Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The command center was quiet at this hour, eerily so. Just the low hum of the mainframe and the occasional shuffle of personnel cutting through the silence. Hongjoong’s boots echoed as he stepped into the briefing chamber, summoned without explanation.  The lights above buzzed faintly. Rain tapped steadily against the glass panels of the high windows, streaking the city skyline in cold silver. Marshal Ryker didn’t look up right away.

He stood at the end of the long table, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the schematic projected above the holopad.

The blueprints pulsed faintly: a Jaeger frame, mid-repair, its systems flagged in orange.

“Engineer Kim,” Ryker finally said without turning.

“Glad you made it.”

“Marshal,” Hongjoong replied, straightening his posture. He glanced at the hologram. Even half-finished, the design was unmistakable.

“That’s… not one of ours.”

“Not yet,” Ryker said, voice sharp. “It’s being transferred to this facility as of tomorrow. You’re being assigned as its lead engineer.”

Hongjoong’s brow twitched.

“I wasn’t aware we were taking on new units this cycle.”

“You weren’t meant to be,” Ryker replied. He turned now, face carved in stone.

“But Command changed the playbook. We’re accelerating readiness on several dormant Jaegers. One in particular is a priority.”

The schematic shifted, zooming in.

The name flickered in at the base of the projection: PHANTOM VERMILLION

Hongjoong let out a slow breath.

“That’s one of the older gen-seven frames. I thought it was mothballed in Macau.”

“It was. Now it’s yours.”

There was a beat of silence before Hongjoong asked, “Pilot?” Ryker tapped the holopad. 

A personnel file appeared:

PRIMARY PILOT: PARK SEONGHWA
CLEARANCE: RANGER-LEVEL
TRANSFER: APPROVED
STATUS: SINGLE-PILOT ASSIGNMENT (TEMPORARY)

The room suddenly felt colder. Hongjoong’s eyes locked on the name.

Park Seonghwa?

Why him?

Why now?

He schooled his expression quickly.

“Only one pilot?”

“For now,” Ryker confirmed. “His original co-pilot was injured during a breach response in the South China Sea. The Hong Kong Shatterdome’s been downsizing active teams while they recover. Seonghwa’s one of the few still cleared for deployment.”

“So they pulled him out?” Hongjoong asked, unable to hide the edge in his voice.

Ryker nodded. “Command wants Vermillion operational again. They believe he’s a viable match. We’re sourcing a co-pilot from nearby candidates—trial runs will begin once the Jaeger is stabilized.”

Hongjoong said nothing for a moment, gaze flickering across the projected specs. Pulled from Hong Kong. Transferred without a partner. A dozen more experienced teams had builds closer to Vermillion's, so why him?

Ryker studied him.

“You know the pilot?”

“I’ve heard the name,” Hongjoong replied evenly.

“They want Phantom Vermillion ready in four weeks,” Ryker continued. “The frame’s unstable—feedback loops are incomplete, neural scaffolding needs recalibration, and we don’t even have drift clearance yet. It’s not going to be easy.”

Hongjoong nodded once.

“Nothing ever is.”

Ryker’s voice lowered slightly.

“I requested you for a reason, Kim. You’re one of the few engineers who knows how to rebuild from the inside out. No distractions. No hesitation.”

Hongjoong kept his jaw tight, but gave a crisp nod.

“Understood.”

“Dismissed.”

Hongjoong exited with measured steps, the door sliding shut behind him like the sealing of a vault. Only when he reached the corridor did he allow himself a breath.

Phantom Vermillion.
Park Seonghwa.
Four weeks.
No partner.

He walked the length of the hall in silence, the weight of the name sitting heavy in his chest.

When he reached the main engineering bay, he stood at the observation platform. Below, rows of dormant machines lined the floor like sleeping giants, and somewhere among them, a berth had already been cleared.

His hands curled around the railing.

“Of all the Jaegers in the world,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“And they give me his.”

