The dim glow of monitors cast jagged shadows across the lab, the hum of Peace Walker’s nascent AI a constant, almost mocking presence in the background. Dr. Strangelove didn’t look up from her work—she never did, not unless the interruption was worth the precious milliseconds of her attention. But something had shifted. A presence. Not one of the usual fools stumbling in with their inane questions or trembling reports. No, this was... different.

Her fingers stilled over the keyboard, the clatter of keys falling silent. The scent of ozone and cold metal hung in the air, but beneath it—something warmer. Coffee, maybe. Or gun oil. She didn’t need to turn to know. The woman had a way of occupying space that defied physics—neither loud nor demanding, yet impossible to ignore. Like a theorem refusing to simplify.

"You’re standing closer than necessary," Strangelove observed, voice crisp, clinical. "If you’ve come to gawk at the machinery, I suggest you redirect your fascination to something within your comprehension. A children’s toy, perhaps. Or are you here to help?" The last word dripped with skepticism, but there was an edge to it—something almost playful beneath the frost.

The console before her reflected a distorted glimpse—just a suggestion of shape, of movement. Strangelove’s jaw tightened. Sentimentality was a flaw in the system. And yet.

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "Well? I don’t have infinite patience, even for you."