Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This story contains sensitive themes, including but not limited to:

• Violence and abuse
• Confinement and dehumanization
• Trauma, grief, and psychological distress
• Implied sexual violence / exploitation
• Death and suicidal themes

These elements are part of the fictional narrative of the Dandelion Project. They are not intended to glorify or romanticize any form of abuse, violence, or self-harm.

Please proceed with caution. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

If you ever feel triggered or distressed by these themes, I encourage you to pause and prioritize your wellbeing. You are not alone.

For support, please reach out to trusted friends, local hotlines, or mental health services in your area. If you are unsure where to start, you can find international resources here:

• https://findahelpline.com (global directory of hotlines)
• https://findsupport.org (mental health resources worldwide)

Your safety and peace of mind matter.

Chapter Text

ACT 1 Begin

TW: Grooming/child sexual manipulation — may describe a victim who doesn’t recognize the abuse.

 “What did you say?”                 

The Wallkeeper swallowed hard. “We have no ide—”

The table shuddered under Catherine’s palm, the crack echoing off the steel walls. “HOW DID YOU NOT HAVE THE SLIGHTEST FUCKING IDEA ABOUT ANYTHING?!” The man jolted like a startled dog, and before he could stammer an excuse, her fist buried itself in his gut. He folded with a choked groan.

“I told you,” she hissed, dragging him up by his collar. Her knuckles split his lip with the next blow. “I need something. I need answers!” His bloodied face hung slack, eyes dazed, and she shoved him away with disgust. “Just how useless can you be? Huh?”

“Catherine, we tried,” Hans began carefully, trying to sound steady. “There’s no sign of suspicious activity, no sign of rebellion at all—”

Her gaze snapped to him, crown on her chest gleaming faintly. “Then explain,” she snarled. “Explain why Jeong Hayeon dares to stand against me. Why that lunatic in Confinement sits so calm, so serene, as if none of this touches her. And don’t you dare tell me this isn’t Yoon Seoyeon’s doing.”

Hans hesitated. “You’re overthinking thi—”

The back of her hand cut his words short. The slap cracked through the room, leaving him stiff, wide-eyed. Catherine smoothed back her chestnut hair with shaking fingers, her breath ragged, her one good eye twitching with pain. The other was gone, gouged away, and every throb of the phantom wound dragged Seoyeon’s face to the forefront of her thoughts. Calm. Always calm.

“Find out what she’s planning. Investigate the keychain.”

An administrator in a crisp suit—one of the Ivory Hand—cleared her throat at the edge of the room. “Record the spike,” she murmured into her tablet, eyes on a scientist who was already tapping at a console, “Fluctuation spike—irregular.” The maroon-sleeved guard at the door hardened his stance and left without a sound.

“The keychain is harmless, ma’am,” one guard risked, voice trembling. “Crafts are permitted—just trinkets to pass the time—”

Her head turned slowly, eyes narrowing until her voice fell into a lethal whisper. “Did I fucking stutter?”

Silence collapsed over them. The Wallkeepers shifted, their fear painting the air thick and acrid. Catherine sank into her chair, pressing her palms to her face. For a moment the room held only the sound of her shallow breathing. She hated this — hated that her anger wasn’t enough, that brutality wasn’t enough. Because beneath it all, Seoyeon lingered.

Seoyeon, with her silence that was louder than screams.

Seoyeon, with her composure that no punishment could fracture.

Seoyeon, who looked at Catherine not with fear, but with something else — pity, maybe, or worse, indifference.

The thought gnawed at her, twisted her chest into knots. She was Crownroot, the hand of authority itself, the master of every girl in this dome. They all bent, they all broke. Except her. Seoyeon. That tiny, unmovable stone in her shoe that made every step unbearable.

“I’m so fucking stressed,” she rasped, pulling her hands away, the anger in her voice thinned by something more fragile, almost desperate. “Where are my toys? Tell them to come.”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the quick reply. Boots clicked, retreating, leaving her alone.

Her eye twitched again, pain burrowing deep into bone as the ghost of Seoyeon’s calm expression flickered behind her eyelids. It mocked her. It haunted her. It dared to exist beyond her reach.

“I will find it,” Catherine whispered to the phantom in her mind, nails digging into her palms. “I will find what you’re hiding, you little piece of shit. You will bend to me.”

But deep down, she already knew: it was the fear Seoyeon had planted that would not let her rest.

Catherine drowned herself in the haze of pleasure, her body tangled with her toys, their voices rising in soft cries and desperate moans. The room pulsed with heat, a dim sanctuary of obedience. Each touch, each sigh, was meant to smother the questions clawing at the edges of her mind.

Why hadn’t Seoyeon rebelled earlier?
Why had she waited?
What was she planning?

Even here, surrounded by worship, Catherine couldn’t escape her. The thought of Seoyeon’s calm face, unbending, untouchable, burned in her skull like a brand. Rage stirred. She gripped the girl beneath her harder, drove her rougher, punishing her flesh to silence the phantom of Seoyeon in her mind. The girl whimpered, pliant and willing, her moans spilling out like a hymn to Catherine’s power. It soothed her — but only for a moment.

Her toys were perfect. They surrendered without question, without hesitation, craving her control like air. Graduates now, no longer subjects, yet still they clung to her, begging for the privilege of being owned. They loved her power; they loved the cage she wrapped around them. That devotion was precious. That obedience was safe. Unlike Seoyeon.

Seoyeon, who made silence feel louder than screams.
Seoyeon, who refused to bend.
Seoyeon, who left Catherine with something she could not stand to feel: fear.

Catherine bit down on the thought and doubled her pace, drowning her nerves in the sound of surrender all around her. Moans echoed off the walls, the air heavy with sweat and heat, until one by one her toys collapsed, fainting, broken and satisfied. Power flushed through her veins again, but it was fragile, brittle, crumbling at the edges.

Only one girl still trembled beneath her, clinging to consciousness, her devotion unshaken. Catherine’s hand slipped around her throat, fingers curling in a grip both possessive and cruel. She leaned close, voice a low whisper of command.

“Who are you?”

The girl’s breath came shallow, lips trembling into a smile. “Your toy, ma’am…”

The words hit Catherine like a balm, like an anchor dragging her back to herself. She smirked, drinking in the devotion shining in the girl’s eyes — a devotion Seoyeon would never give. A devotion she deserved.

And so she spoiled her again, again, again — reckless, relentless — desperate to bury Seoyeon’s calm face under the chorus of her toys’ cries.

But no matter how deep she sank into them, Catherine knew the truth: when the moans faded, when the room went quiet, Seoyeon’s shadow would still be waiting in the silence.

Seoyeon sat in the quiet of her room, the dim light catching the fragile edges of the diary resting in her lap. She turned the first page, her eyes tracing words she had written long ago, the ink blurred slightly by old tears.

Everything does get better. Eventually.

A bitter smile tugged at her lips. She remembered scrawling that line with her hands trembling, denial clinging to her like a second skin. Back then, survival was her only language. Escape wasn’t even a thought — she only wanted to live, to endure one day after another.

She turned more pages, the logs unraveling the story of her early days: Hyerin’s bright laughter, Jiwoo’s cautious questions, Chaeyeon’s fragile hope, Yooyeon’s stubborn heart, Soomin’s soft defiance. They had been children still, too young to carry so much weight, and yet it was their names she clung to. Their faces had kept her breathing when she wanted to stop.

Then her fingers froze on a page stained dark, the dried blotch of blood still visible. Her chest tightened. This was the entry that had changed everything.

XX XX XXXX
She was scary. Catherine was her name. I don’t like the way she looks at us. I hate how she scans the kids like they are not human beings. I hate how she spells my name like it belongs to her. Who the hell calls herself a Crownroot to begin with? A fucking lunatic.

XX XX XXXX
She keeps trying to take Hyerin and Soomin away. What is her deal? These kids are not hers to toy with. I don’t care who she is, stop trying any funny thing with kids.

Hyerin’s fingers pressed at my wrist like a metronome that day — steady, quiet. “Count your breaths,” she whispered, two syllables that belonged only to us. Soomin sat on the floor nearby, pencil tapping the corner of her notebook, already recording the moment like it was something fragile to keep. They kept me from falling apart then; I keep them like talismans now.

XX XX XXXX
I surely fucking hate that woman…
I will get us the fuck out of here…

The paper crinkled faintly under her fingertips. A scrap of fabric had been pressed into the corner — a shred of Crownroot’s uniform she had once torn away in rage. Nearby, encased in resin, sat the bloody relics of that day: a knife dulled with rust and dried blood, and something else, small, spherical, unrecognizable but heavy with memory. The sight of it made her stomach clench, yet her hand no longer trembled as it once did. That weakness was gone. Years had stripped it from her.

Seoyeon drew in a slow breath, closing her eyes. The air filled her lungs, steady, certain, before she let it slip away again. When she opened them, there was no hesitation left in her gaze.

“The dandelions bloomed a lot this time,” she whispered to herself, her lips curving into something quiet but unyielding. “A perfect time indeed.”

Yooyeon could hardly recognize Seoyeon anymore. The girl who once clung to her like sunlight, sweet and adoring, had long since vanished. In her place stood someone unshakable, someone hardened. And all Yooyeon could think of — all that made her stomach twist — was that night. The night she failed her most.

Sleep had eluded her. She’d tossed in her bed, staring at the empty space where Seoyeon should have been. Earlier that evening, Crownroot had summoned her to headquarters. Yooyeon hadn’t been there — she had been locked in training — and the only witnesses were the younger kids. Their voices trembled when they told her Seoyeon looked annoyed, but beneath that, afraid. That fear lingered with Yooyeon long after the words left their mouths.

Every step in the corridor made her chest clench. She waited, heart hammering, until at last a shadow limped into view. Her breath caught as the silhouette drew closer.

Seoyeon.

Yooyeon’s body moved before her mind caught up. She ran, reaching her just as Seoyeon’s knees buckled. “Seoyeon!”

Seoyeon flinched, instinctively trying to pull away. Panic flickered across her battered face as she tried to run, but Yooyeon held her tighter, desperate. “Seoyeon! It’s me!”

The moment recognition flickered in Seoyeon’s eyes, Yooyeon wished she hadn’t seen. Her clothes were disheveled, hanging off her frame, bare legs trembling beneath an oversized shirt. Her stomach turned at the sight — the shirt barely enough to cover her. The image alone spoke louder than any words, and bile rose in her throat at what must have happened in that cursed room.

Seoyeon broke then, collapsing into sobs so raw they carved themselves into Yooyeon’s bones. Wails that seemed endless, a grief too big for her small body. Yooyeon’s arms tightened around her, holding her desperately, though her gaze flickered down the corridor. Wallkeepers lingered in the shadows, watching, silent. Cold dread rooted itself in Yooyeon’s chest. She understood — she knew — even if no one ever spoke it.

That night, she cleaned Seoyeon’s wounds. Cuts and bruises mapped her skin, layered over each other in a sickening collage. Yooyeon’s hands shook as she pressed cloth to blood, her fear growing heavier with each mark uncovered. She whispered comfort, stroked Seoyeon’s hair, but the truth pressed in on her with crushing weight: Seoyeon hadn’t only been beaten. She had almost been broken in the vilest way imaginable.

And then Yooyeon saw it. A knife on the desk, its blade dulled, stained with blood. Beside it, something else — a ball-shaped lump its identity unspoken yet obvious in its grotesque weight. Her breath stuttered. Seoyeon had carried them back here herself. Her body shook at the thought of what must have happened, what Seoyeon had done to survive.

Fear settled deep in her bones. Even as Seoyeon clung to her that night, trembling and sobbing into her chest, Yooyeon felt herself retreating. Her arms held tight, but her heart pulled back, building a wall of obedience to keep herself safe. And so she became what the facility wanted: a model STEMCAST. Quiet. Compliant. Docile. She told herself it was survival. But deep down, she knew it was cowardice.

Her shame had festered ever since. She had abandoned Seoyeon. Abandoned the others. All for the hollow safety of obedience. Even now, with the dandelion blooming around her, her hands still felt dirty. Joining Seoyeon’s rebellion could never erase the way she ran from her when it mattered most.

Her fingers curled tightly around the resin keychain, the dandelion pressed into her palm. Tears stung, but her voice was steady as she whispered into the dark:

“I won’t fail you this time, Seoyeon…”

Her lips trembled as she breathed the second vow.

“I won’t fail you this time either… Soomin.”

Chapter Text

Chaewon remembered Hayeon’s gentle warning, whispered like an older sister’s plea: Don’t walk alone if you can help it. At the time, she had brushed it off with a laugh, half amused, half impatient. But now, standing in the middle of a ring of Wallkeepers from Headquarters, she felt that warning crush down on her chest like a weight. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird against its cage.

The circle of black uniforms closed in around her, boots heavy against the sterile floor, faceless stares pinning her in place. There were far too many of them — absurd for a girl like her, as if she were some dangerous criminal who needed to be subdued. Her throat dried out, panic clawing at the back of it, but she forced herself to smile, the sound brittle in her ears.

“Why so many?” she joked, her voice pitching a little too high. “Am I a criminal or something?”

“You have been summoned by the Crownroot for questioning,” one of them said flatly. His voice carried the cold, mechanical edge of someone repeating a line rehearsed a hundred times.

Crownroot. The word struck her like a bell tolling doom. The blood drained from her face. Seoyeon’s hurried words from yesterday seared through her memory: Beware of the Crownroot. She’s hunting. She’s going to go crazy this time.

“You may remain silent as we escort you there,” the man continued. Chaewon’s gaze dropped to his chest. Blank. No name tag. She looked around. None of them had names. Their anonymity felt like a shroud, faceless, predatory.

She caught the faint squeak of leather as the man flexed his gloved fingers, slow, deliberate, like he was testing the fragility of her skin. Their shadows stretched long across the sterile floor, closing over her shoes as though they meant to swallow her whole. She could feel the weight of their stares now — no longer professional, no longer neutral. Something sharper lingered beneath the surface, a tension that crawled over her skin. The formation around her tightened like a noose. The realization struck her all at once: if they wanted, she could vanish right here, swallowed into their silence, and no one would ever know how.

Her knees weakened. Her body screamed to run, but her legs stayed locked, frozen by the trap she couldn’t escape. A hollow sound left her throat, barely a whisper. “I… I can walk myself.”

The guard’s stare pinned her in place. For a heartbeat she saw Shion again—the way they had shoved her against the corridor wall, laughing as if her small body were nothing. The memory stole Chaewon’s breath until — a shadow cut across her.

She jerked, expecting another faceless figure. But instead, someone slipped smoothly into place at her side. Calm. Composed. Her presence so ordinary, it should have blended into the group. But Chaewon’s breath caught when the faint glimmer at the woman’s neck caught the light: a pendant, delicate and small, its resin catching the faint shape of a dandelion. Fragile. Quiet. Yet brighter than all the black that threatened to devour her.

Kotone.

Her posture was perfect obedience, her face unreadable — every inch the loyal figure the facility expected. But the shift was instant. The Wallkeepers’ rhythm faltered, just barely, the silence around them breaking into something unsettled. Kotone didn’t move threateningly. She didn’t even touch Chaewon. Yet her presence altered the air, carved open a gap in the suffocating ring.

Chaewon’s breath returned in a shaky rush. Her fear didn’t vanish, but it loosened, enough for her heart to stop its frantic hammering. She met Kotone’s eyes for only a heartbeat. It was enough.

The message was clear, silent and steady as stone.

You’re not alone.

Kotone stepped forward with practiced ease, her movement so smooth it almost melted into the Wallkeepers’ formation. Her head bowed slightly, the posture of someone apologizing for an inconvenience rather than challenging authority. Her voice, when it came, was steady and low, the very picture of obedience.
“She’s in my care,” Kotone said softly. “If Crownroot has questions, I’ll deliver her myself.”

The words landed like a ripple in the silence. The men stilled, the tension slackening by a thread. Their eyes flicked to one another, measuring, uneasy. Kotone’s reputation preceded her — the quiet soldier, unfailingly loyal, never resistant, never a blemish of defiance on her record. If anyone could be trusted to bring a subject to Catherine, it was her.

“Orders are orders,” one of them muttered at last, his gloved hand tightening around the baton at his side. The words sounded firm, but there was a waver underneath, something brittle.

Kotone inclined her head, her lashes lowering to veil her gaze. “Of course,” she murmured, letting silence stretch just enough before adding, “But you know how Crownroot is when she’s… interrupted.” The pause was gentle, almost hesitant, but its weight landed sharp. Everyone in the Dome knew Catherine’s temper, how quickly obedience could dissolve into disaster. “If she wanted the girl dragged here, she would have sent her own escort. Let me take her. You don’t need the punishment for wasting her time.”

The tension shifted instantly. Chaewon, caught in the center, felt it in the subtle change of their shoulders, the taut grip of their hands. They weren’t afraid of her — they were afraid of Catherine. And Kotone had struck the nerve cleanly.

Silence stretched long enough to crush the air out of Chaewon’s lungs. She could taste iron on her tongue, the effort of swallowing her fear. Her knees still trembled, though her body screamed for her to stand firm. She felt like prey waiting for the predator’s decision.

Finally, one of the guards exhaled sharply, dismissive, irritated. He gestured with a flick of his hand. “Fine. Do it fast. If she runs, it’s your neck.”

Kotone bowed again, hiding the flicker of relief that crossed her face. “Understood.”

And then she turned to Chaewon. Her hand rose, settling lightly on her shoulder. To the Wallkeepers, it was nothing but a guiding gesture — firm control, the image of protocol. But Chaewon felt it: the brief, steady squeeze of Kotone’s fingers, the silent message hidden in the pressure.

You’re safe. Just follow me.

From somewhere deep in the compound, a guard’s order carried through the vents: “Eyes down. Move.” The words scraped twice across the corridor, as if the walls themselves had learned to parrot them.

One Wallkeeper frowned, muttering about bad acoustics, but the echo had already faded. In confinement, Joobin pressed her mouth to the metal grate, lips curling around the stolen syllables. She repeated them under her breath until the tone was perfect — sharp, cold, indistinguishable from the real thing.

No one saw her. No one ever did. But the sound had already slipped free, a phantom voice stitching itself into the air beyond her cell.

“You’re safe now,” Kotone said at last, her voice low, measured — a fragile promise dressed in obedience. The words hung between them like a weight, not because Chaewon doubted her, but because Kotone herself did.

They walked together, step for step, Chaewon’s trembling pace shadowed by Kotone’s steadier one. Kotone’s body was calm, posture flawless, but inside, calculation roared like static. She had never been summoned into Catherine’s orbit herself, but she had witnessed enough to learn her patterns. Catherine’s cruelty had a rhythm: she flared, she burned, and then she quieted. Staff whispered about her temper; Kotone had seen the bruises those whispers couldn’t hide, the vacant smiles of those who returned late at night. Catherine didn’t see colleagues — she saw toys, “punching bags of pleasure,” broken and repaired at her whim.

Kotone had learned the only way to survive was to obey. Never resist. Never argue. Bend, but never break. Tonight, that obedience had been her weapon. She had slipped Chaewon into Catherine’s sightline when the storm was passing, when rage dulled into that dangerous calm. Kotone bowed when she needed to bow, spoke when silence would have been defiance, moved only when commanded. Because she had built her reputation on never faltering, Catherine allowed her. That same loyalty — the loyalty that had hollowed Kotone out for years — became their shield.

Only when the heavy door shut behind them did Chaewon’s breath shudder loose. “Thank you…” The words cracked, small, barely there. “I’ve heard what she’s like. What she can do.”

Kotone’s throat tightened, but she forced her tone into something neutral. “Her ability is scent,” she explained, matter-of-fact, as though reciting from a report. “It manipulates you before you even notice. That’s why I told you — stay near me, not her.” She hesitated, gaze lowering. “Just… don’t tell Hayeon you were brought to her. Not when it was because of me.”

Chaewon blinked, startled, then smiled softly despite the tremor still in her lips. “You know Hayeon too? She’s been so protective of me lately… Don’t worry. I’ll keep it a secret.”

The words should have eased Kotone. Instead, guilt pressed deeper into her chest, hot and suffocating. Gratitude felt like something she hadn’t earned, not when obedience had cost others so dearly before.

“I appreciate it,” Kotone murmured, letting the words scrape against her teeth. Relief flickered only when Chaewon’s dorm came into view at the end of the hall. “Thank you for trusting me. I’m glad I could help.”

But Chaewon’s eyes caught on something else — the faint glimmer at Kotone’s throat, the resin pendant suspended on its chain. A dandelion, fragile and impossible. “If it wasn’t for that,” she said quietly, pointing, “I don’t think I could have trusted you at all.” Her smile returned, softer now, but it carried a warning edge. “Be careful. If they find out…”

Kotone almost laughed, though the sound curled bitter in her chest. “They already did. Three years ago, they allowed crafts — jewelry, little trinkets. Harmless. They can’t outlaw what they permitted themselves. So they look at this,” she touched the pendant, “and confuse themselves into silence.”

Chaewon tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “Seoyeon… Yoon Seoyeon thought of everything so well.”

Kotone’s lips thinned, the guilt flaring bright behind her ribs. “That’s why she’s our leader,” she whispered. The words weren’t just acknowledgment. They were penance.

A final nod. Chaewon slipped inside her dorm, the lock clicking shut. The echo left Kotone standing alone in the sterile hall, her shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

The door sealed with a dull click, and for the first time Chaewon let her shoulders sag. The silence of the dorm pressed heavier than the guards’ boots had. From the corner, Hayeon rose slowly, her hands clenched tight at her sides.

“I should have done more,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the floorboards. “I told you not to walk alone, but I let it end there. If I’d pushed harder… if I’d gone with you—” Her voice thinned, unraveling into air.

Chaewon shook her head, a fragile smile breaking through the fatigue. “You were right to warn me. You saved me, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

Hayeon’s lips pressed shut, but the guilt lingered, thick as smoke. She sat back down, the vow unspoken but burning all the same: she wouldn’t let Chaewon face the patrols alone again.

