Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

This is part 4 of my ERROR 404 - MONSTER NOT FOUND Series 

book one you find here -> Part 1

Here is part 2 -> Part 2

Here you get to part 3 -> Part 3

This is where you get to part 4 -> Part 4

I hope you enjoy this as much as the previous parts <3 

Chapter Text

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The city burned behind them. It wasn’t the dramatic kind of burning people talked about later, not flames leaping skyward or towers collapsing in spectacular arcs. It was the slow, choking burn of infrastructure giving up power stations ruptured, old fuel lines igniting, plastic and insulation melting into blackened slurry. The smoke followed them long after they’d left the glow behind, worked itself into seams and stitches, lodged beneath fingernails and in the backs of throats. It clung to their clothes as if trying to hold them back. 

The vehicle rattled forward through the outskirts, its engine growling unevenly as if it couldn’t decide what decade it belonged to.  It was too heavy to be elegant, too loud to disappear, ate the ruined road with a stubborn engine growl that seemed almost rude against the silence inside. The chassis had once been military, with thick plating, reinforced frame, but most of that was now layered over with scavenged additions. Panels were welded on at slightly wrong angles. Exposed wiring was bundled together with strips of fabric and tape. A cracked dashboard held together by bolts that didn’t quite match. Someone had rebuilt it the way the underground rebuilt everything. Not to last forever, just long enough.

The driver kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the center console, cigarette wedged at the corner of his mouth like the world was still normal enough for habits. His sunglasses hid his eyes even in the pre-dawn dark, and a bandana sat low at his throat. He didn’t talk. He didn’t need to. The way he drove said everything. Fast when the road was open, careful when the shadows looked like they could hide a checkpoint.

An iron smell hung in the air, and the backseat of the vehicle was stained red, colored by the blood from their injuries. The backseat was stained red. Not splattered. Not violent in the way explosions were violent. Just saturated. Blood had soaked into the fabric and dried, darkened, then been smeared again as the vehicle jolted and shifted. Santa’s blood, mostly.

Dunk sat forward on the bench seat behind the driver, posture rigid, rifle braced between his knees even though he wasn’t aiming it at anything. His gaze kept cutting to the mirrors, then back to the road, then to the blackness behind them, as if he expected headlights to bloom out of it any second. His fingers flexed around the weapon grip without meaning to. Muscle memory. Responsibility. A sickness in him that didn’t know how to stop scanning for threats.

Joong sat near him, shoulder turned slightly inward, not sleeping but not fully present either. He looked like someone who had already fought too much with too little fuel. His body was still carrying the memory of holding up walls that weren’t supposed to exist. His hands rested in his lap, palms faintly trembling now and then as the truck hit bumps, like his nerves were still trying to calculate where a barrier should be. He didn’t speak. He breathed carefully, as if each inhale was a decision.

No one spoke. 

Not because there was nothing to say, but because words felt obscene in the face of what had just happened. The roar of the engine and the rattle of loose metal filled the space between them, a constant reminder that they were still moving, still alive, even if none of them quite believed it yet.

In the back, Boom had made himself into a brace. He sat on the floor between seats because there wasn’t room for anything else, knees drawn up, one arm wrapped around Santa’s torso to keep him from sliding with the motion. The other hand stayed near Santa’s throat and jaw, checking the rhythm of his breathing, the dampness of sweat on his skin, the small tremors that kept coming and going like aftershocks from a quake. Boom’s mind kept trying to slot it into neat categories. Blood loss, concussion, internal trauma, shock, but nothing about this night fit neatly anywhere.

He had stitched in worse conditions before. He had seen men bleed out on metal tables. He had revived patients whose hearts had been bullied back into rhythm by sheer stubbornness and adrenaline. This was different.

Santa was someone Boom had watched grow up behind glass. Someone Boom had measured in numbers and risk profiles, then later in breath and hunger, and how much fear a nineteen-year-old could carry without collapsing. Santa had never been meant to be in the backseat of a stolen truck with ash in his hair and blood on his body. He had never been meant to be anywhere outside those walls at all.

Boom could not get the smell of the operating room out of his head. The sterile sharpness. The taste of latex. The sound of Santa’s breath through the mask when they’d tried to convince him to take it off long enough to survive. Now the mask was long gone. Left behind. A decision made in a clinic that had smelled like old disinfectant and lies.

Santa’s breathing was wrong. His lips were pale. His lashes fluttered, not quite waking, not quite gone. His chest rose in shallow increments that made Boom’s stomach clench every time the breath took a fraction too long to come.

Aou sat pressed against Santa’s side like a second shadow. He refused to be separated, even by the cramped geometry of the truck. His hands were under Santa’s shoulders, cradling him, supporting him, holding him in a way that was half protective and half desperate, as if letting go would mean admitting that Santa could slip away. His eyes were fixed on Santa’s face, unblinking. There were streaks of dried blood on Aou’s knuckles that weren’t his. The skin around his nails looked raw, scraped from rubble or from his own shaking. His breathing was too controlled. Too measured. The kind of control that came from terror, not calm.

He had done it alone.  Aou had chosen life with hands that could destroy. And now those same hands were terrified of doing anything at all.

Pond sat opposite, pulled into himself, shoulders tight, eyes unfocused. The motion of the truck, the vibration of the engine, the presence of metal and wiring and circuits around him, everything about it was too loud in a way that wasn’t sound. He kept rubbing his fingertips against the seam of his borrowed sleeve, like he was trying to ground himself in fabric. Every time the engine surged, something flickered behind Pond’s eyes, a reflexive urge to reach into the machine’s nervous system and quiet it, smooth it, make it obey. He didn’t.

He had disconnected, but his ability hadn’t left him. It lived under his skin like a second heartbeat. The world outside was full of technology that whispered to him. Old streetlights. Broken signage. The truck’s own system. Radios humming with static in their sleep. Even the cheap battery lamp on the dashboard felt like it had a pulse. Pond’s jaw clenched hard enough that a muscle jumped in his cheek.

Phuwin was wedged beside him, shoulder to shoulder, forced into closeness by the lack of space. Phuwin’s arm kept bumping Pond’s whenever the road jolted. Each time it happened, Phuwin made a small adjustment, not pulling away, not making it awkward. Just staying steady. Present. Like an anchor that didn’t demand anything.

Phuwin looked exhausted in a different way than the others. Not drained from powers or blood loss, but from adrenaline and guilt and the weight of choices he could never undo. His tank top was streaked with soot. Phuwin’s clothes were, like those of the others, torn, bloody, and dirty from the ashes. The a faded tank under a too-big jacket, sleeves frayed, fabric knotted at his waist to keep it from slipping. His hair, damp with sweat, kept falling into his eyes, and he kept pushing it back without realizing he was doing it. He stared out the narrow rear window, eyes tracking the orange smear of fire on the horizon until it disappeared behind a bend in the road. 

“You’re shaking,” he murmured suddenly, not looking at Pond, as if speaking too directly might startle him.

Pond blinked. Once. Twice. Like he had to reboot to answer.

“I am… vibrating,” Pond said quietly. The words were careful, like he was choosing the least wrong description. “The vehicle is loud.”

Phuwin’s gaze slid to him, soft. “Do you want me to…” He stopped, recalibrated. “Can I help?”

Pond’s swallowed. He nodded, tiny. Permission. Phuwin shifted just enough to press his knee against Pond’s, a simple contact point, steady and warm. Not restraining. Not forcing. Just there. Pond’s shoulders dropped by a fraction.

Perth sat near the back hatch, braced with one boot on the floor and the other planted against the side wall. He wasn’t holding a weapon, but there was a knife at his belt and the kind of alertness in his posture that made weapons feel secondary anyway. His attention wasn’t on the road or the driver or even the dark shapes slipping past the windows. It was fixed on the middle of the vehicle, where Santa lay half-curled between Aou and Boom.

He watched Santa’s chest rise. Fall. Pause too long. Each hitch drew his jaw tighter.

Boom’s fingers were at Santa’s throat, checking pulse, counting seconds under his breath. Perth tracked the movement obsessively, memorizing the rhythm the way he memorized exits. Aou’s arms never loosened. Every time Santa’s breath stuttered, Aou’s grip tightened, like he could hold life in place through sheer refusal.

Perth didn’t comment. Didn’t joke. Didn’t move closer because there wasn’t room and because hovering wouldn’t help. But every other calculation, the driver’s hands, Dunk’s posture, Joong’s slumped shoulders, registered only secondarily, filtered through the constant, gnawing question he couldn’t shake.

Is he still here?

When Santa’s lashes fluttered, when a weak breath finally dragged its way in, Perth exhaled like he’d been holding his own lungs hostage. He shifted closer without realizing it, knee brushing the edge of Aou’s boot, ready to catch Santa if the vehicle lurched, ready to do something even if he didn’t know what that something was.

Perth’s eyes drifted to the road outside, to the darkness that could hide pursuit, to the scattered shapes of ruined buildings that slid past like bones. He did not look like a hero. He looked like a man who had survived by never letting himself believe in salvation. And yet he had gotten into this truck with them.

That was the part Boom couldn’t stop turning over in his mind. Perth had offered shelter. Then offered movement. Perth had burned whatever quiet life he’d had in the underground without making a speech about it.  Boom didn’t trust easy kindness. He had spent too long watching institutions wrap cruelty in clean words. But Perth’s kindness didn’t look clean. It looked like a choice made with teeth bared.

Aou noticed it first, because he always did. His attention had been locked on Santa since the moment they’d hauled him into the vehicle, since the moment his hands had come away slick with blood and panic had nearly swallowed him whole. At first, Santa’s chest had risen and fallen unevenly but steadily enough to convince them he’d stabilize. That hope didn’t last.

A fine tremor ran through Santa’s body, subtle at first, like he was cold. Aou tightened his grip automatically, fingers curling into the fabric of Santa’s jacket as if he could anchor him there through sheer will. The tremor didn’t stop. It deepened. Santa’s breaths grew shorter, sharper, each inhale hitching like his lungs had forgotten the rhythm they were meant to keep.

“Aou,” Boom said quietly from where he was crouched nearby, already watching. His voice held no panic, but his eyes were sharp. “Talk to me.”

Aou swallowed. His throat felt raw. “He’s shaking,” he said. “It’s not stopping.”

Boom leaned in closer, his movements precise despite the cramped space. He checked Santa’s pulse, his pupils, the way his skin felt under his fingertips. Boom didn’t swear. He didn’t curse the facility or the government or the universe. He just exhaled slowly.

“Delayed shock,” he said. “The body waited until it thought it was safe.”

The driver glanced back for half a second, a flicker of motion in the mirror. His voice was rough with smoke and road dust. “He dying?”

“No,” Boom snapped, too fast, too sharp, then forced himself to soften, because anger didn’t help anyone survive. “Not if we stop. Not if I can assess him properly.”

Dunk leaned slightly, listening. “How far to anywhere liveable?” he asked, not to Boom, toward the driver.

“Two hours to the next real settlement,” the driver said. “Less if we don’t care about noise.”

“We care…” Perth started, then stopped himself.

His gaze flicked, sharp and immediate, not to Dunk, not to the driver, but to Santa. Santa’s breath had gone shallow again. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice, and Perth did.

“Keep it down,” he said, voice lower now, stripped of its earlier steadiness. There was an edge under it, not anger, not authority, but something close to fear that hadn’t decided what to do with itself yet. “Not because of them.” He nodded once, barely, toward the dark road ahead. Then back to Santa. “Because if he crashes again, we won’t hear it over the noise.”

The driver huffed like he agreed but didn’t like being told.

That did it. Boom’s hand stilled at Santa’s shoulder. Dunk shifted, instinctively quieter. Even the driver eased his grip on the wheel, like the vehicle itself had learned how to hold its breath. Perth didn’t look away.

He crouched closer despite the lack of space, bracing himself against the frame so the movement of the road wouldn’t jostle Santa any more than it already had. His fingers hovered, uncertain, then settled lightly at Santa’s wrist, not checking a pulse, not interfering. Just grounding. Just there.

“Stay with us,” Perth murmured, too soft for anyone but Santa to hear. And maybe not even him. “You’re not done yet.”

Joong’s head tilted slightly, listening to the engine. “We’re pushing it,” he murmured. “It sounds… strained.”

Pond swallowed hard. His eyes flicked toward the dashboard, then away, as if looking at the machine too directly might pull him back into it. “The power is uneven,” he said quietly. “The alternator is… tired.”

Phuwin’s brows drew together. Technician instincts sparked even through exhaustion. “Can you fix it?” he asked Pond immediately, then saw Pond’s flinch and corrected himself. “Sorry. Not you. I mean…if we stop, I might be able to.”

Pond exhaled, small. “I can… help,” he admitted. “But it is tempting.”

Phuwin nodded like he understood exactly what Pond meant. “We only do what we need,” he said softly. “No more.”

Joong’s shoulders lifted in a small, exhausted breath. “Quiet would be…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Quiet would be mercy.

Phuwin glanced at the horizon, where the sky was beginning to thin from black into dark grey. Dawn was coming whether they were ready or not. Daylight meant visibility. Visibility meant danger.

He looked down at Pond’s hands, curled tight in his lap, and then at the way Pond’s gaze kept flicking toward the dashboard like an animal hearing a call it didn’t trust.

Phuwin leaned in just slightly, voice meant only for Pond.

“You’re doing well,” he said.

Pond blinked, startled, like praise was a foreign language.

“I am… trying,” Pond replied.

Phuwin’s mouth twitched. “I noticed.”

Aou pressed his forehead briefly to Santa’s temple, a gesture that was more prayer than comfort. “Stay,” he whispered. “Please.”

Boom’s chest tightened at the sight. Aou trusted Santa in a way that was almost painfully pure. Not because Santa was safe, none of them were safe, not in that sense, but because Santa understood what it meant to be a weapon who hated the way people looked at him.

Boom watched Aou’s face and saw the edge of collapse there. Not dramatic. Not loud. The quiet kind that came when someone had spent their whole life holding themselves back from destruction and now had to hold someone else together, too.

Santa’s eyes fluttered open briefly, unfocused, glassy. He didn’t seem to see any of them. His lips parted, a soundless breath escaping.

“We need to stop,” Boom said, louder now. “As soon as possible.”

The driver’s cigarette glowed brighter as he inhaled. “There’s a place,” he said after a beat. “Not a town. A dead patch. Ruined village. No one stays there long. Too broken.”

“Broken is fine,” Dunk said instantly. “Broken means empty.”

“Empty means quiet,” Perth agreed.

Santa’s breath hitched again, shallow and wrong. Boom’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Aou’s eyes flashed with panic, heat rising under his skin, that old fear of his hands turning everything into rot. Boom caught Aou’s gaze, steady, clinical, gentle all at once.

“Not here,” Boom said softly. “Not yet. Save it. Let me see him first.”

Aou nodded, swallowing hard. “I can feel it,” he whispered. “His body… it feels like it’s slipping away from itself.”

Boom’s throat tightened. “I know.”

Perth watched that exchange closely, something unreadable on his face. Then he shifted, bracing as the truck took another bend. The city was gone from sight now. Only smoke on the wind remained, and even that was thinning. But none of them relaxed. The absence of sirens didn’t mean safety. It meant distance. 

Distance was not protection. It was just space to bleed in.

Dunk’s gaze stayed fixed on the mirror as if he could will pursuit into existence by expecting it. “If they’re smart,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “they’ll send search teams to the highways first.”

“They are smart,” Boom said quietly, because denial didn’t help either.

Joong’s fingers twitched again, like his body wanted to raise a barrier on instinct. He didn’t. He couldn’t afford to waste the energy.

Pond’s jaw tightened. “They will use drones,” he murmured. “Heat signatures. Pattern recognition.”

Perth’s smile was humorless. “Then we stay off patterns.”

Aou’s grip tightened on Santa’s hand. “And if they find us?”

Dunk’s voice came rough. “Then they regret it.”

The words weren’t brave. They were resigned. Boom listened to them, to the way this group was already becoming something like a unit without anyone saying the word. He thought of E-12. How loneliness made people easier to control. How isolation prevented bonds that could become rebellion.  Now they were bound together in the back of a truck, hurt, dirty, and alive. That alone was a kind of rebellion.

The road stretched ahead into the thinning dark. The truck’s engine growled. The driver flicked ash out the cracked window. Dawn crept closer, grey and inevitable.

Boom adjusted Santa in his arms and felt how light he was. Too light. A nineteen-year-old shaped by cages, now shaped by damage. Boom’s mind did what it always did under pressure. It broke fear into steps.

Stop. Assess. Stabilize. Move.

He could do steps. He could keep them alive in steps.

Aou pressed his face briefly to Santa’s hair, and Boom heard him whisper again, so quiet it could have been mistaken for breathing.

“Stay.”

Perth watched the horizon and didn’t say what he was thinking, but Boom could see it anyway in the tension of his jaw. This road wasn’t an escape route. It was a line drawn between the life they had stolen and the life they still had to earn.

And somewhere ahead, in the dead patch of a ruined village, they were going to have to stop, whether they wanted to or not.

Chapter Text

The vehicle turned off the road.

The moment it did, the ride changed. The smooth, cracked asphalt gave way to something older and meaner, wrought concrete broken into uneven plates, dust lifting in pale clouds with every rotation of the tires. The suspension complained, metal groaning under the sudden roughness, and everyone felt it through their bones. The hum of forward motion shifted pitch, lower now, strained. No one spoke. They all understood what it meant to leave the main road, even without saying it aloud.

The driver slowed without being told. Dust rolled past the windshield in lazy spirals. The vehicle crunched to a stop near the edge of the settlement, engine idling for a breath longer than necessary before cutting out. When it did, the silence landed hard. Not the kind of quiet that soothed. The kind that made every small sound, breathing, fabric shifting, a soft whine in damaged ears, feel too loud.

They were stopped near the edge of what had once been a village, now reduced to skeletal remains. Half-collapsed buildings leaned into each other, stitched together with scrap metal and salvaged tech. Solar panels were bolted onto rotting roofs at odd angles. Old streetlights stood dead, their glass cracked, copper wiring stripped and hanging loose. Someone had painted symbols on the walls, warnings, prayers, names.

Dawn crept closer. The sky lightened from black to deep purple, then to a thin, sickly grey. Smoke still hung in the distance, smudging the horizon where the city smouldered. The iron smell lingered, mixed now with damp earth and oil.

Perth opened the door and stepped out. The hinges squealed softly, the sound echoing too much in the empty space.  He stepped away from the vehicle, speaking quietly with the driver. Their words were low, urgent, carried off by the early morning air. Perth gestured once, sharply. The driver shook his head, then nodded, jaw tight. When they returned, the driver didn’t linger.

“You got this,” he said. His voice was calm, worn smooth by too many nights like this one. He pressed the keys into Perth’s palm, fingers rough, calloused. “This is as far as I go,” he said. 

Perth nodded once. “You won’t hear from us.”

The man gave a crooked half-smile, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Good.” That was all. His boots crunched against gravel and broken concrete as he walked away, moving toward the darker edge of the ruins where the land dipped and swallowed shadows whole. Footsteps faded. Then there was nothing.

The group sat where they were, packed too tightly in the back of a vehicle that suddenly felt far too small. The smell hit them next, dust and old rot, iron and something faintly chemical, like wet stone that had once been treated with something meant to preserve it and failed. It mixed with the scent of smoke still clinging to their clothes, with blood, and sweat and fear that hadn’t yet burned off.

Santa shifted weakly.

Aou was already there before anyone else could move, hands steady despite the tremor in his wrists, body angled protectively around him. He hadn’t let go since the explosion, and he didn’t know. Santa’s breathing was shallow, uneven, his lashes fluttering as if the effort of keeping his eyes closed was too much. Aou murmured his name under his breath, not trying to wake him, just anchoring him to the sound of it.

Boom watched closely, posture rigid with restraint. He wanted to intervene, to assess, to do something measurable, but he knew better than to pull Aou away without cause. He counted breaths instead. Watched the rise and fall of Santa’s chest. Calculated how long they could sit like this before it became dangerous.

Dunk shifted near the open door, shoulders squared, eyes already mapping lines of sight through broken buildings and collapsed walls. Habit. He catalogued angles, cover, and distances. There was nothing overtly wrong yet, but that didn’t mean it was safe. It never did.

Joong stayed still. Physically present, back against the seat, rifle resting loosely across his knees, but emotionally drained to a point that felt almost hollow. His barrier was down, had been since they left the city. He didn’t try to raise it. He couldn’t, not like before. Every breath he took felt borrowed, every muscle sore with exhaustion that went deeper than bone.

Pond pressed his palms together, fingers interlaced too tightly, head tilted as if the quiet itself were pressing against his skull. The motion had overstimulated him, the vibrations, the sound, the constant change, and now the sudden stillness left him adrift. His gaze flicked restlessly between cracked walls and open sky, trying to catalog inputs where there were none.

Phuwin stayed close to him without comment, shoulder brushing his, presence steady. He didn’t offer solutions. Just space. Just contact.

And Perth, he stood there with the keys in his hand, the weight of them sinking in slowly. He took in the village with a practiced sweep, eyes tracing doorways and sightlines, the way shadows pooled in corners. But something about this place felt wrong in a way he couldn’t immediately name. The underground had rules. Even chaos had patterns. This place had none he recognized.

The smell was wrong. Not the familiar blend of damp concrete and recycled air, not oil and ozone and human proximity. This was open land decay. dry dust, sun-bleached rot, old plant matter breaking down where no one had bothered to clear it away. It felt exposed. Unclaimed. Perth swallowed, unease curling low in his stomach. 

He looked back at Santa, at the way Aou hovered like a shield made of skin and will, at Boom’s tight focus, at Dunk’s coiled readiness. He had brought them here. He had said this was safer. He had believed it. Now, standing in a place that didn’t answer to any of the rules he knew, that belief wavered. They were on their own again.

The silence hit them like a physical force.

Without the vibration of the engine, without the constant low hum that had at least pretended to be movement, Santa’s trembling worsened immediately. It was as if his body had been borrowing momentum to stay upright, and now that it was gone, everything folded inward. His shoulders curled. His breath came shallow and fast, barely stirring the fabric of his shirt beneath Aou’s hands. Each inhale sounded like it might be the last one that managed to reach his lungs at all.

Aou felt it before he saw it. Santa’s skin had gone pale beneath the grime and dried blood, a sickly, translucent tone that made the faint blue at his lips impossible to ignore. His pulse fluttered under Aou’s fingers, weak and irregular, like it was struggling to remember the pattern it was supposed to keep. Something in Aou’s chest fractured.

“I can stabilize him,” he said, the words tumbling out too fast, tripping over each other. His voice shook with the effort of holding himself together. “I can…I just need…”

“You helped already,” Boom said firmly.

He placed a steady hand on Aou’s shoulder, not restraining, not pulling, just anchoring. A reminder of weight. Of presence. Of reality.

“And you’re exhausted,” Boom added, quieter now, but no less certain.

Aou shook his head violently, curls clinging damply to his forehead. “I can’t stop.”

The thought of stopping felt like letting Santa fall. Like stepping back and watching him disappear. He didn’t heal the way Boom had once taught him to, not now. There was no careful assessment, no gentle encouragement of the body’s own processes. No restraint. What he did instead was raw and instinctive, driven by panic and love and terror tangled so tightly he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Aou reached inside Santa’s body and forced it to remember itself. He felt blood vessels that had torn under impact and pressure, felt them gape and bleed where they shouldn’t. He pushed back against it, not delicately, but with brute insistence, forcing walls to seal, commanding tissue to hold together when it wanted to give way. He reinforced damaged structures blindly, shoring them up like a collapsing building in a storm.

It worked. It always did. And it tore something out of him every single time. The effort burned through him like acid. His muscles locked, then trembled. Nausea rolled up hard and fast, and he swallowed it down without thinking, too focused to care. His vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting dangerously as if he might black out right there on top of Santa.

Santa’s breathing steadied, barely. Just enough. The frantic, shallow gasps slowed into something marginally more regular, though still fragile, like glass stretched too thin.

Alive.

Aou slumped forward the moment it happened, forehead pressing weakly against Santa’s shoulder. His hands shook violently now, fingers curling and uncurling without his permission. He was burning from the inside out, nerves screaming, every cell in his body protesting the strain. He couldn’t pull away. Letting go felt unthinkable.

Boom crouched beside them fully now, knees sinking into the dust and debris without concern. He watched Santa’s chest rise and fall, counted breaths under his own breath, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion dragging at him.

“You did enough,” he said quietly. Aou didn’t respond.

“You did more than enough,” Boom repeated, firmer this time, his voice low and steady in a way that cut through the chaos inside Aou’s head.

Slowly, carefully, Boom guided Aou’s hands away, not from Santa entirely, but enough that Aou wasn’t pouring himself into him anymore. Enough to keep both of them from breaking at once.

Outside the vehicle, the world waited. It did not rush them. It did not offer mercy. It simply existed, ruined buildings standing half-collapsed against the pale approach of dawn, dust settling back to the ground in soft, indifferent layers.

Perth stayed close.

He hadn’t moved far from Santa since the engine cut, and now he knelt on the other side of him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. He watched Santa’s breathing with an intensity that surprised even him, counting the rise and fall the way Boom did, eyes flicking to Aou’s hands whenever Santa twitched.

“Hey,” Perth murmured softly, pitching his voice low and even. Not loud enough to startle. Not quiet enough to disappear. “You’re okay. You’re here. You hear me?”

He didn’t know if Santa could. But he talked anyway. Grounding, Boom would have called it. Perth didn’t have a name for it. He just knew that silence made things worse, that Santa seemed to drift when left alone with his own thoughts. Perth adjusted slightly, careful not to jar him, and rested a hand against Santa’s forearm, warm, solid, human. He kept his touch light, present without pressure.

“You’re safe,” he continued, even though he wasn’t sure that was true. “We’re not moving. Nobody’s chasing us right now. Just breathe, yeah? Like that. Slow.”

Santa’s lashes fluttered. His brow creased faintly, like the effort of staying conscious hurt. Perth’s throat tightened. He had seen wounds before. Bad ones. He had watched people bleed out in alleys, watched hunger hollow people from the inside, watched desperation rot them until there was nothing left but teeth and violence.

This was different. This wasn’t a clean injury with clear edges. This was someone slipping away in inches, quietly, without drama or noise. Someone who might simply stop.

The realization hit him hard enough to make him dizzy. Santa could die here. Not someday. Not hypothetically. Here. In this broken place, with the sun just beginning to rise and no one else around to witness it.

And if he did. If Santa died here. He wouldn’t ever forgive himself for not being able to protect him. The thought lodged in his chest, sharp and unforgiving. For the first time since they’d fled the underground, Perth felt truly, profoundly helpless. There was nothing he could trade. No route to calculate. No person to bluff or bribe. No clever angle to take.

All he could do was stay. And he did. He stayed close, watching every breath, every twitch, every tiny sign that Santa was still holding on. He kept talking softly, anchoring Santa with sound and touch and presence, even as fear curled tighter and tighter in his gut.

This wasn’t a strategy. This wasn’t survival instinct. This was care. And once he recognized it, there was no denying it anymore.

The abandoned building sat on the edge of the village, as if it had given up waiting to be repaired. One wall had collapsed inward long ago, bricks and beams forming a jagged slope instead of a doorway. Windows were either broken or boarded with warped planks that let thin blades of light through. The roof sagged, but it was still there. That was enough. It accepted them without protest. That was the most unsettling part. The building didn’t groan when they pushed past the collapsed wall. Didn’t shift under their weight. The dust that drifted down from the ceiling moved lazily, as if even gravity was tired. Whatever had happened here, collapse, abandonment, forgetting, it had finished a long time ago.

They stepped into the aftermath of something else’s ending.

Dunk checked it first, habit and training overriding exhaustion. He moved through the space with his rifle lowered but ready, boots careful on loose debris, eyes tracking corners, ceiling lines, blind spots. Nothing moved except dust. No fresh tracks. No signs of recent use.

“Clear,” he said quietly. “We’re alone.” 

Alone. The word settled over them like dust. 

They settled Santa first. Boom directed it without raising his voice, the way he always did when things were on the brink. Santa was eased down against an intact section of wall, propped carefully so his spine stayed aligned, so his breathing wasn’t restricted. Perth stayed close, crouched at his side, one hand hovering like he was afraid to touch too hard, afraid not to touch at all. His entire focus narrowed to the shallow rise and fall of Santa’s chest. He counted breaths without realising he was doing it. One. Two. Three. Too fast. Too shallow.

Aou sat down heavily beside Santa the moment he was stable enough not to need constant intervention. His whole body felt wrong, overextended, hollowed out, trembling beneath his skin. Boom clocked it instantly, but didn’t say anything yet. There would be time for that. Right now, the priority was making sure nobody else followed Santa to the edge. 

Santa’s skin was cold under the grime. Aou pressed his forehead briefly to Santa’s shoulder, grounding himself in the fact that Santa was still here. Still breathing. Still tethered.

Boom watched all of it, the way he always did, not intrusively, but with an awareness that missed nothing. He waited until Santa was settled, until Perth’s breathing matched Santa’s, until Aou wasn’t actively shaking anymore.

“Okay,” Boom said finally, exhaling through his nose. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

He didn’t say who’s hurt. He didn’t say how bad. He didn’t say who might not make it.

Boom had just finished checking Santa’s again when he looked up and caught sight of dark red soaking into the side of Phuwin’s shirt.

“Phuwin,” Boom said sharply. “When did that happen?”

Phuwin blinked. Looked down as if the information had to travel a long way before it reached him. “I…” He paused. “I don’t know.”

Boom crossed the room in two strides and pulled the fabric aside. Shrapnel had grazed him along the upper arm, shallow but ugly, bleeding slowly, insistently. Adrenaline had done its job too well. The edges were jagged, not clean. Blood had soaked through the fabric. 

“You didn’t feel this?” Boom asked.

Phuwin shook his head once, a little embarrassed. “I guess I was busy not dying.”

Boom huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if the situation were different. He cleaned the wound with what little water they could spare, movements careful but efficient.

“You’re going to lose range of motion if this gets infected,” Boom said bluntly. “Next time,” he muttered, “you tell me when you’re bleeding.”

“I didn’t know,” Phuwin said softly.

Joong caught Boom’s attention next.  He didn’t complain. Didn’t even sit until Boom told him to. When he finally did, it was with the careful stiffness of someone whose body had decided to collect pain like a debt. He sat carefully, posture controlled, pain held tight behind discipline. Boom’s fingers pressed lightly along his ribs. Joong sucked in a breath despite himself, then forced it out slowly, jaw tightening.

