Lala’s Corner

Every album cycle was a slow erosion. She had trained until her toes bled, stayed up writing verses that Jihoon would glance at for three seconds before saying, "It's good, but it doesn't really fit the Seventeen vibe," and practiced facial expressions in the dark.

The fans noticed, of course. The "Y/N Mistreatment" compilations on YouTube had millions of views. But the fans didn't see the worst part. The worst part was the casual, unintentional neglect from the thirteen boys she loved like family and the painful friction with the few she held closest.

The turning point had happened earlier that evening, during the final monitoring session for their upcoming comeback title track. They were all crowded around the small monitor. Hoshi was vibrating with excitement, pointing out a complex formation change in the bridge.

"Look at that transition!" Soonyoung beamed, slapping Wonwoo’s shoulder. "The diamond shape is perfect there."

Y/N had squinted at the screen. In that specific frame, she was completely eclipsed by Mingyu’s broad shoulders. If you didn't know she was in the group, you would think Seventeen was a thirteen-member act.

"Oppa," Y/N had spoken up, her voice small but clear. "During the second verse... I’m completely hidden. If I step out just half a foot to the right, the angle balances out, and I can actually be seen singing my line."

The room went quiet. Jihoon sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Y/N, we already locked the formation with the performance directors. If you shift right, you disrupt Chan’s pathing right after. It’s just three seconds."

"It’s always three seconds," she wanted to scream.

She looked desperately toward Seungcheol. As the leader, and as someone she had always leaned on when the pressure became too much, she hoped he would see her frustration. Seungcheol offered a gentle, tired smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Y/N-ah, Jihoon's right about the spacing," Seungcheol said, his tone dripping with that patronizing warmth he used when he was trying to manage a problem rather than solve it. "Don't get too sensitive about a quick transition. We'll look at it for the concert version, okay? Good job today, guys. Let's wrap it up."

The words stung. Sensitive. He didn't mean to be harsh, but he wasn't taking her seriously. To him, she was just the younger member making a fuss over a minor detail, completely blind to the fact that those "minor details" were erasing her entirely.

When the room finally cleared, only one person remained by the door.

Wonwoo hadn't joined the loud conversations about what to eat for dinner. He stayed back, leaning against the doorframe, his sharp eyes tracking Y/N as she sat frozen on the floor. Once the hallway quieted down, he walked back inside, his footsteps soft against the linoleum.

He sat down on the floor next to her, pulling his knees up to match her posture. He didn't offer a cliché platitude or tell her Seungcheol didn't mean it. He just slipped one of his oversized gaming hoodies out of his bag and draped it over her trembling shoulders.

"You were right about the formation," Wonwoo said quietly, his deep voice a grounding anchor in the empty room. "I watched the playback. You were hidden."

A choked sob escaped Y/N’s throat, the first crack in her armor. "Then why doesn't anyone care, Woo? Why am I always the one who has to compromise?"

Wonwoo looked at his hands, a heavy, helpless expression crossing his face. Out of everyone, Wonwoo understood the suffocating weight of wanting to disappear, but he also knew the delicate balance of the group. He hated seeing her like this, trapped in a limbo where she was technically part of a team but entirely alone.

"They care," Wonwoo murmured, stretching out a hand to gently ruffle her hair, pulling her closer so she could lean against his shoulder. "They're just blind to what they haven't experienced. Coups-hyung is stressed about the comeback, he isn't looking at the small picture. But I see you, Y/N. I always see you."

Y/N leaned heavily into his side, gripping the fabric of his sleeve. His presence was the only thing keeping her grounded, the only thread holding her to Seventeen.

But as she stared at their blurred reflection in the mirror, the terrifying truth remained. Wonwoo’s kindness was a bandage, but the wound beneath it was deep, infected by six months of silent alienation. She loved him, and she loved the small moments of comfort he gave her but she didn't know if love was enough to keep a ghost alive.

The ride back to the dorms was exactly what Y/N expected: a masterclass in unintentional exclusion.

She sat in the middle row of the second van, sandwiched between Seokmin and Seungkwan, who were aggressively debating a trendy restaurant they wanted to visit on their next day off. Their voices bounced over her head, a chaotic ping-pong match of laughter and exaggerated hand gestures.

Y/N kept her face pressed against the cool glass of the window, staring out at the passing Seoul streetlights. She had shrunk herself as much as possible, her shoulders curled inward to give the boys more room. Neither of them noticed. To them, she was just a quiet fixture of the car, a silent companion they assumed was simply tired.

When they finally arrived at the dorm, the apartment was a flurry of discarded jackets, the rustle of takeout bags, and the loud hum of the shower running.

Y/N slipped her shoes off at the entryway, carefully placing them in the corner. She began walking toward her shared bedroom, wanting nothing more than to crawl under her covers and pretend the world didn't exist, when a voice stopped her from the living room.

"Y/N-ah, wait a second."

She turned. Seungcheol was sitting on the couch, a tablet in his lap and a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes prominent under the harsh living room light. He gestered for her to come over.

For a split second, a flutter of hope sparked in her chest. Maybe he realized. Maybe he wanted to apologize for brushing her off in the practice room.

She walked over and sat on the opposite end of the couch. "Yes?"

"Management just sent over the finalized tracklist and the credit sheet for the digital booklet," Seungcheol said, keeping his eyes on the screen. "I noticed you submitted a few lyric drafts for the b-side track, 'Shadow.' I wanted to talk to you before the final print goes out."

Y/N’s heart did a nervous flip. She had spent three consecutive nights staying up until dawn writing those lyrics. They were raw, deeply personal lines about feeling caught between the light and the dark a desperate attempt to channel her loneliness into art.

"Did Jihoon look at them?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Seungcheol finally looked up, his expression gentle but holding that familiar, heavy layer of professional detachment. "He did. And I read them too. Look, Y/N... your writing has gotten really mature, and the metaphors are beautiful. But the theme is a bit too heavy for this album. Seventeen’s image has always been about hope and overcoming things together. These lyrics... they feel a bit too isolated. Too dark."

The spark in her chest died instantly, replaced by a cold, familiar numbness.

"Isolated," she repeated, the word tasting like ash.

"Yeah," Seungcheol said, completely missing the cracked tone in her voice as he tapped on the screen. "We decided to go with Vernon and Mingyu's verses instead. They keep the energy moving forward. I just didn't want you to be blindsided when the tracklist drops tomorrow. Don't take it personally, okay? You're still young, you have plenty of time to get your tracks on the albums later."

Don't take it personally.

You have plenty of time.

He said it so easily, like she hadn't already been in the group for years. He treated her like a trainee who was still learning the ropes, rather than a member who had poured her soul into a company that continually threw her efforts into the trash bin. He wasn't trying to hurt her he truly believed he was being a good, encouraging leader and that was what made it unbearable. He didn't see her as a peer. He saw her as a liability that needed gentle handling.

"Right," Y/N whispered, standing up from the couch before her face could betray her. "I understand. Thank you for telling me, oppa."

"Get some sleep, Y/N-ah. Big day tomorrow," Seungcheol called out, already looking back down at his tablet, effectively closing the curtain on her.

She didn't go to her room. She knew if she went inside, she would wake up her roommates with her crying. Instead, she slipped out onto the small, cramped balcony at the end of the hallway, closing the glass door behind her to shut out the noise of the apartment.

The night air was biting, cutting right through her thin clothes, but she welcomed the chill. It was better than the suffocating warmth of a home she didn't belong in.

She leaned her forearms against the railing, staring down at the empty courtyard below. Six months, she thought again. Six months of convincing herself that things would change, that the next comeback would be different, that she would finally feel like the fourteenth member instead of an asterisk at the end of a sentence.

The glass door behind her slid open with a soft click.

Y/N didn't turn around. She knew the footsteps. They were slow, deliberate, and entirely devoid of the frantic energy that characterized the rest of the house.

Wonwoo stepped out onto the balcony, closing the door behind him. He didn't say anything at first. He just stepped up to the railing next to her, handing her a warm, steaming mug of barley tea. He had changed into comfortable sweatpants, and his glasses were pushed up into his hair.

"I heard Coups talking to you," Wonwoo said softly, the steam from his mug rising between them.

Y/N took the mug, using it to warm her freezing hands, but she didn't drink. "He thinks I'm too dark for the group."

Wonwoo closed his eyes for a brief moment, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He had read her lyrics. He had been there in the studio when she was writing them, sitting quietly in the corner playing a game on his phone just so she wouldn't have to be alone in the dark. He knew those lyrics weren't just a creative exercise; they were a cry for help.

"He's looking at it from a producer's standpoint, Y/N. He's wrong, but... that's how his brain works right now. He's hyper-focused on the group's commercial identity."

"And what about my identity?" Y/N’s voice finally broke, a hot tear spilling over her cheek and freezing in the wind. "When do I get to be a person, Woo? When do I get to be a member of Seventeen? I’ve been here since the beginning, but if I disappeared tomorrow, the only thing the company would have to do is re-print the posters. The choreography wouldn't even change. The lines would just go to Seunkgwan or Dokyeom. Nobody would actually miss me."

Wonwoo turned completely, his back against the railing as he looked down at her. The usual calm, unbothered facade he wore for the world was completely gone, replaced by a profound, aching sorrow. He reached out, his long fingers gently catching her wrist.

"Don't say that," he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with an emotion he rarely let anyone see. "Do you think I wouldn't notice if half my heart left this dorm? I don't care about the formations, Y/N. I don't care about the line distributions. I care about you. If you go... if you disappear into the background completely, I'm lose the only person in this house who truly understands what it feels like to want to hide."

Y/N looked up at him, her vision blurred by tears. Wonwoo was holding onto her wrist tightly, as if he could physically anchor her to the group, as if he could feel the phantom thread of her presence slipping away.

She wanted so badly to tell him the truth. She wanted to tell him that she had been drafting a letter to management. She wanted to tell him that every time she looked at the Pledis building, she felt a profound sense of dread.

But looking into Wonwoo's worried eyes, she couldn't do it. He was already carrying so much. If she told him she wanted to leave, it would break the only safe haven he had in the group, too.

"I'm just tired" she lied, her voice trembling as she leaned her head against his chest.

Wonwoo wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, holding her so tightly it almost hurt. "I know," he whispered into the dark. "I know you are. Just hold on a little longer. Please."

Y/N closed her eyes, burying her face in his sweater. She held onto him like a drowning person, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. She loved him. She loved him enough to stay for one more day. But as the cold wind swept across the balcony, she knew that a single thread couldn't hold up a collapsing bridge forever.

The next morning arrived with the brutal, unyielding momentum of a typical comeback schedule.

By 7:00 AM, the dorm was a battleground of slamming doors and rushing feet. The managers were already waiting downstairs, their walkie-talkies buzzing with schedule updates for the day’s pre-recording. Y/N had barely slept. She had spent the remaining hours of the night staring at the ceiling, Wonwoo’s plea of "just hold on a little longer" looping in her head like a broken record.

When she walked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, she ran straight into Seungcheol.

He was in full leader-mode, nursing a massive iced americano while scrolling through a tightly packed itinerary on his phone. When he saw her, his expression instantly shifted from stressed to that practiced, older-brother warmth. He reached out, gently squeezing her shoulder.

"Hey. You look exhausted," Seungcheol said, his voice lowering so the passing members wouldn't overhear. "Look, about last night... I hope you aren't still down about the lyrics. I talked to Jihoon again this morning before he left for the salon. We both agree your writing is getting sharper. We definitely want to utilize you for the Japanese release later this year, okay? The market there appreciates that deeper, more melancholic vibe."

Y/N stared at his hand on her shoulder. To anyone else, this was Seungcheol being an incredible leader reassuring a younger member, offering a compromise, planning for the future. But to Y/N, it felt like a tactical pacification. He was throwing her a bone to keep her quiet, pushing her contributions months down the line and onto a foreign release where her voice could be easily compartmentalized.

"Thanks," she said, forcing a small, compliant smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I’ll look into it."

Seungcheol patted her shoulder, seemingly satisfied that the issue was resolved. "Good girl. Go get ready, the first van leaves in ten minutes."

He turned away to bark an order at Mingyu about shoes, completely missing the way Y/N’s hand shook as she twisted the cap off her water bottle. Good girl. It felt so deeply patronizing. She wasn't a pet to be patted on the head for staying in her corner. She was an adult, a professional, but in his eyes, she would always be the fourteen-member variable that needed to be managed so the real machine could run smoothly.

The broadcasting station was a chaotic maze of idols, staff, and flashing cameras. Seventeen occupied the largest waiting room, a space crammed with clothes racks, makeup stations, and a massive catering table.

As the hours dragged on between the dry rehearsal and the actual pre-recording, the group naturally fractured into their usual comfortable pockets.

The BooSeokSoon trio was in the center of the room, loudly filming a challenge video with a junior group, their laughter booming off the walls.

The Performance Unit was crowded around a single phone, analyzing a minor timing error from the morning rehearsal.

The Vocal Unit was humming lines in harmony near the back, Jihoon directing them with sharp, precise nods.

And then there was Y/N.

She sat in the far corner of the sofa, squeezed into the tight space between a rack of stage outfits and a stack of plastic storage bins. She had her noise-canceling headphones pressed tightly over her ears, though no music was playing. It was her only defense mechanism a universal sign language that meant please leave me alone, though, in reality, nobody was trying to approach her anyway.

Except for Wonwoo.

He had taken the seat right next to her. He didn't try to force her into a conversation, nor did he make a scene of comforting her. He just sat there, his thigh pressed firmly against hers in the cramped space, a silent, unyielding boundary between her and the rest of the room. He was playing a game on his phone, but every few minutes, his thumb would absentmindedly brush against the side of her knee, a rhythmic reassurance that said, I’m still here. You’re still here.

Suddenly, one of the main managers clapped his hands, cutting through the noise of the room. "Alright, Seventeen! Wardrobe check in five minutes. Fans are already entering the studio, let's get moving!"

The room erupted into movement. Members began shedding their padded coats, revealing the intricate, heavy velvet stage outfits. Y/N stood up, smoothing down her skirt, trying to shake off the heavy lethargy pulling at her limbs.

As they lined up in the hallway to walk down to the stage, Seungcheol stepped to the front of the line, his hand raised.

"Listen up," he called out, his voice commanding the absolute attention of the hallway. "This is our first music show stage for this comeback. The fans have been waiting in the cold for hours. Let’s show them exactly why we're Seventeen. Energy high, smiles bright. On three. Say the name!"

"Seventeen!" the thirteen boys shouted in unison, their voices echoing off the concrete walls, full of a fierce, collective pride.

Y/N’s voice joined them, but it felt hollow, a ghost of a sound swallowed up by their collective strength. As the line began to move forward toward the bright, blinding lights of the studio stage, she felt a sudden, terrifying wave of vertigo.

She looked ahead at the backs of their heads. She saw the perfect symmetry of their steps, the effortless way they fell into formation even while just walking down a corridor. They were a masterpiece. A flawless, thirteen-piece puzzle.

And as she stepped out onto the stage, greeted by the deafening screams of thousands of fans chanting names that barely ever included hers, the realization hit her with the force of a physical blow:

She wasn't a part of the puzzle. She was just a piece from a completely different set, desperately trying to force herself into a picture where she didn't belong.

The stage lights were blinding. They were the kind of hot, unforgiving lights that baked the sweat into your skin before you even started moving.

As the familiar, booming intro of their new title track blasted through the studio speakers, Y/N’s body reacted on pure instinct. Years of grueling, repetitive training took over. She smiled where she was supposed to smile, her eyes locking onto the flashing red light of Camera 3, her arms striking the sharp angles of the choreography with mathematical precision.

To the untrained eye, she was flawless.

But internally, she was entirely detached from her own body. During the first chorus, she was executed as part of the back-line machinery, a shadow anchoring the explosive center moves of the Performance Unit. She moved into a deep lunge behind Jun, disappearing completely from the main broadcast view.

Then came the bridge the three seconds she had pleaded with Jihoon and Seungcheol to change.

As the formation shifted, Mingyu stepped directly into his mark. His towering frame completely blocked the center line. Y/N hit her position half a beat later, standing exactly where she was ordered to stand. She sang her line a single, fleeting vocal run that was supposed to bridge the gap between Seokmin’s high note and the final dance break.

