What the hell are you doing?
He grabbed her—one arm under her knees, one behind her shoulders—and lifted. She was heavier than she looked, solid weight in his arms, and his muscles screamed in protest.
This is suicide.
This is irrational.
This is WEAK—
He stumbled away from the spider's landing zone, carrying her, his survival probability plummeting with each step.
You're going to die because of sentiment. Because you're BROKEN.
The spider landed behind them with a thud that shook stone.
Everest ran.
His mind catalogued every inefficiency: the extra weight slowing him down, the awkward grip reducing mobility, the energy expenditure cutting his endurance by half. Every tactical mistake screaming at him to drop her and survive.
But his body kept moving.
Kept carrying her.
Kept choosing the 10% over the 75%.
You chose her over yourself. Again.
There's NO LOGICAL REASON—
Except there was no reason. That was the problem.
You told her you'd split up. Told her the logical thing. And then did the opposite.
You LIED.
To her?
Or to yourself?
The passage was tight. Barely wide enough for his shoulders. He had to turn sideways, shuffle forward, Aya pressed against his chest in a way that made every breath shared.
She's forming an attachment.
You're allowing it.
Encouraging it. Why?
Because I'm weak.
Because I'm broken.
Because I can't be what Father made me.
Behind them: tick-tick-tick-tick. Spider legs on stone, testing the passage entrance.
The sound stopped.
Everest didn't.
He kept shuffling deeper, into darkness that gradually shifted from blue-white to red-tinged glow. His breathing was harsh, controlled, fury at his own irrationality barely contained.
The passage opened into a smaller cavern. Red glow from roots overhead. No sounds of pursuit.
Everest's legs gave out.
He collapsed with Aya, both hitting stone hard enough to bruise.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Aya started crying.
Silent tears running down her cheeks, soaking into his silk robe.
Perfect. Trauma bonding. This is textbook manipulation.
She's not manipulating. She's just crying.
Does it matter? The effect is the same. She's binding you to her through shared trauma. Making herself indispensable.
Or maybe she's just a fourteen-year-old girl who almost died.
Maybe not everything is strategy.
Everything is strategy. Father taught you that.
Father was wrong about a lot of things.
"I thought—" Aya's voice was muffled against his shoulder. "I thought you were going to leave me. When you said split up, I thought—"
"I know."
Tell her you made a tactical decision. That carrying her was the better play after assessment. Give her a logical reason.
"Why didn't you?" she whispered. "The math said leave me. I could see it in your eyes. You were calculating—"
"I don't know," Everest said.
Liar.
You know exactly why.
You can't stand the thought of her dying alone.
You can't stand being the person who walks away.
You're becoming soft.
You're becoming human.
Same thing.
And both will get you killed.
And it was true.
He genuinely didn't know why his body had betrayed his mind. Why sentiment had overruled survival. Why this girl—this stranger he'd met hours ago—had become someone he couldn't abandon.
Weakness. The same flaw that destroyed Father—caring about something other than winning.
They lay there in silence. Aya crying. Everest staring at the red-glowing roots, trying to understand when he'd stopped being the cold calculator the Junes had made.
You were always broken. Father knew it.
That's why you were the bastard. The spare. The failure.
He tried to beat the weakness out of you. Every scar on your back is proof he tried.
But it didn't work.
You're still weak.
Still caring when you shouldn't.
Gradually, Aya's shaking subsided. Her breathing steadied.
She pulled back to look at him. Their faces were close—inches apart.
"Your shoulder," she whispered. "It's worse."
She was right.
The translucent patch had spread significantly—now covering his entire shoulder and creeping down his arm, up his neck. Through his own dissolving flesh, he could see stone beneath him.
Progression accelerating.
Time until critical failure: unknown. Probably hours, not days.
"I know."
"You're dying."
"Probably."
State facts.
Don't acknowledge the fear.
"That's not—" Her voice cracked. "That's not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be funny."
Keep it clinical.
Don't let her see that you're terrified too.
Her hand moved—hesitant—touching the edge where solid flesh met transparency. Her fingers were ice-cold from the river.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"No. I can't feel it at all."
Which is worse.
Pain one can fight.
Numbness just... takes.
"I'm sorry I yelled," Aya said quietly. "When you said to split up. I just—I panicked. Everyone always leaves and I thought—"
"You were right to yell." Everest sat up, needing distance. "It was a stupid suggestion."
Liar.
It was the SMART suggestion.
And you know it.
"But the math—"
"Damn the math."
The words came out harsh. Angry.
"The math doesn't account for fourteen-year-olds dying alone in the dark. The math doesn't factor in—"
He stopped himself.
Doesn't factor in what?
