Begin working on the neutralizing compound while Lina explores your memories, using the distraction to focus on the complex chemistry.

I position myself at the makeshift lab on the kitchen counter, arranging the beakers in precise formation. The hydrofluoric acid needs to be handled with **** care, so I pull on the nitrile gloves Lina thoughtfully included in the duffle. As I begin measuring precise amounts of the fluorine compounds, I feel a gentle pressure at the edges of my consciousness—like fingers brushing against the surface of a still pond.

"I'm going in now," Lina says softly from the couch. "Just... keep working. It helps if you don't actively resist."

I nod without turning around, focusing instead on the digital scale as it registers 13.42 grams of the polytetrafluoroethylene base. The pressure in my mind increases—no longer gentle, but insistent. Memories begin to surface unbidden: Jane laughing as we walked across campus in autumn, leaves crunching beneath our feet. Jane in my lab after hours, perched on a stool, asking questions about my research with genuine curiosity. Jane's lips against mine, the first time we kissed outside the library at midnight.

My hands continue working autonomously, muscle memory guiding them through the familiar motions of laboratory procedure while my conscious mind floats in a sea of memories. I feel Lina moving deeper, past the surface recollections, into more intimate territories. Jane's body beneath mine in my narrow dorm bed, her small breasts pressed against my chest, her pussy wet and tight as I entered her for the first time. Her gasps in my ear, the way she'd bite her lower lip when she came.

A beaker nearly slips from my fingers. I blink, forcing myself back to the present, focusing on the chemical reactions occurring in front of me. The initial solution needs to reach precisely 42°C before adding the next compound. I adjust the hot plate, watching the digital thermometer with deliberate concentration.

"She loved you," Lina's voice comes from behind me, thick with emotion. "I can feel it in these memories. She really loved you."

I don't respond, can't respond. The pressure in my mind intensifies, pushing deeper still. Now Lina is witnessing arguments—the time Jane and I fought about her staying late at the library, my paranoid accusation that she was seeing someone else. The makeup sex afterward, fierce and **** on my desk, papers scattered across the floor. The last time I saw her alive, kissing her goodbye outside the science building, promising to call her later that night. A call that never happened because I fell asleep in the lab.

"I didn't know," Lina whispers. "She never told me about you. Not once. How could she keep something so important from me?"

I carefully add the calcium gluconate to the mixture, watching it dissolve, the clear liquid taking on a slightly opalescent quality. Despite my focus on the chemistry, I feel my throat tightening with emotion. I welcome Lina's presence in my mind now, subconsciously opening doors to rooms of memory I've kept locked for a year. Let her see it all—the happiness, the pain, the intimacy, the loss. Let her fill the Jane-shaped void that's been aching inside me.

"You dreamed about her," Lina observes, her voice closer now. I sense her standing behind me, though I don't turn. "Even after. Still do. Always the same dream—she's trying to tell you something important, but you can't hear her words."

The solution begins to foam slightly as I add the final catalyst. It needs to simmer for exactly seventeen minutes. I set the timer, finally turning to face Lina. She stands just feet away, tears streaming down her cheeks, her expression a complex mixture of grief, wonder, and something else—something almost like jealousy.

"Yes," I confirm, my voice rough with suppressed emotion. "Always the same dream. She's always trying to warn me about something, but I never hear what it is."

Lina steps closer, her eyes—Jane's eyes—locked with mine. "She was trying to tell you about Marco," she says softly. "About what she found."

For a moment, we simply stare at each other—two people connected by a ghost, by shared loss, by this strange intimacy of having her witness my most private moments with her sister. The timer on the hot plate beeps, breaking the spell.

"I need to keep working," I say, turning back to the chemicals. "This compound requires precise timing."

"I know," Lina responds, her hand briefly touching my shoulder. "I'll let you focus. But Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For loving her. For trying to find answers. For... letting me in."

I nod without looking back, unable to form words around the lump in my throat. Behind me, I hear her soft footsteps retreating to the couch, but her presence remains in my mind—gentler now, observing rather than searching, a silent companion as I work to create the formula that might help us both survive what's coming.