Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The perimeter didn’t scream.

That was the first thing that unsettled him.

Alarms were supposed to be dramatic. Sirens, lights, automated lockdowns slamming into place. A clean line between routine and breach. But this time the system hesitated. A thermal anomaly blinked into existence, vanished, then reappeared just long enough for command to flag it.

Not panic-worthy. Just enough to warrant eyes.

The guard adjusted his visor as he moved along the eastern perimeter. Sector C-seven. Trees pressed in on one side, fencing and floodlights on the other. The ground was gravel and packed dirt, every step crunching softly in the night.

“Control,” he said into his mic, voice steady. “Thermal registered east perimeter, C-seven. Signature faded but we’ve got a general position.”

“Copy,” came the reply. “Investigate and confirm.”

That phrasing stuck with him. General position meant they’d lost precision. Something had moved through quickly enough to smear the data.

He advanced cautiously, visor sweeping. The thermal overlay painted the world in dull gradients until –

Thump. A contained concussive blast rippled through the ground ahead. Not large enough to damage infrastructure. Not loud enough to trigger full alarms. But deliberate.

“Contact,” he barked. “Possible breach – ”

He rounded the corner with his rifle raised and saw them.

Two heat signatures right where the system said they’d be. One kneeling, hands already visible. The other half-turned, balanced, clearly aware of every weapon trained on him. The blast hadn’t been an escape attempt.

It had been a marker. Backup arrived fast. Too fast for the suspects to be anything but intentional. Cuffs snapped shut. Weapons were lowered just enough to shift from threat to control.

“Two detained,” someone reported. “Blast origin still unknown.”

The guard’s visor swept wider this time, tracking residual heat dispersion. The system triangulated quickly.

“There,” he said. “Vehicle. Westbound. Last thermal shows two occupants.”

He caught sight of it just as it accelerated away. Low profile. Clean exit. No hesitation. It didn’t even try to help.

A laugh slipped out of one of the guards. “Wow. Your friends really ditched you.”

They hauled the detainees upright. The stockier one resisted just enough to earn a rough shove. The taller one didn’t fight at all. He moved smoothly, conserving energy, eyes sharp but unreadable.

The guard fell into step beside them as they started toward the inner gate. “Guess that blast was just to see if we’d bite,” he said, amused. “Worked, though. Got you two.”

Another guard chimed in, grinning. “Specialized agents, huh. Didn’t live up to the stories.”

The stockier captive glared, jaw tight. The taller one didn’t respond. Didn’t look around. Didn’t even glance back toward where the car had disappeared.

That calm gnawed at the guard.

“Control,” someone asked over comms, “do we pursue the vehicle?”

“Negative,” came the immediate response. “We have priority assets. Last known thermal logged. No pursuit.”

The guard smirked. “See? Didn’t matter.”

They passed under heavier lights now, cameras locking onto the group as the system updated status: targets secured. The facility doors loomed ahead, tall and solid, built for certainty.

The guard looked at the taller captive again.

Still calm. Still calculating. People who had been abandoned didn’t look like that. As the doors slid open and swallowed them into the light, the guard couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever they’d just caught was only part of the picture.

They knew where the last heat signatures had been.

But somehow, it felt like the real movement had already slipped past them.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

The door seals behind them with a sound that lands too cleanly in Thame’s chest.

Not a clang. Not a slam. A soft, hydraulic thoom that says this room is meant to close around things and never rush to open again.

For half a second, Thame keeps his eyes forward, posture loose, breathing steady, every muscle playing its part. The cuffs are snug but not biting. Pepper walks beside him, shoulders squared, expression bored enough to pass for resignation. The guards peel away, boots retreating, voices fading.

Then the lights shift. Cool. Clinical. Blue-white and unforgiving. And Thame sees the tank. It dominates the far side of the room, taller than a man, cylindrical, glass thick enough to warp the light passing through it. The liquid inside glows faintly blue, illuminated from below, surface perfectly still. No bubbles. No movement. Just suspended quiet.

The hum hits him immediately. Low. Constant. Felt more than heard. Thame’s breath stutters.

His body reacts before his mind can stop it. Heat flares behind his ribs, sharp and immediate, anger snapping up his spine like a live wire. His hands curl into fists inside the cuffs, pulse roaring in his ears.

No.

For a split second, the plan disappears.

All he can see is that basement again. The shopping complex. The way the air had vibrated wrong. The way his instincts had screamed this is a cage before anyone said a word. He takes a single step forward before Pepper’s shoulder brushes his.

Not a shove. Not a grab. A reminder – Stick to the plan

Thame reins it in with brutal force, jaw locking as he exhales through his nose. He forces his gaze away from the tank, makes himself look. Actually, look. The rest of the room comes into focus. Medical equipment lines the walls. Racks of monitors. IV poles. Control panels humming softly. This isn’t an execution chamber.

It’s a lab.

And then he sees the stretcher. Po is strapped to it. The sight hits harder than the tank ever could.

He’s lying on his side, restraints secured at wrists, ankles, chest. His hair is darkened, damp, clinging to his temples and neck like he’s been pulled from water too recently to dry. His skin has that faint, wrong pallor Thame recognizes immediately, the kind that comes from drugs meant to hold rather than heal.

Po’s lashes flutter. Not unconscious. Not fully awake. Caught somewhere in between.

Thame’s chest tightens so abruptly it almost steals his breath.

Po’s eyes drift, unfocused, then land on Thame. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then recognition flickers.

Small. Fragile. Real.

Po’s brow creases faintly, confusion and something softer bleeding through the haze. His lips part like he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. His fingers twitch weakly against the restraints.

Thame feels something inside him fracture. Protective instinct isn’t a thought. It’s a surge. A visceral, violent need to put himself between Po and everything else in the room. To tear the straps away. To lift him. To get him out.

The image flashes sharp and dangerous. His body leans into it. Then the plan snaps back into place.

Thame forces his shoulders to loosen, his face to settle into something neutral. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t react. He doesn’t give them anything they can use.

Because Po is watching. And Po needs to see him steady. Thame shifts his weight just enough to catch Pepper’s eye. Pepper sees it immediately.

The tank. The stretcher. Po. Something dark flashes through Pepper’s gaze, gone as quickly as it appears. His jaw tightens, but he keeps his head down, posture unchanged. If anyone else is watching, it looks like irritation. Mild frustration.

Nothing more. Thame holds his gaze for a fraction longer. This is it. The point of no return. Pepper gives the smallest nod.

Once. Final. Thame nods back. The sound of footsteps cuts through the room. Measured. Unhurried.

Thame straightens slightly, shifting his stance to something casual, almost bored, as two figures enter from the far side.

Mond comes in first.

Thame registers him immediately, not because of movement but because of absence. Mond doesn’t carry himself like a guard or a scientist. He doesn’t look curious or alert. He moves like an extension of the space itself, stepping into position without drawing attention, eyes forward, expression empty.

Weaponized stillness.Mond doesn’t look at Thame. Doesn’t look at Pepper. Doesn’t look at Po. He stops where the room seems to want him and waits.

Then Siritida Nuenganan enters.

The temperature of the room shifts.

He’s immaculate. White coat pristine. Hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in a way that is deeply, profoundly wrong in a place like this. His eyes sweep the room with practiced interest, cataloguing everything.

When they land on Thame, they linger. Curiosity sharpens into recognition. A smile curves Siritida’s mouth.

“Ah,” he says pleasantly. “You made it.”

Thame keeps his expression flat. Inside, something coils tighter. Siritida’s gaze drifts to Pepper, then to the tank, then finally – inevitably – to Po.

The smile softens. Not kindly. Possessively.

“You see,” Siritida says, stepping closer to the stretcher, “this is why I told them not to kill you.”

