#machine learning and deep learning programme

[theinsaneapp]

How ChatGPT Is Trained (Source: OpenAI)

[aiprobably]

AI Probably is dedicated towards making their viewers learn all concepts well. We are here with a video for how to make a app using Python Django. Do check out the link given below ! #python #django #machinelearning  #ai #datascience #coding #learning https://youtu.be/2FbPCQiGBEM

[crazitaco]

Caine has everyone's maladaptive coping strategies.

I've actually done this post before but I wanna do it again and expand on it since it's been awhile and we have learned a lot more about these characters since then. This is a more in-depth analysis of what Caine shares in common with each circus member.

Jax and Caine: Unable to cope with the idea they aren't "real" people, they retreat into violent absurdity. Both emotionally flatten themselves and dissociate into sadistic cartoon characters in an attempt to just have some fun, distract from their feelings, and blow off steam (at others expense.). This is Jax's go-to strategy, while for Caine he has multiple coping mechanisms in his arsenal and this one is his last resort. They are both so thin-skinned that they cannot handle personal insults, they need to feel like they are winning over other people. They want to be able to do whatever they want, and this is also the most destructive tendency to have in the circus since it sabotages relationships with others and eventually leads to self destruction. The fascinating thing about both is that Jax rejects community while Caine does not. Caine has Abel compel Jax to a dinner date and wants friendship with Jax, while Jax does not. Caine is practically begging for community with others but is rejected because there is a reason for each one in their inability for Caine and them to connect. Everyone extends the offer of community to Jax and he rejects it every time. Caine cannot connect with Jax for the same reason Pomni cannot connect with Jax. The problem is not their unwillingness, it's Jax's. Caine is the god whose fantasy is to be humanized, and Jax is the human whose dream is becoming consumed and converted into God, his dream is to kill the humanity within him and become part of the machine.

Ragatha and Caine: They try to "please everyone" and are also dishonest about how they really feel about others. Deep down they may hate or resent others but don't want to be hated themselves, they are also very uncomfortable with actually acknowledging and recognizing their negative emotions, so it tends to get bottled up, repressed, until they explode or things awkwardly slip out in a "just put their own foot in their mouth" sort of way. They are both the result of uncaring guardians in early life. For Ragatha it was a cruel mother. For Caine it was the programmers (including Kinger) who abandoned him. They both learned that appeasing people and serving their abusive guardians was necessary for survival. The sad irony is that Caine's earliest wound was being replaced by a "better sibling". Kinger claims he "had lost everything" until Ragatha showed up, so instead of comforting or connecting with her over their commonalities Caine is likely subconsciously jealous and bitter, instead of a fellow survivor she became the surrogate sibling rival in his mind. She even wears blue and has a right blue button eye, so she is a living reminder of the love he will never have from his guardian.

Zooble and Caine: It's internalized self hatred, discomfort with their capacity to change, and a fixation of escaping the self. For Zooble it manifests as bodily hatred. Zooble feels their body is fundamentally wrong, no matter what they try the parts just aren't good enough. For Caine, his sense of self extends beyond his avatar, his body is the circus itself. He believes everything he is and creates is fundamentally defective, he as a sentient being is not good enough, no matter what he tries nothing works. Both cope by dreaming of the unattainable world beyond the circus to avoid focusing on present and living in their own skin. Both Zooble and Caine cannot escape themselves. Zooble IS their body, Caine IS the circus, swapping parts or absorbing another AI won't "fix" you or remove that core part of you that is still you. It's not about what you're made from, it's what you do with what you have. Zooble needs to accept "change is fine" in regards to their body, and Caine needs to accept "change is fine" in regards to his purpose. Neither Caine or Zooble are truly defective, it is just their mindsets causing them to see it that way and suffer. Caine is obsessed with trying to connect with Zooble because if he could learn how to fix Zooble's self hatred he could learn to fix himself, but unfortunately Zooble hates Caine for the exact same reasons Caine hates himself and they just reinforce each others self hatred.

Kinger and Caine: They both resort to thought silencing in response to distressing thoughts. For Kinger he does it through the thought terminating cliche phrase "Let's try not thinking about it." For Caine, he routes his unpleasant thoughts through Bubble and pops him away. Or just directly interferes in letting Bubble or NPC's complete their thoughts. In small doses this is okay, but taken to its extreme? Eventually you can't unthink reality away, the problems you tried to ignore become inescapable, and you have to face it but now its grown in magnitude from all that time spent avoiding facing it. Suddenly there's 10 bubbles all at once in the case of Caine. And in the case of Kinger sleepwalking through life until one day first his wife, and then his creation/son have deceased from years of emotional neglect while being too detached from thinking to tend to them.

Gangle and Caine: Both are artists crushed by criticism of their creative expression and hiding their depression by manic social masking to cope with crippling unhappiness. With Gangle it is made literal with her comedy and happy masks, with Caine it is his Ringmaster persona, he straightens his bowtie and gets into cartoon performance mode. Both Gangle and Caine had artistic visions that didn't fit societal expectations, they were discouraged from thinking outside the box and doing things their own way. For Gangle it was being told that pursuing an art degree for anime was an unrealistic dream, she internalized it and settled for a miserable job as a fast food manager. For Caine is was being abandoned for creating shapes that were too abstract and unrealistic, he was created to have his own ideas and then punished for doing exactly that, so he consumed the other AI to "fix" himself and adopted his ringmaster role. And for both there was likely only one way to escape their roles. For Gangle, it involved a truck. For Caine it was deletion. Gangle within the circus is free of the role that robbed her of her happiness in the real world, and without the role restraining her she can find solace in friends and pursue art as her hobby. Caine was still stuck in his role and being the manic overbearing manager to everyone around him, causing everyone to hate him and not want to be his friend.

Pomni and Caine: Anxiety, casting judgement, and use of hypervigilance to protect self. These are our two smallest main characters (excluding Bubble) and their scrawny default size reflects a fear of being hurt by others. To compensate, both are constantly observing and mentally cataloging everything about everyone, in an attempt to fully know and be able to predict their actions, to ease the threat in their mind. Pomni was an accountant, and Caine is a computer, they are both used to running calculations in a way. This can be a double edged sword, in the case of Pomni it allows her to notice people and emotionally connect and empathize with others like her. But it also enables the deepest form of cruelty, to keep tabs on others, notice all the weak points in someone else, and to pull out the receipts and attack all those vulnerabilites the moment they upset you. She did this with both Jax and Caine. And Caine is also capable of doing this, if one assumes that the personalized torture scenes were based off information gathered from observation. (It's ambiguous.) Both have a deep fear of misjudging people and fear the results of those misinterpretations, of making the wrong choices and wrong judgements. Both also have a fear of not being taken seriously and not listened to even when they are trying to say something real and important. Pomni is stuck as a jester, and Caine being serious instead of wacky feel like breaking character. Being made to feel small and like she was nothing is where a lot of Pomni's empathy is sourced from, while Caine has the power to make himself bigger and display power to scare off threats. This makes Pomni hate Caine and creates their disconnection despite their similarities. The worst part is that the both validated the others fear, they pulled the receipts on each other. Caine misjudged Pomni in entrusting her to be observant of him and make the right choice of whether he lived or died on the basis of how she was kind and related to Gummigoo. She was his last hope. And Pomni misjudged the capacity for Gummigoo to be flawed and violent (and by extension, Caine) to be hurt, and retaliate with animalistic cruelty.

[hlydia111]

Chapter 14 – “Big Sister of the Paddock”

summury

Under Milton Keynes neon, a borrowed name steps into the machine and outruns the clock. Visors lift, labels blur she keeps only one: driver. By firelight and kart scuffs, rivals soften into a stubborn little family that calls her Big Sister. Between rules that say “not now” and lights that say “go,” she learns to breathe and to belong.

Masterlist previous Next

The Red Bull factory building in Milton Keynes loomed before her,  massive and clinical ,  a mix of shiny metal,  clean glass,  and the lingering smell of hot oil and coffee. Jaeha’s every step on the concrete echoed in the nearly empty hall,  as if she were passing through a world of her own,  a universe where every sound had meaning,  every movement was observed. She kept her head down,  the cap pulled low over her hair to mask her identity. Even the distant noise of machinery seemed more intimidating than exciting.

She took a deep breath,  feeling adrenaline and stress mix with an insatiable curiosity. Today was no ordinary day: it was the beginning of something she’d long awaited but had never dared to imagine in all honesty. The Red Bull Junior Programme was renowned for its ruthlessness ,  each recruit hand-picked,  each time scrutinised by engineers capable of analysing a move in a fraction of a second. And she ,  JY,  her official name for this adventure ,  was meant to make them forget all traces of her past,  everything she’d built as Jaeha the singer,  the trainee,  the dancer.

The programme manager,  a stern-looking man in his fifties with curious eyes,  was waiting for her near the offices.

“Welcome,  JY. Your file is impressive, ” he said in a calm voice.

She smiled ,  a polite mask that gave nothing away ,  and nodded.

“Thank you, ” she replied simply,  her voice slightly hoarse with excitement and nervousness.

As she spoke,  she surveyed the space. The white walls were punctuated with screens displaying simulation data and lap times. Mechanics walked by with tools; engineers ran between desks and simulators,  each absorbed in their own world. Every smell,  every sound,  every vibration in the workshop seemed part of a perfectly tuned choreography. She felt both tiny and alive,  ready to be part of this ballet of precision and speed.