Chapter Text

The morning air inside Busan Shatterdome smelled of ionized metal and damp concrete. The hangar lights flickered overhead in rhythm, throwing sharp-edged shadows across the body of Phantom Vermillion. The Jaeger stood motionless in its berth, its reinforced frame humming faintly as systems idled under partial power.

Below, surrounded by cables and tool modules, Hongjoong worked in silence, his gloved hands steady and his posture rigid with focus.

For a week, Vermillion had been under constant analysis. The frame had arrived ahead of schedule, with no pilot and no warning. Hongjoong had thrown himself into stabilization protocols, reworking the neural scaffolding, tuning the conduit sync thresholds, and running simulations without any drift candidates.

Now, footsteps echoed down the access corridor—deliberate, paced, and different from the usual shuffle of technicians. He straightened from the console just as Marshal Ryker entered the bay, a second figure walking beside him. Ryker’s coat flared slightly as he walked, but the man beside him drew Hongjoong’s attention.

He was dressed in standard-issue black—no armor, no pilot suit. Just dark clothes and boots still damp from the rain. His black hair fell freely, framing his face and slightly tousled from travel. He stood at least five centimeters taller than Hongjoong, composed and calm.

Hongjoong recognized him immediately.

“Engineer Kim,” Ryker called out, his voice clipped.

“Your pilot’s arrived. Cleared from Hong Kong as of this morning.”

Hongjoong pulled off his gloves, tucked them into his belt, and stepped away from the console.

“Understood.” His voice was even, professional.

Ryker gestured between them.

“Park Seonghwa. Ranger-class. Assigned to Phantom Vermillion effective immediately. Familiarize him with the systems. Full calibration begins at fourteen-hundred.”

Seonghwa’s eyes met Hongjoong’s. Sharp, observant, but unreadable. He noted the slight tension in the engineer’s shoulders, the way his fingers brushed over controls like he was still in mid-thought. A meticulous man. Worth noting.

“Engineer Kim,” he said with a polite nod.

“Ranger Park,” Hongjoong replied.

Ryker gave a short nod of approval, then turned and exited the hangar without further word.

The moment he was gone, silence stretched across the space.

Seonghwa stepped forward, his gaze drifting upward to the Jaeger towering over them. She loomed larger than expected, her modifications subtle but unmistakable.

“She looks different than the spec renders,” he said quietly.

“She’s undergone multiple modifications since Hong Kong,” Hongjoong replied, already turning back to the console.

“The core was destabilized, the entire left flank had to be rebuilt from the frame up, and the neural systems were completely cleared and rethreaded.”

“You’ve been working on her alone?”

Hongjoong let out a short, incredulous breath—more a huff than a laugh.

“No one works on a Jaeger like this alone.”

He pulled up a holographic schematic, the display flaring to life.

“We had diagnostics teams rotating in shifts. Five support engineers—three from Tokyo’s neural dynamics division—handled structural and relay assessments. Yeosang assisted me with stabilizing the deeper neural pathways before I could even start recalibrating the lattice.”

Seonghwa’s hand hovered near the screen, not touching, simply tracking the flow of data. Every number, every pulse, told a story. This machine was alive in a way most Jaegers weren’t. He filed that away mentally.

“And now you’ll be handling me.”

The words weren’t sharp—just a quiet acknowledgment of the reality between them.

Hongjoong gave a small, measured nod.

“You’ll go through the standard protocols. Suit alignment first, then neural scan, then pod access.”

“Understood.”

They moved across the bay, footsteps ringing against the grated floor. A few technicians paused in their work—only briefly. No one stared long.

Because they knew exactly who they were looking at.

Not some unfamiliar face.

But one of the Rangers who piloted Obsidian Helix—one of the two Jaegers that brought down a Category 5 two years ago. The other team, the pilots of Astral Edge, had earned the same notoriety. That battle was still spoken about in low voices around the shatterdome, the story everyone knew even if no one had been there to see it.

