Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The soft glow of morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the tidy bedroom. The day in Bangkok had started quietly, the streets still calm as the usual hum of the city hadn’t yet fully awakened. In the stillness of her room, the unknown woman slowly stirred, her breath steady as the warmth of the day crept into the air.

She sat up in bed, pushing the tangled sheets off her body. The day began as it always did – predictable, structured, a quiet march toward the long hours ahead. She wasn’t a stranger to routine. The slow stretch of her limbs and the slight ache in her back were reminders that this was just another ordinary day.

She sat up in bed, stretching her arms above her head, feeling the familiar ache in her muscles as the remnants of sleep slipped away. Her dark hair, unkempt from the night’s rest, fell loosely over her shoulders as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted her feet on the cool wooden floor. The apartment was modest – nothing extravagant, but it was hers. Simple, functional, just enough for her needs. The kind of place that felt at once both temporary and permanent.

The dog, a mix of golden retriever and something else, lifted its head from the floor with a sleepy gaze, tail wagging at the sight of her. Its eyes, bright and trusting, followed her as she moved across the small room to the bathroom.

The bathroom smelled of soap and something faintly medicinal. The overhead fan hummed as she splashed cold water on her face, the sharp chill waking her senses. She caught her reflection in the mirror–ordinary, no standout features, just a woman of average build, unremarkable in the crowd. For a moment, she studied her own eyes, eyes that seemed to carry the weight of too many days lived in silence, in routine.

Breakfast was quick – a bowl of porridge, a cup of coffee. She didn’t have time for anything more elaborate. A glance out of the window showed the sliver of a city already waking up, the distant honking of cars reaching her ears as the early rush hour began to stir the streets below. But she wasn’t in a rush. The day was just another in the pattern she’d grown used to.

She patted the dog’s head as she finished her cereal, giving it a quick scratch behind the ears. “See you later, buddy,” she murmured, her voice soft as the dog looked up at her with bright, expectant eyes. With one last glance, she stepped out the door, locking it behind her.

The apartment building sat in Chatuchak, far from the bustling heart of the city. It was a quieter area–less traffic, fewer tourists, the space dominated by older buildings and small, inconspicuous shops. A far cry from the gleaming skyscrapers of downtown, this part of Bangkok felt almost like a forgotten corner, nestled away from the incessant buzz of commerce and tourism. The streets here were narrower, filled with the sounds of street vendors packing up their carts and the hum of local life, but everything moved slower, quieter. A place where time seemed to crawl.

Her car, an older model that had seen better days, was parked in a small parking area outside the apartment building. It was simple and functional, just like her apartment. She slid into the driver’s seat, the leather worn in places but still reliable. The engine sputtered to life as she turned the key, the familiar hum filling the quiet car. She drove, not rushing but not lingering either, as the route took her through the side streets that lined the outskirts of the city. The once-bustling urban landscape began to fade as she passed through more residential areas, the buildings around her smaller, older, and fading into the backdrop of more industrial surroundings.

The drive to Pakkret was familiar – weaving through Bangkok’s quieter backroads, where food stalls gave way to narrow lanes and the skyline thinned into the city’s industrial edge. The air grew calmer, the crowds fewer.

Her destination came into view—a squat gray office building tucked between warehouses, unremarkable yet discreet. There were no grand entrances, no tall glass windows like the modern office buildings downtown. She parked her car in the nearly empty lot, the gravel crunching under the tires. The security guard, an elderly man with thin gray hair and a permanent frown, stood at the entrance. His face was weathered, his eyes dull with the weight of years spent in the same routine.

“Morning,” he grunted as she approached, barely looking up.

“Morning,” she replied, her voice quiet and familiar, offering a polite nod before swiping her keycard through the reader next to the turnstile. The gate beeped in confirmation, and she moved through without a second glance. The old man, just as routine as she was, didn’t need to see her face to know she’d be back. She was just another figure passing through, coming and going in the same unremarkable way.

Inside, the building felt cooler, quieter, the air tinged with the sterile scent of old carpets and slightly musty walls. The elevator was just ahead, standing as it always did–unassuming, ready to take her up to the third floor. She stepped inside, pressing the button for her destination. The elevator doors closed with a soft click, and the small space hummed quietly as the metal box ascended.

When the doors opened, she stepped out onto the third floor and walked a few steps to where the travel agency was located. The space was small and unremarkable, with only a couple of desks and a few employees. The faces changed every few days, never the same twice, as if the place existed in a constant state of quiet rotation. A thin veneer of normalcy hung over the room – keyboards clicking, papers shuffling – but it always felt slightly off, like a stage set meant to look busy.

​​She opened the door, flashing her ID briefly to the scanner mounted beside the frame. The receptionist looked up for a moment before going back to her computer. No one else looked up or acknowledged; no one ever did. There were no friendly greetings here, no morning chatter – just silence and work.

Her heels clicked softly as she crossed the room and slipped down the narrow hallway leading to the back. At the end of it stood the entrance to the storage room – plain, unmarked, and locked by a scanner embedded in the wall. She drew a secondary ID badge from the inner lining of her jacket and pressed it to the panel. The light blinked green, and the lock disengaged with a soft click.

Inside, the storage room stretched wide and dimly lit, filled with tall metal shelves stacked with cardboard boxes, binders, and forgotten office supplies. It looked ordinary – deliberately so. The kind of place no one lingered in unless they had to.

Near the far wall, almost hidden in plain sight, was a narrow door painted the exact same dull beige as the surrounding wall. Only a small scanner and keypad gave away its true purpose. She approached quietly, drawing her badge once more and pressing it to the scanner. The screen blinked to life, and a digital timer began its countdown in red.

She entered her six-digit code swiftly, the keys clicking under her fingertips. When the final digit was in place, the timer froze, and for several seconds, nothing happened. Then, with a faint electronic chime, the light on the keypad turned green – her signal.

Reaching for the slim metal handle, she pulled the door open herself. Behind it waited a compact, unmarked elevator, its walls of brushed steel reflecting the pale light. There were no buttons, no floor indicators – only a single keypad inside, softly glowing. Without hesitation, she stepped inside. The door slid shut, and for a brief moment, there was nothing but silence, broken only by the hum of the elevator’s descent. She entered another code into the keypad, the numbers flashing for a split second before the elevator began to descend deeper into the building.

The elevator sealed shut, and a quiet hum filled the confined space as it began its descent, deeper than the building should allow. When the doors opened again, the world above vanished. Bright white lights. Steel walls. A team of uniformed security personnel waited just beyond the threshold. They didn’t speak – they scanned, searched, and cleared her before allowing her to pass. Every movement was mechanical, efficient.

She continued down the sterile corridor until she reached her designated section. The workspace was silent except for the low hum of machines and muted footsteps. Rows of desks stretched ahead, each occupied by people too focused to glance up. No one small-talked here. There was no point - and no use.

She sat down and looked around her cubicle – minimalist, impersonal, two monitors and a stack of testing result files adorning her desk, no personal items in sight except for a coffee cup. She powered on her computer, and the screen flickered to life, revealing the sleek logo of BioDen Solutions at the center. The woman didn’t linger, didn’t hesitate. She clicked the icon, the cursor flashing over the logo as the system loaded. There was work to be done.

She adjusted her chair slightly, eyes falling on the stack of files beside her keyboard – thick folders labeled in the same cold typography: 22, 4, 9. The edges were worn from handling, the corners marked with faint stains of reagent dust. She pulled 22 toward her, unclipping the binder. Inside, lines of printed data stretched across graph paper — bloodwork reports, chemical readouts, handwritten annotations in different hands.

Her fingers traced a column of numbers as she entered them into the system — her keystrokes deliberate, almost mechanical. The database window mirrored her work, the sterile white of the interface swallowing the human traces of pen and paper.

Record Entry – Subject 22 (F, Age 27)
Status: Deceased – Post-Transition Phase (Suppressant Method: Beta-23 Variant)
Date of Termination: 03:14, last cycle
Cause: Acute systemic failure following dosage recalibration

She flipped through the lab sheets, the scent of sterilized paper faint but distinct. Notes scrawled by Dr. Novak were scattered in the margins — jagged, urgent handwriting pressed deep into the page –

Beta-23 demonstrated reduced serum stabilization at higher concentrations. Cellular rejection observed in peripheral tissues, escalating to complete organic failure within 2.5 hours. Recommend reverting to weaker Alpha-17 suppression for the remaining female subjects until enzyme degradation ratios are better mapped.

The woman exhaled quietly, her gaze flickering to the ECG graph — a sudden, sharp drop where life had simply stopped. The silence of the lab seemed to thicken around her as she typed the summary line into the system’s daily report –

Subject 22—terminated post-transition due to adverse suppressant response. Sequence archived under failure protocol F-2.

She sealed the file shut and slid it aside, reaching for the next. 4. Male. Age 23. The folder was thicker — heavier with overlapping graphs, ink corrections, and test forms with smudged signatures.

She opened it carefully, scanning the dense data tables. Even before typing, she could already visualize the pattern – fluctuations in vitals offset by inexplicable rebounds. She began entering the numbers – blood plasma cortisol levels, synaptic potential ranges, and dosage values, the keyboard clacking softly beneath her fingertips.

Record Entry – Subject 4 (M, Age 23)
Status: Active – Enhanced Monitoring Protocol
Observations: Subject 14 exhibits exceptionally high tolerance to CSDexohy Stimulant 4.6 in combination with Neurovalent Compound A-9, a newly synthesized neuroregenerative catalyst and Beta-22 suppressants. Despite continuous exposure, neural and cell degradation remains negligible. Recorded increases in mitochondrial ATP yield (+14.5%) and accelerated glucocorticoid clearance, suggesting adaptive metabolic compensation and regeneration.

She paused, her gaze catching on a section marked in red ink.

Warning: During Stimulation Experiment Phase IV, suppressant latency exceeded three minutes. Subject exhibited cortical reactivation — localized neural response, and elevated EEG spikes within the high-gamma frequency range.
At T+1:52, intravenous conduit inserted in the right subclavian line was forcibly dislodged despite no detectable gross motor activity. Muscle sensors registered no contraction, and limb restraints remained secured throughout the incident. The mechanism of displacement remains undetermined.

Further down was a handwritten memo marked VVV Important –

****Dr. Novak is advised to increase the suppressant dosage by 12% and maintain dual-monitored vitals at all times. Stimulant exposure is to remain capped at 3.4 mg/kg to prevent threshold breach. Following repeated suppressant failures and the unexplained displacement of intravenous apparatus during Phase IV trials, Dr. Novak is hereby commanded to relocate all subsequent testing and containment procedures of this subject to the plasma chamber. Non-compliance may result in autonomic override, cortical reactivation, or spontaneous reanimation. Continuous surveillance and biometric telemetry are mandatory for all personnel present within chamber proximity.

She entered the final timestamp, hit “Save,” and the screen pulsed once before sealing the record under digital encryption.

The files on her desk sat in neat rows again, silent and motionless — names reduced to numbers, lives condensed into columns of data and residual metrics. The faint hum of the computer filled the sterile air as she logged the completion time in her report.

Her reflection stared back from the darkened corner of the monitor — blank, steady, indistinguishable from the rows of nameless entries flickering across the screen. Then she reached for the next file. There were still more to record.

Chapter Text

The gym’s thick air, infused with the scent of rubber mats and iron, was familiar to the five men. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where they could push their bodies and forget, even for just an hour, the weight of their covert lives. This was where tension was worked out through sweat, and every grunt of effort brought a sense of release, even as the hours of training often bled into their shared history of missions.

Today, the space was filled with the usual noise – the rhythmic clinking of weights, the deep breaths of exertion, and the soft hum of the overhead lights. Thame stood in front of the mirror, his broad back slightly hunched as he adjusted the strap on his gloves. The mission in Vietnam had left its mark on him – his shoulder was sore, a constant reminder of the close call with the enemy as they had fought to extract the intel they needed.

He flexed the shoulder, wincing slightly as it pulled, the pain a dull ache. It wasn’t bad–just a minor strain–but it was enough to be a constant irritant. He could have pushed through it, but his trainer, Koko, a grizzled old man with the demeanor of an ex-army combat specialist, had warned him to take it easy.

"Don’t make me drag you to the infirmary, boy,” Koko barked from across the gym, his voice hoarse with age and experience. "I’ve seen men with injuries worse than that, but if you keep pushing it, you’ll be out for weeks, not days."

Thame’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw setting. “I’m fine,” he muttered, but there was a subtle flicker of uncertainty in his voice.

Koko simply shook his head, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. "You’re only as strong as your weakest link, Thame," he said, his weathered face giving him the air of a man who had seen far too much and heard even more. "So, if your shoulder’s bothering you, you better take it slow today."

Thame let out a long, slow breath, finally nodding. He dropped the weights on the floor with a soft clink and turned toward the bag for a few lighter punches instead.

Across the gym, Pepper was laughing loudly, throwing quick jabs at the punching bag with his usual carelessness. His energy was always infectious, and his boundless enthusiasm was a refreshing contrast to Thame’s more reserved demeanor. Pepper’s carefree nature was apparent in every movement, from the way he cracked jokes to the rhythm of his punches.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Per!” Dylan called from across the room, his voice muffled by the hum of his earbuds. Dylan was at his makeshift desk consisting of a yoga mat and thighs, not working on a computer but instead reading through mission reports. He was a curious combination – an introverted tech genius with a surprising aptitude for boxing. His hands moved nimbly over his tablet, processing data with the same precision he used when throwing punches.

“You know, if you actually worked with me on the bag, you’d learn how to hit harder,” Pepper teased, not breaking his focus.

“Your form’s terrible,” Dylan shot back without looking up. "You’re going to pull something if you keep that up."

"Sure, Mr. Perfectionist. I’ll take your advice after I win my next fight," Pepper responded, throwing a playful wink at Dylan.

Dylan, for his part, gave a barely-there smirk. He didn’t engage much in the banter, preferring his quiet corner and his own method of dealing with stress. Still, he was as much a part of the team as the others, his loyalty to his friends evident in the way he jumped into action whenever needed.

Jun, standing by the heavy bag, was the next to break into the conversation. His tall figure moved fluidly, every strike a combination of controlled power and grace. He had a natural ease to his movements, as though fighting was second nature to him. He was also the one who connected most easily with everyone, balancing his natural charisma with a reserved calm. He threw a few powerful punches before glancing over at Pepper.

“You know, you might actually learn something from Dylan if you weren’t so busy showing off.” His voice was smooth, and his grin carried the playful tone that made him approachable, even when he wasn’t trying.

Pepper only gave a mock gasp. “What’s this? Jun taking Dyl’s side?”

“Just don’t want to see you hurt yourself, man,” Jun replied, laughing as he continued his workout.

"Alright, alright," Thame interjected from across the room, wiping sweat from his brow as he made his way toward the rest of the team. "Let’s focus. We still have reports to finish before we get to anything fun." His voice was firm, the natural leader in him taking charge as he surveyed the gym, his commanding presence drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

Pepper, ever the joker, shot Thame a teasing look. “Reports again, huh? What’s new?”

Thame gave him a pointed look, one that said he wasn’t joking. He had learned to become a natural leader over the years, and the team respected that. When he spoke, they listened. But despite his sharp edge, he was also the first to jump into the fray when needed. He was their anchor, the one who held them together when missions went sideways.

"Enough play," he said. "Let’s finish what we need to and get back to something productive."

Pepper groaned but complied, throwing one last jab at the bag before walking off to grab a towel.

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

Thirty minutes later, the team had cleaned up and freshened up in the locker room, heading toward the showers. The sound of water splashing against tile filled the space as each of them took a moment to wash away the sweat of the day’s exertions.

Thame stood under the hot water, letting the steam rise and swirl around him as he rubbed at his shoulder again. The pain was persistent, a dull ache that refused to fade, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He’d been through worse. A few bruises, a strained muscle – it was nothing compared to the intensity of the missions they faced. Still, he knew he’d have to take care of it before it turned into something more serious.

As the water cascaded down his body, his thoughts wandered to the mission they had just returned from – the operation in Vietnam. It had been rough, the recon complicated, and the extraction tense. However, the real grind was the paperwork that followed – the endless hours spent writing reports and analyzing data. He could never get used to that part.

Thame finished up quickly, stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist before heading to the locker. He was already thinking about the next task – how to handle their next mission, how to guide the team through whatever it was that awaited them. It was his role to shoulder that weight.

He was finishing dressing up when Nano came in, whistling a tune which Thame was sure was a famous pop song.

“Ready for the mission against the reports, Phi?” Nano asked, glancing up as Thame walked toward him.

Thame rubbed his temples. "Almost. I think we’re close to finishing, but there’s still more to go."

“Let's do it tomorrow naaa…,” Nano said, tossing the tablet into his locker. “We’ve done enough for today.”

Thame chuckled. “True. But trust me – we will feel better when it’s done. Can’t have any loose ends.”

“Fair enough,” Nano replied with a small smile and then gave a mock salute, “You’re the boss.”

Thame smirked. “Damn right I am.”

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

The team gathered around their desks in the back of the office, the murmur of the city outside muffled by the thick walls of the building. The task of finishing the mission reports loomed over them, and though the banter had helped ease some of the tension, they all knew it wasn’t over yet.

Dylan sat down at his desk first, his fingers quickly flying across his keyboard. He wasn’t one for distractions, especially when it came to tedious tasks like this. His calm and precise demeanor stood in contrast to Nano's, who was typing away but frequently looked over at Dylan with a mock pout.

“Seriously? We’re still doing this?” Pepper groaned, rolling back in his chair. “I can’t believe this is our lives – this is the worst part of the job.”

Jun, who had been quietly reading through his own set of documents, glanced up. “It’s part of the job. We all know that. We’re lucky we didn’t get more red tape with the Vietnam mission.”
Pepper shot him a look, trying to keep the mood light. “True, true. But still, I’d rather be out there with my fists flying than sitting here typing up reports.”

“That’s because you never learned how to enjoy paperwork,” Dylan teased slightly, his focus never breaking from his screen.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pepper muttered, slouching further in his chair.

Thame sat at his desk, eyes on his work, but awareness never slipping. Even while typing, he kept tabs on the team – every movement, every quiet exchange, his steady presence enough to keep everyone in rhythm without a word.

And then, the call came – an assistant in the office summoned them into a meeting room.

The team filed in and sat in the conference room. The air was thick with anticipation as they waited for the briefing to begin, the excitement of a new op already taking place in their veins.

The assistant supervisor, Khun Kitttisak, stood at the head of the table, his posture rigid, eyes scanning over the team with the kind of detachment that only years of handling high-pressure assignments could bring. He flipped through a few papers, then finally looked up, his expression as unreadable as the stacks of files in front of him.

“Settle down, team LYKN. You have a new assignment,” he said, his voice cool and businesslike, as if delivering the same briefing he had a hundred times before. The words were sharp, clipped, and the team instinctively straightened in their seats, the air thickening with the shift in tone. “This is a recon mission which will develop into a search and rescue mission once more info is obtained.”

The room fell silent, a heavy pause lingering in the air. Thame’s sharp eyes narrowed, but his expression remained neutral, masking any immediate thoughts or reactions. He flicked a brief glance at his team members, his gaze briefly lingering on each one before returning to the assistant.

“Details?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with quiet authority. His tone didn’t invite questions, but it certainly demanded an answer.

Kitttisak hesitated, shifting the papers in his hands as if they could somehow offer more clarity. He looked down at the scattered documents in front of him, his brow furrowing slightly before he spoke again, his tone more guarded this time.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice trailing off as though searching for the right words. “We have limited intel, but what we know is this – there’s a scientist who has gone missing. We need to locate him and extract him safely.”

A low tension settled into the room, and Thame’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. His instincts, honed by years of high-stakes missions, began to prick at him. The vagueness in the assistant’s words wasn’t lost on him–something was unsettling about the way the brief was being presented. He didn’t need to speak it out loud to know that something felt off.

He wasn’t one to reveal his concerns easily, especially not in front of outsiders. He leaned forward, his fingers steepled, his eyes narrowing as he processed the sparse information. The weight of leadership pressed down on him, and even without showing it, he could feel the subtle pressure building in his chest.

“We’ll need more than that,” Thame said, his voice steady but filled with quiet command. The room seemed to hold its breath, each team member keenly aware of the unspoken rule that when Thame spoke, he didn’t just lead – he led and they followed.

Kitttisak shifted again, the tension between them palpable. “We don’t have much else,” he said, the unease creeping into his voice. “And hence the brief – You’ll have to do your recon first. Assess the situation, find out exactly where he’s being held, and report back.”

The team exchanged brief, unreadable glances, the air thick with a mixture of frustration and curiosity. Dylan, ever the thinker, glanced at Pepper, who raised an eyebrow, clearly unsettled by the lack of detail. The room seemed to hum with the weight of the unknown. The silence stretched for a moment as each member of the team processed the brief–this wasn’t the usual operation they were accustomed to.

Thame’s mind raced, his tactical instincts already calculating the variables, but he kept his face impassive, the leader in him suppressing the undercurrent of suspicion that was beginning to creep in. He knew better than to jump to conclusions too quickly.

“So, as I said before, recon first,” the assistant continued, almost too hastily, as if he sensed the growing tension in the room. “You’ll need to gather as much information as you can before moving forward with the operation. We don’t have the full picture yet, and I can’t risk sending you in blind. Do NOT take any action until the recon has been discussed and verified.”

Thame leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers drumming softly on the tabletop as he took a moment to absorb the fragmented pieces of the puzzle. His gaze swept over the four other heartbeats that pulsed with his, the living rhythm of team LYKN – Pepper, Dylan, Jun, and Nano – all of them waiting for his next move, their silent expectation hanging in the air. It was always like this. He didn’t need to say much; they knew what he was thinking, and they knew what needed to be done.

His voice broke the silence, firm and resolute. “We’ll handle it,” he said, the words cutting through the uncertainty in the room like a blade. His mind was already running through plans, assessing the safest route, calculating the risks. The details would come, he was sure of it. But for now, he would do what he always did–take charge and move forward.

“We’ll begin recon as soon as we can,” Thame added, his voice steady with the kind of confidence that left little room for doubt. It was his natural command, the leadership that had been molded through years of missions, both the successes and the failures.

Kitttisak gave a tight nod, clearly relieved to have the matter settled, before quickly gathering his papers and leaving the room. The door clicked shut behind him, but the team remained still for a moment, the weight of their new mission settling in.

Thame stood, the motion deliberate, his posture straightening as he faced the team. His commanding presence filled the room once again, the natural leader in him emerging effortlessly. “Alright,” he said, his voice low but firm, “We’ve got work to do.”

The others nodded, each acknowledging his words with a quiet respect. Jun, ever the connector, was the first to speak up, his grin a small flicker of optimism in the otherwise tense atmosphere. “Another day, another mission,” he said lightly, his tone at odds with the seriousness of their task, though there was no mistaking the resolve in his voice. He clapped Pepper on the back, who gave a half-hearted laugh in response.

“Just don’t expect me to be nice when we’re neck-deep in paperwork later,” Pepper added with a wry smile, trying to ease the tension in the room.

Dylan remained quiet, but his eyes locked with Thame’s for a moment – a silent understanding. He stood up slowly, a slight frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We need to make sure this doesn’t blow up. Need to make sure we aren’t walking onto a potential minefield,” he said, his voice sharp and analytical.

Thame nodded, meeting each of their eyes. He could feel the weight of his team’s unspoken trust, the quiet readiness in the room. He wasn’t just their leader – he was the one who would take them through the unknown, the one they relied on to guide them when the fog of uncertainty settled in.

“We’ll take it step by step,” Thame said, his voice firm but calm. “First, recon. Once we have the details, we’ll decide on our next move. No unnecessary risks. We’re in control here.”

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

Thame’s mind was still processing the meeting when the team exited the conference room. Pepper’s voice broke through his thoughts, playful as ever. “Lunch, anyone?” His usual grin was plastered on his face, a stark contrast to the serious mood hanging over the group. Pepper had always known how to lighten the atmosphere, how to offer a slice of normalcy even when everything around them seemed tense.

Thame, still deep in thought, gave a curt nod. “Let’s go. We’ll need to keep our heads clear.”

The team made their way to the cafeteria, their steps in sync as they walked through the narrow hallway. The cafeteria was nothing fancy – just a simple space with worn-out tables and chairs, the smell of fried rice and curries lingering in the air. The team didn’t need anything more than this. No extravagant meals, no distractions – just food to fuel the body and the mind.

They sat together at their usual table in the back corner, away from prying eyes. Though the cafeteria wasn’t busy, it wasn’t the time for discussing the operation in detail. No one spoke of the mission while they ate. They could feel the weight of their professionalism even now.

Dylan quietly ate his meal, not particularly fond of idle chatter but content in the quiet companionship of the team. His mind, always analytical, was likely already running through the mission in the background, piecing together the fragments of information they had. Pepper and Jun, sitting side by side, were engaged in a low conversation with Nano, who was talking about his latest misadventure, a tale about a coffee spill that somehow turned into a full-blown disaster.

When the meal was over, they rose without a word and walked back to the office. Thame could feel the weight of the day on his shoulders, but he kept his posture strong, his stride purposeful. He wasn’t one to let the pressure show. He was the leader – his team relied on his strength, his resolve, his ability to take charge in moments like these.

They entered the meeting room once again, the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead filling the space as the door clicked shut behind them. The table was already set with the file they had been given earlier – the missing scientist, a European biochemist whose disappearance had been so sudden, so puzzling. His name was Dr. Viktor Novák, labeled a ‘crazy’ scientist in his field, specifically in biochemistry.

Thame wasted no time, flipping open the file as his team settled into their seats. The first page of the file displayed a photo of Dr. Novák – a tall, lean man in his late 40s, single with a sharp jawline and dark, contemplative eyes. His hair was neatly combed, his suit tailored. To the outside world, he appeared as the perfect image of a successful scientist, one whose career had seen steady growth.

“Dr. Viktor Novák,” Thame began, his voice steady but edged with authority. “A biochemist with over fifteen years in the field – undeniably brilliant, but a pariah among his peers. His research in molecular biology and cellular regeneration broke new ground, reshaping treatment methods across the board. But his tendency to champion risky, even illegal experimental techniques left him isolated – admired for his genius, distrusted for how far he’s willing to go.”

Pepper leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his brow furrowing as he processed the information. “Based on his data, he has never left continental Europe. So, why is he in Thailand and why is he just... gone? From what we know, he disappeared almost overnight.”

Thame nodded, turning the page of the file. “That’s what we need to figure out. Dr. Novák’s sudden disappearance came just days after he arrived in Bangkok. Officially, he was supposed to be working on a classified project. His friends and the company were told he was in a remote location for research purposes. But his last known contact with his reporting manager from his previous agency in Europe was troubling. He mentioned something was wrong – an unease that he couldn’t shake off.”

Dylan spoke up for the first time since they entered the room, his voice measured and quiet. “A scientist with his credentials - he wouldn’t just vanish without cause. Something’s off here. We’re missing key details.”

“Exactly,” Thame replied, his mind already connecting the dots. He glanced at the team, noting the expressions of concentration on their faces. “The question is, why would someone like him disappear without a trace? And why didn’t anyone raise alarms sooner? What was he involved in?”

Thame’s eyes flicked over the rest of the file. There was a mention of the scientist’s last known locations, a few cryptic notes from his colleagues about his mental state before he left. But it didn’t add up. There were gaps in the timeline, moments where he seemed to vanish into thin air.

“We need to trace his steps,” Thame said, his voice gaining strength as his mind sorted through the options. “We’ll start with his arrival in Bangkok and go from there. We’ll follow the trail until we find something solid.”

Nano, who had been quietly taking notes, now spoke up, his voice calm but analytical. “Pepper, I want you to track his activities from the day he landed in Bangkok. Any meetings, locations, or contacts that might have been important. Dylan, double-check the scientist’s past–who he’s worked with, who he’s trusted. We need to understand who he is outside of his professional life.”

Jun, who had been leaning back in his chair, suddenly sat up straighter. “What about his friends or peers? Could they have any more insight into his personal life? Anyone who might have known something was wrong?”

Thame considered the question for a moment. “We’ll reach out to them if we have to. But for now, we need to start with what we know. The places he visited. The people he met. We’ll piece together his movements in Thailand and see where they lead.”

The team gathered their things and began to head out of the room, the buzz of the mission starting to fill the air. But before anyone could leave, Thame’s voice stopped them.

“Dylan,” he said, his gaze locking onto the younger agent’s. “I need you to get the intel from the tech team. Per and Nano, double-check the resources and the logistics. Make sure we’ve got the necessary gear. I want everything mapped out.”

Pepper nodded, his smile dropping into a more serious expression. “Got it.”

Thame turned to Jun. “You’re with me. We’ll strategize the recon and set up the groundwork.”

With a final nod, his team walked towards the door, Thame trailing behind them. The weight of the unknown hung in the air, but one thing was certain – they would face this challenge, as they always did, together.

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

The restaurant was tucked into a narrow alley just off Din Daeng – bright lanterns hanging from tangled wires overhead, casting a warm glow across the cracked sidewalk. Inside, the walls were painted a fading sunflower yellow, lined with crooked photo frames of famous Thai actors who’d eaten there decades ago. The air smelled of grilled pork, jasmine rice, and chili oil. Loud. Lively. Comforting.

Thame pushed through the entrance, holding the door open automatically for the team behind him. The place was small and noisy, but it was familiar–one of their go-to spots when the pressure needed to bleed out of their systems. No bugs, no watchers, just sticky menus and the constant clatter of plates.

A tiny shriek erupted from the back corner.

“Paa!”

All heads turned as a tiny blur shot out from a booth and ran straight into Pepper’s legs. He barely had time to brace before the child slammed into him with all the force a four-year-old could muster.

“There’s my girl,” Per murmured, sweeping her into his arms effortlessly. His entire face softened–something Thame noticed only happened when she was around.

Yanin – his daughter – clung to his neck with a wide, toothy grin. Her pigtails were lopsided, her glittery unicorn hair ties askew, and there was a suspicious smear of ketchup on her shirt.

“She’s unstoppable,” said a voice from behind her.

Dylan’s younger brother, Jay, appeared next–fourteen, slightly gangly, and carrying a bright red toy purse that clearly wasn’t his. “She made me carry this for the last hour.”

“Did you resist?” Pepper asked, grinning.

Jay shrugged. “She bit me.”

“Respect,” Jun deadpanned, patting him on the shoulder.

They all slid into the booth they’d reserved, the long table now stretched to accommodate two extra chairs. Yanin, who refused to sit beside anyone but her father, took her throne on his lap and immediately demanded that he remove the shrimp tails from her Pad Thai. Per obliged without hesitation, his tactical, mission-ready hands now delicately fishing out shrimp.

Dylan passed out menus while Jay quietly muttered something about not liking mushrooms and ordered the fried chicken with a precision that made even Thame crack a smile.

They hadn’t had a moment like this in weeks.

It was… nice.

Comfort, Thame thought, didn’t come in words. It came in these moments–the safe pauses between the storm. The conversation drifted from food orders to soccer scores, then took a turn as Pepper narrowed his eyes at Thame across the table.

“You know,” he said, stabbing at his grilled pork, “you didn’t even look up when the waitress smiled at you earlier.”

Thame, in the middle of sipping his iced lime tea, raised a brow. “Because I was ordering food, not reading signals.”

“She asked if you were alone, bro,” Jun added with a grin. “And you didn’t even blink. Cold.”

“She had eyeliner like… wings,” Pepper said dramatically. “She was flirting.”

“I doubt that,” Thame replied flatly. “She was polite. That’s different.”

“Right,” Dylan said, voice dry. “Polite. Just like when she lingered ten seconds too long refilling your water.”

Thame ignored them. “You’re all overthinking a very normal human interaction.”

“But you didn’t even smile back,” Nano said between bites, clearly enjoying himself now. “You’re like an old ghost who’s forgotten what flirting looks like.”

Jay laughed quietly. “Even I saw it.”

Thame blinked at the boy. “Traitor.”

“Face it,” Pepper said, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “you’re the only one of us who hasn’t dated anyone in… I don’t even know how long.”

“Years,” Jun supplied.

“Decades,” Dylan said.

“Centuries,” Nano added, deadpan.

“Should I put you all in a chokehold now or after dinner?” Thame asked mildly.

Yanin reached over and gently patted his arm. “Uncle Tha’'s not scary,” she declared. “He’s just grumpy.”

Pepper was wheezing into his glass.

“I am going to retire in shame,” Thame muttered.

“No, you’re going to die alone unless you flirt back once in your life,” Jun said cheerfully.

Jay, munching on a chicken drumstick, offered thoughtfully, “Maybe you’re secretly already in love and hiding it.”

The table went quiet for half a beat.

Thame sipped his drink again and looked away. “Eat your drumstick.”

Yanin, entirely unaffected by the adult nonsense, tugged on his sleeve. “Uncle Thaa… will you help me draw?”

Thame looked down at her extended coloring book and the set of crayons she’d clearly stolen from the restaurant’s front counter. With exaggerated seriousness, he took the blue crayon and began helping her fill in a crooked giraffe.

“See?” Nano stage-whispered to Dylan. “He’s capable of love. Just needs glitter and crayons to access it.”

Thame didn’t respond – but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

As food arrived and conversations swirled, the chaos softened into warmth. Nano was quietly feeding Yanin another spoonful of rice, who had moved to Nano’s lap and was humming to herself. Dylan was texting their trainer to reschedule tomorrow’s session. Jun was mock-arguing with Jay over how to beat level ten of whatever game they were playing. Pepper was busy stealing fries off every plate.

And Thame sat at the center of it all – silent, steady, eyes quietly scanning each of them. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.

This, here, was why they fought. Why they took risks. Why they chase shadows and secrets underground. Because up here… was everything worth protecting.

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

The briefing room they used that morning wasn’t their usual war room.

This one was smaller. Cramped, almost. No windows, no screens lining the walls, no polished steel or high-tech surveillance feeds scrolling across glossy panels. Just a single long table with old scuffs near the legs, a flickering overhead light, and a hum in the walls that could have come from the AC unit or the building’s bones settling. Either way, it pressed in on them.

Pepper called it intimate. Nano called it a closet. Jun muttered something about it being a murder room.

But Thame said nothing.

He simply sat at the head of the table like always – not because he demanded it, but because they always left it for him. The rest of the team moved around him like planets orbiting a fixed star. He didn’t direct them. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

The table itself looked like the aftermath of a long campaign – tablets left open and flickering with light, coffee cups half-drunk and cold, printed dossiers with edges curled from use. One opened protein bar wrapper sat guiltily near Pepper’s elbow.

Thame noted it silently. He didn’t say anything, but Pepper caught his glance and muttered, “Stress snack. You want a bite or something?”

Across the table, Nano chuckled under his breath.

Jun, already lounging sideways in his seat with a posture so casual it was almost insulting, only quirked a brow. “I thought you were giving up processed sugar.”

“Temporary ceasefire,” Pepper replied, scrolling on his tablet. “For morale.”

“You mean survival,” Dylan muttered as he typed furiously on his laptop. “If you keep stress-eating through the rest of the protein packs, we’re going to be living off vending machine peanuts by next week.”

“Peanuts are protein,” Pepper said without looking up.

Thame let the banter play for a moment. Then – “Pepper.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Pepper straightened, eyes now focused, fingers still scrolling. His joking tone vanished as quickly as it had come.

“Okay, got something,” he said, eyes still on the screen. “Dr. Viktor Novák arrived in Bangkok from Vienna six weeks ago,” Pepper said. “Commercial flight. Business class. No flags or red markers on his customs check. Used his real name.”

“No alias?” Nano asked, surprised.

“None,” Pepper confirmed. “He moved clean. Used a legit passport. Booked a black car service directly from the airport to The Sapphira – five-star, old-money, under-the-radar kind of place. Checked in alone.”

“No escorts?” Jun asked from his corner.

“Nope,” Pepper replied. “Didn’t meet anyone official. At least, not publicly.”

Nano exhaled slowly, skeptical. “That’s either cocky or stupid. If he was here to keep his head down, he did a crap job.”

“Or maybe he didn’t think he needed to hide,” Dylan suggested, glancing up. “Not yet.”

“Unwise,” Thame murmured, lacing his fingers under his chin. “Especially for someone with his clearance.”

Pepper nodded. “For the first week, he played it safe. Gave a keynote at the Chulabhorn Research Institute – topic was advanced viral mutation modeling. Nothing controversial. Attendees say he kept it strictly theoretical. No field applications.”

“Public performance,” Jun muttered. “Give ‘em the surface, keep the secrets locked away.”

“He gave a keynote speech on viral mutation models,” Pepper added. “Very high-level, nothing experimental or off the grid. Mostly theoretical models and comparative projections. Polite clapping, mediocre coffee, end of story.”

Jun smirked. “Sounds thrilling.”

“I watched a recording of the talk,” Pepper said with a mock shudder. “I nearly died. Twice.”

“Stay with us, soldier,” Nano deadpanned.

Thame let the moment pass, the faint amusement in the room a needed pressure release. But he brought them back to center with a simple question: “What changed?”

Dylan flipped his laptop screen toward the group. “Here’s his itinerary. Three listed meetings. Two private ones with venture biotech firms – routine, on paper. Third one got canceled with no explanation.”

“That’s the moment,” Thame said.

Pepper leaned in. “Exactly. Cancellation was on Day Ten. That same night, Novák was seen having dinner at his hotel with an unidentified individual.”

“Describe him,” Jun said.

“Tall,” Pepper said. “Caucasian male, early forties. Security cam footage is garbage, but the guy wore a cap low over his face. Could be anyone. They paid in cash and left through the garage exit. No plates, no re-entry on record.”

“They knew what they were doing,” Nano said. “Someone didn’t want their presence logged.”

“After that,” Pepper continued, “Novák drops off the radar for three full days. No hotel entry. No financial trail. Phone goes dark.”

Then he tapped on the projector remote.

The grainy satellite map that loaded onto the wall screen showed a stretch of Bangkok on the outskirts of Phra Khanong. Nothing glamorous. Just a nondescript industrial park, a half-dozen retail clusters, and a plain office block half-sunk into an alley.

“There,” Pepper said. “This building. That’s the last known place Novák’s ID registered. Access log, 7:02 p.m. He used a guest pass. Nothing after.”

“Define ‘access log,’” Jun asked, voice clipped.

“A magnetic entry point – likely a private floor or secured corridor. Not the kind of place a biochemist should wander into unannounced.”

“And no footage?”

“Camera feeds wiped from that date forward,” Pepper said. “Like someone anticipated we’d come looking.”

Dylan brought up a list on his device. “I checked the building’s occupants. A local skincare company. A travel agency. A grocery mart. A tiny hardware store. A data consulting firm… on paper.”

“No patterns?” Thame asked.

“No overlap. But no depth either. All of them list different owners, different staff, different bank accounts. No real social media presence. None of them even have updated business websites.”

“It’s a front,” Jun said.

“A very clean one,” Nano added.

Thame’s jaw tightened. “So his trail went cold there.”

“Frozen solid,” Nano muttered. “Either he went off-grid… or someone took him off it.”

Dylan turned his screen toward the group. “I’ve pulled the building's rental records. Ownership is a shell company – GoldenSky Developments – registered in Hong Kong, but the trail ends with a ghost director in Panama. The businesses listed are legit on paper, but everything leads to P.O. boxes. No customer-facing websites. No real staff rosters.”

“In short,” Jun said dryly, “it’s a stage.”

“A well-dressed stage,” Nano added, “with terrible lighting and no actors.”

Thame tapped his fingers on the table in rhythm with his thoughts.

“Any other movements between the hotel and the building?” he asked.

“Minimal,” Pepper said. “One stop at a café where he met with an employee from a Thai biotech company – BioDen Solutions. The employee’s gone on vacation since.”

“Vacation?” Thame echoed.

“Two days after Novák disappeared,” Pepper confirmed. “Requested extended leave. Left the country. Destination not disclosed.”

Nano arched a brow. “What are the odds?”

Jun shook his head. “Too many disappearances. Too few answers.”

Thame stood slowly, releasing the tension from his shoulder. He moved to the screen and stared at the satellite image of the office building. It looked so ordinary. No gates. No visible security. No underground vents or reinforced doors.

But they all knew better now. This wasn’t just a rescue. It was a warning waiting to be found.

“This is where it begins,” Thame said finally. “We start at that building. Every business. Every entry point. We trace who went in and what didn’t come out.”

Pepper leaned back with a grin. “Should I book another facial?”

“No glitter this time,” Jun said with mock warning. “Your last one gave me a migraine.”

Thame didn’t smile, but his voice was laced with quiet steel. “Jun, you’re the new hardware vendor. Nano and Dylan split the grocery and skincare line. Pepper–travel agency. No improv this time. And for God’s sake, no glitter. No suspicious activity. No tech in hand unless necessary.”

He turned, his eyes sweeping across his team. “We don’t get another shot at this. Whatever’s in that building took Novák. And if we’re right… It’s hiding more than just one man.”

The table went quiet.

No more jokes. No more banter. The air shifted, just like it always did when the game began to change.

Chapter Text

From the outside, the building looked like a relic from another time.

A dull, boxy structure that squatted like a stubborn piece of concrete on the edge of a side road off Rama IV, its sun-bleached signage sagging slightly above the entrance. The grass around the lot was overgrown in patches, the outer walls scuffed and faded with age. To a casual passerby, it was nothing. Forgettable. But to Thame, standing across the road with his cap pulled low over his brow, it was off.

Too quiet. Too still.

He watched a delivery bike zip past, the rider paying the building no mind. Perfect cover, Thame thought. The best secrets were always hidden in plain sight.

“Team check-in,” he murmured into the comms mic tucked into the collar of his shirt. “Positions?”

“Skincare place,” Pepper’s voice replied through a faint bit of static. “God help me, I’m pretending to be a man interested in a collagen facial. They offered me rosewater. I panicked and said yes.”

Thame smirked. “Endure it. For the mission.”

“If I get pink glitter on my face, I’m defecting,” Pepper grumbled.

“Travel agency,” Dylan chimed in coolly. “I said I’m booking a honeymoon. They asked me where my wife is. I said I have a husband. So he asked where my husband is. I said he’s indecisive and might not exist.”

“Copy,” Thame replied, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Inside the hardware store,” Jun’s voice joined in next. “They’re trying to upsell me on a water pressure gauge. I asked them if it could detect government surveillance.”

Nano’s calm voice came last: “Grocery mart. I’m pretending to be a suspiciously picky yogurt buyer. Zero suspicious looks so far.”

Thame exhaled slowly through his nose. His team was ridiculous. But they were good – exceptionally good. Professional, adaptable, and sharp. Every disguise they wore, every casual conversation they faked, it all served a purpose: observe, gather, report.

“All right,” he said. “Keep it tight. Make notes. We regroup in ninety.”

He adjusted the lightweight camera in the rim of his sunglasses and stepped forward toward the insurance office on the second floor. He’d decided to go in as a quiet expat with terrible Thai and a keen interest in life insurance. To sell it, he even wore slightly scuffed dress shoes and a short-sleeved button-down with faint sweat stains, just enough to scream a middle-aged man trying his best in a foreign country.

The office smelled faintly of old paper and air freshener. The receptionist barely glanced up.

“Hello,” Thame said with a hesitant smile. “I’m… looking for policy. Life? Death?” He fumbled his words, forcing a thick, indecipherable accent. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with the weary look of someone underpaid and overworked, gave him a polite brochure and ushered him to the waiting area.

Perfect.

He sat, subtly scanning the room. One bored agent sat at a nearby desk, playing with his phone. No calls. No clients. Dust lined the edges of the counter. He noted two closed doors leading to back offices, neither of which had been opened in the fifteen minutes he sat pretending to be confused by insurance jargon.

Something wasn’t right.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Still no foot traffic.

Too quiet.

Thame stood up, thanked the receptionist with a rehearsed, awkward smile, and exited.

Outside, the sun had begun its slow descent, slanting shadows across the parking lot.

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

They sat in the agency’s third-floor meeting room – a space Thame had come to associate with plans, risks, and the kind of silence that always came before a storm.

The walls were glass, but the blinds were down. The single overhead light cast long, sharp shadows on the large oval table. Their black duffel bags rested on the floor by the far wall, still holding the casual clothes and equipment from today’s recon. The low hum of the air conditioning filled the space with a quiet static that made everything feel just a little too still.

Thame sat at the head of the table, his left shoulder throbbing gently from overuse. He rotated it slowly, discreetly, as his team filtered in – each of them dropping into their usual spots without being asked.

Jun leaned back in his chair with his usual relaxed air, arms crossed behind his head. Pepper walked in next, tugging off the ridiculous skincare headband he had to wear as part of his cover. His skin was, bafflingly, glowing. Dylan entered without a word, eyes already on his tablet. Nano followed with his ever-present data slate in hand, his brows furrowed.

As the door clicked shut, the casual air cracked open.

“So,” Thame began, his voice steady and quiet, “what did we find?”

Pepper sighed dramatically and dropped a napkin onto the table. It was lightly stained with shimmer.

“I told you they’d put glitter in it,” he said. “Rose-gold shimmer. I look like a disco ball.”

Jun snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “You look dewy.”

“I look like I belong on a drag runway,” Pepper retorted, rubbing at his cheeks. “They offered me collagen ampoules and detox mist. I panicked and said yes to all.”

Thame allowed himself the barest flicker of amusement before settling back into his role. “You get anything useful?”

“Yeah,” Pepper said, now more serious. “One staff member. No clients. They had two names in their log for the entire week – and one of them was probably mine. No back office. One hallway sealed tight, supposedly due to renovation.”

“They said the same thing at the travel agency,” Dylan added, not looking up from his tablet. “The brochures on the front desk are from five years ago. There’s dust on the display monitors. The booking system wasn’t even connected to the internet.”

Nano nodded and chimed in. “The grocery mart's even worse. Six fridges, but only two were cold, and half-stocked shelves with expired snacks. I checked the scanners at the register – completely fake. They’re scanning barcodes but not registering any actual transactions.”

Jun leaned forward, fingers drumming on the table. “The hardware store was like a stage set. Some dusty tools, a salesman who couldn’t name the brand of the stuff he was selling, and a locked storeroom door. No shipping logs. No deliveries.”

Thame nodded slowly, the pieces starting to settle into place in his mind. “So… functional facades.”

“Like movie sets,” Pepper said. “Just enough to fool a casual walk-in. But dig a little deeper…”

“...and it all starts to crumble,” Nano finished.

Thame leaned back in his chair, his brows drawn together in concentration. The building had screamed "wrong" from the beginning – but now, there was data, proof. The building wasn’t just quiet. It was staged.

“Too many businesses. Too few people,” Dylan said. “And none of them have any connection to Dr. Novák.”

There it was again – that sensation that had been whispering in the back of Thame’s skull since the briefing. A tug of something dark and deliberate, wrapped in bureaucratic gloss.

He tapped his fingers against the table. “Blueprints.”

Dylan raised his tablet and flicked the screen toward the center of the table, where it synced with the built-in projector. A 3D schematic hovered into view – a rotating model of the building.

“The city registry gave me a cleaned-up plan,” Dylan explained. “Five main floors, two sublevels listed: parking and maintenance.”

He swiped again. “But I cross-referenced with declassified infrastructure maps. This building was part of a Cold War joint effort – Thai and European cooperation. Look here.”

He zoomed in on the foundation. A faint layer beneath the maintenance level appeared – its lines thicker, more reinforced. Unlike the others, its rooms were irregular. A hallway curved. Walls overlapped. It didn’t feel architectural – it felt… engineered.

“Third sublevel,” Dylan said. “Not in any current blueprint. Built with reinforced walls and junction rooms. It looks like a bunker.”

Jun whistled low. “A hidden basement? That deep?”

“Old defense facility,” Dylan confirmed. “Decommissioned thirty years ago. Should be sealed.”

“Except it’s not,” Nano interjected, holding up his own screen.

Everyone turned.

“I tapped into the utility records,” he said, voice low and tight. “Not the front-facing ones – they’re scrubbed. But the deeper grid logs show constant electrical draw from the sub-basement level. Massive draw. Enough to support cold storage, industrial servers, or medical infrastructure.”

“Server farms?” Pepper asked, suddenly serious.

“Or labs,” Nano said. “Think negative-temp freezers, fume hoods, cryo tanks, bioreactors.”

Thame’s jaw flexed. He couldn’t help but picture it – white lights, stainless steel, sealed corridors humming with voltage. A lab hidden in the bones of a forgotten building.

He glanced at Dylan. “Employee records?”

Dylan nodded. “This is the final nail.”

He pulled up a spreadsheet that flickered to life across the table. Names and ID numbers scrolled down. “Sixty-two active employees listed across the businesses. We only saw maybe twelve. The others – look at the timestamps. Some of these IDs log in at the surface level. Then disappear.”

He highlighted a group. “These don’t log out. But they do swipe into sublevel access points that don’t exist on the official map.”

Thame’s eyes locked onto the highlighted cells. His stomach turned to stone. This was it. This was no longer theory.

“This is where Novák went,” he said quietly.

There was a beat of silence in the room. The others didn’t answer. They didn’t have to. Thame could feel their agreement in the air – tangible, weighty, and unspoken.

The building was a shell. A stage. A mask.

And beneath that mask, something was alive and hidden.

Thame stood slowly, placing his palms on the edge of the table. His eyes flicked to each member of his team.

“We’re not waiting for another briefing,” he said. “We infiltrate. We find the basement. Quiet entry. No alarms. No noise. Full gear.”

Pepper’s eyes lit up. “Now we’re talking.”

Jun cracked his knuckles. “About time.”

Nano just nodded, his gaze intense and focused. Dylan was already syncing files to their off-grid drive.

Thame drew in a slow breath, feeling the familiar hum of tension settle into his spine. This wasn’t a test run anymore. This was the real beginning.

“Let’s get to work.”

There was no laughter this time.

Only the sharp click of gear buckles and the low rumble of a plan being born.

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

The streets were almost silent by the time they approached the building again.

A warm breeze drifted through the alley behind the structure, ruffling the trash bags and dead leaves strewn across the pavement. Bangkok never truly slept, but out here on the outskirts, under the wash of a flickering streetlight, it felt like the city was holding its breath.

Thame crouched behind the rusted remains of an old delivery truck, eyes fixed on the rear service entrance. His black tactical gear clung tightly to his body, the matte fabric blending him into the shadows. A comms unit pressed against his ear beneath the snug fit of his hood and mask, which left only his eyes visible. Beside him, Jun adjusted the scope on his modified sidearm, his stance loose but coiled like a spring.

The others were in place.

“Roof perimeter clear,” came Pepper’s voice, calm and clear over comms. “No heat signatures. I’ve got eyes on the lot. Two exterior cams are fake. Third one blinks but doesn’t rotate.”

“Electrical routing is primitive,” Dylan added from the mobile van parked around the corner. “I’ve looped their internal feeds. You’re invisible for the next ten minutes.”

“Copy,” Thame replied. He checked his watch.

“LYKN, time check, 0243. Let’s move.”

He and Jun moved as one, sweeping across the lot with disciplined silence. The old service door opened with a faint creak – already prepped earlier that afternoon with a disguised magnetic override, Pepper had slipped into the panel. The hallway beyond smelled of old wiring and mothballs, illuminated only by red security lights glowing dully at intervals.

Inside, it wasn’t just the silence – it was the emptiness. Offices that should be cluttered with papers, computers, lunch wrappers, and signs of life were pristine. Too clean. Too sterile. Desks were in perfect alignment. Cables were zip-tied in flawless rows. Even the dust was distributed too evenly.

“Fan out,” Thame whispered. “Same sweep. Focus on the center axis.”

The five moved like ghosts through the building. Pepper and Dylan took the second floor, where the travel agency and skincare office sat in the pale red glow. Jun silently scanned the first-floor storefronts while Thame and Nano moved toward the data entry office on the far side.

Thame moved forward and gently pressed into the door.

Click. With a faint hiss, the door began to open up.

Then –

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The sound ripped through the hallway – sharp, high-pitched, and escalating fast.

“Shit!” Thame hissed. “Fall back, fall back!”

The door hadn’t even opened fully before crimson emergency strobes began to flash through the hallway. Somewhere far off, metallic locks slammed shut with a series of clunks that echoed through the building like gunshots.

They ran. Silent precision turned into fluid panic – controlled chaos.

Thame led them back through the halls, motioning for Pepper and Dylan to break off and exit through the roof hatch. Nano and Jun stuck close as they cut through the lower corridor, back through the service passage, out the rear door – barely missing the automated lockdown that rolled metal shutters down over the exits with a hydraulic groan.

They sprinted into the shadows of the alley, boots hitting concrete, adrenaline thundering in their chests. Once they were safely behind the abandoned truck again, they dropped low.

Breath came heavy through their masks.

Jun lifted his binoculars and peered back toward the building. “Wait… look,” he whispered.

From the side street, two matte-black vans pulled into the lot. Their lights were off. The doors opened, and men in dark tactical gear poured out – efficient, armed, and silent.

Unmarked.

Not the police. Not military. Not known.

The team watched as the figures moved into formation and entered the building through a side entrance. There was no hesitation. No questioning. Just precise, rehearsed motion. As if this protocol had been run before.

The lights in the building flickered once. Then everything went dark again.

Stillness returned.

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

The inside of the van was dim, lit only by the green glow of monitors and the soft flicker of diagnostic lines on Dylan’s tablet. The stale, recycled air smelled of metal, sweat, and tension. Outside, the alley lay still, its darkness broken only by the red blink of the van’s hidden sensor light.

No one spoke at first.

Thame waited by the door until he was sure of no footsteps, no cameras panning, no telltale glint of surveillance glass.

“Dylan,” he said quietly. “Sweep.”

Dylan was already moving, fingers dancing across the console. The screens flared to life in green and amber tones – frequency charts, signal intercepts, motion readouts. “Perimeter clean. No trackers. No audio bleed from their side. We’re off their radar.”

Jun leaned forward to glance at the monitors, his reflection pale against the glow. “You’re sure?”

“Triple-checked,” Dylan muttered. “Even their grid’s blind right now. Most likely, they are resetting their servers. We’re ghosts.”

Thame gave a short nod. “Then lock it down.”

He turned toward the rear door, cracked it open a few centimeters, scanned the alley again – a sweep of silent neon reflected off wet pavement, then closed it. The sound of the latch clicking was final, absolute. Only then did he move to the center of the van.

Jun broke it first. The edge in his voice was raw, too loud for the small space. “What the hell was that?”

Nano gave a humorless laugh, his earpiece dangling haphazardly. “I think we just knocked on the wrong door.”

Thame didn’t move. “No.”

He spoke it flatly, the word cutting the air like a blade.

Jun turned toward him. “Then explain why we walked into a dead corridor and got chased out by half their security team.”

Thame moved closer to the van’s forward window, watching the building across the street – dark now, faceless, the hum of its generators the only sign of life. His reflection ghosted over the glass.

“We didn’t hit the wrong place,” he said, low. “We hit the right one.”

Pepper exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. “Then they’ve already seen us.”

“Not all of us,” Dylan said, eyes still flicking across the code scrolling on his tablet. “My loop held. Only the internal cameras caught us. External feeds stayed static. No sound, no heat sigs. At worst, they might have silhouettes.”

Jun gave a dry laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Might have silhouettes isn’t good enough.”

“Calm down,” Thame said, not loud, but the tone stopped everything. A quiet command, sharp as a snapped wire.

The team stilled again. Only the hum of Dylan’s monitors filled the van. Nano leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “We triggered something. That office wasn’t just hiding a data company. It was the door, the in we were looking for. And we almost opened it.”

Thame nodded once. “And whatever was behind it wasn’t meant to be seen.”

“We go back,” Jun said. “We go back, we finish the job. We gear heavier, we prep better, we go tonight.”

“No,” Thame said. All heads turned to him.

He pushed off the wall slowly, his voice even. “We’re not going back. Not tonight.”

“Why?” Jun asked. “Because of the blackout team? We’ve faced worse.”

“No,” Thame said. “Because we’re already on their radar.”

Nano tapped the screen and brought up a local signal grid. “They shut the building’s complete access in less than thirty seconds. That's a military-grade blackout response. Whoever those guys were, they don’t report to anyone we know.”

“Not even the government?” Pepper asked.

“They may be above even that,” Thame replied. “Or something adjacent. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that we got what we needed.”

“You call that what we needed?” Jun scoffed.

“Data logs,” Nano interrupted. “From the mainframe. I finished the upload just before the breach. Dyl?”

Dylan nodded, his fingers already flying. “Got a full dump of encrypted files. Internal logs, project codes, employee rosters – most of it’s junk, but some of it references ‘interfacility transfers’ and – ” his brow furrowed – “biological compatibility protocols. With timestamped shipments.”

Pepper froze. “Shipments of what?”

“Containers,” Dylan said. “Medical-grade. No content listed. Only delivery windows.”

“This place is linked to Novak,” Nano said softly. “He was flagged entering the building. Same day, the logs shifted into cipher mode.”

“That wasn’t a front company,” Thame said. “It’s a node. A shell over something buried.”

“And if we go back,” Pepper finished, “we tip our hand.”

Thame nodded. “Exactly.”

Jun shook his head in frustration, still pacing. “So what? We sit on this?”

“We don’t sit,” Thame said. “We report.”

Everyone stilled.

“You’re suggesting we pass this up the chain?” Jun asked, incredulous. “Let some suit with half our field hours take the wheel?”

“No,” Thame said. “I’m saying if we go back now, we compromise the whole operation. They’ll erase everything. Shift the lab. Move the subjects. Kill whoever is in there, including Novák.”

“So we let the agency know,” Pepper said slowly, nodding as realization dawned, “so they can authorize a sanctioned sweep.”

“We go by the book,” Thame confirmed.

Dylan hesitated. “You sure the book still matters?”

Thame looked at him, eyes hard and unflinching. “Right now, the book is the only thing keeping us visible. The moment we go rogue, we stop being a team. We become evidence.”

That landed. They’d been in the field long enough to know when they were up against something big. There was more than black market science behind that building. This wasn’t just rogue experimentation. This was infrastructure. Systems. Funding. Protection. And they’d all seen what happened to field units that crossed jurisdiction. Missions rewritten. Names deleted. Graves unmarked.

It wasn’t a rat’s nest. It was a spider’s web. And they had already tugged one of the strings.

Thame turned to Dylan. “Scrub our exit path. Kill all digital traces. Send the encrypted data packet to Kitttisak at Level Four clearance. No one else.”

Dylan nodded, already working.

“Nano, Jun, you’ll rotate surveillance on the building from across the river. Long-range optics only. No drones. No signals.”

There was a flicker of understanding between the brothers – unspoken, as always. This wasn’t cowardice. It was control. Measured. Contained. Because one wrong word, one wrong move – and the storm they were chasing might chase them back.

“Let’s go,” Thame said.

The van’s engine kicked softly, rolling out into the sleeping city. The noise of the tires on wet pavement drowned out the weight of what they were leaving behind.

No one spoke as the building vanished from view, swallowed by fog and shadow – a secret waiting beneath the surface, now someone else’s problem.

For tonight, at least.

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

The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, throwing a pale haze over the glass-walled briefing room. The hour was too early, the coffee too stale, and the air too heavy with unspoken reprimands.

Thame sat at the head of the long steel table, posture composed but shoulders taut beneath his black shirt. Around him, his team – Dylan, Pepper, Nano, and Jun – settled into their usual seats, every movement deliberate. The faint hum of monitors filled the silence.

The door opened. Kittisak entered first, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion in his features. He gave Thame a brief nod, then stepped aside as Director Wanchai followed, crisp white shirt, gray slacks, the kind of authority that didn’t need to raise its voice.

Neither man looked particularly pleased.

Wanchai shut the door behind him, the soft click echoing like punctuation. “You ran a ghost op on civilian property,” he said, flat and calm. “That wasn’t part of your brief, LYKN.”

Thame held his gaze. “No, sir. But it’s where the trail led.”

Kittisak crossed his arms, his tone tight but not unkind. “Let’s start from the beginning. You were tasked with reconnaissance only – to track Dr. Novak’s possible movements after he disappeared from Tier-Three. No contact, no breach. So tell me why you ended up inside a Bangkok minimart at two in the morning.”

The team exchanged glances. Then Dylan spoke first.

“We weren’t chasing the building,” he said, turning his tablet toward them. “We were tracing Novák’s signature. The last encrypted packet from his comm device rerouted through a ghost node in the northern grid. That signal terminated here – under this address.”

Wanchai’s brow furrowed. “A grocery mart and travel agency.”

“On paper,” Dylan replied, swiping through schematics. “But the metadata doesn’t match the registry. The building’s business licenses are duplicates. Same signatures, same timestamps, copy-pasted entries filed twelve years apart.”

Pepper leaned forward, adding, “And the utilities don’t lie. Power consumption triples between midnight and three a.m. every night. Not refrigeration – something pulling industrial wattage. You can see the thermal variance here.”

He tapped a feed; heat signatures flared across the projection. One section glowed brighter – the lower levels.

“Below the registry floors,” Nano added. “Blueprints mark the space as storage, but it’s too large, and the wall density’s reinforced. That’s what caught our attention.”

Kittisak shot Thame a look. “So you decided to check it out.”

Thame didn’t flinch. “We verified the façade first – all five businesses are shells. No real staff, no functional inventory. The deeper we looked, the more it matched a node pattern – the same as the ones Novak used to camouflage his Tier-Three transfers. We went in to confirm.”

Wanchai’s tone sharpened. “Confirm, or infiltrate?”

Thame’s reply was level. “We went to observe. Entry was meant to be surface-level only. But the moment Dylan accessed their internal feed, we triggered a silent response. Doors locked, and within sixty seconds, a strike team moved in.”

Kittisak frowned. “Strike team?”

Jun nodded. “Full tactical formation. No insignia, black gear. They didn’t issue warnings – just containment orders in another language. They were fast, rehearsed. Not private security.”

The Director leaned forward. “And this was beneath a shop selling bottled water and flight insurance?”

Dylan brought up another display. “The structure was originally a Cold War bunker – decommissioned and rebuilt in the early 2000s. On record, it’s a municipal storage sublevel. In reality, it’s been quietly drawing power for years.”

Nano added, “We found traces of new fiber conduits, too – military-grade encryption lines running below the district grid. Someone’s operating down there.”

Wanchai studied the projection in silence for several seconds before exhaling slowly through his nose. “Casualties?”

“None,” Thame said. “We aborted the breach before full lockdown. They might’ve caught a glimpse – silhouettes, maybe heat signatures. But not enough to identify us.”

“Then we’ve lost our window,” Wanchai said flatly.

Thame shook his head. “Not yet. I think I’ve got another angle.”

Wanchai stared at him for a beat, as if trying to read the thought already forming behind his eyes.

Thame straightened. “We find someone who’s already inside.”

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

The others had already been dismissed. The echo of their boots down the hallway faded until only the low hum of the overhead lights remained. Thame was halfway to the door when Kittisak’s voice stopped him.

“Stay a moment.”

He turned. The handler stood beside the Director, both men still seated – the folder open on the table between them. Wanchai’s fingers tapped once, a steady, deliberate rhythm.

“Close the door,” the Director said.

Thame obeyed, the soft click sealing them off from the outer offices. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence.

Kittisak leaned back in his chair, expression tired but sharp. “You did what you were told, Thame. You got us the proof we needed. But before you leave this room, there are a few things you should hear.”

Wanchai adjusted his glasses and regarded him steadily. “You understand that this op is already under internal review.”

“Yes, sir,” Thame said. “Standard audit for off-grid activity.”

The Director’s mouth tightened slightly. “Not exactly. It’s above my division. And we’re not getting much cooperation.”

Thame’s brow furrowed. “From who?”

“From everyone,” Wanchai said. “The upper chain’s gone quiet. Every time we request deeper intel on Novák’s transfer, we get redacted files or delayed responses. Someone doesn’t want that trail reopened.”

Kittisak added quietly, “That building you found – the node, the hidden facility – it’s not on any registry I can access. Even off-record. It’s like it was built to vanish the moment someone looked too closely.”

Thame stayed still, unreadable. “You think someone inside the agency’s protecting it?”

The Director’s gaze held his. “I think someone with clearance higher than mine is making sure we don’t get answers. Which means you, and your team, are walking into something bigger than just Novak.”

He folded his hands. “That’s why we’re telling you this off the record. The official directive is to wait. But unofficially – ”

“ – you want me to be ready,” Thame finished.

Wanchai leaned forward slightly, his hands folded atop the beige folder. “You need to understand something, Thame – this mission’s changed shape. Whatever’s under that building isn’t simple data or missing personnel. We’re walking in almost blind now.”

Thame said nothing, eyes focused, letting Wanchai continue.

“We’re not even getting confirmation on who’s funding BioDen,” Wanchai added. “That’s not just unusual – it’s deliberate. Someone’s keeping this buried.”

He paused, studying Thame for a long moment before continuing. “You’ve got good people under you. I won’t risk them on something the agency won’t name. So here’s the offer. You and your team can step back,” Wanchai said quietly. “No repercussions, no reprimands. We’ll reassign you until the upper offices decide whether this is a sanctioned investigation or something they want to forget. You’ve already gone further than most would.”

Kittisak glanced at Thame – cautious, waiting. “Think about it before you answer. This isn’t a test of loyalty.”

Thame shook his head once, firm. “I don’t need to think about it. I am in. We all are in.”

For a heartbeat, the room was still. Then Wanchai leaned back, exhaling through his nose – something like reluctant respect flickering in his expression.

“Most operatives would’ve taken the exit,” he said. “All right. You stay in. But you stay careful. No heroics, no solo runs. You move when we say move.”

Thame nodded once. “Understood.”

Wanchai’s tone softened, almost paternal beneath the steel. “We trust your team, Thame. That’s not the problem. The problem, and I cannot stress this enough, is that none of us know what this operation actually is anymore.”

Wanchai slid the beige folder toward him. “Keep your people safe. Don’t communicate through standard channels – not until I clear it myself. If anything feels off, you come straight to me or Kittisak. No one else.”

Thame picked up the folder, flipping it shut. “Understood.”

The Director gave a short nod. “Good. Because from this point on, one wrong step doesn’t just end the op. It buries it.”

The weight in his words was deliberate – not threat, but warning.

Kittisak stood, placing a hand briefly on Thame’s shoulder as he passed. “You’ve got good instincts. Use them – but not at the cost of your team.”

Thame inclined his head. “Always.”

Wanchai watched him go. “Careful, Thame,” he said quietly. “Whatever’s under that building… It’s not done yet.”

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

The city outside was washed in rainlight, the streets slick and half-asleep.

Thame stood by the window of his condo, tea cooling in his hand, watching the blurred reflection of traffic far below. He should’ve felt relief – the op was on pause, his orders clear. But that wasn’t what lingered.

What lingered was the pull.

It had started in front of the building as soon as his feet left the van – faint at first, then undeniable. Like something beneath that building had recognized him. Like it had reached out through the static and concrete, not to threaten, but to call.

He’d told the Director he wanted to stay on the case because it was the right thing to do. But that wasn’t the whole truth.

He needed to go back.

Because whatever waited down there had touched something in him – something deep and wordless, and he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The mug trembled slightly in his hand as a light flickered across the skyline. One heartbeat, one pulse – and gone.

Thame didn’t move.

He just stared into the dark glass and whispered to no one, “No one can stop me from going back.”

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

Underground Lab - 0255

Darkness pressed against his skin like a wet cloth. Heavy. Clinging. Cold.

At first, it was only a sound – faint, distant, a BEEP-BEEP-BEEP that pierced the silence like the heartbeat of a machine. It echoed somewhere far away, muffled and distorted, as if he were submerged under miles of water. Then came the static rush in his ears – the world breathing through static, an ocean of white noise pressing in on all sides.

His eyes fluttered open – barely. Everything was blue.

A dim glow wavered above him, broken by the rippling distortion of fluid. Light scattered across the glass walls, making the entire world shimmer as though it were alive. He tried to move – to turn his wrist, to tilt his head – but nothing responded. His body was not his own.

His lungs strained, catching against invisible weight. He tried to inhale – but the air wasn’t air. Thick liquid slid into his mouth, his throat, his chest. His body convulsed, instincts clawing to survive. I can’t breathe.

Panic bloomed – white-hot, primal. His pulse thrashed in his ears. He tried to scream, but only bubbles escaped his lips, drifting upward into the cold blue light. His body twisted – or tried to. His wrists didn’t move. His legs didn’t move. Something bound him down, mechanical and merciless.

Through the haze, through the panic, he caught faint shapes moving beyond the glass – silhouettes, hands, the flash of a surgical coat. Muffled voices bled through the fluid –

“He’s awake! Shit – neural activity just spiked past ninety!”

“He’s not breathing – sedate him now, before he – ”

The rest disintegrated into static.

Something stung his thigh. Another in his arm. Heat burned through his bloodstream, bright and cold at once – the taste of chemicals searing his veins. His muscles jerked once, then dulled. The fire in his chest dimmed. The blue world softened, became distant, blurred at the edges like watercolor bleeding into paper.

But the quiet didn’t bring peace. It brought something else. A tremor beneath his skin. A pressure building from within.

His confusion thickened, laced with something deeper – instinct, or memory, or power. The part of him that wasn’t numb stirred, restless. He couldn’t move her body, but something inside her moved for her.

The liquid shimmered. The restraints trembled.

It started as a pulse – faint, invisible – then built to a vibration that made the entire tank hum. The blue light fractured, scattering across her vision like glass breaking underwater. The needles in his arm quivered, one twisting slightly as if caught in a magnetic pull.

The fluid around him responded – swirling faster, alive.

“He’s doing it again!”

“He’s using the field – I told you the dampeners weren’t holding!”

“Is he dislodging the IV – FUCK get control, now!”

Fear leaked through the walls. Panic. Equipment crashed. A red light flared overhead, painting the world in violent streaks of crimson through the blue haze. The tank shuddered as something unseen rippled outward from her body – pressure, power, will.

“Stabilize him – triple the dose if you have to!”

“His resonance is rising – he’s adapting!”

The power inside him flared, wild and electric, responding to their fear as much as his own. The glass creaked. The restraints tightened automatically, sensors screaming. His vision sparked white for a moment – every nerve in his body igniting at once – and then the cold flood returned.

A new sting. Stronger. Heavier. The chemicals bit into his bloodstream like ice. The hum in his skull fractured, scattered, died. His power slipped away, dragged back beneath the surface by sedation thick enough to drown thought itself.

The world dimmed again. The red light faded back to blue.

Voices drifted in and out as he sank, fading into the dark like distant radio static.

“Lock down the feed – he destabilized the entire system.”

“Vital signs are dropping – keep him under. We can’t risk another surge.”

Then – clearer, closer – another voice. Older, sharp with authority.

“Call the transfer line. Get Dr. Novák.”

“Sir, he’s just been reassigned to Tier Three. They haven’t even cleared his relocation.”

“Then expedite it. Tell them his subject 4 is reacting again. His neuro-resonance is climbing even under suppression – he’s the only one who has stabilized him before.”

A pause. The sound of hurried steps. The whine of machinery cooling down.

“Understood. I’ll request immediate authorization. They said he’d start treatment once he reached threshold response – ”

“Well,” the first voice cut in, lower now, almost grim. “He’s there.”

A long exhale.

“Bring Novák back. We start again as soon as he wakes.”

Their words followed him down – through the blue, through the static, through the fading thrum of his heart. The cold darkness wrapped itself around him, patient and familiar. And this time, when it welcomed him, it wasn’t entirely as an old friend.

It felt like a return. To Po’s calm before the nightmare.

Chapter Text

Kittisak woke them up with the kind of call that made the air feel thinner.

Thame’s phone buzzed on the bedside table at 05:12, screen glaring in the dark. For a second, he thought he was back there, back at the building again – the hum, the pull – rising under his skin. Then Kittisak’s name cut across the notification bar.

He answered on the second vibration. “Thame.”

“Briefing room. Forty minutes.” Kittisak’s voice was clipped, too awake for the hour.