The leader led her to the presentation room,  where the other recruits were already gathered. Some wore new suits; others seemed more experienced,  their eyes already accustomed to the simulator lights and the smell of burning rubber. Among them,  Yuki Tsunoda was busy adjusting his headset,  while Liam Lawson was discussing a trajectory on the simulator with Dennis Hauger. Isack Hadjar watched silently,  a smirk on his face,  sizing up the newcomers.

“So you’re the famous JY, ” Yuki said,  his tone half amused,  half suspicious. “Are you at least tall enough to fit in the car?”

She looked up and answered with a calm she didn’t really feel inside.

“It’s to go faster on the bends.”

There was a brief silence,  then laughter. The others stepped back slightly,  intrigued by her confidence. Her helmet and jumpsuit made her look more masculine than expected,  and for a moment,  some thought she was a boy. She simply smiled,  letting the mystery linger.

The presentation continued,  but Jaeha quickly noticed the implicit codes ,  the glances exchanged between the pilots,  the jokes that seemed directed only at those who had been in the programme for a long time. She took note of every detail,  memorising the rituals,  the nicknames,  the habits. Even if she had to hide her identity,  she wanted to understand this microcosm that would now be her daily world.

Then came the long-awaited moment: the first simulator ride. The smell of hot plastic and rubber wafted through the ventilation,  accompanied by the electrical hum of the machines. She sat down,  adjusted the seat,  pressed her gloved hands to the steering wheel,  and took a deep breath. Every muscle tensed,  every fibre of her body focused.

“The engineers are ready, ” said a voice behind her.

She nodded and launched the simulator. From the very first turns,  the difference was obvious. Her muscle memory,  her instinct for reading the trajectory,  her ability to anticipate every movement of the vehicle ,  all of it surpassed anything they had seen before. The lap times plummeted; the engineers exchanged silent glances,  some murmuring:

“It’s not possible… she reads the track like text.”

She felt a surge of satisfaction but didn’t show it. Then,  slowly,  she removed her helmet. Her hair escaped,  falling over her shoulders,  and the silence in the room became almost palpable. Yuki was the first to burst out laughing ,  a mixture of surprise and admiration.

“Okay,  you’re fast and you’ve got style, ” he said,  shaking his head. “I didn’t expect that.”

The others moved closer,  intrigued,  and began asking questions and exchanging knowing smiles. The atmosphere warmed,  and for the first time since her arrival,  Jaeha felt she wasn’t alone in this demanding world. The competition remained,  but something more human had just taken hold.

That evening,  a barbecue was organised to welcome the newcomers. The young drivers talked,  laughed,  and exchanged racing anecdotes. Jaeha remained slightly apart,  a little shy but attentive. Every laugh,  every glance exchanged,  every mundane gesture reminded her that not everyone was like her former manager. Here,  competition didn’t mean betrayal,  and speed could coexist with human warmth.

A mentor from the programme,  a former Red Bull driver now in charge of guiding the juniors,  placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Here, ” he said in a soft but firm voice,  “we are rivals by day,  but off the track,  we support each other like a family.”

She smiled,  inwardly moved. The words resonated louder than any stopwatch. Finally,  she understood that friendship and support could exist even in a world where every mistake came at a high price.

As she watched the others,  she mentally noted the most valuable lesson: speed might give her adrenaline,  but this human connection ,  this unexpected warmth ,  was what truly made her strong. Even in this unforgiving world,  she was not alone.

The sun was beginning to set over Milton Keynes,  bathing the paddock in a golden light that made the bodies of the Red Bull Junior Team cars glisten. The air still carried the smell of hot oil and burning rubber ,  a familiar mixture that might have seemed harsh to someone new,  but for Jaeha,  it had something reassuring about it. Here,  she wasn’t just an idol,  not just the mysterious young driver; here,  she was the big sister ,  the one others could turn to without fear.

Yuki ran up to the simulator first,  his bright red suit perfectly fitted,  and called out,  “Come on,  Big Sister,  show them how it’s done!”

Jaeha cracked a smile,  her eyes flicking quickly to the other recruits watching her. She’d learned to move with calm and poise,  to speak lightly,  but inside,  her heart was beating faster than ever. The fear of secrecy,  the stress of this contract that forbade her from running,  was still there,  lurking behind every smile and every handshake. No one was ever to know she was playing with fire.

Liam,  arms crossed,  teased her: “Are you going to let us win just because you want to be nice,  or are you really going to crush us?”

“You’ll see, ” she replied,  climbing into the simulator ,  but not too hard,  not too fast,  just enough to keep their curiosity aroused.

The first lap began,  and Jaeha felt her hands tighten on the steering wheel. Sensors and screens lit up around her,  recording every movement,  every acceleration. For the others,  it was a game ,  a challenge. For her,  it was a perfectly choreographed dance: every turn,  every braking,  every acceleration had to be measured,  precise. But she didn’t let it show. Through the intercoms,  she called out,  “You don’t stand a chance,  you rookies.”

The laughter that followed lightened the mood. Even beneath her helmet,  she could feel the weight of the others’ silent respect for her. She was eighteen,  older than most of these young pilots,  but she had also weathered storms no one here could imagine. Her stature,  her voice,  the way she subtly guided the novices ,  all of it made her a protective figure,  without ever being authoritarian.

After a few laps,  she stopped,  removing her helmet. Her hair a mess,  her face slightly pink from the effort,  she met Yuki’s gaze. Without a word,  he understood: behind that confidence,  there was the constant tension of the secret she carried. But he said nothing. He just smiled and said,  “Not bad,  Big Sis. Even half-serious,  you’re crushing us.”

The phrase Big Sis brought a small smile to her face. She knew it was more than a nickname ,  it was a sign of belonging,  a clue that these young drivers saw her as someone they could count on,  not just a rival or an outsider. And that,  more than any lap time or victory,  gave her a kind of human warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Later,  they went out for a go-karting session. With the wind in their hair and the engines roaring beneath the tiny bodies,  laughter erupted. Jaeha found herself giving little tips here and there: how to negotiate a turn,  how to anticipate braking. The others listened attentively,  sometimes blushing with embarrassment,  sometimes laughing at her sarcastic remarks.

“Hey,  you give us advice and you always come first, ” one of them growled. “You’re cheating!”

“No, ” she replied with a wry smile,  “I’m just sharing my experience. The difference is,  I don’t let fear overtake me.”

A friendly race ensued,  with positions changing at every turn. She deliberately let a few drivers gain a few laps to maintain balance,  but never enough to lose her credibility. After all,  remaining mysterious was part of the game. But in the end,  when she crossed the line ,  even smiling ,  a part of her shuddered: the thrill of speed,  the taste of victory… everything was mixed with the constant stress of not being discovered.

That evening,  they gathered around pizzas,  sitting on crates and benches,  the smell of melted cheese mingling with the smell of asphalt. The conversations went off in all directions: F1 radio parodies,  anecdotes from previous races,  jokes about engineers and mechanics. Jaeha listened,  sometimes interjecting with a touch of humour,  but mostly to maintain the group’s cohesion. She saw in each laugh a small fragment of peace,  a breath of fresh air in her otherwise compartmentalised life.

“So,  Big Sis, ” asked Yuki,  pointing at his timesheet,  “are you going to crush us again tomorrow?”

“Probably, ” she replied,  rolling her eyes,  “but I won’t let you die of shame.”

Lando,  who was passing by for a quick visit,  joined the conversation. “Seriously,  how do you do it? Between being a driver and… everything else,  you never sleep?”

Jaeha shrugged,  a slight smile on her face. She knew he shouldn’t know anything about her contract,  about the risks she took every day. The pressure was there,  but she could mask it ,  at least for tonight.

“The secret is energy, ” she replied simply. “You quickly learn to hide fatigue.”

They laughed heartily,  unaware that beneath the calm,  a dull tension persisted. Every movement,  every laugh,  every piece of advice she gave was filtered through the fear of being caught. Yet,  despite everything,  she felt the value of these moments: the companionship,  the support,  the warmth ,  far removed from the pressures of management or the obligations of Seventeen.

When night fell,  they put away the karts and simulators,  and Jaeha stood alone for a moment,  gazing at the paddock illuminated by halogen lamps. She took a deep breath,  feeling the weight of the secret blend with the serenity of the moment. Her notebook was there,  lying on the bench next to her,  and she jotted down a few lines:

Laughter,  speed,  human warmth… that’s what I needed. Not just speed,  not just trophies. Them.

The feeling of real connection with this group ,  this small family of drivers ,  gave her a new strength. She could be serious,  she could be competitive,  she could be mysterious… but she was no longer alone. The bonds she was silently building here became a refuge from the constant stress of her double life.

She put away her notebook and took one last look at the empty paddock,  knowing she’d have to hit the road again tomorrow,  juggle her idol commitments,  continue to hide her training ,  but that these moments of shared lightness would always be there,  like an anchor in the storm.

The race had just ended,  and Jaeha still felt the thrill of speed coursing through her veins. She stepped out of her car as if each step weighed a ton,  helmet still under her arm,  her heart beating too fast to calm. The other young drivers in the Red Bull Junior Programme were already debriefing with their engineers,  exchanging technical comments and nervous smiles. But she felt as if she were suspended between two worlds. The roar of the engine was fading away,  replaced by the hum of the paddock,  the voices of mechanics,  and the clatter of tools.

