Internship (in) Love A Gundam Wing K-Drama

Chapter 6

The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden hue across the department office, its rays filtering through the blinds and casting elongated shadows on the floor. The air was filled with clicking keyboards, an almost rhythmic cadence that underscored the collective focus of the agents buried in their work. Papers rustled softly, and the occasional murmur of conversation was quickly subdued, maintaining the professional hush of the office.

Soo Jin's fingers danced across her keyboard at her desk, her mind only half-focused on the report she was drafting. Every now and then, her gaze flickered toward the desk across the room, where Heero sat, his attention seemingly locked on the screen before him. His duty jacket hung limply from the back of his chair, revealing the standard-issue khaki button-down he wore underneath. The fitted shirt highlighted his sculpted physique, yet his hunched posture belied the strength it suggested. His shoulders were slightly hunched, burdened by something far heavier than mere exhaustion. Even from a distance, Soo Jin could tell something was off—his usual sharp focus had dulled, replaced by a heaviness that seeped into his every movement.

The espresso cup she had seen him pour earlier in the afternoon sat untouched beside his keyboard. He had barely taken a sip, setting it aside after only a few moments, as though drinking it was too much effort.

The phone in Director Jeong's office rang, slicing through the steady hum of work. Soo Jin glanced up, her fingers pausing over the keyboard. She couldn't hear the conversation, but his voice carried clearly across the room when the director hung up and stepped to the open doorway.

"Yuy! Upstairs!"

The command was sharp and authoritative, disrupting the quiet concentration that had filled the room. Soo Jin's heart skipped a beat as her eyes immediately found Heero. She saw the subtle stiffening of his back, the way his hands froze above the keyboard, fingers hovering as though momentarily lost. The pause was slight but significant, a crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor he always seemed to wear.

Slowly, Heero pushed back his chair, the wheels scraping softly against the carpet. His movements were sluggish, as if the simple act of standing required an extraordinary effort. He reached for his jacket draped over the back of his chair, slipping it on with heavy arms. Soo Jin watched, her worry deepening with each motion that seemed to cost him more than it should.

Heero moved toward the elevator, his steps slow and heavy. For a brief moment, he hesitated in front of it, his eyes fixed on the doors as if considering the unthinkable. Soo Jin held her breath, silently willing him to take the easy way up for once. But, just as she feared, he turned away, opting instead for the stairwell.

His figure slumped slightly as he began the long climb to the upper floors.

Soo Jin's chest tightened with concern, the weight of his exhaustion settling uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach.

As the door to the stairwell swung shut behind him, the office returned to its previous quiet, but the tension lingered, thick and oppressive, as Soo Jin returned to her work with a heavy heart.

Heero's steps echoed in the stairwell as he ascended slowly, each footfall a conscious effort. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a harsh, clinical glow that made the walls seem closer than they were. As he reached the top floor, Heero paused, his breath coming in slow, measured inhales, trying to steady himself against the rising wave of reluctance that threatened to pull him under.

He reached for the stairwell door, his hand trembling slightly as he pushed it open. The familiar, dimly lit corridor stretched out before him: a long, narrow path lined with doors that seemed to watch him with silent judgment.

Heero hesitated, his eyes locking onto the door at the end of the corridor. His pulse quickened, and for a moment, he considered turning back, retreating down the stairs to the relative safety of the office below. But he knew that wasn't an option. Not today. Not ever.

With a resigned sigh, Heero straightened his back, ignoring the burning ache in his muscles. He walked down the corridor, the overhead lights ominous as he approached the door. Each step felt like his last, like he was heading down death row, every inch closer to the door bringing him nearer to the inevitable.

When he finally reached the door, Heero stopped, his hand hovering over the access panel. He stared at the bold red sign on the door that read: "COMBAT ANALYSIS ROOM. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY."

His fingers curled into a fist, knuckles white as he steeled himself. This room was like a black hole, pulling him in, consuming him bit by bit every time he crossed its threshold.

He exhaled sharply, pressing his personnel keycard against the panel. A green light lit up and the door slid open with a soft hiss. Heero stepped inside, an usually harsh brightness swallowing him whole as the door slid shut behind him with a final, quiet, click.