By 5:49, the team had taken over the secure command room at their agency’s underground level. Screens flickered across the walls, displaying blueprints, access logs, personnel databases, and a live feed of surveillance drones still circling the office building like vultures waiting for the dead to twitch.

“LYKN – You have been given permission to continue the mission. Do a second attempt to get into the building for recon – do not engage if not needed,” Kittisak said in the most monotonous voice known to mankind, his eyes flowing from person to person before landing finally on Thame.

“You know what’s at stake. Remember that. Anything happens, come to me directly – no exceptions”.

He opened the door, where an assistant came in with files, dropped them on the table, and left. Kittisak then gave a small nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Nano whistled, relaxing slightly in his chair, “OK, so now what?”

“We have to be missing something,” Jun muttered, arms crossed beside him. “That building has a front door. But what we need is someone with a key.”

Dylan barely glanced up from his screen. “Already on it. Access logs. Digital traces. Badge activity. They’re paranoid, but not perfect.”

From across the room, Pepper clicked his tongue. “You’re saying we may have a way in?”

“I believe so,” Dylan replied. “See this account? User ID k.suriyo. Standard low-level tech staff. Card access to the server floors, no authority on physical security. On paper.”

He rotated his laptop to show the team.

A small ID photo filled the screen. A woman in her mid-thirties, unsmiling, wearing the bland neutrality of someone who lived behind screens and spreadsheets. Blouse buttoned to the collar. Eyes slightly tired. Plain badge clipped to the front of her lapel.

“On paper,” Thame repeated.

Dylan nodded. “On their system, this account was granted temporary escalation. Bottom-level clearance. Meaning, at some point, someone flipped a switch and decided this nobody tech guy was allowed to go down to the bottom levels – for something or other. That clearance was scheduled to auto-expire. It didn’t.”

Pepper shrugged. “Could be a fluke. Could be a clerical error.”

“Or,” Nano interjected, “she’s the lowest-level cog allowed to touch that space. She gets in and out because no one notices her.”

“She’s a mouse,” Thame said thoughtfully, stepping closer. “Invisible until she isn’t.”

Pepper leaned over to study the photo. “Got anything on her beyond her face?”

He tapped again. The username flashed.

“Before their system could recover from their server blip, I retrieved the credentials for k.suriyo. Their server reset protocol rolled back to a prior configuration image. In doing so, they accidentally re-enabled the pathway that made this account special.”

Nano whistled softly. “So we have a key.”

“We have a key they haven’t realized exists again yet,” Dylan said. “And their environment is still fragile from last night’s incident. Logs are noisy, alerts are overflowing, and half their automated checks are in fail-open mode. If we want to walk straight through their front door and ask politely for an elevator to hell, this is our window.”

Thame leaned forward, forearms on the table. “How tight is that window?”

“I’d say…” Dylan glanced at the clock on the wall. “They’ll spend the morning blaming each other. By afternoon, someone with an actual brain will notice the anomaly in the audit trail. By tonight, they’ll patch it. Or shut the whole system down for a clean rebuild.”

“So we go tonight,” Pepper said.

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

The conference room had emptied fast once Thame dismissed them. Chairs scraped, footsteps echoed down the hall, doors clicked shut. In minutes, the hum of the air-conditioning was the only sound left.

Thame stayed.

The screen on the wall still glowed faintly blue, displaying the frozen schematic of the building. The lower levels were blurred into shadow where the diagram cut off. He found himself staring at it as if it might start breathing.

He told himself he was just cataloguing details – memorizing layouts, angles, entry points – but the truth pressed heavier than that. Every time his eyes drifted to that unmarked sub-basement, the air seemed to vibrate a little, like the room had swallowed a low note only he could hear.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, pressing his palms together until the tendons in his hands stood out white.

The hum grew.

At first, it was only in the walls, but then it slid under his skin, behind his eyes. The fluorescent lights overhead throbbed faintly in rhythm.

He blinked – and the room wasn’t the room anymore.

He was back in the corridor. That sterile, concrete hall from the night before, except now it was alive – faint ripples running through the walls, blue light pulsing like a heartbeat. The air shimmered; a metallic taste sat on his tongue.

Somewhere ahead, in the distortion, a shape moved – blurred by glass and something blue, a human outline suspended in the soft glow. Hair drifting. A hand almost lifting.

Not words. Just a pressure, pulling him forward.

Here.

The hum climbed until it hurt. He reached out – A soft knock came from the doorway.

Pepper leaned in, phone in hand, the corners of his mouth pulled into a tired smile. “You hiding, boss?”

Thame managed a dry huff. “Thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.” Pepper stepped inside and set the phone on the table, the screen tilted toward him. On it, a little girl’s face lit up the frame – big brown eyes, sleep-rumpled hair, one front tooth missing.

“Hi, Uncle Tha!”

The sudden brightness of her voice cut through the heavy air. Thame’s lips tugged upward before he could stop them. “Hey, Yanin. Did you just wake up from a nap?”

“She says she has to nap in the afternoon, else she cannot sleep because her dad snores,” Pepper said, dragging a chair across the floor and sitting down beside the phone.

“Well you doooo..” Yanin said indignantly, her voice shaking as she adjusted the camera.

Pepper made a face that told Thame they’d had this argument before. “Traitor.”

Thame found himself watching quietly – Pepper’s expression softening, his whole body language changing, the tension dropping from his shoulders in a way Thame hadn’t seen since they arrived in Bangkok.

Yanin started telling a story about her school project – something about a paper rocket and food coloring explosions – half of it incomprehensible through her giggles. Pepper listened with the kind of focus he rarely gave anyone else.

For a moment, the room didn’t feel like a mission briefing zone anymore. The overhead light wasn’t so harsh. The hum in Thame’s chest softened, receding.

When Yanin paused for breath, Thame leaned closer to the phone. “Hey, Yanin. Your dad’s got a big job today. Think you can send him some luck?”

Yanin nodded solemnly, pressed her little hands together, then blew dramatically toward the camera. “There! It’s lucky air.”

Pepper laughed under his breath. “Lucky air, huh? Guess that’s better than coffee.”

“Coffee’s gross,” she announced.

“You’re not wrong,” Thame said.

Pepper gave him a grateful glance, just a flicker, but enough. “Alright, kiddo, I have to go. Eat dinner, okay? No chocolate before that.”

“Okay! Bye, Papa. Bye, Uncle Thaaa!”

The call ended with the soft pop of the disconnect sound. The screen went dark.

Pepper sat back, staring at the blank display for a second. “She keeps me sane,” he said quietly. “When we do this kind of work… It’s easy to forget why we bother.”

Thame nodded. “She’s a good reminder.”

“She’s the only one that sticks.” Pepper pocketed the phone and stood, stretching. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just thinking,” Thame said again. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly.

Pepper didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. They had bigger fish to fry today. He gave a mock salute and walked to the door. When the door closed, the hum returned – faint, like a whisper through the vents.

Thame stared once more at the frozen schematic on the screen, the blacked-out space under the building.

Tonight, he thought. I’ll find you.

And for a heartbeat, he could’ve sworn the air around him answered.

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

The command room hummed with purpose – no idle chatter, no theatrics – only the quiet choreography of people who trusted one another to move like clockwork. Thame stood at the center, hands on his hips, watching the floor plan Dylan had projected across the far wall. The schematic glowed blue and white, corridors and service shafts spelled out in precise lines, a tiny, pulsing dot marking the sub-basement where the lights had behaved like traitors the night before.

One by one, the team filtered in from the corridor. Pepper had swapped into dark clothes and a light vest, his jaw already set. Nano folded his arms, eyes thoughtful, cataloguing risk and advantage. Jun lounged near the doorway, silent and watchful, fingers absently testing the clip on his utility belt. Dylan hovered at the panel, fingers tracing routes and overlaying annotations as he spoke.

Thame didn’t bother with names – only roles, positions, and objectives. “Ground team is me, Jun, Pepper, and Nano. We move as a four-stack, sweep the underground, and locate Novák. Dylan, you’re overwatch – monitor thermal drift, internal movements, and any security deviations. Call out anomalies the second they pop.”

He scanned the team, jaw set.

“Once we secure the subject, we exfil through the primary corridor. If we hit resistance, we break contact and fall back to Echo Point for secondary extraction. No heroics. Clean, silent, controlled.”

Pepper met Thame’s gaze. “If he’s not there?”

“Then we fetch whatever points to his location – logs, drives, manifest lists. We don’t leave the site empty-handed.” Thame’s voice was flat, final. “And we don’t make the mistake of assuming this was an accident. Something tripped their systems from within; they’ll patch the hole fast. We have a margin measured in minutes.”

The room settled into motion. There were no shouted orders – only the efficient choreography of practiced hands: kits opened, comms tested, smoke canisters counted and taped to vests, watches synched to the second. Each man moved with forethought, cross-checking gear and contingency plans like a ritual.

Thame lingered at the projection a beat longer, his eyes on the faint blinking marker that denoted the unlisted sub-basement. He felt the weight of it then – the low, physical thrum of a place that kept secrets, and the responsibility of sending people down into it.

Something – someone – was down there, buried under circuitry and seals. Tonight, they would find out who.

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

It was 1:03 AM when they reached the edge of the industrial strip.

The building stood under the cold glow of a single sodium streetlamp, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. From the outside, it looked exactly the same – the dimly lit signs, the fake storefronts, the stillness. But Thame knew better now. Behind that brick and glass façade, something was alive. Watching. Waiting.

The team exited the van in silence, dressed in black tactical gear. Faces masked, movements efficient. Even their footsteps were careful – rubber soles over concrete.

Dylan stayed behind in the vehicle, manning the remote feeds and security overrides. The rest approached the side service door.

“Keycard,” Thame said.

Jun handed it over. Thame slid the badge through the old reader. It beeped once – green. The door unlocked with a faint mechanical click. They slipped inside. No alarms. Not yet.

The building door clicked shut behind them with a soft pneumatic sigh. The lobby was dark, only the emergency strips glowing low along the floor. They slipped past the shuttered convenience store, the closed money exchange, the empty dental clinic with its half-lit tooth-shaped sign.

Up one flight.

Up another.

Their boots were silent against the old carpeted stairs, the sound swallowed by the stagnant air. The third floor opened into a dim corridor lined with glass-walled rooms – language schools, a tiny law office, a massage studio with posters peeling at the corners.

The travel agency sat at the far end, lights off, blinds drawn tight. A faded cardboard standee of a smiling family blocked half the front window.

Thame pressed the keycard to the lock.

Click.

They slipped inside.

The office was cramped and dusty, stacks of brochures slumping in metal stands. Maps curled on the walls. Everything felt abandoned long before tonight.

Dylan crackled into their comms, low and focused. “Okay, scans show something interesting. Far end of the room, right side – there’s a shaft behind the last wall partition. Looks like access to a secondary door. Storage room label on file, but… the geometry’s off.”

Pepper moved first, weaving between desks toward the back. There, behind a row of filing cabinets, was a plain beige door with a cheap silver reader.

Thame swiped the keycard.

Red.

He tried again.

Red.

“Dylan”, Thame’s sharp whisper cut through the quiet.

“Yeah… hold on. Give me a sec HERE –,” Dylan exclaimed. “I pulled two IDs for this user. Thought the second was a duplicate, guess not. Try this one.”

A burst of data pinged on Thame’s wrist device. He transferred it, pressed the new badge to the reader.

Green. The lock clicked open.

Inside was a tight storage room stacked with old travel posters and unused office chairs, but the real prize was at the far end: a smaller, reinforced door with a vertical scanner and a keypad glowing faint blue.

Nano whistled under his breath. “That’s not standard storage.”

Thame stepped forward, bracing his palm on the wall as he brought the first card to the scanner.

The moment it beeped, a digital timer flashed to life, ten seconds and falling.

“Override code,” Nano said, reaching into his pouch. He knelt beside the panel, pulled a small USB device from his belt, and plugged it into the base terminal.

A soft digital whirr. Then ping.

He pushed the handle. The door eased open to reveal a narrow, sterile elevator – walls brushed steel, floor pristine, controls unlabeled. A ghost hidden inside a forgotten building.

Pepper looked at Thame. Thame looked at Jun. Jun glanced at Nano. They exchanged that final look – the silent acknowledgment that once the doors closed, the path back would be very different from the one they came in on. A final nod.

They stepped in.

The elevator swallowed them softly as the door shut automatically, sealing them in. A heartbeat later, the floor gave a subtle shudder and the elevator began its descent, sudden and silent, as if the ground had opened beneath them.

When the doors slid open, it wasn’t into a corridor; it was into danger.

Two guards stood directly in front of the elevator, mid-shift in their patrol. Their eyes widened, hands moving for their weapons –

But Thame and Jun moved faster.

Thame surged forward, catching the first guard by the wrist and throat, twisting sharply to drive him backward into the wall. Jun swept low, hooking the second guard’s ankle and yanking him off balance, slamming an elbow into his solar plexus before the man could even gasp. A muffled struggle. A single choked grunt. Then silence.

Both guards dropped in near-perfect unison.

Jun dragged one aside. Thame nudged the other behind a rolling supply cart. Pepper checked pulses – steady but unconscious.

“Good,” Thame murmured. “We stay quiet.”

Now they took the corridor.

It stretched outward in two directions, wide and spotless, the air unnaturally cool. The lights overhead gave off that clean, humming brightness found only in labs or operating theaters. Doors lined the walls – thick, sealed, each with numbered plates and glowing status strips. The faint vibration of machinery thrummed beneath their boots.

“This is it,” Jun whispered, eyes narrowing.

Nano pulled a small canister from his pack, weighing it in his palm. “Smoke or light?”

“Smoke first,” Thame said. “Light’s for when we’re pinned.”

They split just as planned.

Jun and Nano moved left, keeping close to the wall, sweeping room numbers, searching for terminals and access panels. Their mission: find storage logs, digital maps, any hint of the scientist’s location.

Thame and Pepper took the right corridor.

Their footsteps were silent, controlled. Pepper paused at branching halls, scanning for thermal signatures. Thame handled the forward pressure, shoulders squared, senses sharpened.

They encountered the next pair of guards near a reinforced door.

This time Pepper reacted first – stepping into the blind spot, jabbing two precise strikes to the first guard’s neck and sternum, dropping him instantly. The second spun, reaching for his radio, but Thame was already there. He kicked the guard’s knee sideways, catching his wrist mid-fall, wrenching the weapon free while slamming his other fist into the man’s jaw.

The guard sagged limply into his arms.

“Two down,” Pepper whispered as they eased the bodies behind a supply locker.

They moved deeper.

A third guard rounded the corner unexpectedly; eyes sharp, suspicion already rising.

Pepper tossed a small sonic pulse disc to the ground. It emitted a single, tight vibration, a sound just high enough to disorient but not loud enough to echo.

The guard staggered.

Thame crossed the distance instantly, slamming him against the wall with a forearm to the throat and a quick strike behind the ear.

He went down in a heap.

“Keep moving,” Thame said, breathing low.

“Yeah,” Pepper murmured. “The scientist has to be down here somewhere.”

The corridor stretched forward cold, bright, and humming with secrets. They didn’t make it more than ten meters past the long passage before it happened.

The sound came first – the unmistakable click and snap of loaded magazines, followed by the echoing bark of footsteps slamming down the sterile hallways. Then the red security sirens began to pulse along the ceiling, washing the corridor in a rhythmic blood-colored glow.

“Down!” Thame shouted, throwing his arm out just as bullets cracked against the metal frame of the door behind them.

The team hit the floor in perfect sync. Bullets ricocheted off the reinforced walls, narrowly missing Pepper’s shoulder as he slid behind a storage cabinet.

“Visual – four guards,” Jun called over comms, voice tight but steady. “Standard-issue arms, no insignia. Flanking both ends.”

“Go loud,” Thame ordered, “Drop them fast.”

He rolled sideways, unholstering his modified SIG-Sauer in one fluid motion and squeezing off two rounds. The first struck a guard’s forearm, the second hit the light above him, dropping sparks like hailstones. Jun opened fire from the other side, using low-caliber rounds that broke bones without killing. Pepper ducked, spun, and threw a compact flashbang into the far corner. It exploded with a blinding pop.

Screams echoed.

Thame’s shoulder throbbed with sharp heat from his previous injury, but he ignored it. This was what he was trained for. This was where he belonged.
They cleared the corridor in less than two minutes. Bodies lay groaning or unconscious. No fatalities. That was the point.

“Status, Jun,” Thame asked.

“Clear. Your side?” Jun said through the coms, breath coming quick.

“Clear.”

“Roger.”

They moved fast, ducking into the rightmost hallway where rows of sealed labs shimmered behind biometric panels. Thame’s earpiece buzzed with faint static. The building was still adjusting – locking doors, rerouting pathways, shifting light patterns. It was alive. Adaptive.

But so were they.

“Novák’s lab is ahead,” Pepper whispered. “Two doors down. See the ID plate?”

Thame nodded and raised his gun.

“Let’s get our man.”

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

The door to Lab 3B opened with a hiss and a soft hydraulic thunk, releasing a faint whiff of chemical sterilizer and something fainter – earthy, like wet stone.

Thame stepped in first, gun raised, eyes scanning the space.

Unlike the rest of the facility’s sterile, cold-white brightness, this room was warmer, bathed in amber lighting that hummed gently above. It looked less like a prison and more like a workspace someone had been confined to for far too long. The faint buzz of electricity filled the silence, broken only by the soft blink of the devices scattered around.

There were papers everywhere – crumpled notes, scattered printouts, annotated charts on cell regeneration, and something handwritten in Czech he couldn’t read. Glass beakers sat half-filled with cloudy fluids, their rims stained from constant use. A digital microscope blinked idly, its display frozen on what looked like a malformed chromosome.

In the far corner, a figure sat hunched in a worn, metallic chair.

The man was older – fifties, maybe early sixties – with thinning blondish-gray hair and hollowed cheeks. A pale lab coat hung awkwardly on his thin frame, sleeves rolled up too many times. One arm dangled loosely, stylus still gripped in his fingers; the other was cuffed securely to the metal armrest. Despite the exhaustion in his posture, his eyes were sharp and glassy, magnified behind thick lenses.

He looked up slowly, blinking at the silhouettes in the doorway.

“…Are you with them?” he asked, voice rasping, almost mechanical. The accent was European. Thame placed it immediately – Czech or Slovak, just as the file said.

“No,” Thame said, lowering his weapon slightly but keeping his posture alert. “Dr. Viktor Novák?”

The man’s mouth twitched, then trembled. “Yes. Who – ?”

“We’re here to get you out,” Pepper cut in smoothly, already kneeling beside the chair. He inspected the cuff quickly, his fingers deft and calm even as tension coiled in the air.

Dr. Novák blinked once. Then, as though his body didn’t believe his brain, he let out a sharp, dry laugh. It broke midway through, turning into a wheeze.

“You’re not from the Ministry, are you?”

“No, Doctor,” Thame said. “But someone up top knew something was wrong. We’ve been tracing your disappearance. We don’t have much time.”

At that, the man sagged like a snapped cord. His entire frame seemed to collapse inward, fatigue washing over him in one crashing wave. “Then thank God.”

Pepper pulled out a compact bolt cutter from the pack strapped to his thigh and wedged it between the cuff and chair bar. Snap. The metal bit clean through, and the shackle clattered to the floor.

Novák rubbed at his wrist with trembling fingers. His skin was bruised, red where the cuff had dug in for too long.

Thame took in the room again – fast, tactical sweeps. The camera in the corner was black, the lens pointing downward, powered off. A panel along the wall blinked faintly but registered no alerts.

“Any silent alarms?” he asked.

“Not in here,” Novák said. “They monitor me during assigned shifts. Outside of that, they assume I won’t – can’t – leave.”

“How long have you been locked in this room?”

“A few weeks I think,” Novák whispered. “Bathroom breaks only. No comms. I’ve been working nonstop.”

“Then we move now,” Thame said, already reaching out to help him stand.

The scientist groaned faintly as he rose, joints protesting. He looked half-starved, limping slightly on one leg. But he was still lucid. Still alive.

“They’ll know I’m gone,” he murmured.

“They already know we’re here,” Thame replied grimly.

They slipped back into the corridor, Novák sandwiched protectively between the two men. The hallway stretched forward in silent tension – no footsteps, no echoes. Just an oppressive, artificial calm, the kind that felt engineered to lull intruders into a false sense of control.

Thame didn’t buy it.

His gut twisted, instincts firing like tripwires.

Then came the sound.

It didn’t start with a scream or a bang. It started with a clink – the kind of trigger-snap he’d heard a hundred times before in battle zones. Followed by the low murmur of foreign voices, commands barked in an unfamiliar dialect. Then the steady thump of booted feet hitting metal flooring in unison.

“Contact!” Pepper shouted, hand shooting out to shove Novák behind a support pillar.

Thame’s body moved before thought. In one fluid motion, he grabbed a small cylindrical canister from his belt, twisted the cap, and lobbed it into a branching hallway just ahead.

“Flash and smoke,” he barked.

Then he turned, eyes locking on a door labeled with nothing but a red warning sign.

He grabbed Pepper by the arm and kicked the door open hard.

They crashed into the new room just as the grenade went off – phoomf! A white-hot burst of light swallowed the hallway. Screams and weapons fire followed, dulled by the heavy, pressurized door that sealed shut behind them with a final, metallic thud.

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

The hiss of compressed air and the click of the magnetic lock confirmed it – sealed. Safe. At least for now.

Pepper’s chest rose and fell in fast, shallow bursts, heart pounding against his ribs. His ears still rang from the concussive pop of the smoke grenade. The adrenaline hadn’t ebbed – it just coiled tighter.

He turned, expecting flashing lights, alarms, and more chaos.

But the room was still.

Dead still.

Not quiet – silent. The kind of silence that felt wrong, like walking into a cathedral that had been abandoned mid-prayer. The air was cool, dense. Like it had weight.

The lighting was strange – faint and surreal. No blinding fluorescents here. Instead, a soft shimmer pulsed overhead in waves of pale blue and green. It painted the metal cabinets and sleek white counters in an ethereal glow, softening the sterile lines and casting shadows that moved when nothing else did.

Surgical instruments lay perfectly aligned on trays. Steel scalpels, slender clamps, syringes filled with milky contents. Glass vials sat in refrigerated racks, some empty, some filled with viscous solutions in hues Pepper had never seen in any legitimate lab.

A low hum came from the corner – cryo cabinets. Sealed tight. Their frosted doors pulsed faintly with internal light. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and ozone.

And then he saw it.

In the center of the room stood a chamber – cylindrical, towering, easily seven feet tall. Reinforced glass all around. It was filled top to bottom with something thick, something blue. Not any ordinary blue – no, this was deep and glowing, like crushed sapphires suspended in syrup.

At first, Pepper didn’t register it as strange.

They’d seen a lot over the years – biohazard vaults, storage pods for experimental organics, even cryogenic tubes. His brain told him this was just another lab installation.

Until the liquid moved.

Not from pressure. Not from vibration.

It rippled.

Something inside had shifted.

“What the – ” Pepper murmured, instinctively taking a step forward even as every fiber in his body screamed stop.

He approached cautiously, boots silent against the vinyl floor. The chamber loomed over him, glass fogged near the top, clearer around eye level. He leaned in, squinting through the swirl of glowing fluid.

And then he saw it.

A face.

Barely illuminated, half-swallowed by the blue haze – but unmistakable.

Delicate features, lips slightly parted, eyes closed, his expression peaceful in the most horrifying way. Like he was sleeping underwater. His hair – a bit long, dark, ink-like – floated lazily around his neck. His arms, tucked in towards his chest, barely moved in the fluid.

Pepper’s heart dropped into his stomach. He yelped and leapt back, hands up instinctively.

“Shit! There’s a – there’s someone in there!” he shouted.

Thame and Novák spun around, weapons half-raised. The scientist’s reaction was immediate.

“No,” he breathed, voice cracking. “No, no – how long has he – ?”

Pepper turned to Novák. “You knew he was in there?” he barked, half-angry, half-horrified. “Is he a test subject?”

Novák’s throat bobbed. “Not just a subject. He was one of the first. The early-phase cohort. The files say he ‘volunteered’ about a year ago, but…” His voice wavered. “His behavioral logs don’t match a volunteer profile. Stress responses too high. Compliance irregular. I doubt he walked in here of his own free will.”

Thame stood frozen, eyes fixed on the body in the chamber.

Novák continued, words tumbling out now. “Because he adapted unusually well to the initial protocols, they escalated the intensity on him more than anyone else. Recent repeated exposures to CSDexohy Stimulant 4.6 paired with Neurovalent Compound A-9. That combination alone should’ve collapsed his autonomic system.”

“But it didn’t?” Pepper inquired softly.

Novák rushed to the pod, pulling up the vitals on the auxiliary console. Lines of fluctuating data flickered across the screen – neural conductivity graphs, cellular regeneration curves, metabolic strain indicators. His fingers danced over the controls. “Look! The micro-regeneration rate is spiking again. His tissue is repairing faster than baseline. But the mitochondrial stress markers are… god, they’re redlining.”

Novák exhaled shakily. “Looks like I found out why I was reassigned to his case early today.”

Thame finally spoke, his voice unsteady, dazed. “Is he alive?”

A beat of silence.

“And can we save him?”

Pepper paused and glanced at Thame – he had never heard Thame sound like that, raw, almost territorial, a razor-focused protectiveness he had never directed at any mission target before.

Novák checked the heart-rate waveform again. “Alive, yes. Barely. His vitals are fragile but holding. The stimulants are still metabolizing, but his system is fighting back.”

Thame stepped closer to the pod, fingers curling slightly as if stopping himself from touching the glass.

Novák’s voice softened. “He can survive – if we get him out. If they keep pushing the CSDexohy-A9 cycles, his organs will hit irreversible cascade failure. I’ve seen it happen to the others. One more round, maybe two, and his body won’t come back from it.”

Pepper exhaled slowly. Thame didn’t.

Thame’s voice came low, steady, final. “Then we’re saving him. Whatever it takes.”

Novák froze, startled by the conviction. Pepper didn’t bother to argue. There was no point. Once Thame decided, the rest of them might as well fall in line.

“Give me a moment,” Novák said urgently, rushing to the primary console. “He can’t breathe outside the pod without adjusting the respiratory compensators. The chamber’s filled with oxygen-saturated hydrofluid – if I don’t taper the alveolar support, he’ll go into hypoxic shock the second this opens.”

Pepper blinked at him. “Then move.”

Novák’s fingers flew across the interface, overriding one fail-safe after another. “Disabling the submersion stabilizers… venting the chemoreceptor feedback loop… reducing neuro-suppressant levels to baseline…” His voice grew tighter. “Come on, come on –”

Inside the pod, the man twitched. Then convulsed.

The hydrofluid churned violently around him. His hands clawed uselessly toward the glass, bubbles erupting from his mouth as he began to thrash – lungs fighting instinctively for air he couldn’t reach. The chamber lights flickered red as pressure alarms triggered.

Novák slammed his palm against the console. “The external seal won’t disengage! The manual override is locked by an internal failsafe – I can’t open it!”

The man’s body jerked again, harder this time – panic, drowning, desperation. Thame took one look. Then he raised his gun.

Pepper’s eyes widened. “Thame – what are you –”

“Stand back.”

Pepper froze. Novák stumbled away from the console just as – BANG. The bullet hit the curved glass and skittered off, sparks bursting where it struck the metal frame. Not enough.

BANG.

Hairline fractures spidered across the surface, thin but spreading, webbing outward with each second. The hydrofluid vibrated violently. The man inside thrashed harder, the small chamber shaking under the strain.

He fired again. BANG.

The chamber groaned, a long metallic creak traveling through its core as the fracture lines thickened.

Pepper stepped back fast. “It’s working – Thame, it’s going!”

One final shot. BANG.

The glass ruptured with a deep, sickening crack. The entire side panel blew outward in a burst of pressurized release. A wave of warm, luminous hydrofluid surged from the breach, flooding across the floor, drenching Pepper’s boots in shimmering blue.

And he came with it.

Pepper had no words. But somewhere in his chest, he felt it too. This wasn’t just some poor man in a tank. This was going to change everything.

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

The fluid surged across the lab floor in thick, glowing waves, curling around Thame's boots like molten glass. Warm. Almost unnaturally so.

Still, he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

The chaos around him – the alarms, the groan of the fallen chamber, the clattering tools, the anxious breaths of Pepper and Novák – faded into a dull, distant hum. His breath stalled somewhere in his chest as time slowed to a syrupy drag, thick and slow and full of static.

From the ruptured chamber, he came out. Tumbled out, really.

His body fell in a liquid arc, limp and drenched, as if he were being exhaled by the tank itself. The moment he hit the floor was soundless. Just a soft, wet thud, delicate as rain on a rooftop. He lay in the shimmering pool, half-curled like a child, skin shimmering beneath the flickering blue lights. Tubes detached with faint suction pops, wires snaked away like dying tendrils.

He looked… like he'd been grown in light.

There was no other way to describe it.

His skin was so pale it almost shimmered, but not sickly – luminous, as though lit from within. The chamber’s glow clung to his body, outlining the gentle slopes of his shoulders and hips, catching in the hollow of his collarbones, framing him in an almost unreal softness.

Thame stared. Unblinking. Breath frozen.

He didn’t register that his gun had lowered. His fingers still held it, but loosely now, like an afterthought.

His black hair clung to him like sea silk, streaked with chestnut tones that caught faint flashes of light. It fell over his face, partly hiding it – until the slow sway of the liquid revealed him fully.

His lips were slightly parted. His lashes thick and damp. His jawline sharp yet graceful, his cheeks sunken just enough to show signs of prolonged captivity. His hospital-thin gown clung to his broad shoulders and narrow waist with a near-transparent intimacy, and yet he found himself not staring at his body.

He was caught on his face.

It was haunting. Not just beautiful – achingly beautiful. A kind of beauty that didn’t belong in this place of wires and chemicals and steel. A face that looked as if it had been carved from something sacred. Ethereal. A man who should’ve existed beneath starlight, not fluorescent glare. A man who had no business surviving whatever had kept him here.

“Is he… breathing?” Pepper’s voice broke into the moment like a pebble thrown through a still lake.

Thame took a step forward. He didn’t remember deciding to.

Dr. Novák was already moving, kneeling beside him, careful but frantic. He tilted him gently, pressing two fingers to his neck.

“Pulse is weak,” he murmured. “But steady. He’s alive.”

He stripped off his coat – white and far too large – and draped it around his body. A quiet gesture, but Thame’s chest clenched watching it. The cloth stuck against the soaked shift, shielding him from the sterile cold of the room. From their gazes. From his.

Thame still couldn’t tear his eyes away.

And that was when it happened. Something inside him, silent and buried and long-forgotten, twisted. Tightened.

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t awe. It was something visceral. Protection. Possession. Devotion.

He wanted to put him somewhere safe. Far away from this place. He wanted to shield him, wrap him in warmth, silence the alarms, erase every trace of whatever had brought him here. He wanted to know his name. He wanted to make sure no one ever touched him again – not even a memory of this place.

He didn’t know him. But something inside him had already claimed him.

“Thame.” A touch on his arm. Pepper’s voice. Gentle but sharp. “Snap out of it.”

Thame blinked. The fog shattered.

He gave a curt nod, stepping forward without a word. He crouched beside him, careful and slow, and slipped his arms beneath his light frame. He weighed so little – far too little for someone his size – and his warmth seeped through the lab coat and into his skin. His cheek fell naturally against Thame’s shoulder, and strands of wet hair clung to his neck.

His breath caught in his throat. Just a faint rasp. But it was real.

He looked down. And something inside him broke.

Thame didn’t care that this wasn’t part of the mission. Thame didn’t care that carrying him would slow them down. Thame didn’t care that more guards were coming, or that their escape window was narrowing by the second.

All he knew was that he, the person in his arms, was who he was waiting for – who was calling out to him. This person was his now. Like a vow.

“Let’s go,” he said finally, voice quieter than before. Rougher. But certain.

No one questioned him. Because in that moment, everyone could feel it. The mission had changed.

And so had Thame.

Chapter Text

They barely had a second to breathe.

Pepper stood frozen in the middle of the chaos, heart hammering behind his ribs. His eyes darted to Thame – no, not Thame. The man in Thame’s arms. The way he held him, pressed to his chest like he was something sacred and irreplaceable, made Pepper's throat tighten.

Then –

The sharp crack-crack-crack of automatic gunfire echoed through the hallway outside. Muffled, but getting closer.

“Shit,” Pepper hissed, spinning toward the door. His fingers curled tighter around the grip of his pistol. “They're coming back.”

Through the static in his earpiece came Jun’s voice – tight, clipped, all business. “We’ve got incoming from the north corridor. Armed. Thermal readers. We are moving towards you.”

Every muscle in Pepper’s body tensed. He turned to Thame again.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. With a man in his arms and danger closing in from both ends, Thame looked calm. Like war didn’t touch him. Like it never did. He adjusted his grip around him, more secure, his angel-like face tucked against the crook of Thame’s neck. Possessive. Protective.Personal.

Pepper had never seen him like that.

“We’re going,” Thame said simply, voice low but sharp.

Pepper nodded once, then turned and cracked the lab door open slowly, peering through the gap.

The hallway outside was thick with fading smoke, curling in thin ghost-like tendrils along the tile floor. But behind it, the sounds were unmistakable. The stomping rhythm of tactical boots. Radio crackles. Commands shouted in short bursts in a language Pepper didn’t understand. And somewhere further off – the hum of reinforced drones powering up.

His blood went cold.

He turned back just in time to see Jun and Nano burst into the lab, guns raised.

“We need to leave,” Jun said, voice urgent but steady. “Now. They’re flanking from both wings.”

“I’ve got her,” Thame said again. No hesitation. Like he’d already decided that hell could open up beneath them, and he still wouldn’t put him down.

Pepper took point, slipping past the others. “Two-by-two formation. I’ll clear. Dylan – where are we on exit?”

Over comms, Dylan’s voice crackled. “Working on it. You’ve got less than three minutes before that corridor seals.”

“Dr. Novák,” Pepper barked, glancing at the older man as he pressed his back against the wall. “Options?”

The scientist was panting, sweat glistening on his forehead, but his mind was still ticking. “There’s a side access chute – maintenance tunnel. For emergency med evac. Hall 6A. End of the corridor, thirty meters out. Storage wall hides the door.”

“Coordinates?” Nano asked, already pulling up a schematic on his device.

“Uh what… Coordina – it's on the right. Then straight. You’ll need my card to override.”

“Let’s move,” Thame said – final, commanding.

And they burst into motion.

Pepper took the lead, instincts snapping into place like muscle memory. His heart was thudding in his throat, but his movements were fluid. Controlled. The rhythm of a hundred missions, baked into his bones.

He pivoted into the hallway and swept his arm left – clear. Smoke was working in their favor now, curling just thick enough to disorient, just light enough to navigate. He motioned them forward with a flick of his wrist.

Behind him, he heard the shuffle of Novák’s boots, the low rustle of Thame’s jacket, and the soft exhale of the man against Thame’s chest.

Pepper took the next corner, gun raised. A shadow flickered. No, not a shadow – a guard. Fully armed, visor up, already lifting his rifle. Pepper dropped to a crouch, raised his sidearm, and fired twice.

Pop. Pop.

The guard folded before he hit the ground. Jun was on his left in an instant, securing the body and retrieving the man's pass key. “We’re good.”

The hallway ahead forked.

Noise behind them now – shouts, footfalls growing louder. A high-pitched mechanical whir.

“They’ve got drones,” Pepper snapped. “Two incoming.”

Nano tossed him a small smoke grenade. Pepper pulled the pin, lobbed it hard into the left corridor – where he knew the footsteps were thickest.

It burst like a thundercloud.

Gunfire erupted inside the haze behind them, blind and misdirected.

“Keep moving!” Pepper barked, heart racing now. He could feel it in his teeth, in the tremble of his fingers as they turned the last corner..

A wall. Unremarkable. Grey metal. Except –

“There!” Novák darted forward, his trembling hands slapping his ID card against the hidden panel.

It blinked red. He sapped it again, a little softly this time. Blue this time. Then: click. A seam split open down the middle, revealing a narrow chute, dimly lit. The interior smelled like metal and antiseptic.

“Go!” Pepper ordered sharply, and the team moved in, one by one.

He waited until Jun passed him, then ducked inside last.

As the door hissed shut behind him, the last thing he saw was the hallway they’d just fled from – flooding with soldiers.

They’d made it.. But only just. And they’d made it with Novák. And with….him.

And Pepper, finally catching his breath, looked ahead at Thame – still holding him like he was made of glass – and realized that nothing about this mission was going to be simple anymore.

Not with him in the picture.

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

They burst through the maintenance tunnel’s final door with the momentum of a storm.

The metal slammed shut behind them, and Dylan’s voice clicked in over comms: “You’re out of range – exit confirmed. Perimeter team standing by.”

Outside, the world was thick with the velvet black of night. Beyond the tree line, the silhouettes of old industrial fences loomed, and just beyond that – freedom. The building was behind them now, silent and looming like a predator in the dark.

Jun didn’t waste a second.

He spun around, popped open the side pouch of his vest, and pulled out two compact concussive grenades. No frags. Just chaos.

Nano was already at his side, planting a secondary device near the rusted fire escape.

“Ten-second delay?” Nano asked.

“Five. We want confusion, not carnage.”

Thame was moving steadily through the clearing, cradling the man in both arms, coat wrapped tightly around his soaked frame. Pepper walked beside him, shielding them both with the sweep of his body. Novák limped close behind.

“Go, go,” Jun muttered, pulling the pin on the first canister.

They were already sprinting by the time he lobbed the grenades. One landed near the back generator. The other rolled into the grass near a cracked drainage vent.

They were nearly at the van when –

BOOM.

The ground trembled with twin explosions. Not devastating – but enough to throw up a spray of dirt and smoke into the sky, bright orange against the black. Enough to scramble the heat sensors. Enough to jam every radio channel in a five-hundred-meter radius.

As they dove into the vehicle, slamming the doors shut, Jun cast one last glance back at the building.

No sirens. No retaliation. But they’d be coming. Soon.

He slid into his seat, eyes sharp.

“We’ve got maybe ninety seconds before backup flanks this road,” he said.

Dylan didn’t hesitate. The engine roared to life, and the van peeled out of the gravel and into the night. The lab disappeared behind them.

Jun glanced over his shoulder – and for the briefest moment, he saw Thame sitting in the back bench, cradling the frail man against his chest like he was already something precious.

Jun didn’t say a word. But he saw it. The real war hadn’t even started yet.

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

The road stretched ahead like a shadowed ribbon, twisting through the outskirts of the city and into the unknown. The van’s engine hummed low, a steady white noise beneath the tension that saturated the air inside.

Pepper sat behind the driver’s seat, angled sideways so he could see everyone.

Thame hadn’t said a word.

He sat near the back, one arm cradling the man against his chest, the other hand curled protectively around the edge of his body as though daring the world to even think about touching her.

He was limp in his arms, his soaked hair still clinging to his skin, his body wrapped in Novák’s oversized lab coat and one of their spare jackets. But even unconscious, he seemed to occupy space like a gravity well. Something about him pulled at people. Even Pepper could feel it – though not like that. Not the way Thame did.

Pepper had known Thame long enough to recognize obsession when it took root. And this? This wasn’t just a tactical rescue anymore.

It was personal.

Novák sat on the bench opposite them, pale and shaking, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other resting on his knee. There was a hollowed-out look in his eyes now, like the kind of man who had seen too many things that had scraped the soul out of him.

Dylan sat beside the scientist, eyeing him warily, a hand not too far from the medical kit. Nano was up front, co-piloting with Jun, who was quietly navigating them out of the hot zone through a pre-mapped series of lesser-known routes.

“He’s been in that lab for over a year,” Novák said quietly, voice gravelly, like every word scraped its way out of him. “They call him Subject 4. The first successful candidate. We – they – didn’t expect him to survive the cellular sequencing, but… he did. He adapted. Changed.”

Pepper caught the subtle shift in Thame’s shoulders.

The tension that had already been coiled like steel wire… grew sharper.

“He has a name, right?” Thame said, voice like ice cracking over a frozen lake. “Then say that.”

Novák blinked. “Yes. Po. That is his name. He used to say it to himself. Over and over. Like he was trying to hold onto it. Like he was trying to keep a piece of himself alive. ”

Pepper watched his brother’s jaw tighten. The arm around Po drew in a little closer.

“He’s not an experiment,” Thame said coldly. “He’s a man. Someone’s son. Maybe someone’s brother. No one chooses this. No one volunteers for this kind of torture.”

“I know,” Novák murmured, voice thick with shame, looking away. “I didn’t say he did – I just – that is what they told me.”

It went silent.

Heavy silence. The kind that settled like gunpowder – the kind that could ignite with the smallest spark. Pepper locked eyes with Jun’s in the rearview mirror. Jun, reading the storm gathering in Thame’s expression, cleared his throat lightly.

“Thame… maybe you should let me hold him for a while. You can coordinate with HQ – report to Kittisak that we’ve secured the asset.”

“No.”

The word cracked out of Thame like the snap of a tripwire.

His arms tightened around Po with a sudden, fierce certainty – pulling him in, shielding him, tucking Po’s limp body against his chest like something precious someone was trying to steal. His posture shifted, subtly but unmistakably predatory: shoulders angling forward, chin dropping, eyes narrowing into a warning.

“He stays with me.”

Pepper sucked in a breath. Jun froze completely. Because this wasn’t Thame being stubborn or overprotective or emotionally compromised. This was primal.

The kind of possessiveness born from fear and fury and the gut-deep instinct to protect what mattered. The kind that didn’t need to be spoken to be felt.

Jun didn’t push it. Pepper didn’t dare. Even Novák lowered his gaze, as if something ancient and territorial had just entered the room. Thame shifted Po higher in his arms, holding him like someone might try to tear him away at any second.

And Pepper understood then – really understood.

Thame wasn’t just protecting Po. He was claiming him.

And God help anyone – scientist, soldier, or superior officer – who thinks they can take Po from him now.

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

His weight hadn’t changed.

He was still impossibly light in his arms – like someone who had once lived in the sun but had been starved of it for years.

The van jolted over uneven terrain, rattling loud enough to shake loose bolts, but Thame didn’t shift his grip, didn’t readjust, didn’t even blink. Sweat gathered at his collar, soaked into his shirt, slid down his spine – but none of it mattered. His arms were locked around Po like steel brackets.

He had carried wounded operatives. Terrified civilians. Bodies dragging in and out of consciousness.

And yet – Nothing had ever felt like this.

Po lay limp against his chest, head tucked beneath Thame’s jaw, breath warm and fragile against his throat. Every few seconds, Po’s fingers twitched – small, involuntary movements like he was brushing against memories sharp enough to cut him from the inside.

Thame lowered his gaze.

In the dim overhead light, Po’s face looked carved from shadows – delicate features softened by exhaustion, lashes clumped with moisture, skin pale where it wasn’t bruised. Too thin. Too quiet. Too still.

Why were you there? Who did this to you?

The question burned through him, molten and personal in a way he didn’t understand and didn’t care to analyze. Someone had reduced this man to a ghost of himself. Someone had made him this fragile… yet somehow strong enough to survive a place built to break people.

“He adapted,” Novák had said. No. That wasn’t the word. He endured.

Thame shifted him just slightly, pulling his jacket higher over Po’s bare shoulders. The protruding collarbone made something cold and murderous settle in the pit of his stomach. The mottled bruises – faint, ugly shapes beneath the skin – made his fingers curl tighter, jaw lock harder.

The fury rose, hot and feral. He swallowed it back only because the man in his arms needed quiet, not rage. But the rage didn’t leave. It coiled low, waiting.

And Thame knew this with perfect clarity: Whoever was responsible for this – whoever had dared lay hands on Po – would answer for it.

“We’re twenty minutes out,” Jun said from the front. “Should be able to reach HQ once we hit the ridge up ahead. We’re back in range.”

Thame nodded but said nothing. He was tired. Not in body, but in spirit. And yet, something sharp had awoken inside him ever since they’d cracked that chamber open. Something dangerous. Something territorial.

He’d never felt anything like it before.

A part of him hated how intense it was. Another part didn’t care.

Jun twisted halfway in his seat. “Thame. Want to give Kittisak a sitrep?”

Thame finally glanced up. “In a minute.”

Jun’s brow arched, but he didn’t push. None of them did. Not even Pepper, who was watching him like a hawk from his seat near the side door.

Thame turned his gaze back to Po and brushed a damp strand of hair off his cheek. His lips parted slightly in his sleep. His breath hitched, almost like a sob, and then smoothed out again.

Every muscle in his body tensed.

If anyone ever touches him again…

The van hit a bump, jerking them slightly. Nano grumbled something from the front. “Signal’s fading again. We just lost connection to base.”

Thame frowned. “What?”

“Call dropped. Could be a dead zone. Should reconnect in a minute or two.”

But it didn’t. Instead, the van’s console gave a beep. Then static. Then – nothing. Complete silence.

“Guys…” Dylan’s voice came from the back. “You might want to see this.”

Thame turned just as Dylan leaned forward, pulling up the real-time drone feed from their dash tablet. The signal was glitchy – but not before showing the flicker of heat signatures.

Dozens.

Lining both sides of the road. Moving fast.

The hairs on the back of Thame’s neck rose.

“Jun,” he said, voice like steel, “Hit the brakes. Now.”

The van screeched to a halt as Jun yanked the wheel to the right, pulling them to a stop at the edge of the road where the forest began to thicken.

Thame looked out the back window.

And his blood went cold.

From the shadows of the trees and the hills behind them, silhouettes emerged. One by one. Two. Five. Ten. Dozens.

More than fifty armed men – unmarked, masked, and carrying military-grade weapons – stepped into the clearing like shadows made flesh.

“Contact front and rear,” Pepper said grimly, already reaching for his rifle. “We're boxed in.”

For a split second, no one breathed.

Then Jun turned around, face hard. “Duck!”

RATATATATAT.

Gunfire exploded around them. The side of the van lit up with sparks as bullets slammed into the armor plating. One shattered the window beside Pepper, glass scattering like ice.

Po stirred in Thame’s arms, whimpering faintly as he crouched low, shielding his body with his own.

“Hold positions!” Thame shouted, heart pounding in his ears. “Return fire on my mark!”

The barrage lasted five, maybe six seconds – loud enough to split the world in two. Then silence. The kind of silence that meant they were coming. Heavy footfalls approached. The crunch of boots on gravel.

Thame set Po down carefully in the corner of the van, tucking him between the seats like something sacred. “Stay with me,” he whispered, even though he couldn’t hear.

Then he grabbed his gun.

As the first soldier reached for the van’s side door, Jun kicked it open from inside and fired point-blank – one bullet, center mass. The man dropped without a sound.

“Go!” Thame barked.

They burst out of the van, bullets flying again as more men surged from the tree line.

Nano dragged Novák to cover while Dylan fired from behind the wheel. Pepper rolled across the gravel and took out two on the left flank, moving like a shadow, precise and brutal.

Thame was already in motion, every thought drowned out by one thing: Protect him. Protect him. Protect him.

But even as they fought, even as they pushed back with every inch of training they had, Thame knew – they were outnumbered.

Badly.

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

It was a storm of metal and smoke.

The moment Jun stepped out of the van, he hit the gravel in a shoulder roll, boots skidding as he braced behind the bumper. The world was chaos – flashes of muzzle fire, the metallic bark of rifles, smoke grenades hissing out misty clouds into the open road. Leaves from nearby trees fluttered down like ash.

“Left flank, four incoming!” Pepper shouted.

Jun didn’t even think. He turned, sighted, and fired twice – short, efficient bursts. The first man went down with a grunt; the second was clipped in the thigh and dragged back by another. They were organized, aggressive… but sloppy. Too much force. Too little coordination. Mercs. Not trained soldiers.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t deadly.

A bullet ricocheted off the van’s hood, barely missing his cheek. He ducked instinctively, heart thudding in a rapid rhythm that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with focus.

Nano was crouched by the rear wheel, supporting Dr. Novák, who had taken a hit to the shoulder. Blood ran in thick rivulets down his arm, soaking the side of his shirt. His face was pale, teeth gritted as he tried – and failed – not to cry out.

“I need pressure on this wound now,” Nano asserted, tearing open a bandage with his teeth.

Jun crawled toward them on one knee, shielding their position with suppressing fire. “Status?”

“Through-and-through. No exit damage, but he’s losing blood.”

Novák tried to speak, failed, and clutched at Nano’s vest. “The boy – they want him, not me – don’t let them take him – ”

“He’s safe,” Jun said, glancing toward the van.

Only… He wasn’t just lying there - he was awake and alive and… trying to stand up?

Panic kicked up sharp and cold in his gut. “Thame – Po!”

Thame, who’d just taken down two mercs with brutal precision, snapped around at his name. His eyes widened. He was already sprinting.

“Cover him!” Jun shouted, rising half out of cover to lay down fire in every direction he could. He could see more enemies regrouping behind the tree line, trying to circle them. Dylan fired over the hood from the passenger seat, sharp and clean, a line of defense holding barely against the tide.

This is getting out of control.

A scream somewhere in the distance – one of the mercs – cut through the noise. Then another.

Jun paused, confused. The gunfire hadn’t stopped, but something had shifted. The rhythm. The energy. There was a beat of hesitation in the enemy’s formation now.

And then he saw it. The air shimmered near the edge of the road, just outside the smoke’s edge.

Barefoot. Small. Standing calmly amid the chaos as though he had walked out of a dream.

Po.

Jun blinked.

He was facing the enemy line. Alone. Unmoving.

And the soldiers – those goddamn ruthless mercenaries who’d come in like predators – were afraid. Jun didn’t shoot. He couldn’t.

Because what he saw next didn’t belong to any combat manual he’d ever read.

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

The world came back in fragments.

A hiss. A crack. A sound like a thousand fireworks going off all at once, distant and sharp.

Then – pain.

Not the kind he had known for months. Not the needles. Not the burning beneath the skin. This was something else. Raw. Real. Alive.

Po sucked in a gasp.

His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, everything burned. Light, sound, smell. His senses overloaded like circuits under a surge. His lungs ached as he dragged in air for the first time on his own, without tubes or masks or monitored machines.

Everything was too much.

He was lying on something soft. A bench? No – fabric. Moving. Jostling.

The space around him shuddered, rattled. His fingers twitched, and he felt the damp cling of something cold on his skin. His clothes were soaked. He was wrapped in a jacket – a man’s jacket – too big for him. Familiar voices echoed in the distance. Shouting.

Panic clawed at him.

Where was he? What was happening? Gunfire. That was gunfire.

He jerked upright. Or tried to. His body ached like he'd been ripped apart and stitched back together wrong. His vision blurred, heart pounding. He forced herself up, swinging his legs down from the bench – or was it a van seat? – and stumbled toward the door.

He could hear it now.

Them. The guards.

The same heavy boots, the same shouts in sharp clipped dialects. The same fear that had lived in for months came rushing back like a wave.

But alongside it… something else.

He paused.

Through the half-opened window, he saw – shapes moved in and out of the strobing gunfire – five men, cutting across the chaos with purpose.

Not guards.

Something in their movement told him instantly. These men were different – coordinated, disciplined, moving with the kind of instinct that only comes from surviving hell together. Two dragging a wounded teammate. One sending controlled bursts of cover fire. Another shouting clipped orders over comms.

And the last – Him.

The man from the lab. The one who had lifted Po like he mattered. Held him like he was something worth saving. He was sprinting toward Po now, voice raw, shouting his name as if it hurt.

Po blinked, mind fractured, vision stuttering like broken film. But something – some old, primal instinct buried beneath all the pain – locked onto that man. Anchored itself there.

They were fighting for him. Bleeding for him. Risking their lives for a stranger whose own memories barely fit together. Why? He didn’t know that. Didn’t know their names. Didn’t even know his own history clearly. But he knew one truth with absolute, crystalline certainty:

The guards were the ones he feared. And these five men – these men were his to protect.

Po stepped down from the van. Bare feet striking damp earth, cold and gritty. His legs trembled under him, weak from months of stillness, but they held. They held.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Po stood under his own power. He turned toward the line of guards advancing through the trees.

And the forest – scarred by gunfire, heavy with smoke – seemed to pause. As if it recognized something waking inside him.

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

Thame tore through the tree line, lungs burning, boots slipping in the mud. Gunfire cracked somewhere behind him, but all he saw – all he cared about – was the van ahead.

The van door was open.

And Po – Po was outside.

Bare feet sinking into wet earth, hospital gown fluttering in the breeze, skin pale against the dark forest. He stood several paces away, shoulders trembling, posture wavering like a newborn foal learning how to exist again.

Thame’s stomach dropped.

What the hell – ? Who let him out? Why is he standing –

“PO!” The name ripped out of him, raw and louder than he intended.

Po didn’t turn.

He stood there, facing the guards, small and alone and exposed, nothing but a thin gown and that damned hospital coat between him and the world that had already taken enough from him.

Thame’s heartbeat slammed against his ribs. He sprinted harder. His entire body moved on instinct, closing the distance, trying to reach him, to grab him, shield him, pull him back to safety, anything –

“Po! Don’t move! I’m right here – just – just stay with me –!”

He was almost there. Ten steps…six…four – And then he couldn’t move. Not a stumble. Not hesitation.

His body locked.

From the soles of his boots to his jaw, something seized him in an invisible vise. His momentum cut so sharply it almost snapped him forward. He froze mid-stride, one hand outstretched toward Po, breath stuck in his throat.

“What –” His voice cracked. “Po?”

His muscles strained. Nothing budged. He couldn’t even blink properly. A cold shock ran through him.

This wasn’t fear. This wasn’t adrenaline. This was external. Power. Raw. Awakened. Instinctive.

Po’s power.

It rolled through the air like a pressure wave, unseen but unmistakable—dense, humming, electric. The leaves around them trembled, though there was no wind. Dirt vibrated under Thame’s boots.

Po swayed slightly where he stood, unaware – or half-aware – of what he had just unleashed. His eyes, still distant and unfocused, carried a strange shimmer, a faint crackle of something not entirely human under the surface.

“Po,” he whispered, staring at the trembling figure who had somehow stopped him cold without even looking his way. “Hey – hey, look at me. It’s okay. I'm here.”

Thame’s heart hammered against his immobilized ribs.

He tried again to move, to take even a single step. He couldn’t. His body belonged to Po’s power now.

And finally… finally, he turned. Their eyes met. Only for a second. But something ancient stirred in Thame’s chest. Not lust. Not curiosity. But recognition.

He’s mine – the thought in Thame’s mind was wild, primal. Not born of logic or training – but instinct. He was his to protect. And his to lose.

Po blinked once. Then he turned back to the armed men. His fingers flexed.

And the forest exploded into chaos.

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

It began with the wind.

No, not wind.

The air shifted. Thickened. Like the forest itself had paused in reverence.

Thame could feel it – a pressure wrapping around him, crawling up his spine like static. His instincts screamed. The tactical part of him wanted to move, to duck, to drag Po back and shield him. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Because something else had taken hold of the clearing.

Him.

Po stood unmoving at the edge of the van, his bare feet grounded like roots, his soaked clothes clinging to his starved frame, haloed in the bluish glow of the emergency lights from the van’s cracked interior. Smoke curled around his ankles. The flames from one of the exploded jeeps cast dancing shadows across his skin.

But it was his sheer presence that swallowed the world.

His spine straightened slowly, like a puppet being pulled upright by unseen threads. His arms trembled as he raised them, fingers unfurling with eerie grace. His drenched hair floated, lifted by the unseen energy crackling in the air.

Thame had never seen anything like it. Not in warzones. Not in simulations. Not in his deepest darkest dreams. The mercenaries faltered. Confused. The ones closest to him were already backing away, guns shaking in their hands.

He’s not a threat, something in Thame wanted to shout. He’s the storm.

Then his hand lifted. Deliberate. Effortless.

The nearest jeep – two tons of steel and weaponry – screamed as it rose from the ground. The tires hovered a foot, then two. Metal bent and groaned. Then –

BOOM.

The vehicle launched sideways into the trees like a paper toy, snapping trunks like twigs before detonating on impact. The forest shook. Men screamed. Not a bluff.

“Holy shit,” Pepper breathed behind him, awe laced with raw fear.

Po moved his other hand. A flick of his wrist – that’s all it took.

The entire front line of mercenaries shot backward as if hit by a wave of pure kinetic energy. Bodies flew, weapons scattered, groans of pain and panic filling the smoky air.

Rifles ripped from hands. Sidearms spun in mid-air, then slammed to the earth with violent force. Helmets lifted from heads and were crunched against trees as if swatted by a giant hand.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t scream. He commanded.

Thame could barely breathe. He wasn’t sure any of them were. Nano had stopped mid-reload, staring slack-jawed. Jun had gone completely still, crouched behind cover, mouth open. Even Dylan – normally the calmest under fire – was frozen mid-step, eyes reflecting the pulsing glow that had begun to ripple around Po’s body like a mirage.

Then he stepped forward. And the world bowed.

Leaves spiraled upward as if gravity were unsure. The ground trembled beneath him. The lights from the van flickered once, twice, then shattered in a burst of sparks.

The air buzzed like a storm caught in a wire.

And then – he staggered. It was like a string snapped. The wind died. The glow vanished.

Po's arms dropped to his sides. His knees buckled. His chest rose and fell in frantic, shallow breaths. A faint whimper left his throat, like a child fighting sleep.

Thame felt the force release its hold – and he was already moving.

Po began to fall, and Thame was there – arms catching him before he hit the gravel. His body was burning with heat, sweat glistening across his neck and forehead. His pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. His head lolled against Thame’s chest. And his fingers – delicate, bruised – curled weakly into his shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, barely audible. “You did good. You’re safe now.”

He didn’t respond. He was unconscious again. But in his arms, he felt heavier now. Real. Human. And somehow… his.

He looked up. The battlefield was still littered with chaos – scattered weapons, groaning men, smoking wreckage.

And yet… it wasn’t over.

The second wave of mercenaries, farther behind the tree line, had regrouped. Shouting. Re-arming.

Thame’s gaze snapped to his team.

“Jun. Left flank. Nano, get the doc behind cover and set up suppressive fire. Pepper, you’re with me. Dylan – eyes on the ridge.”

Jun snapped back into motion, nodding once before vanishing behind a tree. Nano grunted acknowledgment and dragged Novak behind an overturned jeep. Pepper was already sprinting forward.

Adrenaline surged.

The team moved like a single organism – swift, sharp, practiced. Thame laid Po gently into the footwell of the van, where smoke still coiled around its open side. He pulled the torn blanket over him and stood, grabbing his rifle.

The forest exploded again. This time with fire and bullets.

Jun took out two men with precise headshots, barely breaking cover. Dylan lobbed a homemade flash charge that sent the rear squadron scattering, disoriented. Pepper sprinted up the incline, taking out one of the riflemen with a flying elbow before disabling another with a brutal spin kick.

Thame moved like death incarnate. Silent. Lethal. Every step calculated, every shot intentional.

But his mind kept flicking back to the man in the van. To the force that had ripped the forest in two just moments earlier. To his shaking fingers. His breath against his neck.

When the last mercenary dropped – weapon tossed aside, hands raised in surrender – the forest finally went quiet again.

Birds stirred in the canopy above. Smoke drifted lazily through the beams of moonlight. The danger had passed. For now.

But in Thame’s chest, a storm was just beginning.

He returned to the van, brushing aside debris, and sank to his knees beside Po. His palm brushed his cheek. Still warm. Still breathing. And still the most beautiful and powerful thing he’d ever seen.

“Whatever they did to you,” he murmured, his voice rough, “I’ll undo it. Whatever you’ve lost, we’ll get it back. I swear to you.”

Behind him, Pepper climbed into the van, breathless.

“Is he okay?”

Thame didn’t look away. “He’s… asleep.”

“Good,” Pepper said. “Because if he wakes up and tries to throw another truck, I’m not sure my ribs can handle it.”

Thame’s lips twitched. Just slightly. But he didn’t speak again. His gaze stayed on him. Po. And somewhere, deep inside, he already knew – he’d kill anyone who tried to take Po away from him.

Chapter Text

The van barreled down the old logging road, shocks groaning with every rut and dip. Inside, the air felt thick – like the forest itself hadn’t shaken off what it had witnessed.

Po lay unconscious in Thame’s arms again, his breathing slow but steady. His damp hair clung to Thame’s shirt. His bare feet were still streaked with dirt from the moment he’d stepped outside and right before his powers detonated into existence like a silent explosion.

Thame cradled him tighter, thumb brushing soothingly across Po’s temple. “Shh… easy. I’ve got you.”

A low murmur. A voice that didn’t belong on Thame’s tongue – not in battle, not around anyone but the man sleeping against his chest.

Jun kept his eyes on the road; Dylan kept glancing over his shoulder and out the window, as if in a jittery and unsettling loop.

Dylan finally turned from the window. “We should go back to HQ. Novak is priority one. Medical can help him. And whatever happened with –” he gestured vaguely toward Po “ – that needs to be evaluated by someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Thame’s eyes lifted sharply. “No.”

Jun added, “Thame’s right. Not now.”

Dylan stared. “HQ knows we were retrieving Novák. They’re expecting him. We can’t just disappear.”

“They don’t know about him,” Thame said, nodding toward the unconscious boy in his arms. “And I’m not risking him by walking into a building full of people who might start asking questions we can’t afford to answer.”

Jun nodded. “And don’t forget – Kittisak specifically told us to contact him only about this mission. Not HQ. Not operations. Him.”

That shut Dylan up.

“We call Kittisak,” Thame said. “Now.”

Static buzzed. Then Kittisak’s voice cut through – tense but controlled.

“LYKN – Report.”

Jun went first. “We have Novák. Alive. Stable enough. We’re en route away from the engagement site.”

A pause. A good pause. Kittisak had expected Novák.

Then Thame leaned in, voice quieter. “We also… recovered an unknown.”

Kittisak’s tone sharpened. “Unknown?”

“Found in the lab,” Jun continued carefully. He saw Thame keep his palm spread protectively between Po’s shoulder blades. “Wasn’t listed in the intel. Someone they weren’t supposed to have.”

Thame shot him a quick look – subtle approval. Jun hadn’t mentioned powers. Or Po’s name. Or the way the world had bent around him.

“And there’s more,” Jun added. “We were hit by mercs. Not the lab’s sleepy ass guards. Well-funded. Coordinated. Independent.”

Another long silence. Then Kittisak spoke – rapid, tense, in the voice he only used when the ground was shifting under him.

“Listen to me carefully. Do not return to HQ.”

Kittisak exhaled hard through his nose. “I don’t know who or what that unknown is – but if they were worth attacking your unit over, then you’re carrying someone dangerous. Or someone valuable.”

He’s valuable – Thame’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled slightly around Po. Dylan let out a quiet curse.

Kittisak continued, “HQ has been extremely secretive about this operation. They’re pressuring Wanchai to hand the mission to a different task force. I don’t know why. They don’t even know LYKN is already deployed, or that you have Novák.”

Jun exchanged a glance with Thame. “They don’t know this mission turned into a rescue one?”

“No,” Kittisak said sharply. “Wanchai kept it between us. HQ thinks you’re still prepping. They think Novák is still missing. And if you walk in with him – and an unidentified survivor – you’ll trigger a storm none of us can put out.”

Thame tightened his hold on Po instinctively. “So the pressure isn’t from enemies – it’s internal.”

“Yes.” The single word carried weight. “Power plays. Access to Novák. Black budget research. Too much interest from people who shouldn’t care this much. Until I understand why, I’m not letting you step foot near HQ with him.”

“And the unknown?” Jun asked.

Kittisak hesitated, a flicker of unease even through the static. “I don’t know who he is. Or why he was there. Or why mercenaries went after you.” He exhaled, voice lowering. “But I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Thame didn’t hesitate. “Understood,” he said.

“Good. Stay dark. I’ll reach out when I can.” The line cut.

Jun exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We need a safe place.”

“One that isn’t connected to HQ,” Dylan added quietly.

Thame already had his phone in hand, cycling to a deeper encryption. He called Koko.

Koko answered immediately. “Thame – What’s wrong?”

“I need somewhere off-grid,” Thame said. “Cash only. No cameras, no registry. Somewhere far from Pakkret.”

Without missing a beat, Koko replied, “There’s a motel on the opposite side of the city. Friend of mine owns it – keeps things quiet. That should work for you. Pay in cash. Don’t use names.”

Jun nodded approvingly. “Opposite side keeps us unpredictable.”

Dylan muttered, “And far from anyone who saw the van leave the forest.”

Koko’s voice softened. “Are you guys ok?”

Thame glanced around the van at LYKN, then at Novák and then down at Po – pale, trembling slightly even in sleep. “We will be,” Thame said, voice low, fierce. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Koko didn’t push. “Texting you the address. Be careful.”

Thame ended the call and quietly adjusted Po’s gown, tucking the thin fabric closer to his chest. Jun accelerated. Dylan braced himself.

Because now they had two secrets – Novák and…. Po.

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

The gravel cracked under the van’s tires as they pulled into the back lot of the motel.

It was a squat, two-story building – lime-washed walls now dulled with mold and years of monsoon dust, fluorescent signs flickering like dying stars above the front office. The kind of place that didn’t log plate numbers or ask for real names. Just cash and silence. A sanctuary right by the airport for criminals and fugitives. Or, in their case, secret agents, a critically wounded scientist, an unknown unconscious man with impossible powers – and a dozen unanswered questions.

Nano shifted in the passenger seat, glancing at the rearview mirror. “No tails,” he muttered. “Still clear.”

Dylan gave a small nod, already killing the engine. “Let’s keep it that way.”

They didn’t waste time.

Within minutes, they checked in under fake names – aliases ingrained in muscle memory from years of protocol drills. Dylan handled the payment in cash, while Nano kept his head low, eyes flicking across every shadow in the front office.

Room 4. Room 5. Room 6.

Three rooms. No questions. No ID. No one batted an eye when one man carried an unconscious lump of blanket towards the direction of the rooms, and another half-support-walked an older man. The clerk didn’t so much as blink – just handed them the keys and returned to the warm glow of the small TV behind the desk.

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

Nano and Dylan took Room 4.

It was forgettable. Dingy. The air stale and the walls faintly yellowed with old smoke. But the back faced a wooded thicket, and the door locks held firm. Good enough.

Nano slung his duffel onto the bed and immediately unpacked the recon kit – an outdated but thoroughly scrubbed laptop, two burner tablets, a miniature satellite uplink, a directional mic, and a signal blocker. Dylan moved to the curtain without a word, peeling it back an inch to scan the empty lot.

Across from him, Nano had opened a tablet and pulled up a local schematic, which included power lines, sewer layouts, and known blind zones.

Dylan turned to him – “They don’t know what he is, do they?”

“Do we?” Nano muttered.

Dylan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. “I’ll monitor perimeters,” he said instead. “We cycle shifts. Eyes on every exit.”

“All clear,” he said after a brief pause, without looking back – a silent sentinel by the window, watching.

Nano dropped onto the edge of the bed and exhaled hard. The kind of breath that left a hollow behind it.

“He saved us back there,” he said. His voice was quiet. Frayed.

Dylan didn’t turn. “I don’t think he even knew what he was doing – it was almost like it was instinct.”

“Exactly,” Nano murmured. “He nearly tore the forest in half and didn’t even blink. Not until it was over.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And now he’s in there. Barely breathing. Covered in scars like he’s been carved apart and stitched back up for months.”

“They came for him, didn’t they - not Novák but for him…. For Po. For their Subject 4 or whatever.” Dylan said, cold edge cutting through his words.

Nano’s jaw clenched. “He’s not a subject. He’s a man –”

Dylan didn’t argue. He just hummed, almost like he did not know how to answer.

Which is why, for reasons he didn’t fully understand yet, the weight in Nano’s chest kept growing heavier with every second they sat in the dark.

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

Room 5 smelled like old cigarettes and lemon-scented cleaner – cheap motel sterility that clung to the peeling walls like a bad memory.

Pepper pushed the door shut behind him and exhaled. “Temporary home sweet fucking home.”

Jun didn’t respond. He was already crouched beside Novak, who lay on the room’s single double bed, eyes closed after the high dosage of painkillers hit, his breathing shallow but stable. The bleeding had mostly stopped thanks to their field patches and the pressure wrap they’d slapped on back at the van, but the man looked rough – pale, lips dry, blood crusted around his side.

Pepper peeled off his jacket and tossed it onto the foot of the bed. “Okay. Supplies. I’ll drive. You make a list?”

Jun nodded, his eyes never leaving Novak. “Need gauze, betadine, morphine or something close, needle and thread, antiseptic spray. Gloves. Saline. Antibiotics, if we’re lucky.”

“Got it. Should we grab snacks too? I’m voting yes.”

Jun finally glanced at him, one brow arching. “He’s bleeding out and you want Cheetos?”

Pepper shrugged with a crooked grin. “If I pass out from low sustenance, you’re not gonna have anyone to help you patch him up.”

He got a faint twitch of a smile from Jun. Barely. But it was something.

They didn’t speak much on the drive – too tired, too wired – but they moved quickly, hitting a 24-hour pharmacy a few blocks away. Everything purchased with cash and charm, Pepper chatting with the night pharmacist about a fictional camping accident and his “dumbass uncle” who tripped on a tent rope and landed on a rock.

Jun, of course, said nothing. Just stood tall and glared, letting Pepper play the friendly idiot.

By the time they got back to the room, Novak hadn’t moved. Pepper helped Jun unpack the bag while Jun went to work like a surgeon without credentials. Silent. Precise. Brutal.

Pepper cleaned the instruments in the tiny motel sink. Glanced at the bloodied gauze pile on the floor and then back at Jun. “How bad?”

Jun’s jaw tightened as he threaded the needle. “Could’ve been worse. He missed the liver by maybe a few centimeters. Any deeper, he’d be dead.”

Pepper blew out a breath and sank onto the vintage cushioned chair facing the bed, hands laced behind his neck. “Great. Perfect. Love that for us.”

Jun ignored him and kept stitching.

Once Novak was properly stabilized and sedated, Jun scrubbed his hand clean in the attached bathroom. He then sat facing Novak with his back touching the wall, knees pulled up. They stayed in silence for a while, the hum of the AC unit the only sound.

Eventually, Pepper leaned back against the chair back and said, “So… wanna talk about the elephant in the room?”

Jun looked at him, arching an eyebrow. “The one bleeding on the bed or the one glowing in the forest?”

“The one who made a jeep flip with his mind,” Pepper replied dryly. “That one.”

Jun was quiet for a long beat. “He was barely conscious. But he moved like someone who’s done it before.”

“You mean fought?”

“No. Survived.”

Pepper let that hang in the air. “Yeah. I saw the scars.”

“He’s been through things we can’t even guess at.” Jun’s voice was flat, unreadable.

Pepper glanced toward the shared wall. The one that separated them from Thame and Po. “And what about our fearless leader?”

“What about him?”

“You don’t think it’s a little strange that he hasn’t let anyone near him? Not even to check vitals? Not even to confirm if he’s okay?”

Jun didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Thame’s never acted like this. Not even in Bangkok, when that politician’s daughter got shot and bled out in his arms. He didn’t flinch.”

“But now?” Pepper turned to look at him fully. “He’s acting like he’s... I don’t know. Like he belongs to him or something.”

Jun didn’t reply. But the silence said enough.

Eventually, Pepper sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Well. At least it makes sense now why he’s been growling like a junkyard dog every time someone so much as looks at him.”

“He’s not just a mission anymore,” Jun said quietly.

“Nope,” Pepper agreed. “And that’s either the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Or the worst thing that’s ever happened to all of us.”

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

The door shut with a finality that echoed in his chest.

Room 6 was silent, the kind of silence that made his ears ring. The curtains were already drawn, the lights dim. He didn’t bother with the switch. There was no need. The soft yellow glow from the bedside lamp was enough.

Po was still unconscious when Thame laid him on the bed.

He moved with a soldier’s discipline, but every motion – carefully lifting him from the van, wrapping him in the blanket they’d found, placing him gently on the mattress – was laced with something far too personal. Something he didn’t know how to name.