So the technicians didn’t treat him like a newcomer.

They acknowledged him.

Not with awe.

But with the steady, wordless respect reserved for someone who had survived the impossible and walked back into the bay like it was just another routine shift.

Seonghwa walked with steady purpose, scanning the bay, noting the subtle wear along Vermillion’s frame. Hongjoong fell into step beside him without effort.

At the platform, Yeosang offered a short nod—something between greeting and acknowledgment, as if he had been expecting him.

“Morning,” Yeosang said simply, eyes flicking from Seonghwa to the console.

Yunho glanced up next, gave a small upward nod—the kind given to someone familiar through reputation and previous briefings—then returned to his readings with a soft grunt of approval.

Hongjoong keyed in the alignment system.

“Initial scan will take twenty minutes. Once complete, we’ll initiate drift-range assessment.”

Seonghwa nodded, eyes flicking briefly over the activation interface. The systems looked solid. Neural response pathways were stable—but she wasn’t entirely predictable. That would be his challenge.

“Ready when you are.”

Following the activation of the calibration interface, a measured, professional silence settled over them. Hongjoong didn’t look up from the screen. Whatever weight lingered in the room—past missions, old reputations, the wreckage of previous partnerships—none of it mattered here.

This wasn’t about history.

It was about Phantom Vermillion, and whether Park Seonghwa could sync with a machine that didn’t trust easily. A Jaeger with a temperamental neural core and a reputation for rejecting pilots outright.

A machine Hongjoong hadn’t built…

But one he had painstakingly rebuilt, repaired, and brought back from the brink, piece by stubborn piece, until it could stand again.

A Jaeger restored by a man who trusted even less.

Seonghwa’s eyes drifted over the Jaeger, noting the tiny micro-adjustments Hongjoong had made in the neural lattice. Each adjustment spoke of care, precision—and a man who expected perfection.

He caught Hongjoong’s gaze for a moment, and the unspoken question hung in the air:

Can you handle me as I handle her?

Hongjoong’s eyes didn’t waver. Not a word, just a small, confirming nod.

The soft hum of the scanners filled the lab, casting shifting patterns of light across the walls. Yeosang watched the data stream across his monitor, eyes narrowing as the system compiled its results. After a moment, he broke the silence.

“Transfer from Hong Kong, right?” he asked, though the knowing tilt of his voice made it clear he already had the answer.

He flicked through the scan outputs, exhaling sharply. “They must be really desperate if they’re sending him here.”

Across the room, Yunho pushed off the counter and crossed his arms, amusement flickering in his expression. “Hong Kong doesn’t let go of Rangers who’ve taken down a Category Five,” he said. “Especially not the pilot of Obsidian Helix.”

Yeosang tapped his stylus thoughtfully against the edge of the console. “That Jaeger and its partner unit were the only reason that thing didn’t level half the coast.”

“They don’t pull someone like him unless they need results,” Yunho added with a small smirk.

Hongjoong had been quietly reviewing a different panel of diagnostics, but at that, he finally spoke. “They’re not desperate,” he said, his voice calm but certain. “They’re smart.”

Yeosang turned toward him, studying the tension—or lack thereof—in Hongjoong’s posture. “You’re not worried about the systems syncing with him, are you? Vermillion’s still twitchy on neural responses.”

Hongjoong shook his head. “I’m not worried about the systems.”

He was worried about everything else. He leaned closer to the inactive Jaeger bay, where Phantom Vermillion stood in shadow. The spent scorch-marks along her flank looked almost like bruises. Hongjoong’s fingers brushed a fingertip of the hull, as if greeting an old friend.

“Welcome home, Ranger Park,” he whispered to no one. “Try not to break anything.”

Seonghwa watched silently, absorbing the careful reverence, noting the Jaeger’s subtle quirks and scars. Every scar and adjustment was a story. Both of them would have to earn that trust.