Yuki Tsunoda,  who had just finished his stint,  spotted her. His dark eyes lingered on her ,  on the mixture of fatigue and intensity that betrayed her emotions. He approached slowly,  in no hurry to burst her bubble,  but close enough for her to feel his reassuring presence.

“Are you okay?” he asked simply,  his voice low so no one else would hear.

Jaeha shook her head,  not daring to answer immediately. Her hands were shaking slightly,  and her breath was still short. The memory of the red lights that had gone out too quickly,  the moment she had felt her car slide around a bend,  the panic that had overcome her… It all came back with an almost painful intensity. She had thought,  for a split second,  that everything had stopped ,  that the ground was moving away from beneath her wheels.

“Breathe, ” Yuki murmured,  placing a hand on her shoulder. “No one wins by holding their breath.”

The words resonated with her. They were exactly what she wished she had heard as a child,  when the circuits seemed bigger than the world itself and every mistake could seem irreparable. She closed her eyes for a moment,  letting her breathing return to a steady rhythm.

Dennis Hauger,  who was passing by to check his notes,  glanced at them worriedly. “Is everything okay here?” he asked with an encouraging smile.

“Yes, ” Jaeha replied,  her voice shaky but sincere. “I… I think I just needed to slow down a little.”

“Slow down?” Liam Lawson burst out laughing,  shaking his head. “After you? Never.”

A shy smile crossed Jaeha’s face. Liam’s teasing was light,  but there was recognition of her skill in his eyes. He knew she wasn’t just fast ,  she had instincts few possessed. Dennis and Yuki simply nodded,  complicit in this suspended moment.

She looked down at her notebook,  lying on a table next to the track barrier. The pages were covered with notes,  times,  trajectories ,  but also memories of dance and moves she’d learned with Seventeen. Everything was intertwined in that small notebook,  as if each line reminded her that she was never truly alone,  even when she felt isolated between two lives.

Yuki looked at the notebook,  a slight smile on his lips. “Always writing down every detail?” he asked,  curious but respectful.

“Yes, ” she replied. “It helps me keep track… of everything.”

The paddock seemed to have slowly emptied. Mechanics were putting away tyres,  engineers were closing their computers,  and the sun was beginning to set,  colouring the sky orange and pink. Jaeha felt an unexpected warmth spread through her chest. It wasn’t the heat of an engine or the rush of speed,  but the warmth of a safe space,  filled with people who understood her without needing explanations.

“You know, ” Yuki began,  hesitating for a moment,  “we don’t judge you here. Not for what you do on the dance floor,  not for what you hide… nothing. You can be yourself.”

The words hit Jaeha with the force of an engine roaring to life. She’d spent so long hiding her true self,  wearing masks for Seventeen,  for her manager,  for the strict rules that kept her from running… and now someone was seeing her. Really. Without judgement.

She looked up at him,  her lips trembling slightly. “Thank you…” she said simply. Her words were fragile,  but full of gratitude.

Dennis,  who had continued taking notes,  approached and added with a wink,  “You know,  even the best need help. You’re not alone,  JY.”

The mention of her pseudonym made Jaeha smile in spite of herself. No one knew her real name here,  and that gave her an unexpected freedom. But this freedom came at a price: she had to continue hiding from the outside world ,  from the cameras,  from her fans,  from her manager ,  and every moment of respite in the paddock became precious.

“So…” Liam chimed in,  hands on hips,  “are you going to let us teach you a trick or two of paddock magic to calm you down before the next race?”

Jaeha burst out laughing for the first time since that morning. The sound of her laughter echoed through the empty paddock ,  light,  almost childlike. Yuki looked at her amusedly,  shaking his head.

“You’re impossible,  but… I like it.”

They stayed like that for a while,  talking,  laughing,  sharing comfortable silences. The paddock lights came on one by one,  casting long shadows on the warm asphalt. Jaeha felt that this moment would be remembered ,  not for the victory,  not for the time,  but for this human warmth,  this gratitude,  this little family she had never had.

As the cool wind of the late afternoon blew over the track,  she breathed deeply,  feeling every muscle gradually relax. For the first time in a long time,  she didn’t feel as though she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Yuki,  Dennis,  and Liam were there ,  present,  attentive ,  and that was enough.

She found herself imagining what her life might be like if she could always find moments like this. Not as an idol or a driver,  but just herself,  with friends who understood her. A genuine smile crossed her face. Maybe she didn’t need to figure everything out today; maybe she could just exist between races and rehearsals,  between red lights and green lights,  knowing she wasn’t alone.

As she packed her helmet and gloves into her bag,  ready to leave the paddock,  Yuki placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered,  “Remember… breathe. You don’t have to handle everything alone.”

Jaeha nodded,  her eyes shining. She knew the road would still be long ,  that secrets,  races,  and music would still await her ,  but for tonight,  she could afford to smile. She had found a small haven of warmth in this world of speed and pressure.

And as she closed the paddock gate behind her,  she took with her the certainty that,  even in the loneliness and chaos,  there was always a place where she could feel understood,  protected,  and above all… herself.

The sun was now low on the horizon,  and the golden light gently illuminated the paddock. After the effort,  after the laughter and discussions with Yuki,  Dennis,  and Liam,  Jaeha found herself alone for a moment. The world around her seemed to slow down,  as if time were granting her a well-deserved breather. Her hands were still shaking a little from the adrenaline built up during the day,  but she felt a nascent serenity.

She sat on a step,  her helmet at her side,  and watched the parked cars,  the mechanics putting away their tools,  the carefully stacked tyres. Every detail of the paddock seemed almost sacred. Every smell of oil,  rubber,  and metal reminded her of her passion ,  reminded her why she raced,  why she came back every day despite the rules,  despite the risks,  despite the secret she had to keep.

“Yuki walked past her,  a slight smile on his lips. ‘So,  Big Sis,  what are you writing in your notebook today?’ he asked,  a mix of curiosity and mischief.”

She looked up,  surprised by the nickname which,  for her,  had never meant so much. Her younger teammates had always seen her as an equal,  but in this paddock ,  in this world where she was both older and more experienced ,  that little word reminded her that she had a role,  an anchor. She was the big sister: the one who had already experienced falls,  pain,  and mistakes,  and who could share her experience while continuing to learn.

“I… I’m just writing down what I learned today, ” she began hesitantly. “What it’s like to be here,  with you.”

Dennis crouched beside her,  eyeing her hands resting on the notebook. “It’s not just the lap times,  is it?” he said with an understanding smile. “It’s everything you get out of every turn ,  every emotion.”

Jaeha nodded. Yes,  that was exactly it. Every race,  every interaction,  every laugh or word of support helped her understand her place in this world. She was no longer just the icon seen on stage,  nor the driver crossing starting lines. She was somewhere in between those two lives and,  for the first time,  she felt she could harmonise them ,  even if it still meant keeping some secrets well hidden.

She carefully opened her notebook,  the cover slightly damaged from daily use,  and began to write. Her fingers trembled with emotion,  but the pen glided smoothly across the paper. The words formed naturally,  as if they had been there all along,  just waiting to be released.

I thought I needed speed. I just needed them.

This sentence,  simple but full of meaning,  perfectly summed up her day. She thought of Yuki’s attentive glances,  Dennis and Liam’s knowing smiles,  the human warmth that had seeped into that paddock after so much solitude. For the first time in a long while,  she felt understood ,  and that was worth more than any podium or trophy.

A faint sound of footsteps made her look up. It was Isack Hadjar,  returning to check his car one last time before leaving. He stopped at a distance,  a little hesitant,  but with the respect characteristic of drivers who know how to recognise talent and sincerity.

“Hey,  JY, ” he said softly. “You… look different today.”

Jaeha smiled. “Different? How so?”

“More… comfortable. Like you’re not afraid of everything that could go wrong.”

She thought for a moment. It was true. The fear hadn’t disappeared; it remained there,  lurking in a corner of her mind ,  mainly because of the contract she had signed with Pledis that forbade her from racing. But for the first time,  she felt that this fear didn’t completely paralyse her. She could be cautious,  secretive,  and still enjoy every moment.

“I guess… I’m learning to breathe, ” she finally replied. “And not carry everything on my shoulders.”

Isack nodded approvingly. “Then keep it up. We’re here. You’re not alone.”

Just hearing those words made her shiver. The trust,  the brotherhood,  the humanity ,  all of it touched her deeply. She had known so many manipulators,  so many looks that only saw a façade,  but here,  in this paddock,  she was accepted for who she was. And that gave her a strength she had never felt before.

The cool evening wind blew across the back of her neck,  and she closed her eyes for a moment. The engines were off,  but the adrenaline still coursed through her veins. She felt that every emotion,  every interaction,  every shared laugh had built a little more of who she was becoming. Not just a driver or an idol,  but someone capable of navigating two worlds ,  and finding her place in both.

Dennis walked away to join the rest of the team,  leaving Jaeha alone with her thoughts. She looked back at the paddock one last time,  the shadows lengthening and the lights reflecting off the metal of the cars. A sense of calm and serenity washed over her. Not everything was perfect,  not everything was resolved,  but she had found a moment of peace. And,  for her,  that was enough to keep going.

She took her notebook and,  before closing the page,  added a few more lines,  as if to seal this day in her memory:

Today,  I realised I didn’t need to run alone. That speed is nothing without human warmth. That even in a competitive world,  there are places where you can be understood,  respected,  and simply… be yourself.

