Page 9 of Damsel in Disguise

So I clamp my lips shut. Cowardly. For now. My trust fund matures soon, and we’ll see.

Dad smirks at my submission.

“But most importantly, if I discover you’ve lied to me about why you want this so badly, I reserve the right to drag you back home myself.”

A strange chill crawls down my spine. If there’s one thing Dad excels at, it’s finding secrets.

Fortunately for me, there’s absolutely no chance he discovers my entire life revolves around a British engineering professor who doesn’t know I exist.

With that confidence, I smile widely at him, “You got this, daddy,” and round the table to wrap him into a tight hug from the sides. “Thank you soooo much. I love you,” I say and leave a kiss on his cheek.

“Oops,” my hand immediately rubs off the stain of the lip gloss from his cheek.

He smiles, hugging me back. “Love you too, my stubborn little princess.”

3. ITERATION

alistair

ONE YEAR LATER

“I humbly apologize, sir,” Iris stands beside me.

His posture is rigid, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on the remains inside the experimental chamber.

The sterilization lights hum overhead. It’s clinical and indifferent. The subject no longer resembles anything human.

Inside, what’s left of him has collapsed into a grotesque, molten sprawl across the steel floor—flesh liquefied, synthetic polymer fused irrevocably with bone.

The internal battery has ruptured under the strain of its own instability, leaving the mass still faintly smoking, still settling.

Even through the reinforced glass, the smell reaches us. Burnt circuitry. Cooked meat. The acidic bite of sulfur scratches the back of the throat.

It always seems like a slow, painful death. But I never cared.

Just as I don’t bother opening the door. If I do, the stench would cling to my memory. Mostly to my skin. I despise that feeling. It’s utterly disgusting.

“Document the failure,” I order evenly. “Iteration seven-three did not tolerate emotional overload.”

Iris swallows, the movement sharp in the sterile silence. “Yes, sir.”

He hesitates just long enough to register the command.

Then adds, quieter, as if his voice alone might soften the implication, “The Council was… hopeful about this one.”

Hope is an inefficient metric. It’s nothing more than a human indulgence—imprecise, and disastrously subjective. It breeds hesitation where there should be calculation, mercy where there should be correction.

I’ve seen what hope does when introduced into a closed system—it festers, warps judgment, and convinces people they’re owed desirable outcomes simply because they expected them.

Meanwhile, data does not care what we want. Biology does not bend for optimism. And experiments certainly do not succeed just because someone believed hard enough.

I’ve learned that the hard way. So I don’t hope anymore.

“It was bound to collapse,” I reply calmly, my gaze never leaving the chamber. “He exhibited fixation markers too early. Emotional acceleration always ends the same way. Focus on fixing that first.”

Iris nods, scribbling the notes.

His fingers tighten on the clipboard he’s holding until his knuckles pale. “Then do we proceed with the next phase?”