He moved with precision, but every motion now carried weight he hadn't let himself feel before.
Not the obvious strain of exertion, but something subtler—a constant internal pressure, a pull on muscles and nerves he had believed invulnerable.
The first flicker came in his chest.
A dull, insistent ache that refused to be ignored.
Not enough to force collapse, not sharp enough to demand attention—but wrong. Wrong in a way that set every nerve on edge.
He ignored it.
He had no choice.
Because the system had already started its watch.
Then came the echo through her.
A delayed pulse. Faint, almost imperceptible—but enough to tighten her ribs, to make her heart skip a beat without her realizing it.
He had contained the channel—but not the cost.
The inversion worked perfectly.
She bore it alone.
She stepped closer—not to provoke, not to comfort. Just present. Observing. Calculating her own limits alongside his.
He flinched slightly. She noticed.
"You feel it," she said softly, voice low. But the calm held an edge, an awareness of power she had never spoken aloud.
"Not like you do," he replied. Jaw tight, eyes sharp. Expression unreadable.
"You're straining," she continued. "And I can feel every fraction of it. Every delayed pulse, every misfire."
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Every breath, every word, every micro-adjustment threatened to leak power into her. A single misstep, a single lapse in control, and she would bear it all.
She let a controlled flicker of fear rise in her chest. Not enough to panic, just enough to push the bond—a tiny spike.
It reacted.
The secondary channels strained. A micro-backlash surged.
She flinched, air catching briefly in her lungs. The sensation was faint but unmistakable—a warning she hadn't asked for.
He swallowed it down. Partitioned it. Absorbed it back into the cage.
But the strain didn't disappear.
It grew, subtle, persistent, insidious.
And with it came the realization —the inversion now pressed fully upon her. She was shouldering the burden alone.
"I have to," she said softly, almost whispering to herself. "Because if you keep building walls, the next time you falter, I won't even see it coming."
He looked at her. Eyes storming beneath the calm mask, jaw tight, fists twitching.
"You don't understand," he said.
"I do," she said. "And that's why I won't step back."
The bond trembled faintly—microfractures she could sense but not touch. The partitions strained against internal pressure, flickering under his control.
His breath caught. The tiniest hitch, almost imperceptible—but to her, it screamed volumes.
The strain was no longer theoretical.
It had become physical.
It had become palpable.
It had become dangerous.
She stepped closer, letting her own emotions flare just enough to press against the partitions he had so meticulously constructed.
His hands twitched at his sides, eyes narrowing, pupils dilating minutely. He caught it before it reached her fully—but not without cost. A pulse of discomfort rebounded into him.
She could feel it.
And she knew now: the cage, no matter how perfect, was not infallible.
It would hold—until the moment it didn't.
And when it failed, it would be violent, total, unmediated.
The system recorded it all.
ANOMALY RESPONSE: INTERNAL STRESS DETECTED.
POTENTIAL FAILURE POINT IDENTIFIED.
OBSERVATION LEVEL: MAXIMUM.
The first strain had begun.
And neither of them would be ready for what came next.
She swallowed, letting the weight settle in her chest.
Not fear. Not despair.
Understanding.
Because she knew now that the moment the cage faltered, she would bear the brunt—but silently, alone.
And that knowledge pressed on her ribs like iron.