out of view like a glitch. Laughing at you, voice distant and layered, like it’s echoing through water.

“Golden child…” she says. “You’re getting in deep.”

You try to speak, but your tongue is thick. Stuck. Dr. Pell appears next. Her brow is furrowed, glasses fogged, voice soft.

“You’re pushing too hard. She won’t like that.”

You know who she’s talking about.

Then the dream folds again.

You’re standing in front of Moira, but she’s not looking at you. Her back is turned, her coat bloodstained, her gloves wet. She’s speaking into a recorder in a hushed tone. You try to reach for her.

She turns.

Her eyes glow brighter than they should. And when she speaks, her voice is layered with your own.

“You asked for this.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You wake with a jolt.

Your skin is hot. Your throat is dry. Your heart pounds so hard it hurts.

You sit up, staring into the dark of your new room, the dream still clawing at the back of your skull.

You’re not even sure what’s real anymore.

You pace the length of your quarters, bare feet quiet against the cold floor.

Eventually, morning light creeps in through your small window at a slant, pale and unforgiving. The echo of your dreams still clings to your skin.

Images you can’t shake, voices that sound too much like hers.

You think about the way Moira looked at you last night. About the words you just couldn’t keep in. About the future she’s carving into you with every dose.

You pause at your mirror, searching your face for something familiar. What you find is a stranger looking back.

A knock at the door breaks your spiral.

You straighten.

Whatever’s left of who you were can wait.

Right now, you have something to become.

You smooth your collar, adjust your stance.

The horizon is a pale orange, and somewhere far below it, your first solo mission waits.

But you’re not thinking about the mission.

You’re thinking about Moira.

You replay the last interaction in the lab: her voice, her hands, the way she dismissed you with a single nod and no eye contact.

You killed for her last week. And this week, you’re background noise.

You’re strapped in near the rear, suit zipped tight, rifle clipped to your side. Your fingers twitch where they rest on your thigh.

The serum is settling.

You feel it, like a quiet fire licking your spine.

Across from you, Dr. Pell watches in silence, her data tablet blinking with your vitals.

The young woman had approached the aircraft just before takeoff, clutching her datapad tight, introduced herself with a nervous smile, and taken the seat across from you without waiting for permission.

She’s all small movements and tight nerves now, eyes flicking from the screen to your face, then back again.

You’ve caught her doing it three times now.

Dr. Pell is small, with soft brown hair and glasses too big for her face. She fidgets with her clipboard, eyes darting between you and the readouts.

She’s probably still green beneath the lab coat, eager to prove herself but unsure how to hold her ground. Maybe still paying off the debt, or recruited straight out of some underground research program by someone like Moira.

There’s also something painfully familiar about her, it pulls from a far-off version of yourself.

You used to be like that. Careful. Eager. All nerves and potential, desperate to prove you belonged.

The memory catches you off guard—warm at first, soft around the edges.

You remember who you were before Overwatch: all nerves and wide eyes, boots too big, voice too quiet.

Someone who flinched at loud sounds, who second-guessed every decision, who thought being brave meant staying kind.

There was something hopeful in that version of you. Naive, but not stupid. Just… hopeful.

Then Overwatch carved it out of you. Not all at once, but steadily.

Mission after mission. You learned when to pull the trigger without hesitation, when to leave someone behind, when to stay quiet even if it felt wrong.

They trained your instincts into angles and calculations. Rewired your spine into steel. You were molded into something sharper, colder. Necessary.

Dr. Pell clears her throat. “Any dizziness since the injection?”

You don’t bother turning your head. “No.”

A beat passes. “Muscle strain? Joint discomfort?”

“None.” Your fingers twitch against your thigh.

The questions are routine, but they grate.

You didn’t come all this way to be babysat. Besides, your thoughts are elsewhere.

When you kissed, Moira’s mouth was warm this time.

That startled you. Not just the kiss, but the heat when you leaned into it.

Greedy, but it was the first time you’d touched anyone in weeks.

The memory of her gloved hand curling into your collar, of her thigh brushing yours as she pulled you in...it floods you now, vivid and humiliating.

You remember the low sound of her breath when she kissed you back, even if only for a second.

And then her voice.

“You’re becoming quite predictable.”

The words hit harder than the serum ever did.

You burned with them the whole walk out of the lab.

You still do.

The ship lurches lower. You tighten your gloves, eyes snapping back to the window.

You step off the transport with steady feet, your new gear sleek and unfamiliar, humming faintly against your skin.

You walk in silence, boots heavy against concrete as the chill of the compound settles into your bones.

Your mind turns to Talon—what they’re really building, what you’ve signed onto. They don’t lie about their goals. They want conflict. Pressure. Change through force. That used to bother you. Now it just makes sense. You never knew the full story behind Overwatch’s fall.

You weren’t high enough to see the rot setting in, but you saw the cracks.

Quiet orders that didn’t line up. Names wiped off mission logs. Blackwatch whispers that stopped sounding like rumors.

Overwatch made promises it couldn’t keep. Talked about peace like it was something clean. But when it all broke, it broke ugly.

Talon doesn’t pretend the world is fair, they shape it how they see fit. And if that means burning down what’s broken to build something stronger, so be it.

----------

The alley’s slick with rain as you slip between rusting gates and sagging brickwork just outside King’s Row.

The compound doesn’t look like much: an old industrial block with shattered windows and faded paint, tucked behind a disused rail line.

It hums faintly beneath the surface, though.

Power still flows here.

You find the maintenance hatch tucked behind a collapsed dumpster, exactly where the file said it’d be. With a flick of your wrist, the electronic bypass slides into place, decoding the lock in under ten seconds.

The hatch opens with a quiet hiss. You descend into darkness.

Inside, the air is dense. You can smell the damp concrete, oil, and rust.

Your boots land quietly on the metal grate floor.

No one waits for you at the bottom. Just rows of pipes and maintenance corridors, narrow and low-ceilinged, winding like arteries through the underbelly of the facility.

Cameras blink silently overhead, but your interference tech scrambles the feed before they see more than a blur (Sombra's work, no doubt).

You move fast, your breath even, your pulse steady.

The serum burns clean in your veins, heightening everything.

Sight. Hearing. Muscle response.

Every corner, every step, every creak of old metal rings loud in your mind, and you track it all.

And beneath that precision, a hunger sharpens.

You want her to trust you.

Not just with fieldwork or injections or orders barked out between data screens, but really trust you.

Enough to explain what it is she’s building in that lab of hers.

Enough to let you in on whatever future she sees in her head when she watches you sweat and break under her serum.

You’re not naïve; you know Moira doesn’t move without intention.

At least, you know that now.

Every touch, every test, every word is part of something larger.

And you need to know what it is. What you’re becoming.

The thought presses into your chest like a second pulse.

You take it with you as you follow the map burned into your memory—past a broken stairwell and through a security panel still glowing dimly red.

Another lock. You don’t hesitate.

In minutes, you’re inside.

There’s one guard at the northeast checkpoint.

You drop him with a quick strike to the throat and drag the body into the shadows before his comms blink red.

The second catches sight of your silhouette just a second too late. He reaches for his sidearm.

You don’t give him the chance. The butt of your rifle meets his jaw mid-draw. The crunch is audible, but you don’t stop.

You flip the weapon in your hands and shoot him point-blank in the chest. Twice.

He folds. No alarm. No wasted time.

You press forward. Every movement feels sharp. Every breath is easy.

The serum from earlier still hums beneath your skin, settled into your bloodstream like it’s always belonged there. You don’t just move, you calculate angles, footfalls, shadows.

Your thoughts fold into each other cleanly, almost coldly, without second-guessing.

The last guard gets a blade to the neck. You don’t stop to watch him fall.

You reach the server room without incident.

The files are exactly where they’re supposed to be.

You slot the Talon-marked USB into the port and let the system do the rest.

As the progress bar crawls, your eyes skim the blinking monitors.

Nothing of interest. Nothing you’re allowed to see.

But the thought creeps in anyway: Is she watching? Not your little handler back on the ship—Dr. Pell, was it? Mousy, anxious, always glancing at your pulse on her little wrist screen.

She kept flinching every time your vitals spiked.

But not Moira.

Moira never flinches.

You wonder if she’s tracking your signature right now, data syncing in real time, following your heart rate and adrenal shifts like a silent god.

Maybe she’s reading your heart rate, watching you on some secondary monitor, logging every step you take in her meticulous notes.

You pray she is.

The transfer finishes with a soft beep.

You yank the drive and pocket it, moving back through the halls with the same clinical ease that brought you in.

No sign of pursuit. No hiccups.

You exit through the north access corridor and vanish into the tree line before the compound even knows what hit it.

Back at the ship, Dr. Pell is waiting. Eyes wide, hands wringing.

You hand off the USB without a word, and she tucks it into a manila folder, added to her pile of papers.

Back on the plane, your skin still buzzes from the high of performance.

Dr. Pell sits a row across from you, hunched slightly over her datapad. She pushes her glasses up and glances your way, voice timid but trying to sound professional.

“Your performance levels were… well above baseline,” she says, impressed. You nod in response. Not unfriendly. Just enough to acknowledge her without inviting more.

You’re trying to be nice, and that alone feels like effort. She nods and looks back down, not pushing it.

You stare at the wall of the ship, already thinking of the lab.

Eventually, you land. And the landing pad doors open with their usual hiss.

Dr. Pell approaches from behind you before you can step off.

She fumbles with her tablet as you turn, her shoulders tensed like she’s bracing for something.

“Moira’s asked me to complete your debrief and post-mission vitals,” she says quickly, not quite meeting your eyes.

You slow, blinking once.

“She’s not here?”

