#chapter 26

He picked more fights. Took on riskier shipments. Approved operations that even Verstappen raised an eyebrow at.

When Carlos knocked on his office door late one night to ask if he was going home, Lando didn’t even look up from his screen. “Didn’t realize I paid you to ask stupid questions,” he said coolly. 

Carlos didn’t ask again.

The next morning, Lando was in the ring by six.

The gym was still dark when he unlocked the door himself. No music, no trainers, no echo of voices. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the steady thump of his own heartbeat, already too fast for how early it was.

He didn’t wrap his hands. Didn’t warm up.

He just went for the bag—let his knuckles split open on the leather, again and again and again. Raw, purpled arcs blooming beneath the skin—split open in one place where the wrap had come loose, the tape sticky with half-dried blood. It stung when he flexed his hand, but Lando welcomed it. 

Pain was clean. Simple. Honest in a way people never were.

It had been three days since the coffee, three days since her arms wrapped around his neck and made him feel like something other than a weapon.

He hadn't seen her since.

Instead, he buried himself in the only thing he knew how to trust: work. There were meetings now—double what he used to take. Late-night negotiations with men whose eyes darted too fast and hands trembled as they signed. More territory, more leverage. Deals struck with hard eyes and a gun under the table. Lando sat through it all like a statue, cold and unreadable, like the chair beneath him was a throne carved from bone.

Fewtrell was the first to notice, of course.

“You haven’t slept,” he muttered, after one particularly brutal morning, watching Lando wipe blood off his hands like it was nothing more than smudged ink. “And you’re bleeding again.”

Lando didn’t even look up. “It’s handled.”

Max didn’t argue. He knew better.

Because if Lando got like this—tight-lipped, volatile, spiraling inward like a storm—it meant someone had gotten too close. And Max had seen what happened to people who got too close.

The fights came next.

They existed with no purpose, no rules. There was just the sharp, metallic taste of adrenaline and the sound of fists meeting flesh in the underground ring he rarely visited these days—until now. There, under flickering fluorescent lights, sweat mixing with blood, Lando could forget and slip into something primitive. A machine of bone and instinct and rage.

He stopped pulling punches.

He didn’t stop until the man he fought stopped moving. Even then, it took two of his own men to pull him back, their voices distant over the ringing in his ears. His breath came in harsh, wet gasps, his shirt soaked through.

“Thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Max muttered after Lando took a particularly ugly hit to the jaw and spit blood into the sink like it owed him something.

“I am,” Lando said, jaw tight. “I’m just done pretending to be soft.”

And when he looked in the mirror in the locker room after—blood on his cheekbone, lip split open, eyes dark and hollow—he saw a ghost staring back.

Not her ghost. His own.

The boy who had slept in gutters and stolen fruit from markets. Who’d gone cold inside long before he learned how to make others afraid of him. Who once told himself he’d never need anyone again.

So why did it feel like something had gone missing the moment he walked away from her?

He’d spent too long feeling the afterburn of her hug—the way her arms had felt around his neck, the clean warmth of her skin, the easy trust in her body language that made something in him splinter. He hated that part. That human part. He thought he’d killed it off years ago, buried it beneath piles of money, blood, and the reputation he’d built out of nothing but brute force and raw intelligence.

But she had reached it. Worse—she had awakened it.

So now he had to kill it all over again.

One night, after leaving the ring with bloody hands and a bruise already blooming across his ribcage, he sat in the back seat of his car, staring out the window. The city was loud—horns, shouting, flashing neon light against the rain-slicked pavement—but all of it felt muted.

He thought of her again.

Of course he did.

He thought of her – not the hug, not the coffee, not the smile. No – what haunted him was the look in her eyes right after he said no.

That flicker of confusion, followed by the quick mask of understanding. The way she shrank back—not physically, not dramatically, but just enough. Like she realized she’d overstepped. Like she’d made a mistake thinking he was someone warm. Someone she could reach for.

She’s better off, he told himself, dragging a dark red smudge across his cheek. She’s better off bein’ away, better off not knowin’ what I really am.

Because the truth was, if she knew—if she saw him like this—she’d never look at him the same again. 

And maybe that was the point. If he couldn’t be touched, he couldn’t be hurt. If he kept himself cold, kept the world afraid, then nothing could break through again.

He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes, letting the ache settle into his bones.

At night, he didn’t sleep.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how it felt to have her fix his collar absentmindedly, to have her scold him for eating pastries before lunch, to hear her say she’d miss him.

He hadn’t even responded properly. Hadn’t said he’d miss her too, because he wasn’t supposed to.

She was light. He was built from soot and steel and ruin.

So he leaned into the ruin. Drowned in it. Let it take him under like it always had before. Let it remind him what he was made of.

Because if he let softness rot in his chest any longer, it would only get worse. And he couldn’t afford worse. Not in this line of work, not with this name. Not when people were always waiting to find his weakness—and use it to end him.

So he burned the part of himself that missed her.

Or at least, he tried. But the bracelet was still around his wrist, tight and handmade. And no matter how many times he tried to untie it, he never quite could.

He boxed until his knuckles split and his ribs ached, until his fists were slick with sweat and someone else’s blood. Until he couldn’t feel anything except the burn in his lungs and the pounding in his ears. Until he remembered who the fuck he was.

Lando took the pain like he deserved it.

He was colder, crueler. Faster to bark orders, slower to forgive mistakes. The men around him started noticing. They stopped making jokes around him, stopped asking if he’d eaten. Even Daniel, loyal and annoyingly perceptive, had gone quiet.

"You're running yourself into the ground, mate," Daniel finally muttered one night, leaning against the ropes of the ring as Lando stripped off his gloves, hands raw and red.

Lando didn’t even look at him. Just said, flatly, “Ground’s not deep enough.”

It wasn’t about her. He told himself that often. It wasn’t about missing the way she grinned at him when he brought her coffee, or how she’d made studying feel less like drowning. It wasn’t about the way she said his name like it wasn’t something to fear.

It was about control. About reminding himself that he didn’t need softness to survive.

But alone in the dark, shirt clinging to his back, jaw clenched so tight it ached—he wondered. If he wasn’t careful, would he even remember how to come back from this?

Would she still recognize him when he did?

Or worse—what if he didn’t come back at all?

Somewhere in the middle of all of it—between a broken tooth and a dislocated thumb—Daniel cornered him again in the backroom, fists clenched and voice low.

“You think this makes you stronger?” he growled. “You think turning yourself into a fuckin’ animal is gonna fix whatever’s wrong?”

Lando didn’t answer, just stared at himself in the cracked mirror. His face bruised, blood caked on his jaw, eyes gone hollow and dark. 

He looked like something dangerous. Something empty.

Good.

Daniel tried again. “You were doing better. A week ago, you—”

“Drop it.” Lando’s voice was a knife. Sharp, final.