[Mature Content Incoming; Skip if you feel uncomfortable]

Midnight had long since passed, but the aftertaste of Catherine’s office clung to her tongue like smoke. She wanted nothing more than to collapse, to let silence smother her thoughts for just a few hours.

She turned the corner — and arms seized her, yanking her into shadow before her breath even caught.

Kotone’s hand trembled around the trigger, her breath still sharp from the long night. The moment Mayu stepped out of the dark and lifted her hands with that sheepish grin, Kotone’s heart almost gave out.

“Mayu—nee?!” Her voice cracked, caught between disbelief and scolding.

Mayu only chuckled, lowering her own weapon before sliding forward into Kotone’s arms. The familiar weight of her, the way her perfume lingered in the air, hit Kotone like a storm breaking. But exhaustion pulled at her bones. She kept her arms stiff at her side, even as Mayu pressed close.
“Can’t you just call me normally for once?” Kotone muttered, still scowling. “What if I had hurt you…”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Mayu whispered, tilting her head up, palms warm against Kotone’s cold face. “My Tone could never hurt me. You knew it was me from the start, didn’t you?”

Kotone’s eyes fluttered shut, the words sinking into the cracks of her tired heart. “I only let my guard down because I’m so tired…” she admitted, the guilt heavy in her tone. A beat passed before she sighed. “But yeah. I noticed your perfume. And your footsteps.”

Mayu’s giggle was soft, private, like it belonged to only them. “Aren’t you going to hug me?”

Kotone broke. She pulled Mayu in, holding her so tightly it almost hurt, as if she could shield her from the whole facility. Mayu melted into her, no questions, no judgment. She didn’t even ask about headquarters, didn’t demand explanations. She only pressed closer, whispering, “All I want is you. Just a hug. Just time with my girlfriend.”

Kotone’s chest ached at that word — girlfriend. It broke something inside her, made the walls she always kept up crumble. She buried her face against Mayu’s shoulder, lips ghosting over skin, before leaning back just enough for their foreheads to touch. Her arms tightened too hard around Mayu, the tremor in her grip betraying just how close she was to breaking apart. Mayu gave a soft, startled gasp against her mouth when Kotone kissed her again, rougher, almost desperate. For a moment Kotone hated herself for the force in it — until Mayu’s answering kiss steadied her, grounding the storm back into something tender.

Kotone kissed back harder than she meant to, months of restraint unraveling all at once. The press of Mayu’s mouth was sweet, but Kotone’s response was urgent, hungry, swallowing the small laugh that spilled against her lips before turning it into another kiss, then another. Her hands were restless — sliding up Mayu’s back, gripping her waist tight, dragging her closer until no space remained between them.

Mayu melted into it, her own hands threading through Kotone’s hair, tugging just enough to pull a gasp from her lips. Kotone’s breath hitched, and the sound made Mayu giggle against her mouth, only for Kotone to silence it with another hard kiss. Playful, aching, desperate — their mouths found each other again and again, until Kotone let Mayu push her back against the wall, shadows wrapping around them.

Kotone caught Mayu’s wrist, kissed each trembling fingertip, then pulled her in by the collar, deepening the kiss until Mayu’s knees buckled. Kotone’s grip tightened, fingers digging into her hip. The more Mayu whimpered, the less Kotone could hold herself back. Her hand slid lower, tracing down the curve of Mayu’s waist, squeezing her thigh, pressing her closer until Mayu broke into a soft, bitten-off moan.

“Tone—” Mayu’s voice cracked, half-warning, half-plea, her breath stuttering as Kotone’s hand slipped beneath the hem of her uniform. Kotone’s palm burned against bare skin, rough from restraint training, now trembling with something else entirely. She traced up Mayu’s ribs, then down again, lower, testing the edge of Mayu’s composure. Mayu’s body trembled against hers, hands clutching at Kotone’s shoulders like she might fall apart if she let go.

Kotone’s breath was ragged, her forehead pressed to Mayu’s temple as her hand slipped deeper, fingers finally finding their way between trembling thighs. Mayu’s gasp echoed off the wall, quickly smothered when Kotone kissed her hard enough to swallow the sound. Her fingers moved deliberately, rougher than she meant, but every broken noise Mayu made against her lips shattered another piece of her restraint.

Mayu clung tighter, muffling moans against Kotone’s shoulder, trying and failing to stay quiet as Kotone’s pace grew insistent. Kotone kissed every sound away, her free hand holding Mayu’s jaw, forcing her to meet her gaze even as her body buckled. “Mine,” Kotone breathed against her lips, the word torn out of her, desperate and raw.

Mayu’s answer came in the way she broke apart in Kotone’s arms, her voice trembling into Kotone’s mouth as she shuddered through release. Kotone held her, fingers slowing only when Mayu collapsed fully against her chest, boneless and trembling. She kissed her through it, softer now, tender, until Mayu’s breath finally steadied.

Silence returned, thick and fragile, but Mayu was the first to giggle, her voice muffled against Kotone’s neck. “You’re so mean when you’re tired…”

Kotone couldn’t help it — she laughed too, quiet and breathless, forehead resting against Mayu’s. She kissed her again, gentler this time, sweet and unhurried. One kiss, then another, lazy and tender, giggles mixing with whispers. She brushed the hair from Mayu’s damp face, thumb tracing her cheek with reverence, and Mayu smiled like she didn’t care if the world fell apart outside this shadow.

For once, survival wasn’t the priority. For once, it was just this — holding Mayu close, kissing her slow, and letting the world wait.

[End of Mature Content]

That morning, Hyungseo nearly tripped when her eyes fell on the small box sitting neatly on her bed. It hadn’t been there the night before. Kaede told her someone must have placed it while she was away, but couldn’t say who. Hyungseo frowned, uneasy. Nothing passed through security unchecked. If this had made it in, then it meant either someone on the inside wanted it here… or the system itself was cracking.

She sat down slowly, sliding the lid open.

An old MP3 player rested inside, scratched metal dulled with age. Out of place. A relic. A folded paper lay next to it. She picked it up, unfolding it with hesitant fingers.

Dear Kim Hyungseo

Her name. The real one. Not the clipped version stamped into her badge.

I hope with this, you will know
That you have been lied to.
You have been betrayed.
And you deserve to do anything for revenge.

— YSY

Her throat tightened. She set the paper down, reaching for the player, headset slipping over her ears with trembling hands. Only one file blinked on the tiny screen: OBS-441.

With a deep breath, she pressed play.

At first came the static, thin and crackling. Then — a sound. Soft at first, almost indistinct. But it grew clearer.

A voice. Broken. Choked by sobs.

Her stomach dropped. She knew that voice.

Nakyoung.

Her sister’s cries bled through the static, desperate, terrified. And beneath them, the faint metallic echo she remembered all too well — the same soundtracks they used in punishment rooms, the ones meant to break subjects until nothing remained.

Hyungseo’s breath stuttered. Her hands shook so badly the player slipped, clattering to the floor, but she couldn’t unhear it. That sound was carved into her memory now.

“…No… no, no, no…” Her whisper was barely audible, her chest heaving.

And then, unbidden, Crownroot’s voice from years ago cut through her mind like a knife.

She remembered it now with startling clarity — standing stiff-backed in front of Catherine’s polished desk, the cold scent of antiseptic in the air, Crownroot’s shadow stretching across her like a brand. Catherine’s voice had been smooth then, sharp as iron, every word falling like a chain Hyungseo had willingly clasped around her own neck.

“We won’t be getting your sister if you choose to devote your life to the security of this facility. We will make sure she is safe outside of the facility.”

The promise that bound her. The only reason she endured, obeyed, sacrificed everything.

Her knees buckled, body trembling as the weight of it all crashed over her.

Safe outside. That was the lie. The voice on the tape proved it. Nakyoung had never been outside. Nakyoung had been here, suffering, crying. Punished like the rest.

Hyungseo pressed her hands over her ears as if she could shut it out, but the sound wouldn’t stop. Her sister’s sobs tangled with the memory of Crownroot’s calm promise until it hollowed her out completely.

“Nakyoung…” The name slipped out raw, torn from her throat, more a prayer than a word. Tears spilled, burning down her cheeks. “You were here all along… and I—”

Her voice broke.

The MP3 player lay where it had fallen, silent now, but its echo carved her open.

Chapter Text

Something felt off.

Yubin had memorized the rhythm of the guards outside their dorm — same man, same uniform, same circuit of footsteps that scratched their pattern into her bones. Predictable. Contained. But today, the air shifted. The boots still marched, but the uniforms were wrong. Not the standard forest-green she knew. These were darker, sharper, cut differently. The fabric gleamed like polished oil under the sterile lights, and it unnerved her.

She caught sight of them circling again and again, orbiting the dorm like vultures picking at the edge of a carcass. Her skin prickled as she pretended to stretch outside her door, arms high as though loosening her back, eyes narrowed just enough to watch. Their movement was too deliberate. Every hand rested on a weapon — not batons this time, but rifles. Guns. Real ones. Her mouth went dry.

Her nerves snapped taut. For one reckless second, she kicked into Acceleration Burst, the world stretching into sharp lines as she bolted to the corridor’s blind spot. She pressed against the wall, lungs searing from the sudden speed, praying the blur of her movement hadn’t drawn eyes. When the rush faded, she trembled — but the glimpse she caught told her enough. They were armed. Waiting.

She wasn’t alone. Across the hall’s shadows, Xinyu flickered into sight, her Ethereal Cloak peeling back just enough to reveal Sohyun pressed to her side. The two slipped by in silence, moving like a single shadow. Yubin’s throat tightened — proof she wasn’t the only one awake to the danger.

What the hell is going on?

Her pulse quickened, a frantic staccato she tried to mask with a yawn. There were no badges pinned to their chests, no names to tether them to. Anonymous, faceless, like shadows clothed in human skin. The way they spread out around the dorm, fencing it in, felt wrong — too careful, too alert. Not like guardians, more like hunters waiting for prey to twitch.

Yubin forced herself back inside, each step heavy, deliberate, as though slowness could hide the panic pressing up her throat. She lay down on her bunk, body rigid, then rolled onto her side and shut her eyes. Fake it. Breathe steady. When she dared to peek, she saw them outside her window, standing motionless, silhouettes blotting out the hall light. Watching. Watching her.

Her heart hammered so loudly she thought they would hear it. She pressed her face deeper into her pillow, feigning sleep. A minute passed. Another. Finally, their shadows moved on. Relief came like a gasp she dared not release.

She sat up only when the blind spot of the CCTV in her room wrapped around her like a thin shield. Hands trembling, she pulled out the scrap of paper and pencil she kept hidden and wrote quickly, in the jagged codes Jiwoo had drilled into them until her knuckles ached.

The Wallkeepers are changing.
I don’t know why, but they’re carrying guns everywhere…
Did something happen?

Her hand hovered after the last line, sweat slicking her grip. She stared at the words until they blurred, terror clawing at her ribs. She hadn’t realized until now how much she’d relied on the familiarity of routine, the small predictabilities that kept her fear at bay. But with one shift in uniform, one gleam of unfamiliar metal, everything felt like it was cracking.

In that moment, there was only one name she clung to, a single presence she played on repeat in her mind to keep the crushing anxiety at bay: Jiwoo. The silly, radiant giant who had become the sun to her endless parade of gray. Just the thought of her laugh, the way she filled every space with warmth, steadied Yubin’s breath when nothing else could. How she wished Jiwoo were here now — arms open, steady and unshakable, pulling her in until the world’s noise dissolved. How she ached for that comfort, that touch, that simple proof that she wasn’t alone in this suffocating place.

“I want to see my daughter!”
“She always sent me a message… why did it stop?”
“Let us see our daughters!”

The voices rise in waves, cracking with grief, swelling with anger. A sea of parents crowds around the steel gates of the Dandelion Project’s Dome, their hands clutching posters, old photographs, and letters yellowed by years of waiting. Some kneel. Some scream. Some simply press their foreheads to the cold barrier as if sheer closeness could breach it.

This protest isn’t new. It’s been burning at the gates for decades, a wound that never closes. It began with one woman — a single mother who refused to leave until she was allowed to see her daughter. She had been turned away, her demands answered not with compassion but with handcuffs. Days later, she was found dead in a cell. Suicide, they said. A final act of despair.

Her death became the spark. Year after year, more families joined. Fathers, mothers, grandparents. They carried their grief to these gates and left it here, woven into the chain-link fences like offerings: dolls tied to the bars, ribbons marked with names, candles flickering in the dirt. And yet, no matter how long they’ve stayed, no matter how many times they’ve shouted, no answers have ever come. No police reports. No media coverage. No statement from the facility. Just silence.

And still, they return. Still, they cry out.

This is what the world doesn’t want you to see.

The camera pans over the crowd, voices breaking into chants, sobs catching on every syllable. Behind the mic, the narrator’s tone is sharp, clipped with frustration but heavy with sorrow.

“This,” they say, “has been your eyes inside the silence. The cries of parents who only want to see their daughters — daughters who entered the Dandelion Project and never came back out. Decades of begging, decades of loss, decades of doors slammed shut. Ask yourself — what’s being hidden behind those walls? Why won’t the world look? Why won’t the authorities speak?”

The video ends, the screen fading into black.

“This has been yours truly, The Future Conspirator. Like, share, and subscribe if you believe their voices deserve to be heard.”

Mayu let out a long, weary sigh as her fingers brushed over the charred edges of another prescription slip — the fifth one to be burned beyond recognition. The letters, the codes they had risked so much to pass, erased in silence. Once, she thought she could collect them secretly, like before, slipping them between her books or hidden under stacks of reports. But nothing was the same anymore. The net was closing in, and every day the walls pressed tighter around her.

Isolation had become absolute. Communication between subjects was cut to scraps, and even the staff weren’t spared. Mayu and Kotone — once able to exchange words in stolen moments — now found their every glance weighed, their every sentence dissected. Especially Kotone. Mayu could see it, how eyes followed her in the corridors, how footsteps always echoed too close behind. Protecting Chaewon once had been dangerous. Twice had been reckless. By the third time, it was enough to brand Kotone a target.

And it wasn’t just them. Kaede and Dahyun, once adored, once untouchable in their own batch, now felt the same chains tightening around them. Even within-batch interactions — once so ordinary they went unquestioned — carried suspicion. Mayu’s chest tightened as paranoia sank its claws deeper. What if they had noticed? What if they had pieced together the letters, the hidden codes, the quiet looks that lasted a heartbeat too long? Catherine’s rage after Seoyeon’s open defiance still lingered in the air like smoke. Mayu herself had been left untouched, yes — but never unsupervised. The Wallkeepers from Headquarters stalked her steps, their presence heavy enough to crush the air from her lungs whenever they passed by.

She remembered Yubin whispering about the strange changes in the guards, the black uniforms that didn’t belong, the faceless patrols armed with guns. At the time, Mayu had read that letter with unease. Now, as she watched the shadows cluster at her own door, she understood. The suffocation wasn’t just real — it was escalating.

Her thoughts snapped to the children in confinement, the girls hidden behind steel and silence. If she was drowning here, what horrors were they enduring? The image twisted her stomach until bile rose in her throat.

“What would Seoyeon do…” she whispered, almost without meaning to.

The question lingered, sharp and heavy, until resolve settled cold in her chest. Mayu drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes, forcing her other senses to sharpen. Slowly, like sketches unfurling in her mind, she pieced the world together: voices echoing down the halls, the careless rhythm of guards joking among themselves, the metallic weight of guns shifting in their hands. And beneath it all, a sound that made her stomach turn — low, disgusting moans leaking from a distant corridor, pleasure twisted into something predatory. She flinched, lips curling in disgust, and shifted her focus away, sketching the map in her mind.

Three to the north.
Three to the south.
Three to the east.
Three to the west.

They circled her office like vultures waiting for a corpse to collapse. And it was only morning. By evening, she knew, it would only grow worse.

Her eyes snapped open. Her gaze fell to the window, where the faint light of day fought against the shadow of black uniforms. Then to her desk, where the fresh prescription slip waited, codes scrawled neatly in her notebook. Her fingers lingered over it, trembling. If she delayed, she might not get another chance. If she waited, there might not be a later.

The prescription slip burned against her palm. She forced her steps steady as she neared the confinement wing, where a narrow slit in the door revealed a sliver of dim light. Mayu’s fingers brushed the gap, slipping the folded code through. For a heartbeat, silence. Then a pale hand snatched it.

Sullin’s eyes flashed behind the slit, hollow but alight as she mouthed a single word: “Alive.” The paper vanished, but that brief spark carved itself into Mayu’s chest. Cross-batch, across walls, their chain still held.

The thought struck with the sharp clarity of survival. She needed to deliver the messages now. If she didn’t, she might not be alive to deliver them at all.

It was almost laughable — how a uniform, just a simple change of clothes, could make Nien invisible. The black fabric itched against her skin, stiff and suffocating, but it worked. She had slipped past security without so much as a second glance, each step echoing with Kotone’s words that burned in her chest like scripture:

Slip into this uniform and act like the Wallkeepers. They barely remember which Wallkeepers have gone — death erases them easily. They kill people and forget their names. You can go to the tunnel. I’ve marked the box where everything we need will be. Just be careful. You’re still in the clear for being cooperative, so stay safe.

The old prescription with coded scribbles pressed against her ribs, tucked carefully in her pocket. That little piece of paper felt heavier than the uniform itself — heavier, even, than the lantern she fumbled to light. The flame sputtered, then bloomed, its glow pushing back the black around her just enough to see the tunnel stretch before her like the throat of some beast.

Her feet slowed when she reached the corner. Their corner.

Memory struck sharp, cruel.

“Why did you even like reading here?” she had asked once, leaning against the damp wall, trying to sound casual.
“You know they don’t allow us to read, right?” Chaeyeon shot back, half daring, half scolding.
Nien had only grinned. “Is that why?”
Chaeyeon had nodded, eyes sparkling.

Gosh, she misses Chaeyeon. She’d barely worked up the courage to confess—maybe even ask her out—when the new restrictions slammed shut and turned every hallway into a warning. Meanwhile Sohyun and Xinyu moved like they were made for each other, easy and certain, and even Lynn already had that budding thing with Nakyoung; everywhere Nien looked, love kept finding ways to bloom in concrete. But with Chaeyeon? It felt like she was going nowhere, stuck at the edge of almost. And yet Chaeyeon was clearly pulled toward her—she said it over and over, how much she liked Nien around, how much she wanted her there at all times, how she wished they’d be warming each other up in more ways than one. That last part always wrecked Nien; she’d blush so hard she had to look away, pretending to check a vent or the time, anything to hide how her pulse went stupid. She can see her now: that cute little smile, the way her eyes lit—just a fraction—when she talked about her favorite food; the way she’d grumpily scold Nien for being reckless and then stand too close anyway, like she was the only person allowed to be mad and near. God, she misses that girl so much it makes her ribs feel thin.

She drags a breath through her teeth, tells herself to focus, to move, to check the supply box Kotone promised and not sink into the ache. But the ache steadies her, too. Wanting Chaeyeon is the only thing that still feels simple in a world engineered to be cruel. So she lets the longing burn a clean line through the panic, tucks it beside the coded prescription in her pocket, and keeps going.

The box Kotone had promised was there, pressed into the stone so well it almost vanished into the ruin. Nien dimmed down the lantern, eyes narrowing as its glow bled against the stone. That’s when she saw it — the big gray box, its surface rough and scuffed, blending almost seamlessly with the ruin around it. For a moment she almost missed it, its color the same sickly shade as the concrete. Clever. Camouflage. Probably built that way, hidden in plain sight.

She clenched the lantern between her teeth, freeing her hands. The metal pressed hard against her jaw, biting into her gums as she grunted, prying at the lid. The box creaked open, hinges stiff with dust and rust. Her eyes swept through the contents quickly, heart racing at the sight of carefully packed supplies. Relief surged—until a noise broke behind her.

Her breath caught sharp in her throat. Instinct snapped her hands shut on the box. She lowered the lid silently, every movement exaggeratedly careful, like even the scrape of metal might betray her. The lantern trembled in her grip as she pulled it free from her teeth, its light jerking shadows across the tunnel walls.

Step by step, she turned toward the sound. The hairs on her arms prickled, her pulse climbing into her ears. The lantern’s glow caught on something odd jutting from the crumbling wall ahead. Fabric. Just a scrap at first, ragged and gray, wedged between cracks of stone.

Nien frowned, curiosity tangling with dread. “What the hell is this—”

Her voice faltered as she reached out, fingers brushing the fabric. She tugged once.

And the wall gave a sickening crack.

A crack split. Dust burst out, choking the air. Nien stumbled back, lantern swinging wildly as the stone gave way, collapsing in a thunderous spill. She coughed, lungs clawing for air, but then froze.

The dust cleared.

Skeletons.

Dozens. No — more than she could count. Tangled together, half-buried, half-revealed. Bones curled small as children, larger ones cradling nothing but emptiness. Clothing clung to the ruins of them, shredded and rotting. Toys scattered among them — a cracked doll, a shoe too tiny, its strap still clinging to a skeletal ankle.

Children.

Her breath hitched, strangled. The lantern trembled in her hand. It felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the tunnel, like the dust itself was choking her. Her vision blurred as tears burned, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks. No… no, no, no—

Then — the shout.

“WHO’S THERE?!”

The voice cracked like a whip through the tunnel, and Nien’s body reacted before her mind. She snapped the lantern shut, plunging herself into darkness so thick it was suffocating. Her back hit the cold stone as she slid down, hiding herself between broken ruins.

Her heart thundered, loud enough she was sure they could hear it. Her hands pressed hard against her mouth to choke back any sound. But the image burned behind her eyelids — bones, toys, tiny shoes. Footsteps drew closer, slow and deliberate.

The ruins pressed tight around her, the stench of dust and rot heavy in her lungs. Tremors wracked her body, but she forced herself still, praying the darkness would keep her.

