The water in the porcelain tub rippled with every breath Mira took, its surface disturbed by the minute tremors that still clung to her frail limbs. Steam coiled upward in delicate ribbons, softening the sharp lines of the bathroom, painting everything in a muted, dreamlike haze. The tiles beneath Rae-a's knees were cold, grounding her in the moment, an unyielding contrast to the fragile warmth of the room. The scent of lavender and rose floated on the air— oddly tender in a space that bore the weight of trauma. It was the kind of smell found in peaceful places, far removed from blood and chains, and its gentleness pressed like a bruise against the darker parts of both their memories.
Rae-a sat at the tub's edge with her sleeves pushed back to the elbows, her hands methodical and deliberate. One dipped the cloth into the steaming water, again and again, lifting it to trail softly along Mira's arms, her shoulders, the nape of her neck. It wasn't just cleansing—it was ceremony, a quiet ritual of penance and care that neither of them dared acknowledge aloud. Each repetition was slow, precise, almost reverent, as if she could wash away not just the filth and dried blood, but every mark left by the hands that had kept Mira in the dark.
Mira's body remained curled, her knees drawn tightly to her chest. Her bones pressed sharply beneath her skin, giving her the fragile look of something barely held together. Her hair hung in wet, tangled ropes down her back, strands sticking to bruised skin in matted clumps where dried blood hadn't yet come loose. Her chest rose and fell too quickly, the rhythm of a bird still convinced it might be snatched from safety at any moment. Her skin, now half-cleaned, revealed a latticework of bruises—yellowing, graying, the faded edges of past pain merging with fresh ones. The water itself had turned murky, tinged faintly pink where blood had melted from her wounds.
The silence between them was thick—not empty, but swollen with everything they couldn't yet bring themselves to say. Only the rhythmic sound of water being lifted and wrung from the cloth broke the stillness, a cadence that Rae-a held onto with quiet desperation.
Then, without warning, Mira's voice emerged—quiet as a breath but sharp enough to pierce through the veil that had fallen over them.
"It was always dark," she said, the words fragile, half-drowned in memory. "They said the sun would hurt my eyes. But I think... I think they just didn't want me to know how long I was there."
Rae-a's hand faltered mid-motion. The cloth, dripping gently, paused above Mira's shoulder. For a long moment, she said nothing, staring at the curve of Mira's back, the place where her spine protruded like a blade beneath skin that hadn't been touched with kindness in too long. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, tempered, the edge of it quiet steel hidden beneath a layer of velvet.
"You always knew though, didn't you?" she said, as though stating a fact carved into stone. "Even if they tried to hide it from you."
Mira nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Her cheek pressed against her knees, eyes distant, lost in some corner of her own mind. The strain in her mouth was visible now, the kind of tension that came from holding words in too long, like they had splintered inside her throat.
"I counted," she whispered, as if the confession itself were dangerous. "Every time they brought food. I made a scratch on the wall. With my fingernail."
Her voice cracked slightly, just at the edges—not from weakness, but from the sheer effort of remembering. "I tried not to forget the days."
Rae-a's hands moved again, more carefully this time, as if the memory had made Mira smaller, more breakable. The cloth traced a line along her arm, revealing pale skin beneath layers of grime and old scabs. Her fingers trembled—just once—but she steadied them against the lip of the tub, refusing to let it show again.
Then Mira's next words came so softly Rae-a almost missed them.
"Sometimes they made me answer questions. About you."
The silence that followed was immediate and absolute. Rae-a froze. Her fingers clenched around the cloth, the soaked fabric dripping between her knuckles, forgotten. Her breath halted in her chest, suspended there like a thread stretched too tight. The steam thickened in the room, curling around them, suffocating in its intimacy.
Her voice, when she managed to speak, was rough with barely-contained dread.
"What kind of questions?"
Mira hesitated, the pause long enough to raise Rae-a's heartbeat to a dull roar in her ears. Then, slowly, Mira shifted, her arms wrapping tighter around her legs, her head dipping as if the memories were too heavy to meet anyone's gaze.
"They asked if I remembered your face. If I knew where you'd go. Where you would run."
She swallowed hard. The motion in her throat was small, but Rae-a saw it—felt it, even.
"I told them no. Every time. Even when they got mad."
The water moved gently around Mira, responding to her trembling with concentric ripples that spread to the edges of the tub. Rae-a looked down at her, a thousand words caught in her throat, none of them enough. She reached for something, anything, and found only the broken truth of it waiting at the surface.
"I'm so sorry you had to protect me," she said, the words thick with the pain of understanding. She didn't try to hide the hitch in her voice, the way it fractured at the end.
But Mira didn't cry.
Instead, she lifted her chin just slightly, enough for Rae-a to see the clear, steady defiance in her eyes. Her voice, though soft, had a conviction that rang like fire through the fog.
"You protected me first," she said simply. "I just... kept my promise."
That undid Rae-a more than anything else.
The quiet weight of Mira's words struck her like a pressure point—precise, devastating, familiar in its gentleness. Rae-a looked away, suddenly breathless, her vision swimming not from steam, but from the tears she would not—could not—let fall. Her hand dipped again into the warm water, movements too careful, too practiced, as if she could steady her own crumbling with the simple act of soaking the cloth. Her jaw locked tight, steel beneath skin, because falling apart now would be unforgivable. Mira needed her whole. Unshaken. Unshatterable.
But the pain in her chest clawed upward like something alive.
Then, without warning, Mira moved—slowly, warily, like a wild creature learning safety for the first time—and leaned into her. The contact was tentative, soft. Wet skin brushed against Rae-a's forearm, impossibly fragile. Rae-a could feel the faint, uneven pulse beneath Mira's skin, the delicate flutter of a bird that had known too many cages and not enough sky. That small, aching heartbeat reverberated against her own ribs, and something deep within her cracked—quietly, like ice melting beneath the weight of spring.
"I was scared I was gonna forget your face," Mira whispered, voice slow and slurred with sleep, but still so heartbreakingly clear. "So every night I tried to draw it in my head. Like with my finger. Nose, eyes, hair..."
Rae-a turned then, the motion painstakingly slow, like her neck had stiffened with the grief she held inside. She didn't speak right away—she couldn't. Her voice was buried under the rising ache in her throat, beneath the guilt that coiled like smoke in her lungs. Her eyes found Mira's, and it hurt more than she was prepared for. Hurt that Mira remembered her with love when all Rae-a could remember was leaving her behind.
