The morning after the simulation felt like a fever dream that refused to break.
Seol-wol sat at his desk, staring blankly at his terminal. His skin felt too tight. Every time the heavy dorm door creaked open, his shoulders surged toward his ears. He was waiting for a phantom—specifically, the phantom of a hand that had felt far too solid for a world made of code.
He wasn't the only one feeling the aftershocks. The announcement blared through the hallway speakers, cold and robotic:
"Cadets 001 and 772. Report to the Bio-Sync Lab for Post-Simulation Evaluation.
Immediate attendance is mandatory."
The walk to the lab felt like a march to the gallows. Seol-wol kept his gaze fixed on the floor, counting the floor tiles, until a pair of polished black boots entered his field of vision. He didn't need to look up to know who it was. The air around Miran konstantinov always felt pressurized, like the moments before a thunderstorm.
"You look like you're heading to your own funeral," Miran's voice cut through the silence. It was smooth, devoid of the intensity from the night before, which somehow made it worse.
"I just didn't sleep well," Seol-wol muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Is that why your bio-rhythms are currently fluctuating by twelve percent just by standing next to me?" Miran leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. "Or is the haptic suit still 'glitching' for you, too?"
Seol-wol bolted forward, entering the lab before he could formulate a response. But there was no escape. Inside, Commander Vane was already waiting, staring at a massive holographic display of their combined data.
"Sit," Vane commanded.
Two chairs. Inches apart.
"The simulation ended prematurely because of a feedback loop," Vane began, his eyes narrowing as he scrolled through a red-lined graph. "However, the logs show something peculiar. At the 04:12 mark—the moment of physical contact—both of your neural synchronizations hit 98%."
Vane turned the hologram toward them. Two lines, one blue and one gold, were vibrating in perfect, violent harmony.
"That level of sync is usually reserved for long-term partners or... twins," Vane said, his gaze lingering on Seol-wol's pale face. "And Cadet 772, your heart rate didn't just spike. It stayed in the 'stress-arousal' zone for three minutes after the simulation was cut."
The room felt small. Suffocatingly small.
Seol-wol could feel Miran's thigh nearly touching his own. He could hear Miran's steady, calm breathing, which felt like a direct insult to Seol-wol's own spiraling composure.
"Explain," Vane prompted. "Was there a malfunction in the haptic feedback, or is there a biological compatibility we weren't informed of?"
Miran shifted, his arm brushing against Seol-wol's. The contact felt like a spark of static electricity.
"It wasn't a malfunction, Commander," Miran said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He turned his head slowly to look at Seol-wol, a small, dark smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I think Seol-wol just found the training... more immersive than expected."
The silence in the hallway after leaving the Commander's office was even more suffocating than the interrogation. Seol-wol walked as fast as his legs would carry him, his face a shade of red that felt like it was radiating actual heat.
98 percent.
The number looped in his head like a broken record. In the academy, a 60 percent sync was considered "combat-ready." A 90 percent sync was legendary. 98 percent was... intimate. It was practically sharing the same nervous system.
"Slow down," Miran's voice commanded from behind him.
Seol-wol didn't slow down. If anything, he sped up. "I have to get to the library. I'm behind on the theory modules."
A hand suddenly shot past his shoulder, slamming against the wall beside his head.
Seol-wol gasped, forced to a dead halt as Miran used his body to block the hallway.
"The Commander is gone, Seol-wol. Stop running."
Miran was close—so close that the scent of his skin, a mix of cold ozone and something sharp like cedarwood, filled Seol-wol's senses. It was the exact same scent from the simulation. The haptic feedback wasn't just a ghost; it was standing right in front of him.
"I'm not running," Seol-wol lied, his voice trembling as he stared at Miran's collarbone.
"I'm just... busy."
Miran leaned down, forcing Seol-wol to finally meet his eyes. Miran's gaze wasn't cold anymore. It was burning with a predatory curiosity. "You didn't answer the Commander's question. Why did your heart stay in that 'zone' for three minutes after the power went out?"
"It was a system lag," Seol-wol hissed, his back pressed painfully hard against the cold wall. "My brain hadn't processed the disconnect yet."
"Is that right?" Miran's other hand came up, not to touch him, but to hover just an inch away from Seol-wol's cheek. The heat coming off his palm was undeniable. "Then why is it happening again?"
Miran's eyes dropped to Seol-wol's lips for a fraction of a second—a move so deliberate it felt like a physical touch.
"There's no simulation suit now, Seol-wol. No data loops. No glitches." Miran's voice dropped to a whisper that vibrated in Seol-wol's very bones. "Just us. And yet, I can practically hear your pulse from here."
Seol-wol's breath hitched. He wanted to push Miran away, to maintain his "introvert shield," but his hands felt heavy, useless at his sides. "What do you want from me, Miran?"
Miran leaned in even closer, his shadow completely swallowing Seol-wol. "I want to know if that 98 percent was a fluke... or if I'm the only one who can make you react like this."
Just then, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor—the next group of cadets heading for evaluation.
Seol-wol found a sudden burst of strength and ducked under Miran's arm, his heart hammering harder than it ever had in the simulation. He didn't look back as he bolted toward the dorms, but he could feel Miran's eyes on his back, watching him like a hunter who knew his prey had nowhere left to hide.
Seol-wol slammed the dorm door shut and leaned his weight against it, his chest heaving. The silence of his room should have been a relief, but it only made the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears louder.
He didn't go to a computer. He didn't check data. He just collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as his body betrayed him.
The Commander had called it "bio-sync," but to Seol-wol, it felt like a curse. Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the academy or the war—he felt that phantom pressure on his skin. It was as if the simulation had left an invisible mark on him that Miran could read like a map.
He curled into a ball, pulling the blanket tight around his shoulders, but even the fabric felt wrong. It wasn't the right weight. It wasn't the right warmth.
His mind flashed back to Miran's eyes in the hallway—the way they hadn't flickered once when the Commander talked about "stress-arousal." Miran hadn't been embarrassed. He had been satisfied.
Seol-wol gripped his pillow, his heart giving a traitorous thump. He realized then that the 98% sync wasn't just a number on a screen.
It was a bridge. And even though the simulation was over, the bridge hadn't collapsed.
He could still feel Miran's presence, like a low-frequency hum vibrating in his very bones. It was a magnetic pull, a biological tether that made his own room feel lonely for the first time in his life.
Miran wasn't just a rival anymore. He was a sensation Seol-wol couldn't turn off.
And the worst part? Seol-wol knew that if he opened his door right now, he would probably find Miran standing on the other side, waiting to see just how long it would take for Seol-wol to break.