Internship (in) Love | A Gundam Wing K-Drama
Chapter 11
Soo Jin sat at a small desk near the window inside the department's conference room, her pen poised above a notebook as she recorded the meeting minutes by hand. The Preventer Agency had strict policies for these sessions—no AI transcription, no digital records. Only analog summaries were permitted for materials this sensitive, and today's agenda was no exception.
Her gaze briefly drifted to the rain-speckled window, where the city stretched out below in a kaleidoscope of blurred lights reflected on the wet streets. Seven stories below, the early evening rush hour had begun to pile up, a slow-moving river of yellow headlights and red brake lights reflected on the slick road. Traffic lights blinked red and green through the haze, their colors fractured by the steady drizzle.
The gray, wet gloom matched the mood inside the room. These meetings were usually held earlier in the day, but Jeong had insisted on waiting for Heero to return from his business upstairs. It had set everyone on edge, the knowledge that this would drag well into afterhours souring their tempers.
Soo Jin exhaled softly, returning her attention to the notebook as Jeong began his opening remarks. From her seat by the window, she had a clear view of the conference table. Director Jeong stood at the head, his presence commanding as he addressed the room. Heero sat at the opposite end, his posture so rigid it reminded her of soldiers standing at attention during a marching drill. His feet were pressed neatly together, his hands clasped on the table, fingers tightly intertwined.
Since his return from upstairs, Heero had been an unyielding wall of silence, his attention fixed rigidly on the table in front of him. His shoulders were taut, his jaw clenched, and the faint shadow beneath his eyes hinted at something far heavier than fatigue.
Soo Jin's gaze flicked to him again, lingering this time, hoping for some acknowledgment. A glance, a nod—anything to show he was still the Heero who had shared quiet moments with her earlier that day. But he didn't look up. His left thumb shifted slightly, brushing the inside of his right wrist in a repetitive motion so small it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But from her vantage point, the movement stood out in contrast to his otherwise rigid stillness.
Her grip on her pen tightened as unease coiled in her chest. Stop staring , she told herself, forcing her eyes back to the agenda in front of her. She'll catch him in the kitchenette later, she promised herself. She would find a way to talk to him, to figure out what had happened upstairs. Whatever it was, it had left him on edge, and the thought of him carrying that weight alone made her heart ache.
Across the table, Lee leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes darting between Soo Jin and Heero. Seated directly ahead of her on the opposite side of the table, he had a full view of her frequent glances at Heero. His smirk deepened, the glint in his expression making it clear he'd noticed the exchange—or lack thereof. The amusement in his gaze set Soo Jin's teeth on edge, but she forced herself to focus on Jeong's voice as he began handing out assignments.
"Yuy," Jeong said as his gaze shifted to Heero. "What's your status for this week?"
Heero's hands, clasped tightly on the table moments ago, dropped to his lap. Soo Jin's eyes flicked to Heero's hands, now hidden from most of the room but still visible to her. His left hand gripped his right wrist firmly, his thumb pressing hard into the sleeve, the fabric pulled taut against his skin.
"Unavailable until Wednesday," Heero replied curtly, his voice clipped and precise. The tension in the room spiked instantly, mirrored in the increasing pressure of his grip. Soo Jin's pen faltered against the paper as her unease deepened. Whatever had happened upstairs, it was tearing at him more than he was willing to show.
A wave of quiet murmuring swept through the room, blending with the rhythmic pounding of rain against the large windows. Agent Baek and Agent Kim, the two seasoned grumps of their department, exchanged irritated looks from across the table. The two female agents, seated side by side as always, rolled their eyes and masked their disdain behind leisurely sips of foamy lattes. Meanwhile, Agent Lee leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, a smug satisfaction playing across his face.
"Right," Director Jeong muttered as he scanned the room. "Right…" he repeated, sighing heavily. His sharp gaze swept across the assembled agents like a judge deliberating a verdict. The tension rose as everyone straightened in their seats, bracing for Jeong's decision like contestants awaiting elimination in a cutthroat reality show.
Even Heero betrayed a crack in his composure. His grip on his wrist, hidden under the table, tightened. Soo Jin noticed how the cuff of his jacket had become utterly crushed and wrinkled from the pressure of his clenched fingers. The motion was small, controlled, but the tautness in his jaw hinted at the simmering anger he kept contained. His usually disciplined posture felt on the verge of breaking.
Jeong exhaled sharply, his resignation evident as his gaze landed on Baek. "Baek," he said at last, his tone heavy, "take on Yuy's assignment."
The murmurs ceased instantly.
Kim snorted, failing to hide his amusement, while Baek's face turned an angry shade of red.
"You're not serious!" Baek barked, his voice echoing sharply in the room.
Jeong leveled him with a pointed look, unyielding. The two locked eyes in a silent standoff, the air between them taut with unspoken defiance.
Soo Jin's gaze flicked to Heero, whose stoic mask cracked further. His fingers flexed briefly before gripping tighter, his hand shifting to dig under his jacket sleeve. She watched, her breath catching as his thumb pressed against his inner wrist, rubbing hard in a repeated, almost frantic motion. The pressure was so intense she could tell it must hurt, even from a distance. It wasn't just tension—it was restraint. She'd never seen him like this before, like he was on the verge of snapping but using pain as a desperate anchor to hold himself back.
Was it the tension in the room, or had something happened upstairs?
Whatever it was, it had carved a fracture into Heero's usual composure, and she could feel it widening with every passing moment.
Finally, Baek broke first, slumping back into his chair with an exaggerated sigh. Shaking his head, he muttered under his breath, "Great. Just great!"
Soo Jin's gaze shifted to Heero. His eyes narrowed in a sharp glare aimed directly at Baek—a rare, cutting expression that sent a chill down her spine.
"Why bother giving him assignments in the first place?!" Baek growled, throwing his arms up. "We just end up picking up his slack anyway."
Her attention darted back to Heero, whose glare had vanished as quickly as it appeared, his face returning to its usual calm. But that brief break in his composure lingered in her mind, leaving her uneasy. Whatever anger simmered beneath his surface was growing harder for him to hide.
"I second that," Lee chipped in, uncrossing his arms as he leaned forward to join the conversation. He turned to Heero with a smirk that oozed mockery. "You know, Yuy, for some big shot who transferred from HQ to help out, you're not exactly pulling your weight around here."
Soo Jin's gaze darted to Heero, and her breath caught. His frame, which had remained perfectly still until now, shifted slightly, his shoulders rising as his hands shifted under the table. From her seat, she saw his right hand grip his left wrist. His fingers tightened into a fist, pushing the jacket sleeve up to expose raw, reddened skin. Soo Jin's heart sank in alarm as his grip tightened further, his knuckles whitening.
