"Did NN just—" Clint couldn’t bring himself to finish his question in his disbelief. His eyes still lingered on the doorway you exited from a moment ago.

"—pass on watching the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, A-K-A the final race of the season?" Pietro completed from him. His eyes, too, lingered on the same direction. "Yeah, they did."

Across Pietro, Wanda thoughtfully forked a piece of the dessert you didn’t stay for. "They really wanted to see the last race of their favorite drivers as teammates."

"They haven’t seen any of the races after Singapore," Bucky pointed out, "and that was way back in September. NN hasn’t even seen the two races where their favorites took P1 back-to-back."

"It was midterms season then," Bruce pointed out next. "Their professors like to spread out their exams so NN ends up having them for like a month."

Your family sympathized with you. They might’ve not all attended university themselves and thus weren’t collectively aware of what you were going through exactly, but they did all notice how drained you were. Even without deep context for some, they all could tell how you needed a real break.

"What can I— we do for them?" Natasha, your mother in all but blood, asked no one in particular. "I mean, besides what we’re already doing?"

Tony looked ready to answer with his mouth slightly parted. However, whatever he planned to say never got the chance to change their lives because his brain child stole his thunder. "Romanoff Junior has been washed by the rain."

Tony’s head turned to Natasha before FRIDAY could even finish.

"What does that mean?" Steve asked the question everyone was silently wondering. He, as most of the others, turned toward the genius who programmed the AI to occasionally speak in riddles for his own amusement. "Did something happen to NN?"

"NN’s crying."

Natasha was out of her seat in an instant. "What—?"

"Romanoff Junior is in their room," FRIDAY added helpfully.

No one else needed to hear more than that, for they all sprinted towards the elevator before the AI could even completely finish.

Here was the thing about you in this universe: Although you were not biologically related to Natasha, you might as well be with how well you seemed to have inherited her mastery of hiding her true feelings. With the likely exception of your Mama, the Avengers hadn’t seen you cry — not even when they stumbled upon you during a mission with fresh cuts adorning your skin.

Natasha wordlessly gestured them to step away from your bedroom door and blend with the shadows, as if it was a SHIELD mission she was leading. They obliged with a mere nod, also as wordless and as serious as she was. In a way, it was a mission: They couldn’t predict what was happening behind the door and they had to be ready to face anything once it opened. They couldn’t screw up.

She made first contact with a soft knock, which was promptly followed by a "NN?" She gestured to Pietro for the plate of cake slice he managed to take with him without anyone — except for the spies — noticing. "I brought you cake."

Pietro took offense to her claim, but only expressed it through his facial expression and his silent, exaggerated gasp. He was the one to bring you a slice!

He handed over it without prompting a fight.

"Gimme a sec!" You answered on the other side of the door. The way your voice sounded slightly hoarse didn’t escape their trained ears. Your bedroom door cracked open a moment later, the gap just big enough for half of your body to show. "You didn’t have to, Mama, but thank you."

Your smile was off. Everyone could tell even from the shadows that concealed them, albeit they couldn’t all tell what exactly was wrong with it.

It didn’t help that your eyes were a little red around the edges, either.

"Anything for my solnyshko." Natasha replied with a nonchalant adoration only she could pull off well. She didn’t comment on your red eyes. "Can I join you for a bit?" [little sun]

You hesitated for a second. "Is everyone coming in, too?" You looked over her shoulder, as if you could see everyone hiding amidst the shadows. No one was surprised you knew they were there. They simply expected nothing less from Black Widow’s child.

"Yes."

"No." Your mother nulled your uncle’s response before you could even comprehend it. "Just me. They’re returning back up."

It was an implicit order for the rest to scram. They knew better than to do otherwise.

"Enjoy the cake, NN!" Pietro called over his shoulder as Natasha entered your bedroom and they headed back toward the elevator. You didn’t reply, opting to just close the door without another word.

You guided Natasha to sit at one of the bean bags in the room. You sat across her, on your desk chair, balancing the plate on your lap. "Wanna share?"

Your mother’s denial came indirectly, "I brought it for you."

You merely made a sound that vaguely sounded like an "okay" before diving in. A comfortable silence engulfed the room as you quietly munched.

Natasha, for her part, let her eyes wander around as she contently watched you eat. It was an unconscious habit she couldn’t break, being a spy since way before you were born. Nothing ever escaped her. "Do you sleep well, NN?"

Your hesitation was enough of an answer before your noncommittal hum was. "Just . . . trying to get through ‘til the winter holidays, Mama."

It was the longest ‘no’ she ever heard without the actual word itself.

"And how is that going?" The question came out sounding a little more interrogative than your mother meant it to. She didn’t back track, knowing you — her daughter for more than a decade — would understand the difference of being subtly interrogated and being conversed with.

You didn’t take offense, but you also couldn’t meet her eyes. You slowly swallowed a bite. "I just failed a midterm I studied a week for." Alas, even the sweetness of the cake on your lap couldn’t remove the bitter taste left in your mouth by those words.

Your Mama didn’t let the new atmosphere linger. "Oh, solnyshko, I’m sorry." Even without any tells, you could feel she was trying to think of ways to comfort you. That was just how her parenting was: Treated as seriously as a mission — especially if there was a crisis. [little sun]

You shook your head lightly. "I should be the one apologizing, Mama." Your voice remained low, as if afraid to break anything else other than your mother’s heart. "You’re paying for my degree, and I . . ."

When the Avengers found you when you were seven years old, your guardians had just perished at the hands of New York’s then-latest threat. Your young mind couldn’t quite comprehend what just happened yet — doing your best to wake them up, not even realizing you were bleeding yourself.

Natasha was the one who approached you to get you out of the danger zone. She was the one who dropped you off to the medical tents, and who eventually visited you at the foster care facility. She was also the one who adopted you after just a few months as her foster child, once the case manager in charge confirmed that you had no relatives interested in — or capable of — taking you in.

In short, you felt indebted to your Mama, for everything she had done for you over the years. As such, you felt strongly compelled to pay her back in the only ways you knew how. Like doing well in school.

"I’m paying for your education, NN, but not at the cost of your health." Natasha’s voice had gone softer, but the conviction remained absolute. She closed the short distance between you and squatted in front of your desk chair, taking your right hand in hers. "I know how much doing well means to you, but I’m not going to trade you for a piece of paper."

"Mama . . ."

"We lost three men trying to get her into the van," his trusted underling reports. "She also almost crushed Daniel’s windpipe with her knee when she came around and he was still tying her down."

There is a hint of humor there, buried under the brutality of the act. Had the captive been anyone else, like the local baker who has deferred protection pay for three months straight despite the daily heavy traffic in his bakery, they might’ve even chuckled at Daniel’s expense. The act would’ve been nothing more than a civilian’s futile attempt to protect themselves.

But, alas, the current resident of the safe house’s basement is not the mere socialite she claimed to be when he first slept with her seven months ago.

YN LN, the charming self-made socialite he has taken an interest in, is a deception. The truth is Seraph: a shadow operative for hire who has lived a thousand lives with different objectives.

Seraph, who deals with silent, untraceable services—usually a life or information for pay.

Seraph, who has killed men with a single sharpened fingernail coated in deadly nightshade.

Seraph, who has bankrupted a syndicate with a single bobby pin.

Seraph, who specializes in sliver openings to tear a situation apart.

Daniel is lucky she’s still coming out of a chemical haze when she woke. Otherwise, Max would’ve definitely been forced to bury a lieutenant and promote a replacement—neither of which is tolerable to him amidst the betrayal.

Max still doesn’t look up to meet Yuki’s eyes, but he finally stops trying to look preoccupied with the document in front of him. "And her apartment?"

"Checo and the others are still combing it for any clues about her current employer," the younger man replies. "They’re ready to torch it once they’re done."

"Good." He looks up, his gaze cold with unvoiced fury awaiting an outlet. "Keep her sedated until I’m ready for her."

Any ghosts of the Zandvoort wind are left behind once the elevator reaches the underground levels. There is no room for a phantom breeze here—not with the suffocating echoes of lives lost in these very floors haunting the walls.

The word comfort takes on an entirely different meaning below the foundation soil. Space may be as plentiful here as it is above, but cushions of any kind and the mere privilege to stretch are luxuries that never visit. Here, silence and solitude are much preferred by its residents to the alternative.

Yet, as it is above ground, being taken to a second location is a move that cannot guarantee a return.

"Hello, schatje," Max smirks as he looks down on YN’s current state: disheveled, disoriented, and cuffed to a bolted steel chair. "Missed me?"

She takes a second to calibrate. In a completely different circumstance, specifically under his silk sheets, YN being disheveled and disoriented is a personal checkered flag. In this particular situation, however . . . "Hardly." Her voice comes out hoarse, a familiar timbre that resonates in their morning afters. "I saw you this weekend, didn’t I?"

Max can’t help but to clench his jaw.

The familiarity of her bite is a bullet he isn’t prepared to catch. It’s one of the things he loved about her—how her sweetness comes with an edge she bares just enough times to remind him to check his ego.

She had been so perfect.

Hence why the betrayal hit him with the force of a high-speed impact.

"Right," Max acknowledges curtly. He crosses his arms across his chest, looking more like the boss that he is rather than the lover she knows. "You mean two nights before an RB shipment went missing?"

As he calculated, the mention of the missing shipment immediately clears the lingering chemically-induced fog in her brain. "What? What shipment?" Even more so when the chains snapped her hands back with a sharp echo when she tried to move them to the front of her face. "What— I don’t— I don’t understand." She tries again for good measure, the chains making the same condemning noise amidst the basement’s silence. "Max, seriously, what is this? Is this some kind of—"

"I don’t know, YN, you tell me," Max interrupts her theatrical confusion, not having the patience to see her acting through.

"What are you talking—"

"Or perhaps Seraph can." He moves one shoulder in a small shrug, "Whichever personality you want to use to come clean."

The mention of her shadow name makes YN freeze. However, like a professional operative for hire he now knows she is, the shock doesn’t last long. "Who told—"

"Please," he cuts her off for the third time, feeling no remorse for talking over her. After all, she isn’t the first person he refuses to hear out. "Don’t mistake me for one of your naive targets. It’s insulting."

Her face blanks in a blink. For a second, she just sits there, unmoving, mimicking a life-sized statue. She isn’t frozen. She’s . . . assessing.

It’s the first tell that her socialite mask has cracked—and before her next words shatter it completely. "Don’t flatter yourself, schatje." The smirk that slowly blooms in her face makes him tighten his hold on his arms. It’s the same expression she makes whenever she’s trying to rile him up and bait him into a round—except, this time, there’s a razor edge to the way her eyes twinkle. "Who told you RB is my target?"

Max forces himself to not fall for it. "You’ve been lying to me for months. What makes you think—"

This time, it’s Seraph who doesn’t let him finish. "Come on. I can’t even cross my legs?" Albeit accidentally, since she’s merely attempting to get into a more comfortable position on the steel chair, but ends up causing another ripple of echo due to the chains shackled on her. She looks back up at him, incredulous, "I’ve been to better interrogation rooms."

"Does it look like I care if you’re comfortable?"

She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she just shrugs, more nonchalant than he ever appeared to be. "I expected some sort of special treatment, is all, given that I’ve kept your bed warm."

Regret comes in the form of his lieutenants. Max is this close to throwing both of them out of the windows, the lockdown protocol be damned. Perhaps he should’ve let YN—Seraph—have a go at them and bestow matching black-eyes; maybe then he would’ve known a sliver of peace.

"No, but seriously," Daniel restarts, reining in his laughter for another round of teasing Max can detect from a kilometer away. "Do you want to share with the class why you came back from the basement disheveled?"

"Not just disheveled," Checo interjects, his eyes also shining with mischievous amusement. "It’s walk-of-shame, no-comb, forgot-how-buttons-work disheveled."

"Right, right." Daniel doesn’t just take the bait to tease him further; he swallows it whole with a chuckle. He raises his glass of whiskey in Checo’s direction for an acknowledgment toast. "Those chains were definitely used for constraints, alright."

Max doesn’t look down when he undoes the top buttons of his long-sleeve button down with one hand. He doesn’t even bother to check if he really did his buttons wrong. "Get your minds out of the gutter," he growls. "She denied being involved with the missing shipment."

That—much to his silent relief—is enough for his lieutenants to pivot to the real matter at hand. The mischievous glints in their eyes vanish in an instant.

"She denied it?" Checo halts the hand that’s halfway through bringing his glass to his mouth for a drink, suspending the action in the air. "That’d be the first, wouldn’t it? Seraph is known to claim her handiworks when asked."

