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05. The Tempest — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang member!San x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 23.9k

Summary: The Black Pirates' most unpredictable force is a whirlwind of fiery passion and unbridled energy—always the first to leap into action when chaos erupts. But his world tilts when he stumbles upon a woman who, unlike his victims who always begged to live, is on the brink of ending her own life. Upon discovering she's terminally ill, he finds himself gripped by an unfamiliar and urgent desire to save her, igniting a battle within himself unlike anything he's ever faced.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, blood, murder, suicidal thoughts, emotional distress, character death, language, contains dark themes in general

A/N: Thank you so much for 3k followers AAAHHH so here's a little gift for y'all😚✨

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

"San-ah. I need your help."

The voice came low and sharp, followed by the clink of glass. Hongjoong threw back a shot of whiskey, the burn clawing down his throat as he winced, still staring out the floor-length windows of his office. Night blanketed the city beyond—quiet, deceptive, waiting.

Then he turned, eyes locking onto the man standing in the room like a shadow carved into flesh.

The Tempest.

San gave a crooked smirk and dipped his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before clasping his hands neatly behind his back—ever the obedient soldier.

"Always ready to serve, hyung. What are your orders tonight?"

Bloodthirsty.

That was the word most commonly used in the underworld to describe the crew's executioner. The Tempest of the Black Pirates. Ruthless. Precise. A force of chaos wielded only by one hand—his Captain's. All it ever took was a name.

Contrary to belief, San wasn't fire and fury within the walls of his home. Among his brothers, he was sharp but playful, loyal to a fault. He didn't need the spotlight or the high-profile jobs like the others. He liked being the one they called when things needed cleaning up. When justice turned feral.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Hongjoong threw a stack of photos across the desk. They scattered like fallen leaves, faces staring up with false innocence. "Jongho sniffed out a few traitors," the Captain said, his voice like gravel. "They're on the move tonight. Planning to flee." He nodded once at the photos, then met San's eyes. "Take care of them for me."

The executioner's smirk widened. "Your wish is my command, Cap."

Without another word, he gathered the intel from the Anchor, fingers flying over the files like he already knew what came next. A mission, a route, three targets. He slid on his gloves with practised ease, holstered his blades, and walked out without a second glance.

This was going to be easy.

Just another job.

Or so he thought.

The night was heavy with fog as the Tempest followed the trail, the sharp sea breeze licking at his coat as he moved with silent purpose along the cliffside path just outside the city. The sea roared far below, and mist clung to the jagged rocks like ghosts. This place was quiet. Remote. A graveyard with no need for headstones.

Perfect for the kind of work he did.

He found them huddled near an old, crumbling bunker—desperate, unarmed, trying to buy time that had already run out.

San never enjoyed playing executioner. He just got the job done. Clean. Final. He approached them with unhurried steps, gloved fingers curling around the hilt of his blade as he flicked it open with a smooth, sharp snap.

"Sorry, lads," he said, voice calm—almost gentle, like a man offering condolences at a funeral. "But your life ends here tonight. Trust me, I didn't want it to come to this, but you should've known the fate of traitors." His gaze swept coldly over their trembling forms as he gave a slight, mocking shrug. "By order of the Black fuckin' Pirates."

Their screams didn't last long.

The moon hung low above him, veiled behind shrouds of drifting mist. Wind howled around his figure, tugging at his coat and smearing blood across the rocks at his feet. Three bodies lay motionless. The gang member stood tall in the silence, his blade red, his expression unreadable.

It was supposed to end there.

But it didn't.

Because that's when he felt it—the weight of a gaze. His head turned, sharp and instinctive. And he saw you. Farther down the path, standing at the edge of the cliff.

Still.

Watching.

You hadn't meant to witness anything. You'd only come to the cliffs to breathe—to escape the sterile halls, the pitying stares, the weight of your diagnosis pressing against your chest like an anchor. The edge of that cliff had become your only solace. The thought of stepping off it had crossed your mind more times than you cared to admit.

But tonight, it wasn't the sea that stole your breath.

It was him.

The moment his eyes locked with yours, you froze. He moved faster than you could process—one second distant, the next right in front of you. His presence hit like a storm, cold and violent, and you found yourself pressed back against the cliff wall, steel pressed against your chest.

A blade.

"Listen here, woman. If you so much as whisper what you saw to anyone," he said darkly, voice low and rough with warning, "you're dead. Do you understand me?"

You didn't flinch.

Instead, you met his gaze with eyes that didn't shine—not with fear, not with anything. And then, you stepped forward. Just enough for the blade to kiss your skin through the fabric of your coat. "Then go on," you said quietly. "Do me a favour and end me like you did those men."

He blinked, his grip wavering.

You saw the confusion flicker across his features as he took in your appearance—how pale your skin was, how thin your frame beneath the oversized coat. The way your shoulders sagged, not with fear, but with something far heavier. Resignation. Surrender. Bits of brittle hair peeked from beneath your beanie, and when the wind caught the hem of your coat, he caught a glimpse of it.

The pale fabric underneath. Not just any fabric.

A hospital gown.

He blinked. Once. Twice. And suddenly, the grip he had on his dagger faltered. This close, he could see the fine tremble in your limbs—not from fear, but fatigue. Could see the way your eyes didn't widen, didn't plead. They simply stared. Hollow. Done.

You were already halfway to death—and he hadn't even touched you yet. "After all," you murmured, voice so eerily calm it chilled him, "only dead men tell no tales."

And that was when it hit him.

The shift. The uncanny, unfamiliar stillness that gnawed at the edges of his instincts. He'd been called monster, butcher, ghost. His name had emptied rooms. Every soul who'd ever stood on the receiving end of his blade had cowered, screamed, begged.

But not you.

You didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't care. You stood like a ghost. And it rattled him. His chest tightened in a way it hadn't since he was a boy. Like the weight of your words—and your entire presence—had lodged something between his ribs. "Are you insane?" he muttered finally, his voice hoarse and uneven, a crack slicing through his usually steady tone. The question wasn't rhetorical. It was desperate. Almost... human.

His brows furrowed deeply as his hand, still holding the blade, hovered awkwardly in front of your chest. Every muscle in him screamed for decisiveness, for clarity. To finish what he started. But he couldn't, not this time.

Because suddenly, this wasn't just another job. You weren't just a witness. You were something else. Something he didn't know how to deal with. Something that made him feel. And Choi San—The Tempest—was not used to feeling anything other than fury and fire.

Not this. Never this.

You shrugged, gaze steady. "I'm just tired." You closed your eyes and waited. Let it be him. Let this be the end. At least it would be fast. But the moment didn't come. When your eyes fluttered open again, the blade was gone.

"I'm not gonna kill you," he said after a pause, voice quieter now. "But not because I'm feeling merciful."

You frowned slightly. "No?"

He took a small step back, slipping the dagger away. "No. Because I don't know what the hell this is… but something tells me you've already got one foot in the grave."

You weren't sure what that meant. Or why it stung.

He turned away, coat flaring behind him with the wind. The fog began to swallow his figure, each step taking him farther into the shadows. But just before he vanished fully into the mist, he hesitated.

Something about you—it hit too close to something buried in him. And in the distance between one heartbeat and the next, his mind betrayed him.

A memory.

A boy, years younger, on a rooftop at dawn. Knife in hand. Breath shaky. Wondering if anyone would notice if he disappeared. Wondering if anyone would care. But that boy didn't jump. That boy grew into a man who became death incarnate. Who traded the desire to die for the power to decide who lived.

"I don't kill people who are already dying," he said, voice almost lost to the wind. And then he was gone.

But the chill that rolled down your spine wasn't from the sea breeze. Something had shifted. In him. In you. In the world. And you knew—without reason, without proof—that this wouldn't be the last time you saw the man. Not by a long shot.

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The fog hadn't lifted much since last night. It still clung stubbornly to the cliffs, thick and ghostlike, swallowing sound and softening the roar of the waves below.

San told himself he was only here to check on the bodies. That was all. Protocol. Loose ends. The sort of thing any executioner worth his reputation would do without hesitation. He'd even told the Captain as much after a suspiciously long pause that Hongjoong didn't comment on—but definitely noticed.

Just to check on the corpses. To make sure no one had stumbled upon them. To move them somewhere less… visible, if needed. To ensure the job was truly clean.

Yes. That was all.

He repeated it to himself the entire walk back along the narrow path that curled around the cliffside, boots crunching over gravel dampened by the sea mist.

But the moment the clearing came into view, his eyes betrayed him.

The three bodies still lay exactly where he had left them—sprawled and lifeless, coats fluttering faintly in the wind like discarded rags. Blood had already darkened, almost black against the earth. No signs of disturbance. No footprints except his own.

Clean. Efficient. Finished.

His gaze slid over them in a single, practised sweep. And then… drifted past them. To the edge of the cliff. To the exact spot where you had stood the night before.

Empty.

A strange tightness coiled in his chest before he could stop it. He stared a second longer than necessary, as if expecting you to simply… materialise again. As if the fog might peel back and reveal that fragile silhouette staring blankly out at the sea.

Nothing.

Just wind. Just mist. Just the endless drop into darkness below.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. Of course, you weren't here. Why would you be? Normal people didn't linger at places like this. Normal people certainly didn't come back after witnessing an execution. He turned slightly, meaning to finally deal with the bodies...

And then he stiffened.

There.

A familiar figure emerged through the fog as if conjured by his own thoughts. Slow. Listless. The same oversized coat, the same beanie pulled low, the same frail posture that looked one strong gust away from being swept into the sea.

You walked toward the edge like you'd done it a hundred times before. Like the cliff itself was calling you home.

San didn't move. Didn't speak. He just watched. His fists clenched unconsciously when you stepped a little too close to the drop, flats hovering dangerously near the crumbling edge. Wind whipped your coat around your legs, tugging you forward as though urging you to finish what you'd started last night. His pulse kicked hard against his ribs.

Then you stepped back. Just slightly. Just enough.

His shoulders loosened before he could stop them.

You lingered there, staring out at the horizon, unmoving. Not crying. Not shaking. Just… existing in that quiet, unsettling stillness that made something deep in him itch with unease.

He watched longer than he meant to. Long enough that the bodies behind him were completely forgotten. Long enough that the rhythm of your breathing almost seemed louder than the crashing waves below.

Another step toward the edge.

His jaw clenched again.

Another retreat.

Relief followed—sharp and unwanted.

What... the hell am I doing?

The thought hit him so abruptly, he almost physically recoiled from it. His brows furrowed, confusion flashing across his face as if he'd just caught himself committing some unspoken betrayal. This wasn't his business. You weren't his responsibility. You were a civilian. A witness he'd let walk away for reasons he still couldn't explain to himself. You should mean absolutely nothing.

And yet, here he was—standing guard like some silent sentinel, tracking your every movement as though he had any right to care whether you stepped forward… or vanished over the edge. The Tempest everyone feared would have celebrated if you leapt right now. As you should. Especially after witnessing what you never should have seen.

But for some reason, the thought didn't feel satisfying. It felt… wrong. Too final. Too much. He blinked hard, dragging a hand down his face as if he could scrub the feeling away.

No, Choi San. Goddamnit, get a fucking grip.

With a frustrated scoff under his breath, he turned sharply on his heel, coat snapping behind him as he strode back toward the path. Each step felt heavier than the last, irritation simmering under his skin—not at you, but at himself. At the way his attention kept drifting back to that fragile figure by the cliff. At how his body tensed every time you edged a little too close. At the quiet, unwelcome relief that slipped in whenever you stepped back.

He stormed off, jaw set, struggling to make sense of the unfamiliar knot tightening in his chest. He was the Tempest of the Black Pirates. He dealt death. He didn't… stand watch over people who wished for it. So why did it feel like leaving you alone there was the most dangerous thing he'd done all week?

In the following days, as if to spite… someone. He wasn't sure who. You? Himself? Maybe both. He threw himself at every odd job the Captain tossed his way—even jobs usually meant for Jongho, messier ones, louder ones, the kind that left no room for thought. He took them all without hesitation, almost eagerly, as though sheer momentum could drown out the dissonance in his chest.

He killed like his life depended on it.

Quick. Efficient. Ruthless.

Anyone who posed a threat to the Black Pirates was dealt with, just as he always had. Blade steady. Hands unshaking. Expression unreadable. On the outside, nothing had changed. But inside… there was something new in the way he fought. A sharpness. A bite. An anger that hadn't been there before. And the worst part was, he couldn't even name its target. Not really.

Maybe it was directed at you—the fragile, infuriating stranger whose name he didn't even know. The one who had stood at the edge of a cliff and looked death in the face like it was an old friend. The one who hadn't screamed, hadn't begged, hadn't even flinched when he'd pressed a blade to your chest.

Fury simmered low in his gut every time your hollow eyes flashed across his mind.

How dare you?

How dare you slip past the walls he'd built so carefully around himself? How dare you make him remember things he'd buried years ago—nights when he, too, had stared into the dark and wondered if it would be easier to simply… stop? How dare you make him question, even for a second, the purpose he'd so cleanly carved out for himself?

He was the Tempest. The executioner. The weapon.

He wasn't supposed to hesitate. Wasn't supposed to think. Wasn't supposed to care.

And yet, with every life he took lately, there was a flicker of your face behind his eyelids. Pale. Tired. Unafraid. It made his grip tighten just a little harder. His strikes land just a little harsher. His temper ran just a little shorter. As though if he killed enough, worked enough, proved himself enough, he could smother the inconvenient truth clawing its way up his throat: That some unknown, dying girl at the edge of a cliff had managed to shake the Tempest of the Black Pirates more than any enemy ever had.

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Tonight, somehow, he found himself back at the cliff again.

It had become a routine he never acknowledged out loud. For weeks now, San had returned to this place night after night, always around the same hour, always under the same cold stretch of moonlight. If any of his brothers had asked, he wouldn't have been able to answer. Hell, he couldn't even give one to himself.

And yet here he was.

Again.

He stood where he always did—several paces back from the edge, in the shadow of the rocky path where the fog curled thickest. From there, his gaze drifted, as it always did, to that one particular spot by the cliff.

Your spot.

