Chapter 5
Proximity
The hum was unmistakable now.
It didn't come from the walls or the floor or the lights overhead. It came from inside him, a low, steady vibration that settled beneath his ribs and pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
Sixteen lay still, afraid to move.
The recovery room was unchanged—same dim lights, same padded walls, same restraints at his wrists. Nothing looked different.
Everything felt different.
The air had weight again.
Not oppressive. Not suffocating.
Directional.
He swallowed, throat tight, and focused on the sensation. The hum responded immediately, sharpening, as if attention alone was enough to feed it.
She's close, he thought.
The certainty didn't come from memory or logic. It arrived whole, fully formed, like an instinct he'd always had but only just learned to recognize.
Footsteps approached outside the room.
His muscles tensed automatically, a spike of anxiety cutting through the hum. The vibration faltered, wavered, then steadied again as he forced himself to breathe.
The door hissed open.
Two technicians entered first, followed by the woman. She looked tired—more than before. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hair had come loose from its severe tie.
"Subject Sixteen," she said. Her voice was neutral, but there was an undercurrent of something else there. Tension. Caution.
"Yes," he replied.
"We're relocating you," she said.
His pulse quickened.
"Where?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
The technicians moved in, releasing his restraints with practiced efficiency. The magnetic cuffs disengaged with a soft click, and Sixteen flexed his fingers experimentally, relief and unease tangling together.
"Stand," one of the technicians instructed.
Sixteen swung his legs over the side of the table and rose. The floor felt cold beneath his bare feet, grounding him in a way the table never had.
The hum intensified.
Not painfully.
Anticipatorily.
He swayed slightly, and one of the technicians reached out instinctively, steadying him. The moment their hand touched his arm, the hum spiked sharply, then snapped back into alignment.
The technician flinched, withdrawing their hand.
"What was that?" they muttered.
The woman shot them a look.
"Proceed," she said.
They led him into the corridor.
The hallway was longer than he remembered, lined with identical doors and lit by the same soft, indirect lighting. Cameras tracked their movement, lenses adjusting silently as they passed.
With every step, the hum grew stronger.
It pulled—not forward, not backward—but sideways, a constant, insistent tug that made his stomach churn. His steps faltered, feet drifting subtly toward the right wall.
"Stay centered," one of the technicians said sharply.
Sixteen clenched his jaw and corrected his path, forcing himself to walk straight. The effort made his head throb.
They stopped before a familiar door.
The glass panel at its center was opaque now, frosted over so nothing could be seen through it.
The hum surged.
His breath caught.
"She's in there," he said.
The woman's gaze snapped to him.
"How do you know that?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"I can feel it," he said simply.
Silence fell.
The technicians exchanged uneasy glances.
"That's not possible," one of them said.
The woman didn't look convinced.
She keyed in a code.
The door slid open.
The room beyond was larger than his recovery room, wider and higher-ceilinged, with reinforced walls and a thick glass partition bisecting it down the center.
And on the other side of the glass—
Eleven stood perfectly still.
She faced away from them, shoulders hunched slightly, head bowed. Her bare feet were planted firmly on the floor, toes curled against the cold surface.
Blood streaked her nose again, fresh and dark.
Sixteen's heart slammed against his ribs.
"Eleven," he breathed.
The name felt fragile in his mouth, like it might shatter if spoken too loudly.
She stiffened.
Slowly, she turned.
Their eyes met through the glass.
The hum roared.
Not audibly. Not physically.
But everywhere.
Sixteen gasped, staggering back as the sensation overwhelmed him. The air warped, pressure shifting violently as if the space itself had been twisted between them.
Eleven's eyes widened.
Her hand flew up instinctively, palm pressed against the glass.
The glass groaned.
Cracks spiderwebbed outward from the point of contact, fine and shallow but unmistakable.
"Containment!" one of the technicians shouted.
Alarms blared.
"No!" the woman snapped. "Stand down—"
The hum peaked, then dipped sharply, as if something had been forcibly dampened. The pressure eased, the cracks halting their spread.
Sixteen sagged, gasping for breath.
Eleven collapsed to her knees on the other side of the glass, clutching her head.
The alarms cut out.
Silence returned, heavy and shaken.
The woman stared at the cracked glass, then at Sixteen, then at Eleven.
"Clear the room," she ordered quietly.
The technicians hesitated.
"Now," she repeated.
They obeyed, backing out of the room and sealing the door behind them. The cameras continued to watch, unblinking.
