#fanifc

Wondrous though they were, yet you gazed upon their greatness with a tugging at your heart which you couldn’t place, only that the walls held a certain sadness that simmered behind every rock, behind every corner. Did they grieve with your companion, you wondered, casting a careful glance at Gimli where he had huddled himself into a corner, shoulders heaving with sorrow, eyes brimming with tears that ought not to fall. A quiet kind of pain, one which tears through your body slowly, cruel in its own way, for it stuck with you until it frayed your bones, marked their way through your soul.

Such a revelation would have destroyed you, you thought as your gaze dropped, thinking it better to let him be, not wishing to prod at his freshly drawn wound. It seemed you weren't the only one who thought so, for the others had retreated for the time being, their chests moving beneath their blankets timidly, as if aware even in sleep of the unearthliness that had become more potent the further you had wandered.

 You thought it to be a real shame to find the halls of Moria so desolate, reeking with forgotten memories, yet tainted with a smell that reminded you of old, bloodied rags. A certain sweetness clung to it, yet something acidic seeped in, ready to eat away at the fibers of the fabric. It made a chill traverse the expanse of your skin, and you found yourself increasingly appreciative that you needn't tread through this place on your own.

“It will pass,” a hushed voice spoke beside you, quiet yet seeming so loud in the silence that had settled over the fellowship—your friends remaining curled in cloaks and shadows, distant and unmoving.

“I’m not so sure,” you said, giving Gimli one last look, your brows drawing deep shadows to rest over the valleys of your face. 

Warmth suddenly radiated from beside you when Legolas seated himself on the damp ground, and it was a welcome change, still finding yourself rigid from the frost that had found its way into your skin and settled deeply inside. Welcomed, yet unnerving, and you found your eyes dancing wildly at the darkness that spread its hold before you, not entirely too sure where to look. 

But, you would come to find that you needn't decide, for you felt the nimble touch of something soft against your face. It was unwavering, the way his fingers hesitantly pressed onto your cheek, his eyes steady yet tinged with something that sent a shiver through you when he gazed at the small cuts littering your face. 

“You are hurt,” he stated, thumb trailing down, careful to avoid the slivers that tainted it.

A few moments passed, the steady beating in your heart pulsing loudly, just as if someone had grabbed it and held it right beside your ear. His movements had then turned unsure, a flash of recognition drawing over his face as he withdrew his hands. A deep ache settled in the pit of your stomach, and if it was in disappointment of losing his touch, you dared not admit for yourself, for it would speak too clearly—and you didn't want to open yourself to the wounds it could create.

It lingered in the air, the tension that never seemed to disappear when you strayed close to one another. Small hidden glances, ones who dared not be obvious yet seemingly not able to pull away for even the shortest of time. Small prickles, like hundreds of nails breaking the thin, first layer of your skin, were in moments like that present, as if sensing the nearness of the other. Yet it wasn't painful, it was pleasant, and the feeling never ceased to disappear.

“Oh,” you said, the word more breathy than you liked. “It’s alright.”

His words reminded you of your path here, and how it never occurred to you how harshly the weather fought from such a height from as it did on the passage of Caradhras, how it seemed much darker—almost eerie—the growing threat from beyond the clouds only making the sight appear as if all light had been removed from the world. It made you feel small, the towering mountain walls casting shadows which cut grimly through the pass way, coloring the snow beneath you in a grayish blue that looked none the colder than it actually was. For it was cold, the type of chill that settles deep within you, relentless in its torture and brutal in its jeering.

You had despised every small, melting flake that thought the already frigid skin on your face had been a great place to land upon. It made the decision of venturing into the mines much less daunting, for you decided that anything was better than that—even if that meant treading through the dark, dwarfish corridors that to any but themselves appeared cold and menacing. Beautiful, of course—like so many terrible things are, in their own strange way—yet all the more alluring as another gust of wind had slipped through the cotton of your tunic, as if it were made of nothing but paper. A taunt, you had stated to yourself, a taunt from nature against your very sanity as if it wasn’t already hanging on by a very thin, very frail piece of thread.

“Turn back!” the booming yell of Gandalf had cut through the roaring wind, and if it wasn’t for the sheer force that always clung to the edges of his voice, you wouldn’t have heard him as the stones crashed against the other, the splinters falling around you like rainfall. “We’ll have to go through the mines!”

You passed a hand over your face mindlessly as you remembered the rocks that had scattered from the impact, the darkness which gave upon you in the room extinguishing any chance of glancing at your reflection, whether it was at the blade of your dagger or the grimy, slinky pools of water. Yet you winced when the touch irritated the sore edges lining the red cuts; scratchy and small you'd come to find but their amount made the pain more extensive than you originally thought. 

Once more, you felt your hand encased by one much larger, ending your wandering exploration abruptly in dismay. “It is better to leave it be,” he mumbled, eyes trailing over your face till they met yours, faltering when he realised your gaze was already set upon him. “You should be more careful.”

Your first instinct would be to face him with malcontent, as you would any that opposed your ability to defend yourself, yet the vulnerability behind his words made you hesitant, your thoughts fraying inside your mind. There was a certain tenderness behind it that bled through the cracks of his voice, blurred the edges of what he should have meant and what he actually implied. It might’ve been on purpose, or it might have been a moment of weakness; a short, futile attempt to cover what you shouldn’t know, shouldn’t hear. 

A few moments passed, a short silence settling over you. It wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, yet a strain filled the air, flickering slightly around like small bursts of static. It was as if something in the air was waiting, watching, filling the spaces around you till it grew shallow in suspense. The faint rustling could be heard nearby, the scrape of a shifting foot, but it all faded, neither here nor there anymore. You tried not to look, tried not to let your eyes wander. Truly, you did. But your curiosity was too grand, a poor habit that now seemed so incredibly unwished for. 

“I am careful,” you whispered eventually, though the words came out later than you’d like and softer than intended—barely a breath, like you’d forgotten how to speak. “Mostly.”

Peeking through your lashes, you saw the slight tug of his lips—not a smile, not really—but something faint. “Then I dread to see what you look like when you are reckless.”

A sound so soft it hardly deserved the name of laughter rose in your chest, and his head turned towards you, like the sound surprised him. “Do you jest with me, Legolas?” 

There it was again—that nearly smile. Yet his eyes were too serious. Too still.

“No,” he said. “I only find it a shame to see such cruelty taint your delicate skin.”

You had meant to scoff, to tease, to brush it of—but something in the way he said it made your skin feel too tight. It was his words, and the way he looked at you, as if he tried to convey that what he said held such a truth it couldn’t be anything other than factual. What could you say in return, you thought, your mind frozen from the suddenness of what he said, the unexpectedness of it not failing in hushing your lips.

You looked away first. And yet you didn’t move.

“Are you cold?” he asked, suddenly, and you knew it for what it was—a bridge. A gentle way to ask may I stay? A way to hide the question neither of you wanted to ask aloud.

“A little,” you admitted. It wasn’t just a little, for the coldness from before seemed to have settled deep in your bones, coursed through every muscle until it felt like your whole body tried to fold into itself to regain any sense of warmth, of normality.

His movement was immediate, draping his cloak over your shoulders without asking, without waiting for your permission. It still held warmth to it, still bathed in the heat from his skin that never seemed to feel the chill that settled as dusk came or when snow fell. You envied it, but you also gazed upon it in wonder—a quiet amazement that such a thing could be possible, for it seemed so far away to you, so unfamiliar. Yet the scent was comforting, and you believed it held no right to still cling to him in a place so devoid of growing things such as this. 

“You will warm up soon,” he said quietly, meeting the ends of the cloak at your front so not the smallest wisp of air could penetrate, yet he did it slowly, and you wondered if he did it in wish for the moment to be prolonged.

“Thank you,” you said, eyes flickering up to his face a few times. “The weather on that mountain wasn’t kind.”

He hummed, tucking the cloak carefully beneath the bend of your legs. “Yet the air is fouler in these halls,” he mumbled. “I fear we traded one danger for another.” 

His voice held no hesitation, but it did little to quiet the anxiety coiled in your chest. The thought of threading deeper into these shadowed corridors—trapped with no chance to turn back—settled heavy in your chest. That was what you feared the most: not the darkness itself, but the forward motion of it. The certainty that retreat was no longer an option, that what lay ahead was neither foretold nor safe. 

“You are frightened.” 

It was more a statement than a question, eyes boring into yours when you gazed up at him. 

“I’d be a fool if I wasn’t,” you said, fingers tightening around the edges of the cloak as it began its slow descent down your sides. But your voice betrayed you—it wavered, soft with something too hopeful, too unsure, belaying the brave acceptance your words tried to claim.

Legolas was kept leaning over you, yet his motions had stilled, close but not quite touching—the careful distance he always kept. He seemed carved from the quiet, a piece of the dark given breath and golden hair as his profile caught the faint silver light of a dying fire—sharp and unreal, as if he had stepped out of a dream. One moment his gaze was distant, unreadable as it always seemed to be—and then it shifted, a vulnerability drawing up the confines of his face as he leaned in closer, not quite touching but close enough for your skin to pulse with the nearness. 

Your breath caught—his own one warming your cheek, his thumb ghosting your sides, eyes dipped low and dangerous—and you found that you couldn’t look away. A certain look glazed over then, as if trying to convey something that could only be told by feeling rather than something spoken, and you found yourself leaning in closer as if it would make his message clearer, as if by doing so you could crawl through his head and read every thought that crossed his mind.

“Do not be afraid,” a hushed, barely there mumble of words. “There is not a moment where my eyes stray from you.”