She could feel the breath leaving her lungs, could hear her own voice echoing in her in-ear monitors. But when she looked straight ahead, all she saw was the dark fabric of Mingyu’s stage jacket. The camera tracking the center completely missed her face.

A heavy, suffocating wave of humiliation washed over her, right there on live television. She was singing her heart out to the back of a teammate’s head.

"Cut! Great job, Seventeen! That’s a wrap for the pre-recording!" The stage director’s voice boomed through the PA system.

The studio erupted into cheers. The fans in the seating area went wild, screaming the members' names, waving their lightsticks in a sea of rose quartz and serenity. The boys immediately bowed, waving back, sweating and breathless but radiant with adrenaline.

"Thank you guys for waiting in the cold!" Hoshi shouted into his mic, doing a little dance that made the crowd scream louder.

"Eat a good lunch, Caratdeul!" Seungkwan added, throwing finger hearts.

Y/N stood near the edge of the stage. She bowed politely to the staff and the audience, her lips curved into a stiff, generic celebrity smile. She felt like an imposter. They were cheering for Seventeen. They were cheering for the thirteen boys who embodied the spirit of the group. Her presence was just an asterisk a footnote the fandom had learned to tolerate over the years.

As they walked off the stage and into the dim, frantic chaos of the backstage corridors, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep, crushing exhaustion.

"Y/N-ah."

She felt a gentle tug on her sleeve. She turned to see Wonwoo walking beside her, wiping his forehead with a small towel. His eyes were scanning her face, filled with a quiet, intense scrutiny that made her want to hide. He had witnessed the bridge blocking from his own position on the left wing.

"You did well," Wonwoo murmured, his voice low enough to be buried under the loud chatter of the passing staff. "Your vocals were the cleanest they've been all week."

"Thanks," she whispered, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. "It doesn't really matter if no one can see who's singing it, though."

Wonwoo opened his mouth to reply, a deep line forming between his brows, but he was cut off before the words could leave his throat.

"Hey, Y/N! Wonwoo! Hurry up, we’re doing a quick group photo for the official Twitter!" a manager yelled from the end of the hallway, waving them toward a designated Pledis backdrop.

The group was already assembling. The shorter members were in the front, kneeling or crouching, while the taller members formed a protective wall behind them. It was a well-practiced routine.

"Y/N, go over to the right side next to Dino," Seungcheol directed quickly, his eyes darting between the staff member holding the camera and the time on his watch. He was already thinking about their next interview schedule. "Hurry, we only have two minutes before the next group needs the hallway."

Y/N stepped into the spot. Because of the tight space and the hurried nature of the shoot, she was pushed to the absolute edge of the frame. She felt Chan’s arm press against hers as he struck a playful pose, entirely immersed in the energy of the moment.

"Three, two, one Say the name!" the photographer called out.

The camera flashed.

Y/N smiled. It was the same smile she had practiced thousands of times in the mirror. It was perfect. It was empty.

Twenty minutes later, the waiting room was a blur of packing. The members were changing back into their comfortable clothes, eager to get into the vans and head to the next broadcasting station for a radio interview.

Y/N stepped out of the makeshift dressing room, now wearing her own oversized sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt. She needed a moment of absolute silence. Her head was pounding, the bass of their own song still vibrating in her ears.

She walked down the quiet, institutional hallway of the broadcasting station, heading toward the vending machines at the far end where she knew the staff rarely traveled.

As she rounded the corner, she saw Seungcheol standing by the window, speaking quietly into his phone. His voice carried in the empty corridor.

"Yeah, I saw the rough cut of the stage monitoring," Seungcheol was saying, his tone serious, his leader voice fully active. "I know. I know her blocking in the bridge is an issue. But look, we can't change it now. The choreography is locked for the entire promotion cycle. Shifting the camera angles manually during the live broadcast is too risky."

Y/N froze, her hand hovering over the brick wall. Her heart stopped.

"I tried talking to her about it," Seungcheol continued, sighing heavily as he leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. "She’s just... she's taking it too personally lately. She's getting sensitive about her screen time and her lyrics. I get it, she's young, but she needs to understand the bigger picture. Seventeen functions because the machine works as a whole. If we start changing entire formations just to make sure one person gets three seconds of face-time, the whole balance throws off. I just need her to hold out until the repackage album."

He paused, listening to the person on the other end of the line likely a performance director or a high-ranking manager.

"No, she won't cause trouble," Seungcheol said, his voice dropping into a confident, dismissive tone that shattered the final, lingering fragment of Y/N’s heart. "Y/N is a good kid. She complains a bit, but she always does what she's told in the end. I’ll handle her."

He hung up a moment later, pocketing his phone and walking back toward the waiting room, entirely unaware that the "good kid" was standing less than ten feet away, hidden in the shadow of the vending machines.

Y/N slid down the wall, her knees hitting the cold linoleum floor.

I'll handle her.

She always does what she's told in the end.

To Seungcheol, her pain wasn't a crisis. It wasn't a cry for help from a sister who was drowning. It was a scheduling conflict. It was a minor logistical inconvenience that could be managed with a few sweet words and a promise of future opportunities that would never actually come.

She didn't cry this time. The tears had finally run dry, replaced by a terrifying, hollow clarity. The six months of agonizing hesitation, the lists of pros and cons, the desperate midnight prayers for things to get better they all evaporated into nothingness.

She wasn't a member of Seventeen. She was a liability they kept in the corner because it was too expensive to break the contract early.

Slowly, Y/N stood up. Her legs were shaking, but her hands were entirely steady. She reached into her pocket, pulling out her personal phone. She didn't open the notes app this time. She opened her contacts, scrolling past the names of the thirteen boys she had spent her teenage years with, until she found the direct number for Pledis's legal department a number she had saved months ago but never had the courage to call.

She looked back down the hallway, toward the loud, vibrant waiting room where Seventeen was currently laughing, completely whole without her.

Y/N’s finger hovered over the dial button, her chest heaving as she stared at the stark, clinical contact name: Pledis Legal Team 2. Every instinct in her body was screaming at her to just press it, to spark the fire that would finally burn down this beautiful, suffocating cage.

"Y/N-ah?"

The voice was soft, slicing through the ringing in her ears like a quiet blade.

Y/N flinched, her thumb jerking away from the screen as she quickly locked her phone and shoved it behind her back. She turned around to see Jeonghan standing at the mouth of the corridor.

He had already changed out of his stage attire, wearing a loose knit sweater that swallowed his frame, his hair a little messy from the frantic wardrobe changes. He was holding a half-empty bottle of vitamin water. To anyone else, Jeonghan looked like his usual relaxed, slightly mischievous self but his eyes were entirely focused on her.

Jeonghan was the observer of Seventeen. While Seungcheol managed the logistics and the pressure from management, Jeonghan was the one who quietly mapped the emotional currents of the room. He noticed when someone’s smile didn't reach their eyes. He noticed when a voice was a fraction of a octave too quiet.

And right now, looking at Y/N huddled against the vending machines, he saw right through the wall she had spent months building.

"What are you doing all the way back here?" Jeonghan asked, stepping into the dim corridor. His footsteps were light, making no sound against the linoleum. "The managers are already counting heads for the second van. Mingyu’s looking for his lost wallet again, so we have about a three-minute grace period."

He joked, but his voice lacked its usual teasing edge. He stopped a few feet away from her, his sharp eyes dropping to her hands, which were still trembling behind her back, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

"I just needed some air," Y/N said, her voice sounding desperately small even to her own ears. She tried to offer him one of her standard, compliant smiles. "The waiting room was getting a little loud. My head hurts."

Jeonghan didn't buy it for a second. He tilted his head, his gaze softening into something deeply paternal, yet terrifyingly perceptive. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until he could reach out and gently touch her arm.

"Y/N-ah," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, comforting register he used when someone was genuinely breaking down. "Look at me."

She didn't want to. She knew that if she looked into Jeonghan’s eyes, the dam would break. Wonwoo’s quiet solidarity was comforting, but Jeonghan’s empathy was dangerous it had a way of pulling the truth out of you before you could stop it.

"I'm fine, oppa, really-"

"You're not fine," Jeonghan interrupted softly, his thumb gently rubbing a soothing circle against the fabric of her sleeve. "You've been hovering at the edge of the room all day. During the stage, during the monitoring, even when we were taking the group photo... you looked like you were already a million miles away. What's wrong? Is it your lines again? Did Jihoon say something?"

The mention of the music of the very thing that was systematically erasing her made something inside Y/N snap. The exhaustion of the past six months, topped by the crushing weight of Seungcheol's phone call just moments prior, suddenly felt too heavy to carry in silence.

"It's not just the lines, Jeonghan-oppa," she whispered, her lower lip trembling as she finally looked up at him. Her eyes were bright with unshed, angry tears. "It’s everything. It’s the fact that I’m standing right here, and none of you can see me."

Jeonghan blinked, a shadow of genuine confusion and hurt crossing his features. "What do you mean we don't see you? Y/N, we're always together. We're a family."

"Are we?" Y/N asked, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping her lips. She finally pulled her phone out from behind her back, holding it tightly against her chest. "Family members don't get hidden behind the tallest person in the group during their only three seconds of a song. Family members don't get told their feelings are just 'sensitivity' because they want to be seen. Coups doesn't think of a family member as a kid he just needs to 'handle' so the machine keeps running smoothly."

Jeonghan froze. The color drained slightly from his face as the pieces connected in his brilliant, calculating mind. He looked down the empty hallway, toward the direction Seungcheol had walked just minutes ago, and then back at Y/N’s tear-stained face.

"You heard him," Jeonghan realized, his voice dropping into a horrified whisper.

"I hear everything," Y/N whispered back, the first tear finally spilling over her lashes, hot and angry. "Because nobody thinks to lock the door or speak quietly when they're talking about the fourteenth member. To everyone else, I'm just a mistake Pledis made years ago that you all have to carry around like extra baggage. I’ve spent six months trying to convince myself that if I just worked harder, if I just wrote better lyrics, if I just kept my mouth shut, you would finally look at me like a real member. But I’m tired. I’m so, so tired of being a ghost."

Jeonghan stood completely paralyzed. For all his cleverness, for all his ability to smooth over conflicts within the group, he was entirely unequipped for the sheer depth of the despair staring back at him. He looked at Y/N the girl who had joined them when she was practically a child, who had quietly swallowed every piece of online hate, every unfair line cut, every back-row choreography assignment with a polite bow and a silent nod.

He had known she was unhappy. He had known she felt left out from time to time. But he had never realized that while they were busy celebrating their massive success, climbing higher and higher up the mountain, they had left her at the base, entirely alone in the dark.

"Y/N-ah..." Jeonghan reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he grabbed both of her shoulders, pulling her forward until her forehead rested against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his hand in the back of her hair, desperately trying to shield her from the cold corridor. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Coups didn't mean it like that... he's just stressed, he's stupid when he's under pressure, you know how he gets. But that's no excuse. We failed you. I failed you."

Y/N didn't hug him back this time. Her arms stayed limp at her sides, her forehead resting heavily against his sweater. The comfort felt nice, but it felt too late. It felt like a band-aid on an amputation.

"Don't leave us," Jeonghan murmured into her hair, his voice cracking with a rare, raw vulnerability. He had felt the distance growing between her and the group for months, but he had assumed it was just a phase, a side effect of growing up. Now, feeling the absolute stillness of her body in his arms, a cold dread began to pool in his stomach. "Please, Y/N. Talk to us. Talk to me. We can fix this. I'll talk to Jihoon myself. I'll make them change the formations for the next music show, I swear. Just don't shut us out."

Y/N slowly pulled back, gently but firmly breaking his grip on her shoulders. She looked up at him, her eyes completely devoid of the fire that used to define her. There was only a vast, empty ocean of exhaustion.

"You can't fix a puzzle piece that doesn't belong in the box, oppa," she said softly, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.

Before Jeonghan could reply, the loud, booming sound of Mingyu’s voice echoed from around the corner. "Hey! I found my wallet! It was in Coups-hyung's bag the whole time!"

"Everyone into the vans! Moving out now!" a manager's voice bellowed through the hallway.

Y/N took a step backward, away from Jeonghan, away from the warmth of his embrace. She gave him one final, tiny nod a gesture of profound respect for the brother who had actually bothered to look for her before turning around and walking toward the loud, chaotic energy of the lobby.

Jeonghan stayed rooted to the spot, the empty bottle of vitamin water slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor with a dull clatter. As he watched her small figure disappear around the corner, a terrifying truth settled deep in his bones:

Seventeen wasn't thirteen plus one. They were thirteen, and they were about to lose the only girl who had ever tried to love them through the silence.

The second van was loud, a stark contrast to the heavy silence left behind in the corridor. Y/N sat by the window again, staring at the blurred neon signs of Seoul. Jeonghan had tried to catch her eye before boarding, but she had purposely slipped into the back row behind the vocal team. She couldn't face his pity, and she certainly couldn't face his promises.

By the time they reached the next broadcasting station for a late-night radio appearance, the atmosphere had shifted into a dull, post-schedule haze. There was a three-hour gap before their live broadcast slot, leaving the members scattered around a secondary, dimly lit dressing room.

In the corner of the room, a ring light flickered to life.

"Is it connected?" Dino asked, squinting at an iPhone mounted on a tripod.

"Yeah, the notifications are going out now," Minghao replied, adjusting the collar of his denim jacket. He sat cross-legged on a low couch, looking effortlessly chic. "Look, the viewer count is already jumping."

Jun slid into the frame next to Minghao, waving enthusiastically at the lens with both hands. "Hi, Carats! We’re backstage waiting for the radio show!"

Wonwoo sat on the arm of the couch just behind Minghao. He had his glasses back on, his expression relaxed but quiet. His eyes wandered around the room for a split second, tracking the corner where Y/N had tucked herself away with her manager's padded coat over her legs. He caught her eye, giving her a small, questioning tilt of his head. Are you okay?

Y/N just offered a tiny, weak nod and looked down at her lap. She didn't want to ruin his mood.

"We decided to turn on a live because it’s been a while since the four of us did one together," Dino explained to the camera, reading the fast-scrolling comments. "Everyone is asking if we ate dinner. Yes, we had rice bowls in the dressing room earlier."

The Instagram Live was a massive hit. Within five minutes, over three hundred thousand fans were watching. The four boys fell into a comfortable, easy rhythm the kind of effortless chemistry that made fans fall in love with them.

Jun was reading funny comments and doing dramatic poses. Minghao was giving philosophical advice to a fan stressed about exams. Dino was passionately explaining a specific detail in the new choreography. Wonwoo chuckled softly at their antics, occasionally leaning in to deliver a dry, witty one-liner that made the comment section erupt in keysmashes.

They were a cohesive unit. A brotherhood.

Y/N watched them from the dark corner of the room. The glow from the phone screen illuminated their faces, making them look like a self-contained universe. She felt a familiar, hollow ache in her chest. She was in the exact same room, sitting less than ten feet away, but she might as well have been on Mars.

"Oh, someone asked what the other members are doing," Jun said, scanning the screen. "Coups-hyung and Jeonghan-hyung are talking to the managers in the hallway. The vocal unit is sleeping on the other couch."

He completely skipped over her.

It wasn't intentional. Jun’s eyes had just skimmed the room, seeing the sleeping vocal team and omitting the quiet girl sitting perfectly still in the shadows. But the omission hit Y/N like a physical blow. Even when they were actively listing the group, her name didn't naturally surface. She was a ghost in their peripheral vision.

Wonwoo’s smile faded slightly. He glanced over his shoulder toward Y/N’s corner, then looked directly at the camera. "Y/N is here too," he said, his deep voice cutting through Dino and Jun's overlapping chatter. "She's sitting right over there. She worked really hard during the pre-recording today."

The comment section immediately flooded with messages.

“Y/N-ah!!! Show your face!” “We miss our 14th member!” “Is Y/N okay? She looked hidden during the stage today.”

"Y/N-ah, come say hi!" Dino called out warmly, gesturing toward the empty space next to him on the floor.

Minghao turned his head, his sharp eyes searching the dim corner. Unlike the others, Minghao was incredibly sensitive to energy. He had noticed her heavy, suffocating aura all day. "Come here, Y/N. Sit with us for a bit," he encouraged gently.

Y/N felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck. Every fiber of her being wanted to refuse, to stay hidden in the dark where it was safe. But the phone was live. Thousands of eyes were watching. If she refused, the fans would instantly sense the tension, creating a massive wave of rumors and speculation that Seungcheol would have to "handle" later.

