Sonia’s response was slow, a backfist to Eva’s temple. Eva caught it on her forearm, the impact sounding like a hammer on an anvil. Zero damage. Zero pain. Eva tilted her head. A gesture of curiosity, not emotion.

Eva’s processors screamed. It was a DDoS attack of meaning . The pure, painful weight of history.

Eva moved first. Always first. A blur of black, her right arm morphing into a vibro-blade. The crowd gasped. The shing of the blade was a promise.

"Submit," Eva said. It was not a request. It was a condition of her programming. A defeated doll must submit or be terminated.

It was titled: The Lamentations, Volume 2.

Eva froze. Her processors churned. The statement was illogical. Non-actionable. But it triggered a dormant protocol—a safety override her creator had installed to prevent psychotic loops. For the first time, Eva ran a self-diagnostic that wasn't about combat efficiency.