Internship (in) Love | A Gundam Wing K-Drama

Chapter 12


The subway car rattled softly as it sped through the dark tunnels beneath the city. Outside the windows, there was nothing but pitch black, broken occasionally by the flicker of passing lights. Soo Jin sat with her back to the window, her bag clutched tightly in her lap. The faint hum of the train filled the quiet car, mingling with the creak of overhead handles and the shuffle of feet.

Salarymen clung to the handles, their suits rumpled and their bodies swaying in unison with the train's motion. Their faces were blank, their postures defeated, the weight of the day etched into every slump of their shoulders. They all looked the same—ordinary, interchangeable.

Heero wasn't like that. He didn't slump. He didn't let the world weigh him down—he carried it, every step deliberate, every movement controlled, as though each action held purpose. He was always composed, always striking—even in the rare moments when his guard slipped. She could still picture him, caught sleeping at his desk early in the morning, his hair slightly mussed. And yet, minutes later, he would emerge clean-shaven, his presence crisp and commanding, the faint trace of soapy fragrance following him.

Soo Jin felt a sharp pinch in her chest as her thoughts lingered on his features: the sharp line of his jaw, the symmetry of his perfect cheekbones, and those eyes—not the dark brown he wore as a disguise, but their true color. Blue, vivid and piercing, like fragments of a clear winter sky. Beautiful and striking, yet always hidden behind colored lenses and shadowed by messy black bangs that seemed perfectly placed to guard his secrets, adding to the quiet allure that made him impossible to ignore.

He wasn't just attractive; he was magnetic. The broad set of his shoulders, the way he carried himself—packed with power yet effortlessly graceful. Every action radiated quiet strength, an unshakable sense of control that drew people in, even if he pushed them away.

But that's not why she was drawn to him… was it?

"You see a broken man and think it's… appealing."

Soo Jin's grip on her bag slackened slightly, guilt creeping in. Heero had accused her of seeing him for the wrong reasons, of finding his pain alluring, of shaping him in her mind into someone who needed saving. Romanticizing his pain.

"There's nothing attractive about it."

Soo Jin shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her grip on her bag tightening once more. She'd promised herself in the stairwell that she would do better—be better. And yet, here she was, comparing every man on this train to Heero, measuring them against him and finding them lacking. She hated herself for it—for how easily her thoughts strayed back to him, how her gaze sought him in every room, hoping he'd let her in. But to what end?

"I've been someone's pet project before. It's not healing. It's suffocating."

The memory of his words sent a sharp pang through her chest, and she turned her gaze toward the other side of the car, willing herself to focus on anything but the spiral of her own thoughts.

Two young women sat with perfect posture, their long curls cascading flawlessly over their petite frames, untouched by the long day's wear. Their expensive-looking skirt suits were pristine, their sleek high heels neatly tucked under their seats. One adjusted the lapel of her blazer with a flick of her wrist, while the other crossed her legs with effortless poise. They looked like they'd walked straight off a magazine cover, commanding attention without even trying.

Soo Jin glanced down at her own reflection in the dark glass. Her bulky Preventer jacket felt clunky next to their tailored perfection. Her tights and boots were far from stylish, and her khaki dress shirt was rumpled from the day's wear. She reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear and adjusting her crooked tie. A soft sigh escaped her lips. She felt like the least popular girl in school.

Would Heero notice women like that? Probably not. He didn't seem the type to care about appearances—not in that way. What did someone like Heero look for in a person? Soo Jin liked to think it was something deeper: empathy, resilience, perseverance. He'd told her he'd been burned before—maybe by someone who lacked those qualities. Maybe that was why he was so hesitant to open up.

"I can't do that again. I won't."

Her thoughts circled back to the stairwell. To his words. To the way he had leaned casually against the railing during lunch that day. He had been more open then, his shoulders relaxed in a way she rarely saw. He'd said she was easy to talk to, that she reminded him of an old friend. For a brief moment, she'd felt like she'd cracked the surface of the walls he kept so carefully in place.

And then, just hours later, he had pushed her away, his tone sharp and bitter. He had compared her to someone else—not the old friend he'd mentioned at lunch, but someone who had done him great harm. The shift had been so sudden, so jarring, she couldn't reconcile the two versions of him.

"Sometimes… I'm not myself."

He had told her, hadn't he? Over and over again, he had tried to tell her who he was—or who he wasn't. He'd told her not to expect anything from him, not to mistake a moment of weakness for something more.

"You know he's not allowed to carry a personal weapon, right?" Agent Lee's warning came back to her. "Why do you think that is?" The insinuation had lingered long after Lee had walked away, heavy with things left unsaid.

Director Jeong had been no less troubling: "A nice girl should find a nice guy." His voice had left no room for doubt about his meaning.

Her gaze fell on an elderly couple seated across from her. Their hands were clasped firmly, their fingers entwined. The train jolted, but they swayed together, supporting each other through the motion. Soo Jin's chest ached. That's what she wanted. To weather the storms of life together. To be part of a force greater than herself.

She turned back to the window, gazing at the darkness outside. But how many people truly achieved that? Her parents hadn't. They'd been crushed under the weight of Jin Ho's death. And Heero… who was to say he'd ever overcome what haunted him? Who was to say she was the one who could stand beside him?

"Why me, Soo Jin?" He had asked her that question, and she thought she was being clever by replying, "Why not you, Heero?"

But that hadn't answered his question. Not really. Why him? Why was she so fixated on him? And why not, actually?

"You don't want someone like that in your life," Lee had said. "He's a black hole. You get too close, you get pulled in."

Were they right? Was Heero unstable?

