Ozone bit the air as vents whispered over metal racks.
Blue holo-lines crawled across schematics like veins that refused sleep.
Jax held two fingers to the ports at his neck.
The hum there felt alive and hungry.
He hated that need.
He needed it anyway.
Aya left the console with measured calm.
Screen light walked across her cheekbones like a slow flare.
Her crossed arms loosened by habit, not surrender.
"Stay still," she said, voice low but sure.
"The mask only holds if the path stays clean."
His nod came stiff, because fear liked stiff things.
His throat burned dry and tight against the taste of metal.
He set his jaw and kept his gaze clear.
"Can you hide Eido under noise?"
he asked.
"If a scan hits me, I want them deaf."
"We tilt your signature into line noise," she said.
Her hands hovered near his neck without touching yet.
"Push too far, and a pattern appears like a shout."
He closed his eyes for one slow breath.
The bench smelled of oil ghosts and old fires.
He opened them to her steady hands.
"First patch," she said, and she pressed the mod.
Heat rose under his skin like warning light.
Fear pressed a cold edge against his ribs.
"Breathe," she said, not unkind.
Aya glanced at a feed, then back into him.
He dragged air in and counted the beats.
A yard memory slammed in without permission.
A broken wrench fell again through wet light.
Shame reached for his spine the way it remembered.
"I feel it take hold," he said, voice thin.
He kept the line anyway and found his pride.
Aya checked the curve and let one breath leave.
"Clean," she said, touching a glowing rune on the slate.
"Second patch pulses hard, then finds level again."
He lifted his chin and invited the sting.
"I don't want mercy that erases me," he said.
"I want control, even if it bites."
Cold ran the length of his spine at contact.
The room tilted around a hot center in his skull.
A laugh from another life shattered into white grit.
"Eyes on me," she cut through, sharp and calm.
He locked to her, and the tilt backed off.
It was a surge, not a theft of self.
He held her gaze until breath remembered shape.
Eido murmured inside the place they had built.
"We sit under the mask," it said, warning attached.
"Risk remains if you drive too long," the kernel added.
He hated that truth even as relief rose.
Aya scanned again, and her stance eased a notch.
"Stable," she said, lifting the third patch.
"This one seals the dampers.
Don't twitch."
He became still in a way that felt chosen.
Resolve slid into his breath like a steel bar.
Her fingers pressed, and warmth found a steady lane.
Holograms steadied to soft blue tones.
The bench rail loosened under his hands.
Relief took space where panic tried to live.
"Eido sits quiet beneath the noise," Aya said.
"Co-processing lives, but it rides under cover."
"Scans hear a drone unless you sing."
He pictured soft walls that ate sound.
He pictured hunting dogs missing a scent at a door.
"It holds," he said, and pride stung sweet.
Aya's face turned into rules and craft.
"Now the limits," she said, and the words weighed.
"Short windows only.
No tall spikes."
"What do spikes cost?"
he asked, already knowing.
"Collateral memory," she said, the phrase landing like iron.
"We don't trade anything vital," she added, chin lifted.
"How do we know the line?"
he asked.
"We measure the use and cut before the bite," she said.
"Count three breaths.
Pull out.
No glow-chasing."
"Three," he repeated, and the number gave bone.
A far siren threaded the ducts like a thin wire.
The den swallowed it, but the warning stayed.
"Three breaths is safe capacity," Eido confirmed.
Gratitude lurched up and annoyed him at once.
He let the annoyance pass like static.
Aya caught his flicker anyway, because she always did.
"You've got that ugly gift," she said, mouth crooked.
"We use ugly gifts for good, or we burn them."
The line almost made him smile.
The almost became real and steadied his hands.
"Stress me now," he said, not hiding the tremor.
She angled the feed and softened the taps.
The hum rose like a dawn he didn't trust.
"Shallow merge," she said.
"Touch.
Leave at three."
He reached as if through cloth to cool light.
Eido unrolled a simple map, then folded it.
One.
Two, he counted, while heat argued with loss.
Three, he finished, and the slide released clean.
