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boolger · 2 months ago

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Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before 🌻 ch.1

Female reader x Nikolai x Price ✨ AO3 link ✨ next chapter -> wc: 7.7k - call of duty - explicit, MDNI. Read the tags. Dead dove don’t eat.

Summary: Your hometown, Millhaven, had been under the control of The Shadows, a notorious biker gang, for several years. You hated every member of the group, but in particular their leader, Phillip Graves. The alpha refused to leave you alone, having attempted to seduce you for two years despite two years of rejection. But in the matter of one night, everything changed. The Shadows disappeared, replaced by a biker gang calling themselves Team 141. The town seemed relieved, but you didn’t trust the new group, despite every good thing they did. Perhaps, it was your sign to leave - your opportunity to move without bad conscience. But the 141 suddenly showed a strong interest in the house you inherited from your father. Even worse though, the leader John Price and his mate, Nikolai, seemed to like you even more. While the Shadows were annoying and Graves was persistent, he at least accepted your no. Somewhat. Problem was, it didn’t seem like the 141 took no for an answer.

Tags: non-consensual elements/rape, bikers AU, biker gang 141, omegaverse, dub-con, non-con touching, harassment, stalking, reader has a vagina, M/M/F threesome, threats, reader has a nickname, loss of parent, original characters, pack dynamics, alpha!John Price, Alpha!Nikolai, omega!reader, forced bonding, loss of virginity, breeding kink, piss kink, scent marking, daddy kink, stun guns, smut, rough sex, knotting, (maybe pregnancy), voyeurism, punishments, noncon spanking, p in v sex, anal sex, overstimulation, claiming barks, uh short appearance of a chopped off body part (action not described but the part will appear shortly)

Authors note: first of all, TY to sweet 💖 @venuskaltrip 💖for being my beta reader on this fic 🥰❤️ I cannot describe how much I appreciate it. Secondly, idk how long this fic will be yet maybe 6 chapters but they won’t all be this long lol. This will be a dark fic. I will write if there is something specific, but Nikolai and John are nasty in this one. If you’re not into this or feel uncomfortable, don’t read.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

“Hey there, pretty girl.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, and had to physically keep yourself from not groaning at the voice. If your eyes got stuck, like your father used to say, then you wouldn’t have to look at the man behind you at least. However, today wasn’t the day, so you were still able to see him as you turned around and put on a polite smile. For at least two years, the small cafe that you worked in and loved deeply, hadn’t been a safe space for you. He had ruined that.

”Mr. Graves,” you greeted the man standing on the other side of the counter, continuing to dry off the teacup in your hand, “how may I help you?”

”Phillip, my pumpkin,” you could feel the hatred in each bone in your body, as he corrected you, “Told ya’ not to call Mr. Graves. That was my father.”

Oh, how you wanted to throw the teacup in his face. Watch it hopefully shatter in his skin. The man would have deserved it. He was one of those alphas who never wore any kind of scent blocker, proud to stink up whatever room he walked into, to show their “dominance” over everyone else. Right now he was stinking slightly of lust, almost making you want to gag.

Somehow you still managed to keep your smile and not roll your eyes again over his words. Throughout your countless interactions with him, you had learned the hard way that you had to push back and not give up when it came to him. Your father would have reminded you to show him that you’re an alpha as well. Which you were, at least to Graves.

But he called you Pumpkin, sweetie pie, all kinds of awful pet names that he knew you didn’t like - so you stood your ground.

”What can I get for you, Mr. Graves?”

He pouted, like a dog not getting a treat, as he bent forward, resting both of his hands on the counter, making you try your best to ignore the leather gloves he wore. Specifically, where they had been. They looked dirty. You didn’t want them on the counter. There would no doubt be oil on them from messing around with his ugly bike outside. Perhaps, Mary would let you put up a sign about not touching the counter while wearing gloves. Then again, it was a very specific sign. Graves probably wouldn’t like - or follow it, for that matter.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, sweetie,” he crooned all charmingly, leaning forward while you leaned backwards, not even trying to be subtle, as he continued, “I’ve enjoyed it these last two years.”

The ‘but no more’ was left unsaid. A threat, disguised as a compliment. You just swallowed, smiling at him. Though if you were being honest, you weren’t really sure if he was threatening you, or attempting to flirt.

Mary was in the back, she would hear you if you screamed, in case he decided to snap and jump across the counter today. You were on the edge of growling, warning the alpha to back off, when the front door opened.

The soft chimes of the bells alerted of your saviors entering the little cafe - two of your regulars, two elderly women that came in every day at 9AM exactly. Your unsung heroes.

”Goodmorning dear,” the beta called out for you, the elderly omega next to her giving a wave, and the smile you sent them as you greeted them was genuine. They always wore blockers, but smelled of cookies and weed nonetheless. You were quite a fan of pair.

”I’ll be there in a moment, ladies,” you called out sweetly as they took off their coats. They weren’t even discreet in their staring at Phillip Graves. As if the man and his gang of idiots hadn’t been in the town for the last seven years or so. As if the sight of the logos on their backs was still a surprise and not an everyday occurrence to everyone. Then again, they were old. Graves looked over his shoulder, no doubt sending them a nasty stare, before he looked back at you again.

For a moment, you felt as if he stared at you like a beast would a piece of meat, as if he wanted to devour you raw. That had been how he had looked at you for the last two years or so, not even hiding how he wanted you, a strong alpha woman, to bend over for him. Follow him like a good little puppy.

The scar you had given him the last time he had attempted something was healed by now, but still visible, particularly in the right light. The sight still pleased you.

Graves behaved like a desperate dog, who continuously returned to you, hoping for a moment to successfully catch you off guard and rip you apart.

“An americano, then,” he finally crooned, a charming smile back on his face as he straightened up, the leather creaking a little, “with an extra espresso shot.”

You added a bit too much espresso - hoping the strong drink would make him shit himself while he drove his motorbike. Preferably while all his ‘Shadows’ were watching him.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

The Shadows had appeared when you had been around 15 years old; back when it had seemed to rain a little less than now, back when your father was alive. Right after the two of you had found a bit of happiness after the death of your mother a couple of years earlier. Back when you hadn’t presented yet, your secondary gender still a mystery.

You had quickly learned to avoid them, all of the kids in your small British village had, keeping your distance despite the cool matching logos on their vests and jackets, and their shiny, loud motorbikes.

Why the hell an American biker gang had decided to go to the UK, and then chosen your bloody village, was beyond your comprehension. They all seemed like idiots. You had realised that as a teenager.

It seemed most of the inhabitants of Millhaven had hoped they would leave after a year or two. Instead they became more and more intertwined with the town as the years passed, creating chaos and controlling a bunch of things - and people.

The local, lowly drug dealers, who maybe sold a bit of weed or some painkillers, either disappeared or changed tactics. At the same time, it seemed impossible to have a shop, or any kind of business really and not pay them some sort of fee.

For “security”.

To you it seemed like it was the Shadows themselves who were creating malaise and fear in Millhaven, not any locals or people from other towns. The mere name The Shadows didn’t really scream safety and peace.

A couple of the bikers ended up creating a pack with some locals from town, others didn’t. In truth, without being said out loud, everyone had hoped for Phillip Graves to get bored of Millhaven and decide to move on to another town. Then the streets wouldn’t be filled with the roars of their bikes or their ace of spades or whatever their logo was supposed to be.

However, to much of the disappointment of the folks of Millhaven, Graves did find something interesting - or rather somebody.

Much to your horror, it turned out to be you.

It had started a couple of months after you had turned twenty; he had started to look at you, no, stare, like it was the first time he really saw you. Noticed you. He started flirting with you almost instantly after that - and though you turned him down straight from the beginning without hesitation, he kept going. You had barely turned twenty, he was in his thirties.

The owner of the cafe you worked at, sweet Mary, had muttered not too long after his first show of interest that he was a nasty man - but that he at least hadn’t noticed you when you were a kid. You tried not to think about that part too much.

Six months into his attempt at courting you, he had cornered you outside the pub; a confident smile on his lips and a dark look in his eyes, as he had caged you in, hands on each side of your head. That was the evening you had given him the scar on his cheek - usually you only used your pocket knife to open up letters or packages, so you weren’t a great fighter. But the blade had connected with his skin; there had been blood, a grunt - and you had escaped his attempt at kissing you… or worse.

You had bolted into the pub again in pure panic, steering directly to the back, with the plan of disappearing out into the dark fields — but Lewis, the owner, had helped you hide in the little secret cellar beneath the wooden floors, surrounded by beer and wine. You had slept in one of the upstairs rooms of the pub that night, Lewis and his wife not letting you go home.

You had been sure Graves would take revenge, so you laid low for a couple of days, Mary demanding you stay at home.

It turned out to be much worse, however.

If he had been interested in you before, he was in love with you after the incident. That had been when you, despite your unending love for Millhaven, had considered moving away for the first time.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

Money was the issue - wasn’t it always? You kept saving every pound you could, while still trying to live a normal life. Your dad hadn’t left you much besides the house and its contents. It was big, too big for you really. Half of it had been a garage for as long as you could remember, your father the town’s mechanic. You used to help him here and there, but car engines were never your thing - they never spoke to you like they spoke to him.

When he got worse, he sold off most of the things to pay for the last of the mortgage, so you wouldn’t have to worry about it.

You begged him not to get rid of his favorite vintage car - promising him that you would get it fixed up and take a drive in it, even if both of you knew that probably wouldn’t happen. So far, it hadn’t happened, you had taken a look or two, but not done anything about it.

No, the grey Aston Martin DB4 still stood in the back of the big garage and workshop, beneath its cover and some blankets. Like a ghoul from the past, haunting you in your own home, with memories of him. Thus, moving would mean having to deal with your dad’s car, so the mere idea felt like pulling out teeth. Like you would finally have to accept and deal with the fact that he was dead.

However, the idea of Graves’ patience slipping up, growing tired of waiting for consent from you, scared you too. Maybe more. You weren’t sure.

If he wasn’t there, if he and his Shadows hadn’t been controlling Millhaven, you might have stayed without too many issues. Despite only being twentytwo, you had a big house and no debt. It was a privilege in all other aspects. You could get an education, move to a bigger city, where you could blend into the crowd. Maybe not hide your true self.

“You okay, Sunflower?”

Mary, your lovely beta boss, asked you gently, pulling you from your thoughts, making you smile as she turned the little sign at the glass front door, to show that the place was closed for today.

Your nickname was just your name at this point. It had followed you for so many years that you weren’t sure you would even react to your actual name. As a kid, you had been obsessed with sunflowers - they were on your dresses, your shirts, your tights. Hell, your dad got you a necklace with a small sunflower on it that still rested against your skin beneath your shirt.

Sunflower. Sunny. Sunshine. Sun. The variations had been endless and with the town being relatively small, it had become well known that you were Sunflower. It wasn’t that unusual to have a nickname here after all. There were people in Millhaven, whose actual names you didn’t even know.

“Yes,” you replied quickly, slightly ashamed of having been caught standing behind the counter, all lost in your thoughts, “don’t worry about me.”

Mary, sweet Mary - she was another reason you felt bad about considering moving. She worried about you but you wanted to shield her. You didn’t want her to ask further questions, to ask anymore in general. You didn’t want her to worry about your frustrations, fears and the dilemmas that seemed to grow bigger everyday - so that she wouldn’t realise why there was a stun gun next to a pocketknife in your jacket, despite it being illegal to own said stun gun.

You didn’t really fear getting caught with it, as it wasn’t like the police would come out here to check. They hadn’t been out here for years, if you remembered correctly. The nearest bobbies in other villages were over an hour away and they tended to stay out of Millhaven. You supposed the bribes from the Shadows were worth it.

“The Graves fella still bothering you?”

Both of you knew that he did. He had for two years. He wouldn’t stop out of the blue, it would probably take a miracle. Or for him to find somebody else - and you almost didn’t want that for anyone. For a moment, the sympathy in her eyes reminded you of your mom. Mary had stepped into an almost motherly role for you in the last years, especially after your dad passed away.

Her long curly hair was braided this Monday, presumably by her sister, who had visited over the weekend - you had taken an extra shift alone to make sure they could spend time together. She was beautiful. A mother you wished would live forever. A part of you, your inner child perhaps, wanted to hug her and ask her to help you hide from the world.

“Hopefully he grows bored of me soon,” you replied instead, giving her a crooked smile, “I’m just tired of repeating myself every time I see him and his bloody bike.”

It wasn’t really a lie to say so, but you knew he wouldn’t stop any time soon. You being tired of him was just the truth.

Mary laughed as she disappeared into the back, reappearing a short moment later, the leftovers of a cake and scones in a small bag.

“Here - now let me walk you home, lass,” the loving tone had worry dripping into it, but it was a usual offer by now, “So I know you get home safely.”

It was a recurring discussion these days.

“Absolutely not,” you answered in a teasing tone as always, not wanting her to walk longer than she needed to - or see how unorganised you lived, “I can walk home myself. Graves can’t take that from me - but I’ll text you once I get home, yeah? Like yesterday?”

Mary let out a hum, not looking too happy, but the beta agreed again today. Besides, she had her own worries.

It wasn’t as if she was not affected by the Shadows’ presence in Millhaven - she had been, ever since they turned up. Paying them money so that they would leave her little cafe alone, promising to keep it safe, even if everything that happened in Millhaven was connected to them.

Both of you seriously doubted their safekeeping abilities but saying no wasn’t an option. It wasn’t really an offer.

A part of you wondered, if Mary knew you were lying all the time in general; if she knew you covered yourself in scent blocker and fake pheromones every day, to stay under the radar. To have a normal life. If your father ever told her. In case he had, she followed your own choice and didn’t talk about it.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

Millhaven was getting ready for the evening, cars flashing by as people either went home, towards one of the two local grocery stores to collect food for dinner - or, to the pub, to get the day discussed and listen in on the gossip.

You passed the pharmacy. The queue was always long once or twice a week, as people stocked up on scent blockers, heat blockers and scent patches for themselves, or whatever cough medicine they needed for their kids, who had once again gotten sick.

You always walked home at the same time, near five PM. Every time you would wave at at least three locals and send a glare to at least two of the Shadows, who tended to hide around the town, silently watching people pass by from the alleyways.

It was a familiar scene, even if it still made you uncomfortable. Mrs. Henley’s bastard of a dog howled at you through the rose bushes and thin fence as always. The teenager next door would yell for it to shut up, while he attempted to hide the fact that he was secretly smoking cigarettes out his bedroom window. As if the entire neighbourhood, hell, probably the entire town, didn’t know he smoked. There lay a safety in it, passing him, knowing you were almost home.

You had quit smoking yourself after your dad had passed away, but every time you walked past the teenager, you wanted a cigarette so badly that it almost hurt. You wanted to have something to do, something to forget yourself in.

Turning to the right a moment later, your house was visible at the end of the road - standing out with its size and the blue color it had been all of your life - as well as the barely covered sign with your dad’s name on. You really should get it taken down, since he had been dead for four years now, but there were so many things you should probably get rid off.

Normally, the sight of your house was a relief - because usually the driveway was empty. There wasn’t supposed to be a motorbike, painted with the colors of the American flag, standing in it, with an annoying alpha leaning against it. You almost wanted to turn around and go back to Mary, but Graves had already spotted you, making your lips purse with annoyance at the sight of his stupid grin.

”Sunny Bunny,” he crooned darkly, as you got close and you stuck your free hand into the pocket of your jacket, grabbing onto the stun gun right next to the pocket knife. Perhaps a zap from the stun gun would make him get a hint, though you doubted he would be happy about it.

You hated that he knew your nickname, hated him even more when he called you Sunny Bunny. It wasn’t as if the nickname was a secret at all, the entire town called you variations of Sunflower, but you wanted it to be a secret from him and his stupid group.

”What do you want?” You asked as you got closer, not even attempting to be polite; right now you weren’t at work, so you didn’t have to behave like you did in the cafe. Instead you tipped your chin up, puffed your chest up a little, giving him a hard stare, as an alpha would do. You were tired, slightly cold and he was blocking your path to the front door with himself and that stupid bike. If you weren’t scared of the consequences, you would be cutting up those tires on a regular basis.

“Was wondering if a pretty alpha like you would go to the pub with me, yeah?” He asked, tipping his own chin up a little, grinning like a teenage boy feeling confident, “have a couple of beers - or whatever fancy drink you want.”

Every time he asked, he got a no. If he hadn’t been the leader of a biker gang, you might have slapped him. The urge to do so grew inside you every time he asked you out.

”I’m busy tonight, sorry.” You didn’t even attempt to sound apologetic.

”Funny,” The alpha mused as he leant against the bike a little more, tipping up his own chin up, clearly not intimidated or pleased with your reply, “you were busy the other night too - kinda odd, isn’t it?”

“Quite unlucky for you to choose the days I’m busy,” you answered dryly, “now if you would excuse me—“

Your grip on the stun gun tightened a little, but you managed to walk around the bike, avoiding his arm shooting out in an attempt to catch your arm — before he spoke once more.

”The cafe is goin’ great, isn’t it?” Graves had asked almost casually and it was as if the wind suddenly quieted down, in order to listen along. You looked over your shoulder to look at the pale alpha, who somehow seemed like he had flipped some sort of switch, suddenly looking much more dangerous than before. He let out a deep rumble from his chest, a sign that he was pleased with your uneasy reaction.

He wanted you to become upset. One alpha almost daring the other, to see what you would do; if you would attempt to challenge him, giving him an excuse to go at you, to sink his teeth into your skin —

“It’s going alright,” you finally answered, keeping your voice steady, having chosen each of the words carefully, so as to not give him an excuse. Keeping the anger inside.

”Oh, wonderful,” he rumbled, a pursed expression on his face, before he smiled again, “Would be a shame if the price for your lil boss lady’s protection fees would rise, wouldn’t it?”

”I - what?” The words weren’t smooth or confident now. The idea of him threatening Mary because of you seemed insane.

You wanted to growl at him; to put him in his place, to protect Mary - jump across that stupid bike of his, hopefully making it tip over, while you tased or stabbed him with your knife. Ice and flames were rushing through your veins at the same time, prickling at your skin from the inside out like needles, mixing together fear and anger. He had harassed you for two years more or less, but he had never dragged Mary or the cafe into it.

“Think about it when I ask next time,” he replied, face turning back into the boyish grin from before, his American accent seeping into his words, “‘right sugar?”

”She got nothing to do with this, Graves.”

He didn’t reply - instead he got up on his bike, kicking on the engine with a sharp, confident thrust, the bike waking with a roar of a beast - looking at you once more, only to wink at you.

He disappeared down the small road like a demonic predator rushing away, knowing he would get his prey the next time. Your grip on the little bag with leftovers tightened a little, the paper bag crinkling beneath your fingers. You wanted to use your claws for the first time in quite a while, even if they were dull.

Instead you turned around, calmly walking to your door, opening it and locking it again afterwards. You left the bag with leftover cake on the kitchen counter, texting Mary that you were home safely, not looking up as you walked to the bathroom.

As soon as you got on your knees, you vomited from fear.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

A couple of hours later, you laid in your bed, watching the ceiling of the bedroom you had slept in ever since your childhood. Despite your parents’ old room and bed being bigger, you couldn’t get yourself to sleep in it permanently. You couldn’t make yourself get rid of the bed either — the mere idea of doing so felt wrong.

It was like you clung to the memories of him, of the both of them, with the claws you cut regularly and with the retractable omegan fangs that you had filed down a bit to better hide.

It was the memories of how you would go to your parents, the later years only your father, if you had a nightmare or were anxious over something. Even the year he died, you slept next to him a lot — sometimes he would come for you, asking if you wanted to sleep next to him.

Perhaps it was the scent of each other that had helped the other feel safe enough to sleep. Knowing that the other was always there. That your father always did what he could for you, even in his last days. During his last days, when he was slowly dying, you slept next to him, holding his hand. You knew he feared death; he had told you so one late night, confessing how it scared him, how the unknown would be — how leaving you frightened him.

Fearing what would happen to you, when he wasn’t there any longer and whether you would be able to continue the concealment of your secondary gender.

Now the idea of sleeping in his bed every day felt wrong. It wasn’t your nest, it was your mother’s and father’s. The past two years, you had perhaps slept in it five times in total - you never found the same safety without one of them snoring next to you. Their scent wasn’t as strong anymore. It never felt like when you were a kid and slept in between them sometimes, when they kept you safe until morning. No. It didn’t feel right any longer.

Usually Millhaven would be relatively quiet during the night and you never had to look up at the ceiling for long, before you would fall asleep. Sure, there would be the occasional car passing by, the laughter from people walking home from the pub and as you grew older, you had gotten used to the sound of the motorbikes revving as well. It rarely continued past 11 PM.

Tonight was different.

As the hours passed, the sounds got worse, keeping you awake - as they kept on going, you became too afraid to look out the window. There were so many unusual sounds too. You were too afraid to call the police - nobody would, that was just how Millhaven was by now.

This night was filled with the sounds of motorbikes loudly roaring through the town, much louder than usual - for many of them, as time passed; then the sounds of gunshots had begun to echo throughout the streets. The shots and the screaming almost got swallowed up by the furious howling of the engines.

It was like a concoction of horrifying sounds; people screaming, things breaking, shots being fired, blending together like the soundtrack of a movie you didn’t want to watch. Even without the visuals, you wanted to scream and cry, wanted to hide from the world, just like when you were a child.

It only took an hour before you crawled to your parents’ old bedroom, keeping low and away from the windows, before disappearing beneath the slightly dusty sheets; curled together, trying to submerge yourself in the old, disappearing scent of your alpha father.

The ground beneath Millhaven was shaking with fear, almost as if it was threatening to break beneath its inhabitants and swallow up the place you called home.

Mary texted you not too long after the noises began, asking if you were safe. She confirmed two minutes later that she was safe as well, but that she was pretty sure one of the big windows in the cafe had been shattered.

You breathed in dust and fear, laying there, watching the picture of your parents and you on the wall, slightly concealed by the darkness, trying not to imagine what was happening outside. There was a morbid curiosity inside of you to know what was happening, if anybody was dying, yet an overwhelming panic overtook your body at the same time. Nobody would come out here, nobody would call the police, because it would be no good.

The nausea was back, especially at the silence that followed, as if the town had suddenly been abandoned.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

Mary told you not to come in the next morning. Yet despite the day suddenly being free, you got up and got ready as usual. You had fallen asleep at some point after the silence began, but you weren’t sure when.

Taking a bath, using scent blockers and patches, before your regular perfume.

You felt slightly like a prey animal, not like a strong alpha, checking out your windows to make sure the coast was clear, before opening your door slowly. Peeping out, taking in the street… everything looked as it used to, as far as you spotted. Yet you had a feeling that nothing was the same.

It was slightly cold outside, the thin fog slowly going away.

It wasn’t until you got down to the end of your road, almost at the bigger road, that you saw something out of place.

Glass was scattered around a car, with the owner, Alfred, a middle aged beta man, looking at it with an exhausted look on his face. You saw the broken window as well as the bullet holes in the door, making you swallow before you walked up to it.

Carefully, you put your hand on his shoulder, giving it a pat. He sent you a look and a smile.

”At least it was the car and not the house,” he muttered, trying to sound a little happy, “ The missus isn’t happy though. Neither is the husband.”

You put both your hands in your pockets, curling them into fists for a moment. Feeling your blunt claws press against your palms. The two of you stood there for a few moments in silence.

”Do you know what happened last night?” You finally asked, hoping that he could give you some sort of answer - but he merely shook his head while shrugging. As unaware as you, it seemed.

It wasn’t like you didn’t have an idea. The sounds during the night and the bullet holes in his car door spoke for themselves.

After a short goodbye, you continued your trip towards the cafe, glancing at the proof of chaos that was scattered here and there. Bullet casings. Tiremarks on the road. Broken windows - a couple of knocked over trash cans that one of the home owners was angrily cleaning up.

An abandoned motorbike leaning against a house.

Mrs. Henley’s dog barked at you - but the barks seemed more hollow than usual, tired. The chain smoking teenager wasn’t yelling. The window was shut, for the first time in a while.

In the alleyway between the tiny bookshop and one of the grocery stores, where a shadow usually hid, another bike lay abandoned. Tipped over, glass scattered, gasoline seeping onto the asphalt. Due to the logo on it, you figured it was another one belonging to the shadows.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

Mary huffed in annoyance as you turned up at the cafe, frowning so hard that she looked much older for a moment. She let out a little growl, with no actual heat in it, unlocking the door to the cafe, making you walk through that, despite the window on the left side being gone, more or less leaving the cafe without half a façade.

“Are you unable to read your texts anymore, young lady?” The beta asked as you took the broom from her hands and started sweeping the broken glass together. Just like her growl, there was no heat behind her words, despite her attempt at being stern.

“I can,” you answered, with a smile on your face, “but I’m not gonna let you clean this mess up alone - what kind of employee would I be?”

It was also your way of checking up on her. See how rattled she was. Besides, you suspected she didn’t mind the company, especially as the cafe would be closed for today.

“A bloody normal one, who stays at home when she gets time off,” Mary defended, crossing her arms for a minute. Sleep always tended to make her more easily annoyed with the world than usual, “besides, I’ve already called Harold to come fix it. He will have to put up wood first though, until he gets the glass.”

“Then we go get a pint afterwards,” you offered, “I’ll pay.”

“Drinking on the job?” Mary made a teasing tsk-tsk sound at you, though there was a smile growing on her lips, before she admitted a moment later, “I honestly need that after tonight.”

“It went on for long,” you agreed and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of you filling up the dustpan with glass. As if the two of you were too afraid to acknowledge what might have happened.

“Too long.”

You didn’t reply to Mary’s observation, merely nodding. Her scent had a worried tinge to it.

Whatever had been going on during the night had scared her. Both of you, undoubtedly all of town as well. The worst thing? Somehow you had seen none of the Shadows yet. You had never thought that the sudden lack of the group would make you uncomfortable.

It hadn’t been the police last night - because then there would be bobbies filling the town, but none were here, the streets empty and quiet.

You swept up the massive pieces of glass and vacuumed the smaller ones afterwards, while Mary went to the local charity shop a couple of houses over, where they were patching two bullet holes in the wooden door. She came back not too long after, having bought a painting to hide the bullet hole in the wall on the other side of the window.

A couple of hours later, the window had been temporarily fixed with a big wooden board and a weird abstract painting of flowers that didn’t quite fit into the vibe of the cafe, hanging on the wall.

“Temporary as well,” Mary declared at the painting, before packing away the hammer and nails.

Gods, you really needed a drink.

☀️🌤️⛅️🌥️☁️

The two of you were far from the only people who had needed a drink or two. There was noise in the pub, but a different kind of noise than the one that had filled the town during the night. It was filled to the brim, you and Mary able to get a table for two, only by pure luck.

Sure, the atmosphere was still a little tense, but it felt much less dangerous. There were experiences to share, pictures to be shown on phones, beers to drink and attempts at comforting each other in your small community to be made. All of you quite confused over the lack of any leather vests or jackets with the familiar logo on. You saw several of your friends, who looked just as worried.

Yesterday one of the usuals had left his car at the pub’s parking lot to walk home. When he had returned this morning, it had been hit by something, most likely one of the big bikes. The fella had been so caught off guard by the sight of the dent, which was so deep that it hurt to look at - and he had just gone inside the pub again, continuing the drinking from the day before.

One of the couples living in the other end of the town, had a giant hole in their hedge, with one of the motorbikes laying abandoned on their lawn, having ripped up some of the flowerbeds as well.

The couple seemed most upset about the fact that their dog had pissed on it - afraid that whichever one of the Shadows owned it, would be upset.

The tiremarks would probably stay on the roads for a while. The blood splatters and dried up pools of it would disappear when the rain came, so none of you seemed to acknowledge it, nor the few teeth that had been found scattered across the town. The bullet cases could be picked up, thrown out.

So far, the only positive thing about all of this, seemed to be that Harold, the local handyman, suddenly had a bunch of things to do together with his apprentice, Jenny, a teenager who seemed happy to fully learn how to fix broken windows - there were enough of them across town to get good at it, you supposed.

The beer was good, however. Calmed the worst of your nerves - Mary seemed more relaxed now as well, chattering with you and one of her neighbours the next table over, about new recipes.

You had nursed half of your pint for a little while now though and it was getting warmer - making you consider just drinking the rest in one go and ordering a new one. Perhaps getting drunk tonight would be alright - just to forget for a little while, pretend that everything was fine.

However, the moment you lifted the glass to down the rest of the beer, everything changed in a matter of seconds, as noise started down street. It only took the vague sound for the safe and almost cozy atmosphere of the pub to change, as if the air was sucked from everybody’s lungs - nobody wanted to believe what they heard.

A stench of scared scents spread from table to table, people unable to help themselves, omegas, betas and alphas alike. Making the pub stink of fear and worry, of anger and resentment. Were they back? You carefully put the glass down again, listening more closely.

Engines.

Every single one of the folks currently inside of the pub knew the familiar yet hated sound of motorbike engines, currently coming closer.

Perhaps it had been naive of you to hope that everything was done - that the gang would disappear one day to another and that Millhaven would return to itself. Motorbike-free and peaceful. That there would no longer be feral alphas and betas roaming the streets, loyal to the symbol on their patches, on their vests, their jackets - to their club.

The entire pub had gone so quiet it almost hurt, most people frozen in fear, breathing deemed too loud - some dared to look out the windows or towards the door, though most looked at each other or their drinks. The air felt heavy, tense with the many scents of people in panic - yet nobody ran from the pub or disappeared upstairs. Everyone stayed, knowing they would have to know what was going to happen to Millhaven.

It was the owner, Alice, who was the first to break the silence, muttering out a “bloody hell.”

You silently agreed; a part of you wanted to hide out in the back, crawl beneath the floorboards once more, fearing that the Shadows would step into the pub, heads high after having won whatever had happened last night — that Graves would appear, that his gaze would land upon you.

It was one of the ladies by the windows, the wife of the book store owner if you were right, who uttered the second word to break the silence. The “fuck” echoed throughout the building, sending shivers through everyone.

Like sheep, caught in a pen, you all waited to see whether it was protectors or predators who were going to enter your safe space. If all of your blood would spill on the wooden floors, sticky with spilled beer or if you would be able to go home and sleep peacefully.

Lights flashed by the windows, motorbikes slowing down out front - followed by laughter in the parking lot. The engines died down one after one, like predators all quieting down in order to better watch their prey, before attacking.

The lack of the rumbling from their engines, meaning they were right outside and about to step in made you nauseous - Graves would walk in an—

Despite the familiarity of leather clothes, it wasn’t a recognisable face who stepped inside the pub. Or well, a recognisable figure, at first, as you couldn’t even see his face, hidden by a balaclava with a skull design on. He was big; tall enough that he had to bend his neck to step through the door, shoulders broad, arms thick. Clad in leather, with silver studs and buckles on, his helmet under one arm. There was no fear in his eyes as he looked around the pub, taking in the residents of Millhaven. The pub was filled with the scent of worry, but the big man didn’t seem bothered.

For a mere moment, you wondered if this was what Death would look like, when he would come to collect and bring you to your parents; not with a scythe or a cloak, but with a leather jacket and a helmet for you to wear, while he drove the motorbike into the afterlife with you.

Was he the leader of the people who had just arrived?

However, he held the door open, uttering a gruff sounding “evenin” into the pub, as if to be polite for a moment. He looked like he could break a neck with one arm, or curl your ribs into your lungs with only his fingers - snap a bone with a kick. A mere moment later, it was clear to everyone in the pub that this guy wasn’t the leader - any doubt left you, as another man entered through the door.

You instantly knew he was the leader from the mere way he carried himself, the energy that seemed to drip from him, his scent of power rushing through the pub like a tidal wave; how he knew he owned the room he stepped into, when he confidently walked directly towards the bar. Followed by several people, leather clad like himself.

Like beasts, having escaped the nightmares and darkness underneath one’s bed, stepping into reality, into light and sight. Letting themselves be seen.

The leader took a deep drag of his cigar, not looking bothered at all, as the smoke left his nostrils a moment later. You were reminded of the terrifying dragons in the fairytales that your parents used to read to you as a child. This one had no scales or wings, but he was a dragon to you no less. Ready to strike and take gold and silver, to create a hoard inside Millhaven. Only a pack this big, filled with monsters, would follow a dragon.

There was no reason for him to tap on a glass, or whistle; everyone’s attention was already on him.

He was broad and though he was not as tall as the skull-wearing monster next to him, he would no doubt tower over you as well. Leather clad from head to toe, jacket adorned with studs and chains, leather pants and a pair of big, heavy-looking leather boots. However, one of the more prominent things about the alpha, besides the leather clothes and intimidating stature, was perhaps the unusual, but nicely kept, beard. It almost looked like mutton chops. His hair was a dark brown, slicked back- there were earrings in his ears and thick rings on his fingers.

Though there seemed to be a hint of amusement on the alpha’s face, his eyes seemed sharp, studying the people in the pub.