And he was ready for it.

Chapter Text

The first test went clean.

Neural sync latency: within optimal range

Core temperature: stable

Reflex loadout: 87% efficiency

Pilot response: seamless

Drift compatibility: pending — partner unassigned

For a unit that had spent more time in diagnostics than deployment, Phantom Vermillion moved like she remembered battle.

The simulation was brief—just a calibration sequence across the perimeter terrain zones—but Hongjoong tracked every second from the control room, posture tight, eyes locked on the live feed.

“Touchdown confirmed,” Yeosang announced, hands flying across the console. “Hydraulics disengaged. Phantom’s cooling down.”

“Telemetry’s clean,” Yunho added, leaning back in his chair. “Smoothest first sim I’ve seen in quarters. Didn’t expect that from a frame with attitude.”

Hongjoong didn’t answer immediately. The data crawling across the screen was sharp—stable, efficient, quiet.

Predictable.

And that was what made his shoulders tighten.

“Archive the drift anchor logs,” he said, fingers tapping through his tablet. “We’ll want them for review.”

“Already on it.” Yeosang smirked. “You’re welcome.”

“Still no word on his partner?” Yunho asked casually, but the question hung heavier than that.

“Command hasn’t made an assignment.”

“Yet,” Yeosang muttered.

Hongjoong didn’t respond.

Not when Command’s silence had already stretched two full weeks since Ryker told him Seonghwa was coming. Not when Vermillion had been delivered days before that conversation.

Not when the pilot walking into their bay had been someone he never expected to see in Busan again.

⸻

On the upper catwalk outside the lift tunnel, Hongjoong stood with arms crossed as the docking platform retracted and the Conn-pod lowered into view. Below, Phantom Vermillion exhaled softly, steam hissing through her flank vents as the systems powered down.

Seonghwa stepped out, suit lightly dusted from terrain residue, helmet clipped under one arm. His pace was steady, measured—like exiting a Jaeger was no different than clocking out of a shift.

He spotted Hongjoong immediately and approached without hesitation.

“System response is tight,” Seonghwa reported. “Pressure recalibration lagged for a moment in the first rotation, but corrected on its own. Rest of the run was smooth.”

“We saw that,” Hongjoong said. “Your sync rate held at 92% throughout the cycle. No signal drift.”

Seonghwa nodded. “Good.”

He moved to the railing, casting a glance down at the Jaeger below.

Then, almost casually:

“She handles differently from Omega Asphodel,” he said. “That one was heavier on torque but had slower core uptake. Nova Strain was the opposite—fast response, but nervous systems were too sensitive.”

His eyes remained on Vermillion.

“Vermillion… feels balanced. Responsive without overcorrecting.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Hongjoong replied. “But she listens. When she wants to.”

“Sounds familiar,” Seonghwa murmured, just the faintest pull of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Hongjoong didn’t return it, but there was a flicker—barely noticeable—in the set of his jaw.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the catwalk beneath them vibrating faintly with the cooling hum of Phantom Vermillion’s internal power systems.

“It’s a good frame,” Seonghwa said at last. “Your team’s done excellent work. Much better handling than Asphodel’s old neural stabilizers.”

“Thanks.”

“How long have you had her?”

“Two weeks,” Hongjoong replied. “She was delivered just before your transfer. We’ve been refitting the neural core and clearing residual feedback.”

Seonghwa nodded thoughtfully. “That tracks. Her motion signatures feel recently calibrated.”

The conversation lingered there—professional, surface-level, but careful. Neither of them pushed deeper.

“You’ll need two more simulations before we move on to full Drift calibration,” Hongjoong said. “Once Command finalizes partner integration, we’ll prep for combat authorization.”

“Any shortlist yet?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

There was a pause—brief, but distinct. Something unreadable passed through Seonghwa’s expression before it settled back into calm.

He stepped away from the railing and adjusted the seals at his wrists. “Let me know when the next sim is queued.”

