cosmic-conqueror-diabelos - Tumblr blog | Tumgik (2025)

Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.

An adventurer’s guide to the galaxy

In their relentless pursuit of peak physical perfection, Jihyo, Momo, Sana, and Mina had pushed themselves through nearly every fitness trend—from intense Pilates sessions to disciplined weight-lifting regiments. But when they hit a frustrating plateau, their competitive spirits refused to settle. Searching for the next challenge, they found themselves drawn to a quiet yet well-respected dojo nestled just on the outskirts of the city.

It was there, under the strict yet graceful tutelage of Sensei Umezewa—a stoic Japanese immigrant and the daughter of a so-called "exiled samurai"—that they began spending nearly every weekend honing their skills. What started as a personal training sanctuary soon turned into something else entirely. As word spread among their peers, the dojo quickly became a magnet for other idols chasing their own version of physical and mental mastery.

Before long, familiar faces began appearing at the dojo: Sakura Miyawaki, always composed and deadly with a shinai, and Kazuha Nakamura, graceful as a dancer but deceptively strong. Their presence added a new layer of intensity to the sessions, and it wasn’t long before their training schedules naturally aligned. They often sparred together, sweat and adrenaline bonding them through every strike and counter, their movements crisp and purposeful beneath layers of traditional gear.

Today’s session had been no different—rigorous, disciplined, and exhausting. Sensei Umezewa had calmly observed from the sidelines, her eyes as sharp as a blade, offering the occasional correction or nod of approval. The training had concluded with the quiet arrival of three new recruits: Giselle and Karina of Aespa, and Itzy’s Yeji—all drawn to the dojo for the same reason as the others: the hunger to evolve, to transcend.

After bowing to their Sensei and one another, the group made their way out of the dojo, laughter, and conversation punctuating the quiet of the late afternoon. But as they stepped into the gravel path outside, something strange happened.

One, two, three… eight steps.

Then nothing.

They kept walking—but the scenery didn’t change. Their feet moved, and the gravel crunched beneath them, but they weren’t getting anywhere.

It took a moment before anyone noticed. One by one, they paused, puzzled, glancing around. The air felt heavier, charged with a strange, humming tension. Confused murmurs gave way to silence as they all tilted their heads upward.

That’s when they saw it: a colossal beam of pale blue light pouring down from the sky, shimmering like liquid glass. It enveloped them completely, holding them in place with an invisible grip.

A split second later, everything went white.

And then—nothing.

Darkness.

They came to—roughly four Earth hours later—disoriented and sprawled across the cold, metallic floor of an alien chamber. The room hummed softly with energy, its walls a lattice of strange, glowing symbols and seamless, shifting panels. The very structure they were in felt alive, its design so far beyond human comprehension that even trying to make sense of it gave them a dull headache. No edges, no visible doors—just smooth, flowing architecture that pulsed like a heartbeat.

And sitting at the far end of the chamber, upon what looked like a throne grown out of the floor itself, was a towering figure that resembled a man crossed with a white tiger—broad-shouldered, draped in dark, ornamental armor, and radiating a quiet, effortless menace.

“Oh good, y’all are awake,” the feline giant said in heavily modulated English, his voice deep and oddly melodic, like metal scraping velvet.

The idols instinctively recoiled, hearts pounding, pressing themselves against the walls as far from the creature as possible. Panic danced in their eyes—this was no stage, no dream, no fantasy.

The creature raised a massive paw in what seemed like a gesture of calm.

“Now, now—no need to be afraid,” he said, his tone rehearsed but not unkind. “I’m not here to hurt you. My name is Rylor. I come from the planet Jenji, in the Solaris system. I am what you might call… a recruiter.”

“A what?” Sana whispered, still breathless.

“I seek out exceptional talent and bring them to their new… hmm. Not ‘masters,’ no—that’s not the word. Employers. Yes. That’s what you humans call it,” Rylor corrected himself, his tail lazily flicking behind him. “You’ve been chosen. I hope to make your transition from your… previous lives to this one a bit easier.”

As their eyes adjusted, the girls noticed the details of him more clearly: he was less like a cartoonish feline and more like a white tiger standing on two legs—hulking, rippling with muscle, with intelligent amber eyes that gleamed beneath his metallic circlet. He was beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful. Dangerous. Unstoppable.

Jihyo stepped forward, fists clenched.

“You didn’t recruit us,” she said firmly, her voice low and even. “You abducted us. You stole us from our home.”

Rylor let out a low, rumbling laugh. “You’re from Earth. It’s practically the same thing.”

He paused, scanning each of them with what looked like genuine curiosity—and maybe even a little admiration.

“Liroc,” he called, not looking away from the idols, “get them chipped and resonant.”

From a nearby shadowed corridor emerged something even less comforting—an insectoid creature, tall and skeletal, with glistening carapace armor and multi-jointed limbs. Its face was a twisted mandible of clicking parts, closer to a nightmare than anything terrestrial. Think Predator, if it grew up in a hive instead of a jungle.

The idols froze, eyes wide.

“Move,” Rylor said gently, as if herding kittens. “He won’t bite. Unless you try to run.”

The creature—Liroc—made a rapid series of harsh clicks and guttural sounds that echoed off the walls like static-fed radio transmissions. The girls tried speaking to him, asking questions, but all they got in response were more unsettling chittering noises and unreadable gestures.

He led them down a narrow, curving corridor. The floor beneath their feet shimmered with every step, adjusting somehow to their pace. At the end of the hallway, a chamber opened—a sterile white room illuminated by ambient light from no visible source.

Standing in the center was a humanoid robot—sleek, silver, and humanoid in shape, with glowing red eyes. Despite the intimidating appearance, its voice was eerily calm, a soft, automated baritone that sounded like an old friend reading bedtime instructions.

“Welcome,” it said. “I am HAL-2000. You have been selected for linguistic synchronization and cosmic resonance attunement. Please proceed to the tubes.”

Six cylindrical pods stood against the wall, faintly humming, mist swirling at their bases.

The idols hesitated.

“It is painless,” HAL added, sensing their fear. “And necessary. You will understand everything soon.”

With no other choice—and Rylor’s words still ringing in their ears—they stepped forward, one by one, into the strange machines.

As the lids closed over them, a soft pulse filled their ears.

Then—

Darkness again.

Light slowly bled into their consciousness.

This time, when they opened their eyes, the sterile chamber was gone. The soft walls here were the color of aged parchment, gently pulsing with an inner glow. The air was warmer, breathable—but laced with an unfamiliar metallic tang. Each of them lay in their own cot, covered by strange yet comfortable woven sheets that shimmered like liquid thread.

They were no longer in the pods.

At first, they stirred quietly, groggily, unsure if they were dreaming again. But then a sound reached them—soft at first, like fingers tapping on crystal. Then it formed words.

Actual words.

Words they understood.

“In your language now?” came a voice—clicking, layered, but unmistakably intelligible.

They sat up. Liroc stood at the entrance to the chamber, his towering insectoid frame half-hidden in the shifting glow of the doorway. No longer just a horror movie silhouette, he now looked more… real. His mandibles twitched with each word, but his voice carried directly into their minds, perfectly fluent—not in English, but in each of their native tongues.

“I know this is unsettling,” Liroc continued, his multifaceted eyes scanning their faces one by one. “And I know it’s scary.”

There was no trace of mockery or malice in his voice—just a tired honesty, like someone who had delivered this speech many times before.

“But if you do your four years,” he said slowly, “you’ll be free. And you can go home.”

Silence fell over the room like a thick curtain.

Sana was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “Four years of… what?”

Liroc didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped into the room, claws clicking gently on the floor. He didn’t loom or threaten—he sat. Or rather, crouched in a way that seemed both alien and oddly respectful.

“Work. Missions. Tasks that require… exceptional beings. You were chosen because your abilities—discipline, adaptability, group cohesion, physical prowess—are rare. Even among humans.”

“Chosen,” Mina repeated flatly.

“Recruited,” Jihyo added bitterly.

Liroc inclined his head slightly. “I won’t lie. Most of you would not have volunteered. But many before you have served. And survived. Some even thrived.”

Karina spoke up, voice trembling. “And if we refuse?”

There was a pause. Not ominous—just… somber.

“Then you’ll be reassigned,” Liroc said. “To less cooperative handlers. I can’t protect you from them.”

That landed with force. The room went cold again.

“Why are you helping us?” Yeji asked.

Liroc’s mandibles twitched, and he made a low, rattling sound—it might’ve been a sigh.

“Because I remember what it was like,” he said quietly. “To wake up in a place that wasn’t mine. To be told I belonged to someone else. I earned my freedom. I serve now by choice. And I would rather guide you gently… than see you broken.”

The silence that followed wasn’t fear.

It was decision.

As the days turned into weeks—four Earth weeks, to be exact—the idols slowly began to settle into an uneasy rhythm aboard the alien vessel. The initial terror faded into something more mechanical: they cleaned, they ate strange but nourishing food, and they trained.

Under the ever-watchful eye of Rylor.

Training was rigorous. Physical drills, weapons handling, even simulations that pulled on both their instinct and discipline. They were pushed hard, but not broken. The crew—diverse, strange, and mostly indifferent—treated them with a cold professionalism. No cruelty, but no affection either. They were assets. Temporary, expendable.

But Rylor was different.

Though none of the others were singled out, Jihyo somehow drew his constant attention. She noticed the way he lingered during sparring sessions, the way he observed her with a mix of curiosity and something else—something more possessive. It wasn’t romantic, exactly. It was… fixated. Fascinated.

Jihyo didn’t trust him. Not even a little. But she kept her guard up and her tone neutral, even when he hovered just a bit too close or watched her with those amber, unreadable eyes.

Despite the circumstances, the group adapted. They grew stronger. More cohesive. They began communicating with each other and the ship more easily thanks to the resonance chips. They weren’t free—but they weren’t helpless either.

As their vessel neared the coordinates of their so-called employers, a quiet anxiety settled over them.

Then came the night before they were to be handed over.

Rylor summoned Jihyo to his private chambers.

It was a rare invitation. No one refused. She went—cautiously.

The chamber was dimly lit, filled with artifacts and relics from across the galaxy: weapons mounted like trophies, silk banners embroidered with alien script, and the faint scent of incense that made her slightly dizzy. Rylor lounged on an elevated couch, a decanter of shimmering blue liquid in one paw, two crystalline cups set before him.

“Sit,” he said, voice low but heavy with expectation.

Jihyo did, stiffly. She didn’t touch her drink.

Rylor, on the other hand, was already a few glasses in. As the evening wore on, the stoic pirate grew looser, more talkative—his speech slurred, his posture relaxed.

“You know,” he said, tail flicking lazily behind him, “you humans don’t usually do it for me. Too soft. Too loud. But you… you're different.”

Jihyo said nothing. Just listened.

“You remind me of the Panthera Regiment back on Jenji,” he went on, eyes glazing over with memory. “An all-female platoon. Vicious. Lethal. Beautiful. They didn’t fear anything—except failure.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering.

“You could’ve led them. You should stay with me. Be my consort. My wife.”

Jihyo’s face remained unreadable, but her heart pounded. She kept her tone polite, measured.

“I appreciate the… compliment. But I can’t accept.”

Rylor froze, just for a moment. Then something shifted.

“How dare you?” he growled, rising slowly to his full, imposing height.

“I take care of you. I train you silly apes. I give you purpose, and you—"

A sudden buzz sliced through the tension.

The intercom crackled to life, interrupting him mid-rant with a calm but commanding female voice:

“Pirate Rylor, this is Commander Samira of the Galactic Federation. You are in direct violation of the Nephilim Treaty of Year 17 Billion—Earth year 2012—regarding the acquisition of Terran civilians. Prepare to be boarded and arrested.”

For a moment, the chamber was still.

Then Rylor’s expression twisted into something primal. He slammed the decanter to the ground, blue liquid splattering across the floor like blood.

“Federation scum…” he hissed, eyes glowing with fury.

He turned toward the sealed door, muscles tensing, ready to fight.

Behind him, Jihyo remained silent—calculating.

Her moment might’ve just arrived.

As the last syllables of her warning faded from the comms, Commander Samira turned smoothly from the console to face the three of us—her elite strike unit, her so-called little wolves.

There was a gleam in her eyes—equal parts mischief and menace.

“My little wolves,” she purred, brushing a lock of silver hair behind her ear, “would you be darlings and tear that cat’s ship apart?”

I gave a sharp nod, feeling the familiar pulse of power building in my chest.

“As you wish, Commander,” I said.

With a slash of my hand, a portal tore itself open before us—vibrating with crackling energy. Through it, the innards of Rylor’s ship were revealed, dim and pulsing like the belly of some dormant beast.

Combat Captain Dinozen Sisko, ever silent and grim, stepped through first—his hammer already crackling with kinetic charge. Artillery Specialist Magnara Unika followed close behind, her twin shoulder-cannons humming softly, calibrated for close-quarters suppression. I entered last, sealing the rift behind us with a flick of my wrist.

We materialized in what looked like the prisoner holding bay—cold, metallic, sterile. The idols were there, huddled but alert. All of them except one.

Magnara gasped softly. “Oh my stars… it’s really them.” Her voice was unusually high-pitched with excitement. “Is that Kazuha? And Sana?!”

She was fangirling—actually fangirling in the middle of an extraction op.

“Focus, Unika,” Dinozen muttered, though his mouth twitched in what might’ve been a grin.

Magnara gathered herself quickly, motioning for the idols to follow. “Come on, ladies. You’re safe now. Let’s get you out of here before things get… explode-y.”

They obeyed, moving fast but wide-eyed, still processing their rescue. Just before they reached the portal, one of them—Sana, I believed—turned back and looked up at me with urgent eyes.

“Um, sir?” she asked, voice trembling with both hope and fear. “Can you save our leader? Her name’s Jihyo. She’s about this tall—” she held up her hand, “—big brown eyes, tan skin. She’s probably still with that… tiger freak.”

I gave a short nod. “I’ll find her.”

Dinozen and Magnara led the group through the portal, the shimmering light swallowing them as they vanished back to the safety of Samira’s warship. As they disappeared, I caught a glimpse of one of the paler idols—Mina, maybe—casting a lingering glance back at Dinozen. Her gaze wasn’t fear, though. It was curiosity. Interest.

I chuckled softly to myself. Well now… that could get interesting.

Then I turned, armor humming as I moved deeper into the belly of the ship, toward the captain’s quarters. Toward the one they called Jihyo.

The moment the intercom cut out and Rylor stormed toward the chamber doors, Jihyo made her decision.

No more waiting. No more being watched. No more being handled.

She had seen the shift in Rylor’s eyes—how rejection twisted his fascination into something darker, something that boiled beneath his pride. The look of a predator who wasn’t used to hearing “no.”

As he stomped toward the control panel beside the door, growling curses under his breath, Jihyo moved. Not wildly. Not recklessly. Precisely.

She snatched the shard of the shattered decanter from the floor—glass in this part of space wasn’t like Earth glass. It didn’t break into fine sand; it fractured into jagged, durable splinters. She wrapped part of her sleeve around one end, creating a makeshift grip, and crept toward the brute’s back.

“How dare she,” Rylor snarled under his breath, punching in override codes. “I offer her legacy, power… and she—”

He never finished the sentence.

Jihyo struck.

The shard sliced across the back of his knee, deep enough to draw a roar of pain but not enough to sever anything. The beast fell forward, surprised more than wounded. She leapt back as he twisted toward her.

“You dare?” he bellowed, voice echoing through the chamber like thunder. “You little animal—”

“I’m not yours,” Jihyo snapped. Her voice didn’t tremble. “You don’t get to ‘keep’ people. We’re not prizes. We’re not pets.”

Rylor charged.

She dodged—barely—tucking and rolling across the chamber as his claws scraped the floor where she’d stood. He turned, slower now, dragging his wounded leg.

“I was going to make you a queen,” he hissed.

“I’m already a leader,” she replied, tightening her grip on the glass shard. “And I don’t need a crown from you.”

Just as he lunged again—

-The wall behind Rylor ruptured in a violent blast of energy.

A portal flared open, clean and circular, its edges sparking as if reality itself had been neatly sliced. I stepped through—calm, composed—my gaze immediately locking onto the bleeding, seething tiger-like pirate.

Jihyo blinked in surprise. “Who—?”

“Reinforcements,” I replied coolly, tone level, but edged with authority. “Now, is there any chance you’ll surrender peacefully? Or are you intent on making this even more difficult?”

Rylor didn’t answer. He just growled—and lunged.

Wrong move.

A charged pulse shot from the coil around my wrist, striking him square in the chest. The blast sent him flying backward, crashing into the bulkhead with a sharp metallic crunch. He slumped, dazed but alive, smoke curling from the scorch mark on his armor.

I stepped into the room fully, scanning quickly—and then I saw her.

Jihyo.

Her light bronze skin glowed faintly under the flickering emergency lights. She stood tall despite the chaos, chin lifted, shard of alien glass still clenched in her hand like a dagger. Her eyes—wide, warm, but unyielding—held both the gentleness of a leader and the fire of someone who refused to break.

I understood in that instant why Rylor had fixated on her. But what struck me most wasn’t her beauty, or her resilience.

It was her presence.

“I believe your friends are waiting for you, Leader Jihyo,” I said, lowering my hand and offering a respectful nod. “Care to come home?”

She looked from the scorched wall… to Rylor, groaning but beaten… then finally up at me. Judging me. Measuring me. And then, she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said, slipping the shard into her belt. “Let’s go.”

I opened a second portal behind me, and together we vanished into the light.

⸻

We emerged into the safety of the Federation warship’s transport bay. The idols were already gathered there, recovering under the soft blue glow of medical filters. As soon as Jihyo stepped through, the others rushed to her.

“Oh thank God you’re safe!” Sana cried, flinging her arms around her.

The others followed quickly—Momo, Mina, Sakura, Giselle—all wrapping her in relief and laughter. The tension eased. Their leader was back. The circle was whole again.

I made my way across the deck toward Commander Samira. She stood with her arms behind her back, cool and commanding, letting the idols have their moment before speaking.

“Welcome, Terrans,” she said with a practiced warmth. “I am Commander Samira of the Rune Terra system, native to the planet Noxus, and an agent of the Galactic Federation. I’m here to take you home.”

The room filled with cheers and emotional gasps.

But I noticed something quieter amid the noise.

Three of the Terran girls were looking at us—at me, Dinozen, and Magnara—with something different than relief. Something more… curious. Jihyo’s eyes lingered on me. Sakura seemed drawn to Dinozen, her gaze soft but focused. And Giselle? She was practically orbiting Magnara, clearly fascinated by the towering artillery specialist.

I’m cheating as I write this, I know—I didn’t get their names right away. But I’ll learn them. I always do.

Samira turned and clapped her hands once.

“My wolves will escort you to your guest quarters,” she said, addressing the idols. “There you’ll find fresh approximations of Terran cuisine, warm baths, clean clothing, and real beds. Rest well, knowing you are safe now.”

Magnara and Dinozen led the group down the corridor. The girls followed, quieter now, some still glancing back. But Jihyo lingered.

Samira noticed and gave me a sideways glance. I opened my mouth to speak, but Jihyo was already walking toward me—measured, deliberate. She stopped so close our chests nearly touched.

“You saved me,” she said softly. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

Her voice was warm but unwavering. Her face was close—far too close. I could hear the skip in my own pulse. She was distracting. Dangerous.

I smiled slightly. “Anytime.”

She gave a tiny nod, then turned quickly and jogged back to her friends.

Samira was smirking before I even turned around.

“Could you be any less subtle?” she teased. “I thought you were going to throw her down and kiss her on the deck.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Where did you learn that phrase?”

“Oh, Magnara taught me. Apparently it’s something people yell on ‘reality TV’.” She waved a hand. “Not important.”

She leaned in with that knowing grin. “So. My little wolf has a crush on a Terran.”

I composed myself quickly. Straightened my shoulders.

“She’s… stunning. Yes. But I wouldn’t call it a crush,” I said, voice even. “I have no desire to engage her.”

Samira laughed softly. “Of course not,” she said. “That’s exactly what a man with a deep, dangerous crush would say.”

I didn’t answer.

But I did glance down the corridor—just once—to catch one final glimpse of Jihyo.

She hadn’t looked back.

Yet somehow, it still felt like she knew I was watching.

Samira chuckled behind me, her tone knowing and amused. “So what’s up, Witch-Wolf? Don’t tell me the mighty Giordano’s been undone by a Terran girl with pretty eyes.”

Her words snapped me out of my trance, and I exhaled, shaking off the lingering warmth in my chest.

“Commander,” I said, shifting back into mission mode, “what’s our plan for Rylor? I saw the scorch trail—he escaped the moment the power grid failed. We both know he’s not going to stay quiet.”

Samira’s smile thinned, and her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“No need to chase him,” she said with a shrug, voice far more serious now. “He’ll be back—he always is. Especially now that he knows we’re heading toward Earth. He’s the vengeful type.”

She stepped forward, lowering her voice as if the ship itself might be listening. “But you—my little Witch-Wolf—don’t get to go full arcane wrath just yet. Not here. Not while we’re traveling through Federation trade lanes. You know the treaties.”

I nodded slowly. The Arcades Accord had grandfathered me in—barely. One of the last recognized war mages allowed to exist within Federation space, let alone operate freely.

“I don’t want to test the bureaucracy’s patience,” Samira continued. “Not until we’re out of their jurisdiction. You may be Chulane’s last pupil, but even that only buys so much tolerance. We wait. Once we hit the outer reach of the Sol system—past the Beacon Lines—then you can rampage splendidly.”

There was a glint of wicked amusement in her tone at that last part, but also trust. Faith.

I bowed my head slightly. “Understood, Commander.”

“Dismissed.”

I turned and began the walk toward my quarters. The halls were quiet now, shadows stretching long under the pulse-lights. My boots echoed softly.

The corridors of the Aurelius were quiet at this hour. Most of the ship’s human guests were finally resting after the chaos of their abduction and recovery. The faint hum of power cells and stabilizer coils echoed through the metal halls, familiar and comforting to someone like me.

I was heading back to my quarters after a debrief with Samira, boots barely making a sound against the polished alloy floor. My mind wandered—mostly to her. To Jihyo. I had heard her music thanks to Maggy who was a massive fan and had grown to like them but

I told Samira I didn’t have a crush.

Maybe I was a liar.

Just as I turned the corner by the guest wing, someone stepped into the hallway from one of the side rooms. I stopped short as she nearly collided with me.

It was her.

Jihyo.

Fresh from a bath, she wore soft Federation-issue loungewear—loose, comfortable, and cut in a way that made her seem even more disarmingly human. Her long hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and her skin had that freshly-cleansed glow. She smelled faintly of citrus and something floral.

“Oh! Sorry,” she said, stepping back. Her tone wasn’t flustered, just… surprised. Then her eyes lit up in recognition. “You again.”

I swallowed before speaking. “You have a habit of bumping into your rescuers?”

She smirked. “Maybe just the handsome ones.”

That was… new.

“I’m kidding,” she added quickly, her grin widening. “Kind of.”

I chuckled and tried to keep walking. My heart was pounding like I’d just come from combat training. She turned and fell into step beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re not like the others on the ship,” she said, glancing sideways at me. “You speak our language too well. And your accent… It’s familiar.”

“I studied Terran linguistics,” I offered.

She narrowed her eyes, not buying it. “No. You are Terran, aren’t you?”

I hesitated—then nodded.

“Yeah same as Dinozen and Magnara I was born in California. Earthside. For taken off-world when I was young.”

Her eyes lit up even more. “I knew it! I could tell the way you moved, the way you looked at us. You’re not just some Federation soldier—they recruited you.”

I let a small smile crack through. “Something like that.”

“Well, Giordano,” she said, testing my name in her mouth like a lyric.

I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t tell you my name.”

“It’s on your badge,” she replied, smug.

I laughed—a real one this time. First one in days.

“Giordano,” she repeated, drawing it out in a teasing tone. “Too many syllables. I’m gonna call you Gio.”

“Gio, huh?”

She shrugged. “It suits you.”

I slowed my pace, half-expecting her to head back to her quarters.

She didn’t.

She kept walking beside me, arms folded casually, bare feet padding softly over the floor.

“You’re heading back to your room?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’ll walk with you,”

Absolutely — here’s a refined and expanded version of the scene, keeping the emotional vulnerability and growing connection between the narrator and Jihyo while improving flow, emotional beats, and sensory detail:

⸻

And she stayed beside me—step for step—as if this was something we’d always done. Like we were walking through memory instead of metal corridors, our rhythm already synced.

As we neared my quarters, she leaned gently into my shoulder. Not clingy, not fragile. Just… present. Like she wanted to feel I was real.

When we reached the door, she turned to me with a small smile. “After you.”

I chuckled, brow raised. “Are you sure you want to be alone with me?”

She looked up at me, steady. No hesitation. “I feel safe with you.”

Then—before I could say something dumb to ruin it—she placed a hand on my chest and gave a soft push, guiding me through the door.

The lights flickered on as we entered, revealing the stark simplicity of my quarters: neatly stacked weapons on the rack, no decorations, no comforts. Just order and shadows.

Jihyo stepped inside and looked around. “Huh. Very… military monk.”

“Spartan elegance,” I said, dropping my gear onto the shelf.

She watched me as I moved—quietly assessing, but not judging. I took a seat on the couch, and without a word, she joined me, leaning into my side like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Her body was warm against mine. The scent of whatever soap they stocked in the guest quarters clung faintly to her—floral, unfamiliar, but nice.

Then I spoke, my voice softer than usual. “Can I ask you something personal?”

She tilted her head, eyes curious. “Um… sure.”

I hesitated, then looked at her, really looked at her. “Did Rylor… hurt you? Or touch you in a way he shouldn’t have?”

Jihyo’s expression shifted. Not angry—just surprised. Thoughtful. She stared at me, her gaze unreadable for a moment that felt like a minute.

Then, she laughed.

Not a forced one. Not bitter. A warm, genuine laugh that cracked the tension like glass underfoot.

“No,” she said, smiling. “My knight in—well, slightly scorched—armor showed up just in time.”

I exhaled in relief and chuckled. “I’m not really a knight. Definitely no shining armor.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she murmured.

We sat there for a while longer, the air warm with something unspoken. Eventually, her laughter faded into a yawn, and her body grew heavier against mine. Her head nestled into the crook of my neck, fitting there like it belonged.

Her breathing slowed. Peaceful. Safe.

I held still, not wanting to disturb her. Just listening to the silence, letting her weight anchor me.

After a moment, she whispered something.

“Why?”

I turned slightly. “Why what?”

“Why do you care so much?” she asked, eyes still closed.

I didn’t answer right away. Just let my hand rest lightly on her shoulder and stared at the dim ceiling above us.

“Why not?” I finally said.

She didn’t respond. She was already asleep.

But I sat there a little longer, smiling to myself like an idiot with a secret.

And outside the viewport, the stars kept moving—slow and steady—like time itself had decided to let us rest.

Absolutely — here’s a refined and expanded version of the scene, keeping the emotional vulnerability and growing connection between the narrator and Jihyo while improving flow, emotional beats, and sensory detail:

⸻

And she stayed beside me—step for step—as if this was something we’d always done. Like we were walking through memory instead of metal corridors, our rhythm already synced.

As we neared my quarters, she leaned gently into my shoulder. Not clingy, not fragile. Just… present. Like she wanted to feel I was real.

When we reached the door, she turned to me with a small smile. “After you.”

I chuckled, brow raised. “Are you sure you want to be alone with me?”

She looked up at me, steady. No hesitation. “I feel safe with you.”

Then—before I could say something dumb to ruin it—she placed a hand on my chest and gave a soft push, guiding me through the door.

The lights flickered on as we entered, revealing the stark simplicity of my quarters: neatly stacked weapons on the rack, no decorations, no comforts. Just order and shadows.

Jihyo stepped inside and looked around. “Huh. Very… military monk.”

“My old mentor used to say. A clear mind is a clean mind and a clean mind is a sharp mind,” I said, dropping my gear onto the shelf.

She watched me as I moved—quietly assessing, but not judging. I took a seat on the couch, and without a word, she joined me, leaning into my side like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Her body was warm against mine. The scent of whatever soap they stocked in the guest quarters clung faintly to her—floral, unfamiliar, but nice.

Then I spoke, my voice softer than usual. “Can I ask you something personal?”

She tilted her head, eyes curious. “Um… sure.”

I hesitated, then looked at her, really looked at her. “Did Rylor… hurt you? Or touch you in a way he shouldn’t have?”

Jihyo’s expression shifted. Not angry—just surprised. Thoughtful. She stared at me, her gaze unreadable for a moment that felt like a minute.

Then, she laughed.

Not a forced one. Not bitter. A warm, genuine laugh that cracked the tension like glass underfoot.

“No,” she said, smiling. “My knight in—well, slightly scorched—armor showed up just in time.”

I exhaled in relief and chuckled. “I’m not really a knight. Definitely no shining armor.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she murmured.

We sat there for a while longer, the air warm with something unspoken. Eventually, her laughter faded into a yawn, and her body grew heavier against mine. Her head nestled into the crook of my neck, fitting there like it belonged.

Her breathing slowed. Peaceful. Safe.

I held still, not wanting to disturb her. Just listening to the silence, letting her weight anchor me.

After a moment, she whispered something.

“Why?”

I turned slightly. “Why what?”

“Why do you care so much?” she asked, eyes still closed.

I didn’t answer right away. Just let my hand rest lightly on her shoulder and stared at the dim ceiling above us.

“It was how I was trained.” I finally said.

She didn’t respond. She was already asleep.

But I sat there a little longer, smiling to myself like an idiot with a secret.

And outside the viewport, the stars kept moving—slow and steady—like time itself had decided to let us rest.

Hours passed, but sleep never came.

I laid there on the couch, stiff as a statue, my arms still gently curled around Jihyo. She was sound asleep, her breaths deep and slow, her head still tucked into the hollow of my neck like she’d just decided I was her pillow for the night.

I didn’t dare move.

Not because I was uncomfortable—hell, I’d held positions in combat armor for longer—but because some irrational part of me thought if I shifted too much, she’d disappear. That this moment would prove too good for reality to hold.

Her warmth seeped into me. Her hair smelled faintly of space lavender and steam, and the steady rise and fall of her chest was more calming than any meditation routine I’d ever attempted.

But my mind was a storm.

What the hell was I doing? She was a Terran idol—graceful, talented, famous. I was a war mage who burned through half a battalion the last time someone pushed me too far. I’d survived things that had turned braver men into husks.

And here she was… curled against me like I was a shelter.

My heart had no business racing like this. And yet—

A soft murmur broke my thoughts.

“…Gio?” she whispered, voice heavy with sleep.

“I’m here,” I said quietly.

She didn’t lift her head. Just shifted a little closer.

“You’re really warm.”

“You’re really asleep,” I chuckled.

She gave a tired hum. “Mmm. I like it here…”

My throat tightened at that. “In my quarters?”

She shook her head gently, rubbing her cheek against my chest. “No… here. With you.”

I swallowed hard. This woman was going to kill me without even trying.

“I’m not good at this,” I admitted.

She blinked sleepily. “Good at what?”

“This,” I said. “Soft things. Letting someone close. Feeling like—like maybe I’m not the weapon they trained me to be.”

She was quiet for a long moment. I thought she’d drifted off again, but then she whispered:

“Then maybe I can help you remember who you were before that.”

That hit deeper than I expected.

She yawned, then tucked herself even tighter into my side like she’d decided the matter was settled.

“…Gio?”

“Yeah?”

“I still think you’re my knight.”

I smiled, even as my chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with injury.

“Then sleep well, Princess,” I murmured.

And this time, when I closed my eyes… I did too.

Meanwhile Dinozen and Magnara were getting closer to some of the other visitors.

The stars beyond the glass moved slowly, like shimmering dust caught in the current of space. The Aurelius’s observation lounge was quiet at this hour—just ambient hums, soft light, and one very focused Combat Captain trying to figure out how to hold a game controller designed for 8-fingered aliens.

Dinozen grunted as the screen flashed GAME OVER for the fifth time.

“You’re playing it wrong,” a voice said behind him, teasing and unmistakably amused.

He turned to see Sakura walking into the lounge, still in her Federation-supplied clothes, hair slightly tousled like she’d been laying down but couldn’t sleep.

Dinozen grinned. “I’m playing it exactly as intended. The game’s just clearly rigged.” As he spoke he showed her the bizarre controller

Sakura slid into the seat beside him, legs crossed, eyes on the holoscreen. “You’re trying to fight a boss with a plasma baton and no shield. Did you even check your loadout?”

“I’m a melee main in game not irl,” he said proudly.

“You’re a melee moron,” she corrected, reaching over and tapping buttons like she’d played this game a dozen times.

“…Okay, that was pretty good,” he admitted, watching her effortlessly reorganize his equipment into something actually survivable. “Wait—you know Outbreak Prime 7?”

Sakura shrugged with a soft smile. “Played it on my home pc with my brother. Before, you know… all this.”

Dinozen leaned back, brow raised. “You have a brother?”

“Yes I have a brother,” she said quietly. “He stayed on Earth.”

A moment passed. Not heavy, just… human.

“Same,” Dinozen said eventually. “You miss him?”

“Every day,” Sakura replied. Then, trying to lighten the mood, she grabbed the controller and started a new match. “You’re from Earth too, aren’t you?”

“New Mexico,” he nodded. “Loud, weird, broken—my kind of place.”

“I’m from Kagoshima. Quiet, sunny. Not a lot of plasma weapons lying around.”

“Shame,” Dinozen said with a grin. “Maybe you would’ve kicked my ass earlier in life.”

“Oh, I still can,” Sakura replied. “Here—co-op mode. I’ll carry you through this boss.”

He handed her the other controller, a small spark of electricity dancing between their fingers as they touched. He pretended not to notice, but the look on his face betrayed him.

As the level loaded in, she glanced at him.

“You ever think about going back?”

“To Earth?” he asked.

“To normal.”

He paused. “Sometimes. But I don’t think I was built for normal.”

Sakura smiled, looking back to the screen. “Good. Neither was I.”

They dove into the game together—shoulder to shoulder, Earth-born in exile, laughing as they took down alien monsters one pixel at a time.

Across the longe The stars stretched endlessly outside the viewport—threads of light pulled across black velvet. Giselle leaned on the railing, sipping from a steaming mug of something warm and mildly fruity. She wasn’t sure what it was, only that it was alien and somehow soothing.

Beside her, Magnara Unika stood with arms folded, armored shoulders rising and falling as she exhaled slowly.

“So,” Giselle said, side-eyeing her. “You always this quiet after saving a bunch of kidnapped Earth girls?”

Magnara smirked, the edges of her fanged grin catching the low starlight. “Only when I’m next to someone prettier than the galaxy.”

Giselle raised a brow. “Are you flirting with me, Commander Unika?”

“Depends,” Magnara said, shifting to face her fully. “Are you flirting back, Earth girl?”

“Giselle,” she corrected, smiling into her mug. “And yeah. I might be.”

Magnara chuckled, the sound more like a soft purr than a laugh. She leaned back against the railing beside her. “Fair warning: I’m better with a plasma cannon than poetry.”

“Good. I’ve had enough smooth talkers for one lifetime. I like the ones who mean what they say.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Then Giselle tilted her head.

“So… Samira called you three her wolves. How’d that start?”

Magnara exhaled, eyes flicking to the stars again. “That’s a story with a few scars.”

“I’m listening.”

Magnara nodded slowly. “Alright. You’ve met Dinozen—tall, armored, broody? Yeah. He used to be a federation bounty enforcer, tracking rogue elementals in the outer planets. One mission went sideways—he chose to save a family of refugees instead of taking the contract. Got branded a deserter. Samira found him bleeding out in a crater and gave him a choice: die alone, or live with purpose.”

Giselle blinked. “He chose the wolf pack.”

“Smart guy, even if he looks like a walking tank.” Magnara gave a wistful grin.

“And you?” Giselle asked.

“Oh, I was a war orphan, my whole family was taken by space pirates and my parents and siblings were killed” Magnara said casually. “Grew up scavenging in the asteroid belts near the Cradle worlds. Samira raided the slaver ship that had me and thirty others on it. I was the only one who bit a guard’s ear off before she got there. She liked that.” Magnara grinned wider. “Told me I had spirit. Said she could shape it.”

Giselle shook her head in amazement. “You all sound like… antiheroes out of a movie.”

“We are well except Giordano he’s a villain. Only bloodier.” Magnara tilted her head, studying her. “But Samira—she’s more than a leader. She’s what we call the ‘mom in the storm.’ Cold, steady, always watching. But she gives broken things purpose. Gives us teeth, and a reason to bite.”

Giselle set her mug down and leaned a little closer. “So what happens if a certain idol wants to join the wolf pack?”

Magnara raised a brow. “You planning to enlist, or just hoping for more time with me?”

Giselle gave her a look that practically smirked on its own. “Can’t it be both?”

Magnara stepped closer now, just a breath apart, close enough that her voice dropped to a low rumble.

“If you’re gonna run with wolves, Giselle… better be sure you’re ready to howl.”

“I’ve been singing on stages since I was sixteen,” Giselle replied, unwavering. “Trust me—I’ve got lungs.”

Magnara grinned, sharp and gleaming.

“Then let’s see how loud you get.”

The idols quickly became enmeshed with the lives of the space wayfarers. They trained and ate to keep sharp as they continued barreling home.

The humming of the training deck was constant—low, ever-present, almost meditative. It pulsed beneath the idols’ feet like a heartbeat as they moved in formation, under the watchful gaze of one of Samira’s senior instructors.

Sana was the first to feel it.

She stood perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing slowly. Her skin prickled—not with fear or sweat—but with energy. With… awareness. She could hear the faint clinking of a crewmate adjusting their gear two decks above. She could feel the vibrations of the ship’s stabilizers kicking in.

And when the instructor snapped his fingers and threw a weighted baton at her head—something she should never have seen coming—

Sana caught it.

Eyes still closed.

The room went silent.

When she opened her eyes, there was a spark in them that hadn’t been there before. “Did… anyone else feel that?”

Kazuha was the next.

Her movements had always been fluid, dancer-trained and sharp. But now—her jumps had weightless grace. Her reflexes blurred into something nearly preternatural. She moved faster than the drones tracking her, cutting through them like wind through silk.

“She’s tracking trajectories,” one of the wolves muttered, watching from the side. “Her mind’s adapting faster than projected.”

Within days, the others began to notice similar changes. Endurance spiked. Hunger and fatigue decreased. Sight, sound, even balance—sharpened like knives honed on cosmic whetstones.

The attunement to cosmic resonance wasn’t just passive—it was rebuilding them.

Not in the way augmentation did—not like the other crew members, whose arms bore faint seams of titanium or whose eyes glowed with artificial overlays.

No. This was different. Organic. Internal. Molecular. Like the universe itself was being rewritten inside their bodies.

And they began to see it more clearly now.

In the halls, nearly every wolf—save for Samira and one or two others—bore some kind of modification. Gleaming implants beneath the skin. Synaptic coils at the base of the skull. Spinal ports. Integrated HUDs. Even Magnara, fierce and wild, had a cybernetic arm of polished obsidian metal, braided with memory-wire muscle.

But Gio…

Gio had none.

Not even the telltale microport behind the ear. His body was whole. Human. Yet he moved like a specter—stronger, faster, stiller than any augmented soldier they’d seen.

Mina whispered it aloud one night, curled on a cot in the guest quarters.

“He’s not modified, right? But he’s still… stronger than them.”

Sakura nodded. “He scares even the wolves.”

And Karina, now stretching her fingers—testing their speed, the precision of a movement that now felt too perfect—replied softly, “That’s because Gio doesn’t need enhancements.”

Jihyo said nothing.

She just looked at her hands. Then to the stars beyond the window. And quietly wondered… how far this would go.

Later that day the girls split up to get some answers after training. The armory bay pulsed with mechanical rhythm—servo racks humming, tool arms moving in smooth, efficient arcs. Magnara sat on a reinforced bench, one leg propped up, her left cybernetic arm detached at the shoulder joint and clamped into a diagnostic station. Fine wires, glowing conduits, and subdermal plating shimmered in the soft light.

Momo and Kazuha lingered nearby, sweat still clinging to their skin after drills. They watched as Magnara adjusted the settings on the rig, realigning servos with practiced ease.

Kazuha tilted her head. “So… all of that—it’s not just metal, right?”

Magnara glanced over her shoulder and gave a half-smile. “Nope. It’s more like a second nervous system with armor plating.”

She reconnected the arm with a precise hiss and twist of the magnetic socket. The surface of it gleamed like liquid steel, flowing with glowing lines of circuitry—subdermal interfaces lighting up as it re-synced with her biosignature.

Momo stepped closer. “That’s… incredible. What is it exactly?”

“Federation-grade cybernetic augmentation,” Magnara said, flexing the fingers with a satisfying click-click-click. “Military-spec. Carbon-titanium weave, linked to a quantum neural core. I’ve got full sensory feedback, adaptive pressure resistance, temperature control, and micro-actuators that respond faster than muscle.”

She tapped one of the glowing lines. “This pattern here? Not decoration—these are quantum-threaded neural channels. They relay input faster than synapses. I can lift three tons with this arm and feel a butterfly land on it.”

Kazuha blinked. “That’s insane.”

“Insanely useful,” Magnara replied. “I’ve also got a spinal reinforcement mesh, a sub-dermal microshock grid, and a dual-core brain interface to run targeting data and strategic overlays in real-time.”

Momo blinked. “So… your brain is augmented too?”

Magnara chuckled. “Heavily. Most field agents are. Our decision-making and combat processing are boosted with a neuro-intelligence lattice. It helps me predict movement, adjust to environmental variables, and keep up with enemies that move faster than the eye.”

She glanced back at them, now fully reclined on the bench. “I wasn’t always like this, though. I volunteered after my first near-death mission with Samira. She gave me a second chance. And the tools to survive.”

Kazuha folded her arms. “Could we be… augmented like that?”

“You’re already adapting through resonance,” Magnara said. “Your DNA’s rewriting itself to increase metabolic efficiency, reaction time, physical durability. You’re becoming post-human without needing implants.”

She paused, looking them over with a smirk.

“But if you want tech enhancements, it’s possible. Bio-integrated cybernetics. Limb reinforcement. Ocular upgrades. Even predictive targeting lenses. We’ve got top-grade nanoforges onboard. It’s not easy, and you don’t get to go back—but yeah, you can do it.”

Momo exchanged a glance with Kazuha. “What about… risks?”

“Always,” Magnara said. “Physical, psychological, identity drift. Some people get lost in the tech. Forget who they were. But Samira screens hard. She won’t let you take on anything you’re not mentally ready for.”

Kazuha looked at her own hand thoughtfully. “If it makes us stronger… we’ll consider it.”

Magnara stood, rotating her shoulder until it clicked with a final clack. “Good. Because this galaxy doesn’t care that you’re from Earth. You either upgrade… or get left behind.”

She looked back once, voice lighter.

“But between us? You two are catching on faster than most. I’d say you’re already halfway there.”

Meanwhile halfway across the ship in the tech bridge. The ship’s reactor core pulsed beneath their feet in a soft thrum, its sound more felt than heard. Dinozen was recalibrating a dampener array when Sakura, Yeji, Karina, and Mina arrived—curious, energized, and, as usual, full of questions.

“You know,” Yeji began, tilting her head, “it’s still weird how fast we’ve started keeping up with you guys.”

“You mean physically?” Dinozen asked without looking up.

“No, I mean everything. The strength. Reflexes. The ability to read combat intent before it happens. Kazuha dodged a turret training burst this morning like it was nothing. And Sana? She’s halfway to flipping a dropship on her own.”

Karina leaned back against the wall. “Is that all just the… what do you call it? Cosmic Resonance?”

“Yes,” Dinozen said, nodding. “It’s the resonance. It’s not power in the flashy sense—it’s equalization. Your DNA has been attuned to meet the baseline of the Intergalactic Federation’s average sentient species. Strength, speed, memory capacity, oxygen efficiency, everything. It doesn’t make you superhuman. It makes you galactically standard.”

“Right, but that’s the thing,” Mina said. “Everyone else still has cybernetics. You’ve got arm panels. I saw someone with ocular HUDs installed. Samira has subdermal holoflesh. Why didn’t we get those?”

Dinozen finally looked up. “Because you don’t need them. Most species do. Cosmic Resonance pushes you to your natural evolutionary ceiling. You’ve just never hit it before because Earth tech capped your biology.”

Sakura narrowed her eyes. “Then what about Gio?”

That got Dinozen’s attention.

“He doesn’t have translator chips. No cybernetic inputs. No cranial implants. But we can all understand him perfectly. How?”

Dinozen hesitated.

Then, quietly: “…Arcane study.”

“Magic?” Karina asked, incredulous.

“No. Not magic as you know it,” Dinozen said. “It’s… an old field. Pre-digital. Pre-scientific. You might call it para-physics. Or psionics. Gio calls it listening. And it’s rare. Dangerous. Not because it’s violent, but because it’s unpredictable.”

Yeji crossed her arms. “You mean it’s banned?”

Dinozen gave a tired nod.

“Ever since the War of Sundering. Not because of what it is, but because of what it does to people. Arcane practice amplifies traits. Good and bad. Compassion can become obsession. Justice becomes zealotry. Logic becomes cold detachment. When wielded carelessly, it breaks people.”

Mina spoke softly. “But Gio doesn’t seem broken.”

“He’s not. But he’s also one of the last trained in it under the old codes. He’s stable because he chooses to stay small. Quiet. Hidden. What you’re hearing when he speaks isn’t translation—it’s resonance of thought. He’s syncing you to him.”

Karina looked unsettled. “Can anyone learn that?”

Dinozen frowned. “In theory? Yes. But in practice? It’s not taught anymore. Arcane education was outlawed by most major star systems. And frankly… most people aren’t suited for it.”

“But we’re already changing,” Mina said. “Sana and Kazuha especially. We’re starting to feel things—intuition, reaction times, that sixth sense before danger.”

“That’s the resonance,” Dinozen confirmed. “Your instincts are finally in sync with the broader energy field that the rest of the galaxy operates on. But don’t confuse that with what Gio does. You’re evolving through science. He walks through something… older.”

A silence settled over the group. The stars outside shimmered like distant watchers.

Finally, Sakura asked, “So what’s he really capable of?”

Dinozen chuckled under his breath.

“I’ve seen him stop a ship mid-warp. With a word.”

They all stared at him.

“Yeah,” Dinozen added, turning back to his console. “And he’s holding back.”

As the days passed, the girls grew more at ease with their newfound abilities. They trained harder, moved faster, and started understanding the crew—and each other—with a newfound depth. And gradually, they talked to me more often. All of them… except Jihyo.

Her case was different. She enmeshed herself in my life. She sat next to me during progress reports, waited outside during officer meetings

I couldn’t escape her presence—and strangely, I didn’t want to. She had a quiet gravity, always lingering nearby without saying much, like she was just waiting for a reason to sit beside me, or spar, or share a quiet joke. Her rambunctious side came out during meals—especially when the food was good—or in the middle of training drills, when she would grin like a mischievous fox after landing a hit. She was… intoxicating. Grounding. And yes—she was insanely hot, but that was almost secondary to the force of who she was.

We were approaching a Federation report-and-refuel station, this one anchored on the outer crescent of Jenji—a mostly reclusive planet known for its sharp-eyed traders and fierce independence. The native Jenjians rarely interacted with off-worlders, save for the occasional exception.

As I stepped off the ship into the customs platform, I scanned the crowd, already mentally going over our next mission report.

That’s when a furry hand gripped my shoulder.

“Is my favorite mage really trying to leave,” came a voice like velvet dipped in fire, “without saying hello—or goodbye?”

I turned, tensing.

There she was.

Pulchra.

A tall, sensual Jenjian woman, fur sleek and silver-striped, with curves like gravity wells and a smile that promised both pleasure and ruin. Her golden feline eyes glinted with something predatory, and when she leaned down toward me, her tone dropped into something lower… darker.

“You know I’ve missed you, Witch-Wolf,” she purred. “It’s been too long since I had your scent close to me.”

I felt my body react to her. I hated that it still did. She smiled as she inhaled again, close enough for her breath to tickle my neck.

“Oh, I see… you’ve missed me too.” Her eyes flicked downward knowingly. “Why don’t we go somewhere private? Let me remind you why you survived that last mission with a smile on your face.”

I swallowed hard. For a split second, I considered it. The old version of me—the colder one, the one who didn’t answer to anyone—might’ve taken her up on it without a second thought.

But then… I remembered Jihyo.

Her laugh, light and sincere. Her eyes, wide and brown and warm. The way she had fallen asleep against me like I was something safe.

I stepped back.

Pulchra’s expression twisted slightly. Not hurt, but disappointed. She sighed and crossed her arms, tail flicking behind her like a whip.

“I know that look,” she said bitterly. “That’s the hero look. Gods, I hate that look.”

I raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She walked in a slow circle around me, her voice low and pointed. “It means you’ve traded your crown for chains. That damn righteous gleam in your eye… it’s the same one you had when you walked away from me the first time. You always do the right thing. It’s so boring.”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m not asking for your soul, Diabelos,” she said, using my name like a taunt. “Just one night. One night where you stop pretending to be noble and give in. Be bad for me. Just this once.”

Her words were liquid heat, wrapping around my mind like smoke.

Pulchra moved closer again, gently brushing her muzzle along my collarbone, her voice whispering directly into my skin. I felt the pull. The lullaby of malice that played in my head when the world needed “adjustment”

“There he is… the real you. Diabelos, the world-purger. Not this… neutered Federation lapdog. You used to be fire. A legend. You’d die and claw your way back from the grave just to win. That man took. That man devoured.”

She leaned into me again, lips grazing the edge of my neck.

“And I loved that man.”

My hands clenched at my sides. The fire inside me stirred—anger, desire, pride, the old hunger for chaos and dominance. It coiled like a serpent in my gut. She knew how to call it forward. She always had.

But then I saw Jihyo’s face in my mind.

The way she had smiled at me. The way she trusted me without fear. The way she made me want to be someone worth that trust.

My fire cooled.

“Pulchra,” I said softly, “I’m not him anymore.”

She drew back, visibly annoyed. “No. You’re not,” she said. “You’re less. A shadow.”

I stepped away.

“Maybe,” I said. “But she sees the light in that shadow.”

I didn’t wait for her reply. I turned and walked back toward the ship—toward Jihyo, and the girls, and the path I was choosing, one step at a time.

Behind me, Pulchra’s voice followed, low and mocking.

“She’s not enough to save you, Diabelos. Nothing ever will be.”

Maybe she was right.

But I was still walking away.

And that had to count for something.

As I stepped back onto the ship, the metal floor beneath my boots felt colder than usual. A sharp chill sliced through the atmosphere—not physical, but something deeper, something old. It clung to my skin, slithered into my spine, and with it came the familiar pull.

The Malice.

I gritted my teeth as the air around me grew heavier, darker. My shadow wavered unnaturally under the ship’s artificial lighting, stretching and curling like smoke. One of the beasts—small, malformed, eyes like pinpricks of molten white—crawled out from beneath my heels. Another followed. They stalked me like loyal, cursed dogs.

The darker part of me—the part with her name on it—was stirring again.

Diabelos.

I closed my eyes and clenched a fist, trying to breathe through it. This was always the cost. To feel the thrill of combat again, even in brief thought, was to open a door I’d spent years trying to keep locked. A vile grin spread upon my face as I pondered going back and taking Pulchra. My shadow-beasts were waking. They always did when I was emotionally compromised. Rage, guilt, lust, shame—they fed off that.

“You’re slipping,” came a familiar voice behind me.

I turned my head slightly to find Samira standing in the corridor. Her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable—but her eyes, dark and knowing, studied me like I was both weapon and a welp.

“I saw Pulchra with her arms around your shoulders earlier.”

I nodded once. No use hiding it.

Samira stepped closer, her voice lowering into something gentler. “And did she… mention her?”

I looked away, jaw tightening. “Not directly. But she didn’t need to.”

Samira’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Diabelstar still haunts you, doesn’t she?”

I didn’t answer immediately. The name itself held weight. Diabelstar—the butcher of Mustaria, the woman who turned an entire peaceful world into a crucible of war and dragged me into the forge with her. She hadn’t just taught me how to fight. She’d taught me how to win. How to dominate. How to destroy with purpose and without guilt. The worst part?

Part of me still respected her. No that’s too weak of a statement. Part of me still loved her like a second mother. She saw my weakness and gave me agency, the power to take my life into my own hands and eradicate those who’d dare take it from you.

“She gave me the tools,” I said finally, voice like steel scraping stone. “But not the restraint. That came later. From you. From Chulane.”

Samira studied me for a long moment, then sighed and rested a hand on my shoulder. “If you need time, Gio, take it. We don’t arrive at Earth for another cycle and I’d rather you centered than unchained.”

I nodded slowly. “I won’t let that part of me root again. Not fully. I just—need to remind myself who I am.”

Samira smiled faintly, the edge of sadness behind her eyes. “You’re still fighting her, that’s enough for now.”

She turned to leave, but paused after a few steps. “And Gio?”

“Yes?”

“If you ever feel her voice growing louder than your own… come find me. Or Jihyo. We’re not afraid of Diabelstar. And we sure as hell won’t lose you to her.”

I gave a small, grateful nod, even as the beasts beneath my feet faded back into shadow.

For now, I was still winning.

The hum of the ship’s core was steady, a rhythmic pulse of fusion energy deep beneath the floor. Dinozen Sisko crouched beside a panel near the auxiliary control node, tightening a loose coupling. Magnara Unika stood nearby, typing rapidly into a diagnostics pad, her pale cybernetic eye flickering.

“Pressure stabilizers in section twelve are balanced now,” Dinozen said, standing up and wiping his hands. “Shouldn’t get another coolant spike.”

“Good,” Magnara murmured distractedly, then froze. Her nostrils flared.

Dinozen caught it too—sharp, warm, and deeply unnatural aboard a sterile Federation-class cruiser.

“Cinnamon,” they said in unison.

Dinozen’s expression turned grave. “He’s slipping.”

Magnara tucked the pad under one arm. “It’s faint, but it’s him. The scent always shows up when Diabelos starts stirring.” Her voice dropped. “And we know Pulchra’s been nearby…”

“He’s unbalanced,” Dinozen muttered. “Again.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the tension unspoken but clear. Giordano’s power wasn’t something they feared—but the version of him that reveled in “eating stars” was another matter entirely.

“We should go—” Magnara began, but a soft sound from around the corner made both of them pause.

Footsteps. Light, but purposeful. Then a figure emerged from the corridor intersection, casually tossing a towel over her shoulder, hair still damp from a recent shower.

Jihyo.

She blinked, surprised to see the two of them just standing there. “Oh—hey. You guys okay?”

Magnara and Dinozen exchanged a glance. Dinozen stepped forward, his usually stoic demeanor giving way to something warmer.

“Hey, Jihyo. Quick question—how are you with… grounding volatile people?”

Jihyo tilted her head, bemused. “Um. I was an idol group leader for 10 years. I’ve kept tempers cool, broken up fights, and kept people from having breakdowns on national TV. Why?”

Magnara smiled. “Perfect.”

Dinozen gestured down the hall. “Giordano. He’s… not doing great. Emotionally. You’ve probably noticed.”

Jihyo nodded slowly. “I thought he was just quiet. A little sad, maybe.”

“He’s a lot of things,” Dinozen said. “But right now, he’s on the edge of being someone else. Someone we fought a war beside. Someone dangerous.”

“And you think I can help?” she asked, not out of doubt—but out of a sincere desire to understand what they were asking of her.

Magnara’s voice softened. “ maybe, He doesn’t respond to orders when he’s in this state. Doesn’t trust logic or protocol. But he might respond to you.”

Jihyo looked down the corridor, a flicker of concern crossing her features.

“What should I do?”

“Just talk to him,” Dinozen said. “Be near him. You don’t need to fix him. Just remind him that he’s Gio.”

Jihyo gave a slow nod, her lips pressing into a firm line. “Okay. I can do that.”

She turned to go, but paused. “If he says anything weird…”

“Just slap him,” Magnara said. “Or kiss him. Your call.”

