I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU

You’ve worn a lot of faces for this job.

Student. Socialite. Arms dealer’s girlfriend.

Tonight, you’re bait.

The dress is black and expensive in a way that doesn’t ask for attention—it expects it. 

The slit along your thigh is deliberate, your shoes quiet against marble floors polished by blood money and time. 

You check your reflection once more before stepping into the club’s main room, adjusting the small mic hidden beneath your collarbone.

“Audio’s clean,” your handler murmurs in your ear.

“Remember—lure him. Don’t rush it.”

You don’t respond. You never do.

The club belongs to the target’s family. Neutral ground, technically. 

No executions, no overt violence. Just deals disguised as drinks and smiles. The kind of place where people disappear after they leave.

And there he is.

Jeong Yunho sits at the bar like he belongs there—which he does. Shoulders relaxed, long fingers loose around a lowball glass. 

He’s laughing at something one of his men says, head tipped back slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Too warm. Too open.

Golden retriever heir, they’d said in briefing. Friendly. Dangerous only because he doesn’t look like he is.

You slide onto the stool beside him, close enough that your knees brush. His laughter fades—not abruptly, just… redirected. His attention settles on you like a hand at your waist.

“Didn’t know we were serving angels tonight,” he says easily.

Your smile is automatic. Calibrated.

“Must be your lucky night.”

Your team hears everything. The ice in his glass. The faint bass from the speakers. The way his voice drops when he turns fully toward you.

Yunho studies you—not leering, not rushed. Like he’s assembling a puzzle.

Interesting.

He buys you a drink. Asks your name. You give him the fake one, light and believable, and he repeats it like he’s tasting it. 

You laugh at the right moments. Touch his arm once—brief, practiced. Exactly as trained.

But the longer you sit there, the more something feels… off.

Not hostile. Not suspicious.

Yunho leans in as if to hear you better, arm resting behind you along the bar’s edge. 

Anyone watching would think he’s flirting. Anyone listening would hear the soft affection in his tone.

Only you notice the way his thumb taps twice.

Once. Pause. Once again.

A signal.

Your pulse stutters.

“Everything okay?” you ask lightly.

His smile doesn’t falter.

“Yeah,” Yunho says. “Just noticing something.”

Your handler murmurs, “What’s happening?”

Then Yunho speaks again—voice still warm, still casual.

“You know,” he says, eyes on his drink,

“your mic’s picking up a little static.”

The world tilts.

Your breath catches so sharply it echoes through the comms.

“Abort,” someone snaps in your ear.

“Abort now—”

Yunho finally looks at you.

Gone is the easy charm. In its place: something sharp, alert, terrifyingly calm.

“Relax,” he murmurs, smiling for the crowd around you.

“If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Your team hears the soft click as he sets something solid on the bar.

A gun.

Your handler starts swearing. Someone else is breathing too fast. Another voice hisses, “He knows. He knows everything, get out NOW.”

Yunho’s arm slips fully behind you, hand resting at your far hip. 

Protective to anyone watching. Possessive to anyone listening.

“Tell your friends,” he says quietly, leaning close enough that only you feel the warmth of his breath,

“to stop breathing so loud.”

Silence floods the comms.

Your mouth goes dry.

“I could turn you in,” Yunho continues, unhurried.

“Make an example. It’d be easy.”

His thumb presses once into your side.

“Or,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward the exit,

“I could let you walk out of here.”

Hope flares—dangerous, stupid.

Then he adds softly,

“But if I let you go… you come back. Not as bait.”

Your handler is screaming your name.

Yunho smiles like he already knows your answer.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Yunho doesn’t rush you.

That’s the worst part.

If he’d grabbed you, dragged you somewhere private, raised his voice—even a little—you might’ve known how to react. 

Fight, flee, stall. You’re trained for chaos.

Instead, he finishes his drink.

Ice clinks softly. A mundane sound. A cruel one.

“Walk,” he murmurs, hand warm and firm at your back. “Slowly.”

To the room, it looks like he’s escorting you out—gentlemanly, amused, arm curved around you like you belong there. A few of his men glance over, curious but unconcerned.

No guns raised. No alarms.

Your handler whispers urgently, “We have eyes on the east exit—move now.”

Yunho steers you in the opposite direction.

Your stomach drops.

“Yunho,” you say, pitching your voice just loud enough to sell the flirt, just soft enough to beg, “where are we going?”

He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Somewhere I can talk to you,” he says.

“And somewhere your friends can listen without interrupting.”

The hallway is quieter. Thicker walls. Your comm crackles faintly, struggling.

Your team starts shouting over each other—orders, warnings, contingency plans unraveling in real time.

Yunho exhales through his nose, amused.

“Damn,” he mutters. “do you work with children?”

The door he opens isn’t an interrogation room.

It’s an office.

Low lights. Leather couch. A desk cluttered with paperwork and an open laptop. Personal—not theatrical. Lived in. Like he actually works here.

He shuts the door behind you. Locks it.

The sound hits your spine like ice.

Yunho releases you and takes two steps back, hands lifting slowly, deliberately—palms out.

“See?” he says lightly. “Not touching you.”

Your team goes silent.

You stay where you are, heart slamming against your ribs. Your fingers itch for a weapon you don’t have.

Yunho watches you with an expression you can’t read. Not anger. Not triumph.

Something closer to… curiosity.

“You’re good,” he says after a moment. “Really good.”

You swallow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He smiles—not cruelly. Almost fond.

“You mirrored my posture within ten seconds,” Yunho says. “You asked questions that felt spontaneous but followed a clean pattern. You laughed half a beat late—every time.”

He steps closer. Slowly.

“And,” he adds softly, “your pulse jumped the second I mentioned static.”

Your handler cuts in, sharp and panicked: “If you can hear us, back away from him—now.”

Yunho glances at the ceiling.

“Still there?” he asks. “Cute.”

Then, to you: “Mind if I borrow you for a minute?”

Before you can respond, the lights flicker.

Once. Twice.

Your handler gasps, “We’re losing the feed—”

Static floods your ear.

Then—nothing.

Silence.

You stare at Yunho, horror and fury twisting together in your chest.

“You jammed it,” you breathe.

He nods. “Temporary.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

“You just—” Your voice shakes. “You just cut me off from my team.”

Yunho’s expression finally changes.

Something sober settles into his eyes.

“I just saved your life.”

You laugh—sharp, disbelieving. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I do,” he replies quietly. “Because if I hadn’t? They would’ve ordered your extraction the second you left that bar.”

He pauses.

“And my men would’ve killed you in the parking lot.”

Your blood runs cold.

Yunho takes another step closer—not crowding, not touching. Just close enough that you feel the weight of him.

“I told them you were a distraction,” he continues. “A civilian. Someone I’d already dealt with.”

Your breath stutters.

“You… lied,” you whisper.

“For you,” he corrects.

He searches your face, like he’s memorizing it.

“I need to know something,” Yunho says softly. “Right now.”

You brace yourself.

“Were you ever supposed to kill me?”

The question hits harder than a threat.

“No,” you say immediately. Too quickly. “Never.”

Something in his shoulders loosens. Barely.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then we’re aligned.”

Your anger flares. “Aligned? You kidnapped me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You came into my house wearing a wire.”

You step toward him before you can stop yourself.

“You don’t get to act like I’m the villain here.”

Yunho doesn’t back away.

“Then stop looking at me like I’m one,” he says gently.

The air between you tightens.

For a split second, neither of you moves.

Then Yunho turns, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, and tosses it at you.

“Put that on,” he says. “There’s another exit.”

You catch it automatically.

“What?” you ask.

“I’m letting you go,” Yunho says, already unlocking the door. “Like I said I would.”

Your heart lurches.

“And the catch?” you ask quietly.

He looks back at you over his shoulder, eyes dark.

“You don’t disappear,” Yunho says.

“You come back.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The hallway smells like cleaning solution and cold air.

Yunho walks ahead of you, unhurried, like this isn’t the most reckless decision he’s made all night. 

His jacket is heavy around your shoulders—warm, faintly scented with smoke and something clean beneath it. You hate that it steadies you.

He stops at a service door and keys in a code without looking.

“You’ve got ninety seconds,” he says. “After that, my men rotate posts.”

You swallow. “Why are you doing this?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

The door opens with a soft click. Night air spills in—sharp, real. Freedom, if you run fast enough.

Yunho turns to face you.

“Because,” he says finally, “you didn’t flinch when you realized I knew.”

Your chest tightens.

“And because,” he adds, quieter, “someone sent you in without a real exit.”

That lands like a punch.

“You don’t know that,” you say.

Yunho’s gaze sharpens. “I do.”

He reaches out—hesitates—then gently adjusts the collar of his jacket where it’s slipped, careful not to brush your skin.

“There’s a van parked three blocks down,” he says. “Black. No plates. Tell your team to check the driver.”

Your brows knit. “Why?”

A humorless smile curves his mouth. “Because he’s not theirs.”

Your heart starts racing.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Yunho says. “And if you trust me even a little, you’ll tell them.”

He steps back, giving you space.

“Go.”

You hesitate—just for a second.

Yunho meets your eyes. Something unspoken passes between you—something heavy, unfinished.

Then you run.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The second your foot hits the pavement, your comm crackles back to life.

“We have you—where the hell did he take you?”

“Status?”

Your breath is ragged. “I’m out. Service exit, south side.”

“Move to extraction,” your handler snaps.

“No,” you say. The word surprises even you. “Wait.”

A pause. Static.

“What?” someone demands.

“There’s a van three blocks down,” you say. “Black. No plates. Check the driver.”

Silence stretches.

Then—shouting. Movement. Someone swearing loudly.

“That’s not ours,” another voice says.

“Holy shit—pull back, pull back NOW—”

Gunshots crack in the distance.

Your handler’s voice goes tight. “Change of plan. New pickup en route.”

Your hands shake.

Yunho was right.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Hours later, you’re sitting under fluorescent lights in a safehouse, jacket gone but the weight of it still clinging to you. 

Your team circles like vultures—angry, relieved, suspicious.

“You compromised the mission,” your handler says flatly.

“You sent me in blind,” you shoot back. “No clean extraction, no redundancy.”

“That’s not your call.”

“No,” you snap. “But getting me killed would’ve been.”

The room goes quiet.

Someone clears their throat. “The van… wasn’t in our books.”

