Thorne hesitated. “Awareness of self. Ability to suffer. To want.”

“Morning, 4627,” he said, sliding his tray of cold coffee and a jelly donut onto the observation ledge. The Bios rippled. A thin, iridescent membrane peeled back from its surface like an eyelid, revealing a constellation of pinprick lights that swirled in patterns no algorithm could predict.

He didn’t pull the lever.

The night shift had three hours left. Thorne looked at the donut. At the flatline log. At the pulsing, ancient thing in its golden bath.

“What’s out there?” he whispered.