The chamber expands, but not outward—its dimensions flex, recalibrate

The chamber expands, but not outward—its dimensions flex, recalibrate, as if the architecture itself is reconsidering its form. The walls are neither rigid nor fluid, shifting between tessellated panels and undulating biofilm. Brancusi-like smoothness clashes with grotesque organic folds, an engineered paradox where steel should end and flesh should begin. A column rises from the floor, though it was not there before. The surface ripples, assembling itself in layers—Van Gogh-like ridges of fibrous strands weaving into structure, sinew twisting with polymer filaments. It is a support beam, or perhaps a vertebra, indistinguishable from its function. It does not settle. It grows. At the far end, a containment unit hums, though the frequency is below perception. A form within flickers, uncertain—an anatomical study rendered in Francis Bacon-like distortion, skin stretched in too many directions, bones extruding and retracting with each recalculated breath. The eyes are open but do not process. They reflect nothing, despite the glaring surgical light that burns above. Across the ceiling, circuits do not simply connect—they sprawl, dendrite-like extensions mimicking organic neurons. The wiring is not engineered, it

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