The room is disappointingly ordinary. White walls. Five chairs. Monitoring equipment. No glowing symbols. No celestial drama. The volunteers arrive one by one. Guardian. Healer. Scholar. Architect. Mediator. Saoirse stands near the door. Kareem watches through the glass. Dr Vale tells everyone to relax, which has probably never helped anyone relax. For ten minutes, nothing happens. Then the Guardian drops a metal object. The sound hits the floor. Something inside me moves. Not power. Not heat. More like understanding arriving too quickly. I know where everyone is before I look. I know the Healer’s attention has shifted to the Guardian’s left hand because he cut it earlier. I know the Scholar has noticed the change in the Healer. I know the Architect is watching the room itself.
Five separate lines. And suddenly I can see where they meet. My breath catches. Saoirse takes one step toward me.
“Emre?”
“I’m fine.”
The Healer touches her own palm. The cut on the Guardian’s hand closes. Everyone goes still. The Scholar speaks.
“There’s a weakness behind the west panel.”
The Architect turns.
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t.”
The Mediator begins laughing. Not because anything is funny. Because the Guardian is trying not to. The room is sharing. I can feel it now. Connections moving across people like routes on a plan. I don’t create them from nothing. I open them. Then there are too many. My vision blurs. Saoirse reaches me.
“Stop.”
I don’t know how.
“Emre, look at me.”
I do. The room narrows to her face.
“Close it.”
“How?”
“The same way you opened it.”
“That is deeply unhelpful.”
“Try.”
Even now, she almost smiles. I breathe. The lines are still there. I imagine the centre closing. One route at a time. The Healer releases the Guardian’s hand. The Scholar blinks. The Architect steps back. Silence. Then my knees give way. Saoirse catches me before I hit the floor. When I wake, I’m on a sofa in the observation room with a headache sitting directly behind my eyes. Kareem is nearby.
“You were connected for forty-three seconds.”
“It felt longer.”
“It was the longest event we have recorded.”
I sit up. Saoirse is by the window.
“What did it feel like to you?” I ask.
She turns. For a second, she doesn’t answer.
“Like standing in the middle of a city and hearing every conversation at once.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It was.”
The Council looks pleased. Saoirse does not. That tells me which reaction matters.