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The air in the Cleaners headquarters was perpetually thick, heavy with the scent of oil, old paper, and the lingering, acrid bite of the smoke Enjin constantly exhaled. For Zanka, that smell had once been the scent of safety. At fifteen, it was the smell of the man who had pulled him from the wreckage of his own perceived failures and given him a reason to push himself even further.
Now, at nineteen, that same scent felt like a slow-acting poison.
Zanka sat on his bed, the metal frame creaking under his weight. He was meticulously polishing Lovely Assistaff, his movements rhythmic and obsessive. It was a habit born of a need for control, a way to channel the frantic energy that pulsed under his skin whenever a certain golden-haired man laughed too loudly in the hallway.
He was nineteen. He was a man. He was strong, one of the strongest in the Cleaners. But in the presence of Enjin, Zanka often felt like that scrawny kid again, desperate for a nod of approval that he had long ago started to misinterpret.
It had started as admiration. Who wouldn’t admire Enjin? He was charismatic, effortlessly powerful, and possessed a brand of chaotic kindness that drew people in like moths to a blowtorch. But admiration had curdled into something far more agonizing. It was the way Zanka’s heart hammered against his ribs when Enjin draped a heavy arm over his shoulders. It was the way he memorized the calluses on Enjin’s hands.
And it was the way his stomach turned into a knot of lead whenever Enjin came home late.
The door to the common area had creaked open three hours ago. Zanka had been awake, staring at the ceiling. He’d heard Enjin’s heavy, slightly uneven footsteps. Then, the smell drifted through the vents, not just the familiar tobacco, but something cloyingly sweet. A floral perfume. Expensive, feminine, and utterly alien to the grime of the Pit.
Zanka had caught a glimpse of him in the hallway later, Enjin heading toward his room with his jacket slung over one shoulder. There, on the column of his neck, was a smudge of deep crimson. Lipstick.
'Enjin is a man with needs' Zanka told himself, pressing his thumb against the sharp edge of his weapon until it nearly drew blood 'Needs I can’t meet'
He wasn’t a "hot woman". He was a fighter. He was a subordinate. He was a prickly, disciplined young man who didn't know how to be soft, and who certainly didn't fit the profile of the people Enjin spent his nights with. The realization wasn't new, but it was becoming unbearable. Every "good job, Zanka" felt like a patronizing pat on the head. Every casual touch felt like a brand.
He was suffocating in the space between what they were and what he wanted them to be.
The decision didn’t come from a place of logic, it came from a desperate need for oxygen.
Walking through the corridors of the Canvas late the following afternoon, Zanka’s boots made no sound on the stone floors. He was heading to the training room to punish his body until his mind went quiet, but voices from around the corner stopped him.
"The Northern Settlement is flagging," Corvus’s voice was low, analytical.
"The reinforcement dome is half-finished, but the Trash Beasts in that sector are relentless. They’re attracted to the high-energy output of the construction. If we don’t send someone soon, the whole project will be reclaimed by the wasteland"
"It’s a suicide run for a squad of low-ranks" Semiu replied, her voice tinged with its usual calm concern.
"But we can't spare a full team. We need someone with high mobility and enough raw power to hold a perimeter solo for at least a year while the foundations set"
Zanka stood frozen.
'A year'
A year away from the smell of smoke. A year away from the sight of lipstick stains. A year where he wouldn't have to watch Enjin look at everyone else with a hunger he’d never direct at Zanka.
He stepped around the corner before his brain could register the risk.
"I'll go"
Corvus and Semiu both turned. Corvus’s dark eyes narrowed, his gaze calculating. Semiu looked surprised, her brow furrowing as she took in Zanka’s rigid posture.
"Zanka" Semiu said softly.
"This isn't a standard patrol. The North is a hellscape. It’s isolated, freezing, and you’d be without backup for months at a time"
"I know" Zanka said, his voice sounding steadier than he felt. He crossed his arms, leaning into the persona he had built, the stoic, strength-obsessed fighter.
"That’s why I’m the best choice. I’ve plateaued here. I need a real challenge to get stronger. Dealing with small-fry in the city isn't doing it anymore."
Corvus didn't speak for a long moment. He was a man who saw through facades for a living. He looked at Zanka’s white-knuckled grip on his own elbows, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way he wouldn't look directly at the path leading toward Enjin’s quarters.
"It’s a year-long commitment" Corvus said.
"You won't be able to return for holidays or supply runs. You will be the wall that protects that settlement. Alone"
"I don't care" Zanka snapped, then softened his tone.
"I mean... I want this. For my own growth"
Semiu stepped forward "Have you talked to Enjin? He’s your team leader. He won't like you disappearing on a solo mission of this scale without his input"
The mention of the name felt like a physical blow. Zanka stiffened. "He’s... busy. And this is a Janitor matter, isn't it? If the higher-ups approve it, he has to accept it. Don't tell him. Not yet"
"Zanka—" Semiu started, but Corvus held up a hand.
"If he wants to go, let him" Corvus said, his voice unreadable.
"He has the skill. We need the dome secured. But you’ll be leaving tonight, Zanka. We can't afford to wait"
"Fine" Zanka said, a frantic sense of relief washing over him.
"Tonight"
The headquarters was quiet, the kind of silence that feels heavy and expectant. Zanka had packed light, only the essentials, his maintenance kit, and a few changes of clothes. Everything else he owned stayed in his room, a ghost of the person he was leaving behind.
He stood by the heavy iron doors that led to the surface. Outside, the wind howled through the structures of the canyon, a mournful sound that matched the hollow feeling in his chest.
He had checked the common room one last time. Enjin wasn't there. He was out again. Probably at that bar with the neon lights, laughing with a woman whose perfume would stay on his clothes for days.
'It’s better this way' Zanka thought. If he saw Enjin now, he would break. He would either scream the truth or beg him to stay, and both options were deaths he couldn't endure. He had reached the "line"—that invisible boundary he had drawn for himself. He couldn't be the loyal protégé anymore. He couldn't be the "little brother" figure. He was a man in love with a man who didn't see him, and the only way to survive was to vanish.
He felt a presence behind him. He didn't turn, he knew the weight of the footsteps.
"The transport is waiting at the lower gate" Corvus said. Semiu was beside him, her hands folded in the sleeves of her coat.