“Friends!,” he called out and you immediately pushed yourself a little closer to Mary, even if it wasn’t very alpha-like. His voice was loud and strong, so everyone could hear him, “My name is John Price. I’m sure most of you heard the noises last night. My men and I apologise for those, I can assure you that it won’t happen again. As you might have noticed within these last couple of years, this town has been operated and ‘protected’ by The Shadows. As of today, this is no longer the case.”

As of today, this is no longer the case.

The words echoed through your head, repeating themselves over and over again. Did this mean Graves was gone?

There was a slowly growing buzz of noise, from the whispers and sounds leaving people and you felt Mary shake a little as she took a hold of your hand. It almost felt cold. As if the two of you weren’t really sure what to think yet, whether to scream of delight, or horror that the words instilled in you.

“Millhaven is now protected by my group, Team 1-4-1. There will be changes around here, all for the better, I assure you. As long as everyone behaves, I’m sure we will all get along just fine.”

You couldn’t look away from him, even as the words sent painful stabs of fear through your body; like small knives, pushing into your back and breaking your spine. It would all start over - your town would never be free, like it was when you were a kid. The streets you had grown up in would never be peaceful in the same way, your future would be limited by a group that none of you had agreed to accept. Mary was still shaking and you wondered what this would mean for her, for her shop.

Your only hope was that no one in this one-four-one would notice you.

A small part of you was relieved that your father wasn’t alive to see this. He would not have liked it either.

They kept speaking, the leader - John Price or something - declared free drinks for the rest of the evening, but you could barely hear them or focus on them.

When Mary squeezed your hand, it took a couple of seconds before you reacted. You had been staring into nothing, nausea in your throat, as horrifying thoughts crawled along your skull and invaded your mind. What happened to the shadows? Did you even want to know?

“I would like to go home,” you whispered to your boss, who gave your hand another short squeeze.

“In a few moments,” she agreed, “then we'll sneak out the back. Though these can hardly be worse than the shadows.”

A part of you wanted to point out to the older lady that these people had most likely killed the Shadows, one after another, not just politely asked them to leave. But you were afraid that vomit would spill from your lips afterwards.

Perhaps, this was the sign you had been waiting for - that you should move away and start somewhere new.

next chapter ->

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therobotmonster · 4 months ago

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What does the Comic tell us About the Brute Force Toyline that Never Was?

Brute Force was Marvel's failed attempt at joining in the toy-cartoon-comic fun back in 1990.

What isn't often talked about (if ever) is how much effort Jose Delbo (and whoever else was doing character design work in pre-production) put into planning for the realities of toy design, because it's not hard to suss out what was intended from the art alone.

Parts Reuse Was Planned From the Start:

The metal production molds are the most expensive part of toy production, so any time you can reuse parts across multiple figures is a savings. Each side has two unique members (Hip-Hop and Lionheart for Brute Force, Armory and Ramrod for Heavy Metal) three that share obvious parts with an opposing figure.

Uproar and Wreckless appear to use the same upper arms, upper legs, pelvis and probably chest. Uproar's bullets were likely planned as an accessory.

Surfstreak and Bloodbath appear to just have different heads, maybe tails, and either different accessories and limbs or just different accessories depending on execution.

Soar/Slipstream and Tailgunner appear to have unique add-on armor for the wings, heads, and legs. The wings might also been different, but I'd guess that when time came to mold plastic they'd have used the same ones.

Size Classes are Easy to Guess:

The "charge into battle" shot gives you every indication of what size everyone was going to be sold at. My guess, based on the art and the action features later shown off, is it would break down like this:

Small - Soar, Surfstream, Bloodbath, Tailgunner

Medium - Lionheart, HIp-Hop, Ramrod, Uproar.

Large - Wreckless, Armory, the toxic mutant (if they planned on making the off-theme guys)

Super Large - Heroic and Evil Transports

It's harder to place Heavy Metal since they don't seem to have add-on vehicles, but the art represents Armory as being huge and a major threat...

And uproar seems to have mass equal to Lionheart on his cycle, though he might have been packed in with the villain's large transport or had another add-on vehicle planned later.

It's likely that the vehicle-attached figures would have gotten solo releases, likely with different decos. As was the style at the time.

They Planned for Action Features, and I think I know what they were.

Furman and Delbo knew how to make a toy-comic, and everyone gets to show off their action feature in a toy-comic. Brute Force leaves some solid clues for what those features would have been. Now, there would probably have been launchers (Wreckless's Bearzooka), water-shooters (Surfstream almost certainly had one), etc, but I'm talking more about the showcase feature.

Surfstream and Bloodbath Were Low-Effort Transformers-

-or else they were biting MOTU Dragstor's style. Surfstream and Bloodbath clearly had both swimming/rolling configurations and upright figure configurations.

Soar (and likely Tailgunner) Had Blast-Away Armor

You don't do this trick twice in 4 issues if it's not your gimmick.

Wreckless and Uproar loved Hugs

My guess is there was at least some thought put into the possibility of Wreckless and Uproar having a "bear hug" feature that could work as general limb-swinging and chest pounding. In addition to the grabs Wreckless does a lot of right hooks and, oddly Uproar mainly fights with his mace for a character with bullet bandoleers. This one's harder to nail down because the actions are very obvious for bear/ape characters, but either a weapon-swing or a grab/bear hug seems really likely.

Wreckless's gun is the kind that you could mount on a figure's shoulder without them needing to hold it in-hand, so the arms might have been free for the action feature if my guess is right.

This Octopus Bastard Spins

You can't tell me Armory doesn't spin. perfectly radially symmetrical middle section designed in such a way the central body could spin while the legs and head stay stationary. arms that grip weapons or other figures, he's huge and clearly meant to be Heavy Metal's mega-weapon. He spins.

Hop-To Heroes

Now, if there's one thing the Brute Force characters do, it's leap. But the characters with the larger lock-on vehicle armor all leap out of the vehicle to attack a foe at least once.

I have to wonder if the vehicle figures were intended to be ejected from the vehicle as a leaping attack. (this would seem thematically in line with the armor-shed gimmick from Soar) This would be in addition to some general reconfiguration between low-riding "speed" modes and upright battle modes.

Ramrod would have had a headbutt gimmick.

It's literally all he does in the comic. I don't think he even has a gun.

Conclusions

Brute Force was intended into be a not just an action figure line, but a feature-heavy character driven line. The play patterns imagined were ambitious. I see Starriors, Transformers and Centurions DNA in there, and it would have been a lot more fun than Captain Planet for an eco-themed franchise.

The Marvel crew clearly learned a lot from the toy industry from working with Hasbro, Kenner, Mattel, Mego and numerous others through the years, and it shows. This concept started with toy ideas, it's just a pity no one was incentivized to make them.

#Brute Force #marvel comics #heavy metal #talking animals #adverttoons #toyetic #toy design #character design #1990s #80s nostalgia #90s nostalgia #deadpool

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pandapetals · 6 months ago

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The Edge of Safety

Living in Lowtown meant crime happened all the time. After your sister gets taken, you turn to Patch for help to find her.

patch/logan howlett x fem!reader - takes place in madripoor, no y/n used, no reader description but reader does have a sister named emily, violence, blood, death, killing, very action packed, some sexual tension, patch is an asshole, angst, reader is a lowkey badass, kid and sweetheart nickname used

a/n: okay this one is an essay of an author’s note but listen….I honestly haven’t stopped thinking about Patch since deadpool and wolverine soooo I did some research on Patch’s character, read some comics and googled it. Then like a vision this idea came to me so i was like okay gonna write it after i finish other stuff but nope, ended up writing nonstop so. Not complaining (okay maybe my fingers are) but yeah, hopefully this is accurate. i did take some creative liberties because patch is still logan just in a “disguise”---if you can call an eye patch a disguise. lol

word count: 21k

divider credit: @enchanthings

The acrid stench of sweat and cheap cologne filled the cramped convenience store, mingling with the faint buzz of flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you gripped your sister’s hand, pulling her close. The rough concrete floor felt cold even through your shoes, grounding you in the grim reality of the moment.

Lowtown was no stranger to crime—muggings, drug deals, the occasional gang scuffle—but you’d always managed to keep your head down and avoid it until now.

“Don’t make me ask again!” The man’s voice was rough, edged with a brittle desperation that set your nerves on edge. His eyes darted around the room, wild and unfocused, like he was looking for an excuse to pull the trigger. The barrel of his gun swung in a lazy arc, cutting through the air as he fixed his gaze on the store owner. With a sneer, he herded everyone to the front of the store, shoving people together like cattle pressed up against the cold metal shelves.

His eyes fell on you and your sister, and something dark flickered in his expression—a hint of menace that made your stomach drop. You tightened your grip on her hand, feeling the tremor in her fingers as she clung to you. Her wide, fearful eyes darted around the store, seeking a way out, but there was none.

The store owner, a grizzled man with leathery skin and a face set in a permanent scowl, barely blinked. He watched the gunman with an almost bored expression like he’d seen this kind of thing too many times to muster any real fear. The gunman’s jaw clenched his impatience mounting. “You heard me,” he barked, voice cracking as he waved the gun in your direction as if you were somehow responsible for the old man’s slow compliance. He stabbed the air with the muzzle, the barrel now pointed squarely at your chest. “Open the register, or I swear I’ll blow her head off!”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs. The gun was only inches away, the metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. You could feel your sister shaking beside you, her small fingers squeezing yours so tight it was almost painful.

You took a step back, instinctively trying to shield her with your body, but the movement only drew the gunman’s attention. His eyes narrowed, zeroing in on you, a twisted grin stretching across his lips.

“I said, hurry up!” The man’s voice was splintered, the wild edge creeping further in. There was something unhinged in his eyes—a flicker of mania that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a man looking for a quick score. This was a man on the verge of losing control, and you were all trapped in his orbit.

The store owner finally sighed, his shoulders slumping as if he was annoyed. He shuffled over to the register, his gnarled fingers moving with an infuriating slowness as he popped it open. The old, rusted drawer creaked, and he began peeling off crumpled bills one by one, as though he had all the time in the world.

A low growl escaped the gunman’s throat, his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Faster, old man—”

Suddenly, the air exploded with movement. The gunman lurched forward, his arm swinging as he reached for your sister, his fingers digging into her arm with a brutal yank that tore her from your side. The world seemed to splinter at that moment, her terrified scream slicing through the heavy silence like a knife. Time slowed, the sounds around you muffled as adrenaline flooded your veins.

Without thinking, you lunged after her, instincts overtaking reason. You swung wildly, aiming for anything you could reach—a fist, an arm, something to get him off her. But he was faster, or maybe just more desperate, and in one fluid motion, he spun around and cracked the butt of the gun against your head.

Pain flared, white-hot and blinding, and the world tilted. Your vision blurred, your knees buckling as darkness closed in at the edges of your sight. The last thing you heard before everything went black was your sister’s panicked cries, growing fainter, slipping away into the shadows as you fell into oblivion.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You awoke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of medical equipment. Your head throbbed like someone was pounding nails into your skull. The sterile white of the hospital room pressed in on you from all sides. Panic spiked through your veins as the memories rushed back—the robber with greasy hair, the gun, your sister’s terrified face.

“She’s gone!” The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. You struggled to sit up, but a firm hand pushed you back down.

“Easy now, hon,” a nurse said, her voice soothing but firm. She was a broad-shouldered woman with lines etched deep around her eyes. “You’re safe. Just breathe, okay? You're in the hospital. You took a nasty blow.”

“My sister—” You fought against the dizziness threatening to drag you under again. “Where is she? Did they find her?”

The nurse’s expression tightened, sympathy clouding her eyes as she glanced away, studying the dull linoleum as if it held an answer. “No one knows where she is yet, sweetheart. The police are looking.”

You shook your head, frustration tightening in your chest. “The police won’t help,” you spat, your voice cracking. “This town is rotten—crime’s everywhere, and the cops don’t do a damn thing.”

“I know,” the nurse began, her voice gentle but uncertain, “but—”

“No, you don’t understand!” The words erupted from you, raw and desperate. Your throat burned with the effort to keep from breaking down. “I have to find her. She’s all I have left. My only family.” The last words came out like a plea.

The nurse hesitated before her eyes softened. She leaned in closer, her tone shifting, becoming almost conspiratorial. “Listen,” she whispered, her gaze flicking to the doorway and back again, “there’s someone who might be able to help you.” Her voice dipped lower, barely audible over the hum of the machines.

You blinked, struggling to steady your breath. “Who?” you managed, your voice thin and rough.

“A man they call Patch,” she said as if the name itself carried weight. It slipped from her lips like a secret traded in the dark. “He’s... not with the police. More of a vigilante, some say. Others call him a mercenary. Word is, he deals with the kind of trouble that the law won’t touch. The kind that hides in the shadows.” She glanced at the door again, then took a step back, as if wary of saying too much. “If you’re serious about finding your sister, he might be your best shot.”

The name hung in the air between you, heavy with promise and risk. A flicker of hope sparked, but doubt quickly smothered it. Who was this Patch? And would he care about some girl from Lowtown?

You pushed the thought aside. You couldn’t afford to be picky. “Where can I find him?” you asked, forcing the words past the knot in your throat.

The nurse’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “It won’t be easy,” she warned, her gaze steady. “Patch isn’t exactly the friendly type. He’s got a reputation for being... rough around the edges. Dangerous, even.”

“I don’t care,” you said, your jaw setting with grim determination. “Just tell me where.”

She sighed, folding her arms across her chest as if trying to shield herself from the weight of what she was about to say. “He usually hangs out at a place called The Lucky Dragon,” she said. “It’s a casino in Hightown. You can’t miss it—big neon sign, a dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel. Classy place, for all the wrong reasons. Just…” Her voice softened, almost pleading. “Be careful. Hightown’s not like here. It’s meaner. More secrets. And Patch—well, if you get on his bad side, don’t expect him to show mercy.”

Her words settled over you, cold and unyielding. There was a flicker of a warning laced within them. The kind that whispered, if you were willing to walk through the fire, there was still a chance.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, though your voice shook a little. “I just need to find her.”

The nurse gave a slow nod as if deciding whether or not to believe you. “Then good luck, hon,” she murmured. “Oh, and—Patch isn’t in the habit of doing favors. You’d better be ready to give him a reason to care.”

You swallowed hard, pushing down the fear and doubt that threatened to surface. It didn’t matter. None of it did. There was only one thing you had to do now—find Patch, and hope that somewhere in that smoke-filled casino, amid the clatter of dice and the murmur of broken dreams, lay a path that would lead you back to your sister.

The image of your sister—small, terrified, yanked out of your reach—burned itself into your mind. It was like a fever that spread through your limbs, propelling you off the hospital bed. The dull throb in your skull was nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest, a void that swallowed every other sensation. You had to move. You had to do something.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

Outside, the city loomed like a beast under a blanket of murky night. Neon lights buzzed, reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement as if mocking your urgency. You stumbled into the street, your legs feeling weak. Everything seemed to cling to you, as you raised a hand to hail a cab.

The first few drove past without even slowing, and panic tightened its grip around your throat. Finally, one screeched to a halt, and you threw yourself into the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. His eyes widened a little when he took in your bruised face, blood-stained clothes, and the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist.

“The Lucky Dragon,” you said, voice hoarse. “In Hightown.”

The driver’s eyebrows lifted. “You sure, lady? That’s not exactly a place for—”

“Just go,” you snapped, too drained to care about his judgment. You slumped back in the seat, your hands balled into fists on your lap as the cab sped off, the engine’s low rumble vibrating through your bones. The city blurred past outside the window—crumbling brick, flickering signs, and the occasional flash of blue and red from a distant police cruiser. It was a cruel world you’d stepped back into, and every second that ticked by seemed to deepen the chasm between you and your sister.

As the cab climbed the steep hill toward Hightown, the landscape began to shift. The streets became wider, the grime less visible under the garish glow of high-rise billboards and polished storefronts. The Lucky Dragon stood near the end of the strip, towering above the other buildings like a gaudy temple. A giant neon dragon wrapped around a roulette wheel glared down at you, its ruby eyes glinting like a predator’s in the darkness.

You tossed a handful of crumpled bills at the driver and stepped out, feeling the weight of stares from passersby almost immediately. Your clothes were wrinkled from sweat with bits of dried blood splattered on them making you look completely out of place.

The cold air bit your cheeks, and you could feel the eyes crawling over you: casino patrons in tailored suits and glittering dresses, eyeing you with a mix of suspicion and contempt. A few whispered, nudging each other as you walked by. You kept your chin up, though it felt like every step was sinking you deeper into quicksand. You didn’t belong here, and everyone knew it.

The casino doors hissed open, releasing a wall of sound that crashed over you—laughter, the ringing of slot machines, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of conversations spoken in secret. The Lucky Dragon’s interior was drenched in crimson and gold, a haze of smoke curling beneath the chandeliers. You drifted in, feeling small beneath the vaulted ceiling, and glanced around, searching for a face that meant nothing to you. How were you even supposed to know who to look for? The nurse had given you a name, but nothing more—no description, no sign to point you in the right direction.

The poker tables caught your eye. Figures hunched over cards, some grinning like foxes, others steely-faced, staring down their opponents. Then you saw him. It was as if the world sharpened, everything else fading into the background.

He sat at the farthest table, a tall, brooding figure in a crisp white suit that made him stand out against the dark wood and dim lighting. His hair was dark, almost black styled into two high tufts. An eye patch covered his left eye, leaving the other to gleam with a harsh intensity as he studied his cards. There was a casual elegance in the way he leaned back in his chair, a hand resting on his chin, but the lines of his body spoke of coiled strength, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

You hesitated, your legs suddenly heavy as you took a step forward. What were you even going to say? You didn’t have a plan, just desperation driving you forward but the thought of your sister—lost, afraid—pushed you into motion. You could feel the weight of judgmental eyes again as you approached the table, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

“Are you Patch?” The question came out stronger than you’d expected, even though your heart hammered against your ribs.

The man didn’t look up right away. He flipped a card over with a lazy flick of his wrist, then let out a low, dismissive chuckle. “Depends on who’s asking.” His voice was deep, rough around the edges like gravel.

Finally, he raised his gaze to meet yours, and you felt the full force of that single, piercing eye lock onto you, taking you in from head to toe—the blood-stained clothes, the bruises, the desperation etched into every line of your face.

He arched a brow, an almost amused smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “You lost, sweetheart? 'Cause you sure as hell don’t look like you belong here.”

You swallowed hard, steeling yourself against the urge to wilt under that gaze. “I need your help,” you said, fighting to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Someone took my sister. I was told you’re the kind of guy who could help.”

His expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to shift, growing colder, and heavier. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flash in his eye—something dark and dangerous, like a knife unsheathed.

“Kid,” he said slowly, “do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

“I don’t care,” you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find my sister.”

Patch’s gaze held yours, unyielding, for what felt like an eternity. His single eye was cold, appraising—like he was stripping you down to the bones, searching for the truth behind your words. You could feel a bead of sweat forming on the back of your neck, your skin prickling under the weight of his silence. His stillness was unnerving, like the calm before a storm, and the longer he just sat there, the more your frustration flared.

Finally, you couldn’t take it. You shifted your weight and crossed your arms as if bracing yourself. “Look, mister,” you snapped, your voice cracking from the strain of holding back tears. “The police aren’t going to do shit. Lowtown’s a goddamn warzone, and you know it.” You took a step closer, your fingers tightening into fists at your sides. “While you sit here, lounging around in a fancy suit, playing cards, and sipping drinks, people like me are getting robbed, beaten, and killed.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in that eye—a spark, a shadow, gone too quickly to read. He leaned back in his chair, casually swirling the remnants of his drink as if your outburst had barely registered. “And what makes you think you’re any different?” His voice was low, edged with a hint of boredom. “Another desperate girl with a sob story, wandering in from Lowtown, hoping someone else will clean up her mess.”

His words cut deep, stoking a fury that flared hot in your chest. “This isn’t just some ‘sob story,’” you spat back, your voice rising despite the stares from nearby tables. “My sister is out there—taken by some lowlife who had a gun in her face. I can’t just—” Your breath hitched, and you forced yourself to push through it. “I can’t just sit around hoping she’ll magically come home. I have to do something.”

Patch’s gaze sharpened, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He set his glass down, the dull clink resonating like a judge’s gavel. “And you think coming here, shaking like a leaf, is doing something?” There was a bitter edge in his tone as if he was testing you, pushing to see how far you’d go before you broke.

You took a steadying breath, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks. “You think I wanted to walk in here like this?” you shot back, gesturing to the dirty clothes clinging to your skin. “I came because I don’t have any other choice. I was unconscious in a hospital bed while some bastard dragged her away. So yeah, I’m desperate. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to give up.”

For a heartbeat, the silence stretched between you. The murmurs of the casino faded to a dull roar in your ears as you locked eyes with Patch, refusing to look away even though every instinct told you to. His expression remained inscrutable, but there was a shift—a subtle change in the air between you, like the first stirrings of a breeze before a storm breaks.

Slowly, Patch’s lips curved into a humorless smirk. He tapped a finger against the poker table as if coming to some unspoken decision. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But guts don’t count for much if you don’t know what you’re doing. The kind of people who snatch girls off the street don’t just give them back because someone asked nicely.”

“Then tell me what I need to do,” you said, swallowing hard. “Or are you just going to sit there?”

Patch’s smirk faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor, and took a step toward you. The scent of smoke and whiskey clung to him like a second skin. He was close enough now that you could see the faint scars trailing along his knuckles, the signs of countless fights hard-won. “I don’t take on charity cases,” he said quietly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You want my help, you’ve got to prove you’re worth my time.”

“How?” you asked, your voice trembling but resolute.

He held your gaze a moment longer, then jerked his head toward the back of the casino, where the neon lights barely reached and the air was thick with shadows. “There’s a back room here where debts get settled,” he said. “People who owe money and don’t pay. There’s a guy inside—a dealer who owes the house more than he’ll ever be able to repay. Find out what he knows. If you can handle that, then maybe—maybe—I’ll think about helping you find your sister.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and began to walk away, the white of his suit disappearing into the crowd like a ghost fading into the night. You took a shaky breath, glancing toward the shadowed hallway he’d indicated.

How the hell were you supposed to make some guy talk? You didn’t have the kind of presence Patch had—the kind that could silence a room with just a look. He was the sort of man who wore danger like a second skin, and you’d bet he could get a confession out of someone without saying a word, just by staring them down with that single, unnerving eye.

You? You were just a woman caught between terror and adrenaline, your whole body trembling as you tried to keep your breaths even. The absurdity of everything pressed down on you like a weight, threatening to crush you.

You sighed, your breath shuddering out of you as you glanced toward the darkened hallway Patch had pointed to. The back room where debts got settled—the very idea sent a chill crawling up your spine. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been in shady places before, growing up in Lowtown, but this was different. This was Hightown’s version of shady, where the rich got away with sins even the criminals in Lowtown wouldn’t touch.

The image of your sister flashed in your mind again—her wide, frightened eyes as the gunman dragged her away. A hollow ache twisted in your chest, and you straightened up, forcing your limbs to stop trembling. You didn’t know how to do this, but you were about to learn. There was no other choice. There never had been.

You slipped through the crowd, weaving past tables and drunken gamblers. The din of the casino grew muffled as you approached the dimly lit hallway. The red and gold of the main room faded, replaced by shadowed walls and the stale scent of sweat and cigar smoke. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses died down to a murmur like the world had turned down its volume, leaving just the thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy door loomed, the kind you could tell wasn’t meant for guests. You hesitated in front of it, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on you. How were you supposed to do this? What were you supposed to say? You didn't have Patch’s cool composure or his casual air of authority. All you had was your desperation and that gnawing emptiness inside you—fuel that burned hotter than your fear.

You shoved the door open and stepped inside.

The room was cramped and dimly lit by a single dangling bulb, casting harsh shadows across stained walls. A poker table sat in the center, scattered with crumpled cards and empty whiskey glasses. In one of the worn-out chairs slouched a man in a rumpled suit, his fingers drumming nervously on the table's edge. His eyes flicked to you as you entered, his expression shifting from bored indifference to wary curiosity.

“You’re not one of them,” he said, his voice gravelly, squinting as if he was trying to place where you’d come from. “What do you want?”

You took a breath, forcing yourself to step further into the room, your sneakers silent on the gritty floor. “I need information,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered at the edges. “About a girl. She was taken recently. You know anything about that?”

The man’s gaze darted toward the door, then back to you. A thin, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart,” he sneered, reaching for the cigarette resting on the ashtray in front of him. “I don’t know anything about any girls, and even if I did, why the hell would I tell you?”

His tone was dismissive, the kind of tone that told you he thought you were harmless, a nuisance to be shrugged off. It stung, but it was also exactly what you needed—because he didn’t see you as a threat.

You took a step closer, letting the harsh overhead light catch the bruises on your face, the hospital bracelet still dangling from your wrist. “Because if you don’t,” you said, your voice hardening, “the next person who walks through that door won’t be as nice.” You leaned in just enough that he’d have to catch the seriousness in your eyes. “It’ll be Patch.”

The name dropped like a stone, and you could see the reaction ripple across his face. It was slight—a tightening of the jaw, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—but it was there. He looked you up and down again as if reevaluating what kind of game he’d walked into. “Patch sent you?” he scoffed, but there was less conviction.

You nodded, playing up your calm, letting it stretch out like you had all the time in the world. “He sent me to ask nicely,” you said, “but I’m sure he’d be happy to finish this conversation his way if you’d prefer.”

The man’s cigarette wavered between his fingers, his gaze sliding to the door as though expecting Patch to walk through it any second. You didn’t have to know what kind of history lay between them to see that he was rattled, that the mere mention of the name had carved a crack in his defenses.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he exhaled slowly. “Alright,” he muttered, stubbing it out in the ashtray. “What’s the girl’s name?”

You swallowed, relief flooding through you even as you kept your expression neutral. “Her name is Emily,” you said, your voice steady now. “And I need to know where they took her.”

The man’s eyes darted away, his fingers tapping anxiously on the table again. “Look, I don’t know much,” he said, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But I heard some guys talking a few nights ago—something about a shipment coming through the docks. They mentioned girls, and... well, it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.”

Your stomach twisted, a knot of dread tightening as his words sank in. “What else?” you pressed. “What do you know about the men involved?”

He shook his head, glancing nervously toward the door again. “That’s all I’ve got,” he said. “Just some lowlife dealers from the docks. If Patch wants more than that, he’s gonna have to dig for it himself.”

You turned to leave, but before you reached the door, the man spoke again, his voice barely audible. “If you’re smart, you’ll walk away now,” he murmured a note of pity in his tone. “People who go looking for the kind of trouble you’re in don’t usually come back.”

You didn’t respond. There was no point because you would do whatever it took to get your sister back even if it meant crossing lines you never thought you’d cross.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You wandered the casino, weaving through the smoke and noise, scanning every shadowed corner and poker table for a glimpse of that white suit. It was like he’d disappeared into thin air. Your pulse quickened with each passing second, dread tightening its grip on your lungs. What if Patch had already left? What if he’d sent you into that back room as some kind of test and then walked out, leaving you here alone?

“Excuse me, ma’am?” A voice cut through the din, and you felt your stomach drop.

You turned slowly, your heart thudding in your chest. A security guard stood a few feet away, arms folded over his broad chest. He gave you a once-over, his eyes narrowing as he took in your disheveled hair, the bruises darkening your cheek, and the smear of dried blood on the sleeve of your jacket.

You swallowed, forcing a shaky smile and trying to smooth down your hair. “Me?” you said, aiming for innocence, though your voice betrayed a tremor. “Is there a problem?”

The guard’s gaze hardened. “You don’t exactly look like a regular customer,” he said, his tone flat, the words edged with suspicion. “And you shouldn’t be wandering back here.” He took a step forward, making it clear that you were not welcome in this part of the casino. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Panic flared hot and fast in your chest. You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could get a word out, another voice broke in, smooth and cold as steel.

“She’s with me.”

The guard stiffened and stepped back as Patch emerged from the crowd, his white suit pristine, his expression as calm and dangerous as before. He didn’t even spare the guard a glance as he brushed past him, catching your arm with a firm grip and steering you away.

The guard hesitated, clearly unsure whether to question Patch’s authority, but in the end, he simply nodded and stepped aside, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer before he turned away.

Patch’s fingers tightened slightly on your arm as he guided you through the casino, weaving between the slot machines and roulette tables until the noise faded into a low hum behind you. He led you down a narrow hallway lined with plush crimson carpeting, the lights dimmer here, the atmosphere more intimate, as if you were walking deeper into the belly of the beast.

Finally, he steered you into a small, secluded alcove near a back exit. The muffled sounds of the casino were barely a whisper now, and the only light came from a single wall sconce casting long shadows across Patch’s face. He released your arm and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded you with that unblinking, solitary gaze.

"Well?” he said, arching a brow. “Did you get anything, or did I just save you from getting thrown out for nothing?”

You took a breath, steadying yourself as the adrenaline still coursed through your veins. “The guy I talked to,” you began, your voice stronger than you expected, “he said something about the docks. A shipment coming in. Girls, and… it didn’t sound like they were there by choice.” The words tasted bitter as they left your mouth, and you could feel the knot of dread tightening in your stomach. “He mentioned dealers. Low-level guys, but he didn’t have any names.”

Patch’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eye—something hardening as if your words had confirmed something he already suspected. “The docks,” he echoed, his voice low. “That’s a rough place to start, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?” The question escaped before you could stop it, and you hated the raw edge of hope that colored your voice. “You said I had to prove myself.”

Patch’s gaze locked onto yours, sharp and measuring. He didn’t speak for a long moment, and you wondered if he was about to tell you to walk away, that this was as far as your desperation would carry you. But then he gave a slow nod, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Alright, kid,” he said, his tone carrying both a promise and a threat. “I’ll help you. But you gotta follow my lead. No questions, no hesitation.”

You nodded quickly, the relief rushing through you like a wave. “I understand. I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said, your voice firm despite the uncertainty gnawing at your gut.

“Good,” he replied, his gaze flicking toward the dimly lit hallway you’d come from. “We start at the docks tonight. If this lead turns out to be a dead end, then you better start praying your sister’s got a hell of a lot more luck than you.”

Patch turned, already heading for the back exit, and you hurried after him, determination burning in your chest. For the first time since you’d woken up in that hospital bed, you felt like you were finally moving forward. Toward answers, toward your sister, and deeper into a darkness you didn’t understand yet.

“You should probably get some fresh clothes,” Patch muttered, not bothering to look back as he strode ahead. His long strides ate up the distance, and you had to hurry to keep pace, your sneakers slapping against the tile.

“Yeah, well,” you quipped, a touch of dry humor creeping into your voice as you picked up the pace, “I don’t exactly have a lot of money lying around, and my apartment’s in Lowtown, so unless you know a cheap boutique nearby…”

Patch slowed just enough to glance over his shoulder, his eye narrowing. “Watch the attitude, kid,” he growled, his voice low and edged with a warning. “I’m already going out of my way for you. Don’t push it.”

You huffed, struggling to keep up as he picked up the pace again, his white suit cutting a path through the dim casino lighting like a shark through water. “I’m just saying,” you muttered, “it’s not like I have a lot of options. I did just wake up in a hospital bed.”

Patch stopped abruptly, turning to face you with a look that was half annoyance, half something else—curiosity, maybe. “You don’t have any options,” he said flatly, “which is exactly why you’re stuck with me.” He ran a hand through his dark hair as if trying to brush away the frustration clinging to his voice. “Come on,” he added, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. “I know a place.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “A place?”

“Yeah,” he replied, already moving again. “My place.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you couldn’t help the flicker of surprise that crossed your face. Patch had struck you as the type to drop you off at some dingy motel, toss a few bucks your way, and call it a night. But his place? You weren’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“Wow,” you said, with a hint of a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “Didn’t know you were so generous.”

Patch shot you a sidelong glance as he pushed open a back door, leading you out into a narrow alley where the neon lights from the casino cast strange shadows on the wet pavement. “Don’t get used to it,” he said. “I’m not running a charity. I just don’t want you drawing attention while we’re out there.” He paused, then gave you a once-over, his gaze lingering on the bruises darkening your skin. “Besides,” he added dryly, “you look like you crawled out of a dumpster.”

You snorted despite yourself, falling in step beside him as he led you down the alley. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

He grunted in response, guiding you toward a sleek, black motorcycle parked near the mouth of the alley. “You think you can hold on without falling off?” he asked, tossing you a helmet.

You caught the helmet awkwardly, feeling a little thrill of apprehension run through you. “Guess we’re about to find out,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. You climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping your arms around Patch’s waist a little too tightly.

“Relax,” he muttered as he revved the engine. “You’re gonna crush my ribs.”

“Just making sure I don’t fall off,” you shot back, loosening your grip a fraction.

