Internship (in) Love | A Gundam Wing K-Drama
Chapter 8
The rain had started early that morning, a soft but relentless drizzle tapping against the floor-to-ceiling windows like the ticking of a distant clock. From seven stories up, the streets of Seoul were a blur—their usual vibrancy dulled beneath a gray veil that hung low over the city.
Inside the Cyber Threat Analysis office, everything seemed muted, shrouded under the same overcast sky. For Soo Jin, the soft hum of computers, the muffled ring of phones, and the occasional shuffle of footsteps across the carpet felt distant, barely breaking through the blanket of rain cocooning the building.
The quiet rhythm of the office synced with the steady anticipation building in her chest, the anxious pull that had drawn her in early that morning. She had hoped that Heero would already be at his desk, focused as ever on one of his meticulous tasks. But his chair sat empty, his monitors dark. The sight felt as hollow and unsettling as Jin Ho's shrine back home.
The thought left her feeling foolish. Absurd, really, to expect him to be back so soon. Absurd—and hypocritical. She had told herself she saw him—the real Heero, not the myth of unshakable strength that everyone else clung to. Yet here she was, holding him to the same impossible standard: bounce back, keep going, no matter what. It wasn't fair. Seaweed soup and porridge couldn't erase the toll of relentless overwork. Heero wasn't beyond human—she knew that better than anyone now. She shouldn't treat him like he was.
And yet… on the subway ride over, a small, ridiculous hope had fluttered inside her. A hope that he'd recover overnight, rise from his bed like nothing had happened, as if invincibility were a given for someone like him. But he hadn't. And each glance at his empty desk reminded her of his absence, the gnawing ache of wishing she could have done more.
Her stomach twisted, frustration prickling beneath her skin. She had done everything she could—everything he'd let her do. Heero had limits, boundaries he wouldn't let her cross, and she had respected them. She had left when he needed her to.
Still, the thought lingered. Perhaps she shouldn't have.
Her gaze fell on the black umbrella Heero had lent her a couple of nights ago, resting beside her own bright, floral one. The sight of them together tugged at her unease, drawing her back to that rainy night—Heero soaked through, walking away from the subway, his Preventer jacket clinging to his lean frame. Broad-shouldered, with a slim waist that cut the ideal masculine shape, and long limbs that moved with quiet precision, Heero exuded a physical intensity that radiated power and control. The image of him walking away in the rain was burned into her mind.
She'd been thrilled then, finding his chivalrous gesture with the umbrella almost romantic, like a scene pulled from a television drama. But now, that memory felt different—reckless, almost self-destructive, as though he could discard himself as easily as he'd handed over the umbrella. His confident posture and graceful movements spoke of strength, yet there was something fragile beneath it all, something cracked and splintered, as though the strength he carried was holding together pieces that threatened to fall apart.
For all his composure, she couldn't shake the sense that Heero believed he didn't matter at all. His lean, muscular build was a testament to discipline and power, but it betrayed nothing of the brittleness she had glimpsed beneath his surface—the quiet, invisible wounds no amount of strength could protect against.
Soo Jin sighed, dropping her gaze to a blank post-it in front of her. The steady tapping of the rain against the windows filled the office, amplifying her agitation. She picked up her pen, biting her lip as she wrote:
'I'm so sorry you fell ill—'
The words felt clumsy, wrong. She groaned softly and scratched the note out in frustration before crumpling it into a tight ball and tossing it into the bin with more force than necessary. Apologies wouldn't help; they would only cheapen what Heero had done for her.
After a pause, she grabbed another post-it, inhaling slowly as she set the pen to the paper again. This time, her writing was more deliberate:
'Thank you for letting me borrow your umbrella.'
She stared at the words for a moment, nodding to herself. It was simple. Direct. No apologies, no overthinking, no pity. Just acknowledgement. Heero didn't need to feel pitied, scrutinized, or handled like something fragile. What he needed—what she needed—was to treat him as she would anyone else. To show him that his kindness hadn't gone unnoticed, that he wasn't someone to be discarded or overlooked.
Heero deserved to be seen—not as the indestructible soldier everyone believed him to be, nor as the aloof, distant man who seemed indifferent to those around him. He deserved to be seen as a person—with thoughts and feelings, with strengths and vulnerabilities. A man who had offered her an umbrella in the rain. A man who had pouted childishly and whispered truths he never intended to share.
Her fingers tightened around the edges of the post-it, the paper softening from how hard she held it. Her gaze lingered on Heero's empty desk. Her thumb brushed over the words she'd written. Thinking about the things Heero had revealed to her—however unintentionally—made her feel like she owed him this. A promise to treat him not as a myth or a broken man, but as a colleague. A friend, even.
Yes. She would start there. Simple, normal. Treat him as she would anyone else.
The door opened, and Soo Jin's head snapped up, her breath catching. Her heart jumped—but it was only Agent Baek, muttering under his breath as he stomped past, a damp, plastic-wrapped umbrella dangling from his hand. She exhaled, sinking back into her chair, her pulse steadying.
Why was she so jumpy? It wasn't Heero. It couldn't be.
Her fingers traced absently along the edge of her keyboard as she tried to pull herself back into focus. Reports to file, the personnel system to update. She still hadn't logged her lunch choice. Yet the rhythmic tapping of rain against the windows seemed louder, each drop tugging her attention back to where she didn't want it to go.
Fragments from yesterday replayed in her mind: Heero's pale, trembling form under the blanket, his cheeks flushed with fever. The low, fractured murmurs escaping him, words she wasn't meant to hear. For a brief moment, he had let her in, sharing a version of himself hidden from the world.
But then, he'd warned her not to expect it again. The boundary he'd drawn had been firm, and Soo Jin had respected it, leaving his apartment with a professional distance restored. Yet the memory of his vulnerability, his quiet humanity, lingered.
She wanted to see more of that Heero. The one with raw honesty in his blue eyes, who thought himself undeserving of care yet accepted it when it came. The one who, in his sickness, had allowed her to witness the man behind the walls. The longing to see him again—unguarded, even for a fleeting moment—twisted in her chest, tightening with each glance at the empty desk across the room.
Her gaze lingered there, her fingers tightening around her pen. When Heero finally walked through that door, which version of him would she see? The guarded agent who kept the world at arm's length, or the person who had let her in, even just a little? She knew it was selfish to hope for the latter, but the thought of it sent anxious ripples through her stomach. A word, a glance, some acknowledgment of what they'd shared—she craved it more than she wanted to admit.
The rain picked up outside, droplets striking the windows harder, the sound echoing through the office. Footsteps passed by her desk now and then, muffled against the carpet—but none of them were his.
And still, she waited.
Her eyes fell again on the black umbrella resting beside her desk, a quiet reminder of a connection she couldn't quite name. Her fingers itched to reach for it, to feel the smooth handle and the weight of the gesture Heero had made that night. But the thought of being caught in such an act made her cringe. She shook her head and reached instead for the thank-you note she'd written earlier, its small, square surface soft and crinkled from how tightly she had been holding it.
Taking a deep breath, Soo Jin stood and walked to Heero's empty desk. The sight of his neatly arranged space, the chair tucked precisely into place, made her hesitate. Her fingers hovered over the umbrella's handle before she finally tucked the note beneath it, positioning it so the edge peeked out.
She stepped back, surveying the scene. For a fleeting moment, it felt like closure—a small way to reach out, to show she cared, even in his absence. She imagined him finding it, his hand brushing the note as he picked up the umbrella. Would he understand what she wanted to say? Would he see her intention?
But as she turned back toward her desk, doubt began to creep in.