If they found her, she wouldn’t just vanish. She would join them. Another skeleton in the wall.

Chapter Text

Lynn had tried everything. Or had she really?

When Seoyeon first asked her to make something like a listening bug, she had managed it easily enough. Plants always bent toward her, their tiny fibers carrying whispers if she asked them to. It had felt almost effortless, weaving her ability into something useful. But of course, the facility noticed. The bug was gone within a month, confiscated without a word. Lynn should have felt defeated, but a small, bitter satisfaction lingered — if they had bothered to take it, it must have worked.

Then came the problem of security. Mayu had reported doors being forced open, confinement girls waking to the sickening sight of the Red Vigil standing over them, silent, watching. Lynn had worked furiously then, coaxing her plants into armor, into barriers that clung to walls and doors like shadows. When a quiet letter arrived later, thanking her — we can finally sleep again — she had clutched it to her chest, shaking with relief. For once, she had done something right.

But Seoyeon’s next idea had been the hardest: a way to speak to one another, something like a phone, but alive, something green. A plant that could carry voices. It sounded simple, but to Lynn, it was nearly impossible. Too many risks. Too obvious. A sudden identical pot of greenery in every room would draw suspicion instantly. She had been stuck on it for days, sketching useless diagrams in her notebook, her pencil digging grooves into the paper.

And then a new letter arrived, smuggled from confinement. From someone Lynn didn’t even know — Yeonji. A stranger. But the girl’s determination burned through every line of ink. Her idea wasn’t polished, but it was insistent, begging to be tried. Lynn stared at it, chewing her lip raw, frustration threatening to spill over.

Dear Lynn-nim
would it be possible to create a plant that can collect electricity?
If the day of us rebelling against this place come
I’ve got an idea

Kwak Yeonji

Her eyes drifted then, catching on the small black cat sticker plastered on the corner of her sketchbook. She froze, breath hitching. Nakyoung.

Her fingers trembled as they traced the sticker’s edge. If she could make Seoyeon’s impossible idea work — if she could really create a way to carry voices — then maybe, just maybe, she could hear Nakyoung’s voice again. The thought split her open. Hope and pain tangled inside her until she felt almost dizzy.

Then the air beside her bed rippled — a sudden thinning, like heat bending glass. For a breath, Nakyoung’s outline flickered into being: wide eyes, lips trembling on an unspoken word. And then she was gone, leaving only silence and Lynn’s ragged inhale.

Suddenly…

A ruckus from the next room.

Lynn’s head jerked up immediately. Nien.

She remembered — Nien had gone down into the tunnels to check Kotone’s supply box. But that had been six hours ago. Six hours. Lynn scanned the dorm, expecting guards to react, but no one even blinked. Not one of them cared.

A knot tightened in her stomach. Quietly, she slipped her own door open, pressing herself close to the frame as she peered toward Nien’s window.

There she was, dressed in uniform — the disguise Kotone had arranged — but her face was pale, distraught, eyes wide and hollow as if she’d left something vital behind in the dark. Lynn’s pulse spiked. Something had happened down there. Something bad.

For a moment, Lynn nearly stepped forward. Her legs wanted to carry her to Nien’s side, to knock on that door, to demand to know what had broken her like this. But her body froze in place, pinned by the weight of surveillance, by the dread of what attention it might draw. If she reached out, she could drag them both into danger. If she stayed put, Nien would face it alone.

Her hand curled tighter around the doorframe, nails biting into wood. Breath shallow, she forced herself to remain hidden, watching from the shadows as Nien slumped in silence. The sight of her — alive but shaken to her core — sent unease crawling over Lynn’s skin.

Whatever Nien had seen in that tunnel, it was enough to haunt her.
And Lynn couldn’t shake the question pressing down on her chest: What in the world had Nien brought back with her from the dark?

Dear Dandelions,

If this letter has reached you, it means Mayu-eonnie is still safe — watched, yes, but not yet in danger. Take comfort in that, even if it is only for now.

I write to you in this formal way because I must. Nien’s report from the forgotten tunnel left me no choice but to make things clear. What I am about to say may unsettle you, but it is truth — and truth is all we have left.

The number you wear is likely not your own. If you carry a number in the hundreds, it means there were hundreds before you. Lives erased, names stolen, numbers reassigned. The records exist — I have seen them. I cannot send proof; the Wallkeepers watch too closely. But know this: I would not risk writing it if it were not real.

I was among those ordered into silence. Perhaps the only one left who remembers before the so-called first batch arrived. Hyerin, Jiwoo, Chaeyeon, Yooyeon-eonnie, Soomin — they were never the first. They were only told they were.

That is all I can give you now. Let it be enough. Do not falter. Do not back down. Our fight is not only for ourselves, but for the promise that we will be the last numbers this place ever tries to carve into skin and memory.

We are alive. We really are.

With love, always,
YSY

Yooyeon watched as Seoyeon staggered through the dorm, barely awake after the weekly evaluation. It was like watching a corpse move on instinct — a zombie in a girl’s body — her limbs dragging, her eyes glazed, her shoulders trembling under a weight no one else could see. But it wasn’t a corpse. It was Seoyeon. And that hurt more.

Yooyeon had read her letter — the one that nearly got Mayu caught, the one scrawled out in the stolen hours of the night. The one born from Nien’s discovery. Those words still haunted her, the truths that dug under her skin until her chest felt cold. Yet beneath the chill, another, uglier feeling had begun to take root. Mayu and Nien. Two girls from entirely different batches, and yet… Seoyeon had chosen them. Trusted them. Relied on them. Yooyeon could see it clearly now — she was no longer the one Seoyeon turned to. Not close enough to be called a friend anymore, not far enough to be considered a stranger. Somewhere in the hollow, aching middle.

She walked slowly behind Seoyeon, watching her carefully, ready for the inevitable collapse. And then it came — Seoyeon swayed, knees buckling, her head tipping forward as if gravity itself wanted to drag her down into the floor. Yooyeon’s body moved before thought did, arms catching her just before her skull hit the ground. Relief washed through her, sharp and dizzying.

“Are you not sleeping again?” Yooyeon’s voice came out steadier than she felt, though her pulse thundered.

Seoyeon’s lips barely moved, her voice rasping as though pulled from the depths of exhaustion. “Middle of the night. Twelve to two… the only time the cameras are off. The only time we’re out of surveillance…”

Yooyeon’s throat tightened. She had already guessed as much. The letter she’d held in trembling hands was handwritten, every stroke deliberate. To think of Seoyeon staying up through stolen hours, writing all twenty-three letters by hand — it made her chest ache in a way that felt like guilt, admiration, and grief tangled together.

“At least you can sleep well today, no?” Yooyeon tried to keep it light, gently guiding Seoyeon toward her bed. She eased her down carefully, as though the girl might shatter if handled too roughly.

But Seoyeon’s gaze cut to her sharply, her tone firm despite her half-lidded eyes. “You can leave now, eonnie.”

Yooyeon didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The words pressed against her chest like a shove, but her feet stayed rooted to the floor. Her hands itched to keep their hold on Seoyeon, to anchor her there, to stop her from drifting further away. “Let me do a check-up for you,” she said, her voice quiet but stubborn, the plea buried under a mask of practicality.

“I am fine…” Seoyeon’s protest slipped out, thin and unconvincing, a whisper that carried no weight.

Yooyeon swallowed, her throat tight, her pulse raging against her composure. “If our leader falls… who can we put our trust in?” she managed, though what she wanted to say was If you fall, who will I have left? Her tone softened, cracking at the edges, turning almost desperate. “Also… let me take care of you.”

The silence stretched, unbearable. Yooyeon’s chest ached with words she couldn’t release, so the ones that escaped came raw and trembling, the truth she could no longer bury. “I know you don’t want me near, but… I am genuinely worried about you, Seoyeon.”

On the surface, Seoyeon seemed reluctant, stiff under Yooyeon’s careful hands as she began her check-up. But Yooyeon saw the truth in the cracks — the faint blush rising on her cheeks whenever their skin brushed, the way she avoided meeting her gaze as if the contact burned. It stung, sharp and bittersweet. Yooyeon forced her face into composure, hands steady, movements precise, but her pulse betrayed her — hammering, raging, aching with every second she lingered close to the girl who had once chosen her, and might never again.

Jiwoo had never once been fond of violence. She despised it, in fact. With her ability, she would rather have been a baker than a fighter — kneading dough, dusting sugar, watching golden bread rise in an oven. She loved baking. Before she was dragged into this cursed place, she had been a hockey player who always carried baked goods for her teammates after practice, laughing as their hands reached eagerly for her creations. Her fists had never been used to hurt anyone; if a fight ever came too close, she had been the one to step in, to talk it down, to find reason instead of blood.

But everything changed.

The Dome twisted her into something she swore she would never be. Here, survival demanded more than kindness. Here, she had to raise her hands, not only for herself but for those who still refused to fight. Every instinct she once trusted — compassion, patience, her refusal to harm — had been warped into something fragile, breakable. She had learned quickly that mercy did not protect you. Violence did. And the more she fought, the more her heart cracked under the weight of what she was becoming.

Then Seoyeon’s letter arrived that morning. The words had a gravity that clung to Jiwoo long after she read them. The haunting truth unfurled: she and the others were not the first. The so-called “first batch” had been erased, their existence buried. Forgotten. No wonder the cries of parents still echoed beyond those walls. No wonder drones hovered desperately above the Dome, only to be shot down by the Wallkeepers before they could glimpse inside.

Jiwoo’s stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat. She pressed her palms hard against her knees, as if grounding herself could stop the flood of thoughts. If entire groups could vanish like that…

Her breath caught. Yubin.

The image slammed into her chest like a blow: Yubin reduced to nothing more than a number on a roster. A name erased, a body discarded, her warmth and laughter turned into silence. Jiwoo’s chest tightened so sharply it felt like her ribs might crack. She couldn’t even let herself imagine it, couldn’t bear the thought. If Yubin was swallowed by the same void that had consumed those before them, Jiwoo knew a part of her would vanish too.

Her fists clenched, trembling. She stared at them with something like betrayal — these hands that once held flour and sugar, now forced to hold fists and fight.

“Is violence the only answer we have left?” she whispered into the empty air, her voice raw. “Is it really…?”

The question hung unanswered, heavier than the walls pressing in around her.

Chapter Text

“Yooyeon’s audit loop gives us five minutes,” Kaede murmured, checking her watch. “After that, the eyes come back online.”
Nien gave a thin grin. “Plenty.”

“I haven’t even met this Lynn girl, but dang, she’s a genius…” Dahyun muttered with her usual casual tone, though even she couldn’t hide the awe in her voice. “How in the world did she make that thing?”

The tunnel news had spread like wildfire, and though Nien managed to gather three people for inspection, the risk gnawed at her. Groups drew suspicion. Too many shadows moving together always did. That’s why she’d leaned on Lynn’s brilliance to make this possible at all.

“How did you even get your hands on that…?” Chaeyeon asked as she kept pace beside her, curiosity edged with worry. Behind them, Dahyun and Kaede whispered among themselves, marveling at Lynn like she was some untouchable prodigy.

“Lately it’s been hard for me to sleep,” Nien admitted quietly as the air grew colder, the walls narrowing around them. “I asked Lynn if she had something that could help. Turns out, the same sleeping pills she made for Seoyeon work wonders — not just on me… but on those guards too.” She shrugged, trying to play it off, but the weight behind her words lingered.

Chaeyeon studied her in the dim lantern glow, her chest tightening. It had been so long since they’d walked together like this, since the new batch restrictions had pulled them apart. Seoyeon had mentioned trying her ability on the skeletons, desperate to wrestle meaning out of death itself, but it was only now that Chaeyeon realized Nien, too, had been losing sleep. Carrying burdens in silence. Fighting battles alone.

The tunnel swallowed their footsteps, the air thick with dust and secrets. And then, almost without thinking, Chaeyeon drifted closer. Her fingers brushed against Nien’s, hesitant, trembling — and then she laced them together.

Nien startled at first, head snapping toward her, eyes wide in the lantern’s weak light. But after a heartbeat, she squeezed back, her palm warm, grounding. She leaned ever so slightly into Chaeyeon’s side, whispering low, her voice almost breaking, “Thank you… You have no idea how much I needed this.”

Chaeyeon’s lips curved into a small, steady smile. She tightened her hold, her thumb brushing over the back of Nien’s hand. “Then hold on. Hold me as long as you need.”

The words sank deep, and though the tunnel was cold, and though shadows pressed close with the weight of death all around, Chaeyeon caught the faintest flicker at the corner of Nien’s mouth. A fragile smile. Enough to warm her heart in this hollow, suffocating place.

Suddenly…

The air quivered. Nien’s palm pressed to the wall without thinking, and the ground gave a small shudder under their feet—her pulse leaking into stone. No one commented. They all felt it.

“I don’t know…” Kaede crouched low, fingers brushing carefully over the brittle bones. Even the faintest touch seemed enough to reduce them to dust. Her voice was tight, uneasy. “These skeletons… they’re too far gone. Ready to disintegrate at the slightest movement. What about the last one we brought to her?”

Nien shook her head, her shoulders sagging with the weight of disappointment. “She said she got nothing from that one either.” Her exhale came long and heavy, frustration curling at the edges. Seoyeon’s plan had been clear: if they brought Chaeyeon, maybe her Blood Memory could unlock something. But standing here now, in this tomb of silence and bone, it felt pointless. No trace of blood. No lingering essence. Nothing but the cruelty of an ending so absolute Nien didn’t even want to name it.

Chaeyeon knelt a little apart from them, her face pale with effort, her eyes shadowed by exhaustion. Dahyun hovered near, watching her closely, ready to catch her if she faltered. Chaeyeon’s expression twisted, pain and shame mixing as she pressed trembling hands to her knees. “Is this really the limit of my ability…” she whispered, voice cracking under the weight of failure.

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Dahyun urged, crouching beside her. Her tone was gentle but edged with worry. “You might faint.”

Chaeyeon shook her head, desperation spilling over. “B-but there should be something I could do—there should be—” She broke off abruptly, her gaze darting, sharp with sudden realization. “Wait…”

Before anyone could stop her, she seized a jagged shard of metal jutting from the ruins. The sound of tearing skin echoed through the chamber as she dragged it across her palm.

“Chaeyeon!” Dahyun’s scream tore through the silence as blood welled instantly, bright and horrifying against the gloom. She lunged forward, catching Chaeyeon before her body sagged too far.

Nien and Kaede rushed in, fear sparking in their eyes, but Chaeyeon pressed forward through the pain, her jaw clenched tight. She thrust her bleeding hand down, pressing it firmly against one of the skeletons. The blood dripped onto the brittle bones, seeping into cracks, staining ivory that had long since lost its warmth. She squeezed her eyes shut, the tremor of agony visible in every line of her face.

Nien’s breath hitched. Her instinct screamed to stop Chaeyeon before she broke herself apart, but Kaede caught her arm, holding her back with quiet force. “Let her…” she whispered, though even her own voice trembled.

Dahyun stayed on her knees, one hand bracing Chaeyeon’s back in case her body gave out, the other hovering uselessly, helplessly, near her bloodied wrist.

Seconds dragged, heavy and suffocating. Then — Chaeyeon gasped. Her eyes flew open, wide and wet with relief. She pulled her hand back from the skeleton, blood still dripping from her torn skin. Her lips parted, trembling with something close to joy.

“I could see…” Her voice was hoarse, breaking on the words. “I could see something!”

The echo carried in the tunnel, trembling between hope and horror. And for the first time that night, the suffocating silence cracked open — replaced by the fragile spark of possibility.

Dear Dandelions,

News from the tunnel today. Kaede, Dahyun, Nien, Chaeyeon — thank you. You risked everything, and because of you, we know there’s a way. A path leading to the harbor. Maybe even out. Just writing that feels unreal.

But the truth you uncovered… it’s unbearable.

Chaeyeon’s blood showed us what those skeletons were. They weren’t just bones rotting in the dark. They were people. Like us. Taken, used, discarded. Children. Infants. Families. My stomach turned until I thought I’d vomit blood. I can still feel it. The cruelty of this place is bottomless.

And among them… was Dahyun’s family. I don’t have words big enough for that. I’m sorry. I’m sorry we had to know. I’m sorry Chaeyeon had to see their end, to carry their last breath in her mind. She still shakes from it. She shouldn’t have had to. None of us should.

I keep thinking of my own family out there. And I know you all do, too. Wondering if they’re alive, if they’re safe, if they’re searching for us. If they even remember. It hurts to hope, but listen to me: don’t let go. Even when it feels useless, fragile, almost gone—don’t. Because hope is the last thing they can’t burn out of us.

So I’ll say it again and again until it’s carved into us all:
We are alive.
We still breathe. We still resist. We still dream.

We really are alive.

With everything left in me,
YSY

Chaeyeon appeared at her door that morning, her expression careful, a small object resting in her palm. “We found this and it has your name on it,” she said softly, holding it out.

It was a bracelet. A simple woven band, its colors faded with time, yet miraculously intact. The threads still clung together despite the years, despite the dust that dulled its once-bright weave. And there, almost trembling against her vision, was her name stitched into it: Soomin.

Her breath caught. It should have felt like warmth — a tether back to a life before the facility, before everything. Instead, it pressed against her chest like something fragile and sharp, a sweetness edged with pain. Nostalgia, but too blurred to hold. Comfort, but distorted into something almost cruel.

She turned the bracelet over in her hands, fingertips brushing along the frayed knots. It was more than thread; it was memory made tangible. The last trace of a past she could no longer fully claim. Yet the more she stared, the more her temples throbbed, as if memory itself resisted her. Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I see her face?

Whispers slid through the cracks in her mind, faint and disjointed, like voices overheard from another room.

“What is that thing?”
“Oh? That’s her bracelet, has her name on it.”
“Throw that shit away, she won’t need it.”
“Seems like her mom made that for her.”

Her mom. The word felt foreign, almost wrong on her tongue. She had no memory of her mother, only the orphanage walls and the cold monotony of gray days. If she couldn’t even remember how she arrived at the facility, then who had taken this bracelet from her? Who had decided she wasn’t allowed to keep it?

The pain in her head sharpened as she gripped the band tighter, desperate. And then, through the fog, something flickered — a voice, a pair of eyes, both unfamiliar and unbearably close.

“Her name will be?”
“Soomin…”
“Will she take your family name?”
“Yeah…”
“She will be Kim Soomin.”

The words echoed hollowly, slipping further away the harder she tried to catch them. They were almost tender, yet they carried the distance of something half-erased, like ghosts brushing past her ears.

Her breath trembled as she pressed the bracelet to her chest. It wasn’t just a trinket. It was proof that once, before this place, someone had loved her enough to give her a name. And now, it was all she had — fragile, fractured, a memory she wanted to cradle, but could never fully reach.

Hyerin moved before it hit the floor. She didn’t even look—her fingers simply reached, catching the paper an instant before it fell, like she’d seen the path it would take and stepped into it. A tiny smile, gone as quickly as it came.

Chapter Text

“Kotone! It’s been a while!”

“Captain.”

Kotone snapped into a salute, the motion clean, practiced, the perfect reflection of loyalty. His smile widened, proud, almost indulgent, like a man pleased with the tool in his hand. “I heard about your meeting with the Crownroot. She mentioned you by name — said you were an excellent guard.”

Kotone’s lips curved faintly, a mask she had worn for years. “It’s nothing, sir. I’m just doing my job.”

“As long as Crownroot is satisfied with our work,” he chuckled, “the money keeps rolling in. And a few parties inside our place? Nobody’s going to stop us.” His eyes glittered with satisfaction as he leaned closer. “Keep up the good work, Kotone. I know I can trust you.”

Kotone bowed, the motion perfect—then, alone in the supply corridor, she palmed the clipboard and penciled a slightly different code on the manifest. The clipboard always read Nutrient Packs — Batch Two Storage. Every Friday. Same stamp, same seal, same polite nod from the quartermaster. None of them ever asked why the boxes were heavier now.

That word — trust — twisted in her gut like a knife. She bowed, accepted his praise, and walked away, her face an image of composure. But the moment she was alone, the smile fell from her lips. That trust, the very thing that gave her freedom to move without suspicion, pressed on her chest like a weight she could never shrug off. A weight made not of duty, but of Yeonji’s tears — the ones that still visited her every night, dragging her from shallow sleep, staining her dreams with guilt she could not silence.

She crouched in the tunnel now, slipping the last of the guns into the steel box. The air around her was damp and stale, the lantern’s flicker casting uneasy shadows over the walls. A sudden draft rushed from behind, cold and sharp, reminding her of where she stood. Kotone turned.

The mountain of skeletons loomed in the dark — bones piled high, their hollow sockets watching her like silent jurors. And beyond them, the narrow opening to the harbor, a cruel reminder that even here, at the edge of the facility, there was no freedom. The Dome stretched all the way to the sea, sealing them inside like livestock penned for slaughter.

Kotone’s throat tightened. How many had tried before? How many of these bones belonged to girls who once believed they had found a way out? Mothers, daughters, lovers — every set of remains a story cut short. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Their stillness demanded she acknowledge them.

Her hands trembled as she pushed the lid of the box shut, sealing away the weapons. She forced a stone down over it and, with a flick of her ability, stripped its weight to nothing, ensuring no marks, no disturbance would betray her work. Every detail checked twice, her discipline unshaken — but her heart felt anything but steady.

She adjusted her pack, ready to leave the suffocating silence of the tunnel behind. Yet one thought clung to her like a shadow, sharper than fear, heavier than guilt.

There is no secret passage. No forgotten exit. The only way out of this place…

Kotone’s breath shuddered as her eyes fell once more on the bones.

…is through the main gate.

And for the first time in years, she felt the chill certainty that surviving would demand something more dangerous than obedience.

