The second practice session began at seven in the morning.

She stood in the center of the room — same position as the day before, away from the walls, shoes off, which was something she had started doing during the first session because she said the contact with the floor helped her sense what she was putting out. He had not asked her to explain that further. He had noted it the way he noted the fish sauce ratio and the spare chair position and the fact that she had started making his tea without being asked: something that had become part of how things were done.

He sat at the desk with the System readings on his display.

"Starting level?" he said.

"Same as yesterday's end point. Maybe slightly lower." She had her eyes closed, her hands loose at her sides, the expression of someone doing something very precise in a very small space that no one else could see.

"Confirmed. You're at sixty-eight percent of baseline. Yesterday you ended at sixty-seven."

"So roughly the same."

"Roughly the same."

She adjusted something. He watched the number move.

"Sixty-four."

She adjusted again.

"Sixty-two."

This was how it went: small movements, held, assessed, adjusted. Not dramatic. Not the kind of thing that looked like anything from the outside. Just a number on a display and a woman standing still in the middle of a room and both of them learning, in the specific way you learn things that have no instruction manual, how to do a thing that needed to be done.

He called numbers. She moved them.

By the end of the first hour, she had brought the reading to fifty-eight percent — a six-percent reduction from where she'd started, which added to the thirty percent reduction from the previous day brought the cumulative total to something that was beginning to approach functional.

Not enough. But more than yesterday.

He made a note in the log.

She opened her eyes.

"Same time tomorrow," she said.

"Same time tomorrow."

She went to make tea. He went back to the System analysis he had been running since five that morning, cross-referencing the Traffic operational pattern against the ambient energy readings he had been collecting from the perimeter sensors over the past nine days. The picture it was building was specific and not reassuring: Traffic's sweep pattern wasn't random. It was calibrated. They were moving through the district in a sequence that minimized the chance of a high-rank entity escaping the perimeter before the sweep reached them.

C-7 was in the fourth quadrant of their current grid.

Seven days, at their current pace. Possibly six.

He filed the analysis and drank his tea.

---

Mrs. Nam knocked at half past ten.

She wasn't carrying food. She was carrying the specific expression of someone who had received disappointing news and was managing it with the dignity of long practice. She was also wearing her good housedress — the one she wore when she expected company.

"My son called," she said, from the doorway. "He can't make the trip this month. Work." She said the word with the particular flatness of someone who had heard it explained too many times. "I know you're busy. I just — is Mien in?"

He looked at her.

Then he looked at Mien, who was at the desk with the map, and who had looked up at the knock and was now looking at Mrs. Nam with an expression that was not the cover story expression or the assessment expression. It was something simpler.

He didn't say anything.

Mien said: "I'll come."

He watched her go. Then he turned back to the System analysis and told himself this was operationally fine — the cover story was solid for casual interaction, Mrs. Nam was not a security risk, the building was clean, Mien's energy output was continuing to improve even in unstructured conditions.

All of that was accurate.

He also turned the courtyard camera feed to the monitor that faced his desk, where he could see it while working.

---

The feed showed Mrs. Nam's first-floor window — not the interior, but he could see the light and shadow of movement inside, and the occasional silhouette when someone passed the glass. He watched it in the peripheral part of his attention while he ran the analysis.

Forty minutes later, a second silhouette appeared — shorter, with the specific posture of someone who walked everywhere with purpose. Miss Hoa, the third-floor resident with the green canvas bag and C-rank fire manipulation and the building's unofficial information network. She had apparently been passing and been invited in.

He watched the three silhouettes in the window for a moment.

Then he went back to the analysis.

He checked the camera feed seventeen minutes later.

Then eleven minutes after that.

He was running a Traffic cross-reference when the System updated the ambient readings: Mien's energy output, currently at fifty-eight percent from this morning's session, had dropped to fifty-three percent. Without a practice session. In the middle of a conversation with two building residents.

He looked at the number.

The System had a theory about why that might happen — he had developed it from the accumulated data. The passive suppression improved not just during active practice but whenever she was in a state of stable focus — the state she was in when she was paying attention to something that was not a threat, not a calculation, just a thing that mattered to her.

The reading held at fifty-three percent for twelve minutes.

Then the camera feed showed something.

He couldn't see the interior. But he could see that the light in the room had shifted, and the silhouettes had arranged themselves in a way that suggested laughter — the specific loose quality of three people in a room finding something funny at the same time.

He looked at the feed.

He looked at it for a moment that was slightly longer than a periodic check.

Then he looked back at the analysis.

Then he looked at the feed again.

The number on the ambient reading was fifty-three percent, and it stayed there, and Mien was in a room on the first floor laughing at something with an elderly woman whose son had cancelled his visit and a sharp-eyed C-rank who knew everyone's business, and the muscle along his jaw did not tighten because he was looking at an operational metric and the metric was good.

He told himself that.

He went back to the analysis.

---

She came back an hour and fifteen minutes after she had left.

