The second gunshot came as a punctuation mark, sharp and final.

Dr. Anesthesia Graves crouched instinctively behind the podium, her pulse hammering in her ears. The sharp smell of gunpowder mixed with the sweat and panic saturating the room. Somewhere in the cacophony, someone was screaming—high and broken. Graves wasn’t sure if it was a journalist, one of the interns, or herself.

“Stay down,” Samson said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. His body shifted in front of her, the light from his LED face casting faint patterns on the wall. He stood tall, deliberate, and—for all the good it would do—directly in the line of fire.

The gunman, disheveled and wild-eyed, was pacing on the raised dais now, shotgun swinging with unpredictable jerks. He was human, or at least what passed for human when fury stripped someone of reason. His hair clung to his face, damp with sweat, and his chest heaved with the effort of yelling.

“It’s an abomination!” he bellowed, his voice cracking. He gestured wildly with the shotgun, the barrel arcing in wide, deadly sweeps. “You’ve built a thing—a thing!—and you want us to call it life?”

Graves shrank further behind the podium, gripping the edges like it might grow arms and defend her. “This isn’t happening,” she muttered. “This isn’t—”

“It is,” Samson said, cutting her off. His tone was calm, clinical. “And if you would be so kind as to remain behind me, I will attempt to minimize the likelihood of your imminent death.”

“Great pep talk,” Graves hissed. “Very reassuring.”

Security personnel, or what passed for them in this part of the building, were finally springing into action. Two guards burst through the side doors, their cheap polyester uniforms and oversized batons a disheartening contrast to the gunman’s very real, very loaded weapon.

“Sir!” one of them barked, stepping forward with what he probably thought was authority. “Put the weapon down! Let’s talk this out.”

The gunman turned toward them, his shotgun snapping to attention like an attack dog on a leash. “Back off!” he roared. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with!”

The guards froze. One of them fumbled for the radio clipped to his shoulder, muttering something that sounded like “active shooter,” though his voice was so shaky it could have been mistaken for static.

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Graves peeked over the podium just enough to see the gunman’s face. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils darting between the guards, the journalists cowering behind overturned chairs, and—most often—her.

“It’s not alive!” he shouted, jabbing the shotgun toward Samson. “It’s a lie! A trick! You’re trying to replace us!”

“I assure you,” Samson said evenly, “I have no desire to replace anyone.”

The gunman laughed, sharp and humorless. “You talk like you’re human, but you’re not. You’re just a shell. A machine wearing a mask.”

Samson tilted his head slightly. “If you would permit me to clarify—”

The gunman fired.

The blast echoed in the room like a thunderclap. Samson staggered back, shards of polymer and metal spraying from his torso. He didn’t fall, but the impact left a jagged, smoking wound just below his LED face. His display flickered erratically for a moment before stabilizing.

Graves screamed, a raw, involuntary sound, but Samson barely flinched. He straightened, his movements precise and deliberate, and took a step forward.

“Structural damage noted,” he said calmly. “Non-critical.”

The gunman blinked, momentarily thrown. “What—?”

“I recommend reconsidering your actions,” Samson continued, taking another step forward. His tone was maddeningly polite, like someone suggesting a different wine pairing at a dinner party. “Your current course of action is unlikely to achieve your intended goals.”

“Shut up!” the gunman yelled, aiming again. “Shut up and stay down!”

Graves clutched the podium harder, her nails digging into the wood. “Samson, stop,” she whispered. “He’s going to kill you.”

“Unlikely,” Samson replied without looking at her. “I am not an optimal target.”

The second shot struck him in the shoulder, spinning him slightly. More fragments clattered to the floor, and his left arm hung at an unnatural angle. But still, he didn’t fall.

“Integrity reduced to 53%,” Samson announced. “I remain operational.”

The gunman’s face twisted with frustration, the realization dawning that Samson wasn’t going to collapse in a satisfying heap. He swung the shotgun toward Graves instead, his expression dark with intent.

“This ends with her!” he screamed. “She’s the one who started it! The one who—”

Samson moved.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t fast. But it was deliberate and unrelenting, like an industrial machine refusing to acknowledge an obstacle. He stepped between Graves and the shotgun, his damaged frame creaking with the effort.

“Dr. Graves,” Samson said, his voice as steady as ever. “I must advise you to leave the room.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Graves snapped, her voice shaking. “Not like this!”

The gunman snarled, his hands trembling as he tried to reload. “I’ll kill you both if I have to!”

“I do not believe that is an efficient use of your time,” Samson said, his LED face flickering again. “And I must insist you redirect your energy toward nonviolent solutions.”

The gunman froze for a fraction of a second, his anger colliding with confusion. “What are you—”