Po stirs faintly at the sound of his voice, a low, confused sound slipping past his lips. Thame’s hands twitch. Siritida talks the way surgeons talk when they’re bored. Not the careful, human kind of bored. The kind where a life becomes a concept, and concepts become toys.

He paces slowly in front of the stretcher, hands clasped behind his back, white coat swaying with each step. Mond stands off to the side like a fixture. Two guards linger near the door, rifles lowered but ready. The room hums and breathes and watches.

Thame keeps his shoulders loose. Keeps his face flat. Keeps his eyes where they need to be. Not on the tank. Not on the monitors. On Po.

Because Po is strapped down, damp hair plastered to his temples, skin still shiny with residual fluid. His chest rises shallowly. His eyes flutter in and out, caught between sedation and waking. Thame can tell from the micro-tremors in Po’s fingers that his nervous system is trying to fight through whatever chemical restraint they’ve pushed into him.

Po is here. Alive. That thought is both relief and gasoline. Siritida stops pacing and turns to face Thame and Pepper as if he’s addressing a seminar.

“The only reason you’re not dead,” he says pleasantly, “is because you’re useful.”

Pepper’s jaw ticks once. He says nothing. Thame says nothing. Siritida smiles wider, encouraged by their silence the way some men are encouraged by applause.

“You see,” Siritida continues, gesturing lightly toward Po, “he has developed… attachments. External anchors. That’s normal, of course, for a subject who’s been exposed to uncontrolled environments.”

Thame’s hands curl inside his cuffs. Subject. Siritida’s voice takes on that mild, professorial tone that makes Thame want to break something with his bare hands.

“And those anchors,” Siritida goes on, “create a delusion.”

He tilts his head, as if genuinely curious about it. “A belief that someone can intervene. That someone can remove him from the conditions he belongs in.”

Thame’s gaze stays on Po. He doesn’t give Siritida the satisfaction of eye contact.

Siritida laughs softly anyway. “I don’t blame you for trying. You’re trained. You do what your conditioning tells you. You see a vulnerability and you imagine heroism.”

Pepper’s shoulders rise with a slow inhale and fall again. Controlled. Measured. Thame hears it and recognizes it for what it is. Pepper is counting seconds too.

Siritida steps closer, stopping just short of the stretcher. His fingers hover near Po’s hair again, but this time he doesn’t touch. Like he’s enjoying the restraint.

“I wanted him to see it,” Siritida says, voice softer now, intimate. “I wanted him to watch you fail.”

The words land like a slap. Thame’s eyes narrow slightly.

Siritida’s smile turns almost fond. “Because he needs to understand something fundamental. The world outside doesn’t keep him safe.”

His gaze flicks to Thame, and for the first time, there’s something sharp beneath his calm. “It steals him.”

Thame’s throat tightens.

Siritida gestures toward the tank. “That is safety. That is stability. That is the only place he stops hurting himself and others.”

Po’s lashes flutter. His brow creases as if he can hear the voice even through the haze. As if the sound itself has hooks. Thame shifts his weight, subtle. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. The transmitter is still there. Small. A tiny power shifting device disguised as something harmless. Dylan had called it “chew-and-send,” like it was a joke. Like you could make a joke out of being trapped in a room with a man who talks about a human being like property.

Thame keeps his mouth closed. Not yet.

Siritida continues, voice warming with confidence. “You came to save him. You came with your little team and your little bravery.”

He glances at Pepper as if Pepper is furniture. “And you thought you could take what belongs to me.”

Thame’s pulse spikes. Belongs.

The word catches, snagging on something in Thame’s mind. Not because it’s unfamiliar. Because it’s too familiar. Because Po’s fear around this man has a shape, and the shape has edges that fit the word.

Siritida steps closer to the stretcher, looking down at Po with something that might pass for affection if it weren’t so wrong.

“My son,” Siritida says softly.

The room seems to tilt. Thame’s lungs tighten, a quick and involuntary constriction like his body is bracing for impact.

Son.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t let any of it show on his face, because the plan requires stillness. The plan requires control. But inside Thame, something goes ice-cold.

Thame’s mind runs the new information through the pattern it’s already built. The ownership language. The intimate confidence. The obsession. Not a handler. Not just a doctor. A father who thinks blood is a contract.

Siritida watches Thame carefully now, as if waiting for a reaction. When none comes, he smiles, satisfied.

“Yes,” he says, like he’s delivering a punchline. “Surprised? People always are. They can’t imagine a parent doing what’s necessary.”

Pepper’s eyes cut briefly to Thame. Thame doesn’t look back. But he feels it. The question in Pepper’s glance. Thame answers with stillness. Later, he tells himself. We process later.

Siritida turns to one of the technicians near the monitors. “Wake him fully.”

The technician hesitates. “Doctor – ”

“Fully,” Siritida repeats, sweetly. “I want him awake for this part.”

Thame’s body tenses.

The technician approaches the IV line, adjusts a dial, injects something clear. Po’s face tightens almost immediately. His breath catches. His fingers curl, then flex, as if his body is waking up into pain.

Po’s eyes open wider.

Focus sharpens in them fast, too fast for comfort. It’s like watching someone surface from deep water and realize they’re still drowning. Po’s gaze jerks around the room. The tank. The equipment. Mond. Siritida. And then it lands on Thame.

Po freezes.

The panic is immediate and naked. Po’s breath stutters, chest rising too fast. His wrists strain against the restraints. His eyes go wide, glassy, frantic, like he’s seeing the worst thing he can imagine.

Thame’s heart lurches. Po tries to speak, but it comes out as a rough sound, half-choked by dryness and terror. Thame steps forward one pace, just enough to be unmistakable. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He lets his face soften, just slightly. Lets his eyes hold Po’s the way he did at Koko’s house, the way he did when Po was trembling and trying to learn how to breathe through fear. A look that says I’m here. I’m not leaving. You’re not alone.

Po’s breath catches again, then slowly, painfully, steadies. It’s not calm. Not peace. But it’s enough. Po’s shoulders drop by the smallest fraction. His eyes stay locked on Thame’s like they’re the only solid thing in the room.

Thame holds the look, steady, deliberate. In the back of his mouth, the transmitter sits still. Keeping his eyes locked on Po, one thought crosses his mind – Now. He shifts his jaw as if he’s easing tension. As if he’s grinding his molars in frustration. As if he’s just another captive trying to stay composed. He bites down. Hard. The transmitter cracks. A faint metallic taste blooms. Bitter. Electric. He keeps his mouth closed, swallowing once to hide it.

Dylan will get the ping. Sarin will get the ping. Jun, listening through Sarin’s relay, will know. And unknown to the others in this room except himself and Pepper, the plan will start moving on rails.

Siritida watches the exchange between Thame and Po like he’s watching a lab rat solve a maze.

Then he laughs.

It’s not a normal laugh. It’s too delighted. Too bright. A man amused by something that should not entertain him.

“Oh,” Siritida says, eyes shining. “Oh, that’s fascinating.”

He turns slightly, addressing the room as if he’s narrating a documentary.

“Do you see that?” he asks no one in particular. “Po responds to this man.”

Thame doesn’t answer. Siritida steps closer to Thame, invading his space with surgical confidence.

“You think it’s love,” Siritida says, voice low. “You think you’ve discovered some sacred human bond that makes you special.”

He smiles wider. “It isn’t.”

Po’s breath hitches again. His fingers curl tight.

Siritida lifts a hand, gesturing toward Po. “What you’re seeing is imprinting. Dependence. A nervous system searching for stability in the wrong place.”

Thame’s jaw tightens.

Siritida’s voice turns almost gentle, mocking in its gentleness. “You’re a crutch. A temporary sedative.”

Thame keeps his expression empty.

Siritida leans in slightly. “And the best part,” he murmurs, “is that you don’t even realize you’re training him to suffer when you’re taken away.”

