The second strike did not announce itself.
There was no pressure spike.
No warning ripple through the bond.
Just a sudden, surgical absence—as if a section of the world had been quietly erased.
She felt it a heartbeat before it hit.
"Down—"
Too late.
The street folded.
Not collapsed—folded, like space itself had been creased inward and slammed shut. The impact hurled her sideways, breath ripping from her lungs as stone exploded around them.
He caught her mid-fall.
Twisted.
Took the brunt of it.
The ground cratered beneath his feet.
—
Pain lanced through her shoulder as they hit. She bit back a cry, vision swimming, the bond flaring hot and erratic.
"Don't pull," he said sharply, gripping her wrist when instinct made her reach inward. "They want the feedback."
Her teeth clenched. "They hit through the environment."
"Yes."
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"They adjusted trajectory based on restraint tolerance," he continued. "Second strike compensates for hesitation."
She swallowed. "Meaning?"
"They won't miss again."
—
Something moved in the smoke.
Not footsteps.
Synchronization.
Three vectors converged at once—angles too precise to belong to human bodies. Shapes emerged, half-seen, as if reality itself refused to finish rendering them.
Containment units.
Not soldiers.
Instruments.
Her breath hitched. "Those aren't—"
"Alive?" he finished. "No."
The bond tightened.
Then stuttered.
She gasped as a sharp, invasive pressure brushed her thoughts—not memories, but limits. Someone—or something—was testing the edges of her tolerance.
"Stop," she whispered.
The pressure increased.
Deliberate.
Patient.
—
He moved.
Not forward.
Between.
The world reacted violently to his restraint.
Air screamed as invisible force compressed around him, power caged so tightly it distorted light. Cracks webbed across the ground, radiating outward like the earth itself was straining not to break.
"Enough," he said.
The word was not loud.
It was final.
Two containment units shattered instantly—not exploded, but unmade, their forms unraveling into static and inert matter.
The third adapted.
It shifted frequency.
And went for her.
—
She didn't think.
She acted.
The bond flared—not in response to fear, but choice.
She stepped forward.
The pressure slammed into her—
—and stopped.
Not deflected.
Arrested.
For a single impossible moment, the world hung suspended, like time itself had hesitated.
Her heart pounded. Blood roared in her ears.
She felt the system register her.
Not as collateral.
As input.
The containment unit froze, its structure destabilizing, logic loops collapsing under conflicting parameters.
She raised her shaking hand.
"No," she said softly. "You don't get to decide this."
The unit fractured.
Silently.
—
The aftermath was worse.
She dropped to her knees, breath tearing from her chest as the bond recoiled, backlash ripping through her nerves. Her vision blurred, stars bursting behind her eyes.
He was there instantly.
Hands on her shoulders. Solid. Grounding.
"You should not have done that," he said, voice tight.
I know," she gasped. "But they were learning me anyway."
His jaw clenched.
"They touched you."
"And they paid for it," she shot back weakly. "That was the point."
He stared at her.
Really looked.
Something in his expression cracked.
Not fear.
Realization.
—
High above, alarms finally triggered.
Not sirens.
Recalculations.
"Report," a voice demanded.
The operator's hands trembled over the console. "The variable intervened."
Silence.
Then, slowly: "Define 'intervened.'"
"She… rejected the containment logic. Directly."
Another voice joined, low and urgent.
"That's not possible."
"It is now."
A pause.
Then the order came—quiet, deadly.
"Update classification."
Keys struck.
A new line appeared on every system display.
VARIABLE STATUS: ACTIVE AGENT
BOND FUNCTION: BIDIRECTIONAL
THREAT PROJECTION: UNSTABLE
The hunt parameters shifted.
He helped her to her feet, careful, controlled—like she might break if he held her too tightly.
"You crossed a line," he said.
She met his gaze, exhausted but unyielding.
"So did they."
A beat.
Then, quietly: "You can't protect me by holding back anymore."
His eyes darkened.
"And you can't protect yourself by stepping into fire."
She gave a weak, crooked smile. "Guess we're out of safe options."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then—
"Stay behind me," he said at last.
She shook her head. "Not this time."
The bond pulsed.
Accepted.
Somewhere, far too many systems updated at once.
The world had made its second move.
They had answered.
And now—
There would be no third warning.