“She—she’s reviewing another subject,” Dr. Pell says. “She left me instructions.”

Your feel your pulse spike, a sharp lurch in your stomach.

Another subject? You narrow your eyes.

“I’d rather wait for her.” Dr. Pell’s hands flinch around the tablet.

“I understand. But I was told to proceed regardless.”

You don’t respond. You just stare.

She wilts a little more under the weight of it, but she doesn’t back down.

“Please. I’ll be quick.”

You walk beside Dr. Pell in silence, boots echoing down the narrow corridor toward the lab. She keeps glancing at her pad, double-checking her work, while you keep your eyes forward.

Dr. Pell leads you past the main corridor, away from Moira’s private wing.

You follow her into one of the auxiliary labs—smaller, less sterile, outfitted for shared use.

The lights are brighter here, the equipment more standard-issue.

It feels wrong immediately. Like being benched.

You let her do it, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the opposite wall.

She checks your blood pressure, runs a scanner over your chest, taps in notes quietly.

Her fingers are careful. Almost reverent.

But they’re not hers.

Not Moira’s.

When the readings are logged and your vitals marked “within optimal range,” Dr. Pell straightens with forced calm. “You’re dismissed for now,” she says. “Dr. O’Deorain will review your report later.”

Later.

The word clangs around in your chest.

You walk out of the lab without looking back.

The door to your apartment slides shut behind you with a hiss, but it does nothing to dull the noise inside your head.

Your coat hits the floor. The gear pack follows.

You move like you’re still on the mission: clean, practiced, automatic.

Every motion taut with adrenaline that refuses to drain. You should feel proud. You performed flawlessly today.

Moira’s formula pulsing steady in your veins, guiding your limbs like they belonged to something better.

And yet, she wasn’t there.

Dr. Pell’s voice still echoes in your ears, quiet and apologetic.

You were short with her—meaner than you meant to be.

She didn’t deserve that.

She was just doing what she was told.

But the sting of Moira’s absence still hasn’t faded. Not after the way she’s touched you. Looked at you. Spoken to you like you were more than a subject. Or maybe you just wanted it to mean more.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, elbows braced on your knees, hands knotted in your hair.

You can still feel her voice in your head.

“You’re not the first to misinterpret attention for affection.”

The words dig in.

You don’t know if they were meant to warn you or wound you. Maybe both. Maybe you deserve it.

You crawl under the sheets hours before you’re tired, but your body won’t rest.

It’s still humming from the serum, from the mission, from the hollow space she left behind.

You close your eyes and picture her. Moira standing above you in the lab, strapping you down with exacting care, brushing your cheek before plunging the syringe home. You shift restlessly, half-dreaming of the cold metal beneath your back, of gloves pressing into your skin, of her breath close enough to taste.

————————

Sleep doesn’t come easy. And when it does, it’s not restful.

The next day, you arrive exactly on time.

No sooner, no later.

You don’t knock.

Just enter and stand at your usual post, back straight, gaze fixed forward like you know it should be.

From where you stand, you can catch a glimpse of Moira’s personal office. The door is shut, with low voices murmuring behind it, too muffled to make out.

Through the opaque panel, you can make out shadows moving inside—two figures.

You wait.

Three minutes pass. Then five more.

Finally, the lock disengages with a soft hiss, and the door slides open to reveal Moira and Maximilien emerging side by side.

He speaks in that slow, modulated tone of his, gesturing slightly with one clawed hand as he hands Moira a sealed case.

“…if these preliminary results hold, your next phase will require careful compartmentalization. I assume your assistants are adequately prepared?” His red optics barely sweep over you as he says it. Just one glance.

Moira accepts the case without so much as a nod. “They’ll adapt.”

Maximilien doesn’t say goodbye. He turns and exits, smooth and quiet as ever, his footsteps whispering down the hall.

You wait until the door closes before speaking. “So you have assistants now?” Moira is already moving on to her console.

“I always have. But yes, for your next round of neurological trials I’ll have my assistants attending to you. You’ll be working with a rotating staff. They will handle observation, calibration, and recorded response time metrics.” She glances at the monitor as it boots up.

“As for your last deployment… I assume the compound served you well?” You shift your stance.

“It held steady. I had... clarity, focus.”

“Pain?”

“There was an initial spike. Nothing I can't handle.” Moira nods once, already entering her notes.

“And emotional response?”

You pause. “Contained.”

That seems to satisfy her. She doesn’t look up as she speaks.

"Sit."

Her gloves are already on. You don’t push. You nod, and silently lie down on the table.

Moira pulls a scanner from the tray beside her.

“You’ll be staying in the facility during this next phase. Trials will run across several cycles, and I want you within proximity for monitoring.”

She steps in close, running the scanner across your collarbone, then down your side in measured passes. Her movements are clinical, impersonal—searching for anomalies.

You feel the light pressure of her hand against your shoulder as she steadies the device.

“These sessions will combine physical and neurological response tracking,” she continues. “Stamina calibration. Memory retention. Pattern recognition under stress.”

The scanner gives a soft beep as it completes. Moira checks the readout, eyes narrowing slightly at a fluctuation only she seems to understand.

Her fingers flick the screen aside. “You’ll be moved to on-site quarters tonight. I’ll have Dr. Pell coordinate the transition.”

You nod, eyes low. “Understood,” you murmur, keeping your voice steady. But your mind stirs with questions.

This may be a reward.

A sign that you’ve progressed further, that she wants you close for a reason.

Maybe she’s impressed. Maybe this means something.

Or maybe it’s the opposite.

A way to keep you at arm’s length. To control the parts of you she saw slipping—your thoughts, your feelings, your need for her to look at you like more than a subject.

Still, the thought of staying here stirs something in you.

The rooms back at your own quarters have felt hollow and unfamiliar for days now.

At least here, in the glow of the lab, surrounded by the sound of her voice, you can convince yourself you belong.

Her fingers brush your wrist as she fastens the first strap, then the next. She checks the tension without looking at you.

The injector is already in her hand when she speaks, voice low. “A small dose today. Just enough to monitor adjustments.”

You nod, throat dry.

She steps to your side, glancing down at your vitals as the tip of the needle meets your skin. Her thumb steadies your arm.

The needle slides in, and the compound hits your bloodstream like a match striking oil.

It doesn’t burn. But it floods you with heat, and the thrum of something deeper.

But it’s not the serum that has your heart racing. It’s the silence.

The question that keeps turning over in your mind: Why now? Why keep you here?

You should feel honored. Chosen. Instead, the unease coils tight in your gut as Dr. Pell arrives to escort you to your new room. She shows you around briefly, detailing the new biometric panels on the door, the room’s internal med-scanners, the bedding and small dresser.

“The tests will run more efficiently with you here,” she says, walking with you to the doorway. “Moira said your responsiveness under close monitoring is very promising.” She says with a supportive smile. You murmur a thank you, the words too small for how much you want them to mean.

———————

Back at your apartment, you don’t linger.

You move through the motions: packing what little you have with methodical care, folding your clothes, stashing away old mission reports.

You don’t say goodbye to the space. It hasn’t felt like home in weeks.

Not since the injections started carving new rhythms into your bones.

The room in the lab is colder, cleaner. Sparsely furnished but functional.

You sit on the edge of the bed, duffel at your feet, heart still skimming the surface of your ribs.

You stare at the door and wonder if she’s still down the hall. If she'll be thinking of you when she closes her lab for the night. Or if you’re just another subject— not just responsive, but closer now more than ever.

----------

The next morning, Dr. Pell is outside your quarters bright and early, tablet hugged to her chest like a shield.

Her brown hair is a little unkempt, glasses slightly askew, nervous energy practically radiating off her.

“Good morning!” she says, voice a little too loud for the hallway. “I reviewed your previous vitals—your glucose uptake rate is fascinating. And your neural delta response? Honestly, I’ve never seen readings stabilize that quickly after a second-phase trial.”

You nod and fall into step beside her, silent. She doesn’t seem to mind the lack of response—if anything, it gives her more space to ramble.

“I think today we’re starting with spatial tracking calibration,” she continues as you move through the corridors. “Followed by resistance and strain threshold. There’s a simulation room prepped already. Oh, and I added a few voluntary feedback markers. Just—in case you feel anything weird."

-----------

Over the next few days you are monitored through a dozen kinds of trials, each more meticulous than the last.

Dr. Pell meets you in the morning with a clipboard, her nervous smile already familiar, her voice a soft drone of data points and encouragement you barely register anymore.

You run on a treadmill lined with sensors, wires strapped to your chest, calves burning as speed and incline increase by the second.

Dr. Pell watches from the console, adjusting dials as your vitals spike and level out.

You’re thrown into supervised sparring—paired with a rotating roster of Talon operatives.

Grunts in sleek armor, blank behind their visors. You never see their faces. You don’t need to.

The first time you knock one unconscious, Dr. Pell scribbles something down with a shaky hand.

Other times you’re seated in a dark room, blinking lights flashing across a display. Neurological stress tests, memory sequences, and pulse tracking.

You still meet with Moira for your injections, though not as often as before.

The sessions are brief—clinical, restrained. She checks your vitals herself, examines the site of each prior dose with cool precision.

Her touch lingers just long enough to remind you what it once felt like.

You don’t speak much. She doesn’t ask how you’re feeling anymore.

But you watch her hands as she preps the injector, track the smooth rhythm of her movements, and memorize the brief graze of her glove against your skin.

The serum slides into your veins and spreads like heat under your skin. Familiar and steady.

Your body absorbs it instantly, each nerve catching fire with recognition and need.

The hallways between test rooms stay eerily quiet.

You pass a few scientists, some lab assistants in white coats.

None of them greet you. None of them look twice. Just like you’re part of the equipment now.