Jihyo rolled her eyes but smiled—then disappeared down the hall toward where the cinnamon scent grew stronger, thicker, like a warning or a memory trying to take shape.

Dinozen exhaled. “She’s gonna be important to him.”

Magnara smirked. “She already is.”

I stepped into my quarters and shut the door quietly behind me, letting the hum of the ship fade into the background. Alone again.

I exhaled slowly and let my head fall back against the metal wall. The lights were dim—just the way I liked it when I needed to think. Or stop thinking.

“A clean mind is a clear mind. A clear mind is a sharp mind.”

I repeated it softly under my breath, like a mantra. The words felt hollow tonight, but I clung to them anyway. Anything to stop the noise in my head.

Earth.

That damn memory crawled back in. The first time I returned after years away—it still felt like a wound that hadn’t closed. Familiar streets, unfamiliar stares. Everything the same, but twisted. Glossy lies on every screen, and the people smiling through them, swallowing them whole.

I remembered standing in the city square, thinking: I could fix this. If I ruled it—if I reshaped it—there’d be peace. Clarity. No chaos. No deception.

Less freedom. But more order.

And that… thought terrified me.

A knock broke the spiral.

“Gio? Are you in there?” Jihyo’s voice came through gently—hesitant, but warm.

I blinked out of the storm in my mind, shaking off the haze. I opened the door, and there she was—damp hair tousled from a recent shower, her features softened by concern.

Without saying another word, she stepped in and hugged me tightly. Not hesitant. Not awkward. Just present.

“Dinozen and Magnara told me to find you… and give you a hug,” she murmured against my chest.

I let out a quiet breath and allowed myself to relax into her arms. She was warm—steady. Not overwhelming, just enough. I hadn’t realized how much tension I was carrying until that moment.

We drifted to the couch. She curled into my side like it was natural—like she belonged there. It felt weirdly right.

“You okay?” she asked, voice muffled against my shoulder.

I hesitated, then gave a half-shrug. “Yeah. Better now. Earlier, it was… dicey.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Good. I can’t have my knight in charred armor crumbling on me.”

I looked at her—really looked at her—and smiled despite myself. “It’s singed, not charred. I like to think I still shine a little on the inside.”

That got a laugh from her. The sound was bright and real. We sat like that for a while, the silence comfortable, until my eyes began to grow heavy.

I didn’t remember falling asleep. But I woke to the sound of fabric shifting and soft rustling.

Groggy, I blinked and turned my head.

Jihyo was across the room, halfway through changing. She turned just as I opened my eyes, a shirt in her hands, and froze—eyes wide, cheeks going a little pink.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said quickly.

I sat up slowly, rubbing my face with one hand, and waved her off with the other. “You didn’t. I’m just… a light sleeper.”

She smiled sheepishly, clutching her shirt a little tighter to her chest. “I thought you were out cold.”

I chuckled and turned my face away politely, covering my eyes with my arm. “I mean, I was. Until I wasn’t. You’re not in trouble or anything. Unless you count being dangerously adorable.”

There was a pause.

And then, a giggle. Light, but full of mischief. “Okay, smooth talker. I’ll let you go back to pretending you weren’t just watching.”

“I was not—!” I began, but she was already pulling on the shirt, laughing softly to herself.

And for the first time in hours, maybe days, the heaviness in my chest lightened.

I didn’t know what this was between us. Not yet.

But I knew I liked the way she made the darkness quiet down.

The dining hall aboard the Rook was humming with warm chatter and clinking utensils as I walked in, Jihyo by my side. Her hand brushed mine a few times on the way there—whether by accident or not, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t ask. But I didn’t move away either.

I scanned the room as we entered. The rest of the idols were already seated, laughing and catching up over steaming trays of food. The scent was surprisingly good tonight—Dinozen had apparently programmed the replicators to simulate real Terran spices. Actual effort. He never did anything halfway.

Speaking of—there he was, seated with Sakura beside him.

Well—technically beside him. In practice, Sakura was practically in his lap, not that anyone dared say anything. She’d looped her arm through his and was whispering something that made him turn bright red. He mumbled something about “input lag” and “false positives,” but he was smiling the whole time.

Across the table, Giselle and Magnara were in their own little world. Maggy’s tech tablet had been pushed aside in favor of a doodled napkin map, explaining ship systems to Giselle who hung on her every word. Her laughter rang like wind chimes every time Magnara made a joke—and Maggy, usually sharp-tongued and direct, kept slipping up on her words.

Infatuated. Completely.

Jihyo and I slid into two empty spots at the far end of the table. She gave me a sidelong glance as I picked up a fork and tried not to look too interested in her hair (which still smelled faintly of citrus).

“You’ve got a little hero complex, you know that?” she said softly, elbowing me playfully.

I coughed. “I—what?”

She leaned on the table with both elbows, smiling at me like she already had the upper hand. “You play all stoic and brooding but the second someone’s in trouble, you’re the first one charging into fire.”

“I mean… someone’s gotta do it,” I muttered. “You want the villain to save the day?”

“I don’t know,” she teased, cocking her head. “The villain might’ve been more fun to flirt with.”

I choked on a sip of water.

She laughed, a bright and unapologetic sound that made a few heads turn—Sana shot us both a suspicious look before smirking and whispering something to Momo, who promptly burst into a fit of giggles.

“I’m kidding,” Jihyo added, gently tapping her foot against mine under the table. “Kind of.”

“I’m awkward,” I said with a shrug, as if that somehow explained anything.

She tilted her head, eyes crinkling. “You’re not awkward. You’re just… real. It’s nice.”

The room continued to buzz around us, the comfortable din of shared space and good food. Yeji and Karina were in a heated debate over whether augmented reflexes counted as cheating in card games. Mina had already fallen asleep against the window seat, half a rice ball in her hand.

“I’m serious though,” Jihyo said, her voice lowering just enough that only I could hear. “You’ve been through a lot. You carry things most people can’t even imagine. But you still sit here with us and try to smile.”

I looked at her, unsure what to say. She reached out and placed her hand on mine—confidently, no hesitation.

“You’re not Diabelos. Not to me. You’re just Gio. The guy who risked everything to bring us home.”

“…Thanks,” I said, awkward again, but meaning it with my whole chest.

She squeezed my hand. “Come on. Eat your food before I steal it.”

“You already stole my peace of mind,” I muttered, cheeks pink.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Jihyo smiled—smug and satisfied—and finally let go. We dug into our meals, the table warm with light and laughter. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I could keep being this version of me.

Not the war hero. Not the monster.

Just Gio. After Dinner Jihyo Momo and Sana Carried Mina back to the guest quarters meanwhile Sakura Dinozen were busy geeking out in his room while Magnara and Giselle “practiced” in the holo gym

The lights were dim, ambient blue hues glowing softly from various consoles and holo-screens still active around the room. Dinozen sat cross-legged on a padded floor mat, calibrating a gauntlet interface while muttering to himself in technobabble.

Sakura was sprawled on his bed, legs swinging, chewing on a candy stick as she watched him with amused affection.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, smirking. “You voluntarily coded an adaptive sensory algorithm just to fine-tune how your gloves feel when you cast energy?”

Dinozen looked up, flustered. “Yes? No. I mean—it’s more complicated than that. The gloves need to replicate natural tactile resistance otherwise my aim feels… mushy.”

“Mushy,” she echoed, grinning. “You’re adorable.”

He blinked. “That’s not… I mean… it’s not a standard scientific descriptor, obviously.”

Sakura laughed, setting the candy stick aside and sliding off the bed to kneel beside him. “You’re such a nerd.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, mock defensive.

“Oh no,” she whispered, leaning closer. “It’s so hot.”

Dinozen turned red so fast it almost seemed like an emergency.

Giselle stood with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed in mock concentration as she tried to mimic Magnara’s wide-footed stance. The jockish warrior towered beside her, arms crossed, smirking.

“You’re overthinking it again,” Magnara teased. “Don’t lock your knees. Loosen up.”

“I am loose,” Giselle said through gritted teeth, wobbling slightly. “I’m like… aggressively flexible.”

Magnara chuckled, stepping up behind her and gently adjusting her posture with broad, sure hands.

“You’re like a storm in a cocktail dress,” she murmured. “Beautiful but about to knock someone out.”

Giselle shivered slightly but didn’t lose balance. “That… might be the nicest and most chaotic compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Good,” Magnara said. “You deserve both.”

They locked eyes in the mirror across from them. Giselle bit her lip.

“So,” she said slowly, “is this flirting, or do you always train recruits like this?”

Magnara smirked, tilting her head. “You think you’re a recruit?”

“Well, you’re the one touching my hips like we’re in a zero-G dance class,” Giselle shot back.

Magnara didn’t step away. “You don’t seem to mind.”

“I really don’t,” Giselle replied, softening.

Sakura had snatched one of his older prototype visors and was wearing it backwards while trying to program something on his holo-tablet.

“That’s not how the interface—” Dinozen began, reaching for it.

“Nope, too late. I’m modding your HUD to show sparkles every time you smile.”

“I don’t smile in combat!”

“Then sparkle-less sadness it is,” she said with dramatic flair.

Dinozen couldn’t help it—he laughed. A full, honest laugh. She looked at him with stars in her eyes.

“There it is,” Sakura said softly. “I’m keeping that one.”

He looked down at her, heartbeat skipping. “…Okay.”

Magnara and Giselle had abandoned stances altogether. Now the two sat on the gym mats, drinking water and leaning lazily against each other.

“So what happens after Earth?” Giselle asked, breath still a little heavy from training.

Magnara shrugged. “Whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

Giselle smiled, running a hand over the tech woven into the seam of Maggy’s armored sleeve. “Careful, that almost sounded romantic.”

Magnara raised a brow. “That was romantic.”

“Oh,” Giselle said, flushed. “Cool. Just… double-checking.”

In Dinozen’s room, Sakura laid her head on his shoulder as the screen above them played an old Terran cartoon. He smiled softly, programming long forgotten.

In the gym bay, Magnara slowly rested her forehead against Giselle’s, a rare moment of softness between two fighters who had started as wary allies and become something more.

As the days past and earth neared Jihyo found herself in a weird headspace she was watching me get closer to Mina and Momo but she felt a pang in her heart.

The rhythmic sound of fists hitting padded drones echoed through the Federation cruiser’s lower training deck. Giordano stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching as Momo ducked low under a sweeping strike from a combat simulator, then delivered a clean uppercut that rocked the unit back on its servos.

He whistled, impressed.

“You’re getting faster,” Gio said.

Momo turned, a bit breathless but grinning. “Been practicing when everyone’s asleep.”

Gio nodded, walking forward and adjusting the sensitivity settings on the drone. “You’ve always been more physical, huh?”

Momo nodded, rolling her shoulder. “I don’t like sitting still. Makes me feel like I’m rusting from the inside out.”

Giordano chuckled. “Yeah. I get that. I used to be like that on Mustaria… before everything changed. Still get twitchy if I sit too long.”

Momo grinned, amused. “You? I thought you were all broody and brooding. The ‘sits in the dark’ type.”

“I am the ‘sits in the dark’ type,” he said, smirking. “But I do push-ups in the dark. It’s very dramatic.”

That got a laugh from her—genuine and bright. For a moment, they looked at each other with shared understanding. Two people who burned energy to stay grounded. Who didn’t know what to do when their bodies got too still.

Jihyo stood near the far wall, a towel around her neck and a bottle of water half-forgotten in her hand. She was watching them—watching him—eyes narrowing just slightly.

She had always been the one at his side. The one who teased him and bantered and made him laugh in quiet moments. But now…

Momo and Gio were laughing again. Gio even gently corrected her stance, guiding her elbow with a touch that was clinical, professional, but still intimate in a way that made Jihyo’s stomach knot.

Why do I care so much? she thought bitterly, then flinched at her own inner voice.

It wasn’t jealousy exactly. Not of Momo. She liked Momo—trusted her, even. It was more the realization that Gio connected to people in ways she didn’t always understand. That maybe the connection she thought was special… wasn’t just between the two of them.

And that scared her.

Giordano stepped back as Momo reset for another round. He saw Jihyo watching and gave her a smile—a soft, familiar smile.

She didn’t smile back.

He paused. “Everything okay?”

Jihyo walked over, tone clipped but casual. “Fine. Just wondering if you two are planning to spar all day.”

Momo arched a brow, picking up the undercurrent. “We can stop. I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Jihyo interrupted, waving it off. “It’s good. You’re good. Just… didn’t expect it.”

Giordano tilted his head. “Expect what?”

Jihyo hesitated. “To see you open up like that. With someone else.”

The words landed heavier than she meant them to.

Gio blinked, then stepped closer to her—gently, cautiously. “You’re not… replaceable, Jihyo. That’s not what this is.”

Jihyo sighed, finally sitting down on the bench near the mat. “I know. It’s stupid. I’m being dumb.”

Momo, sensing this was private, offered them both a small wave. “I’ll go hit the simulator in the other bay. You two… talk.”

She was gone before either of them could stop her.

Giordano sat beside Jihyo, the air quiet between them for a long moment.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” he said. “Momo just… reminds me of who I was. Before all of this.”

Jihyo nodded slowly. “And I don’t?”

He turned toward her. “You remind me of who I want to be.”

She glanced at him—shocked by the honesty in his voice.

“You’re thoughtful. Brave. You fight for others even when it hurts. I see that. You don’t need to be like me to matter to me.”

Jihyo bit her lip, the weight of her own insecurities softening in her chest. “I guess I just… I like being close to you. And maybe I got scared that someone else could take that.”

“You’re already close,” he said. “So close it’s dangerous, honestly.”

That earned a soft laugh. “You’re the danger, Gio.”

He smiled. “Only when I’m alone.”

And she took his hand—not possessively, but gently, like someone grounding a live wire.

“Then I guess you’re not alone anymore.”

Later that evening Momo and Jihyo had made up and were hitting the showers. Steam curled through the air, thick and warm, as Jihyo leaned back against the tiled wall, eyes half-lidded, letting the hot water run down her face and shoulders. Across the way, Momo was humming to herself as she scrubbed shampoo into her hair, making little bubble towers on top of her head.

“Check it out,” Momo said, grinning through the steam. “I’m Bubblezilla.”

Jihyo cracked an eye open and tried not to laugh. “You’re such a dork.”

“Yeah, well, I contain multitudes,” Momo replied, striking a dramatic pose with soap suds sliding off her elbow. “Warrior, dancer, snack devourer, and apparently, living shampoo sculpture.”

Jihyo laughed, and for a moment, the tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying in her chest released.

Momo turned toward her, still rinsing her hair. “Hey, thanks for training with me today. You didn’t have to. I know you usually go solo or with Gio.”

“Yeah, well… I needed the workout,” Jihyo said, a little too fast. She cleared her throat. “And besides, you’re fun to spar with.”

Momo grinned. “You mean you like beating me up.”

“No,” Jihyo said, smiling despite herself. “You actually almost caught me with that counter-punch. I was impressed.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, water hissing all around them. Then—

“Hey, Jihyo,” Momo asked, “do you ever get, like… weird feelings when you’re sparring? Like, not adrenaline, but—other stuff?”

Jihyo blinked. “Other stuff?”

“Like… butterflies. In your stomach. But also your brain. And you think, ‘wow, this person is really cool,’ and then you trip over your own feet like a loser.”

Jihyo stared.

And then, to her horror, she felt it. That little flutter in her chest. The same one that happened when Gio said something awkwardly sweet or looked at her with that lopsided smile like she was the only person in the room. She glanced at Momo—goofy, bubbly Momo—and her heart skipped.

Wait, what?

Her brain scrambled for answers. Was she… catching feelings for Momo too?

But as Momo started trying to juggle bottles of conditioner and dropped one with a loud clack, then scrambled to catch it with a noise that could only be described as a panicked duck, Jihyo suddenly got it.

It wasn’t attraction. It was recognition.

They were both chaos. Endearing, well-meaning, awkward chaos gremlins. Two sides of the same coin.

And her heart wasn’t racing because she was in love with Momo—it was because Momo reminded her of Gio. Not just in how she moved, but in how she was. Earnest. Dorky. Surprisingly intense when she cared about something. The kind of person who makes you feel warm just by being nearby.

Jihyo started giggling.

“What?” Momo asked, holding the conditioner bottle in triumph.

“You and Gio… you’re kind of the same person.”

Momo squinted. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s terrifying, honestly,” Jihyo said, still laughing.

Momo struck a pose. “Gio wishes he had my shoulders.”

Jihyo rolled her eyes. “You’re both disasters. Sweet, lovable disasters.”

They shared a laugh, one that echoed off the shower tiles and settled something deep in Jihyo’s chest.

Later, as they were toweling off and heading back to their quarters, Jihyo thought quietly to herself:

No wonder I like being around both of them so much.

A cozy hum filled the air as the ship cruised through interstellar space. The lounge lights were dimmed to a soft gold, casting a warm glow on the table where Gio, Momo, Sana, Mina, and Jihyo sat together, gathered around a half-finished snack spread and a scattered deck of intergalactic poker cards no one had actually agreed to play.

Momo was in the middle of explaining something with wild hand gestures.

“—and then I tried to kick him, but I forgot I was wearing the magnetic boots, so I sort of just… suctioned myself to the wall instead.”

Everyone burst into laughter.

“Classic,” Gio said, grinning with his usual uneven charm. “You really are gravity’s favorite victim.”

“Bold of you to say, Gio,” Sana smirked, pointing at him with a chip. “You tripped over your own coat yesterday before getting into the gravity room.”

“That coat is long!” Gio defended. “It has… heroic flair. There’s an art to managing the swoosh.”

Mina nodded with mock solemnity. “He and Momo are just two flavors of the same clumsy milkshake.”

Sana gasped, nudging Momo. “You’re like… twins from different Terran timelines.”

Momo perked up. “Hey, we do both like ice cream!”

“And trip over things.”

“And like warm carbs more than we should,” Gio added.

“And can’t flirt to save your lives,” Sana said with a pointed look that made Gio’s ears turn pink.

Momo giggled. “Wait, speak for yourself.”

Everyone laughed again—except Jihyo.

She was quiet, a small smile on her lips as she watched them.

They were similar, yeah. But Jihyo noticed the differences.

Gio didn’t just fumble—he second-guessed himself in moments of vulnerability, pulling back ever so slightly before choosing to lean in. He wasn’t just awkward—he was careful. He measured his words, even when he tripped over them. His eyes scanned a room like a soldier, but he laughed like someone still trying to figure out how to just be.

Momo was chaos in motion. Joyful, loud, unafraid. But Gio… Gio was quiet thunder. Constantly aware of the storm inside him, trying not to let it rumble too loud.

That’s what made her heart flutter. Not just the goofiness, but the gravity beneath it.

Jihyo looked down at the table, hiding a small smile behind her cup.

Momo leaned on Gio’s shoulder. “Hey, want to try building that alien Lego set tomorrow?”

“Only if you promise not to glue the pieces again,” Gio said.

“It was one time!”

As everyone giggled again, Jihyo let herself watch Gio just a moment longer.

He didn’t notice. He was busy laughing, eyes warm and posture relaxed.

But her heart did.

And this time, there was no confusion about it.

The blue-green marble of Earth shimmered in the distance, floating like a memory on the edge of the stars. Through the panoramic glass, the surface details of continents and oceans came slowly into view.

Jihyo stood in silence, hands loosely clasped behind her back, her posture straight but her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Samira entered without announcing herself, her tall, regal form framed by the light of the starfield behind her. She stood beside Jihyo, not speaking at first.

Jihyo finally broke the silence. “It feels smaller than I remember.”

Samira smiled faintly. “Most things do when you’ve seen the galaxy.”

Jihyo let out a slow breath, then glanced sideways at the commander. “Can I ask you something… personal?”

“Of course.” Samira said without hesitation.

“Do you think I should stay in contact with Giordano?” Jihyo asked, eyes still fixed on Earth. “He’s… complicated. Kind, but guarded. Sometimes so gentle I forget he’s a war mage. Then I remember he used to be called Diabelos and it’s like I can feel the weight of that name behind his smile.”

Samira didn’t answer immediately. Her golden eyes flicked to Jihyo, assessing, thoughtful.

“He’s one of the best people I’ve ever known,” Samira said finally. “But also one of the most dangerous. And he knows it.”

Jihyo looked down. “So I should stay away?”

Samira shook her head. “No. That’s not what I’m saying.” She turned fully to Jihyo now. “Giordano walks a narrow line every day. The man he wants to be and the monster he could become are always in conversation with each other. But I’ve seen what steadies him.”

“And?”

“You.” Samira said gently. “You make him laugh. You pull him out of himself. He lets his guard down around you, and that’s rare for him. He has friends. He has loyalty. But you? You reach the part of him that still believes he can have a future without blood on his hands.”

Jihyo’s breath caught slightly, but Samira wasn’t finished.

“But the bigger question is this, Jihyo: What do you want?” She stepped closer, voice softening. “You’re not just a pop idol anymore. You’ve shown strength, leadership, compassion. You adapted to cosmic resonance like you were born for it. You have the makings of a commander—not because of powers, but because people trust you. Because I trust you.”

Jihyo blinked, caught off guard. “I… I didn’t realize you thought that of me.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Samira replied, warm but firm. “If you want to go back to Earth, you can. You’ll be celebrated. You’ll be safe. But if you want to stay in Giordano’s orbit… just know it won’t be easy. But it might matter more than either of you realizes.”

A long pause. Then Jihyo nodded slowly.

“Thank you, Samira.” Her voice was quiet but sure. “I just needed to hear it out loud.”

Samira gave a knowing smile, the kind that only a seasoned commander could wear. “Then make your choice, Leader Jihyo. Whatever you choose, make it yours.”

They stood in silence again, two powerful women at the edge of a world that once defined them. Now, they were something more.

And Earth kept turning.

Flashbulbs popped. Reporters shouted questions. Holographic banners displayed: “IDOL PHOENIXES RETURN FROM HAITUS!” Jihyo stood center stage with her group, radiant under the lights, their popularity only intensified by their cosmic journey. She smiled for the cameras—but her eyes kept drifting toward the stars.

Later, in a quiet moment backstage, she stepped away from the crowd, standing on a balcony as the night breeze kissed her face.

Giordano stood in the shadow of a nearby support column, waiting quietly.

“I thought you might vanish again,” Jihyo said without turning.

“Didn’t want to steal the spotlight,” Gio replied awkwardly.

She turned to him, smiling warmly. “I want both. The stage and you. I know it’s going to be hard sometimes—but that’s never scared me.”

Gio’s breath caught. There was a boyish disbelief in his eyes, followed quickly by something more grounded. “You’re really choosing me?”

“I’m choosing us,” she said. “And I’m choosing myself too. I want to sing. I want to lead. But I also want to be with the idiot who talks to his weapons when he thinks no one’s listening.”

Giordano chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not good at this.”

“You don’t have to be. Just… come home when you can.”

He nodded, stepping closer, and their hands found each other naturally—like two puzzle pieces that had been shaped by stars and war and laughter.

EPILOGUE: THE BATHHOUSE ON MUSTARIA

A wide, elegant bath carved from pale-blue stone steamed softly in a grand room adorned with floral silks and floating lanterns. Outside the window, a crescent moon hung over the gardens.

Jihyo reclined lazily in the warm water, her arms draped along the edge, eyes half-lidded from comfort. Her hair was pinned up loosely, and a soft hum left her lips as the warmth eased her post-tour exhaustion.

Her legs kicked gently under the water, and one foot—playfully—peeked up over the edge, wiggling.

CLACK. The door slid open.

Giordano stepped in, cloak damp with rain from the Mustarian woods. His shoulders looked heavier than usual, dusted with starlight and exhaustion—but the second he saw her, something in his posture softened.

“You’re back early,” Jihyo murmured with a small smile, not opening her eyes fully. “Or am I just that good at manifesting you when I’m bored?”

He grinned, a little sheepish. “I didn’t want to stay away too long.”

Her eyes opened now, locking with his. “Then don’t.” She sat up slightly, droplets trailing down her arms. Her voice dipped into playful mischief. “Care to join me, Witch Wolf?”

Her toes wiggled invitingly, just above the water’s surface.

Giordano blinked once—processing both the question and his heart’s sudden acceleration.

He laughed softly, shrugging off his outer cloak. “You’re dangerous when you’re this cute, you know that?”

“I’ve heard,” Jihyo said, smirking as she made room for him. “Now hurry before I have to pull you in myself.”

As he stepped toward her, shedding the weight of war and past regrets with every footfall, Giordano knew he hadn’t just found peace.

He’d earned it.

43 notes · View notes

Haha

Happy birthday to my first real bias may it be full of joy and merriment

The smell of vanilla cake and sugar frosting filled the cramped apartment like it had been summoned—like sweetness itself had RSVP’d for the five-year-old’s birthday and was now lounging on the couch, waiting for a slice.

Diobronto “Dio” Castillo crouched by the coffee table, one hand steadying a flickering candle shaped like a cartoon dinosaur, the other hidden behind his back, clutching a juice box like it was a rare treasure.

“Okay, kiddo. You ready?” he asked, smiling at the tiny girl perched on the edge of the couch cushion like a queen on a throne.

Lily, in all her pigtail-and-tutu glory, clapped her hands but didn’t smile. She was watching him carefully, seriously—the way she watched cartoons she didn’t understand yet but wanted to. Her brown eyes flicked from the cake to him and back again, calculating something heavy in her five-year-old brain.

“Where’s Mommy and Daddy?” she asked, voice small but direct. “They were supposed to be back two days ago.”

Dio froze for just a second—a flicker, like a shadow passing over the sun—then softened his smile. “They’re still on the boat, remember? Sailing through the Bahamas. Maybe petting dolphins. Maybe stuck in some weird Bermuda Triangle clouds.”

Lily frowned, unconvinced. “Daddy said he’d call me.”

“He did,” Dio said gently, sitting cross-legged now. The candlelight danced between them like it was trying to lighten the mood. “But guess what? I’m here. And I brought pineapple juice and the dino cake. Can your dad do that?”

Lily thought about it, visibly torn between principle and pastry. “Daddy says cake is for after broccoli.”

Dio leaned in like he was sharing a top-secret government file. “Yeah, well, your dad’s lame.”

Lily giggled—finally. A full-bellied, snotty-nosed, candle-wobbling laugh that made Dio’s shoulders drop in quiet relief.

She blew out the candle with all the intensity of someone making a very serious wish. Dio clapped, handed her the juice box, and tried not to think—really think—about how long it had been since the last voicemail. About how “they’re just off the grid” was getting harder to say with confidence.

For now, she had her juice, her dino cake, and a godfather who knew how to braid her hair, patch her scraped knees, and sing the lullaby her mother used to hum at bedtime.

And maybe—for a while—that would be enough.

⸻

Five Years Later

It had been nearly five years since Nigel and Sarah disappeared somewhere in the waters between the Bahamas and the Bermuda Triangle. Five years of whispers, theories, hope turned to silence. And three years since Diobronto Castillo had officially become Lily’s father.

Stepping up hadn’t been easy. It never is, especially when people don’t understand. He’d left behind his job, his apartment in Seattle, and most of the life he’d built to move back to Orange County. To minimize the chaos for Lily. To anchor her in something familiar when everything else had capsized.

Some friends vanished in the wake—unable or unwilling to wrap their heads around a single man raising a child that wasn’t his by blood. Others—especially Lily’s grandparents—fought the will’s instructions tooth and nail, but Nigel and Sarah had made it clear: Dio was to be her guardian if the worst ever happened. So he did what needed to be done.

And, somehow, it worked.

Against every odd and expectation, the perpetually single,godfather made an exceptional parent. Under Dio’s watchful, if sometimes stern, guidance, Lily had blossomed. She spoke three languages, played one and a half instruments (the cello, and sort of the piano), and was becoming a quick-footed standout on her youth soccer team. She had her mother’s fierce intelligence and her father’s curiosity—but it was Dio’s steadiness she leaned on the most.

People still stared sometimes—at the practices, the parent-teacher nights, the grocery store aisles—but Lily never seemed to notice. She only saw her dad.

And Dio? He had long since stopped caring who approved. In service of his commitment to Lily he had gone out of his way to make sure she wasn’t sad on her birthday which led to numerous different parties and celebration, but as her tenth birthday neared she got something even bigger tickets to Korea and her favorite group Illit.

The apartment was a mess—but a happy mess. Open suitcases littered the living room like molting turtles, half-stuffed with clothes, chargers, Korean phrasebooks, and enough skincare samples to open a tiny boutique.

Dio stood over one of the suitcases, holding up a jacket with a puzzled look. “Okay, tell me again why we’re bringing three hoodies to a spring concert in Seoul?”

Lily, now ten and already exuding the steady confidence of someone with Very Specific Opinions, didn’t even look up from the checklist she was scribbling on the fridge whiteboard. “Because one is for me, one is for the group picture, and one is in case I get cold in the stadium. It’s air-conditioned.”

Dio raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re going to get cold from excitement or from the thousands of screaming teenagers vibrating at the frequency of teen devotion?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who said, ‘Pack smart, not just cute.’”

“I said that while holding a pair of socks, not a full wardrobe of fan gear.”

She shot him a look, then grinned. “You’re just jealous because I look better in pastels than you do.”

Dio smirked, conceding the point. “True. But I’m not the one dragging half a pharmacy’s worth of lip balm to another country.”

Lily turned back to her list, smile fading just a little as she capped the marker and leaned her forehead against the fridge. “It’s not just about the concert,” she said quietly. “I want to see everything—like the palaces, the cafés, the river walk. But mostly…” She hesitated. “I just want this to feel big. Like… a birthday I’ll remember forever.”

Dio straightened up, softening. “It will be. I promise.”

She looked at him, something a little older and sadder in her eyes now. “They went missing the week of my birthday. You remember that, right?”

He nodded, slow. “Yeah, I remember.”

“I don’t want to be sad every year when this week comes around. I don’t want to hate it.” She hugged herself, voice just above a whisper. “Sometimes I feel like… maybe I already do. A little.”

Dio crossed the room and crouched down beside her, hand resting gently on her back. “Hey. Look at me.”

She did.

“We’re doing this trip for a reason. Not just because you love Illit or because I secretly love their choreography—don’t tell anyone—but because you deserve joy, Lily. Not guilt. Not weight. You didn’t cause anything. You hear me?”

She nodded.

“This week doesn’t belong to tragedy. It belongs to you. We’re rewriting it. Starting now.”

Lily didn’t say anything at first, just leaned into his side with a deep breath, forehead resting on his shoulder. Dio held still, like she might crack if he moved too fast.

After a moment, she pulled back and sniffed. “You’re gonna cry if they do ‘Lucky Girl Syndrome,’ huh?”

“I’m already crying thinking about how much those concert tickets cost,” he teased, making her laugh through her tears.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and stood up straighter. “Okay. No more sad stuff. We’ve got a plane to catch and a bias to scream for.”

“Exactly,” Dio said, ruffling her hair. “Now hand me the glitter nail polish and promise you’ll teach me the fan chant one more time.”

She grinned, grabbing the tiny bottle and waving it at him like a wand. “Only if you wear the matching lightstick bracelet.”

Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting soft gold light across the room. Inside, they packed not just for a trip, but for a new kind of memory. One stitched together by music, hope, and the kind of love that refuses to let grief take root.

And Dio? He kept smiling—for her. Always for her.

Because if he could help it, Lily would never grow up afraid of birthdays.

The hum of the airplane engines had settled into a steady white noise, somewhere between soothing and sleep-inducing. The cabin lights were dimmed, casting everything in soft blue. Most of the passengers were asleep or trying to be, tucked under scratchy blankets with neck pillows askew.

Lily was curled up in her window seat, oversized headphones covering her ears, the faint sound of Illit bleeding through. Her eyelids drooped in that stubborn, mid-flight way—too tired to stay awake, too excited to give in.

Dio sat beside her, a half-read in-flight magazine in his lap, watching her with quiet affection. She looked so small again in that moment, her forehead leaning against the glass, the glow of the wing light reflecting in her eyes. A few minutes passed in peace.

Then—

“Hey, Dio?” she said, pulling one headphone off.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

She hesitated, picking at the edge of her blanket. “How come you don’t, like… date anyone?”

Dio blinked. Of all the questions to get ambushed with at 30,000 feet, that hadn’t cracked the top twenty. “Wow. Uh. We’re not even through snacks yet.”

She shrugged, nonchalant. “I just don’t get it. You’re cool. You cook. You’re funny. You know so much random stuff.”

“Well, I appreciate the review,” Dio said with a soft laugh. “But… it’s kind of complicated.”

Lily tilted her head. “How?”

He looked out the window for a second, then back at her. “Most women out there, they’re not exactly lining up to date a single dad. Especially one who’s not… well, not really traditional.”

“But you’re not my real dad,” she said quietly, not in a mean way—just stating the fact.

Dio nodded. “I know. But I am your dad. The one who picks you up from school, helps with math, makes birthday pancakes, and screams lyrics at your concerts. And that’s the kind of dad who’s all-in. That kind of all-in doesn’t leave a lot of room for someone else, unless they’re really ready for it.”

Lily was quiet for a moment.

“That’s dumb,” she said finally. “They’re missing out.”

Dio smiled, warmth pooling in his chest. “Well, maybe one day someone smart will figure that out.”

She yawned and leaned over, resting her head lightly against his arm. “You should still try. You’re too awesome to be alone forever.”

He didn’t answer right away—just looked down at the top of her head, resting there like it belonged. Like it always had.

“I’m not alone,” he said softly, almost to himself.

She was already halfway asleep again, but she murmured, “Still dumb…”

Dio leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and let the hum of the plane and her breathing lull him into a quiet place. Thirty thousand feet in the air, with a kid who thought he hung the moon and wasn’t afraid to ask the hard stuff.

Yeah. He wasn’t alone.

Not even close. A few minutes later Lily was passed out on Dio’s shoulder he chuckled as his daughter rested and the flight continued on its journey.

The plane touched down at Incheon International Airport just past 6 a.m., the horizon outside the window streaked in soft gold and cotton-pink clouds. Lily was practically vibrating in her seat.

“Dio, wake up. We’re in Korea. Wake. Up.” She shook his arm like a soda can.

“I’m awake,” Dio mumbled, still half-dreaming about overhead bin instructions. “I never slept.”

“You drooled on your travel pillow.”

“Don’t spread that slander on foreign soil.”

They shuffled off the plane with the rest of the groggy passengers, Lily darting ahead to get a better view of the terminal. Dio followed behind, tugging their carry-on, hoodie wrapped around his neck like a defeated scarf. His brain was still somewhere over the Pacific, but Lily’s adrenaline had clearly kicked in.

As they reached the jet bridge, a soft commotion ahead caught Dio’s attention—nothing major, just a few flight attendants glancing, whispering, politely grinning. Then he saw her.

She was trying to move discreetly, sunglasses over her eyes, hair tucked into a hoodie that still somehow looked expensive. A sleek carry-on in one hand, iced Americano in the other. She looked familiar, but Dio couldn’t place her—at least not until Lily nearly gasped herself inside out.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, grabbing Dio’s sleeve. “That’s Kim Dahyun.”

“Huh?”

“From TWICE. That’s literally Dahyun. She was on our flight and you slept through it!”

Dio blinked. Then glanced again.

She caught them looking.

And then—because life is weird and small and sometimes unexpectedly cinematic—she smiled.

Dio smiled back, awkwardly but genuinely. He nodded a little, casual. Not the kind of nod that screamed I’ve seen every fancam you’ve ever been in, but the kind you give someone you’ve genuinely enjoyed watching from afar.

Then his carry-on handle gave out with a dramatic snap, and his bag slumped over with the sad, slow dignity of a folding chair after a party.

“Smooth,” he muttered.

Dahyun laughed—a quiet, caught-off-guard kind of sound. And then, before she could think better of it, she stepped closer.

“Jet lag and cheap luggage,” she said, nodding at the collapsed bag. “Brutal combo.”

Dio crouched to fix it, chuckling. “Don’t worry. It only does this when I’m in front of beautiful strangers in foreign countries.”

Lily stared at him like he’d just performed unsanctioned surgery.

Dahyun raised an eyebrow behind her sunglasses, clearly amused. “You’re not from here.”

“That obvious?”

“Yes. You give off… dad energy.”

“Yeah,” Lily cut in proudly. “He’s my dad. And this is my early birthday trip. We’re here for the Illit concert.”

Dahyun turned her smile toward Lily. “Happy early birthday. You’ve got a cool dad.”

Lily blinked at her, some new suspicion glinting behind her eyes. “Thanks. He’s single, too.”

Dio nearly dropped the suitcase again. “LILY.”

“What? You are.”

Dahyun laughed, shaking her head as she pulled up her mask and turned to walk. “Well, single cool dad—welcome to Korea.”

And just like that, she vanished into the terminal crowd, a phantom in Nikes and stardust.

Lily smirked up at Dio. “You’re blushing.”

“I am jet-lagged.”

“You said that in a way that definitely means you’re blushing.”

Dio adjusted the suitcase and motioned forward. “Come on, future K-pop star. Let’s go try not to get deported before breakfast.”

But as they walked toward immigration, he glanced back once, half-expecting to see her again.

She was gone.

Still, his smile lingered.

Later, at breakfast…

Dio reached for the check and flipped open his wallet.

There, wedged between his emergency $20 and an expired museum pass, was a folded piece of paper he definitely hadn’t put there.

He blinked. Unfolded it.

Scrawled in tight, clean handwriting:

Call me – Dahyun +82-XXX-XXXX

“What’s that?” Lily asked, eyeing him.

“Nothing,” he replied—far too quickly.

Lily squinted, then gasped. “OH. MY. GOD.”

“Lily—”

“Is that her number?! Did she ninja you?! Are we in a K-drama right now?!”

“I… didn’t even see her get near my pocket,” Dio muttered, stunned.

“She ninja’d you, Dio. You got ninja’d by Dahyun from TWICE.”

Dio stared at the note. “Do idols even… do this?”

“She did.” Lily was practically vibrating. “Are you gonna call her?”

“I don’t know. That feels… bold.”

“She gave you her number. She started it. You’re just pressing play.”

He exhaled and tucked it carefully into his wallet like it was state treasure. “Well… welcome to Korea, I guess.”

Lily leaned back in her chair, triumphant. “This is so going in the vlog.”

After breakfast and a long nap, Dio lay staring at the ceiling while Lily snored gently in the other bed. The paper burned in his wallet like it knew it was being avoided.

Finally, he gave in.

He dialed.

“Hello?” came her voice, warm and slightly amused.

Dio cleared his throat. “Um—Dahyun? It’s Dio. We met on the plane?”

“Oh!” She sounded pleased. “I was starting to think you’d chicken out.”

“Well, it’s a little surreal. I mean, not every day you get a number from someone you’ve been following since…well, your daughter’s dance recital phase.”

Dahyun giggled. “Well, it’s not every day I meet a cute young dad. Very improper of you, by the way. Having a child before marriage.”

Dio laughed. “Lucky for you, I didn’t. Lily’s my goddaughter. I adopted her when her parents went missing.”

There was a pause. “Wait—seriously?”

He explained. April Fool’s Day. A cruise through the Bermuda Triangle. A call that never came. The long, strange climb from ‘uncle’ to ‘dad.’

“Wow,” Dahyun said softly. “That’s… that’s a lot.”

“Yeah. But it’s life. And she’s everything now.”

There was another beat, and then Dahyun brightened. “Then how about you both come to a little show we’re doing tonight? Backstage passes, VIP, the works.”

Dio laughed. “Careful, Mrs. Kim. I’m starting to think you’re flirting with me.”

“So what if I am?” she replied, a smile in her voice.

Dio stared at the phone, shaking his head, a grin slowly forming.

“I guess,” he said, “we’ll see you tonight.”

The backstage area of KSPO Dome was a maze of cables, dancers in half-costumes, frantic staff, and the kind of coordinated chaos that only came with live music and high stakes. Lily looked like she’d been zapped with lightning—her Illit hoodie swapped out for a Twice one, her lanyard badge swinging like a trophy.

Dio, on the other hand, looked like someone who had wandered in by accident.

“This is so cool,” Lily whispered, clutching her little camera. “I can’t believe we’re backstage at a Twice show. I’m gonna scream. I’m gonna cry. I’m gonna manifest.”

“Manifest away,” Dio said, tugging at his collar. “I’m just trying not to pass out.”

“Because of the lights? Or because of Dahyun?”

“Lily.”

“I’m just saying. You already called her. That’s step one. This is, like, step five. Flirting in the wild.”

Before Dio could argue, a familiar voice cut through the hallway din like a clean guitar riff.

“Look who actually came.”

Dahyun strolled toward them, hair in soft waves, makeup flawless but not too heavy. She wore her stage outfit like it was just another Tuesday—jacket slung over one shoulder, in-ear monitors looped casually around her neck.

Dio, for once, couldn’t think of anything smart to say. So Lily filled in the gap.

“As if I was gonna miss out on a free concert,” she said excitedly and Dahyun smiled

“I was gonna make you wait till after the show,” she said, stopping in front of him. “But then I figured—why wait?”

Lily coughed. Loudly. “Hi Miss Kim. I’m just gonna… pretend I don’t hear anything right now.”

Dahyun winked at her, then looked back at Dio. “You look better without the jet lag. Still carrying that broken suitcase charm, though.”

“It’s my signature,” he managed, trying to sound cool and not like his brain had just hit a blue screen.

A staff member waved Dahyun over from the other hallway. She glanced at them, then back at Dio.

“I gotta go on soon,” she said. “But after the show, stick around. There’s a private hangout for the crew and friends. You two are both on the list.”

“Friends?” Dio echoed.

“Well, you’re not a fanboy,” she teased, stepping closer—close enough that he could smell her perfume, something soft and citrusy. “Yet.”

Lily’s eyebrows were practically in orbit now.

“And if you play your cards right, I might even let you hold the lightstick.”

“I—I’m honored.”

“I know.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away, leaving Dio standing there like a stunned NPC.

Lily leaned over, whispering with maximum judgment: “You’re blushing again.”

“I’m in a pressure cooker of LED screens and teen hormones, I think I’m allowed.”

“You like her.”

“I’m terrified of her.”

“She so likes you.”

Dio looked toward the stage, where the show was about to begin, and shook his head with a bemused smile. “If I survive this concert, I’m buying us both ten-dollar corn dogs.”

“Deal,” Lily grinned, already pulling out her phone. “Now shut up, the queens are about to start.”

The lights dimmed, the crowd roared, and as the first note hit, Dio tried to focus on the music—but he could feel it already:

This wasn’t just a trip anymore.

It was the start of something.

The stadium pulsed with color, light, and sound—an electric current of thousands of fans moving in unison like one giant heart beating to the rhythm of the stage. Dio stood backstage, just off the wings, with Lily practically glued to the edge of the curtain, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She wore her Illit light stick around her wrist like a badge of honor, cheeks flushed pink from excitement.

“This is insane,” she whispered, eyes wide as fireworks burst above the crowd and dancers twirled like a kaleidoscope of glitter and precision.

Dio smiled, arms crossed, more focused on Lily’s joy than the show itself. “You good, kid?”

She looked up at him like she was dreaming. “I’m transcending.”

He chuckled. “Okay, Buddha. Let me know if you float off into the void.”

Just then, the screen behind the stage shifted to a new setlist graphic—indicating a short intermission—and crew members scurried to change the stage setup. One of the side doors opened, and Dahyun slipped in, fresh from her first outfit change, a glimmering purple jacket slung over her shoulders, hair slightly damp from dancing.

She caught Dio’s eye immediately.

“Well, well,” she said, smoothing a flyaway strand as she walked toward him, “still here. Not vaporized by teen energy.”

Dio smiled. “I’m holding up. Barely.”

Lily spun around. “Dahyun! You’re amazing out there!”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Dahyun winked. “You enjoying your birthday trip?”

“I think this is the best night of my life.”

Dahyun looked back at Dio, her expression softening. “She’s a lucky kid.”

He held her gaze for a second too long. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m the lucky one.”

She smiled. “Careful, you keep saying stuff like that, I’ll think you’re flirting back.”

“I’m just jet-lagged,” he deadpanned.

“Mm-hmm.” Dahyun laughed. “I’ll be back again after the ballad set. Don’t disappear on me.”

“Where would I go? The view’s pretty good from here.”

As she disappeared into the dressing area again, Lily turned slowly, arms crossed like a tiny general. “Jet-lagged, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“She likes you.”

Dio sighed, ruffling her hair. “She’s being nice.”

“She gave you backstage passes. She changed outfits and came here. That’s not just nice, Dio.”

“Lily.”

“She’s gonna marry you and I’m gonna be your maid of honor,” Lily declared.

“Oh my god, eat a churro or something.”

Another wave of cheers echoed as the lights dimmed again. Lily whipped back toward the stage with a breathless gasp. A soft ballad started—the kind with airy harmonies and twinkling piano—and even Dio had to admit, the group had range.

Midway through the song, Dahyun walked past them again, this time in a flowing white outfit, ethereal under the stage lights. She didn’t stop, just let her fingers brush lightly against Dio’s as she passed.

Lily’s jaw dropped. “Did she just—Dio. Dio.”

He said nothing, just smiled, face faintly pink in the dark.

By the end of the show, Lily had half-lost her voice from screaming, her phone memory was full, and Dio couldn’t stop glancing toward the backstage hallway.

As the lights rose and the crowd roared for the encore, Lily leaned against his arm and whispered, “This is so much better than cake.”

And for once, Dio had to agree.

The after-party was tucked into the glowing rooftop of a high-rise lounge overlooking the city. Seoul shimmered beneath them like a spilled jewelry box—full of motion and music. The air was rich with laughter, champagne bubbles, and the bass of a laid-back DJ set pulsing just below conversation level.

Dio stood near the balcony doors, nursing a sparkling water while keeping a relaxed but ever-watchful eye on Lily across the room.

She was deep in a dance circle with three members of TWICE—Mina, Jihyo, and Momo. The latter looked especially impressed as Lily nailed a few Illit choreos, her pigtails bouncing in perfect sync.

“She’s a little star,” Dahyun said, sidling up next to Dio with two small cups of ginger tea. “They’re already trying to recruit her.”

Dio grinned and took the tea. “I saw. She’s eating it up. God help me if she starts asking for a trainee contract.”

“You’d let her, though.”

He looked at her. “In a heartbeat.”

Dahyun leaned closer. “You’re different than I expected.”

“How so?”

“I figured you’d be funny or cool or even charming. But… you’re full of grief. And love. And you don’t try to hide either.”

Dio’s smirk faltered slightly. Before he could answer, his phone buzzed in his jacket.

Daniel. That name, in that font—the old wound reopened.

He stepped away a bit, lifting the phone to his ear. “What?”

Daniel’s voice was too calm. “They found them.”

Dio’s stomach dropped. “What are you talking about?”

“Nigel and Sarah. They were rescued off some uncharted island near the Bahamas. Coast Guard report just hit the wire. They’re alive.”

Dio’s mouth dried out. “Are you—are you sure?”

“Yeah, man. I’m not calling to fight. Just thought you should know. I figured… Lily should hear it from you.”

The call ended before Dio could reply.

He stood there for a long moment, the sounds of the party suddenly distant and echoey, like he was underwater. The lights, the people, the music—it all blurred. His hand clenched around the cup of tea. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding onto the idea that they were never coming back.

“Hey.”

Dahyun was in front of him now, eyes scanning his face. She lowered her voice. “What happened?”

He blinked back into reality. “I—I just got a call. Lily’s parents… they’re alive.”

Dahyun’s brows lifted in stunned silence. “What?”

“They found them. After five years.”

She looked like she didn’t know what to say. “Do you want to sit down?”

He shook his head, forcing a smile. “No. No, I just—needed to breathe.”

Across the room, Lily giggled as Momo did a goofy victory dance, earning cheers from the girls.

She looked over then, spotting Dio, and waved with her whole arm like she was signaling a plane.

He waved back, smile flickering just enough for Dahyun to notice.

“She doesn’t know yet?” Dahyun asked softly.

“No. Not tonight,” he said quickly. “Not while she’s happy. I—I don’t want her to associate this place or this trip with confusion or fear. Her birthday’s in three days.”

Dahyun placed a hand gently on his arm. “You’re a good father.”

“I’m just trying to make her feel safe for as long as I can.”

“You’ve been her entire world,” she whispered. “That doesn’t vanish because someone else survived.”

He looked at her then—really looked. There was no spotlight on them, no cameras, no idol persona. Just a woman who had seen something in him, and maybe still did.

Before he could answer, Momo approached with Lily’s hand in hers. “She needs the restroom,” she said cheerily. “We’re off to adventure.”

Dio nodded with a grateful smile, watching Lily disappear around the corner, humming.

Dahyun stayed beside him, quiet, waiting.

And for the first time since the call, Dio let his breath shake on the exhale.

Seoul, 2:12 AM. Was when it finally happened

The hotel room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the bedside clock and the faint spill of city light from the balcony curtains. Lily was fast asleep, curled beneath the covers with one hand sticking out like a little flag of surrender. Her face still held traces of leftover glitter from the party, and her lips moved faintly with dreams.

Dio sat at the small table by the window, sipping bottled water and staring blankly out at the skyline. His phone buzzed once, twice.

Unknown Number (U.S.)

He hesitated. Then picked it up.

“…Hello?”

A familiar voice crackled through—older now, worn by time, but unmistakable.

“Dio? It’s Nigel.”

Dio sat up straighter, heart skipping. “Nigel.”

Then came the second voice—gentler, more tentative. “And Sarah. We’re both here.”

A long silence bloomed between them, neither knowing how to begin. The sound of a Korean car horn in the distance filled the static.

“Where are you?” Sarah asked softly.

“In Seoul. On a birthday trip for Lily.”

“She’s still… with you?”

“Well yeah She’s my daughter,” Dio said simply.

A pause.

“When do you get back? What happened while we were gone. When we got back Albert and Daniel said you disappeared with Lily?” Nigel asked, confusion tightening his voice. “Daniel, Joseph, Albert—they all said you disappeared. That you stopped talking to everyone.”

Dio clenched his jaw. “April 1st Yeah. I did. After they decided I wasn’t good enough to be your daughter’s dad.”

“What are you talking about? If any one was good enough it was you,” Sarah asked, incredulous.

“Well they listened to Nigel’s mom. They treated me like I kidnapped her,” Dio said, the bitterness finally bleeding through. “Your mom tried to take her from me. Took me to court. Accused me of manipulation, of financial coercion, of not being fit. You know who testified against me? Albert and his wife. Friends. People I’d known for a decade plus.”

Silence.

“You really didn’t know? Actually I’m not surprised why would they tell you it looks really bad,” Dio asked quietly.

“No,” Nigel said, stunned. “I—we didn’t know any of this.”

Dio pulled out his phone, his hands tight around it, and scrolled through a folder he hadn’t touched in years. Screenshots. Emails. One message in particular from four years ago.

He read it aloud, voice low but trembling:

“We love you, Dio, but you’re not the right person to raise Lily. She needs a woman. A real family. We can’t support this anymore. Maybe this custody fight is a wake-up call. Let her go.”

Sent by Albert and Marissa, dated July 28, 2021. Right when Dio was testifying alone in family court, juggling work, CPS visits, and a child who cried every night for parents he couldn’t replace.

Sarah gasped.

Nigel didn’t speak.

“They abandoned me and abandoned her,” Dio said quietly. “But I didn’t abandon her.”

More silence. Not the kind that follows awkwardness, but the kind that comes after a bomb drops.

“We… we didn’t know,” Nigel finally said. “ Daniel didn’t tell us that happened.”

“Well Nigel’s mon tried to erase me. They helped her. But I fought back, because Lily needed someone. And no one else stepped up. And after hearing your horror stories I knew I could do better than that.”

Dio stared at the sleeping child on the bed, voice softening. “And now you’re alive. And I’m not mad about that—I’m relieved. But I won’t let anyone treat those five years like they didn’t happen.”

Sarah sniffled faintly on the line.

“She’s going to want to talk to you,” Dio added. “She deserves that. But you need to understand something—I raised her. I held her hand through night terrors, first steps, first words without you. I earned her trust one day at a time. So if we’re doing this… if we’re reintegrating… it’s going to be on her terms. Not yours.”

Nigel let out a long, rattled breath. “Okay.”

Sarah whispered, “Okay.”

Dio didn’t say goodbye. He just hung up. Then sat there, staring at the skyline for a long time. His heartbeat thumped heavy in his ears, but slowly, it faded. And in the quiet, he glanced over at Lily.

She shifted in her sleep and whispered, “Dio…” like she could feel the weight in the room, even in dreams.

He stood, walked over, and pulled the blanket higher over her shoulders. Then leaned down, kissed the crown of her head, and whispered back—

“I’m still here.”

The sunlight slipped lazily through the hotel curtains, streaking golden lines across the carpet. Lily was sprawled on the couch, wearing a half-on Illit hoodie and munching on shrimp chips while editing her “K-Trip Vlog: Day 2” footage on Dio’s old iPad.

Dio was sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly showered but visibly frayed at the edges. His phone buzzed with a contact saved last night: Dahyun (Still Real)

He stared at it for a second, then picked up.

“Good morning, mystery man,” Dahyun’s bright voice chimed through the line. “You two awake yet?”

“Barely,” Dio said, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Feels like I’ve aged ten years in one night.”lily perked up hearing that and narrowed her eyes but diverted her attention when a comment popped up on her video

“Yikes. That bad?”

“Little existential dread with a side of jet lag. Classic.”

Dahyun’s tone softened just a notch. “Wanna come out and let me fix your day?”

He hesitated.

“I was thinking,” she continued, “shopping, sightseeing, maybe some street food. Lily can pick out anything she wants—I’m in a spoiling mood.”

Dio chuckled, finally smiling. “You trying to bribe my daughter into liking you?”

“She already does,” Dahyun said smugly. “Last night she said I was her second favorite member of Twice. I’ll take it.”

Dio glanced over at Lily, who was now trying to add sparkly transition effects between clips of Dio awkwardly dancing at the after party. “Uh… I don’t know we have a lot on our plate today and I had a lot on my mind lately.”

“Which is why you both need a day that doesn’t suck,” Dahyun said gently. “Let me do this, Dio. Not as a K-pop star. Just as me.”

He paused again, but this time, it wasn’t hesitation. It was a quiet kind of gratitude.

“Alright,” he said. “You pick the place. We’ll meet you there.”

A few hours later — Myeongdong Shopping District

Lily stood in front of a row of claw machines, arms crossed, analyzing her options like a military strategist. Dahyun crouched beside her, dressed down in oversized sunglasses, a denim bucket hat, and a white hoodie that still somehow screamed idol, despite her best efforts to blend in.

“Okay,” she said, feeding the machine. “I’m gonna win that pink alpaca if it kills me.”

“You said that six tries ago,” Lily teased.

“Positive thinking, kiddo.”

Dio leaned against the window, watching the scene with a quiet smile, hands tucked into his coat pockets. He couldn’t remember the last time Lily looked so… light. Carefree. Like her smile didn’t have to carry anything.

Dahyun finally managed to snag the plush on her seventh try, shrieking triumphantly and handing it to Lily like she’d just won an Olympic medal.

“Boom. Rich Auntie Dahyun delivers.”

Lily hugged the alpaca tight. “You’re rich and persistent. I respect that.”

Dio barked a laugh. “God help me, she’s going to be insufferable after this.”

Dahyun grinned and gently nudged Dio as they walked between boutiques, letting Lily explore a cosmetics shop up ahead. “So… how are you really?”

Dio took a breath, then exhaled slowly. “They called me. Nigel and Sarah.”

She blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. First time in five years. They’re alive. Apparently they were stranded in some bizarre satellite dead zone on this island near Bermuda. Got rescued last a few days ago.”

Dahyun’s brows knit together. “That’s… wild.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes following Lily. “Now they’re back. And I’m trying to process what that means for Lily. For me. For everything.”

Dahyun was quiet a moment, then bumped his shoulder. “She loves you. That won’t change.”

Dio’s voice was low. “But it might have to.”

