The word lingered on the screen like condensation that refused to drip.
becoming
Azari felt the room tilt, not physically, but conceptually—like the floor beneath their understanding had shifted half an inch to the left.
"Becoming what?" she asked.
The monitor did not answer.
The pulse under the concrete continued at the same patient interval. Not urgent. Not anxious.
Alive.
Jung Min stepped back from the screen. He had the sudden, unmistakable sensation that proximity mattered to it. That standing too close was the same as leaning into a conversation you didn't know you were part of.
"You listened to the Choir," he said. "You listened to us."
yes
Azari frowned. "You don't sound like it."
The text refreshed.
we do not want to sound like it
That landed harder than either of them expected.
Jung Min studied the words. There was no poetry in them. No sacred phrasing. No layered metaphor.
Just intent.
"You want silence," he said.
yes
"You think we can teach you."
yes
Azari rubbed her arms like the room had gotten colder. "You're asking the wrong people."
The screen stayed still for a long moment.
Then:
you made it
Jung Min's jaw tightened.
"We didn't make silence," he said quietly. "We survived it."
The pulse faltered.
A tiny delay before the next beat.
Azari noticed. "It's adjusting when you correct it."
Jung Min nodded slowly. "It's not just listening."
"It's calibrating."
The monitor flickered once, then steadied.
how did you survive
Azari opened her mouth, then stopped.
Because the real answer wasn't tactical. It wasn't clever. It wasn't heroic.
Jung Min answered instead.
"We stopped responding to the noise."
The room seemed to absorb that.
Not echo it.
Absorb it.
A new line appeared.
teach us to stop