"You did?" she asked softly, her voice more breath than sound.
Mira nodded, small and sleepy, her lids heavy with the creeping pull of rest.
"Mhm," she murmured. "I got it right, too. Though you're prettier now. You look... happier."
A jagged sound caught in Rae-a's throat—half a laugh, half something rawer, unspoken. It left her mouth in a tight, aching exhale. Her hand rose again, slow and deliberate, and she used the cloth to gently wipe a line of dried blood from Mira's temple, careful not to press too hard. The girl didn't flinch this time.
The silence that followed didn't feel as hollow. It was filled with something else now—something warmer, softer. And then Mira, as only she could, shattered it with innocence so blunt it left Rae-a breathless all over again.
"Is this... real soap?" she asked, nose wrinkling as she glanced down at the pale bubbles floating in the water.
Rae-a blinked, startled by the question. Her gaze followed Mira's, and her lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile she hadn't felt in days—perhaps longer.
"Yeah," she said, voice hoarse but lightening. "Bubbles too. Fancy, huh?"
Mira reached out slowly, cupping a palmful of foam like it might vanish the moment she touched it. She watched it drip between her fingers, delicate and pink and impossibly clean.
"It smells like flowers," she whispered. "Not like... that place."
The shift in the air was instant.
Rae-a's hand faltered mid-movement, her smile dying before it could bloom. Her breath hitched. That place. The words thudded heavy in her chest, dragging behind them the ghosts she hadn't dared name aloud. She didn't ask what it had smelled like there. She didn't want to know. She didn't want to imagine Mira breathing that stench for months—years, maybe—trapped in walls that reeked of fear and metal and cruelty.
Instead, she soaked the cloth again, wrung it gently between her hands, and pressed it once more to Mira's bruised shoulder. The girl winced, but didn't pull away. Rae-a moved with excruciating care, guiding the cloth over faded cuts and skin rubbed raw. She wanted to wash every nightmare from Mira's body, scrub every memory away—but softly, lovingly. As if to promise: I will never hurt you. Not even in healing you.
The bruises were older than they should've been. The scabs too neat. It meant the pain had been routine. Practiced. And Rae-a hated herself for every second Mira had spent under someone else's hand.
She worked in silence, biting down on the urge to scream. Her jaw ached from the pressure, temples pounding with the effort it took to keep her breathing even. Her mind kept wandering—what had they done to Mira when no one was watching? How many nights had she slept in fear, body curled tight, waiting for something awful to pass?
But Mira's breathing had softened, slowed into the rhythm of exhaustion. Rae-a glanced up, watching the girl's lashes flutter low against her cheekbones, the tilt of her head sinking toward sleep.
Then, just as Rae-a dipped the cloth again, Mira stirred.
Her voice cut through the warmth of the room like a cold wind.
"Do I have to go back?"
Rae-a froze.
The question didn't echo—it stabbed. It sliced straight through her chest with surgical precision, lancing into the deepest, darkest place inside her. She looked at Mira then, not as a child in a tub but as something far more fragile: a survivor who still didn't believe she was safe.
"No," Rae-a said, her voice a quiet, unwavering blade. "You're never going back. Not ever."
Mira held her gaze. For the first time, fully. Her eyes, still too large in her gaunt face, searched Rae-a's with a depth that went far beyond her years. She was testing the truth in Rae-a's words. Looking for the cracks. And then came the next question—smaller, but somehow more terrifying.
"But what if he comes?"
Rae-a's lungs felt like they'd seized. She blinked slowly, then set the cloth aside, letting it slip beneath the water and drift away.
Her hand reached for Mira's—still damp, still trembling—and she held it with both of hers. The girl's fingers were small in her palm, but the weight of them felt immense.
"Then I'll be between you and him," she said, each word carved from stone, steady and lethal. "Every single time."
Mira didn't respond at first. Her eyes searched again, not for lies—but for a lifeline. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely more than breath.
"Promise?"
And Rae-a didn't flinch.
"On my life."
Mira nodded once, slow and heavy, like even that small movement required effort she barely had left, and then, with a soft sigh that seemed to unspool from somewhere deep inside her, her slight body collapsed against Rae-a's side—shoulder to shoulder, temple brushing her arm, the faint warmth of her skin pressing into Rae-a like an anchor she hadn't known she needed until that very moment. The girl's breathing deepened almost instantly, her lashes fluttering closed, and the tight coil in Rae-a's chest—the one that had been wound taut since the second she found Mira again—finally loosened, just enough to let her lungs expand with something close to air, to let her heart pulse in something that resembled rhythm instead of panic.
She didn't realize how long she sat there, just holding still in the space Mira now occupied, until the silence folded in around them, warm and reverent, broken only by the slow inhale and exhale of sleep. For the first time since dragging Mira back from whatever hell had swallowed her, Rae-a let herself breathe without the weight of fear choking every breath.
But the moment, fragile as spun glass, cracked with the sudden, soft sound of a knock.
It wasn't sharp or hurried—no pounding, no demand—just three quiet taps, evenly spaced, deliberate, the rhythm gentle in a way that made her freeze, not out of dread but instinct. Her head turned, sharply at first, like she expected danger waiting on the other side, but her body stilled as her mind registered the pattern. Familiar. Intimate. Intentional.
Then, muffled through the door and wrapped in the low warmth of his voice, came the words: "I've got some clothes for her."
In-ho.
Her breath caught like a thread yanked taut through her chest. For a moment she didn't move, afraid that if she did, something inside her might give way entirely. But then she looked down at Mira, at the girl now folded into sleep, and gently slid her hand from beneath Mira's grasp, her fingers giving the child's shoulder one last, grounding squeeze before she rose to her feet. Her knees protested, aching from being pressed to cold tile for too long, but she ignored the pain as she crossed the small bathroom, her every step quiet, careful, as though she were walking through some sacred space where sound had weight.
When she reached the door, she didn't fling it open—not with him. Her hand found the handle, fingers lingering there for a breath, maybe two, before she eased it open just a crack, just wide enough for the soft glow of the bathroom light to slip out into the shadowed hallway like a whisper.
And there he was.