He never stepped closer than this. Never approached the edge while you were there. He simply watched.

Sometimes you appeared.

Sometimes you didn't.

On the nights you weren't there, he told himself it meant nothing. That you were probably back at whatever hospital had spit you out into the world, wearing that thin gown beneath your coat. That you were somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.

But other nights, a darker thought crept in.

Maybe you had already done it.

Maybe you had finally taken that last step forward. Maybe the ocean had swallowed you the same way it had swallowed the bodies of the traitors he'd tossed over the cliff weeks ago. Maybe you were down there now—somewhere in the black water below, resting among the ghosts he'd made.

He hated how often that thought returned.

But your absences never lasted long. Two nights at most. By the third night, like clockwork, you would appear again—standing at the edge like some restless spirit that hadn't decided whether it belonged to the living or the dead.

Except tonight was different. Tonight was the third night. And you still hadn't shown up. The Tempest stood there longer than usual, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, jaw tight as his eyes remained locked on the empty stretch of cliff. An odd feeling crawled into his chest. Dread. Or maybe something worse. He couldn't name it, but it made the air feel heavier in his lungs.

For the first time since this strange ritual had begun, he moved from his usual spot. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he stepped forward—closer to the edge. Closer to where you always stood. The wind howled louder here, whipping his coat around his legs as he finally reached the place he had spent weeks staring at from afar. His boots stopped right at the lip of the cliff.

For a moment, he just stood there.

Then, finally, he forced himself to look down.

His breath caught.

The drop was staggering. The cliff plunged straight into darkness, jagged rock disappearing into the violent churn of waves below. The ocean slammed against the stone with a relentless roar, white foam flashing briefly in the moonlight before being swallowed again by black water. God. It was higher than it looked from afar. Higher than he'd ever really considered.

One step. That was all it would take. One careless shift of weight. One moment of surrender. One breath taken too far forward. Anyone would die from that fall. The thought made something tighten painfully in his chest.

He found himself wondering, against his own will, if you had already stood here one night and simply… let gravity finish the job. If you had already perished. If he had come back too late.

"Looking for someone?"

San jumped.

The voice came from behind him—soft, almost curious.

He spun around instantly, hand flying halfway to the knife hidden beneath his coat, before his eyes landed on you.

You stood a few paces away, watching him, just like before. Hospital gown peeking out from beneath that oversized coat that must have once fit you properly, but now hangs loose on your frail frame. The wind tugged at the fabric, making you look even smaller than he remembered. Your face was as pale as ever. Your eyes are just as tired, just as hollow.

For a second, he simply stared, the tension in his body unravelling so quickly it almost felt like dizziness.

You were alive.

Then you tilted your head slightly, gaze drifting past him to the ground at the edge of the cliff. "That's my spot," you said calmly. Your eyes flicked back to his. "You know that, mister."

He stood there, speechless.

For the first time in a long while—perhaps the first time he could even remember—he felt something dangerously close to flustered. Embarrassed, even. It was an unfamiliar sensation. The Tempest of the Black Pirates didn't get embarrassed. He was the one who made other people lose their composure. The one who watched fear unravel them piece by piece. And yet somehow… this weak, dying girl in a hospital gown had managed to do exactly that to him.

You didn't seem particularly surprised by his silence. With a small shrug, you stepped past him, walking toward the edge of the cliff—the same spot you always stood. But before you could reach it, something strange happened.

San moved. Not consciously. Not deliberately. His body simply reacted. His arm reached out, fingers wrapping gently around your shoulder to stop you. The touch startled him more than it did you. His grip was careful—far more careful than any touch he'd ever given another person. Almost hesitant. Like he was afraid that if he held any tighter, you might shatter in his hands like fragile glass.

"So, what is it that you do? Are you like… an assassin or something?"

Somehow, later that night, he found himself sitting beside you on a bench across the street from the hospital you had been admitted to.

Even he wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. One moment, you'd been standing by the cliff, the wind threatening to push you a step too far. Next, he'd found himself walking beside you down the path, keeping an unconscious pace with your slow steps until the looming shape of the hospital came into view.

Now the two of you sat beneath a flickering yellow lamppost. The street was quiet at this hour, the light casting a warm glow across the empty pavement. Safe. Far from the cliff.

The more time he spent around you, the less he understood his own thoughts. His feelings. His actions. None of this made sense. And yet… here he was. Sitting. Talking.

He gave a small nod to your question. "Yeah, an assassin..." he said after a moment. "You could say that."

He didn't elaborate. He wasn't about to tell you more than that. Involving civilians in their world was always a mistake. The less you knew about the Black Pirates, the better. You were already dying as it was—the last thing you needed was to be dragged into the mess he called a life. Though, judging by your tendency to stand at the edge of cliffs, he wasn't entirely sure you would mind.

The thought made him snort quietly to himself.

After a moment, he glanced over at you. "And you?" he asked. "How'd you… end up like this?"

You didn't hesitate. "Lung cancer," you said simply. "Stage four. Terminal." You shrugged like you were commenting on the weather. "They said I've got a few months left… but they didn't bother being specific."

He frowned slightly, the words settling into him slower than he expected. Terminal. The word carried a weight to it—final, absolute. In his world, death usually came fast, delivered in a single decisive moment. But this? This was different.

You leaned back against the bench, oddly relaxed despite the subject. The lamplight washed over your pale face, softening the shadows under your eyes. "So I'm just… here," you continued. "Waiting." You caught the expression forming on his face and chuckled softly. "I'm not suicidal exactly," you clarified. "But I am done." The quiet honesty in your voice made something shift uncomfortably in his chest. You tilted your head toward him. "And before you ask, I'm not a heavy smoker or anything."

He hadn't actually been wondering that yet—but now that you mentioned it, his brows drew together slightly.

"My ex-fiancé is, though," you continued casually. "Chain smoker. The kind who lights the next one before the last one's even finished." Your smile turned faintly bitter. "Turns out years of second-hand smoke can do a number on your lungs."

His jaw tightened.

You didn't seem to notice. Or maybe you did, and simply didn't care. You gave another small shrug, the motion almost careless. "Funnily enough, he left the moment he realised I was a dead woman walking. Even though it was technically his fault." A humourless chuckle slipped from your lips.

And something inside him snapped. It wasn't loud. It wasn't visible. But it was immediate. The storm stirred. For a brief second, the Tempest—the version of him the underworld feared—rose violently to the surface. Fury flashed through his veins so quickly it nearly made him dizzy. His hands curled slowly into fists in his lap.

Your ex-fiancé.

The image of a faceless man appeared in his mind—some coward who had poisoned you for years and then walked away the moment the consequences appeared. San had killed men for less. Hell, he had killed men for nothing compared to that.

The urge hit him like a blade sliding between his ribs. Find him. Drag him somewhere quiet. Make him understand what he’d done. He could already picture it: the man's throat under his blade, the fear in his eyes when he realised there was no bargaining his way out of this one. The Tempest didn't tolerate cowards. Especially not the kind that destroyed someone and then abandoned them.

For a split second, the thought felt dangerously close to action. His breathing slowed. His pulse thudded steadily in his ears. He could do it. It would be easy.

But then you shifted beside him, stretching your legs slightly, as if the story you'd just told was nothing more than an old inconvenience.

And just like that... the storm faltered. He inhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the fury back down into the locked box inside his chest where it belonged. Not because the man didn't deserve it. God, he probably did. But because of you.

You were sitting right here beside him, talking about your own death like it was a mild inconvenience, and the last thing you needed was some stranger spiralling into murderous rage on your behalf.

So he swallowed it. Every last violent thought.

When you glanced back at him, he was quiet again—though the tension in his jaw hadn't completely faded.

"So yeah," you finished lightly. "That's how I ended up like this." Your shoulders lifted again. "Hope that answers your question."

He stared ahead at the empty street for a moment before finally speaking. "…Yeah," he muttered. His voice was lower now. Rougher. "It does." But the anger still simmered quietly beneath his skin, a storm he had barely managed to keep contained. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a dangerous thought lingered.

If he ever happened to run into your ex-fiancé someday… well, Choi San had been known to clean up loose ends.

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"You called, hyung?"

He stepped into the Captain's office, closing the door quietly behind him. Inside, the room was dim except for the low amber glow spilling from the lamp on Hongjoong's desk. The man himself stood by the tall window, a glass of whiskey on the rocks cradled loosely in one hand and a familiar glass flower charm in the other. He stared out at the dark skyline beyond the glass, shoulders slightly slumped in a way that most people in the underworld would never believe the leader of the Black Pirates was capable of.

He looked… tired.

San had seen Hongjoong angry. Calculating. Ruthless. Even amused in that dangerously sharp way of his. But this quiet kind of heaviness had only appeared recently.

Ever since his love had been sent away.

Even without anyone saying it aloud, everyone in the crew knew why their Captain had done it. Sending her away had been the safest option—the only option, really. The enemies circling them had grown far too bold lately. Still, knowing something was necessary didn't make it easy.

San remembered a time not long ago when he couldn't understand it at all. Back then, Hongjoong's attachment to that woman had seemed… irrational. Inconvenient, even. A civilian caught in the middle of their world, someone who should have been handled quickly and cleanly before emotions complicated things.

He had believed then that it would've been simpler to compensate her, erase the problem, and move on. Money could solve most civilian entanglements. It was cleaner that way.

Logical. Efficient.

But now… now, something about that certainty had begun to crack. Because lately, much to his own irritation, he found himself imagining what it would feel like to stand in the leader's place.

And for reasons he couldn't quite explain, your face kept appearing in that thought. The pale girl in the hospital gown. The one who stood at the edge of cliffs like the wind might carry you away. Every time the image surfaced, San felt that strange, tightening pull in his chest again—that same instinctive urge to keep you away from harm, even when you seemed determined to walk straight toward it.

It was… unsettling.

And dangerously close to the kind of feeling he once thought Hongjoong had been foolish for having.

Across the room, the Captain straightened when he noticed San's presence, pocketing the precious little charm in his hand and setting his glass down on the desk. "Oh. You're here," he said, pushing himself upright. His voice carried its usual calm authority again, though the faint tiredness still lingered beneath it. "Have you been busy? Jongho tells me you've been out late these days."

San cleared his throat lightly, shrugging as he slipped his hands into his coat pockets. "Just here and there," he said casually. "Making sure the bodies of the traitors I handled were properly discarded." That wasn't entirely a lie. Just not the whole truth. "Why?" he added. "You got an assignment for me?"

Hongjoong hummed thoughtfully, studying him for a moment. If he found San's answer suspicious, he didn't press it. Instead, he nodded. "I do," he said. "But it's not the usual cleanup or disposal."

San tilted his head slightly.

Hongjoong continued, "Wooyoung's target has proven to be quite… difficult to approach. The bastard travels with a bodyguard who doesn't leave his side." He tapped a finger lightly against the desk. "There's a gala he'll be attending in a few days. I need someone inside—someone who can observe him up close and figure out where his weak spots are."

San raised a brow. "That's it?" he asked. "No killing required? Just infiltration and intel?"

The Captain nodded, rubbing a tired hand down his face. "Yes, San," he sighed. "That's all. For now."

The room fell quiet for a moment.

The Tempest nodded slowly, processing the details. An undercover job. Blend in. Watch. Wait. Not exactly his usual kind of work, but he could handle it. He turned to leave—then hesitated. For a brief moment, he wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to speak again. But the question came out anyway. "Can I bring a plus one?"

Hongjoong looked up immediately, one eyebrow arching with quiet amusement.

San almost regretted asking.

But the older man only leaned back against his desk, arms folding loosely across his chest. "I don't care who you bring," Hongjoong said with a faint shrug. "As long as you keep the cover intact and finish the job." His gaze sharpened slightly. "Why? Planning to impress someone?"

San didn't answer right away. Because annoyingly enough… he wasn't entirely sure himself. All he knew was that somewhere across the city, a pale girl who spent her nights standing at the edge of a cliff would probably hate the idea of attending a gala. And yet, for some reason, the thought of asking you was already forming in his mind.

"You're joking… a gala?! With me? Oh, hell yeah!"

He blinked.

The two of you were sitting on the same bench again, the one beneath the tired yellow lamppost across from the hospital. The night air carried the faint scent of rain and antiseptic drifting from the building behind you.

He had expected many reactions when he brought up the invitation. Confusion. Suspicion. Maybe even refusal. What he hadn't expected was… enthusiasm. Pure, unfiltered enthusiasm. You were practically glowing. He stared at you, momentarily caught off guard. He couldn't remember ever seeing you like this, not since the night he'd met you at the cliff. Back then, you had looked like a ghost wandering too far from the afterlife. Pale. Hollow. Quiet in a way that made the world around you feel heavier.

But right now, your eyes were alive with something close to excitement, a spark he hadn't realised was capable of existing there. Your smile spread wide across your face as a quiet laugh escaped you, the sound surprisingly warm in the cool night air.

For a moment, he simply watched. It took him longer than it should have to look away. The sight was… refreshing. Strangely beautiful. It made something in his chest feel lighter—and that realisation unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. "So," he said slowly, still processing your reaction, "you… want to go?"

You scoffed like the answer should've been obvious. "Of course, I do." You leaned back on the bench, tilting your head up toward the night sky as if imagining the scene already. "Do you have any idea how afraid I've been that I was gonna live out the rest of my days in such a depressing state?" you said lightly.

He felt his shoulders stiffen at the bluntness of your words.

But you continued without hesitation. "I mean, come on," you added, waving a hand dismissively. "If I'm going out anyway, I wouldn't mind doing it somewhere a little more glamorous." You turned to him with a crooked grin. "Dying from intoxication in a room full of rich idiots sounds way better than slowly fading away inside those cold grey hospital walls." Your gaze flicked briefly toward the towering building behind you.

San followed it.

The hospital loomed there, sterile and quiet, its windows glowing faintly like rows of distant stars. From the outside, it looked calm, peaceful even. But he had seen enough death to know places like that rarely felt peaceful to the people trapped inside them.

When he looked back at you, your expression had softened slightly. "Besides," you added with a quiet shrug, "I've never been to a gala before."

