Internship (in) Love | A Gundam Wing K-Drama
Chapter 13
[PHASE 1: STEALTH APPROACH]
[OBJECTIVE]
Infiltrate the asteroid field surrounding the X-18722 resource satellite undetected.
[TACTICS]
Taurus Units: Transform to Mobile Armor mode, reducing profile and enhancing speed. Thruster Output: Minimized to avoid detection by enemy sensors. Navigation: Use dense asteroid clusters for cover, minimizing exposure.
The asteroid field stretched before him, a vast, shifting expanse of rock and metallic wreckage. Its movements were slow, predictable chain reactions, akin to domino pieces falling one by one.
The thrusters exhaled.
Power output shifted across the five units, each one breathing at its own controlled rhythm. Unit 1 inhaled sharply—thruster output increased for a small burst forward. Unit 3 eased back, reducing its thrust just enough to correct elevation without unnecessary motion. The balance was automatic, unconscious—like dividing effort between legs during a long run.
The engines pulsed like a second heartbeat, steady and controlled. A quiet hum that vibrated through his ribs.
The Taurus frames folded into Mobile Armor mode, shifting like muscle tightening for a sprint. Each movement through the asteroid field registered as sensation—the inertia of banking left, the subtle drag of gravitational pockets, the faint tremors of debris bouncing off the hulls.
He did not command the Mobile Suits. He was them.
Micro-adjustments rippled through his awareness. The thrusters inhaled, exhaled, dispersing energy in measured bursts. The engines' core output flowed like blood, redistributing power just as oxygen coursed through veins to fuel exertion.
[UNIT 1-3: MOBILE ARMOR MODE TRANSFORMATION COMPLETE]
[THRUSTER OUTPUT: REDUCED TO 18%]
[UNIT 4-5: PLANET DEFENSORS DEPLOYED]
Data flowed through him like oxygen in his blood. His awareness expanded, sensors stretching in all directions—heat signatures, debris trajectories, shifting masses.
Radar pings blurred into instinct. The asteroids ahead moved in a slow drift, responding to his presence within the field. A dance of cause and effect, foreseeable yet chaotic at the edges where his perception was stretched to too thin. Sensing that far felt like breathing through cracked ribs, yet he let himself expand as far as he could reach. Anomalies registered in his mind before the system flagged them.
A rock formation rotated 2.1 degrees faster than projected. His body simply adjusted. A pulse through his veins—Unit 2 inhaled, taking in power as it banked right by fifteen degrees. Unit 3 exhaled, thrusters easing back to lower elevation by ten meters. Reflex. Like breathing.
[RADAR DETECTION RISK: MINIMAL]
[UNIT 1: COURSE ADJUSTMENT +15°]
[UNIT 2: VELOCITY STABILIZED | 22 M/S]
[UNIT 3: ELEVATION CHANGE -10 METERS]
The impacts of micro-asteroids rippled across his awareness, tapping against hulls like dull pressure against skin. Harmless, so he ignored them. The suits' armor absorbed the pressure effortlessly, like feet pounding pavement on a long-distance jog. Energy cores throbbed like a rising pulse, power mounting in his chest– armed and ready.
The X-18722 resource satellite came into view. Dark. Silent.
The ZERO System remained still, waiting. Calculating.
[TARGET VISUAL: CONFIRMED]
[HOSTILES IN RANGE: 0]
[MISSION STATUS: PROCEED TO PHASE 2]
The soft light of an autumn dawn seeped through the edges of Soo Jin's curtains, stretching hazy gray across the room. The world outside was bleak and drizzly, but inside, her room was a cocoon of light and warmth.
She leaned toward the mirror, brushing the final touch of blush over her cheeks. The cool bristles pressed against her skin, spreading rosy warmth in delicate strokes. The scent of jasmine and mint lingered from her shower, fresh and familiar.
A loose strand of hair slipped forward, brushing her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear, smoothing it with a practiced motion. The habit was second nature now—a small act of order before the day began.
Her blazer sat snug against her frame as she buttoned it, the fabric crisp from the laundry. With a quiet sigh, she slipped into her boots, their well-worn creases forming perfectly to her feet.
From the kitchen, the aroma of fresh coffee curled through the air, rich and inviting. Her father sat at the table, the rustle of newspaper filling the silence. His usual mug rested in his hand, fingers curled around the handle, but he didn't sip.
The pot of seaweed soup sat on the stove, untouched.
Soo Jin poured herself a cup of coffee, watching as the dark liquid swirled, a rich contrast against the splash of cream she added. The colors softened, blooming into muted browns. She stirred slowly, the gentle clink of the spoon against ceramic the only sound in the still kitchen.
"Good morning, Dad," she said.
The rustle of newspaper. A brief pause. Then the paper lowered just enough for her father to glance over the rim of his glasses. His eyes flickered toward her, unreadable.
"Morning," he murmured, then turned the page.
Soo Jin lifted the mug to her lips, the warmth seeping into her fingers. The silence between them stretched, heavy with everything unspoken. She had hoped—naively—that things might feel normal this morning. But the stiffness in her father's posture, the way he lingered on the words in front of him without really reading them—it was all the answer she needed.
"Is Mother up yet?" she asked, keeping her voice light.
"She's still in bed," her father murmured as he slurped his coffee quietly. "She's not feeling well."
Soo Jin's fingers tightened around her mug. Not feeling well. He could have meant anything by it—fatigue, a lingering cold, one of the headaches her mother sometimes got when stress built up too high. But Soo Jin knew better.
She had pushed too hard last night.
The soup had been too much.
And now, her mother had retreated. Guilt coiled in Soo Jin's stomach. She swallowed it down with another sip of coffee.
Her father turned another page. "You should apologize to her before you leave," he said without looking up.
The words landed like a blow. Not because they were unexpected—but because they confirmed what she already knew. She had hurt them. And yet, a small, selfish part of her recoiled at the thought of apologizing for something that shouldn't have been wrong.
She exhaled through her nose, setting her mug down with more care than necessary. "I didn't mean to upset her," she said, keeping her voice even.
Her father didn't respond right away. He reached for his coffee, taking a slow sip, his gaze still trained on the page in front of him. Then, without looking at her, he said, "You always say that."
Soo Jin's stomach tightened.
It was the closest thing to an accusation he had ever made.
Her father had never protested when she volunteered to enlist with Preventer. He hadn't encouraged her, either, but he had let her go. Unlike her mother.
Her mother had argued, pleaded, fought tooth and nail to keep her from walking down the same path Jin Ho had. "You think this will make you understand him?" she had asked, voice raw, sharp with something beyond anger. "Will it bring him back?"
Soo Jin had hated the way she asked it, as if her choice had been about Jin Ho at all. As if she had shaped her entire life in the shadow of her brother's absence. Maybe her mother needed to believe that, to convince herself that Soo Jin wasn't really choosing this path for herself. Because if she was—if she had made the decision with clear eyes and steady hands—then it meant her mother had failed to stop her.
And she had.
But the distance it had created between them had never closed.
Her father had stayed silent through it all. A quiet observer, a passive force. He hadn't stopped her, but he hadn't stood beside her, either. Maybe that was his way of keeping the peace, of balancing between the two halves of their fractured family. Soo Jin had never asked. She didn't think she wanted to know.
But now, with the weight of his words settling heavy between them, she wondered if she had misread his silence all along.
He wasn't wrong. She had been walking this tightrope for years—trying to move forward without dragging them along, trying to live her life without severing the thread that still tethered her to their grief.
But lately… lately, she had been pulling too hard.