By the time she reached her chair, her thoughts were swirling. What if someone else saw it before him? What if he misunderstood, thinking she was returning it in his absence to avoid further contact? What if he didn't want anyone to notice the connection between them? What if she was crossing yet another boundary?
The more she thought, the more the weight of the gesture felt wrong—too exposed, too vulnerable. She pushed her chair back abruptly and spun on her heels, heading back to his desk.
Standing over the umbrella and the thank you note, Soo Jin stared at them for a long moment. Her chest tightened. Heero wouldn't approve of something so public, so obvious. This wasn't their way, not the quiet understanding they seemed to share.
With a sigh, she snatched the note back, crumpling it into her fist and slipping it into her pocket. Heero deserved something private, something personal—something that wasn't just left out in the open for the world to see.
She returned to her chair, sinking into it heavily, her fingers grazing the crumpled paper in her pocket. It pulsed with an imaginary rhythm, a reminder of her indecision. No, this wasn't how she wanted to reach out. She would wait for Heero to return and say it to him directly—face to face, where her words wouldn't get lost, and he would know they were meant only for him.
Soo Jin tried to focus on her work, but her mind refused to cooperate. Her eyes drifted to the report open on her screen, the words blurring as her thoughts pulled back to Heero. Was he resting? Was he drinking enough water? Eating? Had he taken medication? Each unanswered question piled onto her growing urge to check in, just to make sure he was okay. It was what friends did, wasn't it? Surely, he'd understand.
She stared blankly at her screen, her fingers hovering immobile over the keyboard. Maybe a text message would be better. It wasn't unreasonable, was it? A quick check-in, something casual. That's what friends did for each other. Perfectly normal. She shouldn't tread lightly around him or second-guess every word she said. She should treat him with the normalcy he deserved. No eggshells, no overcompensating. Just normal.
Her hand moved to her purse, pulling out her phone. The bright casing and the little charm clinked softly as she unlocked it. She swiped to their chat screen, her heart skipping when she saw her first message still sitting there—unread and unanswered: 'It's Soo Jin. This is my personal number. If you need anything, please let me know.'
She hesitated, her fingers poised above the keyboard, then slowly typed: 'I hope you're feeling better.'
Her thumb hovered over the send button, and the knot in her stomach tightened. She stared at the message, imagining how it might come across—too pushy? Too personal? Her finger trembled, but with a sharp exhale, she hit the backspace key, watching the words vanish one by one.
So much for not second-guessing herself.
Frustration prickled at the edges of her composure. She set the phone down with more force than intended and reached for her work phone instead. The black, impersonal device felt more appropriate, a reminder to keep things professional. She typed a new message: ' How are you?'
Her thumb hovered again. This was different, wasn't it? It was work-related, part of her job's routine. But it didn't feel routine. It still felt personal, like crossing an invisible line. Soo Jin clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she deleted the message. What was the point? Sending it wouldn't make him respond, and even if he did, what would she say next?
The phones sat side by side on her desk. She stared at them, torn between the desire to reach out and the fear of overstepping. Boundaries. He had made them clear. She must respect them, no matter how much she wanted to know if he was okay.
Soo Jin leaned back in her chair, her hands falling into her lap. Her fingers itched for the phones, but she forced herself to stop. For now, at least.
"Morning, Soo Jin-ah!"
Agent Lee's sprightly voice sliced through her thoughts, loud and uninvited. Soo Jin jumped, her hand instinctively covering her phones as if shielding a secret. He strolled over, grinning like he had caught her in the act.
Lee perched on the edge of her desk, his posture casual but invasive. His eyes flicked over her workspace, lingering on the two phones.
"Why so glum this morning?" he asked, tilting his head with feigned concern, though the teasing edge in his voice hinted at something else.
Soo Jin forced a tight smile, her pulse quickening. "Just family stuff," she replied lightly, her fingers shuffling papers in a bid to appear busy.
Lee didn't budge, his grin widening. He leaned in slightly, close enough that Soo Jin caught the cloying scent of his cologne. "Family, huh?" His eyes flicked meaningfully to her personal phone. "Sounds complicated."
"Yes, it is," Soo Jin said, her voice clipped but polite, her fingers now rearranging a perfectly organized stack of documents. "And I have a lot of work to catch up on, Agent Lee, so…"
Lee's grin didn't waver. "Oh, I'm sure you do," he said breezily, crossing his arms. "Funny, though. You had a lot of work yesterday too, didn't you? Yet you managed to vanish around lunchtime." He tapped his chin in mock thought. "Why, with you and Yuy gone, things got a bit lonely around this part of the office."
The insinuation twisted Soo Jin's stomach. Her fingers froze mid-motion, and her forced smile faltered. "It was… that family emergency," she said, not meeting his gaze as she slid a stack of papers into her drawer.
"Ah, yes, of course," Lee nodded, his tone dripping with mock understanding. "Ever the dutiful daughter." His grin sharpened, a glint in his eyes making Soo Jin's pulse spike. "Any man would be lucky to have you."
Heat crept up Soo Jin's neck, her hand brushing the edge of her desk as if to steady herself. "Thank you, Agent Lee," she said curtly, her tone clipped as she struggled to keep her composure.
Lee chuckled under his breath, leaning back just enough to loosen the tension—but not entirely. "Anytime, Soo Jin-ah. Unlike some people, you can always count on me to notice." His grin remained fixed, daring her to react, the unspoken challenge hanging between them.
Soo Jin's lips parted, but no words came. What was he implying? That Heero wasn't worth her efforts? What did he know, anyway?
Frustration swelled, her spite bubbling just beneath the surface. A sharp retort tickled the back of her throat, her chest tightening with the urge to put him in his place. Her cheeks burned, and her whole body tensed in her seat. But before she could say something she might regret, her desk phone rang—a piercing interruption that shattered the moment and sent a wave of relief coursing through her.
Soo Jin seized the receiver like a lifeline, her tone brisk and professional. "Yes, sir?"
Lee lingered a moment longer, smirking as he hopped off her desk. He sent her one last look over his shoulder, waving lazily as he sauntered away. Soo Jin barely acknowledged him, turning her focus to the call.
"Miss Park," Director Jeong's clipped voice came through the line. "Is Yuy back yet?"
"No, sir," she replied, sitting straighter, a formal tone slipping instinctively into her voice.
"Still sick? It's been two days."
"I'll check in, sir," she offered, though she knew Heero might not answer.
A sharp exhale. "Nah, forget it." The line cut off abruptly, leaving behind a tense silence.
From across the office, Lee caught her eye and sent her a wink before settling at his desk. Soo Jin groaned inwardly, turning back to her computer. She wished Heero were here. Not that she couldn't handle Lee—guys like him were easy enough to brush off. But something about having Heero around made her feel stronger, steadier.
The way she used to feel when her big brother was there, ready to step in when things got uncomfortable.
Not that Heero was the brotherly type—not at all. But there was something about him that made her feel protected. It was the way he carried himself, a quiet confidence that grounded her, too. She trusted that, no matter what, he'd have her back. Even if he was just across the room, silent and intense, she felt a calm she couldn't explain. It wasn't comfort or warmth—it was something stronger. Unyielding.
There was a steady, silent way he seemed tuned into her, as if he noticed things without ever looking directly her way. Heero's presence felt like an invisible thread connecting them—one he tugged on quietly, his respect for her something she sensed rather than saw. She couldn't explain it, but knowing he was there made her feel understood, even if he never spoke a word.
She tapped her fingers against her keyboard, realizing how much she missed that calmness, missed the strength he gave her. Heero's mere presence, quiet yet steady, made her feel less alone, as though it wasn't just her against this male-dominated world. Without ever trying, he became a trusted ally.