And for once, Daniel did. 

Because it wasn’t grief they were dealing with, it wasn’t heartbreak. It was a man tearing out the piece of himself that could have one day known love—before it got him killed.

So Lando kept going – more jobs, more blood, more shadows.

Until the boy who’d smiled at fresh lemon biscuits didn’t exist anymore.

Monday morning came with a faint chill in the air, the kind that clung to her sleeves and nipped at her skin as she locked the apartment door behind her. Her boots hit the pavement with their usual rhythm, but her eyes—almost by reflex—glanced toward the curb.

His car wasn’t there.

The spot where Liam usually parked was… empty.

She hesitated, just for a second. Long enough for a frown to twitch at her mouth. Long enough to consider that perhaps she’d been looking forward to seeing him—though she hadn’t let herself think of it that way until now.

It was objectively a stupid thing to be upset about, she told herself. It wasn’t like they had a schedule. He didn’t owe her anything. She knew that.

There was no real schedule per say – no routine set in stone. But still… it had been there last Monday. And the one before that. And—if she was honest—most days she hadn’t even realized how much she’d started expecting him.

She shook it off and kept walking, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

It doesn’t mean anything.

He had a life. A busy one. She knew that. Important meetings, complicated logistics, probably jet lag from Brazil. Maybe the trip hadn’t gone well. Maybe something came up. Maybe he had the flu. Maybe he just—

Still, her footsteps felt slower as she walked past the spot. Still, she checked her phone—nothing. No text. No update.

Maybe he just forgot.

No. That didn’t sound like him. For all his strange hours and sharp edges, Liam didn’t forget things. He remembered tiny details she only mentioned once. He got her the exact brand of coffee she liked, for god’s sake. He noticed when she was too quiet, brought her pastries when she didn’t ask, made sure she always had a way home—even when she said she didn’t need one.

Maybe he’s just tired. Brazil was a long trip. Maybe he slept through his alarm. Maybe he’s busy, or catching up on work, or—

The list of maybes was longer than it should’ve been.

She forced herself to keep walking, ignoring the twist in her stomach that had no business being there. It was just a ride. Just coffee. Just a guy doing a favor.

That’s all it had ever been.

She sat through her morning classes, half-present, highlighting case law she’d have to re-read later. Her thoughts kept drifting—uninvited, unrelenting—back to him.

This whole drop-off and pickup thing had started months ago, after the string of weird feelings that she hadn’t quite been able to shake. Like someone was watching her, following her. Nothing solid, nothing provable, but just enough to put her on edge.

Back then, she’d been jumpy. Paranoid, maybe. She couldn’t explain it, not exactly—just that lingering feeling that someone had been watching her. Following her from across the street, lingering too long near her building. It was probably nothing, she’d told herself.

And then, things changed. Liam would just show up, leaning against the hood of his car like it was the most natural thing in the world, coffee in hand, eyes already on her. He would say something casual about “sketchy corners” and “shit lighting.” He would lie and say he was heading that way anyway.

And the funny thing? She hadn’t felt unsafe since.

She hadn’t asked questions. Something about his tone had made them unnecessary.

Since then, he’d been a steady, if unpredictable, presence. Not every morning—but enough. Enough that she noticed the difference today. Enough that she’d started associating his voice with the beginning of her day. His car, parked just slightly crooked. The quiet calm of his presence beside her, never demanding, never pushy—just there.

And now he… wasn’t.

She tried not to overthink it, but she did. Of course she did.

It could have been any of a thousand different things, right?

Maybe Brazil didn’t go well. Maybe the time zone shift was hitting him hard. Maybe he caught something on the flight back. Maybe he was swamped with work. Or maybe— 

Maybe she had crossed a line.

The thought crept in slowly, but it stuck, solid and uncomfortable.

She’d hugged him, without thinking and without asking.

Her stomach turned.

God, what if that was too much?

He hadn’t exactly pushed her away, but he hadn’t welcomed it either. He’d gone stiff in her arms, like he didn’t know what to do with the contact. And then he left. Fast, like he couldn’t get away quick enough.

She shouldn’t have assumed. Just because he bought her coffee. Just because he remembered the brand and hunted it down in a foreign country. Just because he stood in her doorway like he wanted to be there.

Liam was...busy. He was a businessman. He moved through life with detachment, calm and unreadable. He probably did this for lots of people. She was just another name on a long list of good intentions.

Still, the quiet this morning had felt louder than it should’ve. His absence clung to the edges of her day like smoke. It trailed her through campus, followed her into the library, haunted the space in the corner that night when she closed up at Books & Brews.

She hated how much she noticed.

They didn’t text much. Instead of making any real conversation, she’d just send him little things. 

A picture of a dog in a tiny raincoat on her walk to class. A blurry photo of latte art she’d been practicing, captioned don’t laugh. A random quote from a book she thought he’d like, even though she knew he’d probably roll his eyes and skim it at best.

Nothing heavy, and certainly nothing that demanded an answer. Just enough to keep a line between them—thin but steady.

But then, she saw him.

She was on her lunch break, standing in line at the corner market by the office, when she glanced through the fogged-up window and caught a familiar profile by the far register. She knew that posture. Even from a distance, she could recognize the casual indifference, the way he held himself like nothing in the world could touch him.

Liam.

There he was, dressed in a sharp coat, collar turned up, half a scowl pressed into his jaw like it had been carved there.

Her eyes dropped to the cup in his hand. Paper, stamped with the logo of his old café. Not the familiar emblem of Books & Brews. Not the little tucked-away place with the fresh cinnamon buns he had pretended not to like and then ordered three days in a row. Back to the place he used to swear tasted like “burnt incompetence.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But god, it did.

He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t explained this new distance, hadn’t replied to her last few messages except for a thumbs-up and a vague “lol.” No more wry comments or late-night one-liners. No more smirking emojis that didn’t match his tone but always somehow made her smile anyway.

And now—he was back at the café he’d once claimed to hate. Like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t happened.

She stepped out of line and left the store without buying anything.

She stopped texting after that.

Not all at once. It was a slow fade, the kind that almost didn’t hurt until you realized it had already disappeared.

No more pictures of dogs. No more awkward selfies with whipped cream on her nose. No more texts saying, this book made me think of you, don’t ask why. 

Just... silence.

Lando’s mornings got quieter. His phone stayed dry, empty but for meeting reminders and business alerts. No dumb memes at 2AM. No pink hearts next to her name lighting up his lock screen like it meant something.

It pissed him off more than it should’ve.

Wasn’t this what he fucking wanted?

He’d made the choice. He’d stepped back. He’d pulled the plug before it could get messy—before she could start expecting things from him that he didn’t know how to give.

So why the hell did his car still smell like her perfume?