He was still at the desk. The analysis was finished. He was most of the way through the week's administrative log when the door opened and she came in and sat down in the spare chair with the particular quality of someone who has been somewhere and is bringing some of it back with them.

He looked at her.

She was looking at the south window. Looking at the courtyard.

"Mrs. Nam lost her husband in 2220," she said.

"I know."

"Miss Hoa lost a younger brother in the Great War."

He set the pen down. "I didn't know that."

"She doesn't talk about it. Mrs. Nam knows because she was there when the notification came." Mien looked at the courtyard for a moment. "They've both been living with it for years. Just keeping going. Both of them, in this building, in this neighborhood."

He waited.

"I don't know what I did in the Great War," she said. Her voice was even, careful. "I don't remember any of it. And I don't know what role I played in why it ended, or if that's even accurately what happened, or what the cost was." She paused. "But Miss Hoa's brother is dead. And Mrs. Nam's husband is dead. And I woke up here, not knowing any of that, and they've been—" She stopped.

He didn't fill the silence.

"They've been kind to me," she said. "Both of them. Mrs. Nam with the food and the company. Miss Hoa with the questions she asks because she's curious rather than suspicious." A pause. "I don't know if I deserve that."

"That's not how kindness works," he said.

She looked at him.

"It's not extended based on whether you've earned it," he said. "They're kind because that's what they are. It doesn't require you to have warranted it."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I know," she said. "I know that. But I still—" She stopped again, and this time the stop was different — not because she didn't have the words, but because the words were going somewhere she hadn't been yet. "Miss Hoa asked me what I thought of the neighborhood. And I answered without thinking. I said: it's quieter than I expected. People here look out for each other."

He looked at her.

"That wasn't the cover story talking," she said.

"No."

"It was just — true." She looked at the courtyard. "And then I realized." She paused. "I want to be here. Not because it's where I ended up, or because it's safe. I want it. This specific place, these specific people." Her voice remained even, but it had changed slightly in density, the way a room's quality changes when it holds something that hasn't been said before. "I want it to be real."

He looked at her.

Looked at the courtyard she was looking at.

Looked at her again.

"It is real," he said.

Not consolation. Not reassurance. A statement of fact, delivered in the register he reserved for things that were true and needed to be said plainly.

She turned from the window and looked at him.

The expression was the one without a name — except that right now it had something in it that he recognized from the corridor when she had said his name, from the sofa at two in the morning when her head had come to rest on his shoulder. Something that was not inventory and not assessment.

He looked back at her for a second longer than he usually did.

Then he looked at the desk.

The muscle along his jaw tightened once, released.

"The ambient reading held at fifty-three percent while you were downstairs," he said. "Without active practice."

She absorbed the shift back to operational without comment. "That's better than this morning's starting point."

"Yes."

"So the passive suppression is improving."

"Yes."

She nodded. Looked at the map on the windowsill — the district map with both their marks on it.

They sat in the same space, in the same silence, for a while — both of them knowing what was outside the window and when it would arrive, both of them carrying the specific weight of something that was real and therefore could be lost.

Neither of them said that part.

They didn't need to.

---

That evening they ran a shorter practice session. She ended at fifty-four percent. After dinner she sat at the desk reviewing the Traffic analysis, annotating it in her careful handwriting, asking occasionally for clarification. He answered. She annotated. The lamp made a circle of warm light.

He was reading a secondary report on Traffic's known seal mechanics when the System updated.

[Traffic unit — Dieu: additional perimeter pass recorded at 17:43. Duration: 4 minutes. No entry attempted. Ambient energy scan detected. Intensity: moderate. Result: inconclusive. Pattern assessment: repeated perimeter presence consistent with active monitoring. Note: Inconclusive result may prompt escalated scan on next approach.]

He read it twice. She was three feet away, pen moving across the page.

He didn't say anything.

He looked at the word inconclusive. Looked at escalated scan on next approach.

Seven days. Possibly six. Inconclusive today. Not inconclusive indefinitely.

He looked at Mien — the lamp light on her face, the pen moving, the focused quiet of someone doing something that mattered.

He thought about I want it to be real.

He closed the System notification. Opened the contingency plan. Started a new entry: Dieu detection ability — escalation scenario.

"She passed the perimeter again today," he said.

Mien looked up. He turned the screen toward her so she could read the notification.

She read it. Set the pen down. "Escalated scan next time."

"Likely."

"How long do we have before inconclusive becomes conclusive?"

"Depends on her range and sensitivity. Unknown variables." He paused. "We need to be at forty percent or below before she scans again. Preferably lower."

Mien looked at the ambient reading — currently at fifty-four percent.

"Extended session tomorrow," she said.

"Extended session tomorrow."

She picked up the pen. Went back to the annotation.

He went back to the contingency plan.

The lamp made its circle. Outside, the city settled into night. The number seven counted down in the background of everything, and what it was counting toward had a name now — Dieu, and Traffic, and escalated scan, and inconclusive becoming something else.

He wrote.

She annotated.

Seven days to figure out how to protect what was real.

Day eleven. Counting.