You don’t trust him. That’s the first thing you think when they say his name. Out of everyone in the program—every compatible mind, every desperate candidate—they choose him. The one person you’ve spent years competing against. The one who knows how to get under your skin without even trying.

“Synchronization test in five,” someone calls. You pretend not to hear. The room hums with low mechanical life, cables snaking across the floor, the towering silhouette of the Jaeger looming beyond the glass. It feels like it’s watching you. Waiting.

So is he. “You’re stalling.” His voice is calm. Too calm. Like this doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter. You turn, slow and deliberate, crossing your arms. “I’m thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking for ten minutes.”

“And you’ve been talking for ten seconds too long.” A flicker of something crosses his face—amusement, maybe—but it’s gone before you can name it.

“You don’t have to like me,” he says. “You just have to link with me.” You laugh under your breath, sharp and humorless. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Because linking isn’t just teamwork. It’s exposure. Memories. Fears. Everything you’ve buried, everything you’ve fought to keep controlled—it all gets dragged into the open. Shared. Felt.

Seen.

And him?

You’d rather fight a Kaiju alone. “I won’t do it,” you say, firmer now. “Find someone else.”

“They already tried,” he replies. “You’re the only one who matches my neural pattern.”

“Then maybe you’re the problem.”

“Or maybe,” he steps closer—not enough to touch, just enough to feel like a challenge—“you’re afraid I’ll see something you don’t want me to.”

Your jaw tightens. He shouldn’t be this close. He definitely shouldn’t sound like he understands you. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“No,” he says quietly. “But I will.” The silence stretches. Heavy. Charged. Dangerous. Somewhere behind the glass, a warning light flickers to life.