A beat of silence passed. The low hum of the refrigerator, the occasional drip from the faucet. Outside, the city stirred—the distant murmur of commuters, the occasional honk of a car horn, birds chattering along the telephone wires. A Seoul morning, the rhythm of life continued as always.
Soo Jin glanced at the clock—early, but not too early. She could still go upstairs. Knock on her mother's door. Say something, anything, to smooth over the tension that had settled overnight.
But wasn't that just another way of pretending?
Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. "I'll call her later," she said, her voice quieter now.
Her father didn't argue. He simply turned another page.
Taking a final sip of her coffee, she set the mug down and stepped outside. The air was crisp, cool against her skin. The sky still carried the soft haze of dawn, the promise of a new day stretching over the horizon.
But it didn't feel like a new day.
It felt like the same one, repeating over and over again.
[PHASE 2: INITIAL ENGAGEMENT]
[OBJECTIVE]
Eliminate perimeter Capricorn units.
[ESTIMATED HOSTILES]
6/25 detected in engagement zone.
[TACTICS]
All Units: Increase power output to 100%. Taurus Units: Fire in synchronized bursts for rapid neutralization. Virgo Units: Deploy Planet Defensors to absorb retaliatory fire. All Units: Maintain movement to reduce enemy targeting efficiency.
Power surged through him like lightning in his veins. Heat rippled outward in controlled pulses, thrusters igniting with the precision of muscle fibers tensing before impact. The Taurus units flexed, their sleek frames shifting into optimized attack formation, the energy coursing through them like coiled strength waiting to be released.
The Virgos braced, shields expanding, absorbing the power surge like skin stretching over taut muscle. The barrier systems engaged with a pulse—a heartbeat of light and force, synchronizing with the rising combat rhythm.
[ENGINES: 100% POWER]
Heero's blood pumped hot in his veins—a rush, a controlled burn, a shift from restrained stillness to full battle readiness. The dormant power of the Mobile Suits had been a quiet inhale during the approach, a hushed heartbeat under the skin. Now, it roared to life, every thruster flare, every beam capacitor charge, every mechanical system awakening like a body poised for combat.
The Taurus units locked onto their targets, weapons primed, and firing arcs adjusted with the speed of instinct.
The enemy formation shifted, hesitant—a moment too slow. Rookie tactics.
Beam Rifles hummed—energy condensing, barrels charged, the weapons breathing in before the kill. Electricity sparkling at the edges of his thoughts.
Heero's pulse beat in sync with the fire control systems.
[6 ENEMY UNITS CONFIRMED]
[TARGETS LOCKED]
A single flick of thought—
[FIRE]
A precise pulse through the trigger systems, and the void ignited.
Two Capricorns erupted on impact. The explosions expanded soundlessly, fire and shrapnel tearing through the field like fragile paper. The third enemy reacted a fraction too late, veering left—a fatal miscalculation. Unit 3 adjusted by instinct, fired, and struck true. The suit detonated, sending twisted metal scattering into the asteroid field.
[TARGETS NEUTRALIZED: 3]
The remaining Capricorns fractured, their formation breaking apart. Panic. Poor coordination. A desperate attempt to counterattack.
Useless.
Heero shifted—the Virgos moved with him.
[UNIT 4-5: PLANET DEFENSORS ENGAGED]
[INCOMING FIRE DETECTED: MISSILES, BEAM ROUNDS]
A cluster of heat signatures spiked—missiles incoming. Thrusters inhaled, engines pulsating, positioning the units for maximum coverage. The Planet Defensors shimmered, absorbing the barrage like skin tightening against impact. The force dispersed outward—beam rounds dissipating into nothing.
[SHIELD INTEGRITY: 93%]
[DAMAGE: NEGLIGIBLE]
The Taurus units surged forward, their movement seamless, fluid—one action feeding into the next.
[UNIT 1: REPOSITIONING]
[UNIT 2-3: FLANKING TARGETS]
[UNIT 4: READYING RETURN FIRE]
Heero's pulse spiked—a command, not a reaction.
The Taurus units fired.
Twin beams cut through the black—two more Capricorns vanished in bursts of flame, their destruction flaring like dying stars.
[TARGETS NEUTRALIZED: 5]
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 20/25]
One enemy broke away, veering upward—the classic escape pattern of a pilot prioritizing self-preservation over squad cohesion.
Fatal error.
Heero's mind adjusted—not thought, not choice—just inevitability.
[UNIT 1: TARGET LOCK]
[UNIT 2: SUPPRESSING FIRE]
[UNIT 3: FIRE BEAM RIFLE]
A pulse through his veins. The rifle discharged. The Capricorn's thrusters burst apart, igniting like ruptured arteries. The suit crumbled, debris scattering.
[TARGETS NEUTRALIZED: 1]
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 19/25]
Silence.
The battlefield reset—debris drifting like scattered bones, radiation dissipating. The Virgo and Taurus units realigned, recalibrating.
[UNITS 1-3: RELOAD]
[MISSION STATUS: PROCEED TO PHASE 3]
Soo Jin tapped her TMoney card against the reader, the turnstile beeping as she stepped into the subway station. The downward flow of people carried her forward, step by step, into the depths of the underground station. The rhythm of the morning commute was a silent agreement—no hesitations, no sudden stops, just movement.
The familiar rumble of approaching trains vibrated through the platform, a steady rhythm in the background. The air smelled of stale coffee, pressed wool, and the faint metallic tang of train tracks. The tide of Seoul's workforce, dressed in pristine suits and polished shoes, filled the platform in a quiet hum of phone screens and murmured conversations.
Soo Jin stood among them, the only one in a Preventer uniform.
Her gaze flickered through the crowd, searching, though she wasn't sure what for. Another agent, another uniform, someone else who wasn't just another commuter flowing through the city like clockwork. But there was no one.
There used to be a time when these platforms were filled with soldiers.
Fourteen years ago, civilians had been the minority here. Khaki Alliance uniforms, crisp and rigid. The sleek black of the OZ Special Forces, their red and gold insignias marking them as elite. Officers, pilots, technicians—young men and women, standing in neat lines, their expressions set, some hardened, others barely masking their fear. Some were fresh out of training, still boys with barely a trace of stubble on their faces. Others had already seen too much, their gazes dark and distant, as if they were looking beyond the platform, beyond the war, beyond everything.
It had been just as normal as this morning rush. Workers boarded trains to their offices, students to their schools, and soldiers—soldiers took the same subway to their pickup points, headed for war. It wasn't an event, not some grand farewell at Seoul Central Station. It was routine. The war had lasted so long that enlistment had blended into the rhythm of daily life.
She had walked her brother to the subway many times.
Jin Ho had always let her tag along, never once telling her it was too dangerous or that she should stay home. She loved it—loved the way people looked at him in uniform, the way he carried himself with that quiet, unshakable confidence. Other soldiers would nod at him in passing, some exchanging a few words, others walking in silence, all moving toward the same destination.
And he always came back.
That was what she had held onto. The cycle. The leaving, the waiting, the returning.
Until the last time.
She had stood beside him on this very platform, barely reaching his shoulder, staring up at him in quiet awe.
Jin Ho glanced down at her, his expression softening. A warm, easy smile—just for her. He reached out, giving her ponytail a playful tug, the way he always did when he wanted to make her laugh. "Make sure mom doesn't go crazy with worry again, okay?" His voice had been light, teasing, but there had been something else beneath it. A quiet sincerity. A promise.
He was beautiful.
Not just because he wore the uniform well. Not because he was tall and strong. But because he had stood there, straight-backed, eyes clear, carrying himself with a quiet confidence that made her believe—truly believe—he would come home.
