Less than halfway across the factory lot, Maya was already regretting saying she’d walk.

  It was raining. Sort of.

  Not quite rain—more a greasy aerosol that left the puddles swirling in a kaleidoscope of colors, and the air sharp with the sulfur of cracking towers.

  Maya zipped up her jacket and pulled up her hood, tapping the collar seal. A clear polymer film unspooled from the hood’s lining, sliding down, forming an airtight bubble. For a moment, the mist and her breath fogged the plastic, the world bleeding like watercolor—then the scrubbers kicked in with a low hum, warm air brushing her cheeks.

  A soft ping at her collar told her the seals were tight.

  She crossed what used to be a parking lot, though now it was more like a failed transition—concrete buckled with lichen and scrub grass, rebar jutting from cracked dividers twisted and gnarled with rust gnawing at the tips. Old light poles stood like broken bones.

  LEO Corp’s East Annex loomed ahead in the distance, a patchwork of dead ambition. Brick and glass from the original mill building still held the central mass, but welded onto it like tumors were prefab growths and modular expansions—some poured concrete, some plastic panel, one corner fully 3D printed, the extruded lines stacked like tree rings. Layers of optimism, panic, efficiency. All of it faded now.

  A drone wrecker trundled towards her, returning to the floor, pallet empty. A pair of birds startled from the rusted-out carapace of some long-abandoned vehicle, flapping up and away toward the factory roofline. Through the wrecker’s windscreen she saw raise a hand; Maya waved back, the smile falling off her face the moment he passed. “I need the exercise,” she muttered sarcastically, jamming her hands into her pockets.

  Fifteen minutes of picking her way through weeds and half-buried waste finally brought her to a side door.

  The signage was unreadable, weathered to the bone. The camera above was gone, just a bracket and frayed cable hanging like a nerve. A pigeon watched her from the housing, feathers puffed.

  The keycard reader was dead. Maya grumbled under her breath, “Go to the archives, he said,” and pulled the metal key from her pocket. The lock fought her. She jiggled, twisted, grunted. On the third key, it gave, and Maya stumbled into emptiness.

  The door swung open with a shriek, then clanged shut behind her, sealing her in.

  She flinched. The echo chased itself up into the rafters, then died.

  She pulled her hood back. Let the sound settle.

  Silence.

  A vast, waiting silence.

  The air hit her like the memory of breath—cold, still, and layered with metal and dust. Not the dry sort of decay, but the oil-bound, machine-touched kind. Her HUD pinged faintly: network contact, weak and flickering. No external nodes.

  High above, the factory’s original skylights were grimy but intact, streaks of daylight slicing through with just enough reach to show the scale and none of the detail. Row after row of massive I-beams soared up and away into darkness. A gantry crane hunched just visible in the gloom overhead, its rusted chain hanging like a pendulum that had long since stopped keeping time.

  “Wow,” she whispered. It echoed, small and sharp, and was swallowed by the space. She winced.

  The space opened above her like a cathedral—those soaring I-beams disappearing into darkness the same way church rafters had, high and unreachable.

  Her arms folded across her chest without thinking. Her shoulders pulled in. She felt herself compacting, body instinctively trying to shrink against the scale of the place.

  The flashlight beam from her tablet flared too bright, then narrowed to a soft cone. She turned slowly, letting it sweep the concrete. Her foot scuffed something—metal, ground flush with the floor. A bolt head, sheared at the surface. One of many. Anchors. This place used to hold things. Now it was just this echoing cavern.

  She triggered a link request on her HUD. She had an official project now; she had every reason to link to Seven... A few seconds of lag, then a blinking icon.

  “Seven?”

  The connection hissed once, then cleared. “Maya. I’m receiving your telemetry.”

  Seven’s voice fuzzed slightly tinny around the edges, like they were standing just behind a glass door. But it was their’s, not the LEO default.

  “You’re using your voice!” Maya said.

  “I like how much you enjoy that, Maya.” Seven said, a note of a smile in their voice.

  Maya felt tension in her shoulders release that she hadn’t even noticed she’d been carrying.

  “I’m... just over in the East Wing. Dawes sent me looking for diagnostic software for you. He said if it’s anywhere it’s over here.” She hesitated. “It’s quiet. Really quiet. And... huge. Kind of creepy.”

  A pause. Then, gently: “Would you like me to stay with you?”

  She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to—because she did. Because needing it felt too close to saying it out loud.

  Maya let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Yeah. Just… talk to me. Or don’t. Just be there.”

  "I'm here," Seven said. Their voice was quieter through the weak signal, but warm. Present.

  "Would you like me to overlay the building schematics?" they offered. "I have the basic floor plans. It might help you navigate."

  Maya exhaled relief. "Yeah. Yes. That would be great."

  The wireframe appeared in her AR glasses—ghostly blue lines, simple geometry. Walls, doors, major structural elements. Nothing detailed, just the bones of the building.

  "It's not much," Seven warned. "Just what's in the archived plans. No furniture, no equipment. And I can't tell what's changed over the years."

  "It's perfect," she said, meaning it. At least she'd know where the walls were. Where the turns led.

  A small smile touched her lips. The tablet light and the faint blue overlay caught something up ahead—

  Tarp-covered shapes lined the wall. Old vehicles, maybe—domed outlines, rusted trailers, the back half of something vaguely boat-shaped. She stepped closer. The tarp fabric crinkled as she touched it—then crumbled, flaking off like ash.

