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

by ElleSmith

When Soo Jin Park takes an internship position at Preventer's Seoul Branch, the last thing she expects is to find herself drawn into a real-life K-Drama with the agency's most enigmatic and aloof agent, Heero Yuy. Will she be the one to help Heero find peace in the aftermath of war, or will his demons prove too strong to overcome?

14. Chapter 14

Trigger Warning:

This chapter contains a flashback depicting distressing circumstances, including implied physical and sexual abuse. While the details remain intentionally vague and non-graphic, the themes may still be unsettling for some readers. Please proceed with care.

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

Chapter 14

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The office was too quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that came with peace, but the kind that settled deep in the bones, pressing in from all sides. The absence of sound that only existed when something—someone—was missing.

Soo Jin sat at her desk, fingers curled loosely around her phone, staring at nothing in particular. Normally, at this hour, the department would be empty, the faint hum of conversation and clinking trays filtering up from the cafeteria below. Lunch break. A routine she had always taken part in. Until today.

Her gaze flickered across the room, drawn involuntarily to the desk diagonal from hers.

Heero's desk.

Empty. Untouched. Just as it had been that morning.

Her chest tightened.

She had gotten used to his presence. The silent company of a man who never asked to be noticed, but whose presence filled the space regardless. Most days, he would be there, hunched over his keyboard, eating at his desk with single-minded focus, catching up on whatever work had piled up while he'd been upstairs. Always playing catch-up, always trying to make up for lost time.

Even when she had passed him on the stairwell, catching glimpses of him eating alone, she had sensed it. The weight of his exhaustion. It was always there—etched into his posture, the way his shoulders slumped, the way his grip on his chopsticks sometimes faltered before he steadied himself.

But on the rare occasions she had joined him, she had seen something different. A quiet shift. A small but noticeable effort to hold himself together, to sit a little straighter, to engage in polite conversation even when it was obvious—painfully obvious—that he was struggling just to exist.

Soo Jin swallowed, forcing her gaze away from Heero's vacant station, back to her desk, back to the untouched lunchbox sitting beside her keyboard. She flipped the lid open, and the familiar scent of gochujang and sesame oil curled into the air, rich, savory. Bibimbap, her favorite.

But today, the sight of it only made her stomach twist.

She stared at the bright colors—the julienned carrots, the wilted spinach, the perfectly fried egg nestled on top—but the longer she looked, the more the edges of her vision blurred.

It should have been comforting. It should have been warm. Instead, the thought of eating made her feel sick.

She snapped the lid shut. A quiet, decisive rejection.

In that sense, she had to admit defeat. Lee hadn't won, not in the way he had intended. He had wanted her to dig deeper, to be consumed by curiosity, to let herself be pulled into something she had no right to see.

She hadn't let him. She had stopped.

Before reaching Heero's service record. Before reaching his psych evaluation. Before seeing something she could never unsee.

But in another way, he had succeeded.

Because she had looked. She had told herself she wouldn't, that it was wrong. That she owed Heero more than this. And yet, she had scrolled down anyway, knowing full well that it was a betrayal of the trust he had never even given her.

The file was gone. Deleted. But the words… The words were still there. Burned into the back of her mind. The cold reduction of Heero Yuy. The numbers, the classifications. The way they had stripped him down to a tool, a weapon, a series of cold efficiencies.

Her stomach twisted, her appetite long gone. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if she could shake the file from her mind.

She couldn't.

The office was still too quiet.

The cafeteria below was still full of people.

And Heero's desk was still empty.

The guilt churned in her stomach, heavy and sour.

Those blue eyes. That brown hair. Those boyish features.

No name. Not even a footnote about his true identity and origin.

Maybe Preventer had never asked. Maybe he had refused to give it. Either way, they had erased it.

Her grip on her pen tightened.

Heero had told her the meaning behind it. Even feverish, he had known what he was saying. Rare Blue. She remembered the way he had spoken—the quiet weight in his voice, the way his fevered exhaustion had softened the sharp edges of his words.

He hadn't given her the name itself, but he had given her the story. His mother had named him after what they shared. Her name reflected the same trait he remembered her by, the same trait he resented in himself.

Blue.

He had chosen to discard that name, bury it beneath layers of disguise—black hair, brown contacts, an identity carefully constructed to blend in, to erase what made him stand out, cover up the rare blue of his eyes.

But it was still his, and he had shared it with her.

Not because she had asked. Because, somewhere deep down, he had wanted her to know. He wouldn't have shared it otherwise. Heero wouldn't have trusted her with the meaning behind his name if he didn't believe she would respect it. Respect his choice to let it go.

Soo Jin exhaled slowly, tapping her pen against the desk.

She wasn't looking for something he had hidden. She was looking for something they had stolen. They had erased him. And that, more than anything, made her stomach turn.

She had no right to pry into the things he had chosen to leave behind. But this? This wasn't about defying his trust. This was about reclaiming him. He had given her the tip of the iceberg, allowing her to dive deeper if she so chose. And right now, Preventer's erasure of his name made that choice for her.

She turned to her computer, jaw set.

The initial search results were frustratingly broad—translations, color meanings, kanji combinations that didn't quite fit.

稀: Rare. Ki, ke. Mare, Mabara.
青: Blue. Aoi, ao. Sei, shō.

She tested different combinations, scribbling them in her yellow notepad, sounding them out softly under her breath. Some were too soft. Others felt too formal.

None of them felt like him.

青稀: Blue, rare. Haruki, Aoki, Aomare…

稀青: Rare, blue. Kiharu, Kisei, Mareo…

So many combinations. None of them clicked.

Soo Jin dipped the pen into the notepad, her lips forming the syllables, testing the weight of them. But none of them settled. None of them felt like they belonged to him. She couldn't explain why. She just knew they didn't. It was silly, but she trusted her gut on this one. Heero wasn't any of those names.

Around her, the department shifted back into motion. The muffled sound of the elevator doors sliding open signaled the return of agents from lunch. A chair scraped against the floor as Agent Kim sank into his desk and started typing without a word.

Director Jeong's voice cut through the quiet hum. "Any calls?" he asked as he passed by her desk.

Soo Jin looked up. "No, sir."

She heard Agent Lee pass her desk but refused to acknowledge him—just as he was doing to her. It was childish, but at least his petty little games gave her an excuse to keep her focus on her notepad.

In the kitchenette, the two female agents laughed softly as they started their post-lunch coffee ritual, their quiet chatter blending with the low hum of machines, keyboard clicks, and the occasional shuffle of papers.

The Cyber Threat Analysis Department had fallen back into its rhythm. But Heero's desk remained empty. It gnawed at her—a presence defined by absence, a void that refused to be ignored. By her, at least. Everyone else seemed to be moving on just fine.

Moving on. Soo Jin scoffed at her own thoughts, shaking her head. It wasn't like he was gone forever. He will be back tomorrow. Not that anyone seemed to care.

She missed him.

It had only been a day, and she missed him.

"Our girl's got it bad," Mi Cha's teasing echoed in her mind, and Soo Jin shook her head—harder this time. She forced herself to look back at her notepad.

Focus.

She scribbled the kanji again. 青稀. Then again. 稀青. She stared at them, willing one of them to feel right.

The doors opened again. A new rhythm entered the department. Not the familiar shuffle of an agent returning from lunch. Not a fellow intern carrying a file. It was calculated. Measured.

For a fleeting second, her heart lifted, irrationally anticipating a familiar presence. But the moment the new arrival stepped inside, that feeling died.

It wasn't him.

It wasn't Heero.

She knew it before she even turned her head completely. The air felt all wrong, nothing like the air of strength and composure Heero carried with him. The presence that just entered didn't belong to him. It was something else entirely—cold, menacing, alien. It slithered into the office like an icy specter, threading through the department.

A creeping sense of unease coiled in her chest. Soo Jin clenched her jaw, internally reprimanding herself for the foolish hope. She should have known better. She did know better. Heero wasn't coming back today. Still, disappointment settled in her ribs like a weight she hadn't prepared for.

She turned fully now, facing the new presence. And as soon as she did, the unease sharpened.

A tall, lanky man entered, moving with purpose. His crisp white lab coat hung loosely over his thin frame. His sharp eyes, magnified behind thick-rimmed glasses, scanned the room as if he was taking inventory of something unseen. Deep lines carved into his forehead and around his mouth, etching a permanent scowl on his narrow face. He looked like a man with no patience for delays.

And he was walking straight toward her desk.

Her stomach flipped. In one smooth motion, she clicked out of her browser, shuffling her notepad to the side—only to realize too late that her scribbled kanji notes were still visible.

The man's gaze flicked downward.

A beat of silence.

He said nothing. But she felt watched.

Soo Jin hurried to slide the notepad under a report and forced a polite, neutral smile.

"Welcome, sir," she greeted in English, her voice faltering with poorly practiced pronunciation. "How may I help you?"

The man's expression remained unreadable. "Jeong in his office?" he asked in smooth English, his voice carrying a French accent.

Soo Jin blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his directness.

His eyes flicked to the nameplate on her desk, quickly scanning it behind his thick glasses, then back to her.

"It's urgent."

The weight in his tone left no room for delay. Soo Jin gathered herself quickly. "Of course, sir." The English words felt awkward on her tongue. She hated her accent. She hoped she would never have to use English with Heero—it would be embarrassing.

"Your name, please?"

The man's gaze drifted back to her notepad, the scribbled kanji now covered, then back to her. The corner of his mouth twitched with something that could have been disdain, or amusement.

"Corbin," he said, his voice sharp, clipped. "Jeong will know what this is about."

"Of course," Soo Jin replied politely, standing up. "Come with me, please."

