Tae-Hyun dreamed of corridors.
They curved endlessly, branching and reconnecting, their walls faintly alive beneath his palms. Every door carried a pulse. Every room held a presence he could almost understand.
When he woke, the sensation remained.
Not as an image.
As orientation.
He reported for duty before his shift officially began.
Sector E was quieter in the early hours. The lighting dimmer. The air heavier with the muted sound of water beyond the outer wall.
He moved through his initial tasks quickly.
Then let his route bend, gradually, back toward E-17.
She was sitting up when he arrived.
The sheets were folded to her waist. Electrodes traced soft lines along her skin. A narrow display hovered near the head of her bed, its data scrolling in patterns he had begun to recognize as neurological monitoring.
Her eyes lifted the moment he came into view.
Something like relief passed through her expression before she smoothed it away.
"You're early," she said.
Her voice didn't come through the glass.
He still heard it.
Not with his ears.
With the hum.
He stopped a step from the door.
"So are you," he replied quietly.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"You're clearer today," she said. "Yesterday, you felt… scattered."
The words made him still.
"You can sense that?"
She nodded. "It's faint. But yes."
He moved closer.
"How?"
She thought for a moment.
"Imagine standing near a river long enough that you learn its sound," she said. "Even when you can't see it, you know when something changes."
The hum responded to her words, deepening into a slow, attentive rhythm.
He lifted his hand, stopping just short of the glass this time.
Her gaze followed.
"May I?" he asked.
She hesitated.
Then raised her palm.
He placed his hand where hers hovered, the thin barrier between them.
The contact resonated through him.
A focused exchange of signals, contained yet precise.
Her internal structure revealed itself more clearly now—reinforced cellular patterns, engineered responses, a nervous system tuned to registers most bodies never accessed.
"This started before I came here," she said softly. "Years ago. At a smaller facility. They told me I was sick. Then they told me I was rare."
"What did they change?" he asked.
Her fingers pressed slightly against the glass.
"They made me… compatible," she said.
"With what?"
She looked toward the ceiling, then back at him.
"With something they're building."
A faint crease appeared between her brows.
"They say my nervous system can host it," she added. "That my biology doesn't reject the signal."
The word integration returned, heavier now.
"What signal?" he asked.
She closed her eyes briefly.
"When they activate the upper array," she said, "I can feel it. Something runs through all of us. A synchronized field. It's not instruction. It's more like… alignment."
His chest tightened.
"And what happens then?"
"Some people stabilize," she replied. "Some people stop responding."
His jaw set.
"How many?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"Enough," she said.
Silence stretched between them.
The corridor systems cycled softly overhead.
"Why are you still awake?" he asked.
"Because I don't disconnect well," she said. "They say consciousness helps the process."
"And you?"
"I think they're afraid of what happens if we sleep."
He studied her face.
The calm she wore sat over something watchful.
Something awake even when she rested.
"What happens when the array activates?" he asked.
She lifted her free hand and placed it lightly against her temple.
"The building feels closer," she said. "Like all the rooms are leaning inward."
"And inside you?"
She met his eyes.
"Inside me, something listens."
The hum inside him stirred in response, as if recognizing the description.
"Have they told you what they're trying to create?" he asked.
She shook her head. "They don't use names. Only outcomes."
"What outcomes?"
"A structure that can hold multiple biological systems at once," she said. "A living architecture."
The phrase sat uneasily in the air.
"Do you want to be part of it?" he asked.
She searched his face.
"For a long time, I thought wanting didn't matter," she said. "Now I'm not sure they can afford for it to."
Their hands remained aligned against the glass.
Through that thin separation, he felt the delicate balance holding her together.
The precision.
The strain.
"You're not alone in this," he said quietly.
Her gaze softened.
"I know," she replied. "That's why I noticed you."
Footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor.
She withdrew her hand first.
He followed.
Before he stepped back, she spoke again.
"They're running a full activation cycle tonight," she said. "Across the wing."
His focus sharpened.
"When?"
"After midnight," she replied. "They think something is ready."
He inclined his head.
"I'll be here," he said.
Her lips curved faintly.
"I hoped you would."
He turned and continued down the corridor, the measured pace of a worker returning to his route.
But the hum inside him had already begun to reorganize.
Because whatever was scheduled for midnight…
it wasn't only the Sea Wing that would respond.