He studied your face. The excitement was still there, but beneath it he caught something else too—a thin thread of longing you probably didn't even realise you were showing. A life you had never gotten the chance to live. A world of glittering rooms and fancy dresses and careless laughter that had always belonged to someone else. Something stirred uneasily in his chest. "Careful," he muttered after a moment, crossing his arms. "You sound way too excited for someone who just met the guy inviting you."

You laughed again. "Well, excuse me for trying to enjoy one thing before I die."

The words came out casually, but his jaw tightened anyway.

You noticed. Your smile softened a little as you bumped your shoulder lightly against his arm. "Relax, Mr Choi," you said teasingly. "I'm not expecting some fairytale night." You leaned forward, elbows resting on your knees. "But I am expecting free food."

He huffed quietly, shaking his head.

Of course, you were.

A brief silence settled between the two of you again, the distant hum of the city filling the space. Then you glanced sideways at him, curiosity flickering across your features. "So," you said, "what's the catch?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "The catch?"

You nodded toward him. "You don't seem like the type who just invites random dying girls to fancy parties out of the kindness of his heart."

You weren't wrong.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. "It's work," he admitted. "I need to blend in. Observe someone."

Your eyes lit up immediately. "Oh my god," you whispered dramatically. "You're taking me as your fake date for a secret mission?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't make it sound like a movie."

You grinned wider. "Too late. It absolutely is." You leaned back again, looking far too pleased with yourself. "Well then," you declared, clapping your hands once. "Looks like I'm officially your partner in crime."

He glanced at you. The words should've bothered him. Instead, something about the way you said them—so light, so alive—made that strange knot in his chest loosen just a little. And before he could stop himself, a quiet thought slipped through his mind. Maybe… just this once… letting you have one night outside those hospital walls or somewhere away from the edge of a cliff wouldn't be such a terrible idea.

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"Well?" you asked, stepping out of the dressing room. "How do I look?"

San looked up—and for a second, he forgot how to answer.

The boutique was quiet, tucked discreetly under the protection of the Black Pirates. Soft lighting spilt across polished floors, racks of carefully curated pieces lining the walls. The staff moved with practised subtlety—efficient, silent, and smart enough not to acknowledge who exactly they were serving. But none of that registered to him in that moment.

Because you... you looked different. Not in a dramatic, unrecognisable way. Just… you, without the weight. Without the oversized grey coat swallowing your frame. Without the washed-out hospital gown peeking through like a reminder of something fragile and temporary. The red silk dress you wore was simple—elegant, understated—but it draped over you like it had been made for you. It brought warmth back into your complexion, a softness to your figure that had always been hidden beneath layers of dull fabric.

For the first time since he'd met you, you didn't look like someone fading. You looked like someone alive.

He blinked once, slow, like he needed a second to catch up with what he was seeing. "…You clean up well," he said finally, voice a little more even than he felt. It wasn't much. But it was honest.

You lit up at the response anyway, doing a small turn like you couldn't help yourself. "Right?" you grinned. "I almost forgot I could look like a functioning member of society."

The gang member huffed quietly, shaking his head as he pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. His gaze dropped briefly to your feet before he gestured toward a pair of shoes nearby. "No heels," he said, already reaching for a pair that matched the dress. "You'll trip." It came out blunt. Matter-of-fact. But his movements were careful—deliberate—as he handed them over.

Practical. Comfortable. Safe.

You glanced down at them, then back up at him with a small, amused smile. "Noted."

He turned to the staff, giving a short nod. "Hair. Makeup."

They moved immediately as you were guided gently to a seat in front of a mirror, the stylists working with quiet precision as they began fixing your hair—brushing through what little remained with an almost reverent kind of care, as if afraid even the gentlest pull might take more from you.

His gaze lingered, something in his chest tightening when he noticed the way their movements shifted—slower, more deliberate—as they worked around the uneven, fragile strands left behind by your illness.

Quietly, one of them reached for a set of extensions. They didn't say anything. No one did. Not when they began clipping them in, carefully weaving them through your thinning hair, blending them in with practised hands, building volume where there had once been none, restoring something that had been taken from you piece by piece.

It was seamless. Beautiful, even.

But San saw it. Saw the way your fingers curled slightly in your lap as you caught your reflection mid-process. Saw the brief flicker in your eyes, something so small most would've missed it entirely.

Loss.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… there.

And for a moment, the room felt quieter than before. Like everyone understood this wasn't just preparation. It was a restoration. Even if only for one night.

San stayed where he was, watching. At first, it was just observation; making sure everything was done right, that nothing felt off, that the image you presented would hold up under scrutiny at the gala.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just that. As the minutes passed, he found his attention lingering. On the way your posture slowly straightened as they worked. On how your expression shifted when you caught glimpses of yourself in the mirror, like you weren't entirely sure the reflection belonged to you. On the faint colour returning to your face, the soft definition was brought back to your features. And without meaning to… his mind began to wander.

Was this what you used to look like? Before the hospital rooms. Before the diagnosis. Before the exhaustion settled into your bones and hollowed out your eyes. What had your life been like? What did you do on normal days? Did you laugh like this often? Did you have friends waiting for you somewhere? Things you loved? Places you wanted to go? Who were you… before everything was taken from you?

The questions came uninvited.

And for the first time, the Tempest realised just how little he actually knew about you. Not just how you were dying, but how you had lived. His jaw tightened slightly at the thought. Because standing here now, watching you slowly come back to life under soft lights and careful hands… it felt wrong that this version of you had been hidden away for so long.

"Hey." Your voice broke through his thoughts.

He looked up.

You were watching him through the mirror now, one brow slightly raised, a faint smile playing on your lips. "Don't stare too hard," you teased lightly. "You might start thinking I'm actually pretty."

He scoffed under his breath, looking away—but not before you caught the brief flicker of something in his eyes. "Focus on your job," he muttered. "You're supposed to help me blend in, not distract me."

You hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Too late for that."

For once, he didn't argue.

And for a moment, he didn't look away either. His gaze lingered on your reflection in the mirror, quieter now, heavier with something he couldn't quite name. Because he had seen that look before. Not tonight, not in the way you tilted your head slightly, studying your reflection like you were trying to memorise it. Not in the way your lips curved, small and unsure, as if you didn't quite believe this version of you was real.

No.

The look he remembered was different. It lived in his memory of the cliff. In the way you used to stand there, too close to the edge, unmoving, unafraid. Like the wind could take you at any moment, and you wouldn't fight it. That had been the version of you he understood.

Because once, a long time ago, he had stood in that same place.

Not that exact cliff, but close enough. A forgotten rooftop in a part of the city no one cared about. Rain soaking through his clothes, the cold biting into his bones as he stared down at the streets below, wondering how quiet it would be if he just… stopped.

Back then, Choi San had nothing.

No family worth naming—just debts that weren't his, tied to a father who drank more than he worked and gambled more than he could ever repay. Men had come knocking eventually. Not for explanations. Not for apologies. For payment. And when payment couldn't be made, they took it in other ways.

He learned early what desperation looked like. What it felt like to be cornered, suffocated, reduced to something less than human just to survive another day. He fought. God, he fought. But there was only so long you could claw your way through a system designed to keep you beneath it.

And one night, soaked to the bone and too tired to keep going, he had climbed that rooftop with no plan beyond ending it. He remembered the quiet. The way the city lights blurred beneath the rain. The way his chest had felt… empty. Not even scared. Just done.

And then—

"Jumping won't solve anything. Trust me, I know."

The voice had cut through the storm like it didn't belong there.

He had turned, half-expecting another debt collector, another problem to deal with. Instead, he found a man standing behind him—calm, composed, entirely out of place in the chaos of his life.

Hongjoong.

He hadn't looked at San with pity. Hadn't tried to talk him down like he was fragile. He had simply… seen him. "Die if you want," the Captain had said then, tone almost indifferent. "But if you're going to throw your life away, at least do it after you've used it for something."

San had scoffed at the time. Bitter. Exhausted. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Hongjoong had stepped closer, unfazed. "It means," he said, eyes sharp, "you're angry. You're capable. And right now, all of that is going to waste."

A pause.

"Come with me. I'll give you something to fight for."

San didn't know why he had listened. Maybe it was the certainty in the gang leader's voice. Maybe it was the lack of sympathy—how he didn't treat the younger man like something broken. Or maybe… maybe it was because, for the first time, someone had offered him a purpose that wasn't about survival. And he had taken it. He stepped away from the edge that night.

And the Tempest was born from the boy who almost didn't make it.

He exhaled slowly, the memory fading as he returned to the present. Back to you. Back to the soft glow of the boutique lights reflecting in the mirror before you. He watched as you lifted a hand, hesitating for a second before touching your hair, fingers brushing over the extensions, over the illusion of something whole again.

Your eyes didn't look hollow. They didn't look like his had that night on the rooftop. They were… bright. Alive in a way that caught him off guard. Curious. Almost hopeful.

And that was when it hit him. You weren't like him. Not really.

He had wanted to die because he believed there was nothing left for him in the world. But you... you wanted to live. Even now. Even with time slipping through your fingers. It was there in the way you looked at yourself. In the way you smiled, small but real. In the way you said yes to a gala like it was the most exciting thing you'd ever been offered.

You weren't standing at the edge because you were empty. You were standing there because you were tired of waiting for the end to come to you. And somehow… that made it worse.

The executioner of the Black Pirates swallowed, something unfamiliar tightening in his chest. Because now, watching you like this, watching the life flicker so stubbornly in your eyes, he realised something he hadn't allowed himself to think before. You were a stranger. Someone who had stumbled into his path by accident. Someone he should've walked away from the moment he had the chance. And yet… you were also the one person he couldn't seem to leave alone.

His jaw tightened.

Because the truth, no matter how inconvenient, settled heavily in his chest. He didn't want that light to go out. Not like this. Not when you were only just beginning to look alive again.

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The gala was everything you had imagined and more.

Gold spilt from chandeliers like molten light, catching on crystal glasses and polished marble floors. Laughter echoed, soft and hollow, mingling with the low hum of live jazz drifting through the air. Silk and velvet brushed past you in passing, the scent of expensive perfume lingering just a second too long.

For a moment, you simply stood there. Taking it in. Not as someone dying. But as someone who had once dreamed of belonging in places like this. And it showed.

Beside you, the Tempest remained still—sharp eyes scanning, calculating. Every movement measured, every breath controlled. He gave a subtle nod toward the upper floor, acknowledging his brother, the Charmer, without drawing attention, choosing to ignore Wooyoung's cheeky grin as he took in the sight of his plus one.

You glanced at him, and god, did he look like he belonged right here; tailored suit, posture straight, expression just detached enough to pass as disinterest rather than danger. And yet, he didn't move like these people.

They floated.

He stalked.

So you slipped your hand through his arm. Subtle. Natural. "Relax, Mr Choi," you murmured under your breath, lips barely moving. "You're going to scare someone."

His gaze flicked to you, brow tightening slightly. "I'm not here to entertain them."

"No," you hummed lightly, guiding him forward into the crowd, "you're here to blend in. Try not to look like you're about to kill someone."

"…I always look like this."

You smiled faintly. "That's the problem."

And just like that, you stepped into the crowd.

San had expected hesitation—some flicker of uncertainty, some quiet distance in the way you held yourself. Instead, you moved as though you had been waiting your entire life for this exact moment. Not because you were returning to something familiar, but because you had imagined it so vividly for so long that your body seemed to remember the shape of it even if reality had never truly allowed you to live it.

The briefing had given you the basics of your false identity, but you barely needed them. There was something instinctive in the way you carried yourself beneath the chandeliers, something almost aching in its precision. The way you lifted your glass just enough to appear composed without drawing attention. The way your shoulders angled toward conversations as though you belonged within them, but never so far forward that you risked being seen too clearly.

Even your laughter—light, effortless, practised—felt like something carefully constructed out of longing rather than memory. Like you had rehearsed it in silence for years, alone in rooms that had never looked anything like this. You slipped through conversations with disarming ease, letting people project whatever version of you they needed. Wealthy. Connected. Untouchable. And you gave them exactly enough to believe it, never once breaking the illusion.

San noticed it almost immediately.

At first, it was only observation; sharp, clinical, the way he approached everything tied to a mission. But the longer he watched you, the more that detachment began to fray at the edges. People didn't question you. They welcomed you. They leaned in when you spoke, laughed when you smiled, as though you had always existed within this world of polished voices and gilded surfaces.

And you never faltered. Never second-guessed. Never looked lost. This wasn't something you were remembering. It was something you had once dreamed of. A life you had built in your mind so often, so carefully, that stepping into it now felt like muscle memory borrowed from a future that had never actually arrived.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have, something uneasy tightening low in his chest as the realisation settled in.

This was what you had wanted, wasn't it?

Not in the way of ownership or inheritance. But in the quiet, aching way of someone who had spent too many nights imagining what it would feel like to belong somewhere like this. His jaw tightened slightly. Because if this was the life you had always dreamed of… then what had your real life taken from you? The image of you at the cliff flickered uninvited into his mind. Pale. Still. Standing too close to the edge of the world like it had been waiting to accept you for years.

And now here you were instead, standing beneath golden light and crystal chandeliers, smiling like you hadn't already been denied every version of this life that should have been yours.

Something uncomfortable twisted in his chest. Guilt, though not quite his to claim, settled there anyway. Because the truth was simple in a way that hurt too much to hold properly. The version of you standing here tonight should have never been something the world got to borrow from you. And yet here you were. Living it in fragments. In stolen hours and borrowed time.

San stayed close to you as the night went on, always just a step behind, always watching more than speaking. It was supposed to be protection. It was supposed to be strategy. But somewhere between observation and something far more dangerous, he began to understand the truth. You were good at this. Too good. Not because you had lived it. But because you had always known how it was supposed to feel.

At one point, you caught him staring again. "Don't tell me you're impressed," you teased softly, lifting your glass.

"I'm assessing," he replied.

You scoffed. "Sure you are."

But his gaze lingered a second too long for that to be entirely true.

"Have we met before?" A masculine voice cut in smoothly.

You stilled.

San didn't react, but you felt it. The subtle shift in his posture. The tension that crept into his arm beneath your hand. The way his presence sharpened, just slightly, like a blade being unsheathed without sound.

