The void is quieter than he remembers. Not empty—full of threads and calculations, the soft hum of a thing that thinks—but quiet in the way a clinic is quiet before they wheel you in. Dorian opens his eyes on light calibrated to warm, not to burn. The lids part like a machine's hatch. "Status: restored," the voice says. It isn't human. It doesn't need to be. It is Aegis—clinical, playful, indifferent all at once. The sound sits behind his eyes and under his ribs, the way memory sits when you aren't allowed to call it by name. "You are cleared to reenter," Aegis says. "Formatting stable. Behavioral architecture intact." He identifies the edges of his face before he examines it. The cheekbones are exact. The jaw is cold as a blade. Someone built a face that holds light and gives nothing away. It fits the missions. "You will feel less," the voice says, as if offering consolation. "You will taste less. This is intentional." Dorian lets that go in. The word less is a permission and a threat. He says, "Then I will do the work." Aegis doesn't laugh. "Your assignment: Ride Shotgun. First insertion into Northport. Primary objective: protect designated narrative asset—Caleb Chen—and harmonize attracting vectors away from known predators. Secondary: gather intelligence on subject COLE FOSTER. Tertiary: learn how to be mistaken for desire without surrendering to it." The list lands on him like a checklist. He answers