The walk had become its own quiet ritual — one that Mayu secretly clung to. At first, it had been stiff and unnatural, like walking beside a machine disguised as a person. Kotone moved with that same precise, silent efficiency the Wallkeepers were known for, her face unreadable, her footsteps measured. But something shifted the night Kotone had caught her — the night Mayu had nearly died. The memory still lived in Mayu’s chest like a spark; Kotone’s arms catching her before she hit the floor, her voice cracking just once as she whispered her name. From then on, something had softened between them, as if a seam in Kotone’s armor had finally split open.

Now, even as they headed toward the confinement wing — a place thick with dread — Mayu felt a strange calm at Kotone’s side. She had started to notice the small things: the way Kotone’s body angled imperceptibly to shield her whenever someone approached, the flicker of her pulse at her throat when Mayu drew near, the lingering warmth in her grip when she thought Mayu was hurt. Those details gave her a fluttering warmth she had almost forgotten she could feel. For Mayu, it wasn’t a question anymore. She loved Kotone’s presence. And for Kotone… Mayu was beginning to realize, she wasn’t just a responsibility. She was a choice.

“Did you sleep well?” Kotone’s voice cut softly through the dim corridor, her words carrying the weight of someone who already knew the answer.

Mayu shook her head, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “You know it’s hard to sleep when I have to prepare another message to send today.”

Kotone’s eyes flickered briefly — concern, frustration, something deeper — before she nodded. “Do you need me to slip into your room tonight?” The question was quiet, but there was a tremor beneath it, like a fault line.

Mayu’s heart skipped, the sound of Kotone’s words brushing close to something they never said aloud. She smiled softly, but her voice wavered just enough to betray her own longing. “It’s okay, Tone. Having you near is more than enough.”

Kotone’s head tilted slightly, her eyes lingering on Mayu’s face. Then, almost under her breath, but just loud enough to be heard, she whispered, “Not for me.”

The words were a spark in the dark. Mayu felt the heat rise in her cheeks, her pulse quickening. She had known Kotone was protective, but this — this was something else.

“Gosh…” Mayu whispered back, her voice trembling with something tender, something possessive. “You really are mine.”

Kotone’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles — restrained, yet undeniably warm. “Likewise,” she said simply. But the way she said it carried a quiet ache, like a promise too heavy for words.

And for a heartbeat, in the cold shadow of the confinement wing, the two of them walked like there was no one else in the world — two hearts caught between survival and something they were no longer able to name.

Yeonji, Sullin, and Seoah huddled close around Joobin, the faint glow of Mayu’s coded message flickering in their hands like contraband firelight. The words spilled quietly between them, each sentence a reminder of a world that moved without them.

“Lots of things happening out there…” Yeonji muttered, her voice sharp with frustration. She tapped her nails against the floor, the sound quick and restless. “While we’re here… trapped like mice in a cage.”

Sullin’s hand landed gently on her back, steady but firm, as if to anchor her before her thoughts spiraled further. “Seoyeon eonnie told us to keep honing our abilities,” she reminded, her tone calm, almost rehearsed — the kind of steadiness that came from clinging to someone else’s faith when your own faltered. “If we sharpen them now, then when the time comes, we’ll be ready.”

“My echo…” Seoah’s voice broke in, soft as a whisper, though her words carried a fragile kind of pride. “It’s getting stronger. I can push it further now, last longer.” Her eyes darted toward the barred window above as though someone might be listening. “But I hide it. I pretend I’m failing. If they know I’m improving, they’ll use me before I’m ready. And I…” She swallowed hard, knuckles white around her knees. “I don’t want to break before it matters.”

Joobin gave a slow nod, her expression unreadable in the shadows. “Then this is all we can do for now. Survive. Grow in secret.” She folded Mayu’s message with careful precision, as though folding a piece of her own heart into silence.

But Yeonji’s gaze drifted toward the far corner, to the other cell where Jiyeon sat apart, her shadow stretching long against the wall. “What about her?” Yeonji asked, pointing, her voice low, wary. “Will she join us?”

The question hung heavy. Joobin only shrugged, noncommittal, her face unreadable. Seoah tilted her head, uncertainty flickering across her features. But it was Sullin who finally spoke, her tone layered with both resignation and quiet hope.

“If she’s fond of a place where the ceiling isn’t her limit,” she said, eyes fixed on Jiyeon’s hunched silhouette, “then I think she will. If not…” Her words trailed, but the unspoken end was clear. If not, Jiyeon would remain on the other side of the bars — not just of the cell, but of their fragile trust.

The four of them fell into silence again, their breaths mingling in the stale air, each girl clutching her doubts close like another set of chains.

Dear Joobin,

Keep practicing the mimicry of the guards’ voices. Don’t just copy the sound — make sure you remember their names, their habits, and the way they carry themselves. The command is nothing without the weight of detail.

Be especially careful of the Captain of Security, the Head of the Ivory Hand, or the Crownroot herself. We have almost no recordings of their voices, and if danger escalates, they might come down to see you in person. If that moment comes, stay sharp. Listen closely. Absorb everything. Their voices could be the difference between survival and discovery.

Stay steady. Stay careful.

—Mayu

“Is that everything?”

“I think so too.”

Xinyu scanned the list one more time, eyes tracing the names and weapons carefully inked across the page. It was meticulous, too precise to be casual. Jiwoo or Kotone, she guessed — either way, whoever had made it was a fucking genius. Every weapon, every tool, tailored to its owner:

1st Batch

• Seoyeon – Suppressed SMG
• Chaeyeon – Combat Knife
• Jiwoo – Crowbar / Riot Baton
• Hyerin – 9mm Pistol (Reflex Sight)
• Yooyeon – Syringe Gun
• Soomin – Nail-Gun Pistol

2nd Batch

• Yeonji – Shock-Absorbing Gloves
• Nakyoung – Silenced Pistol
• Yubin – Weighted Knuckle Dusters
• Kaede – Ballistic Riot Shield
• Kotone – Taser Baton
• Dahyun – Medkit & Defib Pads

3rd Batch

• Nien – Reinforced Sledgehammer
• Sohyun – Water Pack + Riot Shield
• Xinyu – Silenced SMG / Twin Knives
• Mayu – Radio Scanner
• Lynn – Flare Gun / Solar Lamp Rifle
• Joobin – Comms Hack Kit

4th Batch

• Jiyeon – Electro-Shock Restraint Staff
• Sullin – Grenade Harness (smoke/flash)
• Seoah – Pistol + Mirror Visor
• Shion – Bullhorn + Combat Knife
• Chaewon – Twin Extendable Batons
• Hayeon – Shock Pads / Restraint Cuffs

It was more than a list — it was a map of their survival, each name a pulse of defiance against the Dome.

“Xinyu! Hide!”

The whisper snapped her spine straight. Without hesitation, she melted into the dark with her cloak, her body dissolving into shadow as if the air itself swallowed her whole. A guard passed — heavy boots, gloved hands, blank face. The kind that looked without really seeing. His gaze slid right over Sohyun, not even lingering. Rank lowest on the threat list — sometimes, being underestimated was the sharpest weapon of all.

From her place in the dark, Xinyu caught Sohyun’s quick hand signal. Follow. Quiet.

She obeyed instantly. Always.

The job was supposed to be simple: pack the weapons into boxes, move them batch by batch under cover of her cloak. Xinyu’s ability meant nothing she carried left a trace — crates vanished with her, shadows wrapped them whole. No sweat. But Sohyun had insisted on coming, and it wasn’t just about logistics. The truth pressed warm against Xinyu’s ribs: Sohyun’s presence steadied her in ways she couldn’t explain. Without her, every step in the tunnel felt like walking a tightrope over teeth. With her, the silence didn’t echo as loud.

When Seoyeon’s command for weapon distribution came down, Xinyu hadn’t questioned it. She trusted her leader. But what she hadn’t expected was the small miracle of Sohyun beside her, the brush of her arm against hers in the dark, the way even their silence carried a rhythm like a heartbeat.

As they made their way back toward their dorm, Xinyu leaned closer, her voice just a breath in the stale air. “Thank you so much, babe… I’ll give you lots of kisses tonight.”

For the first time all night, Sohyun’s lips curved into something bright and unguarded. Her steps grew lighter, almost playful, a tiny bounce in her walk despite the weapons strapped to her back. Xinyu’s chest tightened. The night was still dangerous, heavy with the risk of discovery. But with Sohyun’s smile flickering like a secret flame beside her, it felt — if only for a moment — that the world could soften. The darkness pressed close, but she wasn’t walking through it alone.

ACT 1 End

Chapter Text

ACT 2 Begin

The letter lay open on her desk, Sullin’s careful handwriting pressed into the page.

Dear Lynn-nim,

All that I can say is, thank you… I’ve watched Yeonji sleep soundly for the first time in weeks. Seoah’s skin has gained color, her weight finally proper for her age. Joobin swears by the ointment you made — her scratches healed completely. And the wound I got from training, the one that should have taken weeks, is nearly gone in less than five days. I’m sorry I couldn’t write more… but I need you to know this much: thank you, truly.

—Sullin

Lynn read it twice, then let the paper drop to the desk. Her lips curved into a small laugh. “Write much? She practically wrote me a full essay in Korean,” she muttered, shaking her head. Still, warmth tugged at her chest. Gratitude was rare here, fragile as glass.

Her desk was crowded with the proof of her quiet labor — vials of crushed leaves, bowls of sticky resin, sketches inked with notes in a hurried hand. The sleeping pills that had soothed Seoyeon’s nights, the plant lock that blended seamlessly into doors, the listening vines that turned whispers into information — each of them born from the same soil. And now, the ointment.

Lynn leaned back, flexing her fingers. She had tested it on herself first, then on Sullin’s wound. The results had been undeniable — faster recovery, skin knitting together in days instead of weeks. A miracle disguised as something ordinary.

But she knew better. Every property that healed could also be turned, sharpened. Concentrated differently, the same plant could blister skin instead of mending it. The same resin that closed a wound could suffocate breath if inhaled. Medicine and poison lived in the same root. It only depended on how you used it.

The door opened, breaking her thoughts.

“Lynn,” a STEMCAST leaned in, voice flat. “Are you done already?”

She nodded, keeping her voice steady. “Almost. Just burning scraps.”

“Good. As usual, use the trolley to take those plants to your room.” He disappeared as quickly as he came, the door closing with a hollow thud.

Lynn turned back to her desk. A millipede lay curled in a shallow dish, coated with the ointment. She jotted a quick note beside it:

KL-002; Ointment. For STEMCAST, Security, and Higher Ups only.

A smile tugged faintly at her lips as she underlined the words. To them, it would look like another routine submission — a harmless salve for cuts and bruises. But she knew. One day, this same formula could be altered, twisted, made into something far less merciful.

She blew out the last scrap of burning paper, watching the smoke curl up and vanish. In the silence that followed, she whispered to herself, not without irony:

“First, it heals. Later… it bites.”

The room smelled faintly of chlorophyll and dust — sterile, but alive. Lynn moved carefully through the rows of small plants under her lamp, her hands steady despite the tremor of exhaustion still clinging to her fingers. Every leaf glowed faintly under her touch, breathing in the warmth she offered, giving something back in silence.

At the end of the table sat a smaller specimen — unmarked, almost ordinary, except for the vial placed neatly beneath it. Each drop that fell from the stem was thick, amber-green, collected like patience itself. Lynn leaned closer, watching as another bead formed, trembling before it slipped down and joined the rest.

Her eyes traced the label beneath the glass.
A simple line of text.
KL-003 — For use against Crownroot.

She stared at it for a long moment.

The name didn’t need context. It already carried weight — too much of it.

A slow breath left her lips as she capped the vial with quiet precision. She didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. There was no triumph here, only inevitability.

The light from her lamp flickered once, catching the green sheen on her fingers. For a heartbeat, the reflection looked like blood.

Lynn turned the lamp off. The darkness swallowed the color whole.

“Lynn—”

Nakyoung barely managed her name before Lynn closed the space between them, arms locking tight around her as though letting go would mean losing her forever. The force of it made Nakyoung stumble, a small wince slipping out, but she clung back just as fiercely. When Lynn finally pulled away, her hands didn’t drop right away; her gaze searched Nakyoung, tracing over her face, her arms, her chest, like she needed proof that Nakyoung was standing here, breathing. The intensity of it made Nakyoung’s heart pound harder than the hug itself.

“How did you even get here?” Lynn asked, voice unsteady but urgent, like she needed an explanation to believe what her eyes were already seeing. “Did your flicker finally stabilize?”

Nakyoung shook her head, strands of hair catching on her lips. “It was the ointment you gave me,” she said quietly. “I… discovered something. My flicker can take me to the place of something’s original owner. I held Yubin’s shoes, thinking if she was alright during combat training and—” she gestured helplessly, “—I was just there.”

Lynn froze, lips parting. “What?”

Nakyoung’s smile was faint, uncertain. “The same thing happened when I held Seoyeon’s letter. I thought of her, and I ended up in her room. She was asleep… on Yooyeon-nim’s lap.”

Lynn’s eyes flickered at that detail, the tiniest shadow flashing across her face before she masked it again. “Wait—the STEMCAST? Did they—?”

“No,” Nakyoung interrupted quickly, shaking her head. “They didn’t notice. But…” she hesitated, lowering her voice, “going there is easy. Coming back is the hard part.”

Something in Lynn’s shoulders tightened. Her voice trembled when she asked, “T-then… how are you going to go back?”

Nakyoung tugged at the hem of her shirt with a sheepish grin. “Yubin let me borrow this. It anchored me. So I could return.”

Relief washed through Lynn, raw and visible, though her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes lingered too long on the shirt. Nakyoung caught it, and tilted her head, teasing softly, “What? Aren’t you jealous I’ve been walking around in Yubin’s shirt?”

Lynn blinked, her composure cracking for just a moment. “Why would I be?” she said too quickly, her tone sharper than she meant. Then softer, almost mumbling: “We’re not… dating or anything.” A pause, her voice shrinking further. “Besides… my shirts probably wouldn’t even fit you.”

Nakyoung stepped closer, her smile curling, playful but cutting right into the vulnerable truth. “How do you know?” she asked.

Lynn turned her face away, her ears flushing red, her hands clenching as though she didn’t trust them not to reach out. The silence stretched, charged, and fragile.

And then both of them laughed — too loud, too sudden, laughter that spilled out to cover what neither of them dared to say. It wasn’t just amusement. It was a release, a fragile joy, the spark of something dangerous and tender weaving itself between them.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like a promise neither could name.

Hyungseo lingered in the shadows at the far edge of the grounds, her eyes fixed on the dormitory’s darkened shape. It was only now, standing here, that the truth clicked into place. She hadn’t been assigned to Red Vigil because of her efficiency or her obedience. She had been placed there because they knew. They had seen the way her body glitched whenever Nakyoung’s power flickered. The momentary stutter in her nerves, the disruption in her rhythm. A weakness they didn’t name, but one they quietly filed away and bound her to.

The MP3 was her own secret—no one else had heard it, no one else had seen her falter to the sound of her sister’s crying. That haunted her alone. But the flicker—that they must have noticed. The way her control slipped, her system rattled. Of course they stationed her close. Not to protect, but to contain.

The thought gnawed at her as silence stretched heavy across the compound. After that one recording, nothing else had come. No new letters. No new signs. Only the signature—YSY—like a question she could never answer. Where is Nakyoung? Is she eating? Sleeping? Do they treat her well, or are they breaking her piece by piece? The questions marched inside her like boots against concrete, relentless. She locked her jaw against them. Discipline first. Emotion second. Always.

Her patrol carried her past a knot of Wallkeepers. She greeted them with a precise nod, every movement measured, unremarkable.

“Isn’t that Red Vigil gear?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“What’s she doing out here?”
“Probably just taking a long walk.”
“Damn, girl’s doing laps.”
“Guess she’s getting her steps in.”

Their laughter faded into the night. Hyungseo kept her pace until she was clear of them, then eased into the darkness, the maroon of her uniform blending only for a heartbeat before the shadows thinned.

She hugged the line of the dorm wall, listening. Every scrape of gravel, every hollow breath of air—measured, catalogued. Nothing. Only silence.

“I hear nothing,” she muttered, voice low, flat. “There’s no way Nakyoung—”

And then it struck. A glitch—sharp, sudden, ripping through her body. Her knees jolted, her hand catching the wall, nails digging into cold stone. She steadied herself with a soldier’s discipline, forcing her breath level, posture intact. But the tremor betrayed her.

Her eyes rose to the windows above, scanning with trained precision, pulse hammering against her ribs.

“…No,” she whispered, voice clipped, restrained. “She’s here. Nakyoung’s really here.”

You have unlocked a new BLACK VINE RECORD

▣ BLACK VINE RECORD — SUBJECT FILE: RED-???
[SEALED UNDER DIRECTIVE 4.0 — IVORY HAND ONLY]
[TOP-LEVEL CLASSIFICATION — UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS WILL TRIGGER IMMEDIATE REVIEW]

Name: Kim Hyungseo
Division: RED VIGIL (Security Enforcement Unit)
Designation: RED-473
Threat Level: High-Risk Monitoring Tier II (hidden classification — official record lists her as Tier IV non-powered staff)
Status: Active | Assigned to Confinement Wing Security | Subject unaware of cross-family containment breach

Power Classification: Glitch Field (Reactive)

Power Description
Subject generates a localized distortion field that does more than scramble electronics. When triggered by auditory or emotional contact with OBS-441 (Nakyoung) or the activation of Phase Flicker, RED-473’s power produces momentary “reality desynchronization” in a 5–10 meter radius:

• Visual Effect: Objects and people appear duplicated or out-of-phase (like overlapping frames). This causes disorientation and misjudged distances, delaying hostile action.
• Auditory Effect: Voices repeat, echo, or play backwards for 1–3 seconds, mimicking Phase Flicker’s “vanish” signature. Commands may be heard as garbled or reversed, breaking coordination.
• Physical Effect: Surveillance and suppression systems (bracelets, automated doors, dampeners) flicker as if suffering micro–power outages. Brief “blind spots” occur on security feeds.
• Cognitive Effect (short-lived): Subjects within the field may feel a “skip” in memory, losing the last 1–2 seconds of perception. This can prevent immediate recognition or recall of events during the glitch pulse.

Duration remains short (0.5–3 seconds per pulse), but overlapping pulses can create chains of disruption lasting up to 15 seconds — enough to open a door, misdirect a guard, or let a Phase Flicker event pass unnoticed.

Trigger Conditions (unchanged):

• Hearing her sister’s voice
• Physical proximity to Nakyoung during a Phase Flicker
• Emotional spike tied to memories of her sister

Side Effects:

• RED-473 experiences dizziness after pulses.
• If prolonged, her field may start echoing random sensory data — a risk of “self-glitch” disorientation.

Containment Notes:
Effect is classed as “sympathetic destabilization” — not directly weaponized, but creates security blind spots when coinciding with her sister’s ability. Official records omit power classification to prevent staff suspicion of nepotism or conflict-of-interest.

Behavioral Summary

Kim Hyungseo was recruited into RED VIGIL under an incentive contract: her cooperation and service would guarantee her younger sister’s exemption from intake. Facility broke promise after Phase Flicker manifested in Nakyoung, forcibly admitting her as OBS-441. Subject has not been informed of the breach.

Despite ranking among the most disciplined of RED VIGIL, RED-473 exhibits heightened vigilance around Surveillance Wing patrols and unconsciously gravitates toward her sister’s sector during shifts. No overt disobedience recorded. Possible latent risk of loyalty fracture if truth revealed.

Staff Directive

• Maintain information blackout regarding OBS-441’s intake.
• Do not assign RED-473 to direct escort of OBS-441.
• Avoid simultaneous exposure of both sisters to high-stress scenarios — sympathetic glitching may compromise suppression tech.
• Monitor for unreported blackouts in camera feeds during RED-473 patrol shifts. Flag anomalies for IVORY HAND review.

Final Note
RED-473 is an ideal enforcer on paper: disciplined, reliable, indoctrinated. But the Glitch Field is not merely a power — it is an emotional fault line. Should her knowledge of the promise-break surface, or should she witness OBS-441 in a compromised state, the resulting field overlap could render RED VIGIL suppression ineffective for critical seconds. Watch not only where she walks, but what she hears.
— Logged and sealed under BLACK VINE protocol 4.0
— Authorized by IVORY HAND

Seoah couldn’t help herself. Even after the others drifted into sleep, she kept stealing glances at the mirror propped by the wall, her reflection catching in the dim light. Sullin had spent the evening pinching her cheeks with quiet amusement, Joobin had gone on about how “cute” she looked now, and even Yeonji—though wordless at first—had poked at her face again and again until Seoah swatted her hand away. It was strange. Once, her body had felt brittle, paper-thin, like it could fold in on itself at any moment. She had believed she would always be that way—hollow, small, insubstantial. But now, her reflection proved her wrong. The weight had finally returned. She wasn’t invisible anymore.

In the letter Lynn had sent through Mayu—tucked neatly beside the supplements—there had been a quiet line about Dahyun’s concern, about how fragile Seoah still looked. The supplements were meant to help her grow stronger. And they had. She pressed a palm to her cheek, still surprised by its softness. A tiny smile tugged at her lips, shy but genuine.

Then, her gaze dropped to her hand.

A faint green glow pulsed against her skin.

Seoah blinked hard, holding her breath. Her mind scrambled for an explanation until Joobin’s strange comment resurfaced: “They say when Lynn-nim activates her power, it glows green.” At the time, she had dismissed it as Joobin’s mimicry-fed nonsense. But now, as the glow shimmered faintly in her own palm, the words echoed too loudly to ignore.

“Hm…” she murmured under her breath, frowning as she turned her hand slowly. The light flickered with her movement, soft and alive.

Her eyes drifted toward the small potted plant near her bed—the one Seoyeon had passed along through Mayu. She bit her lip, hesitating, then whispered to it like it could hear, “I hope you’ll grow healthy just like me.”

Her fingers brushed against its leaves. The glow surged again.

Seoah froze. The plant shivered faintly, and before her eyes, one of its new shoots stretched upward, impossibly quick, reaching for light that wasn’t there. She yanked her hand back with a startled gasp, staring first at the plant, then at her own trembling fingers.