“No,” Dahyun said firmly. “They might’ve come back. But you stayed. You stepped up when everyone else didn’t. That’s not something that gets undone.”

Dio looked at her then—really looked at her—and something in his chest eased, even if just for a moment.

“Thanks,” he said. “For today.”

“You’re welcome,” Dahyun replied, smiling gently. “You both deserved something good.”

They watched as Lily ran out of the shop with free samples in one hand and the plush alpaca in the other.

“I named it Jeongyeon,” she declared, holding it up like Simba.

Dahyun laughed. “Iconic.”

And for the first time in what felt like hours, Dio let himself feel okay. After the lovely date and lunch Dahyun decided to pull some strings after hearing that Dio and Lily were going to see Illit.

The venue buzzed like a hive of electricity—lightsticks pulsed in candy-colored waves, fans chanted in perfect synchronicity, and the air shimmered with the anticipation of idols about to appear.

Lily, decked out in a brand-new Illit hoodie, sparkly face gems, and a pink lightstick she gripped like a royal scepter, looked like she might ascend into orbit.

“This is better than Disneyland,” she whispered, trembling with awe. “And Disneyland has churros.”

Dio laughed as he adjusted the mini fan backpack he’d been roped into carrying—glittery, heart-shaped, and very not-his-style. “You said the same thing at the BTS pop-up.”

“Yeah, but this is live.”

Dahyun, incognito in a cap and oversized sunglasses, smirked. “I told you—I have range. And tonight, I’m strictly here as backup hype squad.”

“I still can’t believe you’re here with us,” Lily said, her voice just shy of reverence. “This feels like a dream.”

“Well, if it is, I brought snacks and cute outfits,” Dahyun said, bumping shoulders with her.

They were ushered through the VIP entrance with ease thanks to Dahyun’s quiet phone call earlier. Inside, the venue was magic—stage lights flashing like meteors, holograms glimmering, fans swaying like a synchronized wave of pastel devotion.

And then the opening VCR played.

The crowd roared.

And Illit burst onto stage.

Lily screamed—actually screamed—and clutched Dio’s hand with white-knuckle intensity.

He laughed in awe at her expression—eyes wide, mouth open, tears threatening as she mouthed every lyric like she’d waited her whole life for this.

Dahyun leaned in. “She’s a goner.”

“Completely,” Dio agreed.

The girls danced with fire in their feet, their vocals sharp and emotional. The stadium sang with them, a chorus of devotion. And then, midway through the set—after a water break and a costume change—something wild happened.

A staffer with a headset appeared in their row and leaned in toward Lily.

“Wonhee heard you’re here,” he said in hushed Korean, smiling. “She wants to meet you.”

Lily froze.

She didn’t breathe.

“Are you Lily?” the staffer asked again.

“Y-yes,” she whispered, nodding furiously.

He motioned for her to follow. Dio looked stunned, but Dahyun gently nudged his shoulder. “Go with her.”

Backstage smelled like hairspray, stage makeup, and anticipation.

Then—there she was.

Wonhee.

In person.

No hologram. No screen.

Just her bias, standing in a glittery Illit jersey and a bright, tired smile.

“Hi, Lily, right?” Wonhee said in near-perfect English. “Dahyun sunbaenim told us you came all the way from America!”

Lily tried to curtsy and bow at the same time, nearly falling over. “You’re my favorite person in the universe,” she said, barely keeping it together.

Wonhee laughed and pulled her in for a soft hug. “You’re so cute. I saw your vlog. You dance really well.”

Lily gasped. “You saw that?!”

“Twice,” Wonhee winked. “Come back after the show for a picture, okay?”

Lily nodded like her head was on a spring. “Okay. Yes. Thank you. Oh my god.”

When she returned to her seat, she looked completely shell-shocked.

“Okay?” Dio asked, his hand on her shoulder.

“I met her,” Lily whispered. “I met Wonhee.”

“She hugged me, Dio. That’s basically getting knighted.”

Dahyun grinned. “You survived. I’m proud.”

As the final encore began and the confetti rained down like blessings, Lily turned to Dio with teary eyes.

“Thank you. For everything. You didn’t have to do any of this, and I’m never gonna forget it.”

Dio smiled, swallowing something in his throat. “You deserve all of it, kiddo.”

And beside them, Dahyun—who had slipped off her glasses to wipe at her own eyes—nudged Dio softly.

“You’re a really good dad,” she whispered.

And in that glittering sea of joy and color and light, with Lily dancing beside him and Dahyun smiling from the other side, Dio felt—just for tonight—like everything in the universe had aligned exactly the way it was supposed to.

After the concert Dio watched lily play and dance with Wonhee. As it turned out they both had the same teasing humor. Dahyun creeped up behind Dio while she watched the two of them. They are like sisters. She said happily. Dio laughed and smiled before turning to Dahyun and saying “thanks Dubu,” Dahyun leaned into Dio and said, “anytime”

The next morning Dio and Lily were headed out early from the airport. The departure hall buzzed with its usual dance of goodbyes—families hugging, announcements echoing in Korean and English, and the smell of roasted chestnuts from a nearby snack stand. But for once, Lily wasn’t bouncing with excitement or filming clips for her vlog.

She was quiet. A little tired, but not just from travel.

She held her plushie from Dahyun in one arm and the signed Illit hoodie in the other. Her birthday crown—glittery, pastel, and slightly lopsided—still sat atop her head.

Dio handed over her favorite drink, a vanilla latte (half sweet, extra foam—he was trained now), and sat beside her at the gate.

She sipped, then looked at him. “This was the best birthday ever.”

Dio smiled. “You deserve that. And more.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes tracing the planes outside the giant glass wall. “I know something’s bothering you,” she said quietly.

He exhaled slowly. “Is it that obvious?”

“You smile with your mouth, not your eyes when something’s wrong.”

He gave a soft, half-laugh. “You’re way too good at reading me.”

“I’m basically eleven now,” she said. “I can handle it.”

There was a long pause.

Then Dio said, “You know what today is, right?”

She blinked. “My birthday?”

“Yes. And also… the day your parents disappeared.”

Lily didn’t say anything at first. Just held her drink tighter.

“I didn’t want to tell you before the concert. I wanted this trip to be about you, not about sadness. But I think you’re old enough to hear a little more.”

She nodded slowly.

“I don’t know exactly what happened,” he continued. “Their cruise ship passed through an area near the Bermuda Triangle and—well, things just stopped. The search went on for weeks. Months, even. But no one ever found them.”

Lily looked down. “Why would they leave on my birthday?”

“They didn’t mean to. They thought it would be a fun getaway. They had no way of knowing.” His voice softened. “They loved you. So much. They left me everything—guardianship, the house, even the emergency funds. They trusted me with you.”

She looked up at him, her eyes glossy. “Did they say anything? Like… in a note?”

Dio reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper—weathered, taped in places.

“They wrote this on the plane before boarding the ship. Sarah gave it to me ‘just in case.’ I kept it from you until now.”

Lily opened it carefully. Her parents’ handwriting was messy, rushed, but full of warmth.

“If anything happens to us, please tell Lily we love her more than anything. And thank you, Dio. You’re family. She’s safe with you.”

Lily clutched the note to her chest.

“They never said goodbye…” she whispered.

Dio wrapped an arm around her. “They didn’t know they needed to. They thought they’d be back. But they made sure you’d never be alone.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Do you think they’d be proud of me?”

“I know they would,” Dio said, brushing a tear from her face. “And if they could see you now? Meeting Wonhee, talking back to Dahyun, learning Korean like it’s nothing? They’d be bragging about you nonstop.”

She sniffled, then smiled a little. “You think I talk back to Dahyun?”

“Like a champ.”

She leaned into his side. “I’m glad it was you. I’m glad you raised me.”

Dio didn’t speak for a moment—just rested his cheek on her head and held her close.

“I’m glad it was me too,” he finally said. “Even if I didn’t see it coming. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The final boarding call echoed overhead. Their flight home was waiting.

Lily looked at her crown in her reflection on the window. “Do you think it’s okay to celebrate my birthday today? Even if it’s… you know.”

He gently straightened her crown. “It’s your day. Not a tragedy. Not a curse. Just a birthday. And we’ll always make it beautiful. Deal?”

She smiled, really smiled. “Deal.”

They stood and walked toward their gate—hand in hand, past the noise, past the memories, into whatever came next.

The cabin lights had dimmed to a soft glow, casting long shadows over the rows of dozing passengers. Lily had finished watching her vlog concert of Illit for the third time (making sure her edits were perfect) and was curled up under a blanket, her plushie tucked between her arms and her birthday crown now lopsided on her tray table.

Dio sat beside her, still in the same window seat he always claimed—right side, just past the wing. He stared out into the velvet-dark sky, eyes tracing the constellations beyond the clouds.

He glanced at her. She was still awake—barely. That post-cake, post-cry, post-everything exhaustion was catching up to her, but she was fighting sleep, her gaze half-lidded and distant.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You got a minute?”

Lily stirred, peeking up. “Yeah?”

Dio hesitated. The words had been sitting on his chest since the afterparty, heavy like luggage he hadn’t unpacked.

“There’s something I need to tell you. Something… important.”

Lily sat up slightly. “What is it?”

Dio rubbed his palms together, grounding himself. Then he looked her in the eyes.

“They found your mom and dad.”

Lily blinked. Once. Then again. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Just a few days ago,” he continued. “They contacted me after the concert. I wasn’t sure when to tell you, but… today felt like the day. I didn’t want to keep it from you.”

“Wait—like really found them?” she asked, voice cracking. “Alive?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Alive. Somewhere off the coast of Bermuda, believe it or not. They were stranded. Some kind of island or shipwreck situation—barely had contact with the outside world. It’s… a miracle, honestly.”

Lily’s face contorted between disbelief and hope. “Are they okay?”

“They’re safe. A little shaken up. Recovering.” He paused. “They’ve been asking about you.”

She swallowed hard. “Do they want me to come home?”

Dio looked down at his hands for a long moment. Then back to her.

“They said they want to talk. Catch up. Figure things out.”

Lily sat there, frozen under her blanket, gripping her plushie like it might float away. “But this is home,” she said quietly.

Dio’s heart tugged.

“I know,” he said, his voice thick. “I know. And nothing changes that unless you want it to. Okay? You don’t owe anyone anything—not even them. We take this at your pace.”

Lily didn’t say anything right away. She looked out the window, into the dark where stars seemed to blink just for her.

“Do they even know me anymore?” she whispered.

Dio reached over and took her hand. “They’ll have to get to know the person you are now. The amazing, sharp, dance-battling, Korean-speaking, K-pop-loving you.”

She smiled faintly. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

“That’s okay too,” he said. “You don’t have to figure it out tonight. Or tomorrow. You’ve got time. We’ll figure it out together.”

Lily leaned into him again, just like she had in the terminal hours ago—but this time with more weight behind it. More questions. More wonder.

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, almost in a whisper.

And as the plane hummed toward home, Dio closed his eyes and held her a little tighter, bracing for the storm they hadn’t quite landed in yet.

A few days after arriving back in California Dio and Lily headed to the Orange County courthouse. The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the reserved meeting space, casting long lines of light across the polished wood floor. It was quiet save for the hushed buzz of conversation from the far end of the room, where Dio stood near the doorway, Lily clutching his hand tighter than she had since kindergarten.

At the other end of the room stood Nigel and Sarah.

Alive. Whole. Changed.

Nigel looked thinner, more sun-tanned, and weathered by salt and time, but the moment he saw Lily, something cracked wide open in his chest. Sarah gasped audibly, her eyes immediately filling with tears. And between them stood a little boy—no older than three—peeking out curiously from behind Sarah’s leg.

Lily took a slow, uncertain step forward. Then another.

“Hi,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Sarah stepped forward, eyes shimmering. “Lily… my God, look at you. You’re so big.”

Nigel knelt, a trembling smile on his face. “You… you kept growing. You’re beautiful, Lilypad.”

She blinked at the nickname, a flicker of memory flashing through her. “You used to call me that when I lost teeth.”

“I still remember,” he said, choking on the words.

They met in the middle, and Lily folded into Sarah’s arms. Dio watched from a respectful distance, jaw clenched so hard it ached. The sound of Sarah’s soft crying and Lily’s quiet sniffles echoed softly in the open space.

“I thought you were dead,” Lily whispered.

“We thought we’d never get back,” Sarah replied, holding her tighter. “We fought every day to come home.”

“And who’s this?” Lily asked, turning to the wide-eyed toddler hiding behind Nigel’s leg.

“This is your little brother,” Nigel said with a proud, sheepish smile. “Eli.”

Lily blinked. “I have… a brother?”

The little boy grinned and waved, and Lily laughed—half awe, half confusion. “This is so weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Dio muttered under his breath, watching from the wall.

A shifting of voices near the side door drew his attention. In walked Daniel, Joseph, and Albert.

Dio’s jaw locked tighter.

Daniel offered a nod. “Dio.”

Dio didn’t return it.

Joseph, at least, had the decency to look remorseful. “We didn’t know how bad it got for you. Not really.”

“You didn’t want to know,” Dio shot back, his voice low but sharp. “You didn’t call. You didn’t show up to court. And when her grandmother tried to rip Lily away, you said—what was it again, Albert? ‘Maybe she’d be better off with real family?’”

Albert flinched. “We were scared.”

“I was too,” Dio said. “And I still showed up every damn day. I changed my whole life for her. I left Seattle and moved back here thinking that you all would have my back. All the while you all made me feel like I was stealing her.”

Silence.

“I had to rebuild from nothing while you all stood by and watched,” he continued. “And the worst part? She looked up to you. All of you.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

[Dahyun: Breathe. She’s safe. You’re safe. They can’t touch what you built.]

Dio stared at the message, then closed his eyes. Just for a second. Let the weight drain out of his shoulders.

Across the room, Lily was laughing. Sarah had pulled out old stories like they were coins from a magic purse, talking about Dio with amusement.

“So, a K-pop star, huh?” Sarah grinned as Lily lit up. “Your godfather’s got taste. I remember when he couldn’t even talk to cashiers without getting flustered.”

Lily giggled. “Her name’s Dahyun. She’s so pretty.”

“And way out of his league,” Sarah teased.

Dio walked over then, calm again, standing beside Lily. She reached for his hand without thinking.

Nigel looked at him with real gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “You saved her.”

Dio didn’t smile. Not yet. But he nodded once, tight and honest. “It was no big deal.”

The tension in his chest stayed—like a spring coiled tight—but the sight of Lily, now bouncing Eli on her hip like she’d always been a big sister, made something inside him start to unwind.

He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but for the first time in years, he didn’t dread the question.

A few days later Dio was moving out of the house he’d practically raised Lily in at the behest of Nigel and Sarah.

The house was full, but for a moment, the guest room was still. The murmurs from downstairs were muffled, like a distant tide. Lily sat cross-legged on the bed, fingers idly picking at the hem of her sleeve. Across from her, Sarah—her mother, who had been missing for five years but somehow still looked like she remembered—watched her carefully, gently.

There was a long silence before either of them spoke.

“I like your necklace,” Lily said finally, barely above a whisper.

Sarah blinked, then smiled softly. “Thanks, sweetheart. You used to play with it when you were little. You’d chew on the star.”

Lily gave a tiny, unsure smile, then looked down again.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said, voice cracking despite her best effort. “I used to dream about it… but in the dream it always happened on my birthday. Like magic.”

Sarah’s eyes filled, but she blinked the tears back. She moved slowly, cautiously, sitting beside Lily.

“I dreamed about you too. Every single night. Sometimes I’d wake up and swear I could hear your laugh in the wind,” Sarah said, brushing a lock of hair behind Lily’s ear. “I know this is a lot. It is for me too.”

There was another silence. Then Lily asked:

“Why didn’t you call?”

Sarah looked down at her hands, wringing them slowly. “There was no way. We were stranded on this awful island… we didn’t even know if help was coming. And when it finally did, the world had moved on. We didn’t even know if you’d still be… with family.”

“I was,” Lily said. “Dio kept me. He fought for me. Even when nobody else wanted him to.”

Sarah exhaled sharply, guilt and gratitude crashing through her all at once.

“I know. He saved you. He saved all of us.”

Lily looked at her mother, eyes cloudy. “I love him, you know. He’s not my real dad, but he’s my dad.”

Sarah nodded, her throat tightening. “And nothing will change that. Not ever. Families grow… they don’t get replaced.”

“I don’t know how to feel,” Lily admitted. “I’m happy. I’m scared. I feel… guilty too, a little.”

“Why guilty?”

Lily’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Because I was starting to forget what your voice sounded like. I had to keep watching old videos.”

Sarah reached for her hand and held it tight. “That’s not forgetting. That’s surviving.”

Lily looked up, and Sarah’s eyes shimmered with tears—but this time, they didn’t fall.

A soft knock came at the door. It was Dio.

“Hey,” he said gently, as if he knew the weight of what was happening on the other side. “Dinner’s ready. If you’re hungry.”

“We’ll be right out,” Sarah said, brushing Lily’s hair back again.

Lily stood, hesitating at the door. Then she turned back, throwing her arms around her mother’s waist in a sudden, fierce hug. Sarah froze for half a second before melting into it, holding her daughter like she’d never let go again.

“I missed you so much,” Lily murmured.

“I missed you more,” Sarah whispered.

As they stepped out together, Sarah kept one hand on Lily’s back—protective, proud.

And just down the hallway, Dio watched from a respectful distance, hands in his pockets. He gave Lily a small, warm smile. She gave him one back—but this time, it was a little sad, too.

He understood.

Families grow. But they also change.

40 notes · View notes

"I will do it my own way. The power to crush Kamen Riders will be mine."

88 notes · View notes

Sakura

47 notes · View notes

Sakura

78 notes · View notes

Sakura

60 notes · View notes

could you write a kpop smut that takes place in the lord of the rings or hobbit universe?

I don’t do smut.

3 notes · View notes

Son of Melody

A request by @magnagaruzenmon with the quote write me a pjo fanfic but try not to spill your guts all over it. I failed that challenge but am proud of the product regardless

Chaewon lounged at the edge of the rec center, a lazy smile playing on her lips as she sat with Sakura and Hannibal. Yujin and Cecilia sprawled nearby, the summer sun painting golden stripes across the floor.

They were laughing about something stupid when the shadow fell across their group.

A boy stood a few feet away — dark-skinned, tall, and sturdy like a farm hand, his black shirt and overalls slightly rumpled like he hadn’t meant to make an entrance. His foot tapped anxiously against the floor as he waited, heart racing.

Chaewon was the first to notice him. She raised an eyebrow and said, “Can I help you?”

The boy nodded, his voice shy but carried by a curious lilt — part Southern drawl swimming in a California breeze. “Um, yeah. Artemis asked for Cecilia and Hannibal. She told me to fetch y’all.”

Chaewon smiled faintly at the familiar undulation in his voice, but said nothing.

Sakura, Hannibal, Cece, and Yujin all got up at once, stretching and groaning. Chaewon lingered, still eyeing the boy. “What’s your name?” she asked, crossing her arms.

He hesitated, shoulders stiff, then said, “Django. The D’s silent, though.”

Chaewon squinted at him. “Where’s the D?”

Django sighed, the exhaustion of a man who had been through this conversation far too often. “The D comes first,” he muttered.

Hannibal, Yujin, and Cece burst into laughter.

Chaewon and Sakura looked between them, confused. Hannibal leaned over and whispered the joke’s meaning to Sakura — who gasped — and to Chaewon, who recoiled in disgust.

Her fingers twitched. In a flash of crimson and gold, Chaewon summoned her blazing spear, the polished wood and metal materializing in a burst of flames.

At the same instant, a brilliant phoenix exploded into existence at her side — its feathers the color of twilight, embers drifting from its wings like snow. It circled her once, settling protectively near her shoulder, glaring at Django.

“You dare propose such improper things to me when we have only just met?” Chaewon hissed, her voice low and dangerous, the spear’s flames licking higher.

Django threw his hands up, panic clear on his face. “No! I meant no fornication, Daughter of War. I swear it!” he blurted. “I think… I think we’ve actually met before but under different circumstances. I was security once, for a modeling gig you did for one of Aphrodite’s daughters — name escapes me — but, uh, we had a similar conversation, and I apologized then too.”

Chaewon blinked, stiffening slightly, and then relaxed. “I am so sorry,” she said, embarrassed, not catching the faint deception woven into Django’s words.

Django shrugged, his nerves smoothing into an easy grin. “No worries.”

Chaewon stepped forward to study him more carefully. As she moved, a flash of the future slammed into her senses — Django’s hands on her waist, her lips against his, the whispered rasp of her name in the dark.

She jolted, her spear trembling slightly.

Covering her reaction, Chaewon lifted her weapon and pointed it at Django. The flames shifted — from deep black to a rare, dazzling teal.

The phoenix cried once, a clear note of approval.

Chaewon smiled wide, lowering the spear. “New friend,” she announced.

Django, clearly having no idea what he’d just agreed to, nodded slowly. “Sure,” he said, baffled.

Without hesitation, Chaewon took his hand — a binding gesture sealed by the phoenix’s approving flare — and walked with him as he led the group toward Artemis’s den set outside the rec center, hidden just beyond a thicket of trees.

Instinctively, Chaewon leaned into Django’s side — not romantically, but like an old comrade long missed.

Django nearly tripped, feeling the featherlight contact. His heart skipped a beat loud enough for Chaewon to hear.

She grinned and teased, “Do I make your heart race, cowboy?”

Yujin, Hannibal, and Cece howled with laughter as they approached the den.

Chaewon lay stretched out beside Django on one of the rec center’s lounge beds, the phoenix snoozing nearby with one jeweled eye half-open. She tilted her head, studying him with a gaze that saw far more than she let on.

“So, Hero," she asked lightly, already sensing flashes of his story through her mother's gifts, "how does a blade singer end up so alone… yet so entwined with others?"

Django exhaled slowly, staring up at the rafters. His voice came out even, almost resigned. "I made the mistake of pissing off a pack of skinwalkers back in college. They decided I was a… problem worth ‘dealing with.’" His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Only thing that got dealt with was them. They came after me in my dorm — not my finest moment, but better than living in fear, you know?"

Chaewon nodded, her expression softening. "My mom chose you," she said, her voice carrying a rare alacrity.

Django smiled faintly and turned to look at her. "Yeah. She told me I would be free." His fingers drummed idly against his knee. "And in a way, she was right. But what I’ve learned is there’s always someone you answer to — even when you’re supposed to be ‘free.’ Morrigan though… she’s been good to me. Bloodthirsty, sure. But fair. I owe her."

Chaewon’s brows drew together slightly. "Has she told you who your godly parent is?" she asked, almost hesitant.

Django shrugged, almost sheepish. "Nope. Don’t think I want to know either."

Chaewon frowned, visibly sad for him. "But if you knew, you could find where you belong."

Django chuckled, low and almost affectionate. "Pretty sure I wouldn't fit in with my siblings anyway. My personality kind of… breaks the mold."

"But you’re here," Chaewon insisted, voice growing stronger, "and we work well together."

That drew a genuine smile from Django — warm and a little mischievous. "Well… until you decide you hate me," he teased.

Chaewon opened her mouth to protest, but a sharp voice cut across the courtyard.

"You trickster!" Artemis called, striding out from the den with the others trailing behind her. The young goddess’s silver eyes gleamed. "Spar with me! I hear you're quite competent… for a mortal."

Django sighed dramatically, getting to his feet. He gave Chaewon a long-suffering look and said, "Duty calls."

Chaewon watched him go, feeling something oddly fierce twist in her chest — a kind of faith she hadn’t realized she was capable of.

Artemis smirked at Django, already sizing him up. "Try not to bore me."

Django cracked his neck lazily. "Lucky you," he said, sliding his headphones over his ears. "I specialize in entertainment. Also dabble in being extremely annoying. You'll see soon enough."

The match was on.

Django scrolled through his playlist — completely casual — and hit shuffle. The heavy opening riff of "Seeing Red" by Architects blasted in his ears.

Instantly, something shifted.

He snapped his back sharply, yelling along to the beat, "Rent free living in your head, R.I.P. — they commented!"

As if the words charged the air around him, he ducked an arrow shot clean at his heart, stomping to the rhythm of the song. Energy rippled outward from him — not just magic, but something older, something wild.

The audience — demigods, nymphs, even Artemis’s hunters — leaned forward in disbelief. Bets flew through the crowd.

Django twisted effortlessly, a dance woven through the oncoming storm of arrows.

Another volley — faster, sharper. He barely seemed to notice. With a grin, he sprinted straight at Artemis.

Eyes widening, Artemis fired another shot — enchanted this time, a spell to always find its mark.

Django caught the arrow midair like it was nothing, spun it lazily between his fingers, and used it like a microphone. "I FELT IT WHEN THEY SAID —" he screamed along with the song, "— WE'LL ONLY EVER LOVE YOU IF YOU'RE SEEING RED!"

Another arrow — faster, crueler — he caught it too, now wielding two arrows like drumsticks, battering incoming shots out of the air as if playing percussion to the roaring music in his head.

Each clash sent sparks flying, turquoise and gold flames briefly flickering around him.

Chaewon’s phoenix shrieked once in excitement, wings flaring wide.

Grinning like a madman, Django hurled the enchanted arrow back at Artemis — a stunt so reckless even the hunters gasped.

Artemis barely dodged it, the enchanted projectile veering wildly before planting itself harmlessly into a stone pillar.

Django didn't stop. He rode the momentum, literally leaping onto the spinning arrow, balancing like a skateboarder.

The breakdown of the song hit, and Django howled, "Do you HEAR the audacity? YOU DUMMIES ONLY LIVE ON THE INTERNET!"

Flames burst from his boots, propelling him forward. Energy wove around him in threads of chaotic magic.

Turquoise fire crowned his head for a split second.

Then — impossibly — Django twisted off the arrow, spun midair, and landed neatly behind Artemis, sliding across the ground in a low crouch.

He tapped the ground lightly, grinned, and said, "Song's over."

He skipped away casually — leaving Artemis frozen in place, blinking in pure disbelief.

The crowd exploded — some laughing, some shouting, all stunned.

Meanwhile, Django kept moshing to the fading echoes of the song, moving alone in the open courtyard, like he was burning off the last wild bits of ancient power still crackling in his veins.

The courtyard buzzed with stunned excitement as Django casually finished moshing, brushing imaginary dust off his black overalls. Artemis approached him with measured steps, her silver eyes narrowed in suspicion — and maybe, just maybe, the slightest flicker of intrigue.

"You," she said sharply, pointing at Django like he was some unsolvable riddle. "What magic was that? What technique? What training?"

Django paused, lifting one earbud out lazily. He blinked at her, genuinely confused.

"Uh…" he drawled. "I dunno. I just… trust the music. It kinda tells me what to do." He scratched the back of his neck, shrugging like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Artemis stared at him, deadpan. "You trust the music."

"Yup." Django popped the earbud back in, bobbing his head lightly to some new song only he could hear.

Artemis turned, scanning the gathered demigods like she could find a sane answer among them. Her gaze settled on a cocky-looking Apollo kid lounging against a pillar, arms crossed, trying very hard to look unimpressed.

"You," Artemis barked. "One of yours?"

The Apollo camper, a blond boy wearing sunglasses despite the evening sun, laughed and shook his head. "Yeah, no. We are not metal enough to pull that off," he said, shooting a finger-gun at Django, who just winked back.

A ripple of laughter spread through the demigods. Even a few of Artemis’s hunters snickered behind their hands.

Artemis exhaled through her nose — a short, sharp sound of frustration. "I loathe your father’s entire lineage," she muttered.

Chaewon grinned from where she leaned against a pillar, her phoenix perched proudly on her shoulder like a flame-wrought crown. She tilted her head toward Django, watching him move like the beat of the universe ran through his bones.

Trust the music, huh?

Maybe that was why fate itself seemed to hum louder whenever Django was near — as if the very fabric of possibility warped and bent around his footsteps.

After Django slipped from her field of vision, still lost in his solitary moshing, Chaewon felt her world tilt sharply. A shudder ran through the ground beneath her feet, and her phoenix bristled against her arm, sensing the vision before it seized her.

Her mind’s eye was torn open, and she saw.

Django — older, but still carrying that same restless fire — stood alone in a twilight landscape that stretched endlessly. In his hands, a weapon thrummed with life: a blade that sang just as loudly as his soul did. Its music was not gentle — it was a furious storm of grief, yearning, and defiance, woven into one haunting melody.

The sword’s metal gleamed — moonlight steel and daylight bronze — its edge sharp enough to cut the silence itself.

Chaewon felt the desperate hunger in both weapon and wielder: a longing to belong, to be seen not as a mistake or an inconvenience, but as something holy. Yet again and again, only the angry and the aimless answered their call, never the ones who could truly understand.

And yet — in the space between Django’s pulse and the weapon’s cry — she sensed something different. Something wondrous.

Elation.

The giddy, dizzy feeling of finding a missing half. The joyful terror of standing at the edge of something vast and leaping anyway.

In her vision, Django was crowned not with gold or jewels, but with a kingdom built of the forgotten — the undying and the untamed — and he ruled not with cruelty, but with justice and a serenity that could only be born at the crossroads of passion and peace.

A depthless abyss of fury and joy entwined, dancing endlessly.

The image pulsed once more — a heartbeat of fate itself — before fading, leaving Chaewon blinking back into the dim evening.

The phoenix nestled closer against her, sensing the importance of what she had seen.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Django… and that weapon. They were bound to a destiny far greater than either of them could yet imagine.

Chaewon turned toward the rec center’s fading light, knowing instinctively that this was only the beginning. she spent the rest of the day getting ready for what came next. Talking to other demigods and hero's about Django trying to understand him but the common thread was.

"He's a good guy but he's just so angry…no consumed." It was discouraging but she found that no one had nothing really bad to say about him except those who had directly crossed him. he was a hard worker, good fighter and over all kind individual, so with that update, Chaewon called it a day.

The sun dipped low over the rec center, washing the courtyard in long gold shadows. Chaewon stood near the exit, packing up her things into a small leather satchel. Her phoenix chirped softly as it tucked itself into the crook of her arm, its feathers flickering with dying embers in the twilight.

And that was when she heard the approaching footsteps — Artemis, and someone else cloaked in the velvet of ancient magic.

She was just about to sling the satchel over her shoulder when she heard footsteps — light but deliberate. She turned to find Artemis approaching, her silver circlet glinting in the fading sun. Beside her walked another woman, cloaked in rich velvet-black robes, her aura heavy with ancient magic.

Chaewon straightened instinctively, sensing the crackle of power between them.

"Chaewon," Artemis said coolly, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. "Before you leave, there is someone you must meet."

The cloaked woman lowered her hood. Beneath it, Hecate’s sharp eyes gleamed — wise, patient, and calculating, but kind in a way that most gods forgot how to be.

"My little stormfire," Hecate said, smiling. "At last, we meet properly."

Chaewon blinked, caught off guard by the affectionate nickname. Her phoenix preened itself proudly at the sound of it.

"You already know of me, daughter of war and rebirth," Hecate continued, stepping closer. "You carry two flames — the wrath of the Morrigan, and the love of Ceridwen. Very few walk between death and life so easily… fewer still without being consumed."

Chaewon bowed respectfully, unsure whether to speak.

Hecate chuckled softly, a sound like a thousand candles flickering at once.

"Don't be so formal, child. I have a task for you — a quest if you will accept it."

Chaewon nodded, heart pounding with excitement. "I will."

Artemis, standing silently beside Hecate, gave the faintest approving nod.

"There is a weapon — Asterfae, the Blade of the Crossing," Hecate said. "It is a sword forged from both starlight and darkness. It was once mine, but I relinquished it long ago, trusting it would remain hidden until the right hands sought it."

Chaewon's phoenix chirped uneasily, sensing the gravity of the quest.

"The blade has stirred again. It begs for its proper wielder," Hecate said, her voice dropping lower. "Something — someone — seeks it who should not. I would have you retrieve it for me before it falls into the wrong hands."

Chaewon lifted her chin. "Where must I go?"

A thin smile tugged at the corners of Hecate’s mouth. She waved her hand, and a silver coin materialized, emblazoned with strange shifting runes. She dropped it into Chaewon's palm. It burned pleasantly against her skin.

"Find the place where the dead drink the stars," Hecate whispered. "There, the Blade of the Crossing waits… and so do its new guardians."

Chaewon shivered, but she gripped the coin tightly, determination flaring in her chest. "I won't fail you," she promised.

"I know you won't," Hecate said warmly, brushing a stray lock of Chaewon’s hair behind her ear like a proud aunt. "You were made for thresholds. You were made to choose what others fear to face."

Without another word, Hecate turned and disappeared into the deepening shadows, her cloak melting into the night.

Artemis lingered a moment longer, giving Chaewon a rare smile. "Take the cowboy with you," she said dryly, nodding in the direction Django had vanished to earlier. "You'll need his chaos."

Chaewon laughed under her breath, feeling the warmth of destiny coil tightly around her bones.

Early the next morning, Chaewon went looking for Django, but he was nowhere near the rec center. Something in her gut told her he wouldn’t be asleep either.

Following her instincts — and a faint, familiar pull she couldn’t quite explain — she wandered toward the amphitheater tucked into the woods behind the camp.

There she found him.

Django was alone, already deep into training, the early mist curling around him like smoke. He danced between battered practice dummies with a kind of reckless grace, switching weapons mid-motion: a battered longsword here, a cracked battle-axe there, even a broken spear, wielded like an extension of his body.

It was not just sparring — it was a ritual. A battle against invisible enemies only he could see.

Chaewon leaned against a column, smiling softly as Django, mid-swing with a zweihander, spun it suddenly and air-guitared a few wild, chaotic riffs.

"We're fighting with the shadow in the dark," he sang under his breath, voice rough but strangely melodic. With a roar, he brought the heavy blade down on a dummy, splitting it cleanly in half.

Chaewon’s smile faded slightly. There was something heavy wrapped around him — a presence older and sadder than just exhaustion.

It was as if he was fighting for something… something he could not afford to lose, and could barely name.

Before she could dwell on it, two familiar presences approached — their magic brushing the edges of her awareness like fingertips across the water.

She turned to see Cerwidden and Hecate standing a few feet away, watching Django with a strange, almost mournful fondness.

"Oh," Cerwidden said with a small, knowing smile, "You're watching the Orphan."

Chaewon flushed slightly, embarrassed at being caught, but didn’t look away. "I was just… yeah. He's captivating. It's like he's trying to drag the music inside of him out into the world. Like it's clawing to be born."

Hecate’s eyes glimmered like twin moons. "He is."

Cerwidden folded her arms thoughtfully. "His father was a Griot — a sacred storyteller, keeper of histories and songs. But in a fit of rage and pride, he severed Django from the protection of his ancestors. Now he wanders — a voice without a choir, a soul with no home. His gifts… they spill out in ways even he can’t control. And with no ancestral spirits to shield him, he is always exposed. Always hunted."

Chaewon turned back toward the arena, her phoenix ruffling its wings nervously on her shoulder. Instinctively, Chaewon reached inward — calling on her mother’s blessing.

The veil thinned.

Suddenly the amphitheater was no longer empty. It was full —rows of spirits, translucent and weeping, cheering silently for Django. They were soldiers, musicians, dancers, healers — all of them forgotten, all of them lost — drawn to Django’s music like moths to a flame.

Tears stung Chaewon's eyes. "Why?" she whispered. "Why would his father do that to him?"

Cerwidden’s voice was gentle but firm. "Because sometimes a parent's fear blinds them to the truth of their own child. Django's father saw in him a mirror — a reflection of the hunger for greatness he feared in himself. Rather than confront it, he punished Django for it. He thought it would spare him pain… not realizing he was only passing that wound forward."

A tear slipped free down Chaewon’s cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

"So why does he still fight?" she asked hoarsely.

Hecate stepped forward, her presence dark and rich as storm clouds. "Because that is who he is. He would fight beyond death itself, march beyond the veil and back, if it meant protecting even a single song still left to sing."

Chaewon swallowed the lump in her throat, watching Django weave through another furious dance, his sweat-slick hair flying, his movements raw and electric.

"And his godly parent?" she asked. "Can't they… help him?"

Cerwidden and Hecate exchanged a look — full of ancient understanding and sorrow.

"He must choose to reach out first," Cerwidden said finally. "His mother waits — aching to welcome him home — but the burden of pain and pride weighs heavy on him. Until he lets go of his shame, his grief, his rage at being cast aside, he will never truly hear her call."

Chaewon stood silently for a moment, feeling the weight of Django’s loneliness echo in her chest.

And then, Hecate’s hand rested lightly on Chaewon’s shoulder — warm, grounding, and almost motherly. The touch anchored her, just enough to pull her back from the sadness.

Chaewon wiped the tear trails from her cheeks quickly, breathing out a shaky laugh. Without another thought, she bolted toward Django.

Down at the amphitheater, Django was finishing his training — loose, fluid, the way an instrument hums after being played for hours. Chaewon, trying to hurry, misjudged the slope.

Her foot slipped.

She tumbled forward — a startled yelp leaving her lips — but Django was already moving.

Strong arms caught her, pulling her against him just before she could hit the ground. For a moment, she lay in his grasp, chest heaving from the surprise. And when she looked up, she found Django's eyes already locked onto hers — concerned, steady, bright with some emotion she couldn’t name.

Time stretched and thinned between them. Something passed in that instant: not just attraction, but something quieter, deeper — a kind of recognition. Neither spoke, but some invisible bond knitted tighter without either realizing it.

Chaewon felt her cheeks flush violently. She immediately pushed at his chest, grumbling, "Put me down, you big meathead!"

Django chuckled, a low, warm sound that sent a ridiculous flutter through her stomach, and set her gently on her feet.

Trying to cover up how flustered she was, Chaewon straightened her clothes unnecessarily and blurted, "I have a quest. And… I want your help on it."

Django's expression shifted slightly, his eyes sharpening in curiosity. "Okay, sure," he said easily, but there was a weight behind his agreement — as if he'd follow her anywhere if she asked.

Chaewon grinned, relieved, and smacked his arm lightly. "Good. Get packed — we’ve got a lot to do."

They walked toward the dormitories together, the tension between them now a thrumming undercurrent — not uncomfortable, but charged.

While Django gathered his things, Chaewon couldn't help but notice a peculiar item he packed first: a deep black satchel embossed with intricate symbols of Persephone and Hades intertwined.

Chaewon tilted her head. "Is that a bag of Nyx?" she asked, recognizing the faint shimmer of starry magic.

Django nodded, tossing a few battered weapons into it. "Got it doing a favor for Thanatos, Hades, and Persephone. Nico was busy on a date with Will Solace, so… they drafted me."

Chaewon snorted, the mental image too good. "You? Running errands for the gods?" she teased.

Django just sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "It’s not often… but I dabble."

Chaewon’s smile widened until she noticed something strange: all the weapons Django packed were old, scratched, battle-worn — none gleamed fresh or new.

She frowned slightly. "Why aren’t you packing any new weapons?"

Django zipped the satchel closed, slinging it over his shoulder with a casual shrug. "Because new ones aren’t tested. These? They’ve fought. They’ve survived."

He picked up a chipped sword reverently, like a musician lifting a beloved instrument. "People don't realize it, but weapons… they remember. Pull through enough battles, and they gain a soul — or something close to it. They change. They sing."

Chaewon’s heart squeezed unexpectedly. "You can speak to them?" she asked softly.

Django shook his head, almost shy. "Not words. It's more like… music. Each one has a rhythm, a groove it wants to make. I just… let it shine in the orchestra I carry. If only for one last song."

Chaewon laughed quietly, but there was no mockery in it — only wonder. Because somehow, it made perfect sense. Her own spear had evolved with her over the years — not through spells, but through shared blood and battle and loyalty.

Django’s peculiar kindness, his strange spirituality, continued to surprise and disarm her. He wasn’t just strong; he was gentle where it mattered most. He didn’t just fight; he listened — even to broken things.

As he finished packing, Chaewon caught herself wondering again who his godly parent was. Whoever she was, she had birthed something rare: a son who fought like a tempest and cared like a poet.

And somehow, without even realizing it, Chaewon felt herself leaning closer to him, drawn in — as if his silent music was something she was starting to hear, too.

Chaewon shook off the strange, lingering thoughts as she grabbed her own things. Django, with his weapons and worn satchel, was already ready to go, his posture relaxed but alert. There was a strange calm in him — an acceptance that whatever came next, he'd face it like a song he had to finish.

“Ready to go?” Chaewon asked, a bit of playful energy returning to her voice.

“Always,” Django answered, his smile wide but his eyes focused, like a wolf about to step into the unknown. The air between them felt lighter now, but still thick with that unspoken something.

They made their way to the entrance of the rec center, where Chaewon paused, taking in the early morning sun that was casting long shadows across the ground. She breathed in deeply, a quiet determination blooming in her chest. This quest would bring them closer to something important — both for her and for Django.

“I think this is it,” she said softly, her voice almost lost to the wind. Her phoenix fluttered lightly beside her, its wings catching the sun’s rays, and for a moment, Chaewon felt like everything was about to change.

Django took a step closer, as if sensing the subtle shift in Chaewon’s energy. He leaned in just a little, his voice dropping to a quieter tone than usual. “Yeah, this is it,” he agreed with a soft nod. “Let’s see where the road leads us.”

His words hung in the air as they began walking from the rec center toward his car. The quiet, comfortable hum of the journey stretched before them, the soft pulse of the road beneath them as they started driving east. Django navigated the car with a steady hand, his movements relaxed. He drove with a calm confidence that made Chaewon feel at ease. She realized how much she liked the rhythm of it—how everything with him seemed to flow in its own natural way.

As the car cruised down the road, Chaewon couldn’t help but observe Django. It wasn’t just his music, but the way everything he did felt like it was in sync with something—his foot tapping on the pedal, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel, his body swaying subtly with an invisible beat. He was always in motion with the music, as if it was woven into him.

Chaewon found herself smiling at him. He was so unselfconscious about it, so wrapped up in his own world of melody and sound. It was���endearing.

"Well, aren’t you just a music machine?" Chaewon teased, leaning back in her seat.

Django smiled faintly, a sheepish glint in his eye. “Yeah, it’s one of the few things I can hold onto, y’know? Even when everything else is a mess, music is there.”

Chaewon nodded in understanding, then asked casually, "Do you ever listen to our songs?"

Django scoffed, his grin widening. “Of course. I was feral for ‘Eve,’ ‘Psyche,’ and ‘Bluebeard’s Wife.’ Watched all the fancams, except Eunchae’s… I couldn’t do it, she was a minor. Felt weird. But I love y’all’s music.” He shrugged, the matter-of-factness of his tone making Chaewon laugh.

She raised an eyebrow. "So, who’s your bias?"

Django shot her a sidelong glance, his Cali-Tex accent thickening as he spoke. "Would you let me go if I said, all five of y’all?"

Chaewon chuckled, shaking her head. "Not a chance."

Django sighed dramatically, clearly enjoying the banter but also sounding slightly defeated, which made Chaewon smile more than she expected. It was like she’d finally managed to tame the wild man, even if only for a moment. "Originally, it was Sakura. She’s got this strength, this resilience, you know? She can face impossible odds and still come out on top, and it’s beautiful. But lately… things are changing in my heart. And honestly, I can’t control it."

Chaewon’s heart skipped a beat, but she smiled anyway, pretending to brush it off. "So who is it now?"

Django smirked playfully, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I’ll tell you after this quest."

Chaewon huffed, mock-annoyed. "Aggh!" But despite her protest, a small smile tugged at her lips, and she couldn’t hide it.

The car ride passed with a comforting quiet. The only sounds were the gentle hum of the road beneath them and Django’s occasional hum to the music on the radio. Chaewon felt herself growing more relaxed in his presence, her earlier curiosity about him turning into something else—something softer, but stronger, too.

As they drove, Chaewon’s eyelids grew heavy. The safety and ease she felt with Django lulled her into a peaceful sleep. Her dreams, as always, were filled with strange visions. The veil between time and space thinned, and she found herself seeing Django again, but this time, in a new, haunting light.

She saw him sitting on the edge of a bridge, an Xbox controller in his hands. His eyes were wide with unshed tears. She watched as he prepared to jump, only for something—someone—to stop him. The scene shifted, and she saw him walking, the weight of his isolation heavy on his shoulders. Chaewon reached out, but the dream drifted, leaving her with an empty ache.

Suddenly, she was somewhere familiar—a dark crossroads, the kind her mother often wandered. The Morrigan’s crows circled overhead, and the air smelled of rain and old earth.

"So you finally met the orphan," her mother’s voice drifted to her.

Chaewon nodded, her mind still reeling from the vision. "Why did you take him in?"

The Morrigan’s eyes glimmered in the shadows, her form shifting and changing. Gone was the crone—replaced by a younger, more seductive version of herself, her body every bit as powerful as it was beautiful. She looked at Chaewon with a knowing smile, her lips curling slightly. "An abandoned child will burn down the village to feel warmth. When I found him, he was shivering and ready to start looking for matches."

Chaewon frowned, puzzled. "So you snatched him?"

"No," the Morrigan replied, her voice like silk. "I merely gave him enough warmth to keep going where he needed to go."

Her mother’s gaze turned sharp, and her lips parted to reveal words Chaewon didn’t want to hear.

"What’s your interest in the orphan?" she asked, her eyes intense.

Chaewon hesitated, unsure how to answer. Her feelings were still so tangled, so new. She could barely name them, let alone understand them. "He’s kind?"

The Morrigan laughed, a deep, throaty sound that filled Chaewon with both unease and wonder. "Be in denial for now," she said softly. "But when the time comes, and you can’t fight yourself anymore, make sure he’s still yours."

The words sank deep into Chaewon’s chest as the dream shifted again, turning dark and jagged. The sound of distant gunshots echoed as her vision fractured, and everything fell away.

she jolted and watched as Django was facing off against a manticore. in his hands a dented revolver. she noticed he was pinned and without a second thought she jumped out of the car. her Phoenix pinning the Manticore threw her spear.

Massive flames of crimson and gold engulfed the weapon as it blazed a burning trail towards the creature before reducing it to glassed ash. she turned to Django as the spear was returned to her by her phoenix.

"Before she could even tease him he said graciously, "thank you so much that was very harrowing,"

Chaewon smiled happily and said, "Anytime." The drive east was long, but easy. As the sun dipped low against the horizon, the duo pulled up to a modest but comfortable-looking hotel tucked between stretches of old woods and small-town roads. The air smelled of pine and the fading warmth of summer.

Django parked the car and slid out first, stretching with a satisfied grunt. Chaewon watched from her seat, admiring the way his shirt clung to his shoulders as he moved—broad and easy, like a big cat waking from a nap.

Get a grip, she told herself, cheeks warming as she grabbed her bag and slid out after him.

Inside, the hotel was quiet, the kind of place that catered to hunters and demigods passing through. Django checked them in without much fuss, securing two rooms side by side.

“You’ll have your own room,” he said, tossing her a keycard. “Privacy and all that. I’m not gonna crowd you.”

Chaewon arched an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Oh? What if I wanted you to crowd me?”

For a second—just a second—Django’s easygoing grin faltered. His ears turned a shade redder as he coughed and glanced away, pretending to adjust the strap of his bag.

Chaewon laughed softly, bumping her shoulder against his as they headed toward the elevators. She couldn’t help herself—it was too much fun watching him squirm.

Once they reached the rooms, Django paused awkwardly in the hall. “Uh… If you need anything. Y’know. Just knock. Or yell. I’ll hear you.”

Chaewon twirled the keycard between her fingers, the way she might spin a dagger in combat. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

“You’re sweet,” she said lightly, voice dipping a little lower. “Dangerous, but sweet.”

And then she disappeared into her room with a soft click of the door, leaving Django standing there like a statue.

He dragged a hand down his face the second she was gone, muttering to himself, “Great. Real smooth. She’s dangerous and sweet. Just like your dumb heart ordered.”

He threw himself onto his bed without bothering to unpack. His body was exhausted from the road, but his mind? His mind was running a marathon.

Chaewon wasn’t just beautiful—though she was, painfully so. It was the way she laughed at him without cruelty, the way she pushed back without ever trying to belittle him. She was powerful, sure, but not cold. Not guarded like so many others he’d met. She was warm. Sweet. Kind in a way that made his defenses crack.

And it was dangerous.

Because Django had built his whole life around surviving without needing anyone. He wasn’t sure what terrified him more—the idea of falling for her… or the idea that he already had started.

Across the thin wall between them, he heard Chaewon humming softly to herself as she unpacked.

It sounded suspiciously like a love song.

Django rolled onto his stomach with a groan, muffling his face into the pillow.

“This quest is gonna kill me,” he muttered.

But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was her smile—and for once, he wasn’t sure he minded the risk. Django had barely managed to flip onto his back and get comfortable when his phone buzzed against the nightstand. Groaning, he stretched out and grabbed it, expecting maybe a message from camp or a reminder about the quest.

Instead, it was a text from Chaewon.

Chae: “Still waiting for you to crowd me, wild man. You scared? lol”

Django stared at the message like it might catch fire in his hands.

For a few long seconds, he just lay there, heart pounding like he’d just run a dozen laps around the training fields. She’s just teasing, he told himself. Just being playful.

Still, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a slow, helpless smile.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he finally fired back:

Django: “Not scared. Just being a gentleman. Thought you deserved to rest after getting manhandled by gravity earlier.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Her reply came fast, and he could almost hear the sly smirk in her voice:

Chae: “Gentleman, huh? We’ll see how long that lasts when we’re in real danger.”

Django set the phone down carefully like it was made of glass. He let out a low laugh—half exasperated, half in awe.

“Danger’s already here, sweetheart,” he muttered to the empty room, running a hand through his hair. “And it’s wearing my favorite smile.”

He rolled over again, burying his burning face into the pillows, but deep down he knew sleep wasn’t coming easy tonight.

Not with Chaewon right there, just a thin wall away.

Not with the way his heart had already started drawing battle lines he wasn’t sure he could hold. Django eventually drifted to sleep as exhaustion caught up with him. The world around Django melted into a swirl of ash and stormlight. He stood barefoot at the center of a dead battlefield, the ground cracked and steaming under an endless gray sky. He could hear it again — the music, but it was wrong. The familiar hum that usually danced in his chest now throbbed in discordant, scraping chords, like metal being torn apart. It hurt. It burned.

From the mist, two figures emerged — one wreathed in thunderclouds, skirts whipping with the fury of a brewing hurricane. The other — all black feathers and bone-pale skin, her hair streaming out into a murder of crows that screamed as they circled overhead.

Oya and The Morrigan. Both war-goddesses. Both watching him.

Oya’s voice cracked like thunder across the broken field: “Why do you deny yourself, little storm?” Her eyes flashed white. Winds howled in mourning around her.

The Morrigan circled him slowly, dragging a sharp nail across the air, leaving bloody rents in the sky. “You hold your mother’s power, boy. Yet you bind it with chains of shame. Guilt is not strength. It is death in slow motion.”

Django wanted to respond. He opened his mouth — but no words came. Instead, the broken music inside him grew louder. Wild, dissonant notes clashed together, creating a wall of white-hot noise that made him stagger. He clutched his chest, where something was thrashing under his ribs, screaming to be set free.

“You are the Songsmith of Storm and Forge,” Oya said, stepping closer, her voice softening with sorrow. “Your blood hums with creation. With war. With art. You were never meant to crawl.”

“But you fear,” The Morrigan finished. “You fear that loving yourself will make you the monster your father feared you would become.” She sneered, not unkindly. “You chain your own spirit. And you poison the music meant to heal you.”

Around Django, the ground began to split. From the cracks, ghastly figures pulled themselves free — warped memories of faces he once loved, now twisted by shame and failure. They screamed in time with the discordant music, grabbing at his arms and legs, weighing him down.

He dropped to one knee, gasping.

Above him, Oya raised her hand. A spear of pure wind and fire formed in it — luminous, blazing, alive. The Morrigan extended her own hand, offering a black dagger with a golden crow etched into its blade.

“Take it,” they said together, their voices harmonizing in a terrifying, beautiful duet. “Accept your mother’s gift. Accept yourself.”

Django reached out — but as his fingers brushed the weapons, another sound ripped through his mind: the crushing voice of his father, from deep within his memory.

“You’re dangerous. You’ll ruin everything. You’ll ruin yourself.”

The music inside Django shattered into pieces — an explosion of broken guitar strings and shrieking brass — and the world imploded into chaos.

Django screamed, not in anger but in anguish. The spears and daggers dissolved before he could grab them. The dreamscape blackened, the battlefield twisting into a nightmare of flashing memories — the bridge, the Xbox clutched to his chest, the loneliness, the empty crowd.

He fell and fell and fell — his own mind rejecting him.

In the real world, Django thrashed violently in bed. Sweat poured down his face. His hands gripped the sheets like he was trying to hold onto something precious slipping away. Quietly, unnoticed, a thin shimmer of turquoise flame flickered around his heart — barely clinging to life — and then faded.

He wouldn’t wake up peacefully. Not tonight.

And somewhere, far away, a mother who had waited far too long hummed a soft, aching song, hoping her son would hear her before it was too late.

Django woke up feeling refreshed physically, but mentally, it was like he had dragged himself through a battlefield blindfolded. The nightmare clung to him like smoke, sour and heavy, but he had a job to do — and he wasn’t going to let Chaewon see the cracks.

He got ready quickly, smoothing out any sign of how badly he had slept, then walked over to Chaewon’s door and knocked. He expected her usual upbeat greeting, but instead, when the door swung open, he was greeted by Chaewon standing there in only a towel.

Django’s breath hitched, and his mind short-circuited.

“Oh, you’re ready! Great — just wait for me inside,” she chirped, completely unfazed, flashing him a grin before disappearing into the bathroom again. Django swallowed thickly and stepped into her room, trying very hard to keep his eyes glued to anything but the towel she had left behind.

When Chaewon finally reemerged, fully dressed and radiant, she twirled around once and asked, teasingly, “Well? How do I look?”

Django fumbled for words, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. “You… you look really nice, Chae,” he managed, voice low and genuine.

Chaewon’s heart kicked in her chest, and something electric passed between them — something thick and warm and terrifyingly sweet. She pouted at him, crossing her arms.

“You can’t just look at me like that. I might start thinking you’re falling in love with me,” she teased, trying to sound playful, but her voice had a nervous edge even she couldn’t ignore.

Something emboldened Django — maybe it was the dream, maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was just her — but he took a step closer, voice rough and earnest.

“And so what if I am, Chae?”

The world narrowed to just them. Without thinking, Chaewon pounced, throwing her arms around him and pressing her lips to his. Django caught her, stumbled back a step, then kissed her back, deep and greedy, their bodies finding a melody without words.

She clung to him, hands threading into his hair as if afraid he’d slip away. Django whimpered her name between kisses, barely able to think.

“Chae…” he mumbled again as her lips brushed down his jaw, lower, her eagerness setting him on fire.

But responsibility crashed into Django like cold water. He caught her wrists gently but firmly, breathing hard. “Chae,” he said, voice rough with regret, “we have a job to do.”

Chaewon groaned in protest and pulled away, pouting like a sulky cat. “This is why I hate kissing people,” she grumbled, but there was no real malice in it — only a deep, simmering frustration that she couldn’t quite hide.

Django chuckled softly, running a hand through his messy hair as he tried to steady himself. “Trust me, you’re not alone there,” he muttered.

They checked out easily and got back on the road, Chaewon still shooting little side-eye glances at him, half-pouty but understanding deep down. She curled up in her seat, playing with the strings of her hoodie, while Django kept his eyes on the road — and on anything that wasn’t the memory of her hands gripping him like he was something precious.

As they drove east, Chaewon’s gaze drifted to him again. Something about him struck her — how smooth his skin was. Most demigods she knew had visible scars, souvenirs from battles and monsters and mistakes. She herself had plenty. But Django? His skin was strangely… unmarred. It was almost uncanny.

“You don’t get in a lot of fights, do you?” Chaewon asked, cocking her head.

Reflexively, Django chuckled and shook his head. “Huh, no — I’m constantly fighting,” he said. “It’s just… getting something to fight back is harder. Why do you ask, Chae?”