The motorcycle roared to life, and Patch sped off, weaving through the city streets with practiced ease. The wind tore at your hair, and the city blurred around you in streaks of neon and shadows. The ride didn’t last long—ten minutes, maybe fifteen—but it felt longer with the weight of everything pressing down on you. The docks. The men you were about to face. Your sister’s terrified eyes. You shoved it all down, focusing on the feel of the road beneath you and the solid presence of Patch in front of you.

He pulled into an underground parking garage beneath a sleek high-rise on the edge of Hightown, the kind of place that whispered money and power. Definitely not the kind of place you would’ve pictured Patch calling home. You dismounted and handed him the helmet, your eyes drifting up to the polished glass and steel above you.

“Seriously?” you asked, a brow arched. “This is where you live?”

Patch shot you a look that bordered on amused irritation. “I like my privacy,” he said simply, leading the way to an elevator tucked into the corner of the garage. He punched in a code, and the doors slid open, revealing a mirrored interior that seemed too pristine for someone like him.

You stepped inside, feeling out of place amid the gleaming metal and polished surfaces. “This definitely beats Lowtown,” you muttered under your breath.

Patch gave a noncommittal grunt as the elevator ascended, his eye fixed on the glowing numbers. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he said as the doors slid open on the top floor. “You’re here to change, not to move in.”

The elevator opened directly into his apartment, a spacious loft with an open layout and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of the city stretching out below like a sea of lights. It was surprisingly clean—minimalist, with a few leather couches, a glass coffee table, and a sleek kitchen in the corner. It didn’t seem like a place anyone actually lived in. More like a picture in a magazine, or a safehouse for someone who moved around a lot.

“Bedrooms down the hall,” he said, jerking his head toward a narrow corridor. “There should be some clothes in the closet that’ll fit you.”

You hesitated, glancing around. “You just… keep women’s clothes lying around?”

Patch’s expression remained impassive, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve had company before,” he said dryly, then turned away to rummage through a cabinet near the kitchen. “Go get dressed. We’re burning time.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You hurried down the hall and found the bedroom—spare and uncluttered like the rest of the place. There was a walk-in closet filled mostly with men’s clothing, but you found a few items that looked like they might fit—a pair of black jeans, a faded gray t-shirt, and a leather jacket that was slightly too big. You changed quickly, tossing your clothes onto the bed and taking a moment to look at yourself in the mirror. You still looked a little rough around the edges, but at least you didn’t feel like a walking mess anymore.

When you emerged, Patch was leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty glass of whiskey sitting on it. He gave you a quick once-over, then nodded. “Better,” he said, pushing off the counter. “Now let’s go.”

You fell in step beside him as he led you back toward the elevator, the weight of the night settling back onto your shoulders. You were dressed, you were ready, but the uncertainty still gnawed at you. The stakes hadn’t changed. Your sister was still out there, and you were about to walk straight into the kind of trouble most people wouldn’t even dare to think about.

Patch glanced at you as the elevator doors closed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Try not to get yourself killed, kid,” he said, his tone laced with a mixture of sarcasm and something almost resembling concern.

You shot him a sideways look. “I’ll try my best,” you replied, your voice steady with a resolve you hadn’t felt in a long time. “Just make sure you don’t get in my way.”

His smirk deepened as the elevator descended, the faintest hint of approval in his gaze. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving the docks shrouded in a deep, restless darkness. As Patch’s motorcycle rumbled to a halt, you slid off the back, the chill of the night seeping into your bones. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea, mixed with diesel fumes and the faint, distant clatter of metal on metal. Every shadow seemed to twist and stretch, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched from all sides.

Patch cut the engine and swung a leg over the bike, his movements fluid and controlled. “Could you calm down?” he muttered, shooting you a sideways glare. “I can’t hear a damn thing with your heartbeat pounding like a drum.”

You stared at him, your brows knitting together. “You can hear my—”

He just gave a curt nod, already turning away as if the matter was of no consequence. “Here’s the plan, kid,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You stay here. I go in, see what I can find out. If things get ugly, you get the hell out of here. Got it?”

Your jaw tightened at the implication. “Then why am I here? What am I supposed to do? Just sit here while you play hero?”

Patch’s eye flicked back to you, a glint of annoyance—or was it amusement?—in that sharp gaze. “You can either stay here and let me handle this, or you can come in and get yourself killed. Your call.” Without waiting for your response, he started toward the darkened warehouses at the edge of the docks, his steps silent on the cracked asphalt.

You stood there for a moment, anger flaring in your chest. There was no way you were just going to sit back while he did all the dirty work. He might’ve been right about you being out of your depth, but that didn’t mean you weren’t willing to dive in. You glanced around, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, then quietly trailed after him, keeping a safe distance. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

Patch moved like a predator, his silhouette blending into the night as he slipped between shipping containers and rusted machinery. You followed as quietly as you could, your breath catching in your throat each time a loose pebble crunched underfoot or a metal chain swayed in the wind.

Up ahead, Patch stopped near a cluster of abandoned crates. You crept closer, just in time to see him crouch beside the door of a warehouse, his body tensed like a spring. He pressed an ear to the corrugated metal, listening. For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of distant waves lapping against the docks. Then, with a sudden SNIKT, three gleaming blades sprang from his knuckles, each one catching the faint glint of moonlight.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight but it was short-lived.

Before you could fully process it, the warehouse door burst open, slamming against the wall with a metallic clang. Three men spilled out, their footsteps heavy, voices raised in harsh, hurried whispers that cut through the still night air.

Patch moved before they even noticed him—a blur of muscle and precision, springing forward like a coiled viper. His fist shot out, striking the first man square in the throat. There was a sickening crunch, a dark spray of blood, and the man staggered back, eyes bulging as he choked on a gurgled gasp. He collapsed in a heap, his body going limp on the cold concrete.

The other two froze, their faces draining of color, eyes widening as they processed what had just happened. You pressed yourself against the steel container, the chill seeping through your clothes as you struggled to stay hidden. Your heart pounded so loudly you could almost feel it in your throat, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the scene unfolding before you.

Patch didn’t give them a chance to recover. He spun, fluid and lethal, his focus shifting to the man who’d just drawn a knife. The man lunged, but Patch sidestepped effortlessly, his movements smooth and economical. In a flash, he caught the man’s wrist, twisting it with brutal efficiency. The sickening snap of bone echoed through the night, followed by a strangled scream that sent a shiver down your spine. Patch barely hesitated, driving his fist into the man’s temple with a fierce, controlled strike. The man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him.

The third man, panic etched into every line of his face, fumbled for a gun at his waistband, his fingers clumsy in his desperation. You saw his hand close around the weapon, saw him raise it, aiming squarely at Patch’s unguarded back.

Before you could even think, instinct took over. You darted out from behind the container, your hand grasping a rusted metal pipe lying discarded on the ground. Without hesitation, you swung it with every ounce of strength you had. The pipe connected with a dull, sickening crack against the gunman’s shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground.

Patch reacted instantly. He pivoted, claws slicing through the air. In one swift motion, he drove them into the man’s chest, his strike precise and merciless. The man’s eyes went wide, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his body jerked, then fell slack. Patch withdrew his claws, letting the man crumple to the ground in a lifeless heap.

For a moment, the silence was absolute. You stood there, breathless, the weight of the pipe still in your hands as you stared at the bodies sprawled on the ground. Your pulse was a thunderstorm in your ears, your hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline that coursed through you.

Patch turned toward you, his eye narrowing, the tension between you crackling like static. “You were supposed to stay put,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

“And you have knives coming out of your hands,” you shot back, your voice trembling with adrenaline and disbelief. “I wasn’t about to let you get shot.”

He stared at you for a long beat, his gaze sharp and unyielding, as if he were assessing whether you were brave, reckless, or just plain stupid. Maybe a bit of all three. “Don’t make a habit of saving my life, kid,” he said finally, his tone edged with a reluctant sort of approval. “I’m not in the business of owing favors.”

Before you could think of a response, he jerked his head toward the warehouse. “Come on,” he said, his voice losing some of its sharpness but not its urgency. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

You followed him inside, the metal pipe still gripped tightly in your hand like a talisman against the darkness. The warehouse was cold and dimly lit by a few flickering overhead lights. As your eyes adjusted, you saw rows of metal cages lining the walls, each one filled with frightened girls. Some were sobbing quietly, others stared blankly into the distance, their faces pale and hollow. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you had to swallow back the bile rising in your throat.

Patch was already moving down the line, his gaze hard as he scanned each cage. “Look for your sister,” he said, his voice flat and steady. “Quickly.”

You moved down the line, your eyes scanning each girl’s face, desperation clawing at your chest. But as you reached the last cage, a sick realization settled in. She wasn’t here. None of these girls were Emily.

Patch came up beside you, his gaze shifting from the empty cages to your face, reading the despair etched there. “She’s not here, is she?” he asked quietly, though there was a certainty in his tone as if he’d already known the answer.

You shook your head, dropping the pipe, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “No,” you whispered, the word tasting bitter and hollow. “She’s not.”

Patch let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. “Then this was only the start,” he said, his tone hardening again, as though he was steeling himself for the battles still ahead. “The guy at the casino gave us a lead, but it’s not the end of the line. We’re going to have to dig deeper.”

Your gaze drifted back to the girls still trapped in the cages, their hollow eyes pleading silently for rescue. “What about them?” you asked, your voice cracking. “We can’t just leave them here.”

For a moment, Patch’s expression softened—just a flicker of something almost human in the harsh lines of his face. “Stand back,” he said, his tone gruff as if trying to mask that brief flash of empathy.

You obeyed, retreating a few steps as Patch’s claws slid out with that familiar, metallic SNIKT. He moved down the row of cages in one swift motion, slashing through the padlocks like they were made of paper. The harsh sound of metal being cleaved filled the warehouse, and then the doors swung open one by one. The girls hesitated, their limbs trembling, but as the realization that they were free sank in, they began to stumble out, some leaning on each other for support.

Patch pulled a cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said gruffly as if the person on the other end was already expecting his call. “Got a situation down at the docks. Girls in cages—trafficking operation. Send someone to clean it up.” He paused, glancing over at you before adding, “And make it quick. We’re not sticking around.”

He hung up and turned back to you, his expression returning to its usual gruffness. “We’ve done all we can here. Let’s move.” He gestured toward the exit, already heading for the door.

You hesitated for a moment, watching as the girls huddled together, some whispering frantic prayers of relief. You wanted to stay, to make sure they were alright. But you knew that finding your sister meant pushing forward, following Patch down whatever dark road lay ahead.

You followed him out into the night, stealing a glance at his profile—the way his jaw was set, the hard lines etched into his face. He wasn’t just a man with claws. There was something else there, simmering beneath the surface—something raw and wounded like he understood exactly what it was like to lose someone.

Patch glanced back at you, his lone eye narrowing slightly as if he could read the turmoil simmering just beneath your surface. “They’ll be alright,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than before, almost as if he was trying to reassure you. But there was also a distance behind his tone that suggested he was more used to dealing with facts than offering comfort.

You shrugged, quickening your pace to fall in step beside him, the frustration bubbling up and out before you could bite it back. “How can you be so sure?” you snapped, your voice cracking from a mix of exhaustion and desperation. “We didn’t even do anything but cut them loose. What if someone else shows up before your people get here? What if they just get taken again?” The questions spilled out of you, each one sharper than the last. “And my sister—” You said, sucking in a breath. “How are we going to find her with no leads?”

Patch stopped walking, and you nearly collided with him. He turned to face you fully, his expression hard, but not unsympathetic. For a moment, you thought he was going to snap at you for doubting him. Instead, he took a slow breath and looked at you in a way that made you feel like he was seeing past your words, straight into your doubts and fears.

“You don’t think I ask myself the same thing every day?” His voice was low, gravelly, but there was a crack in the armor, a flicker of something almost vulnerable in the way he spoke. “How many people I’ve helped just end up right back where they started?” He shook his head, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. “The difference is, I don’t let it stop me from trying.” He let out a breath, his gaze flicking briefly to the dark waters of the bay. “Sometimes, you just do what you can and hope it’s enough.”

The words landed heavily, and you found yourself searching his face for some deeper understanding. The hard lines, the unshaven jaw, the haunted look in that lone eye—all of it told you this wasn’t the first time he’d been up against impossible odds. He looked like a man who had seen the worst the world had to offer and was still fighting against it, even if he didn’t believe in winning anymore. There was a kind of comfort in that, knowing you weren’t the only one feeling helpless.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now. “But we still don’t know where she is,” you said, hating the desperation that crept into your tone. “And if we don’t have any leads, then—”

“We do have a lead,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm but not dismissive. He started walking again. “It’s just a small one.”

You frowned, hurrying to keep up with him. “What lead?” you asked, trying not to sound too skeptical.

“The convenience store,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at you. “Where you and your sister were before she was taken. I assume this wasn’t the first time there’s been trouble there. Lowtown’s full of secrets—it doesn’t take much for a place like that to hear things, see things. Somebody might’ve seen something, or maybe the owner knows more than he’s letting on.”

Your stomach tightened at the thought of going back there. The memory of that night was still raw—your sister’s terrified scream, the flash of the gun, the feeling of helplessness that had wrapped around your throat like a noose. “You think he’ll talk?” you asked, your voice coming out smaller than you’d intended. “The owner… he didn’t exactly seem like the helpful type.”

Patch’s mouth curved into a sardonic half-smile. “People talk when they have a reason to,” he said. “And if he doesn’t want to…” He tapped his knuckles against the claws sheathed inside his hand, the faintest snikt sound slipping through. “Well, let’s just say I have ways of encouraging them.”

You rolled your eyes at the display, though you felt a small spark of relief. “So your plan is to scare him into talking?” you asked, forcing some of your earlier skepticism back into your voice. “What if that just makes him clam up more?”

Patch gave a short, dry chuckle. “Then we improvise,” he said simply as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Most people can’t handle pressure the way you might think.” He glanced down at you, his expression softening for a moment. “Besides, you might be surprised what they’ll say if they think they’re helping you.”

There was a beat of silence, and then you shook your head. “Why would you care if someone helps me or not?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could fully think it through. “You don’t even know me.”

Patch looked away, his gaze settling on the lights shimmering on the bay. “Maybe I see something familiar,” he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “Someone who doesn’t know when to back down, who’s got too much fire for her own good.” He shrugged, the motion almost dismissive. “Or maybe I’m just a sucker for a lost cause. Take your pick.”

Something about the way he said it—the hint of a confession buried in his gruff tone—made your throat tighten. You didn’t know if you believed him, but you could tell he meant it, at least on some level.

You fell into step beside him, a new determination building in your chest. “Alright,” you said, your voice steadier than before. “Let’s go back to the store. But if we don’t find anything there…” You trailed off, the unspoken fear still lingering between you.

Patch glanced at you, his eye glinting in the dim light. “If we don’t find anything,” he said, his voice low and steady, “then we keep looking. We dig until there’s nothing left to dig.” He paused, his gaze locking onto yours with a kind of fierce intensity. “And I won't stop, sweetheart. Not until we find her.”

You felt a tiny flicker of hope catch in your chest. It was a fragile thing, barely more than a spark. But it was enough to keep you moving, enough to help you push back the darkness that seemed to cling to the edges of everything. There were still shadows, countless unknowns waiting for you in the dark. But now, you had someone walking with you who understood the weight of desperation and the need to fight, even when the odds seemed impossible.

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The early morning sky had just begun to soften to a pale, grayish-blue creeping over Lowtown like a faded bruise. The convenience store loomed ahead, its cracked neon sign buzzing faintly, casting an uneven glow over the peeling paint and grimy windows. As you climbed off Patch’s motorcycle, the knot in your stomach twisted tighter, a dull ache spreading through your chest. You hadn’t slept, and the weariness settled over you like a heavy fog, making every step feel like wading through quicksand.

Patch swung his leg off the bike and glanced at you, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can go in alone,” he said, his tone more a suggestion than an order, though his eyes flicked warily toward the store.

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out harsher than you intended, and you pushed past him, crossing the street before he could respond. The truth was, you didn’t want to sit back and let him do all the talking. This was your fight, and you needed to feel like you were doing something—anything—to get closer to finding your sister.

The bell above the door jangled as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of stale coffee and cheap cleaning products hitting you all at once. The store looked the same as it had the night your sister was taken—dimly lit, cluttered shelves, a few bored customers milling about, and behind the counter, the same old man with his scowling expression and deep-set eyes.

He glanced up as you approached, his gaze flicking briefly to Patch before settling on you. Recognition flashed in his eyes, and he immediately stiffened, his scowl deepening.

“Back again?” he grunted, his tone dripping with irritation. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon. Look, if this is about that night, I already talked to the cops—”

“This isn’t about the cops,” you interrupted, your voice cold. “This is about my sister.”

The store owner’s mouth tightened into a thin line, his fingers drumming against the counter. “I already told the police everything I know,” he said with a shrug. “Not that they cared much. It’s Lowtown. Crime happens.”

“Yeah, well,” Patch cut in, his voice a low growl, “you’re going to have to do better than that.” He leaned in, letting just a hint of menace creep into his posture. “You’re going to tell us exactly what you saw that night, old man.”

The owner bristled, his eyes darting nervously to the gleaming claws sheathed inside Patch’s fists as if sensing their presence even though they hadn’t made an appearance. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he muttered, his gaze shifting away. “I’m just trying to run a business here. I didn’t see anything more than I already told the cops.”

A wave of frustration surged through you, hot and sharp. You didn’t have time for this—didn’t have time for vague answers and excuses. Before you could think, you stepped forward and grabbed the front of the old man’s shirt, yanking him toward you across the counter. “Stop lying!” you snapped, your voice trembling with a raw edge. “This isn’t just some robbery we’re talking about—my sister was taken! If you know anything, you better tell us now.”

The owner’s eyes widened, shock flickering across his face as he took in the desperation in your expression. “Hey, hey—calm down,” he stammered, his hands coming up defensively. “I don’t know anything, I swear!” His gaze darted nervously to Patch, who stood back with a raised brow, clearly surprised but not intervening. “The guy that night—he’s just some lowlife who’s robbed me a few times. That’s it! The police don’t even bother arresting him anymore—they say he’s small-time. He usually hangs out at this old abandoned building a few blocks from here.”

You tightened your grip on his collar, leaning in closer. “Where?” you demanded, your voice a low, dangerous whisper.

The owner swallowed hard, his face pale under the flickering fluorescent lights. “It’s an old warehouse on Canal Street,” he said quickly. “Just a few blocks west. The place has been falling apart for years—nobody else goes near it. That’s all I know, I swear.”

You released him, letting out a shaky breath as you stepped back. The owner stumbled slightly, his hand flying up to straighten his collar, his eyes still wide and wary. “You better not be lying,” you said, your tone cold. “Because if you are—”

“He’s not,” Patch interrupted, his voice calm but edged with finality. He gave the old man a hard look before turning to you. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, your pulse still racing from the adrenaline, the anger. As you turned to leave, the store owner’s voice trembled after you, “Good luck, kid,” he said, almost reluctantly. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. That guy… he’s trouble.”

Outside, you took a deep breath, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. You hadn’t even realized how tightly wound you were until now. Patch glanced at you, his expression unreadable as he pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. He took a long drag, the smoke curling around him as he studied you.

“Didn’t know you had that in you, sweetheart,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of approval. “You might just make it out of this alive after all.”

You shot him a look, not quite sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. “I’m not doing this for your approval,” you said, still feeling the heat of anger simmering in your veins. “I’m doing it for her.”

Patch blew out a cloud of smoke, a half-smirk curling on his lips. “I know,” he said simply, then nodded toward the street. “Come on. We’ve got a warehouse to check out.”

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The roar of the motorcycle faded as Patch brought it to a stop near the crumbling entrance of the old warehouse on Canal Street. The place looked like it hadn’t seen upkeep in decades—rusted metal siding, cracked windows covered in grime, and a faded sign that had long since lost any meaning. Despite the early morning light breaking over the horizon, the shadows clung to the corners, refusing to let go.

Patch scanned the building, his keen gaze narrowing, his head tilting slightly as if tuning into a frequency only he could hear. He took a slow breath, nostrils flaring, and you knew he was using that heightened sense of his to pick up anything unusual—sounds, scents, even the faintest movement.

After a moment, he exhaled, frustration curling his lips into a scowl. “It’s quiet,” he said, his tone flat. “Too quiet. I don’t hear a damn thing in there. If anyone’s here, they’re either dead or—.”

“Or maybe they’re hiding,” you argued, your voice trembling slightly despite your effort to sound resolute. “Or maybe Emily’s in there—” You cut yourself off, refusing to say the rest. You didn’t want to give voice to your fears, the idea that if she was here, she could already be—no. You weren’t going to think like that.

Patch gave you a hard look, the concern in his gaze surfacing just enough for you to catch it. “You need to stay out here,” he said, his voice low and firm. “If something goes down, you’ll be in the way.”

But you were already moving, your feet carrying you toward the warehouse entrance before you could give yourself time to hesitate. “I’m not staying out here,” you snapped. “I didn’t come this far to wait around while you do all the work.”

Patch reached for your arm, his fingers closing around your wrist in a firm grip. “You think you’re ready for whatever’s in there?” His voice was almost a growl, frustration lacing every word. “You’re running on fumes, kid. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You yanked your arm free, anger sparking hot in your chest. “I don’t care what you hear or don’t hear Patch,” you shot back, your voice rising. “I’m going in there. Whether you like it or not.” You turned and pushed through the door, the rusted metal creaking as it swung open.

The air inside was musty, thick with dust and the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke. Rows of abandoned crates and broken-down machinery loomed in the gloom. You took a cautious step forward, your senses on high alert. The silence pressed in around you, heavy and suffocating, but it did little to quell the desperate hope burning in your chest. Emily could be here, you told yourself. She has to be.

As you ventured deeper into the warehouse, you heard a faint shuffle, the quiet scrape of a shoe against the concrete floor. You froze, squinting through the dim light until your eyes locked on a figure crouched behind a stack of crates. It was a man, the same one you remembered from the convenience store—greasy hair, ratty clothes, and a face you’d never forget.

Rage flared white-hot inside you, burning away the exhaustion and fear. Before you knew it, you were moving—your feet pounding the ground, the world narrowing to just you and him. “Where is she?” you shouted, your voice echoing off the warehouse walls as you closed the distance. “Where’s my sister?!”

The man scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with recognition and panic as you lunged at him. He tried to swing a fist at you, but you ducked and slammed your shoulder into his chest, knocking him backward. You grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against a nearby metal beam. The impact sent a hollow clang reverberating through the building.

“Where is she?!” you screamed again, your grip tightening as you pulled back a fist and drove it into his jaw. The pain in your knuckles barely registered over the adrenaline surging through your veins. “Tell me where you took her!”

The man grunted, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he tried to shove you off. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he spat, his voice trembling. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” You struck him again, your fist connecting with his ribs this time. He let out a choked groan, his knees buckling as he struggled to stay upright. “I saw you! You took her from the store! What did you do with her?!”

You were about to hit him again when a strong hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back. “Enough,” Patch’s voice rumbled behind you, deep and commanding. He yanked you away from the man, spinning you around to face him. “You’re not going to get anything out of him like this,” he said, his tone calmer but edged with warning. “Let me handle it.”

You shook your head, the rage still burning hot in your chest. “No!” You struggled against Patch’s grip. “I was handling it just fine. He knows something—I know he does!”

The man coughed, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. “Alright, alright!” he croaked, his eyes darting between you and Patch, desperation etched into every line of his face. “I took her, okay? But I swear I don’t know where she is now!”

Patch let go of you and took a step toward the man, his expression darkening. “Start talking,” he growled, the claws sliding out of his knuckles with a menacing SNIKT.

The guy’s face went pale as he eyed the claws, swallowing hard. “Okay, okay!” he stammered, raising his hands in surrender. “I sold her! That’s what we do—grab girls and sell them off to whoever’s buying! She was taken to some place up north—private buyer, big money!” His breath hitched as he glanced nervously at you, then back at Patch. “That’s all I know, I swear! They don’t tell us where they take the girls after the sale, just that it’s out of town, upstate!”

Your heart sank, the anger in your chest twisting into something darker, colder. “You sold her,” you whispered, the words tasting like bile. “You sold my sister.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Patch stepped forward, the glint of his claws catching the dim light. “You’re going to give me the name of the buyer,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Or you won’t be leaving this place in one piece.”

The man’s eyes darted frantically around the room as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know his real name!” he cried. “They just called him ‘The Collector.’ That’s it! I swear! He deals in... special requests. High-profile stuff. If you want more than that, you’re gonna have to talk to someone higher up the chain.”

Patch held the man’s gaze for a moment longer, then retracted the claws with a snikt and turned to you. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “We’ve got what we need.”

You hesitated, a storm of anger and helplessness roiling inside you. A part of you wanted to drag every last bit of information out of the man, to beat the truth out of him until he confessed something useful—anything that would bring you closer to finding Emily. “We can’t just let him go,” you said, your voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “He’s a criminal. He sold my sister.”

You took a step closer to the guy, your hands curling into fists at your sides. The man flinched, shrinking back against the metal beam, his eyes darting toward the door as if planning an escape. But you were ready to lunge if he even tried.

Patch stepped in front of you, blocking your path to the man. “What do you want me to do, kid?” he said, his tone flat and calm, but with an edge that hinted at something darker. “Kill him? Beat him to a pulp?” He glanced over his shoulder at the man, who was trembling now, his eyes wide and pleading. “Or maybe you think turning him in will make the cops give a damn?”

The truth in his words hit you like a slap. You knew how things worked in Lowtown. The police wouldn’t waste their time on some street-level thug, even if he had been part of something bigger. People like him slip through the cracks all the time. That was just the way it was. But the thought of letting him walk away, after everything he’d done, twisted your insides into a knot.

You swallowed hard, taking a step back. “I just don’t want him to get away with it,” you whispered, the fire in your voice fading to something more fragile. “He deserves to pay.”

Patch held your gaze for a moment, then turned back to the man. “Yeah, he does,” he agreed, his voice cold as ice. Before the guy could even react, Patch’s fist lashed out, striking him squarely across the jaw. There was a sharp crack, and the man slumped to the ground, unconscious, his body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Patch flexed his fingers, the claws sliding out then back into place with a faint snikt as he turned to you. “There,” he said. “He’s not going anywhere now.” He nudged the man’s limp form with the toe of his boot, then glanced up at you, his expression unreadable. “But we’re not sticking around, either.”

You took a shaky breath, staring down at the unconscious man. It wasn’t enough—it would never be enough—but it would have to do for now. “What now?” you asked, the adrenaline ebbing and leaving you feeling drained, almost hollow.

Patch rubbed a hand across his jaw, then lit up a cigar, taking a long drag before speaking. “Now,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “we regroup. We’ve got a name—The Collector—and we know he’s the kind of scumbag who deals in ‘special requests.’ That’s more than we had before.” He glanced over at you, his gaze lingering on the bruise forming on your knuckles, the scrapes on your face. “But you’re running on empty. You need to rest and clean yourself up. We’ll go back to my place.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him that you didn’t need rest, that there wasn’t time. But the exhaustion hit you all at once, like a weight settling on your shoulders. Your hands were still trembling from the adrenaline, your head spinning slightly from the lack of sleep. You hated to admit it, but he was right. You weren’t going to be any help if you collapsed before you even found another lead.

“Fine,” you muttered, the word tasting like defeat. “But just for a little while. Then we’re going after this Collector.”

Patch gave a small nod, his mouth curling into something that was almost a smirk. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not planning on sitting around,” he said as he started toward the exit, the early morning light spilling into the warehouse. “I’ll reach out to some contacts, and see what I can dig up while you get cleaned up. We’re just getting started.”

As you followed him out, you couldn’t help but glance back at the man sprawled on the floor, his breathing shallow and uneven. You still felt a simmering rage in your chest, but at least now you were moving forward. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The motorcycle ride back to Patch’s place felt longer than before, every bump and turn jarring your already frayed nerves. When you finally arrived, you climbed off the bike, wincing as your muscles protested. Patch led you back up to the sleek high-rise apartment.

Inside, he gestured toward the bathroom down the hall. “There’s a first aid kit under the sink,” he said. “Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll be making some calls.” He pulled out his phone, already scrolling through contacts as he lit another cigar.

You nodded and headed to the bathroom, pausing when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked like hell—hair tangled, dirt smudged across your face, dried blood on your knuckles. You almost didn’t recognize the person staring back at you. You didn’t feel like the same person you’d been yesterday.

As you scrubbed the grime from your skin, letting the hot water beat against your sore muscles, you could hear Patch’s voice rumbling down the hall. His tone was low and gravelly, clipped in a way that spoke of urgency and frustration.

“Yeah, The Collector,” he was saying. “He’s back in the market. Upstate, from what I hear. Need you to dig up any recent sightings, transactions… anything that’ll give me a trail.” There was a brief pause, and you could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose as he listened. “Yeah, I owe you one. Just get it done.”

The water scalded, but you welcomed the sting—it was better than feeling numb. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded softly into the bedroom. You noticed Patch by his closet, rifling through a stack of clothes. He must have heard you, because he glanced over his shoulder, his gaze trailing over you sending a shiver down your spine.

“Anything?” you asked, your voice husky from fatigue, though there was a thread of hope laced in the question.

He pulled out a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, handing them to you. “Got a few leads,” he said, watching you with that sharp, assessing eye. “The Collector’s keeping a low profile, but he’s been spotted at a private estate upstate—real exclusive, where the rich and dirty go to do business no one else should see.”

You took the clothes from his grasp, your fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm and rough like he was someone who had been through hell and dragged himself back. “I don’t think I’ve said this yet,” you murmured, averting your gaze as you pulled the shirt over your head. “But… thank you.”

Patch arched an eyebrow, a slow smirk curving his lips as he leaned casually against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. “Don’t get all soft on me now, sweetheart,” he drawled, his tone edged with amusement. “You’re making me blush.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked any real bite. “I’m serious, Patch. You didn’t have to help me. Most people would’ve just told me to get lost.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction, and for a heartbeat, you thought you saw something flicker in his eye. “You’re not most people,” he said quietly, then his mouth twitched into a half-smirk again. “Besides, I’ve got a soft spot for troublemakers.”

“Must be why you’re helping me,” you shot back, tossing the jeans and towel on the nightstand. “You just can’t resist a little chaos.” You meant for it to sound teasing, but there was an unspoken tension humming between the two of you, thickening the air. It lingered there, a spark that could easily ignite, but Patch was already turning away, the moment slipping back into the shadows.

“Get some rest,” he said, his tone gruff again as he nodded toward his bed in the center of the room. “I’ve still got a few calls to make. I’ll wake you when I’ve got something solid.” He glanced back at you, his gaze briefly dipping to where the hem of the shirt you wore brushed against your thighs.

You settled onto his bed reluctantly, exhaustion tugging at your limbs. As much as you wanted to stay awake, to keep pushing forward, the weight of the day was catching up with you. The pillows were firm and smelled faintly of leather and cigar smoke, and despite the situation, it was surprisingly comforting. You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The nightmare hit you like a punch to the gut. One moment, you were sinking into sleep, and the next, you were back in that convenience store—hearing Emily’s screams, seeing her being dragged away. The scene replayed in sharp, agonizing detail, but this time, you weren’t paralyzed. You fought, struggled, reached for her, but every time you got close, she slipped away, her face twisted in terror as the darkness swallowed her whole.

You woke with a gasp, your heart pounding violently against your ribcage, your skin slick with sweat. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering in through the window. You struggled to catch your breath, your fingers digging into the sheets beneath you as you tried to shake off the remnants of the dream.

“Bad one?” Patch’s voice was low, coming from the other side of the room. You hadn’t noticed him there, sitting in an armchair, one leg propped up on the coffee table. His gaze was steady, and even in the dim light, you could see the concern etched in the hard lines of his face.

You nodded, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. “Just… couldn’t stop seeing her,” you whispered, hating the vulnerability that crept into your voice. “I keep thinking, what if we’re too late? What if she’s already—”

“Don’t go there,” Patch interrupted, his tone firm. He got up from the chair and crossed the room in a few strides, crouching down beside you. “Fear’s a poison, kid. It’ll eat you alive if you let it.” His hand rested on your shoulder, a steadying weight, and when you looked into his eye, you saw something raw, something familiar—a shared understanding of pain.

“Is that how you deal with it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Just… shut it down? Pretend you’re not scared?”

Patch’s jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away for a moment as if considering how much to reveal. “I’m not afraid of dying,” he said quietly. “Been through that more times than I can count.” He hesitated, then continued, his voice rough. “But losing people… watching them slip away and not being able to do a damn thing about it—that’s a different kind of fear.”

His words settled over you, heavy and cold. “How do you deal with it?” you asked, unable to keep the desperation from leaking into your tone.

Patch’s gaze flicked back to you, his hand still resting on your shoulder. “You don’t,” he said simply. “Not completely. But you keep moving, keep fighting. Because giving up isn’t an option. Not if you’ve got something worth fighting for.” His grip tightened just slightly, the roughness of his skin grounding you in the present.