She couldn't help but notice the curious glances from the other agents as she escorted Corbin to Jeong's office. The man beside her commanded attention by presence alone. The crisp white lab coat, the sharp gaze behind thick-rimmed glasses, the deep lines set into his face. This was a man who was used to being listened to, obeyed without question.

She could feel him studying her. His eyes traveled over her—not in the way a man looks at a woman, but in the way a scientist examines a specimen. Assessing. Measuring.

A chill ran up her spine. The man smelled of antiseptic, sharp and clinical, like a hospital. It made her stomach uneasy. She kept her gaze forward, resisting the urge to fidget under the weight of his scrutiny.

"So you're the famous Miss Park…" Corbin suddenly murmured, as if confirming something to himself. He adjusted his pace, falling into step beside her. No longer trailing behind. No longer just watching. Soo Jin furrowed her brow, glancing up at him.

"I'm sorry?"

Corbin kept his eyes dead ahead. His lips curved into a mysterious smirk. For a moment, he looked as if he might explain. Then, with infuriating ease, he dismissed it.

"Could be nothing," he said, his tone too casual.

But something about the way he said it made it feel like it could also be something. But what?

Soo Jin hesitated, scanning his face for a clue, but his expression remained unreadable. Cold, detached, impossible to decipher. Her skin prickled with unease, but she chose not to press further. Instead, she stopped in front of Jeong's office.

"Director Jeong is inside," she said, already knocking—eager to step away from the man's imposing presence. "I'll let him know you're here."

Corbin moved before she could react.

His hand settled over hers.

Soo Jin gasped quietly, recoiling, snatching her fingers back as if burned. His palm was freezing. The touch wasn't forceful, but it was deliberate. A violation of personal space. A calculated breach.

"That won't be necessary," Corbin said sharply, stepping past her and into the office as if the entire exchange had meant nothing to him.

Soo Jin's heart, however, was still pounding.

Corbin paused in the doorway. He glanced at her, his sharp eyes unreadable behind thick-rimmed glasses. Then, as if in passing—as if it were just a stray thought—"You've been quite helpful today already."

The door clicked shut behind him. Soo Jin stared after him, confused. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Helpful? She hadn't done anything. Had she?

She shook off the unease, exhaling slowly as she returned to her desk.

She tried to focus. Opened a file, read a line. Re-read it. But her gaze kept drifting back to Jeong's closed door. Something about this felt wrong.

Why was this man—a foreigner—in their office? A Frenchman, no less. Wasn't HQ in Brussels? They spoke French there, didn't they? Was this about Heero? What was going on?

The uneasy rhythm of the office hummed around her—keystrokes clicking, quiet conversations drifting from the kitchenette. But the tension under her skin wouldn't settle.

Then, the intercom crackled to life.

"Agent Baek," Jeong's voice came through, clipped and firm. "Report to my office immediately."

A few cubicles ahead, Baek groaned audibly, pushing back his chair with an exaggerated sigh. "Now what!" he muttered, stomping toward Jeong's office. He passed by Soo Jin's desk, shooting her a harsh glare. "This better not be about your sweetheart again…"

Soo Jin's fists curled around her thumbs. She forced herself to breathe evenly through her nose, refusing to let him faze her. The bastard. She should have snapped back, should have shut him down right then and there, but her mind was already doing the math.

Baek was taking over Heero's workload again.

That meant Heero wasn't coming back tomorrow.

Most likely, he was out for the rest of the week.

Her stomach twisted. Something wasn't right.

Something must have happened to Heero.

Baek entered Jeong's office, slamming the door behind him. Soo Jin flinched, recoiling behind her monitor.

Soo Jin tried to focus on the file on screen, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Her ears strained, tuning out the rest of the office, listening instead to the muffled voices behind Jeong's door. The tones were sharp. Angry. Especially Baek's. They were arguing.

Her gaze flickered toward Heero's empty desk. Her fingers tightened around her mouse, an uneasy weight settling in her chest. Would it stay that way for good?

When the older agent finally emerged, his expression was a mix of annoyance and resignation. Jeong and Corbin escorted him out, pausing at the doorway. Corbin seemed calm, his arms crossed over his white lab coat. Jeong looked tense.

Baek stomped past Soo Jin's desk, scowling as he waved his fist in the air. "That pretty boyfriend of yours is nothing but trouble!"

Soo Jin shot to her feet so abruptly her chair wheeled back, slamming into the wall.

Both hands came down hard on the desk—flat, firm.

The sharp smack of skin against wood cut through the office murmurs like a slap. The quiet hum of the department stilled.

Baek turned, startled.

Corbin and Jeong watched, too.

"Why pretty?" Soo Jin hissed at Baek. The words came sharp, cutting through the silence. Her voice wasn't raised. It didn't need to be. Her glowering eyes said it all. She channeled everything—Heero's absence, Lee's violation, Baek's disrespect—into a single, pointed look.

Baek blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

At the doorway of Jeong's office, Corbin adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his nose—his lips curling in a stifled smirk at the unfolding scene.

Soo Jin stepped forward, moving calmly as she circled her desk—even though her pulse was hammering, even though she could hear the faint tremor in her own voice.

"Of all the things you could call him," she said, her words steadier now, gaining strength with every step. "Dedicated. Skilled. Capable." Her gaze locked onto Baek, sharp and unyielding. "You choose to comment on his looks."

She stopped just in front of her desk, crossing her arms over her chest, her breathing controlled, measured—despite the tightness in her ribs. She pinned Baek down with her gaze. "Why pretty?"

Unease rippled through the room. Agents exchanged wary glances, shifting uncomfortably. A murmur, a whisper. By the kitchenette, the two female agents with their lattes snickered. Soo Jin ignored them. But she could still feel Corbin's eyes on her. Dissecting. Calculating.

Baek scoffed, but it wasn't as confident as before. His bravado wavered, just slightly. "Relax, Park," he muttered, lowering his voice. "It was a damn joke."

"It wasn't a joke." The snap in her voice startled even herself. Her breath felt shallow, her chest tight. But she didn't stop. She couldn't. This was for Heero. Because he wasn't here to do it himself.

"It's disrespectful. It's dehumanizing." Her tone had dropped a couple degrees colder, her gaze just as icy. "You'd never say it to his face because you know it. So why say it to me?"

A few cubicles ahead, Lee's head popped over the partition as he stood up. He gestured downward with his hands in a pacifying motion—one that felt hollow when paired with his playful smirk.

"Whoa, Soo Jin-ah," he let out a mock-nervous laugh, clearly faking concern. "No need to go nuclear over this. It's just Baek being Baek."

Soo Jin turned her glare on him, jaw tight. "This isn't just about Baek." Her voice was steadier now, cutting through any attempt to dismiss her. "It's about you, too."

Lee's smirk didn't falter, but she saw the way his posture shifted, the way his shoulders tensed just slightly.

She let her gaze sweep the room, taking in the silent onlookers—the agents who had been snickering, whispering, or simply watching.

"You all treat him like he's a nuisance. Like some second-class agent." Her words landed hard, precise—razor-sharp. "When in reality, he's more capable than most of you combined, and every single one of you knows it."

Her gaze swept across the office, daring someone to deny it.

"That's why he's the one being called upstairs. That's why he carries the burden—so you don't have to."

Silence.

She could feel it now. The unspoken truth.

"And you're all grateful for it." The venom in her voice was unmistakable. "So the least you could do is show some damn respect!"

The silence deepened.

No one laughed now.

The weight of Soo Jin's words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Baek's jaw ticked, his nostrils flaring. His grip tightened around his wrist, as if resisting the urge to throw another retort her way.

Lee, ever the opportunist, let out a low chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright," he said smoothly, masking his retreat behind a lazy smirk. "No need to get all worked up, Soo Jin-ah. Just a joke, remember?"

She didn't blink. Didn't move.

Lee held her gaze for a moment longer, then, sensing he wouldn't win this one, rolled his shoulders and casually strolled back toward his desk.

"Damn," one of the female agents murmured, half amused, half impressed.

Jeong stepped in then, breaking the thick silence with a sharp breath. "That's enough." His voice was firm. Final.

Soo Jin felt the heat of her own anger still pulsing beneath her skin, her breath short and shallow. Jeong's tone wasn't just a command. It was a warning. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to step back.

Baek scoffed, shaking his head as he muttered under his breath. "Ridiculous!" He turned on his heel, snatching up his file from his desk, his irritation clear as he stomped away.

Soo Jin's fingers dug into her arms, her nails pressing against the fabric of her sleeves as she folded them tightly across her chest.

The office gradually shifted back to normal—muted whispers, cautious glances, the familiar clatter of keyboards resuming their rhythm. But not everyone had moved on. At the doorway of Jeong's office, Corbin still stood, watching. His eyes remained locked onto her, sharp behind thick-rimmed glasses. Assessing. Measuring. She could feel it. The weight of his scrutiny. His expression was unreadable, but his interest was unmistakable.

Then, as if making some silent conclusion, he adjusted his coat, pushed his glasses up his nose, and turned away.

Jeong exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he rubbed his temple. "Park."

Soo Jin straightened immediately.

His voice wasn't angry, but it carried a quiet demand. "My office. Now."

Her stomach dropped. She swallowed, nodding stiffly, and prepared to follow him inside. Corbin stepped aside to let her pass. But just as she moved forward, he stopped her with a question.

"Miss Park." His tone was casual, almost light. But there was something behind it. Probing. Amusement. "I'm curious."

Soo Jin tilted her chin to face him directly.

Corbin let the pause hang in the air, his gaze sharp behind thick-rimmed glasses. Then, he continued. "What words would you use to describe Agent Yuy?"