Daniel takes a second longer to articulate his reaction. "Do you believe her?" It comes out rather thoughtful, a rare feature for his first lieutenant who leans into the humorous disposition as a deliberate tactic. "I mean, the intel we have on Seraph doesn’t necessarily specify if she takes credit immediately or eventually."

"No," Max answers before the I don’t know echoes in his skull. The "special treatment" she spoke of is really not doing her any favors. "It’s her signature work. We can’t give her the benefit of the doubt."

He takes a sip of his whiskey, letting the alcohol burn in his throat. He barely feels it, but it’s a welcomed distraction from his racing thoughts.

He doesn’t know if he wants her to be right, or if he wants to be.

Max catches his lieutenants share a quick look. He opts not to question it. Both Daniel and Checo are aware of his . . . relationship . . . with YN, in a deeper sense than she has ever been allowed to know. He feels the weight of their concern about the complication this current situation has created for his personal plans in the air, even with their gazes away from him.

He doesn’t validate their unvoiced concern. It is simply too much to unpack at the moment—and time is a luxury they don’t necessarily have right now.

"What do you want us to do now, then, Boss?"

Regret has been long forgotten by the time his lieutenants even thought of vacating his study and calling it a night. Their glasses have been refilled and emptied at least twice during their tactical meeting, unintentionally serving as their clocks in the clock-less room.

While Daniel doesn’t linger after a "catch you later," Checo turns back before he can completely exit the threshold. "It might be irrelevant," his second lieutenant starts, "but we found an opened pregnancy test when we searched Seraph’s apartment."

Max must admit, when Checo started that sentence, he didn’t know how it’d end. But he certainly didn’t expect that. He unconsciously grips the arms of his chair tight. "What did it say? The test?"

"It wasn’t used yet; but based on how it was by the sink, I’d say it was supposed to be next on her agenda." Checo’s voice was even and nonchalant, as if he’s merely giving a trivial piece of data. Even if they both know it’s far from that. "Figured you could use that information the next time you’re down there."

Information is everything in the world they live in. For better or worse, every piece of intel that reaches the RB syndicate’s ears is used for their benefit. And this one . . .

"I’ll keep that in mind."

This one is no different.

Even if the pregnancy test would’ve read two lines had she had the chance to take it. Especially then.

Because he had guaranteed—after the first time they slept together seven months ago—that it eventually will.

The Zandvoort wind that flows into the study is an artificial imitation. The coldness doesn’t have a specific bite, nor does it smell salty like the North Sea. It’s too sterile, too chemically clean.

Yet, Max still has to settle for the centralized air conditioning rather than the natural sea wind.

It has been three days since Seraph was taken from her current alter ego’s residence. Three days since he went down to the basement and attempted to interrogate her. Three days since Checo and his men torched YN LN’s apartment.

Yet, they still have nothing concrete to tie Seraph to the missing shipment. Nor on the current whereabouts of the container in question.

Two strong knocks shatter the silence that fills the study.

Max is not in a good mood when he commands for the knocker’s entrance, already feeling the incoming headache before the progress report even reaches his ears.

"She’s still not eating, Boss," Yuki reports from the door without any prompt. He doesn’t need to wait for one, the same way he doesn’t need to speak in specifics. He’s been put in charge of YN’s— Seraph’s stay in the basement and, as it stands, she’s currently the only one there.

Max’s left hand immediately moves to massage the bridge of his nose. The syndicate’s reputation is currently under threat, and their—presently only—lead is being a picky eater. The sheer audacity.

Had she been any other prisoner, RB would’ve either just forced her to eat so she doesn’t die before they get the intel out of her or let her starve herself to death once she’s no longer useful. (Not that starvation is the only way to die in RB’s confinement. It’s just the least brutal of the selection.)

But Seraph . . .

She’s not just a temporary resident of their basement. She will be the mother of his heir—who potentially is already forming in her womb.

For all Max knows, she might be refusing to eat because his child is rejecting the food.

He leans onto the backrest of his chair, his arms crossed on his chest and his eyes calculating. "Has she thrown up? In the mornings?"

"No, sir," Yuki replies. "She just doesn’t touch the food."

That doesn’t give him much to go on. There are multiple reasons why kidnapped people—especially highly-trained professionals like Seraph—refuse to eat what their captors feed them. One of those being the small, but not unlikely, chance of the food being poisoned.

As if he’ll do that to her—to them—over a missing shipment container. Even if it has the spare parts of their competitive car.

"It is likely that Seraph is conserving her energy," Yuki adds as an afterthought. "Her activity levels have dropped significantly since the first day."

Max tightens his arms across his chest. He doesn’t like how probable Yuki’s speculation is, given who she turned out to be.

Leniency is not in the RB syndicate’s vocabulary. As it stands, all their evidence points to her as the thief—the person responsible for why their container got stolen, that is—and RB is not one to let a slight like that slide.

Yet, at the same time, she’s also carrying the next head of the syndicate. Possibly.

He eventually relaxes his arms to lean forward and place his forearms on his desk. "Hook her to an IV. We can’t have her dying without a location."

The Zandvoort wind doesn’t reach underground. It’s simply too deep within the earth. So deep, in fact, that every wall in the basement is cold to be next to—let alone to touch.

Of course, there’s also the paranormal aspect of the same coldness. There are no bodies buried in the lot where the safe house stands, but there have definitely been lives lost within the vicinity of its fence.

That is not to say that the phantom chill is the only reason for the eeriness of the space.

Not that a complete list of all the things responsible for chill crawling down the visitors’ spines—past and present—matters at the moment.

Especially with Seraph back in the interrogation box: back on the steel chair and the heavy chains holding her down.

She looks different than she did three days ago.

Three days ago, she was disheveled from the kidnapping—her hair tousled, her clothes wrinkled, and her mind still slightly drowsy from the fast-acting chloroform used to subdue her. She had open cuts on various parts of her body from the strong fight she put up against his men as well.

Now, three days later, she simultaneously looks both worse and better. Her hair is still tousled and her clothes are still wrinkled. There is now dust on her, too, from the holding cell she has been living in for the past few days, but her cuts from the kidnapping have been covered in bandages. (RB can’t have her dying of infection before she yields the information. Nothing more.) And, as ordered, she’s tethered to an IV line on one arm—though the saline drip has done little to fix her chapped lips and thinner build.

"I don’t know if it was clear the other day," she rasps as soon as he steps into the interrogation room with her, her voice hoarse from the lack of swallowed liquid, "but our unofficial relationship has ended. It was a mutual decision, from what I gathered."

Max approaches her with a scoff, "I see you’ve gotten delirious from hunger."

The sharpness of her eyes doesn’t waver. "Not delirious, schatje." Even with starvation clawing at her, the fire that he had fallen for doesn’t dim. If anything, it burns brighter with her nonchalant shrug. "You're furious because you think I crossed you. I'm furious because your intelligence network is apparently incompetent. So, yes, I'd say the breakup is mutual."

It takes a conscious effort for him not to clench his jaw at her words. Like hell. "Everything my men are finding about that shipment container leads back to you, Seraph."

At the corner of his eye, he watches the saline drip from the IV bag into her vein.

"Is Daniel feeling better?" YN inquires, seemingly ignoring whatever he just said on purpose. "Can he or Checo be my interrogator instead? At least I like them to an extent."

"You’re not in any position to request anything, Seraph," Max responds like steel, not even giving her appeal a second to settle in the air. "You only get me."

She tsks. "This is a new form of torture, I see." She moves to cross her arms, seemingly forgetting the chains attached to her wrists—which quickly remind her of their presence when they tug her arms back with a crisp echo. "Being stuck in the same room as an ex. Lucky me."

A dry chuckle almost escapes him. "If you have energy to mock me, you have energy to tell me where my container is."

"Except I don’t know where it is," she fires back. "Full offense, but if I’m going to steal a syndicate container, I’m going for Merc’s. Everyone knows they’re better these days."

Max is directly in front of her in an instant, his forehead pressed against hers to give her no choice but to look into his eyes. "Say that again."

Up close, the physical toll of her three-day captivity is undeniable. Gone are the healthy tint of her skin and the perfect softness of her socialite persona. They’ve been replaced by a concerning pallor and the beginnings of a gaunt frame.

He involuntarily clenches his jaw at the sight, completely aware that doing so will only be interpreted as a reaction to her provocation.

"Say it," he orders with a growl from the back of his throat.

Seraph doesn’t obey. Even in a chained, weakened state, there’s no fear in her eyes. She stays silent, observing the little she sees of him due to their extreme proximity. Eventually, on her own terms, she finds her voice again. "I’d go for the most competitive car on the grid rather than settle for the fourth best."

Max’s hand moves to shoot up and wrap around her throat. But, by sheer will, it raises to hold onto her waist instead, his thumb digging into the part of her that has occupied his mind for three straight days.

"You think you’re funny, schatje?"

"I think you’re funny, schatje," she counters with a barely concealed smirk. "So convinced that it’s me, but I haven’t seen any . . . dedication . . . in getting what you want from me."

His eyes harden. Worse, he knows he can’t prove her wrong. Not with what she’s potentially carrying for him. "Yeah? You think so?" He steps back just enough to break the suffocating proximity. "Why don’t you eat the food Yuki brings you and find out?"

The chuckle that escapes her is weak, but it only heightens the tension in the air. "I don’t fancy captor’s culinary specials."

He scoffs, "You think I’d poison you?"

"I think you’re a syndicate lead who has been stolen from."

Max crosses his arms across his chest, his muscles flexing under his folded long sleeves. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t give you a quick death."

"Slow-acting poison exists," Seraph reminds him. "I should know." She leans back on the chair, relaxed as she can be with chains on all her limbs, as if it’s just a simple afternoon chat. "It can be effective in getting compliance—or so I’ve heard. It hasn’t worked on me yet."

Her nonchalant shrug infuriates him. He has no doubt that her boast is not a bluff. Seraph, after all, has a well-known reputation amongst the European syndicates. A shadow whose tolerance is as incomprehensible as the limit of her skillset. A shadow who’s perfect for every job, but whose rates keep her boxed in riskier missions.

But that’s then—before she has his heir sharing her nutrition. Potentially.

"Should I be impressed?" He utters the sarcasm with as much venom as he can muster, "Give you a reward for being a skilled operative?"

"A reward," she repeats, her voice suddenly huskier than it had been a second ago. He watches her swallow almost involuntarily, her gaze drifting towards his biceps. "I can think of one."

Max can almost believe YN LN the socialite now sits before him, rather than Seraph the shadow. She sounds—and looks—exactly like she did back then, right when her blood would suddenly flare with lust.

Or so he had believed.

He doesn’t retreat. If anything, he decreases the distance once more. He doesn’t put his hand back on her waist or press his forehead to hers, but he doesn’t need to. He smirks, "You think that siren act will still work on me, schatje?"

Seraph’s expression only intensifies. She stays silent, but her dilated eyes drop to his button-down and linger intentionally at his belt line.

"Does it not?"

Dread comes in parts.

The first was twenty-one hours ago, down at the safe house’s basement, when he leaned into the sexual tension Seraph created, leveraged their raw history, and continued the interrogation in that unconventional atmosphere. Not only was the tactic unsuccessful in extracting the location, but it also planted a seed of doubt. Worse, it revealed a subtle shift in her that even a master operative couldn’t fake.

She couldn’t handle him being too close without her breath catching between words, her pulse visibly hammering against her throat, her skin radiating a sudden, familiar heat. It was not performative, different from the way he now categorizes her attraction to him during their past relationship. It was worse. Much worse. It was too raw, too uncontrolled, too real.

A blood test for her HCG levels was almost unnecessary.

It was as if something of his inside her—her body, her soul, the life taking root—was aching to be connected back to him.

The second began five minutes ago, inside his study, when his first lieutenant sat across from him to report the latest development in his and his men’s task to collect stronger evidence to indict Seraph once and for all. Max knew, regardless of how the conversation progressed, he wouldn’t like what follows.

But, as it turns out, there are still some things beyond his comprehension until it’s right in front of him.

"The more we look at it, the less it makes sense," Daniel continues after giving him a moment to process. "At best, Seraph did steal the container and plant those inconsistencies on purpose. Based on what we know of her repertoire, I wouldn’t put it past her—she’s more than capable of making a master job look sloppy."

His lieutenant shifts in his seat to change his posture. "At worst, however . . . we’re looking at the real culprit still at large."

For the life of him, Max can’t decide if he agrees with what’s ‘best’ and what’s ‘worst.’ Especially when half of him has a compelling reason to believe otherwise.