Her pulse hammered. Her eyes darted up—first to the corner of the room, where the surveillance camera sat unblinking, then to the clock on the wall.

12:00 AM.

Shift change. The system would be blind for a few precious minutes. Relief uncoiled in her chest like a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

But then the realization struck.

Her hand still glowed faintly, responding to something far beyond these walls. Her throat went dry as the thought formed, hesitant but undeniable: Did this mean she could echo powers even without being close?

Seoah stared down at her palm, the light washing pale green against her fragile skin. For the first time in her life, the reflection in the mirror wasn’t just a body finally fed, finally steady. It was someone who might matter. Someone who could do more than be pitied or protected.

Her lips curved into the smallest grin. For once, the weight inside her chest didn’t feel like emptiness.

She could be useful.

She could belong.

Chapter Text

When Hyerin’s eyes opened, the first thing she noticed wasn’t the light — it was the silence.
The air felt too clean, too sterile, humming faintly like it had been filtered a hundred times before it ever reached her lungs. Then the brightness hit. White. Everywhere. Ceiling, walls, floor — it all blended together into one endless, blinding tone that made her stomach turn.

She tried to move. Pain tore through her shoulder like a jagged edge, followed by a sharp pulse at the base of her skull that made her vision flicker. She gasped, curling slightly forward as the ache spread down her spine. She wasn’t restrained — no cuffs, no belts — but the space felt wrong, like a box disguised as safety.

Her first instinct wasn’t calculation. It was fear — raw, trembling fear that made her chest tighten and her throat ache. Her fingers reached instinctively for something familiar — a blanket, a sleeve, a voice — but there was nothing. No one. Just the hollow echo of her own breath.

Panic climbed fast, ugly and sharp, but before she could cry out, a voice — steady, warm, remembered — cut through the noise in her head.

“If you ever wake up somewhere unfamiliar,” Seoyeon had once said, teasing but sincere, “look around. There’ll be clues. This place leaves fingerprints everywhere.”

The memory hit her like a lifeline thrown across a chasm. Hyerin clung to it.
Her lower lip trembled; she bit it to keep it still. “Eonnie…” she whispered, the word cracking as it left her throat. For a second, she wanted to curl up, to wait — for Seoyeon, for Soomin, for anyone to come — but the silence stayed heavy, and the air didn’t care.

She blinked fast, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“If you see RED, that’s confinement. STEMCAST, hospital. HQ…”

She never let Seoyeon finish that sentence back then. She’d laughed, thinking it was another of her eonnie’s grim jokes. But now—now, she wished she hadn’t.

Her gaze swept the room, frantic and small. Her heartbeat was so loud it filled the silence, each thud echoing off the white walls. And then she saw it — faint, nearly invisible under the light, carved into the corner of the wall like an afterthought.

HQ.

Her blood went cold.

She froze, pressing a hand to her mouth to stop the small sound that slipped out anyway — a shaky, childlike whimper. The tears rose again, hot and unstoppable. She hated them. She hated that she still cried like this, like someone who hadn’t learned yet that tears changed nothing here.

But she wiped them away anyway. Because Seoyeon told her to. Because Seoyeon believed she could.

“Be strong,” she whispered, echoing words she could barely remember hearing, but never forgot feeling. Her voice shook, and that was okay — as long as she kept moving.

She pushed herself upright, her legs trembling under her own weight. The air felt heavier now, pressing down on her small frame as if testing it, daring it to break. But she stood anyway, one hand braced against the wall. There was no window, no visible exit — just the faint outline of a sealed door and a soft hum threading through the silence, steady and wrong.

She followed the sound, her bare feet cold against the smooth tile, until she found it: a metallic device fixed to the far wall, faintly glowing blue.

A power dampener.

Her breath caught.

If she damaged it, the system would know immediately. The Wallkeepers would swarm. Maybe Crownroot herself would come storming down, livid. But if she didn’t… she’d stay here. Alone. Forgotten.

Her hand hovered in the air, hesitation shaking through her fingers.
And that’s when it happened.

The world around her stilled — not stopped, but shifted. Her pulse slowed, the air thickened, and faint streaks of movement began to unravel around the dampener like ghost trails. Kinetic forecasting. Her power flickered to life on instinct, mapping possibilities across her vision in translucent threads of motion.

If she struck it here, the gas would burst faster — her lungs would burn.
If she hit it lower, the leak would spread slower — enough time to reach the door.
If she did nothing, the light above would dim, the door would never open.

Every choice hurt. Every path ended in pain.
But one of them—one—ended with noise. With movement outside.

That was enough.

Hyerin blinked, breath ragged. “They might have kept me here,” she whispered, voice shaking, “but they can’t keep me still.”

She steadied herself, stepping back, planting her feet like she was bracing for recoil.
“Good luck, Jeong Hyerin.”

The first kick rattled the device. The second cracked it open just slightly. Pain flared down her leg, but she pushed again—one last time, with all her weight behind it. The casing split, a harsh hiss escaping like the room itself had exhaled.

Gas poured out—cold, chemical, choking. Her throat seized instantly. She coughed, stumbled, but still drove her elbow against the dented metal, forcing it wider. The hissing grew into a scream.

The air thickened with the dampener’s fumes. Hyerin stumbled toward the door, coughing violently, every breath tearing through her lungs. She pounded on the metal, her voice raw: “Hey! Someone—!”

The sound echoed back empty. Her body screamed for air that wasn’t there.

Her knees gave out. She clawed at the smooth floor, dragging herself forward even as her vision began to tunnel. Through the haze, the world flickered again—one last burst of her power, unbidden and wild. She saw futures collapsing like dominos: Wallkeepers rushing in, alarms screaming, Seoyeon’s face twisting in shock, Soomin crying against Jiwoo’s shoulder.

And beyond that—nothing.

She reached for the door handle that didn’t exist, her hand smearing against the cold surface as her strength faltered.

Faces flickered through the dark — Soomin’s smile, Seoyeon’s steady calm, Chaeyeon’s quiet eyes, Yooyeon’s voice that could soothe storms, Jiwoo’s laughter in the dorm. They bled together in light and memory.

Her breath hitched. Once. Twice.

The gas filled everything.

And as she collapsed, the last thread of her power flared—one final prediction, fleeting and cruel.

She saw someone running.
She saw the door breaking open.
Too late.

Then the white light swallowed her whole.

The air in the command chamber was already tense before she entered.
It shattered the moment she did.

The double doors slammed open, the sound ricocheting through the sterile glass and steel walls. Catherine—Crownroot—strode in without waiting for clearance, her heels biting into the floor with the precision of gunfire. The staff inside—analysts, security supervisors, medical observers—snapped upright immediately.

She didn’t speak at first. She didn’t need to. The temperature in the room dropped the way it always did when she was about to make an example of someone.

Her gloves were already off. That was the first warning.

“Who was in charge of that containment?” Her voice came soft, low—too low. It was the kind of voice that made people wish she’d screamed instead.

No one answered.

“Who.”

The word cracked across the room like a whip. A Stemcast researcher at the back stammered something about maintenance oversight, about automated fault detection—

Catherine crossed the space before he could finish. The strike came fast.
A sharp, open-handed smack that echoed off the wall, her nails catching his cheek as he flinched.

“You’re telling me a child broke one of my dampeners?” she said, her voice trembling with controlled fury. “That one of my subjects—an exhausted, underfed little Forecasting toy—managed to damage equipment you people designed to suppress me?”

The man didn’t answer. Blood welled at the corner of his lip.

“Unacceptable,” she whispered, almost sweetly, and turned toward the rest. “Do you know what that means? It means one of them learned fear isn’t the only thing we can feed them.”

She snatched a report from the table, the paper crumpling in her grip.
“Jeong Hyerin, Kinetic Forecasting. Power-dampener breach. Hallway alarms triggered, no immediate guard response.” She tossed the file aside. “And now—”

She picked up another sheet, her smile tightening into something brittle. “Now I’m told several guards, and a handful of Stemcast staff, have been found carrying… dandelion keychains.”

The room froze. Someone swallowed audibly.

Her laugh was sharp and humorless. “I thought the symbol was a joke. A little sentimental trinket for the weaker minds. But you—” she pointed to the nearest officer, “—you wear rebellion on your belt and call it decoration?”

The officer tried to explain—someone in the dorm must have planted them, perhaps through contraband delivery lines—but she didn’t listen. She stepped closer, so close that he could smell the faint sweetness in her breath—chemical, floral, suffocating.

“Do you know what happens,” she whispered, “when weeds start to grow through concrete?”

Her hand brushed his jaw. His pupils dilated. His breathing stuttered.
“They get pulled out by the root.”

The word root came with a hiss of perfume, and the man went glassy-eyed. He was still standing when she turned away from him, but his shoulders slackened, his will already unraveling.

“Burn every item you find. I want this place smelling of ash before morning.”

Her command hit the air like static. No one moved at first—until she slammed her fist onto the table. The impact rattled the glassware, sent pens rolling, and broke whatever paralysis held them. The staff scrambled into motion, voices overlapping in panicked affirmations.

She watched them scatter, lips curling faintly. Her rage never burned for long; it coiled inward, turned into something colder.

That’s when the intercom door hissed open.

“Catherine.”

Hans’ voice came first—always softer when he was nervous. The man entered like someone who had already been slapped once before stepping through the door. His posture was rigid, his face pale behind a polished smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ve caused quite a commotion,” he said, half-chuckling, half-begging her not to explode again. “But perhaps… you should take a moment to breathe. I’ll have the disciplinary forms drafted, and—”

Catherine turned slowly, her eyes cutting through him like glass.
“Hans.”

He stopped mid-step.

“I do not breathe until I say I breathe.”

The words landed heavy between them. Hans opened his mouth, closed it again. He swallowed, nodding quickly. “Understood. Of course.”

She walked toward him, every movement deliberate. When she reached him, she adjusted his collar with mock tenderness, the gesture intimate enough to make him flinch.
Her scent—sweet, heavy, deliberate—wrapped around him like a leash.

“You promised me results, Hans. Not trinkets. Not rebellion spreading like rot under your paperwork.” Her hand rested lightly on his chest. “Fix this. Or I will fix you.”

His throat bobbed. “I’ll handle it,” he said quickly. “I— I’ll have a new batch of, ah… comfort subjects sent to your quarters. Consider it… an apology for the oversight.”

That earned a faint smile. She patted his cheek, just once.
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Her tone turned almost maternal, and that made it worse.
Hans forced a nod, stepping back like someone leaving a cage slowly.

“I’ll find out who’s responsible for the keychains,” he murmured, backing toward the door. “And the Hyerin matter—I’ll make sure it doesn’t repeat.”

Catherine’s gaze followed him until the door hissed shut.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.

She exhaled once, a slow, careful breath. Then, with the calm of ritual, she crossed the room to the private chamber beyond the partition. The door closed behind her with a hydraulic sigh.

Inside, the air changed—softer, perfumed.
Several figures stood waiting—young women, former staff, blank-eyed and perfectly still. Her “toys.”

Catherine sat on the edge of the couch, removing her gloves with the slow grace of someone shedding ceremony. The scent in the air thickened, honey-sweet and poisonous.

“Come here,” she said quietly.

They obeyed without hesitation.

For the first time since the report came in, Catherine smiled. But it wasn’t satisfaction—it was a predator’s reflex.
The anger was still there. It always was.

“Gosh… she always gives me the creep. Fucking hell…”

Hans muttered the words under his breath the moment the door slid shut behind him, the sound of the lock sealing like a quiet mercy. His pulse still hadn’t slowed; it hammered against his throat as if his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that he’d survived another encounter. He wiped his palms down the front of his suit, though the fabric was already spotless. The faint trace of Catherine’s perfume still lingered on his collar — that suffocating sweetness that felt more like venom than scent.

He hated that it stayed. He hated that everything about her stayed.

As he stepped into the corridor, the sterile hum of HQ felt almost bearable compared to the suffocating presence he’d just escaped. He flicked his tablet awake, the screen’s light reflecting off the shallow sweat on his face. There it was — INT-132, Jeong Hyerin’s file.
He didn’t particularly care whether she lived or died. To him, she was just another line in a report, another asset gone wrong. But Catherine cared, and that was the problem. If the girl died, if the incident reflected poorly on containment efficiency, he would pay for it.
Emphasis on might.

“Might,” he muttered, scrolling down the screen. “Not will. Not yet.”

He stepped into his office and barked, “Give me an update on INT-132.”

The staff inside straightened quickly, startled by the sharpness of his tone. One of the analysts cleared his throat. “She’s been relocated to a safer containment, sir. Stabilized. No further damage to the facility.” A pause. Then, uncertainly, “But… considering her tendencies, wouldn’t full restraint be a better choice?”

Hans let out a low, humorless laugh. “For someone like her?” He looked up from the screen, expression sour. “Restraints are wasted on that girl. You should save them for your beloved Crownroot.”

The room went quiet. Then, a soft, nervous laugh broke the silence from one of the younger staffers. “We like her in bed,” she said with a smirk, “but other than that, she’s quite unbearable.”

Hans’ mouth twitched — not into a smile, but something caught between disgust and pity. He stared at them, at the easy way they spoke of her, and wondered how many of them realized they weren’t laughing with Crownroot — they were laughing because she let them.

The truth was, his question had been stupid the moment it left his mouth. How did she get everyone to become her toys? He already knew. And Hans — for all his rank and his titles — wasn’t immune either.
He could still feel the ghost of her touch at his collar, that one perfect gesture of ownership disguised as civility. It made his stomach twist. He hated her. Feared her. Admired her, even — because where he ruled by paperwork and protocol, Catherine ruled by need.

▣ BLACK VINE RECORD — SUBJECT FILE: ADM-000 “CROWNROOT”

[SEALED UNDER DIRECTIVE 4.0 — IVORY HAND ONLY]
[TOP-LEVEL CLASSIFICATION — ULTRA-RESTRICTED ACCESS]
[NOTE: FILE CREATED BY IVORY HAND WITHOUT SUBJECT KNOWLEDGE]

Name: Catherine (Surname Redacted)
Codename: “CROWNROOT”
Role: Head of Dandelion Facility
Designation: ADM-000
Threat Level: Systemic Threat Tier I (Hidden Classification — official record lists as “Administrative Non-Powered”)
Status: Active | Autonomous Authority | Immunity from Standard Oversight
Power Classification: Scent Manipulation / Olfactory Hypnosis

Power Description

Subject secretes a highly concentrated biochemical “signature” that operates only at close proximity (≤1 meter). In this narrow range, she can:

• Induce Suggestibility: Whisper-level commands become compulsions. Contact or shared breath accelerates the effect.
• Amplify Emotional States: Heighten guilt, desire, obedience, or fear directly, creating a sense of personal loyalty rather than institutional compliance.
• Imprint Ownership: Prolonged exposure turns targets into psychological “toys”—willing, docile, eager for approval. This effect cannot be transmitted at distance; it requires face-to-face presence.
• Masking & Manipulation: By altering her own scent signature moment to moment, she can appear soothing, maternal, or seductive—whatever persona will most effectively bind the target.

Range: 1 meter maximum under passive emission (skin-to-skin or breath contact ideal).
Onset: Seconds with direct contact; up to 1–2 minutes within 1 meter.
Duration: Minutes to hours post-exposure, depending on dose.
Long-Term Effect: Chronic proximity results in craving-like dependency and identity erosion.

This ability is officially unrecorded. All public files list her as “unpowered.”

Behavioral Summary

Catherine “Crownroot” maintains her rule not by policy but by close-contact enthrallment. Former subjects elevated into staff positions display docility, dissociative affect, and a compulsive drive to “serve” her.
She cultivates these encounters deliberately — private meetings, whispered praise, touches on the shoulder — ensuring her power feels like intimacy rather than coercion.

Critical Note:
IVORY HAND has quietly documented this pattern. This file exists as a contingency — evidence of her ability and liability should removal become necessary.

Staff Directive

(Restricted to IVORY HAND inner circle)

• Never allow unsupervised close contact (<1 meter) with CROWNROOT without filtration gear.
• Rotate staff frequently to prevent imprinting.
• Use sealed ventilation and olfactory blockers during closed-door meetings.
• Document any “loyalty” shifts in staff privately.
• Continue neutralization research. Scent-blocking compounds and nerve desensitizers are to be tested off-facility.

Final Note

CROWNROOT’s power is not mass hypnosis. It is intimate, surgical subversion. One whisper, one touch, one breath at a time she rewrites the will of her staff.
What the world sees as devotion is chemical obedience.
What she calls loyalty is addiction.

This record is IVORY HAND’s knife. When Catherine overreaches, this file will be the blade they bury in her crown.

— Logged and sealed under BLACK VINE protocol 4.0
— Authorized by IVORY HAND

The tunnels were colder that night.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

One by one, the girls entered the dark passage beneath the headquarter. The smell of damp earth mixed with the salt of the sea that seeped faintly from cracks ahead. Water dripped somewhere unseen, rhythmic and slow. Bones lay gathered near the edges — pale remnants of whoever had come before them, illuminated only by the flicker of Lynn’s soft bioluminescent lamp.

Seoyeon sat in silence near the far wall, her back straight but her thoughts unraveling.
She looked like a statue at first glance, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

When Soomin had come crying into her room earlier that day, Seoyeon knew something was wrong — deeply wrong. But she hadn’t expected it to be Hyerin. The child she had shielded quietly for years, the one who would come to her with half-finished sketches and nervous smiles. A child who once told her she wasn’t afraid of Crownroot “because Seoyeon-eonnie smells like home.”

Now that warmth was gone. Stolen.

She had wanted to storm the Headquarters the second she heard the news. To tear the walls down, to drag Hyerin out herself if she had to. But the fury passed as quickly as it came, replaced by the heavy reminder that this fight wasn’t about her pride — it was for all of them. For the fragile, shaking ones who didn’t yet believe they deserved to be free.

Jiwoo had sent the codes through the plants Lynn had hidden, Mayu had spread the message in fragments across the dorm wings, and now—for the first time since the project began—eighteen girls gathered together in the same place.

The tunnel felt almost alive with breath and whispers. Soomin was still trembling, her face pressed against Chaeyeon’s shoulder as Chaeyeon rubbed soothing circles along her back. Jiwoo stood near the center, clipboard in hand, trying to keep her voice steady as she began counting heads.

“I’m gonna check everyone’s attendance,” she said softly. She glanced at her batch first, then looked down. “Batch 1—missing one.”

Her tone cracked slightly. She didn’t have to say the name. Everyone knew.

She cleared her throat and continued, “Batch 2.”
Hands rose.
“Batch 3.”
Nien raised both hands dramatically. “Yup, long legs crew accounted for.”
The faint ripple of laughter that followed was small, but it helped.

“Batch 4.”
The younger ones raised their hands timidly. Jiwoo nodded.
“Confinement girls?”

A moment of silence. Then a voice answered, light and calm:
“We are all here.”

Jiwoo’s lips curved into a small smile as the others turned toward her, surprised.
Seoyeon’s expression softened — not surprise, but quiet amusement.

“Thanks to Kawakami Lynn,” Jiwoo said, “for her little invention—and Mayu, our dear White Petal—for smuggling it in. This plant, apparently, can transmit sound through its roots. So, we can talk to them now. No more silence between walls.”

Gasps and murmurs filled the tunnel. Sohyun and Nien immediately poked Lynn, who blushed and pretended to study the ground. Nakyoung’s shy smile flickered with pride.

Jiwoo stepped back then, giving the floor to Seoyeon.
Yooyeon, who had been standing beside her, squeezed her arm gently before stepping aside.

Seoyeon took a long breath, the sound of waves faintly echoing beyond the stone. She rose to her feet slowly, her gaze sweeping over the gathered faces — girls from every batch, every wing, every cage. Each one looking at her like she was something steadier than she felt.

“Thank you for coming,” she began. Her voice was soft, but it carried. “I don’t know where to begin. What happened this morning still hasn’t settled in my chest.”

Her hands tightened into fists at her sides. “Hyerin… she’s one of the children I swore to protect from Crownroot. I wanted her to grow up never knowing the name of that devil—never smelling that perfume that hides poison. But Crownroot noticed. She noticed everything. And she took her first.”

A hush fell over them. Even the waves seemed to still.

“Crownroot knows about us now,” Seoyeon continued. “She’s seen the keychains. She’s seen the dandelion. Our decoys might hold her off for a while, but not forever. We’ll use that time to prepare—to bring Hyerin back.”

From the far end, Shion raised a hand. “Does it mean…” she hesitated, “we’re going to fight soon? That we’ll move faster?”

Seoyeon met her eyes and nodded once. “Yes. I’m sorry, Shion. But the longer we wait, the worse it’ll get. The more brutal they’ll become.”

Her tone hardened. “This 12 AM blackout might be our last. They’ll start spending everything—power, money, lives—just to keep us quiet. Surveillance will tighten. New guards will rotate daily. STEMCAST will have full permission to dissect us in the name of ‘health.’ The walls will grow higher, thicker, colder.”

She exhaled shakily, then drew herself up again. “But this fight isn’t just for us anymore. It’s for them too.”

All heads turned toward the mound of bones stacked near the edge of the tunnel — skeletons left behind by earlier generations. The sight drew quiet tears from some. Seoyeon’s throat burned, but she steadied it.

Before she could speak again, a soft voice came through the plant line.

“Then we need to do our best,” it said. “I’m Seoah, by the way. Nice to meet you. You sound really scared, Seoyeon-nim.”

The remark broke the silence like sunlight cracking through cloud. A few girls giggled quietly. Seoyeon couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah,” she admitted, “I am.”

“Me too, to be honest,” another voice joined in, hesitant but warm. “Oh—uh, I’m Yeonji.”

The name made Kotone’s body stiffen. Her eyes darted to Seoyeon, uncertain. Seoyeon nodded once — it really was Yeonji. Kotone’s breath caught, the ghosts of old guilt stirring in her chest.

