(Sean's POV)
The double vision hits at the twenty-minute mark.
Not a blur. A clarity so sharp it cuts.
I see her fully. The engineer. The presenter. The woman who built a robot that tells bad jokes to sick children because she decided their laughter mattered more than a marketing department's dignity. Who fought a board and won. Who kneels beside a nine-year-old and treats him like a colleague, not a prop.
And I see where I'm watching from.
A sealed room. A locked door. A middle-notch volume.
The pride is so big my ribs ache with it, and it doesn't belong to me. The awe is real, and it doesn't belong to me either. It belonged to someone else for six years. I just didn't know it then.
My hands are flat on the desk. Both palms down. The wood is cool under my skin. I press harder. The