Sombra’s there too. You spot her just before turning the corner.

She leans against the wall casually like she hasn't been waiting, though you know better.

Her eyes flick over you, quick and amused. “Looking sharp, querida,” she says, like a joke just for herself. “Try not to burn out too fast.”

She winks before vanishing into a side corridor, leaving only the echo of her boots and the twist in your gut.

You don't think much of the personal effects you brought to your quarters. In fact, you barely remember packing them. When you're done for the day, you pace the room more than you sit.

The silence makes your ears ring. There’s energy thrumming in your muscles most nights, a leftover pulse from the serum or the tests or just the thought of her.

You do pushups on the floor until your arms shake. Squats. Shadowboxing. Anything to burn it off.

Sleep never comes easy. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, not quite tired, not quite calm.

Restless in your own skin.

You’ve stopped checking the time. Stopped counting the hours.

All that matters is when the next trial begins, and when you’ll see her again.

One day, you spot Moira talking with a man in the hallway.

They’re standing close, speaking quietly. Her gloved hand gestures at a datapad he holds, her voice smooth, instructive.

He nods—focused, unmoving.

A soldier, by the look of him. Taller than you, broad through the chest, a buzzed haircut and the stillness of someone used to following orders.

You slow as you pass, not enough to be obvious. Not enough to stop. Just enough to catch the edge of her voice as she says something you can’t hear, and the man glances sideways—just briefly.

Not at you. Through you.

Moira doesn’t acknowledge you at all. You keep walking, stomach tight, blood hot with something you refuse to name. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

A new recruit. A new trial. But he has the look you used to have: obedient, unsure, ready to be shaped.

And Moira was always so good at shaping things.

You see him again two days later, coming from the direction of Moira’s lab.

The hallway is quiet, lit by the steady pulse of overhead lights. He rounds the corner at the far end just as you do.

His posture is rigid, hands at his sides. No coat, no gear, just the black undersuit standard for internal testing.

There’s a strip of fresh bandaging along his neck. You clock it instantly. Serum access.

He notices you this time. His eyes meet yours for half a second—steady, unreadable—before they flick away again. Just a glance and then gone, moving past you with the kind of focus you’ve come to recognize. You’ve worn it yourself.

Still do.

You don’t look back. The next trial runs blur together. Neuromuscular diagnostics, combat simulations, and hormone readouts.

You lose track of what they’re even measuring.

Another day. Another trial. Another fight.

You step into the ring, pulse already steady, breath already controlled. The Talon grunt waiting for you shifts his stance. You don't care who it is this time. You’re not fighting him. Not really.

Dr. Pell watches from behind reinforced glass, jotting notes. Moira isn’t there. She hasn’t been in days.

You swing hard and fast. The grunt blocks, and counters, but you’re too fast. Too wired. You twist under his guard and drive your knee into his ribs. Something cracks, and he grunts. You bring an elbow down on his head just because.

The world narrows. Not to the sparring. To her. To the way she’s been gone, distant, on purpose. You think of the stranger’s face through her doorway. And the way her gloved hand lingered on your arm the last time you spoke.

The grunt stumbles back, but you chase him. You jab him in the gut. Then an elbow to the chin.

He falls, and you follow him down, pinning his throat with your forearm before the command snaps through the speaker.

“Enough!”

You freeze.

Dr. Pell’s voice is tight, panicked. She’s already logging vitals, probably flagging the spike. You release the grunt, and rise slowly.

He coughs once, and rolls away. Obviously angry when he glances at you.

You stand alone in the center of the mat, chest heaving, muscles coiled. No one applauds. No one scolds you. They just record.

And somewhere behind the glass, you imagine Moira seeing the footage.

You hope she does.

Throughout the week, Dr. Pell follows you quietly, recording stats, asking soft questions you mostly ignore.

Throughout the week, you grow stronger. Quicker. More responsive.

Every test confirms it. But it doesn’t feel like progress.

Not when Moira's attention is elsewhere.

----------

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, your body restless and warm beneath the sheets.

The room is still, the faint hum of Talon’s facility pressing in from the walls like a constant reminder: you are not home.

You’re not even sure what home is anymore. You turn over again, punch the pillow into a new shape.

It doesn’t help.

You’re not tired. Not really.

The serum still runs too hot through your system, settling into your bones like a second heartbeat.

You move sharper now. Stronger. Faster. More of everything.

And yet… something inside you won’t settle.

You think about Moira. Her voice. The way her hands had steadied you, the way her eyes lingered just long enough to undo you.

She's so distant now. Always surrounded by data, by noise, by people who aren’t you.

People like him.

You saw them together again today—her and the new subject.

The man with a grunt’s posture and an eager expression.

You saw the way she spoke to him, precise and firm, not unkind. And for one long moment, you imagined yourself in his place, imagined how easily you could be replaced.

What are you even doing here?

You wanted strength. Clarity. Control.

Moira promised all of it—and delivered.

But somewhere along the way, you started wanting more.

Not power. Not purpose. Just her.

And she hasn’t looked at you like she did that first night in weeks.

You throw the blanket off and sit up, rubbing your hands down your face.

The floor is cold beneath your bare feet as you cross to the small basin, splash water on your face.

You don’t look at yourself in the mirror.

You already know what you’d see—exhaustion strung tight across your features, something bruised behind your eyes that didn’t used to be there.

Moira’s lab is always quiet at night, but sometimes, if you time it right, she hasn’t left yet.

Maybe tonight is one of those nights. You don’t think twice.

You throw on your boots, pull your jacket over your shoulders, and slip out the door.

You tell yourself you’re just walking. Just clearing your head.

You arrive at the lab early.

Not dramatically so—twelve minutes, maybe more—but enough to notice how empty the compound feels this morning. The lights seem dimmer in the hallways. The air thinner. Maybe that’s just you. You’ve been more aware of your body lately: the way your blood moves, how your breath slows when no one’s speaking. The second dose hasn’t faded. It’s coiled inside your muscles like it never left.

You haven’t slept well since.

Or rather, you’ve just stopped needing to.

There’s a strange clarity in the hours after midnight now. Like your mind is waiting for a command.

The door hisses open. Inside, Moira isn’t alone.

She stands near her console, half-turned toward an omnic in a sleek, tailored coat. His metal limbs are polished to a mirror finish, voice cool and even as he speaks.

Maximilien. You’ve seen images, fragments in debriefings, but standing in the room with him is something else entirely. His eyes are artificial and unblinking. They snap to you the moment the door slides shut behind you.

The conversation halts.

Moira doesn’t turn, but Maximilien regards you fully, gaze moving from your face to your posture to the tension in your shoulders. He tilts his head.

“So this is the candidate,” he says, voice smooth, processed, but almost… amused. “More intact than I expected.”

“They’re ahead of schedule,” Moira replies. “Initial tolerance has exceeded projections.”

“A weapon made from salvage,” Maximilien hums. “Practical. Efficient. I assume they’re ready for the first assignment?

“They are.”

You stand still, saying nothing. His eyes don’t leave you.

“Let’s hope their usefulness matches your efforts,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he nods—once, curt—and turns to go, walking past you without hesitation or acknowledgment. He does not wait for permission. Moira doesn’t offer any.

The door slides shut behind him. You exhale, not realizing you were holding your breath.

Moira gestures toward the exam table. You move to it without prompting, muscle memory settling into place. Still, something buzzes in the back of your skull—cold and metallic. You can still feel Maximilien’s gaze. Not like a person looking at another person.

Like a number. A product. A line in a ledger.

And Moira didn’t correct him.

“You’re early,” she says without looking up.

“Didn’t want to waste time.”

Her eyes flick toward you then, assessing you. You meet them without flinching, though the way her gaze moves over your frame still manages to unsettle you.

“And the past few days?”

Her tone is flat, but you can feel her eyes on you.

“Any anomalies? Physical. Emotional.”

You think about your dreams immediately. You can’t stop dreaming about the kiss. The way her hand gripped your neck, how she pulled you in like it was nothing.

But Moira doesn’t need to know all that.

“I feel stronger,” you say instead, keeping your voice steady. “Breathing’s easier. Reflexes are faster.

She hums, focused on arranging her tray.

“The dose is ready,” she says. “Lie down. Remove your shirt.”

You strip off your shirt as you cross the room, leaving you in your plain white tank top.

The metal table is cold beneath your back when you stretch out, the lights obscuring most of your vision.

Moira steps to your side, and guides the straps onto your wrists and ankles. She comes to your side, holding the injector. This one is smaller than the last. The liquid inside is almost colorless, with only the faintest violet sheen at its core.

“This dose will accelerate your reflexive adaptation,” she explains. “Neurofeedback loops will tighten. You may experience momentary emotional override. That’s expected.”

You don’t respond. You tilt your head, exposing your neck.

Her hand settles on your jaw, fingers pressing just beneath your ear. Her grip is steady, but the contact still makes your chest tighten. You try not to let it show.

The injector hisses, and the rush is instantaneous.

You feel it flood your bloodstream with icy precision, followed by a slow burn spreading through your chest and arms. Not painful—just intrusive, like something else has started breathing inside your ribcage.

You exhale through your teeth.

Moira watches your vitals climb on the screen. She mumbles under her breath. “Heart rate elevated… Controlled.”

Her hand lingers for a moment longer before she sets the injector aside, picking up her datapad.

“We’ll run a full physical diagnostics panel. I need to confirm integration efficiency before deployment.”

She activates a scanner overhead. Blue light traces down the length of your body, mapping muscle density, joint responsiveness, nerve condition. You stay still, trying to focus on the hum of the machine instead of the warmth that’s still spreading through your limbs.