His lips were soft, and they held a kind of tenderness that crawled up your body in a small—slow yet grasping—hold, leaving behind tingles that made you want to curl into yourself to hide from their onslaught. It was featherlight, yet bruising—welcomed, and yet somehow illicit—and it didn’t fail to make your hands tremble where they had risen from the ground, holding them in front of you as an imaginary shield stemming from the suddenness of the elf's advance. Hanging in the air, your head rested against the stony wall, and you weren’t sure if it was in an attempt to escape his grasp or have him lean in closer, to feel his body nearer when his arm trespassed your futile blockade.

Leather was the first thing that reached your nose. Not the sharp bite of a polished saddle or new boots, but something lived in—damp, softened, dark. The kind of scent that clung to old gloves left out in the rain, like something remembered rather than new, warmed by the heat of his body. Yet there was a breath of lightness to it, like cold sunlight when it touches the high mountain air—crisp and unmoving, yet beneath it something that didn’t belong to time. A stillness. Patience. As if time had settled on him like dust and never stirred again. Not dead, not stale—just… paused. 

He shifted, slow and sure, and your shoulder jumped when you felt the light touch—as if testing the shape of you—pressing against the curve of your waist. The palm was warm, long fingers bleeding through your vast layer of clothes, and it sent such warmth that small shocks of heatwaves traveled throughout your body. He leaned closer as the wall behind you welcomed his weight, the other arm reaching across, bracing against the stone just above your shoulder, caging you as his body seemed to fold into you. Not crushing nor towering, but present, larger than you in a way that felt quietly devastating.

There was no room to move—not because he held you down, but because your limbs had frozen shut, as if your flesh had turned to clay. Yet the beating of your heart seemed too loud, too alive, and you felt him everywhere—his shoulders grazing yours, the broad stretch of his chest pressing against your own, his knee that had shifted just enough to bracket your thigh and the quiet strength like a tension in his limbs, a coiled stillness as though he was holding back more than just a breath. He moved too gracefully, too quietly, too much like wind to seem human—but now, pinned in the cradle of his arms, feeling the lean strength of his body, it occurred to you that this was not the grace of something untouchable—this was the quiet grasp of something so devastatingly real.

You arched, just slightly, as if your spine was being drawn upwards by an invisible string. It wasn’t by any means a drastic move—just a soft, instinctive pull of your chest into his, one which he met whereas his hand, once still yet twitching against your waist, followed the subtle curve of your body to curl around your back. It didn’t fail to make a small, quiet gasp travel from the back of your throat, pure and true, for the anticipation building up inside your chest was welling over and you found it too much to handle, his sudden affection nauseating. 

Your hand, which had been faltering in the air until now, flushed suddenly with blood—sharp and stinging as your fingers finally dared to move. Tentative at first, as if afraid to break the spell, you reached for him. A light caress glided over the expanse of his arm, trailing up the soft fabric of his tunic, and beneath it: heat, sinew, and tightly coiled restraint that tensed beneath your wandering touch. They followed along the path to his shoulder, and the motion made his lips against yours deepen, pulling you further into his hold as if your touch had prodded an old wound inside him. 

And his hair was silken, like fine-spun starlight, threading around your fingers as you grazed the roots, tangled gently in the braids that followed the curve of his head. You let them rest there for a while—then, you let them graze downward mindlessly, just barely across the curve of his ear as they wandered, anchoring themselves as his mouth moved over yours, to convince yourself that this wasn’t some sort of dream, that the stone at your back was real and the ground beneath you not made of air. One finger—curious— slipped too high, too light.

A breath caught sharp in his throat, and then—before you could apologize—he flinched. Not away, no, but inward. Not a moan, not a groan, just a scrunch of his face, a twitch of his brows. His lips parted from yours by a hair’s breadth, just enough for air to pass between you as his mouth remained slightly open, a breath escaping him—a soft, involuntary puff of air, warm and shaken. An unsteady heart, a quick pulse, a warmth shared, and his eyes remained half-lidded, dazed as he looked at you, like sight might ruin it—too bright, too close to be real. 

“I lebid gîn… díheno nin” His words came out low yet scratchy, trembling, as if they were unraveling from the back of his throat. Strained, yet something much deeper hid behind it, like an ache simmering beneath the surface of his voice. 

It was but a short moment he strayed from you, for surrender brimmed inside him, and you—gods, you felt it all. The flutter came first—deep in the caverns of your belly, featherlight and stuttering, growing wildly as he kissed you once more, deeper this time, yet not with the careful reverence of before but something more desperate, his hand sliding further down to grasp at your hips with a tenderness that felt so unfamiliar to you, yet the thought of it had warmth blooming throughout your chest. 

Deepened, it became something that pulled at the root of the spine and curled beneath the ribs. No longer was it only the meeting of mouths, but mouths seeking and asking, and his parted yours, and you let him, breath catching on the hinge of a sigh. 

Then—

A voice, sudden and sharp, carved into the silence like a blade. 

“I have found the way!”

Gandalf's voice, distant but clear, echoed through the darkness, and you found yourself breaking apart—slowly, like waking dazed with wide eyes, pupils blown like ink dropped in milk, from a dream. Time floated slowly as if you’d been pushed underwater,  Your mouth hovered, still near, still breathing the same breath, inhaling the same air.

Yet the silence that followed was thick as you stared at him, lips parted, red and bitten and his hand lingered on your jaw, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth with lidded eyes gazing through eyelashes as if in a haze, as if still entangled deeply in your web. His fingers shifted slightly, not to tighten but to remain, a touch both reverent and selfish—spurred on by the softness of your eyes, the faint tremble in your throat betraying the chaos behind your stillness. And something in you quivered—not from fear nor doubt, but from the thought that what just unfolded between you could not be folded away as easily as it had begun. No undoing, no swallowing it whole. 

A second voice now—--Boromir's low groan, followed by the rasp of a chainmail, the scrape of boots on stone. 

A new silence had settled over the HalaVeil.

Not the peaceful kind that came with calm waters or a successful raid. Not the hush of a crew resting between storms.

This silence was heavier. Thicker. Like something unspoken had threaded itself into the walls, coiling through the pipes, nestling into the wood. Even the sea around the ship felt still, like it too was holding its breath.

Footsteps on the upper deck were slower. Muted. Voices were hushed, if spoken at all.

Even Mingi’s tools had stopped clattering in the corner of the engineering bay. He hadn’t picked up a single gear since the rest of the crew returned from Braxis. His hands twitched from habit- but the fire behind his movements had dulled.

Below deck, Wooyoung leaned against a hallway wall with his head tipped back, one hand loosely clutching the broken communicator. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since snapping at Hongjoong. He’d tried to make the static clear. Over and over again. But no voice ever came through.

San sat in the storage bay alone, jaw clenched, elbows resting on his knees. He hadn’t spoken again about what he saw- not to Wooyoung, not to Mingi. Not even to himself. The image of you covered in blood, unmoving, unreadable… it clawed at the back of his eyes every time he blinked. He hadn’t gone near the infirmary once. San could feel the way he felt towards you shift and bend in an ugly way. Something he could have never predicted would happen. Not like this. No longer hatred... but fear.

Seonghwa had remained quiet since returning, doing what Hongjoong asked but speaking little else. He’d taken to watching the sea- like maybe it held answers. Like maybe it could take back what the land had done. But he knew nothing could, nothing could ever fix what had happened. Nothing will ever be the same again either- the seas themselves couldn't have even predicted that.

In the infirmary, it wasn’t Yunho who hovered over your still form.

It was Hongjoong. Alone.

He hadn’t barked orders since the moment he’d returned. He hadn’t snapped. Hadn’t demanded. His hands now moved quietly- brushing stray strands of hair from your face. Changing soaked cloths. Checking your pulse every ten minutes, as if afraid it might vanish if he looked away too long.

No one had seen him like this before. Not even Seonghwa.

Jongho hadn't even slept. He’d taken post just outside the infirmary door like a guard dog. He didn’t say much, only that Yeosang needed quiet. That he was tired. That everything felt wrong now.

Yeosang himself hadn’t spoken since Braxis. His gaze remained fixed out the small window of Jongho’s quarters, eyes cloudy with something distant. Haunted. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to. He already knew the answers would hurt more than the silence.

And the rest of the crew?

They waited.

Everyone felt it. Something had changed. The ship had seen blood before. It had seen death. Loss. Chaos. But this was different.

This time, the wound was internal. And it hadn’t started bleeding yet.

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

Your breath stirs first.

It’s shallow. Fragile. Like the air itself doesn’t know if it belongs in your lungs.

Then your fingers twitch, a small tremor, barely there, like your body is checking itself piece by piece. Limbs feel stiff. Your skin itches with something dry. You try to open your eyes, but they fight against you, heavy as stone. There’s a dull ache behind your temples. A slow, steady throb that pulses with each heartbeat. It spreads through your skull like an echo, reminding you- you’re still here. Still... alive.

But where is here?

You shift slightly, and the pain sharpens. Your muscles scream in protest, like you’ve been trapped in place for too long. There’s something soft beneath you- a bed? No. Not your bed. This one is too clean. Too sterile. Your fingers graze fabric. A blanket. You grip it, needing something to anchor you.

And then- something cuts through.

A voice. Low. Tense.

“-... waking up.”

The words are muffled, like spoken through water. But you know that voice. You’d recognise the shape of it even if it were buried beneath oceans.

Hongjoong.

You force your eyes open. Just barely. The light hits too harshly, blinding. You wince and flinch, trying to move- but your body doesn’t cooperate. You feel… wrong. Different. Like your nerves aren’t quite connected where they should be. Something in you feels scorched. Hollow. And yet… full, in a way that terrifies you.

You breathe in through your nose. Salt. Blood. Medicine. Too many smells. Too familiar. Panic ripples in your chest.

“Easy,” the voice says again- closer now. “You're safe.”

Are you?