The office was eerily quiet, the usual hum of activity long gone as the night deepened. Soo Jin sat at her desk, the only other light in the room coming from Heero's desk by the dark window. She had stayed late, not as much out of necessity as out of a stubborn hope that Heero would return. But the hours ticked by, and the emptiness of his chair only grew more oppressive.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but her mind was elsewhere. She glanced at the clock again—it was getting late, far later than she should have stayed. Everyone else had already left, the last being Agent Lee, who had offered his usual teasing invitation for drinks, which she politely declined. Now, the silence was almost suffocating, and the dim lighting made the vast office feel even more cavernous.

Finally, Soo Jin sighed and decided it was time to go. She shut down her computer, gathered her things, and stood up, casting one last glance at Heero's desk. The espresso cup he had placed there earlier sat untouched, the small pool of liquid at the bottom now cold.

She made her way to the elevator, her footsteps echoing softly in the stillness. But something made her pause just before pressing the button. A tug of intuition, or perhaps just the unease that had been gnawing at her all evening, made her turn toward the stairwell instead. Without fully understanding why, she pushed open the door and began her descent.

The stairwell was dimly lit, the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the tall windows that lined the walls. Outside, the rain poured steadily, casting a shimmering veil over the city. As she rounded the first landing, her breath caught in her throat.

Heero was there, slumped on the steps at the bottom of the first staircase leading down. His torso tilted to one side, his head resting against the wall as if he had fallen asleep mid-descent. For a moment, Soo Jin just stared, the sight of him so out of place that it didn't seem real. But then she noticed the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest, and her concern sharpened into action.

She hurried down the steps, her heart pounding. As she drew closer, she could see the exhaustion etched into his features. His complexion was pale, the faint shadow of stubble on his chin and under his nose more pronounced against his ashen skin. His cheeks were flushed with fever, and beads of sweat clung to his forehead, dampening the messy black bangs that framed his face. His duty jacket, now crumpled, lay in his lap, and his khaki dress shirt was stained with sweat, the tie around his neck loosened haphazardly.

"Agent Yuy?" Soo Jin's voice was soft, hesitant. When he didn't respond, she carefully knelt before him, her heart aching at the sight. He looked so vulnerable, so unlike the stoic, composed man she had come to know. Tentatively, she placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the heat radiating from his body even through the fabric of his shirt.

"Heero?" she tried again, gently nudging him.

His eyes fluttered open sluggishly, unfocused at first as he inhaled sharply, jolting awake. For a moment, he looked up at her with bleary brown eyes, their usual sharpness dulled by fever. There was a strange gleam in them, almost childlike in its confusion, as if he couldn't quite place where he was or why she was there. Soo Jin offered him a gentle smile, trying to reassure him, and watched as recognition slowly dawned. His expression shifted, the familiar stoic mask sliding back into place as he straightened up, clearing his throat in a rough, raspy sound that spoke of fatigue and illness.

"I'm fine," he muttered, his voice rough from sleep and perhaps something graver. He moved to stand, picking up his jacket and slipping it on with a slight shiver that didn't escape Soo Jin's notice.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked, concern lacing her tone.

"Never better…" Heero's words were a poor attempt at nonchalance, his voice too strained to be convincing.

"You're burning up," Soo Jin countered gently. "You should go home."

"I was about to…" Heero glanced up the staircase, his eyes weary. "Had to catch my breath…" he added, and Soo Jin realized he must have stopped here on his way down from the top floor, unable to make it any further.

"Maybe take the elevator this time?" she suggested timidly, her eyes flicking toward the stairwell door.

Heero glanced in the elevator's direction, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "There's no one else here," she assured him, sensing his reluctance.

For a moment, he seemed to consider it, his gaze lingering on the door, but then he shook his head and turned back toward the stairs. "I'm fine," he insisted, his voice lacking the strength behind the words.

He took a step forward, but his legs wobbled, nearly giving out beneath him. He caught himself on the railing just in time.