Slowly, she stood up, letting the padded coat slide off her lap. She walked over to the ring light, her feet feeling like lead.

She forced a bright, idol-grade smile onto her face and crouched down next to Dino, squeezing into the edge of the phone's vertical frame. "Hi, Carats," she said, waving small at the camera. "I'm here."

"Look, Y/N is matching with Wonwoo-hyung today, both wearing black hoodies," Jun pointed out, trying to create a fun talking point for the fans.

The comments were moving at lightning speed. Y/N’s eyes accidentally locked onto a string of rapidly appearing messages.

user7739: Why is she forcing herself into the frame? The four boys had such good chemistry before she walked over. svt_carat_17: Honestly, the formation looks so crowded now. She doesn't really fit the vibe of this unit live. solofun: Did you guys see the music show today? She was completely blocked lol. Even the directors know she's extra.

The words blurred together, burning into her retinas. It was nothing she hadn't read a thousand times before over the last six years, but tonight, her armor was completely gone. The comments felt like physical needles piercing through her skin.

"Y/N-ah," Wonwoo's voice sounded right above her ear. He had shifted closer, his hand coming down to rest firmly on her shoulder, a subtle shield against the invisible eyes of the internet. "Are you cold? Your hands are shaking."

"I'm fine, oppa," she whispered into the microphone, her voice tight.

Minghao was watching her face closely. He saw the subtle twitch in her jaw, the way her eyes darted away from the screen, and the absolute lack of life in her smile. He recognized that look. It was the look of someone who was completely drowning while standing in a room full of people.

Minghao quietly reached past Dino and gently tapped the screen, purposely shifting the focus of the live. "Ah, someone is asking about the choreography for the b-side. Dino, show them the hand movement you were working on."

Dino eagerly took the cue, leaning into the camera to demonstrate the intricate finger-tutting. Jun joined in, laughing as he tried to mimic the younger boy's speed.

Under the cover of their loud laughter, Minghao leaned forward, his voice a quiet murmur meant only for her. "Y/N-ah. If you're tired, go rest. You don't have to stay here."

Y/N looked at Minghao. His expression was fierce, protective, and deeply sad. He knew. He didn't know the specifics, he didn't know about her drafted resignation or Seungcheol's phone call, but he knew her soul was breaking.

"Thank you, Hao," she whispered.

Slowly, carefully, Y/N slipped out of the camera's view. She moved so quietly that the scrolling comments barely registered her departure, the fans quickly returning to their adoration of the four boys.

As she walked back to her dark corner, she felt Wonwoo’s eyes heavy on her back. She sat down, pulling the heavy manager’s coat back over her head, completely shutting out the light of the room.

The broadcast continued behind her. Laughter, jokes, and the bright, happy sounds of a successful idol group filled the air. They were radiant. They were perfect. And as Y/N pulled her phone out one last time in the dark, her thumb didn't hesitate.

She pressed the dial button on the contact for Pledis Legal Team 2.

The phone began to ring, a low, steady hum against her ear. She closed her eyes, listening to the laughter of her members in the background, knowing that this was the beginning of the end.

The phone against her ear let out a third heavy, mechanical ring. Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Hello, this is the Pledis Legal Department Entertainment Team 2-"

Before the voice on the other end could finish the greeting, a slender, ring-adorned hand reached into the darkness of her corner and firmly pressed the red end-call button on her screen.

Y/N gasped, her head snapping up. Minghao was standing over her.

He had slipped away from the Instagram Live while Dino and Jun were distracted doing a comedic dance battle for the viewers. The bright ring light was still casting long, sharp shadows across the room, but here in the corner, Minghao’s face was obscured by the dim lighting. His breathing was shallow, his shoulders tense beneath his denim jacket.

Without a word, he grabbed her wrist gently, but with an unyielding grip and pulled her up from the chair. He guided her past the sleeping vocal unit, opened the heavy soundproof door of the empty back storage room, and ushered her inside, letting the door click shut behind them.

The storage room smelled of cardboard, unused stage props, and stale air.

"What were you doing?" Minghao demanded, his voice a sharp, whispered hiss. His usual calm, meditative demeanor was completely gone, replaced by a raw, burning frustration. "Y/N. Answer me. Who were you calling just now?"

Y/N pulled her wrist out of his grip, stepping back until her spine hit a stack of plastic equipment crates. The sheer exhaustion of the last six months suddenly curdled into a defensive, bitter anger.

"It’s none of your business," she said, her voice trembling but cold. "Go back to the live. Carats are probably wondering where their cool, philosophical performance member went."

"Don't do that. Don't use that tone with me," Minghao said, stepping closer. His eyes snapped with an intensity that made her chest tighten. "I’ve been watching you for months, Y/N. You think you're being subtle? You think nobody notices the way you look at the company building? The way you look at us? You were calling legal. I saw the screen."

"So what if I was?" Y/N yelled back, though she kept her voice low enough not to pierce through the soundproof door. Tears of pure frustration finally blurred her vision. "What does it matter to you anyway?"

"What does it matter?" Minghao’s voice cracked, a rare slip in his pristine composure. He took a deep breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "We are a team. We are supposed to be fourteen. If you have an issue with the management, if you're upset about the stage blocking which was incredibly unfair, I know you come to us! You talk to Coups-hyung. You talk to the performance team. You don't secretly call the legal department in the dark like an outsider!"

"Because I am an outsider!"

The words ripped from her throat, raw and bleeding. The confession hung in the cramped space of the storage room, heavy and suffocating.

Minghao flinched as if he’d been physically struck.

"I am an outsider, Minghao," she repeated, the tears finally cascading down her cheeks, hot and uncontainable. "You tell me to talk to the team? I tried! I spoke up today during monitoring. I begged them to let me shift just half a foot so the camera could see me sing my three seconds. And what did Coups do? He brushed me off. He told me I was being too sensitive. And then I heard him on the phone in the hallway telling a manager that I’m a 'good kid' who will 'do what she's told in the end. "

Minghao opened his mouth to defend the leader, but the words died in his throat. A deep, troubled frown marred his forehead.

"He doesn't see me as a member," Y/N whispered, her voice breaking completely. "None of you do. When Jun listed the members on the live just now, he forgot I was even in the room. It’s not his fault it’s because I’m invisible. I’ve spent six months waking up every single morning feeling like a ghost in my own life. I write lyrics, and they’re 'too dark.' I practice until my knees swell, and I get put behind Mingyu’s back. If I stay here, there will be nothing left of me."

Minghao stared at her, the anger slowly draining out of him, leaving behind a profound, devastating sorrow. He had moved across an entire ocean from China to Korea to pursue his dream; he knew what isolation felt like. He knew the crushing weight of feeling misunderstood. But he had always had his brothers to lean on. He hadn't realized that for Y/N, the brothers were the source of the isolation.

"Y/N-ah..." he started, his voice dropping into a soft, aching murmur as he stepped closer. "We love you. Hoshi hyung loves you, Joshua Hyung loves you, Wonwoo Hyung loves you. I-"

"Love isn't enough to make me exist, oppa," Y/N interrupted, looking down at her hands. "I don't want to fight with you. I love you guys so much it hurts. That’s why I have to leave. Because if I stay, I’m going to end up hating you, and I don't want to hate my family."

Minghao stood in the center of the cramped storage room, the harsh fluorescent light casting a shadow over his face. He wanted to argue, to bar the door, to promise her that he would change the world for her tomorrow. But looking at the hollow, absolute defeat in her eyes, he realized the most terrifying thing of all:

He didn't have a single argument left to save her.

The heavy silence of the room pressed in on them, thick with the weight of things left unsaid. Outside the door, the faint, muffled sound of Dino’s laughter from the Instagram Live served as a cruel reminder of the world they were temporarily detached from.

Minghao closed his eyes, a single, sharp breath escaping his lips. When he opened them, the defensive anger was entirely gone, replaced by a hollow defeat that looked completely wrong on his usually sharp, composed face.

"Six months," he whispered, the number sounding foreign and heavy on his tongue. "You’ve been carrying this alone for six months."

"I wasn't trying to hurt anyone," Y/N said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she leaned her head back against the cold equipment crate. "I just... I kept waiting for a sign. A reason to believe that if I just held out a little longer, the gap would close. But every time we take a step forward as a group, I feel like I'm being pushed two steps back into the dark."

Minghao stepped forward, the distance between them shrinking until he was standing right in front of her. He didn't reach out to grab her wrist this time. Instead, he slowly raised his hands, hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently placing them on her shoulders. His touch was grounding, a stark contrast to the volatile argument they had just survived.

"If you press that button," Minghao said, his voice dropping into a register so serious it made her skin prickle, "if you let that legal team answer... there is no going back, Y/N. The company won't protect you anymore. The articles will come out. The solo stans, the antis... they will tear you apart online, and we won't be allowed to speak up for you. Do you understand what kind of hell you're walking into alone?"

"I'm already in hell, Hao," she replied, looking straight into his eyes, her gaze unflinching despite the tears still wet on her cheeks. "At least that hell has an exit sign."

A muscle in Minghao’s jaw twitched. He wanted to tell her she was wrong. He wanted to claim that the thirteen of them would form a wall around her and protect her from the company, from the cameras, from the erasure. But he knew how the industry worked. He knew that even Choi Seungcheol, with all his fierce protective instincts as a leader, was ultimately bound by contracts and boardrooms.

"Does Wonwoo-hyung know?" Minghao asked quietly.

Y/N’s eyes dipped, her composure cracking slightly at the mention of the one person who had consistently tried to pull her out of the shadows. "He knows I'm tired. He doesn't know about the phone call."

"You need to tell him," Minghao insisted, his grip on her shoulders tightening just a fraction. "You can't do this to him, Y/N. Out of all of us, he... he watches you. He stays up in the studios just to make sure you aren't leaving the building alone at night. If you just disappear into a legal battle without warning him, it will break him."

Y/N swallowed down the lump in her throat, the guilt finally creeping in, cold and sharp. "I know. I'm scared, oppa. If I tell him, he’ll try to stop me. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to say no to him."

Before Minghao could answer, the door to the storage room clicked open.

The bright light from the hallway flooded into the cramped space, throwing their silhouettes against the back wall. Wonwoo stood in the doorway, holding his phone in one hand. His eyes darted between Minghao’s hands on her shoulders and the tear tracks on Y/N’s face. The live had clearly ended, and the calm, unbothered expression he usually wore was entirely missing.

"The manager is calling for us," Wonwoo said, his deep voice carrying a strange, tight undertone. He didn't ask what they were doing. He didn't ask why Y/N had been crying. He just stood there, his sharp eyes locking onto Y/N’s phone, which she was still clutching tightly in her hand. "The radio staff needs us in the studio for the mic check in two minutes."

Minghao slowly let his hands drop from Y/N’s shoulders. He didn't look at Wonwoo as he stepped past him, but as he reached the threshold of the door, he paused, keeping his back turned to both of them.

"Don't make your decision in the dark, Y/N-ah," Minghao said quietly, his voice echoing slightly in the concrete hallway before he walked away, leaving the two of them alone.

The storage room returned to a heavy, suffocating silence.

Wonwoo didn't enter the room. He just held the door open, his tall frame blocking the exit, his eyes fixed on her. He looked older under the harsh hallway lights, the shadows under his cheekbones prominent.

"You left the live," Wonwoo said softly. It wasn't an accusation; it was a statement of fact.

"The comments were... I just needed a second to breathe," Y/N lied, her voice lacking any real conviction. She tried to step past him, but Wonwoo didn't move. He remained an unyielding barrier in the doorway.

"Minghao doesn't yell unless something is seriously wrong," Wonwoo murmured, his eyes dropping to her phone again. "And you don't look at me like that unless you're keeping a secret."

Y/N froze, her heart stopping. "Like what?"

"Like you're already gone," Wonwoo whispered, a devastating crack breaking through his calm facade. He reached out, his long fingers gently capturing her hand the one holding the phoneand pulled it up between them. "Tell me the truth, Y/N. Please.

The raw vulnerability in Wonwoo’s voice was a physical weight, dropping between them in the cramped storage room. His hand was a warm, firm band around her wrist, but it was trembling just a tiny, microscopic fracture in his usual stoic armor that told her he was absolutely terrified of what she was about to say.

Y/N stared down at their joined hands. The screen of her phone was still dark, but beneath her palm, she could feel the faint warmth of the battery. It felt like a ticking time bomb.

"Woo..." Her voice was barely a breath, a fragile thing that threatened to shatter if she put any weight behind it.

"Don't lie to me," Wonwoo interrupted softly, his thumb shifting to press against the pulse point on her wrist. Her heart was racing, and they both knew it. "You promised me on the balcony that you were just tired. But Minghao looked like he’d seen a ghost, and you... you look like you’re trying to say something bad."

He gently pried her fingers away from the phone casing, turning the screen toward himself. Y/N didn't have the strength to hide it anymore. She let her hand go limp, allowing him to lift the device.

The screen woke up automatically, displaying the recent call log. At the very top, marked with a red arrow indicating an uncompleted, cut-off call, was the direct extension for Pledis Legal Team 2.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Wonwoo’s eyes locked onto the text. For a long, agonizing moment, he didn't move. He didn't blink. The breath seemed to leave his body completely, his broad shoulders dropping as the brutal reality of that single contact name crashed into him. He knew exactly what Team 2 handled. They weren't the team that managed copyright or social media compliance. They were the team that handled contract liquidations and member exits.

When he finally looked back up at her, the expression in his eyes broke what was left of Y/N’s heart. There was no anger, no confusion—just a profound, bleeding grief, as if he were watching something precious slip through his fingers into a bottomless canyon.

"Six months," he murmured, his voice dropping into a hollow, gravelly register. "When you said on the balcony that nobody would miss you... you weren't just venting. You were preparing."

"I can't survive here, Wonwoo," Y/N whispered, the tears finally breaking through again, tracking hot down her cold face. She didn't call him oppa this time; she spoke to him as a peer, as the only person who had ever truly tried to share her burden. "I’ve tried. You know I’ve tried. Every single day I wake up and I tell myself to just be grateful, to just push through it because I’m part of a top-tier group. But I’m not part of it. I’m just... I’m an extra on your stage."

Wonwoo let go of her wrist, but he didn't step back. Instead, he took the phone from her hand, turning it off completely, and slid it into his own pocket.

"Oppa, give it back," she pleaded, reaching out half-heartedly, but he gently caught her hands in his, holding them securely against his chest.

"No," Wonwoo said, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely let anyone see. "Not like this. You don't get to slide out the back door in the middle of a radio schedule because Coups said something stupid and the internet is cruel. If you're going to leave, Y/N... if you're really going to break my heart and walk away from us, you don't do it in a dark storage room while the rest of the members are waiting down the hall."

"What do you want me to do?" she cried out, a small, choked sound escaping her lips. "Stay until the repackage? Let them erase me for another three months? Listen to Coups-hyung tell managers how easy I am to handle? I can't do it. Every time I hear our music now, I feel like I'm suffocating."

Wonwoo closed his eyes, leaning his forehead down until it gently rested against hers. The proximity was overwhelming, filled with the scent of his familiar, comforting fabric softener and the shared, desperate warmth of their breath.

"I don't want you to suffer," he whispered against her skin, his voice trembling violently now. "God, Y/N, if I could give you my lines, if I could give you my position on the stage just so you could feel the light, I would do it in a heartbeat. You know I would. But don't do this alone. Don't let them handle this through a clinical legal meeting where they turn you into a statistic."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, his hands sliding up to cup her face, his thumbs gently wiping away the fresh tears.

"We have the radio show now," Wonwoo said, his gaze intense, grounding, and completely unyielding. "We have to go out there and we have to do our jobs. But the moment we get back to the dorm tonight... we are calling a meeting. All fourteen of us. You are going to look Coups in the eye, and you are going to tell him exactly what he did. You are going to make them see you, Y/N. Even if it’s the last thing you do as a member of this group, you are going to make them look at the hole they're leaving in Seventeen."

Y/N stared at him, her chest heaving as she swallowed the bitter flavor of his words. He wasn't asking her to stay anymore. He loved her enough to realize that staying was killing her. But he was refusing to let her vanish quietly into the night like she didn't matter. He wanted her to fight, to force the group to acknowledge the consequence of their casual negligence.

