#saltwake

The sea was colder now. Bitter, and stings with each breath it takes.

  Winter had settled across it like a shroud, turning every wave to steel and every exhale to smoke. The air carried that sharp, briny bite that stung the back of the throat and clung to everything it touched- sails, ropes, skin.

The horizon had lost its colour. It was all grey upon grey; sky and water bleeding into one endless sheet of metal. Even the gulls had gone silent, their shapes distant smudges against the clouds that sagged heavy with snow.

The HalaVeil moved through it slowly, her timbers groaning with the effort. Frost webbed across her rails and masts, catching the faint light like veins of glass. Each swell that struck her hull sounded more like an exhale than a crash- tired, rhythmic, old.

A storm must have passed here recently. The ocean still trembled from it, restless and resentful, the surface dappled with scattered foam that looked like torn paper floating on ink.

There was no wind strong enough to fill the sails. No sound but the soft roll of water against wood. It was the kind of quiet that made the sea feel alive; watching, waiting, holding its breath.

And somewhere beneath the frost and the stillness, under the waves that had swallowed both prayers and promises, the tide was beginning to stir again.

Wooyoung stood at the bow, the frost biting through his coat. The world around him was colourless- sky and sea bleeding into one another, the ship adrift in a silence so heavy it felt personal. His eyes burned from the cold, or maybe from the ache behind them that hadn’t eased since the island.

He leaned against the railing, knuckles white, breath a thin mist. “You’d hate it like this,” he murmured to the wind. “Too quiet.”

The sea didn’t answer, but he kept talking anyway- half out of habit, half out of need.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For not being faster. For not seeing what you were going to do. I should’ve–” His voice broke, the words catching before they could finish. He blinked hard, but the tears still came – small, hot lines against the cold air. “You always did what you thought was right, didn’t you? Even when it hurt.”

A wave sighed beneath the hull. The rhythm was almost like a heartbeat.

“I just wish,” he breathed, “you’d let us save you, for once.”

The wind changed. It came softer now, curling around him like a voice half-remembered. The hairs on his arms stood on end. Somewhere below, the water shifted– slow at first, then deliberate.

He froze.

There was movement, a shimmer under the surface, something dark but graceful, turning just beneath the ship’s reflection. His heart stuttered, breath catching in his throat.

“…Angel?”

The name left his lips without permission.

The water rippled in answer. Not violent, more like a beckon. The sound of the waves dulled. The cold faded. The air thickened until all he could hear was that faint pulse beneath the surface, that heartbeat that wasn’t his.

He leaned forward, hands gripping the railing. His vision tunneled, drawn to that flicker of shape, that almost-sound of a voice he knew.

And then it was like he was pulled over. Splash.

Ice-cold water slapped his face. A hand seized his collar, yanking him backward so hard his boots skidded on the frozen deck.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” Seonghwa’s voice cut through the fog, sharp with alarm. He slammed the hatch closed behind them before Wooyoung could even catch his breath. “You were seconds from going over.”

Wooyoung stared at him, dazed. “It was– there was something–”

Seonghwa’s glare was pure steel. “That was a siren.”

“No,” Wooyoung said, still trying to find his footing. “It sounded like–”

“Don’t,” Seonghwa snapped. “You think every ghost the sea throws at you has her face? Do you want to end up another body the tide keeps?”

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. The protest stuck in his throat. The sting of saltwater still burned against his skin, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the sea or his tears.

Seonghwa exhaled, quieter this time. “Don’t do that again.”

He left Wooyoung standing there in the half-dark cabin, dripping and shaking, the sound of the sea pressing faintly against the wood.

Wooyoung turned back toward the porthole – where the frost still clung to the glass and the horizon waited. The ocean outside looked calm again. Empty.

But even after Seonghwa’s footsteps faded, he swore he could still hear it – a voice beneath the waves, whispering his name.

The door slammed behind them with a thud that echoed through the ship’s hollow ribs. For a moment, Wooyoung just stood there, breathing hard in the dim corridor, water dripping from his hair and collar onto the planks below. The scent of salt clung to him– sharp and unmistakable, as if the sea itself refused to let go.

He wiped at his face with his sleeve, though it did little to dry him. The faint sound of the waves against the hull felt louder down here, pressing through the wood like whispers from another world. He hated that he couldn’t tell if they were real.

Above deck, Seonghwa’s boots thudded once, twice, then stopped. The bolt on the hatch scraped shut, iron on iron. Wooyoung could almost hear him exhale through his teeth before moving off again.

Sirens. The word still rang in his head, cold as the air that bit his skin.

He pushed off the wall and started down the corridor toward the lower deck, boots slick on the frost-slick planks. The lanterns hanging from the beams swayed gently, throwing lines of gold and shadow that turned the narrow passage into something almost alive.

As he descended the steps, the familiar smell of oil, medicine, and iron filled the air – Yunho’s domain. The medic was at his desk, hunched over a book, the light catching in the wire of his glasses. He looked up when Wooyoung entered, one eyebrow lifting at the state of him.

“What did you do this time?” Yunho asked, voice calm but carrying that edge of concern he never bothered to hide.

Wooyoung hesitated. He didn’t know how to explain it – the sound, the shape in the water, the way the world had gone quiet. “Seonghwa said it was a siren.”

Yunho’s hands stilled above the page. “And you didn’t believe him?”

“I almost went overboard,” Wooyoung admitted. “Didn’t feel like I wanted to – it just… happened.”

Yunho leaned back, studying him. “That’s how they work. If it was real, you wouldn’t have wanted anything except to follow.”

“I didn’t want to,” Wooyoung said quickly, defensive. “I just–” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair, the water still cold against his fingers. “Forget it. I don’t even know what I heard anymore.”

Yunho sighed, closing the book softly. “You’ve been seeing things that aren’t there since the island. Hearing them too. Grief does that.”

Wooyoung looked away. “It wasn’t grief.”

Yunho didn’t argue, and somehow that made it worse.

The silence stretched until the floorboards creaked above them, Seonghwa’s steady tread moving from one hatch to the next. The man never made unnecessary noise, yet somehow Wooyoung could always tell where he was on the ship.

Yunho turned back to his desk. “Get warm before you freeze. And don’t go near the rail again until we’re past this stretch.”

“Why?”

“Because Seonghwa said so,” Yunho replied simply. “And he’s the only one on this ship who can hear a siren and live to talk about it.”

Wooyoung frowned but said nothing. He peeled off his soaked gloves and dropped them onto a crate near the stairs before heading for his bunk.

Above, the ship groaned under the weight of the cold sea wind.

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

Seonghwa moved methodically, his movements almost ritualistic. He started from the quarterdeck, working his way down, bolting hatches and checking every latch, every window, every seam of the ship that could let sound slip through. The sky had deepened to that eerie blue-grey that came before snow, the kind that swallowed distance. The air was too still, the waves too gentle.

They were passing through siren territory; he could feel it in the hum of the current beneath the hull. The water vibrated differently here – slower, deeper. Like something sleeping with one eye open.

He paused by the aft hatch, gloved hand brushing over the frosted iron. His reflection blinked back from the porthole glass: pale, sharp, unbothered by the cold. The faintest shimmer of silver traced his pupils, a remnant of the bloodline he never spoke of aloud since the island.

Part-siren. Not enough to lure. Not enough to drown. Just enough to know when the ocean wanted something.

He could hear them faintly now – the real ones – buried beneath the sea’s breathing. Their song wasn’t meant for him; it was meant for those who didn’t know better, those who still believed they could be loved by what lies beneath.

His chest ached faintly at that thought.

He turned the final bolt into place, the metal biting at his fingers, and pressed his ear lightly against the door. The hum outside was steady, no rhythm of words yet, no melodic pull. Safe enough. For now.

“Not tonight,” he muttered under his breath, straightening. “You won’t have anyone tonight.”

The wind shifted, carrying a faint echo back- soft, almost mocking, as though the sea itself had laughed.

Seonghwa didn’t react. He simply pulled his hood up and made his way back toward the captain’s quarters, the lanternlight catching briefly on the curve of his eyes, eyes that gleamed faintly silver before the dark swallowed him whole.

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

The captain’s quarters were a cave of dim light and colder air. A single lantern burned on the map table, the flame too low to fight the shadows that clung to the corners. The room smelled of salt, ink, and exhaustion.

Hongjoong stood hunched over the table, palms braced on either side of a map he hadn’t stopped tracing for hours. The parchment was creased and stained with water, edges curling where candle wax had dripped and hardened. Circles marked routes that led nowhere. Crossed-out notes bled into one another.

He hadn’t slept since the island. It showed in the hollow beneath his eyes and the unshaven shadow running along his jaw. His hair hung loose, salt-stiff and dull at the ends. Every now and then, his fingers would twitch over the inked coastlines, as if he could redraw the world into something that made sense.

When the door opened, the hinges creaked loud in the silence.

Seonghwa stepped inside, the lamplight catching briefly on the frost that clung to his coat. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the howl of the wind.

“We’ll be out of siren territory within three hours,” he said quietly. His voice was calm, steady – one of the few constants left aboard the ship. “The waters past that are clearer. Still cold, but safer.”

Hongjoong didn’t look up. He gave a faint nod, the motion barely more than a breath. “Good.”

Seonghwa crossed the room slowly, the boards creaking under his boots. His gaze swept over the map table, over the scattered charts and the old compass that spun lazily without wind. “You’re mapping again?”

“Checking routes,” Hongjoong muttered. His voice was rough, worn down by too many sleepless nights. “We’ll need supplies soon. Food, rope, ammunition. The last storm tore through half our stock.”

“Yunho said the same,” Seonghwa replied, leaning against the table’s edge. “You could’ve let him help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“You need sleep,” Seonghwa said simply.

That earned him a flicker of a glance – nothing more, but enough to see how much weight Hongjoong carried in the lines of his face.

His eyes were dark, almost bruised. The kind that had seen too much and refused to close because of it.

“Every time I sleep,” Hongjoong said quietly, “I hear her. In the water. In the rigging. In the damn wind.” He forced a short, bitter laugh. “You’ve been locking down hatches because of sirens, but I don’t need them to lose my mind.”

Seonghwa didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, watching him trace the edge of the map again, the muscles in his hand tightening until his knuckles went white.

Finally, he said, “Then stop trying to erase her by drawing lines through the sea.”

Hongjoong stilled. His gaze lingered on the inked coastlines, the fine trembling of his fingertips betraying the calm in his voice. “You think I’m erasing her?”

“I think,” Seonghwa said, choosing his words carefully, “you’re trying to rewrite everything that went wrong. And the sea doesn’t take edits kindly.”

The silence that followed stretched thin, humming faintly with the ship’s low groan.

Hongjoong exhaled, slow and shallow, then turned the compass toward him. “Aldervain,” he said finally. “Small town, forest edge. Old logging port. It’s far enough from the capital to stay unnoticed, but close enough to resupply. We’ll go there at dawn.”

Seonghwa nodded once, not pushing further. “I’ll tell the crew.”

He turned to leave, his hand brushing the door handle, but Hongjoong’s voice stopped him.

“Three hours, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Wake me when we’re clear of the border.”

Seonghwa hesitated – surprise flickering across his face – before inclining his head. “Aye, Captain.”

When he left, the room sank back into quiet.

Hongjoong leaned on the table again, eyes tracing the map without really seeing it. Beyond the cabin walls, the ocean rolled slow and patient. The tide had gone still, but its memory never slept.

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

Below deck, the storm-lamp hummed faintly, filling the infirmary with the warm smell of oil and linen. Yunho had pulled his sleeves up, sorting herbs and jars into careful rows while Wooyoung sat perched on the edge of a crate, the last of the chill still clinging to him.

“You can stop hovering,” Yunho said without looking up. “You’ve been dripping on my floor for twenty minutes.”

Wooyoung huffed. “It’s not your floor.”

“Everything below deck is mine,” Yunho replied easily. “At least until someone starts bleeding on it.”

That earned a quiet laugh. For a moment it almost sounded like the old kind of laughter – easy, careless. Then it faded, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Yunho glanced up. “Still thinking about what you saw?”

Wooyoung’s mouth twitched. “Heard,” he corrected softly. “And no. I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I learned from Hongjoong.”

Yunho smiled faintly at that. “Then you’re doomed.”

The door banged open before Wooyoung could reply. Mingi stumbled in, a bundle of smoke and curses, clutching his forearm. “Okay, don’t panic–”

Yunho didn’t even look alarmed. “What did you set on fire this time?”

“Nothing important,” Mingi said quickly. “Mostly myself.”

He held up his arm, the sleeve scorched and a patch of skin reddened beneath it. Wooyoung blinked. “What were you even doing?”

“Trying to make the new powder dry faster,” Mingi said, wincing as Yunho grabbed his wrist. “It mostly worked.”

“Mostly?”

Yunho poured a trickle of cool water from a jug, the steam hissing as it met the burn. “You’re lucky you didn’t blow a hole through the hull again.”

“Again?” Wooyoung asked, feigning shock.

“That was one time,” Mingi protested. “And the hole was very small.”

Wooyoung chuckled, shaking his head. “You and your ‘experiments.’”

“It’s called innovation,” Mingi said proudly, though the corners of his mouth twitched with pain as Yunho dabbed salve over the burn. “Besides, if we don’t keep improving, the next cannon might sink before we fire it.”

Yunho arched an eyebrow. “Comforting.”

Mingi grinned at him. “You love the thrill.”

“I love having a ship that’s still afloat.”

Wooyoung watched them bicker, his arms folded loosely, a small smile ghosting over his lips. For a few minutes, it felt almost normal, like the months before everything fractured. The laughter, the smell of smoke and medicine, Mingi’s dramatic groaning as Yunho wrapped the bandage too tightly.

“Done,” Yunho said at last, tying the knot with a precise tug. “Try not to light yourself again before morning.”

“No promises,” Mingi said cheerfully, testing his fingers. “Thanks, doctor.”

“Medic,” Yunho corrected.

“Right. Doctor of explosions.”

He saluted with his good hand and left the room, still muttering to himself about formula ratios.

The laughter followed him out, lingering like warmth.

When it faded, the silence between the remaining two wasn’t empty, it just sounded older.

Wooyoung still smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The light caught there anyway, reflecting the faint shimmer of salt that never quite left him.

Yunho saw it, but didn’t mention it. He just leaned back on his stool, arms folded, watching the lantern sway. “Get some rest,” he said finally. “Tomorrow’s probably going to be long.”

Wooyoung nodded, pushing off the crate. “Yeah. Sure.”

He left the infirmary, the echo of Mingi’s laughter already fading into the hum of the ship.

Behind him, Yunho blew out the lamp. The scent of smoke lingered, sharp and human against the cold breath of the sea.