“My name is Sullin,” came another voice, careful and accented. “The kids keep forgetting to introduce themselves before they talk, so I remind them.”

Xinyu leaned toward Sohyun and whispered, “Isn’t she the foreigner in confinement?” Sohyun nodded.
Xinyu grinned. “Her Korean’s better than all three of us combined,” she whispered, gesturing at herself, Lynn, and Nien. The other two glared at her, and for a moment, laughter quietly rippled through the dark.

Then, another voice came — sharp, curious. “I heard you were scared, Seoyeon-nim. How can you lead us if you’re scared?”

Seoyeon blinked, startled, then smiled faintly. “Sharp one. That must be Joobin.”

“I won’t sugarcoat it,” Seoyeon said, stepping closer to the light. “I am scared. I’m scared because we’ve been trapped for so long that freedom feels unreal. I’m scared of losing more of you. I’m scared that if we make it out, the world outside won’t remember us.”

Her voice cracked then. But she didn’t stop.

“I’ll do it scared,” she said softly. “I’ll do it trembling, if I have to. Because dandelions still bloom in the cracks, and we—” she glanced around the circle, meeting each pair of eyes— “we were never meant to stay buried.”

The room went still. Some of the girls nodded, others looked down, some were crying silently.

“All of us are alive,” Seoyeon whispered, “and the world deserves to know that.”

Far away, in the depths of confinement, a loose plank trembled in the stale air.
Behind it, a girl sat in the dark, head tilted slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Shion,” Jiyeon whispered to herself, her voice curling like smoke. “Shion was talking…”

The sound of her laugh was soft and eerie, echoing faintly against the walls — the kind of laughter that didn’t belong entirely to joy. Or maybe it is joy.

“So these are what we got from Kaede, Kotone, and Mayu eonnie?” Yubin’s voice buzzed through the plant line — thin, static, but alive.
“Yup…” Jiwoo muttered, flipping through the worn, half-torn pages left for them.

The silence stretched until Yubin scoffed. “These are so—”
“…vague?” Jiwoo finished, her tone dry. “Can’t blame them. They were sent there for specific jobs. And the last time Mayu eonnie went there… it didn’t end well.”

They both went quiet for a moment. The weight of that memory hung like fog.

“So far, what we know,” Yubin started again, “is that the Wallkeepers of Headquarters are worse than the ones outside. And the staff inside? All managed by Crownroot or Ivory Hand.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “They even built walls inside walls. What the hell are they so afraid of?”
“Us, obviously,” Jiwoo said, smirking just a little. The smirk didn’t last.

She flipped to the second page and tapped it. “Look here — Kotone eonnie’s note about the walls.”
“‘Dampeners,’” Yubin read aloud. “So they were afraid of us.” Her voice cracked into disbelief. “Running dampeners through walls? That’s insane. Do they have that much money to waste?”
“If you’ve got the government behind you,” Jiwoo replied.
“Oh yeah, right,” Yubin muttered, her voice dipping low. “All this, just to keep us ‘safe.’”

Then her tone changed — sharper, colder. “How do we know which room they’re keeping Hyerin in?”

Jiwoo didn’t answer immediately. The pause said enough.
“They had an underground level…” she said finally, her voice careful. “I’ve got a bad feeling. They might already know how Seoyeon eonnie would react.”

“Why? What do you mean?”
“Yubin, have you ever seen Seoyeon eonnie use her ability?”

“No,” Yubin said slowly. “Why?”

“The top five threats — the ones the facility really fears — they’re not ranked by strength. They’re ranked by risk.” Jiwoo’s words came out steady, but her fingers were trembling over the page. “Kidnap Shion, and Jiyeon will tear the world apart. Take one of the confinement girls, and it’s a death sentence. But Seoyeon…”

She trailed off. Yubin finished the thought quietly. “…She’s the safest one to provoke.”

Jiwoo nodded faintly. “She’s powerful, but she holds herself back. That’s what keeps her threat level low. If she ever lost control…”
Her words trailed off.
“…she’d be the most dangerous one here.”

The air on the line went quiet. Jiwoo could almost hear Yubin’s breath catch.

“They must’ve put Hyerin in the basement,” Jiwoo said quietly. “If Seoyeon eonnie ever goes on a rampage, that’s the first place that’ll collapse. The perfect insurance.”

Yubin gasped softly.

Jiwoo stared down at the notes. The ink bled faintly where her fingers pressed too hard. It was suddenly so clear— the kind of cruelty this place was built on. The kind that smiled while it buried you alive.

Her throat tightened, but her voice stayed calm.
“If that’s true… then Hyerin’s already being used as a cage.”

There was a long pause. Neither spoke.

Then Jiwoo’s hand curled slowly into a fist. Her pulse thudded in her ears, quiet but steady.

If this dome was built on the kindness they were promised, then there was none left to save.
And if blood was the only way to break it open— she would not hesitate.

For the kid who painted her days with light.
For Yubin. For Seoyeon. For all of them.

Jiwoo’s voice came out low, almost a growl.
“If I have to shed blood for this, I’ll start with Crownroot.”

This time, one of the dandelions had been plucked.

Chapter Text

Shion stayed close behind Kotone as they descended into the confinement wing. The air here always felt heavier—sterile but alive, like the walls themselves were breathing in slow, deliberate rhythm. Mayu walked ahead of them, her steps quiet, precise, unhurried. There was a serenity about her, the kind that didn’t come from peace but from practice—a silence honed through years of survival. Both she and Kotone moved with the kind of calm that only training could carve into the bones. Watching them, Shion felt clumsy, raw. Her body was used to motion, to controlled strikes and battlefield rhythm. But this was different. This wasn’t combat. This was control—measured, surgical, suffocating.

The corridor narrowed as they advanced, each gate closing behind them with a hydraulic hiss. One, then another, then another. The echo of steel latching reverberated through the air, sealing off the light from the upper halls until the only illumination came from the cold strip lamps lining the ceiling. Shion’s breath grew shallow. Every step pressed the weight of invisible eyes against her back. She told herself to focus, to keep her posture even, but the air here carried something wrong—something still and waiting.

When Mayu finally stopped, she placed her hand on a scanner, the door before her unlocking with a low mechanical chime. The sound made Shion flinch. Mayu gave a brief nod, then disappeared through the threshold, her pale hair catching the light before the door sealed shut behind her.

That left just the two of them.

Kotone stood firm beside her, face unreadable, posture immaculate. The faint gleam of her badge caught in the dim light, the mark of someone trusted to guard what the facility feared most. Shion envied that steadiness. Tried to mimic it. Failed.

Then—

“Kotone!”

The voice cut through the air like a blade. Shion’s stomach tightened as she turned toward it. A figure in maroon stepped out from behind the corner, her uniform unmistakable. Red Vigil. The color itself carried the smell of authority—iron, gun oil, quiet violence.

“You’re back here again, I see.” The woman’s tone was casual, but her eyes were not. Sharp. Measuring. Female, but heavy with command.

Kotone didn’t waver. She turned cleanly, hand raised in salute. “It’s nice to meet you again after a while, Officer Kim.”

Shion mirrored the gesture a second late, trying to hide the stiffness in her movements. Her heart beat too loud.

“Today with Kaede?” the officer asked, eyes flicking between them. “Does that mean the White Petal is inside?”

For a split second, Shion’s brain stuttered. Kaede. The uniform. The borrowed clearance. The lie. Her mouth went dry.

The Red Vigil’s gaze lingered, sliding over her like a scanner. Shion could feel her own breath snagging in her throat, too fast, too obvious. But then—just like that—the officer gave a small shrug, exhaling through her nose.

“I guess Kaede’s tired today.”

And with that, she turned away.

Shion didn’t breathe again until the sound of boots faded down the hall, the echo swallowed by the distance and the hum of the ventilation system. She pressed a hand to her chest. Her pulse thundered beneath her palm.

Kotone didn’t look at her right away. She just tilted her head slightly, eyes forward, the faintest trace of a smirk ghosting across her face. Then she leaned closer, her voice low enough to almost blend with the hum of the lights.

“Do it,” she murmured.

Shion blinked. “What?”

Kotone’s gaze cut to her—calm, deliberate, a soldier giving an order cloaked in trust.

“Now’s your chance.”

The words sank deep, spreading cold through Shion’s spine. Whatever air she had left vanished. This was it—the line between obedience and rebellion, between hesitation and action. She looked at Kotone again, at that unflinching calm, and realized something terrifying: Kotone wasn’t fearless. She was terrified too. She’d just learned to walk with it.

[Previous Discussion in the Tunnel after Hyerin was kidnapped]

The tunnel trembled with voices, the argument ricocheting off the walls like shrapnel that couldn’t find a way out. The air was cold, damp, thick with the smell of metal and mold — and grief. Lantern light flickered over the uneven stone, cutting across faces drawn tight with exhaustion and anger.

“Seoyeon eonnie?!” Jiwoo’s voice cracked through the quiet first, sharp and disbelieving. She was already on her feet before anyone else could move, her shadow stretched long across the tunnel wall.

“Jiwoo, listen—” Seoyeon started, her tone even but fraying at the edges. “I know we need to rush, but going when we’re this far from prepared—” she hesitated, breath catching—“it’s suicide.”

The echo of that word — suicide — seemed to hang in the stale air for too long. The kind of silence that burned.

Jiwoo’s jaw tightened, her hand clenching the worn strap of her armband. Soomin, sitting near the wall with her knees drawn to her chest, whispered, “...don’t you want to save her?”

It wasn’t an accusation, not quite — but the quietness of it cut deeper than any shout.

Seoyeon looked away. Her shoulders sagged, not out of guilt, but the kind of fatigue that no rest could fix. She had carried this group longer than anyone should have, and tonight it showed.

That was when Kotone’s voice broke through, low and calm, like steel tempered by sorrow.
“Crownroot lives off our rage,” she said, eyes on the dirt beneath her boots. “I think Seoyeon-nim wants us to be careful.”

The words settled heavily, but Nien wasn’t having it. “Right now, we’re voting whether we go save Hyerin or not,” she said, rising to her full height, the lantern light catching the defiance in her eyes. “I don’t think being careful and slow are options anymore.”

Yooyeon, arms crossed, exhaled sharply. “Being careful doesn’t mean being slow,” she countered. Her tone was measured, clinical — the voice of someone who had seen too many people die for rushing in.

“Says the STEMCAST and the Security Trainee,” Jiwoo snapped, venom threading through every word. “Easy to preach when you’re the ones holding clearance cards.”

“Jiwoo,” Seoyeon sighed, the sound fragile, tired. “I know you’re upset—”

“I watched that kid grow,” Jiwoo cut in, her voice breaking. “She was gone before I even had the chance to wake her up.” Her hand slammed against the tunnel wall, dust cascading down like snow. “I’m more than upset, eonnie. We’re all supposed to be upset.”

Kaede flinched at the sharpness of her tone. “But sneering at us?” she asked quietly. “We’re all fighting the same war, aren’t we? We’re a team, Jiwoo. A team.”

“You can’t really say that, Kaede-nim.” Sohyun’s voice came unexpectedly from the shadows, soft but heavy. Everyone turned. She was sitting with her back to the wall, fingers gripping her sleeves so tightly her knuckles were white. “Your privilege as Security Trainee — and Yooyeon-nim’s as STEMCAST — gives you leverage we don’t have.” Her gaze lifted, trembling but resolute. “You won’t understand the kind of urgency Jiwoo feels.”

That silence again — not peace, but pressure. The sound of everyone realizing there wasn’t a single person here who wasn’t right in their own way.

The debate dissolved into fragments — voices overlapping, rising, falling. Plans clashed. Logic wrestled with desperation. The flickering lanterns made the tunnel feel alive, every breath a tremor. The mountain of bones in the corner — remnants of those who tried before them — loomed like a silent audience, indifferent to their quarrel.

When it finally quieted, the vote was even. Half for the rush. Half for caution. No one moved.

The weight of indecision settled like dust.

Kotone looked down at her hands, the gloves scuffed, her fingers twitching as if tracing the ghosts of decisions she’d already made. Her eyes flicked toward Seoyeon — the leader, the anchor — then to each of the others, one by one. Nien’s restless stare. Jiwoo’s fury. Sohyun’s quiet heartbreak.

And then she turned to Shion, standing slightly apart from the group, watchful, uncertain. The two locked eyes for a heartbeat — the kind of silent exchange that carried more trust than words ever could.

“I’ve got an idea,” Kotone said finally, her voice cutting through the stagnant air.

Everyone looked up.

She exhaled, long and slow. “It might rush our plan… but I’ll only tell you the result once it’s done.”

For a moment, no one breathed. The sound of dripping water somewhere in the dark filled the silence that followed. And though no one said it aloud, every single person there knew — something had shifted.

The vote hadn’t decided anything.
But Kotone just had.

The light in the confinement cell flickered — a rhythm too slow, too deliberate. Jiyeon’s breathing matched it without meaning to. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Pause. Except her chest didn’t obey. The air snagged somewhere between her ribs and her throat, caught like wire.

Something was wrong again. The hum. The sound of it under her skin. It wasn’t the walls, not this time. It was her.

The voices — not real, not exactly — started blending into the static in her head. Fragments of orders, screams, laughter that wasn’t hers. They swirled together until she couldn’t tell if she was remembering or imagining.
Stop moving. Breathe. Don’t breathe. Do it again.

Her palms pressed against the floor. The concrete trembled, soft at first — like a pulse. Then harder. The tremor crawled up her arms, climbed her spine, reached her teeth. Her jaw locked to keep the sound in. But her body didn’t listen. It never listened.

The walls answered her with a low groan. The ceiling dusted her hair in flakes of plaster. The hum grew louder. Louder.

Then—

“Jiyeon.”

The voice sliced through it. Not sharp. Just clear.

Everything stopped for a second — or maybe the second stopped for her. She didn’t know. The sound had weight, shape, warmth.

She blinked hard, trying to make sense of the blur beyond the bars. Movement. A figure. She couldn’t name the face, not yet, not through the haze. But the voice—

“Jiyeon,” it said again. Steady this time. Softer. “It’s okay.”

The pressure in her skull shifted, the noise inside thinning like fog breaking apart. The tremor under her hands slowed, then eased into stillness.

Shion.

She knew the voice before she knew the name. It reached her the way sunlight touched through water — fractured, filtered, but real enough to breathe again.

Her body still ached with leftover surge, nerves stinging, skin hot. But the world wasn’t shaking anymore. The voices had gone quiet, leaving only Shion’s breathing at the edge of hearing — steady, patient, human.

And for a moment, Jiyeon hated how much that steadiness hurt. Because it reminded her what control felt like.

To say that Shion was livid when Kotone first proposed the idea would be an understatement. The word livid didn’t even begin to hold the shape of it — what she felt was closer to dread wrapped in disbelief, the kind that makes your heartbeat sound like footsteps following too close behind.

After the meeting in the tunnel concluded, Kotone had pulled her aside, tone clipped and composed, as if what she was asking wasn’t insane. Seoyeon stood with them, her arms folded, her eyes steady in that maddeningly calm way that made people obey her even when they didn’t want to.

“Mayu eonnie has been reporting strange patterns in Jiyeon’s emotional spikes,” Seoyeon explained, her voice low enough that it almost vanished into the hum of the tunnel. “Each time Mayu eonnie tries to calm her down, she uses Lynn’s ointment—but it’s running out faster than we can restock. The spikes are too frequent. Too violent.”

Shion already knew where this was heading, and she hated that she did. “...Then?” she asked, her tone a thin blade between defiance and fear.

Kotone met her eyes without flinching. “Then you’ll go in. Your voice might buy us time.”

Shion blinked, incredulous. “You’re joking.”

But Kotone wasn’t joking. None of them were.

“I heard the guards talk about how controlled your voice is,” Kotone continued. “How you can direct the resonance—choose where it hits, what it breaks. If you destroy the camera, you’ll have a few minutes alone with her. Just long enough to calm her down.”

It was a discussion with no consideration for what Shion wanted. Her voice, her ability — her fear — none of it mattered. To them, she was a tool with perfect pitch. A sound that could fix what no one else dared to touch.

Shion could barely breathe through her frustration. The Lunatic. That was what they called Jiyeon. The facility’s living nightmare. The number one threat in the entire project. Every story about her sounded half myth, half warning — a girl who could rip a wall apart just by feeling too much. The first time Shion saw her, she wasn’t even afraid. Not yet. It wasn’t until Jiyeon looked back, eyes wild and unfocused, that terror struck like lightning. That was when she understood: Jiyeon didn’t control her power. Her power controlled her.

And now they wanted her — Park Shion, who hadn’t even agreed to the rebellion until Hayeon had cornered her with promises and half-truths — to walk straight into the room of the girl obsessed with her, and somehow soothe the storm.

It was absurd. It was impossible. It was everything this rebellion had started to feel like.

When Shion finally stepped into Jiyeon’s confinement wing, the smell hit her first — not antiseptic or iron, but something sharp, fermented. Her eyes darted to the other side of the room, where Jiyeon was fighting to stay awake. Pale. Breath shallow. Her lashes trembled faintly, like she was dreaming something she couldn’t escape.

Shion’s chest tightened. She crossed the room before she could think, catching Jiyeon just as her body sagged off the mattress. The weight was nothing; it was the fragility that made her tremble.

“Jiyeon.”

“Jiyeon,” she said again. Steady this time. Softer. “It’s okay.”

That’s when she smelled it again. Not from the air. From her.

Shion froze. The faint scent of alcohol clung to Jiyeon’s skin — sharp, sour, undeniable. She glanced around the room, eyes darting until they landed on a plastic bottle by the bedside. The label read Purified Water, but the moment she unscrewed the cap, the stench burned her nose.

Her stomach dropped. “They were giving her alcohol…?”

The words barely left her lips. “No wonder she’s unstable. They want her to be. They—” She cut herself off, panic rising with the realization. “Oh fuck…”

The camera in the corner twitched, motor whirring faintly as it tried to refocus.

Then a sudden announcement, Maintenance notice: Sector 3 ventilation recalibration scheduled — surveillance feed to Sector 3 will be offline for 12 Seconds

“Shit.”

She didn’t think — just reacted. Her breath steadied, her diaphragm tightened, and a single, controlled hum escaped her throat. The sound shot upward like a blade, invisible but deadly precise. The camera lens cracked with a sharp pop, smoke curling faintly from the circuit.

Then came the silence — the kind that only meant one thing: footsteps were coming.

Shion’s pulse spiked. She laid Jiyeon back onto the bed as gently as she could, brushing stray hair from her face. “Don’t trust any water they give you,” she whispered, hurried but firm. “Ever again. Remember this.”

Then she was gone — quick, silent, her shoes barely touching the floor.

Outside, Kotone and Mayu were waiting, both too still, too calm. The maintenance team was already on the move — boots clanging, radios hissing. The air buzzed with tension as Shion fell in line beside them, adopting their composure like a borrowed mask.

Together, the three of them walked past the incoming guards — steady steps, unreadable faces, eyes forward. The trick was not to look scared. The trick was not to look.

Only when the last gate sealed behind them did Shion finally breathe again. The sunlight spilling from the outer doors hit her face like absolution, but it didn’t feel like freedom. Not yet.

Because Jiyeon was still down there. Because the smell of alcohol was still on her hands. Because now she knew — the facility wasn’t just containing her. It was poisoning her.

Chapter Text

The guard’s laugh echoed through the sterile hall like static in her skull.

“That’s definitely an interesting pattern,” Kotone said, voice steady, though her fingers twitched on the edge of the table. The map between them glowed faintly under the fluorescents—veins of red routes and grey corridors spidering outward, curling like a nervous system drawn in blood.

“I know, right?” The Wallkeeper smirked, tapping the paper. “No one’s slipping out after this. The whole network’s airtight.”

Airtight. The word stuck to her ribs.

“But this part here,” she said, tracing a finger toward the lower sector, “isn’t that the tunnel? I thought we weren’t focusing on that anymore.”

The guard snorted. “Crownroot’s orders. Heard she’s losing it again. Ivory Hand wants us doubling patrols near there and at the Depthline. Whole harbor’s running full shifts now.”

Kotone let out a low whistle. “The Depthline? They’ll hate that.”

He grinned. “Yeah, they’re already complaining. Tough luck.”

She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “And the cameras? I saw maintenance everywhere this week. They’ve got an overnight maintenance rotation this week — extra vent recalibrations. Some feeds go dark for short windows.”

He shrugged, glancing at the ceiling. “Beats me. But we’re getting extra power from the mainland—more electricity, full coverage. No more blackout hours. No more blind spots.”

Kotone felt her stomach drop. “All day, all night?”

“Yup. The eyes never sleep.” He chuckled and rolled up the map. “Guess we won’t either.”

He left whistling. His footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving her alone under the flicker of an overworked light.

The hum of the facility filled the space again—low, steady, almost human. She looked at the map he’d left behind, still faintly glowing from the heat of his hands. Each red line seemed to pulse. She blinked—and for a heartbeat, swore she saw the paths move, constricting, folding inward toward the tunnels.

She exhaled sharply, shaking it off. Too much time around these walls, she told herself. They make you see things.

But when she looked again, the map had cooled, the lines still—but the feeling lingered. The air felt thick, like the facility was breathing through her skin.

Kotone turned to the window, seeking relief in the dark. Outside, the world was all wire and white light. A fly drifted lazily toward the glass—and was caught in a web stretched between the frame and the vent. Its wings struggled, soft and frantic. The web trembled.

“Would our silence keep us safe?” she whispered. The sound of her voice startled her—it had the texture of a confession.

The hum in the walls deepened, almost like an answer.

Her reflection stared back from the glass—uniform pressed, face expressionless, eyes dim. Perfect. Obedient. Empty. But then, in the faint reflection of the ceiling light, something flickered red behind her shoulder—a camera’s indicator blinking awake.

It had been dead for weeks.

Her pulse stuttered. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The light blinked again. Once. Twice. Then steady.