Before she could answer, the door behind Wonwoo knocked loudly, and the voice of a senior manager cut through the heavy air.

"Wonwoo! Y/N! What is taking so long? The PD is screaming for the mic check! Get out here now!"

Wonwoo didn't break eye contact. He kept his hands on her cheeks for one more second, a silent, binding contract between the two of them.

"Tonight," he whispered. "We do this together tonight. Okay?"

Y/N let out a long, trembling breath, her head nodding almost imperceptibly against his hands. "Okay."

He let her go, stepping back into the hallway and pulling his mask up over his face, instantly sliding back into the quiet, professional idol persona the world demanded of him. Y/N smoothed down her oversized sweater, wiped her eyes one last time in the dim light of the storage room, and followed him out into the corridor stepping toward the final, crushing climax of a six-month storm.

The two-hour live radio broadcast was a blur of plastic headphones, artificial cheer, and the distinct, bitter taste of adrenaline.

Y/N sat at the very edge of the long, curved table. The radio PD had assigned the seating quickly: the vocal unit took the center mics because they were doing a live acoustic performance of a ballad, and the leader line sat near the host to drive the conversation. Y/N was handed a microphone that shared a channel split with Dino.

Every time the host asked a sweeping question "How does it feel to achieve a perfect all-kill on the charts within twenty-four hours?"Y/N watched Seungcheol’s face light up as he spoke passionately about their shared vision, about the "thirteen brothers" who poured their souls into the tracks.

He didn't mean to say thirteen. It was a muscle-memory slip, a generic phrase he used in foreign interviews where explaining a fourteenth, non-traditional member took too much time. But tonight, with Wonwoo’s heavy, dark gaze fixed on the table and Minghao’s absolute silence from the back row, the word thirteen sounded like a gunshot in the small studio.

Y/N kept her hand on her lap, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sweatpants to keep from shaking. Beside her, Wonwoo’s foot was hooked firmly around the leg of her stool. A quiet, physical anchor.

The ride back to the dorms was different this time.

Usually, the ride after a late-night schedule was filled with the low hum of phones playing TikToks or the soft snoring of the performance unit. But tonight, a suffocating tension had leaked into the vehicle.

Wonwoo had explicitly demanded to ride in the first van with Y/N, swapping spots with a confused Seokmin. Minghao had quietly taken the front passenger seat, his eyes fixed firmly on the dark highway ahead, refusing to engage in any of the manager's casual small talk.

When the heavy doors of the two vans finally slid open in the basement parking lot of their apartment complex, nobody scrambled for the elevator.

"Coups-hyung," Wonwoo called out, his deep voice slicing through the quiet rumble of the parking garage.

Seungcheol paused, his hand on the elevator button. He looked back, his brow furrowed in exhaustion. "Yeah, Wonwoo? Let’s get upstairs quickly, the third van’s managers need to lock the garage."

"We need a full group meeting. Right now. In the main living room," Wonwoo said. It wasn't a request. The tone was completely flat, devoid of the respectful deference he usually gave the leader.

The remaining members stopped mid-stride. Jun, who had been laughing at something on his phone, slowly lowered his device. Jeonghan, standing just behind Seungcheol, met Wonwoo’s eyes and instantly went rigid. He looked at Y/N, who was standing a half-step behind Wonwoo, her eyes red-rimmed and staring at the concrete floor.

"Wonwoo-ah, it’s past 2:00 AM," Seungcheol said, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "We have a pre-recording at 8:00 AM tomorrow. Whatever it is, can it wait until the morning corporate briefing?"

"No," Minghao spoke up from the front, turning around to face the leader. His sharp eyes were cold. "It can't wait. Every single member needs to be in that room. Change out of your coats, but don't go to sleep."

Seungcheol looked between Wonwoo, Minghao, and the silent, shrinking figure of Y/N. The sheer weight of the atmosphere finally registered. His irritation morphed into a heavy, defensive caution.

"Fine," Seungcheol muttered, turning back to the elevator. "Upstairs. Main dorm."

Twenty minutes later, the main living room of Seventeen’s primary dorm felt like a courtroom.

The space was usually cluttered and lively, but tonight, the thirteen boys had distributed themselves along the sofas and the floor in a tense, fragmented semi-circle.

The Vocal Unit sat together on the long couch, their expressions a mix of confusion and building anxiety.

Hoshi and Chan were on the floor, their backs against the wall, sensing the absolute gravity of the performance team’s silence.

Jeonghan stood near the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed entirely on Seungcheol.

Y/N sat on a single wooden chair that Mingyu had quietly moved from the dining table for her. Wonwoo stood directly behind her, his hand resting firmly on the backrest of her chair, an invisible shield. Minghao stood to her left, his arms crossed, his face an unreadable mask of stone.

Seungcheol sat on the edge of the coffee table, directly facing her. He had taken off his makeup, and without the stage styling, he looked incredibly tired, his shoulders slightly slumped.

"Alright," Seungcheol started, rubbing his palms together. "We're all here. Wonwoo, Hao... you brought everyone down here. What's going on that’s so urgent it couldn't wait six hours?"

Jihoon sighed softly, leaning back. "If this is about the line distribution or the stage blocking adjustments again, we really should have the performance directors present-"

"Jihoon," Wonwoo cut him off, his voice dropping into a dangerous, warning growl that instantly silenced the room. "Shut up and listen."

Jihoon blinked, stunned by the rare aggression from the normally passive rapper.

Wonwoo reached into his pocket and pulled out Y/N’s phone. He didn't unlock it. He just placed it gently on the glass coffee table between Seungcheol and Y/N, the black screen reflecting the harsh ceiling lights.

"Y/N was trying to make a phone call backstage at the radio show," Wonwoo said, his voice echoing in the dead quiet of the room. "She was calling Legal Team 2 to initiate the termination of her contract."

The words dropped like an explosive charge.

Seungkwan let out a sharp, audible gasp, his hand instantly flying to his mouth. Seokmin’s eyes widened in sheer horror, his head snapping toward Y/N as if expecting her to laugh and say it was a joke. Chan stood up slightly from his position on the floor, his face completely pale.

"What?" Seungcheol’s voice was a ragged whisper. He looked at the phone on the table, then up at Y/N, his leader instincts instantly clashing with a sudden, violent wave of panic. "Y/N-ah... what is he talking about? Contract termination? Why would you... we just started the comeback. Why would you do that behind our backs?"

"Because she didn't think she had a front to face you with," Minghao countered sharply, his voice dripping with an uncharacteristic venom. "Tell him, Y/N. Tell him what you heard in the hallway today."

Y/N looked up. Every single eye in the room was fixed on her some filled with horror, some with confusion, some with a deep, dawning guilt. For six months, she had lived in fear of this exact moment. She had thought that showing her wounds would make her look weak, that complaining would make her a burden.

But looking at Wonwoo's steady hand on her chair, she found the final, desperate scrap of her courage.

"I was standing by the vending machines after the pre-recording today, Coups-hyung," Y/N said, her voice trembling but clear. "You were on the phone with management. I heard you tell them that I was getting too 'sensitive' about my lines and my screen time. You told them I was a 'good kid' who would 'do what she's told in the end' and that you would 'handle' me."

Seungcheol froze. The color completely drained from his face, his mouth opening slightly as the memory of his casual, logistical phone call came roaring back to hit him in the chest.

"Y/N-ah..." Seungcheol stammered, his confident leader persona completely evaporating. "That... I was talking to the performance coordinators. I was trying to explain to them that we couldn't change the broadcast angles on short notice without risking Chan's center transition. I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant," Y/N interrupted, a single, cold tear escaping her eye. "You meant that my three seconds aren't worth the trouble of re-arranging the machine. And you're right. Economically, logistically, you're entirely right. The thirteen of you are a masterpiece. But what you don't understand is that I’ve been hiding behind Mingyu’s shoulders for three comebacks in a row. I spent three nights writing lyrics for Shadow, and you told me I was 'too dark' for Seventeen's hopeful image. You told me I have 'plenty of time' because I'm young."

She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on each of them.

"I don't have time," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I’ve been thinking about leaving for six months. Every morning I wake up in this dorm, I have to check the mirror to make sure I still exist. Jun oppa forgot I was even in the room during the live tonight. And it’s not his fault. It’s because I have become a ghost in this group. You don't see me when the music stops. You just handle me when I become a problem."

The room devolved into a devastating, heavy silence.

Seungkwan was openly crying now, his head buried in his knees. Hoshi looked like he had been physically beaten, his eyes staring at the floor in profound shock. Jihoon sat frozen, his hands clutched tightly together, the realization that his professional rejections had been slow-acting poison to his younger sister visibly shattering him.

Seungcheol looked completely broken. He reached out a hand toward her across the table, his fingers trembling. "Y/N... I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I didn't... I didn't see it. I thought I was protecting the group, I thought I was keeping things stable for everyone. I never wanted you to feel like baggage."

"But I do," Y/N said softly, standing up from the chair. Wonwoo's hand dropped from the backrest, but he stayed right beside her, his presence a silent wall of support. "I love you guys. I love Seventeen. But I can't stay in a family where I have to beg to be seen."

She looked down at her phone on the table. She didn't pick it up.

"I promised Wonwoo I would look you all in the eye and tell you the truth before I made my choice," she said, looking at the thirteen boys who had been her entire life. "I’ve told you. Now, please... let me breathe."

Turning on her heel, Y/N walked down the narrow hallway toward her bedroom, leaving the thirteen members of Seventeen sitting in the wreckage of their own silence, finally forced to look at the massive, aching void they had built around her.

The heavy wooden door of her shared bedroom clicked shut, instantly dampening the collective, suffocating grief echoing from the living room.

Y/N didn't turn on the lights. She didn't want to see the posters on the wall, the stacked albums on the shelves, or the neat row of matching group merchandise that served as a constant reminder of the life she was tearing herself away from. She walked straight to her bed and collapsed onto the mattress, burying her face in a plush pillow to muffle the violent, heavy sobs that finally ripped from her chest.

The confrontation had drained the last bit of adrenaline from her system, leaving her entirely hollow. She had done it. She had forced them to see her wounds. But the relief she expected didn't come there was only a deep, aching soreness.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open, throwing a narrow sliver of light across the linoleum floor.

The footsteps were soft, familiar, and entirely unhurried. The mattress dipped significantly under a familiar weight as Wonwoo sat down beside her. He didn't try to pull her into his arms right away, nor did he offer words of comfort. He just sat there in the dark, a quiet, protective sentinel, letting the steady sound of his breathing anchor her in the middle of her storm.

Slowly, Y/N shifted, rolling over onto her back to stare at the dark ceiling. Her face was sticky with tears, her throat burning.

"They're still out there, aren't they?" she whispered, her voice incredibly raw.

"Yeah," Wonwoo murmured, his eyes adjusting to the shadows. He was leaning back against her headboard, his long legs stretched out over the blankets. "Coups is sitting on the floor. I think it’s the first time in six years I’ve seen him completely speechless. Seungkwan and Dokyeom are a mess. Jihoon... Jihoon went straight to his room and locked the door. I think he’s rewriting the booklet credits."

A bitter, exhausted sigh escaped her lips. "It doesn't matter anymore. A rewritten credit sheet won't fix the last six years."

"I know," Wonwoo said softly. He turned his head to look down at her, his expression filled with a tenderness that cut through the darkness. He reached out, his cool, long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her damp forehead. "I didn't bring you out there to make them change the album, Y/N. I brought you out there because you deserved to leave that room carrying your dignity, not slipping away like a thief in the night."

Y/N looked up at him. Without his glasses now, his sharp eyes looked vulnerable, brimming with an unshed, heavy sorrow. "Are you mad at me? For actually going through with it?"

Wonwoo’s hand paused on the side of her face, his thumb gently resting against her cheekbone. A long, painful pause stretched between them.

"I am selfish," Wonwoo confessed, his voice dropping into a ragged, quiet whisper that vibrated with absolute honesty. "When I saw that legal contact on your phone... my first instinct was to delete it. To hide your phone. To lock you in this room and beg you to give us one more comeback, one more year. Because the thought of walking into that practice room tomorrow and not seeing you sitting in the corner... it feels like losing a piece of my own lungs, Y/N."

A fresh tear slipped from the corner of her eye, catching the dim light. "Oppa..."

"But then I looked at you," he continued, his thumb tracing the path of her tear, his voice cracking slightly. "I looked at how small you've been making yourself just so the thirteen of us could take up space. I remembered the balcony. I remembered how cold your hands were. And I realized that if I force you to stay here just so I don't have to miss you, I'm no better than the company. I'm no better than the people who hid you in the back row."

He slowly shifted, sliding down the headboard until he was lying on his side next to her, pulling her small frame tightly against his chest. Y/N didn't resist. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, her fingers clutching the thick fabric of his black hoodie as if she were hanging off the edge of a cliff.

Wonwoo wrapped his broad arms around her, holding her with a fierce, desperate tightness, burying his face in her hair. He was shaking now the stoic, unbothered rapper completely falling apart in the quiet dark of her room.

"I’m going to miss you so much," he whispered against her hair, his chest heaving as a quiet sob finally escaped him. "God, Y/N. Who am I going to sit with during the lives? Who is going to understand when I just want the room to be quiet? You’re the only one who never expected me to be 'Seventeen's Wonwoo' all the time. You just let me be me."

"You'll have Vernon," Y/N cried softly, her tears soaking into his collarbone. "You'll have the boys. They love you, Woo. They just... they forgot how to look down."

"It won't be the same," he murmured, tightening his grip, burying her even deeper into his warmth. "A fourteen-piece puzzle with a missing center is just a broken picture."

They lay there for hours as the clock ticked toward 4:00 AM. They didn't talk about the legal meetings that would inevitably start the next day. They didn't talk about the statements Pledis would release, or the chaos that would erupt when the fandom realized the fourteenth member was gone.

For tonight, in the quiet sanctuary of the dark bedroom, they were just two tired people holding onto each other before the universe pulled them down different paths. Y/N closed her eyes, listening to the steady, heavy beat of Wonwoo’s heart. It was the only rhythm she had ever truly belonged to.

—

Jihoon had dumb ideas. Khonshu, arguably, had dumber ideas. 

In the two years since his brush with death and subsequent joining to the Egyptian god of the moon, he has dealt with 12 other near-death experiences, 2 eviction notices, 8 fake passports, 5 new apartments, 3 concerned Avengers, and 47 crime organizations that Khonshu deemed a threat. Now, his next order of business was preventing a group of extinctionist radicals trying to wipe out humanity. Just a typical Thursday. 

“What about this one?” Jihoon mumbles to the deity no one else could see. He’s been pacing the Egyptian sculpture gallery of the British Museum like a madman for well over twenty minutes, moving from artifact to artifact until he discovers one that was to the moon god’s liking. Currently, his eyes are tracing the shapes of kings etched into a huge chunk of limestone, and the god’s vague hum of disapproval sends him over to the next cluster of objects. “You could help by giving me some other descriptors, you know.”

“You’ll know when you see it, impatient mortal,” Khonshu huffs in his brain and Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Bastet is one of the most beloved in our pantheon. Her artifacts burst with ceremonial energy.”

“If it could burst a little faster, that would be great,” he frowns, approaching a granite statue of a ram guarding a king between its hooves. Jihoon scans the placard under the sculpture. “Amun. Don’t you know him?” 

“He is my father, you dolt.” 

“Hey, this dolt is doing your dirty work for you, so watch yourself, Big Bird,” Jihoon fires back. A group of tourists eye him warily and he shoots them a friendly smile that probably leans more toward a snarl before stalking away again. Before he can give Khonshu another smart remark, something palpable shifts in the exhibit hall. It’s a sensation he’s felt once before, when he crossed paths with the man Anubis had chosen as his vessel. Suddenly, the air feels charged with electricity, the air sticking to him like honey. An energy is probing him and his connection to Khonshu–not hostile, but formidable. He can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from, but he feels the strongest pull from an artifact in a glass case to his right. 

“Behold,” Khonshu murmurs. “The Lady of the East.” Jihoon creeps toward the green-tinted bronze figure of a cat, sitting regally with its paws together and its tail tucked to the side. A Wadjet amulet and a winged scarab hangs from the collar etched into its chest. Gold earrings pierce either of the cat’s ears and a nose ring hangs from its snout. Its eyes bore into Jihoon like black holes and he gets the sense that something is watching him–whether that be the cat or someone else, he couldn’t tell. This was undoubtedly the artifact Khonshu had sent him looking for. 

