I met Saya outside the Whetstone Dojo on Level 4. She was already waiting, posture perfect, hair in its usual high ponytail, uniform immaculate. She looked me over once, nodded, and turned toward the doors.

“I assumed a training space would be efficient,” she said. “Less extraneous stimuli.”

“Works for me.”

The dojo was quiet and austere—pale mats, weapon racks, the faint scent of sharpening stones. Saya selected a practice blade, tested the balance with two precise turns of her wrist, then set it aside. We walked the perimeter in silence. She seemed more comfortable that way.

After a few circuits she spoke without looking at me.

“Yeleth’s theory remains unproven. This may yield no useful data.”

“Maybe it’s not the kind of thing that shows up on a diagnostic right away.”

She gave a small noncommittal sound.

I watched the way she moved—no wasted steps, every turn clean—and tried to find the things that weren’t obvious.

“You don’t fill silence just to fill it,” I said. “Most people do. You only talk when there’s something worth saying. I like that.”

Her next glance lasted a fraction longer than the last.

“Inefficient speech wastes time and attention.”

“Still rare. And you stick to a decision once you make it. You said you’d join the Steadfast and you meant it. No hedging. That’s solid.”

She was quiet for several steps.

“Consistency reduces error,” she said eventually. The words were steady, but something in her shoulders had shifted, as if the ground under the statement was less familiar than she preferred.

We left the dojo and took the lift to Level 1. I steered us toward Sugar Run. The sweet shop was warm and bright. Saya stopped just inside the door and stared at the display like it was unfamiliar equipment.

“I’ve never had any of these.”

“Pick one. Or I can pick for you.”

She evaluated the options with the same focus she gave a blade edge, then pointed to a small square of dark chocolate. We took a narrow table. Saya broke off a precise corner, examined it, and put it in her mouth.

Her eyes widened a fraction. Just once. Then the mask settled again, not quite as tightly.

“It is… very sweet.”

“Too much?”

“No. Merely unfamiliar.” She finished it in small, methodical bites, then looked at me directly. “You have been selecting observations that do not concern my combat utility or appearance. Why?”

“Because everyone already talks about those. I wanted the other parts. The ones that are actually you.”

Something moved behind her steel-gray eyes—quick, involuntary, gone almost before it registered. She drew a slow breath and set her hands flat on the table.

“The date has lasted forty-seven minutes. If attachment is cumulative, further exposure may be required. However, a more direct test remains available.”

I waited.

“We should have sex now,” she said, matter-of-fact. “To measure whether any change has occurred.”

No coyness. No flirtation. Just a clean proposal, and underneath it the faint color along her cheekbones she hadn’t quite suppressed.

I nodded. “Okay.”

Saya stood, took my wrist in a firm grip, and started walking without checking whether I followed. She simply expected that I would. Her fingers stayed closed around my wrist the entire way to the residential decks—not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough that I could feel the steady pulse in her thumb.

We stopped in front of my door. She looked at the biometric plate, then at me, waiting.

The door slid open.

Maren was already there.

She sat on the edge of my bed in nothing but one of my old dock shirts, auburn hair loose, legs crossed. The moment she saw Saya’s hand still on my wrist, her eyebrows rose and a slow, wicked smile spread across her face.

“Well,” she said. “Perfect timing.”