CTS TIME RE250.06.01 — 7:15 PM
Dr F entered the quarters in the same immaculate white coat, the fabric untouched by time or labor, as if the world itself refused to stain him. The door slid open without a sound, recognizing him before he even crossed the threshold.
Sophia emerged almost simultaneously from the 4D battlefield module, the simulated city dissolving behind her into fragments of light. Her breathing was uneven, sweat clinging to her skin, her DNA uniform repairing itself in smooth waves—microfibers sealing tears, recalibrating temperature, restoring integrity. A faint heat still radiated from her, the afterimage of combat clinging to her muscles.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other.
The air felt heavier than usual—not oppressive, but charged. Like a storm that hadn't decided whether it wanted to break or pass.
Dr F reached behind him, and the door sealed.
Sophia's brow furrowed immediately. She crossed her arms, irritation cutting through her fatigue.
"So," she said, voice low but sharp, "your behavior still hasn't changed. You keep coming inside without permission."
Dr F didn't react the way a subordinate or even an equal would. He didn't apologize. He didn't justify himself emotionally. He only adjusted his stance slightly, hands resting behind his back, posture relaxed but authoritative.
"I already told you," he replied calmly, almost absentmindedly, "this space falls under my authority. Don't mind it."
That answer alone made her lips press into a thin line.
Authority, she thought bitterly. Always authority.
She exhaled, rolling her shoulders as the last of the battlefield tension drained from her body. Her hair clung damply to her neck. She felt exhausted—not just physically, but in the quiet, bone-deep way that came after too much change in too little time.
"I'm going for a bath," she said flatly, turning away from him.
For a fraction of a second, she wondered if he would stop her. Say something sharp. Say something teasing. Say something… dangerous.
Instead, his voice came evenly from behind her.
"I'll wait."
She stopped.
Not because of the words themselves—but because of how they were said. No command. No pressure. No implication that he would follow.
Just a statement.
Sophia didn't turn around. She nodded once, almost to herself, and walked toward the bathing chamber. As the door slid shut behind her, she leaned her forehead briefly against the smooth surface, eyes closing.
Why does that feel more intimate than it should? she asked herself.
Outside, Dr F remained exactly where he was.
He didn't pace. He didn't summon screens. He didn't multitask.
He simply waited—silent, controlled, his presence bending the room ever so slightly around him.
And for reasons neither of them fully understood yet, that unsettled them both far more than violence ever had.
Sophia emerged from the bathing chamber wrapped in a soft white towel, the fabric still warm from the cleansing field that had dried her hair without a sound. The door slid shut behind her, sealing away the faint mist and the sterile scent of antiseptic water. Her skin felt lighter, her thoughts quieter—but not calm.
Across the room, Dr F sat near the minimalist table, one leg crossed over the other, a datapad hovering just above his palm. Lines of data scrolled across its surface in slow, controlled streams. He hadn't looked up yet, his attention seemingly absorbed in whatever complex system he was reviewing.
Sophia paused.
Her eyes flicked toward him, then away, then back again.
Still calm. Still unreadable, she thought.
And then—uninvited, impulsive, reckless—a mischievous thought crept into her mind.
What if… just for a second…
What if I pretend I'm about to drop the towel?
Would that crack that cold, perfect composure? Even a little?
Her lips twitched despite herself.
She took a step forward, deliberately careless, letting the towel loosen just a fraction. Not enough to reveal anything—just enough to suggest. Just enough to test him.
She watched him from the corner of her eye.
Nothing.
No pause. No shift in posture. No sharp intake of breath. His expression remained exactly the same—calm, composed, distant.
Seriously? she thought, half-annoyed, half-amused.
And then—because fate, timing, and irony all seemed to conspire against her—the towel slipped entirely from her grasp.
It fell.
Not dramatically. Not slowly. Just… dropped.
Sophia froze for half a heartbeat—then relaxed just as quickly. She was already wearing a fitted inner garment beneath it, sleek and modest, designed for DNA agents. Still, her cheeks flushed instantly, heat rising all the way to her ears.
She bent to retrieve the towel, muttering under her breath, "Idiot…"
Only then did Dr F finally look up.
His eyes met hers—not sharp, not amused, not flustered. Just… knowing.
"You forgot," he said evenly, as if commenting on a missed variable in an equation, "I can read minds."
Sophia straightened slowly, towel clutched in her hands.
Her face burned.
"You—" she stopped, then tried again, pointing weakly at him. "You didn't have to say it like that."
Dr F set the datapad down, standing with unhurried precision. There was no teasing in his voice, no embarrassment in his posture.
"You were testing a hypothesis," he continued calmly. "The result was predictable."
She stared at him, incredulous. "You're impossible."
A pause.
Then—barely there, but unmistakable—the corner of his mouth lifted.
"Yet," he said, "you keep experimenting."
Sophia huffed, wrapping the towel back around herself with exaggerated annoyance as she turned away. Her heart, however, refused to slow down.
This man, she thought, is unfair in ways science should not allow.
Behind her, Dr F watched for a moment longer before returning to his datapad—though the data scrolled just a little slower than before.
Sophia tightened the towel around herself and turned toward the compact kitchen module, trying very hard to look casual.
"I'm preparing a meal now," she said, a little too quickly. "You can go."
Inside her head, her thoughts were far less composed.
Don't think. Don't think anything stupid. If I think it, he'll see it. Just… empty. Blank. Like meditation.
Behind her, Dr F didn't move toward the door.
Instead, his voice came calm and decisive. "Sit. I'll cook. I have to tell you something."
She turned, surprised, just in time for him to take her hands. His grip wasn't rough, but it was absolute—gravity obeying intent more than strength. Before she could protest, he guided her back and pressed her gently onto the edge of the bed. Not intimate. Not violent. Just… final.
Sophia blinked up at him, momentarily stunned.
So this is what it feels like, she thought, when resistance isn't an option—but not because of fear.
Dr F straightened immediately after, stepping back into his familiar posture. Hands behind his back. Spine straight. Expression composed. The distance between them restored, as if the brief contact had never happened.
He looked down at her, not as a scientist examining a subject, but as someone choosing his words carefully.
"Our vacation," he said evenly, "will be between November or December. Not now. There's too much work. Power structures are unstable. Production lines need recalibration. After what happened… I can't leave this place unattended."
Sophia listened quietly. There was no disappointment in her expression—just understanding, tinged with something softer.
"I understand," she said.
And she did. Strangely, deeply. This wasn't rejection. It wasn't avoidance. It was responsibility—something she was still learning how to live with herself.
Dr F studied her face for a moment longer than necessary, as if checking unseen parameters. Then he turned toward the kitchen module. Panels unfolded soundlessly from the wall, surfaces forming where there had been nothing.
"I'll prepare something light," he added. "Your body is still recalibrating."
Sophia watched him work, the precision in every movement—how even cooking became an exact science in his hands. She hugged the towel closer around herself, a faint smile touching her lips.
He doesn't say unnecessary things, she thought. But when he does… they matter.
And for the first time since Mechatopia swallowed her life whole, she felt something close to stability—sitting on the edge of a bed, wrapped in a towel, watching a man who could bend reality argue with a stove about heat distribution.