"Yeah, you're perfectly fine…" Soo Jin muttered under her breath, quickly stepping forward to steady him. Without waiting for permission, she slipped her arm around his waist and draped his arm over her shoulders. Her voice was soft but resolute. "Come on, I'll help you down."

"Please, don't," he whispered, weak but insistent, pulling away from her grasp. He leaned heavily against the railing, gripping it as if his life depended on it. "I'm fine."

Though unconvinced, Soo Jin nodded, knowing better than to push. She stayed close by his side as they descended the stairs in silence. Heero clung to the railing, his steps slow and unsteady, his legs faltering with each floor they passed. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the narrow stairwell. Soo Jin's mind raced with worry, wondering what kind of work had pushed him to this point.

When they finally reached the lobby, Heero gently detached himself from the railing's support, standing on his own but clearly struggling. "I'll take it from here," he said, his tone clipped and official, as if dismissing a subordinate. "Thank you, Miss Park."

Soo Jin glanced out at the rain pouring against the lobby's glass walls, then back at Heero, who looked even more unsteady now that there was nothing to lean on. She could see the tension in his posture, his body swaying slightly as he tried to hold himself upright.

"Wait here. I'll get you a cab."

"It's fine," Heero repeated like a mantra, though his words cracked and faded into a weak cough. "I'm fine."

Soo Jin glanced at him, her expression soft but determined. "Just wait here," she insisted, leaving no room for argument. She gently guided Heero to sit on the low wall of a raised planter, where a cluster of plants grew in a triangular patch of soil. He slumped against it, his head lowered, his exhaustion evident.

Satisfied he wouldn't collapse, Soo Jin turned and stepped outside into the rain, standing under the entrance canopy as she waved down a taxi coming around the bend.

When the cab pulled up, she returned to Heero. This time, she simply offered her arm, holding it up gently as if they were about to lock arms, a quiet invitation. Heero glanced at her, and Soo Jin could feel the subtle shift—his acceptance of her help, albeit reluctant. After a brief hesitation, he leaned against her arm, using it like a railing as they walked side by side toward the exit. They moved slowly, his steps faltering. His body trembled with fever, and she could feel the strain in every step he took. Heat radiating from his fevered body, seeping through his uniform, though he was shivering.

Soo Jin released a breath of relief when they reached the waiting cab. She opened the door for him, her hand lingering on the handle as he settled heavily into the back seat. He sank into the cushion, clearly relieved to be off his feet.

Before she could close the door, Heero looked up at her, his brown eyes softened with exhaustion and something else. Something almost... grateful, yet ashamed. "Thanks," he whispered, his voice weak but sincere. He gave a faint, helpless smile. "Maybe I wasn't so fine after all..."

Soo Jin offered her own tender smile, soft but knowing. "Anytime," she said, moving to close the door. "Get well soon, Agent Yuy."

Their eyes held for a beat longer, his gaze full of something fragile—an unspoken apology, perhaps, or a quiet thank you. Soo Jin closed the door gently, stepping back as the cab pulled away into the rain. Watching the taillights disappear, she couldn't shake the feeling of his helpless gratitude and the weight of what he hadn't said aloud, lingering with her in the falling rain.

Later that night, Soo Jin stepped quietly into her parents' dimly lit house, the familiar scent of seaweed soup greeting her as soon as she closed the door behind her. It was a rich, comforting aroma—one that carried memories of childhood, of family gatherings, and of Jin Ho's laughter echoing through the small kitchen. The scent tugged at her heartstrings, bittersweet in its familiarity.

She slipped off her shoes and padded softly into the living room, where her mother lay on the couch, wrapped in a thin blanket. Her mother's breathing was slow and steady, her face peaceful in sleep. Soo Jin paused, a wistful smile touching her lips as she gazed at her mother's serene expression. Gently, she pulled the blanket up to her mother's chin, tucking it in securely.

"I'm home," she whispered softly, even though she knew her mother wouldn't hear.

Turning toward the kitchen, Soo Jin's eyes were drawn to the pot on the stove. It was still there, just as it had been every night for weeks—always filled with the same dish, always left untouched. She approached it slowly, her footsteps almost hesitant, as if she were afraid of disturbing the silence that hung over the house like a shroud.