She wanted to reach out, to check in. Her thumb hovered over her personal phone's screen, already drafting another message, but she paused. No. Boundaries.
With a soft sigh, she switched to her computer and drafted an email. This had to stay professional.
She typed quickly: 'Director Jeong needs to know when you're coming back. Please let me know when you can.'
Soo Jin sent the email, the familiar knot of tension forming in her chest as she waited. She didn't expect an immediate reply—Heero wasn't the type to respond to trivialities. Still, her eyes flicked back to her inbox more often than she cared to admit, her focus wavering between the report on her screen and the empty notification bar.
Minutes ticked by, the office settling into its usual rhythm—the faint hum of computers, distant conversations, and the soft patter of rain against the windows. Soo Jin forced herself to focus, clicking through files and typing half-hearted notes to sum up meeting minutes, but the email lingered at the edge of her thoughts.
Her inbox remained silent.
She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes. Then fifteen. A twinge of doubt crept in. Was she overstepping by emailing him? What if he thought she was prying? Her fingers tapped nervously against the edge of her desk as she stared at her screen, willing it to light up.
Twenty minutes.
The chime of a new message broke through her spiral of second-guessing. Soo Jin's heart jumped, her breath catching as she clicked the notification.
'Not for a while.'
Relief rushed through her, untying the knot in her chest. He had replied—not much, but enough. A small flicker of pride warmed her as she realized he hadn't ignored her message like he had the one she'd sent from her personal phone. She was learning how to approach him, how to meet him on his terms. It was a small victory, but it felt significant. A step in the right direction.
Her fingers rested on the keyboard, her mind racing. She didn't know why she felt so invested in him, why it mattered so much that he hadn't brushed her off completely. But she couldn't deny it. She wanted to be close to him—not just for his sake, but for hers too.
For the first time in years, she felt herself pursuing something that wasn't about school or work, that wasn't to earn her parents' approval or defy their expectations. This—whatever it was with Heero—was hers, entirely her own. And that quiet realization fueled her resolve. She could do this. She would do this. She needed this.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words 'Get well soon ' typed out, the small smiley face already blinking on the screen. But she hesitated. Heero had already responded—a rarity in itself. Another message might risk crossing the line, pushing too far when he clearly valued distance.
With a quiet sigh, she deleted the draft and closed her email. He wouldn't see it as her being indifferent—if anything, he might appreciate the silence. Respecting his pace wasn't just about giving him space; it was about showing that she understood him.
Soo Jin leaned back in her chair, letting herself feel the quiet joy of his reply. Small as it was, it was progress. She was learning, step by step, how to meet him where he was.
On the fourth day of Heero's absence, Soo Jin arrived at the office earlier than usual. She shrugged off her coat, slipping her scarf from around her neck, and hung them neatly on the rack by the door. Her bright floral umbrella, still damp and wrapped in a plastic sheet, found its place at her desk beside Heero's plain black one—waiting quietly for his return, a silent reminder of an exchange left unfinished.
Soo Jin reached into her bag and pulled out the thermos of seaweed soup, carefully wrapped in a colorful Korean bojagi. The bright fabric stood out against the muted gray of the office. Placing it on her desk, Soo Jin glanced at Heero's empty chair by the window. That morning, as she had passed the pot resting in its usual place on her mother's stove, something stirred within her—a quiet prompting to bring the soup today. Knowing it would soon spoil, destined to be poured down the sink like always, Soo Jin felt an unexpected urge to offer Heero another portion of the dish reserved solely for Jin Ho. She couldn't explain it, but it felt right.
Her eyes lingered on Heero's desk, the monitors dark and silent, the chair pushed neatly in place, waiting for its owner. It had been four days, and though she told herself it was good he was taking time to recover, the growing emptiness across the room gnawed at her. She imagined handing him the soup, envisioning his quiet nod or a rare thank-you. Maybe he'd glance at her, just for a moment, and acknowledge everything they'd shared in the privacy of his apartment.
Soo Jin shook off the thought and settled into her chair. The morning passed in small, steady tasks—emails, schedule updates, logging her lunch choice in the system. Her hands moved automatically, but her mind wandered too easily, drawn to the bright thermos on her desk and the man whose absence weighed more than she wanted to admit.
The muffled slam of the stairwell door echoed faintly down the hall, breaking the monotony. Soo Jin froze, fingers hovering above the keyboard, listening. Silence stretched, then footsteps—steady, purposeful, each one cutting through the quiet. Her pulse quickened, tension coiling in her chest as the sound grew closer. The department door opened, and there it was: his familiar, measured stride on the carpet.
A faint hint of cologne followed, clean and sharp. Soo Jin turned slowly, her heart racing with anticipation and dread.
Heero moved through the office like a shadow, cold and distant, his posture rigid, his steps calculated. His clean-shaven face held sharp, unyielding focus, his brown contact lenses back in place. Even his hair was freshly dyed, the stark black erasing the lighter roots she'd glimpsed just days ago.
An ache hit her before she could steel herself. This was the same man she'd nursed through fever, the one who'd let her in. Yet now, that Heero felt like a phantom—a fragile, fleeting version of himself that had vanished completely. She gripped the armrests, fighting the hollow pang of loss for something that had felt so achingly real.
Heero stopped in front of her desk, his cologne faint but unmistakable, lingering like the last trace of something familiar. Soo Jin drew in a breath, steadying herself as she looked up to meet his gaze. His artificially brown eyes locked onto hers—impassive, cutting—a silent warning against further trespass.
Her fingers twitched beside the thermos. She opened her mouth to speak, but his gaze darted to the thermos first. A faint flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—flashed across his face, only to vanish as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by the stoic mask he wore like armor.
Forcing a small, uncertain smile, Soo Jin swallowed the knot in her throat. "Good morning, Agent Yuy," she said, her voice softer than she intended. "Good to have you back."
Heero nodded, brisk and impersonal, and reached into his duty jacket. He pulled out a folded note, holding it carefully by the edges as he tilted it towards her. His fingers hovered close to hers as he offered it, but he avoided any contact with a precision that felt deliberate. The distance stung, sharper than if he'd ignored her entirely.
She accepted the doctor's note, her smile faltering as the cool paper met her fingertips. "Are you feeling better?" she asked, her tone quiet, tentative—a small plea to bridge the widening gap.
"Fine," he replied, the single word clipped, detached, final.
The word struck like a blow, shattering her attempt at connection. Soo Jin glanced down at the note in her hand, its clinical neatness underscoring the sterile tone of their exchange. She'd hoped for something more—a glance, a word, anything that acknowledged what had passed between them.
"I'm glad," she said quietly, her voice catching on the edges of the words.
Heero's only response was a small, disinterested nod, his eyes already shifting away as if the conversation was a box he'd ticked. Without another word, he turned and walked to his desk, leaving her standing there as if she hadn't spoken at all.
She watched as Heero reached his desk. He pulled out his chair, sat, and logged into his computer with detached efficiency, his focus entirely fixed on the screens.
Her gaze drifted to the container of soup sitting on her desk. Heat prickled at her cheeks as doubt crept in. The gesture suddenly felt foolish—misplaced—but she pushed the thought aside.
The sudden distance had to be a show for the office—that was the only explanation. Heero was maintaining appearances, keeping up his careful mask. She told herself he didn't want to risk anyone else seeing what she had seen, the cracks in his guarded façade, the man who had whispered truths feverishly in the dark.
Come lunchtime, she will approach him in the privacy of the stairwell. Then, it would be different. She was certain of it. In the quiet space away from prying eyes, he might feel more at ease.