“Fractured ribs,” Boom said. “At least one.”

Joong nodded once, jaw tight. “I can still move.”

“I know,” Boom said. “That’s not the same thing as being okay.”

Joong didn’t argue. He just stared past Boom at the cracked wall, breathing shallowly, like he was afraid a deeper breath might break something else. He leaned back against the wall afterwards, eyes closing briefly. Not sleeping. Just, bracing.

Pond sat apart from the group. He sat with his back against a pillar, knees drawn up, fingers digging into his sleeves like he needed the pressure to remind himself where his body ended. His eyes tracked everything, dust motes, shifting shadows, the way the light changed minute by minute. There was nothing visibly wrong with him, and that made Boom more cautious, not less. Boom crouched in front of him.

“Pond,” he said softly.

It took a moment, but Pond looked up.

“How loud is it?” Boom asked.

“Too loud…,” Pond mumbled. “But too silent…”

Boom nodded, with a nod people did, when they tried to understand but couldn’t fully grasp a situation. He didn’t touch Pond, didn’t push. Just stayed there until Pond’s breathing slowed enough to be intentional again.

Aou watched all of this in silence. When he finally spoke, his voice surprised even himself.

“I’ll heal them,” he said. Boom turned.

“All of them,” Aou repeated, quieter but firmer. “When they’re stable. I can do it.”

Boom opened his mouth to respond, and Aou interrupted him, gently but unmistakably.

“But you sit down first.”

Boom frowned. “I’m fine.” Boom reached up absently and pulled his hand away, slick with red. The cut on his forehead had reopened somewhere along the way.

Aou lifted his gaze. “You’re bleeding.” Aou shifted closer, exhaustion and determination warring in his posture. “Let me,” he said again, quieter this time. Not urgent. Not pleading. Just honest.

Boom opened his mouth out of habit. I’m fine. It can wait. 

Nothing came out. The cut on his forehead throbbed in time with his pulse, warm and sticky, a reminder he’d been ignoring for too long. He had patched himself up hundreds of times before. Had stitched his own skin with shaking hands and clinical detachment. Had never once considered letting someone else inside his body like this.

Not really. Aou was watching him, not with fear, not with desperation, but with care. Pure, unguarded care.

“You keep telling me not to burn myself out. So let me look after you first.” His hands hovered near Boom’s shoulders, still not touching. “So let me do this. Please.”

Boom exhaled. Then he sat. The motion was small. Ordinary. And somehow it felt like surrender. Aou’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. Boom tilted his head slightly, exposing the wound, trusting Aou to see it, not as something dangerous, not as something that would turn him into a weapon, but as something hurt.

“Slow,” Boom murmured, reflexively. Then he stopped himself. Swallowed. “No. You decide.”

Aou nodded once. He rested his hand against Boom’s shoulder first, grounding himself in the familiar weight of him. The steady presence. The man who had been his anchor since the beginning. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t pull away.

When he reached for the wound, he didn’t force anything. He listened. He felt the torn skin, the ruptured vessels, the inflammation blooming beneath the surface. He felt Boom’s body resisting out of instinct, trained to endure, trained to function through damage. Aou didn’t override it.

He whispered, barely audible, “It’s okay.”

And something in Boom loosened. The healing wasn’t dramatic. There was no rush of power, no visible glow. Just a quiet, almost reverent reconstruction, cells knitting together as if remembering an older, gentler version of themselves. Blood slowed. Pain dulled. The sharp edge of injury softened into warmth. Boom closed his eyes. Not because he was bracing. Because he felt safe enough not to.

Aou worked carefully, meticulously, every motion guided by restraint rather than force. When the wound sealed completely, he lingered just a moment longer, hand still warm against Boom’s skin. Then he pulled back. It cost him. The room tilted slightly. His knees went weak, and he caught himself against the table with a sharp breath. Boom’s eyes snapped open instantly.

“Hey…”

“I’m okay,” Aou said quickly, though his voice shook. “I didn’t…I didn’t push too hard.”

Boom stood, steadying him without thinking, hands firm but gentle at his waist.

“I know,” Boom said.

Their foreheads brushed briefly, not a kiss, not even intentional. Just closeness. Shared breath. Shared exhaustion.

“Thank you,” Boom added quietly. Not as a doctor. Not as a command. As something else entirely.

Aou nodded, eyes bright, chest tight with something that felt like relief and fear and devotion all at once. 

Only after Boom turned to the supplies. There weren’t many. A handful of bandages, mismatched sizes and questionable cleanliness. Painkillers, some expired, some not. Two bottles of water. A few protein bars, one packet of crackers. One flashlight with a flickering beam. A blanket that smelled faintly of oil and mildew. Boom laid everything out on a cracked tabletop like he was cataloguing a crime scene.

“Food gets rationed,” he said. “One bar each. Crackers later.”

“What about water?” Phuwin asked.

Boom capped the bottle carefully. “Measured. Small sips.”

No one argued. There was no plan yet. No safety. No certainty. Just one shared understanding, heavy and unspoken. Survive this moment.

So they sat together in the ruins of a forgotten place, dawn bleeding slowly through broken windows, bodies aching, minds frayed, but still breathing.

Still here. And for now, that was enough.

Santa’s breathing changed first. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no sharp drop, no sudden gasp. Just a subtle thinning, like the air had decided it no longer wanted to reach all the way down into his lungs. His chest rose, but not fully. Fell, but too fast. A shallow, uneven rhythm that made Aou’s skin crawl the second he felt it.

“No,” Aou whispered.

He leaned closer automatically, hands hovering over Santa’s torso, not touching yet, as if the space between them might already be dangerous. Santa’s skin was clammy beneath the grime. Too cool. His pulse fluttered under Aou’s fingers when he checked, still there, but weak, like it was trying to hide.

“I can fix this,” Aou said, voice pitching higher with every word. “I can. I just…”

His hands finally pressed down, and immediately the familiar horror rushed up to meet him. He felt it. The instability. Organs under stress. Systems barely compensating. It wasn’t catastrophic, not yet, but it was wrong. Wrong in a way Aou recognized too well. The kind of wrong that slipped through fingers if you hesitated even a second too long. Aou’s breath hitched.

“I can’t help him,” he said, suddenly frantic, words tumbling out without shape. “I can’t…I don’t know how to do this without breaking something else. I keep…every time I touch him I make it worse, I…” His hands began to shake violently. He pulled them back like he’d been burned. “He’s dying,” Aou choked. “I’m useless. I’m going to kill him.”

Boom was already there. He moved fast but not loudly, kneeling beside Aou with practiced economy, one hand steadying Aou’s wrist before it could curl into a fist. His grip was firm, not restraining, anchoring.

“Aou,” Boom said, voice low and controlled. “Look at me.” Aou didn’t. His gaze was locked on Santa’s face, on the faint tremor at the corner of his mouth, the way his lashes fluttered without fully opening his eyes.

“I can feel him slipping,” Aou whispered. “I can feel it. And I don’t know how to stop it without tearing him apart.” Boom shifted closer, blocking Santa from Aou’s line of sight just enough to force his attention.

“You are not useless,” Boom said, each word deliberate. “And Santa is not dying right now.”

Aou shook his head violently. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Boom replied. “Because I’m watching his vitals. And because you stabilized him already. Twice. What’s happening now is delayed shock and systemic stress, not failure.”

Aou laughed, short and broken. “That’s just words.”

“No,” Boom said. “It’s a promise.” Boom’s hand stayed on Aou’s wrist, grounding him, preventing him from diving back in blindly. “Listen to me,” Boom continued. “If you touch him like this, panicked, unfocused, you will hurt him. Not because you’re weak. Because you care too much to be precise right now.”

That landed harder than any accusation could have. Aou’s shoulders caved inward.

“I don’t know how to not care,” he whispered.

Boom softened then, just slightly. “I know. That’s why you stop. Not forever. Just until you can breathe again.”

Aou pressed his forehead into his own hands, shaking. “I promised myself I’d never let anyone die.”

Across from them, Perth hadn’t moved. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, Santa’s hand clasped tightly between both of his. Not gripping. Holding. Like if he loosened his fingers even a fraction, Santa might slip somewhere Perth couldn’t follow.

“Hey,” Perth murmured softly, leaning closer so Santa could hear him even if he couldn’t respond. “Stay with me, yeah? You don’t get to leave before we’ve even…” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. “You don’t get to leave,” Perth said, quieter now. “Not yet.”

Santa’s fingers twitched faintly in his grasp. Perth noticed everything.

The change in Santa’s breath. The slight drop in warmth. The way his body felt heavier, less responsive. And Perth felt something he couldn’t talk his way out of. Helplessness. He’d survived hunger. Violence. Betrayal. He’d watched people bleed out in alleyways and learned to keep moving. But this was different. This wasn’t a stranger. This wasn’t a calculated risk. This was someone he’d barely begun to know, and already couldn’t imagine losing.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Perth whispered, forehead dipping until it brushed Santa’s knuckles. “Not before our story even starts.”

The words surprised him with their honesty. He hadn’t planned them. Hadn’t weighed them. They came from somewhere raw and unguarded, and once spoken, they couldn’t be taken back. Boom glanced over briefly, took in the scene, Perth’s rigid posture, the white-knuckled grip, the fear written plain across his face. This is real, Boom thought. Too real. Too fast.

“Aou,” Boom said again, gently but firmly. “You need to step back. Let me monitor him for a minute.”

Aou hesitated, every instinct screaming to ignore him, to dive back into Santa’s failing body and force it into obedience. His power throbbed under his skin, hungry and terrified. But Boom was right. And that terrified him even more. Slowly, shaking, Aou pulled his hands away. The second he did, he sagged forward, catching himself on his knees. His breath came in harsh gasps now, body trembling with the aftershock of restraint.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate feeling this powerless.”

Boom rested a hand on his shoulder. “Power doesn’t mean control,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it means knowing when not to act.”

Aou didn’t answer.

Across the room, Perth squeezed Santa’s hand again, grounding both of them as best he could. Santa’s breathing wavered, then steadied, just a fraction.

Pond hovered at the edge of the room for a long moment before moving.

He hadn’t realized he’d been standing still until his legs started to ache, until the noise inside his head softened enough for him to notice his own body again. Everything since the escape had come in waves, sound, motion, heat, fear, layered so thick it felt like he was still half-dissolved into static.

Phuwin sat against the wall a few steps away, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out awkwardly. A strip of fabric was wrapped tight around his forearm where Boom had cleaned and dressed the wound earlier. It wasn’t bleeding anymore. It wasn’t severe.

But Pond’s eyes kept going back to it anyway.

He crossed the space between them slowly, as if afraid the floor might shift under his feet. When he knelt in front of Phuwin, he didn’t touch him right away. He just looked. Took him in. The way his shoulders were slumped with exhaustion, the faint shadow under his eyes, the familiar line of concentration still etched between his brows even now.

“Does it hurt?” Pond asked quietly.

Phuwin blinked, like he’d been pulled out of his own thoughts. Then he smiled, small, tired, but real.

“A little,” he admitted. “Mostly it just aches. Adrenaline’s probably still doing most of the work.”

Pond nodded. That made sense. Everything made sense when Phuwin explained it.

He hesitated, then reached out, fingers brushing carefully against Phuwin’s uninjured hand. Just the tips at first. Testing. Phuwin’s hand turned instinctively, palm opening, welcoming the contact without question.

Pond let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Are you… overwhelmed?” Phuwin asked gently. “You’ve been really quiet.”

Pond considered the question seriously. He always did.

“Yes,” he said. “But not in the bad way. Just… full.”

Phuwin huffed a soft laugh. “That sounds about right.”

Pond shifted closer, their knees nearly touching now. The closeness helped. Phuwin’s presence was solid, familiar in a way Pond still struggled to put into words. He wasn’t a system. He didn’t hum or flicker. But being near him steadied something all the same.

Phuwin noticed the tension in Pond’s shoulders and adjusted without thinking, leaning just enough to give Pond something to anchor against. Pond took the invitation immediately, resting his forehead briefly against Phuwin’s shoulder before settling his weight there.

Phuwin’s arm came up around him, slow and careful, mindful of his injury. His chin rested lightly against Pond’s hair. They stayed like that for a while.

No talking. No fixing. Just breathing.

“I thought…” Phuwin murmured after a bit, voice low. “For a second back there, I thought I’d lost you.”

Pond stiffened, then shook his head. “I was close. When everything went loud again. I almost...”

“I know,” Phuwin said. “I felt it.”

Pond’s fingers curled into the fabric of Phuwin’s shirt. “You stopped me.”

“I didn’t stop you,” Phuwin corrected softly. “I reminded you, you weren’t alone.” That made something warm bloom in Pond’s chest. Unfamiliar. Pleasant. Dangerous in the best way.

“I don’t feel… broken anymore,” Pond said slowly. “Disconnected, yes. But not empty.”

Phuwin smiled into his hair. “Good.” Pond tilted his head, studying Phuwin’s face from where he leaned against him. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The way exhaustion softened his features instead of sharpening them.

“In the system,” Pond said thoughtfully, “I watched movies sometimes. Old ones. They were archived incorrectly, but I liked them.”

Phuwin chuckled. “Of course you did.”

“In them,” Pond continued, serious as ever, “people touched like this when they cared. Sometimes they kissed. Not always on the mouth. Sometimes here.”

Before Phuwin could ask what he meant, Pond leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. It was soft. Careful. Almost reverent.

Then Pond pulled back just enough to look at him. “It seems efficient. And warm.”

Phuwin stared at him. Then he laughed, not loud, not sharp. Just a breathy, disbelieving sound, like his heart had forgotten how to behave.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, smiling so wide it almost hurt. “Do you know that?”

Pond tilted his head. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Phuwin said immediately. He lifted his free hand and brushed his thumb lightly over Pond’s knuckles. “It’s… perfect.”

Pond’s lips curved into a small, pleased smile at that. He leaned back into Phuwin’s shoulder, content. They were alive. Neither of them was seriously hurt. They were still here. And for now, that was enough.

They did not touch as they sat next to each other.

In front of them, the village's ruined edge sloped away, with collapsed walls and shattered roofs catching the first faint rays of dawn. It was real, even though the light was weak due to smoke and dust floating in the distance. Whether the world deserved it or not, good morning.

With his rifle spread out between his boots on the concrete, Dunk rested his forearms on his knees. He was not keeping an eye out for any movement. Not at all. His shoulders were prepared, his posture was alert, and his spine was straight thanks to his old habits, but his thoughts were now focused on an unavoidable truth.

There would be no way out.

In any case, it wasn't the kind that people preferred to imagine. There was no clear boundary where the danger ended. There wasn't a single location where the government would shrug and conclude that their efforts were sufficient. Dunk had served long enough to comprehend the operation of such systems. You didn't give up on assets. You refused to acknowledge your failure. Proof didn't get away with it.

They would be pursued at all times. Panic did not accompany the realization. Slowly, like a weight carefully placed on his chest, it settled, heavy and inevitable. He let it sit after exhaling through it. If fear didn't become purposeful, it was worthless.

It was okay if this is how he would spend the rest of his life.

Without turning his head, he cast a sidelong glance.

Joong sat close enough that Dunk could feel the warmth of him through their clothes, even without contact. His posture was different from earlier, less guarded, less tight, as if the night had taken something out of him and left a quieter version behind. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, dark eyes reflecting the pale wash of dawn.

Joong didn’t look like a weapon right now. He looked young.

That thought caught Dunk off guard. He’d seen Joong hold barriers under gunfire, watched him step into danger without hesitation, seen the cost it took out of him afterward. It was easy to forget that beneath the control and the power and the restraint was someone who had been shaped by loss long before they’d ever met.

Someone who had survived in ways that didn’t show. Dunk swallowed.

Somewhere behind them, the others were breathing, shifting, holding on. Boom with his quiet vigilance. Phuwin pretending he wasn’t tired beyond reason. Pond learning what it meant to exist without constant input. Aou burning himself hollow trying to save someone he loved. Perth pacing holes into the ground because stillness scared him when it mattered most. Santa fragile and stubborn and alive despite everything.

My boys, Dunk thought, and the phrase landed with a weight that surprised him.

He hadn’t chosen this role. It had grown around him without permission, solidified somewhere between gunfire and blood and the realization that no one else would put themselves between these people and the world if he didn’t.

Family, then. Not the clean kind. The kind forged under pressure and sealed with shared terror.

Dunk’s jaw tightened. He could live with that. He could live for that.

Beside him, Joong shifted slightly, their shoulders brushing just barely, a contact so light it could have been accidental. Dunk didn’t move away. Neither did Joong. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was full. Heavy with everything they didn’t know how to say yet. Dunk thought of leaving. Not now, not really, but the impulse he’d felt earlier, the instinct to go ahead alone, to scout, to draw danger away from the others. It had been automatic. Soldier logic. Sacrifice the piece that could be replaced.

The thought felt wrong now. He turned his head this time, properly, and looked at Joong.

Joong didn’t meet his gaze right away. When he did, there was no question there. No challenge. Just presence. Just here. Dunk felt something settle in his chest, firm aand unyielding. He didn’t want to be separated from him. From any of them. Not by orders. Not by fear. Not by some misplaced idea of heroism that left the rest broken behind him.

If the world insisted on coming for them, then it would have to come through him first. Through his aim. Through his resolve. Through every ugly, necessary thing he knew how to do. He looked back toward the horizon as the sun crept higher, light catching on shattered glass and rusted metal, turning wreckage into something almost beautiful.

“We’re still here,” Dunk thought. And for now, that was enough.

They sat in silence as morning arrived, two figures against the ruin, steady and unbroken, not safe, not free, but together.

Chapter Text

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The day had already begun without asking them. Morning light crept in sideways through the broken windows of the abandoned building, thin and pale, turning dust into something almost gentle. It caught on the cracked concrete floor, on the warped wooden beams overhead, on the edges of the one blanket they owned, the one laid over Santa’s body like a promise that might still be kept.

Perth stood just inside the doorway, not blocking it, not guarding it either. Just there. Present. His jacket hung open, collar loose, boots planted in a way that suggested ease even though there was none. The ruined village outside was quiet in the way places only became after something terrible had already passed through and decided it wasn’t worth staying.

Inside, the group had arranged itself without discussion. No commands. No planning. They had simply settled. Like animals after a storm, each finding the place that hurt least.

Santa lay on the ground near the far wall, half-curled on his side, the blanket pulled up to his chest. His breathing was shallow but steady enough to count. Perth counted anyway. Once. Twice. Again, when he thought no one was looking.

Aou sat close, too close for comfort, too close for rest, knees drawn up, forearms resting against them, head bowed. His hands were still stained faintly red despite how many times he’d wiped them on his clothes. He hadn’t spoken in a while. That worried Perth more than the shaking had earlier. Boom hovered nearby, not hovering like someone helpless, but like someone holding himself together through habit. His posture said I am fine, while the cut on his forehead said otherwise. 

Phuwin and Pond had claimed a corner together, backs against the wall, knees touching. They spoke quietly, heads inclined toward each other in a way that shut the rest of the world out without meaning to. Phuwin’s arm was bandaged. Neatly. That alone told Perth who had done it.

Joong sat a little apart, close enough to be part of the group, far enough to breathe. His ribs were taped beneath his shirt. He leaned back against a pillar, eyes on the open doorway, tracking light and shadow like he was memorizing them.

And Dunk stood near Perth, just inside the building’s edge, weight balanced, gaze scanning the outside ruins with the kind of attention that never turned off. He wasn’t tense. That was worse. Tension implied release. Dunk looked like someone who had accepted this as the new baseline.

Perth let his eyes move between them, slow and careful. He didn’t think about what he was doing. He just noticed. Santa was the center. Not physically, emotionally. Everyone’s position bent subtly around him, like gravity. Aou leaned inward. Boom’s attention snapped back to Santa every few seconds, no matter what he was doing. Phuwin lowered his voice whenever Santa stirred. Even Dunk’s scanning pattern curved back inside more often than it needed to.

Perth swallowed. He’d housed them for months. He knew their rhythms. Their tells. He knew who paced when anxious, who went silent, who joked when afraid. But this, this was different. This wasn’t routine.

This was the aftermath.

Boom moved like a medic even without tools. No bag. No equipment. Just hands, eyes, and assessment. He noticed when Santa’s breathing changed by a fraction. When Aou’s shoulders tightened too far. When Phuwin’s voice pitched slightly off-center, signaling pain he wasn’t naming. Dunk never fully relaxed. Not even now. Even with daylight coming in clean through the windows. His body was here, but part of him was still braced for impact, still counting exits, still imagining angles.

Pond flinched at the sudden sound, a bird startled from the roof, debris shifting outside, then stilled himself deliberately, jaw tightening as if he were learning how to exist without a constant stream of input telling him what came next.

Perth exhaled slowly. He didn’t analyze it. Didn’t label it. Didn’t try to turn it into something clever or useful. He just knew.

These people were alive right now because they moved as one. Because they watched each other without being asked. Because they compensated without resentment. Because when one faltered, another stepped in without question.

And they wouldn’t survive alone. That truth settled in his chest with uncomfortable weight.

Perth glanced back at Santa.

The boy,  no, not a boy, he corrected himself automatically,  the young man looked smaller without the chaos around him. Without the movement. Without the noise. His face was pale, lashes dark against his cheeks, lips parted just enough to draw breath. One hand lay exposed outside the blanket, fingers curled loosely, as if still holding onto something invisible.

Perth took a step closer before he realized he’d moved. He stopped himself halfway. Not because he wasn’t allowed. Not because anyone had told him not to. But because he didn’t know yet what kind of presence Santa needed. Noise or quiet. Touch or distance. Words or none at all.

So he did the one thing he knew wouldn’t hurt. He stayed. Just within sight. Just close enough that if Santa woke and opened his eyes, he wouldn’t be alone.

Outside, the ruined village sat unchanged. Cracked walls. Empty windows. A road that went nowhere in particular. Inside, something fragile was holding.

And Perth understood, with a clarity that had nothing to do with powers or insight or talent, that his role here wasn’t to lead, or fix, or decide. It was to see.

To notice when the balance shifted. To recognize when silence meant danger. To be there when no one else could afford to look away.

Morning stretched on, quiet and merciless. Santa breathed. And for now, that was enough. 

Time did not move forward so much as it thinned. Morning crept in by degrees, light stretching longer fingers across the floor, warming the concrete in small, uneven patches. The building settled around them with the slow groan of old materials remembering gravity. Somewhere outside, metal clinked once in the breeze. Nothing followed it.

Perth noticed how everyone reacted to the sound anyway.

Dunk’s head lifted a fraction, eyes narrowing toward the doorway. Joong’s fingers flexed once, then stilled. Pond’s shoulders jumped before he consciously smoothed them down. Phuwin glanced toward Santa without even turning his head. No one spoke.

Perth let his gaze linger on Dunk this time. Not because Dunk demanded attention, he never did, but because Perth had learned that people like him carried entire histories in the way they stood. Dunk wasn’t just watching the ruins. He was mapping them. Distances. Angles. Cover that didn’t exist anymore, but might if things went wrong.

And they would go wrong. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. Perth knew that too.

He shifted his weight, boots scraping softly against grit. Dunk noticed immediately. Didn’t turn. Just acknowledged the sound by adjusting his stance, making space without looking. That told Perth more than words ever could.

Inside the building, Aou finally moved.

Not away from Santa, never away, but closer, lowering himself until he was sitting fully on the ground, back against the wall. He dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on his cheek, as if grounding himself through sensation. His breathing was uneven, too fast for someone supposedly resting. Boom noticed. Of course he did.

“You need water,” Boom said quietly, already reaching for the bottle without waiting for an answer.

Aou shook his head once. Sharp. Almost angry. “He needs it.”

Boom didn’t argue. He simply took a smaller sip himself and handed the rest over. The exchange was seamless, practiced. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with trust.

Perth watched Aou drink, watched the tension in his shoulders ease by a fraction, watched the way his eyes never left Santa even while swallowing. Guilt sat on Aou like a second spine. Perth knew the shape of it. He’d seen it in people who survived things they thought they shouldn’t have. People who’d done exactly what was required and still hated themselves for it.

Boom crouched beside him again, speaking low enough that only Aou could hear. Perth didn’t catch the words and didn’t need to. Aou’s breathing slowed in response. His hands unclenched. He nodded once. Boom stayed until he was sure.

Then, only then, he allowed himself to lean back against the wall, eyes closing for the briefest second. Exhaustion carved deep lines around his mouth, under his eyes. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but the skin around it was inflamed, angry.

Perth felt a flicker of something sharp in his chest. Boom hadn’t stopped. Not once. Not when Santa collapsed. Not when Aou spiraled. Not when his own body clearly demanded rest. He moved like someone who believed stopping was not an option. 

Across the room, Pond shifted closer to Phuwin. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a slow lean, shoulder to shoulder, knees touching fully now. Phuwin adjusted instinctively, angling his body so Pond could rest more comfortably. He murmured something under his breath, Perth couldn’t hear it, and Pond nodded, gaze fixed somewhere unfocused, like he was learning to exist in a quieter world than the one he’d known.

Phuwin rested his head briefly against Pond’s, eyes closing. The relief between them was almost visible. Not joy. Not peace. Just the simple, profound fact of being alive. Perth swallowed.

He hadn’t known them long in the grand scheme of things, months, yes, but months built under pressure, under hiding, under shared danger. He’d never seen them like this before. Unmasked. Not pretending stability. Not braced for immediate movement.

This was what they looked like when they let themselves feel what they’d survived.

Joong stood and moved quietly to the doorway, stopping beside Dunk. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Joong’s presence altered Dunk’s stance almost imperceptibly, shoulders loosening, weight shifting slightly off his dominant leg.

Perth clocked it instantly. Not dependency. Choice.

Joong stared out at the ruins, jaw set, eyes distant. He looked calmer than he had hours ago, even with the pain he carried. Not because things were better, but because they were clear. There was no immediate decision required. No barrier to hold. No fire to answer.

Just the horizon. Dunk followed his gaze. For a long moment, the building held them all in shared stillness.

Perth realized something then, quietly, without fanfare. He had always been good at reading people. He’d thought it was experience. Growing up fast. Living among liars and survivors. Learning when to joke, when to threaten, when to walk away. But this wasn’t deduction. This was pattern recognition at a depth he’d never examined before. He wasn’t predicting them. He was tracking them. Their movements, their alignments, the way stress redistributed itself through the group like pressure in a sealed system. This was fragile, and fragility demanded attention.

Perth leaned back against the wall, arms crossing loosely over his chest. From here, he could see all of them at once. Santa breathing. Aou watching. Boom anchoring. Phuwin grounding Pond. Joong and Dunk holding the threshold.

A configuration. Not permanent. Not safe. But alive.

Outside, the sun cleared the horizon fully, spilling light across the ruins, washing the village in soft gold that made broken things look almost intentional. The truck sat in shadow nearby, silent and waiting. They weren’t followed, not for now. And that, more than anything, unsettled Perth.

Because he knew, in the same way he knew when someone was lying to his face, that this wasn’t over. It was only paused. And pauses were dangerous.

Perth exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving the room. Not heroism. Not destiny. Not choice. Just awareness sharpening into something that would matter later. For now, he stayed where he was. Watching. Holding the quiet together.

The light finished arriving. It didn’t burst in or announce itself. It simply settled, like it had decided this was as far as it would go for now. Pale gold filtered through the broken windows, catching on dust motes that drifted lazily in the air. The ruined village outside looked almost peaceful in the early morning, cracked stone softened by sunlight, collapsed roofs casting long, forgiving shadows.

Perth hated how gentle it looked. Gentle was a lie.

He shifted his stance again, careful not to make noise. The building was old enough that sound traveled strangely here, a scuff could echo like a shout, while a shout might die in the rafters. He’d already mapped which floorboards complained and which ones stayed quiet.

Habit. Survival. Muscle memory. Inside, Santa stirred.

It was subtle. Just a change in breathing at first, a hitch, a shallow intake that caught halfway, then resumed with effort. Perth noticed immediately. He always did now. His body moved before his thoughts caught up, dropping him to one knee beside Santa without a word. Santa’s eyes fluttered beneath closed lids. His brow furrowed faintly, as if he were fighting his way back from somewhere unpleasant.

“It’s okay,” Perth murmured, voice low and steady. “You’re here. Still here.”

He didn’t know if Santa could hear him. He didn’t know if the words mattered. He said them anyway. Aou’s head snapped up instantly, guilt flaring across his face like a physical thing. He leaned forward, hands hovering uncertainly over Santa’s chest, terrified of touching, terrified of not touching.

“I can…” he started.

Boom was there in a second, calm but firm. “No. Not unless he crashes. You need to stay present.”

Aou swallowed hard, nodding once. His hands clenched into fists against his knees, nails biting into skin. Perth stayed where he was, one hand wrapped gently around Santa’s, thumb brushing slow, repetitive arcs against his knuckles. Grounding. Rhythm. Something real to hold onto.

Santa’s breathing evened out again. Perth exhaled only after it did.

Across the room, Pond watched the exchange with wide, quiet eyes. There was something raw in his expression, not fear exactly, but recognition. He shifted closer to Phuwin again, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. Phuwin noticed. Of course he did.

“You’re okay,” Phuwin whispered, not loud enough for anyone else to hear. “Nothing’s happening right now.”

Pond nodded, though his gaze didn’t leave Santa. “I know,” he said softly. “I just… like knowing where everyone is.”

Phuwin smiled faintly at that, resting his chin briefly against Pond’s hair. “Me too.”

Joong turned away from the doorway and slid down the wall to sit beside Dunk. They didn’t touch. They didn’t need to. Dunk’s presence alone seemed to anchor Joong, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction. Dunk watched the village beyond the doorway, eyes sharp despite the quiet. He’d stopped expecting danger to announce itself long ago. The absence of threat meant nothing.

Still, even he allowed himself to breathe a little deeper now. Perth took it all in. He didn’t analyze it. Didn’t break it down into neat conclusions.

But something in him catalogued it anyway, the way Santa was always at the center without meaning to be, how the others oriented around him instinctively. How Boom moved like a fixed point in chaos. How Dunk never truly relaxed, even now. How Joong stayed close to thresholds. How Pond mirrored the emotional temperature of the room like a living sensor. How Phuwin quietly bridged gaps without ever demanding space.

Perth had spent his life reading people to stay alive. This was different. This was reading a system. And systems, once seen, couldn’t be unseen. He leaned his shoulder against the wall again, arms folded loosely. From here, he could see all of them. Every line of connection. Every fragile thread holding them together.