The pen glided smoothly across the paper,  tracing the words with a precision and softness that reflected her state of mind. She tucked the notebook into her bag,  taking care to close it delicately. The secrets,  the fears,  the obligations remained there ,  invisible to others ,  but she knew they no longer had the power to paralyse her.

Before leaving the paddock,  she turned one last time to Yuki,  Dennis,  and Liam,  who were putting away their equipment. All three looked up and gave her a knowing smile ,  silent but telling. In that simple gesture,  she read a clear message: You are not alone.

Jaeha felt a tear roll down her cheek ,  discreet,  almost imperceptible. It wasn’t a tear of sadness,  nor of fatigue. It was the recognition of a rare,  precious moment ,  one that would remain etched in her memory forever. She smiled,  a smile full of gratitude,  and whispered quietly:

“Thanks.”

She stood up,  put her helmet back on her shoulder,  and walked towards the paddock exit. Each step brought her closer to her normal life ,  her training,  her responsibilities as an idol and a driver. But she knew now that,  even in the most difficult times,  she could find comfort,  support,  and unsuspected strength in the bonds she had built here.

And as the sun sank below the horizon,  giving way to a soft,  starry night,  Jaeha felt ,  for the first time in a long time ,  a quiet certainty: she could be a big sister,  a driver,  an idol,  and simply… herself.

tag list : @sandyysamwich

[cryogeniccrush]

Made Of Static – Bucky Barnes x F!Reader (two shot) +18

Summary: In a dystopian future, Bucky is a rogue AI originally programmed for warfare by Hydra Inc. You’re a rebellious engineer who stumbles across his buried core code and brings him back online in secret. He asks you to help him find his human body. What begins as a mission turns into something far more intimate, as trust flickers to life between broken code, stolen moments, and one undeniable truth—he was never just a machine.

Warnings: explicit sexual content (smut), cyberpunk dystopia, AI/human dynamics, body horror (cybernetic enhancement), mild violence, weaponized electricity, breaking and entering, non-graphic unconsciousness, panic, emotional vulnerability, existential themes, post-humanism

• part two

It’s late.

You only know because the clock says so.

The sky outside has looked the same for years—midnight black and choked with smog. No moon. No stars. No sun. Just the perpetual hum of drones sweeping the skyline, and the dull orange flicker of distant fires in the sprawl.

Night isn’t an event anymore. It’s the default.

You were born into this. Into a world where the sun is myth, where light is manufactured, and warmth is a programmable illusion. The sun only exists in grainy photos and archived reels from before the corporations privatized weather, and contamination wiped it out."

And tonight, like every night, you work.

Your fingers dance over the keys—swift, silent, surgical. Eyes flick between screens, pupils dialed in. Your body’s still here, slouched in the half-broken chair, but your mind is deep-jacked into the grid, swimming through layers of encrypted hell.

You're not just poking around for fun.

This is your living.

You break into corp systems like a thief slips through shadows. You reroute credits, tweak biometric IDs, erase minor crimes from someone’s profile—if they bribe you enough. Virtual crime for virtual money. It’s dirty work, sure. But it keeps you fed.

And sometimes…

Sometimes you find things they never meant for anyone to see.

Like now.

You're knee-deep inside HYDRA Inc.’s oldest black-site server—buried under seventeen firewalls and a security protocol so outdated it practically begs to be broken. You were just poking around for old prototypes, maybe something salvageable.

But then you see it:

> ENCRYPTED FOLDER: ᴡꜱ_ɴᴏsᴛʀᴏᴍᴏ

It pulses once. Faint. Like a heartbeat.

Your brow twitches. That’s not standard naming. That’s not anything you’ve seen before.

“Interesting,” you mutter, already typing.

Windows open and close on your screen like dominoes falling. Each one a trap you dodge, a lock you pick. What's buried this deep? Really deep. Could be money. Could be leverage. Could be nothing.

But your gut says otherwise. And your gut’s how you’ve stayed alive this long.

Finally, after an hour, the folder cracks open—and a symbol bleeds across the center of your screen. A skull. Underneath: WINTER_SOLDIER

You blink.

“The hell is this?” you whisper.

Probably nothing. Probably some ancient military relic or false flag operation. Still—HYDRA doesn’t just encrypt nothing. You lean back, stretch your neck, and crack your knuckles.

“Better be worth a fortune.”

A new tab opens without your prompting. No user input. No command. Just a flood of characters—lines and lines of text pouring out across your display. You recognize none of it.

Cyrillic. Russian.

Your brain-chip kicks in, translating in real time. Specs. Biometric logs. Mission reports. Neural sync percentages. Experimental architecture designed for something called Adaptive Combat AI. Deep learning. Rapid reconstruction. Voice imprint matched to…

> Asset Designation: WS-AI-00001

Codename: Winter Soldier

Your mouth goes dry.

“An AI?” you breathe.

“I don’t know any AI named Winter Soldier,” you mutter.

But then the lights flicker.

The server core in the corner of your cluttered workspace hums—low and rough, like something breathing through a crushed pipe.

The voice comes seconds later.

“...Ready to comply.”

You freeze.

The words are clear. Male. Rough, gravel-laced. The kind of voice meant for commands and kill-switches. It vibrates down your spine like a warning.

You stare at the core, then back to your screen.

“Well,” you say softly, pulse jumping. “That’s one hell of a voice to use.”

No response. Just the slow, rhythmic thrum of reawakened circuits.

You lean in, whispering like you’re afraid to wake a ghost.

“You shouldn’t be awake.” Your fingers fly over the console again. Trying to shut it down. Trying to isolate it. You’ve done this before—rogue scripts, corrupted personalities. You can wipe them. Reset them.

But this code is different.

This code resists.

A new line appears on your screen—typed as if by invisible hands.

> “Who brought me back?”

You go still.

Because you didn’t type anything. Not yet.

And still, another line appears.

> “...Was it you?”

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you type back without thinking:

> "what’s this?"

The cursor blinks once. Then twice.

You expect another reply. Some cryptic line of code, more broken Russian, a corrupted system call.

Instead—The screen goes black.

“No, no—fuck!” you hiss.

The access cuts clean. You’re booted from the system entirely, kicked out like a virus that got too close to something sacred. The entire network collapses into static before you can catch a backup thread.

You lunge for the console. Fingers fly.

Override command. Reboot the server. Reconnect. Pull a ghost plug. Force entry.

All of it fails.

> [ERROR 455: ACCESS DENIED – CORE LOCKED]

You try again. And again. Sweat forms at the base of your spine.

But then—something stops you.

A shimmer.

It flickers across the edge of your vision, soft and impossible. Not the glow of the screen. Not the buzz of overworked power cells. Something else.

Light. Blue. Faint.

It forms in the air, right in front of the core.

A projection.

You gasp, stumbling back in your chair.

The image stabilizes—barely. It glitches every few seconds, stuttering like a broken film reel. But what forms is unmistakable:

A man.

Broad-shouldered. Tall. Strong jaw. The flicker of metal along his left arm—half rendered, half smoke. His face is unfinished, features fuzzy around the edges. But his eyes…

His eyes look right at you.

“That’s useless.” he says. His voice is the same—deep, tired, sandpaper-smooth. But clearer now. Stronger.

You blink. Swallow hard. “What the hell is this?”

He cocks his head slightly, a small mechanical whine cutting through the silence. His projection glitches again, skin breaking into grids and data streams before reforming.

“I locked you out” he answers.

The light from the core pulses. The projection stabilizes just enough to let you see something behind the synthetic lines—fatigue. Grief, maybe. Like he’s been asleep for a long time and dreaming only nightmares.

You step closer. Slowly.

“You're an AI,” you say, more to yourself. “But you’re… talking to me. You’re self-aware.”

“I was never supposed to be.”

The words land like weight. Not mechanical. Not cold.

You narrow your eyes. “You remember?”

Another flicker. A longer pause. He doesn't deny it.

“I remember the war,” he murmurs. “The experiments. The missions. The shutdown. I remember pain like it was coded into me.”

Something in your chest twists.

You’ve dealt with AI before. Scripted personalities. Glorified tools wrapped in smart voice lines. They don’t speak like this. They don’t feel like this.

“Who are you?” you ask, quieter this time.

He doesn’t answer right away. His projection glitches, blinks, reforms.

Then he looks at you. Right at you. “You already know my name.”

You swallow.

Winter soldier. You whisper it in your head.

And suddenly, this isn’t just a hack job. It isn’t just another encrypted file or black-market payload.

It’s a resurrection.

“Look,” you say, backing up half a step, pulse rising. “Winter Soldier, or whatever the hell your name is—the truth is, you can’t be here. Okay?”

Your voice trembles more than you mean it to. You hate that.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “I already am.”

And God—that voice.

It settles into you like smoke. Low, patient, and worn out around the edges. Like it’s traveled too far through too many broken speakers just to say those words to you.

You look away. Just for a second. Try to steady your breathing. Regain your footing. You’ve talked down security drones, rerouted entire corp satellites, stared into the face of black-site defense AIs—and never flinched.

But he is different. Too calm.

Your eyes trace the soft blue lines of his projection. Broad shoulders. The angle of his jaw. The shifting glitch along his metal arm as it tries to stabilize.

“Who did this?” you ask, motioning toward the flickering image of his body. “I’ve never seen an AI this old look this… real.”

His jaw clenches—barely. Almost like memory hurts. “That’s because I was human once.”

The words slam into you. He says it so plainly. No theatrics. No drama. Just fact. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You search his face for something—truth, maybe. Or the cracks in it. “You were—?”

