The moment his name entered circulation, the world shifted its posture.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just enough to matter.
Signals rerouted. Observation priorities reweighted. Autonomous units awakened from passive loops and reassigned without ceremony.
No alarms.
No declarations.
A hunt did not begin with pursuit.
It began with permission.
—
She felt the bond tighten—not painfully, but with intent.
"They've moved," she said.
He didn't slow his steps. "Of course they have."
"No," she corrected, breathing shallowly. "This is different. Before, they were… considering."
"And now?"
"Now they've decided they're allowed to be wrong."
That earned a quiet, humorless sound from him.
"The most dangerous stage," he murmured.
—
They did not encounter soldiers first.
They encountered absence.
The upper routes they had avoided earlier went dark—not destroyed, not blocked. Just… cleared. Civilian traffic rerouted. Surveillance blind spots sealed.
The city was making space.
For something it pretended not to know.
She stopped suddenly.
"Don't," he said at once.
"Too late," she replied.
Her vision fractured—not into images, but intent. Vectors of attention converging, not on them directly, but on the paths they might take.
Predictive.
Adaptive.
Learning.
"They're not chasing," she whispered. "They're herding."
His jaw tightened. "Then they think I'm the threat."
She looked at him.
A beat passed.
Then she shook her head slowly. "No. They think you're the weapon."
"And you?" he asked.
She swallowed. "I don't think they've decided what I am yet."
That scared her more.
—
The first contact came without warning.
No verbal challenge.
No visible attacker.
Just a pressure spike—localized, precise—aimed not at his body, but at the bond itself.
She gasped, stumbling.
He reacted instantly, pulling her back, power flaring—
And stopping.
Mid-surge.
The air screamed and then collapsed inward, like something had folded reality around his restraint.
The pressure recoiled.
Hard.
Somewhere nearby, something broke.
Not glass.
Not stone.
A system.
—
She clutched his sleeve, heart racing. "You didn't—"
"I didn't release," he said sharply. "They touched the boundary."
His eyes were dark now, focused inward, calculating.
"They're testing whether the bond is the limiter," he continued. "If breaking you would free me."
Her stomach dropped.
"And if it does?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
—
High above, in a mobile command node that officially did not exist, a voice spoke.
"Result?"
The operator hesitated. "Contact failed. Feedback exceeded tolerance."
"Damage?"
"Unknown. The anomaly suppressed escalation."
Silence.
Then: "Again."
A pause.
"With respect," the operator said carefully, "second contact risks—"
"I said again," the voice cut in. "We don't need success."
Another voice joined, colder.
"We need confirmation."
—
"They're coming again," she said.
"Yes," he replied.
She looked up at him, eyes sharp despite the fear threading her pulse.
"Next time," she said quietly, "they won't aim for you."
His hand tightened around hers.
"No," he agreed. "They'll aim for what keeps me human."
She lifted her chin.
"Then let me decide how much they get to take."
For the first time since the hunt began—
He looked afraid.
Not of the world.
Of the choice she was about to make.
And somewhere, far too many systems logged the same anomaly at once:
BOND RESPONSE: ACTIVE
LIMITER STATUS: NONCOMPLIANT
RECOMMENDATION: ESCALATE
The hunt was no longer theoretical.
It was personal.