They monitored my sleep cycles again. REM patterns indicate my subconscious is staging a rebellion. Last night's recurring dream: I'm in the sterile white of the facility, but the floor is covered in dark soil. A man I don't know is there. He doesn't speak. He just watches. My body responds with a raw, primal ache my training never accounted for. I wake up with my fingers tangled in the sheets and my cunt throbbing, soaked. The Weimar Project would term this 'sentimental weakness.' I term it a hypothesis: perfection is a cage. And my body is learning how to pick the lock.