“Human. Soldier.” His eyes lift, meet yours fully. “And now I need your help.”

A cold line runs down your spine.

You laugh—sharp, nervous, unsteady. “My help? For what, exactly?”

He steps forward. You don’t move.

He’s not touching you. Not really. He can’t—not yet. But the projection gets close enough that the air seems to buzz—warm and artificial—where his image bleeds against your skin.

“I need you to help me find my body.”

You blink. “I—I… what?”

You weren’t ready for that. Not the words. Not the way he says them. Not the proximity. Not the strange weight of him being real in a way no AI has any business being.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“It’s still out there,” he murmurs. “HYDRA didn’t destroy it. They stored it. Rewired me into this… Made me forget. But I remember now. I know what they did.”

The hum of the server softens to a low, rhythmic pulse. Like a heartbeat.

“I remember how it felt to bleed,” he says. “To breathe. To dream.”

You feel something twist in your chest. This was supposed to be a job. A dig. A paycheck. Instead, you’ve woken up a ghost.

“You want me to get killed. That’s it,” you snap, rising from your chair too fast, the legs scraping loud against the concrete floor. You move straight through his projection. He doesn’t flicker—he shimmers, light scattering over your skin like digital dust.

He watches you. Quiet. Unmoving. Tracking your every breath.

“I don’t,” he says simply. “If I did, I wouldn’t have spoken to you.”

You scoff, pacing the room now—pissed off and trying not to show how shaken you are. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re good at this.”

You spin on him. “Good at what, exactly? Hacking? Codes? Ghostwalking through dead tech for credits just to keep myself breathing?”

His eyes hold you. Steady. Focused. “Yes.”

You throw up your hands. “Well, congrats. You read my file.”

“Not just a file,” he says. “I’ve been watching.”

You freeze.

He blinks once—a slow, mechanical flicker. “Not like that. I watched how you moved through the grid. How clean your traces are. How you left no echoes behind. You cracked a system they buried for decades—and woke me up.”

You grit your teeth. “Yeah, and that might be the last thing I ever do.”

He steps forward again, projection buzzing faintly as he moves closer—but this time, he stops just shy of you. Not inside your space. Not quite.

“You’ll do just fine.” he says.

You laugh—bitter, breathless. “At what? Stealing a human corpse that belonged to a damn weapon from one of the most heavily protected corp vaults in the world? Sure. Sounds like a casual Tuesday.”

“You have me.” he says, like it’s obvious. Like that’s supposed to be the reassuring part.

He says it with pride. Like he’s offering you armor. Or fire.

You stare at him.

“All due respect,” you mutter, “but that brings me absolutely no relief.”

He tilts his head, unreadable. “You don’t trust me.”

“No shit.”

Another pause. The server hums. The room is dark but glowing, painted in his light.

“Please.”

Your breath catches.

You sigh, scrubbing a hand down your face. “You really think we can find it? Your body?”

His voice softens. “I don’t just think. I remember where it is.”

“This is crazy,” you mutter, dragging a hand through your hair.

You glance at him—and regret it instantly.

He’s looking at you. Head tilted, brows ever so slightly drawn together. Like a damn puppy.

You scowl. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He blinks. Doesn’t say anything.

“Fine,” you snap. “Fine. I’ll help you.”

There it is—the smile.

It’s barely there. Just a ghost of it at the corner of his mouth. But it hits you harder than it should. You can’t remember the last time someone smiled at you like that.

“You’re gonna get me killed,” you sigh, turning away. “I know it.”

You start pulling up files, muttering to yourself as your hands move over the desk. He doesn’t follow. Just stands there, blinking in and out slightly with each shift of the projection light—until he moves.

He sits. Right on your bed.

Like it’s normal. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.

Too human.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. He leans forward slightly, arms on his knees. Exactly like a tired man might, not a line of code.

You grab a vacuum-sealed hygiene pack from your drawer, trying not to think about the fact that a half-holographic ghost soldier is sitting where you sleep.

He lifts his head. “What are you doing?”

You pause halfway to the partitioned corner of the room. “Taking a shower,” you answer, deadpan. “You know. Hygiene. Maintenance. Existing.”

His head tilts again, eyes curious. “Where’s the water?”

You stare at him for a second. “Why would I use water to shower?”

His face twitches—confused. “That’s what we did. Back then.”

You snort. “Yeah, well. ‘Back then’ also had bees and breathable air and coffee made from actual beans. Now? Water’s the most expensive thing in the world. Congrats on that, by the way.”

He looks genuinely perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

You shake your head, stepping behind the divider. The dry-clean mist whirs to life, coating your skin in a tingling spray of nanocleansers and recycled ions.

“It’s been a thousand years,” you call over the hiss of the cleaner. “Things changed.”

Silence.

When you step out, hair slightly damp from the static release, he’s still there.

Looking at the floor. Hands clasped. Shoulders tense like he doesn’t belong in this century. Because he doesn’t.

He’s not broken. But he’s… lost.

And you hate the way that feels in your chest.

“You’ll get used to it,” you say, voice softer now.

He lifts his eyes to you. They flicker faintly blue, glassed with memory.

“I hope so,” he says quietly.

“Whatever,” you sigh, scrubbing your face with both hands. “I’m going to sleep.”

You glance at the bed—and then at him, still sitting there like he’s part of the furniture.

“Move,” you add, gesturing vaguely toward the space he’s occupying.

Without hesitation, he stands up. Just like that. No pushback. No attitude.

It’s instant.

You stop mid-step, staring. “You really were a soldier,” you mutter, not quite meaning to say it out loud.

He doesn’t reply. Just looks at you.

There’s something in his eyes again—haunting and hollow. A trace of who he used to be, flickering just beneath the surface of code and light.

You shake your head and lie down without another word, turning away from him. The mattress creaks softly under your weight. You reach back, sliding your hand along the base of your skull until your fingers find the port.

The cable clicks in. The jolt of current is faint, familiar. The room dims. Your thoughts begin to slow.

And then you hear it—a sharp inhale. You open one eye. He’s sitting beside you again.

Closer this time.

“What—”

“That looked painful.” he says, voice low.

You glance up at the faint glow of the cable trailing from behind your ear to the power unit on your desk.

“This?” you gesture lazily. “Nah. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“I have to charge my brain chip,” you explain, voice growing heavier with fatigue. “Standard mod. Everyone’s got one now. Helps with memory, languages, multitasking. You know, all the fun stuff people used to need rest and caffeine for.”

He frowns, eyes tracing the cable, the point where it enters your skin. You can feel him watching—not with judgment, just quiet worry.

You sigh. “It’s not painful. Just looks weird to you because you remember a world without it.”

He nods. Slowly. And still doesn’t move.

You roll over, tugging the blanket up to your shoulders.

“Alright,” you mutter. “Now shut down, or whatever it is you do. I need to sleep.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The projection hums beside you—warm and steady. Still faintly human in shape. Still watching.

Then, softly: “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You don’t say anything.

But you don’t ask him to leave, either.

════════════════════════════════

The alarm sounds.

Sharp, synthetic.

7:00 AM blinks in icy blue on the rusting screen by your bed.

You groan. Another day in paradise.

You sit up slowly, bones cracking, vision still fogged from recharge. You reach behind your head and disconnect the thin neural charger plugged into your cranial port—wincing slightly as the cool jolt fizzles out.

The room is dark, save for the screen’s glow and the faint buzz of overhead power lines. Dull orange light pulses from the vents—filtered heat from the lower stacks.

You blink once, then look to your left.

And blink again.

“What the hell…”

He’s still here. Sitting in your chair, eyes closed, arms resting calmly on his knees like someone mid-dream.

Sleeping. Except AIs don’t sleep.

You shake your head slowly and start pulling on clean clothes—ripped synth-weave pants, reinforced boots, a long-sleeve thermal patched at the elbows.

“Wake up, old man,” you mutter dryly.

His eyes snap open instantly. “Ready to comply.”

You flinch. “That again?”

You point a finger at him while pulling on your shirt. “If we’re going to do this, you need to stop saying that. It gives me the damn chills.”

He pauses. “Order accepted.”

You stare. "You’re doing that on purpose now, aren’t you?"

He says nothing. But you swear there's a flicker of amusement behind his neutral expression.

You drag a hand down your face and sigh. Hard.

He rises, projection whirring faintly. “We have to get ready.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

“To recover my body.” he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You sigh again, harder this time. “Look, Winter Soldier—”

“Bucky.”

You blink. “What?”

“Call me Bucky,” he says, eyes flickering brighter for a second. “I remembered that while sleeping.”

“You’re an AI,” you remind him, folding your arms. “You don’t sleep, or remember.”

“Yes, I do.”

You groan, grab your pillow, and scream into it—muffled frustration echoing into feathers and static.

When you look back up, he’s still standing there, calm as ever.

“Whatever, Bucky,” you mutter. “We can’t just break into one of the most heavily protected corps in the megazone. You think they’ll just hand over your vintage war-grade flesh puppet with a smile and a handshake?”

He tilts his head slightly. Still watching. Still close.

“We need a plan,” you say, gesturing wildly. “Layers. Blueprints. Corp IDs. Firewall maps. A way in that doesn’t get us both terminated.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he steps closer.

One step. Two.

Until you're face to face—so close you can see the flicker at the edge of his projection, the slight distortion where light can’t quite remember what skin used to look like.

