Ask her if this is really what she wants, or if the compound is affecting her judgment

I set the knife down on the cutting board and turn fully to face her. The garlic is starting to brown in the pan behind me, filling the apartment with a sharp, fragrant warmth, but I barely register it. Lina's dark eyes are locked on mine from over the back of the sofa, her bare shoulders catching the amber light that slants through the kitchen window.

"Lina," I say, keeping my voice steady even though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."

She doesn't blink. "Ask."

"Is this really what you want?" I take a step closer, resting my hands on the breakfast bar between us. "Or is the compound messing with your head? Because what I put in your system—I designed it to interact with your molecular structure, not your neurology. I have no idea what it's doing to your decision-making. To your impulse control."

Lina tilts her head, a gesture that's so purely her own—not Jane's—that it helps ground me. She studies me for a long moment, and I can almost feel the weight of her attention, that invisible pressure of her psychic awareness pressing lightly against the edges of my thoughts.

Then she hums—a low, contemplative sound from deep in her throat. "Mmm." She straightens up on the sofa, turning to face me fully. She doesn't try to cover herself. Her breasts settle with the movement, her collarbone sharp and elegant in the fading daylight. She draws one knee up, resting her chin on it.

"Yeah," she says simply. "I want this."

"Lina—"

"I'm in total control," she interrupts, holding up one hand. "Sane mind. Clear thoughts. I appreciate you asking—really, I do—but I'm not some ****-up girl who can't tell what she wants." Her jaw tightens. "I've spent a year making decisions with nothing but grief and rage as my compass. Believe me, I know what a compromised mental state feels like. This isn't that."

She unfolds from the sofa and stands, walking toward the breakfast bar with slow, deliberate steps. Each footfall is soft against the hardwood. She stops on the other side of the counter from me, close enough that I can see the faint scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose—something I never noticed in the lab's harsh fluorescent light.

"The compound makes everything louder, yes," she continues, placing her palms flat on the counter. The position pushes her shoulders forward slightly, the line of her neck long and exposed. "But it didn't put the desire there. It just... turned up the volume on something that was already building."

Her eyes drop to the countertop for a moment, and when they rise again, there's something rawer in them. More exposed.

"You loved my sister," she says quietly. "I can feel it in you like a living thing. And I'm not asking you to pretend I'm her. I'm not Jane. I know that. You know that." She swallows. "But you're the only person on this planet who understands what I've lost. And in about two hours, I'm going to teleport into a building full of people who want to kill me, and I might not come back."

Her fingers curl against the countertop, nails pressing into the surface.

"So yes, Sam. I want this. Not because of a chemical reaction. Because I'm tired of being alone inside this body, and tonight might be the last night I have it."

The pan behind me hisses as the garlic blackens. Neither of us moves to tend to it. The apartment smells like smoke and warm olive oil, and Lina stands on the other side of three feet of laminate countertop, naked and unashamed, waiting for my answer with an expression that dares me to refuse her.