[Ava's POV]
The Vault’s underbelly held a room named, without irony, the Crucible. It was a sphere of brushed steel, a relic from a time that prized acoustic perfection or perhaps psychological interrogation.
Now, it was the arena for Ava’s unraveling. The door, a monolithic seal of alloy, hissed shut behind her, locking her into a silence so profound it seemed to vibrate.
In here, the only sounds were the frantic symphony of her own biology and the low, omnipresent hum of the Bond—a hum that had woven itself into the fabric of her consciousness, a second, more volatile circulatory system.
Kael was already there, a still point in the sterile glare of the overhead lights. His expression was that of a surgeon assessing a necessary, risky procedure.
“On the road, you reacted,” he began