Po strains against the restraints again, a strangled sound leaving his throat. Thame’s entire body wants to move. He doesn’t. Because if he moves now, he gives Siritida exactly what he wants – proof that Thame is reactive. Emotional. Controllable.

Siritida steps back, satisfied with his own cruelty. “You came here to save him,” he says, louder now. “To remove him from me.”

His smile sharpens. “And I brought you here to teach him the opposite lesson.”

Pepper’s chest rises once, slow and controlled. Thame hears it. Feels it. The coiled readiness.

Siritida glances at Pepper now, eyes bright. “You too. Loyal little pack.” He shakes his head as if disappointed. “You’re all so obsessed with feelings.”

Then, with a casualness that makes Thame’s blood go cold, Siritida reaches under his coat and produces a handgun. The motion is smooth. Practiced. Not frantic. A man who has done this before.

Po’s eyes widen. Thame doesn’t flinch. The plan is in motion now. Dylan will be shifting. Nano will be moving. Somewhere outside this room, something is changing. But in here, for the next few seconds, Thame has only one job.

Stay alive. Keep Po steady.

Siritida raises the gun, smiling like he’s about to demonstrate a principle.

“You see,” he says conversationally, aiming toward Thame and Pepper as if selecting targets on a range, “I could have had you shot at the fence.”

He tilts his head, eyes almost playful. “But this is better.”

Po lets out a broken sound, panic surging again. Thame turns his head just slightly, just enough for Po to see his face. A softer look. A promise. Hold on baby.

Siritida’s finger tightens on the trigger. “And after this,” Siritida says, voice warm with certainty, “he will finally understand.”

He glances down at Po, smiling as if at a beloved child. “No one is coming.”

The gun steadies. The room holds its breath. Siritida’s finger is still tight on the trigger when the door opens.

That matters to Thame. The fact that the gun never wavers. The fact that Siritida doesn’t lower it even when authority is interrupted. That tells Thame exactly what kind of man he’s dealing with. Not impulsive. Not sloppy. A man who believes the room will bend to him eventually, no matter what walks in.

The guard doesn’t notice the gun at first.

He rushes in with the breathless urgency of someone who knows protocol has already failed somewhere upstream. Helmet crooked. Visor half-lifted. Sweat at his hairline.

“Doctor,” the guard says, voice pitched too high. “West side of the facility is on fire. Service corridor. Smoke’s in the vents. City emergency services have been notified.”

Thame feels it before he sees it. A subtle shift. The way Siritida’s posture stiffens, just slightly. The way his eyes flick, quick and sharp, not to the guard, but to the ceiling. To the walls. To the invisible systems humming behind them.

To control.

Thame doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He lets the silence do the work. Siritida turns his head slowly, gaze sliding back to Thame. The smile he wore moments ago hasn’t vanished, but it has thinned. Stretched tighter. Like glass under stress.

Fire is not part of Siritida’s script.

Thame knows that because he remembers the plan in perfect clarity. Not as something unfolding now, but as something already lived through in his head. Something he has rehearsed, broken down, stripped of emotion until only function remains.

He remembers the moment the plan became inevitable.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

They had been crouched near the outer fence, shadows pressed flat against earth and wire, the facility looming like a sleeping animal. White light sweeping. Cameras pivoting. Guards moving with bored precision.

Dylan’s voice had been a whisper in Thame’s ear, fed through a single earpiece. “Thermal coverage cycles every thirty seconds. Pattern recognition is aggressive. They’re not looking for stealth. They’re looking for deviation.”

Nano had muttered, “They want someone to screw up.”

Pepper had stayed quiet, eyes tracking patrol routes with a soldier’s instinct. When he finally spoke, it was low and certain. “Orders aren’t lethal.”

That had snapped Thame’s attention instantly.

“How do you know,” Thame had whispered.

Pepper had tilted his head slightly, listening to a guard conversation bleeding faintly through Dylan’s hacked channel. “ – don’t kill them. Capture only. Especially the leader.”

That was the moment Thame’s instincts had gone cold instead of hot. Capture only meant intent. It meant Siritida wanted something more than removal. It meant proximity. Control. Theater.

They weren’t meant to die at the fence. They were meant to be brought inside. And the moment Thame understood that, the shape of the plan had shifted.

He’d leaned back into the dirt, eyes never leaving the facility. “They want us to come in loud,” he’d said. “They want to show Po something.”

Nano’s jaw had tightened. “Show him what.”

“That help doesn’t work,” Thame had replied. “That no one can get to him.”

Pepper had gone still. “They want bait.”

“Yes,” Thame had said. “And they think we’re predictable enough to give it to them.”

Dylan had frowned. “We can’t breach cleanly. Not with these numbers.”

“I know,” Thame had said.

That was when he’d made the call.

“If they want me alive,” Thame had said quietly, “I’ll let them have me.”

Pepper had looked at him hard. “Thame that’s not funny”

“I know.”

Nano had sworn under his breath. “You’re volunteering to get captured.”

“I’m volunteering to get close,” Thame had corrected. “They don’t want a corpse. They want a lesson.”

Dylan had hesitated. “We need chaos if we’re doing that. Real chaos.”

Thame had nodded. “Outside, not inside.”

Jun’s voice had crackled weakly through Sarin’s relay then, thin but sharp. “Fire.”

They’d all looked at the speaker. Jun had coughed, then pushed through it. “Active fire response overrides everything. Power shutoff. Sprinklers on – across all the sensitive areas which includes this wing. Camera feeds degrade. Thermal becomes unreliable.”

Dylan’s eyes had lit up. “It forces the system to choose between containment and safety.”

“And systems always choose safety,” Nano had added.

Thame had felt the plan click into place with brutal clarity.

“Dylan, Nano,” he’d said. “You make them think you escaped. Loud. Obvious. Car. Heat signature. They log your last position and stop caring.”

Pepper had asked, “And us.”

“You and me get caught,” Thame had said. “On purpose.”

Pepper had nodded once. No argument.

“I’ll hide a mic,” Thame had continued. “Chew-to-send. Once I see Po, I signal.”

“And that’s when we light it,” Dylan had finished.

Jun’s voice had come through again, steady despite everything. “They shut power. They turn on sprinklers. They lose control.”

That was the plan.

And now, standing in the lab, cuffed, staring at Siritida’s thinning smile, Thame knows it’s working exactly as intended.

The fire itself doesn’t matter. What matters is what it forces the system to do – Siritida to do next.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Siritida studies Thame now, suspicion sharpening into something closer to recognition. He hasn’t lowered the gun, but his attention is fractured. Split between the man in front of him and the building he believes belongs to him.

Thame lets his mouth curve. Just a little. Not a grin. A tell. Siritida notices.

“You planned this,” Siritida says softly.

Siritida’s gaze flicks briefly to Po, then back to Thame. The look on his face is not anger. It’s offense.

“You think you can disrupt my work with theatrics,” Siritida murmurs. “Fire. Noise. Emergency protocols.”

Siritida steps closer, gun still raised but no longer aimed precisely.

“You misunderstand,” Siritida continues. “This place does not collapse because of inconvenience.”

Thame thinks of sprinklers charging in the ceiling. Of power grids tripping. Of doors unlocking or locking incorrectly because the system can’t reconcile fire with containment. Of Mond standing perfectly still, awaiting orders, a weapon that only moves when commanded.

“You believe chaos favors you,” Siritida says.

Thame thinks of Po, damp hair plastered to his temples, eyes wild with fear until Thame met them. He thinks of that look softening. Just a fraction.

Siritida’s gaze sharpens further. “But chaos exposes truth.”

Thame finally meets his eyes fully. And in that moment, Thame understands something important. Siritida believes this too – that maybe he does not have the control he thinks he has.

Siritida lifts a hand slowly. “Contain the west wing. Seal nonessential corridors.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Keep emergency power routed to this sector,” Siritida adds. “I will not have interruptions.”

