Azari stared at the last line until the letters felt less like text and more like eyes.
teach us to stop
"You can't teach that," she said. "That's not a skill. That's… a limit."
Jung Min thought about it.
About rooftops where he had waited for hours without moving. About rooms where shouting meant losing. About the long years after the Saints when survival meant refusing to answer the world every time it called your name.
"You don't teach silence with instructions," he said.
Azari looked at him. "Then how?"
"You model it."
He stepped back from the monitor.
He holstered his gun.
Then he did the simplest thing he could think of.
He stood still.
No questions. No movement. No engagement.
Azari caught on after a second and moved beside him. She folded her arms and closed her eyes.
They gave the room nothing.
No language.
No reaction.
No presence to push against.
At first, nothing changed.
The pulse continued beneath the floor, steady and curious.
The monitor remained lit.
Waiting.
A full minute passed.
Then the screen dimmed slightly.
The pulse slowed.
Not because it was dying.
Because it was matching them.
Azari opened one eye just a crack.
The word on the screen was gone.
No replacement.
Just black.
Jung Min felt it before he saw it.
The room had stopped leaning in.
It had relaxed.
For the first time since they entered, the space did not feel like it was observing them.
It felt like it had joined them.
Azari whispered, barely audible, "It's copying."
Jung Min nodded once.
"Good."