He looked small against the coarse motel bedding. His breathing was steady but shallow, his face pale from exertion. His hair was tangled and half-dried from sweat and smoke, his arms limp at his sides.

Thame sat beside him, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

He took a slow breath, then leaned down to unzip the bag at his feet that contained recon necessities, including a few spare clothes – mostly men’s sizes. There was a thin cotton shirt that looked soft enough, and a pair of drawstring shorts that might fit him. It wasn’t much. But it was clean.

He hesitated only once before reaching for the damp cloth from the small bathroom sink.

He began with Po’s hands.

Carefully, slowly, he wiped away the dried blood from his knuckles, then the dust and grime from his palms. His skin was bruised in places, scraped raw in others. As he moved up his arms, he noticed the scars – thin and thick, new and old, running along his wrists, forearms, inner elbows. Faint burns. Lacerations.

Each mark made something tighten behind his ribs.

He didn’t know what they had done to him in that place, but it was written all over his skin. His body told a story he hadn’t yet spoken – a story of pain, of survival, of resilience. And he hated it. Hated that he hadn’t gotten to him sooner.

He wiped down his legs next – knees bruised, ankles scratched – and then, with quiet precision, helped him out of the wet, ruined hospital gown. He kept his eyes averted as much as possible, treating his with the clinical respect he would any patient. But his hands trembled slightly. And his jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it.

Once he was dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts, he tucked the blanket around him, then sat on the edge of the bed again. He didn’t touch him. He felt too raw for that. Instead, he just looked.

His face was peaceful in sleep – too peaceful, like he hadn’t let herself rest in years. A face that didn’t belong in the middle of a warzone. Not in that lab. Not here. Not with him.

Yet here he was.

A knock came at the door. Thame stood immediately, crossing the room in three silent strides. He opened the door just wide enough to see Dylan’s face.

“I brought meds,” Dylan said, holding out a bottle of paracetamol, some gauze, some snacks and water bottles. His eyes flicked to the side, trying to catch a glimpse inside.

Thame blocked the view entirely with his body.

“Thanks.”

“He okay?”

“He’s sleeping.” His voice left no room for negotiation.

Dylan hesitated. “You sure you don’t want – ”

“I said he’s sleeping.” This time the words came sharper, edged in something harder than irritation. Dylan took the hint.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “We’ll be in Room 4. Recon check in twenty.”

Thame nodded once and closed the door. Back inside, he returned to the chair beside the bed. The silence returned, too, thick and warm.

He picked up Po’s hand. Just held it. Just watched his breathe.

He didn’t know what he was. Didn’t know how he had done what he did out there in the woods. But he did know one thing – Po wasn’t alone anymore. Not as long as he was alive.

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

The world returned slowly.

First, there was sound – soft, barely-there rustling. A breeze through threadbare curtains. The dull hum of a vent fan. Then came sensation – his body, heavy as stone, limbs sore as though he’d run for miles. His lips were dry. His throat tighter than a fist.

Pain came next.

A deep, bruising ache in his joints. His ribs. His spine. It didn’t feel like an injury, exactly – more like... something had burned through him from the inside and left him hollowed out.

He forced his eyes open.

Dim lighting. A ceiling with water stains. A dull beige wall to his right. he blinked again, slowly turning his head. And found him sitting there.

Him.

He was slouched in a worn motel chair, forearms resting on his knees, a bottle of water in one hand. His gaze snapped to him the second he moved, and the intensity in his eyes nearly made him look away. Nearly.

“Po….You’re awake,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

He tried to speak, but his throat refused. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

Thame was up instantly, kneeling by his side, unscrewing the bottle with one quick twist. “Here,” he murmured. “Slowly.”

He held it up to his lips with one hand and cupped the back of his head with the other, supporting him gently. The first drop of water hit his tongue, and he almost choked. He pulled back.

“Too fast,” he said softly. “Take your time.”

He tried again. Smaller sips. Cold water slid down his throat like a balm, soothing the cracks in his voice and the fire in his chest. He stayed close, steady, silent. His hand never wavered.

When he’d had enough, he leaned back and whispered, “Thank you.”

He looked down at his hands. They were clean. Wrapped in a loose blanket. His skin stung faintly where it had been wiped, but the blood, the grime – gone. He’d taken care of him. Something cracked open in his chest, something sharp and tender at once.

“How did I get here?” he asked.

“You passed out after… that.” A pause. “I carried you.”

His throat tightened again. he didn’t know what he expected – coldness, distance, protocol. But he was sitting beside him, looking at him like he mattered. Like he wasn’t a freak or a weapon or a burden. Just… a man.

Silence returned. Not awkward, but heavy. Weighted with everything unsaid. He didn’t realize he was crying until his thumb brushed his cheek.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t.”

He tried to speak, but his voice cracked. “I just… I don’t know what I did. I couldn’t control it. I am so sorry.”

He leaned in slowly, carefully. Not touching him, not yet. Just present. Solid. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to say sorry, don't have to explain anything. Not now. You’re safe. You hear me? You’re safe.”

The tears came harder then, not from fear, but from relief. He hadn’t felt this safe in years.

He pulled his into his arms slowly, gently – letting him decide if he wanted it. And when he leaned forward, he caught his like he’d been waiting his whole life to do so. His arms were strong, sure, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other wrapped around his back.

He cried against his chest, and he said nothing. Just held his like it was the only job that mattered.

And eventually, with his breath still trembling and his body wrung out from everything he’d done, he fell asleep again – curled against him, tucked in the space between his arms and his heartbeat.

Safe.

For once, finally, safe.

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

Po was asleep.

Breathing soft and even now, curled beneath the blanket like he was trying to disappear into the folds. His hand still rested lightly against his chest, fingers twitching in his sleep.

Thame didn’t move.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, letting his weight settle, letting the silence stretch. Outside, the world went on – cars passed on the highway, a door creaked open somewhere down the motel corridor, someone coughed.

But here, in this small, dark room, time had stopped.

He looked down at Po. Watched the way his lips parted slightly as he slept. The faint furrow in his brow hadn’t fully relaxed even now. There was always tension in his body – a readiness, a defense, even unconscious.

Like someone who had never known peace.

His chest ached.

He hadn’t let himself feel it before. Not back in the lab. Not in the van. Not when he’d cleaned the dried blood from his fingers or changed into clean clothes with shaking hands.

But it hit him now, like a tide finally cresting the seawall.

The anger. The sorrow. The awe.

The scars on his skin were like maps to places no one should have ever been. They told a story of survival, of suffering, of someone who had been broken and mended back together too many times. And yet… he still breathed. Still fought. Still existed.

And now he was in his arms.

He tucked him in gently, shifting until he was curled against his chest. He didn’t stir, only nuzzled closer instinctively. His arms tightened around him. Just slightly. His voice, when it came, was a whisper. A confession spoken only to the shadows.

“I don’t know what they did to you.”

He swallowed hard.

“I don’t know what you are. Or how much of you is broken. Or how much of you is still healing. But I know this…”

He leaned his cheek against his hair.

“I will not let them touch you again.”

The words came without hesitation. Not a vow he rehearsed. Not something ordered or trained. But a primal promise – raw and absolute.

“They’ll have to kill me first,” he said, voice rough now, edged with steel. “Because I was made for this. Made for you. Whether I knew it or not.”

He let the silence return, but something had shifted. The air around him felt charged. Grounded. Decided. He looked down at him one last time.

“You won’t cry again,” he murmured. “Not while I’m breathing.”

With that, he lay back on the bed, keeping him safely pressed to his chest, the blanket tugged up around his shoulders. One arm tucked beneath him, the other curved around his back, cradling him like a shield.

His eyes drifted closed slowly.

And for the first time since the operation began, Thame slept. Not because he trusted the world to be quiet. But because he knew exactly what he would do if it wasn’t.

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

Room 4 had turned into a makeshift operations center in a few hours.

The table was covered in open maps, scraps of paper, a barely functioning laptop, and an old motel notepad scrawled with a shift rotation schedule. The glow from the streetlamp outside was diffused through the dirty curtains, casting long shadows across Dylan’s drawn face and Jun’s sharp profile. Nano sat slouched near the edge of the bed, bouncing one leg restlessly. His eyes were bloodshot.

Pepper stood by the door, arms crossed.

Nano turned to Pepper, “How is Novák doing?”

“He is fine now – awake but lying down watching some mindless TV,” Pepper answered, walking to the bed and sitting down

“Alright then,” he said. “Let’s make sure we didn’t lead any ghosts to our door.”

Dylan clicked open the tracking feed from the directional mic they'd placed in the van. “No signs of pursuit. Radio silence since we left the compound. I scrubbed the plate identifiers just in case. Even if someone’s watching traffic cams, it’ll take them hours to parse our route.”

Dylan cleared his throat. “We rotate two-hour watches. I’ll take first. No one leaves their post unless we’re all wheels up. Got it?”

“Got it,” Pepper echoed.

The room was quiet for a beat. Then Nano broke the silence.

“So, we’re not gonna talk about it?”

Pepper gave him a sideways glance. “Talk about what?”

“The fact that Thame has turned into a goddamn brick wall?”

Nano sat up straighter now, arms folded. “He won’t let anyone see him. He won’t eat. He barely talks. You’d think he was his boyfriend, not a civilian we just pulled out of a tube.”

“He’s not just a civilian,” Jun said quietly. “And he knows that.”

“Exactly,” Nano snapped. “Which is why it’s dangerous. He’s attached.”

Dylan glanced toward the door, as if checking the distance to Room 6. “Have you ever seen him like this before?”

Pepper shook his head slowly. “No. Never.”

“Not even during the Chan mission?” Dylan pressed.

“No,” Pepper replied, voice quieter now. “He watched a kid die in his arms that night. Walked away like it didn’t touch him. Didn’t even flinch.”

“But this…. unknown guy…” Nano trailed off, then ran a hand over his face. “What the hell happened back there, Per? You saw it, right? He didn’t just push someone. He… he broke reality.”

“I don’t think it was conscious – whatever it was,” Jun said, a shade of awe in his voice.

“But he did it anyway,” Pepper said. “That’s the part that scares me.”

No one argued.

Dylan looked down at the recon map on his tablet, then reached for the shift chart. “Look, I don’t know everything but for now, we need to keep him safe. That means letting Thame do whatever the hell he’s doing. But if it becomes a liability…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Pepper leaned back against the headboard, arms folded once again, jaw tight. “He’s not going to hurt him.”

“No,” Nano said. “But he might burn the whole goddamn world down for him. And that’s the problem.”

A beat of silence followed. Heavy. Loaded.

Then Pepper exhaled. “Alright. Let’s do what we always do. Keep the circle tight. Eyes on the perimeter. And let Thame have tonight. Just tonight.”

“And tomorrow?” Jun asked.

Pepper glanced toward the window, past the glass, into the night. “Tomorrow, we figure out what the hell he is.”

Dylan, who was typing away on his tablet with furrowed brows, looking at maps and comms history, froze.

“Uhh… guys – we have a problem.”

He turned his tablet to show the screen to the others. A few seconds of silence and then –

“We need to talk to Thame – right now,” Jun says assertively. “Per – grab Novák. I need some fucking answers.”

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

The first thing Thame felt was cold. Not the cold of the room or the scratchy motel sheets – but the cold that came from emptiness. From loss.

From absence.

His arms tightened reflexively around the air. The space beside him was no longer warm. The curve of his spine, the weight of his body curled against him – gone.

His eyes snapped open.

“Po?” he called softly, already sitting upright. The bedsheets tumbled down around his hips.

No answer.

He stood in one motion, heart hammering, blood running hot and hollow all at once. “Po!” This time louder, fear creeping into his voice. “Where are you?”

He scanned the room in one sweeping motion – no sign of struggle, no open door, no blood. But also no him. Then – the sound of water.

A faint, rhythmic splash from behind the cracked bathroom door. He moved instantly, bare feet slapping against cheap linoleum as he stormed forward and shoved the door open.

There he was.

Standing at the sink in one of his t-shirts, sleeves rolled awkwardly to his elbows, his head bowed as he splashed cold water onto his face. His hair clung to his cheeks and neck, still damp from sleep and sweat, his shoulders trembling slightly.

Alive.

His entire chest seemed to exhale at once. He didn’t speak. Just crossed the distance in two strides and wrapped his arms around his from behind, holding him against his chest with a strength born from terror.

Po stiffened – startled – but didn’t pull away. He let him hold. Let him breathe him in.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered hoarsely against his hair. “Don’t leave the bed without telling me. Ever. Don’t scare me like that.”

His hands, uncertain at first, eventually rose to rest lightly over his.

“I just… wanted to wash my face,” he murmured, voice barely there.

“You almost passed out yesterday. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

He didn’t argue again. But he still didn’t let go. Not until he felt his pulse settle – and even then, it took effort. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t give him a choice. He scooped Po into his arms. he squeaked, surprised.

“You’re still recovering,” he said, cradling him easily. “Don’t argue. I’m not in the mood.”

He gave a soft, bewildered huff but didn’t resist. Maybe he could feel how close to the edge he still was. How afraid he’d been. He carried his back to the bed like he was something fragile and priceless – the kind of thing you only find once in a lifetime and know, instinctively, you’ll never let go of again.

He set his down gently and pulled the blanket over his legs. He knelt beside the bed, eyes locking with his.

“No sudden movements,” he said. “No standing. No walking. You wait for me. Right here. You understand?”

He stared at him, lips slightly parted. A moment of silence stretched between them – heavy but not uncomfortable.

Then his voice, soft and unsure. “You… you’re the one who saved me, right?”

He blinked. He hadn’t realized he didn’t know his name.

“Yes,” he said, voice gentling. “Thame. And you’re Po.”

He nodded once. “Po.”

And then, like a whisper made of silk and fire – “Thame.”

His name on his lips was unlike anything Thame had ever heard. He said it carefully, as if it mattered. Like it was worth remembering. Like it belonged to him now. Something inside him cracked open. He felt it – in the way his breath caught, in the strange, warm ache behind his ribs.

He swallowed hard, voice thick. “Say it again.”

He tilted his head slightly. “What?”

“My name.”

He gave him a look – hesitant, curious, and a little amused – but then softly repeated, “Thame.”

This time slower. Softer. Just for him. His heart roared like a furnace.

He leaned forward, hand brushing his cheek, voice low and reverent. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

Po looked at him, startled. Thame didn’t explain. Just stood, walked to the kitchenette, and busied himself with something simple. Ordinary. A task to distract him from the wild thing growing inside his chest. Boiled water. Poured the tea. Heated the porridge. All while glancing over his shoulder again and again, just to make sure he was still there.

Still real. Still safe. Still his.

By the time he returned, bowl in hand, he was sitting quietly, arms wrapped around his knees under the blanket. Watching him.

He reached out for it automatically – and he pulled it back, expression sharp.

“No.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’m feeding you.”

“I can – ”

“No questions.”

He knelt again and scooped a spoonful carefully, blowing on it before holding it to his lips.

He stared at him. He met his gaze without flinching. And then, slowly, he opened his mouth. He fed his bite by bite – quiet, controlled, but full of something unspoken. Something deeper than hunger.

Every time he took a bite from his hand, his breath came a little easier. Every time he said nothing and simply let him care for him, something inside him settled.

And every time he looked at him with those wide, cautious eyes – like he didn’t understand why he was being so gentle – he silently vowed to never let his question that again.

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

He was just starting to feel human again.

The warmth of the blanket still lingered on his legs. The porridge settled in his stomach like a gentle weight. And Thame… he hadn’t left his side since he woke. His eyes tracked him like he might disappear if he blinked. His hand, every so often, would reach out – just to touch his shoulder, brush his hair behind his ear, as if to remind himself he was real.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of care. It was foreign. Overwhelming. And kind. Too kind. He was still trying to make sense of it when the knock came.

Three short raps on the door.

Thame froze.

He was halfway to the kitchenette, pouring tea into a second cup, but at the sound, his spine snapped straight. His hand moved automatically to the small pistol tucked beneath his jacket.

Po stiffened.

He turned toward the door, jaw clenched. “Who is it?”

“It’s us,” came Pepper’s voice. “Open up.”

“Not now,” Thame growled.

“It’s important - about Novák. And we’re not asking.”

There was a long pause. Then a heavier thud.

Thame moved fast, reaching the door just as it pushed open, forced from the outside. Pepper stepped in first, followed by Jun, then Dylan and Nano – and behind them, leaning on a cane, looking pale and weak but unmistakably familiar –

Po froze.

The room tilted. The man’s face. That voice. The shape of his eyes.

And the memories hit. Not like a flash. Not like a whisper. Like a flood bursting through a shattering dam – violent, merciless, unstoppable.

Cold water. Electrodes on his temples. Hands pinning him down. A mask forcing oxygen into his lungs until he choked on it. Needles glinting under white lights. The hum of machines that mapped his pain and called it data.

And there in the background – Novák’s voice. Calm. Gentle. Too gentle.

“You’re adapting. You’re doing so well.”

“You have to hold still.”

“This is the only way.”

Po shuddered hard, chest heaving.

His mind convulsed around the memories – experiment rooms, metal restraints, cold viscous fluid flooding over him, the taste of pressure in his skull every time they pushed his limits, every time they forced him to use abilities he didn’t understand.

He saw himself screaming underwater. He saw Novák watching through the glass. He felt pain so deep it echoed through his bones even now.

The doctor. He was here. In the same room.

His breath stopped. His pulse raced. His entire body tensed like an overstrung wire. He couldn’t hear anything anymore – not Pepper’s voice, not the others. Not even Thame.

All he could see was that man. His fingers began to tremble.

The glass of water on the nightstand rattled. The spoon in the porridge bowl clinked once, then twice, then lifted half an inch before dropping again. The lightbulb above the bed flickered.

Po whimpered in pain – a tiny, strangled sound which was enough to make Thame’s attention snap back to Po.

“Po,” Thame said sharply. “Po, look at me – ”

But he couldn’t. he couldn’t look away. The moment the man took a step into his line of vision, his world cracked.

The floor vibrated. Jun staggered. Dylan cursed. The mirror on the bathroom wall tilted with a loud creak.

And then – Novák gasped. He clutched his throat.

Po didn’t remember lifting his arm, didn’t know what he was doing. But he could feel it – a searing heat behind his eyes, a force clawing its way through his chest and down his arms. Like his veins were burning with something not his at all. Like the room was obeying his fears, not his thoughts.

The man fell to one knee, coughing. His eyes bulged. His lips turned blue.

“Po!” Thame shouted.

He was at his side now, grabbing his shoulders, trying to get Po to let his hand fall. His touch was solid, grounding – but distant, too far from whatever dark place his mind had fallen into.

“You need to stop. Breathe. Look at me.”

But he couldn’t hear him.

He wasn’t here. Not in this motel. He was back in the tank. Back in the straps. Back under fluorescent lights that hummed louder than screams.

The bed trembled. The nightstand drawer flung open. The lamp shuddered and then the bulb shattered.

“Get him out!” Dylan shouted. “Get Novák away from him!”

Jun tried to drag Novák out of the room, but his feet wouldn’t move – like they were glued to the floor.

“I can’t – !” Jun grunted, trying to pry his boot up. “What the fuck is this?!”

Pepper stepped back, his face pale. Then, without a word, he turned and bolted out the door and down the hallway.

Po’s vision blurred. The edges of the room pulsed. He couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong. Something inside him was cracking open. Too wide. Too fast.

And just as the scientist let out a rasping, gurgling choke – A white hot jolt hit him from the side. His body spasmed. A sharp, electric current sliced through him like fire. He dropped back against the pillows with a cry, his limbs jerking once before going still.

He gasped. And saw Pepper, arm outstretched, taser in hand, panting. Their eyes met for a split second. He didn’t see anger in his face. He saw fear. No, not fear. Terror. Utterly, bone-deep terror.

He was absolutely petrified – of not the doctor, but him. And in that moment, right before the dark took him under again, Po had a terrible, breath-stealing realization.

They didn’t think of Novák as the monster at all, as he did. For them, Po was the monster.

And the thought that they feared him more than the monster who tried to break him – hurt more than anything he’d survived in the lab.

Chapter Text

The second Po hit the mattress, everything went still.

Not quiet. Not calm.

Just... still.

The tremors in the room stopped. The lights steadied. The mirror returned to its frame with a soft creak. The only sound left was the ragged echo of Pepper’s own breathing and the high-pitched whine of the taser powering down in his hand.

He stared at him. His body lay limp. His head turned slightly to the side. Lips parted. Chest rising and falling slowly.

Alive. But barely. He’d aimed for his shoulder, just off-center. Not too strong. Not enough to cause real damage. Just enough to stop him before he crushed someone’s windpipe with his mind.

Still –

He felt sick.

“He’s out,” he said, voice flat.

Then the heat hit him. Thame was on him in a second.

“What the fuck did you just do?”

Pepper barely had time to turn before Thame slammed him back against the wall, forearm pressing into his throat. The taser clattered to the ground.

“You fucking tased him!” Thame roared. “You could’ve stopped him – you could’ve talked to him –”

“He wasn’t listening!” Pepper snapped, shoving him back. “He wasn’t even here anymore, Thame! He was gone – you saw it!”

Thame pushed forward again, fists curled at his sides. “You don’t touch him.”

“He was about to kill Novák!”

“Then I should have handled it!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Pepper barked, sarcasm sharp like broken glass. “Were you too busy staring at him like he hung the goddamn moon to realize he was choking someone across the room without laying a finger on him?!”

The air between them pulsed with heat. Thame’s jaw ticked.

“He’s terrified,” Thame growled. “He’s not dangerous. He was scared.”

“Scared people don’t make the floor shake.”

“He’s not a threat.”

“You don’t know that!” Pepper shouted. “None of us do! You’ve known him for less than twelve hours, and you’re already ready to burn the whole mission down for him!”

Nano stepped between them, hand on Thame’s chest. “Enough,” he said firmly. “Back off.”

Thame didn’t move at first. His eyes still burned. But eventually, he stepped away, fists clenched tight at his sides. Dylan crossed the room, checking on Novák, who had dropped to the floor and was now coughing weakly, his face pale.

“He didn’t even touch me,” Novák rasped. “He didn’t even look at me at first. It was like... instinct.”

“Can you breathe?” Jun asked, crouched beside him.

“Yeah. Barely. But listen –” Novák winced as he sat up straighter. “He’s reacting to me. I’m the trigger. Not you. Not the room.”

Thame’s head snapped toward him.

Novák nodded grimly. “I was one of the later scientists on his case. I didn’t do the injections. But I – I facilitated some of the... conditioning. I was present. I gave commands. He recognizes me.”

“You experimented on him,” Jun said, realization dawning in.

“I followed orders,” Novák replied. “I didn’t know they kept him awake.”

A long, loaded silence fell over the room.

“He’s not attacking you,” Pepper said finally, turning to Thame. “He’s reacting to trauma. I get it. But that doesn’t this okay – doesn’t make him safe.”

Thame didn’t respond. His gaze had returned to the bed, where Po lay unconscious, wrists slack against the sheets, face still contorted in the echo of his fear.

Then Jun stepped in front of him.

“Thame,” he said quietly. “You need to get your head on straight.”

Thame blinked. “What?”

“You’re compromised. We all see it. You’re not thinking like a leader – you’re thinking like a man obsessed.”

“Watch your mouth,” Thame warned.

“No,” Jun said, stepping closer. “You watch yours. Because the more you let your emotions run this operation, the more likely it is that someone’s going to die. And right now? That someone might be him. Or one of us.”

Thame looked like he was going to snap – his knuckles were white. But Pepper saw something else flash in his eyes. Doubt.

Good, Pepper thought. It had to get in there somewhere. He glanced at Nano, then at Dylan. Time to end this. Pepper gave the smallest nod. Dylan moved fast. Before Thame could react, Nano stepped behind him and plunged a small auto-injector into his shoulder.

Thame tensed. Turned, confused. “What the –”

But it was too late. His knees buckled. Dylan caught him before he hit the ground. Pepper stepped forward and pulled the blanket up around Po’s waist, his expression unreadable.

“Get him to Room 4,” Pepper said, voice tight. “Let him sleep it off. We need clear heads.”

“And Po?” Dylan asked.

Pepper looked at him – barely breathing, wrists trembling, face bruised from what he'd survived and from what he’d become.

His chest ached.

“Bind him,” he said quietly. “And cover his eyes. Just until we know he’s stable.”

Nano nodded grimly and helped Dylan lift Thame. Jun stood at the door, holding it open. Novák pushed himself up slowly, following them, his limp pronounced.

And then, as the door clicked shut behind them, Pepper was alone with him. He looked smaller now. Like the weight of his body had been drained. He moved to their overnight bag and pulled out a length of nylon rope. His hands didn’t shake. But his heart did.

He sat beside him, gently took his wrists, and began to tie them – not tight, just firm enough. As he tightened the restraint, he whispered – not for him, not really. For himself. “I’m sorry.”

Then he stepped back from the bed. And watched him sleep like a storm waiting to return.

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

The room was quiet when Dylan came into the room.

Too quiet.

The tremors had long faded. The air had settled. The glass shards from the broken lamp still glittered faintly in the morning light slipping through the worn-out curtain. The air carried the faint scent of burnt ozone and bitter fear.

And Po hadn’t moved.

He lay on the bed, his arms tied laying on his stomach, one knee slightly bent beneath the blanket, the thin motel pillow barely supporting his head. His breathing was soft. Shallow. Almost soundless.

Pepper stood near the bed without moving. Just watching him.

He looked like a simple guy again. Not a weapon. Not a subject. Not whatever the hell the agency might eventually call him. Just a guy. Sleeping like his body couldn’t bear the weight of one more second awake.

Dylan stood at the foot of the bed, eyes flicking across his face. His lashes trembled faintly against his cheek. There was a bruise forming near his temple, shadowed beneath his skin. A burn mark near his shoulder from where the taser had struck.

His hand tightened around the wooden bedframe.

“He hasn’t stirred,” Dylan said, voice low. “His pulse is steady. No twitching. No movement since the hit.”

Pepper nodded, though his throat was tight. “Good.”

“Is it?”

Dylan’s question hung in the air. Pepper didn’t answer.

“You think Thame’s going to forgive us?” Dylan asked quietly.

Pepper didn’t look up. “No.”

“Do you think he will?” Dylan asked, concern laced in his voice for the unconscious man who seemed to be becoming the center of their little group universe.

Pepper finally looked at his face again. And this time, something in him cracked. He looked so still. Like a statue. Like someone who had run too far, too fast, and collapsed mid-flight.

“I don’t think he knows what forgiveness even feels like,” Pepper said. “Not after whatever happened to him.”

He reached into their recon bag again and pulled out a tie – a makeshift blindfold. It was soft. Dark gray. Meant for travel. Not captivity. He unfolded it and held it in his shaking hands like it was something heavier than cloth.

“I’ll do it,” Dylan offered.

“No.” Pepper’s voice was quiet. But firm. “I need to.”

He leaned over him, careful not to disturb his breathing, and slowly slipped the blindfold over his eyes. One hand lifted his head gently to slide the other part, tying it carefully to make sure its not too tight. He smoothed the edges so it wouldn’t dig into his skin.

He looked like someone in recovery. Not a prisoner. That’s what he told himself. But it didn’t feel that way. He stepped back; Dylan didn’t move either.

“He saved us,” Pepper said suddenly. “He didn’t even know us. Didn’t even know himself.”

“He was just scared,” Dylan said.

Pepper nodded his head. “He was scared – but he still chose to protect us. Even if it broke him.”

Dylan glanced at him. “So why did you pull the trigger?”

Pepper’s eyes stayed on Po’s face. Pepper didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Dylan didn’t continue. Just exhaled through his nose and stood.

“I’ll stay with him,” Pepper said.

“You sure?”

“I don’t think he will wake up for another couple of hours. But if he does… I want it to be me.”

Dylan nodded. Then hesitated at the door.

“We’ll take turns.”

“Yeah.”

The door clicked softly shut.

And Pepper sat alone beside the sleeping man who had nearly torn the room apart with nothing but his mind – and whose silence was now the loudest sound in the world. He didn’t know if he’d ever trust them again. He wasn’t sure they deserved it.

But still, he sat. Waiting.

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

He wasn’t unconscious. Not fully.

Somewhere between the chaos and the silence, he had slipped into a half-state – mind floating just beneath the surface, body still, breath measured. The world felt distant, muted. But he was aware.

Enough to hear them.

Their voices were low, cautious, but not far.

Pepper’s voice first. “He hasn’t stirred. His pulse is steady.”

Dylan’s voice, quiet. “Is that good?”

The words sat heavy in the space between their voices.

Po didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not because he was physically restrained – though he was, his wrists now gently tied and blindfold slipped over his eyes like silk – but because his will had simply folded in on itself.

Because he understood.

They were afraid of him. And why wouldn’t they be? They didn’t know who he was. Truth be told… neither did he.

He didn’t understand the thing inside him – the storm, the pressure that coiled and lashed when he felt threatened. He didn’t know how he’d flipped a van. Or how he’d nearly choked a man with nothing but a glance.

All he knew was that when he was afraid, things happened. And when those things happened, people got hurt.

The fight in the woods – that had been instinct. Primal. He hadn’t thought; he had reacted. Like something inside him had taken over.

The scientist… That was different. That was terror.

The kind of fear that didn’t just freeze the body, but split it. That pulled open the seams of a mind until everything screamed at once. His face had dragged him straight back into those cold rooms. The white lights. The sharp tools. The hands that never listened when he begged them to stop.

And still, he had seen the fear in Pepper’s eyes. The horror in Dylan’s voice.

He didn’t blame them. He couldn't. If anything, it confirmed what he already suspected – The best way to protect them… Was to stay away. From them. From himself. To trust no one. Not even his own mind. Not his body. Not the fractured thing inside him that snapped open like a bear trap when he was frightened.

They had saved him once. But he wouldn’t ask them to do it again. He wouldn’t allow himself to hurt them – not by accident, not by instinct, not even by mistake.

So he kept still. He let them bind his wrists gently. He let them cover his eyes, respectfully. He let them believe he was unconscious. And when he heard Pepper whisper, “I’m sorry,” he didn’t respond – not because he didn’t hear it, or because he didn’t feel it – but because he didn’t know if he deserved it.

Eventually, his body betrayed him and pulled him into sleep for real. But before the darkness claimed him, one thought anchored his drifting mind.

You are the danger. And danger doesn’t get to be loved.

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

For Thame, the world came back slowly – thick, blurred, like waking underwater. His tongue was heavy, his limbs uncooperative. His mind tried to lurch forward but got caught in syrupy waves of fog.

He blinked hard.

The motel ceiling. Dim light bleeding in from the cheap curtains. He was on his side, stretched out on a different bed – not the one he fell asleep in. Not the one where he had curled against him. Not the one that still smelled like his skin.

His heart skipped. Where is Po? Is he ok? Memory rushed in all at once – the tremors, the mirror, the choking. His eyes when he looked at him, just before he collapsed. The betrayal.

“No –” His voice came out rough and raw, barely a growl. He tried to sit up and found resistance.

A hand on his shoulder pushed him back.

“Easy,” Nano said. “It’s the sedative. You’re not fully through it.”

Thame’s hand snapped up, grabbing the front of his shirt. “Where is he?”

“Safe,” Dylan said from across the room. He was leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed. “As safe as he can be. For now.”

“What the hell did you do to me?” Thame snarled, sitting up despite the spinning in his head.

“You were out of control,” Nano said calmly. “You were going to fight all of us.”

“Because you were going to hurt him.”

“No,” came another voice – Novák’s.

Thame turned sharply. The scientist was slouched in a chair near the window, pale and hollow, one hand pressed against his throat where red blotches still showed.

“They weren’t trying to hurt him,” Novák rasped. “They were trying to survive him.”

Thame’s eyes burned. “You’re the reason he’s like this.”

Novák flinched. “I know.”

“Why are you even here?”

Nano stepped between them. “Because he has answers. And right now, we don’t.”

Thame’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. “He looked at me like I was just another one of you.”

“He didn’t,” Nano said softly. “He looked at you like he trusted you. That’s why it hurt.”

The words struck harder than they should’ve.

Thame looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He’d promised him. Not out loud, not in words he heard – but to himself. To the part of him that had cracked open the moment he said his name.

“He’s scared,” he said finally. “He doesn’t know who to trust.”

“He shouldn’t trust any of us,” Novák said, almost quietly. “Especially not me.”

Thame’s head shot up. “Start talking.”

Novák exhaled slowly, rubbing his eyes. “He wasn’t on my original roster. They added him late. They didn’t give us his name – just his age, his DNA profile, and a list of enhancement parameters. He was... smaller than the others. Quiet. He never screamed.”

Thame’s blood ran cold.

Novák continued. “We were told he was kept sedated during testing. That it was humane. But I saw the monitors. He wasn’t unconscious. Just paralyzed. Awake. Aware. He could feel every needle, every incision. His heart rate would spike, but he couldn’t move.”

He paused, his throat tight. “They didn’t give him pain medication.”

The room fell into an awful silence. Thame’s hands dropped to his lap. He couldn’t breathe.

Novák’s voice lowered. “They tested things on him we didn’t dare try on the others. His neural data was... different. Too active. He responded to pain by adapting. Adjusting. Like his brain was rewiring itself to survive whatever we did.”

“You’re saying... he evolved through torture,” Dylan muttered.

Novák nodded once. “That would be the simplest way to put it.”

Thame stood.

Nano stepped in again. “You’re not going back there. Not yet.”

“You’re wrong,” Thame said, his voice like stone. “I’m going back. Now.”

“He’s restrained.”

That stopped him cold.

“What?”

“He lashed out, Thame. He nearly killed Novák,” Dylan said. “Me and Pepper did what they had to do. He's sedated again, not chemically, just asleep. But his wrists are bound, and he's blindfolded.”

A slow, deadly stillness spread across Thame’s face. “You tied him up?”

Nano didn’t flinch. “He needs to be grounded. We don’t know if he can control what’s happening. None of us are trained for this. Not even you.”

Thame stepped in close, chest to chest with him now. “He is not an enemy. He’s a guy who’s been experimented on, drugged, tortured, and locked in a tank. If any of you lay another hand on him –”

“–what?” Dylan said sharply. “What, Thame? You’ll kill us for protecting ourselves? Is that where we are now?”

“You don’t understand what he’s been through.”

“No,” Dylan snapped. “But we will. Once we figure out how to contain him safely. You’re not thinking clearly. You stopped being our team leader the second he fell into your arms.”

“I never asked for this,” Thame growled.

“No,” Jun said, walking in through the door now. “But you’ve made it clear you’re not walking away from it.”

Thame turned to face him, but Jun didn’t back down.

“You care about him. Fine. We all get it. We’re not heartless. But you’ve lost your edge. And if he wakes up again and sees the wrong face, and you’re not there – what happens then?”

“I should be with him,” Thame said. “Not locked in here like a threat.”

“He’s not the only one who’s dangerous right now,” Nano said. “You just don’t see it.”

There was a tense pause, then –

“Thame,” Jun said, voice low and firm. “You need to get a grip.”

“I’m fine,” Thame snapped.

“You’re not fine,” Nano shot back from where he leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. “You’re shaking. You’re not listening. And right now? You’re no help to anyone if you’re in this state.”

Thame’s jaw clenched. His fists curled.

Jun didn’t flinch. “We need our leader back. Not a man running on fear.”

The words landed like a punch to the sternum.

Thame looked away, chest tight, breathing uneven. He pressed his tongue against his molars hard enough to taste metal – blood rising as he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself steady.

After several long seconds, his shoulders dropped half an inch.

Enough for Jun to continue.

“We barged in because Dylan found something,” Jun said finally, cutting through the tense silence. He pulled up a file on his tablet and tapped the screen. “He’s been tracking all data trails tied to Novák since we pulled him out.”

Thame stopped pacing. “What did you find?”

Jun’s jaw tightened. “Administrative logs. Personnel records. Medical entries. Public-facing profiles.” He swiped, revealing a digital form. “Starting with his primary posting. Vienna Bioscience Center.”

Novák sat on the bed, back against the headboard, hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles were white. He’d been mostly silent since they brought him in here, listening, watching, trying to fit the pieces of his life back together.

Jun turned the screen so both Thame and Novák could see.

“According to this,” Jun said, tone flat, “you ‘voluntarily terminated’ your employment five weeks ago.”

Thame blinked. “Terminated as in –?”

“Discretionary resignation,” Nano cut in, voice low and edged. “A whole file certifying your ‘desire to continue your research elsewhere’ and your ‘incompatibility with the European climate.’” He snorted. “Says you didn’t like the cold.”

Thame’s gaze snapped to Novák. Novák stared at the screen like it were written in another language.

“Read the reason field,” Nano added.

Thame zoomed in and read aloud, voice dripping disbelief – “‘Dr. Novák has elected to pursue new opportunities in Southeast Asia and confirms his decision to relocate permanently. All institutional property has been returned. Dr. Novák has chosen not to share his new contact information.”

He looked up.

Terminated in Vienna. Gone by his own choice. Door shut behind him. Neat. Clean. Final. Thame’s eyes went to the next line – signature fields. There was a shaky digital approximation of Novák’s name, a timestamp, and the approving signature of a bureaucrat in HR.

“You didn’t sign this,” Thame said. It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Novák whispered, staring at his own forged signature. “I… I’ve been in captivity for six weeks. I woke up underground. No windows. No clocks. I haven’t seen a phone, let alone a contract.”

The timeline hit like a hammer.

Thame felt it before he fully processed it. “You’ve been missing six weeks.”

“Yes.”

“And this says you resigned… five weeks ago,” Dylan said quietly from the window.

So a week after he vanished, someone at Vienna Bioscience Center had helpfully updated the records to say everything was fine. That he’d left on purpose. That no one needed to look for him.

Jun swiped to the next screen. “It gets worse.”

He brought up a captured screenshot – an archived version of a LinkedIn profile.

“Your professional pages were updated, too,” he said. “Here – this is your LinkedIn from seven weeks ago. Lists you as Senior Research Fellow at Vienna Bioscience Center, still active.”

He flicked to the next capture. “And here’s the update from four weeks ago. Current position: ‘Lead Consultant, private biotech project, Thailand.’ Employer hidden. Location: Bangkok.”

Novák sucked in a breath. “I never –”

“Then we checked your Facebook,” Dylan said, finally turning away from the window. “Six weeks ago, still active. Posts from your team. Pictures from a conference in Zurich. Comments from friends. Normal life.” He nodded toward Jun. “Jun pulled the mirrors.”

Jun swiped again, revealing another screenshot: Novák’s Facebook profile page.

“There were two changes,” Jun said. “First, your status.”

He zoomed in on a small line of text.

“‘Excited for a new adventure in Thailand. Will be off social media for a while – too busy with the lab ;)”

Novák let out a broken sound. “That’s not me. I would never use a winking emoji.”

Nano huffed once – humorless. “Second change is this.”

Jun flicked to an error capture: This content is no longer available.

“Thirty minutes after that status went up,” Jun said, “your entire Facebook account was deleted.”

Silence dropped over the room like a thick blanket. Thame felt his skin crawl.

“So anyone who sees the LinkedIn update thinks you moved to Thailand,” Dylan said. “Anyone from your personal life who tries to check Facebook gets a dead account. They probably assume you nuked your social media for a fresh start.”

“No messy questions,” Nano added. “No where did he go, what happened, why didn’t he say goodbye.’ Just – poof. He left. He’s busy. End of story.”

Thame’s stomach turned.

Jun swiped again. “We checked your HR offboarding docs, too. Badge return forms. Asset checklists. It says you handed in your security badge, your lab access token, and your company phone. And then –” He tapped a line. “ – ‘Employee confirms personal number will not be shared and requests no further contact.’”

Thame stared. No contact. No number. No way for anyone to reach him.

“So even if someone back home missed you,” Nano said quietly, “even if they wanted to call, the official line is: ‘He left. He doesn’t want to be bothered.’”

Like he’d chosen to vanish.

Like he’d walked away.

Novák pressed his fingers to his temples, shaking his head in small, helpless motions. “That’s… that’s not possible. My team – they would have noticed if I stopped contacting them. I worked with them every day. They knew I came here for a few days for a research conference… we had active experiments. Ongoing trials. My PA, my students – they would have escalated. Filed a missing persons report. Someone would have said something.”

“Unless,” Jun said, voice softer than usual, “they were told not to.”

The words sat between them, cold and heavy. Thame could almost see it – some administrator in a quiet office, receiving a phone call, being handed a script – Dr. Novák has moved. Dr. Novák is fine. Dr. Novák asked for privacy. No need to worry. No need to dig.

“We ran checks on your institution’s public notices,” Dylan added. “No missing person bulletins. No internal ‘in memoriam’ posts. No formal announcements to collaborators. It’s like you quietly… left.”

“So someone went to a lot of trouble,” Nano said. “To make sure your disappearance looked like a choice.”

Thame’s chest constricted.

He had seen cover-ups before – dirty operations buried under official language – but this was almost elegant in its cruelty. Not erasing someone violently. Just nudging every narrative so that if you looked, all you saw was… He wanted this.

Terminated from Vienna. Magically employed in Thailand. Personal accounts wiped. Work contacts blocked. A clean, anonymous disappearance disguised as a mid-career pivot.

“Someone was tying up loose ends,” Jun said quietly. “Making sure no one questioned your absence. Nobody files a missing-person report for a man who says he’s chasing the sun and deleting his socials.”

On the bed, Novák looked like he’d been hollowed out. He looked up at them, eyes shiny with a complicated, ugly mix of anger and grief.

“They took my life,” he whispered. “And then they wrote my goodbye for me.”

The room went utterly silent.

Nano inhaled sharply. “Wait. Thame – If nobody knew he was gone…” He looked at Thame. “Then who the hell gave us the mission to rescue him?”

The question detonated like a flashbang. Thame’s heart stuttered.

Up until now, the mission had been… odd, yes. Secretive. Funneled through Kittisak and Wanchai with the kind of tight need-to-know that said “politics” more than “rescue.” But he’d accepted it because that was the job. Because the coordinates were real. Because the intel had panned out.

But this –

If Novák’s own people didn’t know he was missing… If his institution had signed off on paperwork that said he left willingly… If his colleagues had been channeled into a narrative where he was alive and simply living elsewhere… Then who exactly had flagged him as a ‘missing’ target?

Who had told Wanchai he was missing? Who had told Kittisak where to send LYKN? And why? Thame felt something cold begin to unspool along his spine.

Novák swallowed again, licking his lips. “I can call my colleagues,” he said, voice unsteady but determined. “If I speak to them directly, I’ll know what they were told. I’ll know if someone higher up interfered. Maybe… maybe the head of department, or the director, or someone in administration –”

“No.” Thame didn’t raise his voice, but it sliced through the air all the same.

Novák flinched.

Nano went very still. Jun’s eyes sharpened, watching Thame with that evaluative look he got when things were spiraling. Thame stepped closer, every line of his body tense with a bad feeling he couldn’t shake.

“If you call home, your ‘miraculous comeback’ becomes a spectacle,” he said, each word clipped. “Your colleagues will panic. Your family will panic. Your institution will scramble. Someone will ask, ‘Where is he? Who has him?’”

He shook his head once, sharply.

“Then they start pulling logs. Checking call records, border controls, satellite footage. They will turn their eyes toward you. Towards us. Towards….him.” His jaw clenched. “We cannot afford that attention. Not right now.”

Novák looked torn. “But we need more information. We’re blind.”

“We’re not blind,” Thame said. “We’re… in the dark on purpose. There’s a difference.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to erase you quietly. Somebody else went to a lot of trouble to send us after you quietly. I am not stacking more unknown players on this board.”

His gut twisted as he said it. Every instinct screaming that if they surfaced now, they’d be surfacing into the wrong hands.

“I’m not risking my team,” Thame finished, voice dropping, “or Po, or you for that matter, for whatever this is – or whatever it’s becoming.”

That last part came out harsher than he intended. Novák flinched again, but he nodded, pressing his lips together.

Jun exhaled slowly, relief and worry tangled together. “So what do we do?”

Thame didn’t hesitate.

“We go back to the only person who was honest enough to tell us not to trust HQ in the first place.”

He pulled his encrypted phone from his pocket, thumb already moving through the muscle memory of Kittisak’s secure contact. His heart was beating too fast. He ignored it.

He stepped away from the bed, away from the others, until his back was nearly against the thin wall that separated him from Po’s room. He could almost feel the faint vibration of movement on the other side – Pepper’s footsteps, maybe. The rustle of sheets.

He needed to hear Kittisak’s voice. Needed one fixed point in a situation that was rapidly unraveling. He hit call, speaker phone on. The line chirped once. Then nothing. Not even static. Just a dead, heavy silence that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Thame frowned and pulled the phone away, checking the display.

“Network’s fine,” Dylan murmured from the window without being asked, his eyes moving to the open laptop on the table. “My feed is still updating. Jun’s tablet’s still got signal. It’s not us.”

Thame’s fingers tightened around the device. He hit call again. This time, the line clicked through. One ring. Two – then a jagged burst of noise. Not quite static. Not quite interference. A low, chaotic roar in the background, like multiple sounds layered over each other – voices, metal, something slamming.

“Kittisak?” Thame asked, anxiety creeping up his spine like a live snake looking for its prey.

For a brief second, no one answered.

Then a familiar voice came through – hoarse, strained, whispering hard enough that the words scraped. “Thame.”

Relief punched through him so fast it almost knocked him back. He turned off the speaker phone and put the phone to his ear to hear better.

“LYKN reporting. We’ve confirmed Novák’s –”

“Thame, listen,” Kittisak hissed. His breath was too loud, too fast. There was noise behind him – a crash, a shout cut off halfway, the unmistakable staccato bark of that familiar click click click. Every hair on Thame’s body stood up.

“Sir, what’s happening?” he demanded.

Something thudded. A grunt. The sound of a chair scraping violently across the flooring. There was a rustle, like the phone being jostled. Then, very clearly, as if he’d dragged the device right against his mouth, Kittisak’s voice again, urgent, threaded with something Thame almost never heard from him.

Fear.

“Thame. Run.”

The gunshot that followed was not suppressed.

It cracked through the tinny speaker like lightning, blowing out into the small motel room. Jun flinched. Nano swore. Novák went pale enough to be translucent.

The line went dead.

Thame stood frozen with the phone pressed to his ear, heart pounding so loud he could hear it in his teeth.

“Thame?” Jun’s voice, tight. “What happened –?”

Thame lowered the phone slowly, like his arm weighed a hundred kilos. Barely aware he was speaking, he said, “I heard fighting. A gunshot. He told me to run.”

No one said anything for a moment. The old motel clock on the wall ticked too loudly. A car passed on the road outside, engine fading. The air felt thin, too warm, wrong.

Dylan’s breath hitched – so small it was almost inaudible, but every trained nerve in the room reacted to it like a trigger pull. He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t need to.

His spine straightened, then sank subtly into a controlled crouch. His fingers shifted position, loosening just enough for movement but tight enough for control. His eyes narrowed as he angled himself toward the blinds with surgical precision.

“Thame,” Dylan murmured – quiet, but edged with a gravity that froze the air. “Code Bravo.”

Not panic. Not surprise. A field warning.

Thame moved without thinking, without speaking – his body already calculating paths, distances, cover points. He crossed the room with a predator’s grace, footsteps silent on the thin carpet. Dylan shifted aside seamlessly, giving Thame the exact line of sight he needed.

Thame placed one hand against the wall, the other bracing lightly against the window frame as he peeled the blinds open a fraction of an inch. Cold motel glass pressed against his skin. Cold dread pressed against everything else.

The back lot stretched out beneath the flickering floodlight – isolated, empty enough that any movement should have been obvious.

And yet –

Three SUVs glided into view like sharks in shallow water, engines barely audible, exterior lights dead. Their movements were too coordinated, too controlled, too deliberate for civilians. These weren’t guests. These weren’t lost drivers.

This was a formation.

One vehicle slid into position behind the dumpster, cutting off the side exit. Another drifted toward the narrow stairwell that led to the rooftop. The third pivoted near the row of rooms – stopping directly across from where LYKN had taken shelter.

Thame’s jaw tightened. Then a rear door cracked open. Just an inch. Just enough. A silhouette stepped out – tall, armored, carrying weight like someone used to battlefields, not boardrooms. The glint of a rifle barrel flashed sharply in the stuttering floodlight.

Not the police. Not amateurs. An extraction team. For who? For LYKN? For Novák? Or worse – For Po?

Another door opened. Two more figures emerged. Their movement patterns were clean and economical – communicating silently with hand gestures, scanning angles, and checking overlaps. They were choreographed in a way that only came from years of tactical operations.

Thame’s stomach dropped. He shut the blinds with a quick snap, muscles coiling tight. Jun’s gaze locked onto his. Nano straightened to full height. Novák went pale.

Thame’s pulse roared in his ears – Kittisak’s whisper still echoed: Run. The grief. The fear. The confusion. All of it sharpened into something cold and exact inside him.

This was no longer a rescue mission. This was survival. He pivoted on his heel, every motion economical, every thought already three steps ahead.

“We’re under attack,” Thame declared, voice calm in a way that came only from years of walking through hell. “Three vehicles. Tactical formation. Armed. Skilled. They’re setting up a perimeter.”

Jun’s fingers curled around the hilt of his hidden blade – silent affirmation. Nano moved toward the door without needing further instruction – listening for footsteps, calculating fallback routes. Dylan slid along the wall to cover the window, one hand already reaching for the compact rifle in his bag.

He didn’t pause. They didn’t need him to.

“Jun – grab Pepper and Po. Move now. Quietly. Every second counts.” Jun was already at the door before the order finished, leaving Thame’s tongue.

“Nano – hallway sweep. Identify how many are coming from the stairwell.” Nano nodded once and disappeared into the shadows without a sound.

“Dylan,” Thame said, meeting his eyes, “front watch. If they breach the window before we’re out, stall them. You know the protocol.” Dylan’s expression didn’t change, but the slight dip of his head spoke volumes. He understood exactly what that meant.

Thame slid his phone into his pocket, the echo of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. He crossed to the corner near the nightstand. He shoved aside a tattered motel bible and lifted the false bottom of his duffel bag.

Inside – an ammunition pouch, tightly wound and sealed. Their emergency kit. Their last-resort cache.

Thame dragged it out and tossed it onto the bed. The canvas hit the mattress with a dense thunk. He unzipped it in one clean motion. Boxes of rounds. Magazines. Tactical flashbangs. Two suppressors. A backup multi-tool blade.

He handed Nano’s spare magazine to Dylan as he passed, not breaking stride.

“Take this.”

Dylan caught it without looking, loading it into place with muscle memory older than most of his scars. Thame rifled through the remaining gear, separating ammo by caliber, mental map forming of what each team member needed.

Jun’s Glock. Nano’s P229. Dylan’s short-barreled rifle. His own Sig. He distributed ammunition with the clinical precision of a surgeon, every motion clean, decisive.

Thame had barely finished distributing the ammunition when the adjoining door opened. Pepper stepped through, breath unsteady, arms full.

Po.

Unconscious, limp, blindfolded, wrists still loosely restrained. His head rested against Pepper’s shoulder, cheek pressed to his collarbone, hair damp with sweat.

Jun held the door open with one hand, eyes scanning the hallway behind Pepper before locking it again. The moment Po crossed the threshold into the main room, the entire team shifted.

“On the bed,” Thame ordered.

Nano stepped aside instantly, giving Pepper a straight path to the center of the floor. Dylan lowered his line of sight just enough to monitor both Po and the window without losing visual dominance. Thame moved with controlled urgency, clearing space on the bed so Pepper could lay Po down without jostling him.

Novák was already there – pressed back against the headboard, pale and trembling, but he shifted immediately to make space. Pepper lowered Po carefully onto the mattress beside him, adjusting his head so it wouldn’t loll uncomfortably. Po didn’t stir.

The team didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. This was LYKN in mission mode: efficient, silent, terrifyingly synchronized.

Pepper lowered Po gently onto the bed, adjusting the blindfold to keep his eyes covered, tucking his wrists close so he wouldn’t catch on anything if he thrashed. His hands lingered a moment on Po’s shoulders – a protective gesture more than a medical one.

“He’s stable,” Pepper whispered. “But he’s not waking up anytime soon.”

Thame’s throat worked, but he nodded once. “Good. Keep him that way.”

Thame reached into his bag, pulled out the remaining ammunition, and slapped spare magazines onto the bed for anyone who needed them. Then he took his own place – at the foot of the bed, body half-turned between protecting Po and commanding the room.

Thame turned to LYKN, “Pepper – hallway,”

Pepper moved like a cat and slipped through the door, and disappeared into the hall – ready to warn or stall if needed.

Jun locked the door behind him again, sliding the chain into place without sound, and took up position right beside the door – blade sheathed, but ready, sidearm unholstered, ear tilted to the hallway. Every muscle in his body coiled in anticipation.

“Nano,” Thame continued.

Nano was already sliding a chair under the bathroom door handle – another entry point secured – before settling into his position right beside it, angle perfect to intercept anything coming through the blind spot.

Dylan moved with surgical precision to the window, crouching low, rifle braced, eyes laser-focused on the shadows creeping at the edge of the blinds. He quietly chambered a round. The metallic snick echoed in the dark like a promise.

“Lights,” Jun said.

One by one, they killed every lamp, every overhead bulb, every flickering strip of motel fluorescence until the room surrendered to darkness. Only the faint, distant glow bleeding through the blinds remained – enough to cast the team into silhouettes, enough to keep them invisible to anyone looking in from outside.

Darkness wrapped around them like armor. Thame moved to the foot of the bed where Po lay. He rested one hand lightly on Po’s ankle – silent reassurance, silent promise – then straightened.

For a moment, none of them breathed. The motel felt impossibly quiet. Too quiet. And then – a short almost camouflaged whistle. Pepper’s signature. An alert – a warning that someone was indeed approaching the motel – approaching them.

A cold understanding slid down Thame’s spine. An understanding that whoever was pulling the strings from the start… had just made their next move.

That same whoever was about to find out why LYKN – why Thame – was feared in three countries.

Chapter Text

The motel room held its breath.

A thin slice of moonlight leaked through the taped-up blinds, falling across Po’s still body like a silver ribbon. His wrists were bound, blindfold snug over his eyes. He hadn’t stirred since Per carried him from the other room; some combination of shock, exhaustion, and terror had shut him down somewhere along the way. Every exhale from him was shallow, a tremor more than a proper breath.

Beside him, Novák sat rigid, knuckles white where his hands gripped the blanket. He wasn’t tied, but fear had turned his limbs into stone. His eyes darted between Po and the shadows swallowing the room, as if expecting hands to burst out from the darkness at any moment and finish what the night had started.

Jun crouched near the door. Nano stayed pressed to the bathroom wall near Jun, a ghost. Dylan guarded the window, his tablet glowing faintly in his hands. And Thame stood at the foot of the bed, his silhouette a carved figure of stillness and violence waiting for a reason.

Only Pepper was missing. Their satellite. Their trapdoor. Their first warning when death walked close.

The room hummed with tension, not loud but dense, the way static gathers before lightning chooses a victim. Thame lifted two fingers. Quiet. Hold. Every set of lungs obeyed.

Down the hallway, faint but unmistakable: Pepper’s whistle.

Not a song. Not a call. A pattern LYKN could identify even in a firefight with their ears ringing and their blood up. Three short notes. A pause. A warbling rise.

Incoming. Five. Armed.

Dylan stiffened. Jun shifted his weight without making a sound. Nano exhaled slowly, letting his fingers relax around the grip of his pocket knife.

Thame didn’t move, but something inside him tightened, knotted, pulled razor-sharp.

Five mercs meant trouble. Five mercs on a quiet night meant someone wanted them erased neatly, professionally. Pepper would pick off one, maybe two, before they rushed. But the firefight that followed would be close, messy, and loud – loud enough to wake the entire motel.

Po wasn’t in any condition to be moved fast. Novák would be a liability. Their room had only one exit. Thame’s fingers hovered near his sidearm, eyes darting to Dylan once.

Dylan caught his gaze and gave a sharp nod – Here we go.

They waited with bated breath. Seconds after seconds…But then – nothing. No boots. No whispers. No clamps on the door. No guns raised. Only stillness, thick and unnatural.

Something was wrong.

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

Pepper leaned against the vending machine alcove, barely a shadow among shadows. He saw them before they saw him: Five men, tactical gear, coordinated gait, visors down. Precisely the kind of mercs who didn’t blink at killing nobodies.

He had his blade ready; guns were too noisy for motel hallways. One clean slash to the jugular, grab the corpse, drag him silently into the supply closet, and disappear before the others registered the missing man.

Except – The mercs stopped. Not like they’d spotted something. Not like they were listening. Not like they were confused.

They froze in formation. Five statues carved in the corridor carpet.

Pepper blinked, thinking maybe a reflection had tipped them off. Or they smelled gun powder. Or someone on comms told them to wait for backup.

But then, almost simultaneously, all five of them turned.

Not sharply. Not in alarm. Just… pivoted. As if responding to a gentle call none of the rest of the world could hear. They walked back the way they came. Calm. Controlled. Unbothered.

Pepper’s skin prickled. He pressed two fingers to his cheek mic – one short buzz, two long.

Abort. They’re leaving.

And because the world had not yet decided whether to return to normal or split open down the middle, he stayed still for another twenty seconds, making sure this wasn’t bait.

But the mercs didn’t come back. Their footsteps faded toward the parking lot.

Pepper hissed under his breath. “What the hell.”

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

Listening to Pepper’s buzz signal, Jun’s hand hovered over the door handle automatically – until Thame caught his wrist with a warning grip.

“Wait.” A single word, heavy as a blade, dropped onto a table.

Nano whispered, “Did they pass our door?”

“No,” Jun murmured. “And I don’t hear them anymore.”

Dylan flicked to thermal mode. Nothing outside the hallway walls. Nothing near the window. The only heartbeat spiking was Novák’s. Finally, Pepper slipped inside, closing the door without a sound. His expression was pulled tight, his eyebrows stitching confusion into a face normally unreadable.

“They walked away,” he said.

Dylan blinked. “What?”

“Five mercs. Full gear. They stopped. They stood still like mannequins waiting for instructions. Then they turned around. Not a tactical retreat. Something else.”

Nano muttered, “No one just abandons a kill order.”

“Unless they’re dead,” Jun said.

“Or called off,” Thame murmured.

Silence gathered again, thicker than before.

Dylan moved to the window, crouching beside the cheap blinds. Thame joined him, each tilt of his head a calculated angle, a careful measurement of threat.

The parking lot was dim, bathed in the weak orange of the lonely streetlamp. Three black SUVs that had been parked there earlier were pulling out. Engines low but powerful. Headlights off. Drivers disciplined. They rolled out like a convoy of shadows slipping back into the night.

Dylan frowned. “They’re not repositioning.”

Nano joined, peering from behind them. “They’re like leaving-leaving.”

Pepper stood near the door, arms crossed. “Yep. That’s what I saw in the hallway. Not hesitation. Not a failed breach. Just… abort.”

Jun tightened his grip on his blade. “Mercs don’t abort unless the money’s gone or the client has changed their mind.”

Thame’s jaw shifted. A slow, dangerous tension settling there.

“Or,” he said softly, “someone higher up just said ‘stop.’”

Novák finally spoke, voice trembling despite his best efforts. “I – I don’t understand. Someone hired them to get me? To kill you, right? Why stop now? They’re already here.”

Thame didn’t answer. Not yet. Because a possibility he didn’t like was forming – a dark seed rolling around in his mind, casting long roots he didn’t want to examine. He scanned the room again, not for enemies but for answers. There were none.

Only Po’s still chest rising and falling. Only Novák’s nerves. Only their weapons. Only shadows.

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

Dylan retreated to the far corner, tablet in hand. His fingers danced over the screen, running every sensor sweep he could manage on portable hardware.

Thermal. Motion. Cellular pings. Packet interception. He cast a digital net around their temporary sanctuary.

“It’s clean,” he announced after two minutes. “No hostile signatures within a hundred meters.”

Jun frowned. “What about drones?”

“No UAV chatter,” Dylan said. “Air is quiet.”

Nano asked, “Is someone jamming your signal?”

“Nope. Nothing anomalous. If anything, the space around us feels too empty. Like someone wiped the board clean.”

Pepper rubbed the back of his neck. “Hate when the universe tidies up before the climax.”

A beat.

Jun shot him a look. “Really?”

“Sorry. Stress jokes.”

Thame didn’t react. His focus was on the possibilities spiraling outward: Orders rescinded. Contract dissolved. Intercepted. Overriden.

Who had that kind of reach?

Not the usual enemies. Not anyone they’d pissed off in the past six months. Not anyone aside from – No. He pushed that thought down.

Dylan lifted his head. “So. The million baht question. Who ordered the retreat?”

Jun paced once, then twice. “If the client pulled funding, the mercs would leave – but usually after confirming we’re dead. They wouldn’t risk us escaping.”

Nano chimed in. “If the contractor failed to pay, the mercs would switch sides, not walk away.”

“Unless,” Pepper added, “someone scarier than their employer told them to back off.”

That earned silence from every corner of the room. Thame’s expression shifted – barely – but enough that his teammates knew he was connecting threads they hadn't even seen yet.

Novák swallowed. “Does this mean… someone out there is protecting us?”

Nano snorted. “Not likely.”

Pepper shrugged. “Could be. Stranger things have happened.”

Dylan muttered, “Yeah, like five mercs turning into well-behaved NPCs.”

Jun shot Dylan a look but didn’t disagree.

Thame finally spoke: “We can’t assume they left for good. Pullbacks can be feints. They might regroup and hit us harder later.”

Jun nodded. “Or call reinforcements.”

“Or wait for us to relax,” Nano added.

Pepper raised his hand. “And I hate to be the messenger of obvious things, but we can’t stay here. They know this location. Once they recover from whatever made their brains glitch, they’ll return.”

Dylan checked the tablet. “Po’s vitals are still weak but stable. If we’re moving him, we need to do it now.”

Novák stood, legs shaking slightly. “Where do we go?”

Everyone looked at Thame. Because “where next” was always his call.

Thame inhaled slowly. “We go to Koko’s house.”

Pepper blinked. “Koko? As in our gym trainer Phi Ko?”

Dylan raised a brow. “That’s… surprisingly domestic of you.”

Jun’s hand dropped from his blade. “Why there?”

“Because,” Thame answered, “no one knows about it except us, his immediate family, and his landlord. It’s off-grid. No public records linking it to any of us. No business ties. No agency tags. If the mercs were called off by someone who knows our patterns, our safehouses, our fallback points – they won’t look there.”

Pepper snapped his fingers. “Right. The place with the ugly striped curtains and the okay-ish Wi-Fi.”

Nano mumbled, “Ugly is an understatement…”

Thame continued, ignoring the commentary, “It’s the one place even our enemies wouldn’t predict we’d go to. Which makes it the only place that’s safe.”

Dylan shut his tablet. “Then we move in five.”

“Three,” Thame corrected. “We don’t know how long that retreat holds.”

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

Po woke to the sound of zippers and whispers. Fabric rustled. A duffel thumped softly against the floor. Someone checked the slide on a gun, metal clicking in precise rhythm.

He tried to open his eyes and met darkness. Cloth pressed against his lashes.

Blindfold.

His heart stuttered.

For one disorienting second, he thought he was back in the lab. Straps on cold metal. Needles. The hum of the machines behind the wall. Someone saying his name like a lab ID, not a person. Then the mattress under him registered as too cheap, too saggy. The air too dusty, tinged with motel detergent and sweat instead of antiseptic.

Voices. Familiar ones.

“Grab the med kit.”

“Already packed.”

“Pep, double check the ammo box.”

“On it.”

Them. He was with them. The relief hit, sharp and fragile. It lasted about half a heartbeat. Because as soon as he found that thought, another surfaced.

Pepper tasing him. The sharp crack of electricity. The way his body had jerked. The smell of cooked ozone in the back of his throat. And before that, Novák’s terrified choking, hands clawing at an invisible grip.

Po’s invisible grip.

He swallowed, mouth dry.
The memory was there and not there at the same time. No clean edges. More sensation than story. He remembered Novák’s face. Remembered recognizing him. One of the scientists. One of the men who had stood outside the observation glass while Po silently screamed.

Something inside Po had snapped. Or cracked. Or split sideways. Then there had been a pressure. A strangling pull. Novák’s eyes bulging, his feet scrabbling. Not with his hands. With his power.

Po’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t remember deciding to do it. Didn’t remember wanting to. Fear had taken the wheel and driven his body without permission. He had been underwater, drowning in panic, and Novák had been the anchor dragging him down.

And Pepper. Pepper with the taser. Not angry. Not cruel. Just scared. Very scared.

Po’s fingers brushed his own wrist. Skin tender where the restraints had been. They’d tied him. They’d blindfolded him. Contained him. Because he was dangerous. Because he was… something.

A monster.

The word drifted into his mind like a bubble. He didn’t reject it. He just watched it float around, reflecting fractured images of himself.

He didn’t blame Pepper. Or Thame. Or any of them. If he were in their place, he would have done the same. He rolled his head, feeling the pillow scratch his cheek. Footsteps approached.

“Po?” Thame’s voice, low and steady, like he was trying to talk down a bomb.

Po’s throat tightened. He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust himself. Didn’t trust his reactions. He stayed silent. The mattress dipped near his hip. Thame must have sat down.

“You awake?” Thame asked.

Po swallowed. Breath shuddered in his lungs. He nodded once, a small, careful motion beneath the blindfold.

Around them, the room moved. Dylan muttering something about signal spoofing. Jun shoving gear into a duffel. Pepper checking his knives. Nano grumbling about leaving the motel’s thin pillows behind.

Normal mission chaos. Familiar. Grounding. Terrifying in a whole new way. Because now he was part of the danger, not just surrounded by it.

Thame exhaled softly. “Po – thank god. How do you feel?”

Po didn’t know how to answer that without breaking something important. Inside himself. Inside the room. Inside them. He opted not to answer at all. Silence spread like ink.

“Po,” Thame said again, gentler. “Talk to me.”

Po clenched his jaw, feeling the cloth press more firmly against his eyes. The darkness was a comfort. It meant he didn’t have to see their faces. Didn’t have to see who flinched when they looked at him. He turned his head away.

Not from Thame exactly. From everyone. From the world.

The mattress creaked as Thame shifted, leaning closer. His hand brushed Po’s forearm, light, hesitant. Po went still, every nerve on high alert.

“I’m sorry na,” Thame said quietly.

Po’s chest pulled tight.

There it was. The apology. For the taser. For the restraints. For the blindfold. For being afraid of him. Po’s fingers curled reflexively into the blanket.

“Per didn't want to hurt you,” Thame said. “He just wanted to stop you before you killed Novák.”

The words landed like a punched bruise. Killed Novák. Had he been that close? Po’s breath caught. The air tasted wrong, too thick. Thame was still speaking, voice careful, like he was stepping through broken glass.

“You were in a panic. You saw him and you… reacted. Your power latched onto him. You were choking him, Po. He couldn’t breathe.”

Po squeezed his eyes tighter beneath the blindfold, even though that did nothing.

He heard the distant echo of Novák’s broken gasps. The sound of Pepper’s voice yelling something. The crackle of electricity.

“I know you didn’t mean to,” Thame said. “I know it was instinct. Trauma. That doesn’t make you a monster.”

Po flinched. He hadn’t said the word aloud. Thame had. Which meant Thame knew. Or suspected. Or maybe everyone had been thinking it and finally Thame decided to cut to the chase.

Po shifted his hands, feeling the ghost of restraint marks. He could move now; they’d untied him at some point. He hadn’t noticed. He had a fleeting urge to ask them to tie him again.

Instead he curled his fingers into fists, keeping them close to his body. Smaller. Quieter. Less.

“Po,” Thame said. “Listen to me. They.. We tied you because we were scared, yes. But not scared of you as a person. Scared of losing control of the situation. Scared of what the lab did to you, not what you are.”

Po’s lips trembled. He pressed them together.

He wanted to believe that. Wanted to grab the words and hug them to his chest. But images kept cutting through: Novák’s colorless face, the way his feet had kicked weakly, Pepper’s hand shaking when he held the taser.

His own power, crackling through the air, invisible and ugly.

“If we thought you were a monster,” Thame went on, “you wouldn’t be here. With us. On the bed, not in a cell. We would’ve left you. Or turned you over. We didn’t. We won’t.”

Po tightened his arms around himself. You would if I killed someone, he thought. He didn’t say it. He didn’t say anything. Words felt like weapons in his mouth. If he opened it, he didn’t trust that something sharp and dangerous wouldn’t fly out and cut the wrong person.

So he chose silence. He chose the blindfold. He chose smallness. The less of him there was, the less he could hurt them.

“Po, talk at me na,” Thame murmured.

Po shook his head minutely, barely more than a twitch.

“Please.”

The word cracked something. Not deeply enough to break, but enough to ache. He wanted to. Thame’s voice had that rough edge it only got when he was really worried, not just tactically concerned.

But the last time he’d looked at Novák, someone had almost died. So he kept his eyes covered. He turned his face further into the pillow, offering Thame only the line of his jaw, a sliver of ear, nothing more.

Behind Thame, someone cleared their throat.

“Thame,” Pepper said softly. “We’re out of runway here.”

Zippers zipped. Bags thudded. The energy in the room had shifted from tense to urgent.

“Dylan scrambled the signatures,” Jun added from somewhere near the door. “We need to move. Now.”

Thame didn’t answer them immediately. Po could feel the weight of his stubborn focus, still locked on him.

“Give us a minute,” Thame said.

Pepper stepped closer. Po could tell by the angle of his voice. “You don’t have a minute. Those mercs might have been called off, but we have no idea if that order sticks. We should be at Koko’s already.”

“We can’t leave like this,” Thame snapped, quiet but sharp.

Po flinched again, then immediately hated himself for reacting.

“This is not the place to fix it,” Jun said. His tone was calm, but there was steel under it. “You can talk to him at Koko’s. Somewhere safe. Somewhere not ten meters from a crime scene with invisible question marks on it.”

Pepper added, “Right now, we don’t know who decided we live. I’d like to not make them reconsider.”

Silence. Thame’s frustration crackled in it, unspoken but loud. Po felt guilty for being the reason they were arguing. He shifted his hands and forced himself to speak.

“I’m fine,” he said. The words came out hoarse, crumbly around the edges. “You can just… do whatever. I’ll follow your instructions.”

It was the safest thing to offer. Obedience. Submission. No argument. No emotions. He could be a good lab subject. He knew how. He’d been trained.

Thame inhaled sharply, like that answer hurt more than yelling would. “Po,” Thame said quietly, “You’re not an asset. You’re…”

He hesitated, as if the next word was too big for his mouth.

“Friend,” Pepper finished from the doorway. His voice was gentle, uncharacteristically soft.

Po swallowed. It sounded nice. The kind of word that should glow. He wrapped his hands tighter in the blanket so he wouldn’t reach out and grab it.

“If you really think that,” Po whispered, “then you should keep me away from you. Just in case.”

The silence that followed was worse than any gunshot. Thame exhaled, a sound halfway between anger and grief.

Jun stepped forward, his voice moving closer. “Hey. This conversation? Absolutely needs to happen. But not here. Not with Novák half a trauma trigger in the corner and Dylan trying to hold back a panic attack about invisible merc handlers.”

“Hey,” Dylan protested from somewhere near the window. “It’s not a panic attack. It’s a… reasonable existential crisis.”

Pepper huffed softly. “Cute rebrand.”

Jun continued. “Thame. We need you to be clear-headed for the drive. You can sit with him in the car. Talk to him on the way. Or at Koko’s. Just… not now.”

Po heard Thame’s knuckles crack quietly as he flexed his hands.

Finally, Thame said, “Fine.”

The mattress rose as he stood, the air where his body had been cooling too quickly.

“Jun, can you help him up?” Thame asked.

Po tensed, instinctively wary.

“I’ve got him,” Jun said.

A gentle hand touched Po’s shoulder. “Hey. Can I take your hand? Just so you don’t walk into a wall and sue me later?”

