They did not speak after the vision shattered.
The world returned in fragments—cold stone beneath her palms, the taste of iron at the back of her throat, the bond humming like a wound that refused to close. She pushed herself upright, every nerve still buzzing as if the curse had brushed too close to something vital.
He was already standing.
Not looming. Not restrained. Simply… alert.
As if the system that watched him had tightened its grip the moment she regained consciousness.
"You shouldn't have seen that," he said at last.
His voice was steady, but the bond betrayed him—an undercurrent of strain, tightly leashed. Pain, measured and contained.
She swallowed. "You knew it would happen."
"Yes."
"Then why didn't you stop it?"
For a moment, he did not answer.
Because stopping it would have required letting you go, the bond whispered—too softly to be accusation, too sharp to ignore.
He turned away instead, eyes scanning the broken corridor ahead. The air here was wrong—thin, brittle, as though the world itself had learned to listen.
"They're closer," he said. "The hunters."
Her breath caught. "Already?"
"They don't track footsteps." A pause. "They track anomalies."
She understood what that meant.
They track him.
And now—they track her.
The bond flared in response, reacting to her fear with a pulse that was not her own. His shoulders stiffened, jaw tightening as if something invisible had sunk its teeth into him.
"Don't," he warned quietly.
"I didn't do anything," she said, startled.
"You felt too much."
The words landed harder than she expected.
Too much.
Fear surged—followed immediately by guilt. She tried to pull it back, to bury it somewhere the curse couldn't reach, but the bond did not loosen. It never did. It only learned.
"I can't just turn it off," she said. "You told me this wasn't something I chose."
"I know." His voice softened, just a fraction. "That's the problem."
They moved again, deeper into the ruins, where the stone bore old sigils half-erased by time. The path sloped downward, and with every step, the pressure in the air grew heavier—like a held breath that had gone on for too long.
She broke the silence. "If they find us… what happens to me?"
He did not answer immediately.
The system's presence flickered—an almost imperceptible ripple that made the bond tighten around her chest. Not pain. Assessment.
"She becomes collateral," a voice echoed—not aloud, but within the space between thoughts.
Her heart lurched.
He froze.
The air fractured, reality bending just enough to reveal the truth neither of them wanted spoken.
Evaluation Protocol: Active.
Variable Status: Unsecured.
Recommended Action: Termination.
"No," he said—sharp, absolute.
Pain slammed through the bond, white-hot and precise. He staggered, one hand braced against the wall as if struck by something unseen.
She rushed to him without thinking. "Hey—"
"Don't touch me."
The command wasn't cruel. It was desperate.
He straightened slowly, breath measured, control reasserted through sheer force of will. The system receded—but not before leaving its mark.
"They won't kill you immediately," he said, voice low. "They'll try to understand you first."
Her fingers curled into fists. "That's not better."
"No," he agreed. "It's worse."
Silence stretched between them again, heavy with everything unsaid.
Finally, she asked the question that had been clawing at her since the vision.
"Why me?"
He met her gaze then—really looked at her, as if seeing past the flesh and bone to the fault line beneath.
"Because you weren't supposed to survive the binding," he said. "Because the curse doesn't recognize you as a weakness."
Her breath trembled. "Then what am I?"
He hesitated.
"A deviation."
The word echoed, cold and clinical.
"And deviations," he continued, "either collapse the system… or force it to evolve."
Something shifted deep within the bond at that—an awareness, ancient and alert. As if the curse itself had been listening all along.
A tremor rippled through the ruins. Dust fell from the ceiling in a slow, drifting curtain.
"They've found the perimeter," he said.
Her pulse spiked. "Can we outrun them?"
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "No."
"Then what do we do?"
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "We stop running."
The words should have terrified her.
Instead, the bond responded with something dangerously close to resolve.
"Tell me what you need from me," she said.
The system stirred again, interested.
He held her gaze, and for the first time, he did not look like a weapon.
He looked like someone making a choice.
"You need to stay," he said. "No matter what you feel. No matter what you see. If your fear spikes—if you hesitate—"
"You'll be punished," she finished.
"Yes."
Her throat tightened. "And if I don't?"
"Then they'll realize you're not just connected to me," he said quietly. "You're rewriting the curse."
Another tremor. Closer this time.
She took a breath—slow, deliberate—and anchored herself to the bond instead of fighting it. To the steady, controlled presence beneath the pain.
"Okay," she said. "Then don't let go."
Something in him shifted at that. Not relief. Something deeper. More dangerous.
"I never do," he said.
The system pulsed once—sharp, calculating.
Adaptation confirmed.
And somewhere in the dark, the hunters closed in, unaware that the curse they sought to contain had already begun to change.