Moira’s hand slips beneath your arm, steady and cool, guiding you up from the table with practiced ease. You’re still buzzing, every nerve wound tight. The serum is still curling through your bloodstream like a live wire.

Your legs tremble as you sit upright, lungs pulling in too much air, not enough all at once.

Moira says nothing, just brings the scanner to your chest, eyes flicking between the readout and your face. Then, without pause, she lifts your arm, rotates your shoulder, presses her palm flat against your sternum to measure resistance.

Her hands are bare again today. You notice because you shouldn’t.

“You’ve been training,” she says, brushing your shoulder with the back of her knuckles. “Muscle density has improved.”

“Thought I should be useful.”

She doesn’t comment.

She moves lower—fingertips pressing along your abdomen in short, deliberate intervals, watching how the muscles contract and release under her touch. You manage to stay relaxed, even as her hand grazes the line of your hip.

She says nothing about the tension in your body.

Maybe she doesn’t need to.

Moira’s hand trails down your leg with clinical precision, fingers pressing into the muscle along your inner thigh to gauge tension. You hold your breath as heat coils low in your stomach, pulse kicking hard against her touch.

You wonder if she touches every subject like this. You wonder if they react the way you’re reacting.

You don’t ask.

“Any pain?” she asks, lifting your leg a little higher.

“Not physical.”

She pauses.

Her eyes flick to yours.

There’s something unreadable behind them—something that passes before you can name it. Then she lowers your leg and powers down the scanner.

“Get dressed.”

You sit up slowly, muscles still buzzing. Your skin feels flushed, like the dosage hasn’t finished settling. You slide your shirt back on, and the fabric clings a little more than you’d like. Moira’s already typing.

“Your mission file’s been transmitted to the tablet on your datapad,” she says. “You’ll leave within the hour.”

You nod, buttoning your collar. “Target?”

She doesn’t look away from the screen. “A known associate of Overwatch. Off the grid. Expect resistance. Eliminate cleanly. No witnesses.”

You nod again, slower this time.

“Understood.”

She finally glances back at you.

“Report here directly after completion,” she says. “I’ll need new data before it degrades.”

There’s nothing in her voice to suggest concern or care—just need.

You take a breath, steadying yourself.

Then you nod once more and head for the door, her voice still echoing quietly in your thoughts.

————————

They drop you in a half-collapsed industrial zone somewhere outside the city perimeter. Talon doesn’t name the location, only the target: a rogue researcher with sensitive data and too much conscience.

You’ve been outfitted in a light-impact suit, reinforced boots, and a slim pack stocked with a compact rifle, knives, and a short-range pulse device. The mission file is preloaded into your visor.

You move like you’ve done this before. Well, technically you have. But this time your body hums with precision that wasn’t there before. Every motion lands cleaner, faster. Your sight is sharper; you can see the glint of a rifle barrel two floors up before the muzzle even shifts. When you aim and shoot, you don’t hesitate.

Your gun is a Talon issued pulse rifle—Overwatch design, but heavily modified, with heavier recoil. It fits in your hands like a glove. The guard drops before he can respond.

You breach the perimeter in five minutes flat, dispatching two more with cold precision. One tries to run. You don’t chase. You shoot him once through the back, mid-sprint, and he drops.

You round the corner and crash straight into another guard—his weapon halfway raised before you slam the butt of your gun into his jaw. He stumbles but recovers fast, dragging a knife from his belt and driving it into your side. You grunt, slamming your shoulder into his chest, knocking him off balance. He lunges, but you’re faster, swinging your rifle up and striking again.

You beat him down with the stock, again and again, until the body under you goes still.

By the time you reach the target, your side is burning.

The wound is deep, but it doesn’t slow you. You’re already adjusting. Already pushing forward.

When you reach the target, he doesn’t beg. Instead, he bargains. With shaking arms held up in surrender, he points to his console and offers a vow of silence in exchange for leaving him alive. You shoot him through the eye before he finishes his sentence.

His body drops before the silence settles. You lower the weapon, heart steady.

The serum hums beneath your skin, a radiant pulse in your veins. You don’t feel guilt as you export the target’s findings, loading his life’s work into a usb stick provided by Talon.

There’s no pity. Only clarity—and a phantom pull back to the lab, back to her. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until your finger flexes around the trigger again, itching for more.

You’re back at the lab before sunrise.

Your shirt sticks to your side with blood, and your left shoulder is blown out of alignment, but you don’t limp. You don’t grimace.

Moira is already there.

She looks up from her console, her expression unreadable. The lighting in the lab bathes everything in cold white-blue. She doesn’t ask what happened.

You sit on the edge of the table and begin unbuttoning your shirt.

She crosses the room without a word, retrieving a fresh set of gloves and a sterilization kit. You don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence is heavy—but not uncomfortable. Not anymore.

When her hands reach you, they’re methodical. She peels the fabric back from your ribs with care, and begins cleaning the wound. Her touch is exact, but slower than it has to be. Gentler.

You inhale quietly.

You don’t look at her, but you feel her watching.

“Target neutralized?” she asks.

“Yes,” you answer. “No witnesses.”

She hums, satisfied with your answer. “The compound adjusted well under field conditions.”

She dabs alcohol into the gash. You tense, but don’t flinch.

“I felt faster,” you say. “More controlled.”

“Even with injury?”

You nod. “The pain didn’t matter.”

Moira tilts her head, her gaze dipping to your chest, then back up.

“Noted,” she says.

The antiseptic stings more than it should.

Moira doesn’t react when you flinch—but she doesn’t ignore it, either. Her hand shifts, just slightly, cupping the edge of your ribcage to steady you as she swabs the wound again. The pressure is careful, practiced.

You don’t dare look at her.

Because if you do, you might imagine it again: the feel of her mouth under yours, still and warm, how your body had burned at the contact anyway.

Your breath catches as her hand brushes past your exposed chest.

She notices.

Her eyes lift to meet yours, steady and unreadable. For a moment, she just watches you. Like she’s waiting to see whether you’ll break again.

“I applied too much pressure,” she says softly, and adjusts the gauze with a more delicate hand.

Her voice is the same as always—cool, clear—but there’s a weight behind it this time, something less distant.

You nod, grateful she gave you an excuse to explain the way your body reacted. The way your pulse surged at her touch.

She tapes the bandage down, hands moving with methodical precision. You feel the heat of her fingers through the glove. She steadies your arm next and begins checking for dislocation. You know she’s going to set it. You brace yourself.

She hesitates just long enough to meet your eyes.

“This will hurt.”

You nod again.

She sets your shoulder in one clean motion.

You grit your teeth, biting down a hiss, but your body still jerks. She doesn’t pull away. Her hand rests briefly on your collarbone, grounding you.

You’re still sweating by the time your breathing levels out again. She wipes the blood from your skin in silence, careful with every pass.

Your eyes wander—slowly, involuntarily.

You watch the arch of her brow, the sharp angle of her jaw, set in focus. The slight glow behind her eyes, how one burns colder than the other. You wonder, not for the first time, how a face so still can feel so close to something divine. Something monstrous. Something impossible to look away from.

You want to kiss her again.

You imagine it—her hands not pushing, but pulling at your neck. You imagine her mouth parting, just barely, an invitation. Her breath soft against yours. This time she’d kiss you back.

You catch yourself, heat crawling up your throat. You shut your eyes.

You’re not here for that.

You’re here to be rebuilt.

“I’m finished,” she says, stepping back. The air feels colder the moment her hands leave your skin.

“You’re to return here in two days,” she says. Her tone has already shifted back to neutral, professional, like the last few minutes were routine. “You know what to do in case of emergency. If the compound destabilizes, you’ll be retrieved.”

There’s no thank you, no good work. Just dismissal.

She turns away before you can ask anything else.

You’re left sitting on the exam table, bloodied shirt half-buttoned, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to your skin. You watch her move across the lab: graceful, decisive, already logging your performance.

She doesn’t look back.

You leave.

————————

The walk home feels longer than usual. Your shoulder aches. Your ribs throb. But none of that matters. Not compared to the way your skin still burns where her hands touched it.

You can’t stop replaying the moment she leaned in. The brush of her fingers along your jaw. The way she steadied you, just for a breath, as if you were something fragile she needed to preserve.

You know she didn’t mean it that way.

You know.

But you feel it anyway.

Your apartment is cold when you step inside.

You don’t turn on any lights, moving in the moonlit darkness. The silence wraps around you like static. You peel off your shirt slowly, staring at the bloodstained fabric like it might answer a question you haven’t figured out how to ask.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare at your hands.

They don’t shake. They probably should.

Sleep doesn’t come.

You close your eyes and see her face. Looking down at you, watching. You look back, analyzing the glint in her eyes. Eventually, you lean up and kiss her, replaying the memory. Remembering the way her mouth barely moved when yours did. And the way she let you do it anyway.

You wonder if she’s thinking about it now.

You wonder if she has at all.

————————

The next four weeks enter a smooth routine. At first, you’re there once a week. You arrive early, sit quietly on the exam table while Moira reviews your charts. She says very little at first. A question here. A command there. The injection always comes with the same practiced efficiency: a gloved hand to your neck, a cold hiss, and a rush that leaves your body alight.

But something in the room shifts. Her eyes linger. Her questions become more pointed: about how you sleep, what you dream about, if you’ve noticed changes in your senses, your appetite, your desires. You tell yourself it’s just protocol. You don’t ask what she’s writing in her notes.

That schedule doesn’t last long. Once a week becomes twice. Then, every other day. Sometimes she calls you in under the guise of new variables, a tweak to the formula, a change in your neural chemistry. Other times she says nothing at all, just gestures for you to sit and begins the tests.

Each visit runs longer than the last. She keeps you hooked into machines, makes you run physical drills, react to sensory triggers, and hold still while she maps your vitals in minute detail.