They won’t survive alone, the thought surfaced again, not dramatic, not panicked. Just true. And he already knew what followed that truth. Outside, the sun climbed higher, warming the stone, chasing the last of the night’s chill from the air. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once, sharp and clear.

Life, continuing.

Perth looked down at Santa again. At the steady rise and fall of his chest. At the clover necklace resting against his collarbone, the small metal charm catching the light.

Luck.

Perth didn’t believe in luck. But for Santa, it felt fitting. He believed in patterns, calculations, things he could see, and feel.

The truck waited nearby, silent and unassuming, its presence both promise and threat. Movement would come soon. Decisions. Consequences.

Not yet. For now, there was only the aftermath.

Dawn over broken buildings. People who should be dead, breathing anyway. No safety. No guarantees. And Perth stayed where he was, eyes open, mind alert, holding the quiet together knowing, without quite naming it, that whatever came next would require all of them. Together.

Chapter Text

The building they took shelter in did not feel safe. It was a structure abandoned long enough that the air inside had learned how to sit still. Dust clung to the corners. The windows were cracked, opaque with grime, letting in light but no clarity. Whatever this place had once been, a store, a home, something with a purpose, it had shed that identity. Now it was only the walls that did not collapse when leaned against, a roof that still held on. 

Santa lay on the floor near the back wall, wrapped in the single blanket they shared. It was too thin to be warm, but it created the illusion of it, and that was enough for now. His breathing was shallow and uneven, ribs barely lifting. Every so often, his fingers twitched, as if his body were checking whether it was still allowed to exist.

Aou was kneeling close to him, hands resting uselessly in his lap. He didn’t dare to touch the one lying in front of him, too scared of his own powers. His eyes tracked Santa’s chest obsessively, counting breaths without realizing he was doing it. When one came too slow, his shoulders tightened. When the next followed, he sagged again, like a man being pulled under and allowed back up again on repeat. Boom hovered nearby, exhaustion etched into every line of him. He had finished what triage he could. There was nothing more to do right now, and that seemed to hurt him worse than any wound. He stood with his back to a support pillar, arms crossed, eyes flicking between Santa and Aou, measuring damage that no tools could quantify.

Phuwin and Pond stayed inside the building as well, a little apart from the rest. Pond sat with his back against the wall, knees pulled up, staring at nothing in particular. The quiet pressed against him differently than it did the others, too loud, too empty. Phuwin stayed close without crowding, his presence deliberate and steady, like an anchor dropped without comment.

Perth moved more than anyone else now. He wasn’t pacing, at least that was what he told himself. He shifted, leaned against different surfaces, then crouched near Santa, before pulling back again. His eyes never left Santa for long. Just like Aou, he monitored Santa's breathing and listened to the murmurs escaping the others' dry lips. 

Outside, Dunk and Joong took positions. It made sense to them to be outside, guarding. Dunk stood near the widest opening, where a doorway gaped like a missing tooth. He watched the outside world with the intensity of someone who did not trust stillness. His rifle rested against his shoulder, but his finger stayed clear of the trigger. This place did not need unnecessary sound. His weight was balanced, ready to move in any direction, every sense tuned outward. 

Joong stayed a step behind him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed when Dunk shifted. His awareness filled the space, tracking angles, shadows, and structural weaknesses. The ache in his ribs flared when he breathed too deeply, but he ignored it. Pain was background noise. Vigilance was the point. They did not speak. Not because there wouldn’t be anything to talk about, but because their presence told them everything they needed to know, already. 

Time passed in uneven chunks. Minutes stretched, and then collapsed again. 

Dunk eventually broke the silence, his voice low and flat, aimed at no one in particular.

“He should be dead.” His gaze lingered on Santa, who was curled up under the thin blanket.

Joong answered immediately, without looking at him.

“He isn’t.” His voice was firm. There was no explanation and no argument.  Dunk exhaled through his nose. He adjusted his stance and rolled tension out of one shoulder. 

Inside, Santa shifted weakly. His brow furrowed, lips parting as if he were trying to speak or breathe deeper and failing at both. Aou’s hands clenched into fists. He leaned forward instinctively, then froze, catching himself.

“I can…” he started, voice cracking. Boom cut him off gently but firmly. 

“Not now.”

Aou swallowed hard, and his jaw trembled. His nod was like an agreement to a command rather than advice. He forced himself to sit back on his heels, hands still shaking. Perth noticed, he always did. He dropped into a crouch on Santa’s other side, close enough that his knee touched Aou’s for just a second, a reminder, like grounding. He reached out and took Santa’s hand, careful not to jostle him. Santa’s fingers were cold. Too cold.

“I’m here,” Perth murmured, voice low and steady. “You’re not alone. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

Safe was a lie. But it was a useful one. Santa did not respond, but his breathing hitched, then smoothed just a fraction. Perth stayed there, thumb brushing lightly against Santa’s knuckles, eyes fixed on his face. Something raw flickered across Perth’s expression, fear stripped of humor, of bravado, and calculation. Helplessness sat heavy in his chest again. And a realization hit him once again. He couldn’t imagine a life without Santa anymore. 

Dawn crept closer without asking permission. The sky outside lightened, bleeding pale gray through the broken windows. With it came a strange, hollow quiet. No sirens. No shouting. Just the distant sounds of a world that did not know, or care, what had almost happened here.

Joong lowered himself to sit beside Dunk at last, back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. Dunk glanced sideways but said nothing. Their knees touched. Neither shifted away. They sat like that as the light grew, sharing the simple, unspoken work of staying awake.

The second day arrived without announcement. Light shifted again, brighter this time, slipping through the cracked windows and settling into the dust. The building creaked as it warmed, old bones stretching after a night that had been too long. Somewhere outside, something metallic rattled in the breeze, a loose sheet or sign, keeping time with nothing.

Santa did not wake. That, more than anything, defined the day. He lay where they had left him, wrapped in the blanket like a fragile artifact. His breathing was steadier than it had been the night before, still shallow, still uneven, but consistent enough that Aou stopped counting every inhale. Instead, he listened. The sound anchored him, even as exhaustion weighed heavily behind his eyes.

Boom finally dared to sit down. It happened without ceremony. He simply sank onto a low ledge near the wall, back braced, head dropping forward for a moment before he caught himself. The medic in him had been upright too long, running on discipline and habit. Now that Santa was stable, not safe, his body claimed its due. Phuwin noticed immediately.

“Sleep,” he said quietly, not looking at him.

Boom hesitated. His mind immediately went to concerns and what ifs, then he exhaled and nodded. He slid down fully, shoulders slumping, eyes closing almost the moment his back hit the wall. Sleep took him hard and fast, the kind that comes only after terror releases its grip. Aou watched him go with something like relief. If Boom could sleep, maybe the world was not ending quite yet.

Aou himself did not rest. He stayed close to Santa, hovering without contact, hands clasped tightly together between his knees. Every so often, his fingers twitched, power itching under his skin like a second heartbeat. He did not give in to it. Not today. He had already pushed too far. Instead, he did something small. He found a crack in the concrete near the wall where light pooled faintly, thin and pale. 

Aou knelt there and pressed his palm flat against the ground, breathing slowly, deliberately. Nothing dramatic happened at first.  Then, carefully, a hint of green pushed through, a fragile shoot, barely more than a promise. Aou coaxed it gently, focusing not on growth but on stability. Letting it be. Letting it exist.

He glanced toward Santa as he did, he was growing the plant for him, for him to have something beautiful to look at once he opened his eyes.

Pond noticed. He had been sitting quietly near Phuwin, knees drawn up, head tilted slightly as if listening to something just out of reach. The quiet of this place, this pause, was different from the underground. Less crowded. Less demanding. He watched Aou for a long moment, then leaned subtly toward Phuwin.

“He’s careful today,” Pond murmured.

Phuwin followed his gaze. “He’s scared,” he said, equally soft.

Pond nodded. He understood fear. Not emotionally, not the way Santa did, but structurally. Fear changed behavior. It altered patterns. It made people move closer together. Phuwin shifted closer to Pond without thinking, their shoulders touching. Pond didn’t flinch. He adjusted instead, letting the contact settle, grounding himself through it. His breathing slowed.

Joong and Dunk took their turns on watch throughout the day, swapping positions with a quiet efficiency that suggested long familiarity, even though it was new, really. Dunk handled the exterior, scanning the horizon through gaps in the walls, eyes never fully still. Joong stayed inside more often, leaning against doorframes or pillars where he could see both Santa and Dunk at once. They spoke little, but when they did, it was practical.

“Anything?” Dunk asked at one point, not turning.

“No,” Joong replied. “Structure’s holding.”

“Good.”

Later, when Dunk came inside to swap, Joong slid seamlessly into his place, rifle settling comfortably against his shoulder. Dunk dropped down beside him inside, back against the wall again. Their knees touched. This time, Dunk noticed. He didn’t move away. Instead, he let his weight lean slightly, just enough to feel the other man’s presence. It grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected, warmth seeping through fabric, muscle against muscle. They sat like that more than once that day.

Not always side by side. Sometimes across the room, exchanging brief looks, silent check-ins. Sometimes close enough that Dunk could feel Joong’s breathing sync with his without effort. No one commented on it.

By afternoon, Santa stirred more noticeably. His fingers curled into the blanket. His brow furrowed, a faint sound catching in his throat. Perth was there immediately, kneeling at his side, one hand hovering uncertainly before settling gently against Santa’s wrist.

“Easy,” Perth murmured. “You’re alright. You’re here.”

Santa did not open his eyes, but his breathing hitched, then steadied again at the sound of Perth’s voice. Perth stayed, unmoving, eyes dark with a fear he did not try to hide anymore.

You could die here, the thought whispered. Right now.

It lodged in his chest, heavy and immovable. Perth had always believed that if something went wrong, there would be something to do. A route to take. A bargain to strike. Here, there was nothing but waiting. And it terrified him.

Dunk watched the scene from across the room, jaw tightening. He glanced at Joong, who had seen it too.

“Still breathing,” Dunk said quietly.

Joong nodded. “Still here.”

As evening crept closer again, the routine became clearer, not because anyone planned it, but because bodies demanded it. Someone watched Santa at all times. Someone watched the outside. Someone rested when they could. Food was shared sparingly. Water measured out in careful sips. No one complained.

When night fell again, it did so without drama. No noise. Just darkness settling in around the building, the world holding its breath.

They stayed. Bodies close. Eyes open. Waiting for morning to prove that this, too, could be survived.

The third day arrived with sound.

Not danger, just life. Wind moving through broken frames. A bird somewhere nearby, bold enough to land on the roof and tap at loose metal with its claws. The world had not ended while they slept, and that fact alone felt suspicious. Santa woke for real sometime before noon.

Not fully present, but his eyes opened, unfocused, pupils blown wide as if the light itself hurt. He did not speak. He did not cry. He only stared at the ceiling like he was afraid it might fall back into him. Aou froze the moment he noticed.

Every instinct in him screamed to reach inside and do something. He stayed where he was instead, muscles trembling with restraint. Boom noticed immediately.

“Not yet,” Boom said quietly. Not a command, just a reminder. Aou swallowed and nodded once, jaw tight. He shifted back, hands curling into fists against his thighs.

Santa’s gaze drifted slowly, catching on shapes. Faces. It lingered on Perth, who was already there, sitting cross-legged beside him, hands deliberately still. Perth didn’t speak. He let Santa see him first. Let the recognition come on its own.

Santa blinked. Once. Twice.

Then his fingers twitched against the blanket, reaching without direction. Perth gently placed his hand where Santa could find it. Santa’s grip was weak, uncertain, but it held.

The group exhaled as one. They didn’t celebrate. Recovery was not a victory lap, it was a fragile truce with the body.

Boom crouched nearby, checking vitals with his eyes alone, cataloguing what he saw without instruments. Phuwin hovered close to Pond, murmuring about nothing in particular, weather, dust, the way the building leaned just slightly to the left. Pond listened, grounding himself in the cadence of Phuwin’s voice.

Outside, Dunk cleaned his rifle. He didn’t need to. It was already clean. But his hands moved anyway, methodical, familiar. He broke the weapon down and reassembled it twice, movements precise, controlled. It was something to do with the pressure coiling under his skin.

Joong watched him from a few feet away. He leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely, posture deceptively relaxed. His eyes followed Dunk’s hands, the way they moved without hesitation. Dunk caught the look eventually and glanced up.

“What?” he asked.

Joong shrugged. “You’re loud when you’re nervous.”

Dunk snorted quietly. “You’re observant.”

Joong’s mouth twitched. He didn’t deny it.

They fell into silence again, but it was different now, charged, as if something unspoken had shifted between them. Dunk felt it in the way Joong’s attention lingered. Joong felt it in the way Dunk’s movements tightened whenever he was close.

“We can’t move yet,” Boom said, voice calm but firm. “Santa needs time. Aou needs time. All of you do.”

Dunk leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “They won’t stop searching you,” he said flatly.

“I know,” Joong replied immediately. That was all it took. The inevitability hung between them, heavy and familiar. Dunk had lived his whole life under orders, under timelines that ended in violence. Joong had lived under constraints that punished hesitation. Neither of them needed the future spelled out.

That night, the pressure finally found a crack.

It happened without planning. Without words. The others slept, or pretended to. Boom dozed lightly. Aou sat with his back against the wall, eyes half-lidded but alert. Santa slept in fragments, breath uneven but steady enough. Perth stayed close, one hand still loosely curled around Santa’s fingers.

Dunk rose quietly and stepped outside into the narrow stretch of open air beside the building. The night was cool, the sky clear enough to show a scattering of stars that felt unreal after so long underground.

He breathed in. Out. Again. It didn’t help. A moment later, he felt Joong behind him.

“You’re pacing,” Joong said softly.

Dunk huffed. “You counting my steps now?”

“Only the loud ones.”

Dunk turned. They stood close. Dunk didn’t step back. Neither did Joong. The world narrowed. Dunk reached out suddenly, gripping Joong’s wrist, not hard, but firm enough to feel bone under skin. Joong’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stepped closer, chest nearly brushing Dunk’s.

“This is stupid,” Dunk muttered. That was the closest they came to talking about it.

Dunk shoved Joong back against the wall, not violently, not angry. Desperate, their mouths crashed together, rough and urgent, the kiss was filled with pent-up adrenaline. Joong made a low sound in his throat, hands fisting in Dunk’s jacket as if he needed something solid to hold on to. They broke apart only to breathe, foreheads touching, heat radiating between them. Taking a breath. Then their lips crashed together once more. They stopped again, this time because footsteps sounded inside. Reality knocking. They stepped apart, space snapping back into place between them as if nothing had happened. But something had. 

They returned inside quieter, steadier. Dunk took his position by the wall. Joong settled nearby, close enough that their knees brushed again when they sat. Neither moved away. The pressure eased, not gone, but manageable.

The fourth day was heavier than the third.

Not louder. Not worse. Just denser—like the air itself had thickened, pressing down on everything they tried not to feel. The waiting had settled into their bones now. The kind that made time feel unreliable. The kind that turned every sound into a question.

Santa slept longer stretches, but his body still startled at nothing. Aou hovered without touching, hands twitching uselessly at his sides. Boom watched all of it with the quiet vigilance of someone who refused to let himself rest until everyone else could.

And for Joong and Dunk, it showed in the way Dunk’s jaw stayed clenched even when there was no threat. In the way Joong kept pacing the perimeter of the ruined building, checking angles that didn’t need checking, stopping only when his ribs reminded him they’d cracked not long ago.

By late afternoon, the sky dimmed with cloud cover. Not storm clouds, just enough to make the light feel wrong. Muted. Like the world was holding its breath.

They took watch together again. It wasn’t planned. It never was. They simply ended up outside at the same time, leaning against opposite sides of the building, both pretending this was a coincidence.

Dunk broke the silence first, not with words, but by sitting down heavily on a broken concrete slab. Joong followed a moment later, settling beside him without comment. Their shoulders didn’t touch. Their knees did.

They stayed like that for a long time. The quiet between them wasn’t empty. It was charged. Thick with everything they hadn’t said, everything they didn’t want to unpack. Dunk felt it coiling low in his gut, the need to do something with all the fear he didn’t allow himself to feel. Joong shifted. Dunk noticed immediately.

“Your ribs,” Dunk muttered.

“They’re fine,” Joong replied, just as flat.

Dunk snorted softly. “Liar.”

Joong turned his head. Dunk followed the motion without thinking. Their faces were close now, close enough that Dunk could see the faint scar near Joong’s temple, the one that never quite faded.

“You always do that,” Joong said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Notice.”

Dunk’s mouth twitched. “Occupational hazard.”

Joong leaned in just enough that their foreheads brushed. That was when something in Dunk finally snapped, not broke, not exploded. Released.

He surged forward, closing the gap completely, mouth crashing against Joong’s with zero restraint. The kiss was immediate and hungry. Joong gasped, fingers digging into Dunk’s shoulders like he needed leverage to stay upright. Dunk pressed closer, bodies aligning instinctively, heat unmistakable. There was nothing gentle about it. Nothing careful. It was grounding through friction, through pressure, through the simple fact of another body responding. Joong kissed him back just as fiercely, hands sliding up Dunk’s jacket, gripping hard enough to bruise. Dunk welcomed it. Needed it.

They broke apart only to breathe, harsh, uneven gasps, foreheads pressed together again, noses brushing.

“This isn’t…” Dunk started.

“I know,” Joong cut in, voice rough.

“Good.”

They kissed again, slower this time but no less intense. Dunk’s hand slid to Joong’s hip, fingers curling possessively. Joong shuddered at the contact, pressing closer like he was chasing the sensation rather than avoiding it.

No promises were passed between them. No questions. No future.

Just now. Just them.

Footsteps echoed inside the building. They separated instantly, not panicked, not guilty. Dunk stepped back, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off tension. Joong ran a hand through his hair, breath still uneven but posture steady. They re-entered the building side by side. No one commented.

Boom glanced up briefly, eyes flicking between them, then back to Santa. Aou didn’t look up at all. Phuwin and Pond sat close together near the wall, quiet and contained in their own orbit.

Dunk took his place near the door. Joong settled a few feet away, close enough that their presence registered without touching. They didn’t need to look at each other to know. The pressure had eased. Not gone, but it was bearable now.

That night, they slept closer to the group than before. Dunk’s shoulder brushed Joong’s arm in the dark. Neither moved away.

The fifth day arrived without announcement. No one marked it. No one counted aloud. It simply existed, sliding in quietly, almost politely, like it didn’t want to draw attention to itself after everything that had come before.

The morning light was thin and pale, filtering through cracked concrete and broken window frames. It painted the ruined building in soft lines, gentle enough that it almost felt undeserved.

Santa slept. That alone felt monumental.

He wasn’t fully stable, Boom would never call it that, but his breathing had evened out enough that the tight knot in everyone’s chest had loosened, just slightly. He lay on his side beneath the single blanket they owned, one hand curled loosely near his chest, fingers brushing the clover pendant like muscle memory.

Aou sat nearby, not touching. He hadn’t touched since the night Santa screamed. He watched instead. Counted breaths. Let the guilt ache quietly without letting it spill outward. When Santa shifted, Aou leaned forward instinctively, then stopped himself, forcing his hands to stay where they were.

“You’re allowed to sit,” Boom said softly.

“I know,” Aou replied. He didn’t move.

Boom didn’t push. He’d learned which battles exhausted people and which ones anchored them. Instead, he adjusted the makeshift bandage at his own hairline, wincing faintly, then turned his attention back to Santa.

Across the room, Pond and Phuwin shared a quiet corner. They didn’t speak much, didn’t need to. Phuwin’s shoulder rested against Pond’s, solid and warm. Pond’s fingers traced slow, absent-minded patterns against the fabric of Phuwin’s sleeve. Phuwin smiled faintly, eyes half-closed. He looked exhausted in the way people only did after relief finally hit—the delayed crash after holding it together for too long.

Near the doorway, Joong and Dunk took up space as if they’d always belonged. Not guarding. Not pacing, they were just present. Dunk sat with his back against the wall, rifle within reach but not in his hands. For once, his shoulders weren’t locked tight. Joong sat close enough that their knees brushed, close enough that the contact registered without demanding attention.

Dunk watched the room the way soldiers watched families they’d decided to protect, quietly, relentlessly. Somewhere between the fourth day and the fifth, the realization had settled fully into him, solid and immovable.

These were his people. 

He exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his chest in a way it rarely did. The government would never stop hunting them. That truth hadn’t softened. If anything, it had sharpened. But it no longer stood alone. Joong shifted beside him. Dunk felt it immediately.

“You good?” Dunk asked quietly.

Joong nodded. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the whole truth either. But it was enough. They stayed like that, sharing heat, sharing space, letting the simple physics of proximity do what words never could.

Perth stood near the doorway, arms crossed loosely, gaze moving across the group in steady sweeps. Not scanning for threats, reading. Not in the supernatural sense. Just pattern recognition honed by years of surviving people. He noticed how everyone orbited Santa without realizing it. How Boom’s movements still followed medic logic even while exhausted. How Dunk positioned himself instinctively between the group and the world. How Joong’s presence grounded him without effort.

Perth didn’t analyze it. Didn’t label it. He just filed it away.

Outside, the ruined village remained quiet. No engines. No voices. Just wind moving through broken structures and the distant call of something feral and alive.

Inside, something fragile had taken root. Not safety. But belonging.

Santa stirred, a soft sound escaping his throat. Aou leaned forward instantly this time, unable to stop himself. Santa’s eyes fluttered open, not fully lucid, not fully present, but aware enough to focus on the shapes around him.

He looked at them. At all of them. His lips curved faintly, exhausted but real.

No one spoke. The calm settled finally, not deep, not permanent.  And somewhere beneath the quiet, Static waited.

Chapter Text

Santa woke choking. Not from a dream, from his body.

Air scraped uselessly against his throat, shallow and sharp, refusing to go deeper no matter how hard he dragged it in. His chest felt locked, like something had cinched tight around his ribs and forgotten how to loosen again. His hands flew up without permission, fingers clawing at his sternum, then his throat, nails scraping skin as if he could tear the feeling out of himself.

“I…” Nothing came out. His lungs burned. Spots swam across his vision, black bleeding in from the edges, the world narrowing into a shaking tunnel that centered on the frantic thud inside his chest. It was too fast. Too loud. Each heartbeat slammed into him like a warning he couldn’t translate. Something was wrong. Something inside him was breaking. The ground beneath him was hard. Cold. He could feel grit pressing into his cheek, the rough weave of fabric under his fingers. Not the cot. Not the bed. Not safe.

I’m dying.

The thought didn’t arrive as panic. It arrived as certainty. His legs kicked, useless and jerking. His arms trembled so badly he couldn’t tell where they ended, and the shaking began. He tried to pull his knees in, curl up, make himself smaller, but his muscles refused to cooperate, locking and unlocking in the wrong order.

Sound warped. A voice reached him from somewhere far away, stretched thin like it had to fight through water to get to him.

“Santa…”

The name hit him wrong. Too sharp. Too late. The light above him flickered, no, not flickered, buzzed, harsh and white, drilling straight into his skull. The smell in the air shifted, metallic and clean and wrong, and suddenly the cold wasn’t just cold, it was sterile.

No.

His body decided before his mind could catch up. He tried to scramble backward, heels digging uselessly into the floor. His palms slid against the smooth surface instead of concrete now, skin squeaking faintly as it dragged.

“Please,” he tried to say, but it came out as a broken sound, barely louder than breath.

The ceiling was too low. The walls were too close. His vision snapped, reality tearing cleanly down the middle, and he was twelve.

Not metaphorically. Not like a memory. He was twelve again in the way only a nervous system remembered time. By erasing everything that came after. His hands were smaller. He could feel it, the wrongness of his fingers, the unfamiliar weakness in his grip. His chest hurt in the same way it had back then, tight and buzzing, like it was full of insects instead of lungs.

I’m back.

The thought crashed into him with so much force it stole what little air he had left. He couldn’t feel anyone else. That terrified him more than anything.

Usually, there was something. A hum. A pressure. The constant, unbearable presence of other people’s feelings brushing against his own. Fear, anger, exhaustion. Even now, even injured, even weak, he should have felt something.

There was nothing. No noise. Just him, and his body screaming.

This is how it ends.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The darkness only made it easier for the memories to crawl out.

Hands on his shoulders. Too firm. Too many. A voice counting, calm and bored. The click of a door sealing. The way his own scream had echoed off white walls and come back wrong, flattened, as if even the sound didn’t want him. His chest spasmed violently.

He gagged, stomach clenching, throat closing entirely for a horrible, endless second. His vision went white around the edges, then black, then white again, pulsing in time with his heart.

I can’t breathe.

His fingers dug into his collarbone, desperate, leaving red marks behind. His jaw shook so hard his teeth clicked together. He tried to curl inward again, tried to disappear into himself, but the shaking only got worse, rippling through him in violent waves.

“Don’t…”

The word shattered before it was finished. He couldn’t speak.

His tongue felt thick, useless. His mouth wouldn’t shape the sounds even when he tried to force them out. The panic had eaten everything else, language, thought, time, leaving only raw sensation behind.

Pain. Fear. Air that wouldn’t come.

The world tilted sharply to one side, then the other, like he was on a boat in rough water. He squeezed his eyes shut again, pressing his forehead to the ground, rocking helplessly, trying to make himself smaller, quieter, less noticeable.

If I’m quiet, maybe they won’t see me.

His chest seized again, harder this time, and a thin, broken sound tore out of his throat whether he wanted it to or not. It barely sounded human.

Footsteps. Close. Too close.

Hands hovered near him. He could feel the disturbance in the air, the warmth — but he couldn’t process it as help. Every instinct screamed danger, screamed to run, to fight, to vanish.

Someone shouted his name. Louder this time. Urgent.

“Santa!”

He couldn’t answer. He clawed weakly at his chest, fingers slipping uselessly against skin slick with sweat, body shaking apart under him as the panic swallowed what little control he had left. And then everything went very, very loud.

Aou heard Santa scream. Well it was not really. Just a sound that didn’t belong to an adult body. Thin. Fractured. The kind of noise a throat made when it didn’t know how to ask for help anymore.

Aou was on his feet instantly.

He crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees beside Santa without thinking, his hands hovering uselessly over Santa’s shaking frame for half a second. Santa was curled in on himself, fingers clawed into his chest, breath hitching in sharp, broken pulls that never went deep enough. His eyes were open but unfocused, pupils blown wide, as if he were staring through the ceiling instead of at it.

“No, no, no…” Aou whispered, panic flooding him so fast it made his vision blur. “Santa. Hey. Look at me. Please look at me.”

Santa didn’t respond. He didn’t even seem to hear.

Aou’s hands shook as he reached out, fingers barely brushing Santa’s shoulder. The contact sent a jolt through him, not power, not yet, just the awful realization of how fragile Santa felt. Too light. Too tense. Like a body held together by will alone.

“He’s panicking,” Aou said, voice breaking as he looked up desperately. “He can’t breathe.”

Boom was already moving, crouching on Santa’s other side, calm in the way only someone who had seen too much could be. “Santa,” he said firmly, low and steady. “You’re here. You’re not there anymore. Listen to me.”

Santa’s chest spasmed violently, breath cutting off entirely for a terrifying second. His fingers dug harder into his own skin, nails drawing thin red lines. Aou felt something snap inside him.

I can’t lose him.

He reached deeper, instinctively, reflexively, toward the familiar pull of flesh and blood, toward the patterns of cells and tissue he knew how to read like a language. He didn’t activate his ability so much as fall into it, panic ripping away the careful barriers Boom had taught him to keep.

But before he could do anything, Pond moved. He hadn’t meant to. Later, he wouldn’t even remember deciding to do so. One moment he was standing frozen near the wall, the room too loud, too bright, too much, watching Santa fold in on himself like a system crashing under overload, and the next, his hand was reaching out at the same time as Aou’s. Their fingers brushed. Just for a second. It felt like static.

Not metaphorical static, real, biting electricity that jumped up Pond’s arm and slammed into his chest hard enough to steal his breath. His vision fractured, reality splitting into layers he didn’t have names for.

And suddenly Santa’s body was open. Not physically. Structurally.

Pond gasped sharply, hand tightening involuntarily around Aou’s wrist as something shifted between them. This wasn’t tech. There were no circuits, no code, no interfaces he recognized, and yet his mind latched onto Santa’s nervous system with the same instinctive certainty it used when slipping into a network.

Signals. Misfiring everywhere. Panic loops repeating without end. Pain responses screaming over each other.

“Something’s wrong,” Pond said, voice shaking. “I… I can feel…”

Aou sucked in a sharp breath. Because he felt it too. Not as sensation, not as empathy, but as access. Santa’s body wasn’t just reacting.

It was trapped in a feedback loop, fear amplifying fear, nerves screaming until the system couldn’t distinguish between memory and now. And somehow, impossibly, Aou could see it in the same way he saw damaged tissue or dying cells.

And Pond was anchoring it. Without knowing how. Aou didn’t think. He acted.

He followed the pathways Pond was instinctively stabilizing, pushing gently, against the misfiring nerves, forcing them to slow, to pause, to remember the difference between then and now. He didn’t heal tissue. He didn’t regenerate anything.

He interrupted the loop. Santa screamed. Just once.

A raw, animal sound torn out of his chest as his body convulsed violently beneath them. Aou nearly pulled away in terror, heart hammering.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” he choked. But Pond held firm, grip white-knuckled on Aou’s wrist, eyes blown wide with something between horror and awe.

“Don’t stop,” Pond whispered. “It’s working.”

Santa’s scream cut off abruptly, dissolving into a ragged sob. His chest still heaved, breath uneven and shallow, but it went in this time. Air filled his lungs. Stayed there. The shaking didn’t stop, but it changed. From violent convulsions to something smaller. Contained. Like his body was finally allowed to collapse instead of fighting itself. Aou sagged forward, forehead nearly hitting Santa’s shoulder as relief and terror crashed into him all at once.

“What did you do?” he asked quietly. Boom stared at them, stunned.

Pond shook his head, swallowing hard. “I don’t know.”

Aou looked at his hands like they didn’t belong to him anymore.

“I didn’t heal him,” he said hoarsely. “I… redirected him.”

Santa lay between them, eyes closed now, breath shaky but steady, fingers loosening their grip on his chest at last. Alive. For now. And none of them understood what had just happened.

Santa came back to himself in fragments. Not all at once. Not cleanly.