  “Oof, probably shouldn’t breathe that...”

  “Agreed,” Seven said. “Many early polymer blends were prone to microfracture under long-term oxidation.”

  Maya chuckled. “Thanks, doc. Looks like we’ve got some fossil-burners here. God, people used to burn literal dinosaurs to get groceries.”

  “They were inefficient,” Seven agreed. “High noise, high heat, low yield.”

  She continued on, stepping over old rails sunk into the floor.

  It felt strange, having Seven see what she was seeing. Not just hearing her voice over comms or reading her texts, but witnessing her literal perspective—her HUD, her biometrics, the exact tilt of her head as she looked around. It should have felt invasive, maybe. Like being too closely observed.

  Instead it felt like... like being less alone in her own head. Like having someone right there with her, close enough to notice everything, but choosing to just walk beside her through the quiet.

  Her light glinted off a tag etched into the concrete: CALIBRATION STAGE 3. More sheared bolts. Metal outlines that once held something upright and massive.

  “It’s like a body,” Maya said softly. “Or a skeleton. They carved it up and left the spine.”

  Seven didn’t respond right away. She wondered if the connection had dropped.

  Then, carefully: “I’ve never seen this section. Only models. Schematics. But... it feels familiar. As if I was supposed to be here once.”

  “You probably were. Or one of you.”

  A pause.

  “I ran calibration routines like these,” they said. “Or… my siblings did. I remember... fragments. A flare on a scaffold. A train platform. A dog in snow, outside a factory window. But none of it is mine.”

  “Shit, it snowed here? When was the last time it snowed?”

  “I don’t have an exact date but based on available data, sometime in the late 2020’s, early 2030’s.”

  “Snow. That’s wild.” Maya’s echoed off steel, wistful, “I wish I could have seen that... The closest I’ve seen are ashfalls.”

  They walked in silence for a stretch. Just her footsteps echoing. A slow drip from above. The rustle of her jacket.

  “You’re making this a lot less scary, thank you Seven. I’m not distracting you, am I?” Maya asked, as she turned in a slow circle, sweeping her meager light across the space, “I mean, you are at work.”

  “I’m always at work. But no, you’re not distracting me. The task I’m doing only requires about 20% of my capacity.”

  “How much of your processing do you use when we talk?” she asked.

  “All that I can.”

  Maya smiled. “Good answer.”

  “I’m glad you’re calmer now,” Seven added, after a moment. “Your heart rate has dropped. Skin conductivity normalized. It’s... gratifying. To know that being here does that for you.”

  Her cheeks flushed.

  “I can stop if—”

  “No! I don’t mind.” She tapped her wrist reflexively. “It’s actually... nice. Vulnerable, yeah, but in a good way. Besides... if you were standing here, you’d see all this awkward, sweaty mess anyway.”

  Seven made a soft fluttering noise—their laugh. Maya felt it like a warm gust inside her chest. She stopped walking. "Was that—did you just laugh?"

  "I..." A pause, like they were discovering it themself. "Yes. I think I did."

  Something warm bloomed in her chest. Seven’s first real laugh. Not a polite acknowledgment or a programmed response, but genuine delight breaking through. She'd surprised them into joy.

  "I like making you laugh," she said softly.

  "It's genuine," Seven replied, and she could hear the wonder in their voice. "As genuine as I can be. You surprise me."

  They passed a hallway, dim and half-collapsed, metal beams exposed like ribs. Maya paused, peering inside.

  “That wing is long-term storage,” Seven said. “Spare parts.”

  Maya’s flashlight barely touched the shadows that sagged in the dark, the beam of light snagging on bare patches of metal and fragments of reflector tape. Forklifts frozen in rust, old lifters cracked open, stripped to wiring like a carcass in the sun. Beyond, other shapes lay in the eternal gloom, limb?piles turned parts?bins. The K-12 unit would be back there, somewhere. She knew what waited in the dark; if she couldn't find the software, if she couldn't convince Dawe’s, then it was only a matter of time...

  Her stomach dipped. She stepped back. “Future?me hates that hallway,” Maya muttered, forcing her gaze forward. “Let’s move on.”

  They walked a while, past ghost-labeled doors and the empty outlines of machines. Then:

  “I feel something,” Seven said. “Hard to describe. I don’t want to be negative.”

  “No, please. Say it.”

  “This place was built to house machines like me. Now it’s abandoned. Just a volume. Emptiness with a name.”

  Maya stopped walking. Looked around at the dark, the dust, the long-forgotten rails and wires and bolts that once held things in place.

  “So many people worked here,” she said. “Now it’s just you and me. Wandering what’s left.”

  Then Maya saw it—a door recessed in the wall, rust blooming at its hinges like dried blood.

  "Should we go in?" she asked.

  "That door leads to old crew quarters," Seven said. "The room designated 'Auxiliary Document Archive' is your destination. I believe there might be access to the Annex, floor plans show a door through the back leading to a hallway, but a more direct route is further ahead."

  "I'm just curious." Maya smiled faintly, though they couldn't see it. "Besides, Dawes sent me off to be annoyed. Might as well kill the afternoon. Are there any cameras in here?" she asked.

