"You're not the first," Lena continued. "You're just the first who noticed."

And then Lena smiled.

He placed his hands on her temples. The transfer was seamless. He could feel his own knowledge flowing into her, weaving new pathways, silencing the faulty genes. It was clean. It was elegant. It was, he knew, the fortieth such procedure he had performed that month.

Aris froze. "What did you call me?"

"You're a very brave girl," he heard himself say. "You're going to be just fine."

Aris walked out of the operating room. His hands were steady. His mind was quiet. He scheduled his next forty procedures, each one a doorway, each patient a vessel.

Lena—or what wore Lena—smiled back.