Then he began rubbing his clenched fist over the exposed flesh with brutal force. The delicate skin rippled under the pressure, his nails digging into the raw area as his knuckles moved in a harsh, punishing rhythm.
"You'd note that my work upstairs has had minimal effect on my productivity here," he said, his voice quiet but laced with iron. Under the table, his hand paused its brutal squashing of his right wrist. He set both his fists clenched over his lap, glowering at Lee before fixing his sharp gaze on Jeong, standing at the opposite side of the table.
"I do more in a day than most do in a week."
Lee snickered. "If by 'do' you mean Soo Jin, then yeah, you're certainly doing that, Yuy."
The words hit Soo Jin like a slap, her breath hitching, her cheeks flushing hot with a mix of fury and humiliation. Her pen slipped from her fingers as she stared at Lee in stunned disbelief.
Heero's fists balled tightly at his sides as he pushed himself to his feet in one fluid motion. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the tense silence of the room. His frame was rigid, his jaw tight, but it was his eyes that froze everyone in place. They burned as they locked onto Lee—hard, sharp, and blazing with a fury that could melt steel.
"You want to run that one by me again, Lee?" His voice was low, guttural, the growl of a predator warning its prey. The raw power in his voice, the force behind his glare, left the room paralyzed, every pair of eyes flicking between him and Lee.
Lee's smirk faltered, his confidence visibly wavering as he leaned back in his chair, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, take it easy," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual swagger. "No need to get worked up. It was an innocent joke."
"Innocent?!" Heero slammed his fist on the table, the sharp sound reverberating through the room as he leaned forward, his voice thick with restrained fury. "That's not innocent—it's predatory, and you damn well know it."
His glare burned into Lee, cutting through the smugness that had faltered moments before.
The room held its breath, the weight of Heero's words heavy and unrelenting. For a moment, Soo Jin thought he might say more, but he stopped himself, his jaw tightening as if physically forcing the words back. His fists remained clenched at his sides, trembling slightly from the effort to contain himself.
Soo Jin's chest tightened. His words, though aimed at Lee, felt broader, sharper, as if they carried years of pain and anger. She thought of the lengths Heero went to hide himself—his hair dyed dark, the colored contacts shielding his rare blue eyes. It wasn't just to avoid attention; it was to escape something deeper, something that had left scars she couldn't see but now felt closer to understanding.
The tension in the room hung heavy, as Heero's growled words echoed unanswered in the silence.
"Hey, Yuy, chill," one of the younger agents finally said, rising slowly from his chair with an awkward smile. He gestured with his hands, palms down, as if trying to physically push the tension lower. "Lee didn't mean it like that."
Heero's head snapped toward the young agent, his eyes narrowing in a glare that could pierce tempered glass. The agent faltered, his hands pausing mid-gesture before lowering slowly. "Right, okay," he stammered, giving a nervous chuckle. "Just… trying to help." He sat down quickly, lowering his head to avoid meeting Heero's gaze again.
"Wow," one of the female agents whispered, leaning closer to her friend. "That escalated fast."
Her friend smirked behind her latte. "Finally, something interesting is happening in these meetings."
The room filled with nervous murmurs and stolen glances as Heero still stood stiffly at the head of the table, his fist clenched tightly on the surface in front of him. His shoulders heaved slightly as he took a slow, controlled breath, but the tautness in his frame didn't ease. Soo Jin could feel the intensity radiating from him, the weight of something unspoken pressing heavier than the chatter around them.
"Enough!" Jeong's voice cracked through the room, silencing the whispers. He raised his hand in a commanding gesture, his expression hard as he surveyed the group before turning to glare at Agent Lee.
"Lee, back off!" His tone was sharp, brooking no argument. "Both of you, get a grip. This isn't high school."
Lee leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a nonchalant shrug. "Just trying to lighten the mood," he muttered, his smirk returning faintly. "He's the one making a big deal out of it."
Heero's fist unclenched, his knuckles slowly easing as his shoulders sank slightly. Something in him seemed to deflate—not anger but something heavier, quieter. His hand fell to his side, his gaze dropping to the table as the tension in his frame began to dissolve into weary defeat. The sharp edges of his fury softened, replaced by a heaviness that seemed to press him down like the storm outside.
Jeong's attention shifted back to Heero, his voice firm but not unkind. "Agent Yuy, you're dismissed for the day," he said. "Go cool off."
For a moment, Heero didn't move, his jaw tightening again as though fighting some inner battle. Then, slowly, he gave a stiff nod. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice quiet and subdued. He grabbed his files without looking up and walked toward the door, his steps measured but heavy, his shoulders slightly hunched as though the weight of the entire room rested on them.
Soo Jin sat frozen, her chest tight as the door clicked shut behind him. The silence that followed was deafening, the tension lingering like the aftermath of a hurricane. She glanced at Jeong, whose expression remained unreadable, then at Lee, whose smugness had returned despite the flicker of caution now visible in his eyes.
Her pen pressed hard against the page as frustration and worry churned inside her. She couldn't shake the image of Heero's retreating form or the gnawing sense that this wasn't just about office politics. Something deeper was unraveling, and she couldn't ignore the sinking feeling that she was running out of time to reach him.
Jeong cleared his throat sharply, jolting the room back to attention. "Enough theatrics," he said, his voice clipped as he turned back to the whiteboard. "Let's get back on track."
The agents shifted uneasily in their seats, though no one dared comment further. Soo Jin picked up her pen, forcing herself to focus as Jeong began outlining assignments. Baek groaned audibly as he was handed another task, muttering under his breath, while the female agents exchanged bored glances and sipped their lattes. Lee slouched in his chair, spinning a pen lazily between his fingers, his earlier bravado now a shadow of itself.
Soo Jin's notes filled the page, a disjointed collection of summaries and directives, her handwriting sharper than usual. But her mind wasn't on Jeong's words or the progress reports being discussed. It was with Heero—his clenched fists, his raw wrist, and the weight in his eyes that she couldn't forget.
She wanted to see him. Even if all he did was push her away, she needed to try. To comfort him, or at least to understand.
The fire door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating in the stark stairwell like a gunshot. Heero marched across the seventh-floor landing, his boots striking the concrete in sharp, uneven rhythms. His fists were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his breath rugged and uneven as he paced the narrow space. The fluorescent lights overhead glared down, harsh and unrelenting, illuminating every exposed surface with an oppressive brightness.