First, there was the floor, cold through fabric, solid in a way pain never was. Then there was a weight across his chest that wasn’t crushing, just there, rising and falling in time with his breath. Someone was breathing with him. Anchoring him.

Sound followed last. Voices, muffled, as if wrapped in cloth.

Santa’s eyelids fluttered. Light stabbed through, too bright, too sharp, and he flinched hard, body jerking before he could stop it. His breath caught immediately, chest tightening again in reflex.

“No…no…no…” he whispered, the words barely making it past his throat.

Aou was there instantly.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice breaking on the second word. His hands hovered again, caught between wanting to hold and being terrified of doing damage. “Santa. You’re here. You’re not there. You’re safe.”

Safe.

Santa’s heart hammered violently, ribs aching with each shallow breath. His limbs felt wrong, heavy and buzzing at the same time, like they didn’t quite belong to him yet. Panic still clawed at the edges of his mind, waiting for an excuse to surge back. He turned his head slightly.

Perth was kneeling beside him, one hand wrapped firmly around Santa’s fingers, thumb brushing slowly, grounding circles against his knuckles. Perth’s face was pale, jaw clenched so hard it trembled.

“You scared the shit out of us,” Perth said quietly. Not angry. Not joking. Just honest.

Santa tried to speak. Nothing came out. His throat closed painfully, panic spiking again.  

I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.

“Hey,” Boom cut in immediately, voice steady, practiced. He shifted closer into Santa’s line of sight. “You’re breathing. I can see it. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Just like before.”

Santa focused on Boom’s mouth instead of his words, on the way Boom exaggerated each breath so Santa could mirror it. In. Out. In. Out. It took too long. But eventually, the pressure eased enough that Santa could swallow without pain.

“I thought…” His voice cracked, thin and fragile. “I thought I was dying.”

Aou made a sound that might have been a sob. 

Boom didn’t contradict him. “I know,” he said softly. “Your body thought so too.”

Santa’s brow furrowed faintly. Confusion flickered across his face as memory tried to knit itself back together. “Something… stopped,” he murmured. “It felt like… like being yanked back.”

Pond stiffened. Aou went very still. Boom’s gaze sharpened immediately, flicking between the two of them. 

“What do you mean, stopped?”

Santa frowned, searching for words he didn’t really have. “The fear,” he said slowly. “It didn’t fade. It… broke. Like someone cut a wire.”

Silence fell heavy in the room. Pond’s heart began to race.

He backed away half a step, suddenly aware of his own hands, of the lingering sensation still buzzing beneath his skin. Static. Pressure. Access.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t trying to do anything. I just… I touched him and…”

“And I followed,” Aou finished hoarsely.

Everyone looked at him.

Aou’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, his breathing shallow again, not panic this time, but shock. “I didn’t heal him,” he said again, like he needed them to understand. “I didn’t fix tissue. I didn’t rebuild anything. I just… interrupted it….”

“…Like when you stop feedback before it destroys a speaker.” Pond ended Aou’s sentence.

Boom’s expression shifted from concern to something deeper, more unsettled.

“That shouldn’t be possible,” he said slowly.

Pond wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly cold. “It wasn’t tech,” he said. “I know what tech feels like. This was… different. Like the body was a system and we just…” He swallowed hard. “Logged in.”

Santa’s eyes widened. He looked between them, fear sparking again not of dying this time, but of them.

“You controlled me,” he whispered. 

Aou flinched like he’d been struck.

“No,” he said immediately, crawling closer until he was level with Santa’s face, careful to keep his hands visible, non-threatening. “No. I swear. We didn’t make you do anything. We just stopped it from killing you.”

Santa searched his face, breath hitching.

Perth squeezed Santa’s hand gently. “You don’t feel wrong,” he said quietly. “Do you?”

Santa closed his eyes, focusing inward. His body still trembled, still hurt — but the panic wasn’t clawing anymore. The memories had retreated, shoved back into their box by force if necessary.

“No,” he admitted softly. “I feel… empty. Tired.”

Boom exhaled slowly. “That’s normal after something like that.”

Normal. The word felt strange here. 

Aou finally broke. He dropped his forehead to the floor beside Santa, shoulders shaking violently. “I almost took him too far,” he whispered. “I felt it. I felt how easy it would be to push harder. To rewrite everything. I… I don’t trust myself.”

Boom moved to him immediately, firm hands anchoring Aou’s shaking frame. “You stopped,” he said. 

“But I didn’t know how,” Aou sobbed. “It just… happened.”

Pond stared at his hands again, fingers flexing slowly.

“I don’t think it’s something either of us can do alone,” he said quietly. “I think it only happened because we touched at the same time.”

The room went very still. Santa’s breath hitched again, but this time, Perth was there instantly, murmuring nonsense words, grounding him back into the present. Boom straightened slowly.

“Then we need to understand this,” he said. “Carefully. Slowly. With consent.”

Santa opened his eyes and looked directly at Pond and Aou.

“You didn’t ask,” he said.

Aou nodded, tears streaking down his face. “I know.” 

Santa was quiet for a long moment. Then, shakily, he said, “Next time… ask. But…” His fingers tightened slightly around Perth’s hand. “Don’t let me die because you are afraid.”

Aou’s chest hitched. “I won’t,” he promised. “Never.”

The room exhaled together. Outside, the sun had fully crested the horizon, light spilling through broken windows and cracks in the walls. The world looked almost peaceful in the aftermath, like it hadn’t just watched something impossible happen.

None of them spoke for a long time after that. Because something fundamental had shifted. They hadn’t just survived. They had crossed a line they didn’t know existed. And none of them knew what it meant yet.

They didn’t talk about it right away. That wasn’t a choice so much as a biological truth. Every single one of them was operating on reserves they hadn’t known they had, and those reserves were gone now. Shock had a way of masquerading as calm. It flattened everything into something survivable.

Boom was the first to move, because he always was.

He stood, rolled his shoulders once like he was bracing himself, and took in the room with a clinician’s eye. Not the building, the people. Santa on the floor, wrapped in the single blanket they owned, Perth still kneeling beside him like a guard who’d decided sitting was the only way to stay upright. Aou curled in on himself nearby, eyes unfocused, fingers digging into his sleeves like he was afraid of touching anything else. Pond standing too still, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Dunk and Joong were standing near the doorway, silent sentinels, watching the outside and the inside at the same time.

Boom exhaled through his nose.

“Okay,” he said, quietly but firmly. “We’re not doing anything else right now. No decisions. No theories. We let bodies catch up.”

Aou laughed weakly, the sound cracking apart almost immediately. “I don’t think my body got the memo.”

Boom crossed the room and crouched in front of him, careful not to crowd. “What are you feeling?”

Aou swallowed. “Like I ran until my legs tore off. Like my chest is full of broken glass.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “And like I could still reach back in there if I wanted to.”

Boom didn’t flinch. “That’s adrenaline and residual activation,” he said calmly. “It doesn’t mean you’re going to lose control.”

Aou shook his head. “You didn’t feel it.”

“No,” Boom agreed. “But I’ve seen what comes after it.”

Aou’s breathing slowed, just a fraction.

Across the room, Pond finally spoke. “I didn’t feel… power,” he said. “Not like when I connect to systems. It wasn’t louder. It was quieter. Like… slipping into sleep.”

Santa’s fingers twitched under the blanket.

Boom turned immediately. “Santa?”

Santa hesitated, then nodded faintly. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw by the panic. “It was like… someone closed a door inside me,” he said. “Not gently. But not cruel either.”

Perth’s jaw tightened.

“Do you remember what happened before?” Boom asked.

Santa shook his head. “Just… pain. And being small again. And then…” He swallowed. “Hands.”

Aou flinched.

Santa’s gaze slid to him. “Not bad hands,” he added quickly. “Just… there.”

Something in Aou’s chest loosened enough that he could breathe again.

Boom straightened slowly. “Alright,” he said. “Here’s what we’re not doing. We’re not experimenting. We’re not pushing. We’re not pretending we understand this.”

Dunk snorted quietly. “You say that like it’s optional.”

Boom shot him a look. “It is.”

Dunk raised both hands slightly, conceding. “Fine.”

Joong spoke for the first time, voice low and careful. “But this wasn’t nothing.”

“No,” Boom agreed. “It wasn’t.”

Silence settled again, heavier now. Not shock, gravity.

Perth shifted beside Santa, finally breaking his stillness. “He almost died,” he said flatly. “That’s the only part I care about right now.”

Boom met his eyes. “He didn’t.”

Perth swallowed hard. “He barely made it before...”

Santa squeezed Perth’s hand, weak but deliberate. “I’m still here,” he murmured.

Perth closed his eyes for half a second at the sound. Boom took that in, too.

“This changes things,” Boom said eventually. “Not because of what you can do. But because of what it costs.”

Pond looked up sharply. “What costs?”

Boom nodded. “You both showed signs of overload. Not physical injury, neurological strain. If you’d gone further…” He stopped himself, then continued more carefully. “...we might not be having this conversation.”

Aou wrapped his arms around himself. “So what happens now?”

Boom didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Santa. The way Santa’s body was still curled inward, like he was bracing against another wave that might never come. And the way Perth’s thumb never stopped moving, grounding without even thinking about it.

“Now,” Boom said, “we set rules.”

Pond stiffened. “Rules?”

“Yes,” Boom said firmly. “Consent. Clear signals. Stop words. And no contact during heightened emotional states unless explicitly requested.”

Santa nodded immediately. “Please.”

Aou nodded too, eyes wet. “I’ll never… I won’t touch you again without asking. I swear.”

Santa looked at him, really looked this time. “I trust you,” he said softly.

That hit harder than anger ever could have.

Boom stood. “Good. Then that’s our foundation.”

Outside, the light had shifted again. Morning was fully here now, pale, thin, indifferent. Birds had started somewhere nearby, their calls almost obscene in their normalcy.

Dunk glanced toward the sound. “We don’t have long.”

Boom nodded. “I know.”

Pond took a slow breath. “Whatever that was,” he said, carefully, “it didn’t feel like our abilities added together. It felt… different.”

Boom’s eyes sharpened. “Different how?”

Pond hesitated. “Like something new.”

No one responded to that. Not yet. Santa shifted under the blanket, exhaustion finally dragging at him hard enough that his eyelids fluttered. Perth noticed instantly, adjusting his grip, murmuring until Santa’s breathing evened out again. Boom watched the scene quietly. Not monsters, he thought. Not weapons. Just people who had survived too much, and accidentally touched something bigger than any of them.

“Rest,” Boom said quietly. “All of you. We’ll figure out what this means later.”

No one argued. Because for now, survival was enough. And whatever they had crossed into, it could wait until they were strong enough to face it.

Santa didn’t sleep the way people were supposed to sleep. It came in fragments, short, shallow drops into unconsciousness that ended the moment his body twitched, or his breath caught wrong. Each time, he surfaced with a sharp gasp, eyes wide, fingers clawing at the blanket like it was the only thing tethering him to the room.

Perth noticed every single time. He didn’t say anything about it. He just stayed. Shifted when Santa shifted. Adjusted the blanket when Santa’s shaking worsened. Whispered grounding nonsense when Santa’s breathing went too fast again, names of colors, the shape of the window frame, the sound of wind scraping over broken stone outside.

Santa didn’t always hear him. But sometimes he did. And those moments were enough to keep him from slipping back into the dark places his mind kept circling. At one point, no one knew how long it had been. Santa’s fingers curled weakly into Perth’s sleeve.

“Don’t go,” he murmured, voice barely sounding at all.

Perth’s chest tightened so hard it hurt.

“I’m not,” he said immediately. “I’m right here.”

Santa exhaled shakily. His grip loosened, but it didn’t let go.

Across the room, Aou sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. He hadn’t moved since Boom had told them to rest. His eyes tracked Santa constantly, pupils blown wide like he was waiting for something terrible to happen again.

Boom noticed that too. He crossed the space quietly and lowered himself beside Aou, careful not to startle him. Aou didn’t look at him.

“I shouldn’t have touched him,” Aou said suddenly. The words came out flat, like he’d been repeating them to himself for a while. “I should’ve waited. I should’ve asked. I should’ve…”

“You saved his life…” Boom interrupted gently. “...again.”

Aou shook his head hard enough that his curls fell into his eyes. “I hurt him first.”

Boom, let that sit. “Intent matters,” he said finally. “But so does outcome. You reacted to an emergency.”

“I panicked.”

“Yes,” Boom said calmly. “And?”

Aou’s voice broke. “And I could’ve killed him.”

Boom leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You didn’t.”

Aou swallowed. His hands trembled where they rested on his knees. “What if next time I don’t stop?”

Boom watched him carefully. “Then next time, we make sure you’re not alone when it happens.”

Aou looked up at him finally, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “You mean… you’ll be there?”

Boom nodded. “Yes.” Something in Aou’s posture loosened at that. Just a fraction. Enough that he could take a full breath.

“I don’t want to be a weapon,” Aou whispered.

Boom didn’t hesitate. “Then don’t be one.”

Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the dry smell of dust and old stone through the cracked opening where a window had once been. Morning light crept slowly across the floor, illuminating the scuffed concrete, the scattered supplies, the shapes of people who had survived another night by sheer stubbornness.

Pond stood near the window, not touching the glass. He wasn’t looking outside. His gaze was unfocused, distant, like he was listening to something just beyond hearing. Phuwin watched him from across the room.

“You’re shaking,” Phuwin said softly.

Pond blinked, startled. “I am?”

Phuwin crossed the space and stood beside him. “A little.”

Pond frowned, examining his hands as if they belonged to someone else. “I don’t feel… loud,” he said slowly. “But I don’t feel quiet either.”

Phuwin leaned his shoulder lightly against Pond’s. “That sounds exhausting.”

Pond nodded. “It is.” 

Phuwin didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just stayed there, steady and warm, grounding in the simplest way possible.

Near the doorway, Dunk and Joong remained seated side by side, silent as they’d been for hours. Dunk’s elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely clasped. Joong sat with his back straight, eyes on the horizon where the ruined buildings cut jagged lines against the brightening sky.

Dunk spoke eventually, voice low. “They’ll keep coming.” He wasn’t referring to something in particular, more like a general fact spoken out loud. But Joong understood.

“Yes.”

Dunk glanced at him. “Are you scared?”

Joong considered the question. Then, said honestly, “Not the way I used to be.”

Dunk huffed a quiet breath. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They fell silent again. Not awkward, they were sharing it.

Boom straightened slowly, taking the room in once more. Everyone was still here. Shaken. Fractured. But breathing.

“That’s enough for now,” he said quietly. “We don’t solve anything today.”

No one argued. Santa stirred again, breathing hitching briefly before settling. Perth leaned closer, murmuring softly until Santa’s shoulders eased. Whatever had happened, whatever they’d touched, it had left residue. In their nerves. In their trust. In the unspoken understanding that something had changed, even if none of them could name it yet.

For now, that was fine. They were alive.

Chapter Text

Late morning settled over the abandoned village with a deceptive softness. Sunlight slid across collapsed rooftops and broken windows, warming concrete that had not felt footsteps in years. The air dust and dry grass, and the faint metallic tang of old ruin.

It looked empty and felt temporary.  Boom stood near the front of the vehicle, ration packs spread out on the hood in a careful arrangement. He was counting, calculating, thinking about their next steps.

“We can stretch it to three days,” he said at last, voice steady. “Two if Santa needs more.”

Phuwin leaned against the side of the truck, arms folded loosely. “Water?”

“Less,” Boom replied. “Unless we find a pump that still works.”

Santa sat on the cracked step of what had once been someone’s doorway. The single blanket they had was draped over his shoulders despite the warming day. His color had improved since dawn, barely. The blue had faded from his lips. His breathing was even. But he still looked as though someone had drained him, leaving only what was necessary to remain upright.

He was conscious and responsive but still fragile.

Aou sat beside him, not touching. That restraint was deliberate. Hard-won. His hands remained clasped between his knees, knuckles white. His gaze flicked to Santa’s chest every few seconds, tracking the rise and fall like a metronome he didn’t trust to continue.

“I’m okay,” Santa murmured quietly, as if answering thoughts instead of words.

Aou gave a short nod. He did not reach for him.

Perth stood a few steps away, posture loose, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He wasn’t hovering. He wasn’t speaking. But he had not drifted far from Santa since dawn. His eyes moved constantly, from the road, the skyline, to the rooftops, and the tree line. He never stayed fixed on one thing for long.

Joong stood at the far edge of the village road, rifle slung low, watching the open stretch of land beyond the last row of houses. He had gone quiet in a way that wasn’t exhaustion but conservation. His shoulders were relaxed, but nothing about him was inattentive. Dunk moved the perimeter in slow, methodical arcs. He checked windows that had no glass. Door frames that had no doors. Corners that could not conceal much but were checked anyway. He didn’t look tense. He looked prepared.

Pond crouched near the truck’s rear wheel, fingertips brushing absentmindedly over chipped paint. Then he went still. It was subtle, so subtle that only Phuwin noticed the shift first. Pond’s breathing paused for half a second. His head tilted slightly, like someone catching a distant frequency that no one else could hear.

“What?” Phuwin asked quietly. Pond didn’t answer immediately. He was listening.

The sound arrived seconds later, a thin mechanical whine, distant but distinct. Not the heavy drone of transport aircraft. Lighter. Sharper. Rotors. Dunk stopped mid-step and looked up. Shapes appeared against the pale sky, small, angular silhouettes cutting lazy arcs overhead.

Three. No, four. They weren’t passing through. They were circling. Low enough that the whir of their blades carried clearly down to the ground.

Boom straightened slowly. “Routine sweep?” he asked.

Pond’s jaw tightened. “No.”

The drones’ pattern was wrong. Not grid-based. Not a wide-area pass. Their arcs were tightening, spiraling inward over the village. They weren’t surveying the countryside. They were focusing.

Santa’s fingers curled slightly into the blanket. Aou’s gaze snapped upward. Perth followed the movement of the drones without speaking, eyes tracking their convergence point.

“They’re mapping,” Pond said under his breath.

“Can you redirect?” Boom asked.

Pond inhaled once and nodded. He didn’t close his eyes. He didn’t drop into full immersion. That would be reckless in open territory. Instead, he reached lightly, brushing against the network the way someone might skim fingers across water. Signal pings. Navigation loops. Thermal overlays.

The architecture was decentralized compared to E-12. Looser. Adaptive. But still structured. He nudged. Just enough to distort. A slight deviation in their flight path. A minor skew in thermal readouts.

The broken roofs registered warmer than they were. The road cooled artificially. Dust trails bloomed in false directions beyond the village edge. One drone adjusted. Another climbed slightly. Their circle widened. Phuwin exhaled quietly.

“It thinks we’re gone,” Pond murmured.

For a moment, it worked. The drones drifted outward. Their hum softened. Their altitude increased. No one relaxed. Dunk kept his eyes on them. Joong shifted position slightly, adjusting his angle toward the open road.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. The sky cleared.

Then the hum returned. Sharper. Closer. The drones approached from a different angle this time, low over the fields beyond the village, not from the direction they had first appeared. Their formation tightened again, narrower, more precise.

“They recalculated,” Pond said, voice thinner now.

“Against what?” Joong asked.

Pond’s gaze flicked toward the truck. Engine heat. Residual charge. Human signatures. He swallowed.

“They’re filtering noise.”

The drones dipped lower, one skimming just above the church steeple remains at the far end of the village. Another cut across the main road in a tight arc.

They weren’t lost. They were correcting. Pond reached again, deeper this time. It was harder now. The drones had shifted into active search parameters, cross-referencing movement data, adjusting to interference.

He injected lag into their feedback loops. Introduced ghost heat signatures moving east. Then south. Made the village register colder than it was. For a second time, the formation faltered.

One drone veered away. Another climbed sharply. The hum thinned. Then tightened again. Closer. Persistent.

“They’re adapting,” Pond breathed.

Boom didn’t hesitate.

“We don’t wait this out.” Dunk was already moving toward the driver’s side door.

“Load up,” he ordered. Joong slung his rifle properly and moved to gather the remaining packs without question. Phuwin shut the rear hatch fully and secured the latch. Aou rose instantly, positioning himself beside Santa. Perth stepped closer.

“Can you walk?” he asked Santa quietly. Santa nodded once, pushing himself upright with visible effort. His knees wobbled slightly before stabilizing. Aou hovered at his side, close enough to catch him if he faltered. Pond stood slowly, blinking hard as he withdrew from the network. His breathing was uneven, but he forced it steady.

“Don’t dive again,” Phuwin murmured as he passed him.

“I won’t,” Pond replied. The drones dipped lower again, shadows sliding across broken rooftops. They were too close now. Not searching blindly. Tracking.

They moved with speed but without panic. Bags tossed into the back. Doors shut cleanly. Positions taken automatically. Santa climbed into the rear seat first, Aou beside him. Perth slid in next, close enough to monitor without crowding. Joong took the passenger seat. Pond and Phuwin followed into the back. Boom settled up front beside Dunk.

The engine turned over. Too loud and too visible, but necessary. As the truck rolled forward over cracked concrete and onto the open road beyond the village, one drone peeled off and adjusted course behind them. Not directly overhead. But close.

Boom glanced upward through the windshield. “They’re not losing us.”

Perth watched the drone in the side mirror, jaw set.

“We were never invisible,” he said quietly. 

The village shrank behind them, swallowed by distance and light. The sky remained clear. But the air no longer felt empty. They were not ghosts. And this time, the search wasn’t random. It was deliberate.

The land opened up after the village. Fields stretched on either side of the road, dry and uneven, some rows cultivated, others left half-finished and reclaimed by weeds. The asphalt narrowed, cracked at the edges, dipping gently through shallow valleys before rising again toward low, distant tree lines. It felt exposed out here. Too open. No ruins to hide behind. No walls to disappear into.

Dunk drove steadily, one hand resting on the wheel, the other loose against his thigh. Joong watched the rearview mirror more than the road ahead. Pond had gone quiet again. He had fought off a few drones, redirected them, recalibrated them, and gotten them off track, but for how long? Now he was listening for the wrong kind of hum in the air. 

Santa leaned back against the seat, color still faint, breathing even but fragile. Aou sat beside him without touching, his restraint visible in the tension of his shoulders. Perth kept scanning the horizon.

Then two figures appeared ahead. They stood at the edge of the road, not blocking it, not rushing forward. Just waiting. Wide-brimmed hats. Work shirts rolled at the sleeves. One lifted a hand in greeting. Dunk slowed instinctively.

“They don’t look armed,” Phuwin said quietly.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Joong replied.

As the truck drew closer, the details sharpened. Sun-worn faces. Calloused hands. A parked pickup further back in a patch of flattened grass. One of the men carried a canteen. The other offered a cautious, almost apologetic smile.

“Morning,” he called through the open driver’s window as the vehicle eased near. “You folks coming from up north?”

Boom answered before Dunk did. “Passing through.”

The farmer nodded as if that confirmed something harmless. “Road’s rough ahead. Bridge a few miles down’s not reliable. You might want to rest up before hitting it. We’ve got shade. Water if you need.”

The second man lifted the canteen slightly in demonstration. “Drones have been thick lately,” he added. “Safer under cover.”

It was normal. Friendly. Concerned. Too normal.

Perth looked at them. And something shifted. Not outside or in the air. It was in the way they stood and spoke. The moment his eyes settled on the smiling one’s face, something hit, hard and whole. It wasn’t a thought forming. It wasn’t deduction. It wasn’t suspicion building from subtle tells. It was certainty. A complete shape. They would stall them. Offer the barn. Make a call once the truck was out of sight. Describe the vehicle. Count heads. Mention the pale one in the back. Wait for the reward.

The knowledge did not arrive in sentences. It landed intact, like a map unrolled in his mind. Not what they were doing now. What they would do. His breath hitched, once, quiet, but sharp.

No one else noticed. Except Santa. Santa’s eyes opened slowly and turned, not toward the farmers, but toward Perth. What he felt wasn’t a threat from the men outside. It wasn’t aggression or hostility. It was fear. Specific. Focused. Immediate. Perth spoke before anyone prompted him.

“We keep going.” Boom glanced at him. Dunk’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching Perth’s reflection briefly.

“The bridge is fine,” Perth added evenly. “We’ll manage.”

They hadn’t passed a bridge. It didn’t matter.

The smiling farmer hesitated for half a second, almost imperceptible, before recovering. “Ah. Maybe they fixed it then. Hard to keep track.”

He stepped back. Cleared the road. Dunk didn’t accelerate immediately. He studied them, gaze cool, assessing. They looked like farmers. They moved like farmers. They did not look like informants. But Perth did not waver.

“We keep moving,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Boom didn’t question it. He simply nodded once. Dunk pressed the accelerator. The truck rolled forward, slow at first, then steady. Perth did not look back. He didn’t need to.

He could feel it, the shape of what would happen next settling behind them.

Call. Report. Wait. Santa continued watching him.

“He’s not scared of them,” Santa murmured to Aou.

Aou frowned faintly. “Then what?”

“He’s scared of something that hasn’t happened yet.”

That unsettled Aou more than the drones had. Inside the truck, no one spoke for several long seconds. The road stretched ahead, pale and winding through open land. Perth stared forward, fingers tightening slightly against his knee. He replayed the encounter, searching for the tell. The slip in tone. The nervous glance. The misstep.

There had been none. Nothing external to justify what he had felt. Which meant the certainty hadn’t come from observation. It had come from somewhere else. And that realization settled heavier than the drones had. He didn’t understand what had just happened inside his head. He didn’t have language for it. But he knew one thing with unsettling clarity. He hadn’t been guessing.

The town announced itself without ceremony. The fields thinned first. Then the fences broke. Then the road widened just enough to suggest human intention. Buildings appeared in uneven clusters, low, rectangular, painted once and never again. Neon tubing buzzed faintly in daylight, stubborn and tired. The wind carried new smells now. Frying oil. Stale beer. Diesel. It wasn’t a town meant for permanence. It was a place people passed through.

That was enough. Dunk slowed as they rolled down the main stretch. No one stared too long. A man unloading crates from a van paused, squinted, then continued working. A woman with smudged lipstick leaned against a doorway, cigarette dangling from her fingers, gaze sliding across the vehicle without interest. A pair of teenagers crossed the street mid-laugh, barely glancing up.

Anonymous. Boom exhaled quietly.

The building they chose didn’t advertise comfort. The sign above the entrance flickered in uneven pulses, ROOMS AVAILABLE, one letter dimmer than the others. The paint around the frame had peeled back in long, brittle curls. The front steps sagged slightly in the center, worn down by years of weight.

When the door opened, the smell reached them before the sound. Sweat soaked into fabric and never fully washed out. Sweet perfume layered too heavily over something sour. Old mattresses. Alcohol. Damp carpet. It pressed into the back of the throat.

Santa stopped half a step inside. Not dramatically. Not visibly enough for a stranger to notice. But his fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. His shoulders drew inward slightly, the blanket gone now but the memory of it still clinging to him. His body remembered sterile floors and cold air and overhead lights. This wasn’t that. This was worse in a different way. It was human. 

Aou felt the shift. He moved closer without looking like he was moving closer. His arm didn’t wrap around Santa. His hand didn’t reach out. He simply occupied the space beside him, shoulder nearly touching. He didn’t like this place. Not because it was dangerous. Because it was exposed. The hallway stretched long and narrow, wallpaper peeling at the seams, the pattern faded into something indistinct. Laughter drifted faintly from upstairs, followed by the creak of bedsprings shifting in rhythm. A door opened. A woman stepped out in heels that were too high for the carpet and looked at them with a flat, assessing gaze before disappearing into another room.

Joong took it in without reaction. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes did. He noted the exits. The sightlines. The narrowness of the stairwell. The way sound traveled here. Dunk remained neutral. There was no judgment in his posture. No discomfort. He had stood in places like this before. He shifted slightly so he could see both ends of the hallway without turning his head. Pond lingered near the entrance a moment longer. The security camera in the corner above the door was old. The casing was scratched. The angle imperfect. The ATM mounted against the wall near the front desk hummed faintly.

Everything here ran on systems that were too outdated to be invisible. That made them easier to touch. The woman behind the counter didn’t ask for names. She didn’t ask for identification. She didn’t look surprised that eight people walked in together looking like they hadn’t slept properly in days.

“How many rooms?” she asked, voice flat, bored.

“Two,” Boom replied.

“Cash.”

“Yes.”

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the ATM. Boom nodded once. Phuwin moved first. The ATM screen flickered to life with a tired green glow. For a moment, the room felt too small. Too loud. The whir of the machine sounded amplified.

Phuwin inserted his card. The pause before approval felt longer than it should have. Then the screen changed. Access granted. A breath left him that he hadn’t realized he was holding. Boom stepped forward next. Dunk followed. Pond drifted closer to the edge of the machine’s reach, eyes unfocused in a way that didn’t mean absence. He didn’t dive into the system. He didn’t disappear into it. He brushed it. Transaction logs blurred just enough to introduce error margins. Time stamps shifted forward by several minutes. Facial recognition snapshots corrupted with digital noise that looked like natural signal distortion. The security camera backup flagged an internal sync fault.

Small adjustments. Nothing dramatic. Clean. For now.

The machine spat out bills in small stacks. Crisp. Impersonal. They were still connected to the world that had created them. Still recognized by systems that knew their names. But every withdrawal thinned that connection. Every transaction drained something that could not be replaced. Boom handed over the cash at the counter. The woman counted it without looking up. She slid two metal keys across the laminate.

“No smoking in the rooms,” she said mechanically, then looked back down at her ledger.

They climbed the stairs. The carpet muffled footsteps unevenly. The hallway upstairs smelled stronger. Perfume layered over sweat. The cleaning solution was failing to mask what had settled into the walls over the years.

Room one. Room two. Metal keys scraped inside locks. Doors closed. The click of each lock settling into place felt louder than it should have.

Inside, the room was smaller than it looked from the outside. Two double beds pushed against opposite walls. Sheets mismatched. A lamp in the corner with a crooked shade. A small bathroom with tile cracked along the edges.

Boom shut the door and tested the lock twice.

Aou remained standing in the center of the room, shoulders tight. The air felt different here. Thicker. Close. There was no sky overhead. No open space. The sounds of strangers pressed through the walls. Laughter, a low murmur, footsteps pacing.

Santa sat slowly on the edge of the nearest bed. The mattress dipped beneath him with a dull groan. Springs shifted under thin fabric. He exhaled as if he had been holding something tight in his chest since they stepped inside.