In-ho stood just outside the threshold, tall and still in the low light, his shoulders relaxed but not careless, his frame cast in the half-shadows like a figure from memory and myth both—tangible, yes, but unreal in the way only he could ever be. His hands cradled a small stack of folded clothes, neat and precise, held against his chest with a kind of reverence, and the sight of him like that—unguarded, quiet, present—struck something raw and deep in her that she wasn't prepared for.
His eyes met hers, and the world fell quiet in a way that had nothing to do with sound.
They held each other in that fragile pause, suspended between everything they were and everything they had yet to say, and Rae-a felt the air grow heavier with it—the electricity that always seemed to coil between them when they were close, unspoken but undeniable, something sharp enough to draw blood and soft enough to make her want to stay. In-ho's gaze moved slowly across her face, cataloguing every detail with a tenderness that stole her breath: the strands of hair stuck to her damp cheek, the flushed heat clinging to her skin from the bath, the tension still lingering around her eyes even as she tried to hide it. He didn't speak, didn't ask, didn't press. He just looked, and in that look was something dangerous—something naked and impossibly gentle.
Not calculation. Not strategy. Not the cold mask of the Frontman.
Just him.
His mouth tilted in a smile, barely there, a flicker of expression not meant for show or manipulation but born from something softer, something almost shy. It wasn't the smirk he wore when he wanted to provoke her or the sardonic quirk he used to deflect—this smile was small, quiet, real. It touched the corners of his mouth and didn't quite reach the surface, but Rae-a felt it land like a punch to the chest because it meant something. It saw her.
And the worst part—the most terrifying, damning part—was that she wanted to step closer.
Her fingers gripped the door handle tighter to stop herself from doing just that, nails pressing faint crescents into her palm, grounding herself in sensation because the way he was looking at her made it hard to breathe. Her throat was dry. Her thoughts scattered. And still, she couldn't tear her gaze from his.
The silence stretched again between them, taut and shimmering like a wire pulled tight, not awkward but charged, and Rae-a's heart beat against her ribs like it wanted to be acknowledged—like it was begging her to remember she was still alive.
Rae-a's eyes flicked to the clothes still nestled in his arms, a half-smile tugging at the edge of her mouth before it faded again, drowned beneath the sudden wave of emotion curling in her chest.
The air between them hung heavy, charged with something neither of them dared name. It wasn't just the warmth from the fabric he carried or the quiet act of kindness nestled in the way the clothes were folded—there was something else thrumming beneath it all, something volatile and tender, pressing against the silence between their bodies like a third presence. He was simply holding out a bundle, and yet it felt like far more than that—as if offering those clothes was a kind of confession he hadn't yet found the words for.
Rae-a's fingers hovered before they took the bundle, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs. Her hand brushed his—just the barest contact, skin against skin for a moment too fleeting to matter and yet far too meaningful to ignore. The contact sent a tremor up her arm, a spark that settled just behind her breastbone, crackling there like it had always lived beneath the surface.
Her lips curved before she realized it—gentle, unguarded, like something instinctual had slipped through the cracks of her composure. It wasn't a smile meant to placate or deflect, the kind she'd worn for years like armor. This one felt real. And that frightened her more than she could say.
"Thanks," she murmured, her voice lower now, softened with something that felt dangerously close to affection. She took the bundle from his hands carefully, like it might fall apart if she held it too hard.
"I put a towel and socks in there too," he said, and the gravel in his voice snagged at something inside her. He wasn't just speaking—he was offering, his words laced with quiet care, and it wasn't lost on her that he'd thought of the small comforts, the things people often forgot. "Figured she might be cold."
Rae-a looked down at the bundle, arms folding it instinctively against her chest, a shield now between them and yet one he'd placed there himself. She didn't say "thank you" again, not out loud, but it was in her eyes, in the way her fingers clutched the fabric as though it were more than just clothes—it was protection, it was presence, it was him showing up when he didn't have to.
"That's thoughtful," she said instead, and her voice betrayed her, trembling just slightly.
He hesitated for a second, his eyes flicking toward the hallway before coming back to rest on her, unwavering. "She has a room now," he added, the words quiet but firm, like a vow disguised as logistics. "It's just across from yours. The one at the end of the corridor."
Her breath caught, an ache blooming quietly in her throat. He could've put Mira anywhere in this compound, out of sight, out of reach—but he didn't. He placed her within arm's reach of Rae-a, close enough that she could get to her in seconds, close enough that it felt like trust. And it was that gesture—not grand, not loud, but deliberate—that made her chest tighten. She'd spent years having to fight tooth and nail for the people she cared about, and now someone else had quietly, instinctively done the same for her.
She swallowed hard and nodded, the weight of gratitude heavy and wordless, caught somewhere beneath her ribs where it curled tight.
He stepped back then, the movement subtle but precise, a deliberate surrender of space she hadn't asked for. Yet even as he moved, his gaze never wavered—it stayed locked on hers with an intensity that unraveled her slowly. There was something aching behind his eyes, something unspoken straining at the edges of restraint, and she felt it as clearly as if he'd said it aloud: If I let myself, I wouldn't leave.
She almost opened her mouth. Almost said something that would have cracked them both open. But instead, she tightened her grip on the bundle and stepped back into the shadows of the bathroom. The door clicked softly shut between them, a barrier again.
And yet she stood there for a long time afterward, her palm still pressed against the wood, the echo of his presence clinging to the air like the last flicker of warmth before nightfall. Her heart was beating too fast, erratic and traitorous. She let herself feel it now, just for a breath—the pull, the longing, the sharp ache of wanting someone she was supposed to hate and the unbearable knowledge that he kept showing up anyway.
Inside, Mira stirred, a soft rustle of water and cotton. Rae-a turned, blinking once to shake off the lingering burn in her chest. Mira was watching her sleepily, her lashes sticking together at the corners, eyes still puffy but no longer hollow.
"I got you something," Rae-a said gently, crouching beside the tub again. Her voice came out steadier than she felt as she extended the bundle.
Mira took it with slow, careful hands, her fingers brushing over the soft fabric like it was something sacred. She didn't say anything, but the way she clutched it close told Rae-a everything she needed to know.
