The session unfolded slowly.
That, more than anything, unsettled him.
No alarms.
No urgency.
Only the careful extension of a process that believed itself in control.
The filaments in Eun-chae's chamber brightened one by one, their paths growing more intricate. The air around her platform shimmered faintly, responding to invisible adjustments in frequency and output.
Tae-Hyun worked along the outer edge of the space, wiping panels already clean, repositioning equipment no one was using. From a distance, he was only another figure moving through a routine.
Inside him, nothing felt routine.
The hum had shifted again, no longer a background presence but a layered awareness. He sensed the field the inner wing was generating—the way it threaded through architecture, circuitry, and biology alike. He sensed how it narrowed as it approached her.
And how it bent.
Eun-chae's breathing remained even, though a thin tension had appeared along her shoulders. Her eyes were open, focused somewhere beyond the room, as if following structures only she could see.
A technician's voice carried softly across the space. "Increase coherence by five percent."
The filaments responded, their motion tightening into more deliberate arcs.
Eun-chae inhaled sharply.
Tae-Hyun's hand stilled on the panel.
The hum gathered.
He felt a surge of patterned signals press inward, converging on her nervous system. He felt the way her biology accommodated them—how her internal structures rearranged to make space.
And he felt the strain.
Not pain.
Compression.
Like too many languages spoken through one voice.
Her fingers curled slightly.
A small shift.
But enough.
He stepped closer to the glass.
Her gaze flicked toward him.
For an instant, the space between them seemed to thin.
The hum aligned.
A subtle resonance formed, quiet but precise, threading between his internal lattice and her active system.
Her breath steadied.
The slight tremor left her hands.
On the observation deck above, one of the gray-coated figures leaned forward.
"Did you see that?" he murmured.
"The field variance?" a woman replied.
"Yes. It just stabilized."
They adjusted their displays.
"Trace the interference," the first said.
Tae-Hyun drew his hand away from the glass.
Forced his breathing into a slower rhythm.
The hum reorganized inwardly, folding back into a tighter configuration.
The filaments continued their motion.
The field held.
Eun-chae's shoulders lowered a fraction.
Her eyes closed briefly.
When they opened again, she was looking at him.
This time, something like gratitude lay in her expression.
A new instruction carried across the room. "Extend duration."
The lights shifted subtly.
The resonance deepened.
He felt it then—not just in her, but across the wing. Multiple signatures responding in parallel. Some weak. Some erratic. Some adjusting into unfamiliar coherence.
This was no longer a test of one subject.
It was calibration.
Eun-chae's breath grew slower.
Deeper.
Her head tilted back slightly, as if following a sensation moving upward through her awareness.
"What are you sensing?" one of the technicians asked her.
She didn't answer immediately.
Then, softly, "Structure."
The word echoed the earlier conversations.
"What kind of structure?" another voice prompted.
Her gaze lifted toward the ceiling.
"A network," she said. "But not mechanical. Biological. Layered. Adaptive."
"And the core?" the first technician asked.
Her eyes drifted back to Tae-Hyun.
The hum surged in response.
She hesitated.
Then, "The core isn't in the system," she said. "It's near it."
The room went very quiet.
On the observation deck, someone said, "Clarify."
Eun-chae's brow furrowed faintly.
"There's a second pattern," she said. "Not part of the array. It interacts with it."
"Where?"
She inhaled.
Her gaze held his.
"Here."
The word landed.
Data spiked on multiple monitors.
The filaments wavered, then reorganized.
The field tightened.
Tae-Hyun felt the attention turn.
Not from people.
From systems.
He drew a slow breath and let the hum contract, masking its outer expression, aligning it closer to his own biological rhythm.
The readings steadied.
A voice said, "We're picking up a reflective response. Possibly residual environmental interference."
"Log it," another replied. "We'll isolate variables later."
The session continued.
Gradually, the intensity tapered.
Filaments dimmed.
The barrier around Eun-chae's platform softened.
Technicians moved closer, speaking in low, controlled tones.
Tae-Hyun remained where he was, outwardly unremarkable, inwardly precise.
When the final systems disengaged, Eun-chae's posture slackened slightly. She reached for the edge of the platform, steadying herself.
One of the technicians approached her. "How do you feel?"
She considered.
"Different," she said. "But… intact."
The man nodded, satisfied.
"Good," he said. "That means we can proceed."
The words carried more weight than he likely intended.
As personnel began powering down equipment, Tae-Hyun caught Eun-chae's gaze one last time.
Her lips moved.
"Thank you."
He inclined his head.
The hum inside him held its new configuration.
Because the inner wing had just taken its first true reading of him.
And though it didn't yet understand what it had sensed…
it had begun to look.