He didn’t like this place. It wasn’t the clean tiled room in E-12 or the cozy metal hut they lived in during their time in the slums. But he preferred this to the hard floor of the ruined town they had stayed in for the past week. 

Perth closed the curtains. No one said it aloud, but they all understood the calculation. Walls were better than fields. Noise was better than silence. Visibility was worse than anonymity.

Across the hall, Dunk pulled the curtain aside just enough to look at the street below. Joong checked the bathroom window for secondary exits. Phuwin sat down heavily on one of the beds and ran a hand over his face. Pond lowered himself slowly onto the mattress opposite him. His fingertips pressed into the fabric, grounding. The world still hummed faintly at the edges of his awareness. The ATM, the camera, the old wiring in the walls. He heard them all, overwhelmingly loud in his head.

In the other room, Boom finally sat. Not fully relaxed. Just lowering himself enough to suggest a pause.

“We eat,” he said quietly. “Then we rest. Short shifts.”

No one argued. They had shelter. They had money. They had doors that locked. They were not sleeping under the open sky. But as silence settled in the rooms, it didn’t feel like safety.

It felt like something waiting just outside the walls. For now.

The dining room wasn’t a room so much as a widened hallway with tables. Fluorescent light hummed overhead, flickering faintly at one end where a tube struggled to hold its brightness. The walls were painted a tired beige that had yellowed unevenly with years of smoke and steam. Tables stood close together, metal legs uneven on the floor, surfaces wiped but never fully clean. The air carried the scent of frying oil thick enough to coat the back of the tongue.

It was loud in small ways. Utensils, scraping plates, and low conversations filled the room. Someone laughed, too sharply and forced, and a chair was dragged across the tiled floor.

They entered in a loose line, not clumped together but not fully separated either. Boom chose the table without speaking. Back to the wall. Clear view of the door and the stairs. It wasn’t obvious. It never was. Joong took the seat that allowed him to see the entrance directly. Dunk angled himself half-sideways in his chair, one shoulder turned so he could watch both the hallway and the far window without moving his head too much.

Phuwin slid into his seat with a quiet exhale, as if sitting down itself required permission. Pond folded into the chair beside him, hands resting loosely on the table but not touching the surface more than necessary. Aou sat last, after Santa. Santa lowered himself carefully into the chair, as if gauging whether the wood would hold him. He was healing, fragile, but healing, yet there was still a faint slowness in his movements, a carefulness that hadn’t existed before the explosion. Perth sat across from him. Watching him, every move, not taking his eyes off Santa, as if he were his most precious thing.

Plates arrived quickly. The food was hot in a way that didn’t suggest care, only speed. Fried meat slick with oil. Potatoes drowned in salt. Bread that left grease fingerprints on napkins. Vegetables boiled past their texture and seasoned aggressively to compensate. The smell was overwhelming. After days of ration packs and dry bites eaten without appetite, it hit hard.

Phuwin stared at his plate for a moment before picking up his fork. His shoulders lowered fractionally with the first bite. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the salt reached his tongue. Dunk ate steadily. Not fast. Not slow. Efficient. Joong barely touched his food at first. His eyes remained on the door, tracking movement every time it opened. Every time someone stepped inside. Boom cut his food into precise portions before taking a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, gaze lowered but attention everywhere. Aou held his fork loosely. He brought a bite to his mouth and swallowed without tasting it. His focus remained half on Santa, half on the room.

Santa ate slowly and carefully. Each bite was deliberate. Not because he wasn’t hungry. Because his body was still recalibrating. The warmth of the food spread through him in uneven waves, settling into places that still felt hollow. He looked smaller under fluorescent light.

Perth watched him for longer than he intended to. Then he forced his gaze outward. The room was fuller now.

Two women sat at the far table, voices low and quick. A man in a work jacket nursed a drink near the wall. Another couple argued softly in the corner, tension thick but contained.

Perth’s eyes moved from face to face without lingering.

And then it happened again. Not fear or suspicion, it was like a flash. It was subtle this time. Not as sharp as with the farmers. Not as complete. But it slid into him without invitation.

The man near the wall, work jacket, grease under fingernails, wasn’t just drinking. He was listening. Not to them specifically. To the room. Waiting for something to break the rhythm. A woman near the door, laughing too brightly, was watching her reflection in the dark window, not the street beyond it. The couple arguing, she would leave first. He would stay.

None of it was dramatic. None of it mattered. But the knowing landed whole. Not guessed. Not deduced. Perth didn’t look at them longer. He didn’t react. But the sensation lingered.

It wasn’t emotional, the way Santa felt emotion. It wasn’t technical, the way Pond understood systems. It was structural. Like seeing the direction of movement before motion began.

He swallowed. His fork paused halfway to his mouth. Across from him, Santa noticed. He didn’t feel danger in the room. He didn’t feel hostility. What he felt was Perth’s pulse quicken. A thread of tension tightening under calm. Specific. Focused. Not paranoia.

Perth’s gaze shifted again. Another face. A man at the counter ordering something. For a split second, the future of his movement slid into place. He would take his plate. Sit alone. Leave within ten minutes. The man did exactly that.

Perth’s breath faltered. It wasn’t a coincidence anymore, wasn’t probability, it was certainty. His fingers tightened subtly around the fork. He forced himself to take a bite. The salt hit his tongue too sharply. He barely tasted it.

Phuwin leaned back in his chair slightly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I forgot what actual food tastes like,” he murmured, almost amused.

Dunk huffed faintly in agreement. Aou didn’t smile. Joong didn’t look away from the door.

Boom finished his plate first. He set the fork down with deliberate care. The sound of metal against ceramic was small. But it cut cleanly through the noise at their table.

Perth’s gaze snapped back to him. Boom looked at each of them once.

Measured. Assessing. His eyes lingered on Santa half a second longer. Then he spoke.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

The fluorescent light hummed overhead. No one else in the room reacted. The oil on their plates still gleamed under artificial light. But the air at their table shifted. Subtle. Heavy. Waiting.

Chapter Text

Boom chose to talk in their room. It already felt like a nest, not safe, not really, but claimed. So much better than the openness of the dining area. The mattress sagged in the middle like it had given up years ago and never recovered. The sheets smelled like detergent that hadn’t masked what lived here. Sweat, cheap perfume, old cigarette smoke ground into fabric. The wallpaper peeled in long tired curls, exposing concrete beneath like bone beneath skin. And the door had a real lock, not just a latch. A thin rectangle of metal that clicked into place with the kind of finality that made your shoulders drop even when your mind refused to.

He watched Aou guide Santa inside first. Santa was walking, but it was the kind of walking that was mostly pride. His weight leaned wrong. His steps were measured as if every footfall cost him something he couldn’t afford. His face was clean of the worst blood and dirt stains, but he still looked washed out, pale under grime, lips too light, eyes too large in the hollow of his cheeks. His focus drifted like a weak signal. Sometimes he tracked a sound. Sometimes he blinked and didn’t seem to know where he was for a second. Aou stayed close enough that if Santa folded, he’d catch him without thinking.

Perth followed them in, shut the door behind them, and then didn’t immediately move away from it. He didn’t hover like Dunk did not rigid, not soldier-still. He had a different kind of vigilance. Loose shoulders, casual weight on one hip, hands in his pockets like he was bored. But his eyes kept doing it, flicking to corners, to the frame of the window, to the thin gap under the door like danger could seep through it in liquid form. Every few seconds, he looked at Santa again. Not openly. Not dramatically. Just a quick check on breathing, on whether the color was changing, on whether the tremor had returned.

Boom turned the lock. Listened to the click like it was a diagnosis. Then he stood there for a beat, palm resting flat against the wood as if he could feel the building’s pulse through it. The hostel hummed around them, muffled voices behind walls, a laugh too loud in the hallway, footsteps that dragged and stumbled like drunk men or tired women, pipes knocking somewhere in the guts of the place. Neon from outside leaked through the dirty window in weak, bruised colors, flickering across the floor like an unstable heartbeat.

He didn’t look at anyone at first. He listened. He counted sounds. He catalogued them the way he used to catalogue in E-12. The difference was that E-12 had been clean and cold and structured, but this place was human chaos shoved into decaying concrete. But chaos could hide cameras just as well as order could.

“Pond,” Boom said quietly. “Can you check?”

Pond was already near the wall, not because he needed to be there, but because it was what he did when he was forced to exist in a room like a normal person. He didn’t sprawl. He didn’t occupy space the way Phuwin did when he tried to make places feel lived in. Pond existed like a careful edit. He stood where he could see most of the room without being seen too much himself, gaze unfocused for a heartbeat as if he was staring through the wall rather than at it.

Phuwin stayed close. It had become automatic, felt like one of the only honest things in his body. He watched Pond’s throat move as Pond swallowed once, a small motion that always preceded him slipping half out of the room.

Pond shifted. His eyes sharpened and dulled at the same time, pupils adjusting to something not visible. Boom watched the skin on Pond’s forearms lift with goosebumps, watched his fingers flex like they wanted to touch wires. Pond moved to the outlet beneath the window and crouched there, not actually putting his hands in it, just hovering close, head tilted like he was listening for a frequency. Then he rose, crossed to the bedside lamp, and tapped the switch once. The bulb flickered, sputtered, and steadied. Pond’s expression didn’t change.  He went to the window next, peered at the frame, and ran two fingers along the cracked plastic edge where a hidden camera might sit if someone was paranoid enough. Then he turned his attention to the smoke detector on the ceiling. He didn’t move a chair to reach it. He simply stared at it for a long time, and the faint red blink stopped for two seconds, started again, then blinked in a different rhythm.

Boom’s stomach tightened.

Pond’s voice came out soft when he finally spoke, like he’d had to drag it back from far away. “Nothing there.”

Dunk, leaning against the far wall with his arms folded, didn’t react beyond a subtle shift of weight. Joong’s gaze flicked to the ceiling and back to Pond. Aou didn’t look up at all. His attention stayed pinned to Santa’s breath as if he glanced away, the breath would stop out of spite.

“Any audio?” Boom asked.

Pond’s eyes slid to the door. The hallway beyond it was louder now. Someone arguing in a language Boom didn’t catch fully, the tone sharp, escalating. A door slamming. A woman laughing too brightly, as if she was trying to swallow her own fear. A radio somewhere, tinny and distorted through walls. Pond reached for the door handle without opening it. Just rested his fingers against the metal and closed his eyes for a second. Phuwin’s hand twitched like he wanted to grab Pond’s wrist and pull him back into himself.

Pond opened his eyes again. “Nothing in here,” he said. Then, after a beat, because he always told the truth even when it made people uncomfortable: “There’s a camera in the hallway.”

Dunk’s jaw tightened. “Of course there is.”

Pond’s gaze stayed calm. “It’s cheap.”

Boom let out a slow breath. “Can you…”

“I can loop it,” Pond said, like he was answering a question that had barely formed. He didn’t boast. He didn’t say easily. He just said it as a fact. “I already did. It thinks the hallway is empty. It will think that until someone kicks it.”

Boom nodded once. “Good.” He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the second bed, the one Perth hadn’t claimed. The mattress dipped under him with a tired squeak. He looked around the room again. Everyone had found their position by instinct.

Santa was sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, knees drawn slightly in. A blanket covered his legs and part of his torso. It made him look smaller than his age. Not because he was childish, but because illness and injury always stripped people down to their most vulnerable selves. Aou hovered on the floor beside the bed, one knee up, elbow resting there like he was bracing himself.  Perth sat on Santa’s other side, closer than Boom would have expected. But Perth wasn’t a stranger anymore. There was something in the way Santa’s fingers rested near Perth’s, loose and unconscious, that told Boom Santa had stopped categorizing him as danger long ago.

Dunk stood near the door because, of course, he did. Joong sat on the chair in the corner, shoulders relaxed but attention razor, gaze occasionally flicking to Dunk as if checking that he was there. Phuwin sat on the floor near Pond, back against the wall, knees up, like he’d chosen a place where he could reach Pond quickly without making a scene about it.

Boom’s forehead throbbed. He could feel the healed skin there tugging when he frowned, and he caught Aou glancing at it, eyes narrowing slightly, as if he could still sense what he’d repaired. Boom swallowed down the warmth that rose in his chest at that thought. Not now. Focus.

“I need you all to listen,” Boom said.

No one spoke. Even Perth, who always had a remark ready like a shield, stayed quiet. The room’s noise pressed in from outside, but here, for a moment, their silence held. Boom reached into the inside pocket of his coat. He felt the shape immediately. Small. Hard. Sharp edges through fabric. He had carried it across the facility. Across the slums. Across fire and gas and chaos. He had carried it while Santa bled out in his arms. While Aou shook like he was burning himself alive to keep Santa breathing. While Dunk fired into the dark without looking back. While Pond crashed drones out of the sky like swatting insects. While Joong’s barriers flickered and failed in places and still held just enough.

A stupid little piece of plastic and metal. A thing that shouldn’t matter. A thing that mattered more than most people would ever understand. He pulled it out.

The USB drive looked ordinary in his palm. Black casing. Slight scuff marks along one edge. A faint scratch across the surface that made Boom’s stomach twist with irrational dread. It sat there like nothing. Like it wasn’t a detonator for an entire narrative. He didn’t hold it up like a trophy. He didn’t let the light catch it for dramatic effect. He simply opened his hand and let them see.

Phuwin’s gaze locked onto it instantly. Pond’s eyes sharpened, focus snapping in like a lens. Joong leaned forward by a fraction. Dunk’s expression didn’t change, but something tightened around his mouth, the way it did when he expected bad news. Perth’s gaze flicked from the USB to Boom’s face to Santa’s profile and back again, reading, reading, reading. Aou didn’t look at the USB at first. His eyes went to Santa, like the USB couldn’t matter if Santa stopped breathing. Boom swallowed. His throat felt dry.

“I’ve been carrying that,” he said quietly. “Since before any of you knew me as someone other than the doctor.” Santa’s lashes fluttered. He didn’t speak, but his attention sharpened just enough that Boom felt it. Boom’s fingers curled around the USB, not crushing it, but holding it like it could slip away if he loosened his grip. “I didn’t make it because I wanted leverage,” he said, and his voice turned hard on the last word, like he hated what that made him sound like. “I made it because I recognized the pattern.”

Dunk’s eyes narrowed. “What pattern?”

Boom didn’t look away. “The pattern where the facility writes the story before anyone else can.”

Silence thickened. Even the hostel noises outside seemed to blur. Boom forced himself to keep going. “I curated it,” he said. “Not all of E-12. Not the whole archive. I couldn’t. But pieces. Specific pieces. The ones that mattered. The ones that would hold up under scrutiny if anyone ever dared to look.”

He glanced at Santa then, because he couldn’t not. Santa’s face was blank in the way trauma made it blank, but the tension in his jaw was familiar. Boom had seen it in him since childhood, that moment right before Santa shut himself down to survive.

Boom’s voice softened, not with pity, but with truth. “The first time I heard the word asset used like it was a diagnosis,” he said. “The first time I watched them talk about you as if you were… equipment.” Aou’s hand curled into a fist in his lap. Boom could feel the rage in him like heat. Boom continued. “I knew one day it would be needed,” he said, and his jaw clenched around the admission. “I knew one day someone would call you monsters and expect the world to nod along.”

Phuwin’s voice came out tight. “You were waiting for this to happen?”

Boom looked at him. “I wasn’t, not really, I just knew I needed evidence that what I saw was real, that what I knew was the truth.”

Perth let out a breath through his nose, almost silent. Not a laugh. Not amusement. Something like recognition. Of course, the government would lie. Of course they would.

Pond spoke then, because Pond didn’t waste words on comfort, only clarity. “What is on it?”

Boom nodded once, grateful for the straightforwardness.

“It contains facility records,” Boom said. “Everything I could safely extract without tripping alarms. It’s not complete. It’s curated. But it’s… enough.”

Aou’s gaze finally flicked to the USB. His eyes looked almost black in the dim light. “Enough for what?”

Boom’s throat tightened. “Enough to show what they did to you.”

Santa’s hand twitched beneath the blanket. Perth’s fingers moved slightly, and Boom saw the way Perth’s hand hovered near Santa’s like a choice he didn’t know how to make yet. Boom forced himself to be specific. If he wasn’t, their imagination would fill the gaps with worse.

“It contains childhood logs for you three,” Boom said, and nodded toward Santa, Aou, and Pond. “Development milestones. Medication history. Containment decisions. Behavioral reports. Ability testing protocols and progression. Incident logs. Everything that shows you were treated like something that could be measured and controlled.” Santa stared at nothing. Aou’s eyes flashed once with something sharp and wounded. Pond’s expression didn’t change, but Phuwin felt Pond’s shoulder tense beside him like a cable pulled too tight.

Boom turned to Joong. “For you,” he said, voice steady, “records begin at intake. There is no early archive. No childhood facility history. But there are intake notes. Medical scans. Containment classifications from the moment they took you.”

Joong’s face didn’t move, but his fingers tightened around the edge of the chair. His ribs had healed enough that he wasn’t wincing anymore, but the memory of being taken at nine still sat under his skin like shrapnel that never came out.

Boom’s eyes met those of the others. “The files include records from before I became primary doctor,” he said. “Because I copied archive segments. Staff notes. Directives. Orders. I didn’t want it to look like it was only my documentation. That would make it easier to dismiss as bias.”

Phuwin’s breath hitched, mind racing already. “So… internal memos.”

“Yes,” Boom said.

“Compliance protocols,” Phuwin murmured.

“Yes.”

“Sedation schedules,” Phuwin added, and his voice went cold with it.

Boom nodded once. “Yes.”

Aou’s voice came out quiet, almost disbelieving. “You kept all of that, all our pain.”

Boom’s eyes snapped to him. “I kept proof of how you were mistreated, how they saw nothing human in you, just numbers, experiments.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The room felt smaller. The air felt heavier. Even the neon outside seemed to flicker more slowly, like the building itself was listening.

Boom held the USB tighter. “It contains medical scans,” he continued. “Containment classifications. Staff notes. Directives. The paper trail of a system that was never expected to be questioned.”

He swallowed, forced the next part out, because it mattered that they understood what it wasn’t.

“It does not contain family history,” Boom said. “Not for you three. That was erased the moment the strand was found. You were never meant to exist in the first place. Everyone with the strand, all of you, was never meant to exist. Your parents were told you died, and on paper, you did, you don’t exist, shouldn’t exist, in the public eye. ”

Santa swallowed hard. A tiny sound escaped him, not quite a sob, not quite a breath. Aou’s hand flew up instinctively, hovering near Santa’s shoulder, then stopping short like he remembered his own fear of touch. Perth did what Aou couldn’t in that moment. He shifted closer and rested his hand lightly on the blanket near Santa’s knee, not grabbing, not forcing, just anchoring. Santa’s fingers moved beneath the fabric, a faint response, like his body recognized safety before his mind dared.

Boom watched it and felt something raw twist in his chest. Not jealousy. Not anger. Relief. Santa needed anchors. He always had.

Pond’s voice came flat. “What does it prove?”

Boom met his eyes. “If it’s intact,” he said, “it shows you were minors. Controlled. Studied. Documented. That the narrative they will tell does not match their own records.”

He paused, because the next sentence mattered. Boom chose the words carefully, like he was suturing something delicate. “It shows you were patients,” he said. “Children. Contained. Documented.”

Dunk let out a short breath. “And it shows what they did. What you did to them…for the government.”

Boom nodded yes. “Yes. That’s the guilt I have to carry. I tried my best to be human, to treat them like patients, not the monsters the government wanted me to see in them.”

Perth’s jaw tightened. His gaze flicked to the USB again, then to Santa, and something in his expression shifted, not sarcastic, not playful. Like he had been handed a piece of a story he’d always suspected existed, and now he couldn’t unsee it. And how this could change their view on Boom for the better or worse. 

Aou finally spoke, and his voice trembled with an anger that wasn’t loud but could rot steel. “And we can use it.”

Boom didn’t lie. “If we can access it safely,” he said.

Phuwin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes bright with that technician’s focus that always came on like a switch. “We need a computer,” he said immediately. “Not just any. Something offline. Something we can control. If we plug it into a live terminal…”

“It becomes a beacon,” Pond finished, tone neutral, like it was obvious.

Phuwin’s hands moved as he spoke, fingers sketching invisible diagrams in the air. “We need an air-gapped system. No network. No auto-sync. No OS that phones home, even if you think it’s not.” His voice sped up. “We need a projector or second screen too, because if we’re reading this together, we can’t be crowding around a laptop like idiots. We need a clean power source. We need…”

He cut himself off, swallowing hard. Not because he ran out of ideas. Because he suddenly heard how alive he sounded. How normal it sounded. Planning. Building. Solving. For a second, it almost felt like before. Before the slums. Before they became hunted names in a government broadcast. Boom watched that flicker of life cross Phuwin’s face and felt something tighten behind his ribs. He didn’t want to destroy it by speaking. But he had to be honest.

“We don’t know if it survived,” Boom said quietly. The words landed like a weight.

Phuwin’s mind didn’t slow. It just shifted. “Then we assume it did until proven otherwise,” he said, stubborn as steel. “And we build what we need to check.”

Joong’s gaze flicked to Dunk. Dunk nodded once, like the decision had already formed in him. “We can get parts,” Dunk said.

Joong’s voice came soft but firm. “There’s a market here, Iheard people down there talk about it. Scrap. Old tech. If we go in daylight, we look like everyone else.”

Perth’s gaze snapped to him, assessing. “You two going together is smart,” he said, and the fact that he said smart rather than making a joke about it made Boom’s stomach drop with how serious it was.

Aou spoke again, voice raw. “What about Santa?” Santa didn’t look up. His gaze was fixed on some point in the wall like his mind was trying not to fall into the past. His breathing stayed shallow but steady.

Boom answered with the only truth he had. “We keep him stable,” he said. “We don’t push him. We don’t leave him alone.”

Perth’s hand tightened faintly on the blanket. “He won’t be alone,” he said, and it came out like a vow he didn’t know he was making. Aou’s eyes flicked to Perth, sharp and suspicious by habit, then softening.

Boom held the USB up again, the small thing heavy in the dim light. “This,” he said, and his voice went low, intense, “is not a weapon. It’s a mirror. It reflects their insanity back at themselves.”

Dunk’s mouth twisted. “Mirrors don’t stop bullets.”

Boom met his gaze. “No,” he agreed. “But they change what people believe. And belief is how wars turn.”

Pond’s eyes narrowed slightly, like the idea of belief being weaponized was both familiar and disgusting. Phuwin’s mind was already skipping ahead to hardware lists, to ways to shield signals, to how to pull data without leaving fingerprints. Joong’s posture stayed still, but his attention tightened like a string being pulled. Aou didn’t look at the USB anymore. He watched Santa, watched Perth, watched Boom. Watching where love was. Watching where guilt could break someone.

Outside the door, footsteps passed. Someone laughed again, too loud, too forced. The hallway camera blinked somewhere in a loop that Pond controlled. Inside the room, the world shifted. Not in a dramatic way. Not like an explosion. More like a latch clicking into place. Boom lowered the USB and slid it back into his coat, deep enough that it rested against his ribs where he could feel it with every breath. It made him nauseous and steady at the same time.

Phuwin exhaled slowly. “Okay,” he said, voice calmer now, but his eyes still bright with the sprint of his mind. “Okay. We need a build. We need time. We need to stay quiet, but not still.”

Boom nodded once.

He looked at them, all of them, and for the first time since the underground burned, something like direction settled into his bones.

“We make a plan,” he said. Phuwin’s gaze sharpened. Not fear. Logistics.

Chapter Text

Phuwin didn’t realize he had shifted closer to the edge of the bed until his knees were almost touching Boom’s. He hadn’t moved consciously. His body just did that when something mechanical entered the room, when a problem became tangible. When there was something he could take apart and put back together, instead of just waiting for someone to bleed or stop breathing. The USB had disappeared back into Boom’s coat, but it still felt present. Like static in the air. Like a device plugged in somewhere behind the walls, humming at a frequency only he and Pond could hear. He rubbed his palms together once, grounding himself.

“What type?” he asked.

Boom blinked. “What?”

“The connector,” Phuwin said, already leaning forward again. “Standard USB-A? Micro? C? Is it old enough that it’s something stupid and proprietary?”

Boom frowned faintly, like he was reaching back through months of chaos to remember something mundane. “Standard,” he said. “USB-A.”

Phuwin exhaled through his teeth. “Okay. Good.”

He glanced at Pond without meaning to. Pond’s gaze was already on him. Always slightly angled. Always calculating something in the background.

“Condition?” Phuwin pressed. “Did it take impact? Heat? Water?”

“It was in my coat,” Boom said. “During the gas. During the evacuation. It… wasn’t submerged.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Phuwin muttered under his breath, but it wasn’t sharp. It was a habit. He looked up again. “Did it crack. Did you drop it?”

Boom held his gaze steadily. “It’s scuffed. No visible cracks.”

Phuwin nodded once. “Good.”

“And encryption?” he asked.

Boom didn’t pretend. “Basic.”

Phuwin closed his eyes for a second. “Basic how?”

“Password-protected archive,” Boom said. “Internal segmentation. It’s not… good.”

“You didn’t build a server inside your coat,” Dunk muttered from near the wall.

Boom’s mouth twitched faintly. “No.”

Phuwin ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back and then forward again as if it might help his brain click into place faster. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay. So you just stored the data there, you didn’t think of securing it in any special way or form.”

Boom nodded.

“We need to be careful, this thing can either help us or tell the government exactly where we are.” Phuwin's gaze scanned the room. The USB could be their path to freedom or their end.  Silence followed that sentence. Not dramatic silence. Just the kind that settled in when something obvious was said out loud and everyone knew it was true. Phuwin didn’t need it explained. He could see it in his mind immediately, the moment a system recognized a foreign drive, the auto-scan, the silent ping, the ghost handshake with whatever monitoring software the government had embedded in half the city’s infrastructure. Even the cheap machines in this hostel probably phoned home in some capacity. Data didn’t sit still in this world. It bled.

“We can’t use anything public,” Phuwin said quietly.

“No internet café,” Dunk added.

“No internet café,” Phuwin echoed automatically. “No borrowed laptop. No plugged-in anything.”

Joong leaned forward slightly, forearms on his knees. “So we build.”

Phuwin’s eyes snapped to him. There it was. Not hope. Not heroics. Just the logical next step.

“Yes,” Phuwin said. “We build.”

Aou’s gaze flicked between them, wary. “Out of what?”

“Scrap,” Phuwin said. “Like Dunk and Joong already offered.”

Dunk pushed off the wall and crossed the room slowly, boots silent on the threadbare carpet. He stopped near the foot of the bed, gaze sharp but not aggressive.

Phuwin’s brain was already sprinting. “I will write you a list, for the things I need. Doesn’t have to be pretty, just functional.”  Boom watched him carefully. Not intervening. Not interrupting. Just observing the way Phuwin’s shoulders straightened as he spoke, the way his exhaustion receded under purpose.

“And we need isolation,” Pond added.

Phuwin nodded sharply. “Yes.”

Pond’s gaze drifted for half a second, not leaving the room, just mapping invisible layers. “We can build something that doesn’t talk,” he said. “No network card. No wireless chip. Strip it.”

Phuwin’s mouth twitched. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is,” Pond said.

Phuwin huffed a short laugh despite himself. “For you, maybe.”

Santa shifted on the bed. It was small. A tightening of fingers beneath the blanket. A faint hitch in breath. But it pulled everyone’s attention like gravity.

Aou leaned closer instantly, eyes scanning Santa’s face. “You’re okay,” he murmured, low and steady. “Just listen.”

Santa blinked slowly. He was listening. He was absorbing everything. His body just hadn’t caught up to his mind yet.

Boom cleared his throat gently. “We’re not doing this tonight.”

Phuwin glanced up, irritation flashing for half a second before he recognized the wisdom in it. “No,” he agreed. “We’re not.”

Dunk shifted his weight. “Joong and I can go now,” he said.

Aou’s head snapped up. “Now?”

“Before the market closes,” Dunk replied calmly. “Before someone notices eight new faces in a place like this.”

“You’ll need cash,” Phuwin said.

Boom nodded. “We have access.”

“Not through anything traceable,” Phuwin said immediately.

Dunk’s mouth twitched. “We’re not idiots.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Pond looked at Phuwin then, head tilted slightly. “I can handle the transaction logs again, no worries.”

Phuwin’s gaze softened. “I know.”

The room shifted again, not tension this time, but alignment. They were not helpless.

That realization didn’t come as a cheer. It came as something steadier. Quieter. The recognition that they had skill sets. That the government had trained them to survive in a system, and now those skills could be turned outward.

Phuwin was not just a bystander. He was a technician. Pond was not just a connection. He was a living exploit. Joong had training. Dunk had instinct honed by war and betrayal and survival.

Boom had knowledge. Aou had power that could bend biology. Santa had empathy that could move rooms.

Phuwin’s gaze flicked to Perth again without meaning to. Perth was watching. His eyes moved from speaker to speaker, lingering half a second longer than normal on Dunk when he mentioned the market, on Joong when he volunteered, on Phuwin when he said “we build.” It wasn’t suspicion. It was an analysis.

Phuwin felt it like a low hum. Perth caught his look and held it for a second too long.

“What?” Perth said quietly.

Phuwin shook his head. “Nothing.”

Perth’s mouth curved faintly, but he didn’t push.

“I don’t like splitting,” Aou said.

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Boom looked at him. “Neither do I.”

Aou’s jaw tightened. “Santa…”

“I’m fine,” Santa whispered. It was barely a voice. More breath than sound. But it cut through the room like something fragile and sharp. Everyone froze. Santa’s eyes were open. Clearer than they’d been a minute ago. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t steady. But he was present.

Aou’s hand hovered near his shoulder again, fighting the instinct to check, to fix, to interfere. “You don’t have to be fine,” Aou said quietly.

Santa’s lips twitched faintly. “I know.”

Perth’s hand shifted under the blanket, brushing against Santa’s knuckles for half a second before retreating like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to stay there. Boom watched the exchange and felt something complicated tighten in his chest. He didn’t name it.

“We don’t split far,” Boom said carefully. “Market. Groceries. Back. No wandering.”

Dunk nodded once. “We keep it quiet.”

There was no bravado in it. No soldier swagger. Just a statement of discipline. Phuwin inhaled slowly and began listing components out loud, because speaking them made them real.

“Motherboard,” he said. “Doesn’t matter if it’s old. CPU that matches. RAM sticks, even if they’re mismatched, we can make them work. Power supply. Doesn’t need to be strong. Monitor. Keyboard. Mouse. Or at least an input device.”