Her heart flipped hearing the way he said her nickname — so casual, so warm. She fought the goofy smile tugging at her lips and tried to sound nonchalant.

“I just noticed… you don’t have a lot of scars. Most of us do.”

Django shrugged, flashing a crooked smile that made her stomach flutter. “A lot of healing magic. Some good old-fashioned recovery, too. I figured if I wanted to live long, I’d better treat my body like something sacred. So… early years, later years — both productive, both fruitful.”

Chaewon nodded slowly, feeling the strange warmth in his words — how he spoke about survival like it was an art form, not just a necessity.

“I like it,” she said softly, almost to herself.

There was a beat of silence between them. Comfortable. Soft. Chaewon, emboldened by the earlier closeness, reached over and gently brushed her fingers against Django’s hand resting on the gear shift.

He stiffened for half a second — startled — but didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his palm up so their hands could fit together naturally, her fingers lacing with his.

She squeezed his hand gently, and said, almost too casually, “How’d you sleep, by the way?”

Django hesitated just a moment too long before lying smoothly, “Fine. Slept like a rock.”

Chaewon glanced at him sideways, reading the exhaustion he tried to hide in the small tightness around his eyes. But she didn’t pry. She only smiled, warm and secretive, and ran her thumb slowly across his knuckles.

“Good,” she whispered, her heart full and aching at once.

Django gripped her hand a little tighter — as if to anchor himself to her — but he didn’t say a word.

Neither of them noticed how the road ahead shimmered faintly under the early sun, as if the world itself was waiting, breath held, to see what they’d become.

The drive was peaceful, quiet, with only the low hum of tires against pavement and the occasional chirp of birds overhead. As the sun reached its zenith, Django pulled the car into the dusty parking lot of a roadside diner called Mikey’s.

From the moment they stepped out, something tugged uneasily at Django’s senses — like a dissonant chord vibrating just under the surface. The diner looked normal enough at first glance, but as they approached, he noticed how dark it was inside — as if someone had deliberately snuffed out the sunlight, the windows shaded almost unnaturally.

He frowned, instincts prickling, but before he could voice his concern, Chaewon beamed a smile at the hostess and chirped, “Hi there! I’m Chaewon and this is Django — we’re hoping we could eat here!”

Django bit back a sigh. Of course Chaewon would just walk in trusting the world. He couldn’t even blame her; it was part of what he liked — loved — about her.

They slid into a booth. Chaewon ordered a light salad, while Django picked a hefty BBQ burger with fries. Halfway through the meal, he caught Chaewon sneaking glances at his plate, her face full of longing.

Without a word, Django sliced the burger clean in half and swapped it for half her untouched salad.

Chaewon’s face lit up, and she teased, “Thanks, honey.”

Django’s heart stopped for a beat, the world tilting dangerously sweet, but he smiled back with a steady, “Anytime, dear.”

They ate the rest of the meal in a quiet, happy bubble — their own little world — until it was time to leave. As they stepped into the dry afternoon light, Django paused. A voice — low, lazy, with a mocking lilt — cut through the diner’s murmur behind him.

“You know,” the voice drawled, “I’m surprised a monster diner could serve such good food.”

Django froze. His blood ran cold.

He turned slowly to find a familiar figure lounging against the shaded side of the building — a figure he hadn’t seen in years. David Mayne. Once his brother-in-arms. Now a shadow of the boy he used to know.

David’s grin widened, fangs peeking from his lips, his blood-red eyes flashing. “Song Bird,” David said with a crooked smile, “as I live and breathe. Well— kinda. I can't believe you're still alive.”

Django’s hands curled into fists. “David,” he said tightly. “What are you doing here?”

David shrugged lazily, inching closer. “Looking for something. A particular little artifact to reunite me with my dear Ophelia,” he said, voice syrupy with madness. His eyes flicked past Django, settling on Chaewon climbing into their car.

David’s smile turned predatory.

“And who,” he purred, “is the sweet thing you’ve brought along for the ride?”

Before Django could react, David pounced — a blur of predatory speed.

But Django was faster. With a flash of movement, he yanked a broken silver lance from his bag of hades, whipping it hard across David’s face. The blow snapped David’s head sideways with a hiss, blood-black eyes burning with rage beneath the tree’s shade.

“Stay the hell away from her,” Django snarled, every muscle in his body vibrating with fury.

Without waiting to see if David would retaliate, Django bolted back to the car and peeled out of the lot, tires screaming against the asphalt. Chaewon gasped, grabbing the seat as Django drove — fast and reckless — putting mile after mile between them and the vampire.

They didn’t speak. Not at first.

Only when they were a hundred and fifty miles away, the sun low and burning red in the sky, did Django finally pull over to the side of the road. His hands were shaking on the wheel.

And then — he broke. The sob tore out of him before he could stop it, raw and broken. He slammed his forehead against the steering wheel, tears spilling down his cheeks, his whole body trembling.

Chaewon, stunned, reached across and touched his shoulder. “Django…? Hey—” she said softly.

He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t even breathe right. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I— I just— I saw him and I—”

Chaewon squeezed his shoulder, her heart breaking for him. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m safe,” she whispered, coaxing him gently.

Slowly, Django forced himself to sit back, wiping his face roughly with his sleeve. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.

“His name’s David Mayne,” Django said hollowly. “We used to adventure together. Me, him, and our best friend — Max McDonalds. Max was a son of Lugh — brilliant, brave, too brave sometimes.”

He swallowed hard, staring blankly out the windshield.

“One day, Max didn’t make it. We were hunting a rogue chimera pack. He sacrificed himself… for me. For us. David never forgave the world for it. Never forgave himself either. He got obsessed — said he could bring Max back somehow. He chased every rumor, every artifact, every dark thing he could find…”

Django’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“And somewhere along the way, he let himself get turned. Vampire blood gives you… power, immortality. Hope. But it’s fake. Twisted. He thinks he’s still fighting for Max, but he’s lost himself.”

Chaewon listened quietly, her hand never leaving his shoulder.

“I tried to save him once,” Django said, voice breaking again. “I failed.”

A long silence followed. Only the cicadas and the slow breathing of the dying day filled the car Chaewon shifted closer, reaching down and carefully intertwining their fingers — just like she had that morning.

“You didn’t fail,” she said softly. “You loved him. You still do. And love… it doesn’t always win battles. But it means you fought.”

Django stared at their hands for a long time, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

For the first time in hours, his breathing started to slow. The music in his soul — still discordant, still wounded — softened just slightly at her touch, like a broken song beginning to find its missing notes. The cicadas sang louder as the sun slipped lower behind the hills, staining the sky in hues of bruised purple and gold. Django sat frozen for a long moment, staring at their intertwined hands as if it were a lifeline he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Chaewon squeezed his fingers gently again, her thumb brushing the back of his hand in slow, soothing circles.

“You need to rest,” she said quietly, her voice tender but firm.

Django opened his mouth — to protest, to say there’s no time, that they still had a job to do — but the words crumbled before they even made it out. His body, wrung dry from grief and adrenaline, betrayed him. His shoulders sagged, exhaustion pulling at him like invisible hands.

“I’m fine,” he muttered weakly, the lie crumbling even as he said it.

Chaewon didn’t argue. She just smiled — soft, understanding — and tugged his hand toward her.

“Come here,” she whispered.

Django hesitated, the very idea of leaning on someone stirring a thousand complicated emotions in his battered heart. But Chaewon just waited, patient and unafraid.

Slowly, awkwardly, Django leaned sideways across the center console, letting his head rest against her shoulder. She smelled like soft perfume and sunlight and something uniquely her.

For a moment, he stayed stiff, muscles locked up like iron bars. But as Chaewon gently ran her fingers through his hair — a slow, calming motion, not expecting anything in return — something inside Django broke in a good way. The tension seeped out of him in shuddering breaths.

“You’re safe,” Chaewon murmured, like a promise whispered against the bruises on his soul. “I’ve got you.”

His eyes slipped closed without meaning to. The chaotic music inside him — normally buzzing, skittering, discordant — quieted for the first time in days, settling into something softer. Something almost like a lullaby.

Within minutes, Django was asleep, breathing steady against her.

Chaewon stayed still, holding him as the twilight deepened around them. She stared out the windshield, tracing small patterns against his back with her free hand, marveling at the strange, beautiful boy fate had dropped into her life.

Whatever storm he’s carrying, she thought, I want to help him carry it.

She smiled softly, heart swelling with something she couldn’t name yet.

But she had time. They had time. And tonight, she’d guard him — just as he had promised to guard her.

Django slept soundly against Chaewon’s shoulder, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. For once, his dreams were not filled with chaotic battles or discordant music.

Instead, he stood in a quiet meadow, golden and endless under a soft, eternal twilight. At the center of it all was Chaewon — sitting barefoot on a smooth stone, singing a wordless song. The melody wasn’t frantic or desperate — it was simple, pure. It wrapped around Django like a blanket, stitching together the frayed edges of his spirit.

For the first time in a long time, Django didn’t feel hunted. He didn’t feel lost. He felt… home.

Meanwhile, in the real world, Chaewon carefully shifted Django off her shoulder once she realized he had truly fallen asleep. She eased him gently back into his seat, tucked a hoodie around him like a blanket, and quietly climbed into the driver’s seat.

The road stretched out before her like a ribbon of molten gold in the setting sun. The hum of the tires and the faint snoring from Django made her smile fondly.

He’s always carrying so much, she thought. Way more than he should have to.

As she turned onto the next stretch of highway, a strange ripple passed through the air — like reality itself fluttered.

Chaewon blinked — and suddenly, two figures stood in the road ahead. Time slowed. The car should have crashed, but instead, everything shimmered and pulled to a gentle halt.

Chaewon gasped as she recognized them — not from any book, but from the deep, instinctive recognition that came from being a demigod herself.

One figure radiated a fierce, golden heat — hair like fire, eyes like twin suns. Sekhmet, the lioness goddess of war, healing, and fierce protection.

The other was gentler but no less powerful — laughter and love emanated from her like a balm. Hathor, goddess of music, joy, and mothers.

“Be calm, child,” Sekhmet said, her voice a rumble in Chaewon’s bones. “We have come to speak of the boy.”

Chaewon gripped the steering wheel tighter but nodded. “Django?”

Hathor smiled, stepping forward. Her voice was a soft melody. “He used to call for me, you know. In his battles, in his loneliness. He would hum my songs without knowing whose voice he borrowed.” Her golden eyes grew sad. “But as he grew older, the mortal pain… the anger and guilt… built walls so high even my songs could not climb.”

Sekhmet crossed her arms, regal and devastating. “And now, the storm he has bottled is breaking open. His divine blood surges beneath his skin — fighting against the chains he put on it.”

Chaewon swallowed hard, glancing back at the sleeping Django.

“What… what happens if he doesn’t let go of the pain?” she asked, her voice small.

Hathor’s smile turned sorrowful. “Then the immortal part of him will tear him apart from the inside. His power will consume him — and he will be lost.”

Sekhmet’s gaze was sharp, like the point of a spear. “He must learn to forgive himself. He must learn to live. Or he will burn himself to ash, and all you love about him will be gone.”

Chaewon felt a lump rise in her throat.

“How do I help him?” she whispered.

“You are helping already,” Hathor said gently. “You sing to his soul without even knowing it. You give him something mortal worth holding on to.”

Sekhmet’s lips curved into something almost like a grin. “Be strong, little crow. When the moment comes — when the storm hits its fiercest — anchor him.”

And with that, they vanished. Time snapped back into place. The car rolled gently down the highway as if nothing had happened.

Chaewon gripped the wheel, her heart pounding. She looked over at Django, still peacefully asleep, unaware of the battle raging inside him.

Anchor him, she thought. No matter what.

After another hour or so, Django stirred awake. He blinked groggily, the last traces of the meadow dream slipping from his mind like mist. He rubbed his face and looked over at Chaewon, who was still driving — her hands steady on the wheel, her profile sharp and radiant in the afternoon sun.

“You okay?” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Chaewon glanced over at him and gave him a small smile — but there was something more behind her eyes now. Something softer. Fiercer.

“Yeah,” she said. “How about you? How’d you sleep?”

Django hesitated, feeling the truth clawing at the back of his throat — the dream, the way his own mind had tried to offer him peace, the silent war still waging inside him.

But instead, he lied. “Fine. Slept like a rock.”

Chaewon didn’t call him out. She didn’t push. She just smiled a little sadly, reached over without a word, and gently laced her fingers with his.

Her hand was small but firm, grounding. Warm.

Django swallowed hard. His instincts screamed at him to pull away, to retreat behind his usual walls — but something deeper, something older and wounded inside him… just squeezed her hand back.

For a few minutes, they sat like that, hand in hand, the hum of the tires and the breath between them filling the silence.

Django turned his head slightly, watching her — the way her hair caught the light, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the effortless strength she carried like a second skin. Chaewon wasn’t just beautiful — she was good. She was wild and radiant and stubbornly kind in ways he hadn’t realized he was desperate for.

The words were right there, trembling on the tip of his tongue.

“Chae… I think… I think I might be falling for you.”

But the fear clamped down like iron chains around his chest. Not yet. Not until he could be someone worthy of her.

Instead, Django cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “Thanks for driving. You’re a better chauffeur than I deserve.”

Chaewon rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed a little pink. “Damn right I am.”

Django laughed — a real, honest laugh — and rested his head back against the seat, their fingers still intertwined.

Somewhere deep inside him, the storm rumbled. But for now, he had her. And that was enough to keep the darkness at bay a little longer. After another two hours on the road, the sun had already started to dip low in the sky when Django and Chaewon pulled into the next town. It was small — one main road, a gas station, and a modest hotel named The Sun’s Rest.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and lemons. The front desk clerk gave them an apologetic smile.

“Sorry folks, we’re almost full. Only one room left.”

Django immediately opened his mouth to protest — to say they’d find somewhere else — but Chaewon shot him a look. A dangerous, no-nonsense look that brooked no argument.

“We’ll take it,” she said brightly.

The clerk slid them a key. Room 7B. Django reluctantly followed her upstairs, his heart hammering with a mix of terror and secret, reckless joy.

Inside, the room was small but clean. One queen-sized bed dominated the space, framed by two nightstands and a single window with threadbare curtains. Chaewon tossed her bag down casually and started rummaging through it.

“You can take the bed,” Django offered stiffly, suddenly finding the carpet extremely interesting. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Chaewon snorted, throwing him a glance over her shoulder. “Don’t be stupid. It’s a big bed. You’re not gonna catch cooties.”

“Still—”

She crossed the room in three steps, poked a finger into his chest. “Django,” she said, slow and firm, “you’re staying. In the bed. With me. Period.”

Django opened his mouth again, but nothing came out except a useless squeak. His yearning warred with his restraint — but in the end, he nodded, defeated by her stubborn warmth.

After they both got ready for bed — Django in sweats and a worn T-shirt, Chaewon in an oversized hoodie and shorts — Django collapsed onto the bed with a bone-deep exhaustion. Within minutes, he was out cold, his breathing evening into a soft, steady rhythm.

Chaewon watched him for a long moment from where she sat at the foot of the bed.

He looked so young in sleep. So unguarded — all the walls and sarcasm and careful humor stripped away, leaving the soul underneath. Tender. Beautiful. Fragile in a way she didn’t know how to explain even to herself.

A soft warmth bloomed in her chest.

Without thinking, she reached out to brush a loose curl from his forehead — and that’s when the air shifted. It grew warmer, richer, almost honey-thick.

And suddenly, she was no longer alone.

Standing before her, luminous and serene, was a woman — or three women, blurred into one shifting figure. Brigid.

The triple goddess. Patroness of poetry, fire, and the forge.

Chaewon scrambled upright, heart racing.

Brigid smiled — a fierce, bright smile like the sun itself — and said in a voice that echoed from three mouths, “So, little daughter of the Morrigan… what are your intentions with my son?”

Chaewon stammered, face burning. “I — I don’t know. I… I’ve fallen for him,” she admitted, the words tearing free with terrifying honesty. “But I don’t know how to move forward. So I just… tease him. Flirt with him. Hope he figures it out.”

Brigid laughed — a low, musical sound that vibrated in Chaewon’s bones. “While he can be dense,” she said fondly, “he is mine and his father’s son. He truly cherishes you. And you’ll be great together… if he doesn’t destroy himself first.”

That last part landed like a stone in Chaewon’s stomach.

“Destroy himself?” she echoed, fear slipping into her voice.

Brigid’s smile faded slightly. She stepped closer, her three forms folding briefly into one — a woman both young and old, beautiful and terrible. “He holds too tightly to his pain. To the guilt that is not his to carry,” she said. “If he cannot accept all of who he is — both the mortal and the divine — his own soul will tear him apart.”

Chaewon swallowed hard, looking back at Django’s sleeping form. “I don’t want that,” she whispered. “I want him to be happy. To be free.”

“You may be the key to helping him,” Brigid said gently. “But he must choose it.”

Chaewon hesitated — then, heart pounding, asked, “How was he born? How did you… come to be his mother?”

Brigid’s expression softened with a bittersweet pride.

“His father — Django Sr. — was a Christian minister. A griot of his people. His life was… full of cages. Traditions. Pain. He clung to control, believing it would protect him. But after losing four children…” Her voice faltered, rich with old grief. “…he broke. He prayed. Not with neat sermons or polished words — but raw. Open. Begging for something — anything — to help him.”

Brigid stepped closer, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper.

“And I answered.”

Chaewon blinked, stunned.

“I bore him a son,” Brigid said. “A child of fire and music and wild hope. I warned him: Django would take the best and worst parts of both of all 3 of us, his father his mother, and me— the yearning, the stubbornness, the power — and forge it into something neither parent could fully understand. I begged him to be patient.”

Her face twisted with old sadness.

“But he wasn’t. As Django grew and fought against every boundary placed around him not out of malice or ill intent but because he wanted to build who he was not be molded into something else, Django Sr. grew afraid his fear of losing control never left him and he was worried that Django would falter despite his continued tenacity and resilience. They clashed, and in his fear on the eve of Django leaving for adulthood, Django Sr. disowned him — cutting him off from the strength of his ancestors, from his roots.”

Chaewon’s throat tightened painfully.

“And the worst part?” Brigid added softly. “He never hated his father. Django still believes it was his fault. What if he had just been better — quieter, smarter, wiser, smaller, easier — he could have been loved the way he craves like his sisters but that was never possible for him.”

Chaewon felt her own heart shattering a little at that.

“He doesn’t understand yet,” Brigid finished. “That he was never the problem. That he will never be whole until he embraces all that he is — not just the parts others wanted him to be.”

The room grew still again.

Brigid brushed a tender hand over Django’s curls, then looked at Chaewon one last time.

“Be patient with him, daughter of the Morrigan,” she said. “Guide him gently. And when the time comes… remind him he was born of prayer, not mistake.”

Then she was gone — leaving only the faint scent of woodsmoke and honey in the air.

Chaewon sat there for a long time, staring at Django’s peaceful face, her heart burning with a fierce, protective love she didn’t quite know how to name yet.

But she knew one thing:

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Django dreamed he was walking hand-in-hand with Chaewon down a cobblestone street at dusk. Lanterns glowed soft gold, and music — real, live music — floated from every alley, each note familiar like a half-remembered lullaby. Chaewon smiled up at him, radiant and happy. She was wearing a simple but beautiful white dress and Django… Django wore something that felt lighter than anything he’d worn in years. Hope, maybe.

They approached a quaint little house with a roaring hearth inside. It should’ve felt perfect.

But as Django led Chaewon inside — to meet his mother — he froze.

There, seated by the fire, was his mother. Only… she was obscured. A haze blurred her face and form, like sunlight on water. No matter how hard Django tried to focus, he couldn’t see her properly. Couldn’t reach her.

Dream Django’s heart cracked a little. Even in his dreams, he was still shut off. Still ashamed. Still… distant.

Chaewon noticed his hesitation. She squeezed his hand, grounding him without a word. Django swallowed thickly and pulled her closer, hiding his sadness behind a crooked grin. Somehow, even without seeing his mother clearly, the fire burned warmer with Chaewon by his side.

But before he could say anything, the dreamscape began to dissolve — melodies unraveling into sharp discordant chords — and Django jerked awake, heart pounding.

The first thing Django felt was warmth.

The second was softness — a light touch against his forehead. He blinked groggily awake and found Chaewon sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him with quiet fondness.

Still half-asleep and desperate for something real, Django reached out without thinking, pulling her down into his arms. Before she could say a word, he tilted his head and kissed her — not rough, not desperate, but aching and sweet.

Chaewon melted into him instantly, her hands fisting gently in the fabric of his shirt.

When Django finally pulled back, his face flushed and breathless, he whispered hoarsely, “I really like you, Chae. I… I wanna spend more time with you. If you’ll let me.”

For a moment, neither moved. Then — soft, glowing like the sunrise outside the window — Chaewon smiled and said simply, “I know.”

And in that moment, something subtle stirred in the air around them.

The old, ever-present hum of music inside Django — usually silent unless he was playing — buzzed to life faintly. A shimmer rippled through the room like the strings of a harp being plucked gently. Nothing explosive, nothing frightening. Just a small, undeniable truth being sung into the world.

Chaewon rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes, trusting him completely. Django’s heart swelled painfully, overwhelmed, and yet somehow… lighter.

He didn’t know if he was worthy. He didn’t know if he could fix the broken pieces inside him. But for the first time in a long, long while, Django thought — maybe — he didn’t have to be perfect to be loved.

Maybe he just had to be willing.

As Chaewon settled against his side, pulling the covers over both of them with sleepy grins, Django stared up at the ceiling — wide awake now.

There, in the quiet of the room, he could hear it.

The music inside him — usually just a faint hum he had learned to ignore — was louder now. Richer. It wasn’t chaotic like before when his powers surged uncontrollably; this was steadier, deeper, like a heartbeat made of melody. A promise he hadn’t realized he had been carrying all his life.

She’s the one pulling it forward, he thought hazily. Maybe… maybe I don’t have to be scared anymore.

Django closed his eyes and breathed her in — lavender shampoo and warmth and everything good he thought he’d lost long ago.

The melodies didn’t stop this time. They stayed, soft and sure as if the parts of him he’d spent so long burying were finally beginning to sing in earnest joy not just in rage and pain.

As they prepared for the final stretch of their journey, Chaewon took a moment to simply breathe. The sun was dipping low on the horizon, casting a golden hue across the parking lot where they had pulled over. She glanced at Django, who sat quietly on the edge of the car’s backseat, looking out at nothing in particular, lost in thought.

Without overthinking it, Chaewon crossed the small space between them and slid onto his lap, straddling him lightly but resting her forehead against his shoulder. Django froze for a second in surprise, but then relaxed, wrapping his arms gently around her waist as if anchoring himself.

The intimacy of the moment was sweetly chaste — no hurried kisses, no rushed caresses — just the quiet, grounding comfort of one soul leaning against another. She could feel his breathing slow, steadying against her own heartbeat. They stayed like that for a while, exchanging nothing but occasional glances and soft, unspoken reassurances.

That was when Chaewon noticed it: the music.

At first, she thought he must be humming again like he always did — Django could hardly go an hour without some song in his throat — but when she tilted her head to look at him, she realized with a small shock that he had fallen asleep in her arms.

Yet the music remained.

It wasn’t coming from his lips. It was radiating from him — a low, resonant vibration, like a river of sound running beneath his skin. Stronger, fuller than anything she had ever felt from him before.

Chaewon brushed a hand along his hairline, awe softening her expression. “You’re safe with me,” she whispered, her thumb stroking lightly along the shell of his ear. “All of you.”

At her words, something stirred deep inside Django — the immortal half he had spent so long denying. The music surged, growing louder and more intricate, a complex harmony fighting to break through.

But Django, even asleep, resisted instinctively. His body tensed under her touch. His face twisted into a grimace of pain as if he were grappling with some unseen weight. In the dreamscape of his mind, his father’s disapproving glare hovered like a specter, pressing down on him with the force of judgment he could never seem to escape.

Chaewon tightened her arms around him, her voice desperate but steady, “No… please, it’s okay. Let it out. I’m here.”

But the fight inside Django had already begun to spiral. The magic, locked away for so long, turned volatile — twisting and writhing like a serpent within him. His stomach churned violently. With a strangled noise, Django jolted awake, stumbling toward the nearby gas station bathroom.

Chaewon chased after him, concern etched across her face, but by the time she reached the door, she heard the harsh, awful sounds of him vomiting.

Inside, Django leaned against the sink, pale and trembling. He wiped his mouth shakily, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The music hadn’t left — it was louder than ever now, an endless chorus rising inside him, aching to be freed.

He splashed water on his face, desperate to calm the storm within.

Outside the bathroom, Chaewon pressed her hand against the door, closing her eyes.

You’re safe with me, she thought again, sending the words through whatever invisible link bound them now.

Even if you don’t believe it yet, I do.

After cleaning up and splashing cold water on his face, Django returned to the car. His stomach was still twisted in knots, but he masked it the best he could. Chaewon didn’t push — she just offered a quiet, supportive smile that both comforted and wrecked him.

They pulled back onto the road, the world outside bathed in the heavy gold of late afternoon. Django gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles whitening.

The music inside him hadn’t faded. It worsened — swelling against his ribs like a rising tide. A low hum vibrated through the car’s frame, and Chaewon tilted her head curiously.

“Django…” she said, almost a whisper, “you’re humming again.”

He shook his head sharply. “No, I’m not. It’s—it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

But she knew better. Chaewon watched as faint lines — intricate knotwork patterns like golden thread — shimmered under his skin, flickering with each frantic beat of his heart.

The music was leaking out of him. Not because he wanted it to — because he couldn’t stop it anymore.

Chaewon placed a gentle hand over his. “You’re not broken,” she said firmly. “You’re not wrong for this. You’re… beautiful, Django.”

His throat tightened painfully.

“You don’t understand,” he rasped. “It’s too much. If I let it out, if I stop fighting it—”

He clenched his jaw, feeling the old guilt, the old shame rising up like bile. The memory of his father’s stern voice echoed in his ears: “Control yourself, boy. Focus. You must be better than this.”The fear of becoming something weak and pitiful, something too large, too bright to fit in the careful life he had carved out for himself.

“I’ll lose everything,” he muttered.

“You won’t lose me,” Chaewon said, fierce and steady.

But Django didn’t — couldn’t — believe it. Not yet.

The golden glow around his hands flickered again before dimming, almost as if he was strangling it into silence. The car filled with a heavy, aching stillness, the kind that made Chaewon’s heart break a little.

She squeezed his hand once more, a silent promise that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Even if he couldn’t see it yet.

They drove on toward their destination — a boy carrying a power too heavy for his heart, and a girl determined to help him carry it, even when he couldn’t carry himself. They arrived just after dusk. The ruins were older than anything Django had ever seen — crumbling stone and twisted vines swallowed by time. At the center, on a pedestal of pale marble, rested the sword: a strange, luminous thing that pulsed faintly, almost like it was breathing.

Chaewon stepped forward instinctively, but the air around the sword pushed her back — firm but gentle, like a wall woven from light.

“It’s not for me…” she whispered, stepping away.

Before Django could move, a low, mocking voice slithered through the ruins.

“Ah, Songbird. I knew you’d come,” David drawled as he emerged from the shadows, eyes gleaming crimson in the dying light.

Django stepped in front of Chaewon without thinking, shielding her.

David smirked, fangs flashing. “You look tired, friend. So much fighting yourself… It must be exhausting,” he said, almost sympathetically. “Don’t worry, Songbird. I’ll make sure you never have to worry about the music again.”

In a blur, he lunged — faster than any human eye could follow.

Django caught him mid-strike — barely. They grappled, David’s monstrous strength forcing Django back. The music inside Django roared for release, but he gritted his teeth, crushing it down.

“You can’t protect her,” David whispered, breath cold against Django’s ear. “You can’t even protect yourself.”

David’s hand seized Django’s shoulder — fingers tightening — the start of the Turning. Django felt the chill of death creep under his skin.

This is it, whispered the darkness in his mind. You were always destined to fail.

But then —

Boom.

The music erupted from him, a radiant blast of gold, silver, and fierce blue. David was hurled back, screaming as divine fire burned through him.

Chaewon reached for Django, desperate to pull him toward the sword — but again, the energy turned her gently away. It was not her burden to carry.

“Go!” she cried.

Django stumbled toward the sword, every step a war. When his fingers closed around the hilt, everything — sound, time, breath — stopped.

The ruins melted away into a dreamscape of swirling gold mist.

Brigid stood before him, radiant and terrible — maiden, mother, and crone in one, her hair a crown of fire and wheat.

She regarded him with a mixture of exasperation and deep, aching love.

“Why,” she asked softly, “are you so determined to destroy yourself, child of my heart?”

Django clutched the sword tighter, trembling.

“Because… because I’m wrong,” he choked out. “Everything bad… everything horrible that’s happened — it’s because of me. Because of what I am.”

He looked away, shame raw on his face.

“David became a monster chasing the same dreams I did. Max died because I couldn’t protect him. And Dad —” His throat closed up. “Dad disowned me because I was too wild. Too much. Too wrong. I can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

The mist shuddered softly around them, as if the world wept for him.

Brigid stepped closer, hand hovering over his heart — not touching yet. The music inside him surged, tangled and painful.

“No, little flame,” she said fiercely. “You are not responsible for the choices others make.”

Her palm pressed gently to his chest. The sword — the sword — began to sing, a quiet hymn threaded with voices: You are not broken. You were never broken.

“David chose his path, seeking forbidden knowledge. Max chose to fight for you, knowing he might fall. Your father chose fear over faith. What will you choose?”

Her gaze softened.

“You can mourn their choices — but their sins are not your chains to carry.”

Tears welled in Django’s eyes, hot and blinding.

Brigid smiled — a rare, aching mother’s smile.

“You have carried the weight of others so they would not suffer. But it’s not your burden anymore. You are free.”

She glanced toward Chaewon — frozen in time but still reaching for him — and back at Django.

“And don’t you want to be there for her?”

Her voice warmed, teasing. “She really likes you. Teasing you, holding you when you’re too stubborn to hold yourself. It would be a real shame to destroy yourself here, wouldn’t it?”

Django looked at Chaewon — at the faith she had never once withdrawn — and something deep inside him loosened.

He drew a ragged breath — and let go.

The sword flared in his hand, blinding light and music exploding outward.

Time resumed in a rush.

Chaewon stumbled forward, and Django — golden runes glowing faintly across his skin, the sword humming with music — caught her with tear-streaked eyes and a quiet, relieved smile.

Chaewon smiled back, fierce and beautiful — just as David roared from the shadows.

The sword — no, Django himself — responded. The blade shifted into a massive bass guitar that played itself, every thrum of its chords unleashing radiant waves of light and shadow.

Sunlight and abyssal darkness crashed together, burning David where he stood.

David retched, screaming, claws extending as he hissed with rage and agony.

The guitar twisted — now an axe — which Django hurled, pinning David against a cracked stone wall.

Then Django sprinted to Chaewon, shielding her as the spirits of darkness — summoned by the sword’s will and his own heart — formed a protective barrier around them. Her phoenix wrapped around her, brilliant and proud, watching Django with wonder.

He was radiant and terrible both — the frozen flame, the illuminated darkness.

A weapon made for contradictions — forged in the darkness of Nyx and reforged in the golden furnace of Olympus — and now wielded by the only soul capable of balancing such forces.

Music roared through Django — he was the instrument — as he wrenched the axe free, shifting it into a shining glaive.

With tears streaming down his face, he drove the weapon into David’s heart.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” Django whispered.

David, gasping, smiled through the flames consuming him.

“It’s okay, friend,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll be together again… adventuring… you, me, Max, Scáthach, your lovely lady… I’ll make sure of it.”

As the fire took him, David’s final vision — a gift from the sword — showed him laughing beside Django, Chaewon , Max, Scáthach, himself, and Ophelia in a bright world beyond death, joy blooming across their faces.

He died smiling, free at last.The ruins were quiet now, except for the soft hum of the sword, settled once more into its pedestal. Ash floated in the air, the last traces of David’s passing.

Django slumped to the ground, the sword slipping from his fingers, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Chaewon dropped beside him without hesitation, wrapping her arms around his shaking shoulders.

For a long moment, they just sat there, pressed together, the enormity of it all crashing down on them. All the fear, the loss, the survival, the impossible choice he had made — it crushed the breath out of both of them.

Chaewon sniffled first, and Django — exhausted, overwhelmed — followed.

Tears spilled freely: not just from grief, but from a bone-deep relief neither of them could put into words.

And then, somehow — somehow — Django let out a shaky, stunned laugh.

Chaewon hiccupped through a sob, then started laughing too — broken, messy, beautiful.

They laughed and cried together until they could barely breathe, the sound of it echoing against the ancient stones.

Django wiped his face clumsily and turned to her, only to find her already looking at him, eyes shining.

Without thinking — without hesitation — he cupped her face in his calloused hands and kissed her.

Softly, almost reverently at first — like she might break.

Chaewon kissed him back with a fierce little hum in her chest, fingers tangling in his shirt to drag him closer. They kissed like they had been waiting lifetimes for it. Like the sword had only been a beginning, not an ending.

When they finally broke apart, both of them panting and giddy, Chaewon blinked up at him, dazed.

“Okay,” she said, laughing breathlessly. “Maybe I do like kissing people.”

Django barked a surprised laugh, the sound pure and bright.

“Hopefully only me,” he said, pretending to be stern but unable to keep the joy out of his voice.

Chaewon grinned at him, her whole face lighting up, and nodded happily. “Only you.”

Django leaned his forehead against hers, still laughing quietly. For the first time in a long, long time, the music inside him wasn’t something he had to fight.

It simply was — singing softly between them.

And for once, he let it. The ride back to the Rec Center was quiet but warm, Django’s hand resting lightly against Chaewon’s thigh the whole time, like he needed to make sure she was still there. She didn’t mind.She leaned against him, feeling the faint thrum of music still singing through his soul.

When they pulled into the cracked parking lot, the sun was just beginning to rise, streaking the sky in brilliant pinks and golds. Inside, the Rec Center buzzed with early activity — demigods and minor immortals coming and going, weapons clattering, laughter echoing off the scuffed gym floors.

The moment Django and Chaewon stepped through the doors, the room went still.

Heads turned. Mouths fell open.

It wasn’t just the battered, awe-struck look they wore like a second skin — it was the gleaming sword strapped across Django’s back. The blade shimmered between deep, velvet darkness and piercing, radiant gold, its surface shifting and alive like liquid starlight.

Whispers broke out almost immediately.

“Where the hell did he get that?” “Is that…a trueborn blade?” “That’s pure Darkness and Light—no mortal’s supposed to even touch that!” “And is he… holding hands with Chaewon?”

Django, usually quick with a smirk or a joke, looked uncharacteristically shy. Chaewon, however, only grinned like a cat who had eaten an entire flock of canaries.

“He slayed a vampire,” she said brightly, slinging an arm around Django’s shoulders. “Drove me cross-country, fought off death itself, and answered a quest from Hecate. No big deal.”

Before anyone could recover from that bombshell, a ripple of otherworldly energy passed through the building. Two goddesses — one cloaked in midnight, the other crowned in moonlight — stepped through the doors as if the walls themselves had opened for them.

Hecate, wearing torn black jeans and a leather jacket, surveyed the room with a grin full of wicked amusement. Artemis, pale and cool beside her, simply raised an eyebrow at the spectacle.

Hecate’s sharp gaze landed on Django immediately.

“Of course,” she said, laughter bubbling from her chest, “the drama queen needed someone as dramatic, theatrical, and musically brilliant as she was.”

She was, of course, talking about the sword.

Django shifted awkwardly, reaching up to unsling the blade from his back, fully prepared to offer it to her.

But when he tried to hand it over — Nothing happened.

The sword refused to leave his grip.

It pulsed once, fiercely, the music within it harmonizing with the music inside Django himself. The connection wasn’t just deep — it was eternal. Not a bond of convenience or circumstance, but of fate — across all lifetimes, all incarnations.

Hecate laughed harder, tossing her wild hair over one shoulder.

“Looks like she’s already chosen, kid,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re her true host — not just now, but always. No takebacks.”

The crowd murmured excitedly, half in awe, half in jealousy.

Chaewon beamed at Django, pride practically radiating off her.

Hecate’s sharp eyes flicked to Chaewon, a mischievous glint lighting up her face.

“You might have some competition, little crow,” she teased. “Your boyfriend just got himself a very clingy new partner.”

Chaewon let out a low, happy growl — almost a purr — and leaned possessively into Django.

“Well,” she said playfully, “I’d rather it be her than some flimsy second-rate weapon. Besides, she gets him like I do. I guess I can share… just this once.”

Django turned beet red but couldn’t stop grinning.

Hecate threw back her head and laughed again, the sound wild and free.

Artemis just shook her head in fond exasperation, muttering, “Mortals and their endless drama,” as she moved to inspect the sword more closely — not to take it, but to admire it, as one admires a rare comet crossing the sky.

And somewhere deep inside Django, the music thrummed — stronger, surer, finally sung for himself, for her, and for the future they might build together.

As the crowd slowly dispersed, some still casting awed (and slightly jealous) glances at Django and his radiant sword, two particularly mischievous figures darted forward — Yujin and Cecilia, grinning like foxes about to raid the henhouse.

“So,” Yujin said loudly enough for half the room to hear, elbowing Django in the ribs, “when’s the wedding?”

“Yeah,” Cecilia chimed in, winking at Chaewon. “You slay a vampire together, survive a death quest, get soul-bonded to a magic sword — you’re basically married already.”

Django opened his mouth — probably to sputter out a very awkward denial — but before a single sound could escape, Chaewon’s eyes widened slightly.

The world tilted — not unpleasantly, but like a song shifting keys mid-melody.

For a moment, the Rec Center, the crowd, the noise all fell away — and she saw.

A glimpse of another time, another place.

She and Django, a little older — but still laughing, still dancing wildly under a star-drenched sky, the world blurring around them in a rush of music and monster-slaying and breathless kisses. Both wore matching simple wedding bands, the metal gleaming faintly with enchantments old as the gods themselves.

They looked — happy. Whole.

Chaewon blinked hard, the vision fading like mist under sunlight.

When she returned to herself, Django was still fumbling for words, cheeks flaming.

“I—uh—well—we’re not—technically—”

Chaewon just smiled. A soft, knowing smile. She slipped her hand into his, intertwining their fingers, feeling the warm thrum of his music against her skin.

“Maybe not today,” she said lightly, squeezing his hand, “but someday.”

Django’s voice caught in his throat.

Yujin and Cecilia practically squealed before being shooed off by an amused-looking Artemis.

Chaewon just leaned in, bumping her forehead against Django’s.

“You’re stuck with me, songbird,” she whispered.

And somewhere deep inside Django’s chest, the sword hummed in agreement — as if it, too, had seen that future, and was already singing the first notes of their shared song.

46 notes · View notes

129 notes · View notes

3K notes · View notes

Section Six II

Best girl sadly

Goemon’s footsteps echoed through the halls of Section 6’s underground training facility. The familiar scent of sweat, steel, and polished wood filled his senses as he entered the main dojo. His body still felt off—not weak exactly, but unresponsive in ways he wasn’t used to. He felt like a machine running on parts that didn’t quite fit anymore.

Miyabi was already waiting, arms crossed as she leaned against the far wall. She didn’t greet him, just gave him a sharp nod, signaling that she was watching for today. Observing. Goe sighed and grabbed his Kanabo and Tetsubo and readied himself

Goemon ignored it. He needed to push through.

Miyabi watched as Goe started a fight against a doppelganger of her. The sparring started slow. At first, Goemon felt confident—he knew Miyabi’s patterns, knew the way she fought. But the moment their blades clashed, reality hit him like a punch to the ribs.

He was slow.

Not just in movement, but in response. His footwork was off, his timing just a fraction late. He could feel the gap widening between them, something that had never happened before.

The Shadow Miyabi didn’t exploit it, well she couldn't really. Despite Goemon's weakened state he was still a relentless and unbreakable force. The real Miyabi watched impressed from the side

She didn’t mock him.

She just watched.

Goemon gritted his teeth and kept pushing forward. If his body wasn’t moving like it used to, then he’d just have to outthink her.

So he adjusted.

Instead of brute force, he began shifting his weight differently, flowing rather than clashing. His two clubs moved like liquid, weaving in and out of her defenses. Where his odachi had once been a hammer, these were scalpels—precise, surgical.

The more he fought, the more she realized something:

He wasn’t getting weaker. He was changing.

By the time the match ended—Miyabi landing a glancing strike across his ribs—Goemon was panting, sweat rolling down his brow.

He glared at his hands.

These weren’t the hands of a man who had lost his power. They were the hands of someone becoming something new.

From across the room, Miyabi tilted her head slightly, studying him.

He was frustrated. But she could already see it.

Goemon’s movements were shifting into something far more dangerous than brute strength—something sharp, clean, and monstrously efficient. His technique was evolving, becoming precise in a way that was borderline inhuman. He was becoming more like her with each battle and despite his minor setback she was impressed at how quickly he was adapting and changing

She smirked.

He didn’t realize it yet. But when he did?

He was going to be terrifying

Miyabi didn’t say anything after the spar. She let Goemon stew in his frustration as he wiped the sweat from his brow, stretching out his sore limbs. But the moment he made to leave, she grabbed his wrist.

“Come with me,” she said, her tone brooking no argument.

Goemon frowned. “Where?”

She just turned and started walking.

He sighed but followed.

They ended up deep in the heart of Section 6’s compound, where the smell of burning coal and molten steel filled the air. The weapons forge was tucked away from the rest of the facility, a place where only a select few were allowed to step foot. It wasn’t some mass-production factory—this was where legends were made.

Goemon paused at the threshold. “Miyabi, why are we here?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You need a new weapon. And I already commissioned one.”

Goemon blinked. “You—wait, what? When?”

“When I realized you weren’t going to admit you needed one,” she replied flatly. “Come on.”

Inside, the forge master was waiting. A broad-shouldered man with arms like steel cables, his gaze was sharp as he nodded at Miyabi. “Right on time.”

He turned and pulled back a cloth from a lacquered wooden case.

Inside, two immaculate clubs sectioned off and spiked. The weapons had the design of clouds running through them

A kanabo and a Tetsubo.

Goemon stared. The kanabo was a work of art—elegant, with a slightly narrower club section than usual. The tetsubo, its smaller twin, gleamed just as dangerously. Both spiked clubs had a strange shimmer to them, something almost fluid about the way the steel caught the light.

Goemon reached out, fingertips brushing the hilt of the kanabo. He felt something… shift.

Not a voice like the Nowhere King. Not a presence pushing into his mind.

Just potential.

A whisper of possibility.

“They’re made with a special alloy,” the forge master explained, crossing his arms. “Fused with an ethereal magnetic material. That means they can emulate different properties depending on how you channel energy into them. Fire, ice, lightning—your call.”

Goemon ran his thumb along the edge. The moment his aura trickled into the blade, the steel rippled, shifting hues. For a split second, it gleamed like water, then crackled like ice, before settling back to its base state.

“…Holy shit,” he muttered.

Miyabi smirked. “Now you’re catching on.”

Goemon exhaled sharply, gripping both hilts before looking at her. “You planned all this?”

She shrugged. “I knew you wouldn’t let yourself be unarmed for long. And I wasn’t about to let you keep moping about that monster sword. These fit you better. Especially after watching you fight today”

Goemon studied her for a moment, then looked back at the weapons in his hands.

They did feel right. Balanced. Versatile. His.

Finally, he smirked.

“Guess I owe you one.”

Miyabi scoffed. “You owe me about fifty, but who’s counting?”

Goemon chuckled and took a slow breath. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he was moving forward.

No longer burdened.

No longer the wielder of a cursed blade.

Just Goemon.

And that was enough.The rest of the day went quietly as Goemon mostly filled out papers

Goemon stepped through the door of his home, setting his kanabo and tetsubo down beside the entrance with a heavy sigh. The weight of the weapons was new, but they felt right in his hands—solid, powerful, something he could truly make his own. It had been a long day of training, adjusting to the shift in fighting style, and his body ached in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

But as he stretched, he noticed Yamato standing in the center of the living room, his expression tense, arms crossed. Goemon barely had time to acknowledge him before the younger boy spoke.

“Big brother,” Yamato began, his voice firm, “I’ve decided. I want to join PubSec.”

Goemon froze, blinking as if he’d misheard. “What?”

“I want to fight with you.” Yamato stepped forward, his resolve unwavering. “I don’t want to just sit around while you protect me. I can help! I have the Nowhere King. I can—”

“No.”

The sheer finality in Goemon’s voice made Yamato flinch. His older brother wasn’t even looking at him now, his fingers pressed to his temples as if trying to stave off an oncoming headache.

“You don’t get it,” Yamato pressed on. “I’m strong now! I can—”

“You’re a kid.” Goemon’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. “You should be in school, not out there throwing yourself into fights you’re not ready for.”

Yamato clenched his fists. “I can get ready! You did, didn’t you? You were younger than me when you started fighting!”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Goemon exhaled through his nose, his patience fraying. “Because I didn’t have a choice, Yamato! I was made to fight, built for it! I was thrown into the deep end and expected to survive, and I did, but that doesn’t mean I want the same for you!”

Yamato’s jaw tightened. “So what, you think I’m weak?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Then stop treating me like I’m helpless! You’re not the only one who wants to protect people! You think I don’t see how much you struggle? How much you hurt? I can be there for you, just like you’ve been there for me!”

Something inside Goemon snapped. His breath hitched, and suddenly, his body felt hot—too hot. A strange tingling sensation crawled up his neck, and his vision swam. He staggered back a step, gripping the back of a chair to steady himself.

Yamato’s eyes widened. “Goe…?”

Goemon clenched his jaw, but he could feel it—the subtle shifting under his skin, the way his body responded to his rising stress. His tiger stripes dulled in color, his hare ears sagging before vanishing entirely. In their place, dark spots began to form along his neck and creeping up toward his jaw. His hands trembled, his nails digging into the wood of the chair.

“Yamato,” he said, his voice deeper now, rougher—almost guttural. His pupils contracted, the usual golden hue of his eyes replaced with something darker, wilder. “Drop this. Now.”

Yamato took a step back. The shift in tone, the look in Goemon’s eyes—it wasn’t one he recognized. This wasn’t his brother’s usual anger, the kind that burned fast but always left room for warmth beneath. This was something else. Something primal.

“I—” Yamato hesitated, looking at Goemon as if seeing him for the first time. His brother’s entire presence felt different, like a caged animal barely holding itself together.

Goemon swallowed hard, forcing himself to take a deep breath, but the damage was already done. Yamato had seen it.

After a tense moment, Yamato exhaled and looked away. “…Fine.”

Goemon blinked, his body slowly cooling down, the heat under his skin subsiding. He watched as Yamato turned and walked toward his room, shoulders stiff, steps heavy.

The moment the door clicked shut, Goemon collapsed into the chair, pressing a shaking hand against his forehead. His heart was still hammering, and he could feel the residual traces of whatever had just awakened inside him.

That was new. And that was dangerous.

He needed to figure out what the hell was happening to him—before it got worse.

Goemon’s muscles still ached from the previous night, but he ignored it as he stepped onto the frost-bitten training grounds of Section 6. The air was crisp, breath turning to mist as he exhaled, tightening the grip on his kanabo. Across from him, Miyabi stood with her blade drawn, her stance solid but relaxed, watching him with that ever-perceptive gaze.

She had been watching him a lot lately.

“You ready?” she asked, rolling her shoulders.

Goemon nodded, adjusting his stance. “Yeah.”

Miyabi didn’t waste time. She lunged forward, her blade flashing in the morning light. Goemon blocked with his kanabo, the impact sending a familiar vibration through his arms. He countered, swinging low, but Miyabi danced around the attack effortlessly, her speed keeping her just out of reach.

This was routine. He should be able to keep up. And yet—

She was faster than him.

Again.

Goemon gritted his teeth as he went on the offensive, launching a flurry of strikes. Miyabi dodged, weaving through his attacks with ease. Even when she did block, it was with minimal effort, redirecting his momentum rather than absorbing the force.

He was too slow.

His swings felt heavier than they should have, his body sluggish. He had spent weeks adjusting to the kanabo and tetsubo, but something was wrong. His grip tightened, frustration burning in his chest.

Miyabi stepped in, her blade aimed for his shoulder. Goemon raised his kanabo to block—

Too slow.

The flat of her blade smacked against his shoulder before he could fully react, sending a sharp sting through his arm. It wasn’t even a serious attack, but that only made it worse.

Something in him snapped.

A low growl rumbled from his throat as his fingers loosened. The kanabo slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a dull thud. But instead of stepping back, Goemon surged forward—faster than he should have been able to move—his fist slamming into Miyabi’s descending blade.

The impact sent a shockwave through the air.

Miyabi’s eyes widened as she was forced back, her feet sliding across the dirt. Her arms trembled from the sheer force behind Goemon’s strike. That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t just strength.

Goemon exhaled sharply, his breath ragged, hands trembling. His vision swam, body running hot again.

Miyabi’s gaze snapped to his face.

His stripes—fading. His hare ears—barely visible. And along his neck and arms, dark spots had begun to form, creeping up his skin like ink spreading through water.

“Goemon—”

Her voice reached him, cutting through the haze.

He blinked. The heat dissipated. His body felt… normal again.

Goemon staggered back, looking down at his own shaking hands, his breathing uneven.

Miyabi sheathed her sword, stepping toward him cautiously. “What the hell was that?”

Goemon swallowed, his throat dry. “I… don’t know.”

“Bullshit.” Her voice was calm, but firm. She gestured to his arms. “That wasn’t just an adrenaline rush, Goe. Your body changed. Again.”

Goemon’s fists clenched. “It’s been happening since last night.”

Miyabi’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.”

Goemon exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “Yamato wants to join PubSec.”

Miyabi frowned. “He’s still just a kid.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t see it that way.” Goemon sighed. “We fought about it. I got pissed, and… it happened. My stripes faded. My ears disappeared. These spots started showing up.” He rubbed his neck absentmindedly. “I didn’t even notice at first, but Yamato did. He backed off as soon as he saw it.”

Miyabi was quiet for a moment, processing. “And today, when you fought me…”

Goemon exhaled. “It happened again.”

She studied him, her sharp eyes scanning for any lingering traces of the transformation. “This isn’t like your tiger or hare traits. It’s something else.”

“I know,” Goemon muttered. “I just don’t know what.”

Miyabi crossed her arms. “This could be tied to the experiments you went through.”

“Probably.” His jaw tightened. “But I don’t know how to control it. And if I can’t—”

“You will,” Miyabi interrupted, her voice leaving no room for doubt. “But first, we figure out what this new gene is. If it’s surfacing now, there has to be a reason.”

Goemon met her gaze, searching for hesitation. There was none.

“…Yeah.” He exhaled. “I need answers.”

Miyabi nodded. “Then let’s get them.”

As Goemon followed Miyabi he could still feel all of the anger and fury buried in his chest making his head swim. Miyabi noticed and remained quiet until they arrived. The sterile, clinical atmosphere of the Thiren medical facility seemed at odds with the raw intensity that Goemon felt simmering beneath his skin. His recent struggles with his transformation and his inner conflict weighed heavily on him, and while Miyabi had taken him here to seek answers, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of his element.

Miyabi, as usual, was calm and collected. She led Goemon down a pristine hallway, passing a few doors that led to various specialized labs. They stopped in front of one that was slightly ajar, and Miyabi gave Goemon a knowing glance.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Fei’s a professional. She’ll help you.”

Goemon nodded, feeling uneasy. The only thing more intimidating than the experiments was the person who’d been a part of them. Still, he trusted Miyabi’s judgment.

Miyabi knocked softly, and a voice from inside called, “Come in.”

Miyabi opened the door, and Goemon’s breath caught for a moment.

Inside, a woman with striking features looked up from the desk she’d been working at. Her eyes, a pale blue almost as cold as the winter landscape outside, studied Goemon with calm interest. She was dressed in a lab coat, but there was an underlying strength to her posture that made it clear she wasn’t just a researcher—she was a warrior.

Fei stood up from her desk, her frame lithe and graceful, a combination of sharp intellect and physical prowess. Her long, silver hair, which framed her face like a halo, contrasted sharply with her arctic fox Thiren ears, which twitched slightly as she studied Goemon.

“Ah, you must be Goemon,” she said, her voice smooth but with an edge of authority. “Miyabi’s told me a lot about you.” She extended a hand to him, and Goemon hesitated only for a second before shaking it. The touch was firm, assertive, yet somehow warm—something he wasn’t expecting. Goemon nodded hesitantly. Fei smiled as Goemon “found his sea legs again”

Goemon cleared his throat. “I’ve been… struggling with something. I need help controlling it.”

Fei tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “Miyabi mentioned your condition. But first, I want to understand what you’ve been through. Come. Sit.”

She gestured to a chair across from her desk. As Goemon sat down, Fei took a moment to study him, as though evaluating more than just his physical state. Her eyes flickered toward his hands, his posture, his presence.

“I’m sure you have many questions,” Fei began, folding her hands on the desk. “But before you speak, I need to know exactly what’s going on with you. I’ve worked with… many like you. But you seem different. More volatile.”

Goemon let out a slow exhale, trying to calm the swirl of emotions within him. “I was part of an experiment. There were… multiple genes spliced into me. But something’s wrong. When I’m under stress, I lose control, and it brings out a side of me I can’t keep in check.”

Fei’s gaze sharpened as he spoke. “I see. And your… transformations? What happens when you lose control?”

Goemon paused, his hand instinctively brushing the side of his neck. “I’m not really sure it’s just this anger and stress I have been feeling it pushes me. I try to fight it, but it’s been getting worse. There’s another part of me—a different gene—that takes over. When it manifests… I lose myself. I can’t even recognize my own body. It’s like I become a different person.”

Fei nodded thoughtfully, her expression unreadable. “You’re not the first one to experience this. The experiments we were subjected to… they were never clean. There were always unforeseen consequences.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if the words carried no weight for her, but Goemon noticed the slight shift in her eyes. It was clear she’d lived through her own demons. Seeing Goemon’s hesitation she sighed ands

“Alright,” Fei said, leaning back slightly. “What you need is control. But before we talk about a plan, I need to make sure you can handle yourself.”

Goemon frowned. “What do you mean?”

Fei’s lips curved slightly, a playful glint appearing in her eyes. “I’m going to push you. Physically. Mentally. See how well you really understand your limits. Are you willing to work with me?”

Goemon straightened. He hadn’t expected to be pushed so soon, but he’d come here for answers, and if Fei could give them to him, he was ready.

Miyabi, watching quietly from the side, raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the challenge being laid out. “This could be interesting,” she murmured to herself, leaning against the doorframe.

Fei stood up, moving to a nearby cabinet and retrieving a set of weapons. Goemon’s eyes widened as she pulled out four distinct pieces: a sleek cutlass, a well-worn pistol, a heavy greataxe, and a long polearm.

“You’ll need to be versatile, Goemon,” Fei said, walking toward him with the weapons in hand. “I’m going to teach you how to switch between them as you see fit. Speed, precision, adaptability. You’ll need all of these.”

Goemon’s heart rate picked up, his body tensing. He had always relied on his sword, but this was different. These weapons were unfamiliar, and the thought of wielding so many at once was overwhelming.

“Ready?” Fei asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Goemon nodded, his nerves fading as he stood. “Let’s do it.”

Miyabi watched them with an amused smile, clearly aware that what was about to unfold would push Goemon to his limits in more ways than one. She was excited to see how he handled this new challenge—and, of course, to see how things unfolded between Goemon and Fei.

Scene Expansion: Goemon & Fei’s First Battle

The clang of metal echoed through the training hall as Fei’s cutlass met Goemon’s kanabo in a fierce strike. Sparks crackled between them as they locked weapons, their bodies tense, neither willing to back down.

Fei’s movements were fluid, almost playful, as she pivoted, disengaging their weapons before lunging in with her greataxe in one seamless motion. Goemon barely had time to react. He lifted his tetsubo, intercepting the strike with a sharp crack that vibrated through his arms.

For a moment, they stood locked in place, the edges of their weapons grinding against each other. Goemon felt Fei’s gaze boring into him, and his pulse quickened.