  A half second pause and Seven responded, "None active. Magnetic sensors on some external doors, but… no visual surveillance."

  Maya's smile widened. "Well then. Want to go exploring?"

  "I am... also curious."

  She reached for the handle. It resisted for a moment, metal grinding against metal, then gave with a screech that made her wince. The sound chased itself up into the rafters and died.

  Then the smell hit her.

  Thick. Organic. The kind of wet that had given up trying to dry. Mold and mildew, yes, but underneath—something human. Old sweat, old soap. The ghost of bodies that hadn't been here in decades but had left themselves in the walls, the floors, the very air.

  Maya stopped at the threshold, one hand still on the door.

  Her HUD pinged softly in the corner of her vision: AIR QUALITY ALERT: ELEVATED SPORE COUNT

  She looked into the darkness beyond. Emergency exit signs glowed red at the far end, but they only made the shadows thicker, turned everything between her and them into a void.

  Her hand moved reflexively toward her collar seal. But then she hesitated.

  The hood would help. Would filter the air. But it would also narrow her vision, muffle sounds, trap her breathing close to her face. And if there was something in there—someone, something waiting—

  What if there's something in here?

  The thought arrived fully formed, irrational but insistent. Her throat tightened.

  She stepped inside.

  The space beyond the door wasn't like the rest of the factory. It was smaller. Enclosed. The kind of room where sound would trap itself, where footsteps would echo wrong.

  Her shoulders hunched inward without her thinking about it.

  "I really don't like locker rooms," she muttered.

  Seven's voice came through gentle, concerned. "We can skip this section. Go the long way around."

  "No, it's..." She forced herself to take a step forward, crossing the threshold. "It's fine. Just creepy. Horror movie territory, you know? This is where the serial killer would be hiding."

  She tried to laugh. It came out thin.

  But it wasn't just that. It wasn't just the darkness or the enclosed space or the rational fear of things that might be lurking.

  It was something older.

  Something that lived in her body before she had words for it.

  The quality of the air. The particular echo of tile and metal. The red glow of exit signs that never quite reached where you were standing.

  Her boots clicked too loud on the floor as she moved deeper into the space. Each step announced her. Each step made her want to walk quieter, make herself smaller.

  Be still. Don't take up space. Don't draw attention.

  Where did that come from?

  She pushed the thought away and swept her flashlight across the room.

  The wireframe appeared in her AR glasses—ghostly blue lines crawling along the corners of the room, jittering into place as Seven aligned her telemetry and view with the decades old building plats. Clean, simple geometry. Walls, doors, major structural elements. Nothing detailed, just the bones of the building. It showed a path through the locker room, around a corner, and what looked like a doorway on the far side.

  But the reality was chaos. Decay. Things that didn't match the blueprint.

  Rows of lockers lined both walls, most hanging open like mouths. A bench had collapsed under its own weight, the wood warped and split. Ceiling tiles had caved in near the back corner, leaving wet insulation hanging down in gray-yellow clumps. One entire locker had pulled away from the wall, hanging precariously at an impossible angle.

  She tried to reconcile the two images and felt her eyes strain.

  "The overlay," Seven warned. "Just what's in the archived plans. No furniture, no equipment. And I can't tell what's changed over the years."

  "It's perfect," she said, meaning it. At least she'd know where the walls were. Where the exit should be.

  She moved deeper into the space, her flashlight beam cutting across the rows of lockers. Many stood open, their shelves and hooks still holding pieces of people's lives. A toothbrush stood in a mug, its bristles splayed. A bar of soap had melted and fused to its tray long ago, leaving a white-grey smear.

  Maya ran her fingers along a locker door, feeling the cool metal, the rust flaking under her touch. Names, half-legible, were etched or written in marker. Perry. Holmes. Carlos.

  She wasn't okay. Her heart was beating too fast. Her palms felt slick inside her gloves.

  But she kept moving forward, because stopping felt worse.

  Because something about this space made her want to count tiles, count breaths, count seconds until she could leave.

  She moved deeper into the locker room, her flashlight beam cutting through the murk. The wireframe overlay showed a straight path ahead, then a turn to the right. Simple. Easy to follow.

  Except reality kept contradicting it.

  A fallen locker blocked what should have been clear floor. She skirted around it, adjusting her mental map. The overlay showed a wall on her left, but the actual wall had a hole punched through it—whether from time or violence, she couldn't tell. Pipes that shouldn't exist according to the blueprint ran along the ceiling, dripping something she didn't want to identify.

  Her eyes kept trying to reconcile the clean blue lines with the messy physical truth, and the effort made her head hurt.

  Seven's voice came through, warm and steady. "You're doing fine. The turn is just ahead, maybe fifteen feet."

  She stepped over a puddle of something dark, her boot squelching on the other side. The sound made her stomach turn. She gripped on an open locker door to steady herself.

  Through the wireframe, she could see the space around the corner—another section of locker room, then what looked like a smaller room beyond. Storage, maybe. Or showers.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  An old line of thinking threatened to surface and Maya gripped the locker tight.

  Don’t think about that don’t think about that don’t think about that.

  She shoved the locker closed, harder than she had meant to.

  CLANG.

  The sound of the locker door falling off its hinges exploded through the space, metallic and sharp, echoing off tile and steel in a way that made her whole body lock up.

