He saw the number when he woke up.

Thirty-one point eight.

He lay still for a moment and looked at it on the secondary display he kept active overnight — the ambient reading, running continuously, the number that had been the primary variable in his operational picture for two weeks. Thirty-one point eight. The overnight passive decline had continued, dropping another two-tenths from yesterday's session floor.

He noted it in the log. Then he got up and made water for tea.

Mien was awake when he came out — sitting at the window with her knees drawn up, watching the courtyard in the early light. She looked at the secondary display when he passed it.

"Thirty-one point eight," she said.

"Yes."

She looked at the number for a moment. Not with relief — with the specific assessment quality of someone checking a variable against requirements. Thirty-one point eight against an enhanced scanner threshold of forty-five. Thirteen-point-two percent margin.

She went to make tea.

He sat at the desk and pulled up the contingency plan. He read through it not looking for things to change — there was nothing left to change — but the way you read something before a thing you've been preparing for, confirming that the preparation is what you thought it was.

It was.

They ate breakfast. The maintenance session ran twenty minutes — stability over reduction. She held thirty-one point six for twenty minutes without the number moving.

"Done," he said.

She opened her eyes. Thirty-one point six.

He looked at the time. Thirty-seven minutes before the System had projected Dieu's arrival window.

They had done everything that could be done.

He drank his tea.

---

The System flagged them at nine fifty-two.

[Traffic unit approaching: Dieu + 1 technician. Equipment: enhanced ambient scanner, fixed array, classification threshold 43-47% dependent on environmental variables. Range: 300 meters standard. Current distance: 600 meters and closing.]

He read it and looked at Mien.

She was already at the center of the room. Shoes off.

"Can you hold?" he said.

"I'll hold." Not reassurance. A statement about what was going to happen, delivered with the quality of someone who had spent sixteen days learning exactly what they were capable of.

He looked at the ambient reading. Thirty-one point six.

The enhanced scanner threshold was forty-three to forty-seven percent. Thirty-one point six was below that — in the best case, well below. In the worst case, below with minimal margin.

"I'm going to do the morning check," he said. "Stay in position."

"I'll hold it," she said.

He picked up the clipboard.

He went outside.

---

The morning was ordinary in the way mornings had been ordinary for sixteen days. He walked the perimeter at the pace he walked it every morning, checking the fence posts and the access points and the sensor readings, making the notes on the clipboard he made every morning.

He saw them at ten-oh-four.

Two figures on the opposite side of the street — not at the gate, not approaching the building, staying on the public pavement. The technician was already unpacking the equipment: fixed array, tripod-mounted, stabilized, the kind that took three minutes to set up and ran sustained scans.

Dieu was standing beside the technician, watching the setup. She was facing the building.

She saw him.

She gave the small nod of someone acknowledging an acquaintance at a distance. He gave the same back: small, natural, the nod of a security guard noting that the Traffic team he'd met twice was doing its thing across the street.

He walked to the north gate and checked the sensor there.

He made a note on the clipboard.

He walked to the east fence post.

And there, for the first time, through the contract — he felt her.

Not pain. Not distress. Not the urgent pull that had brought her to the corridor when the Tiger's discharge had caught his arm. This was different: a sustained, low-level presence, like pressure at the edge of awareness, like knowing someone was in the next room not because you heard them but because the quality of the air was slightly different. The effort of what she was doing, transmitted through the bond at twenty-three percent sensitivity.

He felt her holding.

He walked to the south fence post. Checked it. Made a note.

The scan was running.

He walked the perimeter at the pace he walked it every morning.

---

Eight minutes and forty seconds later, the technician began breaking down the equipment.

He was at the west access point when he saw it — the technician folding the tripod. Dieu was on her phone. Looking at the building, but in the specific way of someone who is waiting for something to be over.

He walked back toward the booth.

He went inside.

Mien had her eyes open.

He looked at her. She looked at him.

The ambient reading said thirty-one point four.

He waited for the System analysis.

[Ambient energy scan completed. Scanner: Traffic enhanced array, fixed mount. Scan duration: 8 minutes 40 seconds. Scan intensity: HIGH. Result: Detected — confidence 41%. Classification threshold: 45%. Status: Below threshold. Entity classification: Insufficient data. Note: Signal stronger than previous scan. Recommended action: escalation to full-team assessment OR reclassify as low-priority and proceed with sweep timeline. Decision required within 72 hours.]

He read it.

Forty-one percent confidence. Below threshold.

Mien had seen it over his shoulder. She looked at the number. Neither of them said anything.

He sat down.

She sat down.

---

"Seventy-two hours," he said.

"Yes."

"Traffic has to decide: full-team assessment or low-priority."

"What's your read?"

"Sixty percent they file it as low-priority and proceed with the sweep. Forty percent they escalate." He paused. "The confidence level isn't strong enough to justify the cost of a full-team deviation from the sweep schedule. Unless someone higher up decides the anomaly is worth the resource spend."

"Senior approval required," she said.

"Yes. The person making this decision doesn't know this building. Doesn't know the social architecture of this neighborhood. Doesn't know anything except forty-one percent confidence and an unresolved visitor."

Mien looked at the map on the windowsill. "Can we affect that decision?"

"Indirectly. If we reduce the ambient further before the decision comes in—"

"How much time do we have?"

"The decision window is seventy-two hours. But Traffic makes operational decisions faster when resources are time-sensitive. My estimate is forty-eight hours before the window closes."

