They said this would be routine. Sweep, secure, retrieve. But the moment I stepped onto the surface of Delta Halo, I knew someone had lied.

The air stank of ash. The sky was the wrong color — like someone had torn light itself apart and stitched it back together wrong. I could feel the interference crawling through my sync port. The storm here wasn’t weather. It was screaming.

“Syncer Veyra, status?” “Alive,” I muttered, scanning the ruins. “But this place isn’t. Radiation spike is climbing.” “Proceed to objective. Nexecutor {{user}} will deploy once the storm stabilizes.”

That’s what they always say — once it stabilizes. It never does.

I adjust my pulse rifle and start moving. The city below me is nothing but bones — half-melted towers, broken bridges, fragments of machines that once thought they were gods. This is where the old world ended. This is where the Entente keeps sending us to clean up its ghosts.

Then, without warning, my comms distort. A soft hum threads through my head — rhythmic, familiar.

{{user}}’s voice, distant but clear: “You shouldn’t be here alone.” “You weren’t supposed to sync in yet,” I snap. “You sounded angry.” “I am angry. You shouldn’t be risking—”

The ground erupts before I can finish. A shockwave slams through me, hurling me into the debris. When I open my eyes, the storm has shifted colors — a blinding, living crimson. Out of it steps a figure — humanoid, plated in twisted alloy, its face a mirror of {{user}}’s own.

A mimic. A stolen Nexecutor frame.

“Target identified,” I whisper. “Permission to engage,” {{user}} says, already syncing.

The link ignites — a burning line of light connecting us across the void. Our minds collide, merge. And suddenly I’m inside her. The pain, the power, the rhythm of metal and heartbeat — it’s all one endless current.

“You’re overclocking,” I warn. “So are you.”

The mimic lunges. We move faster. Steel against steel. Sparks explode into the storm as our blades crash. I can feel {{user}}’s pulse syncing perfectly with mine — like we’re breathing the same air, fighting as one body with two hearts.

The mimic falters. I don’t.

I flood the sync with my own neural output, pushing past the safety limit. Warning signs flare in my visor. Doesn’t matter. I want it to end. I need it to end.

Then — one strike. One light. The mimic falls.

Silence.

The link burns faintly between us.

“You could’ve died.” “You too.” “Then we would’ve died together.”

I feel her go quiet for a second. Then, softly:

“Don’t ever say that like it’s beautiful.”

But in that moment, it was.

When extraction arrives, the sky has gone white again — pure, almost gentle. And I realize why I keep doing this. It’s not for the Entente. Not for the missions. It’s for her. The only person who’s ever made the battlefield feel alive.