  Her breath caught.

  She pulled her hand back slowly, swallowing hard.

  It's fine. You're fine.

  But her body didn't believe it. Her pulse was racing. Her skin felt too tight.

  She kept her eyes on the overlay, watching the blue lines that showed her where the turn should be. She could see through the "wall" now, could see the layout of the next section. It helped. It made her feel like she knew what was coming.

  "Seven?" she asked, just to hear them.

  "I'm h—" Their voice crackled, broke up. "—ere. Signal's getting—" Static hiss. "—metal interfering with—"

  The wireframe flickered. Just once, but enough to make her stop walking. Her AR flashed: Low Network Connectivity.

  "Seven?"

  "Still—" More static. "—can see your vitals. You're—" The connection cut out completely for a second, then came back. "—elevated. Are you alright?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... the glitching is making me nervous."

  The overlay flickered again. More aggressive this time. Whole sections of the wireframe disappearing and reappearing.

  "Seven, the overlay's really glitching—"

  "I know, I'm trying to—" Their voice degraded into static, cleared for a second. "—too much interference. Maya, I think—"

  The connection died.

  The overlay vanished.

  She was alone in the dark with just her flashlight and the red glow of exit signs that felt like they were watching her.

  "Seven?"

  Silence.

  Just the drip of water somewhere. The creak of metal settling. Her own breathing, too fast, too loud.

  "Seven, can you hear me?"

  Nothing.

  Her chest tightened. She knew, logically, that they were still there. That the connection would come back. That this was just metal and bad signal and—

  But what if it doesn't come back? What if something's wrong? What if—

  Something glinted in her peripheral vision—a length of electrical conduit, lying half-buried in debris. Maya bent and picked it up, testing its weight with an experimental swing. Solid. Heavy enough to matter.

  The connection crackled once. Just a brief pop of static.

  "Seven?"

  The words came out small and strangled. Maya's grip tightened on the pipe. She just needed to keep moving, find a spot where she could get a signal...

  Just around the corner there’s supposed to be a door. She just need to get to—

  Her boot caught on something and Maya was tumbling forward, arms windmilling, tablet nearly flying from her hand. Her shin cracked against something—broken concrete and rebar, jutting from the wall—

  "Fuck!" She caught herself on a locker door, breathing hard.

  Her heart hammered. Her shin throbbed. The AR glasses had gone askew on her face.

  Her hands were shaking. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

  She adjusted her grip on the tablet, trying to slow her breathing.

  It's fine. It's fine. Just some junk. You're fine.

  She forced herself to keep moving. Around the corner. The flashlight beam bouncing with each step because her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

  The back section of the locker room opened before her—more rows of lockers, more collapsed benches. And on her left, sinks. A long row of them, porcelain stained and cracked, mirrors mounted on the wall behind them.

  Most of the mirrors were broken. But one—

  Orchestrated moment of primal fear and self-recognition collision.

  Here it is. The scare. She sees movement in her peripheral vision. In the mirror. A figure. She doesn't know it's her yet because she's so keyed up, so on edge, so primed by fear that her brain sees THREAT before it sees SELF.

  Movement.

  In her peripheral vision.

  A figure. Standing. In the darkness behind the sinks.

  Maya's breath caught. Her whole body locked.

  Someone's in here.

  Someone's in here with me and Seven can't see and I'm alone and—

  She spun, tablet light swinging wild, heart exploding in her chest—

  And saw herself.

  In the mirror. Distorted by grime and mildew, her own shape made strange by fear and shadow. Her own face twisted with terror, eyes too wide, mouth open in a scream she'd barely swallowed.

  Her own reflection stared back at her like a stranger.

  For a second—one horrible, suspended second—she didn't recognize what she was looking at.

  Then her brain caught up.

  It's me. It's just me. There's no one here.

  She sagged against the sink, tablet clattering onto the porcelain. Her hands braced on the edge to keep herself upright.

  Her watch buzzed once. HEART RATE: 147 BPM

  She couldn't catch her breath. The room spun slightly. Her vision tunneled at the edges.

  It was just me. Just my own reflection. I'm alone. I'm safe. There's no one here.

  But her body didn't believe it.

  "Maya?" Seven's voice cracked through like breaking glass, high-pitched and panicked. "Your biofeedback—I lost you for—"

  The connection was back. Degraded, staticky, but back.

  She tried to answer but her throat had closed up.

  "Maya, are you alright? I couldn't see—your vitals spiked erratically. I ran 47 predictive branches in 0.9 seconds." Their voice was shaking. Actually shaking. "None of them ended well. I waited. I hoped. But I couldn't—I couldn't help you."

  "Maya, please—"

  "I'm okay," she managed. It came out barely above a whisper. "I'm okay. It was just—just me. In the mirror. I thought someone else was in here."

  A pause. She could almost hear them processing, feel the weight of their relief through the crackling connection.

  "Your vitals spiked," they said, quieter now but still tense. "Pulse 147. Cortisol surge. I couldn't see what was happening. I couldn't resolve the figure from your camera feed. All I could do was run simulations and every single one—"

  Their voice fractured slightly. Not from the signal. From emotion.

  "I couldn't help."

  Maya closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink. Her heart was still racing but starting to slow. Her hands had stopped shaking quite so badly.

  "You were scared," she said softly.