The pot was still warm, the gentle heat radiating from it as she lifted the lid. The rich, savory scent of the soup enveloped her, filling the small kitchen with its comforting warmth. Inside, the dark green seaweed floated lazily in the clear, golden broth, soft and tender, with small pieces of tofu and slivers of garlic visible beneath the surface. The soup glistened under the dim light, its surface dotted with tiny bubbles of sesame oil, adding a subtle nuttiness to the aromatic mix.

Soo Jin gazed down at the soup, her heart heavy with the weight of memories. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, letting the scent wash over her and carry her back to a time when the house was filled with life and laughter. Her mother had always made miyeok-guk on Jin Ho's birthday, a tradition that had continued even after he was gone. The soup had been his favorite, a dish he had always looked forward to with a smile that could light up the room.

But now, the soup was a reminder of absence—of the brother she had lost, and the mother who couldn't let go.

Sighing softly, Soo Jin opened her eyes and closed the lid. She turned to leave, intending to head to her room and put the day behind her, but something made her pause. Her gaze lingered on the pot, on the soup that would likely sit there until it was too late to save.

"It's going to go bad anyway," she whispered into the quiet room, her voice barely audible.

After a moment of hesitation, she opened a kitchen cabinet and retrieved a plastic container. She carefully ladled a generous portion of the soup into it, the seaweed swirling gently as it settled into the container.

"You wouldn't mind, would you, Jin Ho?" she whispered with a sad smile, imagining her brother's warm, understanding gaze. "At least someone will get to enjoy it…"

She closed the container and tucked it into the fridge, hiding it behind boxes of gochujang and doenjang, as if she were preserving a small piece of happiness in a place where it couldn't be found. The action felt almost like a small act of defiance, a way to ensure that something good could come from the pain that lingered in their home.

Soo Jin returned to the living room, her eyes pained as she gazed at her mother, still sleeping peacefully on the couch. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her mother's forehead, her lips lingering for a moment longer as she whispered, "Goodnight, Mom."

Before heading to her room, she turned to look at Jin Ho's shrine, the small, neatly kept corner of the living room that held his memory. The photograph of him in his pristine OZ uniform stared back at her, his proud, bright smile captured forever in that single moment. Soo Jin nodded to him, a silent promise in her eyes.

"Thank you, oppa," she murmured, a sad smile tugging at her lips. "For understanding."

With one last glance at the shrine, she made her way to her room, the container of seaweed soup hidden away in the fridge, waiting to bring a small bit of comfort to someone who was still around to need it.

The next morning dawned with a crisp chill in the air, and Soo Jin arrived at the office with a renewed sense of purpose. Tucked carefully under her arm was a slim thermos filled with a warm portion of seaweed soup, lovingly wrapped in a colorful bojagi adorned with delicate floral patterns. As she imagined Heero's surprise when she presented him with the soup, a soft smile touched her lips. She hoped it would give him some comfort, perhaps even nourish more than just his body.

Settling into her desk, Soo Jin began her morning routine, starting with the usual: checking her emails, going over her endless to-do list, and seeing what appointments Director Jeong had lined up for the day. Her mind, however, kept drifting. She stole glances at Heero's empty desk, her eyes flicking to his untouched chair every few minutes. The department bustled around her, the usual hum of activity filling the room, but all she could focus on was that one glaring absence.

Heero had never taken a sick day—not since transferring to Seoul three months ago. His attendance had been flawless, his work ethic almost robotic in its consistency. And yet, today, his desk remained empty. As the hours dragged on, Soo Jin found herself checking the door every time someone entered, her heart sinking a little further when it wasn't him.

She forced herself to focus, typing away at her emails and checking off tasks, but her thoughts kept wandering back to the previous night. Had he recovered? Was he still feverish? The thought of him struggling alone made her chest tighten with worry.