She had waited for him.
And waited.
Two years later, instead of Jin Ho stepping off the train, two uniformed officers had arrived at their door one morning. A knock. A formal greeting. A brief pause before the words.
"Your son perished in the Eve Battle."
Cheerful music sounded over the PA system to signal the arrival of her train.
Soo Jin's grip on her bag tightened.
The subway screeched into the station, its sleek exterior reflecting back rows of perfectly tailored men and women waiting for their turn to step inside.
The doors opened, and the compact order of the platform unraveled into a structured chaos of elbows and briefcases.
Soo Jin stepped onto the train as the doors slid open, leaving the memory behind on the platform—just like she had, fourteen years ago.
[PHASE 3: COUNTER REINFORCEMENTS]
[OBJECTIVE]
Intercept and destroy enemy Capricorn units dispatched from the satellite.
[ESTIMATED HOSTILES]
9/19 detected in engagement zone.
[TACTICS]
Virgo Units: Hold strategic chokepoints, absorb incoming fire, and retaliate with precision shots. Taurus Units: Execute flanking maneuvers, eliminate enemies from multiple vectors. All Units: Hit-and-run tactics to reduce exposure while systematically diminishing enemy numbers.
The battlefield reset.
Heero's awareness expanded, contracted, recalibrated. The hum of the engines pulsed through him, a second circulatory system—energy cores feeding power into three Taurus units primed for execution.
Nine new enemy signatures.
[DISTANCE: 6,800 METERS]
The Capricorns launched from the satellite's hangar, thrusters blazing like insect wings, swarming outward. A predictable intercept pattern—easily countered.
[UNIT 4-5: MAINTAIN CHOKEPOINT POSITION | PLANET DEFENSORS ENGAGED]
[UNIT 1-3: FLANKING MANEUVERS INITIATED]
Missiles rippled out from the Capricorns—heat signatures streaking like veins of fire toward the Virgos.
[SHIELD INTEGRITY: 89%]
The Planet Defensors absorbed the impact, dispersing kinetic force like pressure equalizing in a sealed chamber.
[RETURNING FIRE]
The Virgos fired in tandem—two clean shots, two immediate kills. Capricorn debris spiraled outward, metal fragments catching the distant glow of the satellite's artificial lighting.
[TARGETS NEUTRALIZED: 2]
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 17/19]
The remaining Capricorns scattered. A futile attempt at unpredictability.
Heero adjusted.
[UNIT 1: TARGET LOCK]
[UNIT 2: ADJUST COURSE -12° YAW]
[UNIT 3: ELEVATION CHANGE +20 METERS | MISSILE LOCK ACQUIRED]
Target. Execute. Reposition.
Missiles streaked toward a retreating Capricorn, curving mid-flight to intercept. Direct hit. The suit erupted, a superheated burst of energy and ruptured metal, its pilot erased before reaction was possible.
[TARGET NEUTRALIZED]
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 16/19]
Another enemy veered left, attempting to reposition—too slow.
[UNIT 1: FIRE]
A single shot. One less hostile.
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 15/19]
Two more closed in, weapons charged—reckless, predictable. Human.
Heero's mind surged ahead of them, registering their attack pattern before they executed it.
[UNIT 2: FIRE]
[UNIT 3: SUPPRESSING FIRE]
Three quick shots. Two more erased.
[TARGETS NEUTRALIZED: 2]
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 13/19]
The battlefield narrowed. The enemy cluster frayed apart, like a cracked formation struggling to hold its shape.
The last Capricorn in his sightline hesitated—an instant of hesitation too long.
[UNIT 1: ENGAGING]
A single flicker of energy—then nothing.
[TARGET NEUTRALIZED]
[UNIT 1: RELOAD]—magazine ejected, chamber reset. The battlefield shifted.
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 12/19]
A new barrage of enemy fire surged toward the Virgos. The Planet Defensors absorbed it, but their integrity faltered under sustained assault.
[SHIELD INTEGRITY: 61%]
[WARNING: SUSTAINED DAMAGE]
The Taurus units adjusted, Heero redirecting suppressing fire toward the enemy, forcing them to break their offensive stance.
[UNIT 2: TARGET LOCK]
[UNIT 3: ENGAGE SECONDARY HOSTILE]
Two quick, merciless eliminations. Their bodies crumpled—hollow metal shells tumbling into the asteroid belt.
[TARGETS NEUTRALIZED: 2]
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 10/19]
A Capricorn suit strayed too far from formation, its pilot attempting to reposition. A weak link.
[UNIT 1: FIRE]
A piercing shot through the cockpit. The enemy unit fell silent, drifting lifelessly through space.
[HOSTILE UNIT TERMINATED]
The battlefield restructured. Debris drifted like discarded wreckage, lifeless bodies reduced to scattered metal against the backdrop of space.
The enemy was destabilized, vulnerable. Heero's HUD flickered with the updated kill count.
[MISSION STATUS: ADVANTAGE MAINTAINED]
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 11/19]
The thrusters exhaled.
Heero turned to the next target.
[PROCEED TO PHASE 4]
[RELOAD]
The office greeted Soo Jin with silence. She switched on the lights, and the hum of fluorescents flickered to life, casting a soft glow over the empty workstations. The cool air settled around her shoulders as she hung her coat at the entrance. Outside, the rain tapped against the windows—steady, rhythmic, distant.
Her next steps were muscle memory. She moved through her usual motions, small rituals that eased her into the day.
AC—on. The heater rumbled to life, pushing warmth into the early morning chill.
The coffee machine—on, the gurgle of hot water filling the silence.
She moved through the space, watering the plants scattered across the department. Broad green leaves glistened as droplets clung to them, the scent of damp soil mixing with the faint bitterness of brewing coffee.
She let herself breathe in the stillness. These moments, before the office fully woke, were always hers. They always felt calm, grounding. But today, they felt… hollow. Mechanical and devoid of meaning somehow.
The rain drummed against the windows, the glass fogging slightly from the temperature shift. Entering the kitchenette, Soo Jin reached for a fresh mug and poured her second cup of the day.
It was going to be a long one.
As she stepped out of the kitchenette, cradling the warm mug between her hands, her gaze drifted before she could stop it.
Heero's desk by the window, neat as always. Pristine, untouched. The city skyline beyond it was blurred by rain, the dull gray morning casting muted light over his workspace.
He wasn't here. He wouldn't be until tomorrow.
Her steps slowed. The heat of her coffee barely registered against her palms.
For a moment, just a moment, she saw him there. Not sitting upright, focused, typing away. But asleep, his head resting against his arms, his body heavy with exhaustion. She had found him like that just last week. His breaths had been deep, slow—too deep, too slow, as if waking up meant stepping into something unbearable.
And now, he was gone again.
Her fingers tightened around her cup. The heater hummed. The rain continued. The world moved forward, indifferent. A shiver ran through her, but not from the cold. She didn't know why this unsettled her. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it wasn't.
Soo Jin exhaled softly and carried her coffee back to her desk. As her computer screen flickered to life, the blue light sharpened the edges of her reality.
She took a sip, the coffee rich and creamy.
It should have been soothing.
But the unease remained.
[PHASE 4: FINAL ASSAULT & INFILTRATION]
[OBJECTIVE]
Destroy all remaining enemy Mobile Suits inside the X-18722 hangar.
[ESTIMATED HOSTILES]
10/10 detected. Dormant. No active resistance.
[TACTICS]
Taurus Units: Enter offensive formation, eliminate targets systematically. Virgo Units: Provide defensive support at entry points. Mission Parameters: 100% fatality clearance authorized.