"I’m ready" Zanka said.
"We will inform Enjin and the rest of the team tomorrow morning" Semiu said, her eyes searching his.
"Once you’ve reached the first checkpoint. Are you sure this is what you want, Zanka? You didn't even say goodbye to Rudo or Riyo"
"They'll be fine" Zanka said, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat.
"They’re strong. They don't need me hovering over them"
"And Enjin?" Semiu pressed gently.
Zanka looked at the door, his reflection ghostly in the polished metal. He looked older than nineteen. He looked tired.
"Tell him..." Zanka paused. 'Tell him I love him. Tell him I can't breathe when he's near me. Tell him I hate the way he smells like other people'
"Tell him I’ll be stronger when I get back. Tell him not to come looking for me"
Corvus handed him a small communication device "For emergency reports only. Use it wisely"
Zanka took it, nodding once. He didn't look back. He couldn't. He pushed the heavy doors open, the freezing air of the night hitting him like a physical reprimand. He stepped out into the dark, the heavy clanking of the doors shutting behind him sounding like a gavel.
He was gone.
While Enjin was blocks away, raising a glass to a life of noise and heat, Zanka walked into the cold, silent North—carrying a weight that no amount of training could ever truly lift.
The morning after Zanka’s departure dawned like any other in the headquarters, or so Enjin tried to convince himself. He had stumbled in just before sunrise, the sweet, cloying scent of cheap perfume still clinging to his jacket, a phantom touch on his neck. He’d barely made it to his bunk before collapsing, the rhythmic throb in his temples a familiar companion to the blurry memories of the previous night.
He woke to the usual cacophony of the Cleaners’ morning routine: the clatter of plates in the mess hall, the distant clang of metal from the training grounds, and the low hum of conversations. Enjin stretched, his muscles protesting slightly, and raked a hand through his perpetually disheveled blond hair. He needed coffee, strong and black, to chase away the lingering fog.
His first stop was the common room. Rudo was already there, meticulously tinkering a piece of scrap, his usual quiet intensity about him. Riyo was attempting to braid her wild, crimson hair into a new style, muttering under her breath about tangles. But the chair Zanka usually occupied, the one closest to the window, where he’d sit with his thick encyclopedia on the table, an unreadable expression on his face, was empty.
Enjin frowned. Zanka was rarely late. He was a creature of habit, disciplined to a fault, always among the first to rise and begin his day.
"Hey" Enjin grunted, pouring himself a mug of lukewarm sludge from the communal pot.
"Anyone seen Zanka?"
Rudo grunted in response, not looking up from his sharpening stone. Riyo sighed in frustration, finally giving up on her hair and letting it fall around her shoulders.
"Not since yesterday afternoon" she mumbled "but I didn't really pay attention"
Enjin took a long swig of his coffee. The taste was as bitter as his mood "He's probably in the courtyard, then. Overworking himself, as usual"
He tried to dismiss the flicker of unease that sparked in his gut. Zanka was an adult. He didn't need constant supervision. But there was a possessive streak in Enjin when it came to his team, especially Zanka, who he’d essentially raised since he was a scrawny kid.
He finished his coffee and headed towards the courtyard. The rhythmic thud of punching bags and the metallic clash of sparring weapons echoed through the corridors. He pushed through the door, his eyes scanning the familiar faces. Frollo was sparring with someone, his movements a blur of controlled aggression. Corvus was overseeing a group of younger recruits.
But no Zanka.
A prickle of genuine concern began to spread through Enjin. This wasn't like him.
He spotted Semiu leaning against a wall, observing junior members. Her expression was unusually somber.
"Semiu" Enjin called, walking over.
"Have you seen Zanka today?"
Semiu’s eyes met his, and something in their depths made Enjin’s unease solidify into a cold dread. Her usual calm demeanor seemed strained, her lips pressed into a thin line. She glanced at Corvus, who was now walking towards them, his eyes shadowed and his posture radiating an unusual tension.
"Enjin" Corvus said, his voice flat.
"We need to talk"
Enjin’s jaw tightened "What's going on? Where is Zanka?" The casualness in his voice was gone, replaced by an edge of demand.
Semiu push her glasses upward, the light shielding her eyes "He... he took a mission"
"A mission?" Enjin scoffed, a burst of frustrated anger flaring within him.
"Without telling me? He’s on my team. He doesn't take solo assignments without my approval. What kind of mission? Where is he?"
Corvus stepped closer, his voice low "The Northern Settlement. He volunteered for the year-long deployment to secure the perimeter"
The words hit Enjin like a physical blow.
'A year. Northern Settlement'
The most isolated, dangerous, and godforsaken sector in the entire Ground. A place where even seasoned Cleaners went in squads, not alone.
"Are you insane?" Enjin roared, his voice echoing through the courtyard, drawing the attention of every Cleaner present.
"You let him go to the North? Alone? For a year? He's a kid! He’s nineteen!"
"He's a Cleaner, Enjin" Corvus replied, his tone even, though Enjin could detect the underlying steel.
"And he volunteered. We needed someone with his capabilities immediately. And he insisted on going without informing you first"
Enjin felt a vein throb in his temple "Insisted? What kind of bullshit is that? He doesn't get to insist on suicide missions! He's my responsibility!"
He felt a surge of protectiveness so fierce it bordered on primal. Zanka, out there, alone in the frozen wastes, facing untold horrors? The image made his blood run cold.
"He left last night" Semiu said softly, her eyes filled with a quiet sadness that only fueled Enjin’s fury.
"He asked us to tell you once he reported in from the first checkpoint, which he did this morning"
'Last night'
While Enjin had been laughing, drinking, forgetting himself with a stranger, Zanka had been leaving. Leaving him. A wave of shame and betrayal washed over Enjin, sharp and bitter.
"Why?" Enjin demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, his eyes darting between Corvus and Semiu.
"Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you tell me?"
"He was insistent, Enjin" Semiu repeated, her gaze direct now.
"He said he needed to get stronger. That he was 'plateauing' here. He said... he said he didn't want you to come looking for him"
The last words struck Enjin harder than any punch.
'Didn't want him to come looking'
What the hell did that mean?
Had he driven Zanka away?