He stopped abruptly, his frustration boiling over as he threw himself at the railing. Both hands gripped the cold, unforgiving metal, his knuckles whitening as he leaned forward, staring down into the open chute. The empty space in the center of the stairwell yawned below him, an abyss descending into the underground floors. A twelve-story drop, at least.
The void beckoned him.
It pulled at his mind, drawing him in. Heero's vision tunneled, the harsh white of the stairwell walls fading into the black of the chute. The sharp edges of the railings blurred, their lines smearing into dizzying spirals that seemed to spin faster the longer he stared. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as the world tilted around him.
Suddenly, he was falling.
The air rushed past him, cold and biting, howling in his ears like a scream that wouldn't stop. The floors blurred as he plunged downward, the sharp lines of each level bleeding together into a kaleidoscope of white and gray. His stomach lurched, weightless and sickening, as gravity itself abandoned him. The walls closed in, the spiraling staircase spinning faster, tighter, like the jaws of a trap snapping shut. He was plummeting into nothingness, consumed by a black hole.
He crashed. His body hit the ground with the sickening slap of flesh against concrete, followed by the sharp snap of bones splintering, the warmth of blood pooling fast and thick around him. His body was shattered, motionless, but his eyes remained wide open, staring upward. The chute stretched impossibly far above him, where the light at the top was brightest, glaring and unreachable.
And then he blinked.
He was still on the landing.
Drawing a long, shaky breath, Heero let out a stifled groan, dropping to a crouch as his thighs slammed against his calves. His hands remained on the railing, arms stretched above his head like a prisoner grasping the bars of a cage. His fingers clamped around the metal, gripping so tightly his knuckles were bone white. The cold metal bit into his palms.
The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, their sterile glow searing into his eyes as he stared at the concrete floor.
Heero's shoulders heaved as he dragged in a ragged breath, his chest trembling with the effort to steady himself. The chute remained below, silent and unmoving, but the pull of it lingered in his mind, as real as the rain pounding against the stairwell windows.
He had said too much. Overreacted. Shown too much.
Fucked up too much.
And in front of Soo Jin.
He groaned softly, tilting his head forward to rest his forehead against the metal bars. His breathing didn't ease, the jagged rhythm of his chest matching the storm raging outside. Rain slammed against the stairwell windows in a deafening roar, drowning out everything but the erratic pounding in his skull.
The stairwell was too bright. Too white. Too much like that Room.
Heero blinked, squinting against the glare as he turned his gaze upward, peering into the chute that led to the floors above. The sharp angles of the stairwell's railings glinted under the fluorescent light, jagged and unnatural.
His hands slipped from the railing to his knees, falling limply to his sides as he stared at the open space.
The air shifted, carrying with it the scent of old men and sharp aftershave. There was a faint trace of cigars—oppressive and overly masculine, a show of power. The stench clung to the shadowy room forming in his mind's eye, mingling with the presence of crisp suits and glinting eyeglasses turning in his direction.
The cold gleam of a polished table sliced through the darkness, its surface reflecting the sterile glow of a large monitor towering above at the far end of the table. A thin overhead fixture cast dim light that barely reached the edges of the room.
Heero moved toward the far end of the table, his jaw tight, his fists curling and relaxing at his sides before he forced them open. Lowering himself into the chair, Heero placed his hands on his lap, fingers splayed and alert, though his shoulders betrayed the tension coiling beneath his composed exterior.
The large monitor on the wall flickered to a shadowed figure that filled the screen.
"Agent Yuy," the man began, his tone matching the chill in the air. "Your next assignment has been finalized."
Heero kept his gaze on the table, the smooth surface reflecting faint outlines of his expression as hesitation flickered briefly across his tense features. They were calling him back into that Room, so soon?
"Sir, it's… Monday," he said, his voice measured and neutral.
There was a pause. Heero felt their collective stares weighing on him.
"And?" one of the figures asked, the word laced with mock confusion.
"My last assignment was Thursday, sir," Heero replied evenly.
A faint ripple of murmurs passed through the room. A voice from the shadows broke the silence, dripping with scorn. "Are you a Preventer or a god damned calendar? We didn't hire you to count days."
"Understood, sir," Heero's jaw tightened, while his tone remained steady. "But with all due respect, protocol mandates a seven-day buffer between sessions for optimal performance."
"We're here to discuss your assignment, not your recovery protocols," came a cold retort from the screen overhead. "Medical has cleared you for this mission. Do you need us to spell it out for you, Agent?"
Heero instinctively half-rose from his seat, a surge of desperation gripping his chest. "But they didn't even—"
"Enough!" the man on the screen snapped, silencing him.
—check. They didn't even check up on him before approving him for duty. Of course, they couldn't afford to. Not if his condition would jeopardize their timeline.
No, they didn't need to spell it out for him. His well-being was inconsequential. He existed solely at the mercy of their discretion, his freedom conditional on his willingness to play their game.
Heero slumped back into his seat, the sharp order tightening his chest. His fists curled into white-knuckled grips before he forced them open again. His mind raced, but every thought led him back to the same old conclusion: he was a tool. A conduit. A cog in their machine.
"Time is of the essence," the man on the screen said, his low, gravelly voice slicing through the tension like a blade. "Director Une gave her stamp of approval. The decision is final. The task force is already en route."
The mention of Une left Heero momentarily stunned, his breath catching. He scanned the room, looking for something—anything—that might offer an opening. But there was nothing. Just faceless shadows and cold indifference.
They went on to detail the mission parameters: deep-space engagement. Outer rim of Lagrange Point 5. Eliminate a hostile Capricorn platoon hiding in the X-18722 resource satellites. High probability of human pilots. Acceptable amount of fatalities: 100%.
Heero absorbed the orders and tactical information in silence. It was nothing new. What he really needed to know, however, was being withheld. Taking a shuddering breath, he dared interrupt the briefing to ask for the missing piece of crucial data:
"How…" He lowered his gaze, his voice so small it barely carried across the room. "How many…?"
"What was that, Yuy?" One of the shadows leaned forward, their voice laced with derision.
Heero inhaled a shaky breath. "How many suits, sir?" His voice steadied as he lifted his head, though his bangs veiled the flicker of dread in his eyes.
"Three Tauruses and two Virgos," came the curt reply.
A lump rose in Heero's throat. His fingers twitched against his lap as the weight of the assignment settled on him like an iron shackle.
"Five suits," he summed, the words heavier than he could bear. The air seemed to thin, and for a moment, his vision blurred. Not backups, but five simultaneous feeds. Five fractures of his mind, each projected into space and tethered to a synchronized battlefield.
