"Subject Eleven, five years six months nine days," Walter read as the monitors beeped. "Read the vitals, Walter," Technician Mira snapped. "Tell me she's stable." "Heart rate steady. Respirations shallow. Neurological response—" Walter's voice cut off when the screen shifted numbers like a glare. "That's impossible," one tech hissed. "SSS? Who coded SSS?" "Run the diagnostic again," Mira ordered. "Double it. Triple it if you have to." Aoi sat on the padded bench with her small legs dangling. She touched the tablet on the tray without looking up. Her fingers found an icon and pressed. The screen flashed. The room smelled like antiseptic and burnt plastic. "What does that mean?" another tech asked. "Subject caliber rating SSS—what do you even call that?" "It's on the output. It's labeled SSS," Walter said. His hands trembled. "I've never seen it in a human. Not even in simulations." "You're not making that up," Mira said. "Get Goddard on secure. Now." The intercom squealed and then died. Someone cursed. Aoi watched a cursor blink on the tablet. Her face didn't change. She was five, but hands were steady, movements economical. She looked less like a child and more like a small machine waiting for a command. "Containment protocol delta in effect," said Dr. Lee from the corner. "Seal the corridor if alarms trigger. Evacuation lanes two and four." "Lane four has the service elevator jammed," a tech called. "Level three flooding in the utility ducts