Outside the lab, the world softens into a blur. You stop answering the few people who still try to reach you.

You ignore your messages, don’t check the news.

The ways of your old life feel distant, like remembering a story that wasn’t yours. You tell yourself it’s temporary.

This is what it takes to rebuild.

But in truth, you don’t miss it. You don’t feel like that person anymore. Moira’s work demands everything: your time, your mind, your body. And slowly, it becomes easier to give it.

Because when she looks at you after a mission, something in you melts. Heat curls low, your body aching to prove itself worthy again.

You start to track her moods. How fast she walks, how her tone shifts depending on the results, how her hand steadies your arm when the serum hits too hard. You memorize the angles of her face when she’s focused.

You wake up craving the burn of her experiments more than food, more than rest. You start to live between doses, counting the hours until you see her again.

One evening, you catch her watching you.

Not observing—not collecting data—just… watching. You’re in the lab, reviewing footage, and you look up and she’s already looking at you.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does she.

The moment stretches.

Then she turns back to her work like nothing happened.

Field missions start to feel different, too.

You used to approach combat with discipline, always precise, always controlled. But now, it’s more than that.

The compound sharpened you in ways you didn’t expect. Your reflexes are faster, your mind quieter. Patterns unfold in front of you before they happen: in tells, weight shifts, trajectories. You move before your opponents do, already calculating their next three steps while planning your own.

Every strike is efficient. Every dodge intentional. You don’t hesitate, no need to when your brain’s already done the math.

Your last mission took less than fifteen minutes.

It was a data courier and his two guards—ex-Overwatch. You cleared the building before they could even call for backup.

The moment you finished, you didn’t linger. You never stop to examine your work.

You only think of the lab.

Of her.

When you return, your uniform is still stained, your body still high on adrenaline. You stand in front of Moira’s desk like you belong there. Like a dog with a bone.

She looks you over, barely reacting.

“Clean,” she says, reading the report. “Minimal exposure. No wasted movement.”

You don’t respond.

You just stand there, waiting. Just for something in her voice that tells you she’s satisfied.

She doesn’t always offer it.

But sometimes, after missions like this, she’ll take the time to peel your jacket from your shoulders, clean a cut, brush the dust from your cheek with gloved fingers. Sometimes she just looks at you—long and assessing. Satisfied, like she’s watching her theory proven right in real time.

And only once, after a mission that nearly tore you apart, does she offer you more than that.

You didn’t even think she’d speak.

But halfway through packing her medkit away, she looked at you, eyes almost sparkling, and said, “You’re progressing beautifully.”

When the adrenaline fades and you finally get a few hours of downtime, sleep comes fast.

But it’s never clean.

In the dreams, you’re in the lab again.

Except it isn’t the lab you know. The walls are darker. The lights are dimmer. Everything feels just slightly off: slower, deeper, like you’re underwater.

Moira’s there.

She’s always there.

Standing at the console, back to you, typing something you can’t read. You’re seated on the edge of the table, watching her. Waiting. Always waiting.

Sometimes she speaks.

Occasionally, it’s praise, with words she rarely offers you while awake.

“Excellent.”

“Perfect”

“You’re becoming everything I imagined.”

Each one makes your chest ache.

Other nights, she doesn’t say anything.

She just turns around, looks at you, and crosses the room—steps measured, coat trailing behind her like a shadow. She reaches for you with bare, warm hands and touches your temple, down your jaw, over your chest.

Not rough. Not gentle. But observing, admiring.

And when you lean in for a kiss, you wake. Before anything happens at all.

The aftershock stays with you, of course.

Your pulse is racing when your eyes open. You feel the phantom touch of her fingers on your throat, like you’re still on the table. You lie there, staring at the ceiling of your apartment, sweat cooling on your skin.

You vow to never tell her of these dreams.

But when she leans in close during a scan—just close enough for her breath to graze your cheek—you’re already holding your breath.

And when she looks you in the eye, you wonder if she knows.

You think she does.

You bet she always has.

———————

One day, you’re outside the lab, waiting on Moira to finish a briefing with other Talon operatives. A few minutes into the wait, a pink flash appears beside you.

Sombra stands beside you, casual, all smirk and sharp edges. You know of her, and have seen her around before. You’ve just never spoken.

Today, she decides to change that.

“You’re the new favorite,” she says, arms crossed as she leans on the wall.

You don’t want to take the bait.

“Little lab pet.” You hear the smirk in her voice.

“I’m useful,” you reply, calm.

She laughs. “That’s one word for it.”

You let the silence return, but she doesn’t leave. Her eyes linger on you: amused.

“Funny. Bet they didn’t train you for this back in your golden days, huh?”

You say nothing.

Then she tilts her head, a smile tugging at her lips.

“You know she used to work with someone else, right? Another subject. A while back. Didn’t end well.”

You don’t answer. You don’t want to ask.

But Sombra catches something in your expression anyway. She grins.

"Careful. That look on your face? That’s exactly how the last one started falling apart."

Before you can respond, the doors open with a sharp hiss.

Moira steps out.

Her eyes land on you instantly. Then shift briefly to Sombra.

Something in her face changes.

Not anger. Not surprise.

She doesn’t say anything. Just gestures for you to follow her with a nod of her head.

Sombra pulls back, gaze dancing between you two.

“Welcome to the deep end, cariño.”

You walk away, without another word to Sombra.

Inside the lab, the air feels tighter than usual.

Moira doesn't speak right away. You wait near the console as she types, a little more clipped than usual. The lines around her mouth are sharper, her movements more exact.

Finally, she says, “I would advise limiting distractions.”

You glance up.

Her eyes meet yours, hard and unreadable.

Your voice comes out lower than intended. “Wasn’t distracted.”

She doesn’t argue. She just turns away.

And the message is clear.

You don’t talk to Sombra again.

And while Moira never brings it up…

She also never avoids leaving you during briefings again.

——————

One day, you stop outside the lab like you always do.

It’s early—maybe twenty minutes before you’re expected—but that’s become routine. You’ve started arriving ahead of schedule more often.

You lean against the wall and glance down at your shirt.

There’s a wrinkle near the hem. Barely visible. A soft fold from where your coat sat too long on your lap during transit. Without thinking, you reach down and smooth it out.

Then your hands move to your cuffs.

You press your palms against your thighs. Adjust the collar. Straighten the fall of the fabric so it sits neater across your shoulders. Sharper. Cleaner.

It’s automatic. You’re not doing this for the mission. Not for the squad. Not because some protocol demands it.

You’re doing this for her.

So that when you walk through those doors and Moira glances at you—not for long, never for long—she’ll see what she’s made. Still evolving. Still useful. Still willing.

You tell yourself not to read into it.

She probably speaks like that to all her subjects. You’re nothing special.

Except—

Sometimes, you swear she lets you linger a little longer. Lets her gaze hold just past the threshold of necessity. And in those moments—when her voice drops a fraction too low, when her hand brushes your arm a second too long—you think maybe, maybe you’re not just data to her.

Then you hear mention of you during a conversation with other Talon operatives, and she calls you “Subject 09B.”

And you remember: she’s never used your name in the lab.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That the kiss wasn’t an accident. That it meant something. That you mean something.

But it’s getting harder to tell where the experiment ends and you begin.

Every touch. Every word. Every look.

You pick them apart in your head like you’re the one running the trial.

You’re not in control anymore.

Maybe you never were.

You stand up straighter. Breathe in.

Then you reach for the panel and open the lab door, pretending your heart isn’t racing.

———————

Moira doesn’t speak much when you arrive. She doesn’t need to.

You strip your coat and sit on the table like always. The chill of the metal beneath your legs grounds you, barely.

She glances at you after a moment, just enough to make you sit straighter. Then she turns back to the console.

“Early again,” she notes.

“Didn’t want to waste time.”

Moira doesn’t respond. She taps something in, finishes her notes, and finally rises to cross the room toward you.

She glances at her notes from the previous day, then back at your face. “Have you been sleeping?”

You nod. “Enough to function.”

She steps closer, attaching a cuff to your arm, pausing to check your blood pressure. “Any neural spikes since the last dose?”

“One,” you say. “Yesterday morning. It passed.

Her fingers linger on your arm a moment longer than necessary. “Appetite?”

“Improved.”

She hums at that—barely a sound. Then she moves to the console, scanning something you can’t see. You watch the side of her face.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

Moira doesn’t look up. “Not yet.

“I’ve adjusted your injection window,” she says, finally stepping back, then looks you up and down. “You’re metabolizing the serum faster than projected. From now on, you’re to report here daily.”

You don’t hide the flicker of relief. Being here feels better than anywhere else, even if you don’t understand why.

Moira removes the cuff. Her gaze lingers on you longer than usual. “Your body responds well to close proximity.”

“To you?” You ask before you can stop yourself.

Moira doesn’t answer. Not directly.

She stops beside you, lifting a hand to your face like she’s checking for fever. Your eyes follow her hand.

Her fingers slide down, brushing your cheek. The contact is soft. Measured. Her thumb pauses near your lip.

“You’re very receptive,” she says quietly. “Most subjects grow to resent physical touch.”

You can’t breathe for a second. Not with her finger right there. She’s so close you can smell that faint, metallic scent again, laced with something almost floral beneath it.

It’s intoxicating.

You feel yourself lean toward her touch, instinctive, almost desperate. She doesn’t pull away. Not at first. But your body betrays how badly you want it.

Her thumb grazes your lips, then lifts suddenly. The loss of contact leaves your skin burning.

She steps back half a pace, gaze already clinical. “Lie down.”

You obey without hesitation, lowering yourself onto the table, spine flush to cold metal. Your pulse jumps. You steady it with a long breath through your nose.