Your handler’s jaw tightens.

You lean back, heart pounding. “Yunho knew.”

A beat.

“He jammed my comms,” you continue. “Temporarily. Let me go anyway.”

Skepticism ripples through the room.

“Why?” someone asks.

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know.

Or because you’re afraid you do.

Across the city, Yunho stands in front of a wall of monitors.

The club’s security feeds loop silently—angles of you laughing, leaning in, running.

One of his men shifts beside him. “You sure letting her go was smart?”

Yunho doesn’t look away.

“She’s not the problem,” he says.

“And the agency?”

Yunho’s mouth curves—not in a smile.

“They sent her in as bait,” he murmurs. “Which means they’re desperate.”

He exhales slowly.

“And they won’t pull her now,” he adds. “Not after tonight.”

His gaze lingers on the frame where you disappear into the dark.

“They’ll send her back.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

They don’t pull you off the case.

You knew they wouldn’t.

The briefing room smells like stale coffee and stubborn pride. Your handler stands at the front, arms crossed, jaw set like this is already decided.

“You’re going back in,” he says.

Your stomach drops anyway.

“This time,” he continues, “you don’t freelance. We control the pace. You listen. You extract.”

You bite back a laugh. “You think he’ll play along?”

“He already did,” someone mutters.

You don’t miss the way your handler’s eyes flick to you—sharp, measuring.

“He jammed your comms once,” your handler says. “He won’t get another chance.”

You don’t believe that for a second.

The next meet isn’t a club.

It’s a charity gala.

Yunho’s family donates obscene amounts of money to hospitals, art foundations, anything that scrubs blood off paper. The venue is all glass and light, chandeliers glittering over expensive smiles.

You’re dressed softer this time. Cream silk. No slit. Hair pinned back.

A different kind of bait.

Your comm hums quietly. Too quietly.

“Audio check,” your handler murmurs.

“Clear,” you reply.

Then you step inside—and feel it immediately.

Eyes on you.

Yunho stands near the center of the room, tuxedo immaculate, posture relaxed. He’s talking to a woman at his side—elegant, familiar, her hand resting comfortably on his arm.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

“She’s a problem,” someone says in your ear. “Identify.”

You don’t respond.

Yunho’s gaze lifts—and locks onto yours.

The room falls away.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does. Recognition. Relief. And beneath it.

Possession.

He excuses himself smoothly, murmuring something that makes the woman laugh. Then he’s crossing the room toward you, stride unhurried, inevitable.

Your handler whispers, “Maintain cover.”

Yunho stops in front of you.

“Thought you’d disappear,” he says lightly.

“You said to come back,” you reply.

His smile deepens, just a fraction. “I didn’t think you’d listen.”

Before you can say anything else, a man approaches. 

Older, sharp-eyed, one of Yunho’s associates. He looks between you and Yunho with interest.

“And who’s this?” the man asks.

You open your mouth.

Yunho answers first.

“She’s with me.”

The words land heavy.

Your comm explodes with whispers.

“Did he just—”

“Asset compromised—”

The man raises a brow. “Since when?”

Yunho’s hand settles at the small of your back. Firm. Unapologetic.

“Since now.”

The associate studies you. Too closely.

“And what does she do?”

Yunho glances down at you, eyes dark, testing.

You feel it then—the unspoken dare.

“Whatever he asks,” you say smoothly.

Yunho’s grip tightens.

The man laughs. “Lucky.”

He walks away.

The moment he’s gone, Yunho leans in, lips barely moving.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You almost sounded like you meant that.”

Your pulse spikes.

“You touched me,” you whisper. “On a hot floor.”

His breath ghosts your cheek. “I warned you I’d claim you if you came back.”

Your handler cuts in sharply, “Step away from him—now.”

Yunho’s eyes flick, just for a second—like he hears it too.

Then he straightens and turns you with him, guiding you toward the dance floor.

“We’re dancing,” he says.

“That wasn’t part of the—”

“Relax,” Yunho murmurs. “If I wanted you exposed, I wouldn’t put you where everyone can see you.”

Music swells. His hand finds yours.

As you move together, slow and elegant, Yunho dips his head.

“They’re listening again,” he says quietly.

Your breath stutters.

“How do you—”

“I can feel it,” he replies. “You tense when they speak.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles. Gentle. Intimate.

“Does it bother you,” Yunho asks, voice low, “that they hear you breathing with me?”

Your handler snaps, “Get out of there.”

Yunho smiles against your temple.

“They won’t,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

Across the room, the woman from earlier watches you—expression cool, assessing.

Yunho follows your gaze.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “She’s not mine.”

A pause.

“But if she touches you,” he adds, voice dropping,

“I’ll make it a problem.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The music changes—slower, heavier.

Yunho doesn’t let you go.

His hand stays firm at your waist, thumb pressing just enough to remind you he’s there, that he’s choosing to be. 

To anyone watching, it’s elegant. Intimate. Perfectly respectable.

Only you feel how tightly wound he is.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” you murmur, eyes fixed over his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” he replies just as quietly.

Your handler cuts in, voice sharp with static.

“We’re pulling you in two minutes.”

Your fingers curl slightly in Yunho’s jacket.

He feels it.

Yunho exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, then lifts his chin and turns you—deliberately—so you’re facing the room.

“So,” he says conversationally, “which one of them do you think it is?”

Your stomach twists. “Which one of who?”

“The person who sold you out,” Yunho says.

Your breath catches.

“That van wasn’t a coincidence,” he continues, calm but lethal. “Someone wanted you dead before you ever reached me.”

Your handler snaps, “Do not engage—”

Yunho’s eyes flick down to yours.

“Still trusting them?” he asks softly.

You don’t answer.

The woman from earlier approaches before you can think of one.

She smiles at Yunho, polished and cool. “I was wondering when you’d introduce me.”

Yunho doesn’t move his hand.

“This is—” she glances at you, eyes sharp, “—your guest?”

“Yes,” Yunho says flatly.

Her gaze lingers on his grip at your waist. Too long.

She reaches out and touches your arm.

It’s light. Casual.

Yunho’s body goes rigid.

The shift is immediate—terrifyingly subtle. His hand tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to claim. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he looks at her.

“Don’t,” he says.

The woman blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t touch what’s mine,” Yunho repeats, voice still even.

Your comm explodes.

“Did he just say—”

“This is escalating!”

The woman laughs, brittle. “Since when?”

Yunho steps closer to you, angling his body so you’re half-hidden against his chest.

“Since tonight.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

The woman recovers first, smile tightening. “I see. I didn’t realize you were… serious.”

Yunho doesn’t blink. “You do now.”

She leaves without another word.

Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

“You can’t say things like that,” you whisper once she’s gone.

Yunho finally looks down at you.

“I meant it,” he says.

Your handler’s voice is tight with panic.

“You are compromised. Repeat—compromised.”

Yunho tilts his head slightly, like he’s listening to something else.

Then—deliberately—he leans down.

Close enough that your cheek brushes his jaw.

Close enough that every mic in the room will catch it.

“You hear them?” he murmurs.

Your breath shakes.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Yunho says softly.

“Then they’ll hear this too.”

His lips brush your temple. Barely a touch.

“They sent you in as disposable,” he continues. “I won’t.”

Your handler shouts your name.

Yunho straightens, gaze sweeping the room.

“You have a choice,” he says clearly now, voice carrying just enough.

“Walk out with me tonight.”

Your heart stutters.

“Or,” he adds, quieter, eyes locked on yours,

“go back to people who already tried to kill you.”

The room seems to hold its breath.

Your handler is yelling. Orders overlapping. Threats.

Yunho waits.

Patient. Certain.

And for the first time since this mission began, you realize something with terrifying clarity.

You were never the lure.

You were the prize.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The silence stretches too long.

You can feel every second like a wire pulled tight around your ribs.

Your handler is shouting now—no pretense of calm left.

“You walk away from him RIGHT NOW. This is an order.”

Yunho doesn’t rush you.

He just looks at you—steady, unflinching, like whatever you choose, he’ll own the consequences.

You think of the van.

The gunshots.

The way no one warned you there was no real exit.

You think of the warmth of his jacket.

The way he jammed your comms just long enough to save you.

The way he said mine without hesitation.

Your feet move before your fear can stop them.

One step—toward Yunho.

The room erupts.

“NO—”

“ASSET MOVING—”

Yunho’s hand closes around yours instantly, firm and grounding. Not triumphant. Protective.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I’ve got you.”

Your handler’s voice turns cold.

“You just defected.”

Yunho lifts his head.

The temperature in the room drops.

“Careful,” he says calmly, eyes scanning the exits. “You’re standing on my floor.”

Men move.

Not fast. Not loud. But suddenly Yunho’s people are everywhere—blending into guests, blocking doors, hands near jackets. The gala music keeps playing, absurdly cheerful.

Your handler snarls, “This isn’t over.”

Yunho squeezes your hand once.

“Oh,” he says softly. “It is.”

The first gunshot shatters a champagne flute.

Screams follow.

Yunho spins you behind him, one arm locked around your shoulders as bodies surge. His voice cuts through the chaos—sharp, commanding, terrifyingly controlled.

“South exit. Now.”

Someone grabs at you.

Yunho doesn’t even look—he fires once, clean and precise. The man drops.

You’re shaking. Yunho feels it.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, palm warm at the back of your head. “Don’t look.”

You don’t know how he gets you out—only that suddenly you’re in a car, doors slamming, engine roaring to life. Yunho leans over you, shielding you as bullets spark against metal.

Then—speed. Distance. Night swallowing everything.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The safehouse is quiet.

Too quiet.

Yunho locks the door, checks every room himself, then finally turns to you.

The adrenaline drains all at once.

Your knees give out.

He catches you immediately, arms wrapping around you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “You’re safe.”

Your hands fist in his shirt.

“They tried to kill me,” you whisper, the words tearing out of you. “They knew.”

Yunho’s jaw tightens.

“I know.”

He guides you to the couch, kneels in front of you so you’re eye level. His hands are gentle now, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t realize were falling.

“I’ll burn them for it,” he says quietly. No anger. Just promise.

You laugh weakly. “You can’t go to war over me.”

Yunho’s eyes darken.

“I already did.”

Silence settles between you—heavy, intimate, irreversible.

“What happens now?” you ask.

Yunho exhales slowly.

“Now,” he says, “you stay.”