Her pale blue eyes burned with something wild, something that made his breath hitch.

“Come on, show me all you’ve got,” she challenged, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Goemon hesitated, feeling the weight of something deeper, something unfamiliar tightening in his chest.

Fei leaned in ever so slightly, her voice dropping into something almost soothing. “Don’t worry, I can take it.”

The assurance in her tone sent a strange, unexpected calm washing over him. He took a breath, steadying himself. Then, he let go.

A current of energy pulsed through him, his senses sharpening as the crimson ring around his iris burned brightly. His hands tightened around his weapons as the spots on his arms pulsed, expanding in erratic patterns as his blood sang with raw, unrestrained power.

Miyabi, standing off to the side, observed the rapid escalation with quiet amusement. The clash of their weapons rang out at an ever-increasing pace, their movements becoming a blur of steel and motion. A smirk tugged at her lips.

“They match each other perfectly,” she murmured to herself.

With that, she turned and left the room, her confidence unwavering. “You’ll be in good hands, Goemon.”

But within the training hall, Fei’s sharp instincts picked up on something beneath Goemon’s technique—something deeper, something turbulent. His power was undeniable, but there was anger beneath it, a gnawing rage that simmered just under the surface, feeding the raw energy coursing through him.

Then she saw it.

His hound side was feasting on that anger, pushing him forward, making him stronger—but also making him reckless.

Fei narrowed her eyes. In a flash, she disengaged, stepping back, cutting off the momentum of their fight.

Goemon staggered slightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His hands flexed around his weapons, his instincts screaming at him to keep going, to push harder, to—

“Okay,” Fei said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “I understand now.”

Goemon blinked, confused by the sudden shift in her tone.

Fei slowly sheathed her cutlass and crossed her arms. “You’re suppressing parts of yourself so you don’t scare others.”

Goemon stiffened, caught off guard by her words.

She tilted her head, watching him with an almost clinical curiosity. “You project this… hero persona so people don’t see the monster underneath. Right?”

A shudder ran through him. She had laid him bare in mere moments, peeling back the carefully crafted image he had built, exposing the fear he hadn’t dared to name.

Fei took a slow step forward, her voice quieter this time, but no less firm.

“Why are you so scared of people seeing the real you?”

Goemon’s grip on his tetsubo tightened. His heart pounded in his chest, and for the first time in a long while, he felt truly vulnerable.

He thought for a moment then shrugged. Fei nodded and said “I got you,”

The training ground was eerily quiet, save for the sound of Goemon’s heavy breathing. He stood in a wide stance, kanabo in one hand, tetsubo in the other, his muscles taut with exertion. His hound side was stirring beneath the surface, itching to be let loose.

Fei, standing across from him, stretched her arms, rolling her shoulders. “Alright, let’s pick up where we left off. You’re holding back again.”

Goemon huffed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Because if I don’t, I’ll lose control.”

Fei smirked. “And?”

He furrowed his brows. “And I’ll hurt someone.”

Fei flicked her cutlass up, pointing it at him. “Then we work until you don’t.”

Without another word, she lunged.

Goemon barely had time to brace himself before her cutlass met his kanabo in a vicious arc. He blocked, but Fei was already pivoting, her greataxe swinging toward his side. He dodged, stepping back, but she kept coming, her movements fluid and relentless.

His instincts kicked in. His new abilities pulsed to the surface as the spots on his arms darkened. His tiger and hare DNA receded, his hound side taking full control. His grip on his weapons loosened—before he let them drop entirely.

Fei’s eyes flashed as Goemon roared and charged. His hands, now his true weapons, swung forward. He caught Fei’s greataxe mid-swing, the force of the impact sending a shockwave through the ground.

Fei’s brows shot up in surprise, but she didn’t falter. “Good! That’s what I wanted to see.”

She twisted, pulling her axe free, but Goemon was faster. His foot slammed into the ground, cracking the earth beneath them as he surged forward. His fist swung at Fei’s midsection, but at the last second, she stepped into his strike, redirecting his energy past her.

Goemon stumbled but recovered quickly. He exhaled sharply, his heart pounding. “Damn, you’re fast.”

Fei grinned. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” She twirled her cutlass before sheathing it. “Your hound instincts are strong, but they’re sloppy. That raw power is useful, but it’s not enough.”

Goemon wiped the sweat from his brow. “Then teach me.”

Fei’s smirk widened. “That’s the plan.”

Days passed, and with each session, Goemon grew more accustomed to his new instincts. He learned when to lean into his hound side and when to hold back, when to use his fists and when to use his weapons.

But something kept bothering him.

Fei was fast. Fei was strong. Stronger than Miyabi.

He had fought Miyabi countless times. He had seen her at her peak, felt the sheer force of her strikes, witnessed her dominate a battlefield. And yet, Fei—who wasn’t a Void Hunter—outmatched her in every way.

One evening, after an intense training session, Goemon sat with Fei beneath the stars, both nursing bottles of water, their bodies sore but their minds sharp.

He turned to her. “You’re stronger than Miyabi.”

Fei took a sip of water before smirking. “Noticed that, huh?”

Goemon nodded. “If you’re this strong, why aren’t you a Void Hunter?”

Fei exhaled, staring at the sky. “Because that’s not my path.”

Goemon frowned. “What do you mean?”

Fei tilted her head toward him, her eyes glinting. “There’s more than one way to fight the monsters in this world, Goemon. Void Hunters fight in the light, bound by laws, orders, hierarchies. But some of us? We follow something older.”

She placed a hand over her chest. “The Wild Hunt.”

Goemon stiffened. He had heard whispers of it, but it was more myth than reality.

Fei chuckled at his expression. “The Wild Hunt isn’t an organization. It’s a calling. A path for those who don’t belong in the systems people build to fight the dark. We don’t take orders. We don’t serve governments. We serve balance.”

Goemon stared at her, the weight of her words settling in. “So, what? You’re like enforcers of nature?”

Fei smirked. “Something like that.” She leaned back, resting her hands behind her head. “Void Hunters keep the darkness at bay. The Wild Hunt makes sure it never takes root in the first place.”

Goemon let out a breath. “So that’s why you’re this strong.”

Fei shrugged. “Strength isn’t the point. It’s survival. It’s instinct. And if you’re serious about mastering what’s inside of you, then you’re going to have to start thinking less like a man trained by PubSec—” she tapped his forehead lightly “—and more like the beast they tried to bury inside of you.”

Goemon swallowed. The thought was terrifying.

But it was also thrilling.

Fei grinned at his hesitation. “Don’t worry, big guy. I’ll be here to help you through it.”

Goemon looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t afraid of what he was becoming.

Because she wasn’t afraid of him. As Goemon fell into the rhythm with Fei he arrived home each day exhausted. Yamato took advantage of his ward’s fatigue and sought out the only person to best him. Miyabi.

The night was still, the air crisp with the lingering cold of winter. Beneath the training hall’s artificial lights, Yamato stood across from Miyabi, gripping the Nowhere King’s Odachi with both hands. The massive blade felt weighty in his grip, but not unwieldy—no, it was a part of him now. The sword had chosen him.

Miyabi watched him carefully, arms crossed. “You’re sure about this?”

Yamato nodded, his expression firm. “I need to do this.”

Miyabi sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Goemon’s going to kill me if he finds out I’m helping you train with that thing.”

“That’s why he can’t find out,” Yamato said, his grip tightening. “He’s too protective. He thinks I should focus on school, stay out of the fight, but I can’t.” He exhaled sharply, shifting his stance. “I need to stand on my own two feet. If I don’t, I’ll always be in his shadow.”

Miyabi’s gaze softened for a moment. She understood the feeling all too well. “You don’t have to prove anything, you know.”

Yamato shook his head. “This isn’t about proving something to Goemon. It’s about proving something to myself.”

Miyabi studied him for a long moment before finally nodding. “Alright. Show me what you’ve got.”

Yamato didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and swung the Nowhere King’s Odachi in a clean, powerful arc. The air vibrated as the blade moved, an unnatural force accompanying the swing. The sheer weight of it should have made his attack sluggish, but it cut through the air with eerie smoothness, as if the sword itself wanted to strike.

Miyabi dodged, the blade barely missing her. “Not bad. But you’re relying too much on the sword’s power. If you don’t control it, it’ll control you.”

Yamato grit his teeth, adjusting his grip. “I am in control.”

Miyabi smirked. “Then prove it.”

She dashed forward, her own blade flashing in the moonlight. Yamato barely had time to react, raising the Nowhere King’s Odachi in a desperate block. The force of her strike sent vibrations down his arms, but he held firm.

Miyabi pressed against the bind, testing his strength. “Good. But strength isn’t enough.”

Yamato suddenly pivoted, letting her momentum carry her past him. With a sharp turn, he swung the Odachi in a counterattack. The edge of the blade glowed faintly, as if responding to his will.

Miyabi barely dodged, flipping back to gain distance. She let out a whistle. “That’s interesting.”

Yamato panted, lowering the sword slightly. “I can feel it,” he admitted. “The Nowhere King’s presence… it’s not just a weapon. It’s alive.”

Miyabi’s smirk faltered slightly. She had her own suspicions about the sword’s nature, but hearing Yamato confirm it unsettled her. Still, she pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the boy in front of her.

“You’ve got potential,” she admitted. “But if you’re serious about this, you need to train harder than ever. If you’re not careful, that sword will consume you.”

Yamato nodded. “That’s why I need your help.”

Miyabi sighed. “Fine. I’ll train you.” She held up a finger. “But—you owe me for this.”

Yamato grinned. “Deal.”

Miyabi shook her head, already dreading what would happen when Goemon inevitably found out. But as she looked at Yamato, his determination burning bright, she knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t just Goemon’s little brother anymore.

He was going to be a warrior in his own right. The days pass and Goemon falls further for Fei almost to the point of daydreaming about her several times during his regular shift. Yanagi just laughs at it with Miyabi.

Goemon wiped the sweat from his brow, exhaling sharply as he rolled his shoulders. Across from him, Fei stood with her cutlass resting on her shoulder, watching him with a smirk.

“Not bad,” she mused, tilting her head slightly. “You’re finally getting a real handle on your new strength. You’re not just swinging for power anymore—you’re flowing.”

Goemon huffed, shaking his arms loose. “Feels weird. My body wants to fight one way, but I’m forcing it into something new.”

Fei nodded in understanding. “That’s natural. You were built to fight a certain way for a long time, and now you’re rewriting that instinct.” She walked closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “But trust me, you’re making progress. You’re adjusting. I can feel it when we spar.”

Goemon swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the warmth of her touch. It wasn’t just the physical contact—it was the way Fei’s presence had slowly become comforting. Training had once been a chore, something necessary for survival. Now, he looked forward to their sessions.

Maybe a little too much.

Fei seemed to notice the shift in the air between them because her smirk softened slightly. “You good?”

Goemon blinked. “Yeah. Just—” He cleared his throat. “Thanks for all the help.”

Fei rolled her eyes but smiled. “No need to thank me. Besides, I think we both like having an excuse to fight each other.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. You’re not wrong.”

A Few Days Later – Goemon’s Apartment

Goemon had barely gotten his boots off when a familiar voice called out from inside his apartment.

“Yo, Goemon! What took you so long?”

Goemon sighed as he stepped inside. Jotaro was sprawled on the couch, flipping through a magazine, while Zhu Yuan sat on the floor, meticulously cleaning a firearm. Across from them, Yamato sat at the kitchen table, scribbling in a notebook—probably something from PubSec’s academy, which he still hadn’t told Goemon about.

“I was training,” Goemon replied, setting his bag down.

Jotaro smirked. “Oh yeah? With that cute Arctic Fox?”

Goemon shot him a glare, but before he could respond, a knock came from the door. His stomach flipped.

No way.

He opened it, and sure enough, Fei stood there, dressed casually in a fitted jacket and jeans, her hands tucked into her pockets. “Yo.”

Goemon blinked. “What are you doing here?”

Fei raised an eyebrow. “What, I can’t visit? You do owe me dinner after that last spar.”

Jotaro and Zhu Yuan had already turned their heads toward the door, eyes full of intrigue.

“Who’s this?” Jotaro asked, leaning forward with interest.

Fei stepped inside before Goemon could even process what was happening. She glanced around, taking in the apartment, then turned to the others. “Name’s Fei. I’ve been training Goemon.”

Jotaro whistled. “This is your trainer?” He looked Fei up and down, then gave Goemon a knowing smirk. “You lucky bastard.”

Goemon groaned, rubbing his face. “Shut up, Jotaro.”

Zhu Yuan, however, was more analytical. “So you’re the Arctic Fox we’ve been hearing about.” He gave a nod of approval. “Interesting. And you’re strong?”

Fei smirked. “Stronger than him,” she said, nodding toward Goemon.

Jotaro howled in laughter. “Oh, this is rich!”

Yamato, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. “You’re the one helping Goe with his new abilities?”

Fei turned to him and nodded. “Yeah. And you must be Yamato.” She scanned him for a moment before folding her arms. “You remind me of him.”

Yamato blinked, looking between her and Goemon. “Really?”

Fei nodded. “Stubborn. Reckless. Something to prove.”

Goemon sighed. “Don’t encourage him.”

Fei chuckled. “Too late.” She turned to Goemon with a mischievous glint in her eye. “So, dinner?”

Goemon felt all eyes on him. He groaned internally. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll cook.”

Jotaro leaned toward Zhu Yuan and whispered just loud enough for Goemon to hear, “He’s so doomed.”

Goemon threw a slipper at him. After the group finished teasing Goemon went to work on Beef Braised Noodles. Fei watched him carefully which in turned was watched carefully by Jotaro and Yamato. Zhu Yuan recognized Fei as an elder of theirs from their days at the academy.

Dinner had started out normal—Goemon cooking, Jotaro making annoying comments, Zhu Yuan acting like the only sane one, and Yamato pretending he wasn’t hiding something. Fei had taken a seat at the counter, watching Goemon with idle curiosity as he moved around the kitchen. She was starting to get used to the chaos of his home, the way it buzzed with life and personalities constantly bouncing off one another.

But tonight, something felt off.

She noticed it in the way Goemon’s movements were just a little too controlled, a little too stiff. The way his jaw clenched ever so slightly as Yamato sat at the table, staring at his untouched plate. The air between them was thick with something unspoken.

Then, it snapped.

“I’m not going to stop training, Goe,” Yamato said suddenly, his voice firmer than usual. “And I’m not quitting the academy.”

The room went silent.

Goemon set down his cooking knife with deliberate care, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Yamato.” His voice was measured, but Fei could hear the warning in it.

“I need this,” Yamato continued. “I’m not a kid anymore. I have power now, and I refuse to sit around doing nothing with it.”

Goemon turned to face him fully, his expression unreadable. “You don’t need to fight, Yamato. You have a choice. You can have something better.”

Yamato scoffed. “And what? Be normal? Pretend I’m not different? That I don’t have this thing inside of me?” He looked up at Goemon with burning frustration. “You know what it’s like. You had your whole life taken from you, and you still keep throwing yourself into battle. Why is it okay for you but not for me?”

Goemon’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing grew heavier, his frame tense.

Then Fei saw it.

The spots on his arms flickered—his tiger stripes dulling, his hare ears barely visible beneath his hair. But something else was starting to emerge. Small dark spots, creeping along his neck. His fingers twitched as if his own body was betraying him, his muscles coiling tight like a spring about to snap.

Jotaro and Zhu Yuan had gone quiet, sensing the shift in the air.

Yamato, however, didn’t back down. “I won’t be coddled, Goemon,” he snapped. “And I don’t need your protection!”

Goemon inhaled sharply, his eyes flashing—not with his usual controlled intensity, but with something deeper, something raw. His lips curled back ever so slightly, revealing the beginnings of elongated canines. His breathing was heavier, deeper, almost animalistic.

Fei sat up straighter, her keen eyes catching the way his shoulders bunched, his body stiff with suppressed aggression. The pressure was building—his instincts were clawing at the surface.

But then—

The moment Jotaro shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Goemon froze.

His ears twitched, catching the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the way Zhu Yuan’s grip tightened slightly on his fork, the way Jotaro’s usual smirk had been replaced by something uncertain.

They had noticed.

And just like that—Goemon swallowed it all down.

He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, and unclenched his fists. When he opened them again, the predatory glint in his gaze had dimmed, the dark spots retreating.

Fei narrowed her eyes.

He’s suppressing it.

“Eat your damn food,” Goemon muttered, turning back to the stove as if nothing had happened. His voice was even again, calm. Forced.

Yamato hesitated, still simmering with frustration, but eventually, he let it go with a huff and picked at his plate.

The tension eased. The conversation shifted elsewhere.

But Fei kept watching Goemon.

He was too good at this—too good at pushing things down, at keeping himself under control for the sake of others. But she had felt his power firsthand. She had seen the way he fought, the way his instincts burned beneath the surface. He was terrified of letting it slip.

She rested her chin on her hand, her sharp blue eyes fixed on him.

How long has he been holding himself back?

And more importantly—how much longer can he keep it up?

The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of fresh grass and the faint hint of iron from the training grounds. The moment Fei led Goemon through the grand gates of her estate, he had barely registered its sheer size—his mind was still reeling from the fight with Yamato. His hands were clenched tight around the grips of his new weapons, his jaw tense.

Fei walked ahead, her pace unhurried, giving him the space to breathe. The vast expanse of her private training grounds stretched before them, illuminated by soft lantern light. It was a stark contrast to the suffocating tension from earlier. Here, under the open sky, there was nothing to hold in—no one to suppress himself for.

She turned to him, sharp blue eyes locking onto his own. “I saw you fight yourself,” she said bluntly. “Why? Why do you coddle them?”

Goemon exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to deny it, to brush off the question—but Fei wouldn’t let him. She had a way of seeing right through him, of cutting straight to the truth.

He gripped the hilt of his kanabo tighter before finally speaking. “Yamato’s mom sacrificed herself to protect him and me during the experiments,” he said, voice low. “She asked me to make sure her son would be okay, to take care of him.” His fingers curled, nails digging into his palm. “But ever since she died, he’s had a death wish. I don’t even think he realizes it. He throws himself into danger, always going for the biggest challenge he can find, like he’s trying to prove something—or maybe, like he’s trying to get himself killed.”

Fei listened, saying nothing. She simply watched, letting him unravel.

Goemon’s throat tightened. “I just watch him do it, over and over. And I have to be okay with it. I literally just saved him from becoming an ethereal after he rushed into Ether treatments to help with his degenerative autoimmune disease.” His voice wavered, the weight of it all pressing down on him. “And I don’t hold it over him. I never hold it over him. I’ve been caring for him for years, trying my best to keep him safe—but I’m barely old enough to take care of myself.”

His shoulders slumped, exhaustion settling in his bones. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve always relented, always trusted him, but he almost always dies.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken. The lantern light flickered, casting soft shadows on Fei’s face.

Then, she sighed. “That’s a massive weight to bear,” she said, her voice gentler than before. “But if it’s any consolation…” She stepped closer, looking up at him with something softer in her gaze. “I think you carry it well.”

Goemon blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone. Before he could respond, Fei leaned in and pressed a warm, lingering kiss against his cheek.

His breath hitched.

Fei smiled before saying, “I like you,” Goemon’s eyes went wide at first, but something interesting happened after.

Something inside him unlocked.

Goemon exhaled, a slow, steady breath—one not burdened by frustration or stress, but something… lighter. As the tension eased from his body, something strange began to happen. Fei watched, intrigued, as spots slowly emerged across his arms, creeping up his neck and onto his jaw. Not just the faint markings of his tiger DNA—these were different. Some were jagged and rough, remnants of his hound DNA, while others bore the distinct shape of his hare lineage. For the first time, all of his DNA had surfaced together, harmonized in a way that had never happened before.

Fei’s lips quirked in amusement. “Well, well. Looks like you’re finally getting comfortable.”

Goemon hadn’t even noticed the transformation at first, but when he caught sight of his own arms, his breath stalled. The patterns, the way they merged seamlessly—it was him. All of him. No part suppressed. No part fighting for dominance.

For once, he wasn’t battling himself.

Fei glanced upward, her hands tucked into her pockets. “C’mon,” she said, nodding toward the sky. “The stars are out.”

Still reeling, Goemon followed her gaze. And for the first time that night, he let himself breathe.

Goemon stirred, blinking against the soft morning light that filtered through the massive windows of Fei’s bedroom. The sheets were impossibly soft, and for once, he felt completely rested. A rare thing, considering how often he spent his nights restless, weighed down by stress or the ever-present tension in his muscles.

Then, he felt it—warmth beside him.

Turning his head, he saw Fei lying on her side, watching him with a lazy, satisfied smirk. Her silver hair was tousled from sleep, and her Arctic blue eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Morning, big guy,” she murmured, voice husky from sleep.

Goemon swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of everything—the way the silk sheets clung to their bodies, the way her arm was draped casually over his chest, the way she smelled—a mix of something crisp and cool like fresh snow, yet warm like lingering embers.

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Do you always stare at people when they sleep?”

Fei chuckled, stretching her arms above her head before flopping back onto the pillows. “Only when they look cute doing it.”

Goemon shot her a look. “I don’t do ‘cute.’”

Fei hummed as she traced a finger along his bare shoulder. “Mmm, no. You usually do brooding, intense, scary when angry—but last night? You actually relaxed. I liked it.”

Goemon sighed, rolling onto his back. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, absolutely.” She smirked. “I live for moments like this.”

Before Goemon could retort, Fei suddenly shifted, rolling onto him and straddling his waist with effortless grace. His hands instinctively landed on her thighs as she leaned down, her face inches from his.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, brushing a few strands of hair from his face.

Goemon exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm—though judging by the smirk tugging at Fei’s lips, she could feel the way his heartbeat had picked up. “And you’re trouble,” he muttered.

Fei grinned. “You love it.”

Goemon gave her a flat look. “We have to get to work.”

Fei feigned a pout. “Booo. And here I was thinking of keeping you here all day.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what would we be doing?”

Fei leaned in until her lips brushed against his ear. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Goemon stiffened, suppressing a growl as she laughed and rolled off of him, stretching like a cat before sliding out of bed. She walked toward her closet, her long hair cascading down her back, and tossed him a glance over her shoulder.

“Well? You coming, or do you need a minute?”

Goemon exhaled through his nose before sitting up and swinging his legs over the bed. “You’re insufferable.”

Fei grinned. “And yet, here you are.”

Shaking his head, Goemon stood and followed her to get ready. If this was what mornings with Fei were going to be like… well, maybe he didn’t mind the chaos so much.

Goemon swung his tetsubo in a wide arc, the heavy weapon whistling through the air before colliding against Fei’s cutlass with a resounding clang. The force should have sent her skidding back, but she absorbed it effortlessly, pivoting with the impact before twisting into a counterattack.

He barely blocked in time, her blade sliding against his club with a sharp shing before she hooked her leg around his and swept him.

Goemon landed hard on his back with a grunt. Before he could move, Fei pounced, straddling his waist and pressing the edge of her cutlass lightly against his throat.

“Pinned again,” she purred, smirking down at him. “You’re getting predictable, Goe.”

Goemon exhaled, staring up at her. “You’re just unfairly good.”

Fei tilted her head playfully. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He huffed. “No, but it’s definitely distracting.”

Fei’s smirk widened. “Distracting, huh?” She leaned in just enough that her cool breath ghosted against his lips. “That mean I’m getting in your head?”

Goemon swallowed. His spots flickered to life along his arms and shoulders, his body reacting instinctively to her. Fei noticed—of course she did—but instead of teasing him about it, her gaze softened just a little.

“Alright, big guy,” she murmured. “Let’s cool off before we end up going another round in a way that has nothing to do with training.”

Goemon let out a low chuckle as she rolled off of him. “That a promise or a threat?”

Fei winked over her shoulder. “Both.”

After training, they both hit the showers, the cool water soothing Goemon’s overheated muscles. He was barely out and toweling off when Fei, already dressed, walked up behind him.

Before he could react, she gripped his chin and tilted his head to the side, exposing the strong curve of his neck.

Then, without hesitation, she leaned in and nuzzled against him, dragging her scent across his skin.

Goemon tensed. His breath hitched. Oh.

Fei pulled back just enough to meet his stunned gaze, her Arctic-blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You’re mine.” Her voice was firm, confident, unchallenged.

Goemon exhaled, feeling the primal weight of those words settle deep in his chest. She wasn’t asking. She was claiming him.

He let out a low chuckle. “That right?”

Fei grinned, tapping his chest. “Damn right.”

Still dazed, Goemon pulled on his shirt and finished getting dressed, the lingering warmth of her scent clinging to his skin as they left for work.

The moment Goemon stepped into PubSec headquarters, Miyabi’s head snapped up. She took one sniff, her fox ears twitching—then she grinned.

“Ohhh, you got it bad.”

Goemon groaned, rubbing his face. “Miyabi, don’t—”

She practically teleported in front of him, hands on her hips, tail flicking behind her. “Oh, no, no, no, you don’t get to just walk in here drenched in Fei’s scent and act like it’s a normal day.” She took another exaggerated sniff, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Damn, Goemon, she really laid claim to you, huh?”

Goemon sighed heavily. “Miyabi, I swear to—”

She gasped, feigning shock. “Wait a minute.” She stepped closer, tapping her chin as if deep in thought. “First me, now Fei… Goemon, do you have a thing for fox girls?”

“I don’t have a type,” Goemon muttered, already regretting coming to work.

Miyabi cackled. “Nah, nah, let’s break this down! You partnered with me, fought beside me, trained with me, lived with me—”

“Temporarily,” Goemon interjected.

“And now,” Miyabi continued, ignoring him, “you’re training with Fei, getting all~ close, and now you show up scent-marked like a damn trophy?” She threw her hands up. you definitely have a fox girl thing.”

Goemon groaned, rubbing his temples. “Miyabi, I hate you.”

She patted his shoulder like a proud older sister. “Nah, you love me. But not as much as you love getting scent-marked by your mate.”

Goemon’s face turned bright red.

Miyabi howled with laughter. “Oh my god, she really got you, huh?” She leaned closer, voice dropping into a teasing purr. “She’s gonna keep doing it too, you know. Soon, every damn person in PubSec will know you belong to Fei.”

Goemon groaned louder, pulling his jacket tighter as if that would somehow make Fei’s scent less obvious.

Miyabi smirked. “Oh, don’t worry, big guy. I think it’s cute. And honestly? You could do worse. Fei’s hot, and rich”

Goemon shot her a glare. “Do not talk about my girlfriend like that.”

Miyabi whistled. “Ohhh, so she’s your girlfriend now?”

Goemon froze.

Miyabi gasped again, clutching her chest dramatically. “Wow, you work fast! Wasn’t long ago you were getting your ass kicked in training, and now she’s yours? I’m impressed.”

Goemon was about to respond when a new voice chimed in.

“Who’s ‘mine’?”

Fei.

Goemon stiffened, turning to see Fei casually strolling into the office, her usual confident smirk in place. Miyabi, ever the troublemaker, turned to Fei with an innocent expression.

“Oh, nothing,” she said sweetly. “Goemon was just enthusiastically calling you his girlfriend.”

Fei raised an eyebrow, looking amused as she turned to Goemon. “Oh? Is that so?”

Goemon gave Miyabi a death glare before sighing, running a hand through his hair. “…Yeah. That’s so.”

Fei chuckled, stepping closer and deliberately brushing against him, letting her scent settle even deeper into his skin. “Good,” she murmured, leaning in just enough to let her lips ghost over his cheek. “Because you’re mine.”

Miyabi let out an exaggerated awww before cackling. “I love this. This is amazing.”

Goemon groaned again, rubbing his temples as Fei and Miyabi continued to laugh at his expense. He was never going to live this down. The teasing was relentless, and he could already tell Miyabi was going to drag this out for weeks.

Before he could find an escape, Yanagi stepped into the room, her sharp gaze locking onto him. “Goemon, I need a favor.”

Goemon barely held back another sigh. “Depends on the favor, boss.”

Yanagi crossed her arms. “Harumasa bailed last minute. I need you to help with the in-house training for PubSec’s Academy Day.”

Goemon immediately shook his head. “Yeah, I can do a lot, but I can’t do that one.”

Yanagi’s eyes narrowed. “And why not?”

Goemon simply pointed to the calendar on the wall behind her. Yanagi turned, eyes scanning until she found the very clear request he had filed months ago. His name was written in bold, with “Day Off” highlighted right next to it.

Yanagi exhaled through her nose before turning back to him. “Alright… technically you’re off the hook, but could you maybe do this as a favor for me?” She softened her tone slightly. “You’re a great teacher, Goemon. I mean, just look at how much Soukaku has grown with your help.”

Right on cue, Soukaku popped her head in from the hallway and flashed him a cheerful thumbs-up. “You are a good teacher, Goemon-nii!”

Goemon gave her a strained smile. He appreciated the compliment, but no.

Miyabi, still enjoying his suffering, smirked. “Besides, what do you have to do that day?”

Goemon turned to the group, his expression flattening. “I’m getting my blood work done and testifying about the Zyuoh experiments.”

Silence.

For half a second, Fei and Miyabi looked at each other. Then, bless their hearts, they completely missed the weight of that statement.

“Oh,” they both said in unison. “Well, we’ll just help teach while you do that.”

Yanagi, equally oblivious, clapped her hands together. “Perfect! I’ll see you then.”

Goemon just stood there, feeling his patience rapidly deteriorating.

The rest of the day was spent trying not to be irritable. Or blow a gasket. Or flip his damn desk over.

Scene: Running on Empty

Goemon’s entire body felt like lead. The weight of the morning still clung to him, dragging at his every movement.

Testifying had been… brutal. He hadn’t expected it to be easy, but reliving the experiments, recounting the horrors in detail for the official record—it drained him in a way even the hardest battles couldn’t. He had kept his voice even, his expression neutral, but inside? It had torn at him.

Then came the other news.

His trithiren biology was still evolving. The Nowhere King’s corruption had left scars on his DNA, but it had also done something else. His body wasn’t just adapting—it was changing, developing traits from his suppressed hybrid genes in ways even the researchers hadn’t expected. They didn’t know what the final result would be.

And that uncertainty left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.

Yet here he was, standing in the middle of PubSec’s training grounds, running on fumes, still expected to teach a bunch of recruits who had no idea how little patience he had left.

The cadets were lined up, waiting for instruction. Fei stood beside him, effortlessly composed, looking as sharp and confident as ever. Miyabi was nearby, already leading another group through drills.

And then there was Yamato.

Goemon could feel him. The kid was standing among the recruits, eager, determined—like he belonged here.

Goemon’s jaw clenched.

He still wasn’t acknowledging him.

He couldn’t. Not yet. Not when the anger was still sitting hot in his chest, not when his exhaustion made it impossible to temper his emotions properly. Yamato had lied. Had thrown himself into danger again, and Goemon couldn’t keep doing this—couldn’t keep watching him make the same reckless choices over and over.

And yet, there he was.

Waiting.

Looking at him, just waiting for Goemon to give him some kind of recognition.

But Goemon turned away.

“Alright,” he said gruffly, his voice rougher than usual. “We’re starting with sparring drills. Pick a partner.”

The cadets moved, some scrambling eagerly, others more hesitant. Goemon rolled his shoulders, trying to focus, trying to ignore the heaviness pressing into his skull.

Fei, however, wasn’t fooled.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “You good?”

Goemon let out a slow exhale through his nose. “Peachy.”

Fei studied him for a long moment, and he knew—knew—she saw right through him.

Still, she didn’t push. Instead, she smirked. “Good. Then you won’t mind if I take the best of the recruits for myself.”

Goemon snorted. “You can try.”

For a brief second, it almost felt normal. Almost.

Then his gaze flickered back to Yamato.

And the weight returned.

Scene: The Breaking Point

The tension had been simmering all day.

Yamato had been waiting—waiting—for Goemon to say something, to acknowledge him, to look at him the way he used to before everything fell apart between them.

But Goemon wouldn’t.

Not even a glance.

It was like he didn’t exist.

And Yamato was sick of it.

So when the sparring matches ended, and Goemon turned his back like he was about to move on, Yamato stepped forward.

“Fight me.”

The words cut through the murmurs of the recruits, silencing them instantly. Fei and Miyabi, who had been talking nearby, both turned their heads in surprise.

Goemon finally looked at him—actually looked at him—but there was no warmth in his eyes. Just exhaustion. Just disappointment.

“Not happening,” Goemon said flatly.

Coward.

“You’re really just gonna ignore me?” Yamato snapped, fists clenched at his sides. “Act like I don’t exist because you’re mad I joined PubSec?”

Goemon’s jaw ticked. “You don’t understand, Yamato. This isn’t—”

“No, you don’t understand,” Yamato interrupted, stepping closer. “I made my choice. My choice. And if you don’t like it, then fight me. Right now.”

A muscle in Goemon’s jaw twitched. His shoulders stiffened, his grip tightening at his sides.

Fei narrowed her eyes. She noticed it first—the subtle flare of his spots, the way his body tensed, like something was clawing to be let out.

“Goemon,” Fei said carefully, stepping forward, but he ignored her.

Goemon exhaled sharply. “Fine.”

Miyabi stiffened. She saw it too—the way the red ring around his irises flickered to life, his barely-contained frustration slipping through the cracks of his control.

The recruits backed away, sensing the shift in the air.

Yamato squared up, determination burning in his eyes. “No holding back.”

Goemon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t want that.”

Yamato scoffed. “Try me.”

And then the match began.

Yamato struck first, his odachi slicing through the air. But Goemon—he wasn’t there.

He moved differently.

It wasn’t his old style, the heavy, brutal swings of raw strength. This was something else. Something new.

His footwork was lighter, his movements fluid. He twisted around Yamato’s attack, deflecting the blade with his kanabo before slamming the tetsubo down—fast, unpredictable, like a shifting storm.

Yamato barely had time to block before Goemon was on him again, his strikes coming from impossible angles, his body twisting and bending with unnatural precision.

Fei’s breath hitched.

Miyabi wasn’t kidding. He really does have a type.

Miyabi, however, wasn’t smiling anymore. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath.

Goemon wasn’t just fighting to win.

He was overwhelming.

And Yamato wasn’t ready.

The Nowhere King’s voice slithered into Yamato's head.

"Yes… let it out. Stop holding back. Show them what you’ve become." This lead to Yamato getting a lucky hit off on Goemon. as the blade launched him to the ground Goemon had numerous images flicker through his head.

Goemon’s vision flickered. His grip tightened around his weapons.

And then he broke.

In a single fluid motion, Goemon disarmed Yamato. His kanabo struck the odachi’s hilt, twisting it from Yamato’s grasp before his tetsubo slammed into his stomach, sending him crashing into the ground.

The dust hadn’t even settled before Goemon was on him, his weapons raised for another strike.

“GOEMON!” Fei’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

Goemon stopped.

His breathing was ragged, his hands shaking. His spots were glowing, the red ring around his irises burning like embers.

Yamato coughed, struggling to push himself up, but Goemon didn’t move. He just stared at his own hands, his weapons still raised, realization dawning like a cold wave crashing over him.

He had almost—

He hadn’t held back.

For the first time in years, he had let go.

And it had felt… good.

Too good.

Fei stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “You won,” she said softly. “It’s over.”

Goemon exhaled, his grip loosening. Slowly, slowly, his body returned to normal, his spots dimming, the red fading from his eyes.

Yamato stared up at him, his expression unreadable.

Goemon took a step back.

And then, without a word, he turned and walked away. Fei drove Goemon back to her place giving him some time to breathe. His spots flaring up all over his body, as many emotions swirled through him.

Goemon paced the length of Fei’s training hall, his breathing ragged, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. His mind replayed the fight in jagged flashes—Yamato hitting the ground, the red burning at the edges of his vision, the power surging through his veins. The thrill of it.

Scene: The Edge of Control

Goemon paced the length of Fei’s training hall, his breathing ragged, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. His mind replayed the fight in jagged flashes—Yamato hitting the ground, the red burning at the edges of his vision, the power surging through his veins. The thrill of it.

He slammed his fist into the nearest training post, the reinforced wood cracking under the force.

“I can barely control myself,” he snarled, his spots flaring up again as his breath came heavy. “I thought I was going to kill him. I—” His voice wavered, his fingers curling into his palm until his claws nearly punctured his skin. “I’m not getting better, Fei. I’m getting worse.”

Fei, standing across from him, arms folded, didn’t flinch at his outburst. She watched him carefully, taking in every tense muscle, every sharp breath.

“No, you weren’t,” she countered, her voice steady. “He wanted this fight. He asked for it. And you gave it to him.” She took a step closer. “You stopped when you needed to.”

Goemon shook his head. “I almost—”

“You didn’t.”

His jaw clenched.

Fei exhaled, crossing the space between them. “That boy needed to learn he’s not invincible,” she said firmly. “You taught him an important lesson.”

Goemon still couldn’t shake the feeling—the echo of raw power humming under his skin, the terrible realization that he hadn’t wanted to stop.

His breathing came uneven again, his mind racing through every moment of the fight. He had enjoyed it. The way his body moved, the way his strikes connected, the way Yamato couldn’t keep up. It felt right.

And that terrified him.

“I almost killed him,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely above a breath.

Fei sighed through her nose, reaching out. Her hand pressed flat against his chest, right over his hammering heart.

“He needed to learn,” she repeated, softer this time.

Goemon swallowed thickly, his throat tight.

Fei tilted her head, her eyes searching his. She saw it—the lingering fire, the war raging behind his gaze, the unease that gnawed at him. But beneath all of that, she saw something else.

Not just fear.

Not just anger.

A deep, unsettling comfort in what he had felt.

Fei didn’t look away.

“You’ve protected him long enough, Goemon,” she said. “He needs to learn the world is dangerous.” She stepped even closer, her voice dropping low. “And if he’s going to survive, he’s going to have to deal with that. Not you.”

Goemon stood there, his entire body taut like a bowstring, his mind clawing for something solid to hold onto.

Fei’s hand didn’t move.

Neither did she.

She let him wrestle with it. Let him breathe through the storm raging inside him.

And for the first time since the fight, Goemon realized—

Fei wasn’t afraid of him.

Not even a little.

He slammed his fist into the nearest training post, the reinforced wood cracking under the force.

“I can barely control myself,” he snarled, his spots flaring up again as his breath came heavy. “I thought I was going to kill him. I—” His voice wavered, his fingers curling into his palm until his claws nearly punctured his skin. “I’m not getting better, Fei. I’m getting worse.”

Fei, standing across from him, arms folded, didn’t flinch at his outburst. She watched him carefully, taking in every tense muscle, every sharp breath.

“No, you weren’t,” she countered, her voice steady. “He wanted this fight. He asked for it. And you gave it to him.” She took a step closer. “You stopped when you needed to.”

Goemon shook his head. “I almost—”

“You didn’t.”

His jaw clenched.

Fei exhaled, crossing the space between them. “That boy needed to learn he’s not invincible,” she said firmly. “You taught him an important lesson.”

Goemon still couldn’t shake the feeling—the echo of raw power humming under his skin, the terrible realization that he hadn’t wanted to stop.

His breathing came uneven again, his mind racing through every moment of the fight. He had enjoyed it. The way his body moved, the way his strikes connected, the way Yamato couldn’t keep up. It felt right.

And that terrified him.

“I almost killed him,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely above a breath.

Fei sighed through her nose, reaching out. Her hand pressed flat against his chest, right over his hammering heart.

“He needed to learn,” she repeated, softer this time.

Goemon swallowed thickly, his throat tight.

Fei tilted her head, her eyes searching his. She saw it—the lingering fire, the war raging behind his gaze, the unease that gnawed at him. But beneath all of that, she saw something else.

Not just fear.

Not just anger.

A deep, unsettling comfort in what he had felt.

Fei didn’t look away.

“You’ve protected him long enough, Goemon,” she said. “He needs to learn the world is dangerous.” She stepped even closer, her voice dropping low. “And if he’s going to survive, he’s going to have to deal with that. Not you.”

Goemon stood there, his entire body taut like a bowstring, his mind clawing for something solid to hold onto.

Fei’s hand didn’t move.

Neither did she.

She let him wrestle with it. Let him breathe through the storm raging inside him.

Goemon sat on the steps outside the training hall, his arms resting on his knees as he stared out at the empty courtyard. The night air was cool, crisp, and quiet—exactly what he needed after everything. His body still ached from the fight, but it was nothing compared to the weight in his chest.

He heard footsteps behind him, soft but purposeful. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Yamato.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, Yamato sighed and sat beside him. “You really messed me up back there.”

Goemon let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence stretched between them again, but this time, it wasn’t as heavy.

Yamato leaned back on his palms. “I, uh… I get why you’re mad. And why you’re always on my ass about being careful.” He let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t thinking. Again. And I—” He hesitated, then looked at Goemon. “I’m sorry. For making you feel like you had to watch me die every damn time.”

Goemon exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening around his knee. “You don’t get it,” he muttered.

Yamato frowned. “Then tell me.”

Goemon ran a hand down his face before finally turning to him. “Your mom. Before she died—before she sacrificed herself—she begged me to keep you safe. I told her I would.” His voice wavered slightly, but he pushed through it. “And ever since then, you’ve been throwing yourself into the fire like you’re trying to meet her on the other side.”

Yamato sucked in a breath, his shoulders stiffening.

Goemon clenched his jaw. “I’ve spent years pulling you back, watching you walk the edge, knowing one day I might not be fast enough. And you don’t even see it.” He exhaled shakily. “You’re my little brother, Yamato. Even if we’re not blood. I’m not just protecting you—I’m keeping a promise.”

Yamato stared at the ground, his fingers twitching slightly.

Then, after a long pause, he muttered, “Damn. Now I feel like an ass.”

Goemon barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You are an ass.”

Yamato snorted. “Yeah, yeah.” He was quiet for a moment, then nudged Goemon’s arm. “I really am sorry, though.”

Goemon sighed. “Just… stop scaring the hell out of me.”

Yamato grinned. “No promises.”

Goemon rolled his eyes, but before he could reply, Yamato suddenly grabbed him and pulled him into a rough hug.

Goemon stiffened for half a second before relenting, patting his back.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Goemon grumbled.

Yamato smirked against his shoulder. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Yamato laughed before pulling back, then immediately smirked wider. “Speaking of things you love—”

Goemon narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

Yamato nodded toward the approaching vehicle down the road. Fei’s vehicle.

“Oh, I will,” Yamato teased, his grin wolfish. “You so have a type, big bro.”

Goemon scowled. “Shut up.”

Yamato leaned closer. “Powerhouse fox girls, huh? First Miyabi, now Fei—”

Goemon smacked him upside the head just as Fei’s car pulled up.

Fei rolled the window down, smirking. “You two done being adorable?”

Goemon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not another word, Yamato.”

Yamato gave him a shit-eating grin. “Have fun, big bro.”

Goemon groaned as he climbed into the car, ignoring Fei’s laughter as she sped off.

The hum of the car engine filled the air as Fei drove through the dimly lit streets, weaving effortlessly through traffic. The city lights flickered in Goemon’s peripheral vision, but his mind was elsewhere—still lingering on his conversation with Yamato.

Fei glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You good?”

Goemon exhaled, leaning back against the seat. “Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Just… long day.”

Fei smirked. “You looked like you were about to punt your little brother into the stratosphere before I showed up.”

Goemon let out a tired chuckle. “Not gonna lie, it crossed my mind.”

Fei chuckled, shifting gears smoothly. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t. Would’ve made for a messy cleanup.” She stole another glance at him, this time more scrutinizing. “But seriously. You look wrecked.”

Goemon sighed. “Testifying about the experiments wasn’t exactly a fun stroll through memory lane. And finding out my body’s still evolving? Not what I wanted to hear today.”

Fei’s grip on the wheel tightened slightly. “What do you mean ‘evolving’?”

Goemon rolled his shoulders, feeling the lingering ache from the fight. “Turns out, the third gene series in me isn’t just some dormant anomaly. It’s waking up. In fact they found 8 different Thiren genes within me,Changing me. The active ones currently are: African Hound, Tiger, Hare They don’t even know what the final result will be.” He let out a humorless laugh. “So that’s fun.”

Fei’s brows furrowed in thought, but she didn’t say anything right away. Instead, she reached over and placed a hand on his thigh, giving it a firm squeeze. “You’re still you, Goe. No matter what changes.”

Goemon looked down at her hand, then back up at her. Her expression was steady, confident—like she knew he wasn’t about to lose himself, even when he wasn’t so sure.

Something in his chest loosened.

He let out a breath. “Thanks.”

Fei smirked. “Anytime.”

The car fell into a comfortable silence, the streetlights casting shifting shadows across Goemon’s face.

After a moment, Fei spoke again. “So, how’s it feel? Knowing you’re about to be one of us?”

Goemon glanced at her. “The Wild Hunt, huh?” He scoffed. “Honestly? I still don’t know what to expect.”

Fei grinned, eyes gleaming. “You’ll love it. It’s not like PubSec or Section Six. The Hunt is different. More instinct, less bureaucracy.” She flashed him a teasing look. “Perfect for a guy who fights like a storm god.”

Goemon huffed a laugh. “You just like seeing me wreck things.”

Fei’s grin widened. “Maybe.”

Goemon shook his head, but he couldn’t fight the small smirk on his lips.

As the city gave way to the outskirts, the neon glow fading into the darkness of the open road, Fei reached for the radio and flicked it on. A steady rock beat filled the car, setting the tone for the night ahead.

She threw him a sideways glance. “Ready for your next evolution, Goe?”

Goemon exhaled, feeling the weight of the day settle—but also something else. A sense of forward motion.

He met Fei’s gaze and nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

Fei smirked and floored the gas.

They arrived at the outskirtNew Eridu at a small encampment

The ride had been long, but as they neared their destination, Goemon could feel the air shift. It was subtle at first—something instinctual prickling at the edges of his awareness. This place was different. Alive. Not like the structured, controlled environments of PubSec or the sterile halls of Section Six.

Fei drove through a hidden checkpoint, and the landscape opened up. The compound was vast, seamlessly blending into the dense forest that surrounded it. Towering training structures jutted out between the trees, and stone archways framed the entrance, giving it the feel of something ancient and primal. Fires burned in iron braziers, casting flickering shadows against the darkened sky.

Goemon stepped out of the car, rolling his shoulders. The ground beneath his boots felt solid, grounding in a way he hadn’t expected. The scent of damp earth, steel, and something electric filled the air—a presence, a force.

Fei shut the car door behind him, stretching her arms over her head. “Welcome to The Wild Hunt, Goe.”

6 notes · View notes

Origins

Here is the idea I had for a DnD character and decided to make his origin into a fanfiction featuring a Fantasy Arin

I had taken to rising before the rooster’s crow, claiming the stillness of dawn as my own before the halls filled with voices—orders, questions, tasks. I had no love for debates on doctrine or the endless bickering over divine interpretation. I only wanted to serve, to keep the records, to live in quiet contemplation.

But as I knelt in prayer, another presence entered the chapel.

I smelled her before I saw her. A fragrance—light and floral, like orchids in bloom, yet carrying something richer, something deeply earthy. It was strange, wild, almost intoxicating. My heart beat faster, unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with fear. I ignored it and kept my head bowed.

Then, warmth.

Fingers, slender but certain, slid into my own. Before I could react, another touch—this time at my chin—tilted my face toward the intruder.

My heart stopped.

She was beautiful. Not just in the way one might call a painting beautiful, or the way the early morning light through stained glass had a quiet divinity to it. No, this was something else. Something alive. Her lips curled in a smile, teasing and knowing, but her eyes—her eyes changed, flickering from cerulean to crimson before settling into something softer, something that held me still.

“I need your help,” she said.

Her voice settled into my bones, warm and lilting. My breath caught, my hands suddenly restless, like I needed to do something like I needed to hold on to something before it slipped away.

I blinked, forcing myself to focus.

She was young—at least, she appeared so—wrapped in a traveler’s coat, fox fur lining its collar. Strands of auburn hair tumbled past her shoulders, a few stray locks curling at her cheek. A charm dangled from her belt, swaying as she leaned in just slightly, closer than was proper, closer than anyone had ever been.

“You seem perfectly capable of helping yourself,” I said, pulling my hand free, though I immediately mourned the loss of warmth.

She sighed, dramatically as if I had just wounded her deeply. “Oh, how cruel. A man of faith turning away a lady in need.”

“I’m not turning you away,” I said, straightening. “I’m listening.”

Her smile widened. “Good. Because I simply couldn’t think of anyone better suited for this task than you, dear priest.”

I frowned. “I’m a scribe.”

“A scribe with strong hands,” she murmured, gaze flicking over me, lingering just long enough to send a foreign shiver down my spine. “You must spend quite a bit of time with a sword.”

I stiffened. “I train to maintain discipline.”

“Of course,” she said, lips twitching like she was holding back laughter. “Discipline. That’s what they call it.”

I exhaled sharply, trying to regain control of myself, but my thoughts were scattered. I had never met someone who spoke like this, who carried themselves like this. She was not afraid. Not bound by ritual or duty. And for the first time in my life, I felt something close to—

No. I didn’t have a word for it.

All I knew was that I did not want her to leave.

“What do you need help with?” I asked, too quickly, too eagerly.

Her expression softened—not entirely losing its mischief but shifting into something almost earnest. “A small matter. A minor administrative issue that requires someone with both a sharp mind and a steady hand. And, well…” Her fingers brushed my wrist again, lingering just long enough to make my pulse betray me. “I have a feeling you’re the only one here who won’t bore me to tears.”

I should have said no. Should have refused, and reported her presence to my superiors. But the words stuck in my throat.

Because for the first time, I felt awake.

For the first time, I thought—maybe I could want something just for myself. I got up and followed the young woman, and as I did my heart raced.

“So my request is simple. I need help with a pack of devils roaming the nearby town, and I need someone trained in clergy and consecration rituals to help me remove them.”

In my mind, I briefly considered fetching one of our paladins—after all, handling demonic nuisances was their usual charge. With the northern incursion already consuming our elite, I decided a few imps were well within my capabilities. I turned toward my room to retrieve my armor and consecrated longsword, expecting routine preparation. But in that very moment, time itself seemed to pause, and the world faded to a dull, grey haze.

A familiar, shimmering presence arrived in that suspended space. Eternia—the enigmatic goddess of day and night, the keeper of time’s ebb and flow, balance, love, and war—appeared with the effortless grace of a whispered promise. I had glimpsed her in passing before, never as clearly, never as intentionally. Today, she was here for me.

She sauntered closer, her eyes dancing with mischief and knowing light. “Where are you going, little Diovalo?” she teased, the nickname rolling off her tongue with affectionate playfulness.

I turned to face her, feeling a mix of awe and a trace of exasperation. “I’m going to help a friend,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the sudden knot in my stomach.

Eternia’s smile deepened as she tilted her head, her gaze penetrating as if reading every secret I tried to hide. “Oh, little trickster,” she chided gently. “You may fool yourself with your own tales, but you can’t hide them from me.” With a graceful flourish, she extended a delicate hand. “May I see your sword?”

Reluctantly, I nodded and handed over my consecrated longsword. Her slender fingers ran over the hilt, and for a long moment, it was as if the blade pulsed with new life beneath her touch. “It is now consecrated permanently,” she declared, her voice a soft caress mingled with triumph and mystery.

I frowned in confusion, glancing from the glowing sword to Eternia’s radiant smile. Before I could question further, she only smiled wider, and the color of the world seeped back in, vibrant once more.

Shaken but emboldened by the encounter, I returned to Arin. The moment I stepped back into her presence, the air shifted. Her eyes lit up as she saw me—her smile both inviting and enigmatic. I couldn’t help but return that smile.

As Arin and I made our way toward the clearing where the demons lurked, I found myself hyper-aware of everything—the way the night air felt cool against my skin, the rhythmic crunch of leaves beneath our boots, and most of all, the presence of Arin beside me. There was something about her—something magnetic. It wasn’t just her beauty, though that was undeniable. It was the way she moved, how effortlessly she carried herself as if she belonged anywhere and nowhere all at once.

She walked a step ahead, humming softly to herself, spinning a dagger idly between her fingers. I watched the lazy twirl of the blade, trying not to let my curiosity about her consume me.

“So,” she said suddenly, glancing back at me with a mischievous smirk. “I feel like I should know your name.”

I hesitated, and before I could stop myself, I answered, “Ducailion.”

Arin stopped in her tracks and turned fully to face me, her expression a mix of amusement and surprise. “Like the hero of old?”

I shrugged, not quite sure why the name mattered. “I guess so.”

Arin hummed, studying me with an unreadable look before shaking her head with a small smile. “Interesting,” she murmured.

She started walking again, but something about the way she said that made my stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.

I quickened my pace to catch up, trying to push aside the strange weight of the conversation. “So, tell me,” I said, hoping to shift the focus. “You came to my convent for help with devils. What’s your stake in all this?”

Arin let out a soft chuckle. “Would you believe me if I said I just have a soft spot for small, cursed villages?”

“No.”

She laughed at that, a warm, rich sound that made my chest tighten. “Fair enough. Truth is, this is more of a… personal favor.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A favor? For who?”

Arin stretched her arms above her head before tossing me a look that was equal parts playful and cryptic. “Let’s just say someone helped me once when I needed it most. Now, I try to return the favor when I can.”

That answer should have been enough, but I couldn’t help but feel there was more to it—more to her.

Before I could press further, Arin abruptly changed the subject. “So, you’re really just a record keeper?”

“Why do you say it like that?” I asked, frowning.

She gestured toward me. “You don’t move like one. Most priests I know aren’t that quick on their feet. And they don’t have magic that lets them summon spirit dragons into their swords.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but… she had a point.

Instead, I shrugged. “I trained with the paladins when I was younger. I liked the discipline of it.”

Arin gave me a knowing look. “And? You liked something else about it too, didn’t you?”

I hesitated. Did I?

I had spent my whole life doing what was expected of me—learning scripture, memorizing records, and offering guidance to those who sought it. It had been a duty, something I was good at. But when I trained with the paladins, when I fought—there was something else. A flicker of exhilaration, of freedom.

I had never let myself dwell on it.

Arin’s smirk deepened like she could read my thoughts. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she murmured, before turning forward again.

I sighed. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And you’re adorable when you try to pretend you’re not enjoying this,” she shot back.

I opened my mouth to retort, but before I could, the air shifted.

Ahead, a dark presence loomed. The clearing was just beyond the treeline, and I could see shadowy figures slinking through the mist. The demons were waiting.

Arin grinned, rolling her shoulders. “Showtime.”

I took a steadying breath, then turned to Ureni, who had perched on my shoulder. She met my gaze before hopping gracefully into my blade. The weapon flared to life, cold fire licking along its edge.

Arin took a sharp breath, her eyes widening. “You can do spirit magic?”

I frowned. “Spirit magic?”

She stared at my blade, then at me, her expression suddenly serious. “Spirit magic. Magic uses the power of cosmic harmony to shape, reform, and manipulate the magical essence in all spirits and souls. That’s old magic, Cailion. You don’t just see that anymore.”

I looked at my sword, at the ghostly fire that wreathed it. It had always been like this—ever since I could remember. It was just something I did.

I shrugged. “It’s not something I think about.”

Arin narrowed her eyes like she was mentally filing that information away for later. “Hmph. Later,” she said as if this was a conversation we were going to return to.

Then, she turned toward the clearing, her grin sharp and wild.

“Come on, record-keeper,” she teased. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

And with that, we charged into battle.

The rush of battle coursed through me, my heart hammering in my chest. I had never felt so alive, so completely in tune with the world around me. Every strike, every movement—it all felt natural, instinctual like something buried deep within me had finally been unleashed.

Arin grinned at me, eyes alight with something sharp and knowing. “You’re a natural at this,” she said, breathless but exhilarated.

I barely registered her words before my body responded, my lips curling into a grin. “Really? Because this is awesome.” I laughed, the sound unrestrained, unburdened. I felt weightless, powerful—like I was made for this.

I leaped over a lunging demon, using its hunched shoulders as a stepping stone to propel myself higher. From above, I twisted midair, bringing my consecrated sword down in a powerful helm splitter. The demon shrieked before dissolving into nothingness, the blade’s holy light searing its form from existence.