Without a word, Moira fastens the first restraint around your wrist. Then the other. They’re more secure this time, leaving very little wiggle room. She moves to your ankles next, and you let her.

“Why so tight?” you ask, your voice soft.

Her eyes flick down to the readout on the console. “This dose will be stronger,” she says. “I want to observe a full reaction. Without interruption.”

She places a hand lightly on your shoulder as she moves to the tray.

You don’t ask what she’s watching for.

You already know it’s everything.

The injector hisses louder this time as it draws from the vial—thicker, darker than before. Moira steps back to your side, presses a palm to your neck, and steadies you with quiet precision. Her fingers rest right on your pulse.

The needle bites, and the compound rushes in.

A wave of heat floods your chest, followed by something colder, like ice in your veins that somehow burns. Your muscles seize against the restraints, your back arching against the table. Your vision flares white. You gasp, but your lungs seize, and you choke on your own breath.

Moira’s hand never moves.

Your vision blurs. The world distorts.

Your body is breaking and building at the same time, nerve endings reconfiguring mid-fire. You strain against the cuffs. Moira leans closer, watching your face, her free hand pressing to your sternum.Violence, Injec

“You’re holding,” she says, calm. “Let it finish.”

Your chest rises in short, broken gasps. The restraints creak. You taste blood.

And then, slowly, it begins to settle.

The seizing stops. Your breath returns in ragged pulls. You lie back against the table, drenched in sweat, your limbs twitching even as they go limp. The cuffs stay on a while longer.

Moira doesn’t leave your side.

She’s silent, gloved fingers pressing to your neck as she feels your pulse. You let your eyes drift toward her, and for a moment—just a breath—her gaze softens.

Or maybe you imagine it.

Her gloves are still cold.

But the way her hand lingers isn’t clinical.

You whisper, “Still here.”

She looks down at you. “Well done.”

The restraints come off one by one. She unbuckles your wrist last, holding it briefly before laying your arm flat again.

Your throat is raw. You don’t try to sit up yet.

She brushes your hair off your temple without comment, and you don’t even have the energy to lean in.

She stays by your side as your body recalibrates, monitoring the tremor in your limbs and the way your breath slows. Neither of you speaks. The moment stretches.

Once the tremors fade from your fingers, Moira leaves and returns with a portable scanner, then passes it slowly over your torso.

The soft hum of the device is the only sound in the room.

She doesn’t explain what she’s looking for. She never does. But you watch her eyes as they track the readout—focused, sharp, flicking briefly from the data to your skin and back again.

“Enhanced oxygen saturation,” she mutters. “Neural voltage sustained longer this time.”

Her hand presses just below your ribs, fingers splaying against the bare skin. You tense, but not from pain.Violence, Injec

She tilts your chin next, checking your pupils. They’re still dilated, still not fully adjusted. Her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

You hold still. Breath still.

Then her touch vanishes.

She takes a small blood sample from your arm without a word, draws it into a vial, and sets it aside. You sit up slowly with her help, body still reeling from the aftershock of whatever just rewired inside you.

She leaves you at the table, and you watch her at the console. The slope of her shoulders. The tilt of her head as she logs the data. You want her to look at you again. For her to touch you again. To feel her fingers on your lips again. You want—

You’re not sure what you want.

When she returns, she brings another scanner with her, humming softly as it passes over your chest and abdomen.

“Stand,” she says, once she’s satisfied with the final readouts.

Your legs are shaky, but you obey.

She watches you for several seconds. Her expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind her eyes—just for a heartbeat.

She steps closer, almost close enough to touch again. The space between you tightens. You lean back on the table, not just for balance, but because if you don’t, you might reach for her. Might pull her the rest of the way.

Your hands clench the edge, holding yourself in place as her gaze drags over you.

The serum burns through you like wildfire long after you’re upright. The pain is past now, but your body can still feel dull shocks echoing in your muscles, your lungs stretch too wide, your skin prickles like it’s still mending.

You feel stronger already: your limbs humming, instincts sharper than before, but the ache behind your ribs stays.

Moira didn’t warn you. Not really. She told you it would be stronger, but not what that meant. That stings more than anything.

She didn’t trust you enough to say how much it would hurt. Not because she wanted to spare you. But because she wasn’t sure you’d accept if you did.

Something hot and stupid stirs in your chest.

“You could’ve warned me.”

Moira pauses for a moment. Her voice is calm when she responds. “You would’ve hesitated.”

Your jaw tenses before you can stop it, and your eyes narrow just enough to give you away.

“If you can’t even trust me with the truth, what the fuck am I doing here?”

The words leave you before you can think twice about it.

Your words get her attention though. Moira looks straight at you, slow and deliberate, her eyes narrowing as she steps away from her console. She tilts her head slightly, not in curiosity but calculation. Each step towards you is slow, silent, with a level of control that makes your pulse spike.

Her gaze never leaves you, and something in it burns—cold, assessing, inescapable. By the time she stops in front of you, the room feels smaller.

She steps even closer, just enough that you catch her scent: faintly floral under the lab antiseptic.

“You came here to be changed,” she says, a smile growing on her lips, “And now you flinch when it starts to work.”

You swallow, throat dry. The words land deeper than you expect, because she’s right. Because you hate that she’s right.

Her gloved hand rises, hovering so close you swear you can feel her body heat through it.

She doesn’t touch you. Not quite. Just lingers there, letting the moment drag, like she knows exactly what it’s doing to you.

The serum still hums through your blood, tuning every nerve toward her. You’re aware of every inch of your body. Aware of her, how still she is, how close. Her restraint feels like a challenge.

Moira tilts her head, gaze slipping to your lips. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to.

You move in—fast, breath catching—and kiss her. Your lips on hers, hesitant, searching, almost pleading.

And for a second, she lets you.

Her fingers glide up to your cheek, then down your throat, resting lightly where your pulse hammers.

Her mouth brushes back this time, just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to ignite something deep in your chest, a heat that coils low and spreads like fire.

Your body arches closer, starved for every inch she gives. You drag her just a little nearer, needing more.

You could fall into her. You want to. You’re already unraveling, drunk on the contact, on the unearned grace of her touch.

Then her other hand finds your chest, stilling you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just absolute.

When she breaks the kiss, it’s with a quiet, deliberate breath.

“You’re becoming quite predictable,” she says, voice low.

You freeze.

Her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens.

“I was curious how long it would take,” she continues. “Apparently not long.”

You stare at her, numb. Embarrassment, fury, and something worse twisting behind your ribs.

“This fixation of yours…” she says, turning slightly. “It’s not uncommon. You’re not the first to misinterpret attention for affection.”

The shame hits hard. Like a blow. You blink once, barely breathing.

She adjusts her gloves, turning back toward her console, already pulling up your vitals. The moment is over. Filed away like every other result.

“You next mission is in an abandoned facility outside King’s Row. Off in Sector 12. You’re to eliminate the data and the one guarding it.”

Her words drift past you, dull under the heat still rising in your chest. You can still feel the shape of her mouth on yours.

She doesn’t walk you to the door. She never does.

You dress in silence, and she watches only long enough to confirm you’re stable. Not stumbling. Not resisting the compound.

“Report immediately after completion,” she says. “If the serum begins to spike, activate your recall signal.”

You nod once, gripping the strap of your gear bag.

She turns back to the console.

You don’t ask where they’re taking you.

The Talon escort is silent. Helmeted, with no insignia. Just a pulse rifle slung low and footsteps that echo like a countdown.

You’ve been walking for seven minutes—down clean, windowless corridors, past red-lit doors that stay closed and most definitely hold secrets. The place smells like metal and antiseptic.

It’s all too quiet.

You’ve walked through facilities like this before. Years ago. Though with a different symbol on the walls. Different handlers, too. Back when your orders came from elected officials, men and women you once trusted.

Back when people still called you by a name.

You don’t use that name anymore.

Now, you just walk.

You’ve stopped asking where you’re being taken. If they wanted you dead, you’d already be in a body bag.

You knew what Talon was before you ever walked through their doors—whispers of blacksite labs, discarded test subjects, science that didn’t ask permission.

You told yourself you’d never crawl to them, not after what Overwatch cost you. But survival chips away at pride fast, and you were tired of bleeding for people who spoke about justice like it was clean. At least Talon doesn’t lie about what it is.

Still, your gut twists with each new turn.

Eventually, the escort stops in front of a smooth, unmarked door and types in a code without a word. The lock hisses open.

“Inside,” he says. Then he leaves.

The lab is colder than you expected. Not just in temperature, though the air has that sterile chill that clings to your skin, but in atmosphere. The lighting is low, with a soft violet cast from the wall monitors and status bars flickering quietly across machines you don’t recognize.

Tables are lined with instruments: precision tools, surgical arms, vials of iridescent liquid in subtle, pulsing hues. There’s a scanner in the corner shaped like a medical cradle, its frame dark and braced with restraints. The air smells sterile, but it doesn’t exactly feel like a place built for healing.

The room is quiet—save for the woman waiting at the far end.

She stands at the far console, back turned, her silhouette unmistakable even in the dim light. She’s tall, sharper in profile than you expected, all angles and intent. Her lab coat drapes like a shroud, cinched neatly at the waist, not a wrinkle in sight.

One gloved hand taps out something on a data pad, the other resting against her hip with unconscious control. Her hair glows faintly under the light—rusted red swept back into a signature arc, its color almost unnatural in this place.

You know who she is before she says anything.

Moira O’Deorain.

The name alone carries weight, even in whispered rumors. Ex-Overwatch. Disavowed. Visionary or villain, depending on who’s telling the story. Her reputation precedes her—but it doesn’t prepare you for seeing her in person.