The hangar doors ruptured.
The blast ripped through the entrance, jagged metal folding inward as Heero's five suits soared through the breach, engines roaring.
Five massive machines touched down in perfect sync, the Taurus units in attack formation, the Virgos sealing the entrance behind them.
The battlefield was his.
[TARGET DETECTED: 10 CAPRICORN UNITS]
[STATUS: INACTIVE]
A clean sweep.
The execution began.
[UNIT 1-3: TARGET LOCK]
[FIRE]
Three suits detonated simultaneously, molten cockpit frames collapsing inward, metal twisting into hollowed husks.
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 7/10]
The life sign scanner pulsed.
[HUMAN LIFEFORMS DETECTED]
Engineers. Technicians. Scrambling. Running.
Mission parameters allowed for 100% fatalities.
Heero ignored them.
[UNIT 1-3: TARGET LOCK]
[FIRE]
Three more erased.
Flashes of white-hot destruction reflected off the hangar walls. Heavy support beams crumpled under the force, crashing into the wreckage. The air thickened with smoke, visibility choked by burning fuel and twisted metal.
It didn't matter.
Heero didn't see—he processed.
Radar. Heat signatures. Movement mapped in real time.
[UNIT 1-3: TARGET LOCK]
[FIRE]
Three more gone.
The battlefield folded inward, debris stacking upon debris.
One left. A final Capricorn, standing amidst the destruction. It had never powered up. It stood there like a monument, as if the machine already knew it had lost.
[UNIT 1: TARGET LOCK]
[FIRE]
The last suit crumbled, its remnants swallowed by the firestorm.
[HOSTILES REMAINING: 0/10]
[MISSION ACC––]
The life sign scanner pulsed again.
Heero ignored it.
A new heat signature. Not fire. Not human.
Something else.
Data flashed. Calculations. Probabilities. Statistics. Intel reports.
Then—hostile fire warning.
The world exploded.
[IMPACT: UNIT 1]
[SHIELD INTEGRITY: 52%]
Unit 1 reeled—direct hit.
Unit 2 leapt aside, thrusters screaming.
The Virgos surged forward, shields pulsing, struggling to absorb the onslaught.
A heavy silhouette emerged from the flames.
The MMS-01 Serpent.
[HOSTILE DETECTED]
[WARNING: INCOMING FIRE]
Weapon systems engaged at full capacity—twin Gatling guns spinning, missile pods locking onto targets. This was no defensive unit. It was a hunter.
For the first time in the mission, Heero's mind reeled.
The battlefield had shifted.
This was no longer a cleanup operation.
Rows of unread emails greeted Soo Jin as she opened her inbox. She scanned the list, sorting through priorities.
One from Jeong—set up a meeting with HR.
Check.
Another from HR—monthly November report due next week.
Check.
An internal security notice—routine system updates.
A reminder about next Monday's cyber threat briefing.
Review Agent Kang's expense reports.
Check. Check. Check.
She noted each task down on her notepad, crafting her to-do list for the day. A structured, methodical start before she dove headfirst into the administrative grind that kept the Cyber Threat Analysis department running.
Her pen hovered over the page, mentally ticking off priorities—
Her elbow clipped the coffee mug.
The cup tilted. Wobbled.
Then tipped.
Dark liquid spilled across her desk, pooling around her mouse pad, seeping into the crevices of her keyboard. The puddle crept outward, inching toward the desk's edge.
Soo Jin jerked upright, heart skipping at the sudden mess. "Damn it," she muttered.
The coffee bled under her notepad, staining the corners, the spreading liquid slow, merciless. She pushed back from her desk, chair scraping against the floor, fingers already curled into fists.
Paper towels—Now!
[IMPACT: UNIT 3]
A white-hot explosion tore through Heero's consciousness.
[WARNING! UNIT 3: CRITICAL DAMAGE]
[UNIT 3: LOST]
The neural link severed like a nerve being cut.
He felt it. The sudden vacuum of lost connection, the emptiness where Unit 3 had been. His mind reeled, searching for the missing limb that no longer existed yet somehow he felt it spasm.
The Serpent fired again.
[INCOMING: UNIT 5]
Missiles streaked in a deadly arc. The Virgo's shields flared, struggled—failed.
A flash of searing light.
[UNIT 5: CRITICAL DAMAGE]
[UNIT 5: LOST]
Another limb, ripped away.
The ZERO System lagged for the first time.
[STATUS: RECALCULATING]
Heero's vision blurred. The cockpit flickered in and out of focus. His heart pounded against the restraints, a dull thud out of sync with the pulsing machine rhythm that had been his world.
He barely had time to adjust—
The Serpent moved again.
[WARNING: HOSTILE INCOMING]
A barrage of missiles.
The Virgos surged forward, shields flashing—but the impact overwhelmed them.
[UNIT 4: SHIELD INTEGRITY: 13%]
More missiles. More fire. The hangar shook, support beams crumbling.
[UNIT 4: CRITICAL DAMAGE]
[UNIT 4: LOST]
A final, ripping sensation.
A phantom pain screamed through him—like tendons snapping, like bones shattering.
[UNIT 2: CRITICAL DAMAGE]
A raw, ragged scream tore from his throat.
The weight of nothingness expanded inside his head—crushing, inescapable. Four lost units. Four missing limbs. A body torn apart and left screaming in the void. The battlefield dissolved into static.
The Serpent twisted, Gatling guns unleashing hell.
A brutal, searing rupture.
Not an explosion. Not a warning. Just a sudden, crushing absence.
[UNIT 2: LOST]
Heero's awareness collapsed inward, the neural severance tearing through him like a limb violently amputated mid-motion.
Pain. Searing, overwhelming pain. It wasn't physical—but it felt real. Like losing an arm and a leg in the same instant.
The sudden disconnection wrenched him back into himself, snapping his consciousness from the battlefield to the chair, to his body on Earth.
The machines were gone.
The war inside his skull remained.
A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat.
His voice burst out of him uncontrollably, shredding his throat with its force. It sounded both distant and deafening—like it came from outside of him and within him at the same time.
The pain dragged him further back into flesh.
He wasn't the suits anymore. He wasn't the ZERO System.
He was trapped in a body.
And it hurt.
The restraints cut deep into his wrists and ankles as his body convulsed, every muscle locking, spasming, twisting against itself. His skull throbbed, a hammer driving spikes through his temples. His nerves burned, every fiber of him alive with unbearable static.
The sensory overload consumed him.
"Neural strain critical!"
The voice was too close. But too far.
"Cognitive overload at 97%!"
"Vitals are going haywire!"
The words barely registered—like voices screaming underwater.
The phantom weight of the destroyed units crushed him, like limbs still attached, still aching to move. His mind was fracturing, ripping apart. Tethered to the three remaining units while his physical self screamed to reclaim him.
"He's caught in the feedback loop!"
"Get him out of there!"
"No! Compensate!"
"Give him another dose—STAT!"
He felt their hands on him, the pricks of needles, the rush of medical intervention—but none of it reached him. His mind was still reaching for the lost units, still searching for the limbs that no longer existed. A phantom awareness, still moving, still commanding, still feeling.
But there was nothing left to control.
Nothing left except pain.
Too much.
Too much.
Pain.
[ERROR]
[ERROR]
[ERROR]
[CONNECTION LOST]
[ERROR]
[ERROR]
[ERROR]
And Then—Her Voice.
A whisper. Soft. Steady.
"Heero."
Everything stilled.
A thread of warmth cut through the suffocating static. He knew it wasn't real. But for a moment—he let himself believe.
Soo Jin.