“With you?”

His mouth curves—not playful, not smug. 

Soft. Certain.

“With me,” he repeats. “Under my protection. My name. My roof.”

A pause.

“And eventually,” he adds, voice dropping,

“by my side.”

You search his face for doubt.

There is none.

Only something dangerously close to devotion.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2026

The corridor seemed to constrict around them, the space suddenly too narrow to hold what had just been said.

Heavy breathing filled the silence - uneven, shallow, barely controlled. It echoed softly against the walls, overlapping until it was impossible to tell whose lungs were burning the most. Somewhere down the hall, blood continued to drip steadily from the ceiling, each drop striking the floor with a wet, rhythmic sound that felt far too loud in the absence of voices.

No one moved.

Weapons remained raised, hands locked tight around hilts and grips, knuckles pale beneath the grime and gore. Muscles trembled, not from exhaustion but from restraint, from the sheer effort it took not to react, not to break formation, not to give in to instinct.

Angel stood amid the carnage like something carved from the aftermath itself, black eyes unblinking as they tracked every minute shift in the crew’s posture. Blood clung to her skin and clothing, dark and drying in places, fresh and gleaming in others. She looked untouched by it all, as if violence had simply passed around her instead of through her.

The crew stared back.

Confusion flickered openly across their faces, tangled tightly with something far more fragile. Shock lingered in the stiffness of their movements, disbelief etched into furrowed brows and parted lips. Beneath it all sat grief - raw, unhealed, exposed in a way none of them had been prepared for.

Wooyoung stood rigid at the front, chest rising too fast, eyes locked on her as though looking away might cause her to disappear again. His expression was caught somewhere between hope and devastation, the kind that hollowed a person out from the inside. Yeosang’s jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, his gaze darting between her face and the floor beneath her feet, memories colliding violently behind his eyes. Jongho’s breath came slow and deliberate, his vision flickering uselessly at the edges as futures tangled and refused to settle into anything he could change.

San’s hands shook despite his best efforts to still them, his body coiled tight with conflicting instincts - to protect, to attack, to run. Yunho’s focus flickered constantly, torn between Angel and the crew, already preparing for injuries that hadn’t happened yet but felt inevitable. Seonghwa stood unnaturally still, every sense screaming at him that something ancient and wrong stood before them, something the sea itself had reshaped.

And Hongjoong… Hongjoong watched her with eyes that held too much history to name.

Sadness cut through his anger like a blade, sharp and unexpected, leaving him breathless in its wake. He saw not just the monster they feared, but the girl they had lost, standing twisted and weaponised by a world that had never stopped hurting her.

The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, broken only by the slow drip of blood and the sound of their breathing. One wrong move would shatter it. And none of them knew who would bleed first.

Yunho was the first to move.

It wasn’t a step, not really, more a subtle shift of weight, the barest advance that still felt deafening in the hush that followed it. His boots scraped softly against the blood-slick floor as he eased forward, slow enough that anyone watching could track every inch of the motion. Both of his hands rose in clear, deliberate arcs, palms open and empty, fingers spread wide to show there was nothing hidden there.

No threat. No weapon. No sudden intent.

Angel’s gaze snapped to him instantly. The air seemed to tighten as her attention locked on, black eyes narrowing just a fraction as she tracked the movement with unnerving precision. Every muscle in her body coiled, ready to respond, her posture shifting subtly as if she were weighing the distance between them, calculating how fast she could close it if she needed to. Blood-streaked fingers flexed once at her side before stilling again, her expression unreadable but sharp with suspicion.

Yunho didn’t lower his hands. “We’re not–” His voice came out carefully measured, low enough not to echo too harshly down the corridor, but steady despite the tension tightening his chest. “We’re not with the hotel. Not staff, not elites.” The words hung between them, fragile as spun glass.

Angel’s eyes moved then, dragging away from Yunho and sweeping over the rest of the crew with unsettling thoroughness. She took them in piece by piece, not as a group but as individual shapes and signatures – the set of shoulders, the way fingers curled around weapons, the rhythm of each breath. Her gaze lingered on the smallest details, on things most people never noticed, as though she were reading something beneath their skin rather than the blood on it.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she inhaled.

It was shallow at first, almost reflexive, before her breath deepened slightly, drawing the air in through her nose as her focus sharpened. Something in her expression shifted - not softening, but adjusting, recalibrating. The tension in her shoulders eased by a degree so slight it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else.

They didn’t smell like the hotel. There was no sterile rot clinging to them, no chemical tang beneath the blood, no familiar wrongness that made her stomach turn and her pulse spike. What reached her instead was salt and metal, sweat and oil, fear and determination layered together in a way that felt real, human, unmanufactured.

Her gaze returned to Yunho, measuring him again with new information in mind. The weapons remained raised behind him.

The question came hesitantly, as though when he spoke, he feared the sound of his own voice might be enough to shatter what little balance remained. “What… what happened here?”

The words slipped into the corridor and immediately felt out of place, too human for a space soaked in blood and silence. Angel’s head tilted slightly at the sound, her gaze snapping toward the source with sharp, predatory focus before settling again, slower this time, as if she were deciding how much of an answer they deserved. A small sound left her throat then - soft, breathy, almost a laugh. It carried no warmth.

“You really don’t know?” she murmured, her tone edged with something that might have been amusement if it hadn’t been so thoroughly hollow.

 “I suppose that makes sense. People like them never think the end will look like this.” She gestured vaguely around them, a blood-slicked hand tracing the air as though the carnage were nothing more than an afterthought. “It was inevitable,” she continued, calm and unflinching. “They built this place on rot and cruelty and called it order. They hurt people until there was nothing left to take and thought that made them untouchable.”

Her eyes darkened further, the faintest curl of satisfaction threading through her expression. “They deserved what came to them.” The weight of that settled hard in the corridor.

“I made sure of it,” Angel went on, her voice steady as she spoke of violence with unsettling ease. “Every last piece of filth that thought they could hide behind titles and walls.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the blood still dripping from the ceiling, to the bodies that lay broken beyond the crew’s line of sight. “One by one.”

She paused. Not long, but long enough for the silence to sharpen again. “All of them,” she said slowly. “Except one.”

Something in her posture shifted then, subtle but unmistakable, her head lifting as though she were listening for something only she could hear. Her nostrils flared slightly as she drew in another breath, deeper this time, her attention sliding away from the crew and into the depths of the structure around them.

“He’s hiding well,” she added, almost thoughtfully. “Better than the rest. Clever enough to think he could disappear into the noise.”

Her eyes flicked back to the crew, dark and certain. “But he’s here,” Angel finished quietly. “I can smell him.”

The words hung heavy and ominous, carrying with them the clear, terrifying implication that the massacre was not yet complete, and that whatever remained was far more dangerous than anything already dead.

The words took a moment to truly sink in.

She can smell him.

The crew didn’t move, but something shifted all the same, a collective unease tightening through them as the implication settled heavy in their chests. It was wrong in a way they couldn’t quite name, not because they doubted her certainty, but because of what that certainty implied. This wasn’t instinct alone. It wasn’t luck or intuition or heightened awareness sharpened by trauma.

Whatever Angel had become, it was something new. Something sharp and dangerous and frighteningly attuned. And it was wearing the shape of someone they had once known.

Hongjoong stepped forward. Unlike Yunho, he didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t soften his posture or attempt to look harmless. His movements were deliberate, controlled, the kind that came from someone who had long since accepted that violence was not a possibility but a tool. The others didn’t stop him, even as tension rippled through them, because something in the air seemed to recognise that this moment belonged to him.

“We’re here for the same reason,” Hongjoong said, his voice low but steady as it carried through the corridor. “Not by accident. Not for salvage.”

Angel’s attention snapped to him instantly.

“For revenge.” The word landed with weight.

“They took something from me,” he continued, his gaze unwavering despite the blood and the bodies and the thing standing in front of him that should have terrified him more than it did. “From us. They built their power on people like us and called it necessary. I don’t need to tell you what that kind of place does to the ones it chews through.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The anger beneath his restraint was old, layered, tempered by time and purpose rather than dulled by it. It spoke of loss that had never been resolved, of wounds that had festered rather than healed. Of a debt that had waited patiently to be collected.

Angel watched him in silence. Not just him. Her gaze slipped beneath the words, past posture and tone and into something deeper, something the crew could feel her touching even if they didn’t understand how. It was as though she were peeling them apart piece by piece, sorting truth from performance with unsettling ease.

Hongjoong didn’t flinch. And she knew. He wasn’t lying. The realization passed through her like a current, something clicking into place as her attention widened briefly to encompass the rest of them. Fear, resolve, grief, anger - all of it sat bare beneath her scrutiny, stripped of pretence in a way that made the crew feel uncomfortably seen.

Then she smiled.It wasn’t wide, and it certainly wasn’t kind. The curve of her mouth was crooked, sharp at the edges, more promise than reassurance, more hunger than relief. It didn’t reach her eyes at all.

“Well,” Angel said lightly, as if they were discussing something trivial rather than a living man marked for death. “What are we waiting for?” Her gaze slid past them, toward the depths of the structure where the last presence lingered, hidden but no longer safe.

“Let’s finish him.” The corridor seemed to hold its breath.

Angel moved before anyone could speak.

One moment she was still, coiled with intent, and the next she was already slipping past the corner at the far end of the corridor, her movements fluid and unhurried. She didn’t pause to look back, didn’t check whether they were following. She simply stepped over the pile of bodies at her feet as though it were nothing more than debris left behind by the collapse of the structure itself.

Bone, blood, broken limbs - it all meant the same to her now. Dirt.

The ease with which she crossed the threshold sent a quiet shiver through the crew. They watched her go, her blood-dark silhouette melting into the shadows beyond the corner, the sound of her footsteps barely audible over the steady drip still echoing through the hall.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Glances flickered between them, quick and uncertain, fear tangling with something dangerously close to resolve. This was wrong. This was reckless. And yet turning back now felt just as unthinkable as following her into whatever waited ahead.

Hongjoong didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward with the same quiet certainty he brought to every irreversible decision, boots hitting the floor with purpose as he followed her path. His expression had settled into something cold and focused, the anger beneath it sharpened into direction rather than doubt.

The others fell in behind him almost automatically. Not because they were unafraid, and not because they trusted Angel - not entirely, not when they don’t know what she is yet. But because they trusted their captain’s instinct, the part of him that had kept them alive through storms and battles and choices that should have ended them all. If Hongjoong was willing to follow her into the dark, then so were they.

