I lasted nine hours.
That sounded better than it was.
Four of those hours were sleep Renate had forced on me with pain medication. Two were spent staring at the ceiling. One was spent eating because my body had become shamelessly committed to survival.
The rest I spent thinking about the dead glass.
No data.
No model.
No prediction display.
And still, I had felt read.
By the time afternoon light thinned across the windows, I understood the problem with running away from a system. If it had already taught you its language, silence did not feel innocent anymore.
It felt like an equation missing a term.
I went to the private studio alone.
The room obeyed the twenty-four-hour order. The screens stayed dark. The cameras were covered. Renate had left white tape across the main panel l