“What now?” 

“Now, we take it.” Jihoon startles like he’s been electrocuted. His hands want to knock his own skull around, as if that would bother Khonshu for suggesting such a thing. 

“Are you fucking crazy?” He accuses a little too loudly. Nearby, a mother ushers her young son away and he winces. His next sentences come out as irritated hisses. “This is a museum, Big Bird. I can’t just walk in here and walk out with a cat statue like it’s a department store.”

“We will not act now; we will return under the cover of nightfall,” explains the moon god and Jihoon groans. 

“Can’t we find her through other means?” He pleads and he can feel the god reject his idea immediately. “What about drawing some cats on the sidewalk? Chalk and concrete are a lot easier to come by then a fucking bronze figure. We could make our own obelisk, even.” 

“We must threaten an item that holds high stores of energy in order to get her attention, wherever she may be.” 

“Seems like an awfully good way to get arrested,” Jihoon points out. 

“Humans have twisted the concept of ownership. This institution does not deserve half of what lies within its walls,” spits Khonshu. 

“For once we agree,” he states. “I still don’t see how stealing this would make her want to talk to us.” 

“She’d probably skip the talking and just grab Sekhmet to go to town on your organs,” interrupts a calm, slightly teasing voice. You greet Jihoon with a smile and position yourself next to him in front of the Gayer-Anderson cat, one of the most beloved pieces in the museum that you called your place of employment. “You’re better off swiping some drachmae and hoping the Roman pantheon doesn't pay you any mind.” Jihoon gapes at you for a few seconds. You’re wearing a normal museum uniform and a gold necklace hangs on your neck. A black earpiece snakes up the side of your neck, leading him to believe you might be some kind of security guard or important personnel. 

“That’s an odd thing to say for someone working in a museum,” he begins slowly. He feels Khonshu trying to read you, just as he was trying to suss you out himself, but finds no ill intent in your gaze nor your body language. You seemed to be just a worker with a mildly sick sense of humor. 

“And you’ve been muttering under your breath for the past thirty minutes,” you reply not unkindly. “Museums attract all sorts of interesting people, don’t you think?” He lets out a surprised chuckle and shrugs, defeated. 

“I guess so. How much of that conversation with myself did you hear?”

“Only the part about stealing what I think is the most important artifact in this whole building,” you say nonchalantly and he bristles. You notice. “Relax, I’m not gonna report you for anything. People come in here wanting to be tomb-raiders all the time. It’s why we have security guards everywhere.” 

“The number of guards will be substantially lower when we infiltrate the building at night,” Khonshu whispers and Jihoon shakes his head to the side to get him to shut up. You squint your eyes but don’t comment further. 

“You said this cat is the most important,” he says hurriedly to get the conversation back on track. “Why?” An unreadable look washes across your face.

“Just personal preference,” you answer mildly. “Everyone has their favorite items in here, but I’d argue she’s the most important because she symbolizes good health. I think we all hope for that these days, no?” Jihoon nods, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“If you were able to talk to her, what do you think she would say?” He has no idea why that question left his mouth and he can feel Khonshu’s confusion compound with his own. He waits for you to laugh at him or awkwardly excuse yourself, but you fall silent and stare into the cat figure’s eyes like they would give you the answer. 

“I think she would say that this world is broken, and that we have a responsibility to rid it of evil,” you muse and a chill runs down Jihoon’s spine. The foreboding atmosphere that he had adapted to increases tenfold, and he clears his throat with an uneasy hand rubbing the back of his neck. You catch his reaction and the pressure dissipates, as does your serious demeanor. “That, or she would tell me to get a cat, and then another, and another, and another, and…you get the point.” You offer a sheepish smile that makes Jihoon’s ears heat up.

“I see. Can I ask a question?” 

“Of course, as long as it’s not about how to sneak into the museum to steal a cat figurine. That, you need to pay extra for,” you grin and he cracks a smile. 

“Do you have anything associated with Khonshu?” You blink at him, surprised. 

“Oh. The moon god?”

“Yeah, that one,” Jihoon replies, omitting the other descriptions that could be said about his deity. Tall, large, carries a staff with a crescent moon on it. Generally a pain in my ass. 

“We have a few shabti where he’s mentioned in the inscriptions on display,” you explain. “But most of our Khonshu items are in storage. There are quite a few amulets in the museum's collections.” 

“Perhaps tonight we can redecorate,” suggests Khonshu and Jihoon shakes his head again. 

“Dude, shut up,” he mumbles. Your eyebrows raise. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Ahem, something stuck in my throat,” he lies, beating his fist against his chest. “Allergies.” 

“Right,” you comment, not convinced in the slightest. 

“Is there–uh–is there anything ever mentioned about people being chosen by the gods to enact their will?” The same unreadable look appears on your face, but this time it remains. 

“You will not unbind yourself from me using crumbling figurines, Jihoon,” Khonshu advises. 

“There’s been some records of Egyptian gods seeming to favor certain mortals, but the practice seemed to die out with the empire's collapse,” you inform him. “Anything beyond that, I'm not sure, sorry.” 

“Thank you for explaining anyway; I know it's not a question you get everyday.” You shrug, your fingers fidgeting with the gold charm around your neck. 

“I've had worse. There was a guest last week who thought Night at the Museum was a documentary,” you recount. The sparkle of your necklace draws his eye and the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. On your collarbone dangles a cat identical to the one in the glass case, complete with the round piercings and hollow eyes. 

“Got an affinity for Bast?” Your smile turns subtly feline and he swears he sees flecks of gold flicker in your irises. 

“Caught me there,” you concede. A muffled voice comes through your earpiece and you politely bow in farewell. “I'm afraid duty calls. Enjoy the rest of the museum.” You turn to go and pause, giving him one last piece of advice before departing. “Oh, and a word of warning. If you do decide to steal something,” you add in a dangerously low tone, “I'd advise you steer clear from the cat. She isn't a fan of those who desecrate her animals, living or otherwise.” He shivers and your shoes click against the stone floors as you exit. 

“So?” He challenges Khonshu. “Still think it's a good idea to piss off Bast?”

“The Protector of Ra will be summoned. The fate of the world depends on it.” Jihoon turns away from the cat. 

“I had a feeling you'd say that.” He pushes his sunglasses onto his face and carefully makes note of the room’s security cameras. “This is gonna be a pain.”

—

Big Ben is tolling the midnight bells by the time Jihoon begins his infiltration of the museum, the moon casting a halo of light around his hands as he works. Dressed in black with a mask covering the bottom half of his face, he ambushes the security guard doing perimeter checks, nabs the keycard attached to the guard’s belt, and drags the incapacitated guard into a storage closet after he swipes himself into the building. His footsteps echo off the walls of the empty hallways, the only other sound being the hum of the ventilation system. The quiet is eerie, the kind of silence he was used to in graveyards and morgues. The eyes of the statues and the paintings lining the walls seem to supervise his trespassing, and Khonshu’s presence within his mind brings him no comfort. Still, he makes his way back toward the Egyptian sculpture exhibition with his heart hammering in his chest; at some point, he passes a display of Roman drachmae and his mind drifts back to your cunning smile and the cat charm guarding your heart. It was hard to unnerve him, seeing that he could summon a dozen crescent-shaped darts at the wave of his hand, but the way you’d crept up on him earlier and answered his questions too knowingly made him uneasy. That, and the fact that maybe in his previous life, he would have asked you to dinner and learned where your preference for the cat goddess came from.

“Focus,” Khonshu grunts. “She is a distraction from your mission.”

“She’s pretty,” Jihoon argues, for some reason.

“I do not disagree. She remains a distraction all the same.” His mouth briefly tugs into a smug smirk and he finally finds himself back in the hall with the two towering pillars carved with columns upon columns of hieroglyphics. “Find the cat. Break the glass. Do not get caught.”

“Appreciate the words of encouragement, Big Bird,” he deadpans, but beelines for the Gayer-Anderson cat anyway. The skylights and windows that drenched the room in sunlight now cast shadows upon the cat’s form, bathing it in darkness that felt akin to staring into a void. With a deep breath, he draws upon Khonshu’s energy. The still air around him whips into currents that secure the mummification linen-like armor around his body, wrapping him from head to toe and pulling into a hood that falls over his forehead. Golden crescent moons adorn his chest and elbows, and the belt of crescent darts appear at his waist from the folds of the armor. As Khonshu’s energy begins to recede again, a cape stretches from his shoulders to the floor and undulates as he draws his arm back to punch the glass. 

Before he could follow through with the strike, his chest tightens and he gasps as the same energy that he felt earlier takes hold of his body and paralyzes him. His balance falters from the sheer amount of power resonating throughout the entire hall, like there was an earthquake only affecting him. The walls hum. The limestone statues shed dust as they vibrate. The bronze cat’s mouth seems to have curled up in a smile. The aura that he attributed to the figurine now falls heavily on his shoulders from all directions, but the strongest pull…

He senses the source behind him.

“You’re trespassing, Traveler,” says a voice that sounds like yours amplified by something cosmic. Jihoon is frozen in place and kicks himself mentally for not recognizing who you were sooner. All the signs were there: your necklace, your affinity for Bast, your warning against messing with the damn cat. Khonshu had sent him on a goose-hunt for an artifact to grab the attention of wherever Bast’s vessel was lurking, only for you to be feet away from him the entire time. “I’d hoped you would heed my warning.”

“Unfortunately, the bird isn’t very smart,” Jihoon curses. 

“He’s not known to be,” you continue, alarmingly relaxed for someone whose artifact was about to be stolen. He musters the strength to level with you properly, and the sight strikes him with a sense of fear that he hasn’t felt since he became Khonshu’s vessel. Gone is your formal museum-wear, replaced by a similar linen-type armor that wraps your entire body, extending into a capelet not unlike those worn by queens in the days of ancient Egypt. A gold mask resembling a cat’s head covers your head and the top half of your face, your eyes glowing white from behind the shining metal. Daggers hang from either side of the woven gold belt slung at your waist over a schenti skirt and frontal apron. Gold cuffs hug your wrists and bronze boots stretch the length of your calves. Along with your smaller cat necklace now hangs one identical to the collar of the figurine, a scarab and the Wadjet amulet adorning your neck. You look royal, lethal. 

“He’s not happy you said that,” he stalls and you tilt your head, ironically cat-like. 

“And I’m not happy you’ve done all this work to get me to reveal myself,” you caution. “I want no part in your violence, Traveler. I have sealed the serpent and ensured the security of this world. Leave me alone.” You turn your back on him and he starts forward, halting when sharp gold claws extend from your fingertips. “I said, leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that,” Jihoon admits. “You’re in danger, and I need your help to stop said world from ending.” You bark a skeptical laugh.

“I see Khonshu hasn’t changed. Bastet says he’s always been a fan of the dramatic.” You speak of the cat goddess with such confidence that he wonders just how long you’ve been her vessel.

“Trust me, I know. Right now, we have to get out of here before they figure out you’re here.” Your eyes narrow to slits.

“Who’s they?” At that moment, the windows above your head shatter, and you’re moving before the shards hit the ground. 

Jihoon dashes for cover at the same time a knife embeds itself in the wall that was nearest to his head and counts two dozen assailants repelling in through the broken windows. Alarms blare through the hall and emergency lights illuminate your body as it slips between attackers, claws swiping and daggers flying. The cultists are wrapped in the same black snakeskin robes that they wore at the meeting he invaded, only this time they hold an array of spears, knives, and bats. He grabs a crescent dart from his belt without thinking and hurls it at the opponent lunging towards you. It knocks them off balance and gives Jihoon an opening to lay a lightning-quick combo, charging his fists forward in a familiar rhythm. As soon as one is downed, three more take its place and he ducks, slamming a punch into the nearest attacker’s ribcage and a brutal left hook to the next. 

He catches a glimpse of you as you fight and finds himself mesmerized by the way you flow like water, never striking hard but instead slicing in vulnerable places with your claws. Blood spurts from the limbs that you cut and you leap away from the spray like a ballerina, never in one place for longer than a few seconds. Someone lands a hit on your jaw and you snarl, teeth flashing as you feint right and rip through the attacker’s throat like jelly. Your combat style stands in stark contrast to his bone-crunching violence, lithe and smooth and keenly aware of your surroundings. 

He thinks you have the situation under control until an explosion of broken glass bursts in his peripheral vision and a carnal scream tears from your throat as one of the attackers snatches the cat figurine–your cat figurine–by its neck. You lunge forward, your eyes flashing with rage, and he catches the four hidden enemies crouching behind various statues as you sprint toward the one holding the statue. 

“A trap,” Khonshu growls and Jihoon draws his crescent darts too late. A mountainous opponent tackles him by his waist and he’s dragged across the hall; his head hits a limestone column and he blinks through the daze as he narrowly avoids a jab to the temple. On the other side of the room, you’re struggling. Four sets of hands restrain your arms, subduing your claws and forcing you to your knees. The one holding the statue begins muttering in a language he recognizes but can’t understand, creeping toward you with the cat statue held out like a shield. Someone brings down the butt of a dagger against your skull and a glob of blood and saliva leaves your mouth. You thrash and bite until your energy begins to be sucked into the statue, your body going limp. Jihoon’s vision goes red. “The Lady is under assault. Destroy them.” 

A surge of energy burns like fire through his veins and two white truncheons appear in his hands and he shoves the weapons downward onto the attacker’s back. The hold loosens and he twists away, swinging the sticks and beating his opponent’s face until he hits the ground and remains there. His attention snaps back over to where you’re nearly emaciated and he hurls one of his truncheons at the skull of the one holding your statue. The weapon finds its home and the world seems to move in slow motion. Without another thought, he ducks into the nearest corner of cold, clammy shadows and reappears just in time to catch the bronze cat before it bursts on the ground. The sealing ritual is interrupted but only a small part of your energy returns to you, the rest lingering in the statue that he cradles to his side like a baby. The four people that were restraining you are thrown backward as you free yourself from their hold, swiping with your claws with a new-found vengeance. For the remaining fight, Jihoon simply watches in awe (and occasionally stomps his foot on half-conscious enemies) while you tear through flesh and shatter bone. 

“Give me my cat,” you command when the final intruder falls to the ground. You step over pools of blood and cringe away when a hand weakly tries to grab your ankle, stepping on the fingers with a nauseating crunch. Khonshu bristles within his mind as you approach and take the figure from Jihoon with uncharacteristic gentleness, color returning to your face and life running through your body once more. You protectively stroke the statue’s head like a real cat and the foreboding aura of Bastet lifts from his shoulders. He thinks he can sense Khonshu taking a well-needed breath as well, if it was possible for a humanoid skeleton falcon to inhale. “She is irritated but not ungrateful,” you tell him and he tries to nod, his forehead pounding from his collision with a column. You sigh, sensing the approaching police cars outside the museum and looking towards the nearest exit. 

“In return for saving your life, could you at least hear what I have to say?” Jihoon proposes before you can slip away and you eye him reproachfully, but nod all the same. “Okay. Do you have a safe place we can go?”

“I do. Do you like espresso?” 

—

Coffee at 1:30 in the morning was a little unconventional, but so was having a safehouse located above a cat cafe. 

“I know caffeine doesn’t usually affect us,” you begin, placing a mug in front of him along with a small carafe of milk, “but I’ve found it helps to take the edge off after a fight.” He carefully takes a sip and the relaxation is almost immediate, and he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Good?”

“Yeah. Really good,” he manages. After two years of being Khonshu’s vessel, this was definitely the most intense mission he’d been sent on, yet you perch on a velvet armchair with your own mug like it was just another cozy weekend. The space itself is not what he had expected from Bastet’s vessel, either. The attic you led him to after avoiding the authorities as they swarmed the museum is sparsely decorated, a small bed and a vanity tucked on the other side of the room. A spiral staircase leading to the first-floor cafe winds down beside the sofa, and your coffee table is littered with various materials to make cat toys. The Gayer-Anderson statue that you decided to borrow from the museum sits on the windowsill, moonlight reflecting off the bronze and the green paint. 

“You look like you haven’t been in that kind of fight before,” you observe, your eyes shining. 

“You have?” You shrug noncommittally. 

