Amateru City always looked artificial at dusk.
The sky above the dome shifted into soft shades of orange every evening at exactly six thirty. The clouds never moved too fast. The light never dimmed unevenly. Even the wind seemed programmed, brushing across buildings in measured intervals.
Mika Aoyama used to find comfort in that predictability.
If the sky could be controlled, maybe feelings could too.
She stood inside the Resonance Evaluation Chamber for the fourth time in her life, palms slightly damp, gaze fixed on the blank white wall ahead. The chamber was circular, sterile, designed to remove distractions. No windows. No shadows. No escape.
Fourth attempt.
Her previous scores replayed in her mind as if carved into memory.
Fourteen percent.
Nine percent.
Twelve percent.
Emotionally misaligned.
Attachment resistant.
Low bonding potential.
She had read her own file once. She had pretended it did not matter.
The door behind her slid open with a quiet mechanical sound.
She did not turn immediately.
Footsteps approached. Calm. Unhurried.
When she finally looked, she saw him.
Kaito Hoshino.
Black hair slightly too long at the edges, brushing against his collar. His expression carried neither tension nor curiosity. It was neutral in a way that felt deliberate, as though he had trained himself not to react too quickly to anything.
He took the seat opposite her without speaking.
The neural bands descended slowly from the ceiling, metallic arcs positioning themselves around their temples.
Mika exhaled once.
Link initiation always felt invasive. Strangers touching parts of her she never showed voluntarily. She had learned to brace for it.
The countdown began.
Three.
Two.
One.
The connection struck.
She expected static.
Noise.
Fragments of someone else's childhood crashing into her mind.
Instead she felt something entirely different.
Silence.
But not the hollow, empty silence she carried inside her most days.
This silence had weight.
Warmth.
A rhythm.
A steady heartbeat that did not belong to her.
Her breath faltered, then unconsciously slowed.
The rhythm adjusted with her.
Or maybe she adjusted with it.
Her eyelids lifted slightly.
Kaito was watching her.
His gaze was not sharp or probing. It was attentive, as if he had noticed something unusual and was carefully studying it.
The monitor on the wall flickered.
Sixty three percent.
A technician moved closer.
Retest.
The bands pulsed again.
This time the connection felt deeper. Not painful. Just clearer. Like tuning into a frequency that had always existed but had never been aligned correctly.
Sixty eight percent.
Permanent bond recommendation.
A murmur passed through the control room.
Mika's fingers curled against the armrest.
Permanent.
The word carried more weight than relief.
Permanent meant dependency. Dependency meant vulnerability. Vulnerability meant the possibility of loss.
She had spent years convincing herself she did not need anyone.
Kaito did not look startled. If anything, he looked thoughtful.
As the neural bands lifted, the absence of his heartbeat felt abrupt. Her chest tightened slightly before she could stop herself.
That frightened her more than the number on the screen.
---
Training began the following week.
Unit 07 stood in the central hangar like a sleeping giant. White armored plating curved around its frame, faint blue lights tracing along its limbs. It was designed to respond not only to manual control but to emotional resonance between pilots.
High synchronization pairs were rare.
Rare meant valuable.
Mika climbed into the forward cockpit, fingers brushing against the smooth interface panel. The interior lighting was dim, almost intimate. Behind her, Kaito connected through the stabilizer seat, neural ports aligning along his spine.
System activation hummed softly through the chamber.
Initial neural sync registered at seventy two percent.
Mika felt the familiar pressure behind her eyes as the link formed.
Then she felt him again.
That same steady rhythm.
Calm. Even.
It did not overpower her thoughts. It simply existed beside them, like a second pulse running parallel to her own.
Unit 07's fingers twitched.
Mika focused on the external display, guiding the first movement command.
The machine responded smoothly.
Seventy four percent.
A technician's voice filtered through the comm system, noting their stability.
During the simulation run, a minor obstacle appeared unexpectedly on the field. Mika's pulse spiked in anticipation.
Instantly she felt his rhythm shift slightly, not accelerating, but grounding her.
Her breathing matched it before she consciously realized what was happening.
The machine corrected course with fluid precision.
After extraction, neither of them spoke immediately.
They walked back toward the dormitory in quiet steps, evening air brushing lightly against their uniforms.
On the rooftop, the artificial sky burned with programmed sunset.
Mika leaned against the railing, eyes tracing the edge of the dome.
Kaito stood beside her, hands resting loosely in his pockets.
The silence between them felt different now. Not empty. Not heavy.
Shared.
She found herself speaking without planning to.
She asked him whether he was afraid of needing someone.
He did not answer right away.
He stared at the artificial horizon, expression unreadable.
Then he admitted that he was.
He said losing something after allowing yourself to rely on it was worse than never having it at all.
The honesty surprised her.
She told him she had avoided attachment for that exact reason.
He turned slightly toward her.
He said that avoiding attachment did not prevent loss. It only prevented connection.
His words settled inside her slowly.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint hum of the city below.
Without realizing it, she stepped slightly closer.
Their shoulders brushed briefly.
The contact was accidental.
Neither of them moved away.
---
Weeks passed.
Synchronization climbed.
Eighty two percent.
Eighty seven.
Eighty nine.
Technicians grew cautious. Data showed that pairs exceeding ninety percent often experienced neural instability.
Mika noticed subtle changes in Kaito.
He still carried that controlled calm, but occasionally she felt strain beneath it. A slight hesitation in his heartbeat during extended sync sessions.
During a border defense mission, the strain became real.
An energy surge from the outer perimeter barrier struck Unit 07 mid engagement.
The cockpit flooded with warning signals.
Pain ripped through Mika's skull as feedback pulsed along the neural link.
Her vision blurred.
For a moment, fear fractured her focus.
Then the pain shifted.
Not vanished.
Shifted.
She felt his pulse spike sharply.
Synchronization jumped to ninety three percent.
Unit 07 stabilized long enough to neutralize the threat.
When the hatch opened, Kaito collapsed forward, unconscious.
---
The hospital wing smelled faintly sterile and cold.
Mika sat beside his bed long after the doctors had finished their evaluations.
Neural burn.
Cardiac irregularity.
Emotional conductivity overload.
Technical words to describe something that felt terrifyingly simple.
He had taken the damage for her.
When he finally opened his eyes near dawn, his first question was whether she was hurt.
She shook her head.
Relief softened his expression.
Doctors later explained that sustained synchronization at high levels could accelerate neurological deterioration. They recommended reduced exposure.
Reduced exposure felt like being told to breathe less.
That evening she returned to the rooftop alone.
The artificial sky shimmered faintly.
For the first time, it felt too small.
She placed her hand over her chest, trying to recall the exact rhythm she had felt inside Unit 07.
It was still there.
Faint.
Echoing.
She realized something then that unsettled her more than any medical warning.
She did not fear losing synchronization anymore.
She feared losing him.
And that fear meant she had already crossed a line she once swore never to approach.
The sky above Amateru shifted into night.
The programmed stars flickered into place.
Somewhere below, Kaito slept under hospital lights.
For the first time in her life, Mika Aoyama did not feel defective.
She felt connected.
And that connection felt fragile enough to break the entire world.