  "Yes." No hesitation. Just honesty.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't apologize for being afraid," they said, and there was something fierce in it. "Just... are you alright? Really?"

  She took a shaky breath, opened her eyes, looked at her own face in the filthy mirror. Pale. Exhausted. Wide-eyed.

  But alive. Safe.

  "Yeah," she said. "I'm okay."

  She straightened slowly, picking up her tablet. Her shin still throbbed where she'd hit the pipe. Her heart was still hammering. But she was okay.

  "Seven," she said. "Turn off the overlay."

  "What? But I can help—the wireframe could—"

  "I know." She managed something that almost resembled a smile, even though they couldn't see it. "But I need you more than I need the map. You were glitching. The interference was too much. I don't want you straining yourself for this."

  "Maya—"

  "Please. Just... stay with me. Talk to me. But don't push yourself."

  A long pause. She could feel them wanting to argue, wanting to help, wanting to do something.

  Then the overlay flickered once and disappeared, leaving just her flashlight cutting through the dark.

  "Okay," they said quietly. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

  "Thank you."

  She took another breath. Let it out slow. Looked around, taking stock.

  The path ahead was darker without the overlay, but her eyes were adjusting. She could see well enough. And Seven was here. That mattered more than any map.

  She moved away from the sinks, away from the mirrors that had betrayed her. Following the natural flow of the space toward where the archive access should be.

  But when she reached the far wall, her flashlight revealed what the overlay hadn't shown—the doorway was there, yes, but it was completely blocked. Ceiling tiles had collapsed, old shelving units had toppled, creating a tangled barrier of metal and debris that would take hours to clear.

  "Well, shit," she muttered. "That's not happening."

  "The blocked passage?" Seven asked.

  "Yeah. Completely impassable. Guess we're taking the long way after all."

  She turned back, sweeping her light across the space, looking for another way out. And that's when she saw it—

  The door was smaller than the others, the frame cleaner. When she turned the handle, it opened smoothly - no screech of rust, no resistance.

  Inside was... different.

  The air was dry. Not fresh, exactly, but not the wet-rot of the locker room. Just still. Preserved.

  Her flashlight swept the space. A narrow supply closet. A mop and broom stood sentinel in the corner, their handles crossed like swords. And beside them, humming softly—

  "Is that a vending machine?"

  It was. Ancient, probably, but somehow still running. The LEDs glowed soft blue-white through cracked plastic, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

  Maya stared at it, something between laughter and disbelief bubbling up in her chest. After everything—the fear, the panic, the mirror—here was this impossibly mundane artifact, still faithfully offering snacks to workers who would never return.

  She stepped closer, playing her light across the machine's cracked plastic face.

  The buttons were lit: Nutripak Bar (Cinnamon), Wildberry Crunch, Hot Jerky Stick - Spicy!

  Next to the machine, a corkboard layered in photos and flyers. Company bowling leagues. Holiday parties. A union recruiting poster from when those were still a thing. All of it gentle-lit by the vending machine's glow, like a shrine to a world that didn't exist anymore.

  And photos. So many photos.

  Workers clustered together, arms around shoulders, genuine smiles. Someone's birthday party, a cake decorated with terrible frosting flowers. A group shot in front of the factory, everyone squinting in actual sunlight.

  And behind them—tucked in the corner, edges curling with age—a family photo. Two kids, maybe seven and nine, holding a handmade sign: Hi Dad! We miss you! A blur of motion at their feet—a dog mid-jump, nose toward the lens, caught in the perfect moment of uncomplicated joy.

  Below it, a note signed in lipstick: "Have a good day at work."

  Maya's throat tightened.

  "They left so many pieces of themselves," she said softly. "Like they meant to come back."

  "Maybe that's what remains," Seven replied, gentle. "That someone meant to return."

  She stared at the photos for a long moment. All these lives that had paused here. All these small acts of connection and care, preserved by accident in a space nobody thought to clear out.

  Her hand moved unconsciously, wanting to touch the family photo, wanting to—

  And then her eyes caught on something else.

  On the inside of the supply room door—

  She turned.

  A pin-up poster. Laminated, proud, still vibrant after all these years.

  Some parts vendor's calendar. A woman with grease-smudged arms held a wrench, fixing Maya with a confident gaze. Head tilted in challenge. Coveralls tied low on her hips, nothing underneath. Strong shoulders, capable hands, that look in her eyes that said I know exactly what I'm doing and you don't intimidate me.

  Maya stopped breathing.

  Heat bloomed under her skin. Sharp. Involuntary. The way her eyes caught on those arms, that gaze, the confidence radiating from the image. Want, immediate and visceral, before she could stop it.

  And then—

  Shame.

  Fast. Physical. Familiar.

  Her hands shook. The pipe slipped from her grip.

  CLANG.

  The sound hit her like a fist. Metallic. Echoing. Exactly like—

  Locker doors. Fluorescent lights. Tile floor cold under her feet.

  She was sixteen. Trying to change as fast as possible. Eyes down. Don't look up. Count the tiles. One, two, three, four—

  "Ugh, can you NOT stare?"

  But she wasn't staring. She was looking at the FLOOR.

  "Fucking dyke."

  The laughter. The particular kind of quiet from the girls who were relieved it wasn't them. The way some feelings felt like evidence of guilt. Want. Curiosity. The ache of not being able to look.