That you care?
That you're attached?
That the thought of leaving her made you physically sick?
Don't say it.
Don't give her that weapon.
"Doesn't factor in what?" Aya pressed.
"Variables." He stood. Cold tone back in place. "Unpredictable emotional variables that skew survival probability calculations."
Good.
Make it clinical.
Remove yourself from the equation.
"You mean me."
"I mean both of us." He looked at her seriously. "We're compromised. Emotionally. It makes us vulnerable. Makes us make stupid choices like staying together when logic says split up."
There.
Acknowledge it.
Defuse it.
Make it a weakness to overcome, not a strength to embrace.
Aya stared at him. "You're calling caring about someone a weakness."
"Yes."
Truth.
Finally, actual truth.
"That's really sad."
"That's survival." Everest turned away. "We need to address the hypothermia. We're both soaked. The cold will kill us before the spider does."
Change subject.
Focus on practical problems.
Don't examine why you chose her.
"How?" Aya looked around the cavern. "There's no fire. No—"
"We need to get out of the wet clothes." He was already assessing options. "Down to base layers. They'll dry faster. Then we share body heat until we're functional."
Clinical.
Medical.
Nothing else.
"I..." Aya hesitated. "I don't have much under this. Just—"
"Then work with what you have. I'm not looking. Neither should you." He started stripping off the silk robe, keeping his back to her. "We sit back to back. Share warmth. Keep watch in opposite directions. Practical."
Distance.
Maintain distance even while sharing heat.
Don't make this intimate.
Behind him, he heard fabric rustling. Wet clothes hitting stone. Sharp breaths as cold air hit colder skin.
"Okay," she said finally. Voice small. "I'm... decent."
Everest had stripped down to his shorts—simple, dark, and at least not dripping. His translucent shoulder was fully visible now, the dissolution spreading like frost.
He sat with his side to a relatively flat section of wall.
"Sit opposite me. Back to back."
"What?"
"Back to back. We share warmth that way without—" He gestured vaguely. "—without making this awkward."
Liar.
You're making it awkward deliberately.
Creating distance.
Protecting yourself.
Aya moved. Sat with her back against his.
He felt her settle—she was in a thin singlet and shorts, he registered clinically. Base layers. Appropriate.
The contact was immediate.
Her back against his. Warm despite the river. Solid. Real.
This is tactical.
This is necessary.
This is NOT—
"Your heartbeat is really loud," Aya said quietly.
"Adrenaline."
Liar.
"Mine too."
They sat in silence. Back to back. The red glow painting strange shadows. The forest breathing around them.
In-out.
In-out.
"Everest?" Aya said after a while.
"Yes?"
Keep it brief.
"Thank you. For not leaving me. Even when you wanted to."
I didn't want to.
That's the problem.
You DID want to.
Logically.
Tactically.
You SHOULD have wanted to.
But you didn't.
"I didn't want to," he heard himself say.
Stop.
Don't give her honesty.
It's a weapon.
"Really?"
"Really. The math wanted to. My training wanted to. But I didn't." He paused. "Which makes me either very stupid or very compromised."
Both.
Definitely both.
"Or very human," Aya said.
"Same thing."
She laughed softly. "Maybe."
They sat together, gradually warming. The silence was comfortable. Safe. Wrong in all the ways that mattered and right in all the ways that didn't.
"Can I ask you something?" Aya said eventually.
"Depends."
"Why are you really here? At Stellar High?"
Give her the prepared answer.
The one about proving you're not genesis June. About escaping the June legacy.
"Because I want a name," Everest said instead.
Truth.
Again.
Stop doing that.
"i thought it was about your past."
"That's part of it. But—" He stared at the red-glowing roots. "The face of the house of Junes was Genesis June. The Immortal One. The tyrant. He bent reality through will alone. He was..." Everest's voice went flat. "He was everything a madman should be. Powerful. Ruthless. Uncompromising."
"And you're not?"
"I'm weak. I care when I shouldn't. I save people when the math says abandon them." His hands clenched. "Genesis would be disgusted."
He was always disgusted.
You could never be cold enough.
Never ruthless enough.
Never ENOUGH.
"Good," Aya said firmly. "Damn him."
Despite everything, Everest smiled. "Language."
"I mean it. If being like him means leaving fourteen-year-olds to die, then being disgusting to him is a compliment."
She's defending you.
Against your own self-hatred.
When did that become her job?
"It's weakness," Everest insisted. "In this world—in Stellar High—weakness gets you killed."
"Then why are we both still alive?"
He had no answer to that.
They sat in silence again. Warming. Breathing together.
And Everest's mind kept circling the same thoughts.