"No," Oishi said, standing up. Her eyes were bleeding from the psychic strain. "You do the math. I'll give him a heart."

For three seconds, his black-hole eyes flickered. Confusion. Then a raw, tearful light. A memory of a woman who never existed, holding him.

"What? That's impossible. You can't implant—"

The simulation dissolved into a white room. Proctors rushed in. Oishi was on her knees, nose bleeding, but laughing.

But the "Perfect" in her title came with a shadow: her assigned partner, Ayaka Oishi.

Hiroko calculated the odds: 11%. "That's suicide. Your neural link will fry."

The dead man's switch trembled in his hand. His thumb lifted.

Oishi landed beside her, silent as a cat, her eyes unfocused, feeling the city's pulse. "Your math is wrong," she whispered, sweat beading on her temple. "The hostages aren't afraid of the gunmen. They're afraid of the floor . There's a gas line. One spark, and the optimal solution turns to ash."

"I can suggest ," Oishi whispered. "For three seconds, I can make him feel my mother's love. It's the loudest thing I own."

The simulation began. Hiroko moved with surgical precision, taking down two sentries with silent darts. Oishi flowed like a ghost, her empathy disorienting a third gunman into dropping his weapon, convinced he was being watched by his dead mother.