By mid-morning, her concern had grown into a tight knot. The usual steady rhythm of her day felt disjointed, each glance at Heero's empty desk a reminder that something was off. As the hours passed, a sinking feeling settled in her chest—maybe he needed more than just a good night's sleep to recover. The longer his absence stretched, the deeper her worry grew, gnawing at her with every passing minute.

Unable to shake her unease, Soo Jin discreetly pulled up the office log, hoping to find some reassurance about Heero's whereabouts. He was often called upstairs for work, and she'd always assumed his absences were part of his regular duties.

Her heart sank when she saw that Heero hadn't clocked in that morning. Not only was his absence glaring, but something else caught her eye. Heero had clocked out the previous night—right before she'd helped him down the stairs—but what stood out was the sheer length of his shift. He had clocked in at 2:30 AM the previous morning and clocked out at 8:30 PM—an exhausting 18-hour stretch, well above the regulated 12-hour limit. Yet, the shift hadn't been flagged in red, despite the alarming hours.

Even more troubling was the fact that Heero had clocked out at 7 PM the evening before he began that early morning shift, leaving him only a few hours of rest before plunging back into another grueling stretch of work.

A cold sense of unease settled over her as she scrolled back through Heero's attendance records. She had always skimmed through his hours during monthly reports, trusting that they would be spotless—not a single day or hour unaccounted for. But now, as she went back, she noticed a pattern. Odd hours were scattered throughout his log—shifts that should have raised alarms, yet none had been flagged. Instead, every shift had been approved, logged like any regular working day, the black font blending into the sea of normalcy she had easily overlooked.

Her stomach twisted. Heero had been clocking in and out at strange hours for months, working shifts that should have drawn attention but had instead been quietly accepted by both Director Jeong and HR. It wasn't that he was being cheated of overtime pay—it was that no one seemed to care that he was being worked to the bone, well beyond what was healthy, well beyond what anyone should endure.

The memory of him the previous night—exhausted, feverish, barely able to stand—flashed in her mind. He wasn't just dedicated; he was being pushed to his limits. What was he doing in those early morning hours? And why was everyone turning a blind eye?

Soo Jin stared down at the seaweed soup container wrapped in the delicate floral bojagi, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns of pinks and greens that wound their way across the fabric. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip as she turned the container slowly in her hands, the gentle warmth of the soup seeping through the cloth and into her fingertips. It was comforting, in a way—her mother's soup, a lifeline of care she had once reserved only for Jin Ho. Now, it was Heero who needed it.

But Heero wasn't here.

She glanced at his empty desk across the room, the chair still tucked neatly under it, as though waiting for him to return at any moment. The longer she stared, the more unsettled she became, a cold dread curling tightly in her chest. The questions she couldn't answer swirled in her mind: What was Heero doing when he went upstairs? Why was he working such brutal hours, unseen by everyone but her? Why was no one else noticing? Or rather, why was everyone ignoring the obvious?

Whatever he was doing, it was taking a toll—and no one seemed to care.

Soo Jin hesitated for a moment before turning back to her computer. She stared at her screen, fingers poised above the keyboard, the cursor blinking expectantly in the blank email draft. Her mind was racing, each thought crashing into the next, but she forced herself to focus. She had to do something.

Taking a deep breath, she began typing, her fingers moving cautiously over the keys: "I hope you're okay."

The words felt inadequate, but they were all she could manage. Her hand hovered over the keyboard for a moment as she entered Heero's name in the "To" box. There it was, stark and formal: "Agent Heero Yuy – Cyber Threat Analyst" . The title felt distant, official, while her words were anything but.

Her finger hesitated above the "send" button, the cursor blinking back at her, almost daring her to act. She stared at his name, the title in front of it a reminder of the distance between them—professional, detached, yet here she was, worried. She took another breath, steadied herself, and finally, with a small, determined motion, hit "send".

It was done. The email was gone, floating into cyberspace, and yet the knot in her chest only tightened.

Soo Jin tried to bury herself in work, going through her endless to-do list, checking off tasks mechanically, but her eyes kept flickering to her inbox, waiting for the notification that never came. Every few minutes, her gaze darted to the corner of the screen, anticipating that tiny ping—nothing.

