The noise hits all at once.

  Questions pile up from every direction, overlapping and urgent, voices stacking until I can’t separate one from the next. How do you feel, what did they do, are you in pain, can you sit up, do you remember anything, do you need water, should we get someone, do you need—

  It’s too much.

  My head starts to buzz immediately, a sharp pressure blooming behind my eyes like something is about to tear loose again. I feel Kai tense beside me, his breathing hitching as the sound closes in.

  He breaks first.

  He lets out a low groan and rolls toward me, burying his face against my shoulder and chest, half collapsing on top of me like he’s trying to escape the room but doesn’t have the strength. My arm gets trapped beneath him, pinned awkwardly between our bodies, but I don’t try to pull it free.

  He’s shaking.

  The buzzing in my head spikes, and I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing words past it before I lose the chance.

  “Please,” I manage, my voice rough and strained. “Give us some time. It still hurts too much.”

  The effect is immediate.

  The room goes quiet, not perfectly, but enough. The questions stop. The air feels lighter, like something has finally backed off. Kai’s breathing is still heavy against me, warm and uneven, but at least it’s no longer fighting the noise.

  We lie there like that for a minute, maybe two, just recovering from the sudden drop. Eventually his breathing evens out, and he shifts, rolling onto his back again. His eyes stay closed. I don’t move. My arm is numb where he pinned it, but that feels unimportant.

  After a while, he speaks.

  “I need some time,” he says hoarsely, voice scraped thin. He swallows, then adds, “But I’ll answer two questions.”

  There’s a pause, and then a faint, tired smile pulls at his mouth.

  “And since I’m selfish,” he continues, “I’ll let Mom ask.”

  I feel his tension spike again as his mother steps closer. Her voice is steadier than I expect, but there’s fear threaded through it anyway.

  “What happened,” she asks quietly. “And are you okay.”

  Kai goes very still.

  For a long moment, I think he won’t answer at all. Then he does something so uncharacteristic it startles me. He reaches over, grabs my arm, and pulls it across his chest, gripping my bicep hard like he needs the contact to stay conscious.

  His fingers dig in.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he says slowly. There’s a pause, longer this time, like he’s testing the words before letting them go. “We’re not… okay.”

  The room stays silent.

  “I love you,” he adds, voice softer now. “All of you. But can you give us until tomorrow. Please.”

  Then he turns again, rolling back into my shoulder, his grip on my arm tightening instead of loosening.

  I bring my other hand up and squeeze his forearm in return, grounding him the only way I know how. I nod, even though I’m not sure anyone’s looking at me, and stare at the wall while my thoughts feel like they scatter in every direction at once.

  It feels like I’m trying to gather pieces of myself that got thrown across the universe and only just started drifting back.

  I’m pretty sure Kai’s doing the same thing.

  There’s some quiet grumbling. A few reluctant protests. Concern that doesn’t want to let go yet. But eventually, one by one, people start to leave. Footsteps retreat. Voices soften and fade. The nurse is the last to go.

  She pauses at the door, glances back at us, then reaches up and dims the lights. The room settles into shadow as she closes the door slowly and carefully behind her.

  The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s merciful.

  The doctor waits until the door to the infirmary room is closed before he speaks.

  He positions himself carefully, back straight, hands folded the way they are supposed to be when delivering information that may fracture people. He has done this before. Injuries. Deaths. Failures. He knows the shape of these moments.

  This one does not fit.

  “They were expelled from the pocket realm,” he says first, because facts have to come before comfort. “Not injured by it. Rejected.”

  Kai’s mother frowns immediately. “Rejected how.”

  “That’s the problem,” he replies. “The System didn’t provide a reason. Only a result.”

  He lets that sit. He watches them absorb it, watches the instinctive need to argue with something that should not be able to make mistakes.

  “Portals are not supposed to do that,” Cal’s father says tightly. “They don’t just… throw people back.”

  “No,” the doctor agrees. “They don’t.”

  He exhales slowly, deliberately. “The transition didn’t fail in the way we expect failures. There was no collapse, no spatial tearing, no misalignment that we could measure. The portal accepted them long enough to begin the transfer, then expelled them intact.”

  “Intact,” Kai’s father repeats. “You call this intact.”