Her being the culprit means victory for the syndicate—their preventative guilty until proven innocent has saved time on another chase yet again. He can sentence her with whatever punishment he sees fit, including keeping her and their child by his side, breakup be damned.

But that also means he has no reason to trust her ever again. She’ll be nothing more than a prisoner draped in silk. She won’t be the partner—the queen—he envisioned when he started orchestrating his guarantee.

On the other hand, her not being the culprit means he doesn’t need to worry about anyone from the syndicate board being in the way. With no crime committed against RB, it’s just a matter of him getting back into her good graces.

It won’t be ideal for the syndicate to have spent four days (and counting) on a false trail, but they can certainly recover from that setback. Especially with the talent she can bring them—and the heir in her womb. It’ll only be a matter of time before they have the real thief in their chains, with or without the container back.

"Keep digging," Max eventually orders. "She’s mine until then."

Dread completes itself just after sunset.

Max is barely halfway through his first glass of whiskey—neck-deep in discussing his plans for Seraph with his trusted lieutenants—when the safe house’s emergency alarm system screeches to life.

Given the active lockdown protocol, the blaring siren is far more deafening than the last time it bounced off the walls. With no open windows or gaps to escape from, the sound remains tightly contained inside the building, uncaring for the inhabitants’ eardrums.

"What the—" Checo doesn’t even bother to finish his curse, instinctively reaching for the radio clipped on his side.

Max, whose own radio sits on his desk ten steps away, snatches Checo’s before his second lieutenant can even key the microphone. "Talk to me."

It’s the longest three seconds of their lives.

"Boss," Yuki’s voice crackles through the speaker, sounding slightly winded. "Seraph’s out."

All three of them are out of their seats in an instant.

Daniel keys his own radio, his other hand unconsciously moving up to where Seraph almost crushed his windpipe four days ago. "What? How?"

"One of my men saw a pool of blood under her and called the doctor down," his underling—who is practically his third lieutenant-in-training—replies. "GP told us to uncuff her all the way and she took the opportunity."

A sliver opening.

Max tosses Checo his radio back, launching for his own before bolting towards his study’s door. He doesn’t look back, trusting that they’ll be hot on his heels.

Checo keys his radio as they run to join the chase for their escaped prisoner. "You got fooled by some blood from her IV site?"

"No! Not from there!" Yuki defends amidst the sound of his shoes hitting the concrete as he runs. "It was thick blood! All over her lap and dripping!" He adds between controlled breaths and an offended huff. "Seriously, have you seen anyone fake being deadly pale? Even GP bought it!"

Max immediately halts in his tracks, his lieutenants almost running into him if not for their quick reflexes. Neither of them ask why.

After all, that had been the topic of their conversation before the alarm went off.

"Max— The baby—"

He doesn’t hear anything over the sudden, violent thundering of his heart.

Is she losing—

"Listen very carefully," Max orders into his radio’s microphone, his low voice vibrating through every device on the frequency. "Secure her, but do not fucking hurt her unless you want to die."

The Zandvoort wind is the coldest at night, even more so kilometers off the nearest North Sea shore. It is no longer a ghost remembered like a muscle memory, but a force of nature demanding not to be ignored.

True to Seraph’s elite reputation, the severe blood loss doesn’t deter her from her mission to escape. Somehow, even when pale and unsteady on her feet, the active lockdown protocol is a mere illusion.

She hasn’t added to her body count on her way out, but she has certainly left a trail of injuries behind.

Max’s order against harming her has undoubtedly tied his men’s hands. There is only so much they can do to try and re-contain an operative driven beyond reason.

She slips past them and out of the safe house’s perimeter in record time. Although they stayed on her without fail, the chase continues over water.

And only halts in stalemate when Seraph’s stolen yacht sputters to a dead stop, trapped in the center of an RB-owned fleet.

Max’s eyes snap straight towards the blood that follows her when she steps back onto the upper deck. He has seen it up close, since she had left quite a trail in the safe house during her escape, but seeing how the crimson has vividly stained her trousers, even at a distance . . .

GP had made the right call.

Looking at her now, the infirmary is really the only place she should be—if not his own bed.

"YN!" He shouts onto the howl of the wind. "Stay there! We’re getting you help!"

He can hardly hear her response over the aggressive wind and the crashing waves. "You’re telling me to wait?" Her attitude is still there, but it doesn’t land the same with the rawness it obtained since the last time he saw her yesterday. "I have. For four days. And look where it got me."

She doesn’t raise her voice more than necessary, but she might as well have on top of her lungs with how she has to grip the nearest railing to stay upright. Still, she flashes him a smirk—pained, but a smirk nonetheless. "There’s only so much boredom I can take."

It’s a sight to behold. With the cold wind blowing hair across her face, the floodlights pinning her to the deck, and her playful expression, it reminds him of the first time they met—under Monaco night lights, away from the chaos of the inter-syndicate gala, draped in navy blue silk. It was the night he first tasted her fire, and decided to never let go.

But as the wind wracks her frame with involuntary shivers, the lights only highlight how dangerously thin she has become. She looks more frail than ever. It doesn’t help that her knuckles have turned white from the death grip she has on the railing.

She doesn’t have much energy left—that he knows for certain—and, yet, she still positions herself for a fight she can’t possibly win.

She’s a shadow operative through and through.

"Don’t move," Max commands over the wind. He steps right up to the edge of his vessel’s bow, uncaring for the dark water churning between the hulls, putting himself as close as possible to her yacht. "You’re bleeding out."

YN stands her ground, her posture impeccable despite her shallow breaths. "A little— A little blood never killed anyone, schatje."

"‘A little blood’?" His voice cracks, breaking his boss persona along with it. "You’re bleeding for two!"

The wind seems to freeze, swallowed by the silence that has engulfed them in an instant.

For the first time since he met her, she appears rattled—unable to recover quickly enough for a comeback. "What— What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

He can practically see the gears of her mind turn. He can also hear it buffer in real time, amidst her sudden speechlessness. And, as frantic as he feels for the situation at hand, he lets her have a moment.

After all, they’re really nowhere near an appropriate for such revelations, with their respective rides rocking from the pitch black waters hitting the hauls.

"That’s impossible," her hoarse voice eventually scrapes against the roar of the North Sea, stripped of all bravado. Her free hand unconsciously reaches for her lower abdomen. "I’m on—"

He doesn’t wait for her to finish, already knowing what her rebuttal is. "I’ve had them replaced with placebos on your first refill."

YN’s hold on the railing loosens as she stumbles back, her legs momentarily buckling from shock. "No," she says in disbelief.

He leaps the gap between the vessels without any invitation or warning to his crew. He doesn’t glance down at the dark, dangerous waters on his way over, his mind entirely focused on being able to catch her on time in case her legs give out. But, before he can even recover from the vibration of his hard landing and take another step closer, she has already anticipated the move. "No, don’t . . . don’t move any closer."

Max doesn’t heed her warning and takes a slow, deliberate step forward. "You need to let me help you, YN," he coaxes with a low and steady voice. "You’re not doing well."

Despite her weakened state, she still has the energy to scoff. "Of course I’m not doing well," she hisses between her teeth, seemingly recovered from her initial shock. "You were trying to make me an unpaid surrogate and a scapegoat for your stolen shipment!" She sucks in a breath as she adjusts her hold on the railing to stabilize her footing. "If you can’t afford my fees, just say that."

His jaw tightens involuntarily, the boss in him momentarily flaring back to life. "Stop being stubborn. You’re bleeding to death."

YN doesn’t blink. "I’d rather die."

"YN—"

Max doesn’t think. He doesn’t have the time to.

He reaches for her, but even his fast reflexes aren’t fast enough for a cornered operative well-acquainted with death.

She flashes him one last playful smirk—"Goodbye, schatje."—before letting go of the railing, tilting herself backwards, and free-falling headfirst into the waiting, freezing abyss.

bonus points bc peter kept saying “web stuff”(?) whenever he thwips for a good portion of the movie

&& oml the quips!! i love me some spider-man quips fr

it’s on me for not doing a rewatch before going in the theater, so rn it feels like he swung and quipped more in this

but yk maybe i just miss peter and his antics sm

that—plus this—aside, can i just say . . . i also felt his initial disgust for organic webs deep in my stomach

the way they showed it . . . yeah, he was so real for that

i weirdly found his black-out eyes whenever he went arachnid mode kinda endearing idk

i do understand why they couldn’t go any further than those for his newly gained spider qualities, though, bc obviously it had to be kid-friendly

giving him organic extra eyes + legs and wtv will definitely be considered body horror imo

the inhibitors raised a glowing red flag in my head, ngl

idk if it was bc i’m watching x-men ‘97 szn 2 rn but oml i already know where the mcu might be headed with that

peter is most likely definitely about to get yet another tony parallel in the (near) future

tony has ultron; peter has that inhibitor 🧎‍♀️ both with the best intentions, but disastrous outcomes . . . sigh

i’m already unwell btw

icb they’re going to connect mutants/x-men to the main mcu earth that way 🫩

(idc if it makes perfect sense, shh)

it does make me wonder if that means main mcu earth will have its own x-men—and the fox!x-men that they showed in the marvels are variants

not like how they did fantastic four, if that makes sense

(in that case, can i still hope for fox!charles xavier and erik lehnsherr actors—including the ‘younger’ ones—in cameos?? i quite like james and michael’s chemistry, ngl)

but anyway . . .

mj’s “i don’t love you” broke smth inside me but ned fixed it with the power of friendship iktr i love it sm

it made more sense that ned remembered him first, anyway

&& oh!! the way ned’s indirectly still his “guy-in-the-chair”??? with that app???

oml. that was real friendship fr

also there was just smth so right about bruce being a professor. idk. i love it && will run with it somehow. trust

i did laugh when peter got the same ragdoll treatment as loki from hulk. lol

yelena being there was great imo (very biased but who cares)—i didn’t know she’d be around && i was so glad she was

she opened my eyes to the fact that avengers can have “offices” outside of the tower

so i shall run with that canon information, too, tyvm

wait, hold on— that reminded me, how did yelena and peter even meet? 👁️ what was the lore??

while we’re at it, since peter’s obviously well-acquainted with frank . . . i’m going to assume he’s also somewhat acquainted with the defenders—or anyone else street-level, idc

matt was literally his lawyer in no way home. it’s not that far-fetched

of course, to no one’s surprise, aunt may scenes made me cry again

the no way home flashback?? and the audacity to lowkey mirror it with peter and jean?? oh my god. i almost screamed in the theater

&& the talk she gave peter (and, by extension, jean)??? literal tears, mate

anyway, either that as the backstory or something way less dramatic

like going-out-for-some-milk-and-never-coming-back; or, in this case, leaving-for-race-and-never-coming-back

why? who knows—maybe he wasn’t ready to be a parent yet; maybe he felt like yn was better off without him; maybe there was something else

whatever the case may be, he eventually became the formidable toto wolff of the f1 paddock

he still eventually married, still eventually had other children

in this one, he forgot yn because he chose to—not because he had to

either way, whether it was his choice to leave yn or not, she grew up without him

her choice to pursue sports medicine and tba second degree is entirely independent of his presence

and so is her eventual presence at the f1 paddock for the narrative

i’m currently considering the ghost of you route and making her an intern . . . but for red bull, for the ✨ rival drama ✨

i’ll stop there before i give the entire plot. not that i already have something concrete, but y’know.

i will also let you know, though, that i can only envision a father-daughter ‘happy ending’ if it was the first backstory. even i can’t think of an excuse why yn will ever forgive him if he willingly left??

however, both backstories will have significant degrees of angst, for sure.

An hour before showtime, YN carries the Moleskine notebook Jihoon and Vernon have procured from one of their managers across the paddock. Her steps, light as they may be, are determined. Her focus, singular. Her movements, unconsciously inherited from the same man she copied her stare from. She is one of them—a person of the paddock—but not really.

She locates Lewis just as the early afternoon sun hits the silver constellation across her face. He is not alone.

YN is suddenly very conscious of her in-ear monitors resting on her shoulders and of her microphone grasped by the same hand holding the notebook. Suddenly, she’s aware of how sparkly her gear looks, with both her IEM and microphone being bejeweled in silver. It’s very distinct from the matte and glossy finishes drivers’ helmets and Formula One cars use.

The ‘not really’ has never been so visually jarring.

She unconsciously catalogs who Lewis is joined by on neutral ground: his new teammate Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, Alex Albon, and his former teammate George Russell. Then, she does nothing with the information. After all, she’s approaching them with one goal in mind.

Closure.

"YN," he greets her before she even stops in front of their loose circle.