Soo Jin's breath caught. Her mind stumbled over the question.

Was this another test? A trap?

For a moment, she hesitated. Then she straightened, meeting his gaze head-on. "Insightful," she said, the answer coming instinctively. "Resilient. Compassionate."

Corbin raised an eyebrow. "Compassionate?" The skepticism was subtle, but clear.

"Yes." Her voice didn't waver. "He's a hundred things you'd never notice if you were too busy looking at his file."

She sent a sharp look toward Lee, who quickly turned back to his computer, suddenly very busy.

A faint smile tugged at Corbin's lips. Not mocking. Genuinely curious.

"Interesting."

But he didn't move. Much to Soo Jin's dismay, he lingered instead of letting her pass. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he spoke again.

"Tell me," he questioned casually, "do you ever think about the Periodic Table?"

Soo Jin blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Element 79." Corbin stated as if his intentions should have been clear to her, his voice measured, conversational. "Gold. Its symbol is 'Au'." He shrugged, as if it were a given. "Anglo-Saxons called it gold. Could've been 'Go' on the table. But the name comes from Latin."

He glanced past her, toward her desk, where the notepad with the scribbled kanji lay hidden under a random document. His eyes flicked back to hers.

"Aurum," he explained, his voice smooth, deliberate. "Shining dawn," he translated, letting the words settle. A secretive smile curved at the corners of his lips—not quite amused, not quite kind. Measured. Knowing.

"I suppose the rarest things tend to have the rarest names."

Soo Jin stood still. Not breathing. Not blinking. His face remained unreadable. Then, with a curt nod, he finally moved aside, clearing her path.

"Good day, Miss Park," he concluded, and with that, he walked away.

Soo Jin watched him go, her fingers curling at her sides. She felt as though she'd just passed a test—but one she hadn't realized she was taking.

Only when he disappeared around the corner did she let out a slow, measured breath. She squared her shoulders, rolling them back, forcing her focus forward.

She stepped into Jeong's office.

---

The sterile, cold air of the hallway outside the Combat Analysis Room hit Heero like a blast as he stumbled forward, his feet dragging. His body felt disconnected, sluggish. He barely managed to pull himself down the hall, leaning on the wall for support.

His uniform hung off him awkwardly—half untucked, buttons misaligned, wrinkled from fumbling hands. The fabric felt wrong—foreign, stiff, heavy.

His bare blue eyes stung under the fluorescent light. He hadn't been able to put his contacts back in. Each blink felt like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh. The world was a blur, his surroundings distorted through exhaustion and pain.

His fingers smudged sweat onto the cool surface of the wall as he forced himself forward. Each step was a battle.

He needed to get home. Away from the lights. The sounds. The world.

Too much.

Too much.

Pain was the only thing grounding him. His wrists throbbed beneath the bandages, raw welts from the restraints still fresh. They had wrapped them too high, too visible. He hadn't been present enough to request a more discreet bandaging—just enough to hide beneath his sleeves. Instead, the fabric curled around his thumbs, branding him a victim.

Once he had woken up from the drug-induced sleep, the techs had run more tests. More scans. More check-ups. Then more tests to see if his body was functioning well enough to let him leave.

It wasn't.

Not his body, not his mind.

Corbin had insisted on admitting him. Heero had insisted on leaving.

The techs had exchanged looks, hesitated, muttered about keeping him overnight. But in the end, they couldn't stop him. They couldn't hold him there indefinitely—so they compromised. Medical leave until Monday. Corbin had scheduled a neurological evaluation to see if his brain had unscrambled enough to be deemed fit for duty.

Not that it mattered. The higher-ups would send him back to that chair either way. It had been like that for close to ten years now. Heero was used to it. Therefore, he planned to make the most of his time off—doing absolutely nothing. No work, no thinking, no moving. Just sleep. Curled under his blanket, away from the world.

But first, he had to figure out a way to make it out of the Preventer building.

Grimacing, Heero sagged against the wall, pressing into it for support as he crept forward, each step a slow, deliberate struggle.

The lingering echoes of the ZERO System still reverberated in his skull, a relentless, high-pitched tone like a monitor flatlining. His muscles trembled violently, every fiber quivering between weakness and exhaustion. His mouth was dry, stale from hours of breathing antiseptic air. Every inhale tasted like metal. His ears still rang—a shrill, piercing tone that drowned out everything else.

But worse than the ringing was the absence.

[ERROR]
[UNIT 3: LOST]
[UNIT 5: LOST]
[UNIT 4: LOST]
[UNIT 2: LOST]

Four suits. Gone.

Violently ripped from him.

He had felt each of them extinguish. Each severed neural link had torn through him like a tendon snapping mid-motion—sudden, violent, irrevocable. A limb amputated without warning. And yet, his body still reached for them. Still anticipated movement that would never come.

The sensory feedback from the mission clung to him—the sharp impacts of asteroids slamming into the Taurus units. The deep shudder of explosions rippled through his nerves. The hollow echo of his own weapon's fire vanishing into the void.

The final crescendo.

The obliteration.

[UNIT 3: LOST]
[UNIT 5: LOST]
[UNIT 4: LOST]
[UNIT 2: LOST]

The elevators loomed ahead, metallic doors gleaming under the sterile lights. His legs trembled, threatening to buckle. He flicked his tired gaze toward the stairwell at the end of the hallway.

Too far. Might as well be a million miles away. Then seventeen flights down to the parking lot. Not an option.

His breath shuddered. With a helpless glance toward the stairwell, Heero turned back to the elevator.

Reaching up a bandaged hand, he stopped just before contact.

Took a breath.

Pressed the call button.

A soft chime echoed through the corridor.

The doors slid open.

The elevator yawned before him—a hollow, metallic void.

Empty. Cold. Waiting.

He stepped forward—

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Chains erupted from the void.

Metal clamped down hard around his wrists, snapping shut with a cruel finality. The bite of cold steel sank into his skin, pressing deep, cutting off circulation. A familiar weight.

Heavy cuffs dragged his arms low, shoulders straining, burning—ךike a marionette being forced into position.

Hunger. Thirst. Pain. They hit him all at once.

The air was thick, stale. The scent of rust. Of sweat. Urine.

A breath—his own—echoed back at him, distorted. Trapped.

Somewhere in the darkness—

Boots scuffling.

Slow. Measured. Coming closer.

His pulse pounded in his ears, syncing with the footsteps—

Closer. Closer.

The lock groaned. Metal scraped. A mechanical click.

Light sliced through the dark, a thin sliver exposing his cell.

"Where's our little toy soldier?"

Laughter.

Hands in his hair—yanking.

His knees slammed into concrete. A boot crushed his leg from behind.

His body hit the floor—ribs to stone, breath knocked out of him.

A sharp kick to his side.

Another.

A crack.

More broken ribs.

More laughter.

"Keep those pretty blues on me, soldier-boy."

A fist twisted in his hair, wrenching his head back.

Breath reeked of booze, hunger, cigarettes burned to the filter.

The cuffs. Heavy. Paralyzing.

A belt unfastened.

The cot creaked.

A weight pressed down.

A struggle. A yelp.

A dirty sock shoved into his mouth.

Retching.

Flailing.

Wailing.

Every sensation mounted on top of the other, stacking, suffocating—until all he could hear was his own shrill screams, echoing into a dark metallic void.

The elevator doors slid shut, locking his shrieking voice behind them.

Heero stood, paralyzed.

His blurry reflection stared back at him from the metal doors, distorted by the thin sheen of cold sweat clinging to his skin.

The world tilted, his knees giving way under him.

His bandaged hand shot out on instinct, slamming against the doorframe and gripping it tightly. Gritting his teeth, Heero tore himself away from the elevator, and stumbled toward the only viable option – the stairwell.

---

The office had begun to empty as evening settled over Seoul, draping the city in a dull, rain-drenched glow. Beyond the tall windows, the sky hung low and heavy, dark clouds pressing against the skyline, their edges tinged with the last remnants of daylight. Rain sheeted down in waves, catching the neon reflections of street signs, painting the roads in streaks of red, blue, and white.

Rush hour traffic crawled through the wet streets, headlights and taillights blinking in an endless, sluggish procession. A mechanical heartbeat pulsing through the city.

Inside the Cyber Threat Analysis office, the distant hum of cars and rain was muffled by glass, the occasional whoosh of tires against pavement cutting through the silence like a whispered reminder that life outside these walls carried on.

But inside, for Soo Jin, the world had stilled. She barely noticed the others packing up, barely heard the muted sounds of chairs scraping back, the quiet shuffle of agents heading out for the night.

Her focus was elsewhere. On the notepad beneath her fingers. The pen glided over the paper in repetitive, looping strokes.

青稀 or 稀青? 青稀 or 稀青?

Over and over. She wasn't even thinking anymore. Just writing his elusive name—whatever it may be when spoken aloud.

青稀. Blue Rare.

稀青. Rare Blue.

青稀. Blue Rare.

稀青. Rare Blue.

Her hand moved absentmindedly, barely registering the motion, as her mind drifted back to her conversation in Jeong's office.

"This isn't high school, Miss Park," Director Jeong's words from earlier still sat heavy in her mind. His tone hadn't been harsh, but firm—weighted. "What you did today? That was reckless. You let your emotions get the better of you."

Soo Jin had bit her tongue, forcing herself to listen. Jeong wasn't wrong. She had lashed out at Baek, humiliated him in front of the entire department. That was unprofessional. But Jeong wasn't just talking about Baek.

He had leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You're too invested."

That had stung more than she expected. Too invested?

She had wanted to argue, but she had no defense.

Jeong exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Look, I know you care. That's not a bad thing. But this—" he gestured toward her, toward whatever fire had ignited in her today— "This isn't just about standing up for a colleague. This is personal. And that's dangerous."