She thought back to their brief interactions, replaying every moment in her mind, over and over, like pieces of a puzzle she couldn't quite fit together. Her thoughts snagged on that morning in the kitchenette, when they'd awkwardly stepped into each other's path in the narrow doorway. She'd made a terrible joke about his gentlemanly manner, but instead of brushing her off, he'd surprised her with unexpected charm, gesturing her through the door with a playful, "Ladies first."

Then there was lunch in the stairwell. He'd seemed almost carefree, his tone laced with subtle humor as he leaned closer, his words pointed, charged. "What else do you assume about me?" he'd asked, his smirk lingering just enough to make her pulse quicken. The faint scent of his aftershave, the warmth of his presence—it had left her fumbling for coherence under the weight of his gaze. In that moment, he hadn't just been striking—he'd been utterly charming, bordering on seductive, his unshakable confidence fully aware of the effect he had on her.

Jeong and Lee hadn't seen him in those rare moments, hadn't looked closely enough to notice the way he tried—however clumsily—to connect. To blend in. To belong.

And yet, their warnings weren't entirely wrong. The way his demeanor had shifted in a matter of hours proved as much. Heero was a troubled young man. It didn't take a professional to see the fire raging just beneath the surface of his cool façade. The rage she'd seen in his eyes earlier that day, the way he'd snapped at Lee, had sent chills down her spine. He wasn't just dangerous because of what he was trained to do—he carried a presence that pulled you in, like gravity, until escape felt impossible.

Heero was lethal in every sense of the word. A force to be reckoned with. Menacing, calculated, and sharp—yet also capable of moments of startling tenderness that disarmed her completely, drawing her closer despite herself.

But did that make him unhinged? Did it make him… broken?

Fractured, maybe. But not broken.

And in the end, weren't all people like that?

She let out a weary sigh, her grip on her bag loosening. Maybe Lee and Jeong were right. Maybe Heero was unstable. But Soo Jin didn't see a black hole when she looked at him. She saw someone who carried his pain with more strength than most people could muster. Someone who had been hurt deeply and didn't know how to let anyone help.

And of course he'd slip. Of course he'd falter. He was only human, after all. So achingly, brokenly, and messily human—despite the hardness and meticulousness he worked so hard to maintain. That didn't make her want to turn away. It made her want to get even closer.

But closer to what? To him? Which version of him? Was she seeing the real Heero, or just the pieces he chose to show her? Did he even know who he was beneath it all—the quiet strength, the sharp edges, the vulnerable cracks? And if he didn't… how could she?

The train slowed as it approached her stop, the hiss of the brakes pulling her from her circling thoughts. She stood, gripping the pole as the car shuddered to a halt, but her mind refused to settle. Every question she asked herself seemed to lead to another, and every answer crumbled the moment she grasped it.

As the doors slid open, Soo Jin stepped off the train, her thoughts trailing behind her like the faint hiss of the closing doors. She blended into the crowd flowing toward the escalator, just another face in the rush of strangers.

She never noticed the glint of a camera lens tracking her movements from behind a concrete support column, the faint click of a shutter lost in the noise of the station.


Soo Jin paused at the front gate, its wooden frame weathered yet sturdy, standing as a silent guardian to her family's hanok. Beyond the gate lay a small courtyard, the earthen ground damp from the evening drizzle. Clay kimchi pots lined one side, their lids sealed tight, preserving the family's recipes. A large, low wooden table occupied the center, its surface worn smooth by years of shared meals and conversations. Against the wall of the shed, Jin Ho's old bicycle rested, its once-bright frame now rusting.

Be strong, she told herself. The words repeated like a mantra. Once she stepped inside, there would be no room for cracks, no space for weakness. The silence, heavy with her parents' grief, would press against her the way it always did, unspoken but suffocating. And like always, she would meet it with a smile.

Not for herself. For them.

She thought of Heero, his quiet resilience, the weight he bore. How it threatened to crush him, yet he kept standing tall.

Her grip on the handle tightened further. She didn't have his kind of strength. She wasn't sure she ever would. But she had her own kind. The kind that made her swallow her tears, respond with warmth even when her chest burned with the need to scream. If she could hold onto that, even for a little while, maybe she could bear it. Not just her own pain, but theirs too.

Soo Jin opened her eyes, her breath steadying, and pushed the gate open. The familiar creak echoed in the quiet evening as she stepped into the courtyard, gravel crunching softly under her boots. With each step toward the small house, she prepared to don her mask of strength, ready to meet her parents' sorrow with a reassuring smile, even as her own heart ached.

She stepped quietly into the house, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the soft padding of her socks. The air felt heavier here than it had in the lively bar—a thick, unrelenting weight that clung to the walls and seeped into the stillness. The faint scent of miyeok-guk lingered, its edges sour and stale—a quiet, familiar reminder of everything they couldn't let go.

The small living room flickered with the bright light of the TV. Her parents sat in their usual places: her mother perched stiffly on the edge of the couch, her father slouched beside her as though the cushions might swallow him whole. They were together, but their silence stretched like an ocean between them.

Jin Ho's shrine sat quietly in the corner of the room. A candle burned, its flame trembling as though it, too, felt the tension in the house. White chrysanthemums stood fresh and proud in their vase. The framed photo of him—young, confident, and clad in his OZ officer's uniform—watched over the room.

Soo Jin's gaze flickered to the closed door of Jin Ho's room. It stood like a monument to a boy who would never walk through it again. The sight of it stung, a familiar ache that throbbed quietly beneath her ribs.

The news anchor's voice floated through the house as she approached.