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

By morning, the sky had softened into a pale wash of silver. The storm had passed sometime in the night, leaving behind a sea so still it almost looked frozen. Thin shards of sunlight broke through the clouds, glinting across the frost that coated the ropes and railing.

The HalaVeil creaked softly as it cut through the quiet. Seonghwa stood near the helm, his coat drawn tight, eyes fixed on the horizon where the faint outline of land had begun to take shape, a dark smudge rising through the morning mist.

He had already been awake for hours. The air here tasted different- less metallic, less heavy. The humming beneath the hull had quieted. Siren territory was behind them.

He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps. Hongjoong stood a few paces away, the pale light catching on his tired face. The captain’s hair was pulled back in a rough knot, the stubble along his jaw shadowing sharper than ever. He hadn’t spoken much since dawn, only the occasional clipped command as they adjusted course.

At last, Seonghwa raised his voice, steady and clear. “All hands to deck.”

The call rippled through the ship. Doors creaked open, boots thudded across the floorboards, voices mumbled half-awake answers. One by one they appeared– some still bleary from sleep, others already shrugging on coats and belts.

Yunho came first, rubbing at his eyes and clutching a cup of something that steamed faintly in the cold air. Mingi followed, his bandaged arm tucked carefully against his side, the smell of burnt powder still clinging to him. Wooyoung trailed last, collar high against the wind, his expression unreadable.

Yeosang was the quietest, moving with that same deliberate precision that came with exhaustion he never named aloud. His pendant glinted once against his throat before disappearing beneath his scarf.

They gathered around the helm, shivering slightly, breath misting in the chill.

Hongjoong didn’t waste words. “We’re nearing Aldervain,” he said, his voice rough but controlled. “Small town, forestry trade. There’s a mill and a few market routes left open this time of year. We’ll restock food, medicine, and whatever repairs we can’t manage ourselves.”

Mingi raised an eyebrow. “Simple supply run?”

“Exactly that,” Hongjoong said. “In and out. No distractions, no curiosity, no trouble.”

Wooyoung gave a low whistle. “You’re talking to the wrong crew, Captain.”

Hongjoong’s eyes cut to him, sharp as glass. “Then prove me wrong.”

The deck went quiet again, broken only by the creak of the sails above. Seonghwa shifted slightly beside him, the faintest twitch of amusement flickering through his expression, though he said nothing.

“Pairs,” Hongjoong continued. “You know how this goes. You move in groups. You don’t linger. We meet back at the docks before dusk.”

“Understood,” Yunho said first, voice calm and grounding as always.

The others murmured assent, though none of them looked entirely awake yet. Mingi yawned. Wooyoung nudged his shoulder. Even Yeosang’s usual composure looked thinner under the weight of sleeplessness.

Hongjoong glanced toward the horizon one last time. The mist had begun to lift, revealing the dark stretch of forest that framed the coastline. From here, Aldervain looked quiet – almost peaceful. But the captain’s eyes didn’t soften.

“Stay sharp,” he said finally. “We’re not the only ones trying to survive out here.”

Seonghwa nodded once, stepping forward to take the wheel as the ship veered closer to land. The sea hissed softly against the hull, and a flock of pale birds lifted from the distant treeline, their cries echoing faintly over the waves.

The HalaVeil moved toward them, the frost beginning to melt from her decks. The day had only just begun, but already the air felt different, like the kind of stillness that comes before something breaks.

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

The docks appeared first – jagged lines of wood jutting out from a shoreline of silt and stone. The water near them was darker, thicker, the colour of iron instead of salt. As the vessel drew closer, the wind changed, carrying the faint tang of smoke and metal instead of brine.

Aldervain was a town half-swallowed by its own past.

From a distance, it might have once looked proud – rows of warehouses and mill chimneys rising above the tree line, a cluster of rooftops hugging the curve of the river mouth. But time and war and the slow rot of greed had taken their share. The closer they came, the clearer the decay became: roofs caved in and patched with tar, walls layered in soot, streets that looked slick with perpetual rain even when the sky was clear.

The forest beyond was vast and unyielding, a wall of dark trunks and frost-glazed branches pressing close to the back of the town as if waiting for its chance to reclaim it. Every gust of wind through those trees carried a low groan, like the sound of something ancient remembering how to move.

Hongjoong stood at the bow with Seonghwa, watching the town come into focus through the thinning fog. A line of gulls perched on the dock rails didn’t even scatter as the ship approached; they just watched, heads tilting in eerie unison.

The first buildings rose from the shore like broken teeth – grey brick and rusted tin, their windows fogged or boarded over. Faded signs hung crookedly above empty shop fronts: Tanner & Sons Leatherworks, Grain Mill, Dockwright Repairs. None of them looked open.

The streets beyond were narrow and damp, puddles reflecting the dull light of morning. There were people, but not many. They moved quickly, wrapped in thick coats, faces hidden. No one lingered long enough to speak.

And everywhere – plastered across the walls, nailed to the sides of warehouses, even painted over old signs – were the posters.

Some were new, paper still white beneath the grime. Others were peeling, edges curling from the damp. Each carried the same mark at the bottom corner — a sigil of the capital, stamped in gold.

Most bore slogans: words like Order, Security, Prosperity.  But the tone wasn’t hopeful. It was a warning disguised as promise.

Mingi squinted at one as they passed, its ink still running from the rain. “Cheery place,” he muttered.

Wooyoung gave a dry laugh that didn’t sound like amusement. “Looks like home, if home forgot how to breathe.”

Yeosang said nothing. His gaze lingered on one of the posters, something about it catching his attention, though he couldn’t say what. He only knew it made the back of his neck prickle.

Seonghwa slowed the ship as they drew up to an empty mooring post, his hands steady on the wheel. The air here felt heavier somehow, the kind that settled in the chest instead of the lungs.

“This place reeks of the capital,” he said quietly.

Hongjoong didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking across the streets, the banners, the dull shimmer of the gold sigils catching in the light. Something about the order of them – too precise, too clean amid the ruin – made his stomach twist.

The crew moved to lower the anchor. The sound of the chain rattled through the cold air, echoing off stone and metal. A few dockworkers turned to look – blank faces, tired eyes – before going back to their work without a word.

When the ship finally stilled, the silence that followed felt unnatural, like the pause before a breath that never comes.

Aldervain wasn’t dead. It was just holding very, very still.

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

Hongjoong stood near the gangplank, the morning light painting his features in washed-out gold. The others gathered close, breath fogging the cold air as gulls screamed somewhere above. Aldervain’s docks stretched out ahead of them, quiet and grey, the sound of machinery in the distance a dull, relentless hum.

“Pairs,” Hongjoong said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “You know the rules.” He pointed first to the map laid out across a crate beside him. “Mingi, you’re with me. We’ll find the main supply office and see what’s left of their stores.”

Mingi nodded, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

“Seonghwa, Wooyoung – check the taverns and markets. See if there’s word from the capital, anything about increased patrols.”

Seonghwa gave a curt nod. Wooyoung smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yunho, Yeosang – medicine, rope, spare canvas. Don’t linger.”

Yunho murmured agreement, glancing at Yeosang, who gave a silent nod in return.

Finally, Hongjoong turned to the last two. “Jongho, San – the forest. Bring back what you can. We’re running low on good arrows and usable wood. If you see anyone, keep your heads down.”

Jongho’s expression stayed even, but he caught the faint hesitation in San’s nod. Hongjoong did too, though he didn’t comment. “Be quick,” was all he said.

With that, they split, boots striking the damp planks in opposite directions, the sound of their parting footsteps echoing like distant gunfire through the stillness.

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

The streets narrowed the further they walked, splitting into thin veins that wound like cracks between the buildings. The air here was different- damp, stale, thick with the scent of smoke and rust. Each alleyway was a shadowed corridor of dripping eaves and warped cobblestones slick with frost.

Yunho walked ahead, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other resting near the small blade at his belt. His eyes scanned every sign they passed, though most were unreadable – paint worn down to faint ghosts of letters.

Yeosang trailed a few steps behind, his boots quiet on the stones. The noise of the main street faded quickly behind them, swallowed by the echo of dripping gutters and the occasional distant clang of metal on metal.

A cat darted across their path, fur bristled, tail disappearing beneath a heap of old crates. Yeosang’s gaze followed it for a moment before lifting again to the walls around them.

Every surface was layered – crumbling plaster, flaking paint, the grey smear of time. On some walls, the capital’s posters had been plastered so thickly that they overlapped like scales, their slogans barely legible under the grime. The edges peeled in the damp, revealing older layers beneath – other promises, other lies.

“Place feels like it’s rotting from the inside out,” Yunho muttered, glancing up at the narrow strip of sky between the buildings. “Can’t believe people still live here.”

Yeosang’s voice was quiet. “People live everywhere they’re allowed to.”

Yunho looked back at him, eyebrows raising faintly, but didn’t argue.

They turned another corner, stepping over a broken wheel left half-submerged in a puddle. The reflection of the two of them wavered in the water, distorted by ripples, stretched by light.

A few stalls lined the alley’s end, small and desperate. Vendors hunched behind patched tarps, their goods laid out in careful rows – threadbare cloth, bottles of cheap tonic, cracked glass jars filled with herbs that had lost their colour long ago.

Yunho slowed as they approached one with the faintest smell of alcohol and disinfectant. A hand-painted sign hung overhead, letters uneven but still readable: Healer’s Goods & Remedies.

“Found it,” he said, nodding toward it.

Yeosang scanned the alley before following, his gaze lingering on a nearby door marked with the capital’s sigil. Something about the emblem made his stomach tighten, but he said nothing, stepping closer to Yunho.

Inside the stall, the air was warmer – close and heavy with the scent of medicinal oil. Shelves leaned against the walls, cluttered with bottles and wrapped herbs, the faint hum of a small heater breaking the silence.

An older woman looked up from behind the counter, her expression wary. “You’re not guards.”

“Does that make you feel better or worse?” Yunho asked lightly, reaching for a small pouch of coins.

She didn’t answer, just gave a pointed look at his hands.

He set the pouch on the counter. “We’re looking for antiseptic, clean bandages, anything you have for burns or deep cuts.”

Her eyes flicked to Yeosang briefly before she turned away, gathering supplies without a word.

Yeosang stood near the door, watching the alley through the warped glass pane. The posters outside fluttered in the wind, corners flapping like wings. For a second, one peeled back enough to reveal an older one beneath it – a different name, a different face, almost entirely obscured.

He stepped closer, squinting through the glass, but before he could make out the words, Yunho’s voice broke through the fog of his thoughts.

“Yeosang.”

He turned. Yunho had already packed the supplies into a small satchel, his expression unreadable. “Let’s go before someone decides we look too clean to belong here.”

Yeosang nodded, following him back out into the cold. The alley felt narrower now, the sky thinner, the silence heavier.

Behind them, the healer’s door shut with a dull click.

And above, a poster tore loose from its nail, fluttering down to the wet stones—its face half-hidden, but the name still visible in gold ink that hadn’t yet faded.

Elias Solivar.

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

The forest began almost immediately after the edge of the town, a gradual bleed of industry into wilderness. Soot-blackened chimneys gave way to frost-bitten birch and oak, their roots tangling through old stone foundations. The air changed there – colder, cleaner, carrying the smell of sap instead of smoke.

San walked ahead, his shoulders tense beneath his coat, the bow slung across his back like a habit he couldn’t put down. The silence between them was long, stretched taut by something unspoken. Jongho followed a few steps behind, eyes flicking between the path and San’s expression.

“You slept?” Jongho asked finally, voice quiet.

San gave a brief shrug. “Didn’t need to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Didn’t want to, then.”

Jongho hummed softly, as if that was answer enough. The wind hissed through the trees, carrying small flakes of snow that clung to their sleeves.

“You know,” Jongho said after a moment, “I think this place used to be beautiful. Before the mills.”

San’s gaze stayed forward. “Everything used to be something better.”

The bitterness in his voice was faint but unmistakable. Jongho let it sit for a while before replying, “Doesn’t mean it can’t be again.”

That earned him a low exhale – not quite a laugh, but not dismissal either. Progress, maybe.

They reached a narrow clearing where a handful of makeshift stalls had been set up, their owners wrapped in thick coats and suspicion. One sign, half-frozen and crooked, read Riverside Provisions. Another listed Hunting & Tools.

Jongho nodded toward it. “Let’s start there.”

The man behind the counter was older, his face red from the cold, eyes dull but watchful. “Travelers?” he asked, voice gravelled.

“Passing through,” Jongho replied easily. “Need a few supplies. Arrows, maybe a new bowstring.”

The man eyed San’s current bow, noting the wear in the wood. “Good piece, that. You keep it oiled?”

“Sometimes,” San said.

The man grunted, rummaging beneath the counter and laying out a small bundle of arrows and a bow with a polished, dark handle. “This one’s newer. Costs more.”

Jongho placed a few coins down, the sound sharp in the cold air. “We’ll take it.”

As the man wrapped their purchase in cloth, Jongho glanced sidelong at San. His skin looked pale under the light, the faint shadows beneath his eyes deeper than before. He held the new bow carefully, like something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Good?” Jongho asked softly.

San nodded once, fingers tightening around the grip. “Yeah. Good.”

But the word came out flat, like something practiced.

They left the stall and moved deeper into the woods, the sound of their steps muffled by snow. Behind them, Aldervain’s chimneys still smudged the sky, the smoke curling upward like a warning neither of them yet understood.

The forest thickened the further they went, swallowing the last traces of Aldervain behind a wall of frost and bark. The air here was quieter, so still it seemed to hold its breath. Their boots crunched over a carpet of dead leaves rimmed with ice, each step sounding too loud against the hush of snow-laden branches.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t unfriendly, just heavy. San walked a few paces ahead, bow slung loosely in one hand, his eyes sweeping the undergrowth like a soldier checking for ghosts. Jongho followed, watching the way San’s shoulders barely moved when he breathed.

Eventually, Jongho broke it. “Feels strange being out here again.”

San glanced back. “How so?”

“It’s been a year since we last hunted.” Jongho’s tone was almost light. “The island before that was all nets and fish. I forgot what real trees look like.”

San’s mouth twitched. “Forgot what silence sounds like.”

“Silence has a sound?”

He gave a short shrug. “You hear it long enough, it does.”

Jongho nodded, letting the thought settle. The wind stirred above them, sending a curtain of snow down through the branches. When it passed, he pointed toward a cluster of prints leading deeper into the woods.

“Deer,” he murmured.

San adjusted his grip on the bow. “You first.”

Jongho smiled faintly. “You sure? You’ll never hear the end of it if I bring back dinner.”

“Then I’ll aim higher next time.”

They moved quietly along the trail, slow and deliberate. The prints led them toward a narrow glade where sunlight filtered through in pale ribbons. Jongho crouched, notching an arrow. The deer stood near the far edge- thin, cautious, ears flicking.

He drew, held, exhaled.The bowstring thrummed.