She had stiffened.

"Dangerous how, sir?" Her voice was careful, measured. Then, sharper— "Are you saying Agent Yuy endangers me somehow?"

Jeong's expression didn't change.

"Look, I'm not telling you to stop caring, Miss Park," he had said, smoothly sidestepping the question. "I'm telling you to be careful. There are people watching." He paused just long enough for the weight of it to settle.

"I'd hate to see you get pulled into this mess."

And that had been the real warning.

Soo Jin tapped her pen against the desk.

There were people watching.

Her grip tightened.

She had a feeling she already knew who he meant.

Her gaze flickered to the notepad. The name she had written over and over. She paused, staring at the kanji covering the page. The absurdity of it finally caught up to her.

What was she doing?

She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. She was acting like a lovestruck schoolgirl scribbling her crush's name in the margins of her notebook. Next thing she knew, she'd be doodling little hearts around it.

Heat crept up her neck. With a scoff, she shoved the notepad aside and turned toward her desk.

Her eyes landed on the small framed photos propped beside her monitor. One of her parents—worn, aged, tired in ways they never used to be. The other—a glimpse into another lifetime. Jin Ho.

Bright, smiling, eternally twenty years old. Her fingers brushed the glass, tracing his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the confident tilt of his head. Her gaze caught on the small mole just beneath his chin. The one he used to grumble about, swearing he'd have it removed after his service.

He never got the chance.

She swallowed, pressing her fingertips against the glass. She could still see him, hear him, feel his presence like a phantom beside her. Charming. Magnetic. Effortlessly likable.

Jin Ho had never done anything halfway. He never stopped moving. Always buzzing with energy, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, bouncing his knee under his desk, tapping out some unheard rhythm against the steering wheel when he drove.

And he was loud. He spoke with his whole body, throwing his hands in the air when he got excited, slinging an arm around her shoulders like he owned the world, his voice booming through the house even when he was just talking to himself.

She could still hear him laughing at their father's grumbling, could still see him teasing their mother, dipping his fingers into the stew before it was ready, dodging the wooden spoon she swatted at his head.

People loved him. Every room he walked into, he owned it. Laughing, talking with his whole body, slinging an arm around someone's shoulders like they were already old friends. He could charm a nun out of her prayers if he tried.

His commanders had adored him. His subordinates, too. He made Ensign in no time. Became a Mobile Suit pilot. Went to space where he was most needed. He had been everything an OZ soldier was supposed to be. But had he ever been himself?

Soo Jin swallowed, her throat tightening as she gazed at his picture.

Jin Ho had always been popular with the girls, always the center of attention. But he had never really been into them. She had known since they were kids. Knew it in the way he kept his walls up just a little too high, in the way he avoided questions about girlfriends, in the way his laughter sometimes felt forced when their father teased him about settling down.

He had always kept that part of himself locked away. For safety. For survival. For domestic bliss.

And she had no doubt he had kept it buried in the military, too. A queer MS pilot? In the war? It wasn't safe. Not in an environment where brotherhood and camaraderie meant everything—until you didn't fit the mold. Not when people still cared more about cohesion than who you were. War had a way of making the world smaller, harsher. Of stripping away anything that didn't serve the machine. Decades of bloodshed had only made society more rigid, more prude, more intolerant. Anything that deviated from the status quo was a liability.

A weakness.

A threat.

Jin Ho must have known that. And so, like everything else about him that didn't fit OZ's ideals, he must have buried it.

The thought hurt.

Jin Ho must have been so lonely. Always on the inside, looking out. He never got to be who he was. And then, before he ever had the chance, he was gone.

Soo Jin's fingers curled slightly around the frame, thumb brushing absently over the glass.

Would he have kept hiding if he had survived? Would he have returned home only to keep pretending, keep playing the part everyone expected of him?

Or would he have finally—finally—allowed himself to be free?

She exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the notepad beside her keyboard, to the scribbles of Heero's real name.

In a way, Heero was no different from Jin Ho. Both had been built for war, molded into something that served a purpose, an ideal. But unlike Jin Ho, Heero had survived. And now, in peacetime, he was lost. His identity no longer fit the mold, no longer had a place. So he buried it. He buried himself beneath a false image, an existence carefully constructed to blend in—nothing more than an invisible shadow, only surfacing when duty called, when his existence had a purpose once more.

Or maybe the war had taken so much from him that he no longer knew who he was supposed to be.

The thought sent a slow, icy weight sinking into her chest. Because the more she let herself think about it—about Heero, about Jin Ho, about how war had shaped them both into ghosts of the men they should have been—the more she realized something unsettling.

The war hadn't ended for Heero at all. Just like Jin Ho, whose time had stopped at twenty years old—Heero was still stuck inside it.

She swallowed, forcing herself to look away from the notepad, from the kanji she had written over and over. Heero's name. His real name. The one filled with meaning—waiting for a voice to give it life.

She wanted to be that voice. She wanted to speak it, breathe life into it, let it exist beyond ink and memory.

She wanted to see the look on his face when she said it aloud.

And that was selfish, wasn't it?

She knew it wasn't her place to speak a name he didn't wish to hear. And yet… Soo Jin gritted her teeth, frustrated. Her pen hovered over the notepad.

She had to be close.

Her mind spiraled back to Corbin's cryptic remark. Element 79, gold. Not "Go," the obvious choice—but "Au," for Aurum.

The less expected answer.

A slow smile crept to her lips. A realization. An epiphany.

Heero's name was as rare as he was.

Turning quickly, Soo Jin returned to her computer, pulling up another kanji directory. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to start again.

Then—movement. Soo Jin glanced up. Jeong had stepped out of his office, coat draped over his shoulders, fedora perched neatly on his head. He paused by her desk. Their gazes met.

"Goodnight, Miss Park."

"Goodnight, sir."

A nod. Then he was gone.

Soo Jin let out a breath, setting the frame back down. The office continued to empty. Baek and Kang stalked past her, muttering under their breath. Still angry.

Lee followed soon after, laughing easily with the two female agents—as if nothing had happened. Like he had not a care in the world.

Agent Kim remained, as always, quietly absorbed in overtime.

Soo Jin exhaled, closing her notepad.

She should go home. But she didn't want to.

Her gaze drifted to her parents' photo, and her heart sank with a heavy, familiar reminder—Her mother was still upset with her.

She leaned back in her chair, watching the rain trickle down the windows, listening to the faint hum of traffic below. The city kept moving. But she didn't. Not yet. Not when she felt like she had nowhere to go.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then, with quiet resolve, she resumed her search.

For Heero's name.

For the least likely combination.

---

The stairwell was quiet.

Heero sat slumped on the tenth floor landing, his back pressed into cold cement. His breathing was shallow, uneven. His head tilted weakly against the wall. Every muscle in his body felt stretched past its limit—left to snap back too loose, too numb.

He hadn't meant to stop here.

He had made it down two floors.

Then, his body decided for him.

His legs gave out, sending him heavily to the ground, where he stayed for what felt like a small eternity. It was twilight when he collapsed here. Now, darkness had settled. Rain pattered against the tall stairwell windows, sliding in heavy torrents down the glass—a shifting, watery curtain. Beyond it, headlights flickered on one by one in the parking lot, vehicles leaving for the night.

Heero sat, watching numbly. His arms draped over his knees, wrists throbbing beneath the bandages. Exhaustion pressed deeper, seeping into his bones. His eyelids felt heavy, but he didn't want to close them. Not again. Not with what waited behind his eyelids. Not if that meant his mind would slip back into the machine. Instead, he kept them open just enough to watch the faint flicker of the headlights and the steady flow of rain.

The fire door groaned open behind him.

Heero tensed. His instincts snapped to attention, muscles twitching—ready to fall in line, to straighten, to present himself as capable. To stand at attention, or even just sit upright, but he couldn't move. His body refused, weighed down by exhaustion, unresponsive to the call.

Cool air rushed through the stairwell, a soft gust against his back. Then, the familiar sound of a cart wheel squeaking. Mops and brooms rattling in their holders.

Heero tried to turn, but even that felt too much. All he could do was listen.

The cart came to a stop.

A pause.

Then a quiet, startled gasp.

"Oh, my!"

The Cleaning Lady rushed to his side. Her gaze swept over him, taking in the disheveled uniform, the way his shoulders sagged, the way his breath came too fast and uneven.

Heero forced himself upright, every movement a deliberate recalibration—an exhausted machine shifting parts into place. His shoulders rolled back first, stiff and sluggish, then his arms dragged up from his knees, elbows locking into position. His spine uncoiled vertebrae by vertebrae, an unnatural sequence, as if his body had forgotten how to hold itself together. Each adjustment felt slow, mechanical—like a Tarus in Mobile Armor mode shifting into its humanoid form. Parts groaning. Systems struggling to align.

[TRANSFORMATION COMPLETE]

He looked up, his neck protesting with a dull crack as he twisted his head to meet the old woman's eyes.

She visibly stilled. Just for a second. Not long enough to mean anything—Yet enough to call attention to it. A flicker in her expression. A quiet realization. She had noticed his eyes. His real eyes. His blue eyes.

Heero lowered his gaze and bowed his head low, chin to chest.

[WARNING] a dull signal pinged in his mind.

[WEAKNESS DETECTED]

The old woman reached into her apron pocket. With slow, careful movements—like someone approaching a wounded wild animal— she pulled out a small bottle of water.

Heero watched, unblinking, as she offered it to him.

She didn't rush. Didn't speak. Just waited.

Heero hesitated.

His fingers twitched against the plastic. Glitching.

