That night, sleep did not come easily.
The boy lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling as moonlight slipped through the curtains in pale, fractured lines. Every time he closed his eyes, the day replayed itself—not as memory, but as sensation. Her hand in his. Her voice. The way she looked at him as if she had been waiting longer than time itself.
Eight years…
The number surfaced again, uninvited, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He turned onto his side, clutching the edge of the blanket. His chest felt too tight, his thoughts too loud.
Then it happened.
At first, it was just light—blinding, white, and roaring like the sky itself had split open. His body felt weightless, suspended between falling and flying. Alarms screamed in the distance. Metal groaned. The scent of ozone and burning fuel filled his lungs.
"No—wait!"
A voice echoed through the chaos. Her voice. Strong. Desperate.
His vision snapped into focus for a split second: a vast crimson shape towering over him, eyes glowing, wings of energy unfurled against a shattered horizon. He wasn't a student anymore. He wasn't a boy.
He was piloting something.
Hands—older, stronger—gripped unfamiliar controls. His heart was synchronized with another heartbeat, racing in perfect, terrifying harmony.
Synchronization rate: rising.
Pain tore through his skull.
He gasped awake, sitting bolt upright as sweat drenched his shirt. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts.
"What… was that…?" he whispered into the darkness.
His hands were shaking.
This wasn't imagination. It wasn't a dream born of nerves or hormones. It was memory—raw, violent, and unfinished.
Slowly, he looked down at his palm.
For just a moment, a faint red mark pulsed there, like a symbol trying to resurface before fading back into his skin.
The next morning, the world felt wrong.
Not broken—misaligned.
At school, sounds felt sharper. Movements slower. When lockers slammed, his pulse spiked as if expecting an attack. When teachers spoke, their voices echoed oddly, like orders filtered through static.
And then there was her.
She noticed immediately.
"You remembered something," she said quietly as they walked between classes.
He froze. "How do you—"
"You're holding yourself differently," she replied. "Like someone who's been to war and doesn't know it yet."
He let out a shaky breath. "I saw… things. Machines. Fighting. You were there. And I—" He stopped, afraid to say it aloud.
She didn't look surprised.
Instead, she looked relieved.
"That means the seal is weakening," she said. "The world is starting to give back what it took from you."
"Seal?" he repeated. "What seal?"
She stopped walking and turned to face him fully. The hallway noise faded into the background.
"This world," she said softly, "is not the first one we lived in."
His heart skipped.
"We were created to fight," she continued. "To protect humanity from something it couldn't understand. We were weapons—paired weapons. And when the war ended… we were erased."
"Erased?" His voice cracked. "Then why are we here?"
"Because we refused to disappear," she said. "Because even when they reset everything—our names, our bodies, our age—our connection survived."
Her hand found his again, warm and grounding.
"You and I were never meant to exist separately."
That afternoon, the sky darkened without warning.
Clouds rolled in thick and unnatural, swirling in slow, deliberate patterns. Students whispered uneasily. Phones lost signal. Teachers ushered classes indoors.
The boy stood by the window, a familiar dread coiling in his stomach.
This feeling… it's the same.
Sirens wailed—low, distant, and wrong.
She appeared beside him, eyes locked on the sky. For the first time since he'd met her, fear crossed her face.
"It's too soon," she murmured.
"What is?" he asked.
Her jaw tightened. "They found us."
The ground trembled.
Far beyond the city, something enormous moved beneath the clouds—its silhouette jagged and inhuman, tearing through the sky like a wound.
Students screamed.
The boy's head throbbed violently, memories slamming into him all at once—cockpits, battlefields, blood-red skies, her laughter in the face of death.
A single word burned itself into his mind.
Partner.
He turned to her, breathless. "Tell me what to do."
She met his gaze, something ancient and fierce awakening in her eyes.
"Do you trust me?" she asked.
He didn't hesitate.
"With my life."
She smiled—not gently this time, but wildly, fearlessly.
"Good," she said. "Because the world is about to remember us."
Outside, the clouds split open.
And somewhere deep beneath the earth, something long dormant began to wake.