The virtual world dissolved around Neville in a cascade of fragmenting light, and he regained awareness of reality.

The cool interior of the pod, the soft hum of the neural interface powering down, the distant sound of researchers murmuring in the observation room.

He pulled himself out of the pod with shaky legs, his muscles protesting despite having done nothing more strenuous than lie still.

Grayson emerged from his own pod; his eyes found Neville’s immediately.

"I told you I’d win at least once," Neville said, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice.

"You did win twice." Grayson’s tone was dry but somehow warm.

Neville laughed, the tension of the match bleeding away. "Your face when I fake-surrendered was worth every second of running for my life."

"I wasn’t aware you’re that obsessed with winning."

"It wasn’t that obsessed. It’s just human to want to win at any point in time in life."

"Ah, is that so? Then, I apologize."

They stood there for a moment, two people who had just spent the better part of an hour trying to destroy each other in a virtual hellscape, grinning at each other like idiots.

"Well," Grayson said finally, "that was interesting."

"Is that good or bad?"

A smile tugged at Grayson’s lips. "Definitely good."

Dr. Shortle materialized beside them, his tablet clutched to his chest like a shield.

"Great, great! We gathered an absolutely huge amount of data from this. The response time metrics alone will fuel papers for months. Mr. Maxwell, your combat patterns are, as expected, exemplary. And Mr. Hope—" He adjusted his spectacles, peering at Neville with undisguised academic interest. "Your approach was... unique. Very unique."

"I’ll take that as a compliment."

"I mean it as a compliment."

Neville tried to take a step forward and nearly buckled. His legs had decided to wobble at the first step.

This VR interface might have been cutting-edge, but it didn’t change the fact that his body had been motionless for an extended period while his brain screamed at it to run.

A hand caught his elbow.

"Careful," Grayson said, and Neville very deliberately did not think about how close they were standing.

"I’m fine. Just need a second."

"Take your time."

Neville checked his light brain with his free hand, blinking at the display. "It’s already dinner time."

"Is it?" Grayson glanced at his own device. "The match ran longer than I expected."

Without really thinking about it, Neville heard himself say: "Want to grab dinner? To celebrate my victory?"

"Your victory and my loss?" Grayson pointed out, his hand still on his elbow.

"You lost honorably to my hands."

"Haha, what kind of honor is that?"

Then paused. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Well, neither of us can exactly eat out." Neville gestured vaguely at nothing. "So I figured I’d cook."

The hand on his elbow tightened a little as he repeated. "You’ll cook?"

"Yeah, just like usual."

"Where? At your place?"

"Where else should I cook?" Neville turned to look at Grayson properly, confused by the strange note in the other man’s voice. "Is something wrong?"

Grayson turned away. The angle of his jaw was sharp, his expression carefully controlled, but Neville could have sworn he caught a hint of color creeping up the man’s neck.

"Nothing’s wrong," Grayson said, his voice perfectly even. "That sounds... good."

Dr. Shortle, who had been watching this exchange with barely concealed glee, coughed delicately.

"Young love these days moves so quickly," he murmured, just loud enough to be heard.

Neville’s face went hot. "It’s not like—"

"Should we go now?" Grayson interrupted, already moving toward the exit.

The tips of his ears were definitely red.

They made it approximately three steps outside the room before running into Pete Rowan. Neville hadn’t seen him in person, but he knew him.

The Dean of the Imperial Research Institute, Pete Rowan, was leaning against the wall with the casual air of someone who had ’absolutely’ not been waiting for them.

His calm demeanor and friendly smile radiated the energy of a gardener who had just discovered his favorite plant blooming.

"Grayson! What a coincidence."

"Pete." Grayson’s tone changed to flat. "You don’t work in this building."

"I was just taking a walk."

"In the Mecha Research Institute."

"It’s a very scenic route for a researcher like me."

Neville watched this exchange with growing amusement.

It looked like Pete Rowan was one of Grayson’s inner circle.

He seemed to be the kind of person who appeared gentle and unassuming until you realized he was probably three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.

"I happened to catch the end of your match," Pete continued, his eyes sliding to Neville with undisguised interest. "Very impressive, Mr. Hope. The headlight flash was very inspiring."