“Ten years as a vessel puts you through a lot of shit, though that was my first time almost getting completely sealed,” you explain, taking another sip of your coffee. “Our enemies are evolving.” 

“The ones who attacked us tonight want to release Apophis.” You roll your eyes, unsurprised. 

“Every group I’ve fought for the past seven years aims to release the serpent, but they’ve failed for a number of reasons.” Jihoon keeps his mouth shut and waits for you to continue. You exhale and set your mug on the table, lifting a finger for every reason you describe. “One, they don’t know where he is sealed. Two, they don’t know how to unseal him. Three…” Your voice trails off and he sees your eyes go to a different memory. 

“What’s the last reason?” He prods. Your expression darkens.

“Three, I catch wind of their plans and end them,” you finish. Jihoon swallows thickly. 

“She is keeping something from you,” Khonshu whispers. 

“Yeah, I don’t blame her,” he says aloud and you watch him, curious. 

“What’s he saying?” You ask. 

“He believes you’re not being entirely truthful.”

“I’m not,” you admit. “I don’t know what you’re hiding from me, so we remain on even ground.” 

“I guess that makes sense,” he grimaces. You watch him expectantly.

“This is the part where you explain why you were trying to smoke me out,” you state. 

“I need to know where you sealed Apophis,” Jihoon says and you frown. 

“Why?” 

“Khonshu thinks that if we can seal the entrance to the temple, then no one will ever be able to try to unseal the serpent.” Your frown deepens, like he’d insulted you.

“You don’t think I already sealed it permanently?” You cock your head, listening to the goddess in your mind. “Bastet has some choice words for you, but I’ll refrain from repeating them for both our sakes.” 

“The serpent is sealed, but the entrance is not,” Jihoon insists. “That’s how the cultists know to seal you first before they free Apophis, because Apophis is whispering to them from the temple.” 

“That’s impossible,” you scowl. “The runes I used to seal him should prevent him from contacting anything outside the temple.” Jihoon shakes his head.

“Then something is wrong with the runes, because the cultists I took down last month said that Apophis had given them instructions to unseal him. They mentioned something about a prison that shifts.” You freeze and the look on your face makes the hairs on Jihoon’s arms stand up. 

“What?” 

“What?”

“The last thing you said. What did you just say?”

“The guy I interrogated kept going on about a shifting prison,” he repeats. You exhale and drag your hand down your face, stress etching into your features.

“He figured it out.” 

“He figured what out?” He leans forward. “What are you not telling me?” You chew the inside of your cheek anxiously.

“I can’t tell you where the temple is because I don’t know where it is,” you reveal after a long, awkward silence. “Bastet designed it so that it shifts with the desert, never staying in one place for more than three hours. If Apophis knows that the prison is always moving, then his best bet is to seal me and ensure that I don’t interfere with his cultists figuring out how to find the temple. That prevents Bastet from protecting the rest of the world.” Jihoon’s stomach drops. 

“How do we stop Apophis from communicating outside the temple?”

“I would need to go to the temple myself and redo the runes, but that would require me knowing where it is–”

“And you have no idea where it is,” Jihoon finishes. He swears under his breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. An idea occurs to him, one that he wasn’t the biggest fan of but also the only one he could plausibly accomplish, especially with both your powers combined. “We could just kill all of the cultists.” You shake your head.

“Apophis will find another group to whisper in the ears of.” He curses again.

“Sounds like we need to find the temple before they do so he stops talking to them.” Your eyes narrow.

“As much as I appreciate the heads-up about my greatest enemy playing telephone with extinctionists, Khonshu has his own justice to serve, doesn’t he?” 

“Why is the Lady refusing our assistance?” The moon god questions.

“Because she’s wondering why you give a fuck, Big Bird,” Jihoon fires back and you make a noise in your throat that sounds like a stifled snort. He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry. I haven't figured out how to talk to him in my head yet.” 

“You’re right, though I would have phrased it a little differently,” you clarify. “Now that I know that the temple needs to be found, why does Khonshu need to be involved?”

“He likes a good fight. Flair for the dramatic, remember?” You breathe out a laugh.

“Right.” You’re silent as Bastet airs her concerns. “She wants to make it clear that if you get in our way, she’ll leave you for the rats. And she hates rats.” Another pause. “She still doesn’t trust you after you threatened to steal her statue.” 

“Noted. And for the record, I apologize. That was the bird’s idea, not mine,” Jihoon offers and a smile tugs at your mouth. “Any idea where to start?” 

“I’ve got an idea, but Big Bird isn’t gonna like it.” 

“How do you know?” 

“He’s never played nice with gods of other pantheons.” 

—

The chances of running into the Norse god of thunder on the grounds of Greenwich Park is low, but never zero. Finding his favorite Midgardian meteorologist wandering among the gardens? Much more likely. 

“Stargirl,” you greet kindly as you approach the figure staring at the sky rather than the perfectly tended shrubs around you. Bastet purrs within your mind, always appreciative of a woman with a strong intellect. Jihoon walks beside you with steps that are nearly impossible to hear. The meteorologist in question turns to you with a bright smile, the silver thunderbolt ring on her hand catching the morning sunlight. Her messenger bag swings against her hip. “Got your head in the clouds again?”

“Always,” she replies with a smile. Her eyes flick to the man beside you and you sense her guards go up ever so slightly; immediate suspicion was a side effect of being tricked by Jeonghan one too many times. “You brought a friend.”

“Jihoon, Stargirl. Stargirl, Jihoon,” you introduce, gesturing between the two. “He's like me.” 

“Like you?” Her eyebrows furrow and you give her a look. Realization hits her like lightning. “Oh. He's like you.” You hum. She observes Jihoon like a tornado without a path. “So, what god did you make a deal with?” She sticks her hand out, presumably for him to shake. Jihoon frowns out of the corner of your eye.

“You know?” He asks and she nods. 

“Ten years with an Egyptian god means you have to make some allies on the way,” you explain. “She can be trusted.” Jihoon hesitates for a moment but reluctantly shakes Stargirl's hand. 

“Khonshu. God of the moon,” he answers carefully. “What, or I guess who do you have?” Stargirl laughs and shakes her head.

“I'm not a vessel, if that's what you're asking. My relationship with a god is a little more…complicated.” 

“She's in a situationship with the god of thunder,” you whisper conspicuously behind your hand. Stargirl pouts and swats you lightly. 

“Alright, shut up,” she groans. “Let's talk business?”

“Please,” you agree and she leads you over to a concrete bench. Jihoon perches on the arm rest next to you, close enough to brush your shoulder, and you fight the flip your heart does in your chest. Bastet senses the change and growls. 

“Do not,” the cat goddess snarls and you steady yourself with a breath. 

“I’m not doing anything,” you mumble to her. 

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” Jihoon catches the way you've tensed and leans closer. 

“You good?” He murmurs and you nod stiffly, your eyes stuck to the screen of the bulky laptop Stargirl has procured from her bag. “You don’t look good.”

“I’m fine,” you say a little forcefully and he, thankfully, doesn’t push. Stargirl watches you, interested, but you shoot her a pointed look. “Right, so we need to figure out where Bastet’s temple is shifting, and when it would be most easily accessible.” 

“How do I play into this?” The meteorologist inquires. 

“I was hoping you could show us a nice little diagram or something that would explain how to track where the temple moves,” you say and Stargirl blinks at you. 

“You–you don’t know how to track it yourself?” It’s an innocent question, but your face burns and Bastet bristles within you. You really didn’t know what you were doing, if you were being honest. Stargirl was just a shot in the dark. Jihoon shifts at your side.

“I imagine you wouldn’t need to, as long as you trusted that the runes were secure enough to never need to enter again,” he offers evenly. Stargirl considers this and shrugs. 

“I guess so. Still, I would need to know what I’m tracking in order to, you know, track it.” 

“What about toxic gases?” Jihoon asks and you look at him, surprised. “Could you track deposits of toxic gases as they shift?”

“I can, but it would be a lot easier if I knew what gases to pinpoint.” 

“Can you try hydrogen sulfide and carbon dioxide?” Stargirl bites her bottom lip and begins rapidly tapping away at her keyboard.

“How do you know to look for those two gases specifically?” You whisper. 

“The cultists meeting I raided. They referred to them so often that I had no choice but to remember what they were.” He pauses as Khonshu gives his input within his mind. “I’m not saying that aloud, Big Bird,” Jihoon snaps and you fight a chuckle. “I’m not, so quit it!” 

“Do not become distracted,” Bastet interjects and you can hear her lip curling in disgust. 

“He just reminds me of us when we first started,” you counter wordlessly, but you still fidget with the cat charm on your neck like something else was on your mind. “That’s all.”

“You can lie to yourself, but not to me,” she states and stalks back into the recesses of your mind. Before you can think on it further, Stargirl turns her laptop to you and you see an array of blobs in various colors swimming around what looks to be a map of the Sahara Desert. 

“I pulled up a map from a doppler over the Sahara and filtered all the poisonous gases I could think of to see how they move under the Earth’s surface. The two that you asked for, hydrogen sulfide and carbon dioxide, are noted here,” she explains, pointing at a key on the corner of the screen. “It’s about a 10 second delay for real-time tracking, but I also pulled up a time lapse of the last nine years since you sealed the temple.” She clicks again and the blobs begin shifting faster, a clock at the top of the screen flickering through dates at a rapid speed. You watch the screen progress through the years and one blob of green and blue catches your eye. 

“There. What is that?” You point at a mass that seems to be moving in a helix-like pattern, twisting in on itself and changing directions but never straying from its path. Stargirl checks the key and gives you an approving look. 

“That, my friend, is the largest deposit of hydrogen sulfide and carbon dioxide I have ever seen. If I had to bet where your temple was, it would be connected to that,” she says. Jihoon squints at the map. 

“How do we know where it will be next?” He questions. Stargirl presses even more buttons and fiddles with some on-screen dials until the two maps are layered on top of each other, the present mass lining up with the 9-year pattern perfectly. “Huh. Neat.” 

“Isn’t it?” Stargirl beams proudly. “Based on how the deposit has moved over the years, it should be,” she pauses and traces the shapes with her finger. “There, in three days. That’s the most convenient location to find it, I think,” she concludes and you look closer. According to the map, in three days the temple would be just outside of Cairo. Easy enough to get to, easy enough to enter. Bastet hums in approval, anticipating a fierce battle. 

“You’re unreal, Stargirl,” you exhale in relief, nudging her with your shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Just stop teasing me about Joshua, please,” she begs and you hum like you’re thinking it over. “I’m serious!”

“If you tell Loki to stop picking on me, I will,” you fire back. 

“He’s a jackass–I can’t control him!” 

“Tell your boyfriend to strike him with lightning,” you suggest and she scoffs. 

“He still wouldn’t stop. Being a jackass is in his nature.” Jihoon clears his throat almost uncomfortably and keeps his eyes on you. Stargirl glances at him with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I know it can be a little overwhelming to hear about all these random gods. You’ll get used to it over time, I’m sure. Plus, you’ve got a great source of answers right here if you have questions.” She nods to you. 

“It’s–it’s fine. I’m fine,” he replies. “Yeah, I’m glad I found you.” He winces inwardly at the addition that leaves his mouth. You make yourself laugh awkwardly to ignore the way your cheeks have gone hot under Jihoon’s stare. As you hug Stargirl goodbye, you feel her breath against your ear as she says low enough that Jihoon can’t hear. 

“Miss Bastet, I’m taking bets on when those two kiss,” she whispers and you gawk at her and her mischievous smile that would put Jeonghan to shame. 

“I beg of Ra that they do not,” cringes Bastet. You relay the message to Stargirl and she barks a laugh, waving to you with a wink as you go your separate ways. 

“So, the god of mischief has a thing for you,” Jihoon observes nonchalantly once you’re alone again and you glare at him.

“I’m going to stab you with one of my claws if you ever bring that up,” you threaten with no real heat. He huffs a laugh and you ignore Bastet’s growls as your heart does a flip again. 

— 

The air is wrong. 

You realize too late as a bullet tears through your abdomen, white-hot pain blooming through your stomach that makes your knees buckle onto the sand. Above you stand what you thought to be researchers, though only now do you realize that they were something far more sinister. The opportunity seemed too good to pass up, six months ago: an all-expenses paid trip to Egypt to study a lost temple to Bastet that had never been explored before. The men who hired you said they needed you to verify the meaning of hieroglyphics covering the walls, but you knew something was off when they started reading from a language you barely understood. 

Before you could dash for the exit, a gunshot was already ringing out against the sandstone and your blood was dripping red onto a circle you didn’t notice had been drawn on the floor. The dirt drinks up your blood like a predator in a heatwave, and the ground within the circle begins to crumble. You scramble backward and watch in horror as a few of the men who’d brought you here tumble into the abyss, while the rest of them kneel just outside of the circle, chanting. The blood refuses to staunch and your vision starts to blur when a voice, clear and crisp as cold water, resonates in your mind. 

Daughter, it whispers. Your breath comes in increasingly shallow breaths and your body seems to have relinquished all of its remaining energy. A body of black scales rises from the hole like a whale’s back. The voice becomes more insistent. You are dying. I can save you. 

“Please,” you plead with all the strength you have left. You’re scared, you’re tired, but the one defining emotion still running through your body is rage. You’d been tricked into coming here under the pretense of fulfilling your dreams, and now you were bleeding out for what? To open a pit into the Earth that could very well hold world-ending darkness? “I don’t want to–I don’t want to die–not yet.” A trickle of blood runs down the side of your mouth. The men ahead of you have stopped chanting and are now approaching you in what seems like slow motion, reaching for your arms and dragging you over to the pit. You thrash in their hold, but it’s no use. The void slithers as you stare into it and you choke on a sudden lack of oxygen. 

No. Please.

Not like this.

Not yet.

No, no, no, no–NO!

You wake with a shout and shoot upright, your clothes sticky with sweat and your forehead pounding. Thin blankets pool around your waist and you heave in stale air as you try to remember where you are. Your head feels like it’s being slammed repeatedly against a wall and your heart won’t stop racing. Bastet uncurls herself in the back of your mind.

“Breathe,” she hushes. “Where are you?”

“The inn. I’m in an inn. Cairo. We’ve been here for two days,” you whisper to yourself, trying to steady your breathing but failing. 

“Those men are not here anymore,” she says gently and you shake your head, tucking your knees into your chest and hiding your face in your hands. “We are never truly safe, but we are presently not in danger.” 

“I can’t–I can’t breathe,” you croak, a sob tearing itself from your throat. “I don’t–I don’t know what to do.” You curl into yourself and cry as your body trembles for what feels like eternity but could only have been a few seconds, when Bastet’s presence sharpens. 

“The Traveler is awake.” You blink and squint your eyes. 

“What?” A quiet knock on the door of your room startles you and you draw on Bastet’s energy to manifest claws on one hand, but she stops you. “I want a weapon,” you insist.

“You won’t need it. Open the door, child.” You rise slowly, creeping toward the door without a sound and unlocking it with a click! Tension leaves your shoulders as soon as you register who’s waiting on the other side, half-asleep but clutching a crescent dart like he was ready to fight alongside you in just pajamas. “He worries for you.”

“I heard a shout,” Jihoon says, eyes tired but body alert. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you croak, though your red-rimmed eyes give you away. 

“You don’t look fine,” he replies softly. “Even Big Bird agrees.” You don’t laugh and your eyes glaze over right in front of him, like your mind was departing somewhere else entirely. “Can I come in?” He asks cautiously and you nod, opening the door enough for him to slip in.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” you say shakily, taking a few sips of water from your bottle and sitting back on the bed. “You can sit, if you want.” He hesitates for only a moment before settling down next to you, a respectful distance away. 

“You didn’t wake me, not really.” You tilt your head, puzzled. “Technically, I was awake for maybe…ten seconds? Before you shouted.” 

“What woke you up?”

“I’m not sure,” Jihoon admits. “Good timing, I guess.” You hug your arms against yourself and exhale, your body finally coming down from its heightened state. 

“Can I ask a favor?”

“Anything,” he answers immediately. Bastet paces your mind protectively.

“Can you tell me what we’ve been doing these past two days? Sometimes, when I have,” you inhale and struggle to find the words, “these types of dreams, I can’t remember what is real and what’s not.” Jihoon is quiet as he listens to you, but you feel him watching you even in the dim moonlight of the room. Your hands shake as you press against your abdomen, where Bastet’s energy had stitched up your gunshot wound. “I woke up thinking there was a bullet in my stomach, but my body still thinks there is one.” He nods once and takes a deep breath. 