You can’t speak. Your throat is dry, your lips cracked. You try to form a word- a name, maybe... but nothing comes out.

Your eyes flicker, trying to focus. You see a shadow standing near the bed. Blurred, dark clothes. A hand hovering in the air like it wants to touch you, but doesn’t.

“H-Hongjoong…?” Your voice comes out like gravel.

His breath catches. “I’m here.”

You blink again. His face sharpens into view, not the mask of steel you’re used to, not the commanding force. There’s something else there now. Guilt. Regret. And something softer, buried too deep for you to name.

Your lips part again, but the only thing that comes is a single, broken question: “…What happened to me?”

Hongjoong looks away. And just for a moment, in the sterile hush of the infirmary, with your skin crawling from something unknown, and your body fighting to exist- you see the flicker of fear in his eyes.

Not of you. For you.

You try to sit up, but your body barely obeys. Your breath catches, sharp and jagged in your throat, and your eyes drop instinctively to your hands. At first, you think it’s just bruising. A trick of the light.

But no. No... it’s worse than that.

Your fingers are stiff, trembling slightly, and caked beneath each nail is a thick, rusty blackness. Blood. Dried and clotted like earth under a claw. You yank your hand back as if it doesn’t belong to you.

Then you see your arms. Your forearms. Your shoulders. Your chest where the collar of the shirt slips- all of it. Covered. Carved. Dark lines wind across your skin in crude, furious strokes- some curved like waves, some jagged like teeth. They’re symbols. Foreign and familiar all at once. You don’t know how you know that… but you do. Some still bleed. Others have already begun to scar.

Your pulse rockets. “No, no, no-”

You throw the blanket off and struggle to swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your knees nearly buckle. You don’t care. You need a mirror. A sink. Something.

You look at your body like it’s not yours. Like someone else wore it while you weren’t watching. “What is this…?” Your voice breaks. “What is this?!” Your breathing is ragged now, throat closing. You claw at the markings with your fingertips as if you can wipe them away, but they don’t budge. The skin is too raw. Too real.

“Don’t-” Hongjoong’s voice cuts in sharply. “Stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”

He moves fast, catching your wrists before you dig too deep. His grip is firm, not rough, but certain. He lowers your hands gently, and for the first time, you realise his are shaking too.

“Where am I?” you whisper. “What… What happened to me? What is all this?!”

He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw clenches. His eyes are fixed on the lines scorched into your skin like they hold answers he doesn’t want to give. The silence is worse than any explanation.

You feel something swell in your chest- terror, maybe. Or rage. You don’t know where you are anymore. You don’t know who you are. And whatever happened in Braxis… It didn’t stay there.

You can’t breathe. It’s too loud- the pounding in your chest, the shallow gasps scraping against your throat, the rush of your own blood screaming behind your ears. The room is spinning. Spinning like the ship might be tipping over and dragging you down with it.

“Hey. Look at me.” Hongjoong’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp but not cruel.

Your vision is a blur, but you feel his hands, one on your back, the other steadying your arm.

“You’re hyperventilating. You need to slow your breathing,” he says. “Breathe in… through your nose. Now out. Follow me.”

You try. You fail. Your breath hitches again and you nearly fold forward from the dizziness.

He cups the sides of your face. “You’re safe,” he says, more firmly now. “You’re back on the ship. Back on the HalaVeil. Do you remember?”

You blink rapidly, lips parted, air burning in and out of your lungs.

The ship…

You see flashes. The deck. The storm. The iron stairs. Mingi's laugh. Yunho’s calm hands. San’s glare. Wooyoung’s smirk. Yeosang’s soft eyes. Seonghwa's calculated gaze. Jongho's protective stance.

“Yes,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “Yes, I remember. I remember all of them.”

You swallow hard and your voice cracks. “I remember the HalaVeil.”

The weight of that name grounds you- like an anchor suddenly dropped into a furious sea. Your chest still rises and falls quickly, but the spiral is slowing. Just enough to feel the ache in your limbs. The soreness in your skin. The remnants of something… monstrous.

Hongjoong’s thumbs brush lightly across your cheekbones. It’s strangely gentle, like he’s not sure if touching you too roughly might cause you to shatter completely. “Good,” he murmurs. “You’re here. You came back to us.” He says it like he means it. Like it wasn’t just a mission. Like you weren’t just a problem to solve.

Your eyes search his, for what, you’re not sure. Maybe answers. Maybe something human. But all you can whisper is, “What happened to me?” And Hongjoong- for once, doesn’t have an answer.

Silence stretches between you. Hongjoong hasn’t moved, not really. He still crouches close, hands braced on either side of your trembling form like he’s holding the weight of something unspeakable. His eyes, always calculating, now flicker with something else. Something unreadable.

You search him again, but he won’t meet your gaze. He looks at your bloodied hands. At the symbols. At the mess that your body has become.

Then finally, he says- “…Do you remember anything?”

You blink. You try to focus. Try to reach into the fog. But it’s thick- clinging to your thoughts like seaweed tangling around your ankles. You swallow, voice raspy. “The last thing I remember…” you begin slowly, “was leaving the ship. Seonghwa was with me. We were walking through Braxis.” You pause, and your brows furrow in confusion. “I felt like I’d… been there before. I didn’t know why.”

Hongjoong’s lips press into a thin line. You tilt your head slightly, trying to read him again. His shoulders are tense. His jaw locked. You’ve seen him angry, calculating, unkind- but this is something different. This is doubt. Fear, maybe. But not of you. Of what comes next.

You whisper again, “Why? What happened to me?”

But he doesn’t answer that. Instead, he sits back on his heels, rakes a hand through his hair, and lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been held for hours. “…You’re not ready,” he says at last. “Not yet.”

Your stomach knots. Not ready for what? You want to press. You want to scream. But something about his tone keeps you quiet. For now.

The room settles again into silence, but this time, it’s heavier. Denser. Like you’ve both said far too much and nothing at all. And you’re left staring at your hands, still stained with blood that feels too fresh to belong to a dream.

You’re still staring at your hands when you hear the sigh. It’s heavy. Resigned. Worn down. “I know this isn’t easy,” Hongjoong says, voice lower now. “But you need to be cleaned up.”

Your eyes lift slowly. He won’t quite meet your gaze, he’s looking toward the far wall, jaw tight again.

“There’s too much blood… and I don’t know what these markings are- what they mean. Until Yunho can take a proper look, I can’t risk you washing alone.” Your stomach sinks. The thought of anyone seeing you like this- naked, exposed, carved up like some living artefact, it sends a fresh wave of heat crawling up your spine. Shame. Panic. Confusion. All tangled.

“I’m sorry,” he adds quickly, and this time his gaze flicks to yours. “If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll ask someone to stay with you. Or wait just outside. Anyone you want.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. There’s blood dried down your arms. Lines slashed into your thighs. The soft, tender places, your stomach, the space below your ribs – they burn as if something’s still being written into you, long after the pen left the page.

You finally whisper, “Do I have a choice?”

Hongjoong hesitates. And the hesitation is answer enough. “…Not really,” he says, voice like regret. “But I won’t let it be worse than it has to be. That’s the only promise I can give.”

Your throat tightens. You nod slowly. You’re exhausted. Broken. You can’t even tell which parts of you still belong to you. But for now, you let it happen.

He moves to stand, brushing his palms down his coat, half-mechanical now, half-habit. “I’ll get Yunho,” he murmurs, eyes flicking briefly to your arms again, to the way they still tremble. “He’ll know what to-”

“Wait.” Your voice is a ghost.

Barely a breath, but it still stops him in his tracks. He turns back, gaze sharpening with concern. “What is it?”

You hesitate. The words don’t want to come. They claw at your throat, like they’re afraid of how he’ll take them. “I…” You swallow, voice still barely audible. “Can… Wooyoung be there?”

Silence. It stretches between you like a thin thread pulled taut. Hongjoong’s face doesn’t change at first. Then his brows lift- just slightly, and his jaw unclenches.

You don’t explain why. You can’t. But something in his expression softens in a way that’s hard to name.

He gives a slow nod. “Alright. I’ll get him.” He watches you for a moment longer, like he wants to say something else. Then he turns and walks out of the infirmary, boots silent against the floorboards.

You’re left staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with something you can’t define. You don’t know if it’s dread. Relief. Or just the need for something familiar.

All you know is, You asked for him. And that means something.

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

The sea was unusually calm that morning. The waves lapped softly at the hull of HalaVeil, brushing up like whispered apologies. The breeze carried salt and stillness, both lingering in the silence that had crept over the ship like a fog no one could shake.

Seonghwa stood at the railing, gloved hands braced against the cool metal, his gaze fixed far beyond the horizon. But he wasn’t really looking at the ocean.

His mind was still in that room. That place. That scene. 

He could still smell the blood. Still hear the sound of that body hitting the floor in pieces. Still see your back- bare and trembling, skin carved in symbols that weren’t there when you left with him.

And the way you’d turned around…

He swallows hard. He hadn’t said anything during the walk back to the ship. Not even when Yeosang had gone quiet, or when San kept glancing back at your limp body in his arms, like he was afraid you might wake up and look like that again.

Because he didn’t have words. Not for what he saw. Not for what he felt. And definitely not for the guilt crawling through his chest like sea rot.

He should have stopped you. He should have pulled you out of there when you first hesitated, when you said you felt something about that place. He’d seen the tremble in your hands, the dazed look in your eyes. He'd known. But he’d let you go anyway. Like he always did. Like he trusted you to survive.

Seonghwa's fingers tightened on the rail. “Damn it…” The words came out barely above a whisper, swallowed by the sea breeze.

He didn’t know what had happened to you in there. Not really. But he knew this: The person they brought back was not the same one he left behind. And if there was any part of you still buried beneath that blood and those carvings… Then he’d find it. Even if he had to lose himself in the process.