[ERROR]
[UNIT 3: LOST]
[UNIT 5: LOST]
[UNIT 4: LOST]
[UNIT 2: LOST]

His mind expected them. Expected strength that no longer existed. And his real arms—his only arms—were too weak.

His fingers barely trembled around the cap. Useless. Failing.

The old woman didn't hesitate.

She simply took the bottle back, twisted the cap off with a soft crack, and pressed it gently back into his hands.

"Small sips," she murmured, her voice low and steady, the way one might soothe a child. "Just a few. Don't rush it."

He obeyed.

Lowered his gaze.

Brought the bottle to his lips.

His hand trembled, the movement uneven, uncoordinated.

[ERROR]

He missed the mark.

Cool water spilled over his chin, trailing down his throat in thin rivulets. Only some of it made it past his cracked lips, easing the ache.

The Cleaning Lady let out a quiet groan as she settled down beside him on the step, her knees cracking softly with the motion.

Wordlessly, she held out a paper towel.

[ERROR]

His mind registered the offer. But his body didn't.

His fingers clenched weakly around the bottle, still hyper-focused on the single task of drinking. His brain refused to process a secondary action. The simple act of lowering the bottle and reaching for the towel at the same time—

It wouldn't compute.

Water continued to drip down his chin.

[ERROR]
[ERROR]
[ERROR]

Wait.

He had two hands, didn't he?

Heero commanded his second hand to move. To lift.

His fingers twitched.

The old woman watched patiently, still holding out the towel. She didn't wipe his chin for him, and for that, he was grateful. But his hands refused to coordinate. Lower the bottle. Raise the towel. Wipe the water away. A simple sequence. Impossibly difficult.

His muscles lagged, disconnected, working against each other instead of with each other. The bottle slipped slightly in his grip.

His breath hitched. And before he could fail again—The old woman intervened.

The old woman intervened. She didn't take over, didn't wipe his chin for him. Instead, her hands—warm, steady, stable—closed gently around his, guiding his movements like re-teaching a muscle how to function.

She helped him tilt the bottle just enough to pull it away from his lips. Then, slowly, carefully, she guided his hand down, ensuring his grip didn't falter as the bottle came to rest on his lap. With her other hand, she lifted his bandaged wrist—the one holding the paper towel—just enough to remind him what to do.

Heero's fingers tightened around the towel. She let go.

Slowly, mechanically, he raised it to his chin, tapping lightly at the damp skin. The wet paper caught on his stubble. Clung to it. A small piece stayed behind when he lowered his hand.

[RESIDUE DETECTED]

His brow twitched. The sensation registered as an error—an inconsistency, a misalignment in texture where there shouldn't be one.

A pause. Then, his fingers moved on their own.

Reaching up. Scratching the stubborn bit of damp paper away from his chin.

Her shoulders sagged slightly, losing some of the tension they had been carrying. She seemed relieved. A faint, knowing smile crossed her lips as she watched him raise the bottle again, his grip steadier, his movements more coordinated. The paper towel lowered at the same time, his body finally falling back into sync with itself.

The paper towel lowered at the same time, his body finally falling back into sync with itself.

Heero took another sip of water. This time, he didn't spill.

The Cleaning Lady said nothing. Just sat beside him, gazing out the stairwell windows, watching the rain blur the distant glow of the parking lot lights. Her hands rested in her lap, her breathing slow, unhurried.

She wasn't watching him, not in the way people usually did. Not waiting for him to fail. Not scrutinizing. Not demanding anything. She was just there.

The quiet settled, stretching between them—not uncomfortable, but weighty. Outside, the rain drummed a steady rhythm against the glass, pooling in quiet streams along the pavement below.

His mind slowly caught up to the moment.

[SCENT DETECTED]

Acrid tang of cleaning agents. Underneath—stale cigarettes, laced with something floral. Perfume, faint, fading.

[SOUND DETECTED]

A rustle of synthetic fabric. Her jumpsuit—stiff, coarse, well-worn.

[MOVEMENT DETECTED]

Heero didn't look up. He tracked her hands instead. Worn. Wrinkled. Dry. The skin cracked in places from overexposure to chemicals.

The old woman retrieved something more from her pocket. A familiar wax-paper parcel. Mugwort rice cake. She unwrapped it carefully, splitting it in half before nudging one piece toward him.

"Eat this," she coaxed. "It's good for you."

His stomach felt raw, twisted—empty in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. But her tone left no room for argument. Lowering the bottle, he instructed his other hand to reach for the rice cake.

[ERROR]

His arm twitched. It refused. Just hung there in the empty space between him and the old woman.

Without a word, she reached out. Her warm hands closed gently around his, lifting it ever so slightly. Guiding his fingers. Helping them curl around the rice cake. Real. Her touch was real. A steady, human warmth. Reminding his own fingers how to move. How to grasp. How to exist outside the machine.

"Go on," she said. "Just a small bite."

He stared at the rice cake, the light green mugwort dough soft against his fingertips. He took a bite, just a small nibble, and chewed slowly.

His stomach clenched.

His breath hitched.

Then, he gagged. He was going to be sick.

The Cleaning Lady lunged toward her cart. In her rush, it rattled hard, shaking loose a broomstick. It dislodged from the holder, tumbling to the floor with a resounding clatter. With practiced urgency, she shoved the bucket toward him just as his body betrayed him.

His fingers barely caught the rim before he was retching, coughing, gagging. The floral scent of the soapy water made it worse. His knuckles whitened against the bucket's handle. He retched, sputtering into the bucket.

A gentle hand rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades. "It's alright, son," she murmured, voice steady, calm. "Just let it out."

The convulsions slowed.

His body emptied. Drained.

His breath came in ragged gasps.

He stayed hunched over the bucket, shoulders still trembling.

The old woman handed him another paper towel, her movements efficient, unfazed.

He wiped his mouth.

She handed him the bottle of water.

He took a small sip, just enough to wash away the bitter taste lingering on his tongue.

Heero leaned back against the wall, his head tipping against the cool cement. His breath remained shallow, uneven, the last traces of nausea clinging to him like static. His bandaged hands dropped back to his lap, heavy, lifeless. He blinked up at the stairwell chute, willing himself to stay awake.

The old woman sat with him, her presence steady, unintrusive.

The stairwell was silent again.

Heero's pulse had slowed, but his chest still ached. His mind still churned. Regret weighed him down more than fatigue.

He had said terrible things to her.

Soo Jin.

The air felt thick in his lungs, each inhalation an effort to keep himself steady. Pressure built inside, the weight in his chest tightening unbearably. And before he could stop it—Everything spilled out all over again.

With a guttural gulp and a yelp, Heero lurched toward the bucket once more.

---

The office had quieted into its late-evening hum, the once-busy space now mostly empty. Only a few desks remained occupied, their owners immersed in the last of their tasks, the soft clicking of keyboards the only movement in the otherwise still air.

Soo Jin let out a slow breath, rolling her wrists once before stretching her fingers. She hovered them over her keyboard.

A final keystroke. A system logoff. The Preventer interface flickered away, disappearing into black as her terminal powered down. The soft whir of the cooling fan faded, leaving only the distant patter of rain against the window.

With practiced efficiency, she tidied her desk—stacking loose files, aligning her notepad beside the keyboard, ensuring everything was in its proper place.

Her gaze flickered to the framed photo beside her monitor.

Jin Ho.

Smiling, frozen in time.

She lingered for a moment, her fingers brushing the edge of the frame, before she reached for her purse, slipping the strap over her shoulder.

Then, with a quiet breath, she unlocked her phone for the first time in hours.

3 Messages.

The first was from her father.

[Stop by the grocery store if you have time. We're out of eggs. Your mother wants fresh tofu.]

Soo Jin sighed. That meant her mother was still brooding about last night.

The next message came from Mi Cha in their group chat.

[Jin-ah, we need an RSVP for Thursday. Seo Yun's got the table booked, and you're NOT bailing this time!]

Seo Yun had sent a row of pink heart emojis in agreement, followed by—

[If you don't come, I swear I'll set you up with a blind date as punishment.]

Soo Jin smirked, shaking her head. Seo Yun had been threatening that for months.

The third message was from Mi Cha, private.

[You okay? You've been quiet today.]

The warmth behind the words made her grip on her phone tighten. Mi Cha always noticed.

She typed out a quick reply—

[Long day. I'll fill you in later.]

Mi Cha reacted instantly with a thumbs-up emoji.

Soo Jin smiled faintly before tucking her phone away.

She pulled on her coat, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders. With a final glance around her desk, she nudged her chair neatly under it and turned toward the exit.

She paused.

Her eyes drifted across the office to his desk. Framed against the dark city skyline, blurred by rain. It looked untouched, just as it had that morning. Papers stacked with precise order. The keyboard aligned perfectly with the monitor. His chair pushed in, as if he had never been there at all.

She had gotten used to stealing glances in his direction throughout the day—

Sometimes catching the rare, fleeting flicker of his gaze when he thought no one was looking. But today, there was nothing. And from what she had gathered… There wouldn't be anything until Monday.

A dull heaviness settled in her chest.

Soo Jin reached into her jacket pocket, her fingers brushing against the folded paper tucked inside. A yellow notepad page, creased from hours of being handled. She pulled it out, unfolding it carefully, revealing her scribbled kanji notes. Messy attempts. The traces of frustration in the ink where she had written, erased, and rewritten.

And at the very bottom—a single name, circled.

Her best guess.

The most improbable option.

She still didn't know if it was right. And even if it was, she had no idea how to ask him. For now, it would remain a guess.

Soo Jin folded the paper once more, slipping it back into her pocket.

"Good night, Agent Kim," she murmured as she passed his desk.

