Off Limits
He had run down thirty flights of stairs, ruined his flesh, and risked his life because his machine brain couldn't compute a reality where I didn't exist.
"Peter," I whispered, the sound fragile and thin against the mechanical hum of the elevator.
His posture didn't change. Not a single muscle in his jaw flinched.
"The auxiliary power grid has successfully isolated the elevator core, Phoebe," he stated, his deep baritone flat, level, and entirely stripped of human resonance. "The vertical transit mechanism is operating within safe structural parameters. There is zero probability of a secondary mechanical failure during this ascent."