“She ghost you?” Fewtrell asked casually, leaning against the doorframe of Lando’s office, sipping on a drink he hadn’t paid for.

Carlos looked up from the couch where he was half-asleep. “Did you finally scare her off?” “‘Bout time,” Daniel added from the armchair, flipping a stress ball in one hand. “We were beginning to think you had a soft spot.”

Lando didn’t look up from his laptop, jaw tight. “I’m busy.”

“Busy being miserable?” Verstappen quipped. “Mate, your car still smells like a goddamn rose garden. Not exactly inconspicuous.”

“Seriously,” Carlos chimed in. “You used to smell like leather and rage. What happened?”

“Shut up.”

“Come on,” Daniel said, pushing. “You think we haven’t noticed? You vanish for hours at a time. You smile at your phone like a bloody idiot. And then all of a sudden you’re picking fights with everyone. Even your punching bag looks scared.”

Lando’s eyes flicked up, cold. “Drop. it.”

“Look, I don’t care who she is,” Max said, his tone softening slightly, “but if she made you less of a dick, I kinda liked her.”

That got a muscle ticking in Lando’s jaw. He stood up, abruptly enough that the chair screeched. 

“She’s not your business!” he bellowed, heading for the door. “None of this is.”

“Then why’re you acting like you lost something?” Daniel mumbled after him.

The room was empty by then, but Daniel said what everyone was thinking anyway.

“You’re the one who let go.”

Logan’s voice cut through the radio later that week, giving an update on her security detail. Something about her late-night shift. The building entrance. A guy lingering too long near the stairwell.

Lando snapped the button to put the call through.

"She doesn’t need you anymore," he said flatly.

Logan paused. "...Sir?"

“She’s off the list. Effective immediately.”

And just like that, he cut the thread.

But sometimes, late at night, he still felt it—tight in his chest, like something he couldn’t un-pull. Something he’d let go of, only to realize too late that it might have been the very thing holding him together.

a/n: this one is my offering, especially dedicated to @oscobabe and @eclipsedcherry, whose every comment and ask makes me excited to post each chapter.

i hope u like it :)

Short about the chapter.

Hirano is asking Hanazawa if he isn't taking on too much, and for him to reach out if it becomes too much. Kagi-kun is training hard for his upcoming tournament, and is training day and night. Kagi-kun asks Hirano to turn around, so he can change. Hirano wakes up early to study with Kagi-kun, but don't want to wake him. Hirano says that can skip the morning study, but Kagi-kun says that he likes to study with Hirano in the morning. Hirano thinks to himself that he respects that Kagi-kun always works hard, both with things he likes and dislikes. He is even thinking about what Kagi-kun said, and wonder what this feeling is.

Adult AU - they didn't get to stay roomates because of Kagi-kun's score.

Kagi-kun and Hirano meets for the first time since high school on a dormant reunion. Kagi-kun gets drunk and Hirano takes him home. Notices that Kagi-kun's key chain is the presant he got him on his classtrip. Hirano stays the night because he didn't want to leave Kagi-kun in an unlocked apartment. Kagi-kun realize he still likes Hirano.

They meet again not long after, and Kagi-kun hears that Hirano has kept in touch with the others. He confronts Hirano in the bathroom, about Hirano not contacting him. Hirano says that he didn't want to desturb Kagi-kun while he focused on basketball. He thinks to himself that something was wrong back that, and he couldn't really study after Kagi-kun movedout of their room.

They hide, and Kagi-kun tells Hirano that he was lonely for that schoolyear they weren't roommates, and that there's so much he doesn't know about Hirano since they didn't stay in touch. Kagi-kun says that he is confused about Hirano's action last time, when he stayed over, and if he would stay to the morning if it was somebody else. Hirano says "of course i wouldn't have done that for anyone else". He felt that he could since they used to be roommates, and close. He knew Kagi-kun wouldn't be pissed if he touch anything in Kagi-kun's apartment.

Kagi-kun notices Hirano's tie pin, that he gave to him many years ago, and thinks to himself that "this is even better then the earrings". Kagi-kun says he will buy Hirano a proper gift now that he's an adult. Hirano says he will do that same, and if Kagi-kun know what he wants.

A ring for his left ringfinger.

Marcus reached the northwest quadrant with blood on his sleeve and Leon’s voice still in his head.

You plug in the drive. You do not stop to read.

He hated him for saying it.

He hated him more because he was right.

The lower level of the facility felt older than the rest, as if the building had been built over its own grave and forgotten to hide the bones. The walls were narrower here. The red emergency lights strobed slower, deeper, turning the corridor into a pulse. Every few seconds the alarm cut through the air, sharp and mechanical, followed by the overhead voice repeating the same useless warning.

Security breach detected.

External perimeter compromised.

Containment transfer interrupted.

Good.

Let them panic.

Marcus moved quickly, rifle raised, shoulder screaming from where a round had grazed him two corridors back. He barely felt it. Pain was information. Blood was inconvenient. Neither was enough to matter.

Not when Y/n was somewhere in this building.

Not when Umbrella had put her in another room and called it containment.

A man stepped out from behind a server access door with a handgun trembling in both hands.

Marcus shot him once.

The man dropped.

Marcus stepped over him and took his keycard.

No hesitation.

No guilt.

He had run out of room for either.

The access panel beside the reinforced door flickered green when he swiped the card. The lock released with a heavy electronic click.

Marcus entered.

The server room was cold enough to make his breath fog.

Rows of black towers lined the room in humming columns, blue indicator lights blinking like a hundred unblinking eyes. Cables ran across the ceiling in thick bundles. The air smelled like coolant, ozone, and dust that had never known sunlight. Against the far wall, a central console glowed with active files, transfer logs, system alerts, and one progress window flashing red.

DATA PURGE INITIATED: 12%

Marcus went still.

“No,” he whispered.

Umbrella was already trying to burn itself clean.

Of course they were.

He crossed the room fast and slammed into the chair at the console, fingers flying over the keyboard before he even fully sat. The interface was old but layered. Legacy systems under newer shells. A dead company wearing new skin. He bypassed the first lock, then the second, swearing under his breath when a third authorization prompt flashed across the screen.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Come on, you corporate grave-robbing pieces of shit.”

His earpiece crackled.

Chris. “Marcus, I’ve got temperature spikes in your quadrant. They’re purging something.”

“I noticed.”

“How long?”

Marcus’s eyes flicked to the purge window.

18%.

“Not long enough.”

He pulled Leon’s flash drive from his pocket.

For one second, he looked at it.

Black. Blank. Small enough to disappear in his palm.

A weapon disguised as nothing.

Leon had built this while waiting for the day Umbrella came close enough.

Marcus had spent weeks running through the dark, chasing proof, dragging files out of dead systems and half-burned drives, thinking he was the only one losing sleep over the thing hunting his sister.

He had not been.

The thought hit strangely.