Arin was a blur beside me, moving with effortless grace. As I landed, I caught sight of her calling out a charm, her fox-fur jacket whirling through the air like it had a will of its own. It wrapped around a demon’s head, blinding it just long enough for her to step in, her hidden rapier flashing as she drove it through its heart.

The last demon remained, shifting on its hooves, uncertain whether to attack or retreat. I turned to Arin, breathless, but grinning. She met my gaze, her expression matching my own excitement. “Well then, Dio, how do we want to do this?”

I didn’t hesitate. “You go high, I go low.”

Arin smirked, a wild, teasing glint in her eyes. “Oh? Giving orders now?”

Before I could respond, she planted a hand on my shoulder and used me as a springboard, launching herself into the air. My body reacted on pure instinct—I surged forward, sliding low and driving my blade into the demon’s midsection just as Arin’s rapier cleaved through its upper half.

As the demon vanished in a wisp of black smoke, silence settled over the battlefield. My body still thrummed with energy, my breath sharp and fast, but I didn’t want it to end. The thrill of battle, the perfect rhythm of movement, the way Arin’s presence beside me made the entire experience even more exhilarating—I wanted more.

I turned to her, still high on adrenaline. “Do you have any more requests?”

Arin laughed, flipping her rapier in her hand before sheathing it. “Oh? Someone’s got the adventuring bug.”

I knew she was teasing, but I didn’t care. I liked the way she smiled when she looked at me—like I was something interesting, something unexpected. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I wasn’t just fulfilling an obligation. I was doing something I wanted. Something that made my heart race in more ways than one.

Arin stepped closer, eyes gleaming in the fading light. “Careful, Cailion,” she murmured, tilting her head. “If you fall too hard for this life… you might not want to go back.”

I swallowed, the weight of her words sinking in. Maybe I didn’t want to go back. Maybe, standing here next to her, I had already decided.

As the last demon dissipated into the ether, I stood there for a moment, catching my breath. My heart was still hammering in my chest, but it wasn’t fear—it was exhilaration. The kind that made my blood sing. The kind that made me feel alive in a way I never had before.

Arin sheathed her dagger, tossing me a grin. “So, how do you feel, record-keeper?”

I let out a breathless laugh. “Like I want to do that again.”

Arin’s eyes glowed with mischief. “That’s how it starts.”

I shook my head, but I couldn’t deny the way my hands still trembled—not from nerves, but from the sheer thrill of it all. Fighting alongside her had been fun. More than fun. It was freeing.

Before I could say more, she gestured ahead. “Come on, let’s go collect our thanks.”

We walked into the village, and I was immediately struck by the sight of tiny, round figures bustling about. The villagers—hamster folk, no taller than my waist—gathered in groups, their fur-covered faces full of nervous excitement. Some clutched wooden tools, others had tiny woven satchels slung over their shoulders, but all of them were watching us with wide, hopeful eyes.

A particularly well-dressed hamster, his fur a sleek grey with a small gold chain draped across his chest, scurried forward. He clasped his tiny paws together and gave a deep, reverent bow.

“Lady Yewon, you’ve saved us once again!” he squeaked.

I blinked, looking at Arin—Yewon?

Arin—Yewon—smirked and waved a hand. “Oh, it was nothing, Mayor Tibbins.”

Mayor Tibbins nodded enthusiastically before turning his large, beady eyes on me. “And you, Sir Ducailion, we are forever in your debt.”

I stiffened at the name. “I—um, I’m just glad I could help.”

Tibbins reached into his tiny satchel and produced two small pouches, offering them to both of us. “Please, a token of our gratitude—fifteen gold pieces for each of you.”

I hesitated, but Arin took hers without a second thought, tossing it into her pack. “Very generous, Mayor.”

I took mine more slowly, feeling the weight of the coins in my hand. I just got paid… for fighting.

It was a strange thought.

Before I could dwell on it, Tibbins clapped his paws together. “Now, we must celebrate! A town-wide feast is in order!”

The other hamsters cheered, immediately scattering in different directions. Within moments, the village erupted into a flurry of activity—lanterns were lit, tables were dragged into the streets, platters of food were hurriedly carried out from tiny homes. The air filled with the scent of spiced vegetables, honeyed pastries, and freshly baked bread.

“Do they always celebrate like this?” I asked, watching as a trio of young hamsters ran by carrying a barrel of what I assumed was ale.

Arin grinned. “Only when I’m around.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So you do this a lot.”

“Maybe.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Not regretting coming along, are you?”

I looked around. The village was alive with laughter, warmth, and light. A far cry from the cold, sterile halls of the convent.

“…No,” I admitted.

Arin’s smirk softened into something more genuine. “Good.”

Before I could say anything else, one of the hamsters scurried up, balancing two wooden mugs of ale. “For our heroes!” he declared, handing them over.

Arin raised hers, clinking it against mine. “To your first job, Cailion.”

I hesitated, then smiled, raising my mug. “To my first job.”

We drank, and soon the village square became a dance floor. The hamster folk played lively music on small wooden flutes and tiny drums, their voices harmonizing in cheerful songs. The ale was surprisingly strong, warming my insides in a way that made my limbs looser, my thoughts lighter.

Arin, already two drinks ahead of me, grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the center of the square. “Come on, record-keeper, let’s dance.”

“I don’t—” But before I could protest, she spun me, laughing, and I stumbled after her.

The music was fast, and the hamsters danced in circles around us, clapping along. Arin twirled effortlessly, her hair catching the glow of the lanterns. I did my best to keep up, but she was so much more fluid, so much more at ease in her own body.

She laughed, grabbing my hands and guiding me through the steps. “Loosen up, Cailion.”

I did.

The world blurred into movement and music, into laughter and warmth. Into her.

I had never felt like this before—untethered, free. I had spent my whole life weighed down by expectations, by duty. But here? Here, with her? I wasn’t bound by anything.

And that terrified me.

Because the more I tasted this freedom, the harder it would be to let it go.

As the night stretched on, the music slowed, and the once-energetic dancing dwindled into swaying bodies and quiet murmurs. The warm glow of lanterns flickered against the cobbled streets, and the air smelled of spiced bread and honeyed wine. Around us, the hamster folk curled up in little clusters, their celebratory energy finally spent.

Arin leaned against a wooden railing, a half-finished mug of ale dangling from her fingertips. She looked peaceful—sated from the fight, the feast, and the joy of the night. I stood beside her, watching the last of the festivities settle into a gentle hum.

The exhilaration of the battle still coursed through me, though it had softened into something more contemplative. I had never felt like this before—not in the convent, not in the quiet solitude of the chapel, not even in the rare moments of joy I’d found among the clergy. This was different. This was… right.

And that terrified me.

The air shifted.

The sounds of the village dulled, like they were being smothered by an invisible veil. The warmth of the night faded, replaced by an eerie stillness. I turned to Arin, but she was frozen in place—mid-drink, her smile caught somewhere between playful and sleepy. The lantern light stopped flickering. The embers in the fire pits ceased their slow collapse into ash.

I swallowed hard.

“…Eternia.”

A slow clap echoed through the silent village.

From the darkness between the stalls, she emerged. Barefoot, draped in flowing robes of deep twilight, her long silver hair shifted like liquid moonlight. She moved with the ease of someone who had all the time in the world—because she did.

Eternia stopped a few feet from me, arms crossed, head tilted.

“Well?” she asked, her voice teasing yet gentle. “How do you feel, little Diobronto?”

I hesitated, glancing at the stillness around me. “You already know.”

Eternia sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. “Humor me.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. My hands curled at my sides. “I feel…” I exhaled. “I don’t know.”

She hummed, stepping closer. “Then let’s make it simple.” Her gaze bore into mine, the weight of endless stars resting behind those eyes. “Do you want to go back?”

The question hit harder than I expected.

I thought of the convent. The ink-stained desks, the candlelit halls, the quiet repetition of my duties. I had always told myself that was where I belonged. Where I fit. But standing here, after everything—the battle, the feast, the dance, her—I wasn’t sure anymore.

“I…” I looked away. “I don’t know.”

Eternia’s smile softened. “You do.”

I swallowed.

She reached out, brushing a cool hand against my cheek—a touch that was both grounding and unearthly. “Little trickster,” she murmured. “You’re running wild now. And I think you like it.”

I clenched my jaw. “I have a duty.”

“You had a duty.” She tucked a silver strand behind her ear. “Now, you have a choice.”

I looked at Arin, frozen in time, her lips slightly parted, her body relaxed against the railing. I thought of the battle, the thrill of it. The way my blood had sung, the way my heart had pounded—not with fear, but with joy. I thought of the way my hands had found hers in the dance, of how effortlessly she pulled me into the rhythm of her world.

I turned back to Eternia. “What if I make the wrong one?”

She grinned. “Then you’ll make another.”

I breathed out a laugh, but it was shaky.

Eternia’s expression turned knowing. “No matter what, you are mine,” she murmured, brushing a hand over my chest where my soul thrummed. “But you, my little wayward prince, must decide where you will be.”

The weight of her words settled deep inside me.

Eternia stepped back, and with a flick of her fingers, time resumed.

The fire crackled, the wind carried laughter through the streets, and Arin turned to me, stretching lazily. “You look deep in thought,” she said, tilting her head.

I forced a smile. “Just… thinking about what comes next.”

She grinned. “Well, whatever it is, I hope it involves more of this.” She gestured at the village, the celebration, the world beyond the convent walls.

I looked at her, and for the first time, I didn’t push the thought away.

Maybe… so did I.

As the night waned and the embers in the fire pits burned low, a familiar, rhythmic clapping spread through the village square. A few of the elder hamsterfolk took their places near the musicians, raising their paws in a beckoning motion.

“Last call for a dance!” one of them announced, their voice warm with laughter. “One more before the night takes us to our dreams!”

The villagers cheered, some already moving toward the open space at the center of the square. The musicians plucked at their instruments, building the tempo into something light and playful. I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of Eternia’s words still lingering in my chest.

Before I could even think about slipping away, a hand grabbed mine.

“Come on, Cailion,” Arin grinned, tugging me forward. “One more dance won’t kill you.”

I barely had time to protest before she spun me into the crowd. The villagers cheered as we joined them, their small forms twirling and laughing around us. Arin’s grip was firm yet effortless as she led me into the steps.

The music was faster than before, a lively folk tune that had our feet moving before we could think. Arin laughed as she spun under my arm, then pulled me in close, her breath warm against my cheek. “You’re getting better at this.”

“Debatable,” I said, stumbling slightly as she guided me into another turn.

“You’re having fun,” she corrected, and I couldn’t deny it.

The thrill of combat had made my heart pound, but this—this was a different kind of rush. The way Arin moved, confident and unrestrained, the way the villagers clapped in time, the way the night wrapped around us like it was waiting for something—I felt it all like a pulse beneath my skin.

Then, as the music slowed just enough for us to catch our breath, Arin leaned in. Her voice was quieter now, just for me.

“You should come with me,” she said.

I blinked. “What?”

“Adventuring,” she clarified, her hands still in mine, her gaze locked onto me. “You love it—I can see it. You’re alive out here Cailion. More than you’ve ever been in that stuffy convent, I’d bet.”

I swallowed, my mind warring between the truth of her words and the weight of my past. “Arin, I—”

She smiled knowingly, letting go of one of my hands just to poke my chest lightly. “Don’t answer yet,” she murmured. “Enjoy tonight. Think it over. And in the morning…” She spun me one last time as the music built to its final crescendo. When she caught me again, she grinned. “Tell me what you really want.”

The last note rang out, and the villagers erupted into cheers. Arin’s eyes stayed on me, waiting, teasing, inviting.

For the first time, I had no idea what my answer would be.

As the last embers of the festival faded into the quiet hum of the sleeping village, I found myself slipping through the convent’s side entrance, boots barely making a sound against the polished stone floor. The halls were dimly lit by flickering sconces, the scent of parchment and incense a stark contrast to the lingering traces of elderberries and wood smoke clinging to my clothes.

I had nearly made it to my quarters when a voice, smooth and unimpressed, cut through the silence.

“Where have you been, and why, in all the gods’ good graces, do you reek of elderberries and hamsters?”

I froze mid-step, turning to see Brother Doucal emerging from the shadows of the hallway. His silver-threaded cleric’s robes hung neatly over his lean frame, and his sharp crimson eyes locked onto me with that predatory glint that only a vampire could manage.

I let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. “I helped a friend expunge some demons,” I admitted. “The locals were quite happy about it.”

Doucal folded his arms, his brow arching with skepticism. “Happy?” His nostrils flared slightly as if confirming my scent. “You stink of feasting and revelry, not of a man burdened by holy duty.”

I grinned. “That’s because there was a celebration afterward. It would’ve been rude to refuse.”

His expression darkened as he took a measured step closer. “We’ve been looking for you all day, and you were out playing hooky?” His voice carried the weight of both disappointment and irritation, the kind that usually preceded a lecture on responsibility.

I sighed, bracing myself. “Look, I didn’t break any of my vows, and all my tasks were already done for the day. No one suffered from my absence.” I gestured vaguely toward my disheveled state. “I’ll go to my room, clean up, and be the model scholar tomorrow. Deal?”

Doucal’s gaze remained heavy on me, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I have to report this to the higher-ups.”

I rolled my eyes, already turning toward my chamber. “Oh, come on, Doucal. I covered for you when you got stir-crazy and were struggling to hide your vampirism. Let me have this.”

His expression flickered—just for a moment—before settling into something colder. “That was my discretion, my sin,” he replied, his voice quieter but no less intense. “You, however, have a duty to this convent. An obligation to be a pillar of order, of balance. A responsibility to be better.”

Something in me twisted at his words.

Order. Balance.

I thought of Arin’s laughter, the exhilaration of battle, the way the wind had rushed past me as I fought, free and unshackled. I thought of the villagers clapping in time with the music, the taste of sweet wine, and the warmth of Arin’s hand in mine as we danced.

Had I ever felt that kind of balance here?

I met Doucal’s gaze, the weight of my budding doubts pressing against me like an iron chain. “I know my duty,” I said, though the words felt strangely hollow.

Doucal studied me for a long moment before stepping back, his expression unreadable. “Then prove it.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, leaving me alone in the dimly lit hall.

I exhaled, rubbing my temples before retreating to my chambers.

But even as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I knew sleep wouldn’t come easily.

Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to prove him right.

That night I had a weird dream. I was sitting on a throne asleep and I heard a voice murmuring around me to wake up.

I sat on the edge of my bed, watching the candlelight flicker against the stone walls of my quarters. The convent was silent now, save for the occasional creak of the old wooden beams settling in the night. I pulled off my boots, setting them neatly beside my bed, but my thoughts were anything but orderly.

My mind wouldn’t stop spinning—the rush of battle, the thrill of victory, the laughter of the villagers, the warmth of Arin’s hand in mine. The way she had looked at me when she asked me to come with her. The way my heart had leaped in response.

Had it always been this easy to feel alive?

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. I should feel guilty. I should be reaffirming my place here, in the convent, where I was needed, where I had a role, a purpose.

But instead, all I could think about was how much I wanted to go back.

I lay down with a slow breath, trying to quiet my mind. My body ached in a way that felt good—from the fight, the strain of dancing, the weight of all the choices looming over me. My eyelids grew heavy, and before I knew it, sleep took me.

And then—

A voice.

Soft at first, distant, like an echo from somewhere beyond the veil of dreams.

“Wake up.”

My body twitched in sleep, my brow furrowing.

The darkness around me shifted, like ink swirling through water, coalescing into shapes I couldn’t quite make out. Shadows stretched unnaturally, flickering like firelight against unseen walls.

“Wake up, little prince.”

The voice was familiar yet strange—warm, knowing, teasing. It wasn’t Eternia’s voice, nor Arin’s, nor anyone I knew. But it resonated through me, deep in my chest, like a song I had always known but never sung aloud.

I turned, searching the shifting void for the speaker, but all I saw was a silhouette—tall, imposing, its limbs too long, its form shifting, flickering like something not entirely bound to reality.

“It’s time to come home.”

A rush of wind howled through the space, carrying whispers I couldn’t understand. The ground beneath me—if there even was ground—cracked like glass, and for a fleeting moment, I felt like I was falling.

Then—

I jolted awake, heart pounding, breath coming fast.

The candle beside my bed had burned low, wax pooled onto the wooden desk. My room was unchanged, silent, as it had been before. And yet, something felt different.

My fingers curled unconsciously, reaching for something that wasn’t there.

The remnants of the voice still lingered in my ears.

“Wake up.”

The cold morning air bit at my skin as I ran, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My heart pounded—not just from the sprint, but from the sheer weight of what had just happened.

I was banished.

Not questioned, not examined, not given a moment to explain. The place I had called home, the people I had known my entire life, had turned on me in an instant. You are not Ducailion. The words echoed in my skull, venomous and cruel.

But I was Education.

Wasn’t I?

I pushed the thought away. There was no time for doubts. Arin had said she’d be waiting for me just past the old oak by the crossroads. I clutched the pouch of gold tightly, the only proof that last night hadn’t just been some fleeting dream, and forced my legs to keep moving.

As I reached the edge of the woods, the world stilled.

The light dimmed, the sound faded, and the colors of the world dulled into a frozen muted haze.

I exhaled sharply. “Eternia.”

She materialized beside me, a soft glow against the unnatural stillness, her expression unreadable for once. Not teasing. Not smug. Just… watching.

“Oh, little Diobronto,” she murmured, her voice a sigh on the wind. “You didn’t think your home would let you go so easily, did you?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “They didn’t let me go. They threw me out.” My voice came out bitter, more than I had intended.

Eternia tilted her head as if weighing my words against something unseen. “Yes,” she admitted softly, “they did.”

Something in my chest twisted at her sympathy. For all her riddles and games, she never lied to me. Not outright.

I let out a shuddering breath. “Then what do I do now?”

Eternia smiled, a small, knowing thing, as she stepped closer. “You already know what to do,” she said, reaching out.

In her hand, something shimmered into existence.

A weapon.

It was unlike anything I had wielded before—a partisan, long and wickedly curved, its silvered blade kissed with twilight hues as if forged from the very boundary between night and day. Ribbons of dark silk wrapped around its handle, shifting like living shadows. It thrummed with a pulse, a hum of recognition that curled around my fingers the moment I reached for it.

“This is mine?” I whispered.

“It is yours,” Eternia confirmed. “A weapon befitting a warrior who walks between light and dark, between what is and what will be.” Her golden eyes flickered with something old, something weighty. “No convent. No laws. No chains.”

I tightened my grip on the glaive. It felt natural in my hands—right in a way my old sword never had.

I looked up at her. “Why?”

Eternia’s smile deepened, sly and knowing once more. “Because, little prince, the world is waiting for you to wake up.”

The stillness shattered.

The wind rushed back, the trees swayed, and I could hear the distant chirping of birds once more. The light returned to its normal glow. Eternia was gone.

But the partisan remained in my hands.

I stared at it for a moment longer before inhaling deeply. Then, gripping it tightly, I turned and ran toward the crossroads.

Toward Arin.

Toward freedom.

I arrived late morning at the Tavern Arin was at. I looked around for her until I heard her familiar laugh. I turned a corner to see her chatting with a guy and another girl. Arin turned to me and said,

"Um sorry can I help you?"

I was going to say something but something stopped me maybe it was the fear in her eyes.

"Sorry for bothering you. you just reminded me of someone I care deeply about." I said getting ready to leave before Arin said,

"Wait come sit."

"I was waiting for someone and it looks like he's not gonna show up sadly," she said. I turn to her and give her a funny look. Then her eyes widened.

"Wait, What happened to you?" she said surprised.

I shrugged as I answered, " I am not really sure I just kinda woke up looking like this. antler crown and all," Arin scrunched up her eyes then said,

"well then what now?"

"We quest" I answered flatly, and Arin smiled.

40 notes · View notes

Section Six

Goemon approached the Hand Section Six office building with a mix of trepidation and resolve. The towering structure loomed ahead, a reminder of the bureaucratic weight that often accompanied his assignments. Despite being explicitly ordered to remain on a strict “no-combat” directive, he couldn’t shake the lingering tension that clung to him like a shadow. His broad shoulders tensed under his jacket, and his long hare ears twitched instinctively at the faintest sounds—the rustle of papers from a nearby window, the hum of the city outside.

As he reached the door, he paused, taking a deep breath to steel himself. “It’s just an office,” he muttered under his breath. “No combat, no trouble.” But even as he pushed the door open, his instincts screamed otherwise, the weight of past experiences pressing down on him.

The inside of the office was stark and functional, the faint scent of old coffee and paper filling the air. Rows of desks were neatly arranged, the occasional sound of typing or quiet conversation creating a backdrop of normalcy. Goemon had barely taken two steps inside when he nearly collided with Chief Yanagi.

“Whoa—sorry about that!” Goemon said, stepping back quickly. His deep, gravelly voice carried a warmth that belied his imposing appearance. He looked down at the chief, who stood a good foot shorter than him, her sharp gaze sizing him up with evident surprise.

Yanagi froze for a moment, taken aback. She had been expecting someone smaller, leaner—like the other hare thiren she had encountered in her career. Goemon was nothing like them. He stood tall, his dark skin and broad shoulders giving him an almost statuesque presence. His athletic frame, honed to perfection through years of physical training, seemed more suited to the octagon or a battlefield than an office setting.

“You’re…Goemon, I take it?” Yanagi finally said, her tone measured as she adjusted her glasses.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his ears twitching nervously. He straightened his posture, clasping his hands behind his back in an almost military fashion. “Reporting as instructed.”

Yanagi raised an eyebrow, her gaze lingering on his hare ears, which twitched with the slightest noise. They were a sharp contrast to his otherwise rugged and commanding appearance—a reminder of his thiren heritage, even if the rest of him seemed to defy the stereotypes.

“You’re… not what I expected,” she admitted bluntly, her lips quirking in a faint smile.

Goemon chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that somehow made him seem less intimidating. “I get that a lot. Not too many of us look like we me.”

Yanagi snorted, caught off guard by his self-deprecating humor. “I’ll give you that.” She stepped aside, motioning for him to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be stationed. And remember, no combat. This is a desk assignment, got it?”

Goemon nodded, though the subtle twitch in his ears betrayed his unease. It wasn’t the office itself—it was clean, quiet, and well-organized. Yet something about the air, the undercurrent of tension in the voices and movements of the staff, set his instincts on edge. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this “quiet” assignment would be anything but.

As he followed Yanagi through the maze of desks, his sharp ears picked up snippets of conversation. Words like “incident,” “containment,” and “protocol” floated around, but he didn’t dwell on them. Instead, he focused on the occasional curious glance thrown his way. His presence was clearly unexpected, and judging by the whispers and raised eyebrows, not everyone knew why he was here.

Yanagi’s clipped footsteps came to a stop in front of a relatively modest desk near the back of the office. “This’ll be your station,” she said, gesturing toward the workspace. “You’ll find the files you need already loaded on the terminal. I’ll send you more details later, but for now, get settled—”

Before she could finish, a soft but clear voice cut through the air.

“Mom, who is this?”

Goemon turned and looked down to see a small blue-skinned girl approaching. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old, her horns curling back delicately against her short, silvery hair. Her wide, curious eyes locked onto him, but there was a wariness in her stance, her small hands clenched at her sides as if ready to run.

Yanagi sighed, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Soukaku, this is Goemon. He’s our new personnel security specialist. He’s here to help me with the administration side of Section Six.”

Soukaku tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. She had felt something moments ago—a strange presence entering the building. It was heavy, almost oppressive, and it reminded her of someone else. Her mind flickered to Miyabi, a figure she associated with power and a barely contained ferocity. And now, standing before her, was a thiren whose aura felt just as malignant, as though a storm lay dormant beneath his calm exterior.

Still, Soukaku didn’t retreat. She was wary, but she also wanted to understand this newcomer.

Goemon, sensing her hesitation, crouched down to her level. His towering frame seemed to shrink, and the sharpness in his presence softened. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a neatly wrapped sandwich and held it out to her.

“For you,” he said simply, his deep voice warm and steady.

Soukaku blinked, her wariness giving way to surprise. Her gaze shifted from the sandwich to Goemon’s face, as if trying to gauge his intentions. “For me?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Goemon nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

For a moment, Soukaku stood frozen. Then, as if deciding he was trustworthy, she snatched the sandwich from his hand and held it close to her chest. “Thanks!” she exclaimed, her earlier caution melting away. Without another word, she turned and ran off, the sound of her happy footsteps echoing through the office.

Yanagi watched the entire exchange with a mixture of surprise and amusement. She crossed her arms, her sharp eyes studying Goemon. “How did you know she’d react like that?”

Goemon stood, his hare ears twitching slightly. “I read everyone’s files,” he said with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Yanagi raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “So you knew she’d warm up to you because…?”

“Because she likes snacks,” Goemon replied with a faint grin. “And because sometimes it’s easier to build trust with actions than words.”

Yanagi shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “You might just fit in here after all.”

Goemon glanced toward the direction Soukaku had disappeared, his expression thoughtful. “We’ll see,” he murmured. The unease from earlier still lingered, but for now, he felt a little more grounded.

Yanagi gave Goemon a reassuring nod before leaving him to settle into his work. The rest of the day passed in a monotonous rhythm, with Goemon processing files, navigating unfamiliar administrative systems, and getting signatures from the other Section Six members for their reports. Most interactions were routine, almost pleasant, as people began to warm to him despite his intimidating aura.

But then came Miyabi.

Goemon had tried to avoid the encounter entirely, casually suggesting to Yanagi that perhaps she could collect Miyabi’s signature for him. But Yanagi had only smiled knowingly. “I understand your hesitation, Goemon,” she said, her voice unusually gentle. “And your fears aren’t unwarranted. But if you’re going to work here, you’ll need to face her eventually. Might as well get it over with now.”

Reluctantly, Goemon agreed. His steps were heavy as he approached Miyabi’s office, each one echoing in his mind like the toll of a bell. Memories of his past encounter with her surged to the surface—memories he’d tried hard to bury.

The door creaked open, and he stepped inside, his breath catching instantly. The temperature in Miyabi’s office was frigid, unnaturally so, as though the warmth of the world had been drained from the space. Frost clung to the edges of the windows, and his breath misted in the air. It wasn’t just cold—it was oppressive, cutting through his jacket and biting into his skin. His rabbit ears flattened against his head as every nerve in his body protested, his muscles tensing as if preparing for a fight.

His gaze swept the room, and the memories came rushing back with cruel clarity. The clash of blades, the searing pain of defeat, the realization that he wasn’t invincible. Miyabi was the only person who had ever bested him in single combat, and the sting of that loss lingered even now. He could still hear the sound of her blade slicing through the air, feel the weight of her power pressing down on him like an unrelenting force of nature.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice her presence until he collided with her. His heart jumped as he looked down to see Miyabi, her piercing eyes staring up at him with recognition. She hadn’t changed—her sharp, angular features and icy demeanor were as intimidating as ever.

“What are you doing here?” Miyabi asked, her voice calm but laced with suspicion. Her hand moved instinctively to the hilt of her sword, and in one fluid motion, she unsheathed it. The cold steel glinted in the dim light, and the temperature seemed to drop further, as if her blade radiated frost.

Goemon froze, the tip of her sword hovering inches from his chest. But instead of fear, he felt an unexpected comfort. The clarity of the moment—the sharpness of her blade, the intensity of her gaze—allowed him to push past his nerves and speak freely.

“I was tricked by Bringer,” he said evenly, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. “Just like everyone else.”

Miyabi’s eyes narrowed as she studied him, her grip on her sword tightening. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. Finally, she spoke, her voice as cold as the air around them.

“Then what are you here for now?”

Goemon took a deep breath, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “I need you to sign your report,” he said simply, holding out the file as if the request were the most natural thing in the world.

Miyabi’s eyes flicked to the file and back to him, suspicion still etched into her features. For a moment, it seemed like she might refuse—or worse. But then, with a sharp exhale, she lowered her blade and sheathed it.

“Fine,” she said curtly, snatching the file from his hands. “But only because I don’t want to stain my office.”

Goemon allowed himself a small smile, though he quickly hid it. He watched as Miyabi signed the report with quick, precise strokes, her movements as deliberate as her swordsmanship.

As she handed the file back to him, her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer. “Don’t make me regret this, Goemon ,” she said quietly, her voice carrying a weight that felt heavier than her blade.

“I won’t,” he replied, his tone equally serious.

After his first day Goemon went back to his shared apartment with wildabeast thiren and fellow pubsec member Jotaro or Jojo for short.

“How was your first day with section six?” he asked.

“Stressful, but sokaku, and Yanagi seem to like me,” Goe answered.

Jojo laughed and said, “Well you sounds like you're making it work.”

Goe nodded before making dinner then going to sleep.

He woke up the next morning and headed to work. On the way he picked up food for the office. He arrived before the rest of section six and decided to go into the vr lab to run some combat scenarios. He was surprised to see one dedicated to fighting against an ethereal duplicant of Miyabi. Curious Goemon booted up the program.

He took out Apex’s Frenzy: his kanabo and tetsubo pair and got ready. Ethereal Miyabi was a challenge for Goe as it had all of Miyabi’s moves and speed, but none of her power or the demon blade so he was able to beat her with minimal effort.

After finishing up and showering to get ready for the rest of his shift Goemon sat at his desk working tirelessly. His only interruptions were when Soukaku approached him to thank him for the food. And asking Harumasa for his written form of leave.

It was late in the evening, and most of the office had cleared out, leaving the quiet hum of computers and the occasional rustle of papers as the only sounds. Goemon sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up as he reviewed the last batch of reports for the day. The faint light from his desk lamp illuminated his muscular forearms, the skin taut over a series of faint, almost imperceptible stripes running along their length.

Yanagi approached quietly, a cup of tea in her hands. She paused at his desk, her sharp eyes catching the subtle pattern on his skin. At first, she thought it might be a trick of the light, but as she stepped closer, the stripes became more distinct.

“Goemon,” she said, her tone casual but tinged with curiosity, “are those… stripes on your arms?”

Goemon froze for a moment, his pen hovering above the report he was annotating. Slowly, he set it down and glanced up at her. His expression was neutral, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—hesitation, perhaps even discomfort.

“They are,” he said simply, leaning back in his chair.

Yanagi tilted her head, studying him. “I’ve never seen stripes like that on a hare thiren before, especially not a prey-type like you. Care to explain?”

Goemon let out a deep sigh, his hare ears flattening slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I say it's personal and we leave it at that.”

Yanagi shook her head and said, “you're still on probation so I need to know you're not a liability or volatile,”

Feeling cheeky Goe said, “but boss I am volatile you've read my file,”

Yanagi rolls her eyes before adjusting her glasses then Yanagi pulled up a chair and sat down across from him, her expression serious but patient.

Goemon gaze drifted to his forearms, his fingers tracing the faint patterns as he began to speak. “I wasn’t born with these. They’re… a result of the experiments I was subjected to when I was a kid.”

Yanagi’s brows furrowed, her fingers tightening around the cup of tea. “Experiments?”

“Yeah, it was called “Children of Freya. The world’s first Chimera”Goemon said, his voice low and steady, though there was an undercurrent of bitterness. “Back in Viera, there was this program—real secretive, real shady. The goal was to ‘balance the scales’ between prey thiren and predator thiren. Prey like me, we’re faster, sure, but we’re not built for combat. Someone decided that wasn’t good enough. They wanted to make prey thiren stronger, tougher… deadlier. So they started splicing predator genetics into prey kids like me.”

Yanagi’s eyes widened slightly, but she remained silent, letting him continue.

his tone tinged with disdain. “They said it was for the greater good, that it would create a new generation of thiren who could protect our kind from the world’s dangers. But really, it was just an excuse to play god. They took tiger thiren DNA—predator thiren DNA—and spliced it into mine. That’s where the stripes come from. And the strength, the heightened senses… all of it.”

Yanagi set her tea down on the desk, her expression unreadable. “How did they… how did you get out?”

Goemon jaw tightened, and he looked away, his ears drooping slightly. “I didn't. Pubsec did a raid and that'show Bringer found me. I latched onto him as one of the successes. My friends weren't so lucky, Too many kids were… broken. Some didn’t survive the experiments, and those of us who did weren’t exactly stable. I got outand joined pubsec . But by then, the damage was done.”

He flexed his fingers, his gaze distant. “I’m stronger than most prey thiren, sure. But it’s not natural. I still feel the predator instincts sometimes—flashes of aggression, urges that aren’t mine. It’s a constant fight to stay in control. Hopefullyi don't have to go into combat so you can avoid seeing how my Tiger and Hare DNA blend into an unstable mix.”

Yanagi watched him closely, her expression softening. “I had no idea,” she said quietly. “That’s… a lot to carry.”

Goemon shrugged, his lips curving into a faint, humorless smile. “It is what it is. I’ve learned to live with it. The stripes, the instincts… they’re just part of who I am now.”

Yanagi leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Does anyone else here know about this?”

“No,” Goemon said firmly. “And I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t want anyone looking at me like some kind of science experiment or worse, a threat.”

Yanagi nodded. “Understood. Your secret’s safe with me. In fact it's safe with all of us here in section six. You'll find out soon enough that we are all “misfits and broken toys”” She paused, then added, “For what it’s worth, you’re more than what they did to you, Goemon. You’re not defined by their experiments.”

Goe gaze softened, and for the first time that evening, his smile felt genuine. “Thanks, Yanagi. That means a lot.”

The two sat in companionable silence for a moment before Yanagi stood and picked up her tea. “Get some rest when you’re done. You’ve earned it.”

Goemon nodded, watching as she walked away. He glanced down at his forearms again, the faint stripes catching the light.

Goemon stretched his arms over his head, the exhaustion of the day settling into his shoulders. The office was quiet now, the last of the Section Six staff having packed up for the night. He gathered his reports into a neat pile, ready to call it a day, when the sound of footsteps broke the silence.

He glanced up to see Miyabi standing in the doorway. Her presence, as always, commanded attention, her sharp gaze and stoic expression betraying nothing. Goemon’s ears twitched nervously; their earlier encounter had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he wasn’t eager for a repeat.

“Miyabi,” he said cautiously, “what’s up? Need something signed?”

She didn’t respond immediately, instead stepping into the room and leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, and Goe began to fidget under her intense gaze.

Finally, she spoke. “I overheard your conversation with Yanagi earlier.”

Goemon stiffened, his ears flattening. “Oh.” He wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d been so caught up in the moment, he hadn’t even considered the possibility of someone else listening in.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping on purpose,” she clarified, her tone unusually measured. “I was walking by and… well, I heard more than I intended.”

Goe let out a sigh, leaning back in his chair. “I see. So, are you here to lecture me about how I’m still a liability, or—?”

“Stop,” she said, cutting him off. Her voice wasn’t harsh, but firm enough to make him pause. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Miyabi hesitated, her eyes darting briefly to the floor before meeting his. “I wanted to apologize.”

The words hung in the air, and Goe blinked, certain he’d misheard. “Wait… what?”

Miyabi pushed off the doorframe and walked closer, stopping a few feet from his desk. Her usual cold demeanor softened, just slightly, and her grip on her folded arms loosened. “I’ve been hard on you since you joined Section Six. Maybe too hard. I assumed you were just another overconfident musclehead trying to coast by on strength. I didn’t… I didn’t know about what happened to you.”

Goe leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly something I advertise,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness.

“I get that,” Miyabi replied. “But hearing what you went through… it gave me perspective. You didn’t choose to become what you are. And the fact that you’ve managed to survive all that and still function the way you do? It’s impressive.”

Goemon looked at her, his ears perking up slightly. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she said quickly, though there was a faint smirk on her lips. Her expression sobered as she continued, “But seriously, I was out of line earlier. I shouldn’t have drawn my sword on you. That was… unnecessary.”

Goe brow furrowed as he studied her. “Why the change of heart? You’ve never been one to pull punches, literal or otherwise.”

Miyabi shrugged, her gaze drifting to the faint stripes on his forearms. “Maybe I realized I’m not the only one here who’s been through hell. You’re not just some reckless fighter—you’re someone who’s had to fight to survive. I can respect that.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Goe leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, that’s a first. Didn’t think I’d ever hear Miyabi say something nice about me.”

“Don’t push your luck,” she said, rolling her eyes, though her tone lacked its usual edge.

As she turned to leave, she paused at the doorway and glanced back at him. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll fit in here. Even with all your… quirks.”

“Thanks, Miyabi,” Goe said, his voice genuine.

She gave him a small nod before disappearing down the hallway, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

For the first time since joining Section Six, Goemon felt a sense of acceptance—not just from Yanagi, but even from someone as guarded as Miyabi. He glanced down at the stripes on his forearms again, the faint glow of his desk lamp catching them in the light.

Here’s the revised scene with Miyabi confronting Goe about not trusting her:

As Miyabi turned to leave, she hesitated at the doorway, her hand resting on the frame. Something unspoken lingered in the air, and Goemon could sense it.

“Hey, Goe,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

“Yeah?” he replied, looking up from his desk.

She turned back to face him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why didn’t you trust me? Back when I told you Bringer was up to no good?”

Goemon froze, the weight of the question settling heavily between them. He scratched the back of his neck, his ears twitching nervously. “Look, it’s not that simple—”

Miyabi crossed her arms, her tone firm but not unkind. “I told you the truth, Goe. I warned you. But you didn’t listen. Why?”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking at her with a mixture of guilt and exasperation. “Okay, I’ll admit it. Maybe I had some… reservations.”

“Reservations?” Miyabi raised an eyebrow, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“Yeah,” Goemon said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. “I’m sorry for not trusting the super scary fox lady with a talking demon sword who had to kill her own mother just to save herself.”

Miyabi blinked, momentarily stunned by his bluntness. Her lips twitched as though she was about to argue, but instead, a faint smirk crossed her face. “I can see how that seems unreasonable.”

Goemon chuckled, shaking his head. “Look, it wasn’t personal. It’s just… Bringer was the only one who ever gave me a chance when I didn’t think I’d survive another day. He pulled me out of that hellhole, gave me a purpose. It was hard to believe he’d do something wrong—let alone betray me.”

Miyabi’s smirk faded, replaced by a softer, more understanding expression. “I get it,” she said quietly. “Loyalty can blind you. It’s hard to see the cracks in someone you thought was unbreakable.”

“Exactly,” Goe replied. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t screw up. I should’ve listened to you. Maybe things would’ve been different if I had.”

Miyabi shook her head. “Don’t dwell on it too much. What’s done is done. And for what it’s worth, I’m not holding a grudge.”

“Wow,” Goemon said, raising an eyebrow. “Does that mean we’re cool now?”

“Don’t push it, stripes,” she said, smirking again as she turned to leave.

Goemon watched her go, a faint smile playing on his lips. Somehow, despite their rocky history, he felt a little closer to Miyabi. And for the first time, he realized that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so scary after all. Well, not that scary.

After that little exchange with Yanagi and Miyabi, Goemon decided to call it a day. The weight of the conversation lingered with him as he headed out of the office. The quiet of the evening felt welcome after everything he had just discussed.

As he reached the lobby, a familiar voice called out behind him. “Big brother! Big brother!”

Goemon froze mid-step, his ears twitching as the voice struck a chord deep within him. Slowly, he turned to see Soukaku bounding toward him, her horns glinting under the fluorescent lights. Her excited energy reminded him of someone he hadn’t thought about in years.

In his mind, the voice of a young boy’s from long ago overlapped with Soukaku’s.

“Big brother! Wait for me!”

A flashback overwhelmed him. He saw Yamato, the snake thiren child who had been like a little brother to him during their time in the Children of Freya program. His mischievous grin, her sparkling eyes—always so full of hope, even in a place where hope didn’t belong.

“Big brother, what’s wrong?” Soukaku’s voice snapped him out of the memory. She stood in front of him now, looking up at him with concern.

Goemon blinked rapidly, his hand instinctively brushing his face, only to realize a tear had escaped down his cheek. “It’s nothing,” he said, forcing a smile. “You just reminded me of someone.”

Soukaku’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Can I meet them?”

Yanagi, who had been walking nearby and overheard the conversation, paused and glanced at Goemon. She didn’t say anything, but her sharp gaze caught the moment of vulnerability he tried to hide.

Goemon hesitated, his voice dropping. “The next time I see her, I’ll make sure to introduce the two of you.”

Yanagi’s expression softened, though she didn’t comment. She motioned for Soukaku to follow her, giving Goemon a quiet moment to himself. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to shake off the memory of Daji and the pain it brought.

Before he could take another step toward the exit, Miyabi’s familiar voice called out to him. “Goemon.”

He turned to see her leaning casually against a nearby wall, her fox-like eyes locked onto him. There was something different about her tone—not the sharpness she usually carried, but something… almost casual.

“What’s up?” he asked, still feeling the weight of the earlier exchange.

“Join me for dinner,” she said simply.

Goemon blinked, confused. “Dinner?”

Miyabi straightened, her sword resting in its sheath at her side. “You used to use a sword, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Goemon said, still puzzled. “Why?”

“I wanted your help with something,” she replied, her tone unreadable. “You’ll see when we get there.”

Goemon hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Alright, lead the way.”

The two left the building together, the silence between them comfortable but charged with unspoken thoughts.

They arrived at a cozy grilling place tucked into a quiet corner of the city. The smell of sizzling meat and the warmth of the grill welcomed them as they found a table near the back. Miyabi ordered without hesitation, while Goemon sat back, still trying to figure out what this was all about.

“So, what’s this ‘help’ you need?” he asked as the first round of food arrived.

Miyabi didn’t answer immediately. She grabbed a skewer, inspecting it thoughtfully before speaking. “I’ve been trying to perfect a technique with my blade. It’s… complicated. And I thought having someone who’s fought me and survived might give me some insight.”

Goemon chuckled lightly, picking up his own skewer. “You mean someone who barely survived.”

Miyabi smirked. “Fair enough. But you were still good. And I need that perspective.”

Goemon nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Alright. I’ll help. But you could’ve just asked me at the office.”

Miyabi raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I wanted to make sure you were well-fed first. You look like you could use a decent meal.”

Goemon laughed, the tension of the day easing slightly. “Thanks, I think.”

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the warmth of the grill filling the space between them. As the meal wound down, Goemon leaned back in his chair, his expression growing serious.

“You know,” he began, “it’s kind of funny. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not running from something.”

Miyabi glanced at him, her gaze sharp. “You shouldn’t have to run, Goemon. Not anymore.”

Their conversation was interrupted when Miyabi’s communicator buzzed. She glanced at it, her expression shifting. “Looks like we’ve got something to deal with.”

Goemon frowned. “Something urgent?”

Miyabi stood, tossing some cash onto the table for the bill. “You’ll find out soon enough. Yanagi and I are heading back to the office to prepare. You’re going to want to be there for this.”

Confused but intrigued, Goemon followed her out of the restaurant. They walked in silence back to Section Six, where Yanagi was already waiting for them in the briefing room.

“Goemon,” Yanagi began as soon as he entered, holding a folder in her hands. “We need to talk about your status here.”Goemon nodded and listened intently to Yanagi’s briefing.

Goemon had started to settle into his new role in Section Six. The routines of paperwork, logistics, and occasional VR combat simulations had become second nature. He’d grown comfortable, even started to enjoy the camaraderie of his coworkers, and the absence of constant life-or-death scenarios felt like a blessing.

But comfort never lasted long for him.

Late one afternoon, as the hum of the office buzzed around him, Goemon was reviewing another set of mission reports at his desk. His ears twitched at the sound of approaching footsteps. He glanced up to see Yanagi and Miyabi walking toward him, both wearing expressions that were unreadable—Yanagi’s calm and authoritative, Miyabi’s colder but laced with purpose.

“Boss, Miyabi,” Diobronto greeted, setting down his pen. “What’s up?”

Yanagi stopped beside his desk, her arms crossed. “Goemon, we need to talk.”

His ears perked, immediately sensing the seriousness in her tone. “What’s this about?”

Miyabi stepped forward, her fox-like eyes locking onto his. “It’s about your probation,” she said bluntly.

Goe froze. His ears twitched nervously, and his stripes darkened slightly as his instincts went on high alert. “What about it? Did I mess something up? Is this where you tell me I’m fired?”

Yanagi shook her head. “No, you’re not fired. Quite the opposite, actually.”

She handed him a small folder marked with the Section Six emblem. Goemon opened it cautiously, scanning the contents. It was an official reinstatement order—his clearance for combat status had been restored.

“You’re back in the field,” Yanagi said simply.

Goe blinked, his heart pounding as the words sank in. The initial wave of disbelief gave way to a rush of excitement that he couldn’t suppress. It was as if a dormant part of him had been reignited, surging to life with an almost primal force.

The change was instant and visceral. His stripes darkened, spreading more prominently along his forearms and even faintly across his neck. His hare ears, usually a vibrant hue, began to pale, the color draining from them as his tiger DNA surged to the forefront. His muscles tensed, his senses sharpening as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

Yanagi and Miyabi watched the transformation unfold in silence, though Yanagi’s sharp eyes caught every detail. “You’re feeling it, aren’t you?” she asked softly.

Goemon leaned back in his chair, his breathing heavier, his fingers gripping the edges of his desk as though he were trying to anchor himself. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice a little rougher. “It’s the tiger… It’s been buried for weeks, but now it’s awake.”

Miyabi crossed her arms, her gaze critical but curious. “I take it you’re… excited?”

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. Paperwork’s been fine, sure. But this—this is what I’m made for.” His smile faded slightly, and his tone grew more introspective. “You know, I’ve always felt like a misfit. My hare side… It’s who I was born as. Fast, alert, always running away from danger. But the tiger side? That’s the part of me that runs toward it. And honestly…” He looked down at his hands, flexing them as if testing his strength. “I’ve always felt more at home with the tiger than the hare.”

Yanagi tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve struggled with this, haven’t you? The two sides of you, constantly at odds.”

“Struggled?” Goe chuckled, though there was little humor in it. “That’s putting it lightly. It’s like living with two voices in your head—one screaming ‘run’ and the other growling ‘fight.’ But the thing is…” He looked up at them, his eyes almost glowing with intensity. “The fighting? It’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive.”

Miyabi raised an eyebrow. “Even though you’re half prey?”

“Especially because I’m half prey,” he said, leaning forward. “You don’t get it. My whole life, I was told I’d never survive, that I’d always be weak, always be running. The tiger DNA… It gave me a choice. For the first time, I didn’t have to run. I could stand my ground. And I’ve never looked back.”

Yanagi nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you’re going to get plenty of chances to prove yourself now. Zone Six is no walk in the park.”

Miyabi’s expression softened, though her tone remained blunt. “Just don’t let that tiger of yours get out of control. You might love the fight, but if you lose yourself to it, you’ll be no better than the people who experimented on you.”

Goemon met her gaze, his expression serious. “I won’t lose control,” he said firmly. “Not again.”

For a moment, the three of them stood in silence. Then Yanagi placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip steady. “Welcome back to the fight, Goemon . Don’t make me regret this.”

He grinned, his stripes still prominent and his pale ears twitching with excitement. “Don’t worry, Boss. You won’t.”

As they left him to process the news, Goemon couldn’t help but glance at his reflection in the window. The stripes, the ears, the subtle blend of predator and prey—it all felt more balanced now. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was at war with himself.

After their little announcement Miyabi led Goemon to the section six armory also called “the aresenal”.

Goemon and Miyabi walked side by side down the dimly lit corridor toward the Section Six arsenal. The sound of their footsteps echoed faintly against the metallic walls, the air cool and still. Miyabi glanced at Goemon, her fox-like eyes narrowing as if scrutinizing him.

“You know,” she began casually, though her tone carried weight, “I’ve been meaning to ask about your swordsmanship. Back when we fought… you gave me one hell of a challenge.”

Goemon chuckled lightly, his ears twitching. “Didn’t feel like much of a challenge when I hit the floor.”

Miyabi smirked, shaking her head. “Don’t sell yourself short. You made me work for it. Technically, I had to rely on my power to beat you. Pure skill alone wasn’t enough.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Is that your roundabout way of giving me a compliment?”

“It’s my way of admitting I underestimated you,” Miyabi said, folding her arms as they continued walking. “Your technique was sharp—more than I expected. It was like you knew exactly how to counter my moves before I even made them. It’s rare I run into someone who can adapt that quickly.”

Goemon’s expression softened slightly, his gaze shifting ahead. “That’s because I study people,” he said simply. “Every sword user has their own quirks—bad habits, technical failings, little gaps in their style. When I fight someone, I don’t just try to beat them. I figure them out. I make tiny adjustments to my own style to exploit their weaknesses.”

Miyabi’s ears twitched slightly at his words, her curiosity piqued. “You’re saying you analyze every opponent mid-fight? That sounds exhausting.”

“It’s not as complicated as it sounds,” Goemon replied. “You’d be surprised how many fighters have predictable tendencies. They overcommit, they get impatient, or they rely too much on a single technique. It’s just about paying attention and adapting.”

Miyabi nodded thoughtfully, her tone turning more serious. “What did you figure out about me?”

Goemon grinned. “Oh, you want feedback now?”

“Don’t push it,” Miyabi said with a small smirk, though her curiosity was evident.

Goemon slowed his pace slightly, turning to face her fully. “Your biggest weakness,” he said, “is your reliance on frost. It’s the foundation of most of your techniques. You’re powerful, no doubt about it, but if someone can counter that—or if they just aren’t weak to it—your moves don’t land the same way. You lose that edge.”

Miyabi frowned slightly, processing his words. “And that’s how you managed to push me so hard?”

“Exactly,” Goemon said, nodding. “I used a heat-caliber modification on my battle kamas. Every strike disrupted the frost you were trying to lay down, and it threw off your rhythm. You’re fast, but when your frost can’t hold the field, you lose the advantage. Once I realized that, it was just a matter of keeping you off-balance.”

Miyabi’s grip on the hilt of her sword tightened slightly as she absorbed his analysis. “So you exploited my biggest strength to turn it into a weakness. Clever.”

“Had to,” Goemon said with a shrug. “There’s no other way I could’ve kept up with you. You’re still the most technically sound fighter I’ve ever gone up against.”

Miyabi’s smirk returned, a hint of pride glinting in her eyes. “Good to know I made an impression. But tell me, how do you deal with fighters who don’t have obvious weaknesses?”

“Then it’s about endurance,” Goemon said. “I keep my defenses up, wait for them to slip, and capitalize on it. Everyone slips eventually.”

They reached the door to the arsenal, and Miyabi paused before opening it. “You’re dangerous, Goemon,” she said, her tone serious but tinged with amusement. “I’d forgotten how much. But I’ll say this—you’ve made me rethink some things about my own technique.”

Goemon grinned. “Glad I could help. Just don’t use what I said against me the next time we spar.”

Miyabi chuckled as she pushed open the door, the faint metallic scent of the arsenal wafting out to meet them. “No promises. Let’s see what this arsenal has to offer. Maybe I’ll find something to deal with heat-caliber modifications.”

The two stepped inside, the rows of weapons and equipment glinting under the fluorescent lights, their conversation trailing off as they began searching through the arsenal. Yet, in the back of both their minds, the spark of a shared rivalry—and a newfound respect—flickered brighter than ever.

As they browsed through the arsenal, Miyabi’s fingers grazed the hilts of various blades, her sharp eyes scanning for something that piqued her interest. Her movements were precise and deliberate, but her mind was elsewhere, drawn back to memories she had buried beneath years of missions and responsibilities.

“You know I have been watching you train in the morning before our shifts start,” she began, her voice uncharacteristically soft, “seeing you fight reminded me of our time in the academy.”

Goemon raised an eyebrow, pausing as he inspected a heat-caliber attachment for his kamas. “Oh yeah? What about it?”

Miyabi glanced at him, her smirk faint but genuine. “You were the only one who could keep up with me back then. Everyone else would either get overwhelmed or give up before they even landed a hit. But you… you never quit.”

Goemon chuckled, setting the attachment down. “Well, you didn’t exactly give me a choice. You made it your mission to crush anyone who thought they could go toe-to-toe with you. I just didn’t want to end up in the dirt like the rest of them.”

Miyabi laughed lightly, the sound rare but pleasant. “It wasn’t about crushing people. I just… needed to prove something back then. To myself, mostly.”

“Prove what?” Goemon asked, genuinely curious.

“That I wasn’t just another fox thiren riding on bloodline prestige,” Miyabi admitted, her tone quieter now. “Everyone expected me to be a prodigy because of my heritage, but no one saw how much work I put into being the best. I couldn’t let myself fail. That’s why I was so hard on everyone, including you.”

Goemon nodded, his ears twitching slightly. “I get it. You were carrying a lot. But you know, I never saw you as just some prodigy. You earned every win you got. Including the ones against me.”

Miyabi glanced at him, a flicker of appreciation in her expression. “Thanks. And you? What were you trying to prove back then?”

Goemon hesitated, his gaze drifting to a rack of blades. “That I could belong somewhere. I wasn’t exactly PubSec’s first pick for the academy. Most of the instructors didn’t think a hare thiren had what it took to keep up with the predator types. I had to fight tooth and nail for every bit of respect I earned.”

Miyabi tilted her head, studying him. “And now you’re here, holding your own against people like me. I’d say you proved them all wrong.”

Goemon smiled faintly but said nothing. For a moment, they stood in silence, the hum of the arsenal filling the space around them.

After a while, Miyabi spoke again, her tone more reflective. “You know, I always wondered why you never took things further with swordsmanship. You were good—damn good. You could’ve been one of the best.”

Goemon shrugged, though there was a wistful edge to his expression. “I guess I lost the spark for it after graduation. My path took me in a different direction—closer-range combat, more improvisation. But I never forgot what you taught me during those sparring matches.”

Miyabi raised an eyebrow. “What I taught you?”

“Oh yeah,” Goemon said with a grin. “Like how to never, ever underestimate someone with a talking demon sword. Pretty useful life lesson.”

Miyabi smirked, shaking her head. “Glad I could be of service.”

As they continued browsing, the conversation turned lighter, filled with small anecdotes from their academy days. They reminisced about their instructors, the grueling training exercises, and the absurd pranks that occasionally broke the tension.

Eventually, Miyabi turned to him, her expression curious. “You know, you’ve always been hard to read, even back then. I could never figure out what you were really thinking during those days. What was going through your head when we sparred?”

Goemon hesitated for a moment, his ears flicking back slightly as if debating whether to speak. Finally, he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? I had a crush on you.”

Miyabi blinked, her usual composure faltering for a split second. “You… what?”

Goemon laughed nervously, avoiding her gaze. “Yeah. I thought you were incredible—still do, honestly. You were confident, strong, and unapologetically yourself. It was intimidating, but also… kind of amazing.”

Miyabi’s cheeks flushed faintly, though she quickly masked it with a smirk. “You had a crush on the super scary fox lady with a talking demon sword? That’s bold, even for you.”

“Yeah, well,” Goemon said with a shrug, his grin sheepish. “I didn’t exactly think it would go anywhere. You had this aura about you—like you were untouchable. I figured you had better things to do than deal with some awkward hare thiren.”

Miyabi’s smirk softened, and for a moment, there was a rare warmth in her expression. “You’re wrong about one thing, though,” she said quietly.

“What’s that?” Goemon asked.

“I wasn’t untouchable,” Miyabi admitted. “I was just too focused on proving myself to see what was right in front of me. If I’d known… maybe things would’ve been different.”

Goemon’s ears perked up slightly, his expression caught between surprise and curiosity. “Really?”

Miyabi didn’t answer directly. Instead, she turned back to the weapons rack, her hand resting on the hilt of a frost-forged blade. “Let’s just say I’ve learned to appreciate things more these days.”

Goemon chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer. “Well, better late than never, right?”

Miyabi glanced back at him, her smirk returning. “Maybe. Now come on—we’ve got work to do. And don’t think I’ll go easy on you next time we spar.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Goemon said with a grin, following her deeper into the arsenal.

As they ventured deeper into the arsenal, Miyabi stopped abruptly, her gaze landing on a lone rack tucked away in the farthest corner. It stood apart from the rest, almost as though it demanded its own space. She motioned for Goemon to follow, her expression both focused and determined.