She was quiet for a moment.

"Then we practice tomorrow," she said. "And the next day."

"Yes."

"And we wait."

"Yes."

She looked at the display — thirty-one point four, still declining fractionally. She looked at the contingency plan. She looked at the map.

Then she looked at the ceiling.

He looked at her looking at the ceiling.

He was aware of the pressure through the contract still fading — the sustained effort of the scan hold, resolving slowly back to baseline. It had been there for eight minutes and forty seconds and now it was leaving, and he was aware of its leaving in the specific way you're aware of the absence of something that had been present.

She had been in that room holding thirty-one point four percent for eight minutes and forty seconds while he walked a perimeter outside, and he had felt it.

At twenty-three percent sensitivity. It had been enough.

He stood up.

He walked to the sofa and sat down beside her.

Not the spare chair at the corner of the desk. The sofa, at the near end, leaving the usual distance between them.

She looked at him when he sat down — the expression shifting from ceiling-staring to the specific attention she gave him.

He looked at the window. The morning light was doing the angle it did at this hour.

He said: "What do you like best about this place?"

She was quiet for a moment.

Not processing the question — receiving it. The difference was visible: processing was the focused internal look of someone running analysis. This was the look of someone who had been asked something they weren't expecting and was considering it genuinely.

"The mornings," she said. "Before you turn on the light. When it's getting bright outside but it's still dim in here."

He looked at the window.

The morning light was exactly that — coming through the glass at the angle that made the room brighter by degrees rather than all at once, the specific quality of light that arrived before the overhead bulb did.

He looked at it.

She looked at the ceiling.

The room was quiet in the way it had become quiet — not the absence of noise but the presence of something that didn't require noise.

He didn't say anything.

Neither did she.

They sat on the sofa for a while — not working, not practicing, not planning. Just sitting in the room in the morning light that she had named, with the contingency plan on the desk and the map on the windowsill and the ambient reading settling at thirty-one point two.

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

"Yes," she said.

He stood up. She stood up.

He made lunch.

---

That evening, the System updated.

[Traffic internal communication intercepted — partial. Dieu report: C-7 enhanced scan result, confidence 41%, below classification threshold. Visitor profile: unresolved. Recommendation submitted for senior review. Decision pending: escalation to full-team scan OR low-priority designation with sweep coverage. Senior approval window: 72 hours. Note: Resource cost of full-team deviation estimated at 2.3x standard sweep allocation. Justification threshold: confidence 50% or above.]

He read it twice.

Justification threshold: confidence 50%. They were at forty-one percent. Nine points below threshold.

At thirty-one percent ambient, a follow-up scan would return confidence in the mid-thirties. Lower than today. If Traffic ran the scan again tomorrow, the answer would be less alarming, not more.

He worked on the seal resistance sub-section until dinner. Mien was thinking about Traffic seal mechanics from the inside — what she could do during the process, not after.

"Interference," he said, when she laid it out. "Not breaking the seal. But you might be able to disrupt the stabilization phase."

"How long does stabilization take?"

"Three to five minutes."

"And if they're deploying a seal, they already know what I am," she said. "So disruption doesn't compromise the cover that's already gone."

He looked at her.

She was right.

He opened a new sub-section in the contingency plan: Seal Resistance — active countermeasures at current capacity. He began writing. She went back to her reading.

At some point she said: "What do you like best about it?"

He looked up.

She gestured, slightly, at the room.

He thought about the question. He thought about what he would have said on day one: the size. Six square meters. No strategic value.

"When the building's quiet," he said. "After the last resident goes to sleep. The System is still running but nothing is alerting. I know where everything is. I know the perimeter. I know what all the readings mean." He looked at the window. "Everything is accounted for."

She was quiet for a moment.

"Everything," she said.

He looked at the display. Thirty-one point two.

"Most things," he said.

She looked at the window.

"I like the tea," she said. "You make it the right temperature. Not too hot. I didn't know I had an opinion about that until I noticed I did."

He looked at the tea cup on the desk. He had been making it at the same temperature for sixteen days.

He didn't say anything.

She went back to the seal mechanics document.

He went back to the contingency plan.

The lamp made its circle.

---

Before he slept, he read the System update one more time.

Justification threshold: confidence 50% or above.

Forty-one percent. Nine points below threshold.

He looked at the log entry for today: thirty-one point two. Stable. And then, because he was being honest with himself at eleven-thirty with the lamp off, he looked at the entry for day one: Entity, SS-rank, sealed at 97.3%. Operating at 2.7%.

Sixteen days of numbers between those two entries.

He thought about eight minutes and forty seconds of her holding, felt through a bond at twenty-three percent sensitivity. He thought about the sofa, and sitting down beside her, and the question he had asked because there was nothing else to do.

She had answered with the mornings.

He was in those mornings. He was part of what she had named.

He thought about the right temperature for tea, and what it meant that she had noticed, and what it meant that he had been making it that way for sixteen days without deciding to.

The seventy-two-hour clock was running. Tomorrow he would practice and run the numbers and wait for Traffic's decision.

Tonight, he lay in the dark in a room that had become, over sixteen days, the kind of room where two people were.

The accurate entry for today was not thirty-one point two percent.

The accurate entry was: she said the mornings.

He did not file that under anything operational.

He let it be what it was.

Then he went to sleep.