  The doctor doesn’t flinch. He has earned the anger. “Physically, yes. What followed wasn’t damage in the conventional sense.”

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  Cal’s mother folds her arms around herself. “Then what was it.”

  He chooses his words carefully, because imprecision would be cruel. “The best description I have is this: whatever happened to them during the transition did not end when they returned.”

  Silence stretches.

  “When they were brought here,” he continues, “both boys were conscious intermittently. They were in severe distress, but not from any injury we could identify. Pain responses were extreme, disproportionate, and synchronized.”

  “Synchronized,” Kai’s mother says quietly.

  “Yes,” the doctor replies. “Heart rate spikes occurred together. Stress responses mirrored each other. When one escalated, the other followed within seconds.”

  Cal’s father shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I agree,” the doctor says. “Which is why we tested every explanation that should have made sense.”

  He ticks them off methodically. “Toxin exposure. Shared cultivation backlash. Neurological feedback. Residual portal energy. Psychological shock. None of it accounted for what we were seeing.”

  “And the screaming,” Kai’s mother says, voice barely holding together. “The nurse said—”

  The doctor nods once. “Yes. When they were separated.”

  He pauses here, deliberately, because this is the part that matters.

  “When we moved them into separate rooms,” he says, “both boys experienced an immediate and catastrophic increase in distress. Not delayed. Not gradual. Immediate.”

  Cal’s mother presses a hand to her mouth.

  “They screamed,” he continues, voice steady but low. “Continuously. Sedatives reduced movement, but not pain. Dampeners had no effect. Their bodies reacted as though separation itself was the injury.”

  “And together,” Kai’s father says.

  “And together,” the doctor confirms, “the symptoms reduced.”

  “How much,” Cal’s father asks.

  “Significantly,” he answers. “Not completely, but enough to stabilize them. Enough that their vitals normalized. Enough that the pain became manageable rather than overwhelming.”

  He meets their eyes one by one. “We did not cause this. But we also could not stop it.”

  “So what are you saying,” Kai’s mother whispers.

  He does not soften this.

  “I am saying that whatever occurred during the portal transition altered the way their bodies respond to distance from one another,” he says. “I am saying that separation causes measurable harm, and proximity mitigates it.”

  “That sounds like—” Cal’s father starts, then stops himself.

  The doctor nods. “It sounds like something that should not exist. I agree.”

  A long silence follows.

  “We do not understand the mechanism,” he says quietly. “We do not know if this is permanent. We do not know if it will worsen, improve, or change shape over time. What we do know is this.”

  He leans forward slightly, hands unclasping. “At this moment, keeping them together is the only intervention that has reduced suffering.”

  “And the System,” Kai’s father asks. “What does it say.”

  The doctor’s mouth tightens. “Nothing useful.”

  He sees the alarm spike immediately. He continues before it can spiral. “The evaluation was marked inconclusive. Not failed. Not denied. Inconclusive. There has been no further guidance.”

  “So you’re guessing,” Cal’s mother says.

  “I am observing,” he corrects gently. “And responding to what keeps two children alive and conscious.”

  That word lands harder than he intends. Children.

  “They asked for time,” he adds. “That matters.”

  Kai’s mother nods slowly. “My son doesn’t ask for things unless he has to.”

  “I gathered that,” the doctor says.

  “So what happens now,” Cal’s father asks.

  “Now,” the doctor replies, “they rest. They recover as much as they can. We document everything. We do not attempt another evaluation. And we do not separate them again unless something changes dramatically.”

  “And if it doesn’t,” Kai’s father presses.

  The doctor exhales. “Then we adapt.”

  The word feels inadequate, but it is the only honest one he has.

  He stands, signaling the end of the conversation. “You can stay. Quietly. They need rest more than answers tonight.”

  As he turns back toward the infirmary room, he pauses at the door.

  “I know this is frightening,” he says without looking back. “It is for us too. But whatever this is, it isn’t cruelty. It’s not punishment. And it’s not something they chose.”

  They come out of the Emerald Jungle bloodied, filthy, and shaking with adrenaline.

  Finn is still laughing when they hand over the lotus flowers, still riding the rush of survival. Banks sets the diamond scarab carapaces down with care, fingers steady despite the tremor in his hands. They’re exhausted. Hurt. Alive.