Her presence was faint, but it was there. Her hand on his—warm, grounding. Her scent—the barely-there trace of her perfume, the warmth of her when she had leaned just close enough. The way she had looked at him. The way she had smiled.
For the first time since the mission began, the pain dulled. The screaming voices. The convulsions. The suffocating pressure of his body against the restraints—All of it faded.
[SYSTEM REBOOT]
[CONNECTION REESTABLISHED]
[NEURAL LINK: 100%]
Breath returned. Shallow. Unsteady. But he was still functional. The sooner he finished the mission, the sooner he could see her again.
The HUD flickered. Warnings flashed.
The Serpent was escaping.
Heero's body screamed at him to stop, to let go. But he ignored the pain.
[PURSUING HOSTILE | DISTANCE: 1,000 METERS]
[REPOSITIONING | ANGLE: +12°]
His only Taurus lunged forward, engines burning too hot, metal screaming under strain.
The Serpent disappeared into the asteroid field.
Heero pushed harder.
The remaining suit was falling apart—armor peeling away, thrusters failing, warning lights strobing across the HUD.
It didn't matter.
He locked back in.
[VELOCITY: 26 M/S]
[TARGET LOCK MAINTAINED]
His lungs burned, his chest tightening like a vice crushing his ribs. His body was failing him, but the mission would not fail.
The Serpent weaved through the asteroid field, thrusters flaring with every violent course correction.
Heero followed like a shadow, like death itself.
The asteroids slammed into him, into the Taurus. They shattered against his hull. They tore into his armor like blades into flesh. It stung. It burned. He was bleeding. The pain wasn't real—but it was. It seared through him, the Taurus' damage reflecting in his body, nerves firing as if the cockpit had been torn open to the vacuum of space.
But he saw only one thing—his target.
The Serpent was slowing.
[HOSTILE TRAJECTORY: ESCAPE ROUTE PROJECTED]
[ETA TO EXIT: 30 SECONDS]
He wouldn't let it reach the edge of the field.
He roared, but the sound existed in two places at once—inside the chair, inside the Taurus. The scream tore through his own body, but he heard it from a distance, like an echo bouncing off cold walls.
Heero accelerated, tearing through the debris field like a beast driven by pure instinct.
[LOCKING TARGET | ACCURACY: 58%]
Too much movement. Too much damage.
He forced it.
[LOCKING TARGET | ACCURACY: 61%]
Blood pounded in his ears, matching the pulse of the failing thrusters.
[LOCKING TARGET | ACCURACY: 82%]
Good enough.
[FIRE]
The beam cannon erupted. It ripped through the Serpent's left arm, shearing off the Gatling gun in a burst of flame and ruptured armor. The Serpent staggered, spiraling off course.
But Heero wasn't finished.
His Taurus was dying, but he still had one shot left.
[ENGAGING HOSTILE | DISTANCE: 600 METERS]
[MISSILE LOCK: ACQUIRED]
He threw everything forward.
Two missiles launched.
The Serpent tried to break away.
Too late.
The missiles curved through the asteroid field, locking onto the wounded machine.
[DIRECT IMPACT]
The Serpent erupted in a final explosion. Its charred remains scattered into the void.
[HOSTILE STATUS: NEUTRALIZED]
[MISSION STATUS: COMPLETE]
Heero exhaled, slumping into the chair, his head lolling under the helmet.
[DISENGAGING...]
The hum of the office filled the space with its usual rhythm—keyboards clicking, quiet conversations drifting between desks, the occasional ring of a desk phone. Every workstation was occupied, every seat filled.
Except for one.
Soo Jin's gaze flickered toward the only empty desk in the room. By the window, as always—perfectly arranged, untouched, as if Heero Yuy had never sat there at all.
She forced her attention back to her own screen, adjusting her headset as she wrapped up a call.
"Understood, I'll confirm the time with Director Jeong and send over the invite shortly."
A clipped affirmation from the other line. The call ended. She pulled off the headset, exhaling softly as she rolled her shoulders.
The office around her churned forward as usual. Agent Kang and Agent Baek sat at their respective desks, grumbling about everything and nothing. The heater wasn't working properly. The coffee had tasted off since last week. It was always something.
Across the room, the two women from Records sat with their heads together, whispering in hushed tones, occasionally sneaking glances toward someone—perhaps a newer recruit or an unlucky analyst caught in their sights. Their monitors were open, documents displayed, but neither of them were actually working.
Agent Kim, however, was working. Of course he was. He sat rigidly upright, posture impeccable, typing with quick, precise keystrokes. His sharp eyes flickered behind his screen, narrowing every so often at the agents slacking off. He didn't say anything. He never did. But the silent judgment radiating from behind his monitor was unmistakable.
Soo Jin resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Across the way, Jeong's office door remained closed. Business as usual.
And then there was Agent Lee. For once, he was actually at his desk. Jin allowed herself a small sigh of relief. A morning where Lee wasn't breathing down her neck or making unwanted comments was a victory.
She pulled up Jeong's schedule to enter the confirmed meeting request. Then, her screen flickered. A push notification appeared in the corner of her monitor—a private message.
[AGENT LEE SENT YOU A FILE]
Soo Jin stilled. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard before she slowly leaned aside, just enough to glance past her monitor. Agent Lee sat at his desk, hunched slightly over his screen, fingers moving across the keyboard. His posture was casual, feigning ignorance.
She frowned, straightened, and turned back to her own screen.
The file was encrypted. One-time view only. No caption. No explanation. Just a blinking cursor waiting for her to open it.
Soo Jin hesitated, glancing past her monitor and towards Heero's empty desk.
She wasn't naïve. Lee was up to something. He had deliberately sent this to her while Heero was absent. Not that she needed anyone to fend off a guy like Lee. She had dealt with men like him before—ones who liked to test boundaries, who thrived on small, cutting provocations, all under the guise of plausible deniability.
Still… she couldn't ignore the feeling of unease.
Her stomach twisted as she recalled. Lee's disgusting comment about Heero "doing" her, during yesterday's department meeting. It hadn't been the words themselves that unsettled her—it was the way Heero had reacted. The rage. The quiet, seething violence in his eyes. The deadliness of him in that moment had shifted something in her more than Lee's words ever could.
She wasn't afraid of Heero. She was afraid for him. To know that he could succumb to manipulation by someone like Lee scared her in ways she couldn't explain. And now, Lee was at it again.
The file waited on her screen.
She had to know what he was up to, if only to make sure Heero wouldn't get hurt.
Soo Jin exhaled sharply, then clicked.
The encrypted file blinked once, then opened.
The Preventer seal appeared on-screen, pulsing briefly before dissolving into rows of structured data. At first, Soo Jin didn't understand what she was looking at. The text was sterile, precise—lines of information formatted in a way that felt both clinical and invasive. Her stomach twisted as she read the top lines:
AGENT NO.: 7283101
CLEARANCE LEVEL: TOP SECRET
FORENAME: N/A
SURNAME: N/A
DESIGNATION: HEERO YUY
ID: ESUN0039512140
D.O.B: N/A
P.O.B: N/A
It was Heero's personnel file.
A deep, uncomfortable weight settled in her chest. She had never looked at his file before, despite having access to the department's personnel records in a limited capacity. Most were heavily redacted, filled with vague descriptions and classified omissions that rendered them useless to her work. She had no reason to look—especially not at Heero's. She respected his privacy, his boundaries.
But this—this was uncensored.
She shouldn't be seeing this. And neither should Lee.
