The training room was not designed with teenagers in mind.
That became painfully obvious within the first five minutes.
"Why," the boy gasped, hands on his knees, "does every secret underground facility look like it was built by someone who *hates* joy?"
The room was enormous—circular, metallic, lined with floating holographic panels and glowing rings that pulsed softly with light. At the center stood a raised platform marked with the same symbols etched beneath the school.
Miri was spinning in a slow circle, arms outstretched. "I think it's cozy!"
Kade glanced at her. "You think prisons are cozy."
"They're very minimalist."
The boy's partner ignored them, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the central platform. "Focus," she said. "This isn't sightseeing."
He straightened immediately. "Yes, ma'am."
She shot him a look. "…Don't call me that."
Miri giggled.
---
The explanation was worse than the room.
"Synchronization training?" the boy repeated. "Like… emotionally?"
"Yes," Kade said. "And mentally. And physically."
"And romantically?" Miri added brightly.
"No," his partner said at the exact same time the boy said, "Probably."
They stared at each other.
"…Probably?" she echoed.
He scratched his cheek. "I mean—our emotions literally power a giant machine. Seems relevant."
Her face warmed. "That's not what I meant."
Miri clapped. "Oh, this is *gold*."
Kade activated a hologram—two overlapping circles labeled **Cognitive Sync** and **Emotional Resonance**.
"You're strong in this," he said, highlighting the emotional side. "Too strong. You spike whenever you focus on each other."
"That sounds like a compliment," the boy muttered.
"It's not," Kade replied. "In combat, uncontrolled emotional surges cause feedback. Pain. Disorientation."
"And explosions," Miri added. "Don't forget explosions."
The boy winced. "I like my life without those."
His partner exhaled slowly. "So what do we do?"
Kade's lips curved slightly. "We train you to *not* react."
"…To each other?" the boy asked.
"Yes."
They both paled.
---
The first exercise was called **Proximity Neutralization**.
It was exactly as bad as it sounded.
"Stand here," Miri said, cheerfully positioning them on opposite sides of a glowing circle. "No touching. No staring. No thinking about how cute the other one looks."
"That last one feels targeted," the boy said.
"It is."
A soft hum filled the room.
Immediately, the boy felt it—the familiar pull, the warmth, the way his awareness bent toward her like gravity.
The lights flickered.
**"Emotional variance detected."**
He groaned. "I haven't even *looked* at her yet!"
"You sighed," Kade said. "That counts."
His partner closed her eyes, breathing slowly. He could *feel* her concentration, steady and controlled.
*Stop feeling me,* she thought.
*You started it,* he replied weakly.
Miri leaned over the console. "Wow. You two are loud."
"That's humiliating," he said.
"Adorable," she corrected.
---
It took an hour to get the lights to stop flickering.
An hour of awkward silence, near-misses, and several moments where one of them almost laughed and immediately regretted it.
By the end, the boy collapsed onto the floor. "So… did we pass?"
Kade nodded. "Marginally."
Miri beamed. "You didn't short-circuit anything! Progress!"
His partner sat beside him, equally exhausted. "This is harder than fighting a remnant."
He smiled at her. "At least remnants don't make you self-conscious."
She snorted. "Speak for yourself."
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Miri tilted her head. "Huh."
"What?" the boy asked.
She tapped a screen. "That's weird."
Kade stepped closer. His expression darkened. "Energy readings."
His partner stiffened. "Another remnant?"
"No," Kade said. "Something else."
The hologram shifted, showing faint, branching signals beneath the city.
"They're not attacking," Miri murmured. "They're… watching."
The boy's stomach twisted. "That's worse, right?"
"Yes," Kade said. "Much."
---
They were dismissed early.
Which, unfortunately, meant *normal life* resumed.
The boy walked beside her through the city streets, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows. The silence between them was comfortable—but heavy.
"Hey," he said eventually. "Are you okay?"
She hesitated. "You didn't like what Miri said earlier."
"Which part?" he asked. "The explosions or the love commentary?"
"The love," she admitted.
He slowed. "Did it bother you because… it's not true?"
She stopped walking.
He stopped too.
"…No," she said quietly. "It bothered me because it might be."
His heart did that thing again—fast, hopeful, terrifying.
"I don't want to be a weakness," she continued. "For you. Or for us."
He shook his head. "You're not."
"You don't know that."
"I do," he said firmly. "Because every time I feel afraid, or confused, or overwhelmed—you're the thing that steadies me. That's not weakness."
She looked at him, eyes searching.
"…You're really bad at this," she said softly.
"At what?"
"At not being important to me."
He smiled. "Guess we're even."
---
The next day, Miri invited herself along.
On a "date."
"I didn't agree to this," his partner said flatly as Miri skipped ahead of them toward a small café.
"You didn't disagree," Miri replied.
The boy whispered, "Is this a test?"
"Yes," his partner said.
Miri spun around. "Also yes!"
The café was warm and crowded, all soft music and clinking cups. They squeezed into a booth—Miri immediately claiming the middle seat.
"This feels illegal," the boy muttered.
Kade sat across from them, calm as ever. "Relax. Observe. Interact normally."
"Define normally," the boy said.
Miri leaned closer. "Flirting."
His partner kicked him under the table.
Hard.
---
It was, without question, the worst date of his life.
And somehow the best.
Miri teased relentlessly. Kade analyzed everything. His partner oscillated between embarrassed, jealous, and flustered.
At one point, Miri smiled at him and asked, "So, if you had to choose—destiny or choice?"
He didn't hesitate. "Choice."
His partner froze.
"Because," he continued, glancing at her, "destiny didn't make me trust her. Or laugh with her. Or want to stay."
Her expression softened.
Miri's smile turned genuine. "Good answer."
Kade nodded once. "Interesting."
The lights in the café flickered.
Just slightly.
No one else noticed.
But all four of them did.
---
That night, as the boy lay in bed, the feeling returned.
Not a memory this time.
A presence.
Far away.
Waiting.
*They're not remnants,* a thought whispered—not his own. *They're replacements.*
His chest tightened.
Somewhere beneath the city, the signals shifted.
And something new—
Something that had never existed in the old world—
Opened its eyes.
--