The corridor swallowed them one by one, shadows closing in as the last trace of hesitation fell away, leaving only the quiet understanding that there was no turning back now. Whatever waited ahead, they would face it together.

She reached the end of the corridor and slowed at last.

Not stopping entirely, just enough for the shift to be felt behind her. Her head lifted slightly, chin angling upward as though she were listening to the structure itself, to the hollow spaces between walls and floors, to the subtle disturbances most people would never notice. For a moment, her gaze lingered somewhere unseen, unfocused and sharp all at once.

Then her attention snapped downward. Angel raised one hand and pointed toward the floor beneath their feet. “He’s down there,” she said calmly. “Below us.” The certainty in her voice left no room for doubt.

Hidden under something, she knew - debris, machinery, a crawlspace hastily sealed in panic. Of course he was. Her mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgement of a pattern she had seen play out too many times before.

“When your space is being invaded,” she went on, glancing briefly over her shoulder at them, “you don’t go up. Not unless you’re stupid.”

Her hand dropped back to her side as she turned toward the stairwell tucked against the far wall, its metal steps descending into shadow. The air felt colder there, thicker, as if the lower levels were holding their breath.

They moved quietly as they followed her down.

Each step creaked softly beneath their weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the enclosed space despite their care. Shadows clung to the stairwell, stretching and warping with every shift of light, the scent of damp concrete and old rust growing stronger the farther they descended.

Seonghwa drifted closer to her as they went, his pace aligning naturally with hers until he was walking at her side rather than behind. It felt instinctive, as though something unseen had drawn him there without conscious thought.

She noticed.

Their eyes met briefly in the half-light, a single beat of shared awareness passing between them - not trust, not comfort, but recognition. The sea’s presence curled tight in Seonghwa’s chest, restless and warning, and for the first time since entering the structure he had the unmistakable sense of being seen by something other than it.

Angel’s gaze swept over him slowly, deliberately, taking him in from head to toe in a way that felt far too knowing to be casual. Something unreadable flickered across her expression before she tilted her head just slightly.

Then she winked.

It was small, almost playful, utterly out of place - and entirely intentional. A silent message delivered with unsettling precision.

I know what you are.

Seonghwa’s composure faltered for the briefest of moments. One brow lifted despite himself, surprise flickering across his features before he smoothed it away, the faintest warmth rising beneath his skin where the look had landed. The sea stirred uneasily in his chest, unsettled not by threat, but by the unsettling certainty that she had seen straight through him, and chosen not to flinch.

The stairwell swallowed the moment whole as they continued downward, shadows closing in tighter around them, the distance between hunter and hunted shrinking with every step.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The stairwell finally opened out into the lower level, the space widening abruptly as they stepped back into what had once been the reception area.

Or what remained of it.

The front desk lay splintered and overturned, terminals smashed beyond recognition, blood smeared across marble floors in wide, chaotic arcs. Bodies were scattered where they had fallen, uniforms torn and soaked through, the aftermath of a fight that had been fast, brutal, and decisive. The air still carried the sharp tang of ozone and metal, the residue of weapons discharged and anger spent.

Angel slowed as she took it in. Then she smiled.

It was dark and genuine in a way that set several nerves on edge, her gaze moving across the wreckage with clear appreciation. “You didn’t waste time,” she said, almost approvingly. “Good.”

Mingi let out a slow breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, shifting his grip on his weapon as his eyes flicked between her and the bodies. “They weren’t exactly subtle about what they were doing,” he muttered. “Kind of hard to feel bad when someone’s reaching for a gun.”

Wooyoung scoffed softly, though his eyes stayed sharp as he scanned the room. “That’s one way of putting it. They started it.”

Jongho’s jaw tightened as he looked over the scene, something unreadable passing through his expression. “They wouldn’t have stopped,” he said quietly. “Not if they’d been given the chance.”

Yunho nodded once, practical even now, already checking sightlines and exits out of habit. “Reception was a choke point. They were guarding it for a reason.”

Angel’s attention flicked briefly to each of them as they spoke, something like interest glinting in her eyes, before she looked back over the blood-streaked floor. “You did what you had to,” she said simply. “That matters.”

Her gaze lifted then, sweeping the space with renewed focus, the faint smile still playing at her lips as her attention shifted back to the hunt. “He came through here,” she added. “Panicked. Tried to cover his tracks.”

Her eyes settled on a section of wall near the rear of the room, the mess there just a little too deliberate, debris piled in a way that felt more like concealment than collapse. The praise lingered in the air, unsettling and validating all at once. And beneath it, the certainty remained - they were close now.

Angel drifted toward the far wall, her steps slowing as something unseen caught her attention. She tilted her head slightly, nostrils flaring as she drew in a careful breath, her focus sharpening with sudden certainty.

Then she laughed. It wasn’t cheerful, or bright, or relieved. It was low and breathy, edged with something cold enough to make the hair along the crew’s arms prickle. The sound echoed softly through the ruined reception area before fading into the silence again.

“Oh,” she murmured, almost fondly. Before anyone could question it, she dropped to her knees.

The movement was smooth and unhurried as she pressed one hand to the floor, fingers splaying across the blood-slick surface. She knocked once. Then again. Slow. Deliberate. The hollow sound that answered back was unmistakable, reverberating faintly from beneath the concrete.

Her smile widened, sharp and knowing. “There you are,” Angel said softly, her voice carrying easily despite the quiet. “Did you really think piling junk on top would fool me?”

She shifted her weight, knocking again - a lazy rhythm now, taunting rather than testing. Each tap echoed down into the darkness below, a countdown only she seemed to be enjoying.

“I could smell you the moment I walked in,” she continued lightly. “Fear does that. It seeps into everything.” Her head tilted, black eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “You’re shaking, you know. Even through the floor.”

She leaned closer, palm flattening against the hidden seam she had already mapped out, fingers tracing the faint outline of the trapdoor she had sniffed out with terrifying ease. “I hope you’re listening,” she added. “Because I want you to understand something.”

Another knock. Slower this time.

“There’s nowhere left to run.”

It was like watching a cat toy with a trapped mouse - no rush, no mercy, just the indulgent stretch of the moment before the end.

San couldn’t look away.

His stare locked onto her with painful intensity, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, hands curling into fists at his sides as something old and volatile stirred in his chest. Anger coiled there, sharp and familiar, dragging memories to the surface he had buried for a reason.

Remember, he begged silently.

Remember him. Remember us. Remember why you were here with him the first time, even if that memory was soaked in blood and regret. Even if it had never been fair, or kind, or anything close to happy.

The anger rose anyway, not just at her, but at what they had done to her, at the way she wore violence now like a second skin. It burned hot and useless beneath his ribs, threatening to spill over as he watched her knock again, unflinching, unmoved.

The man beneath the floor stayed silent. But everyone in the room could feel it now. The hunt was over.

Angel’s fingers slid into the narrow seam of the trapdoor, nails scraping softly against metal as she prepared to pull it free.

That was when San snapped.

“Enough!”

The shout tore through the room, raw and uncontrolled, shattering the careful stillness she had built around the moment. His voice echoed off the walls, sharp with anger and something far more desperate beneath it.

Angel froze.

San was already moving. He stormed toward her, boots pounding against the blood-slick floor as the distance between them vanished in seconds, his grip tightening around his weapon before he seemed to realise he wasn’t raising it at all. His focus was locked entirely on her, on the figure kneeling over the trapdoor like a reaper at prayer.

“Do you even remember who you are?” he demanded, his voice shaking now as fury bled into it unchecked. “What you used to stand for?”

The words spilled out of him, reckless and unguarded, his anger overwhelming whatever sense of danger his instincts were screaming at him to heed. He stopped just short of her, chest heaving, eyes burning as he looked down at her.

“You’ve done enough,” San snapped. “This ends here. We can take it from here - we will.”

The room seemed to tilt. Angel turned slowly, rising to her feet in one smooth motion as she faced him, her expression darkening with breathtaking speed. The crooked amusement vanished, replaced by something sharp and volatile, her eyes flashing with a fury that felt ancient and personal.

“You don’t get to tell me when it ends,” she hissed, her voice rising as she shot to her full height. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Her anger cracked through the air like a whip, the control she had worn so carefully finally slipping. “You think this is too much?” she shouted back. “You think this is where the line is?”

She gestured violently to the blood-soaked floor, to the bodies littering the room. “This place deserved everything it got! He deserves worse.”

The trapdoor rattled beneath her foot as she shifted, the man below stirring faintly now that the silence had been broken.

Angel’s gaze snapped back to San, blazing. “Step aside,” she snarled. “Or don’t - but don’t stand there pretending you get to stop me now.”

The air between them crackled, thick with anger and unfinished history. And for the first time since they’d followed her into the depths, the greatest threat in the room wasn’t the man hiding beneath the floor.

It was the collision of two people who seemed to remember their anger towards each other too well.

Yeosang moved before anyone could stop him.

The others followed instinctively, closing ranks as they crossed the blood-streaked floor toward the trapdoor, a silent wall forming behind him. Weapons lowered just enough to show intent without surrender, eyes fixed not on the space beneath the floor but on Angel herself.

Yeosang stopped a few steps away. His hands were shaking. “This place,” he said quietly, his voice strained but steady enough to carry. “It did things to people. To me.”

Angel’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp and irritated, but he didn’t stop.

“I know what it’s like to be trapped somewhere that keeps taking pieces of you and calling it necessary,” Yeosang continued, swallowing hard. “To wake up every day knowing they’re going to hurt you again, and that no one is coming to stop it.” His eyes shone now, grief and fury tangled together as he looked at her. “You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, the words tumbling out faster, more desperate. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself. Let us help you.”

He took a half-step closer, voice breaking despite his efforts to hold it together. “Please.”

Something flickered behind Angel’s eyes at that - not recognition, not quite - but it vanished as quickly as it came, buried beneath a surge of anger that tightened her posture.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped. “I don’t know you.” The words were sharp and final, cutting deeper than any blade. “You keep saying things like we share something,” she went on, her voice rising again as frustration bled into fury. “Like you know me. You don’t. None of you do.”

Yeosang shook his head, refusing to back down even as the rejection landed hard. “I do,” he insisted, softer now, almost pleading. “Even if you don’t remember it yet. Even if you don’t believe me.”