Her fingers brushed the thermos, a quiet warmth building in her chest. She thought back to how Heero had let her sit with him on the stairs, even sharing his protein bar without a word. That small, unspoken connection had felt monumental then. It had been enough to give her hope, to remind her that even Heero Yuy, with his walls and cold demeanor, could be reached.
Yes. She would join him again. She would find him on the seventh-floor landing—their quiet, unofficial meeting place—and sit with him for lunch. Nothing pushy. No strained conversation. Just a mundane moment between two colleagues sitting together quietly. Perfectly normal.
The morning dragged on, each tick of the clock drawing Soo Jin's attention away from the reports and emails she tried to focus on. Heero sat only a few desks away, but the gulf between them felt immeasurable. The click of his keyboard was steady, unbroken, as though his hands operated independently of him. He never shifted his gaze, not even for a moment.
Soo Jin's eyes drifted to the office clock. Nearly lunchtime. She straightened in her chair, her pulse quickening with anticipation.
But as the clock struck 11:50 AM, Director Jeong's office phone rang, cutting sharply into the tense silence. Soo Jin's attention snapped to the sound, her stomach sinking at the clipped tone of Jeong's brief conversation. She watched as he hung up with a snap and strode out of his office, his expression tense.
"Yuy," Jeong barked from the doorway, "Upstairs. Now."
Tension settled over the office like a shroud. People paused and turned to look at Heero. Soo Jin shifted her gaze towards him anxiously.
His posture tensed. His fingers stilled on the keyboard. For a fraction of a second, she thought she saw something crack in his façade. A flash of apprehension, followed by tired resignation. Then, he moved. His chair slid back slowly, his movements stiff as he stood and reached for his jacket mechanically. The hollowness in his expression struck her. He wasn't the person she had come to know in his apartment, nor the composed man she had known at the office. He seemed like someone else entirely—someone stretched too thin.
Heero slipped his jacket over his shoulders, his gaze fixed forward. Worry coiled in her chest, tightening with every step he took. She opened her mouth, her voice trembling, barely above a whisper. "Heero…"
He didn't stop. He didn't look at her. His stride was steady, his focus the doors unyielding, as if he hadn't heard her—or perhaps had chosen not to. The sight of his retreating figure, so unresponsive, twisted the ache in her chest into something sharp. Stabbing.
As soon as he passed through the department doors, Soo Jin leaned forward, peering through the glass. Heero paused by the elevator, his hand brushing the call button. For a moment, he stood there, his posture tense, as though weighing a choice. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders slumped. His hand dropped, and with heavy steps, he turned away, heading to the stairwell instead.
Soo Jin watched as the firedoor thudded shut behind him, the sound reverberating in her ears, final and cold.
The conference room door opened with a quiet hiss, and Heero stepped inside, his movements a careful line between hesitation and resignation. Dim overhead lighting cast long shadows across the polished table, the sterile glow barely cutting through the oppressive darkness. The air felt dense, suffocating in its quiet authority.
His footsteps echoed as he approached the far end of the table. He couldn't see their faces—only the glint of mirrored glasses catching the faint light as they observed him in unbroken silence. Their scrutiny seared into him. He sat, his posture rigid, fists tightening on his lap, each muscle taut.
A large monitor flickered to life on the wall ahead, its cold blue light reflecting off the polished wood. The shadowed figure onscreen leaned forward slightly, its voice clipped and detached.
"Agent Yuy," it began in English, words as unyielding as the silence that followed. "You've been summoned to discuss your next assignment."
Heero stared at the table, the smooth surface mirroring his own carefully controlled expression. "It's been less than a week," he replied, also in English, his voice steady, though tension coiled beneath the surface.
Hushed murmurs followed, low and clipped, before another voice answered, sharp and unfeeling. "Protocol allows it," it said with a British accent, "We're still within the safety margin."
His shoulders sagged slightly as he exhaled. The word he spoke felt hollow in his throat. "Understood."
Another figure spoke, its tone carrying the sharp edge of disdain. "Funds were allocated to accommodate your transfer to Seoul on the condition that you fulfill your duties—without delay, without excuse. If you can't meet these expectations, we'll arrange for your return to HQ. Operations would be pleased to have you back."
The reminder of his tenuous freedom twisted something deep in his chest. The cost of this illusion—of distance, of autonomy—was one he couldn't afford to dwell on. He forced himself to meet the cold authority of their words with equal detachment.
"No," he said, quietly but firmly, though a simmer of anger slipped into his tone. "I'll handle things from here, as agreed."
"Good," The figure on the monitor nodded once, curt and final. "Proceed as instructed."
The screen blinked off, leaving only the murmured voices of the shadowed figures in the room. They outlined the mission details with the clinical detachment of surgeons discussing a patient: terrain, extraction points, accepted number of fatalities. Heero registered and cataloged the information with attentive nods.
"When does the mission commence?" he then asked, though dread already curled in his gut.
The room paused.
"1500 hours," someone said.
The answer struck him like a blow. His jaw tightened, a slight shift betraying the frustration surging beneath his mask. "That's in less than three hours." He worked to keep his tone neutral, but a sharp edge slipped through, unbidden.
"You've been absent for four days, Yuy," another voice retorted, laced with condescension; "Consider this a courtesy."
"Courtesy?" Heero echoed, his gaze sharpening, the cold edge of his voice cutting through the room. "Sending me in unprepared jeopardizes the mission—"
"You know the stakes." The interruption was swift, imperative, final. "Three hours is more than enough for someone of your caliber."
The reprimand hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Heero swallowed the frustration clawing at his throat. Years of discipline anchored him, forcing his breathing to steady even as the futility of protest crushed any spark of resistance. He knew how this worked. Objecting changed nothing. It never had.
"I understand, sir. But relying solely on a single asset isn't sustainable." His tone was careful, reasoning without defiance. "Isn't that why you've been training Agent Garrison?"
He fought to keep his voice even, threading his logic carefully through the tension in the room. He wasn't trying to evade the mission—he knew that wasn't possible. But the logic was undeniable. Couldn't they see his current state wasn't optimal? That sending him now increased the risk, not reduced it?
"Garrison isn't ready," a cold voice interjected, cutting his argument short. "You'll be notified when he is cleared."
The rebuttal landed like a blow, sharp and final, but the next voice drove the knife deeper. "Perhaps if you hadn't requested this transfer, he would have been ready by now."
Heero's pulse thrummed beneath the surface as the implicit blame coiled tightly around his chest. He forced his face to remain neutral even as the weight of their words pressed harder.
"The Agency will no longer indulge your whims, Agent Yuy," came the terse reminder. "You no longer have the prerogative you once held. Consider your connections burnt. Do as you're told."
The words pressed into him like iron bars, inescapable and final. This was the cage he would never escape. It wasn't a matter of geography—of distancing himself from Brussels by blindly picking a random spot on a map. No matter how far he ran, the demands would follow, imposed on him for his unique and irreplaceable skills. His curse. One that had only been made more painfully clear since his move to Seoul. In trying to widen his world, to claim even a fragment of freedom, he had only made it smaller—realizing just how much more lay beyond his reach.
Soo Jin had stirred something he'd hardly dared to hope for: a sliver of normalcy. She didn't see him as a tool or a soldier. She treated him like a person, like Heero . When she smiled, laughed, or stubbornly matched his steps in the stairwell—so carefree, so real in his presence—she made him feel human again. For the first time in years, he'd believed he'd made the right choice in leaving, in insisting on something beyond his role at Preventer.
But it was an illusion. Foolish.