She gives a small bow, not quite reaching the respectful ninety degrees her idol training ingrained, mostly for the benefit of the other six drivers. "Hello."

She doesn’t bother comprehending the murmurs of unsynchronized replies she receives. Her attention is already locked on the only driver she cares about. "You changed costumes?"

YN looks down at her outfit on instinct, before looking back up. "Not quite. I just put a jacket on." She uses her free hand to move the jacket a bit to the side, making the Mercedes logo on her chest more visible for a few seconds to prove her point. "It enhances the homage aspect, I think."

It’s a partial lie. It’s a lie by omission. It’s a lie consistent with the one she and her brothers convinced their styling department of.

While it’s true that the Plus44 zip-up fits really well with the driver aesthetic she’s supposed to embody, it’s not the only reason she asked one of their managers to get it from her unit’s van. She also wanted to wear a layer that covers her unwelcomed allegiance. Something that doesn’t immediately scream ‘Mercedes’ or ‘Wolff’s team,’ but rather the name of the man she just introduced to her brothers.

It’s a necessary lie—the only one that can bridge everything she is and has become with the truth she now carries.

"It looks great on you, kid." At the corner of her eye, she catches Lando and Alex share slightly bewildered looks. She has no doubt it has something to do with the endearment Lewis just dropped—and the casual way he uttered it. "Though, I suspect someone will be a little bummed the team logo is now a little less visible."

YN doesn’t miss the amused glance Lewis shot to the person somewhere behind her. One of the other drivers—George Russell, she assumes. Not that she cares for her Vater’s spy’s feelings. Or her Vater’s, for that matter.

She chuckles, a little warmer than the one she usually gives during interviews but nowhere close to the one her brothers hear. "I’m sure Kimi will manage. My members like him."

Lewis’ hum sounds unconvinced, but he doesn’t push the topic. Instead, even with amusement still swirling in his eyes, he switches to a different one. He nods once towards her bejeweled silver-colored microphone. "Is it almost showtime?"

"Almost to soundcheck, yeah," she confirms.

"Are we permitted to watch?" A voice behind her joins the conversation. She doesn’t need to turn to confirm his identity. His accent is distinct enough.

She fights hard not to glare at him. "Mr. Russell—"

"George."

YN really wants to use a Hapkido move Wonwoo and Chan taught her for emergencies two years into SEVENTEEN’s debut. But, of course, good forms and reputations must be kept.

She locks her professional armor tight, purposely ignoring the interruption. "The area we’ll be filming at is visible from the pit lane balconies in front of the grid. You all are welcome to watch, if your schedules permit you to."

It’s not a ‘no.’ It’s a ‘you can, if you want.’ It’s a subtle ‘you don’t have to.’

George flashes his signature smile, his natural charm engaged. "We’ll be there."

She nods once, almost stiffly, before her eyes swift over the rest of her audience. She gives them a small, practiced smile. "Enjoy the show then, everyone."

YN lets her attention gravitate back to Lewis, her smile instantly turning a few degrees warmer. She switches her microphone to her other hand, so she can hand him the Moleskine notebook. "Here. A gift."

"For me?" He says, almost on instinct, as he accepts the notebook. He holds it tenderly, like it’s some precious relic, bafflingly blind to—or perhaps just intentionally ignoring—the crease marks on the spine, and the chips and indents on the cover. "Thank you, YN."

"It just has my sketches over the years, since 2013." It’s nothing is the loudest sentence ever unspoken at that moment. "The Mercedes cars since you joined the team, for the most part. Not just yours—Nico’s, Mr. Bottas’, and Mr. Russell’s, too—but mostly yours."

She doesn’t need to explain why they’re mostly his. They know as well as she does why that’s the case.

It’s the perfect cover for the less obvious truth that she’s hoping the drivers—those younger than Lewis, specifically—haven’t realized: Toto Wolff became Mercedes’ Team Principal the same year Lewis Hamilton moved to Mercedes. Both of their chapters with Mercedes started in 2013, having just ended their life chapters with Williams and McLaren, respectively.

It’s also the perfect alibi to protect Lewis’ relationship with her Vater. He doesn’t need to know about the fracture—much less how deep it goes. He already has enough on his plate as it is, with learning the rhythm of his new team and whatnot. Besides, she’s not there to unsettle whatever truth the paddock lives in since her departure.

She has been removed from that truth’s narrative for a reason. She may not know why, but she’ll do well to respect it. Matter of fact, she’s respecting it so much that she’s currently in the process of cutting ties.

"These are brilliant, YN." Lewis flips through the pages, taking his time to absorb each one. "You started these before you left?"

"No, after," she corrects. "I think this notebook was part of the first purchase I ever made in Seoul."

YN doesn’t offer up any more information, no matter how much she wants to tell Lewis she only drew on the notebook whenever she was pondering . . . or homesick.

The same way she’s not telling him that she’s not just commemorating his twelve years in Mercedes by gifting him the notebook; she’s marking the end of her association, as well.

(There’s such thing as too much sentimentality—and only making the gift about Lewis avoids such.)

With an ease of someone who has never forgotten the fifteen-year-old who used to roam around the Mercedes HQ and the paddock during the first quarter of 2013, Lewis invites her for another hug. It’s not as tight as the one they shared an hour ago, just before he met her members, but the overwhelming warmth remained.

"You showed this to your Papa?" Lewis inquires in a low, private register, obviously meant for her ears only.

YN smiles at the thoughtfulness, assuming he’s keeping her secret from the other drivers without being asked, despite the painful twist of being reminded that he doesn’t know she’s trying to call the other ‘Vater’ now. "He gets his own gift."

Maybe—just maybe—rather than completely severing ties with the sport she grew up watching, she’ll just join Lewis in Ferrari.

Soundcheck is . . . interesting, to say the least.

The stage is set at the center of the top 2 and top 3 constructor’s garages, across the pit lane. Thus, per the final constructors’ standings last season, Ferrari and Red Bull have the best views from their balconies. As such, the drivers interested in watching a Kpop group in their element all gathered there—purposefully ignoring team rivalries for an extended period for a bit of fun.

That isn’t to say the top 1 and top 4 constructors’ balconies are empty, of course. McLaren’s balcony is full, too, as is Mercedes’.

It’s truly a sight to behold: the show-runners of the Formula One paddock reduced to mere spectators in their own turf.

"When she said she’s with them," Bono says slowly, breaking the silence at Mercedes, his eyes locked on the fourteen people moving about on the stage across the pit lane, "I didn’t think she meant she’s part of the group."

Bradley whips his head towards the race engineer, as if he can’t believe what he just heard. "You’ve met her?"

"Yeah, her and the boys," the other replies simply. "She was leading them on a tour around the garage earlier. Ravi was supervising from the back. George was mixed with them for some reason."

"What?" His voice comes out a little higher, an unguarded reaction of someone who leads the team’s media duties. "Was anyone recording? That would’ve been a great PR—"

"Not that I caught," Bono interrupts just as the chaos across the pit lane increases with fearful shrieks of "형! Not me!" ["Brother! Not me!"] on the makeshift stage. "I did find out YN’s father apparently used to work for the team, though."

Shov decides there and then to join the conversation, tearing his attention away from the fourteen idols still in the process of connecting their in-ear monitors while doing the most random things on stage. "Her father? Mercedes?" His interest is palpable. "What did you say her name is again?"

"YN," Bradley supplies before Bono can. "I looked into the group after I received an email from FOM that we were selected to host their base, and . . . oddly enough, she’s the only one out of the fourteen that seems to have a very tight lid on her personal life. She’s literally worse than George."

"George? Our George? How?"

"His siblings might come to more races than his parents so the fans recognize Cara and Benjy more, but his entire immediate family’s names and faces are known to the public," the Chief Communications Officer starts to explain. "His hometown is publicly available as well, as are his full government name and birthday."

That particular kind of personal information being available to the public is not uncommon in the industry they work in, particularly for the drivers. Especially for drivers with big enough fanbases to have sleuth hobbyists in them, who store every information gathered in a publicly accessible database.

In the age of modern technology, parasocial relationships built on those particular parameters are—for better or worse—the norm.

"But YN? She has mastered giving everything while giving nothing," he continues. "I found her birthday, her nationality, her ethnicity, her home city . . . but her birth surname is nowhere on the internet. Always just ‘YN,’ and an additional line about something called a Korean name. I could easily find her favorite color, her favorite movie, her favorite food, her favorite F1 driver, her favorite anything—but, I kid you not, all I got about her immediate family is that she grew up with at least a father."

Bono is quick to comment, not even letting his words marinate in the air. "What a curious way to say the kid has a father."

Bradley shakes his head. "No, you don’t understand. Her father is literally the only family member she ever mentions in her ten years as an idol and yet—"

"Maybe she’s just raised by a single father," Shov interrupts with a shrug. "No shame in that."

"No, no—I mean, yes, but that’s not what I’m trying to get to." Bradley’s eyes are slightly wider now, as if he’s willing them to understand what he isn’t saying by sheer will alone. That, or his findings during his research on the idol in question is haunting him. "YN seems to be close with him, but he’s literally nowhere. No name, no presence, nowhere."

Shov’s comment comes out too thoughtful for someone who is only hearing about her for the first time. "YN, huh?" A deliberate pause, unusually weighted. His eyes shift to the side for a second, towards Toto, albeit it’s too quick for the other two to catch. "She’s awfully protective of him."

On the other hand, Bono isn’t as sentimental. He brings back the logic that has been lost somewhere along the conversation. "Perhaps it’s just customary to their industry? Considering the fans on that side of entertainment can get pretty crazy and all."

It is, in all honesty, a shot in the dark. Unlike Bradley, who has to look beyond the race track to have a more effective strategy, Bono’s—and the rest of the Mercedes team outside of the communications and public relations departments—professional world view revolves around the car and the track.

He just hit the bull’s eye because, regardless of the continent and the decade, music fans are known—and proven—to be a different breed.

"It’s possible," Bradley half-agrees to his point eventually. "Perhaps it just sticks out because the boys’ histories are more of an open book. Their parents get photographed attending their concerts, their high school alma maters are searchable, their families’ businesses are in the fans’ bucket lists . . ."

On the stage, entirely oblivious to the Mercedes engineers’ attempts to rationalize the enigma YN is, the chaos has turned into an organized riot. The members have started chanting "du-du-du-du" in an all-too familiar tune. Had the melody not been a regular fan chant for every time Max Verstappen takes the podium’s top step in the recent years, they would’ve honestly assumed it’s part of a SEVENTEEN song because of how well they sound—regardless of the suddenness of it all.

Back on the Mercedes balcony, Toto doesn’t hear a word of the conversation happening next to him. "Can we rule out everyone who got carried over from the Brawn roster, or . . . ?" Even when they circle back to the topic of YN’s ‘former’ Mercedes employee father, the danger doesn’t register in his mind.

His stance doesn’t waver, his arms remaining crossed on his chest. His attention is simply too preoccupied by the figure clad in Lewis’ brand with a three-pointed star peeking through the open Plus44, his eyes dedicatedly following as she runs across the stage.

There is no judgement, despite what his hard stare might suggest. There is only watchfulness.

And a spike of wariness after YN somehow tripped over her own feet, almost face-planting had S. Coups—recognizable at a distance by his sheer aura—not been there.

As far as he’s concerned, it’s just like when he was still able to take her to the playground. She just effectively traded the playground for the stage, and the neighborhood children for bandmates.

Soundcheck eventually ends not with a checkered flag, but with a commanding voice through a bejeweled forest green microphone. S. Coups’. "세븐틴, 가자!" ["SEVENTEEN, let’s go!"]

"야, 이번에 구호 누구 차례야?" ["Yah, whose turn is it for the circle chant?"]

SEVENTEEN’s YN is known by many names.

SEVENTEEN’s only girl (self-explanatory). SEVENTEEN’s crown of the jewel (the member who sits outside the boys’ diamond-like tiered order, in terms of so-called importance). SEVENTEEN’s tenth eldest/fifth youngest (also self-explanatory).

Nation’s unattainable love (two words: thirteen brothers).

Kang YN (a similar way Soonyoung is sometimes called Kwon Hoshi). Choi YN, Yoon YN, Hong YN, Wen YN, Kwon YN, Jeon YN, Lee YN, Kim YN, Xu YN, Boo YN, Chwe YN (with the boys’ surnames, mostly depending on whoever is next to her in a photo).

NIGHTINGALE (also ‘Producer NIGHTINGALE,’ WOOZI’s—and BUMZU’s—creative partner).