Kim barely looked up from his monitor, grunting something back. She didn't take it personally. The man was always busy. A younger, less enticing version of Heero, she mused with a secret smile. In another lifetime, Kim could have passed for Heero's younger brother—a little shorter, a little softer around the edges. Maybe that was why she had never given him a second thought. He lacked the brooding intensity she found so electrifying.

Soo Jin shook her head at herself. Always comparing other men to Heero. Seo Yun would have a field day if she ever found out—teasing her for falling for Heero's "bad boy" vibe.

Moving past Kim's desk, Soo Jin stepped into the hallway, her feet moving on autopilot toward the elevator.

She reached for the call button.

Then—

She stopped.

Her fingers hovered over the button, but she didn't press it. Something gnawed at her—an instinct, a pull she couldn't shake.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Her gaze drifted toward the stairwell door.

She hesitated. Then, without fully understanding why, she pivoted on her heel and pushed it open.

A cool draft slipped through as she stepped inside, the hollow stairwell swallowed in sound. Rain pounded against the windows—a violent, relentless downpour, hammering against the glass in deafening sheets. The tall stairwell windows stretched upward, black with storm clouds, the parking lot below glistening under flickering streetlights.

Beyond the glass, headlights cut through the rain in streaks, blurring into watery smears before vanishing into the dark. Water streamed down the glass in frantic rivulets, sliding over themselves, merging, splitting apart, racing toward the edge.

The air was thick with dampness, carrying the sharp scent of wet concrete, old metal, and industrial-grade cleaning agents.

The landing was empty. Of course. What was she expecting?

She exhaled, shaking her head at her own foolishness.

Soo Jin descended a few steps, the sharp click of her boots echoing against the cement walls, breaking the heavy silence as she scanned the flights below.

But just as she turned toward the next flight of stairs—

A sharp clatter echoed through the chute. Wood against cement.

Soo Jin froze, recognizing the distinct, hollow thunk of a wooden pole—a broomstick, maybe—hitting the floor in a rush of movement.

Plastic clanked. Something rushed, unsteady, followed by a sound that knotted in her chest.

Retching.

Loud.

Desperate.

It came from somewhere above.

Soo Jin gripped the railing, a hand pressing lightly over her chest as she lifted her gaze toward the towering chute above. A deep, heaving choke tore through the stairwell, echoing against the cement walls, half-muffled by the storm's pounding rhythm.

Her fist curled around the lapel of her jacket, pressing against her heart.

Heero.

She recognized the sound of him. Even like this—raw, guttural, sputtering in misery. That voice. Unmistakably familiar. Even as a wet cough.

It wasn't the retching itself she recognized. It was the feel of it. His voice.

Its rhythm. Its weight. Its frequency.

It was in the way his voice hitched, strained, fought against itself. A sound she had heard a hundred times before—Softer. Quieter. But no less distinct.

In his sighs. In the way he would exhale slowly after a too-hot sip of espresso. In the way he would let out a near-silent breath when working through a problem, forehead creased in concentration. Even in the faintest murmurs when feverish, thinking no one was there to hear him.

She knew his voice. The depth of it. The resonance. The way it settled into a room. She could pick it out from a crowd, from a hallway, from across an entire office floor. That distinct husky baritone. Even now—hiccuping, gagging—Soo Jin knew.

It was Heero.

And he wasn't okay.

The sound of miserable retching echoed through the narrow stairwell, reverberating off the cold concrete. Beyond the windows, the storm raged on. Rain pounded against the glass, hammering in deafening waves, drowning the city beneath its relentless assault.

Every cell in her body burned with the need to rush up the stairs. Yet, Soo Jin waited. She knew better than to intrude.

She waited as his breathing slowly steadied. As the harsh sounds of retching faded into shaky exhales. Muffled murmurs followed—soft, soothing.

The Cleaning Lady. Soo Jin winced at herself. She should really ask for the woman's name.

A plastic bottle uncapped with a twist, the sound sharp against the stairwell's emptiness. More murmurs. Heero coughed.

Soo Jin waited. Her heart pounded, yet her feet remained rooted to the floor.

Outside, the rain slammed against the windows, relentless.

Only when everything fell still did she exhale softly, releasing her grip on the railing. Then, she stepped forward.

Slowly.

Slowly.

Up the stairs.

Her hand trailed lightly along the railing as she ascended, each step careful, measured, quiet. She didn't want to startle him.

Finally, she reached the last flight of stairs leading to the tenth-floor landing.

And there, she saw him.

Slumped against the landing wall, his body boneless with exhaustion, his head tilted back against the railing. He looked drained beyond measure, a marionette cut from its strings.

The Cleaning Lady sat beside him, watching with quiet patience. A bucket rested between them.

Seeing her, the old woman rose to her feet with a groan, giving Heero's shoulder a small pat—not quite affectionate, but reassuring. Then, without a word, she turned toward her cart. The soft creak of wheels followed as she pushed it toward the stairwell door.

Soo Jin hesitated. Then, before she could stop herself— "Wait."

The old woman paused, turning to face her.

Soo Jin felt suddenly self-conscious. "I feel terrible not knowing your name," she admitted with a timid smile.

A moment of quiet surprise.

On the floor, slumped against the wall, Heero's eyelids flickered. His gaze, sluggish and unfocused, shifted from Soo Jin to the old woman. For a brief moment, he tried to lift his head, to turn toward her, but his body refused. His head tilted weakly against the wall instead, as if acknowledging her the only way he could.

Then, the woman's weathered face softened into a kind smile.

"Oh," she said, her voice gentle. "Oh Eun Hae."

Her gaze flicked down to Heero, her expression unreadable for a beat. Then, softly, she gave him a small nod. A simple recognition for his struggle to pay attention.

Soo Jin saw it too, a lump forming in her throat. She turned back to the old woman, smiling thankfully. "Thank you, Missus Oh."

Mrs. Oh's smile deepened, warm and knowing. "Of course," she said. "You take care now," she bid her farewell and pushed her cart through the stairwell door. It clicked shut behind her, leaving only the soft, unsteady rhythm of Heero's breath and the patter of rain. The torrent had let up, no longer pounding on the glass. Just a soft drizzle, trailing slow, meandering rivulets down the stairwell windows.

Soo Jin's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.

She stepped closer, the quiet scuff of her boots barely making a sound.

Heero lifted his head. Slowly. Like it was too heavy a load.

She paused, gripping the railing. And when his gaze finally locked onto hers—Soo Jin's breath caught.

His eyes.

Not brown. Not veiled behind the usual contact lenses.

Blue.

Raw. Unfiltered. Striking against the pale exhaustion of his face.

His blue eyes were clouded and glassy, shrouded by something deeper than fatigue. Something that made her throat tighten.

She swallowed. Hard.

She hadn't seen them in weeks—Not since that night, when he had been too sick to shut her out. She had thought she had forgotten the way they looked. But she hadn't. There was no forgetting those eyes.

The cruel irony wasn't lost on her. She had spent the entire day thinking about them, tracing the kanji of his name. Searching for meaning. Trying to understand something that had been erased—Rare Blue.

And now, here he was. Stripped down to that very same blue.

Her grip on the banister tightened to keep herself from faltering, because at that moment, she felt like something had been exposed between them. Something fragile. Something irreversible.

She needed to move, to do something, to say something, but for a second, she just couldn't. Because all the questions, all the worry, all the desperate, quiet wanting to understand him hit her all at once.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Soo Jin swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to look past the consuming blue. The full extent of his condition finally hit her. From his red-rimmed and puffy eyes, the dark circles that pooled beneath them, deep and smudged like bruises. To his pale face, normally clean-shaven, now dusted with uneven stubble, making him look even more unkempt, more exhausted. His lips were cracked, pale—almost devoid of color.

Her gaze then flickered downward, taking in his rumpled uniform. Jacket skewed. Tie undone. Shirt untucked. Buttons misaligned. Bandages peeked from beneath his jacket cuffs, wrapped tightly around his wrists and secured around his thumb.

She had a million questions. What happened? Where had he been? Was this from upstairs? What were they doing to him? Was Corbin in on this? And Jeong? Baek? Who was responsible for this?

But she knew. Now wasn't the time.

Now, Heero needed to get home.

Soo Jin crouched before him, careful, deliberate—like approaching something fragile, as though any sudden movement might cause him to shatter.

"Heero," she whispered.

He gawked at her, dazed, disoriented, caught in a stupor.

Soo Jin swallowed, her chest aching with something she couldn't quite name.

"Heero," she tried again.

His eyelids flickered, a faint reaction to his name. And for the second time, those raw blue eyes met hers. There was no sharpness in them. No guarded awareness. Just exhaustion, drenching him from the inside out.

Soo Jin's hands curled into fists in her lap to keep from reaching for him, from doing anything that might make him recoil. She wouldn't push him. Instead, she offered him a choice, control.

She straightened her posture slightly. "Can you stand?"

His gaze barely moved, but she saw the faintest twitch in his fingers—like her words were drifting through the fog, reaching him.

"…No," he admitted faintly.

Soo Jin nodded. "We can take the elevator."

At that, Heero stiffened. His fingers curled weakly. His shoulders tensed. A small but visceral reaction. Then, he shook his head weakly, turning his face away.

"Can't."

The word—thin, fragile, barely above a whisper—hit Soo Jin like a knife to the ribs. She had never heard him sound like this before. So broken. So defeated.

She didn't argue, didn't push. Instead, she simply nodded. "Okay."

Moving carefully, she reached for his hands. Slowly. So that if he wanted to pull away, he could.

He didn't.