His chest tightened, memories of the last session clawing at the edges of his mind. Two suits had nearly destroyed him. Five… His pulse quickened, the phantom echo of neural strain pounding at the base of his skull. The relentless tide of data, the unyielding demands on his focus, had left him barely clinging to himself.
His ribs still ached, a dull throbbing reminder of his latest mission. He wasn't ready. Imaginary pain still seeped through the unmended cracks in his mind. And now they wanted him to shatter again.
He forced his hands to remain still, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table. His breath steadied through sheer willpower. He couldn't break—not here. Not in front of them.
"Sir," Heero said finally, his tone carefully measured, "this exceeds my previous assignments. Protocol allows for a maximum of three simultaneous—"
"Your contract," a voice interrupted, sharp and pointed, "clearly stipulates that you do not object to assigned missions. The decision lies with Medical."
Heero's breath flared through his nose as he forced himself to stay calm. His fingers curled under the table, digging into his wrist as the heat in his chest rose, boiling over. They were dismissing his concerns outright, ignoring the risks as if his limits didn't matter—as if he didn't matter.
The anger simmering beneath the surface burned hotter, bubbling up despite his efforts to suppress it. His hand clenched tighter around his wrist, the sting biting into his focus like a tether. But the bitterness spilled out before he could stop it, his voice cutting sharper than intended.
"I was only pointing out potential risk factors, sir," he said, his words clipped, spitefully cool. "You did hire me as a threat analyst, after all."
His jab at the earlier calendar remark hung in the air, met with a heavy, oppressive silence. Heero froze, his chest tightening in reflexive dread. His own voice felt foreign—sharp, unrestrained, reckless. Heat prickled at the back of his neck, instinct screaming at him that he'd crossed a line he couldn't take back.
His heart hammered. His grip on his wrist tightened painfully, his nails biting into the already tender flesh. He wasn't fifteen anymore, he reminded himself, struggling to slow his breath and keep it from racing alongside his pounding heart. Though still a pawn being moved around a battlefield by unseen hands, he wasn't that lost little boy anymore. He was twice as old now. An experienced agent—a Preventer with a long track record of missions most would deem impossible. He had earned his place, proven himself time and again. He was an adult. An asset. They needed him. This was within acceptable behavioral parameters.
But even as the logic rooted itself, the tremors in his chest remained. The years hadn't erased the memory of punishment for far less. His body remembered, even when his mind tried to forget. Heero clenched his jaw, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression blank. His fingers dug harder into his wrist, the crushing grip a desperate reminder:
He was a person. He had a right to voice his opinion.
Other agents spoke out. Sarcasm, defiance, objections—he'd seen it a hundred times before, even in this very room. They weren't punished for it. Surely this would be no different.
But the trembling wouldn't stop. His body didn't believe it. The weight of years—of sharp reprimands, of being reminded that he was disposable—settled deep in his chest. His fingers dug harder into his chaffed wrist, the pain sharp but grounding. He loosened his jaw, forcing his breathing to even out. But beneath the table, his hand still trembled.
CRACK!
The sharp sound of a fist slamming into the table cut through the tension, reverberating across the polished surface. Heero's head jerked slightly, his posture stiffening as his grip on his wrist faltered. His hands slipped off his lap, falling limply to his sides, his fingers dangling lifelessly as he stared, wide-eyed, at the figure who had slammed their fist.
The silence was suffocating, every second dragging like a blade against his nerves. Heero's chest rose in a shallow, shaky breath, then another, slower and more deliberate. He forced his expression to slacken into the stoic mask he'd perfected over the years. His arms remained loose at his sides, his fists balling around his thumbs as he braced for the invisible blow.
They wouldn't hurt him—at least, not physically. That part of his life was behind him now. But whatever punishment was about to follow would hurt in other ways, ways that left no marks but lingered all the same. He needed to be ready. Needed to shield himself, fortify what little remained of his defenses.
"You think this is a debate?" the figure who had slammed their fist barked, his tone biting and unforgiving. "The years have made you soft, Agent. Made you question authority. This transfer was a mistake."
The murmurs around the table swelled again, nods of agreement punctuating the shadows. Heero clenched his fists harder around his thumbs, forceful enough to pop the joints.
"Need we remind you of the consequences of breaching your contract?" a female voice interjected, "Again?" she added, the single word delivered like the point of a dagger.
The reminder struck like a slap. Heero's posture stiffened. He forced his hands to relax, releasing his clenched fists. He rested them flat against his thighs, his fingers curling into the yielding flesh of his trousers. He mustn't let his grip on composure slip again. He held the mask firmly in place, his features expressionless as he faced the darkness ahead.
The figure on the screen leaned forward, their silhouette cutting sharply against the sterile glow. "This agency doesn't exist to accommodate your personal battles, Agent Yuy. We will not indulge any more of your entanglements. This transfer was the only exception, and it came with conditions we expect you to uphold."
The murmurs grew louder, voices overlapping in low whispers. Heero caught faint fragments: the names "Maxwell" and "Senator Darlian" cutting through the air like knives. One figure leaned toward his neighbor, hurriedly explaining something in hushed tones. The other nodded, as though a long-standing mystery had just been clarified.
An unpleasant tingling crawled under Heero's skin. His hand moved beneath the table, gripping his wrist once more. His thumb rubbed absently over the faint welts hidden beneath his sleeve, the raw chafing a grounding sting that anchored him against the tightening knot in his chest.
He looked up sharply, his voice cutting through the low murmur with calm precision. "I assure you that these entanglements have been dealt with. I am fully committed to the terms of my contract, sir."
"Then do your damn job, Yuy," one of the shadows shot back, their tone clipped and impatient. "There's no room here for your passive-aggressive acts of insubordination."
The room fell silent for a moment, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, a voice murmured, "He should save those for the bedroom…"
The words sliced through the room, and Heero's head snapped up, his eyes darting sharply in the direction of the whisper.
The faint outline of a shadowy figure leaned toward their neighbor, their hand half-covering their mouth as they murmured just loud enough to be heard. "The Senator must like them sassy."
Both figures broke into muffled snickers, their shoulders shaking in the dark. The sound was sharp and cutting, louder than it had any right to be, each stifled laugh tightening the air like a noose around Heero's neck.
For a fleeting moment, the fire surged, hot and wild, daring him to speak, to act. But the weight of their laughter crushed it just as quickly. Rage wasn't allowed here. Nothing was.
His nails dug into his wrist beneath the table, his grip tightening until the raw skin burned. He pressed his thumb harder against the tender flesh, the sharp sting a strange relief against the ache clawing at his chest. Pain he could control. The storm inside him, he could not.