Not soft.

Not forgiveness.

Just truth.

Then Marcus plugged the drive into the console.

The screen froze.

For half a second, nothing happened.

Then a new window opened.

UNKNOWN DEVICE DETECTED.

Marcus typed faster.

The purge counter ticked upward.

23%.

24%.

25%.

“Come on.”

The system resisted. Of course it resisted. Umbrella had built paranoia into its bones. Every door locked from both sides. Every file nested behind false labels. Every crime wrapped in enough red tape to call itself research.

Then Leon’s virus woke up.

The screen flashed once.

Then black text spilled across the monitor.

SYSTEM MIRROR ENGAGED.

LOCAL INDEX CAPTURED.

DESTRUCTIVE SEQUENCE ARMED.

Marcus exhaled hard.

“Good boy, Leon.”

A file tree opened automatically.

Not the files themselves.

An index.

Names. Dates. Project codes.

Enough to know what was there before it burned.

Marcus told himself not to look.

He looked anyway.

PROJECT SPARROW.

His hand went still on the keyboard.

The folder expanded before he could stop it, lines of text appearing beneath it in clinical white.

SUBJECT M — RESPONSE PROFILE: ADAPTIVE / AGGRESSIVE SUBJECT G — RESPONSE PROFILE: STABLE / LATENT PARENTAL INTERFERENCE: TERMINATED FOSTER NETWORK: ACTIVE MONITORING PROXIMITY ASSET E.H.: MAINTAINED SIBLING BOND: PRESERVED FOR CONTROL VARIABLE

Marcus stopped breathing.

For a second, the server room disappeared.

He was eight years old again in a house that smelled like mildew and dish soap, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Y/n’s bed because she wouldn’t sleep unless he stayed close. She had one hand wrapped in his shirt, tiny fingers fisted in the fabric like she could anchor him there by force.

He had thought he was protecting her.

Umbrella had been watching that too.

Sibling bond preserved for control variable.

Something inside him went white-hot.

A shout tore out of him before he could stop it.

He slammed his fist into the console hard enough to crack the plastic edge.

The file tree flickered.

The purge counter hit 34%.

His earpiece crackled again.

“Marcus?” Chris snapped. “Status.”

Marcus could not answer.

His eyes locked onto another line.

EXPOSURE SERIES: INCOMPLETE VIABILITY: SUBJECT G RETAINED RECOVERY PRIORITY: HIGH TRANSFER PROTOCOL: ACTIVE

He thought of Y/n upstairs.

Cuffed.

Drugged.

Bruised.

He thought of Leon’s face in the garage when he said she was his wife.

He thought of himself standing in Leon’s kitchen, bringing truth like a bomb and watching it destroy her.

Alive and hating me is still alive.

The prayer had followed him for seven weeks.

Now it tasted like ash.

Because Umbrella had never wanted her dead.

They wanted her returned.

Marcus’s hand shook once.

Then he forced it still.

“No,” he said.

The word came out low.

Final.

He selected the project root folder, overriding the mirror delay.

A warning flashed.

PRIMARY SYSTEM LINK DETECTED. DESTRUCTIVE SEQUENCE WILL PROPAGATE TO ALL CONNECTED LOCAL NODES. CONFIRM?

Marcus stared at the word.

All connected local nodes.

Research logs.

Surveillance records.

Transfer routes.

Every file in this facility with Y/n’s name in it.

Maybe answers.

Maybe proof.

Maybe pieces of their parents, their childhood, every wound Umbrella had opened and dressed in clinical language.

For one second, he hesitated.

Only one.

Then Y/n’s voice came back.

You let me bury you.

The hesitation died.

She did not need every monster’s note to know she had been hurt.

She needed the monsters to stop reaching.

Marcus hit confirm.

The room seemed to inhale.

Then every server light flickered at once.

Blue to red.

Red to black.

A cascade of failures rolled down the rows like stars going out.

The console screamed warnings.

DATA CORRUPTION: 4% LOCAL NODE FAILURE: 9% REPLICATION BLOCKED ARCHIVE DAMAGE DETECTED DESTRUCTIVE SEQUENCE IN PROGRESS

Marcus grabbed a nearby drive array from the side rack and yanked it free, sparks snapping at his gloves. One piece. One surviving piece. Enough for answers later, maybe. Enough to prove what had happened. Not enough for Umbrella to rebuild from here.

A door opened behind him.

Marcus turned, rifle coming up.

The silver-haired man from Y/n’s room stood in the doorway with a gun in one hand and no fear on his face.

Not enough fear.

“Agent L/N,” he said calmly. “You really should have stayed dead.”

Marcus stared at him.

The man’s eyes flicked to the console.

The failing servers.

The virus eating through the system.

His mouth tightened.

“You have no idea what you’ve destroyed.”

Marcus smiled.

It felt nothing like humor.

“Yeah,” he said, raising the rifle. “I do.”

The man fired first.

Marcus moved.

The bullet tore through the server behind him, sparks exploding into the air. Marcus returned fire, driving the man back into the corridor. He followed, rage and gunfire carrying him through the doorway as the server room burned itself clean behind him.

In his ear, Leon’s voice crackled through at last.

“I have Y/n.”

Marcus’s step faltered.

For half a breath, the whole world narrowed to those three words.

I have Y/n.

Alive.

Found.

Not safe yet, but found.

Marcus closed his eyes for one fraction of a second.

Then another shot cracked against the wall near his head.

He opened them.

The silver-haired man was running.

Marcus lifted the rifle again.

“Good,” he said into the comm, voice rough. “Then get her out.”

Leon’s answer came through low and deadly.

“Working on it.”

Marcus advanced down the corridor, firing once, twice, forcing the man around the corner as smoke began to spill from the server room behind him.

The facility alarms changed pitch.

Lower now.

Worse.

A new warning rolled overhead.

“System integrity failure. Evacuation protocol initiated.”

Marcus smiled again, blood on his teeth.

“Run,” he muttered.

Then he followed.

Marcus caught up to him at the end of the corridor.

The silver-haired man was fast for someone who had spent his life standing behind glass and calling children subjects. Fast enough to make it around the first corner. Fast enough to fire blindly behind him and force Marcus to duck behind an open doorway as bullets chewed into the wall.

Not fast enough to escape what he had made.

Marcus pressed his back to the frame, breathing hard, rifle tight against his chest. Smoke curled along the ceiling from the server room behind him, black and chemical-thick. The alarms had shifted into something deeper now, less like a warning and more like a countdown.

System integrity failure.

Evacuation protocol initiated.

The facility was dying.

Good.

Let it.

“Marcus,” Chris crackled in his ear. “You’ve got movement converging on your level. North corridor.”

Marcus ignored him.

His eyes stayed on the hallway ahead.