Rae-a helped her up, wrapped her in a thick towel, and dried her slowly, gently, every motion deliberate and patient. There were bruises along Mira's spine, faint outlines of past pain, and Rae-a swallowed the lump that rose in her throat as she worked. Mira changed behind a towel, and Rae-a kept her eyes averted, giving her space without leaving her alone.
Once dressed, Mira stood uncertain and small, the oversized shirt falling nearly to her knees, sleeves slipping over her hands like she might disappear inside them. Rae-a reached out instinctively, offering her fingers, and Mira took them without hesitation. Their hands fit together easily, like they were meant to find each other again.
They stepped into the hallway together. The corridor was dim, warm-toned, nothing like the sterile nightmare Mira had come from. The soft glow from the sconces painted gentle shadows across the walls, and every step they took forward felt like a reclaiming, a small victory against what had been done to them both.
Rae-a guided her across the corridor to the door across from her own. She opened it with a gentle push.
The room inside was simple. A neatly made bed with a soft blanket folded at the end. A nightstand. A lamp already switched on. It was quiet, untouched—waiting.
Mira hovered in the doorway, her eyes wide, almost disbelieving. Rae-a gave her hand a soft squeeze and stepped with her inside.
It wasn't extravagant. It wasn't much.
But it was hers.
And it was safe.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mira stood motionless in the doorway, her feet rooted to the floor as though crossing the threshold into something so gentle and untouched might shatter it, or worse—prove it was a dream. Her wide eyes roamed the quiet space, taking in the bed with its neatly folded blanket, the small nightstand with its unlit lamp, the warm-toned walls that bore no stains, no shadows, no ghosts. With the tentative reverence of someone approaching a shrine, she stepped inside, her fingers grazing along the edge of the wall, as if trying to commit its smoothness to memory in case it all disappeared come morning.
She made her way to the bed in slow, measured steps, climbed onto it with the awkwardness of someone who had forgotten what comfort was supposed to feel like, and sat with her back straight, legs drawn up beneath her, her fingers gripping the edge of the sheet like it might suddenly vanish beneath her touch.
"It's soft," she whispered, her voice so quiet it almost wasn't there, just a breath against the silence. "I forgot what soft felt like."
Those six words hit Rae-a harder than anything Chul-soo had ever thrown at her. It wasn't the words themselves so much as what they carried—years of deprivation, of silence, of cold floors and colder nights. The crushing realization twisted in her chest like a vice, guilt bleeding into every corner of her lungs until breathing itself felt like penance. She had found ways to live—she'd slept under roofs, showered, eaten, laughed, killed, survived—but Mira... Mira had remained behind, forgotten by the world, curling into herself on concrete slabs and worn floors, holding on to the memory of a girl who once swore to protect her, a promise that had been broken before it had even fully formed.
"I'm sorry," Rae-a whispered, the words brittle and raw as they left her throat, her body lowering slowly to sit at the edge of the bed, her hands smoothing the blanket over Mira's small legs with a kind of care that made her chest ache. Her fingers lingered there, unmoving. "I should've found you sooner."
She didn't say more. There was nothing else to say that wouldn't feel hollow, nothing she could offer that would fill the space of the years Mira had lost. The girl simply closed her eyes then, slowly and without fear, as if sinking into the pillow was the final step in allowing herself to believe she was safe. Her body, once tense with uncertainty, melted into the mattress, and she curled onto her side like a child too tired to keep bracing for the worst.
"You're here now," Mira murmured, and even in her half-sleep, her voice carried something like grace—an absolution Rae-a hadn't earned.
Rae-a's hand moved instinctively, brushing a damp strand of hair from the girl's forehead with a tenderness she didn't know she still possessed, her voice dropping lower, softer, like she was whispering a prayer she hadn't said in years. "It's going to be good from here on out. I promise."
And maybe for the first time, she actually believed it.
The room settled into a silence so deep it felt like breath held between worlds, a hush that wrapped itself around the furniture and walls, tucking into corners like dust left undisturbed. The soft yellow light from the bedside lamp bathed everything in a golden hush, warm and gentle, touching Mira's pale cheeks, catching on the strands of hair still damp from her bath, casting long, sleepy shadows that made the room feel like a cocoon suspended in time. Mira's breathing had evened out now, the quiet rise and fall of her chest steady beneath the covers, her small figure curled beneath the blanket like it was the first thing that had ever welcomed her without condition.
Rae-a didn't move. She sat beside her, her body curved in a quiet line, fingers absently running over a wrinkle in the blanket again and again, as if smoothing it could somehow erase the cracks in her own conscience. Relief thrummed low and constant in her ribs, but it was tangled in a deeper ache, a quiet grief for all the nights Mira had endured without her—for all the softness she should have known but didn't.
Then Mira's voice, soft and hesitant, broke through the quiet like the fragile chime of glass in the distance, uncertain and achingly vulnerable.
"Can we stay here forever?"
The question didn't seem to belong in this world, so innocent and plain, yet somehow heavier than any threat Rae-a had ever faced. Her entire body stilled, the breath in her lungs stalling, her thoughts arrested in a quiet crash that resonated through her.
She blinked, gaze drawn down to the girl lying beside her, though Mira wasn't looking back. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling above, that same dreamy expression on her face—the one Rae-a had seen before, the one that looked like she was building an entire future in her mind, a world stitched from hope and soft things and the faint outline of a life she never thought she'd get to have. There was something in her gaze that made Rae-a want to cradle her close and never let her go, something that begged her not to say the wrong thing and ruin it all.
Her lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Not yet.
Rae-a's mind faltered, staggering beneath the weight of a question that sounded like a lullaby and a landmine all at once. Can we stay here forever?
So innocent. So simple. So impossibly piercing.
The words blindsided her. One part of her wanted to laugh, another wanted to weep. Her heart skipped, then thundered, then fumbled its rhythm entirely. That word—forever—rang like a bell through her chest, echoing off every wall inside her. Her brain stalled completely, frozen in time, but at the same time it whirred into overdrive, thoughts piling over each other like a storm surge. What did Mira mean? Was she asking to stay here... with her? With him? Was she dreaming of a life Rae-a had never dared imagine herself? A life Rae-a wasn't sure she even knew how to live?
The implications surged forward all at once, crashing over her before she could brace herself. The question had been so childlike, so devoid of weight in its tone—and yet Rae-a was floored. As if those few syllables had peeled back everything she had built to protect herself, exposing the parts of her she kept locked away. The desperate, silent part that longed for rest. For safety. For something—someone—to stay.