The laughter faded, leaving a silence so sharp it felt like a blade against his skin. The hum of the monitor overhead was deafening, filling the void with its low, oppressive drone.
Someone cleared their throat, the sound sharp against the droning hum. Heero's fingers twitched at the sound, but he didn't look up, his breath shallow and controlled.
A new voice broke the silence. "Doctor Jenkins," it said, turning to a person sitting a few chairs away from Heero. "What are the risks of sending him in there?"
Heero lifted his head slightly, surprise flashing briefly across his face. Someone asking about his well-being was so unexpected it seemed outrageous.
Dr. Jenkins adjusted his glasses, fidgeting under the weight of the room's stares. "With six days between missions, the probabilities of adverse effects are low. Around 36%."
Thirty-six percent wasn't low. Heero's grip on his wrist tightened under the table.
Dr. Jenkins cleared his throat. "We can compensate with a stronger dose this time. Overall, a six-day buffer instead of the standard seven is negligible."
Negligible. That was what he was to these people.
Several figures nodded, their postures easing as though they'd just been reassured.
"In that case," the figure on screen said, his voice final, "proceed. Mission commences at 3 AM."
Heero's grip slackened slightly, his hand falling limp to his lap. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly under the weight of their disdain. His gaze remained fixed on the polished surface of the table, his reflection hollow and unflinching, but the storm beneath threatened to break through.
His mask held, but it was thinner now, another piece of him left behind in this room. How many more pieces would they take before there was nothing left?
"Dismissed," the figure said.
The word landed like stone in Heero's chest. He nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yes, sir."
The screen switched off, plunging the room into further darkness.
Heero rose slowly. Outwardly calm, his silence spoke volumes as the low hiss of the door opening broke the suffocating stillness.
He wouldn't break.
Not here. Not yet.
He would break later. Alone, where no one would see. Another piece of him would crack, shatter to the floor—just another part of him that could never be repaired.
The memory faded, dissolving into the blaring brightness of the stairwell. Heero blinked, his chest heaving as the cold railing bit into his palms. The air was no longer stale, no longer thick with the scent of cigars and aftershave. It was cold and crisp, carrying the sharp tang of rain that seeped through the stairwell windows, where the central heating failed to reach. Yet his lungs still felt constricted, the weight of the conference rooom lingering like a bruise on his ribs.
He hadn't planned to snap.
He hadn't meant to break. Not yet. Not in the department meeting, at least.
Heero's hands slipped from the railing, curling into fists at his sides as he sank back onto his heels, staring at the patch of empty air in the chute. He had told himself he wouldn't—couldn't. He had planned to hold it in, to wait until later. Until the stairwell. Until he got home. Or not at all. He'd swallow it down like he always did.
Lee's remark had driven him over the edge. It wasn't just the words—it was their weight. The same mocking tone, the same reduction, only this time it wasn't aimed at him. It was aimed at Soo Jin, as if degrading her was some clever joke. Heero had seen red, the anger surging too fast to control.
Lee wasn't a superior. He wasn't someone Heero had to obey, to endure. He was a colleague. A disposable obstacle. And in that moment, Lee had been everything—the shadowy figures, the snickering laughter, the suffocating grip of humiliation and control Heero had spent years learning to live with.
The justification had been clear then. He was defending her honor as a professional, as a person, as a woman he had gotten to know in recent weeks.
But that wasn't the whole truth.
Heero squeezed his wrist, biting back the thought that whispered louder than the rain against the stairwell windows.
Those were all excuses. Half truths. He hadn't lashed out just to defend Soo Jin. He was defending himself. From the whispers, the rumors, the mockery and scorn.
"Entanglements". The word rang hollow in his mind, blending with their laughter, the whispers of "Maxwell" and "Darlian" cutting through the dark conference room like knives. He wasn't a person in that room. Just a tool who invited complications. A glitching circuit that had to be plucked out and repaired. Isolated before it infected any other systems.
And yet, today wasn't the first time they'd reduced him to a piece of facility equipment. A means to an end. He was used to that. But today... something in him had shifted. Snapped. And Agent Lee had borne the brunt of it.
Heero's hands slipped from the railing to his knees, curling inward as he shifted into a practiced squat. His back was to the fire door, his body perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet, his heels hovering just above the floor.
His control was slipping, the cracks widening with every mission, every reckless order. Too many demands, too little time to recover. He was becoming exactly what they feared—a liability, a weapon on the verge of misfiring. And still, they did nothing to stop it.
Inhaling shakily, Heero turned to face the chute, its emptiness yawning below like a silent reminder of how far he could fall. The sharp lines of the stairs and railings blurred, smearing into indistinct shapes that seemed to spiral downward, drawing his gaze into their endless descent.
His arms came up to wrap around himself, his posture slumped and balled inward. Balanced on his tiptoes, his core muscles burned with the effort to hold the pose. To an outsider, his posture might seem small, defeated, but the discipline required to hold it spoke to his unyielding strength. His body remained taut, tension radiating from every joint, refusing to let go.
This was as far as he would crumble.
The soft creak of the door opening broke through the heavy quiet. Heero's head snapped up, his body springing to its full height in one fluid motion, shoulders squared and gaze fixed on the source of the sound.
The Cleaning Lady stepped into the stairwell, a mop handle and bucket rattling on her cart. She paused when she saw him, a faint lift of her brow the only acknowledgment she gave. "Ah," she said casually, pushing the cart aside and retrieving a water bottle from one of the compartments. "Didn't expect to see you here," she said, unscrewing the cap, "or maybe I did."
Heero remained standing, his posture rigid as she stepped toward the stairs. With a soft groan, she lowered herself onto a step.
"Raining again," she remarked, glancing at the windows and gesturing with her bottle toward the rain-slick glass. "Always messes with my knees… You young folks wouldn't understand."
Her tone was light, almost teasing, but Heero stayed silent, his gaze still fixed on her. The tension in his shoulders remained, his hands clenched at his sides.
The truth was, he had many aches that stirred to life with the rain—old injuries that pulsated in his joints, throbbing as if to announce the weather. The thought wrung a small, tired smile from his lips. It reminded him of Soo Jin's rant about the forecast, her exasperated gestures and the way she waved at the window like it was the culprit. He wondered if he should have said anything about being able to predict the weather according to the aches in his body. Would she have laughed? The thought of making her laugh sent an unusual warmth through him, soothing the ever-present throbbing in his bones.
"My joints," he murmured after a pause, flexing his fingers absently. "The rain makes them stiff."