Joong nodded slightly, absorbing.

“External storage,” Phuwin added. “Something clean. If the USB is compromised, we don’t want to open it directly on the only system we built.”

“Battery backup?” Dunk asked.

“Yes,” Phuwin said immediately. “If power flickers mid-transfer, we don’t want corruption.”

Pond’s gaze sharpened faintly. “And shielding.”

Phuwin glanced at him. “What?”

“Metal casing,” Pond said. “Grounded. No wireless chip. No antenna. Strip anything that speaks.”

Phuwin’s mouth curved faintly. “You’re terrifying.”

Pond didn’t react.

Aou’s gaze moved between them. “And if it’s damaged?”

Phuwin’s voice softened slightly. “Then we try to recover it.”

“And if you can’t?”

“We can,” Pond said. “I can.”

Santa shifted again, exhaustion creeping back into his posture. Aou noticed immediately, adjusting the blanket slightly like he could regulate Santa’s body temperature through sheer will. Boom stood slowly from the bed.

“We move in teams,” he said. “Joong and Dunk to the market. Phuwin and Pond stay here with Aou and Santa.”

Perth’s head tilted slightly. “And you?”

Boom met his gaze. “Groceries,” he said. “Medical.”

Perth’s eyes flickered.

“I’ll come,” Perth said.

Boom didn’t hesitate. “Fine.”

Dunk’s gaze moved between them. “Quick.”

“Quick,” Boom agreed.

Phuwin felt the shift solidify then. Not hope. A schedule.

Joong stood first, stretching his shoulders like he was preparing for something heavier than scrap hunting. Dunk adjusted his jacket, checking the weight at his back out of habit even though he’d left most of the obvious weapons behind.

Pond moved slightly closer to Phuwin without speaking. Not clinging. Not dramatic. Just positioning. Aou leaned in closer to Santa, murmuring something too low for anyone else to hear. Perth stood from the bed, but his hand lingered for half a second longer on the blanket before he stepped away. Boom felt the room reorganize itself around purpose.

He touched the inside of his coat again, feeling the outline of the USB against his ribs.

A week ago, they had been running under fire. Now they were building a machine from scrap to pry open the truth. The plan was not formed as a rallying cry, but as a timeline.

Market. Groceries. Parts. Build.

And somewhere in that, the quiet understanding that staying here too long would get them killed. 

Chapter Text

They didn’t say goodbye. There was no need for it. Not the sentimental kind.

Joong closed the hostel door behind them without looking back. Dunk walked half a step ahead, not because he led, but because his body naturally angled toward open space first. The hallway smelled like disinfectant layered over old sweat and cheap perfume. A woman laughed somewhere behind a door, the sound breaking sharply into a cough. Neon bled through the cracked window at the stairwell, blue and pink stuttering against peeling paint.

The building creaked as if it resented being used. They stepped out into the late afternoon heat, and the air changed immediately. Less stale. More metallic. The city had that under-skin hum to it, generators whining, old transformers buzzing, distant music thudding through walls that were too thin to contain anything. The sky above was washed-out gray, but down at street level, everything glowed. Strips of LED signage, half-broken and flickering. Hand-painted boards promising repairs, upgrades, and discreet services. Wires tangled overhead like black vines strangling each other. Dunk didn’t speak until they were halfway down the block.

“Left,” he said quietly, holding a yellowed map that he took from the info desk at the hostel.

Joong didn’t ask. He followed. They moved in unison, a team that didn’t need words for communication. Joong’s stride was relaxed, shoulders loose, gaze drifting casually over storefronts. He looked like someone who belonged here. Which he did. The slums had carved their map into his bones before E-12 ever did. Dunk moved differently. Slightly angled. Always leaving himself a clear line of retreat. He wasn’t aggressive. He wasn’t broadcasting a threat. But there was something about him that made people step aside half a second sooner than they needed to. The market unfolded gradually.

First, the smell, grease, and something sweet rotting in the heat. Then the sound, generators coughing, vendors shouting, someone arguing over price in a language that blended three dialects into one. Then the sight, rusted metal tables piled high with circuitry, stripped casings, cracked screens stacked like fallen dominoes. Neon tubing zip-tied to poles to advertise “UPGRADE,” “FIX,” and “NO QUESTIONS.”

A kid no older than twelve darted between stalls carrying a bundle of copper wire on his shoulder like a prize. A woman in reflective sunglasses haggled over a motherboard with a cigarette hanging from her lip. An older man sat cross-legged on a tarp repairing a handheld console with surgical precision and a magnifier strapped to his forehead.

Rust and neon. Patched tech and hungry eyes. Joong felt something familiar settle into place inside him. This he understood. Dunk slowed slightly, letting Joong adjust the pace.

“You take point,” Dunk murmured.

Joong didn’t look at him. “You’ll see what I miss.”

“Always.”

They entered the deeper stretch of the market where the lighting shifted from bright flicker to shadowed glow. The good parts weren’t displayed up front. They were kept behind plastic curtains, behind half-lowered shutters, behind the gaze of someone who measured you before speaking. Joong approached the first stall with a cracked tablet screen propped upright against a stack of broken monitors.

“Working?” he asked.

The vendor, a thin man with silver rings on every finger, snorted. “Depends on what you call working.”

Joong crouched and picked up the tablet. The glass was shattered across one corner but the internal display flickered when he pressed the side button. He turned it slightly. The colors glitched once, then steadied.

“How much?”

The man eyed him. “Three hundred.”

Joong didn’t blink. “It’s worth one.”

The man laughed, showing gold teeth. “Then buy it for one somewhere else.”

Dunk stepped slightly closer. Not threatening. Just present. The vendor’s gaze flicked to him. Measured the shoulders. The stance. The stillness.

“Two fifty,” the man said.

“One twenty,” Joong replied, calm.

They danced like that for a minute. Numbers dropping, rising, meeting in the middle of tension. They settled at one seventy. Joong didn’t smile when he handed over the cash. He didn’t nod either. He just took the tablet and slid it into the backpack Dunk had brought.

“Next,” Dunk murmured.

They moved stall to stall with the same rhythm. Old keyboard, keys worn smooth, but intact. Cheap cables, mismatched lengths, some frayed but usable. A power inverter that looked like it had survived three different owners and two floods. A half-functional mini-tower case with no front panel but a solid internal frame. At a deeper stall, Joong found what they really needed, a motherboard still mounted to a warped metal plate. Dust coated the circuitry. A cooling fan hung loose by one screw. He lifted it carefully.

“It boots?” he asked.

The vendor, a woman with oil under her nails and a scar across her chin, shrugged. “Booted last week.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She smirked faintly. “It turns on.”

Joong studied the pins. The ports. The age. Dunk watched the woman instead. She wasn’t nervous. Not aggressive. Just calculating.

“How much?” Joong asked.

“Four hundred.”

He didn’t react. “It’s missing RAM.”

“Not my problem.”

“Three hundred.”

“Three eighty.”

Dunk shifted slightly, gaze flicking to a group of men further down the row who had paused mid-conversation to glance their way. Joong saw it too.

They were being clocked. Not targeted. Just noted.

“Three twenty,” Joong said quietly. The woman hesitated. Looked at Dunk. Looked back at Joong.

“Three fifty.”

Joong extended the cash without another word. Deal done. They didn’t linger.

The market breathed around them. Voices rising and falling. Neon reflecting off metal. Someone somewhere was playing music that sounded like it had been downloaded illegally ten years ago and never updated. They moved toward a stall stacked with external storage drives, some new, some clearly recycled. Joong picked up a small flash drive. Cheap casing. No branding.

“How many gigs?”

“Depends,” the vendor replied lazily.

Joong plugged it into a tester device sitting on the table. The screen blinked. Forty-eight gigs.

“Real?” Joong asked.

The vendor shrugged. “Mostly.”

Dunk’s mouth twitched faintly. They bought two. As they moved deeper into the market’s narrowest artery, the air thickened. Two men leaned against a wall with cigarettes burning low between their fingers.

“…E-Twelve,” one of them muttered, not quietly enough.

Dunk’s stride didn’t change. Joong’s gaze didn’t flick toward them. They harvested.

“…government says they torched it themselves…”

“…heard one of them can rot steel…”

“…they’re looking for bio-something…”

“…payout if you tip off…”

Joong catalogued every word without reacting. Dunk’s posture shifted by millimeters. Not enough for anyone else to see. Enough for Joong to feel. They didn’t chase the conversation. They didn’t linger. They kept walking. At a final stall near the edge of the market, they found a small battery backup unit, dented, scratched, but solid. Joong lifted it. Heavy enough to matter.

“How long?” he asked.

The vendor tapped it. “Enough.”

Dunk let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. They paid. By the time they stepped out of the market’s shadow and back into the open street, the backpack was heavier. Not overloaded. Just full of potential. Dunk adjusted the strap over his shoulder.

“You good?” he asked.

Joong nodded. They walked in silence for a stretch. Then Dunk spoke quietly, eyes scanning the rooftops.

“They’re talking about it.”

“I know.”

“They’re closer than before.”

Joong didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. He could feel it too. Not through an ability. Not through some supernatural awareness. Through pattern. Through the way rumors shifted tone. Through the way the word “payout” lingered longer than curiosity.

“We move faster,” Joong said. Dunk glanced at him.

“Not run,” Joong added. “Just… faster.”

Dunk nodded once. They didn’t need barriers up. Joong didn’t flare his ability, didn’t even brush the edge of it. He didn’t advertise. Not here. Not in a place full of eyes and potential witnesses. He kept it in reserve. Capable. Silent.

Dunk moved like a guard dog in human form. Not growling. Not snapping. Just there. His awareness ran ahead of them, flanked them, circled behind. Every doorway was a possibility. Every alley was a calculation. They reached the block near the hostel just as the neon signs began to flicker brighter in the falling light.

No one followed. No one called out. No confrontation. Just the hum of a city that didn’t care who you were as long as you paid. Joong adjusted the weight of the bag once more.

They could function here. That was the important part. They weren’t ghosts. They weren’t helpless. They were men in a market buying parts like anyone else. And when they stepped back through the hostel door, carrying scrap and possibility and the faint echo of E-12 rumors in their ears, they did not look like prey. They were the ones hunting, but their prey wasn’t aware yet.

Chapter Text

The air outside the hostel felt different once they stepped away from it. Inside, the building had swallowed sound and light in equal measure. Outside, the street pulsed. Not loud enough to call it chaos. Not quiet enough to call it calm. Just… alive. Neon signage blinked in uneven intervals above doorways. A broken holo-panel on the corner glitched between an old soda ad and a public service announcement about civic cooperation. The sky above the slums was the color of unwashed steel.

Perth didn’t hesitate when Boom glanced at him.

“This way,” Perth said. He didn’t explain why. He didn’t need to. Boom followed.

They walked two blocks past the brighter strip, past the shops with loud music and people spilling onto sidewalks, and turned down a narrower road where the buildings sagged inward like they were tired of holding themselves up. There it was. The supermarket.

The signage above the entrance was missing two letters. The automatic door only opened halfway before stuttering and giving up, forcing them to push the rest of the way through. The lights inside were harsh and fluorescent, flickering just enough to irritate but not enough to fail. Half the shelves were uneven. Some aisles were nearly empty. The air smelled faintly of cardboard and cleaning fluid.

Perfect. No one came here for quality. No one came here to be seen. No one asked questions. Boom paused just inside the entrance, eyes sweeping the space automatically. Six aisles. Two checkout counters. One security mirror in the corner, cracked down the middle. A fridge unit humming loudly along the back wall.

Three customers. One employee. Perth felt it before he catalogued it.

The way the employee leaned against the counter wasn’t boredom. It was a calculation. The way the couple in aisle three stood too close but not touching wasn’t affectionate. It was coordination. The man near the drinks fridge had his head angled wrong, not toward the labels, but toward reflections. It hit him like a flicker of static behind his eyes. Too much. Too fast. He swallowed.

“Water first,” Boom said quietly, already pushing a cart with a wheel that squealed in protest. Perth nodded and followed. They moved down the beverage aisle. Boom’s hands moved with quiet efficiency. Two large bottles. Three smaller ones. He read labels without making it obvious, checking sodium levels. Checking sugar content. Electrolytes over branding. He set them carefully into the cart.

Perth watched him. There was something almost surgical in the way Boom selected groceries. Carbs next. Plain bread. Not the expensive stuff near the entrance. The discounted loaves near the back with slightly dented packaging. Rice. Instant noodles. Crackers that would keep. Boom’s fingers moved with the rhythm of someone doing triage.

“How many days?” Perth asked quietly.

Boom didn’t look up. “A week if we ration.”

They moved on. Canned soup. Not the rich kind. The bland kind. Something Santa’s stomach wouldn’t revolt against. Plain oatmeal. Bananas that were still green enough to last. A packet of rehydration salts was tucked discreetly between the cereal boxes. Boom paused near the pharmacy shelf. It wasn’t much. Over-the-counter painkillers. Cheap antiseptic. Gauze that looked like it would disintegrate under pressure. He picked up a box of ibuprofen, flipped it over, and checked.

“Expired?” Perth asked.

“Next month,” Boom replied. “Still usable.”

He added it to the cart. Perth’s gaze drifted. There it was again.

The cashier. Young. Maybe twenty. Too alert for this time of day. Her eyes tracked customers in a way that wasn’t casual. Her fingers tapped the counter in a rhythm that didn’t match the music playing faintly from somewhere in the back. She wasn’t tired. She was watching for opportunities. Perth felt the conclusion settle into him without effort.

She’d skim. Not from everyone. From the distracted. From the ones who didn’t count change. He hadn’t seen her do it. He just knew. His gaze shifted. The man by the drinks fridge had repositioned slightly. Not closer. Just angled differently. His reflection in the fridge door gave him away. His eyes weren’t scanning labels. They were scanning hands. Bags. Wallets. Waiting. Not for Boom. For someone else. But waiting. And the couple in aisle three? Perth’s jaw tightened. They were too synchronized. The woman picked up an item and turned her back just as the man shifted to block the view from the cashier’s mirror. Predatory.

Not violent. Petty. But organized. He swallowed again. It wasn’t new. He had always been able to see this. Hadn’t he? He moved closer to Boom without thinking.

“Don’t use the first register,” he murmured. Boom didn’t react visibly.

“Why?”

“She’ll skim.” Boom’s eyes flicked to the cashier briefly, then back to the shelf in front of him.

“How do you know?” 

Perth opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I just do.” Boom didn’t argue. They continued shopping. More water. A small pack of cheap protein bars. A box of saline solution was tucked low on the bottom shelf, as if it didn’t belong here. Boom crouched to pick it up. Perth’s gaze swept the store again.

The man at the fridge was watching the door now. The couple had shifted aisles. The cashier’s fingers paused when someone new entered. It was like a pattern overlay. Lines connecting behavior. Tiny cues stacking on top of each other.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t vision. It was data. Posture. Eye movement. Timing. But it felt louder. Sharper. Immediate. Boom stood again, cart fuller now.

“You’re quiet,” Boom said lightly. Perth huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“Am I?”

“Yes.” They moved toward the back aisle. Perth’s pulse ticked slightly faster. It wasn’t fear. It was certainty. He didn’t like that word. Certainty was dangerous.

“Something’s wrong with me,” he said suddenly. Boom didn’t stop walking.

“Explain.”

“I’m… too sure.” Boom’s hand stilled on the cart handle for a fraction of a second.

“Too sure of what?”

Perth exhaled slowly.

“It’s like I’m reading people before they speak,” he said quietly.

Boom glanced at him fully now. Perth’s eyes were fixed on the couple in aisle three as they shifted again in perfect coordination.

“I can feel what they’re going to do,” Perth continued. “Not in detail. Not like… steps. Just the shape of it. The direction.”

Boom’s voice remained level. “Has it always been like this?”

Perth hesitated.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But not like this.”

“Not like how?”

“Not this loud.” Boom’s gaze softened, but not dismissively.

“Loud,” he repeated.

Perth ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s the same thing I’ve always done,” he said. “Reading rooms. Reading people. Knowing when to leave. Knowing when someone’s lying. Knowing when someone’s going to pull a knife before they reach for it.” He swallowed. “But it’s faster now. More detailed.” Boom didn’t interrupt. “It’s like I don’t have to think about it anymore,” Perth continued. “It just… arrives. And I’m not guessing. I’m not filling gaps. I just know.”

Boom’s eyes flicked to the cashier again, then to the man by the fridge.

“And you’re right?” he asked.

Perth nodded once. Boom considered that.

“Did it change after you took them in?” Boom asked quietly.

Perth’s gaze snapped to him.

“What?”

“After we arrived at your place, after you started caring. Did it change?”

The words landed heavier than Perth expected. He didn’t answer immediately.

They moved toward the second register, the older one, where a different employee stood half-asleep and uninterested. Perth watched the cashier at the first register skim a bill from a distracted customer without anyone noticing. His jaw tightened. Boom began unloading items onto the conveyor belt.

“Attachment changes perception,” Boom said calmly. “You’re not just surviving for yourself anymore.” Perth’s fingers curled around the edge of the cart.

“You’re running deeper models now,” Boom continued. “Higher stakes. More variables.”

“I’m not a computer,” Perth muttered.

“No,” Boom agreed gently. “You’re human. Humans are very good at pattern recognition.”

Perth looked away.

“Why does it feel different?” he asked quietly. Boom didn’t dismiss him. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t dramatize.

“Because it matters now,” Boom said simply. Perth frowned.

“It always mattered.” Boom shook his head slightly.

“It mattered for you,” he said. “Now it matters for them.”

Perth’s throat tightened. The conveyor belt hummed. The second cashier scanned items lazily, not looking up.

“You’re not reading for survival anymore,” Boom continued. “You’re reading to protect.” Perth stared at the counter. “And that changes how sharp it is.”

Silence settled between them for a moment. The bagging finished. Boom handed over cash. The second cashier didn’t count it carefully. Perth watched the first cashier skim again from another customer. It didn’t feel satisfying to be right. It felt heavy.

They stepped outside with bags in hand. The air felt thicker now. Neon brighter against the falling light. Perth paused just outside the door.

“It’s not… emotions,” he said suddenly. Boom looked at him. “It’s not like I feel what they feel,” Perth clarified. “It’s not empathy. It’s structure. It’s posture. It’s timing. It’s what they don’t say.” Boom nodded slowly.

“That’s not supernatural,” Boom said carefully. Perth let out a sharp breath.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“No,” Boom agreed. “But it might be enhanced.”

Perth looked at him sharply. Boom held his gaze evenly.

“You’ve lived in the slums your whole life,” Boom said. “You learned to read people because you had to. But you were alone then.”

Perth didn’t argue.

“You’re not alone now,” Boom continued. “You’re responsible.”

The word landed differently than expected. Responsible. Not hero. Not chosen. Responsible.

“For Santa,” Boom added quietly. Perth’s chest tightened. “For all of them.” Perth swallowed. “And that pressure,” Boom said gently, “sharpens you.”

They stood there for a moment, bags heavy in their hands. The city buzzed around them. Distant sirens. Someone shouting. A drone passing high overhead, too far to matter but close enough to remind. Perth exhaled slowly.

“I don’t like it,” he admitted.

Boom’s mouth curved faintly.

“You don’t have to like it.” Perth’s gaze shifted toward the direction of the hostel.

“Does it mean something?”

Boom considered his words carefully.

“It means you’re paying attention,” he said. “It means you’re invested.” He paused. “And it means I believe you.”

Perth blinked. Boom didn’t elaborate.

They started walking back. The weight of groceries dug into Perth’s fingers. His mind kept replaying the supermarket. The cashier’s hand. The man at the fridge. The couple’s coordination. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t visions. It was the same skill he had always used to survive. Just louder. Just sharper. Because now if he misreads something, it wouldn’t just be him who paid for it. He glanced at Boom as they crossed the street.

“You don’t think I’m losing it,” he said quietly.

Boom didn’t hesitate.

“No.”

They didn’t name it. They didn’t label it. But when they reached the hostel door again, and Perth pushed it open, something had shifted. Boom believed him. And that mattered.

Chapter Text

The sky had darkened by the time they left the supermarket bags behind in the hostel room. Not fully night. Not clean dusk. That strange hour where the city’s artificial light began to outshine the sky. Neon signs flickered alive in waves, casting the street in bruised pinks and toxic blues. Generators coughed louder as businesses shifted to after-dark operations. Music bled from alleyways in distorted bass-heavy pulses.

Boom adjusted the collar of his coat and glanced once at Santa before they stepped out again. Santa was propped against the headboard, pale but awake. Aou sat cross-legged near him, one hand resting lightly against the mattress as if he could steady Santa’s pulse through proximity alone. Perth had lingered by the door a moment too long before leaving, gaze catching Santa’s, checking something silent between them.

Now it was just Boom and Perth again. They moved differently this time. Not casual anymore, more urgent.  The night market wasn’t on any official map. They found it by asking the right questions to the right people without looking like they were asking for the wrong thing.

Perth led. He didn’t approach anyone directly at first. He stopped near a cigarette vendor and bought a pack. He wouldn’t smoke it, but it gave him reason to get in touch with bystanders. 

“Pharmacy still open?” he asked lightly, like it was an afterthought.

The vendor didn’t look at him. “Depends on what you need.”

“Saline,” Perth replied. “Maybe some tubing.”

That made the vendor glance up. Not suspicious. Assessing.

“You don’t seem hurt,” the vendor said.

“Not me.”

A beat passed.

The vendor scratched his jaw with the end of the cigarette. “Go two streets down. Look for the blue tarp. Don’t say saline. Say water.”

Perth nodded once. No gratitude or added words.

Boom felt it in his bones, that thin line between necessity and exposure. He had done black-market procurement before, during a pandemic outbreak when official supply chains were too slow, and in his training to be prepared for a situation where they might need it. But this was different. This wasn’t an underserved district. This was active concealment.

The blue tarp was impossible to miss once you knew what to look for. It hung from a half-collapsed scaffolding frame, illuminated by a string of mismatched LEDs. Beneath it, tables were arranged in careful disorder. There were expired pill bottles, sealed syringes, tubing coils, old infusion pumps with scratched casings, and handheld diagnostic devices missing brand labels.

A man sat behind the table in a folding chair, sleeves rolled to reveal faded medical tattoos and burn scars along one forearm. Boom slowed. Perth didn’t look at him.

“You the one selling water?” Perth asked casually. The man’s gaze flicked up.

“Depends who’s asking.”

Perth shrugged slightly. “Someone who doesn’t want to drive two hours to a hospital that won’t treat him.”

The man studied him for a long moment. Then his gaze shifted to Boom. And something subtle changed. He seemed to acknowledge how Boom was scanning the table without touching anything yet. The way his eyes catalogued expiration dates automatically. The way he checked sterile seals with a glance instead of fumbling.

“You’re not buying for yourself,” the man said flatly. Boom didn’t deny it.

“Kid?” the man asked. Boom’s jaw tightened, just slightly.

“You could say that.” The man leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“What kind of water?”

“Isotonic,” Boom replied immediately. “Sealed. Not punctured. Within date, if possible. I’ll take expired if it’s stored correctly.” The man’s lips twitched faintly.

“You know what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

“Then you know the price.” Boom didn’t flinch.

“How much?” The man named a number that would have bought a week’s worth of food.

Perth didn’t react outwardly, but Boom felt the shift beside him, the silent calculation, the instinct to bargain. Boom reached into his coat.

“I’ll need IV tubing,” he said calmly. “Sterile. At least two sets. Gauze. Antiseptic. And a pulse ox if that one works.” He pointed to a small handheld device near the back of the table. Cheap casing. Slight crack near the screen. But functional if calibrated. The man picked it up and turned it on. The display flickered, numbers stabilizing.

“It reads,” he said.

Boom stepped closer, taking it gently from his hand. He slid it over his own finger first.

SpO2: 98%. Pulse: steady.

He handed it to Perth.

“Put it on.” Perth complied, brow furrowing slightly as the numbers blinked into place.

“Works,” Boom said quietly. The man watched them.

“You’re not amateurs,” he observed.

“No,” Boom replied. The transaction was slow.

Not because the man tried to cheat them, but because he wanted to see if Boom would catch it.

He swapped one saline bag for another with a slightly clouded appearance. Boom caught it immediately.

“Not that one,” he said calmly. The man raised an eyebrow.

Boom tapped the seam lightly. “Stored wrong.”

The man’s mouth curved faintly.

“Fine.”

He replaced it with a clearer bag. Perth watched the exchange closely. He saw it. The tiny shifts in tone. The respect that settled when Boom identified the storage issue without accusation. The subtle nod the man gave when Boom paid in full without haggling after confirming quality.

It wasn’t just about money. It was about competence.

Boom packed the supplies carefully into the bag he’d brought, arranging the saline upright, tubing coiled properly, antiseptic sealed tight. He moved like he was back in a clinic.

Perth noticed that too. The steadiness. The familiarity. The way Boom’s shoulders relaxed for half a second when his hands handled medical equipment. Then the cost returned.

Not financial. Something else. A heaviness behind his eyes.

“You don’t like doing this,” Perth said quietly once they stepped away from the blue tarp.

Boom didn’t pretend not to understand.

“No,” he said.

“Because it’s illegal?”

“No.”

Perth glanced at him. Boom’s jaw tightened slightly.

“Because I shouldn’t need to,” he said.

They walked in silence for a moment. The night market thrummed around them, food stalls, counterfeit tech vendors, black-market mechanics offering engine modifications that would void any official warranty.

“None of us should need all this to stabilize after running for their lives,” Boom added quietly.

Perth’s throat tightened. He looked down at the bag in Boom’s hand. Temporary miracle. That’s what it felt like.

It wasn’t cure or safety, but it would give them one more night.

Perth cleared his throat.

“There’s diagnostic gear,” he said, carefully. “Old stuff.”

Boom’s gaze flicked toward him.

“You’re thinking ahead.”

Perth didn’t deny it.

“If… hypothetically,” Perth began, tone casual enough to pass for nothing, “someone wanted to check baseline readings.”

Boom didn’t smile.

“You don’t test ability with over-the-counter diagnostics,” he said gently.

“I didn’t say ability.”

“No,” Boom agreed. “You didn’t.”

They stopped near a stall selling refurbished medical monitors, outdated hospital surplus with scratched screens and missing labels. Perth didn’t approach it directly. He didn’t ask about testing. He just let his gaze linger half a second longer than necessary.

Boom saw it. He understood. There was curiosity in Perth’s gaze, not desperation, but the will to find an answer.

“Later,” Boom said quietly.

Perth nodded. He wasn’t disappointed. There were more important things on their plate right now.

The possibility that Perth’s perception was more than learned instinct didn’t need a label now. He had lived with it for the past twenty-something years. He could wait a little longer. 

They turned back toward the hostel. The neon lights reflected off puddles in the cracked pavement. A drone passed overhead, higher than comfortable but not low enough to scan.

They walked the rest of the way without speaking. When they reached the hostel door, Perth held it open for Boom. Inside, the hallway still smelled of cheap perfume and stale air.

They climbed the stairs. Boom’s grip tightened slightly on the bag as they approached the room.

Temporary miracle. He knocked once, a pattern they had agreed on earlier, and waited for the lock to click.

When the door opened, Aou looked up immediately. Santa was still upright. Still breathing. Still pale. Boom stepped inside and set the bag down carefully.

“I have something that will help,” he said quietly.

Aou’s shoulders sagged slightly in relief. Perth caught Santa’s gaze again. And for a brief second, something unspoken passed between them.

They weren’t safe. They weren’t finished.

But tonight they had what they needed. Temporary miracle. And that would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

PART 5A — Build

The knock was short. Two beats. Familiar.

Pond didn’t move at first. He was sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, knees drawn up slightly, fingers loosely laced together. Phuwin sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed every time one of them breathed a little deeper than usual. The room smelled faintly of supermarket plastic and antiseptic now, clean in the most artificial way possible.

Santa was asleep again, but not deeply. His breath still hitched every few cycles like his body hadn’t decided whether it trusted stillness. Aou sat near him with that same half-hover he always had, watching the rise and fall of Santa’s chest as if it were a fragile algorithm that might crash.

Boom stood near the table with the saline solution laid out carefully, not yet connected. Perth leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes moving without seeming to.

The knock came again.

This time Pond got up. Not rushed or tense.  He crossed the room and paused near the door, hand hovering above the handle. He didn’t open it immediately. He listened. Not for sound for pattern. For weight distribution. For breath outside the wood.

Satisfied, he unlocked it.  Joong slipped inside first, shoulders tight, eyes adjusting from the neon wash of the hallway into the dim yellow of the room. Dunk followed a second later, dragging in two canvas bags that felt heavier than they should have.

The door shut. The lock slid into place. The air shifted.

Santa straightened where he was sitting on the edge of the nearer bed, a thin blanket around his shoulders despite the stale heat of the room. He had color again, faint, uneven, but he was still pale in the wrong way, like the blood inside him hadn’t decided whether it wanted to stay.

Phuwin rose more slowly, but his eyes were locked on the bags.

Dunk dropped them onto the small, scarred table in the center of the room. Metal clanged softly against metal. Plastic scraped. Something inside shifted with a hollow knock. Joong didn’t speak right away. He leaned back against the door after locking it, listening to the hallway for a full five seconds before he turned around.

Dunk wiped a hand down his face.

“There’s money on your heads.”

The room went very quiet. Not shocked. Not chaotic. Just still.

Boom didn’t flinch. He didn’t look surprised either. He only asked, calm as always, “Official?”

Dunk nodded once.

“Posters in the market. Digital boards, too. ‘Assist in identification of bio-threat fugitives.’ Reward for verified information. No faces though.”

Santa’s fingers tightened in the blanket.

Joong stepped forward, finally, crossing the room to the table. He unzipped one of the bags and began unloading it piece by piece.

“They’re saying we had help,” he added evenly. “Human collaborators. That we weren’t alone.”

Phuwin’s jaw flexed.

“They’re framing it as organized,” Joong continued. “Not escape. Coordinated attack.”

Pond didn’t look up from the parts he was already sorting. “Of course they are.”

Dunk shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. “They’re not calling you experiments anymore.” Silence again.

“What are they calling us?” Santa asked quietly. His voice was steadier than his body.

Dunk’s eyes flicked to him. Not soft. Not cruel. Just honest.

“Weapons.”

Aou’s breath stalled. Boom inhaled slowly through his nose, as if he were swallowing something bitter.