The silver-haired man’s voice came from somewhere beyond the corner, too calm for how quickly his empire was burning.

“You are making a mistake.”

Marcus almost laughed.

He looked down at the blood on his sleeve, then at the drive array tucked into the pouch at his hip. One piece of proof. One ugly little surviving bone pulled from the mouth of the machine before Leon’s virus ate the rest.

Not everything.

Enough.

“You people love saying that,” Marcus called back.

The man answered, “Your sister is valuable in ways you do not understand.”

That did it.

The last thread of control in Marcus went quiet.

Not snapped.

Quiet.

He stepped out before the man finished the sentence.

Another shot cracked through the hall.

Marcus felt the heat of it graze past his neck.

He fired twice.

The first shot took the man in the shoulder and spun him backward. The second shattered the gun from his hand, sending it skidding across the tile. The silver-haired man hit the wall hard but stayed upright, one hand clamped over the wound, face pale now beneath all that clinical composure.

There.

Fear.

Finally.

Marcus advanced slowly.

The man tried to straighten. Tried to put that clean, bored expression back on his face as blood darkened his shirt beneath his coat.

“You need me alive,” he said.

Marcus kept walking.

“I have access codes. Research hierarchy. Off-site routes. Names you will never find without me.”

Marcus stopped a few feet away.

The man’s eyes flickered.

Hope.

A stupid thing to have in front of a brother.

“You killed my parents,” Marcus said.

The man swallowed.

“They interfered with a long-term—”

Marcus hit him with the butt of the rifle.

Bone cracked.

The man went down hard, palms skidding against the floor, blood spilling bright beneath the red alarm lights.

Marcus crouched in front of him.

For a second, all he saw was Y/n at six years old, crying into his shirt because she missed a mother whose face had already started blurring at the edges. Y/n at nine, asking if he remembered their dad’s voice. Y/n at fifteen pretending she didn’t care that nobody came for school events. Y/n in Leon’s kitchen, staring at him like his being alive was another kind of death.

The man coughed, blood spotting his lips.

“Project Sparrow was bigger than your family.”

Marcus tilted his head.

“No,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t.”

The man blinked.

Marcus leaned closer.

“To you, maybe. To the files. To Umbrella. To whatever dead thing you’ve been feeding for the last twenty years.” His voice roughened. “But to her? To me? It was our family. It was our childhood. It was every door we were afraid of and every adult who looked at us too long and every needle we couldn’t explain.”

The man tried to speak.

Marcus didn’t let him.

“You turned my sister into a subject,” he said. “You turned me into a variable. You turned our parents into an obstacle.”

His finger tightened around the trigger.

“And you still thought you were leaving this building.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Wait—”

Marcus fired once.

The shot was deafening in the narrow hall.

The man’s body went still.

Marcus stayed crouched for one second longer, listening to the alarm, to the crackle of flames somewhere deeper in the facility, to his own breathing.

He expected something.

Relief.

Satisfaction.

Peace.

Nothing came.

Only the same old hollow ache, wide and familiar.

Dead men did not give childhoods back.

He stood.

“Marcus?” Leon’s voice snapped through the comm, rough with urgency. “Status.”

Marcus looked down at the body.

“Handled.”

A beat.

Then Leon said, “We’re moving. East medical corridor. Y/n’s ambulatory, but hurt.”

Y/n’s ambulatory.

Hurt.

Alive.

Marcus’s chest tightened so sharply he had to press one hand against the wall.

“On my way.”

He ran.

The facility was coming apart around him. Overhead lights sparked and went dark in sections. Sprinklers kicked on somewhere, then died almost immediately, spitting dirty water across the floor. Doors opened and closed with failing electronic groans. Somewhere to his left, men shouted orders that no one was calm enough to follow.

Marcus moved through it like the building was already a corpse.

Two guards tried to cut across the hall ahead of him.

He dropped them both without breaking stride.

Another rounded the corner, saw him, and turned to run.

Marcus let him.

Then shot the control panel beside him, sealing the fire door between that man and the exit.

Let him find another way out.

Or don’t.

Marcus did not care anymore.

He turned into the east medical corridor and saw them.

For one second, everything stopped.

Leon was halfway down the hall, one arm around Y/n’s waist, the other holding his gun low and ready. His black jacket was torn at the side, blood darkening the fabric beneath his ribs. His face was smeared with smoke and someone else’s blood, expression carved into something lethal enough that even the dying facility seemed smart enough not to touch him.

But Marcus barely saw him.

He saw Y/n.

Her hair was tangled around her face. One cheek was swollen and red, her lip split, blood dried at the corner of her mouth. There were marks at her throat that made Marcus’s vision sharpen to a point. Her wrists were raw where the cuffs had cut into her. She leaned heavily into Leon but was still trying to walk like she didn’t need help from anyone.

Of course she was.

His little bird.

Alive.

Hurt.

Looking at him.

Marcus stopped in the middle of the hall.

Y/n stopped too.

Leon’s arm tightened around her, more instinct than restraint, but he did not pull her back. He looked between them once, then shifted just enough to support her without standing in the way.

That small movement hit Marcus harder than it should have.

Leon let her choose the space.

Even here.

Even now.

Y/n stared at Marcus.

For one awful second, Marcus thought she might recoil again.

She had every right.

He had no defense left.

No explanation worth offering in a hallway full of alarms and blood and failing lights.

Then her face broke.

Not fully.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that the little girl he had raised flickered through the woman standing in front of him.

“Marcus,” she whispered.

The name almost took him to his knees.

He moved without thinking.

Then stopped himself after one step.

Because she had flinched from him in the kitchen.

Because he remembered.

Because he would not take one more thing from her, not even comfort.

His hands lifted slightly, empty.

“I’m here,” he said.

Her mouth trembled.

The alarm screamed overhead.

A door slammed somewhere behind him.

Leon glanced sharply down the hall. “We need to move.”

Y/n did not look away from Marcus.

Her eyes were wet now, furious and devastated and alive.

“You killed him?” she asked.

Marcus knew who she meant.

Not Evan.

The other one.

The man with the clean hands and dead eyes.

Marcus nodded once.

“Yes.”

Something moved across her face.

Not relief.

Not horror.

Something too complicated for either.

“Good,” she said.

The word came out cracked.

Marcus almost broke then.

Leon’s expression flickered, but he said nothing.

Good.

This was not his moment to soften.

Marcus took another careful step closer. “Can you walk?”

Y/n gave him a look so sharp and familiar it almost hurt worse than her injuries.

“I am literally walking.”

A laugh tore out of him before he could stop it.

It was awful. Shaky. Almost a sob.

Leon looked at him like he had lost his mind.

Maybe he had.

Maybe they all had.

Y/n’s mouth twitched once, but then pain cut through her face and she sagged slightly into Leon.

Leon’s focus snapped to her immediately. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Everyone’s bleeding.”