The air between you seemed to crackle, the unspoken understanding deepening the tension that had been building since you’d met. His touch lingered, warmer than you’d expected, the lines on his face softer, as if he’d let you see a glimpse of the man behind the mask.

You found yourself leaning just a little closer, your breath mingling with his. “I’m not used to someone sticking around,” you admitted, your voice hushed.

Patch’s mouth twitched, that smirk returning, but his eye remained steady, serious. “Well, don’t get used to it,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I’m just here to see you don’t get yourself killed before we find your sister.”

“Is that all?” you murmured, the corner of your mouth curling up as you felt the familiar spark of challenge in your chest.

His gaze held yours for a long moment, something unspoken passing between you that felt like the edge of a blade, sharp and dangerous. “For now,” he replied, standing up and stepping back, the distance between you stretching out once more. “Get some more sleep. You’re going to need it.”

You nodded, lying back down, but this time, it was different. The darkness wasn’t as suffocating, the fear not as overwhelming. You weren’t sure if it was because of Patch’s words or the warmth of his touch that still lingered on your shoulder. Nonetheless, you drifted off again.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“Wake up, kid.” Patch’s voice rumbled above you, and his hand shook your shoulder with just enough force to rattle you out of sleep.

You groaned, the heaviness of exhaustion clinging to your limbs as you blinked against the dim light of the apartment. “Five more minutes…” you muttered, your voice thick with sleep.

“Sorry, sweetheart. We don’t have five more minutes,” he said dryly, stepping back and crossing his arms as he waited for you to sit up. “The Collector’s making a move. Got word he’s doing a deal in Hightown tonight. We’re running out of time.”

The mention of The Collector jolted you awake, your pulse quickening. You rubbed a hand over your face, forcing yourself to focus. “Tonight?” you echoed, pushing yourself up off the bed. “How’d you find that out?”

Patch’s smirk was a little too smug for your liking. “I’ve got my ways,” he replied, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Turns out, a lot of people are willing to talk when you give them the right incentive.” He leaned back against the wall, his gaze trailing over you as if assessing whether you were ready for what was coming next. “Or when you’ve got claws that can slice through steel.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the jeans on the nightstand. “Guess you didn’t need my help for that, then.”

His smirk deepened, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just not big on watching you sleep while I do all the work.”

You shot him a glare as you pulled on your jacket. “Don’t act like I’ve been sitting around doing nothing. I’m the one who got us that lead on Canal Street, remember?”

He gave a casual shrug, but his expression softened—just a touch. “Fair point,” he conceded. “But if you’re coming with me tonight, you’d better be ready for things to get ugly.” He tilted his head, eyeing you up and down like he was measuring whether you could handle whatever lay ahead. “The Collector’s not your average street thug. He’s a heavy hitter with connections. If he’s making a deal, it’s gonna be big and dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid of a little danger.” There was a challenge in your voice, a fire that hadn’t been there before. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or sheer desperation, but it felt like the only thing keeping you upright.

Patch’s gaze held yours, a glint of approval flashing in his eye. “You’ve really got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Just try not to let them spill out tonight.” He turned and headed toward the door, his voice drifting back to you. “The deal’s happening in one of the private clubs in Hightown. Real swanky place where the rich get their hands dirty without staining their clothes.”

You followed him, your pulse quickening with each step. “And what’s our plan? We’re just gonna walk in and ask politely where my sister is?” you asked, trying to match his casual tone, though there was a sharp edge beneath it.

Patch’s chuckle was low and rough, almost a growl. “Not exactly. We’ll blend in as much as we can,” he said, glancing over at you with a faint smirk. “I can pass for someone with money to burn. You, on the other hand, might need a bit of work.” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking over your current attire.

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “What, you’re saying I don’t look the part?” you shot back, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “I think I can fake a little high-class attitude.”

Patch tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “You’ve got plenty of attitude, that’s for sure,” he remarked, his tone dripping with teasing. “But attitude’s not gonna get you past the doorman. You need to look like you belong there. Right now, you look more like you belong in a street fight than in a place with crystal chandeliers.”

You crossed your arms, your brow lifting in defiance. “Then I guess you’d better help me, Patch,” you said, your voice laced with sarcasm. “You seem to know a lot about dressing up.”

He shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Fine, kid. I’ll see what I can dig up.” He gestured for you to follow him back down the hallway. “But if anyone asks, you’re my date for the night. Try not to embarrass me.”

Your laughter was sharp, filled with tension. “Oh, don’t worry,” you replied as you walked behind him. “I’d hate to ruin your reputation.”

Half an hour later, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror in Patch’s apartment, barely recognizing the person staring back at you. The dress he’d found was sleek and black which hugged your figure in a way that made you feel both exposed and powerful. Your hair was pulled back in a loose twist, a few tendrils framing your face to help hide the bruises. You hadn’t worn anything this fancy in… well, maybe ever. You couldn’t decide if you liked it or if it made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

“Not bad,” Patch said, leaning casually in the doorway, his arms crossed as he looked you over. “You clean up pretty well, kid.”

You turned to face him, a slow smirk curling on your lips. “You almost sound impressed,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I could pull off the high-class look?”

He shrugged, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his amusement. “Just wasn’t sure you knew how to wear anything that didn’t involve bloodstains.”

You took a step closer, your gaze locked on his. “Guess I like to keep you on your toes,” you replied, your voice low.

He didn’t move away, his expression unreadable as he stared back at you. For a moment, the air thickened between you, and you found yourself acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the way his jaw tightened just slightly as if resisting the urge to say something. But then, just as quickly, he turned and gestured toward the door.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice back to its usual gruffness. “We’ve got a date with The Collector.”

You followed him out of the apartment, your nerves buzzing beneath your skin. The thought of walking into a club filled with dangerous people didn’t exactly thrill you, but if it got you one step closer to Emily, then it was a risk you had to take.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

The club in Hightown was an entirely different world. It oozed luxury—plush velvet drapes, glittering chandeliers, and people dressed in expensive clothes that screamed wealth and power. The low thrum of jazz music hung in the air, mingling with the scent of perfume and cigar smoke. As you and Patch approached the entrance, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he murmured near your ear. “We’re supposed to blend in, remember?”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Is this where I swoon and cling to your arm?” you whispered back, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“If you want to sell it, yeah,” he replied, his tone half-teasing, half-serious. “And if anyone asks, I’m taking you on a private tour of the club. Just follow my lead.”

You took a deep breath, letting the warmth of his touch steady you as you stepped inside. Your gaze swept over the room, searching for anything or anyone that looked out of place. But everyone here seemed to belong—except you.

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly as you entered, his body tensing ever so subtly. “The deal’s happening in one of the private rooms upstairs,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “We need to get up there without drawing attention.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you took in the sight of the staircase leading to the upper levels. The plush carpet, the gold-trimmed railings, the way the lights seemed dimmer up there—it all felt like a line you weren’t sure you could cross. A rush of panic tightened your chest. This was a different kind of danger than what you’d faced so far. Up until now, you’d been chasing shadows, following vague leads, but here… here you’d be walking straight into the heart of it.

“How are we going to get up there?” you asked, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. Your eyes flicked to the hulking security guard posted at the base of the stairs, his arms folded over a chest that looked like it could stop a freight train. “I don’t think saying you’re giving a private tour is going to cut it.”

Patch’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, his gaze sliding over to the guard and then back to you. “Good thing I just came up with a better plan than that,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. He pulled you snugly against his side. “Just follow my lead, sweetheart,” he added, his breath warm against your ear. “And try not to blush.”

You barely had time to react before he steered you toward the staircase, his grip on you firm but gentle. You glanced up at him, narrowing your eyes. “So what’s the plan?” you whispered through gritted teeth, trying not to stiffen at the way his hand rested against your hip. “Charm our way past him?”

“Something like that,” Patch replied, his voice laced with amusement. “Just play along, act like you can’t get enough of me.”

“I’ll try to contain myself,” you shot back, matching his smirk.

As you approached the guard, you plastered a flirtatious smile on your face, leaning a little closer to Patch as if you were hanging on his every word. The guard’s gaze flicked to you, then to Patch, his expression shifting to one of suspicion.

“Upstairs is off-limits,” the guard said, his voice a low rumble. “Private event.”

Patch didn’t miss a beat, flashing a grin that was somehow both casual and threatening. “Come on, big guy,” he said, his tone smooth. “I’m just showing my girl here a good time. She’s never been to a place like this before.” He tightened his hold on your waist, his fingers brushing the exposed skin just above your hip. “Figured I’d give her a taste of the finer things.”

You caught the guard’s gaze, widening your eyes just a bit, adding a hint of breathlessness to your tone. “He’s right,” you said, forcing a giggle that felt foreign coming from your lips. “I’ve heard about the view from upstairs… I’d hate to miss out.” You leaned into Patch as though seeking his warmth, hoping the performance was convincing enough.

The guard’s eyes narrowed, flicking over you with a mix of skepticism and something darker. He seemed to hesitate, his gaze drifting to Patch as if weighing the consequences of letting you through.

“Look,” Patch said, his voice dropping an octave, adding a dangerous edge. “I’d hate to cause a scene, but if you’re going to make this difficult, I can always take my business elsewhere.” His hand shifted to your lower back, his thumb brushing in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

The guard grunted, his jaw tightening. “Fine,” he said reluctantly, stepping aside. “But if anyone asks, you didn’t come up this way. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” Patch replied, giving the guard a curt nod. As soon as you started up the stairs, his grip on you relaxed slightly, though his arm remained draped around you.

When you reached the first landing, you pulled away, shooting him a glare. “You enjoyed that way too much,” you whispered, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

Patch’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Maybe I just like seeing you squirm,” he teased, his gaze flicking down to your flushed cheeks. “You played the part well, though. Almost had me convinced.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your skin still buzzed where his hand had been. “I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve had to sweet-talk your way into someplace you’re not supposed to be.”

His smirk widened. “You’d be surprised.”

Before you could come up with a retort, the distant sound of raised voices drifted down the hallway to your left. You stiffened, instinctively reaching for Patch’s arm. He noticed the change in your posture, his expression hardening in an instant.

“That’s coming from one of the private rooms,” he murmured, his gaze darting down the corridor. “Could be our guy.” Without waiting for your response, he took your hand and guided you forward, moving quietly toward the source of the commotion.

The closer you got, the more you could make out—a gruff voice barking orders, someone else protesting in a panicked tone. As you reached the door, which was slightly ajar, you caught a glimpse of a man in an expensive suit, gesturing animatedly while another figure, partially obscured by shadows, sat calmly at a table, watching with an air of detached amusement.

Patch glanced at you, his eye gleaming with intensity. “Stay behind me,” he whispered. “And if things get ugly, don’t try to play the hero.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, Patch had already nudged the door open with his shoulder, striding into the room as if he owned the place. You followed a step behind, your pulse racing as the room fell silent and all eyes turned toward you.

The man at the table—a thin, elegant figure with cold eyes—raised an eyebrow, a slow, serpentine smile spreading across his face. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice as smooth as silk. “What do we have here? I wasn’t expecting company.”

Patch’s smirk was all teeth, dangerous and casual. “Just thought I’d drop by,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Heard you were doing a little business tonight. Figured I’d see if you had something I might be interested in.”

The Collector’s gaze flicked from Patch to you, lingering just a bit too long for your comfort. “And who’s this lovely creature?” he asked, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you brought dates to negotiations.”

Patch’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “She’s not for sale if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, his voice low and edged with a warning. “But you might have something—or someone—I’m looking for.”

The Collector’s smile faltered, and for a moment, his gaze turned calculating. “I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for,” he said slowly. “And how much you’re willing to pay.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken, the tension vibrating like a live wire. You could feel the Collector’s eyes boring into you, as though he was trying to peel away your façade and see what you were really after.

You swallowed hard, keeping your expression composed as you glanced up at Patch, hoping he had a plan. There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze that made your stomach twist.

“I heard you have girls for sale,” Patch said, his voice calm but edged with danger. He made sure to keep a measured distance between himself and the Collector, his tone deceptively casual. “And I’m looking to buy one. Willing to pay quite a lot.”

The Collector's lips curved into a slow, mocking smile as he shook his head. “I don’t know where you heard that,” he replied, his voice a smooth purr. Rising from his chair, he placed his ringed fingers on the table and leaned forward. “But that’s not the kind of business I’m in.”

His gaze found yours, his eyes cold and piercing. You felt a shiver wash over your entire body like an icy hand sliding down your spine. The way he looked at you was invasive, stripping away your bravado layer by layer. Patch’s hand on your waist tightened ever so slightly, a warning to stay calm.

“I guess I misheard, then,” Patch said, his tone even, but you could sense the tension beneath it, like a taut wire ready to snap.

The Collector’s smirk widened as he straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “Is that why you brought her here?” he asked, raising a brow as his eyes raked slowly over your figure. “To distract me? She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll give you that. But you must think me a fool, Patch.” He chuckled a low, contemptuous sound. “You think I don’t know who you are?”

Patch’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, you felt a surge of anger rise in your chest, hot and raw. You weren’t about to stand there and let this bastard talk circles around you, not when Emily could be here—could be just behind one of those doors.

You stepped forward, pulling away from Patch’s grasp, and leveled your gaze at the Collector. “Stop pretending you don’t know,” you said, your voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Where’s my sister?” You took another step, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I know you’re the one who took her. Just tell me where she is!”

The Collector's smile didn’t falter, but a glint of amusement danced in his eyes as if he found your outburst entertaining. “Your sister?” he repeated, his tone dripping with false innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. You see, I conduct legitimate business here. But I suppose if you were willing to make it worth my while, I could—”

The door to the private room swung open, cutting off his words. Two of the Collector’s men strode in, dragging a small group of girls with them. Your breath caught in your throat, the world narrowing to a pinpoint as you scanned their faces.

And then you saw her.

Emily.

She was hunched over, her hair tangled and her clothes dirty, but there was no mistaking the familiar curve of her cheek, the frightened wideness of her eyes. She looked up, her gaze finding yours, and her expression crumpled into a mix of relief and terror. “Sis?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Emily!” you cried, starting to move toward her, but one of the men stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

Patch's claws shot out with a sharp snikt, his voice turning into a low growl. “Move,” he said to the guard, his tone like gravel grinding together. “Or I start decorating this room with your blood.”

The guard hesitated, glancing back at the Collector, who simply raised a hand, signaling him to stand down. “Ah, there she is,” the Collector said with a sigh as if he were showing off a piece of fine art. “You know, Patch, I really didn’t want this to get messy. But since you’ve found what you’re looking for, I’m afraid we have a little problem.”

Patch stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you. “The only problem here,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “is how many pieces I’m going to leave you in.”

The Collector’s smile faded, and he took a step back. “You think you can just walk out of here with her?” he said, gesturing to his men. “I don’t think so.” His tone sharpened. “Get them.”

Before you could blink, the room erupted into chaos. The guards lunged forward, and Patch was already in motion, his claws slashing through the air in a deadly arc. The first guard barely had time to react before Patch’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. The second guard swung a baton, aiming for Patch’s head, but Patch ducked, his claws slicing across the man’s chest in one swift motion.

You ran to Emily, pulling her behind you as you backed toward the door. “We’re getting out of here,” you whispered fiercely, your hands trembling as you gripped her arm. “Just stay close.”

As you turned, one of the guards grabbed you by the shoulder, yanking you back. You lashed out instinctively, throwing an elbow into his ribs, but his grip didn’t loosen. Emily screamed, and in that split second, you saw Patch’s eyes flash with a wild, feral rage as he barreled toward the guard, knocking him away from you with a force that sent the man crashing into the wall.

“Go!” Patch shouted, shoving you and Emily toward the door as he whirled around to face the Collector. “Get her out of here!”

You hesitated for a heartbeat, your gaze flicking between Patch and the exit. There was something in his eyes—a promise, or maybe a threat—that made it clear he wasn’t leaving until this was finished.

“Come on, Em,” you said, pulling your sister toward the exit. “We have to go. Now.”

As you stumbled into the hallway, you glanced back one last time. Patch was still there, standing between you and the Collector, his claws gleaming in the dim light, a snarl on his lips. Whatever happened next, you knew he wouldn’t let anyone get to you or Emily without going through him first.

You ran, Emily’s hand clutched tightly in yours, your heart pounding with a mixture of relief and fear. You had her—you finally had her. But you also knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

You hurtled down the stairs, pulling Emily along behind you, weaving through the throng of well-dressed patrons who barely glanced your way. Panic thrummed in your veins, making each step feel like a jolt of electricity. Your grip on Emily’s wrist was tight, almost desperate, as you fought to keep her on her feet. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and every few steps she stumbled, but you didn’t slow down. You couldn’t.

The club's entrance loomed ahead, and you shoved past the last of the guests, bursting through the doors and out onto the street. The night air hit you like a slap, a mix of humid heat and the lingering scent of car exhaust. You glanced wildly around, searching for anything that looked like an escape.

There was no doubt in your mind that he had eyes all over Hightown. Staying in one place too long was as good as signing your own death warrant.

Emily stumbled, nearly dragging you down with her. “Em, we have to go,” you urged, your voice strained as you pulled her back to her feet. “I know you’re hurt, but we can’t stop now.”

She looked up at you through the tangled mess of her hair, her face pale and drawn, dark circles underlining her wide, fearful eyes. “I know,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I’m trying.” You could see the exhaustion settling over her, her limbs heavy and sluggish from whatever she had endured.

You spotted a taxi at the curb and practically hauled Emily toward it, banging on the window. “Please, we need a ride!” you shouted, your voice pitched with desperation.

The driver’s eyes flicked over you and Emily—her dirty clothes, your frantic expression. He shook his head quickly, his gaze hardening. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice muffled behind the glass. “Go find someone else.”

“Please!” you begged, yanking open the door, only for the driver to slam it shut again. “Just drive us out of here! I can pay—”

“I said no!” the driver barked, throwing the car into gear and peeling away from the curb, leaving you standing there with Emily slumped against your side.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes scanning the streets for another option. This was Hightown though, and here, you and Emily stuck out like a sore thumb—two bedraggled figures in a sea of polished suits and cocktail dresses. Even now, people were starting to notice you, their curious stares prickling the back of your neck.

You wrapped an arm around Emily’s waist and started moving, half-dragging her along as you navigated through the winding streets. “Come on, Em,” you whispered, forcing strength into your voice. “Just a little further.”

Your pace was frantic, your steps uneven as you guided Emily down narrow alleys and across cobblestone squares. More than once, you heard voices behind you—shouts, the click of heels on the pavement, the low rumble of an engine as a black car turned a corner. Each time, you forced yourself to keep moving, ignoring the burn in your legs and the way Emily’s weight seemed to grow heavier with each step.

You turned another corner and spotted a familiar building in the distance, the sleek high-rise where Patch’s apartment was located. It wasn’t much, but it was somewhere safe, somewhere out of sight. “We’ll go to Patch’s,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Just… we just need to get there.”

Emily nodded weakly, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she clung to you. “Okay… okay,” she mumbled, though you weren’t sure how much longer she could hold out.

When you finally stumbled into the underground parking garage of the high-rise, you were both out of breath, your dress sticking to your skin with sweat. You dragged Emily toward the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly as if that would make it arrive faster. The doors finally slid open, and you hurried inside, practically collapsing against the wall as you hit the button for the top floor.

The elevator ascended with a dull hum, the minutes stretching out painfully, each one feeling like a lifetime. When the doors opened to Patch’s apartment, you half-carried Emily down the hallway, her head lolling against your shoulder until you set her down on the couch. Her eyes were already closing as exhaustion overtook her.

“Just rest for a minute,” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I’ll get you some water, and then get you cleaned up.”

You turned toward the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers for anything you could use to clean up Emily—cloths, bandages, a bottle of antiseptic. By the time you returned to the couch, Emily had already passed out, her breaths coming slow and even, her small body curled into itself like she was trying to disappear. You dipped the cloth in warm water and gently wiped the dirt and sweat from her face, your heart aching at how fragile she looked.

The elevator doors slowly open, and you jumped to your feet, the cloth slipping from your hand. Patch strode in, his white suit spattered with blood—some of it fresh and still glistening in the overhead light. He moved with a noticeable limp, his jaw set in a grim line, but there was a wild energy about him, a rawness that hadn’t yet settled. It was like he’d just walked off a battlefield and wasn’t entirely convinced he’d left it behind.

“Patch?” you breathed, your pulse quickening as the elevator doors shut behind him. “Are you… okay?”

He glanced at you, then at Emily on the couch, and for a fleeting moment, his expression softened, a quiet tenderness flashing in his eyes. But it disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual gruffness. “I’ve had worse,” he replied, his voice rough around the edges. He rolled his shoulder, testing for injuries, and you watched in awe as the faint cuts and bruises on his skin began to fade, healing right before your eyes.

You stepped around the couch, taking a hesitant step closer to him, your gaze locked on the bloodstain spreading across his pant leg. “How…?” you began your voice barely above a whisper, your breath catching in your throat. “Apparently, there’s more to you than I thought.”

Patch met your gaze, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing across his face. “I don’t go spilling all my secrets, sweetheart,” he said, his tone casual, though there was a faint vulnerability beneath it. “Healing factor. Fast one. Comes in handy.” His lips curled into a sardonic half-smile like he was letting you in on a joke only he understood.

You blinked, trying to process what he’d just said. “And here I was willing to risk my life for you,” you teased, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “All this time, you could just… heal?”

Patch took a step toward you, wincing slightly as his weight shifted onto his injured leg. “Healing’s not instant,” he muttered, his tone dropping lower. “And the son of a bitch got me pretty good.” He paused, his gaze flicking to Emily. “Enough about me. Is the kid okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” you replied, but your eyes were still on his leg. The blood was soaking through the fabric, a dark, spreading stain that told you he wasn’t healing as quickly as he usually did. “Sit down,” you said, your voice firmer than before. “Let me take a look at that.”

Patch started to protest, shaking his head. “I told you, I’ll be fine. It’s already healing—”

“Yeah, but it’s being slow about it,” you cut him off, your gaze hardening with a determination that left no room for argument. “You said it yourself—he got you good. Now, sit down and let me help.”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to argue, his jaw tightening, but then he relented with a resigned sigh, limping over to the armchair and lowering himself into it. “Fine, but don’t get any ideas about playing nurse, sweetheart,” he grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes as he watched you kneel beside him.

“Just shut up and let me help you,” you shot back, grabbing the first aid kit you’d set aside for Emily and popping it open. “Take off your pants.”

Patch arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Usually, I get dinner first.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint flush that crept up your neck. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, as Patch stood. He slid down his pants revealing a deep cut in his leg. The skin was jagged and raw, already knitting itself back together but slower than you’d expected.

You worked in silence for a moment, cleaning the gash and wrapping a bandage around his leg with steady hands. Patch watched you, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was heavy, almost curious. You could feel the intensity of it, and it made the air seem thicker, more intimate.

“Why is it taking so long?” you asked quietly, your fingers brushing against his skin as you secured the bandage.

He let out a breath, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it before. “Healing takes time,” he said, leaning back in the chair as he studied your face. “Some wounds are deeper than others.” There was a weight to his words that felt like more than just the injury itself.

You glanced up, meeting his gaze, and before you could stop yourself, you reached for the eye patch he always wore. “And this?” you asked, your fingers hesitating just an inch away from the black fabric. “Is it just for show?”

Patch’s expression tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then, with a sigh that seemed to carry years of weariness, he reached up and removed the eye patch himself. Underneath, his eye was perfectly normal—sharp, hazel, and very much intact.

You blinked in surprise, your breath catching. “Why…?”

“Disguise,” he said simply, his voice rougher than usual. “Keeps people guessing, like I told you. Besides…” He gave a wry smile. “Makes it easier to be someone else when you don’t look like yourself.”

“Someone else?” you echoed, your voice softer now. The way he looked at you, so unguarded, made your chest tighten.

“Undercover,” he explained, leaning a little closer. “Madripoor’s a cesspool of crime and corruption, and someone’s got to keep the worst of it from spreading. Not everyone needs to know who I really am.” There was a pause, then his voice dropped to a murmur, “Until now.”

The honesty in his eyes, that raw vulnerability he rarely showed, made the space between you feel impossibly small. You could see the weariness etched into the lines of his face, the scars that healing couldn’t erase. For the first time, you realized that his roughness wasn’t just armor—it was a way of surviving, of keeping the world at arm’s length.

Without thinking, you reached up and cupped his cheek, your thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you said softly, your voice steady even as your pulse quickened. “You’ve done enough for me, for Emily. Let me help you for once.”

Patch’s gaze flickered, a mix of surprise and warmth. His hand came up to cover yours, his touch rough but careful. “I don’t let a lot of people in, kid,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “But… maybe you’re an exception.”

The words hung in the air between you, thickening the tension until it felt almost suffocating. He leaned in, just a fraction, his breath brushing against your lips. “If I didn’t know any better,” he said, his voice low and rough, “I’d say you’re trying to get me to stick around.”

You smiled, your heart racing as you met his gaze. “Guess I like the idea of you keeping an eye on me.”

Patch chuckled softly, the sound vibrating between you. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he whispered, his lips just inches from yours.

“Guess that’s why you like me,” you replied, closing the distance just a little more.

Before the moment could tip over into something deeper, Patch’s expression shifted, and he pulled back slightly, his tone turning serious. “You can’t stay here,” he said, his voice low and steady. “They’ll come looking, and you need to be gone before that happens.”

“You want me to leave Madripoor?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “Where would we even go?”

Patch rose to his feet, his gaze steady on yours. “Somewhere they won’t think to look,” he replied, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips as though trying to lighten the weight of his words. “Somewhere you and your sister can actually get a fresh start. Away from all this.”

You followed him into the kitchen, the silence stretching between you, filled with things you didn’t know how to say. “I don’t have money or... anywhere to stay,” you murmured, your fingers curling into fists as you tried to keep the fear from creeping into your voice.

“I’ll take care of it,” Patch replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he’d already made up his mind. He stopped in front of you, taking a step closer, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. His presence was overwhelming, filling up the space between you until there was nothing else. You could feel his breath on your skin, the intensity of his gaze boring into yours, like he was searching for something you hadn’t yet offered him.

You swallowed hard, the tension thickening like a slow, bittersweet ache in your chest. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you… coming with us?”

His gaze softened, a mixture of regret and something unspoken passing across his face. “I can’t,” he murmured, his hand lifting to brush lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His touch was careful and tender, as though he was committing the feel of you to memory.

“There’s still work to be done here. I killed most of the Collector’s men, but he got away. Even if I did manage to track him down, someone else would just take his place. It’s a never-ending cycle.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “And I can’t just walk away knowing he’s still out there.”

“But it’s safer if you come with us,” you insisted, leaning into his touch, your pulse racing beneath your skin. “It’s safer if we stick together.”

Patch shook his head slowly, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. “It’s safer for you and your sister if I’m not around,” he said. “You don’t need me making things more dangerous than they already are.” His thumb continued to trace gentle circles against your cheek, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. “You can handle yourself, sweetheart. You’ve proven that.”

The words, meant to be reassuring, only made your chest tighten with something that felt like a loss. You reached up and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, keeping his hand against your skin for a moment longer. “What if I don’t want to handle it alone?” you whispered, the honesty slipping out before you could catch it.

He looked at you then, his hazel eyes searching yours with a depth that made your breath hitch. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said softly. “And you’ll be even stronger for her.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the couch where Emily lay sleeping, and the tenderness in his eyes was almost painful.

You leaned up and pressed a light kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the rough stubble. “Thank you, Patch,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as though savoring the touch, and then pulled back, his expression hardening slightly as he took a step away. “Get some rest,” he said, his tone rougher now, as though putting a barrier back up between you. “You’ll need it for the flight.”

You ended up sharing his bed, the mattress firm beneath you and the covers smelling faintly of leather and cigar smoke. You lay beside Patch, the silence settling over you like a weight. It was strange, being so close to him, feeling the warmth of his body beside you but knowing that this was temporary—just a moment stolen from the chaos of everything else.

You turned slightly to face him, your hand resting on the space between you. “You’re sure you won’t come with us?” you asked quietly, the darkness making it easier to admit how much you wanted him to say yes.

His gaze shifted to meet yours, his expression unreadable. “You know I can’t,” he murmured, his voice strained as if it hurt him to say the words. “This life… it’s not for you. It’s not for her.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face, the touch lingering. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be watching out for you. From a distance.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, your chest aching at the thought of leaving him behind. “You’d better,” you whispered, turning your face into the pillow to hide the sting of tears. “Or I’ll come back here and drag you out of Madripoor myself.”

His chuckle was soft, almost tender, as he reached over and squeezed your hand. “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart,” he said, but there was a quiet sadness in his tone that told you he wished things could be different.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

A few hours later, Patch drove the three of you to the airport in the dead of night. The roads were mostly empty, the city still and quiet, as though it was holding its breath. Emily dozed in the back seat, exhausted from everything she’d been through, while you stared out the window at the passing lights, your heart heavy.

When he pulled up to the curb outside the terminal, Patch cut the engine and turned to you, his face partially shadowed in the dim light. “I’ve already arranged for your tickets,” he said. “The flight will take you far enough away from here that the Collector won’t be able to reach you. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded, struggling to find the right words, knowing that nothing you said would be enough. “Thank you,” you managed, your voice breaking slightly. “For saving her. For… everything.”

Patch reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped free. “You’re tougher than you look, kid,” he murmured. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You leaned into his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “And what about you?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Will you be okay?”

His mouth twitched into a small, sad smile. “I’ve been through worse,” he said, though his eyes betrayed a loneliness that ran deeper than words could express. “And I’ve survived. So will you.”

You nodded, and then before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and kissed him—a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of goodbyes and promises left unspoken. He didn’t pull away, but when you finally did, there was a look in his eyes that told you he’d carry the memory of this moment with him, wherever he went.

“Go,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Before I change my mind and drag you back with me.”

You gave him one last, bittersweet smile, then turned and helped Emily out of the car. As you walked toward the terminal, you glanced back over your shoulder, half-expecting him to follow.

Yet, Patch stayed in the car, watching you go, a lone figure against the darkness of Madripoor. Even though you knew you were doing the right thing, it felt like leaving a piece of yourself behind.

˚ ༘ ๋࣭ ࣪ 🀣⋆｡˚

“You’ll be fine!” you called out, laughter bubbling up in your voice as you watched Emily wave to you from the passenger seat of her friend’s car.

“I’ll text you when I get there!” she yelled back, her voice bright and carefree in a way that still felt fragile to you. You smiled and nodded, giving her one last wave as the car pulled away, the taillights disappearing down the street.

As soon as she was out of sight, you let out a long sigh, the tension easing from your shoulders just a bit. Even after nearly two years of being away from Madripoor, that gnawing feeling of worry hadn’t left you. It was a constant presence, a shadow that followed you around no matter how much time had passed. You still slept with one eye open, double-checked every lock, and scanned the street whenever you stepped outside.

Letting Emily live a normal life again had taken everything in you. She deserved to go to college, to have friends, to be young and reckless without always looking over her shoulder. You’d even taken up martial arts classes just to convince yourself that you could protect her if the past ever tried to catch up. But every time she left your sight, that familiar knot of fear tightened in your chest.

“Surprised you let her go,” a familiar, gruff voice rumbled from behind you.

You spun around, already feeling the sting of tears prickling at your eyes as if your body knew before your mind did.

There he was—standing just a few feet away, his broad figure unmistakable even after all this time. He was different from the last time you’d seen him. Gone was the bloodstained white suit and eye patch. Instead, he wore a plain white shirt and jeans with a leather jacket slung casually over his shoulders, his hazel eyes, both of them, piercing and clear.

“Patch?” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat as disbelief crashed over you. For a moment, you wondered if you were hallucinating, if your constant vigilance had finally taken its toll and made you see things that weren’t there.

He nodded, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips, that familiar hint of mischief in his gaze. “Told you that was just a disguise, sweetheart,” he said, his voice softer than you remembered. “Call me Logan.”

A strangled laugh escaped you, and before you knew it, you were moving, closing the distance between you in a few hurried steps. You threw your arms around him, the leather of his jacket cool against your cheek as you buried your face in his chest. He stiffened for a moment, as if surprised, then wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly. It was like something inside you finally unclenched, a pressure you hadn’t even realized was there releasing all at once.

“You’re real,” you breathed against his chest, your voice trembling. “You’re actually here.”

“Last time I checked,” he murmured, his tone carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm. But there was a warmth in the way he spoke, a tenderness in the way his hand rested on the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “Figured it was about time I came to see you. Make sure you’re not getting into too much trouble.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, blinking away the tears that blurred your vision. “I thought… I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly.

His smile softened, and he reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You know me, kid. I don’t stay away forever,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your heart twist. “Besides, I made a promise, didn’t I? To keep an eye on you.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hands still resting against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. “Two years is a long time,” you whispered. “I didn’t know if… if you made it.”

“Had a few close calls,” he admitted, a shadow passing over his features before he pushed it away. “But I’m here now.” His gaze grew more intense, his hand still warm against your cheek. “And so are you. Stronger than when I left. I can see it.”

