They didn't run.
That was the first mistake the world logged.
The city around them adjusted—routes closing, vertical space sealing, predictive corridors narrowing like a throat preparing to swallow.
Containment without pursuit.
Pressure without touch.
"They're boxing us in," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "They want me to choose."
She frowned. "Choose what?"
His steps slowed.
"Whether to burn everything," he said quietly, "or let you be taken."
The bond tightened.
Not in pain.
In understanding.
She stopped walking.
"No."
He turned sharply. "This isn't—"
"You don't get to decide that," she cut in. Her voice shook, but she didn't lower it. "Not alone."
"This world does not negotiate," he snapped. "It calculates loss."
"And you think I don't?" she fired back. "You think I stepped forward back there because I didn't understand the cost?"
The air between them vibrated—his restraint pulling tight, hers pushing outward.
Dangerous.
—
"They will burn you," he said, low and urgent. "Slowly. Strategically. To see how much of me bleeds when you do."
She stepped closer.
"Then stop acting like I'm something fragile they can break to control you."
His jaw clenched.
"You are human," he said. "That alone makes you vulnerable."
"And you're not?" she shot back. "You're bound. Watched. Categorized. You think that makes you untouchable?"
Silence.
Heavy.
Because they both knew the answer.
—
A ripple passed through the bond.
Not external.
Internal.
A fracture forming—not breaking, but pressing.
"I was built to survive burning," he said. "You weren't."
She reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve.
"You don't know what I was built for," she said softly. "Because no one ever asked."
The bond reacted.
Not flaring.
Aligning.
—
The first tremor hit then.
Not an attack.
A reconfiguration.
Structures nearby warped, angles bending subtly wrong, like the world was recalculating how much reality it could afford to lose.
Containment fields began to rise—transparent, layered, elegant.
A cage made of math and fear.
"They're committing," she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "And once this closes—"
She inhaled sharply.
"I'm not stepping back."
He turned to her, eyes dark, dangerous—not with rage, but restraint pushed past reason.
"If you stand with me," he said, each word precise, "you burn with me."
She didn't hesitate.
"Then stop trying to shield me from the fire," she said. "Teach me how to stand in it."
The words hit harder than any strike.
Something inside him gave.
Not snapped.
Yielded.
—
"Stay close," he said finally.
Not behind.
Close.
She nodded.
The bond pulsed—stronger, steadier. Not limiter. Not leash.
Choice.
Above them, the containment layers locked.
Command nodes updated in cascading failure patterns.
"This is escalating beyond containment," an operator said. "They're synchronizing."
Another voice replied coldly, "Then synchronize back."
A final order issued.
"Authorize joint suppression."
New lines appeared.
UNIT DESIGNATION: DUAL ANOMALY
ENGAGEMENT PERMISSION: GRANTED
COLLATERAL THRESHOLD: ACCEPTABLE
She felt it.
The permission.
The world had decided they were worth less than control.
She looked at him.
"They're going to make an example," she said.
"Yes," he replied.
His hand closed around hers.
"Let's make sure it's the wrong one."
The air screamed.
Containment fields surged.
And for the first time—
They didn't brace separately.
They braced together.
The fire was coming.
And this time—
They would not burn alone.