This room would always be waiting for him, no matter where he went. No matter how far he ran. Even if someone like Soo Jin waited for him outside—someone who made him want to be something more—he could never truly exist without the weight of missions, the calculations, the endless orders.
He would never simply be a guy chatting with a girl.
He would never be normal.
He'd thought the move might grant him distance, but all it had done was tighten the leash.
Another voice broke the silence, scoffing in disdain. "You've already spent what little goodwill you had with the Senator. Don't expect to cash in again."
The faint sound of snickers rippled around the table.
Their laughter cut like a knife, twisting in his gut. The scorn was palpable, laced with mocking insinuation. They didn't need to say it outright—everyone here knew what he had done to secure this transfer, why he had done it, and the price he had paid. In their shadowed circles, secrets never survived; rumor always outran trust.
"Her leverage only goes so far," another voice joined in, deep and mocking.
The words reverberated with bitter truth, a reminder that even his escape had come with strings he'd never wanted, threads that now bound him tighter than before.
"Understood, sir," Heero nodded, his consent automatic.
The figure across the table straightened, delivering the final blow. "The Combat Analysis Room is prepped. You're expected upstairs after this briefing."
Heero ignored the tightening in his chest, knowing the room might be ready, but he was anything but prepared for it. Protest wouldn't change anything—only waste what little remained of himself.
"You're dismissed, Agent Yuy. Or do you have more insubordination you'd like to add to your record?"
Heero's jaw tightened, his body taut as the reprimand bore down on him. Resistance would only deepen their contempt. These people, this room, would never let him forget the cost of even the smallest act of defiance. He would always be reminded of his place, of the cage that confined him.
"No, sir," he said, his voice steady but heavy with resignation.
"1500 hours, Yuy. On the dot."
"Yes, sir."
Heero rose without another word, each motion decisive and controlled, though the weight of their expectations pressed in on every aching joint. He could feel their eyes trailing him as he crossed the room, the quiet hiss of the door closing behind him startlingly loud, as if the sound itself acknowledged all that had been stripped away.
In the dim hallway, his shadow stretched long and distorted before him, mocking the fragmented pieces of himself he left behind with every mission, every step away from what he'd dared to hope for.
He stopped just beyond the door, his fingers curling tightly into fists at his sides. The hallway was silent, save for the low hum of the building's ventilation system. His fists relaxed, his arms hanging heavy at his sides. His chest rose and fell in a deep, deliberate breath, an effort to steady the storm within. He didn't have the luxury of rage or despair, not here. Not now. That came after the mission, when he could no longer hold back the waves of unprocessed trauma.
His hand hovered near the wall, as if he might steady himself against it, but he let it fall away before making contact.
The pause lasted only a heartbeat, but it was enough for him to push the thought of rebellion—of futility—down deep where it belonged. Straightening his shoulders, Heero adjusted his jacket and strode forward, his steps echoing with an unnatural calm, his shadow stretching further ahead as if leading him into the dark.
The stairwell was hushed except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the distant echo of footsteps from floors above. Soo Jin sat on the seventh-floor landing just outside Cyber Threat Analysis, her back leaning against the cool metal railing, a cafeteria takeout bag nestled in her lap. Beside her, Heero's black umbrella and the colorfully wrapped thermos sat waiting, much like she was, in silent expectation.
Tall, narrow windows lined the stairwell, offering slim views of the rain-soaked parking lot below. The rain had grown heavier, falling in steady sheets and tracing rivulets down the glass, turning the cars into dark, glistening shapes under the gray light. Soo Jin's gaze lingered on the rain, her fingers brushing the edge of the thermos beside her. The colorful bojagi was soft under her touch as she traced its folds absentmindedly.
Soo Jin adjusted the thermos beside her, fingers brushing the colorful bojagi as she waited, her thoughts circling the growing distance between them. After grabbing a quick takeout from the cafeteria, she'd hurried back, hoping Heero might come down for lunch too. But now, with the break nearly over and no sign of him, the anticipation pressed heavily against her chest. She had wanted so badly to be there when he returned, hoping this small gesture might remind him he wasn't alone.
Her ears pricked at every sound, straining for his familiar, measured footfalls. She imagined him descending the stairs, offering her one of those unreadable looks before nodding quietly, accepting the gesture without fuss.
The soft click of a door opening above jolted her from her thoughts. Her heart skipped, her body straightening with anticipation. This was it—he was coming back. She quickly tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, rehearsing what she'd say in her mind.
The scrape of a mop handle broke the illusion, followed by the weary shuffle of footsteps. Soo Jin's hope deflated as the cleaning lady emerged, pushing her cart with a sigh.
The older woman moved through the landing, her mop swishing rhythmically across the floor. She paused when her sharp eyes landed on Soo Jin, taking in the thermos and umbrella. Her expression softened into curiosity. "Waiting for someone?"
Soo Jin adjusted the thermos beside her. "No… just taking a break," she said, her voice light but unconvincing.
The woman raised an eyebrow, her mop pausing mid-swipe. "That right?" she muttered, her tone carrying the weight of quiet disbelief. Her sharp gaze flicked to the thermos and umbrella, lingering before settling back on Soo Jin's face. Heat rose to Soo Jin's cheeks.
The older woman straightened, leaning slightly on the mop handle as she took a long, appraising look at Soo Jin. "I usually see that sad-looking young man sitting here around this time," she remarked, her voice gruff but not unkind. She turned back to the floor, grunting softly as she scrubbed at a muddy footprint. "Handsome lad. Quiet. Friend of yours?"
The question caught Soo Jin off guard, her fingers tightening reflexively on the edge of the bojagi. "I… I don't know," she said softly, her voice faltering like the steady rhythm of the mop. She looked away, her gaze settling on the rain-slicked parking lot below. "I'd like to think so."
The woman tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Soo Jin. After a moment, she gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "He doesn't say much," she mused, her voice quieter now, as if sharing a secret. "But he always stands up when I'm cleaning. Moves out of the way without a word. Polite, that one. Too polite, like he's got no one to talk to." She paused, glancing at Soo Jin again with a faint, knowing smile. "Poor boy looks like he's carrying the weight of the world."
The words settled heavily in Soo Jin's chest, like a stone sinking into still water. Her throat tightened, and she stood slowly, clutching the umbrella and thermos close to her chest as if they might shield her from the sudden ache. She stepped aside, murmuring a quiet "Excuse me," so the woman could mop the spot where she had been sitting.
The swish of the mop resumed. "I see him here a lot," the woman continued, her tone conversational but laced with something softer. "Early mornings. Late at night. Doesn't seem to matter when I have a shift—he's still around. Always alone."
"Do you ever see him upstairs?" Soo Jin asked tentatively, her voice barely louder than the rain drumming against the window.
The woman shook her head, her grip tightening on the mop as she worked at a stubborn scuff mark. "Ten is as high as I go, dear," she said matter-of-factly. "Above that, you need special clearance."
"Special clearance? To clean?" Soo Jin frowned, her brow knitting in confusion.
The woman shrugged, straightening and wringing out the mop into the bucket with practiced efficiency. "Beats me. I knew someone who used to clean up on twelve, but she quit some time ago. Seemed eager to get out of here."
"Why?" Soo Jin pressed, her curiosity flaring despite herself.
"Must have seen something she shouldn't have," the woman ventured, her tone nonchalant but her eyes glinting with intrigue. "Whatever it was, it got her quite the severance settlement. Kind of makes me wish I'd be assigned to twelve…"
Soo Jin glanced upward, her gaze following the curve of the stairwell as it spiraled into shadowy heights. The number twelve stood out in her mind, a question mark etched in the fabric of her thoughts. Was that where Heero went when he was called upstairs? The building was 15 stories tall—what could be so special about that single floor?
