The inner wing no longer felt like a place.
It felt like an instrument.
Every surface reflected information. Every light source adjusted to unseen readings. Even the air moved differently, responding to shifts in temperature, motion, and internal biological variance.
Tae-Hyun stood within his marked zone, the band at his wrist pulsing a steady yellow. The hum inside him had settled into a concentrated lattice, tuned now not only to the building—but to Eun-chae.
She stood on the central platform, posture aligned with the faint arcs of light moving around her. The framework behind her adjusted almost imperceptibly as new filaments extended, tracing slow geometries through the air.
A voice spoke across the chamber. "Begin low-field interface."
The lights dimmed.
A quiet resonance flowed through the wing, softer than the activation before, but more focused.
Tae-Hyun felt it first in his chest.
A pressure without weight.
A suggestion of alignment.
Eun-chae closed her eyes.
The filaments brightened.
Data began streaming across the overhead projections.
Her breathing slowed, then deepened.
The hum inside him answered.
Not by expanding.
By narrowing.
He felt the resonance attempt to map her internal architecture.
Felt it press against the edges of her nervous system.
And felt, just as clearly, where her structure bent without breaking.
"You're stable," a technician's voice said. "Maintain."
Her fingers twitched lightly.
Then stilled.
The field deepened.
Within it, Tae-Hyun sensed a layering process begin. Signals weaving through one another, testing load-bearing patterns, tracing paths that led inward rather than outward.
Eun-chae inhaled sharply.
The band at his wrist pulsed brighter.
Yellow edged toward amber.
"Tae-Hyun," she said quietly.
Her voice carried through the space.
He stepped forward without thinking.
The band flashed.
Amber.
"Maintain distance," the system instructed.
He stopped.
The hum surged in response to her call, orienting sharply toward her field.
Her shoulders tensed.
"Something's pulling," she said.
"Describe," the technician prompted.
"It feels like compression," she replied. "But not from outside. Like a structure tightening inside me."
The filaments adjusted.
The pressure increased.
He saw it in the slight shift of her posture.
The way her fingers curled.
The way her jaw set.
The hum within him gathered.
Not outward.
Inward.
He altered its configuration, tightening the internal lattice, redirecting its expression toward a quieter register.
The effect was immediate.
Her shoulders eased.
Her breath evened.
The field steadied.
On the observation deck, someone murmured, "That stabilized again."
"Mark the timestamp," another replied.
The band at Tae-Hyun's wrist dimmed slightly, returning to yellow.
He remained where he was.
Eyes on her.
The low-field interface continued.
Patterns cycled.
The system tested new alignments.
Some passed.
Some dissolved.
Each time the pressure within her rose, the hum within him adjusted.
Each time he did, the readings steadied.
He began to understand the shape of it.
Not control.
Coupling.
The system wasn't building only around her.
It was reacting to the relationship between their structures.
And that relationship had boundaries.
Carefully monitored ones.
A new instruction came through. "Increase amplitude by three percent."
The filaments brightened.
Eun-chae's breath caught.
The band flashed amber again.
She opened her eyes.
Met his.
This time, the strain in her expression didn't fade.
"Tae-Hyun," she said.
The hum surged.
He took a single step forward.
The band pulsed.
Amber edged toward red.
A soft alert sounded.
"Maintain distance," the system repeated.
He ignored it.
The hum narrowed further, its outer expression folding inward, its resonance tuned not to the field, but to her internal pattern.
The effect rippled outward.
The filaments wavered.
Then reorganized.
The pressure within her eased visibly.
Her shoulders lowered.
Her jaw unclenched.
On the observation deck, voices overlapped.
"What just happened?"
"Did you see that shift?"
"The field orientation changed."
"Trace the source."
The band at his wrist glowed a steady amber.
But no red came.
He held his position.
So did she.
The system continued.
But something in its logic had been crossed.
A line had been stepped on.
And it had not known how to respond.
When the low-field interface finally tapered, the filaments dimmed and the resonance thinned.
Eun-chae remained standing, breathing evenly.
Technicians moved closer.
Monitors chimed softly.
On the observation deck, Director Han watched in silence.
Then, quietly, he said, "Log proximity response. Designate it Boundary One."
The words settled into record.
Below, in the center of the inner wing, two living anomalies stood within measured distance of one another.
And for the first time since W-03 had been built, the system had not decided where the boundary was.
It had discovered it.