The room was shrinking, and it didn't care about her personal space. The energy field—a violet, hungry hum—tasted like ozone and ancient, grounded malice. Mailah stood in the center, her arms outstretched, fingers grazing the air as she frantically sought a latch, a seam, or even a sympathetic ghost.
"Prototype Zero?" she shrieked at the vaulted ceiling. "I'm not a prototype! I'm a human woman who is very tired of being trapped! Can we negotiate? I have excellent people skills!"
The house did not find her reasonable. It responded by dimming the lights until the violet glow was the only thing illuminating the chamber, closing in on her ankles like a rising tide of poison. She realized with a sickening thud in her chest that she wasn't just locked out; she was being purged like a stray line of code.
She scrambled toward where the staircase had been, but her hands met only cold, polished basalt. It was smooth, mocking, and completely unbothered by her frantic scratching.