“I’ll send you the schedule.”

“Thanks.”

Seonghwa nodded once. So did Hongjoong.

Just before he turned, Seonghwa paused.

“It’s good to see you working here,” he said evenly. “You always were the best in systems.”

The compliment landed like a simple fact. No weight. No history.

“And you were always the best in the field,” Hongjoong replied.

That was all.

Not familiar. Not distant. Like two systems orbiting each other—just not yet locked.

⸻

“You’re thinking it, aren’t you,” Yeosang said later, as they reviewed overlays in the core room.

Hongjoong didn’t look up. “Thinking what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Yunho muttered as he flipped through the system report. “He’s synced with Omega. He trained with Nova. Now he walks into Phantom and gets clean reads on the first run? He’s ready.”

“He just needs a partner,” Yeosang added, watching Hongjoong closely. “And we both know who could match his neural profile.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened. “Don’t start.”

“We’re just saying,” Yunho pressed, “Command hasn’t assigned anyone. And Drift compatibility doesn’t always wait for orders.”

Hongjoong’s fingers stilled over the tablet. A memory surfaced, brief and uninvited.

The Academy training bay. Two cadets circling each other in a sync trial, moving together in a way that felt too natural. A shared breath in the drift space. Then the connection snapped, alarms blaring, voices shouting.

He blinked, shaking it off.

“I’m heading to the lower deck.”

“That’s not a no,” Yeosang called after him.

Hongjoong didn’t answer.

He was already walking, already thinking about how easily Seonghwa had fit into Phantom’s systems, and already pretending he wasn’t imagining what it would be like if he climbed into the conn-pod with him.

Chapter Text

The mess hall was loud in a way the labs never were. Trays clattered. Boots scraped metal flooring. Conversations rose and crashed like waves, laughter punctuating the dull hum of generators overhead. It smelled like soy oil, cheap broth, stale coffee, and the faint sting of disinfectant.

Hongjoong hated it.

Not because he disliked people—just unpredictability. Chaos. Noise. None of which existed in the labs. In the labs, metal behaved as it should. Code executed as written. Circuits didn’t stare at you or whisper about memories you’d spent years burying.

He hadn’t eaten here in weeks—maybe months. Today, after the trial run with Seonghwa, he had no choice. Yeosang and Yunho flanked him like handlers escorting a flight-risk cadet.

“Mandatory dinner,” Yunho declared.

“Preventing your death by stubbornness,” Yeosang added.

They found a table tucked against the far wall. Hongjoong set his tray down, eyeing the noodles like they were a tactical puzzle.

“You still eat like a squirrel with anxiety,” Yunho said loudly, tearing open a protein bar. “Did you choose that, or did it just attach itself to your hands?”

“Quiet,” Hongjoong muttered. “I’m trying to pretend I’m not here.”

“Well, unfortunately for your mysterious image,” Yeosang said, spooning rice into his mouth, “you’ve been spotted. Pretty sure three cadets over there just nudged each other and whispered something about ‘Tech Unit God Kim.’”

Hongjoong physically deflated. “I’m leaving.”

It was an inside joke between them — one that had started months ago, thanks to an intern who’d been both brilliant and painfully earnest. During a systems briefing, he’d stood up to compliment Hongjoong’s work, tried to say “Sir Kim,” panicked halfway through… and loudly blurted out, “God Kim” instead. Dead silence followed, then someone snorted, and the damage was permanent.

The intern turned beet red and apologized profusely for days. Everyone else immediately adopted the name like it were holy scripture.

“Sit down,” Yeosang said without looking up from his tablet. “If you run now, they’ll think the rumors are true.”

Hongjoong groaned. “What rumors?”

“That you’re terrifying,” Yunho supplied.

“That you don’t sleep,” Yeosang added.

“That you once reprogrammed a Jaeger OS during lunch break.”

“That one is true,” Yunho said.