Thame files that away. Emergency power routed here means other areas go dark first. Means movement elsewhere. Means Dylan and Nano will have room.

Siritida’s eyes return to Thame. “You look very calm for a man who thinks he’s won.”

Thame doesn’t correct him. He doesn’t explain that this isn’t winning. It’s timing. Inside his head, the plan unfolds step by step, each piece aligning with the next. Capture. Proximity. Signal. Fire. Systems fail. Movement. Extraction.

But none of it matters if Thame loses control now.

So he stays quiet. He lets Siritida talk. Lets him believe. Because the most dangerous thing in this room is not the gun. It’s the man who thinks he owns another human being.

And Thame, standing there in cuffs, already knows exactly how to take that belief apart. All he has to do now is wait. Just a little longer.

And then –

The first spray hits like an accusation.

Cold water slams down from the ceiling vents in a sudden, violent sheet, turning sterile air into mist and sound into chaos. The sprinklers don’t start politely. They erupt, triggered by smoke somewhere deeper in the building, and within seconds the entire room is transformed from a controlled laboratory into a rain-soaked, flashing, sputtering mess.

Lights flicker as emergency systems reroute power. Monitors chirp and glitch. The tank’s hum wobbles, dips, then steadies again on backup.

For one breath, everyone hesitates. Even Siritida.

It’s the smallest pause. The tiniest fracture in his confidence as the water beads on his coat, as the perfect room refuses to stay perfect.

And Thame takes it. He doesn’t move like a man in handcuffs. He moves like a man who has already rehearsed the exact angle of every body in the room.

His shoulders drop as if in frustration, his hands shift as if he’s adjusting the cuffs for comfort, and then he steps into the nearest guard’s space before the guard realizes the step was a weapon.

Thame drives his cuffed wrists up and into the guard’s throat.

The man makes a strangled noise, body folding. Thame twists, using the metal link between his wrists like a garrote for half a second, just long enough to steal breath and balance.

Pepper moves at the same moment. No words. No signal. Just that silent agreement they made near the fence.

Pepper takes the second guard with pure efficiency, shoulder-checking him into a rolling cart of equipment. Metal crashes. Glass shatters. Pepper’s cuffed hands swing down like a hammer and the guard goes slack, sliding to the wet floor.

Thame rides the first guard down, knee pinning him, fingers already ripping at the belt. He doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t look for the “nice” way. He finds the key, snaps the cuffs open in two frantic clicks and throws the keys in Pepper’s general direction knowing he knows what to do.

Freedom is immediate and irrelevant. He doesn’t savor it. He doesn’t breathe relief. He turns. Siritida is backing away, gun raised, eyes bright with furious delight rather than fear.

“See?” Siritida laughs, voice nearly drowned by the sprinklers. “The moment control slips, you become animals!”

Thame clocks the angle in a heartbeat. The line of fire. Pepper just off to the side. Po still strapped to the stretcher.

No time.

Thame lunges.

He doesn’t aim for the gun. He doesn’t aim for Siritida’s head. He slams his shoulder into Siritida’s chest with all the momentum of a man who has already chosen what matters. The impact drives Siritida sideways into a rolling cart, metal shrieking as it skids. The gun discharges once, wild, the shot punching harmlessly into the ceiling light above them.

Glass explodes. Sparks rain. Siritida stumbles, cursing, scrambling to recover his footing. Thame doesn’t follow through.

He doesn’t waste a second finishing the fight. He moves toward Po.

Po is still on the stretcher, restraints biting into his wrists and chest. Water pours down his face, making his lashes clump, making him blink hard. His breathing is fast, but his eyes are locked on Thame with a fierce, desperate focus that wasn’t there seconds ago.

Because Thame is here. Because Thame is moving. Thame reaches the stretcher and immediately begins tearing at the straps.

“Po,” he says, voice low, steady, cutting through the spray. “Look at me.”

Po’s gaze snaps to his face.

“Breathe,” Thame commands, the way he did in training, the way he did at Koko’s house. “In. Hold. Out.”

Po’s chest rises. Trembles. Thame yanks one strap loose. Then another.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.”

Siritida’s gun comes up higher. Pepper is already stepping into Siritida’s path, newly freed hands grabbing the dropped rifle from the stunned guard. His eyes flick to Po and then move to Pepper, calculating, and for the first time his voice loses its conversational warmth.

“Mond,” Siritida says sharply. “Remove him.”

That is the only command Mond needs. Mond moves. It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t a charge. It’s an adjustment of reality, like the room itself has been rewritten around him.

One second Mond is still, a blank statue near the tank. The next he’s crossing the room with terrifying speed, water streaming off his sleeves like he’s walking through a waterfall and it’s not even touching him.

Pepper moves to Mond and fires once, reflexive. The shot cracks through the sprinklers and echoes off tile.

Mond doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t dodge like a normal person.

The bullet seems to miss even though Pepper’s aim is clean, as if the space around Mond simply refuses to cooperate with physics.

Pepper swears and fires again. Mond is suddenly there.

A hand closes around the barrel and wrenches it sideways from Pepper’s hands like the weapon weighs nothing. Pepper tries to pivot, but Mond’s other hand slams and attaches into onto Pepper’s chest with a force that isn’t just physical.

It’s pressure.

Pepper’s body lifts slightly off the ground, as if gravity has been rewritten for him alone. His breath tears out in a harsh gasp. His eyes widen.

Thame’s blood turns to ice. Mond isn’t fighting Pepper. Mond is deciding whether Pepper gets to keep breathing.

Pepper’s boots skid against the soaked tile, searching for traction that isn’t there. His fingers claw at Mond’s wrist, but Mond’s grip, or his touch, doesn’t change. Mond’s eyes remain empty. Unmoved. Obedient to a single invisible command.

Thame’s body moves without thought. He grabs the nearest metal tray and hurls it. Not at Mond’s shoulder. At Mond’s head.

A distraction. A sound. A moment.

The tray slams into Mond with a clang that reverberates through the room. Mond’s non-physical grip loosens by a fraction. Pepper coughs, choking air back in, but Mond’s hand tightens again immediately, pressure surging –

And then Po makes a sound. Not a word. A sharp, broken inhale, like something inside him snaps from panic into intent.

Thame feels it in the air before he sees it. A shift. A thickening. The spray of the sprinklers changes direction slightly, as if the water itself is hesitant to fall. Po’s eyes are wide, but they’re not unfocused anymore. They’re furious.

He strains against the last strap still across his waist, and Thame tears it free in one violent motion.

Po’s feet hit the floor. His knees buckle. Thame catches him instinctively, arm wrapping around his waist to hold him upright. Po clings for half a heartbeat, shaking.

Then he straightens. He looks at Pepper and then at Mond. And the air moves.

Not like wind.

Like a hand closing.

Mond’s head turns slightly, as if he’s finally noticed Po as something other than an assignment. Po’s breath is ragged. Tears streak down his cheeks, mixing with sprinkler water, but his gaze doesn’t break.

Thame leans close, voice barely audible. “Po. Stay with me. You’re here. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Po’s lips tremble. Then he inhales, deep, controlled, the way Thame taught him. The pressure in the room tightens.

Mond’s hand lifts from Pepper’s chest like it’s being pried off. Pepper drops to one knee, gasping hard, coughing water and breath back into his lungs. Mond shifts his weight, ready to re-engage.

But Po raises his hand. Just a little. His fingers tremble.

And Mond’s weapon, the one he’d taken from Pepper, wrenches sideways out of Mond’s grip with a sudden jerk, sliding across the floor into the shadow under the tank controls.

Temporary. Imperfect. But it’s enough. Siritida’s laughter stops. For the first time, his face changes into something ugly and gleeful and hungry.