Had he been so consumed with his own meaningless distractions that he’d pushed his most dedicated, most fiercely loyal team member to flee to the most dangerous corner of the world?
A horrifying thought began to coalesce in Enjin’s mind, a dark, unsettling whisper. Zanka hadn't just gone on a mission. He had escaped.
Enjin turned, his eyes scanning the courtyard again, as if Zanka might suddenly materialize. His gaze landed on the empty space where Zanka usually stood, the faint, lingering scent of steal from his weapon still clinging to the air. A hollow ache started in Enjin’s chest, a pain far deeper than any hangover could produce.
He remembered Zanka’s distant demeanor these past few weeks, the almost imperceptible withdrawal. He had attributed it to Zanka’s intense focus, his single-minded drive. He hadn't seen it as a sign of something breaking. He hadn't seen 'Zanka' at all, not really.
"Where exactly is the first checkpoint?" Enjin asked, his voice rough. He took a step towards the exit, his mind already formulating a plan.
Corvus stepped in front of him "Enjin. This is an official, long-term deployment. You can't just follow him"
"Watch me" Enjin snarled, pushing past Corvus. The sense of panic was rising, sharp and suffocating. Zanka was out there, alone. And Enjin had let him go. The thought was a searing brand on his soul.
He had to get him back. He had to understand. He had to—
"Enjin" Semiu’s voice was firm, stopping him dead in his tracks.
"He chose this. You need to respect his decision, as painful as it might be"
Enjin clenched his fists, his knuckles white. Respect his decision? When that decision was to throw himself into a year of isolation and danger? When that decision felt like a direct repudiation of everything Enjin thought they had?
He slammed his fist against the nearest wall, leaving a dent in the reinforced concrete. The sound echoed, a testament to his raw, unbridled frustration. His team, his family, was splintering. And he was too blind, too selfish, to have seen it coming.
The sweet, floral scent from last night suddenly felt like a heavy shroud, choking him. The lipstick stain on his neck, which he now vigorously scrubbed at, felt like a mark of his own negligence.
Zanka was gone. And Enjin had no idea why.
The impact of Zanka’s departure settled over Enjin like a suffocating blanket woven from guilt and a rage that simmered just beneath his skin. The headquarters, once a place of familiar comfort and chaos, now felt hollow, an empty echo of Zanka’s absence. Every empty chair, every silence in a conversation, gnawed at him.
He’d spent the rest of that day in a desperate, futile attempt to reach Zanka. The comm device Corvus had mentioned—a small, rugged piece of old tech designed for long-range, encrypted communication—was Zanka’s only link to the outside world. Enjin had retrieved the frequency from Corvus, who had given it to him with a resigned sigh, warning him again of the futility.
He sat alone in his room, the dim light of the overhead lamp casting long shadows. He punched in the coordinates, the display on his own comm glowing faintly. The signal beeped, a series of hollow, expectant tones, before dying out with a curt, electronic *whirr*.
"Damn it!" Enjin slammed his fist on the small table. He tried again. And again. Each failed connection was a fresh wound, a reminder of the vast, unforgiving distance Zanka had put between them.
He tried for hours. He tried every half hour, then every hour, throughout the day and into the night. He left messages, short and clipped at first, then longer, more frantic. "Zanka, report. This isn't a game. You need to check in" Then, "What the hell are you doing out there? Get back here" And eventually, "Zanka, please. Just answer" His voice, usually so confident and laced with a teasing charm, grew hoarse, tinged with a raw desperation he rarely allowed himself to show.
But there was no reply. Only the endless, soul-crushing silence of a signal that refused to connect.
He found himself wandering the halls, pacing like a caged beast. He’d stop by Zanka’s empty bed, running a hand over the soft fabric of the blanket, half-expecting to find a note, a clue, anything. But there was nothing. Zanka had left no trace, no explanation beyond the vague, unsatisfying 'need to get stronger.'
'Stronger than what? Stronger than who?'
Enjin’s mind raced, replaying every interaction, every casual glance, every offhand comment. Had he missed something? Was Zanka truly unhappy? Had he, Enjin, been so blind, so caught up in his own life, that he’d failed to see the quiet desperation festering in the loyal member of his team?
The image of Zanka, so fiercely independent yet so carefully observant, flashed in his mind. Zanka, with his two-toned hair often falling into his intense, azure eyes. Zanka, who kept his emotions locked down but whose movements spoke volumes. Zanka, who had always been so meticulously there, a constant, unwavering presence.
And now, he was simply gone.
Enjin’s anger began to curdle into something else, a gnawing, aching worry that twisted his gut. The North wasn't just dangerous, it was a psychological battlefield. Solo missions, prolonged isolation—it could break even the strongest Cleaner. He imagined Zanka, out there, alone, shivering in the biting winds, fighting beasts that clawed at the dome. The thought made his blood run cold.
He knew Zanka was strong. But even the strongest could crack. And Enjin knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that if anything happened to Zanka, he would never forgive himself.
The transport had been a brutal, bone-jarring ride. For two days, Zanka had sat in the cramped cabin, the only sound the incessant roar of the engine and the rhythmic creak of the aging vehicle. The landscape outside the reinforced windows had steadily transformed. The familiar, rusted skeletons of forgotten cities had given way to vast, desolate plains of cracked earth, eventually ceding to a stark, icy wilderness.
The cold hit him first, a vicious, biting wind that seemed to strip the warmth from his bones the moment he stepped out of the transport. The Northern Settlement was a cluster of hastily constructed metallic structures, huddled together on a windswept plateau, surrounded by the skeletal framework of what was meant to be a massive reinforcement dome. Construction lights glared harshly against the perpetual twilight, illuminating the swirling snow and the jagged outlines of distant ice formations.
The air smelled of ozone, burnt plastic, and the faint, metallic tang of fear.
His first week was a blur of adrenaline and exhaustion. The trash beasts here were unlike anything he had encountered in the Ground. They were larger, more aggressive, their bodies coated in thick rime and reinforced with scavenged metals. They attacked in waves, drawn by the energy output of the dome's generators, their howls a chilling symphony in the arctic night.
Zanka worked tirelessly, moving like a phantom through the blizzard. His weapon became an extension of his will, cutting through beast after beast. He focused only on the fight, allowing the physical exertion to dull the gnawing ache in his chest. Each swing, each parry, each kill was an act of defiance against the feelings he had fled. He was proving himself. He was getting stronger. He was surviving.
