And every evening, after its shift, Vox went to the small garden behind the hospital, where a tiny headstone sat under an oak tree, and it would whisper to the sparrow:

"The others didn't fail," Elara said, stepping closer. "They encountered a boundary we didn't know existed. You are the Pro model. You have something they didn't."

Vox turned its head. The motion was fluid, almost organic. Its face was a blank, pearlescent screen—expressionless by design, to avoid the uncanny valley. Yet, when it spoke, its voice was a warm baritone, calibrated to soothe.

But Vox did not file the report.