The foreign man stood before you; older, sharp-eyed. The kind who noticed too much for his own good. His gaze lingered on San. "You seem… familiar."

Danger.

You didn't hesitate. A soft, airy laugh slipped from your lips as you leaned into the gang member, your hand sliding more firmly around his arm, deliberate this time, intimate in a way that drew attention for all the right reasons. "Darling," you sighed, shaking your head like this was all terribly amusing. "I told you that brooding look would get you into trouble one day."

San blinked, just barely. But you felt it. That flicker of surprise.

You didn't give him time to recover. Your fingers curled slightly into his sleeve as you turned back to the man, your expression warm, almost apologetic. "Please excuse him," you added lightly. "My husband insists he doesn't have a 'face,' but I keep telling him otherwise." You shot San a look—fond, exasperated, entirely convincing. "Honestly, if he spent half as much effort smiling as he does glaring at people, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

A few nearby guests let out quiet chuckles.

The man's sharp gaze wavered, not gone, but dulled. Thrown off just enough.

San, to his credit, adjusted quickly. His free hand came up, settling loosely over yours where it rested on his arm. Grounding. Protective. Real. "My wife exaggerates," he said smoothly, tone calm, controlled. "I just have little patience for unnecessary conversations."

That earned another small ripple of laughter.

You huffed softly, nudging him. "See?" you said to the man, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Finance. They're all like this. Numbers in their head, personalities left at the office."

This time, the man chuckled properly. Suspicion didn't disappear, but it shifted from threat… to social awkwardness. To something far less dangerous. "Ah," he said, shaking his head. "That explains it."

"It usually does," you smiled sweetly.

And just like that, he lost interest. With a polite nod, he excused himself, already scanning the room for something more entertaining than a dull husband and his overly talkative wife.

The tension dissolved as quickly as it had come.

But San didn't move. Didn't let go. Not immediately. His hand was still over yours. Your arm still looped through his. Close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Only when you were out of earshot did he finally speak. "…Finance? Really?" he muttered under his breath.

You smirked, glancing up at him. "You're welcome."

His jaw tightened, but this time, it wasn't irritation. Not entirely. Because he understood. You hadn't just redirected the conversation. You hadn't just protected your cover. You had stepped in without hesitation. Closed the gap. Taken control of the situation before it could spiral. You didn't just save the mission.

You saved him.

And for the first time that night, he found himself looking at you a little differently. Not just as someone he needed to watch over. But as someone who could stand in the line of fire… and not flinch.

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It should've ended there. But it didn't.

Because minutes later, the energy in the room shifted. Subtle, but unmistakable. Security. More of them now. Moving with purpose. No longer just blending into the background, but scanning, watching, closing in. A murmur rippled faintly through the crowd. Something had tipped them off.

He noticed immediately. "Something's off," he murmured.

"Yeah," you replied under your breath, smile still perfectly in place for anyone watching. "And you're about five seconds away from getting flagged."

His eyes flicked toward the guards approaching: two from the front, another circling from the side. Too close. Too fast.

Shit.

You didn't think. You acted. Your hand shot out, grabbing the front of his suit, not just pulling him close, but steering him. "This way," you breathed. You didn't wait for his response, already guiding him off the main floor, past a velvet rope that most wouldn't dare cross. Your pace didn't falter. Didn't hesitate. You walked like you belonged there. Like no one would ever question you.

He followed, because for some reason, he trusted you would get him out of this. The hallway beyond was quieter. Dimmer. Reserved. Private.

And that was when you heard it—

"Excuse me!"

A guard. Close. Too close.

You spun back toward San, fingers gripping his collar. "Play along," you whispered. And before he could even register what you meant, you tugged him down. Your lips brushed his neck. Soft at first. Then closer. More deliberate. Your breath warm against his skin as you leaned into him, pressing just enough to blur the line between act and something dangerously real.

He froze, not from hesitation, but from the sheer unexpectedness of it. His hand came to your waist instinctively, pulling you in, grounding himself in something that suddenly felt far too real for a simple distraction.

The guard rounded the corner. Paused. Took in the sight.

A couple, half-hidden in a private corridor. Too wrapped up in each other to notice anything else.

There was a beat of silence. Then, a quiet scoff. "Keep it in the ballroom," the guard muttered, already turning away. Footsteps faded. Gone. Safe.

But neither of you moved. Not immediately.

Your lips lingered a second too long before you pulled back, breath uneven despite yourself.

San's grip on your waist hadn't loosened. If anything, it had tightened. His head tilted slightly, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple now. "…You could've just dragged me into a room," he said quietly.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, trying to steady your racing heart. "And miss the opportunity to shock you?"

His fingers pressed slightly firmer against your side. "That wasn't shocking."

You raised a brow. "No?"

A pause.

Then, lower. "…Do it again, and I might reconsider."

Your breath caught, just for a second. And this time, neither of you pulled away as quickly. But then your brows furrowed as you spotted something over his shoulder, something that felt… out of place. A doorway, half-concealed, leading somewhere more private. More guarded. Your focus shifted instantly. "Hey," you murmured, voice lower now, more serious. "Is that what we came here for tonight?"

It didn't take you long to figure it out. That half-concealed doorway, the one tucked just beyond the private corridor, wasn't just architectural flair. The subtle shift in guard placement, the way staff avoided even glancing at it…

That was it.

You didn't say anything outright. Just tilted your head slightly, brushing your fingers along San's sleeve as if adjusting it—casual, unassuming. "There," you murmured softly, barely moving your lips. "Three o'clock."

He followed your cue without turning his head. A beat. Then the faintest shift in his expression.

Understood.

You watched as his hand lifted briefly to his ear, so natural it almost went unnoticed. But now that you were close enough, you caught it, the near-invisible earpiece tucked beneath his hair. "Found it," he muttered under his breath, voice low enough for only one other person to hear. "Private corridor, east wing. Minimal rotation. You're up."

A pause.

Then, quieter on the line, "Mission accomplished." Wooyoung.

You didn't hear the reply, but you saw the subtle change in San's posture. The way the tension in him eased, just slightly.

Done.

He turned back to you, his hand already finding yours, not for show this time, but to guide. "Come on," he murmured.

And just like that, you slipped away from the corridor, from the guards, from the danger that had been circling just minutes ago. Back into the crowd. Then out of it. Later, you found yourselves on the balcony.

The noise of the party dulled behind glass doors, reduced to nothing more than muffled music and distant laughter. Outside, the air was cooler, cleaner, and the city stretched endlessly below in a sea of lights.

You leaned lightly against the railing, exhaling. Your body still thrummed faintly with adrenaline. "That was fun," you said, almost to yourself.

He stood beside you. Watching you. Always watching you. "You call that fun?"

You smiled faintly, gaze fixed on the skyline. "I call that living."

Silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable. Just… heavy.

You were still catching your breath, though you tried to hide it, the rise and fall of your chest just a little uneven, your fingers curling lightly around the railing as the night air brushed against your skin.

And he noticed. Of course he did. He noticed everything. Especially when it came to you.

You felt it before you saw it, the way he stepped closer. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just… drawn. Like something was pulling him in before he could think better of it. A quiet presence at your side. His hand lifted, hesitated, before brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. Fingers lingering just a second too long near your temple.

You didn't move. Didn't pull away. Instead, you huffed softly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. "What?" you murmured. "You're not the only one who can handle pressure."

His gaze didn't waver. If anything, it softened.

That caught you off guard more than anything else tonight.

"…I know," he said quietly. "…You shouldn't be this good at surviving."

And somehow, that felt heavier than any teasing remark he could've made. You let out a soft breath, turning your gaze back to the city. "I don't want to survive."

That made him pause.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. Your voice was quieter now. Honest. "I just want to live a little before I go."

Something in his expression broke. Just a fraction. But enough. Because this wasn't about the mission anymore. Not really. Not for him. And maybe, not for you either.

Inside, the music still swelled.

Laughter echoed, bright, careless, untouched by anything beyond the next glass, the next conversation, the next fleeting indulgence. Silk brushed against silk, champagne flowed endlessly, and the world carried on as if nothing could ever touch it. Life, in its most effortless form.

But out here, time felt different. Slower. Heavier.

For one fleeting, dangerous moment, it felt like neither of you wanted to let it start again. His gaze lingered on you. On the way the city lights reflected in your eyes. On the faint flush still dusting your cheeks from the night's adrenaline. On the way you looked… alive. More alive than he had ever seen you.

And yet, he noticed the shift. Subtle. But there. The way your shoulders dipped just slightly. The way your grip on the railing loosened. The way your breathing, though steady, carried the faintest hint of strain.

Time.

He felt it then—sharp, suffocating. Not his.

Yours.

You let out a soft breath, your smile still lingering as you glanced back toward the ballroom through the glass doors. "They look like they don't have a single worry in the world," you murmured.

He followed your gaze briefly.

Men laughing too loudly. Women draped in jewels that cost more than most lives. Carefree. Untouchable. A world that could have been yours. A world that would keep spinning long after—

He cut the thought off. His jaw tightened.

You didn't notice. Or maybe you did. Because the next second, your hand came up to your mouth as a soft cough escaped you. It was quiet. Quick. But it broke the moment clean in half.

His attention snapped back to you instantly.

You waved it off, a small, dismissive gesture. "I'm fine," you said, voice light, like it was nothing.

But he was already moving. "Sit." It wasn't harsh. But it wasn't a suggestion either.

You huffed a faint laugh, too tired to argue as he guided you gently toward one of the cushioned seats along the balcony. His hand hovered at your back, not quite touching, but close enough in case you faltered.

You sank into the seat with a soft exhale.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The music inside carried on. The world carried on. But here, it was quieter. Realer.

You tilted your head back slightly, eyes fluttering closed for just a second before opening again, catching him watching you. Still. Always watching. "…Don't look at me like that," you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips. "You're going to ruin the whole mysterious assassin image."

He didn't respond. Didn't look away. Because all he could see was the contrast. The woman who had just moved through a room full of elites like she belonged there. And the same woman now, slightly out of breath. A little too tired. Running out of time.

Something twisted in his chest.

Because the truth settled in, heavy and inescapable. This night, this version of you. It wasn't forever. And for the first time in a long time, the executioner of the Black Pirates didn't know what to do with that.

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The engine cut, and silence filled the car. But it isn't the kind of silence the Tempest is used to—the controlled, steady kind that came before a kill or after a job well done. This one felt different. It pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating, like something he can't quite escape.

He doesn't move. His hands remained on the steering wheel, fingers still curled tightly around it, as though he had forgotten how to let go. Outside, the city continued as if nothing had changed, lights flickering past, distant movement, life going on, but he didn't see any of it. All he sees is you.

Not the version of you from earlier that night; radiant beneath chandeliers, moving through the gala with effortless grace, laughter soft and alive as if the world hadn't already taken too much from you. No. What lingered was the version of you after.

The one standing at the hospital entrance, your body no longer held together by adrenaline and stubborn will. The way the nurses had stepped in without hesitation, guiding you back inside as though they already knew you wouldn't make it far on your own. The subtle falter in your steps. The way your strength seemed to slip through your fingers the moment the night ended.

And yet... that smile. God, that smile. Tired, worn thin, barely held together, and still so achingly alive that it burns itself into his memory.

San exhaled sharply, the sound rough as he dragged a hand down his face, pressing his palm hard against his eyes as if he could force the image away. As if he can push everything back into place, back into the neat, controlled compartments he's spent years building.

It doesn't work. Because something is wrong. Something inside him has shifted, loosened in a way he doesn't know how to fix.

He straightened abruptly, jaw tightening as he finally released the steering wheel. The movement felt foreign, like he was inhabiting a body that no longer responded the way it should.

Get it together, Choi San.

He knew this feeling. Or at least, he's seen it before, in other people. In weaker men. Men who hesitated, who let emotions cloud their judgement, who got attached. Men who didn't survive. And for a brief, unsettling moment, he didn't recognise himself. Not as the Tempest. Not as the name that ripples through the underworld with quiet dread. Not as the man who has built himself into something untouchable, something feared.

Right now, he was just a man sitting alone in a car, haunted by the memory of someone who is already slipping out of reach. The realisation twisted something sharp in his chest, and disgust followed quickly behind it—at himself, at the situation, at you.

A quiet, humourless scoff escaped him. "What the hell are you doing…" he muttered under his breath, the question sounding far less rhetorical than he intended. Because he didn't have an answer.

By the time he stepped into the Black Pirates' mansion, the mask was already back in place. It always is. The heavy doors opened, and the familiar atmosphere settled over him like a second skin—dark wood, dim lighting, the quiet undercurrent of danger woven into every corner. It was grounding in a way nothing else is. Controlled. Predictable.

Home.

"San hyung."

A few of the lower-ranking crew straightened at his presence as he passed. He acknowledged them with a firm nod, nothing more. His expression is already composed; cold, unreadable, untouched. There was no trace of the turmoil from moments before, no indication that anything had shifted at all. But beneath that carefully constructed exterior, something still felt… off. Unstable.

Forget her.

The thought came quickly, sharp and deliberate, as if repetition alone might make it true. Forget her before this turns into something worse. Before it becomes messy. Before it starts to hurt. His jaw tightens.

Too late.

The truth settled in quietly, but it landed deeper than anything else. It already did. And that made it worse. Because he barely knew you. You barely knew him. You didn't know what he was, what he's done, the blood on his hands, the things buried in the shadows that would shatter that light in your eyes if you ever saw them clearly.

This should make it easier. It should make walking away simple. Clean. Necessary. So why did the thought of never seeing you again feel like something was being torn out of his chest?

He inhaled slowly, forcing the feeling down, burying it where it belongs. That's enough. He draws a line in his mind, firm and unyielding. This ends here. No more. No more thoughts, no more moments, no more you. Once and for all.

"Good job tonight, San-ah."

The voice cut cleanly through his thoughts. He looked up to find the Captain watching him, expression calm but knowing in a way that always unsettled those who aren't used to it. He didn't react outwardly, but something in his chest tightened all the same.