Forever. The word hung in the air, thick and shimmering like steam over winter pavement. It felt impossible and dangerous, like a wish spoken too loudly. Live here? Stay? With Mira? With him?
The questions stirred in her chest like a tide rising fast, too fast. Forever meant putting down the weight of survival, meant loosening the grip she'd kept on her past, her pain, her rage. It meant rest. Peace. Maybe even healing. And Rae-a didn't know what to do with any of those things. Not really.
Her throat tightened, the pressure of unsaid things pressing up against her collarbones. Could they stay? Would In-ho want them to? Would he allow this quiet life to bloom in the margins of his own, even as he tried to suppress the ache he never admitted to? Would he let Mira remain here in safety—would he let herself?
Her heart, traitorous and unguarded, thudded too loudly in her chest, each beat like a knock at a door she wasn't ready to open.
"I..." Rae-a began, her voice a soft murmur that barely rose above the stillness of the room, uncertain, as though the words were too heavy to fall from her lips. She paused, searching for the right thing to say, her fingers tightening against the doorframe as she shifted her weight, the weight of her own hesitation making her heart throb in her chest. "Why would you want that?"
For a long moment, Mira didn't say anything. Instead, she studied Rae-a with a quiet intensity, as though the question itself was a puzzle to be solved. Then, slowly, deliberately, the girl's lips parted, and there it was—the smirk. It was subtle, a slight tilt of the corner of her mouth that spoke of something Rae-a hadn't seen in so long: mischief. It was a glimmer of the girl she used to be, before the darkness, before the silence, before the world had claimed her innocence and replaced it with pain. Mira's eyes gleamed, catching the light with a mischievous shine, her face alive with something unexpected, something reckless and free.
"The beds are comfy," she said, completely deadpan.
For a moment, Rae-a stood there, caught between disbelief and the sudden urge to laugh, her breath catching as it filled her lungs, as if the sound of it had slipped out before she even realized what was happening. It wasn't just the absurdity of the answer—it was the realization that Mira was still here, still capable of pulling something like this out of the depths of her own quiet soul, even after everything. Rae-a couldn't help but feel her lips twitch upward, despite herself, the smile forming quickly before she could stop it.
"You little—" Rae-a began, shaking her head in mock disbelief, her voice a low and playful warning.
Without thinking, she grabbed the nearest pillow—soft, fluffy, and inconsequential—and tossed it at Mira. The pillow collided with her shoulder with a muffled thud, but it was enough to send the girl into a fit of giggles, the sound muffled by the pillow's soft fabric but still unmistakable. The giggle was light, almost musical, a fleeting moment of joy that seemed to shift the air around them, softening the sharp edges of the world Rae-a had lived in for so long. Mira caught the pillow, but it slipped from her grip and rolled onto the bed beside her with a quiet thump, as though it, too, had surrendered to the moment.
Mira adjusted the blanket, pulling it higher around her shoulders with a smile that Rae-a hadn't seen in years—a smile that spoke of something untainted, something pure and unaffected by the cruelty the world had thrown at her. In that instant, her face seemed to brighten, the shadows of her past momentarily fading away as the child Rae-a remembered, the one who had laughed and played and dreamed without fear, came rushing back to life. For a fleeting moment, Rae-a could almost hear the echoes of the past—the sound of Mira's laughter, unbroken, unmarred by the pain she had endured.
Rae-a felt a warmth stirring in her chest, an ache she couldn't quite name, a feeling that was too fragile and too new to understand. She shook her head in mock exasperation, a soft chuckle escaping her lips as she pushed herself up from the bed. Her movements were slow, deliberate, almost reluctant, as though she didn't want to leave this moment behind. Standing up, she stretched her arms above her head, then turned toward the door, her fingers brushing against the cool metal of the handle.
"Get some sleep," Rae-a said, her voice gentle, the words light but filled with care. "I'm just across the hall if you need anything."
She was about to step out when Mira's voice stopped her—a soft, unexpected sound that seemed to pull the air taut between them.
"I like him," Mira said, her tone light, almost teasing, like she was singing the words rather than speaking them.
Rae-a froze.
The words landed in the room with a soft, almost imperceptible weight, but the ripples they sent through her were anything but small. They hovered in the air, drifting in slow, circular motions, too quiet to break but too heavy to ignore. Rae-a's breath caught, and for a moment, she didn't move—didn't even think. She just stood there, frozen, with her hand still resting on the doorframe, the sound of Mira's words still echoing in her mind. Her pulse quickened, her throat tightened, and for an instant, she could feel the heat creeping up the back of her neck, spreading beneath her skin, a flush that wasn't entirely from embarrassment, but from something deeper—something that spoke of feelings she hadn't yet sorted out, feelings she hadn't even wanted to acknowledge.
She didn't turn around. She didn't speak. Rae-a simply stood there, still, the space between them thickening, filled with the weight of what Mira had said. Her eyes were closed for a heartbeat longer than she realized, her body tense as she tried to steady herself, to find control in the midst of the sudden storm that had been stirred in her chest.
Then, before she could stop herself, before she could shut the door on the truth, the tiniest, most unexpected smile tugged at her lips. It was quiet. It was real. And it was fleeting—just a small thing, a crack in the walls Rae-a had so carefully built around herself. But it was there, just for a second, a momentary slip of something that felt like relief.
It was the kind of smile that belonged only to herself, the kind she wouldn't show anyone, the kind that meant the world had just shifted in the smallest, most surprising way.
Without a word, Rae-a left the room, her footsteps light, a little quicker than before, her heart pulsing with an unfamiliar rhythm in her chest, a rhythm that fluttered and beat in time with something she couldn't quite name yet. She closed the door behind her with a soft click, and for the first time in a long while, the world didn't feel quite so heavy. The warmth in her chest lingered, confusing but persistent, like a soft light pushing back against the dark.
And as she walked down the hallway, she realized that maybe, just maybe, it didn't feel so impossible anymore.