"Thank you?" Neville wasn’t sure if he was being praised or studied.

"We should have dinner sometime. All of us." Pete’s smile widened. "Grayson never introduced us to anyone else. Now that he’s in a relationship, he should definitely introduce us to you."

"That’s because you’re all menaces," Grayson interrupted.

"We prefer to be named as ’enthusiastic supporters.’"

They exchanged a few more minutes of what Neville could only describe as aggressive friendship before Pete finally let them go.

But not without extracting a promise from Grayson.

"Make time to introduce him properly," Pete said, and there was steel beneath the pleasant words. "Everyone’s curious."

Grayson sighed. "Fine."

As they walked away, Neville leaned closer. "Who’s everyone?"

"You don’t want to know."

"That makes me want to know more."

"I know. That’s why I’m not telling you."

They reached the building’s exit, and Grayson paused. "Wait here. I forgot something."

He disappeared back into the playroom, leaving Neville standing in the corridor with nothing but his thoughts and Shelly’s commentary for company.

[Host], Shelly’s voice echoed in his mind, [did you just invite your target to your house for a home-cooked meal?]

’It’s just dinner.’

[It’s a DATE.]

’Dinner is food. I still needed to cook for him.’

[But the point is, you’re cooking at YOUR HOME.]

’Where else can I cook?’

[I’m just saying, you should be more aware that you’re already your target’s BOYFRIEND—]

Grayson returned, and Neville’s argument with Shelly died immediately.

In the man’s hands was a mysterious metal box, about the size of a shoebox, made of some dark alloy that seemed to absorb the light around it.

"What’s that?"

"Just something."

Neville waited for some explanation, but there was none that followed.

"...okay then." He said, sounding a little disappointed.

They walked in comfortable silence toward the parking area, the mysterious box tucked under Grayson’s arm.

○●○●

The Mecha Research Institute faded behind them as their transport hummed toward Neville’s apartment.

Back in the building, Pete watched them go from a window, his pleasant expression unchanged.

His light brain chimed.

"Where was Lilianna?" he asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

The voice that answered belonged to Chronos, though no one else listening would have guessed it.

[Secured. Basement level three.] Chronos’s usual playful tone was absent, replaced by something colder and more focused.

"Does Grayson know?"

"Of course."

Pete nodded, though Chronos couldn’t see it.

From his pocket, he produced a small vial filled with a pale blue liquid—the latest iteration of a cure they had been working on for months.

"I have the newest version. Where are you?"

[Three doors down on your left.]

Pete turned.

The corridor appeared empty, but he knew better than to trust appearances where Chronos was concerned. He walked to the indicated door and found it unlocked.

Inside, the room was small and a converted storage space that smelled faintly of cleaning solution.

Chronos sat on a metal table, his legs dangling over the edge, his expression changing from the cool assassin to something warmer as Pete entered.

"For me?" Chronos reached for the vial. "You shouldn’t have."

"It’s medicine, not a gift."

"If it’s from you, everything’s a gift."

Pete rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite suppress a smile. He handed over the vial, watching as Chronos downed it without hesitation.

"Well?"

Chronos closed his eyes, clearly focusing inward.

A minute passed.

Two.

"My senses got sharper," he said finally.

"More than before. But the pheromones..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Still nothing."

"Progress, at least," Pete said, nodding as he made mental notes for the next iteration.

"The only upside to this entire condition is no heat." Chronos hopped off the table, stretching. "Silver linings and all that."

"That’s not a silver lining. That’s a symptom."

"Tomato, tomato."

Pete reached out, pinching Chronos’s cheek with more affection than force.

Chronos, rather than pulling away, leaned into the touch, rubbing his face against Pete’s palm like a particularly demanding cat.

"When do you think they’ll figure us out?" Chronos asked, his eyes half-lidded.

Pete’s smile turned mischievous. "Maybe if you kissed me in front of them?"

"Is that an invitation?"

"Take it however you want."

Chronos didn’t hesitate.

The kiss was brief but thorough, the kind of greeting between two people who had long since moved past awkwardness into comfortable familiarity.