The old woman paused her sipping and looked up from the bottle, meeting his guarded gaze with warm eyes. "Well then, why won't you sit down?" she offered with a smile. "You're being rude to an old woman, standing over me like that. Come on," she tapped on the space on the step next to her, nudging back a bit to make room for him. "Sit."
Heero hesitated, his fingers curling tightly against his thighs. The tap on the step beside her lingered, a quiet invitation, not a demand. Finally, he stepped closer, lowering himself slowly onto the step.
The old lady resumed sipping her water. Silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythmic patter of the rain. Heero released a long, shuddering breath, one that wracked through him with a visible tremor. His arms rose to circle his chest, as if holding himself from falling apart again.
"Cold in here, isn't it?" the Cleaning Lady asked, her knowing look suggesting she understood it wasn't the chill that made him hug himself.
Setting the bottle aside on the step between them, she reached into her pocket. He watched as she pulled out a wax paper-wrapped parcel. She carefully unwrapped it, revealing a dark-green pastry. Splitting it in two, steam rising from the filling, she handed one half to Heero without looking at him.
"Here, eat," she said simply. "It's good for you."
Heero eyed the unfamiliar pastry, his brows knitting in faint confusion as he turned it over in his hand. It was warm and gooey. He didn't know what it was, but he accepted it with a quiet nod of thanks and slowly lifted it for a careful bite. The herbaceous, lightly sweet flavor surprised him. Soft and chewy, the treat was comforting in its simplicity, each bite pulling him further away from the spiral that had consumed him minutes earlier.
He finished it quickly, suddenly hungry.
The old lady let out a soft laugh. "No one likes Ssuk Beomul anymore," she said, handing him her piece as well. "I keep telling my grandchildren it's good for them, but they don't listen."
She nudged the second half of the rice cake at Heero, giving him an inviting smile. He hesitated, then accepted with another nod. He ate in silence, leaning back slightly against the railing at his side. The tension in his body finally dissipated, the muscles in his neck easing as his gaze softened, fixed now on the rain cascading down the dark windows. The Cleaning Lady sipped water thoughtfully beside him, gazing at the rain as though it were her favorite channel on TV.
"You know, mugwort was the first plant to grow back after the White Fang bombed the Earth."
Heero paused mid-bite, his chewing slowing as her words settled over him. He turned the remaining piece of the rice cake over in his hand, the soft green hue of the pastry catching the harsh fluorescent light.
The Cleaning Lady continued, her voice calm, almost as if she were speaking to the rain rather than to him. "It's a stubborn thing. Grows where it shouldn't, even when the soil's all wrong. People tried to clear it away, burn it out—but it comes back. Always does." She ended with another sip of water, gazing thoroughly at the rainy evening.
Her words stirred something cold despite the warmth of the rice cake filling his body. To her, the mugwort was a symbol of resilience—a stubborn thing that healed what it shouldn't. But to him…
Heero's gaze drifted to the dark rain-streaked windows.
"It finds its way through the cracks…" The Cleaning Lady's voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back as she sighed, shaking her head as she prepared to take another sip of water. "Doesn't mean the ground's the same, though."
The old woman's words hung in the air, a quiet observation rather than a lecture.
He could picture Soo Jin in her place—her stubborn persistence, the way she forced her way into cracks he'd tried so hard to hide. The thought made his chest tighten. Unlike the Cleaning Lady's quiet care, Soo Jin's attention felt... overwhelming. Like she wasn't just finding the cracks—she was trying to dig them open, planting seeds in soil that wasn't ready to bear anything.
She didn't realize the mess she was walking into. And when she finally did… would she turn away?
Heero's fingers brushed the faint scars beneath his sleeves as he turned the rice cake over in his hands. Mugwort grew in ruined ground, but that didn't mean the soil was ready to nurture anything. Mugwort was a weed. An intrusive parasite. Its growth was forceful and overbearing. Just because it grew didn't mean the ground hand healed back to what it was. It couldn't. The scars remained, reshaped by what had happened. Cultivating it too soon would only do more damage. He wasn't the mugwort. He was the soil, ruined and raw.
His gaze fixed on the rain outside. One couldn't heal damaged ground by forcing seeds into it, no matter how hardy. You let it rest. You leave it alone. You let time nurture it back slowly.
Why couldn't people understand that?
"Well, that's it for me," The Cleaning Lady groaned softly as she pushed herself to her feet, twisting the cap to close the water bottle. "Thanks for keeping an old lady company."
She tapped him lightly on the shoulder, the contact brief but steady.
Heero stood, stepping ahead of her to pull the heavy fire door open. She paused in the doorway, looking up at him with a small, knowing smile.
"See you around," she said as she wheeled her cart through the doorway.
Heero watched the old woman waddle into the hallway, her footsteps fading as she disappeared around the corner. Her words stayed with him, like the lingering sweetness of the rice cake.
His breath steadied, the earlier storm within him now reduced to a faint, manageable hum.
A movement caught his eye. Soo Jin stepped out of the department, her head tilting slightly as her gaze swept the hallway. When their eyes met, she froze. Her shoulders tensed, her hands twisting nervously at her sides as she assessed him. Heero could see the hesitation in her stance, the way her brow furrowed ever so slightly. She was reading him, gauging his mood. He wondered what she saw.
This was a side of himself he had never shown her before, the part of him teetering on the edge, too close to snapping. It wasn't the composed professional she had come to know, the stoic and unshakable figure behind the Preventer name. It was something rawer, more vulnerable—and he could tell she was unsure whether to approach.
He shifted slightly, his hand moving to the fire door. Slowly, he pushed it further open, holding it wider as he offered a faint, barely-there smile. It was almost imperceptible, a fleeting gesture, but it was enough.
Soo Jin's posture softened, her tension easing visibly. The furrow in her brow smoothed. Relieved, she stepped forward, her steps hesitant at first but growing surer as she passed through the doorway into the stairwell.
Heero held the fire door open, his grip firm but not hurried. Soo Jin hesitated on the threshold, her gaze flicking to his face. Her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to speak but wasn't sure where to begin.
She stepped inside slowly, careful not to brush against him as she passed.
Heero closed the door behind her with a soft click, the sound muted by his deliberate care. He then lingered there, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his head slightly bowed. His posture, though upright, seemed weighed down, as though the effort of holding himself together was all that kept him standing.
"Hey," Soo Jin said softly, offering a small, pacifying smile as she wrung her hands. Her voice carried an undertone of uncertainty, but her gaze held steady.