“There,” he whispers, eyes gleaming. “There you are. My creation –”

Thame’s vision sharpens with rage.

Po tightens his focus, breath dragging hard through his chest as he pushes. The air compresses violently around Mond’s legs, the floor seeming to resist him all at once, like gravity has suddenly doubled where he stands.

Mond’s knee slams into the tile with a sharp, echoing crack. Mond remains on one knee, momentarily pinned by Po’s will

But Po sways. The dampeners in his system are still there, still weakening him, but with Thame beside him, Po’s mind looks clearer. Po’s breathing steadies again, as if Thame’s presence is a tether keeping him from being swept away.

Thame doesn’t analyze why. He just uses it.

“Per,” Thame snaps, stepping forward. “Gun. Now.”

Pepper is already rising, face tight with breathlessness, pain and fury. He grabs the fallen rifle again, this time keeping distance, keeping angle, stumbling slightly.

Siritida, seeing the situation, raises his gun toward Po. That is the only mistake he gets to make. Thame crosses the space in three steps and hits Siritida.

Not a punch. A full-body collision. Thame drives his shoulder into Siritida’s sternum, slamming him backward into the edge of a metal counter. The gun fires into the ceiling, bullet sparking against a light fixture.

Siritida grunts, coat soaking through, but he’s still smiling.

“You think violence makes you righteous, it doesn’t. You won;t be able to take my Po – ” he spits, struggling up.

Thame grabs the man by the collar and slams him again.

“Stop” – slam – “calling” – slam – “him” – slam – “yours,” Thame growls.

Thame hits him hard enough the word breaks. Siritida stumbles, tries to lift the gun again with shaking fingers, still laughing like this is all fascinating.

Thame ends it. He drives his elbow hard into Siritida’s temple. Clean. Brutal. Final. Siritida collapses onto the wet tile, the smile still half-formed on his mouth as unconsciousness takes him.

Thame doesn’t look down. He spins back toward Po and Mond.

Mond has recovered, stepping toward Po again with that terrible, controlled inevitability. Po’s hand shakes, power flickering, but the dampeners drag at him like chains. He’s fighting to hold the pressure.

Thame doesn’t let Po do it alone. He steps in front of Po, body between him and Mond, stance wide, solid. Mond’s eyes lock onto Thame now.

For the first time, Thame feels Mond’s attention as something physical, a weight pressing against his chest. Behind him, Pepper aims and fires.

The shot cracks. Mond shifts, space bending around him again, but the bullet clips his shoulder this time.

The bullet catches him high in the shoulder, biting deep enough to tear fabric and skin, a sharp red bloom cutting through the relentless sheet of water. Mond’s body jerks – not much, but enough. His stride breaks. His shoulder dips, momentum dragging him a half-step off line as if something inside him stutters.

He staggers sideways, boots skidding on the slick tile, one hand barely able to catch himself against the edge of a metal counter. Blood threads into the spray, diluted but unmistakable.

He still doesn’t cry out. He still doesn’t react like a normal man. But the certainty in his movement fractures. And for a precious second, he is no longer unstoppable.

And that is all the second that they need.

Thame grabs Po, an arm under Po’s knees, the other around his back, lifting him without hesitation. Po is light in his arms in a way that makes Thame’s throat tighten with anger all over again.

Po’s hand grips Thame’s shoulder weakly.

“Thame – ” Po’s voice is rough, barely there.

“I’ve got you,” Thame says, fierce. “I’ve got you.”

He turns toward the door. Pepper is already moving ahead, rifle up, covering the corridor. “LETS GO!” Pepper barks, voice hoarse.

Thame follows, boots splashing through pooling water, Po cradled against his chest like something precious and fragile and absolutely non-negotiable.

They hit the hallway, leaving a groaning Mond behind, and the sound changes. Sirens. Shouting. The distant roar of something burning. The hiss of sprinklers elsewhere. Emergency lights strobing red against white tile.

Pepper fires left, then right, not to kill but to force distance, to shove the corridor open with sound and threat. The shots crack and echo, bodies scrambling back, boots slipping on wet tile.

Thame keeps moving. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t slow. Po’s weight is solid against his chest, real and fragile all at once, and that is all that matters.

Then Mond is there.

He emerges at the doorway behind them like the lab never existed, like walls and thresholds are only suggestions. Silent. Relentless. One shoulder darkened with blood, water streaming off him in rivulets.

Po lifts his head against Thame’s chest. His breathing stutters once, sharp with fear.

Then it steadies.

Thame feels it before he sees it – the air tightening, growing heavy, as if the space itself is bracing. Po’s fingers curl weakly into Thame’s shirt, and something shifts in Po’s focus, pulled sharp by necessity and by proximity.

Mond takes another step.

Po looks at him. Not with panic. With intent.

The hallway shudders. Mond’s stride stutters as well. Not stopped – but slowed.

The injury in his shoulder pulls against his movement, and Po’s influence presses into that weakness, dragging at Mond like thick mud. The air around Mond seems to resist him now, just enough to matter.

A door farther down the hall wrenches open with a shriek of abused hinges, not locking, not sealing – but blocking the direct path. Water sprays, lights flicker, and the corridor becomes a maze of resistance instead of a straight line.

Thame feels Po sag slightly in his arms, the effort costing him. But it’s enough. It buys them seconds. Thame doesn’t waste them. He picks up speed.

Pepper glances back, eyes widening briefly at the sight.

A metal cart lurches violently sideways, skidding across the slick floor and slamming into a guard’s knees with a bone-rattling crack. The guard goes down hard and falls rig, cry cut off as the cart pins him.

“Po – ”

Po doesn’t answer. He can’t. His face is drawn tight with effort, sweat and water streaming down him, but he keeps doing it. Little pushes. Little shifts. Wherever he can.

Thame’s chest aches with something dangerously close to tenderness. “Good,” Thame murmurs into Po’s hair. “That’s it. That’s enough, baby please – you have done enough na.”

They round a corner and hit a wider corridor. Smoke hazes the air. A security team appears ahead, silhouetted by flashing lights.

Pepper raises the rifle. Thame lowers his head, protecting Po instinctively. Po’s hand twitches.

The lights above the security team flicker and burst. Darkness swallows them for half a second, and in that half second Pepper fires warning shots and they run straight through the gap.

Thame doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow. Because he knows what happens if he does.

They reach a service stairwell, door already unlocked from emergency protocol. Thame practically throws it open with his shoulder, Pepper slamming it shut behind them as they descend fast, boots pounding metal steps.

Po’s grip on Thame’s shoulder tightens.

“You’re okay,” Thame says, voice low and urgent. “Stay with me.”

Po’s breath shudders. “Hurts,” he whispers.

“I know.” Thame’s voice turns iron-soft. “We’re leaving. We’re leaving now.”

They burst out into a lower corridor that reeks of wet concrete and smoke. Somewhere above them, alarms continue to wail, confused by fire and containment and chaos.

Pepper checks the corner, then waves Thame forward.

“Move!”

They sprint.

Thame’s arms burn from carrying Po, but he doesn’t care. Pain is nothing. Exhaustion is nothing. The only thing that exists is Po’s weight against his chest and the fact that Po is alive.

They reach an exit door and Pepper slams his shoulder into it. It gives with a metallic scream. Night air hits them like a slap. Cold. Clean compared to the smoke.

Thame steps out into the dark with Po still in his arms, Pepper immediately pivoting to cover the perimeter, rifle scanning. Somewhere behind them, the facility burns. Somewhere inside, Siritida is unconscious on a lab floor and Mond is still moving, still obeying, still hunting.

But Thame doesn’t look back.

He tightens his hold on Po, pressing Po closer as if his arms can become a shelter.

“Almost there,” Thame murmurs. “Almost.”

Pepper fires again, keeping distance, and Po’s power flickers outward like a protective pulse, pushing a nearby shadow into stillness.

