The mirror in the room turned black.
Rhea stood first.
Her hands were steady now.
Mine weren't.
There was a pressure building behind my ribs—like memory wanted to vomit itself out of my mouth but didn't know how.
"Someone's coming," she said.
I nodded.
We didn't wait.
Outside, the corridor had shifted.
No longer smooth metal. Now old stone. Familiar halls of St. Augustine's—except not.
The doors were too close. The walls too tall.
The angles weren't real.
It felt like walking through a memory someone else had made.
We turned a corner.
And stopped.
He was already there.
Leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting for hours.
Tall. Wiry. Sharp jaw and sharper eyes. A lanyard with no ID hung around his neck.
A faint scar curved from his temple to the corner of his mouth.
He smiled when he saw Rhea.
> "They said you might not wake this time."
Rhea froze.
"…Caleb?"
> "Hello, sister."
The silence cracked open between us.
I looked at her.
But she wasn't looking at me.
She was looking at him like he was something she'd buried with her own hands.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
> "Neither should you."
> "You're not real."
> "Aren't I?"
He stepped forward—and this time his eyes flicked to me.
Cold. Curious.
> "You're Adrian Vale."
It wasn't a question.
> "She used to dream about you. Back when she still had dreams."
Rhea's breath hitched.
I stepped between them.
My voice came out low. Controlled.
> "What are you?"
> "I'm the version they didn't need," Caleb said casually. "The one they threw away when the pattern failed. But they forgot something, Vale."
He leaned in, lips near my ear.
> "They forgot that discarded things remember, too."
Rhea pushed him back.
Hard.
Her hands were shaking.
> "Leave."
> "You're scared," he said softly. "Not of me. Of him."
He turned to me again.
> "Do you know what she did to the last version of you, Adrian?"
> "Stop," she warned.
He smiled.
> "She let him fall in love."
> "And then she watched him die."
Rhea slapped him.
Not softly.
Not cleanly.
A red mark bloomed on Caleb's face, but he didn't react.
Just kept staring at her like she was made of glass.
Or knives.
> "Still violent," he murmured.
> "Still mine," I snapped.
His attention shifted back to me—and this time, something cruel flickered in his eyes.
> "We'll see how long that lasts."
He left without another word.
His footsteps didn't echo.
When he was gone, Rhea didn't move.
She didn't speak.
I stepped behind her.
Wrapped my arms around her waist from behind and pulled her back into me until our spines touched.
> "Tell me it's not true."
Her whisper broke.
> "I can't."
I buried my face in her hair.
Her body trembled under my grip, and still—I didn't let go.
> "Then promise me something else," I said.
> "What?"
> "Don't leave me behind this time."
She turned.
Her eyes were soaked.
Not with tears.
But with fear.
> "Then don't make me choose, Adrian."
> "Because I will always choose you."
> "Even if it kills you again."
We didn't talk about Caleb that night.
Not with words.
But I felt him in the silence between us. In the way Rhea's touch hesitated, in the way her breath never settled against mine.
Like she expected the world to break again—and this time, for it to be her fault.
I couldn't sleep.
So I didn't.
At 2:11 a.m., I picked the lock to the Headmaster's office.
Again.
Not because I thought answers were there, but because I needed something to bleed.
Instead, I found a file.
Slim. Unmarked.
Inside: pages stamped with designations.
Subject: V-05. Classification: Primary Divergence. Emotional Threat Index: CRITICAL.
Her picture stared up at me.
Dead-eyed. Expressionless. A file photo—one I'd never seen before. She looked twelve.
On the back: a transcript.
> "Initiate shows bonding tendencies to Subject AV-02. Interruption required before imprint stabilizes."
> "If divergence continues, erase both."
I dropped the file.
No—threw it.
Something inside me cracked wide open, and it wasn't just fury.
It was guilt.
Because I understood it now.
They didn't just rewrite me.
They made her watch me disappear.
Again. And again. And again.
Until she couldn't bear it anymore.
Until she gave them what they wanted: detachment.
Until she gave up us.
I found her by the greenhouse.
The one behind the old dormitory, half-collapsed with vines and shadowed glass.
She didn't hear me approach.
Or maybe she did.
Maybe she just didn't want to run anymore.
I didn't say her name.
I just walked up behind her, pulled her back into me, and wrapped my arms around her waist so tightly she gasped.
> "Adrian—"
> "Why didn't you tell me."
She didn't answer.
> "You watched them take me."
Still nothing.
> "You watched them kill who I was."
> "I had to," she choked. "They told me if I didn't unbind, they'd erase you completely. No return. No backups. Just gone."
> "So you let them erase me anyway?"
She turned in my arms.
Fists against my chest.
> "I let them erase your pain."
> "You let them erase you."
I grabbed her wrists.
Not hard.
Not gently either.
Our foreheads touched.
And I could barely breathe.
> "Don't you understand, Rhea?"
> "Even if they'd killed me—I would've found you again."
Her voice cracked.
> "You did."
She pulled her hands from mine and touched my face.
Soft this time.
Unbearably soft.
And I felt it again.
That pull.
That gravity.
That knowledge that if anyone tried to take her again, I'd burn this place to ash.
> "You weren't meant to love me," she whispered.
> "You were meant to be rewritten. Obedient. Clean."
> "But every version of you still looked at me like I was the only thing worth remembering."
> "And that broke everything."
I kissed her.
Not like last time.
Not with anger or desperation or punishment.
But with devotion.
Dark. Final. Unshakable.
I kissed her like I'd built my whole world around the shape of her mouth.
And when I pulled away, I said it aloud.
> "You're mine."
She didn't flinch.
> "I know."
> "And I don't care what they do next."
> "Because I will always choose you."
She looked up at me.
Eyes shining with something between terror and worship.
> "Then be ready, Adrian."
> "Because the next test isn't about remembering."
> "It's about surviving what we already know."