The transition from the simulated chaos to the reality of the facility was like being doused in ice water.
One moment, the world was screaming—metal screeching against metal, a violet countdown burning into my retinas, and the weight of Miran's arm like a lead bar across my waist as the floor fell away. The next, the projectors cut to black. The roaring wind died instantly, replaced by the low, mechanical hum of the simulation room's cooling fans.
The holographic train was gone. We were standing in a dark, empty warehouse, the floor perfectly level and still. The silence was deafening, a physical pressure that made my ears ring after the thunderous roar of the derailment.
I collapsed to my knees, my chest heaving. My lungs felt like they were filled with glass shards. The haptic vest was still vibrating with a low-level "aftershock" signal—a safety protocol designed to slowly ramp down the nervous system, but it felt like a thousand needles pricking my skin. Every muscle in my body was twitching in a rhythmic, uncontrollable tremor.
"Vitals check," Borislav's voice boomed over the speakers, sounding distant and clinical. "Team Four... survived. Barely. You were three seconds away from the feedback suits locking your hearts. A commendable, if reckless, display of synchronized effort."
"Hyung..."
I turned my head sharply, wincing as the movement sent a jolt of pain down my spine. The bruise on my neck throbbed in sympathy. Junseo was slumped against the wall a few feet away, his face the color of wet ash. His hands were shaking violently—a side effect of the eighty-percent electrical shock he'd taken to override the turret.
"Junseo!" I scrambled toward him on all fours, my own legs feeling like they were made of liquid. I reached out to grab his shoulders, but my fingers were trembling so much I could barely hook them into his gear.
"Talk to me. Are you—?"
"I'm fine," he wheezed, though his eyes were blown wide with lingering shock. He gave me a weak, jagged smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just... reminded me why I don't play with outlets. My heart feels like it's trying to run a marathon in a shoebox. Did we get it? Tell me we got the stupid cylinder."
"We got it," a cold voice stated, cutting through the air like a blade.
Miran was standing over us. He hadn't collapsed. He wasn't even panting. Aside from the damp hair clinging to his forehead and the dark, predatory intensity in his eyes, he looked as if he'd just stepped out of a quiet room rather than a collapsing train. He held the physical simulation cylinder—the "blueprints"—loosely in one hand, spinning it slightly.
He looked down at me, his gaze tracing the way I was hovering over Junseo, my hands still clutching my brother's jacket. There was something unreadable in his expression—an edge of irritation, perhaps even a flicker of territorial anger that felt sharper than usual.
"Get up, Thief," Miran said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that always made the hair on my arms stand up. "The simulation is over. Stop acting like a victim. It's beneath you."
"He took a feedback shock for us," I snapped, looking up at him with a glare that I knew looked pathetic because of the tears of adrenaline leaking from my eyes. "Give him a damn second to breathe, you machine."
Miran didn't argue. He didn't even blink.
Instead, he reached down, his large hand wrapping around my upper arm. His grip was firm, bordering on painful, as he hauled me to my feet in one fluid motion. I stumbled, my balance still wrecked by the simulated derailment, and ended up chest-to-chest with him for the second time in twenty minutes.
I tried to pull away, but he didn't let go. His other hand came up, not to strike me, but to tilt my chin up with his thumb and forefinger. It was a gesture of absolute dominance. His thumb brushed against the edge of the bruise on my neck—the mark he had left the night before in that dark alleyway.
The air in the room felt suddenly heavy, thicker than the simulated smoke of the train. The tension wasn't just professional anymore; it was something jagged, magnetic, and deeply wrong.
"You're shivering," Miran murmured. It wasn't a question; it was an observation of my weakness.
"It's the haptic feedback," I lied, my voice betraying me by dropping to a desperate whisper. "The suit... the nervous system override hasn't powered down all the way. It's a physiological response."
"Is that right?" He leaned in just an inch closer, his shadow swallowing me. I could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, cold as a Siberian winter. "Then why is your heart trying to break out of your ribs? That isn't the suit, Seol-wol. That's your pulse."
My breath hitched. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to tell him that I hated his eyes, hated his grip, and hated the way he made the world feel small and suffocating.
But my hands stayed frozen against his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of a man who was never afraid. He was a mountain, and I was just the wind breaking against him.
"Vitals are stabilizing," Borislav's voice interrupted, sounding bored as he watched our biometric data on his screens. "Go to the medical wing. Get your haptic burns treated.
You have four hours before the next analysis. Don't be late, or I'll consider you a casualty of the training."
Miran released me so abruptly I nearly fell again. He turned toward the exit, the cylinder still gripped in his hand.
"Wait," I called out, my voice finally finding its strength as he reached the door. "Why did you catch me? In the dark zone. You told me you'd let the sensors fry me if I tripped."
Miran paused, his silhouette cutting a sharp, dark line against the bright lights of the hallway. He didn't look back. He didn't even tilt his head.
"A dead thief can't open the vault, Seol-wol," he said coldly. "Don't mistake utility for interest. You are a tool. If the tool breaks before the job is done, it's a waste of my time."
He disappeared into the hall, the heavy door hissing shut behind him.
"Utility, my ass," Junseo muttered from the floor, finally pushing himself up and rubbing his chest where the shock had hit him.
"Hyung, did you see his face? The way he looks at you... it's like he's trying to decide whether to kill you or keep you in a cage. I don't like it. He's looking at you like you're something he owns, not a teammate."
"He doesn't own anything," I said, though the words felt hollow in my mouth.
I helped Junseo up, and we limped toward the medical wing. The hallways were silent, the other teams having already been "filtered" or sent to their own recovery wards. The medical wing was a sterile white nightmare, smelling of antiseptic and burnt hair.
As the droids scanned Junseo for internal nerve damage, I sat on the edge of a high metal cot, staring at the floor. My skin still felt hot where Miran had touched me. My chin still felt the ghost of his fingers.
I was starting to realize that the "cull" wasn't the most dangerous thing in this facility. It wasn't the turrets, the lasers, or Borislav's cruelty.
The most dangerous thing was the way Miran Konstantinov was starting to feel like the only solid thing in a world made of holograms and lies. And even worse? I was starting to wonder what it would feel like if his "interest" was actually real.