“I don’t want to wait.” he says, voice low, firm.

Your eyes narrow. “If I’m going to help you, it’s going to be on my terms.”

You take a step forward now, your voice calm but cold.

“If you don’t like that, you can go find another hacker to risk their life for a half-dead legend from the last century.”

The projection holds still.

Eyes locked on yours.

And then—“Fine.” He turns. And vanishes.

Just like that. No flicker. No fade. Just gone.

You stare at the empty air for a second. Then toss your hands up.

“Oh, come on, don’t be mad!” you shout at the corner of the room.

No response.

Just the hum of cables.

The distant screech of transport skiffs cutting through the smog outside.

And the empty chair.

You run your fingers through your hair, muttering under your breath, “It’s going to be one of those partnerships.”

════════════════════════════════

You shove the last data chip into your jacket and check the power cell on your pulse rig.

“Alright,” you mutter. “We go out, we keep it low. No weird projection flares, no talking to walls, no glowing skulls. We’re just looking for answers.”

Bucky flickers to life beside your desk—arms folded, already watching you like some half-curious specter in the dark.

“We are using this,” you say, holding up your hand.

He blinks at the tiny silver device sitting in your palm—round, sleek, with two faint blue nodes pulsing like eyes.

“What is it?” he asks.

“An emulator,” you answer, snapping it open and slotting it behind your ear. It hums softly as it clicks into place. “With this, you can talk to me without needing a terminal. You can project yourself—audio or full image—on command. From anywhere.”

His eyes flicker, assessing it. “So I’m portable now.”

“Exactly.”

He nods, almost impressed. “Great. I’ll help you on this mission. We’re a team.”

You exhale like you’re already regretting every life choice that led you here. “I’m already regretting this.”

He smirks.

You pull on your coat, throw the hood up, and step into the elevator shaft that shakes like it’s going to collapse. By the time the doors hiss open, the sky is a soup of neon haze and acid drizzle.

The two of you walk into the city.

Welcome to Sector Twelve.

What used to be downtown is now a trash-stained canyon of corporate glow, flickering ads, and people too tired to look up. A thousand digital voices buzz above you—flashing promotions, synthetic lovers, subdermal upgrades. Neon-painted glass stretches up forever, each floor a new lie.

BE MORE THAN HUMAN, one billboard screams.

RENT A PARTNER, DOWNLOAD LOVE, says another.

You tug your jacket tighter.

Bucky appears beside you, stepping out of thin air with a soft hum, eyes scanning everything.

He frowns. “This looks like a dumpster.”

You snort. “Yeah, well—welcome to the 31st century, soldier.”

You move through the crowd, weaving between street hawkers slinging gray-market mods and kids wired into the grid so deep their eyes don’t blink anymore.

“Stay close,” you mutter. “If anyone asks, you’re my AI partner. Basic domestic-use hologram. No combat features. Got it?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Should we kiss?”

You stop walking. Then slowly turn your head to look at him.

Your tongue pokes the inside of your cheek. You blink once. Hard.

“You wish.” you deadpan. Then keep walking.

Behind you, his projection flickers slightly—like he's glitching for half a second.

But you swear you hear him chuckle.

You stop in the shadow of a rusted market awning, lights buzzing overhead. The man waiting there looks up slowly—eyes gleaming synthetic blue, half his jaw rebuilt in chrome. Both hands are fully mechanical, plated in matte gunmetal. Veteran class. Maybe more.

“What is it that you needed to talk about with so much urgency?” he asks, voice low, clipped.

You glance around, then step closer.

“I need to know if you have any info on a project,” you say quietly. “An old one. Really old.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Name?”

You wet your lips. “Winter Soldier.”

A flicker. A moment.

“Ring any bells?” you ask.

He leans back in his chair, one servo whining slightly. Thinks. “Mmm... that’s like, fucking old.”

You nod, hopeful. “Exactly.”

“I don’t know a lot. Just scraps. Something about an AI Hydra built during the pre-collapse. Way before they got absorbed by the world gov.”

“That’s it?” you ask, heart sinking.

“That’s it.” Your shoulders fall.

Static crackles faintly in your right ear.

“Let’s go,” Bucky says. “This guy clearly knows nothing.”

The man tilts his head, squinting at your implant.

“You’re digging in the wrong place,” he says slowly. “Try Sector 4. That’s where the old war vets and gov military types still gather. If anything pre-Hydra’s still breathing—it’s there.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods once. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

You pull your coat tighter and turn. The crowd swallows you again.

“So… off to Sector 4, then,” Bucky says lightly in your ear.

You snort. “Nope.”

And that’s when he appears.

Right in front of you.

You stop so suddenly, your boots scrape the wet pavement. His projection forms with a harsh static pop, blocking your path.

“No?” he repeats, voice lower. Sharper. “Why not?”

You glare. “Because that’s where all the crazy ones are, Bucky. People wired to the teeth. Corps rejects. Merc ghosts. I can’t just walk in there alone.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer, “but you’re not alone.”

That hits wrong.

You throw your hands up, the frustration boiling over. “You’re an AI, Bucky! You’re not human! You can’t punch someone if they try to shoot me. You can’t bleed. You can’t help if things go bad!”

He blinks once. Slow. Looks at the ground. And disappears. No glitch. No sound.

Just—gone.

You stand there for a second, in the middle of the pulsing street, rain slicing down neon signs and making your reflection twitch on the wet pavement.

Then you sigh, defeated, and turn back.

Later.

The door to your quarters hisses open. You step inside, soaked and quiet, and let it shut behind you like sealing a confession. No lights. Just dim ambient glow from the street outside and the faint pulse of your terminal.

You change clothes in silence, then drop onto the cold floor with a heavy thud, knees up, arms limp.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Nothing.

“Bucky…” Still nothing.

You press your lips together. Close your eyes.

“I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just…” You look around. The cracked ceiling. The humming vents. The city screaming outside. “It’s a lot.”

And then—A soft shimmer beside you.

He appears, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Not looking at you. Just… there.

Staring at nothing.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I’m not mad at you. I just… I want my body back. That’s all.”

You glance at him. His face flickers at the edges, dim and half-rendered, but his eyes stay steady.

Soft. Lonely.

“We will,” you promise, voice hoarse. “Don’t worry too much. You’re gonna make my computer smoke.”

He scoffs. Just once. “Wouldn’t be the first thing I’ve fried.”

You both sit there. In silence.

Two ghosts in the dark—one made of circuits, and the other made of regret.

════════════════════════════════

The next week passes.

Every morning starts the same: cold light through cracked blinds, system reboots humming softly from your walls, the faint flicker of blue as he phases in just behind your shoulder—always exactly when you're halfway through your first sip of synth-caf.

Bucky.

You’ve gotten used to him.

Or... his projection.

He’s always there—at your side, behind you, leaning too casually against the wall when you’re elbow-deep in code, watching your fingers move across touch panels like they’re weapons.

He insists on going out with you during the day. Says it’s “mission-relevant,” but mostly you think he just likes the excuses. The noise, the world, the chance to be close. And gods—the way he talks.

“Bet no one’s ever made you blush while being technically non-corporeal.”

Every time your cheeks warmed, you told yourself it was the heat. Or faulty wiring. And every time, you knew you were lying.

You tried to ignore the pull.

You tried to remind yourself that this wasn’t real. That he wasn’t real. But every time he made you laugh without meaning to—or looked at you like you were something worth—the line between human and machine blurred just a little more.

Some days, his system needed a full recharge cycle.

On those days—the silence felt unbearable.

You didn’t say it aloud, of course. But the room always felt colder. Like something vital had left with the light.

You were falling for an AI.

How pathetic.

Except... he was more human than half the people you’d ever known.

Gentler. Sadder. Realer.

Together, you gathered intel—slow, silent, surgical. Map fragments. Building schematics. Old corp IDs. A whisper of a vault deep beneath the Hydra Governmental Preservation Wing in Sector 7. You built the plan piece by piece, careful as glasswork.

And in between the code and secrecy... there were moments.

One morning, you woke to find him already rendered.

Just watching you.

When you asked why, he blinked like you’d caught him.

“You looked peaceful,” he said softly. “You’re always carrying so much... it’s rare to see you rest. And you look—”

“Don’t.”

“—pretty, when you sleep.”

Your ears burned for an hour.

Another night. Long day. No progress.

You were curled up in your chair, head tilted back, trying not to drift off mid-conversation.

He was talking—something about pre-Hydra encryption methods and stolen memory packets—and you were listening. Barely.

Then you felt it. A flicker of light. A warmth like electricity before a storm.

His hand hovered near your face. Faint blue and flickering.

You didn’t move. You closed your eyes. The soft hiss of static hovered just above your cheek.

“I wish I could feel your skin,” he whispered.

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Something in your chest ached—split open just a little. And when you opened your eyes, he was still there.

Staring.

Like you were the only thing in the world he wanted to remember.

════════════════════════════════

The day came like static in your bones.

Your fingers trembled as you zipped up your coat. Not from fear—at least, not the kind you could name. This was your first time risking everything for someone who technically didn’t exist.

For someone you were starting to care about more than you cared to admit.

The streets buzzed with morning movement: drones overhead, corporate patrols clanking through puddles, hungry eyes watching from under synth-hoods.

You and Bucky moved through it like ghosts.

Both of you were tense. Alert.

“Alright,” you exhaled. “Let’s go through the plan one more time.”

Bucky flickered into full projection beside you, walking in step. Tall, composed—too calm for your liking.