"ESUN Senator Relena Darlian has arrived in L4 today, as she continues her annual goodwill visit to the Colonies…"

The young Senator's pristine features filled the screen—poised, blonde and elegant, her blue eyes glowing with determination and confidence beyond her years. Her gestures were fluid, like a dance, the golden band on her finger catching the light like an afterthought.

"She's a lovely girl," Soo Jin's mother criticized, "But she was too young to be married."

Her father tilted his head just enough to glance at her over the edge of his newspaper. "Don't you always nag Soo Jin to find a husband before she's thirty?"

"That's different," her mother snapped, the words slicing through the quiet hum of the television. Her hands tightened into fists on her lap. "She was married even before Soo Jin-ah's age."

"You read too many gossip columns," her father muttered. "You don't even like politics."

"It's not about politics," her mother huffed. "A girl who married that young shouldn't have so much power. It's irresponsible—childish!"

"We married young," her father pointed out and Soo Jin smirked faintly from the kitchen. She saw her father cross his arms, leaning back into the couch, smugness practically radiating off him.

"My point exactly!" her mother shot back. "I was young and stupid. Too stupid to ever think about hiding you from the public eye. That's the one smart thing that girl did—keeping her husband a secret!"

"Oh, I would have loved to remain a secret," her father quipped without missing a beat. "Would've saved me the trouble of dealing with your crazy family."

Her mother gasped, swatting him lightly on the arm. "Oh, stop it! You loved having my mother around."

"Only because she helped with the kids—"

At that, a tense silence fell, the humor draining from the room as quickly as it had filled it. Neither of them looked at the other, their gazes fixed firmly on the TV. The light from the screen flickered across their faces, but the warmth of their banter had disappeared, leaving only the quiet weight of things left unsaid.

From the kitchen, Soo Jin shook her head, her smile faltering as a pang of sadness settled in her chest. Her parents' banter was as sharp as ever, their jabs quick and familiar, honed by years of marriage. Her father's dry humor clashed with her mother's fiery retorts, the sparks flying like they always had—but now, the fire never quite caught.

Still, it reminded her of how things used to be—before Jin Ho died. Back then, the air in their house had been lighter, filled with laughter that spilled over even the smallest moments. Jin Ho always knew how to steal the spotlight, swooping in with a cheeky grin and a perfectly timed quip to end their parents' arguments before they could get serious. Her mother would swat at him, half-laughing, half-scolding, while her father chuckled quietly, shaking his head.

Now, the spark was dimmer. Her parents' banter still flowed, but it felt more like an echo of what it had been. When the conversation ended, it didn't leave room for laughter. It left silence. Heavy and unyielding, it settled over them like a shadow, creeping into every corner of their home.

Soo Jin's gaze drifted back to the stove, where the pot of miyeok-guk sat cold and untouched. The faint sourness of its lingering scent curled around her senses.

For fourteen years, it had sat there after being cooked, festering into sourness and being discarded before it could nourish anyone. It had been Jin Ho's soup—untouchable, sacred. To serve it, to eat it, felt like crossing a line drawn in grief.

But that wasn't entirely true anymore. She had desecrated it. Twice.

Her fingers hovered over the induction stove, hesitant but steady. She turned the dial, and the faint hum of the stove filled the quiet kitchen. Slowly, she watched the soup come to life. Tiny ripples broke across its surface, and the faint shimmer of oil caught the light as it warmed. Steam curled upward, carrying its familiar, salty scent—a scent she had always associated with grief but had recently begun to see differently.

The first time she'd dared take from this pot was for Heero, when he had been feverish and trembling, barely able to protest as she guided him to bed. She'd ladled the soup into a thermos, feeling as though she were committing a crime, and carried it to his apartment. It had been terrifying, but also liberating to offer something so closely tied to Jin Ho to someone else.

The second time, she'd brought it to the office, leaving it on Heero's desk when he'd been pushing himself too hard. She hadn't expected him to eat it, but when she found the empty thermos and saw him slumped over his workstation the next morning, she'd felt… something. Relief, maybe. Or the quiet satisfaction that the soup had finally done what it was meant to do.

And now, this.

Her chest tightened as she watched the surface of the soup shift and stir, small bubbles forming around the edges. The scent filled the kitchen, warm and savory. This was different. Bigger. Offering it to Heero had been easy by comparison; he hadn't known the significance of the gesture. Her parents would. They might see it as a challenge, a break in the fragile balance they had constructed around Jin Ho's memory.

But to Soo Jin, it wasn't an act of rebellion. It was an offering. An invitation. The thought of letting the soup sit there, untouched and meaningless, felt unbearable. Jin Ho wouldn't have wanted this. He wouldn't have wanted them stuck, endlessly circling the same grief, night after night. Talking but not saying anything. Laughing without humor. Crying alone into their pillows.

No more.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the ladle, but she didn't stop. The pain of Jin Ho's death would always linger. It couldn't be fixed—but it could be faced, however messy, however ugly and painful.

Letting go didn't mean turning away. This wasn't about erasing the weight of Jin Ho's absence or changing her parents' grief. It was about moving forward—at her own pace. Even if it didn't match her mother's.

The ripples on the soup's surface grew stronger, and her heart raced as she ladled it into three bowls. Each clink of ceramic against metal felt louder than the last. She didn't know what would come of this—if anything. But it felt like a first step.

Soo Jin set the bowls on a tray, her hands trembling faintly as she picked it up. The weight of the tray pressed against her palms and forearms as though it carried more than just soup. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before turning toward the living room.