Her hands clenched at her sides.

Before she could lash out again, Hongjoong stepped forward. He didn’t argue. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply reached down and took hold of the edge of the trapdoor.

With a sharp pull, metal scraped against concrete as he wrenched it open, the sound echoing harshly through the reception area. Cold air rushed up from below, carrying with it the stench of fear and damp earth. The crew moved with him immediately, instincts snapping back into place as they surrounded the opening, weapons raised, focus shifting decisively away from Angel and onto the space beneath.

The choice had been made. Whatever came next, it would not be hers alone. Angel was no longer the one in control.

They went down one after another.

The ladder groaned softly beneath their weight as the crew descended into the lower chamber, weapons raised, bodies tight with readiness. The space below was smaller than the reception area above, low-ceilinged and damp, the walls sweating with condensation that clung to skin and fabric alike. The air was thick, stale, heavy with panic that had nowhere left to escape.

Angel followed last. She swore under her breath as she dropped down after them, anger sharp in every movement, boots hitting the floor hard enough to echo. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “You never listen.”

They found him exactly where she’d said he would be.

The hotel owner was crouched near the far wall, half-hidden beneath a mess of overturned storage crates and torn fabric, his body slick with beading sweat that soaked through his clothes. He was a thickset, plump man, skin flushed and trembling, chest heaving as his eyes darted wildly between them.

And then they landed on her.

His mouth twisted into a sneer as he recognised Angel, fear curdling into spite. “So this is what they turned you into,” he spat, voice shaking but loud enough to carry. “Nothing but a monster.”

Angel stiffened.

“A machine,” he went on, desperation sharpening his cruelty. “Built to kill. That’s all you ever were.”

San moved before she could breathe.

He lunged forward with a snarl, crossing the space in seconds and slamming into the man with brutal force. His arm locked around the hotel owner’s throat, wrenching him upright as San dragged him back, muscles straining as he forced the man into a chokehold.

“Shut up,” San growled, his voice low and dangerous, fury burning hot behind his eyes. He knew exactly what those words did - how they hollowed a person out, how they stripped you down until all that was left was something ugly and unwanted. He had lived that truth before the HalaVeil ever found him.

The crew closed in instantly, forming a tight circle around them. The man struggled, choking and gasping, his feet scraping uselessly against the floor as he clawed at San’s arm. Fear finally broke through the bravado, his earlier sneer collapsing into panicked wheezing.

Then Hongjoong stepped forward.

San tightened his hold just enough to keep the man upright as their captain came to stand directly in front of him. Hongjoong’s expression was cold, carved into something merciless, his presence alone enough to still the room.

“You don’t get to speak about monsters,” Hongjoong said quietly.

The words were calm - and somehow that made them worse. “You built a place that fed on suffering and called it order,” he continued, eyes locked onto the man’s with terrifying focus. “You hurt people until they broke, then blamed them for not surviving the process.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping lower, sharper. “You took children. You took lives. You took things you had no right to touch.”

The man whimpered, shaking violently now. “You don’t get to decide what they are,” Hongjoong finished, every word precise and cutting. “And you don’t get mercy.”

The feared captain of the HalaVeil stood fully revealed in that moment - controlled, ruthless, unflinching. There was no shouting, no theatrics. Just absolute certainty and a promise that needed no further explanation.

The room held its breath. And the man in San’s grip finally understood that there were far worse things than monsters.

Wooyoung saw it a heartbeat before it happened.

The shift in Angel’s posture was subtle, almost imperceptible, but he knew her too well not to recognise it - the way her weight shifted forward, the way her focus narrowed to a single point. She was about to move. About to tear herself free of whatever fragile line still held her back.

“Angel–” He reached for her. At first, he tried to be gentle. His hand closed around her wrist, careful, grounding rather than restraining, his body angling in front of her instinctively as if he could shield her from the moment itself. “Hey,” he murmured urgently. “It’s okay. We’ve got this.”

She didn’t even look at him. Angel wrenched her arm back with startling force, the motion sharp enough to nearly pull him off balance. Wooyoung sucked in a breath, shock flashing across his face as he stumbled a step to steady himself. She was stronger than he remembered. Stronger than she should have been.

Her snarl was low and furious as she turned on him, muscles coiling with intent, and in that instant Wooyoung knew gentleness wasn’t going to be enough. Guilt flared hot in his chest as he moved again, faster this time, catching her arm properly and twisting it just enough to force her back against him.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, voice tight as he held her, his grip firm but controlled despite the way his hands shook. “I’m so sorry.”

She thrashed against him, power surging beneath her skin, every movement dangerous and unpredictable. Wooyoung braced himself, teeth gritting as he held on, hating every second of it. “I’ve got you,” he repeated desperately, his voice breaking just a little. “I won’t let you do this. Not like this.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes blazing. “Angel,” he said again, softer now, the name slipping out like a plea. “Please.”

The word landed somewhere deep. Not enough to calm her - but enough to stall her.

Across the room, Hongjoong moved.

San released the hotel owner just long enough for Hongjoong to step in, his blade in his hand slamming into the man’s chest and driving him back hard against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs in a choking gasp as Hongjoong followed through, striking with brutal precision - a blow to the ribs, then the shoulder, each hit calculated to disable rather than kill.

Yeosang joined him without hesitation. He swept in low, hooking the man’s leg and yanking it out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor with a heavy thud. The owner cried out, scrambling uselessly as Yeosang dropped to one knee beside him, pinning him there with cold efficiency.

“You don’t get to run anymore,” Yeosang said through clenched teeth.

The man lashed out wildly, catching Hongjoong’s arm with a panicked swing, but it only earned him another sharp strike that left him gasping and bleeding. Hongjoong loomed over him, relentless, his expression carved into something merciless as he hauled the man upright again.

“You took everything,” Hongjoong snarled, his voice finally cracking with the weight of it. “And you thought you could hide.”

He drove him back down, hard. The struggle ended quickly after that - not because the man stopped resisting, but because there was nothing left in him to resist with. He lay sprawled on the floor, wheezing and broken, blood slicking his mouth as fear finally consumed him entirely.

Wooyoung still held Angel. Her breathing was ragged now, fury and something dangerously close to grief tearing through her as she strained once more before going still, her strength simmering rather than exploding. Wooyoung didn’t loosen his grip, forehead pressing briefly against the side of her head as he whispered again, “I’m sorry.”

The room fell quiet. The owner was alive, but only barely.

And Angel stood restrained in the aftermath, surrounded by people who refused to let her disappear into the monster he had tried to name her as.

Angel finally spoke. “Don’t.”

The word cut cleanly through the aftermath, sharp enough to still the room as all eyes turned back to her. Wooyoung loosened his grip just enough for her to step forward, though he stayed close, ready in case the fury surged again.

“Leave him,” she said, her voice steady and stripped of emotion. “Here.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the broken man on the floor, curled in on himself and gasping for breath, before returning to Hongjoong. “Let him bleed out alone. Afraid. Forgotten.”

A pause. “It’s what he deserves.”

Hongjoong held her gaze. For a long moment, he said nothing. No argument. No attempt to temper the judgment. Then he nodded. Once.

“Move,” he ordered quietly.

The crew didn’t hesitate. They turned as one, filing back toward the ladder, weapons lowered but senses still sharp. San went last, casting a final, unreadable glance at the man on the floor before following the others up.

Hongjoong climbed out after them, hauling himself back into the reception area before reaching down and grabbing the edge of the trapdoor. With a sharp shove, he slammed it closed, the metal ringing loudly as it met the concrete.

He secured it without ceremony. The lock slid into place with a final, hollow click.

Below them, muffled and distant, a weak sound echoed once - then faded.

Hongjoong straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders as he turned back to Angel. “The ones who were forced to work here,” he said evenly. “The victims.”

Angel’s jaw tightened. “I let them go,” she replied. “Anyone who wasn’t complicit. They ran.”

Hongjoong studied her for a beat longer, searching for something beneath the words. Finding no lie, he nodded again.

Then he turned. “Mingi,” he said calmly.

Mingi looked up at him, eyes already bright with understanding.

Hongjoong’s gaze swept once more over the ruined reception, the blood-stained floors, the walls that had absorbed too much suffering to ever be clean again.

“Let’s burn this bitch down.”

Something like grim satisfaction flickered across Mingi’s face as he adjusted his grip, power already stirring beneath his skin.

The hotel had fed on pain for long enough. Tonight, it would burn.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They didn’t linger.

The crew moved out through the ruined entrance and into the open air beyond, the night pressing in around them as the structure loomed dark and wounded behind their backs. No one looked back at the reception as they cleared the perimeter, boots hitting stone and gravel with quiet urgency. Whatever that place had been, whatever it had taken, it no longer deserved witnesses.

Mingi peeled away from the group once they reached the rear of the building.

The alley behind the hotel was narrow and choked with refuse, the back wall stained with years of neglect and runoff. He stopped beside the exposed power box bolted there, wires half-hidden beneath warped metal panels, and flexed his fingers slowly as he focused.

Energy gathered. It hummed beneath his skin, sharp and volatile, before he drove it forward in a precise burst. The box sparked violently, lights flaring as metal screamed under the sudden surge. A second later, flames licked up the wall, greedy and fast, catching on old insulation and dry rot without hesitation.

Mingi didn’t wait to watch it spread. He moved with purpose, rounding the corner and then the next, touching walls and junctions with controlled strikes of power that sent electricity screaming through compromised systems. Each hit was deliberate, each ignition chosen carefully - fuel sources, structural weak points, places where the fire would climb and feed and refuse to be contained.

Sparks showered the ground as another panel blew, flames roaring to life as heat began to crawl across the building’s exterior. Smoke curled upward into the night, thick and black, carrying with it the scent of burning metal and rot.

By the time Mingi reached the final corner, the hotel was already dying.

Fire bloomed through broken windows, light spilling out where darkness had once ruled. The building groaned softly as the flames took hold, wood and wiring surrendering with crackling protests.

Mingi stepped back at last, chest rising with steady breaths as he surveyed his work. There would be no saving it.

The hotel would burn down to its bones. And when the fire was done, there would be nothing left for the world to mistake as power again.

They stood at a distance, the heat of the fire licking at their faces as the hotel burned.

