The lab was smaller than he expected.
It had once been part of the neurology wing, back when the hospital still tried to compete with private research centers. Now it sat at the end of a quiet corridor, its paint slightly dulled, its equipment older but carefully maintained.
Dr. Seo unlocked the door and flicked on the lights.
A soft hum filled the room.
Exam chair. Diagnostic monitors. A steel counter lined with neatly arranged tools. Shelves of files and sealed containers. A narrow desk pushed against the far wall.
"It's not much," she said. "But it's isolated. And it's not on Helix's internal network."
"It's perfect."
She set her bag down and slipped into a lab coat hanging behind the door. The movement was practiced, almost comforting to watch, as if this space fit her in a way the underground never had.
"Sit," she said, gesturing to the chair. "Before we talk ourselves out of this."
He did.
The chair was cold through his clothes.
She began by checking his vitals the way she always did—efficient, focused, but gentler here, where she didn't have to perform certainty for anyone else.
"Any pain?" she asked.
"No."
"Changes?"
He considered. "I'm… more aware. Of people. Of things happening inside them."
She nodded, unsurprised. "That matches what I've seen."
She rolled a small scanner closer. As she worked, he studied her face, the slight crease between her brows, the calm concentration that softened her features.
"Let's start simply," she said. "I want to see what you can do when you're not under pressure."
She took a sterile lancet from the tray. "This will sting."
She pricked his finger.
A bead of blood welled.
Bright.
Ordinary.
She placed a glass slide beneath it and moved to the microscope.
"Focus on it," she said. "Not to change it. Just… feel it."
He did.
The hum stirred faintly, like something waking.
He sensed the heat in the drop. The slow movement within it. The subtle communication between things too small to see.
"It feels… organized," he said quietly. "Like a crowd that knows where it's going."
She glanced up. "Can you influence it?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know how," he admitted.
"Try wanting something simple," she said. "Not stronger. Not faster. Just… steadier."
He focused.
On the drop.
On the tiny, invisible movement.
On the idea of stillness.
The sensation shifted.
Not dramatically.
The hum smoothed.
Dr. Seo leaned closer to the microscope.
Her breath caught, soft but unmistakable.
"The clotting time just changed," she said. "That's… not possible without chemical agents."
He opened his eyes.
The drop of blood on his fingertip had darkened, thickened, as if time had moved differently for it than for the rest of the room.
"I didn't force it," he said. "I just… guided."
She straightened slowly, studying him.
"That's the most dangerous part," she said. "You don't need violence. You don't even need intention. Your body treats life as something adjustable."
He looked at his hand.
At the thin line where the lancet had pierced his skin.
Already, it was closing.
Not healing.
Responding.
She cleaned the cut and covered it gently.
"Next," she said, after a moment, "I want to see how proximity affects you."
He lifted his gaze.
"Meaning?"
She hesitated only briefly.
"Sit still."
She moved closer.
Not touching yet.
Just near.
Close enough that he could sense her warmth.
The hum shifted.
Subtly.
Like a system recognizing a familiar signal.
She watched the monitor.
"…Your baseline just dropped," she murmured. "Stress indicators. Micro-tension. All of it."
She raised her eyes to his. "You stabilize around me."
"I know," he said.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
She took a breath.
Then placed her fingers lightly against the inside of his wrist.
The effect was immediate.
The hum settled.
Not faded.
Balanced.
Something inside him eased, like a knot loosening without pain.
She felt it too. He saw it in the way her shoulders softened, in the slight widening of her eyes.
"…Every time," she whispered.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Then she slowly withdrew her hand.
The hum stirred again, softer, restless.
They stood there, the quiet thicker now.
"This changes things," she said finally.
"Yes."
"If Helix figures this out—"
"They'll try to use you," he finished.
Her jaw tightened. "They already are."
He met her gaze. "Not like this."
She nodded.
And something unspoken settled between them.
Trust, perhaps.
Or the beginning of it.
She stepped back, giving them both space.
"I'll set up longer tests," she said. "We need to understand limits. Costs. What happens when you push."
"And if something goes wrong?"
Her eyes didn't leave his. "Then we'll deal with it here. Not in their labs."
He inclined his head slightly.
Outside, evening deepened. The hospital lights flickered on, one by one.
In a forgotten room at the end of a quiet corridor, something new had begun—not just an experiment, but a partnership.
And neither of them yet understood how much it would demand.