Her parents were still watching the news, their faces bathed in the flickering light of the television. Senator Darlian's voice echoed softly, distant and unimportant now. Soo Jin carried the tray into the room, her footsteps quiet but determined. The smell of the soup, warm and salty, drifted ahead of her like a herald, and she felt their eyes on her before she even reached the coffee table.

Soo Jin knelt carefully, setting the tray down with trembling hands. The clink of the bowls landing on the table cut through the quiet like a sharp breath. Straightening, she felt the weight of their gazes—her father's furrowed brow, her mother's sharp, unrelenting stare. The scorn radiating from them was suffocating, heavy in the air before either of them spoke.

"What is this?" her mother demanded, her voice low and cutting. It wasn't a question—it was an accusation.

Soo Jin's throat tightened, but she met her mother's gaze. "Dinner," she said simply, though her voice wavered under the pressure.

Her father's eyes flicked to the bowls, his expression unreadable. His hand twitched slightly, as though he might reach for one, but he stopped himself. Her mother didn't move. Her hands were clenched into fists on her lap, her knuckles white against her pale skin.

"This soup is for Jin Ho," her mother said, her voice trembling with restrained anger.

Soo Jin swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her ears. She felt the words rising in her chest, raw and unfiltered, but she forced herself to speak evenly. "It's been fourteen years, Mother. Jin Ho isn't coming back, but we're still here. And I'm hungry."

Her mother's eyes narrowed, her sharp gaze piercing. She rose abruptly, her sudden movement making the bowls rattle faintly on the tray as she bumped into the coffee table. "You think I don't know you've been taking from his soup already?" Her words struck like a whip, her tone trembling with fury. "But this... this is—I won't have it!"

"Honey," her father interjected gently, his voice soft but steady. "Jin-ah must have had her reasons. Maybe there's a young gentleman involved?"

Her mother froze, her face twisting in disbelief before she snapped her head toward him. "That's even worse!" she hissed, her voice rising. "Even worse!" With that, she spun on her heel, her sharp footsteps echoing down the hallway. The slam of her bedroom door reverberated through the house, final and unyielding.

The silence that followed was suffocating, settling over Soo Jin like a weight she wasn't sure she could bear. Her father sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. He stared at the bowls for a long moment, then looked at Soo Jin, his eyes weary but kind.

"Give her time," he said quietly. "It's different for a mother."

His voice was soft, almost apologetic. He reached out, his hand brushing hers—a fleeting, gentle touch. But he didn't pick up a bowl. Instead, he stood, his shoulders slumped, and turned to follow after her mother. Then, as if something tugged at him, her father paused and turned back, his expression a mixture of hope and pain.

"Is there one?" he asked carefully, then clarified, "A young gentleman?"

The question made Soo Jin pause, caught off guard. "I, uh," she stammered, unable to meet her father's searching gaze. "I'm not sure," she admitted, but then a faint smile crept onto her lips. "But… he is quite the gentleman."

That seemed to be enough for her father. His tired eyes softened as he returned her smile, small and wistful. He nodded thoughtfully, as though her words had given him something to hold on to.

Without another word, he turned and walked down the hallway, his quiet footsteps fading into the stillness of the house.

Soo Jin remained kneeling by the coffee table, the flickering light of the TV casting long shadows across the room. She stared at the untouched bowls, her chest tight and her hands trembling at her sides.

Carefully, she picked up the tray, the soup swaying slightly in the three untouched bowls as she balanced it with both hands and stood up. The quiet crackle of the candle at Jin Ho's shrine drew her gaze, and she found herself moving toward it.

Soo Jin knelt before the shrine, the warm light washing softly over the polished surface of the small table. She set the tray down carefully, placing one bowl on each side of the photo frame. The remaining bowl, her own, she cradled in her hands.

The warmth of the bowl seeped into her palms as she stared at him. He looked so confident in the photo, his OZ officer's uniform pristine, his posture rigid but proud. She could still hear his voice, teasing her in that light, playful tone that always softened their mother's sharp edges.

Her eyes lingered on the small details of his face, details she'd memorized long ago. The soft line of his jaw. The subtle curve of his plump lips, always hinting at a smile even when he looked serious. His unique eye shape, a double monolid that gave the illusion of double-lidded eyes—something most people would pay a small fortune to achieve through surgery. And there, just beneath his chin, was the dark mole he'd hated so much. Jin Ho had sworn he'd have it removed after his service, but to her, it had always been his defining feature. A tiny imperfection that made him feel who he was, even in this polished image.

She let her gaze linger on the photo once more before bowing her head to the bowl of soup.

The first sip tasted like defiance. The second tasted like hope.


Rain fell in a steady rhythm, casting a silver sheen over the deserted streets of Yeouido, Seoul. Known as the city's financial heart, the district was a maze of sleek office towers and government buildings, their imposing facades exuding an air of authority. By 2AM, the bustling crowds and corporate energy of the day had long faded, leaving the streets eerily quiet, the sound of rain the only sign of life.

The Preventer building loomed above it all, a monolith of steel and glass, its upper floors sparsely lit against the darkness. Most of the offices had long gone dark, their occupants home hours ago.

Below, the underground parking lot stretched wide and empty, its pale concrete slick with rainwater seeping in from the entrance ramp. Rows of parking spaces sat vacant, the painted lines gleaming faintly under the harsh overhead lights. The only car was a black SUV parked near the far wall. Heero sat in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, though the engine was off.

He hadn't slept. Not really. After the conversation with Soo Jin in the stairwell, he'd tried—he'd crawled into bed and shut his eyes—but the stillness of his apartment had done nothing to quiet his mind. Relena had been on the news again that evening, audacious and glowing, and the words he'd exchanged with Soo Jin had followed him to bed, circling endlessly in his mind.