“I’m real. You’re real. This moment, right now, is real,” he states in a low tone. “We left London two days ago for Cairo, which is where we are now. Tomorrow, we’ll intercept Bastet’s temple as it travels parallel to Giza, about eighty miles into the desert.” 

“What did we do the past two days?” A memory flickers to life in your head. “The bazaar. That was–”

“Real,” he concludes for you. Your body recalls the sweltering heat and the swarms of bodies milling about the tight alleys, along with an unfamiliar sense of calm when you remember that Jihoon was never too far as you explored the streets. He wasn’t the most talkative, but he was constant, something you rarely experienced as a vessel. Stability.

“Did you end up buying that lamp Khonshu was telling you to snag?” You can hear the smirk in his voice when he replies.

“He really wanted me to, but you saw a textiles vendor and I ignored him to follow you.” You close your eyes and remember the stitches in the fabric and the textures under your fingers, but your mind returns to the gold lamp that Jihoon had stood in front of for well over ten minutes.

“It had a moon on it.”

“It had a moon and a bird on it,” he adds. “Big Bird said it would do me well to furnish my apartment.” 

“You have an apartment?”

“If you can call it that,” replies Jihoon a little ruefully. You feel him shift on the bed to face you more directly and you finally feel calm enough to sit back against the headboard, your fingers playing with the edge of the blankets. 

“Where is it?”

“Just outside Seoul,” he explains. “It’s mostly a glorified closet with a toilet and a stove.”

“Sounds cozy…and a little small,” you comment with a wry smile and he does the same huff-laugh that makes your heart flip. 

“Well, when you’re legally dead, your options are a little limited when it comes to landlords.” Your face falls. “I’m still surprised you haven’t asked me how I came to Khonshu in the first place.” 

“The moments we choose to be vessels are traumatic,” you murmur, recalling your dream that had you waking up in a pool of your own panic. “It didn’t seem like my place to ask.” 

Silence falls over the room of the inn as you sit in the darkness, two vessels that had resigned themselves to living life alone. You try to recall the last time you were able to talk so openly like this, to have someone understand that your life is no longer entirely yours, but also in service to an ancient deity that has a mind of her own. Stargirl listened and tried to sympathize as much as she could, but no one else really understood your life now. After ten years, you’d become used to being alone with Bastet as your only company, but you hadn’t considered how Jihoon would be faring after barely two years with Khonshu. 

“I’m not proud of who I was before Khonshu,” he begins unexpectedly and you hold your breath. “Ex-military turned mercenary, you know. Killing without asking questions. Liking the money that came with it.” Jihoon inhales like recounting his past pained him. “The guys that hired me got into deep shit and had to tie up loose ends.” Your chest aches. “It was a trap.” 

“They tried to kill you,” you summarize with a lump in your throat. 

“They did,” Jihoon states. “I ran for seven months before they caught up to me in the desert. Knife to my throat and everything. I prayed to the moon for a chance to do something more, and you can guess who listened.” Bastet preens at the rage that flares in your belly. 

“Did you kill them?” 

“Eventually,” he confirms. “It took some time, but I got them. Then, I started after whoever Khonshu told me to.” 

“Do you ever regret it? Becoming a vessel?”

“Do you?” 

“It gets lonely, but I guess that’s just the price we have to pay,” you sigh. 

“Not anymore, it seems,” he considers. 

“What do you mean?” He’s silent for so long that you think he somehow fell asleep. “Jihoon?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he stammers, sounding a little flustered. “I just–I was thinking about after we reseal the temple.” He hesitates and you suddenly wish you could see his face. “I was wondering if you’d let me hang around London, just until I get the hang of this whole vessel thing.” 

“Well, that’s ironic,” you chuckle. “I’m planning to leave London in a few months.” 

“Oh.” Silence settles again awkwardly, and you hope he can’t hear the way your heartbeat is racing in your ears. “That’s a good thing, I think? Good for you.”

“You could come with me, if you want,” you suggest after a long pause and fight the urge to laugh when he gulps audibly.

“Where will you go?”

“Wherever I want. Bastet has an idea to track down other vessels, see if it’s worth it to team up or something,” you say. “Apophis isn’t the only evil in this world, but now I know that I’m not the only vessel, either.” 

“I’d like that,” Jihoon says. “Staying with you.” 

“I want you to. It’s nice having someone that understands.” 

“I highly doubt that is the only reason,” Bastet mumbles from the back of your mind, having retreated after your body finally came down from its heightened state. 

“Enough,” you say to her rather than Jihoon. 

“Was what she said really that bad that you had to say something aloud? Maybe you’re not so in-tune with each other as I thought,” he teases and you lightly kick him with your foot. He laughs, a real one that echoes in the dark room of the inn, and you swear the moon outside shines a little brighter. 

“Jihoon?” 

“Mmm?” 

“Would you mind staying? I know we have to be up in a few hours, but it’d be helpful if–” You’re cut off by the abrupt movement of him hopping off the bed and onto the floor, wordlessly settling onto the worn carpet. “Wait, I was gonna say we could share the bed, if the floor is uncomfortable. Or I could take the floor.”

“I think a certain cat goddess would kill me in either of those scenarios, so I’ll have to pass,” he informs you matter-of-factly and you laugh. “I will admit, though, Khonshu has quite a few things to say about his vessel willingly sleeping on the floor.” 

“I’d sooner have him sleeping in your bathtub than in your bed, child,” Bastet growls. “The Traveler will live with one night at our feet.”

“He can take it up with Bastet, in that case, because she’s already a little angry that you’re in here at all,” you reply, sliding yourself under the covers again. Sleep pulls at your eyelids, but your body doesn’t feel as heavy as it did earlier. 

“A little seems like an understatement,” Jihoon remarks and you can hear the grin in his voice. You toss your extra pillow in his general direction and you hear it land on him with an oof. “Was that thrown from you or Bastet?” 

“If it was thrown from her, it wouldn’t be given so nicely.” 

“Thank you, then, and send her my thanks for not ripping out my throat for being so close,” he declares and Bastet rolls her eyes. 

“Go to sleep before she decides to kick you out,” you laugh. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Sleep well.”

“You too.”

—

You blink awake before the sun has peeked over the horizon to the sound of Jihoon snoring softly by the edge of the bed. The familiar sense of fatigue still hugs your body, but an unexpected sense of calm rests on your shoulders as you pack your things and get ready for the day. An hour later, you’re following Jihoon down a series of alleys in the direction of a car he conjured up from his mercenary days, saying something about someone owing him a few favors. Golden light wraps the buildings as the sun continues to rise, and before you know it, you’re in a small plaza lined with a dozen or so cars. 

“Black Jeep, 10 o’clock,” Jihoon states. “That one’s ours.” 

“I hope it’s got gas,” you half-joke, though you know that if your timing in arriving at the temple was even the slightest bit off, you could miss it by miles. 

“All these cars do,” he replies. He reaches under the car, just behind the wheel, and feels around for the keys until they fall with a jangle into his hand.

“You know who these cars belong to?” The moon god’s vessel nods and opens the back of the Jeep, tossing in his backpack and yours before slamming it shut. 

“Remember those bosses I was talking about?” You frown.

“The ones that tried to kill you?”

“Yep,” confirms Jihoon. “Those guys made a lot of enemies, so when they started hunting me I used the information I knew about them as currency. It’s how I survived for those few months before they caught me.” 

“And all these cars are a favor that you asked for?” 

“The location of the cars is the favor. Mercenary contingency plans.” Your mouth opens into an ah of understanding. 

“How many other contingency plans do you have up your sleeve?” 

“Too many to count.” You hum.

“No wonder Khonshu was so eager to make you his vessel.” 

“I know. I bet I’m the first vessel he’s had that’s buy one, get a network of global weapon stores,” he chuckles. Soon enough, you’re climbing into the passenger seat of the Jeep and exiting the city into the open roads of the desert. With a map marking the coordinates of where to intercept the temple and a compass pointing where to go, all that’s left is to drive and drive and drive. At some point, you find a CD in the glove compartment of the car that ends up blasting death metal, so you both agree to calm silence. Occasionally, a question will occur to you and Jihoon will answer for as long as needed, but you always end up back in a comfortable quiet with nothing but the hum of the engine to fill the emptiness. The sun beats hard through your window, even with the air-con blasting, and the never-ending stretches of sand bring back unpleasant reminders of the last time you’d been in Bastet’s temple. 

Two hours into the journey, a cloud of dust in the side-view mirror catches your eye. 

“Do you see that?” You turn to Jihoon and find him already frowning.

“Yeah. What is it?” The car roars as he pushes the gas pedal further.

“I don’t know. Does this thing have a gun stored somewhere?” 

“Should be under your seat.” Your hand searches blindly below your seat and wraps around the grip of a small pistol. Pulling it from its compartment and rolling down your window, you stick half your body into the desert and pull away just in time to dodge a bullet that shatters the side-view mirror. 

“Shit!” You shout as you’re thrown sideways when Jihoon swerves to avoid another round of bullets that crack the exterior of the vehicle, thankfully not breaking through any windows. Your body twists to count the number of cultists that have figured out your location and were now trailing you to the temple. 

“The enemy has found us,” Bastet hisses. “Dispose of them.” The searing fire of Bastet’s power singes your skin as your armor wraps you from head to toe, your claws extending to a razor sharp point. 

“Three cars, two motorcycles. Everyone’s armed, I’m assuming,” you report as Jihoon throws the car around again. “How much farther do we have until we reach the temple?” 

“Five miles. We need to get them off our ass by then.” 

“Agreed. Take the gun.” He shoots you a concerned look.

“You don’t want it?”

“If you see me shoot a gun, you’ll realize why Bastet gave me close-range weapons instead,” you cringe. “Slow down and let them get close, but not near enough to get our tires. The last thing we need is to walk to the Temple.” 

“Copy.” The incoming formation of attackers quickly gains ground when Jihoon eases off the accelerator. “Target the cars. I’ll take care of the bikers.”

“Look at us, working as a team,” you smirk. 

“I know, so don’t get killed,” Jihoon warns and you salute him with two fingers before launching yourself through the open passenger window. 

You land with a thud on the side of the nearest car, your claws sinking into the metal and keeping you from getting thrown off as the driver panics and begins swerving from side to side. A cultist leans out the window with a gun pointed at your head and you use it as an opportunity to kick into the car, slinking through the same open window and ripping through the throats of the three passengers. The driver roars in anger and attempts to swipe you with a khopesh that he pulls from the side compartment of the door, but you bend out of reach and crawl onto the roof, claws piercing the metal again to keep you crouched low on the top of the car. 

When the second car draws close enough to try to shoot you, you grab the driver through his open window and yank him out by the neck, tossing him into the desert and hopping to the roof of the next car. A bullet collides with your armor and bounces off harmlessly, with a flurry of gunshots ringing out below you as the passengers try–and fail–to shoot you. From the corner of your vision, you catch Jihoon driving with one hand and firing at the motorcyclists with the other, taking care to keep the car out of reach of the cultists’ blades as they try to pop the tires. After he fires a lethal shot to one biker’s neck, he proceeds to ram the other motorcycle into the side of the car that you’re perched on, trapping the rider between both cars. Taking advantage of the close proximity, Jihoon takes care of the driver, the passenger, and the nearest passenger in the backseat while you grab the other two through the window and fling them into the desert. 

“Need a ride?” He shouts over the roar of the Jeep’s engine. 

“More like a stepping stone!” You yell back and he nods, keeping it steady while you leap from the out-of-control cultists’ car onto the roof of the Jeep, and then land on the roof of the final car. You anchor yourself with your claws into the roof and channel some of Bastet’s power into your legs as you kick off and swing straight into the windshield, diving into the car in a bursting firework of glass. Fists fly at you and you bend awkwardly in the confined space, attacking where you can but missing a lot of your hits. Before you can throw any of them out of the car, the vehicle screeches to a halt and you fly forward, your back hitting the front dashboard. Pain blooms in your ribs and your lower back and it takes you a moment to realize that the cultists stopped because Jihoon had stopped. Your senses perk up just in time to duck as the moon god’s vessel takes out the last remaining cultists in the vehicle with five precise shots. You groan and stumble out of the car, your claws pulling back as Jihoon steadies you with a grip on your forearms. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you wince. “The gear shift stick might’ve somehow got lodged between my vertebrae, though.” You manage to give him a pained half-smile and he breathes out in relief.  “Why’d you stop the car?”

“Because we’re here. The temple is right below us.” Your pain is immediately dulled by simultaneous senses of dread and wonder as Bastet purrs at the front of your mind, recognizing her sacred place in a sea of sand. Your eyes follow the same linen armor as it covers his body as well, though he makes a point not to cover his face with the mask yet. “Do you know how to open the door? Or…find the door in general?” Jihoon asks uneasily and you nod.

“That, I can do,” you assure him. 

“Great. Let me know what I can do, if anything. If not, I’ll just stand here and keep Khonshu’s beak shut.”

“That would be the greatest assistance of all,” Bastet sneers. 

“She’s, uh, grateful,” you relay. “Keep watch for me.”

“You got it.”

Closing your eyes, you let the cat goddess internally guide your body, puppeting your legs like a doll and sinking your knees into the sand. A hand of claws dig into the ground and Bastet recites a chant through your mouth, using your voice. As she speaks, the Earth beneath you trembles, vibrating in a way that pushes the sand outward until it reveals a solid disk of limestone embedded in the floor as large as the Jeep. Where your claws dug into the sand, a series of holes have formed at the center of the disk the same size as your fingers. Jihoon observes silently while you prick the pad of your finger against one of your claws until a dot of blood beads on each tip, then replace your fingers back into the hole again. With a mechanical grind, brick-sized sections of limestone open up in a spiral pattern around the center of the disk, lowering themselves into place until a staircase is visible leading into the temple below. Jihoon whistles in amazement. 

“Khonshu’s a little mad that you have a cooler temple mechanism than him,” he informs you and you chuckle. Bastet sniffs haughtily. 

“Follow me. Keep close. Try not to touch anything,” you advise, beginning the descent into the temple. Jihoon bristles.

“Booby traps?” You stifle a snort.

“No, but do I need to remind you what happened last time someone touched Bastet’s stuff?”

“Point taken,” he surrenders, following you down the stairs and into the darkness. 

—

The main cavern of the temple is identical to how you left it before, save for the skeletons wrapped in archaeologist Halloween costumes. A mountainous statue of a cat covers an entire wall, holding up the ceiling and framed by pillars that are marked with millenia of stories. The hole that had opened up for Apophis to escape, once a stone basin at the foot of Bastet’s statue, is now a solid black limestone disk similar to the entrance of the temple. To your sides lie a row of doorways to a maze of tunnels, most leading to nowhere. Taking careful steps into the temple, as if the men who’d tried to kill you would come alive again, you almost jump when Jihoon gently places his hand on your shoulder.

“You’re not alone this time,” he murmurs. “Let’s fix the runes and go. You don’t have to stay here any longer than needed.” You swallow and nod, dragging yourself toward the disk and trying to push away the primal fear pounding in your chest with every stride. “What made the runes weaken in the first place?”

“Stargirl theorized erosion,” you recall. “Something about the momentum of the temple constantly moving creating its own wind current that broke down the softer stone and messed up the carvings.”

“Will they erode again once we fix them?”

“I was in a rush when I made them the first time. I think if I etch them deep enough, they’ll stick for a long time, at least until the next vessel comes along to fix them.” When you reach the edge of the circle, Jihoon crouches down and places his palm on the black stone. His expression is severe. 

“What is it?”

“I can feel him,” he states. “Lurking under the stone.” Jihoon’s breath catches and he shakes his head like he’s trying to rid a memory from his mind. “He’s–he’s trying to talk to me. Break me.” 

“What’s he saying?” You ask in a low tone, kneeling beside him close enough that your shoulders touch. 

“That you’re too powerful to be unchecked. That the world needs correction, someone to counter you,” he repeats with a shadow over his eyes. You shift away from him almost imperceptibly. 

“What else?”

“That you killed the men who tricked you and used their blood to seal Apophis.” Your heart drops into your stomach. Jihoon’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. “That you’ll use my blood to seal him again.” 

