The third practice session began at six forty-five.

No announcement, no discussion. He was already at the desk with the System display when she came out of the sleeping quarters, and she went to the center of the room and took off her shoes and said: "Starting level?"

He checked. "Fifty-one point two. Down from yesterday's session end."

"It's been dropping overnight again."

"Yes. Consistent with the previous three nights."

She closed her eyes. He watched the number.

The session ran ninety minutes. She worked it the same way she worked everything — methodically, without impatience, adjusting based on the numbers he called, building toward the target rather than reaching for it. The session ended at forty-seven percent.

Better than yesterday's end point by two. Not at the forty percent threshold they needed.

He made the note. She opened her eyes, looked at the display over his shoulder. Looked at forty-seven for a moment.

"Tomorrow," she said.

"Tomorrow," he agreed.

They ate breakfast. Rice, eggs, the particular silence of two people running calculations simultaneously. He was tracking the scan timeline against the suppression progress curve. She was, he suspected from the quality of her attention, running the same numbers.

Neither of them said this out loud.

They ate. The city outside ran its morning operations.

---

The System alert came at eleven-oh-three.

[Traffic unit — Dieu: approaching C-7 perimeter. Single operative, no support team. Equipment detected: portable high-grade ambient scanner, generation 3. Estimated scan range: 180 meters at standard sensitivity, 120 meters at classification-grade sensitivity. Current distance: 400 meters and closing.]

He read it and was already moving before the notification finished — not to the door, to Mien.

"Now," he said. "Emergency session. How fast can you move the number?"

She was already in the center of the room, shoes off. "Faster than a structured session. Less precise. What do we need?"

"Forty. Lower if possible. She's four hundred meters out."

"How long do I have?"

He checked the approach rate. "Six minutes to perimeter. Another two to scan range if she holds standard sensitivity. Eight minutes."

She closed her eyes.

"Call it," she said.

He called it.

"Forty-five."

She adjusted.

"Forty-three."

"Keep going."

"Forty-one."

"Dieu is at two hundred meters."

She adjusted again — he could see the concentration in the set of her jaw, the specific stillness of someone holding multiple things at once, maintaining what they had built while pushing further.

"Forty."

"Hold," he said. "She's at the perimeter."

Mien held.

He watched two displays simultaneously: the ambient reading on the System, holding at forty, and the sensor data from the eastern perimeter showing Dieu's position — stationary, sixty meters from the outer fence, the portable scanner active.

The scanner was running.

He watched and did not breathe in the particular way he did not breathe during combat — not held breath, just a specific management of attention, everything directed at the relevant variables.

Forty. Mien was holding at forty.

Dieu didn't move.

One minute.

Two minutes.

"She's running an extended scan," he said quietly.

Mien made a small sound that was not a word — acknowledgment, hold acknowledged, continuing to hold.

Two minutes thirty.

Three minutes.

The scanner deactivated.

He tracked Dieu's position for another thirty seconds as she stood at the perimeter without moving. Then she turned. Walked away. East, back the way she'd come.

"She's gone," he said.

Mien opened her eyes.

She looked at the ambient display: forty point one, having drifted slightly during the sustained hold. She exhaled once, slowly, and the number climbed back to forty-two as the active suppression relaxed.

He was already reading the System analysis.

[Ambient energy scan completed. Scanner: Traffic portable unit, gen-3. Scan intensity: HIGH. Result: Signal detected. Classification confidence: 34%. Entity classification: INSUFFICIENT DATA. Note: Signal present but suppressed below entity classification threshold. Recommended follow-up: enhanced equipment or reduced source-to-scanner distance.]

He read it twice.

Thirty-four percent confidence. Below the classification threshold.

"She detected something," he said, and read her the notification.

Mien read it when he turned the screen toward her. Read it again.

"Detected but not classified," she said.

"Yes."

"That's not a clean result for her."

"No. It means she knows something is here. She can't confirm what."

"Will she come back."

"Yes." He pulled up the contingency analysis. "The question is when and with what. Option one: she reports the inconclusive result and Traffic sends her back with better equipment in two to three days. Option two: she reports and they decide the sweep timeline is close enough that they'll handle it then — five to seven days."

Mien looked at the options.

"What determines which one," she said.

"How much confidence she has in what she detected. If she's certain there's something here, she pushes for option one. If she thinks it was interference, she accepts option two."

"And you think she'll push for option one."

He thought about the way she had stood at the perimeter for three minutes with the scanner running. The two seconds last week looking at the building from an angle that shouldn't have given her anything.

"Yes," he said. "I think she'll push for option one."

Mien nodded. Looked at the contingency plan.

"We need to be below thirty-five before she comes back," she said.

"Yes."

"Extended sessions tomorrow and the day after."

"Yes."

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "We can do it."

"Yes," he said.

---

He spent the afternoon updating the contingency plan — fourth version. Mien sat at the corner of the desk and worked through the Traffic seal mechanics document, annotating in the margins, asking questions as they came up.

He was revising scenario three when she said: "There's a section missing."

"What section."

"After the immediate response scenarios. What comes after. If we get through the sweep. If Traffic moves on. What happens then."

He looked at the document.

She was right. He had planned seven days forward. He had not planned past the end of the sweep window.

"I haven't written that section," he said.

"I know." She looked at him. "Are you going to?"

He opened a new document section and titled it: Long-Term Assessment.

She watched him start it. Then she went back to the seal mechanics document.