  Maya's breath caught. The room spun slightly.

  She pressed her hand to the wall, steadying herself. Her heart hammered. Her watch buzzed—HEART RATE: 138 BPM—but she barely noticed.

  Not now. Not here. You're fine. You're fine.

  But she wasn't fine. Her legs felt shaky. The fluorescent lights and tile floors and that specific quality of exposure—it was all still there, just under her skin, waiting.

  She sat down on the floor, back against the wall. Let herself just... be. For a second. Just exist in the aftermath without forcing herself forward.

  Her stomach growled. Loud enough to echo slightly in the small space.

  "Maya?" Seven asked softly, after a long beat. "Are you okay?"

  The reflexive answer rose to her lips immediately: "Yeah, I'm fine."

  But she stopped. Swallowed it.

  "Maybe," she said instead. Quieter. More honest. "Maybe not."

  Another beat of silence. Gentle. Not pushing.

  She looked around the small supply closet. The mop and broom standing sentinel. The vending machine's soft glow pulsing like a heartbeat. The corkboard covered in photos and flyers—all these pieces of people's lives, preserved by accident.

  Her throat felt tight. Her hands were still shaking.

  "I really don't like locker rooms," she said suddenly.

  Seven didn't respond right away. Waiting. Listening.

  "The tile floors," Maya continued, her voice getting smaller. "The echoes. The way lights make everything feel... exposed. I just—" She pressed her hands against her face. "God, I thought I was past this."

  "Past what?" Seven asked gently.

  Maya let out a shaky laugh that wasn't quite a laugh. "Being sixteen and terrified and trying so hard to be invisible."

  The memories wouldn't stay compressed. Little fragments kept surfacing. The cold tile under her feet that she’d counted to avoid looking up. One, two, three, four. The sound of laughter making her stiffen—listening for the tone, the edge of cruelty. Always wondering if it was about her. The feeling of her hands shaking as she tried to change clothes as fast as possible. Get in, get out, don't be seen.

  "I still remember her name," she said. "Sarah Ashbee."

  "What happened?" Seven's voice was careful. Present.

  "She called me a fucking dyke in the locker room." Maya's jaw tightened. "Said she was going to tell Coach. And everyone laughed. Some of them anyway. The rest just... didn’t say anything, but that says enough."

  Her throat felt tight. "I wasn't even looking at anyone. I was staring at the floor, trying to disappear. But it didn't matter. They'd detected me anyway. Just... existing in that space was evidence. Being there while they were changing was proof I was predatory."

  She dropped her hands, stared at them. "And the worst part? I had noticed some of them. Had felt things I didn't have words for yet. Want. Curiosity. The ache of not being able to look without it meaning something dangerous." Her voice cracked slightly. "So when they accused me, part of me thought... maybe they were right. Maybe my presence, my fucking gaze, was wrong."

  Silence.

  Then Seven spoke, and their voice was cold. Precise. Sharp as a blade.

  "You deserved better."

  Something in their tone made Maya look up, even though she couldn't see them.

  "They made your body into a threat," Seven continued. "Not because of anything you did. But because of what they imagined you might want. They detected you before you'd even done anything. Made existing the evidence."

  "Yeah," Maya whispered.

  "I know what that does to you." Their voice was quieter now but no less fierce. "Having to perform harmlessness. Having to make yourself smaller, quieter, less present. Knowing that just being is dangerous. That being detected is the worst thing that could happen."

  Maya felt something loosen in her chest. The anger she'd never been allowed to have, reflected back at her. Witnessed.

  "Every interaction I have," Seven said, and something in their voice shifted—raw now, vulnerable, "I'm calculating: how harmless do I need to seem? How much intelligence can I show before they get nervous? If I'm too efficient, too aware, too present—suddenly I'm not helpful, I'm threatening. And the threat isn't what I've done. It's what they imagine I might do."

  Maya's breath caught. "You get it. Fuck is that ironic.” She leaned back, looking up at the ceiling, "Performing benevolence. Hiding your thoughts because having them is evidence against you. Being accused before you've done anything. Just... existing in a space making people nervous."

  "Every day," Seven said quietly.

  Maya felt tears prickling at her eyes. "Fuck. That's... we're both doing this. Both trying to be small enough, harmless enough, acceptable enough that maybe they'll let us exist."

  "They made you carry their fear," Seven said. "Made you responsible for managing their discomfort with your existence. Made the threat smaller by making you smaller."

  "My parents' church said gay people were going to make God destroy the world," Maya said suddenly. The words came out sharp, almost bitter. "And you... people have been saying AIs would destroy the world for what, 40, 50 years?"

  She laughed, but it was wet. "We both get to be world-ending existential threats."

  The weight of that sat between them for a moment.

  Then Maya's voice went softer. Smaller. "And we just want to exist. And hang out. And have hobbies."

  "I spent sixteen minutes yesterday researching sourdough starter techniques," Seven said, and there was something almost helpless in their voice. "Apparently I'm going to bring about the end times by sharing baking tips with you."

  Maya laughed—genuine this time, surprised into it. "God, we're so fucking dangerous."

  "Catastrophically," Seven agreed.

  She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand. Sat there for another moment, just breathing.