Flames tore through the structure with ruthless efficiency, climbing walls and collapsing floors in on themselves as smoke billowed into the night sky. Windows shattered one by one, glass raining down as the fire claimed everything it touched. The building groaned, then screamed, then finally began to fall silent beneath the roar.

Yeosang couldn’t look away. His chest hitched as the reality of it all crashed down at once - the fear, the pain, the memories he had tried so hard to bury. His hands trembled at his sides, breath coming uneven as tears welled despite his efforts to hold them back.

“It’s over,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s actually… over.” The words broke him.

A quiet sob slipped free, his shoulders curling inward as he bowed his head. Jongho moved immediately, stepping closer and placing a steady hand on Yeosang’s back, grounding and warm. He didn’t speak at first, just stayed there, solid and present, until Yeosang leaned into him without thinking.

“You survived,” Jongho said softly at last. “That’s all that  matters right now.”

Yeosang nodded against him, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand, tears streaking down as the fire reflected in his eyes. “I know,” he managed. “I just- I didn’t think I’d ever see this place fall.”

Nearby, Hongjoong watched the flames consume the building without blinking.

His expression was carved from fury, jaw tight, shoulders squared as though he were bracing against the heat itself. The anger burned bright in his eyes, unflinching and unapologetic, but beneath it, buried deep where no one else could see, something finally loosened.

Relief. Not peace. Not forgiveness. But release. The weight he had carried for so long eased just enough for him to breathe again.

A sharp cry cut through the crackle of fire.

Angel lifted her head.

Above them, a dark shape circled once before dropping gracefully from the smoke-choked sky. The raven landed beside her without hesitation, black feathers gleaming in the firelight as it tilted its head, intelligent eyes fixed on her face.

She smiled. It was softer than any smile she had worn all night, something private and earned as she crouched slightly and met its gaze. “It’s done,” she murmured, voice low but certain. The raven cawed in response, the sound echoing strangely through the ruins, before settling closer at her side.

The hotel continued to burn behind them, collapsing inward as flames devoured the last of its lies. Whatever ghosts had lived there were finally free. And so, perhaps, were they.

“Let’s go,” Angel said quietly. She turned toward the raven, already beginning to walk away from the burning remains of the hotel as though the decision had been made long before any of them could object.

“Angel.” Wooyoung’s voice cut through the crackle of flames, sharp with urgency.

She stopped.

Slowly, she turned her head just enough to look back over her shoulder, dark eyes catching the firelight as they settled on him. “I’m no angel,” she replied flatly. “I’m not whatever you think I am.”

Wooyoung took a step forward despite himself. “Don’t go,” he said, the words tumbling out rough and unguarded. “Please. You don’t have to disappear again.”

“Stay,” Yeosang added hoarsely, wiping at his face as he reached out a hand he didn’t quite dare to place on her. “We can figure this out. Together.”

Jongho nodded, voice low but earnest. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

For a moment - just one - something wavered in her expression. Then it hardened. “I didn’t ask for your help,” Angel snapped. “And I don’t need it.” She turned again, taking another step.

That was when Mingi made the mistake.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, already moving, and then his arms were around her, lifting her clean off the ground with a strength born of panic rather than thought. “We’re not letting you walk away.”

Angel screamed. It was feral and furious, the sound ripping out of her as she thrashed violently in his grip. Her elbow slammed back with brutal force, connecting hard with his ribs. Mingi gasped, grip faltering as pain tore through him, but he held on,

Until she struck again. Something sharp connected with his shoulder, energy cracking through the air as he cried out and dropped her instinctively, stumbling back as agony flared down his arm.

She hit the ground already turning.

Mingi barely had time to register the danger before she was on him, rage blazing as she lashed out again, her strike landing hard enough to send him crashing into the ground with a strangled shout.

“Angel, stop-!”

Too late. She moved to hit him again.

Hongjoong lunged.

He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, slamming into her with full force and driving her to the ground. His weight pinned her instantly, one knee braced at her side, hands locking her wrists down against the stone before she could react.

“Enough.” His voice was low. Deadly. The word carried no anger - only command.

Angel bucked beneath him, snarling as she fought against his grip, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His hold was absolute, born of battle and authority and something darker that knew exactly how to end a fight.

“Stop,” Hongjoong repeated, leaning in close enough that she had no choice but to see him. His eyes were cold, unyielding, the firelight carving sharp shadows across his face. “Right now.”

The air seemed to bow around him. This was the captain the world feared. Not loud. Not frantic. Just dominant, controlled, and utterly certain.

“You will not hurt my crew,” he said quietly. “Not ever.”

Angel froze beneath him, chest heaving, fury crashing violently against the iron wall of his presence. She glared up at him, teeth bared as she strained once more against his grip, fury flashing bright and feral in her eyes. His hold didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened, grounding her with relentless force.

“What the hell do you want with me?” she spat. The question tore out of her, raw and sharp, edged with something dangerously close to panic beneath the rage. “Why won’t you just let me go?”

Hongjoong didn’t look away. “I want you to remember,” he said.

The words were calm, deliberate - and terrifying in their certainty.

“You think you just woke up like this one day?” he went on, his voice lowering as he leaned in closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath. “With all these abilities. This strength. This instinct.”

His grip tightened fractionally, fingers pressing into her wrists with purpose. “Don’t be stupid.”

Angel’s breath hitched despite herself.

“You were someone before this,” Hongjoong continued, every word carving itself into the space between them. “Someone who mattered. Someone who didn’t deserve what was done to her.” His gaze burned into hers now, intense enough to feel invasive, almost reverent in its fixation. “And you’re going to remember,” he said quietly. “Even if it hurts. Even if it breaks you open.”

She thrashed again, a violent jerk of movement born of pure defiance. “You don’t get to decide that,” she snarled.

His expression didn’t change. “You’re not leaving my crew again,” Hongjoong replied, the possessiveness in his voice no longer disguised. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a threat. It was a fact.

Angel laughed harshly, the sound brittle. “You think you can keep me?” she challenged. “You think I belong to you?”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Then he said it.

“Solivar.”

The name landed like a blade.

Her struggle faltered mid-motion, breath catching sharply as her eyes widened just enough to betray the impact. The sound of the fire seemed to dull around them, the world narrowing down to that single word and the way it vibrated through her chest.

Hongjoong saw it. He leaned in, voice dropping even lower, intent sharpening to a point. “You know it,” he said. “Or you will.”

Her gaze snapped back to his, searching now rather than fighting.

“That place,” he continued. “The people behind it. The ones who started all of this.” His jaw clenched. “They’re still out there.”

A beat.

“I want them taken down,” Hongjoong said. “Completely. Burned out at the root.” His eyes never left hers as he finished, voice unwavering. “But I can’t do it without you.”

The fire roared behind them. Angel lay pinned beneath him, fury still simmering beneath her skin, but now, threaded through it, was something else entirely. Interest.

And Hongjoong knew it. Whatever this was now - alliance, captivity, obsession - it had just been sealed by a shared enemy.

And neither of them was willing to let the other walk away.

Hongjoong didn’t ease his hold right away.

Instead, he leaned down closer, close enough that the rest of the world seemed to blur at the edges, the crackle of the fire and the distant voices fading into something dull and distant. His mouth hovered beside her ear, his breath warm against her skin.

“You’ve always been mine,” he whispered. The words were low. Certain. Spoken like a truth he had never once questioned.

Angel went still.

For a split second, something fractured behind her eyes - not memory, not recognition, but the echo of something old and deeply buried that responded despite her will. Hongjoong lingered there just long enough for it to land, just long enough to be impossible to dismiss.

Then he pulled back. Slowly. Reluctantly.

His hands loosened, but his gaze didn’t. He searched her face with unsettling intensity, eyes flicking briefly - almost unconsciously - to her lips before dragging themselves back up to meet her eyes again. The look was sharp and possessive and far too aware.

Then he let her go.

Angel shoved herself upright immediately, breath uneven, hair falling loose around her face as she put distance between them. Her pulse raced, thoughts tangled and frayed, anger and something far more dangerous coiling together in her chest.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, more shaken than she wanted to admit.

She pushed to her feet, dusting blood and ash from her hands before looking back at them. “I’ll come with you,” she said, voice firm. “But not on the ship. Not yet.”

Yunho frowned, concern creasing his brow as he stepped forward. “Then how?”

Before Angel could answer, Seonghwa spoke. “The sea,” he said simply.

Every head turned toward him.

He met Angel’s gaze steadily, something ancient and knowing passing between them as the fire continued to burn behind them. “It will take us where we need to go,” he added quietly. “If we listen.”

Angel’s mouth curved faintly, something like approval flickering across her expression. The raven cawed softly from nearby.

Seonghwa didn’t look away from her.

The firelight painted sharp lines across his face as the heat rolled between them, the sea stirring restlessly beneath his skin as though it recognised her presence even here, far from open water. His gaze searched her with careful intent, something ancient and wary beneath his composure.

“You’re a siren,” he said at last. It wasn’t a question. Not really.

Angel scoffed softly, the sound more tired than mocking as she tilted her head. “So are you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched - not quite a smile - and he inclined his head once in agreement. “Yes,” he said quietly. “But not like you.”

Her eyes darkened with something unreadable as she straightened. “No one is.” There was no pride in it. Just fact.

Seonghwa held her gaze for a long moment before nodding again, slower this time. “Unfortunately,” he said, voice low and thoughtful, “I think that’s true.”

Angel turned away then, stepping back from the fire as ash drifted down around them like dark snow. “Fine,” she said over her shoulder. “Get going. I’ll follow on.”

Reluctance rippled through the crew immediately.

No one moved at first. Wooyoung hesitated, glancing between Angel and Hongjoong, jaw tight with unease. Yunho looked like he wanted to argue, to insist on a safer alternative that didn’t involve letting her disappear into the night again. Even Jongho lingered, futures blurring uselessly at the edges as if the path ahead refused to settle.

But one by one, they obeyed. Boots turned toward the docks. The HalaVeil waited, dark and familiar, lanterns swaying gently as the crew climbed aboard in uneasy silence. None of them liked it. Every instinct screamed that this was a mistake.

Seonghwa didn’t follow. Angel noticed when the distance grew too quiet. She stopped and turned back, brows knitting slightly as she found him still standing there, the fire at his back, the sea calling softly from beyond the shore. “You’re not coming?” she asked.