Marcus moved to her other side before thinking better of it.

This time, Y/n did not pull away.

She looked at him.

He froze.

Permission was a strange, sacred thing in a place like this.

After a second, she shifted her weight just enough.

Not into him fully.

Not forgiveness.

But enough.

Marcus slid an arm carefully around her other side, opposite Leon, taking some of her weight. She was warm. Solid. Breathing.

Alive.

His throat closed.

For seven weeks, he had imagined all the ways he might see her again.

None of them had included this.

The three of them stood there for one impossible second in the middle of the dying facility — Y/n between the two men who had lied to save her, bruised and furious and held by both of them because she allowed it.

Then the overhead speaker shrieked.

“Evacuation protocol failed. Containment breach in lower system sectors. Structural integrity compromised.”

Leon’s eyes lifted.

Marcus muttered, “That sounds bad.”

Y/n’s voice was hoarse. “Is there ever a version where it sounds good?”

Marcus looked down at her.

For half a second, despite the blood and the alarms and the red emergency lights, he smiled.

“There she is.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Don’t.”

The smile died instantly.

“Sorry.”

She looked forward again, jaw tight.

But after one step, her fingers curled briefly into his sleeve.

Marcus felt it like a hand around his heart.

Leon saw it.

Didn’t comment.

Just adjusted his grip and started moving.

“Exit?” Leon asked.

Marcus forced himself back into the room, back into the mission, back into the burning skeleton of Umbrella around them.

“Service stairwell west. Main route is probably locked down.”

“Probably?”

“I was busy committing light treason and murdering a scientist.”

Y/n let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it didn’t hurt.

Leon’s mouth tightened. “Focus.”

“I am focused.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

“I’m fine.”

Y/n groaned. “Oh my God, both of you shut up.”

They both did.

Immediately.

That, more than anything, nearly made Marcus laugh again.

Y/n leaned between them, breathing hard, eyes forward, refusing to be carried. Leon matched her pace even though every instinct in him was screaming to lift her and run. Marcus felt the restraint in him, saw it in the way his hand flexed against Y/n’s side and then gentled.

She noticed too.

Of course she did.

Her voice came quieter.

“Thank you.”

Leon looked down at her.

“For what?”

“For not picking me up like luggage.”

Marcus stared straight ahead and decided not to smile.

Leon exhaled once through his nose. “I considered it.”

“I know.”

“You’d be faster.”

“You’d be divorced.”

Leon’s face went blank.

Marcus barked out a laugh.

Y/n winced from the effort of her own tiny smile.

For three seconds, in the middle of hell, they sounded almost alive.

Then gunfire cracked from the far end of the corridor.

Leon moved first, pushing Y/n behind the partial cover of a medical cart while Marcus swung wide and returned fire. The two men shifted without speaking — Leon low and right, Marcus high and left, Y/n crouched between them with one hand braced against the cart and blood running down her wrist.

One guard went down.

Then another.

The third dropped his weapon and ran.

This time, Marcus did not let him.

When the corridor fell quiet again, Y/n stared at the bodies, then at Leon, then at Marcus.

Her face was pale.

But her voice was steady.

“Are we done?”

Leon reloaded.

Marcus checked the hall.

Somewhere below them, the building groaned.

Leon looked back at Y/n.

“No.”

His eyes softened for the smallest second.

“But we’re leaving.”

Marcus nodded toward the stairwell.

“Then let’s move before this place decides to bury us with its secrets.”

Y/n pushed herself upright between them.

Her knees shook.

Leon saw.

Marcus saw.

She saw them seeing.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Neither man spoke.

They simply stepped in close enough for her to take what she needed.

After a long second, Y/n slipped one arm around Leon’s waist and the other around Marcus’s back.

Not because they decided.

Because she did.

Marcus closed his eyes for half a heartbeat.

Then they moved together toward the stairwell, three shadows under red lights, carrying blood, secrets, and the first fragile shape of survival out of Umbrella’s dying throat.

The stairwell spat them out into cold night air and smoke.

For one disorienting second, the world was too open.

After the concrete corridors and red alarms and the stale chemical breath of Umbrella’s dying facility, the outside felt unreal. Black sky. Wet gravel. Dead grass shifting in the wind. The distant line of trees beyond the perimeter fence. Sirens somewhere far off, not the facility’s internal alarms but something human, something coming closer.

Chris.

Evac.

Medical.

The words moved through Y/n’s head without fully landing.

Leon had one arm around her waist, his body angled slightly in front of hers even as he tried not to drag her. Marcus was on her other side, rifle up, eyes sweeping every angle like if he looked hard enough, he could personally threaten the dark into behaving.

The facility groaned behind them.

A deep, metal-boned sound.

Smoke vented from the upper windows in ugly black bursts. Somewhere inside, something exploded with a dull concussive thump that made Y/n flinch before she could stop herself.

Leon felt it immediately.

His arm tightened around her.

“Almost there,” he said.

His voice was low. Rough. Too controlled.

She looked up at him.

His face was streaked with blood and soot, jaw tight, eyes still scanning. There was a cut near his ribs darkening the side of his jacket. His hands were stained red.

Evan’s blood.

Maybe hers too.

Maybe both.

She should have felt something about that.

Horror. Satisfaction. Relief.

Instead, she felt distant from her own body, like she was looking up at him from underwater. Her wrists burned. Her cheek pulsed. Every breath scraped against the places Evan’s hand had been. But Leon was here. Marcus was here. The night was cold and the building was behind them and for one fragile, stupid second, her body thought:

Out.

We’re out.

Marcus spoke into his comm. “We’re clear of the east exit. Need medical now.”

Chris’s voice crackled back immediately. “Two minutes out. Keep moving toward the service road. Do not stay near the building.”

Leon glanced toward the road.

“Can you walk?” he asked Y/n.

She gave him a look despite the dizziness swimming behind her eyes.

“If one more man asks me that tonight, I’m going to start biting.”

Marcus made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if he had any air left for it.

Leon did not smile.

He tried.

She saw the attempt flicker at the edge of his mouth and fail.

That hurt worse somehow.

“Okay,” he said. “Bite later. Walk now.”

“Bossy.”

“Alive,” he answered.

The word hit all three of them.

Marcus looked away first.

Y/n’s fingers tightened weakly in Leon’s jacket.

Alive.

Yes.

She was alive.

She was angry. Bruised. Bleeding. Shaking so hard her knees kept trying to fold under her. But alive.

Leon reached for the straps of his bulletproof vest.

“Take this.”

Y/n stared at him.

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re injured.”

“And you’re about to walk back into a war zone.”

His jaw tightened.

“Y/n.”

“No.”

For a second neither of them moved.

Then she shook her head.

“It’s pointless anyway.”

Leon frowned.

“What is?”

“You giving me the vest.”