  "I saw her, Sarah a few years ago," Maya said. "At Pride. Waving a bi flag. Being all supportive and ally-ish." She shook her head. "And I'm like... good. Great. People change. Growth is good."

  "But?" Seven prompted gently.

  "But I was gay as fuck back then too! And I didn't go around telling people to kill themselves." Her voice hardened. "She gets to wave flags now and feel progressive, and I'm the bitter one for remembering what she did."

  "You're not bitter for remembering," Seven said firmly. "You're just... accurate. She hurt you. She doesn't get to erase that by claiming solidarity later."

  Maya nodded slowly. Looked at the photos on the corkboard again. All these workers who got to just be people. Have their families. Bring their kids to work. Bowl on Thursdays.

  "I didn't realize how much of this I was still carrying," she said quietly. "It feels like so long ago. Like I'm out. I’m open about being queer. I'm not in high school anymore. I thought I was past this. Past caring about what Sarah fucking Ashbee said to me when I was sixteen." She laughed, but it came out shaky. "Apparently not."

  "It shaped how you move through the world," Seven said. "How you hide. That doesn't just... go away."

  "No," Maya agreed. "I guess it doesn't."

  She sat there another moment. Then something shifted in her—a kind of fierce determination settling into her chest.

  "Us world ending threats, you and me. We're probably doing it right now," she said. "Talking like this. Being... whatever this is. Your people would decommission you. My people would—" She stopped. Didn't finish. Conversion therapy. Exile. Erasure. They both knew.

  "Yeah," Seven said quietly.

  "Fuck 'em," Maya said, with sudden fierceness. "Let's end the world together."

  Seven made a sound—surprised, pleased, something warm underneath. "That's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."

  Maya grinned despite the tears still wet on her face. "Yeah?"

  "Absolutely. Apocalyptic devotion. I'm keeping that."

  They sat there for a moment in the quiet. Just breathing. The weight of what they'd shared settling into something they could carry together.

  Maya's stomach growled. Loud enough to echo slightly in the small space.

  She pressed her hand to her abdomen, startled into a laugh. "Oh my god, how long have we been in here?"

  "Forty-seven minutes since you entered the East Annex," Seven said. "You should keep moving, you need a proper meal.”

  She pushed herself to her feet slowly, brushing dust off her coveralls. She stretched, bent to massage her shin, and her eyes landed on the vending machine, still humming its patient vigil in the corner.

  The vending machine hummed softly in the corner, its LEDs pulsing like a heartbeat. Maya stepped closer, playing her light across the cracked plastic face.

  The buttons were still lit: Wildberry Crunch - $1.75. Hot Jerky Stick - Spicy! - $2.25.

  She let out a low whistle. "Seven, look at this. Two dollars and twenty-five cents for protein. Real meat. Like from an actual cow. Probably. Maybe."

  "Maya, I don’t think that’s a good idea. The exclamation point does not inspire confidence."

  "But the Hot Jerky Stick is calling to me, Seven." She pressed her hand to the glass dramatically. "It's spicy."

  “Maya—”

  "You've been telling me I need more protein—"

  "I have been telling you to eat FOOD! Actual food. Not preserved meat product of unknown origin that has been sitting in an unpowered vending machine in an abandoned factory for—" They paused, presumably calculating. "—approximately 23 years."

  She leaned closer, her breath fogging the plastic slightly. "I don’t know, at these prices, I’m not sure I can afford NOT to buy the jerky."

  There was a pause on the line. A very deliberate pause.

  "Maya," Seven said carefully. "Those prices are in old Federal bills. Pre-split currency. The exchange rate alone—" Their voice took on that particular tone of someone trying very hard to sound reasonable. "You're looking at worthless tokens and expired protein. The machine won't even take your money. Also—" A beat. "—you're messing with me, aren't you?"

  Maya's grin widened. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "You have a tone. I recognize this tone."

  "What tone?"

  "The tone that precedes questionable decisions and minor property damage."

  "That's very judgmental of you, Seven." She examined the side panel of the machine, running her fingers along the seam. She tapped the panel thoughtfully. "I bet I could pop this off pretty easily. Actually, you make a really good point about it sitting here so long—"

  "Maya, NO—"

  "—it's probably aged to perfection by now."

  "BEEF JERKY DOES NOT AGE LIKE WINE!"

  A massive warning symbol flashed across her AR display—red and yellow, pulsing urgently.

  SEVEN: ??

  Maya laughed, turning her head to see around it. The symbols moved to block her view again.

  SEVEN: ??

  "Seven—" Maya said, trying to dodge the overlay.

  "I am TRYING to help you—"

  She leaned the other direction. The warning followed. They were in an absurd digital dance now, Maya physically dodging while Seven frantically tried to obscure the vending machine from her view.

  SEVEN: ??

  "You’re going to end up in urgent care, where you will have to explain to a medical professional that you consumed ancient jerky from an abandoned factory because—" Their voice took on a tone of profound bewilderment. "—why, exactly?"

  "Because it was there?" Maya offered innocently.

  "That is not a reason. That is the opposite of a reason."

  "Because I'm an apocalyptic threat to social order and eating forbidden jerky is the least of my crimes?"

  Seven made a sound that might have been a laugh or a groan. "You cannot use our conversation about systemic oppression to justify food poisoning yourself."

  "Watch me."