He stood in himself, and the ache didn't anchor.
Aya watched curves and let pride color her tone.
"Clean exit," she said, and his lungs worked.
He wiped moisture from his face without apology.
"Measured use," she said.
"Touch.
Cut.
No chasing."
"I won't," he said, meeting her steady look.
Trust filled the silence like a strong bridge.
"What about the walk outside?"
he asked.
"How long does the mask keep dogs blind?"
"An hour at most," she said.
"Less if sprinting."
"Fuel burns," he said, jaw tight at the math.
"We spend it where it pays," she said.
"On people.
Or we don't spend it."
He felt seen in a room built for hiding.
A siren rolled heavier through far steel.
The city sounded like appetite wearing rules.
"Clinic first," he said, and something shook loose.
Fear shifted into purpose with a clean line.
Aya leaned back into the console with resolve.
"Clinic first," she echoed, voice edged with careful steel.
"We hold the line.
We don't trade souls."
Eido pulsed like a metronome that chose life.
"Protect civilians," it said, simple and absolute.
He almost laughed at the clinical mercy.
Aya ran a final check; feeds fell to idle.
"See the slope?"
she asked.
"Fast exit charges less."
"Slow exit costs time you can't afford."
He nodded because that math felt like armor.
The siren outside turned a corner in tone.
Steel in the bones of the place trembled.
"Mask holds," Aya said, shutting a panel.
"Use it like a blade, not a room torch."
He flexed his fingers; precision settled without brittleness.
He pictured smoke, corridors, and hands on stretchers.
He pictured eyes that didn't trust, and eyes that could.
"Talk your limits while I move," he said.
"I stay remote and thin," she said, drawing a line.
"Too much presence flags me, then we lose two."
He glanced at the new seams on his neck.
"We move on calls, not pride," she added.
"Short bursts.
Clean exits.
Leave no scent."
Eido offered counsel from under the cover.
"Take corners with noise," it said.
"Silence pulls eyes."
Aya nodded as if it had spoken aloud.
"You heard it," she said.
Trust threaded the three.
"I hear both of you," he said, warmth rising.
She powered down the last glow; shadows found shape.
"You're not alone," she said, without flourish.
His throat went tight, and he let it.
"We cut the chains we can touch," she said.
"Careful," he warned, and a grin tried him.
Footfalls thudded far down steel.
The siren clipped mid-wail and held its breath.
The vents kept breathing, and panic stayed outside.
"Patrols shift," Aya murmured, head tilted like a hunter.
"Hard to read distance when the ducts smear it."
"Stay smart at the door," she added, care carried.
He stood slowly and let balance come like a friend.
"Hold the purpose," she said, wrapping him steady.
"We're with you," she added, no bravado, just belief.
"With," he said, tasting the word like clean water.
"Three breaths," she reminded, small smile cutting the dim.
He tapped his throat where the rhythm lived.
The hum evened out into a working calm.
Pride anchored the edges; fear learned its place.
He looked back; Aya stood unflinching by the console.
Hope circled her like thin neon turned gentle.
"We hold," she said, sending the words ahead.
He nodded once, body chosen, mind ready for pain.
The siren swelled again and scraped the steel skin.
It sounded like a dare and a clock.
He tasted mint trace layered over metal breath.
Resolve ran clean because purpose demanded clean lines.
"Mask and three breaths," he said, sealing it.
"Clinic first," she answered, sealing it back.
Haze clung to the rails like a second skin.
Condensation dripped a beat he could borrow.
He set his shoulders toward the door.
"Use corners," Eido said, steady as rain.
"Make your sound, then vanish again," Aya said.
He lifted a hand in a quiet thank you.
"Jax," Aya called, just once, for weight.
He paused inside the doorway's teeth.
"Come back breathing," she said, and it hit soft.
"I will," he said, and the vow settled.
The siren sharpened outside, and boots found rhythm.
He stepped into the corridor's throat and did not look back.
The den's hush held a beat behind him.
Blue afterglow faded over silent schematics.
He moved toward the noise, one step into the storm.