The rough bandaging scraped against her skin when she clasped her hand around his, tugging him up from the floor. As he rose slightly, she secured her grip, carefully, mindfully, sliding her arm beneath his armpit, steadying his weight. Her other arm wrapped tightly around his back, just below his ribs, ready to brace him if he faltered.

Heero's legs shook violently as he tried to rise. His breath hitched, coming in short, unsteady bursts. He braced against the wall, fingers digging weakly into the cement.

Soo Jin held firm. She didn't drag him. Didn't rush him.

She just stood there, supporting him.

Once he was finally steady, she met his tired, glassy blue eyes. She could see it all now—The hesitation. The humiliation. The vulnerability. Even in this state, Heero was calculating. Bracing. Expecting to be forced into something.

But Soo Jin wouldn't do that.

"We can still take the elevator," she reminded him softly, giving him a chance to change his mind.

A small pause settled between them.

She tilted her head slightly, her expression neutral, patient.

"It's your call. I'll be there either way."

He stared at her. For a second, she thought he hadn't understood. His dazed, sluggish gaze locked onto hers, his brows twitching slightly, like his mind was struggling to process the weight of having a choice.

Then, very slowly, he bowed his head. When he spoke, his voice was so weak, so breathy, she had to strain to hear it.

"…Elevator."

His entire body trembled, his knees looking on the verge of collapsing entirely. Soo Jin adjusted her grip, one arm around his shoulders, the other securely around his waist. Heero's hand tightened around her forearm, using it for support, his grip weak but desperate—like leaning on a crutch.

Soo Jin nodded, tightening her hold just slightly. "Okay."

One step.

Two.

Slowly. Carefully.

She guided him up the single step, then across the landing. Her arm remained firm around him, supporting. Holding steady. Heero clung to her, using her extended arm as leverage—his only anchor against collapsing entirely.

"Almost there," she promised.

Another step.

Two.

Three.

Heero's breath heaved with exertion.

She reached for the fire door, turning the handle and pushing it open with her shoulder, her arms still around Heero.

The elevator doors stood just ahead. Soo Jin wriggled a hand from around him to press the call button.

The doors slid open. Waiting.

For a long moment, Heero didn't move. He didn't tear his eyes away from the empty elevator, either.

Soo Jin had always assumed it was the crowded space that bothered him. Sharing the commute. Being boxed in. The presence of others. But now, watching him, feeling the tension ripple through him, she wondered if there was more to it than that. More than just discomfort. More than just preference.

Something deeper.

Moments passed. The elevator doors slid shut. Heero was still staring. He could barely stand, leaning more weight against her now. But he was just… staring. Frozen. Caught in something she couldn't see.

"Heero?" Soo Jin asked quietly.

A pause.

Then, very slowly, he stepped forward.

His hand lifted.

He pressed the call button.

The doors slid open again.

Heero halted, lingering in the threshold. The elevator stood before him—open, waiting, empty.

And then, she felt it.

The shift.

A small but undeniable change.

Tensing. Bracing. Determination coursing through him.

He let go of her, untangling himself from her grip. He stepped inside.

Soo Jin waited a beat, then she joined him. She stayed near the control panel, her fingers hovering over the buttons as she glanced at him.

"Parking lot?" she asked, her voice soft but certain.

He nodded once.

She pressed the button.

The doors slid shut with a quiet hum, enclosing them in the still, narrow space.

The elevator began its descent. The faint whir of machinery filled the silence, a steady, mechanical rhythm beneath the uneven rise and fall of Heero's breath.

Soo Jin kept her gaze on him. His head was tilted back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, his lips pressed into a thin line. A bead of sweat traced a slow path down the side of his face, disappearing into the hollow of his jaw.

His bandaged fists were clenched, trembling. Not just from exhaustion, but from something deeper, as if waiting for a blow that would never come. The tendons in his hands pulled taut, his knuckles white, a man locked in a silent battle with ghosts she couldn't see.

Soo Jin hesitated.

Her gaze flickered between his face and his hands, the tension etched into every fiber of his being.

Then, she took a small step closer.

A whisper of movement—subtle, careful.

But Heero's eyes snapped open. Startled. Wide.

And so very, very blue.

The alarm in those vivid blue eyes hit her like a second breath catching in her throat. The elevator light made his eyes even more striking. Raw. Stripped of any disguise.

He was terrified.

His whole body had gone rigid, fists clenched at his sides.

She lifted her hand slowly, letting it hover between them, close enough to be an invitation, but not close enough to be a demand.

Heero's gaze dropped to her hand.

For a long moment, he just stared.

The seconds stretched, his breathing still unsteady, his body still on edge. Then, finally—His fingers unclenched. Tentatively, hesitantly, he reached out. The tips of his fingers brushed hers first, tentative, testing, unsure.

Then, with more certainty, he grasped her hand fully.

The bandages pressed against her palm, the fabric coarse to the touch. She ignored them. She just let him hold on. His grip was firm, almost desperate, crushing, but Soo Jin didn't flinch.

She didn't pull away.

She didn't move a muscle.

She just let him hold on.

Then, slowly, she shifted her fingers, intertwining them with his. Not tight. Not eager. Just anchoring. She kept her gaze steady, watching as his shoulders loosened, just slightly. As his breathing evened out, just barely.

His blue eyes fluttered closed again. And for the first time since she found him—Heero looked like he could breathe.

Soo Jin said nothing. She just stayed there, holding his hand, grounding him in the present as the elevator descended.

A soft ding broke the silence.

Heero's fingers slipped from hers before the doors even opened.

Soo Jin stepped back, giving him space as he straightened, his posture tense but shaky. He barely made it through the door before his legs buckled.

She caught him by his arm before he could collapse, looping her own arm around it. He didn't resist. Didn't even tense at the contact. Just leaned into her slightly as they made their way out of the elevator lobby.

"Let's get you to your car," she murmured.

The underground parking lot was cold and sterile, the hum of fluorescent lights reverberating off the concrete walls.

Heero swayed dangerously as she guided him forward.

"There," he huffed, breathless, and pointed at a black SUV parked on the far end.

Soo Jin followed his direction, assuring herself they could make it across the lot. It was a slow, painstaking journey. By the time they reached his car, Heero was trembling outright. Still, he reached for the driver's door handle.

Soo Jin stopped him. Wordlessly, she pried his fingers from the handle and steered him toward the passenger side instead, bracing for resistance.

He didn't fight her. That alone made her stomach tighten.

She guided him to the door, opened it, steadied him as he sank into the seat. A slow, shaky exhale. His head tipped back against the headrest, his body going slack the moment it no longer had to hold itself up. His blue eyes fluttered closed.

Soo Jin crouched beside him, watching as his hands trembled weakly in his lap. Without asking, she reached for his seatbelt, pulling it across his chest with careful precision.

She hesitated—giving him a chance to stop her.

He didn't.

The buckle clicked into place.

She stood, watching him for a beat longer, waiting for some sign of protest. A sharp remark. A scoff. A dry comment about how she didn't need to do this. Anything.

But Heero just sat there, silent. Still. Too still.

And that scared her more than if he had fought her.

Soo Jin swallowed.

Slowly, she reached for the passenger door, gripping the frame just for a moment. Then, with quiet resolve, she shut it.

The soft thud of metal meeting metal echoed in the stillness.

She exhaled, pressing a hand briefly to her chest—a moment to steady herself. Finally, squaring her shoulders, she turned and walked to the driver's side.

---

The car engine rumbled, the low vibration humming beneath Soo Jin's fingertips as she adjusted her grip on the wheel.

Outside, rain drummed against the windshield in a steady rhythm, droplets trailing in erratic patterns before the wipers swept them away with a quiet, rhythmic squeak. The city lights flickered through the wet glass, distorting into shifting halos of red, orange, and white as she pulled out of the parking lot, merging into Seoul's dense, creeping evening traffic.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Heero shift in his seat, his head lolling against the cold window. His breath fogged the glass in uneven huffs, brief clouds of warmth swallowed instantly by the chill. The seatbelt cut diagonally across his chest, holding him in place like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Soo Jin exhaled softly, adjusting the heat, letting the quiet hiss of the AC hum through the space between them. Warmth spread gradually through the car, chasing away the damp chill that clung to Heero's too-pale figure.

He looked completely spent. His complexion tinged slightly gray in the dim glow of streetlights, his lips dry and cracked, the faint shadow of stubble making him look even more haggard.

The rain tapped steadily against the roof, a constant presence, muted and soothing. The wipers kept their quiet rhythm, sweeping away the city's reflections, only for them to return again.

The silence was thick.

Not uncomfortable, but heavy. Weighted.

She didn't turn on the radio. The only sounds were the occasional rush of passing cars, the rhythmic click of the turn signal, the steady hum of the AC, the soft swish of the wipers dragging across the windshield. And the faint rustle of Heero's breath against the window.

Soo Jin stole glances at him whenever she could. The glow of the streetlights washed over his profile, illuminating the fine tension in his face. Even in sleep—if he had even drifted off—he was in pain. Once, his fingers twitched slightly in his lap. Another time, his breath hitched and a faint sound escaped the back of his throat—a whimper. Barely there, but enough to make her chest tighten with hurt.

The wipers scraped softly across the windshield, another thin layer of rain blurring the view before vanishing in a clean sweep.

A red light caught her at an intersection, brake lights glowing around them in harsh, bleeding red reflections.

Soo Jin let out a slow breath, loosening her grip on the wheel.

"I wish you'd called me…" she murmured. Almost a whisper—just in case he was asleep. Part of her hoped he wasn't. Because if he was, he'd hear the frustration woven into her voice, the pain she didn't know what to do with. The pain of seeing him like this. Of knowing he had meant to face it alone.