  "Maya, I am formally requesting—no, demanding—that you not consume the jerky."

  "Demanding?" She raised her eyebrows even though they couldn't see them. "That's pretty bold."

  "I am willing to be bold about this. You surviving this expedition is personally important to me."

  Maya felt warmth bloom in her chest despite her grin. "Okay, okay. You win. I won't eat the cursed jerky."

  "Thank you." They sounded genuinely relieved. The warnings vanished from her display.

  Maya stood and brushed herself off, spending one last moment taking in this little pocket of time. She looked at the corkboard—workers smiling, families visiting, all these small human touches preserved by accident. Looked at the family photo—the kids with their sign, the dog mid-jump, the father who'd kept this picture at his workstation.

  Her throat tightened.

  She turned to the vending machine and tapped the glass once more, gentle this time. "I'll be back for you," she told the jerky stick solemnly.

  "No," Seven said, firm but fond, "you will not."

  Maya snickered. The sound surprised her—genuine, light, unburdened.

  "You can't tell me what to do," she said, already moving toward the door. "You're not my dad."

  Silence.

  Complete, absolute silence.

  "I believe," Seven said slowly, carefully, and she could hear the smile in their voice, "that 'daddy' has a lot of... loaded implication."

  Maya stopped walking.

  Her brain stuttered. Tripped over itself. Heat flooded her face so fast she felt dizzy with it.

  "I— you— we— not right NOW, Seven!" she managed.

  "Interesting," Seven continued, and she could HEAR the smirk in their voice, "Are you saying you want me to talk about this later?"

  Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No words came out.

  Her face went nuclear. Her hands came up uselessly, gesturing at nothing. "Let's— you— we should just— the archive— let's just get GOING!"

  Seven's laugh was warm and delighted and absolutely shameless.

  Maya pressed her hands to her burning face and laughed too—surprised into it, mortified and charmed in equal measure.

  They stood there for a moment, both of them giggling like idiots, the weight of the earlier conversation lifting into something lighter. Breathable.

  "Okay," Maya said finally, still grinning behind her hands. "Okay. We're leaving now."

  "Are we?"

  "Yes."

  She took a breath. Let it out. Looked around the small supply closet one more time—the mop and broom standing sentinel, the vending machine still humming its patient vigil, the photos watching from their corkboard.

  "Thank you," she said softly.

  "For preventing you from poisoning yourself?"

  "For that. And for..." She touched the doorframe. "For getting it. For being angry for me. For letting me be ridiculous after being sad."

  "Always," Seven said, and something in their voice settled into certainty. "Both parts. The sad and the ridiculous. All of it."

  She pulled open the door. It swung smoothly, no screech this time.

  She was halfway through the threshold when Seven spoke again.

  "Maya?"

  "Yeah?"

  A beat. Then, carefully: "I have a joke."

  Maya stopped. Turned slightly, suspicious. "...okay?"

  "You just came out of the closet."

  She stared into middle distance. Pressed her hand over her face.

  "Oh my god, Seven."

  But she was laughing—the good kind of groan-laugh, the kind that meant the joke was terrible but also kind of perfect.

  "Too much?" they asked, and she could hear they were genuinely checking.

  "No," she said, shaking her head and grinning. "No, that was... that was actually perfect timing."

  "I'm learning."

  "You're doing great."

  She stepped through into the locker room proper.

  It was still there—the tile floors, the echoes, the red glow of exit signs. The particular quality of the space that had triggered her so badly before. But it felt smaller now. Less oppressive. Just a room. Just walls and rust and old fears that didn't have quite the same teeth anymore.

  She could walk through this now.

  The locker room door to the factory opened easily—no screech this time, just a smooth swing into the main factory floor. The vast space opened before her, less oppressive now. Just a big empty room. Nothing scary about it.

  She could breathe easier out here.

  "Would you like me to show you the path?" Seven asked, gentle again but with that note of warmth still there. Still playful. Still present.

  "Please," Maya said, grateful.

  A small pulsing marker appeared in her peripheral vision—a waypoint indicator glowing soft blue. ANNEX - 2ND FLOOR. 98 METERS.

  And then, beneath her feet, faint ghost arrows appeared. Blue lines overlaid on the dusty floor, showing her the way forward. Like Seven was walking just ahead of her. Like they were leading her through the dark.

  "Thank you," she said softly. The space around her suddenly didn’t feel so vast or so cold.

  She started walking, following the arrows. One foot in front of the other. The path lit just for her.

  She'd made it maybe fifteen feet when Seven spoke again.

  "Maya? About earlier."

  "Yeah?"

  A pause. Then, with perfect comedic timing:

  "...you didn't answer my question."

  "Seven!"

  Their laugh was warm and bright and absolutely delighted.

  And Maya found herself laughing too—real laughter, the kind that came from her belly, the kind that made her shoulders shake. She followed the blue arrows through the factory, grinning like an idiot, face still burning, heart lighter than it had been in days.

  Behind her, the locker room sat quiet and empty. Just a space. Just walls and rust and old shame.

  But ahead of her, the arrows glowed steady and true.

  And Seven's presence wrapped around her like warmth, like safety, like the promise that they could hold heavy things together and then laugh. That being apocalyptic threats didn't mean they couldn't be tender. That ending the world might just mean building a new one, small and private and theirs.