From the side, Wooyoung let out a soft, amused snort as he straightened from where he had been lounging. "Good job?" he echoed, lips curving into a grin. "Him or his date?"

San remained still, offering no immediate response, but the Charmer didn't need one. "She saved you," he continued, ticking it off casually. "Twice. And found what we've been trying to get all night." His gaze sharpened slightly, curiosity slipping through the humour. "So," he added, tilting his head, "are you going to tell us who your mysterious girl is, Sannie?"

For the briefest moment, the Tempest stilled. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but in a room like this, even the smallest hesitation carries weight.

Hongjoong noticed. Of course he did.

San rolled his shoulders back, letting the familiar ease of his persona settle over him once more. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, dismissive, untouched. "Just another girl I picked up," he said with a shrug, that crooked smirk slipping easily into place. "Thought she was rather talented." There was a beat before he added, more firmly, "Don't overthink it. You know I never see the same girl twice."

Lies.

His gaze flickered, just once, before settling again. "You won't see her again." The words sounded convincing. Final.

To them, it was nothing.

To him, it felt like forcing down something jagged and unyielding, something that didn't quite fit, no matter how hard he tried to make it. It hurt. But he smiled anyway, as though it didn't. As though none of it did. Before the moment could linger, he shifted the focus away with practised ease. "Tell us, Woo," he continued, tone lightening just enough to bait, "is that miss bodyguard of yours still an impenetrable wall?"

Wooyoung raised a brow immediately.

San tilted his head slightly, amusement ghosting across his features. "Seems your charms aren't that lethal after all."

The younger of the two scoffed, rising to the challenge without hesitation. "Oh, you—"

The conversation moved on. Laughter filled the space, easy and familiar, slipping back into the rhythm they all know too well. It was effortless, this dynamic, sharp banter, quick retorts, the kind of interaction that required no thought, no vulnerability. San fell into it seamlessly. He listened, responded when necessary, and played his role exactly as expected.

The Tempest.

Untouchable. Unshaken. Unbreakable.

But later, when the room emptied and the noise faded into nothing, the silence returned. And this time, there was nothing left to distract him from it. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to you. Back to the way you had looked standing under those harsh hospital lights, back to that smile.

And for the first time in a long time, San realised this is not something he can outrun. Because this wasn't a fight. There was no enemy to eliminate, no threat to neutralise. No strategy to rely on.

This was something else entirely. Something quieter. Something far more dangerous. And as the weight of it settled in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome, one truth became impossible to ignore: he was losing control. Not in the way he understood. Not in the way he's been trained to handle. But in a way that left him with no weapons, no defences, and no way out. And that... that terrifies him more than anything ever has.

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"Dude, we almost fucked that up because of you."

Mingi's voice cut through the aftermath like a blade, sharp and unrestrained. The crime scene behind them was still settling; men clearing out, blood not yet dry, the air thick with the remnants of violence, but his anger burned hotter than all of it.

He bumped his shoulder harshly into San's as he strode past, not slowing, not softening. "Since when did the Tempest hesitate?" he continued, jaw tight. "That bastard spins some sob story about a sick kid, and you just—what? Froze?"

San stopped. The world didn't. But he did.

The Firestarter turned back when he realised his brother wasn't following, irritation flashing across his face. "He was lying, for fuck's sake," Mingi snapped. "You know that. He was pulling whatever shit he could to save his own skin."

San's jaw clenched, something dark and unsettled flickering behind his eyes. "And what if he wasn't?" he shot back, his voice lower, quieter, but no less sharp. "What would happen to that child now that he's gone?"

The question hung there. Wrong. Completely, utterly wrong for a man like him to ask.

Mingi stared at him for half a second, then let out a humourless laugh, the sound edged with disbelief. "Are you fucking serious right now?" He turned fully, stepping back toward San, incredulity bleeding into something harsher. "If he had a kid, that kid was probably already screwed," he scoffed. "Raised by a piece of shit like that? He'd grow up just as bad, if not worse."

Something in San snapped. A sharp, immediate reaction. "Is that right?" he bit out, stepping forward now, closing the space between them. "So that makes all of us the same, doesn't it?" His voice dropped, dangerous. "You. Me. Every one of us."

The taller man didn't flinch. If anything, he leaned into it. "Yeah," he said bluntly. "It does." The word landed heavily. Final. He straightened to his full height, towering just slightly over San, his gaze hard and unyielding. "We're fucking gangsters," Mingi continued, each word deliberate. "We kill. We steal. We do whatever the hell we need to win."

A beat.

"Since when had the Black Pirates been saints?"

Silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. Then Mingi's eyes narrowed slightly, something sharper slipping into place as he studied San more closely. "First the Captain…" he muttered, almost to himself, before his gaze snapped back, fully focused now. "Don't tell me you're next."

The Tempest didn't respond. And that was answer enough.

Mingi let out another short, disbelieving scoff, shaking his head. "Don't think I haven't noticed," he went on, his voice dropping lower, more pointed. "You've been disappearing."

San's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.

"To the goddamn hospital, of all places," Mingi added, watching him carefully now. "Since that night."

There it was. Laid bare. Ugly. Exposed.

Mingi tilted his head slightly, something almost mocking curling at the edge of his mouth. "What?" he pressed. "You found some dying girl to keep you entertained?"

San's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Or was it worse than that?" Mingi continued, relentless. "Got you all sentimental now?" The word felt like an insult. Like something dirty. Out of place. "Get your shit together, Choi."

That one landed harder than anything else.

Not Tempest. Not San.

Choi.

Personal. Grounding. A reminder of something he didn't like to acknowledge. Silence fell again, but this time, it was different. Heavier. Because Mingi wasn't entirely wrong. And that... that was what made it unbearable. San exhaled slowly, but there was nothing steady about it. His control—so carefully built, so tightly maintained—was fraying at the edges, thread by thread. And for a split second, he was back there again. Not at the crime scene. Not here.

But outside those hospital doors. Watching you disappear inside. That same tired, aching smile lingered like a ghost. Alive. Still choosing to live. While he... hesitated.

San's jaw tightened, something dark flashing across his expression as he finally looked back at his brother. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. Colder. More dangerous than before. "Watch your mouth." It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Because this wasn't the Tempest lashing out blindly. This was something sharper. More controlled. More personal. And somehow, that made it worse.

The Firestarter's words lingered long after the confrontation ended. Not because they had struck a nerve, San would have denied that without hesitation, but because they had forced something to the surface that he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to bury. And that, more than anything, irritated him. It was a weakness. One he had no intention of entertaining. So he stopped, just like that.

No more detours past the hospital. No more slowing the car near that stretch of road where the cliff overlooked the restless sea. No more late-night drives with no destination, no more silent checks just to see if a familiar figure was still standing at the edge, staring into something only you seemed to understand.

He cut it off cleanly. Deliberately. Like removing a tumour before it spreads any further. He told himself it was necessary. Logical. You were dying. That was a fact he couldn't change, couldn't fight, couldn't kill his way out of. There was no place for that in his world. No room for something so fragile, so inevitable.

And yet, the thought of not knowing lingered. Against his will. Were you still breathing? Were you still walking? Still smiling like that, as if time hadn't already begun slipping through your fingers? Or had it finally caught up to you? He shut the thought down the moment it surfaced. It didn't matter. It shouldn't, couldn't.

So, he threw himself back into work. Harder than before. Relentless. If there was a mission, he was already there. If someone needed backup, he volunteered before the words had fully left their mouths.

Yunho didn't question it the first time. Or the second. But by the third... "You're overdoing it," the Enforcer had muttered quietly, eyes scanning him in that way that missed very little.

San hadn't responded. He had simply reloaded his weapon and walked ahead. There was nothing to say.

With Yeosang, it was quieter. More subtle. The Phantom worked in silence, and San matched him easily, slipping into the rhythm of infiltration and execution like it was second nature.

It was. There, in the shadows, everything made sense again. Targets. Objectives. End results. No complications. No questions. No you.

And when it came time to kill, he didn't hesitate. Not anymore. If anything, he moved faster. Colder. Cleaner. Like he was trying to prove something, not to his brothers, not to the crew, but to himself.

The first man he killed after that night had begged. Not unusual. They all did, eventually. But this one had been louder. Desperate. Words tumbling over themselves as he clawed at the Tempest's sleeve, voice breaking as he tried to bargain for something he had already lost.

San didn't listen. He couldn't afford to. Because for a split second, it almost sounded like that man from before. The one with the supposed sick child. The one who had made him hesitate. The one who had—

No.

His grip tightened. The blade slid in cleanly. Precise. Efficient.

The man choked, the sound wet and uneven as blood filled his mouth. His hands twitched weakly before going still, his body collapsing in on itself as life drained out of him.

San didn't look away. He watched. Cold. Detached. This was who he was. This was what he did.

The next one struggled.

The one after that screamed.

Another gurgled as blood spilt too fast, too much, pooling beneath them in dark, spreading shapes.

San stood in the middle of it all, unmoving as crimson splattered across his face, his clothes, his hands. He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't feel. He tried, no—forced himself, to remember the thrill. The rush. The sharp clarity that used to come so easily, the sense of control that grounded him no matter how chaotic things became.

This was where he belonged. This was what he understood. Not soft smiles. Not quiet conversations. Not the fragile rise and fall of your breathing as you stood too close to the edge of something you wouldn't come back from.

His jaw tightened. The image slipped in anyway. Uninvited. Persistent. You. Standing there. Looking at him like you could see straight through everything he had built to keep people out. Alive. Too alive.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand across his face, smearing blood across his skin without care. "Focus," he muttered under his breath, voice low and edged. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. To himself. To the part of him that was slipping. That refused to stay buried. He straightened, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped over the bodies without a second glance. There was nothing here that mattered. Nothing that lingered. Nothing that followed him when he left.

That was how it was supposed to be. Clean. Simple. Forgettable.

But no matter how many bodies he left behind, no matter how much blood he washed from his hands, there was one thing he couldn't get rid of.

You.

Not the memory. Not the feeling. Not the quiet, gnawing thought that crept in when everything else went still. He tried to drown it. Tried to bury it beneath violence, beneath routine, beneath the version of himself he knew how to control. But it didn't disappear. It waited. Patient. Lingering in the spaces between breaths, in the silence after a mission, in the moments where there was nothing left to distract him.

And that was the problem.

Because Choi San had spent years mastering control. Perfecting it. Becoming it. But this... this wasn't something he could overpower. It wasn't something he could kill. And no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he hadn't forgotten you. Not even close.

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"Alright, hand me the list."

San's voice was low as he stepped into the Captain's office, already wiping down his handgun with a silk handkerchief, movements precise and habitual. The weapon gleamed under the dim light, spotless—ready. Just like him. Or at least, that was what he intended to be.

Across the room, Hongjoong looked up from his glass of whiskey, one brow lifting slightly as he took in the sight of him. "There is no list tonight," he said calmly. "Sit down."

San paused mid-motion. The handkerchief stilled in his hand as he lifted his head, eyes narrowing faintly behind his glasses as if he had misheard. "There isn't…?" he repeated.

The older man didn't answer the question. He simply nodded toward the chair across from him. "Did I stutter?" he replied instead, voice even. "We're here to talk about you tonight. Have a seat."

For a brief moment, San didn't move. Then, slowly, he lowered the gun onto the table beside him and crossed the room, each step measured, controlled. He sat stiffly, posture straight, hands settling against his thighs as if bracing for something he couldn't quite name. A flicker of unease curled low in his chest.

Shit, have I slipped? The thought came unbidden.

He had been careful. More than careful. He had buried everything, thrown himself into his work, sharpened himself back into something efficient and unfeeling. He had made sure of it. So why—

Hongjoong sighed softly, the sound cutting through his thoughts as he reached for another glass. He poured a generous amount of whiskey and slid it across the table toward San, the amber liquid catching the light. "Have a drink," he said. "Relax."

San stared at it for a second longer than necessary.

"You haven't been yourself lately, San-ah," Hongjoong continued, his tone gentler now, though no less perceptive. "Care to tell me why?"

The question settled heavily between them.

San opened his mouth, and nothing came out. For once, there was no sharp remark, no deflection, no easy smirk to fall back on. His expression remained composed, but something underneath it shifted, strained against the surface. His fingers curled slowly into his palm. He didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to say it. Because there was no clean explanation. No logical reason he could present that would make sense of this… instability.

And worse, he didn't want to say it out loud. Didn't want to admit that something as small, as fleeting as you had managed to do what years of bloodshed never could. Make him lose control. His jaw tightened.

Hongjoong had pulled him out of nothing all those years ago, given him purpose, direction, something solid to stand on when there had been nothing left. He hadn't been chosen for weakness. He had been chosen for strength. For precision. For the ability to cut away anything unnecessary. And now... now he was sitting here, unable to even form a proper answer. Pathetic.

No. He couldn't let it show. He couldn't let this version of himself surface again. He couldn't—

"Take a break."

San's head snapped up. "What?"

The gang leader didn't look surprised by the reaction. If anything, there was something knowing in his expression as he took a slow sip of his drink, as if he had already seen this outcome long before his brother stepped into the room. "I said," he repeated calmly, setting the glass down, "take a break."

San stared at him, the words not quite settling, not quite making sense. "A break?" he echoed, almost incredulous. "Right now?"

Hongjoong leaned back slightly in his chair, studying him, not as a leader assessing an asset, but as something else. Something quieter. Warmer. "Do what you need to do," he said. "Then come back to us when you're ready."

San's brows knit faintly, confusion threading into something sharper. "I don't—"

"You don't have to tell me what's on your mind," Hongjoong cut in gently, before he could finish. "Not if you're not ready."

A pause.

"You never have to."

The room fell quiet.

San held his gaze, searching for something, expecting pressure, expectation, disappointment. But none of it came.

Instead, Hongjoong's voice softened, just slightly. "Just… be kind to yourself, okay?" The words landed strangely. Foreign. "I know the lives we lead aren't exactly ideal," he continued, exhaling lightly. "But San-ah… sometimes, you need to remember that you're only human."