Her eyes flicked to the "Top Secret" clearance level stamped at the top of the file. There was no way Lee had legitimate access to this. He must have pulled it from somewhere off-limits, or worse, used his connections to get it. It didn't matter how he got it—what mattered was why. Why send this to her? What was he trying to prove?
Her fingers curled over the mouse. She could report him. He had broken protocol by accessing classified personnel records and sending them through an unsecured channel. It was a serious offense.
But reporting him would only escalate things further. It would provoke him. And it wouldn't erase what she had already seen.
Her cursor hovered over the close button.
Then, she saw the photo—and froze. It was tucked neatly in the upper-left corner of the file, a passport-style shot of a younger Heero.
Her heart skipped a beat.
It wasn't just the absence of his black-dyed hair or brown contacts that caught her off guard. It was everything.
His hair, longer and messier than he wore it now, fell unevenly over his forehead, soft chocolate-brown waves barely touching his lashes. His skin was a touch more tanned, a deeper golden shade than what it was now. His features seemed almost boyish, maybe early twenties or less, with the sharp lines of his cheekbones not yet fully defined.
But it was his eyes that struck her the most. Vividly—stunningly—blue—clear as the Han River under the summer sun. They weren't just looking at her; they were piercing through her. There was no filter, no hesitation, no dim veil of brown lenses softening their impact. Only raw intensity. Scorching. Unyielding.
There was no weariness in them, none of the dim light flickering behind brown coloured lenses. They were open, fiery, scorching in their intensity.
The photo contained no trace of the black-dyed hair or brown contacts he wore now, no calculated effort to blend in. This was Heero as he was naturally.
It felt as though he had been frozen in time—a version of Heero that no longer existed, staring straight through the screen. The sight of him without his disguise left her breathless, her chest tightening with a mix of emotions she couldn't immediately untangle.
She had seen his blue eyes once before—when he was sick. A secret she hadn't been meant to witness. Seeing them here, exposed, archived in Preventer's system, made her stomach churn.
This wasn't a glimpse behind his mask.
This was everything being stripped away.
Heero had gone to such lengths to bury his natural appearance. To erase it. To shield himself. And now, because of Lee, she—and who knows who else—had seen what he fought so hard to keep hidden, his struggles reduced to nothing more than a file in Preventer's system. A system that refused to let him move on from whatever may be haunting him, keeping this stripped-away version of him on file. His trauma institutionalized, archived, owned.
Her stomach churned.
It wasn't just the violation of his privacy that made her heart ache. It was what this would do to him. Heero wouldn't say a word. He never did. But she could see it in her mind—the tension in his jaw, the way he'd lock his shoulders to mask the sting. The way he'd pretend not to care, but in reality, it would weigh on him, another cut over a thousand others.
And people like Lee—they'd mock him for it. They wouldn't see it as an act of survival. They'd see it as weakness. A joke. Something to exploit.
The thought hit her like a slap.
Her hands curled into fists on her lap.
She felt violated for him. Lee's prying eyes had ripped something sacred from Heero, exposed him in a way he had no control over. Heero didn't deserve this. The man who hid behind brown contacts and black hair wasn't vain or self-conscious—he was a survivor. A man who knew, more than anyone, what it meant to be exposed, vulnerable, unprotected.
And now, Soo Jin had seen what he never wanted anyone to see.
A truth forced into the light.
Her cursor hovered over the close button. She should exit. This was exactly what Lee wanted—to bait her, to tempt her into looking. The right thing would be to shut the file and pretend she had never seen it.
Her fingers tensed on the mouse.
She hesitated.
Because this wasn't just curiosity.
It wasn't voyeurism.
It was anger.
Not at Heero, but at those who had defined him inside this file—a man stripped down to numbers and classifications, reduced to a weapon instead of a person. A man people like Lee saw when they looked at Heero.
They didn't see him the way she did.
The people who had written this report didn't know the Heero who drank espresso as a form of quiet meditation, who stiffened whenever someone reached for him, who walked the stairs instead of taking the elevator because it was all too much.
They had stamped his entire existence into a series of cold efficiencies, the way an engineer might log the specifications of a machine.
Soo Jin clenched her jaw.
She wasn't looking for weaknesses. She wasn't looking for secrets.
She was looking for him.
For Heero.
For the man she knew he was.
Her eyes drifted back to the screen.
GENDER: MALE
ETHNICITY: JAPANESE/CAUCASIAN
HEIGHT: 178 CM
UNIQUE IDENTIFIERS: BLUE EYES
Soo Jin blinked, as if the words had mocked her outright.
Of all the things that made Heero who he was—his resilience, his quiet intensity, the contradictions of vulnerability and strength that lived in his silence—this was what Preventer had chosen to highlight?
His race, his eyes.
His blue eyes.
The same ones he tried to hide behind contact lenses. The same ones that seemed to carry the weight of a lifetime of sorrow. The file didn't mention what that color meant to him. What it symbolized. It read like a cold, detached fact.
UNIQUE IDENTIFIERS: BLUE EYES
It said nothing about how they made him stand out in ways he never wanted to. How he hated the way people looked at him. How he carried the weight of being different, other, a contradiction. How he had learned to shrink himself down, to erase what made him unique, all because the world had forced him to. The file didn't capture any of that. It reduced him to a checklist.
Her chest burned.
She should stop. She should shut the file now, before she saw something she couldn't unsee.
Her fingers didn't move. Because if she stopped now, this was all Heero would be. To Preventer. To everyone but her. A series of numbers, statistics, and skill ratings. A perfect record, devoid of the man who lived inside it.
She had to know if there was something— anything —in these pages that proved they had seen him. That somewhere in all this data, the man she knew still existed.
The anger clawed up her throat, tight and hot, refusing to let her stop here.
She scrolled down. The words blurred together, impersonal and clinical.
PROFICIENCIES (1-5):
Mobile Suit Pilot (5) | Advanced Marksman (5) | Direct Action (DA) (5) | Special Reconnaissance (SR) (5) | Cybersecurity & Hacking (5) | Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) (4) | Hand-to-Hand Combat (CQC Specialist) (4) | Survival & Evasion (5) | Strategic & Tactical Analysis (5) | Mechanical & Maintenance (4) | Tactical Command Experience (4) | Deep Space Training (5)
Her breath shallowed. The numbers and skills stretched down the screen, a list of lethal expertise ranked like statistics in a war game.
Five. Five. Five.
Perfect scores. A perfect soldier.
The file painted a picture of someone engineered for combat, built for danger, trained for missions that normal people wouldn't survive. It didn't reflect the man who had made awkward jokes over lunch, who had stood beside her in the rain and held an umbrella over her head. The man who had opened up to her, however briefly. Who had, after everything, still found the strength to trust her with the most fragile parts of himself.
The Heero Yuy she knew—warm, vulnerable, complicated—was nothing but a series of rated proficiencies.
Next came the cognitive assessment.
More numbers. More metrics. More ways to reduce him to data.
COGNITIVE ASSESSMENT:
IQ Score:
163
Cognitive Reflection Test (CRT) Score:
3/3
Working Memory Capacity (WMC):
98
Decision-Making Efficiency (DME) Rating:
95/100
Raven's Advanced Progressive Matrices (APM) Percentile:
99
Processing Speed Index (PSI) Score:
141
Situational Awareness Quotient (SAQ) Rating:
98/100
Emotional Intelligence Quotient (EQ) Score:
130
Tactical Decision-Making Under Stress (TDUS) Rating:
94/100
Spatial Reasoning Aptitude (SRA) Percentile:
96
It felt like a punch to the gut—this cold, clinical breakdown of the man she knew. A spreadsheet of abilities, reducing him to a high-functioning system, as if that was all he was.