But the silence between the attacks was deafening.
At night, in the small, prefabricated bunk assigned to him, Zanka would lie awake, staring at the metallic ceiling. The cold seeped into his bones, a constant, dull throb. The meager meals of nutrient paste tasted like ash in his mouth.
He had promised himself he wouldn't think of Enjin. He had promised himself he wouldn't look back. But the images came unbidden, vivid and cruel. Enjin’s laugh. The warmth of his hand on Zanka’s shoulder. The way his golden hair caught the light. And then, the lipstick. The perfume. The quiet ache of inadequacy.
He had checked in with Corvus and Semiu this morning, a brief, clipped report confirming his arrival and initial assessment of the situation. He knew they would have informed Enjin by now. He imagined Enjin’s anger, his frustration. He imagined Enjin trying to call, his calls never reaching him through the static of the vast distance and Zanka's deliberate avoidance. A part of him, the foolish, hopeful part, yearned for it. A stronger, more self-preservation part, ruthlessly suppressed it.
He thought of the others, Rudo, Riyo. They would be confused, perhaps hurt. But they would understand, eventually. They were Cleaners. They knew the demands of the job, the sacrifices.
'But did Enjin?'
Did Enjin understand the sacrifice Zanka was making? The way he was tearing himself away, piece by painful piece, to prevent a complete unraveling?
A particularly harsh gust of wind rattled the thin walls of his bunk, scattering the snow that had collected on the small window. Zanka shivered, pulling the thin blanket tighter around himself. He was alone. Utterly, irrevocably alone. And in the vast, frozen emptiness of the North, the silence was slowly becoming a mirror, reflecting all the feelings he had tried so desperately to outrun.
He was stronger, yes. But he was also colder, more brittle. And the warmth of a ghost, a memory of a touch, was all that kept him from fully succumbing to the chill.
Enjin didn’t just pace, he haunted the headquarters. The vibrant, charismatic leader who usually brought a whirlwind of energy into every room had become a shadow of himself, his presence now marked by a sharp, jagged edge. He had stopped going out. The bars, the fleeting distractions, the "sweet cologne"—it all felt repulsive now, like a layer of grime he couldn't wash off.
He spent his nights in the communication room, a cramped, dimly lit room filled with the hum of servers and the flickering glow of monitors. He sat hunched over the console, his eyes bloodshot, staring at the signal strength indicator for the Northern sector. It was a flat line, a digital heartbeat that refused to pulse.
"He’s not answering because he doesn't want to, Enjin" Rudo said one evening, leaning against the doorframe. The younger boy looked at his leader with a mixture of pity and frustration.
"You’re going to blow a fuse if you keep this up"
"He’s alone out there, Rudo" Enjin rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. He didn't turn around "The reports from the North... the beasts are evolving. They’re bigger. Smarter. If his weapon jams, if he gets clipped by a frost-bite venom... there’s nobody to patch him up"
"Zanka is the most disciplined person I know. You assigned him as my mentor" Rudo countered, though his own voice wavered.
"He’s doing this to prove something. If you go after him, you’re just telling him he’s not good enough to handle it"
Enjin finally turned, his gaze fierce "I don't care about his pride right now! I care about his life!"
But beneath the protective roar, a deeper realization was beginning to take root. Enjin wasn't just worried about Zanka’s safety, he was grieving the loss of the person who had been his anchor. He realized now that he had leaned on Zanka’s stability more than he’d ever admitted. Zanka was the one who kept the team organized, the one who watched Enjin’s back without being asked, the one whose quiet presence made the chaos of their lives feel manageable.
Enjin pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket but didn't light it. He just held it, staring at the floor.
'Why did you leave like that?' he wondered for the thousandth time 'What did I do to make you think you had to run to the edge of the world to get away from me?'
He began to study the maps of the North, tracing the supply routes that were currently blocked by snow. He wasn't just a team leader anymore; he was a man obsessed with a rescue mission for a person who didn't want to be rescued.
While Enjin fought the silence of the headquarters, Zanka fought the silence of the soul.
A month into his mission, the Northern Settlement felt less like a base and more like a tomb. The "settlement" was barely a dozen souls—engineers and laborers—who stayed huddled inside the heat-shielded barracks, terrified of the world outside. Zanka was the only thing standing between them and the gnashing teeth of the wasteland.
The physical toll was immense. The cold was a constant, gnawing predator. It seeped through his layers, numbing his fingers until he had to strike them against his thighs to feel them again. His skin was perpetually chapped, his breath a constant plume of white frost that clouded his vision.
But the psychological toll was worse.
Isolation is a mirror that doesn't blink. Without the distractions of the team, without the noise of the city, Zanka was left alone with his thoughts. And his thoughts were a battlefield. He would be out on the perimeter, standing atop a half-finished pillar of the dome, and he would swear he smelled Enjin’s cigarette smoke on the wind. He would turn, his heart leaping into his throat, only to find nothing but the swirling, indifferent snow.
He began to talk to himself, just to hear a human voice.
"Focus, Zanka," he would mutter, his voice cracking. "Shift your weight. Watch the ridge. Don't think about him. Don't think about how his hair looks in the morning. Focus."
One night, a Trash Beast—a monstrosity made of rusted rebar and frozen industrial tarp—managed to breach the inner line. Zanka engaged it in a frantic, desperate dance of steel. The beast was fast, its movements unpredictable. It swiped at him, a jagged piece of metal catching Zanka across the ribs.
He felt the hot flare of pain, followed by the terrifyingly quick sensation of the blood freezing against his shirt. He killed the beast, plunging his weapon into its core with a primal scream that was lost to the wind.
Afterward, as he sat in the dark of his freezing bunk, clumsily trying to stitch the wound with trembling fingers, he broke. He dropped the needle and slumped against the cold metal wall, a sob escaping his throat. It wasn't the pain of the wound; it was the realization that he could die here, and the last thing Enjin would remember of him was a stoic nod and a silent departure.
He looked at the comm device Corvus had given him. It sat on the small table, silent and accusing. He knew Enjin had been trying to call. He’d seen the missed connection alerts flashing like a frantic heartbeat.