The arrow flew clean and true, striking just behind the shoulder. The deer bolted once, staggered, then went still.

Jongho lowered the bow with a small, satisfied breath. “Still got it.”

San gave a low whistle. “Not bad.”

“Your turn.”

San stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he scanned the undergrowth for movement. Another shape – smaller this time – moved between the trees, quick and darting. He raised his bow, pulled back, and loosed.

The arrow thudded into bark. Missed.

He tried again. Missed again.

The string bit his fingers. His breathing sharpened.

Jongho watched quietly. “Easy,” he said softly. “It’s the cold. You’re pulling too fast.”

San gritted his teeth. “I know how to shoot.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”

He tried again. The bowstring snapped forward with a hiss. This time the arrow flew perfect – too perfect – cutting straight through the air and vanishing into the white blur ahead.

For a heartbeat, everything went silent.

Then the forest shifted.

The light bent, turned glassy. The air went thick. Where the snow had been, there was water. Where the trees had stood, there was silver light moving like breath. And where the arrow had struck–

“Angel,” he whispered.

She stood there, waist-deep in the tidepool that shouldn’t exist, her hair clinging to her face, eyes wide with hurt and confusion. The arrow was buried deep in her side. Red spilled through the water like ink in milk.

“No–no, no, no–”

San stumbled forward, bow falling from his hand. “Angel!” His voice cracked through the trees, shattering the quiet. He ran to her, feet splashing through phantom surf that wasn’t there.

“San!” Jongho’s voice came from somewhere far behind him, muffled and thin. “San, stop–”

She was still looking at him. Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it was the reflection of his own horror staring back. Her lips moved – soundless – then the water surged, dragging her down. His knees hit the ground.

“Angel!” He screamed until his throat tore. “No, no, I didn’t–”

Branches cracked. Snow fell. Jongho’s arms wrapped around him from behind, trying to pull him back, but San fought like a trapped animal, twisting, clawing at the frozen ground where the water had been.

“She was here!” His voice broke again, raw with panic. “I saw her! I hit her–”

Jongho gripped his shoulders tight, shaking him once. “Look at me. San, look.”

San’s breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes darted wildly, but the forest had already gone back to what it was- grey, still, empty. The only mark on the snow was the arrow half-buried in the roots of a fallen log.

“There’s no one here,” Jongho said, voice calm but firm. “There’s nothing here.”

San’s chest heaved. He shook his head, tears freezing against his skin. “She was right there…”

“I know.” Jongho’s grip softened, turning the hold into an embrace. “I know what you saw. But it wasn’t her.”

It took minutes for the tremors to ease, for San’s breathing to slow. When it finally did, he sagged forward, hands pressed to his face. The forest was silent again, oppressively so.

Jongho stayed beside him, neither of them moving. The cold bit through their clothes, but neither spoke of it. Somewhere high above, a crow broke into a harsh, lonely call.

When it faded, there was only the whisper of snow. And the arrow still trembling faintly in the earth.

Jongho crouched in front of him, careful not to startle. The air was sharp enough to sting the lungs, each breath leaving small clouds that hung in the stillness. San sat where he had fallen, bow lying crooked in the snow, his hands shaking faintly.

“San,” Jongho said softly. “Listen to me.”

No response. San’s eyes were wide and unfocused, fixed on the patch of ground where the hallucination had been. His lips moved once, maybe a word, maybe nothing.

Jongho swallowed hard, forcing calm into his voice. “It wasn’t real,” he said slowly, like coaxing a child back from a nightmare. “She wasn’t there.”

Still nothing. Just that hollow, glassy stare.

He reached out, lightly touching San’s shoulder. The fabric beneath his palm was damp – sweat or melted snow, he couldn’t tell. “San,” he tried again, firmer this time. “You’re safe. You’re here, in the forest. You didn’t hit anyone.”

San’s breath came fast and shallow, each inhale sounding more like a shiver than air. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused.

“She looked at me,” he whispered suddenly. His voice was cracked and thin. “She looked right at me.”

Jongho felt the words like a punch. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you think she did. But it wasn’t her, San. It wasn’t.”

He didn’t answer. He just kept staring, like he could force the ghost back into shape if he looked long enough.

Then his body went slack – not collapsing, just… drained. The kind of exhaustion that came after too much fear in too little time. His shoulders sagged, his mouth parted slightly, but his gaze stayed distant.

“Damn it,” Jongho muttered under his breath, scanning the treeline. The last thing they needed was to be out here alone if anyone saw them like this.

He glanced back at San, who still hadn’t moved. His lips were blue at the edges now, eyes glassy with shock.

“Alright,” Jongho said, shifting closer. “We’re going back.”

No response.

Jongho slid his arm under San’s, hauling him up carefully until San was on his feet. He barely reacted, just a faint grunt as his boots scraped the snow. Jongho tightened his grip around his waist, taking most of his weight.

“Come on,” he murmured, guiding him forward one step at a time. “We’ll get you to Yunho. He’ll know what to do.”

San stumbled once, almost dragging them both down, but Jongho caught him, keeping them steady. The forest path stretched long and silent ahead, the snow deepening with every step.

Jongho didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see the spot where San had fallen, where the phantom blood had soaked into the snow and vanished.

By the time they reached the treeline again, the light was already fading. Smoke from Aldervain’s chimneys drifted low and heavy, painting the air in grey.

Jongho tightened his grip around San’s shoulders as they stepped out of the trees and back onto the road. The HalaVeil waited at the docks, a dark shape against the water.

“Almost there,” Jongho said, half to himself, half to San. “Just hold on.”

San didn’t answer. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t seeing anything anymore.

Jongho swore under his breath and pulled him closer, quickening his pace as the first flakes of snow began to fall.

They disappeared down the road – two shadows swallowed by the mist – the sound of their footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the sea.

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

The market sat in the heart of Aldervain, a cracked square ringed by old stone buildings that leaned inward as though trying to keep out the cold. A single line of smoke rose from a brazier in the centre, the only colour in a landscape washed grey.

The air smelled of ash and brine, tinged with the faint sweetness of burnt sugar from one of the vendors trying to disguise the scent of decay. Ice clung to the cobblestones in thin veins; every step crunched.

Wooyoung and Seonghwa kept close as they moved between the stalls. The crowd was thin, mostly locals wrapped in heavy coats, heads bowed low. Conversation was scarce. The few voices that rose were quick and nervous, never lingering long enough to sound like gossip.

A row of guards lined the edges of the square. Their armour wasn’t the kind meant for battle, it was built for fear. Thick plates of dull steel covered every inch of them, each etched with the capital’s golden sigil at the shoulder. The visors hid their faces completely, reflecting only the market’s pale light.

They didn’t move much, only turned their heads occasionally, slow and mechanical, following anyone who lingered too long near the exits. The sound of their boots – heavy, deliberate – punctuated the air like the ticking of a clock.

Seonghwa’s eyes tracked one as it passed. The guards’ presence seemed wrong here, too grand for a dying town. “Aldervain never used to look like this,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Wooyoung.

Wooyoung glanced at him, pulling his collar higher. “You’ve been here before?”

“Once,” Seonghwa murmured. “Years ago. It was noisy then- music, trade ships, even festivals in the square. Now it’s…” He gestured vaguely around them. “…a graveyard with stalls.”

Wooyoung’s lips curved in a small, humourless smile. “Guess prosperity wasn’t profitable.”

They stopped at a booth selling dried meat and bread so hard it could have been used as ballast. The vendor kept his eyes down as he wrapped the food, hands shaking slightly. A guard passed behind him, the clang of armour making the man flinch.

Seonghwa handed over the coin without a word.

When they turned to leave, Wooyoung caught sight of another poster nailed to the wall beside the stall. The gold sigil was brighter here, freshly printed. Beneath it, bold letters read:

OBEDIENCE IS ORDER. ORDER IS SECURITY.

The ink still shone wet in places.

He stared at it for a moment too long. Seonghwa noticed and tugged at his sleeve gently. “Don’t.”

“I’m just looking,” Wooyoung said, though his tone had gone cold.

“Exactly. And they’ll see you doing it.”

He followed Seonghwa’s gaze; two of the armoured figures were watching them now. Their mirrored visors made it impossible to tell if there were eyes behind them, but the weight of their attention was unmistakable.

Wooyoung forced a grin, tilting his head in mock courtesy. “Friendly place.”

Seonghwa didn’t smile. “Keep walking.”

They moved on, weaving through the maze of stalls, pretending not to feel the stare following them. Every corner of the market seemed to hum with quiet surveillance, the sound of boots on stone, the hiss of breath inside helmets, the unspoken warning that nothing in Aldervain went unseen anymore.

When they finally reached the edge of the square, Seonghwa paused, glancing once more at the guards and the posters that coated the walls like mould. “This wasn’t the capital’s land,” he said under his breath. “Not before.”

Wooyoung looked back, jaw tight. “It is now.”

A bell rang somewhere beyond the square – a dull, metallic sound that made the crowd stiffen instinctively. The guards turned in unison, their visors flashing once in the weak light.

Wooyoung’s stomach twisted. He didn’t know what the bell meant, but every instinct screamed leave.

Seonghwa’s hand brushed his arm. “Let’s get what we came for and go.”

They didn’t run, but they walked faster, the market’s air growing colder with each step until it felt like even the sun was holding its breath.

They moved deeper into the market, past rows of shuttered stalls and thinning crowds. The smell of smoke and damp wool hung low in the air, curling around the barrels of salted fish and the cracked baskets of root vegetables that no one seemed eager to buy.

Seonghwa stopped occasionally, testing the weight of a rope coil or running his gloved fingers over a lantern’s rusted frame before handing a few coins to the vendors. They spoke little, just enough to be polite, to look like travellers passing through.

Wooyoung followed half a step behind, hands buried in his coat pockets. His gaze flicked from face to face, noting how quickly each person looked away when he met their eyes. It wasn’t fear of strangers, it was fear of being seen speaking.

At the edge of the square, a small stall stood half-hidden beneath a collapsing awning. Its owner was an old woman, thin as parchment, her back curved under layers of shawls. The table in front of her was scattered with trinkets: buttons, dried herbs, old coins, cracked glass beads that had lost their shine.

Something about her stillness drew Seonghwa’s attention. He crossed the narrow space, boots crunching softly on frost, and offered a small nod. “Morning.”

The woman looked up slowly. Her eyes were pale, almost colourless. “You’re not from here.”

“No,” Seonghwa said gently. “Passing through.”

“Few pass through these days.” Her voice was rough with age but carried an odd clarity, like she’d been waiting for someone to listen.

Wooyoung glanced around, wary of the guards nearby. “We were wondering,” he began carefully, “what happened here. The town – it feels…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Empty,” the woman finished. “Yes.”

Seonghwa leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “It wasn’t always like this, was it?”

She shook her head, the motion slow and trembling. “Used to be loud. The mills, the ships, the market lights that burned through the night. Then the capital came. Said it was for protection. Said the world was dangerous. They built their walls and sent their soldiers, and people started disappearing. The air got quieter. The sky darker.”

Wooyoung frowned. “Who’s running the capital now?”

The woman hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as if the frost itself might be listening. The nearest guards stood motionless, but she still leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

“There’s a new leader,” she murmured. “Took power only months ago. Some say he was meant to die years back, but men like that don’t die easy. They rise. And when they do, the rest of us fall.”

Seonghwa’s expression tightened. “What kind of leader?”

“The kind that promises peace,” she said, her eyes flicking to one of the golden posters half-torn on the wall behind them. “And buys it with silence.”

Wooyoung’s stomach twisted. “What’s his name?”

The woman’s gaze returned to them, sharp for a moment despite the tremor in her hands. “Elias Solivar.”

The words hung in the air like smoke that wouldn’t clear.

Wooyoung’s breath caught, a quiet curse forming on his lips before he stopped himself. He looked at Seonghwa, expecting fury, or recognition, or denial – but what he saw instead was hesitation.

Seonghwa didn’t move. His hand lingered on the edge of the stall, the leather of his glove creaking softly. His eyes had gone distant, as though searching through memories he wasn’t sure belonged to him.

“…That name,” he said finally, voice low, “rings a bell.”

The woman gave a thin, knowing smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It should,” she said. “It rings through every town he’s taken.”

A gust of cold wind swept through the square then, snapping the edges of the posters and rattling the loose boards of the stalls. Seonghwa stepped back, the sound echoing faintly in his chest.

He didn’t speak again. Neither did Wooyoung.

They just stood there for a long moment, the name hanging between them like a curse the sea itself had carried ashore.

The centre of Aldervain sat like a wound that refused to close. The closer Hongjoong and Mingi walked toward it, the louder the town’s silence became – a hollow kind of quiet that pressed behind the ribs.

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

The streets widened briefly before choking again into narrow lanes. What might once have been a proud square now lay half-collapsed under the weight of decay. The cobblestones were cracked, weeds clawing through the gaps, rainwater pooling in the hollows. A fountain stood at the centre – dry, its basin filled with scraps of paper and coins that no one had bothered to take.

Houses leaned against one another like drunks, roofs patched with tin and tar, windows fogged or smashed entirely. Laundry lines hung limp between buildings, the fabric stiff with frost. In the corners, small fires burned inside barrels, the smoke curling thin and grey.

The people here moved like shadows, gaunt faces wrapped in scarves, hands tucked into worn coats. Children with hollow eyes watched from doorways, their skin pale against the soot. Every so often, one of them would dart out to grab something from the gutter – a scrap of bread, a fallen apple – before vanishing again into the maze of houses.

Animals roamed freely among them: stray dogs with their ribs showing, half-starved cats weaving through piles of debris. A single horse stood tethered near the old town hall, its breath fogging the air as it pawed at the frozen ground.

Hongjoong kept his hood low, the shadow hiding most of his face. His hand rested near the hilt of his blade, though he didn’t look like he intended to use it, only that he wanted the comfort of feeling something steady beneath his palm.

Beside him, Mingi carried the supplies list, scanning each street as they passed. He tried to walk with purpose, but his shoulders were tense, eyes flicking toward every corner where a guard might appear.

There were plenty of them.

The guards stood at every intersection, armour gleaming dully under the overcast light. Their presence fractured the flow of the town, no one crossed near them unless absolutely necessary. Every few minutes, one would turn their head, the metal of their helmet catching the light as they scanned the crowd.

Hongjoong’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Keep your head down.”

Mingi nodded, lowering his gaze to the cobblestones. “How many do you think there are?”

“Too many.”

They passed a group of labourers hauling crates onto a cart – men whose hands were raw and cracked, whose eyes didn’t lift as the guards shouted orders. One stumbled under the weight, earning a hard shove and a curt warning that made Hongjoong’s teeth grind.

He forced himself to keep walking.

“This place…” Mingi whispered. “It’s worse than the stories.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened. “Stories always leave out the smell.”