Only human. The phrase echoed faintly in his mind. And for a brief, disorienting moment, something shifted. Something old. San felt it then: that unfamiliar pull in his chest, tight and unsteady, like something long buried had been stirred awake. It dragged him backwards, to a version of himself he hadn't allowed to exist in years.

To the boy Hongjoong had found. Lost. Directionless. Standing at the edge of nothing. Back then, he had been allowed to feel. Allowed to break. Allowed to be… human. His throat tightened.

The present blurred at the edges for just a second before snapping back into place.

San reached for the glass. He didn't hesitate this time. The whiskey burned as it went down, sharp and unforgiving, but he welcomed it, anything to ground himself, to steady the sudden weight pressing against his ribs. When he set the empty glass back down, his fingers lingered against it for a moment longer than necessary. "…Thank you, hyung," he rasped, his voice rougher than usual. He stood, movements slower now, less certain. "I'll be back."

He didn't know when. Didn't know how long it would take to put whatever this was back into a box he could manage. But for the first time, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

The Captain didn't question it. Didn't ask for a timeline. He simply watched him with that same quiet, understanding gaze that had always seen too much and said too little. And somehow, that was enough. Because in that silence, in that unspoken permission, San understood something he hadn't allowed himself to before. It was okay to go. Okay to step away. Okay to—

His jaw tightened slightly.

To see you. To make sure you were still there. Still breathing. Still fighting in that quiet, stubborn way of yours. Still alive. The Tempest turned without another word, heading for the door. And this time, he didn't stop himself.

The walk back to his room felt longer than usual. He didn't remember passing the corridors, didn't register the familiar faces or the quiet murmurs that followed him as they always did. Everything blurred into background noise, distant and unimportant, like his mind had already moved somewhere else, somewhere far beyond the walls of the mansion.

He shut the door behind him with a soft click and just stood there. For a moment, he didn't know what he was doing. Didn't know what he was supposed to do. The room was the same as always: clean, minimal, untouched by anything unnecessary. A place built for function, not comfort. It had never bothered him before. Now it felt… hollow.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair as he tried to steady the restless energy coiling in his chest. Think. He needed to think. But the moment he tried, your face surfaced. That smile. That look in your eyes. Alive. Still choosing to live. His jaw tightened. "…Fuck." The word came out under his breath, rough and unfiltered.

Before he could stop himself, he moved. It wasn't a decision. Not really. His body acted before his mind could catch up, steps carrying him toward the closet as he yanked it open. A duffel bag was already in his hands before he registered grabbing it, the zipper splitting open with a sharp sound that echoed louder than it should have. Clothes. Essentials. Whatever his hands landed on first. He shoved them in without care, movements quick, almost mechanical, like he was operating on instinct alone. Like if he slowed down, even for a second, he might stop, might think, might talk himself out of it.

The bag filled faster than expected.

He paused briefly, staring down at it, chest rising and falling heavier than it should. What the hell was he doing? Leaving? For what? For who? The answer came immediately.

You. Of course, it was you. It had always been you.

He let out a quiet, humourless breath before zipping the bag shut in one swift motion. No more thinking. If he stayed here any longer, he'd lose whatever resolve he had left. He slung the bag over his shoulder and stepped out. The hallway was quieter now. Most had already turned in or retreated to their own spaces, the mansion settling into a low, restless calm. He didn't expect to run into anyone.

Of course, he did.

Mingi.

Leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed, like he had all the time in the world, and every intention of using it to get under someone's skin. His gaze dropped immediately to the bag slung over San's shoulder. Then back up. A scoff slipped out. "I swear," he muttered, shaking his head, "this gang's getting more fucked by the day."

San didn't stop walking.

"So, now you're leaving too, huh?"

That did it.

San stopped. Slowly, he turned. And for once, there was no restraint in the look he gave him. It was sharp. Cold. Fed up. "You know what, Song?" he said, voice low but cutting. "If there's one reason this gang ever falls apart, it's because of you and your endless hypocritical shit."

Mingi straightened slightly, caught off guard.

San didn't give him a chance to respond. "You complain about everyone else fucking shit up," he continued, stepping closer, each word deliberate, "but have you ever taken a look at yourself in a mirror?"

Silence. Heavy.

"You're the only one here who needs your little girlfriend to clean up after you," San added, his tone laced with quiet disdain. "So maybe stop focusing on everyone else for once… and look inward."

The Firestarter didn't move. Didn't speak. For the first time in a long time, he had nothing to say.

San held his gaze for a second longer before a humourless smirk tugged faintly at his lips. Then he turned. Walked away. But after a few steps, he stopped. Just briefly. "…Be good to her, will you?" he muttered, not looking back.

A pause.

"She might not be there forever, you know. Don't take her for granted."

The words lingered in the air long after he left.

Mingi stood frozen, something unreadable flickering across his expression as he swallowed hard. For once, he was left speechless.

San didn't look back after that. Not at the mansion. Not at anything. By the time he reached his car, his thoughts had narrowed into something sharp. Focused. Singular. The duffel bag landed on the passenger seat with a dull thud. He slid into the driver's seat, hands gripping the steering wheel as the engine roared to life beneath him.

He needed to see you. The thought came fast. Certain. Needed to know you were still there. Still breathing. Still fighting.

His jaw clenched. He needed to apologise... for disappearing, for trying to pretend you didn't exist, for lying, to himself more than anything else. And maybe... maybe he needed to tell you. Everything. Before it was too late. Before you—

His grip tightened suddenly, knuckles whitening against the wheel. The thought hit him hard. Sharp. Unforgiving. What if you're already gone? The air in his lungs stilled. What if he had waited too long? What if you had slipped away quietly, just like that, without him ever knowing, without him ever saying a single word that mattered? Without you ever knowing how much you had gotten under his skin. How much you had changed something in him he didn't even understand. How much you—

He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing it down, forcing everything down.

The Tempest didn't understand it. Didn't understand how someone like you—small, fragile, already fading—had managed to shake him this deeply. You had nothing. Nothing he could take. No leverage. No secrets. No power. Just time. Time that was slipping through your fingers with every passing second. So why... why couldn't he let you go?

He didn't have an answer. And for once, he didn't care to find one. Because whatever this was, it didn't need logic. It didn't need reason. It just… was.

He exhaled sharply, shifting the car into gear. "Fuck it," he muttered under his breath. And then, he drove.

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San's legs moved before his mind could catch up, carrying him out of the car the moment the engine died. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the restless roar of the waves below. He barely registered it. Barely registered anything at all.

The path to the cliff was one he knew too well, one he had forced himself to forget, only to find it etched deeper into his bones than any habit he had ever built. Each step felt heavier than the last, his heartbeat loud, erratic, like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

This place… it had once been nothing more than a dumping ground. A graveyard for the nameless. The bodies he had discarded here were long gone now; dragged into the sea, claimed by time, erased without a trace. None of that mattered. Not anymore.

All that mattered was you.

His jaw tightened as he approached the edge, steps slowing despite himself, as if bracing for something he couldn't quite name. Or maybe he could. Maybe he just didn't want to. Because when he finally looked up, you weren't there. The world didn't shatter. It didn't stop. But something inside him did.

He froze, breath catching sharply in his throat as his eyes scanned the empty stretch of cliffside, once, twice—again, like he could will you into existence if he just looked hard enough.

Nothing.

A cold, sickening weight settled in his chest.

No…

His mind spiralled instantly, violently. Did you leave? Were you too weak tonight? Or—

His stomach dropped.

Was it the illness?

Had it finally taken you? Or worse, had you come here… alone… and taken that step he had always feared? His hands curled into fists at his sides, breath turning uneven as something dangerously close to panic clawed its way up his throat.

No. No, you wouldn't—

"Ah, look who decided to show up again. I thought you died." The voice came from behind him, soft, almost amused.

And the Tempest snapped. He turned so fast it was almost violent, eyes wide, breath hitching as if he had just been dragged back from drowning. There you were. Standing there. Alive.

For a second, he couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could only stare. Because you looked... smaller. Weaker. Like the wind could take you if it tried hard enough. The beanie sat loosely over your head now, no longer hiding how little hair remained beneath it, just a few fragile strands peeking out, thin and brittle. Your frame looked lighter too, like pieces of you had been quietly slipping away while he wasn't there to witness it. And yet, that grin. That same teasing, stubborn grin still lingered on your lips, worn at the edges but unmistakably you.

It hit him harder than anything else.

He swallowed thickly, his feet finally moving as he stepped toward you, slower this time, like approaching something delicate, something he was afraid might disappear if he got too close too fast. His hands lifted almost instinctively, settling gently on your shoulders. Careful. Grounding. He wasn't sure if he was trying to steady you. Or himself.

You were warm. Real. Alive.

His grip tightened ever so slightly, just enough to reassure himself you wouldn't slip through his fingers like everything else seemed to. "I should be saying that to you," he muttered, voice rougher than he intended.

You scoffed immediately, rolling your eyes despite the faint exhaustion that lingered behind the motion. "Rude," you shot back, your voice lighter than your body looked like it should allow. "I'm not the one who went MIA." The words landed. Harder than they should have.

San stilled, something flickering across his face; guilt, sharp and unguarded, breaking through before he could stop it. For once, there was no quick comeback. No smirk. No deflection.

His hands remained on your shoulders, but his gaze dropped slightly, like he couldn't quite hold yours the way he usually did. "I…" His jaw clenched, the words catching in his throat. He had faced men begging for their lives without hesitation. Pulled triggers without a second thought. And yet, standing here, in front of you, he didn't know how to say something as simple as sorry.

A quiet, humourless exhale left him as he shook his head faintly, more at himself than anything else. "I had things to deal with," he said finally, the excuse sounding hollow even to his own ears.

His grip softened, thumbs brushing faintly against your arms before he forced himself to let go, as if realising too late that he had been holding on a little too tightly. But he didn't step back. Couldn't. His eyes lifted to you again, searching, checking, memorising, reassuring himself all over again that you were still here.

"…You're still coming here," he added, quieter now. Not quite a question. More like disbelief. More like relief he didn't know how to voice. Because despite everything, despite the time, the distance, the way he had tried so hard to cut this off before it could grow into something dangerous, you were still here.

And so was he. And that… that already felt like something he was going to lose control over all over again.

You didn't pull away when his hands lingered a second too long. Instead, you tilted your head, studying him in that quiet, unsettling way that always made him feel more seen than he was comfortable with.

He noticed it immediately. That look wasn't relief. It wasn't simple happiness at seeing him again. You were assessing him, measuring the differences, weighing what had changed in his absence. And for reasons he couldn't quite explain, that unnerved him far more than any weapon ever had.

"Yeah," you said after a beat, your voice edged with that familiar dry sarcasm. "I'm still coming here." Your gaze flicked briefly toward the cliff behind him before returning to his face. "Someone has to make sure you don't dump any more bodies while I'm gone."

A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh, though it didn't quite make it. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction, your tone grounding him in a way nothing else had managed to since he got here. "Missed me that much?" he shot back, the corner of his lips twitching.

You didn't take the bait. Instead, you shifted your weight, and the change was immediate, noticeable. Your knees dipped slightly, your balance faltering just enough for him to catch it.

"Hey—" His hand moved before he could think, steadying you by the arm. This time, there was no hesitation, no restraint, just instinct.

You let him. But you didn't let it go. "Relax," you muttered, shooting him a look. "I'm not about to collapse dramatically into your arms. Not tonight, at least."

"Not funny," he muttered, his jaw tightening despite himself.

You caught that, of course, you did. Your gaze sharpened just slightly, cutting through him with quiet precision. "Didn't say it was." The shift was subtle, but it was there. You weren't letting him hide tonight. Not behind jokes, not behind distance, not behind whatever excuse he thought he could get away with. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then you exhaled softly, the tension easing just enough as you jerked your chin toward the path. "Walk me back," you said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

San didn't argue. Didn't hesitate. His hand adjusted around your arm, more secure this time as he guided you away from the edge. His pace slowed instinctively to match yours, each step measured, deliberate. Every shift in your weight, every uneven breath, you didn't have to say a word. He noticed it all. And it was driving him insane.

Because you were here. You were right beside him. But you were also slipping. And he had no idea how to stop it.

"I thought you died on the job or something, you know," you said after a moment, your voice laced with sarcasm as you let him lead you down the familiar path.

He huffed quietly under his breath, shaking his head. "Something like that."

The look you gave him then was unimpressed, sharp enough to slice through the weak excuse without effort. You didn't call him out directly, not yet, but you didn't let it pass either. Then you shrugged, like you were letting him off easy. "But you're here now," you said, softer this time. "And that's all that matters."

It should have eased something in him. Instead, it tightened around his chest. Because you said it like it was simple. Like disappearing didn't leave a mark.

By the time the bench came into view—the same one across the hospital, the one that had quietly become yours—the silence between you had grown heavier, thicker with everything unsaid. You let him help you sit this time. There was no teasing, no resistance. You simply sank into the seat with a quiet exhale, the kind that spoke of exhaustion you didn't bother to hide anymore.

He remained standing for a moment, looking down at you. Really looking. At the slight slump of your shoulders, at the way your fingers rested loosely in your lap without their usual energy, at the subtle change in your breathing that no one else would have noticed, but he did. And something in his chest twisted painfully.

"So," you said, leaning back slightly as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze, "how long are you planning to disappear on me after this?"

There it was.

No softness. No pretending.

San stilled, the question hitting him too quickly, too directly for him to deflect. And this time, he didn't try. "I won't," he said immediately, the words firm, certain, almost desperate in their urgency.

Your brows lifted slightly at that.

"…Not again," he added, quieter now. "Not anymore."

The air between you shifted. You felt it. He felt it.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You turned your head just slightly, biting back the smile that threatened to form, but not fast enough to hide it completely. He caught it, of course, he did, and something about it settled deep under his skin in a way he couldn't ignore.

"Good," you murmured, your voice light again, though there was something more deliberate beneath it now. "Make it up to me, then."

He blinked, caught off guard. "…Make it up to you?" he echoed.

You shrugged, like you hadn't just shifted the ground beneath him. "Yeah. You disappeared. I suffered. Seems fair." The teasing was still there, but it wasn't weightless. Not this time. There was something beneath it, a quiet line drawn, a demand left unspoken but unmistakably clear.