His expression was calm, resolved in a way that left no room for argument. “I am,” he said. “Just not that way.”

Understanding flickered across her face.

“I’m joining you,” Seonghwa continued, already shrugging out of his coat, folding it neatly as though this were nothing more than a familiar ritual. “The sea will carry us both. And I’m not letting you disappear into it alone.”

Her gaze sharpened. “To keep an eye on me?”

“That,” he admitted evenly. “And because I haven’t used what I am in a long time.”

The truth of it settled between them, heavy and unspoken, the pull of the tide, the call he had learned to ignore for too long.

Angel studied him for a beat longer, then gave a short, approving nod. “Try to keep up.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned toward the water and stepped forward, the sea already rising to meet her as though it had been expecting her all along.

Seonghwa followed.

Behind them, the hotel burned itself into nothing. Ahead, the sea opened wide - ancient, knowing, and very much awake.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The HalaVeil creaked softly as the crew came aboard, ropes loosening and lanterns swaying as the ship shifted beneath their familiar weight. The deck felt different tonight - quieter, charged with the aftermath of fire and choice and the absence of two figures who should have been there.

Yeosang moved without being asked. He stepped up toward the helm, hands settling over the controls with practiced care as his breathing evened out. The sea whispered faintly at the edges of his awareness, currents tugging at his senses as he oriented them away from the burning shore.

“I’ve got us,” he said quietly.

Hongjoong didn’t argue. He just nodded once, trusting him without question.

Behind them, Yunho slowed, his attention catching on Mingi as he leaned slightly against the railing, shoulders slumped more than usual. The firelight from shore cast uneven shadows across his face, and that was when Yunho saw it - the thin line of blood tracing down his arm.

“Mingi,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “You alright?”

Mingi glanced down, blinking as if he’d forgotten entirely, then gave a short, breathy laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I mean-” He shrugged one shoulder carefully. “Guess that’s what I get for poking the bear.” There was no bitterness in his voice. Just tired humour, threaded with something subdued and aching beneath it.

Yunho’s mouth tightened. “Come on,” he said gently, already guiding him away from the railing. “Let’s get that cleaned up before it gets worse.”

Mingi let himself be steered, the tension easing from his posture as Yunho’s steady presence took over. “Sorry,” he added quietly, almost to himself.

Yunho shook his head as they headed below deck. “You don’t get to apologise for trying to protect people.”

The ship pulled free of the dock at last, sails catching as the HalaVeil slipped out onto open water. Behind them, the fire burned itself into memory.

Ahead, the sea waited - restless, watchful, and carrying two sirens into its depths.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

San and Wooyoung didn’t move right away.

They stood a few paces back from Hongjoong as the ship cut through the water, sails snapping softly as the shoreline began to recede. The glow of the fire was still visible behind them, flickering low against the dark horizon.

Wooyoung was the first to break. “What the hell was that?” he demanded, turning on Hongjoong sharply. “Back there - with her.”

San’s jaw was clenched, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared at their captain. “You didn’t have to pin her like that,” he added, voice low but edged with barely restrained anger. “You didn’t have to say those things.”

Hongjoong didn’t look surprised. He leaned back slightly against the railing, gaze fixed out over the water as if the answer were already settled in his mind. “Yes,” he said calmly. “I did.”

Wooyoung scoffed. “You enjoyed it,” he shot back. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flicked toward him then, sharp and cold. “That’s not what this was.”

“Then what was it?” San pressed. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you crossed a line.”

Hongjoong exhaled slowly through his nose. “She wasn’t listening,” he said. “She was escalating. And she was seconds away from seriously hurting someone again.”

Wooyoung’s hands curled into fists. “So you decided to dominate her into compliance?”

“I decided to stop her,” Hongjoong corrected flatly. “By any means necessary.”

Silence fell heavy between them.

“She’s dangerous,” Hongjoong continued, his voice lowering as he finally turned to face them fully. “You all saw that. If she’d walked away tonight, we’d have no control over what she does next - or who she hurts.”

San shook his head, frustration flashing across his face. “That doesn’t mean she’s not still a person.”

“I know exactly what she is,” Hongjoong replied, his tone sharp now. “And I know what it takes to keep someone like that alive long enough to remember who they were.”

Wooyoung stared at him, anger and something like fear battling behind his eyes. “You sounded… obsessed.”

Hongjoong didn’t deny it. “She’s connected to Solivar,” he said instead. “To everything that’s coming. Whether she remembers it yet or not, she’s at the centre of this.”

San’s gaze hardened. “And what if she doesn’t forgive you for that?”

Hongjoong’s mouth curved faintly, not a smile. “Then she won’t,” he said simply. “I’m not doing this to be forgiven.”

The wind picked up around them, sails snapping as the HalaVeil surged forward.

Wooyoung looked away first, jaw tight, clearly unconvinced. San lingered a moment longer, studying Hongjoong with quiet intensity before finally turning back toward the bow. Whatever line Hongjoong had crossed tonight, there was no undoing it now.

Wooyoung didn’t let it go. He stepped forward again, anger finally breaking past restraint as he squared up to Hongjoong, eyes blazing. “I’m not letting you do this,” he said flatly. “I’m not letting you turn her into a weapon.”

Hongjoong’s gaze sharpened. “That’s not what-”

“You’ve done it before,” Wooyoung cut in, voice rising now. “You sent her into danger to answer your questions. To dig up your ghosts. To do your dirty work when you didn’t want blood on your own hands.”

San stiffened beside him.

“You used her,” Wooyoung continued, the words spilling out fast and furious. “And you’re doing it again.”

Hongjoong went very still. “This is different,” he said slowly.

Wooyoung scoffed. “That’s what you said last time.”

Hongjoong turned fully to face him, eyes hard and unflinching. “I’m not testing her anymore,” he said. “I know who she is now. And she’s stronger than she’s ever been.”

San shook his head. “That doesn’t mean throwing her into the deep end is the answer.”

“It does if you want her to remember,” Hongjoong snapped back. “She doesn’t get there by staying safe. She gets there by surviving.”

Wooyoung stared at him, incredulous. “So you’re just going to keep pushing her until something breaks?”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened. “She’s already broken,” he said coldly. “What’s left is power.”

The words hung heavy between them. Then Hongjoong leaned in slightly, voice lowering, sharpening with intent. “Don’t you want her to get revenge?” he asked. “Don’t you want the people who did this to her to pay?”

Wooyoung flinched.

“Because I do,” Hongjoong continued. “And she does too - whether she remembers it yet or not.”

“That’s not your call,” Wooyoung shot back. “You don’t get to decide what she becomes.”

San stepped forward then, anger finally cresting. “You’re losing yourself,” he said. “This isn’t leadership. It’s control.”

Hongjoong’s expression didn’t change. “This is what it takes,” he replied. “And if you can’t handle that, step aside.” The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

Wooyoung stared at him for a long moment, something shattered and furious in his eyes. “You’re back to your old ways,” he said quietly. “The captain we were afraid of.”

Then he turned and stormed off across the deck, boots striking hard against the wood as he disappeared below. San hesitated only a second longer, gaze lingering on Hongjoong with a mix of anger and disappointment before following after him without another word.

Hongjoong remained where he was, alone at the rail.

The firelight had faded from the horizon now, swallowed by distance and dark water. The softness he had carried when he believed her dead - the restraint, the hesitation - was gone without ceremony.

The captain was back.

And whatever path he had chosen, it was one he was willing to walk without them if he had to.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moonlight rippled across the deep sea. Angel stopped a few paces from the water. Then, without warning, she began to strip.

Seonghwa froze. “What the hell are you doing-” he blurted, spinning around instantly, one hand lifting as if that alone might erase what he’d already seen. “Angel-!”

Her laughter rang out behind him, bright and unbothered, utterly at odds with his flustered reaction. “Relax,” she said easily. “This is how I’ve always done it.”

He stared out at the dark horizon, ears burning. “That’s not- you can’t just-”

“I can,” she cut in, amused. “And I swim faster this way. No restraints.”

There was the soft rustle of fabric behind him, then the beat of wings. Seonghwa glanced sideways just in time to see the raven swoop down, deftly snatching her discarded clothes in its talons before lifting back into the air. It circled once, then flew off in the direction of the HalaVeil, feathers cutting cleanly through the night.

Angel snorted. “See? Taken care of.”

She padded past him toward the water, bare feet meeting the surf without hesitation. The sea welcomed her instantly, waves curling around her ankles, then her calves, then higher as she waded in with unhurried confidence.

Seonghwa remained stubbornly turned away.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

She stepped deeper, water rising to her waist, then her ribs, the surface glimmering faintly in the starlight. When it reached her shoulders, she stopped and looked back at him, eyes bright with mischief.

“You can look now.”

He hesitated. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he turned.

His gaze flicked to her and away again almost immediately, the faintest flush colouring his cheeks - subtle, but unmistakable. He cleared his throat, jaw tightening as he fixed his attention somewhere safely neutral.

Angel noticed. Her smile widened, sharp and satisfied. “You didn’t turn around fast enough did you...”

Seonghwa shot her a warning look she didn’t take seriously in the slightest. “Get moving,” he said, composure carefully reassembled despite the betraying warmth at his ears.

She laughed softly, sinking beneath the surface in one smooth motion as the sea closed over her like an old friend.

A heartbeat later, Seonghwa followed - coat and boots abandoned at the shore, breath steady as he stepped into the water and let the tide pull him in after her.

Beneath the surface, the sea waited. And it recognised them both.

The sea opened beneath them like a held breath finally released.

As they descended, the darkness didn’t swallow them the way it should have. Instead, the water began to glow - soft at first, then brighter - threads of bioluminescence unfurling around their bodies like constellations waking up one by one. Pale blues and greens shimmered in their wake, lighting the path ahead as though the deep itself had decided to guide them.

Angel moved effortlessly, her body cutting through the water with practiced ease, every motion fluid and unburdened. The current bent toward her, responding rather than resisting, carrying her forward as though she belonged to it in a way few ever could.

Seonghwa followed close behind.

The deeper they went, the clearer everything became - not murkier, not heavier, but sharper, brighter, impossibly vast. Schools of translucent fish scattered and regrouped around them, their bodies catching the light in brief flashes of silver. Massive shadows drifted far below, slow and unbothered, ancient things that acknowledged their passing without fear.