"If you see him," Soo Jin murmured after a beat, her voice so soft it was nearly lost beneath the sound of the rain. She lowered her head, her eyes meeting the older woman's with a hint of vulnerability. "Tell him I waited?"
The cleaning lady's mop paused mid-swipe, and she looked at Soo Jin with a flicker of surprise, as if searching for something in her expression. After a moment, she nodded slowly, her gaze softening. "Sure, dear," she said with a faint smile. "I'm sure he'd like that."
Soo Jin gave a small, grateful nod, but the ache in her chest only deepened as she turned away. The thermos and umbrella felt heavier in her arms with every step she took towards the office. The familiar gray walls of the department blurred slightly in her vision, though whether it was the rain or her own thoughts clouding her eyes, she couldn't tell.
The Leo thundered through the Cambodian jungle, each massive step sending tremors through the ground. Vibrations registered across its frame as dense jungle foliage yielded under its weight. Sunlight filtered intermittently through the canopy, scattering fragmented light across the mapped terrain. Trees splintered and fell, resistance logged as minor force fluctuations. Hydraulic-driven arms pushed aside thick vines with calibrated precision while sensors mapped the battlefield ahead in detailed overlays.
[GROUND MOISTURE: 87%]
[HYDRAULIC OUTPUT: ADJUSTING: +3.2%]
[TRACTION: OPTIMIZED]
Rain-slicked ground clung to the suit's metal feet, but the hydraulics seamlessly compensated, recalibrating pressure for consistent balance. The Leo's frame towered above the treetops, sensors maximizing data input.
[VISIBILITY: 98%]
[HUMIDITY: 73%]
[CHANCE OF PRECIPITATION: 12%]
[WIND SPEED: 11 KN]
[SURFACE TEMPERATURE: 34.6°C]
[HULL TEMPERATURE: 36.2°C]
[HEAT DISSIPATION: STABLE]
Conditions favored a shock-and-awe offensive. The clear daylight enhanced visual operational parameters. Stealth was unnecessary for this breach-and-clear operation—overwhelming firepower would neutralize enemy defenses.
[PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: BREACH ENEMY COMPLEX]
[SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: SECURE PERIMETER & MAINTAIN]
[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 2.3 KM]
[ETA: 5.5 MIN]
A timer ticked down relentlessly, digits flashing in precise intervals. Heero pushed forward, acceleration sending shockwaves through him as the terrain blurred beneath heavy metal limbs.
[SPEED: 25 KM/H]
[WARNING: UNEVEN TERRAIN]
He advanced, heavy footfalls crushing undergrowth and absorbing the cluttered ground with mechanical precision. Hydraulics hissed, recalibrating balance as the machine compensated for the slope and unstable ground.
[TERRAIN: UNEVEN]
[ADJUSTING FOR SLOPE: 2.5°]
[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 1.9 KM]
[ETA: 4.5 MIN]
Sensors projected a mapped layout onto the HUD, highlighting the complex up ahead, concealed within the dense jungle. Each shattered branch and crushed obstacle registered as negligible resistance points in the data stream. Heero maintained course, its stride calculated for minimal delay. A fallen log appeared on the HUD as an imminent obstacle.
[TERRAIN: OBSTACLE DETECTED]
[HYDRAULICS: RE-ALIGNING]
[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 750 M]
[ETA: 2 MIN]
The HUD brightened, overlaying the complex and its surroundings with bleeping digital markers. Heero honed in on the target ahead—an enemy stronghold obscured by dense vegetation. His right arm lifted with calibrated precision, the massive rifle aligning into firing position.
[WARNING: HOSTILE UNITS DETECTED]
[DISTANCE: 1050 M]
[PROJECTILE SPEED: 900 M/S]
[TIME TO IMPACT: 1.16 SEC]
The rifle adjusted its angle, compensating for environmental variables.
[ARM ANGLE: 67°]
[TRAJECTORY PROJECTION: 89% ACCURACY]
[WIND DRIFT ADJUSTMENT: 0.03° LEFT]
[ENGAGE]
A round fired, the recoil resonating in Heero's bones before being absorbed by the Leo's stabilizers. The projectile connected with its target in a sharp detonation, the enemy Leo disappearing in a flash of light. Shards of metal scattered into the jungle, leaving only silence.
[TARGET: DESTROYED]
Heero surged forward, hydraulics adjusting for thick roots and uneven terrain. Sensors tracked the narrowing path, mapping obstacles.
[OBSTACLE DENSITY: HIGH]
[HYDRAULIC OUTPUT: 4.5% INCREASE]
The jungle's canopy thickened, reducing visibility as the underbrush tangled against the Leo's frame.
[WARNING: INCOMING FIRE DETECTED: RPG]
[ORIGIN: 785 METERS, WEST-SOUTHWEST]
[ANGLE OF ATTACK: ≈11°]
[IMPACT IN: 2.03 SEC]
The RPG streaked through the foliage, its heat signature registering on sensors. The Leo shifted, hydraulics recalibrating for rapid evasion. The projectile missed, detonating to the side in a burst of debris and flame.
[EVASIVE MANEUVER: SUCCESSFUL]
[HYDRAULICS: RECALIBRATING]
[HEAT SIGNATURE: RISING]
[HOSTILES IN RANGE: 4]
Another warning flared as multiple RPGs launched in succession. One struck true, hitting on Heero's left side. The machine lurched, its frame absorbing the impact. Data scrolled across the HUD, registering the extent of the damage.
[LEFT SHOULDER: DAMAGED]
[FIRE DETECTED: LEFT SIDE]
[COOLANT SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
[ARMOR INTEGRITY: 82%]
Smoke billowed from the damaged area, curling into the humid air. Stabilizers engaged, steadying the Leo even as the ground shifted beneath its feet.
[LEFT SHOULDER: DAMAGED]
[FIRE DETECTED: LEFT SIDE]
[COOLANT SYSTEM: ENGAGED]
[ARMOR INTEGRITY: 82%]
Flames licked at the Leo's armor. Heero tilted slightly, stabilizers and gyros compensating for the shift. The underbrush parted as its bulk repositioned, recalibrating for balance. Sensors flagged another heat signature ahead.
[INCOMING FIRE DETECTED: RPG]
[ORIGIN: 720 METERS, WEST-NORTHWEST]
[ANGLE OF ATTACK: ≈9.4°]
[TIME TO IMPACT: 1.53 SEC]
Heero initiated an evasive maneuver, hydraulics hissing as he sidestepped. The RPG missed, detonating on the ground in a burst of dirt and flame. The HUD registered secondary impact debris against the lower hull.
[HULL TEMPERATURE: 69.8°C]
[ARMOR INTEGRITY: 78%]
[COOLANT SYSTEM: TEMPERATURE STABILIZATION ACTIVE]
Mud slicked the terrain, sensors detecting high slippage as Heero adjusted its trajectory.
[TERRAIN: HIGH SLIPPAGE]
[STABILIZATION SYSTEMS: ADJUSTING TRACTION]
As the suit realigned, another alert flashed across the HUD.
[WARNING: MULTIPLE RPGS DETECTED]
[ORIGIN: 3 UNITS, WEST & SOUTHWEST]
[ANGLE OF ATTACK: ≈14°]
[TIME TO IMPACT: 3.07 SEC]
The volleys struck in rapid succession. One round glanced off the left torso, but two more impacted directly in Heero's chest. He stumbled, lurching as shockwaves rippled through the structure.