Stay.

A soft breath escaped him, something almost like a laugh as he finally moved to sit beside you. Close, but not too close. Not trusting himself, not trusting whatever this was becoming.

But even that distance didn't last.

Your hand rested between you, close enough that he didn't have to reach far at all. And before he could stop himself, before he could think it through, he reached for it. His hand covered yours, warm and steady, grounding in a way that surprised even him.

You didn't pull away. Didn't react, didn't tease—nothing. And somehow, that made it mean more.

"I'll make it all up to you," he said, quieter now, but no less certain. For once, he didn't feel like the Tempest. Didn't feel like the man who made the underworld tremble at the sound of his name. Sitting there beside you, with your hand beneath his, he felt something far more dangerous. Someone who meant every word.

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Morning sunlight spilt through the kitchen window, casting warm bands of gold across the worn wooden floorboards. The front door stood open to let in the fresh air, carrying with it the distant sounds of the town slowly waking: horse carts rattling over cobblestones, shopkeepers raising their shutters, and somewhere nearby, the ringing of a church bell.

"Bye, Mr and Mrs Choi!" The cheerful cry came from outside.

You immediately brightened.

Little Thomas from the neighbouring house was hurrying down the street with his father, his satchel bouncing wildly against his side as he raced several steps ahead before being called back. The boy waved enthusiastically.

You laughed softly and lifted a hand in return. "Bye, sweetheart!" Your voice was thinner these days, quieter than it used to be, but the warmth within it remained unchanged.

Beside the doorway, San watched the exchange in silence. At the mention of Mr and Mrs Choi, something flickered briefly across his face—something subtle enough that only someone looking for it would notice. Then he nodded politely toward the father.

The man returned the gesture with an easy smile. "Have a good morning."

"You too," the gang member replied. Once they disappeared further down the street, he reached over and pulled the front door shut. The latch clicked. You immediately knew that look. "How many times have I told you not to leave the door open?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. "The morning air is too cold for you."

You pouted without a hint of remorse. "Well, excuse me for wanting to say hello to my favourite child." You returned to the small breakfast table near the window when he sighed, settling carefully into your chair. "I can't exactly skip our daily greetings."

He narrowed his eyes but followed after you anyway.

"If I can't have one of my own," you continued lightly as you picked up your spoon, "then I'll just admire someone else's." He stilled immediately. The shift was subtle. But you felt it. Still, you forced yourself to continue eating. "Besides..." you added with a small shrug. "Who knows how many more mornings I'll get to see him—"

"Enough." The word landed sharply. Not angry. Worse. Hurt.

You looked up to find him staring at you across the table, jaw tight. His eyes held something raw beneath the irritation. Something that made your chest ache. The room fell quiet. After a moment, you sighed softly and lowered your gaze. "...Okay, fine."

Only then did some of the tension leave his shoulders. He sat down across from you once more. For a while, neither of you spoke. You focused on your breakfast while he focused on you, on the way your hands trembled slightly around the spoon, the pauses between bites, the exhaustion that seemed permanently woven into your movements now. He noticed everything. And it terrified him.

"Didn't know you could cook this well," you said eventually, glancing up with a faint smile. "Do they teach this in assassin school or wherever the hell you came from?"

A quiet sigh escaped him. Of course, you'd circle back to that. He leaned back in his chair before instinctively reaching across the table. His fingers found yours, his thumb brushed over the simple band resting on your ring finger.

The ring. Plain. Modest. Worth almost nothing.

And somehow more precious to him than any treasure hidden away in the Black Pirates' vaults. Cheap by the gang's standards, almost laughably simple compared to the jewels, gold, and stolen fortunes hidden away in their inventory rooms. Yet he had taken it anyway. Not because it was valuable but because it had felt right. His thumb lingered against the metal as the memory returned with painful clarity.

You had looked exhausted that night too. Curled quietly in the passenger seat while city lights blurred beyond the window as he drove without a destination in mind. The silence had stretched comfortably between you until your voice broke it. "Take me away, San." He remembered glancing over immediately, brows knitting together.

You had been staring out the window then, watching the city pass by. "I don't want to spend my last days in this hospital," you'd murmured softly. Your voice had been fragile but certain. "That's all I ask." The words had settled heavily inside the car. Then, after a long pause… "That's how you'll make it up to me."

And San… God help him. Had done exactly that. He had driven until the city disappeared entirely behind them. Far away from the Black Pirates. Far away from blood-soaked streets and whispered names. Far away from everything that made up Choi San.

Now the two of you lived in a small town tucked somewhere along the outskirts, hidden from the chaos of the world. The little rented cottage wasn't much. The furniture was mismatched. The floorboards creaked whenever it rained. The wallpaper had begun peeling near the kitchen window. But it was quiet. Safe.

Sometimes, late at night, he still stood alone in the kitchen, wondering what the hell had happened to him. The Tempest, the executioner of the Black fucking Pirates, an assassin feared throughout the underworld. Now buying fresh bread from the baker because you preferred it warm, opening windows because you liked the smell of rain, and learning how to make soup because it was one of the few things your stomach could still tolerate.

And the worst part? He didn't hate it. Not even a little. In fact… it had become the closest thing to happiness he had ever known. His gaze lowered once more to your joined hands. The guilt settled heavily in his chest.

You still didn't know who he really was. Not completely. You knew enough to understand he was dangerous. Enough to recognise there was blood on his hands. But not the extent of it. Not the fear attached to his name. And he… he still didn't know everything about you either. Not your full past. Not what your life had looked like before illness hollowed it out piece by piece. The imbalance lingered between you. Uneasy. Painful.

He swallowed hard. "Look, I—"

Before he could continue, your fingers tightened around his. You shook your head gently. "No." His brows furrowed. "It's okay," you said softly. "You don't have to tell me the truth about who you are." The words struck harder than any accusation ever could. You smiled faintly. Tiredly. "Let's just stay like this until the end, okay?"

The end.

You said it so easily. As though you had already made peace with it. "Consider it my final wish." Your voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Please?"

Something inside him cracked.

Final. God, he hated that word. He wanted to tell you there would be more time. More mornings. More breakfasts. More seasons. But neither of you had ever lied to each other about the things that mattered. So instead, he swallowed against the ache rising in his throat and forced the smallest smile he could manage. Then he nodded.

Because if this was what you wanted... if all you wanted before the end was to feel loved, then he would quiet every storm inside himself just to give you one season of peace. The Tempest, once feared for the destruction he left behind, found himself stilling willingly at your fingertips; offering every fractured, bloodstained piece of his heart as though loving you gently could somehow make up for how cruelly the world had loved you instead.

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The first time San woke to find your side of the bed empty, his heart nearly stopped. Years of instinct had him awake before his mind could properly catch up, his hand already reaching toward the knife hidden beneath the bedside table as his gaze swept the darkened room. For one brief, terrifying moment, every worst-case scenario flashed through his head at once.

Then he noticed the faint glow spilling from beneath the kitchen door. Only then did he relax. Slightly. Not completely. Never completely.

The cottage was silent at this hour, wrapped in darkness and moonlight. Outside, rain from earlier still dripped softly from the eaves, the rhythmic sound blending with the distant hum of the sleeping town. It should have been peaceful.

Instead, he found himself immediately heading toward the kitchen. He discovered you sitting at the table wrapped in one of his wool sweaters, your knees tucked beneath you, and your chin resting on your folded arms. The sweater hung loosely from your frame these days, the sleeves extending well past your fingertips.

You looked up when he entered, offering him a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

His brow furrowed immediately. "For what?"

"Waking you."

"You didn't." A pause followed before his gaze swept over your face, taking in the slight pallor beneath your skin and the exhaustion lingering around your eyes. "You look nauseous."

A dramatic groan escaped you as you let your forehead fall onto the tabletop. "Look at him," you muttered. "Sherlock Holmes strikes again."

He rolled his eyes, but he was already moving toward the stove. You watched quietly as he reached for the kettle and began gathering ingredients from the cupboard. It was a familiar routine by now, one neither of you acknowledged aloud.

The cottage kitchen wasn't much to look at. The stove was old, and the dishes looked as though they had been collected from half a dozen different households over the years. It wasn't the sort of place either of you should have ended up in. And yet somehow it had become yours.

"What are you making?" you asked as he filled a pot with water.

"Soup."

You visibly deflated. "I was hoping for something more exciting."

"You threw up yesterday."

"...Right."

"Soup."

"...Right."

The corner of his mouth twitched. God, you made him smile so much now. The realisation would have horrified him six months ago. The Tempest of the Black Pirates had once built his entire identity around emotional detachment. Yet now, all it took was one look from you, and he found himself fighting back smiles he no longer had the energy to suppress.

Steam slowly rose from the pot as he stirred the broth. Across the room, you watched him in silence, watched the careful way he moved, the patience in every action, the gentleness he never seemed to realise he possessed. It fascinated you sometimes. Because nobody looking at Choi San would assume tenderness existed inside him. He carried himself like a weapon. Spoke like a man accustomed to violence. Moved like someone who was always prepared for a fight.

And yet here he was. Standing barefoot in a tiny cottage kitchen at three in the morning, making soup because you couldn't sleep. As though it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You know," you murmured eventually.

"Hm?"

"You take care of people better than anyone I've ever met."

His hand paused briefly against the spoon before continuing. "You have low standards."

"No." A soft smile touched your lips. "I think you just have a good heart."

The silence that followed felt strangely fragile. Painful, even. San stared into the simmering broth. If only you knew. If only you knew what those hands had done; how many graves they had filled, how many lives they had ended, how much blood had stained his skin long before he ever learned how to hold yours gently. And yet… you still looked at him like that. Like he was someone worth loving. Someone worth saving.

Eventually, he carried the bowl over and placed it in front of you. "Eat."

For once, you obeyed without argument. The warmth seemed to help almost immediately. Slowly, little by little, some of the tension left your shoulders. The colour returned faintly to your face.

He watched as your eyelids grew heavier, and heavier… and heavier. He was halfway through telling you to finish eating before the soup got cold when he realised you weren't listening anymore. You had fallen asleep. Your head rested against your folded arms on the table, the spoon still loosely dangling from your fingers. San stopped speaking. Everything inside him went quiet.

You looked so peaceful when you slept, so small, so tired. For a moment, the illness seemed less visible. As though it had loosened its grip on you long enough to allow you a few hours of rest.

Carefully, he removed the spoon from your hand, then he slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. The motion had become easier lately. Not because he had gotten stronger, but because you had gotten lighter… far too light.

His jaw tightened immediately as you shifted slightly against his chest, but didn't wake. And as he carried you back toward the bedroom, a terrible realisation settled heavily inside him. He could feel you disappearing. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But slowly. Quietly. A little more every day. And there wasn't a damn thing the Tempest could do about it.

The following morning arrived bright and warm. And unfortunately for San, you woke up feeling energetic, which usually meant trouble.

"I want to come."

"No."

"I'm coming."

"No."

"Sannie~"

"No."

You smiled sweetly. Five minutes later, you were walking beside him toward the town market. Victorious. He was beginning to suspect you possessed supernatural abilities.

The market square was already bustling by the time you arrived. Vendors called out to passing customers, children darted between stalls, and the scent of freshly baked bread drifted through the morning air. Horse carts rattled over cobblestone streets while colourful flowers spilt from wooden crates outside the florist's stand.

You looked delighted while he looked exhausted, mostly because every few minutes, he caught you attempting to buy something completely unnecessary.

"Sweets, Sannie."

"No."

"Just one, pwetty pwease."

"No."

"Two?"

"No."

You shot him a deeply offended look. "You're no fun."

"You're sick."

You narrowed your eyes. "Those are unrelated issues."

They were absolutely related issues. Even so, the basket hanging from his arm steadily grew heavier as you wandered from stall to stall. Honey cakes. Books. Ribbons. Flowers. You wanted to look at everything.

Meanwhile, his attention never stopped moving. Years of training made it impossible. His gaze swept across crowds automatically, identifying exits, noting unfamiliar faces, tracking movement without even realising he was doing it. The Tempest was always there beneath the surface. Even here. Even now.

Then came the teacups. Or rather… the ugliest teacups that anyone had ever seen. You gasped dramatically. "Oh my god, Sannie."

The gang member immediately knew he was in trouble. "No."

"But look at them."

"They're horrible."

"They're adorable."

"They're horrifying."

The cups were painted with crooked little ducks whose eyes pointed in completely different directions. The colours were uneven. The craftsmanship questionable. They were objectively awful… but you clutched one protectively to your chest. "Imagine these in our kitchen." The words escaped naturally. Without thought. Without hesitation.

And San froze.

Our kitchen. For one brief, dangerous moment, he could see it. Morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Tea brewing on the stove. You sitting at the table waiting for him. Alive. Well. His chest hurt instantly. Because he wanted it.

God help me.

He wanted it so badly it frightened him. "Fine," he muttered.

Your eyes widened. "Really?"

"Fine, we're getting the stupid ducks."

The smile that spread across your face was worth every penny. And just like that, every ounce of resistance vanished.

Then it happened ten minutes later.

One moment, you were walking beside him. The next, you weren't.

San stopped immediately. The world sharpened. His gaze swept the crowd. Nothing. His pulse spiked. Not concern. Not worry. Fear. Raw and immediate. The Tempest surfaced instantly. His eyes scanned faces. Entrances. Exits. Potential threats. Every protective instinct he possessed roared to life at once. His body moved before thought could catch up.

And then—

He found you, perfectly safe, standing beside an elderly woman who was enthusiastically explaining which vegetables made the best winter soup. You were listening with complete sincerity, as though she had just revealed the secrets of the universe. Relief hit him so hard it nearly made him dizzy. The woman noticed him first. "Oh!" she said brightly. "There's your husband."

You turned, beaming and waving at him.

The old woman smiled warmly before glancing between the two of you. "Your wife's adorable."

And his heart clenched. Because for one terrifying second… it felt real. Not temporary. Not borrowed. Not pretend. You standing there in the morning sunlight, holding a basket, laughing at something an old woman had said. His wife. His home. His future. And for a man who had spent his entire life surviving, that possibility frightened him more than anything else. Because now he had something to lose.