Wolff (by the members, who found her legal surname "cool"; understood by CARATs as ‘wolf’ the animal). Wolf Princess (circa debut-rookie era, purposely simultaneous with Soonyoung’s ‘10:10 Prince’). Wolfie (personal favorite, proudly coined by Jeonghan). Silver Wolf (by CARATs, starting from A|1 era when she first dyed her hair and every time silver dye touches her hair since). Red Wolf, Blue Wolf, Black Wolf, Blonde Wolf, any-other-color Wolf (by CARATs, same reasoning as silver but not as ironically "iconic"). White Wolf (also from a dye, and from the MCU-fanatic Jihoon who watched Black Panther).

S. Coups’ baby (albeit she shares that title with Mingyu and Chan, as far as she’s aware). Jeonghan’s partner-in-crime (notably in Going Seventeen or whenever he’s feeling very Loki). Joshua’s unofficial sister (Mama Hong may or may not have adopted her—CARATs can’t find any disapproving evidence). Mingyu’s engineer to his architect—

Every name is a badge, a testament of being seen. While not every one is given with adoration, specifically those from antis, each one is proof. Proof that her ten years in the industry—twelve, if counting the televised parts of her pre-debut—has been lived with her shadow behind her. There is no regret, just a trade she didn’t mean to make.

YN tries not to breathe too hard on her handheld microphone when she raises it for her opening ment. The opening set—"Clap," "Maestro," "Anyone"—had been a hell of an opening. "Hello, I’m YN! It’s nice to meet you!" She smiles at the camera, imagining the crowd that would’ve been in front of them had this ‘mini concert’ not been a surprise pre-recorded content. It makes her think about their completely online concerts and fanmeetings during the global pandemic. "Wow. Ten years. SEVENTEEN’s really entering the double digits now. It’s amazing."

She pauses, her eyes are suddenly glossy with a memory only she can see. "It still feels like yesterday when I opened that basement door and witnessed these guys scream bloody murder while playing Pull the Radish." A soft, almost soundless chuckle escapes her throat, "I genuinely thought I walked into an active murder. I almost asked to be picked up."

Joshua jumps in with a a quip, subtly shifting to ensure the cameras captures the small Haas logo on his chest. "Leave it to us to make a great first impression."

"I don’t know about ‘great,’" she shoots back almost immediately. "but it was definitely memorable. I mean, look—that first meeting was twelve years ago now, and I still remember it clearly."

A smirk begins to bloom on her face as an idea forms in her mind. YN doesn’t hesitate to put it in action, with mischief dancing in her eyes. "I suspect, even if the world ends tomorrow, I’d still remember that first chaos. It was the best foreshadowing, if I’d say so myself."

"와. Nice one, YN 누나." ["Woah. Nice one, YN."] Chan walks past Jeonghan and Minghao to give her a resonating high-five, his movements a little exaggerated like they often are whenever there’s a skit in motion. With his predominantly Rosso Corsa outfit, he incidentally reminds YN of a red warbler strolling past a white dove (Jeonghan with his Williams-inspired palette) and a raven (Minghao with his black Mercedes-inspired getup).

"Thank you, thank you," she gives a quick bow to her left, right, and center like she’s in an actors’ award show, immediately riding into her brother’s impromptu skit. "난 케이터링 끝날 때까지 안 가." ["I’ll be here until the last call for catering."]

Junhui jumps in next, unconsciously fiddling with the mock turtleneck of his McLaren papaya-colored top. "‘Foreshadowing’이 오늘 ‘Shadow’를 무대한다는 뜻은 아니라고 확실히 해두는 게 좋겠어." ["Might want to clarify that ‘foreshadowing’ doesn’t mean we’re performing ‘Shadow’ today."] His grin widens, a pre-tell that he’s about to say something he’s proud of. "희망고문으로 캐럿들 울리고 싶지 않잖아. 'Shadow'가 캐럿들이 진짜 아끼는 곡인 거 알면서." ["We don’t want them to cry from false hope. You know ‘Shadow’’s a CARAT favorite."]

And there it is. An intentional nod to "Don’t Wanna Cry," another song in the mini concert setlist.

"That’s okay!" Seungkwan—in his Sauber green-accented costume—doesn’t even let the genius marinate in the air, already armed with the next contribution to the bit. "They’re still pretty—"

"스포는 여기까지," ["That’s enough spoilers,"] Seungcheol cuts off the twelfth eldest through his forest green microphone—which coincidentally matches well with the Aston Martin green that he dons. Although the interruption is a bit too late since the nod to "Pretty U" is already uttered. "너네 자꾸 이러면 셋리스트 너무 일찍 다 스포하게 되잖아. 멘트 시간 나중에도 있으니까 좀 아껴둬." ["If you guys keep this up, you're going to end up spoiling the entire setlist too early. Save some for the later ment segments."]

"Oh, 리더님’s thundering!" ["Oh, Seungcheol’s thundering!"] Vernon, although he usually just enjoys comedic bits without participating, can’t help but throw another food for the flame. He even stops fiddling with the zipper of his classic Renault-inspired leather jacket to properly join in on the banter.

"‘Thunder’ is also not in the setlist," Mingyu chimes in, helping in the most chaotic neutral way possible while visually debating if he should keep a part of his modern Ferrari-inspired getup for the rest of the filming.

"A shame, really," YN comments in faux disappointment. "‘Alo, alo’ 하는 부분이 F1 그리드에 있는 어떤 분을 떠올리게 하는 아주 기막힌 우연이 될 수도 있었는데 말이죠." ["The ‘alo, alo’ part would’ve been a great unintentional nod to someone in the F1 grid."]

"그래도 넌 투표 안 했잖아, YN아," ["And yet you didn’t vote for it, YN,"] Jihoon reveals without a second of thought, mercilessly throwing her under the bus for CARATs to watch. Trust someone currently wearing Red Bull colors to betray another who’s covered in Mercedes’ aesthetics.

Like any other multi-song performance block, SEVENTEEN-style democracy decided the setlist. It had been a difficult one to curate. After all, these F1xSEVENTEEN contents they’ve been filming since the morning are meant to showcase how the group’s precision goes with the sport’s. Similar to how they approached the Apple event around the Face the Sun era, they decided to tie their beginnings with Formula One—only this time, they focused on the drive to continue instead of on the road to start.

"Darl+ing" was the only soundtrack of that Apple collaboration. This one with Formula One has a room for ten. Ideally, it would’ve been one song from each year of their decade together . . . but, alas, democracy didn’t work that way.

YN lets out a theatrical gasp at the betrayal, before opting to take another person with her. "오빠도 안 했으면서!" ["Neither did you!"]

Because if she learned one thing in the twelve years she has known her brothers, it’s that no one goes alone. Not even down.

Years before the nightingale learned to take a leap of faith and fly from the nest, YN was a nestling whose world mostly revolved around the Wolff home in Vienna—specifically wherever her Papa was.

Like any toddler her age, she watched Barney, Pingu, and other children’s shows during her allotted screen time. However, to fill the rest of her days, she was either playing with her toys, testing out the baby-proofing around the house, or helping her Papa in the garage. "Normal toddler activities," as far as her grandmother was concerned—and Toto knew better than to question his mother. (She had, after all, raised him, and he turned out fine.)

Not that she had a warm reception to her first grandchild getting exposed to potentially dangerous tools way too young. Matter of fact, she had given Toto an earful with carefully chosen words about possibly endangering his eighteen-month-old. It had been a long lecture, despite beginning with "I waas goar net, was i sogn soll." ["I don't even know what I should say."]

He had stood his ground about YN belonging in every part of their home then, the same way he insisted he could handle raising his daughter without a partner. It had just taken a lot more convincing, which included extending the baby-proofing to the garage and teaching YN not to run with a tool in hand.

Eventually, his little assistant engineer had been given an all-clear. His garage time had never known true quiet since. Especially because YN’s mandated footwear in that particular part of the house squeaks every time she takes a step.

Toto was eye-level with the front right tire of a 1979 Mercedes-Benz 450SEL 6.9, his focus on replacing the worn twenty-year-old stabilizer bar links that were way past their prime. His back was to the blanket he laid out for YN to sit on with her xylophone and toy tools, but his ears were finely tuned to the sounds she was making.

If he was hearing the xylophone, she was sitting down.

If it was squeaks, she was most likely up and about.

But if it was silence, void of any toddler sounds, specifically after a sequence of squeaks? He learned almost as soon as YN turned twenty-four months old that sudden silence from a mobile toddler was one of the reddest flags there was in childcare. Because it could mean the toddler in question was doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing.

"YN, schatzi," He called her attention without checking over his shoulder. "Der Papa braucht den Gabelschlüssel. Kannst ihn suchen?" ["Papa needs the spanner. Can you find it?"]

As expected, the toddler silence ended with a quick succession of squeaks, each one getting closer to the station he set up for her. "Oh, ja!" ["Oh, yes!"]

It took a few more squeak-squeak-squeak before his daughter was standing directly to his right, grinning proudly with the spanner and the toy spanner in each extended hand. "Da, Papa!" ["Here, Papa!"]

He took the spanner, leaving the toy version in her hand. "Danke, schatzi." ["Thank you, darling."]

YN didn’t leave. Instead, she opted to watch him work while leaning on the front bumper of the Mercedes-Benz. Her left hand remained loosely wrapped around her toy spanner as her eyes followed his every move.

In that moment, where he could feel her tiny body close, the silence wasn’t dangerous. It was observant—analytical, even.

Toto didn’t break the silence that time. She wasn’t using her toddler curiosity to figure out the baby-proofing, so it was a win.

"Papa fix?" She eventually chirped. He could hear the slight tilt of her head in her voice.

"Ja," ["Yes,"] he grunted as he tightened the new stabilizer bar link in place. "Papa is fixing." He turned his head to the side to look at her as he rolled the front right tire into place, one hand reaching for the impact wrench he left on the ground earlier. "Almost done. Dann geh’ ma rein auf an Saft, hm?" ["Almost done. Then we’ll go inside for juice, hm?"]

He wasn’t; he still had the rears to replace. But it didn’t matter at that moment. He had a little assistant to reward and a daughter to spend time with.

"Saft!" ["Juice!"] YN celebrated, stomping her feet in a little celebratory dance—cueing a rapid-fire series of squeak-squeak-squeak.

The last notes of SEVENTEEN’s grand finale are still ringing in Toto’s ears when a knock resonates from his office’s door. He doesn’t dare to hope it’s YN, since the fourteen members were still on stage when the Mercedes balcony emptied of spectators after the final bow.

"Come in!" He responds almost instinctively, even if he isn’t quite ready to see anyone yet. His hand immediately goes to the power button of his phone, locking the screen and hiding the zoomed in photo he took of his daughter smiling during the second talk portion of the concert.

(The filming took just a little over an hour and forty minutes, even if everything was one take. Much to the audible confusion of the grid at the neighboring balconies, the members explicitly called it a "mini" concert despite being the length of a full one.)

True to the mannerisms of someone who has been in the paddock long enough, Ravi starts talking almost as soon as he opens the door. "Boss, is now a good time? Or should I come back later?"

"Now is fine." He gestures to the chairs on the other side of his desk, nonverbally inviting him to take a seat. "What happened in the guests’ garage tour?"

"Ms. YN led the tour, as Pledis requested," Ravi starts as he makes his way to one of the chairs he gestured at. "It was in a mix of Korean and English, so I only understood the English bits; but, from what I gathered, she seemed awfully knowledgeable in the engineering side of the sport. They barely needed me to answer the questions she couldn’t."

Toto does his best not to show too much interest, even if he’s internally craving for details. After all, it’s the most concrete sign that YN hasn’t completely left her engineering upbringing in the past. "How . . ." He tries to inquire, but falls short of the appropriate words to continue. He doesn’t know how he can possibly end that question. How can she remember the engineering after twelve years of being an idol? How did she move around in the world she was born into in front of her brothers?

Thankfully, Ravi doesn’t need more than a one-word prompt. "Based solely on the English I was able to catch, her understanding seemed to be deep since she was explaining the technical descriptions and jargons by relating them back to something the others were already familiar with."

Toto exhales slowly, forcing himself to not let out a fond chuckle only a proud father can. Of course—of course she would. Evidence of deep understanding aside, that’s exactly how he taught her when she was little, before he even considered Race Car Aerodynamics as a bedtime read when she outgrown the fairytales.

The younger man pauses, seemingly gathering the right memory to share. "Ms. YN was, if I recall correctly, comparing the engineers to music producers."

Joshua’s voice suddenly echoes in his mind. "Her producer name is NIGHTINGALE."