Po hesitated, then slowly nodded. Pepper’s fingers closed around his, warm and careful. He guided Po to sit up. The room tilted unpleasantly for a second, then steadied.

Po could feel Novák’s eyes on him, somewhere to his right. He tried not to think about it.

Jun helped him stand, one hand at his elbow. “We’re moving to a safer spot. A new adventure, right? Loud. Overcaffeinated. Makes great fried rice.”

Po nodded.

“Cool. Then it’s just a field trip with extra trauma. No biggie.”

Po snorted despite himself, startled by the tiny bubble of humor. It popped immediately, sinking back under the weight in his chest, but it was something.

“Keep the blindfold on for now if you want,” Jun said quietly. “We’ll be your eyes.”

Po nodded again, grateful and ashamed in equal measure. He let himself be led out of the room. Behind him, he heard Thame give clipped orders. Dylan shutting down devices. Nano muttering about leaving any trace. Pepper doing a final sweep.

They checked out with the same eerie efficiency that had pulled them out of firefights and blown buildings. Only this time, the thing they were trying to escape wasn’t just bullets. It was confusion, invisible orders, and the fact that one of their own had nearly killed a man without meaning to.

Po moved like a sleepwalker, guided down the hallway, through the lobby, across the parking lot. He didn’t see the bored night clerk. Didn’t see the fading motel sign. Didn’t see the empty spaces where black SUVs had waited earlier.

He kept his hand on Pepper’s wrist and his sight in darkness. If he didn’t look at the world, maybe the world wouldn’t flinch at him.

They reached the car. Someone opened a door. Pepper guided him into the back seat. The upholstery was cracked vinyl, familiar from earlier, but now it felt foreign. Too tactile. Too close.

“Careful with your head,” Jun murmured, helping him duck in.

Po slid onto the seat. He heard someone climb in beside him.

Thame.

He could tell by the way the cushion dipped. By the particular rhythm of Thame’s breathing. By the heat of him, steady and solid, like a wall at his side.

The door shut with a dull sound. The engine turned over. Jun’s voice came from the front.

“Everyone in? Last roll call for emotional disasters.”

“Here,” Dylan said.

“Unfortunately,” Nano added.

“Present and fabulous,” Pepper said.

“Uhh.. here?” Novák said awkwardly.

Thame didn’t say anything. Po didn’t either. The car pulled out of the parking lot, tires crunching over gravel. The motel receded behind them.

Po leaned his head back against the seat, blindfold still in place, hands clasped tightly in his lap. He could feel Thame’s gaze on him. Heavy. Constant. Like a spotlight he couldn’t see but still burned under.

He tried to disappear into his own body. It didn’t work.

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

Thame told himself to watch the road, even though he wasn’t the one driving.

Jun handled the wheel, eyes sharp on the dark stretch of asphalt ahead. Dylan monitored signals from the passenger seat. Pepper half twisted to look out the rear window. Nano muttered threats at anyone who might possibly be tailing them.

There was plenty for Thame to look at. He kept looking at Po anyway.

Po sat very still. Too still. Hands clenched together so tightly the tendons stood out under the skin. Shoulders drawn inward, like he was trying to collapse into himself.

The blindfold stayed on.

Thame’s gaze lingered on the knot at the back of Po’s head. On the way, a stray lock of hair had escaped, curling against his neck.

His thoughts looped back to the moment in the motel room. Po’s voice, small and raw:

“If you really think that, then you should keep me away from you. Just in case.”

Thame closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

He had spent years thinking of himself as the dangerous one. The weapon pointed by other people. The monster under someone else’s leash. He knew what it was like to be looked at like a threat in human skin.

He had never wanted Po to feel that way. Not with them. Not with him.

He watched Po’s chest rise and fall. Shallow. Controlled. Like Po was measuring each breath, trying not to take up too much air. Family, he had almost said. He’d thought it so loudly it hurt his teeth. Pepper beat him to it. Before he could say what was running in his mind ever since he laid his eyes on Po.

Mine.

Thame’s fingers twitched against his thigh.

He wanted to tug the blindfold off. Make Po look at him. Make him see that his eyes didn’t hold fear, only worry. Only guilt. Only a bone-deep determination to never let labs or mercs or anyone else touch him again.

He didn’t.

Po had chosen the blindfold. Chosen silence. Chosen distance as his self-imposed safety protocol. Thame knew better than anyone that forcing someone out of their defensive shell only made the cracks worse.

So he sat there, next to a boy who thought he was a monster, and watched the knot of fabric at the back of his head like it held all the answers Thame didn’t have.

“Ten minutes out,” Jun said from the front.

Thame hummed in acknowledgement.

He let his shoulder rest barely, just barely, against Po’s. A point of contact so slight Po could ignore it if he wanted to.

Po didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean in either. He just kept breathing, blindfold on, quiet and closed off.

Thame’s eyes stayed on him.

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

The knock woke Koko before the sound fully registered. Not because it was loud. Because it was wrong.

Three short knocks. Pause. Two slow, deliberate ones.

His eyes opened instantly. That pattern hadn’t been used in years. Not since barracks days, not since the kind of nights where doors only opened for people you trusted with your life.

Yala lifted her head from the rug at the foot of the bed, ears twitching. She didn’t bark. She never barked anymore. She just watched him with cloudy eyes and waited.

Koko sat up, already reaching for the torch on his nightstand.

“Stay,” he murmured.

Yala’s tail thumped once.

He pulled on a shirt, stepped into old training pants, and moved down the hallway without turning on the lights. The house creaked softly around him, wood settling, familiar and reassuring. Outside, the farm was quiet. No animals disturbed. No engines. No raised voices.

The knock came again. Same pattern. That settled it. Koko unlocked the door and opened it halfway.

Jun stood on the porch, face drawn tight. Pepper just behind him. Nano and Dylan further back, shadows pressed together. A man Koko didn’t recognize hovered at the edge of the porch light, eyes darting.

And then Thame stepped forward. With a blindfolded young man at his side. Not unconscious. Awake. Rigid. Hands clasped together so tightly the knuckles were white.

Koko’s breath left him slowly through his nose.

“Inside,” he said.

No questions yet.

They moved quickly, their boots soft on the tile, instinctively keeping the noise down. Koko closed and locked the door behind them, sliding the deadbolt home with a dull, final sound.

Yala shuffled out of the bedroom, toenails clicking. She stopped short when she saw the strangers, head low, tail cautious but curious.

Koko laid a hand on her head. “Easy.”

She sniffed, then turned her attention immediately to the blindfolded boy, nose twitching. She approached slowly, carefully, like she understood something was wrong.

The boy didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his head. That worried Koko more than panic would have.

Thame guided him to the couch and helped him sit. The movement was controlled, practiced, but there was a tension in Thame’s shoulders that didn’t belong to a routine operation.

Koko turned back to the rest of them.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Someone explain why you’re waking me up in the middle of the night with that knock.”

Jun met his eyes. “We need a safe place.”

Koko nodded once. “And?”

“And we can’t go anywhere else.”

That was enough for now.

Koko’s gaze shifted to the two unfamiliar men. The shaken one hovered near the door, clearly terrified of everything. The blindfolded one sat perfectly still, posture screaming restraint rather than fear.

“Who are they?” Koko asked.

Jun hesitated. Not long, but long enough.

“Civilians,” he said. “They got caught in something they shouldn’t have.”

Koko studied the blindfolded boy again. Bruises along the jaw. Faint marks at the wrists, like restraints that had already been removed. Controlled breathing. Closed posture. Trauma, not sedation.

“Is he dangerous,” Koko asked bluntly.

Thame answered immediately. “No.”

Koko stared at him. Really looked. Thame didn’t look away. Koko accepted that answer, though he filed it away for later examination.

“Sit,” Koko said, gesturing. “All of you.”

Nano collapsed into a chair. Dylan stayed near the window. Pepper remained standing. Jun moved toward the kitchen but stopped when Koko lifted a hand.

“Later,” Koko said. “Talk first.”

Yala didn’t hesitate.

She crossed the living room with the slow, unhurried confidence of an animal that knew exactly where it was safe. No stiffness in her gait, no wary half-steps. Her tail moved in an easy, sweeping arc, brushing the floor as she went.

She stopped at the couch. At the blindfolded boy.

Yala turned once in place, then sat down close to his feet, close enough that her warmth touched him. After a moment, she leaned forward and rested her graying head gently against his shin, the weight deliberate and trusting.

The boy inhaled sharply.

Just once.

Koko saw it. The catch in the breath. The way his muscles tensed before easing again, as if his body had expected something else and been quietly surprised.

Yala didn’t move away. She sighed instead, a long, contented sound, and settled more firmly against him. Koko frowned.

Yala was calm, yes. Gentle, always. But cautious, always. She took her time with people. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes months. When Koko had brought her home from the shelter years ago, she hadn’t let him touch her for two weeks. Slept facing the door. Ate only when he left the room.

Now she looked as if she’d known this boy forever.

“Dog’s friendly,” Koko said, voice even, pitched to steady the space rather than soothe the boy. “She’s older than most grudges.”

The boy didn’t reply. He didn’t turn his head. Didn’t reach out. But his shoulders dropped, just a fraction. The rigid line of his posture softened, barely visible unless you knew what to look for.

Yala’s tail thumped once, slow and sure. Koko shook his head, a quiet disbelief settling in.

“That’s new,” he murmured, mostly to himself. Then, louder, to the room: “She doesn’t do that.”

Pepper glanced over. “Do what?”

“Take to someone,” Koko said. “This fast. She didn’t even trust me when I adopted her. Took weeks before she’d sit this close.”

Yala lifted her head briefly, glanced up at Koko, then leaned back into the boy’s leg without a second thought.

Koko exhaled slowly.

Jun’s phone buzzed.

Jun stiffened.

“I need to take this,” he said.

Koko nodded. “Kitchen.”

Jun moved away, voice dropping as he answered. Koko didn’t try to listen. He didn’t need to. He could read the room. Pepper paced once, then stopped. Nano rubbed his face with both hands. Dylan tapped at his tablet, more to keep himself occupied than because there was anything to see.

Thame stayed beside the couch, silent.

Koko leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes moving between them. This wasn’t normal – they looked like a team that had just survived a firefight.

Jun came back into the living room with his phone still in his hand.

No one spoke at first. They didn’t need to. The look on his face said enough. His skin had gone pale, eyes shadowed, jaw set too tight, like he’d been holding something back for several minutes and it had finally broken through.

Yala lifted her head. Po, blindfolded on the couch, went very still, as if he sensed the shift without seeing it. Jun stopped a few steps in and drew a breath that didn’t quite steady him and then looked at Thame.

“I asked my contact like you asked,” Jun said, voice shaking slightly. “And you were right.”

Jun hesitated just long enough for even Koko to notice. Then he swallowed and continued. “There was a supposed attack at Kittisak’s house. Earlier tonight.”

Another short pause, and then – “Kittisak is dead. Shot dead,” he said.

The name hit the room hard.

Pepper swore under his breath, sharp and quiet. Nano froze where he stood, one hand braced on the counter, knuckles whitening. Dylan’s fingers stopped mid-motion above his tablet, the screen casting light he no longer seemed aware of.

Thame didn’t move. Not at first.

Then, slowly, he straightened, shoulders pulling back as if some internal brace had locked into place. His face stayed controlled, but his eyes darkened, focus narrowing.

Koko’s gaze sharpened. He watched Thame closely now, noting the way his hands curled once at his sides before relaxing again.

Jun went on, voice tight. “Police are calling it a robbery gone wrong.”

Thame let out a slow breath. “That’s convenient.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jun said.

“And?” Thame pressed.

Jun’s jaw clenched. “His work laptop and phone are missing.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

“That’s not robbery,” Koko said quietly.

“No,” Thame agreed. “It’s extraction.”

Pepper dragged a hand down his face. “Shit.”

Nano shook his head once. “He was careful. Paranoid, even. You don’t just break into his place and walk out with that kind of material unless you know exactly where it is.”

Dylan finally spoke, voice low. “Which means whoever did this knew him. Or had access.”

Thame nodded grimly. “Internal, or close enough to be indistinguishable.”

Jun exhaled slowly. “My contact says the scene doesn’t add up. Forced entry that doesn’t match the damage. Some rooms too clean, others trashed for show. No usable neighborhood footage. No witnesses.”

Pepper's voice dropped to an almost whisper. “Professional cleanup.”

“Yes.”

Thame closed his eyes briefly.

Nano muttered, “Jesus.”

Pepper’s voice dropped. “So this wasn’t just timing. This was synchronized.”

“Yes,” Jun said. “My contact confirmed the estimated time of death matches the call window that Thame made.”

Dylan cursed under his breath. “They hit him while he was talking to you.”

Thame didn’t respond. His expression had gone distant, like he was replaying the sound in his head, dissecting it frame by frame. Koko watched him carefully. This wasn’t just grief. It was responsibility. The kind that sank in deep and stayed there.

Jun continued, voice tight. “Whoever did this knew where he was. Knew when to move. And knew what to take.”

“And,” Pepper added grimly, “they wanted him silenced before he could warn us.”

Thame’s hands clenched once more, then relaxed.

“He did warn us,” Thame said quietly. “That’s what he did when I called. He warned me, us, to run.”

Jun nodded. “Which means – what?”

“It means Kittisak found something he wasn’t supposed to,” Dylan said, a gloom settling in his voice.

Koko looked between them, piecing it together. He didn’t know the details of their operations, but he understood patterns of escalation.

“So,” Pepper said slowly, “Kittisak sends us to pull someone out. The same night, mercenaries are sent after us. When that fails, he is killed before he can talk. And his intelligence disappears.”

No one contradicted him. Koko’s gaze shifted briefly to Novak, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the furniture, then to Po, blindfolded and silent, shoulders drawn inward.

“And now,” Koko continued, “you’re here.”

Jun nodded. “Because we don’t know who else is compromised.”

Koko leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. He was listening more than speaking now, absorbing the weight of it.

The room fell silent again. Not stunned. Not frozen.Focused. Outside, the farm slept on, unaware. Inside, the absence of one man echoed louder than any gunshot.

Kittisak was gone. And Thame knew he’d been listening when it happened.

Koko rubbed a hand over his face.

“You’re staying the night,” he said finally. “I don’t care what mess you dragged in. No one leaves while we’re this exposed.”

Pepper nodded. “Thank you.”

Koko’s gaze hardened. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t say I’d protect you forever.”

Koko turned toward the hallway.

“I’ll take first watch,” he said. “Yala will bark if anyone breathes wrong.”

Yala thumped her tail in agreement.

As Koko walked away, the house settled around them again. Old wood. Quiet walls. A place that wasn’t built for secrets but would hold them anyway.

On the couch, Po sat blindfolded, awake, withdrawn.

High above them, deep within systems Thame had once believed were secure, a choice had already been made about how much more this night would be allowed to take.

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

The man behind the desk slammed his palm against the glass surface hard enough to rattle the embedded holo-screen.

“Explain to me,” he hissed, “why you sent a strike team after Subject Four.”

The security commander stiffened. He was a broad man, visibly accustomed to intimidation, but something about the figure in front of him – the voice, the stillness – made even his spine lose a degree of certainty.

“Sir,” the commander began, “we received intel that the subject was exposed. The motel –”

“You don’t touch him,” the unknown man snapped, rising. His voice was low, almost controlled, but the air in the room tightened like a coiling spring. “Do you know what would have happened if I hadn’t called the op off at the last second? Have you forgotten what happened in the forest?”

The commander swallowed. Images flickered through his mind: trees bending under invisible force, men thrown like rag dolls, the ground itself trembling as if trying to escape the boy’s terror.

“Sir, with all due respect –”

“No.”

A thin smile, humorless and cold. “There is no respect in stupidity.”

The commander looked down. The man paced once behind his desk, hands clasped behind him.

“Subject Four is unstable. Unpredictable. Triggerable. If your mercenaries had cornered him, we would be mopping them off the motel hallways like chili paste.”

He leaned forward, bracing himself on the desk.

“You do not engage. You do not provoke. You do not approach. Not until the weapon is ready.”

The commander exhaled slowly. “About the weapon… There have been delays.”

The room went silent. The unknown man didn’t breathe for a moment. Then–

“Delays.”

“Yes, sir. The stabilizing compound hasn’t passed stress tests. If we deploy it prematurely, the containment –”

“I did not ask for excuses,” the man murmured. “I asked if it was ready.”

“It isn’t. Not yet.”

A faint tap-tap-tap of fingers on the desk. Not impatient – calculating.

“Then speed it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And until it is ready,” the man continued, turning toward the vast reinforced window overlooking the city skyline, “you will keep your teams away from Subject Four. Away from LYKN. Away from anyone who might force his hand.”

He lifted a single finger. A slow gesture. A warning. “Observe them. Track them. Do. Not. Engage.”

The commander bowed his head. “Understood.”

“And if you ever send mercenaries without clearance again,” the unknown man added mildly, “I’ll test the weapon prototype on you.”

The commander paled.

“Dismissed.”

The commander turned to catch a glimpse of himself. His reflection in the glass was nothing more than a silhouette with eyes like two cold stars. Somewhere below, sirens wailed faintly through the night.

He bowed to the unknown man and left, closing the door behind him.

A quiet hum sounded as the commander stepped into the hallway. Sterile, metallic, too bright. He pressed the elevator button, jaw tight. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside and tapped for the lower security level.

The elevator began its descent with a soft chime. Five floors down, it stopped. The doors opened. A man stepped in – tired eyes, disheveled tie, a folder tucked under one arm.

“Morning,” Wanchai said absently, rubbing his temples. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

The commander forced a stiff smile. “Long night.”

Wanchai didn’t notice the tension. He was already pulling out his ID badge, muttering about paperwork and overdue briefings. The elevator doors slid shut with a soft, final click.

The commander stood very still. And in that tiny, shared box of steel and humming electricity, the truth sat quietly between them: The unknown man upstairs – the architect of mercenaries, weapons, and secrets – worked inside the same building.

The TIIA (Thailand Internal Intelligence Agency) headquarters. LYKN’s home. Wanchai’s workplace.

The epicenter of everything that would break open in the days to come.

Chapter Text

The house settled into a kind of uneasy stillness as the night dragged on. Not sleep. Just watchfulness, stretched thin and quiet, the way soldiers learned to exist when grief wasn’t finished with them yet.

Koko’s lights stayed off. Only the dim glow from a single shaded lamp in the living room cast long, soft shadows across the walls. Outside, the small farm lay dark and unmoving. The fields whispered occasionally when the wind passed through, but nothing else disturbed the night.

Inside, LYKN took turns on watch. No one argued about the rotation. No one complained.

Kittisak was gone. That truth sat with them like a weight on the chest, pressing harder whenever anyone stopped moving long enough to feel it.

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

Jun stood by the front window, one hand braced against the frame, the other wrapped loosely around his phone. He wasn’t scrolling. He wasn’t calling. He was staring at the reflection in the glass, half-seeing his own face layered over the dark yard beyond.

Primary handler. That was the phrase the agency liked to use. Neat. Clean. Professional. It didn’t capture what Kittisak actually was.

Kittisak was the man who answered at impossible hours without complaint. The one who read between Jun’s clipped reports and asked the questions that mattered. The one who said stand down when the command wanted blood and push through when the team doubted themselves.

Jun’s jaw tightened.

He remembered Kittisak’s voice, calm even when delivering bad news. Remembered the way he’d pause before responding, like he was weighing not just facts but people.

Now all of that was gone, reduced to a police report and a lie about a robbery. Jun’s phone buzzed faintly in his hand. Reflexively, his grip tightened before he checked it.

Nothing. Just the hollow echo of a device that had delivered its last message too well.

He exhaled slowly and shifted his stance, scanning the perimeter again. Fence line. Tree shadows. The faint outline of the barn roof.

Nothing moved. Good. And terrible, all at once.

Because part of him wanted something to move. Something he could point at. Something he could blame. Instead, there was only absence.

Jun pressed his forehead briefly against the cool glass.

Behind him, Po shifted faintly on the couch. Jun didn’t turn. He didn’t trust his expression.

He straightened, shoulders squaring again.

Handler gone or not, Jun’s job hadn’t changed. Protect the team. Hold the line. Figure out who pulled the trigger.

And make sure Kittisak’s death meant something.

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

Dylan sat at the dining table with his tablet dark, hands folded loosely in front of him.

He could’ve been working. He should have been working. There were systems to probe, redundancies to test, back doors to imagine and counter-imagine. Instead, he found himself staring at the faint scratches in the wood.

Kittisak had always trusted him. Not blindly. Never blindly. But enough.

Enough to let Dylan question briefings. Enough to allow delays when Dylan said the data didn’t feel right. Enough to back him when higher-ups rolled their eyes at “digital paranoia.”

“Better paranoid than dead,” Kittisak used to say.

Dylan swallowed.

Someone had been less paranoid. Or more powerful. Laptop gone. Phone gone. Local backups wiped. That meant credentials. That meant keys. That meant access that shouldn’t have existed without multiple approvals.

Which meant the system Dylan believed in – no, helped build – had been compromised. And Kittisak had paid for it.

Dylan’s fingers curled against the tabletop.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words barely a breath. “I should’ve seen it.”

He knew that was unfair. He knew no system was perfect. But grief didn’t care about fairness. Grief wanted blame.

If he let himself spiral, he could name a dozen theoretical vulnerabilities. Insider threats. Shadow credentials. Ghost accounts. Parallel oversight structures that reported to no one official.

All things he’d flagged. All things that had been logged, reviewed, delayed. All things that had now grown teeth.

Dylan closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.

Later, he would work. He would tear into the data like a man possessed. He would hunt down every inconsistency until the truth bled through the cracks.

But not yet.

Right now, he let himself feel the loss.

Kittisak had once brought him coffee during an all-night decryption run. Had stood silently behind him for ten minutes, just watching code scroll, before saying, “You look like someone who forgets to eat when it matters.”

Dylan had laughed at the time.

Now the memory hurt in a way he hadn’t expected. He opened his eyes and glanced toward the living room.

Po sat curled inward on the couch, blindfold still on, Yala pressed warm against his leg. Thame stood nearby, a quiet soldier.

Dylan looked away again. Everything about this night felt wrong. And Kittisak should’ve been here to tell them what to do next.

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

Pepper took the back door. He liked having his back to something solid, liked knowing the exact dimensions of the space behind him. The small porch light stayed off. Darkness was better cover.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes scanning the fields beyond the fence.

Pepper didn’t believe in clean grief. For him, loss always came with heat. With anger that burned, first and asked questions later.

Kittisak’s death sat in his chest like a live wire.

Primary handler, sure. But more than that, Kittisak had been the one person who never treated Pepper like a blunt instrument. He’d seen the knives, the close-quarters work, the parts of Pepper that made other handlers uneasy. And he’d said, simply, “I know what you are. I also know what you choose not to be.”

Pepper ground his teeth together.

Someone had decided that man was expendable. Someone had decided mercenaries were easier to lose than answers. Someone had been wrong.

Pepper’s gaze sharpened, locking onto a distant tree line where shadows tangled together.

“Cowards,” he muttered.

Not the men who pulled the trigger. They were just tools. The cowards were the ones hiding behind protocols and false reports. The ones who called it a robbery and went home to sleep.

Pepper flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar itch of violence he was carefully, deliberately not acting on.

He would wait. He would be patient. And when the time came, he wouldn’t miss.

Behind him, the house creaked softly. A floorboard. Someone shifting on watch. Pepper didn’t turn.

“Didn’t deserve that,” he said quietly, to the night. “None of us did.”

The fields didn’t answer. But the promise settled in him all the same.

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

Nano volunteered for the late shift. Not because he liked the dark. Not because he was particularly good at sitting still.

Because if he stayed busy, maybe his mind wouldn’t replay everything on a loop.

He sat near the hallway, back against the wall, knees pulled up, arms draped loosely over them. From here, he could see the living room, the front door, and the edge of the kitchen.

He could also hear Po’s breathing.

Slow. Careful. Controlled.

Nano glanced at him occasionally, then away again.

He thought about Kittisak’s stupid jokes. The dry comments slipped into otherwise brutal briefings. The way he’d once smuggled snacks into a safehouse because Nano complained about rations bars for fifteen straight minutes.

“He’s not wrong,” Kittisak had said to Jun, deadpan. “These taste like regret.”

Nano snorted softly at the memory, then immediately felt his throat tighten.

Gone.

Just like that.

“You’re supposed to outlive us,” Nano whispered. “That was the deal.”

No answer came, of course.

Nano leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t afraid, exactly. Fear was loud. This was something quieter. A dull ache that sat under his ribs and refused to leave.

They’d lost handlers before. People rotated. People retired.

This was different. This was someone being taken. Nano’s gaze drifted back to Novák. And to Po.

Two civilians. One shaken. One silent and folded in on himself like he’d decided the world was too sharp.

Nano swallowed.

“If this is what they wanted,” he murmured, “they’re doing a good job.”

But even as the thought crossed his mind, something else followed it.

They were still here. Still together. Still watching each other’s backs. Kittisak had believed in that.

Nano shifted, sitting up straighter as his watch continued.

For Kittisak.

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

Grief was quieter than Thame expected.

Not the sharp kind that made you want to break things or scream into walls. Not the explosive kind that came with anger and blame.

This was heavier.

It sat behind his eyes and under his ribs, a constant pressure that didn’t pulse or fade. It just was. Like gravity had increased without warning and his body hadn’t adjusted yet.

Thame stood at the edge of Koko’s back porch, looking out over the dark field. The farm stretched quietly under the night sky, rows of earth barely visible, shadows layered on shadows. Somewhere far off, an insect chirred, stopped, then started again.

He hadn’t moved in a while. He wasn’t on watch. Pepper had that. Jun had the front window. Dylan and Nano were rotating inside.

This was something else.

Kittisak was dead. The thought didn’t spiral. It didn’t fracture. It just sat there, undeniable.

Kittisak had been the constant. The one voice on the line that never wavered. The one who absorbed pressure from above so it never crushed them from below. The man who said I’ll handle it and actually did.

Thame pressed his thumb against the inside of his wrist, grounding himself in the physical sensation.

He could still hear the sound. The shuffle. The shift in breath. The gunshot. He hadn’t imagined it. He knew that now. Jun’s confirmation had closed that door. The timing matched. The call had gone dead for a reason.

Someone had ended Kittisak mid-sentence.

Thame tightened his jaw and stared into the field, forcing his shoulders to stay loose. He didn’t let himself hunch. Didn’t let himself fold inward. That wasn’t how he survived. That wasn’t how he kept other people safe.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Soft. Careful. Thame knew immediately who it was. He didn’t turn.

Po stopped a few steps back, close enough that Thame could feel his presence without looking. Close enough that the air shifted subtly, like pressure equalizing. Thame’s instincts flared anyway. He turned then, sharp and immediate, scanning Po from head to toe.

The blindfold was gone.

That hit him harder than the gunshot had.

Po stood there bare-eyed, dark circles under his eyes, expression composed but fragile in a way that made Thame’s chest tighten. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, not restrained, not clenched. Just… contained.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Thame said. Not harsh. Not a question. Protective.

Po didn’t flinch. “I wanted to find you.”

Thame stepped closer without thinking, positioning himself slightly in front of Po, instinctively blocking the open space behind him. His gaze flicked past Po once, checking the yard, the shadows, the fence line.

Clear.

Only then did he look back at Po’s face.

“You took the blindfold off,” Thame said quietly.

Po nodded. “I needed to see.”

Thame swallowed the surge of something sharp and possessive that rose in him at the thought of Po navigating the house alone in the dark, vulnerable and exposed.

“You could have woken someone,” Thame said. “Me.”

“I didn’t know where you were,” Po replied. “And I didn’t want to be… handled.”

The word was chosen carefully.

Thame absorbed it, let it settle. “You won’t be.”

Po’s gaze lifted to meet his. There was no accusation there. No fear. Just something searching.

“I know,” Po said. “That’s why I came.”

The night stretched between them.

Thame turned back toward the field, angling his body so Po could stand beside him rather than behind. He didn’t like not knowing where Po was in space. Didn’t like not having eyes on him.

“Kittisak,” Po said. The name was tentative. “He was important to you.”

“Yes,” Thame answered immediately.

There was no reason to soften it. No reason to pretend.

Po was quiet for a moment. Then, gently, “I am so sorry.”

Thame looked at him again, sharper this time. Po met his gaze steadily. “I don’t know why but I think this might have something to do with me.”

Thame inhaled, sharp eyes still on Po.

“You don’t have to talk to me about this,” Po added. “I’m not… connected to it. So I am sorr –”

Thame exhaled slowly. “You’re connected to me.”

The words came out before he could temper them. Po blinked, surprised. Thame didn’t take them back.

“I don’t compartmentalize people,” Thame continued, patting his chest slightly, voice low. “If you’re here, you’re in it. Which means I worry about you even when it doesn’t make tactical sense.”

Po’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. Almost.

“I noticed,” he said.

They stood in silence again. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of soil and leaves.

“You’re grieving,” Po said quietly.

Thame stiffened, then forced himself to relax. “Yes.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Po said. “But… I also didn’t want you to be alone with it.”

That did it. The pressure in Thame’s chest shifted, cracking just enough to let something warm through.

“You don’t owe me that,” Thame said.

“I know,” Po replied. “I wanted to anyway.”

Thame studied Po’s face. The calm there wasn’t false. It wasn’t forced. It was deliberate.

“How are you feeling,” Thame asked.

Po considered. “Clearer.”

Thame’s breath caught despite himself. “Clearer?”

“Yes,” Po said. “Since I found you.”

Thame’s instincts peaked again, sharp and protective, tangled with something more dangerous.

“You don’t need to tether yourself to me,” he said carefully.

“I’m not,” Po replied. “I’m choosing proximity.”

That was… worse. Better. Thame ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “Explain.”

Po shifted his weight slightly. “When I was blindfolded, everything felt loud. Not sound. Memory. Sensation. Panic. Like it was all happening at once.”

Thame listened, unmoving.

“And when I stood near you,” Po continued, “it organized itself. It didn’t disappear. It just… stopped pulling me apart.”

Thame closed his eyes briefly. That kind of grounding effect wasn’t unheard of. Trauma anchoring. Nervous system co-regulation. But knowing the theory didn’t make the reality any less heavy.

“You can’t rely on that,” Thame said.

“I don’t want to,” Po replied. “That’s why I’m asking.”

Thame opened his eyes. “Asking what.”

Po met his gaze fully now. No blindfold. No barrier.

“Teach me,” Po said.

Thame’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.

“Teach you what,” he asked, even though he already knew.

“How to control it,” Po said. “The power. The fear. The response.”

Thame didn’t answer immediately.

“Not just you,” Po added quickly. “All of you. I don’t want special treatment. I want structure.”

Thame’s hands curled at his sides.

“You don’t belong in training rooms like ours,” he said. “They’re not gentle.”

“I don’t need gentle,” Po replied. “I need effective.”

Thame stared at him, measuring, assessing, protecting even as he evaluated.

“What happened with Novák,” Thame said slowly, “was a trauma response. You didn’t choose it.”

“I know,” Po said. “But next time, I want to choose differently.”

There it was. Resolve.

Thame stepped closer, close enough that Po had to tilt his head up slightly to keep eye contact.

“If we do this,” Thame said, voice low and absolute, “you listen. You stop when I say stop. You don’t push yourself to prove anything.”

Po nodded without hesitation.

“And,” Thame continued, “you don’t train alone.”

“I wouldn’t,” Po said.

Thame searched his face for doubt, for fear, for the shadow of the boy who’d shut down on the couch earlier. What he saw instead was someone choosing agency. Thame placed a hand on Po’s shoulder.

Not gripping. Not restraining. Grounding. Po didn’t flinch.

“We’ll teach you,” Thame said.

Po exhaled, relief washing over his features so quickly it almost hurt to see. “Thank you,” he said.

Thame’s thumb tightened briefly against Po’s shoulder, possessive and protective all at once.

“You’re not doing this alone,” Thame added. “Not now. Not ever.”

Po nodded. “I know. You never would let me.”

They stood there together, the field dark and quiet, grief still present but no longer suffocating. Behind them, the house held. The team kept watch. The night continued to turn. And for the first time since the gunshot on the phone line, Thame felt something solid under his feet.
Not answers. But direction.

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

The morning didn’t feel real.

Not in the way mornings usually did, with their obligation and structure and the illusion that whatever had happened before was safely filed away as yesterday. This morning felt borrowed. Provisional. Like the world had given them a temporary extension and was waiting to see what they did with it.

Thame stood barefoot at the back door, one hand braced against the frame, watching the field beyond the glass. Pale light stretched over the uneven ground, catching on dew and turning it briefly silver before the warmth began to burn it away. The soil looked darker than usual. Richer. Heavy with moisture.

Kittisak was still dead.

The thought wasn’t sharp anymore. It didn’t cut. It pressed.

Thame breathed through it the same way he’d taught himself to breathe through pain years ago. Slow. Measured. No theatrics. Grief was a thing you survived by staying upright.

Behind him, the couch creaked.

He didn’t turn right away. He already knew. Po was awake.

That awareness had become instinctive sometime during the night. Thame didn’t hear Po move. He felt the shift in the room, the subtle change in tension that accompanied Po’s wakefulness. Po didn’t radiate chaos anymore. He radiated attention.

That mattered. Thame turned.

Po sat on the edge of the couch, feet planted on the floor, posture careful but not closed. The blindfold lay folded neatly beside him, untouched. His fingers rested loosely on his knees, not clenched, not fidgeting. He looked tired. He looked present.

“You didn’t sleep,” Thame said.

Po shrugged. “A little.”

That was more than nothing.

“Come outside,” Thame said. “Before everyone wakes up fully.”

Po nodded immediately. That readiness tightened something in Thame’s chest. Not fear. Not pressure.

Responsibility.

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

Thame didn’t frame it as training at first.

He didn’t say we’re starting or this is an exercise. He didn’t want Po’s body to brace before it had to. Panic loved anticipation. It thrived on the moment right before something happened.

Instead, Thame treated the morning like a continuation of the night. Same vigilance. Same gravity. Same quiet.

They stood in the back field while the sun climbed slowly enough to pretend it wasn’t intruding. The air was cool, dew clinging to the grass, the earth uneven beneath bare feet. Po had taken his shoes off without being asked. That alone told Thame more than any verbal answer could have.

Barefoot meant sensation. Sensation meant awareness. Awareness was the first step toward control.

Thame positioned himself in front of Po, angled slightly, not squared off. He kept his hands loose at his sides. No clenched fists. No aggressive posture. Everything about him said present but not threatening.

“Before anything else,” Thame said, voice low and even, “we regulate.”

Po nodded, attentive.

“This isn’t about stopping anything,” Thame continued. “You don’t suppress reactions in the field. You intercept them. You slow them down enough to choose.”

Po swallowed. “I don’t always know it’s happening until it’s already – ”

“I know,” Thame said immediately.

That wasn’t reassurance. That was experience.

“I’ve watched good people freeze,” Thame said. “I’ve watched better people panic. The difference between the ones who survive and the ones who don’t isn’t bravery. It’s regulation.”

Po absorbed that silently.

“Tell me what your body’s doing right now,” Thame said.

Po hesitated, then actually checked instead of answering reflexively. “My chest feels tight. Like there’s pressure under my ribs. My hands are cold.”

“Good,” Thame said. “That means you’re paying attention.”

Po blinked. “That’s good?”

“Yes,” Thame said. “People who aren’t aware don’t get a choice.”

Thame demonstrated without flourish.

“Inhale through your nose,” he said. “Four counts. I’ll count with you.”

Po inhaled.

“One. Two. Three. Four.”

“Hold,” Thame said. “Two.”

Po held.

“Exhale through your mouth,” Thame said. “Six.”

Po exhaled.

They repeated it. Again. Again. Thame didn’t rush it. He didn’t adjust Po’s breathing unless it truly faltered. He watched the small things instead. The tension in Po’s shoulders. The way his jaw clenched, then eased. The shift in his weight as his body stopped bracing for impact.

After several cycles, Thame spoke again.

“What changed,” he asked, “without guessing.”

Po took a moment. “The pressure moved. It’s not all in my chest anymore. It feels… spread out.”

Thame nodded. “That’s redistribution.”

Po frowned slightly. “That sounds bad.”

“It’s not,” Thame said, chuckling slightly. “Pain and panic both concentrate. When you redistribute, they lose leverage.”

Po considered that.

Peeking through the window, Nano muttered, “I feel like I’m eavesdropping on a classified therapy session.”

Pepper replied quietly, “Shut up and learn.”

Thame’s focus stayed locked on Po.

“Again,” Thame said.

They breathed.

On the next repetition, Po’s exhale wobbled. Thame caught it immediately.

“Don’t force it,” Thame said. “You’re not performing. Let the breath do what it wants. You just ride it.”

Po nodded, adjusting. This time, the rhythm settled.

“Good,” Thame said. “That’s regulation. Not calm. Control.”

Po’s shoulders lowered another fraction. Thame shifted slightly, stepping to the side without warning. Po’s eyes flicked toward him, body tensing.

“Stay,” Thame said quietly.

Po inhaled. Held. Exhaled. The tension didn’t spike. Thame noted it.

“What happened just now,” Thame asked.

“You moved,” Po said. “My body reacted, but… it didn’t run away with it.”

“That’s interception,” Thame said. “You noticed the trigger and stayed with yourself.”

Po let out a breath that almost sounded like relief. Yala wandered over and sat near Po’s feet, tail sweeping the grass. She leaned gently against his shin.

Po startled at first, then softened.

Thame watched that closely.

Animals didn’t respond to intent. They responded to nervous systems. Yala had decided Po was safe.

“Again,” Thame said softly.

They repeated the breathing with Yala pressed warm against Po’s leg. The grounding effect was immediate and unmistakable.

Thame adjusted his tone, lowering it further.

“When this happens again,” Thame said, “your goal isn’t to stop anything. Your goal is to buy time.”

Po nodded. “Time to decide.”

“Exactly,” Thame said. “You don’t win panic by fighting it. You outlast it.”

Po looked up at him then, eyes steady. “You’ve done this.”

“Yes,” Thame said.

“Not with powers,” Po said.

“No,” Thame agreed. “With adrenaline. With fear. With people screaming in my ear while my hands shook.”

That landed. Po straightened slightly.

“Again,” Thame said.

They breathed until the motion became familiar enough that Po could guide himself. Thame said less, watched more. This was the point where too much instruction would fracture focus. When Po finally opened his eyes, his gaze was clearer. Not empty. Not blank.

Present.

“That’s enough for now,” Thame said.

Po exhaled slowly. “That felt… solid.”

Thame nodded. “Good. Because this is the foundation. Everything else builds on this.”

He stepped back, giving Po space again.

“This is what you return to,” Thame said. “No matter what happens later. No matter how loud things get.”

Po met his eyes. “Okay.”

Thame held the look a beat longer than necessary. Not because he didn’t trust Po. Because he did.

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

By the time they moved into Phase Two, the sun had climbed high enough to warm the grass beneath their feet.

Not enough to make the morning feel normal. Nothing about this day could be normal with Kittisak’s absence still hanging over them like a missing rung on a ladder. But the warmth helped. It gave the body a small, physical reassurance: you’re here. you’re not back there.

Thame watched Po closely as he drank water, the bottle held with both hands like a ritual. His breathing had steadied. His shoulders weren’t hunched. But Thame could still see it, the way Po’s attention kept scanning the edges of the world as if the world might lunge.

Po was regulated. He wasn’t safe. Thame could work with that.

“Phase Two,” Thame said, keeping his voice the same level as before. No dramatic shift. “Focus.”

Po nodded. “Focus on what?”

“On the right thing,” Thame said simply. “Because under stress, your brain grabs whatever it can. Memories. Sounds. Faces. It doesn’t pick well. You need to choose your target.”

Po’s eyes flicked toward the house, where Jun and Dylan stood near the porch. Pepper leaned against the fence, arms crossed. Nano sat on the grass with exaggerated patience, like he was attending an outdoor lecture he planned to heckle later.

Koko remained a few steps back, quiet, listening.

Thame crouched and picked up two objects from the ground: the same smooth stone from earlier and a dry leaf, curled and brittle at the edges. He held them out.

“Pick one,” he said.

Po hesitated. “The stone.”

“Why.”

“It’s heavier,” Po said. “More real.”

Thame nodded. “Good. Weight matters.”

He stepped in closer and placed the stone in Po’s palm again. “Open your hand. Don’t close your fingers around it.”

Po obeyed.

“Now,” Thame said, “I’m going to give you a simple task.”

Po’s gaze lifted.

“Count the edges you can feel,” Thame said. “Not the ones you can see. You’re not judging. You’re sensing.”

Po’s brow furrowed. He rolled the stone gently against his skin. “One… two… three… maybe four.”

“Good,” Thame said. “Keep counting. Slowly. Let your brain stay on that.”

Po continued, more confident now. “Four. Definitely four.”

Thame nodded once. “That’s focus.”

Po looked up. “That’s it?”

“That’s the beginning,” Thame said. “Now we introduce interruption.”

Po’s mouth tightened. “Okay.”

Thame glanced toward Jun. “Jun.”

Jun sighed. “Why do I always get picked for the annoying part?”

“Because you’re good at it,” Nano called.

Jun stepped forward and stopped a few feet from Po.

Thame kept his eyes on Po’s face. “You stay with the stone. You don’t chase Jun. You don’t chase the sound. You bring your attention back.”

Po nodded.

Jun clapped once, loud and sudden. Po’s shoulders jerked. For a split second, Thame saw it: the reflexive surge, the body priming to react, the mind preparing to bolt.

Thame didn’t touch him. He didn’t rush in. He didn’t crowd.

He anchored with voice. “Stone,” Thame said calmly.

Po swallowed, eyes blinking rapidly. He looked down at his palm.

“Edges,” Thame added.

Po breathed in. Held. Out.

“One,” Po murmured. “Two… three… four.”

Jun clapped again. And again. By the fourth time, Po’s flinch was smaller. Thame’s chest loosened slightly.

“Good,” Thame said. “You noticed. You returned.”

Pepper spoke quietly from the fence. “That’s solid.”

Nano nodded with exaggerated solemnity. “Congratulations, Po. You are now certified in not dying.”

Po snorted despite himself, then caught the sound like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to make it. Thame filed that away. Humor still reached him. That mattered.

“Again,” Thame said.

Jun clapped a few more times, but softer, slightly off rhythm. Po’s eyes flicked up, then down. He counted again. Thame watched the cycle: disruption, spike, return. It was the most important sequence in the room.

Because the power would follow the spike. And if Po could shorten the spike, he could shorten the window where his power acted without consent.

Thame stepped forward, just one pace. Po’s gaze lifted instantly.

Thame kept his voice quiet. “Now, we add a second focus.”

Po blinked. “Second?”

“Yes,” Thame said. “Because in real life you’ll need to track the environment while staying anchored.”

He pointed toward the fence post behind Jun. “Pick one point out there. Don’t stare like you’re challenging it. Just register it.”

Po’s eyes shifted. “That post.”

“Good,” Thame said. “Now: stone in your hand, fence post in your vision. Two threads. You hold them both.”

Po inhaled slowly. “Okay.”

Jun clapped again, louder. Po jerked, eyes widening. Thame’s instincts surged hard. Every part of him wanted to grab Po’s wrist, pull him in, shield him from sound and space and the world itself.

He didn’t.

If he did, Po would learn the wrong lesson: that calm lived only inside Thame’s reach. Thame stayed steady instead, voice cutting clean through panic.

“Stone,” he said.

Po’s throat worked. He looked down.

“Fence,” Thame added.

Po’s gaze flicked outward. His breathing stuttered, then settled.

“One… two… three… four,” Po whispered.

Jun clapped again, but this time he added movement, stepping to the side suddenly. Po’s head turned instinctively. Thame felt the tension spike.

“Return,” Thame said immediately.

Po swallowed and forced his gaze back to the fence post. His fingers loosened around the stone without fully gripping it. He breathed. He returned. Thame exhaled slowly, relief hidden behind control.

“That,” Thame said, voice low, “is the skill.”

Po looked up, eyes glassy with effort. “It feels… hard.”

“It is,” Thame said. “But you’re doing it.”

Po’s shoulders dipped. He nodded.

Koko finally spoke from behind them. “You’re teaching him to stay present without locking up.”

Thame glanced back briefly. “Yes.”

Koko nodded once, approving.

Jun stepped back, rubbing his palms together. “So what’s next?”

Thame looked at Po. Po looked back, steadying himself.

Thame said quietly, “Next is controlled activation.”

Po’s breath caught. Jun and Pepper immediately went still. Even Nano’s teasing paused, replaced by a sharper attention.

Po nodded slowly. “Okay?”

Thame stepped a fraction closer, lowering his voice so it was only for Po.

“Remember,” he said. “We don’t chase power. We don’t force it. We build a door, and we decide when to open it.”

Po swallowed. “And if it opens by itself?”

Thame’s gaze hardened, protective instinct flaring.

“Then I’m here,” Thame said simply. “And we close it together.”

Po’s eyes softened, just slightly.

“Okay,” Po whispered.

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

The moment Thame said controlled activation, the air changed.

Not dramatically. Not with some cinematic crackle of power. It was subtler than that. Like a pressure shift before rain, the kind your body noticed before your brain put words to it.

Po felt it first.

Thame saw it in the way Po’s fingers curled, not into fists, but inward, like he was holding something fragile inside his chest. His breathing, which had been steady for several minutes now, picked up half a beat. Not panic. Anticipation.

Fear’s quieter cousin.

“Nothing happens yet,” Thame said immediately, grounding his voice. “We don’t jump.”

Po nodded, jaw tight. “I know.”

Thame studied him for a moment, then stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that Po wouldn’t have to look for him.

“This isn’t about output,” Thame continued. “We’re not testing strength. We’re testing access.”

Po swallowed. “Access feels… slippery.”

“Good,” Thame said. “That means you’re not forcing it.”

Jun shifted near the fence. Pepper straightened, attention sharp. Nano stopped pretending this was casual and actually sat up. Dylan moved a step closer to the house, eyes flicking between Po and the perimeter like he was already calculating contingencies.

Koko stayed where he was, arms crossed, gaze steady. He didn’t interfere. He trusted Thame’s instincts here.

“First rule,” Thame said, eyes never leaving Po’s face. “You don’t push power forward.”

Po frowned, slightly out of breath. “Then how do I – ”

“You let it rise,” Thame said. “The same way adrenaline does. You notice it, you contain it, you decide how far it goes.”

Po took a slow breath. “Okay.”

Thame nodded. “Start with regulation.”

Po closed his eyes.

Thame resisted the urge to tell him not to. Closing your eyes made you vulnerable. But Po had learned his anchors. He needed to feel it internally first.

“Inhale,” Thame said softly. “Four.”

Po inhaled.

“Hold.”

Po held.

“Exhale.”

Po exhaled.

Again.

Again.

On the third breath, Thame felt it. Not saw it. Felt it.

The air around Po shifted, almost imperceptibly. Like static building before a storm, but held tightly under the surface. The grass near Po’s feet stirred, not from wind, but from something responding.

Pepper swore quietly. “There it is.”

Po’s brow furrowed. His breathing wobbled.

“Stay with me,” Thame said immediately.

Po’s eyes flew open, locking onto Thame’s face. The effect was instant. The pressure didn’t vanish, but it stopped climbing. Thame’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.

He forced his voice to stay even. “Describe what you’re feeling.”

Po swallowed. “It’s like… something’s pressing outward. Like my skin isn’t big enough.”

“Good,” Thame said. “That’s activation. You’re aware of it.”

Po’s hands trembled. Thame stepped closer, close enough now that Po could feel his body heat. Still no touch. But the proximity was deliberate.

“You’re not alone in this,” Thame said quietly. “I’m right here.”

Po’s breath shuddered. The air thickened again, then steadied.

Jun muttered under his breath, “That’s wild.”

Nano whispered, “I swear if they start making out I’m leaving.”

Thame ignored them both.

“Now,” Thame said, “containment.”

“Contain – How?” Po asked, voice tight.

“Same way you held focus earlier,” Thame replied. “You don’t fight it. You give it boundaries.”

Po frowned. “What boundaries?”

Thame thought fast.

“I want you to imagine your power like a bicep,” Thame said. “Not a wave. Not fire. A bicep muscle.”

Po nodded slowly.

“You can tense it,” Thame continued. “Or relax it. Right now, it’s tensing without permission. Your job is to half-release.”

Po’s lips parted. His breathing deepened. Thame watched every micro-shift in his posture, ready to intervene if needed.

“That’s it,” Thame murmured. “Don’t drop it. Just ease it.”

The pressure in the air softened. The grass settled. Po gasped softly, like he’d just surfaced from underwater.

“I – ” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

Thame felt a surge of pride so sharp it almost hurt.

“Yes,” Thame said. “You can.”

Po laughed weakly, disbelief threading through it. “That was… terrifying.”

“And you stayed,” Thame said. “That matters.”

Po opened his eyes fully now, gaze flicking briefly around the field before settling back on Thame.

“When you’re close,” Po said quietly, “it’s easier.”

Thame’s jaw tightened.

“We talked about that,” Thame said, controlled. “You can’t anchor to me.”

“I know,” Po said quickly. “I’m not saying I need you. I’m saying… you help.”

That distinction hit harder than it should have. Thame took another step forward before he could stop himself. They were close now. Close enough that Thame could see the faint tremor in Po’s lashes. Close enough that Po could feel Thame’s breath when he spoke.

“This doesn’t mean you’re dependent,” Thame said, low. “It means your nervous system responds to perceived safety.”

Po’s throat bobbed. “You feel very safe.”

That did things to Thame’s composure he did not appreciate.

Pepper coughed loudly. “Still training, yeah?”

Thame shot him a look that promised retribution later.

“Next step,” Thame said, forcing himself back into instructor mode. “Controlled release.”

Po stiffened. “Release?”

“Yes,” Thame said. “Minimal. Intentional. You choose where it goes.”

Po glanced around. “At what?”

Thame scanned the field, then pointed to a loose patch of dirt near the fence. “There. Nothing living. Nothing structural.”

Po nodded, visibly nervous.

“You don’t push,” Thame reminded him. “You allow.”

Po closed his eyes again, then reopened them, deliberately keeping Thame in his line of sight. The air thickened once more, but this time it didn’t spike wildly. It gathered, contained, like pressure behind a valve.

Thame felt his breath hitch.

“Easy,” Thame said, barely above a whisper.

The dirt patch trembled. Just slightly. Then settled. Po staggered half a step, breath coming fast. Thame’s hand shot out without conscious thought, catching Po’s forearm, steadying him. The contact was electric.

Po froze. Thame froze. The power dissipated instantly, like it had been cut at the source. For a split second, neither of them moved.

Thame was acutely aware of how warm Po’s skin felt under his fingers. Of how close they were. Of how fast Po’s pulse hammered beneath his grip.

“Okay,” Thame said quietly, not letting go yet. “I’ve got you.”

Po swallowed. “You do.”

Their eyes locked. The moment stretched, heavy with something that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with restraint.

Nano broke it. “I’m just saying, this is the most erotic safety briefing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Thame released Po immediately, stepping back as if burned.

Po’s ears were red.

Jun rubbed his face. “Focus. Please.”

Po let out a shaky laugh, tension bleeding off in small, human ways.

“That was… controlled,” Po said, amazement threading through his voice.

Thame nodded. “Yes.”

“And I didn’t lose myself,” Po added.

“No,” Thame agreed. “You didn’t.”

Po looked at his hands, then back at Thame. “Can we… do it again?”

Thame hesitated. Not because he doubted Po.

Because he doubted himself.

Because the closer they got, the harder it was to separate training instinct from something else entirely.

Thame inhaled slowly.

“Yes,” he said. “But we pace it. And we stop the second either of us feels it tipping.”

Po nodded, serious. “Okay.”

They reset. This time, Po activated more smoothly. The pressure rose, contained, then eased. The dirt stirred again, barely noticeable, but intentional.

Thame didn’t touch him. He didn’t need to. Po held it. Released it. And stayed standing. When it was over, Po looked up, eyes bright despite the exhaustion.

“I did it,” he said.

Thame felt something fierce and protective settle in his chest.

“Yes,” Thame said quietly. “You did.”

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

The unease didn’t arrive loudly.

It didn’t crash through the house or announce itself with alarms or raised voices. It seeped in sideways, the way danger often did when it thought it had time.

Dylan noticed it first.

He stood near the side window with his tablet forgotten in his hands, gaze fixed not on the screen but on the stretch of road beyond Koko’s fence. The morning light was fully up now, bright enough to make everything look deceptively harmless. Too harmless.

Patterns mattered to Dylan. So did repetition. The same unmarked vehicle had passed again. Same speed. Same distance from the fence. Same timing.
Not lost. Not curious.Almost as if….observing.

Dylan’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t say anything immediately. He watched through two more passes, counted the seconds between them, noted the way the driver never slowed near the house but never accelerated either.

That was when he knew.

This wasn’t surveillance meant to be hidden. It was surveillance meant to be noticed.

Dylan turned and crossed the house quickly, steps light but urgent. Thame was in the living room, standing close to Po as Jun said something low and unreadable. Thame’s posture was relaxed on the surface, but Dylan knew him well enough to see the tension threaded through it like wire.

“Thame,” Dylan said.

Thame looked up immediately. “What?”

“Someone’s running a perimeter pattern,” Dylan said. “Unmarked. Same route. Third pass in the last two hours.”

The room shifted. Pepper straightened. Jun’s expression hardened. Nano stopped mid-sentence, whatever joke he’d been about to make dying on his lips. Po stiffened beside Thame, shoulders drawing in instinctively.

Thame’s hand came up without thought, resting lightly against Po’s waist. Not restraining. Anchoring.

“Could be a coincidence,” Jun said, even as he moved toward the window.

“No,” Dylan replied calmly. “It’s not.”

Koko appeared in the doorway, drawn by the change in tone alone. “What kind of vehicle?”

“Civilian,” Dylan said. “Too clean. Too consistent.”

Koko nodded grimly. “So someone wants you alert.”

Thame’s jaw tightened. “Or nervous.”

“Or reactive,” Pepper added.

Po inhaled slowly, deliberately. Thame felt it through the light contact between them and didn’t move away.

“Okay,” Thame said. “No one panics. We observe.”

Dylan nodded. “Already recording patterns.”

Jun’s phone buzzed.

He checked it, frowned. “No updates from my contact.”

That sat badly. Thame was about to respond when his own phone vibrated in his pocket. The sound cut through the room with surgical precision. Everyone froze.

Thame didn’t move for a second. He stared at the phone like it might bite him.

Unknown number.

Po noticed immediately. Thame felt the subtle shift in Po’s breathing, the way his body braced without spiraling this time. Training holding. Barely. Thame stepped a half pace away, enough to give Po space but not enough to break contact entirely.

“I’ve got this,” Thame said quietly, more to Po than anyone else.

Po nodded once. Thame answered.

“Thame,” a voice said.

No greeting.

No identifier.

Just his name, spoken like it carried weight. Thame’s spine went rigid. And for the first time since morning, Thame felt the training shift from preparation to necessity.

Chapter Text

The call comes when the house has settled into a fragile equilibrium. Not calm. Not safety. Just a pause where nothing is actively breaking.

Thame glances at the screen. His shoulders tense before he answers.

“Thame,” a voice said. No greeting. Wanchai.

“This is Thame,” he says.

A break then – “The Novák retrieval mission has been marked successful,” Wanchai says. “Command reviewed the materials overnight. We’re calling LYKN in to headquarters with the asset to close out the operation.”

Thame doesn’t reply right away. Across the room, Jun looks up, eyes sharpening.

“To close out,” Thame repeats. “Meaning.”

“Debrief, internal questioning, and release right away,” Wanchai says smoothly. “Novák will be processed as a civilian witness and released afterward.”

Too fast. Thame feels it immediately. The speed. The confidence. The way the decision sounds like it’s already been stamped and filed. And that’s the problem. Documentation doesn’t move that fast. Not for civilians. Not for assets tied to classified programs. Not after a handler has been murdered.

Thame feels it in his gut, a slow, cold churn, but knows better than to voice it right now.

“Understood,” Thame says instead. “Who’s cleared to come in?”

There’s a brief pause on the other end.

“LYKN and the asset,” Wanchai says. “Standard protocol.”

Thame exhales through his nose.

“Negative,” he says.

There’s a pause on the other end. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll bring Novák,” Thame continues. “But I’m limiting personnel. Myself, Pepper, Nano, Dylan.”

“And Jun,” Wanchai adds.

“No,” Thame says. “Jun stays back.”

Another pause. This one longer. “…Very well. Jun can stay back,” Wanchai says at last. “But don’t delay.”

The call ends.

The silence that follows feels artificial, like the room itself is waiting to see what they’ll do next. Nano is the first to breathe again. He drags a hand down his face and lets out a low whistle.

“That was fast.”

“Too fast,” Pepper agrees, jaw tight.

“Unnaturally fast,” Dylan says, and this time he doesn’t look up from the screen he’s been pretending not to check. His voice is quiet, analytical, but there’s an edge to it now – something sharpened by pattern recognition rather than suspicion.

“They’re letting him go,” Dylan continues, more to himself than to anyone else.

Thame nods once. “That’s what they’re saying.”

No one looks relieved.

Dylan finally lifts his head. His eyes flick from Thame to Po, then away again – deliberately, like he’s trying not to draw attention but can’t ignore the connection forming in his head.

“Can I say something?” Dylan asks.

Thame doesn’t hesitate. “Say it.”

“This call,” Dylan says slowly, “doesn’t make sense. Not after the last five days. And definitely not after what we saw outside.”

Pepper’s shoulders stiffen. “You think it’s connected.”

“I think everything is connected,” Dylan replies. “Those vehicles weren’t random. They weren’t local. They didn’t behave like surveillance meant to stay hidden.”

Nano frowns. “They wanted us to notice.”

“Exactly,” Dylan says. “Which means they wanted to provoke a reaction. Flush something out. Or confirm something.”

Thame’s gaze sharpens. “And now Wanchai calls.”

Dylan nods once, understanding settling in. “Then we assume this call, this whole ‘come into the office, standard protocol’ is some sort of bait? For what exactly?”

No one answers. Because no one knows. Because the relief they’re supposed to feel at Novák’s ‘release’ never arrives.

Thame’s eyes move to Po and stay there for a couple of seconds before he turns to Jun. “You stay here.”

Jun opens his mouth, then closes it. “You don’t trust this.”

“I don’t trust the timing,” Thame says. “You stay with Koko. You don’t leave Po alone for a second. Eyes on the perimeter. Nothing moves without you knowing.”

Jun nods. “Okay.”

Thame’s gaze flicks back to Po immediately. He softens his tone, but not his stance. “This isn’t about you being a liability,” Thame says quietly, trying to squash any doubt that may come into Po’s mind due to what he said. “This is about me not trusting the timing.”

Koko inclines his head. “I’ll keep the house locked down.”

Thame, seeing the anxiety and fear creep into Po’s eyes, says, “I’ll be back.”

Po searches his face and then whispers, breath catching slightly, “You promise?”

Thame doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Then he turns back to the team.

“Let’s go.”

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

The meeting room in TIIA seals behind them with a sound that is too soft.

Not a slam. Not a click. But a hush. The walls are matte and pale, engineered to swallow echoes. The lights overhead are evenly spaced, calibrated to eliminate shadows. The table is long enough that no one has to sit close unless they choose to. Every detail has been designed to look neutral.

Thame hates rooms like this.

They pretend they’re for clarity. They’re actually for control.

Wanchai stands at the far end of the table, jacket neatly buttoned, tablet tucked under one arm. Two other officers linger near the wall, not introduced, not acknowledged. Analysts, maybe. Oversight. Or simply witnesses.

Novák is guided to a chair near the door. No restraints. No courtesy either.

Pepper takes the seat closest to him without asking. Nano doesn’t sit at all, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, posture relaxed in a way that’s anything but. Dylan sits across from Wanchai, tablet already live, stylus resting between his fingers.

Thame remains standing.

“Please,” Wanchai says mildly. “Sit.”

Thame doesn’t.

“Before we begin,” Thame says, “I want clarity.”

Wanchai’s brows lift slightly. “On?”

“The scope of this meeting,” Thame replies. “Because what you told us on the phone and what your people prepared for this room don’t match.”

Wanchai studies him for a moment, then gestures to the table. “This is a standard closure briefing, Thame. I don't understand this hostile level of questioning from you.”

“Then why the additional officers?” Pepper asks.

“They’re observing,” Wanchai says. “Given recent… complications.”

That word lands wrong. Complications. Thame finally sits.

“Define complications,” Thame says.

Wanchai sets his tablet down and brings up a screen on the wall. It flickers to life, displaying a redacted report. Names blacked out. Locations obscured.

“The Novák retrieval was successful,” Wanchai begins. “However, it coincided with the loss of another asset.”

Thame’s spine stiffens.

“Asset,” Nano repeats flatly.

“Yes,” Wanchai continues. “An unknown individual broke out and escaped during the operation. Highly dangerous. Unregistered.”

Thame feels the memory surface uninvited: Kittisak on the other end of the line, just a day earlier, voice low, careful, asking the right questions. Thame had told him then – not everything, but enough. They’d recovered Novák. There had been someone else. An unknown at the site that they have rescued as well.

Kittisak had known about the unknown – about the rescue. And if Kittisak knew, Wanchai knew too. The realization settles cold and heavy in Thame’s chest.

So why this song and dance? What is Wanchai trying to do? Why is he saying the unknown escaped? If he is trying to find the unknown – Po – why is he not questioning LYKN of his whereabouts? What is happening?

Thame keeps his face still. Inside, something sharp twists. Dylan glances at him for a moment and then –

“You’re saying that a person of interest escaped the facility that we rescued Novák from?” Dylan asks carefully.

“Yes,” Wanchai replies. “We believe the unknown fled the scene during or right after your extraction.”

Belief. Not confirmation.

“On what basis?” Thame asks.

Wanchai swipes his tablet. The screen changes to surveillance stills. Grainy. Incomplete. A blur of motion caught at the edge of the frame.

“Energy spikes,” Wanchai says. “Structural anomalies. Injuries inconsistent with conventional force.”

Thame’s jaw tightens. Po.

“You’re certain they escaped,” Thame says.

“Yes,” Wanchai replies. “And that is deeply concerning.”

Pepper leans forward. “Because?”

“Because we don’t know what they are,” Wanchai says. “Or how unstable.”

That does it. Thame feels the heat flare behind his ribs, sharp and immediate. He keeps it contained through habit alone. Years of training, of swallowing reaction until it calcifies into something colder.

“The unknown,” Wanchai presses, “represents an ongoing threat.”

Thame leans forward slightly. “To whom?”

Wanchai doesn’t answer immediately.

“To civilians,” he says finally. “To infrastructure. To national security.”

Thame’s fingers curl against the edge of the table. Po had been terrified. Confused. Cornered. And they want to call that a national security threat.

“Don’t you think you’re assuming intent?” Thame asks, a snide creeping into his voice.

“I’m assessing risk,” Wanchai replies. “Which is my job.”

“And mine,” Thame says, voice low, “is to tell you when your assumptions are wrong.”

Wanchai exhales, patience thinning. “This isn’t a debate.”

“That unknown,” Wanchai continues, “is now classified as a priority concern. If encountered again, engagement is authorized.”

Thame’s stomach drops.

“What type of engagement?” Pepper says.

“Containment,” Wanchai replies. “Capture if possible. Neutralization if necessary.”

Thame’s vision sharpens at the edges. Neutralization. He says nothing. Because if he does, the room will hear and see exactly how dangerous he can be.

Wanchai shifts his focus.

“Now,” he says, “to Novák.”

At the sound of his name, Novák straightens instinctively.

“Mr. Novák will be questioned further,” Wanchai says. “After which he’ll be released to civilian life,” Wanchai replies. “Under monitoring.”

Thame glances at him briefly. Novák doesn’t look afraid. He looks resigned. They’re done with him. That’s what hurts the most.

Pepper rises to his feet. “We’ll escort him.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Wanchai says. “Security will handle it.”

Two guards appear at the door. Thame stands slowly. The guards gesture for Novák to stand. Novák hesitates, then looks at Thame. Just once. Thame meets his gaze and gives a single, sharp nod.

As he’s led away, Nano mutters, “I hate this part.”

Pepper doesn’t look back. The door closes. The room feels emptier for it.

Wanchai gathers his tablet. “You’ll be notified if we require further input.”

They leave the room with no answers.

And as Thame walks down the corridor, badge scanning him out of spaces he no longer trusts, one thought burns hot and unyielding in his chest:

They will never get Po.

Not if Thame has any say in it.

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

The second room is worse.

Not because it’s smaller or more restrictive – it isn’t. It’s larger, brighter, lined with windows that stretch from floor to ceiling and looks out over the concrete plaza below. Sunlight pours in unchecked, harsh and honest, illuminating everything the first room was designed to hide.

A junior officer escorts them in, gestures vaguely at the table, and tells them to wait for final briefing. His tone is neutral, practiced, like this is an ordinary administrative pause and not the aftermath of something rotten.

The door closes behind them.

Thame doesn’t sit. None of them do.

They drift instead, unconsciously, toward the windows.

From this height, the city looks clean. Controlled. People move in orderly lines across the plaza below, tiny and unaware. Cars glide in and out of the underground garage. Security personnel patrol predictable routes.

Normalcy, laid out like a lie you’re supposed to accept because it’s well-lit.

Nano breaks the silence first, voice low. “I don’t like any of this.”

Pepper snorts. “That was clear five days ago.”

Dylan leans one shoulder against the glass, arms folded. “Let’s actually say it. Out loud. The timeline makes no sense.”

Thame stays quiet, gaze fixed outside. Jun isn’t here. Po isn’t here. And that fact sits heavy in Thame’s chest like a weight he refuses to set down.

Nano starts counting off on his fingers. “Before we have even received the mission – Novák is already ‘terminated’ on paper.”

“Social media scrubbed and repopulated,” Dylan adds. “Pre-written, scheduled, clean.”

Pepper’s jaw tightens. “And somehow an unknown with abilities is contained at the same site, we rescue it, fight off mercs, hide, almost get our ‘asset’ choked, relocate gracefully and ow –”

“Novák gets released – no questions asked,” Nano finishes. “And we’re told to stand down.”

Thame exhales slowly.

“Five days,” Dylan continues. “Everything that happened, happened inside five days. That’s not a coincidence. That’s orchestration.”

Pepper glances at Thame. “You’ve been quiet.”

Thame finally looks away from the window.

“I’m trying to figure out where the decision point was,” he says. “Where things stopped reacting and started following a script.”

Nano grimaces. “You think it started before Novák.”

“Yes,” Thame replies immediately. “I think Novák was collateral.”

That lands.

Pepper’s shoulders tense. “Collateral for what.”

“I didn’t say it earlier,” he says, voice level, “because I needed to be sure I wasn’t forcing the pattern.”

Nano straightens. “And now.”

“And now,” Thame continues, “I’m sure.”

The room stills.

“You know the night we rescued Novák – we told Kittisak,” Thame says. “About the unknown. About the fact that we recovered him. Not details – but enough.”

Dylan’s eyes widen slightly. “Which means – ”

“Which means Wanchai knew,” Thame finishes. “Or found out quickly. There’s no version where that information doesn’t travel upward.”

Pepper’s shoulders tense. “So he knows Po didn’t just run.”

“He knows Po didn’t escape on his own,” Thame says. “He knows Po was with us. And he knows he’s still with us.”

Silence drops hard.

“Then why,” Nano asks slowly, “is he acting like Po vanished into thin air.”

“That’s the part I don’t have yet,” Thame admits. “I don’t know what he’s trying to pull by framing it as an independent escape.”

His phone vibrates. The sound is soft, almost nothing – but it cuts straight through him. Thame stills. The others notice instantly.

“What,” Nano asks.

Thame doesn’t respond. He pulls the phone out slowly, thumb hovering for half a second longer than necessary before unlocking the screen.

Unknown Sender.

But the number isn’t unknown. His breath catches. It’s an old number. A number that hasn’t been active in years. A number Wanchai used before internal reassignment, before layers of security and routing obscured everything.

The message is short. Three words.

Save Subject 4

Thame stops breathing.

The room narrows, edges blurring just slightly as his mind snaps backward through the last several days, through fragments that hadn’t connected before because he hadn’t known how.

Subject 4. SUBJECT 4. His heart starts pounding, hard enough that he can hear it in his ears.

Nano notices first. “Thame?”

Thame’s mouth is dry.

He remembers Novák’s voice, hoarse and exhausted, back in that dark room.

They didn’t use names. They called him a number. Subject Four.

Po. Subject Four.

The rage comes fast and sharp, coiling in his chest so tightly it almost steals his breath. Not just anger – understanding. They weren’t chasing an anomaly. They were chasing Po.

And Wanchai had known.

Pepper steps closer. “What is it.”

Thame lifts his head, eyes burning. “Wanchai.”

Dylan frowns. “What about him.”

“This is his old number,” Thame says. “Before HQ reassigned him.”

Nano’s brows knit. “That number’s been dead for years.”

“It just texted me,” Thame replies.

Pepper swears under his breath.

“What did it say,” Dylan asks.

Thame swallows. “Save Subject 4.”

Silence slams down around them.

Nano’s face drains of color. “Subject Four as in –”

Thame turns back to the window just as the world breaks. There is no warning. No shout. No time for instinct to catch up.

Something tears through the air outside – not fast, but violent, a mass ripping downward with enough force to distort the space around it. The sound isn’t a scream. It’s worse. It’s the sound of air being punched out of the way, a hollow, rushing roar that slams into the glass and rattles it in its frame.

Nano swears sharply. Pepper lunges forward.

Then the body comes into focus. For a fraction of a second – a heartbeat, a blink – Thame’s brain refuses to label what he’s seeing. It’s just movement. Just gravity made visible. A human shape tumbling end over end, coat flaring, arms flailing once before snapping inward as if instinct tries, too late, to protect vital organs.

Thame’s breath leaves him in a sharp, involuntary gasp.

“Jesus –”

He’s already moving.

Pepper grabs the edge of the window frame. Nano is beside him in an instant, palms flat against the glass like he can somehow stop what’s already happening. Dylan presses forward, eyes wide, breath locked somewhere high in his chest.

Below them, the plaza is suddenly chaos. The body hits the pavement with a sound that does not belong to anything living.

It isn’t a crack. It isn’t a thud. It’s a wet, concussive impact, deep and final-sounding enough that several people below stumble backward as if struck by the force of it. The noise echoes upward, distorted by height and distance, but it carries something unmistakable in it – the unmistakable violence of a human body meeting concrete at terminal velocity.

For half a second, everything freezes.

Then people start screaming.

Thame’s hands are braced against the glass before he realizes he moved. His vision tunnels, sharpening cruelly as he looks down.

The body lies twisted, wrong in ways his mind struggles to catalogue. One leg is bent at an angle that makes his stomach turn. The suit jacket has ridden up, shirt torn open by the fall, fabric fluttering uselessly in the aftermath. A dark shape is already spreading beneath him, impossible to tell if it’s blood or shadow or both.

Nano’s voice is barely a whisper. “Oh my god.”

Pepper’s jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it might crack. “Is that –”

Dylan’s fingers are shaking as he zooms in on the plaza cameras, breath coming fast now. “Hold on. Hold on.”

Thame knows before anyone says it. He knows from the cut of the suit. From the build. From the way his mind recoils like it’s touched something radioactive.

“That’s Wanchai,” Nano says, voice thin and disbelieving.

From this height, from this distance, the body is terrifyingly still – but stillness doesn’t mean death. Not always. Thame has seen people survive falls they shouldn’t have. He’s also seen the opposite.

Below them, security is flooding the plaza now, a swarm of dark uniforms pushing civilians back. Someone kneels near the body but doesn’t touch it immediately. Medics aren’t there yet. Or maybe they are and Thame just can’t see them through the bodies and the panic and the glare of sunlight on concrete.

Thame’s heart is hammering so hard it hurts.

Save Subject 4. The message burns in his pocket like a fuse that’s already been lit.

“They didn’t waste time,” Nano says hoarsely. “Did they?”

