Valmont Series - Inheritance Code

Chapter 5.2 - The Shape of Overcorrection

It showed up as overdesign.

As answers without questions.

He recalibrated his perspective accordingly

Because when perfection was constant...

distortion wore symmetry like camouflage.

Systems weren't supposed to anticipate failure.

They were supposed to react to it.

But Avalon's core hadn't waited. It had answered a question he hadn't even asked yet.

And that — in a world obsessed with elegance — was the most inelegant thing of all.

And patterns don't fix themselves... unless they're hiding something.

In Avalon, perfection wasn't a virtue. It was a cover story.

That lesson wasn't taught in lectures. It had to be earned.

He watched the symmetry spiral across the holo-array.

Balanced. Seamless.

Wrong.

That was when the door slid open — silent, precise.

Someone entered.

Footsteps light. Measured.

No hesitation. No clearance denial.

Aiden didn't look up.

He didn't need to.

Her presence calibrated itself across his awareness like a system scan.

Petite. Controlled.

Long black hair framed her face in soft, natural waves — not styled, but never unkempt.

The kind of effortless balance that suggested she hadn't touched a mirror... because she hadn't needed to.

She moved like she'd been taught not to waste motion — posture upright, limbs efficient, stride aligned with architectural rhythm.

The kind of precision that wasn't ornamental.

It was engineered.

Her features, when she passed into view, were clean and composed — soft at first glance, but sharpened by intention.

Large, almond-shaped eyes framed her face with a kind of quiet clarity.

There was no attempt to harden or dramatize.

She didn't need to.

Her expression was serene, almost delicate — but it was the stillness that gave her away.

The kind that wasn't passive.

The kind that watched everything without needing to move.

She sat, centered, and let the system respond to her — not the other way around.

She wasn't in uniform — not at this hour.

Instead, she wore what Avalon called loungewear: tailored, high-thread, zero-crease.

A slate-grey wrap jacket, weightless but structured, clipped at the collarbone with a black titanium pin — minimal, deliberate, and unmistakably expensive.

Below, obsidian-toned tapered trousers — matte, fluid, engineered to move like air and hold shape like steel.

No seams. No fastenings. Just precision.