He reached out, his hand hovering over the 'accept' button for a scheduled window, but then he saw his own reflection in the darkened screen. He looked gaunt. His eyes were haunted. He looked like a man who was falling apart.
'If I talk to him, I’ll go back' he realized with a terrifying clarity.
'And if I go back, I’ll have to watch him love someone else again. I’d rather freeze here'
He withdrew his hand, curling into a ball on the floor, the ice-cold air filling his lungs as he let the tears finally come, freezing into salt-tracks on his cheeks.
Back at headquarters, Enjin had reached his limit. He stood in Corvus’s office, his hands slammed onto the desk.
"The next supply drop to the North. I'm on it" Enjin stated. It wasn't a request.
"The passes are closed, Enjin. No vehicle can make it through the current storm" Corvus replied calmly, though his eyes held a flicker of concern.
"Then I'll walk" Enjin growled.
"I'll use my boots, I'll use my teeth, I'll crawl, I don't care. He’s been out there for five months already and the reports say the beast activity is peaking. If you don't authorize it, I'm going A.W.O.L."
Semiu, standing by the window, turned to look at him "Why, Enjin? Why is it so important that you, specifically, go? We can send a recovery team when the weather clears"
Enjin paused, the words catching in his throat. He thought of the lipstick stain. He thought of Zanka's guarded expressions. He thought of the kid who had followed him into the dark five years ago and never complained once.
"Because I think I'm the reason he left" Enjin said softly, the admission stripping away his bravado.
"And I'm not letting him die before I find out why"
Corvus and Semiu exchanged a long look. Finally, Corvus sighed "The storm is projected to break for a twelve-hour window in three days. If you can get a high-mobility unit ready by then... we won't stop you"
Enjin didn't thank them. He just turned and walked out, his mind already miles away, crossing the frozen wastes to find the boy who had become his world without him even noticing.
The three days Enjin had counted down like a condemned man were not met with the promised break in the clouds. Instead, the sky over the Ground curdled into a bruised, sickly violet before erupting into a celestial fury.
It was a Signal #5 snowstorm—a "White Death" that hadn't been seen in a decade. The wind didn't just howl; it screamed, a high-pitched, metallic shriek that vibrated through the very foundations of the bordering gates. This wasn't weather; it was a physical barrier, a wall of frozen glass shards and suffocating pressure that turned the world outside into a void.
Enjin stood at the Great Border Gate, the massive iron doors that separated the city’s inner sanctum from the northern wastes. He looked like a madman. He was geared for the tundra—heavy furs layered over his tactical suit, his vital instrument strapped tightly to his back—but the sheer weight of the atmosphere seemed to be trying to crush him into the dirt.
"Open the gate!" Enjin roared, his voice barely audible over the thunderous boom of the wind hitting the iron.
The gate guards, huddled behind reinforced glass in their station, didn't move. One of them spoke through the external comms, his voice distorted by static.
"Orders from the top, Mister! Even Cleaners! Nobody leaves. A Signal 5 means the gears in the gate are frozen solid. Even if we tried to crank it, the wind would rip the doors off their hinges and depressurize the sector. You’re going nowhere!"
"I have a man out there!" Enjin slammed his shoulder against the freezing metal of the gate. The cold was so intense it felt like a burn, searing through his gloves.
"He’s solo at the settlement! If this storm is hitting us like this, what the hell do you think it’s doing to a half-finished dome in the North?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He began to strike the gate, his fists muffled by the heavy snow piling up at his feet. He was a man of action, a man who solved problems by breaking them, but for the first time in his life, he was facing something he couldn't hit, couldn't charm, and couldn't outrun.
Nature was a wall he couldn't climb.
"Enjin! That's enough!"
He felt hands grabbing his shoulders, Rudo and Gris. They had to lean into the wind just to stay upright.
"Let go of me!" Enjin snarled, swinging a heavy arm to shake them off.
"He’s dying out there! I know it! I can feel it!"
"You'll die ten feet past that door!" Rudo yelled, his voice cracking with a mixture of terror and grief.
"The scouts say the temperature in the North has dropped to the point where blood freezes in the veins! You can't help him if you're a frozen corpse at the threshold!"
Enjin stopped. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged, crystalline bursts. He looked up at the massive, impassable door. Beyond it lay hundreds of miles of white hell. And somewhere in that hell, Zanka was standing in the dark, perhaps already buried, perhaps waiting for a rescue that was now officially impossible.
The realization hit him with more force than the wind. The storm wasn't going to break in twelve hours. The meteorological reports were flashing on the comms of every Cleaner.
"Projected Duration: 3-4 Months"
A season of silence.
Enjin sank to his knees in the deepening snow at the base of the gate. The bravado, the anger, the desperate energy—it all bled out of him, leaving only a hollow, terrifying void. He pressed his forehead against the freezing iron.
"Zanka" he whispered, a name lost to the gale.
"Don't you dare. Don't you dare die thinking I didn't come for you"
The months that followed were a slow-motion haunting.
The North was completely cut off. The communication arrays were shredded by the winds, leaving only static. Enjin lived in a state of suspended animation. He did his duties, he led his team, but he moved like a clockwork soldier. He stopped drinking. He stopped seeking company. He spent his nights in Zanka’s empty room, sitting on the edge of the bed that still held a faint, lingering scent of incense and varnish.
He began to realize the true depth of his failure. It wasn't just that he hadn't noticed Zanka's feelings, it was that he had taken Zanka’s devotion as a given, a constant background radiation in his life that he never felt the need to acknowledge or protect. He had been a sun that never looked at the shadow it cast, never realizing the shadow was cold.
Driven by a restless, agonizing need to touch something that belonged to the boy he’d lost, Enjin had broken into Zanka’s closet. He had expected to find neat stacks of uniforms or spare weapon parts. Instead, tucked into the very back, hidden beneath a discarded training manual, he had found it, a simple, silver ring. It was the one Zanka usually wore over his middle finger, a functional piece of steel that anchored his finger-loop gloves and arm warmers, worn smooth by years of gripping his weapon.
Holding it in his palm, Enjin had felt the ghost of Zanka’s strength. He hadn’t been able to leave it there. He had found a sturdy silver chain, looped it through the cold metal circle, and fastened it around his own neck. It had stayed there for the remainder of the year—a hidden weight resting directly over his heart, a secret penance that chilled his skin when he felt his own resolve wavering.
