The city did not sleep that night.
Neither did the boy.
He lay awake staring at the ceiling, the echo of that чуж voice—*not a remnant… replacements*—curling around his thoughts like smoke. Whatever had opened its eyes beneath the city hadn't felt ancient.
It had felt *curious*.
*You're spiraling,* her voice murmured inside his mind, softer than before.
He turned onto his side. *I'm allowed. Something ominous literally whispered in my head.*
*Fair,* she replied. *But if it helps… I felt it too.*
That did not help.
---
Training resumed the next morning with a sense of forced normalcy that fooled absolutely no one.
Miri was humming cheerfully as she adjusted the consoles. "Good news! Today's exercise is about emotional escalation!"
"That sounds like the opposite of what we need," the boy said.
Kade nodded. "It is."
His partner folded her arms. "Then why are we doing it?"
"Because," Kade replied calmly, "you can't suppress emotions forever. You need to learn how to *move through* them."
Miri clapped. "Which means—"
"No," his partner said immediately.
"—confession simulation!"
"No," she repeated, louder.
The boy blinked. "Wait, what?"
Miri was already dragging him toward the platform. "Come on! Controlled environment! Safe space! Mild psychological terror!"
His partner's face had gone dangerously red. "This is unnecessary."
"Incorrect," Kade said. "Your emotional spikes occur when feelings are *unresolved*."
The boy glanced at her. "Are our feelings unresolved?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
"…Yes."
The lights above them flickered ominously.
---
The simulation activated.
The training room dissolved into a sunlit projection of the school courtyard—the cherry blossom trees, the benches, the exact place where they'd first sat together after reuniting.
His breath caught.
"Hey," he said softly. "This is—"
"I know," she replied.
Miri's voice echoed over the system. **"Scenario parameters set. Emotional honesty required."**
Kade added, **"Synchronization will rise in response to genuine expression."**
The boy swallowed. "So… we talk?"
"Yes," she said. "We talk."
They stood facing each other beneath the artificial blossoms, petals drifting slowly around them.
He laughed weakly. "I'd rather fight another remnant."
"Me too," she admitted.
Silence stretched.
Then—
"I'm scared," she said suddenly.
He stilled. "Of what?"
"Of losing you," she said. "Again. Of remembering everything and realizing the ending is always the same."
His chest tightened. "You think we're doomed?"
"I think we've been broken before," she said. "And I don't know if love makes us stronger—or just easier to hurt."
The air hummed.
**"Synchronization: 81%."**
He stepped closer. "You're not a weakness."
"You already said that."
"I meant it more this time."
She looked up at him. "Then say it."
"Say what?"
"What you're afraid to."
His pulse roared in his ears. The machine responded instantly, light blooming along the platform.
**"Synchronization: 88%."**
He took a breath. "I'm afraid… that I don't need my memories to know how I feel about you."
Her eyes widened.
"And that scares me," he continued, voice unsteady, "because if this is real—if *we* are real—then losing you would destroy me."
The petals froze midair.
**"Synchronization: 96%."**
She reached for his hand.
The moment their fingers touched—
The room shook.
**"WARNING: Emotional threshold exceeded."**
Miri's voice crackled through. **"Oh. Oh no."**
Kade's followed, tense. **"They're not stabilizing."**
The boy barely heard them.
All he could feel was her—warm, overwhelming, familiar beyond logic.
"I love you," she whispered.
The words hit him like impact.
**"Synchronization: 104%."**
"Wait," he gasped. "That's not supposed to go past—"
The alarms screamed.
The simulation shattered, walls snapping back into metal as the entire facility lurched violently.
Far below the city—
Something answered.
---
The ground split open miles away.
This time, there were no sirens.
No warning.
The *replacement* rose silently—sleek, towering, almost beautiful. Not monstrous. *Designed.*
Its eyes glowed a cold, calculating blue.
Kade stared at the readings. "…It's adapting already."
Miri's grin was gone. "It locked onto them the moment their sync crossed one hundred."
The boy staggered as pain flared behind his eyes. Memories surged—not fragments, but chains.
Battlefields.
Loss.
Her scream.
A promise made beneath falling stars.
*I'll find you again.*
He dropped to his knees.
She caught him instantly. "Hey—stay with me!"
"I remember," he whispered. "I remember dying."
Her breath hitched. "So do I."
Outside, the sky darkened.
The replacement lifted one arm—
And the city's lights went out.
---
They didn't wait.
The frame launched automatically, responding to their merged state like a living thing. This time, there was no awkwardness, no hesitation.
They *belonged* here.
The cockpit sealed around them, intimate and overwhelming, emotions flowing freely instead of being restrained.
**"Synchronization: 112%."**
"That's… bad, right?" he asked faintly.
"Yes," she said. "But also—kind of incredible."
They emerged into the ruined skyline as the replacement turned toward them.
It spoke.
Not aloud.
Directly into their minds.
*You are inefficient,* it said. *Emotion compromises function.*
The boy clenched his fists. "You picked the wrong example."
They moved.
Not as pilot and partner.
But as something closer.
Strikes flowed seamlessly. No commands. No fear. Every motion born from trust and intent.
The replacement adapted quickly—too quickly—but it hesitated.
Just once.
*Why do you accept vulnerability?* it asked.
She answered without hesitation.
"Because choosing each other makes us human."
The boy smiled. "And that makes us unpredictable."
They struck together.
The impact shattered the sky.
---
When it was over, the replacement didn't explode.
It… retreated.
Watching.
Learning.
The frame powered down atop a ruined tower as dawn broke slowly over the city.
The boy slumped back, exhausted. "So… confession simulation."
She laughed weakly. "Worst idea ever."
"But," he said, turning to her, "I don't regret it."
She met his gaze, eyes soft. "Neither do I."
Below them, emergency lights flickered back on.
Far away, something else stirred.
This war wouldn't be fought with strength alone.
It would be fought with choice.
With love.
With everything that made them *dangerous*.
She rested her forehead against his. "No more running."
He nodded. "No more pretending."
Together—
They watched the sunrise.
---