Ren couldn't remember falling asleep, but he must've. He woke to the dull pressure of something in his chest—like grief that hadn't picked a shape yet. His throat was dry, his skin cold where it shouldn't be. Heat lingered under the surface, but it wasn't sharp anymore—more like the echo of a wave that had passed through him and kept going, leaving everything scattered.
Luka hadn't moved.
Still there, still distant, his silhouette half-cast in the artificial lowlight of the Pairing Suite. His eyes were open, watching but not watching. Like a man trying not to think.
Ren pushed himself up slowly, wincing at the soreness in his lower back. His body ached from everything—too much tension, too little food, too little dignity.
He hated this room.
He hated this system.
He hated—
No.
He closed his eyes. Don't give it a name. Don't turn it into something that sticks.
The silence between them wasn't peaceful, but it had worn into something tolerable. Luka didn't talk unless he had to. And Ren, for once, was grateful for that.
Words would've broken him.
"Tell me something I don't know," Ren said suddenly.
His voice was rough, brittle at the edges. Luka looked up, and Ren wasn't sure why he'd spoken, only that the quiet had turned into something heavier than sound.
Luka tilted his head, slightly cautious. "Like what?"
Ren shrugged. "Anything."
Luka paused, as if sorting through thoughts he didn't usually share.
Finally: "I don't like thunderstorms."
Ren blinked. "Seriously?"
"I used to fake migraines during storm season when I was a kid. Just so I didn't have to go out in it."
Ren stared. "You, the scary, stone-faced IT guy, scared of lightning?"
Luka's mouth twitched. Barely. But it was real.
"I don't like loud things I can't control," he said. "It's not fear. It's... discomfort."
Ren nodded slowly, eyes drifting up to the ceiling.
"That's fair."
A pause.
"Your turn," Luka said.
Ren exhaled through his nose. "I once used my suppressant patch as an adhesive strip to fix a broken phone charger."
Luka raised an eyebrow.
"Did it work?"
"Not even a little."
Another silence passed, but it wasn't awkward. Just strange. Warm, almost. Not the kind of warmth that came from shared comfort—more like the warmth that comes from sitting beside a fire you're not sure you're allowed to touch.
Ren rubbed his wrists absentmindedly. The scent of his own skin had changed. Muddier now. Tired. Not quite heat, not quite calm.
"They'll come soon," he said.
Luka looked at him.
"For the bond confirmation."
Luka nodded. "Yeah."
Ren's lips pressed into a line.
He'd read about this part.
After a pairing, the couple was monitored for signs of physical compatibility. They didn't have to consummate the bond—legally, at least—but if they didn't, the chip installed during intake would start sending instability alerts within seventy-two hours.
The system wanted physical proof.
"I'm not letting them do anything to me," Ren said.
"I won't let them touch you."
"You are them."
Luka flinched. Not visibly, but Ren saw the shift in his shoulders. The way his jaw tensed.
"I'm not one of them," he said. "I just live under them. Same as you."
Ren studied him. "You don't act like it."
"I act like someone who knows how dangerous it is to stand out."
A beat passed. Two.
Ren reached toward the collar. Just touched it. Not to wear it, not yet—but the metal felt different now. Not like a chain. More like a thing that had almost broken him, and hadn't.
"I want to get out of here," he said. Quiet. Honest.
Luka nodded. "I know."
"I don't want them to decide what happens to me next."
"They won't."
"You can't promise that."
"No," Luka said. "But I can help stack the odds."
Ren let out a slow breath.
"I don't even know your real middle name."
Luka blinked. "Does it matter?"
"More than the name the system gave me."
Silence. Then:
"Isaiah."
Ren's brows raised. "Seriously?"
Luka nodded.
Ren leaned back against the wall again, eyes fluttering closed.
"Mine's Ezra," he mumbled.
Luka didn't speak.
Ren felt the tiniest shift in the room. Like something between them had adjusted a notch—not closer, exactly, but clearer. Less fog between their voices.
There was a knock at the reinforced door later that day.
Not urgent. Not loud. Just procedural.
Luka rose immediately, posture locked in something official. Controlled. Ren stood too, slower, not out of formality, but readiness.
The door opened with a hiss, and a woman in Registry black stepped inside. Her face was flat, professional. She carried a digital clipboard and the unmistakable scent of chemical suppression—sharp, unnatural.
"Pairing status update," she said. "No bond registered. No engagement."
She looked at Luka first.
"Do you confirm abstention from the biological claim?"
"I do," Luka said.
Then she looked at Ren.
"And you?"
Ren stared at her for a moment too long. His body felt wrong again—hot in the wrong places, skin raw from being watched.
"I do," he said. His voice barely cracked.
The woman tapped her tablet.
"Chip remains active. Compliance window resets in 48 hours."
Then she was gone.
Ren sat down on the edge of the cot once the door clicked shut. Luka didn't follow. He stayed near the entry, spine straight.
Ren looked at the collar again.
"If I put that on," he asked, "do I stop being me?"
"No," Luka said.
"Are you sure?"
"I haven't changed you yet, have I?"
Ren's throat burned again.
He hated how badly he wanted to believe him.
That night, Luka didn't sleep on the floor.
He slept sitting up, against the wall, with his hands folded under his knees like he'd done this before. Ren stayed awake most of the time, watching shadows crawl across the far side of the room. Sometimes he drifted. Sometimes he blinked and two hours had passed.
No one came.
No one said anything.
The system gave them silence and expectation. And they filled it with the quiet weight of everything they weren't saying.
When Luka stirred in the early hours, eyes opening just enough to see Ren watching him, he didn't flinch.
Ren didn't look away.
He didn't speak, either.
But something in the air between them had shifted.
The bond wasn't real yet.
But the pull?
That was getting harder to deny.