But the numbers missed something. Something crucial.
It wasn't just raw intelligence that guided Heero. It was his heart. His instincts. His intuition.
He didn't just make decisions based on cold logic—he felt them. Like his choice to go vegan. Or the way he wore colored contacts. He hadn't done it for some grand cause, like sparing animal life through self-denial. It wasn't about blending in, either.
He did it because his heart demanded it, and he followed.
Heero didn't just calculate his moves—he followed his emotions. He had a way of reading a situation before it even fully materialized, not through data, not through algorithms, but through something deeper.
He could read people. Pick up on the smallest cues. Understand pain that went unspoken.
And none of it was here.
The file had nothing to say about that. No measure of his empathy, no acknowledgment of the weight he carried, the way it shaped his choices. To Preventer, he was just another asset. A brilliant mind to exploit, a weapon to wield. A soldier. A tool built for efficiency, honed for destruction, designed to execute orders without breaking.
There was no mention of the trauma he carried. No acknowledgment of the relentless burden, the battle within himself. And worse—not even his real name. The name he had hinted at in the smallest, most vulnerable moment. The name that meant something. The name that had been chosen for him by his mother.
But here?
Heero's entire existence was reduced to numbers, like a handling manual. That was enough for Preventer. But to her—
He was so much more.
Her fingers trembled slightly over the trackpad. She could keep reading. There were five more pages. The psychiatric assessment. A part of her wanted to know. A part of her didn't.
And all of her knew that she shouldn't.
Lee had expected her to look. That was why he sent it. To see if she would treat Heero the way everyone else did. As something to dissect. To analyze. To violate. If she kept reading, she would be no different.
Her stomach twisted. She didn't need to see any more. She refused to be part of this. Soo Jin closed the file, watching the icon flashing to announce it's being deleted.
She had seen enough.
Soo Jin leaned back in her chair, her fingers hovering over her keyboard as she stared at the now-blank screen. The photo of Heero's younger self lingered in her mind, vivid and haunting.
Her anger simmered, her pulse quickening as she replayed the smug look Lee must have worn when he sent her the file. He thought she'd fall for his trap, that she'd look, that she'd let his intrusion poison the way she saw Heero.
Not a chance.
Across the room, Lee sat at his desk, lounging back in his chair with his typical air of smug indifference. She let her glare settle on him for just a moment before turning back to her work. He wasn't worth her energy.
Later, as the lunch hour rolled around, Lee rose from his chair, his two usual cronies trailing after him. Their laughter drifted across the office, low and conspiratorial. Soo Jin pretended not to notice, waiting until they passed by her desk before speaking in an even, casual tone.
"Agent Lee," she said, her voice light but carrying just enough edge to make him pause.
He turned, his joker's smile firmly in place. "What's up, Soo Jin-ah?"
"I wanted to apologize," she said, keeping her tone polite but cool. "I couldn't open the file you sent me earlier. It must have been corrupted or something."
The moment stretched, almost imperceptible, but she caught it. The slight falter in his smirk. The way his eyes narrowed, scanning her face, searching for deception. Soo Jin simply looked back at him, unblinking, composed, letting the words settle.
"Corrupted?" he echoed, his tone light but forced. "Huh. That's strange. Must've been a glitch."
"Must've been," Soo Jin agreed, her tone breezy as she turned back to her monitor, effectively dismissing him. "Anyway, just thought I'd let you know."
Lee's jaw tensed—barely noticeable, but there. Then, like clockwork, the grin returned. "No worries, Jin-ah" he said, waving it off. "It wasn't that important."
The two agents flanking him exchanged glances, stifling chuckles as Lee's expression darkened briefly. He recovered quickly, flashing a toothy grin as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Enjoy your lunch, Soo Jin-ah," he said, his tone syrupy with mock friendliness.
"You too, Agent Lee," she replied, her voice cool and composed.
Lee turned, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he walked away, his posture a little too casual, a little too forced. As the group walked away, Soo Jin caught the low murmur of his friends teasing him, Lee's voice clipped and irritated in response. She didn't need to hear the words. She felt his frustration. Felt the crack in his confidence.
Good. Let him stew. Let him know she wasn't as easily manipulated as he thought.
[SYSTEM OFFLINE]
[NEURAL SEVERANCE COMPLETE]
The world was still spinning.
Heero's mind clung to the asteroid field, the cold, airless expanse seared into his consciousness. Tiny rocks scraped against his metallic hull, phantom impacts that weren't real but felt as vivid as the fire that had torn through him—his suits.
Echoes of missile strikes pulsed through him—sharp, jarring shocks that reverberated like phantom pain in severed limbs.
Four limbs. Four suits lost.
His chest tightened. His breath hitched—shallow, strained.
He wasn't in space anymore, but his mind refused to leave. The Serpent was still ahead. Still moving. Still weaving through debris. The remaining suit—his remaining limb—still pushed forward. Still chasing.
Hands were suddenly on him. A sharp tug at his helmet. Cold metal pressed against his scalp, pulling hair at the roots as the neural cap detached. The helmet came away, dragging him out of the nightmare—and into another.
White light exploded behind his eyelids.
The brightness stabbed through his skull like a blade. He winced, squeezing his eyes shut.
Cold.
He was freezing.
A thin hospital gown clung to his damp skin, offering no warmth against the chill that sank into his bones. His body shivered violently.
Another hand. His mouthguard ripped free. The rubber scraped against his teeth, cracked lips, bleeding gums. A sharp, metallic tang flooded his tongue. Blood.
He tried to swallow—his throat spasmed. Raw. Torn from screaming.
A slow, warm drip of saliva slipped down his chin. Blood oozed from his nose.
Someone released his wrists and ankles from the restraints. They still throbbed as though bound. His flesh had rubbed raw against the straps where he had struggled against them. Everything hurt. His muscles throbbed—screaming in cramps from hours of tension.
"He's coming out of it." Someone . Too far to decipher.
"Yuy." The voice cut through the fog, sharp and demanding. "Baseline test."
Heero blinked. His vision swam. A shadow moved above him. A wrinkled frown and thick furrowed brows. Black glasses. Graying hair. French accent.
Corbin.
The Frenchman's mouth moved, his words cutting through the fog. "Yuy, focus. Baseline— Now. "
The word barely registered.
Heero's head lolled against the headrest, his breath shallow and uneven. His body felt impossibly heavy. He blinked slowly, his thoughts sluggish and tangled.
"R—Ready…" he rasped, his voice hoarse, the word barely audible.
Corbin's gaze flickered over him. Calculating. Then, a nod.
"Good," he said, voice firm but softer this time. "Let's start easy. Designation?"
Heero swallowed, his throat dry and aching. That one was easy enough.
"…Heero Yuy."
"Current location?"
"Combat Analysis Room."
Corbin's frown deepened. "Be more specific," he pressed. "Where? Which country?"
A long pause. His mind spun, unable to latch onto the answer. The words slipped away like sand through his fingers.
"HQ…?" His reply was fragile, unsure. "Brussels…?"
A sharp silence. Corbin's lips pressed into a thin line.
"That's not a country, Yuy," he said, voice edged with something uneasy. "Try again."
Heero's fingers twitched weakly against the armrests. His vision blurred.
Where was he?
He closed his eyes, sinking into tug and pull of swirling memories in his head. Disjointed images, fleeting moments. Pointing randomly at a map. Sitting alone on the couch each night, teaching himself Korean on an app. Learning Hangul. Practicing his writing on a notepad at work. Preventer HQ Stationary. The flight over. The anxiety settling in his chest as the plane took off. The relief when his destination appeared as it descended the clouds.