Mingi glanced sideways at him, the corner of his mouth twitching with a nervous half-smile, but he didn’t argue. The tension around the guards was too thick, too real.

When they turned the next corner, the square opened into what must have once been Aldervain’s market heart. Now, it looked hollowed-out, half the stalls empty, the others selling little more than wilted vegetables and chipped pottery. A handful of people moved between them, exchanging coins quietly, eyes darting to the soldiers stationed near the old courthouse steps.

One of the guards barked an order to another, the voice muffled by the helmet but unmistakably sharp. Hongjoong’s eyes flicked toward them – not openly, just enough to note the pattern in their movement. They were too well-organized for a simple patrol.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “They’ve turned the whole place into a checkpoint.”

Mingi nodded, clutching the list tighter. “How do we even get what we need like this?”

“Carefully,” Hongjoong said.

He guided them toward a smaller side street, his pace unhurried but deliberate. The smell of smoke and ash thickened the air, mixing with something older- the faint rot of damp wood and stale bread.

As they passed another line of houses, a woman stepped into the doorway of one, clutching a child to her hip. Her face was drawn but proud, her gaze steady as she watched them. Hongjoong’s eyes met hers for a fraction of a second – just long enough to see the quiet desperation hiding there.

He gave a subtle nod, the kind that said I see you, before turning away.

Behind them, Mingi whispered, “They’re starving.”

“I know.”

“Then why–”

“Because the capital doesn’t feed ghosts.”

Mingi didn’t reply after that. The only sound left was the crunch of their boots and the faint, hollow ring of the guards’ armour echoing off the stone.

The road toward the main supply office wound through the oldest part of Aldervain. The buildings leaned so close together that the roofs almost touched, leaving the street below in permanent shade. Ice crusted along the gutters, dripping in slow, steady beads that fell onto the cobblestones with faint, rhythmic taps.

Hongjoong and Mingi kept their pace slow, deliberate. To rush here drew attention. To linger drew suspicion. They walked that narrow line between both, their breath fogging faintly in the frozen air.

The supply office sat near the end of the street – a squat brick building with a faded blue door and a cracked sign swinging above it: Town Provisions and Trade Registry. The paint had peeled to reveal older lettering underneath, something that had once sounded proud.

Inside, the air was stale and cold, smelling faintly of dust and ink. Shelves lined the walls, half-empty. The wooden counter was cluttered with parchment and ledgers, and behind it stood a man hunched over a list, his fingers stained with ink.

A few townspeople waited near the entrance, gaunt figures clutching ration slips and sacks that looked too light. None of them spoke. They only glanced up when Hongjoong and Mingi entered, eyes dull but curious, before returning to the floor.

Hongjoong stepped forward, keeping his hood low. “We’re looking for provisions,” he said quietly. “Dried goods, rope, nails, anything that’ll keep.”

The clerk barely looked up. “You and everyone else,” he muttered, flipping a page. “We’ve got little left. Capital’s shipments go to the higher towns first now.”

“Higher towns,” Mingi echoed. “And the rest of you?”

The man gave a humourless smile. “We survive on what we can scrape off the back of their carts.”

He passed over a small bundle of items – a sack of grain, a few sealed jars, half a coil of rope. It wasn’t much.

Hongjoong placed a few coins on the counter, noting how quickly the clerk’s eyes darted toward the guards outside the window before snatching them up.

The door creaked behind them, letting in another gust of cold air. A small group of men entered, one of them in a tattered coat with gold embroidery long since dulled to brown. His posture was still upright, the remnants of old pride clinging to him despite the hunger etched into his face.

The clerk straightened immediately. “Mayor.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flicked up. So this was the man who supposedly still ran Aldervain. The name came back to him a heartbeat later – Thorne Halden. Once one of the wealthiest timber merchants in the north.

“Mayor,” the clerk repeated, tone half-respectful, half-fearful. “These travellers are here for supplies.”

Thorne’s gaze moved to Hongjoong and Mingi. It was sharp for a man who looked so worn. “You’re not traders.”

“Passing through,” Hongjoong said evenly.

The mayor studied him for a moment longer before giving a slight nod. “Then you’ve chosen a hard place to pass through.”

Mingi glanced around the office. “You’re still running things here?”

A faint smile ghosted across the mayor’s face, tired and bitter. “In name only. The guards approve everything that moves in or out. I sign papers, they stamp them, and the town starves slower than it would without ink.”

His gaze shifted briefly to the window, where two guards stood just outside, their mirrored helmets turned toward the office. “We’re not supposed to discuss shortages,” he added quietly.

Hongjoong followed his line of sight, jaw tightening. The guards’ stillness was almost unnatural – like statues that breathed.

“Then maybe we should move this conversation somewhere else,” Hongjoong murmured.

The mayor’s eyes flicked toward the soldiers again before gesturing toward the side door. “This way,” he said under his breath. “Before their patience wears thin.”

They followed him through a narrow hallway lined with old town records. The air smelled of paper and cold stone. The moment the office door closed behind them, the faint noise of the street dimmed, replaced by the slow creak of the floorboards under their feet.

Thorne motioned them toward a small study at the end of the hall – once grand, now stripped bare except for a desk, a dying fire, and shelves missing half their books.

“Forgive the mess,” he said dryly, closing the curtains. “The capital doesn’t send wood anymore. Just rules.”

He turned to them then, voice lowering. “Now – tell me honestly. What brings outsiders to a place the rest of the world’s forgotten?”

Before Hongjoong could answer, the shadows outside the frosted window shifted – the unmistakable silhouette of a guard turning toward the door.

The mayor’s eyes widened.

“Inside,” he hissed, ushering them quickly into the study. “Quietly.”

Hongjoong exchanged a glance with Mingi, then stepped inside. The door shut softly behind them.

The muffled clang of armour sounded faintly from the street beyond, followed by the heavy rhythm of boots.

And for a heartbeat, the entire house held its breath.

The mayor sank into the worn chair behind his desk, the leather splitting beneath him with a tired sigh. The single candle on the table wavered in the draft, throwing thin shadows across the room. He looked older in the flicker, hollow-cheeked and grey around the edges, the kind of exhaustion that came from carrying too much for too long.

Mingi stood near the fireplace, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, trying not to shiver. Hongjoong remained standing, still as carved stone, eyes fixed on the mayor.

“What happened here?” Mingi asked quietly.

The mayor’s gaze shifted to the curtained window, voice dropping. “You’ve been away a while, haven’t you? Out at sea. You wouldn’t have seen it happen.”

Hongjoong’s brow furrowed. “Seen what?”

The man gave a short, bitter laugh. “The world tilting. The ground shifting under us while no one noticed.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Our old leader stepped down. Or so they said. Word was he retired for health, but you don’t retire with half the council missing and the other half too frightened to speak. People whisper that he was poisoned, but no one dares prove it. Not when the new man’s already sitting in the capital’s chair.”

Mingi’s stomach twisted. “So someone else took over.”

The mayor nodded. “A merchant at first - wealthy, ambitious. His fortune came from blood deals and trade lines no one could trace. But he knew how to talk, how to make fear sound like safety. Within weeks, the laws changed. Within months, the markets were chained shut.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, voice cracking slightly. “Supplies halved overnight. Towns like this one - industrial, poor, far from the capital - were told to ‘adjust expectations.’ Only those with connections to his circle still receive regular shipments. Everyone else gets what’s left.”

Mingi’s eyes darted toward the sealed ledgers piled against the wall. “That’s why the people look like they’re starving.”

The mayor’s laugh was hollow. “Starvation’s a weapon. Keep bellies empty, and people stop fighting. They just pray the next ration line doesn’t skip them.”

Hongjoong said nothing, but his jaw flexed once, a small muscle ticking near his temple.

The mayor hesitated, glancing at the window again as if the shadows could hear. “And that’s not the worst of it.”

Mingi frowned. “What do you mean?”

The candle flickered, the flame thinning in the cold air. The mayor’s next words came low, almost a whisper. “He’s hunting them.”

Hongjoong’s head snapped up. “Hunting who?”

“Tideborns.” The word sounded heavy in the small room. “Anyone with the blood. Doesn’t matter what kind, doesn’t matter if it’s faint. They’re calling them unstable, dangerous to the order he’s building. I’ve seen it myself - executions in the square, arrests in the night. Whole families taken. They say it’s for security, but we know better.”

Mingi’s voice shook slightly. “How many?”

The mayor’s eyes darkened. “Dozens. Maybe more. They’ve built prisons now – facilities, they call them. Not all of them return.”

A silence fell over the room. The only sound was the soft crackle of the dying fire.

Hongjoong’s hands had curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. His breathing came slow but uneven, like each word the mayor spoke was carving itself into his ribs.

Mingi swallowed hard. “Who is he?”

The question came out as more of a plea than curiosity.

The mayor hesitated. “You’ve not heard his name yet?”

Hongjoong’s throat felt dry. “Say it.”

The man’s gaze flicked between them – hesitant, almost apologetic. “Elias Solivar.”

The name hit the room like a gunshot muffled in snow.

For a moment, no one spoke. The sound of the wind outside seemed to stop. The candle’s flame bent sharply, as if recoiling.

Mingi blinked. “Wait, that–”

But he stopped when he saw Hongjoong’s face.

The captain had gone pale. Not with fear – something deeper. Recognition, horror, disbelief all folding into one. His pupils dilated, and for a heartbeat, he looked like he might be sick.

The mayor frowned. “You know him?”

Hongjoong didn’t answer. He just shook his head once, as if trying to clear it, then straightened abruptly. “We need to go.”

“Captain–” Mingi began, but Hongjoong’s voice cut sharp over his own.

“Now.”

The mayor stood halfway from his chair, confusion written in every line of his face. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Thank you for the information,” Hongjoong said quickly, his tone clipped, the control in it stretched thin. “Keep your head down. And if anyone asks, you never saw us.”

He turned toward the door before the man could respond. Mingi hurried after him, glancing back once to see the mayor sink into his chair again, expression hollow, hands trembling slightly as the candle guttered beside him.

Outside, the air hit them like ice. The square was quieter now, the guards still stationed at their posts, visors reflecting the pale light.

Hongjoong didn’t speak as they walked. His steps were too fast, his breath too shallow. The muscles in his jaw jumped with every word he wasn’t saying.

When they turned down the side street leading toward the docks, he stumbled slightly – just a flicker of imbalance – but Mingi caught him by the arm before he could fall.

“Hey–” Mingi pulled him to a stop near the wall of a boarded-up shop, holding him steady. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Hongjoong’s chest rose and fell hard. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand braced against the wall, knuckles white against the frost.

Then, quietly – so quiet Mingi almost missed it – he said, “That man. Elias Solivar.”

Mingi frowned. “What about him?”

Hongjoong lifted his head slowly. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, somewhere far away. The words hung in the cold like a curse, sharp and final.

Neither of them moved. A gust of wind rattled the shutters above them, the sound echoing down the empty street like the sea itself had drawn in a breath and refused to let it go.

“...He’s my father.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

well... we're officially back!!

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

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

No one moved.

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

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

The crew stared back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yunho was the first to move.

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

No threat. No weapon. No sudden intent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words took a moment to truly sink in.

She can smell him.

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

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

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

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

Angel’s attention snapped to him instantly.

“For revenge.” The word landed with weight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel moved before anyone could speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They moved quietly as they followed her down.

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

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

She noticed.

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

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

Then she winked.

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

I know what you are.

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

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

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

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

Or what remained of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another knock. Slower this time.

“There’s nowhere left to run.”

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

San couldn’t look away.

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

Remember, he begged silently.

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

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

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

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

That was when San snapped.

“Enough!”

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

Angel froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeosang moved before anyone could stop him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her hands clenched at her sides.

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

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

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

They went down one after another.

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

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

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

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

And then they landed on her.

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

Angel stiffened.

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

San moved before she could breathe.

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

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

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

Then Hongjoong stepped forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wooyoung saw it a heartbeat before it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Across the room, Hongjoong moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel finally spoke. “Don’t.”

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

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

A pause. “It’s what he deserves.”

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

“Move,” he ordered quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s burn this bitch down.”

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

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

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

They didn’t linger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sharp cry cut through the crackle of fire.

Angel lifted her head.

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

That was when Mingi made the mistake.

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

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

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

She hit the ground already turning.

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

“Angel, stop-!”

Too late. She moved to hit him again.

Hongjoong lunged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel’s breath hitched despite herself.

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

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

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

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

Something flickered behind his eyes. Then he said it.

“Solivar.”

The name landed like a blade.

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

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

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

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

A beat.

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

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

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

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

Hongjoong didn’t ease his hold right away.

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

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

Angel went still.

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

Then he pulled back. Slowly. Reluctantly.

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

Then he let her go.

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

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

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

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

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

Every head turned toward him.

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

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

Seonghwa didn’t look away from her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reluctance rippled through the crew immediately.

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

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

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

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

Understanding flickered across her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seonghwa followed.

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

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

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

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

“I’ve got us,” he said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

San and Wooyoung didn’t move right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence fell heavy between them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

San stiffened beside him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wooyoung flinched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hongjoong remained where he was, alone at the rail.

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

The captain was back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angel snorted. “See? Taken care of.”

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

Seonghwa remained stubbornly turned away.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

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

“You can look now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seonghwa followed close behind.

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

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

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

Their movements began to mirror one another without conscious effort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They broke the surface together. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turned back anyway.

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

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

Seonghwa groaned. “Angel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eyes on her. She lifted her gaze.

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

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

Then it hit her.

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

A memory. Not complete. Not clear.

The world returned in fragments.

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

You tried to move. You couldn’t.

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

Medicine. Fear.

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

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

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

“Father- please.”

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

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

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

The fog lifted.

The boy’s face snapped into clarity.

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

Hongjoong.

Years younger. Unscarred. Still soft at the edges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned. And his face came into focus.

Elias Solivar.

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

Behind the glass, the figures waited.

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

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

The lights above you flared brighter. The beeping accelerated.

And the memory shattered.

You gasp.

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

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

“-Angel? Angel, hey- are you okay?”

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

You can barely hear it.

Because all you can see is him.

Hongjoong.

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

Father, please… you’ll kill her.

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

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

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

Whatever he believes he’s trying to control…

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

----------------------------------------------------------------------

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

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The cemetery had been forgotten on purpose.

It lay half-drowned in a marshland where the forest sagged under its own weight, trees bending low as if tired of holding themselves upright. Thick humidity clung to the air, heavy and wet, turning each breath into something tasted rather than felt. The heat pressed down without mercy, rotting leaves and stagnant water stewing together beneath a sky choked by hanging branches.

Most of the ground no longer existed as land. Water had claimed it inch by inch, swallowing pathways and graves alike. What remained rose only in fragments – the bases of trees breaking the surface, islands of stone where headstones leaned at crooked angles, their inscriptions long since eroded into meaningless grooves.