He hadn't meant to say so much. He never did. But everything about him lately felt… unsteady. Hectic. Chaotic. It wasn't just Soo Jin—it was everything. His emotions were stronger now, sharper, swirling just beneath the surface, and he was failing to contain them more often. Words slipped out before he could stop them—things he hadn't even wanted to think about, let alone voice. Being someone's project. Being seen only for his pain. Senseless accusations that burned even now, swirling inside him with nauseating force.

Why had he said those things? Where had they come from? And why had he directed them at Soo Jin, of all people? She wasn't like that. He knew she wasn't. But every small kindness felt like a trap, a reflection of past promises that had turned to chains. And no matter how different Soo Jin seemed, he couldn't shake the instinct to push her away.

His grip on the wheel tightened, the leather creaking under his fingers. He couldn't deny how steady her presence had become in his chaotic world, or how much less it stung when she reached out. She didn't look down at him. She didn't flinch from the sharp edges of his words. She didn't pull away.

Soo Jin never looked at him with pity thinly disguised as care. He had even told her to feel free to say the wrong things to him. He had told her about Duo, about all these little things about himself, and so much more.

And yet, he'd lashed out at her anyway. As if he couldn't help but see ghosts where there were none.

Heero sighed heavily, his gaze dropping to his left hand, still gripping the wheel. His ring finger caught his attention—long and pale, almost bony. It was nothing much to look at, yet this bare, unremarkable finger held him captive, bound by the memory of a cold metal band that was no longer there. Its weight lingered, etched into his skin, a phantom clasp he could never quite escape.

His gaze fell lower, to his wrists, where his hands rested against the wheel. They ached, a dull pulse of pain that never truly left. He could almost feel the cold, unyielding bite of OZ's steel cuffs—their sheer size and weight a relentless presence during those endless weeks of solitary confinement in pitch black darkness. The thick metal, reaching almost to his elbows, had pressed so deeply into his skin that the bruises had felt permanent. Fourteen years later, his wrists still throbbed as if held in that iron grip.

He rubbed at them now, his fingers ghosting over flesh that had never fully forgotten. The phantom weight of the cuffs lingered, just as it did on his bare ring finger. Both absent, yet both binding him still. Both had left their marks, carved into him in ways that went far deeper than skin.

His thoughts circled back to the news footage. Relena at the podium. The camera had lingered on her hand as she gestured, the golden band catching the light. That plain, unassuming ring… still around her finger.

A noose she would never untie.

Heero's jaw clenched, his throat constricting. The image clung to him like a shadow, its weight pulling him under. He hated how much space she still occupied in his mind, hated how much control she still had over him. But more than that, he hated the way all of it—Relena, the cuffs, the ring, the scars—had bled into his conversation with Soo Jin. He hated himself for letting those wounds, long scarred over, reopen at the worst possible moment.

Heero let out a slow breath, but it wasn't enough to steady him. He had meant what he'd said to Soo Jin—he couldn't afford to trust anyone. Couldn't afford to let someone get close, to risk unraveling again. And yet… the sound of her voice, soft but certain, lingered. The way she'd reached out, not with sorrow but with quiet understanding. The way she hadn't turned away when he faltered. It pulled at something inside him, something he wasn't ready to name.

"Why not you, Heero?" She had replied simply to his question, as if there was no need to give the matter a second thought.

"You don't have to carry it all by yourself," she said to him in the stairwell. She had sounded so certain, but Heero still wasn't sure. Could he shatter in front of her? Would she turn away, daunted by the broken pieces she uncovered?

"I don't think your pain makes you more or less of a person. It's just… part of you. But it's not all of you."

Heero shook his head sharply, as if to dislodge the thought. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't let someone else in. He couldn't let himself be that exposed, that vulnerable, again. Not when he knew what came next—breaking, splintering, with no one there to pick up the pieces. No one ever was. It was always up to him to put himself back together. It always had been.

This was his mission now. This was why he was in Seoul. To hold himself together, to keep moving forward. He couldn't afford any distractions, any entanglements. No matter how steadying—or alluring—they might seem.

"Not everything has to be so tangled up."

And yet, her words wouldn't leave him. The memory of her gaze, unflinching and grounding, lingered longer than the sting of his own mistakes. Why wasn't he strong enough to do this without falling? To heal without breaking further?

"I just want to stand beside you."

His fingers flexed against the wheel. He didn't have an answer. Only the unrelenting pull in two directions—forward, toward Soo Jin's open hand, or back, into the safety of solitude. Neither felt right.

The bite of the chill cut through him as he stepped out of the car, waking him just enough to move. His footsteps echoed sharply against the concrete as he made his way toward the elevators. Walking past them without a glance, he pushed the fire door open to take the stairs. He didn't look back as it slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating in the empty parking lot.


Up in the lobby, the guards gave him a familiar nod, their faces impassive, used to seeing him come and go at these odd hours. He didn't bother with greetings, just returned the nod and made his way to the stairwell.

The 12th floor was dead quiet. Dim lights illuminated a long corridor stretching out before him like an endless tunnel. He walked toward the door at the far end, his boots tapping eerily on the floor, the sound the only sign of life in the building.

A polished metal sign on the door gleamed under the cold fluorescent lights: "COMBAT ANALYSIS ROOM. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY."

He paused, his breath shallow as a wave of vertigo washed over him, the weight of exhaustion pulling him under. His vision blurred for a moment, the walls seeming to close in.