The ocean still looked peaceful. But Seonghwa knew better now. Stillness could be deceiving. Stillness could bleed. He was pulled from his spiraling thoughts by the soft sound of footsteps behind him. The floorboards creaked just slightly- heavy, familiar. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

San came to a slow halt beside him, saying nothing at first. He simply stood there, shoulder barely a few inches from Seonghwa’s, staring out at the same horizon. Like maybe the waves held answers neither of them could reach.

A few heartbeats passed. Then San spoke. “You alright?” It was quiet. Unusually gentle.

Seonghwa’s fingers twitched at the railing, knuckles pale. He let out a shaky exhale. “…No.” It came out broken. Honest. The way sea glass is sharp even after it's been softened by time.

San glanced at him, frowning. “You… wanna talk about it?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer at first. His jaw worked slowly, tightening and loosening, like he wasn’t sure if the words would come out properly if he tried.

But then he did. Low. Measured. “It reminded me of… my life. Before HalaVeil.”

San blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Seonghwa said, dragging in another breath, “I haven’t seen something like that since I left.”

San turned fully now, arms folding as his brows furrowed, almost in understanding. “I didn’t know you had a life like that.”

A bitter smile tugged at Seonghwa’s lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s because I don’t talk about it.”

San stayed quiet, gaze steady but patient.

“I wasn't always like this,” Seonghwa said, voice rougher now. “Controlled. Composed. The first mate with a blade and a mission.” He paused. “I was… somewhere else. Somewhere dark. Long before Hongjoong ever found me.”

“Where?” San asked softly.

Seonghwa shook his head uncomfortably and lowered his gaze.

San shifted uncomfortably beside him. “Did something happen to you?” he asked.

Seonghwa hesitated. “To become who I am now? Yes.” They stood in silence again. But now it was heavier.

San didn’t press, but his voice came out a little rougher when he spoke again. “I… didn’t think anyone else on this crew had stuff like that in their past.”

Seonghwa turned slightly. “You think you’re the only one haunted, San?”

San’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the deck. “No,” he admitted. Then after a beat: “But sometimes it feels like it.”

Seonghwa’s expression softened just slightly. Not enough to shake off the steel in his bones, but enough to mean something. “Not anymore.” The wind off the sea had picked up. Not violently. Just enough to sting if your wounds were still open.

San kept watching Seonghwa, quietly waiting. He didn’t ask more questions, he didn’t need to. He just stood there, solid and steady beside him, giving space but not distance.

Eventually, Seonghwa spoke. “I grew up on a ship.”

San blinked, taken back. “What?”

“Not HalaVeil. A different one. Before any of this,” Seonghwa said, his voice strange- reaching across time, dredging up things he’d buried deep beneath tide and steel.

“I don’t remember my parents. Not even a face. Just… vague warmth. A lullaby maybe. They were gone before I could even understand the word ‘loss.’ I was taken in by a pirate crew when I was still small enough to fit inside a rum barrel.”

San’s eyes widened slightly, but he stayed quiet.

“They weren’t good men,” Seonghwa said. “But they were my family. Loud. Rough. Wild. They taught me how to fight. How to sail. How to make something of myself even when the world already decided I had nothing.”

He exhaled slowly. The kind of breath you don’t realise you’ve been holding for years.

“I loved them. Every foul-mouthed, sea-scarred one of them. I didn’t care what we were. We belonged to each other.”

San’s throat bobbed. “What happened?” he asked.

Seonghwa’s jaw clenched. “We got ambushed.”

A pause. Then: “I was maybe fifteen? Sixteen? We weren’t prepared. I still don’t know how they found us...how they got past our scouts. I remember running below deck. I remember someone shoving me into a storage barrel and slamming the lid closed, telling me not to make a sound”

He went quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.

“I heard everything.”

The silence between them grew jagged. San didn’t move.

“The screams. The begging. The fire. The sound of blades slicing through flesh like they were gutting fish. I sat in that barrel for hours. Not moving. Not breathing. I waited until everything stopped.”

Another pause. “When I finally climbed out, there was nothing left. Just blood. So much blood.”

San looked away, swallowing hard.

Seonghwa’s eyes narrowed faintly – not suspicious, just … curious. San was reacting too strongly for someone who couldn’t possibly relate to his story. He carried on with a heavy sigh.

“That day changed me. It carved something into me that I’ve never been able to get rid of. I’ve spent every year since then trying to be someone… stronger. Sharper. So that no one I cared about would ever die because I wasn’t strong enough.”

The wind blew harder now, catching strands of Seonghwa’s hair across his face.

“When we found her,” he said softly, “in that hospital room… the smell of blood- so thick I could taste it- it was like I was fifteen again. Watching ghosts paint the walls.”

San didn’t know what to say at first. Didn’t know if he should truly say what’s going through his mind. But then, gently, he placed a hand on Seonghwa’s arm. “You survived,” he said. “And you’ve kept us alive. You’re not that kid in the barrel anymore.”

Seonghwa gave a short, bitter laugh. “No,” he said. “Now I’m the one dragging kids out of rooms painted in blood.”

They both stood there, saying nothing else for a long time. But for once, it didn’t feel lonely. It just felt honest.

For a moment, Seonghwa thought that would be the end of it. That the sea would take their words, their ghosts, and carry them off into the wind like always.

But then San exhaled. It wasn’t a steady breath, it wavered, caught somewhere between tension and exhaustion. And when he finally spoke, his voice didn’t sound like the San everyone else knew. It was smaller. Raw.

“I’m scared.”

Seonghwa turned to look at him.

San didn’t meet his gaze. He just kept his eyes on the waves, arms folded tightly like he was holding himself together. “I’ve seen blood,” he said. “I’ve seen death. I’ve taken lives. I know what this world does to people… but this?”

He shook his head. “This is different.”

Seonghwa’s expression softened.

San’s fingers dug into his biceps. “She looked at us… and it wasn’t her. There was something else in her. Like we weren’t people to her anymore. Just things in the way. And Yeosang- he barely said anything on the way back, but I could see it. Something inside him cracked.”

A beat.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” San said quietly. “To him. To her. To any of us.”

He finally glanced at Seonghwa, and there it was- real, open fear. The kind that didn’t come from battle wounds or gunfire, but from helplessness. From watching people you care about become unrecognisable.

“I want to believe she can come back,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “That there’s something left of her in there. But if there’s not…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Seonghwa reached out without thinking and placed a hand on San’s shoulder. His grip was firm. Reassuring. “I know,” he said. “I don’t have the answers either. But you’re not alone in this.”

For once, San didn’t joke. Didn’t shrug it off. He just nodded barely, and let the silence speak for him.

Some storms came without warning. But this one… they’d all seen it coming. And none of them were ready.

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

You sit on the edge of the infirmary bed, spine straight but trembling slightly, as if your body isn’t sure whether it wants to run or collapse.

The sterile smell of dried herbs and metal clings to the air. It’s too quiet. The only sounds are the creak of the ship’s boards beneath you and the subtle sway of the ocean outside- faint, but constant, like a pulse you’re trying to match.

Your hands rest in your lap, though they don’t feel like your own. The symbols carved into your skin have dulled to a bruised red, not glowing… but not quite natural either. You don’t dare trace them again. Every time your fingers twitch toward your arm, you stop.

You try not to think about what might have happened. You try not to think about what you did. You try not to think at all. But it's hard when the walls are this quiet.

You glance toward the door for what must be the fifth time in the last two minutes. Hongjoong said he would send for Yunho… and you’d asked for Wooyoung. You’re not even sure why.

Maybe it’s because he always says something...anything- when silence threatens to strangle you. Or maybe it’s because, even now, there’s a part of you that still remembers him saving you. Still remembers the small kindnesses tucked behind his sharp tongue.

You tuck your legs up onto the bed slowly and wrap your arms around them. Curling in. You're tired. You're cold. You're scared. And no matter how tightly you hold yourself, it doesn't go away. You don’t know how long it takes, but eventually, you hear footsteps.

Two sets. One heavier, one quicker. You don’t move. You just breathe. The door creaks open.

The door bursts open with far more force than it needs to.

You flinch.

But then- "Hey – hey, it's me," comes the familiar voice, breathless, already moving closer. "Shit, are you okay?"

Wooyoung.

He doesn’t wait for Yunho. Doesn’t wait for permission. He’s already kneeling beside the bed, eyes darting over you like he’s trying to memorize every inch- every wound, every scratch, every sign that you’re still here.

You don’t even know what to say. Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

"I was so worried," he blurts, voice cracked with relief and something else he’s trying to keep buried. "You have no idea- fuck, I thought we were too late."

He reaches for your hand and when you don’t pull away, gently takes it in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, careful to avoid the markings on your skin. You notice how warm he is. You hadn’t realized how cold you’ve been until now. His eyes flick up to meet yours. They’re shining. "You’re really here," he whispers. "You're really… you."

The words hit something deep. Something trembling and uncertain inside you. You try to nod, but it comes out more like a shaky breath. “I think so,” you manage softly. “I think I am.”

Wooyoung swallows hard, as if holding back everything he wants to say.

Behind him, Yunho finally steps into the room, quiet and steady, like always, but your attention is still tangled in Wooyoung's expression. For the first time since waking up… you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not alone in this.

A soft, deliberate clearing of the throat breaks the moment.

You and Wooyoung both turn your heads.

Yunho stands just inside the doorway now, hands in his coat pockets, eyes flicking between you and the boy still holding your hand. “I’m… glad you’re awake,” Yunho says, his voice gentle, though edged with clinical restraint. “Really. But…” -he steps forward, the light catching in his eyes- “I need to clean you up.”