Her gaze held his.

“If something happens, you’d throw yourself in front of me anyway.”

The words landed harder than she intended.

Marcus looked away immediately.

Leon said nothing.

Because they both knew she was right.

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly before he let his hand fall from the vest.

He tried not to look affected by it.

He failed.

They moved down the gravel path, away from the building. The floodlights overhead flickered in failing intervals, throwing the yard into brief, brutal flashes of white and black. Y/n’s head swam with each step. Leon kept adjusting without asking, taking more of her weight when she faltered, giving it back when she stiffened.

He was learning.

Even now.

Even bleeding and furious and halfway feral, he was learning the shape of helping without taking.

That almost broke her.

Ahead, beyond the rusted gate, headlights flashed through the trees.

Chris.

Relief moved through her so suddenly her chest hurt.

Marcus saw the lights too. His shoulders lowered half an inch. Not relaxed. Never that. But the first microscopic release of a man who had been holding the whole world clenched in his jaw.

“There,” he said. “That’s Chris.”

Y/n looked toward the lights.

Then something shifted.

She did not know what she noticed first.

Not sound. Not movement exactly.

A glint.

Small.

High.

Wrong.

One of the upper windows on the east side of the facility was broken, jagged glass catching the flash of emergency lights. For a second, Y/n’s eyes passed over it.

Then her body understood before her mind did.

Watched.

Targeted.

The old animal certainty moved through her like ice.

Leon was turned slightly toward Chris’s headlights, body angled open for half a second as he lifted his hand to his comm.

The glint moved.

Y/n saw the barrel.

She did not think.

She moved.

Her hand slammed into Leon’s chest with everything she had left.

“Leon!”

He stumbled half a step back, shock flashing across his face.

————————————-your POV —------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shot cracked through the night.

Not loud at first.

Not like you expected.

Just a sharp, clean sound.

Then pain exploded through your body.

White.

Hot.

Immediate.

The force knocked you backward. Leon’s face changed before you understood why. His eyes went wide, all the blood draining out of him as you dropped.

He caught you before you hit the gravel.

Of course he did.

He always caught you.

Somewhere to the side, Marcus shouted. Not a word. Just a sound ripped raw from his chest. His rifle snapped up.

One shot.

The window above burst inward.

A body fell from the broken frame and hit the lower roof with a sickening crack before rolling out of sight.

Done.

Instant.

Brother before agent.

Then Marcus was on the ground beside them.

“Y/n!”

Leon was already pressing both hands to your side, his face close, his voice suddenly nothing like the calm that had walked through the facility.

“No. No, no, no. Y/n. Look at me.”

You tried.

You really did.

But the sky kept sliding.

The stars above him blurred into streaks of white.

Leon’s hands were warm and hard against you. Too much pressure. Not enough. Pain sparked through you so violently you tried to curl away, but he held you there, one arm under your shoulders, the other hand pressed down hard.

“Stay with me,” he said.

It was not a request.

Not a command either.

A prayer trying to sound like an order.

Marcus dropped beside your other side, hands hovering for one panicked second before training took over. He ripped open the side of your sweater, eyes going terrifyingly focused as he looked at the wound.

“Through and through?” Leon snapped.

“I don’t know.”

“Marcus.”

“I don’t fucking know yet!”

Y/n made a sound.

Both of them stopped.

Their faces turned toward you at once.

It would have been funny in another life. The way they both looked like you had personally stabbed them by making noise.

You tried to breathe.

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

“Don’t…” your voice came out barely there.

Leon leaned closer immediately. “Don’t what?”

You swallowed, tasting blood.

“Don’t fight.”

Leon’s face broke.

Marcus looked like he might be sick.

Chris’s voice screamed through the comm, tinny and frantic. “We heard the shot. ETA thirty seconds. Leon, talk to me.”

Leon did not answer.

His whole world had narrowed to the blood slipping between his fingers.

“Hey,” You whispered.

Leon’s eyes snapped back to yours.

There he was.

Your husband.

Not the weapon. Not the wall. Not the man who killed his way down the hallway.

Just Leon.

Terrified.

Ruined.

Yours.

“I’m here,” he said quickly, like he could answer before you even asked. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. Medical is coming. Chris is coming. You’re going to be okay.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

You lifted your hand.

Or tried to.

It barely moved.

Leon caught it instantly, pressing it against his chest, over his heart, like he needed your touch there to keep himself from falling apart.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said again.

You looked at him.

The words were kind.

They were lies.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

You did not know anymore.

All you knew was that the world felt far away, and Leon was close, and there was something you had meant to say when this was over.

This was not over.

But maybe that was why it mattered.

“When I was in there,” you  whispered.

Leon’s face twisted. “Don’t. Save your strength.”

A weak laugh scraped your throat..

It hurt enough that darkness flashed at the edges of your vision.

“No. You don’t get to tell me what to do right now.”

Marcus made a broken sound beside you.

Leon’s mouth trembled.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Tell me.”

You tried to keep your eyes open.

His face kept blurring.

“When I was in there,” you said again, softer now, “I thought about everything.”

Leon pressed harder against the wound, and you gasped.

“Sorry,” he choked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You looked at him.

Even now, some part wanted to smile.

Still arguing.

Still him.

“I thought about the mansion,” you whispered. “The beach. The kitchen. The stupid honey.”

A tear fell down Leon’s cheek.

He did not seem to notice.

You did.

You wanted to wipe it away.

Your hand would not move enough.

“And I thought about how angry I was,” you said. “How hurt. How I still am.”

Leon nodded too fast, eyes burning. “I know. I know, sweetheart. You can be angry. Be angry forever. Just stay with me.”

“I thought about Marcus.”

Marcus leaned closer, his face wet now too.

“Little bird—”

Your eyes shifted toward him.

The nickname did not hurt the way it had in the kitchen.

Not here.

Not with his hand pressed against your shoulder like he was afraid the earth might take you if he let go.

“You came back,” you whispered.

Marcus’s face crumpled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I did.”

“Then I can too.”

The sound that left him did not have a name.

Leon bowed over you, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m talking how I want.”

“Y/n.”

You looked back at him.

There was so much blood.

His hands were covered in it.

His ring was covered in it.

The ring you had looked at like evidence. Like a trap. Like a beautiful, terrible thing you did not know how to hold.

Now it was red because he was trying to keep you alive.

“I was going to tell you,” you whispered.

Leon went still.

“What?”

“When this was over.”

His breath caught.

“When we got out. When I could breathe. I was going to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

You swallowed.

Your throat felt thick.

Your body felt cold.

“That I choose you.”

Leon’s face shattered.

Completely.

Not in pieces. Not behind restraint. Not quietly.

He broke in front of you.

“No,” he breathed. “No, you don’t get to tell me that like this.”

Your fingers twitched against his chest.

“I do.”