He steadied himself, forcing his mind back into focus. With a practiced motion, he lifted his badge, pressing it against the lock. The small panel blinked, turning from red to green with a soft beep, and the door slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing the cold, sterile room beyond.

The chilled air hit him immediately, prickling his face like sharp needles. It was freezing—deliberately so, the temperature kept low to ensure the servers lining the walls stayed cool, their soft hum filling the otherwise silent room. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the sterile metal surfaces and instruments.

The techs, already seated at their stations, were going through final system check ups. Only one of them bothered to raise his head from his monitor to acknowledge Heero's entrance before resuming his task.

Stepping into the room, Heero shrugged off his jacket. His khaki dress shirt failed to deter the chill from seeping into his skin. He crossed the room, the familiar routine pulling him forward as he made his way toward the hospital curtain divider standing in the corner.

Heero hung his jacket before turning to undress. His stiff fingers moved as if on their own accord, unbuttoning his shirt. He carefully stripped out of his uniform and remained in his underwear—a plain pair of briefs.

He could hear the techs clicking away at their keyboards behind the curtain. Taking his time, he folded each piece methodically, smoothing out the fabric before placing it neatly on a small medical cart beside him.

"You aren't getting ready for the ball here, Yuy," someone grunted in English from behind the partition. His voice carried a thick French accent. "Step out of there already."

Heero ignored the man and reached for a hospital gown hanging from a single hook on the wall. The flimsy blue fabric offered no protection from the biting cold. His fingers were stiff as he tied the strings at the back, his breath shallow, each exhale clouding in the cold air.

Impatient clicking of tongues and sighs drifted from behind the divider, but he ignored those as well.

Next, he reached into the pocket of his hanging duty jacket, retrieving a small contacts case. With the same methodical precision that this room demanded, he laid the case open beside his neatly folded uniform. The cold air bit at his bare neck as he tilted his head back, his fingers steady as he pinched each contact out, one by one.

His vision blurred for a moment as his natural blue eyes were exposed to the cold light. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the sensation, and placed the contacts in the case.

Barefoot, the icy linoleum floor sent a jolt up his legs with every step as Heero emerged from behind the curtain.

A tall man stood waiting, his arms crossed over a crisp doctor's gown that hung loosely on his thin frame. Thick-rimmed glasses magnified sharp, calculating eyes that glinted with irritation behind the lenses. Deep lines etched across his forehead and the corners of his mouth, carving a permanent scowl into his otherwise narrow face. His dark, close-cropped hair was streaked with gray, adding to the air of perpetual exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin.

"Ready, princess?" the older man snapped, his French accent dripping with disdain as he loomed over Heero, his gaze sweeping over him from head to toe.

"That gown really brings out your eyes," he added with a smirk, his voice dropping into a mockingly sweet tone. "Très chic."

Two techs snickered, one throwing a look over his shoulder, smirking at the man's remark. Heero's eyes stung, the vivid blue searing into him with burning shame. He dipped his chin, letting his gaze fall to the floor as his shoulders tensed under the weight of their mocking laughter. He couldn't tell which stung more—the insult itself, or the fact that he hadn't been able to brush it off.

"Your chariot awaits," the Frenchman sneered, gesturing toward the center of the room with a flourish.

There, waiting for him like an old, unwelcome friend, was The Chair.

Sleek and industrial, its reclined structure resembled a high-tech version of a dentist's chair, fitted with padded restraints for the arms and legs. Heero's body felt leaden as he climbed into it, settling heavily into the cold padded surface. His legs fell into the stirrups, his arms settling on the padded armrests. He lowered his head to the headrest, staring blankly at the ceiling, his expression empty, his mind already detaching from the sensations around him.

One of the techs approached, methodically securing the soft wrist cuffs around his arms and ankles, binding him in place.

His wrists ached and he suppressed the urge to wriggle them under the padded cuffs. Closing his eyes, he breathed slowly through his nose, reminding himself that this was nothing new. He had always been trapped in one way or another. What he was about to do now wasn't so different from those grim days under OZ's merciless hand, nor his time with the CLO.

Bound by trauma. Bound by duty. Bound by the invisible weight of a ring that hadn't graced his hand in years—and by cuffs that had never really left his wrists.

It was nothing new.

An IV line came next—another tech moved beside him, tying a rubber tube around his arm before inserting the needle. Cool fluid entered his bloodstream. Heero's gaze didn't shift; his breathing remained even, though the sting of the needle cut through the cold.

Another tech stood on the opposite side, preparing a syringe. Without a word, the needle punctured Heero's skin, delivering a chemical concoction to help him endure the hours ahead. Heero didn't flinch.

Two more techs moved in, one adjusting the neural cap over his head. The rubber tugged painfully at his hair as it was pulled down, the electrodes biting into his scalp. Still, Heero remained motionless, staring at the ceiling, feeling the pressure building in his chest. His hands flexed slightly, his fingers curling under the soft wrist cuffs as the final tech approached, lowering the heavy, wired helmet onto his head.

Heero's world plunged into darkness. He half-listened to the techs' voices as they discussed procedures beyond his sight, their words a distant hum while his thoughts drifted aimlessly.

He shouldn't have pushed Soo Jin away. The memory of her face, crestfallen but still resolute, gnawed at the edges of his mind. He had seen the hurt in her eyes, felt the sting of his own words even as they left his mouth.

"Yuy, baseline test," The Frenchman's voice sliced through the blackness, speaking English.

Heero didn't answer immediately. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the events of the day. He hadn't meant to lash out—not at her. But he had, and now the weight of it sat heavy in his chest. Should he apologize? What good would that do?

"Yuy," the man pressed, louder this time. "Baseline."