You managed a small, bittersweet smile, remembering all the nights you’d spent wondering where he was, if he was alive if he ever thought about you. “I tried to be,” you said. “For her. For myself.”

“And you did good,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “Better than good.”

The words settled over you like a balm, soothing old wounds. You reached up and placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch. “Why now?” you asked quietly. “What made you come here?”

Logan’s gaze flickered, and he let out a breath that seemed to carry years of unspoken thoughts. “I finished what I started in Madripoor…and because I couldn’t stay away any longer,” he confessed, his thumb tracing slow, tender circles on your skin. “I thought… maybe I owed you more than just disappearing.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the honesty in his tone. “So… you’re staying?” you asked, hope threading through your voice despite yourself.

Logan hesitated, a faint smile touching his lips. “We’ll see,” he said. “For now, I’m here. And if you’ll have me… maybe I’ll stick around.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, a soft laugh escaping you as more tears finally spilled over. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” you whispered, reaching up to swipe at your damp cheeks.

His grin widened the familiar glint in his eyes making him look younger, almost carefree. “Yeah, well… I guess that’s why you like me,” he teased.

You laughed and leaned your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin. “Maybe,” you whispered.

For the first time in a long while, that gnawing feeling of fear seemed to ebb, replaced by something softer. You stood there in his arms, the world feeling a little less dangerous and you let yourself believe that maybe the future didn’t seem so bleak anymore.

185 notes · View notes

freyaphoria · 9 months ago

Text

Run Away Together (Part II)

a/n: It's me again! I apologize for making you wait months for the second part of this. First of all, this is the continuation of the first part I wrote, the main story. Since everything got so mixed, I feel the need to state it again. This story is the continuation of the fic where reader and hwa tried to escape and joong shot reader in the leg. I will start writing the second part of Passion to Punishment. And I would like to thank my babe, @matzrionette , for her contributions♡ PLEASE READ THE FIC SHE WROTE, I READ IT THREE TIMES EVERY DAY

tw: yan!hongjoong, poor hwa:( , blood, violence, bone fracture, failed escape attempt, punishment, swearing, knife, gun, killing, being shot, fever, painkiller use, body bruise, bone breaking with an iron rod, fainting, slightly gore, manipulation, hurt comfort(HAJDMDJ sorry), I had so much fun writing Jongho's parts, Yunho is at the crime scene AGAIN, kinda seongjoong

wc: 6.5k

taglist: @aim-blossom

Yan!Matz masterlist

<- previous part

Hongjoong, with his hands covered in blood from bandaging his new doll, opened the basement door, locked the two of them inside, and went upstairs. He had to do it; he had to hurt them. The tension in the air was palpable as he ascended the creaky wooden stairs, each step echoing the weight of his decision. Hongjoong's mind raced with conflicting emotions. He knew that to protect you, protect Seonghwa, drastic measures were necessary, even if it meant compromising his own morals. The blood on his hands was a stark reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you here. As he reached the top of the stairs, he know that the consequences of his actions would haunt him for a long time to come.

Seonghwa’s attempt to escape after months, and your somehow convincing him, was an indication that Hongjoong’s plans were going well. Did Seonghwa breaking his rules make him unhappy? Yes, it did cause him a measure of displeasure. However, at this moment, what truly mattered was not Hongjoong’s feelings. After all, in the grand scheme of things, he would ultimately get what he desired; he had the power to make Seonghwa worship him once again. That was not what mattered right now.

After stepping out of the shower, Hongjoong meticulously put on his new clothes, carefully combed, and dried his growing hair. This grooming routine ensured he looked exceedingly neat, normal, and entirely harmless. His youthful yet captivating appearance was a highly effective tool in gaining the trust of his unsuspecting victims. People were drawn to his neat, his warm smile, the soft and gentle tone of his voice, the light that sparkled in his eyes, the professional gestures he employed while speaking, and the seamless harmony of the words he chose. Just like Seonghwa did...

If he lingered at home any longer, he would be late, so he quickly got ready and packed his belongings into a backpack. The weather had gotten colder compared to two hours ago when he had shot one of his victims and dragged the other inside, and he was angry with himself for not wearing his jacket and putting it in his bag. After quickly getting into his car and starting it, he turned on the heater and took out the paper from the glove compartment. He knew where he was going, but he still wanted to check. He saw photos of a man in the file. In the first photo on his profile, the old man's wrinkled eyes were full of life and shone with a light that was unexpected from his age. Hongjoong took pleasure in very few things as much as he took pleasure in making lively people lose their zest for life.

When he reviewed the file again and reached the last page, he suddenly hit his forehead with his hand in frustration. He was supposed to inform someone before leaving the house, but it had completely slipped his mind. He quickly went to the contacts on his phone, scrolling through the list, and was just about to find the name of the person he needed to inform when the phone rang. The unexpected call interrupted his search, and he hesitated for a moment before answering. When he saw who was calling, he realized he was indeed late, and the person on the other end of the line was likely angry with him.

“Why the fuck are you late?”

“How the fuck are you talking to your hyung like that?” Hongjoong fastened his seatbelt and put the files back in the glove compartment.

"Hyung my ass. I’m freezing here, hurry up or I’ll screw you the first moment I see you.”

“Shut up, I’m in the car, I’m coming"

“Hurry up, asshole.” All he wanted was a little respect, but he was looking for it in the wrong place. Respect was currently in the basement, probably calming down his new little lover. Hongjoong drove the car out of the parking lot and hit the road.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

You had started to come to your senses. Hongjoong, the most considerate person in the world, had taken the bullet out of your leg without any anesthetic and stitched it up, causing you to pass out from the pain. But being extremely considerate, he had given you a choice: “Pick your own punishment, either I take that bullet out without any drugs, or I don’t take it out and it stays there.” You were going to choose the second option at first, but because living with a constantly bleeding wound that nearly exposed your bone and getting infected in this dusty basement would be impossible, you chose the first option.

And oh, when he inserted a big tweezer into your leg to remove the bullet, the pain was so intense that you wished you would die from the infection. The searing agony felt like it would never end. Maybe you didn't realize he hurt you so much on purpose, but the last thing you remember is Seonghwa holding your hand tightly, his grip firm and unwavering. His eyes were swollen and red from crying, tears streaming down his face as he whispered words of comfort, trying to keep you conscious and hopeful. The room around you seemed to blur, but Seonghwa's presence was the only thing that kept you grounded in those harrowing moments. Still, Seonghwa wasn’t very successful and you left yourself in the darkness of your mind.

"Angel! You're awake!" As Seonghwa crawled towards you, you tried to sit up from where you were lying. The constant pain in your leg and the cold spreading throughout your body made you jump and shiver suddenly. "Wait, don't get up suddenly." When you looked at him, you saw that his legs were bruised and swollen. It looked like the bruises on his skin were about to burst and bleed, as if he had been hit by something very hard. "H-Hwa? What happened to you?" your voice came out very hoarse, all that shouting and gasping in pain had dried your throat. Despite feeling freezing cold, the warmth coming from within you made you uncomfortable and you started to shiver. "Don't worry, I'm fine, but you have a fever. We need to bring it down." Seonghwa placed his hand on your sweaty forehead to check your temperature. His hands were trembling, and if you looked closely, you could also see his lips trembling.

"Is he still here?" you asked in a low and nervous voice, your eyes darting around the dark basement as if expecting him to appear any second. He shook his head slowly, his expression a mix of relief and concern. "He left about half an hour ago," he replied, his voice steady as he tried to stay calm and not alarm you.

He dragged himself on the ground again, his movements slow and labored, trying to reach the bathroom in the basement. You watched him with growing anxiety, the silence between you heavy with unspoken questions. "What did he do to your legs?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, but he didn't answer. Instead, he wet a tissue and came back to you, his face pale and etched with pain.

"Hwa, did he break your legs?" you asked again, your voice trembling as you tried to understand the extent of his injuries. He looked at you with haunted eyes, the silence stretching on, making your heart pound even harder.

When the wet and cold tissue touched your forehead, you shivered and wanted to pull back, but Seonghwa held your head with one hand, preventing you from retreating. “It doesn’t matter. We need to lower your fever first.” As he moved the napkin from your face to your neck, you flinched more and tried to move forward to escape, but your injured leg hit Seonghwa’s probably broken leg. A deep, pain-filled groan came from Seonghwa, and he tried to hold his leg. “Seonghwa! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do that.” While Seonghwa continued to writhe in pain, he nodded at you and tried to smile as much as the pain allowed. “It-it’s okay. It-it will pass soon- Agh….” “We need to wrap your leg, there must be a cloth here, right?” When Seonghwa saw you moving, he grabbed your shoulder and tried to lay you back down. “I’ll take care of it, you worry about yourself. Your fever is too high.” He could never be convinced. Once he set his mind on something, he would definitely do it, and if he didn’t want to do something, he would never do it, so you didn’t argue with him further.

Seonghwa managed to lower your fever a bit and found a painkiller from the depths of the basement; its expiration date had passed by 3 months, and normally you shouldn’t take it, but it was a mild herbal medicine, and you really needed it. To see if you would be okay after taking it, Seonghwa tried it himself first and, not seeing any side effects, gave it to you as well. And surprisingly, it worked. Seonghwa hid these medicines in one of the most cluttered parts of the basement in case such an event happened again. As your pain eased, your fatigue fully surfaced, and you let yourself fall asleep. Seeing that you fell asleep willingly without passing out, Seonghwa felt a bit relieved. As he saw your fever dropping and the bleeding from your wound stopping, he remembered he needed to treat himself.

His leg was extremely swollen and constantly aching, a persistent pain that seemed to get worse with each passing moment. The pain was so intense that it made him feel dizzy and lightheaded, as if the world around him was spinning, and the painkiller he took didn’t work for him. He thought about taking another one but didn’t, in case you needed it again since it worked for you. Hongjoong had probably broken both of his legs with an iron rod, right below the calf.

He couldn't stand on both of his legs; previously, he had hit his leg with an iron rod because he had tried to escape, but at that time, he could still stand a little. This time, it was impossible. It must have been definitely broken. The sharp pain was spreading from his ankle to his thighs, and from there to his entire body, becoming unbearable. It felt as if his entire body was broken, with pain everywhere. Every part of him hurt with each heartbeat and blood pump, making it impossible for him to stay still. The pain was making him dizzy, and his vision was starting to darken. If he didn't pull himself together, he would faint, and if he woke up only to find that Hongjoong's anger hadn't subsided and he attacked her again, he wouldn't be able to protect her while unconscious. But why was he protecting her in the first place? Was it because he felt guilty? Because he had given Hongjoong the idea to kidnap her? Maybe Hongjoong should have killed her right there.

He needed to pull himself together; he was sweating profusely, even in this cold basement. Crawling was excruciating, as if his leg was being sanded with sandpaper and his skin was being set on fire. Nevertheless, he had to wash his face. He had to do something, or he would lose himself. He pulled himself forward using his arms towards the sink. His arms also hurt; Hongjoong had hit his arm when he raised it to defend himself, but at least it wasn't broken. Compared to the pain in his leg, the pain in his arm was nothing. But the most painful thing was breaking Hongjoong's trust.

He shouldn't have done it, yes, he had gone too far. He had ruined Hongjoong's trust in 5 minutes and didn't know if Hongjoong would trust him the same way again. But freedom had seemed very tempting. It meant he still wasn't a completely obedient toy to him, he needed more shaping. He noted to himself that when Hongjoong returned home, he would need to fall at his feet, apologize hundreds of times, and beg for his forgiveness.

He gave a sigh of relief when he reached the sink with tears streaming down his face from the pain. It had taken him about 5 minutes to get there from your side, even though it would normally take a regular person 10 seconds. If you suddenly called him, he couldn't come immediately, so he had to finish it quickly and return to your side. He lifted himself using the strength from his arms, each muscle straining with effort, and bent over the sink. He tried not to put any weight on his feet, which throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. When he quickly washed his face with the cold water, the sensation momentarily jolting him awake, he let himself fall back to the ground and groaned in pain. He balled up a piece of toilet paper, wet it under the faucet, and, leaning heavily against the door frame, placed it on his ankle as a makeshift cold compress. He looked over at you sleeping calmly on the other side of the basement, your breathing steady and peaceful. He wished so much that he could sleep like you right now, to escape his pain and find some semblance of rest… Maybe he could sleep. His head was spinning, and the floor wasn't stable, it felt like he was on a roller coaster. As his head and eyelids grew heavier, his body began to relax. The pain hadn't gone away, it was still there, but at least he wasn't thinking about it right now. He would sleep, even if Hongjoong came here and took you, he would sleep, he needed it so much. The cold wetness of the wet paper ball on his leg had calmed him, and he let himself fall asleep.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

"If you keep complaining about the weather a little more, Jongho, I'll throw you out of the car and you'll walk the whole way. I even turned on the heater for you, what more do you want?" Jongho shoved his hands into his pockets and glared at Hongjoong while shivering. "You accepted this gig, dragged me along, and now you're saying you'll throw me out of the car?" Jongho snapped angrily in one go. "You also chose to team up with me, you could have told Yunho, and he would have changed it. So stop whining." After Hongjoong's harsh response, the younger one sighed, sank into his seat, and started watching the road through the car window.

They weren't a good team, they constantly bickered and argued over the smallest things, but they still got their work done and left no evidence behind. "We're here, wake up, princess." Hongjoong said with a mocking tone as soon as they arrived. Jongho, who had been in a light sleep, immediately woke up and punched Hongjoong in the arm. "I'm not that little mouse you took into your home, don't call me that again, bastard." If they didn't have a job to do, they would probably have fought each other, but they knew if they didn't get the job done on time, Yunho would nag them. "Move, don't dawdle." Hongjoong got out of the car and looked at the ultra-luxurious villa adorned with lights. 'Same scenario again...' he thought to himself

They had paid a large amount to kill that old man to Hongjoong and Jongho, and now the reason was understood. Another rich businessman, another money-related murder. "How do these bastards have so much money?" Jongho stuck his head out of the car and looked at the mansion, which was almost invisible from the lights. "They don't sit at home jerking off like you, they work." Hongjoong spoke as he opened his trunk and took out his equipment. "What am I doing right now? Do you see my dick out or am I on the job?" Jongho also joined Hongjoong and started rummaging through his bag.

The mansion was four stories tall and very wide, built in a new architecture, and the ornamental shrubs in its garden looked recently pruned. As Yunho had said, surprisingly, only two security guards were protecting this huge house, and they didn't seem to be paying much attention to their surroundings. They could easily be killed. Hongjoong put on his special gloves and mask, took his gun and spare bullets. Normally, he wouldn't go on a mission with so little equipment, but Yunho had told them that even a few bullets would suffice, and they trusted him. He and his team had never made a mistake.

After dressing, Jongho threw his bag into the car and closed the car door. Outside, the only sound other than the wind was the two security guards talking as if they were discussing something very important. Both guards were taller than them but very distracted. Even though Hongjoong’s car wasn't very far away, the gurads still hadn't noticed them. With Hongjoong's signal, the two of them advanced from the side of the car to the front yard, towards the guards. Jongho usually preferred to use a knife; he was very good in close combat. Hongjoong was also good, but Jongho was much stronger than him.

They continued to approach silently. Since the house lights illuminated the entire path, there was nowhere to hide or camouflage; they had to be quick and attack as soon as they approached. Using the garden wall as cover, they got closer and were now very close to the guards. Jongho wondered how such careless people could be guards, but it worked in his favor. Thanks to that, he would complete his mission and receive a large amount of money he had never received before.

The guards were about three meters in front of them. In this silence, Jongho and Hongjoong could hear all their conversations, even their breathing. They had prepared themselves to kill them instantly. If Yunho was wrong and there were more guards, they didn't know what they would do.

Jongho stepped in front of Hongjoong and took his long and large knife in his left hand; he waited for Hongjoong's signal.

Hongjoong pulled the trigger of his suppressor-equipped gun, ensuring he held it properly with both hands for maximum stability. The suppressor wouldn't completely block the sound of the shot, but it would significantly muffle it. Since they were in an open area and the distance between the entrance and the house was far, it could prevent those inside the house from hearing the noise.

The two of them made eye contact, their gazes locking in silent communication. Hongjoong raised his eyebrows, a clear gesture indicating that he was waiting for approval from Jongho. Understanding the unspoken question, Jongho blinked in confirmation. With a steady hand, Hongjoong pulled his left hand away from the gun, making sure Jongho could see his every move. He showed three fingers to Jongho, signaling a countdown. Then, he lowered one finger, then two, and then one. And as Jongho grabbed the neck of the man with his back turned and stabbed him with the knife, Hongjoong simultaneously shot the man facing the knife-wounded man in the forehead. It had taken no more than 3 seconds for both to die, and as they had predicted, no other guards came from anywhere else. It was a very quiet job; everything had happened in an instant.

Now they had left the man on the ground with blood gushing from his neck and the other man whose brains were scattered all over the road and entered the garden to proceed towards their main goal, towards the mansion.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

Suddenly, you were jolted awake by a sharp, piercing pain. As your consciousness slowly returned, you realized that your leg was bleeding from the area where it had been stitched up. It seemed that during your sleep, you must have made a wrong move, causing the stitches to tear open. The pain was so intense and overwhelming that for a brief moment, you completely forgot where you were and what was happening around you. The room seemed to blur as your mind struggled to catch up with the sudden burst of agony.

"Hwa..." You called out weakly to him, but got no response. The place where you were lying was stained and damp with the mixture of blood and the wet cloth that Hwa had used to bring down your fever. Your wound was definitely going to get infected. You tried to see Seonghwa in the darkness of the basement but it was nearly impossible. The reflection of the moonlight from the small window only illuminated the area in front of you. At least you knew he wasn't nearby.

"Hwa, are you here?" you called out, raising your voice slightly. The tension in your tone was unmistakable, filled with worry and fear. Seonghwa would never leave you alone after a punishment, especially not when you were suffering from a fever and bleeding. It was so unlike him. As the blood from your leg ran down your thighs once more, you felt a sharp pang of pain. Your vision blurred slightly, and you realized just how parched you were. The thirst crept up on you, making your mouth feel dry and your throat scratchy. You needed water, but more than that, you needed Seonghwa by your side to reassure you that everything would be okay.

The only continuous water source in the basement was the water from the sink, and there was no problem with drinking it. Besides, even if there was an issue, you had to drink it. Your mouth was very dry, and your lips were cracked.

You didn't want to try standing up; it would hurt too much. The idea of enduring another layer of pain on top of the already unbearable one was simply inconceivable. So, instead, you gathered all the strength you could muster and began to drag yourself towards the sink, relying heavily on your good leg and the support of your arms. As you slowly inched your way forward, you were startled by the sight of a silhouette leaning on the bathroom door. Your heart immediately started to beat rapidly, pounding in your chest, and you were gripped by a sudden sense of panic, not knowing what to do next. In your frantic state, you attempted to crawl back in the opposite direction, desperate to escape whatever danger the shadow might represent. But then, a low, agonized familiar groan emanated from the shadow, causing you to pause in your tracks. The sound was filled with such pain that it made you stop crawling.

"Seonghwa? Is that you?" you called out, your voice trembling with worry. When the shadow made a sound as if confirming, you quickly crawled towards him, your heart pounding in your chest. As you got closer, you could finally make out his features. He was drenched in sweat, and his eyes seemed glazed over, indicating that he wasn't fully conscious. His body started to writhe and moan in place, and you quickly realized that his condition was far worse than your own.

You reached out and touched his forehead, feeling the intense heat radiating from his skin. He had a fever, and it was burning through him even in this cold basement. You pulled back slightly, your eyes scanning down to his legs. The sight made your stomach churn. If you had to describe it in one word, it would be 'terrible'. His legs were completely messed up. Despite the poor visibility in the darkness, you could distinguish light from dark, and Seonghwa’s legs were an ominous, deep shade. They were swollen and purple up to his kneecaps, but 'purple' didn't quite capture it—they were almost black. "Seonghwa! Why didn’t you wake me up? Your legs are so bad!" you exclaimed in a panic.

You knew you had to help him. The condition of his legs was alarming, and you weren't sure if a person could die from such severe bone fractures, but he looked like he was on the brink. It was clear that Hongjoong must have hit the same spot over and over, pulverizing his bones into a gruesome state. Seonghwa's suffering was evident, and you couldn't let him endure it alone.

"Ugh… it hurts…” he groaned softly, feeling the intense pain radiate through his body. “I know it hurts. Wait,” you responded, your voice filled with concern. You stood up very nervously, taking great care not to open any more stitches that had barely begun to heal. And you did it! You managed to balance yourself by putting your strength into your good foot.

With determination, you wet a few cloths in the sink and leaned over to run them over his face, just like he had done for you before. The soothing touch of the wet cloths seemed to provide a small comfort in the midst of the chaos.

Suddenly, the door swung open with a loud bang, and the clatter of metal filled the room. Startled, you lost your balance and fell to the ground. Even though the impact sent sharp waves of pain through your body, you chose not to make a sound out of fear. The last thing you wanted to do was draw attention to yourself and face the devil who was now approaching.

He came right at you with an air of menace. As he suddenly turned on the lights, the harsh brightness illuminated his dangerous face. His expression was constantly grinning, as if everything was so funny, a stark contrast to the terror and pain you were experiencing. The sinister amusement in his eyes made your blood run cold.

“Where were we?” Hongjoong's voice sounded sarcastic and amused, the tone of someone who finds great entertainment in the suffering of others. Seonghwa’s eyes snapped open as soon as he heard his voice. It was like he had just woken up from a nightmare, except the nightmare was about to begin now, in real life, with no escape. “Don’t come any closer, can’t you see our condition? We’re already in a bad situation. What more do you want?” Your voice was trapped in fear, trembling and barely audible. You were wondering if he could hear you because your voice was so quiet, almost a whisper.

He took slow, deliberate steps in front of you, his eyes never leaving your trembling form. As he approached, towering over you, you felt the weight of his gaze. You were pinned to the ground, feeling utterly tiny and insignificant under his scrutiny. The sight of you, bloody and scared, with helplessness written all over your face, made his heart race with a mix of excitement and something darker. Seeing you in such a vulnerable state stirred something deep inside him, an insatiable desire that making him want more.

Seonghwa, with a sudden burst of energy, lunged forward, using all his strength to drag himself to Hongjoong’s feet. His movements were frantic, and it was clear that he still wasn't in his right mind. Hongjoong, on the other hand, was brimming with excitement. Hongjoong knew exactly what Seonghwa was going to do.

Hwa, what are you doin-” You were cut off when Seonghwa threw himself at Hongjoong’s feet, desperation evident in every movement. “I-I beg you, f-forgive me. I didn’t do it on purpose- agh! I didn’t do it on purpose. P-please love me again. I’ll do a-anything!” The basement was eerily silent except for Seonghwa’s pitiful pleading. Hongjoong watched him without uttering a single word, his expression unreadable. “Why would I forgive you? Who would love naughty little bunnies like you? After all, you betrayed me.” Seonghwa started to cry harder at Hongjoong’s cold, cutting words. You were on the verge of tears too, the discomfort and tension of the situation weighing heavily on you. You wanted to tell him to shut up and go back to his old place, but you were too scared to intervene.

“No, I’m not! I’m not naughty! I didn’t mean to act like that!” Seonghwa’s voice was choked with emotion, his tears flowing freely. Hongjoong watched his masterpiece with a sense of twisted satisfaction. His first love, with his legs broken, threw himself at his feet and begged for forgiveness while his new toy, with her burst stitches, watched what was happening in fear and helplessness. The wiev was of unparalleled beauty. If he hadn’t left his phone upstairs, he would have definitely taken a photo to preserve this view forever. Hongjoong felt a surge of power and control, basking in the pain and fear that radiated from both of you. The basement, usually a place of darkness and dread, became a stage for his cruel artistry, a tableau of suffering and submission.

“But you acted like that.” He finished his sentence with a smile by kicking Seonghwa in the chest. When Seonghwa’s breath hitched and he fell back, you backed away from Hongjoong in panic. Neither of you could muster the courage to speak. Only the sound of his painful, ragged breathing filled the room. Hongjoong looked down at Seonghwa’s ankles. They were broken, but it wasn’t anything that wouldn’t heal in a few weeks. Despite his injuries, it was almost endearing how Seonghwa continued to beg for forgiveness in such a weakened state. When Hongjoong shifted his gaze to you, he noticed that your leg was bleeding again. If he went any further, it would be hard for both of you to heal, so he decided it was enough for now. “Since I’m such an understanding person, I’ll end your punishment here. But you’ll be staying here for the next few days.” You were relieved that he wouldn’t hurt you any further. But you both needed proper first aid right now. “We can’t stay like this. H-Hwa is in a bad condition. Can’t you help him?” Your voice trembled as Seonghwa flinched when he heard his name as he writhed on the ground. The fact that you were thinking of him warmed his aching heart a little. Hongjoong looked at Seonghwa again and smiled that annoying smile of his. “You should have thought of that before you ran away together.”

You thought he would at least help Seonghwa. After all, Seonghwa had asked for forgiveness from him and had been with Hongjoong for a long time. But he hadn’t. He would leave him like this, he would leave you like this. You shouted and cursed after him as he left the basement; you didn’t know where you found this confidence but you were very angry with him. Interestingly enough, he didn’t turn around and do anything to you after you insulted him. He just locked the door and went upstairs.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

As it was 5 am, the exhaustion of the whole day had settled on him like a heavy blanket. All he wanted was to take another shower to wash away the day's fatigue and then fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. Normally, he couldn’t sleep without Seonghwa by his side, but tonight he was so tired that he knew he had to sleep, no matter what. He didn’t even have the energy to dry his hair after stepping out of the shower with wet hair clinging to his face and neck. Instead, he just threw himself on the bed with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist and his hair still dripping wet. He was probably going to get sick from it, but he didn’t care right now. All he could think about was closing his eyes and escaping into the oblivion of sleep.

He couldn’t sleep. Despite his best efforts to find a comfortable position, he tossed and turned in bed for what seemed like hours. The chill in the air only made things worse, seeping through only the damp towel tied around his waist and about to be opened and causing him to shiver. The cold weather, combined with the lingering dampness of his towel, was a miserable combination that left him feeling even more cold. He had to wrap himself in something. Something warm. Something warm to take away the cold in his heart and body...

He got up with a stumbling motion, slowly put on some clothes, and started walking down the stairs. The sky was gradually lightening at dawn, casting a soft glow over everything, and the fresh morning air was filling the house through the open windows. He quietly opened the basement door, careful not to make any noise. He could see who was where with the light of the new sunlight seeping through the window. You were both sleeping where he had left you last, Seonghwa lying on the floor and you sitting with your backs against the wall. Sleeping would be the wrong word to describe your state. You were more like unconscious.

Hongjoong picked up his favorite toy, trying not to wake or hurting his toy. Although he was short compared to most men, he had a strength that was unexpected from his appearance; he was very strong, so he was able to easily lift his favorite. He returned to the basement door, casting one final glance at his other toy. Without locking it, he quietly closed the door and ascended the stairs. As he gently laid his toy on the bed, he heard a groan of pain.

“Shh, go back to sleep, my prince. I’m here.” Seonghwa’s eyes widened as he locked eyes with Hongjoong, feeling a rush of emotions. He loved him for that. No matter how much Hongjoong hurt him, he would always take care of Seonghwa and show him love. Hongjoong couldn’t stay mad at him for long. Even though he was still running away, he was still in Hongjoong’s bed right now. “I’ll wrap your legs, wait here,” Hongjoong said softly. When he returned with the first aid kit and went to Seonghwa’s side, he saw him looking at him with admiration and a disturbing level of affection. “What?” Hongjoong asked as he unwrapped the new bandage pack in his hands, trying to ignore the intensity in Seonghwa's eyes.

“I love you,” Seonghwa whispered. He loved him very much. Or maybe he thought he did; sometimes, he didn’t know. The lines were blurred. Hongjoong broke him so well, yet he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of attachment. It was a complicated, twisted love, but it was all they had. Hongjoong broke him so well.

“It'll be over soon, don't worry. Just keep your legs straight.”

Seonghwa didn’t take offense that Hongjoong didn’t tell him he loved him back. He knew Hongjoong loved him too.

“Ugh Joongie, it hurts so much." Seonghwa squirmed in discomfort as he felt the tight bandage wrapped securely around his legs, which were throbbing with sharp pain. “Shh shh, I know. Be a good little bunny for me, and don't squirm.” Hongjoong's soothing yet firm voice made Seonghwa suddenly go still. He didn't want to disappoint him even more with his actions. "That's a good boy. I'll give you painkillers as a reward." Hongjoong's words were filled with a mixture of comfort and authority. Seonghwa's eyes met Hongjoong's, filled with a silent plea for relief, and he nodded weakly.

After Hongjoong finished wrapping Seonghwa’s legs tightly to ensure they were properly supported, he gave him a strong painkiller and laid down on the bed next to Seonghwa. He was enveloped in the warmth he so desperately needed, and the soothing heat radiating from Seonghwa’s weakened body served as a balm for Hongjoong’s cold heart and chilled body.

He closed his eyes, thinking that he could finally get some much-needed sleep by holding him tightly in his arms without hurting him too much. The warmth and comfort he felt were almost enough to lull him into a peaceful slumber. Just as he was about to drift off to sleep, he suddenly heard the annoying ringing of his phone. The sound was jarring in the quiet room, and he opened his eyes again, startled by the sudden noise, he noticed Seonghwa jump slightly in his arms. He gently reassured Seonghwa, whispering softly that nothing was wrong and that he should continue sleeping. With a sigh, he carefully reached for his phone to see who was calling, hoping it wasn't something urgent that would further disrupt their rest.

Jeong Yunho.

It was strange that he was calling at this hour, and if he was calling after the mission, it usually meant there was a problem with the mission. He sighed in annoyance and picked up the phone.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hyung, you need to come here immediately.”

The voice on the other end of the phone was anxious. It was hard to see Yunho anxious; he was always so sure of what he was doing and relaxed. Something was definitely wrong.

Hongjoong cursed at him when the phone abruptly hung up on him. Yunho always liked to make people curious and leave them hanging. As Hongjoong got out of bed and started getting dressed, he caught sight of Seonghwa’s anxious eyes. “Is someone in trouble again or are the police going to raid our house?” He could speak more comfortably now that the pain had subsided a little. “I don't know, he didn't say. Also, don’t bother your beautiful brain with such things. I’ll be back in a few hours. Make sure our princess doesn’t escape from the basement in the meantime. Otherwise, I won’t forgive you this time, Park Seonghwa. So, keep an eye on her and don't let your guard down again.”

It was absolutely impossible for someone upstairs with broken legs to check if someone in the basement had escaped, so Hongjoong carefully picked him up again before leaving the house and took him down to the basement. Although Seonghwa felt a deep sadness to leave the comfort of his bed and the warmth of Hongjoong’s arms, he was happy and relieved that he would now be able to keep an eye on you. Leaving the two of you in the brightly lit basement once more, Hongjoong made a mental note to get Seonghwa a pair of crutches on his way home. He then grabbed the bag containing his weapons and equipment, ensuring everything he needed was inside, and headed back to his car with a sense of urgency.

I wanna feedback juseyo♡ I wanna feedback please♡ I wanna feedback çebal♡

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phantomknight25 · 4 months ago

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The Start

• I imagine you became friends with Beth not long after Rick left the family.

• I can see her clinging to any sort of kindness and refusing to let go.

• Like Diane having forgot to pack Beth’s lunch and you feeling bad giving her half your sandwich.

• After that you and her became inseparable. The common phrase used was “We’re siblings who have two separate pairs of mostly shitty parents.

• Diane and your parents aren’t even surprised when they have an extra person at the table. A plate of food is always set aside for either of you.

• You hate Jerry no question about it. You have been trying to break them apart since day one.

• When Beth found out she was pregnant, she came to you first.

• By the time of Beth’s pregnancy Diane is already dead and your parents are either dead or no contact.

• If you weren’t already living with Beth you definitely moved in after the pregnancy. • You basically became the father/mother figure of the house, even with Jerry there.

• You took care of Summer while Beth was at college and when she got back you went to work /school at night.

• Summer’s first word was either mama/papa to you. Jerry to this day complains about it.

• Summer still calls you mama/papa and only says your actual name when she’s mad at you. Though that’s rare.

• Morty just calls you by your first name, since I can see you not being around as much by the time he’s born.

• By the time Morty's born Beth has started working as a vet and Summer’s older. So you start working towards getting a better job.

• Also Jerry didn’t want to lose another kid to you, so he kinda stepped up.

• I imagine by the time Rick comes back your not at the house. He’s told about you but I imagine he doesn’t meet you until after the Lawnmower Dog episode.

• I can see him being hostile at first toward you, since once you return your clearly seen as the head of the house.

• He tries to treat you like Jerry but Beth immediately shuts that down. Rick not expecting Beth to become so hostile towards him makes him recalculate his actions.

