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Trent's expression remains impasse, but I feel the subtle shift in his stance, a fractional movement closer to me. "Duration of assignment?"

"Minimum two weeks, potentially longer depending on your progress." Marlow studies us both. "Given your exceptional neural synchronization, maintaining a convincing cover should be effortless."

There's something in her tone that makes me wonder how much she knows—or suspects—about what happened during our sync session. The thought sends a chill through me.

"You'll be issued appropriate environmental protection," she continues. "Lower Sector 19 borders the atmospheric recycling systems. Ambient conditions can be unstable."

"When do we deploy?" Trent asks.

"Tomorrow, 0500 hours. Report to Lower Transit Hub 3 for final briefing and deployment." Marlow deactivates the display. "Your cover identities and background materials are being transmitted to your secured tablets now."

She pauses, her gaze sharpening. "One final note. The sympathizer network may be connected to reports of spontaneous genetic anomalies appearing in the maintenance class population."

My heart skips a beat. "Spontaneous anomalies?"

"Minor modifications appearing in subjects with no history of external contamination," Marlow clarifies. "Similar to what Medical noted in your last enhancement scan, Sentinel Thorne."

The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thin. I force myself to maintain eye contact, to show nothing of the alarm bells ringing in my head.

"I understand my medical data is being thoroughly analyzed," I say, keeping my voice steady.

"Quite thoroughly," Marlow agrees. "In fact, your unique situation is part of why your team was selected for this assignment. Your, well,sensitivityto genetic variations may prove useful in identifying others with similar conditions."

"We'll prepare immediately," Trent says, seamlessly drawing attention away from me. "Will we maintain standard check-in protocols?"

"Modified communications only," Marlow responds. "Details in your briefing package. The fewer connections to Sentinel Division, the better."

With a final assessing look at both of us, she deactivates the privacy protocols. "For Unity's continued security, Sentinels."

"For Unity," we respond in unison.

As we exit the briefing room, I feel slightly light-headed, information and implications swirling through my mind.Splinter sympathizers, spontaneous genetic anomalies, undercover as a bonded couple with Trent—it's too much to process at once.

"You're pale," Trent observes quietly as we walk toward the transport hub that will take us back to Sentinel quarters.

"Just thinking about how much I'll enjoy pretending to be a maintenance technician," I deflect. "Always wanted to get up close and personal with atmospheric recycling systems."

He doesn't smile at my weak joke. "What Marlow said about genetic anomalies?—"

"Not here," I interrupt, nodding toward the surveillance nodes positioned along the corridor. "We'll review the briefing materials in secure quarters."

As we approach the transport platform, the crowd thickens with end-of-shift personnel returning to their assigned sectors. The press of bodies, the hum of conversations, the subtle variations in environmental temperature as we near the transit hub, all of it suddenly feels overwhelming.

Colors sharpen painfully, sounds amplify until individual conversations become distinguishable despite the noise. Scents separate into distinct categories—synthetic fabrics, processed nutrition, the subtle chemical signatures unique to each person around me.

Sensory overload. I've experienced it before, but never this intensely, never this suddenly.

I stumble slightly, my enhanced balance failing as my senses spiral out of control. Before I can fall, Trent's hand is at my elbow, steadying me with a grip that looks casual but feels like the only anchor in a storm.

"Breathe," he murmurs, positioning himself to block me from the main flow of foot traffic. "Focus on one sense at a time. Start with touch."

His thumb moves in a small circle against the inside of my elbow, creating a point of concentration. I focus on that sensation,using it to ground myself as he guides me toward a less crowded area.

"Now sound," he continues, his voice low and steady. "Filter out the background. Just focus on my voice."

I do as he instructs, letting his voice become my guide through the sensory chaos. Gradually, the overwhelming input recedes, my enhancements recalibrating to normal levels.

"Better?" he asks, still holding my elbow.