The office hummed on around her, the steady rhythm of keyboard clicks filling the air, but for her, time seemed to crawl. She tapped her fingers restlessly on her desk, stealing another glance at Heero's empty chair, the emptiness gnawing at her.

A soft rustling sound pulled her attention, and she watched as the cleaning lady made her rounds, quietly dusting and rearranging items on each desk. The older woman moved with practiced ease, her movements careful not to disturb the agents typing away. When she reached Heero's desk, she paused, her eyes narrowing in disapproval as she spotted the half-empty espresso cup.

Soo Jin watched her, holding her breath for some unknown reason.

The cleaning lady muttered to herself, shaking her head as she picked up the cup with a small huff, wiping the stained circle beneath it with quick, efficient strokes. Soo Jin's chest tightened, a sharp, unexpected pain blooming in her heart. That cup—it was the only trace of Heero left behind, a small, fragile testament to the exhaustion he had felt the night before. And now, just like that, it was erased, wiped clean as though it had never existed.

The sight hurt her in a way she hadn't anticipated. Heero was always so careful, so meticulous, never leaving anything out of place. Everything about him was neat and controlled, like he couldn't afford to let anything slip. And yet, for once, he had. A single, quiet sign of his weariness—left behind in the form of a half-empty cup, a faint coffee stain—and even that was treated as an inconvenience, something to be cleared away without a second thought.

Soo Jin felt the ache in her chest deepen, a pounding pain that echoed with the knowledge that Heero's small lapse, his moment of vulnerability, had been wiped away as though it never mattered.

The pain lingered, sharp and raw, as Soo Jin watched the cleaning lady move on, unaware of the weight she had just swept away. Soo Jin bit down hard on her lip, a flicker of frustration rising to the surface, pushing through the ache. If no one else noticed, if no one else cared, then she would.

Turning back to her screen, her resolve solidified. She couldn't just sit here and watch as Heero's struggles were erased like that coffee stain. Her fingers moved with purpose as she opened the company's secure direct messaging software, her mind made up. She quickly typed the message into Heero's chat window: "Just making sure you're okay".

She hit "send" without hesitation this time, her heart pounding not from doubt, but from the urgency of her concern. But almost immediately, her heart sank when she noticed the icon beside the message—it hadn't been delivered. His laptop, or the app on his phone, must have been off.

She glanced at Heero's clean, empty desk, now stripped of the last sign of his presence. A cold dread settled in her chest, one that felt eerily familiar. It gnawed at her, just like that night, on Christmas AC 195, when Jin Ho hadn't even texted a simple "Merry Christma" . Back then, she knew—felt it in her bones—that her big brother was dead. That same creeping anxiety clawed at her now, irrational as it was. Heero had only fallen ill, she told herself. But the thought wouldn't leave her—that maybe he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, and no one was the wiser. Soo Jin couldn't sit idle any longer.

Her hand drifted toward the sleek black phone by her keyboard, fingers brushing over the cool screen. Inhaling deeply, she released a sharp breath and picked it up. Unlocking it with her fingerprint, she opened the contact list containing the names of every agent in the Seoul branch. She typed "Yuy" into the search bar, isolating his entry—but then paused, her finger hovering over the messaging icon. There it was again, that formal title: "Agent Heero Yuy – Cyber Threat Analyst".

Something didn't feel right.

Soo Jin set the work phone down and reached for her purse instead. She pulled out her personal phone—brightly adorned with a colorful case and a beaded charm. Glancing between the two phones, she copied Heero's number into her personal contacts, feeling an odd sense of relief as she saved it under Heero Yuy. The person, not the agent.

Hesitating only for a moment, she typed out a message: "It's Soo Jin. This is my personal number. If you need anything, please let me know." She hit "send", her pulse quickening. Her thumb lingered over the screen for a second before she set the phone down, feeling the weight of her actions settle in.

Minutes turned into an hour, and still no response. It was almost lunchtime, and the unease in her stomach hadn't lifted. She checked her phone again, frowning when she saw the message still hadn't been delivered. Something was wrong.