• Rick starts watching you and seeing how you interact with everyone.

• He definitely takes a couple of DNA samples to test and looks for other versions of you.

• There are other you’s in the Smith family but there are very few versions where he returns to said family.

• During M.Night Shaym-Aliens! You get dragged along with Jerry. Though instead of thinking it’s the real world you think it’s a dream

• You steal so much stuff.

• And burned down so many buildings. • Rick and Morty finds you in the middle of chain sawing a guy in half.

• After a very awkward encounter with a naked Rick and Morty the episode goes by normally . • Rick starts to seek you out more after this. Probably takes you on a few solo adventures to see what really makes you tick.

• By Meeseeks and Destroy you and Rick hangout way more. Not just on adventures but also at the house.

• Morty asks you to come with on his adventure. I imagine he’s kinda jealous of Summer and your relationship.

• I can see him craving the paternal bond you two have and then seeing you and Rick bonding makes him want that as well.

• I can see you and Rick both being bored out of your minds, but you try to keep up a happy façade for Morty.

• Rick not being able to really hide his distain, tries to tone it down after you threaten to cut his manhood off and feed it to a bird.

• You and Morty also become closer during this adventure. Throughout this one and future Morty adventures you give him unconditional support no matter how boring or bad things go.

• When Rick kills king Jellybean you question if there are more versions of him that are alive. When Rick says yes, you tell him to make you a portal gun with all their locations.

• Rick does, he even makes you weapons without question.

• Neither of you ever speak of what you and he did. Even when rumors start spreading across dimensions about a vicious killer who left no trace behind except the mutilated body.

• At this point Rick is infatuated by you.

• He takes you on adventures with Morty. If your not around when he wants to leave he goes to get you whether you like it or not.

• Though after the first time you yelled at him about crossing boundaries and how he can’t take you from your job. The very job that helps pay for the very expensive electric bill and the wafers he loves so much.

• After that Rick made a robot that can do your job, so you can come on adventures.

• When Morty and Summer asks for one of them he immediately rejects their request.

• Whenever you and Beth or Summer go out together he gets upset.

• He always shows up acting like he just ran into you by coincidence.

• Summer always gets upset but, Beth is happy when he shows up.

• When Rick Potion No. 9 happens Rick gets you first, giving you a shot to stop you from turning.

• When he’s about to change dimensions you in tow, you refused. Not wanting to abandon your family you try to leave.

• Rick knocks you out and takes you along.

• He managed to find a dimension that had a you in it.

• When you wake up your devastated. Rick tries to convince you it’s fine and that it’d be like nothing even happened.

• You refuse to listen to him. You two argue for the majority of the day.

• Rick not wanting to lose you gets the memory gun to erase this horrible day.

• At this point Rick is obsessed with you.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez x reader #rick sanchez fanfic #imagine

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lovelettersforthedamned · 1 year ago

Note

craving some angst with fluff at the end or like hurt/comfort with peter because im delusional and like to imagine them in my head and in the end it makes us stronger as a couple (i have no idea what im talking about rn) - 🎀

Fight For You

✮ tasm!peter parker x f!reader

✮ word count: 1.9k

✮ summary: when you find peter battered, bruised, and barely hanging onto life, you make a rash decision to help him in a fight against vulture. when you get hurt, your mind brings you to a place of guilt.

✮ warnings: language, violence, mentions of injury, mentions of blood, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, a few kisses, reader overthinks.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

main masterlist ⋆ peter parker masterlist

not my gif

The crowd around you couldn’t have been more packed. You’re pushing against the flow of people pushing past you, trying to flee from the scene before you. Any normal person would. But as your boyfriend starts to limp his way towards Vulture, you begin to shove yourself towards him.

Before he left, he gave you a quick kiss and pleaded for you not to follow him. He knew you were safer in your apartment, but of course, you didn’t remain in the safety of your home. You held your phone tight as you scrolled through the live news, tracking down the focal point of the action. That’s where you find yourself standing at a barricade, watching your Peter clutch his side, barely rising to his feet.

You have an iron grip on your phone, your knuckles turning white as you fight the urge to hop over the metal. Police cars line in front of you, acting as a second line of defense. Their guns are drawn, focused on Vulture as he towers over your boyfriend. Peter is exhausted, you can tell by the sway in his movements. And when the winged man knocks him to the floor, your eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and a quiet plea leaves your lips, “Please, Peter. Get up, get up.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when you open them back up, and you wish you didn’t. Peter is still on the floor lying face down as Vulture laughs, walking towards Peter. The urge to shout after him almost escapes your lips before you realize your surroundings, your words stuck in your throat.

With the crowd now clear behind you, you feel isolated. Your focus is entirely on Peter, your eyes never leaving his body. Peter is trying to push himself off the ground, but before he succeeds, Vulture plants his claw on his back, keeping him in place on the pavement under him. “No,” you couldn’t hold back the words from escaping this time. Jumping over the barricade, you barely make it another step forward before two police officers hold you back. “Get up! Please, Spider-Man,” you yell, catching both men’s attention.

“It looks like Spider-Man has a fan!” Vulture turns your head towards you, another full belly erupts from his stomach. You’re thrashing against the hold of the officers beside you while the others stand up straighter at the pivot of the bird’s attention, guns drawn.

You couldn’t care less for the outcome of your actions, you needed Peter to be alright, and if this is what it takes. Then so be it.

The moment Vulture’s foot is lifted off of Peter’s back, you take a breath before it’s stolen away from you again. He’s starting to walk towards you, his eyes trained on you as he approaches. The police begin to fire. The bullets don’t penetrate the metal suit, instead, they fall at his feet.

“You have balls, I’ll admit. But you are incredibly stupid, sweetie,” the officers who were once at your side are now shoved to the ground before he reaches for your throat. His grip tightens when he lifts you off the ground, bringing you to where Peter lies. You’re trying to pry his claws off of you, but in response he squeezes tighter, drawing blood from the sharpened talons of his gloves.

He examines your face before throwing you on the floor next to Peter, landing on your back. You cough before turning to face your boyfriend’s masked face. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. Reaching up to your throat, you touch the indents on your neck. They’re not too deep, but the blood rushing down your neck makes you lightheaded. And when you glance at your fingers, you sigh when you see red.

Your eyes flutter, oh shit. You bring your hand back to your neck, applying pressure like Peter taught. “Baby–Baby, hey,” he says your name before groaning as he pushes himself closer to you, “you gotta stay awake, okay?”

You barely nod, as you wince at the pain, the adrenaline leaving your system; leaving you with the reality of your injuries. “Do you know her, Spidey? No wait,” he pauses, putting the pieces together, “That’s your lady, isn’t it?”

Fuck. He’s figured you out. You groan loudly, “Wow, captain obvious. Do you have anything else you want to share? Maybe the sky is blue?” You laugh at yourself, the signs of blood loss showing. Turning your head towards Peter again, you smile, “Kick his ass, Pete.”

A second wind comes to Peter when he hears your backtalk towards Vulture. A little reminder that you could very well handle yourself, but the sight of your blood appearing on your hands lit a flame of anger within him. He pushes himself up with haste, he turns to look at you one more time, “Don’t close those eyes!” And in response, you wave your other hand at him.

He makes sure to push the fight far away from you, his senses throwing him into overdrive as he focuses on your heartbeat while throwing punches. If you were willing to throw yourself into a fight defenseless for him, Peter knew he was guaranteed to defend you from death’s grasp.

✯✯✯

You could’ve sworn you only blinked, but the change in scenery caused a wave of confusion to flood your senses. You were in a hospital room, and the smell of the sterile atmosphere along with the cold white lights above you made your head spin. But still, you take a deep breath as you look around. Your body relaxes at the sight of Peter leaning into his hand, his body awkwardly sitting as he sleeps.

There is a dryness in your throat that makes you wince, you try to clear your throat to call out to Peter, but what comes out is a pathetic-sounding wheeze of air. You rasp, “Peter.” Repeating yourself for the second time, his eyes fly open, his heightened senses picking up on your call for him.

He rushes to your side, grabbing your hand softly as he looks down at you, a look of worry apparent in his eyes. You can see his gaze flicker down to your neck, and as you reach up to touch it, he speaks, “I brought you here right after I finished with Vulture. That was about 2 days ago, bug.” He sniffles, he’s trying to hide his emotions as he’s holding back tears. “There was just,” he pauses, his throat tightens, “there was so much blood.”

Your heart breaks at the sight of him in front of you. He won’t let go of your hand as he breaks down in tears. You push yourself to the other side of the small bed, leaving a space for Peter to join you. Tugging on his hand, you clear your throat again, hoping that this attempt at talking is more successful than the last time. “Pete,” your hoarse voice cracks to life, “lay with me. Please.”

He carefully lays down beside you, making the already small hospital bed feel even tighter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder while his arms snaked around your torso. You both needed this after the week you’ve experienced. Peter thought he was going to lose you, and you know that pain. So having the roles reversed pulled at your heartstrings.

A part of you felt guilty. You were the one that gave Peter a reason to worry. Maybe he just needed another moment to get up during the fight. You couldn’t help but think that you were reckless; just another burden for Peter to carry, especially when you throw yourself into danger like that. While laying in bed with him, you nuzzle into him a little more, trying to hide the tears that are threatening to spill past your lash line.

How could I be so stupid?

Your ear can hear the rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat. The pattern somehow makes your guilt feel worse. Maybe it’s because of your uneven breathing, or maybe the wetness on Peter’s shirt, but he pulls his head back, craning it down at you. And when he sees you trying to conceal your quiet sobs, his hands are immediately on the sides of your face.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you cry, “I’m an idiot for running to you like that. I made everything ten times worse!” You’re hysterical. You can’t stop the tears that rush down your cheeks, landing into Peter’s palms.

You made Peter’s biggest fear come true.

And for that, you couldn’t apologize enough. “Hey, hey, hey,” he gently says your name, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. He tries to pull you back to reality, grounding you in any way he can. His eyes are searching for yours behind your tears. “Baby,” he starts, “you’re incredibly selfless, I knew that since the moment I met you. You would go to the ends of the earth for a stranger if you could. That’s just who you are, and I’d be evil to ask you to change that about you.”

You were able to take a breath, trying to calm yourself down. Peter’s kind words eased your overthinking, causing a wave of embarrassment to wash over you. You felt stupid for an entirely different reason. You knew that Peter would never be too angry at you for doing what you thought was best for him, but it still affected you in an unfathomable way. “I love you,” you wipe your damp eyes before looking into his.

Peter grins before pressing a smiley kiss into your lips. You take a deep breath as your lips meet, a wave of euphoria floods your senses. If there was one thing Peter could do, it was make you feel like a teenage girl all over again. He filled your stomach with butterflies every time he kissed you.

Pulling away, you smile back at him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of this stupid cramped bed,” you look around, “and while we’re at it, I hate hospitals.” Peter laughs at your sudden discomfort with the surroundings. “Wait,” you pause, looking at him, “did you take me here in your suit?”

“Is that really what you want to know right now? Not how I absolutely destroyed Vulture?”

“Mmm, no,” you laugh.

He shakes his head at you, giggling, “Yeah, I brought you here in my suit. Figured it was faster than an ambulance.” Your eyes are moving, as you piece together the story before groaning. Peter’s extremely confused at the sounds coming out of your mouth, he playfully shoves your shoulder, “What’s wrong now?”

You sigh, “I wish I could’ve seen everyone’s faces when Spider-Man carried a girl bleeding from her neck in here.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffs. He lifts himself off the bed, not before you stop him, a pouty look on your face. “Didn’t you say you wanted to get out of here,” he lowers his head to whisper in your ear, “I think we have like ten minutes before someone will notice you’re missing.” Peter grabs your clothes, and tosses it to you, “Let’s get you home, bug.”

✮ author's note: hi all!!! just a little hurt/comfort to spice up your tuesday night! i had a blast writing this because im a sucker for hurt/comfort and angst:p. thank you to the lovely 🎀 anon for this request! my asks/inbox is open!! don't forget to like, comment, and reblog if you see something you like.

#peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x reader #fluff #marvel #andrew garfield peter parker #peter parker #tasm!peter parker #spiderman #peter parker hurt/comfort #peter parker angst

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chimcess · 6 days ago

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⮞ Chapter Four: Dark Fury (Part One) Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon Genre: Sci-Fi, Action, Adventure, Thriller, Suspense, Strangers to Enemies to ???, Slow Burn, LOTS of Angst, Light Fluff, Eventual Smut, Third Person POV, 18+ Only Word Count: 16k+ Summary: When a deep space transporter crash-lands on a barren planet illuminated by three relentless suns, survival becomes the only priority for the stranded passengers, including resourceful pilot Y/N Y/L/N, mystic Namjoon Kim, lawman Taemin Lee, and enigmatic convict Jungkook Jeon. As they scour the hostile terrain for supplies and a way to escape, Y/N uncovers a terrifying truth: every 22 years, the planet is plunged into total darkness during an eclipse, awakening swarms of ravenous, flesh-eating creatures. Forced into a fragile alliance, the survivors must face not only the deadly predators but also their own mistrust and secrets. For Y/N, the growing tension with Jungkook—both a threat and a reluctant ally—raises the stakes even higher, as the battle to escape becomes one for survival against the darkness both around them and within themselves. Warnings: Strong Language, Side Character Death, Violence, Blood, Jungkook is a huge prick, Cocky too, Talks About Past Characters Dying, Trauma Bonding, Bickering, Arguing, Graphic Death Scenes, Jaded Characters, Religious Themes (I mean no harm and do not want to offend anyone), Bad Character Choices, SUSPENSE, ANGST, In Namjoon we trust, This is all angst and action and that's pretty much it, suppressed feelings, deranged psychopaths, guns, gore, Outlaw gives off big collector vibes, and I mean that literally, bad science language, honestly all of this has probably had the worst science and basis ever, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: So, because Tumblr makes no sense, I'm having to cut this chapter in half because of a text block issue. So, you'll technically be getting two updates at once (even though it's the same chapter). Yay. I love this flatform so much. Thanks for reading!

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In the center of the New Oslo Space Administration, a hall that once buzzed with celebration now sat heavy with silence. The walls, scrubbed to a relentless white, gleamed under the clinical glare of overhead lights—so clean it was almost aggressive, as if any trace of real life had been wiped out long ago. Above, thin panels of recessed lighting poured down a harsh, surgical brightness that flattened every edge and erased every shadow. Comfort had never been part of the blueprint.

The ceiling stretched high overhead, a lattice of glass-smooth alloy and layered panels, packed with pale, cold lights that made everything below look stark and brittle. What used to be a press hall—a place where new orbital colonies were announced with champagne and handshakes—now buzzed faintly with a low, nervous current. Reporters filled the sharply angled rows of seating, sitting stiffly, their faces tight with the kind of apprehension that kept them quiet. No one dared to break the stillness. Only the distant whirr of surveillance drones and the faint, mechanical ticking from the timekeepers embedded in the walls stirred the air.

Beneath the sterile flood of artificial daylight, Yoongi Min stood alone.

He wasn’t exactly young anymore, but he wasn’t old either—caught in that quiet middle place carved out by years of navigating crises and silent, sleepless nights in war rooms. His stance was rigid, trained over decades to betray no fear. His hair was slicked back, the first hints of gray just beginning to thread at his temples. His face, pale in a way that looked almost unnatural for someone who had lived most of his life under the twin suns of Aguerra Prime, showed the fine beginnings of lines around his eyes and mouth.

In his hands, he held a red folder—simple, worn, almost inconspicuous. The spine sagged from too many openings; the corners were frayed, softened by time and handling. It looked like the kind of thing that might get overlooked in a place like this. It wasn’t.

When Yoongi finally spoke, the sound of his voice caught the room off guard. It wasn’t loud or commanding—just steady. Low. Controlled in a way that made you listen closer without meaning to. His S’s carried a faint rasp, like the tail-end of static on an old comms channel. There was something about it—like the voice of someone used to delivering bad news, and doing it carefully.

“At zero four thirty local standard,” he began, each word unhurried, shaped with a kind of quiet finality, “NOSA’s orbital tracking array picked up an object—a fast-moving meteor that crossed paths with the civilian transport Hunter-Gratzner, en route to New Mecca.”

The name dropped like a stone. Not just data. Not just a ship. That name meant something.

The Hunter-Gratzner had been missing for over a month. People stopped saying it out loud after the first few days—just whispered it in prayers or on old signal boards, hoping for something. Anything. It wasn’t just a transport. It was families. Workers. Students. It was a hundred hopes wrapped in one hull, gone silent.

“The impact disabled its navigational systems,” Yoongi continued. “The vessel lost control and crash-landed on an uninhabited planet. Designation: M6-117.”

He paused—not for drama, but because the truth needed air.

Then, quieter, “Hades.”

That name, too, wasn’t new. Every pilot had heard it, tucked in the corners of old space. A place that didn’t show up clearly on starcharts, like the universe itself was trying to forget it. Lost ships. Broken signals. A survey team that went dark three decades ago and never came back. Their names redacted, their logs buried.

Yoongi’s hands shifted slightly around the red folder.

“There were forty souls aboard,” he said. “Eight crew. Thirty-two passengers. Captain Theodore Marshall died on impact. The co-pilot, Y/N Y/L/N, took command. Navigator Gregory Shields initiated emergency protocol. He didn’t survive the first day.”

He read the names slowly. Like each one deserved to land.

Yoongi stood at the podium, shoulders square, the folder in his hands marked only by a NOSA emblem and an older classification tag that had been partially scratched out—CONFIDENTIAL | LEVEL FOUR.

He flipped it open again, even though the pages weren’t necessary anymore. He knew the story by heart.

“There’s evidence the ship’s trajectory wasn’t an accident,” he said, tone sharpening—not louder, but with precision. “Navigator Gregory Shields manually altered course before entering cryo-stasis. There were no backup checks. No secondary alerts. The system didn’t flag the reroute because the flightpath remained mathematically valid... just deadly.”

He looked out across the press chamber.

“We believe he was paid. And a bounty hunter was onboard.”

The air shifted. Shoulders tensed. It wasn’t dramatic, just quiet—sharp-eyed people registering new gravity.

“The hunter’s target,” Yoongi said, “was Jungkook Jeon.”

The room went still. That name didn’t need context, but it carried weight just the same. Jeon had lived at the edge of myth—once a Strikeforce Ranger, elite beyond measure, then a traitor during the Sigma Uprising, blamed for the assassination of his own commanding officer. Disappeared after the Outer Rim collapsed. His name was a ghost story whispered in mercenary camps and prison transports.

“Jeon was aboard as a prisoner,” Yoongi continued. “Chained. Under heavy sedation. Transported under warrant for extraction.”

A voice from the right side of the room: “So this wasn’t just a transport. This was a bounty run disguised as a civilian haul?”

“Yes,” Yoongi confirmed. “The civilian manifest was real. The bounty was embedded—intentionally quiet. Shields altered the route, likely paid directly. We believe the plan was to bring the ship out of NOSA-controlled lanes, into a no-response corridor. Clean handoff. Simple extraction.”

He let a beat pass. “It wasn’t simple.”

A woman in the second row stood halfway. “And this was all done with no oversight? No NOSA fail-safes?”

Yoongi nodded once. “Shields had access and authority. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent—just a course change during the stasis window. But the route intersected with a meteor cluster. The ship was struck. The shielding failed. They went down on M6-117.”

He flipped a page in the folder—not for show, just rhythm. Anchoring.

“M6-117 has three suns. A tri-helix orbit. For most of its cycle, the surface stays in daylight—years of sun. Harsh terrain. Deep ravines. But once every twenty-two Earth months, the planetary orbit aligns with its moon cluster.”

A larger screen behind him flickered to life, showing orbital diagrams, eclipse projections.

“The result,” Yoongi said, “is full eclipse. No starlight. No planetary glow. Just pitch black.”

He paused. Not long—just enough to make space for what came next.

“And when the dark comes... something else comes with it.”

Front row, an older reporter with deep orbital tattoos leaned in. “You’re confirming... that this wasn’t just an ecological anomaly?”

“No,” Yoongi said. “This wasn’t weather. It wasn’t terrain. Thirty years ago, a NOSA survey team landed on M6-117. Their transmissions lasted just under forty hours. Fragments only—distorted visuals, audio clips of movement in the dark, what sounded like screams echoing in underground tunnels. Then... silence. Mission loss was recorded as environmental failure. But those files were quietly buried.”

The screen behind him showed a grainy image—a partial silhouette of something hunched and clawed. The timestamp was thirty-two years old.

“We now know the cause was biological. Subterranean predators. Nocturnal. Carnivorous. Hyper-aggressive. We call them Bioraptors.”

A reporter near the back—one of the offworlders—asked, “Why didn’t NOSA return?”

Yoongi was quiet for a moment.

“We didn’t want to believe what we saw. The risk was too high. And honestly... no one thought anyone would land there again.”

Another voice: “The survivors didn’t know, did they?”

“No,” Yoongi said. “They had no idea.”

He shifted, the story finally ready to unfold in full.

“After the crash, Co-pilot Y/N Y/L/N assumed command. Captain Marshall died on impact. Shields was killed within hours—exact cause unknown. Y/L/N organized what remained of the crew and passengers: two Earth prospectors, a relics dealer, the bounty hunter, a child, a holy man, his missionaries—and Jeon.”

That name again.

“Jeon was restrained at first. But Y/N fought for his release. Not out of trust—but survival. They were exposed. No food. No comms. They needed every capable hand.”

“Did he help?” someone asked bluntly.

Yoongi met their gaze. “Yes. He saved lives.”

The screen now displayed a map of their path across the surface—miles on foot. Some terrain shown in red: areas later confirmed to house tunnel openings.

“They moved at day. Hunted parts from old wrecks. Found a barely functional skiff, hidden in the ravine. Y/N and one of the prospectors—Bindi Ariki—repaired it using power cells pulled from a derelict mining rig. They had a window. One hour before total darkness.”

He breathed.

“Four made it: Y/N, Jeon, the child, the holy man. Bioraptors were already emerging, and took out the others as they made the long trek to the other wrecksite. Y/N secured the child and the holy man on the shuttle. She went back for Jeon.”

Another long pause.

“They almost made it.”

Now the room was hushed. Every note of Yoongi’s voice landed like weight on a scale.

“She carried him. He’d taken a strike defending the others. But just before they reached the light—the Bioraptors took her.”

A reporter whispered, “Her body?”

“Never recovered,” Yoongi said. “But her story didn’t end there.”

He opened a final section of the folder.

“The shuttle was captured in orbit by a mercenary vessel. We believe they were hired to reclaim Jeon. All three passengers were taken. But Jeon turned the ambush. Freed the other two. Killed the crew. He died from wounds sustained during the escape.”

There was a silence then—not empty, but full of something impossible to name.

“The shuttle landed at New Mecca eleven standard days later. The child and the holy man survived. And they told us everything.”

Yoongi closed the folder one last time.

“Co-pilot Y/N Y/L/N perished on M6-117. She will be remembered—for her leadership. Her strength. And the future she gave others a chance to reach.”

Another hand went up. This time cautious. “Do you believe this was preventable?”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened slightly.

“I believe the people who lived owe everything to the people who didn’t. And I believe if NOSA had listened to its own lost team thirty years ago… maybe this planet would’ve stayed off our charts. Maybe a course reroute would’ve raised a flag. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened at all.”

A few seconds passed.

“But if someone had to fall... there’s no one else we would’ve trusted to lead them in the dark.”

He stepped back from the podium.

One Week Earlier

Jungkook leaned against the edge of the pilot’s console, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on the stars slipping past the viewport. The slow drift of space didn’t calm him—if anything, it made the silence feel heavier. Like the galaxy was holding its breath.

Namjoon stood nearby, quiet now, whatever he’d needed to say already out there between them. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low. Not ceremonial, not polished. Just quiet. Honest.

“It’s sad,” he said, not taking his eyes off the void. “Leaving her down there like that. Her family’s never gonna get anything. No closure. No funeral. Just silence.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and tired.

“She deserved better.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened, and he stayed focused on the stars like they might give him something back. They didn’t.

Namjoon gave a small nod, more to himself than anyone else, and let his hand rest lightly on the edge of the console. Then he turned and walked off, the soft hiss of the door sealing behind him.

Jungkook stayed.

The hum of the ship was the only sound now—low and steady, mechanical breathing. After a while, he pushed off the console and moved down the corridor, his boots barely making a sound against the metal. The ship always felt bigger at night. Too much space. Too few people.

He passed by the small berth where Leo slept. The girl had been having nightmares again—loud ones. Screaming in her sleep, scratching at the sheets. The kind of fear that didn’t care whether you were awake or not. He paused outside the door. Thought about checking in. He’d do it later. Make sure she hadn’t clawed herself bloody again.

He kept walking, but his mind didn’t come with him.

Frenchie, that’s what she called herself. The nickname came out of nowhere, like she didn’t think twice about it. He never asked why. Figured he’d get the story eventually—when things slowed down, when they weren’t fighting for air or light. He didn’t think there wouldn’t be time.

They’d known each other for what, a day? Maybe a little more, if you counted the way time stretched and bled on that planet. One day. That was it. But it didn’t matter. That day carved her into him deeper than most people did in a lifetime.

By the time he reached his quarters, the lights were already dim. He didn’t turn them up. Just slid onto the narrow cot, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something to hold onto. It didn’t.

She was still with him. Not her face exactly—faces fade. It was the shape of her, the presence. That feeling she left in the room, even when she wasn’t in it. The way she looked at him—direct, unafraid, like she saw something in him worth dragging back into the light.

He let out a breath. Short. Almost a laugh. Almost.

If she could see him now, wherever the hell dead people end up, she’d probably have that crooked little smirk on her face. The one she wore right before she’d crack a joke or kick someone’s ass just to make a point.

Look what I did to you, Jungkook. You’re not such a complete bastard after all.

He almost smiled at the thought. Almost.

He loved that mouth of hers. Sharp as hell. Didn't let anything slide. Not even him.

But the truth didn’t care about charm. The truth was colder.

Memories don’t die. They just stay there, quiet and heavy. Reminders.

And she was wrong. He hadn’t changed. Not in any real way. Maybe she’d made him hesitate. Maybe she’d made him hope. But it didn’t last. It couldn’t.

If she’d survived… if they’d somehow made it off that rock together… he would’ve ruined it. Ruined her. Not because he wanted to. Just because that’s what he did. She got too close. Made him forget for a second who he was, what he was built for. Made him wonder about things that had no business existing in his world.

And that kind of thing? That was dangerous.

She’d looked at him like there was something human still buried in there. And she believed in it. Believed in him.

He could still hear her voice—soft, steady, maybe even a little sad when she said it: “There’s got to be some part of you that wants to rejoin the human race.”

She meant it. God help her, she really thought he could come back from wherever he’d gone.

And that scared the shit out of him more than anything with claws or teeth.

She thought he stayed with the group—her, Leo, Namjoon—because of her. Because she pulled him back. Maybe she had. Maybe that was the worst part.

But he told himself it was smart. Tactical. Safety in numbers. Better odds if help came. And if help didn’t come? He’d outlast them. He always did.

That’s what he told himself.

Then Leo had looked up at him, covered in ash and sweat and blood, and said “Never had a doubt.”

And he’d believed it. She trusted him. Just like Y/N had.

And Y/N… she’d protected him. Lied for him. Not to save herself, not even to keep the peace. She did it because she thought he deserved a chance.

No one had ever done that for him.

And now she was gone.

And all the things he didn’t say—couldn’t say—pressed down on his chest like a second gravity.

He didn’t save her.

Didn’t even try. He froze. Watched it happen. Watched her turn around for him.

And now he didn’t know how to feel.

He hated her for it. For being that stupid. For believing in something that wasn’t there.

But he loved her for it too.

And that tore him up worse than any wound.

Lying there in the dark, the hum of the ship in his ears, he realized he didn’t even know what he was supposed to feel. Grief? Guilt? Rage? All of it? None of it?

She died going back for him.

And he couldn’t find one single reason why she would.

Not for him.

Not for what he was.

He turned onto his side, the cot creaking beneath him, the thin blanket cool against his skin.

It had only been three days since they left the planet.

Three days.

And already, he thought about her more with each one. Her face getting clearer the further he got from where she died.

The alarm wasn’t just loud—it felt alive. It screamed through the skiff like it was trying to claw its way out of the metal, shrill and unrelenting, bouncing down the narrow corridor walls until it became part of your blood pressure. Red strobes pulsed overhead, flooding the cockpit in waves of crimson that hit the eyes like a warning flare. The light moved like a heartbeat—fast, panicked, dying.

The control panel was a mess. Warnings stacked on warnings, lights blinking out of sync, system failures cascading like dominos. Every button screamed for attention. The nav screen had gone from glitchy to almost useless, flashing garbled data in sickly orange script.

“Hull breach contained. Engines operating at 170 percent capacity,” the onboard AI reported, clinical as ever.

The ship didn’t care if they made it.

Jungkook moved fast, but there was no panic in his hands—just speed. Muscle memory. Focus. His jaw was set tight beneath his goggles, sweat stinging his eyes, but his fingers never fumbled. They flew across the console, rerouting power from places that didn’t have any left to give.

The ship was failing. He could feel it in the floor—each tremble under his boots more desperate than the last. The whole frame groaned like it was holding its breath, like it knew it wasn’t going to make it.

Behind him, Leo sat stiff in the co-pilot’s chair. Her knees were pulled up slightly, boots braced against the bulkhead like she was trying to ground herself in something. Her patched-up jumpsuit hung loose on her, and she looked even smaller in the red light. Quiet, but not calm. Her lips were pressed in a hard line, but her eyes were wide—too wide. She wasn’t looking at the controls anymore. She was watching Jungkook.

On the other side, Namjoon was still. His hands worked slowly over a string of worn prayer beads. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Just the rhythm of his lips—like maybe if he kept going, the ship wouldn’t tear apart around them.

“Engine and hull failure imminent under current parameters,” the computer said, calm and cold.

The skiff jolted. Hard.

Metal screamed. Panels rattled. Jungkook slammed his hand out to steady himself, then shoved another lever forward with too much force. The ship groaned louder in protest.

Outside the cockpit, the Trinidad filled the viewport. Big. Beautiful. Terrifying. A cruiser built like a cathedral—sharp lines, gold-trimmed plating, gunmetal veins running beneath polished armor. It wasn’t flying so much as lurking, and the tether line pulling them toward it felt more like a noose than a rescue.

The cable had them. They were being dragged—no propulsion, no fight left in the engine. Just a dead weight being reeled into the belly of something much bigger.

Leo leaned forward, voice low, bitter. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Jungkook didn’t look up. No point. No time. Bad feelings didn’t change trajectory.

He didn’t speak.

The cockpit dimmed. Systems started dying one by one. Screens faded. The noise dropped away like someone had turned down the volume on the whole universe. The engine gave one last wheeze of heat, and then—nothing.

The ship went still.

Jungkook exhaled and sat back, his body finally catching up to the silence. His goggles reflected the last flicker from the dash, one final blink before darkness took over.

He turned his head just slightly. Looked at Leo.

“First you’re a boy, then a girl, now a psychic,” he said, voice dry. “Careful what you wish for.”

Leo let out a shaky breath. Could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve been panic. Hard to tell.

Before she could answer, a voice cracked over the comms.

“Unidentified craft. State your purpose and contents.”

The three of them froze.

Namjoon’s fingers stopped on the beads. Leo’s expression snapped back to blank. Jungkook’s hands hovered over the dead controls.

Out the viewport, the Trinidad opened up. Massive bay doors unfurled with precision, the glow of internal lights spilling out like a halo around a mouth too wide. Inside, the crew moved with calm efficiency—figures in white uniforms, their faces obscured by interface helmets. Augmented reality panels glowed across their armor, data syncing in real-time as they prepared to receive… whatever they thought this was.

And at the center of it all stood Typhon.

Tall. Pale. Designed, not grown. His boots echoed as he walked across the command deck, each step deliberate. No wasted motion. He didn’t need to raise his voice—when he spoke again, the ship seemed to carry it.

“Unidentified craft, state your purpose and contents.”

Jungkook’s voice came through on comms, flat and casual. “Name’s Lee. Just a hauler. Ship blew on a short run. Got two civvies onboard. No cargo. Nothing worth selling.”

There was a pause. Then the faint sound of data being pulled, processed. A technician tilted their head. Something blinked red on their visor.

The bounty came up.

1,126,000 UD. Dead or alive.

Typhon smiled. Just a little. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well then, Mr. Lee,” he said, “what brings you this far out? Not much out here but dust and wreckage.”

Jungkook didn’t skip a beat. “Bounty hunter. Got turned around. Fuel cell blew. Nothing noble.”

Typhon tilted his head. “Looks like we’re in the same business.”

Up on a raised platform at the rear of the deck, a woman sat—motionless, veiled in white, her face hidden beneath layers of fabric that shimmered like glass. She made no sound. Just watched. And then, slowly, she nodded once.

Typhon didn’t hesitate.

“Bring them in.”

