"Blank," Oishi gasped, clutching her skull. "He's… nothing. I can't feel him."
"I can suggest ," Oishi whispered. "For three seconds, I can make him feel my mother's love. It's the loudest thing I own."
"It's the only fact that matters," Oishi grinned, tapping her own G-mark. "That's why we're both 'G.' You see the pattern. I see the soul inside it."
Oishi took Hiroko's hand. It was warm. "Perfect G," she said softly. "You keep the world precise. Let me keep it alive."
"No," Oishi smiled, wiping blood on her sleeve. "I'm the G that fills your zeroes. Together? We're Perfect."
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 .
Hiroko knelt beside her, her perfect, data-driven face fractured for the first time. "That was a 11% probability. You are illogical."
Hiroko frowned. Her data had missed that. "Sentiment is not fact, Oishi."
And then she walked into the room.
Ayaka stood before the three-dimensional diagnostic mirror in her quarters, the number "G-1" glowing softly on the back of her left hand like a brand of divinity. Her reflection stared back—sharp, obsidian eyes, a severe black bob, and a posture that belonged to a blade. She was the Institute's masterpiece, a psychometric prodigy capable of analyzing any human flaw in a single handshake.
The dead man's switch trembled in his hand. His thumb lifted.
Bang.