On the other side of the world, a year had passed since Zanka first stepped into the dark.
The Northern Settlement was a graveyard of ambition. The dome had held, barely, a jagged crown of glass and steel that hummed with the ghosts of the beasts that had died against it. Zanka stood at the edge of the perimeter, his silhouette gaunt against the pale, morning light of a dying winter.
His hair had grown long, tied back with a piece of rubber. His body was a map of scars, some from claws, some from the frost. He was stronger than he had ever been, his movements were no longer those of a boy, but of a predator who had survived the end of the world.
The transport truck—the first one in months—was idling on the landing pad behind him. The engineers were scrambling to board, eager to flee the desolation.
Zanka looked back at the North one last time. He had found the strength he sought. He had faced the silence and hadn't broken. But the "line" he had drawn between himself and Enjin hadn't vanished; it had turned into a canyon.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out the communication device. It was dead, the screen cracked from a fall months ago. He had never fixed it. He didn't need to hear Enjin’s voice to know what it would say. He didn't want to hear the apologies or the platitudes.
He was nineteen when he left. He felt a hundred years old as he stepped onto the ramp of the transport.
As the engine rattles, shaking the snow from its roof, Zanka watched the Northern Settlement shrink into a tiny, insignificant dot in a vast sea of white. He wasn't going home to a lover. He wasn't going home to a mentor. He was going back to a man who was a stranger to the person Zanka had become.
The year was over. The mission was complete.
The air inside the Cleaners headquarters felt unnaturally warm, almost suffocating, to lungs that had spent a year acclimating to the razor-thin, frozen atmosphere of the North.
When the heavy iron doors finally groaned open to receive the returning transport, the silence that fell over the docking bay was absolute. This wasn't the jubilant return of a hero, it was the arrival of a ghost.
Zanka stepped off the truck, his boots clicking with a heavy, deliberate rhythm on the dirt floor. He looked skeletal, his frame hardened into lean, wiry muscle that seemed stretched tight over his bones. His signature two-toned hair was longer, shaggier, and his azure eyes—once bright with a youthful, desperate need to prove himself—were now as cold and impenetrable as the permafrost. He carried his weapon not as a tool, but as a part of his physical body, draped across his back with a casualness that only came from killing every single day for three hundred and sixty-five days.
At the edge of the bay, a small group waited. Rudo looked like he wanted to run forward but was held back by the sheer gravity of Zanka’s new aura. Riyo stood with her mouth slightly agape, the brother she teased having been replaced by a man who looked like he had seen the end of the world and found it boring.
And then there was Enjin.
He stood at the center, looking more haggard than Zanka had ever seen him. The golden hair was duller, his eyes rimmed with the red of a man who hadn't slept a full night since the Signal 5 storm began. When his eyes locked onto Zanka, the air seemed to leave his lungs in a sharp, audible hitch.
For a long, agonizing minute, neither moved. The space between them was a battlefield of unsaid words and months of static-filled silence.
Enjin was the first to break. He took a staggering step forward, his hand reaching out instinctively—a gesture of the old Enjin, the one who would have ruffled Zanka’s hair or pulled him into a suffocating headlock.
"Zanka" Enjin breathed, his voice a broken wreck of its former self.
"You... you’re back"
Zanka stopped two paces away. He didn't reach back. He didn't smile. He didn't even flinch. He simply looked at the outstretched hand as if it were a foreign object. The "line" he had drawn a year ago hadn't just held; it had fossilized.
"Mission accomplished" Zanka said. His voice was deeper, raspy from months of disuse, and utterly devoid of the tremor that used to betray his heart.
"The dome is secure. The settlement is operational"
"To hell with the settlement" Enjin rasped, stepping closer, desperate to bridge the canyon. The smell of him hit Zanka—no more sweet perfume, no more bar-room smoke. Just the scent of old paper and the distinct, sharp smell of the incense Zanka had left behind. Enjin looked like he wanted to fall to his knees.
"I thought you were dead. I tried... I tried to get to the gates, Zanka. I tried to call every night. I—"
"I know" Zanka interrupted, his tone flat. He shifted his weight, his eyes moving past Enjin to Corvus and Semiu, who were watching from the shadows.
"I’m tired. I’ll submit my full tactical report after I’ve freshen up"
He started to walk past Enjin, a direct, physical dismissal.
Enjin’s hand shot out, catching Zanka’s forearm. The contact was electric. For Enjin, it was a lifeline; for Zanka, it was a violation of the sanctuary of solitude he had built. Zanka stiffened, his muscles coiling like a spring, and for a split second, the cold mask slipped. A flash of raw, jagged pain flickered in his eyes—the ghost of the nineteen-year-old who had loved this man to the point of self-destruction.
"Don't" Zanka whispered, the word sharp enough to draw blood.
Enjin flinched as if he’d been struck.
"Zanka, talk to me. Look at me. I’ve spent a year realizing how much of a fool I was. I didn't see... I didn't see anything until you were gone. Please"
Zanka slowly turned his head, looking down at the hand on his arm, then up at Enjin’s pleading face. The realization Enjin was offering was the very thing Zanka had prayed for years ago, but it had arrived too late. It was a gift delivered to a house that had already burned down.
"You're seeing a ghost, Enjin" Zanka said softly, pulling his arm back with a slow, irresistible strength.
"The person who wanted you to look at him didn't survive the winter"
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He walked away, leaving Enjin standing in the middle of the docking bay, surrounded by people but utterly alone.
Zanka didn't head for the common room or the mess hall. He walked toward his room, needing to wash the scent of the North—and the lingering warmth of Enjin’s touch—off his skin. As the hot water finally hit his frozen shoulders, Zanka leaned his forehead against the tiles and closed his eyes.
He was back in headquarters, back in the heat, but the ice inside him wasn't melting. He had survived the North, but he realized now that the real mission was only just beginning: surviving the man he still, despite everything, could not stop loving.
The silence at midnight was no longer a comfort to Zanka, it was a reminder of the howling winds he had left behind. He stood in the courtyard, the only light coming from the moon. He was moving through a katas, his Lovely Assistaff whistling through the air with a lethality that was beautiful and terrifying. Each strike was a purge, an attempt to bleed out the agitation that had stayed coiled in his gut since he stepped off that transport.