Phuwin moved closer to the table, grounding himself in metal and circuitry instead of rhetoric. “And the reward?”

“Enough,” Joong said.

Enough for a mechanic to risk it. Enough for a hungry kid. Enough for a desperate shop owner. Enough for betrayal. Perth had been watching the whole exchange without moving. He was seated on the other bed beside Santa, his shoulder almost touching his. He didn’t speak. He didn’t react outwardly. But his gaze had sharpened.

Dunk began pulling the rest of the items out.

A cracked but intact flat-screen monitor, small enough to pass for portable. A worn keyboard with three keys replaced by mismatched plastic. A coil of cables, some frayed, some salvageable. A power inverter wrapped in cloth. A dusty mini-tower chassis, dented but structurally intact. Loose components in a plastic bag, RAM sticks, an old processor, and something that might be a functioning motherboard if luck held. Phuwin exhaled slowly.

“You robbed someone,” he muttered.

Joong almost smiled. “We paid.”

“Mostly,” Dunk added. Phuwin’s hands were already moving. He cleared the table completely, sweeping aside old glasses and a cracked lamp. Pond stepped in automatically, catching the lamp before it fell.

“Thanks,” Phuwin murmured without looking at him.

Pond just nodded and moved closer, shoulder brushing Phuwin’s arm as they began laying out parts in organized rows. The shift in the room was immediate.

From rumor. From fear. Into task.

Phuwin crouched slightly to eye the motherboard, turning it carefully in his hands. “No visible burn damage,” he muttered. “Socket looks intact. Capacitors…”

He leaned closer. Pond leaned with him.

“They’re old,” Pond said softly. “But stable.”

Phuwin glanced sideways at him, just a flicker of a smile. “Yeah. Stable.”

Joong dragged one of the chairs closer to the table and sat, elbows on knees, watching without interfering. Dunk remained standing, arms crossed loosely over his chest, body angled so he could see both the door and the table without turning.

Santa watched too. His eyes tracked every movement. Aou shifted his weight and finally let his fingers rest lightly against Santa’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Santa whispered without looking at him.

“I won’t,” Aou answered. He didn’t pull away.

Phuwin held up a RAM stick to the light. “We might have enough.”

Pond reached out, not touching the component but hovering a fraction of an inch above it. His head tilted slightly.

“It’s clean,” he said. “No data residue. It was wiped.”

Phuwin nodded once. “Good.”

Boom stepped closer to the table now, but he didn’t touch anything. He stood back just enough not to intrude.

“You’re sure this can be air-gapped?” he asked quietly. Phuwin didn’t look offended by the question.

“It won’t touch a network,” he replied. “No wireless. No modem. No external signals. We’ll isolate power too.”

Pond added, “If it tries to broadcast, I’ll feel it.”

He said it simply. Not dramatic. Dunk’s gaze flicked to him briefly, then back to the door. Joong reached for the mini-tower chassis and flipped it open, exposing the hollow interior.

“Ugly,” he said.

Phuwin huffed. “Functional.” 

Santa shifted slightly, breath catching faintly as he adjusted his weight. Perth noticed instantly. He reached without looking and steadied him, fingers warm against Santa’s wrist.

“You good?” he murmured.

Santa nodded. He wasn’t, not fully. But he was here.

The parts continued to accumulate on the table. The bounty sat in the air like humidity. No one said it again. Phuwin began assembling.

The motherboard was placed carefully into the chassis. Screws tightened with a small borrowed screwdriver. Processor seated. Pond passed him thermal paste before he asked for it. Phuwin paused for half a second. Then smiled faintly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”

They moved around each other without collision. Pond didn’t need instruction. He adjusted cables, aligned pins, caught loose screws before they rolled. Phuwin spoke less and less. His focus narrowed.

Boom watched them the way he watched surgeries. Not intervening. Not controlling. Just observing with quiet respect.

Dunk finally shifted from the door and came closer, setting his palm on the back of Joong’s neck for a brief second before dropping it again. Joong didn’t react. But he leaned slightly into the touch before it disappeared.

Aou was still standing behind Santa. He hadn’t moved. His eyes tracked every micro-expression in the room.

“Stop looking like that,” Santa murmured softly.

“Like what?” Aou asked.

“Like you’re waiting for something to explode.”

Aou swallowed.

“I’m not.”

He was.

Phuwin connected the power supply carefully. Pond watched the wiring like he was listening to it.

“Don’t plug it yet,” Pond said suddenly. Phuwin paused instantly.

“What?”

“Left side,” Pond said, reaching closer. “The insulation’s cracked. It’ll short.”

Phuwin followed his gaze.

He saw it now, the barely visible split along the casing.

“Good catch,” he breathed.

Pond didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Dunk leaned back against the wall again, satisfied. Joong’s gaze drifted to Santa briefly.

Phuwin finished securing the internal components and stepped back slightly.

“We’re missing proper cooling,” he said. “And storage is light. But it’ll boot.”

“How long?” Boom asked. Phuwin wiped his hands on his jeans.

“A few days to stabilize it. I want to test the board without the drive first. Make sure it doesn’t fry.”

“And then?” Perth asked quietly.

“Then we try the USB.”

Boom’s gaze dropped to his pocket instinctively. He didn’t touch it. Pond stepped closer to Phuwin, shoulder brushing his again.

“I’ll stay with you,” Pond said. Phuwin glanced at him.

“Yeah,” he answered. “I know.”

Santa shifted again, fatigue pulling at his posture. Boom noticed now.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he said gently. “Santa needs to rest.”

Aou nodded immediately. Phuwin looked reluctant to stop, but he stepped back. The machine sat half-assembled on the table.

Ugly. Promising. Temporary.

Dunk picked up one of the empty bags and folded it neatly. Joong moved to unlock the door only long enough to listen to the hallway again.

Quiet. Neon buzzed faintly through the thin walls.

Perth rose carefully, offering his arm without making it obvious. Santa took it this time. He stood slower than he wanted to. But he stood. And the room watched him do it.

Not like a weapon. Not like a liability. Like something worth waiting for. Boom picked up the small box of saline supplies he’d set aside earlier.

“Room B,” he said softly.

Aou followed immediately. Perth stayed at Santa’s side.

Pond didn’t look up from the machine until the door closed behind them. Then he exhaled. Phuwin bumped his shoulder lightly.

“We’ve got this,” he said.

Pond nodded once. Across the room, Joong met Dunk’s eyes. No words. Just understanding.

Outside, somewhere in the city, someone was looking for them. Inside the small hostel room, they were building something that could answer back.

Chapter Text

Room B, housing Santa, Perth, Aou, and Boom, had the kind of quiet that wasn’t peace, just absence.

The hallway outside still breathed through the door in muffled pulses, distant laughter, a cough that turned into retching, someone arguing softly in a language Boom didn’t know, the faint metallic clink of coins on a counter. The hostel was alive in all the ugly, stubborn ways the city stayed alive. But in here, behind a lock that felt too thin to mean anything, the air was held still by a single, fragile rhythm. Santa’s breathing.

It wasn’t steady. Not in the way “steady” belonged to healthy bodies. It was shallow, sometimes pausing long enough that Perth’s shoulders tightened on instinct, his whole system bracing for the moment the pause became permanent. Then the breath would come again, thin and reluctant, and Perth would release his own only after he’d already been holding it for too long.

Boom moved like he had done this in worse places. He didn’t have a sterile tray. He didn’t have a proper hook to hang a bag of saline. He had a half-busted bedside lamp, a bent coat hanger Perth had straightened with brute force, and a strip of fabric torn from a towel. Boom looped the fabric around the lamp’s narrow neck, tied it off, tested the knot twice, then lifted the clear bag and hung it as carefully as if the bag contained something sacred. The drip chamber caught the weak light and made the fluid inside glow like something cleaner than the world deserved.

Aou watched from the edge of the bed, still dressed, still tense, like sleep was an enemy that would steal his attention at the exact second Santa needed him. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Santa since they’d come back. Not really. Even when his gaze wandered, his attention stayed anchored to the rise and fall of Santa’s chest, to the color of his lips, to the way the blanket kept slipping off his shoulder like the body underneath it was too restless to hold onto warmth.

“Slow,” Boom murmured, fingers checking Santa’s wrist again, timing pulses with a calm that had nothing to do with reassurance and everything to do with control. “We go slow.”

Aou nodded too hard, too fast. Like if he nodded enough, the world would comply.

Perth sat on the other bed, his bed, technically, because this was his room assignment, his side of the split, but he didn’t take his boots off, didn’t unlace anything, didn’t make himself comfortable. Comfort felt like temptation, like he didn’t deserve it when Santa’s body still looked like it was arguing with life.

Santa lay on his side, face turned toward Perth without meaning to. His hair stuck up in uneven tufts, still damp from sweat. The bruising at his collarbone had started to bloom, darkening along the line where the shrapnel had kissed him, not deep enough to tear through bone, deep enough to remind everyone how close it had been. His lashes rested against his cheeks like soft commas. His mouth hung slightly open, and now and then his brows tightened, pain, memory, a flash of something he couldn’t name even in sleep.

Boom finished taping the IV line to Santa’s arm with the last of the medical tape. His own forehead, still bearing the faint ridge of the wound from the escape, caught the light when he leaned back. It wasn’t bleeding anymore. It still looked wrong, like it wanted to reopen if Boom moved too fast.

Aou’s gaze flicked to it, caught there, and Perth saw the spiral start in him again, this reflexive need to fix, to erase, to heal everything he could reach, even if it burned him hollow in the process.

Boom must have seen it too. He didn’t scold. He didn’t order. He just placed a palm on Aou’s forearm, pressure gentle, grounding.

“Not tonight,” Boom said quietly, like he was talking to a storm and asking it to wait. “We don’t spend you down to nothing.”

Aou swallowed. His throat worked like he was holding back words that didn’t know how to exist without turning into panic. “If he…” he started, and the rest of the sentence strangled itself before it could get out.

“If he gets weaker,” Boom said, answering without flinching, “I’m here. You’re here. He’s here. We handle one minute at a time.”

One minute at a time. Perth hated that phrase. Not because it was wrong. Because it was true.

Boom eased himself onto the edge of the bed beside Santa, listening, watching the drip chamber, adjusting the clamp until the drops fell at a measured pace. Perth tracked the movement as if it were a weapon being disarmed. Aou finally shifted back, sat down hard on the mattress near Boom’s hip like his legs had forgotten how to hold him. He kept one hand on Santa anyway, two fingers at Santa’s wrist, not even checking pulse anymore, just tethering himself to the proof that Santa was still warm.

Time dragged. Not in hours. In heartbeats.

Eventually, Boom leaned back, shoulders sagging a fraction. He looked at Perth for the first time since the saline bag went up, really looked, the way doctors looked when they weren’t just scanning for threat but for damage. Perth’s mouth opened and shut again without sound. He didn’t know what to say. He had plenty of words. Words were easy. Words were a currency he’d spent his whole life surviving on. But none of his words fit this.

Boom’s voice came low. “He’s stable for now.”

“For now,” Perth repeated, almost bitter, because he didn’t know what else to do with the fear except taste it and spit it out.

Boom nodded once. Like he understood. Like he had known fear that tasted the same.

Aou shifted, eyes burning. “If he dies here,” he whispered, and Perth felt the sentence like a knife even before it finished, “it’s because I wasn’t enough.”

Boom’s head snapped toward him, sharp but not cruel. “No.”

Aou’s chest hitched. “I did everything…”

“You did,” Boom cut in, voice still controlled but threaded with steel now, because this mattered. “And he’s breathing because you did. Don’t rewrite that into poison.”

Aou blinked hard, anger flashing, not at Boom, not at Santa, at himself, at the universe, at the unfairness of it all. “I’m supposed to be able to…” His voice broke. “I’m supposed to be able to fix things.”

“You’re not supposed to be anything,” Boom said, softer. “You’re a person. And you saved him. That’s the truth.”

Perth watched the exchange and felt something shift in his chest, something uncomfortable and raw. In the slums, people didn’t talk like this. People didn’t name truths and hold them up like lanterns. People lied. People pretended. People swallowed fear until it turned into violence.

Boom didn’t swallow. Boom didn’t pretend. And Aou didn’t either. Not really. He just didn’t know how to live with what he could do.

Aou’s fingers tightened on Santa’s wrist, too tight, then loosened quickly as if he’d caught himself. He leaned forward, forehead dropping briefly to the blanket near Santa’s shoulder, not quite touching skin, like touching would tempt fate.

“I don’t know what I am without him,” Aou breathed, so quietly Perth wasn’t sure he’d meant anyone to hear. Boom’s face changed. Not shock. No surprise. He looked like he’d been standing on that edge too, for a long time. Perth’s throat tightened for reasons that had nothing to do with his own romance and everything to do with the shape of devotion in front of him. Boom reached out and covered Aou’s hand where it lay on the blanket. It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even comfort in the usual sense. It was contact that said: I’m here. I’m not leaving. I see you.

Aou’s eyes flicked up. His expression wasn’t soft, exactly. It was stripped. Bare. Like there was no armor left. And Perth understood, suddenly, why Boom had survived E-12 as a human being. Not as a doctor. As a human. He did it by seeing them. By refusing to let them become objects. It made Perth’s chest ache.

Aou exhaled, long and shaking. “I’m tired,” he admitted, as if it were shameful.

“You should be,” Boom said. “Sleep, if you can.”

Aou’s gaze darted to Santa, terror flaring again at the thought of letting go. “If I sleep and…”

Boom’s voice turned gentle again. “I’ll wake you. I promise.”

Perth watched Aou wrestle with that promise like it was a rope over a cliff. Then, slowly, Aou nodded. Not because he was convinced. Because he had nothing else left. Aou slid down, lying on the bed with Boom, but still angled toward Santa, still in reach, like proximity was the only prayer he knew. Boom stayed sitting for a while longer, posture rigid with responsibility. Perth waited, silent, because he didn’t know when it was allowed to speak.

When Boom finally stood, he moved carefully, stepping around the IV line, adjusting the lamp so it wouldn’t wobble. He turned toward Perth with the kind of fatigue that had become a second skin.

“Walk with me,” Boom said quietly.

Perth blinked, then nodded. He moved without thinking, following Boom into the narrow strip of space near the window. The curtains were thin and stained, and neon from outside bled through them in sickly colors, pink and blue and violent green, painting the room like a bruise that couldn’t decide what shade it wanted to be. Boom didn’t look outside. He looked back at the beds, at Aou curled too tightly, at Santa’s pale face, at the drip falling like a clock. Then he spoke, voice barely above breath.

“I didn’t know what it would do to me,” Boom said. “To… have them out here. Alive.”

Perth swallowed. “You kept them alive in there.”

Boom’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I kept them breathing. That’s not the same thing.”

Perth didn’t argue. Because he knew it wasn’t. Breathing was biology. Living was something else.

Boom’s gaze stayed on Santa. “Santa was eleven when I met him,” he said, and the words carried the weight of years. “He looked at me like I was either salvation or a knife. He didn’t know which one yet.”

Perth’s fingers curled against the windowsill. He felt something in his chest pull tight. “He doesn’t look at people like that anymore,” Perth said, and it came out rougher than he intended. Like an accusation against the world for making it happen at all.

Boom’s voice softened. “He learned how to survive. That’s what you’re seeing.”

Perth glanced at Boom. “And you?” he asked before he could stop himself. “What did you learn?”

Boom’s eyes flicked to him. For a moment, Perth expected deflection. Clinical distance. A doctor’s wall. Instead Boom exhaled slowly. “That if I stopped seeing them as human, I’d become part of what E-12 was built to do.” He swallowed. “And I couldn’t. I couldn’t…” His jaw tightened, emotion flashing in the crack, then smoothing over again. “So I didn’t.”

“I thought I was protecting them,” Perth said quietly, and his throat tightened on the truth. “But now I think they’re the reason I’m alive.”

Boom looked at him then. Really looked. Not judging. Not amused. Just understanding. Like he knew exactly what Perth meant. Perth’s eyes drifted back to Santa, because his body did that automatically now, like a compass needle that couldn’t be trained away. Santa’s hand rested on the blanket, fingers loose, unguarded for the first time in hours.

Perth’s voice fell even lower, intimate in a way he didn’t know how to handle. “He scares me,” he admitted, and it wasn’t about Santa’s ability, not really. It was about the fragility. The way Santa could slip away because the world was too cruel to let him rest. 

Boom’s gaze followed Perth’s to the bed. “He should be dead,” Boom said softly, not as a statement of fact but as an acknowledgement of how close they’d come.

Perth’s breath caught. He hadn’t heard anyone say it out loud yet. Everyone had been thinking it. No one had dared give it a shape.

Boom continued, quieter still. “And he isn’t. And that is what counts.”

The words hit Perth’s ribs like a fist. Perth’s eyes stayed on Santa. The rise of his chest was so small it barely counted as movement. And yet it was there. 

Perth swallowed hard. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “I’ve… dealt with a lot of things. I can handle knives, threats, hunger, and people trying to ruin you for fun. But this…” His voice cracked. He hated that it did. “I don’t know how to stand here and watch him breathe like it’s negotiable.”

Boom’s answer was simple. “You don’t stand alone.”

Perth huffed a bitter laugh with no humor in it. “Feels like I am.”

Boom’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re not.”

Perth’s hands trembled once, then stilled when he forced them. He turned his head slightly, looking at Boom out of the corner of his eye.

“You’d die for him?” Perth nooded to Aou.

Boom didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” Perth’s chest tightened. 

“You’d die for Santa, too, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” Perth’s voice came out hoarsely. 

Boom nodded once, throat burning. “Good,” he whispered. Perth felt relief creeping in his body because it mattered that Boom felt the same. After all, he wasn’t the only one who felt like his body had been rearranged around these boys.

Boom’s gaze flicked to Aou on the other bed, curled like a guard dog even in sleep. Boom’s voice softened in a way that didn’t belong to doctors in reports.

“I met Aou when he was seventeen,” Boom said quietly. “He was older than Santa, but he was… emptier. Like he’d taught himself not to exist unless someone demanded it.” Boom’s jaw clenched. “It took time for him to look at me without expecting pain.”

Perth’s throat tightened. “Now he looks at you like you’re oxygen.”

Boom exhaled. “I know.”

And Perth saw it, truly saw it in the way Boom’s restraint wasn’t coldness, it was reverence. The way he treated Aou like something precious and dangerous, not because he feared him, but because he respected the power of a person who could unmake life and still chose, again and again, to save it.

Perth’s gaze drifted to Santa again, and the softness in his face surprised him. He hadn’t meant to soften. It just happened.

“He’s so small when he sleeps,” Perth murmured, more to himself than to Boom, and the sentence felt like it came from somewhere in him that had never been used before.

Boom’s eyes didn’t leave Santa. His voice came out like a truth he’d carried too long. “He always was.”

Perth’s chest cracked open around the words. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, not panic, not fear, just that sharp, painful recognition of something unbearably human. Santa wasn’t small because he was weak. Santa was small because they’d taken years from him. Because they’d kept him in rooms where he couldn’t grow the way people were supposed to. Because they’d made him survive on scraps of affection and fear until his body learned to fold in on itself. And now, in sleep, he looked like the child he’d been forced to bury. Perth blinked hard, swallowing the sudden burn behind his eyes. He hated that he was this affected. He hated that he cared. He hated that caring meant the world could break him again.

Boom’s voice cut gently through Perth’s spiraling. “You said earlier, about not knowing what you’re doing.”

Perth let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

Boom’s tone shifted, subtle, becoming that careful clinical curiosity Perth had noticed before. Not cold, but precise. “Tell me about the farmers.”

Perth stiffened. He hadn’t meant to talk about it again. He’d meant to bury it, the way he buried anything that didn’t fit. But Boom was looking at him like a doctor looks at a symptom. Like a pattern that mattered.

Perth swallowed. “It wasn’t normal,” he said, and his voice came out flat with discomfort. “I’ve been reading people my whole life. That’s not new. You don’t survive where I did without learning to see what’s coming.”

Boom waited, patient.

Perth’s jaw tightened. “But that…” He exhaled sharply. “That wasn’t my usual. That was… instant. Like someone slammed the answer into my skull before the question finished forming.”

Boom’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You didn’t just suspect.”

“No,” Perth said, and the word came out hard. “I knew.”

Boom didn’t dismiss it. He didn’t smile like it was paranoia. He just nodded once. “Just like it happened in the supermarket before. Did you have those feelings earlier, before we met? Can you tell me again, please? I know we talked about it before, but I want to be sure. So How was it before?” he asked.

Perth hesitated. “Not like that,” he admitted. “I’ve had instincts. Gut feelings. Patterns. But this…this was like… certainty. Like I could feel what they were going to do before they decided to do it.”

Boom’s gaze sharpened. “Only these two instances?”

Perth’s mouth tightened. He didn’t want to sound crazy. He didn’t want to sound like he was making himself special. But the truth sat in him like a stone.

“It’s been happening,” Perth said quietly. “Little flashes. In the dining room tonight. With strangers. With the way people moved. I can’t explain it. I’m just…too sure.”

Boom was quiet for a moment. Then he said, carefully, “Perth… what you’re describing sounds like an ability. I didn’t want to say it like that before…but…”

Perth’s shoulders tensed. “Don’t,” he muttered, instinctively pushing back. “I’m not…”

Boom held up a hand, not stopping him, just asking him to stay present. “Listen to me. I’m not saying it’s dramatic. I’m not saying it’s the same as what the boys have. But the world doesn’t only create abilities that explode buildings.”

Perth swallowed. His throat burned. “If it was an ability,” he whispered, “how the hell did the government not catch it?”

Boom’s eyes flicked away, thinking. “Because it isn’t visible,” he said slowly. “It isn’t invasive. It isn’t producing anomalies on a scan the way matter manipulation or bio-manipulation does.” He looked back at Perth. “And because you weren’t inside their testing pipeline.”

Perth’s jaw tightened. “So I just… slipped through.”

Boom nodded once. “Yes.”

Perth let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob, trying to become the same thing. “That’s…” He shook his head. “That’s insane.”

Boom’s voice softened. “So is being born with the ability to shut down a nervous system with a look,” he said quietly, glancing toward Santa. “Insane doesn’t mean untrue.” Perth’s gaze snapped back to Santa, and the fear rose again, sharp and immediate. Boom caught it. His voice lowered. “Does it feel stronger now?”

Perth swallowed. “Yes.”

Boom’s tone was gentle, careful. “Why do you think?”

Perth’s mouth opened, and for once, humor didn’t come. He stared at Santa’s sleeping face, at the saline drip falling like seconds.

“Because now it matters,” Perth whispered. “It’s not just me anymore.”

Boom nodded slowly, as if that answer fit something he already suspected. “Attachment sharpens the brain,” he repeated what he had already said in the market before. “Protective instincts don’t just change how you act. They change how you perceive.”

Perth’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “So what? My body decided to evolve because I fell in love?” he muttered, trying for sarcasm, not realising what he had just confessed to.

Boom’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but relief. Perth finally said out loud what he had been suspecting. “Your body decided to survive,” he corrected softly. “And maybe… it decided to protect.”

Perth stared at him. Protection. That word didn’t fit him. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t brave. He was a slum kid who’d learned to laugh so people didn’t see how scared he was. But when he looked at Santa, small under a blanket, breathing like it was a negotiation, Perth realized something with sick clarity. He would burn the world if that’s what it took. And that scared him more than anything.

Boom’s voice brought him back. “We can test it,” he said quietly. “Not here. Not now. But when we have the right equipment…basic diagnostics, cognitive response patterns, something that can at least tell us if your nervous system is running differently.” He paused. “If you want.”

Perth let out a shaky breath. “I want,” he said immediately. “Because if you’re wrong, then I’m just paranoid. And if you’re right…” He swallowed. “If you’re right, then maybe I can keep them alive better.”

Boom nodded once. “That’s the point.”

Perth’s gaze flicked back to Santa. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out. He didn’t. Not yet. Not with Boom watching and Aou sleeping and everything fragile. But he leaned closer to the bed anyway, just a fraction, like his body needed to be nearer to the proof that Santa was still here.

Boom’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’ll stay alive,” he said. “He’s stubborn.”

Perth huffed a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He is.”

Boom glanced toward the door, then back at Perth. “We keep this between us for now,” he said quietly. “About your ability. Until we’re sure.”

Perth nodded.

Boom’s gaze softened, just briefly. “You’re doing well,” he said, and it wasn’t praise. It was an acknowledgement.

Perth’s throat tightened. He looked away, back to Santa, because he couldn’t handle being seen like that. Then Boom stepped back toward the bed, checking the drip again, checking Santa’s pulse, moving like a man who had chosen this life and would pay any cost for it.

Perth stayed where he was, watching Santa breathe. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know if the USB drive still held truth inside it, or if it was already melted into useless plastic. He didn’t know if the government’s net was tightening or if it was already closing.

But in this room, under neon-stained curtains, with a saline drip hanging from a broken lamp, with Aou asleep like a tethered storm and Boom moving like a calm hand over chaos, Perth knew one thing with a certainty that felt like prayer.

Santa was alive. And Perth was not going to let the world take him.

Chapter Text

The knock came softly through the door. Three taps. A pause. Two more.

The pattern threaded through the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant bass bleeding up from the hostel’s ground floor. It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t afraid. It was deliberate and measured, the kind of knock that didn’t ask permission so much as confirm identity.

Phuwin didn’t lift his head immediately. He was hunched over the stripped motherboard laid across the thin hostel blanket, sleeves pushed to his elbows, dark smudges streaking his knuckles. The room smelled faintly of metallic old wiring, heated dust, and the lingering ghost of cheap detergent that hadn’t managed to erase what this place really was.

The knock came again. Same pattern.

Pond’s gaze shifted toward the door without the rest of his body moving. He didn’t tense. He didn’t look startled. He just listened. Dunk’s shadow cut across the narrow band of yellow light beneath the frame, long and unmistakable.

Phuwin exhaled slowly through his nose. “Open it.”

Pond rose, barefoot, and silent. The chain slid free with a soft metallic rasp. He unlocked the handle and pulled the door inward just enough for Joong to slip through first, then Dunk behind him. The hallway air followed them in stale cigarette smoke clinging to fabric, the sweet rot of spilled alcohol somewhere nearby, and a sharp burst of laughter that cracked and died just as quickly. Neon light from outside flickered briefly across Joong’s cheekbone before the door shut again.

The lock clicked. Joong stood there for half a second, adjusting to the dimness of the room. His hair was damp at the temples. Sweat or humidity, hard to tell. Dunk’s jaw was set but not tight. He looked the way he always did after moving through crowds: contained.

“We got most of it,” Joong said.

He dropped two plastic bags onto the opposite bed. The thin mattress springs squealed in protest. Dunk set his own bag down more carefully near the wall, weight shifting against the floor with a dull thud.

Phuwin finally straightened, vertebrae protesting. He rolled his shoulders once, slowly. The room swam for a moment, not dizziness, just the result of staring too long at small broken things.

“Show me,” he said.

Dunk reached into his jacket first and pulled out a slim anti-static sleeve. He held it between two fingers before passing it to Pond.

“Flash storage,” he said. “Cheap. No brand.”

Pond accepted it carefully, thumb tracing the sealed edge. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just catalogued. Joong began unloading the remaining parts.

A cracked monitor with one corner chipped. A mini-tower shell missing its side panel. A compact power inverter. A tangle of cables, mismatched and coiled tight. Phuwin moved closer automatically, clearing space with one sweep of his forearm. Screws rolled softly against fabric.

“How much is the bounty now?” Pond asked quietly. 

Dunk understood. “Fifty thousand.”

“Is that a lot?” Pond's gaze drifted between Phuwin and Dunk. 

“A human life should never be measured in money,” Phuwin mumbled

Fifty thousand. Enough to clear debts. Enough to move districts. Enough to disappear. Enough to justify betrayal, not openly. 

Phuwin’s thumb drifted over the thin solder burn on his index finger, pressing until the sting grounded him. “Descriptions?”

“Still vague,” Joong said. “Assets. Armed. Potentially unstable. Assisted by civilians.”

“They’re leaning hard on the civilian angle,” Dunk added. “If anyone helps us, they’re complicit.”

Pond didn’t look up from the board. “Visuals?”

“Footage from the slums,” Joong said. “Blurry. Nothing new. They won’t dare use videos from the laboratories. It would make them look bad.”

Phuwin nodded once. “Good.”

Joong’s gaze flicked toward him. Not questioning, just noting.

“If they had clean images,” Phuwin continued, already separating cables into salvage and scrap, “they’d stop saying vague things and start saying names.”

Silence settled again, not heavy, just aware. From the other room came a soft movement. The walls were so thin they could hear the fabric shifting, and the low murmur of Boom’s voice. 

Joong glanced toward the wall separating the rooms. “How is he?”

“Sleeping,” Pond answered.

“Stable,” Phuwin added quietly. “Weak, but stable.”

Aou hadn’t left Santa’s side since they’d set the line. He wasn’t hovering in panic anymore. He was just there like gravity. Perth had been sitting at the edge of that bed earlier, watching Santa breathe the way someone watches a shoreline for signs of a storm. The thought flickered and passed.

Phuwin lifted the mini-tower shell, turning it over in his hands. One corner bent inward slightly. He pressed his thumb against it and felt the resistance.

“It’ll hold,” he murmured.

Dunk watched him for a moment. No doubt. Not pressure. Assessment.  Joong crossed the room and sank near the door, back against the wall, knees angled slightly upward. His posture looked relaxed if you didn’t know him. Dunk remained standing for a few seconds longer, eyes scanning the ceiling corners, the window latch, the vent near the floor.

Routine. They weren’t in the slums anymore. But they weren’t safe either.

“We’ll take another pass downstairs,” Dunk said finally. “See if anyone’s acting suspicious.”

Phuwin nodded without looking up. “Don’t blow our cover.”

Joong pushed himself up smoothly. “We won’t.”

The door opened. Closed. The lock slid back into place. The room shrank in their absence.

Pond returned to his spot beside Phuwin without needing direction. Their shoulders brushed as they leaned in toward the motherboard. The contact was brief, unremarked. Phuwin plugged in the soldering iron. The faint scent of heated metal began to rise almost immediately.

“Deadline,” Pond murmured, fingertip hovering over a fractured trace.

Phuwin followed the indication. “And this?”

“Alive.”

Certainty. No hesitation. Phuwin adjusted his grip and began.

The world outside the room continued, laughter downstairs, the clink of bottles, someone arguing in a language neither of them bothered translating. A door slammed somewhere further down the hall. Inside, the only sounds were breath, fan hum, and the quiet hiss of solder melting into place.