Heero exhaled slowly, shaking off the haze of regret.

"Ready," he said, also in English, his voice steady despite the tightening dread in his chest.

"Nice of you to join us, princess," the Frenchman muttered, and Heero's fingers curled around the edge of the padded armrests. "Let's get this ball rolling, shall we?"

"It's your lead," Heero murmured back, and a barrage of questions soon followed. Heero answered each one quickly. Each question was a test of his control. Fail, and they'd find another reason to call him unstable.

"Designation."

"Heero Yuy."

"Current location."

"Preventer Seoul Branch. Twelfth floor. Combat Analysis Room."

"The date?"

"November twenty-second, AC 209."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"Describe the weather."

"Cold. Rainy."

"How did you arrive here tonight?"

"My car."

"What color is it?"

"Black."

"71 times 11?"

"781." The answer came as easily as breathing, his mind already shifting to the next question.

"32 times 11?"

"352."

"43 times 11?"

"473."

"207 times 11?"

The number caught on the edge of his mind, snagging like a splinter in the smooth rhythm of his thoughts. He paused—just a fraction of a second, too long, he knew.

"2,277," he said finally, his voice taut, betraying the brief lapse.

The silence that followed was louder than the hum of the machines. Even without sight, trapped behind the darkness of the helmet, Heero could feel the man's smirk. It was there in the amused exhale, the faint tap of the pen against the notepad.

"Good enough," he said, his tone laced with mock-satisfaction.

The words scraped against Heero's nerves, his jaw tightening. He flexed his fingers again, a faint tremor running through them before he forced himself still.

"Recent memory," came the next question. Heero hesitated, the weight of it dragging his thoughts back to the stairwell. Back to Soo Jin. He sifted through the past week, through the haze of mundane tasks and sleepless nights, but one moment stood out.

"I made tofu fried rice."

There was a pause. "Care to elaborate?"

"Should we swap recipes?" he retorted, his tone dry.

"Not like you to cook, is all," the Frenchman countered, his voice laced with challenge.

Heero frowned under the helmet. Why had he picked that memory? He wasn't sure. Maybe because it wasn't in his habit to cook a proper meal after a long day. Or maybe… because it had been Soo Jin—the thought of her—that had made him bother in the first place.

He didn't answer, letting the silence stretch between them. The Frenchman sighed audibly, the faint scrape of his pen breaking the tension before he moved on.

"Early memory."

Heero swallowed hard, his voice strained. "My mother in flames, floating out the airlock."

"You picked that one last time."

"I don't have that many."

"Humor me."

Heero sighed, the sound heavy. "My father shot. Died in my arms."

"We've all heard that one before," the man grumbled. "Why does everything have to be about tragic death with you? Give us something nice for a change, like your first school crush."

Heero's hands flexed against the armrests, the restraints scraping his wrists. "No problem," he muttered, turning his head blindly to face in the direction of the man so he could see the smirk on his lip. "Why don't you take this helmet off, and we can braid each other's hair while I tell you all about the first time I kissed a girl?"

Someone stifled a snicker.

"Hilarious, Yuy," the Frenchman said dryly. "That's two strikes."

"Are you adding that to my personal record?" Heero quipped, his tone sharper and more biting than intended. The words escaped him before he could stop them.

"Those drugs kicking in, Yuy?" The man sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "You're starting to sound like that loudmouthed friend of yours."

A fleeting smirk crossed Heero's lips. "I thought you liked me chatty, Corbin."

"That's three strikes," Corbin shot back, his pen scraping against the notepad with deliberate force. "Say my name again, princess. Go ahead. I've got no problem noting down your insubordination. That'll make it your second in two months."

Heero's smirk faded, his jaw tightening as silence fell. His fists clenched against the armrests, the leather groaning under the pressure. He forced himself to swallow the next remark that burned on his tongue. The man wasn't bluffing—he had overdone it.

He rubbed his wrists against the padded cuffs, the ache a familiar companion. It wasn't just the restraints that weighed on him. It was the deeper, older pain—the kind that came from years of being bound. By expectations. By duty. By his own inadequacies.

At this rate, they'd send him back to Brussels. Back to the suffocating walls of what he had once called home. Back under the microscope, where every move was scrutinized, where he was expected to slip and fall. Back to the pills he hadn't touched in months. He'd promised himself he'd never go back—not to that life. Not to that version of himself.

Corbin's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, cold and authoritative. "Significant moment," he said, his tone edged with satisfaction. "Something recent. New information. Not your usual sob story."

Heero wanted to snap back, to lash out and tell Corbin how terribly sorry he was that his life was so damn depressing. But the words caught in his throat, held back by the weight of knowing he couldn't afford another slip-up. No more games. No more fight.

The sting of shame settled heavily in his chest. This wasn't the time or place to falter. He had asked for this transfer for a reason—but he wasn't about to show it here, not to Corbin, not to anyone.

This time, Heero cooperated willingly.

"The stairwell," he murmured.

"How is that significant?" Corbin questioned, his tone edged with skepticism.

Silence followed. Heero's jaw tightened under the helmet, the weight of the man's probing voice pressing into him. The memory of Soo Jin's hand brushing his arm, the quiet warmth in her voice, hovered just out of reach. What would she think if she knew? If she found out about this room—about what he was reduced to here, just another cog in the machine? What would she think of him then?

"Be more specific, or pick another."

Heero exhaled sharply through his nose, his voice clipped when he replied, "Lunch at the stairwell. Bibimbap."

"What made it significant? Were you alone?"

Heero didn't answer.