She might’ve not become the engineer he envisioned, but she still definitely is one. A better one, even, considering she has become an engineer that stayed true to the entirety (not just the half he favored) of the girl he raised.

The toddler who always placed her toy mechanic tools next to her toy instruments. The child who had music lessons on certain days and read a science book to bed. The teenager whose extracurricular list always had a mix of both.

In hindsight, it should’ve been unsurprising that YN ended up as a music engineer of sorts.

"Did she say anything about the W16?" Toto asks before he can stop himself.

"She did, yes," Ravi confirms with a nod. "She compared it to the W15, for the most part, and mentioned her . . . theories . . . about why some of the changes were made. The English fragments actually made me wish I could understand Korean to know the rest." He starts to laugh at a memory only he can see, but quickly covers it up with a cough. "Ms. YN also mentioned she has faith Mercedes would place up to P2 in the Constructors’ Championship this season."

Considering the team finished P4 last season, Toto can’t even be offended by his daughter’s prediction. "Second?"

"She didn’t stutter, sir," the Mercedes representative assigned to care for their South Korean guests doesn’t miss a beat, giving a small, sheepish shrug. "George asked about P1, and she just hit him with: ‘The car is only as good as the team behind it, and the team is only as good as the car they’re given. It’s a feedback loop, and right now, the loop says P2.’"

Toto can’t stop himself from bursting out into a laugh. For a fleeting second, his gaze falls on the darkened screen of his locked phone. "A charmer, that one."

"I’ve memorized it out of sheer shock," Ravi admits, unconsciously performing his nervous habit of touching his earlobe. "I didn’t expect that answer from someone who gave the PR team a win with that ‘My heart has always belonged to Mercedes’ line from the interview this morning."

He doesn’t know what to comment on that without giving away the truth him and YN concealed in their own ways for a dozen years, so he opts to pivot slightly. "And George? How did George take that?"

"He started a banter, which some of the SEVENTEEN boys saved when Ms. YN answered dryly." Ravi pauses again, his silence still as contemplative as earlier. However, this time, it’s accompanied by his habit. "I don’t mean to gossip, sir; but, during the tour, I noticed . . ."

Toto stops moving, doing his best to not look suspiciously frozen. There are simply too many ways for Ravi’s sentence to end. It’s just rather unfortunate that it may end the secret before he and YN can talk once more.

Alas, relief doesn’t come comfortably.

"I noticed George seemed particularly interested in Ms. YN."

When she, Jihoon, and Bumzu wrote "Circles," YN completely expected it to tug on CARATs’ heartstrings. Perhaps not in the same way as "Kidult" does, but in a parallel magnitude. Much like "Smile Flower," "Campfire," and "Us, Again" do, although they came before.

A track a good percentage of CARATs can’t listen to without getting emotional. A track that may not be a popular favorite, yet holds a special place in their hearts regardless.

She just never thought their own staff would use "Circles" against them. Twice.

Once during their seventh Caratland two years ago, on the third day of performing "Circles" for the first time, because a montage of their earlier years in the industry for the first and second days apparently wasn’t enough, their staff had prepared a surprise with written messages from their families. Naturally, there was no message that started nor ended with "YN’s dad"; but, nevertheless, YN had cried. She was defenseless against the sweet messages that all addressed them as a collective—"kids"/"children," "SEVENTEEN [members]," "[our] thirteen sons and [one] daughter." It helped immensely that some of her brothers cried upon reading the messages, too, so she felt comfortable to let the tears run.

They had been a disaster then. Everyone who wasn’t crying was comforting those who were, and even those that were ugly crying were comforting the others. Jihoon barely composed himself enough to finish the song. But, by some miracle or another, they pulled through. Somehow.

YN naively thought that’d be it. No magician repeats the same trick to the same audience twice, after all.

But, alas, twelve years under the same company really should’ve taught her better. She should’ve known Pledis would do something unexpected.

For the second time their staff used "Circles" against them was literally just fifty-five minutes ago. They had just finished performing "Kidult" and were transitioning into another ment segment. Except their microphones stopped working, and the song that wasn’t included in the setlist started playing. Then there was their younger voices doing the group greeting and the sound of tape rewinding.

The memories zoomed through in reverse, until it finally reached a clip of a teenage Seungcheol—much younger than she had ever seen him—standing in front of a plain background. It was his Pledis audition from fifteen years ago. Their staff had dug deep into the company archives for each of their audition tapes, with dates on the bottom right corner fluctuating between fifteen to eleven years ago. 2010 to 2014.

YN had no regrets about the shriek she let out once she realized what was happening. Nor about hitting Seokmin’s shoulder as the (secondhand) embarrassment floods her system. Not even when she was well-aware there were paddock people watching them—witnessing the same things they were—from the balconies. Mostly because the boys’ embarrassment were also both highly visible and perfectly audible as hers was.

It was endearing and horrifying all at once. Not to mention filled with brand new blackmail material.

So much for ‘full circle.’ Perhaps even too much.

YN shivers involuntarily at the memory of her old voice when speaking in English. Without the melodic Korean and casual American influences that she picked up later, there were just . . . the strong Austrian and formal British lilt. She hasn’t even realized her voice has transformed considerably over the years until she heard her fifteen-year-old self talk.

As much as she believes one shouldn’t change for another’s acceptance, she’s also a living proof that to be loved is to be changed.

The same way to be loved is to be remembered, to be seen.

The Mercedes motorhome room loaned to SEVENTEEN is dark when she pushes the door open. She thinks nothing of it as she feels the wall for the light switch. She had gone straight to the women’s bathroom after the mini concert filming; so she’s assuming the thirteen of them also beelined to the men’s, hence the honor of being the early bird belongs to her.

But, alas, as the overhead lights reveal, she’s actually further down the arrival hierarchy than she readily assumed.

The compliment she’s preparing for Jihoon about the intentional lyric change he did for the final song "Super"—changing ‘만화’ [‘cartoon’] in ‘이 노래는 이 만화의 엔딩송이다’ [‘this is the cartoon’s ending song’] to ‘F1’—gets buried in the back of her mind in an instant.

She forgets how to function and freezes by the door, unintentionally mimicking a car that won’t start.

"생일 축하해요, 축하해요," ["Happy birthday, happy birthday,"] Wonwoo begins to sing before she even completely comprehend what she’s seeing.

It’s a considerably long spread of familiar men standing shoulder to shoulder, facing her. Out of habit, before anything else, she first does a mental headcount of her brothers, despite her gut telling her all thirteen are there.

She barely hears Mingyu as he continues the song to the next line, "당신의 생일을 축하합니다." ["Congratulations on your birthday."]

"생일 축하해요, 축하해요, 그대 나의 기쁨." ["Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, my happiness."] Vernon, too, albeit she ironically frowns at him as she tries to will her brain to get with the program.

Then comes Seungcheol. The same man who she, up until a few years ago, didn’t know is the whole reason she made the cut for the final SEVENTEEN lineup. Had she not accidentally overheard some veteran Pledis employees talking, she would’ve never found out that her eldest brother apparently fought their former CEO to keep her with them instead of being transferred back to the PRISTIN/Pledis Girlz trainee pool. "태어나줘서 고마워." ["Thank you for being born."]

YN suddenly feels like she’s been hit by a Formula One car coming at top speed. Her eyes water for what it feels like the umpteenth time today. (Not that she’s counting the actual number, but the reality’s three for three—with the first one being the reigning winner of having the best flow.)

"행복한 그대 미소가 나의 하루," ["Your happy smile makes my day,"] Jeonghan smiles into his line, the curve touched with his signature mischief—no doubt already readying his teasing ammo.

Joshua, standing right in the center of the line, diligently balances the cake with ease. "때로는 지쳐 힘들겠지만," ["At times, it may be tiring and hard, but,"] he sings with his eyes glinting with she can’t name but she’s certain has something to do with his Kdrama cameo six years ago that since became an old inside joke.

"그대의 하루 옆에 언제나 내가 . . ." ["By your side throughout your day, I . . ."]

". . . 있어줄게 사랑해요." [". . . I will always be there, I love you."]

YN lets out a wet gasp as her brain finally comprehends the song her brothers are singing, her hand flying upwards to use the proximal phalanx of her pointer finger to discourage tears from falling down her cheeks.

It’s "Happy Birthday (Thank You for Being Born)"—the first birthday song (albeit unofficially released) in SEVENTEEN’s repertoire. It’s the song Jihoon wrote with CARATs during his birthday live stream five years ago, which they subsequently recorded and posted for CARATs’ fifth birthday the following year.

It’s one of YN’s favorite Jihoon masterpieces, right up there with "What Kind of Future." There’s just something so special about the simplicity of it; about the message it delivers compared to the traditional birthday song.

"What—" She starts to say after Chan and Seokmin finish their respective parts.

"Shh, 월피. 거의 다 했어." ["Shh, Wolfie. We’re almost done."]

YN immediately closes her mouth, suppressing a laugh. They’ve already celebrated her birthday with a hotel room service cake right when the clock struck midnight, ambushing her shared room with Vernon and all, so she’s not sure why there’s a second celebration.

"생일 축하해요, 축하해요," ["Happy birthday, happy birthday,"] Minghao continues the song like nothing happened.

"당신의 생일을 축하합니다," ["Congratulations on your birthday,"] Junhui sings next. She swears she sees his leg twitch, as if he’s itching to break formation to move to her side or do something for her. He’s always been one of her brothers who prefers to show affection through acts of service.

Very dissimilar to Seungkwan, who shows affection through words—written or verbal—comfortably. "생일 축하해요, 축하해요, 그대 나의 기쁨." ["Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, my happiness."]

"태어나줘서 고마워." ["Thank you for being born."]

"태어나줘서 고마워." ["Thank you for being born."]

YN gives tiny, enthusiastic yet soundless claps as Soonyoung and Jihoon close off the song. She steps closer to her brothers, meets them half rest of the way, and stands directly in front of Joshua who’s still holding the cake. "고마워, 여러분." ["Thanks, everyone."]

"Make a wish!" Mingyu yells somewhere from her left.

"그래도 너무 오래 걸리지 마!" ["Don’t take too long, though!"] Chan quickly caveats somewhere from her right. "배고파요!" ["We’re hungry!"]

YN chuckles, not bothering to wipe away the tears that are now free falling, "알았어." ["Alright."]

I hope you at least light a candle for my birthday, like how people light one for the dead.

She blows the candle.

A celebration immediately erupts. "신난다! 이제 밥 먹자!" ["Hooray! Now we can eat!"]

This time, YN doesn’t suppress the laugh that bubbles up from her chest. She lets Soonyoung steer her by the shoulders towards the foldable tables that Mercedes definitely didn’t have earlier.

She turns to her third eldest brother, who just carefully placed the cake down on one of the tables. "Why the second cake?"

Joshua meets her eyes with a shrug. "Why not a second cake?"

"Because the first one was an overpriced gourmet," she answers without missing a beat. "Already expensive."

Junhui, who has taken charge of cutting the cake, hands her the first slice. "It’s okay. This one’s free."

"‘Free’?" YN echoes thoughtfully as her eyes lower down to look at her slice.

It’s a simple chocolate cake. There is no icing nor fondant embellishments, not even a typical Happy Birthday written on top. Yet, somehow, nothing about it seems cheap.

At the corner of her eye, she notices two cans of unsweetened whipped cream on the table.

"It’s Sachertorte," she blurts before she can stop herself. She hasn’t confirmed if the jam in the middle is apricot, but there is no doubt in her gut, "isn’t it?"

Her tear ducts start to water once more.

Sachertorte has always been her birthday cake for as long as she can remember. That is, until her sixteenth since she was already in Seoul by then, and it’s not available in any bakeshop—nor any restaurant—that she has been to over the years.

She has found Korean equivalents of many Austrian foods that are close enough to satisfy her homesick cravings. Most of the time, they’re not remotely comparable—often just with the same ingredients or with a strange similar taste—but she has gaslighted herself long enough to be ‘content’ with them.

In short, she hasn’t had Sachertorte—or any proper Austrian food, really—since boarding Flight OZ731. And to be presented with one after so long . . .

"That’s what he said it’s called," Vernon replies from the other end of the two tables pushed together.

Her head snaps up so fast she almost gives herself a whiplash. "Who?"

The hesitant silence gives her the answer before any of them can. "아직 뭐라고 부를지 못 정했어." ["We haven’t decided what to call him yet."]

YN doesn’t wait for permission.

After a courtesy knock, she swiftly opens the door to the Team Principal’s office without listening for the clearance.

