The safe house was buried beneath the old subway lines, hidden between a maze of abandoned service tunnels and forgotten infrastructure. The air smelled faintly of dust and copper, and the hum of the city above felt like a heartbeat pressing through the concrete.
Cécile followed John through the narrow corridor, their footsteps echoing softly. He moved like he'd been here before — silent, precise, sure of every turn.
"Who built this place?" she asked, breaking the quiet.
"People like us," he replied. "People who needed to disappear."
A flickering light revealed a cramped room ahead — metal walls, scattered monitors, and a single mattress pushed against the far side. It wasn't comfort; it was survival.
Cécile exhaled, dropping her bag. "So this is home now."
"For now," he said.
He checked the monitors, his expression unreadable as static flickered over the screens. For a while, the only sound was the buzz of old electronics. Then, without looking back, he said quietly, "They were close this morning. Closer than I expected."
Cécile stepped closer. "Because of me."
He turned, meeting her eyes. "Because of us."
There was no accusation in his voice — only fact, heavy and real. The space between them filled with that same current she had felt since their connection began: awareness, charged and inescapable.
She could feel his thoughts before he spoke them. A pulse behind her ribs, faint but present. Don't let her see you afraid.
Her breath caught. "John."
He stilled. "What?"
"I… heard you."
His eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. "Heard me?"
"In my head." She pressed a hand to her temple. "Just for a second."
He crossed the distance between them in two strides, his hand gently cupping her chin. "Say it again."
"I heard you thinking," she whispered. "It wasn't words exactly. It was like… feeling your thought before it became one."
He exhaled slowly, eyes dark with realization. "The resonance."
"What resonance?"
"When two frequencies sync under stress, the boundary between them weakens. It's rare. Dangerous."
Her pulse quickened. "Dangerous how?"
"Because it doesn't stop," he said. "Once it begins, it evolves. You don't just feel what I think — eventually, you feel me. Everything. Emotion. Instinct. Pain."
Cécile's voice was steady, but her heart raced. "And you?"
"I feel you too," he admitted. "Even now."
The silence that followed was alive. The air vibrated faintly, like an invisible current running between them. Cécile tried to focus, to breathe normally, but the pressure grew — subtle at first, then sharper, as though her own heartbeat wasn't entirely hers anymore.
"John," she said softly. "It's happening again."
He reached out, his hand brushing her forearm, and a spark of energy shot through both of them. His breath caught.
"I know," he murmured. "Try to focus on me. Not the fear. Just… me."
She did. Their eyes locked, and suddenly, sound fell away. The hum of the city, the flicker of the lights — all of it dissolved.
She was inside something vast.
Thoughts and sensations rippled like reflections in water. She saw flashes — his memories bleeding into hers: a dark corridor, blood on his hands, the sharp cry of someone he'd lost. Then, in return, he saw her fear, her longing, the hidden memory of standing alone in a crowd, unseen and unheard.
Her breath trembled. "You're showing me—"
"I'm not doing it on purpose," he said. His voice was distant, echoing from somewhere both inside and outside her. "It's the link."
Images cascaded faster — his nightmares, her doubts, their shared ache for control. The intensity was almost unbearable, but beneath it pulsed something raw and unmistakable: trust.
She felt his heartbeat match hers.
Her knees weakened. John caught her before she could fall, arms wrapping around her as the energy flared and then slowly subsided.
"Breathe," he whispered. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
Their foreheads touched, breath mingling, both trembling from the force of what had just happened.
"It's like we merged," she said finally.
"Not merged," he corrected softly. "Aligned."
Her fingers brushed his collarbone. "You felt everything I did."
"Yes."
"And you didn't pull away."
He smiled faintly. "You didn't either."
The faintest heat rose between them again — not just desire, but connection, too complete to name. Her mind still echoed with fragments of him, tiny impressions that refused to fade.
"What happens now?" she asked.
John released her slowly, stepping back just enough to breathe. "Now, we learn to control it. Because if we don't… it'll consume us both."
He turned toward the control console, fingers flying over the keyboard. Data scrolled across the monitors — readings, patterns, pulse lines that matched their synchronized heart rates.
Cécile leaned against the wall, watching him. "So this link… is it permanent?"
He hesitated. "Maybe. Some bonds burn out after the initial surge. Others…" His eyes flicked to her. "Others last until one of them dies."
She absorbed that in silence. The idea terrified her — and yet, the thought of breaking the connection was worse.
"Then teach me," she said finally. "Before it kills us."
John nodded once. "Tonight."
As he turned away, Cécile closed her eyes. For a fleeting moment, she could still sense him — the steadiness behind his tension, the quiet guilt, the faint flicker of something like hope.
Her mind brushed against his again, unintentionally.
You're not alone anymore, she thought.
And though he didn't speak, she felt the warmth of his reply settle like a pulse beneath her skin: Neither are you.
Outside, far above the tunnels, the Division's scanners swept the grid. A faint trace of their linked energy pulsed once, then vanished completely.
For now, they were invisible.
For now, they were one.