The Exception.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Moving Foward.

"Again. Louder."

"I didn't deserve what happened to me but I'm strong" Her voice split, breaking wide open as she collapsed into sobs, screaming those words into the empty garage like an exorcism.

Dr. Jackson pulled her into a fierce embrace, holding her like no one ever had before. "That's it, Fatima. Let it out. All of it. You are here. You are alive. And you are stronger than every single thing that tried to break you."

Fatima clung to her like a child, tears soaking into Dr. Jackson's jacket, the weight of years of silence spilling out all at once. For the first time in forever, she didn't feel like an ice queen. She felt human.

Fatima's sobs began to quiet, her body shaking less violently as Dr. Jackson held her upright. She took slow, deliberate breaths, though each one still felt like pulling herself out of quicksand.

"Okay," Dr. Jackson said gently, brushing a wet strand of hair from Fatima's face. "Now let's bring you back to right now. I want you to feel your feet on the ground."

Fatima's gaze flicked to the concrete beneath her knees, the chill pressing against her skin. She took a shaky inhale and exhaled slowly.

"Name five things you can see," Dr. Jackson continued, her voice steady and calm.

Fatima's eyes roamed. "The yellow lines on the floor... the support pillars... a puddle... my shoes... the ceiling lights."

"Good. Four things you can touch," Dr. Jackson prompted.

Fatima's hands trailed over the cool concrete. "My knees... my jeans... the bag I set on the ground... my hands on the floor."

"Three things you can hear."

Fatima's eyes closed. "...The hum of the lights... my own breathing... a car door somewhere far away."

"Two things you can smell."

Fatima's nose wrinkled, searching. "Oil... concrete. It's... wet from the rain."

"Last one," Dr. Jackson said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "One thing you can taste."

Fatima hesitated, then licked her lips. "My tears. Salt."

"Perfect," Dr. Jackson said. "See? You're grounded. You're here. You're alive. And you're safe right now. No one can hurt you here. This spot? It's yours now. Not the shooting, not the fear—yours."

Fatima let out a shaky laugh, half disbelief, half relief. "It still feels... heavy."

"I know," Dr. Jackson said. "But here's what I want you to take with you every time the past comes creeping back. Repeat this after me, out loud if you can: 'I am alive. I am strong. I am allowed to heal. I am in control of my life.'"

Fatima's voice was tentative at first:
"I... I am alive. I am strong. I am allowed to heal... I am in control of my life."

Dr. Jackson nodded. "Good. That's your anchor, Fatima. Carry it with you. Say it every morning. Say it every night. Say it when you feel fear creeping in. It belongs to you, and it's unshakable."

Fatima's chest rose and fell more steadily. For the first time, she realized she didn't have to fight her past alone anymore. She could survive it. She could reclaim this spot, this life, and this power—and she would.

When Fatima made it home, she sank onto her bed, curling up in the soft mound of blankets. For the first time in weeks, the penthouse was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that smothered her thoughts—no television, no calls, no notifications—but a rare, restorative quiet. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her, letting her body and mind decompress.

And then the flashes began.

The parking garage. The blinding fluorescent light. The smell of concrete and gasoline and fear. Her blouse soaked red, her hand pressed to the wound, trembling, shaking. Her phone buzzing beside her, buzzing with life while she was slipping away. Zac's name flashing on the screen. Her breath hitching as the operator's calm voice filtered through the chaos:

"Stay with me, Ms. Wilson. Help is already on the way. Don't hang up. You're not alone."

Her chest ached with the memory, her body pulling back into the panic she had felt in those seconds that felt like hours. The ceiling of her penthouse blurred behind closed lids, flickering like the garage lights. And yet, somewhere deep, a thread of awareness remained. She was alive. She had survived. She was still here.

Fatima let herself breathe, slow and measured, repeating it to herself under her breath: I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. It sounded fragile, yet also defiant, a tiny rebellion against the memory of fear.

She opened her eyes and glanced toward Nova, her AI assistant quietly waiting in its charging dock. The system had been brilliant, yes, but it hadn't been enough that night. Nova hadn't understood distress or danger. It couldn't detect when her life was hanging by a thread, couldn't reason through the reality of being shot. Fatima's pulse quickened as she thought of all the ways she could improve it—make it smarter, more intuitive, capable of truly understanding the person it served.

Her fingers itched for a pen. She grabbed her notebook from the nightstand and began to scribble, messy and fast, almost as if she were racing against the memory itself. Diagrams, sketches, bullet points—her brain sparking with ideas. How SYNCD could update to monitor for emergency situations, detect emotional distress, integrate with health sensors, and even intelligently triage responses. She drew lines between her notes, her pulse syncing with the excitement creeping into her chest.

It was the first time in weeks she had felt a rush of life, of purpose, of herself again. The fear from the flashbacks didn't disappear, but it became a backdrop instead of a cage.

Fatima leaned back against her pillows, the notebook clutched to her chest. She let herself smile faintly. This... this could be something. This could be her way forward, her way to turn all the pain, all the chaos, into something meaningful.

And for the first time in months, she didn't feel like a victim. She felt like a creator.