They run into the trees.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Pepper tastes smoke even out here.

It clings to the back of his throat, threaded through the cold night air like the facility is still trying to reach after them with dirty hands. His lungs burn every time he drags in a breath, but he doesn’t slow. He doesn’t let the adrenaline drop far enough for pain to become real.

He keeps moving because Thame is moving. Because Thame has Po. Because Po is alive, and that has turned the entire night into a single, furious line forward.

They hit the tree line like it’s a door they slam through. Branches scrape Pepper’s sleeves, wet leaves slap his cheek, the ground uneven and slick beneath his boots. Behind them, the compound is a glow in the distance, white lights and red strobes fighting smoke like a losing argument.

Pepper’s rifle feels heavier than it should. Waterlogged. Hot. He checks it anyway, by instinct. Checks the magazine. Checks the chamber. His hands are steady despite the tremor in his chest that wants to be rage.

He hears Thame’s breathing, controlled, hard. Hears Po’s faint noises, the small broken sounds that mean he’s conscious enough to hurt.

Pepper doesn’t look at them too long. If he looks too long he’ll think about the tank. The straps. The damp hair and drugged eyes. So he watches the dark.

He watches for movement. He watches for the shape of Mond, because that shape lingers in his mind like a nightmare with edges.

Then, through the trees, he sees headlights cut low and brief. A car idling where it shouldn’t be. Pepper’s heart kicks once.

Dylan and Nano.

They’re waiting exactly where they said they’d be, tucked into shadow, engine running just enough to be ready. The sight of them is relief and anger at the same time, because it means the plan held.

Nano leans out the passenger window, face lit by the dashboard’s dim glow. He looks wired, eyes bright, mouth set.

“You alive?” Nano calls softly.

Pepper huffs once. “Barely. Move.”

Dylan is already in motion. He eases the car forward, not fast, not loud, just… deliberate. Pepper watches the path Dylan takes, and he understands immediately what Dylan is doing.

They aren’t escaping clean. They’re leaving a story behind. Dylan drives out just enough that the facility’s perimeter cameras will catch them.

The right angle. The right distance. The cleanest line of sight.

Pepper can almost imagine the footage later – a car slipping away through the trees, plates briefly visible under a flicker of floodlight. Four silhouettes inside. The “escapees” who got away.

A neat narrative for people who like neat narratives.

“Good,” Pepper mutters.

Nano points upward with two fingers. “Cameras definitely got us. Plates too.”

Pepper nods. “Perfect. Now ditch it.”

Dylan doesn’t argue. He swings the car off the small access path and into deeper shadow where the ground turns rougher. They stop behind a low berm of dirt and scrub. The engine cuts.

For a second the silence is loud. Just the distant wail of sirens. The hiss of wind through leaves. The low roar of fire somewhere behind them.

Pepper pulls the door open and steps out, scanning automatically. Thame emerges on the other side, still carrying Po. Po’s face is turned into Thame’s shoulder, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes half-open and glassy. But he’s breathing. That’s the only thing Pepper lets himself hold.

“Po,” Nano says, voice dropping, all humor gone. “Hey, Po – you are ok now ok? But we need to move.”

Po’s gaze flickers toward Nano, then back to Thame as if Thame is the only thing keeping the world from splitting.

Pepper swallows hard and looks away.

“Car’s burned,” Dylan says quietly, already yanking open the trunk. He pulls out a small bag, wipes down surfaces with practiced speed, removing anything that can tie them to it. “Give them a clean trail. Make it believable.”

Pepper helps without thinking. A rag. A wipe. A quick sweep for stray prints. Muscle memory. Every move efficient because if he slows down he’ll start shaking.

Nano glances toward the road. “We’ve got fire response incoming. We need wheels that aren’t on record.”

“We’re getting them,” Pepper says.

They abandon the car the way they planned, leaving it like a decoy carcass for the cameras and the patrols to find. Then they move fast, cutting through brush toward the nearest industrial strip.

The mechanic’s lot is lit with sodium lamps, a lonely rectangle of light in a sleeping neighborhood. Rows of vehicles sit behind chain-link fencing, some with hoods popped, some with parts missing, all of them smelling like oil and heat and neglect.

Pepper’s fingers tighten around his rifle. He hates this part. Stealing from civilians. Dragging more people into a mess they never asked for. But Po is breathing against Thame’s chest.

Pepper does what needs doing.

Nano is already over the fence, hands quick. Dylan follows, eyes scanning for cameras, for movement, for anything that watches. Pepper goes last, covering the street, listening for sirens that aren’t just firetrucks.

They pick a car that looks forgettable. Not new. Not flashy. A workhorse. Dylan pops the lock. Nano hotwires it with obscene speed like he’s done it too many times in too many worse places.

Engine coughs, then catches.

“Go go go,” Pepper says.

They pile in. Thame slides into the back with Po, angling Po’s body carefully so he doesn’t jostle the restraints bruising his skin. Pepper takes the front passenger seat, rifle down by his thigh, eyes scanning.

Dylan drives.

They hit the road just as the first firetruck screams past on the main street, red lights washing the inside of the car. Pepper watches the truck disappear toward the facility and feels the sick satisfaction of knowing the chaos is doing its job.

Detours come fast. Dylan avoids main roads, cutting through side streets, residential loops, alley-like service lanes. Pepper keeps his eyes on mirrors, on corners, on headlights that linger too long.

Nano keeps glancing back at Po, as if making sure he’s still there. Thame says almost nothing, but Pepper hears the low murmur of his voice occasionally, words meant only for Po. Anchoring. Grounding.

Po’s breathing steadies in response.

Pepper doesn’t speak about what that means. He just lets the seriousness sit in the car like a loaded weapon.

When Dylan finally turns toward the route to Sarin’s place, Pepper releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Straight there,” Pepper says, voice rough. “No stops.”

Dylan nods. “Yup.”

They pass another firetruck. Then an ambulance. Then a police cruiser taking a wrong turn and correcting itself like the whole city is suddenly disoriented. Pepper watches the lights fade behind them and keeps his hand near his weapon anyway.

Because the night isn’t over.

But for the first time since Po was taken, they have him back in the car with them. And Pepper thinks, grim and certain – now we have to make sure he stays. For them. For Thame.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Po wakes in pieces.

First, sensation: the dull ache threaded through his veins like someone poured cold syrup into his blood. Heavy. Sticky. Wrong. The dampener. It doesn’t knock him out so much as it drags a thick blanket over his thoughts and dares him to think anyway.

Second, sound – road noise. Tires over uneven pavement. The distant, fading wail of sirens like a ghost that can’t decide where to haunt. The low murmur of voices that blur at the edges, then sharpen when he blinks hard enough.

Third, warmth. He realizes he is warm because someone is holding him like he might splinter.

Po’s eyes crack open.

He’s in a car. The interior light is off, but streetlights slip across them in brief, pale stripes, illuminating fragments: a dashboard glow, the outline of a driver’s shoulders, a passenger’s profile, something dark across someone’s lap.

Then the streetlight hits the person holding him.

Thame.

Po’s breath catches on a sharp, startled inhale.

He’s half-curled on Thame’s lap, sideways across the backseat. Thame’s arms are wrapped around him with a possessiveness so physical it feels like a wall: one arm locked around his waist, the other braced across his chest, hand spread over his shoulder like Thame is literally anchoring him to the world. Thame’s chin hovers near Po’s temple, and even in the dark Po can feel the tension in him, the contained violence in the way he’s holding on.

As if letting go is not an option. As if Thame has decided Po is staying in his orbit forever.

Po’s throat tightens. Not from fear. From something that comes with too many meanings.