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The murmur of low voices lured Rae-a down the dim hallway like the tail end of a dream, distant but unmistakable. Her footsteps were soundless as she descended the staircase, each wooden plank beneath her bare feet cool and familiar. The house had fallen into its nighttime stillness—a rare kind of hush, delicate and complete, as though the very walls were drawing in breath and holding it, suspended between what had just happened and what was coming next. The scent of old paper and steeped tea lingered faintly in the air, clinging to the corridors like memories too heavy to leave.
The study door was ajar, soft lamplight spilling into the hall in a dull amber haze, and inside, two figures waited in the stillness. Jun-ho stood rigid near the bookshelves, his back partially turned, arms folded tightly across his chest as if he were trying to contain the storm brewing behind his eyes. In-ho was positioned more loosely—perched against the edge of the desk, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, the collar of his shirt undone, exposing a triangle of skin that caught the flickering shadows of the lamp. His expression was unreadable, thoughtful, yet the moment Rae-a stepped into view, his gaze snapped toward her like a tether pulled taut, as though he'd been waiting for her without even knowing it.
She entered without a word at first, pressing the door closed behind her until it clicked gently into place. Her arms folded across her chest, a protective gesture more for herself than anyone else.
"She's asleep," Rae-a said softly, her voice almost too quiet for the space, arms folding across her chest like she was holding herself together. Her eyes drifted between the two men, reading them like a battlefield. "First time she's touched a real bed in years."
In-ho's features softened, the faintest flicker of emotion darting across his eyes before he gave a single, deliberate nod. "She looked... happy. Just now."
But Jun-ho didn't smile. His jaw worked as he pushed off the bookshelf with a quiet breath, his tone already braced for what came next. "That's the thing, though. Safe now doesn't mean safe later. Not with Chul-soo still breathing."
The truth of it landed like a strike to Rae-a's ribs. She didn't flinch, but her posture changed—her spine stiffened, her shoulders squared, as if instinctively bracing for a fight. She moved toward the desk, slow and precise, planting her hands against the edge like she needed something solid to hold on to. The heat in her voice was different now—less about anger, more about resolve, the kind that came from a wound so deep it had hardened into armor.
"He kept her hidden," she said, each word measured, deliberate. "All this time. Not killed. The fucker." Her fingers curled tighter around her arms, nails digging into skin. "Which means he planned to use her. Against me."
The silence that followed was not empty, but heavy—dense with rage left unsaid. In-ho's jaw clenched, the flicker of firelight catching the tension in his face, but he remained still. Jun-ho didn't speak yet. He didn't need to. The truth already pulsed like a drumbeat in the room.
"He's desperate," Jun-ho finally said, cutting through the quiet like a blade. "You cut out both his eyes—Chang-min and Jong-soo are gone. He's more vulnerable than ever, but cornered animals don't lie down. They bite."
Rae-a nodded once, her voice low, but laced with unflinching steel. "That's why we have to end this now."
Her hands were still braced against the desk, but now her weight leaned into it like it was the only thing grounding her to the floor. There was fire behind her words, but not the cold, surgical kind born of vengeance. No—this was deeper, older, rawer. This was fire born of love, of grief, of a life stolen and a thousand regrets set ablaze.
"I'm not doing this for revenge anymore. Not just for me. It's for her. For Hyun-ju. For everyone who trusted me, followed me, and bled because of it." Her voice cracked just slightly, but she didn't back down. "I won't let Chul-soo take another life just to make a point. Fuck that bastard."
She looked toward In-ho, and when she did, her voice softened—not in weakness, but in something more intimate, something brittle beneath its calm. "But I'm not naïve. Keeping Mira here—it's not safe. Not for her. And not for us. If she's here when this all goes down..."
In-ho saw the pain in her eyes before she even finished. That look—haunted, weary, full of the kind of fear that no amount of courage could erase—unlocked something in him he couldn't control. All he wanted in that moment was to reach for her, to tell her Mira would be safe, that the house was secure and nothing would happen to her here. But even that—especially that—would be a lie. Not because Mira wasn't safe tonight, but because tomorrow would come, and with it, hell.
"She won't be," In-ho said finally, his voice low but absolute. It wasn't harsh, but firm, resolute in the way that only truth could be. "You're right. We can't take that risk."
Rae-a turned her head toward him, fully now, and looked at him—really looked at him. Something behind her eyes eased, just slightly, like a knot she hadn't known she was holding had loosened. He wasn't arguing. He wasn't trying to soothe her with easy comforts or protect her pride with hollow reassurances. He simply understood. And that—of all things—was what steadied her the most.
"I'll take her," Jun-ho said, stepping forward now, his tone final. "Hyun-ju and the others are still at that safehouse. It's off-grid. Guarded. Secure. Mira will be with people who'll keep her safe."
Rae-a's arms dropped to her sides as she stepped back from the desk, something sharp slicing through her lungs at the thought of letting Mira out of her sight again. "I can't go with her," she murmured, eyes on the floor now. "Not even in the car. I'm too high-risk. Too visible. If they track me, they'll track her."
"You're right," In-ho said again, with that same calm certainty that now felt like an anchor in the storm. "You and I—we stay. We plan our next move."
Her hands flexed at her sides, the tremor in her breath betraying the anguish she refused to let show on her face. Letting go felt like being torn open. Like asking the bleeding part of herself to keep bleeding, quietly, for the sake of someone she loved more than her own survival.
But what choice did she have?
Her presence was a threat. Her love, her closeness—those things weren't safety nets anymore. They were nooses. And if she didn't cut the rope now, it might strangle Mira before dawn.
Rae-a stood straighter, drawing in a breath that scraped against the inside of her ribs like broken glass, and nodded once. It wasn't just agreement—it was the kind of decision that gutted you even as you made it.
"Arrange it for the morning," she said, the words like stone. "I'll tell Mira tomorrow."
In-ho didn't look away. His eyes lingered on her face with something reverent in their stillness, something almost awed. She had stopped running. Not because she had nothing left to lose—but because she had too much now, and she was willing to fight for it. Not for survival. For something larger. Something purer.
For family.
"I'll be back in the morning," Jun-ho said, already pulling out his phone to send the encrypted message. "Before sunrise."
Rae-a exhaled sharply, and for a moment the silence returned—deeper now, the kind that hummed with all the things no one could say.
Then In-ho stepped closer. His hand found her wrist—not to pull, not to restrain, but simply to hold. His fingers wrapped around her pulse point with a gentleness that didn't match his usual control, grounding her with a touch that said more than words could ever reach.