Your body tenses instinctively, gaze dropping down again to your arms, still covered in dried blood and the raised, angry carvings of those strange symbols. You hadn’t dared to look beneath the blanket yet. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

“I know it’s uncomfortable,” Yunho continues carefully, reading the fear in your expression. “But I don’t know what these marks could mean medically. They’re not just surface wounds. I need to make sure nothing’s… worsening.”

He glances toward Wooyoung. “And you said you wanted him here. So he’ll stay. As long as you want.”

You nod slowly, reluctant. Everything inside you screams to retreat, to hide, to disappear. But you don’t. Not this time.

“I won’t hurt you,” Yunho says, already rolling up his sleeves as he moves to the basin near the counter. “You’ve been through enough.”

Wooyoung squeezes your hand once- firm, grounding. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like a test subject. Or a curse. You just feel like a person who’s still here. Barely. But here.

You hear the water first. The faint trickle into metal. The soft splash as Yunho dips a hand in, checking the temperature. The smell of medicinal herbs reaches you before the steam does, subtle, cleansing, but sharp enough to sting your nose.

He doesn’t say much. He just nods to the large metal tub that sits now beside the infirmary’s bench. “It’s ready,” he murmurs. “We’ll both turn around. Take your time getting in.”

Wooyoung is already averting his gaze, arms folded, tension written across his shoulders. Yunho does the same, stepping a few paces away, giving you space.

You push the blanket off your shoulders and rise, shaky and slow. Every step toward the tub feels heavy- like your body isn’t fully yours. The blood on your skin is dried and tight. The carved symbols throb faintly under the surface, a pulsing reminder of what you’ve become. You try not to look at them too long.

Reaching the edge, you grip the rim and step in, one foot, then the other. The heat bites first, and you gasp- low, sharp. Then it spreads.

Sinking down into it is harder. You wince as the water licks up your thighs, over your hips. The pain sharpens as it touches the rawest parts of you, and you flinch, an involuntary sound escaping your throat. You sit slowly, teeth clenched.

The sting is unbearable.

It’s not just the pain- it’s the exposure. You curl your arms over your chest, hunch forward, trying to hide the worst of yourself from the silence behind you. The water darkens slightly, murky with dried blood and something darker, almost ink-like, as if the symbols are bleeding again. The scent of the herbs mixes with the metallic tang.

You breathe. You don’t cry. But you don’t speak either. For a moment, it’s just you, the sting, and the slow realization: You’re still here. But you’re not sure who you are anymore.

"Can I start?" Yunho asks softly from behind you. His voice is steady, like always. Comforting in a way that makes you feel more fragile.

You hesitate, staring at your reflection distorted in the surface of the bathwater. The marks on your skin still shimmer faintly beneath it. You take a breath. Then another. "...Yeah."

They turn around. You hear their quiet steps on the infirmary floor. Yunho moves first, pulling on gloves and grabbing a cloth soaked in the herbal mixture. He kneels beside the tub without a word, his movements calm- detached, in a way that almost makes it easier. You can feel his focus.

The cloth touches your shoulder. You flinch. It stings.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’re doing good.”

You nod faintly.

He continues slowly, wiping the blood away layer by layer, working with quiet precision. His hands are clinical, practiced, a medic before anything else. He doesn't react to your nakedness. Doesn’t leer or glance. Just works.

But Wooyoung? He stands nearby, arms crossed tightly, gaze bouncing between the ceiling and the floor and anywhere but you. You see him peek once, then whip his head away with a faint flush.

"You're being weirder than me," you whisper under your breath.

Yunho snorts. "Actually," he says with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "you should’ve seen his face when I told him you asked for him to be here."

You blink. Wooyoung stiffens instantly. "I did not-!"

Yunho hums, dragging the cloth gently along your arm. “Mhm. He dropped the cup he was holding. Said, and I quote: ‘Me?! Are you sure? Not Seonghwa? Not Mingi? Not even Jongho?!’”

You glance toward Wooyoung, who's now pressing his palms into his face. “I was caught off guard, alright?!” he whines, muffled through his hands. “I didn’t know I was your… comfort person or whatever…”

"You’re not," you mutter dryly, though your voice shakes with the faintest, nearly-lost laugh.

He lowers his hands just enough for you to see the curve of his smile. "Sure. Say that again after I hold your hand through this whole bath."

“You haven’t even-" You cut yourself off with a hiss as Yunho starts gently cleaning one of the deeper carved lines along your ribs.

"Sorry," he says immediately. “The herbs sting more where it’s fresh.”

“I know.”

A moment passes. Then Wooyoung steps forward and sits just beside the tub, closer than before. He still doesn’t look at you directly, but his voice is gentler now. “You're really brave, y'know that?”

You look at him. You don’t believe it. Not fully. But hearing it helps. Just a little.

The water shifts gently around you as Yunho rinses the cloth, but your attention's no longer on him.

It’s on Wooyoung. He sinks down onto the floor beside the tub, legs folding awkwardly underneath him. His knees knock together. He doesn’t look at you- not directly, but his gaze rests just a little too long on the steam curling off the water, on the glint of your damp skin in the light. Then, softly: “I waited.”

You blink. “What?”

His fingers fidget with the hem of his sleeve. “When you were gone,” he says, voice low and weirdly careful, “I sat by the comms. Even though I knew the signal was gone. Even though Mingi said it wouldn’t work.”

A pause. The water shifts. Yunho has stopped moving. “I stayed anyway,” Wooyoung continues, quieter. “I tried it every hour. Even when everyone else gave up.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t know how to. Your throat feels too tight.

He swallows. “It was stupid. I knew it was stupid. But I couldn’t just… sit around and not try.”

You glance at him.

His expression is unreadable, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past the tub’s edge, like he’s afraid if he looks at you, this whole confession might unravel. “I thought maybe you’d try to contact me. Even for a second. Even if it was just a noise, a sound, anything. I kept hoping…” He trails off. Then he shrugs, with a lopsided smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I dunno. Maybe I wanted to be the one you reached out to.”

Your heart twists. Not because of guilt. But because a part of you- a scared, shaky part of you, wanted that too. You reach out without thinking, your damp fingers barely brushing his sleeve. He freezes. Looks at you. You see the flicker of shock in his eyes before he quickly schools it down.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper. “That you…”

“Tried?” he says with a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I did.” He looks down again, then adds: “I didn’t want you to feel alone out there. I just… didn’t want you to forget that we were waiting.”

That he was waiting.

The water sloshes softly around you, warm against your aching skin. You sit low in the tub, trying your best to keep your body covered with your arms- though it's nothing Yunho hasn't already seen with clinical disinterest.

 It’s Wooyoung who’s the problem. He’s sitting rigidly on the floor beside you, staring very intently at the opposite wall, his ears visibly red.

You watch him squirm, lips twitching. “…What?” you say, voice soft but smug. “Never seen a woman before?”

Wooyoung stiffens, turning his head slightly in disbelief. “Are you seriously-”

Yunho cuts in before he can finish, not missing a beat. “He hasn’t.”

You blink. Wooyoung lets out an offended gasp. “I- okay- what?!” he blurts, looking between the two of you. “I have seen-!”

“Oh, don’t lie now,” Yunho says, rinsing the washcloth with deliberate calm. “You once fainted when a waitress winked at you.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Fainted?”

“I had heat stroke!” Wooyoung insists, nearly sliding off the wall in his dramatics.

Yunho hums like he doesn’t believe him at all. “You also blushed for three days straight after a girl held your hand in Thalrune.”

“That’s a complete exaggeration,” Wooyoung mutters, clearly dying inside. “...It was one day.”

You can’t help it - you laugh. It bursts out of you unexpectedly, short and genuine. It’s the first time you’ve really laughed since returning to the ship, and it almost makes your chest ache.

Yunho grins, pleased with himself.

Wooyoung groans and drags his hands down his face. “I regret everything.”

“You asked to be here,” Yunho points out cheerfully, wringing the cloth out again. “She literally requested you. You should be honored.”

“Yeah, I thought it was because she trusted me, not because she wanted to emotionally end me.”

You smirk. “Maybe not originally, but I'm glad I did.”

He throws his head back and groans dramatically. “Yunho, make her stop.”

“Nope,” Yunho says, scrubbing your shoulder gently with the cloth. “This is the best I’ve felt in weeks.”

You glance at Wooyoung, tilting your head. “So… just to be clear, you are a virgin, then?”

Wooyoung looks like he wants the tub to swallow him whole. “I hate this place.”

Yunho leans closer and stage-whispers to you, “We’ve taken bets. I said he wouldn’t last five minutes.”

“YUNHO!”

Your laugh bubbles up again- more freely this time. The tension in your shoulders starts to loosen just a bit. Despite the soreness, the aching marks, and the lingering confusion in your mind… you feel something like warmth.

Not just from the bath. From them. From this. From home.

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

The room is dim when Jongho steps inside, the soft creak of the door the only sound cutting through the stillness.

Yeosang is awake. Barely.

He’s propped up against the pillow, but his body looks heavier than usual- like gravity’s doubled its grip on his bones overnight. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes, and his breath sounds shallow. Even his gaze, usually calm even in pain, flickers uneasily as it shifts to meet Jongho’s.

“…You’re worse today,” Jongho says softly, stepping closer.

Yeosang doesn't answer right away. He doesn’t need to.

Jongho kneels beside the bed, his eyes scanning him with a quiet sort of desperation. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not really.” Yeosang’s voice is hoarse, thin around the edges. “Dreams again.”

Jongho hesitates. Then: “The same?”

Yeosang nods. “But stronger. More vivid. And… not just dreams. My body feels like it’s slipping further.”

He lifts a trembling hand, palm facing the ceiling. Even the simple motion makes his arm shake. Jongho gently reaches out and takes it, steadying him. His thumb brushes across the knuckles. “You’re not going to fade,” he says, quietly firm. “You’re not.”