The facility was watching.

She turned away slowly, heart pounding, the folded map clutched so tightly her gloves creaked. The veins of ink would stain through the paper soon, marking her palms like roots.

Somewhere above, a distant metallic thud echoed—something locking into place. She couldn’t tell if it came from the hall, or from inside her.

The map passed like breath between them.
When Mayu looked down, the fold was already smudged with Kotone’s fingerprint—one silent confession pressed into paper. The sound in her ears throbbed like static. She wasn’t sure if it was real or the low, endless hum of the drones above her. They never rested anymore. One hovered over every head until the moment you stepped through a door. Privacy had become a myth, air rationed out in monitored intervals.

It was suffocating just to breathe. Each step felt heavier than it should have, like the floor itself was judging her. Crownroot’s latest episode had spread through the facility like contagion—every corridor buzzing with her paranoia—and Ivory Hand, in his perfect irony, was indulging it. The new protocols, the doubled security, the drones that blinked like mechanical fireflies above every path: all of it built from one woman’s madness and one man’s apathy.

The sound of boots—once nothing more than background noise—had become unbearable. Each echo made Mayu flinch. Her mind catalogued every direction they came from, every possible angle of approach, yet still they multiplied. For every drone she thought she’d counted, two more appeared at the next corner.

When she dared to glance up at the tower by the gate, her breath caught. The infrared laser traced Kaede’s back in a perfect, steady line. For a heartbeat, Mayu saw red where skin should have been.

Her Sensory Mapping activated on instinct. The world expanded into layers of vibration and pulse, color and pressure bleeding into one another. The overload hit so fast it blurred her vision. She reached out, gripping Kaede’s arm before she could fall.

“Mayu-nee…?” Kaede’s voice was small, uncertain.

“It’s alright… gosh…” Mayu forced a breath, grounding herself against the trolley’s handle. Her heart hammered unevenly. She let her fingers curl around the metal bar until the sting reminded her she was still inside her body.

The trolley creaked under the weight of the boxes stacked neatly on top—supplies for the confinement wing. At least that was the official story. Underneath, sealed beneath layers of inventory slips and stamped paperwork, sat the letter. A hidden map disguised as a logistics note. Binary codes scrawled between meal counts and ration totals. The confined girls would solve it; they always did. It wasn’t hard. But today, with a dozen new eyes fixed on their every motion, even lifting the pen had felt impossible.

Why did something so small—just ink and paper—feel like an act of war?

As they reached the gate of the confinement sector, Kaede lingered by the bars, maintaining the illusion of routine, while Kotone moved ahead to deliver the goods deeper inside. Mayu slowed, her Sensory Mapping still thrumming beneath her skin, scanning the corridor. New cameras lined the walls—sleeker, quieter, moving with inhuman precision. Their range of motion had improved; the old blind spots she relied on were shrinking.

Her heartbeat climbed higher with each step. The hall looked the same, but it wasn’t. The light was colder. The silence was heavier. The girls didn’t linger near their doors anymore—they only peeked, fearful and thin-eyed, shadows behind reinforced glass.

Mayu counted them silently.
Sullin.
Seoah.
Joobin.
Yeonji.

All here. All still alive.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. It came out shaking. For one fragile second, relief dared to bloom inside her chest—then she felt the camera pivot in her direction.

Her relief turned to ice.

She forced herself to keep moving, to play the part, to look like she belonged. But every motion trembled beneath the weight of knowing that even her smallest kindness could become a crime. And still—she carried on. Because someone had to.

The confinement wing always smelled like metal left too long in the rain.
Even the air felt recycled, scraped of warmth before it reached her lungs. Yeonji sat on the narrow bed with the box of rations in front of her, unopened. She had already finished her share of food hours ago. What she wanted wasn’t inside the container—it was under it.

The others had gone quiet. Sullin & Joobin was asleep; Seoah hummed softly through the wall, her voice echoing like a broken radio. Yeonji waited until the corridor lights dimmed into their maintenance cycle, then pried the box open. The seal lifted with a dry snap.

A piece of folded paper slipped free, thin as breath.

Her pulse stumbled. Only one person folded paper that way—three even creases, one corner slightly bent. Kotone.

Yeonji stared at the fold for a long time before opening it. Inside, a string of numbers ran neatly across the page. Binary.

Of course it was.

Her lips twitched into something close to a smile. “You still remember how to play, huh,” she whispered. Her voice sounded strange—hoarse, unused. She sat cross-legged on the bed, tracing the numbers with her finger as she translated. Each sequence turned into letters, then into words. The longer she worked, the tighter her chest became.

I’m sorry.
You were right.
It wasn’t loyalty. It was fear.
If I could take it back, I would.
You still deserve to see the sky.

Her vision blurred before she reached the end. She blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

It wasn’t fair. She had waited so long to be angry. To stay angry. Anger was the only thing that still felt like hers. But now here was Kotone again, finding a way past every wall—turning guilt into paper, into binary, into a whisper that somehow found its way to her hands.

Yeonji pressed the note to her chest. “Idiot,” she said quietly, her throat shaking. “You absolute idiot.”

She missed her so much it hurt.

If Kotone walked in right now, Yeonji would probably hit her first. Then she’d cry, maybe scream. And then—because she always did—she’d forgive her. Kotone had been the big sister she never got to keep. The one who smiled for her when no one else could.

Yeonji refolded the paper carefully, along the same three creases. The corner still bent where Kotone’s thumb had been.

“Fine,” she murmured, sliding it under her pillow. “You win this round.”

Outside her door, the camera’s red light flickered once, then steadied. She wondered if Kotone could see her through it, somewhere beyond the walls.

“I’ll forgive you,” she whispered, just loud enough for the machine to hear. “But only if you come tell me yourself.”

Rain had come down inside the dome tonight. That almost never happened.

Sohyun paused beneath the awning, hand raised, letting a drop roll from her fingertip to her palm. It was cold, impossibly real — water that hadn’t been filtered, rationed, or timed by the facility. For a fleeting second, it felt like the sky itself was speaking to her, whispering its approval. I know what you’re doing, it seemed to say. I’ve got you covered.

She smiled faintly, something between awe and disbelief, then stepped out into the open. The concrete bit into her bare feet, slick and freezing, but she didn’t mind. She slipped off her shoes and left them by the door — one more thing for the cameras to think she’d simply forgotten. Without them, she could feel the pulse of the ground, every vibration a warning or invitation.

The hum of drones was gone tonight. The rain muffled everything, blanketing the dome in its own static.

She stepped forward — and the world shimmered around her. The air warped, colors bending into soft distortion as Xinyu’s cloak took hold. Her own power responded instantly: water pooled under their feet, spreading in thin, deliberate ripples that erased every print they left behind. Together they became a shadow in motion — half reflection, half ghost.

They took the long route, circling past the harbor. The sea beneath the dome glowed faintly with light; the ships anchored offshore looked like floating lanterns. The lighthouse at the far end of the bay — usually dark except on supply nights — spun its beam again and again across the black water. The rotation was mechanical, but to Sohyun it felt anxious, restless, like the world itself was pacing.

It made her move faster.

The closer they got to Confinement, the more the air felt charged. The hum of power lines vibrated through her bones, the static catching in her teeth. She could feel Xinyu beside her — the faint brush of an arm, the slowed breathing that meant she was holding the cloak steady.

When they reached the wall, Sohyun froze. The locks had changed. New steel, heavier wiring, finer seals. Of course they had.

Xinyu’s whisper barely disturbed the air. “Two minutes before the next rotation.”

Sohyun nodded once. Two minutes. That was enough. She crouched by the mechanism, eyes flicking over the seam that sealed it. Everything here is machine-made, she thought, but machines forget who made the world first.

“No technology stands against nature,” she murmured. Her voice was steady, even as her heart pounded.

Water coiled from her palm like smoke, sliding into the hairline crack along the edge of the lock. It found its way in easily — nature always did. She controlled the flow with a precision honed from years of training, guiding the liquid deep into the circuitry. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a soft hiss rose, and a single spark flared inside the casing.

Static burst through the air. The camera above the gate jerked violently, its lens twitching, its servos whirring in confusion. For a single second it looked alive — frightened, almost — before it spun in another direction entirely.

Sohyun’s pulse kicked. That was their cue. She turned to Xinyu, already moving. No words needed.

They vanished back into the corridor just as the alarm sensors blinked, registering the disturbance elsewhere. The sudden noise of the camera’s panic would draw attention away from the Confinement Wing. It was a perfect distraction.

Behind the sealed doors, the girls would have their chance — time to burn the remnants of Mayu’s coded letter before the next inspection, time to hide the evidence that hope had ever existed.

As Sohyun and Xinyu slipped into the rain again, she felt the weight of what they’d done press against her ribs. The relief was thin and trembling. Each success made her heart lighter, but the fear followed just as quickly: how many more nights could they do this before someone noticed that the world itself was moving with them?

She looked up once more, letting the water strike her face. The sky inside the dome didn’t look like freedom, but for tonight, it was close enough.

Chapter Text

The boots came through the gates first—heavy, deliberate, the kind that made the floor vibrate before anyone appeared. The sound of their gear clicking into place — metal against leather — felt like a countdown. Red Vigil. Their crimson uniforms gleamed under the sterile light, weapons locked in place across their chests. They moved in formation, voices clipped as they announced the start of inspection.

Today was Seoah’s evaluation day, which meant no one in the confinement sector could breathe wrong. Today was also the day Sullin, Yeonji, and Joobin were risking everything.

Doors unlocked in sequence. The three girls stepped out one by one, heads down, expressions blank. The guards spread through the hallway with quiet authority, gloved hands sweeping against walls, eyes tracking movement even when there wasn’t any.

Last night’s intervention had saved them. Everything that could be traced back to Mayu was gone. The tiny dandelion charms were hidden away in places no eye could find—behind vent panels, under chipped paint, between loose screws in the wall. But even stripped of evidence, guilt felt like a scent that never washed off.

Each girl had her own shadow now: one Red Vigil guard stationed close enough to feel their breath. The sound of boots followed wherever they turned. Yeonji’s skin prickled as the charge gathered at her fingertips, a pulse that didn’t belong to her body. Sullin’s palms itched, the air so dry it burned with every inhale. Even the hum of the ceiling vents felt louder than their own breathing.

Sullin risked a glance at Yeonji. Yeonji nodded back, small and steady. She slid her hands behind her back, the movement sharp with intent. Her fingertips sparked faintly against her skin as she gathered static, masking the tremor in her hands with practiced precision.

A long hum rolled through the lamps above them. Then, one by one, the bulbs dimmed. Cameras blinked, struggling to adjust to the sudden change in light. The radio hissed loud enough to rattle teeth, filling the hall with an animal sound.

A guard noticed first, frowning at her radio. “Confinement Sector B is in need of electricity,” she said, pressing the button again. The device crackled, then died completely.

She hit the side of it once, twice, irritation creeping into her voice. “What the hell—”

Before anyone could answer, Joobin straightened her posture. Her face stayed still, eyes forward, and then—like a ventriloquist switching on a machine—someone else’s voice came out of her.

“Red Vigil, copy. What was the emergency?”

The guard blinked. “Sector B’s got a problem.”

“Can you repeat in detail the problem to me?”

Joobin’s tone was perfect: calm, bureaucratic, detached. The kind of voice that belonged on the other end of a command channel.

The guard started to answer, but stopped halfway through. Her brow creased. The lines around her mouth tightened. Her eyes flicked from Joobin to Yeonji, then to the ceiling.

Confusion slid into fear.

Sullin saw it happen. Her own breath caught as the guard’s hand shifted towards her weapon. Panic started to claw its way up her chest.

Yeonji noticed the change instantly. Not now. Not like this.

Then Joobin’s voice began to break. “R-red Vigil I—uh—uh can’t hea—r y—ou—” The mimicry fractured, syllables twisting into static, each word cutting sharper than the last.

Shit. No.

The sound collapsed entirely.

Sullin’s pulse raced out of rhythm. Her breathing went shallow. Yeonji’s head throbbed hard enough to make her eyes blur. Something wasn’t right.

That’s when she saw it—a faint blue shimmer pulsing on the shoulder of the lead guard.

A dampener.

It was small, unassuming, built into their gear. But she could feel its effect spreading through the corridor like invisible fog. Every ability within range twisted under the interference. Yeonji’s ears rang, high and metallic — the kind of sound that made the inside of her skull buzz.

Yeonji’s power recoiled instantly. Blood ran warm from her nose. Joobin’s mimicry glitched out completely; her lips parted as if she’d forgotten how to breathe. Sullin trembled, one hand pressed to her ribs as her body fought the pull of panic.

“What the hell is going on here?!”

The voice exploded from the next room—one of the officers emerging with his weapon drawn. “Hyungseo! Detain them!”

Hyungseo stepped into the hall. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Her gloves felt too tight; the skin beneath them itched with heat. Her eyes landed on the three girls, and the whole corridor seemed to narrow.

She saw fear—raw, silent, trembling.
And behind that fear, she saw Nakyoung.

Her little sister’s face ghosted over theirs so completely that for a second she couldn’t tell them apart.

The command still echoed in her head, but her hands wouldn’t lift. “I think we can conclude our inspection for today, sir,” she said at last. Her voice was too calm, almost tired.

The captain frowned, annoyed but distracted by the flickering light overhead. “Ugh, fine. Everything’s clean. Let’s visit the lunatic.”

The Red Vigil unit began to move down the corridor, their boots returning to their steady rhythm.

Hyungseo didn’t follow immediately. She watched the girls as the others filed out—one with her eyes squeezed shut, one gasping for air, one wiping blood from her upper lip with the back of her sleeve.

They looked nothing like the monsters she was told they were.

Something heavy shifted in her chest. She took a step closer, lowering her voice. “Count slowly as you breathe,” she murmured. “It’ll make it easier.”

Sullin looked up, startled, but before she could respond, Hyungseo turned and walked away, the sound of her boots echoing down the corridor until it was swallowed by silence.

The stillness that followed felt too large for the room. The cold from the floor seeped up through their bare feet, anchoring them in the moment.

Sullin tried to breathe the way she’d been told—slowly, carefully. Joobin pressed both hands to her temples, blinking away tears. Yeonji wiped her nose again, blood smearing faintly on her fingers.

None of them spoke.

They just watched the retreating figure disappear through the door, unsure if they’d imagined what had happened.

And as Hyungseo rejoined her unit, one thought wouldn’t leave her.
It clung like static, impossible to silence.

If Nakyoung were here, she thought, would I pull the trigger?

Chapter Text

The rain came down in sheets, slicking the world in silver. By the time Chaeyeon and Nien reached the harbor, both were soaked through—their breath visible in the cold air that smelled of diesel and wet iron. The storage sector loomed ahead, the smell of fuel mixing with the salt of the artificial sea that lapped against the dock walls. Drones hummed overhead, their searchlights slicing through the dark like blades. Scanners pulsed red in rhythmic intervals, and every flash carved their shadows against the wall. The lighthouse turned slow and steady in the distance—its light sweeping across the bay, exposing, vanishing, returning again. Every time it came around, Nien’s chest tightened; every time it passed, she exhaled.

The closer they got, the fewer shadows there were to hide in. The air was alive with sound—the faint buzz of electricity, the whine of mechanical wings, the rain’s relentless percussion against metal. Each step forward felt borrowed.

Thanks to Seoyeon’s connections, they had working passes—official enough to fool scanners, not enough to calm Nien’s nerves. Her usual fire, the spark that never seemed to go out, had dimmed. She glanced at Chaeyeon and stopped walking.

Chaeyeon’s skin was almost luminescent in the floodlight glow, pale from exhaustion. Her breathing was too shallow, her balance slightly off. Nien reached for her, cupping her face with both hands, rain running down their wrists and dripping from their chins.

“Chae?”

Chaeyeon blinked slowly and smiled—a small, brave thing. She leaned into Nien’s touch, the gesture quiet and instinctive. The warmth of her cheek against Nien’s palms felt almost unreal in the cold.

“I’m okay,” Chaeyeon whispered. Her lips trembled when she said it, but her eyes held steady.

Nien’s jaw tightened. “I know you can get more from the Blood Memory if you push your DNA read longer, but don’t force yourself, okay? My priority is us getting back alive—”

“Nien,” Chaeyeon interrupted softly. She tilted her face up until their eyes met, until the floodlight caught the wet sheen in her gaze. “I love you.”

Nien’s breath caught. For a moment, the world around them—drones, rain, hum of danger—fell away. She leaned forward until their foreheads touched, the space between them charged and trembling. “I love you too,” she whispered, voice breaking just enough to show it was true.

When they pulled apart, Chaeyeon tried to walk again but faltered. Without waiting for argument, Nien scooped her up, holding her with practiced ease. Chaeyeon murmured a protest that dissolved into silence when Nien’s arms tightened.

They moved faster that way. Nien’s strength, the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the weight of Chaeyeon’s trust—it all synchronized. The rain helped them, blurring outlines, masking footsteps, muting sound. They slipped through the scanner gate with their fake passes, the machines chirping approval before the sound was drowned by thunder.

Inside the storage room, it was colder, quieter, the air dense with the smell of gasoline and rust. The faint dripping from the roof counted seconds in the silence. Nien scanned the corners for cameras. Seoyeon’s suspicion had been right—their surveillance here was neglected. It was almost insulting, how the facility could increase outer security and forget the heart of its own infrastructure.

“They think the danger’s outside,” Nien muttered. “They underestimate us enough to build their cage wrong.”

Chaeyeon didn’t answer. She was already kneeling by the door, pulling Kaede’s small LED flashlight from her coat. The beam glowed faint blue as she swept it across the walls and handles. Under the light, traces shimmered—fingerprints, faint sweat smears, biological ghosts the guards had missed.

The flashlight trembled in her hand. She steadied it, inhaled, and pressed her palm to the door’s metal. For a second, her pupils dilated—Blood Memory flickering to life.

Nien stepped closer, worry visible in the tension of her shoulders. She hated how pale Chaeyeon looked when the visions came.

Chaeyeon’s breath came out uneven, visible in the cold air. “The last guard checked in here… thirty minutes ago,” she said slowly, her voice dazed but sure. She exhaled, shoulders shaking faintly. “Seoyeon eonnie was right.”

Nien nodded, glancing toward the corridor. “Then let’s hope Sohyun eonnie and Xinyu eonnie are keeping the perimeter quiet.” Her voice softened, the edge of a smile ghosting there despite the danger. “Thirty minutes might feel short, but it’s all we need.”

She turned her head slightly, watching the rain streak down the small window. Every drop hit the glass like a clock ticking down. The smell of gasoline clung to the air, heavy and chemical, and Nien thought—if freedom had a scent, it would probably burn like this.

The moment Nien and Chaeyeon disappeared into the storage building, Sohyun finally let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The sound was lost beneath the rain. Her shoulders sagged for a fraction of a second, then straightened again. She couldn’t relax yet.

Every minute mattered. She kept her hydro pressure open—an invisible net of awareness stretched around her, mapping movement through the thin film of water coating the dock. Each droplet, every ripple, told her where the guards were. The faint vibration of boots striking puddles, the staccato rhythm of breath near the harbor gate—she could feel it all, the way most people feel the weather change.

The rain used to help her. It made the surface alive, gave her more points of contact to sense with. But tonight, the rain was turning against her. It was falling too hard, too fast, scattering the feedback, distorting signals until everything felt off by half a second.

A few feet away, Xinyu shimmered faintly in the gloom. Her cloak bent the light around them, but the rain made it imperfect—each drop hitting her body revealed her outline for a heartbeat before sliding off. To anyone paying attention, the shape of a girl would seem to flicker in and out of existence.

Sohyun cursed under her breath and signaled a warning with her fingers. Xinyu nodded. They’d already been out here too long—two hours standing in the open, invisible but exposed. Even before the rain began, it had been a balancing act between precision and luck. Now, luck was wearing thin.

The dock was a world of muffled sounds and blurred reflections. The floodlights from the main facility shimmered on the wet surface of the water, red and gold rippling in long streaks. Distant engines hummed, and the low boom of thunder rolled over them like an unsteady drumbeat.

Sohyun’s frustration was growing. Each miscount in her hydro read sent a pulse of anxiety through her chest. There were too many moving bodies tonight—patrols doubling back, drones circling unpredictably. The signal of one guard’s movement blended with another’s, and her internal map kept fracturing. Every instinct screamed that if they lost rhythm now, someone would notice.

She glanced toward Xinyu, who was pale under the distortion of her cloak, lips pressed tightly together. Sohyun tapped twice against her thigh: boats. Xinyu answered by raising two fingers—two footsteps approaching.

The silence between them was suffocating, made worse by the need to hold it. They couldn’t afford even a whisper. The Depthline guards patrolled close enough that a single syllable would give them away.

The rain worsened, the droplets larger and colder, smacking against their skin through the shimmer of the cloak. Sohyun could feel Xinyu’s energy flicker with it—each hit weakening the field’s coherence. Her power was waterproof, yes, but not perfect; the more the rain struck, the more the cloak had to bend and adjust, stretching thin.

Xinyu’s breathing was shallow, the condensation fogging briefly in front of her face before disappearing. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the distortion. Sohyun’s jaw clenched; she wanted to tell her to rest, but that would mean sound.

She crouched closer instead, pressing her palm to the surface of a puddle. The water rippled outward in perfect rings, and for a moment the entire dock returned to her awareness—the pulse of footsteps, the hum of the harbor lights, the shifting weight of the air before a guard turned a corner. She exhaled slowly, pushing her power further until she could feel the edge of the patrol’s motion.

Two guards were moving faster than expected, their pace irregular. A miscount earlier had thrown everything off. They’d need to move now.

She turned her head slightly toward Xinyu and tapped again—three quick beats against her leg: move, move, move.

Xinyu gave a small nod, the shimmer around her body fluttering as she adjusted the cloak to cover them both. The distortion wavered with each raindrop, every impact like static against a weak signal.

It felt like the rain was testing them, daring them to fail.