"I'll protect her," he said softly, the promise behind it as weighty as a blood oath. "You have my word."
Rae-a looked at him. Her jaw was tight, her spine rigid, but her eyes burned—grief and fear and gratitude all battling inside them. She didn't speak. She didn't have to. She gave a single, trembling nod as Jun-ho made his exit, and then slowly sank onto the edge of the sofa, her hands folded in her lap, motionless, but not still.
She was already preparing. Already bracing.
Because tomorrow, she would have to let Mira go.
And that was the cruelest thing about love—the real kind. The kind that wasn't soft or simple or safe.
It meant letting go, even when your whole soul screamed to hold on.
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The house felt too quiet once Jun-ho had gone.
The front door had clicked shut minutes ago, but its absence still echoed in the room like a long exhale that neither of them had taken. The silence wasn't awkward—it had too much weight for that. It was heavy and intimate, stretched between them like a held breath. Not hostile, not uncomfortable, but steeped in everything neither of them dared to say aloud. Outside, the wind whispered through the branches of the trees, and every now and then, a wayward limb brushed against the glass with a sound too soft to be threatening but too persistent to be ignored.
Rae-a sat hunched on the edge of the couch, her fingers woven loosely together, knuckles pale where pressure built. Her elbows braced against her knees in a posture that looked casual from a distance but was anything but. Her gaze had drifted far from the room—from the lamp humming faintly in the corner to the framed photograph on the bookshelf that tilted slightly to one side. She stared through it all, past the walls, past the hallway.
Somewhere down that corridor, Mira was sleeping.
She had only just gotten her back.
And now she had to let her go again.
The ache in her chest was quiet but crushing, like something folding inward. This wasn't fear in the way she'd always known it—the kind that sharpened her instincts and fueled her survival. This was something heavier, something quieter and crueler. It wasn't about her. It wasn't about what might happen to her. It was about Mira, about the fragile little miracle Rae-a had clawed back from the dark, only to send away again. The thought felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down at a drop she wasn't meant to survive, knowing she'd have to jump anyway—and worse, that she'd have to do it alone.
A shift at her side broke gently through the haze.
The couch dipped under the weight of him—In-ho. He said nothing as he sat. Not even a sigh. No movement to break the silence except for the soft creak of the cushions beneath him. His nearness didn't press against her, didn't demand acknowledgement. But it grounded her in a way she hadn't expected. He carried stillness with him like a tide rolling in at night—steady, vast, and oddly calming. She didn't need to look at him to know his posture was upright, his attention fixed—not outward, but on her. Always.
For a time, they stayed like that. Neither one reaching, neither one retreating. The distance between them was small, but it was filled with history and hesitance and the kind of tension that didn't spark—it simmered.
Then he moved.
In-ho stood with quiet intention and turned toward her, his hand reaching down, palm open and waiting. Not a demand. Not a command. Just... offering.
"Come," he said softly.
That single word touched something inside her that startled her with its gentleness. It didn't pull. It didn't assume. It invited. As though he knew she needed the choice to be hers.
She stared at his hand, unmoving. Her heart stuttered in her chest as her gaze followed the line of his wrist, the subtle flex of tendons beneath skin, the steadiness of his fingers. She remembered everything those hands had done—brutal things, calculated things—but here, now, they were just... open. Still. Patient.
And when she finally placed her hand in his, the impact was immediate. Her breath caught, subtle but sharp, buried beneath the surface of her composure. His fingers curled around hers, slowly, carefully—not tight, not forceful. Just enough. Enough to remind her she wasn't falling alone. Enough to make her feel the burn of her own restraint unraveling at the edges. His touch wasn't warm in the traditional sense—his skin was cool from the still air of the house—but the connection sparked something deep in her chest, something raw and unsteady.
She hated how much she noticed it.
The warmth that bloomed beneath her skin.
The way her fingers fit into his.
The way he didn't let go.
They moved together through the house, their steps slow, unrushed, not speaking, but saying everything in the silence. Her awareness narrowed to the feel of his hand still holding hers, as if that small tether was the only thing keeping her from splintering apart. She didn't need him to squeeze. She just needed him to stay.
Halfway up the stairs, his hand shifted.
He let go of her fingers only to rest his palm gently on the small of her back. The contact made her tense instinctively—not from fear, but from surprise. It was delicate, almost imperceptible, but it seared through her all the same. The placement wasn't commanding. It didn't push or pull. It was simply... there. A subtle pressure, an anchor, a promise disguised as a gesture. Like he was telling her—without saying it—that he wasn't going anywhere.
It made her stomach knot.
It made her pulse leap.
There was something unbearable about the restraint in that touch. He could have done more—could have moved closer, spoken, brushed her hair back the way she sometimes imagined he might—but he didn't. He left space for her. Always. And it was that restraint that undid her, that slow-burning tension that sank into her bones and made her feel unsteady in ways she couldn't name.
They reached her door. The hallway was bathed in that same soft gold, everything too quiet, too still, like the entire world was holding its breath. She stared at the door for a long moment—her temporary sanctuary, the place she was supposed to pretend she was safe. The knob was cool beneath her palm. But she didn't turn it.
Because she knew what was waiting beyond it.
The echo of Mira's smile. The empty space she would leave behind. The truth of everything Rae-a had been trying not to feel since they brought her here. Tomorrow would be another wound. One she had to inflict herself.
And something inside her cracked.
Not completely, not yet. But enough for her to turn slightly, enough for the armor she wore around him to shift at the edges. She looked at him—really looked at him—and found he was already watching her. His expression didn't falter, but something had softened around the eyes, a quiet concern that wrapped around her like a thread.
Her voice came out before she could second-guess it. It was quieter than she meant for it to be. But it didn't waver.
"In-ho... wait."
He stilled immediately. Not with tension, not with alarm—but with a gravity that said he heard the weight behind her words, understood it without needing her to explain.
And for the first time in what felt like hours, Rae-a allowed herself to feel the full breadth of what she was carrying. The fear. The grief. The impossible tenderness blooming somewhere deep in her chest that refused to die, no matter how hard she tried to smother it.