He blinks again, mind trying to catch up. His body still feels heavy, but his thoughts are starting to unstick, sliding into place with painful clarity.
The tank. Water. Straps biting his wrists. Siritida’s voice. A gun raised. Sprinklers exploding. Thame’s eyes on him like a promise. Thame lifting him like Po weighs nothing. Pepper’s gunfire. Mond’s empty stare.

Po’s fingers twitch against Thame’s forearm. Not a struggle. A check. Real?

Thame shifts immediately, as if he’s been awake for hours watching Po’s breathing, counting every flutter of his lashes.

Po’s gaze flicks up and locks onto Thame’s face.

Thame is close enough that Po can see details even in the dim – the tight line of his jaw, the wetness still clinging to his hairline, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. His eyes are dark, focused, not blinking often. Like he’s holding himself together by force.

Thame’s lips part slightly.

“Hey,” Thame says, low. Controlled. “You’re with me.”

Po tries to swallow. His mouth is dry. His tongue feels too big.

“Thame,” he croaks.

Thame’s grip tightens. Not painful. Protective. Like a reflex. “I’m here,” he says. “You’re safe.”

Safe. The word hits Po’s chest and cracks something open. Safe means the brain stops rationing pain and starts releasing it. Memories.

Po’s eyes jerk away from Thame’s face, scanning frantically. The car. The front seat. A profile he recognizes.

Pepper in the passenger seat, shoulders set, head angled slightly as if listening to the road itself. The driver Dylan, hands steady on the wheel, eyes sharp on mirrors. And the other one, Nano, sitting twisted in his seat, watching Po like he’s trying to decide whether to speak or give him space.

Po’s heart stutters.

“Where – ” Po’s voice breaks. He forces it. “Where’s Jun?”

Silence tightens for a heartbeat.

Po feels it in Thame’s body. A minute stiffening. A fraction of hesitation that speaks louder than words. Po’s panic spikes instantly.

“Koko,” Po says, the name tearing out of him. “Where’s Koko? Where are they? What happened?”

Thame’s arms tighten as if to keep Po from sitting up too fast. Po tries anyway, chest straining, a tremor running through his muscles as the dampener fights him.

“Po, baby,” Thame says, firmer now. “Calm down - Breathe.”

Po can’t.

The memory of Koko’s house flashes too bright in his mind: the smell of detergent and old wood, the small farm out back, the dog Yala leaning against his shin like she trusted him with something sacred. Jun’s voice, steady but tired. Koko’s hands, rough and reassuring as he checked locks and cameras.

Then gunfire. Heat. Smoke.

Po sees it like it’s happening again: Jun and Koko moving, shouting. The shots punching into bodies. The sensation of his own limbs failing when the bullet hit him and his nervous system just… shut down. The van. The flames blooming behind the windows. The house lighting up like a dying star.

Jun and Koko inside. Po’s lungs seize.

“No,” Po whispers, horrified. “No no no no – ”

He jerks forward, trying to sit up fully, trying to pull away from Thame’s grip because the panic is too big to stay contained in one body. Thame doesn’t let go. Thame’s arms clamp around him like a restraint that feels nothing like the straps in the tank. Not cold. Not clinical.

Living.

“Po,” Thame says, voice low and intense, and it cuts through Po’s spiral like a blade. “Look at me.”

Po tries to. His eyes flicker toward Thame and away again, stuck on the idea of Jun’s blood, Koko’s stillness, the fire eating everything.

“Jun,” Po says again, voice breaking into a sob he didn’t expect. “Koko – please – ”

Nano leans forward from the other side, voice gentle in a way Po has never heard from him. “Po, hey. We’re getting you to a safe place. We’re… we’re going to talk there. Okay.”

Po shakes his head wildly. “No. Tell me now. Tell me.”

Pepper’s voice comes from the front seat, rough and controlled. “Po. Breathe first.”

Po’s eyes sting. Tears mix with the lingering dampness on his lashes. His chest hurts, like the panic is trying to claw its way out through his ribs.

“I don’t – ” Po’s voice fractures. “I don’t know what happened. I tried to help – I don’t know where – I – ”

He starts to cry properly then, not quietly. Not neatly. The kind of crying that feels humiliating because it comes from somewhere deep and helpless. His hands clutch at Thame’s sleeve, then at Thame’s shirt, fingers shaking.

Thame’s grip doesn’t loosen. Thame shifts his body, turning Po more fully toward him, blocking Po’s view of the rest of the car with his shoulder and the bulk of his arms.

Thame’s eyes are fierce. Not angry at Po. Angry at the world for doing this to him.

“Po,” Thame says, and his voice is softer now, dangerously gentle, “listen to me.”

Po tries. He really tries. But panic is loud. Thame brings a hand up, cupping Po’s jaw carefully, thumb resting just below Po’s cheekbone. Po flinches at the touch at first, instinctively, because touch has been dangerous for so long.

Thame doesn’t pull away. Thame waits for Po’s flinch to stop being a flinch.

“Breathe with me,” Thame says.

Po shakes his head, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Thame says, like it’s not a suggestion. Like it’s a fact. “You did it before. You can do it now.”

Po’s breathing is still too fast, too shallow. His chest feels locked. Thame leans closer. And before Po can ask what he’s doing, before Po can react, Thame presses his mouth to Po’s.

It isn’t rough. It isn’t desperate. It’s deliberate.

The kiss lingers just long enough to be unmistakable, lips fitting together with a controlled pressure that pulls Po out of the spiral and into this moment. Thame doesn’t deepen it further, doesn’t chase, doesn’t take more than he allows himself. But Po feels it anyway, the restrained intensity of it, the heat held firmly behind discipline.

Po freezes.

For one stunned heartbeat, his thoughts go completely blank, like someone cut the power to his mind.

Thame pulls back, but not far. Close enough that Po can still feel his breath, can still see the iron-tight restraint in Thame’s eyes. Want is there. Concern is there. Control sits over both of them like a lock.

Po’s lips tingle, warm and electric. His eyes go wide, cheeks flushing hard as the world rushes back in all at once.

Thame’s forehead rests gently against Po’s, water-warm hair brushing Po’s brow. Thame stays close enough that Po can feel Thame’s breath, steady and controlled.

“Now,” Thame murmurs, “breathe.”

Po’s whole face burns. His body, caught between shock and confusion, obeys before his thoughts can catch up.

He inhales. It’s shaky. Ragged. Thame inhales with him, slower, deeper. Po holds instinctively, matching the pause because Thame’s forehead is still against his and somehow that makes it easier to follow than to fight.

Thame exhales slowly. Po exhales. And something in Po’s chest loosens by a fraction.

Thame keeps his hand at Po’s jaw, thumb tracing the smallest comforting pressure near his cheek as if Thame is smoothing the panic away through skin.

“Again,” Thame says.

Po inhales. Thame inhales. Hold. Exhale.

Po’s tears don’t stop immediately, but the crying shifts. It becomes quieter. Less frantic. Like the panic is backing away, dragged down by the rhythm of breathing.

Po blinks, disoriented. His cheeks are still wet. His lips are still tingling. Thame’s face is inches from his, eyes locked on Po’s like Thame is daring the universe to take him again.

Po suddenly becomes very aware of being on Thame’s lap. Of Thame’s arms. Of the way Thame’s thighs are braced under him like a seatbelt made of muscle. Of the warmth radiating from Thame’s chest straight through Po’s damp shirt.

Po’s breath hitches, this time for a different reason.

Thame notices immediately.

Po hates that Thame notices everything.

Thame’s mouth curves slightly. Not a smile. More like relief disguised as control. “There,” Thame murmurs. “You’re back.”

Po swallows hard. His throat is still raw. His face is on fire.

Nano makes a low, amused sound from the side. “Wow.”

Pepper’s head tilts a fraction in the front seat, but he doesn’t turn around. His voice is dry. “We’re doing CPR with our mouths now.”

Dylan’s shoulders shift, like he’s trying not to laugh and failing. “It worked, didn’t it.”