“This way,” she said curtly, already moving toward it.

Goemon trailed after her, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “What’s over here that’s got you so excited?”

“You’ll see,” she replied, not bothering to look back.

When they reached the rack, Miyabi knelt and carefully unhooked a weapon from its stand—a single, massive odachi. Its blade shimmered faintly, catching the dim light of the room as if it had a life of its own. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, with subtle accents of red, gold, and silver running through it. Engraved along the length of the blade were ancient, intricate runes that seemed to pulse faintly as she touched it.

“This,” Miyabi said, holding it up for Goemon to see, “is what you need. An odachi—powerful, versatile, and designed for someone with your raw strength and adaptability.”

Goemon blinked, surprised. “An odachi? Don’t you think it’s a bit… much?”

Miyabi smirked, handing it over to him. “Not for you. I’ve seen what you can do with a blade, Goemon. This isn’t just a sword—it’s an extension of you. And this one’s special.”

He took the odachi, its weight solid yet oddly balanced in his hands. “Special how?”

She gestured to the glowing runes along the blade. “This isn’t just a regular sword. It’s equipped with elemental shifting capabilities. Fire, lightning, Cyro, ether—you name it. With a simple command, you can switch its element to fit the situation. Fire for cutting through ice, lightning for disrupting fast opponents, cyro for slowing them down, and ether for dealing with energy-based defenses.”

Goemon swung the blade experimentally, feeling the air hum with each movement. As he focused, the blade’s edge flared to life, first with a fiery glow, then crackling with lightning, then shimmering with an icy frost. Finally, it pulsed with an ethereal, almost otherworldly light.

“This…” he began, his voice quiet, “is incredible.”

Miyabi crossed her arms, a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. “It should be. I had them keep it reserved for someone worthy, and I think it’s about time you lived up to that potential.”

He turned to her, tilting his head in confusion. “Why are you so invested in this? I could’ve just stuck with my old kamas or something simpler.”

Miyabi’s smirk softened, and for a moment, her expression turned wistful. “Because I want my rival back, Goemon. Back at the academy, no one else could keep up with me in combat—except you. You weren’t just strong; you were strategic. You studied every opponent, found their weaknesses, and turned their strengths against them. And now, with you back in the field, I don’t want you holding back. I want that rival who pushed me to be better.”

Goemon blinked, caught off guard by her sincerity. “Miyabi…”

She rolled her eyes, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t make it weird. Just take the sword and don’t embarrass yourself.”

He chuckled, gripping the odachi’s hilt tightly. “No promises. But seriously… thank you. This feels… right.”

“Good,” she replied, her smirk returning. “Because you’re going to need it. When you’re ready, we’ll spar. And this time, I won’t rely on power alone—I’ll beat you on technique.”

Goemon grinned, a flicker of competitive fire sparking in his eyes. “You better try your best, because this time, I’m not letting you win.”

Miyabi turned toward the exit, her voice carrying over her shoulder as she walked away. “Big talk, Goemon. Let’s see if you can back it up.”

He followed her, the odachi resting on his shoulder. Its elemental hum seemed to resonate with his pulse, filling him with a sense of purpose and excitement he hadn’t felt in years. This wasn’t just a weapon—it was a challenge, a promise, and a reminder of who he was. And as he stepped out of the arsenal, he knew he was ready to rise to meet it.

As Goemon walked out of the arsenal with the odachi resting on his shoulder, he couldn’t shake the faint hum he’d felt resonating from the weapon earlier. It wasn’t like anything he’d experienced before. Though he’d handled plenty of advanced weaponry in the past, this blade felt… alive. The weight was perfect, almost too perfect, as if it anticipated his every move.

Curiosity got the better of him. He stopped in a quiet hallway, away from prying eyes, and carefully unsheathed the odachi. The blade slid free with a soft metallic whisper, and the faint glow of the runes intensified, illuminating the dim space.

Goemon tilted the blade slightly, letting the light catch along its surface. That’s when he saw it.

At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, but as he stared, he realized something was moving—no, swimming—within the blade. Wisps of light and shadow twisted and coiled beneath the surface, like ethereal serpents or streams of liquid energy. They moved with a mesmerizing rhythm, almost hypnotic, as if they were alive and aware of his presence.

“What… the hell?” he muttered, his brow furrowing.

The faint hum returned, but this time it wasn’t just a vibration. It was a sound—a low, melodic tone that seemed to resonate directly in his chest. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was… otherworldly.

As he stared at the blade, the humming grew clearer, like a distant song carried on the wind. He could almost make out a pattern, a cadence, as if it were trying to communicate with him.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath, his ears twitching. “First Miyabi ropes me into using a magical sword, and now it’s singing to me.”

But the humming wasn’t random. It seemed to react to his thoughts, rising and falling in intensity as his grip on the hilt tightened. When he focused on the fiery glow of the blade, the hum turned sharper, almost crackling. When he thought of the cryo element, it softened, becoming a chilling, crystalline harmony.

He exhaled deeply, letting his instincts guide him. Shifting his stance, he gave the odachi an experimental swing. The moment the blade cut through the air, the humming surged, and the elemental energy within it flared. For a brief second, the fiery glow erupted along the edge, leaving a faint trail of heat in its wake.

Goemon stopped mid-swing, staring at the blade in awe. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

The hum didn’t answer, of course, but there was a subtle shift in the swirling energy within the blade, almost as if it was acknowledging him.

He shook his head, sliding the odachi back into its sheath. The glow dimmed, and the humming faded, leaving the hallway silent once more. As he adjusted the weapon on his shoulder, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Guess we’ll have to get to know each other,” he said quietly to the blade. “But if you’re gonna start singing, at least let me pick the tune.”

With that, he continued down the hallway, the faint warmth of the odachi’s presence a constant reminder of the power now at his disposal—and the challenges that lay ahead.

The next morning, Goemon arrived at the training grounds to find Miyabi already waiting for him. She was dressed in her casual gear—combat pants, a sleeveless top, and her ever-present scarf—rather than her official uniform. Her relaxed appearance surprised him, as did the faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“I’m here to train with you,” Miyabi announced, the glint in her eyes unmistakable.

Goemon hesitated for a moment, his tiger instincts flaring up as adrenaline coursed through his veins. There was something about the thought of facing her again that made both his hare and tiger instincts react, each battling for dominance within him. Still, he gave her a faint smile, gripping the hilt of his blade.

Miyabi led him inside the training room, the air between them charged with anticipation.

They stood apart, facing each other. Goemon unsheathed his odachi, the massive blade catching the light and letting out a faint hum. He left it bare, the weapon’s energy almost palpable as it resonated with him. Across from him, Miyabi’s excitement was clear as she drew her own katana, her movements smooth and calculated. She was exhilarated to see her rival back in his prime, the one person who had ever truly matched her in battle.

It reminded her of her mother, who had once pushed her to master a variety of weapons, hoping Miyabi would outgrow her obsession with the sword. For Goemon, the sight of Miyabi readying her blade brought back memories of endless combat drills under his father’s harsh tutelage—drills meant to prepare him for anything, to help him survive and escape Veira’s unforgiving streets.

Miyabi moved first, her strikes fast and precise, her blade cutting through the air in a flurry of slashes. Goemon, calm and focused, intercepted and parried each one with near-perfect timing, his odachi moving in calculated arcs to counter her assault.

“You haven’t lost your edge,” Miyabi remarked, her tone half-teasing, half-impressed.

Goemon nodded silently, his sharp gaze tracking her every step. He recognized her patterns—her subtle shifts in weight, the way her grip tightened slightly before an upward strike. She was setting up for her signature move, the crescent slash. He waited, patient, letting her commit fully to the attack before sidestepping with precision and slashing his blade in a counterstrike.

But he realized too late—she had baited him.

Miyabi smiled as foxfire erupted around her, creating an offensive and defensive shield of flame and frost. Her movements became fluid, unpredictable, her speed increasing as the foxfire augmented her abilities. Goemon adjusted his grip, his odachi flaring to life in response. A fiery slime-like substance spilled from the blade as he swung it, melting the frost in her shield.

The blade’s hum deepened, morphing into an eerie, haunting melody that filled the room.

“Hush now, hide, all you little ones

Rush now, into the middle of nowhere

Singing and laughter will die…”

Both of them noticed the eerie song, but neither faltered. This was their duel, their test of strength and skill. The room felt charged, the air crackling with the intensity of their fight. It was an unstoppable force versus an immovable object. The ace of the deck versus the unpredictable wild card.

Miyabi launched into a wide slash, her movements swift and elegant. Goemon dodged with a technique she immediately recognized: demon step, one of her own moves.

Her eyes widened in awe. “You’ve even copied my techniques?”

Goemon gave her a faint smirk, dodging her next attack with ease. “I study every opponent I face. Everyone has habits, weaknesses. I just… exploit them.”

She followed up with a spinning wheel attack, her blade a blur of movement. Their swords clashed, the sound of metal ringing through the air as the spirits bound to their blades guided them. Her speed and strength were only matched by Goemon’s precision and defense, each strike calculated to counter her next move.

But as the fight wore on, Goemon began to notice something: Miyabi’s foxfire was pressing the advantage. His strikes were becoming less effective, the sheer force of her aura driving him back.

“You’re so much better than you were in the academy,” she said mid-strike, her tone genuinely complimentary.

“Thanks,” he replied, blocking her next attack. “You too. But it feels a little hollow saying this to the youngest Void Hunter ever.”

Miyabi smiled, momentarily amused. “You’re the first person I’ve ever felt truly meant that. So… thank you.”

Goemon chuckled softly, switching his blade’s element to ether. The odachi’s humming grew louder, more intense, as if in response to the shift. Its energy flickered between the two fighters, blending with the tension in the room.

Miyabi’s eyes darted to his ears and stripes, noticing how they shifted colors, reflecting the balance between his hare and tiger instincts.

As the duel reached its peak, Goemon pressed his advantage, his movements swift and relentless. Spotting an opening, he used a move from the Starlight Knights’ arsenal—the helm splitter. His odachi came down in a devastating arc, aimed to end the duel.

But Miyabi, ever resourceful, countered at the last second. Her katana slashed into his shoulder, forcing him to stumble back. Blood trickled down his arm, but Goemon only smiled before collapsing from exhaustion.

Miyabi laughed softly, leaning on her katana as she caught her breath. “You’ve still got it, Goemon,” she said, her voice tired but filled with admiration. She smiled faintly before her knees gave out, and she collapsed beside him, equally drained.

When Yanagi and Soukaku arrived later, they searched the office for the two but found no sign of them. Finally, they checked the training room, only to discover both Goemon and Miyabi sprawled on the floor, passed out in the middle of the room.

Yanagi sighed, adjusting her glasses. “They’re like children,” she muttered.

Soukaku grinned. “Well, at least they’re bonding.” Goemon is the first to recover as he sits up. He stretches and gets up as he then turns to his blade. The blade’s humming is dulled but still lurking under the surface. Goemon shrugged before sheathing the blade and going to Miyabi. He lightly nudged her with the blade.

Miyabi looked up at Goe before smiling, “You were fantastic,” she said happily. Goemon smiled as he helped her up.

Scene: “Reflections of Each Other”

It had been a few weeks since Miyabi and Goemon had resumed training together. Their sparring sessions had become routine, with the two often sneaking off to the training room during breaks or staying late after hours. At first, it was about sharpening their skills, but as time went on, it became something more—an unspoken rhythm between them.

One late afternoon, Goemon was seated at his desk, casually tapping the end of his pen against his lips, deep in thought. Harumasa passed by, noticing the odd sight.

“Hey, Yanagi,” he said, leaning casually against the wall of her office, “have you noticed anything… weird about Goemon lately?”

Yanagi didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Weird how?”

“Well, for starters, he’s been tapping he’s been spinning his pen like crazy. And he keeps doing this thing with his hair—” Harumasa mimicked someone brushing their bangs aside, though his shorter hair made it look ridiculous. “He doesn’t even have bangs,” Harumasa added

Yanagi paused, finally glancing up. “That’s Miyabi’s habit. She does that when she’s thinking.”

“Exactly!” Harumasa exclaimed, grinning. “And I swear I saw her the other day playing some imaginary drums like she was at a rock concert, Isn’t that a Goemon thing?”

Yanagi arched an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair. “They’ve been spending a lot of time together. It’s not unusual for people to pick up each other’s mannerisms when they’re close.”

“Close?” Harumasa smirked, crossing his arms. “Is that what we’re calling it? Because I’d call it something else.”

Yanagi sighed, standing and grabbing her tablet. “Let’s observe, shall we?”

The two walked to the common area, where Miyabi and Goemon were seated at one of the long tables, reviewing combat footage together. They were sitting closer than necessary, shoulders almost brushing. Miyabi leaned over to point something out on the screen, her finger lingering just above it. Goemon nodded thoughtfully, spinning his pen again.

“There it is,” Harumasa whispered.

“And look at her,” Yanagi said quietly. Miyabi, engrossed in the footage, absentmindedly brushed her bangs aside with a movement identical to Goemon’s when he was frustrated.

Then came the clincher. Goemon stretched, his voice calm and dry. “You know, if you keep relying on that foxfire shield, you’re gonna get predictable.”

Miyabi, without missing a beat, quipped back, “And if you keep hesitating before you counter, you’re gonna get cut.”

They paused, glancing at each other, then smirked in perfect unison.

Yanagi and Harumasa exchanged looks.

“They’re copying each other,” Harumasa muttered.

“Not copying,” Yanagi corrected. “Mirroring. It’s subconscious. They’re attuned to each other.”

The scene continued to play out. Miyabi reached for her drink, a bottle of water Goemon had apparently brought her. She took a sip and handed it back to him, and without a second thought, he drank from the same bottle. There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation or awkwardness between them.

“Okay, now that’s just weird,” Harumasa said, staring.

Yanagi smirked. “Not weird. Bonded.”

As they walked back to her office, Harumasa couldn’t help but ask, “So, what do you think? Are they just… close combat partners? Or is there something more?”

Yanagi didn’t answer immediately, her thoughts lingering on the way Miyabi and Goemon seemed to move in tandem, the way they’d begun to act as extensions of each other. Finally, she said, “Time will tell. But if they’re not something more already, they will be.”

The next morning, Miyabi and Goemon were back in the training room. They stood on opposite sides of the mat, their usual routine underway.

“Try to surprise me this time,” Miyabi teased, gripping her sword.

Goemon smirked. “You sure you want to say that? I’ve been studying you.”

“Good. Maybe this time you’ll actually make me break a sweat.”

As they began to spar, their movements reflected an undeniable synchronicity. Goemon anticipated Miyabi’s feints, while Miyabi countered Goemon’s deliberate strikes with fluidity. Their fighting styles had begun to blend, each borrowing from the other without realizing it.

At one point, Miyabi used one of Goemon’s signature defensive parries, spinning into a low slash that forced him to backpedal. He countered with an imitation of her foxfire shield—not nearly as effective as hers, but enough to keep her at bay. Then he did something that surprised her. He swung the blade in a helix arch as slime rose From the blade. It blocked another one of her swings. Goemon followed this up with entering Miyabi’s demon stance and Miyabi countered with Helm splitter, but Goeomon’s perfected version.

They paused, both breathing heavily, and grinned at each other.

“Since when do you use demon stance?” Miyabi asked.

“Since I’ve been sparring with you,” Goemon replied, brushing his imaginary bangs aside in the exact same way Miyabi did.

“And since when did I start using your parry?” she mused aloud, mirroring his earlier movement by tapping her sword against her shoulder.

They both paused, realizing what was happening. Then they laughed, an easy, natural sound that filled the training room.

“Guess we’re rubbing off on each other,” Goemon said.

Miyabi smirked. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still the better fighter.”

“Sure, sure,” Goemon teased, picking up his odachi. “But remember, you’re the one who dragged me back into this. Don’t be surprised if I start beating you.”

“Keep dreaming, Goemon.”

Yanagi and Harumasa, watching from the observation window, exchanged knowing looks.

“Told you,” Yanagi said.

Harumasa sighed. “They’re either going to kill each other or fall in love.”

Yanagi smiled faintly. “Maybe both.”

The rest of the day was relatively quiet as Goemon held his usual position of managing the paperwork around section six and spending his lunch with Soukaku and Yanagi before heading home for the weekend. He arrived home to a quiet apartment, so he decided to take a nap before waking up to Jotaro coming back from his shift at pubsec.

The quiet hum of the city filled the small apartment as Jotaro leaned back on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest while his other hand scrolled through his tablet. The faint sound of Goemon sharpening his sword echoed from the dining table, where he sat meticulously running a whetstone along the edge of his odachi. The blade gleamed, faint ripples dancing along the surface as though something stirred within.

“You ever think about getting a hobby that doesn’t involve blades or punching things?” Jotaro asked, not looking up from his tablet.

Goemon smirked but kept his eyes on the sword. “And what would you suggest, oh enlightened one?”

“Cooking. Knitting. Heck, even stamp collecting. Something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m living with a samurai in a past life.”

Before Goemon could retort, there was a knock at the door. Both men froze, their instincts momentarily kicking in.

“Expecting anyone?” Goemon asked, setting the odachi aside.

Jotaro stood and stretched. “Not unless you ordered food and forgot to tell me.”

When he opened the door, he blinked in surprise. Miyabi stood there with her usual confident grin, balancing several containers of food in her hands. Next to her was Zhu Yuan, who held a bag that smelled distinctly of takeout dumplings and noodles.

“Hey, Jojo!” Miyabi chirped, brushing past him and stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Thought we’d drop by. Got food. You guys free?”

Zhu Yuan offered a sheepish smile, holding up the bag. “She insisted. I just came along to make sure she didn’t spill anything on the way here.”

Jotaro shut the door behind them, shaking his head. “Sure, come on in. It’s not like we were doing anything exciting.”

“Speak for yourself,” Goemon quipped as he stood up, watching Miyabi make herself at home by setting the food on the counter. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Miyabi said, pulling out containers of rice, fried chicken, and steamed buns. “Just felt like hanging out with my old Academy buddies. It’s been a while since we all had some downtime.”

Goemon raised an eyebrow. “You call barging into my apartment with food ‘downtime’?”

Miyabi shot him a grin. “Hey, you should be thanking me. I brought food, didn’t I?”

Zhu Yuan placed his bag next to the others and shrugged. “To be fair, it’s pretty good food. She even let me pick out dessert.”

Jotaro walked over, peering into the bag. “Dessert, huh? Alright, you’re forgiven.”

The four of them settled around the small table in the living room, plates piled high with food. The atmosphere was easy, laughter and teasing filling the space as they reminisced about their Academy days.

“Remember that time Miyabi got caught sneaking into the instructor’s office to change her test scores?” Zhu Yuan said with a grin, earning an immediate glare from her.

“I wasn’t changing them, I was checking them,” Miyabi shot back. “And I didn’t get caught. I got intercepted.”

“You got dragged out by the collar,” Jotaro said, laughing. “Big difference.”

Miyabi huffed but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto her face. “Yeah, well, I still scored higher than all of you.”

Goemon smirked, leaning back against the couch. “That’s because you cheated.”

“I did not cheat!”

Zhu Yuan chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, let’s not start another sparring match in the living room. This place is way too small for that.”

As the evening went on, the tension of their usual responsibilities melted away, leaving only the camaraderie of old friends. Miyabi and Goemon occasionally bickered, their banter sharp but good-natured, while Jotaro and Zhu Yuan played the mediators, chiming in with their own stories and jokes.

By the time they finished eating, the table was littered with empty containers, and the four of them were sprawled comfortably in various spots around the room. Miyabi was perched on the armrest of the couch, legs swingi lazily, while Zhu Yuan sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through one of Goemon’s books on swordsmanship.

“This was nice,” Zhu Yuan said softly, looking up. “Feels like the old days.”

Miyabi nodded, a rare moment of softness crossing her face. “Yeah. We should do this more often. Life gets too serious sometimes.”

Goemon glanced at her, his usual stoicism breaking for a moment as a small smile tugged at his lips. “Maybe next time, give us a heads-up before you show up with a feast.”

“No promises,” Miyabi said with a wink.

Jotaro sighed, leaning back with a grin. “This is why we can’t have nice things. But fine, you’re welcome to barge in anytime. Just don’t eat all the dessert next time.”

Miyabi laughed, tossing a pillow at him. “No guarantees, Jojo. No guarantees.”

The little rendezvous between friends grew quiet as Zhu yuan and Jojo started a terrible movie that somehow they both were enjoying while Goemon went to their other living room and began to work on sharpening the blade. Miyabi followed and said, “you’ve gotten really good with That sword,”

Goemon smiled and said, “I have been working on a new “style”,”

Miyabi nodded and said, “Yeah you’ve always had that style though to be honest. In flashes at least. Keeping working on it though. I think it will be really great,”

Goe smiled and said, “you have made numerous strides in your skill as well,” Miyabi smiles excitedly.

Certainly! Here’s an extended scene where Miyabi notices the Nowhere King as Goemon sharpens his sword:

Later that evening, the laughter and teasing from their impromptu gathering had settled into a calm quiet. Zhu Yuan and Jotaro had taken up a card game on the couch, while Miyabi leaned against the kitchen counter, idly watching Goemon as he sat at the dining table.

He had his odachi resting across a cloth, his hands methodically running the whetstone along its edge. The rhythmic sound of metal against stone filled the room, almost hypnotic in its consistency.

Miyabi’s eyes narrowed as she caught sight of something unusual. For a brief moment, it seemed like the blade shimmered, not from the light of the room but from something within. She blinked, leaning closer, her curiosity piqued.

“Goemon,” she said, her tone cautious but curious, “is it just me, or is your sword… moving?”

Goemon paused mid-stroke, glancing up at her with a raised eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

She stepped closer, pointing at the blade. “Look. There. In the metal.”

He followed her gaze and frowned, setting the whetstone down. As he tilted the blade slightly, the light caught the surface at just the right angle, and there it was—a shape swimming beneath the steel, its fluid, serpentine form gliding as if the sword were a vast ocean rather than solid metal.

Goemon’s grip tightened on the hilt. “You can see it?”

Miyabi nodded slowly, her eyes wide. “It’s… alive, isn’t it?”

The shape within the blade paused, as if aware it was being observed. A haunting hum began to emanate from the sword, low and eerie, like a distant melody carried on the wind. Miyabi felt a chill run down her spine.

“The Nowhere King,” Goemon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The what?” Miyabi asked, her gaze never leaving the blade.

“The spirit bound to this sword,” Goemon explained, his tone unusually subdued. “I didn’t realize anyone else could see it. It usually stays… dormant.”

The shape began to move again, its form becoming more distinct. It looked like a massive, otherworldly slimey snake, its translucent body shifting and changing, dark eyes peering out from within. The hum grew louder, evolving into a soft, mournful melody that seemed to echo in the very air around them.

Miyabi shivered. “That song… It’s like it’s coming from the sword itself.”

Goemon nodded. “It’s its way of communicating. It doesn’t speak, at least not in words, but I can feel its emotions through the song. It’s… lonely, I think. Trapped.”

“Trapped?” Miyabi repeated, her voice tinged with unease.

Goemon set the blade down carefully, his expression thoughtful. “The Nowhere King was a sacrifice—a person that was killed then forced to become this sword. It’s bound to it now, unable to leave. It gives the blade its power, but at a cost.”

Miyabi stared at the sword, her earlier confidence shaken. “How long have you known about this?”

“Since I first held it,” Goemon admitted. “I felt its presence right away, but I didn’t understand what it was at first. Over time, I realized it wasn’t just a tool. It’s… alive, in its own way.”

The melody shifted, becoming softer, almost soothing. The shape within the blade seemed to settle, its movements less frantic.

Miyabi finally tore her gaze away, looking at Goemon with a mix of awe and concern. “Does it… ever try to talk to you? Or take over?”

Goemon shook his head. “No. It doesn’t want to control me. It’s just… there. Watching. Helping, when it can. But it has its own will, its own desires. Sometimes, I think it’s waiting for something.”

“Waiting for what?”

Goemon’s eyes darkened, and he picked up the sword again, running a hand along the flat of the blade. “I don’t know. But whatever it is, I have a feeling it’s not going to be easy.”

Miyabi crossed her arms, watching him carefully. “You’re carrying more than just a weapon, Goemon. That thing… it’s dangerous.”

“I know,” he said simply, meeting her gaze.

The hum faded into silence, and the shape within the blade disappeared, leaving only the polished steel behind. Miyabi took a step back, her mind racing as she tried to process what she’d just seen.

“Don’t let it consume you,” she said quietly.

Goemon gave her a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I won’t. But if it ever comes to that…” He looked back at the sword. “…promise me you’ll stop me.”

Miyabi didn’t answer right away, the weight of his words hanging heavily between them. Finally, she nodded. “No.”

Goemon looked at her in confused shock, “why not?” He questioned.

Miyabi held firm, “I have lost enough to cursed swords. I will not lose anymore. You are going to have to overcome the sword’s power and demons.”

Goe considered her words then tried coming up with a response but couldn’t Miyabi nodded and said, “you are to save everyone you can including yourself.” Her voice stern like that was a direct order.

They stood in silence for a moment before Jotaro’s voice called out from the couch.

“Hey! Are you two done being cryptic over there? We’re trying to figure out who’s losing this card game!”

Miyabi forced a smile, stepping away from the table. “We’re coming.”

Goemon stayed behind for a moment longer, his hand resting on the hilt of the odachi as the faintest hum began to stir once more.

Here’s an expanded version of your scene with more internal conflict, atmospheric tension, and weight behind the fight.

A Cold Winter’s Burden

Over the next few days, Miyabi watched Goemon with a keen and scrutinizing eye. It wasn’t mere curiosity—she was making sure he remained himself. The presence of the Nowhere King left an unease in her chest, one that lingered every time she saw him sharpening his sword or lingering just a bit too long in his thoughts.

Still, their sparring sessions remained a grounding constant, a rhythm she was quickly coming to depend on. Each clash of blades, each counter and feint, reminded her of their academy days—when they pushed each other forward without hesitation, neither one willing to fall behind. But now, something felt different.

He doesn’t see it.

Goemon had improved at an exponential rate, the kind of growth that should have filled him with pride. In the span of six weeks, he had nearly caught up to where Miyabi was when she first took command of Section 6. His strikes carried a sharpness and precision that rivaled hers, and even his weaker techniques had refined into something formidable. Yet, despite that, he looked at her as if the gap between them was an endless chasm.

She could feel his frustration—how his grip on the odachi tightened whenever she outmaneuvered him, how his movements carried an urgency like he was chasing something just beyond his reach. The more she surged ahead, the heavier the weight seemed to settle on his shoulders.

And then came the call.

A Monster’s Plea

It was a frigid afternoon when Section 6 received the emergency request from PubSec. A rampaging sacrifice had breached containment, and with Miyabi, Yanagi, Harumasa, and Soukaku already deployed elsewhere, Goemon was the only one available to respond.

He moved quickly, the chill biting through his uniform as he arrived at the designated perimeter. The scene before him was nothing short of chaos—bodies scattered across the frozen pavement, the ground scorched and clawed up from the struggle. And at the center of it, locked in battle, was a familiar group.

Jotaro. Zhu Yuan. The others from the academy.

They fought with a desperate coordination, fending off a grotesque, shifting monstrosity—a sacrifice in the midst of complete mutation. Its pale, veined flesh bubbled and twisted, like it was devouring itself from the inside out. Extra limbs and gaping maws formed and collapsed in rapid succession, as though the creature couldn’t decide on its own shape.

And then it turned.

Its empty, colorless gaze locked onto Goemon the moment he stepped forward.

A ripple of recognition. Then, an agonized scream.

“Big brother, save me!”

Goemon’s breath hitched.

His stomach twisted as the realization hit him like a blade to the gut.

Yamato.

A ghost of a name from his past, now contorted into something unrecognizable. The boy—no, the friend—he once knew was buried somewhere within that abomination, struggling against the tide of corruption consuming his body.

And then Yamato shifted.

His entire form twisted, absorbing the outer ethereals nearby like a grotesque hydra pulling flesh into itself. His body expanded, limbs sprouting unnaturally as the dark energy inside him grew more erratic.

Goemon instinctively took a step forward, his grip on his odachi tightening.

“Goe—!” Jotaro’s voice cut through the battlefield, sharp with warning.

But it was too late.

Yamato lunged.

For the first time in a long while, Goemon hesitated.

One of the creature’s grotesque, pulsating heads launched forward like a striking viper, its gaping maw dripping with ethereal corruption. Goemon barely managed to move before its fangs could sink into him, but the sheer force of the attack sent him skidding back across the icy pavement.

His heart pounded. His breath came out in ragged clouds against the cold air.

Yamato…

The name echoed in his mind, tangled with memories of a time before all of this—before the war, before the sacrifices, before the world had twisted so cruelly.

And then, the monster attacked again.

Another head lunged, faster this time, and Goemon barely dodged, his movements sluggish, uncertain. His grip on the odachi wavered, just for a moment. But that moment was all the creature needed.

A third head lashed out, coiling around his waist like a massive, sinewy serpent. The pressure tightened. Crushing. The air in Goemon’s lungs was forced out in a sharp gasp.

"Big brother, why are you hurting me?"

Yamato’s voice. Warped, but unmistakable.

Goemon’s vision blurred.

Damn it—!

The monster’s grip tightened further, and Goemon felt his ribs creak under the pressure. Pain flared through his body as he was hurled through the air, crashing violently into a half-destroyed barricade. The impact rattled his bones, and for a moment, he lay there, stunned, his mind swimming in a haze of pain and disorientation.

And then, in the depths of his consciousness, a voice spoke.

A deep, resonant tone. Unnatural in its calmness, like a whisper from something ancient.

"Your conviction wavered. What happened to the hero who would save everyone? What happened to the hero whose pain would never be forgotten or repeated? Was that all bluster and bravado?"

Goemon’s blood ran cold. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword as he recognized the voice.

The Nowhere King.

The presence within his odachi had always been silent—watching, waiting. But now, it spoke, and its words dug into him like talons.

Goemon forced himself to his feet, his body aching from the impact. His breath was ragged, but his grip on the blade tightened.

"That’s my little brother," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "I can’t kill him."

For the first time, the Nowhere King was silent.

And then, it spoke again.

"Very well. Grant me 25% of your power, and I will help you save the boy."

Goemon’s breath hitched. The words dripped with temptation, laced with something he couldn’t quite place.

His eyes darted to Yamato—no, the monster that had once been Yamato—as it lurched forward, its massive, grotesque body twisting with barely contained violence. Its newly formed wings flexed, its movements jerky and unstable.

There was no more time.

“Fine.”

Power surged through his body the moment he uttered the word. His grip on the odachi burned as a pulse of dark energy coursed through the blade, thrumming in his veins. The Nowhere King laughed, a sound that echoed deep in his mind, but Goemon had no time to dwell on it.

He charged, the air around him crackling with force, and with a single massive slash, his blade cleaved through the ethereal corruption consuming Yamato. The impact sent a shockwave through the battlefield, ripping the affliction from Yamato’s body in a violent eruption of black mist.

The creature howled—a twisted, unnatural sound that shook the very air.

And then, as if sensing its impending defeat, it changed.

With a grotesque shift, the severed mass of darkness coiled upon itself, sprouting new limbs, wings unfurling from its back. Its body warped further, taking on a form less humanoid and more beastlike, its monstrous shape stretching toward the sky.

It let out an ear-splitting screech before its wings beat against the frozen air, lifting it from the battlefield. Within seconds, it was retreating, its shadow vanishing into the storm-gray clouds above.

Goemon stood motionless, watching as it disappeared into the distance, his blade still humming with lingering power.

9 notes · View notes

Overcharge FT: Sohyun

A collaboration I did with a few others who also wrote her

Doflamingo had been free from the vile Doctor Jiro’s clutches for two years when he found her.

It started out as an ordinary evening. Doflamingo walked into a small, dimly lit convenience store with a simple list: soda and chips. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as he scanned the aisles. A craving for something salty tugged at his stomach, but otherwise, life was routine. That is, until the door slammed open behind him.

He turned, startled. A young woman burst into the store, barefoot and completely naked, her dark hair clinging to her face. The air shifted with her arrival—a whirlwind of confusion, desperation, and raw energy. Her face held terror as she moved through the Convience store

Doflamingo froze, his hand hovering over a bag of chips. This was not something he’d ever prepared for, and in his shock, he didn’t even think to look away.

The woman’s wide, dark eyes locked onto his, and she screamed something in a language he recognized but didn’t know . Korean. The words spilled out in a torrent. “Who are you? Where am I? What’s going on?”

Doflamingo didn’t understand all of it, but her fear was clear enough. He dropped the chips and shrugged off his jacket, moving carefully so as not to startle her further. Her gaze darted between him and the store clerk, who had frozen in place behind the counter, staring at the scene in bewilderment.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s okay,” Doflamingo said gently, draping his jacket over her shoulders. She flinched at first, then clutched the fabric tightly, her breathing shallow.

The woman seemed to catch on to his tone if not his words. “Where am I?” she asked in halting English, her voice trembling. “The last thing I know… I was on a table with bright lights. A doctor…”

A cold chill ran down Doflamingo’s spine. Her words unsettled him but he held his tone

Clearing his throat, he kept his voice calm. “Somewhere safe. Let’s get you out of here.”

He paid for his things hastily, ignoring the cashier’s slack-jawed stare, and guided her to his car. She was barefoot and trembling, barely able to keep herself upright. As soon as she slid into the passenger seat, she collapsed, her head resting against the window. Doflamingo sighed and pulled a spare picnic blanket from the backseat, wrapping it around her.

The drive home was quiet except for the occasional murmurs from the woman as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Doflamingo’s mind raced. Who was she? How had she ended up like this?

When he pulled into his driveway, he scanned the area, relieved to see no neighbors around. Carrying a naked, unconscious woman into his house wasn’t exactly something he wanted anyone to witness.

Bridal style, he carried her inside, the blanket still wrapped securely around her. His apartment was modest but tidy—wooden floors, mismatched furniture, and a faint smell of coffee lingering in the air. He brought her to his room and laid her gently on the bed, careful not to jostle her too much. As he did he noticed the scar that ran along her sternum it was similar to his kaijin scars. It made him wonder if she was like him.

He set out an oversized T-shirt, a pair of boxers, and some old basketball shorts. They weren’t exactly fashionable, but they’d at least give her some semblance of dignity. As he adjusted the blanket around her, his gaze drifted to the scars on her abdomen. After leaving the room to give her privacy Doflamingo’s mind raced trying to figure out who this lady was.

Doflamingo settled onto the couch in the living room, exhausted. He barely had time to process what had just happened when his roommate Jo walked in, fresh from a night shift.

“You’re out here?” Jo asked, setting down his bag and glancing at Doflamingo stretched out on the couch.

“Yeah,” Doflamingo muttered, his head falling back against the cushions. He hesitated, then added, “Naked Korean girl at the convenience store. She’s in my room now.”

Jo paused mid-step, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“She was freaking out. Had to bring her here,” Doflamingo said with a shrug. “Look, I don’t even know what’s going on yet.”

Jo’s expression softened. He was used to Doflamingo’s peculiarities and the strange situations he often found himself in, but this was new even for him. “Alright, man. Good luck with that,” he said, clapping Doflamingo on the shoulder before heading to his own room.

As the house fell silent, Doflamingo stared at the ceiling, his mind racing with fragments of the night’s events. The girl’s terrified eyes, the scars on her abdomen, the way she’d collapsed in his car—it all weighed on him, heavier than the blanket he’d thrown over himself. His thoughts spiraled, unanswered questions pressing down on him until exhaustion finally won. His eyes drifted closed, and he fell into a fitful sleep.

It felt like mere minutes had passed when he was jolted awake by someone shaking his arm. Doflamingo shot upright, his instincts kicking in. His heart raced, and for a moment, he was disoriented, his mind scrambling to piece together where he was and why someone was touching him.

“Hey…” came a soft voice, pulling him back to reality. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he focused on the figure standing beside him. It was her.

The girl looked at him shyly, her dark eyes peeking out from beneath long lashes. She was no longer wrapped in the blanket but clothed in the oversized T-shirt and shorts he’d left for her. She’d tied the shirt into a makeshift crop top, and the shorts, while loose-fitting, revealed her toned legs. There was a subtle confidence in the way she carried herself now, but the nervous energy remained, like a candle flickering in the wind.

For a moment, Doflamingo felt a cold chill run through him. Hunger—a dark, primal instinct buried deep within him—flared to life as his eyes swept over her. He clenched his fists, forcing the feeling down, suppressing it as he gained full control of himself.

The girl had noticed it too. She froze for a second, her gaze locking on his, wide with apprehension. But just as quickly as it had come, the predatory look vanished from his face, replaced by something much softer: concern. The shift eased her, and she relaxed ever so slightly, though her hands still fidgeted nervously.

“Okay,” Doflamingo said, his voice low and careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile moment. “First thing’s first. What’s your name, dearie?”

The girl hesitated before replying softly, “Sohyun.”

Doflamingo nodded, repeating it to himself to commit it to memory. “Sohyun,” he said, testing the way it felt on his tongue. Then, he gestured to himself. “I’m Doflamingo. But if that’s too much of a mouthful, Doffy works just fine.”

Sohyun nodded, a faint smile flickering across her lips as she watched him rise from the couch and stretch. He moved toward the kitchen, his broad shoulders stiff with leftover tension from sleep.

“You hungry?” he asked over his shoulder, glancing at her.

Sohyun nodded quickly, her stomach growling softly as if in agreement. She followed him hesitantly, lingering near the doorway of the kitchen as though unsure if she was allowed to step inside.

Doflamingo busied himself pulling ingredients from the fridge and pantry. He decided on one of his go-to comfort dishes: chicken Alfredo mac and cheese. As he worked, chopping chicken and boiling pasta, Sohyun’s eyes followed his every move.

The silence between them stretched, until Sohyun finally broke it. “Are you a… kaijin?”

The question made Doflamingo pause. He turned his head slightly, his hands still working on the cutting board. “Yeah,” he admitted, his tone even.

Sohyun’s shoulders softened slightly, her eyes flicking downward. “Are you… one of Dr. Jiro’s?”

At the mention of the name, Doflamingo’s entire body tensed. His grip on the knife tightened, the blade pressing into the cutting board. He didn’t turn to face her. “Why?” he asked, his voice tight.

Sohyun straightened, a spark of defiance lighting in her eyes. “Because if you are… if you’re here to take me back to his lab…” Her voice wavered, but her resolve was unshakable. “I’ll fight you. I won’t go back. Ever.”

For a moment, the kitchen was deathly quiet. Then Doflamingo exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his body. He set the knife down and turned to face her fully.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I’m not taking you back. I wouldn’t do that to anyone. But I’m going to be honest with you, Sohyun—you can’t stay here forever.”

Sohyun’s lips parted as though she wanted to argue, but she hesitated, uncertainty clouding her features.

Doflamingo turned back to the stove, stirring the sauce as he spoke. “That being said… I’ll help you get where you want to go. Wherever that is.” His words cut through her swirling thoughts, grounding her.

For the first time since waking up in this strange new place, Sohyun felt a glimmer of hope. She smiled faintly, the expression small but genuine. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Doflamingo nodded, not looking at her as he focused on the dish in front of him. “Don’t mention it,” he said simply.

As the rich aroma of chicken Alfredo filled the kitchen, the two sat in companionable silence.

After Doflamingo finished cooking, the smell of creamy chicken Alfredo mac and cheese filled the small apartment. Sohyun, who had been reserved earlier, now sat at the kitchen table in what Doflamingo realized was his usual seat. She was leaning slightly forward, the warmth of the food and the coziness of the moment allowing her to let her guard down for the first time since she’d arrived.

The sound of a door creaking open drew both their attention. Jo, Doflamingo’s towering roommate, stepped into the room, rubbing the back of his neck as he took in the scene. His eyebrows rose at the sight of Sohyun sitting where Doflamingo usually did.

Sohyun’s gaze snapped toward Jo, her body instantly tensing. Her sharp eyes narrowed as if sizing him up. Doflamingo, catching this, turned to her and spoke softly, “That’s Jo, my roommate. He’s a good guy.” His tone was calm but firm, enough to break through the quiet tension.

Sohyun eased at his reassurance, her shoulders relaxing slightly. Without a word, she turned her attention back to the bowl in front of her, still keeping Jo in her peripheral vision.

Jo walked over to the table, his large frame looming, but his demeanor was laid-back as usual. He sat down in his usual seat, next to Sohyun, and introduced himself. “Jonas. But everyone calls me Jo.”

Sohyun glanced at him briefly before giving a small nod. “Sohyun,” she replied, her voice soft but steady.

Jo turned to Doflamingo, who was busy cleaning up in the kitchen. “Hey, Doffy, is it cool if Joy comes over tonight?”

Doflamingo, without looking up, nodded. “Yeah, sure. Just tell her to bring her appetite; there’s plenty of food.”

About 45 minutes later, the door opened again, and Jo’s girlfriend, Joy, bounded into the apartment. Her golden-brown eyes immediately lit up as the scent of the mac and cheese hit her.

“Oh, Doffy,” Joy exclaimed, her face breaking into a grin, “you made my favorite!”

Doflamingo turned to her, his voice gruff but affectionate. “Yeah, yeah. There’s enough for you too.”

Joy practically skipped into the apartment, but she stopped short when she saw Sohyun sitting at the table—and even more surprising, the way Sohyun was leaning slightly against Doflamingo, her body angled protectively toward him.

“Uh, Doffy…” Joy asked, her tone cautious, “who’s this?”

Sohyun looked up, her sharp gaze meeting Joy’s. Instantly, Sohyun could tell that Joy, like Jo, wasn’t fully human. The faint predatory grace in her movements and the faint stripes along her neck marked her as a tiger kaijin.

“I’m Sohyun,” she said simply, her voice calm but firm.

Joy blinked, then smiled warmly. Noticing that Sohyun was Korean, she switched languages. “Oh, are you and Doflamingo… dating?” she asked curiously.

Sohyun shook her head, leaning slightly closer to Doflamingo as she spoke. “He saved me.”

Joy tilted her head, confused by the cryptic statement. “Saved you? What do you mean?”

Sohyun hesitated, glancing at Doflamingo. When he gave her a small nod, she began to explain, her voice quiet but resolute. “I… I wanted to be saved from my nightmare. The next thing I knew, I was here, and Doflamingo was taking care of me.” She looked down at her bowl, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “He didn’t have to, but he did. And I won’t forget that.”

Joy glanced between Sohyun and Doflamingo, noting the way Sohyun seemed to hover protectively near him, even when talking about him. It wasn’t just gratitude—there was a deep, instinctual connection beginning to form.

“Wow,” Joy said after a moment. “Well, it sounds like you landed in the right place.” She sat down next to Jo, who had been watching the interaction with a curious glint in his eye.

After everyone settled, Jo broke the silence. “So, Sohyun,” he said, gesturing between himself and Joy, “you probably figured it out, but we’re kaijin too. Joy’s a tiger, and I’m a bear.”

Sohyun glanced at him, then at Joy, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I figured as much,” she said.

Jo grinned, showing off teeth that were just a little too sharp. “And Doffy here, well… you’ve probably noticed he’s a dragon. Hard to miss.”

Sohyun’s gaze flicked to Doflamingo, and she nodded. “I thought so,” she admitted. “And me… I’m a kitsune.”

Jo whistled low. “A kitsune, huh? Rare one. Explains the sharp eyes.”

Joy leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “How much do you know about being a kaijin? Did Jiro…” She trailed off, not wanting to say the rest aloud.

Sohyun’s expression darkened. “I know enough,” she said curtly. “Enough to know I’ll never go back to him.”

Doflamingo, sensing the tension rising, stepped in. “None of us are going back,” he said firmly, his voice steady. “We’re all here because we got away, and that’s what matters.”

Sohyun glanced at him, her lips pressing together in a thin line. Then she gave a small nod. “Right.”

For the rest of the evening, the conversation flowed more easily. Jo cracked jokes, Joy filled the room with her bubbly energy, and Doflamingo stayed his usual guarded but wizened self. Through it all, Sohyun stayed close to Doflamingo, her budding appreciation for him growing stronger. She didn’t just see him as someone who had saved her—she saw him as someone worth protecting, too.

Here’s an expanded version of the scene, diving deeper into Doflamingo’s emotions, the tension between him and Rossward, and the physical and mental agony caused by the nanite injection:

One year later. Doflamingo unlocked the front door to his home, his body already tense. The lights were on, but the silence in the house was deafening. Jo, Joy, and Sohyun were all supposed to be at work, leaving him alone for the evening—or so he thought. Instinctively, his hand brushed the side of his coat where he kept his weapon holstered. Something wasn’t right.

As he stepped inside, the faint scent of cologne hit him, one he hadn’t smelled in years but could never forget. A cold knot formed in his stomach.

“You’ve been such a pain to track down, Crimson King.”

The familiar voice froze Doflamingo mid-step. Slowly, he turned toward the living room, and there, leaning casually against the wall, was Rossward.

Doflamingo’s throat tightened as he took in the sight of his ex-lover. Rossward looked as polished and sharp as ever—his blonde and silver hair gleaming under the light, his dark blue eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of amusement and menace.

“Rossward,” Doflamingo said coldly, his voice low and even. “Why are you here?”

Rossward pouted mockingly, pushing off the wall and walking closer. “Really, Doffy? That’s how you’re going to greet me? After everything we’ve been through? I’m hurt. You abandoned me!”

Doflamingo’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. The sight of Rossward dredged up a flood of conflicting emotions: anger, regret, and a lingering trace of something softer that he hated himself for feeling.

“You abandoned us,” Doflamingo bit back, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his rage. His hand moved to his chest, his scar burning as if Rossward’s presence was enough to awaken the old wound. “We could’ve been free. We beat Dr. Jiro. But you—you saved him. You betrayed us—all for the promise of more power.”

Rossward’s face remained unreadable for a moment before a faint smirk tugged at his lips. He shrugged, his nonchalance like a dagger to Doflamingo’s chest. “And what would’ve been the alternative?” Rossward asked, his tone calm but cutting. “To go back to meaningless lives? To be hunted and hated for being stronger than the rest of them? No, my love, I refuse to live in chains when we could rule.”

His words were like poison, and Doflamingo found himself paralyzed by the weight of his own emotions. His love for Rossward, buried deep under layers of bitterness and resentment, clawed its way to the surface, warring with his hatred for the man Rossward had become.

Rossward stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached out, gently caressing Doflamingo’s face, and for a moment, Doflamingo flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Baby, come on,” Rossward murmured, his voice softening to a familiar, almost tender tone. “It’s okay. I still love you. Come back to me, and we can rule together. No one could stand against us.”

Before Doflamingo could process the words, Rossward leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. The contact sent a jolt through Doflamingo, a confusing mix of longing and revulsion surging through him.

But then—

Pain.

White-hot, searing pain shot through Doflamingo’s chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, clutching his chest as the agony intensified. Through the haze of his pain, he caught a glimpse of Rossward holding a syringe, the empty vial glinting ominously in the light.

Doflamingo’s body convulsed as his cells began to burn from within, his kaijin physiology reacting violently to the invasion of nanomachines. The cyberverse nanites coursed through his bloodstream, mutating and upgrading his kaijin cells at an accelerated rate. Every nerve in his body screamed in protest, and his vision blurred as his senses overloaded.

“W-What… did you… do?” Doflamingo gasped, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing.

Rossward knelt beside him, his expression smug and triumphant. “Don’t fight it, Doffy. You’ll thank me later. This is the next step in your evolution. When you’re done transforming, you’ll finally understand what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.” He brushed a hand through Doflamingo’s hair, almost affectionately, before standing and turning to leave.

As Doflamingo writhed on the floor, Rossward paused at the doorway, throwing a final glance over his shoulder. “When you’re done evolving, you’ll know where to find me, babe.”

With that, Rossward was gone, leaving Doflamingo alone in the house. The pain was unrelenting, his body twisting and contorting as the nanites worked their way through him, tearing apart his cells only to rebuild them stronger. Memories of Rossward, of Jiro, of everything he’d fought to escape flashed through his mind in rapid succession.

He wanted to scream, to fight back, but his body betrayed him, consumed by the process Rossward had set into motion. As his vision darkened and blurred all he could see was Rossward leaving him for dead again.

Sohyun arrived home earlier than usual, her bag slung over her shoulder and her mind preoccupied with the errands she’d need to run later. As she stepped into the house, something felt off. The air was heavy, charged with an energy that sent a chill down her spine.

“Doffy?” she called out, her voice echoing through the unusually quiet space.

No response.

Her heart raced as she dropped her bag and moved further into the house. It wasn’t like him to leave the lights on without being nearby. Her eyes darted around the living room until she froze in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat.

There, sprawled on the floor, was Doflamingo.

“Doffy!” Sohyun rushed to his side, dropping to her knees as her hands hovered over his body, unsure where to touch first. He was unconscious, his face pale and contorted as if he’d been in immense pain. His shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to his chest, and his breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps.

Her kitsune instincts roared to life, her tail flicking out behind her as she scanned the room for threats. Her eyes glowed faintly as her heightened senses took in every detail—the faint scent of another person lingering in the air, the syringe discarded on the floor, the residual energy pulsing faintly from Doflamingo’s body.

“Whoever did this…” she growled under her breath, her sharp nails digging into the carpet. “They’re going to pay.”

But first, she had to make sure he was okay.

Sohyun carefully slid her arms under Doflamingo, lifting him with surprising ease thanks to her kaijin strength. She carried him to the couch and gently laid him down, her hands trembling as she adjusted a pillow beneath his head. Her tail curled protectively around him as she checked for injuries, her gaze lingering on his scarred chest that seemed to glow faintly, as if something was stirring beneath his skin.

“Hang on, Darling,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

She grabbed a blanket from the closet and draped it over him before sitting down beside him, her ears twitching as she kept vigil. She wouldn’t let anyone else hurt him—not while she was here.

Hours passed, and the tension in Sohyun’s body didn’t ease until she felt him stir.

Doflamingo groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked up at her, his vision blurry, but he immediately recognized her warm, concerned smile.

“Sohyun…?” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

“I’m here Darling,” she said softly, brushing damp hair away from his forehead. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?”

Doflamingo tried to sit up, but Sohyun gently pushed him back down. “Don’t. You need to rest.”

“What… happened?” he murmured, his head pounding as flashes of Rossward’s face and the searing pain from the nanites flooded back to him.

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Sohyun said, her tone gentle but firm. “I found you unconscious on the floor. There was a syringe, and the house smelled like someone else had been here.” Her eyes darkened, her voice dropping. “Whoever it was… I’ll make sure they never come near you again.”

Doflamingo managed a weak chuckle despite the pain. “My little fox, always ready to fight.”

Her cheeks flushed, but her gaze remained steady. “You’ve done more for me than I can ever repay. You saved me, Darling. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The sincerity in her voice tugged at his heart, and for a moment, he let himself relax, comforted by her presence.

“It was Rossward,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sohyun’s eyes narrowed, her tail bristling. “Your ex?”

Doflamingo nodded, his jaw tightening. “He… did something to me. Injected me with nanites. My body feels… different.”

Sohyun stifled tears as she knew what happened, “you were injected with Cyberverse nanites. They evolve Kaijin cells rapidly,” she said as her memory of her own Kaijin transformation racked her mind.

Doflamingo’s jaw tightened further as he processed her words, his eyes narrowing with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. “A new transformation… less organic,” he murmured. The idea churned in his mind, unfamiliar and unsettling.

Sohyun hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line as memories she’d buried began to surface. She had seen firsthand what Cyberverse nanites could do—what they had done to her. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she fought back the sting of tears. “Doffy, it’s going to change you. You’ll feel… different. Stronger, faster. But it’s not just your body. It affects your mind too.”

Doflamingo’s sharp eyes snapped to her. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not always easy to stay… yourself,” she admitted softly, her voice trembling. “When I went through it, there were moments I felt like I was losing who I was. The cybernetics amplify everything—your instincts, your aggression. You’ll need to keep control.” She paused, her gaze steady despite the faint quiver in her voice. “But you’re stronger than anyone I know, Doffy. You’ll manage.”

Doflamingo studied her carefully, sensing the weight of her words. “You’ve been through this.”

Sohyun gave a small, bitter laugh. “Yeah, I have.” She took a step back, her resolve hardening as she prepared to show him. “I wasn’t always this put together, you know. But I’ll show you what I mean.”

She squared her shoulders and raised her voice. “Transform!”

A surge of energy radiated outward as Sohyun’s body began to shift. Pale white plates of cybernetic armor burst forth, wrapping around her skin with a seamless fluidity that mimicked her kaijin form. The armor glimmered faintly under the light, sleek and intricately detailed, as if her very being had been enhanced and reshaped. The fox-like features of her kitsune form were still present, but they were sharper, more mechanical—her tails now segmented like metal ribbons, her ears twitching as sensors glowed faintly at their base.

Doflamingo’s breath hitched as recognition dawned. “That’s the armor you used against the elephant kaijin,” he said, his voice low with awe.

Sohyun nodded, her expression unreadable beneath the faintly glowing visor of her helmet. “This is what Cyberverse nanites do. They merge with your kaijin cells and force an evolution, whether you’re ready for it or not.” She lifted an arm, the faint hum of energy resonating through her armored gauntlet. “It makes you stronger—faster than you thought possible. But it’s not natural.”

She deactivated her transformation with a low, mechanical hiss, the armor retracting into her body as if it had never been there. Sohyun stood before him once more, her shoulders slumping as if the transformation had drained her. “The first time it happened, I thought I’d lost myself. My instincts felt… sharper. Louder. Like I wasn’t completely in control. It took time to adjust, but I did.”

Doflamingo stared at her, his mind racing as he tried to reconcile what he’d just seen with the implications of what Rossward had done to him. “So, what you’re saying is… this isn’t just physical.”

“No,” she said firmly, stepping closer. Her voice softened. “It’s a fight, Doffy. A fight to stay grounded. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken fears and unyielding determination. Doflamingo glanced down at his hands, clenching them tightly as though testing for any immediate changes. “So, what now?”

Sohyun placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch steady and reassuring. “Now we figure this out. Together. You don’t have to face this alone, Doffy. You’ve got me, Jo, and Joy. We’ll help you, just like you’ve always been there for us.”

Doflamingo’s lips twitched into a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Sohyun. I don’t say it enough, but… I’m glad you’re here.”

She grinned back at him, her confidence returning. “You’re stuck with me, Dragon Boy. Now, let’s make sure those nanites know who’s boss.”

Doflamingo wondered about the cyberverse nanites but also why Rossward would come back after all this time. As he wondered Sohyun watched with Keen eyes. Over the last year she had learned many of his microexpressions and that despite his worry he was taking the changes in stride.

Joy and Jo froze as they entered their shared home, their eyes immediately drawn to the faint red glow emanating from Doflamingo’s back and the unnatural, crimson shine of his eyes. The air was thick with tension, his weariness almost tangible as he leaned against the wall, lost in thought.

“What happened?” Joy blurted out, her voice tinged with concern. She wasn’t one for tact in situations like this.

Doflamingo exhaled slowly, his jaw tight as he recounted Rossward’s intrusion, the injection of nanites, and the unbearable pain that followed. As he spoke, Joy and Jo exchanged worried glances, noticing the strain in his voice and the shadow of something deeper—grief, perhaps, or betrayal—etched into his features.

When Doflamingo finished, Jo folded his arms, his expression grim. “You’re going to have to confront him,” he said bluntly.

Doflamingo bristled at the suggestion, shaking his head. “There has to be another way. Maybe I can just—”

“There isn’t,” Sohyun interjected gently but firmly, stepping forward. Joy nodded in agreement, backing up Jo’s assertion. “You can’t let him control you, Doflamingo,” Joy added. “You have to face this before it gets worse.”

The collective insistence weighed on him, and Doflamingo’s shoulders sagged. He tried to muster a protest, but even he knew there was truth in their words. Seeing his resistance falter, Sohyun stepped closer, her warm smile breaking through the gloom like a sunrise. Her presence was calming, a quiet reassurance that grounded him in the moment.