[IMPACT DETECTED: MULTIPLE]
[ARMOR INTEGRITY: 34%]
[HYDRAULICS: OPERATING AT 70% EFFICIENCY]
[STRUCTURAL DAMAGE: LEFT SHOULDER, TORSO]
Stabilizers strained to compensate, recalibrating under the load. The ground shifted, thick mud clinging to the Leo's feet as Heero fought to regain stability. The HUD pulsed warnings in red, diagnostic data scrolling rapidly across his vision.
Heero's arm shifted instinctively, adjusting for the balance shift as the terrain blurred beneath his feet. Each calculated step became a battle against the uneven ground.
[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 930 M]
[SPEED: 23 KM/H]
[ETA: 2 MIN 30 SEC]
New hostiles flashed on the HUD. Sensors flagged an incoming volley of RPGs, trajectories cutting through the jungle canopy like streaks of fire.
[INCOMING FIRE: MULTIPLE RPGS]
[ANGLE OF ATTACK: ≈11°]
[IMPACT IN: 2.08 SEC]
Heero sidestepped, hydraulics hissing with effort, evading the first projectile. But the next slammed directly into him.
[IMPACT DETECTED]
[CRITICAL DAMAGE: RIGHT SIDE]
[FIRE COUNTERMEASURES ACTIVATED]
[COOLANT DEPLOYED]
The Leo lurched forward, collapsing under the sudden strain. The jungle floor rose up to meet it as the machine crashed into the mud, its damaged limbs tangled in the underbrush.
[SYSTEMS ALERT: CRITICAL DAMAGE]
[STABILIZING GYRO: ENGAGED]
[TERRAIN ANALYSIS: ADJUSTING FOR SLIPPAGE]
[PRESSURE BALANCE: RECALCULATING]
[SYSTEM REBOOT REQUIRED]
[POWER OUTPUT: 22%]
[HULL INTEGRITY: 27%]
Smoke hissed from ruptured plating as the HUD pulsed red. Warnings cascaded across the display, overlapping with a constant droning alarm.
[HYDRAULICS COMPROMISED: 33%]
[STRUCTURAL DAMAGE DETECTED: RIGHT SIDE]
[ELECTRICAL FIRE DETECTED: RIGHT SIDE]
[COOLANT SYSTEM: FAILURE]
[CRITICAL WARNING: OVERHEAT]
The machine fell still, its systems grinding under the weight of its damage. But the mission parameters still flashed on the HUD.
[OBJECTIVE STATUS: INCOMPLETE]
There was no pause, no hesitation.
[SWITCHING TO UNIT 02]
[ACTIVATING...]
From the shadows of the jungle, another Leo emerged. The second machine moved with deliberate steps, its towering frame stepping over the wreckage of the first. The thundering cadence of its footfalls echoed through the tangled canopy.
[UNIT STATUS: OPERATIONAL]
[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 340 M]
[ETA: 45 SEC]
The HUD's transition was seamless, as though the first Leo had simply evolved into its successor. Smoke billowed from the destroyed unit, merging with the humid air as the second Leo advanced. It broke through the thinning trees, its targeting systems locking onto the enemy complex ahead.
[HOSTILES IN RANGE: 2]
[ENGAGING]
[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 180 M]
[TARGET LOCK: COMPLEX EXTERIOR WALL]
The rifle's muzzle shifted, aligning for maximum impact. A single pull of the trigger, and the shot cut through the air. The structure's exterior erupted in a flash of light, debris scattering as the wall splintered under the blast.
[TARGET: BREACHED]
[TIME TO OBJECTIVE: 18 SEC]
The second Leo pressed forward, RPGs and sporadic gunfire ricocheting harmlessly off its armor. Its frame moved unyielding through the debris, sensors locking onto each structural vulnerability as Heero advanced towards his mission goal. Flames licked the remnants of the breached wall, smoke curling into the air. The objective loomed closer.
[HULL: MINOR DAMAGE]
[HYDRAULICS: OPTIMAL]
[CONTINUE OBJECTIVE]
The complex's final defenses crumbled under Heero's relentless firepower. Another round tore through the facility's main hall, shattering its remaining integrity. The enemy's resistance faltered, the echoes of gunfire fading into silence.
[MISSION STATUS: COMPLEX SECURED]
[HOSTILE UNITS: 0 DETECTED]
[FRIENDLY HELO DETECTED]
[OPERATIVES: EN ROUTE]
[ETA: 45 SEC]
[STATUS: MISSION COMPLETE]
The Leo slowed to a halt, its towering frame casting a shadow over the smoldering ruins. Sensors scanned the wreckage, confirming the absence of hostile activity. Diagnostic systems hummed, running their final checks. The world around him felt distant, muted by the steady crackle of fires and the low rumble of collapsing debris.
[FINAL DIAGNOSTICS IN PROGRESS]
[HULL TEMPERATURE: STABLE]
[COOLANT LEVELS: NOMINAL]
[HYDRAULICS: STABLE]
Standing amidst the wreckage, Heero began a systematic shutdown. The HUD flickered, its once-bright overlays dimming one by one.
[SYSTEM: DISENGAGING]
And everything went dark.
Late evening cast long shadows across the office. The faint hum of computers and fluorescent lights was the only sound in the Cyber Threat Analysis Department. Rain drummed steadily against the windows, streaking the glass with blurred patterns of light from the parking lot below. The low murmur of the air conditioning filled the quiet, pressing against Soo Jin's ears.
Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall—7:45 PM. Most desks were empty, their occupants long gone for the day. Only a few faint signs of life remained: the distant clink of a coffee mug, footsteps fading down the hallway. Yet Soo Jin stayed, her monitor dim, the document she'd opened long forgotten.
Her gaze drifted again to Heero's desk. On the edge of her own desk sat the thermos, wrapped in colorful bojagi, and Heero's plain black umbrella, both waiting. Her fingers brushed the fabric, the faint warmth of the soup still radiating through the wrapping.
The soft creak of a door broke through her thoughts. Soo Jin looked up sharply as the door to Director Jeong's office opened, revealing the man himself. His dark trench coat hung on his frame with crisp precision, a fedora in one hand as he adjusted the brim before placing it on his head.
"Staying late, Miss Park?" Jeong's voice carried across the room, calm yet piercing.
Soo Jin straightened, smoothing her blouse. "Yes, sir. Just catching up on reports."
Jeong nodded once, his expression unreadable. Tugging at the collar of his coat, he glanced briefly at her monitor before settling his gaze on her. "You're a diligent worker," he said, almost to himself. Then, after a pause, "But you shouldn't wait around for a guy like Yuy."
The words burnt like a spark, quick and disorienting. Soo Jin's breath caught, her pulse quickening. "Sir?" she managed, her voice quieter than she intended.
Jeong tilted his head slightly, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. "Yuy's… unique," he said, the pause deliberate. "That makes him an asset. Assets are rarely simple, Miss Park."
The ambiguity of his words gnawed at her. "What's he doing upstairs?" she blurted out before she could stop herself. "Why is he being called away so often?"
Jeong's lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze dropping to the floor. For a moment, Soo Jin thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. "Some things are better left alone. Heero Yuy… he's extremely good at what he does. That's all you need to know."
The words hung in the air like a warning. Soo Jin swallowed hard, gripping the edge of her desk. "I just… I worry about him," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jeong's expression softened—just a fraction—but his tone remained firm. "A nice girl like you should worry about finding a nice guy," he said, almost as if speaking to himself.
Before she could respond, he turned, his coat flaring slightly as he moved toward the exit. The soft thud of the door closing behind him left the office feeling even emptier than before.