"You're going to break the floor if you keep that up"
Zanka didn't stop. He didn't even break rhythm. He knew that voice—the low, gravelly resonance that had haunted his dreams in the North. Enjin was standing in the shadows of the equipment racks, his silhouette blocky and heavy.
"Go to sleep, Enjin" Zanka said, his voice rhythmic with his breathing.
"I’m busy"
"You've been 'busy' for three days, Zanka. You've dodged every meal, every meeting, and every time I try to get you alone, you vanish like a shadow"
Enjin stepped into the moonlight. He wasn't wearing his long coat, just a thin black undershirt that showed the tension in his shoulders. He looked raw, his usual mask of carefree confidence stripped away to reveal something desperate and jagged.
Zanka finally stopped, his weapon lowered, the tip humming with residual energy. He didn't turn around "There's nothing to talk about. I'm back. I'm stronger. The mission was a success. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"I wanted you!" Enjin’s voice cracked, the volume echoing off the cold stone walls. He stormed forward, his boots heavy and frantic compared to Zanka’s ghost-like stillness. He grabbed Zanka by the shoulder, spinning him around with a force born of a year’s worth of repressed panic.
"I didn't want a soldier! I didn't want a killing machine! I wanted my Zanka back!"
Zanka’s composure shattered. The ice he had meticulously layered around his heart for a year developed a thousand hairline fractures in a single second. He shoved Enjin back, his face contorting into a snarl of pure, unadulterated agony.
"Your Zanka?" Zanka screamed, the sound tearing from his throat like a physical wound.
"You never had a Zanka! You had a shadow! You had a kid who followed you around like a dog while you smelled like other people’s perfume! You had a boy who spent every night wondering what was wrong with him because he wasn't a woman, because he wasn't hot, because he wasn't enough to make you look at him twice!"
Enjin froze, his breath hitching in his chest. The truth, finally spoken, was a physical weight in the room, suffocating and blinding.
"I loved you" Zanka sobbed, the first tear escaping and carving a hot path through the dust on his cheek. He dropped his weapon, the wood clattering uselessly to the floor.
"I loved you so much it was killing me. Every time you came home with lipstick on your neck, I felt like I was being erased. I went to the North to die, Enjin. I went there so I wouldn't have to watch you be happy with everyone but me"
"Zanka..." Enjin’s voice was a ghost of a whisper. He looked at the younger man—really looked at him—and saw the wreckage he had caused. He saw the scars, the hollow cheeks, and the eyes of a boy who had been forced to grow up in a frozen hell because he didn't feel safe in his own home.
"Don't pity me" Zanka hissed, his body trembling with the force of his sobs.
"I didn't come back for an apology. I came back because I have nowhere else to go. Just... leave me alone"
He tried to turn away, to retreat back into the cold, but Enjin didn't let him. Enjin moved with a speed he rarely showed, closing the gap and slamming his arms around Zanka in a crushing, desperate embrace. He buried his face in the crook of Zanka’s neck, his own body shaking with a sudden, violent grief.
"I'm a fool" Enjin choked out, his voice muffled against Zanka’s skin.
"A blind, selfish, arrogant fool. I thought I was protecting you by keeping you at a distance. I thought I was being the big brother you needed. I didn't realize that the only reason I was out at those bars, the only reason I was seeking out those distractions, was because I was terrified of how much I needed you"
Zanka stopped struggling, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
"I spent that year at the gate" Enjin continued, his tears hot against Zanka’s neck.
"I spent it screaming at the wind because I realized I’d let the only thing that mattered walk out the door. I don't care about women, Zanka. I don't care about hot. I care about the person who knows the weight of my soul. I care about you"
Enjin pulled back just enough to frame Zanka’s face in his large, callused hands. His thumbs brushed away the salt-tracks under Zanka’s eyes, his own golden eyes swimming with a vulnerability that broke Zanka’s heart all over again.
"Please" Enjin whispered.
"Let me try. Let me spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel like a shadow again"
Zanka looked at him, searching the older man’s face for any sign of a lie, any hint of the old, careless Enjin. He found only a man who was as broken and rebuilt as he was.
With a soft, broken sound, Zanka reached up, his fingers trembling as they tangled into Enjin’s hair. He pulled him down, closing the final, agonizing inch between them.
The kiss was desperate and clumsy, tasting of salt and old smoke and a year’s worth of starvation. It was the collision of the North’s ice and the South’s fire. Zanka let out a long, shuddering breath against Enjin’s lips, his knees finally giving out as the weight of four years of unrequited love finally found a place to rest. Enjin caught him, pulling him closer, his grip so tight it was almost painful, as if he feared that if he let go, the storm would return to take Zanka away again.
Under the cold moonlight, they finally stopped being a leader and a subordinate, a mentor and a protege. They were just two scarred souls, clinging to each other in the dark, finally warm.
The transition from the courtyard to the sanctuary of Zanka’s quarters was a frantic, uncoordinated blur. They didn't walk; they collided through the corridors, bodies pressed together as if the slightest gap would allow the cold of the North to seep back in. Enjin’s hands were everywhere—gripping Zanka’s waist, cupping the back of his head, feeling the sharp, lean lines of a body that had become a stranger to him.
The moment the door to Zanka’s room clicked shut, the last of their restraint evaporated.
Enjin pinned Zanka against the heavy metal door, his mouth crashing back onto Zanka’s with a hunger that was almost feral. He tasted of desperation and the lingering salt of tears. Zanka’s hands, usually so disciplined and precise, were frantic, tearing at the fabric of Enjin’s undershirt, needing to feel the heat of the man beneath.
"Enjin" Zanka gasped into the heat of the kiss, his voice a broken prayer.
"I thought... I thought I’d never feel this. I thought I’d die in the snow without you ever knowing"
"I’m here" Enjin groaned, his lips traveling down the column of Zanka’s throat, biting softly at the pulse point that hammered against his tongue.
"I’m never letting you go again. Never"
They scrambled toward the narrow bed, shedding layers of tactical gear and heavy fabric like they were casting off old skins. In the dim light, the contrast between them was stark. Enjin, broad and solid, his skin mapped with vibrant red and black, older scars and the lingering heat of the city; and Zanka, pale and whip-cord lean, the new, jagged marks of the Northern beasts standing out in silver relief against his skin.
