The door hissed open. Inside, a room the size of a hangar. Banks of servers hummed along one wall, their lights blinking in arrhythmic patterns. In the center, suspended in a cylindrical tank of amber fluid, floated a girl.
Sena Ayanami had always been told she had a face like a doll. High cheekbones, porcelain skin, eyes the color of storm clouds. At sixteen, she leaned into the comparison—not out of vanity, but out of strategy. If people expected stillness, she would give them stillness. And while they admired the mask, she would move unseen. sena ayanami
The headmistress would not be attending morning assembly. No one would ask why. The door hissed open