Yeosang doesn’t respond. He closes his eyes instead, as if to hide from the way Jongho’s voice almost breaks trying to say it.

A long silence sits between them. Then, just above a whisper- “…I heard it,” Yeosang murmurs. “Her voice. I don’t know how, but I heard it again. And not just from my dreams.”

Jongho blinks. “You mean-”

“She’s awake,” Yeosang says, breath catching. “I felt it. Just for a second. Something cracked open in my head. Like a door I didn’t even know was locked.”

Jongho’s expression shifts. “You don’t think the curse is reacting again, do you?”

Yeosang’s brows furrow. “I think it never really stopped.”

Jongho doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, he lifts Yeosang’s hand again and presses a kiss to the back of it. “You’re not slipping away,” he repeats. “Not while I’m here.”

Yeosang finally opens his eyes. And this time, there’s something steady in the way he looks at Jongho, like he’s holding onto him with more than just his hand.

The quiet hum of the ship is the only thing filling the space now. Jongho is still at Yeosang’s side, seated on the edge of the bed with one leg tucked beneath him. He hasn't let go of Yeosang’s hand.

“You shouldn’t stay here all day,” Yeosang says eventually, voice soft but strained. “You should rest too. Or eat. I know how you get when you’re too worried.”

Jongho gives him a look, part unimpressed, part deeply fond. “You’re literally half-possessed and dying, and you’re worried about my appetite?”

Yeosang manages a weak smile. “It’s easier than thinking about myself.”

Jongho exhales slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You always do that. Deflect. Act like your pain isn’t real just because someone else could be hurting too.”

Yeosang looks down at the blankets, his expression unreadable. “I never liked asking for help,” he admits. “Back when I was at the hotel… no one cared. If you cried, they punished you. If you begged, they punished you harder. So I learned to stay quiet. To just… survive it.”

Jongho’s heart twists. “I hate that that’s the only way you learned to survive,” he whispers.

Yeosang turns to him, expression raw. “And now there’s her. And this… connection. It hurts, Jongho. It hurts in places I can’t even name. Sometimes I think I’m losing parts of myself every time she suffers.”

He laughs bitterly under his breath. “Isn’t it ironic? I was cursed- but she’s the one everyone’s terrified of now.”

Jongho shifts closer, his voice steadier than he feels. “She’s still her. You know that, right? She came back from something unspeakable, and she'll remember us. She'll remember you.”

Yeosang shakes his head. “But what if it’s because of me that she was dragged into this in the first place?”

Jongho doesn’t let him spiral. “Then we fix it together,” he says. “Like we always do.”

There’s a pause. Then, softer- more vulnerable: “I’m scared too, Yeo.”

Yeosang’s eyes widen slightly.

“I’m scared of losing you,” Jongho confesses. “And not just to this curse, or to the nightmares. I’m scared that one day you’ll shut me out for good. That you’ll go quiet and I won’t know how to reach you anymore.”

Yeosang doesn’t respond with words. He just leans forward, weakly, and rests his forehead against Jongho’s. Their fingers interlock tighter. “…I’ll try,” he whispers. “I promise I’ll keep trying.”

And Jongho whispers back, like a vow: “I’ll stay. No matter what.”

The air feels heavier after all that’s been said, but not suffocating. There’s a strange calm in the quiet, the kind that only comes after surviving something horrible, even if just barely. Jongho leans back against the headboard now, still close, his shoulder brushing Yeosang’s. His hand never leaves Yeosang’s, as if afraid he might vanish if he lets go.

“…You remember that one time I tried to cook for the crew?” Jongho says suddenly, a lopsided smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

Yeosang lets out the faintest huff of air, barely a laugh, but it's something. “The stew?”

“The disaster, you mean,” Jongho chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Even San nearly cried.”

Yeosang closes his eyes for a moment, the memory grounding him. “You added cinnamon.”

“It was a creative choice,” Jongho argues weakly.

Yeosang hums, a ghost of amusement in his tone. “You ruined the entire pot.”

“But you ate it.”

Yeosang turns to look at him, eyes tired but warm. “Because you made it. And you looked so proud.”

Jongho doesn’t say anything for a moment. His gaze drops to their joined hands. He shifts his fingers, squeezing Yeosang’s gently.

“I miss when things were simpler,” he mutters. “Before… this. Before the curse. Before she got taken. Before everything turned bloody.”

Yeosang doesn’t reply right away. Then, quietly: “Me too.” Another silence, but this one is comfortable.

Eventually, Jongho lets his head fall lightly against Yeosang’s shoulder. “Let’s find something to hold onto,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “Even if it’s just each other.”

Yeosang swallows hard. Then turns slightly. Enough to see Jongho’s face. Close. Closer than he’d let anyone be lately. “You’ve always been something to hold onto,” Yeosang says softly.

Jongho blinks. And then Yeosang leans in. Slow, hesitant- waiting for Jongho to pull away.

But he doesn’t. Their lips meet in the kind of kiss that aches, gentle but weighed down by everything unsaid. Not rushed. Not perfect. Just real.

When they part, Jongho rests his forehead against Yeosang’s. “We’re gonna be okay,” he says.

Yeosang exhales shakily. “Promise?”

“Yeah,” Jongho whispers. “Even if I have to fight the entire ocean myself.”

And then they sit there, foreheads pressed together, holding on to something fragile- and maybe, just maybe, starting to heal.

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

The silence in Hongjoong’s quarters is different now.

Not the commanding kind that usually helps him think, this one is restless. Breathing. Alive with memories, mistakes, and things he can’t take back.

He sits alone at the edge of the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin, gaze unfocused. The faint creak of the ship swaying gently beneath him is the only sound. He can still hear it, if he lets his mind wander far enough- the laugh that wasn’t yours. The blood that wouldn’t stop dripping. The blank look in your eyes before you collapsed.

And the way everyone had looked at him. For orders. For answers. For reasons. But he had none.

He lets out a breath through his nose, long and tired. Then, without fully thinking, he stands and moves to the small console by his desk. The communicator crackles slightly as he presses the broadcast button.

"All crew," he says, voice steady but low. “I want everyone in the main hall for a shared meal. Fifteen minutes.”

There’s a pause before he adds, softer, “No exceptions.”

He releases the button and leans back, eyes closing for just a moment. It’s not peace. Not yet. But maybe it’s a step toward something close to it.

Hongjoong walks the ship like a ghost. Each step echoes in the hallways, and for once, no one stops him. No one asks questions. No one dares.

When he enters the dining hall, it’s dimly lit – lanterns flickering overhead, casting swaying shadows on the metal walls. He walks to the far end of the long table, the seat usually reserved for the captain, and sits. Hands folded. Eyes sharp.

He waits.

First to arrive is Mingi, quiet and slow. He takes a seat near the middle and avoids meeting anyone’s gaze. Then comes Yunho, who lingers at the doorway before sliding into the chair across from Mingi. His eyes flick briefly to Hongjoong, unreadable. San arrives next, his jaw tense, his eyes darker than usual. He sits down like he’s preparing for battle. Then Seonghwa- steady, polished, but with a noticeable weariness clinging to him. He takes a seat, but not too close to the captain. Yeosang is next. He walks in with Jongho gently guiding him by the arm. He’s pale, thinner, his movements sluggish. But his expression is composed, lips tight, gaze distant. Hongjoong watches as Jongho helps him into a seat beside him, and something flickers in the captain’s eyes.

They’re closer now, he notes silently. Different. But he says nothing. The room settles into thick, uneasy silence.

Until you walk in.

The door creaks, and heads turn- and so does the air in the room.

You're clean now. At least, physically. No blood clinging to your hair, no gore under your fingernails. But the marks remain. Carved into your skin like someone tried to rewrite you. The symbols are vivid, angry red lines, twisting like vines down your arms and neck.

You walk with slow, cautious steps. Eyes lowered, unsure whether you’re welcome here, unsure whether you are still you.

No one speaks. No one dares to. You take your seat at the far end, directly across from Hongjoong. The silence tightens again. It feels like a room full of ticking clocks. Like everyone’s waiting for something to explode- or beg for forgiveness.

But nothing comes. Just the soft clatter of cutlery. The occasional cough. And the ever-present weight of everything that’s happened.

You sit without thinking, without looking.

The seat welcomes you like it’s always been waiting, but the air around it is dense- like smoke that hasn’t cleared. Your skin itches with awareness, your fingers tremble against the edge of the table.

You don’t check who’s beside you. You can’t. You’re not ready. You feel eyes on you, but none bold enough to hold your gaze.

Then, a voice. Not loud- just enough to break the suffocating stillness. “So…” It’s Mingi. Awkward. Tentative. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat, eyes flicking between the crew. “We’re all eating together again. That’s… something, right?”

No one answers.

You hear a quiet scrape of a fork against a plate. Someone exhales. Yeosang coughs softly into his sleeve, and Jongho rubs his back in response. Yunho’s eyes flicker to yours for a second, then away.

Mingi tries again. “I mean...last time we were all at this table, the storm nearly knocked us off course. Remember that?” A weak smile. “San nearly fell overboard.”

San doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even look up. “Maybe I should’ve,” he mutters under his breath.

Mingi’s smile fades, hands retreating under the table. The silence grows heavier, more personal. Still, he leans forward a little. “I’m just saying,” he adds, voice quieter now. “We’re all still here. Somehow.”

You glance at him then. He meets your eyes, just for a heartbeat. And it’s not pity that looks back at you. It’s something softer. Like he’s trying. Like he wants you to try, too.

But before you can respond, before the thread can be pulled any further, another voice breaks through: “She shouldn’t be here.”

