Ethan cried silently at first.
No sobs. No sound.
Just tears sliding down his face while he stared at the wall like it had betrayed him.
Lena noticed before Jason did.
She always did.
She moved closer, slow, careful, as if he might break if she startled him. When she touched his cheek, his skin was cold despite the sweat soaking his shirt.
"Ethan," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
His eyes were open, unfocused, seeing something that wasn't there anymore—or worse, something that still was.
"I felt it," he said finally, voice hollow. "The calm. The certainty. The way nothing hurt."
Jason sat heavily on the chair opposite them, exhaustion dragging his shoulders down. "And?"
Ethan swallowed hard.
"And I didn't miss you," he said.
The words landed like a knife.
Lena froze.
"I knew you loved me," Ethan continued, voice shaking now. "I knew I should. But I didn't feel it. I looked at you like… like a fact."
Lena's breath hitched.
"That's why you scare me," she whispered. "Because love isn't a fact. It's a risk."
Ethan's hands began to shake violently.
"I don't want that future," he said, tears finally breaking free. "I don't want a world where I don't ache when you walk away."
Jason looked away, jaw tight.
"That thing showed me cities without grief," Ethan went on. "People didn't scream. They didn't break. They didn't fall in love badly."
His voice cracked.
"They didn't care badly either."
Fear crawled up Lena's spine—not fear of the system, but fear of losing him while he was still breathing.
She pulled him into her arms.
For a second, he didn't respond.
Then he collapsed against her like his bones had finally given up.
He sobbed.
Ugly. Loud. Uncontrolled.
The sound was wrong in the apartment—too raw, too human. It echoed off the walls like an accusation.
Oversight recoiled violently.
Emotional surge destabilizing host integrity.
"Good," Lena whispered fiercely into Ethan's hair. "Break him if that's what it takes."
Jason stood abruptly.
"Don't you dare take this from him," he said to the empty air, voice trembling with rage. "You don't get his tears. You don't get his fear. That's where we live."
Ethan clutched Lena tighter, fingers digging into her jacket like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
"I was almost gone," he whispered. "I didn't even know I was leaving."
Lena pressed her forehead to his.
"You're here," she said softly. "And you're scared. That means you're still you."
He laughed weakly through tears. "I hate being scared."
"I know," she replied. "I hate it too."
Jason's voice broke when he spoke again.
"You don't know what it showed me," he said quietly. "A version of you who never called me again because there was no reason to. No conflict. No need."
Ethan looked at him, eyes red.
"I'd never—"
"I know," Jason said quickly. "That's why it didn't show you that part."
Silence fell heavy and sad.
Outside, a siren wailed too long, then cut off abruptly. Somewhere in the building, someone argued. Someone cried. Someone laughed at the wrong moment.
Life continued—messy, painful, unresolved.
Ethan pulled back slightly and looked at Lena.
"If it comes to choosing," he said, voice barely holding together, "I don't want to choose the world over you."
Her eyes filled.
"And if it comes to choosing," she replied, "I don't want you to save me by becoming something that can't love."
They held each other, fear and love tangled so tightly they couldn't be separated.
Jason wiped his eyes angrily. "Great. Now I'm emotional too. This is a terrible night."
Despite everything, Ethan let out a small, broken laugh.
That mattered.
Oversight watched from the edges—silent, unsettled.
Fear levels elevated.
Attachment strength increasing.
Predictability declining.
For the first time, the system could not frame these metrics as failure.
Because fear was not collapsing Ethan.
Love was not weakening him.
Sadness was not erasing him.
They were anchoring him.
Ethan closed his eyes, still shaking, still crying—but present.
"I don't want a perfect world," he whispered. "I want one where losing you would destroy me."
Lena kissed his forehead, tears slipping down onto his skin.
"That's the most human thing you've said," she whispered.
And somewhere deep within the system that had tried to erase suffering, a terrifying realization began to form:
As long as Ethan could love this deeply—
He would never be fully controllable again.