"Seoul," he whispered, opening his eyes with slow, droopy, blinks. "South Korea. Earth."
Corbin released a slow, measured sigh, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "There we go. Good. The date?"
Heero hesitated.
The seconds stretched too long.
Corbin's voice dropped lower. "Come on, princess. Think. What day is it?"
"…Tomorrow."
Corbin's scowl returned. "Tomorrow what?"
"Tuesday…?" he ventured, his voice uncertain, almost questioning.
A flicker of something cold passed over Corbin's expression. "Not good enough," he admonished. "Try again. What months is it? Describe the weather."
The kitchenette. Coffee brewing. Rain against the window. Soo Jin's nervous laughter.
"At least the forecast was accurate today…"
"Cold… rainy," the answer slipped out of him without thought, an echo of something he had said... something he had discussed over coffee in the break room in a rare moment of normalcy.
"Ever tried Hangang Park?" Her voice came to him like a distant breeze. "It's a great place for a jog. Well, when it isn't raining so much."
"It's… November," Heero finally determined, turning to Corbin.
"And the year?" Corbin wouldn't let up, his expression tense.
Another pause. Too long.
Heero's breath shallowed. His fingers curled inward.
"Yuy," Corbin pushed, his tone edging toward something sharper. "How old are you? Come on. Focus."
Silence.
Then, too soft—too uncertain.
"…Fifteen?"
The room fell still. The techs exchanged worried glances. Corbin's expression tightened—his entire body tensing as he leaned closer.
"Heero." His voice was different this time. Edged. Worried. "Look at me."
Heero's breathing hitched. He turned to face Corbin, studying the wrinkles on his scowling face, the glint of the lamps on his thick black glasses.
"Stay with me," Corbin urged him, resting his arms on both sides of Heero's head as he leaned into his face, "What year is it? How old are you?"
"I… I don't know," Heero murmured, his voice breaking. His gaze flickered away, unable to look Corbin in the eye. He shifted his eyes restlessly, trying to find something else to look at as the words tumbled from his lips in a miserable trickle.
"I don't… have a birthday. It's not in my file. Nothing is… not even my name…"
Corbin straightened back up, cursing under his breath. His hands gripped Heero's shoulders—shaking him just hard enough that Heero's dangling head wobbled from side to side.
"Snap out of it, Yuy," Corbin ordered, shaking him as though to jerk him awake. "Heero, concentrate! This is a baseline test—and you're failing. What year is it? How old are you?"
Heero blinked. Jerky. Slow.
His mind scrambled to realign.
Finally, a whisper.
"It's… AC 209." His voice was so small. "I'm… older."
Corbin's grip loosened. Heero sunk back against the chair.
"Something isn't right," Corbin turned to one of the techs, who handed him a notepad. Corbin skimmed through it, his eyes scanning quickly behind his glasses as he flipped through the pages.
"These readings are off the charts," he muttered in disdain.
"Vitals are borderline," one of the techs murmured. "Should we alert Jenkins?"
Corbin didn't respond immediately. His gaze stayed locked on Heero. Studying him.
"Not yet," he said and shoved the notepad into the tech's hands, pushing him away. He pulled out a round stool from somewhere beyond Heero's limited line of sight, and sat down next to Heero, looking at him intently.
"Heero," he said, his voice gentler now. "I need you to focus. Close your eyes. Think. What's the recent memory you gave me?"
Heero's head tilted faintly, his gaze unfocused. He stared at a blurry image of the room behind Corbin. His mouth felt dry, his tongue swollen and thick. He licked his palette, trying to dampen the uncomfortable itch. The metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth. His nose was still bleeding, blood trickling onto his lips with a metallic sting.
Then, a memory. A scent. A flavor. The repetitive thudding motion of a knife slicing through a carrot against a cutting board. Rhythmic vibrations pulsing in his wrists. Sauteed onions and simmering rice. A warm, rich and savory aroma filling his kitchen for a change.
Soo Jin's warm, understanding smile. "I get that. Food can be… well, more than just fuel."
The answer came to him. Clear as day.
"…Tofu fried rice."
Corbin's scowl cracked with an actual sign of relief, the harsh lines around his eyes softening behind his glasses. "Good. Good," he said, a hint of encouragement in his voice. "Significant moment?" he added, the question sounding almost hopeful.
Heero's bloodied lips parted, but no words came. His fingers twitched weakly against the armrests, the faint movement barely registering.
"Come on, princess. Significant moment. What did you tell me earlier?"
The asteroid field, the Serpent, the pain—all of it resurfaced. His mind flailed desperately, trying to reach something—anything—else. He sifted through snapshot memories, small mundane moments. Something bright. Steady. Something other than gunfire, missiles and the darkness of space. Something small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Something private. Something significant to him .
"Have you always been vegan?"
The question pierced through the fog, a pinprick of clarity. Soo Jin. Her voice in the stairwell. Her laughter in the kitchenette. Her small, measured attempts to get to know him for who he was and why he was like this. Her questions filled him with appreciation. They forced him to look at himself in a way he hadn't done in years.
"Lunch… " Heero finally murmured, his voice distant, caught in the memory of the stairwell.
"They mixed up our orders."
"Oh.. I'm sorry about that. Here—let's swap."
"… in the stairwell." He paused, swallowing the dryness in his mouth before confirming the last, intimate, detail. "With… Soo Jin."
Corbin exhaled softly, leaning back slightly. "Good job, Yuy," he praised. "Now, concentrate. Early memory?"
Heero closed his eyes, letting his mind sink back into place.
"Something… depressing," he surmised, keeping his eyes closed, exhausted.
Corbin huffed out a wry snort. "Good. Now what was it?"
"I didn't… give you one," Heero murmured, his voice faltering. "You were being an asshole."
A laugh escaped from one of the techs.
Corbin's smirk was more relieved than amused.
"Welcome back, princess," he greeted, sighing as he stood back up. "You gave us quite a scare."
Heero turned his head slightly, his tired, desperate gaze locking onto Corbin. "I want to go home," he whispered.
Corbin's smirk faded. "Sorry, princess," he said, his tone clipped but without malice. "I can't sign off on your release like this." He turned to the techs, his voice brisk and professional. "Give him another dose. Put him under. I'll check back in a couple of hours."
Heero stirred faintly. "No," he croaked, his eyes fluttering open briefly. "I want… to go home."
"You're not going anywhere, princess," Corbin replied, his tone softening slightly. Not gentle, but not harsh. Just a fact. "Your mind is like scrambled eggs. We need to stabilize you first." He turned to the techs. "Give him another dose. Put him under. I'll check back later."
His hand shot out, weak and trembling. Heero's fingers barely found their mark, closing feebly around Corbin's wrist.
His grip was fragile. Desperate.
"…I'm cold," he whispered. Fraying. Small. "I'll… get sick again."
Corbin hesitated. Just for a moment.
His gaze flicked down, following the faint tremor in Heero's fingers. The bluish tint of his lips. The red smear of blood beneath his nose—stark against his pale skin. The sunken hollows of his face, his large, glassy blue eyes wide and vulnerable.
Corbin sighed through his nose, a quiet exhale. He reached down, prying Heero's fingers loose—not rough, not dismissive, just efficient. He carefully placed Heero's hand back down against the reclined chair, fingers splayed open.
Then, without looking away, he spoke.
"Clean him up," he ordered. "Dress his wounds."
A beat. Then, sharp but not unkind:
"And get him a blanket."
The last thing Heero felt was the needle piercing his skin. Techs flanking him as they began treatment.
Then—darkness.