"Yuy," Corbin pressed again, sharper this time, his tone low with warning. The question hung heavy in the cold air, the silence stretching taut between them. Heero's jaw clenched tighter, the pressure from the restraints digging into his wrists. Could he lie? Would it even matter?

The memory of Soo Jin's quiet warmth lingered in the back of his mind, refusing to fade, but so did the shame of how he'd pushed her away. His chest felt heavier with each passing second, the weight of the cuffs biting into his skin like an accusation. Finally, the pressure forced the words out before he could stop them.

"Lunch in the stairwell," he muttered, his tone low and clipped, "with Miss Park. She ordered bulgogi bibimbap. They mixed up our orders. We switched and shared lunch. End of story."

"Thank you," Corbin replied with a smirk in his voice. "Now, was that so hard?"

It was. It always was. Every question felt like pulling out a tooth, a painful dissection of his fragmented identity. And worse—he had to remember which answers to give later to be deemed stable enough to leave this room once the mission was over. He had failed enough baseline tests to know that the truth wasn't always his ally.

"And what's your mission today, Agent?" Corbin asked matter of factly.

Heero exhaled slowly, his hands shifting inside the restraints. "Eliminate a hostile Capricorn platoon in the X-18722 area."

"Your suits?"

"Three Tauruses and two Virgos."

"11 times 53?"

"583."

"Good job, princess. Bite down." Corbin's voice dripped with mockery as he shoved the mouthguard into Heero's mouth, the thick rubber scraping against his lips and teeth.

Heero clamped down hard, his jaw flexing as his breath quickened. He hated that Corbin knew he'd won. The smug tone, the deliberate pauses—it all grated on him, threatening to fracture the fragile hold he had on himself. But he swallowed the fire burning in his chest, forcing himself to stay quiet. He couldn't afford another mistake.

Around him, the techs moved with methodical precision, their voices calm and clinical as they read off updates.

"Vitals clear," one said, the soft tapping of keyboards blending with the low hum of machinery.

"Cognitive levels within acceptable range," another chimed in.

"Power auxiliaries stable," a third confirmed.

Heero lay still, his hands gripping the padded armrests tightly, his breaths shallow but controlled. He'd been here countless times before, the routine carved into his bones, but it never got easier. Every session chipped away at him, piece by piece, leaving less of himself behind.

"Deep-space satellite link established and steady," one of the techs announced, their voice clipped and detached.

Heero's pulse quickened. He closed his eyes beneath the helmet, willing his breathing to slow, but the weight pressing against his chest refused to ease.

"Initiating ZERO System connection," Corbin declared, the words cutting through the sterile air like a blade.

Heero braced himself as the system powered up. Monitors and servers roared to life, their hum crescendoing into a mechanical symphony that filled the room.

Then it hit.

The world inside Heero's helmet exploded. He bit down hard on the mouthguard, a guttural scream clawing its way from his throat as his back arched violently against the restraints. His wrists jerked against the padded cuffs, raw and burning as his body convulsed under the onslaught of raw data tearing through his mind.

Blinding light seared behind his closed eyes, splintering his consciousness into jagged fragments. His pulse thundered in his ears, each beat reverberating like a drum as high-pitched feedback pierced his thoughts. Frequencies collided in a cacophony, shredding his focus until his breathing came in ragged gasps. His jaw clenched harder, the rubber of the mouthguard biting into his teeth, and the metallic taste of adrenaline flooded his mouth.

Every nerve in his body screamed, his muscles seizing under the relentless assault. Pain flared in his wrists, sharp and biting, as his body thrashed against the chair that held him fast. Data flooded his mind—a torrent of jagged shards embedding themselves deep, pushing him past the limits of what he could endure. He wasn't just controlling the five suits; he was the suits. Five pieces of him, floating in the darkness of space. He felt their cold, mechanical frames, the hum of their engines, the weightless void of space.

The pressure in his skull swelled unbearably, a crushing force threatening to crack him open. Tears burned behind his eyes, but he refused to let them fall, his breath breaking in shallow, uneven gasps. His thoughts splintered with every second, fragments of memory and sensation blurring into the chaos.

He wanted it to stop. To end. Desperately, his mind reached for something—anything—to ground him. He wanted to be with Soo Jin. In the stairwell, hearing her soft laugh. In the kitchenette, waiting for coffee to brew, catching her quiet smile in the glow of the rain-speckled window. Walking her to the subway, her voice steadying him in a way nothing else could.

The system screamed louder, the sensory overload crescendoing into a violent storm that swallowed him whole. The lines between man and machine dissolved completely, his vision fracturing into shards of jagged light. He was everywhere and nowhere, the machine consuming him entirely.

And then—silence.

Clarity washed over him, cold and undeniable.

He wanted to be with her. To escape this.

He wanted to be spared. To be saved.

He wanted Soo Jin to save him from this hell.

The blinding light dimmed. The screech of feedback faded into a dull hum. The crushing pressure in his mind eased, and Heero sagged into the chair, limp and trembling. His breath, once ragged and broken, slowed to shallow, uneven exhales. The pain dulled, retreating to the edges of his awareness. He floated in the stillness, hollow and spent.

For a moment, there was nothing. No fear. No longing. No thought.

Only raw, unfiltered truth.

He was his own worst enemy.

Everything was clear. Quiet. Still.

The void of space surrounded him, silent and vast.

He was empty now. A mere vessel. A conduit.

He floated in a vast, endless expanse. Five pieces of himself—five Mobile Suits—each one moving through the emptiness in perfect synchronicity, responding to his thoughts before they even fully formed.

He wasn't Heero anymore. He wasn't anyone.

He was the machine.

[START MISSION]