It rained that afternoon, but the air stayed hot — sticky, slow, full of weight.
Lisa turned eighteen under a neon sky.
No party. No cake.
Just a ten-hour training block, an interview skills seminar, and her final Osaka dance evaluation.
She stepped out of the agency building at 8:17 PM, ponytail damp, hoodie hanging loose around her waist, feet aching.
Her parents were already waiting in the car.
But she paused near the sidewalk. Looked out toward the street.
She wasn't sure why.
Just something in her chest said: wait.
Across the road, tucked behind the fence near the vending machines, Kyo stood holding the pendant in his fist.
He'd practiced the moment a hundred times:
Walk up. Say something simple. Put it in her hand. Let her choose what it meant.
But now that she was in front of him — silhouetted by city light, pulled tight with fatigue and grace — the air around him warped.
He felt it again.
That pressure.
That rising, impossible weight.
Not now. Not now—
He exhaled slowly.
His fingers twitched.
The metal of the pendant buzzed in his grip.
Across the street, Lisa turned her head — as if she felt him.
But she didn't see him.
Somewhere far away, in a small HID satellite office built into a telecom relay node west of Kyoto, a screen blinked red.
"Resonance spike," said one analyst.
"Magnitude 2.4. Osaka grid."
"It's him."
Alarms didn't blare.
HID never blared.
But the soft-ping grid locked on.
A waveform pulse rolled outward.
In another part of the city, Seung-min looked up from his paper noodles.
He didn't need the grid report.
He felt it.
"Shit, kid…"
He was already running.
Back at the sidewalk, Kyo's breath had shortened.
His heart rate surged past 140.
The vending machine beside him flickered — all seven lights blinking in rapid fire.
A metal can clunked out without being touched.
His vision wavered.
Across the street, Lisa stepped off the curb — not toward him, just toward the car.
He almost called her name.
Almost moved.
But something — deeper than fear — pulled him back.
If I see her… I won't be able to leave.
He crushed the pendant in his hand.
Not enough to break it.
Just enough to remember the shape.
Then turned and ran.
Lisa paused mid-step.
Turned slightly, toward the vending machines.
Nothing there.
Just empty light.
Rain-streaked pavement.
She got in the car.
Didn't speak all the way home.
Somewhere on a rooftop, Kyo sat curled against a vent shaft, hoodie pulled low, shaking so hard his arms wouldn't stay still.
The Constant had almost broken loose.
Just from being near her.
He opened his hand.
The pendant — star-shaped, slightly bent — glowed faintly from the heat of his skin.
"Not safe," he whispered.
"Not safe anymore."
He closed his fingers around it again.
And disappeared before dawn.