The woman stepped closer to Sixteen.
"Can you stand?" she asked.
He nodded weakly.
"Good," she said. "Because if you fall, I can't help you."
She guided him to a chair positioned several feet from the glass, seating him carefully. The distance eased the pressure slightly, but the hum remained strong, insistent.
Eleven had pushed herself back to her feet. She stood with her arms wrapped around herself, gaze fixed on Sixteen.
They stared at each other.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Eleven took a tentative step forward.
The hum surged.
Sixteen's fingers dug into the armrests of the chair as the air between them thickened again, pressure building.
Eleven froze.
Her eyes flicked to the woman.
"Stop," the woman said firmly. "Stay where you are."
Eleven obeyed, though her gaze never left Sixteen.
The woman exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples.
"This is worse than I expected," she muttered.
Sixteen swallowed.
"She's hurting," he said.
The woman looked at him sharply.
"Yes," she said. "She is."
"Because of me?"
The woman hesitated.
"Because of proximity," she said finally. "Because of interaction."
Sixteen shook his head.
"That's not all," he said. "It's… louder when she's scared."
The woman stiffened.
"How would you know that?"
He closed his eyes, focusing on the hum.
"When she panicked just now," he said slowly, "it spiked. When she calmed down, it eased."
Eleven's brows knit together.
She took a small step back.
The hum softened.
The woman stared at them both.
"You're regulating each other," she said softly.
Sixteen opened his eyes.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"It means," she said, "that neither of you is operating in isolation anymore."
The door opened again.
The man entered.
His gaze went immediately to the cracked glass.
Then to Eleven.
Then to Sixteen.
"Well," he said mildly. "That answers a few questions."
"This wasn't authorized," the woman said tightly.
"No," the man agreed. "It wasn't."
He stepped closer, studying the fracture patterns in the glass.
"But it was inevitable."
Eleven took an involuntary step back.
Sixteen's chest tightened.
"Don't hurt her," he said.
The man looked at him.
"You keep saying that," he observed. "As if you believe you have leverage."
The hum stirred uneasily.
"She's not a variable," Sixteen said, voice shaking but firm. "She's a person."
The man smiled faintly.
"Everything here is a variable," he said. "Including you."
Eleven's breathing quickened.
The hum spiked dangerously.
The woman stepped between them.
"That's enough," she said. "You see the data. Pushing them further right now is reckless."
The man regarded her coolly.
"On the contrary," he said. "This is precisely the moment to push."
"No," she snapped. "You'll destabilize both of them."
The man tilted his head.
"Or," he said, "we'll find the limits."
Sixteen felt something snap.
"No," he said again, louder this time.
The hum surged violently.
The chair skidded backward several inches, scraping loudly against the floor.
The man's eyes widened, just slightly.
The glass groaned again.
Eleven cried out, clutching her head as blood streamed freely down her face.
"Stop!" the woman shouted.
Sixteen gasped, panic flooding him as the pressure spiraled out of control.
"I'm sorry," he whispered desperately, forcing himself to let go—to stop reaching, stop resisting, stop correcting.
The hum wavered.
Then—
It settled.
The pressure eased. The glass stilled. The chair stopped moving.
Silence crashed down, heavy and absolute.
Sixteen slumped forward, shaking.
Eleven sagged against the wall on her side, chest heaving.
The man stared at them, something like awe flickering across his face.
"Well," he said quietly. "That's new."
The woman rounded on him.
"This can't continue," she said fiercely. "You'll kill them."
The man didn't look away from Sixteen.
"No," he said. "We'll change the protocol."
He turned toward the door.
"Keep them separated," he ordered. "But no more isolation. They're aware of each other now."
He paused.
"And if either of them destabilizes—"
He glanced back.
"Terminate the session."
The door sealed behind him.
The woman sagged slightly, exhaustion finally breaking through her composure.
She looked at Sixteen.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "I tried."
He nodded faintly.
Eleven had pushed herself upright again. She stared at him, eyes fierce despite the blood, despite the pain.
She raised one hand.
Slowly.
Not toward the glass.
Toward him.
He mirrored the motion instinctively, lifting his own hand.
The hum stirred softly.
A fragile equilibrium.
They held it.
For just a moment.
Then the glass darkened, opacity sliding back into place, cutting off the sight of her entirely.
The hum collapsed into silence.
Sixteen's hand dropped.
For the first time since waking in this place, he felt something worse than fear.
Loss.