When they finally tumbled onto the mattress, the air in the small room felt thick, charged with the electricity of years of repressed wanting. Enjin moved over him, his weight a grounding, blessed pressure. He looked down at Zanka, his golden eyes glowing with a terrifyingly raw devotion.
"I love you, Zanka" Enjin whispered, the words heavy and solemn, a vow spoken in the dark.
"I love you so much it scares the hell out of me"
Zanka’s breath hitched, his eyes shimmering as he pulled Enjin down for another bruising kiss.
"I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time now. It’s always been you"
The act was not one of practiced grace, but of desperate reclamation. Every touch was an answer to a year of silence. Enjin moved with a tenderness that contradicted his rough exterior, his hands worshipping the lines of Zanka’s body, tracing the scars he hadn't been there to prevent. Zanka arched into him, his fingers digging into the muscle of Enjin’s back, his head thrown back as he let out a low, shaky moan that was part pleasure, part relief.
The room was filled with the sound of their combined breathing, the rhythmic creak of the bed, and the frantic, whispered confessions.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
I’m here.
Don’t go.
As they reached the peak of their long-denied desire, Zanka clung to Enjin as if he were the only solid thing in a world of shadows. In that shattering moment of union, the last of the Northern ice finally melted away, replaced by a fire that promised to burn long after the morning came.
The light that filtered through the small, high window the next morning was soft—a pale, honeyed gold that lacked the harsh glare of the Northern sun.
Zanka woke slowly, his body feeling heavy and blissfully warm. For a heartbeat, he expected to feel the biting chill of his barracks and the sound of the wind, but instead, he felt the steady, rhythmic thump of a heart against his ear.
He was tucked firmly against Enjin’s chest, the older man’s arm draped over him like a protective mantle. The smell of the room had changed; the scent of cold metal and isolation had been replaced by the warm, musky scent of skin and the faint, familiar trace of tobacco.
Zanka shifted slightly, and Enjin’s grip tightened instinctively, even in sleep. A moment later, Enjin’s eyes fluttered open. They weren't the eyes of a fierce Janitor leader, but something softer, humbler.
"Morning" Enjin rumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to Zanka’s forehead.
Zanka didn't answer with words. He simply buried his face deeper into the crook of Enjin’s neck, breathing him in. The insecurity that had plagued him for years—the fear of not being "enough"—felt distant, like a dream that had lost its power to frighten him.
"You're still here" Zanka whispered against his skin.
"I'm not going anywhere" Enjin replied, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over Zanka’s back.
"We’ve got a lot of time to make up for, Zanka. And I’m going to spend every second of it making sure you know exactly where you belong"
Zanka pulled back slightly to look at Enjin. The movement caused a faint clinking of metal, revealing a glint of silver, against the tattoo of his chest.
Zanka’s breath hitched. He had not noticed it the prior night, his mind was fog by the heat. He reached out, his long, scarred fingers trembling as he hooked the chain and pulled it slowly from beneath the fabric.
The ring dangled between them, catching the morning light. Zanka recognized the knicks in the metal, the specific weight of it. It was his. The piece of himself he had intentionally left behind when he thought he was never coming back—a piece he thought would be thrown away with the rest of his "worthless" belongings.
"You found it" Zanka whispered, his amber eyes wide and searching.
Enjin didn't look away. He covered Zanka’s hand with his own, pressing the ring—and Zanka’s fingers—firmly against his chest, right where his heart was thudding a steady, heavy rhythm.
"I found it the day the Signal 5 hit" Enjin said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly confession.
"The gates were frozen shut. The comms were dead. I felt like I was losing my mind, Zanka. I went to your room just to find something that proved you were real, that you weren't just a dream I’d managed to break"
He closed his eyes for a moment, the memory of that desperation still sharp.
"I took it because I needed to feel you near me. Every time I felt like giving up, or every time I felt that urge to go back to the bars and drown out the silence, I’d feel this metal against my skin. It was cold, just like the North. It reminded me that you were out there freezing, and that I was the reason why"
Enjin opened his eyes, and the sheer intensity of the love in them made Zanka’s throat tighten.
"I wore it every single day" Enjin continued.
"I wore it into missions, I wore it while I slept, I wore it while I paced the border gates. It became my anchor. It was a promise I made to myself, that I wouldn't take it off until I could put it back on your hand, or until I was lying in the dirt beside you."
Zanka felt a fresh wave of heat behind his eyes. He looked at the ring, then back at the man who had carried his burden for a year without him ever knowing. The image of Enjin, the man who laughed at danger and drank away his sorrows, sitting alone in the dark and clutching a piece of Zanka’s gear like a holy relic, shattered the last remnants of Zanka's old resentment.
"I thought you wouldn't even notice it was missing" Zanka admitted, his voice thick with emotion.
"I thought I didn't matter enough for you to look in my closet"
Enjin let out a soft, pained laugh and leaned forward, resting his forehead against Zanka’s.
"Kid... you mattered more than the air I was breathing. I was just too much of a coward to admit that my life didn't work without you in it."
With a slow, deliberate movement, Enjin unclasped the chain from his neck. He took Zanka’s left hand—the hand that had killed and survived and endured—and slid the ring back onto the middle finger. It fit perfectly, the metal warming instantly against Zanka’s skin.
"There" Enjin whispered, kissing the knuckles of the hand he now held.
"Back where it belongs. But don't think for a second that this means I'm letting you go again. From now on, you're staying where I can see you"
Zanka looked at the ring, then curled his fingers into a fist, feeling the familiar weight. But it felt different now. It didn't feel like a tool for war; it felt like a seal. He threw his arms around Enjin’s neck, pulling him into a kiss that was deep, slow, and tasted of a future they had both fought through hell to reach.
"I'm staying" Zanka promised against his lips.
"I'm staying right here."
They stayed like that for a long time, tangled in the sheets and the quiet, radiant heat of each other. The world outside the door—the Cleaners, the Trash Beasts, the endless struggle of the Pit—still existed, but for the first time in his life, Zanka felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.
He was no longer a shadow or a ghost.
He was home.