The cable pulled tight with a mechanical groan. The skiff jerked slightly as the slack disappeared, and then it began the slow crawl forward, dragged through space like a hooked fish.

Leo stared out the viewport, eyes fixed on the massive bulk of the Trinidad ahead. The cruiser’s hangar doors were yawning open now, gaping like some metal beast waiting to feed.

“They’re reeling us in,” she said, voice flat, thin.

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just kept one hand on the side panel, steadying himself as the ship was drawn into the docking bay.

The Trinidad swallowed the skiff whole.

A dull thud echoed through the hull as the landing clamps hit. There was a brief hiss—pressure equalizing. Then another thud. Heavier. Final. The bay doors slammed shut behind them with a clang that reverberated down the frame like a coffin being sealed.

“Ship is secure in Bay 3.” The voice from overhead was automated, clipped. No warmth. No welcome.

Silence followed. Not peaceful—oppressive. A kind of silence that felt earned. Like something had died in it.

Jungkook struck a match.

The flame caught fast, flickering orange in the dim cockpit. For a second, it lit his face—sweat-slick, focused, jaw tight. Then he touched it to the tip of a handheld torch and let it roar to life.

He dropped to a knee near the bulkhead panel and pressed the flame to the ship’s internal fire sensor. The heat would fry the scanner for just long enough—muddle the data, scramble the signatures. One last trick before the curtain went up.

Namjoon leaned forward, watching. “That’s… clever.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He wasn’t doing this for points. It was the kind of thing you did when you didn’t plan to get caught—and definitely didn’t plan to explain yourself.

Leo glanced toward him, uncertainty in her voice now. “You think that’s gonna work? That it’ll be enough?”

Still no answer.

The torch hissed, spitting heat. A few more seconds. The sensor casing blackened and warped.

Jungkook muttered, just loud enough to cut through the quiet: “Hold your breath.”

Across the hangar, in the Trinidad’s command deck, the mood was sterile and sharp. The lighting was low, just enough to make the glowing data walls pop. Readouts flowed along the arc of the room—everything from structural scans to environmental profiles to biometrics.

The skiff showed up on every screen. Docked. Vulnerable. Slowly being dissected line by line by the ship’s scanners.

Typhon stood dead center in the room. Tall. Unshaken. He didn’t fidget, didn’t shift his weight. His voice didn’t rise unless there was a reason.

“Report.”

One word. That was enough.

Freddy, perched at the main terminal, squinted at the data. “Two adult signatures. Weak. Third… not consistent. Could be residual heat. Could be a juvenile. Or…” He hesitated. “Could just be engine wash.”

Typhon didn’t even blink. “Find out.”

Back in the skiff, the torch died. Jungkook closed the panel. Leo was sitting stiff, shoulders drawn in tight, breathing shallow. Her arms were wrapped across her chest, her fingers dug into the sleeves of her jumpsuit. Namjoon whispered a prayer, low and steady—maybe for them. Maybe for whoever walked through that hatch first.

On the bridge, Freddy frowned.

“Running a tighter sweep… wait.”

Typhon didn’t move, but the air changed around him. “What is it.”

Freddy blinked hard, tapping the screen. “They’re gone.”

“Gone,” Typhon repeated.

Freddy nodded, still staring at the monitor. “All three heat signatures just… vanished. Like they were never there.”

Typhon’s jaw shifted. Just once. No emotion. Just recalibration.

“Full breach protocol,” he said. “Prep the team.”

Far below deck, a low alarm chimed. A hatch slammed open. Boots hit steel in tight, rhythmic strides. A dozen mercenaries—lean, geared, practiced—moved fast down the corridor. Armor plates clicked into place. Mag-locks on their boots sparked and sealed.

Typhon moved with them, pacing like a man walking into a boardroom, not a breach op. At the hangar, two sentries were already posted.

The first—Gunner—leaned casually against the wall, cigarette tucked behind his ear. His armor was scratched up, half-unzipped, a permanent smirk carved into his face.

The second was all silence. A woman with a close-cut buzz, a black eye-patch, and an expression that didn’t change for anything.

Typhon stopped between them. “Anything?”

Gunner shrugged. “I locked it myself. No motion. No breach. Atmosphere’s flatlined.”

Typhon stepped to the window. Looked out at the skiff—small, dented, still.

“Pressurize.”

The air hissed into the bay—slow at first, then building. It moved like a whisper, filling the room with a quiet, tense hum. A soft green light blinked to life on the outer seal.

“Green for breach,” Gunner said. “O2’s thin, but it’ll hold.”

Typhon stepped back and gave a single nod—sharp, economical.

The mercenaries moved in.

They advanced without a word, rifles up, line tight. Each step was practiced, precise. No wasted motion. One broke formation—a smaller guy in a sleek zero-G rig, fast and quiet. He bounded forward in low gravity, using the bay floor like a springboard. Three strong strides and he hit the side of the skiff, magnetized boots clamping on with a heavy clunk. He crawled across the hull like a spider, hugging the curvature of the wing, working fast toward the hatch.

No noise. Just the soft whir of his suit servos and the faint click of tools being unpacked.

A small puck-shaped device was placed over the hatch lock. It blinked once, then started spinning—a magnetic bypass tool, top-grade. He leaned back slightly, fingers flying over the interface.

Hiss.

The seal disengaged with a low pop.

And then everything went to hell.

The hatch blew outward with a concussive blast—a contained charge that wasn’t designed to destroy, but to stun. A wall of thick, white foam surged from the opening, dense and fast, coating everything in seconds. No sound—just pressure. Pure force in a vacuum.

Three mercs were knocked off their feet immediately. One slammed into a wall and stayed down. Two vanished into the mass—swallowed whole. The lockpicker was thrown clear, landing hard and skidding across the deck, foam trailing from his gear. He choked, clawing at his faceplate.

“What the hell is this?” he gasped. “Foam?”

Typhon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed, calculating.

“A trap.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t have to.

“Fall back. Now.”

Some obeyed. Some didn’t get the chance. The foam wasn’t ordinary. It writhed—chemically reactive, thickening by the second, dragging bodies into itself like a slow tidal wave. A merc screamed, muffled and short-lived, his voice dying under the weight of the compound.

Fire suppressant—repurposed. Smart. Brutal. Designed to suck the air out of lungs and silence screams before they started.

The remaining mercs at the perimeter held their ground, rifles aimed, scanning for movement. The bay lights stuttered once as backup systems kicked in.

Typhon didn’t move. He just watched.

“He has to breathe sometime,” he muttered.

And then he did.

Leo surfaced first, breaking through the foam with a sharp inhale, eyes wide, panicked. One of the mercs opened fire instantly. A tight burst. The rounds tore into the foam just as she ducked back under, disappearing in a churn of white.

Namjoon came up next—gasped, blinked, gone. Another burst of rounds shredded the air where he’d been.

Then silence.

Then chaos.

Jungkook burst from the foam like a goddamn missile—silent, fast, feral. He didn’t pause. Didn’t look. Just moved.

One merc went down before he even registered the threat—a crushed windpipe under a sharp elbow. The second tried to turn, but Jungkook disarmed him with a clean strike, spun the rifle in his hands, and used the butt to collapse the man’s throat.

A third stumbled backward. Jungkook kicked him square in the chest—sent him flying into a support beam. The crunch was loud even through sealed helmets.

He wasn’t fighting. He was erasing.

He vaulted to the ledge—two more waiting. He stripped a weapon from one, slammed it across the other's helmet, and pinned the second to the bulkhead with his forearm. The rifle in his other hand came up like a whisper.

From the foam, Leo reemerged, soaked and gasping, dragging a rifle with her.

She caught her breath just enough to shout, “That’s nothing, scarecrow! He’s gonna kick your—”

A round screamed past her head. She yelped, ducked, then was pulled under again by the shifting foam, her shout swallowed mid-word.

Typhon watched all of it from behind the glass. His lips curled, just slightly. Not amusement. Appreciation.

“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” he said over comms—voice calm, clear, cutting.

Jungkook didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up. Another merc lunged at him with a baton—Jungkook caught the swing mid-arc and drove a knee into the man’s ribs, then tossed him into the wall like a rag doll. The impact echoed through the bay.

Blood—small, floating spheres of it—drifted in the low gravity, glinting under the harsh lights like dark rubies.

But Typhon wasn’t watching the fight anymore.

His eyes had locked on Leo.

She’d dragged herself back up, coughing foam out of her lungs, just in time to see Typhon step forward. His boot slammed into her chest, dropping her hard. The air left her in a sharp grunt.

She gasped, arms raised, stunned but not broken.

Typhon leveled his pistol at her, one eye narrowed down the sight.

“Stay down.”

Her chest heaved. Her hands trembled. But she didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. There was something in the set of her jaw—a refusal to break, even when it made no sense.

Jungkook’s voice cut through, low and cold.

“Call off your lapdog.”

Typhon didn’t glance back. But his finger curled slightly on the trigger.

Jungkook stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He had one of the mercs pinned beneath his knee, a curved shiv at the man’s throat. The kind of weapon that wasn’t standard issue. The kind that had stories behind it.

“Before his trying to impress you gets him killed,” Jungkook said, eyes locked on Typhon.

For a second, everything held still.

The foam churned in lazy spirals across the bay, thick and clinging, full of bodies and blood that hadn’t yet settled. Rifles were up. Triggers hovered. No one moved. Not yet. The whole hangar was waiting—watching.

Jungkook didn’t flinch.

He stood in the middle of the wreckage like it belonged to him. Eyes forward, breath even. Hands still, but ready. Every inch of him was wound tight beneath the surface. A man born from this kind of chaos.

Above them, movement.

A figure stepped into the light overhead—graceful, deliberate. Like a performer walking onto a stage she already owned.

Loralai Youngblood.

Her robe was bone-white, trailing behind her in slow waves. It hung too clean for a place like this, almost religious in its softness. But as she moved, the fabric parted just enough to reveal a sleek, polished exo-frame beneath. Cybernetic. Expensive. More sculpted than engineered. A whisper of otherworldly tech that didn’t belong in a hangar full of mercs and corpses.

“Am I that easy to spot?” she asked, voice lilting, amused. “You make it sound like I enjoy the drama.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened as his gaze snapped to her. “Call it what you want. Just tell him to lower the damn weapon.”

Youngblood drifted closer, eyes skimming over the scene without concern. Her smile was polite, but thin—like something she wore out of habit, not emotion.

“You’ll have to forgive Typhon,” she said. “He gets ahead of himself sometimes. It's part of the job.” She looked down at the carnage like it was spilled coffee on her favorite rug. “Still. Can’t say I blame him.”

She met Jungkook’s eyes. “You have a reputation, Jungkook.”

He didn’t answer. She already knew he wouldn’t.

“Yes, Jungkook. I know your name. And more than just that,” she added, like she was letting him in on a secret.

His voice dropped. Gravel and warning. “Keep digging and you’ll find something sharp.”

Her laugh was soft. Almost kind. Almost.

“I’m not here to fight you. Not unless you make me.” She nodded to the foam-streaked floor. “But if it saves me another cleanup crew and a PR nightmare… I’d appreciate if you dropped the blade.”

Jungkook’s grip tightened just slightly. “Not gonna happen.”

Her smile flickered. Not gone, just... cracked.

She gave a subtle look to Typhon.

The blade at Leo’s forehead shifted—barely. Just enough to leave a thin line of red down her skin. She didn’t scream. But her breath caught. Her hands twitched in the air—raised, trembling.

“The girl,” Jungkook said flatly, “doesn’t matter to me.”

Youngblood raised an eyebrow. “Then help me understand. Why risk this much for someone you don’t care about?” She turned to Leo, then back again. “Unless, of course... she got to you.”

Leo’s breath hitched. Her shoulders were shaking now, barely holding together. Namjoon had finally emerged from the foam, his robes soaked and streaked, blood and suppressant clinging to his skin. He watched silently, his expression grim.

But Jungkook didn’t move.

Everything around him had slowed—background noise drowned out by the way Leo was looking at him. Not begging. Not pleading. Just watching. Like she needed to know, right then, what kind of man she’d followed through hell.

One tear slid from her eye. It caught the light.

“She’s a cover story,” Jungkook said quietly. “That’s all.”

The words hung in the air. Dry. Final. Like smoke from a long-dead fire.

“You shoot her now,” he added, eyes still locked on Typhon, “you’re just saving me the effort.”

Youngblood’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a grin pulling at the corner.

“Then I have your blessing.”

Typhon’s grip shifted. He adjusted the barrel just slightly—one finger already beginning its pull—

Thunk.

Jungkook’s shiv spun through the air in a perfect arc. The blade struck the rifle’s barrel and knocked it upward just as the trigger was pulled. The shot cracked into the bay ceiling with a sharp metallic ping, sending sparks raining down.

Leo gasped, hands flying up to shield her face. The shot hadn’t touched her, but it had been close enough to feel.

Typhon didn’t flinch. He didn’t even react. But his finger eased off the trigger.

Youngblood didn’t turn around. She just started walking away, her robe trailing like nothing had happened at all.

“I think I know you better than you know yourself,” she said over her shoulder. “And I think you’re lying.”

Jungkook watched her go, jaw clenched, saying nothing.

“Now’s not the time,” he muttered under his breath.

The merc still pinned beneath his boot struggled weakly, reaching for something—anything. Jungkook shifted his weight. There was a snap. Then stillness.

“Lock them down,” Youngblood called out. “We’re finished here.”

Typhon stepped back. He holstered the weapon, but not before giving Leo a final look—impassive, clinical. A single drop of blood still traced its way down her temple.

Mercs poured into the bay like water breaking through a dam. All business. No adrenaline. Just cleanup.

Leo didn’t resist when one of them grabbed her by the collar and hauled her upright. Her feet scraped, boots dragging across the floor. Her eyes were unfocused now, but not broken. She didn’t cry out. Didn’t cry at all.

Jungkook didn’t fight either.

But his eyes never stopped moving.

And if you looked closely—really looked—you’d see it:

He was counting. Doors. Guns. Guards.

Behind the group, Typhon fell in step beside Youngblood. His voice was low, barely audible over the clank of boots on metal.

“My apologies.”

Youngblood let out a small laugh. It didn’t warm anything. “Typhon, you know what those mean to me.” She didn’t look at him. “You did what you were told. A few bodies? Acceptable cost.”

Typhon nodded once, just enough to acknowledge the blood on his hands wasn’t a mistake—it was math.

“What about him?” he asked.

Youngblood’s pace slowed, her lips pulling into something between a smirk and a promise. “Slowly,” she said. “Bring Jungkook to the conservatory. I’ve got… something in mind.”

“And the others?”

She waved her hand like brushing crumbs from a table. “Unfreeze more mercs. Replacements are easy.”

Outside, the skiff that had brought them was jettisoned from the bay like trash. No ceremony. It tumbled once, struck the side of the Trinidad’s engine housing, and bounced off, spiraling into the dark.

Inside the cruiser, Jungkook lay strapped to an immobilizer—arms pinned, chest locked down. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look afraid. He just watched.

Namjoon and Leo were ahead of him, forced down a long corridor lit by strips of flickering white light. The walls were metal, matte black, cold. Industrial. Functional.

Leo’s feet barely touched the floor—her captor dragging her like she wasn’t even worth the full effort. Namjoon walked, hands bound at the wrists, back straight. Calm.

“Ever seen a ship like this before?” Namjoon asked, voice quiet.

“Plenty,” Jungkook muttered. “Just trying to figure out how they fit the pieces together.”

Namjoon’s gaze swept the walls—lined in cryo-pods, dozens of them. Some empty, others with shadows barely visible through the frost. Men. Women. Frozen for a reason.

“It’s a plantation model,” Namjoon said. “Ships like this leave port loaded with mercs and bounty contracts. They float for months. Years, if the crew holds together.”

Jungkook scoffed. “Growing soldiers instead of crops.”

Namjoon nodded once. “Bodies on one end. Labor on the other.”

Leo’s voice cut in, barely above a whisper. “Just add heat.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to her. She wasn’t being sarcastic. Just tired. But she was still sharp.

He turned his attention to Namjoon again. “You know a lot for a holy man.”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. “I listen.”

Jungkook’s smirk was brief. “Gotta be a real special brand of desperate to sign up for this kind of hell.”

A merc walking beside them stopped. Turned. Big guy. Thick armor. No patience. He slammed the butt of his rifle into Jungkook’s face without a word.

The crack echoed down the hall. Jungkook’s head jerked sideways, lip split open.

He spat blood to the floor, gave the man a slow once-over. “That wasn’t about the comment,” he said flatly. “You just needed a win today.”

Leo barked out a small, bitter laugh. She didn’t smile for long, but it was enough.

The corridor opened into a wider passage lined with more guards. The temperature dropped—not cold, exactly, but sterile. Like a morgue. The walls were clean. Too clean.

At the far end, a new voice barked: “Split ’em.”

The man who spoke—red hair, broad shoulders, hands like slabs of alloy—grabbed Leo by the shoulder and jerked her to the side. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it made a point. His name tag said BYRNE, but the way he moved said don’t test me.

Leo tensed but didn’t fight. Not yet.

Byrne looked at Namjoon. “You too, preacher.”

Namjoon nodded slightly, the expression on his face unreadable. Peaceful. Maybe performative. Maybe not. “I’ll pray.”

“For me?” Jungkook called out, half-laughing through blood.

Namjoon didn’t look back. “Not for me.”

Jungkook snorted.

Byrne shoved Leo toward a side hall. “Let’s go.”

Leo twisted in his grip, just enough to look back. Her voice cracked around the edge when she shouted, “I’m not leaving you, Jungkook! I’ll find you!”

He didn’t respond.

But for the first time, his expression changed. Not panic. Not pain. Just something tight around the eyes. Not for himself—for her. Because he knew her well enough to believe she meant it. And that kind of loyalty? That kind of promise?

That could get her killed.

He didn’t say a word as the guards rolled him down the corridor. The table moved smooth, gliding over polished floors that gleamed too much for a ship like this. But Jungkook wasn’t focused on the ride. His eyes stayed busy.

Counting boots. Watching doors. Marking every camera and shadow.

They wheeled him through a heavy door that hissed open like a lung exhaling stale breath.

The room inside was... strange.

It was clean—painfully so. Every surface gleamed under cold, sterile light, but that light wasn’t white. It was a deep, electric blue that made the shadows hum and the edges of things blur. There was something wrong with the color—it made depth look flat, made solid things feel translucent. Unreal.

The air hit him like frost. Thin and cold, dry enough to burn in his nose. The kind of climate you set for machines, not people.

Then there were the shapes.

Figures lined the walls and corners, lit from below by recessed floor lights. They weren’t statues exactly. Not in the traditional sense. They were... human-shaped. Mostly. But the more he looked, the less he liked what he saw. Arms bent wrong. Ribs that flared out too far. Mouths frozen in screams that looked too detailed to be sculpted.

In the center of the room stood a towering cone—matte black, smooth, unnaturally reflective. It shimmered slightly in the ambient glow like it was absorbing the light, not reflecting it.

Around it: the figures. Silent. Watching.

“Set him down and leave,” Typhon said.

No ceremony. Just a flat command.

The mercs unlatched the restraints. No words, no glances. The table was wheeled out as fast as it had come in, vanishing through the thick doors with a quiet thunk.

Jungkook stood slowly, rolling his shoulders, his muscles stiff from being pinned down. The floor glowed faintly beneath his boots—each step lighting up as he walked. He didn’t like it. The tech was too quiet, too intentional.

He only got a few steps in before something caught his eye.

A statue. Human form. Nearly life-sized. The posture was... strange. Shoulders hunched, head tilted slightly, arms half-raised like it had been caught mid-reaction. There was power in it—muscle, tension—but also something broken in the stance. Like whoever it had been, they hadn’t died well.

The plaque at its base read: KILLER OF MEN: FURYA

Jungkook’s lips curled at the name. Familiar. He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. The detail was eerie—every muscle line, every pore. This wasn’t sculpture. This was capture. Preservation. A body flash-frozen in time.

His hand moved up, instinctive, almost curious—reaching toward the statue’s lip.

Then it moved.

A tongue flicked out—thin, fast, wet. Just enough to lick his fingertip.

He jerked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire. “What the hell—”

“You like it?” a voice asked, silk-smooth and too amused.

Jungkook spun. Loralai Youngblood stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the blue glow, one hand holding a glass of something deep red that shimmered like blood in stasis. Her robe—long, silver-white—trailed behind her like it had its own gravity.

The Furyan statue turned toward her. Slowly. Like it knew who was in charge.

Typhon stepped up behind Jungkook. Fast. Too fast.

There was a sharp, clean stab of pain—something sliding into the base of his neck. He dropped to his knees, hands catching the floor just before his face hit. His body shook once, a cold fire racing down his spine.

“Son of a—” he growled through gritted teeth.

Youngblood took her time walking in. She set her glass on a sleek chrome pedestal, casual as if this was her parlor and not some waking nightmare.

“Precaution,” she said lightly, waving her hand. “If you get any ideas—say, murdering me—I press a button, and that little implant Typhon just gifted you? Well, let’s say it ends things... fast.”

Jungkook rose to his feet slowly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was low, rough. “You’re not freezing me like one of your art pieces.”

She smiled, sharp and effortless. “Of course not. You’re for my private collection.”

She gestured toward the cone at the center of the room. As she moved, the light shifted slightly—and with it, the illusion of the space broke.

There were more of them.

Dozens. Maybe more.

Not statues—people. Or what had been people. Bodies suspended mid-motion, frozen in positions that told a story: panic, rage, surrender. Every face locked in its final expression.

Jungkook’s eyes swept the room.

It wasn’t a conservatory.

It was a gallery of endings.

Commander Angel Hitchcock moved down the dim corridor like she owned it—not fast, but with purpose. Her green-and-gray environ-suit was scuffed from years of use, the kind you didn’t replace unless it stopped sealing. Her boots hit the grated floor with a steady metallic clang, each step echoing in the empty passage like a countdown.

The hallway was cold. Not just temperature—ship cold. Recycled air, too clean to trust. Walls lined with frost-sealed cryo-chambers, each one dark and quiet like coffins for the not-quite-dead.

She stopped at a wall-mounted panel and keyed in a string of commands. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale light on her face. Sharp angles. No makeup. No softness. Just function.

REVIVE: KING?

She didn’t hesitate. Tapped yes.

Hydraulics hissed. Gears locked and disengaged. A chamber slid out with a groan, as if the ship itself wasn’t thrilled about what it was waking up.

The cryo-tube extended from the wall like a tongue spitting something out. Frost cracked along the seams. Inside, a figure twitched.

The man hit the floor hard—bare skin on freezing steel. He dropped to his knees in the decontamination chamber, gasping, face slick with cryo-sweat. A second later, he surged forward like an animal. Slammed into the glass with a shoulder and let out a guttural snarl.

“Miss me?” he rasped, voice shredded from months—or maybe years—of silence.

Hitchcock didn’t flinch. Just stepped back, pressed a gloved finger to the controls, and started the purge.

Steam hissed around him, the automated system blasting him with decontaminants. He stood there like it was nothing, letting the chemicals wash off the freeze. He shook his head, flinging water like a dog, then grinned.

“Mmm,” he muttered, eyes wild but sharp. “Fresh as a f***in’ daisy.”

The chamber hissed open, and he stepped out barefoot, half-naked, still dripping. No shame. No nerves. Just motion.

Hitchcock handed him a duffel—worn, stitched, tagged. His gear.

She didn’t say his name. Just, “Suit up. Report in.”

That was all he needed.

King pulled the bag open and started pulling on layers without breaking eye contact, checking the straps on his boots like he was reacquainting himself with an old friend. Then came the weapon—a compact scatter rifle with a folding stock and enough kick to knock a man through a bulkhead. He flipped it once, just to hear it click.

“Must be something serious,” she said, dryly. “You don’t wake up someone like you unless things are about to go sideways.”

He looked at her, eyes gleaming, grin spreading like a bad idea.

“Sister,” he said, voice low and ready, “I certainly hope so.”

Youngblood moved through the gallery like she was giving a private tour. Her voice was light, casual, the kind of tone you'd expect at a high-end auction, not in a tomb full of monsters. Jungkook followed, every step slow, eyes scanning—part curiosity, part survival. Typhon stayed back, silent, but watching. Always watching.

Jungkook folded his arms, masking the unease crawling up his spine. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You track these people down, throw resources into catching ‘em alive… and this is what you do with them? Line ‘em up like trophies?”

Youngblood didn’t turn. Just smiled to herself as she drifted past another figure—one twisted so badly its silhouette barely looked human. “You’re missing the point,” she said, her voice velvet over steel.

Jungkook snorted quietly. “What point? You’ve got a gallery full of killers worth a fortune and you’re using them for interior design.”

She stopped in front of a pair—locked in some grotesque, almost intimate tangle. A man and a woman. Hard to tell which parts belonged to who. She reached out, ran her fingertips along the rigid curve of a shoulder, almost tender.

“You see waste,” she murmured. “I see legacy. These aren’t corpses, Jungkook. They’re monuments. Each one used to be the most dangerous person in some corner of the galaxy. Some of them entire systems wanted gone. The lives they took? Too many to count. Too many to forget.”

She looked at him then, her eyes sharp and bright. “I don’t waste that kind of history.”

Jungkook’s jaw shifted, his tone edged with disdain. “Yeah. Still not what I’d call ‘livin.’”

The light caught her face just right when her smile faded. It was only for a second, but something slipped through—something cold.

“They’re not dead,” she said softly.

He blinked, then turned to the statue she was facing. Looked closer.

The man’s face was frozen in a perfect expression. Calm. Too calm. His eyes slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of blinking—or trying to blink.

Youngblood leaned in. “Still breathing. Just barely. Cryo slowed to the point where seconds feel like days. No sleep. No escape. Just... thought.”

Jungkook’s stomach turned, but he kept his face blank. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

“And what’s that supposed to be?” he asked. “Mercy?”

She walked again, drawing him deeper into the space. The gallery shifted around them—figures more twisted, more broken. Arms fused to spines. Mouths contorted in impossible ways. It stopped feeling like a collection and started feeling like a warning.

Eventually, they reached a curtain.

Thick. Heavy. Blood-red. The kind of fabric that looked like it had weight even when it didn’t move.

Youngblood paused, turned to him like a magician before the reveal.

“They’re conscious, Jungkook. Every second. The brain keeps going, trapped inside the same memory loop. Over and over.” Her voice dropped, almost reverent. “It’s a better sentence than anything a slam can give. No cells. No guards. Just… them. And who they were.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “And what do you think that turns them into?”

She smiled again, slow. “Art.”

He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Your taste is garbage.”

She didn’t react. Just gave a small nod.

“Typhon.”

The man stepped forward. One hand raised. A click.

The curtain rose.

The platform wasn’t a gallery. It was a pit—wide and deep, with metal railings lining the edge. Red lights pulsed beneath the floor, slow and rhythmic, like the place itself was breathing.

Two mercs stood at either side. One of them Jungkook recognized—a pig-faced bastard who’d grinned too much during the last scuffle.

Jungkook stepped up to the edge.

He stopped cold.

Below them, suspended over the void, were Namjoon and Leo.

Both stood barefoot on smooth, unstable spheres—barely the size of their feet. Hands cuffed behind their backs. Necks looped in thin suspension cords, tight enough that one bad move would tip the balance.

Namjoon’s head hung low, body trembling with the effort to stay upright. Leo’s knees were shaking visibly, her chin lifted in forced defiance—but her eyes searched the shadows, wild with fear.

Youngblood came to stand beside him, calm as ever. “This is the difference between you and me.”

He didn’t take his eyes off them. “Yeah,” he muttered. “You’re insane.”

She reached up, touched his cheek.

He flinched, but didn’t move.

“You don’t understand beauty,” she whispered. “Not yet. But you will.”

He shoved her hand away.

“I’ve been called a lot of things,” he said. “But I’m not your canvas.”

She laughed under her breath, low and indulgent. “You already are.”

Her voice dropped, almost affectionate. “You make art, Jungkook. You carve it into bodies. You leave it behind every time someone tries to stop you. The difference is, I preserve it. I elevate it.”

Jungkook turned back toward the pit, every nerve tight, jaw locked, heart thudding in his throat.

Leo looked up from below, swaying slightly where she stood on that fragile orb of a platform. Her legs trembled from the strain, but her voice was steady.

“I said I’d find you, didn’t I?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His chest had already tightened with the kind of rage that clouded the edges of reason. He turned his head slowly toward Youngblood.

She stood a few steps behind him—composed, casual, one arm draped across her midsection as she idly swirled the wine in her glass. Watching. Not like a tactician or a soldier, but like a patron at an exhibit she’d paid dearly to attend.

“What do you want?” Jungkook asked, his voice hoarse, cracked with fury.

Youngblood smiled, slow and measured, her words curling out with a calm that made them land even harder. “I want to see you in motion,” she said, voice low. “Not through files. Not after cleanup crews. I want to see you... work.”

She took a step closer, her heels silent against the polished floor.

“I’ve spent the last ten years chasing men like you. I’ve read the reports, seen the aftermath. Bullet holes. Burn marks. Piles of bodies. But it’s always... after. Cold. Quiet.” Her eyes met his, and for the first time, they burned with something like obsession. “Now I want to see what happens before all of that.”

Typhon moved to her side and pressed a control panel embedded in the wall.

The sound that followed was deep and mechanical—ancient tech waking up. Across the far end of the chamber, thick steel doors creaked and parted with a groan that echoed off the high walls.

Down in the pit, Leo’s face drained of color. Her shoulders jerked. Namjoon’s muscles tensed, his whole body fighting to stay upright, the veins in his neck straining against the cord that kept him one slip from the end.

Up on the ledge, Youngblood took a slow sip from her glass and sighed, as if this was exactly the kind of theater she’d hoped for.

“I want to see what everyone’s so afraid of,” she said. “I want to see you, Jungkook. At your peak. At your worst.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—cold, humorless. He stepped in, slow, until he was close enough that she could feel the heat off his skin.

“I get out of here,” he said quietly, “you’re gonna see it again.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a murmur.

“From this close.”

Youngblood didn’t blink. Her expression didn’t falter. She raised her hand, and with almost theatrical flair, lifted his chin with something small and gleaming between her fingers—his own shiv. Reclaimed. Mocked.

She let it hang there for a second, the sharp tip kissing just beneath his jaw. Then she let go, and the blade clattered to the floor between them.

“I’m not interested in threats,” she said, her tone velvet but firm. “I want your masterpiece. An artist is nothing without his tools.”

Jungkook stepped back, his face unreadable. He glanced down at the shiv, then back up.

That’s when Typhon moved—silent, imposing, stepping between him and the weapon like a wall of armor and muscle.

Jungkook didn’t back down. He just looked up at the man, slow and steady, reading him.

“When we meet again,” he said, voice low, like a promise, “I’m gonna bury that blade in your eye.”

Typhon didn’t answer.

Jungkook stepped around him, bent at the waist, and picked up the shiv. No rush. Just a clean, deliberate motion, like he was slipping back into a version of himself he hadn’t worn in a while.

Jungkook rose slowly, sliding his goggles down over his eyes. The red glow from the pit caught the lenses just right, turning his expression into something not quite human—eyes faintly reflective, cold, animal.

“Let him in,” Youngblood said, her voice slicing clean through the silence.

Two mercs moved in—boots loud on the steel floor. Jungkook didn’t resist. He let the first one circle behind him, posture slack, as if compliant.

Then he turned.

One step, one twist—his boot drove hard into the side of the pig-faced merc’s head. Bone cracked. The man dropped like scrap metal.

The second merc started to lift his weapon, but he was too slow. Jungkook closed the distance in a blur and drove the shiv up under his ribs. One smooth motion. No wasted effort.

The first merc groaned, pushing himself upright, rage painted across his busted face. He lunged.

They went over the edge together.

The air split around them as they crashed into the pit below. But Jungkook twisted mid-fall, landing hard on top. The merc hit first, breath knocked from his lungs, shiv at his throat. Jungkook didn’t finish it—not yet. He stood, leaving the man wheezing on the floor.

Above, Youngblood didn’t flinch. She set the remote for Jungkook’s implant aside and lifted something else: a slim pair of polished optic lenses, old-world elegant—opera glasses reworked for ultraviolet.

“Switch it,” she said. “Ultraviolet.”

The lighting shifted. The blood-red glow vanished, replaced by a strange violet haze. Shadows sharpened. Every edge turned stark and surreal.

Jungkook blinked behind his goggles. The dark bloomed into life.

Two faint glimmers began to form in the far corners of his vision—indistinct at first, like heat waves. Then, they took shape.

Massive. Fluid. Tentacled.

Each had a pulsing mass at its core, like a brain encased in jelly, spinning slowly, lit from within. Not solid—translucent. Their bodies shimmered, phasing between visibility and shadow, like they didn’t fully exist in one place.

There wasn’t one.

There were two.

Jungkook exhaled, low and steady. “Namjoon.”

A pause. “Start praying.”

