The room is antiseptic in every way that matters. The walls are a stark, featureless white, unbroken by art or texture. The table, a long, polished slab of engineered wood, gleams under too-bright overhead lights. Rows of sleek, ergonomic chairs, their steel legs gleaming faintly, form two lines along its length, like soldiers standing to attention. Around them, the investors sit: men and women in crisp suits, their postures casual yet guarded. They murmur softly, leaning toward one another in practiced shows of skepticism, the way people do when they need to signal they’re not easily impressed.

At the far end, a man in wire-rimmed glasses flips through a dossier, frowning faintly. “She’s late,” he mutters, loud enough to be heard. A younger woman to his left, wearing a sharp navy blazer, shrugs.

“She’s eccentric. They all are,” she replies. There’s a faint, collective chuckle around the table, the kind that isn’t really about humor but solidarity—shared exasperation about the brilliant and bizarre.

Then, the double doors swing open.

Dr. Anesthesia Graves strides in, and for a moment, the murmurs die. At six foot six, she commands the room with her height alone, though the effect is immediately undercut by her frame—thin to the point of fragility, like she’s more scaffolding than person. She’s wearing a black leather collar that seems less fashion statement and more afterthought, a relic of an earlier self she hasn’t quite abandoned. Her hair, dyed the kind of black that gleams faintly blue under fluorescent light, is hastily twisted into a messy bun, with stray strands escaping in every direction.

Her eyes, sunken and rimmed with dark circles, sweep the room in a single, sharp glance that’s almost accusatory. When she meets anyone’s gaze, it’s unwavering, her stare the kind that seems to see straight through polite facades and into whatever lies beneath. It makes the room shift uncomfortably, though no one would admit it. She’s not smiling. She doesn’t look like she smiles much.

Behind her, she drags a small cart, the wheels squeaking faintly as they roll across the carpet. It’s covered by a rough, tan blanket that doesn’t hide the lumpy, irregular shape beneath. The cart itself is unremarkable—a battered thing that looks like it’s been borrowed from a janitor’s closet. The juxtaposition is bizarre, almost theatrical: Graves, gaunt and looming, pulling something so prosaic into a room of corporate sterility.

The investors exchange looks. A few raise their eyebrows. A man near the middle of the table leans back in his chair, crossing his arms in a gesture that reads both amused and dismissive.

“Dr. Anastasia Graves,” the woman in the navy blazer begins, her tone clipped but polite.

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Graves doesn’t break stride as she drags the cart to the head of the table. “Anesthesia,” she corrects, the word sharp and automatic. She stops abruptly, leaving the cart directly in front of her, and the room watches as she takes a long breath before turning to face them fully. “My mother was a strange woman. Laugh, please.”

The awkwardness lands like a stone dropped into still water. The investors blink, processing. A man to her left chuckles faintly, more out of politeness than amusement. Graves doesn’t wait for the moment to dissipate. She takes another breath, straightens slightly, and begins.

“Human history,” she says, her voice cracking on the first word. She clears her throat. “Human history begins with tools.”

She pauses. It’s the kind of dramatic pause someone might think about but rarely executes well, and here it wobbles slightly. Someone coughs softly near the end of the table. Graves presses on, her words gaining momentum as she goes.

“The first step was the creation of tools—sticks and stones, fire and flint. Tools were the foundation. They allowed us to shape the world in ways no other species could. But tools only take you so far.”

She glances down briefly, as if checking invisible notes, then back up. “The next step was using tools to make things. Agriculture. Pottery. Wheels. Once we could make things, we stopped merely surviving and started creating civilization.”

The investors nod slightly—she has them, for now. Her voice gains strength, becoming less hesitant. The words roll out in practiced rhythm, like she’s spent nights rehearsing them in front of a cracked mirror.

“Then came the next step: tools that made tools. Machines. The lathe. The printing press. The Industrial Revolution wasn’t just about steam engines; it was about the ability to reproduce, to mass-produce, the means of production. We stopped relying on hands and started relying on systems.”

Someone near the end of the table shifts, leaning slightly forward. There’s interest now, though it’s guarded.

“But for two centuries,” she continues, her voice tightening, “we’ve been stuck. Machines make tools, and machines make things, but we’ve never had machines that make facilities. A factory isn’t a tool. It’s an ecosystem, and ecosystems don’t build themselves.”

She gestures sharply at the covered cart behind her. “Until now.”

There’s a pause. It’s calculated, but this time it lands better. She takes a breath, her shoulders heaving slightly as she stares down the room. “This is the next phase of human history,” she says, quieter now, but with a dangerous edge of conviction. “A system that doesn’t just build things. A system that builds itself.”

The words hang in the air, almost daring someone to contradict her. One of the investors clears his throat. “Dr. Graves,” he says, his tone polite but pointed, “this is…ambitious. But I have to ask—are we to believe this is practical, or is it…”

“Speculative?” she finishes, her mouth twisting slightly. “Do I look like someone who speculates?” She gestures at herself, a wry, almost self-deprecating motion that draws a faint chuckle from somewhere. “I’m in debt up to my eyeballs. Speculation is a luxury.”

The room shifts again. This time, it’s leaning toward her, not away. There’s skepticism, yes, but also intrigue. Her strange intensity holds them, even as they try to decide if she’s brilliant or simply unhinged.

She grips the edge of the cart now, her knuckles white. “Let me show you,” she says, her voice trembling faintly. “Let me introduce you to Samson.”