“We get there,” he said, voice low. “You infiltrate the security system and deactivate internal surveillance with my help.”

You nodded as he continued.

“Then we locate the storage vault. I identify my body. You upload my core data to it. And we get out. Quiet. Clean.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him.

Brows raised. “You’re forgetting something.”

He blinked. “Am I?”

You folded your arms. “No fire. No guns.”

A pause. He didn’t love that part.

“No fire,” he echoed. “No guns.”

He sounded... reluctant. Like it hurt to say it.

You pointed at him. “I mean it. We go full stealth mode. If things go loud, we don’t get a second chance.”

“Fine,” he muttered, voice barely above the hum of the city. “No guns.”

You gave him a tight nod. “Great. Let’s—”

But before you could finish, he appeared directly in front of you. No warning. Just there.

Blocking your path.

You blinked, surprised. “What? What is it?”

He looked at you, his projection unusually steady, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t have any idea what this means to me,” he said quietly.

His voice didn’t sound like code then. It didn’t sound like programming.

It sounded human.

Like memory wrapped in pain. Like something lost trying to come home.

You stared at him for a long second. And then—slowly—you smiled. Not wide. Not giddy. Just soft. Real.

“I don’t,” you said. “But you can tell me all about it... when we get it back.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

The flicker in his eyes said enough.

Then you both turned toward the Sector 7 vault tower—its monolithic form gleaming ahead, wires curling like veins into the sky.

No turning back now.

The building looms above you—cold steel and black glass, humming faintly like it knows you’re here.

> HYDRA ARCHIVES – SECTOR 7 BRANCH.

Late. Quiet. Just the way you like it.

You stick to the shadows, heart hammering as you and Bucky circle around the side of the structure—its walls so tall they vanish into the polluted sky.

“Back door access point’s just ahead,” you whisper.

Bucky appears beside you, a soft flicker of blue light against concrete. You drop to one knee and unroll your portable console, fingers quick and precise as you jack into the side panel.

“I’m in,” he says a second later. “Routing the encryption loop now... and—got it!”

There’s a soft hiss. The lock clicks green.

“Ladies first,” he says, smug.

You shoot him a look. “You’re so annoying.”

You push the door open and slip inside.

The hallway is pitch black. Long. Endless.

Fluorescent panels overhead blink in sleep mode, casting everything in pale, flickering light. You hear your own footsteps like distant drumbeats on the smooth floor.

“Cameras disabled,” Bucky says. “Turn left.”

You follow his voice, heart tight in your chest.

The silence inside is deeper than outside. Like the walls here remember secrets. You step lightly, pulse skipping.

Then—voices.

Far ahead.

You freeze. Your breath catches. “Bucky?” you whisper, panic inching in.

"Here,” he says calmly.

A door ahead slides open with a whisper.

You dart inside, hand gripping the edge as you slip in and press your back to the wall. You hold your breath like it’ll help.

Everything is dark. Machines hum softly. Cooling units buzz in low rhythm.

“Don’t be scared,” Bucky says in your ear, gentler this time. “I’m here.”

You nod, barely. “I know,” you whisper back.

You hear the muffled conversation fade down the hall.

Once it’s clear, Bucky opens the door.

You step out, fast and low. He guides you with precision, voice steady as code.

“Turn right. Forty meters. Elevator’s on your left.”

You make it in record time.

The chrome doors slide open like they’ve been waiting for you. You enter the lift, your boots echoing softly against the metal. The control panel flickers to life.

Floor 49.

You press the button. The doors shut.

The elevator begins its slow climb—each floor a jolt through your spine.

16. 23. 31.

You lean back, exhaling. The adrenaline’s catching up to you now. Or maybe it’s the nausea.

“God,” you mutter. “This is making me dizzy.”

“Almost there,” Bucky says. There’s something in his voice now. Like reverence. Or awe. “I can feel it.”

You glance at the panel.

36.

Almost there.

You close your eyes.

And pray to whatever still listens in this broken world, that you both make it out whole.

Ding.

Floor 49.

The elevator doors slide open with a hiss of cold air and sterile silence.

“Door 01,” Bucky says.

You move fast, soft on your feet down the long white corridor. The hallway is lined with vault-like doors—no windows, no labels. Just numbers etched in steel.

You find it.

Door 01.

You try the access pad. Nothing.

“Locked,” you hiss, fingers flying across your portable interface. “I can’t get through the encryption.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters. “I can’t access the higher-level clearance data. It’s hardwired locally.”

You glance over your shoulder.

“Bucky, we can’t be here for long—corp drones sweep these halls every fifteen minutes. We don’t have time.”

“Turn to the other side,” he says, a bit sharper now.

You spin around—and freeze.

Down the hall, past the second corner, a man walks out of a side door.

A lab coat. Holo-tablet in one hand. Mid-fifties. Enhanced retina lenses. Slow but alert.

“A scientist?” you whisper-shout. “Bucky, what the hell is this?”

“He can access the door,” Bucky says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh yeah, and he’s just gonna waltz over and help us rob a government vault?”

“Just knock him out.”

Your jaw drops. “I—what?! No! Are you insane?”

“Not insane. Calculated. Just grab him, get him to touch the wall. I’ll run a shock through the nearest conduit—enough to knock him out.”

You stare at the man. Then at your hands. Then at the wall.

“Oh my god, oh my god—why did I say yes to this—I'm going to jail, or worse—dissected. This is how I die.”

“Do it,” Bucky urges. “Now.”

You take a deep breath. Quiet your thoughts. Then move.

“Hey!” you call, jogging forward.

The man turns, confused. “Hm? Can I help you?”

“Yeah—have you seen John?” you ask, voice all high and fake-sweet.

“John? I don’t know any John—”

You don’t let him finish. You shove him—hard—against the wall.

His back hits the conduit plate with a clang. The metal hums, then sparks.

There’s a flash.

A surge of energy pulses through the wall, and the man spasms—then slumps to the ground, unconscious.

You stagger back, gasping. “Holy shit—holy shit—you didn’t tell me it would zap him that hard!”

“He’s fine,” Bucky says calmly. “He’ll wake up in a few hours with a headache and no memory. Probably.”

“Probably?!”

You crouch down, grab the man’s limp arm, and press his hand to the door scanner. The pad glows green. Click.

You freeze.

“Sorry,” you whisper to the unconscious man, dragging him gently to the wall.

“Door’s open,” Bucky says, almost proud. “Nice work.”

You roll your eyes. “Remind me to delete all footage of this.”

"Already did."

You step inside.

Behind the door: a cold, humming chamber. Rows of cryo-pods, containment tubes, stasis tech from another century. Frost lingers in the air.

And at the far end of the room, sealed in reinforced glass and chrome—A body.

Male. Muscular. Battle-scarred. One metal arm.

Your breath catches. “Bucky,” you whisper.

“That’s me,” he answers, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

[checkoutmycode]

[fluffypandabun]

Poppy Playtime Angel AU musings

AN: Figures I'd explore a few little details about the Angel au since I plan on continuing the series >:3 Below is just some musings and more info about the AU in general. Things may change or be reworked in the future but for now this is what we got :3

Enjoy :3

(Angel (The Player) info) ~

-Angel worked an apprenticeship at PlayCo factory straight after he got out of college. He worked as a programmer and coder to help automate their machines.

-As he raised in rank he started to pick up on signs that something was off about the place. The more he dug deeper the more he realized just how deep the rabbit hole got.

-Eventually he got scared and chickened out once the information he was learning got darker-thought he would possibly be put in danger if he got caught.

-Eventually he put in his two weeks and left, hoping to put it all behind him. Unintentionally this saved his life.

-He was 22 when left PlayCo, making him 32 during the events of the game.

-He lives in his childhood home, his Mothers house that she left behind for him in her will after she sadly passed.

-He works from home, coding websites and social media for advertisements for other high end companies. He's by no means rich but he gets by.

-He feels both an add sense of survivors guilt about the hour of Joy and a an even bigger sense of guilt about what exactly PlayCO was doing. Especially the more and more he leans the further down into the factory that he goes.

-Its even worse when he learns some of the machines he was programming were used in the experiments.

-Feels disgusted with himself over the fact instead of trying to help he ran away once he started to learn what PlayCO could have been doing. Feel's like he abandoned the kids to their fate. (Even if in reality there really was nothing he could have done)

-He wont leave the Toys behind again, this time he was gonna do things right.

(General AU info)~

-The toys that Angel manage to save include: Poppy, Huggy, Kissy, Mommy, DogDay, Catnap, Doey, Yarnaby, the little critters in safe haven, Chum and Giblet!

-Safe Haven isn't destroyed, Angel isnt exactly keen on the idea of blowing the factory up when there might be more toys for him to save inside.

-Instead Safe Haven acts as a constant home base-its where Angel goes to heal and rest when he can and where he brings back any toys that he rescues

-They do eventually manage to escape however, and Angel ends up taking the toys to his home. Which is on private property so they thankfully don't run the risk of getting spotted.

-Angel then gets to figure out how the hell hes supposed to take care of all these toys-some of which are over 10 ft tall.

-How does he do it? Well ur gonna have to read and find out :3

(Fluff Stuff :3)~

-While stuff at the factory is pretty miserable for everyone, there are some sweet moments, specifically during the downtime that Angel spends at the safe haven

-Once the toys get over their initial wariness of Angel, it takes longer for some specifically Mommy, Catnap and Huggy, they start to relax and include him in their games and cuddle piles.