“Sit,” she says, voice crisp and low, like something engineered to cut through static.

You do, watching her still.

She’s not wearing armor or a mask or any of the usual Talon regalia—just a high-collared black coat with plum accents and sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing surgical gloves and veins traced with faint bioluminescence.

She taps a few times on the datapad, then looks you over momentarily. When she does, her eyes catch the light unevenly. One is a sharp, clinical blue, the other a deep, warm brown. You can’t decide which one feels more invasive.

“I’ve reviewed your file,” she says flatly. “Overwatch discard: Field capable. High trauma tolerance. Excellent improvisation under duress. Behavioral markers suggest a need for structure.”

You blink slowly. “How flattering.”

She finally meets your eyes.

“It’s not a compliment,” she says. “It’s an observation.”

You say nothing.

She picks up a small glass vial.

It glows a violet-gold, shimmering like it’s alive.

“This compound interfaces directly with the nervous system. Enhancing response time and increasing sensory clarity. It’s temporary—at first.”

You study it, trying to understand what she’s implying.

“You’ve been trained to survive,” she says. “But survival isn’t evolution.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what is this? A shortcut?”

Her mouth lifts, just barely. “It’s a correction.”

That lingers. Long enough that you shift where you stand, gaze trailing across the room’s cold steel edges.

Moira watches you from across the console, head slightly tilted, her expression unreadable.

“You’re treating this like I’ve already agreed,” you say.

“Hesitation is still a form of consent,” she replies. “If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

You told yourself you were done taking orders that led nowhere. Done bleeding for people who forgot your name the moment the mission ended. Maybe that’s why you walked in here. For once, you wanted to be changed on purpose.

You swallow, pulse kicking a little harder.

“You want me to be a lab rat.”

Moira doesn’t blink. “I want to see what happens when something already dangerous stops limiting itself.”

Her tone doesn’t change—flat, composed, like she’s narrating a thought experiment.

She steps closer.

The vial turns in her fingers.

“This is the offer,” she says. “Power without doubt. Function without weakness. You’ll become what they failed to make you.”

Your mouth is dry.

You want to laugh. You don’t.

You want to tell her she’s wrong.

But she isn’t.

You’ve lived too long on the edge of usefulness. Too long pretending your silence is control.

You watch the vial in her hand for longer than you should.

It hums faintly. The light inside shifts colors—gold, violet, something in between. Not like any compound you’ve seen before, and you’ve seen more than most.

Moira watches you the way a sculptor watches raw stone, already imagining what she’ll carve away. And what will be left when she’s finished. She gestures to an exam table, clearly already prepped for you.

You approach and stand at the edge of it, fingers twitching against your side.

“This… is official, right?” you ask. “There’s a contract? Something binding?”

Moira doesn’t look up from the tray she’s prepping—syringes aligned like surgical instruments. “There’s no paper, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You wait.

She turns, finally, her tone smooth as ever. “Your consent is the contract.”

The words feel thinner than they should. Too easy to swallow, too hard to spit out.

Risky…

You glance once over your shoulder, toward the door. Then back at her.

“I could just walk out.”

“You could,” she says, then: “You won’t.”

She gestures once more to the table.

It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. You’ve bled on worse. Laid down in tighter spaces. Still, something about the clean sheet, the smooth leather straps resting neatly on either side.

It gets to you. Your stomach coils.

You climb up anyway.

You lie back, the surface colder than expected. Moira steps to your side with measured grace and takes your left wrist in her gloved hand.

“This is just for safety,” she says.

The strap clicks gently into place.

Then the other.

Then ankles.

Not tight. Not yet. But firm enough to remind you this isn’t casual.

“You’ll feel resistance,” she says, standing above you now, her gaze unreadable. “Physiological. Psychological. Let it happen.”

Your throat feels dry.

"I'm still not sure about this."

She cocks her head.

"And yet you came."

You close your eyes. Exhale once, slow and tight. You try to remember what was waiting for you outside this room. No job, no orders. The long, dull silence of a life with no purpose. And then you stop trying.

Beside you, you hear the faint, clinical hiss as she draws the dose.

“You’ll be permitted access to the facility after this,” she says. “You may come and go. No handlers. No surveillance.”

You glance up. “That’s rare.”

“You’re no prisoner,” she says. “You’re an investment.”

Moira places her gloved hand at the side of your neck, pushing your head slightly to the side. The injector is cold against your neck. She doesn’t wait, pressing it with clinical precision.

The hiss is subtle. The effect isn’t.

Your body tenses immediately, a cold rush running through your veins.

The injection surges through you like fire laced with ice—your muscles convulse, your vision blurs, and something deep inside begins to split. It feels like your body is being stripped molecule by molecule, peeled down to bone and then rebuilt in fast, clumsy layers.

You gasp, but the air won’t come right; every breath feels like it’s catching on a new set of lungs that haven’t learned how to work yet.

Moira watches your vitals spike, then level. She walks to you—measured, composed—and places two fingers to your neck, just below your jaw. You flinch slightly at her touch.

“Pulse elevated. Oxygen efficiency increasing.”

She doesn’t remove her hand.

“You’re responding beautifully,” she murmurs.

You look up at her, closer now. She doesn’t move away. Her face is unreadable. That heterochromatic gaze lingers on you just a moment too long.

For a second, you think she might say something else.

She doesn’t, instead stepping away and finding her spot at the console, adding her data.

The worst of it passes like a storm—fast, blinding, and impossible to track. Your limbs still shake, but the seizing has stopped. You blink against the overhead light, breath coming in slow, uneven pulls as sensation returns to your fingers.

It feels like you’ve been scraped out from the inside.

You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping the edges of the table until you hear the soft click of the restraints releasing.

Moira steps back, folding the data pad under one arm. “Sit up when you can.”

You do, slowly. Your muscles don’t hurt—they feel new. Unfamiliar. Like they don’t quite belong to you yet. You glance down at your hands, flex them once, twice. There’s a tremor you can’t control. Your skin is damp, flushed. Not quite feverish, but close.

“How would you describe the sensation?” Moira asks.

You swallow, tasting metal at the back of your throat. “Like… like something was trying to tear its way out of me. And build something else on the way out.”

She nods, typing. “Respiratory constriction?”

You nod. “Like drowning and overheating at the same time.”

“Good.” Her voice doesn’t praise or soften—it just records. “Can you feel any difference in your vision?”

You blink a few times, squinting toward the light. Colors seem sharper around the edges, like they’ve been turned up just slightly too high. “Clearer,” you say. “Too clear.”

Moira tilts her head. “Fascinating.”

You breathe again, slower this time, grounding yourself with one hand on the table’s edge.

Everything still feels wrong. But not in the way you expected.

“Monitor yourself for the next twelve hours,” she says. “Return if there are any hallucinations, blackouts, or signs of violent compulsion.”

You nod in response. Moira reaches into the drawer beside her console, eyes still watching you.

From the tray, she lifts a slim, dark device. It’s smooth, featureless, no bigger than a coin. She holds it out to you between gloved fingers.

“In case of failure,” she says, voice even. “Or compromise.”

You take it carefully, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm. There’s no button visible, but you know it doesn’t need one.

“It’s a tracker?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

She nods her head, just slightly. “It’s a tether.”

Her hand brushes yours as she releases it. “Press it once,” she murmurs. “And I’ll come find you.”

You take it, sliding off the table on unsteady legs and tuck it into your pocket. Every step is unfamiliar—like your body is a suit you haven’t fully grown into.

”If nothing arises, return in a week for your next dose.”

You nod again, and say nothing as you leave.

The lab’s door slides closed with a gentle click. Outside the room, you catch your reflection in the polished steel: flushed, trembling, eyes wide with something between awe and regret.

When you finally step through your own door, legs still unsteady from the dose, the silence hits harder than the comedown.

Your apartment is small: barely more than a room with a sink and a bed jammed into opposite corners. The walls are stained from old coolant leaks, and the overhead light flickers every few seconds, humming faintly with low-grade energy draw.

A cracked holo-screen flickers above the desk, half the interface permanently glitched, stuck on an outdated Talon newsfeed loop. It’s the best you could afford after going off-grid—no pension, no backup, just your name and whatever credits you hadn’t burned through staying alive.

Later that night, you don’t sleep.

You try.

The lights are off. The window’s open. Your gun’s within reach. But nothing feels right.

Your heart is still racing, but you’re not anxious. You’re... alive.

Every sound in your apartment feels amplified—the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the air vent, the tiny throb of your blood in your ears. The serum’s still in you. Still humming.

You stare at the ceiling and think about her hand settled on your throat—fingers steady, gloved, but not without sensation. You’d felt the faint press of her nails just beneath the material.

Measured. Possessive.

You think about the way she looked at you—not with attraction, but certainty.**

Somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

The days after the injection are strange too, but not unpleasant.

You feel sharper, like your blood’s running cleaner—muscles taut, reflexes tight, your thoughts moving just ahead of themselves. Whatever was done to you, didn’t break anything.

On the third morning, you find an envelope in your mailbox, unmarked except for a symbol you haven’t seen since your Overwatch days. Talon, unmistakably. Inside: a small stack of credits. A sum you haven’t seen in one place since you left the field.

There’s no note. No instructions. Just payment—for your body, for your silence, for your return.

It’s not a hard decision, you know you’ll go back.

Not because you were told to.

Because you want to.

You return to the lab after a week.

In the days since the injection, your body has felt like it’s finally catching up to the person you were always meant to be. Strength has become a constant hum beneath your skin. Your thoughts are clearer too, probably since you haven’t craved a drink since the day you got back.