Po makes a strangled noise, half mortified, half… something else. Thame doesn’t look away from Po. Thame doesn’t apologize.

That’s the most terrifying part.

Thame’s gaze is steady, possessive in the quiet way, like Thame has already claimed Po in his head and is waiting for the world to accept it.

Po’s heart pounds in his throat.

“Thame,” Po whispers, voice small.

Thame’s expression softens. “I know,” he says, as if Po said something huge instead of a single word.

Po’s brow creases again as his brain tries to catch up to the rest of his questions, the ones still bleeding under his skin.

“Jun,” Po says, quieter now, but the fear is still there. “Koko.”

The car goes still again. Thame’s arms tighten, but Thame doesn’t flinch away from the subject. He doesn’t lie with his body.

He just… holds Po closer.

Thame’s voice drops. “I’m going to tell you everything,” he says. “But not here. Not while you’re still coming out of the dampener. Not while you’re shaking.”

Po’s throat tightens. “Are they – ”

Thame cuts him off gently, but firmly. “We’ll talk at the safe place.”

Po searches Thame’s eyes for something. Anything. Thame doesn’t give him answers yet. But Thame gives him one thing Po didn’t have in that tank – steady presence.

Thame’s thumb brushes Po’s cheek again, wiping away a tear that’s mixed with sprinkler water.

“Right now,” Thame murmurs, “you need to rest.”

Po’s lips part, as if to protest.

Thame leans in a fraction closer, voice softer. “Please.”

Po’s cheeks burn hotter.

The others keep throwing them side glances, curiosity barely disguised. Nano’s eyes keep flicking between Po’s face and Thame’s hand on his jaw like he’s watching something he never expected to witness in his lifetime. Pepper remains forward-facing, but Po can feel the tension in him, the way he’s listening to everything anyway. Dylan drives like the road owes him speed, but even he keeps checking the rearview mirror, eyes darting briefly to Po.

Po’s embarrassment should be louder than his fear. It isn’t. Because Thame is holding him like he’s real.

Like he matters.

Po exhales slowly.

“Okay,” Po whispers, and the word is both surrender and trust.

Thame’s eyes soften. “Good.”

Thame shifts his arms, repositioning Po with careful efficiency. One arm wraps around Po’s waist again, pulling him closer, and Thame directs Po’s head gently toward his neck.

“Here,” Thame murmurs. “Hide.”

Po makes a small, broken laugh that turns into a sniffle. “That’s not – ”

“Hide,” Thame repeats, and there’s a quiet authority in it that Po’s body obeys before his pride can argue.

Po’s cheek presses against Thame’s neck. Thame smells like smoke and rain and something that’s just Thame, something grounded and human. Po’s eyes flutter shut.

He feels Thame’s chest rise under him. A deep breath in. Thame’s nose brushes Po’s damp hair as Thame exhales, slow and deliberate, like Thame is grounding himself too.

Po’s breathing begins to match it without effort. In. Hold. Out. The rhythm spreads through Po’s body like warmth.

He hears Thame’s heartbeat.

Strong. Fast, but steady.

A living drum under Po’s ear, proof that Thame is here and moving and real.

Po’s mind keeps trying to circle back to Jun and Koko, to fire and loss, to the ache of not knowing, but the dampener still clings to him, and exhaustion seeps in now that panic has loosened its grip.

Thame’s arm tightens once more, possessive and protective, not letting Po drift too far even in sleep.

Po’s fingers curl weakly into Thame’s shirt.

He thinks, hazily, He kissed me. Then, immediately, his face heats all over again, even though his eyes are closed.

Nano mutters from the side, half-amused, half-awed, “So that just happened right? Right?”

Pepper’s voice is a low grumble. “Let him sleep.”

Dylan adds, quieter, “We’re almost there.”

Thame doesn’t respond to any of them.

Thame just lowers his head slightly, breathes in Po’s hair again like it’s instinct, and keeps holding him as if the holding itself is an act of war against the world.

Po’s body finally softens fully.

The car hums under them. The road pulls them forward.

And Po, wrapped in Thame’s arms, listening to Thame’s heartbeat like a metronome for survival, slips into a peaceful slumber for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

A few hours pass before Siritida returns.

Mond knows this because the building’s rhythm changes. Emergency power evens out. The hum beneath the floor steadies into something closer to normal. The air loses the sharp edge of smoke and takes on antiseptic again, layered thick enough to sting.

Mond waits.

He stands in Siritida’s office, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect. The room is quieter than the lab, insulated, padded in dark wood and glass meant to project authority rather than precision. Mond does not sit. Sitting has never been encouraged unless instructed.

The door opens.

Siritida steps inside slower than before.

He is no longer immaculate. A deep bruise darkens on the forehead, a faint one on the edge of his jaw where Thame’s blow landed. His wrist is wrapped in clean white gauze, fingers flexing stiffly as if the joints protest movement. Someone has tended to him carefully. Efficiently. The kind of care given to something valuable rather than fragile.

Siritida closes the door behind him and leans briefly against it, exhaling through his teeth. For a heartbeat, the rage is quieter. Contained under layers of calculation and pain medication.

Then he straightens. His eyes lock onto Mond.

“So, Mond,” Siritida says, voice controlled but sharp at the edges.

Mond inclines his head slightly. “Yes Doctor.”

Siritida snorts. He crosses the room, movements stiff, and pours himself a glass of water. His hand trembles as he lifts it. He notices. His mouth tightens.

“You let them humiliate me,” Siritida says, not shouting, which is worse. “You let them walk out with him.”

Mond remains silent.

“That man,” Siritida continues, pacing now, favoring one side, “stood in front of you. In front of my work. And you allowed it.”

Mond’s jaw tightens a fraction.

“All that training,” Siritida says. “All that conditioning. I refined you so you would never hesitate again.”

Mond absorbs the words without reaction. Siritida stops directly in front of him.

“Do you understand what this cost me?” Siritida asks softly.

Mond answers because this is a question meant to be answered. “Yes.”

Siritida laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Good. Then you understand what comes next.”

He turns away, walking toward the desk, fingers brushing over scattered files and screens showing looping footage from the breach. Po’s face appears in one frozen frame, eyes fierce, hand lifted.

Siritida’s breathing changes when he sees it.

“They took what belongs to me,” he says quietly.

Mond’s focus narrows.

“He is destabilizing without containment,” Siritida continues. “And now he’s been reminded of attachment. Of resistance.” His jaw tightens. “I will not allow that to continue.”

“If you fail to retrieve him,” Siritida says, turning back, “I will resume my work.”

Mond closes his eyes for exactly one second. He knows what that means. He remembers the postponed procedures. The notes that never made it past draft because Siritida decided to wait. To refine. To escalate later.

Images surface unbidden. Diagrams. Restraints. Thresholds being pushed not for progress but for proof.

He opens his eyes.

“I will find him,” Mond says.

Siritida studies his face, searching for cracks. Finding none.

“I will bring him back,” Mond continues. “Alive.”

“And the others?” Siritida asks.

Mond pauses.

The memory of Thame standing between him and Po flashes sharp and unwanted. The way Po’s presence altered the air. The way control slipped, not because of command, but because of will.

“Secondary,” Mond says finally.

Siritida nods, satisfied. “Acceptable.”

Mond straightens fully, despite the ache in his shoulder. He understands now. This is no longer about obedience alone. This is no longer just an order.

If Po remains free, Mond will be dismantled piece by piece and repurposed into something less than useful. Mond does not intend to allow that.

“I will not fail again,” he says.

Siritida’s mouth curves faintly. “You won’t.”

Siritida turns back to his screens, already moving on, already planning.

Mond remains where he is, silent and still. Inside him, something recalibrates. Find Po. Retrieve asset. Eliminate interference. Save himself.

This time, Mond will not hesitate.