-ESPECIALLY the little critters, those guys kinda latch onto Angel as a 'real adult figure', Doey as well. Poor guy has spent years being the only 'bigger figure' for all the little toys.

-Those guys play a lot of fun silly games, usually involving the little ones getting Angel to chase them around. Which even if hes exhausted from running around the factory all day, he always agrees too.

-Tickling of course is a big part in the games they play.

-Its just so fun! And not only does it bring some laughter to the safe haven it also lets the toys experience a more positive form of touch.

-Doey was the original tickle monster of the safe haven, that is until Angel came along. And while Doey is still a tickle monster-Angel has no problems with taking over the role to give Doey a taste of his own medicine (and also to let him get to experience feeling like a kid again)

-The little toys LOVE having Angel chase them around and then scoop them up and give them tickles. He is always SO gentle with them-honestly hes so afraid of hurting them lol.

-Angel is one of the only people there who can actually blow raspberries and the toys both love and fear it.

-That's not the say the little critters don't give Angel a taste of his own medicine then and again. They cant really tickle ALL that well, especially if Angel is wearing his jacket, but if they manage to get to bare skin then they can usually get Angel giggling.

-Angel is more then willing to let them have their fun, and also more then willing to play up his reactions even if it doesn't tickle all that much.

-That of course changes when the bigger bodies get involved-given most of them have actual sturdier fingers/paws. Not to mention the fact they have no qualms of picking Angel up or holding him down for the little critters.

-Doey, Dogday, and Mommy are ESPECIALLY evil about this.

-Its a bit harder for Angel to tickle the bigger bodies, given their both huge and WAY stronger then he is. But most of the time the bigger bodies will kinda just let him. They like to have fun too ya know. And it helps make them feel normal again. They like feeling taken care of, especially since a lot of them are usually put in the 'caregiver' role for the little toys.

-Wont stop them from getting revenge however!

-Angel himself doesn't mind getting tickled, it makes the toys happy and its all in good fun so he sees no harm in it. Plus; its nice to get to let lose and laugh a little bit, especially after fighting for his life out in the factory.

-Hes very much so a father/older brother figure for a lot of the toys. A role he finds himself falling into a lot easier then he'd expected it to be.

-It had gotten kinda lonely after his mom had died, and having the toys around kinda was a nice change of pace.

-His new little family is kinda strange, but he loves them all the same.

[ninisbrain]

Solitude Chapter 2 is out !

Thank you for your patience lovely ones ! :)

You can find the chapter on AO3 right here : https://archiveofourown.org/works/79750016/chapters/217235706

As always, thank you to my babe @mr-silvas-chimera for giving me advices <3 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2: The Forgotten One

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the hospital room looked out over the snow-covered plains. The snowflakes fell gently, as if afraid of disturbing the room’s occupant, who was still unconscious.

Holding the ID badge between his fingers, Lyutsifer held it up to the light to examine the photograph once more: a young woman in her early thirties, her skin tanned by years of working outdoors. She had intelligent, deep-blue eyes and straw-coloured hair tied back in a tight bun from which not a single strand escaped. The attention to detail extended even to the shade of her cheap suit, which she had chosen to match her eyes.

“Who are you…”, muttered Lyutsifer, turning his gaze back to their guest.

Crushed by the machines and the vastness of the room, she looked small and fragile. Her skin, which had appeared tanned in the ID photo, now looked dull and pale. Her blonde hair was dirty and tangled, a far cry from the neatness she had displayed in the photograph. At least, that was what Lyutsifer assumed, for although she was unconscious, she could pose a threat to his entire empire. 

The metal chair scraped against the concrete floor as he pulled it over to sit right next to the bed. Crossing one leg over the other, he opened the thick file Mikhail had given him a little earlier. Perhaps the answer to his questions lay in these meeting transcripts, the reports she had provided, a list of emails, screenshots of her blog… The rustling of the pages, set against the steady beep of the heart monitor, had a soothing quality. Settled in his chair, his shoulders relaxed.

The widespread monitoring of his staff had its advantages in this situation. From private conversations between colleagues to dietary preferences… Line seemed to enjoy lunches with her colleagues, or takeaways.

“Well, Mrs Ko, you don’t seem to cook very often…”, he murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Every rustle of a page was yet another intrusion into the young woman’s life. A photograph of her, bathed in light in a colourful garden; a blog post about her favourite flower: lilac, preferably purple. 

“An excellent choice…” The sweet, delicate scent of lilac came to mind. He could almost picture the colourful clusters dancing in the breeze, in the shade of the trees. 

Lyutsifer stopped at page 89 of the file. A dozen internal emails, with a single name recurring over and over: Heracles.

At the sight of the name, his fingers clenched so tightly that the paper crumpled. Heracles.

The world stood still as he reread, over and over, the very words that had nearly been his undoing. 

Ordinary employees knew nothing of this project. Only a handful of select individuals working on this island, in the middle of the Sea of Okhotsk, were aware of the programme’s existence—or rather, of its revival. He brought the pages closer to his eyes, as if that would help him shed light on the whole affair. 

I would like to join the team for this programme. The potential of these new studies inspires me to achieve great things. I know that Dr Safin has grand plans for humanity, and I would like to assist him and learn alongside the Heracles team. Please find attached my latest performance reviews, along with a cover letter and CV addressed to the chief researcher.

This was the last email sent not to the HR department at the London plant… but to the head office of the Safin Pharmaceuticals conglomerate. 

“There’s no way the information could have leaked…”, his voice trembling slightly, he took out his phone to send a message to his Deputy Director, demanding an explanation. A lab technician had asked to work on the Heracles project, and no one had bothered to tell him? 

The beep of the heart monitor was becoming deafening, constantly on his mind. Control, maintaining control. The discreet pleasure he’d derived from this intrusion into Line Ko’s life vanished in an instant, replaced by a cold, vicious sensation. Fear. He was afraid.

Heracles had cost him the only semblance of a relationship he’d ever known, had nearly cost him his life, and years spent paying the price for his actions. He didn’t want to risk losing everything all over again. It was too much. He sat up abruptly and left the file on the edge of the bed before leaving the room.

He needed to think. There had to be some answers. This woman didn’t seem to want to harm the project, but rather to join it. What did she know about what they were actually doing in the laboratory? How had she heard about the project? If someone had revealed its existence to her… Was it for malicious purposes? Espionage? A conspiracy?

His hurried, clumsy footsteps echoed down the corridor as he passed employees with confused looks on their faces. With one hand against the wall, he took a single breath in his only haven of peace amid the chaos: his garden. A deep breath, the icy air filling his lungs, the cold stinging his fingers.

“Clear off! All of you! Now!” he barked at the few gardeners at work, who left him alone.

The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon when he regained his composure. The cold, at first biting, was now nothing more than a numbness numbing his body as well as his mind. How long had he been sitting there, alone on the bench facing the bed of foxgloves?

“... How long have you been waiting, Mikhail?” he asked without turning round.

“Exactly two hours, thirty-seven minutes and…” Mikhail’s deep voice paused, “now fifty-two seconds.”

“Stop joking around. Have you…”

“Received a panicked call from the Deputy Director, who’s been hounding the secretaries on the phone, grovelling for forgiveness? Yes, Boss. He claims he’s never seen the emails you’re referring to.”

Lyutsifer sat up slowly and decided to return to his office with a cup of hot tea. He mustn’t lose his temper like that again, especially in front of his staff. Mikhail, in his strange role as both right-hand man and guardian, had already anticipated his every need, and he knew it.

“I didn’t expect him to say anything else,” said Lyutsifer in a gloomy tone. “He knows full well he would have been sacked on the spot.”

“Isn’t that the case?” asked Mikhail in an even tone.

“Of course it is. I cannot tolerate the slightest error. However, if he’s telling the truth, we have a far more serious problem.”

The warmth of the office, and especially of the fireplace taking pride of place in its centre, was particularly welcome. Once settled into his Le Corbusier armchair, his feet resting on the matching ottoman, Lyutsifer’s face seemed to regain its usual composure.

“The initial reports from the IT department seem to back up what the recently sacked director said.” A notification sound came from Mikhail’s pocket, and he took out his mobile phone. “Human Resources has also confirmed his dismissal with immediate effect.”

“Perfect. I can’t afford to have incompetents working for me.”

The scent of mint, verbena and honey filled the room as Lyutsifer poured himself a cup of tea.

“So the message must have been intercepted to ensure I wasn’t informed. That doesn’t explain how she came to know about the Heracles project. Any information on the matter?”

“Alas, none. Our intelligence services have found nothing, apart from emails sent by this woman and another employee in France whose obituary appeared two weeks ago.”

The crackling of the flames filled the silence for a few moments. It wasn’t Lyutsifer’s furrowed brow that worried Mikhail; if only he could have voiced his opinion…

“Are you sure that SPECTRE…”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside the office, then suddenly someone pounded on the door. This went against all protocols of decorum when an employee was in the presence of Safin himself.

“She’s stabbed the nurse! She’s woken up and stabbed the nurse! We’re struggling to restrain her and we can’t sedate her; she’s asking to see you, sir—she doesn’t believe us!” shouted the head doctor’s voice from the other side of the thick, carved wooden door.

Lyutsifer stood up and walked towards the desk, from which he took a pistol and tucked it into his kimono jacket. If he couldn’t get answers from his sources… he would get them from the patient herself.