(Trama Log_000008 – Subject Hartmann's neural pathways show irregular spikes. Stability compromised.)

  6:45 AM – The Man at the Door, the Chaos Beneath His Skin

  Lorenz had not moved from where he stood.

  Hand pressed against the door. Breath shallow, heartbeat violent.

  His body had betrayed him.

  He had prepared for this morning. Prepared to see Tariq vulnerable, reliant. Prepared to be the one offering salvation.

  Instead, he found perfection.

  Tariq wasn't just whole—he was transcendent.

  And now that he had seen it, he could not unsee it.

  His mind replayed the moment, again and again, burning it into him like a brand.

  The way Tariq's body stretched in the morning light.

  The flex of his muscles, the curiosity in his own touch as he explored his newly restored skin.

  The moment had been too real, too intimate, too much.

  Lorenz had closed the door, but he was still there.

  Still inside that room.

  Still watching.

  Tariq dressed slowly.

  He had already known the truth before waking, but feeling it—**standing on two legs again, pressing his foot into the ground, rolling his weight from heel to toe—**was something else entirely.

  He ran his hands over his thigh again, fingertips tracing the line between what was new and what had always been.

  But there was no seam.

  No distinction.

  It was as if he had never been incomplete.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  (Trama Log_000008 – Genetic reconstruction remains stable. Quantum integration: functional.)

  Fuchur had not lied.

  She had built this for him.

  And somewhere, she was watching.

  Tariq turned his head slightly.

  The mirror reflected his own eyes, but also something else.

  On the nightstand, resting against a folded piece of cloth, was a single white hair.

  Deliberately placed.

  A message.

  (Trama Log_000008 – Entity Fuchur has initiated contact. Awaiting response.)

  Lorenz didn't want to see him again.

  Not yet.

  But he couldn't stop himself.

  He told himself it was to check Tariq's condition. That was rational. Logical. Expected.

  But his hands were sweating.

  He entered without knocking.

  Tariq had already dressed, sitting by the window, perfectly composed.

  For a moment, Lorenz couldn't speak.

  He was waiting for something.

  Waiting for Tariq to acknowledge what had changed.

  For a crack in the calm.

  For a flicker of vanity, of pleasure, of superiority.

  But there was nothing.

  Tariq turned his gaze toward him, steady, unreadable.

  Lorenz clenched his jaw.

  — "I had something prepared for you." His voice was measured, almost dismissive. "A prosthetic upgrade. A prototype."

  Tariq didn't flinch.

  — "I don't need it."

  The words were simple. Final.

  Lorenz exhaled sharply through his nose.

  He took two steps forward—too close, too quickly.

  — "You think this makes you invincible?"

  Tariq tilted his head slightly.

  — "I think this changes nothing."

  Lorenz hated that answer.

  He had expected gratitude.

  Or defiance.

  Or even some sign that Tariq felt the shift between them.

  But Tariq was untouched.

  Unmoved.

  And that was more unbearable than anything else.

  (Trama Log_000008 – Subject Hartmann's neurological activity remains erratic. Unresolved instability detected.)

  Elena had never doubted her brother.

  She had doubted his impulses. His attachments. His ability to remain detached when necessary.

  But she had never doubted his control.

  Until now.

  She saw it before he did.

  The small shifts.

  The way his focus had narrowed, sharpened, fixed itself on something.

  Lorenz had always been obsessive.

  But this?

  This was different.

  She let the Trama filter through the morning's interactions. Cross-referenced his neural patterns, measured the subtle but significant change in his responses.

  And then, she knew.

  She had seen this before.

  (Trama Log_000008 – Chancellor Elena Gomez Hartmann has flagged Subject Hartmann for observation.)

  Lorenz sat alone in his quarters.

  One hand curled loosely around a glass of water, the other resting over his lips, as if trying to silence something.

  He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh, or scream, or rip the past twelve hours from his memory.

  He had lost control before.

  He had been obsessive before.

  But never like this.

  Because this wasn't just a need.

  This was a wound.

  A break in something fundamental inside him, something he had spent his whole life keeping sealed.

  Tariq had opened something in him.

  And Lorenz didn't know how to close it again.