  The instructor nods and waves them toward the infirmary for post-evaluation checks. Finn starts talking immediately, replaying moments out loud, hands moving as if he’s still fighting.

  Finn notices at once. Banks has gone quiet in the way that means something’s wrong, eyes locked forward, pace quickening despite the limp.

  “Hey,” Finn says, reaching for him. “What is it.”

  Banks doesn’t slow. “Something’s wrong.”

  The air changes as they near the infirmary. The noise drops off too sharply. Students cluster in the hall, whispering. No one meets their eyes. An instructor stands rigid near the doors, arms crossed like he’s guarding something. Finn’s stomach twists.

  “Are Caleo and Kai make it back yet?” he demands.

  “They didn’t make it in,” someone says.

  Finn laughs, short and sharp. “That’s not funny.”

  “They were rejected,” the student replies. “The portal spat them back out.”

  That shouldn’t exist as a sentence. Finn pushes past the instructor before anyone can stop him, Banks right behind. Someone shouts. Finn doesn’t hear it.

  They hear the screaming.

  It tears down the hall, raw and unbearable. Finn skids to a stop, heart slamming so hard it hurts. “That’s Kai,” he says immediately.

  Banks nods once. “And Caleo.”

  Nurses rush past them. Doors slam. The screaming spikes, then fractures into two voices, answering each other in agony.

  Finn grabs a nurse’s sleeve. “What happened to them.”

  She pulls free, eyes tight. “Step back.”

  “They’re screaming,” Finn snaps. “That’s not normal.”

  “We know,” she says, and keeps moving. They don’t let him see them.

  Minutes pass. Or hours. Time collapses into sound and panic. Finn paces, rakes his hands through his hair, drags in air that won’t fill his lungs. Every scream feels like it’s cutting into him.

  “This is wrong,” he says. “This is really wrong.”

  Banks hasn’t moved. He’s watching the staff, the doors, the way everyone avoids looking down the hall.

  “They separated them,” Banks says quietly. Finn turns. “What.”

  “They separated them,” Banks repeats. “That’s why it’s worse.”

  Finn starts to argue, then stops. He remembers the way Caleo and Kai move. The way they stabilize each other without looking. The way space collapses when one is missing.

  “They need to be together,” Finn says.

  Banks looks at him sharply. “I think you're right.”

  “I know,” Finn says, voice cracking. “I just know.”

  He storms into the infirmary office before anyone can block him and slams both hands on the desk. “Put them together.”

  The doctor looks up, startled. “You need to leave.”

  “You’re hurting them,” Finn says. The words come fast, desperate. “They’re screaming because you split them up. Put them together.”

  “We are following protocol—”

  “I don’t care about protocol,” Finn snaps. “They’re sixteen. They’re in pain. And they’re calling for each other.”

  The screaming surges again, sharper, closer. Finn flinches.

  “Please,” he says, and the word breaks him. “Just try it. If it doesn’t work, separate them again. But if it does—” He can’t finish.

  Banks steps in beside him, voice calm and deadly. “You saw the change when they were separated. Didn’t you.”

  The doctor hesitates.

  Finn sees it. Pounces. “You did.” Silence stretches.

  “I will take responsibility,” the doctor says finally. “If this doesn't stabilizes them.”

  Finn’s legs nearly give out.

  They’re pushed back into the hall while staff move fast. Finn presses his forehead to the wall, breath shuddering, counting just to stay upright. Banks stands beside him, solid, unmoving.

  The screaming fades. Not instantly. But enough. Then more. Then it’s gone.

  Finn slides down the wall and sits hard on the floor, shaking. Banks drops beside him, shoulder to shoulder. They don’t speak.

  When the nurse finally comes out and gives a single nod, Finn laughs weakly through tears he didn’t realize were there.

  “I don’t know why that worked,” he whispers.

  Banks exhales. “Well, let's be glad that it did.”

  Finn wipes his face, wrecked and hollow and relieved all at once. “Good,” he says hoarsely. “Because I was about to start breaking things.”

  Banks huffs softly and leans his head against Finn’s shoulder. They stay there in the hall, keeping watch, knowing something fundamental has shifted even if they can’t name it. And knowing, without doubt, that they did the right thing.