Vines crawled everywhere. They wrapped around iron fences rusted beyond repair, coiled through broken mausoleum doors, threaded themselves lovingly around the cracked limbs of marble statues. Time had softened those statues into something almost gentle – angels without faces, saints without hands, their wings blackened with mould and moss. Some had fallen entirely, half-submerged, their expressions lost beneath dark water and green growth.

The stillness here was unnatural.No birds called. No insects dared to hum. Even the water lay quiet, opaque and unmoving, reflecting nothing of the canopy above it. The only sound was the slow drip of condensation sliding from leaves into the marsh below, each drop echoing far too loudly in the silence. This place had once been sacred. Now it was merely occupied.

A headstone near the centre of the cemetery bore the faint outline of a name, its lettering eaten away by centuries of rain and heat. Something dark had gathered at its base – not quite shadow, not quite reflection – pooling where the stone met the water. The surface rippled once, gently, as if disturbed from beneath.

The air shifted.The vines along a nearby statue trembled, leaves brushing against one another in a sound that might have been mistaken for breath. The water stirred again, slow and deliberate this time, a widening circle spreading outward through the marsh.

Whatever lingered here did not belong to the dead.

It had come from somewhere else, carried by tides that did not respect borders, drawn inland by something unfinished. The cemetery seemed to hold its breath around that presence, marble and water and rot all bending subtly toward it.

Waiting.

At the heart of the cemetery, where the water pooled deepest, a mound of stone rose just enough to break the surface.Something sat there. Not submerged. Not fully dry. Perched between land and water as if the distinction no longer mattered. The marsh lapped gently at its legs, dark and opaque, refusing to reflect what rested above it. It sat perfectly still.

The face it wore was smooth and empty of expression – not peaceful, not distressed. Detached. Eyes half-lidded, unfocused, as though whatever thoughts passed behind them were turned inward rather than toward the world. There was no tension in its posture, no urgency. Only patience.

One hand rested in the water beside it. The surface responded instantly. Where its fingers brushed the marsh, the water shifted, not violently, not with force, but with obedience. Small ripples spread outward in slow, perfect rings, disturbing the stagnant film that had clung there moments before. The movement was deliberate, controlled, as though the water itself recognised the touch and yielded willingly.

Vines trailing from nearby trees dipped lower, brushing the surface, drawn subtly toward that quiet centre.Beside the mound lay a statue. Or what remained of one. Its body was intact, marble worn smooth by time and rot, but its head was gone – sheared clean away, leaving a jagged neck stained dark with moss. Whatever it had once depicted was no longer clear. Angel. Saint. Guardian. The features had been stripped of meaning, reduced to a nameless form reclaimed by the marsh.

The figure did not look at it. Instead, its gaze remained fixed on the land beyond the cemetery, the wall of trees where the forest thickened and the marsh gave way to something solid again. There was no longing in that look. No fear. Only assessment.

The air around the mound felt heavier, warmer, thick with damp heat that clung to skin and stone alike. Even the statues seemed to lean imperceptibly toward the figure, their cracked wings and hollow eyes turned in silent witness. The water shifted again. A subtle curl of motion followed the line of its hand, as though the marsh were breathing in time with it – rising, falling, waiting for instruction that never quite came.

Whatever this was, it did not belong to the dead. And it was no longer entirely of the living.

The figure tilted its head slightly. A soft clicking sound left its tongue – not loud, not meant to carry. A small, precise noise that cuts through the humidity like a signal rather than a sound.

The forest answered. Leaves shuddered along the low-hanging branches, stirred by a breeze that hadn’t existed a moment before. The air shifted, warm and damp, vines brushing against one another with a sound like whispered movement.Then came the noise.

Not a chirp. Not a call meant to blend into the canopy. A croak. Deep. Rough. Resonant. It echoed once through the marsh, heavy enough to ripple the still water below. The figure did not flinch. Its gaze lifted slowly, following the sound as it descended.

Wings cut through the air. The bird emerged from the tangle of branches above, far larger than any common creature of the forest. Its wingspan was broad and deliberate, feathers pitch black and ragged at the edges, catching the faint light like oil slicked over stone. Against the suffocating green of the marsh, it stood out unnaturally, a moving void where colour should have been. It circled once, the sound of its wings the only thing to disturb the silence.

Then it dropped.

The raven landed on a nearby headstone with a dull thud, claws scraping against weathered marble. The stone cracked faintly under its weight, flakes breaking loose and sliding into the water below. The bird folded its wings slowly, feathers settling in layered disarray, head cocked to one side as it fixed a dark, intelligent eye on the figure.

Neither moved. The air between them felt charged, taut with recognition rather than curiosity. The raven did not cry again. It simply watched, unblinking, as though waiting for instruction that did not need to be spoken.

The figure’s fingers stirred the water once more, sending a gentle ripple toward the stone where the bird perched. The ripple reached the headstone and stilled. For a moment, the marsh breathed. And in that breath, something unspoken passed between them.

The figure’s gaze lifted fully to the bird.

“It’s time.”

The words scraped their way out, low and raw. The voice was unsteady, not from fear but disuse, as if sound itself had been foreign for far too long. Each syllable dragged against the throat, roughened by salt and silence.

The raven answered with a croak that rolled deep in its chest, a sound closer to acknowledgment rather than question. Its claws tightened on the headstone, marble dust crumbling into the water below.

The figure’s hand drifted through the marsh again, fingers trailing just beneath the surface. The water stirred, coiling gently around the wrist before slipping away, obedient and calm.

“The water’s finished recovering me,” it said. “It took longer than it should have.” There was no anger in the statement. Just fact.

The raven shifted, feathers rustling, head tilting as if listening beyond sound. It clicked its beak once – sharp, deliberate.

“Yes,” the figure murmured. “I know.”

It straightened slightly, posture still loose but purposeful now, eyes fixed on the bird. “Go ahead. Toward the sea. Watch. Listen. Take what you can and rest when you need to.” A pause. “I’ll meet you halfway.”

The raven croaked again, louder this time, wings flexing once as if testing the air. It leaned forward, gaze never leaving the figure’s face.

The figure reached up slowly, fingers brushing its own throat. There, resting against damp skin, was a necklace – worn, familiar, its surface dulled by salt and time. The chain slipped free with a faint metallic whisper as it was lifted away.

It held the pendant out toward the raven. “Give this to him, if you see him” it said quietly. “So he knows.”

The raven stepped closer, talons scraping softly against stone as it dipped its head. The figure placed the necklace carefully against its feathers. The bird stilled, accepting the weight without resistance.

“So he knows I’m alive.”

The marsh seemed to tighten around them, water drawing closer to the mound, vines shivering faintly as if the land itself had listened too closely.

The raven spread its wings, feathers stretching wide, blotting out the dim light for a heartbeat. Before it took off, the figure spoke once more, the name falling from its lips like a curse carved into bone.

“Solivar.” The word dripped with venom.

The raven launched into the air, wings beating hard as it vanished into the canopy, black against the choking green. The sound of its departure echoed once, then faded. The water stilled.

The figure remained on the mound, fingers curling slowly back into the marsh, eyes following the direction the bird had gone – toward the sea, toward the world that had forgotten it.

Not for long.

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

The HalaVeil loomed quiet against the dock, her hull dark with damp and shadow. The sky above Aldervain had dimmed into a flat, colourless grey, the kind that pressed low and refused to lift. Frost clung to the rails again, newly formed, as if the ship itself had drawn inward while the crew was gone.

Boots hit the deck in uneven rhythm as they returned.

Mingi came aboard first with Hongjoong close behind him. The moment the captain’s boots touched the wood, his shoulders stiffened, jaw setting hard as if bracing for impact. He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t slow.

“Captain,” Mingi said quietly, falling into step beside him. “Hey–”

Hongjoong kept moving.

“Hongjoong,” Mingi tried again, lowering his voice. “You can’t just–”

“I’m fine,” Hongjoong cut in, too sharp, too fast. “Drop it.”

Mingi faltered, watching him disappear toward the stern. The words sat heavy on his tongue, unspoken and unwanted. He glanced back as the others boarded, Seonghwa and Wooyoung next, their expressions tight, followed by Yunho and Yeosang carrying the weight of their own unease.

No one spoke. The silence was thick, charged with the kind of tension that didn’t need words to explain itself. Something had shifted while they’d been ashore – not just in Aldervain, but between them.

Hongjoong stopped near the captain’s quarters, one hand braced against the doorframe for a fraction of a second before straightening again. Mingi noticed. He always noticed. “You don’t look–” he began.

A shout tore through the air.

“Yunho!” Jongho’s voice cracked across the deck, sharp with panic.

Everyone turned at once. Jongho stood at the gangplank, half-supporting San’s weight, his arm locked tight around San’s waist. San’s head hung low, hair plastered damply to his forehead, his steps uneven and sluggish as if his body hadn’t quite caught up with itself yet.

“Yunho, now!” Jongho called again, louder this time. “Something’s wrong.”

Yunho was already moving, dropping his satchel where he stood and sprinting across the deck. “What happened?” he asked, hands steady even as his eyes flicked rapidly over San’s condition – the pallor, the unfocused stare, the tremor in his hands.

“He–” Jongho swallowed. “He saw something. In the forest. He hasn’t been right since.”

San didn’t look up. His breathing was shallow, uneven, his gaze fixed on nothing at all.

Yunho slipped an arm under San’s other side, taking his weight without hesitation. “Inside,” he said firmly. “Now.”

Seonghwa stepped forward, already clearing the way. Wooyoung hovered near the hatch, worry etched into every line of his face, while Yeosang stood frozen for a moment too long, his pendant warm against his chest, humming faintly in a way it hadn’t before.

As they moved San below deck, the HalaVeil creaked softly beneath their feet, the sound almost like a low, uneasy groan.

Hongjoong watched from where he stood, his face unreadable. For just a moment – a flicker – something like fear crossed his eyes. Then it vanished, buried beneath iron control.

Yunho guided San down into the infirmary without a word, one steady hand at his back, the other gripping his wrist just firmly enough to keep him grounded. The narrow steps creaked beneath their weight as the rest of the crew hovered at the hatch, uncertain and helpless.

“Give us space,” Yunho said gently, not looking back. “I’ll call if I need you.” No one argued.

The door closed behind them with a soft thud, cutting off the noise of the ship. The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and dried herbs, familiar and grounding. A single lantern cast warm light across the room, its glow catching on glass vials and neatly folded cloth.

Yunho helped San sit on the cot, easing him down until his weight settled fully. San’s hands trembled in his lap, fingers flexing and curling as if they didn’t quite belong to him. His breathing was shallow, uneven, eyes fixed somewhere far past the wall. Yunho crouched in front of him, bringing himself level. He didn’t rush. Didn’t touch him again yet. He studied him carefully – the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders were locked high, the sheen of sweat at his temples despite the cold. The signs were familiar. Too familiar.

Yunho exhaled slowly. “Tell me what happened,” he said softly. “From the beginning. In your own words.”

San swallowed. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse. His jaw clenched, eyes flickering, breath catching as if the memory itself was fighting him. Then his shoulders sagged slightly, the fight leaking out of him. “We went into the forest,” he said, voice rough. “Jongho wanted to hunt. Said it might… help.”

Yunho nodded once, encouraging him to continue.

“I missed,” San went on, staring at the floor. “The first few shots. Couldn’t focus. Then–” His hands tightened suddenly, nails digging into his palms. “Then I aimed again. And I hit her.” His breath hitched sharply.

“I saw her fall,” he whispered. “The arrow went straight through her. She– she looked at me like–” His voice broke.

Yunho leaned forward slightly. “San,” he said gently. “You didn’t hurt anyone.”

“I know,” San said quickly, almost desperately. “I know it wasn’t real. But it felt real. It felt exactly the same.”

Yunho’s expression softened, something heavy settling behind his eyes. “The same as what?” he asked.

San was quiet for a long moment. Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “My old crew.”

Yunho didn’t interrupt.

“They died in front of me,” San continued, words tumbling out now, uneven and raw. “One by one. I couldn’t move fast enough. Couldn’t save them. I remember the sound – the way it felt when everything went quiet afterward. And when I saw her–” He shook his head violently. “My body thought it was happening again.” He dragged in a shaky breath. “I’m not good with death. Not people I care about. I never have been.”

Yunho straightened slightly, understanding settling into place like a familiar ache. “You’re not weak for that,” he said calmly. “Your mind is trying to protect you. It just doesn’t know how to tell the past from the present yet.”

San laughed once, bitter and hollow. “Feels like I’m broken.”

“No,” Yunho said firmly. “You’re injured. There’s a difference.”

San’s eyes flicked up to him for the first time. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” Yunho hesitated, then added, “Seonghwa understands this too. He’s lost people the same way. He just carries it differently.”

San’s shoulders slumped further, the tension draining slowly now that the words were out. “Figures,” he muttered. “He looked at me like he knew. We spoke about it before.”

“He does,” Yunho said. “And so do I.” He finally reached out then, placing a steady hand over San’s wrist. San didn’t pull away. “You’re safe here,” Yunho continued. “You didn’t fail anyone today. And you don’t have to carry this alone.”

San closed his eyes, his breathing gradually evening out under Yunho’s calm presence.

San’s voice came quieter this time. “How do I stop it?” he asked. “How do I stop myself from getting worse?”

Yunho didn’t answer right away. He shifted slightly, settling back onto his heels, giving the question the weight it deserved. He had learned long ago that some answers only harmed when they were rushed. “Time,” he said at last.

San frowned faintly. “That’s it?”

“It’s not just time,” Yunho clarified softly. “It’s living through it. Letting your body learn that the danger is over, even when your mind doesn’t believe it yet.”

San’s gaze dropped again. “Feels like it never will.”

“I know.” Yunho’s voice stayed steady. “But it does. Slowly. Painfully. In pieces so small you don’t notice them at first.” He paused. “One day, you realise you’re thinking about what comes next instead of what you lost.”

San swallowed hard.

“You won’t forget them,” Yunho continued. “And you shouldn’t. But the memories stop owning you. They stop hijacking your body.”

San’s hands unclenched, just slightly.

“You don’t have to do it alone, either,” Yunho added. “This crew–” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “They know grief. Every one of them. They’ll help you carry it, even when they don’t realise they’re doing it.”

San glanced up. “You really think they can?”

“I do.” Yunho’s mouth curved into something gentle. “Especially Wooyoung.”

San blinked. “Wooyoung?”

“He’s hurting in a different way,” Yunho said quietly. “But it’s still anguish. Losing someone you love… so suddenly with no closure.” He trailed off, then met San’s eyes again. “He understands what it’s like to keep breathing when you don’t know how.”

San was silent for a long moment. “…I don’t want to become angry again,” he finally admitted. “I don’t want to lose control.”