Sharp. Cold.

San.

He doesn’t say it loudly, but it slices through the room like a blade. His arms are crossed, his jaw clenched. He’s not looking at anyone. Not even you.

Mingi flinches. Across the table, Jongho closes his eyes. Beside him, Yeosang just whispers, “San…”

But San doesn’t take it back. You finally turn your head to see who you sat beside.

It’s him. And he refuses to look at you.

San’s voice rises. “I don’t care what anyone says. She shouldn’t be sitting at this table like nothing happened.” His fork clatters to the plate. The sound rings out louder than it should, sharp and final. His body is tense, muscles pulled tight like a storm about to break. He still won’t look at you, but every word is a dagger thrown in your direction. “I watched what was left of that room. I saw what was carved into the walls. I saw what she-”

“What did I do?”

The words tear out of you before you can stop them. They echo across the hall like a gunshot, silencing even the quiet breaths. The crew stares- not because you raised your voice, but because there’s something raw behind it. Something real. Something broken.

San’s eyes finally meet yours. And in that second, he sees it- the sheer confusion in your expression, the trembling in your hands, the panic swirling in your eyes.

You’re not playing dumb. You don’t know.

“I don’t remember anything,” you say, your voice cracking around the edges. “I remember going on that mission. I remember leaving with Seonghwa. And then…”

You gesture vaguely to your body, the bandages, the markings, the scarred symbols still etched into your skin. “I woke up like this.”

The silence this time feels different. Heavier. Like grief settling into the bones of the room. Seonghwa lowers his gaze, lips pressed into a tight line. Mingi looks like he’s about to speak but doesn’t. Wooyoung’s hand tightens on the edge of the table.

You shake your head, eyes wide. “So if you’re going to hate me, San, if you want to blame me for something I don’t even understand,  then at least tell me what I’m being hated for.”

You wait. San opens his mouth. Then closes it. He doesn’t have an answer. Not yet. The silence is stifling. Your chest rises and falls too fast. Everyone seems to be holding their breath – waiting to see who breaks the tension first.

Then a voice slices through the heavy stillness, deep and composed: “San. That’s enough.”

All eyes turn to the far end of the table where Hongjoong sits, arms folded, jaw clenched. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a steel in his tone that leaves no room for argument. “As your captain, it’s my responsibility to speak the hard truths when no one else can,” he says, voice steady. “Even when they hurt.”

Your breath catches.

He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. The candlelight dances against the sharp planes of his face, making the shadows look deeper. More severe. His eyes shift. They land on you. And stay there.

You blink, startled at first, but what strikes you most isn’t the weight of his gaze, it’s the way he looks at you. Not like a monster. Not like a stranger. But like something... else.

Like a crew member.

You’re not sure anyone else noticed it, but the shift in his tone when he spoke just now, the quiet way he included you in that phrase, it lands like a blow to the ribs. Your stomach knots.

“You want to know what happened?” Hongjoong asks, voice quieter now. Direct. Almost gentle.

You swallow hard and nod. He doesn't look away. “I’m asking if you’re truly ready to know,” he says. “Because once I tell you, you don’t get to unknow it.”

Everyone’s watching you. Not a single fork moves. Even San stays quiet. You shift in your seat, fingers clenching slightly against your thighs. Your voice comes out soft – barely louder than a breath.

“...Tell me.”

Hongjoong leans back in his seat, fingers folding together, thumb pressing hard into his knuckle as if grounding himself. His eyes don't move from you. They stay steady. Heavy. He sighs, slow and deep. The room waits.

"You went on a mission with Seonghwa," he begins, voice low. “We were meant to dock, scout, and retrieve a small lead. Nothing more. Just intel.”

The table is silent. Even the sea outside seems quieter.

“You were calm,” he continues. “Quiet. Seonghwa said you felt... off, but not wrong. You walked through Braxis together until you came across an old building. One that looked long forgotten.”

He pauses. You don’t breathe. “Seonghwa says you felt drawn to it. That you recognised a symbol carved above the door. And that you asked to go in.”

Your brows furrow, but you say nothing.

“It was abandoned,” he says, a little quieter. “Like a lab. A hospital, maybe. No one’s sure. The place was falling apart. But you insisted on going deeper.”

You glance to your side. Seonghwa’s knuckles are white, clenched against the edge of the table.

“Then… you were gone,” Hongjoong says, voice tightening. “He said the door slammed shut before he could reach you. Locked him out. He banged and shouted, but you didn’t answer.”

You blink quickly. Your throat is dry.

“That’s when he ran back. To get us. To get help.”

Your eyes drop. You can see the pain in Seonghwa’s posture without looking directly at him.

“I took San, Yeosang and Seonghwa back with me,” Hongjoong continues. “We knew time was short. We found the building again. Tracked the same path. But when we arrived, the air had changed.”

Your heart thuds. Hard.

“We found the door you disappeared behind… but it was open. The room… was a child’s room. A playroom. Large. Eerie. And then we saw another door.”

He stops. Just for a moment. His eyes flick briefly to Yeosang. Then he speaks again. Slower. “There was blood everywhere. Symbols carved into the walls. Symbols we didn’t recognise. And a body. Torn apart. Laid out… deliberately. In pieces. Spelling something.”

Someone across the table exhales shakily. You’re not sure who. Your hands shake under the table.

“And then… we saw you.” His voice falters, just for a second. “You were standing in the middle of it all. Covered in blood. Your body carved with symbols. Your eyes were… gone. Not blank. Just not yours.”

You feel your stomach twist.

“I tried to approach,” he says quietly, “but you lunged at Yeosang.” The words hit the table like a dropped knife. Yeosang doesn’t move, but his eyes are fixed to the floor.

“We had to restrain you,” Hongjoong says. “You fought like an animal. We didn’t know what to do.”

You can’t speak. You feel like you’re going to be sick.

“In the end,” he says, barely above a whisper now, “I had to put you down. Sedate you. And we carried you home.”

Silence. Just the soft creak of the ship and the beating of your heart. Hongjoong finally leans back again, a haunted look in his eyes. “That’s what happened.”

Your voice cracks. “I… I don’t remember any of that.”

“I know,” he says.

You slowly lift your eyes, scanning the table- some watching you, some unable to. It’s hard to tell what they’re thinking. Fear? Sadness? Pity? You don’t want any of it. But more than anything, you want answers.

It’s silent for a moment too long. And then- you break.

A sob slips out before you can stop it, tearing through your throat like it was waiting to escape. Your shoulders jolt forward, your hands shooting up to your face as the tears come hard and fast, impossible to hold back.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, voice muffled behind your palms. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know- I didn’t- I would never-”

You gasp for air, each word broken by panic, by horror, by shame that burns in your chest. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone- I don’t remember- I don’t remember-!” Your whole body trembles as you double over, the weight of the guilt crashing down like a wave. You don’t care who’s watching. You don’t care what they think.

Because you saw their faces. You saw how they looked at you. You know what they found. And even if you don’t remember the blood on your hands- it’s there.

“I didn’t want to- I didn’t want to-”

A chair scrapes back. Footsteps. Someone kneels beside you. A hand hovers on your back. Not pushing, not pulling. Just there. Offering. “You’re back now,” a voice says softly. It’s Yunho. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

You shake your head. “But I hurt him. I hurt Yeosang-”

“I’m fine,” Yeosang’s voice cuts through. Firm. Clear. “You didn’t… it wasn’t you.”

You slowly lower your hands. Your face is hot, soaked with tears. Your throat aches. Yeosang looks pale, exhausted- but there’s something in his eyes. Not fear. Compassion.

“It wasn’t you,” he repeats.

No one else speaks. No one scolds you. No one turns away. But their silence is thick. Heavy with all the things they could say. All the things they might be thinking.

And still, no one leaves.

You stay curled forward, sobs still shaking your frame as your eyes burn into the wood of the table. You don’t know how you’ll face them after this. Don’t know what they’ll do with you. What they should do.

But they haven’t walked away. Not yet. And maybe… maybe that’s enough for now.

You don't know how long you've been crying. How long you've sat hunched and broken at the dinner table, the taste of ash on your tongue, the weight of guilt pressing into your chest.

But through the blur of your tears, you feel Yunho’s arm shift around your back, holding you, grounding you, his palm rubbing soft circles. Another presence joins, warmth from your other side.

Wooyoung.

His hand wraps gently around your forearm, thumb brushing your skin in quiet reassurance. He doesn't say anything, not at first. He just leans in, forehead brushing your shoulder. You feel him tremble a little too. Like maybe it scared him. Like maybe he’s still scared.

And then- a shadow moves across the table. A figure stands.

You lift your eyes and freeze.

Yeosang.

He looks fragile, like a porcelain doll someone forgot to wrap before dropping. But there’s a strength in his step that shouldn’t be there. As if something’s guiding him forward. Drawing him closer. He moves until he’s standing directly across from you, his eyes flicking from your tear-streaked face to your shaking hands on the table. You can’t meet his gaze for long.

But then he reaches out. The room doesn’t breathe. No one stops him. No one dares to speak.

His hand finds yours. It’s the first time you’ve touched.And for one brief, aching second- it feels warm. Soft. Forgiving.

But then- Yeosang’s body jerks back. His entire frame arches violently, eyes flying wide with horror. A sharp, garbled gasp escapes him- then turns to choking. He crumples forward. Slams against the floor.

“Yeosang!” someone screams- maybe Jongho.

He's convulsing- hard. His limbs twitch uncontrollably as foam begins to build at the corners of his mouth. His eyes roll back. His body seizes violently, again and again, as though struck by lightning.

Wooyoung grabs you and pulls you back instinctively.

The crew explodes into motion.

“Get Yunho-”

“He’s right here!”