It’s just that time of the day—of the dozen years, really—when she can’t care any less about appearances, much less decorum.

She didn’t even stop to look at the mirror before she headed there. For all she knows, her eyes might still be red-rimmed from the appreciative tears she just shed. Her face might be a little puffy, too, given the crying and the sweet dessert she took a bite of.

She’s down to the base layer of her costume. Gone are the plaid pleated miniskirt Haeun layered over her jeans, the black belt with a silver buckle that was purely for aesthetic, and the extra silver jewelry that adorned her. The Plus44 jacket is off as well, as is the Ferrari 44 team driver cap that Lewis gave her that she looped on the belt for the mini concert.

All that is left are the Doc Martens the styling department paired with star-stained jeans and a fitted Mercedes shirt. The constellation of silver stars on her face is also still intact, mostly because she’ll have to do her whole makeup removal routine to get them off.

YN’s as non-idol as she can be, even if the distinction is physically ambiguous.

If there’s relief that there is no one on the other side of the door besides the person she came for, she doesn’t register the feeling.

She doesn’t grant him a preamble. "We’re not in Austria."

Nor a chance for him to turn her away and kick her out before she gets to say her piece. She walks towards his desk with an audacity natural to someone who once owned the same rooms he did.

The plate of Sachertorte slice lands on his desk soundlessly, but not silently. It echoes with an unvoiced accusation. How? Why?

How did a Sachertorte manifest outside Austria?

Why did a Sachertorte make its way to her team?

Toto Wolff meets her eyes in the same speed he has always had when she was younger. Quick and without hesitation—like whatever she has to say is the most important news of his life; like whatever she came there for is much more important than whatever he’s been staring at on his desk.

Even when that attention stopped translating to unselected attendance when she reached ten.

"Apricots aren’t exclusive to Austria," he answers with the same dry wit she inherited.

YN, a true child of a racer-turned-CEO, doesn’t blink. She fights the urge to cross her arms. "Did it have to be Sachertorte?"

"Was it not to your liking?" He picks up the fork that accompanies the half-eaten slice on the plate, seemingly intending to taste it for himself. "I can get another bake—"

"Oh, so you can do that, but can’t reach out for twelve years?" She snaps before her brain can filter the bluntness. Still, she doesn’t take it back even when she realizes what just happened.

YN sees something cross his features, but she opts not to dwell on it. Alas, the millisecond freeze his frame undergoes is more telling than she’d like to admit. "YN . . ."

Her breath hitches involuntarily. That’s the first time she’s heard her name in its original pronunciation in twelve years. No Korean or Japanese elongation. No American spin. No British imitation. Just pure—

"Don’t." She finds it difficult to swallow, like there’s a thorn— a nail— a fishbone stuck in her throat. "Don’t say it like that." She takes a step back, away from his desk, creating distance for a room to breathe. "Don’t say it like you’re still my Papa. My Papa would never— He would never take all my pictures down."

She just wanted one framed photo. One thing that proves he didn’t forget her. It didn’t even have to be one of the three he had up in his office when she left then. Perhaps a photo taken when she was way younger; when all her tools were still made of colored plastic. It didn’t have to be the current, adult her; it just had to be her. There just had to be anything of her.

She would’ve been content in the small chance that she might’ve been some poor person’s chosen way to break the ice with the Team Principal of Mercedes.

But, as it turns out, that negligible percent chance has been too much to hope for. Because she has been so thoroughly erased that only Lewis remembers her.

Toto sets the fork down with a slow, deliberate precision that screams of a man trying his hardest not to spook whatever—whoever—is in front of him.

"I didn’t mean to erase you," his voice comes out gravelly, far removed from the one she has heard him use in boardrooms. "A new hire came in a few months after you flew out and asked about the frame on my desk. The one we took from your science fair in Year 3." He clears his throat softly, as if his next words are difficult to push out. "That’s when I realized I couldn’t bear to talk about you when all I wanted to do was talk to you."

YN doesn’t let his sentimentality wear her down easily. "That’s what the album deliveries are for." She stands her ground. "Every year since debut . . . I send you a copy of every release we make, so you’ll know how to contact me whenever you’re ready." Her voice drops, losing its defensive heat to ice. "But you never were. Not even to say ‘stop mailing me.’"

"I know—"

"Do you?" She challenges, not even giving him the chance to finish. Perhaps if she was twelve years younger, she would have a few more reservations in talking to him in that tone; but, alas. Still, she forces herself to dull down the sharpness with a breath. "I’ve known since I was thirteen that you don’t approve of the music. I’ve . . . learned . . . how to live with it since."

Like an unhelpful assistant, her mind reminds her of the latest huge moments in her life that she would’ve loved to share with him in any capacity. Because she might’ve learned how to live with the disapproval and gotten used to the absence, but she has never given up on the connection. Not even once.

(He’s her, as her seven-year-old self articulated, "most favorite person in the entire universe" through and through.)

There was this ‘thing’ with SEVENTEEN’s last pre-debut show Seventeen Project: Debut Big Plan, specifically in the last episode prior to the debut showcase when they were finally deemed worthy of their SEVENTEEN team rings again. Instead of the then-Pledis CEO giving them back, the company surprised them with their families and let their relatives put the rings back on their pinkies. The person that showed up for YN was the judge from her last violin competition—the very same Pledis employee who scouted her for her supposed natural ability to connect with the crowd.

There was also SEVENTEEN’s first ever win a month before the group’s first anniversary. And SEVENTEEN’s first ever Grand Prize three years after their debut. All thirteen of the boys had someone to share and celebrate each piece of news with, including those that came between and thereafter. But not her. Never her.

There was their early contract renewal four years ago, too, which added five more years to the group and modified how both HYBE and Pledis Entertainment handled them.

Not to mention SEVENTEEN’s first million-seller album five years ago. Or their six-million-seller album two years ago.

And SEVENTEEN’s later-cut short third world tour, which last show was supposed to be at the then-called Mercedes-Benz Arena in Germany. She would’ve saved him a couple tickets even if she already knew he wouldn’t be able to attend because of the approaching season opener that following weekend.

Same with the Glastonbury Festival last year, which ironically happened the weekend of last season’s Austrian Grand Prix. There was something excruciating about being three hours away from Brackley while he was two hours away from Vienna in the same weekend, but fatigue helped her move past it.

Headlining Lollapalooza Berlin later last year was entirely different, however. Although it was held during the break between the Italian and Azerbaijan Grands Prix, a rare window when he definitely should’ve had time to watch their 90-minute set, she and the boys were already informed about the F1xSEVENTEEN collaboration in the works by then. She figured it would be better to wait it out and make their first meeting be at the paddock. Thus, as much as she had been dying to see him, she ultimately held off for one more year.

"But what I can’t live with," she pauses, "is finding out that you’ve apparently been living like I never existed." She lets out a soundless chuckle that seems more like a pained exhale. "You couldn’t even pretend I was a dead loved one?"

She has never cared about being the exception. Nor is she ever bothered by being seemingly unloved. Mostly because her brothers—and their families, as a welcomed extension—make her feel loved in every way they can. Also because, in her mind, she’s collecting telemetry (in the form of anecdotes) for her next debrief with her Papa when she sees him again. After all, that was how it had often been since his days at Williams: filling him in on her days over dinner.

She never would’ve thought that, when she finally uses her non-expiring paddock pass, she’d find herself as an unremembered ghost.

"‘Dead’?" Toto eventually echoes in the heavy silence. She swears she sees him flinch before his jaw tightens. "You think I’ll feel better thinking you’re already dead?"

"I don’t know!" YN can no longer restrain herself from raising her voice. "You seem perfectly fine regretting my birth! Why don’t we clean the slate and I’ll stop sending you the albums?" Her eyes are starting to sting, but she wills herself to not let any drop fall. "That would be the best for the telemetry, wouldn’t it? No more useless data."

He’s out of his chair before she can process another thought. He has forgone his futile attempt at trying not to spook her and now stands a step away.

It’s the closest they’ve ever been since the morning she received her Pledis Entertainment acceptance email. Not counting the airport drop-off soon after that, since they mutually made a conscious effort not to stand too close to one another when the talk about her future went awry.

"YN, schatzi, look at me," he rasps, his voice raw. "Bitte." ["Please."]

YN listens, but not without hardening her stare. She has half a mind to glare, but ultimately decides against it since a single eye twitch will certainly start the waterfall that has been threatening to spill over her cheeks. She says nothing.

"Es tut mir wirklich leid, YN," ["I’m truly sorry, YN,"] Toto starts, not breaking eye contact. "Your brother told me how excited you were for this schedule, just for me to . . ." He lets his voice trail, presumably deeming it unnecessary to complete the thought. "I know— I know an apology won’t be enough. You can stay mad at me for as long as you like. But I can’t . . ." He swallows, "I can’t let you continue thinking I regretted you, when it’s the farthest thing from the truth."

She isn’t easily swayed. She stays rooted on her ground, trying her hardest to not be moved. "The dead are remembered better than I, Vater."

He shakes his head, a silent counter to her words. When he speaks again, the German doesn’t make another reappearance, leaving only the raw, desperate truth as it is. "I never forgot you."

She half-expects him to move closer, but he doesn’t—seemingly respecting a boundary unknown to her. "Your pictures . . . They’re all in Brackley. In a cabinet. In my office. With . . . every album you ever sent. I kept— I kept all of them. Everything I had of you."

YN’s breathless "What?" comes with an escaped tear that directly drops to the ground without touching her cheek.

Her eyes follow his every movement as he walks back to his desk to grab his phone and return to her while tapping on his phone screen. Despite the fair description he already gave, she still isn’t prepared for what she sees once he turns the screen towards her.

It’s a photo of a cabinet she has never seen before, inside a room she vaguely recognizes from her last memories with him. Custom, she supposes, based solely on how it looks impractical for any other use besides the one he uses it for. There, true to his words, are SEVENTEEN albums surrounded by framed photos from her childhood.

There was her mid-laugh—donning safety glasses, latex gloves, and lab coat—covered in blue foam. She was about three years old then and undeniably too curious for her own good, having stared at the mouth of the beaker until the rapid chemical reaction exploded on her face. She had tried to eat the foam after the picture was taken, uncaring that it was literally made from dish soap and dry yeast.

Another of her grinning at the camera, face and arms covered in soot and grime. One hand folded into a peace sign and the other wrapped around a wrench. She looked about eleven years old there; still too young to care about how she looked like on camera, but old enough to know how to do a quick fix on a car.

Also her in Year 9, looking proper and dignified in her school uniform with her violin case strapped on her back. It was a high-angled selca—a selfie, rather—that she sent to him during Picture Day, which she vaguely remembers partnering with a text: Heading to the tube now, love you x. Strangely enough, she somewhat recalls the text she sent thirty minutes after that as well—something about kart racers riding in the same carriage as her.

The centerpiece of the cabinet wasn’t the photo from Year 3 science fair, however. It was her at two years old, wearing a dirndl and sitting on the floor. Her attention wasn’t on the camera, but on the xylophone she was playing with the handle of a toy screwdriver.

YN can’t rationalize the broken gasp that opens the dam. She wants to blame her inability to think on the fact that she has already cried thrice today, and that’s three times more than she normally does in any given day. She wants to blame it on the hundred-minute set she just finished, or the lingering jet lag from a long-haul flight.

But she also knows picking either will be a complete and utter lie. Especially when she knows exactly why.

Immense relief.

"I don’t have anything of yours to display," she says, her voice suddenly hoarse from the emotion that overcame her. Despite the unsteadiness of her voice, her hand is steady as she hands his phone back. "Just . . ."

"I know." Her Papa doesn’t need her to finish. "I read the letter you put in the album you gave me this morning." He puts his phone in his back pocket, opting to stay where he is rather than return to his desk. "And your dedication message at the end of the photo album."

Without waiting for permission, much like she had earlier, he halves the distance between them and reaches to hold her face between his palms. She doesn’t flinch at the sudden contact. Not even when his thumbs move to wipe her tears away.

"I’m sorry I made you think you couldn’t hold onto me without feeling like a burden, schatzi," he starts without breaking eye contact. His hands hold her in place—not to keep her from moving, but to ground her to the reality of the moment. "You are never a burden—especially not to me, you hear me?"

He doesn’t wait for a proper response, continuing on after she sniffles like it’s a comprehensive reply. "You are my child, no matter how old you get; no matter what name you go by in public. Nothing will change that."

His last words ring like a vow, prompting a sudden shiver to run up YN’s spine and leaving an anchoring warmth in its wake.

Her learned instinct to not make a somber-adjacent moment linger kicks in. Her chuckle is soundless, sounding more like a sigh of relief. "That’s cheesy, Papa."