“You won’t,” Yunho said with calm certainty. “Not if you keep talking. Not if you let people in when it gets heavy.” He squeezed San’s wrist gently. “Healing doesn’t mean erasing what happened. It means learning how to live beside it.”

San exhaled slowly, something easing in his chest. “Okay,” he said quietly.

Yunho nodded once. “Okay.”

The lantern flickered overhead, its light steady. And above them, unseen, the tide began to turn.

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

The deck had settled into a low, uneasy hush.

Wooyoung lingered near the rail, fingers curled tight around the cold wood as he stared out over the water. Aldervain loomed behind them, grey and watchful, its dock silent now that most of the crew had gone below. He hadn’t followed. He’d known better.

Jongho’s footsteps sounded behind him, careful, hesitant.

“Hey,” Wooyoung said softly without turning. “What happened?”

Jongho stopped beside him, his gaze drifting out to sea as well. “San had… an episode. In the forest. I think it’s some pressed down guilt. Trauma.”

Wooyoung’s jaw tightened.They stood like that for a moment before Wooyoung pushed away from the rail. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get something warm.”

They moved through the ship together, boots echoing softly in the narrow corridors. The galley was dim and quiet, the smell of old tea and herbs lingering in the air. Wooyoung reached for a kettle out of habit, setting it over the flame.

“He thought he hurt someone… Angel” Jongho continued. “Saw something that wasn’t there.”

Wooyoung swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

Jongho glanced at him, concern flickering across his face. “You do?”

Wooyoung laughed once under his breath, hollow. “Every day.”

The kettle hissed softly as the water began to heat. “I keep thinking I see her,” Wooyoung admitted, voice low. “In the waves. In the sky. Sometimes when I wake up, I swear I can still hear her breathing.” His hands shook slightly as he reached for a cup. “Then I remember. And it hits all over again.”

Jongho didn’t interrupt.

“I miss her so much it feels like something’s tearing at me from the inside,” Wooyoung went on. “And I don’t know where to put that feeling, so it just… stays.” He exhaled shakily, pressing his palms against the counter. “San losing control like that? That’s what grief does when it doesn’t know where to go.”

Jongho’s voice softened. “You don’t have to carry it alone either.”

Wooyoung gave a small nod, eyes fixed on the steam rising from the kettle. “I know. Doesn’t make it easier.”

The kettle whistled, shrill in the quiet room. Wooyoung poured the water carefully, the sound grounding. “We’ll get through this,” he said finally, more to himself than to Jongho. “We have to.”

Jongho nodded, standing shoulder to shoulder with him in the dim galley, the ship creaking gently around them like a living thing holding its breath.

Wooyoung set one of the cups in front of Jongho, watching him closely. The steam curled between them, fragile and fleeting. “You doing okay?” Wooyoung asked quietly.

Jongho blinked. “Yeah.”

Wooyoung didn’t react. He just leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely. “You always say that.”

Jongho huffed out a breath, something almost like a laugh. “Someone has to.”

Wooyoung tilted his head. “It’s been months,” he said gently. “Since Yeosang’s curse was lifted. Since… since Angel.” His voice caught for just a second before he steadied it again. “You’ve been holding it together the whole time. I just–” He shrugged. “I want to know if you’re really okay.”

Jongho stared down at the cup in his hands, fingers tightening slightly around it. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. “Sometimes,” he said finally, voice low, “I’m scared.”

Wooyoung straightened a little. “Of what?”

Jongho swallowed. “That I’ll wake up one day and Yeosang will be back where he started. Back to the curse. Back to fading.”

Wooyoung’s chest tightened.

“I watched him die in front of me,” Jongho continued quietly. “Every day. Slowly. And there was nothing I could do.” His jaw clenched. “I had to stay strong for him. For all of you. If I broke, everything would have fallen apart.”

He paused, breath unsteady. “But now it’s over. And I feel… empty. Like my body finally realised how tired it is.”

Wooyoung stepped closer, resting his hip against the counter beside him. “That doesn’t mean you’re weak.”

“I know,” Jongho said. “But knowing doesn’t stop the fear.”

Wooyoung nodded slowly. “Grief doesn’t leave when the danger does,” he murmured. “Sometimes it waits until you’re safe to show up.”

Jongho’s shoulders slumped just a little, the tension easing as the words sank in.

“You’re allowed to be exhausted,” Wooyoung added softly. “You don’t have to be the strong one all the time.”

Jongho looked up at him then, eyes tired but honest. “Thanks.”

The two of them stood there in the quiet galley, steam rising between them, the ship swaying gently beneath their feet. And for the first time in months, Jongho let himself lean into the silence instead of fighting it.

Jongho hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Hey… Wooyoung.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry,” he said quietly. “About Angel.”

Wooyoung’s hands stilled for a moment, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. He didn’t look away, though. “You don’t have to–”

“I know,” Jongho cut in gently. “I just… I know it might seem like I didn’t care. Or like it didn’t hit me the same way it hit you.” He shook his head slightly. “But I did care. I just didn’t really know her.”

Wooyoung’s expression softened.

“If I could go back,” Jongho went on, voice earnest, “I think I’d like to be her friend. Properly. I think she would’ve been… fun. In her own way.”

Wooyoung let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “She was,” he said. “And yeah, you’re right. You’re just realistic. That’s not a bad thing.”

Jongho glanced up at him, relief flickering across his face. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be?” Wooyoung shrugged. “Grief doesn’t look the same on everyone. If it did, we’d all be unbearable.”

Jongho snorted. “Speak for yourself.”

Wooyoung laughed then – a real one this time, brief but genuine. “Wow. Okay. I see how it is.” They stood there a moment longer, the heaviness easing into something steadier. “She would’ve liked you,” Wooyoung added after a beat. “You would’ve annoyed her endlessly.”

Jongho smiled faintly. “I have that effect on people.”

“Trust me,” Wooyoung said, nudging him lightly with his shoulder, “she would’ve survived worse.”

The galley felt warmer somehow after that – not because the grief was gone, but because it had been shared.

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

Hongjoong’s office felt too small for him.

He paced in tight circles, boots striking the floorboards with clipped, restless steps. Maps lay scattered across his desk, edges curling where his fists had slammed into them moments before. One chair lay tipped on its side, abandoned, the evidence of an anger that had nowhere safe to land.

“Fucking bastard,” Hongjoong muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Always winning. Always one step ahead of me.”

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He turned sharply, pacing again, breath shallow, chest tight like the walls were closing in.

The door creaked softly. Seonghwa stepped inside without announcing himself. He didn’t speak at first. He just watched – sharp eyes taking in the clenched fists, the frantic movement, the way Hongjoong’s shoulders were wound tight like pulled wire. “You’re going to wear a groove into the floor,” Seonghwa said quietly.

Hongjoong froze mid-step, then let out a harsh laugh without humour. “Good. Maybe the ship’ll remember how angry I am.”

Seonghwa closed the door behind him, leaning against it. “I saw the posters,” he said after a beat. “The name.”

Hongjoong’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. For a second, it looked like he might snap back – but instead, something brittle crept into his expression. “Then you already know,” he said.

“I want to hear it from you,” Seonghwa replied gently.

Hongjoong exhaled sharply through his nose and finally stopped pacing. He planted his hands on the desk, knuckles white. “The country’s rotting,” he said flatly. “Markets shut down. Supplies slashed. People starving while guards get fat.” His voice darkened. “Tideborns are being dragged into the streets. Executed. Disappeared.”

Seonghwa’s expression hardened.

“And the man calling the shots,” Hongjoong continued, lifting his head slowly, “is my father.” The words tasted poisonous even saying them. “He took the capital,” Hongjoong went on, voice low and furious. “Turned it into his own throne. He’s calling it order. Security. Says Tideborns are a threat to stability.” A bitter smile twisted his mouth. “Funny. He always did hate what he couldn’t control.”

Seonghwa’s gaze softened just slightly. “All right under our nose… we didn’t have a clue.”

“No,” Hongjoong snapped. “I was busy watching Yeosang die. Chasing a cure. Losing–” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “While I was at sea, he was building an empire out of bones.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Seonghwa pushed off the door slowly. “You’re not responsible for what he’s done.”

Hongjoong laughed again, sharp and hollow. “Maybe not. But I’m responsible for what I do next.”

Seonghwa studied him, really looked at him then – the shadows under his eyes, the fury barely contained, the weight of blood and bonds and choices pressing down on him. “You’re thinking about killing him soon…” Seonghwa said.

Hongjoong met his gaze without flinching. “I’ve been thinking about it for years.” The lantern overhead flickered once, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Outside the office, the HalaVeil creaked softly, a ship caught between tides, carrying a captain who had finally found the shape of his war.

The room felt charged now. The lantern’s flame flickered unevenly, shadows stretching and collapsing along the walls as the ship shifted beneath them. Maps rustled softly where they lay scattered, corners curling like they’d been handled too roughly, too often. The air smelled faintly of salt, ink, and something sharper – anger that had nowhere left to go but forward.

Hongjoong straightened slowly, his pacing finally stilling. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter – not calmer, but colder. “You wanted revenge once,” he said, eyes lifting to Seonghwa. “I remember.”

Seonghwa didn’t deny it. His jaw tightened, gaze darkening as old memories stirred. “I still do.”

Hongjoong nodded once. “Then it’s time.”

He reached out, fingers pressing flat against the map spread across the desk. Not the capital. Not yet. His hand landed somewhere far more familiar – a place etched into both of them like a scar.

“The hotel,” Hongjoong said. “The first rot. The place that taught him he could sell bodies and call it business.” His lip curled. “The place where Yeosang and I were trapped. Where San almost died. Where she–” He stopped himself, breath hitching just once before hardening again. “We take it down. Every floor. Every ledger. Every disgusting bastard who ever paid to touch someone who couldn’t say no.”

Seonghwa’s expression shifted – something sharp and predatory breaking through the calm exterior he so carefully maintained. “No mercy,” he said quietly.

“No mercy,” Hongjoong agreed. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t hesitation, it was alignment.

Seonghwa stepped closer to the desk, eyes tracing the marked routes, the coastal outlines. “If we’re doing this,” he said, “ we do it right. We don't wait. We don’t give them time to move assets or wipe records.”

Hongjoong’s gaze flicked up. “You’ll get started on navigating us”

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at Seonghwa’s mouth. “I already know the waters. The currents haven’t changed – only who controls the shore.” He turned toward the door, hand already reaching for the handle. “I’ll get us moving. Now.”

Hongjoong watched him go, the weight of the decision settling into his bones. There was no turning back from this, not after Aldervain, not after the name on the posters, not after everything that had been taken.

As the door closed behind Seonghwa, Hongjoong exhaled slowly. The HalaVeil shifted beneath him, sails beginning to catch the wind. For the first time since the island, the course was clear. And it was pointed straight at hell.

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

Night had settled fully over the HalaVeil.

The sea was calm in a way that felt almost intentional, its dark surface stretching endlessly beneath a sky so clear it seemed unreal. Stars crowded the heavens, sharp and bright, scattered in dense clusters that reflected faintly against the water below. The sails shifted gently overhead, canvas whispering as the ship cut forward through the dark.

Yeosang stepped onto the deck alone. The cold air kissed his skin, grounding him. He moved toward the rail and rested his forearms against the ledge, fingers curling over the worn wood. For a long moment, he simply stood there, breathing, letting the night wash over him.

So much had happened. The curse. The pain. The island. The loss.

He thought of how close he had come to disappearing entirely – how fragile everything still felt, even now. The necklace at his throat was warm, humming faintly, as if it too were remembering. He reached up absentmindedly, brushing his fingers against it as he stared out into the dark sea.

It felt endless tonight. Quiet. Watching.

Yeosang exhaled slowly, memories pressing in whether he invited them or not. Faces. Voices. Laughter that felt too far away now. Grief settled softly in his chest - not sharp, not overwhelming. Just present.

Then, his thoughts were cut through like a knife.

Thud.

Yeosang jumped. The sound was light, barely there, followed by the soft woosh of wings and a faint scrape against wood. His heart kicked hard as he turned, eyes scanning the deck.

Something moved near the rail. Perched there, where the starlight barely reached, sat a bird.

Large. Still.

Its feathers were pitch black, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. Claws curled securely around the ledge, talons scraping softly as it adjusted its weight. The bird tilted its head, one dark eye fixed unblinking on Yeosang.

A raven.

It made no sound. Didn’t flee. Didn’t startle. It simply watched him – patient, deliberate, as if it had always known where to find him.

The sea behind it remained eerily calm, stars trembling faintly in the water below. Yeosang’s breath slowed. And deep in his chest, the necklace warmed further, its quiet hum rising just enough for him to notice.

Something had found them.

Yeosang swallowed and forced himself to move.

“It’s just a bird,” he muttered under his breath, lifting one hand. “Go on. Shoo.” He waved gently toward it. 

The raven didn’t budge. Instead, it answered with a low croak – deep, resonant, vibrating through the stillness of the night. The sound crawled under Yeosang’s skin, wrong in a way he couldn’t name.

His brows knit together. “Seriously-” he tried again, flicking his fingers. “Go.”

The raven tilted its head, then its eye caught something. A glint of silver. Its gaze snapped to Yeosang’s chest.

Before Yeosang could react, the bird hopped closer along the rail, claws scraping softly against the wood. He stiffened, unease curling in his stomach. “Hey-” He waved again, sharper this time. “No.”

The raven ignored him. It hopped closer. Closer.

Yeosang took a step back instinctively, heart beginning to race. “You’re not funny,” he murmured, though no one was there to hear him. “Go on. I don’t have food.”

The raven croaked again – louder this time – and then leaned forward.

Tap. Its beak struck the pendant at Yeosang’s throat.

Yeosang flinched, a startled breath leaving him as his hand flew up to protect it. “Hey! No–” He stopped. Because as the raven lifted its head, something shifted beneath its feathers.

A chain. Thin. Worn. Wrapped carefully around the bird’s neck.

Yeosang’s breath hitched. His fingers trembled as his eyes traced it- the familiar curve of metal, the dulled shine, the way the pendant rested against black feathers like it belonged there. The world seemed to tilt. Cold flooded his veins, sharp and sudden, as if the sea itself had reached up and grabbed his heart. His ears rang, the sounds of the ship fading until there was nothing but the rush of blood and the raven’s steady, unblinking stare.

“No,” he whispered.

The raven didn’t move. Didn’t blink. It only watched him, head cocked, as if waiting.

Yeosang’s throat closed painfully. His hand clenched around his own necklace, grounding himself, anchoring the reality of it beneath his fingers.

Slowly – almost fearfully – he lifted his gaze back to the bird.

“…Angel?”

The raven croaked once, low and deliberate. And the sea below them stirred.

The raven answered his whisper with another low croak, its chest vibrating with the sound as it shifted its weight along the rail. The pendant at its throat glinted faintly in the starlight, swaying ever so slightly with the movement.