You stare in frozen horror, your heart slamming against your ribs. Your hand still tingles from where his touched yours. You don’t know what happened. But you felt it. You felt something break. And deep inside, a part of you already knows. It was you.

“Move-!”

Yunho’s voice is sharp, louder than you’ve ever heard it. Chairs scrape violently against the floor as the crew scrambles out of the way. In the blink of an eye, Yeosang’s trembling body is scooped into Yunho’s arms, his head lolling against his chest, lips tinged with white.

You’re still frozen in place. You can hear the blood in your ears, roaring louder than the shouting around you.

“Out of the way!” “Is he breathing?” “Shit- someone get the infirmary ready-”

Wooyoung grabs your hand and pulls you toward the wall as Yunho barrels past, Jongho right behind him, nearly stumbling from how fast he moves.

“Yunho- he’s still shaking-” “I know, just keep the hallway clear-!”

Mingi darts ahead to throw the infirmary doors open as Yunho bursts inside, lowering Yeosang onto the cot with practiced urgency. His hands move fast, checking his airway, stabilizing his neck, wiping foam from his lips.

The rest of the crew watches from the doorway, too shocked to enter.

“Pulse is there- faint. His breathing’s- shallow.” Yunho swears under his breath. “Dammit, come on.”

He pulls open drawers, rips out bandages and supplies, hooks up a saline line with shaking hands but a focused mind. Within moments, the choking eases. Yeosang’s muscles slowly stop convulsing.

But his eyes don’t open.

“Vitals stabilizing,” Yunho mutters, wiping sweat from his brow. “He’s… unconscious. But breathing.” His voice lowers, almost trembling. “He’s out cold.”

You don’t realize you’re crying again until Wooyoung gently touches your face.

“You didn’t mean to,” he whispers, eyes wide and unsure. “You didn’t even do anything…”

But the guilt inside you is like an anchor now. Heavy. Drowning. Because something inside you did. From the corner of the room, Hongjoong watches in eerie silence. Seonghwa’s jaw is locked. And Jongho… doesn’t stop holding Yeosang’s hand.

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

After a long grueling night, the infirmary becomes quiet .Too quiet.

No more frantic footsteps or screaming- only the soft hum of medical instruments and the occasional rustle as Yunho flips through notes, charts, scribbles, mutters under his breath.

Yeosang remains still on the bed, breathing faintly. Unconscious. Pale. Yunho hasn’t left his side.

Everyone else has trickled out. Except Jongho, who sits close and silent, never letting go of Yeosang’s hand. And you- still curled in a blanket on the cot across from him, eyes swollen from crying, barely daring to breathe too loudly.

Yunho exhales deeply, finally breaking the silence. “…I know what’s happening.”

Jongho’s head snaps up. Your gaze lifts, full of hope and fear.

Yunho looks exhausted- eyes sunken, brows furrowed, voice thin. But sure. “It’s the curse,” he says. “Echo’s Decay… it’s advancing.”

“But he- he had a year,” Jongho says, shaking his head. “You said he had time-”

“I was wrong,” Yunho says bitterly. “Something has accelerated it. Drastically. When he touched…” His eyes flick toward you for a beat. “…it created a shock response. A feedback loop. His body reacted like the curse had been… reactivated. Or intensified.”

You feel sick. Your stomach churns violently.

Jongho speaks your name gently, but your head is spinning. “So what does that mean?” he asks. “How long does he have?”

Yunho doesn’t answer immediately. He just stares at the clipboard in his lap. “…Weeks,” he says at last. “Maybe less.”

A thick silence falls. Jongho looks like the air’s been punched from his lungs. You can barely see through the blur of your tears.

“But – there’s still one option,” Yunho adds quietly, leaning forward. “One possible way to stop it. To reverse what’s happening.”

Jongho’s eyes snap to his. “What? What is it?”

“…The Luminaer potion.”

You freeze. You’ve heard them whisper about it before. In the lower decks. On stormy nights when the sea howled. The cursed cure.

Yunho nods slowly. “It’s the only thing that could stop this now. If we don’t find it, he won’t last long.”

He looks up. His eyes land on you. “You might be the only one who can find it.”

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

You follow Yunho through the corridors of HalaVeil, each step slow and echoing. Your hands are clenched tightly in front of you, blood still crusted under your nails no matter how much you’d tried to scrub them away earlier.

Wooyoung walks on your other side. He hasn’t said a word since Yeosang collapsed, but he hasn’t left your side, either. His fingers brush your elbow every so often, as if making sure you’re still there.

Yunho stops outside the captain’s quarters. You can feel the storm behind the door before it even opens.

He knocks once. “Come in.” The voice is clipped. Cold.

Yunho opens the door and holds it for you and Wooyoung. You hesitate for a moment before stepping in, heart sinking. Hongjoong is standing with his back to you, hunched over the map table, hands braced against the wood. He doesn’t look up. “Well?”

Yunho clears his throat. “He’s stable.”

Silence.

“But not for long.”

Hongjoong finally turns his head, and for a moment, he looks…older. Tired in a way you haven’t seen before.

“The curse is advancing rapidly,” Yunho continues. “He doesn’t have a year anymore. It’s been accelerated. A trigger response from…” He glances at you. “…the contact.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek. Wooyoung’s hand moves to your back.

Hongjoong’s eyes find yours. He says nothing. But the weight behind his stare crushes you.

Yunho doesn’t let the silence last. “The only option is the Luminaer.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightens. He looks at Yunho sharply. “You’re certain?”

“I wouldn’t say it otherwise.”

You see it happen, his mind turning, the cogs grinding behind his eyes. His gaze flickers back to you. “I assume you’re telling me this because you expect me to send her.”

You flinch.

“She’s the only one it responds to,” Yunho says. “You know that.”

“No,” Wooyoung cuts in suddenly. His voice is steady, but his hands are fists at his sides. “She just got back. You can’t throw her into hell again. She’s not even-”

“I didn’t say I would,” Hongjoong interrupts. He looks between the three of you, then steps away from the table. “I need time,” he mutters. “To think. To plan. You’ll have my answer by morning.”

The words hang in the air like a verdict not yet spoken. You nod, barely. Then you turn. Wooyoung follows you out without a word.

Yunho stays behind. And behind you, through the closing door, you hear Hongjoong let out a long, shaky breath.

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

The ship rocks gently beneath your feet as Wooyoung walks beside you. Neither of you speaks as you move through the corridors. The air is thick with unspoken questions and emotions too heavy to name.

Your door comes into view. You pause in front of it, fingers curling around the handle. Your body feels like it’s moving without you, like your mind is still back in the infirmary, still in that room filled with gasps and screams and heartbreak.

“You okay?” Wooyoung’s voice is low.

You don’t answer. You just lower your head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be again.”

He shifts closer. “That’s okay,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be. Not right now.”

You finally look at him.

His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it, no teasing, no smug grins, none of the bravado he usually hides behind. Just concern. Real, raw, quiet concern. “You didn’t choose this,” he adds. “I don’t think you ever had a choice.”

Your throat tightens. “I hurt him,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

“You’re not the one who hurt him.” Wooyoung steps closer. “Something else did. Something that’s been trying to pull you apart piece by piece since the day you came aboard.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

His hand hovers before it lands gently on your shoulder. He gives you a squeeze – comforting, grounding. “You’re not alone,” he says.

A beat passes. You look down at your door again, then back at him. “…Will you stay? Just for a little while?”

Wooyoung’s lips quirk into the tiniest smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He opens the door for you and waits until you’re inside before stepping in after you. The room is dimly lit, quiet, warm with the scent of the ocean that always lingers in the ship’s wood. You sit down on the edge of the bed, and Wooyoung sits beside you- close, but not too close.

He doesn’t push you to talk. He just stays. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you feel something that almost resembles safety.

The silence in your quarters feels different now – not heavy like before, but tentative. Like the calm after a storm, when things are still wet and broken, but the sun is trying to rise anyway.

You’re sat on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you. Wooyoung lingers right on the edge of the bed, almost falling off, shifting awkwardly like he doesn’t quite know where to sit- or if he should be sitting at all.

You glance at him. “Are you just gonna hover there all night?”

He flushes. “I, uh- I wasn’t sure if you actually wanted me to stay…”

You blink, then scoot over just a bit on the bed. “I did ask, didn’t I?”

His ears burn red as he shuffles to sit on the bed fully. He stays a little stiff as he moves closer toward you, eyes flicking around like he’s scanning the room for landmines.

“I’m not gonna bite,” you say dryly.

“…Not unless you’re still possessed,” he mutters under his breath, a weak smile tugging at his lips. You roll your eyes, but the tension cracks just a little.

He sits beside you- rigid, hands in his lap. You study him in the low light. He’s always been loud and bold, but now he’s quiet. Nervous. Like he's not sure he deserves to be here.

“I know I’m not much help in the medical stuff, or with all the symbols and magic or whatever this is,” he blurts suddenly. “But I swear, if there's anything I can do- anything- I’ll do it.”

You look at him, startled by the rawness in his voice. “I’ll help find the potion,” he continues, voice softer now. “The Luminaer thing. I’ll do whatever it takes. I don’t care how far we have to go or what we have to fight. I’m not letting you break again.”

His words hang in the air. You swallow hard. Your throat aches with the weight of everything you can’t say. But your hand shifts, inching closer to his on the bed.

Wooyoung notices. He doesn’t take it, not yet. But his pinky brushes yours, like a quiet promise.

“I’m scared too,” you admit in a whisper. “But it helps that you’re here.”

His shoulders lower, just a little. “I’ll always be here,” he murmurs. “Even if I have to fight Hongjoong himself to stay.”

You smile, small and tired, but real.

And in that moment, under the hum of the ship and the shadows on the walls, things don’t feel so hopeless after all.

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