The door didn't open.
It recognized her.
The moment Ava's palm touched the weathered wood, a pulse of pale blue shimmered outward—like a pond disturbed from beneath, a memory surfacing rather than light.
The lock clicked softly. Not mechanical.
Personal.
A signature sigh of a system that remembered its creator.
Lucas stood behind her, close, eyes scanning the carved glyph on the doorframe—her name, etched with impossible precision, buried in the layers of system code like a command key and a grave marker in one.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
Ava's voice was quiet.
"No."
And then she pushed.
What lay beyond wasn't another simulation node.
It wasn't a trap.
It was intentional.
A vast, silent library—or something shaped like one. A cathedral of translucent architecture, built from flowing logic rails and crystalline latticework. Data spiraled in the air like airborne circuitry, code woven into the ceiling like constellations.