Yeosang’s pulse thudded loudly in his ears. “That’s not… that’s not possible,” he murmured, his voice steadier than he felt. “How do you even have that?”

The bird offered no real answer, only tilting its head and clicking its beak once, as if acknowledging the question without intending to satisfy it. Yeosang let out a quiet, humourless breath and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Listen to me,” he muttered. “Talking to a bird like I’ve lost my mind.”

He straightened slowly, forcing himself to breathe, to think. There had to be an explanation – something ordinary, something that didn’t send a chill straight through his bones. The necklace wasn’t unique. Someone could have copied it. Found it. Stolen it.

But the thoughts unravelled as quickly as they formed. He had only ever known one person to own a pendant like that. And Angel hadn’t even worn it. She had kept it tucked away, almost forgotten, like it was something meant to be held onto rather than shown.

So how could a raven have it?

The possibilities spiralled, each one more implausible than the last. Coincidence. Theft. Some cruel trick of the light. None of them settled properly in his mind. They all felt thin, brittle, unable to support the weight of what his instincts were screaming at him.

Yeosang pressed his palms into his eyes, fingers digging in as if he could physically push the thoughts away. “You’re being ridiculous,” he whispered to himself. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

When he lowered his hands again, the raven was no longer looking at him. Its head had turned sharply toward the open sea, body tensing as though it had caught a sound too distant for human ears. The feathers along its neck ruffled, and it croaked once more – not at Yeosang, but toward the dark horizon beyond the ship.

Before he could say another word, the raven spread its wings.

The movement stirred the air around him, a rush of displaced wind that carried the scent of salt and damp feathers. The bird launched cleanly from the rail, vanishing into the night sky with a powerful sweep of black wings.

Yeosang stood there long after it was gone, staring at the place it had been.

Finally, he exhaled slowly and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the lingering chill from his bones. “Get it together,” he muttered, resting his forearms against the rail once more.

The sea remained calm. The stars burned on, indifferent.

Still, the warmth at his throat lingered, and no matter how hard he tried, the feeling that something had just brushed past the edge of his reality refused to leave him.

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

The docking point was little more than a scar along the edge of the town.

A narrow stretch of warped planks jutted out over dark water, half-swallowed by reeds and slick with algae. The posts meant to tether boats leaned at awkward angles, ropes long since rotted away, their fibres trailing into the blackness below. Lanterns hung unlit along the path, glass clouded with grime, as if no one had bothered to come down here after nightfall in years.

The water beneath the dock stirred.

It parted without sound as a shape rose slowly from its depths, the surface clinging stubbornly to skin and hair as though reluctant to let go. Wet strands spilled forward first, dark and heavy, wrapping around shoulders and arms in loose coils, dripping steadily back into the sea.

Then came the tail.

It broke the surface in a smooth, deliberate motion, scales catching faint moonlight as it shifted beneath the waterline. The movement was unhurried, practiced, as though this transformation had been made many times before. As the figure drew closer to the dock, the tail began to change – scales softening, reshaping, drawing inward as bone and muscle realigned. The water slid away as legs emerged in their place, unsteady for only a brief moment before finding balance against the planks.

Bare feet touched land.

The figure pulled itself fully onto the dock, water streaming down its body and pooling between the warped boards. For a moment, it remained crouched, breathing slow and controlled, hair clinging to its skin like living tendrils.

Then it stood. Its gaze lifted gradually, taking in the sleeping town beyond the dock — the dark silhouettes of buildings, the faint glow of distant lanterns, the oppressive quiet that clung to places ruled by fear. There was no confusion in its expression. No awe.

Only anger. It burned bright and focused in its eyes, sharp enough to cut through the night. Not wild. Not uncontrolled. This was the kind of fury that had been honed by waiting, by survival, by remembering every wrong in perfect clarity.

The figure tilted its head slightly.

A soft clicking sound left its tongue, precise and deliberate, carrying just enough to ripple the water behind it.

Somewhere nearby, unseen, something answered. And the land, at last, took notice.

The figure moved away from the dock slowly at first, each step measured and careful. Its legs trembled faintly as they carried its weight, unfamiliar after so long spent moving through water rather than across solid ground. The sensation was strange – pressure in places that had not borne it in months – but it adapted quickly, muscles remembering their purpose as rhythm settled back into its stride.

It slipped into a narrow alley at the edge of the town, pressing its damp back against the cold stone wall. The bricks were slick with moss and age, uneven beneath its fingers as it steadied itself. Water continued to drip from its hair and clothing, darkening the ground at its feet, the sound swallowed by the thick night air.

A shadow passed overhead.

Moments later, the raven swept down from the sky and landed lightly on a misplaced brick jutting from the wall, talons scraping softly as it balanced itself. Its feathers ruffled once before settling, black against darker stone.

The figure exhaled slowly. “What took you so long?”

The raven answered with a series of low, drawn-out croaks, layered and deliberate, the sound carrying more shape than simple noise. The figure frowned slightly, head tilting as it listened.

“What are you talking about?” it asked, irritation creeping into its voice.

The raven croaked again, sharper this time, shifting its weight and angling its head toward the pendant resting against its chest. The metal caught the faintest glimmer of moonlight.

The figure’s gaze followed instinctively. Understanding slid into place with a quiet, unwelcome clarity.

It let out a slow breath, something between a scoff and a sigh. “I have no idea what you’re on about,” it said flatly. “And we don’t have time for that.”

The raven clicked its beak once in response, feathers bristling faintly.

“We can’t afford distractions,” the figure continued, pushing itself off the wall. “Who cares if some pirate has the same necklace? That’s not what matters.”

Its eyes hardened as it straightened, focus snapping back into place. “What matters is Solivar.”

The raven watched in silence, unblinking, as the figure stepped out of the alley and back toward the sleeping town, water still trailing faintly behind it like a tide that refused to be left behind.

They moved together through the town with quiet purpose, the figure keeping to the shadows while the raven paced at its feet, black against the darkened stone. Their path wound through narrow passageways and half-forgotten alleys, places where the buildings leaned too close and the air smelled of damp brick and old refuse. Every so often, a distant footstep or murmured voice would drift toward them, and they would slip seamlessly into cover, waiting until the sound passed before moving on again.

They spoke as they walked, not in any language that would have made sense to an outside observer. The figure murmured low words beneath its breath, clipped and deliberate, while the raven answered in soft croaks and clicks, the cadence of its voice strangely attentive. There was no need for repetition or clarification. Each sound was understood, acknowledged, folded into the next decision without hesitation.

The town thinned as they moved farther inland, the streets widening just enough to feel exposed. Lantern light pooled unevenly along the road ahead, revealing a structure that rose taller than the surrounding buildings, its silhouette unmistakable even from a distance.

They slowed.

The building was large, imposing, its façade carefully maintained despite the decay elsewhere. Newer brickwork interrupted the older stone in places, patches of fresh plaster standing out starkly against weathered walls. Repairs had been made – hastily, perhaps – as though something had gone wrong and needed to be covered up quickly. A leak that had gone unchecked. A section of flooring torn out and replaced. Damage from heat or flame that no one wanted remembered.

The figure’s gaze traced those details with quiet intensity.

They slipped behind a large refuse bin near the side of the street, pressing into its shadow. From there, the sign above the entrance was fully visible, hanging heavy and polished despite the grime around it.

Hotel Solivar.

The figure stared at the name, jaw tightening as something dark and familiar twisted in its chest. The raven ruffled its feathers beside it, talons scraping softly against stone as it followed the figure’s line of sight.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then the figure’s fingers curled slowly into a fist. “This place,” it said under its breath, voice low and venomous, “should have burned to the ground a long time ago.”

The hotel stood silent before them, its windows dark, its walls pristine enough to pretend innocence.

But the water at the edge of the street stirred faintly, rippling in response to the figure’s presence. And the night, at last, seemed to listen.

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

The HalaVeil creaked softly as the crew gathered on deck, drawn there by an order that had carried no explanation and needed none. The night air was colder now, the stars sharper overhead, their light cutting clean lines across the dark sea. The ship felt awake beneath their feet, sails shifting as if bracing for what was to come.

Hongjoong stood near the helm, posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. He hadn’t said a word yet, but no one missed the change in him. Whatever had been decided below deck had settled into his bones.

Seonghwa took his place beside him, eyes scanning the crew with measured calm, already calculating what would be needed.

One by one, the others joined.

Yunho came up first, closing the infirmary door quietly behind him. San followed a moment later, movements steadier than before, though the hollow look in his eyes hadn’t fully faded. He stood a little apart from the rest, shoulders squared but guarded, as if still half-expecting the ground to fall out from under him again.

Mingi leaned against the rail, arms crossed, watching Hongjoong carefully. Wooyoung lingered near the mast, unreadable, his gaze flicking briefly toward the horizon before settling back on the captain. Jongho stood close to Yeosang, solid and steady as ever.

Yeosang joined them last.

He took his place without comment, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression carefully neutral. Inside, his thoughts were anything but. The memory of the raven – the weight of the pendant around its neck, the way it had looked at him – pressed uncomfortably at the edges of his mind. He didn’t know what it meant. He wasn’t even sure it had meant anything at all.

So he said nothing.

He lifted his eyes to Hongjoong instead, pushing the unease down where it couldn’t distract him.

The crew waited. The sea stretched endlessly around them, dark and calm, as if holding its breath. Somewhere far off, a gull cried, the sound sharp in the quiet before fading into nothing.

Whatever was about to happen, they could all feel it. This wasn’t a routine order. This wasn’t another supply run. The HalaVeil had changed course. And they were about to learn why.

Hongjoong finally moved.

He stepped forward just enough that the lantern light caught his face, carving sharp lines into his features and leaving the rest in shadow. When he spoke, his voice carried easily across the deck – low, steady, and utterly final.

“Things are changing tonight,” he said. “Not tomorrow. Not after we regroup. Tonight.”

A ripple passed through the crew, subtle but unmistakable.

“We’re changing course,” Hongjoong continued. “Or rather, we already have.”

Seonghwa inclined his head slightly beside him. “We’re heading straight for Hotel Solivar,” he said calmly. “At this speed, we’re practically there already.”

The words settled in, heavy and electric.

Murmurs broke out across the deck – quiet, tense, but not fearful. If anything, there was something like grim relief threading through them. This was a direction they understood.

Mingi let out a slow breath, lips curling into something sharp and feral. “So it’s tonight?” he said. “We’re finally starting to take down those fuckers?”

“Yes,” Hongjoong answered without hesitation. “There’s no delay.”

Silence fell again, deeper this time.

“We infiltrate the hotel,” Hongjoong went on, eyes sweeping across each of them in turn. “We get the victims out first. Anyone trapped. Anyone who can’t leave on their own.” His jaw tightened. “Anyone who gets in our way after that is a choice they’ve made for themselves.”

No one argued.

“And when the place is empty,” he said, voice dropping, “we burn it. Every ledger. Every room. Every memory they tried to bury there.” His gaze darkened. “Every pain they profited from ends tonight.”

The wind shifted, snapping the sails softly overhead.

Yeosang felt something harden inside his chest, a familiar, dangerous resolve settling into place. He remembered the rooms. The rules. The quiet suffering disguised as luxury. His fingers curled slowly at his sides.

This wasn’t just another mission. This was reckoning.

Around him, the crew straightened almost instinctively, shoulders squaring, expressions sharpening. Even San, still pale at the edges, lifted his chin slightly, the hollowness in his eyes giving way to something steadier.

Hongjoong held their gaze for a long moment longer, as if etching the moment into memory.

“We end it,” he said quietly. “Here.”

The HalaVeil surged forward beneath their feet, sails catching the wind with new intent, and somewhere ahead in the darkness, a building that had stood too long without consequence waited for the sea to come calling.

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

The ship slowed as Seonghwa guided her in, sails easing with practiced precision. The water around them darkened, reflecting only fragments of lantern light from the shore ahead. The dock near the hotel was quiet – too quiet – the kind of stillness that came from people knowing better than to linger after dark.

The hull kissed the wood with a muted thud. Ropes were secured quickly, hands moving with silent efficiency. No one spoke. They didn’t need to.

Hongjoong gathered them near the gangplank, the lantern overhead casting long shadows across the deck. His gaze moved from face to face, measuring, grounding, anchoring them to the moment. “We go in clean,” he said. “No wandering. No splitting off unless ordered. We move fast, we move quiet.”

Seonghwa stepped closer, gesturing toward the hotel’s silhouette beyond the dock. “Entrances are here, here, and here. Lower levels first. Storage rooms, staff corridors. That’s where they hide people.”

Yunho nodded, already adjusting the strap of his satchel. “I’ll stay central. Anyone hurt comes to me immediately.”

Weapons were gathered without ceremony.

Blades slid into place along belts and boots. Firearms were checked once, then holstered. Mingi hefted his gear, testing the weight with a familiar ease, sparks flickering faintly at his fingertips before he forced them down. San rolled his shoulders slowly, breath controlled, muscles coiled beneath his skin. Wooyoung adjusted his gloves, eyes sharp and focused, illusions already humming just beneath the surface. Jongho tightened the strap of his weapon, steady as ever. Yeosang checked his blade last, jaw set, the resolve in his expression unmistakable.

This wasn’t new. It was remembered.

The old, dangerous ways crept back in like muscle memory, movements smoother, quieter, more lethal than before. This was what they had been before desperation softened them. Before mercy complicated things. Before they lost so much.

Hongjoong was the first down the gangplank.

The others followed, boots hitting the dock with soft, deliberate steps. The air smelled of salt and damp wood, the distant scent of smoke and something sour drifting from the hotel’s direction. Lanterns flickered along the street, casting uneven light that they avoided instinctively, slipping through shadow instead.

The HalaVeil loomed behind them, silent and watchful. Ahead, Hotel Solivar waited – tall, polished, and oblivious to the tide rolling in.

They work together as the feared crew they are whispered about for the first time since regaining what had been taken from them, the crew moved as they once had: united, dangerous, and utterly unforgiving.

The moment they crossed the threshold of shadow near the hotel, Hongjoong’s presence slid into their minds.

Stay close. No sound.

The bond settled over them like a second skin – familiar, grounding, sharpening every sense. Words weren’t spoken aloud; they were felt instead, intention and direction flowing cleanly between them without the need for a single breath wasted.

They moved toward the back of the building, where the glow of the hotel thinned and the luxury gave way to function. The rear entrance was narrow and unadorned, tucked between stacked crates and discarded barrels slick with damp. Steam drifted faintly from a vent above, carrying the smell of grease and stale spices into the night air.

Seonghwa checked the door once, then nodded.

Inside, the kitchen was dim but active enough to betray itself. A few lanterns burned low, casting warm light across long counters and hanging pots. The floor was scrubbed clean, almost obsessively so, though the effort couldn’t hide the stains baked deep into the stone.