Soo Jin let out a shaky breath, slumping back into her chair. The rain streaked the windows, turning the parking lot below into a blur of glistening shapes. Her mind raced, replaying Jeong's cryptic words and everything she had noticed about Heero these past weeks.
'A nice girl like you should worry about finding a nice guy.'
By most counts, Heero was the nicest guy in the entire Cyber Analysis Department—polite, respectful, even quietly appreciative. His presence was far more pleasant than the likes of Lee, Kim, or Baek. Beneath his guarded facade, there was a subtle charm, a quiet depth, and guarded kindness only she seemed to notice. No one else seemed to see what she did: a decent, hardworking man quietly finding his way in a chaotic, post-war world.
And yet, Director Jeong's cryptic words lingered, heightening the unease that had been gnawing at her all day. There was something dangerous about Heero, too. Something buried deep, shadowy and foreboding. What was Heero really involved in? What was it that took such a heavy toll on him? What were they doing to him upstairs?
The clock on the wall ticked softly, the hands creeping toward 8:00 PM. The absence at Heero's desk was glaring, and her chest tightened with worry. Her eyes flicked again to the thermos, sitting untouched on her desk. She chewed on her lower lip, her thoughts racing.
Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she pushed her chair back and stood. She didn't want to leave—not without knowing Heero was okay—but staying wouldn't change anything.
Crossing to his desk, she carefully set the thermos and umbrella beside his keyboard. Her fingers brushed the bojagi, straightening its folds with gentle care. She reached for a sticky note, her hand trembling slightly as she scribbled a quick message:
'Please eat something. I'll see you tomorrow.'
She placed the note next to the thermos. The desk looked oddly out of place with her gesture—a bright offering in the dreary darkness of the office.
With a heavy heart, Soo Jin slung her bag over her shoulder and walked toward the door. She paused, glancing back one last time. The thermos, umbrella, and note stood out against the dim, sterile scene—a fragile beacon in the heavy silence.
The office door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving the room shrouded in quiet save for the steady tapping of rain against the window.
The distant sounds of the Cambodian jungle still rang faintly in Heero's ears as he stepped into the silent, dark Cyber Threat Analysis floor. The echo of explosions, the sharp beeping of instruments, and the distant cries of jungle wildlife clung to the edges of his mind. But as he crossed the threshold, they began to fade, slowly receding into the background, swallowed by the late-night stillness of the office.
The empty Cyber Threat Analysis floor stretched before him, eerily quiet, save for the steady patter of rain against the windows. Heero's polished boots pressed softly into the carpet, the sound muted yet strangely alien in his ears. His mind, however, was still gripped by the jungle—the sucking mud beneath the Leo's massive feet, the deafening roar of explosions, and the rhythmic hiss of hydraulics. Each step felt off, as though the carpet were the treacherous jungle floor, pulling at him with phantom resistance.
He paused, the silence of the office pressing in on him like a thick fog. His head swam. The desk to his left blurred, its outline warping into the shadow of a massive tree trunk. Heero stopped mid-stride, gripping the edge of a cubicle divider to steady himself. His breath came ragged, his chest rising and falling as though he were still bracing against the cockpit's crushing vibrations.
The rain's gentle tapping against the glass might have calmed another man. To him, it felt like the faint echo of distant gunfire.
[TERRAIN: HIGH SLIPPAGE]
[HYDRAULICS COMPROMISED: 33%]
Heero shook his head sharply, trying to clear the residual fragments of the data stream from his mind, but his body betrayed him. A dull, throbbing ache spread across his ribcage, centering on the right side where the Leo had taken the RPG hit. Each breath sent sharp twinges through his torso, as though the shrapnel had found its way into his flesh instead of the machine. His skin burned and stung where fire had raged unchecked, the phantom heat pressing against him like the coolant had failed to suppress it entirely.
He staggered mid-step, his balance faltering as a wave of vertigo crashed over him. Instinctively, his hand shot out, gripping the edge of a nearby desk. The cold metal frame bit into his palm, anchoring him just before his knees buckled. For a moment, he hovered there, frozen, caught between the office and the jungle. He saw the Leo toppling in his mind, its bulk crashing into the mud as alarms screamed, systems failing.
A deep breath. Another. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his legs trembling like the stabilizers of the second Leo as it had risen to take the place of the fallen unit. He straightened fully, squaring his shoulders. Forward. Always forward.
[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 3.5 M]
But even as he moved, the recoil of the Leo's rifle reverberated faintly in his muscles, the sensory echo refusing to release its grip. Each step forward sent imagined tremors up his legs. The muted thud of his boots against the carpet was overlaid with the thunderous crash of metal feet crushing the jungle underbrush. The dissonance churned his stomach, but he kept walking, willing his body to match the reality around him.
The clock on the far wall flashed 01:17 AM. The faint red glow of its digits sliced through the dim office like a warning beacon, jolting Heero's mind back to the mission timer that had relentlessly counted down in the jungle. For a heartbeat, he felt the same urgency grip him, the flashing numbers pressing against his thoughts like an echo of commands and data streams.
[ETA: 10 SECONDS]
The tension in his chest flared before he caught himself.
The mission was over.
His breath hitched, ragged at the edges, as he forced the reminder into his head. The jungle was gone. This was Seoul. The office was quiet. Safe—far from the battlefield. But his body didn't believe it yet. The phantom weight of the Leo's cockpit clung to him, the echoes of its system alerts brushing the jagged edges of his sanity.
Slowly, Heero exhaled, grounding himself in the steady ticking of the clock, the soft patter of rain against the windows. Safe. He was far away now. Safe.
Finally, he reached his desk. For a moment, Heero stood frozen, his vision wavering between the sterile lines of the office and the chaotic blur of the jungle. Slowly, his eyes adjusted, locking onto something incongruous: a thermos wrapped in a colorful bojagi, resting neatly alongside his black umbrella. The fabric's vibrant patterns stood out against the gray desk like a fragile lifeline thrown into the void. A small sticky note was attached, the handwriting neat and familiar:
'Please eat something. I'll see you tomorrow.'
Soo Jin. The message was simple, yet it hit him harder than any of the enemy fire he had endured that day. For a moment, Heero could only stare at it, his mind struggling to process the shift from the raw, mechanical chaos of the mission to the quiet humanity of the gesture before him.
His trembling hand reached out, brushing the soft bojagi. The warmth of the thermos beneath the fabric seeped into his palm. Slowly, he unwrapped it, his fingers stiff and faltering, as though he were still maneuvering the Leo's damaged limbs.
The thermos clicked softly as he twisted the cap. Steam wafted out, carrying the rich, savory scent of seaweed and sesame oil. He paused, inhaling deeply. For the first time since stepping into the office, his shoulders relaxed marginally, the tension in his chest loosening ever so slightly.
He poured some of the soup into the thermos lid, cradling the warm cup between his hands. The heat soothed his raw palms, his frayed senses slowly reorienting to the here and now. He sat down heavily in his chair, the motion sluggish, his body still catching up to the fact that the mission was truly over.
The rain continued its rhythmic patter against the windows, the sound no longer a distant echo of gunfire but a quiet, persistent reminder of the peaceful world outside. Heero stared at the rain-soaked glass, sipping the soup in small, measured sips. Each gulp brought warmth that spread through his chest, replacing the cold, mechanical detachment that had gripped him for hours.
The rain blurred the city lights outside into indistinct shapes, and for the first time that night, the silence felt less like a void and more like a reprieve. Heero leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. The chaos of the mission began to fade, leaving only the steady rain and the quiet warmth of the soup in his hands.
TBC...