For the first time in years, you feel like you have a future. You’ve had doubts, of course—Talon’s reputation isn’t lost on you—but you told yourself you’d know if something felt wrong.

That you’d recognize the line before it was crossed. And nothing’s felt wrong—not really.

So you come back.

The halls of Talon stretch out in cold, quiet symmetry as you follow the guard—each step clicking steady against the polished floor.

When the final door slides open, she’s already there.

Moira.

Exactly as you remember her.

Posture straight, back turned, reading something across a pane of blue-white light. Gloves on. Sleeves rolled. Hair pinned back with sharp precision.

She doesn’t acknowledge you at first. Just keeps working, tapping something on the display with long, pale fingers.

Then, without looking up—

“You came back.”

Her voice is soft. Even. Not surprised. Not pleased.

You stand near the door a beat too long.

“You told me to.”

Moira turns.

Her eyes land on you like a spotlight—blue and bronze, unnerving. She studies your stance, your breathing, your delay.

“You metabolized the first dose efficiently,” she says. “No adverse reactions?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good.”

She reached for a new vial—slimmer than the last. Darker, it’s yellow glow almost overpowered by the purple.

She steps toward you.

You don’t back away.

But you don’t move forward either.

“Here is your second dose,” she says, lifting the injector slightly. “Necessary for stabilization.”

You eye the vial, then her.

“What exactly am I stabilizing for?”

Moira doesn’t answer right away. She steps closer, gaze sharp with interest.

“Does it matter?” she asks, voice low, almost soothing. “You’re to reach a final form. Stability is the foundation of evolution.” She tilts her head slightly, lips just barely curved. “Unless, of course, you’d rather go back to being ordinary?”

She waits.

The thought settles fast, heavy in your chest: you don’t want to go back. Not to the dull ache of survival, to the half-life you clawed through before this. Ordinary was killing you slowly. At least this feels like becoming something.

“Lie back.”

The command is quiet. Unassuming. But it doesn’t leave room for negotiation.

You settle onto the table, the cold pressing through your spine as your body adjusts to the sterile, unwelcoming surface.

Moira’s fingers move with methodical ease, guiding the restraints over your wrists and ankles, locking them into place with a soft metallic click.

She steps to your side, her gloved hand brushing your hair back from your neck with a sterile kind of care. Then, she places her hand at the base of your throat—not rough, but steady.

The injector touches skin. A sharp press. Then the hiss.

This dose is different.

The serum tears through your veins with violent precision, flooding every nerve ending with heat so sharp it feels like you’re being stripped down and reassembled all at once. Your back arches slightly against the table—every muscle tight, spasming, then locking into new form. Your vision fractures, sharpens, breaks again. You bite down until your jaw aches just to keep from screaming, though you can help but groan in pain.

Moira observes silently. She notes your vitals without shifting her stance, her eyes flicking between the monitor and your face—studying.

When the worst of it finally ebbs, you’re left shivering, breath coming in broken pulls, your limbs molten and useless. Sweat clings to every inch of you like a second skin.

Moira tilts her head slightly. “How do you feel?”

You let out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. “Like I just fucking died.”

Her lips twitch, just barely. “Good,” she murmurs. “Then it’s working.”

After you’ve caught your breath, she undoes the cuffs holding you down.

Moira slips a hand beneath your shoulders with practiced ease, guiding you upright like she’s repositioning a specimen.

“And your cognitive clarity?” she asks. “Any visual distortion? Maybe auditory?”

You shake your head, still catching your breath. “No distortion. Just… intense.”

She steps closer, holding a small scanner close to your temple. “How was your muscle control?”

“Bad,” you answer, rubbing your sore arms.

She doesn’t flinch. “Residual pain is expected.”

Then, quietly—she speaks to herself.

“Good retention. Stable neural response. Adrenal system… adapting.”

Her gaze flicks back to you, searching. “You’ll be operational within the hour.” She returns to the console and begins typing away.

After a moment, she speaks.

“I knew you’d return.”

There’s no smugness in her tone. Just certainty.

“I didn’t,” you admit.

You don’t mean to say it.

But the serum makes you honest.

“Yet here you are,” she says quietly, turning to look at you, “Still seeking what only I can give you.”

She approaches where you’re sat on the table.

You start to answer, but nothing comes.

Moira peels off her glove with practiced ease as she comes closer, the material slipping free to reveal skin that’s unnaturally pale underneath. Along her forearm, faint veins pulse with lilac bioluminescence, glowing subtly beneath the surface, the lines raised just enough to catch the light. It looks engineered, not healed—something evolved past human.

You don’t mean to stare, but the moment her glove comes off, your eyes lock onto the exposed skin.

Moira notices.

She doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t pull the glove back on. Instead, she lifts her arm between you, palm down, offering it like a demonstration.

“Curious?” she asks, voice unreadable.

You glance up, but she’s already watching you, observing you.

“I started with myself,” she says, letting the bioluminescent patterns catch the lab light. “Every breakthrough I’ve made since—every risk I ask of others—I earned by testing my own limits first.”

Her hand lingers in the air between you, impossibly still.

“I wouldn’t ask anything of you I’m not already willing to survive.”

When Moira reaches you, she raises her unaffected hand and lets her warm fingers trace the edge of your jaw. You hold still, refusing to flinch, though your eyes flick downward the moment her skin brushes yours.

She scans your face like she’s watching something unfold beneath the skin. A map of circuits lighting up in real time.

“What reason have you to fear me?” she asks, lips twitching in a near-smile.

She tilts her head slightly.

Curious.

Already calculating your next threshold.

Her gloved hand slips from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm but not forceful. And she kisses you.

Her lips are poised. Precise. You tilt forward instinctively, breath hitching, deepening the kiss with a hunger that surprises even you.

The warmth rushes up your neck, prickling down your spine. Her hand is firm on your neck, her fingers anchoring you in place. She tastes faintly of pine, and maybe citrus—heady, electric.

Your body reacts faster than your thoughts, heat surging low in your gut as your hands find her hips, pulling her closer.

Her other hand comes up to rest lightly against your chest, not pressing you closer, just marking the distance. Controlling it.

It lasts longer than it should.

Then it’s over.

She breaks the kiss slowly, deliberately, like drawing the final line of an equation.

For a moment, her face stays close. Her breath brushes your skin, cool and steady. You half expect her to whisper something—stay, good, again.

But she doesn’t.

She steps back like a pulse just ended.

You’re still leaning forward, breath caught, blinking like you missed a step on solid ground.

Moira turns without a word and retrieves her data pad from the counter. Her fingers move quickly, efficiently—already documenting.

“Increased cardiovascular irregularity,” she says aloud, tone devoid of judgment. “Cortical spike aligns with prior instability markers. Emotional volatility appears more responsive to close proximity stimuli.”

She doesn’t say I kissed her, it’s close proximity stimuli.

Like it was inevitable.

You don’t speak. Can’t. The shame floods you too fast, thick and hot, dragging every rational thought under. You’re not even sure what you were hoping for. Recognition? Softness?

All you’ve given her is a reaction. A hunch confirmed. Something she can name.

You sit in silence, the lab colder than before, your hands clenched tight in your lap.

Moira finishes typing.

She turns toward you, perfectly composed. “Your first mission will be in three days. You’re to report here the morning of. I’ll prepare the next dose.”

You nod once—mechanical. You don’t trust your voice.

She turns back to her console, already moving on.

You don’t know what you expected.

But it wasn’t this.

You slide off the table without a word.

Your body moves on autopilot, but your mind won’t settle. The door hisses shut behind you, and the silence of the corridor wraps around you like a vacuum.

You keep your pace steady. You don’t look back.

But every step away from that lab feels like you’re shrinking back into something smaller than what she saw.

Your apartment is, as usual, quiet when you return. Still. Clean.

You pace once from wall to wall, strip off your jacket, and sit heavily on the edge of the bed—barely able to breathe through the weight pressing into your chest.

What the hell were you thinking?

You kissed her like you meant something.

You kissed her like she wasn’t already watching every reaction you had.

You bury your face in your hands.

It wasn’t calculated. It was raw. Messy. Human.

Weak.

She didn’t even have to reject you. She just observed it. Wrote it down. And moved on.

You lie back. Try to sleep. Try to clear your head.

But you don’t.

Because every time you close your eyes, you feel it again. Her hand gripping your neck, guiding you closer, steady and possessive.

You remember the exact pressure of her mouth, the way she held you there—not resisting, just allowing, and how badly you wanted more.

You imagine her stepping in closer, slipping a thigh between yours, grinding down until your breath hitched. You see yourself yanking that lab coat off her shoulders, baring her piece by piece, worshiping every inch like she deserves.

When you wake, these thoughts make shame settle deep, low and hot.

One kiss shouldn’t make you feel so completely undone.

You roll onto your side and curse under your breath.

The next morning, you train.

You wake before dawn and work until your limbs shake. You go for a run, set up your old punching bag, and do everything you can to drown out the humming in your ears. The dose left you with more energy than you know what to do with.

At night, you try to rest.

But you don’t.

Sleep never comes clean. It’s hot, fragmented. Every time you drift off, her voice catches you in the dark. Her eyes. Her breath just barely brushing your skin.

You dream of her lips—her body pressed against yours, imagining the feel of her skin against yours. The memory is twisted now, need tangled up with shame.

When you wake, you’re sweating. Thighs pressed tight together, breath hitching from the edge of a dream you can’t speak aloud.

You don’t touch yourself. The idea of looking Moira in the eye afterward, knowing one kiss left you that desperate, that wrecked, makes your stomach twist with humiliation.

Instead, you stare at the ceiling, jaw locked, waiting in agony for the night to end.

You do this every night.

And when the third night breaks into morning, and your alarm clock ticks toward your arrival—