Namjoon’s voice cracked through the pit. “I was on a pilgrimage,” he muttered, his voice distant. “Just a damn pilgrimage.”

Leo was pale, her breath shaky. “This is bad, huh?”

Jungkook didn’t look at her. “Give it a minute.”

One of the shrill shifted, its long limbs trailing across the floor, dragging filaments behind it. The UV light bent around its form, warping its outline.

Then it moved.

Fast.

A tentacle lashed through the air toward the wounded merc. He never had a chance. His panicked gunfire lit up the cavern—wild, useless.

The tentacle coiled around him.

There was a snap of bone, then a piercing scream as the shrill pulled him close and injected something. His body seized, twitched. Then swelled.

Then burst.

A glowing spray of blood and tissue misted into the air, scattering across the pit floor.

Leo gagged.

Namjoon didn’t move.

Jungkook didn’t blink.

The second shrill turned toward him.

It lunged.

Jungkook moved with it, sliding beneath the strike, twisting low. He grabbed hold of one of its tendrils as it whipped past. It flung him off like dead weight. He flew, hard, slamming into the orb Leo balanced on.

It bucked under the impact. She screamed, arms flailing, collar yanking tight against her throat.

“Leo!” Namjoon shouted. He kicked off, rolling his own orb closer, using his shoulder to brace hers before she could fall. They held each other, both gasping, barely stable.

Jungkook hit the floor hard, but rolled with it, coming up fast. The creature was already pivoting, trying to flank him. He stepped in and slashed—one clean stroke.

The blade met flesh.

A hiss, like gas escaping a pressure valve. The shrill recoiled, flickering out of visibility for half a second before reforming with a sickening ripple.

Jungkook didn’t stop.

He advanced, carving through the haze. His movements were precise—nothing flashy. Just survival sharpened into muscle memory. Each strike aimed to cripple, not kill.

Behind him, the second shrill shifted direction. Its pulsing core lit up brighter as it turned on Namjoon and Leo.

“Move!” Jungkook shouted.

They were already reacting—working the collar ropes, using the tether to drag their orbs in tandem. They kicked off together, rolling straight into the beast’s path.

It stumbled, briefly disoriented.

Jungkook heard their coughing, their struggle to stay upright. He turned, sprinted, and vaulted. His boots hit the second shrill’s back mid-motion.

He drove the blade deep, straight into the core.

The creature shuddered, spasmed, then collapsed—its body dissolving into twitching muscle and light.

Jungkook hit the floor hard, shoulders absorbing the impact, the shiv still in his grip. Leo and Namjoon landed beside him in a heap, breathless and shaken.

“Get her up,” he said, already scanning the dark edges of the pit. His voice was tight, clipped. No time for softness.

“I can’t see!” Namjoon coughed, his voice raw.

“You don’t want to,” Jungkook muttered, not looking back. His goggles locked forward, catching the shimmer of movement—fluid, inhuman.

The shrill were circling now. Slow at first. Coordinated. Their bodies shifted in and out of the UV light, limbs trailing across the stone like liquid shadows. Tentacles moved with eerie precision, each one anticipating the other’s motion.

Jungkook didn’t wait.

One struck fast—too fast for the eye, but not for him. He moved like instinct given shape. Slipped sideways, spun into the blow, and let his restraint chain catch the impact. The force shattered the links.

The shiv came up like a reflex.

“You wanna go?” he said under his breath, locking eyes with the creature’s flickering core. “Let’s go.”

It lunged. He met it, blade-first.

The tentacle dropped, still writhing as it hit the ground. The other shrill hesitated, their movements suddenly less certain. Sizing him up.

Above, Youngblood leaned forward, wine forgotten. “Beautiful,” she breathed, reverent.

Typhon stood stone-still next to her. “The shrill are an exquisite species.”

She barely turned her head. “I wasn’t talking about the shrill.”

Down in the pit, Jungkook crouched low, reading the shift in their body language. One shrill moved to shield the injured one, forming a wall of limbs and light.

“They’re gonna kill him!” Leo choked, trying to push forward.

Namjoon caught her arm, pulling her back with a grip firmer than his voice. “Wait.”

The two creatures separated. Slowly. Deliberately.

Jungkook stepped back a half pace, shiv up, shoulders tight. He didn’t blink.

Then Leo’s voice broke the air.

“Jungkook!”

He didn’t hesitate. Grabbed one of the balancing spheres and shoved it hard into the wounded shrill. The orb hit with a hollow thud, knocking the creature off its footing. Jungkook followed with a fast, brutal slice, cutting deep.

The thing dropped in two halves, its body folding into itself like wet cloth.

He stared down, chest rising and falling. For a second, he couldn’t believe how fast it went down.

“Huh?”

“Jungkook—no!”

Leo’s scream snapped him around. The second shrill was already on him.

It wrapped around his arms with impossible strength, pinning him in place. He grunted, trying to twist, to shift—but the thing was too strong, too tight.

“Leo, stay back!” Namjoon shouted.

She didn’t. She tore herself free and ran toward them, grabbing the severed tentacle from the ground. She swung it, raw and desperate, around the creature’s neck. It thrashed, flinging her off like a rag doll.

She hit hard, skidding across the floor—but close. Close enough.

Jungkook saw her near the shiv. Saw her hand close around it, slick with black ichor.

“Jungkook?” she rasped, her voice shaking.

He reached for her—blood on his lips, limbs straining.

“Here!” she shouted.

The throw wasn’t perfect. But it was close enough.

He caught it clean.

A breath. A blink. Then the blade was moving—slicing through the restraint on his wrist in a single, practiced stroke.

The shrill reared back, stinger lifted, coiled like a whip ready to snap.

He didn’t back off.

Instead, he grabbed the tentacle Leo had dropped, looped it around his forearm, and pulled—dragging himself forward into the creature’s body.

A reckless move. A killer’s instinct.

He drove the shiv deep.

Right into its core.

The shrill froze.

Then it ruptured—its bioluminescent center collapsing in a burst of searing light. UV flared across the room. The sound was like glass under pressure—stretching, then snapping all at once.

Then—silence.

Everything went dark.

A beat later, the overhead lights flickered back to life—dull, industrial, humming with age.

And then came the clapping.

Slow. Measured. Hands meeting with the kind of rhythm that didn’t applaud success—just confirmed it.

Leo was curled on her side, chest heaving. Namjoon was on his knees, dazed, blinking hard. His hands shook.

Jungkook sat for a moment, head bowed, goggles cracked but still in place. Then he stood, quiet and steady. No celebration. No quip.

Above them, high on the steel balcony, Youngblood and Typhon stood like they were watching a play’s final act. The lighting cast long shadows behind them, painting their silhouettes across the far wall.

“Bravo!” Youngblood’s voice rang out—sharp, rich, soaked in something halfway between mockery and genuine awe. “The grace. The detail. The sheer violence of it. Exquisite.”

Down in the pit, Namjoon and Leo exchanged a glance. She was smiling. Not pleasantly. Not politely. She was smiling like a woman watching a private collection expand.

Leo’s stomach turned. “Is she serious?”

Namjoon didn’t answer. His eyes were already on Jungkook.

Jungkook stood a few feet away, chest rising and falling. His jaw was tight, shoulders drawn back. He wasn’t breathing hard, but his eyes hadn’t moved from Youngblood once.

He opened his mouth to speak—but cut himself off.

“Give—”

“What?” Namjoon asked, wary.

Jungkook looked over at him. “The knife.”

Namjoon hesitated. Then nodded.

He crouched next to the shrill’s corpse, reached into the split torso, and yanked the shiv free with a wet, tearing sound. He didn’t flinch—there was no room left for that. He tossed the blade underhand.

Jungkook caught it.

Above, Youngblood continued as if the whole scene was part of her script.

“Such raw beauty,” she murmured. “But it leaves one dilemma.”

Leo stiffened. “She’s not gonna say it…”

Youngblood smiled, slow and poisonous. “How will I ever have you mounted in a way that does you justice?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He just lowered the blade and pressed the tip to the side of his neck.

Leo took half a step toward him. “Wait—Jungkook, what are you doing?”

But he was already cutting.

The blade worked under his skin—fast, efficient. Blood welled and ran in thin rivers down his collarbone, warm against the cold of the pit. His face was still, focused, teeth clenched against the pain.

Then: the flicker of metal.

He pulled it free.

A tiny black device—slick with blood. Mechanical legs twitched faintly, clinging to nothing.

Youngblood’s expression cracked. For the first time, the mask slipped. She lunged for her remote.

“You gonna keep that?” Leo muttered faintly, one hand pressed over her mouth.

Youngblood’s voice turned brittle. “Looks like you’ll have to be an abstract.”

But Jungkook moved first.

He hurled the implant. Fast. High.

“Down!” he shouted.

Leo and Namjoon dropped. No hesitation.

The device struck just below the balcony’s edge.

Youngblood hit the button.

The explosion kicked a thunderclap through the room. Heat. Light. Shrapnel.

Jungkook was thrown backwards, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. The blast echoed around the pit, then dissolved into a dense, swirling smoke.

Above, metal groaned.

Youngblood stumbled forward, coughing, ash on her cheek. Fury twisted her features into something jagged. She leaned over the railing, searching through the haze.

The smoke thinned. Enough to see.

Typhon stepped forward beside her, silent and still. His face unreadable.

Below, Leo was already crawling toward Jungkook, her hands bloody, trembling.

“You good?” she asked, breathless.

He groaned and propped himself up on one elbow. “Been worse.”

Namjoon was already on his feet. No words. His eyes locked on the ragged hole in the far wall—an exit, maybe. Maybe.

He didn’t wait.

He ran.

Youngblood’s scream tore through the metal chamber, high and shrill with fury. “We’ll need a full pursuit force!”

Typhon didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just raised one brow. “With what personnel?”

“All of them,” she snapped. “Even the ‘Golls. I don’t care. If it holds a weapon or breathes through a tube, I want it moving. Now.”

She spun, heel striking the top of Typhon’s foot with a sharp twist—rage too tightly wound to keep in.

Around them, the cryo-pods hissed open one by one, venting pale mist into the already tense air. Rows of mercenaries stumbled out half-conscious, coughing, blinking against the low light. Some reached for weapons before they were even fully awake—instincts faster than thought.

Far from the chaos, deeper in the ship where the lights buzzed dim and wires hung loose from panels, a different kind of energy moved.

King crouched low in front of an old terminal, cracked fingers flying across the keys. The screen flickered to life, casting a soft blue light over his face.

Jungkook’s file popped up. The bounty number took up half the screen.

1,126,000 UD.

King whistled. “Well, aren’t you expensive,” he muttered, grinning.

Behind him, boots clanged against the grated floor. Commander Hitchcock stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face like stone.

“You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing?” she asked.

“Just browsing,” King replied without looking up. “Company files. Light reading.”

“Stow it,” she snapped, stepping closer. “We’ve got runners. Orders are clean—shoot on sight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” King said with a half-hearted salute, barely suppressing a smirk as she turned and walked off.

Elsewhere in the bowels of the ship, the world was weightless.

Jungkook moved first, drifting through a corridor choked with zero-g debris. Every motion was practiced—fluid. Namjoon followed, his hands light on the walls, guiding himself with calm precision. Behind them, Leo struggled to stay centered, arms flailing slightly as she kicked off too hard and bounced off a pipe.

“I hate this,” she muttered.

“Focus,” Jungkook said.

Behind them, the first wave of mercenaries dropped into the pit like angry wasps. They swept flashlights across the destruction—the burst shrill, the splattered walls.

King stepped into something wet. Looked down. Grimaced.

“Ugh. What was that?”

“Shut up and take point,” Hitchcock barked.

He wiped his boot on a piece of broken paneling, then looked up toward the observation deck. Youngblood was there, her face hidden in silhouette, hands gripping the rail so tight her knuckles had gone pale.

He offered her a lazy salute.

She didn’t respond.

“Burn ‘em,” Hitchcock said flatly.

King exhaled. “All right, boys—time to get sweaty.”

Gravity slammed back without warning.

Jungkook hit first, absorbing the impact in a tight roll. He came up fast, moving already. Behind him, Namjoon landed solidly, while Leo stumbled, catching herself on a broken conduit.

A deep, guttural noise rumbled through the walls—like something exhaling behind the metal.

Leo froze. “What the hell was that?”

Jungkook raised a hand, signaling stillness. “Don’t move.”

But the stillness didn’t last.

The second wave of trackers entered, boots pounding, weapons raised. Behind them came something else.

Something worse.

It clanked as it moved—metal limbs, hydraulics whining. But the rest of it was flesh. Stitched-together muscle and exposed nerves, thick cables feeding into its skull. It sniffed at the air like a dog that hadn’t eaten in days.

Its handler crouched, wiped blood from the floor, and smeared it across a feeding plate mounted to its snout.

“Let it go.”

Six Golls held the ropes. Five obeyed. The sixth tried—then screamed as the thing yanked him forward, dragging him into the dark.

Jungkook was already climbing—up a twisted support beam toward a crumbling catwalk. His muscles burned. Every step counted. At the top, he reached down without thinking.

“Come on!” he called.

Leo grabbed his arm just as flashlight beams hit her back. Jungkook pulled hard, flipping her over the ledge with a grunt. She hit the floor beside him with a yelp, still scrambling for breath.

Below, King’s voice crackled through comms. “What the—”

Gunfire.

A round clipped Jungkook’s shoulder. He staggered, caught himself, and turned with a wince. Blood soaked through his sleeve.

“You’re hit,” Namjoon said, eyes scanning him.

“Him?” Leo snapped, still breathless. “He nearly ripped me in half!”

“It’s just a graze,” Jungkook said, voice low, brushing it off.

Then the sound came again.

Louder. Closer.

That thing was moving fast.

“That bitch,” King muttered, already backing away. “Move!”

He shoved one of the other mercs aside and broke into a run, heading for the path Jungkook had carved—like he’d been planning it all along.

Jungkook stopped on a flat stretch of metal grating, just below a half-collapsed catwalk. He turned, breathing through his nose, eyes sweeping the corridor behind them.

Leo stumbled up behind him, face pale, sweat sticking strands of hair to her cheeks. She was trying to keep pace, but her legs were starting to shake. Every breath she took came in fast and shallow.

“We can’t stop,” Namjoon said, glancing back, his voice low and urgent.

“We’re not outrunning it,” Jungkook replied, calm—but final. “Not all three of us.”

Leo straightened instinctively, trying to make herself stand taller. “What? I can keep up.”

Jungkook didn’t look at her right away. When he did, his tone softened, but the edge was still there. “Maybe someday.”

He looked up. Above them, tucked just below the docking bay's support beams, was a small maintenance crawlspace—half-hidden by shadow, just out of direct line-of-sight.

He pointed. “Get her up there. Flight deck’s not far. Upper level, aft side.”

Namjoon nodded without hesitation. “I know the way.”

“Wait there. Let whatever’s chasing us pass through,” Jungkook said, already turning his attention toward the darkened corridor beyond. “When it does, you move. No looking back. No matter what you hear.”

Leo blinked. “We’ll wait for you.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. His eyes had already moved past her, tracking movement in the shadows. He stepped away, blade drawn. The light caught the edge of it just enough to glint.

“What are you gonna do?” Leo asked, but he was already gone—disappearing into the dark.

Blood hit the floor in neat, heavy drops. Jungkook sliced a clean line across his arm, dragging the blade deliberately. He didn’t wince. The pain grounded him, kept him focused.

The trail was no accident.

Far behind, mercenaries stormed through the corridor. Their lights sliced through the gloom, beams flashing across walls streaked with soot and rust.

Namjoon held Leo close in the crawlspace, her breathing shallow, hands clenched into fists.

Below them, King crouched over the blood trail, two fingers touching the fresh smear. He lifted his hand, studying the slick red against his glove.

“Smart bastard,” he muttered. His eyes tracked the path ahead, then flicked to the squad behind him. He didn’t wait for orders—just moved, following the trail like a hound on scent.

Leo shifted. “Where do we even—?”

Namjoon’s hand clamped gently over her mouth. Not harsh, not afraid. Just... controlled.

“Leo. Shh.”

She froze.

The ship was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

Then it came—deep, metallic footfalls echoing through the hull. Each step vibrated through the floor panels, a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Something was coming.

Leo’s eyes widened. Her hand found Namjoon’s sleeve, gripping tight. He didn’t flinch. He just waited—barely breathing. The beast’s roar rolled through the corridor like thunder, long and guttural.

It passed. Heavy steps retreating.

Only then did Namjoon move, peeking through the slats to check the corridor. Nothing. For now.

“We’ve got to help him,” Leo whispered, voice shaking. “He won’t make it alone.”

Namjoon looked at her. Really looked. Then shook his head.

“Sometimes, helping means leaving.”

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. The words hung heavy between them. Truth, brutal and necessary.

Far below, in the corridor, floodlights snapped on, painting the walls in harsh, clinical white.

“Fan out. Clean sweep,” Commander Hitchcock barked. Her team responded like clockwork—silent, coordinated, rifles raised as they moved room to room.

“Something here,” called Donna, one of the forward scouts, crouched over a scrap of torn cloth smeared with blood.

She picked it up delicately, glancing toward Hitchcock.

King stepped closer, eyes narrowing. His whole body tensed.

“Don’t—” he started.

Too late.

Donna turned the fabric over in her hands.

“Oh, shit,” Hitchcock muttered.

A low rumble shook the walls. Deeper than before.

The Goll was coming.

It wasn’t subtle—nothing about it was. Half-machine, half-flesh, its limbs hit the floor like dropped anvils. Tubes pumped fluid into open muscle. Metal teeth glinted in its warped jaw.

King backed up, fast, drawing his weapon.

“Guns up!” someone shouted. Too late.

The beast rounded the corner.

No pause. No roar.

It hit the team like a battering ram.

Rifles barked in quick, sharp bursts—but the rounds barely slowed the thing down. The Goll moved straight through the fire like it was walking through rain. Donna didn’t even get a scream out. One swing of its massive arm, and she was airborne, her body cracking against the wall with a sickening, final sound. Everyone nearby flinched—but no one looked twice. There wasn’t time.

King dropped low, rolling behind a half-shattered support bulkhead. He risked a glance.

Bad call.

The creature had already carved through two more—just ripped them open like wet paper. Its claws glistened in the emergency lights, streaked with blood and fluid.

King’s expression changed—gone was the smirk, the commentary. He fired once, not at the beast, but at the wall. A sewage pipe ruptured with a loud hiss, spraying black water and chemicals. Without hesitation, he dove into the flood, letting it carry him down into darkness.

Hitchcock never got the chance.

The Goll spotted her mid-shout, and lunged. The crunch of impact was brutal—sickening. Then nothing. Just a torn uniform and a smear across the deck.

And that’s when Jungkook dropped.

He came out of the ceiling—no words, no sound—just a blur of movement and weight. He landed hard on the Goll’s back, all his momentum driving the blade down and in.

It found soft tissue, somewhere deep beneath the armored spine. The creature roared—less fury now, more agony. It stumbled forward, legs buckling.

Jungkook held on tight, twisting the blade with both hands until something deep inside the thing gave. The Goll dropped hard, its frame twitching as systems shorted and flesh spasmed.

Jungkook pulled the shiv free and rolled off before the beast fully collapsed. He landed in a crouch, breathing hard.

He stood over the wreckage, chest rising and falling, eyes scanning the quiet that followed. His shoulder bled from where the graze hadn’t clotted, but he didn’t seem to notice. His gaze flicked to a cyborg body half-buried in debris. One arm gone, but the torso armor—intact.

He grunted to himself.

“Not putting that tank back on,” he muttered. Then eyed the cyborg’s gear again. “But that might do.”

Up ahead, Namjoon was already at work, prying open a floor panel with his hands. The cover came loose with a groan of warped metal. He ducked his head and peered down.

A tunnel. Just a few meters. The flight deck was at the far end—quiet, lit in low blue strips. Empty.

He slipped through, crawling forward. He’d barely cleared the edge when something slammed into the back of his skull.

Hard.

He hit the deck with a thud, lights spinning.

Leo followed fast, hands scrambling for the same edge.

She barely had time to register what she saw before a hand caught the back of her neck and yanked her through like luggage.

Typhon.

He lifted her effortlessly, his grip ironclad. Her boots kicked against the floor, hands flying up to fight. She slammed her fist into his jaw—once, twice.

Nothing.

His face didn’t twitch.

Then his hand closed around her throat.

Not a squeeze. A clamp—a controlled crush, like someone picking up glass and daring it to shatter.

Leo’s legs kicked once, her vision tunneling. The sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears, ragged and fast.

Then a voice cut through the air—low, sharp, and unmistakably cold.

“Let her go.”

Typhon’s eyes shifted—slow, deliberate. He didn’t look surprised. He just lowered her gently to the floor, his hand slipping away like nothing had happened.

Leo dropped to her knees, coughing hard, hands pressed to her neck.

Jungkook stepped out of the shadows, his stance steady, the shiv in his right hand catching just enough light to gleam.

“You want me,” he said quietly. “Not her.”

He took a step forward.

“You want a shot at the title?”

Typhon’s lip twitched into something close to a smirk.

Jungkook’s fist hit the steel wall hard. The clang echoed through the space like a warning bell, not just sound—but intent. His jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm. Across from him, Typhon stepped forward calmly, like none of this was a surprise. Like he’d been waiting.

He peeled off his long coat with mechanical ease. No rush. No wasted movement. His expression was unreadable—just the steady calculation of someone who'd survived more fights than he could count.

Jungkook didn’t wait for ceremony. His shiv was already in hand, blade glinting under the harsh fluorescents.

Typhon pulled a sidearm, but didn’t lift it. Instead, he dismantled it as he walked—piece by piece—then let it clatter to the floor. He was choosing the other weapon. The one that made this personal.

A long, curved blade came next. Hand-forged, clean. It hummed when it moved. It wasn’t for show.

They faced each other, silent. No banter. No taunts. Just air moving between them, charged like a stormfront.

Jungkook moved first.

He came in fast but stopped short—just outside Typhon’s reach. Testing him.

Typhon didn’t flinch. He jabbed.

Jungkook slipped it. Knocked the sword aside with a snap of his boot and closed the gap.

The first flurry was close-range—tight, fast, vicious. Blades scraped, fists collided, breath caught in chests. Typhon’s strikes were disciplined. Measured. Jungkook’s were sharp, fast, and dirty. He wasn’t dancing—he was trying to end it.

Typhon ducked a throat strike and spun behind him. Jungkook reversed, catching the man’s forearm mid-swing and twisting. The sword dropped. Jungkook kicked it across the floor.

But Typhon wasn’t unarmed for long. He slammed his elbow into Jungkook’s ribs, then drove a knee into his leg. Jungkook staggered, grunted—but didn’t go down.

They separated. Breathed.

Then came at each other again.

No finesse now. Just blunt force. Jungkook’s knuckles cracked across Typhon’s jaw. Typhon shoved him into the wall. Jungkook rebounded and drove his shoulder into Typhon’s gut, lifting the bigger man briefly off the ground. They hit the floor hard, grappling in a tangle of limbs and breath.

A boot connected. Jungkook’s shiv skidded across the room.

Typhon rolled to his feet, grabbed the sword again, and advanced.

Jungkook saw it coming. No blade. No backup. Just a broken field of debris around him. And a severed power line—sparking, twitching.

As Typhon raised the sword, Jungkook moved. He dove, rolled under the swing, and grabbed the live cable. He yanked it tight, flipped it over Typhon’s head, and pulled.

The choke was instant.

Typhon clawed at the wire, his blade falling loose. Sparks hissed against his skin. He tried to pivot, throw him off. Jungkook held on, jaw clenched, hands white-knuckled.

Then—snap.

Typhon’s free hand sliced the wire with a utility blade from his belt. Power surged one last time before the lights went out.

Blackness.

Just the sound of heavy breathing.

A footstep.

A scrape.

Then—crack.

The wet sound of something breaking. Not metal. Bone.

Then a scream—ragged, short-lived, cut off like a bad signal.

The emergency lights sputtered to life. Dim, red, flickering.

Typhon was on the floor, twisted on his side, his body twitching in the fading current. Jungkook stood over him, face unreadable, blood on his hands. The shiv—his—was buried clean through Typhon’s eye socket, the hilt flush against his skull.

No words for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “I told you that was coming.”

Namjoon groaned, low and hoarse, as pain dragged him out of unconsciousness. His head throbbed. A sharp, pulsing ache just behind his right eye. He blinked, eyes adjusting slowly to the flickering light above him. Cold metal under his palms. Smoke in the air.

Beside him, Leo lay still.

He turned toward her, reaching out with a hand that didn’t feel entirely steady. He shook her gently by the shoulder.

“Leo,” he murmured.

Nothing.

His breath caught for a moment. Panic surged—sharp and uninvited—until he saw her chest rise, shallow but steady. She was out cold, not gone.

Namjoon exhaled, steadying himself before pushing upright, his joints stiff from whatever blast or fall had knocked them flat. His eyes scanned the hangar—dim, scattered with debris—and then landed on Jungkook.

Jungkook was walking toward them, slower than usual. He cradled his left arm tight to his ribs. Blood soaked through the fabric in thick blotches, but he didn’t stop. His face was pale, lips drawn tight. No sound but the soft drag of his boots on the floor.

Namjoon rose, still holding Leo, watching Jungkook approach.

“Where are you going?” he asked, the words dry in his mouth.

Jungkook paused. Lifted his eyes.

“Prepping the ship,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “So… it’s over?”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first. Just looked toward the bay doors, the flickering lights, the wreck of what had almost been their grave. Then back to Namjoon. A flicker crossed his face. Something like relief—but only for a breath.

“Not yet,” he said.

The doors to the launch corridor groaned open.

For a second, they all just stood there—no alarms, no monsters, no orders coming through their ears. Just stillness.

Then a sound. Subtle. Wrong.

Jungkook’s head snapped around.

Standing in the open doorway was Youngblood.

Her hair clung to her face in clumps, soaked in blood. Her gown—once pristine—was torn, stained, half-charred. She held herself together by sheer spite. Her eyes locked on Jungkook with feral focus. She was smiling.

“Thought you’d just leave?” she asked, her voice hollow.

The gun in her hand shook, just a little.

“Should’ve mounted you when I had the chance,” she whispered.

Then she fired.

The crack of the gunshot echoed like thunder in the metal belly of the ship.

Jungkook’s body jerked. He hit the ground hard, his leg folding under him. The impact was rough—raw. His head bounced once. He didn’t move again.

“Stinking savage,” Youngblood spat, stumbling closer, the gun still raised.

Namjoon froze. Leo was stirring now, blinking, dazed, but trying to sit up.

Youngblood’s hand trembled as she pointed the barrel at Jungkook’s head, eyes glassy.

Her finger curled again.

The shot never came.

A second gunshot rang out—short, sharp, final.

Youngblood’s head snapped back. Then it wasn’t there.

Her body collapsed like a dropped coat.

The silence that followed was brutal. No one moved for a second. Just the soft clink of the gun hitting the ground.

Smoke drifted from the barrel in Leo’s hand.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

Namjoon helped Jungkook sit up. Blood trickled from his side, soaking into his waistband, but he was breathing.

“Damn,” Jungkook rasped. “You always this dramatic?”

Leo stared down at Youngblood’s body. “She was going to shoot you again.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Namjoon snorted quietly. Leo didn’t smile.

Jungkook grinned, just a little. Then winced.

The shuttle broke free of the Trinidad’s pull like it had been holding its breath.

Outside, the black was endless. Cold. Empty. The wreck behind them was already just a shadow.

Inside, the engines hummed steady and low. A mechanical heartbeat. No chatter. No alarms. Just the quiet tension of people who weren’t sure what came next.

Jungkook sat slouched in the pilot’s chair, his body loose with exhaustion, one arm cradled in a torn sling of salvaged cloth. The goggles he wore were scratched at the edges, grime smudged into the lenses, but he kept them on. Maybe out of habit. Maybe because he didn’t want to look too closely at what was ahead—or behind.

He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Namjoon stepped forward from the corridor, slow and careful not to disturb the quiet.

“Jungkook.”

No response at first.

“Jungkook,” he repeated, lower this time.

The pilot’s head tilted slightly, eyes still on the stars. “We got a problem?”

Namjoon shifted, his hand brushing the edge of the console. “No. Not back there, anyway.” His gaze flicked to the distant debris field shrinking in the rear scope. “It’s what’s in front of us I’m worried about.”

Jungkook finally looked at him—just a glance.

Behind them, Leo lay curled on the bench meant for gear storage, not people. She was wrapped in an old thermal blanket, one hand clenched around Typhon’s weapon like it was a lifeline. Her breathing was even, but her fingers twitched every few seconds. Like her body hadn’t realized it could rest yet.

Namjoon followed Jungkook’s gaze.

“She’s changed,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure she knows how to come back from this.”

Jungkook’s eyes stayed on her a moment longer, unreadable. Then he spoke, low and blunt:

“She’ll end up like me.”

Namjoon didn’t argue. Just looked down at the floor, lips pressed into a line. Silence stretched between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just honest.

Jungkook eased himself back into the pilot’s seat, the leather torn and stiff beneath him. His injured arm was tucked close to his body, the sling damp with blood at the shoulder. He worked the console with his other hand—efficient, practiced. Like muscle memory doing the heavy lifting.

A row of green lights blinked to life across the dash. Soft glows spread across his face—cool blues, dull greens. Nothing harsh. Nothing loud. Just the quiet hum of a ship on the edge of silence.

The nav system buzzed once, screen flickering to a crawl as the starmap unfolded. A scatter of constellations shimmered across the glass like oil on water. Jungkook scrolled through them, eyes moving quick but deliberate. He paused when he hit one system—small, out of the way.

“UV system,” he muttered. Just loud enough for himself.

Namjoon, who’d been standing just off his shoulder, leaned in slightly. His presence was quiet, but solid. “Where’s that?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just keyed in the new coordinates and leaned back, his breath slow and shallow.

Namjoon watched him for a long moment. He didn’t press.

Jungkook finally spoke, voice low. “I’m dropping you and Leo at New Mecca.”

Namjoon frowned gently. “New Mecca?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said. “Wasn’t that the plan? Safe port. Clean exit. It’s yours.”

He didn’t look at Namjoon, but he could feel the man’s eyes on him. Thoughtful. Heavy with concern.

“And you?” Namjoon asked.

“I’ll disappear before docking. Sneak out through the lower chute if the seals hold.” He exhaled slowly. “You tell them I died on the Trinidad. Keep it simple.”

Namjoon stepped back a pace, his brow furrowed. “You don’t have to do that.”

Jungkook’s fingers paused over the controls. “I do.”

“You think you’re protecting us by doing this,” Namjoon said gently.

Jungkook gave a tired half-smile. “Am I wrong?”

Namjoon didn’t argue. But he didn’t agree either. He just looked down at the floor between them, then back up at the younger man in the pilot’s seat.

“You saved her,” he said quietly. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve run.”

Jungkook shrugged with his good shoulder. “Didn’t feel like running.”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “You say that like it means nothing. But it means everything to her.”

The shuttle’s engines shifted tone—deeper now, resonant. The course had locked in. They were committed.

Outside, stars bent and slipped past the viewplate in streaks, like rain on glass. The Trinidad—ruined and burning—was already behind them. Just another piece of debris in the black.

Jungkook sat quietly, watching it fade.

Namjoon turned to leave, but hesitated.

“If you change your mind,” he said gently, “there’s room on that planet for all of us.”

Jungkook didn’t turn.

“Some people don’t get to come back,” he murmured. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t make sure others did.”

Namjoon didn’t speak again. He just nodded—once—and walked away, the soft thud of his boots fading down the corridor.

Jungkook stayed there, alone at the controls, hand still on the throttle. He didn’t move.

He just watched the stars and thought about the someone who didn’t make it either.

The flight deck was quiet now. Too quiet.

No alarms. No comms. Just the faint crackle of fried circuits and the slow, lazy spin of a busted fan overhead. The kind of silence that only happens after a massacre—when even the ship seems unsure whether it’s still alive.

King stood near the edge, just outside the docking threshold, arms folded, weight shifted onto one blood-crusted boot. The other was planted in something sticky that used to be part of a merc. He didn’t look down. Didn’t care.

The hangar bay stretched out behind him like the inside of a gutted animal. Smoke drifted along the ceiling. The lights flickered and dimmed, like they were giving up.

He watched the shuttle.

Just a glint at first, a speck of movement against the black. Then it was gone—swallowed up by the void.

Still, he stared after it. Silent. Brow furrowed. A vein twitching just above his temple.

“Jungkook,” he muttered.

The name tasted like rust and regret. Like something he’d been chewing on too long.

He licked a cut on his lip and spat off the edge of the deck. The blood hit metal with a soft tch.

“We ain’t done,” he said, low and even. Not a threat. Not even a promise. Just fact.

His voice didn’t echo.

He didn’t move.

Just kept standing there, hands still, boots glued to the carnage beneath him, eyes locked on where the stars had swallowed the shuttle whole.

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