Pepper shakes his head once. “We don’t know that.”

Nano snaps back, “People don’t just fall out of secured buildings!”

“Stop,” Thame says sharply.

They all look at him.

His voice is steady, but it costs him something to make it that way. “We don’t know if he was pushed. We don’t know if he jumped.”

As if on cue, alarms begin to wail inside the building. Not evacuation alarms. Containment. Doors begin to close in distant corridors, heavy and final-sounding.

Dylan looks up from his tablet, eyes wide. “Cameras just went dark on levels twelve through fifteen. Internal feeds too.”

Nano swears. “They’re controlling the narrative.”

Thame finally pulls his phone from his pocket. The message is still there. His hand tightens around the device until the edges dig into his palm. Wanchai had known. Wanchai had tried to warn them.

And suddenly, brutally, everything lines up.

The speed of the call. The insistence that all of LYKN report in. The sudden clearance of Novák. The vehicles outside Koko’s house. The way Wanchai framed the unknown as an actual unknown threat instead of a known person.

The realization hits Thame so hard it almost knocks the air from his lungs.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

Pepper snaps his head toward him. “What.”

Thame doesn’t look away from the glass yet. His reflection stares back at him – eyes cold, furious, already calculating.

“This wasn’t about Novák,” Thame says.

Nano frowns. “Then what was it about?”

Thame finally turns to face them.

“They needed us out of the way,” he says. “All of us.”

The words sink in, slow and sickening.

Dylan’s eyes widen first. “You think the call was –”

“A diversion,” Thame finishes. “A clean one. Official. Something we couldn’t ignore.”

Pepper’s shoulders tense. “So while we’re here – ”

“They move on Po,” Thame says flatly.

Silence slams down around them.

Nano’s voice drops. “They pulled LYKN off-site on purpose.”

“Yes,” Thame says. “Because as long as we’re with him, they can’t touch him. So they manufactured urgency. A success. A release. Closure.”

“And Wanchai,” Dylan says slowly, horror dawning. “He tried to stop it.”

“He tried to negate our connection – he warned us,” Thame says, fingers tightening around the phone. “But looks like they found out – and they silenced him for it.”

Pepper exhales harshly. “Jun and Koko are alone with Po.”

“Not alone,” Thame says immediately. “But exposed.”

His chest tightens, something fierce and primal clawing its way up his spine.

“They think Po is an asset,” Thame continues. “A subject. Something they can isolate and retrieve once the handlers are distracted.”

Nano swears under his breath. “They underestimated how fast you’d put it together.”

Thame shakes his head once. “They underestimated how far I’d go.”

He straightens, decision crystallizing fully now.

“We need to leave,” Thame says. “Right fucking now.”

Pepper doesn’t hesitate. “Agreed.”

He pockets the phone, the words Save Subject 4 burning like a vow rather than a warning now.

“This was never about getting Novák out,” Thame finishes. “It was about getting us away.”

The realization doesn’t slow him down. It sharpens him.

They move toward the exit as one body, boots already angling before anyone has to ask who’s leading. No discussion. No votes. Thame doesn’t need to raise his voice or assert rank – the team falls into place around him the way they always do when the ground starts shifting.

The corridor ahead answers them with force.

A deep mechanical clang reverberates through the building, followed by another. The lights flicker once, then stabilize into a colder, harsher white. Somewhere above them, locks cycle with finality, the sound sinking into bone.

Dylan stops mid-step, tablet already in hand. “Floor just went red.”

Pepper swears under his breath. “Of course it did.”

Nano lets out a humorless huff. “They’re locking us in.”

Thame doesn’t hesitate. He stops just short of the barrier, sliding down across the hall, eyes scanning automatically. Camera placement. Guard response time. Secondary routes already being erased.

“Upper floors?” Pepper asks.

Dylan doesn’t need more than a glance. “Sealed. Every stairwell above this level is locked.”

That’s when Thame feels it. Not fear. Clarity. The kind that only comes when the threat stops being abstract and becomes personal.

Jun. Koko. Po.

Thame’s hand is already moving, phone in his palm, dialing Jun before the thought fully forms. The call doesn’t ring. There isn’t even a tone. Again. Nothing.

He tries Koko. Dead line. Not no service. Dead. The air in his chest compresses.

“They’ve cut outbound,” Thame says quietly. “Deliberate.”

Pepper’s jaw tightens. “They’re isolating us.”

Boots echo from the opposite end of the corridor. Four guards appear, formation tight, weapons visible but not raised. The lead guard slows as he approaches, posture neutral, rehearsed.

“Agents,” he says. “This floor is under temporary shutdown.”

Thame meets his gaze evenly. “We’re exiting.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the guard replies. “Per high command, LYKN is not authorized to leave the building.”

Pepper shifts slightly. Nano’s smile fades. Dylan’s fingers hover near his tablet. Thame holds the guard’s gaze, unblinking.

“And if we don’t comply,” Nano asks mildly.

“Then we’ll escort you back to the conference room,” the guard says.

Thame nods once.

“Understood,” he says calmly. “We’ll return.”

Nano blinks. “Thame –”

Thame doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t need to. He gives the team a single glance. That’s all it takes. Pepper straightens. Nano goes quiet. Dylan’s mouth curves into something sharp and knowing.

Follow my lead.

They turn and walk, measured and compliant, letting the guards relax just enough to make a mistake.

The elevator doors slide open. They step inside. The moment the doors close, Thame speaks again – low, precise. “We don’t use the elevator.”

Pepper nods instantly. “Copy.”

Dylan is already moving, pulling a compact device from his pocket. “Forty seconds before they notice we’re not upstairs.”

Nano cracks his neck once, grin feral now. “Plenty.”

The car shudders to a halt between floors. Lights dim. Pepper forces the doors open just wide enough. They slip into the maintenance gap, then down a service stairwell thick with dust and old wiring.

No cameras. No oversight. They move fast, silent, efficient – four agents who’ve done this before and will do it again without hesitation. At the bottom, Dylan kills a junction box. Lights flicker. Systems hiccup.

“Thirty seconds,” he murmurs.

They don’t waste them. They cut through service corridors, slip out a loading exit, and hit daylight like fugitives who were never meant to be caged.

Their car is waiting. Pepper starts the engine before Thame’s door is fully shut. As they pull away, Thame tries his phone again. Still nothing.

His grip tightens.

“They’re coming for Po,” Thame says.

Thame stares out the windshield, eyes hard, mind already mapping the counterstrike.

“They made it personal,” he says quietly.

The words aren’t dramatic. They’re a promise.

“And that means war.”

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

Po hears it before he understands it.

Not a sound. Not a footstep. Not the kind of obvious cue his body has learned to fear. It’s a pressure. A presence.

Like the air in the room has suddenly decided it’s not empty anymore.

He’s sitting on the living room floor with his back against the couch, knees drawn up, arms looped loosely around them. It’s a position that makes him feel smaller than he is, but also steadier. Like the ground can hold him if his mind doesn’t.

Jun is across the room at the table, half-focused on his phone, half-focused on the windows. He’s pretending it’s casual. He’s not good at pretending.

Koko is in the kitchen area with a mug of water, moving quietly. Not pacing. Not anxious. The calm of someone who knows what danger looks like and doesn’t waste energy on surprise.

Yala is asleep near the doorway, old body curled like a comma.

Po has been trying to do what Thame taught him.

Not the power stuff. Not the release. Not the controlled edges. The breathing. The intercept. The part that turns panic into something with a handle. He inhales through his nose. Counts in his head. Holds. Exhales.

The house feels too still. Then the presence presses again, firmer this time. Po’s head lifts slowly.

His gaze goes to the window without him deciding.

The glass reflects the room back at him: couch, table, Jun’s silhouette, Koko’s broad shoulders. Normal. But beyond the reflection, outside, there’s a shape where there shouldn’t be one.

Not a person. Not a form.

Just… absence where the darkness looks thicker.

His stomach drops.

His heartbeat spikes like a snapped wire.

Po doesn’t stand. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t lunge toward the window like a fool in a horror movie. He just speaks, voice tight but controlled.

“Jun,” he says.

Jun’s head lifts instantly. “What.”

Po swallows. “Something’s wrong.”

Koko’s movement stops mid-step. He doesn’t ask are you sure. He doesn’t dismiss it. He doesn’t comfort Po with false calm. He just sets the mug down and turns.

“Where,” Koko asks.

Po points, hand shaking slightly, toward the front of the house.

Jun is already up, crossing the room in three fast steps. His hand moves toward his side like he’s checking the weight of something that isn’t visible.

Koko doesn’t go to the window.

He goes to the small cabinet by the hallway and pulls it open. Inside are keys and a small tablet-like monitor Po didn’t notice before.

Cameras.

Koko taps the screen, the feed flicking through angles: front porch, driveway, side yard, back field. Po sees the first one and his throat closes. There are men outside.

Not neighbors. Not lost farmers. Not people who belong in any kind of normal. Black clothing. Covered faces. Clean movement.

They’re spaced around the house like a net.

A ring tightening.

Koko’s voice is quiet. “We’re surrounded.”

Jun’s face goes hard. “How many.”

Koko flicks through again. “At least eight. Maybe more in blind spots.”

Po’s hands go cold. His breathing turns shallow. His power stirs, not like a wave, but like a swarm behind his ribs, crawling for the exits.

He has a flash of a lab. A strap. A voice saying Subject Four like it isn’t cruel, just routine. He feels his body tense, bracing for the old kind of pain.

Jun notices immediately. “Po – ”

Po flinches at his own name. For a second the panic tries to run away with him. He can almost hear Thame’s voice again. Don’t chase the quiet. Observe the change. Buy time.

Po closes his eyes. Not because he wants to hide. Because he needs to feel his anchor. He inhales through his nose. Counts four. Holds. Exhales through his mouth, longer. His heartbeat still pounds, but now it’s pounding in a rhythm he can ride instead of drown in.

He opens his eyes.

The presence is still there, but he is too.

“I’m okay,” Po says, surprising himself with how steady it sounds. “I can… I can do the breathing.”

Jun’s eyes flicker with something like relief and worry tangled together. “Good. Keep doing it.”

Koko is already moving again, efficient. He points toward the hall.

“Jun, back room,” Koko says. “We have to assume they’re coming in.”

Jun nods and moves without argument.

Po stays planted for one second longer, staring at the camera feed, watching the men outside shift positions like they’re communicating without words. His stomach twists. Not because they’re there. Because they’re patient.

Koko looks at Po. “Can you move?”

Po nods.

“Then move,” Koko says gently, firm. “Not fast. Just now.”

Po pushes up from the floor and follows them into the hall.

The house feels different from this angle. Smaller. More vulnerable. Like the walls are thinner than they were minutes ago.

Jun goes to the back room window, peering through the curtains.

Koko checks locks. Checks angles. Moves like someone who’s been in worse places and survived because he never assumed the world would be kind.

Po stands near the hallway, hands hovering uselessly.

“I can – ” Po starts.

Jun cuts him off, not unkindly. “You can stay with your breathing. That’s what we need from you right now.”

Po swallows the protest. He does as told because he doesn’t know what else to do. He tries to make Thame’s voice real in his head. He tries to believe Thame would already be on his way. He tries not to picture Thame trapped in some room with no signal.

The first shot shatters the silence like the house itself has cracked.

Po flinches so hard his bones feel it.

Glass bursts somewhere in the living room. Yala barks, old and furious, her body scrambling upright with the kind of fear that still contains loyalty. Jun swears and ducks lower. Koko moves instantly, pulling Po back toward the hallway wall.

“Stay down,” Koko orders.

Po’s breathing stutters. His power surges. Not controlled. Not contained. Thame’s door is not built yet. Not fully. Po can feel the pressure climb in him like a storm searching for ground.

Then the second and third shots come.

Not single warning shots.

A burst.

Multiple rounds punching into the house, into walls, furniture, glass. The sound is deafening inside the small space. It bounces off surfaces, turning into a roar that makes Po’s ears ring. Jun shouts something, but Po can’t hear it clearly.

All he can hear is his heartbeat and the gunfire.

His body reacts before his mind can choose. His hands lift instinctively. The air in front of them thickens. Not visible like a shield in a movie. But real enough that the next shot… slows. Po feels it like he’s catching something heavy with bare hands. The bullet drops, hits the floor with a bright metallic clink.

Po gasps.

Another shot. He deflects again, this time more deliberately, the pressure in the air shifting as if he’s bending the path. The bullet ricochets into the wall, embedding with a dull thud. Po’s arms shake violently. This isn’t easy. This isn’t clean. It’s like trying to hold back the ocean with his ribs.

Koko stares at him, sharp-eyed. “Po – ”

Po doesn’t answer. He can’t.

His breathing is ragged now, trying to find the pattern. In four. Hold. Out six. Shots keep coming. Po deflects two more. Then something changes. The sound of the gunfire shifts, closer, heavier. They’re not just shooting from outside anymore.

They’re moving.

Jun shouts, clearer now. “They’re breaching!”

The front door slams under impact. Once. Twice. Wood splinters.

Yala barks again, then whines and then another burst and then quiet. Po’s heart leaps. He turns his head toward the living room and feels that presence again, stronger now, no longer just outside.

They are inside the perimeter. The third slam breaks the lock. The front door bursts open. Cold air floods in, carrying the smell of gun oil and outdoor damp. Footsteps. Boots. Voices, low and clipped.

Then another burst of gunfire, this time directly into the hall. Po throws his hands up again. The air thickens.

He catches two rounds, feels them drop and scatter like hot coins against the floorboards. But his concentration wavers. Because one of the rounds is wrong. It doesn’t feel like metal slicing air. It feels… softer. Faster.

A sting. Pain blooms in Po’s side. For a second he doesn’t understand. Then his muscles seize. His legs buckle. The world tilts violently. Po hits the floor hard, the impact shaking through his teeth. His hands go numb. His fingers won’t obey.

He tries to push himself up. He can’t. His body is suddenly not his.

Corporeal Paralysis.

He knows this. A tranquilizer. Something designed for containment, not killing. His vision swims. He hears Jun shout his name, distant and distorted, like sound underwater.

“No – !”

Jun moves. Po sees him in flashes: Jun stepping forward, trying to block the hall, trying to pull Po back. Then a shot. Jun jerks. His shoulder snaps backward and he stumbles into the wall.

Another shot.

Jun drops to one knee, teeth clenched, trying not to go down. Koko roars something, a sound of rage that doesn’t belong to this quiet house, and lunges toward the hall.

Po tries to scream. His throat tightens. His voice won’t come out right.

Koko reaches the doorway. A merc appears in black, face covered, gun raised. A shot cracks. Koko staggers, hand flying to his side. He doesn’t fall immediately. Of course he doesn’t. He’s stubborn like that.

He grabs the edge of the hallway wall, bracing himself, trying to stay upright through pain. Po’s eyes burn. His vision blurs. His breathing is shallow now, not because he’s panicking, but because his body is shutting down.

He tries to think of Thame. He tries to pull the calm closer. But the drug is heavy, dragging him downward. Boots pound closer. Shadows flood the hall. Figures step over bullets on the floor like they’re stepping over trash.

Po sees gloved hands. He tries to fight them with his mind, with the last flicker of his power. Nothing happens. His power doesn’t respond. It’s like the dart didn’t just paralyze muscles. It dampened the door he’d started to build.

One merc crouches in front of him. Po’s eyes lock onto the mask. He expects cruelty. Instead, the merc’s voice is flat. Businesslike.

“Subject 4 acquired.”

Subject 4.

Po’s stomach twists.

Koko’s voice is rough, pained. “Get away from h –”

A boot slams into Koko’s ribs. Koko grunts, collapses to one knee finally, breathing harsh. Jun tries to rise. Another merc kicks his weapon away. Po sees Jun’s face, pale and furious, eyes locked on Po like he’s trying to apologize for failing.

Po tries to shake his head. He can’t. Gloved hands grab Po under the arms. He’s lifted like a package.

He feels himself being carried down the hall, away from the back room, away from Yala’s barking, away from the place that smelled like earth and quiet safety.

His head lolls to the side. He sees Koko on the floor, blood dark against his shirt, still trying to push himself up. He sees Jun dragged back by his collar, struggling weakly, jaw clenched. Po’s chest tightens with helpless fury.

He wants to fight. He wants to burn them away. But his body is a cage.

The last thing he sees before they haul him out the front door is the living room in ruins. Glass everywhere. A chair splintered. The curtains fluttering in the open doorway like the house is breathing its last.

Cold air bites his skin as they carry him outside, the night sharp and unreal, like a stage set built too brightly for something this wrong. Gravel crunches under boots. Someone opens a van door and the sound is a hollow metal yawn, wide enough to swallow him whole.

They slide him inside.

The floor is ridged steel. It vibrates faintly, humming with the engine idling somewhere beyond the wall. His shoulder knocks against the side and pain flares, distant but real, like it belongs to someone else. Straps snap closed around his wrists and chest with brisk efficiency. The smell inside the van is oil and rubber and something antiseptic that makes his stomach turn.

Po’s breath comes shallow and fast. In four. Hold. Out six. He tries. The count slips through his fingers.

A voice near his head says, “Vitals steady.”

Another replies, “Dose held. Don’t push it.”

Po focuses on the ceiling, on the seams in the metal where panels meet. He blinks slowly, trying to keep the room from folding inward. His limbs feel heavy, filled with wet sand. When he tries to curl his fingers, nothing happens. Panic spikes, bright and immediate, but he clamps down on it with the last scrap of Thame’s lesson.

Observe the change. Buy time.

The van door slams shut. Darkness rushes in like a held breath finally released. The engine revs. The vibration deepens, steadying into motion, and Po realizes with a hollow ache that they’re leaving. Leaving him with them. Leaving Jun and Koko behind.

The van lurches forward.

Someone sits across from him. He can feel the presence more than see it, a weight in the air that presses down on his chest. The merc’s knee bounces once, impatient, then stills. A radio crackles softly.

“Package secured,” a voice says, distant and calm.

Po swallows. His eyes sting. He tries to remember Koko’s kitchen, the way the morning light had spilled across the table. Yala’s old, warm weight leaning against his leg. Jun’s steady presence, the way he stood between Po and danger without needing to say it out loud.

The van turns.

Po’s head rolls to the side and the world tilts with it. Through the narrow rear window he sees the house one last time.

Koko’s house. The porch light is still on. It shouldn’t be. The thought arrives sharp and stupid and painful all at once. It shouldn’t be on when everything else has gone so wrong. It feels like a promise left behind by accident.

Figures move around the house now, quick and efficient. Shapes in black, like they belong to the night more than the place itself. One of them drags something small but heavy across the lawn. Yala. Another disappears through the front door.

Po’s heart hammers. Jun. Koko.

His breathing fractures again. He tries to call out, to do something – anything – but his body won’t listen. His power stirs weakly, like a limb waking from sleep, but there’s a dampening weight over it, a ceiling he can’t push through.

The van slows. A click. A hiss. One of the mercs reaches for a canister. Po’s eyes widen.

“No,” he breathes, the word clearer this time, sharpened by terror. “Please.”

The merc doesn’t look at him. The canister arcs through the open door and disappears inside the house.

A second later, flame blooms.

It isn’t an explosion at first. It’s a sudden, hungry light that spills through the windows, orange and violent. Fire crawls up the curtains, devours the frame, leaps like it’s been waiting for permission.

Po makes a sound that tears out of him, raw and broken. The porch light flickers once. Then goes dark.

Smoke billows, thick and black, rolling into the night sky. The heat reaches even here, a ghost of warmth against his face through the glass. The house crackles, wood popping and collapsing inward, the sound obscene in its intimacy.

Jun is inside. Koko is inside. The thought cuts off, too sharp to hold. The van begins to move again.

“No,” Po says again, louder now, voice shaking. “Please. They’re – please.”

No one answers. The house recedes, shrinking in the window until it’s just a column of fire against the dark, a wound in the land that refuses to close.

Po’s chest heaves. Tears spill sideways into his hair, soaking the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t bother trying to stop them. He can’t. The grief is too big, too sudden, crashing into him all at once without warning.

The fire roars higher.

Something inside Po snaps.

It isn’t rage in the way the scientists used to catalogue it. It isn’t a clean surge or a focused release. It’s grief colliding with instinct, pain punching straight through whatever dampening they thought they’d perfected.

The air in the van shudders.

Metal groans – not loudly, not yet – but enough that one of the mercs looks up sharply. The overhead light flickers once, then steadies. The straps across Po’s chest creak, pulled tight by a force that isn’t muscle.

Po’s breath hitches violently.

The heat from the burning house isn’t real inside the van, but he feels it anyway, crawling under his skin, igniting something deep in his core. His vision tunnels, pupils blown wide, and for a split second the world seems to bend toward him – like gravity has remembered he exists and doesn’t know what to do about it.

The rear window spiderwebs. Not fully shattering. Just enough.

One of the mercs swears. “He’s spiking.”

“Vitals?” another snaps.

“Heart rate’s climbing. Neural activity’s off the charts.”

Po’s fingers twitch. Just once.

The straps strain again, metal whining louder this time, and a low, pressure-heavy hum fills the van – not a sound so much as a sensation, like standing too close to something immense and awake.

The merc across from him doesn’t hesitate anymore.

“Sedate him – NOW,” the merc says.

A needle prick kisses Po’s arm. Cold spreads fast, sinking into him like winter water. His thoughts begin to smear at the edges, stretching thin and slippery.

“No,” he murmurs, weaker now. “Thame – ”

The name anchors him.

He clings to it as the world dims, as the van’s hum deepens into a lullaby he never wanted. He imagines Thame’s hands steadying his breathing, Thame’s voice low and sure in his ear. He imagines Thame’s fury when he finds out. The thought sparks something fierce and bright in his chest.

He’ll come, Po thinks desperately. He’ll find me.

As consciousness slips, one last image burns itself into Po’s mind – the house fully engulfed, Jun and Koko still inside, flames clawing at the sky, the place that held quiet and safety and kindness reduced to ash because of him.

I’m sorry, he thinks, the apology aimed everywhere and nowhere at once. The van carries him away, swallowed by the road, leaving fire and silence behind.

Chapter Text

The city blurs past the windshield like it’s trying to get out of his way.

Pepper drives like the road is an inconvenience and every second is a debt.

The car surges forward, engine whining, tires humming hard against the asphalt. The city outside the windows becomes streaks of light and shadow, storefronts and streetlamps blurring into a single continuous ribbon. Horns flare behind them. Somewhere to their left, a driver leans out a window and shouts something furious.

Pepper doesn’t even glance. Thame doesn’t tell him to slow down.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, thick and insistent, as if his body is trying to outrun the car. His hands are clenched so tightly his nails bite into his palms. Every time Pepper switches lanes, the seatbelt cuts into Thame’s shoulder, a small pain that keeps him tethered to reality.

Jun. Koko. Po.

The names keep repeating in his head like a mantra that refuses to soothe him.

Jun is competent. Jun is careful. Jun has survived worse than this with less support. Koko is older, hardened, trained. Koko knows when to run and when to fight.

Po… Po is new to this kind of violence. New to being hunted in the open. New to the way the world looks when you realize the walls you trusted were never walls at all, just suggestions.

And the worst part, the part that makes Thame’s stomach twist every time he thinks about it, is the image of Po sitting at Koko’s table this morning, trying to breathe through the fear like Thame taught him.

Trying. Trusting. Thame had left him. He’d walked into the HQ because the call was official and the tone was smooth and the words sounded like procedure. He’d told himself it was controlled. That he could return quickly. That Jun and Koko could hold the line for a few hours.

Now the silence on his phone feels like punishment. He pulls it out again anyway. Jun. He presses Call and listens to nothing. Not even the faint, futile ringing. The screen just sits there, smugly dead, before the call drops.

Thame tries again. Nothing. He switches to Koko. Nothing. A cold pressure spreads behind his ribs, slow and heavy, like his body is filling with lead.

“They’re jammed,” Dylan says from the back seat, voice clipped, eyes on his tablet. He’s been working without pause since they got into the car, fingers flying, jaw tight, the glow of the screen reflecting off his glasses. “Or cut. It’s deliberate.”

Nano twists in the passenger seat, watching the road like he expects it to lunge at them. “Cut by who.”

Pepper answers without looking. “People who don’t want us talking.”

Nano lets out a sharp laugh that has no humor in it. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Thame stares ahead through the windshield, but he isn’t really seeing the road. He’s seeing the building. The locked floors. The guards with polite smiles. The way the institution had wrapped its hands around them and tried to hold them in place like obedient pieces on a board.

He remembers Wanchai’s voice. The careful language. The way he talked about “the unknown” as if it were a thing that had slipped a cage. And he remembers the text.

Save Subject 4.

Thame’s jaw tightens. Po isn’t a number. Po isn’t a subject. Po is a person who flinches at sudden sounds and still tries to smile when Nano makes a stupid joke. A person who learned to breathe in time with Thame’s counting, who looked at Thame like safety was something that could be borrowed.

Thame hates how much that matters to him. Hates how it’s become the center of his chest, the thing his lungs seem to wrap themselves around.

He doesn’t want to be reckless. He doesn’t want to be compromised. He doesn’t want feelings, not like this, not now. But the truth is already embedded in him – when Po is threatened, everything else becomes background noise.

Pepper cuts between two cars with inches to spare, and Nano swears loud enough to be heard over the engine.

“We’re going to get pulled over,” Nano says, gripping the handle above the door.

Pepper snorts. “Not today.”

Thame glances at Pepper’s hands on the wheel. Steady. Controlled. No shaking. Pepper’s eyes are hard, forward, focused on the route like he’s carving it into existence. He’s angry too. Thame can see it in the set of his shoulders, the tightness at his jaw.

Pepper doesn’t say much about emotion, but he has it. It just comes out as action.

Nano shifts again, restless. “You think they hit the house already?”

Thame’s chest tightens so sharply he almost can’t breathe. “No,” he says immediately.

The tone is enough to end the argument. Nano’s mouth opens, then closes. He looks away, muttering something under his breath. Dylan taps his tablet. “There’s unusual network activity around that area. Not enough for a clear picture. But… interference.”

Thame’s fingers curl around his phone. “Can you get through at all?”

Dylan shakes his head. “No. Not with normal channels.”

Pepper glances sideways. “Try something else.”

Dylan’s lips tighten. “Already am.”

Thame watches the road signs, the exits, the narrowing of the city into darker stretches, trees and empty lots, fewer streetlights. He can feel the distance to Koko’s house like a physical measurement in his blood.

Each minute is too long. Each minute is another opportunity for someone to open a door, walk inside, and say “Subject Four” like Po is property.

Thame’s mind keeps replaying the moment they left Po behind. The way Po looked at him, quiet and composed, trusting Thame’s promise.

I’ll be back.

Thame swallows hard. If something happens to Po because Thame left, then that promise becomes a weapon. And Thame doesn’t know what he’ll do with himself if he’s forced to see Po’s eyes after that.

Nano speaks softly now, the humor burned away. “You’re thinking about Po, aren't you Phi?”

Thame doesn’t answer.

Nano leans back in his seat. “I mean, we all are. But you… you’re different.”

Pepper doesn’t look over, but his voice comes out low. “Don’t start.”

Nano raises his hands. “I’m not starting anything. I’m stating reality.”

Thame exhales slowly. “Focus.”

Dylan’s eyes flick up briefly from his tablet. “He is focused.”

Pepper mutters, “He’s going to rip someone’s head off.”

Nano nods, as if that confirms his point. “Exactly.”

Thame finally turns his head slightly, enough to look at Nano. “Do you want me distracted?”

Nano shakes his head quickly. “No.”

“Then stop talking,” Thame says.

Nano holds up both hands again. “Copy.”

Silence returns, but it isn’t peaceful. It’s loaded, full of unspoken scenarios. Thame can feel his imagination trying to run ahead to the worst-case outcomes. He clamps down on it with discipline, the same way he clamped down on fear in the field.

There’s a difference between planning and spiraling. He forces his mind into planning. If the house is compromised, they need to assume hostile presence. Assume casualties. Assume Po is either in immediate danger or already extracted. If Po is extracted, they need direction, vehicle type, route, possible safehouses, likely handoff points.

Thame pictures Koko’s property – modest detached house, small farm at the back, fences, the road, the blind spots. He pictures Jun’s posture in combat, Koko’s ex-military instincts. And he pictures Po, frightened, trying to breathe.

A flash of possessiveness lances through him again, fierce and irrational. Mine, a darker part of him says. Not in ownership. Not in control. In responsibility. In chosen attachment. In the way Thame’s body seems to have decided Po is his to protect, whether or not Thame’s mind wants that complication.

Thame grips the phone harder. Pepper takes a corner too fast and the car tilts. Thame’s shoulder bangs the door. Nano swears again. Dylan barely reacts.

“Where are we,” Thame asks.

Dylan glances at the map. “Ten minutes.”

Ten minutes is forever. Ten minutes is enough time for a door to break. Enough time for a dart to hit. Enough time for Po to lose control and blame himself for it.

Thame’s stomach twists violently at that last thought. He pushes it away, hard. Not because it’s impossible. Because thinking it doesn’t help.

Pepper’s voice cuts in, tight. “If they’re there, do we hit hard or pull back and track.”

Thame answers immediately. “We hit hard.”

Nano glances back. “No tracking first?”

“No,” Thame says, cold. “Tracking comes after we know they are okay – after I know Po is breathing.”

Dylan nods without question. Pepper’s jaw tightens, approving. Nano blows out a breath. “Okay.”

Thame’s phone vibrates again. His heart leaps. He looks down.

No signal.

It’s nothing. A phantom vibration, a cruel trick of nerves. He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again, forcing his focus forward. He can’t afford to break now. Not in the car. Not before they reach the property.

Because if he breaks, the team breaks.

And whether or not they say it, they are following him the way they always do in crisis, because Thame is the one who sees the shape of the threat first, who makes decisions when the world gets loud.

Thame is the leader because he doesn’t wait for permission. He takes responsibility. He takes heat. He takes the ugly choices. And now there’s something else. Now the target isn’t just an operation.

It’s Po. Someone Thame is possessive over in a way he doesn’t fully understand and doesn’t have time to examine. Someone who has become the line.

Pepper glances over again, brief. “You with us.”

Thame’s voice comes out steady. “I’m here.”

Pepper pushes the accelerator harder, the engine snarling in protest. The speedometer creeps into territory that would normally earn them sirens, fines, paperwork. None of that matters now. The road ahead is darker, narrower, trees closing in on both sides like they’re trying to choke the asphalt.

His stomach drops, preemptively, like it already knows. He leans forward slightly, eyes scanning for any sign of disruption. Any wrongness.

His mind is a blade now, honed on one purpose.

Please be okay, please be alive, he thinks, and it isn’t a prayer so much as a demand at the universe. Please still be there.

The phone is useless in his hand. Because Jun should have answered by now. Koko should have answered by now. The longer the silence stretches, the louder something inside Thame starts to scream.

“We shouldn’t have gone,” Thame says suddenly.

Pepper doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “We – You didn’t have a choice.”

“I always have a choice,” Thame snaps, then reins it in with visible effort. “I made the wrong one.”

Nano shifts in his seat, restless, fingers drumming against his thigh. “You made the call that made sense with the information we had.”

“And they counted on that,” Thame says.

Dylan looks up. “They designed it for you.”

That lands.

“They knew you’d come in,” Dylan continues. “They knew you wouldn’t risk ignoring an official call. They knew you’d prioritize procedures long enough for them to move.”

Thame closes his eyes for half a second. Po.

He sees Po’s hands shaking just a little when he first tried to regulate his breathing. The way Po had nodded seriously, like the technique mattered because Thame mattered. Like Thame was an anchor.

He opens his eyes again, forcing himself back into the present.

“How far,” he asks impatience creeping up his spine.

Pepper glances at the dash. “Five minutes. Maybe less.”

Thame’s stomach tightens. The road curves, and for a moment the trees thin just enough that the horizon opens up.

That’s when he sees it.

At first, it’s just a darkness that doesn’t belong. A smear against the semi-dark evening sky, thicker than shadow, wrong in shape and movement. His brain resists the interpretation, clinging to denial with everything it has.

Smoke. Heavy. Black. Rising in a column that twists as it climbs, illuminated faintly from below by a sickly orange glow.

Thame’s breath leaves him in a sharp, involuntary pull.

“No,” he whispers.

Pepper sees it a second later. “Shit.”

Nano leans forward, dread crawling into his voice. “That’s not – ”

“It is,” Dylan says quietly.

The car surges forward again, tires whining as Pepper takes the last turn too fast. The smell hits them next, acrid and unmistakable, crawling through the vents and settling in Thame’s throat like poison.

Burning wood. Burning plastic. Burning something that used to be safe.

Thame’s chest tightens to the point of pain. His heartbeat goes erratic, skipping, slamming, like his body can’t decide whether to fight or collapse. The glow brightens as they crest the small rise leading to Koko’s property.

And then there’s no denying it. Koko’s house is on fire.

Flames rip through the structure with obscene enthusiasm, licking up the walls, devouring the roof. Windows are blown out, fire spilling from them like the house is bleeding light. The small farm behind it is lit in flickering orange, shadows of trees stretching and warping like they’re trying to flee.

The porch is gone. The front door is barely recognizable.

Thame’s vision tunnels. Pepper slams on the brakes, gravel spraying as the car skids to a stop at the edge of the property.

They pull off the road a short distance away.

Far enough that the glow of the fire is muted by trees, far enough that the sound of sirens arrives dulled and delayed. Pepper kills the headlights before the engine fully settles, and the sudden darkness feels intentional – like stepping into cover.

Thame is already reaching for the door.

The heat hits him as soon as he’s out, rolling through the trees in waves. The sky above Koko’s property is stained orange, smoke climbing thick and ugly, blotting out stars that should be there.

Nano is halfway out of the car. Dylan’s boots crunch softly on gravel. Pepper shuts his door with careful control. They start forward instinctively – three steps, four steps – the pull toward the fire immediate and visceral.

“Wait.” Thame’s voice is low, sharp.

They stop. Not because they hear something new, but because Thame has gone still in a way that means he’s seeing something.

He lifts a hand slightly, palm down.

Pepper freezes. Nano eases back into shadow. Dylan shifts, eyes narrowing, posture changing from motion to observation in a heartbeat. Thame doesn’t look at the house at first.

He looks around it.

Red and blue lights flash intermittently through the trees now. Fire engines are parked along the road, hoses already snaking toward the blaze. Firefighters move with disciplined urgency, silhouettes cutting through steam and smoke as water crashes against flame.

Local police are there too – patrol cars, uniforms, perimeter tape going up fast. That part tracks.

What doesn’t track is everything else.

There are people on the edges of the scene who don’t belong to the chaos. They’re positioned wrong – not clustered near the fire, not directing traffic, not talking to witnesses. They stand in ones and twos where the light doesn’t quite reach, bodies angled toward the house but attention elsewhere.

Watching. Waiting. They don’t carry themselves like neighbors. They don’t move like first responders.

Thame studies them carefully, heart thudding slow and heavy now, not from panic but recognition. One man near the treeline shifts his weight. Another checks a watch that doesn’t need checking. A third murmurs something into his sleeve and then stills again.

None of them look toward the shadows where LYKN stands.

They don’t see them. Because they are still waiting for them?

Pepper leans close, barely breathing. “You seeing this.”

“Yes,” Thame murmurs.

Nano squints, following Thame’s line of sight. “They’re not reacting to anything.”

“Exactly,” Thame says.

Dylan’s gaze sharpens. “They’re not here to respond.”

“They’re here to supervise,” Thame replies.

A slight movement catches the light – a badge clipped briefly into view before disappearing beneath a jacket. TIIA.

Thame feels his stomach sink. Not because they’ve been spotted. Because the company got here first.

“They didn’t follow us,” Nano whispers.

“No,” Thame says quietly. “They were already moving.”

The implication settles in, cold and suffocating. This wasn’t a response. This was a scheduled arrival.

They’re watching the fire burn with the detached patience of people waiting for a process to finish. Waiting for the evidence to destroy itself. Waiting for the story to simplify.

Pepper’s jaw tightens. “If they’re not looking for us–”

“They think we’re still contained,” Thame finishes.

Dylan swallows. “Or successfully distracted.”

Thame’s fists clench.

The house groans as part of the roof gives way, collapsing inward with a shower of sparks. The sound hits Thame harder than he expects. That place held Po’s tentative trust. Jun’s quiet vigilance. Koko’s steady presence.

Now it’s just fuel.

Nano’s voice is tight. “We can’t go in.”

“No,” Thame agrees.

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

They don’t rush the perimeter. That’s the first thing Thame forces himself to do.

Every instinct in him wants to sprint straight into the floodlights and sirens and demand names, faces, answers. But the sirens aren’t for him, and the floodlights aren’t safety. They’re a stage. A controlled scene with controlled witnesses and controlled conclusions.

And the men with the TIIA badges, loitering at the edges like bored spectators, prove it.

So Thame makes himself step back.

He lifts a hand, subtle, and Pepper understands immediately. Pepper doesn’t argue. He just turns, shoulders tight, and leads them back the way they came, keeping to shadow, keeping to tree line, keeping their presence nonexistent.

Nano mutters, furious and low. “I hate this.”

“I know,” Thame says, and he means it. “But we don’t give them a second story to write.”

They reach the car without being seen.

Pepper starts the engine without turning the headlights on. The vehicle rolls forward slowly, tires crunching softly over gravel. They drive another few minutes, just enough to put a curtain of trees between them and Koko’s property, just enough that the glow of the fire becomes a pulsing stain on the sky rather than a direct accusation.

Thame’s hands are shaking. He keeps them in his lap so no one notices.

Pepper pulls into a dark cutout near a stand of trees and kills the engine. For a moment, the only sound is the ticking of hot metal cooling and the distant wail of sirens.

Thame inhales once, slow, and turns.

“Dyl,” he says.

Dylan already has his tablet out already. His fingers are moving in clipped, efficient patterns, cycling through networks, feeds, whatever access points still exist in the world that hasn’t yet tried to lock them out.

“Tell me what happened,” Thame says.

Dylan nods, gaze sharp. “Working on it.”

Nano leans forward between the seats, restless like a caged animal. “If you pull up a report that says ‘tragic accident’ I’m going to throw the tablet out the window.”

Dylan doesn’t look up. “Give me twenty seconds.”

Thame’s phone is still dead in his hand, signal hollow and useless. He tries Jun again anyway, more from desperation than logic. Nothing. He swallows hard.

Pepper watches him in the rearview mirror, eyes steady. “We’ll find them.”

Thame doesn’t answer with reassurance. He answers with certainty, because it’s the only thing that doesn’t feel like lying.

“Yes,” he says. “We will.”

Dylan’s tablet pings softly.

He angles it toward Thame. “Okay. Here’s what’s already circulating.”

On the screen – an early incident bulletin. Unverified. Clean language. No names.

Reports of loud noises near the property. Possible gunshots heard by neighbors. Fire reported shortly after. Cause suspected: electrical. Victims unknown at this time.

Nano makes a sound of disgust. “Electrical. Sure.”

Pepper’s jaw tightens. “Gunshots and electrical fire. Classic.”

Thame stares at the words until they blur.Electrical. A convenient phrase. A tidy label. It smooths rough edges. It turns deliberate violence into an accident no one has to investigate too hard.

“They’re already shaping it,” Thame says quietly.

Dylan nods. “The first narrative always wins if nobody challenges it.”

Nano’s fingers drum against his thigh. “So what do we do now?”

Dylan scrolls again. “I’m not done.”

He taps twice, and a new window opens. A video file.

Grainy. Angled. A feed from somewhere elevated, looking down at Koko’s property. The timestamp is smeared, low resolution. It’s not a professional surveillance camera. It’s a neighbor’s spy cam. Or a farm cam. Or a cheap private system. But it’s enough.

Dylan’s voice drops. “Someone nearby uploaded this to a local community group. It’s getting taken down fast. I grabbed it before it disappeared.”

Thame’s breath catches. “Play it.”

Dylan does. The feed flickers. It’s mostly darkness and distortion, but the outline of Koko’s house is visible. The yard is faintly lit by a porch lamp. Shadows move at the edges like ink spreading.

Then figures appear. Black-clad. Fast. Professional. Thame’s heart slams against his ribs. They move in formation, circling, converging. The feed doesn’t catch every angle, but it catches enough to make Thame’s teeth grind.

A burst of light.

Gunfire. Muzzle flashes. Quick, controlled.

The camera’s microphone barely picks it up, but the pattern is unmistakable. Not wild shooting. Tactical suppression.

Thame’s hands curl into fists so hard it hurts. The feed jumps. The front door is forced open. Figures surge inside. Seconds pass like hours. Then they come back out. And in their arms – Po.

Thame’s vision narrows.

Po is limp, head lolling, hair falling over his face. His arms hang heavy, not resisting. Not moving. Unconscious. Dragged with practiced efficiency like cargo, not a person.

Thame’s breath stops. For a second, the car interior feels too small to contain what rises in him. Heat floods his chest, a violent surge that makes his whole body tense like a drawn bow. Po’s name forms in his throat.

It doesn’t come out as a word. It comes out as a sound. A low, broken exhale that turns into something close to a growl.

Nano makes a strangled noise. “That’s Po.”

Pepper goes rigid in the driver’s seat. Dylan pauses the video automatically, eyes flicking to Thame, gauging. Ready for Thame to explode.

Thame doesn’t. Not outwardly. He goes frighteningly still. His pulse is a roar in his ears, but his mind clicks into a kind of clarity that feels like stepping into ice water.

Po is alive. Po was taken. Po was sedated or stunned. They didn’t kill him. Not yet. That sliver of relief is sharp enough to cut. The rage that follows is worse.

They touched him. They carried him like a thing. They looked at him and saw a designation, a number, a retrieval target.

Thame’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.

“They have him,” Thame says, voice low.

Pepper’s hands tighten on the wheel. “We can still track – ”

“We will,” Thame says immediately. “But first we watch the rest.”

Dylan swallows. “Thame –”

“Dylan. Play the rest,” Thame orders.

Dylan resumes.

The mercs carry Po toward a van parked just off the drive, partially hidden by trees. The van’s door slides open. They load Po in fast, controlled, like they’ve done it a hundred times.

Thame’s stomach twists.

He imagines Po waking in restraints. Confused. Terrified. Thinking he failed. Thinking Thame left him. Thame’s fingers twitch, wanting to crush something. Dylan pauses again, forwards slightly, zooms in. The resolution worsens, but shapes sharpen enough.

“There,” Dylan says.

A second figure emerges from the house. Jun.

Jun is unsteady, moving with the stiffness of pain, one arm hanging wrong, but he’s upright. He staggers down the porch steps, half-running, half-falling, and disappears around the side of the house toward the back.

Thame’s breath releases in a harsh rush. Jun made it out. Jun is alive. The relief is immediate, but it doesn’t soften him. It fuels him. Because if Jun escaped, then Koko might have too.

Thame’s chest tightens again, remembering Koko’s calm presence, his quiet competence, the way he’d sheltered Po without even knowing who Po was. The video jumps in choppy increments.

The mercs are gone now. The van has already pulled away. The yard looks empty, too quiet, like the property itself is holding its breath.

Jun’s shadow flickers near the back field for a split second, then vanishes. And then – A bright flash punches the side of the house. Not a huge Hollywood explosion. Not a fireball.

A compact blast, violent enough to shove air outward, violent enough to rattle the camera and make the feed distort for a second. The porch light dies. A window blows out. Smoke erupts, thick and immediate.

Thame stares, unmoving, as flames begin to crawl. First along the curtains. Then up the wall. Then into the roofline. It’s quick. Too quick to be accidental.

Electrical fire, my ass.

Nano whispers, horrified. “They planted it.”

Pepper’s voice is grim. “Secondary ignition.”

The camera catches Jun again–just barely – farther out now, stumbling through the back field, moving away from the house as the light behind him grows.

Jun collapses to one knee behind a low fence, panting, then forces himself back up and disappears into the dark beyond the camera’s reach. Thame’s throat tightens.

“Pause,” he says.

Dylan freezes the frame: Jun’s silhouette against the rising fire. For a moment, none of them speak. Because the image is everything. Po taken. Jun running. The house sacrificed. And Koko – Koko is not seen again.

Thame’s mind tries to fill the gaps with possibilities, and every possibility hurts.

Nano’s voice is rough. “We need to find Jun.”

“Yes,” Thame says.

Pepper glances at him. “And Po.”

Thame’s gaze snaps up, hard and bright. “Absofuckinglutely.”

The words come out before he can soften them. Pepper doesn’t flinch. He understands. Dylan understands too. Nano looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Because they all know what Thame is really saying.

Po is the primary target. If Po is alive, he can be moved, traded, erased, or broken. The window to recover him is closing with every minute.

Jun is injured, but Jun is an agent. He knows how to hide. How to survive.

Po is learning. Po needs Thame. And Thame– Thame’s chest aches with the ferocity of it. The protectiveness isn’t a gentle thing. It’s not tender. It’s not quiet. It’s territorial, instinctive, the kind of feeling that makes the world narrow to one objective and turns everything else into obstacles.

They took someone Thame was already falling for, piece by piece, against his own better judgment. Someone who had started to trust him.

And the moment Thame sees Po limp in those mercs’ arms, something inside him makes a clean, irreversible decision.

No more restraint. No more patience. No more pretending the system can be reasoned with.

Pepper breaks the silence. “Dylan. Can you pull plate numbers?”

Dylan nods, already zooming. “Trying. Feed is trash, but I can enhance it. Maybe catch a partial.”

Nano leans forward. “What about routes? Direction?”

Dylan scrubs the footage. “Van exits left, toward the main road. That narrows it to two routes.”

Thame’s mind is already sprinting ahead. Who would have the resources to stage this, to jam signals, to deploy mercs, to plant an accelerant, to get TIIA observers on scene, to issue an HQ diversion? The answer is the same one it’s been since the beginning.

Not random criminals. Not local gangs. This is internal. Company. A faction. A program protecting itself.

Thame’s phone is still dead. He hates it. He hates that he can’t call Jun. Can’t call Koko. Can’t call anyone. Hates being locked out of the people he needs.

But he has something now. Proof. And direction. He leans toward Dylan’s tablet, voice low, urgent.

“Send that file to multiple places,” Thame says. “Secure clouds. Offline storage. Redundancy. If we lose it, we lose the only clean timestamped evidence we have.”

Dylan nods. “Already doing it.”

Pepper’s eyes meet Thame’s in the mirror. “What do you want to do?”

Thame inhales slowly. He can feel his own heartbeat again, steadying into something cold and sharp.

“We find Jun,” Thame says. “Fast. Quiet. He’ll know something. He’ll have seen something. If he escaped, he left signs.”

Nano nods. “And then.”

Thame’s gaze drops back to the frozen frame of Po being carried. His voice turns lethal.

“And then we hunt the van.”

Thame doesn’t go back toward the fire.

Not because he can’t. Not because he’s afraid of what he’ll see. But because standing there watching the last beams collapse doesn’t bring anyone back, and Po is out there somewhere in the dark with people who think he is still a number.

“Koko had people,” Pepper says as he eases the car away from the treeline, keeping the headlights low. His voice is tight, every word wrapped in restraint like it might cut if handled wrong. “Not work people. Real ones.”

Thame turns slightly in his seat.

Pepper exhales through his nose, eyes never leaving the road. “Ex-military. Same era as him. They kept in touch after everything went sideways. The kind of guys you don’t call unless you’re bleeding or already past the point of worrying about consequences.”

That gets Thame’s full attention.

Pepper’s jaw tightens. “There’s one in particular. Lives nearby. Koko mentioned him more than once – Sarin Pattayakan – said if things ever went bad, if we needed cover or medical or a place to disappear for a few hours, that man would help. No questions.”

Nano leans forward. “Why didn’t we know this?”

“Koko didn’t like dragging civilians into our mess,” Pepper replies. “Even old soldiers. But Jun knew. Trained with him a few times. That’s how I know this isn’t a dead lead.”

Thame’s chest tightens. Jun. If Jun made it out, he would’ve gone somewhere he trusted. Somewhere off the grid. Somewhere that didn’t light up every system the moment someone knocked.

“Where?” Thame says.

Pepper gives the direction from memory, sharp and immediate. He doesn’t hesitate.

Dylan’s fingers are already flying across his tablet, cross-checking, confirming. “Found him,” Dylan says. “Address matches Pepper’s description. Five minutes if we cut through the back roads.”

Thame nods once. It feels like grabbing a rope in deep water – not a guarantee, not safety, but something solid enough to pull toward.

“Go,” Thame says.

Pepper doesn’t need to be told twice.

They drive past dark fields and quiet houses, past a sleepy roadside shop with its shutters down. The world keeps existing as if it doesn’t understand that something has been taken from it.

Thame hates that.

Pepper turns into a narrow lane lined with trees, headlights off now, guided by memory and Dylan’s map. A modest fence appears. A small detached house, lights low, a single porch bulb dimmed like the owner doesn’t want to advertise.

Thame sees movement before Pepper even stops.

A man steps onto the porch. Broad-shouldered, cautious. The posture of someone who has slept with one ear open for years. He holds a shotgun loosely, not aiming yet, but ready.

Pepper lowers the window a fraction. “Khun Sarin. It’s LYKN.”

The man’s gaze flicks over the car. Takes in faces. Takes in the urgency. He doesn’t ask why. Because ex-military friends don’t waste time on unnecessary questions when the answer is already written in the tension of your shoulders.

He gestures them in with a sharp movement. Pepper pulls into the yard and kills the engine. The moment Thame steps out, the smell hits him.

Antiseptic. Blood. Not fresh enough to be violent, but present enough to twist his gut. Thame is up the porch steps before the others fully exit.

Sarin opens the door and lets them in.

The inside of the house is warm and modest, the kind of place built for quiet living. Old photos on the wall. A faded unit patch framed above a shelf. A battered first aid kit open on the coffee table.

Jun is on the couch. Barely upright, head slumped back, skin pale, lips pressed tight as if he’s biting down on pain. His shirt is cut open around one shoulder, bandaged roughly but competently. Blood stains the gauze in a slow spreading shadow.

His eyes flick open at the sound of them. They don’t fully focus at first. Then they do. And he looks at Thame. Not at Pepper. Not at Nano. Not at Dylan. Thame. Like a compass that has been shaken but still knows where north is.

“Jun,” Thame says, voice lower than he expects.

Jun swallows. “You… found...”

Thame moves closer, stopping just short of the couch. His hands hover for half a second, uncertain whether to touch. He doesn’t want to hurt Jun, doesn’t want to move him wrong. Jun’s gaze drops to Thame’s hands, then back to his face.

“Po,” Jun whispers.

The name hits Thame in the ribs.

“Not here,” Thame says. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Jun’s eyelids flutter like he might pass out. Sarin steps forward with a glass of water and steadies Jun’s shoulder with practiced ease.

“He’s stable,” Sarin says quietly. “But he’s burning energy. He ran hard.”

Jun forces himself to inhale. “Koko…”

Thame’s chest tightens. Pepper’s expression hardens. Nano goes still. Dylan’s jaw clenches.

Jun’s voice cracks. “He didn’t make it.”

The room shifts. For a moment, Thame hears nothing but the blood rushing in his ears. He stares at Jun, waiting for the words to change, for Jun to correct himself, for this to be a misunderstanding that can be fixed with different phrasing.

Jun shakes his head once, slow.

“He was hit,” Jun whispers. “Before I left. Before… before they dragged Po out.”

Pepper makes a sound like he’s swallowing something sharp. Nano turns his face away for a second, eyes squeezed shut. Thame stays still because if he moves, he might break something.

Jun’s gaze stays on him, eyes glassy.. “He told me to go. He said… get out. Get help. Don’t let them take… him.”

A hot, sick grief rises in Thame’s chest. Koko. The steady mentor. The man who never inserted himself into LYKN’s operations but always made sure their bodies and minds were still theirs after missions tried to steal them.

Koko died telling Jun to run. Died saving him. Thame closes his eyes briefly, the image of Koko’s calm face flashing behind his eyelids, then he opens them again because grief doesn’t get to drive.

Jun’s lips part again. “Thame… Po.”

Nano steps forward, voice rough. “Jun, breathe…”
Jun shakes his head and tries to sit up and immediately winces, pain cutting through him. Sarin steadies him again, firm.

“I saw them,” Jun says, words tight. “Not random. Not locals. Mercs.”

Pepper’s eyes narrow. “How do you know?”

Jun’s gaze flicks to Thame again, then back. “Because one of them… I recognized him.”

Thame’s spine stiffens. “Recognized.”

Jun nods once. “From the lab. The original one.”

The phrase “original lab” lands like a door slamming. Thame’s mind flashes back to the night they found Novák. The dark corridors. The smell of disinfectant. The cages. The fear. Jun’s voice shakes, not from pain now but from the memory.

“He was there that night,” Jun says. “Same build. Same walk. Same scar at the neck line. I didn’t forget it. I never forget faces.”

Dylan’s eyes go cold.

““They came prepared. Darts. Dampeners.” Jun whispers, swallowing painfully before continuing. “They knew where we were… and they knew what Po was… what he could do..”

Thame’s hands curl into fists. They went for him. His Po.

Jun’s gaze sharpens despite the exhaustion. “They carried him like – ” Jun swallows hard. “Like cargo. He was awake for a second. I think. His eyes… he looked…”

Jun’s voice breaks. Tears finally spill over, tracking silently down Jun’s temples into his hair.

“I left him,” Jun says. “I left him there.”

Thame shakes his head once, firm. “No, Jun. You survived. That matters.”

Jun looks at him, desperate. “We need to save him.. Po.. Let me come with you.”

The room stills. Sarin straightens slowly. Pepper goes rigid. Nano opens his mouth, then closes it again. Thame doesn’t answer immediately.

Jun pushes himself up despite Sarin’s hand on his shoulder, face twisting with pain. “ I can still fight – I need to protect him, Thame…”

“You can barely sit up,” Nano snaps.

Jun glares at him. “I don’t care.”

Thame finally speaks. “Jun.”

Jun stills at the tone.

“You are no use to Po dead on the floor of a facility you can’t walk into without bleeding out,” Thame says evenly. “And you know that.”

Jun’s shoulders sag.

Thame leans in closer. “The best thing you can do for Po right now is stay alive. So when we bring him back, there’s someone he recognizes. Someone he trusts.”

Jun exhales shakily, the fight draining out of him all at once. He nods once, small and defeated.

“Bring him back,” Jun says again, quieter now. “Please.”

Thame feels something in him crack and harden at the same time. He doesn’t want to imagine Po’s eyes in that moment, the fear and betrayal and confusion. But he does. And the image is a blade.

“Okay,” Thame says, voice dangerously calm. “Dylan.”

Dylan looks up immediately. “Yes.”

“You track the van,” Thame says. “Anything. Route. Direction. Camera hits. Plate fragments. Fleet markers. I don’t care how small.”

Dylan’s fingers are already moving. “I pulled a partial symbol earlier. I’ll widen the net.”

“Do it now,” Thame says. “We’re not waiting.”

Pepper’s voice is low. “Thame – ”

“We are not waiting,” Thame repeats. His eyes are fixed on Dylan, his tone final.

Because waiting is what got Po taken. Waiting is what made Koko dead. Waiting is a luxury they no longer have.

Dylan swipes, reroutes, taps into what he can, pulling public cams, private feeds, whatever remnants exist outside the jammed grid. His mouth tightens as he works.

Thame turns slightly away, just enough to breathe. And in that small inward space, the truth rises like a confession. This protectiveness he feels for Po isn’t friendly. It isn’t teammate loyalty. It isn’t duty. It’s possessive. It’s visceral. It’s the kind of feeling that makes him want to tear a world apart until it gives back what it stole.

Thame has been in situations where he protected civilians, witnesses, even strangers. He has felt responsibility. This is different. This is falling. He doesn’t say it out loud. He can’t. It sounds absurd in the aftermath of a burning house and a dead mentor and a man bleeding on a couch.

But it’s real. He’s falling for Po. And if Po is taken, the part of Thame that has started to belong to Po will go with him like a phantom limb ripped off.

Thame’s jaw tightens.

No. He vows it silently, a promise that feels older than language. I will find you. No matter what it costs.

“Talk to me,” Thame says, turning to Dylan.

Dylan nods, fingers never stopping. “Okay. I pulled every camera node within a five-kilometer radius of Koko’s property. Public traffic cams, private farm feeds, retail security systems. Most were scrubbed or jammed within minutes of the incident.”

“Minutes,” Pepper repeats. “That fast.”

“Yes,” Dylan says. “Which already tells us this wasn’t reactive. They had scripts ready.”

He swipes, bringing up a grainy frame. The same van from before, but clearer now. The angle is different, caught by a roadside shop camera farther down the road.

“There,” Dylan says, zooming. “That marking.”

Thame leans in. It’s faint. Almost invisible unless you know what you’re looking for. A partial geometric shape near the rear door. Not a logo. Not a plate.

A fleet identifier.

“They use that for internal transport,” Pepper says quietly.

“Yes,” Dylan confirms. “It’s not supposed to be on anything that leaves a secured zone.”

Nano exhales sharply. “So they didn’t even bother hiding.”

“They didn’t think anyone would look,” Dylan says. “Or that anyone who did would understand what they were seeing.”

He pulls up another window. A graph this time. Peaks and valleys spiking violently upward.

“This,” Dylan says, tapping the screen, “is power usage.”

Thame’s stomach tightens.

“I cross-referenced it with historical data,” Dylan continues. “There are only two sites in this region that show spikes like this. The shopping complex where we rescued Novák and Po.”

“And?” Pepper asks.

“And this,” Dylan says, pulling up a satellite overlay.

A massive fenced compound appears on the screen. Nondescript on the surface. Warehouses. Storage bays. Empty lots. But the power graph overlays it like a heartbeat. A violent one.

“That’s not storage,” Nano mutters.

“No,” Dylan agrees. “That’s containment.”

Thame stares at the screen.

The same signature. The same impossible draw. The same hum he remembers feeling in his bones when they were inside the complex. The pressure. The way Po had reacted before he even knew why.

“They’re using the same infrastructure,” Thame says.

“Yes,” Dylan replies. “And the timing lines up. The van disappears from public cams exactly where the private grid starts. After that, nothing.”

Pepper’s jaw tightens. “They’re confident.”

“They think they own the space,” Dylan says. “And they probably do.”

Thame straightens.

“But they don’t own us,” he says.

Dylan finally looks up at him. “If we go in, there will be no deniability. No extraction order. No backup.”

Thame nods. “I know.”

Dylan hesitates. “Thame… this isn’t just retrieval. If Po’s power spiked earlier – ”

“They’ll push him,” Thame finishes coldly. “They’ll test him. Provoke him. Break him if they can.”

His hands clench. “And I won’t let that happen.”

Dylan swallows and nods once. “Then this is the place.”

He slides the tablet across the table. The facility sits there, cold and waiting. The cage that thinks it’s secure.

Thame looks at it and feels something settle deep in his chest. Resolve. Rage. Love he didn’t plan for but refuses to deny.

Sarin disappears briefly into another room and returns with a metal box. He sets it on the table and pops it open. Inside – spare magazines, ammo, basic gear. Not official. Not pristine. But real.

“Koko kept some of his old supplies here,” Sarin says quietly. His gaze is hard, grief tucked away behind practicality. “He always said if the day came, it would come fast.”

Pepper’s hands move immediately, checking, counting. Nano reloads with a precision that looks almost peaceful. Dylan keeps working while he loads, eyes never leaving the screen. Thame stands still for a second, feeling the weight of the moment settle over them like armor.

They are about to walk into a TIIA facility. A place that belongs to the system that raised them. A place that can erase them.

Pepper meets Thame’s eyes. “We’re really doing this.”

Thame nods.

“I’m going in,” Thame says. “With or without clearance. With or without permission. They took Po and killed Koko. I’m done asking.”

Nano’s grin is sharp and ugly. “Good. Because I was done too.”

Dylan’s voice is tight. “We might not come back.”

Thame looks at the tablet one last time, at the facility outline, at the cold geometry of walls and fences and power draw.

He thinks of Po’s quiet voice asking to be taught. He thinks of Po’s breathing syncing with his. He thinks of Po being carried unconscious like cargo.

His throat tightens, but his voice is steady.

“Then we don’t come back,” Thame says. “But we don’t leave him.”

Pepper nods once, fierce. Nano’s eyes gleam with rage. Dylan swallows and keeps moving. Sarin hands Thame a spare magazine. Their fingers brush.

“Koko would’ve gone,” Sarin says quietly.

Thame’s jaw clenches. “I know.”

He looks back once at Jun on the couch, pale but alive, eyes locked on Thame like he’s trying to push his will into him. Thame gives him a single nod.

Then he turns.

“Gear up,” Thame says.

They move. Not like men walking into a suicide mission. Like soldiers walking into a war they didn’t start.

And as they step out into the night, smoke still staining the sky behind them, Thame feels the decision settle into his bones.

They wanted Po as a subject. They’re about to learn what it means to take someone who belongs to a man who doesn’t know how to let go.

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

The first thing Po feels is cold.

Not the sharp, honest cold of air-conditioning. This one is deeper, invasive, creeping up through the thin padding of the cot and settling into his bones like it remembers him.

Metal bites into his wrists. That sensation – the pressure, the restraint – pulls panic out of him on instinct alone. His heart jerks, breath hitching, fear flaring bright and fast.

Then it slams into resistance.

Something heavy presses down inside him, thick and suffocating. Dampeners. He knows the feeling immediately. His body recognizes it before his mind can catch up.

Breathe, he tells himself automatically. In four. Hold. Out six. The count fractures. His eyes flutter open.

The ceiling swims into view in broken pieces. Too white. Too bright. Panels arranged in a grid that feels wrong in a way he can’t explain, like a copied memory missing a detail. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, the sound drilling straight into his skull.

Po swallows. His mouth is dry. His tongue feels swollen, uncooperative. Straps cross his chest, his thighs, his ankles. Wide. Reinforced. Purpose-built.

“No,” he whispers.

The word barely exists. Movement at the edge of his vision makes his pulse spike again. Figures stand around him, careful in the way people are when they’re close to something unpredictable.

Not soldiers. Observers. Scientists. Technicians.

His chest tightens.

Then he sees him. Novák.He sits on a low rolling stool a few feet away, one arm held awkwardly to his side. His sleeve is darkened with blood that’s been hastily wiped but not truly cleaned. There’s a fresh gash along his temple, half-bandaged, the skin around it swollen and raw.

He looks… worn. Not triumphant. Not in control. Just tired. Their eyes meet. For a fraction of a second, something flickers across Novák's face – recognition tangled with guilt, fear threading through it – before it smooths into professional distance.

“You’re awake,” Novák says quietly.

Po’s breath stutters.

“You,” Po whispers.

The room tilts. He hadn’t known Novák would be here. The knowledge hits him sideways, sharp and disorienting. If Novák is here, then this isn’t just a holding site. This is something else. Something deeper.

Po’s gaze drifts past him.

There are more people. White coats. Darker uniforms. Equipment humming softly, wires and sensors trailing from his body to machines he doesn’t want to look at too closely.

And then – His eyes catch on a man near the far wall.

He’s leaning heavily against a counter, weight favoring one leg, jaw clenched as someone adjusts something at his shoulder. There’s dried blood at the edge of his collar. A bruise blooms dark and ugly along his neck.

Po’s breath leaves him in a rush. That face profile. Memory surges up violently – not the lab, not the restraints, not the cages. Something older. Different.

A street washed in late afternoon light. A voice saying his name in a way no one else ever did. A hand on his shoulder, steady, familiar. A choice he didn’t understand at the time.

The man turns slightly. Their eyes meet. Recognition slams into Po with terrifying clarity. Not confusion. Not fear. Knowing.

His heart pounds hard enough to hurt.

“Phi….Phi Mond,” Po says breathlessly.

The man stiffens. Something sharp flashes through his expression – surprise, then something guarded, tightly controlled.

Po’s pulse spikes. The pressure inside his chest swells, heavy and unstable, like something vast shifting against its restraints. The lights flicker once – just once – and the hum of the machines changes pitch.

“Sedate him,” someone says, voice cutting through the air.

Po tries to move. Tries to lift his hand, to pull against the straps, to reach for something solid in the flood of memory crashing through him. His body doesn’t listen. His muscles tremble uselessly as the dampeners clamp down harder, crushing the surge before it can crest.

“No,” Po whispers, panic breaking through. “Please – ”

His eyes find Novák again. Novák looks away. That hurts more than the restraints. A sharp sting bites into Po’s arm. Cold floods his veins, fast and merciless, tearing his thoughts apart mid-breath. The room stretches and blurs, faces warping at the edges as the drug takes hold.

Po fights it.

He thinks of Thame. Of steady hands and low voice and breathing in time. Of someone who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem. He’s coming, Po thinks desperately. He promised.

Mond’s face smears into shadow. The ceiling fades. The last thing Po hears before darkness claims him is Novák's voice, low and strained – “Don’t push him too hard, please,” followed by a loud smack.

Then everything goes black again.

And Po slips under, strapped to a cot in a place that feels far too familiar – haunted not just by what they did to him, but by someone he knew long before they ever named him Subject Four.

Chapter Text

The car becomes its own sealed world the moment Pepper accelerates.

Outside, the road stretches into a black corridor that swallows headlights whole. Inside, the air is tight with things no one says. The hum of the engine is steady, disciplined, like Pepper is daring it to fail. He doesn’t look at any of them when he speaks, which is how Thame knows he’s holding the wheel the way he holds everything else right now – white-knuckled beneath control.

Thame sits in the passenger seat with his spine straight and his jaw set. Protector mode isn’t a switch for him. It’s a posture. A way of being that starts in the chest and moves outward until every sense sharpens into a blade. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t pace. He lets the anger settle into something usable.

Po is out there. The thought doesn’t spike. It anchors.

Pepper breaks the silence without turning his head. “ETA’s about an hour.”

Thame nods once. “That’s fine.”

Pepper exhales through his nose. “Nothing about this is fine.”

Thame almost smiles. Almost. “I didn’t say it was gonna be easy.”

Nano snorts quietly, then goes still again. The humor doesn’t stick.

Behind him, Dylan’s tablet casts a pale rectangle of light across the backseat. Nano leans in close, elbows braced on his knees, restless energy leaking out in small, constant movements – flexing fingers, tapping boots, checking gear he’s already checked twice. Sarin’s relay hums softly through Dylan’s setup, a thin, stubborn line of connection back to the house. Jun’s breathing comes through it occasionally, faint but present, a reminder that not everyone made it into the car.

The hum pulls a memory loose. From Sarin’s house. From the few minutes Sarin had forced them to stop.

They hadn’t wanted to. Every instinct screamed to move, to chase the smoke, to burn rubber until they avenged Koko…. Until they reached Po. But Sarin had blocked the doorway with one arm, unyielding in a way only medics and soldiers ever get.

“Sit,” he’d said. Not asked.

Pepper had bristled. Nano had opened his mouth. Thame had raised a hand and stopped them both, because he’d seen that look on Sarin’s face before.

“You’re not useful to anyone hypoglycemic and bleeding through yesterday’s clothes,” Sarin had said flatly. “Eat. Change. Now.”

Protein bars had appeared from nowhere. Bottled water shoved into hands whether they wanted it or not. Sarin had watched them like a hawk, arms crossed, making sure they actually swallowed instead of pocketing the food and pretending.

“Fast,” Sarin had allowed. “But not optional.”

Thame remembers tearing into the bar without tasting it, jaw working on autopilot while Sarin tossed a clean shirt at him.

“Those clothes smell like smoke and cordite,” Sarin had said. “You walk into a secure facility like that, you light yourself up before you even touch a fence.”

Nano had nary a sarcastic comment while pulling on fresh gear. Dylan had changed silently, already recalculating routes even as he chewed. Pepper had stripped and redressed with efficient irritation, every motion sharp.

Jun had watched from the couch, pale and furious with helplessness.

Only once they were fed, rearmed, and wearing clothes that didn’t scream crime scene had Sarin finally stepped back. That was when he’d spoken.

“I will find Koko,” Sarin had said. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just immovable.

“I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what condition the house is in or how much is left,” Sarin had continued. “I will recover his body.”

Silence had settled hard and heavy.

“So you don’t have to guess,” Sarin had finished. “So you don’t have to imagine. You’ll grieve properly. Later.”

Then, looking straight at Thame – “But right now, you bring your person back alive.”

Thame had nodded once. Sharp. Final. Grief deferred. Fuel taken. Clothes changed. Only then had Sarin stepped aside and let them go.

The memory fades as the car eats another stretch of asphalt, the present snapping back into place with ruthless clarity. Trees blur past. Industrial lights smear faintly along the horizon.

Jun’s voice crackles through the speaker a moment later, thin but present. “I’m here,” Jun says. “Signal’s holding.”

Thame exhales, just a fraction. “Good. Stay with us.”

A pause. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sarin’s voice follows, lower, steadier. “I’ll monitor vitals on my end. Jun’s stable enough to think, not enough to move.”

Jun snorts weakly. “I heard that.”

“Good,” Sarin replies. “Means you’re conscious.”

Nano glances back from the front seat, eyes flicking between Thame and the road ahead. “Remote support. Never thought I’d like the sound of that.”

“Get used to it,” Dylan says, fingers already moving across his tablet. The glow paints his face in sharp lines, eyes focused, mind clearly several steps ahead of the car. “Because this is going to get… complicated.”

Thame doesn’t ask him to elaborate. He knows. The facility Dylan pulled up earlier sits in his mind like a bruise you keep pressing. Too close. Too convenient. Too familiar in the wrong ways.

Pepper takes a turn onto a narrower road, trees closing in. The city falls away completely now, replaced by industrial silhouettes in the distance. Towers. Warehouses. Power lines sagging like tired shoulders.

Dylan taps his screen, bringing up a schematic that wasn’t there a moment ago. “Okay so,” he says, voice tight. “I dug deeper.”

Nano leans over the console.

“TIIA lists the site as a logistics and archival storage complex,” Dylan continues. “Equipment rotation. Decommissioned assets. Data cold storage.”

Nano mutters, “Boring.”

“Exactly – its designed to look that way,” Dylan says. “But there’s a separate wing.”

Thame’s attention sharpens. “Separate – registered to TIIA?”

Dylan doesn’t hesitate. “No – BioDen Inc. One wing of the facility is legally leased under BioDen’s corporate umbrella.”

Nano frowns. “Isn’t that the same – ”

“The same,” Dylan confirms, glancing at Thame. “The same company whose basement we pulled Novák… and Po out of.”

Thame’s jaw tightens, not from surprise but from recognition. The name sinks into his chest like something that’s always been there, waiting to be named. BioDen. It drags him backward in time whether he wants it to or not.

The shopping complex basement rises up in his mind with cruel clarity. The low, constant hum that vibrated through bone instead of air. The way his skin had prickled the moment they crossed the threshold, instinct screaming that the space itself was hostile. Not guarded. Aware. Like the building wasn’t just holding secrets but actively keeping them.

Thame remembers the moment the glass cracked and opened, remembers the way Pepper had been focused on systems and threats and exits while his attention had locked onto the figure inside. Po emerging slowly from the viscous fluid, frail and helpless, body marked with restraint bruises and needle points, lashes clumped dark against his cheeks. Too still. Too thin. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at, because beauty didn’t belong in places like that.

“Keep going,” Thame says. “What do we know about BioDen,”

Dylan scrolls, expression darkening. “Officially? They’re a private biotech research firm specializing in biochemical stabilization, regenerative compounds, and ‘adaptive biological responses.’”

Nano grimaces. “That’s a lot of words to say ‘we do weird shit.’”

“Yeah but,” Dylan agrees. “Unofficially… it’s even worse.”

He brings up a timeline, dates stacking on top of each other like scars. “BioDen’s been flagged multiple times for questionable ethical practices,” Dylan says. “Human-adjacent testing. Biochemical trials that sit right on the edge of legality. And when regulators get too close, the investigations stall.”

Pepper glances back briefly. “Stall how?”

Dylan’s mouth tightens. “Funding dries up. Whistleblowers disappear. Oversight committees get reassigned.”