“No.” His voice cracked harder. “No, you tell me tomorrow. You tell me at home. You tell me when you’re mad at me for hovering. You tell me when you throw something at my head because I ask if you can walk. You do not tell me bleeding out on the ground outside an Umbrella facility.”

Your eyes burned.

“I wanted normal with you.”

Leon stopped breathing.

The words came easier now because everything else was slipping.

“I wanted the beach house again. And coffee. And you reading in those stupid glasses.”

Marcus pressed a hand over his mouth, looking away like he could hold himself together by force.

You kept your eyes on Leon.

“I wanted your kitchen,” you whispered. “Your bed. I wanted to be mad at you and still come home to you. I wanted…” Your breath hitched. Pain tore through your side, and Leon made a sound like he felt it too. “I wanted a life.”

Leon shook his head, tears falling freely now.

“You’re going to have it.”

“With you.”

“Yes,” he said instantly. “Yes. With me. Whatever you want. Anything you want. Just stay.”

“I was going to choose you,” you whispered.

His forehead dropped to yours, careful, shaking.

“You already did,” he said. “You pushed me out of the way. God, Y/n, you already did.”

You tried to breathe.

The air would not quite come.

Leon felt it.

His eyes went wild.

“Chris!” he roared.

Headlights flooded the yard.

Tires skidded over gravel.

Voices shouted.

Doors slammed.

Marcus looked up, yelling for a medic, for pressure bandages, for now, now, now.

Hands appeared around them.

Chris’s voice, close this time, urgent and commanding. “Move, move, give me room. Leon, keep pressure. Do not let up.”

Leon did not move.

Could not.

His hands were locked to your wound like his body had forgotten how to obey anyone but the blood.

A medic slid in beside him.

Marcus was dragged half an inch back and shoved forward again when he snarled, “I’m not leaving her.”

You heard all of it from very far away.

The lights were too bright.

The night too cold.

Leon too beautiful and broken above you.

You wanted to tell him that.

That he looked awful.

That you loved him.

That you were sorry about the blood.

That you had chosen him before the shot, not because of it. That the choice had been yours, fully yours, finally yours, and you needed him to know that if everything went dark, it was not the bullet that made you honest.

Memories crashed through in fractured flashes. The first day you stepped into the mansion, terrified and furious in equal measure. Leon watching from across a room with that unreadable expression you had spent months trying to decipher. The arguments. The late-night conversations neither of them were supposed to have. The way he had quietly stood beside you when everything else felt impossible. The stolen moments in hallways, the lingering glances, the rare smiles he never gave anyone else.

You remembered learning the shape of his silence. Remembered the nights you hated him, the mornings you had trusted him, and every moment in between when you had been helplessly, stubbornly drawn back to him. The mansion had become a prison, a battlefield, a home, and somehow Leon had been woven through every part of it.

You remembered the intimacy that was built in stolen moments when the rest of the world seemed to disappear. The quiet conversations in the dark, his hand finding yours without thought, the way he had looked at you when he believed you weren’t paying attention. You remembered the wedding—the weight of the dress, the vows that had felt complicated and impossible, and the way your heart had betrayed you by racing the moment you saw him waiting for you.

You remembered realizing you had fallen in love with him long before you were willing to admit it. Not in one grand moment, but in a thousand small ones. In the way he protected you even when you both were at odds. In the rare softness he showed only to you. In the way he became the first person you wanted to tell things to, and the only person whose opinion could still shake you.

And you remembered the beach house most of all. The sound of the waves beyond the windows, the salt in the air, the brief illusion that they could exist outside the chaos that always surrounded them. There had been mornings wrapped in blankets watching the ocean, evenings filled with laughter you never expected to share with him, and nights when the distance between them had disappeared completely. For a little while, it had felt like a glimpse of the life they might have had if fate had been kinder.

Every memory led here.

To him kneeling beside you.

To his hands shaking.

To the realization that somewhere along the way, without permission or warning, he had become the person you could not imagine losing.

Your mouth moved.

Leon leaned in instantly.

“What? What is it?”

You could barely hear herself.

“Don’t let the house be quiet again.”

His face collapsed.

“Y/n—”

“Promise.”

His hand found your cheek, shaking violently.

“I promise,” he whispered. “I promise, sweetheart. I swear to you, I swear—”

Your eyes slipped toward Marcus.

He looked destroyed.

Older and younger all at once.

You wanted to tell him you didn’t hate him.

Or maybe you did.

Maybe both.

You wanted more time to figure it out.

“You owe me breakfast,” you whispered.

Marcus let out something between a laugh and a sob.

“Yeah,” he choked. “Yeah. Every morning. Every damn morning. Just—just stay.”

The medic shouted something.

Chris cursed.

Leon’s arms tightened around you as they lifted you onto the stretcher, like the movement physically tore him open.

Your hand slipped from his chest.

He caught it again.

Of course he did.

He leaned over you as they moved, walking with the stretcher, one hand still wrapped around yours, the other still stained red.

His face filled your vision.

His voice broke over and over on your name.

“Stay with me. Y/n. Stay with me. Look at me. Please, look at me.”

You tried.

You really tried.

For one second, you saw him clearly.

Blue eyes. Blood on his face. Tears he did not hide. The man who had taken you, lied to you, loved you, found you.

The man you had chosen.

Your thumb moved weakly against his hand.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

Leon’s mouth trembled.

“I know.”

This time, the words did not sound like guilt.

They sounded like hope trying not to die.

The stretcher jolted.

The lights smeared.

Marcus was shouting.

Chris was shouting.

Leon’s hand was in yours.

Then even that began to slip.

Leon’s voice followed you down.

“No. No, no, no. Y/n, stay with me. Stay with me.” His grip tightened desperately around your hand, trembling so hard you could feel it even through the growing distance between them. “Look at me. Y/n, look at me. Open your eyes.”

There was panic in every word now, raw and unrestrained.

“Don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.” His voice cracked. “You promised me. You promised me you’d stay. Y/n, please. Please.”

You could hear movement around him, distant voices, chaos you could no longer make out, but Leon’s voice cut through all of it.

“Somebody help her. Please—”

The fear in him was unbearable.

And yet, strangely, you felt none of it.

The pain was fading.

The fear was fading too.

Everything felt warm and quiet, like sinking into still water after fighting against a storm for far too long. The weight you had been carrying seemed to drift away piece by piece until there was nothing left to hold onto.

You wanted to answer him.

You wanted to tell him you could hear him.

That you were sorry.

That you loved him.

That you weren’t afraid anymore.

You wanted to tell him you were trying.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt at peace.

You wanted to tell him normal sounded nice.

Coffee. Kitchen. Bed. Rings. Light. A house that was not quiet.

But the words disappeared before they reached your mouth.

Leon’s face blurred.

The sky went white.

Then black.