He wrote the section. It was shorter than the immediate response scenarios — too many unknowns to be specific. But writing it assumed they would still be here afterward. He had not been certain of that until he wrote it.

He saved the document.

---

Mrs. Nam came by at four.

She was carrying tangerines. She sat in her chair, ate one, gave one to Mien, gave one to him. She talked about the district administration's new parking rules and the upcoming district festival being moved indoors. She talked for twenty minutes.

When she stood to go, she reached over and took Mien's hand — briefly, with the specific warmth of someone who had been paying attention for a while.

"Stay a bit longer," she said. "It's been good having you here."

Then she patted the hand, released it, and went to the door. She was already in the hallway when she said, over her shoulder, to the room in general: "Take care of each other."

The door closed.

The room was quiet.

He looked at the door. Looked at Mien.

She was looking at the place where Mrs. Nam had been standing, with the expression that had no name. Then she looked at him, and for a moment neither of them said anything.

"She doesn't know," he said.

"No."

"She means it anyway."

"Yes." Mien was quiet. "That's what makes it—" She stopped. Didn't finish. She didn't need to.

He looked at the long-term assessment section he had written.

---

After dinner, after the dishes, the lamp was fading.

He hadn't turned it up. The room had gone from yellow to amber to the particular quality of near-dark that wasn't dark enough for the overhead light but wasn't bright enough to work in.

Mien was at the window. He was at the desk.

"How long have you been here?" she said.

"Three years."

She was quiet for a moment. "Why this place?"

He looked at the desk. At the contingency plan, four versions deep. At the map on the windowsill with both their marks on it. At the spare chair at the corner of the desk.

The real answer was long. A different city, a different time, a decision that had not gone the way he had thought it would, and the specific calculation that a small residential complex with no strategic value was the safest available configuration for someone who had decided that being seen was too expensive.

He stood up.

He crossed the room to the window. To where she was standing.

He stood beside her and looked out at the city.

The answer he didn't give: because somewhere between the calculation and the three years, this had become the answer. Not the place he had chosen to hide. The place he was.

The city spread out below them — the working lights and the dark spots where power was inconsistent, the patrol routes he had memorized, the market stalls that would be set up in eight hours, the eastern sector where Traffic was moving, the strip of sky above the rooftops.

He didn't say anything.

She didn't ask again.

---

They stood there for a while.

At some point she said: "How much time do we have?"

He looked at the eastern horizon.

"Enough," he said.

One word. He wasn't certain it was accurate. But it was the only answer he had, and she knew that, and she knew that he knew it.

She nodded.

Then she reached over and took a loose hold of his sleeve — two fingers on the fabric at his forearm, the same gesture as before, the same light grip — and held it for a moment.

He looked at the city.

He did not move.

The muscle along his jaw was still. His hands were at his sides. He looked at the rooftops and the patrol routes and the eastern darkness, and he was aware of the two fingers on his sleeve with a completeness that had nothing to do with strategy, and he did not move, and he did not look down, and he did not name what he was aware of.

She released the sleeve.

He was still looking at the city.

She stayed at the window beside him.

The city made its sounds. The System ran its cycles. In two days, possibly three, Dieu would come back with better equipment and the thirty-four percent would climb toward something that required a response. The contingency plan existed. The long-term assessment section existed, tentative and full of unknowns.

They stood at the window in the near-dark, the two of them, looking at what was coming.

His sleeve was still warm where she had touched it.

He noted that, carefully, in the part of himself that kept accurate accounts of things.

He did not file it under anything else.

---

Day thirteen arrived with the specific quality of a day that had been anticipated.

He was up at six. The ambient reading showed thirty-nine point eight percent — the overnight passive decline had brought it below forty on its own, for the first time. He sat with that number for a moment.

Below forty. Without a session.

She came out at six-twenty. Looked at the display. Looked at the number.

"Thirty-nine point eight," she said.

"Yes."

A pause. Then: "Good."

"Yes."

She went to the center of the room. Shoes off.

"Extended session?" she said.

"Extended session. Target thirty-five."

They started.

The session ran an hour and forty minutes. She worked it in the way she had developed across twelve days: not pushing harder than the technique could sustain, building steadily, holding each level before moving further down.

At thirty-five point two, she said: "That's the floor. I can't push further without losing control of the hold."

He checked the reading. Thirty-five point two, stable.

"That's the target," he said.

"Close enough?"

"Close enough."

She opened her eyes. He saw the particular cost of sustained precise focus. Not dangerous. But real.

"Sit down," he said.

She sat in the spare chair.

He made tea. Two cups, the way he had been making two cups for twelve days. He put hers on the desk in front of her. He sat down at his own chair.

They drank tea in the morning light and didn't say anything about thirty-five point two percent or Dieu or the contingency plan or the number of days.

They just drank tea.

After a while she said: "We should eat."

"Yes."

He made breakfast.

Outside, the city was fully awake, running its morning operations, ordinary and ongoing. Inside, two people ate rice and eggs in the particular silence that had been built over twelve days from the ground up — silence that was not the absence of noise but the presence of understanding.

He looked at the map on the windowsill. Both their marks. He looked at the spare chair. He looked at Mien, who was eating and not looking at him, who had been here for twelve days and had been, without announcement or discussion, becoming something the building had not had before.

He thought: thirty to forty days.

He thought: thirty-five point two percent.

He thought about the sleeve of his jacket, which had been on the sofa arm for the past week. He had not moved it back. He had not decided not to move it back. These were the same.

He ate his breakfast.

The day continued.

It had learned to.