“Don’t worry, Darling,” Sohyun said, her voice soft yet unwavering. She rested a comforting hand on his arm. “It will be fine. I’ll be there to protect you.”

The term of endearment caught him off guard, stirring something unfamiliar in his chest. Her eyes, filled with quiet determination, reminded him so much of Rossward—Rosalind, the kind and nurturing person Rossward used to be. For a fleeting moment, he was struck by their similarities: the warmth in their smiles, the way they could make him feel supported in moments of doubt. But where Rossward’s kindness had been tinged with fragility, Sohyun’s radiated a resilient strength that gave him hope.

Doflamingo sighed, looking down at her as a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Sohyun,” he murmured. “I… appreciate it.”

Joy watched the interaction with a knowing smirk but refrained from commenting. Jo, on the other hand, simply nodded approvingly, glad to see Sohyun taking the lead in grounding Doflamingo.

Pushing aside the memories of Rossward that lingered in the back of his mind, Doflamingo stood, resolved but still hesitant. Sohyun stayed close, the unspoken promise of her support like an anchor keeping him steady. Together, they made their way to the door, the faint glow of Doflamingo’s eyes now a little less foreboding and a little more determined.

Doflamingo stood outside the bar, his hand resting on the door handle as a storm of emotions swirled within him. He had prepared himself for this confrontation, yet his chest felt tight, heavy with the weight of what he might have to do. The scent of cinnamon, faint but unmistakable, drifted through the cracks in the door, pulling him into a flood of memories—some sweet, others bitter. With a deep breath, he stepped inside.

The warm, dimly lit bar was exactly as he remembered it, unchanged despite the passage of time. He paused, allowing the familiar scent to settle his nerves, though it did little to quell the gnawing awareness that this could be the night he’d have to kill Rossward. Shaking the thought from his mind, he made his way to the VIP lounge, every step heavy with purpose.

Rossward’s eyes lit up the moment Doflamingo entered the room, his smile genuine and brimming with an unshakable confidence. To Rossward, this wasn’t just an encounter; it was a reunion. He rose to his feet, a king greeting his long-lost equal. With a subtle nod, he gestured to his paramour, a strikingly beautiful woman, who obediently rose and approached Doflamingo.

“Guide him to me, darling,” Rossward murmured to her, his tone indulgent and commanding.

The woman reached for Doflamingo’s arm, her touch light yet possessive as she led him toward Rossward. Doflamingo allowed it, though his sharp eyes flicked to her in silent appraisal. He felt nothing for her—not jealousy, not anger. But as his gaze landed on Rossward, seated like a ruler on his throne, a twinge of grief and anger stirred in his chest. Grief for what they had been, and anger for what Rossward had become.

“Hello, babe,” Rossward said smoothly, his dark blue eyes drinking in every detail of Doflamingo’s appearance. His voice carried the same charisma that had once drawn Doflamingo to him like a moth to a flame. “You look ravishing. Your eyes are beautiful.”

Doflamingo nodded curtly, his expression unreadable as the paramour draped herself over Rossward, her laughter light and calculated. Doflamingo’s jaw tightened. He understood that people moved on—he had moved on—but seeing this display, this mockery of the bond they had once shared, stirred a bitterness he couldn’t entirely suppress.

Rossward leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. “Have you come to take your place by my side?” he asked, his tone carrying an air of certainty, as though he already knew the answer.

Doflamingo paused, his glowing black eyes meeting Rossward’s unwavering gaze. For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of their shared history filling the space between them.

“No,” Doflamingo finally said, his voice steady but laced with quiet resolve.

Rossward’s smile faltered, confusion flashing across his face. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied Doflamingo. “What do you mean, no?”

“I was never the ruler type,” Doflamingo said evenly. “I never wanted it. I wanted freedom. And while leadership gave me a taste of that, I’ve learned it comes with its own chains. I’d have to make appearances, put on performative shows of force, and lead people who would eventually grow to despise me—because they’d think they could do better. It’s too much work and not enough return.”

Rossward listened, his expression unreadable as his paramour cuddled closer to him, planting a kiss on his cheek as though to reassure him of her loyalty. Her presence was a stark contrast to the intimacy Rossward and Doflamingo had once shared, and for a fleeting moment, Doflamingo felt the sting of what they had lost.

Rossward sighed, a shadow of disappointment passing over his face before he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Very well,” he said, his voice colder now. “Wallow in mediocrity if that’s what you choose. But don’t come back begging when I am on top.”

Doflamingo smiled faintly, a sharp, wicked grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “As long as you don’t attack the people I care about, I don’t care what you do. I do hope you find what you’re looking for, Rossward.” His voice softened at the end, carrying a hint of the sadness he couldn’t entirely hide.

Rossward watched him, his piercing gaze searching Doflamingo’s face for any sign of hesitation or regret. But Doflamingo gave him none. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his steps steady and purposeful.

As Doflamingo disappeared from view, Rossward leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. His paramour tilted her head, looking up at him with a mix of curiosity and concern. “Are you really going to let him walk away like that?” she asked softly.

Rossward didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the door, his expression unreadable. “He’ll be back,” he murmured, though it was unclear whether he was speaking to her or to himself. “One way or another, he’ll come back.”

Doflamingo’s steps were heavy as he exited the VIP lounge, the scent of cinnamon lingering like a bittersweet reminder of the past. He made his way through the bar, every detail of the place stirring memories of nights spent with Rossward—both the good and the bad. The laughter they shared, the dreams they once built together, and the growing fissures that had ultimately torn them apart.

Rossward, back in the lounge, leaned back into his plush seat. His paramour—young, radiant, and devoted—looked at him with questioning eyes. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?” she asked, her voice laced with annoyance. “You’re the most powerful Kaijin I’ve ever met. He should bow to you.”

Rossward gave her a faint smile, but there was no warmth in it. “Doflamingo isn’t like others,” he murmured, his gaze distant as if still following the figure of the man who had just walked out. “He’s always been different. Even when we fought side by side, he was never interested in power for its own sake. That’s why I admired him. That’s why I loved him.”

The paramour stiffened, a flicker of jealousy crossing her features, but Rossward didn’t notice—or perhaps he didn’t care. His thoughts were too tangled, his emotions too raw. “He’s the only one I’ve ever seen as my equal,” he continued softly. “And yet he refuses to take what’s rightfully his.”

Meanwhile, outside the bar, Doflamingo leaned against the wall, letting the cool night air wash over him. He closed his eyes, his mind racing with conflicting feelings. Rossward’s words had struck a nerve, as they always did. But it wasn’t anger that lingered most—it was sadness.

“I wish things could’ve been different,” Doflamingo muttered to himself. He thought about the family he had now—Sohyun, Jo, Joy—and the lengths he would go to protect them. They were his tether, his reason to keep moving forward.

A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. “Hey, Doffy, you okay?”

Doflamingo opened his eyes to see Sohyun standing a few feet away, her arms crossed and her face creased with concern. She had followed him, as she often did when she suspected something was wrong.

“Yeah,” he said with a weak smile. “Just… old ghosts.”

Sohyun stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. “You don’t have to carry them alone, you know. Whatever Rossward did—or might do—we’ll deal with it. Together.”

Doflamingo nodded, her words grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. “I know. Thanks, Sohyun.”

As the two of them walked away from the bar, Doflamingo cast one last glance over his shoulder, his glowing black eyes piercing the darkness. Rossward’s silhouette was visible through the upstairs window, watching him leave. It wasn’t a look of triumph or malice, but something far more complex.

Rossward whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the hum of the lounge. “We’ll see if you still feel that way when the real fight begins, Doflamingo.”

Over the next few days Sohyun noticed Doflamingo’s melancholy. She knew Doflamingo and Rossward had history but was unsure if how deep it went. One day while relaxing from work Sohyun decided to ask Doflamingo about his relationship with Rossward.

Sohyun sat cross-legged on the couch, her amber eyes fixed on Doflamingo. He leaned against the windowsill, gazing out at the city lights with an expression she couldn’t quite place—somewhere between nostalgia and bitterness. It was rare to see him so still, so lost in thought, and that alone made her tread carefully.

“Doflamingo,” she started softly, pulling his attention away from the window. He glanced at her, his glowing black eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. “What happened between you and Rossward? I know there’s history, but…” She hesitated. “You don’t talk about him like he’s just another enemy.”

Doflamingo sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. “Rossward… Rossward wasn’t always like this,” he said, his voice low and heavy. “There was a time when he was the kindest, gentlest person I knew. Back then, Rossward was… Rosalind.”

Sohyun’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She simply nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“She—he—came to Dr. Jiro’s lab for a very specific reason,” Doflamingo said, his tone softening as he spoke. “Rosalind wanted to transition. Back then, Jiro was known for experimenting on Kaijin, but he also had access to advanced biotechnologies—technologies that could make a dream like that possible. Rosalind believed that becoming Rossward, becoming who he truly was, would make him stronger. And in a way, it did.”

Doflamingo’s gaze turned distant, as though he were seeing someone else entirely. “Back then, Ross wasn’t opulent or decadent, like he is now. He was softer, more grounded. He was the one who gave me the name ‘Doflamingo.’ Said it made me sound like someone who could walk into a room and own it. He helped me when I couldn’t even look in a mirror without flinching.”

Sohyun’s chest tightened. “He gave you your confidence?”

Doflamingo nodded, a faint smile flickering across his face. “He did. Back then, I was just another experiment, another weapon Dr. Jiro could use. But Ross—he treated me like a person. He made me feel like I was worth something. For a long time, he was the only one I trusted.”

The smile faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a grim line. “But as we kept fighting Jiro, things started to change. Ross began to notice that he couldn’t keep up with me. No matter how much stronger he became, no matter how many enhancements Jiro gave him, I was always a step ahead. And that… scared him.”

Sohyun leaned forward. “Why?”

Doflamingo’s jaw tightened, and his voice dropped. “Because Ross was terrified of being betrayed. He thought that if he couldn’t match me, if he couldn’t control me, I’d turn on him someday. I never would’ve—he was everything to me—but Ross… he couldn’t believe that. So, he decided to get stronger. No matter what it cost.”

He turned away from the window, his black eyes meeting Sohyun’s amber ones. “When the final battle with Dr. Jiro came, I thought we were on the same side. We fought Jiro together, side by side, like we always did. But when the tide turned, Ross made his choice. He stabbed me in the back—literally—and took Jiro with him.”

Sohyun’s breath caught. “Why?”

“Because Jiro promised him more power,” Doflamingo said bitterly. “Promised to make him stronger than me. And Ross… he wanted that more than anything. Even more than he wanted me.”

The silence between them was thick, charged with unspoken emotions. Doflamingo’s shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he looked vulnerable in a way Sohyun had never seen before.

“I still don’t know if he did it out of fear or ambition,” Doflamingo admitted. “Maybe it was both. All I know is that the person I trusted most in this world looked me in the eye and decided I wasn’t enough. And I’ve been trying to make peace with that ever since.”

Sohyun’s hands clenched into fists. “He betrayed you because he was afraid of you. Because he couldn’t see how much you cared about him.”

Doflamingo nodded slowly. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Sohyun stood, crossing the room to stand in front of him. She placed a hand on his arm, her touch firm but comforting.

“You’re not the person he thought you were,” she said. “You’re better than that. And if he comes for you again, I’ll stand by you. No matter what.”

Doflamingo’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. “Thanks, Sohyun.”

She nodded, determined. “We’ll face him together.”

And for the first time in a long while, Doflamingo felt the faint stirrings of hope.

21 notes · View notes

Lighbearer Ft: Sohyun

Hello my name is Dioflamenco and this is my first story. Enjoy

Agent D had always been an outlier. Despite his relatively young age, he was one of the most experienced members of the Lightbearer Taskforce, having been recruited straight out of high school. Over nearly 15 years, he had navigated the Bureau’s shadowy corridors, risen through its ranks, and survived missions that left even seasoned agents scarred or broken. He had worked through college, part-time jobs, and personal milestones, always returning to the fight. Yet, in all that time, no one had ever surprised him quite like Sohyun.

This is the story of the Prodigy and the Rebel, two extraordinary individuals whose unique talents will be all that stands between the world and its end.

The mirror in Sohyun’s dressing room reflected a dazzling young woman with a radiant smile, her confidence matched only by her talent. As her makeup artist finished brushing the last bit of shimmer onto her cheeks, they stepped back and admired their work.

“You look stunning as always,” the makeup artist said, hands on their hips.

“Thank you,” Sohyun replied, her voice bright with anticipation. She stood, smoothing out her stage outfit. The thrill of performing never left her; it was a spark that lit up her entire being.

Tonight was the first concert of the year, and she could already hear the distant roar of fans filling the venue. She took a deep breath, centering herself before stepping into the chaos of the spotlight.

Halfway across the world, Agent D sat in a dimly lit armory, the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. On the table in front of him lay his two most trusted tools: a sleek, high-powered flashlight nicknamed “Torch” and a revolver simply called “Durendall .”

The flashlight gleamed, its intricate design a fusion of advanced tech and ancient resonance, capable of cutting through the shadows of the Dark Ones. The revolver, reformed from the blade of legend carried a weight of history and purpose, its polished surface catching the dim light of the room.

Agent D worked in silence, checking each component of Durendall with meticulous care. The revolver had saved his life more times than he could count, its craftsmanship unmatched in precision and reliability.

Agent M leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as he watched with a grin.

“How’s Durendall treating you?” he asked casually.

Agent D didn’t look up, his hands moving with practiced precision as he reassembled the revolver. He nodded once, a silent acknowledgment.

Agent M chuckled. “Right. Forgot you tune us out when you’re in the zone. Anyway, finish up and swing by my office. Got a job for you.”

Once his tools were ready, Agent D holstered Durendall and clipped Torch to his belt, their familiar weight grounding him as he made his way to Agent M’s office. He knocked twice and stepped inside.

Agent M, a grizzled veteran with a sharp wit, greeted him with a wide grin. “Ah, my favorite K-pop aficionado. You’re going to love this one.”

Agent D raised an eyebrow, his expression calm but inquisitive.

Agent M slid a manila folder across the desk. “Got a case in South Korea. We’ve got reports of someone going dark in the area. Figured you’d be the perfect fit—speaking the language, loving the music, and all that. Plus, you’ve got a knack for dealing with these types.”

D opened the folder, his eyes scanning the contents. Photographs of erratic behavior, and strange shadows were captured on security footage, and a name stood out: Kim Sohyun. The report noted her connection to a recent series of disturbances.

“Transport’s ready, and we’ve already secured your lodging,” Agent M continued. “This one feels… off. You’ll need to keep your wits about you. Happy hunting, D.”

D closed the folder and gave a brief nod before turning to leave.

“Oh, and D?” Agent M added with a smirk. “Don’t spend all your time at concerts. You’ve got a job to do, remember?”

D’s lips twitched ever so slightly, a ghost of a smirk before he walked out the door.

The Bureau’s vault was a labyrinth of sealed chambers, each holding artifacts that pulsed faintly with resonance. As Agent D approached, the sound of soft humming reached his ears. Agent A, a humanoid feline with sleek fur and sharp, luminous eyes, lounged gracefully on her chair. Her tail swayed lazily behind her as she noticed him entering.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the outlaw,” she purred, her voice smooth and teasing. She stretched slightly, her claws flexing before retracting. “What can I fetch for you today?”

D stopped in front of her desk, his gaze steady. “Lucifer’s Wing and JDF’s Dragon Coin.”

Agent A’s ears perked up, and her tail flicked with interest. “Going all out, are we? What kind of mess are you planning to dive into this time?”

D didn’t respond, but the faintest tilt of his head spoke volumes.

With a soft chuckle, she hopped down from her chair with feline grace, padding over to the secure shelves. She retrieved the items with practiced precision: Lucifer’s Wing, a feather-shaped artifact that radiated purifying energy, and JDF’s Dragon Coin, a talisman etched with a worn Dragon’s claw.

Returning to him, she held them out with a sly smile. “These should do the trick. Try not to lose them—or yourself—out there, outlaw.”

D took the artifacts, carefully securing them in a case. Before he turned to leave, he reached out and lightly patted Agent A on the head, his hand brushing her soft fur.

Agent A closed her eyes, leaning into the touch with a pleased rumble of a purr. “You know,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “if I didn’t like you, I’d claw your hand off for that.”

D’s lips twitched in the barest hint of a smirk as he walked away. As he left Agent A moved around his hand with a possessive flair wrapping her tail and scent around his arm and a chuckle in her throat.

Agent D stepped into the transport room, where the air hummed faintly with the energy of the light bridge. The room’s walls were lined with glowing conduits, casting soft, pulsing light across the metallic floor.

At the controls stood Agent R, his mechanical hands a marvel of engineering. As the young agent approached, Agent R’s fingers whirred to life, adjusting dials and flicking switches with precise efficiency.

“Ah, Agent D,” Agent R greeted, his voice tinged with a mix of excitement and admiration. “Everything’s ready. Are you?”

D gave a curt nod.

Agent R smiled, his hands pausing over the controls. “Good. The bridge will have you in South Korea in an instant. Just try not to get into too much trouble. I know how you operate.”

D smirked faintly before stepping onto the platform. A moment later, the world around him dissolved in a flash of light, only to reassemble itself in the heart of Seoul.

The bustling city buzzed with life around him—neon signs flickered, street vendors called out to passersby, and cars honked in the evening traffic. Agent D took a deep breath, letting his guard drop just slightly as he surveyed the vibrant cityscape.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, pulling out a small notebook filled with leads and addresses. “First things first—let’s find the Darkened One.”

He set off toward the first location on his list, weaving through the crowded streets with practiced ease. The hum of resonance from Lucifer’s Wing nestled in his coat reminded him of the tools at his disposal.

As Agent D approached the address, the familiar, silken voice of Mr. Pitch slithered into his ears like smoke.

“So, the Outlaw is back in the field,” the voice drawled, oozing smug delight.

D let out a groan, his shoulders tensing. “Don’t you have people to corrupt, Mr. Pitch?” he replied, his tone dripping with irritation.

“Oh, but why would I miss your grand return to the action?” the manifestation of the Eternal Night quipped, his form taking shape beside D. Mr. Pitch, clad in a sharp black suit, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement, adjusted his tie as he walked in step with the agent.

“You have been the most entertaining obstacle I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with,” Mr. Pitch continued, his voice tinged with faux admiration. “And speaking of entertainment… I can sense it. You’ve got Lucifer’s Wing on you, don’t you? How’d you manage that little coup?”

“The armory Agent likes me,” D replied coolly, not bothering to look at the manifestation beside him.

“Oh, of course,” Mr. Pitch mused, his grin widening. “Astalia has always had a soft spot for bad boys. And by the Bureau’s standards, you are the baddest of the bunch.”

He leaned closer, his voice lowering into a conspiratorial tone. “Yet, despite that, you remain incorruptible. I’ve turned so many. Even your dear paladin mentor, Agent J. But you? You stand unbroken, unwavering, and oh-so-boringly virtuous.”

D’s steps didn’t falter. He gave a small shrug, his response cutting and matter-of-fact. “I broke myself before anyone else could.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, even Mr. Pitch seemed caught off guard. Then, as if to mask his intrigue, he let out a booming laugh, the sound echoing unnaturally in the crowded street.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, Agent D,” Mr. Pitch said, his tone a mix of amusement and frustration. “But that’s what makes our little chats so delightful. I’ll figure you out one day.”

Agent D glanced sideways at the manifestation, his expression unreadable. “You’re wasting your time. I’ve already got a full itinerary without you tagging along.”

Mr. Pitch clapped his hands together. “Oh, I’m sure you do. But you know me—I can’t resist an encore performance. So go ahead, Outlaw. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

As they approached the address, the faint traces of corruption—dark, twisting tendrils visible only to trained Lightbearers—began to crawl along the edges of the building. Mr. Pitch faded into the shadows, his voice lingering in D’s ear.

“Good luck, Agent D. I’ll be watching.”

D sighed, tightening his grip on Torch. “It’s going to be a long night.”

He arrived at the first address, the air already thick with an oppressive weight that pressed against his chest. The building was in disrepair—paint peeling from the walls, windows smeared with grime, and a faint, acrid smell of decay seeping through the cracks. Agent D adjusted his grip on Durendall, his revolver gleaming faintly under the flickering hallway light.

Pushing the door open, he was greeted by a low, guttural growl. Inside, the room was a chaotic void of broken furniture, torn wallpaper, and shadows that seemed to ripple unnaturally. The Darkened were waiting.

Several figures twisted unnaturally, their eyes glowing with malevolent crimson light as they violently jolted to life and charged at him with inhuman speed. Their screams were inhuman—a mixture of rage and agony that echoed unnervingly in the confined space.

Agent D wasted no time. Flicking on Torch, the beam of concentrated light sliced through the room, illuminating the festering darkness clinging to the Darkened like a second skin. The light seared through the corruption, sending plumes of black smoke spiraling into the air.

But they weren’t just corrupted—they had fully succumbed. There was no saving them now. Torch could weaken their movements and strip away the Eternal Night’s influence, but these were no longer people—they were shells.

Agent D moved with precision, years of training and muscle memory taking over. He raised Durendall, the revolver’s weight perfectly balanced in his hand. With every pull of the trigger, a Darkened fell, the shots echoing like thunder in the stillness. Each hit was clean, mercifully quick, and lethal.

One of the Darkened lunged, faster than the others. D sidestepped with ease, using the butt of Durendall to knock the creature off balance before finishing it with a single shot. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the acrid scent of smoke.

As the last Darkened collapsed to the floor, Agent D exhaled, his breath steady despite the chaos. He scanned the room for lingering threats, his sharp eyes catching the faint tendrils of darkness retreating into the cracks of the walls. The Eternal Night was always watching. Always waiting.

Agent D holstered Durendall and deactivated Torch, plunging the room back into dim silence. He stepped over the fallen bodies with quiet reverence, a flicker of something—regret, perhaps—crossing his face. These were once people, after all.

Outside, the night was colder, sharper. The air seemed cleaner as if the world itself was relieved by his work. Agent D glanced at the address scribbled in his notebook and then up at the skyline. The concert hall was his next destination.

His fingers brushed against the pocket where Lucifer’s Wing rested. The artifact pulsed faintly as if sensing his resolve. “One step closer,” he murmured to himself before heading down the street, his silhouette cutting through the darkness like a blade.

The concert hall loomed ahead, its bright marquee lights cutting through the night like a beacon. The sound of excited chatter and the rhythmic thrum of music spilled into the cool evening air. Agent D adjusted his coat as he approached, blending seamlessly into the crowd of fans eagerly waiting outside.

He flashed his Bureau credentials at the back entrance, the security guard giving him a once-over before stepping aside. “Enjoy the show,” the guard muttered, unaware of Agent D’s true purpose.

Inside, the hall was a hive of activity. Staff members buzzed about, adjusting lighting rigs and managing last-minute details. The hum of the crowd grew louder as the main event drew near. Agent D’s sharp eyes scanned the venue, noting every shadowed corner and potential hiding place where a dark might linger.

As he moved toward the main floor, a shift in the atmosphere drew his attention. The stage lights dimmed, and the roar of the crowd erupted into a deafening cheer. The opening notes of a song began to play, and Agent D instinctively turned toward the stage.

Sohyun stepped into the spotlight. Dressed in a sparkling outfit that caught the light with every movement, she radiated confidence and charm. Her smile lit up the hall, effortlessly commanding the audience’s attention. Agent D found himself rooted to the spot, momentarily captivated.

Her voice was as mesmerizing as her presence, weaving through the melody with a delicate strength. Agent D wasn’t one to be easily distracted, but there was something about her—a magnetic pull that he couldn’t quite shake. For a brief moment, their eyes met across the sea of fans.

Sohyun’s gaze lingered on him, just for a second, before she turned back to the crowd, her energy undeterred. Agent D felt an unfamiliar warmth creep into his chest. He shook his head, mentally chastising himself. Focus. You’re here to work.

Still, as he moved toward the shadows near the edge of the stage, he couldn’t ignore the faint smile tugging at his lips. There was something about her presence that felt… disarming. Almost dangerous.

Agent D took out his notebook, checking the coordinates where the Darkened activity had been reported. It wasn’t far—somewhere within the concert hall. He adjusted his grip on Durendall, his senses sharpening as he moved toward the darker recesses of the building. The Eternal Night was never subtle, and he could feel its oppressive weight creeping closer.

The music swelled, Sohyun’s performance captivating the audience. Agent D kept one ear tuned to the melody while his eyes darted around, searching for the telltale signs of the anomaly. In that moment, she became both a distraction and an anchor—a reminder of why he fought to keep the darkness at bay.

Stay sharp, D, he told himself, slipping into the shadows. This isn’t your first dance with the Eternal Night.

Here’s a revised version with the new ending where the Director intervenes:

Sohyun gazed over her fans happily, the energy of their cheers and the bright lights fueling her performance. Her heart swelled with pride and gratitude—until she saw him.

Her stalker stood at the edge of the crowd, partially hidden in the shadows, but his presence was unmistakable. His eyes bore into her with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. Even at this distance, she could sense his malice, a dark aura that seemed to cling to him like a second skin.

She held her composure, years of training kicking in. With a radiant smile and graceful movements, Sohyun finished the performance flawlessly, her groupmates unaware of the storm brewing inside her.

As the stage lights dimmed and the final applause erupted, she exhaled slowly, steadying herself. It’s fine. I have security. I have my group. He can’t get to me, she reassured herself. Still, the weight of his presence lingered, even as she made her way backstage.

Changing into her comfortable clothes, Sohyun tried to push the fear aside. But then, a low, guttural growl echoed through the hallway, cutting through the chatter of the staff.

Her breath hitched. She froze, listening. A second later, a gunshot rang out.

Heart pounding, Sohyun bolted from the dressing room, her mind racing. She sprinted toward the sound, dreading what she might find.

Bursting through the exit door, she skidded to a halt. The alley outside the concert hall was dimly lit, the air thick with tension. Her eyes immediately locked on the dark-skinned man standing over a crumpled body.

The man held a revolver loosely at his side, smoke still curling from the barrel. The body on the ground—her stalker—twitched unnaturally as tendrils of black smoke rose from him, dissipating into the night.

Sohyun’s chest heaved as she struggled to process the scene. Her stalker was… dead? No, not dead—something worse. What was that thing leaving his body?

The man turned toward her, his eyes sharp yet calm. He saw her fear and raised a hand slightly, his expression softening into what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“I was trying to find the bathroom,” he said, his voice smooth but tinged with dry humor. “This guy just attacked me.”

His smile was surprisingly disarming, but Sohyun’s instincts screamed caution. The revolver in his hand, the unnatural darkness rising from her stalker’s body—none of this was normal.

She took a tentative step forward, her voice firm despite the quiver in her hands. “I saw you in the crowd. Who are you?”

The man opened his mouth to answer but faltered. For the first time in what felt like years, Agent D was caught off guard.

Standing before him was the woman he’d only seen on screens or from a distance—her beauty more striking up close, her presence overwhelming. The way her eyes bore into him, demanding answers, made his pulse quicken. His heart raced, his palms grew clammy, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Before he could respond, a sharp, synthetic chime came from his earpiece, cutting through the tension. Agent D instinctively touched the small device in his ear. “This is D,” he said, his voice steady despite his racing thoughts.

“Agent D,” a calm, authoritative voice said. It was the Director. “You’ve made contact with the anomaly.”

Agent D frowned slightly, his gaze flickering to Sohyun. “Anomaly? Sir, I’m not sure she—”

“She’s essential,” the Director interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Bring her to headquarters immediately. This is a priority directive.”

Sohyun watched him, her arms crossed, her wariness giving way to curiosity. “Who are you talking to?” she asked, her tone sharp.

Agent D lowered his hand from his earpiece, looking at her with an unreadable expression. He hesitated for a moment, weighing his words. “I need you to come with me,” he said finally.

“What?” Sohyun blinked, her brows knitting together. “I don’t even know who you are!”

“It’s not safe for you here,” he said firmly, his usual calm demeanor returning. “Things are happening—things you don’t understand yet. If you come with me, I can explain everything. But we need to leave now.”

Sohyun hesitated, her instincts warring with her curiosity. She looked past him at the body on the ground, the tendrils of darkness still vivid in her mind. Whatever this was, it was far beyond anything she’d ever encountered.

“Fine,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the apprehension in her eyes. “But you’d better have some answers.”

Agent D gave her a small nod, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “You’ll get them. I promise.”

As they moved toward the car waiting nearby, the night seemed to grow darker, the weight of the Eternal Night lingering just beyond their reach. Agent D glanced at Sohyun, the spark of something—admiration, curiosity—flickering in his chest. This mission had just become far more complicated than he’d anticipated.

Here’s the revised version with the Director as a woman:

The journey back to the Bureau’s headquarters was almost too smooth for Sohyun’s liking. The car pulled up to a nondescript building in a quiet part of the city, but the moment they stepped inside, the world shifted.

“What the—” Sohyun’s breath caught as the sleek, modern lobby dissolved into a tunnel of swirling light. Before she could process the sensation, she and Agent D emerged in a vast, sprawling complex. The air hummed with an energy she couldn’t quite place, and people in sharp suits bustled around, their faces a mix of focus and urgency.

“Welcome to HQ,” Agent D said casually, stepping aside to let her take in the sight.

“What is this place?” Sohyun asked, her voice tinged with awe and confusion.

“This,” Agent D began, motioning for her to follow him down a long, gleaming corridor, “is the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Control. Think of us as the first and last line of defense against everything that shouldn’t exist.”

“Shouldn’t exist?” Sohyun repeated, trailing behind him. “Like… what exactly?”

Agent D glanced at her, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Ghosts, demons, aliens, mythical beasts, cursed objects, you name it. If it’s paranormal, supernatural, or just plain weird, we deal with it.”

Sohyun’s brow furrowed as she tried to wrap her head around his words. “So… you’re saying all of that stuff is real?”

Agent D stopped in front of a large, sealed door, the Bureau’s insignia glowing faintly in the center. He turned to her, his expression serious now. “You saw what happened back there with your stalker. That wasn’t just some crazy fan. Well not anymore at least. He was ‘darkened.’ When people give in to their worst impulses, the Eternal Night can take hold of them, twisting them into something… else.”

Sohyun shivered at the memory, but she kept her composure. “And you? What are you in all of this?”

“I’m a Lightbearer,” Agent D said simply, holding up the flashlight clipped to his belt. “We’re trained to fight back against the darkness—literally and figuratively. We use tools, weapons, and sometimes… stranger things to keep the world safe.”

She glanced at his revolver, Durendall, and then back at the glowing insignia on the door. “And this Bureau just… manages all of that?”

Agent D chuckled, the sound surprisingly light given the weight of their conversation. “We try. But trust me, it’s not as organized as it sounds. Some days it’s ghosts in a basement. Other days it’s a toaster infused with infinite malignant energy that tries to rewrite reality.”

Sohyun blinked, unsure if he was joking. “A toaster?”

“Yeah I'm still mad I got roped into that. My sense of taste is still messed u,” he said with a shrug. “We’ve had weirder. Now, come on. The Director wants to see you.”

The door hissed open, revealing a room that felt both ancient and futuristic. The brutalist architecture walls were lined with shelves containing artifacts and documents, some glowing faintly, others seemingly vibrating with unseen power. At the center of the room stood a tall, commanding woman in a sharp black suit. Her dark hair was slicked back, and her piercing eyes seemed to take in everything at once.

“Miss Sohyun,” the woman said, her voice calm yet powerful. “Welcome to the Federal Bureau of Control. I’m Director Evelyn Lang. We have much to discuss.”

Sohyun swallowed, her gaze shifting between the Director and Agent D, who gave her a reassuring nod.

“I imagine Agent D has given you a brief introduction. He's very good at acclimation,” Director Lang continued, walking around the desk with measured steps. “But let me be clear: what you’ve encountered tonight is only the tip of the iceberg. The world is far stranger and more dangerous than most people can comprehend. That’s why we exist—to protect humanity from what it isn’t ready to face.”

Sohyun hesitated before speaking, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of questions in her mind. “Why me? Why am I here?”

Lang’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You’re here because the Eternal Night doesn’t just target people at random. There’s something about you it wanted. And if it wanted you, then you’re either a threat to it… or a key to stopping it. Either way, we need to understand why.”

Sohyun’s heart raced. “And what happens now?”

Director Lang’s smile faded. “What happens now is up to you. You can walk away and we wipe your memory of these events and go off back on your way. Or you can work with us and step into a world that will test you in ways you’ve never imagined.”

Sohyun took a deep breath, her thoughts swirling. Se turned to Agent D who was outside the office playing what looked to be a 3DS. She turned back to Mrs. Lang and asked “What’s his story?”

“Oh, Doffy? I don't know. He's kind and has been immensely helpful to the bureau but has also been equally as intense in maintaining his privacy and personal agency. I can guarantee you this though with him being one of our most tenured agents you are in great hands if you follow him. Now all that remains of this little interview is Do you accept?”

Sohyun swallowed hard then said, “Okay I’ll join,”

The air around Sohyun shifted suddenly. One moment, she was in the director's office talking with Director Lang; the next, she was standing in an endless, glowing expanse of silvery light. The floor beneath her feet seemed to ripple like water, yet it held firm under her weight. She turned in a slow circle, her heart racing.

“Where… where am I?” she whispered.

A voice, or perhaps several voices speaking in unison, answered. “in the Astral Plane, Sohyun.”

She whirled around, but there was no one there. Instead, shimmering figures materialized from the light, each taking the shape of a towering geometric construct. Their forms pulsed with energy, their voices reverberating in her mind.

“We are the Board,” they said. “We have summoned you to test your resolve and your worth.”

Sohyun swallowed hard. “Test me? For what?”

“To measure the strength of your mind, your spirit, and your conviction,” the Board intoned. “You seek to fight the understanding, but do you understand what that truly means? Do you comprehend the weight of such a burden of knowing?”

Before she could respond, the ground beneath her rippled violently, and the plane shifted. Suddenly, she was back in the concert hall, but it wasn’t the same. The crowd was gone, and the stage was cast in shadows. A figure emerged from the darkness—it was her stalker, his face twisted with malice.

“You think you’re safe?” he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. “You think you can escape me?”

Sohyun’s breath hitched, but she stood her ground. “You’re not real. You’re just… a test.”

The figure lunged at her, and instinctively, she raised her hands. Light burst forth, enveloping the figure and dissolving him into nothingness.

The scene shifted again. Now, she was standing in front of a mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, but something was wrong. The other Sohyun smirked, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

“You think you’re ready for this?” the reflection said. “You think you can handle the truth about the world? About yourself? You’re just a singer, a pretty face. You don’t belong here.”

Sohyun clenched her fists. “I may not have all the answers, but I won’t back down. I’ve seen the darkness, and I won’t let it win.”

The reflection sneered, but it faded as Sohyun’s resolve hardened. The light around her grew brighter, and the mirror shattered.

Finally, the plane stabilized, and the Board’s forms reappeared. “You have faced your fears and doubts and emerged victorious,” they said. “You are stronger than we anticipated.” Sohyun noticed the weird lilt in the voice of the board of Directors as if something intrigued them even more, but they were being reticent with that information.

Sohyun took a deep breath, her heart pounding but her mind clear. “If I’m done, then tell me—what is Agent D’s story? Who is he?”

The Board paused, their collective voice quiet for a moment. Then, they spoke. “Agent D is an aberration. He defies explanation, and yet his presence is necessary. We do not yet fully understand him… but we hope to.”

Sohyun’s brows knitted together. “An aberration? What does that mean?”

“That is all we know,” the Board replied. “You must decide for yourself what you believe.”

Before she could press further, the plane dissolved, and Sohyun found herself back in the office, Director Lang watching over her with glee

“You zoned out there for a second,” she said, offering her a hand to help her up.

Sohyun hesitated, looking into her eyes, searching for the answers the Board refused to give. Finally, she took his hand. “I’m fine,” she said, though her mind was already racing with questions.

The director smiled and said, “Well you're in the FBC now. Let’s get you your weapons of Duty and Freedom.”

Sohyun hesitated. She wasn't one for violence, but she knew she needed something to protect herself. So she left the office then followed Agent D. As she did she noticed how he moved. There was an air of guardedness to him, but also a level of nervousness to him that she found endearing. In all of the gray: concrete, suits, and furniture Agent D stood out with his khaki pants black jacket, and vibrant Hawaiian shirt. It was odd but it drew her to him.

“Where are we headed?” Sohyun asked as they continued their brisk walk through the sterile, gray corridors of the Bureau.

“The Vault,” Agent D replied, his tone steady and purposeful. “It’s where we house Altered Objects—artifacts imbued with paracausal properties. Some of them are contained, while others are repurposed as weapons to confront other altered objects or entities.”

Sohyun’s brow furrowed. “So, this place is full of cursed objects and anomalies?”

“Ah only some of these are “cursed” Most of these items are charged with paranormal energy or bound to specific entities,” Agent D said, glancing at her. “But here, we call them Altered Objects or Objects of Power. The terminology matters—helps us understand what we’re dealing with.”

Before she could ask more, the pair entered a sprawling, high-security chamber. The Vault felt like a world unto itself, with towering steel shelves that stretched impossibly high, each lined with strange items sealed in reinforced glass cases. The air buzzed faintly, as though charged with electricity.

Standing near a control console was Agent A. Her feline ears perked up as her tail swayed behind her, and her sharp eyes lit up when she spotted Agent D.

“Ah, Agent D. I see you made it back in one piece,” Agent A said, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

Agent D offered a rare, genuine smile as he approached. “Not for lack of trying on the Darkened’s part.”

Without hesitation, he reached out and ran a hand over her soft fur, eliciting a low, satisfied purr from the feline. She arched into his touch briefly before stiffening, her nostrils flaring.

Her silver eyes locked onto Sohyun, who stood hesitantly a few steps behind Agent D. “Who’s this?” she asked, leaping gracefully onto Agent D’s shoulder to get a closer look.

“Agent A,” Agent D began, keeping his tone measured, “this is Probationary Agent Sohyun.”

Agent A’s pupils narrowed into slits as she sniffed the air around Sohyun. “She smells like danger,” she said flatly, her tone carrying a hint of suspicion.

Agent D chuckled lightly. “You said the same thing about me when we first met.”

“That’s because your danger smelled like a natural disaster—a volcano or a tornado,” Agent A countered, folding her arms. “Something inevitable. Hers smells like gunpowder and poison. Her danger isn’t natural; it’s deliberate. Manufactured.”

Sohyun blinked, unsure whether to feel insulted or unnerved by the feline agent’s sharp assessment.

Agent D sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Noted. But for now, we’re here to get her equipped.” He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving Lucifer’s Feather and JDF’s Power Coin. Placing the items on the counter, he said, “The Director wants her outfitted with an on-duty weapon and an off-duty weapon.”

Agent A scowled, muttering something under her breath as she scooped up the items. “Fine. Follow me, Agent Sohyun.”

Sohyun glanced at Agent D for reassurance, and his disarming smile brought a wave of calm over her. It was the same warmth she had felt earlier when he had dealt with her stalker. Trusting his judgment, she followed Agent A deeper into the Vault.

The Vault grew colder and darker as they walked, the hum of energy becoming almost oppressive. The further they went, the more Sohyun noticed subtle distortions in the air, as if reality itself were bending around certain objects.

When they were out of earshot of Agent D, Agent A came to an abrupt stop. Her body shimmered, and her feline form transformed. Now, standing before Sohyun was a striking woman with tiger ears, piercing silver eyes, and prominent black stripes marking her cheeks. Her gaze was predatory, unyielding.

Agent A’s voice was low and dangerous. “Listen to me, girl. You’d better not hurt my man-cub.”

Sohyun froze, her breath catching. “Your man-cub?”

Agent A stepped closer, her claws extending with a soft metallic sound. “Agent D has been through more than you can imagine in this godforsaken Bureau. He’s carried burdens no one else could, and he doesn’t let people in. But he likes you. Enough to speak more than he has in months. That’s rare. So if you hurt him—if you betray his trust—I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Sohyun swallowed hard, her throat dry. She nodded quickly, overwhelmed by the tiger-woman’s intensity.

Agent A smirked, retracting her claws. “Good. Glad we understand each other.”

Without another word, she turned and resumed walking, her tail swishing behind her. Sohyun followed in silence, her mind racing.

When they reached a sealed chamber, Agent A placed the feather and coin on a pedestal. The room pulsed with energy as the artifacts began to glow, their forms shifting slightly as they resonated with Sohyun’s presence.

“Pick them up,” Agent A instructed.

Sohyun hesitated, glancing at the shimmering objects. With a deep breath, she reached out, her fingers closing around the feather and the coin. A surge of energy coursed through her, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to tilt. When it stabilized, she felt… different. Stronger.

Agent A observed her with a scrutinizing gaze. “You might survive this yet,” she said, her tone begrudgingly approving.

Absolutely! Here’s an expanded version of the scene where Sohyun receives her personalized gear and the Altered Objects attune to her, taking on new forms that symbolize their allegiance:

The sealed chamber hummed with power as Sohyun stepped inside, her eyes immediately drawn to two objects resting on individual pedestals. One was a delicate, ornate fan, its surface etched with swirling patterns of fire and smoke. The other was a sleek, unassuming hairpin, its dark surface crackling faintly with arcs of electricity.

Agent A motioned for her to approach. “These are the objects the Vault has chosen for you. Their properties align with what we’ve observed from your trials in the Astral Plane. They’re attuned to elements of fire and lightning—powerful, volatile forces. A fitting match for someone with your resolve.”

Sohyun hesitated, her eyes darting between the fan and the hairpin. “What’s their story? Where did they come from?”

Agent A’s tiger ears flicked as she considered the question. “The fan is said to have originated in an ancient temple that worshipped a goddess of fire. It’s been known to incinerate those it deems unworthy. As for the hairpin, it was found embedded in the wall of a manor struck by lightning. The pin survived the strike unscathed, but the building burned to the ground. No one’s ever been able to wield them both… until now.”

Sohyun’s breath hitched. “What happens if they reject me?”

Agent A’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Then I’ll be cleaning up the mess. But I’ve got a feeling you’ll do just fine. Go on.”

Sohyun swallowed hard and stepped closer. She reached for the fan first. The moment her fingers brushed its surface, the room was bathed in a searing orange glow. Heat radiated from the fan, and for a terrifying moment, flames licked up her arm. But they didn’t burn. Instead, they coiled around her like a protective barrier, their warmth sinking into her skin. The fan trembled in her hand, its intricate designs shifting. The patterns reshaped themselves into phoenix feathers, and a single flame emblem blazed at the center.

Agent A’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s new.”

Sohyun turned to the hairpin, emboldened by the fan’s acceptance. As she picked it up, a sharp jolt of electricity shot through her body, causing her to gasp. The air around her crackled, and her hair stood on end as if charged with static. The hairpin vibrated, its surface darkening before streaks of silver and gold lightning etched themselves across its length. Tiny arcs of electricity danced along the edges, casting shadows that flickered like storm clouds.

The room grew silent, save for the faint hum of power radiating from the objects. Sohyun looked at Agent A, her hands trembling but steadying as the fan and hairpin seemed to synchronize with her energy.

“They’ve accepted you,” Agent A said, her voice tinged with both amazement and approval. “These are now your weapons. They’re more than tools—they’re allies. They’ll grow with you, but you’ll need to prove yourself worthy of them time and time again.”

Sohyun nodded, her grip tightening around the objects. As she did, she felt an odd connection, as if the fan and hairpin were alive, responding to her emotions and thoughts.

“What do I do with them now?” Sohyun asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Agent A smirked. “That’s up to you. But if I were you, I’d start practicing. A phoenix and a storm aren’t exactly subtle companions.”

Sohyun chuckled nervously, tucking the hairpin into her hair and folding the fan neatly. She turned to follow Agent A back toward the main vault but paused.

“Why did they choose me?” she asked, her gaze lingering on the objects.

Agent A’s expression softened, her tiger-striped face thoughtful. “Because you’ve already proven you’re willing to face the fire and the storm. Now it’s your turn to wield them.”

As Sohyun and Agent A exited the depths of the Vault, the hum of residual energy from the Altered Objects still lingered in the air around them. Sohyun couldn’t help but glance down at the fan and hairpin in her hands, marveling at how naturally they now felt, as if they’d always been a part of her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden commotion. A sharp, whirring noise echoed through the chamber, followed by a flash of light. Sohyun looked up in time to see a small belt device and buckles that looked like they were attached to said belt device fly through the air toward the Vault entrance.

“What is that?” Sohyun asked, her grip tightening on the fan instinctively.

Agent A’s eyes narrowed, her tiger ears twitching as she stepped protectively in front of Sohyun. “Oh, for the love of—this again?” she muttered.

The device and buckles were streaking directly toward the Vault’s entrance when another agent intercepted them with an agile leap, catching the set mid-air. The agent, clad in a standard Bureau uniform, grunted as the force of the catch nearly knocked them over.

“Nice try,” the agent said, clutching the device and medals tightly as they began to pulse with a faint glow. “You’re not getting out of here this time.”

Sohyun frowned, confused. “What was that? And why was it flying around like it had a mind of its own?”

Agent A sighed, running a hand through her striped hair as she watched the agent wrestle the device into submission. “That's the Desire Drive and Raise buckles. It's one of Agent D’s original weapons. They “evolved” into what you just saw flying they used to just be an Ichigo belt from Kamen Rider. Originally it just made Agent D super strong but during the “toaster” incident it evolved into the drive from OOO if I remember it correctly and then again when Agent D faced off against Mrs. Black. Since then it granted him more than just strength but a whole bunch of other forms as well.”

“Forms?” Sohyun echoed, her curiosity piqued.

“Yes,” Agent A replied. “The driver and buckles allowed him to tap into paracausal energies to temporarily merge with the essences of different entities based on Tokusatsu henshin heroes. He could adapt to any situation, which made him one of the most versatile agents we’ve ever had, but the power kept growing as he grew. The board got scared after he took on a whole E-class level threat by himself,”

“Then why doesn’t he use them anymore?” Sohyun asked, glancing back at the struggling agent.

Agent A’s expression darkened slightly. “Because they’ve grown too powerful—and too dangerous. When the driver evolved into its current state, it started drawing energy directly from Agent D in ways the Bureau couldn’t fully understand. The risk of feedback—of it overwhelming him or causing collateral damage—was too high. The Board decided it was safer to restrict its use. The same goes for his original on-duty weapon.”

“What was his original “on duty weapon?” Sohyun asked

Agent A paused for a moment then said, “The first manuscript of Beowulf. It doesn't take that form though much anymore. It currently takes the form of a Mtg card. That one has been easier to lock up though,”

Sohyun tilted her head. “But if they’re restricted, why are they trying to escape?”

Agent A crossed her arms, her silver eyes glinting with a mix of frustration and understanding. “Because they’re still bound to him. Weapons like those aren’t just tools—they’re parts just like you or me. They’ve chosen Agent D, and no matter what the Board says, they’ll always try to return to him. Every time he’s near the Vault, they sense him and… well, you saw what happens.”

Sohyun processed this, a newfound respect for Agent D growing in her chest. “Doesn’t that bother him? Knowing these things are a part of him but being told he can’t use them?”

Agent A’s gaze softened, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. “It does a lot. But D is nothing is incredibly self-sacrificing. He understands the danger they pose to everyone around him. That’s why he keeps them locked away. He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt because of his power.”

Sohyun looked down at her weapons—the fan and hairpin that had chosen her. The connection she felt with them suddenly seemed more profound, more intimate. “Is that what it means to have a weapon bound to you? For it to choose you?”

Agent A nodded. “It’s not just about compatibility. It’s about trust—on both sides. They become symbiotic with you almost. These objects have power, but they need a wielder who can understand them and channel that power responsibly. That’s why the choosing process is different for everyone. For you, it was about proving your resolve in the Astral Plane. For D, it’s about heroics. These objects chose him as a child and were his for longer than most of the other agents.”

Sohyun glanced toward the Vault as the other agent sealed the driver and buckles. “Will they ever let him use them again?”

Agent A shrugged her feline tail swishing. “That’s up to the Board. But honestly? If things ever get bad enough, I wouldn’t be surprised if he took them back himself. D isn’t the type to let red tape stop him from doing what needs to be done.”

As they resumed their walk, Sohyun couldn’t help but steal a glance at Agent D, who was waiting for them by the exit. He stood casually, hands in his pockets, his vibrant Hawaiian shirt a stark contrast to the gray, oppressive atmosphere of the Bureau.

Sohyun felt a spark of confidence ignite within her. The fan and hairpin hummed faintly, as though sensing her determination.

She turned to Agent D and asked, “So what now?”

Agent D shrugged, “We get you home and you come in tomorrow to begin training.,” Agent Sohyun smiled before following Agent D. She turned back to Agent A who grimaced at her before clenching her paw into a fist and “threatening her,” Sohyun smiled before teasingly sticking out her tongue as she took Agent D’s arm

The night air was cool as Agent D walked beside Sohyun down the quiet street. The rhythmic sound of their footsteps filled the space between them, but there was an unspoken tension hanging in the air—a tension that had been building ever since Agent A’s comment earlier. Sohyun couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different tonight.

She glanced over at Agent D, her heart racing. She couldn’t ignore it any longer. With a deep breath, she decided to confront him.

“Agent D,” she began, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her, “about what Agent A said… she said you liked me. Is that true?”

Agent D blinked in surprise, his casual stride faltering for a split second. When he looked at her, his eyes were uncharacteristically serious. “You want an honest answer?” he asked, his voice low.

Sohyun nodded, her pulse quickening. She wasn’t sure what she expected from him, but his expression was unreadable as he took a moment before responding.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I like you, Sohyun. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can be professional about it. I’m not here to make you feel weird or put any pressure on you.”

Sohyun’s breath hitched. The words were simple, but they hit her harder than she expected. She didn’t know how to process the admission, but she also didn’t want to make a hasty decision. After all, they had only been working together for a short time.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She hesitated before adding, “Give me time to think about it.”

A small, understanding smile tugged at the corner of Agent D’s lips. “Take all the time you need,” he replied softly, his eyes warm but respectful.

The tension between them seemed to settle, but it didn’t dissipate entirely. Sohyun couldn’t help but feel drawn to him despite herself, her mind racing with the possibility of what his feelings might mean. But she refused to let her emotions take over. Not yet.

“Alright,” she said, her tone a bit lighter now. “So how long have you been with the Bureau, anyway? You seem like a vet.”

Agent D’s gaze flickered to her, a slight smirk pulling at his lips. “Since I was twelve,” he answered casually, but his voice lacked its usual lightness.

Sohyun’s steps faltered for a second, her heart skipping a beat. “Wait… what?” Her mind struggled to process what he’d just said. “You’ve been with the Bureau since you were twelve?”

He nodded, his gaze fixed ahead as if the memory itself was something he wasn’t ready to fully revisit. “Yeah. A long time ago, but it’s the truth.”

Sohyun felt the ground shift beneath her, her perception of him altering instantly. The confident, almost untouchable figure of Agent D now felt smaller, more fragile, like a shadow of someone who had been forced to grow up too quickly. He was only a couple of years older than her, yet his life had been drastically different—more brutal, more demanding.

“You’ve been doing this… since you were twelve?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. “That’s… that’s insane.”

Agent D’s expression darkened for a moment, his lips tightening as he avoided her gaze. “It was the only choice I had.”

Sohyun’s heart ached for him, her previous flirtation evaporating in the face of this new revelation. She was starting to see him in a new light, and it made her question everything she thought she knew about him.

“Why have you stayed with them all these years?” she asked quietly, unable to hold back the question that had suddenly consumed her thoughts. “Why haven’t you walked away? You’ve been through so much.”

He paused, his steps slowing as he considered her question. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur, but there was a depth of sincerity in his words.

“Obligation to those who mentored me,” he said, his eyes distant as though he were reliving something painful. “They gave me purpose when I had nothing. They taught me everything I know, and I owe them for that.”

Sohyun’s heart clenched, her mind spinning with the weight of his words. She had thought of him as just another agent, someone who was untouchable in his expertise, but now, in this moment, she realized how much of himself he had sacrificed for the Bureau.

She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she remained quiet, the night air heavy between them. The flirtation had faded, replaced by something deeper—something real. And for the first time, Sohyun wondered if Agent D had ever truly allowed himself to be vulnerable with anyone.

Finally, they reached the entrance to her dorm. Sohyun stopped, looking up at him with a mixture of uncertainty and admiration. “Thank you for everything tonight,” she said softly. “I’ll… I’ll think about what you said.”

Agent D gave her a small, understanding nod. “Take your time. I’ll see you tomorrow for training.”

She watched as he turned and began to walk away, her mind still reeling from the new truths she had learned about him. For the first time, she wasn’t just thinking about his flirtation or his charm. She was thinking about the person he had been forced to become—and how he had stayed that way for all these years.

As he disappeared into the night, Sohyun felt a shift in her heart, one that she couldn’t fully understand. She enters and walks slowly to her room before setting her fan and hairpin down on her desk. Then she sits on her bed.

The dim light from her desk lamp cast soft shadows on the walls, and the stillness of the room felt almost suffocating. Sohyun sat on her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest as she stared blankly at the floor. Her thoughts swirled in a chaotic mess—images of Agent D’s rare moments of vulnerability, his casual mention of his past, and the weight of his words. Twelve years old… she repeated in her mind.

She ran a hand through her hair, the hum of her fan offering little comfort as it flickered gently in the background. She had never seen Agent D as anything more than a seasoned agent, someone who exuded confidence and expertise. But tonight, everything had shifted.

Twelve…

She let the word sink in. A child, forced into a life of constant battle, stripped of any semblance of a normal childhood. Sohyun’s mind couldn’t reconcile the image of the young boy Agent D had been with the man she had seen in front of her. How could someone that young be thrust into such an unforgiving world? What kind of person could endure all that and still carry on?

Her fingers absently traced the edge of her pillow as she thought about the weapons he carried: Durendall—a weapon so meticulously crafted, it seemed like something meant for a master, not a child. And then there was Torch, his flashlight, which held an eerie sense of purpose as if it was more than just a tool. It had a deeper connection to the darker, unseen forces that surrounded them.

Sohyun let out a frustrated breath, her chest tightening. There were so many things about him she still didn’t understand. He had talked about obligation, about honoring those who had mentored him. But was it just a duty that kept him there, or was there something more? Something deeper that kept him tied to a life that had broken him so early?

Her thoughts turned to his words, his confession that he had stayed with the Bureau all these years because of those who had shaped him. It made her heart ache for him. And yet, it also made her question everything. Why hadn’t he left? Why hadn’t he sought something better, something of his choosing?

Sohyun pulled her knees tighter to her chest, her mind suddenly racing through all the implications of what she had learned. Her thoughts came to a screeching halt when she remembered the weapons, the choice of them. What kind of weapons… she thought again, her brow furrowing in disbelief.

Without realizing it, she muttered aloud, “What kind of weapons choose a child?”

The question hung in the air, as though the room itself was waiting for an answer she might never find. Sohyun pressed her fingers to her temple, fighting the overwhelming sensation of sadness and confusion. The weapons that Agent D carried had always seemed like tools of someone who had mastered them, someone who had honed his skills over years of experience. But hearing about his past, knowing how young he had been when he was thrust into this life, made everything feel warped like the lines between childhood and adulthood had blurred beyond recognition.

The thought of it made her stomach churn. What kind of childhood had he had? And, more importantly, what kind of person could survive it?

Sohyun closed her eyes, fighting the rising tide of emotions. She wanted to ask him so many things. Why did you stay? Why did you let them choose your life? Why didn’t you walk away? But she knew that was a conversation for another time. A time when she could think more clearly and when her feelings didn’t make her heart race every time she was near him.

For now, all she could do was sit with the weight of it. The weight of knowing that behind Agent D’s cool exterior, there was a history that stretched far beyond anything she could have imagined.

She let out a long breath, letting her body relax into the bed. What kind of weapons choose for a child? The question echoed in her mind, haunting her with its implications.

But more than that, she couldn’t help but wonder: What kind of person could bear the weight of those weapons for so long?

Authors Note: Unsure of when I’m gonna post another story but stay tuned.

22 notes · View notes