Heero lifted his head, his brow furrowing slightly, as though the greeting surprised him. For a moment, he just looked at her, his expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, he gave a faint smile—barely more than a twitch at the corners of his mouth. "Hey," he murmured back, the word so quiet it almost got lost in the rain tapping against the windows.
"Feeling better?" she asked, her tone gentle but careful, as if afraid of pushing too hard.
Heero didn't answer immediately. Instead, he moved to the railing, his hands gripping the metal tightly as he leaned forward to peer down at the lower floors. His back was to her, the muscles in his shoulders still taut. "Yeah," he said at last, the word soft and clipped, almost resigned.
Soo Jin shifted her weight, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. Searching for the right thing to say, she ventured, "Lee was being an asshole." Her voice carried a nervous laugh. "Don't let him get to you. Guys like that… they thrive on attention."
Heero let out a soft sigh, the sound barely audible over the rain. His grip tightened briefly before he turned around to lean against the railing. His arms crossed over his chest, the gesture protective. His eyes met hers for a brief moment before flicking away. "I know," he said, his tone resigned but quieter than usual. "It's just that…" He paused, shaking his head as he reached to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It's been… a long day."
Soo Jin hesitated, then stepped closer, leaning on the railing beside him but keeping a respectful distance. "Are you okay?"
Heero's hand twitched at his side, his fingers curling and flexing, as though restless or unsure of what to do. Something in the stillness between them felt fragile, as though the wrong word might shatter it.
"I told you," he said finally, his voice a thoughtful murmur. "Sometimes… I'm not myself. It's going to be one of those weeks."
"Upstairs?" she asked carefully.
He didn't reply, turning back around to face the railing. His gaze fixed on the open chute leading down to the lower floors. His hands rose again, gripping the banister atop the metal railing, his fingers curling tightly around it as though holding on for balance.
"You said you wouldn't be available until Wednesday," she pressed gently, reminding him of what he'd said during the department meeting. "Are you being called away again?"
Heero's grip tightened on the railing before he let go suddenly, his arms falling back to his sides. His movements were sharp, mechanical, like someone trying to sever themselves from their thoughts. "I should get going," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I have an early morning."
As he moved past her, Soo Jin reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing his arm. He froze mid-step, his back still to her, his body stiffening as though bracing for a blow.
"You don't have to carry it all by yourself," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. "You can let me in."
Heero stood still for a moment, his breath audible in the quiet stairwell. The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, as though he was weighing her words against some unseen burden. Then, slowly, he shifted his hand out of her grasp.
He turned his head just enough for her to see the sharp edge of his profile.
"It's not that simple," he said, his voice low but resolute. The tension in his shoulders didn't ease, but something in his tone sounded… tired.
Soo Jin took a hesitant step forward, her hand hovering in the air between them. "Maybe it doesn't have to be that complicated either," she offered, her words hanging in the air like a fragile hope.
Heero shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I can't afford any… entanglements." The word came out in a sigh, heavy and bitter.
Soo Jin took a step closer, looking up at him, her voice gentle but insistent. "Not everything has to be so tangled up."
Heero took a step back, his shoulders rising and falling with a shallow breath. He looked up, meeting her gaze, and for a moment, something unguarded flickered in his eyes—an ache, raw and vulnerable. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper, as though the words hurt to say.
"Why me, Soo Jin?" The question hung in the space between them, heavy with despair.
The sound of her name on his lips sent a jolt through her, catching her off guard. She opened her mouth to reply, but the weight of his gaze pinned her in place, his dark eyes searching hers with an almost unbearable intensity.
The sound of her name on his lips sent a jolt through her, catching her off guard. She opened her mouth to reply, but the weight of his gaze pinned her in place. His words weren't just a question; they were a plea, steeped in years of doubt and pain.
For a beat, Soo Jin stood there, her heart twisting at the rawness of his tone. "Why not you, Heero?" she said softly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.
Heero's mouth opened slightly, as though to argue, but he hesitated. The intensity in his eyes flickered, dimming as if the fight had left him. He turned his head away.
"I'm not…" He paused, searching for the right words, his hands falling limp at his sides. "I can't give you what you're looking for. Don't expect me to be… like I was that day. When I was sick." His voice cracked faintly, but he pressed on. "That's not who I am."
Soo Jin swallowed hard, her throat tightening. "I'm not asking for more than what you're ready to give," she said, her voice gentle but sure. "But I think you're underestimating yourself. You are that person—when you feel like you can be."
Heero's gaze flickered back to her, raw and exposed.
"You think I need saving," he murmured, his voice low and guarded, "but I don't. Not from you. Not from anyone."
The words landed heavily between them, stark and cutting. Soo Jin blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "I don't think you need saving," she said carefully, her brow furrowing. "I just—" She paused, her voice faltering. "I just want to be friends. I just want to help."
But do I? The thought struck her, a sharp pang of doubt rising in her chest. Hadn't she told herself she was different, that her intentions were pure? Yet wasn't there some part of her—deep, unspoken—that had wanted to break through his walls, to mend what seemed broken?
Heero tilted his head slightly, his jaw tightening as he let out a sharp, bitter exhale. "Help," he echoed, the word curling with quiet derision. "You don't get it." He shifted, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "You think… you think this—" He gestured vaguely at himself, his voice cracking under the strain of his frustration. "—This mess is something you can piece together. Like I'm some puzzle you're solving to create a picture that's easier on the eyes."
The accusation hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Soo Jin took a small step back, her chest tightening under the weight of his wounded gaze. His words pulled at something fragile inside her, stirring guilt and uncertainty.
What was it about him that drew her in so completely? Was it the mystery behind the empty chair, the stories she had constructed in her mind before she'd even met him? She wasn't beyond admitting that she found him breathtaking—his strong, precise movements, his quiet intensity, the rare vulnerability she glimpsed beneath his stoic facade. But was that all it was? Was she chasing after him because she saw his wounds and wanted to heal them so she could call him her own?
Her thoughts churned, spinning faster with every unanswered question. His words were harsh, cutting—but they forced her to confront something she hadn't dared to ask herself.
No. That wasn't it. It might have been, at first, a catalyst that made her notice him. But then she had glimpsed rare flashes of something deeper—of the person he was, beyond the stoicism and the walls. It wasn't about solving him or healing his pain. She saw him. She wanted to know him, to understand what he carried and how to stand beside him without intruding.
Looking up to meet Heero's accusing eyes, Soo Jin held her ground. Her chest tightened, but it wasn't with doubt—it was with resolve. She straightened to her full height, her hands gripping the edge of the railing as if to steady herself.