Her phone buzzed, and for a fleeting second, her heart jumped—until she saw it was a message from Seo Yun in their group chat.

Yun-ah: [Drinks tonight? I could use some unwinding! 🍹]

Mi Cha replied almost immediately:

Mi-ah: [Sorry, working the graveyard shift at the hospital ️👩 ️]

Soo Jin's fingers hovered over her phone, and then she typed:

Soo Jin: [Not in the mood, maybe next time...]

Yun-ah: [Old hags...😒]

Seo Yun replied with a sad emoji, but Soo Jin barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere, stuck in the loop of worry circling around Heero. She checked her message to him again—still undelivered.

The memory of his fevered face flashed in her mind—the way his body had leaned into hers for support, even as he insisted he didn't need it. Her chest tightened, the image of his pale, exhausted expression gnawing at her. He had looked so unwell, and the idea of him suffering alone, unreachable, made her feel suddenly desperate.

Her hand hovered over her phone, her thumb trembling as she pulled up his number. She hesitated, staring at the screen, her breath coming in shallow bursts. What if he didn't pick up? Or worse, what if she was crossing a line he wasn't ready for her to cross? Heero had let her in, if only a little, and that small gesture meant more than it would from anyone else. But this—this felt different. Like an intrusion.

Her thumb brushed against the dial icon, and for a moment, she pulled back, afraid of what she might hear on the other end—or worse, afraid of the silence that might confirm she had gone too far. Was she pushing him away by trying to reach out now? What if he resented her for it?

But the worry overpowered her hesitation.

With a shaky exhale, she pressed "dial".

Her heart immediately lurched as the call connected, the faint sound of the line clicking into place. A dial tone echoed in her ear, sharp and loud, making her flinch. Each ring that followed felt endless, the sound expanding in the quiet space around her, punctuated only by her shallow breaths.

Her fingers drummed anxiously against the desk, faster now, in sync with the rapid beat of her pulse. The tension in her chest tightened with every unanswered ring. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry as her mind raced with a million thoughts. What would she even say if he picked up? How do you tell someone who refuses to show their vulnerability that you see them—that you want to help? Would he resent her for it? Would he just hang up? And then what?

Her thumb hovered near the screen, the urge to end the call building with every passing second, but she couldn't bring herself to stop.

The phone kept ringing, each tone landing like a blow, her heart pounding harder in response. Then, for a split second, there was silence—a moment so brief she barely registered it—and her breath caught in her throat. It was connecting.

Her heart skipped a beat, panic rising in her chest. Was it him? Was he about to speak? Her mind went blank. What was she going to say? She wasn't ready. Her fingers tensed, frozen over the phone as she waited, dreading the sound of his voice, afraid of what it would mean.

But instead, a flat, mechanical female voice filled the silence: "The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable..."

Relief and disappointment crashed over her all at once. Her muscles loosened, and she let out a long, shaky breath. It wasn't him. It was just his voicemail. A strange mix of frustration and relief flooded her senses, leaving her sitting there, deflated. She hadn't been prepared to hear his voice, but the emptiness of the automated message felt even worse.

His phone was off. He wasn't just ignoring her—he was unreachable. The knot in her stomach tightened, solidifying her suspicions.

She couldn't stay here any longer.

Glancing down at the floral-patterned fabric covering the seaweed soup, Soo Jin knew what she had to do. She quickly gathered her things, stuffing her phone into her purse before reaching for the carefully wrapped container. The warmth of it against her palm was a reminder of the care she was carrying—care that she couldn't offer him if she stayed in the office.

It was lunchtime, and the building buzzed with agents heading downstairs to eat. She slipped quietly into the stairwell instead of taking the elevator, her heart racing as she descended the steps. She couldn't bear the thought of being crammed into the elevator with other agents, their eyes questioning her rush, or—worse—hearing someone like Agent Lee make a snide remark about the homemade soup she was carrying. Right now, she needed space. She needed to act. She needed to see Heero.

Armed with Heero's address stored on her phone, Soo Jin descended the stairwell, her hurried footsteps echoing in a frantic rhythm that matched the swirl of worry and resolve churning in her mind.