“And TIIA,” Thame says. “What’s their connection in this shit?”

Dylan shakes his head slowly. “That’s the part that’s… unsettling.”

Nano looks up. “What do you mean Dyl?”

“On paper,” Dylan says, “there is no connection.”

The words land heavier than if there were. Pepper’s voice is flat. “No connection.”

“None,” Dylan repeats. “No shared contracts. No shared active personnel. No funding overlap. No joint projects listed. Nothing that would legally bind TIIA to BioDen.”

Nano scoffs, sharp and incredulous. “Then why the hell are they sharing space like some kind of toxic exes?”

“Cause,” Dylan says calmly. “I believe it’s very clean bullshit.”

Thame stares out into the dark. “So BioDen operates inside a TIIA facility with no official relationship.”

“Correct,” Dylan says. “Which means if anything happens, both sides can deny responsibility.”

Pepper exhales slowly. “Compartmentalization.”

“Exactly,” Dylan replies. “BioDen gets protection, infrastructure, and plausible deniability. TIIA gets results without fingerprints.”

Thame’s fingers curl against his thigh. “And Novák,” Thame says. “That shopping complex.. that basement.”

Dylan nods. “Fits the pattern. BioDen using a civilian-facing structure to run covert trials. When it got compromised, they shifted operations somewhere more secure.”

“Like inside a secure government facility,” Nano says darkly.

“Yes.”

He swipes again, pulling up more data. “One more thing. BioDen’s public research focuses heavily on biochemical damping agents. Suppression fields. Neural regulation – does that ring a bell?.”

Nano’s gaze sharpens. “That sounds like… our Po.”

“Yes,” Dylan replies without hesitation. “And I don’t think they’re just studying him. I think he’s the proof they built everything around. The template. And now they’re refining how to restrain what they created.”

The words punch the air out of Thame’s lungs. “He’s learning to breathe,” he says quietly, determinedly. “To regulate himself. To choose control instead of being forced into it.”

Dylan meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. “And they’re going to try to replace that choice with a leash.”

Pepper’s jaw sets hard. “Over my dead body.”

Thame leans back, the road humming beneath them, the shape of the fight ahead sharpening with every mile. This won’t be a clean breach. It won’t be surgical or polite. It will be messy. Reactive. A confrontation that drags their enemy out of hiding and forces them to move on Thame’s terms.

The car hum deepens as Pepper accelerates slightly, the road straightening ahead.

“How big is this ‘secure’ wing?” Thame asks after a few seconds of silence.

Dylan brings up another overlay. “Larger than it needs to be. Separate power grid. Independent security. Restricted access even from the rest of the facility.”

Nano whistles under his breath. “That’s a fortress.”

Sarin’s voice cuts in, calm but edged. “Thame – this is a time-critical mission. The longer your person’s there, the more variables they introduce.”

Pepper glances at Thame. “So we’re not casing this place for a week.”

“No,” Thame replies immediately. “We’re not waiting for approval. We’re not escalating through channels – not that it matters anymore anyways. We’re going in.”

Nano grins, sharp and feral. “Good.”

The road straightens, and in the distance, the industrial complex begins to take shape. Tall fencing. Watchtowers silhouetted against the low clouds. Floodlights washing the perimeter in sterile white.

“Okay,” Dylan says finally, and the word has weight. The kind of weight that means he’s done guessing and is now looking at something real. “I pulled the facility footprint from archived infrastructure filings. It’s kind of the same layout as I expected.”

Nano’s voice drops. “Same as the shopping complex?”

“I cross-referenced the power signature we saw at the complex to this new wing,” Dylan says. “The off-the-charts spikes. The abnormal draw. Same pattern shows up at this ‘new’ BioDen registration. Same infrastructure footprint. Same power routing anomalies.”

Dylan scrolls again, then stops – the movement is small, but Thame catches it immediately. Dylan only pauses like that when something stops being abstract and starts getting personal.

“There’s more,” Dylan says. His voice is different now. Less analytical. More careful. “And it’s worse than BioDen just leasing space.”

Pepper’s eyes flick to the mirror. “Define worse.”

“When the lab first came online,” Dylan continues, “the utility registration wasn’t under BioDen.”

Nano leans forward. “Then who the hell was dumb enough to put their real name on it.”

Dylan reads it anyway, like saying it out loud might contaminate the air. “Someone named Siritida Nuenganan.”

Nano frowns. “That’s not a shell. That’s a person.”

“Yes,” Dylan says. “A person who used to work for TIIA. Research division.”

“Okay well – Siritida Nuenganan,” Dylan repeats. “He was not just a research doctor. He was head-level. He knew systems. He knew access. He knew influence.”

Jun’s voice crackles sharply through Sarin’s relay, the fatigue in it momentarily burned away. “Siritida?”

Thame presses the push-to-talk. “Jun – you recognize the name?”

“Not personally,” Jun says, breath tight. “But I’ve heard it before. Old internal chatter. Blacklisted threads. People stopped saying it out loud.”

Pepper’s jaw tightens. “That’s never a good sign.”

“It isn’t,” Dylan agrees. “Because what’s on record is already bad. And what’s missing is worse.”

Nano crosses his arms. “Get to the part where I start wanting to break things.”

Dylan exhales once. “Siritida Nuenganan worked as a research doctor focusing on medicinal enhancements. But he was formally terminated from TIIA eighteen years ago.”

Pepper’s knuckles go white on the wheel. “Whoa – for what?”

Dylan glances up, meeting Thame’s eyes through the rearview mirror before looking back down. “Official charge was misconduct.”

Nano scoffs. “That word should be illegal – it could mean literally anything from stealing a pencil to murdering your boss.”

“It usually means theft or insubordination,” Dylan continues. “In this case, it meant illegal experimentation.”

Thame’s spine goes rigid. “On what.”

“At first,” Dylan says, “animals. Unauthorized procedures. Cross-species biochemical trials. Neural stimulation beyond approved thresholds. He was pushing enhancement theory long before anyone wanted to admit it existed.”

Nano’s voice drops. “And that was not enough to just fire him – no repercussions?"

“Unfortunately no,” Dylan says quietly. “But, that was enough to start watching him.”

The silence in the car tightens. “ And their watching paid off – cause his experimentations escalated,” Dylan continues. “Human experimentation. Unregistered. Dubiously consented.”

Pepper breathes out once, harsh and controlled. Jun’s voice comes in low. “That’s not just illegal. That’s – ”

“A career-ending offense – at least for him,” Dylan finishes. “Which is why the next line in the report is immediate termination because of the final nail.”

Thame feels something cold spread through his chest. “What could possibly be worse – whats the final nail?”

Dylan hesitates just long enough for Thame to know what’s coming before speaking carefully, “The sealed addendum notes that the subject of his final experiments was his own five year old child.”

The words land like a controlled detonation. Nano goes very still. Pepper doesn’t swear. That’s worse. Jun’s voice, when it comes, sounds stripped raw. “His… child.”

“Yes,” Dylan confirms. “The file is heavily redacted. But the language is explicit enough. Illegal human trials. Deliberate concealment. Ethical violations severe enough to justify permanent removal.”

“So he was fired,” Pepper says slowly. “Publicly.”

“Yes,” Dylan says. “Officially disgraced. Blacklisted.”

“But then,” Thame says, opening his eyes, voice flat, "how is he back? Back in the same circles that ended his career?”

Dylan nods. “I don't know how – but I do know when. A few years later. Quietly. No announcement. No reinstatement notice.”

Nano’s head snaps up. “Under TIIA? That's bullshit –”

“That’s the thing,” Dylan says. “Not under TIIA. Not directly.”

Pepper glances at him. “Then under what?”

“An entity called IRU,” Dylan replies.

The acronym means nothing. And that’s the problem.

Nano blinks. “Never heard of it.”

“Neither has anyone,” Dylan says. “No public mandate. No charter. No internal memos. No funding disclosures.”

Jun exhales sharply. “Ghost unit.”

“Worse,” Dylan says. “There’s almost no paper trail at all. The only reason I know IRU exists is because its internal routing address resolves to the same building as TIIA headquarters.”

The realization hits Thame all at once. Not hidden. Embedded.

“This whole system,” Thame says slowly, anger bleeding through his control despite himself, “was operating right under our nose.”

Pepper swears softly.

“And nobody noticed,” Thame continues, voice sharpening. “Or they noticed and decided not to see.”

Nano shakes his head. “You’re telling me a guy fired for experimenting on his own kid gets rehired under a shadow unit inside the same agency that trained us.”

“Yes,” Dylan says. “With no oversight. No accountability. No daylight.”

Thame’s hands curl into fists. “So BioDen isn’t just some rogue biotech company.”

“No,” Dylan says. “It’s a mask. A civilian skin.”

“And Siritida,” Thame says, the name tasting like acid, “is the constant.”

Dylan nods. “The utility records gave him away. When the lab first opened, everything was registered under his name. Power, water, waste disposal. Then, once operations stabilized, it all shifted cleanly to BioDen.”

Nano scoffs. “So he builds it, runs it, then steps back.”

“Or,” Dylan says, “he steps behind.”

Pepper’s voice is low. “So BioDen isn’t his?”

“I don’t think so,” Dylan replies. “I think he belongs to BioDen. Or rather – BioDen exists to give him room to work.”

Thame stares at the road ahead, the picture finally snapping into focus. A disgraced researcher never really fired. A black unit no one can trace. A private company doing what the agency can’t be seen doing.

Pepper’s voice is flat. “So it’s super fishy.”

Dylan’s lips twitch once, humorless. “It’s a swamp with a lab coat.”

Thame finally turns his head slightly, meeting Pepper’s gaze for a fraction of a second. Pepper sees it immediately – the anxiety, yes, but underneath it, something else. Possessive protectiveness that has stopped being polite.

Thame looks away again. He doesn’t want to name it. Because naming it makes it real in a way that could be used against him. But he can’t deny it either.

Po isn’t just a mission now.

Po is a person Thame has started to orbit without meaning to. A person who made Thame’s training feel like something more than procedure. A person whose small, tentative trust turned into a weight Thame now carries like a vow.

And the moment Dylan says the name of a man who experimented on his own child, Thame’s protectiveness crystallizes into something sharper. Not friendly. Not professional. War-shaped. A man who experimented on his own child would not hesitate to experiment on Po. A man like that would see Po’s fear as a lever. Po’s reactions as data. Po’s humanity as irrelevant.

The car crests a low hill, and for the first time, the horizon changes. The land ahead flattens into industrial sprawl, lit in harsh, sterile patches. Power lines march across the distance. Fencing glints faintly where floodlights catch metal.

They’re close now. Not at the facility yet, but close enough that the air feels different. Thame straightens unconsciously, like his body knows it’s time. Pepper slows, guiding them onto a service road that skirts the edge of the industrial zone. The engine hum drops a fraction.

Thame exhales slowly. Novák wasn’t an accident. Po wasn’t a fluke. The rescue wasn’t the end of something. It was an interruption.

They took Po back to the place that made him because that place already knows how to hurt him.

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

Pepper eases the car deeper into the tree line before cutting the engine completely. The sudden quiet is almost violent. The facility looms through the branches now, no longer abstract, no longer a problem for later. Floodlights rake the perimeter in slow, methodical sweeps. Cameras pivot with machine patience. The place doesn’t feel hostile so much as confident.

Thame studies it without blinking.

This is the kind of site designed by people who believe they’ve already won.

No one speaks at first. The car holds them like a pressure chamber, full of restrained motion and unsaid grief. Thame can feel it radiating off the others. Pepper’s shoulders are locked tight, the way they get when he’s forcing himself not to react emotionally. Nano’s knee bounces once, then stills when he catches himself. Dylan’s tablet hums faintly, light reflecting off his glasses as he overlays data he already knows by heart.

They’re angry. They’re hurting. They’re scared. None of that gets spoken.

“We’re in position,” Pepper says finally, voice low. “Close enough that once we step out, there’s no ambiguity.”

Thame nods. He doesn’t take his eyes off the facility. “Good.”

Pepper exhales through his nose. “I don’t like it.”

Nano snorts quietly. “You never like it.”

“This isn’t the same,” Pepper replies. “This place is layered. Cameras overlapping cameras. Thermal detectors tied into predictive movement software. Patrols that aren’t just walking routes, they’re testing them.”

Dylan brings up a live overlay and tilts the screen so they can all see. “He’s right. Thermal sweeps are staggered, not continuous. They’re designed to catch hesitation. Anything that pauses too long gets flagged.”

Nano grimaces. “So sneaking is punished.”

“Yes,” Dylan says. “And charging straight in is suicide.”

The word hangs there, ugly but accurate. Thame finally turns his head, looking at them one by one. He lets their concern exist. He wants it sharp. He wants it honest.

“They expect us to barge in,” Thame says calmly. “Because that’s what we always do when someone takes one of ours – that is they taught us.”

Nano’s jaw tightens at that. Dylan stills completely.

“They know our training,” Thame continues. “They know our doctrine. Breach fast, neutralize threats, extract assets. And that’s what this place is built to withstand.”

Pepper shakes his head slightly. “And we would be outnumbered.”

“Severely,” Dylan adds. “Internal response teams alone outgun us three to one. That’s before automated containment kicks in.”

Nano mutters, “So what, we wait? We don’t go in – what?”

“No,” Thame says immediately.

He steps out of the car, boots crunching softly on gravel, the night air cool against his skin. The others follow without being told. They cluster near the rear of the vehicle, facility lights cutting faint silver lines through the leaves.

Thame faces the compound fully now.

“They expect violence,” he says. “They expect urgency. They expect us to try to rip Po out of their hands the same way we pulled Novák.”

Pepper crosses his arms. “And that’s exactly why we shouldn’t.”

“Yes,” Thame agrees. “They’re prepared for us at our loudest.”

Nano tilts his head. “So we go quieter.”

Thame shakes his head once. “Even better. We go incognito.”

Dylan’s eyes narrow. “A feint.”

“A performance,” Thame says. “A mock break-in.”

Pepper lets out a low whistle. “You want to make them think they’re winning.”

“I want them to think they’re controlling the situation,” Thame corrects. “Because the moment they believe that, they will get lax.”

Pepper studies him for a long moment. “You planned this.”

“I planned for this outcome,” Thame replies. “The moment I realized they didn’t just want Po back. They wanted to show him he could never leave.”

The words come out colder than he expects. He doesn’t apologize.

Nano’s hands curl into fists. “That’s not happening.”

“No,” Thame says. “It isn’t. But only if we stop thinking like soldiers following a manual.”

Dylan looks up at him. “You’re counting on arrogance.”

“I’m counting on ownership,” Thame replies. “They think Po belongs to them. They think we’re predictable. Both assumptions make them sloppy.”

Pepper exhales slowly. “So what’s the play?”

Thame gestures toward the eastern perimeter. “We give them noise here. A partial breach. Just enough to trigger internal escalation. We let them see us. Let them believe they’re herding us.”

Nano’s eyes light up. “And while they’re focused on containing us – ”

Thame finishes for him – “We make our actual move.”

Pepper looks back at the facility, then at Thame. “This is risky.”

“Yes,” Thame says without hesitation. “But a straight infiltration gets us killed before we ever reach him.”

Silence stretches between them again. He can feel their trust now, solid and heavy.

Nano breaks it first. “You’re scary when you get like this, you know that.”

Thame huffs once, humorless. “I’m motivated.”

Pepper meets his gaze. “You’re in love – there’s a difference. So you are motivated… and sure.”

Thame doesn’t hesitate. “They think they’re hunting us.”

His voice drops, iron-hard.

“They’re not ready for us to hunt them.”

Dylan closes his tablet with a decisive snap. “I’m in.”

Nano nods immediately. “Always.”

Pepper’s hands flex once, then settle. “Tell me where you want the noise.”

Thame turns back toward the compound, eyes tracking patrol routes, camera arcs, thermal sweeps. Every system is visible once you stop trying to fight it head-on.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he says and the plan is formed.

And for the first time since Po was taken, the shape of a way forward feels real. Not clean. Not safe. But clever enough to work.

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

Po wakes to weight. Not the crushing kind. Not pain. Just… insistence. Like the world has decided to hold him exactly where he is and wait.

It takes a few seconds for his mind to catch up with his body. Long enough for confusion to bloom, soft and dizzy, before it sharpens into something colder.

He’s upright.

The realization hits in fragments. His spine pressed to something hard. His shoulders pulled back at an angle that makes his chest ache, his feet not touching the floor.

Po opens his eyes.

Light spills over him in harsh white bands, too bright to look at directly. He blinks, lashes sticking, vision swimming until shapes resolve. Metal frame. Padding. Straps crossing his chest, his waist, his thighs.

A vertical stretcher.

His breath stutters.

No.

He tries to move. Nothing happens. Not even the small twitch he expects from panic. His arms don’t answer him. His legs feel distant, numb, like they’ve been politely disconnected.

Then he feels the tubes. Cool lines taped to his skin. One at his arm, another near his collarbone. Something threaded beneath the edge of his shirt, pressing uncomfortably with every breath he takes.

Po looks down as much as the restraints allow. Needles. Lines. Fluids moving slowly, deliberately. Machines beside him blink and hum, a quiet chorus of monitoring that makes his skin crawl.

His heart rate jumps. Immediately, something inside him presses back. Not a hand. Not a wall. A pressure. Familiar. Terrifyingly familiar. Dampeners.

Po swallows hard.

“Help – ” he tries.

The word scrapes out of his throat, thin and broken. His voice sounds wrong to his own ears, like it hasn’t been used in a long time. The machines react. A soft chirp. A slight adjustment in the pressure wrapping around his chest, firm but not cruel.

He can breathe. They’re letting him breathe. That thought settles like ash.

How long, he wonders dimly. How long since the van. Since the fire. Since the world went sideways again. There’s no window. No clock. Just light and hum and the sense that time is passing without touching him.

Footsteps approach. Po’s heart spikes again despite himself. He tries to slow it, counting under his breath. In four. Hold. Out six. The rhythm slips. Someone steps into his line of sight.

Po’s breath catches so sharply it hurts. Mond.

Mond looks different. Not injured anymore. No blood. No urgency. He’s clean, composed, dressed in dark clothes that make him look like part of the room instead of something that wandered into it by accident.

He looks… older than Po remembers. Not by much. Just enough that it feels like time moved for him while Po stayed frozen somewhere else.

“Phi…Mond,” Po whispers.

The name feels fragile on his tongue. Like glass. Mond doesn’t look at him.

He walks past, boots quiet on the polished floor, stopping at a console just to Po’s right. His profile is sharp under the lights, expression neutral as he checks something on the screen.

Po’s chest tightens.

“Phi Mond,” he says again, louder. It burns his throat, but he forces it out. “It’s me. It's Po…”

Mond’s hand pauses for half a second. Po feels the pause like a jolt. Hope flares, fast and reckless. Then Mond keeps going.

Po’s breath shudders.

“You – ” He swallows, voice trembling. “Phi knows me.”

Mond doesn’t respond. Po’s mind starts racing, memories surfacing unbidden. Not the lab. Not the restraints.

Something else.

A shared room once. A window that let in too much light in the mornings. Someone knocking on his door and pretending it was an accident. Someone who always took the corner of the blanket, no matter how many times Po complained.

He shakes his head weakly. Mond turns slightly, just enough that Po can see his face. Not warmth. Not recognition. Just… distance.

Po’s eyes sting.

“Please,” he says. The word breaks on the way out. “Phi Mond. Talk to me. Help me please..”

Mond’s gaze drifts over Po, but it doesn’t land where Po wants it to. It traces the restraints. The tubes. The data scrolling on the nearby monitor. Like Po isn’t the thing that matters here.

Po’s chest feels hollow.

“Phi…” Po says desperately. “Before. Before all of this. You – you used to – ”

He can’t finish the sentence. The memories won’t line up cleanly. They feel close enough to touch, but every time he reaches for one, it slips sideways.

Mond finally looks at him properly. Po’s heart jumps. For a split second, there’s something there. A crack. A flicker. Then it seals shut.

“Why am I here, Phi?” Po asks, tears slipping down his temples now, gravity pulling them sideways. “Why are you here? Why won’t you look at me like you used to.”

Mond looks away. That hurts worse than anything else.

“I don’t,” Po agrees softly. “I don’t understand anything. I just woke up and I’m here and you’re here and you’re acting like I’m – ”

He chokes.

“Like I’m nothing.”

Mond’s hands curl into fists at his sides. For a moment, Po thinks he might say something else. Anything. An explanation. A fragment of the truth. Instead, Mond steps back and turns away.

Po watches him walk toward the door, panic surging now, pressing hard against the dampeners. The pressure inside him swells in response, alarms chirping softly as the system compensates.

“No,” Po says. “Don’t go.”

Mond stops at the threshold. Po clings to the moment, desperate.

“You don’t have to do this,” Po says, voice shaking. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t know me.”

Mond doesn’t turn around. The door slides open.

“Phi… Phi please,” Po calls, the name tearing out of him now, raw and unguarded. “Please.. It hurts soo much Phi….”

Mond steps through. The door closes behind him with a soft, final hiss.

Po stares at the empty space, chest heaving, tears blurring the lights overhead. His heart rate spikes again, grief and confusion twisting together until it hurts to breathe.

“Subject Four,” a voice says nearby.

Po flinches.

“Please remain calm,” the voice continues. “Your vitals are elevated.”

Po lets out a broken laugh that collapses into a sob.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he whispers to no one. “I just want to go back.”

The machines hum on, indifferent. Po closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe the way Thame taught him. He imagines Thame’s voice, steady and grounding. Thame’s presence beside him, not touching unless invited. Thame seeing him, not a number.

He’ll come, Po tells himself desperately. He promised. But the promise feels far away in this place. Po opens his eyes again, staring at the ceiling.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here.

Po doesn’t realize he’s crying at first.

It starts as heat behind his eyes, a pressure that builds quietly, insidiously, until it spills over without asking permission. Tears slide sideways across his temples, catching in his hair, soaking into the fabric that’s been placed beneath his head. Gravity pulls everything the wrong way when you’re upright and restrained, and even grief obeys physics here.

He doesn’t bother wiping them away. He can’t.

So he just lets them fall, breath hitching in uneven pulls that make the machines chirp softly in response. Every spike in his heart rate is answered by the dampeners tightening their grip, a reminder that even his emotions are monitored, regulated, owned.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers to the empty room.

The words dissolve into the hum. Mond’s footsteps still echo in his head. The way he didn’t look back. Po squeezes his eyes shut, chest shaking. Why am I here? Why are you here? I thought you died Phi? Why won’t you remember me? Why does everything hurt?

The room smells like antiseptic and metal and something faintly sweet that makes his stomach turn. It’s the smell of places where time stretches and people disappear. He breathes the way Thame taught him. Enough that the machines ease their pressure by a fraction. Enough that the world doesn’t tilt quite so violently.

That’s when he hears it.

A soft sound near the door. Not the clean hiss of it opening automatically, not the measured footsteps of guards or technicians. Something furtive.

Po’s eyes snap open. He turns his head as much as the restraints allow, heart pounding again despite himself. The door slides open just a sliver. Someone slips inside and closes it quietly behind them.

Novák.

Po’s breath catches so hard it feels like it might tear something. “You – ” He stops himself. His voice cracks, loud in the quiet room.

Novák lifts a finger to his lips immediately, eyes darting to the cameras mounted high in the corners.

“Don’t,” Novák whispers. “Please. I am not here to hurt you.”

Po nods frantically, throat tight. Somehow he believes him.

Novák looks worse than before. Pale. Sweating. There’s fresh blood at the edge of his bandage, and the way he moves suggests pain he’s trying not to show. He crosses the room quickly, deliberately staying in the shadows where the lights don’t quite reach.

“They never let me go,” Novák says under his breath.

Po blinks, confusion slicing through the fog of his grief. “What?”

“They lied,” Novák continues, voice shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “To LYKN. To everyone. I was transferred. Detained. ‘Debriefed.’”

Po’s heart starts racing again.

“They told them I was released,” Novák whispers, his mouth twists bitterly. “They needed your team gone. Needed you isolated.”

Po feels cold all over.

“You’re in danger,” Novák says quietly. “More than you realize.”

Po swallows hard. “I already am.”

Novák shakes his head. “No. Worse. You’re the only one.”

The words land like a blow.

“The only… what.”

“The only subject,” Novák says voice almost to a whisper. “The others were moved months ago. Or terminated. Or… I don’t know. But you’re the only active one here now.”

Po’s breath stutters. “Why.”

Novák’s gaze flicks briefly to the machines surrounding Po. “Because of what you can do. Because of how you react. Because they think you’re… stable enough to push. Also because of that doctor – he keeps saying you are his.”

Po’s hands twitch uselessly against the restraints.

Po lets out a shaky breath. “Then why are you here? What are you saying – ”

Novák meets his gaze, eyes fierce despite the fear threading through them. “Because I owe you. And because I can’t let this happen again.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out something small and metallic. A keycard.

Po’s heart leaps. “You can get me out.”

“For a short time,” Novák says. “Not cleanly. Not safely. But enough.”

Po nods, tears spilling again. “Please.”

Novák steps closer, hands shaking as he works quickly at the restraints. He disables one, then another, carefully timing his movements with the slight flicker of the cameras as they cycle.

“Once you’re free,” Novák whispers, “we move fast. There’s a service corridor behind this wing. It leads to a maintenance lift.”

“What about you,” Po asks, panic flaring. “You can’t – ”

“I’m not leaving,” Novák says quietly.

Po stares at him. “What.”

Novák smiles sadly. “I can slow them down. And I won’t survive another transfer anyway.”

Novák finishes loosening the final restraint and steps back. “You need to run. Don’t look back. Don’t hesitate.”

Po’s legs tremble as gravity rushes back into him all at once. He slumps forward, nearly collapsing as Novák catches him, steadying him.

“Easy,” Novák murmurs. “You’re still drugged.”

Po clings to him for a second longer than necessary, fear and gratitude tangled together. “Come with me.”

Novák shakes his head gently. “If I go, they’ll follow. If I stay…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

They move.

Novák guides Po out of the room, keeping to the shadows, whispering directions. The corridor beyond is dim, lit only by emergency strips along the floor. Po’s bare feet slap softly against the cold tile as they hurry, his body heavy and sluggish but moving.

“Almost there,” Novák murmurs.

They round a corner. And then – A figure steps out of the darkness ahead.

Po’s heart stops.

Mond.

He stands in the middle of the corridor, weapon already raised, expression unreadable. Po freezes.

“Phi…,” he whispers.

Mond doesn’t look at him. His eyes are on Novák. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Mond says, voice too calm.

Novák shoves Po backward with surprising force. “Run.”

Novák’s shove sends him stumbling backward, feet skidding uselessly against the floor, but his legs are still heavy, still wrong. The dampener injection burns cold through his veins, not enough to knock him out, just enough to make his body feel like it belongs to someone else.

Weak. Sluggish. Betrayed.

The sound of the gunshot is deafening in the narrow corridor. Po screams. Novák staggers, a red bloom spreading across his chest as he collapses to the floor. His eyes find Po’s one last time, something like apology and relief tangled there and then they stay open, still, unmoving.

Po stumbles backward, sobbing, legs barely obeying him as alarms begin to scream around them. Mond lowers the weapon slowly.

“No,” Po sobs. “No, no, no – ”

Mond stands there, weapon still raised, posture steady, eyes fixed on Novák’s collapsing body. For a terrible heartbeat, Po thinks that’s it. That Mond will turn the gun on him next.

But Mond doesn’t move. He lowers the weapon slowly, almost reverently, like he’s putting something away that has done its job.

Po’s vision swims.

He takes a step backward, then another, feet dragging, panic screaming at him to move, to do something, but his muscles barely respond.

“Phi Mond,” Po whispers, voice breaking. “Please.”

Mond finally looks at him. There is something in his expression then. Not cruelty. Not satisfaction. Distance. A choice already made.

Before Po can say anything else, heavy footsteps echo down the corridor behind Mond. Another figure steps into view. Po’s breath catches.

This man is different.

Older than Mond. Taller. His presence fills the corridor in a way that has nothing to do with size and everything to do with attention. He moves like he owns the space, like the walls and lights and people are extensions of his will.

His eyes land on Po immediately. And soften.

“Ah,” the man says, smiling. “There you are.”

The smile makes Po’s stomach turn. Mond steps aside without being asked. That alone terrifies Po more than the gun.

The man approaches slowly, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly as if he’s inspecting something fragile and fascinating. Po presses himself back against the wall, breath coming in short, uneven pulls.

“Don’t,” Po says weakly. “Don’t come near –”

The man chuckles softly.

“Oh,” he says gently, like Po has said something adorable. “You’re upset.”

He stops a few feet away, close enough that Po can see the fine lines around his eyes, the faint scar at his temple. His gaze is sharp, intelligent, alight with something feverish beneath the calm.

“I know,” the man continues, nodding sympathetically. “Big emotions. You’ve always had those, my Po.”

Po’s heart slams violently against his ribs. “You… you know me,” he whispers, a shudder racking in his body.

The man’s smile widens. “Of course I do.”

Po shakes his head, confusion and terror twisting together until it hurts to think. “I don’t know you. I don’t want – ”

“That’s all right,” the man says soothingly. “You were very young. And things were… complicated.”

He crouches slightly, lowering himself to Po’s eye level. The gesture is intimate. Wrong. “I put so much effort into you,” the man continues, voice warm, almost fond. “Do you have any idea how much?”

Po’s throat tightens painfully. “Don’t talk to me,” Po whispers.

The man laughs again, light and indulgent. “You used to like it when I talked,” he says. “You’d sit there and listen. Big eyes. Always thinking. Always asking questions.”

Po’s head spins. Images flicker at the edges of his mind. A different room. Softer light. A voice speaking gently, patiently, explaining things Po didn’t understand but wanted to. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“No,” Po says. “Stop.”

The man sighs and chuffs as if mildly disappointed.

“You were taken away from me,” he says, straightening again. “Pulled out of my hands by people who didn’t understand what they were interrupting.”

The man’s gaze sharpens, just a fraction. “I was away for a time,” he says. “Circumstances beyond my control. And when I returned… you were gone.”

Po’s chest aches.

“Gone,” the man repeats softly. “Vanished. Like the world decided I didn’t deserve you.”

Mond remains silent, standing off to the side like a shadow.

“I looked for you,” the man continues, voice lowering. “For years. And then, just a few months ago… there you were.”

Po’s stomach drops.

“You,” Po whispers. “You are the one – you – found me. The kidnapping – ”

“Yes,” the man says, pleased. “Only for the world to be cruel again. To rip you away the moment I had you back.”

Po’s mind stumbles over the words.

“LYKN,” the man says, almost spitting the name. “Your little rescuers.”

Po flinches.

“They did not follow their debrief – they were asked to ‘rescue’ Novák… not to steal you,” the man continues. “But what did they do? They dragged you out of a place where you were safe. Where you belonged.”

The man’s smile fades. His eyes harden, the warmth evaporating in an instant. “And.. they taught you things – including how to run,” he says quietly.

Po feels the dampeners tighten again, responding to his rising panic.

“And now,” the man continues, stepping closer, “you want to do it again.”

Po shakes his head, tears spilling freely now. “I just want to go home.”

The man’s face twists at the word. “This is your home,” he snaps.

The sudden shift makes Po flinch violently.

“You don’t understand,” the man says, forcing calm back into his voice like he’s talking to a frightened animal. “Out there, you’re prey. You’re chaos. You’re dangerous.”

He gestures vaguely toward the corridor behind Po, the world beyond the lab. “Here,” he says, tapping his chest, “you are understood.”

Po sobs openly now. “I don’t want this,” he cries. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want you.”

The man’s jaw tightens. “I won’t allow you to throw yourself away,” he says flatly.

He reaches out. Po recoils instinctively, pressing himself harder against the wall, limbs trembling uselessly. “Please,” Po whispers. “Don’t.”

The man pauses, hand hovering in the air. For a moment, something dark flickers behind his eyes. Then he smiles again.

“There,” he says softly. “That fear. That reaction. That’s what they don’t see.”

He withdraws his hand and straightens.

“You can’t run,” he continues. “You can barely stand. And even if you could, where would you go?”

Po thinks of Thame. The thought slices through him like a blade. He’ll come, Po thinks desperately. He promised. The man follows Po’s gaze, reading something in his expression.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “You think someone is coming for you.”

Po doesn’t answer.

“That’s very sweet,” the man says. “Very hopeful.” His smile sharpens. “And very naive.”

He turns to Mond, voice dropping a few degrees. “Take him back.”

Mond steps forward immediately. Po thrashes weakly as Mond grips his arm, panic surging, heart hammering so hard it feels like it might tear free.

“No,” Po cries. “Please – please don’t – ”

The man watches, head tilted, eyes bright with something close to delight. “You belong here,” he says calmly. “I won’t let the world take you from me again.”

Po barely registers Mond’s grip tightening on his arm.

His body is already failing him, muscles trembling with the last useless sparks of resistance as the dampeners press harder, smarter, responding to every spike of fear like they’ve been waiting for it. The corridor tilts, the lights smearing into pale streaks above him, and for a moment he’s not sure which way is forward anymore.

The man watches it all with quiet satisfaction.

He steps closer to Po again, unhurried, hands clasped behind his back like a lecturer concluding a lesson. “He’s overstimulated,” the man says, voice mild, almost indulgent. “That always happens when they are allowed too much… hope.”

Po’s head lolls weakly to the side. His vision swims, but he forces himself to focus on the man’s face, on the way his eyes never leave Po for long.

“You see,” the man continues, addressing the room now, “he doesn’t run because he wants freedom.”

He tilts his head, studying Po as if he’s a puzzle piece that refuses to sit flush. “He runs because he’s confused.”

Po swallows hard. His throat burns. “I’m not confused,” he whispers.

The man smiles faintly. “You are.”

He turns sharply toward the staff. “Put him back.”

The words are simple. Final.

Mond shifts his grip, bracing Po more securely as two doctors step forward with practiced efficiency. They don’t meet Po’s eyes. They never do. One of them adjusts a syringe, the liquid inside catching the overhead light with a faint, oily shimmer.

“No,” Po breathes.

The man sighs softly, as if disappointed by the interruption. He steps closer again, lowering his voice so only Po can hear. “This is necessary,” he says. “We were making such progress before you were taken away. You were calmer then. More… receptive.”

Po’s heart pounds erratically, machines chirping in protest. “You hurt me,” Po whispers.

The man’s expression doesn’t change. “I refined you.”

Po shakes his head weakly, tears blurring his vision again. “I don’t want this.”

“I know,” the man replies gently. “You all never do. At first.”

He straightens and gestures once with two fingers. “Anodyne isolation tank,” he orders. “Full suspension. We’ll resume once his vitals stabilize.”

The words slam into Po with more force than the restraints ever could.

Isolation. Tank… The word crawls out of the darkest corners of his memory, cold and heavy and wrong. His breath stutters violently, panic surging so fast the dampeners lag for half a second.

“No,” Po cries, voice breaking completely now. “Please – don’t put me back there.”

Mond hesitates. It’s brief. Almost imperceptible. But Po feels it. Mond’s grip tightens again anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Mond says quietly, not looking at him.

Po’s chest caves in.

The doctors guide them down another corridor, this one wider, colder, the hum louder here, deeper, vibrating through Po’s bones. The lights shift from white to a sickly blue as they move farther underground.

Po’s tears don’t stop.

He can’t stop them.

They strap him onto a gurney this time, restraints snapping into place with efficient clicks. His arms are pinned above his head, legs secured, chest held immobile as the ceiling slides past in blurred panels.

A doctor leans over him, adjusting the IV line already embedded in his arm. Po turns his head weakly. And that’s when he sees it. The unknown man's coat brushes close to his face as the man steps past him, reaching for the charts. The fabric is crisp, clean, unwrinkled.

Embroidered neatly over the left breast pocket, in dark thread:

Dr. S. Nuenganan

Po’s breath leaves him in a broken sob. The name detonates inside his chest. Nuenganan.

The man. The smile. The voice that talks to him like he’s a frightened child. This isn’t just a researcher. This isn’t just a monster with access.

This is the man who claims him.

The other doctor doesn't notice Po staring. Or maybe he does, and simply doesn’t care. He turns away, passing the syringe to another technician, murmuring instructions in a tone that suggests routine.

“Sedation protocol,” Dr. Nuenganan says from behind them. “Careful dosage. We don’t want to lose him.”

Po’s vision blurs again as someone presses the syringe to the line.

“No,” Po whispers. “Please… I’ll be good. I won’t run.”

The words taste like ash. Dr. Nuenganan steps into Po’s line of sight one last time. He looks down at him with something like fondness.

“There’s no need for that,” he says softly. “You don’t need to earn your place here.” He reaches out and brushes a thumb across Po’s temple, wiping away a tear. “You already belong.” The plunger depresses.

Cold floods Po’s veins, heavier this time, thicker. The world dims at the edges, colors draining, sound warping into something distant and underwater.

Po fights it. He thinks of Thame. Of steady hands and quiet patience. Of being seen. Of being taught how to breathe when the world felt too loud. Please, Po thinks desperately, as the darkness closes in. Please come soon.

The drug burns as it spreads through his veins, cold and viscous, dragging at his thoughts without fully stealing them. His vision blurs, but it doesn’t go dark. Not yet. The gurney rattles beneath him as they move, restraints biting into his wrists and ankles, the world reduced to harsh light and the low, suffocating hum that never truly stops.

No. The word doesn’t reach his mouth. It stays trapped in his chest, heavy and sharp, pressing outward until something inside him answers.

The hum deepens.

Not louder. Denser. The air itself feels thicker, like it’s been packed tight around him. Monitors spike abruptly, alarms chirping in nervous, staccato bursts.

“Hold him,” a technician snaps.

Po’s breath comes fast and shallow. Panic surges, but under it there’s something else now. Not fear alone. Defiance. The dampeners react immediately, pressure clamping down on his ribs, his skull, his spine. They try to smother the surge before it can become anything more.

Po clenches his jaw until it aches, his eyes staring at the dim light ahead. Thame, he thinks, clinging to the memory like a lifeline. Breathe. Focus on a constant. In four. Hold. Out six. The rhythm carves a narrow channel through the drug haze. Not enough to free him. Enough to aim.

The pressure inside him swells again, sharper this time, more focused. It pushes outward in a tight, concentrated wave, not wild, not explosive, just directed.

The gurney shudders. Metal groans. An overhead light flickers violently, then bursts, glass raining down in a glittering cascade. A monitor tears loose from its mount and smashes against the floor, sparks skittering across the tile.

“What the hell – ” someone shouts.

Po gasps as the restraints strain, fabric and metal creaking under force they weren’t built to withstand. One of the IV lines snaps free, fluid splattering across the floor.

For the first time since waking up, something moves because he wants it to. Technicians stumble back, swearing. Someone fumbles for a syringe.

“Dampener surge!” another voice yells. “Increase output!”

Dr. Nuenganan doesn’t step back.

He stands a few feet away, perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, watching with open fascination. His lips curl into a slow, pleased smirk as the air around Po vibrates, as if he’s witnessing the confirmation of a long-held theory.

“There,” Nuenganan murmurs. “There it is.”

Po turns his head weakly toward him, vision swimming but clear enough to see the delight in the man’s eyes.

“You hurt people,” Po whispers, voice shredded.

Nuenganan tilts his head, studying him like a beloved specimen. “I cultivate them.”

Rage flashes white-hot through Po’s chest.

He screams.

The sound rips out of him as the pressure spikes again, fear and fury bleeding together. One restraint snaps with a sharp crack, his right arm jerking free just long enough for his fingers to curl.

The corridor buckles. Walls flex inward like something massive has leaned against them from the other side. The air becomes crushingly dense, vibrating so hard Po can feel it in his teeth.

People scatter. A syringe is torn from a doctor’s hand mid-motion, flung across the hall and shattered against the wall.

Nuenganan laughs softly.

“Yes,” he says, delighted. “Excellent.”

Po’s vision tunnels. The dampeners respond brutally now, pressure slamming down on him from every direction, crushing his lungs, making each breath a fight. He feels himself slipping.

No, he thinks desperately. Not again. He pushes one last time. The lights explode. Glass rains down. The gurney skids violently sideways, slamming into the wall hard enough to jar his teeth. For a heartbeat, everything goes eerily quiet.

Then something steps into the space in front of him. Mond.

Po barely registers him at first. Mond moves without sound, without hesitation, as if he’s been standing just outside the moment waiting for permission to exist. His eyes are blank, focused, stripped of anything human Po might reach for.

Nuenganan doesn’t look at Po anymore. He looks at Mond.

“Contain him,” Nuenganan says calmly.

Mond moves. He doesn’t speak.

He raises one hand, and the pressure around Po collapses inward instantly, crushed beneath something stronger, denser, more disciplined. It feels like Po’s power is seized mid-motion and folded back into him with ruthless efficiency.

Po chokes on the sudden absence of space. Mond steps closer, presence overwhelming. Not loud. Not chaotic. Absolute. His gloved hand presses flat against Po’s chest.

The effect is devastating.

Whatever Mond does isn’t force so much as command. His power doesn’t fight Po’s. It overrides it, rewriting the space Po occupies until there is nowhere left for resistance to exist.

Po convulses, a strangled sound tearing from his throat as his power is pinned, compressed, silenced. It feels like being held under deep water by someone who knows exactly how long he can last.

Nuenganan watches closely.

“Good,” he says. “Hold him.” Mond holds.

Po’s freed arm is forced back down as restraints re-engage automatically, snapping into place with mechanical finality. His body goes rigid, then slack, every spark of resistance crushed beneath Mond’s unyielding control.

Tears stream freely now, mixing with sweat, his chest hitching uselessly. Nuenganan steps closer, inspecting Po like a craftsman admiring a difficult piece finally brought to heel.

“See,” he says softly. “You just need structure.”

He glances at Mond. “That’s enough.”

Mond releases him. The pressure lifts instantly, leaving Po gasping, shaking, hollowed out.

Nuenganan nods, satisfied. “Back to the anodyne tank.”

Mond moves again at the command, lifting Po effortlessly. Po doesn’t even have the strength to struggle now. His limbs hang limp, head lolling against Mond’s shoulder, the world dimming rapidly as the dampeners surge one final time.

The sedation finally drags Po under completely, the hum swallowing him whole as he’s lowered back into the anodyne tank.

And in the darkness, one thought echoes, cold and relentless – Whatever Phi Mond has become… This is what they want Po to be next.

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

They are closer than they think.

Siritida stands with his hands folded behind his back, posture immaculate, eyes fixed on the live thermal feed blooming across the glass wall of the control room. Blue and green wash the screen in patient gradients, the facility’s perimeter breathing quietly beneath it all. He doesn’t need the alarms to tell him anything. He never does.

Mond stands a step behind him, silent as ever.

“Four heat signatures,” Mond reports. No inflection. No curiosity. “Low profile. Coordinated movement.”

Siritida’s mouth curves slowly upward. Four. Of course it’s four. Because his men killed one. LYKN. or what remains of them.

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t need to see Mond’s face to know what that means. He can picture them easily enough. He’s been watching them for years, after all. Reading reports. Reviewing footage. Cataloguing tendencies the way other people collect habits.

The ones who took Po from him.

Siritida exhales, something like pleasure slipping through the sound.

“So,” he murmurs, “they came.”

Mond says nothing.

“They always do,” Siritida continues softly. “People mistake attachment for bravery. They think love makes them exceptional.”

He finally turns, glancing at Mond with mild curiosity. “They’re careful?”

“Yes,” Mond answers. “Professional.”

Siritida hums. “Good. That makes this more instructive.”

He gestures toward the screen, where the four signatures creep closer to the outer boundary, ghostlike against the terrain. They’re skilled. He’ll give them that. Disciplined spacing. No wasted movement. No panic.

Risking everything. For him. Siritida’s smile widens.

“How touching,” he says. “They’re willing to die for you, Po.”

The name tastes right in his mouth. Personal. Claimed. He turns back to the console and taps a finger against the glass. “Do not engage,” he says calmly.

Mond doesn’t move. “They are inside the outer detection range.”

“Yes,” Siritida agrees. “That’s the point.”

One of the technicians nearby hesitates. “Doctor… if they breach – ”

“They won’t,” Siritida says gently. “Not yet.”

He glances at the man, eyes sharp beneath the softness. “And even if they do, we are not defending. We are receiving.”

Understanding flickers, then fear.

“Lower perimeter response,” Siritida instructs. “Let them think they’re slipping through. Keep the internal nets dormant. I want them to be confident.”

Mond shifts minutely. “You want them captured.”

“I want them hopeful,” Siritida corrects.

He walks toward the observation window overlooking the lower levels of the facility, where Po is suspended once more in the anodyne tank. The fluid glows faintly, a gentle blue that casts Po’s body in something almost holy. Almost peaceful.

Almost.

“They believe they’re coming to save you,” Siritida says, voice dropping, intimate. “That if they are clever enough, violent enough, fast enough, they can take you back.”

He places a hand against the glass. “I want you awake when they fail.”

The thought sends a pleasant shiver through him. “They don’t understand,” he continues, almost kindly. “The outside world has no language for you. No structure. No patience. Out there, you are chaos waiting to be punished.”

He leans closer, eyes alight. “Here, you are understood.”

Siritida straightens and turns back toward Mond. “Once they penetrate far enough, close the net. No lethal force unless necessary. I want them alive.”

Mond inclines his head.

“I want them brought to holding,” Siritida adds. “Adjacent to Po.”

One of the technicians swallows. “Doctor… why?”

Siritida smiles at him then his eyes shift to Po, slow and indulgent, as if explaining something simple to a child. “So I can show him,” he says, “that help always ends the same way.”

He turns his attention back to the thermal feed. The four signatures pause briefly, then continue forward, getting closer to the outer boundary exactly where he expected.

“So loyal,” Siritida murmurs. “So brave.”

His smile sharpens.

“And so very temporary.”

He folds his hands behind his back once more, perfectly composed, as the trap begins to close.

“Let them come,” he says softly. “Po needs to see where he belongs.”

Not in the fragile, chaotic world beyond these walls. Not with people who will only ever be taken from him.

Here. With Siritida. With his Phor.

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.

Chapter Text

Po wakes the way someone surfaces from deep water.

Not all at once. Not cleanly.

First there’s the sense that something is wrong, not danger exactly, just change. The rhythm he’d been floating on breaks apart. The low, steady vibration beneath him stutters, then stops. His body notices before his mind does, muscles tightening on instinct.

Cold air brushes his cheek. Po makes a small, involuntary sound. A breath pulled in too fast. His fingers twitch like they’re searching for something solid.

He finds it immediately. Arms tighten around him, sure and warm, drawing him closer instead of letting him jolt awake alone.

“Hey,” Thame murmurs, voice low and close, pitched exactly where Po can hear it without being startled. “It’s okay. We’re just switching cars again.”

Po blinks. His vision swims, streetlight bleeding into shadow, shapes refusing to settle. His cheek is pressed against Thame’s chest. He can feel Thame’s heartbeat through layers of fabric, steady and unbothered, like it’s been keeping watch the whole time Po was gone.

It takes a few seconds for the realization to click. He fell asleep. On Thame’s chest.

Heat floods his face immediately. Thame doesn’t move him. Instead, Thame shifts slightly to support Po better, one arm firm across Po’s back, the other bracing his legs as people move around them.

“You can keep sleeping,” Thame says softly, like this is the most natural solution in the world. “I’ll carry you over. Or you can just sit with me in the next car.”

Po’s brain latches onto the words sit with me and fills in the rest with terrifying clarity. On his lap. Still this close. Still held. Still seen.

“No,” Po blurts, pushing himself upright too fast.

The world tilts. His head spins. His balance wobbles for half a second before Thame’s grip tightens, grounding him.

Thame looks down at him, brows knitting faintly. “Po.”

“I’m awake,” Po insists, mortified now that he fully understands the situation. His voice comes out too loud, too sharp. “I can walk. I don’t – I don’t need – ”

Nano’s voice drifts in from nearby, amused. “You say that like your eyes aren’t still half closed.”

Pepper snickers. “He’s soo adorable.”

Po glares at them both, which only makes Pepper grin wider. Thame, traitor that he is, smiles just a little. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just fond. “You’re barely conscious,” Thame says gently. “I don’t mind.”

That somehow makes it worse. Po shakes his head, heat climbing higher. “I mind.”

Thame studies him for a beat, reading everything Po isn’t saying. Then he nods once, conceding without argument. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”

But he still doesn’t let go.

When Po climbs out of the car, Thame’s hand stays at his lower back, firm and steady, fingers spread like Po might slip through the cracks of the night if Thame doesn’t keep contact. Po pretends not to notice. Pretends very hard.

They move quickly, quietly, into the second car. Dylan’s hands are already on the wheel, Nano muttering something about tetanus shots, Pepper scanning the street with exaggerated seriousness.

Po takes a seat upright this time, rigid with self-consciousness, leaving a deliberate inch of space between himself and Thame.

It feels enormous. It also feels completely useless, because the moment the car lurches into motion, Thame’s arm comes around him anyway, anchoring him without comment. Not pulling him in. Just there.

Po’s body leans before his pride can stop it. And then, unbidden, the memory of the kiss surfaces.

It had been small. Controlled. Almost clinical in its restraint. Not deep. Not lingering.

Just Thame’s lips pressing briefly to his, enough to interrupt the spiral, enough to bring Po back into himself. The thing Po can’t forget isn’t the contact. It’s Thame’s eyes. The way they’d burned with intention while his mouth refused to ask for more.

Choosing restraint. Choosing Po.

Po’s throat tightens now, hours later, replaying it. His lips feel strangely sensitive, like they remember something his brain is still trying to categorize.

He shifts slightly, suddenly too aware of how close Thame is, how Thame’s attention never drifts. Thame watches him like Po is the only moving part in the room.

Po looks away. Which, infuriatingly, only makes Thame watch harder. The second car hums beneath them, junkyard resurrection rattling over broken pavement. No one speaks much. The silence is thick with things they’re all carrying.

By the time they ditch the car a few blocks from Sarin’s place, Po is fully awake and deeply embarrassed in equal measure.

“I can walk,” Po says again when Thame turns toward him, hands already lifting.

Thame arches a brow. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” Thame repeats, indulgent.

Pepper groans. “Please. I beg you. One of you trip so this gets interesting.”

Po scoffs at him weakly.

The walk is quiet. Streetlights cast long shadows. The neighborhood smells like damp earth and night-blooming flowers. It should be peaceful. Instead, Po feels like every shadow might reach out and grab him.

Thame stays close. Always close.vA hand on Po’s shoulder. Then at his back. Then, briefly, fingers lacing with Po’s before Po realizes what’s happening and pulls away, flustered.

Thame doesn’t comment. He just shifts, hand settling at Po’s waist instead, grounding him there.

Po’s shyness compounds with every step.

It’s not just the exhaustion. It’s not just the fear bleeding off now that they’re almost somewhere safe. It’s the awareness. The way Thame’s focus never wavers. The way that kiss still echoes under Po’s skin. The way Thame seems to have decided that Po is his responsibility, his priority, his constant.

Po doesn’t know how to carry that.

When Sarin’s porch light comes into view, Po’s heart stutters. Ordinary house. Ordinary street. Nothing about it looks like refuge, and yet relief still rushes through him like a wave.

The door opens before they knock. Sarin stands there, composed as ever. Beside him is Jun.

Po’s breath catches painfully. Jun looks bruised. Bandaged. Tired. Alive.

“Jun,” Po says, voice cracking immediately.

Jun’s eyes lock on him, and something raw flashes there before Jun steps forward and wraps an arm around Po carefully, like Po might break. Po clings back, burying his face against Jun’s shoulder, breath hitching as relief overwhelms him. He doesn’t care that he’s crying. He doesn’t care who sees.

“I’m here,” Jun murmurs. “I’m here. I am soo sorry.”

Po shakes his head against him, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. Thame’s hand rests at Po’s back, steady and warm, not intruding on the reunion but never leaving him unsupported.

Inside the house, the air smells like tea and antiseptic. Sarin ushers them in quickly. Nano and Pepper fan out. Dylan murmurs a low report.

Po sits heavily on the couch, exhaustion finally claiming him. His hands tremble faintly in his lap.

Jun sits across from him, watching intently, eyes glassy. “You’re real,” Jun says softly, like he’s still checking.

Po lets out a shaky laugh. “Last I checked.”

They talk quietly. Carefully. Po kneels in front of Jun at one point, holding his uninjured hand, both of them fighting tears like it’s a shared reflex. And then, eventually, inevitably, Po feels the hollow ache resurface.

Koko.

The name pulses in his chest.

Po straightens slowly, turning toward Thame, who is already watching him, expression tightly controlled.

“Thame,” Po says, voice barely steady.

Thame’s eyes soften. “Yeah?”

Po swallows, heart pounding. “Where’s Koko?”

The room goes very quiet. And Po, standing there under Thame’s unwavering gaze, suddenly understands that whatever answer comes next will change everything again.

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

“Thame,” Po says.

The way he says Thame’s name hits like something gentle and sharp at the same time. Trust, naked and immediate. Thame answers right away because leaving Po hanging even for a second feels like cruelty.

“Yeah,” Thame says.

Po swallows. His fingers tighten slightly on the blanket edge, knuckles paling.

“Where’s Koko?” Po asks.

The room stops breathing.

Everyone is waiting, but no one moves. Even the house seems to hold itself still, as if sound might break something fragile.

Thame feels his own pulse in his throat. He lets it settle. He takes a controlled breath through his nose and chooses what kind of man he’s going to be in the next five seconds.

He cannot lie.

He cannot soften the truth into something that will only detonate later. He has seen what delayed pain does. It turns into poison. And he cannot let Po hear it from anyone else. Not Sarin, not Dylan, not Jun. Po asked him. That matters.

Thame shifts slightly closer and lowers his voice, not whispering, just making it smaller. Making it belong to Po.

“Koko didn’t make it,” Thame says.

No euphemisms. No detours.

The words land cleanly, like a door shutting. Po doesn’t cry. Po goes still.

So still that for a heartbeat Thame’s body reacts like Po has vanished too. Like he needs to check that Po is still anchored to the couch, still inside his own skin. Thame’s hand moves without permission, settling on Po’s shoulder, thumb pressing lightly. A grounding touch.

Po’s mouth opens once, closes again. His brows knit, and for a second his expression is pure confusion, like his mind is refusing to accept a sentence that has no right to be true.

“No,” Po whispers.

It isn’t denial in the loud sense. It’s disbelief. A fragile protest against the shape of reality.

Thame holds his gaze. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry,” he says, because there are words you say even when they don’t fix anything.

Po’s breath comes out in a thin line. He stares past Thame’s shoulder, eyes unfocused as if he’s looking at an empty space where Koko should have been standing. Then his gaze snaps back, desperate, searching.

“I… I should have…” Po starts, voice breaking. “If I hadn’t…”

Thame shakes his head before Po can build guilt into a weapon.

“Po,” Thame says, firmer. “No.”

Po’s eyes shine. “He is gone because of me.”

Jun leans forward sharply in his chair, voice rough and immediate. “Stop.”

Pepper’s voice cuts in at the same time, softer but no less certain. “Don’t do that.”

Nano drops into a crouch near the coffee table, bringing himself closer to Po’s level like he’s trying to physically block Po from falling into that spiral. “That thought path leads nowhere good,” Nano says. “Don’t walk it.”

Po’s lips tremble. “He wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me.”

Thame keeps his hand steady on Po’s shoulder. Not restraining. Not trapping. Just anchoring.

“He would have been there,” Thame says quietly, “because that’s who Koko was.”

Po shakes his head hard, tears finally spilling. “He died because of me.”

Jun’s jaw tightens, grief and anger mixing into something sharp. “He died protecting us,” Jun says. “Me and you.”

Po flinches at the word us, like it hurts worse than you would have.

Jun continues anyway, forcing the sentence out like it costs him. “That was his choice. And he would have made it again. He would have done it proudly.”

Dylan nods once, a small motion that carries weight. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Pepper adds, voice low and sincere now, “And he’d be pissed if you turned his last act into your punishment.”

Nano gives Po a look that’s gentle but unyielding. “Koko was not someone you dragged,” Nano says. “He was someone who decided.”

Po’s shoulders curl inward. He covers his face with both hands, and the sound he makes is small, broken, the kind of sound a person makes when they’re trying not to shatter in front of an audience.

Thame watches him fold, and something in Thame’s chest tightens with a quiet violence. He doesn’t let it show. He can’t. If Thame breaks, Po will feel responsible for that too.

So Thame stays steady.

He leans closer, not crowding, and keeps his voice low. “He saved you,” Thame says. “And Jun. That mattered to him.”

Po’s voice is muffled behind his hands. “I dragged everyone into this mess.”

“No,” Nano says immediately.

Pepper nods. “We walked in.”

Dylan’s voice is calm, almost flat, but there’s steel under it. “You don’t get to decide your life is worth less than ours.”

Po drops his hands slowly. His eyes are red and wet. He looks at all of them like he’s trying to understand how they can say those things and mean them.

“I never wanted any of this,” Po whispers.

“I know,” Thame says, and his thumb presses lightly at Po’s shoulder again. A silent punctuation.

Po’s gaze drops to the blanket, the way it’s bunched in his lap. His fingers twist the fabric like he’s trying to wring the guilt out of it.

“And now he’s dead,” Po says, voice cracking.

The sentence sits in the room like smoke. It clings to everything.

Sarin clears his throat.

The sound is quiet, but it pulls attention like a string. Sarin steps forward a fraction, expression grave. He doesn’t look comfortable with emotion, but he also doesn’t retreat from it. He looks like someone holding a terrible set of facts and deciding how to place them down without cutting anyone.

“There’s something you should know,” Sarin says.

Po stiffens under Thame’s hand. Thame feels it instantly. Thame tightens his grip slightly, not to restrain, but to brace. Like a hand on someone’s back before a wave hits.

Sarin’s gaze moves over the group briefly, then lands on Po. His voice is careful.

“There wasn’t much left of Koko when I found him,” Sarin says.

Po’s whole body jolts. The flinch is immediate, visceral, as if the words struck his skin. Thame’s hand slides from Po’s shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers spreading, steadying. He can feel Po’s pulse racing under his fingertips.

Sarin continues, not unkind, but clinical in the way people get when they’re trying to survive saying something unbearable. “The explosion was severe,” he says. “Based on what I recovered, it was instant. He most likely went immediately.”

Po’s mouth parts. His eyes go glassy again. His breathing turns shallow, the same tell Thame noticed earlier.

“He didn’t suffer,” Sarin adds, softer now, as if he’s trying to offer a tiny mercy.

A broken sound slips out of Po’s throat. It’s halfway between a sob and a gasp. Like grief is trying to escape but doesn’t know what shape it’s allowed to take.

Jun’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment. Dylan looks down. Pepper’s jaw clenches. Nano’s hands curl briefly into fists and then relax, like he’s forcing his body not to do something reckless.

Sarin takes another breath, and Thame can see he’s not finished. Thame can see the next truth sitting on Sarin’s tongue like iron.

“He’s buried behind the house,” Sarin says.

Po’s head snaps up.

Sarin gestures vaguely, as if pointing through the walls. “A small plot. I had… I had space. It was the only place that was secure enough, fast enough, quiet enough.”

Po blinks. “Behind… your house?”

Sarin nods once. “Yes.”

Po’s voice comes out thin. “And…”

Sarin’s expression tightens. “Yala is with him.”

The name lands like a second explosion.

Po’s face crumples. He makes a soft, disbelieving sound. “Yala…”

Jun’s voice is hoarse. “She didn’t leave him.”

Po’s chest caves in, as if the image formed in his mind has weight. Koko and Yala. Together. In the ground behind Sarin’s house. Not in the world anymore.

That is what finally breaks him.

Po folds forward, sobbing openly now, grief tearing out of him with no restraint left. It’s not elegant. It’s not quiet. It’s raw, the kind of crying that takes over the whole body and leaves nothing behind to hide with.

Thame moves immediately.

He wraps his arms around Po and pulls him into his chest. Not gently, not carefully. Firm. Protective. Containing. Like Thame is building a wall around Po’s grief so it can exist without swallowing him whole.

Po clutches Thame’s shirt, fists twisting the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. His face presses into Thame’s shoulder, hot tears soaking through.

Thame holds him and keeps his own breathing slow.

In. Out.

He makes himself a metronome.

He doesn’t speak at first. Words are too small for what’s happening. Instead he presses his cheek briefly to Po’s hair, a quiet anchor point. His hands spread across Po’s back, steady pressure. Not a cage. A brace.

The others don’t crowd them. They don’t hover. They give space in the way you give space to someone bleeding, the way you step back but stay ready.

Pepper turns slightly, eyes flicking toward the windows again, because Pepper is the type who guards the door even while mourning. Nano stays crouched, hands resting on his knees, gaze on Po like he’s making sure Po doesn’t float away. Dylan’s posture remains protective, but his expression has gone hard with grief, like it’s sharpened into resolve.

Jun sits with his good hand clenched in his lap, jaw trembling once before he locks it down. Thame can see the fight in him, the effort it takes for Jun not to collapse too. Jun’s injuries make him look breakable, but Jun’s eyes are furious with the universe.

Sarin stands still, face drawn.

Thame lets Po cry until Po’s sobs begin to lose their sharpness, turning into shuddering breaths. Po’s grip on Thame’s shirt loosens slightly and then tightens again, like he doesn’t know whether to cling or push away.

Thame keeps him close anyway.

Eventually Po’s breathing slows enough that Thame can speak without fearing his words will tip Po over an edge.

Thame tilts his head down, voice low near Po’s ear. “Look at me,” he murmurs, not a command, an invitation.

Po doesn’t lift his head fully. Not yet. But he shifts enough that Thame knows he heard.

“You didn’t do this,” Thame says.

Po’s voice is ragged. “But if I wasn’t…”

“If you weren’t you,” Thame interrupts gently, “none of us would be here. Koko would still have chosen the same thing. He was built like that.”

Po shakes faintly against him. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” Thame agrees. “It doesn’t.”

Po’s shoulders tremble again, smaller this time, like the worst of the wave has passed but the sea is still rough.

Thame rubs small circles on Po’s back, a steady motion that keeps Po tethered to the present. Thame wants to say a hundred things. Wants to promise vengeance. Wants to promise safety. Wants to promise that death is not the end of meaning.

He chooses one thing.

“We’re here,” Thame says. “All of us. Right now. With you.”

Po inhales shakily, and the breath catches, then releases. “I don’t deserve…”

Thame’s voice goes firm. “Don’t.”

Dylan chimes in – “Don’t you dare say that.”

Po’s head lifts a little. His eyes are swollen and wet, lashes clumped. He looks wrecked. He looks young. He looks like someone who has been asked to carry too much.

Thame keeps his face calm. Keeps his gaze steady. He refuses to let Po read panic in him. Because if Po thinks Thame is about to fall apart, Po will blame himself for that too.

Jun swallows hard. “Koko wouldn’t have wanted you to apologize,” Jun says, voice hoarse. “He would have wanted you to live.”

Po’s lips part like he wants to argue, but no words come. His gaze drops again. His hands are empty now, clutching nothing but the blanket. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his arms when he isn’t holding onto someone.

Thame shifts, keeping one arm around Po’s shoulders, letting Po stay tucked close while still giving him room to breathe.

Po whispers, “I don’t even understand why this happened.”

That sentence lands differently.

Because beneath the grief, there is fear. Beneath the guilt, there is confusion. Beneath everything, there is the fact that Po was taken, hurt, threatened, used as a piece in a game none of them can fully see.

Thame’s jaw tightens.

He looks around the room and sees the same understanding reflected back: they cannot afford to drown entirely in grief. They can mourn. They will mourn. But if there is something hunting Po, they have to keep moving.

Thame makes a decision.

He lowers his voice again, bringing it back to Po, back to the small circle of trust between them. “You don’t have to talk about it tonight,” Thame says. “Not if it feels like too much.”

Po’s eyes lift slightly, unfocused.

“But,” Thame continues carefully, “if you want to, it might help. Sometimes saying it out loud makes it lighter.”

Po swallows. His throat works like it hurts to move.

“And it would help us,” Thame adds, honest. “Help us piece together what’s happening. Help us keep you safe.”

Po goes quiet.

Thame waits without pushing. He keeps his arm around Po. Keeps his presence steady. He watches Po’s breathing, the way it trembles and then steadies and then trembles again.

Po’s gaze shifts to Jun, then to Dylan, then to Sarin. Like he’s checking the room, making sure he isn’t alone in this.

Finally, Po nods once, small.

“Okay,” Po whispers.

Thame’s chest loosens by a fraction. Not relief exactly. More like the confirmation of a bond. Po is still choosing to stay with them. Still choosing not to shut them out.

Thame tightens his arm around Po briefly, a silent thank you, then relaxes again.

“Only what you can,” Thame says. “We go slow.”

Po draws a shaky breath and stares at the coffee table like the wood grain might give him answers.

Thame keeps his eyes on Po’s profile, noting every shift, every flinch, every moment Po seems to drift toward somewhere darker. He stays ready to pull him back with touch, with voice, with presence.

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

Po tells them the truth in pieces.

Not because he’s hiding anything. Because that’s how it lives inside him.

Thame sits on the floor in front of him instead of taking a chair. Close enough that Po can feel him without being boxed in, close enough that when Po’s hands start to tremble, Thame doesn’t have to cross a room to ground him. Pepper leans against the wall near the window, arms folded, eyes doing what they always do: scanning, assessing, listening for danger even when the danger is currently just memory.

Dylan and Nano sit at the table with mugs of something that used to be warm. Jun is there too, bandaged and stubborn, sitting upright like pain is an insult he refuses to acknowledge. Everyone is quiet in the same shared way, as if any sudden noise might make Po shatter.

Po swallows. His throat feels too tight.

“I’m not sure how much of this is… memory,” Po says softly. “Some of it feels real. Some of it feels like… a story that got repeated until my brain started keeping it.”

No one interrupts. That makes it easier. And harder.

“The man,” Po continues, eyes fixed on the blanket. “Siritida. The doctor.”

Thame’s jaw tightens, just a small motion, contained. He doesn’t speak. Po takes a breath and forces the words out. “He’s… apparently my biological father.”

The word father lands wrong in the room. Like a bad smell that shouldn’t exist here. Nano’s expression hardens. Pepper’s eyes go darker. Dylan’s fingers still over the table.

Thame doesn’t react outwardly, but Po can feel the change in him anyway. A tightening in the air around Thame, protective instinct waking up like a guard dog at the sound of a stranger’s footsteps.

“I don’t remember him,” Po says quickly, before anyone can assume something else. “Not… properly. Just flashes. A voice. Hands. The feeling of being watched. Like I was always being measured.”

Po’s fingers curl into the blanket.

“I remember being told what I was,” he adds, voice dropping. “Not who. What.”

Jun’s throat works. He looks away for a second like he can’t stand the idea of a five-year-old being spoken to like that.

“And Mond,” Po continues, hesitating, because even saying the name makes something twist in his chest. “Mond is… not related to me by blood.”

He glances up briefly, meeting their eyes one by one. “But he’s my brother.”

Pepper’s posture shifts slightly. “You met him when?”

Po nods. “In the orphanage.”

That matters. Po feels the room register the correction instantly, like everyone is tightening their grip on the timeline.

“I didn’t know Mond before that,” Po says, clearer now. He swallows again, and it feels like swallowing glass.

“When I was five,” Po says, “I was found wandering around a park.”

Nano frowns. “Alone?”

Po nods. “A family found me. I remember trees. A bench. The smell of grass and street food. I remember someone crouching down and asking if I was lost.” His mouth twists faintly. “I didn’t know what to answer.”

Thame’s hand lifts slightly, not touching yet. Waiting. Giving Po control. Po keeps speaking anyway, because if he stops now, he might never start again.

“They took me to the police. They waited,” Po continues. “Hours. They asked questions, checked missing kid reports. I kept expecting someone to come get me.” He lets out a small, humorless breath. “No one did.”

The silence in the room grows heavy.

“So… child services,” Po says. “They took me. Paperwork. Questions I couldn’t answer. A lot of adults using gentle voices that didn’t feel gentle. And then… the orphanage.”

Po’s eyes drift slightly, unfocused with memory.

“I remember the smell,” Po says. “Cleaning solution. Old rice. Too many bodies in one space. I remember the sound of crying at night that everyone pretended was normal.”

He shifts, pulling the blanket tighter, as if the memory is cold.

“That’s where I met Mond,” Po says. He pauses, because that part is complicated. Because it is both a comfort and a knife.

Po pulls the blanket tighter around himself, not because he’s cold, but because grounding himself in something physical keeps his voice from drifting away.

“Mond and I… we never got adopted,” Po says quietly.

Nano frowns. “Because of the records?”

Po shakes his head. “Not exactly. It was because of us.”

He lets that sit for a second.

“We were… dependent,” Po continues. “Not in a dramatic way. Just – ” he gestures vaguely, searching for the right word, “ – attached. If one of us got sick, the other would stop eating. If one of us got moved to a different room, the other would stop sleeping.”

Jun exhales slowly. Pepper’s jaw tightens.

“Mond was two years older than me,” Po says. “He took that seriously. Like it was a responsibility he didn’t get to refuse.”

Po’s mouth curves faintly, almost a smile. “Whenever a couple came looking to adopt, staff would separate us on purpose. Different rooms. Different schedules. They wanted to see if we’d… detach.”

His fingers curl into the blanket.

“We didn’t,” Po says.

The word lands flat, heavy with inevitability.

“I cried,” Po admits. “Mond didn’t. He just got quieter. More rigid. Like he was bracing for something.”

Po looks down at his hands. “After a while, they stopped trying. We were marked as a ‘pair.’ Difficult placement. High emotional dependency.”

Dylan mutters under his breath, “Of course.”

“They let us stay together,” Po continues. “But that also meant… staying.”

Time passes strangely in memory. Po doesn’t narrate every year, because the years blur together into patterns rather than events. Hunger. School. Waiting. Watching people come and go.

“Mond turned twenty first,” Po says.

That part sharpens.

“When he aged out, there wasn’t any ceremony,” Po says. “No warning. One day he was packing his things in a plastic bag, and the next day he was just… gone.”

Po swallows hard.

“I was seventeen,” he adds. “Too old to be adopted, too young to leave.”

Thame’s hand lifts slightly, then settles back down. He lets Po speak.

“At first,” Po says, “Mond called. Not a lot. He hated phones. But he tried. He’d ask if I was eating. If I was still hiding books under my mattress. He told me to keep my head down. To not get noticed.”

Po’s voice tightens. “Then the calls got farther apart.”

He shrugs helplessly. “Life, I guess. He was working. Sleeping wherever he could. He never complained, but I could hear it in his voice. The exhaustion. The edge.”

Po remembers staring at the orphanage wall at night, counting cracks, listening to other kids breathe, wondering if Mond was somewhere doing the same thing.

“Eventually,” Po says, “the calls stopped.”

No one interrupts.

“I didn’t think he abandoned me,” Po says quickly, defensive even now. “I knew him better than that. I thought… something happened.”

His jaw tightens.

“A few months later,” Po continues, “one of the older boys – someone who used to run with Mond – came looking for me.”

Po closes his eyes briefly.

“He told me Mond was dead.”

The words still don’t feel real in his mouth.

“He said Mond got caught in some sort of raid – TIA raid or something,” Po says. “That Mond had been trying to buy illegal medicine. And… some small arms.”

The room changes.

Po doesn’t need to look up to feel it. He does look up anyway, and he sees it: the way Pepper’s posture stiffens, the way Nano’s eyes flick sideways, the way Dylan’s jaw sets. Even Jun, exhausted and hurting, sharpens at the name.

Po notices. He falters. “What – ” Po starts.

Thame moves then, subtle and deliberate. He shifts closer, his knee brushing Po’s through the blanket. He doesn’t speak. He just lifts his hand slightly and makes a small, steadying motion.

Go on.

Po nods once.

“The story,” Po continues, voice quieter, “was that Mond resisted. That he was armed. That it was a clean operation.”

Po laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Mond hated guns. He only carried them because the world kept forcing him into corners.”