“That’s not true,” you deny immediately, almost pleading with him. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not going to betray you.” His expression has darkened. You’d kept this part of the story from him, and now it was your word against Apophis’. 

“Is it true? That you used their blood to seal Apophis?” Bastet’s energy flares protectively around you like a blue flame, panic underlining her energy. Below the panic is another emotion that she didn’t show very often–fear. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “I needed blood to seal him the first time, but I swear to you I’m not going to use you to seal him again. I don’t need to. I don’t want to.” 

“He’s still speaking to me. Telling me things about Bastet. About her vessels. About what she needs to do to keep the world under her control,” he says emotionlessly. Copper stings your tastebuds as memories of ten years of being her claws rise in your memory like obelisks to the sky. All the blood that you’ve spilt in her name to keep the world balanced, to administer justice. “He says that if he’s free, less people would die.”

“You really believe that?” Jihoon falls silent beside you, so quiet that you’d never know he was there if you closed your eyes. Inside your mind, Bastet snarls like a cornered panther.

“He will break,” she spits and you scowl, screwing your eyes tight. Pain stabs through you like lightning, the weight of her anger coming down on you like an avalanche. “Kill him. Before he kills us.”

“No. He won’t,” you argue mentally and she pushes back with a force that makes you nearly vomit. “He won’t hurt me. He won’t break.” 

“Men are weak!” She roars, sharpening your claws and trying to get you to swipe. You clamp down your hand on your arm to force it into stillness. “Men are why the serpent was nearly freed. Kill him!”

“Does he look like he’s trying to hurt us?”

“He will if he succumbs to the serpent. Like the others did. KILL. HIM.” 

“No! He won’t let that happen. I trust him.” Her anger and distrust cripples you, tightening your chest and stealing the air from your lungs. Over and over again, the same command–kill him, kill him, kill him, kill him. “Please,” you beg. “Trust me. Please.” 

“You are a fool. You are a fool for letting yourself feel safe with someone who we do not know enough to trust, and now you will die again and unleash the serpent on the world in the wake of your failure. Kill him. KILL HIM. KILL–” 

“Hey.” You rip your eyes open and suddenly Jihoon’s hand is cupping your face, brushing away a tear that has broken from your waterline with his thumb. Your mind goes silent, your thoughts only occupied by how intensely his eyes are staring into yours. “Apophis is a bullshitter.” 

“What?” 

“Apophis. Is. The biggest bullshitter. I have ever had the displeasure of meeting,” Jihoon repeats slowly. “He’s a liar, he’s a coward, and he’s not going to take me away from you.” 

“But he told you the truth about how I sealed him, and what I do as a vessel, and–”

“If I turned on you for that, I’d be the biggest hypocrite that’s ever walked this planet. Love, I was a mercenary before this,” he explains, the term of endearment slipping out so easily that it catches you both off guard. “I’m sorry. Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know how that came out, or–” He’s abruptly cut off by you wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him so tightly that you might suffocate him. 

“It’s okay. Please don’t apologize.” I liked it. Bastet is speechless in your head. Jihoon’s hands hold you tentatively at first, then secure around you completely while you melt into him. 

“I don’t believe him. I won’t ever believe him,” he murmurs. “Do what you need to do and let’s get out of here.” 

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding and blinking away the tears that have started to prick your eyes. “Okay.” 

Movement stirring in the shadows of the temple’s entrance catches your attention, and you stiffen as at least fifty armed cultists in black snakeskin surround you and Jihoon. Each holds a khopesh and a smaller dagger, along with smaller throwing knives slung at their belts. Their faces are entirely covered by a black mask and a hood that covers their eyes, but you still feel their gazes piercing you like needles. Bastet stretches and her claws come out at the same time that yours flash in the streaks of light leaking in from the staircase. 

“You said you didn’t need blood to seal Apophis,” recalls Jihoon, his eyes flashing while Khonshu’s armor secures around his body. 

“I said I didn’t want to use your blood,” you correct, eyeing your enemies as they position themselves like statues around the room until you and Jihoon are trapped at the center of the disk sealing Apophis. The stone below you vibrates with energy and you can feel Apophis trying to slither his way into your mind. The back of your hand brushes Jihoon’s and your mental walls fortify themselves. You’re not alone this time.

“Someone else’s blood, then?” A grin pulls at the corner of your mouth.

“That could definitely work,” you confirm. “How do you want to–”

“Redo your runes,” Jihoon murmurs. “I’ll get you the blood.” 

His words seem to set off the cultists like dynamite and they all charge forward at once with an ear-piercing roar, but you’ve already dashed away by the time they reach the center of the disk. The shadows embrace you as you slip between your enemies, claws slicing through flesh like water and dousing the floor in red. You catch Jihoon’s eye as he slams his opponent onto the ground and he nods at you, trusting you to do what needs to be done. For a moment, your blood runs cold as one of the cultists begins chanting the same ceremony that had begun after you’d been shot, but is abruptly shut up by Jihoon knocking the speaker’s teeth in with his fists. The temple shakes violently as the weight of the few syllables the cultist was able to utter sinks into the floor and feeds the serpent below the disk, knocking the room off its axis and sending everyone sideways. 

Your claws scrape against the limestone to recenter your balance and you draw on Bastet’s energy to materialize a dagger in your hand, brushing away the dust and debris and beginning to redraw the sealing runes above the runes that had been broken. Every time Bastet warns you of an approaching enemy, Jihoon is already guarding your back like a shield, ensuring that no one gets within three feet of you as you work. Under your fingers, you can feel Apophis bellowing in rage as the runes glow molten gold and take effect. Someone’s fist collides with your shoulder and you bark out a swear, reaching backward to claw their face, only to find that Jihoon has sent them flying across the room and into the wall. Rune by rune, you dig the dagger as deep as you can into the stone, guided by Bastet’s whispers of instruction and never once looking back at the moon god’s vessel protecting you. As you begin the final rune, Bastet growls. 

“You and the Traveler must leave the temple as soon as the final rune is completed. If not, you will be sealed with Apophis for the rest of eternity.” 

“Oh, so now you want him to come with us?” You snap under your breath, a bead of sweat running down the side of your face. 

“He has proven himself worthy of being in our presence. He does not deserve to die.” 

“I can hear the reluctance in your voice, my lady,” you huff. “Jihoon!” His head snaps toward you as you call for him. “We need to get to the exit as soon as the last rune is marked.” He grabs a cultist’s head with his whole hand and throws him to the ground.

“What about the blood?” 

“It has soaked into the sand enough,” Bastet says, focusing your eyes on the rivers of red trickling all over the dark stone. 

“The sealing ritual will begin as soon as the last mark is drawn,” you relay. “We just need to get the fuck out.”

“That, I can do,” Jihoon agrees. 

“Get ready to run, then.” You dig your dagger into the stone and carve the last line downward, leaping away from the completed circle of runes as it starts to glow with an increasingly blinding light. 

“Ten seconds,” Bastet warns. “Run!” 

“Let’s go!” You shout, taking Jihoon’s hand as he drags you through the mess of cultists that have not succumbed to their wounds yet. Your free hand of claws swipes blindly as you sprint towards the staircase. From the corner of your vision, you see the remaining enemies recoil in agony while their limbs begin to sink into the sand, reaching upward in vain as the temple takes them as a sacrifice. Apophis roars behind you while you clamber up the staircase, Jihoon at your back and leaping away from the temple entrance just in time for the spiral’s entrance to shut and disappear back under the desert. You lie back and catch your breath, your hand clutched in Jihoon’s like a lifeline. Around you, the sun has started to sink over the dunes and the air around you is still. 

“It is over. Well done,” Bastet concludes before disappearing into the recesses of your mind, leaving you alone with Jihoon. Your armor unwraps to leave you in civilian clothes, body aching but swimming in relief. 

“Thank you,” you whisper to Jihoon, turning to look at him only to find that his eyes are already on you. He gives you a smile, a warm one that makes your stomach flip. “Let’s go home?”

“Let’s go home.”

—

A few weeks after you reseal Apophis for good, you quit your job in London and start looking for a new place to call home, one where both you and Jihoon can thrive. To your delight, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York has an extensive collection of Egyptian art and has no problems hiring you after you’re able to recall information about certain items that probably isn’t anywhere on the Internet. With what Jihoon has left in his offshore holdings from his previous life as a gun-for-hire, you’re able to rent a one-bedroom apartment and argue vehemently about your concerns with Jihoon sleeping on the couch; you ultimately relent and take the bedroom. But, somewhere between a date that he swears isn’t a date and a first kiss that happens because you both overestimated your stamina during Happy Hour, you wake up with his arm slung around your waist more often than not. Learning how to love and be loved by Jihoon is quiet but constant, just like him. Beyond your shared experience of having an ancient god constantly intruding on your thoughts, you find that you connect with him on a deeper level that you’ve never connected with anyone before. You seem to know what he’s thinking before he knows he’s thinking it, and he barely blinks any time you seek out his touch for comfort, whether it be on a crowded street or at midnight in your apartment. You also learn how to compromise–you’re adamant on getting a cat, Jihoon recommends starting with keeping a plant alive.

So naturally, you get the cat and a plant. 

“I think we should get a leash for the sake of looking normal,” Jihoon comments as the gray tabby you have affectionately named William walks in stride with you down the sidewalk towards the flower shop you’d heard good things about. “Because right now, we look less like a couple and a cat and more like you’re a witch, he’s the familiar, and I’m your henchman that you tricked and cursed.” 

“Okay, that’s enough cable television for you,” you snort, giving his hand a squeeze and trying not to feel too warm when he squeezes back. “If it makes you feel any better, William told me he would prefer to be carried in a bag.” The cat in question turns to look at you both while he walks, as if modeling his agreement with your statement. “Cats in bags are normal, right?” Jihoon shrugs. 

“I’m still not over the fact that you can talk to the cat.”

“I have still not processed that I allow you to sleep in our bed at night,” Bastet grumbles and you fight a smile. He catches it.

“What’d she say this time? Is she making fun of my idiocy again?”

“Always,” you wink and Bastet makes a gagging noise like she’s coughing a hairball. When you reach the flower shop, William lightly paws your leg to request that you put him on your shoulder, a habit that he began to show as soon as you brought him home from the shelter. Sometimes you find him on Jihoon’s broad shoulder at home, watching intently as dinner is cooked and listening to your boyfriend mutter things as he works. With the cat on your shoulder and Jihoon at your side, you step into the little flower shop and freeze. 

Something is pressing against your magic.

You glance at Jihoon and know from a single look that he feels it too, the way the atmosphere around you shifts like it’s charged with static electricity. Bastet is eerily quiet in your mind, like she knows the magic is there but is not threatened by it. The aura of whatever is within the shop is simply present, not foreboding or oppressive. You take a careful step forward and find that the air doesn’t change, but that you start adjusting to it and you feel the space adjusting to you as well. William meows and swats at a leaf hanging near his eye level, none the wiser that his new family has tensed. 

“Interesting place you brought us to, honey,” Jihoon states with a knowing look. 

“Leave it to me to find the one magic flower shop in the entire city,” you mutter. William hops down from your shoulder and rounds a corner near the counter at the back of the store. You hear a squeal of delight and swear you catch the flowers in the room start to open a little more like they were enchanted. 

“Well, aren’t you a smart guy?” You follow the same path William had and discover someone whose type of energy you recognize immediately. The unfamiliar atmosphere and jungle of plants that seem to be breathing suddenly makes a lot more sense. “Who’ve you brought into my store, my little friend?” 

“I think the better question is how my cat knew you were a green witch,” you state with a friendly smile. Her expression is sharp but not unkind as she takes in you and Jihoon. You feel Bastet watching from the back of your mind, but she makes no move to contribute her input.

“Takes one to know one,” the green witch chuckles. “Though I will say you don’t carry the magic that I’m used to.”

“The same could be said about you,” comments Jihoon, his voice guarded. She waves her hands around carefreely.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got the regular old, standard-issue ancient green magic. You both, however, have something different,” she observes. “Ancient, yes, but not tied to spells or covens like I am.” She squints at you again and puts the pieces together in her head. “Deity magic, is it?” 

“You know your stuff,” you say and she beams. 

“I try my best. Now, enough about magic stuff. Is there something I can help you find today? That’s not magic-related?” Your shoulders relax.

“House plant, preferably. Something easy. Hardy. Resilient,” requests Jihoon. “Non-toxic in case this genius decides to have a salad,” he adds, gesturing to William as he tries to fit his mouth around the spout of a watering can. 

“Gotcha.” She disappears among the foliage and you scoop up William, placing him back on your shoulder. 

“What are the odds we call a magic plumber to fix the kitchen faucet?” Jihoon jokes.

“Or a magic locksmith to replace the windows,” you smirk. William mews in your ear and presses his furry head against your temple. “I don’t know if we can make you magic, William. I’m truly sorry.” The cat purrs and your entire head vibrates just as the green witch comes back with a pot of green spear-shaped leaves. 

“So, I’ve got an easy one right here called snake plant–” Your eyebrows shoot to the ceiling. Jihoon makes a choked noise of surprise that he hides with a fake cough.

“Maybe not that one! We don’t have the best experience with–ahem–snakes,” you explain sheepishly and the witch eyes you for only a moment before nodding. 

“You wouldn’t like my boyfriend, then,” she grins. The leaves seem to extend toward her as she walks away again, like she was sunlight itself. 

“And why is that?” Jihoon inquires with the tone of someone diffusing a bomb. 

“He turned himself into a snake once to scare his brother. When Joshua picked him up, he said, ‘Bleh! It’s me!’ and then stabbed him.” You blink at her and try to stifle your laugh when she returns with a pot of tear-shaped white flowers. “They were eight, at the time.” You can practically hear Jihoon’s skeptical look even when you’re not facing him. “Anyway, peace lily! She’s a good one, and also acts as an air filter.” 

“Neat. We’ll take her,” you say and the flowers around the witch bloom bigger. 

“Perfect. Here you go,” she replies, handing the pot to you. “I’ll see you both around, I hope.”

“What about payment?” Your boyfriend asks, having already retrieved several bills from his wallet. The green witch waves him off. 

“This one’s on the house. Consider it an act of goodwill, and a promise that if I need some help kicking my idiot boyfriend’s ass, you’ll do me a favor.” 

“Depends on who the boyfriend is,” Jihoon asserts. Your eyes flit down to the green crystal hanging around the witch’s neck and you probe it gently with your magic. When you realize what–or who–has enchanted the necklace, your face goes fiery hot. 

“You’re in love with Jeonghan?” You realize, absolutely aghast. “Loki, God of Mischief Jeonghan?” Her face lights up while yours twists into a scowl.

“Oh, you know him?” 

“Do I know him? That jackass has tried to steal my artifacts at least once every lunar phase!” She winces. You catch Jihoon biting his lip and trying not to laugh out of the corner of your eye. 

“Yeah…he likes pissing off as many magical figures on Earth as he can. Says he’s trying to hold a record, or something,” she answers. “Sorry about him. He’s nice, once you get to know him.”

“I’d rather claw my own throat out,” Bastet snarls. As if he knows what your goddess is thinking too, Jihoon gives your hand a reassuring squeeze and speaks before you can repeat what Bastet said. 

“You’ll have to introduce us properly one day, then,” he concludes. You shoot him a grateful smile. “Though, I reserve the right to punch him in the face.”

“Please do,” the green witch allows. “He’s got an ego larger than this room.” William meows on your shoulder and insistently headbutts your ear. “Seems like your little guy is ready to go home. It was a pleasure meeting you both.”

“You as well. Thank you for the plant,” you say. “She’ll be well-loved.”

“I’m sure. Your little family brings me joy,” she says softly. “Take care of each other.” 

“We will,” Jihoon says, though his attention is on you more than the shop owner. His fingers intertwine with yours once more. As you exit the shop and begin walking back to your shared apartment, the sun and moon are both visible, the former sinking below the horizon as the latter rises to its place among the darkening sky. William walks in front of you, scouting the path ahead like a toddler. Jihoon holds your peace lily under one arm, his other hand securely in yours. Bastet exhales with you, sensing the familiar charge of Khonshu’s energy take hold with the night. A smattering of stars starts to twinkle above.

“Jihoon?” 

“Yes, my love?”

“What do you say about taking the scenic route home?” He lifts your joined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles. 

“I follow where you go. Lead the way.”