Hiroko's dart hit his shoulder. Not his heart. The switch clattered to the floor, inert.
Hiroko calculated the odds: 11%. "That's suicide. Your neural link will fry."
The G-Class Evaluation wasn't just a test; it was a crucible. In the gleaming, chrome-and-ivory halls of the Oishi Institute for Advanced Human Potential, a single letter separated the extraordinary from the obsolete. And for Ayaka Hiroko, the letter was G .
The head proctor cleared his throat. "Agent Hiroko. Agent Oishi. Your final designation is authorized."
Oishi took Hiroko's hand. It was warm. "Perfect G," she said softly. "You keep the world precise. Let me keep it alive."
"I can suggest ," Oishi whispered. "For three seconds, I can make him feel my mother's love. It's the loudest thing I own."