He looked down at her, his brows lifting ever so slightly in something that resembled surprise, though it was muted, subtle—like most of his reactions, contained beneath years of practiced restraint. His hand drifted away from the small of her back, the warmth of it leaving her skin as if peeled away slowly, respectfully. He didn't fill the space with questions or assumptions. He just watched her, his silence not the cold kind that demanded explanation, but the quiet, patient kind that gave her room to speak.
Rae-a gripped the doorknob a little tighter, feeling the cool brass press into her palm like a grounding weight. She didn't turn it. Her breath caught shallow in her chest before she forced it deeper, drawing air past the tight knot at the base of her throat. The pulse there throbbed urgently, as if her body couldn't decide whether to fight or flee from the vulnerability she was about to expose.
"I just..." Her voice barely broke the silence, trembling on the edge of uncertainty before she caught herself and straightened, even if just slightly. She didn't look at him. "I don't think I want to be alone tonight."
It was more than a confession. It was an admission of fear, of trust, of longing she didn't yet know how to name.
She could feel him watching her, could almost sense the shift in his gaze as it swept over her face, searching her expression like it held a code he was determined to understand. He didn't respond right away, but the silence that followed wasn't empty. It pulsed with something unspoken—something she felt just beneath her skin. His expression remained still, composed, but the change in his eyes was unmistakable. Something in him softened, uncoiled, like stone melting beneath water, slowly eroded by something far gentler than it had ever expected to touch him.
And then, for the first time in what felt like years, he smiled.
Not the smirk he wore like a mask when teasing her. Not the hardened, biting curve that surfaced in moments of calculation. This smile was quiet. Small. A whisper of warmth that touched only the corners of his lips and melted into the space between them. It wasn't smug or amused. It simply... understood.
Without speaking, he stepped past her and pushed the door open, walking into the room as though it had always been meant to hold both of them. There was no ceremony to it, no hesitation in his movements—just quiet certainty, the kind that steadied her even as it made her heart stumble.
The room was dark, save for the silver spill of moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains. The glow bathed everything in a soft, dreamlike hue—cool and ethereal, casting shifting shadows across the floor and walls. It turned the bed into something more than furniture; it became a quiet promise, a sanctuary carved out of the chaos beyond these walls.
She stood in the doorway, watching him, her body taut with an anticipation she didn't fully understand. When he reached for the buttons of his shirt, her breath snagged in her chest. One by one, his fingers undid them with slow precision, the fabric parting over his chest like a veil drawn back in silence. Her eyes widened before she could stop them, heat flooding her cheeks with a sharp, involuntary jolt of awareness. She turned away almost too quickly, the motion brisk and almost clumsy.
She crossed the room and moved toward the bed, pretending to be preoccupied. The oversized shirt she wore brushed against her thighs with each step, barely concealing the shorts beneath, but she didn't bother changing. The idea of doing so, of drawing further attention to herself, felt almost ridiculous now. Her skin tingled with nerves she refused to name. She hadn't been afraid of the dark since childhood, but tonight, she feared the quiet more—the quiet of being alone with her thoughts, with the lingering ghosts she couldn't seem to bury.
Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of cloth—the sound of him folding his shirt with that same deliberate care he applied to everything, even the smallest of acts. She could imagine the steady movements of his hands, the way he placed it on the nearby armchair as though the act itself was an extension of the control he never relinquished. And yet, there was something tender about the way he moved now, something that felt... bare.
The bed dipped as he sat beside her, the mattress shifting gently beneath his weight. It was subtle, but it tilted her slightly in his direction, enough for her to feel it, enough to make her hyper-aware of the nearness of him. Her breath caught in her throat again, this time from the heat that radiated off his skin in waves, as though her body had become finely attuned to his presence. She kept her gaze on the curtains, trying to anchor herself in the softness of the moonlight, in the familiar folds of the fabric. Anything but the shape of him beside her.
But then—movement.
Not abrupt. Not eager.
A deliberate stillness, broken only by the shifting of sheets, the brush of cotton against skin, the faint whisper of a breath that wasn't hers. She felt it before she saw it—the warm slide of his body moving closer, closing the small, charged space between them. His arm came across her with slow, measured certainty, resting lightly at her waist. It didn't pull. It didn't demand. It just... settled. A presence. A tether.
His other hand found the pillow just above her head, his arm bent carefully so that she could still move if she wished. But she didn't. She couldn't. Not when his chest pressed against her back—solid, warm, unyielding in the gentlest way possible. His breath ghosted across the nape of her neck, and she realized she hadn't exhaled since he touched her. The sensation burned through her, not with fire, but with something deeper—something aching and slow and painfully tender.
She could hear his heart.
It beat faster than she'd ever imagined it could. The man who always calculated, always anticipated, always controlled—his heart was racing. And hers answered without hesitation, pounding against her ribs with a rhythm that betrayed every wall she'd spent years building. A secret, laid bare between their bodies.
Neither of them spoke.
There was no need for words. Not here. Not now.
His arm didn't tighten in possession—it held. Just enough pressure to remind her that she was no longer alone. His breath, once shallow, evened out against her skin, and she felt him draw slightly closer. Not to claim. Not to consume. But to protect. He curled around her like a shield, the way a fortress wraps around its last light in the middle of a battlefield. The barest brush of his nose nudged against her hair, an unspoken gesture so intimate it nearly broke her.
Her throat tightened.
She blinked rapidly against the heat rising in her eyes, a lump forming where words once lived. This was safety, wasn't it? Not the kind built with locks and guns and exits memorized in shadows, but the kind built in skin and breath and closeness. This impossible, terrifying calm after a storm that had no end. It wrapped around her now, and though her body trembled, it wasn't from fear.
She never thought she'd have this.
Not with him.
Not with the man who had broken her world the day she discovered who he truly was. Not in the middle of this war, this life soaked in blood and betrayal. But he was here. With her. And somehow, impossibly, so was this moment.
And it was hers to protect.
Her voice, when it came, was soft. A whisper more than anything, shaped in the dark with the fragility of truth.
"I'll keep her safe," she said, the words barely audible, but carrying everything she couldn't otherwise give voice to. "With everything I have."
She wasn't just talking about Mira anymore.
In-ho didn't respond aloud.
But his arm tightened around her in the faintest motion, just enough for her to feel the silent promise in it. That he'd heard her. That he understood.
That she wasn't alone.
Not tonight. Not anymore.