Toto’s laugh is no better. It resembles an exhale after holding his breath for so long; for twelve years, to be precise, ever since Flight OZ731 took off for Seoul.

He doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he just closes the remaining distance and pulls her into a bone-crushing embrace.

P.S. I hope it’s not too much to ask for a hug when we meet.

YN instantly melts. She ignores her mind’s immediate attention to how she no longer remembers how he used to smell, but is still able to tell that he doesn’t smell the same, and just buries her face into his team polo.

"I’m hurt, Papa," she murmurs, almost sounding like her four-year-old self when she scraped her knee at the playground.

She vaguely feels a kiss land on her temple, but it doesn’t quite register. "Ich weiß, mein nachtigall, ich weiß." ["I know, my nightingale, I know."] She swears she hears him sniff. "Der Papa macht das schon wieder gut." ["Papa will make it better."]

And just as she always did, YN believes him.

Silence is not unusual in a garage within the Formula One paddock. It isn’t as rare as some people might think, either. All it takes, really, is the timing. Specifically when the team and their neighbors either commence their respective meetings in padded rooms or take their midday breaks elsewhere.

For the current silence in the Team Principal’s office, the cause is irrelevant. So is the relative quietness outside of the room.

All that matters is the smaller body that situated herself in front of his desk drawers, her legs crossed under her.

Toto is back on his desk chair. Rather than facing his screen again, he has turned to the side to watch YN judge the contents of his drawers. Partly because they don’t make baby-proofing products for someone twenty-seven years past her first birthday.

The bottom drawer slides smoothly with a soft tug.

A pout immediately forms in her face. "It’s empty!" She looks up at him from her spot on the floor, her eyes accusing like her natural curiosity is deeply offended by his efficient storage organization.

Before he can react and defend the lightness of his desk, she has already returned her attention to the layered storage space in front of her and focused on the the next drawer above.

Once more, however, YN is met with disappointment. "Also empty!"

Toto can’t stop the laugh that blooms from deep within his chest.

She may be twenty-eight years old now, but she’s definitely still the toddler that figured out every baby-proofing around the house and the garage by the time she turned three. The same toddler who once toddled over to ask what each item she took out of the forbidden garage cabinets was. ("Papa, des," ["Papa, this,"] she would present her discovered ‘toy’ with her wide, sparkling eyes turned upwards, "Was macht des?" ["What does this do?"])

"I pack light, schatzi," he reasons eventually once his laughter dies down.

YN, naturally, can’t accept that. "You knew I was coming!" The offense still colors her voice, her pout lingering. "You could’ve just, I don’t know, spread out your desk things so I get a treat for every drawer! Like— like those slow feeders for dogs!" She then adds as an afterthought, "I’ve seen Mama Kim—Mingyu’s mom—trying one on Bobpul. It looked cool."

"You’re not a dog, schatzi."

She shakes her head, her expression reading: that’s not the point. "I require enrichment, Papa."

Toto’s laugh remains unburdened, filling the walls of his office easily. It isn’t the first time he laughed since YN left but, somehow, it feels like it is.

The passage of twelve years is evident in their faces—in the lines in his, in the lack of cheeks in hers—but, somehow, it feels like no time has passed at all.

Not that it means he’s clear of the twelve years he wants—needs—to make up for.

He taps the longest and shallowest drawer of his desk twice. "Open this one," he instructs softly while scooting just enough to give her space to open the compartment all the way. "I promise it’s not empty."

YN doesn’t have to be told twice. She adjusts her position on the floor to lean back on her heels, and pulls.

As promised, the drawer is not empty. There are Mercedes-branded notepads and sticky counterparts; loose pens and highlighters; a stapler and a box of staples; and a handful of paper- and binder clips, too. Typical office essentials.

There is also a leather box that stands out, visibly more than a decade old but not worn around the edges. It’s embossed with a jeweler’s logo in the cover.

"Oh," YN elongates the syllable, audibly intrigued. She gingerly turns it over her hands to view it in different angles. "What is this? Is this for Susie? Can I take a peek?"

"It’s for you," he corrects. "I commissioned it for your sixteenth birthday. I just never had the chance to give it to you."

"Oh," she says again, albeit quieter this time with the new information. It takes her a moment to follow up. "Can I . . . can I open it?"

"You can do whatever you want with it."

Toto takes the pleasure of watching her expression change from reined curiosity to unrestrained amazement. He doesn’t need to look over to remember the design and craftsmanship of the necklace, for he had carried it for twelve years and had occasionally opened it whenever the heartache got too much.

It has a small rectangle pendant engraved with a nightingale silhouette in the front and a ‘W’ in the back. The stainless steel makes up the majority of the charm—forming the center rectangle and the serpentine die-cut outer border—while the carbon fiber creates the matte inner border. It’s a commissioned jewelry purposely designed to look like a miniature postage stamp and ordered soon after she left, but meant to be given in the same year regardless—because he had hope then that she’d be home for either her birthday or the winter holidays.

It ended up being twelve years late, but he digresses. It’s better late than never, after all.

"대박," ["Wow,"] YN blurts. He doesn’t need translation to understand the wonder. "Thank you, Papa. It’s beautiful." She looks up at him, her eyes suddenly gleaming under his office lights. "Very fitting."

The corners of his mouth turn up automatically as he notices the mischievous glint in her eyes. It’s the same gleam she gets whenever she finds something privately humorous.

Such as the absolute coincidence of his twelve-year-old gift being designed like a postage stamp when she has spent the last ten years sending him international packages meant to serve as messages.

"It is, isn’t it?" He scoots his chair a fraction closer, leaning forward and gently guiding her head towards him so he can plant another lingering kiss on her temple. She doesn’t protest. "Are you allowed to wear it?"

Her affirmative hum comes almost immediately, as soon as her nose scrunch smooths out. "We’re allowed personal jewelry. Chan—Dino—wears a matching bracelet with his same-age friends from other groups. I don’t think he takes it off." She returns her gaze to the necklace, her left thumb slowly feeling the weave of the carbon fiber. "Even if it wasn’t allowed, I’d still wear this every day. Our current contract basically says we— I can do what I want anyway, but in, you know, corporate lingo."

The Team Principal in him stutters, dying to vocalize a series of questions about her active contract with Pledis Entertainment. But the father in him is just beaming with pride.

To command that much leverage over a company’s revenue stream that her group is able to negotiate such free rein for themselves is no easy feat. He may not be familiar with the industry she has mastered, but the sheer influence that achievement requires is universally understandable. Especially since her wording has made it clear that the current contract is already old enough to no longer be considered new.

"Will you put this on me?" YN offers the leather box, her eyes rounding into a subtle, puppy-like stare while her bottom lip gives a tiny, involuntary pout.

He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He accepts the box without another word and transfers the necklace onto her bare neck. He overhears her quietly celebrate under her breath with "예쁘다, 예쁘다" ["pretty, pretty"] as he successfully clasps it around her.

"Let me see." He applies a slight pressure on one of her shoulders to nonverbally signal that he wants her to turn around and face him again. He smiles when she does so without another prompt. "It suits you, schatzi."

A chuckle escapes him when she exhibits the same tells she has carried since she was a child whenever she gets a compliment. Witnessing her slip into the same habits—crossing her ankles whenever she sits on a chair, raising a pinkie whenever she drinks—during the interview this morning is already surprising enough. But to see her still feel embarrassed upon getting a compliment? Despite being in her line of work for a decade? It’s undoubtedly a curious, beautiful thing.

YN drops her head onto his knee after letting out a low, embarrassed chuckle. "Thank you, Papa," she murmurs. "I love it."

Toto’s hand instinctively smooths her hair, carefully following the curve of her skull without messing with her still-styled hair. He feels the heat that her bashfulness spreads from the back of her neck to the tip of her ears. "I’m glad you do, YN."

They stay like that in comfortable silence for a moment. Neither of them remembering—caring about, really—the agendas that must be waiting for them outside his office. He couldn’t have cared less about her makeup potentially leaving a print on his trouser leg, either.

As far as he’s concerned, she can stay there for as long as she’d like—even after his leg falls asleep.

Eventually, however, their little bubble breaks when YN jolts upright with a proud grin. "I have something for you, too."

"Another one?"

"The album earlier doesn’t count." He instantly feels colder when she shifts away to give herself space to dig for the gift on her person. "I was supposed to give this to you earlier with the album, but you pissed me off."

He inwardly grimaces at her glare, playful as it may be. "I really am sorry, schatzi," he starts. "I’ll let you pick the new frame I’ll bring with me for the flyaways."

She hmphs with no actual poison before her grin returns. "Here you go," she hands him a slightly aged paper horizontally folded into thirds.

"What is this?"

"You’ll find out," she dismisses his blatant attempt to get ahead of the telemetry with a gesture towards the paper. It’s a subtle start reading if you want to know.

Toto doesn’t know what to expect, so he doesn’t have any expectations at all. Yet, still, nothing could’ve prepared him for what greets him as soon as he unfolds the aged paper.

Ms. YN MN Wolff 42 Han River Avenue, Yongsan District Seoul, South Korea 04389 XX May 2020 Re: Application for Engineering Science (H100) UCAS ID: XXXXXXXXXX Dear Ms. Wolff, Congratulations! I am delighted to inform you that the University of Oxford has made you a conditional offer of a place to read for the degree of Master of Engineering (MEng) in Engineering Science, commencing in October 2020. This offer is made in association with St. Catherine’s College. Your tutors were exceptionally impressed by the analytical and logical reasoning demonstrated throughout your admissions testing and subsequent interviews. To secure your place within the Department of Engineering Science, this offer is contingent . . .

He doesn’t read the rest.

"You— You went to Oxford?" Toto’s voice is uncharacteristically faint. "While on an idol-music producer schedule?"

YN shrugs a shoulder, tilting her head as if it’s no big deal. "Somehow." There is no ego in her tone, but there is a minute trace of a tired sigh. "Catz was accommodating enough to let me do everything online and self-paced. I did have to take a leave of absence when we—SEVENTEEN—started touring again, though."

"Why?" He doesn’t mean to question her motivation, but her willingness to put herself in that arduous situation for four total years is too baffling.

Thankfully, she doesn’t take offense. "Partly because some of the boys were getting theirs and I felt like following the crowd," she starts nonchalantly. "Mostly because I thought you’d like it if I went beyond secondary school."

He doesn’t know what to say to that. It is a bullseye assessment, as expected of his analytically observant eldest. But he is also a university dropout, so he knows better than some that college isn’t for everyone. Certainly that a university degree is not the only path to success, just as well.

Still, he craves specific telemetry on her apparent university experience. "Did you—? Are you—?" He swallows, giving himself a moment to recalibrate after two failed attempts to voice his inquiry.

Yet, by some miracle or another, YN answers the question he hasn’t expressed comprehensively. "You didn’t miss out on seeing me walk in the Sheldonian Theatre, don’t worry." She flashes him a small smile meant to provide comfort. "I graduated earlier this year in absentia. I didn’t have time to fly over just to walk across a stage."

There’s an unmissable irony to the fact that she couldn’t spare ten seconds walking across a stage because she was most likely spending three hours performing on another elsewhere.

It explains a portion of her current nonchalance—as if she hasn’t obtained a degree in one of the top universities in the world.

(If his memory serves him right, she has shown more emotion the day she told him about her acceptance in Pledis Entertainment twelve years ago than she presently is. But then again, she had been a mere teenager then.)

Toto places the admission offer letter on his desk to free his hands for a hug. "Kumm her, schatzi." ["Come here, darling."]

YN doesn’t make him ask twice. The embrace is just as tight as the first, albeit now with an entirely different nonverbal communication attached to it. It’s no longer a mere accumulation of heavy regret and intense relief. Those still linger, but they’re now overpowered by pride and shame.

Pride for all she has accomplished; for what she has become from the toddler who navigated a Viennese garage with squeaky shoes.

Shame for making her achieve so much in spite of his utter silence; for letting her believe that there is only one way to earn his attention.

"You did incredibly well, YN," he murmurs into her hair.

He feels her bury her face into his collarbone. She stills in his arms, seemingly savoring the moment and letting him hold her for as long as he needs.

Still, she’s the first one to eventually create a distance to look him in the eye. The new pendant around her neck gleams under the office lights. "I brought the Sachertorte slice for you, but I’m going to eat it." She nods twice, as if she’s mischievously convincing him of something. "I’m still hungry."

He chuckles soundlessly at that, one hand already moving to slide the paper plate closer to her. "Do you do that to the boys?"