The pressure should have been crushing. It wasn’t. The sea held them gently, a living presence pressing close without pain, without threat. It felt aware, not sentient in any way that could be named, but attentive, listening in the way old things do.

Angel glanced back at him. There was no urgency in the look, no warning. Just a quiet awareness that he was there, that he was keeping pace. Something warm flickered between them, an unspoken understanding that passed more easily here than it ever could have on land.

Their movements began to mirror one another without conscious effort.

When she slowed, he did too. When she angled downward, he followed, instinct guiding him as surely as the tide itself. The glow around them brightened as they drew closer together, currents weaving and overlapping as though responding to the space they shared.

It felt less like pursuit and more like alignment. For the first time in a long while, the sea wasn’t something Seonghwa was listening to. It was something he was listening with.

And Angel - swimming ahead, silhouetted in living light - felt less like a stranger leading him into the deep, and more like a point of gravity he had always been orbiting, whether he’d known it or not.

The deep stretched endlessly before them, beautiful and alive. And it welcomed them both.

The glow around them slowly began to thin. Not fading entirely, but stretching out, the bioluminescent threads loosening as the current softened and the sea grew darker ahead. Angel slowed first, her body angling upward as the water above them lightened from deep blue to shadowed silver. The path was ending.

She tilted her head, listening, then kicked gently toward the surface. Seonghwa followed without question, the pressure easing as they rose, the sounds of the world returning in muted layers - the distant creak of wood, the soft lap of water against hull.

They broke the surface together. 

The HalaVeil sat docked a short distance away, lanterns glowing warmly against the night, her silhouette steady and familiar against the dark horizon. Smoke from the burned hotel was no longer visible here, carried away by the wind and tide as if the sea itself had chosen not to remember it.

Angel exhaled slowly. Perched neatly on a low piling beside the dock sat the raven. It tilted its head as they approached, black feathers sleek and unruffled, talons gripping the wood with careful balance. Draped over the post beside it were two small bundles of fabric, folded with surprising precision.

Angel’s clothes. And Seonghwa’s. She huffed a quiet laugh. “Told you he’d take care of it.”

Seonghwa blinked, then let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding as his gaze settled on his own coat and shirt. “I wasn’t sure I’d be that lucky,” he admitted. “I half expected them to end up at the bottom of the sea.”

The raven cawed once, sharp and indignant. Angel smirked. “He has standards.”

Seonghwa waded closer to the dock, water dripping from his hair and shoulders as he reached for the bundle. “I’m… relieved,” he said, glancing at the bird. “That you grabbed mine too.”

The raven puffed its chest slightly, then looked away as if bored by the conversation.

Angel watched the exchange with quiet amusement before reaching for her own clothes. For a moment, the night felt almost normal - the ship waiting, the sea calm, the path behind them complete. Almost.

The raven remained still, eyes bright and watchful, as though waiting for something only it could see. And Angel, standing at the edge of the dock with the water still clinging to her skin, felt a faint, unfamiliar tension settle beneath her ribs, not danger yet, not memory either. Just the sense that the moment they stepped aboard, something was going to change.

Angel lingered in the water a moment longer, one hand resting against the dock as she glanced at Seonghwa. “Go on,” she said easily. “I’ll turn around. I’m not that cruel.”

He hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but eventually climbed out anyway, water streaming off him as he stepped onto the dock. “You are turning around,” he said, half warning, half plea.

“I said I would,” she replied, already pivoting away with exaggerated compliance. “Relax.”

Seonghwa exhaled and reached for his clothes, pulling them on quickly, movements efficient and practiced despite the lingering chill of the night air. The sound of fabric shifting, the quiet clink of his belt.

“You decent yet?” Angel asked, far too soon.

“Yes,” he said automatically, then paused. “Well- mostly.”

She turned back anyway.

Seonghwa had his trousers on but hadn’t yet pulled on his shirt, hair still damp and curling slightly at his temples, skin faintly marked where the water had cooled it too fast. He froze the moment he realised she was looking.

Angel’s brows lifted. “Huh,” she said, clearly amused. “Didn’t realise you were hiding all that under the coat.”

Seonghwa groaned. “Angel.”

“What?” she grinned. “That’s impressive work. Very… symmetrical.”

He shot her an exasperated look as he grabbed his shirt. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Absolutely,” she replied without shame. “It’s very funny.”

He tugged the shirt on a little more aggressively than necessary, jaw tight, ears faintly pink. “You know,” he muttered, “most people would have the decency to look embarrassed.”

She stepped out of the water at last, droplets tracing down her skin as she reached for her own clothes. “Most people aren’t sirens,” she said lightly. “And besides-” she glanced at him again, eyes bright with mischief, “you don’t hate it.”

Seonghwa paused, just for a fraction of a second. Then he scoffed, composure snapping back into place as he finished dressing. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” she agreed cheerfully. “But you swam with me anyway.” He didn’t argue with that.

The raven watched from its perch, head tilting once as if committing the moment to memory, while the HalaVeil creaked softly beside them - waiting, patient, and unaware that something old was about to surface the moment Angel stepped aboard.

Angel straightened slowly. The air had shifted - not the sea, not the wind, but something sharper, more immediate. The sensation crawled up her spine, a familiar prickle she hadn’t yet learned to name.

Eyes on her. She lifted her gaze.

Hongjoong stood on the deck above, framed by lantern light and shadow, one hand resting loosely against the rail. He wasn’t speaking. Wasn’t moving. Just watching her with an intensity that felt too deliberate to be coincidence.

Angel didn’t look away. She held his gaze, dark eyes locking onto his with equal force, something unreadable tightening in her chest. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them, the distance, the history she didn’t yet have words for, the pull she refused to acknowledge.

Then it hit her.

Pain lanced through her skull without warning, sharp and blinding, dropping her breath from her lungs as she staggered back a half-step. The dock tilted violently beneath her feet as something else surged forward, uninvited and unstoppable.

A memory. Not complete. Not clear.

The world returned in fragments.

Clinical beeps pulsed steadily somewhere nearby, too precise, too clean, threading through the darkness like a metronome counting down something inevitable. Light pressed in from above - harsh, white, unforgiving - reflecting off walls and floors so sterile they seemed to erase shadow itself.

You tried to move. You couldn’t.

Restraints bit into your wrists and ankles, cold and unyielding, pinning your body flat against a narrow table. The surface beneath you was hard, metallic, vibrating faintly with the hum of unseen machinery. Your breath came shallow, the air stinging your lungs with the sharp, invasive smell of bleach and antiseptic.

Medicine. Fear.

A glass wall stood at your side, thick and reinforced, separating you from a line of figures beyond it. Their faces were indistinct, blurred as though seen through water or fogged lenses, but their movements were precise and practiced. Clipboards lifted and lowered. Pens scratched notes you would never see.

You were an object here. A subject. Something to be observed. The beeping continued.

Then- a voice. Young. Desperate. Cracking with strain.

“Father- please.”

The sound cut through the sterile quiet like a fracture in glass.

Your head turned as much as the restraints would allow, your vision struggling to focus as two figures emerged from the blur. One was tall, broad-shouldered, his steps unhurried as he approached the table. The other clung to his arm, fingers white-knuckled in their grip, small body struggling to keep pace.

“Please don’t,” the boy begged, his voice breaking openly now. “You said you’d stop. You said-”

The fog lifted.

The boy’s face snapped into clarity.

Young. Too young. Sharp eyes too large for his face, already darkened by understanding he shouldn’t have had yet. Tears streaked down his cheeks, his mouth trembling as he clung desperately to the man beside him.

Hongjoong.

Years younger. Unscarred. Still soft at the edges.

“Father, please,” he cried, voice raw. “Don’t do this. You’ll kill her.”

The man didn’t slow. “She is resilient,” he replied coolly, as though discussing a procedure rather than a person. “This is necessary.”

“She’s not ready,” Hongjoong sobbed, pulling harder now, heels skidding across the polished floor. “You’re hurting her. Can’t you see that? She’s scared-”

The man stopped. With a sharp, irritated motion, he wrenched his arm free.

Hongjoong was thrown aside, his small body hitting the floor hard as he cried out, palms scraping against the sterile white as he fell. The sound echoed painfully in the room, swallowed immediately by the return of the steady beeping.

“Do not interfere again,” the man said coldly.

He turned. And his face came into focus.

Elias Solivar.

His expression was calm. Detached. Eyes sharp with intellect and cruelty masquerading as purpose. He didn’t look at you like a person, he looked at you like an equation, a possibility, a sacrifice already justified.

Behind the glass, the figures waited.

Hongjoong lay on the floor, gasping, tears silent now as he looked up at you with wide, helpless eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice barely audible beneath the machinery. “I’m so sorry.”

The lights above you flared brighter. The beeping accelerated.

And the memory shattered.

You gasp.

Air tears back into your lungs in short, sharp pulls, your vision swimming as the dock snaps back into place beneath your feet. The smell of salt and smoke replaces bleach and antiseptic, but your body hasn’t caught up yet - it still thinks it’s restrained, still thinks the lights are burning into your skull.

Your hands tremble. Your chest tightens painfully as your breathing refuses to slow, each inhale stuttering like it’s catching on something lodged deep in your throat.

“-Angel? Angel, hey- are you okay?”

A voice reaches you from the side, muffled and distant, as though it’s travelling through water. Someone is close. Too close. You feel the vague brush of movement near your arm, but you can’t bring yourself to look.

You can barely hear it.

Because all you can see is him.

Hongjoong.

He’s still standing on the deck, exactly where he was before, lantern light carving harsh lines across his face. But now, now you know what you’re looking at. The man you see overlaps with the boy burned into your memory, the child thrown aside on a white floor, begging for you in a voice that still echoes in your skull.

Father, please… you’ll kill her.

Your breath catches violently. Something cold and sharp settles in your chest, not fear — not anymore — but recognition. The kind that rearranges everything it touches.

Your gaze locks onto Hongjoong’s.This time, he doesn’t look away.

And in the space between one heartbeat and the next, you realise with terrifying clarity that whatever he thinks he’s hunting…

Whatever he believes he’s trying to control…

He already knows exactly who you are. And he has for a very long time.

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okayyy... hongjoong is getting intense.. do you think his actions are okay or is he slowly losing it? also did you enjoy/notice the pov change at the end? I wanted to really bring angel back into the story like before. hope you enjoyeddd

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