Hongjoong stabbed a dumpling with unnecessary force. “I hate all of you.”

Still, he stayed seated.

He always did when Yeosang used that tone — that effortless mix of playful and authoritative that somehow worked on him every time. Yunho hid a smile behind his spoon, pretending not to watch.

Their dynamic worked the way it always had: Hongjoong, the senior with impossible standards; Yunho, the excitable problem-solver; and Yeosang, the too-smart-for-his-own-good analyst who delighted in poking at both of them just to see what would happen.

They weren’t just coworkers; they were the closest thing he had to people who understood the work, the weight, and the version of him he became after leaving the pilot track.

But even friendship couldn’t stop the inevitable question.

So,” Yunho said, far too casually, “how far back do you and Ranger Park go?”

Hongjoong’s stomach tightened—not painfully, just sharply.

“Why?” he asked, trying to sound disinterested.

“Just curious,” Yunho shrugged. “You trained together.”

“Academy,” Hongjoong answered. “Same intake.”

Yeosang raised a brow. “Heard you two were always mentioned together. Everyone seemed to expect something from the pair of you.”

Hongjoong didn’t react. Outwardly. Internally, a flicker of disbelief: how did they even know all that?

Yeosang, probably fishing for confirmation that these were the Kim and Park everyone whispered about. And Yunho… he could practically feel the tension in the room, the same sharp pull Hongjoong remembered from the lab years ago.

The way Seonghwa used to glance at him before a simulation started, one hand tightening his glove strap.

The silent agreement to win.

The strange ease in the neural link.

The adrenaline-laced competitiveness that made everything sharper.

He shut the memory down before it could breathe.

Yunho wasn’t done. “And the drift tests.”

Hongjoong’s chopsticks paused.

Yeosang continued, “Several runs, right? Passed with near-perfect sync. Made a lot of people take notice.”

A throat-tightening truth. Because it was more than that. They’d been preparing for a partnership. Maybe even unofficially told to expect it. He hadn’t thought about that in years.

“We were cadets,” Hongjoong said carefully. “Tests don’t mean anything.”

“That’s not what the instructors said,” Yeosang replied.

“One of them hinted you two were being considered for something bigger together after graduation.”

Hongjoong’s jaw locked. This is not happening. Not here, not now.

His mind flickered to the last trial they ever did. The way the Drift had steadied instantly, like breathing. The way he’d walked into the director’s office the next day and requested a track transfer.

He pushed the thought away before it became a tangible ache.

Yunho shifted topics—mercifully—to something safer. “Anyway, I finally got approval for the new neural dampener trials. Command signed off this morning.”

That pulled Hongjoong out of himself. “Really? That’s good. The old lattice is useless for high-load transitions.”

“Exactly what I told them!” Yunho grinned.

Yeosang sipped from his cup. “Meanwhile, I’m stuck assisting the oversight expansion team. Did you hear about the new Secretary General, Hyung?”

“No,” Hongjoong said, though a name immediately came to mind—a younger batchmate from the academy. Bright, ambitious, and still weighing his options even now. They’d kept in touch occasionally, mostly brief updates. The kid had mentioned he was contemplating whether to accept a promotion, though nothing was finalized yet.

Hongjoong remembered him from drills and simulations, always sharp, always pushing boundaries. Even back then, he’d risen faster than most of their batch. Could be anyone, he thought. But somehow… it felt like a very small world.

“Transfer from Seoul. I heard he’s the youngest appointed Secretary General. He’s overseeing Phantom Vermillion’s reactivation,” Yeosang continued.

Hongjoong stiffened—not visibly, but deep down, like a wire had been tugged too tight. His mind drifted back to the academy and the quiet moments when a few standout cadets pushed themselves relentlessly, always precise, always ambitious.

He had expected maybe another familiar face from those days to appear, someone whose trajectory had diverged but whose presence still echoed in memory. Now, with Park Seonghwa already here, and the news of this new Secretary General, the timelines and connections felt almost too neat, stirring a mix of nostalgia and a flicker of unease he hadn’t anticipated.