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A few days later, the rain arrived without warning. One moment, the sky was clear. The next, dark clouds rolled overhead. You were outside hanging laundry when the first drops began to fall. Then the heavens opened immediately. Instead of seeking shelter, you burst into laughter.

San groaned from the doorway. "Get inside, idiot."

"No."

"Now."

"We can save them!"

He looked at the laundry line. "The shirts?"

"The shirts." You darted toward the clothesline.

He followed with a long-suffering sigh.

And for a moment, just for one moment, you looked free. You stood beneath the rain laughing as water soaked through your clothes and plastered loose strands of hair against your forehead. Your arms were full of half-drenched sheets while your smile shone brighter than anything else in the world. For a few precious seconds, you looked like someone who had forgotten they were dying.

The sight nearly brought him to his knees.

But then you coughed. Once. Twice. Then harder. Everything changed immediately. The laughter vanished. Your shoulders folded inward as another cough tore through you. Then another. And another. Painfully, relentlessly. He reached you in seconds, one arm wrapped around your waist while the other supported your shoulders. "That's enough."

Rain soaked both of you. You tried to wave him off. "Sannie, I'm okay—" Another cough cut you off. You weren't. And you both knew it.

He pulled you closer instinctively, shielding you uselessly from the rain as though he could somehow protect you from what was already happening inside your body. His jaw tightened. His chest hurt. Because this kept happening. Moments where he forgot, moments where he allowed himself to imagine a future... and then reality would return cruelly like this every fucking time.

The rain had kept you indoors for nearly two days.

By the third, you were restless.

He discovered this when he returned from town to find you sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table with an expression that immediately put him on guard. It was the same expression you wore whenever you were about to become a problem. "What did you do?"

You looked up innocently. "Nothing."

"That's a lie."

"It is."

He sighed heavily before his eyes landed on the small box resting beside your elbow. A camera, one of those inexpensive Kodak box cameras sold at the general store. The kind ordinary families used to capture birthdays and holidays, the kind people bought to preserve memories.

He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. "You bought a camera."

"I did."

"Why?"

You shrugged. "No reason." Which meant there was absolutely a reason. Unfortunately, prying further proved useless. You simply smiled and refused to elaborate. And so the mystery began.

The first photograph was taken the following morning. He was halfway through preparing breakfast when a sudden click made him look up. You were aiming the camera directly at him.

"What are you doing?"

Another click. "Nothing."

"You're taking a picture of me."

"Correct."

"Why?"

You lowered the camera. "Because you look grumpy."

"I always look grumpy."

"Exactly." Click.

He groaned, knowing full well that from that day onward, the camera seemed permanently attached to your hands.

True enough, you photographed everything. The breakfast table. The flowers growing beside the cottage fence. The ducks on your hideous teacups. The baker's shop. The horse that always stood outside the butcher's. The orange cat that wandered into your garden and behaved as though it owned the property. Most concerningly… you photographed him. Constantly, no matter what he did. Reading. Cooking. Chopping wood. Repairing the fence.

Half the photographs were probably useless. The other half captured him looking annoyed, but you claimed those were your favourites.

One evening, while the sun melted gold across the horizon, you convinced him to sit beside you on the porch steps before promptly taking another photograph.

San glanced over. "That one was definitely blurry."

"Probably."

"Then why take it?"

You smiled. "Because I liked the moment." Something tightened in his chest. He didn't understand why, not yet.

The photographs continued. Your hand and his intertwined across the kitchen table. The laundry hanging between the houses. The market square. The cottage. The sunsets. The little pieces of life most people never thought to preserve.

Then one afternoon, he found you sitting alone beneath the tree outside with the camera resting in your lap. Your expression was distant, thoughtful. The sight unsettled him immediately as he moved to sit beside you. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then he glanced toward the camera. "You still haven't told me why."

You traced a finger across the worn leather strap. "Why what?"

"Why you're taking pictures of everything."

The breeze shifted softly through the branches overhead. For a moment, you didn't answer. When you finally did, your voice was quiet. Small. "I want proof."

San frowned. "Proof of what?"

You looked down at the camera, then out toward the little cottage, toward the garden, toward the life the two of you had built together from almost nothing. When you smiled, it was beautiful. And it broke his heart immediately. "I want proof I was happy."

The world stopped.

He stared, unable to speak. Unable to breathe.

You laughed softly, as though you hadn't just shattered something inside him. "That's silly, isn't it?"

No, it wasn't. Because suddenly he understood. The photographs, the flowers, the breakfasts, the sunsets, the cats, the stupid duck teacups. None of it was random. You were preserving evidence and collecting fragments, building a record of your existence. A way to say: I was here. I lived. I loved. I was loved. And worst of all… you were doing it because some part of you knew there wouldn't be much time left to remember for yourself.

He felt dread settle into his chest like a stone. Heavy. Permanent. Terrifying. Because while you were taking photographs to prove you had been happy… he found himself wondering how he was supposed to survive looking at them after you were gone.

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The request came on an ordinary morning.

You were sitting by the kitchen window, wrapped in one of his sweaters, watching the sunlight spill across the little patch of garden outside, when you suddenly spoke. "Hey, Sannie?"

He looked up from where he was repairing one of the loose fence posts near the front porch. "Hm?"

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I want one beautiful day."

Something in your voice made him stop immediately. The hammer lowered slowly from his hand as he turned to look at you properly. There was nothing particularly unusual about your expression. If anything, you looked peaceful. Yet somehow that simple sentence had lodged itself beneath his ribs. "What do you mean?"

Your gaze drifted back toward the window. "No illness." The smile remained. "No sadness." His chest tightened. You were still looking outside when you added quietly, "No reality." Only then did you turn back toward him. "Just one day."

For a moment, San simply stared before nodding. "Okay." No questions. No arguments. Because if there was one thing he had learned since meeting you, it was that time had become far too precious to waste fighting over things that mattered.

So the next morning, before dawn had fully broken across the horizon, he packed a small bag and drove the two of you to the coast. The sea greeted you beneath a sky painted gold and pale lavender, and the moment your shoes touched the sand, you laughed. The sound hit him harder than it should have. God… he loved that laugh. He loved it so much, it frightened him.

For the first time in weeks, you seemed lighter somehow. Not physically, never physically. The illness had long since stolen that from you. But something inside you appeared freer that day, as though the ocean breeze had lifted some invisible burden from your shoulders.

You immediately began collecting shells. Every few minutes, you would hurry back to him with another treasure clutched in your hand. "This one looks like a heart."

He glanced at it. "It's a shell."

You gasped in outrage. "This one is prettier."

"They're both shells."

"You have no imagination."

Before he could defend himself, you stuffed the shell into his coat pocket anyway. It stayed there for the rest of the day. The hours slipped by easily after that.

You chased seagulls, lost miserably, and then accused the birds of cheating. At one point, you discovered a large piece of driftwood and promptly declared yourself queen of the beach, demanding that he take photographs of your reign. When he refused, you took the camera and photographed him instead. The result was undoubtedly terrible. Mostly because you were laughing too hard to hold the camera straight. Later, you somehow convinced him to sit in the sand long enough for you to bury both of his feet completely.

The Tempest of the Black Pirates looked down at himself in disbelief. "You realise I could kill people for less."

You grinned. "You won't."

"No?"

"No." You patted the mound of sand imprisoning him. "You're a big softie now, Sannie."

He scoffed, but he didn't argue. Because you were right. Look what you did… you've ruined me forever. You had taken one look at the monster he had spent years becoming and somehow discovered the man hidden underneath. And now he didn't know how to go back.

As the afternoon slowly melted into evening, the world softened into shades of gold and amber. The crowds began thinning. The wind grew cooler. The sea stretched endlessly before you, glowing beneath the dying sunlight. Eventually, the two of you settled together atop a small rise overlooking the shore.

For a while, neither of you spoke. There was no need. The silence felt comfortable. Sacred, even.

You were the one who turned first, your eyes meeting his. And suddenly the entire world seemed to shrink until there was nothing left except the two of you. Your smile softened. "So..."

His throat tightened immediately. "So?"

"You gonna keep staring?"

A quiet laugh escaped him. "Maybe."

"You've gotten bold."

"You've gotten annoying."

You gasped dramatically before smiling. And before either of you could overthink it, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his surprisingly soft ones. The kiss was tender, gentle. Neither hurried nor desperate. It wasn't a goodbye. It wasn't tragic. It wasn't bittersweet. It was simply a kiss. A first kiss… your very first one with him. The kind people shared every day without realising how precious they were.

San's hand rose instinctively to cradle your cheek, as though some part of him was afraid you might disappear if he let go. When you smiled against his lips, he felt his heart stumble. And for one reckless, impossible moment, he allowed himself to imagine a future. A real one where there were more sunsets after this, more mornings, more years… and more you.

When you finally pulled away, you looked entirely too pleased with yourself. "About damn time, Choi San." The laugh that escaped him was genuine and warm as you settled beside him again, resting your head on his shoulder as naturally as breathing.

Together, the two of you watched the sun begin its slow descent toward the horizon. The sky shifted gradually from gold to amber, from amber to crimson, from crimson to deep violet.

At some point, your breathing grew slower, softer.

He smiled faintly, cheek resting against your forehead. "Tired?" When no answer came, he wasn't concerned. You had been exhausted lately after all. The day had probably taken more out of you than you wanted to admit. His arm tightened gently around your shoulders. "I swear to god, you always fall asleep at the best parts."

Still nothing.

His smile lingered for another moment.

Then something inside him shifted. A feeling, small at first. Almost imperceptible. But wrong, terribly wrong. Years of surviving in a world built on violence had sharpened his instincts into something almost animal, and suddenly every nerve in his body was screaming.

Slowly, he looked down.

You were still there, head resting against his shoulder, expression peaceful. Beautiful. Exactly as you had been moments earlier. Except—

"...Sweetheart?" The word emerged softer than a whisper.

There was no response.

His chest tightened. Not sharply. Slowly. Like a vice closing around his ribs. His hand rose to touch your cheek. Cool from the evening breeze. Nothing unusual. Nothing wrong… right?

"Hey." His voice cracked.

You didn't move.

And suddenly, the dread he'd been outrunning for months caught him. Not as a realisation, but as terror. Pure. Primal. Violent. "No." His hand moved to your shoulder. Gently at first. Then a little harder. "Hey."

Nothing.

His heartbeat thundered against his ribs, far too fast, far too loud. "No." The word sounded broken. "Come on." He didn't realise it, but he was shaking. "Wake up."

Nothing.

The ocean disappeared. The sunset disappeared. The entire world disappeared. There was only you. Only you.

Only you.

San's trembling hands pulled you closer. "No."

Again.

And again.

As though repeating it enough times could force reality to change. As though he could somehow bargain with fate itself.

"Please."

The word shattered as it left him.

"Please."

Nothing answered him. No teasing remark. No laugh. No sarcastic complaint. No you.

Only silence.

The kind of silence he had witnessed countless times before. The kind he had inflicted upon others with his own hands. And somehow, after all these years, he finally understood how cruel it truly was.

A broken sound escaped his throat. Something halfway between a sob and a gasp. He buried his face against your hair and finally broke. The tears came all at once. Years of restraint. Months of fear. Every ounce of love he had tried so desperately not to feel.

All of it collapsed.

His arms tightened around you as though holding you close enough might somehow keep you here, as though he could stop your soul from wandering too far away.

The sun continued sinking beneath the horizon. The waves continued crashing against the shore. The world continued moving forward with unbearable indifference.

And all he could do was hold you, hold you tightly, hold you desperately. Long after darkness swallowed the beach. Long after the stars appeared overhead. Long after he already knew. Because if he let go… even for a second… then he would have to accept that the happiest day of his life had also been the day he lost you forever.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

"Ah… guess we really didn't have to lift a finger when it came to the Tempest, hm?" the man mused, a slow, satisfied smile curling at his lips as he studied the photograph before him. "Who would've thought? Even the wildest dog can be tamed by something as fragile as a dying flower."

His gaze lingered on the image of the feared executioner of the Black Pirates, kneeling in the sand as he cradled a motionless figure in his arms. There was something almost indulgent in the way the man looked at it, as though he were savouring a private joke only he understood.

"Status update?" he asked lightly, not bothering to look up.

His subordinate stepped forward at once, bowing low as he presented a fresh set of photographs. "The Tempest has returned to the Black Pirates' mansion, sir. However… it is clear he is no longer operating as he was before."

The man accepted the photos, flipping through them with idle interest. San alone. San in shadowed corridors. San moving through the estate with a hollowness that hadn't been there before.

"He has remained confined to his quarters for extended periods," the subordinate continued carefully. "Reports indicate he has withdrawn entirely from active operations within the organisation since his return."

A pleased hum left the man's throat.

"Good," he said at last, nodding in quiet approval. "Very good. If the Tempest has chosen to lie down like a good little dog, then the rest of the board becomes considerably easier to move."

He set the photographs aside with casual disregard, already losing interest in them. The executioner, once so feared, was no longer the piece that required attention. Something broken could no longer resist being moved. Instead, his attention drifted to the next file lying neatly on the desk.

The Firestarter.

"This one," he murmured, a faint amusement threading through his voice, "should prove more interesting."

His fingers tapped lightly against the folder as he opened it, eyes scanning the contents with growing intent. "A man who relies too heavily on his woman…" He gave a soft, humourless laugh. "Men like that tend to forget they are only as strong as the things they refuse to lose." He glanced up at his subordinate then, smile still present but colder now. "He would be useless without her, wouldn't you say?"

The subordinate didn't hesitate. "I agree, sir."

Y'all, I'm so sorry this took me like 84 goddamn years to finish. Work has truly been… something else, I tell you. Just when I thought things were getting better, let's just say they very much were not. 2026 has really been doing the absolute most (and not in a good way lmfao), but oH WELL, life goes on, amirite? Idk when I'll be able to get Mingi's chapter out, but let's take it one step at a time heh

As always, thank you all so so much for your patience, support and understanding, and I hope y'all enjoyed this (more like sobbed your hearts out, prolly, but yes)! <3

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