"You're wrong," she said, her gaze unwavering as it met his. "I'm not here to fix you, Heero. Or to solve you. I just…" She paused, letting her words settle. "I want to understand you."
Heero's eyes searched hers, his distrust flickering faintly, as though he was waiting for her words to falter. When they didn't, his posture shifted slightly, his shoulders tensing as though bracing for something unfamiliar. The silence between them stretched, the rain tapping steadily against the dark windows, but Soo Jin didn't look away.
He scoffed softly, but there was no humor in it, only a hollow bitterness that made her stomach twist. He shook his head, looking past her as if he couldn't bear to meet her gaze. "Understand?" he repeated, his tone quieter now, almost disbelieving. His hand came up, dragging through his black hair in a tired, exasperated motion. "You see a broken man and think it's… appealing. Endearing, even." He finally looked at her, his eyes dark and haunted. "But there's nothing attractive about it."
She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that her feelings were different, but her throat tightened, trapping the words.
How many times had she stolen glances his way, lingering just a little too long? Hadn't Mi Cha and Seo Yun teased her endlessly for daydreaming about him?
Was he right to accuse her of finding his struggles alluring?
The thought settled like a stone in her chest, heavy and unwelcome. Soo Jin reached for the railing, steadying herself. Shame and confusion welled up, forcing her to confront the truth: Was her concern genuine, or had she been blind to her own selfishness?
What if Heero had seen through her all along? Every moment she'd sought him out—the coffee machine, the stairs, the cafeteria menu—had those been attempts to connect, or intrusions he tolerated out of politeness? The pride she'd felt in their small shared moments now seemed hollow.
She swallowed hard, the sting of humiliation rising. Had she been selfish? Chasing after him because it felt good for her? Because it gave her a purpose?
But then, amid the whirlwind of doubt, a quieter thought surfaced. She thought of the rare moments they'd shared—the fleeting smiles, the quiet, unspoken camaraderie. He hadn't humored her; he'd chosen to share those moments. However guarded, however brief, they were real.
Soo Jin's grip on the railing tightened. Maybe she had misstepped. Maybe she had been overeager, too forward. But her intention wasn't to fix him, to remake him into something else. She wasn't chasing after him to soothe her own ego. She cared about him—not because of his pain, but in spite of it.
The weight in her chest began to shift, no longer dragging her down but anchoring her resolve. Slowly, she lifted her gaze back to Heero.
"I don't see you as broken," she said, resolute. "And I don't think your pain makes you more or less of a person. It's just… part of you. But it's not all of you."
Heero's gaze flickered again, the walls behind his eyes still firmly in place, but something in his posture shifted—a crack in his guarded stance, subtle but there.
"You think you're too much to handle," Soo Jin continued, her voice gaining strength. "But you're not. I'm not here to solve you, Heero. I just want to stand beside you. If you'll let me."
The silence between them stretched again, the rain providing the only sound. Soo Jin held her breath, her chest tight, as she waited for his response.
"You're not the first," Heero then said, his gaze dropping to stare at his shoes. His voice was quiet, almost lost in the sound of the rain. "I've been someone's pet project before."
He fell silent, the admission hanging heavily between them. His shoulders slumped under the weight of it, his hand clenching into a fist before loosening again. Finally, he shook his head, the motion small and deliberate. "It's not healing," he said. "It's suffocating."
The silence that followed was heavy, the rhythmic tapping of the rain against the windows the only sound between them. Soo Jin's throat tightened further, her hands gripping the edge of the railing to keep herself steady. Heero's words lingered, cutting through the quiet stairwell and into the spaces she hadn't dared to examine in herself.
She wanted to argue, to tell him she wasn't like that, but how could she? How could she be sure when she wasn't even sure of herself anymore?
"You dig in, crack me open…" Heero's voice faltered, his shoulders tensing as though bracing against invisible blows. "But when it gets too much… when I finally shatter…" He paused, his breath hitching slightly before he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"I can't." His tone sharpened, clipped and final, before softening into something almost resigned. "I've been here before." His eyes flicked to hers briefly, shadowed and hopeless, before retreating again. "I know how it ends." His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. "I can't do that again. I won't."
Heero stepped toward the door, his movements deliberate but heavy, as if each step cost him more than he was willing to show. His hand hovered over the handle for a moment, his fingers tightening slightly before relaxing again. His shoulders sagged faintly, folding him further into himself.
"Thanks for checking in," he said quietly, his voice low and distant, like an echo that had already faded. He didn't look back. The door groaned softly as it swung open, the faint hum of the hallway spilling in before it clicked shut behind him.
Soo Jin stared at the closed door, the rainy night outside blurring the world into streaks of black and neon lights. The tapping against the windows grew louder, filling the silence he left behind.
Her chest felt heavy, her breath shallow as Heero's words replayed in her mind, cutting deeper with each repetition.
Was he right? Her thoughts spiraled further, circling her in opposite directions. Part of her wanted to chase after him, to tell him he was wrong, that she saw more in him than the broken pieces he thought defined him. But another part forced her to pause, his accusations ringing too true to dismiss.
The rain tapped harder against the windows, its relentless rhythm mirroring the quiet storm she saw behind Heero's eyes.
She didn't want to see herself as one of the people who'd failed him before. Her concern for Heero was real—it wasn't about fixing him; it was about standing beside him. Like the rain, steady and persistent, she wanted to be there—not to wash away his pain, but to weather it with him.
But even if her intentions were good, her approach had been flawed.
Heero's harsh words weren't just an accusation—they were a boundary, a line drawn in quiet defiance of the patterns that had failed him before.
And he was right. His healing wasn't hers to control, wasn't hers to define. He wanted to heal on his terms, however messy, however ugly and painful. She couldn't be another person who tried to fix him without understanding the depths of his pain.
But letting go didn't mean turning away.
It didn't mean giving up. Soo Jin straightened, the cold railing firm beneath her palm. Whatever Heero was carrying wasn't just heavy—it was crushing. She couldn't carry it for him. But maybe… she could find a way to help him carry it at his own pace.
Her gaze lingered on the closed door as her resolve settled. She couldn't undo the past—his or her own—but she could choose a different way forward.
Her hand tightened on the railing, her breath steadying. Looking at the door, Soo Jin made a quiet promise to herself, and to Heero.
She would do better. For him. For herself. She would be there, not to fix him or force him to heal on her terms, but to meet him where he was. She would give up on the girlish fantasy to save him from his demons, from himself. She would wait—quietly, patiently—until he was ready to accept what she knew deep in her heart.
He was worth the wait.