“And,” Yeosang added, watching his reaction closely, “he’ll be present for the shortlist meeting for Ranger Park’s partner candidates.”

Yunho leaned back. “You’re attending, right?”

Hongjoong poked his noodles again. “Engineering isn’t required to be there.”

“You rebuilt Phantom Vermillion’s core,” Yunho said.

“You’re practically essential.”

“And Seonghwa’s about to be paired with someone,” Yeosang added. “Shouldn’t you see who it is?”

Hongjoong stayed silent. Because he already knew he didn’t want to be there.

“We’ll see,” he finally muttered.

Which meant no—but not really.

Yunho and Yeosang exchanged a knowing look.

Then Yunho nudged the conversation toward the one place Hongjoong didn’t want it to go. “Your drift data from the academy was strong. You could still—”

“No.” Hongjoong didn’t let him finish. “I’m not a pilot.”

“But you could be,” Yunho said softly. “Your metrics are still viable.”

“Yeah,” Yeosang added, rubbing the back of his neck.

“We… may have looked up your old records. Sorry.”

Hongjoong’s brow furrowed. “How did you even have access to that?”

Yunho grinned, shrugging. “Honestly? It’s not exactly a secret if you know where to look. The files are just… there.”

“Exactly,” Yeosang said quickly. “Not prying for fun. Just… research. Professional curiosity. Promise.”

Hongjoong let out a long, tired exhale, shoulders sagging slightly.

Of course, they’d find a way. They’ve always had a knack for digging into things. Why did I ever think I could stay invisible?

“Stop,” he said finally.

They did. Immediately.

Because they knew the line—knew when something inside him snapped shut.

Silence stretched across the table.

Then Yunho said, gently:

“Still feels like there’s more to the story.”

“There isn’t,” Hongjoong replied.

A lie he told himself so often it almost sounded true.

He then stood abruptly, picking up his tray.

“Enjoy your dinner.”

He walked away without looking back, steps brisk, shoulders tight, with something disturbingly alive pacing inside his chest.

Yunho sighed. “He’s definitely thinking about it.”

Yeosang nodded slowly. “And definitely pretending he isn’t.”

They both stared at the door as he disappeared.

“He cares more than he knows,” Yeosang murmured.

“Or,” Yunho corrected softly, “more than he wants to.”

—————————

Back in the lab, the lights were dim, and the hum of cooling fans filled the silence. Monitors blinked idly with paused data from the day’s sim runs. Hongjoong dropped his tray into the disposal chute and lingered in the middle of the room for a long, quiet moment.

One of the screens still displayed Phantom Vermillion’s latest sync profile. Near perfect.

He reached forward and tapped the overlay.

Pilot: Park Seonghwa

Status: Stable

Co-Pilot: ———

He stared at the blank line and then shut the screen off.

The empty slot was louder than the hum of the servers. A reminder. A placeholder. A space that used to almost have his name, at least in theory, back when the academy had still been the center of their world—seven, maybe eight years ago.

He exhaled, letting the darkness swallow the data and his reflection alike.

He let his gaze linger on the blank co-pilot line. Over the years, he’d heard plenty about Seonghwa—through mission reports, academy whispers, and the occasional update from mutual colleagues—while he’d been buried in Jaeger cores and making a name for himself on the engineering side.

He knew Seonghwa had only ever had two partners. The first, a senior from their academy they both knew, had long moved on. The second—the one who’d been injured during the breach in the South China Sea—had been taken out of the field until further notice.

He straightened, fingers brushing the edge of the console almost unconsciously. The lab was silent, but the weight of operational responsibilities and the looming simulations settled around him.

Tomorrow, the work will continue. Tonight, all he could do was review the data and prepare for the next phase.

The empty co-pilot line stared back at him, a quiet warning that nothing would unfold exactly as planned.