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So this is about my medical anomalies. I resist the urge to glance at Trent and keep my expression blank.

"I'm told the enhancement issues are being addressed through modified protocols," I say carefully.

"Indeed." Marlow gestures to the briefing display. " However, your unique situation presents an unexpected opportunity."

The display illuminates with a schematic of Lower Arcology sectors, the industrial and maintenance levels where most citizens never venture.

Unlike the gleaming perfection of Upper and Mid levels, Lower Arcology is functional rather than aesthetic, the machinery of Unity's existence laid bare in its utilitarian design.

"We've detected an unusual pattern of resource allocation in Lower Sector 19," Marlow explains. "Nutrition supplements and medical supplies disappearing from inventory without proper documentation."

"Internal theft?" Trent suggests.

"Something more concerning." Marlow expands the display to show surveillance footage of a maintenance worker passing a small package to another worker. "We believe a sympathizer network has established itself among the maintenance class."

"Sympathizers," I repeat. "Splinter sympathizers? Inside the arcology?"

The concept shouldn't shock me, but it does.

Unity's indoctrination begins at birth, teaching every citizen that genetic modification is an abomination, that Splinters represent a threat to human purity and survival.

The idea that Unity citizens would actively help those they've been taught to fear seems almost impossible.

Almost.

"We've confirmed at least seven maintenance workers involved," Marlow continues. "But we believe they're connected to someone in Mid-Level coordination with access to resource distribution systems."

"Why not simply apprehend the known sympathizers?" Trent asks, the logical question.

"Because we want the entire network, not just the lower-level operatives." Marlow's eyes narrow. "And we want to understand why this particular pattern is occurring now, coinciding with the increased Splinter infiltration attempts in our sector."

She taps the display, bringing up personnel files. "This is where you come in. We need a team to infiltrate Lower Sector 19 and identify the key coordinators of this network."

"With respect, Chief," I say, "wouldn't Intelligence Division operatives be better suited for long-term infiltration? Sentinels are more visible?—"

"Which is precisely why you're perfect for this assignment," Marlow cuts me off. "No one would expect Elite Sentinels to be deployed as maintenance workers. Your presence will go unquestioned."

She swipes the display to show two new identity profiles. "You'll be inserted as a bonded couple recently transferred from Eastern Arcology. Maintenance Technician Class 3."

I blink. "Bonded couple?"

"Lower Arcology housing is assigned by family unit," Marlow explains. "Unattached technicians are housed in dormitory settings with constant supervision. As a bonded pair, you'll be assigned private quarters with significantly less monitoring."

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, sensitivity to 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.

"Yes." I take a deep breath. "Thanks. That was new."

His gray eyes search mine, concern evident despite his carefully neutral expression. "We should report this to Medical."

"And have Marlow add it to her collection of 'interesting anomalies'? No thanks." I straighten, gently pulling my arm from his grip despite wanting to lean into his touch. "It's just stress and lack of recovery time after the sync session."

He clearly doesn't believe me, but doesn't push the issue in public. "We should prepare for tomorrow's deployment."

"Right. Gotta study up on how to be a convincing maintenance worker." I force a lightness into my voice I don't feel. "Think I can pull off the grease-stained uniform look?"

His expression softens slightly. "You could make a biohazard containment suit look good, Thorne."

The unexpected compliment catches me off guard, warmth spreading through my chest. Before I can respond, the transport arrives, its doors sliding open with a soft hiss.

"After you, future Maintenance Technician," Trent says, gesturing me forward.

As we board the transport that will take us back to our quarters, I wonder what this assignment really means.

Is it truly about uncovering sympathizers, or is it Marlow's way of testing me—of testing us—to see if the anomalies in my system and our unprecedented neural connection represent a threat to Unity's carefully controlled order ?

Either way, tomorrow I'll be pretending to be bonded to Trent Vanguard, living in close quarters with the man I've privately wanted for three years. The man who, thanks to our neural synchronization, might know exactly how I feel about him.

Unity doesn't believe in luck, but if they did, I'd say mine was decidedly mixed.