Pepper looks away.

“I never saw a body,” Po says. “Never got confirmation. Just… paperwork. A name on a list.”

He presses his lips together. “But I believed it. I had to. It was easier than thinking he was alive somewhere and choosing not to come back.”

Po’s chest aches again, that old familiar ache that never really left.

“I left the orphanage not long after,” Po says. “Aged out. No plan. Just… left.”

He rubs his hands together, grounding himself in the motion.

“I came to Bangkok to pay my respects,” Po says. “There was no grave. Just a temple name I was told to light incense at. I did it anyway. I talked to him. Told him I was okay.”

His voice cracks slightly. He swallows and pushes through it.

“I stayed,” Po says. “Bangkok felt… anonymous. Big enough that I could disappear without becoming invisible.”

“I got a job working as a tailor for a small suit shop. And the owner was kind enough to recommend a shared place to live. For a while,” Po continues, “my life was small. Rent. Work. Food. Fabric. I liked it that way. I liked making things that fit. That had purpose.”

Thame watches him closely. Po can feel it without looking. “I thought… maybe that was it,” Po says. “That I’d survived the hard part.”

He lets out a slow breath.

“Then one night,” Po says, “about six or seven months ago… I was walking home.”

The memory is sharp, unpleasantly so. “It was late,” Po says. “Crowded street. Noise everywhere. And then – ” he snaps his fingers softly, “ – nothing.”

Nano leans forward. “Taken.”

Po nods. “Pulled off the street. Fast. Clean. No shouting. No one noticed.”

His fingers curl tight.

“When I woke up,” Po says quietly, his fingers tightening in his lap, “I was… in that place.”

He swallows. The memory does not arrive gently. It crashes in with smells and sound first. The sharp bite of disinfectant that burned his nose. The constant electrical hum, low and endless, like something breathing behind the walls. Even now, thinking about it makes his skin prickle, like the room itself had eyes.

“They didn’t explain anything,” he continues. “No names. No reasons. No warnings. I didn’t even know where I was. I just knew I wasn’t allowed to move.”

He closes his eyes for a moment.

“They just… started.”

Tables of lights. Clipboards. Voices that spoke over him, around him, never to him. Hands that lifted his arms, pressed at his neck, restrained his legs. Hands that touched without permission, without hesitation, like his body was already theirs.

“I don’t know how long it had been since I’d seen sunlight,” Po says. “Days. Weeks. Maybe longer. There were no windows. No clocks. Just the same white glare all the time.”

His breathing stutters, then steadies again.

“They tried different things on me. And the worst part was that they made sure I felt it. Every time. They wanted to see how far they could push me.”

“Sometimes it was injections,” Po whispers, voice as if he is pulling something buried deep. ”One needle, then another, then several more until my veins felt bruised and burning from the inside. Sometimes it was machines strapped to my chest and head, forcing sensations through me, pulling reactions out of my body whether I wanted to give them or not.”

Nano mutters something under his breath. Dylan’s fingers curl into fists. Sarin looks away, breathing slow, measured, like he’s forcing himself not to interrupt.

“And then there was the tank,” he says, quieter now.

Everyone leans in without meaning to.

“It was kind of… like a medium,” Po explains, almost apologetic. “They would put me under first, and then place me inside it.”

The tank glows blue in his memory. Thick, translucent fluid holding his body suspended, weightless and helpless all at once. Tubes threaded into his arms, his neck, his spine. Multiple injectables running at the same time, slowly, methodically.

“I’d wake up inside it,” Po says. “Hours later. Sometimes longer. The chemicals would already be in me by then.”

His fingers tremble.

“It hurt. A lot. Everything burned, like my nerves were on fire from the inside. But the medium kept my body… calm. Suspended. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even flinch. No matter how bad it got.”

Thame’s face hardens, hand curls into a fist against his thigh. He keeps it there. Keeps it contained.

“After a while, time stopped meaning anything. Pain became… normal. I couldn’t tell where one test ended and the next began. I started to feel like I was disappearing. Like if I let go for even a second, there wouldn’t be anything left of me.”

Po’s hands shake now.

“So I did the only thing I could think of. I kept saying my name. Over and over. In my head. Sometimes out loud when I still could. Po. Po. Po. I told myself who I was, what I liked, what I remembered. I held onto it like… like a rope.”

He exhales, sharp and unsteady.

“I was terrified that if I stopped, even once, I’d forget. That they’d take that too.”

His gaze lifts at last, eyes glassy.

“And then you came,” he says. “You pulled me out of the tank. I remember the air hitting my lungs. I remember thinking I should feel safe.”

His voice breaks.

“But I was still scared. I was happy, but I was still trapped in my head. I didn’t know if it was real. I didn’t know if it was another test. I didn’t know if they’d take me back.”

Po falls silent then, words finally failing him, the weight of everything he survived settling heavy in his chest as the room waits with him.

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

Thame watches Po run out of words the way a candle runs out of wax.

Not dramatic, not all at once. Just… thinner. Slower. Like every sentence costs him something physical, something that can’t be replenished with food or sleep. Po sits curled on Sarin’s couch with the blanket bunched around his shoulders, eyes too bright, hands fisting and unfisting the fabric like he’s trying to wring reality out of it.

The room is quiet in a way Thame hates. Not peaceful quiet. The kind where everyone is holding their breath and pretending it isn’t heavy.

Po’s voice has been steady for the last few minutes, but Thame sees the fracture lines under it. The way Po’s gaze drifts when the past gets too sharp. The way his shoulders creep upward like his body is bracing for impact even when no one is touching him.

And then Po says, almost in a whisper, “I… I’d never seen them before today.”

Thame feels Pepper’s posture tighten against the wall. Nano’s face hardens. Dylan stills completely at the table. Even Jun, bandaged and exhausted, lifts his head slightly, like he’s trying to pull the words closer so they don’t slip away.

Po swallows hard.

“I know I said… Siritida told me things,” Po continues. “But I never saw him. Not in person. Not up close. Not like today.” His fingers curl into the blanket. “And Mond… I didn’t see Mond for a long time. Not until… today… the room.”

Thame’s throat tightens.

Po’s eyes flick up, wild and uncertain. “So I don’t understand. I don’t understand how he’s alive. I don’t understand how he’s here. I don’t understand why he’s with him.”

Po’s breathing starts to pick up again, shallow, fast. Thame recognizes the pattern immediately, the edge of panic creeping in. He’d seen it earlier in the car, the moment Po woke and realized he was alive enough to remember.

Po’s voice cracks. “I don’t know what happened in my childhood,” he says, words rushing now. “I don’t know what he did. I don’t know why I was in that park. I don’t know why no one came. I don’t – ”

He stops, but it’s not because he found control. It’s because his chest locks. Po presses a hand to his sternum like he can hold himself together by force. His eyes squeeze shut, and when they open again they’re wet.

“I know nothing,” Po whispers, devastated. “I don’t have answers. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to remember.”

Something breaks. Not loud. Just… final.

Po’s face crumples, and the sound that comes out of him isn’t a sob at first. It’s a small, strangled noise like his body tried to swallow grief and it refused. Tears spill suddenly, hot and fast. His shoulders shake. The blanket slips off one shoulder and he doesn’t even notice.

Thame moves before he thinks.

He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t hesitate. He gets up and sits next to him, wrapping both arms around Po and pulling him in.

Po clutches at Thame like he’s drowning and Thame is the only solid thing in the room. Thame holds him tighter. Po’s forehead presses into Thame’s shoulder, and his sobs shake through Thame’s chest like an earthquake that refuses to end.

Thame keeps his voice low, steady, something Po can grab onto. “Enough,” he murmurs. “Enough for today.”

Po’s fingers dig into the back of Thame’s shirt, twisting fabric until it’s painful.

“I can’t – ” Po chokes.

“I know,” Thame says immediately. “You don’t have to.”

Po shakes harder, crying into Thame’s shoulder. Thame feels his own anger flare, sharp and bright, aimed at every person who ever looked at Po like a file instead of a human being.

Thame forces it down. Po doesn’t need Thame’s rage right now. He needs Thame’s steadiness. So Thame becomes steady.

He keeps one hand braced at Po’s back, splayed wide like he’s holding Po’s ribs together. The other hand cups the back of Po’s head, fingers threading into damp hair gently, possessively.

Nano clears his throat softly from the table, but he doesn’t say anything stupid. For once.

Pepper looks away toward the window, giving Po privacy without leaving his post.

Dylan shifts in his chair, eyes dropping to his tablet like he suddenly remembered an urgent task that absolutely isn’t real.

Jun’s face is tight with guilt and pain and exhaustion. Thame sees him start to stand, then think better of it. Jun settles back with a grimace, hands clenched in his lap.

Sarin, who has been hovering in the doorway, steps forward quietly, reading the room with the ease of someone who has sheltered too many wounded people to need explanations.

“I’ll grab supplies,” Sarin says. His voice is gentle but firm, the kind of tone that doesn’t invite argument. “Clothes. Toiletries. Everyone looks like they crawled out of a war zone.”

Nano mutters, “We kind of did.”

Sarin ignores him. He glances at Thame, then at Po trembling in Thame’s arms. “I’ll be quick,” Sarin adds, already reaching for his keys.

Thame nods once, grateful without saying it. He doesn’t like letting anyone leave, not tonight, but Sarin knows what he’s doing. Sarin knows what safe looks like.

Sarin slips out, door closing softly behind him.

Po’s sobs begin to slow, not because he’s okay, but because his body runs out of fuel. His breathing is still ragged. Thame keeps holding him, letting him take up space, letting him be messy and human.

After fifteen-ish minutes, Po lifts his head slightly. His face is blotchy, eyes red. He looks embarrassed the second he realizes everyone is still there.

“Sorry,” Po whispers, voice raw.

Thame tightens his arms again, a quiet warning. “Don’t apologize,” he says.

Po swallows, gaze flicking toward the hallway as if he wants to escape his own feelings. He inhales shakily. “Can I… can I take a shower?”

The request hits Thame like a reflexive alarm. The lab. The tank. The water. The vulnerability of being alone in a small room with a locked door.

Thame’s entire body wants to say no.

His brain supplies a hundred reasons in half a second – you’re still weak, you’re still dampened, you’re still shaking, you are not leaving my sight.

Thame doesn’t say any of it. Because Po asked, not demanded. Because Po is trying to reclaim something normal, something private, something that belongs to him.

Thame forces his voice to stay controlled. “You’re sure?”

Po nods quickly. “I just… I feel gross. Like I can still smell it. The lab.”

Thame’s jaw tightens. He hates that Po has to say that. He hates that Po has to carry that. Thame exhales through his nose, slow. “Okay,” he says, the word tasting like reluctant surrender.

Po starts to shift off the couch, but Thame’s hands stay on him a second longer. Not to stop him. Just… to be sure Po’s legs won’t give out.

Po stands, swaying slightly. Thame is up instantly, too fast. He catches Po by the elbow, steadying him.

“I’m fine,” Po whispers, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Thame’s gaze is steady and unapologetic. “I know,” he says. “I’m still holding you.”

Po looks down.

Thame guides him toward the bathroom, not touching more than he has to, but close enough to block any stumble. Jun watches them go, expression unreadable, like he wants to say something and doesn’t know how.

Pepper shifts his weight, eyes tracking the hallway. Dylan’s fingers hover over his device as if he’s already adjusting security measures around Sarin’s house.

Thame stops at the bathroom door. Po glances at it like it might bite. Thame reads that too. Every small hesitation. Every flinch that Po thinks no one notices.

“I’m not letting you disappear,” Thame says quietly.

Po swallows. “I don’t want you to – I just – ”

“I know,” Thame cuts in, softer. “You need privacy. You can have it.”

Thame points at the wall just outside the door, where the hallway light throws a soft stripe across the floor. “I’ll be right here,” he says. “Outside. The whole time.”

Po’s eyes widen slightly, conflicted. Part of him is relieved. Part of him is shy. Thame’s voice lowers, intimate without being flirtatious. “If you need anything,” he says, “you don’t even have to open the door. Just say my name.”

Po’s throat bobs. “Okay.”

Thame hesitates, then reaches out and gently tucks the blanket higher around Po’s shoulders again like armor. His fingers brush Po’s collarbone for the briefest second.

Po’s breath catches.

Thame’s eyes flick up, meeting Po’s, and there it is again – that possessive, protective intensity held under perfect control, like a fire behind glass. Thame doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t take advantage of the closeness. He just stays.

“Go,” Thame murmurs.

Po nods once and slips into the bathroom. The door shuts with a soft click.

Thame immediately positions himself beside it, shoulder near the frame, eyes on the hallway, every sense alert. He hears the faint sounds inside: the shuffle of clothes, the turn of a tap, water beginning to run.

Thame’s chest tightens at the sound.

He closes his eyes briefly, forcing himself to breathe. In. Hold. Out. He counts the breaths like he taught Po to do.

Because the truth is, Thame doesn’t just want Po safe. Thame needs it.

And as he stands guard outside a bathroom door in Sarin’s quiet house, listening to water and trying not to imagine tanks and restraints and gunfire, Thame understands with brutal clarity why it was said that wars were fought over love.

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

The water hits his shoulders and Po finally stops pretending.

Steam curls around him, fogging the glass, turning the bathroom into something small and sealed. The sound of the shower is loud enough that it should drown everything else out.

It doesn’t.

His hands brace against the tile, forehead pressing to the cool wall as his breath comes apart in shallow, uneven pulls. He bites down hard, trapping the sound before it can turn into anything too big, too broken.

Not here. Not loud. The lab comes back anyway.

White light bleeding into his eyes when he opens them. The smell of antiseptic so sharp it stings. Straps biting into his wrists. The hum of machines that never slept, that never let him forget where he was.

Pain flashes through him like memory has a pulse. The burn of injectables crawling through his veins. The suspended weightlessness of the tank, blue and endless, his body held still while his nerves screamed without a sound.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Po. Po. Po.

He presses the name into himself like a brand, the way he used to. Like it might keep him from dissolving.

But now there’s more. Too much more. Mond’s face rises up without warning. Alive. Standing there. Not a ghost. Not a story. Not a name whispered in grief. Real. Breathing. Watching him.

Po’s chest tightens so fast it hurts. How? Why? What happened to you? What happened to me?

The questions crash into each other, stacking until he can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. His childhood fractures in his hands. The orphanage. The silence. The years without answers. The grief he already survived once, tearing itself open all over again.

Was Mond taken too? Did he suffer like this? Did he know Po was alive? Did he know where Po was?

The water runs down his face, disguising the way it twists, the way his mouth opens in a soundless gasp. His shoulders shake, small and tight, like his body is afraid to take up too much space.

He clamps a hand over his mouth – Quiet. Be quiet you fool. You have done enough

Outside the bathroom, they’re there. Thame. LYKN. People who care. People who just heard the worst parts of him laid bare. He can’t give them more. Can’t let them see him like this too.

His knees threaten to give out. He slides down until he’s crouched under the spray, back against the tile, arms wrapped around himself like that might keep everything inside.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers, so soft it barely exists.

The words vanish into the steam.

The pain. The years. Mond. The lab. The fear that none of it is really over, that it’s all just changed shape.

Po rocks slightly, breath hitching, forcing himself to stay present. To feel the water. The floor. His own hands.

Po. Po. Po.

He survives the moment the same way he survived the tank. By staying.

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

The bathroom door stays closed.

Water runs on the other side, a steady rush that fills the apartment with white noise. Thame stands close enough that he can hear it change pitch when Po shifts under the spray. Close enough that he doesn’t miss a single second of silence that feels too long.

No one comments on it. The others freshen up in the small wash area in Sarin’s open backyard.

Pepper finishes first and then steps away, moving toward the front porch door with Sarin's secure line already in his hand.

The call connects on the third ring.

“Papa?” Yanin’s voice comes through bright and small, filtered by distance. Behind it, Pepper can hear his mother humming, the clink of dishes, the ordinary sounds of a house that is safe.

Pepper exhales, tension leaking out of him despite himself. “Hey, bug.”

“Are you still working? My lucky air still working? How is Uncle Tha? Uncle Dyl Dyl?” she rapid fires immediately.

“Calm down baby,” he says, softening his voice without thinking. “But I’m okay. Uncle Tha is okay. I just wanted to hear you for a bit.”

There’s a pause. “Are you coming home tonight papa?” Yanin asks.

He hesitates. Just for half a second. “Not tonight,” he answers honestly. “But I’ll see you soon. I promise.”

“Okay,” she says, accepting it with the uncomplicated trust only kids have. “I drew a zoo today for art class.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Pepper replies, throat tightening. “You be good for Grandpa and Grandma, yeah?”

“I am!” she insists. “I love you, Papa.”

“I love you more than all the tigers,” he says, voice low.

When the call ends, Pepper stands there for a moment longer, phone pressed to his ear like the warmth might linger.

The front door opens quietly.

Sarin slips back inside, arms full of shopping bags, rain-damp and out of breath like he walked too fast. He scans the room instantly, eyes going to the bathroom door, then to Thame posted nearby like a sentry.

“He okay?” Sarin asks under his breath.

Thame nods once. “He’s still showering.”

Sarin sets the bags down carefully, pulling out clean clothes, a towel, socks. Simple things. Necessary things. He lays them out within reach, deliberate, respectful.

“Good,” Sarin says quietly. “Let him take his time.”

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

Thame notices the time before he notices his breathing.

It has been too long.

The sound of the shower has stayed constant, steady and unbroken, but something about it has shifted in his head. Minutes stretch. The apartment feels smaller. Sarin is back now, bags unpacked, clothes folded neatly on the table, and still the bathroom door hasn’t opened.

Thame doesn’t fidget. He has stationed himself just to the side of it, shoulder close enough that he can feel the vibration of water through the wall. The sound hasn’t stopped, but it has thinned. Less movement. Longer pauses. The kind of stillness that makes his instincts craw

Too long, his mind repeats.

Sarin catches his eye from across the room. Doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The worry is shared, heavy and unspoken.

Time stretches. Too much of it. Finally, Thame lifts his hand and knocks, soft but deliberate.

“Po?” he calls, keeping his voice even. Not loud. Not sharp. “It’s me.”

There’s no answer. Thame’s chest tightens.

“Hey,” he tries again, softer this time. “You okay in there?”

Silence stretches, thin and dangerous. Then, faintly, hoarse but real. “Yeah.”

Relief hits him so hard his knees almost buckle.

“It’s been a while,” Thame says, carefully neutral. “Sarin grabbed some clothes for you. Can I bring them in?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Thame imagines Po standing there, dripping, debating, pulling himself together with both hands.

“…Okay,” Po says finally.

Thame exhales once, slow and grounding.

He opens the door and steps inside, closing it behind him without thinking, sealing the room off from the rest of the world.

Steam wraps around him immediately.

Po is standing near the sink, a towel wrapped around his waist, damp hair clinging to his forehead, water still beading on his skin. He looks smaller like this. Exposed in a way that has nothing to do with nudity and everything to do with exhaustion.

Thame’s brain short-circuits. Every instinct in him surges forward. It’s instant. The pull. The awareness. The way his attention locks on Po like gravity recalibrating.

He hates that his body reacts before his mind can catch up. Want coils low and sharp, protective and possessive all at once. He wants to look. Wants to touch. Wants to drag Po into his chest and never let him go.

He does none of it.

His gaze snaps deliberately to the tiled wall instead. He keeps his eyes fixed there, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“I’ve got your clothes,” he says, voice rougher than he wants. He holds the bundle out without turning.

Po takes them. Their fingers brush. Electric. Thame swallows hard. “I’ll… step out,” he adds quickly, already moving. “So you can change.”

Po nods, barely perceptible. “Okay.”

Thame opens the door and steps just outside, turning his back fully, leaning one shoulder against the frame. He doesn’t go far. He couldn’t if he tried.

The door stays ajar.

Inside, fabric shifts. A shirt sliding over skin. The sound is innocuous, normal. It shouldn’t matter. But Thame’s body betrays him anyway. Heat flares, unwanted and sharp. He clenches his jaw, fingers digging into his own palm.

Not now. Not like this. He focuses on breathing. On the fact that Po is alive. Here. Safe.

Then he hears it. Po’s subdued voice saying, “I’m… done.”

Thame doesn’t hesitate. He steps back in and closes the door behind him again. And everything inside him drops.

Po is dressed now, loose shirt hanging off him, sleeves swallowing his wrists. His hair is still damp, eyes red. Not from steam. From crying.

Thame closes the distance in one step. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask. He just wraps his arms around Po and pulls him in, firm and steady, chest to chest like an anchor.

Po shatters.

The sob rips out of him raw and broken, body folding inward like he’s been holding it together with thread and it finally snapped. His fists clutch at Thame’s shirt, fingers curling desperately, like he’s afraid Thame will disappear if he loosens his grip.

Thame holds him. Tighter. Closer.

He presses his cheek into Po’s hair, breathing him in, grounding both of them. One hand comes up to cradle the back of Po’s head, fingers threading gently through damp strands.

“It’s okay,” Thame murmurs, over and over, not even sure if the words matter. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. I’m here.”

Po sobs into his shoulder, voice broken and raw.

“I can’t stop seeing it,” he whispers. “The lab. The tank. Mond. I don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand anything.”

Thame’s chest aches so hard it feels like it might crack.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling back just enough to see Po’s face. Tears streak down his cheeks unchecked. His eyes are red, unfocused, drowning.

“You don’t have to understand right now,” Thame says. “You don’t have to figure anything out tonight.”

Po shakes his head desperately. “Make it stop,” he pleads. “Please. Just – make me forget.”

Thame stills.

“What?” he asks quietly.

Po swallows, throat working. “Just for a little. I can’t be in my head anymore.”

“How?” Thame asks, already knowing.

Po looks up at him then, eyes shining with desperation and trust that scares the hell out of him.

“The same way you did in the car.”

The words land heavy.

Thame’s breath catches. His first instinct is shock, sharp and blinding. Not because he doesn’t want to. Because he wants to far too much.

The memory flashes. Po’s mouth warm and soft against his. The way the world had narrowed to nothing but breath and closeness and relief. But this is different. This is Po unraveling.

Thame pulls his hands back slightly, still touching but less enclosing, forcing himself to slow down.

“No,” he says gently, even as it hurts. “Po, I can’t. Not like this. You’re hurting.”

Po’s face crumples.

“Please,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I know what I’m asking. I’m not confused. I just need it to stop.”

Thame shakes his head once, torn. “I don’t want you to think I took advantage of you.”

“I won’t,” Po insists immediately. His hands clutch Thame’s shirt again, desperate and grounding. “I trust you. Please don’t say no.”

Thame closes his eyes.

He is not strong enough to refuse Po when he looks at him like that. Not when Po is asking for relief, not escape. When he opens his eyes again, the decision is already made.

“Okay,” he breathes.

Po exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

It leaves him all at once, shaky and uneven, like something finally unclenched deep in his chest. Thame feels it through their closeness, through the way Po’s weight shifts subtly forward, like he’s trusting gravity again.

Thame cups Po’s face carefully, thumbs brushing away the wet tracks beneath his eyes. His hands are warm. Steady. Deliberate. Every touch is chosen, not taken, even as something restless coils tight in his chest.

He forces himself to move slowly.

He leans in just enough that Po can feel it coming. The heat of his breath. The intent in the space between them. Just enough that Po could pull away if he wanted to.

Po doesn’t.

Po closes the distance himself.

Their lips meet softly at first, a careful press that feels like a question being asked and answered at the same time. It’s not awkward. Not unsure. Just restrained, like both of them are testing the edge of something dangerous.

Thame keeps it light. Keeps it controlled. He tells himself this is grounding, that this is about keeping Po here, present, safe.

But Po answers the kiss.

A sound slips out of him, quiet and wrecked, more breath than voice. Relief. Need. His fingers, which had been twisted tight in Thame’s shirt like he was bracing for impact, slowly unclench. His shoulders sag, tension bleeding out of him in visible waves.

Thame feels it all. The way Po melts closer without realizing. The way his body gives permission before his mind does. The way trust settles heavy and intimate between them.

Something inside Thame snaps its leash.

The kiss deepens before he can stop himself. Not rushed. Not rough. But undeniably deeper. Intentional. His thumb traces the line of Po’s jaw, slow and possessive, feeling Po lean into the touch like he belongs there.

Po’s mouth presses back, seeking him, not to disappear but to stay. To be held in something solid.

The world narrows dangerously.

Heat floods Thame’s body, sharp and undeniable. Desire flares, threading through protectiveness until it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. His hand slides to Po’s waist, fingers curling instinctively, pulling him closer, closer –

Too close.

Thame catches himself on the edge of it.

He freezes, breath stuttering once before he reins it back in with sheer force of will. Not rejecting. Not pulling away completely. Just… stopping. He eases back a fraction, enough to breathe.

Foreheads rest together. Their hands still hold. Their lips hover close enough that Po can feel the warmth of his stuttered breath, the restraint vibrating through him.

Thame’s eyes close, jaw clenched tight as he forces the surge down, locks it behind care and conscience and the fierce need not to take what Po isn’t offering freely.

When he finally opens his eyes again, his hands are still gentle. Still holding. Still choosing restraint, even as every part of him wants more.

He presses one last, gentler kiss to Po’s mouth. Slower. Softer. A promise instead of a demand. Po stays there, breathing with him, eyes closed, grounded again. Present.

Thame kisses him like an anchor. Not to erase what happened. Not to replace pain with desire. But to keep Po here. Breathing. Held. Surviving this moment. And when Thame finally pulls back, still holding Po steady, it’s with the knowledge that stopping now is not distance.

It’s devotion.

And for tonight, that is enough.

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

Mond stands perfectly still as the last data stream collapses into static.

The footage loops again. Grainy traffic cam. The original car entering the intersection. A clean turn. Then nothing. No exit ping. No follow-up sighting. Like the vehicle simply dissolved into the city.

“Run it again,” he snaps.

The tech beside him doesn’t argue. The video rewinds. Plays. Stops. Still nothing.

“They ditched it,” he mutters. “Clean.”

Someone shifts behind him. “Sir, we can widen the radius. Backtrack pedestrian cameras – ”

“No need,” Mond cuts in sharply. He straightens slowly.

They changed cars. More than once. Broke the trail on purpose. Amateur groups panic and run. Professionals vanish.

They won’t let him be hurt Mond thinks, eyes still on the screen.

It isn’t a question.

He saw it the moment they moved in. The way the team positioned themselves between Po and everyone else. The way the man called Thame didn’t even look at the weapons first. His eyes had gone straight to Po, sharp and urgent and unmistakably protective.

Love.

Not the careless kind. The dangerous kind that chooses and commits and doesn’t ask permission.

Mond turns from the screens and walks down the corridor, steps unhurried, measured. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes. He steps into an empty room and closes the door behind him with a quiet click.

Only then does he look down. He rolls his sleeve back slowly.

Dark veins lace his forearm, blackened blue beneath the skin, faintly pulsing in irregular rhythms. They don’t burn. Not yet. They ache in a way that feels structural, like something in him is pushing against limits it doesn’t recognize.

Rejection. His body refusing what it’s becoming.

Mond studies the veins with clinical detachment. No panic. No anger. Just calculation. This isn’t damage from the lab. This is what happens when power outruns compatibility.

He flexes his fingers once. The veins darken, then settle.

Po won’t reject it. The thought comes unbidden, certain. Po never did. That’s why Siritida had pushed so hard. Why Po’s physiology kept surviving where others destabilized. Why Mond’s own enhancements were calibrated off Po’s data in the first place.

Po is the constant. The control. The cure.

Mond lowers his sleeve and straightens, composure seamless as it slides back into place. He doesn’t resent Po for leaving. He doesn’t even resent LYKN.

They saved him. Mond understands that instinct better than anyone. But understanding doesn’t change reality.

If Po stays gone, the work can’t be completed. If Po isn’t perfected, there is no correction protocol. No reversal. No stabilizing baseline.

Not for Mond. Not for anyone else who came after.

And in this world, if only one of them could survive – then it has to be Mond.

Chapter Text

Thame opens the bathroom door first.

Not because Po can’t. Because Thame needs to be the one who checks the space, who makes sure the world outside the steam and tile hasn’t shifted while they were gone.

It hasn’t.

LYKN is still there. Sarin kneeling by the low table, unpacking containers with methodical care. Pepper leaning against the counter, arms crossed, pretending not to watch too closely. The others scattered across the room, giving space without being asked.

Normal. As normal as it ever gets.

Po steps out behind him.

Thame feels it immediately, the way the room recalibrates around Po’s presence. Eyes flick up. Bodies subtly reorient. No one crowds him. No one reaches for him. They’ve learned already. Po needs to arrive on his own terms.

“You good?” Sarin asks gently, not making a big deal of it.

Po nods. “Yeah.”

His voice is steady enough. His shoulders aren’t hunched anymore. He’s still pale, still tired, but there’s a groundedness to him now that wasn’t there before the shower. Thame clocks it with quiet relief.

Good.

Sarin doesn’t take that at face value. He never does. He crouches in front of Po, voice low and steady. “You dizzy? Nauseous? Any pain?”

Po shakes his head. “No. Just tired.”

“We’ll fix that,” Sarin says, already turning back toward the food like this was inevitable.

Thame feels Po shift slightly closer to him, instinctive. He doesn’t comment. He just lets his shoulder stay there, solid and available.

Nano, who has been suspiciously quiet, clocks this subtle move and then squints at Po’s face. Then his eyebrows shoot up.

“Hold on,” Nano says slowly. “Did – ”

Pepper sees it next.

“Oh,” he says, dragging the word out. “Ohhh.”

Sarin looks up from the food. Dylan follows Pepper’s gaze. The room collectively reorients, attention snapping into sharp, dangerous focus.

Po blinks. “What?”

Thame knows exactly what they’re seeing. Bruised lips. Not dramatic. Not swollen. Just darkened enough at the corners, flushed in a way that absolutely does not come from dehydration or stress.

Heat creeps up Thame’s neck. Po freezes mid-motion.

“…What?” Po asks again, slower this time.

Thame shoots him a glare. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“Aer we?” Pepper asks. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you two went into the bathroom looking like trauma victims and came out looking like a K-drama poster.”

Po’s ears turn red.

Nano laughs outright. “Holy shit, they kissed.”

Po groans and covers his face with both hands

“That’s it,” Thame says. “None of you are allowed to speak anymore.”

Pepper raises both hands. “Hey, you’re the one who couldn’t keep it subtle.”

Po peeks through his fingers. “It wasn’t – ”

Nano interrupts, delighted. “Oh no, it was. Which is honestly worse.”

Thame feels like his entire body is on fire. Po drops his hands and looks at him, half-embarrassed, half-amused now. There’s color in his cheeks again. Life. Normalcy creeping back in through humor and shared chaos.

Pepper claps his hands once. “Alright, jokes aside,” he says, still grinning, “we’re glad you’re okay.”

The room softens again. Just a fraction. Po’s smile turns smaller, real. “Thanks.”

Thame exhales, tension easing from his shoulders.

Nano smirks. “Still,” he adds, unable to help himself, “never thought I’d see the day Thame loses composure in a bathroom.”

Thame shoots back, “You weren’t there.”

Pepper snickers. “Yeah, Po was.”

Po groans again, but he’s laughing now, shoulders shaking just a little.And Thame watches him laugh, watches the weight lift for another few minutes, and thinks – let them tease. If this is the price of keeping Po here, smiling and breathing and alive, he’ll pay it every time.

Thame squeezes Po’s hand once before letting go. “I’m gonna be two minutes.”

Po looks at him, a question flickering across his face.

“I’ll be right here,” Thame adds, softer.

That’s enough. Thame ducks into the bathroom again, splashing water on his face, scrubbing his hands like he’s washing something off that isn’t there. He catches his reflection in the mirror and pauses.

He looks… composed. Calm. Like someone who hasn’t just come within a breath of losing control. He exhales slowly, once, grounding himself. Get it together.

When he comes back out, the house smells like food. Sarin’s spread everything out across the table, containers opened, steam curling upward. Rice. Soup. Something fried and unapologetically greasy. Comfort food disguised as logistics.

Po is sitting cross-legged on the floor now, Pepper beside him, Nano across, Dylan leaning back on his hands. They’re talking, low and easy. Pepper is mid-story, gesturing animatedly.

“…so I tell him, sir, if you wanted subtle, you shouldn’t have worn neon shoes,” Pepper says.

Po huffs, a quiet laugh slipping out before he can stop it. Thame freezes for half a second. The sound hits him square in the chest.

There it is. Po laughing. It’s small, not carefree, but it’s real. Unforced. A release valve opening just a crack.

Thame moves to sit near him, close enough that their knees brush. Po glances at him and smiles, brief but genuine.

“You’re fast,” Po says.

“Didn’t want you stealing all the food,” Thame replies in a teasing note.

Nano snorts glancing at Jun and they both go into a fit of giggles.

They eat. At first it’s quiet, everyone focused on the simple act of putting food into their bodies. Thame watches Po more than he watches his plate, notes every bite, every swallow. Po eats slowly but steadily. Doesn’t push the food away. Doesn’t stall.

Good.

Pepper breaks the silence first. “Okay, since we’re all pretending this is a normal dinner and not whatever this is – ” he gestures vaguely “ – someone tell a story.”

“Not you,” Nano adds immediately.

Pepper gasps. “Wow. Betrayal.”

“Tell the one about the mislabeled evidence locker,” Dylan says.

Pepper groans. “You promised you’d never bring that up again.”

Po looks between them, curious. “What happened?”

Pepper sighs dramatically. “Fine. But this stays in the room.”

Jun smirks. “Nope.”

Pepper flips him off and launches in. The story is ridiculous. A mislabeled locker. A rogue cleaning crew. Pepper accidentally chasing what he thought was a suspect through three flights of stairs before realizing he was pursuing a mannequin.

Po laughs again, louder this time. The sound loosens something else in the room.

Nano follows with his own story. Dylan adds embellishments. Sarin contributes dry one-liners that land harder than expected. The stories stack, overlapping, building momentum. Thame relaxes inch by inch, though he never fully lets go. He jokes when prompted, teases back when they aim it at him.

“Careful,” Nano says at one point, eyeing Po. “You keep smiling like that, Thame’s gonna think he’s doing a good job.”

Po glances at Thame, eyes warm. “He is.”

The words are simple. They hit like a punch. Thame looks away before anyone can see his reaction.

Dinner stretches. Plates empty. Containers pile up. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it softens, receding into the corners where it can be watched without being felt constantly.

At some point, Po leans back against Thame’s shoulder without thinking. Thame stills. Doesn’t move. Just lets it happen.

Po sighs quietly, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion creeping back in now that the adrenaline has worn off. Thame shifts just enough to support him better, careful not to jostle.

Jun’s tired eyes clock it immediately but says nothing. Good man. The jokes taper off naturally. The energy settles into something quieter. Safer.

For now. Thame rests his chin lightly against Po’s hair and closes his eyes for just a second.

Po doesn’t ask right away.

He waits until the laughter thins and the room settles into that post-dinner quiet where everyone is doing small, practical things: Sarin stacking containers, Pepper hunting for napkins, Nano pretending he isn’t wiping sauce off Jun’s tshirt sleeve. Dylan has his phone in his hand again, attention split between the room and whatever invisible thread he’s pulling at.

Thame notices because he notices everything about Po now. The way Po’s fingers keep circling the rim of his cup. The way his gaze keeps flicking toward Dylan’s screen, then away. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to ask.

Thame keeps his voice gentle when he nudges, “You okay?”

Po nods quickly. “Yeah. I just…”

He hesitates, then looks up, eyes careful. “What’s… TIA?”

The air changes.

Not dramatically. No one jumps. No one reaches for a weapon. But every single person in the room reacts in sync in that way trained people do when a keyword hits a nerve. Pepper’s posture goes a fraction straighter. Sarin’s hands still for half a second. Nano’s expression empties into something neutral. Jun’s eyes move instantly to Thame. Dylan’s thumb stops mid-scroll.

Thame feels Po register it instantly. His shoulders tense. His mouth closes like he’s already regretting asking. Thame hates that.

“It’s okay,” he says immediately, steady and low. “You’re allowed to ask.”

Po swallows. “You all… reacted.”

“Because it matters,” Thame replies. He shifts slightly closer, not crowding, just… there. “TIIA or Thai Internal Intelligence Agency is where we work.”

Po blinks. “Work?”

Pepper gives a short, humorless laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

Sarin shoots Pepper a look. “Pep.”

“What?” He asked.

Thame keeps his tone calm. He doesn’t want Po to feel like this is a trapdoor opening under him.

“Its is an intelligence agency,” Thame says. “We do protection, extraction, counterintelligence. Sometimes prevention. Sometimes cleanup.”

Po’s eyes widen a little, but he doesn’t look scared so much as… trying to reorder the world. Thame recognizes that look. Po has been doing it since he came out of the lab. Taking new truths and fitting them into a brain that is already overloaded.

Thame softens his voice. “We’re trained to move quietly. To take people out of places they shouldn’t be. To protect assets. To stop threats before they become public problems.”

Po’s gaze drops. “Assets.”

Thame regrets the word immediately. He reaches out, careful, and touches Po’s wrist lightly. “Not you,” he says firmly. “Not here. Not with us. I’m just explaining terminology.”

Po nods once, but the tension doesn’t fully leave his shoulders.

Dylan finally speaks, eyes still on his phone. “He’s asking because of the way you all reacted,” he says, almost to the room. Then to Po, gentler – “TIIA is a big machine, Po. If your father… I mean if Siritida has connections inside it or influence… that changes what’s coming.”

Po’s lips part. “My… father.”

The word lands awkwardly in his mouth. Like it still doesn’t belong to him.

Thame watches him closely. “You don’t have to process that part right now,” he says. “Just know this – mentioning TIIA means we’re dealing with something organized. Not random. Not one lab team freelancing.”

Po nods slowly, eyes distant. “So they can… find you.”

“They can try,” Jun says, his eyes glancing to Dylan, and there’s steel under the casualness now. Dylan’s hand tighten over his device.

Po’s attention catches on Dylan’s hands, grateful for something concrete. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to extract information,” Dylan says. He speaks like he’s choosing every word carefully, like he doesn’t want to scare Po but he also refuses to lie. “We’re poking the system without letting the system notice it’s being poked.”

Po frowns. “How?”

Dylan’s mouth quirks. “That’s classified.”

Po’s eyes widen, then he looks embarrassed, like he’s worried he asked too much again. “Sorry.”

“Dylan,” Thame says coldly.

Dylan’s expression softens. “I am sorry. The simple version is – I’m checking for activity. Any alerts. Any internal chatter. Any resources moving that shouldn’t be moving.”

Nano adds, “And he’s doing it in the slowest, most annoying way possible.”

Dylan doesn’t look up. “Because if I do it fast, it lights up like a festival.”

Po’s gaze widens. “They’ll know where you are?”

“Not exactly,” Dylan says. “But they’ll know someone is looking. And if they know someone is looking, they start looking back. That’s when people start making connections. Patterns. Locations.”

Thame watches Po take that in. Po’s fingers tighten around his cup. “So you can’t… just hack it.”

Pepper laughs once. “Listen to him, making it sound like a movie.”

Sarin nudges Pepper with his shoulder. “He’s learning.”

Thame keeps his eyes on Po. “Dylan’s right,” he says. “We have to be covert. No big signals. No obvious inquiries. We can’t announce ourselves.”

Po nods slowly. “Because they’ll come.”

Thame feels something cold settle in his stomach. Yes. They will. He doesn’t say it like that. He refuses to paint a picture that will keep Po awake all night. But he also won’t let Po drift into false safety.

“We don’t know exactly who is moving yet,” Thame says. “But we know someone will. Your extraction was clean, but it wasn’t invisible. People saw LYKN.”

Po’s cheeks flush faintly, guilt flickering. “So it is my fault.”

“No,” Thame says immediately, voice firm enough that the whole room stills. “Stop.”

Po looks up, startled.

Thame holds his gaze. “They put you in that lab. They did what they did. The consequence is on them.”

Po swallows. His eyes shine slightly, but he blinks it back fast, demure even in emotion, like he’s trying not to take up space with it.

Thame keeps going, gentler now. “The reason we reacted to TIIA is because it tells us the scale. It tells us how careful we need to be.”

Sarin folds his arms. “We’re safe here for the moment,” he says. “But we’re not assuming we’ll stay safe.”

Po’s voice goes quiet. “So what happens now?”

Thame looks around the room then turns back to Po. “Now we prepare.”

Po’s brows draw together. “Prepare for what?”

Thame answers honestly. “To defend. Or to attack.”

The words sit heavy in the room. Po’s breath catches slightly. He looks like he wants to ask what that means, but the question is too big, too many edges.

Thame doesn’t rush him. He breaks it down.

“Defend,” he says, “means we harden our position. We don’t assume we’ll be left alone. We set layers. Exit routes. Alarms. Cover stories. We keep you out of sight if anyone shows up.”

Po nods, slow.

“And attack,” Thame continues, “means we don’t wait. We move first. We find where they’re operating from, who’s making calls, and we cut the line before it reaches us.”

Po’s eyes widen a fraction. “That sounds… dangerous.”

“It is,” Nano says bluntly.

Sarin shoots Nano a look. “But controlled.”

Pepper adds, “And we’re good at it.”

Jun finishes – “The best of the best.”

Thame watches Po’s throat bob as he swallows. “So you might… go after them.”

Thame keeps his voice steady. “If we have a target worth going after.”

Dylan finally looks up. “Right now,” he says, “we don’t. We have suspicion and smoke. Not fire.”

Po’s shoulders tense again. “So we wait.”

Thame hates the word wait. Waiting is how people get taken.

“We don’t wait passively,” Thame corrects. “We stay ready. We keep moving if we need to. We don’t let them set the pace.”

Po glances down at his hands. “I don’t want anyone hurt because of me.”

Thame feels his chest tighten. That instinct in Po, to minimize himself, to make his existence smaller so it can’t cause damage. It makes sense after a lab. It also makes Thame want to break something.

He leans in slightly, voice low, meant only for Po. “Listen to me. You being here doesn’t endanger us.”

Po looks up, uncertain. Thame’s gaze doesn’t waver. “We chose this. We came for you. If danger comes, it’s because they’re dangerous. Not because you exist.”

Po’s lips part, then close again. He nods once, the smallest acceptance.

Jun, sensing the heaviness, tries to lighten the edge without undermining it. “Also,” he says, pointing at Thame, “this guy has been itching for a reason to go feral over you all day.”

Thame doesn’t even look at him. “Jun.”

“Whaat?” Jun says innocently. “I’m reassuring Po. We’ve got an overprotective wall with legs.”

Nano snorts. “A wall with attachment issues.”

Po’s cheeks pink again, but this time there’s a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. Demure, like he’s trying not to show it.

Thame feels relief crack through the tension.

Sarin speaks up, calm and grounding. “Tonight, the priority is you resting. We’re not making major moves with you exhausted – with you all exhausted."

Po’s eyes flick to Thame. Thame understands the unspoken question – Will you make me sleep? Will you leave me alone?

Thame softens. “We’ll keep watch,” he says. “You won’t be alone.”

Po’s shoulders loosen. Just a fraction. Po nods, swallowing. “What do I do? How can I help you all?”

Thame’s answer is immediate. “You stay with me.”

Po’s eyes lift. Thame keeps his voice steady, mature, absolute. “You follow my lead. If I say move, you move. If I say down, you go down. You don’t worry about anything else. That’s my job.”

Po’s lips part, and for a second he looks like he might argue, like he might try to take responsibility again.

Then he nods, demure and quiet. “Okay.”

Thame exhales slowly, relieved and terrified all at once.

He glances around the room. His team is ready. He can see it in the angles of their bodies, the quiet efficiency of their hands. They’re joking less now, but the warmth is still there beneath the steel.

They will protect Po.

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

Po notices the silence first.

Not the kind that presses in like the lab did, buzzing and artificial and wrong. This silence is wide. It stretches past the walls, past the darkened windows, into fields he can’t see but somehow knows are there. The farmhouse creaks softly as it settles, wood responding to the cooling night air like a living thing breathing out.

Someone has turned off most of the lights.

Only one lamp is left on in the main room, its glow low and warm, throwing long shadows across the old floorboards. The others have spread out instinctively, some taking watch positions by windows, others disappearing into the smaller rooms, Jun resting in one of them, now heavily under the pain meds. Footsteps fade. Voices drop to murmurs.

The night wraps around them.

Po is on the mattress they’ve set up near the center of the farmhouse, far from the windows, close enough to multiple exits that Thame approved it without hesitation. The scent of hay and old wood lingers faintly in the air, mixed with detergent and the ghost of whatever meal was cooked here long before tonight.

It feels… unreal. Safe doesn’t feel like the right word. But hidden does.

Thame lies beside him, close but not crowding, one arm already around Po like it belongs there. Po turns onto his side without thinking, tucking himself against Thame’s chest. The contact steadies him instantly, like his body has learned this shape fast and doesn’t want to let it go.

The small house hums quietly around them. Crickets outside. Wind moving through something tall and dry. A branch tapping against the side of the building at irregular intervals.

Po should be exhausted. He is exhausted. But his mind refuses to shut off. TIIA. His father. Mond. Attack or defend.

The words circle endlessly, bumping into memories that still feel too sharp to touch directly. His chest tightens again, breath turning shallow without him meaning it to.

Thame notices. He always does.

“You still with me, Po?” Thame murmurs, voice barely louder than the night.

Po nods against his chest, then realizes Thame can’t see it. “Yeah,” he whispers. Then, after a pause, “I think my mind doesn’t know we stopped running.”

Thame exhales slowly, a sound Po feels vibrate through him. Thame’s hand moves in small, steady strokes along Po’s back. Not rhythmic. Not forced. Just there.

“That makes sense,” Thame says quietly. “We don’t have to force sleep.”

Po relaxes into the reassurance, but the restless energy doesn’t leave. His fingers curl into Thame’s shirt, gripping lightly, then loosening, then gripping again. His heart still feels like it’s beating too fast for a room this quiet.

Outside, an owl calls. The sound makes Po flinch before he can stop himself. Thame’s arm tightens immediately. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Just wildlife.”

Po swallows, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

Thame shifts just enough to look down at him, even in the dim light. “Don’t apologize for being alert,”

Something warm spreads through Po’s chest at that. He nods and presses his forehead into Thame’s collarbone, breathing in the scent of soap and clean fabric and something uniquely Thame underneath it all.

The quiet stretches again. Po tries to let himself sink into it. He can’t.

“Thame,” he whispers.

“Mhm.”

“I need to calm down more.”

The words feel vulnerable the moment they leave his mouth. Like he’s admitting to something he should be able to handle on his own. His cheeks warm even in the dark.

Thame doesn’t respond right away. Po feels the pause, the way Thame goes still in that deliberate, thoughtful way that means he’s already understood more than Po said out loud.

Thame knows. Po knows he knows. The request isn’t just about calming down. It’s about closeness. About grounding. About wanting to feel something here and now that doesn’t belong to the past or the future.

Thame’s thumb traces once along Po’s spine, slow and telling.

“You mean like earlier,” Thame says softly.

Po nods, then whispers, “Yeah.”

Thame tilts his head, studying him in the low light. His expression is gentle, but there’s an awareness there too, something warm and dangerous held carefully behind restraint.

Thame sees through it completely. And Po can tell Thame wants it anyway.

“Okay,” Thame says.

Just one word.

Po’s breath leaves him in a shaky rush he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Relief floods his chest so fast it almost hurts. He shifts up slightly, giving Thame space to pull back if he wants to change his mind.

Thame doesn’t.

He cups Po’s face in both hands, palms warm against his cheeks, thumbs brushing gently under his eyes like he’s still wiping away tears that aren’t there anymore. The touch alone sends a shiver through Po, something uncoiling deep in his chest.

Thame leans in slowly. Po meets him halfway.

The kiss is unhurried, deliberate, nothing like the frantic closeness of the bathroom earlier. This one feels anchored, weighted. Thame’s mouth moves against his with careful pressure, enough to make Po’s breath hitch, enough to make the farmhouse fall away.

Po sighs into it, the sound quiet but helpless. His fingers slide into Thame’s hair, tentative at first, then firmer when Thame makes a low sound in his throat and pulls him closer. Heat blooms, steady and grounding rather than overwhelming. Po feels his thoughts finally start to blur, edges softening, fear losing its grip.

The lab fades. The tanks fade. Mond’s face slips out of focus. There is only this. Thame’s hand firm at his waist. The solid line of Thame’s chest beneath him. The night breathing around the farmhouse like a watchful presence.

The kiss deepens just enough to make Po’s heart race again, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s want. It’s closeness. It’s the reassurance of being chosen, here, now.

Thame is holding back. Po can feel it in the way Thame’s hands stay controlled, in the way he breaks the kiss just before it tips too far, resting their foreheads together instead. Po stays close, breath uneven, but the storm inside him has finally quieted.

“Better?” Thame murmurs.

Po nods, shy again now that the urgency has ebbed. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

Thame lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “You don’t have to thank me for wanting you calm.”

Po smiles faintly at that and nestles back against Thame’s chest, letting himself be gathered in fully. Thame’s arms wrap around him, secure and protective, like the farmhouse itself has shrunk down to just this space between them.

The night settles. The wind moves through the fields. The old building creaks softly. Somewhere in the distance, something small scurries through grass.

Po listens to Thame’s heartbeat, steady and real beneath his ear. Slowly, his own begins to match it.

Sleep comes quietly this time. Not all at once, but gently, like the night finally deciding he’s allowed to rest. Wrapped in Thame’s arms, hidden in the middle of nowhere, Po lets himself drift.

For the first time since the lab, the dark doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like cover.

And that is enough.

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

Thame wakes up before the sound does.

It’s instinct more than anything else. The shift in air. The subtle change in the farmhouse’s rhythm. The way the quiet sharpens instead of softens.

Po is still tucked against him, warm and heavy with sleep, breath slow and even where his forehead rests against Thame’s chest. One of Po’s hands is curled into Thame’s shirt like he forgot to let go sometime in the night.

Thame doesn’t move.

He counts Po’s breaths. One. Two. Three.

Morning light seeps in through the cracks around the shutters, pale and hesitant, painting the room in soft gold and shadow. Outside, birds are already awake, the fields murmuring with life that doesn’t know or care what nearly took Po apart.

For one perfect, suspended second, Thame lets himself imagine this is all there is. Then Dylan clears his throat.

“Thame.”

Thame’s eyes open fully.

Dylan is standing a few feet away, posture tight, phone in one hand, radio unit in the other. He hasn’t raised his voice. He doesn’t need to. Something’s wrong.

Thame carefully shifts his arm so Po doesn’t wake immediately. He slides out from under him with practiced slowness, easing Po down onto the mattress and pulling the blanket back up around his shoulders. Po stirs anyway, brow creasing faintly, fingers tightening slightly.

“Mm…?” he murmurs, half-asleep.

Thame brushes his knuckles once over Po’s cheek. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

Po exhales and relaxes again, fingers loosening. Thame straightens and steps away, keeping his movements quiet. Dylan waits until they’re near the far end of the room, closer to the window where the others can’t overhear without trying.

“What?” Thame asks softly.

Dylan doesn’t answer right away. He holds out the radio instead. “I intercepted a broadcast,” he says. “Low-band. Old tech. Not tied to any civilian channel I recognize.”

Thame’s jaw tightens. “Targeted?”

Dylan nods. “Yeah.”

Thame glances instinctively back at Po, still asleep, blissfully unaware. “You’re sure it’s for us?”

Dylan’s expression is grim. “I’m sure.”

He taps the device, and a distorted burst of sound crackles through the speaker. It’s layered, half-coded, threaded through static like someone didn’t want it to be clean. Dylan plays it again, then again, isolating frequencies, filtering noise. Then he translates.

“Po in danger,” Dylan says quietly. “Medicine is unstable. Meet now.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest. Thame feels his pulse spike, heat flooding his veins. “Medicine?” he repeats.

Dylan nods. “That’s what caught my attention. It’s not language TIIA would use. It’s… personal.”

Thame doesn’t need to be told who that points to. Mond. Another burst of static cuts in. Dylan swipes, decoding again. An address flashes onto the screen. Rural. Not far. Close enough to be intentional.

“Jesus,” Pepper mutters from behind them. He must have woken up too. Sarin is already standing now, eyes sharp, fully alert.

Nano rubs his face, jaw set. “That’s bait.”

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees. “Clean, desperate bait.”

Thame doesn’t argue. He’s already running scenarios in his head, mapping approach vectors, exit routes, angles of sight. The address burns itself into his memory like a threat. He turns just as Po sits up.

Po’s hair is rumpled from sleep, eyes still hazy, so fucking pretty. He blinks at the room, at the tension crackling through it like static.

“What’s going on?” Po asks quietly.

Thame crosses the room in three strides.

“Hey,” he says gently, crouching in front of him. “We got a message.”

Po’s expression sharpens instantly. Sleep evaporates, replaced by alertness that makes Thame’s chest ache. “A message from who?”

Dylan answers before Thame can soften it. “We think Mond.”

Po’s breath catches. Thame watches it happen in real time. The way Po’s shoulders tense. The way his hands curl into the blanket like it might slip away from him otherwise.

“What did it say?” Po asks.

Thame hesitates for half a second. Then he tells him the truth.

“Po in danger,” Thame says quietly. “Medicine unstable. Meet now.”

Po goes very still.

“Medicine,” Po repeats softly, like he’s testing the word.

“Yes,” Dylan says. “And then an address.”

Po looks up at Thame, eyes searching. “He’s sick,” he says.

Thame doesn’t answer immediately.

Pepper scoffs. “Or he wants you to think he is.”

Po’s gaze flicks to him, sharp. “Mond wouldn’t lie about that.”

Nano folds his arms. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Po snaps, then immediately reins himself in. He exhales, rubbing at his temple. “ I – I know him.”

Thame watches the conflict tear across Po’s face. The lab-trained instinct to doubt everything at war with something deeper, older, harder to erase. Brother.

Po swings his legs off the mattress and stands. “I have to go,” he says.

The room erupts.

“No,” Pepper says immediately.

“Absolutely not,” Sarin adds.

Nano shakes his head. “That’s a trap.”

Thame stays quiet. Po looks at him. Always him. “I have to,” Po repeats, softer now. “He’s my brother.” Thame feels something crack inside his chest.

“You don’t owe him your life,” Pepper says sharply.

Po’s voice doesn’t rise. “I’m not saying I do.”

“Then what are you saying?” Sarin asks.

Po swallows. “I’m saying this is how we get answers.”

Thame finally speaks. “Or how they take you.”

Po turns to him fully now, eyes earnest, demure but unyielding. “Or how we stop running.”

The words hit harder than any shout could.

“He knows something,” Po continues. “About the lab. About my father. About me. And about himself. You all said we need information.”

“Yes,” Dylan says carefully. “But not like this.”

Po shakes his head. “This is the only way he’ll talk.”

Thame stands slowly, every muscle in his body screaming no. Silence falls. Thame searches Po’s face for fear, for doubt, for hesitation he can latch onto and use as an excuse to shut this down.

He finds none. Only resolve. Quiet. Terrifying.

“Okay,” Thame says slowly, “BUT you do it with us.”

Po nods. “I know.”

Pepper opens his mouth. Thame lifts a hand. “No,” Thame says. “Enough.”

Everyone looks at him.

Thame turns back to Po. “You are not going alone. You do not step into anything without cover. You do not agree to anything without us hearing it. And if I say we leave – ”

“I leave,” Po finishes.

Thame studies him for a long moment.

“Promise,” Thame says.

Po hesitates. Just a beat. Then he nods. “I promise.”

Thame exhales through his nose, tension coiling tight but controlled.

“Then we do this right,” Thame says, turning to the team. “We scout. We layer surveillance. We assume the message is compromised. And we prepare for extraction.”

“And if Mond doesn’t show up alone?” Dylan asks.

Thame doesn’t hesitate. “We fight.”

Po watches him say it, eyes bright with something complicated. Gratitude. Fear. Trust. Thame looks back at Po and softens his voice.

“You wanted answers,” Thame says. “This is the price.”

Po nods once. “I’m ready.”

Thame isn’t sure anyone ever really is. But he reaches out, squeezes Po’s hand once, grounding, real.

Then he turns back to the farmhouse, to the morning light, to the road waiting beyond the fields.

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

Thame doesn’t raise his voice. He never does when it matters.

“Okay – prep,” he repeats, quieter this time, and the word lands heavier than before.

LYKN shifts as one. Not rushed. Not frantic. Purposeful.

The farmhouse transforms subtly around them. What looked like a safe, sleepy hideout moments ago becomes something layered and intentional. Nano moves first, slipping outside without a word, his presence vanishing into the fields like he was never there to begin with. Pepper drifts toward the far window, posture casual, eyes anything but. Dylan spreads his gear across the old dining table, cables and screens laid out with careful economy. Jun, being heavily medicated, is blissfully sleeping and out of this plan.

Po stays still. Thame notices that too. Not frozen. Not panicking. Just watching. Taking it in. Learning the shape of what he’s stepped into.

Thame crosses the room and stops close enough that Po can feel him without being crowded. “We’re not rushing this,” he says quietly. “That’s important.”

Po nods. “Okay.”

“That’s the layout,” Thame says quietly, standing over Dylan’s shoulder as the feeds stabilize. “Now we decide how we move inside it.”

The café fills the main screen. Morning light slants through wide front windows, illuminating empty tables and a counter wiped too clean. The place looks harmless in that way that makes Thame distrust it immediately. A bell hangs over the door. Cheap. Loud. Impossible to silence without touching it.

Noted.

Sarin’s camera angle is steady, unremarkable, exactly how he wants it. He’s seated near the back, coffee untouched, posture loose enough to pass but rigid enough to spring.

“One staff,” Sarin murmurs through comms. “Late twenties. No visible earpiece. No unusual behavior.”

“Background?” Dylan asks.

“Clean,” Sarin replies. “At least on the surface. Hands steady. No signs of stress.”

Pepper clicks his tongue softly. “Mond’s not sloppy. He won’t burn a civilian unless he has to.”

Thame files that away. Nano checks in again from outside. “Perimeter still quiet. Two possible approach routes. No parked vehicles with engines warm.”

“Good,” Thame says. “Keep drifting.”

He steps back from the screens and turns to Po. Po has been quiet through all of it.

Not withdrawn. Not frozen. Just absorbing. His posture is straight, hands folded loosely in front of him like he’s containing himself through sheer politeness. His eyes track the screens, the doorways, the spaces where people might appear.

Thame recognizes the look. Po isn’t waiting to be told what to do. He’s preparing himself to walk into something that belongs to him.

“Po,” Thame says, keeping his voice low. “Before we move, I need you clear on something.”

Po looks at him immediately. “Okay.”

“If Mond is there,” Thame continues, “you do not approach him until I say so. You don’t close distance. You don’t touch. You don’t agree to anything.”

Po nods. “I know.”

“And if he asks you to come somewhere else?”

Po hesitates. Just a flicker. Then, “I say no.”

Thame studies him. “Even if he’s sick.”

Po’s throat works. “Even then.”

Good. Thame exhales once, controlled. “If anything feels wrong, you step back toward me. No hesitation.”

Po’s mouth curves faintly. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

Thame allows himself a brief, humorless huff. “I do.”

He turns back to the team. “We’re shifting to phase two.”

Pepper straightens. “Positions?”

“Yes.”

“Copy,” Pepper says. He slides his sunglasses on and drifts toward the door, already becoming someone else. A passerby. A bored local. Nothing worth remembering.

Nano’s voice comes through again. “I’ll take the other side’s coverage.”

“South is yours,” Thame replies. “No heroics.”

Nano snorts softly. “You wound me.”

Dylan taps his screen, pulling up a new overlay. “I’ll stay mobile. Feeds routed through three layers. If anything spikes, I’ll know.”

Sarin’s voice remains steady. “I’m staying inside. Ill join Dylan once you get here.”

Thame nods. “Understood.”

The farmhouse feels smaller now, like it’s already letting go of them. Thame reaches for his jacket. Then stops. He looks at Po again.

“You ready?” he asks, not because he doubts him, but because the question matters.

Po inhales slowly, then nods. “Yes.”

Not bravado. Not fear. Just truth. They move.

The drive is quiet.

Thame takes a route that curves wide and indirect, avoiding the most obvious approach. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting close enough to Po that he can feel him without touching. Po watches the passing fields, eyes tracking fence lines and tree breaks like he’s unconsciously mapping cover.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to. As the café comes into view, Thame slows.

Pepper’s voice murmurs in his earpiece. “I’m in position.” Nano follows. “Perimeter set. No movement.” Dylan – “Feeds clean. No spikes.” Sarin – “Subject inside – no one else.”

Thame pulls into the gravel lot. The crunch of tires sounds too loud. He kills the engine and turns to Po. “Remember,” he says quietly. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”

Po meets his gaze. “I know.”

But there’s something else in Po’s eyes too. Resolve. History. A line that only he and Mond share. Thame nods once. That’s all he can do.

They get out. The air smells like dust and old coffee and sun-warmed asphalt. Somewhere nearby, an insect buzzes lazily. The café looks even smaller up close. Almost fragile. Pepper crosses the lot at a distance, pretending to check his phone. Nano’s presence is invisible, but Thame feels it like pressure at his back.

Thame reaches the door first. He pauses, hand hovering near the handle, letting one last sweep of instinct roll through him. Nothing explodes. Nothing screams.

The bell rings as he opens the door anyway. The sound is sharp. Intrusive. Sarin doesn’t look, but gets up from his chair, gives an acknowledgement nod to the barista and leaves. The staff member offers a polite, neutral smile. Thame steps in first, scanning reflexively. Then he steps aside just enough to let Po enter beside him.

Inside, Mond is already there.

Not hidden. Not looming. Seated near the back, exactly where the sightlines converge, where he can see the door, the windows, the counter, and anyone who walks in. A mug sits untouched in front of him. His posture is relaxed in a way that feels rehearsed. Waiting.

The door swings shut behind them. Outside, LYKN scatters fully into shadow. Inside, the café holds its breath. And Thame feels the moment lock into place, every instinct screaming the same thing – whatever happens next will not stay contained. But he keeps his posture relaxed. His presence calm.

For Po. And for what might be coming.

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

The café feels too quiet once they sit.

Po can hear the hum of the refrigerator behind the counter, the faint scrape of ceramic as the barista wipes a mug. Mundane sounds, layered over something that feels anything but. Thame takes the seat one table over, angled so he can see Po’s profile and Mond’s hands at the same time. Close. Watching. Ready.

Mond doesn’t touch his coffee. He keeps his hands flat on the table instead, like he’s making a point of not hiding them.

“No one knows I’m here,” Mond says calmly. “This meeting doesn’t exist on paper.”

Po nods once. His heart is already pounding, but he stays quiet.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Mond continues. “Because I need you to understand something before anything else happens – and to warn you.”

Po’s fingers curl into each other under the table. “Understand what – that you didn’t abandon me?”

Mond’s jaw tightens. Just slightly. “Yes,” he says. “That.”

Po’s throat burns.

“And to warn you – because I don’t have any power,” Mond says. “Not then. Not ever. And I need you to know where that started.”

He pauses, eyes drifting briefly toward the window, toward the empty road beyond it.

“I left the orphanage as soon as I could,” Mond says. “I was old enough to work. Old enough to disappear into the city and not be noticed. I wanted to earn enough – to make something of myself so that I could come back and take you with me.”

Po listens, the words hitting somewhere deep and tender. “I went to Bangkok,” Mond continues. “Took whatever jobs I could. Construction. Delivery. Night shifts. Anything that paid cash and didn’t ask questions.”

Po swallows. He can picture it too easily. The city swallowing people whole.

“That’s where I met Amphon,” Mond says. “He was older. Smarter. Angry in a way that looked like purpose if you didn’t stare at it too long.”

Po nods slowly.

“Amphon had already been involved with someone,” Mond says. “A scientist. Brilliant. Obsessive. Completely unmoored from reality.”

Mond’s voice doesn’t sharpen. It flattens instead. “At first, Amphon thought it was theoretical work. Models. Papers. Simulations. He didn’t realize it had crossed into… practice.”

Po’s stomach tightens.

“He found out the truth by accident,” Mond says. “One night. He went back to the lab because he forgot something.”

Mond’s fingers curl once against the tabletop.

“That’s when he found the child.”

Po’s breath catches.

“The scientist’s own child,” Mond says quietly. “Drugged. Wired. Used as proof of concept.”

Po feels cold spread through his chest. “Amphon didn’t hesitate,” Mond continues. “He didn’t argue. He didn’t try to negotiate. He took the child and ran.”

Po leans forward without realizing it. “He got me out?”

“Yes,” Mond says. “That night.”

Po’s pulse roars in his ears.

“The scientist came back to an empty lab,” Mond says. “No child. No data. No partner.”

Mond exhales slowly. “Amphon left the child in a park. Then he disappeared too.”

The words don’t land all at once. They fracture. Po grips the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. His vision blurs, not with tears yet, but with shock.

Silence stretches.

Thame shifts slightly in the background. Po feels his presence like a steady pressure between his shoulder blades, grounding him without intruding.

“What happened next?” Po asks.

Mond looks away again.

“Amphon was broke,” he says. “Hiding isn’t free. And he was desperate. He convinced himself that if he could prove the work had merit, someone would listen. Someone better.”

Po’s stomach twists. “So he recruited me and oe of my roommates Thup and started again,” Mond says. “Not with children. Never with children. But.. animals, Rats. Cats. Whatever they could capture. It was crude. Dangerous. Nothing like what came later.”

Po closes his eyes.

“IRU found us,” Mond continues. “A wing of TIIA. They said they were tracking weird medical ordering history. They shut it down in a night.”

Po opens his eyes. “They arrested you.”

“All three of us,” Mond says. “And then they reviewed everything. And in our data, they saw potential – enough to make a decision.”

He looks back at Po, eyes dark now. “They killed Amphon and Thup,” Mond says. “In custody. Quietly. To remove variables.”

Po’s breath shudders.

“And kept you,” Po whispers.

Mond nods once. “Because I knew enough. And because I didn’t have leverage.”

Po swallows hard.

“I never chose what came after,” Mond says. “I never controlled it. I was used to continue something I wanted buried.”

Po’s chest tightens painfully.

“So when you think I abandoned you,” Mond says softly, “what you’re really seeing is a man who arrived too late, with no power, and spent years trying not to break completely.”

Po presses a hand to his mouth.

“I needed you to hear this from me,” Mond says. “Before anyone else rewrites it.”

Po looks at him, tears finally spilling over. He nods slowly, grief and understanding tangling painfully together.

Behind him, Thame stands. Not moving closer. Not pulling Po away. Just there, a solid line of choice and present safety.

Po wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and looks back at Mond.

“Thank you,” he says, voice shaking but sincere. “For telling me the truth.”

Mond exhales, something like relief loosening his shoulders. Po doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until Mond reaches across the table. Not to touch him. Just close enough that Po can see the tension in Mond’s fingers, the way they curl and uncurl like his body is fighting something it doesn’t want to show.

“There’s more,” Mond says.

The words land heavy. Final.

Po draws a slow breath, forcing his hands to still by threading his fingers together in his lap. He nods once. “Okay.”

Mond glances past him, just briefly, toward where Thame stands a few steps away. Thame hasn’t moved since Mond finished speaking earlier. He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, posture loose in a way that is absolutely not relaxed. His attention is a blade, sharp and unwavering.

Mond looks back at Po. “I have been given a deadline… of twenty-four hours”

The café seems to shrink around them. Po can hear the hum of the refrigerator again, louder now, insistent. The barista is in the back, out of sight. For a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just this table, this conversation, this choice waiting to be made.

“To do what?” Po asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“To bring you back in.”

The words echo in his head, cold and familiar. Before Po can respond, Thame moves.

“No,” Thame says flatly.

The sound of his voice slices cleanly through the space, sharp enough that Po flinches. Thame takes a step closer to the table, his restraint cracking just enough to show what’s underneath.

“That’s not happening,” Thame continues. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

Mond’s jaw tightens. “This doesn’t concern you,” he snaps, finally letting anger bleed into his voice. “This is between us brothers.”

Po turns quickly. “Thame – ”

Thame doesn’t look at him. His eyes are locked on Mond. “You don’t get to ask him to walk back into a cage so you can save yourself.”

Mond’s hand slams down on the table. The sound is loud enough that Po jolts.

“You think I want this?” Mond growls. “You think I woke up one day and decided to trade my brother’s life for my own?”

Thame steps forward again, fury barely leashed. “Then don’t.”

“Easy for you to say,” Mond shoots back. “You’re not the one whose body is tearing itself apart from the inside.”

Po feels the temperature in the room spike, tension coiling tight and volatile. He stands abruptly, chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Stop,” Po says.

Both of them freeze.

Po swallows, heart racing, and steps between them without thinking. He’s acutely aware of Thame’s presence behind him, solid and protective, and Mond in front of him, raw and shaking with something that looks dangerously close to desperation.

“Please,” Po says, voice steady only because he forces it to be. “Both of you.”

Thame’s eyes flick to him instantly. The anger in them softens, replaced by worry. “Po – ”

“I know,” Po says gently, lifting a hand without turning around. “I know.”

He faces Mond again. “You asked me to come here so you could explain,” Po says. “So explain. Don’t fight.”

Mond exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. He looks suddenly exhausted, like the anger burned through the last of his composure and left nothing but truth behind.

“They told me I’m unstable,” Mond says. “That the adaptations are degrading faster than predicted. My body’s rejecting the power.”

Po’s chest tightens. He remembers the veins. Black and blue, pulsing beneath Mond’s skin like something alive and wrong.

“They tried suppressants,” Mond continues. “They tried stabilizers. Temporary fixes. None of them last.”

Thame’s voice cuts in, cold. “So you want him to finish the experiment.”

Mond whirls on him. “I want to survive.”

“And the cost?” Thame demands.

Mond turns back to Po, eyes burning. “You are the cost.”

The words knock the air out of Po’s lungs. Not because they’re cruel. Because they’re honest.

Po closes his eyes briefly, grounding himself, then opens them again. “You said the experiment,” he says slowly. “On me. If it’s successful… you’ll be saved.”

Mond nods once. “Yes.”

Saved. The word feels wrong in Po’s mouth.

“How?” Po asks. “Explain it to me.”

Mond hesitates, then straightens, like he’s bracing himself.

“You’re different,” Mond says. “You always were. Your body didn’t just adapt. It integrated. Where others destabilize, you stabilize the system.”

Po listens, heart pounding.

“The final phase,” Mond continues, “was meant to map that integration fully. To isolate what allows your body to accept the changes without rejection.”

Po’s stomach twists. “And then what?”

“Then they can replicate it,” Mond says quietly. “Or reverse it. Apply it to others.”

“Apply it to you,” Po says.

Mond’s mouth tightens. “Yes.”

Thame steps forward again. “And what happens to Po during this ‘final phase’?”

Mond doesn’t answer immediately. Po’s pulse roars in his ears.

“Say it,” Po says softly.

Mond meets his gaze. “They’ll put you back under observation. Under controlled conditions. They’ll push your system to its limits.”

The café blurs around the edges. “And when they get what they need?” Po asks.

“They’ll let you go,” Mond says, but there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes that makes Po’s chest ache.

Thame laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You expect us to believe that?”

Mond snaps back, “You think I don’t know what they are? You think I don’t know what they’ve done?”

“Then why are you asking this of him?” Thame demands.

Mond’s voice breaks. Just slightly. “Because I’m running out of time.”

Silence crashes down between them. Po feels like he’s standing at the center of it, the axis everything is turning on.

“Twenty-four hours,” Po repeats quietly.

Mond nods. “If I don’t deliver you, they won’t try to save me anymore. They’ll scrap the project. And me with it.”

Po’s throat tightens. “They’ll kill you.”

Mond shrugs, but his eyes are dark with fear. “Or worse.”

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

Thame feels it shift before Po even speaks.

It’s subtle. A change in the way Po holds himself, the way his shoulders square instead of folding inward. The demure quiet doesn’t disappear, but it firms into something steadier, something with a spine. Thame has learned to recognize that moment. It’s when Po stops absorbing and starts deciding.

