"No," Oishi said, standing up. Her eyes were bleeding from the psychic strain. "You do the math. I'll give him a heart."
Ayaka stood before the three-dimensional diagnostic mirror in her quarters, the number "G-1" glowing softly on the back of her left hand like a brand of divinity. Her reflection stared back—sharp, obsidian eyes, a severe black bob, and a posture that belonged to a blade. She was the Institute's masterpiece, a psychometric prodigy capable of analyzing any human flaw in a single handshake. Ayaka Oishi Perfect G Hiroko
Hiroko's calculations spiraled. The sociopath was wired to a dead man's switch connected to the gas line. If his heart stopped, the building blew. If he was subdued, he'd trigger it. A logical stalemate. "No," Oishi said, standing up
Oishi took Hiroko's hand. It was warm. "Perfect G," she said softly. "You keep the world precise. Let me keep it alive." I'll give him a heart