Time shifted. Not fast. Not slow. Focused.

The room had a different kind of quiet at night. Not the clean quiet of a place meant for rest, not the gentle hush of a home where silence meant safety. This quiet was stitched together out of exhaustion and locked doors, out of the way the hostel settled when the worst of the noise finally dulled. Outside the thin wall, something still breathed, a corridor cough, a distant laugh that turned into a cough too, the low thud of bass from a room further down like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to them. The building smelled like old detergent and sweat and cheap perfume that had sunk into the curtains years ago and never left. Inside, it was mostly shadow.

A single lamp was on, its bulb dim and yellowed, throwing a tired cone of light over the table where the parts were spread out. It made the room feel smaller, like the light itself didn’t want to touch the corners. Two double beds sat side by side, mismatched quilts pulled up, bodies shaped into them, the slow rise and fall of sleep. Joong lay on his back, one arm tossed above his head like his body had forgotten how to fold itself into tightness. Dunk was turned half toward the wall, boots lined up beneath the bed with soldier neatness even in a place like this, even with the rest of him finally letting go.

Phuwin didn’t look at them for long. He looked at Pond.

Pond sat on the floor beside the table, legs crossed loosely, shoulders slightly hunched, not from fear, not from cold, but from something that still hadn’t learned how to exist without constant input. The week since the escape had carved different kinds of hollows into all of them. Pond’s was not visible as bruises or stitches. It was visible in the way he sometimes went still, too still, like he was waiting for a signal that never came. In the way his gaze tracked tiny movements that normal people ignored, the flicker of the lamp, the faint tick in the wall, the distant hum of wiring behind the plaster.

Phuwin had seen overstimulation before, in himself, in other people. This was different. This was a withdrawal from a world Pond had lived in like air. A body built around connection, learning what it meant to be alone in its own skin. Phuwin sat down beside him, careful with the sound. Pond’s head turned slightly as Phuwin lowered himself, like he’d felt the change in pressure more than heard it.

“You’re awake,” Pond whispered. 

Phuwin nodded. His voice came out low, rough from too little water and too many days of breathing smoke and dust. “So are you.”

Pond blinked once. The light caught on his lashes. “I tried.”

Phuwin let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I know.”

They sat there for a moment without forcing words into the space. Phuwin watched Pond’s fingers, how they hovered above the pieces on the table without touching, as if he could sense what each thing was by proximity alone. A cable coiled like a sleeping snake. A small, battered board with solder points, and a cracked screen wrapped in cloth. Tools they’d collected from scavenged kits, half-rusted, still usable. To someone else, it would have looked like trash, to Phuwin, it looked like a path, and to Pond, like a door that might open.

Pond’s gaze slid toward the window, where the curtain didn’t fully close, leaving a thin slice of the outside world visible. Neon from the street below pulsed faintly through the gap, pink and blue and sickly green, turning the edge of the room into something unreal. Cars passed occasionally, their headlights sweeping across the wall. Somewhere far away, a siren rose and fell and vanished. Pond’s shoulders tightened at the sound, almost imperceptible. Phuwin shifted closer, not touching, but near enough that the warmth of his body became part of the air between them. “It’s not for us,” he murmured, because sometimes it helped to name the truth even when the truth didn’t change anything.

Pond swallowed. His throat moved as if it hurt. “Everything sounds like it’s for us,” he said. Phuwin lifted his hand slowly and set it down on the floor between them, palm up. Not reaching for Pond. Not pulling. Just offering a place to land. Pond stared at it for a second, as if it was a puzzle. Then his fingers slid into Phuwin’s palm, careful at first, then tighter, like the moment he committed, he needed to hold on with his whole body. Phuwin’s chest loosened. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that too, how much his own nervous system had been living on constant readiness. It wasn’t a weakness to want contact. It was biology. It was the simplest language people had.

Pond’s hand was cool, calloused in places that didn’t make sense for someone who’d spent so much of his life behind glass and steel. The calluses came from somewhere else. From gripping edges, from climbing, from being forced to be physical in a world that wanted him to be a machine. The pads of his fingers were rough in a way that made Phuwin want to know every story his body carried.

Pond’s thumb moved once, a small stroke against Phuwin’s skin, like he was testing texture. Phuwin swallowed, throat suddenly tight. “How’s your head?” he asked quietly.

“It’s quiet.” Pond’s lips parted slightly, like he was searching for the right word. “Not peaceful,” he added. “Just quiet.”

“I can talk,” Phuwin said. “If you want noise.”

Pond’s eyes flicked to his face. In the dim light, his expression was unreadable in the way it often was, but Phuwin had learned the micro shifts. The way Pond’s gaze held a fraction longer when something mattered. The way his breathing changed when he trusted for a moment.

“I like your voice,” Pond said softly.

Phuwin’s heart gave a stupid, unhelpful lurch. And then he began to talk, not about their plans or the computer, or what they would find on the USB. Phuwin spoke about simple things, from a time when everything they went through now seemed like a stubborn fantasy from some book author. 

He told Pond about mornings in the city before E-12, when he’d grab cheap food on the way to work, steam rising from street carts, the smell of frying oil mixing with rain on concrete. He told him about the train lines and the way the windows shook when the old cars hit certain tracks. He told him about walking home late, tired and sweaty, and still feeling like the world belonged to him because the sky was above him and not a ceiling. Pond listened the way someone listened to music. Not interrupting. Absorbing. Holding every detail like it was proof that the world outside had always existed, even when he hadn’t been allowed to touch it.

When Phuwin paused, Pond’s fingers tightened around his.

“You lived,” Pond said.

Phuwin let out a breath. “Yeah.”

Pond’s fingers shifted slightly in Phuwin’s hand. Not restless. Just adjusting, like he had finally allowed himself to settle into the contact.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the lamp and the distant noise of the street below. Somewhere down the hallway, someone laughed too loudly, the sound muffled by the thin walls. A door slammed. Then the building fell back into that strange hostel silence again. Pond looked down at their hands. His thumb moved once across the side of Phuwin’s palm, slow and absentminded. Phuwin felt the touch all the way up his arm.

“You’re thinking too much,” Phuwin murmured.

Pond tilted his head slightly. “I usually am.”

Phuwin huffed quietly. “Yeah. I noticed.”

Pond didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the table where the scattered parts waited, wires and boards and tools laid out in careful order. Then his attention returned to Phuwin.

“You’re calm,” Pond said.

Phuwin lifted an eyebrow. “Am I?”

Pond nodded once. Phuwin leaned back slightly, bracing his weight on one hand behind him. Their shoulders brushed now, barely.

“That’s because I know we’ll figure it out,” he said.

Pond studied his face for a long moment.

“How?”

Phuwin shrugged.

“We always do.”

The answer was simple. Maybe too simple. But it was honest. Pond’s grip tightened faintly around his hand. Phuwin noticed the movement immediately.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Pond nodded again, but his voice dropped when he spoke.

“It’s quieter when you’re close.”

Phuwin’s chest tightened a little at that, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted just slightly closer, enough that their shoulders rested against each other properly now.

“Then stay close,” Phuwin said.

Phuwin lifted their joined hands and brought Pond’s knuckles closer, to press them against his own chest, where his heartbeat was steady and real.

“Here,” he murmured, and he didn’t know if he meant the room or his body or his life. “I’m here.”

Pond’s breath shuddered. He didn’t cry. His eyes just went bright, like his body didn’t know how to process tenderness without turning it into something sharp. Phuwin watched him for a second, and the urge rose in him, quiet but unstoppable. Not lust like Dunk and Joong’s coping hunger, not a desperate grab for grounding through friction and heat. This was something slower, something that felt like it had been building since the first time Pond’s presence had brushed his nervous system through a camera feed.

Phuwin leaned in. Not fast. Not sudden. Like he wanted Pond to have all the time in the world to move away if he wanted to, Pond didn’t move away. He didn’t move forward either. He held still, breath shallow, gaze locked on Phuwin’s mouth like he was trying to understand what a kiss was supposed to mean. Phuwin stopped close enough to feel Pond’s breath against his lips. Close enough to feel how Pond’s body held itself, tense and waiting. Phuwin’s heart hammered once, hard enough to make his ribs ache.

“You trust me, right?” Phuwin whispered.

Pond blinked. Once. Slowly. Then his fingers tightened around Phuwin’s hand like a yes that didn’t need words.

“Always,” Pond breathed.

The word settled into Phuwin like a weight and a gift, as he closed the last inch.

His lips touched Pond’s in a kiss that was soft enough to be a question and steady enough to be a choice. No rush. No claim. Just contact, warm and real, and the way Pond’s breath hitched and then let go as if his body finally remembered how to exhale. For a heartbeat, Pond didn’t respond. Phuwin stayed still. Stayed gentle. Let the kiss exist without pulling more from Pond than he could give. Then Pond moved, almost imperceptibly, his lips pressing back against Phuwin’s with a carefulness that made Phuwin’s chest ache all over again. Like Pond was learning a language by touch.

Phuwin pulled back first, not because he wanted to stop, but because he needed to make sure Pond wasn’t disappearing into something he didn’t understand. Pond’s eyes were wide, pupils blown in the dim light, his mouth slightly parted. Phuwin’s thumb brushed the side of Pond’s hand, a grounding stroke against his knuckles. Pond stared at him for a long second, then lifted his free hand and touched his own lips, as if checking that the sensation was real.

“In E-12,” Pond whispered, voice unsteady, “I watched movies through the sometimes.”

Phuwin’s heart clenched. “Yeah?”

Pond nodded, gaze flicking down, then back up. “People did that,” he said. “When they cared about the other.”

Phuwin smiled, helpless, warm, like his whole face had forgotten how to be anything else.

“I care,” he said simply.

Pond swallowed. “I know,” he whispered.

The silence between them wasn’t empty now. It was full. Full of breath and shared warmth, and the fact that neither of them had been taken from. Phuwin rested his forehead against Pond’s, eyes closing for a second. He could feel Pond’s breath on his mouth. He could feel Pond’s body steadying, like contact was rewiring something inside him. He stayed like that, still, until the tension in Pond’s shoulders eased. Only then did Phuwin turn back toward the table. 

The parts were still there. The world was still hunting them. The USB still sat unopened, heavy with truth and risk. But the room held something else now as well.

Phuwin reached for the power pack and connected the final lead, fingers steady despite the way his pulse still raced. Pond leaned closer, not touching the wires, but present, eyes tracking, mind following the path of current like it was a familiar river.

The screen flickered once. Then again. A faint glow spread across it, weak but stubborn.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Phuwin felt his stomach tighten, the fear that it would fail, that they would lose this small lifeline. Then the machine made a sound. A low, grinding whirr like an old animal waking up. A single beep. The screen brightened, shaky and uneven, but alive.

Phuwin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Pond made a small sound, almost inaudible, like awe trying to fit into a human throat. Phuwin looked at him, and something in his chest went soft again.

“Barely,” Phuwin murmured.

Pond’s lips curved, faint but real. “Alive,” he corrected, as if the distinction mattered.

Phuwin nodded. He reached out and, without thinking too hard, brushed his thumb over Pond’s knuckles again.

It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a promise ring. It was something quieter, something that still carried the weight of a vow.

The computer’s glow painted Pond’s face in weak light, and for the first time since the escape, the room looked less like a hiding place and more like the beginning of a plan. Outside, neon blinked over misery. Inside, two people sat shoulder to shoulder, breathing in sync, with a machine waking up in front of them and a kiss still warm between them.

Chapter Text

The room had gone quiet before anything actually happened. It settled into something tense, a kind of anticipation that didn’t feel empty but sharpened everything inside it. The self-made computer hummed on the table, low and uneven, like it wasn’t built to carry what they were about to ask from it. The casing didn’t fully close, wires still slightly exposed where Phuwin had forced connections to hold, and the screen flickered every few seconds, a faint pulse of light washing over their faces before dimming again. It wasn’t stable or clean, but it worked, and that was all they needed. 

Phuwin sat closest to it, shoulders slightly hunched forward, attention fixed on the screen. 

Pond was beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched without either of them acknowledging it. The contact stayed, steady and unspoken, like neither of them had considered moving away.

Pond wasn’t just watching the screen. His focus stretched past it, following the system itself, the way it responded, the way the current moved through something that should not have held together but did anyway. He didn’t think of reaching for it. Just being in its presence was enough to feel something, feel the energy running through his body.

Behind them, the others had settled into place, and everyone had found their nook to make themselves comfortable. Joong sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands loosely linked. He looked relaxed at a glance, but there was something hidden in the way he sat, something beneath the surface, that made him look slightly restless. Dunk leaned against the wall, one shoulder pressed into it, arms crossed, his stance easy but his attention never still. His gaze moved between the door and the window, then back to the table, where the flickering screen caught his attention, not for long, but for a brief moment, before his gaze flicked back to the door, making sure they were safe. 

Aou stayed close to Santa, as if that were his designated place. It would’ve been out of the ordinary at this point to not see him hovering by the youngest's side. His hand rested lightly against Santa’s arm, fingers barely brushing the fabric. Santa leaned into it without thinking, his body settling against that point of contact like it belonged there. Perth sat on the other side of Santa. Not touching. But close enough that the space between them didn’t feel like distance. He wasn’t looking at the screen, not yet. His attention moved between them instead, reading reactions before they fully formed, tracking the way tension settled into bodies and the way silence changed shape depending on who it landed on. His gaze lingered on Santa a fraction longer than the others, like something there held his focus.
Boom hadn’t sat down. He couldn’t. His gaze was fixed on the screen, watching, heart beating in his throat.

The USB lay on the table between them, small and plain, nothing about it suggesting weight or importance. Phuwin stared at it for a second longer than necessary before reaching for it. His fingers closed around it, turning it once, and then he leaned forward and plugged it in. The machine reacted immediately. The screen dimmed and flickered harder, the system stuttering in a low mechanical hesitation that traveled through the table and into Phuwin’s hands. Pond’s head tilted slightly, focus sharpening.

“Hold,” he said quietly. Phuwin froze. The cursor stalled, then shifted, and steadied again. Pond exhaled, just barely. “It’s stable.” 

The screen changed. A new window opened, and there was no password or delay. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath as their eyes were fixed on the screen and at the letters that appeared there now. 

SYSTEM LOG INITIATED
FILE ACCESS GRANTED
E-12 ARCHIVE NODE

The text appeared line by line, clean and organized. Outsiders wouldn’t be familiar with anything written on the screen, but the people gathered in the room knew. 

E12-ASSET-A
E12-ASSET-B
E12-ASSET-C
E12-ASSET-D

Joong didn’t move. His gaze was frozen on the file names blinking in front of him. Dunk shifted, adjusting his weight slightly, restless from the sudden surge of discomfort washing through the room. Santa had gone still, not tense, but quiet. Aou’s hand pressed firmer against the other’s arm now as if to make sure Santa knew he was not alone. Perth shifted a bit closer to Santa, just wanting to stay in his presence. Pond’s fingers rested on the table next to Phuwin’s, not touching, just close enough. Boom took a deep breath as Phuwin moved the cursor and opened the first file. 

--- SYSTEM LOG INITIATED ---
--- FILE ACCESS GRANTED ---
--- E-12 ARCHIVE NODE ---

FILE OPEN: EXPERIMENT_A

The screen filled with text, structured and cold.

DATA_RECORD
designation: EXPERIMENT_A
subject_name: NONE
intake_age: NEWBORN
ability_classification: NATURAL_INTERFACE
risk_level: MEDIUM RISK

ability_notes:
↳ technological manipulation
↳ system interference potential

facility_directive:
DENY ACCESS TO INTERNAL SYSTEMS
RESTRICT CONTACT WITH NETWORKED DEVICES

staff_annotation:
subject displays unusual curiosity toward electronic terminals
recommend minimal exposure to control systems

Phuwin didn’t scroll, he let it sit there and let the others take it in. He read it out loud, his voice trembling, realizing this had to be about Pond. It didn’t seem like this had been written about a person. Just a number, an asset, just something that had been studied. 

Pond leaned forward slightly. His expression barely changed, but the shift was there. Perth didn’t understand everything that had been said, but he felt the shift and the stillness that followed. The way Pond didn’t react outwardly, something in him settled deeper instead of rising. “Curiosity,” Pond said. Perth’s gaze flicked to him. The word didn’t sound like something new. It sounded like confirmation. Phuwin took a deep breath before scrolling further. The system logs followed. Cold and precise. Wrong in a way that didn’t need explanation.

SYSTEM INCIDENT LOG

event: unauthorized system response

no direct input detected.
subject proximity recorded.
system behavior altered without command

“They knew,” Pond said quietly. “They always knew.” He turned to Phuwin. “They knew I talked to you.” Phuwin's jaw tightened, not at Pond, not even really at the words themselves, but at the way they were written. Like something happening without permission had been reduced to a malfunction. A line in a log. Something to monitor.

Perth leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, mirroring Joong without realizing it. Phuwin became aware of the space between his hand and Pond's. So Phuwin closed that distance. Simple without hesitation. His fingers brushing lightly against Pond’s, not asking, not forcing, just there, steady and real in contrast to everything on the screen. Pond didn’t look at him. But his hand shifted just enough to fit. Dunk let out a quiet breath somewhere behind them, the sound low enough that it didn’t break anything. It just slipped into the space between the lines on the screen.

OBSERVATION ENTRY

subject present in restricted corridor
no terminal interaction recorded
adjacent system node experienced delayed response

cause: undetermined

recommendation: increase monitoring

The repetition made it worse. Subject. Subject. Subject.

Joong shifted slightly on the bed, not restless, just adjusting his position like he needed a different angle to look at it from. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Boom hadn’t said anything either, but his attention had moved away from the screen at some point, settling instead on Pond in a way that was quieter, more deliberate. 

Phuwin swallowed once, then let his gaze return to the screen. The cursor blinked at the bottom, patient, waiting for the next command like none of this mattered. He didn’t move it immediately.

Let the silence stretch just a second longer. Not dragging it out. Just giving it space.

“Keep going?” Phuwin asked to no one in particular. He didn’t expect an answer, but Pond, slightly squeezing his hand, felt like one. The next file opened the same way as the first, clean and immediate, but the moment stretched anyway, like something in the room resisted catching up to it. Phuwin’s hand stayed where it was for a fraction longer before he clicked, his eyes already moving ahead of the motion, scanning, bracing, and understanding before the others had even seen it.

SYSTEM LOG INITIATED
FILE ACCESS GRANTED
E-12 ARCHIVE NODE
FILE OPEN: EXPERIMENT_B

DATA_RECORD
designation: EXPERIMENT_B
subject_name: AOU
intake_age: NEWBORN

ability_classification: BIO_MANIPULATION
risk_level: HIGH RISK

ability_notes:

↳ cellular interference

↳ biological destabilization

↳ lethal potential under stress conditions

staff_annotation:

subject exhibits unstable biological output.

direct exposure risk to personnel remains high.

recommend controlled interaction protocols only.

facility_directive:
24H SURVEILLANCE REQUIRED
RESTRICT HUMAN CONTACT
MEDICAL STAFF ACCESS ONLY

Phuwin read it once in silence. Then again, slower. Not because he needed to understand it, but because he was choosing how much of it he would let hit all at once. Aou wasn’t looking at the screen. His gaze rested somewhere lower, unfocused, waiting in that quiet, patient way of his, the way you learn when information never comes to you directly, when it always has to pass through someone else first. This time, Perth looked at the screen. To understand what the words were doing to the person they belonged to. Boom noticed the pause.

“Phuwin,” he said, quietly, not urging, just grounding. Phuwin exhaled and shifted slightly, enough to face Aou without turning away from the screen completely.

“They flagged you high risk,” he said, voice steady but not untouched. “Bio manipulation. They restricted contact. Medical staff only.” Perth watched Aou’s face, the way the words didn’t hit all at once and the way they settled instead of striking. “They considered you lethal.”

Aou blinked once. “Lethal,” he repeated quietly, almost asking. 

Santa’s hand tightened around his sleeve. Small. Immediate. Like his body answered before anything else could. Perth’s gaze dropped to that immediately. Aou didn’t look at him, but his arm shifted slightly, enough to let him hold on without resistance, without making it something bigger than it was.

Phuwin’s eyes flicked back to the screen. There was more. There was always more.

SYSTEM MEDICAL NOTE

subject exposure to unprotected personnel discouraged.

incident probability:

↳ biological reaction unpredictable

↳ potential harm to external subjects

status:

ongoing monitoring required

Phuwin didn’t read this one out loud immediately. His jaw tightened instead, eyes tracking the wording, the way everything was reduced to probability, to outcome, to risk, like the person attached to it had never been the point. Aou spoke before he did.

“They didn’t let people near me.” His voice was quiet, certain, like a confirmation. “Well not unless they had to.”

“They were afraid.” Boom stepped forward. Closing the distance like it shouldn’t have been there in the first place. ”And I was part of the system that treated that fear like truth.” Perth didn’t miss the way he said it. Boom was remorseful, the words filled with truth. Perth leaned back slightly now, gaze moving between them, building something out of pieces he wasn’t supposed to have. Patterns. Connections. Not from the files. From them. The room shifted. 

“They had protocols for what you could do at your worst." Boom exhaled, sharper this time, something controlled slipping for half a second before he steadied again.

“So they were right? About me?” Aou’s voice was shaking. 

“They built restrictions around outcomes. Around scenarios. Not around you.” Boom explained. “I worked inside that system,” he added. “Signed off on parts of it. Followed rules I didn’t agree with because I thought staying meant I could protect you better than leaving.” Aou’s fingers flexed once at his side, then stilled again.

“They still decided I was dangerous.” 

“They did, and they were wrong for it.” Boom swallowed. “You are dangerous, but not in the way they wrote it in their protocols. They just didn’t know how to handle you. They forgot you are human and that they could’ve just talked to you.” Aou looked at Boom, still confused about what the other meant by that. 

“You are dangerous,” Boom repeated. “In the same way anything powerful is,” he continued. “In the same way, anything pushed far enough can become something it was never meant to be.” Aou didn’t look away, he held the gaze with Boom, even though his heart felt like it would jump out of his chest at any second. “That’s not who you are. And I should have said that louder back then.” Santa’s grip tightened slightly again, still quiet, still grounding, his presence constant against Aou’s side, something real against everything that wasn’t.

Phuwin looked back at the screen. At the directives. The way proximity itself had been turned into a threat. He didn’t scroll yet, didn’t move forward. The room felt heavier now. Boom had sat down on a chair, a bit further from them, gaze still fixed on Aou, knowing that it would be a long night ahead of him, with lots of uncomfortable questions. 

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen. Waiting. Phuwin’s voice came quieter now.

“Do you want me to keep going?” This time, he looked at Aou. Aou’s gaze dropped briefly, just once, to Santa’s hand still holding onto him, then lifted again, settling somewhere between Boom and the screen. A small nod.

“Yeah.” Phuwin clicked.

Phuwin didn’t stop this time. The cursor moved almost immediately, like pausing had started to feel worse than continuing, like the only way through this was forward. The screen shifted again, replacing Aou’s file without hesitation, without transition, like nothing they had just seen mattered to the system at all.

The new file opened.

SYSTEM LOG INITIATED
FILE ACCESS GRANTED
E-12 ARCHIVE NODE

FILE OPEN: EXPERIMENT_C

DATA_RECORD
designation: EXPERIMENT_C
subject_name: JOONG
intake_age: 9-12

ability_notes:

↳ full environmental barrier formation

↳ external interference ineffective

↳ subject difficult to eliminate once ability activated

ability_classification: ABSOLUTE_BARRIER
risk_level: MEDIUM RISK

facility_directive:
CONTROLLED SOCIALIZATION PROTOCOL ACTIVE
GROUP INTERACTION PERMITTED
ASSIGN DESIGNATED COMBAT TRAINER

Joong leaned forward slightly, close enough for the light of the screen to settle across his face, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. His eyes moved over the file quickly, taking it in without effort, the structure familiar, the language something he didn’t need help understanding.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Phuwin glanced at him. “Yeah?”

Joong didn’t look away from the screen. “They didn’t keep me alone.” Perth’s gaze snapped to him. That hadn’t been said before. The shift in the room was immediate, subtle but sharp enough to be felt. Aou stilled. Pond’s attention fixed on him completely. Even Santa moved slightly in his sleep, closer without waking.

“They didn’t isolate you?” Phuwin asked. 

“I had people.”

That changed something immediately. Not just for him. For the others. Perth saw it in Aou’s expression, in the way Pond stilled, in the way Santa’s grip tightened again.

Aou frowned. “We knew there were others, but…” He stopped, because that wasn’t the same thing. Joong looked at him, steady, already understanding what Aou couldn’t quite put into words.

“I didn’t just know they existed,” he said. “I knew them.” Silence stretched between them. “We trained together,” Joong continued after a deep breath. “Not always the same group. They rotated us sometimes. But there were people I kept seeing. Same rooms. Same time.”

Phuwin leaned forward slightly. “Like friends?”

Joong hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Yeah.” Aou’s chest tightened at that, something unfamiliar and sharp pressing in, because that word didn’t belong to his memories like that.

“You spar with someone enough, and you get to know them,” Joong said. “Not just how they fight. How they move when they’re tired. When they get careless.” His gaze drifted slightly, not unfocused, just pulled somewhere else for a moment.

“You start expecting them to be there.” That expectation stayed in the room. “They’d talk,” Joong added. “Complain. Joke. Make it a competition sometimes. Who got hit less? Who lasted longer?” Joong chuckled. “You truly got used to them.” 

“And then?” Pond asked quietly.

“They disappeared.” No hesitation. “They’d be there one day. Gone the next. They never lasted.” Aou’s fingers curled into the fabric beneath him. Pond didn’t move at all.

“No explanation?” Pond asked quietly. Joong shook his head.

“I learned not to ask.” The sentence sat heavy, like it had been repeated enough times to become something permanent.

Phuwin swallowed. “Did you ever…” He stopped. Joong answered anyway.

“Yeah.” A small breath escaped his lips. “At first.” Silence pressed in again.

“And then?” Aou asked. Joong looked at him.

“And then I stopped…stopped asking..stopped caring…stopped talking to the new kids.”

Phuwin scrolled, the screen shifting again, pulling up another entry beneath the main file. This one wasn’t structured the same way. It felt different. 

STAFF NOTE
COMBAT TRAINING UNIT

subject shows strong response to drills
protective behavior observed in group settings
push further

TAWAN

Joong went still. Not sharply. Not visibly to anyone who wasn’t watching him closely. His eyes just stopped moving. 

“Tawan was my trainer.” Speaking of him almost made Joong choke up. “He saw us, not just assets or subjects. He truly saw us. He wasn’t just our trainer…he…” Joong swallowed hard. “...he was our friend.”

“Was?” Dunk asked carefully.

“He died in there.” Joong didn’t look up. “He wasn’t supposed to,” he added. “But nothing in there worked the way it was supposed to.” Joong leaned back fully now, posture settling into something controlled again, something present. “They gave me a world,” he said. The others looked at him. “Just enough of one. Then they kept taking pieces of it away. And the last piece was Tawan during whiteout.” 

Joong’s gaze shifted back to Phuwin.

“Next,” he said. Phuwin moved the cursor again. Then he opened the last file.

SYSTEM LOG INITIATED
FILE ACCESS GRANTED
E-12 ARCHIVE NODE
FILE OPEN: EXPERIMENT_D

DATA_RECORD
designation: EXPERIMENT_D
subject_name: SANTA
intake_age: NEWBORN

ability_classification: EMOTIONAL_MENTAL_OVERRIDE
risk_level: HIGH RISK LETHAL

ability_notes:

↳ emotional manipulation

↳ cognitive override potential

↳ prolonged exposure increases influence

facility_directive:
LIMIT HUMAN EXPOSURE
NO DIRECT CONVERSATION
COMMUNICATION THROUGH INTERCOM ONLY

Perth’s attention stayed on Santa, not the screen.

Phuwin read it in silence. Santa couldn’t read the screen. He had to wait.

“They marked you high risk and lethal,” Phuwin said quietly. “They weren’t supposed to talk to you directly.”

“I talked,” Santa said. “They didn’t like it.” Perth’s jaw tightened slightly. Not visibly, but it was there. “They thought you could influence people. I wasn’t supposed to talk.” Aou’s hand pressed more firmly against him.

“I thought I was doing something wrong.” Perth leaned forward again without realizing it, closer now, like distance didn’t make sense anymore. Phuwin scrolled further.

SEDATION LOG

reason: talking
action: sedation

“They sedated you for talking,” Phuwin said.

Santa nodded faintly. “They did that a lot.” Perth’s gaze dropped briefly to his hands, then back up, grounding himself in the room instead of the words.

“They spread…” Santa said, “feelings they spread…” Perth exhaled slowly through his nose.

“They thought you were the problem,” he said quietly. Santa didn’t look at him. But he didn’t pull away either.

“They were wrong,” Boom said. Perth’s gaze flicked to him. He didn’t disagree. But he didn’t look convinced it mattered to Santa.

“I could hear them,” Santa said.

Pond’s attention sharpened. “Hear them?”

“Not words. Everything else. Too loud. Their feelings were screaming at me.”

Phuwin scrolled further again.

STAFF NOTE

verbal restriction insufficient
increase isolation

“They thought silence would fix it,” Phuwin said.

“It didn’t,” Santa answered. “It just got louder.”

Boom didn’t look away from him.

“They were wrong,” he said. Santa looked at him.

“I should have done more,” Boom added quietly. Santa exhaled faintly. “You talked to me.”

“Yes.”

That was the difference. Santa looked down again.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“You didn’t,” Boom said. Santa didn’t answer. Phuwin didn’t open anything else.

There was nothing left. The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen. The room didn’t move.

Santa leaned slightly more into Aou. Pond stared at the screen without reading. Joong sat back, contained again. Boom watched them.

“They documented everything,” Phuwin said quietly.

“They built different systems for all of us,” Joong said.

“Different approaches,” Pond added.

“They tried to block you. Restricted you. Kept you away.” Dunk couldn’t believe what he just learned

“They were managing outcomes,” Boom said.

“Variables,” Pond added.

“So what does that give us?” Aou asked. Phuwin’s hand rested on the keyboard.

“It tells us how they think.” 

Pond nodded. “It tells us where they’re wrong.” 

Santa’s fingers tightened again. “They don’t understand it,” he said quietly.

“No,” Pond agreed. “They don’t.” The room didn’t move. But something in it had changed.