Two chefs stood near the central counter. They froze the instant the door opened.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then panic cracked across their faces. One of them lunged for the bell mounted on the wall – a crude, ugly thing meant to summon security with a single pull.

He never reached it.

San moved before the sound could be made. There was no warning, no flourish — just speed so sudden it displaced the air. One moment he was behind the door, the next he was already there, hand closing around the man’s wrist mid-motion. Bone met pressure with a sickening, muted crack as San twisted sharply, the bell clattering uselessly against the wall.

The second chef opened his mouth to scream. San crossed the space between them in a blur. He struck with his shoulder first, slamming the man back into the counter hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. The lantern rattled violently but stayed upright as San’s hand closed around the chef’s throat, lifting him just enough that his feet scraped helplessly against the floor.

The man’s eyes rolled back as San held him there for a fraction longer than necessary, jaw clenched, muscles rigid beneath his skin.

Then he released him. The body crumpled to the floor with a dull thud, unconscious and unmoving.

Silence rushed back in. Steam hissed softly from a nearby pot. A knife clattered once, forgotten on the counter’s edge.

San stepped back, breathing steady, eyes already clearing as the moment passed. There was no triumph in his expression – only grim efficiency, like someone who knew exactly what his body was capable of and hated that it had been needed.

Clear, Hongjoong’s voice echoed through the bond, tight but controlled.

The crew moved in immediately, securing the room, dragging the unconscious men out of sight. No blood. No alarms. Just the quiet hum of a machine that had not yet realised it was about to be dismantled. From the kitchen, a corridor stretched deeper into the hotel- polished floors, muted light, and the faint echo of voices above. Hotel Solivar was awake. And the HalaVeil had already slipped inside.

They moved out of the kitchen in a tight formation, boots silent against the polished stone as the corridor opened before them.

The hallway was grand in a way that felt almost mocking. Deep red carpeting ran its length, threaded with gold embroidery that caught the lantern light in dull, sickly gleams. Ornate columns lined the walls, their surfaces carved with curling patterns meant to suggest elegance rather than excess, though the effect was lost beneath the sheer indulgence of it all. Mirrors hung at intervals, tall and imposing, reflecting fragments of the crew as they passed - shadows with weapons, moving where guests were never meant to see.

The air smelled faintly of perfume and smoke, layered over something older and harder to mask.

Hongjoong felt the shift through the bond before they reached the end of the hall. Tension rippled through them all as the corridor widened, spilling into the reception area - a vast, open space designed to impress the moment someone stepped inside.

The desk stood at the centre, polished wood gleaming beneath a massive chandelier. Gold filigree climbed the walls, framing doors that led deeper into the hotel. A handful of workers lingered nearby - receptionists, attendants, staff dressed neatly enough to appear harmless, though their eyes widened instantly at the sight of armed intruders emerging from the hall.

Time slowed.

One of them inhaled sharply, lips parting to shout. The knife left Wooyoung’s hand before the sound could form.

It crossed the space in a clean, deadly arc, embedding itself deep into the receptionist’s throat. The impact was precise, brutal, silencing him instantly as his body collapsed behind the desk, knocking over ledgers and scattering papers across the floor.

Chaos erupted.

A woman near the stairwell screamed, turning to run, only for Jongho to intercept her path, striking with controlled force that sent her crumpling to the ground. Another attendant lunged toward a side door, hand fumbling desperately at the handle, but Seonghwa was already there, moving with fluid speed as he drove his blade into the man’s side and twisted sharply before pulling it free.

The bond hummed louder now, thoughts overlapping, directions flashing between them faster than speech ever could.

Left.  Behind the desk. Stairs - now.

Mingi vaulted the reception counter with a grunt, sparks flaring briefly along his knuckles as he struck downward, disabling two workers who had reached for concealed weapons. The smell of scorched fabric mixed with the metallic tang of blood, the chandelier above them swaying slightly from the force of the movement below.

San moved through the room like a storm given form.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause to assess morality or consequence. His speed turned the reception area into a blur of motion, one moment an attendant was raising a baton, the next they were slammed bodily into a column hard enough to crack stone. Another tried to strike him from behind, only to be caught mid-swing and thrown across the room, skidding across the carpet in a broken heap.

Yunho stayed back, watching angles, dragging the injured aside, ensuring none of the victims were caught in the crossfire. His movements were careful but firm, every step calculated even as the fight surged around him.

Yeosang fought with a quiet fury that surprised even himself.

Each strike was deliberate, every movement controlled, his expression set and unyielding. He remembered the rules of this place, the way silence had once been enforced, the way obedience had been demanded. Now, he gave none of it back.

The fight spilled across the reception floor, bodies falling among overturned furniture and shattered glass. Shouts echoed briefly before being cut short, swallowed by the thick walls and heavy drapery designed to keep secrets inside.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.

The chandelier continued its slow sway overhead, crystals chiming faintly. Blood darkened the red carpet in places, blending almost seamlessly into the design. The desk was destroyed, papers scattered like dead leaves across the floor. The crew regrouped instinctively, weapons still raised, breathing controlled.

Through the bond, Hongjoong’s presence sharpened.

Clear the upper levels. Find the rooms. Get them out.

Hotel Solivar had lost its illusion of safety. And deeper within its gilded halls, something far worse than reception staff waited to be dragged into the light.

They took the stairs two at a time, boots landing softly despite the urgency coiled in their bodies. The stairwell curved upward in a wide, elegant sweep, the banister polished smooth by years of hands that had never needed to rush. Red carpet muffled their steps, gold-threaded patterns glinting dully in the low light.

At each landing, they paused. Storage cupboards were checked methodically- doors opened just enough to peer inside before being pushed fully back. Linen carts stood abandoned, shelves stacked with folded sheets and towels that smelled faintly of perfume and bleach. Behind one door, cleaning supplies rattled softly as it swung open, the sound echoing too loudly in the stillness.

Nothing.

No cowering figures. No whispered pleas. No signs of anyone hiding. The absence itself felt wrong.

The bond tightened around them as Hongjoong’s presence sharpened, a quiet command threading through their thoughts.

High alert. This place is holding its breath.

They adjusted without discussion. Two of them fell back, turning so they could walk in reverse, weapons raised and eyes scanning the path they had already cleared. The rest advanced slowly, every sense tuned to the slightest shift in air or sound.

They reached the first floor. The corridor there mirrored the one below - the same oppressive luxury, the same red and gold woven into every surface. Doors lined the walls at precise intervals, each marked with a small brass plaque. Heavy curtains framed tall windows, drawn shut despite the night beyond.

Too pristine. Too untouched.

Jongho’s steps faltered. It was subtle at first- a half-beat hesitation, a tightening in his shoulders. His colour drained rapidly, the blood leaving his face as his gaze fixed on nothing and everything at once.

He inhaled sharply. His vision fractured. For a brief, sickening instant, the future pressed in on him - blurred shapes, movement that shouldn’t have been there, something slick and wrong unfolding just seconds ahead. His heart slammed against his ribs as the knowledge hit him all at once, unfiltered and urgent.

Wait-

Before he could push the warning through the bond, before a single word could leave his mouth, a sound reached them from farther down the hall.

Wet. Heavy. Accompanied by low, animalistic grunts that scraped along the walls and crawled into their ears.

The crew froze as one. Weapons rose instantly, blades catching the light as they turned toward the sound. The corridor ahead seemed to narrow, shadows thickening around the bend where the noise continued, slow and deliberate, like something being dragged across stone.

The bond thrummed, taut as a drawn wire. And together, without speaking, they moved toward it. They rounded the corner together. The corridor beyond was no longer a corridor.

It had been transformed into something obscene.

Blood coated the floor in thick, uneven layers, pooled so deeply in places that it reflected the dim lantern light in warped, trembling shapes. It ran along the grooves of the tiles and up the walls in violent arcs, smeared handprints dragging across gold-patterned wallpaper now torn and soaked through. The scent hit them all at once - copper-heavy, warm, unmistakably fresh.

Bodies were everywhere.

They lay twisted and broken, piled against one another as though discarded without care. Limbs bent at angles no living body could hold, fingers curled stiffly toward nothing. Some were missing pieces entirely, a hand here, a shoulder there, the damage brutal and precise in a way that suggested speed rather than chaos. Faces stared blankly at the ceiling or the walls, mouths frozen open in silent shock.

The crew halted instinctively, weapons lifting once more, breath caught tight in their  chests. This wasn’t the work of guards. This wasn’t order.

At the far end of the corridor, standing amid the carnage as though it were nothing more than a spill to be stepped over, was a figure. A woman.

She stood with her back to them, one foot resting lightly atop the mound of bodies, posture loose and almost relaxed. Her hair fell thick and long down her back, dark strands tangled and heavy, clinging to skin and fabric alike. The clothes she wore were ragged, torn at the edges, soaked through with blood that clearly did not belong to her - stains layered over one another, drying at different stages.

Her hands hung at her sides. Fingernails extended far past what was natural, sharp and curved like blades, darkened at the tips. They glistened faintly, wet.

For a heartbeat, she did not move. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned.

The light caught her face. Her eyes were completely black, reflecting nothing, swallowing the glow of the lanterns whole. When her lips parted, teeth flashed sharp and serrated, far too many, far too fine- a smile that belonged to something that had never learned restraint. The corridor seemed to tighten around her. And the air went dead still.

Hongjoong’s hand lifted. The bond tightened, coiling sharp and decisive as the order formed - a single thought away from release. Fire. End it before it moves. End it before it reaches them.

Before the command could be sent, a sound tore through the corridor.

“No-!”

Wooyoung’s voice cracked as it left him, sharp and broken in a way none of them had ever heard before. He surged forward without thinking, stepping directly into the line of weapons, one hand lifting instinctively as if to shield the figure from what was about to come.

“Stop- please-”

The crew froze.

Hongjoong’s hand dropped, the order dissolving mid-formation as Wooyoung moved past him, past all of them, staring ahead with an expression that twisted violently from disbelief into something far worse.

Wooyoung’s world tilted.

At first, his mind refused to accept what his eyes were seeing. The corridor seemed to stretch and warp, the edges blurring as if submerged beneath water. The noise around him - the low hum of the bond, the faint drip of blood, the distant creak of the hotel - fell away until there was nothing left but the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears.

His chest tightened painfully. Air stopped reaching his lungs.

He took a step closer without meaning to, heart slamming so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs. His hands shook at his sides, fingers curling uselessly as his vision tunneled, narrowing until the figure before him was all that existed.

The hair. The shape of her face. The way she stood - unafraid, unyielding, wrong in a way that felt horribly familiar.

His throat closed completely, a sharp, suffocating pressure stealing his breath. It felt like drowning on dry land, like being dragged under by something that knew exactly how to pull him apart. Every memory he had tried to bury surged forward at once - the island, the tide pool, her laugh, the warmth of her hands, the way she had looked at him before slipping away.

His knees threatened to give out.

This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be real. He had watched her die. No… he didn't. He never saw a body.

Tears blurred his vision, burning hot and fast as his mind fractured around the truth clawing its way up from his chest. A small, broken sound slipped from him - not quite a sob, not quite a breath - but a whimper, as his body betrayed him entirely.

He took another step forward, voice shaking, raw and unguarded.

“…Angel?”

For a moment, no one moved.

The corridor seemed to fold inward on itself, the horror of what surrounded them blurring at the edges as something far more impossible took its place. One by one, understanding struck the crew - not all at once, but in fractured waves, each of them recognising a shape, a posture, a presence they had seen before under different lighting, in a different kind of nightmare.

Blood. Stillness. Her standing above it all.

The memory of the lab resurfaced with vicious clarity.

The way they had found her then - changed, unrecognisable, surrounded by evidence of what had been done to her. The same wrongness clung to the air now, heavier and sharper, as if time had folded back on itself only to rot further.

Yeosang’s breath hitched painfully in his chest, his necklace burning warm against his skin as the truth settled in. Jongho went rigid, jaw tightening as his vision flickered uselessly with futures he could not untangle fast enough to stop this one. Yunho felt sick, his hands curling instinctively as though already bracing to catch someone who was about to fall apart.

San reacted on instinct.

His muscles tensed violently, every scar screaming recognition as his body remembered a threat it could not place but knew all the same. His eyes burned, fury and shock colliding into something dangerously close to losing control. This was wrong. This was too familiar. His past and present had just collided, and for a heartbeat, it took everything he had not to lunge.

Hongjoong didn’t move at all.

The colour drained from his face, leaving him deathly pale beneath the lantern light. His mind raced - memories of the island, the ritual, the way she had slipped away without a word, leaving them drowning in grief and guilt. He had buried her memory. He had mourned her. He had sworn vengeance for her.

And now she stood in front of him like a blade drawn from the sea.

Wooyoung took a step forward. “Angel,” he breathed again, voice cracking apart. “It’s me-”

She reacted instantly. A sharp hiss tore from her throat, animal and violent, echoing down the corridor as she snapped fully toward him. Her body shifted, weight settling low and ready, claws flexing as she raised one bloodied hand. “Back up,” she snarled.

The sound of it - her voice twisted into something feral - sent panic crashing through Wooyoung’s chest. He froze mid-step, eyes wide, breath coming fast and uneven. “I- I’m sorry,” he said frantically, hands lifting in surrender. “I didn’t mean to- we’re not-”

“Angel,” Yeosang said quickly, his voice soft but urgent, pushing through the bond like a lifeline. “It’s us. Please. You know us.”

She didn’t look at him.

San took half a step forward before catching himself, jaw clenched tight as he forced his hands to stay at his sides. “Easy,” he said, low and controlled, though his pulse roared in his ears. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Hongjoong finally found his voice. “Angel,” he said, hoarse and disbelieving. “It’s me.”

Her black eyes flicked over them then - not with recognition, but with suspicion, with cold assessment. She took in their weapons, their stances, the way they had cornered the corridor without even realising it.

Her lips curled back, exposing those razor-sharp teeth once more. Slowly, deliberately, she straightened.

The bond screamed warning through the crew as her gaze settled on them, unreadable and sharp.

“Who the fuck are you?”

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ohhh we're getting into it nowww. our angel is back... but at what cost?

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His eyes were dark, almost bruised. The kind that had seen too much and refused to close because of it.

“Every time I sleep,” Hongjoong said quietly, “I hear her. In the water. In the rigging. In the damn wind.” He forced a short, bitter laugh. “You’ve been locking down hatches because of sirens, but I don’t need them to lose my mind.”

Seonghwa didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, watching him trace the edge of the map again, the muscles in his hand tightening until his knuckles went white.

Finally, he said, “Then stop trying to erase her by drawing lines through the sea.”

Hongjoong stilled. His gaze lingered on the inked coastlines, the fine trembling of his fingertips betraying the calm in his voice. “You think I’m erasing her?”

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