She turned her head, glancing at him again, but his eyes remained closed. His expression was unreadable in the dim red glow. His breathing was slow, controlled, but she couldn't tell if he was resting, or just avoiding her gaze.

The wipers squeaked against the windshield, fending off the rain.

Then, so softly, she almost didn't hear it—

"…Didn't want you to… see me like this…"

His breath caught, like speaking had taken more from him than he expected. The fingers in his lap twitched, restless, rubbing absently against the bandages.

Soo Jin barely suppressed the urge to reach out. To still his hands, to hold them. Instead, her hands tightened around the wheel. She kept her eyes on the road, processing what he had just said.

It wasn't fair. He wasn't allowed to say that. To act like his suffering was something he had to hide from her. To pretend like she wouldn't have wanted to be there.

She clenched her jaw, forcing down the sharp retort building in her throat. He wasn't in any state to argue. And maybe, deep down, he already knew what she would say.

So instead, she just breathed.

The light turned green.

Soo Jin turned back to the road, and kept driving.

---

Close to an hour later, crawling through Seoul's dense evening traffic, Soo Jin finally pulled into Heero's apartment district. Remnants of the heavy rain streaked the windshield in erratic trails, their shifting patterns caught in the dim glow of the parking garage lights. Heero sat half-asleep beside her, his head lolling against the passenger-side window.

The way the car slowed and turned, jolting over a speed bump, must have signaled their arrival. His eyes cracked open—just barely.

Blue.

So blue.

Glassy. Unfocused. But still so unbearably blue.

They found her. Tired. Bare.

Despite having napped for close to an hour, he seemed exhausted. His blue eyes were red and bleary. Looking out the windshield, he weakly lifted a hand, motioning further down.

"…There," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "My spot."

Soo Jin followed the direction he pointed, parking in the correct space. The car engine hummed to a stop, the vibration beneath her fingertips fading into silence.

Heero reached a fumbling hand for the door handle, his movements sluggish, Jin watched as he struggled to haul himself up, the car door swinging shut before he could even rise. His fingers slipped once before finding the grab handle above the door, gripping it weakly for then—he didn't have the strength to pull himself up. His breath heaved, his other hand pressing against the dashboard in a futile attempt to steady himself and push up.

Soo Jin was already moving. By the time she reached his side, he had stilled, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his jaw tight with frustration.

She didn't ask.

She simply extended her hand.

Heero's gaze flickered to it. For a moment, she thought he might refuse. Might insist on dragging himself up alone. But then—slowly, stiffly—he accepted.

His grip was weak. Not the firm, controlled touch she was used to. Soo Jin wrapped her fingers around his, steadying him as she pulled him upright. The weight of him was heavy against her, his steps uneven as they moved toward the elevators.

She felt it. The subtle pull toward the stairwell. Heero was veering toward it. Instinct. Muscle memory.

Even now.

Even in this state.

Soo Jin didn't let him. The thought of him taking the stairs up like this, made her furious in ways she couldn't articulate.

Still, she didn't pull him away outright. Instead, she adjusted her pace, her positioning—making it clear which direction they were going. When they reached the elevator, she pressed the up button and turned to him.

"Should I come up with you?"

She made it a question. Not a demand.

A slow blink. His throat bobbed in a swallow.

He shook his head.

Exhaustion was etched into every line of his body, but when he met her gaze—There was something else there. Determination. A need to do this final part himself.

"I can handle it from here," he rasped. His voice was hoarse, barely convincing. Soo Jin didn't believe him. But she took his word for it.

She reached into her pocket, pulling out his car keys and placing them in his bandaged hand.

Heero shook his head. Gently, he nudged the keys back toward her.

"Keep it," he murmured. "Use it to get home."

Soo Jin's lips parted slightly, caught off guard. Her first instinct was to refuse, to insist that she could take the subway, a taxi, anything else. But Heero's fingers pressed against hers. His message was clear.

"I'll pick it up from the office on Monday."

Soo Jin exhaled softly, closing her fingers around the keys. "…Okay."

The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open. Heero stepped inside, his movements stiff, his grip tightening on the railing. His body tensed automatically—Just like it had earlier at Preventer. Like he was bracing himself for something unseen.

Soo Jin watched him, standing outside the threshold. Just before the doors slid shut, he lifted his gaze to her. A silent acknowledgement. A thank you, unspoken.

She nodded back.

The doors closed.

Soo Jin stayed where she was, watching the digital counter climb upward.

5… 6… 7… 8.

The numbers stopped.

She waited another moment, just to be sure.

Then, finally, she turned and walked back toward his car.

Traffic would have eased by now, the worst of rush hour fading as they moved farther from the city center. It won't take her long to get home.

Soo Jin walked back toward Heero's car, her steps slow, unhurried. She wasn't rushing anymore, no longer operating on autopilot set to a single goal—get Heero home, to safety.

The underground lot was nearly silent, the occasional hum of a passing vehicle muffled by layers of concrete. The air was cool and slightly damp, carrying the faint scent of oil and wet pavement.

She pressed the key fob, and the car chirped in response, the headlights flashing briefly as she pulled open the driver's door and slipped inside.

She slid into the driver's seat, the door thudding shut behind her.

And then it hit her. The quiet. The absence of movement.

The shift from urgency to stillness. From acting, to being.

The scent of the car settled around her immediately—leather, plastic, air freshener. That distinct new-car smell, despite it being used for months now. That didn't surprise her one bit. There was no clutter, no forgotten receipts or crumpled wrappers. It was as orderly as its owner.

But underneath the crisp, almost sterile scent of leather and well-maintained interiors, there was something else. Something distinctly human. Distinctly male. Distinctly Heero. A faint trace of soap, the lingering whisper of cologne, something cool yet earthy, like brushed steel. She let the scents settle, let herself breathe them in. Breathe him in.

Her pulse stuttered, her throat tightening unexpectedly. She hadn't realized how much of the past hour had been spent holding her breath. Acting. Moving. Getting things done.

Her fingers relaxed over the steering wheel, smoothing over the sleek leather cover. The material was cold beneath her touch, but just faintly worn in certain places—places where Heero's hands had rested again and again. She let her fingers glide over the subtle grooves, barely perceptible indentations left behind from habit, from repetition.

She curled her palm over them, pressing down slightly, feeling their shape. Feeling him.

It was a strange thing, the weight of that realization. That she was touching something so distinctly his, something molded by his presence. She could almost imagine the feel of his hands over hers, the way his fingers must have fit into these same impressions.

A quiet shudder ran through her.

For the first time, she truly noticed how much she had been running on instinct. She hadn't even adjusted the mirrors. Hadn't moved the seat closer. She had driven all the way here with everything misaligned for her smaller frame, yet she hadn't registered a single moment of discomfort.

It hit her physically, the awareness of it. A lump caught in her throat, her breath faltering for just a second. She had been so focused on getting Heero home, so desperate to ensure he made it back safely, that she hadn't even considered their own safety. Hadn't thought about herself at all.

The thought sent another ripple through her. Not quite fear, not quite regret. Something heavier.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers more firmly against the leather, grounding herself in the sensation. She didn't need to spiral. He was home now. Safe. That was what mattered.

Her gaze dropped to the keys in her lap, and the realization settled in, quiet but firm.

Heero had given her his car.

Not just because he couldn't drive. Not just because it was the gentlemanly thing to do.

He had given her this.

A moment of peace. A moment where she didn't have to push through a packed subway car, didn't have to be surrounded by strangers in fluorescent-lit compartments, jostled and exhausted. He had spared her from that, just as he had spared her from a thousand other small burdens she hadn't even realized he had been lifting.

Even half-conscious, he had thought about her.

Her fingers brushed against her pocket, drawn there without thought, as if only her hand knew of the secret she kept inside. She pulled it out carefully, unfolding the yellow notepad paper along its worn creases. The ink was slightly smudged in places from how many times she had traced over the kanji, rewriting, rethinking, searching. Messy attempts, characters erased and rewritten.

Her best guess was circled at the bottom, the plain Hangul written next to the Japanese kanji. 青稀. A name she had spent all day trying to decipher its reading.

She stared at it now, at the strokes she had studied and memorized, and suddenly, she saw it differently. She had been trying to find a way to name him, to capture something about him in syllables, but she had been missing the point all along.

She didn't need to speak his name aloud to understand him. It wasn't about finding the correct reading of his name, Rare Blue. It was about who he was at that moment. Rare in his silence. Rare in his quiet, unwavering resilience. Rare in the way he existed, not just as a soldier, an agent, or an asset, but as a man—a man the world refused to see for what he truly was.

Heero was a rare find because of who he was despite how others chose to view him, to use him. Because of the way he hid himself, yet still found quiet ways to show care. Because of the way he endured more than anyone should have to bear, yet refused to break. Because of the way he had let her in, the way he showed he cared, in fleeting moments like this.

Her fingers curled around the paper, pressing it to her palm.

Heero was more than just Rare Blue. He was precious and unique in every way.

She swallowed hard, folding the paper carefully, tucking it back into her pocket. Then, without hesitation, she adjusted the seat. Shifted the mirrors. Checked her blind spots.

For the first time since she had left the office, she was fully present.

She turned on the engine, the low vibration humming beneath her fingertips once more.

She wouldn't wait until Monday.

Not a chance.

She'd be here tomorrow to return his car. Just to make sure he was on his feet again.

Soo Jin shifted the car into reverse, checked her mirrors one last time, and pulled out of the parking space.

The underground lot was quiet as she drove up the exit ramp, the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the drizzle.

Turning onto the main road, she never noticed the silver sedan across the street. Never saw the faint glow of a screen as a photo of her was captured—driving Heero's car out of his apartment complex.

Never realized that someone was always watching.