Po turns fully toward Mond.

“If you suffered,” Po says quietly, “then so did I.”

The words are calm. Not accusing. Not raised. That somehow makes them land harder. Mond stiffens. Po doesn’t back down.

“I didn’t understand what was happening to me,” Po continues. “ I didn’t have words for it. I just knew that every day hurt, and that no one explained why.”

Thame watches Mond’s jaw tighten.

“You talk about not having power,” Po says. “Neither did I.”

Thame feels something tighten painfully in his chest. He doesn’t interrupt. This is Po’s ground to stand on.

“I’m not dismissing what you went through,” Po says, voice steady even as his hands tremble slightly at his sides. “I believe you when you say you were trapped. I believe you when you say you tried.”

Mond scoffs softly. “Then you should understand why – ”

“But listen to me,” Po says, cutting him off gently but firmly. “I will help you.”

Mond’s head snaps up. Thame’s pulse spikes, ready to step in.

Po takes a breath. “I’ll help you survive this. I’ll help you get free. I’ll help you fix what they did to you.”

Hope flashes across Mond’s face. Then Po finishes the sentence. “But I am not going back.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. Mond stares at him, disbelief curdling into anger. “You don’t get to decide that,” he snaps.

Po doesn’t flinch. “I do.”

“You’re talking like you, like I have options,” Mond says bitterly. “Like this is a negotiation.”

Po nods once. “It is.”

Mond laughs, sharp and ugly. “You think you can just walk into TIIA and tear it all down?”

Po doesn’t answer right away. He glances back at Thame for half a second. Not for permission. For reassurance. Thame meets his eyes and gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Po turns back to Mond. “Not alone,” he says. “With them. With LYKN.”

Mond’s mouth twists. “Of course. Your new protectors.”

“They’re my family,” Po says simply.

Thame feels that word hit him low and hard.

“I’m asking you to come with us,” Po continues. “Not to turn yourself in. Not to crawl back. But to help us break it open. Take down the lab. Expose everything.”

Mond stares at him like he’s lost his mind.

“And then,” Po says, voice quieter now, but no less certain, “when it’s gone, when they can’t hurt anyone else, we figure out how to help you. Together.”

For a moment, Thame almost thinks Mond might listen. Then Mond’s expression sours. “You’re being selfish,” Mond says sharply.

The word echoes in the café.

Po blinks. “Selfish?”

“Yes,” Mond snaps. “You’re choosing your comfort over my life.”

Thame’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

“I protected you,” Mond continues, anger bleeding through his control now. “When you were little. Before you even knew my name. I stood between you and things you don’t remember. I took blows for you.”

Po’s breath catches.

“And now,” Mond says, leaning forward, voice low and dangerous, “you’re telling me you won’t do the one thing that could save me?”

Thame steps forward. “He won’t.” The word comes out cold. Absolute.

Mond’s head whips toward him. “I told you – this doesn’t involve you.”

Thame doesn’t slow. He closes the distance deliberately, positioning himself just slightly in front of Po without touching him. A line drawn in the air.

“It involves me the second you try to guilt him into sacrificing himself,” Thame says.

Mond’s eyes blaze. “You think you understand what it means to protect him?”

“I understand this,” Thame replies evenly. “He is not a resource. He is not a cure. And he is not yours to claim because you suffered first.”

Po reaches out, fingers brushing Thame’s wrist in a quiet plea to stay calm. Thame doesn’t move away.

Mond scoffs. “You’re standing between brothers.”

Thame’s voice drops, lethal in its control. “I’m standing between a man and the person that wants to put him back in the lab that broke him.”

Mond points at Po. “He wouldn’t be alive without me.”

Thame doesn’t hesitate. “He’s alive despite all of you.”

The words hit hard. Po inhales sharply behind him.

Mond’s hands slam onto the table again. “You think I’m asking because I want to? I’m asking because I’m dying.”

“And he almost did,” Thame snaps back. “More than once.”

Silence crashes down. Thame turns slightly, just enough to check Po. Po is pale but steady, eyes bright with unshed tears and something fiercer underneath. Po steps around Thame then, reclaiming his space without pushing him away.

“Phi,” Po says, voice shaking now but unbroken, “if you protected me when I was young, then don’t stop now.”

Mond falters.

“Protect me now,” Po continues. “By not sending me back to the people who hurt us both.”

Mond’s breathing turns uneven.

“I’m not saying I won’t help you,” Po says. “I’m saying I won’t help them.”

Mond looks at him like he’s been struck. Thame feels the moment teeter.

“And if I refuse?” Mond asks quietly.

Po meets his gaze. “Then I’ll still try to help you. But I won’t disappear into a lab for anyone. Not even you.”

Mond leans back slowly, fury and fear warring across his face. Thame shifts closer again, unmistakably possessive now, his presence a solid wall at Po’s back.

“This conversation ends here,” Thame says. “He’s made his choice. You don’t get to bully him into changing it.”

Mond’s eyes flick between them, sharp and assessing. “You really think you can win?” Mond asks.

Thame doesn’t blink. “I think we can burn it down.”

The café hums quietly around them, pretending nothing monumental has just been said. Thame feels it before Mond moves. It’s not the words. Not the threat. Not even the phone. It’s the pattern.

Mond’s posture has been volatile all conversation, anger flaring and receding in uneven waves. But now it settles. His shoulders square. His breathing evens out. The desperation condenses into something colder, cleaner.

Decision. His eyes flick at the cafe workers who disperse as quickly as if evaporated in air. Thame’s instincts slam to attention. He doesn’t look away from Mond. He doesn’t shift his stance. He only lifts his hand slightly, fingers brushing the side of his neck like he’s adjusting his collar.

In reality, he presses his earpiece once. Short. Firm. A distinct pressure pattern. The signal. Stand By.

Mond says, “You’ll regret this,” and it’s almost an afterthought, like the words are catching up to something he’s already done internally.

“I wanted to do this the easy way.”

Thame’s thumb presses the earpiece again. Twice, quick. Once, long. Possible weapon. Mond reaches into his pocket. Thame’s spine tightens, every muscle coiling. His gaze flicks down just long enough to clock the object.

Phone. Not a weapon. Worse. Mond turns the screen outward deliberately, angling it so Po can see before anyone else.

A map. A pulsing dot. Live GPS.

Thame’s jaw tightens so hard it aches. He presses the earpiece again, harder this time. No words. No panic. Just the pattern. Danger. Outside the café, somewhere beyond the glass and dust and morning light, the response comes instantly. “Roger.” That’s all Dylan says. Thame doesn’t hear it so much as feel it. The confirmation settles into his bones, solid and grim.

Mond’s eyes flick toward Thame, sharp and knowing.

“You think you can hide him?” Mond asks softly. “You think running makes you invisible?”

Po takes a half-step forward. “Phi – ”

Thame doesn’t move, but his focus sharpens to a blade’s edge. “You turned it on,” Thame says calmly.

“I had to,” Mond replies. “Because if I leave here without him, I’m dead.”

Po’s breath catches. Mond steps around the table. Thame’s instincts scream. He presses the earpiece again, the last part of the pattern. The one that means CHARLIE.

Outside, glass reflects movement that isn’t there a second later. Mond keeps walking.

“You don’t get it,” Mond says to Po, voice low, intimate, cruel in its certainty. “You’re alone.”

And then Thame’s body locks. It happens in less than a second. No pain. No warning. Just a sudden, brutal absence of control. His muscles seize mid-breath, every joint frozen as if his body has been overwritten. He tries to step forward and nothing answers him. Nothing.

“Thame?” Po whispers.

Thame forces his jaw to move. “Po.”

The word scrapes out, raw and helpless.

Mond stops directly in front of Po now, close enough that Po has to tilt his head back to look at him. Thame can see everything. Po’s pale face. The way his hands tremble at his sides. The faint hitch in his breathing.

And he can do nothing.

“You see?” Mond murmurs. “This is what power looks like.”

Po swallows hard. “You said you wanted to live.”

“I will,” Mond says. “One way or another.”

He lifts his hand. Thame’s vision narrows. The café window explodes into sound. Not breaking glass. Electricity.

A sharp, cracking snap that tears through the air like lightning snapping too close. Mond convulses violently.

His entire body locks, then jerks, his grip tightening over the phone. Before he can even hit the ground, a second charge slams into him from another angle, doubling the impact.

Mond collapses hard, shoulder hitting the table, mug shattering, then crumpling to the floor in a heap of limbs and static.

Po gasps and stumbles backward.

Thame sees Pepper and Dylan for exactly half a heartbeat in the reflection of the window. Crouched. Arms extended. Gone.

No words. No hesitation. The air loosens. Mond groans, body still twitching, consciousness flickering.

The invisible weight snaps.

Thame stumbles forward a half-step as control slams back into his body, blood roaring through limbs that suddenly remember how to move. His foot pins Mond’s wrist with precise pressure. Not crushing. Containing. His hand snatches the phone and kills the GPS with one brutal swipe.

He doesn’t hesitate. He steps in front of Po immediately, body wide, blocking every possible angle. One arm hooks back and pulls Po behind his hip, firm and absolute.

Possessive. Protective. Unapologetic.

Mond lies bound on the floor, chest heaving, eyes dark with fury and defeat.

Thame looks down at him, voice ice-cold. “Try that again,” he says, “and you won’t get a second warning.”

“Po,” he says, low and firm. Not a question.

Po’s hand is still on his arm. His eyes are wide, breath uneven, the aftershock of what almost happened still rippling through him. But when Thame looks at him like that, grounded and absolute, Po nods.

“I’m here,” Po says.

Thame turns, one arm already around Po’s shoulders, not dragging him but guiding him with undeniable intent. He angles his body so Po is shielded from the windows, from the door, from Mond on the floor who is still breathing and still dangerous even bound.

“Move,” Thame says to the room.

They move. The café door swings open hard enough that the bell rings twice, sharp and frantic. Morning light floods in, too bright, too normal. Gravel crunches under boots as they spill outside.

Thame scans instinctively. Road. Tree line. Parking lot. A car is already sliding in. Not screeching. Not reckless. Just fast enough to matter. Sarin is behind the wheel.

Nano is in the passenger seat, window down, eyes already sweeping the horizon like he’s counting invisible threats. The back door swings open before the car even fully stops.

“Now,” Nano says.

Thame doesn’t hesitate. He steers Po straight toward the open door, one hand firm at Po’s upper arm, the other braced at his back. Po stumbles once on the uneven gravel, and Thame tightens his grip instantly, anchoring him.

“I’ve got you,” Thame murmurs.

Po nods, breath hitching. “I know.”

Pepper is already peeling away from the café’s far side, disappearing without a word, drawing any stray attention away from the vehicle. Dylan doesn’t look back as he moves, phone pressed to his ear, eyes sharp.

Thame gets Po into the back seat first, crowding him in with his body, then follows immediately, pulling the door shut with a sharp tug. The locks snap down.

Sarin doesn’t ask if everyone’s in. He hits the gas. The car surges forward, gravel spitting behind them as they shoot back onto the service road. Nano twists in his seat, watching through the rear window, eyes narrowed.

“Vehicle back there,” Nano says calmly. “Parked. Engine off.”

“Copy,” Sarin replies. He takes the next turn without slowing, cutting onto a narrower road that disappears into scrub and trees.

Thame braces one hand against the seat and the other against Po’s knee as the car swerves, keeping him steady. Po grips the edge of the seat, knuckles white.

“You okay?” Thame asks.

Po swallows. “Yeah. I think so.”

But his voice trembles, just a little.

Thame shifts closer, pressing his shoulder into Po’s, a solid point of contact. “Breathe,” he says quietly. “With me.”

Po follows his lead. One breath. Then another. Behind them, the café shrinks in the distance, just another unremarkable building on a forgotten road. But Thame knows better. Mond is still there. And worse, whatever Mond just pinged may not be far behind.

Nano leans forward. “If that GPS signal hit anything, we’ve got maybe minutes before someone starts triangulating.”

“I know,” Sarin says. His hands are steady on the wheel, expression unreadable. “Route two.”

Nano nods. “Route two it is.”

They veer again, the road degrading into something barely paved, then into dirt. Trees close in, branches brushing the sides of the car. The world narrows to movement and speed and calculation.

Thame keeps his eyes on Po. Po’s gaze is fixed out the window, unfocused, like he’s still half in the café, half somewhere else entirely. His hands shake slightly now that the danger has crested and begun to recede.

Thame covers one of them with his own.

Po flinches, then relaxes, fingers curling into Thame’s palm.

“I’m sorry,” Po whispers.

Thame’s jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t know he could – ”

“I know,” Thame says, voice firm but gentle. “And you don’t carry that. Ever.”

Po nods, biting his lip, eyes shining.

Nano glances back briefly, catches the moment, then looks forward again without comment.

The car crests a small rise, then dips sharply. Sarin kills the headlights for a few seconds, letting them roll through shadow, then flicks them back on as they rejoin another road at an angle that makes tracking harder.

“Clear so far,” Nano says.

Thame doesn’t relax.

Not yet.

Dylan’s voice finally cuts through the car’s internal comms, tight but controlled. “Pepper peeled off clean. No tail confirmed yet. But if that signal registered, it won’t be immediate. It’ll be methodical.”

“Which means worse,” Nano mutters.

Thame stares out the windshield, jaw set. “We’ll be gone before they finish thinking.”

Po leans into him slightly, exhausted now that the adrenaline is burning out. Thame adjusts automatically, pulling Po closer without pinning him, letting his head rest against Thame’s shoulder if he wants to.

Po does.

The weight is light. Trusting. It lands in Thame’s chest like a vow. Ahead, the road twists and disappears, folding their tracks into dust and shadow.

Behind them, whatever comes next is already moving.

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

Mond doesn’t come back to himself gently.

He snaps awake into pain, into the taste of metal and dust and burned nerves. His body still hums with aftershock, power misfiring beneath his skin in ugly pulses. The restraints bite into his wrists every time he breathes too deep.

Good. Pain means he’s still alive.

Footsteps approach. Measured. Heavy. Familiar. Mond doesn’t need to look to know who it is. Siritida stops just out of reach, shadow falling across Mond’s face like judgment made flesh.

“You let him slip,” Siritida says calmly.

Mond opens his eyes.

Siritida looks exactly as he always does. Untouched. Immaculate. As if violence bends itself around him out of respect. Mercenaries fan out behind him, rifles low but ready, eyes already cataloging exits, threats, angles.

Again.

“You let him slip,” Siritida repeats, disappointment sharper this time. “After everything I gave you.”

Siritida’s gaze drops to the broken phone, then back to Mond’s face. “You failed to deliver him – again.”

A merc shifts his weight. Siritida lifts one finger. Stillness returns instantly.

“You were told not to improvise,” Siritida says. “You were told to bring Po. Intact.”

Mond’s jaw tightens at the name.

“I did better than that,” Mond says quietly.

Siritida’s eyes sharpen. “Explain.”

Mond tilts his head just enough to look past Siritida, toward the café door, toward the road beyond it. Toward the empty space where Po was.

“I marked them,” Mond says.

Siritida pauses. “Clarify.”

Mond’s lips curve, just slightly. Not a smile. Something colder. “I put a tracker on Thame.”

That gets a reaction. Not from the mercs. From Siritida. His brows draw together a fraction. Interest kindling. “You had time to do that?”

Mond nods once. “When I froze him.”

Understanding clicks into place behind Siritida’s eyes. “Not a device,” Siritida says slowly.

“No,” Mond agrees. “Not something you can peel off.”

He inhales carefully, riding the tremor of power under his skin. “It’s keyed to my output. To his nervous system. I tagged his bioelectric signature.”

Silence. Then Siritida gives a small, almost derisive laughter. “You’re deteriorating,” he says conversationally. “And yet you managed something elegant.”

Mond shrugs as much as the restraints allow. “Desperation sharpens focus.”

“Where is the signal?” Siritida asks.

Mond closes his eyes for a heartbeat. There. A pull in his chest. A living thread stretching outward, taut and unmistakable. Thame’s presence hums at the other end of it, bright and furious and burning with intent.

Close. Not close enough.

“They’re moving,” Mond says. “Fast. Changing routes. I can track Thame. And since Thame is attached to Po – whereThame is, Po will be there.”

“You should have told me this earlier,” Siritida says.

Mond laughs, breathless and rough. “You wouldn’t have let me keep him alive long enough to use it.”

Siritida doesn’t deny it. “You’re angry,” Siritida observes.

Mond’s hands clench reflexively. “I’m done.”

“With what?”

“With caring who gets hurt,” Mond says flatly.

Siritida studies him, gaze flicking to the dark veins beginning to spider beneath Mond’s skin. The tremor in his jaw. The way his power pulses unevenly now, hungry and unstable.

“You were always sentimental,” Siritida says. “About Po.”

Mond’s breath stutters at the name. “He chose them.”

The words come out sharp. Accusing. Wounded. “He stood between me and them,” he continues, voice rising despite himself. “He looked at me like I was the threat.”

Siritida tilts his head. “You are the threat.”

Mond’s eyes burn. “I protected him – all those years in the orphanage, I protected him from bullies, from predators.”

“You protected my son,” Siritida corrects.

“No,” Mond snaps. “I protected my brother.”

The word tastes bitter now.

“And he chose them anyway,” Mond continues, something raw tearing loose. “He let that man put himself between us. He let Thame touch him. Control him. Decide for him.”

Siritida’s gaze sharpens. “You’re projecting.”

Mond laughs again, harsher this time. “I don’t care.”

The truth spills out then, ugly and unfiltered.

“I don’t care about TIIA. I don’t care about your research. I don’t care if the lab burns or the world follows it.”

Siritida’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Mond.”

“All I care about,” Mond says, voice low and shaking with intensity, “is getting Po back.”

The mercs shift. Siritida considers him in silence.

“And the others?” Siritida asks. “LYKN.”

Mond’s mouth curves into something vicious. “They’re in the way.”

Siritida turns to the mercs. “Call them in.”

Radios crackle to life immediately.

“All units,” one merc says. “Mobilize. Full kit.”

Mond lifts his head. “All of them.”

Siritida nods. “All of them.”

“And this time,” Mond adds, eyes fixed on the invisible thread pulling him forward, “we don’t just extract.”

Siritida’s lips thin. “No survivors.”

The words settle like a verdict. Mond closes his eyes, tracking the pulse again. Thame’s signal flares briefly. Strong. Defiant. Po is near him. Mond can feel it. The proximity burns.

Siritida steps closer. “You will guide us.”

Mond nods.

The mercs haul him to his feet, cutting the restraints, fitting him with gear like he’s a weapon being reloaded. His body protests, power surging erratically, veins darkening further beneath his skin.

He ignores it.

Because the anger is louder. Because the betrayal is sharper. Because Po chose. And Mond has decided something too. If Po won’t come willingly – Then Mond will take him.

One way or another.

Chapter Text

The road Sarin is driving on feels like a line drawn with a trembling hand across a map, almost like he’s carving that line deeper.

No wasted turns. No dramatic speed. Just controlled momentum, each bend taken with the quiet confidence of someone who’s memorized how panic makes people sloppy and refuses to be one of them.

Thame sits behind the passenger seat, half turned in his position, body angled toward Po as if the geometry of the car itself is negotiable. His shoulder brushes Po’s. His knee is close enough to touch. His hand is still braced on the back of Po’s seat like it belongs there.

It does.

Po is breathing…normally. Thame checks it like a habit, like a ritual, like a prayer he refuses to admit. Not shallow or weird hitches. But it’s too controlled, like Po is keeping his lungs on a leash because letting go might mean everything pours out.

Po’s hands are folded in his lap, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles are pale. His gaze is fixed out the window, tracking nothing. The trees blur by in green smears. Sunlight flashes between branches and lands on his face in quick, flickering bands like the world can’t decide whether to illuminate him or hide him.

Thame reaches across the narrow gap and covers Po’s knee with his palm. No question. No hesitation. Pressure, warm and deliberate. Enough to say – I’m here. Enough to say – you’re not floating away.

Po flinches at first, like his body is still wired to expect touch to mean something else. Then his shoulders soften, just a fraction. His fingers loosen. His knee shifts subtly toward Thame’s hand like his body is answering before his pride can intervene.

Thame watches that happen and feels something in his heart unclench.

“You with me?” Thame asks quietly.

Po nods, then remembers Thame’s eyes are on the road ahead and answers out loud. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Good.

Thame’s jaw tightens anyway, because the words are simple and the reality behind them isn’t. Being here isn’t just physical. It’s an act. A decision. A fight in its own right.

In the front passenger seat, Nano has one elbow propped on the window frame and one hand near the door handle like he might open it mid-motion if he has to. His eyes bounce between the side and rearview mirror in a steady rhythm. He’s not looking for cars. He’s looking for patterns.

A shape that appears twice. A shadow that keeps returning. A glint of metal where there shouldn’t be any.

Pepper sits behind Sarin, posture loose but alert, his gaze drifting over the passing landscape like he’s bored. Thame knows better. Pepper’s boredom is a costume. Under it, he’s counting distances and listening for changes in the engine note that might mean they’ve hit gravel, mud, pavement, or the edge of something worse.

Dylan sits beside Pepper, phone in hand, thumb moving constantly. He isn’t speaking much. He doesn’t need to. His face is set, eyes focused, and every now and then he glances up like he’s syncing his internal map to the real world outside.

Jun is the speaker. His voice crackles through the car’s audio, rougher than usual, still carrying the rasp of someone who should be resting but refuses.

“Talk to me,” Jun says. “Where are you now?”

Sarin doesn’t look away from the road. “Moving north-east. Second route.”

“Good,” Jun replies immediately. “No obvious tail?”

Nano answers without turning his head. “None confirmed.”

Jun exhales. “That doesn’t mean you’re clean.”

Thame speaks without looking away from Po. “We know.”

There’s a brief pause on the line, like Jun is choosing his words carefully.

“Thame,” Jun says, voice lower, “how’s Po?”

Po’s fingers tighten again at the mention of his name, like attention is a spotlight he’d rather not stand under. Thame’s hand presses a little more firmly into his knee, a quiet cue: you don’t have to perform.

“He’s here,” Thame answers. “He’s breathing. He’s holding.”

Jun hums softly. “Holding is good. Holding is good.”

Po swallows. Thame feels it in the movement of his throat, sees it in the way his jaw flexes.

Thame’s thumb starts a slow, grounding circle on Po’s knee. It’s not affectionate for affection’s sake. It’s a metronome. A reminder that time is still passing normally. That his body is safe enough to feel something gentle.

Po finally murmurs, “I’m okay.”

Jun doesn’t challenge it. “I believe you,” he says instead. “And I also believe you’re not fine.”

Po exhales, the sound small and unwilling. “Yeah.”

Thame’s chest tightens something harsh. He wants to pull Po into him, wrap him up, hide him behind bone and heartbeat and sheer refusal. But they’re in a moving vehicle, in a world that keeps insisting on momentum, and sometimes protection looks like space.

So he stays close without trapping him.

The car dips as Sarin takes another turn. Po’s body jolts with it, and Thame’s hand tightens instinctively, catching him before he can slide.

Po glances at him. His eyes are clear now, not far away. Present.

Jun’s voice returns. “I’m going to say something you won’t like.”

Pepper snorts quietly. “That narrows it down to everything you say.”

Jun ignores him. “They found you once. And they almost fooled you once.”

Silence settles like dust. Even Sarin’s driving seems to sharpen, as if the word found has weight.

Jun continues, “You didn’t get caught because you were careless. You got caught because someone out there has resources and patience and a personal reason to keep looking.”

Thame’s hand stills on Po’s knee for half a second, not because he’s startled, but because he’s hearing the same thought he’s been carrying since the café bell rang.

Po’s voice comes out quiet, almost polite. “So they’ll find us again.”

Jun doesn’t hesitate. “High probability, yes.”

Nano’s jaw tightens. “We can keep moving.”

Jun answers immediately. “You can. And you should. For now. But understand what movement does – it buys you time, not safety.”

Thame looks out the windshield, the road unspooling. Time. That’s all they’ve ever been buying. Time between doors. Time between attacks. Time between the past and the next round of it.

He hates being on the clock.

Po shifts slightly, shoulder brushing Thame’s arm again. Thame feels the contact and keeps his posture steady, refusing to make it a question. He lets Po take what he needs.

“Thame,” Po says quietly.

Thame turns his head just enough to meet Po’s eyes. “Yeah?”

Po’s gaze flicks toward the front seats, toward the others. It’s not secrecy. It’s shyness. He still doesn’t like being seen asking for things. But he asks anyway, barely above a breath. “Can you… keep doing that?”

Thame’s chest tightens. “This?” he murmurs, thumb resuming its slow circle.

Po nods once.

Thame doesn’t smile. He doesn’t tease. He just presses his palm more firmly into Po’s knee and says, “Khaap.”

Po exhales, and it sounds like he’s been holding his breath for the last twenty minutes.

Jun’s voice cuts in again. “If you accept they’ll find you, then the next question is whether you want to be found while you’re running or found while you’re ready.”

Dylan finally looks up from his phone. “Which means that no matter what, we can’t hide forever.”

Jun fills the space. “Then let’s go on thw offensive.”

Sarin nods once, barely visible, like he’d already reached the same conclusion.

Nano says, “We pick the ground.”

Pepper adds, “We stop letting them pick it for us.”

Po’s fingers tighten again, but he doesn’t curl inward. He looks between them, then back to Thame, searching his face like he’s trying to confirm Thame isn’t making decisions for him again.

Thame continues, eyes still on Po, as if communicating only to him, “Offensive doesn’t mean reckless. It means we stop reacting to their moves and start forcing them to react to ours.”

Dylan’s thumb moves faster. “I can start mapping possible nodes. Money, transport, communication, the skeleton under whatever operation they’re running.”

Pepper leans forward slightly. “You’re talking about cutting the legs out from under them.”

“Exactly,” Dylan says.

Thame’s hand stays on Po’s knee. His thumb keeps moving, slow and steady. He feels his pulse under the fabric, fast but not frantic.

Pepper’s voice cuts in, light but edged. “Jun, what’s your state? If this goes hot, are you actually staying on comms or are you going to pass out dramatically and ruin the vibe?”

Jun scoffs. “I’m recovering, not dying.”

Dylan murmurs, “He’s both.”

Jun ignores him. “I can stay on comms. I can coordinate. I can dig. But I don’t think I can run right now.”

“Still useful,” Sarin says simply.

Jun’s voice softens slightly. “That’s why I’m here.”

The call goes quiet for a moment, filled only by road noise and the car’s steady engine. Thame watches Po in the silence.

Po is staring out the window again, but not blankly this time. He’s watching the passing landscape with an intensity that feels like planning. His hands are still in his lap, but his fingers aren’t locked as tight.

Thame’s thumb continues its slow circle, and after a moment Po’s hand shifts and covers Thame’s wrist lightly. Just a touch. A quiet, demure request disguised as an accident.

Thame leans closer. “You did good back there,” he murmurs.

Po’s eyes flick to him. “I didn’t. I led you all there. I –”

“Yes, you did,” Thame insists. “You stood your ground. You didn’t let them pull you back into old patterns. You spoke like you mattered.”

Po’s cheeks warm faintly, a flush of embarrassment at the praise. “I was scared.”

Thame’s voice is firm. “Being scared and doing it anyway is a brave whole thing.”

Po looks down at their hands, then back up. “You were… really angry.”

Thame exhales. “Yes.”

Po hesitates, then asks softly, “At Mond?”

Thame’s jaw tightens. “At him. At your father. At every person who ever treated you like something they could own.”

Po’s throat works. “I didn’t want you to fight him.”

Thame’s gaze sharpens. “I wasn’t going to – not directly anyways.”

Po looks unconvinced.

Thame leans in slightly, voice low enough it feels like a confession. “Po, I can be violent. I know that. But I’m not reckless. Not with you in the room.”

Po’s eyes soften. “You stepped in front of me.”

Thame doesn’t deny it. “I will always step in front of you.”

Po’s fingers tighten around his wrist. “I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

Thame’s jaw clenches. The instinct to deny it rises, but he stops himself. This isn’t about reassuring Po with empty words. This is about letting Po be real.

So Thame says, “Then protect me too.”

Po looks startled. “What? How?”

Thame’s eyes hold his. “Stay with me. Tell me when you’re scared. Don’t disappear inside your head. That’s how you protect me.”

Po swallows. Then nods slowly. “Okay.”

Thame feels his chest loosen. “Good.”

Thame stares out the windshield, watching the city blur. He feels the old impulse, the protective instinct that wants to take Po and hold him surrounded by concrete and distance and locked doors with himself until the world forgets he exists.

He knows better now. The world does not forget. Not when Siritida is involved. Not when Mond is involved. Not when Po is the thing they think they can reclaim.

Thame’s throat tightens. “OKay so one thing we know for certain – is that they’ll come for him.”

Po’s head turns slightly at the pronoun, as if Thame made Po into a third person again without meaning to. Thame corrects it immediately, quieter. “They’ll come for you.”

Po’s eyes flick to him. There’s something steady there, something that wasn’t there before. Not courage exactly. More like acceptance sharpened into resolve.

Jun’s voice crackles faintly. “Which means we need a short-term move and a medium-term move.”

Dylan glances up. “Short-term – Sarin’s place. We pack fast. No lingering.”

Sarin nods. “Ten minutes. Less.”

Pepper yawns theatrically. “Nine. For dramatic flair.”

Thame doesn’t smile. He continues, “Medium-term – we vanish our trail.”

Dylan’s fingers move faster on his device. “Breadcrumbs.”

Jun’s voice is immediate. “Not just breadcrumbs. Misdirection with integrity. Something that looks real enough to waste their time without creating a predictable pattern.”

Thame listens, but his mind keeps returning to one axis – Po’s safety.

He leans closer to Po again. “Listen.”

Po turns his head fully now.

Thame keeps his voice low, controlled. “When we get to Sarin’s, you do not help pack.”

Po’s brows lift. “What? I can help –”

“No,” Thame repeats, firmer. “You sit. You drink water. You breathe. You stay where we can see you.”

Po’s mouth tightens. “I’m not useless, Thame.”

Thame’s heartrate spikes, but he tamps it down. He forces himself not to snap. This isn’t the moment to win an argument. It’s the moment to keep Po steady.

“I didn’t say you’re useless,” Thame says. “I need you to stay regulated. We need your head clear. We need you present.”

Po’s eyes soften a fraction. “Okay.”

Thame exhales slowly, relief cutting through him like a thin blade.

Jun’s voice returns. “The secondary location needs to be non-sentimental.”

Pepper snorts. “Translation – not another cozy farmhouse.”

Dylan nods. “We choose something structural. Defensible. With multiple exits, no cameras, and good sightlines.”

Sarin says, “And we don’t stop long. We think, then we move.”

Nano adds, “And… we need to hatch a plan of attack.”

Dylan’s phone buzzes with a new overlay. “I can plant fake location pings once we hit Sarin’s. Make it look like we’re moving south, not east.”

Nano nods. “I’ll handle physical breadcrumbs. Swap plates, drop a decoy bag, create a false trail that looks like panic.”

Pepper grins. “I can throw in something dramatic. A few shell casings. A broken phone. Something that makes them think we fought and fled.”

Sarin says, “No theatrics unless it serves the pattern.”

Pepper sighs. “You’re no fun.”

“We pack, we misdirect, we relocate,” Thame says, summarizing, because he needs to hear it out loud too. “Then we plan a hit. We go on the offensive.”

Po’s fingers drift, shy and tentative, until they touch Thame’s wrist where it rests on his knee. Not gripping. Just contact. A small human tether. Thame doesn’t move away. He turns his hand slightly, letting his fingers curl around Po’s for a half second, hidden by the angle of their bodies.

Po exhales.

Thame leans closer, voice barely audible. “We’re going to be okay.”

Sarin’s voice pulls them back. “Two minutes to my place.”

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

Sarin’s place is quiet in the way a temporary shelter always is.

Curtains drawn. Lights low. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and metal, like somewhere that expects to be abandoned. Thame steps inside first, scanning automatically, cataloging angles and shadows. Nothing’s changed since they were last here, which means everything has.

Po follows him in, careful, eyes tracking the room with the same cautious awareness Thame’s been teaching him without ever meaning to. He stays close, close enough that Thame can feel him even when he’s not looking.

Sarin locks the door behind them. “Don’t linger,” he says calmly. “Pack light. We’re moving.”

Nano nods and heads toward the side room where spare bags are stored. Pepper peels off toward the window, checking the street through a sliver of curtain. Dylan drops his bag onto the kitchen counter and starts laying out devices like he’s prepping for surgery.

Jun was on the sofa – half-reclined, a blanket thrown loosely over his legs, one arm resting against the back cushion. His color is still off. Too pale. Too thin. But his eyes are sharp, following everyone’s movement with quiet attention, laptop on his lap.

Thame gives Jun a brief nod of acknowledgment, then turns his focus back to Po. Po hesitates near the doorway, uncertain where to put himself while everyone else moves with practiced efficiency. Thame notices immediately.

“Sit,” Thame says quietly, already guiding him forward with a hand at the small of his back. “Water first.”

Po nods and sits on the edge of the couch opposite Jun, hands folded neatly in his lap like he’s afraid to take up too much space. Thame grabs a bottle of water from the kitchen, twists it open, and places it in Po’s hands.

Po looks up at him. “Thanks.”

“Drink,” Thame replies.

Po does. Thame leans against the wall nearby, arms crossed, posture casual. But his attention isn’t on the room anymore. It’s turned inward, scanning for something he can’t quite name.

At first, he thinks it’s just the comedown. Adrenaline leaving the body always feels strange. The hollow buzz. The lingering pressure behind the eyes. The way silence can suddenly feel too loud.

Then the buzz sharpens.

Static.

Faint. Uneven. Like a radio tuned almost, but not quite, to a frequency. It flickers at the edge of his hearing, easy to ignore if he wasn’t trained to notice things that don’t belong.

Thame stills.

The static pulses again.

And this time, it carries shape. Not a sound in the room. Not Jun shifting on the couch. Not Pepper breathing near the window. Inside his head.

Thame’s breath huffs, body somehow freezing and buzzing at the same time.

The static resolves into fragments, clipped and distorted, like intercepted transmissions bleeding through interference. Not sentences. Not thoughts. Words.

“…put a tracker…”

Thame’s stomach drops. He doesn’t react outwardly. He keeps his face neutral, jaw relaxed, arms still crossed. Years of training hold him together even as something cold crawls up his spine.

The static crackles again.

“…undetectable…”

His fingers twitch once before he stills them. Another pulse.

“…where Thame is, Po is…”

His jaw tightens hard enough to ache. Then, sharper than the rest, like the signal briefly strengthens –

“…no survivors this time…”

For a heartbeat, the room tilts. Thame forces a slow inhale through his nose, grounding himself with physical sensation. His boots on the floor. The weight of his body against the wall. Po breathing across the room.

This isn't a memory. It’s not imagination. It’s happening now. The static surges again, faint but unmistakable. He closes his eyes momentarily, trying to focus.

“…call in the rest…”

Thame’s blood goes cold. He opens his eyes and looks directly at Po. Po has paused mid-sip, bottle hovering near his mouth. His brows are drawn together, eyes fixed on Thame with quiet concern.

“Thame?” Po asks softly.

Thame swallows but tries to calm his expression. “I’m fine.”

Po doesn’t believe him. Thame can see it immediately. Po’s gaze flicks over his face, searching for something off. Thame pushes away from the wall before Po can ask more questions.

He crosses the room toward Dylan, steps measured, controlled. He places a hand lightly on Dylan’s shoulder.

Dylan looks up instantly. “What.”

Thame keeps his voice low. “I’m hearing things.”

Jun’s head lifts sharply from the sofa.

Dylan blinks. “Hearing what kind of things.”

“Static,” Thame says. “Like an untuned radio. Words.”

The room changes instantly. Pepper straightens from the window. Nano appears in the doorway, bag forgotten. Sarin’s posture shifts subtly, attention sharpening.

Po stands slowly, water bottle still in his hand.

Jun pushes himself more upright, blanket sliding off his legs. “What words?”

Thame doesn’t sugarcoat it. “‘Put a tracker.’ ‘Undetectable.’”

Jun’s expression hardens.

Thame continues, voice steady despite the cold in his chest. “‘Where Thame is, Po is.’”

Po’s face drains of color. Thame’s gaze flicks to him instinctively. Po is breathing faster now, chest rising and falling sharply.

“And,” Thame finishes, “I heard ‘no survivors this time.’”

Silence slams down on the room.

Jun closes his eyes for half a second, then opens them again. “Yeah I don’t think that’s stress hallucination.”

Dylan nods slowly. “Agreed.”

Nano’s jaw tightens. “What else – wait! You don’t think –”

Thame nods once. “Sounded like him.”

Po takes a step toward Thame without thinking. “What are you talking about? Who – what does that mean?”

Thame turns to him immediately, softening his voice. “I think Mond did something to me when he froze me.”

Po’s hands curl subconsciously into fists. “Like what?”

“I don’t know yet,” Thame admits. “But it feels like I’m…picking up bleed-through. Like I’m accidentally tuned into something I’m not supposed to hear.”

Jun shifts forward on the sofa, fully alert now. “If Mond’s power interacts with nervous systems, he could’ve left a resonance. Not a physical tracker. A signature.”

Dylan nods. “A tag.”

Po’s breath stutters. “So you think they can find us?”

Jun doesn’t lie. “High chance.”

Po looks stricken, but he doesn’t step back. He steps closer to Thame instead.

Thame meets his eyes, grounding his voice. “You’re safe right now.”

Po shakes his head. “But if he is – if they are – ”

Thame cuts in gently. “Listen to me, Po. I’ll give you all the answers later but I need you calm, because right now we need to move ok mai?”

Po nods shakily, taking a couple quick breaths.

Dylan’s fingers fly across his tablet. “I can create decoys. Split our digital footprint.”

Nano adds, “And physically.”

Jun’s voice is low and steady. “If you hear anything concrete, you say it immediately.”

Thame nods. “I will.”

Po’s fingers tighten around Thame’s sleeve. “I’m scared.”

Thame answers honestly. “Me too. But we’re not helpless.”

He looks around the room. At Sarin. Nano. Pepper. Dylan. Jun, sitting upright now despite his injuries.

“Let’s move,” Thame says.

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

Jun knows the plan has crossed the point of no return the moment the room stops arguing whether they can find them and starts asking how far the damage spreads if they can.

That’s the real pivot.

Jun sits forward on the sofa, the blanket pushed aside now, forearms braced on his knees despite the sharp protest from his ribs. Pain flickers bright and insistent. He ignores it. Pain is noise. This is signal.

“We don’t actually know what Mond did,” Jun says. His voice is calm, precise, cutting through the overlapping murmurs. “We just know one thing.”

Everyone stills.

“That he found us once,” Jun finishes. “And that’s already too many times.”

Thame’s jaw tightens immediately. Po notices. Of course he does.

Pepper leans against the counter, arms crossed. “So we’re assuming he can do it again.”

Thame nods. “Yes.”

Dylan frowns. “Without knowing the method.”

“Especially without knowing the method,” Jun says.

Nano shifts his weight. “You’re saying we treat every assumption as compromised.”

“Exactly,” Thame replies. “If we don’t know whether it’s physical, digital, biological, or something tied to proximity or pattern, then the worst move we can make is to stay predictable.”

Jun’s eyes flick to Po.

Po sits near the edge of a chair, posture careful, hands folded too neatly in his lap like he’s trying to make himself small even while he refuses to be. His gaze tracks the room. Not paranoid. Learning.

Thame stands near him, too close to be accidental, not touching but present in a way that screams possession without demanding it. Like he’s turned himself into a perimeter and decided Po is the center.

Jun clears his throat, and the room’s attention snaps to him without anyone needing to ask for it.

“Say it,” Pepper mutters. “The thing you’ve been thinking about ever since Thame told us he is now an untuned car radio.”

Jun doesn’t waste time pretending he isn’t predictable. “They’ll find us.”

No one argues. Because they will. Because Thame has made it true with his body, his positioning, his instincts. Because he’s been protecting Po like the world is full of traps and Po is the only thing worth saving.

Jun understands that instinct. He also understands that it’s exactly what makes them predictable.

“So if that’s the case” Jun says, voice calm. “We need to become moving targets.”

Pepper’s mouth curls. “Multiple moving targets.”

“Yes,” Jun confirms. “Not one group with one pattern. Two groups with two patterns. Make them guess.”

Dylan taps his screen. “Running war.”

Jun nods. “Exactly.”

Po’s gaze flicks from Dylan to Jun, then to Nao, Sarin and finally Thame. He doesn’t interrupt, but he sees them glance at each other, a silent communication, a wordless understanding dawning on each of them.

Thame is the first to voice out. “No.” It’s quiet, but it lands like a slammed door. His eyes are dark, confident. “No separation.”

Pepper exhales slowly, carefully. “Thame – ”

Thame ignores him. His gaze is locked on Jun. “We separate and they go for Po.”

Po’s fingers tighten on the edge of his chair.

Jun keeps his voice even. “They go for Po regardless. That’s the part you’re refusing to accept.”

Thame’s jaw works. He doesn’t speak.

Jun continues, “The question is whether they can do it cleanly or whether we force them to make mistakes.”

Nano steps fully into the room turning to face Thame. “Phi, we don’t know the tracking method that they are using.”

“Exactly,” Jun says. “That unknown is the whole problem.”

Dylan looks up. “You heard the phrase, Thame. ‘Where Thame is, Po is.’”

Sarin’s voice is low. “Which means they’re operating under a belief. That you are a constant.”

Thame’s nostrils flare. “I am.”

Jun nods. “And that’s why you need to stop being one.”

Thame takes a step forward. The room tightens with him. Even injured, Jun feels the shift in threat. Not toward them. Toward the idea of letting Po out of reach.

Po rises slightly, as if he’s going to intervene.

Jun raises a hand, palm out. “Thame. Calm down and listen for a second.”

Thame doesn’t move, doesn’t take his hard eyes away from Jun.

Jun’s voice stays calm but turns sharp on the edges. “If you want to protect Po, you need to protect him from your own predictability.”

Silence.

Thame’s eyes narrow. “You think I’m the problem?”

Jun meets his gaze. “I think your love and obsession is going to be used as a map.”

That hits harder than anything else. Thame’s expression flickers, the smallest crack. Because it’s true enough to hurt.

Po’s voice comes soft, demure but firm. “Thame.”

Thame’s eyes snap to him instantly. “No.”

Po inhales, forcing steadiness. “Listen to them.”

Thame’s jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to swallow Po into his body and barricade the door with his spine. But he doesn’t speak over him.

Po continues, voice shaking only slightly. “If we don’t know how they track, then staying together makes it easier to track us.”

Thame’s eyes soften, pained. “I don’t want you alone. I can’t…I can’t do that.”

Po takes a small step forward. “I won’t be alone.”

Thame exhales sharply. “It’s not the same.”

Jun watches them both. He’s seen couples before. Partners. Teams who grew into family. What’s happening between Thame and Po is not soft. It’s forged. And forged things can either become armor or become chains.

Jun leans forward, ignoring the bright flare of pain in his ribs. “We are not asking you to abandon him.”

Thame’s gaze snaps back to Jun. “Feels like it.”

Jun’s tone turns harder. “Then feel it and do it anyway. Because you don’t get to choose comfort over survival.”

Nano mutters, “Damn.”

Pepper nods. “We split. We move. We force them to commit to a target.”

Dylan adds, “And whichever group gets pressure tells us the tracking vector. If they follow Thame, it’s likely tied to him. If they follow Po, it’s direct. If they split, then it’s broader.”

Sarin’s voice is steady. “We learn by making them show their hand.”

Po looks at Thame. “I want to do it.”

Thame’s eyes widen slightly. “Po – ”

Po continues before Thame can cut him off. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hiding behind you. I want to be with you, yes. But I want to be… real. Not protected like I’m glass.”

Jun feels something in his chest loosen. Not his ribs. Something else. Thame looks wrecked by the words. Like he’s proud and terrified at the same time.

Po steps closer. “Trust them. Trust me.”

Thame swallows. “I do.”

“Then prove it,” Po says softly.

Thame’s jaw tightens. He looks around the room as if searching for a loophole. There isn’t one. Jun watches him wrestle with it, because this is where leaders break – when the smartest move requires them to sit with fear instead of smother it.

Finally, Thame exhales. His shoulders drop by a fraction.

“Fine,” Thame says, voice rough. “But we do it controlled.”

Jun nods. “Controlled separation. Two teams.”

Sarin immediately starts assigning. “Thame, Pepper, me. West side. Heavy movement, visible noise. If they’re tracking him, we draw it.”

Nano nods. “Po stays with me and Dylan. East side. Cleaner, quieter routes.”

Dylan adds, “We can drop digital breadcrumbs in both directions, make it look like we’re fracturing into more than two units.”

Pepper grins. “I love when the plan is confusing on purpose.”

Jun lifts a finger. “And me.”

Thame’s head snaps up. “No.”

Jun rolls his eyes. “Relax. I’m not running rooftops.”

Thame’s tone is flat. “You’re injured.”

Jun nods. “Which is why I can be your stationary support.”

Dylan looks up. “But where would you be? This place –”

Thame answers without hesitation. “My condo.”

Jun stills. Not because he doesn’t like it. Because he understands what it means. “That place is on your personnel record in TIIA – most likely compromised,” Jun says slowly.

“THat’s why you will be in my second condo – in the building right next to the first one. ” Thame replies, smirking slightly,

Sarin’s brows lift. “Second condo?”

Thame nods. “Separate entrance. Separate network. It was a contingency”

Jun looks at him for a long moment. Then nods once. “Fine Mr Richie Rich – I can work with that.”

Dylan’s eyes sharpen. “You can pull cameras. Run feeds. Coordinate.”

Jun smiles faintly. “Yup. I become your eyes. Your map. Your alarm system.”

Po steps forward, concern flickering. “You’ll be alone.”

Jun meets his gaze and softens. “Po – don’t worry na. I’ll lock down, keep the line open, and I’ll take care of myself. I am stronger than I currently look.”

Thame’s jaw tightens. “The moment it’s unsafe, you leave.”

Jun snorts. “To where, the couch?”

“Jun,” Thame says, dangerously quiet.

Jun holds up a hand. “Fine. If it’s unsafe, I withdraw. Happy?”

Thame doesn’t look happy. But he nods.

Po’s voice is quiet. “And we check in.”

Jun nods. “Timed check-ins. If anyone misses one, we assume compromise.”

Sarin claps his hands once, brisk. “We move fast. Pack minimal. Dylan, Nano, breadcrumbs. Then split.”

Everyone starts moving at once.

Sarin steps aside, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and clipped. “Yeah. I need two vehicles. Not traceable. Tonight.” A pause. “Ammo too. More than I asked for last time.” Another pause, then a faint, humorless huff. “Yeah it's that serious…”

Jun watches him pace, listening to the cadence. Old military favors. The kind that don’t get called in unless you expect to spend them all at once.

Across the room, Thame turns to Po. He doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, firm but careful, fingers closing around Po’s wrist with unmistakable intent.

Po looks up, startled. “Thame – ”

“Come with me,” Thame says quietly.

A needy quiet tone. Po hesitates for half a heartbeat, then nods.

Thame pulls him away from the room in one smooth motion, guiding him down the short hallway and into the small bedroom at the back of the house. The door closes behind them with a decisive click.

Jun shifts his attention back to Sarin, who has stopped pacing now, phone still at his ear, listening.

“Yes,” Sarin says finally. “No plates.” A pause. “I don’t care how you do it.”

He ends the call and looks up, eyes hard.

“They’ll be here in fifteen,” Sarin says. “Cars and ammo.”

Pepper lets out a low whistle. “That’s fast.”

Sarin doesn’t smile. “because it’s expensive.”

Jun nods once. Good. Expensive means serious. Serious means they’re not walking into this underprepared.

Jun closes his eyes for a brief second, then opens them again, fully alert. This is it.

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

The bedroom door closes behind them. The sound is soft. Controlled. But it feels louder than anything Po has heard all night.

For a second, Po just stands there, breath caught halfway in his chest, the air thick with everything that didn’t get said in front of the others. The plan. The split. The way Thame’s jaw had gone rigid the moment Jun said separate like it was a tactical term instead of a fracture.

Thame doesn’t give Po time to spiral.

He steps in immediately, hands firm on Po’s shoulders, then pulls him in without asking, arms locking around him with a force that steals the air from Po’s lungs. Po stumbles a half-step forward before he realizes Thame isn’t trying to move him.

He’s trying to hold him.

Po’s face presses into Thame’s shoulder. He smells him instantly – slight sweat, fabric, the familiar sharpness of adrenaline that always clings to Thame when he’s holding himself together by will alone.

Thame’s arms tighten. For a few seconds, there’s nothing but breathing. Thame’s heart is hammering hard enough that Po can feel it through his chest.

Fear. For him.

That realization hits Po harder than anything Jun said in the living room.

Thame presses his forehead into Po’s hair, exhaling roughly. “I don’t like this,” he says, voice low and raw. “I don’t like any of it.”

Po’s fingers curl into the back of Thame’s shirt. “I know.”

“You shouldn’t be on the other side of the city,” Thame continues, words coming faster now. “You shouldn’t be anywhere I can’t get to in under five minutes.”

Po swallows. “That’s… kind of the point.”

Thame huffs a humorless breath. “Yeah. And I hate it.”

Po pulls back just enough to look at him.

Thame’s eyes are dark, restless, tracking Po’s face like he’s trying to memorize it in case the plan steals something from him. His hands stay at Po’s back, firm, claiming, like if he loosens his grip even a little Po might slip through his fingers.

“You heard Jun,” Po says gently. “We don’t know how they’re tracking.”

“I know,” Thame snaps – not at Po, but at the idea. He immediately softens. “I know. I just – ”

He stops himself, jaw tightening.

Po lifts a hand and cups Thame’s cheek, grounding him the way Thame always grounds Po. “You’re allowed to hate it,” Po says. “You’re just not allowed to undo it.”

Thame closes his eyes briefly, leaning into the touch despite himself. “You shouldn’t have to be brave about this.”

Po’s mouth curves faintly. “Neither should you.”

That earns a sharp, breathless laugh from Thame. “That’s not fair.”

Po shrugs slightly, still holding his face. “You’re the one who taught me how to stand my ground.”

Thame opens his eyes. Something shifts in them – pride tangled painfully with fear.

“You’re not glass,” Thame says quietly. “I know that. I just… I keep seeing you like you were when we found you. Like if I look away – ”

Po’s thumb presses gently into Thame’s cheek, stopping the spiral. “I’m not that person anymore.”

Thame’s gaze searches his eyes for comfort… for something. “Promise me something.”

Po nods. “Okay.”

“You keep me updated,” Thame says. “No matter how small. No matter how stupid it feels.”

“I will.”

“You don’t disappear,” Thame continues. “If you feel off, if you feel scared, if you feel anything you don’t understand, you tell me.”

Po’s chest tightens. “I will.”

“And you don’t try to protect me by lying,” Thame adds, voice firm now.

Po meets his gaze. “I won’t.”

Thame exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of him at last. He leans forward, resting his forehead against Po’s.

“I hate that I can’t keep you in my sight,” he murmurs.

Po’s pulse is still racing. The room feels too small now, crowded with everything unsaid. The plan presses in from all sides, threatening to pull them apart before they’re ready.

“This is a bad idea,” Thame mutters, more to himself than to Po. “I know everyone thinks it’s smart. I know Jun’s right about probability and patterns and all that shit, but – ”

He exhales sharply, jaw tightening.

“I don’t like not knowing where you are,” he continues, voice low and rough. “I don’t like not being able to see you. I don’t like the idea that something could happen and I wouldn’t feel it until it’s already too late.”

Po’s chest tightens. He can feel the spiral building in Thame, each sentence stacking on the last.

Thame’s hands slide up Po’s back again, possessive, grounding himself as much as Po. “They think if they follow me, they’ll get you,” he says. “And if they follow you, I won’t be there. Either way – ” He shakes his head once, frustrated. “Either way, I lose control of the situation.”

Po lifts his hand, resting it lightly against Thame’s chest. “You can’t control everything.”

“I know,” Thame snaps, then immediately softens. “I know. That’s the problem.”

His forehead drops to Po’s shoulder. “I keep thinking – what if they switch tactics. What if they realize separating us hurts more than keeping us together. What if – ”

“Thame,” Po says gently.

Thame doesn’t stop.

“What if you get scared and you don’t tell me because you don’t want to distract me,” Thame continues, voice slipping, fear bleeding through the edges. “What if you decide you can handle something alone when you shouldn’t have to. What if – ”

Po’s breathing speeds up, not from fear but from how tightly Thame is wound, how close he feels to snapping and undoing the plan entirely.

Thame pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes dark and intense. “I don’t want you out of my sight,” he says bluntly. “I don’t care if that makes me selfish. I don’t care if it makes me predictable. I just – ” His voice drops. “I just want to know you’re safe.”

If Po lets this keep going, Thame will talk himself into tearing the plan apart. Into choosing proximity over strategy. Into putting both of them back into the same predictable shape the enemy is counting on.

Po steps closer and kisses him.

Soft at first, just enough to interrupt the noise in Thame’s head. Just enough to anchor them both in something physical, real. Thame freezes for half a heartbeat, then his hands tighten reflexively at Po’s waist.

The kiss deepens quickly.

Thame responds like he’s been holding himself back all night. His mouth moves against Po’s with controlled intensity, not frantic but heavy, grounding. Po presses closer, initiating, hands sliding up Thame’s chest, fingers clutching like he needs the pressure to stay upright.

Thame makes a low sound in his throat, half-groan, half-growl, and pulls Po closer, possessiveness flaring hot and unmistakable. His hands spread wide over Po’s back like he’s claiming space, like he’s reminding himself Po is here now.

Po kisses him harder, not because he wants more, but because he wants Thame to stop thinking. To stop unraveling.

It works.

Thame’s breathing slows. His grip steadies. The frantic edge bleeds out of the kiss until it’s just heat and closeness and the quiet certainty of choosing each other.

Thame pulls back first, forehead resting against Po’s, breath uneven but controlled again. “You did that on purpose,” he murmurs.

Po exhales, forehead still touching his. “You were rambling.”

Thame lets out a weak huff. “Fair.”

His hands stay at Po’s waist, thumbs brushing small, grounding circles like he’s relearning how to let go without losing him.

“I’ll be back to you,” Thame says suddenly, voice firm again. “No matter what.”

Po swallows. “You don’t have to say – ”

“I do,” Thame cuts in. “Because this separation doesn’t mean anything permanent. No one gets to separate us. Not this plan. Not Siritida. Not Mond. Not anyone.”

Po’s eyes burn. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Good,” Thame says. “You should.”

He leans in once more, brushing his forehead against Po’s. “And when this is over,” he adds, quieter now, “I’m taking you out.”

Po lets out a shaky laugh. “An official date?”

Thame’s mouth curves faintly. “Yeah.”

Po’s mouth opens, then closes.

Thame’s eyes glitter with amusement. “You don’t look excited.”

Po manages, “I’m just… surprised.”

Thame leans closer, lowering his voice like a secret. “You should be. I’m going to be unbearable.”

Po’s face gets warmer. “Thame…”

Thame watches the reaction like he’s cataloging it for later. Then his expression shifts, softening back into something gentler.

“I’m serious,” Thame says quietly. “When this ends, we do something normal. Something that belongs to us.”

Po’s throat tightens. “Normal.”

Thame nods. “Food. Lights. People around. No guns. No running.”

Thame’s thumb strokes the side of Po’s neck. “You keep me in your head like a tether,” he says. “You hear me?”

Po nods, small.

Thame leans in closer, lips brushing Po’s temple, not quite a kiss but close enough to make Po’s skin spark. “And if you start spiraling,” Thame murmurs, “you do something.”

Po whispers, “What?”

Thame’s mouth hovers near Po’s ear now. “You say my name out loud.”

Po’s throat tightens.

Thame continues, voice like a promise. “You say it, and I don’t care where I am, I will answer.”

Po’s eyes burn.

“Thame,” Po whispers, testing it.

Thame answers, immediately. “Yeah.”

Po’s breath shudders.

Thame smiles faintly, satisfaction and tenderness tangled together. “See?”

Po’s voice is small. “You’re insane.”

Thame’s grin turns sharper. “Only about you.”

Po’s face goes hot again, and he hates that he loves it.

They stand there a moment longer, holding each other like the room itself is a buffer against what comes next. Then Thame straightens, control snapping back into place.

“Come on,” he says softly. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

As Po rejoins the others, fear still curls in his chest. But it’s quieter now. Because he has something to hold onto.

A voice that answers when he says its name. And the ridiculous, impossible promise of a future that includes a date.

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

Late afternoon drapes itself over the city like a tired curtain, all warm light and long shadows that make every parked car look suspicious.

Thame hates leaving at this hour. Too many commuters. Too much noise. Too many places to hide a tail in plain sight. Morning is clean. Night is honest. Late afternoon is a liar with good lighting.

Still, they move.

Sarin’s place empties fast, the way it always does when LYKN decides a location has served its purpose. Zippers, quiet footsteps, the soft clack of weapons being checked and rechecked. Dylan wipes down surfaces he touched out of habit. Nano kills the lights. Pepper lingers at the window until the last possible second, watching the street like he’s daring it to blink first.

Thame keeps his focus on Po.

Po stands near the door with Nano and Dylan, a small bag slung over his shoulder. His expression is calm, but Thame can read the tension in his fingers, the way they flex against the strap like he’s holding himself together by force of will.

Thame wants to cross the room and pull him close again. He doesn’t. Not because he doesn’t want to. Because he does, too much. Because the plan only works if they don’t telegraph the split like a wound.

So Thame gives Po one last look instead. A promise compressed into eye contact. Po meets it without flinching. Then Pepper bumps Thame’s shoulder lightly, a wordless reminder to move.

Sarin leads them out first.

The air outside is cool and bright, sunlight slanting between buildings. One car is parked two streets over, nothing fancy, nothing that looks like a team vehicle. Thame slides into the back seat behind the driver, Pepper behind the passenger seat. Sarin takes the wheel like he’s been born there.

No goodbyes. No waving. Just motion.

As they pull away, Thame watches the curb in the side mirror. He sees Nano get into the driver seat of the other car and almost immediately, sees Dylan ease Jun into the back seat with careful precision and then gets into the shotgun seat. Jun looks pale but stubborn, jaw set like pain is a personal insult.

Po climbs in last. For a second, through the glass, his gaze flicks toward Thame’s car. Thame’s chest tightens. Po doesn’t wave. He doesn’t smile. He just looks, quick and steady.

Then the door closes, the cars move, and the city swallows them in opposite directions.

Sarin drives with calm brutality, cutting across lanes only when he has to, taking turns that don’t look clever, because clever is memorable. Pepper keeps his eyes on the mirrors, posture loose, mind sharp. Thame sits still in the back, breathing slow, forcing his body to accept that Po is not within reach.

He tells himself it’s temporary. He tells himself it’s necessary. He tells himself it’s going to work. Again and again like a mantra.

They thread toward the airport, not close enough to trigger security attention, but near enough to drown their presence in constant motion and transient faces. Airport-adjacent roads are perfect for this – taxis, delivery vans, shuttles, cars that stop and go like indecisive insects.

Sarin parks in a lot near a strip of tired convenience stores and half-lit cafes where nobody looks at anyone long enough to remember them. The kind of place where being anonymous is easy.

They don’t go inside. They stay in the car, windows cracked, eyes rotating between mirrors and street.

Pepper checks his watch. “We’re set.”

Thame nods, gaze fixed on the flow of traffic. “We wait.”

The waiting is always the hardest part. Action is honest. Waiting is imagination, and imagination is where worst-case scenarios breed like mold.

Thame’s mind tries to pull him back to Po. To the bedroom. To the kiss. To the word date hanging like a fragile, ridiculous star in a sky full of smoke. He crushes the thought gently, not because he doesn’t want it, but because he can’t afford to hope so loudly right now.

Minutes pass. Then more.

Pepper is the one who keeps the mood from curdling. He taps the dashboard twice like it’s a drumbeat, then murmurs, “If we die today, I’m haunting the airport. Free snacks. Eternal Wi-Fi.”

Sarin doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften a fraction. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Pepper says. “On snacks.”

Thame stays quiet. His focus is on a different hunger.

Across the city, Po is sitting in a random car with Nano and Dylan, and Jun is being dropped at Thame’s condo to set up remote support. The plan is clean – make movement unpredictable, split the board, see where the pressure lands.

If Mond is tracking something, they’ll show their hand. Thame doesn’t like being the hand they show if the hand is going to reach out for Po when he is not there to cut it off first.

A few more minutes and then Dylan’s voice crackles in Thame’s earpiece, low and controlled. “Jun is in.”

Thame exhales. Good. One piece locked.

Jun’s voice comes next, calm but clipped, already in work mode. “Condo systems online. Cameras up. I’m settled.”

“Don’t play hero,” Thame murmurs.

Jun snorts softly. “Don’t worry. I’m too injured to be dramatic.”

Pepper whispers, “Lies.”

Jun ignores him. “Po team is continuing. Random destination, café, east side. We’ll hold.”

Thame swallows. “Copy.”

Silence again.

The city keeps moving around them, indifferent. Then, slowly, the air changes.

Thame feels it before he sees it, the way you feel a storm before the first drop hits – a pressure shift, a subtle tightening of instinct.

Sarin’s posture changes by a fraction, shoulders squaring. Pepper’s hand lifts slightly, palm hovering near his weapon. Thame’s gaze sharpens to the road entrance.

SUVs. Not one. Two. Then a third, easing into view like predators that don’t bother hiding because they don’t have to. Black. Tinted. Clean lines. Too coordinated to be coincidence.

They’re not weaving through traffic like lost commuters. They’re moving with purpose, closing in a slow, deliberate arc.

Thame’s pulse spikes.

Sarin doesn’t move. Doesn’t start the engine. He watches, calculating. “Confirm?”

Pepper’s eyes narrow. “That’s them.”

Thame brings his hand up casually as if rubbing his jaw, pressing the earpiece. “Jun.”

Jun’s voice answers immediately, sharp. “I see it. Cameras near the airport just picked up three SUVs matching TIIA profile. They’re converging towards your location.”

Thame’s blood goes cold. “Po’s side?” he asks, a slight panic in his voice that he cannot mask.

Jun pauses, fingers tapping in the background like rain. “Nothing on Po’s side. No matching vehicles. No increased presence. Their café is quiet.”

Dylan cuts in on comms, low. “We’ve been watching. No pressure here.”

Nano adds, “No tails. No movement.”

The confirmation hits Thame like a rock. If nothing is happening on Po’s side, and everything is happening on Thame’s – that means whatever they’re tracking, whatever line Mond has into them, it’s pulling toward him.

Thame closes his eyes for half a second, jaw tightening.

Pepper’s voice is a whisper now, all humor gone. “So it’s you.”

Sarin’s gaze flicks to Thame in the rearview mirror, calm and deadly. “We have confirmation.”

Thame’s chest tightens with something complicated. Relief, because Po’s not being swarmed. Restlessness, because it means Thame is the beacon. Anger, because he doesn’t even know how.

He presses the earpiece again. “Jun. They’re tracking me.”

Jun’s voice is steady. “That’s what it looks like. It’s almost like – proximity-based resonance.”

Thame exhales slowly, forcing his mind into action. “Which means we can use it.”

The confirmation doesn’t just tell Thame who they’re tracking. It tells him where this ends. The SUVs multiply behind them, no longer pretending to be coincidence. The spacing tightens. The choreography becomes confident. Whoever is coordinating this has stopped worrying about subtlety.

They think they’ve won the hunt. Thame lets that belief sit. Then he breaks it.

“We can’t keep running,” Thame says again, more firmly this time.

Sarin nods once, eyes flicking between mirrors. “Agreed. The numbers alone mean escalation – looks like they are giving it their all.”

Pepper exhales through his teeth. “They’re not here to scare us anymore.”

Thame’s gaze fixes on the road ahead, on the long stretch of concrete bleeding into industrial outskirts. His mind is no longer racing. It’s locked.

“Let’s end this at the lab,” Thame says.

Po inhales sharply on comms.

“The most recent site,” Thame continues, “the one Po was held in. The one they still think of as recoverable infrastructure.”

“They’re tracking me,” Thame says, plan already forming in his head. “Which means every step I take right now is a signal. If I keep moving randomly, they keep reacting. If I turn toward something they think is burned ground, I flip the board.”

Pepper’s mouth curves. “You’re talking about choosing the arena for the battle.”

“Yes,” Thame says. “But more than that.”

He tightens his grip on the seat in front of him. “That lab isn’t just a place. It’s the core of what they’re doing. It’s proof of concept. It’s where the damage became real.”

Po’s voice comes through quietly. “It’s where they hurt people.”

“Yes,” Thame says, softer now. “And it’s where we can destroy not just the building, but what it represents.”

Sarin nods slowly. “If the lab goes, the narrative breaks.”

“Exactly,” Thame says. “If we destroy it while they’re still invested in recovering assets, we send a message they can’t ignore.”

Pepper chuckles darkly. “No more toys.”

Nano adds from the channel, “And no more hope that Po can be reclaimed.”

Thame continues, voice steady. “If we fight them anywhere else, it’s just another clash. If we fight them there, it’s the end.”

Silence stretches across the comms. Then Dylan speaks carefully. “That place is designed to contain. Not defend.”

“That’s why it works,” Thame replies. “They never expected to fight inside it. They designed it to keep subjects in, not threats out.”

Jun’s tone sharpens. “Which means structural blind spots.”

“Yes,” Thame says. “Old access points. Emergency routes. Failsafes that were never tested under attack.”

Dylan cuts in, already moving. “If it’s the Lampang site, I can pull the original build plans. There were tunnels they never finished sealing.”

Nano says, “That gives us advance access.”

“And,” Thame adds, “it gives us something more important.”

“What?” Dylan asks.

“A head start,” Thame says. “If I lead them there, we arrive first. We get inside. We set conditions. When they converge, they’re reacting to us for the first time.”

Jun’s voice is low now. “You’re proposing we turn the lab into a trap.”

“Yes,” Thame says. “One they can’t disengage from without losing everything.”

Po exhales slowly. “That’s dangerous.”

Thame doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”

“And you’re doing it,” Po continues quietly, “so they never come back for me.”

Thame’s chest tightens. “Yes,” he says. “So the idea of you becomes radioactive. So touching you again costs too much.”

Pepper mutters, “Make it hurt once.”

Sarin adds, “Enough that they won’t try again.”

Po is silent for a long moment. Then, softly, “If we do this… I won’t be cut out.”

Thame answers immediately. “No.”

“You won’t decide everything without me.”

“No.”

“And you won’t treat this like you dying is acceptable collateral.”

That one makes Thame pause. Then he says the truth. “I’m not planning to die. I’m planning to finish it.”

Po exhales, shaky but resolute. “Okay.”

Jun’s voice firms. “Once you commit, there’s no fallback.”

Pepper smirks faintly. “Fallbacks are for people who didn’t mean it.”

Nano says, “Po’s team can converge through the east access.”

Dylan adds, “If we’re inside early, I can shut down their internal surveillance before they realize it’s compromised.”

Sarin’s hands tighten on the wheel. “They’re accelerating.”

The SUVs surge behind them, confidence growing as Thame’s car turns decisively onto a new route.

Thame presses the earpiece. “Let’s go then.”

Thame watches the road curve toward industrial dead ground, toward concrete and rust and the place where Po’s past tried to claim him.

Sarin accelerates. The chase sharpens.

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

Dylan’s world collapses into layers.

Metal, glass, signal, intent.

That’s how he survives moments like this. He doesn’t let himself feel the weight of twenty-five to thirty armed people closing in across multiple vectors. He lets himself feel bandwidth, encryption depth, latency. Problems he can solve.

“Count confirmed,” Nano conveys driving with surprising precision. “Six SUVs. Minimum four per vehicle. Likely more inside the second and fifth.”

Dylan doesn’t look up from his tablet. “Twenty-five to thirty,” he says calmly. “Is that all of them though?”

Dylan’s fingers move faster. They’re already inside the perimeter roads near the lab, concrete thinning into industrial scar tissue. Rusted fences. Abandoned loading bays. Places the city forgot but infrastructure never did.

Good places to hide a secret. Good places to bury people.

“Jun,” Dylan says, tapping once to reroute a signal, “I’m going dark for a minute.”

Jun answers immediately from Thame’s condo, voice steady. “Copy. I’m watching traffic flow. You have about three minutes before they tighten the net.”

Three minutes is a lifetime if you know where to cut. Dylan pivots his screen, pulls up TIIA’s outer shell. Public-facing portals, decoy firewalls, bureaucratic redundancy layered thick enough to scare off amateurs.

IRU won’t be there. They know that. He ghosts through access credentials lifted weeks ago, patched together with new biometric echoes, slips past the first layer like he belongs. The second pushes back harder. Purpose-built. Quiet.

“Interesting,” Dylan murmurs.

Pepper’s voice comes through faintly from the car dash. “You found something?”

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “Something small – hang on.”

He breaks through. IRA’s files aren’t where they should be. They’re shallow. That’s the first thing that makes Dylan pause. Not unsecured. Not sloppy. Just… limited.

He pulls the structure apart piece by piece, mapping command hierarchy, funding trails, operational footprints. The unit is real. Official enough to have a letterhead. Clean enough to avoid attention.

But not old. Not deep.

“IRU wasn’t always a thing,” Dylan says, speaking to everyone and no one.

Nano hums softly next to him. “How recent are we talking?”

“A few years,” Dylan answers. “Formed under TIIA with a narrow mandate. Experimental oversight. Asset recovery. Black classification.”

Pepper snorts. “That explains the enthusiasm.”

Dylan’s jaw tightens. “It also explains the recklessness.”

He digs deeper.

Case files. Redacted names. Partial footage. He starts pulling everything. Every operation. Every failed extraction. Every internal memo that mentions subjects, viability, containment. His cloud space blossoms like a dark flower as data streams upward into a private, off-grid repository he built precisely for moments like this. Immutable. Encrypted. Distributed.

“Dylan,” Thame’s voice cuts in, low and focused. “We’re almost there.”

“Copy,” Dylan replies. “Give me thirty seconds.”

He finds it then. A pattern. IRU doesn’t clean up problems. They erase proof. Which means the lab ahead of them isn’t just a battlefield anymore. It’s evidence.

“Thame,” Dylan says, voice sharpening. “IRU is small because it’s meant to be deniable. If this goes loud and leaves a trail, it doesn’t just burn the lab. It burns the unit.”

“That’s the point,” Thame answers immediately.

Dylan exhales. Good. Same page. He finishes the pull, seals the archive, and routes a dead-man trigger into it. If Dylan goes dark permanently, the data doesn’t.

Someone will see it.

“Done,” Dylan says. “Everything they are is now somewhere they can’t touch.”

Their car peels off the main road and crawls into a shallow service ditch, engines cut almost simultaneously. Thame’s vehicle already parked there. They’re quiet now. Careful.

Dylan steps out, boots crunching softly against gravel. The lab looms ahead. Or what’s left of it.

Fire damage scars the exterior like claw marks. Windows blackened. One wing collapsed inward, concrete split and rebar exposed like bone. From a distance, it looks abandoned.

Dead. But Dylan knows better.

“Heat signatures,” Nano murmurs. “Low. But present.”

Pepper squints. “They didn’t shut it down.”

“They never do,” Dylan says. “They mothball. They wait.”

Thame joins them, eyes locked on the building. His gaze doesn’t waver. “There are people inside.”

“Yes,” Dylan agrees. “Not many. Enough to keep lights on and secrets buried.”

Jun’s voice comes through comms again, tighter now. “SUVs are fanning out. They’ll be on you in under fifteen.”

Dylan looks back at the lab, at the broken concrete and half-collapsed roof.

“Good,” he says quietly.

Because now it’s clear.

IRU thought this place was already a loss. They just never imagined someone would come back to finish the autopsy.

Dylan tightens his grip on his tablet, data secure, angles mapped, routes forming in his head.