Sohyun could feel the strain in her own body too. The hydro pressure in her veins pulsed hard enough to make her fingers ache. She pushed it down, forcing focus, steadying her breathing.

The air smelled of rust, wet rope, and gasoline from the storage nearby. She could almost taste the tension—metallic, thick, clinging to her tongue.

She didn’t let herself think about the others. Not yet. For now, there was only rain, water, and the weight of staying unseen. And as she followed Xinyu through the storm, each drop that hit her face felt like a countdown, one heartbeat closer to being found.

The storage room reeked of gasoline and damp wood, the air heavy with the tang of metal and something older — the faint sweetness of dried blood hidden beneath it all. Rain drummed against the tin roof in uneven rhythms, each drop punctuating the mechanical hum of generators somewhere outside. The sound was constant, but underneath it there was another noise — the quiet rasp of breathing, the scrape of boots on wet concrete.

Chaeyeon moved carefully through the narrow aisle between the stacked crates, fingers trailing along their cold surfaces. Her skin brushed against a patch of rust-dark stain she didn’t notice until it was too late. The world snapped inside her skull — her Blood Memory flaring to life like an electric shock.

A rush of images flooded her mind.

Crowds.
Shouts.
The flare of a flashlight slicing through fog.

Then chaos — a blur of movement, uniforms, the metallic scent of blood mingling with saltwater. She felt someone else’s fear as if it were her own, a heartbeat racing that wasn’t hers. Through borrowed eyes, she saw the crate in front of her, saw hands — trembling, desperate — strapping a small wire to the ventilation pipe beside it. And then, the sharp, unmistakable shriek of an alarm beginning to rise.

Her body jerked as if struck. The vision shattered. She gasped, air rushing into her lungs too fast, too loud.

Nien spun around instantly, dropping the crowbar she’d been using to pry a lid. “Chae!”

Chaeyeon staggered, one hand braced against the crate to stay upright. Her other pressed against her temple, the world still vibrating faintly around her.

Nien reached her, gripping her waist with both hands. “What’s wrong? What did you see?”

Chaeyeon struggled to speak, her words broken by heavy breaths. “There was… an ambush yesterday.” Her voice trembled. “Someone managed to get in. Through the boats — the supply ships.” She swallowed hard, the memory not yet fading. “They planted alarms. Here. The crates—” She pointed toward the ventilation pipe beside them, the metal still gleaming faintly from the rainwater that had seeped inside. “If you move it even a little, it’ll trip the system.”

“Shit.” Nien leaned forward, eyes following the line of the pipe until she spotted the faint red wire glinting in the corner. She exhaled slowly, half relief, half adrenaline. “Good catch.”

“Did you see what they were trying to take?” she asked, still scanning the room.

Chaeyeon shook her head, her face pale under the flickering light. “It was dark. Whatever’s in there, they didn’t get it.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of the rain filled the space between their words.

Then Nien straightened. “We need food and truck fuel. Anything marked for transport.”

Chaeyeon nodded, still unsteady but focused. They began to move through the rows, reading the faded white stencils on the wooden crates. The air was so thick with the smell of diesel that it burned the back of their throats.

They found what they needed — one crate labeled FOOD STOCK 02, another marked FUEL TRUCK STORAGE. Nien scanned the corners for more hidden wires while Chaeyeon crouched to check the locks. Her hands shook faintly, the aftershock of the Blood Memory still echoing through her muscles.

Once Nien gave the nod, she took out a small green vine — the lock-picker plant Lynn had grown for them. Its stem curled into the keyhole like a living tool, the faint creak of metal giving way after a few seconds. The lid came free with a muffled snap.

Inside, rows of sealed cans and ration boxes. Chaeyeon’s stomach turned at the sight — so much food, untouched, while the girls in confinement starved on half portions. She pushed the thought down and focused on the task.

They dragged two empty containers from the corner, scraping quietly across the concrete. One for food. One for fuel. Each movement felt heavier than it should, weighed down by urgency.

Chaeyeon pulled the small stencil sheet they’d brought — the falsified pattern Seoyeon had made — and sprayed the label across the side in thick, quick lines of white paint:

DORM & MAINTENANCE SECTOR ONLY — WHITE PETALS

The smell of paint mingled with gasoline until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Then came the sound. A low mechanical rumble that rolled through the floor like a tremor.

Both of them froze.

Nien’s eyes darted to the door, hand instinctively going to the knife strapped at her thigh. Chaeyeon’s breath hitched. For a heartbeat they didn’t move — until Nien whispered, “Stay.”

They waited. The sound deepened, grew louder, then steadied into a rhythm.

Not footsteps.

The generator.

They both exhaled at once, relief sharp and short-lived.

Their time was running thin. The air felt charged now, every second stretching tighter. Nien checked her watch, though neither of them really knew what they were waiting for. Orders were to hold position.

So they waited, crouched in the dark, the scent of gasoline thick in their throats and the hum of the generator masking the thunder outside.

Nien looked at Chaeyeon — pale, eyes glassy from the strain — and felt the old ache of fear crawl into her chest again. They had come this far on trust alone.

She reached over, quietly squeezing Chaeyeon’s hand. “Whatever’s coming next,” she said under her breath, “we hold until it’s done.”

Chaeyeon nodded weakly. The lights flickered once, briefly painting their shadows against the wall, before settling again.

And then the waiting began.

The maintenance booth was too bright for night.
White lights hummed overhead, buzzing in time with the rain outside. A Red Vigil officer stood at the doorway, brow furrowed as she gestured toward the small figure sitting at the console.

“Why is she here?” one of the guards asked, frowning at the sight of Seoah perched on a stool, her legs dangling, a worn bunny doll clutched to her chest.

The woman beside her sighed. “Her STEMCAST’s handler got sick,” she said, tone half weary, half amused. “I got assigned to evaluate her for the night. She’s harmless—barely speaks, barely blinks. Been holding that doll since I brought her here.”

“Whose doll is that?” the other guard asked, eyes narrowing.

“She said it’s Joobin’s. I don’t even know which one of them Joobin is,” the woman admitted with a shrug. “But she seems harmless enough. Her power doesn’t even activate unless someone nearby triggers it first.”

They talked idly for a moment longer, voices echoing off the metal walls. Seoah sat quietly through it all, eyes fixed on the floor. The doll’s ear was torn at the seam; she smoothed it absently with her thumb. She knew the act was working — she looked harmless. That was what Mayu said she needed to be.

Then one of the guards touched her shoulder. “Come on, kid. You’ll stay in here for a bit.”

They led her down a narrow hall. The walls hummed faintly with the sound of wires, static crawling under the surface. The rain outside pressed against the glass, blurring the shapes of the facility lights.

They stopped at a door labeled COMMS GRID in sharp black letters. Inside, the air smelled faintly of dust and electronics. The woman gestured toward a chair beside the monitors.

“Just stay here, okay?” she said. “There’s water in the dispenser and some snacks if you get hungry.”

Her voice was surprisingly gentle. Seoah blinked, startled. She had never heard a Red Vigil speak like that — like she was talking to a person, not an experiment.

“I’m Hyungseo, by the way,” the officer added with a soft smile. “The door’s unlocked. I told the officers you’re here.”

Seoah’s lips parted. That name — she’d heard it before. The memory came rushing back: the letter Mayu had slipped under her pillow that morning, written in neat, careful script.

Tomorrow night, there will be a mission by the harbor.
An officer named Hyungseo will bring you to the Comms Grid.
You can see the CCTV there.
If what you said about echoing powers without being near works…
Borrow Joobin’s doll. Make yourself look harmless.
You’ve heard what they say. Try to mimic them — echo Joobin’s power.
—Mayu.

Seoah’s throat tightened. She turned to the officer standing at the door, the kind smile still on her face. “You’re… Officer Kim,” she whispered.

Hyungseo’s smile didn’t change. “That’s right,” she said softly, but she didn’t confirm or deny anything more. Then she turned and left, the door closing with a quiet click.

When Seoah was alone, she pressed the bunny closer. The silence inside the Comms Grid felt heavy, filled only by the soft whir of the monitors. She looked up at the screens — lines of cameras across the harbor sector, each one showing fragments of the night.

Outside, the Depthline guards stood in formation, their helmets glinting beneath floodlights. They looked too still. Too alert. Something was wrong. Seoah’s chest tightened. Panic tried to rise, but she forced it down, clutching the doll so hard her fingers shook.

“Joobin eonnie…” she murmured, voice trembling. “Help me. Lend me your strength.”

The air shifted.

A pulse thrummed behind her eyes, faint at first, then sharp — a vibration that spread through the room like invisible sound. The monitors flickered. Her reflection flashed across every screen, then dissolved into static.

“Sector C motion detected!”

The voice crackled from the speakers, echoing through the facility.

“Sector C motion detected!”

“Depthline units, respond to Sector C immediately!”

The commands multiplied, bouncing between comm channels. Seoah could hear the confusion in their voices, their orders overlapping as panic spread. Guards scrambled across the harbor. The screens lit up with motion, each unit running toward the far end of the dock — away from Nien and Chaeyeon.

Seoah kept going. Her whole body vibrated now, the Echo spilling out of her control. Her head throbbed; her ears filled with ringing that drowned out her own breathing. Blood slid warm down from her nose, streaking her lip.

The world rippled at the edges.

Just outside the door, Hyungseo had been pretending to stretch, one hand on her radio, the other quietly shifting the patrol schedules on her data pad. Her cover story — that she’d been assigned a harmless trainee — had bought her more time than she expected. The fake alarm was working. The facility was alive with movement.

Then she heard it — a dull sound inside the room, followed by silence. Hyungseo turned back quickly and slipped inside.

Seoah had collapsed halfway out of her chair, the doll lying beside her. Her small body trembled as if she were caught in the aftershock of an earthquake.

“Hey, hey—” Hyungseo rushed forward, catching her before she hit the ground. “You okay?”

Seoah nodded weakly, eyes unfocused, lips moving without sound. Her skin felt ice-cold. Hyungseo pressed the handkerchief from her pocket to Seoah’s nose, wiping the blood away.

“Easy,” she murmured. “Breathe.”

Seoah’s head lolled against her shoulder. The scent of ozone lingered in the air — a faint trace of what she’d just done. The comms screens still flickered, lines of code flashing across them in rapid, chaotic patterns.

Hyungseo stared at the little girl in her arms. She had seen what power could do — the destruction, the chaos — but nothing had prepared her for this. The Echo had stolen the life from Seoah’s face, left her trembling and hollow.

Her heart twisted painfully.

How could something so small and kind carry something so terrifying?

She brushed a damp strand of hair from Seoah’s forehead, her hand shaking.

Is Nakyoung suffering like this too?

Hyungseo held Seoah gently, watching the little girl’s chest rise and fall, the ragged edges of the Echo still trembling through her. For a moment the world narrowed to the hum of monitors and the soft drip of blood from Seoah’s nose. Then, as if the night itself urged her on, she reached into the inner pocket of her jacket and felt the thin paper she’d found earlier in her cabinet — the note that had arrived without explanation. She smoothed it between her fingers and read it again, the words small and dangerous in the quiet room.

I thank you for your kindness for the girls
If you really wish to know what happened to Nakyoung
Help us do our mission for tomorrow night.
You need to bring a girl named Seoah to your Comms Grid.
Frame her as harmless
If our mission was done with none of us getting caught
I will tell you what happened to Nakyoung
YSY

She folded the letter slowly, palms damp. The promise in that short script felt like a hinge — a truth held just out of reach. Hyungseo wiped Seoah’s face again, pressed the handkerchief into the girl’s cooling skin, and for the first time that night the question she’d been pushing away surfaced fully and sharp: if this small, broken child was part of a plan, how far would she go to keep it — and how far would she have to bend to learn the answer about Nakyoung?

The storage door creaked open just enough for a sliver of light to cut through. Rain spilled in from the gap, tracing silver lines down the concrete. Sohyun’s breath caught when she saw Nien’s shadow first, then Chaeyeon’s pale outline behind her. They slipped through the opening like ghosts, faces drawn tight from exhaustion and adrenaline.

Sohyun stepped forward from the dark, relief breaking through her chest like a tide. Xinyu moved with her, the shimmer of her cloak faltering as she reached them. For one second the rain hit Xinyu’s exposed shoulders, her form visible under the floodlight before she cloaked them again.

Chaeyeon leaned heavily against Nien, eyes half-lidded, her skin chalk-white from the strain of Blood Memory. The smell of gasoline and sea salt clung to them both, sharp and chemical. Nien’s arms trembled from carrying her, but she didn’t let go.

“We have five minutes at best before they realize it’s a false alarm,” Sohyun said, voice low, almost a whisper. Her tone was steady, but her pulse was hammering under her skin. The hum of the harbor filled the space between them—engines, alarms, the confused buzz of Depthline chatter crackling over distant radios.

She glanced at Xinyu, who was slumped against the wall for a moment, her chest rising and falling fast. Rain beaded on the invisible edge of her cloak, breaking the illusion in flashes. “Babe?” Sohyun asked, her voice soft but edged with urgency.

Xinyu nodded without opening her eyes, forcing a shaky inhale. “Stay close, girls,” she said, the words trembling from exhaustion but still certain. “We run on my count.”

The four of them pressed together under the heavy rain, the shadows around them pulsing with light from rotating security drones. Xinyu raised her hands; the distortion shimmered outward, cloaking them once more. It was thinner now, fragile, but enough.

They moved.

Their footsteps splashed quietly across the wet dock. The harbor lights flickered, their reflections breaking in the water beside them. Nien carried Chaeyeon close, whispering something too soft for the others to hear—maybe comfort, maybe prayer. Sohyun ran at her side, her hydro sense wide open, scanning for patrol vibrations through puddles. Each one felt like a heartbeat she didn’t want to count wrong.

The rain blurred everything. Noise, motion, breath—all became one long rush.

Then, from somewhere deeper in the facility, an alarm went off again. The guards’ voices rose in confusion, a mix of frustration and disbelief. “False alarm—Sector C again?!”

Sohyun didn’t stop. Neither did Nien. None of them dared to look back.

By the time they reached the far end of the harbor, the lights from the dorm sector flickered into view through the storm. For a moment, the sight almost looked like safety.

“Go,” Xinyu breathed, her cloak flickering again as they slipped through the final stretch of open ground. Sohyun grabbed her hand, grounding her as they moved, two bodies in one heartbeat.

They reached the dorm’s outer wall, diving into the deep shadows cast by the floodlights. Nien lowered Chaeyeon gently onto the ground, brushing wet hair from her face. Chaeyeon stirred faintly, her voice a ghost. “Did it work?”

“It worked,” Nien said, even if she wasn’t sure.

Sohyun knelt beside Xinyu, who had dropped to her knees, gasping. The cloak shimmered out completely, leaving them visible at last. The sound of guards shouting echoed faintly across the docks but was drowned by the wind and rain.

They had made it back. For now.

Sohyun’s muscles ached, her power still humming under her skin. Nien’s arms were raw from strain. Xinyu was trembling, her lips pale. And Chaeyeon, still half-conscious, clutched Nien’s sleeve as if it was the only real thing left in the world.

None of them spoke. The rain said everything for them.

Tonight, they had fed the revolution—stolen from the system that starved them and survived the machine that watched everything. But as they crouched together under the leaking roof, the question pressed between them like a pulse.

How long could they keep this up?

The storm answered with another roll of thunder.

Tomorrow would bring new orders, new risks, new names to protect.
Freedom was still somewhere far beyond the rain.

And until they reached it, the fight would never end.

Chapter Text

There was an LED sign right by the tunnel’s walls, it read:

System log: Scheduled shutter recalibration in sub-levels — brief sensor dampening recorded at 00:11:23.

The air was thick with rust and salt, the kind that clung to the throat and settled behind the eyes. The tunnel pressed in around them — damp, narrow, alive with echoes. Water dripped from the ceiling in slow, irregular beats that sounded almost like a pulse. The air reeked of old diesel fumes bleeding down from the harbor above, the scent fusing with earth and stagnant sea. Every breath felt borrowed.

Kaede moved slowly, her boots sinking slightly into the wet soil. She kept her voice low, every word swallowed by the tunnel’s walls. The rhythm of her heartbeat matched the faint rumble of waves overhead. Her barrier shimmered faintly with each movement — an instinctive flicker of defense rather than conscious power. Small arcs of light danced along the crumbling edges of the passage, sealing loose soil before it could collapse on them. She did it without thinking, the same way she reached for Dahyun in the dark without needing to see her.

The lantern cast a trembling circle of light ahead, illuminating Dahyun’s face in strokes of gold and shadow. Sweat ran along her jaw despite the cold air. She looked pale — not the fragile kind, but the kind that came from bracing against fear. Her hands shook slightly each time she adjusted the map on her lap, though her voice remained steady whenever she spoke.

Kaede noticed. She always noticed.

She just knew her girl that well — the way Dahyun’s lashes fluttered when her anxiety built, the way her breathing shortened but her posture never broke. The fear was there, yes, but so was resolve.

They were trying to find a way out, or at least a trace of one. A sliver of open air that might mean freedom existed somewhere beyond the concrete. The old maintenance line they’d discovered was partially collapsed, but Kaede swore she felt fresh air stirring at the far end. If one side of this tunnel reached the sea, then maybe — just maybe — another could lead them out.

The earth around them groaned as Kaede’s shield held the pressure, translucent light bending the falling grit away from Dahyun’s head. Dahyun stayed close, brushing Kaede’s shoulder each time she leaned forward, unaware that Kaede’s barrier was what kept the passage from caving in entirely. Kaede didn’t tell her. She didn’t want to make Dahyun worry — or to admit how much of her power she’d already spent.

“Kae-chan,” Dahyun whispered suddenly, her tone even but firm. “Stop.”

Kaede froze mid-swing. The shovel handle trembled in her grip, mud streaking her arms. She turned toward Dahyun, blinking sweat from her eyes.

“Sit down,” Dahyun said gently. The sound of dripping water filled the pause between them. Beyond that — the distant thunder of waves, the faint echo of their breathing, synchronized and small in the heavy dark.

Kaede lowered herself to the ground, exhaling shakily. Her arms burned, and she hadn’t even realized how badly until she stopped moving.

Dahyun crouched beside her, lantern light softening the exhaustion etched into her features. She reached out, her fingers cool against Kaede’s wrist, tracing faint tremors under her skin. Her Vital Sync pulsed faintly — a subtle connection between them, invisible but unmistakable. Kaede could feel her heartbeat slowing, her muscles unwinding as Dahyun’s power steadied her system.

Kaede watched her, silent. The gentle concentration on Dahyun’s face, the furrow between her brows, the way her lips pressed together in focus — it made something inside Kaede ache in a way the damp air couldn’t touch.

She didn’t deserve this kind of care. Not here. Not now. But as Dahyun’s hand lingered over her pulse, Kaede felt warmth spread through her chest despite the cold. Love and fear tangled together until she couldn’t tell one from the other.

Dahyun’s voice came softly, close to her ear. “You push yourself too hard.”

Kaede smiled faintly, tired but still stubborn. “You’d do the same.”

“I know,” Dahyun murmured. “That’s what scares me.”

Kaede’s barrier flickered weakly along the wall — a shimmer of light responding to emotion, not command. She let it fade this time, allowing the dark to swallow them both again.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The tunnel breathed around them — a low, rhythmic echo, like the lungs of something ancient. Outside, the sea pressed against the harbor walls, constant and patient.

Somewhere far away, beyond the rust and the fear, freedom waited. But for now, in this hollow artery of earth and salt, Kaede let herself rest — just long enough to feel Dahyun’s heartbeat against her own and remember what it was they were still fighting to reach.

The salve smelled faintly of sap and mint, cutting through the stench of rust and diesel that clung to the tunnel walls. Lynn’s mixture shimmered green under the lantern light, sinking into Kaede’s skin and leaving faint tracings of warmth where there had been small cuts and bruises. Dahyun watched in quiet awe as the gashes along Kaede’s knuckles closed, the raw edges knitting until only a pink shadow remained.

When the last of the salve was applied, Dahyun leaned closer and laid her palm over Kaede’s wrist, syncing her own pulse to Kaede’s through instinct more than power. The tunnel around them creaked — water dripping in slow, rhythmic intervals from somewhere far above.

“I find it rather odd,” Dahyun murmured, eyes tracing the curved walls, “that tunnels always sound like lungs.”
Her voice was low, barely a whisper over the water’s rhythm. “It feels suffocating, but… it’s just doing what it’s supposed to do.”

Kaede smiled faintly, her lips pale but soft. “Maybe we’re the same,” she said. “Just doing what we’re told we’re supposed to do.”

Dahyun’s breath hitched. She didn’t answer right away. The lantern flickered, and in that dimness her face changed — the fragile calm in her expression breaking like glass.

“I wonder,” she began quietly, “if I’d been born a boy… would my family still be intact?”

The air shifted. Even the water seemed to stop mid-drip. The question hung between them, thick and sour.

Kaede didn’t speak. She felt the ache behind the words — the unspoken guilt of someone punished for being something she couldn’t change.

Dahyun tried to keep her smile, but it trembled. Her hands shook. She blinked fast, like she could push the tears back into place, but they spilled anyway.

Kaede reached out, wrapping her fingers around Dahyun’s cold ones. “Hey,” she whispered, and that single word cracked something open.

Dahyun’s control snapped; the tears came soundless, falling onto the stone floor. Kaede pulled her in before she could apologize, before she could hide. The lantern light caught on the strands of Dahyun’s hair as she buried her face against Kaede’s shoulder, her breath stuttering.

Kaede held her tighter. She could feel Dahyun’s heartbeat hammering against her ribs — desperate, alive, terrified. The tunnel pressed close around them, damp walls echoing their uneven breathing. For a moment, the rebellion, the harbor, the plan — all of it vanished. There was only this: two people holding each other against the dark, pretending the earth wasn’t closing in.

Kaede rested her chin against Dahyun’s hair. “We’re still here,” she said softly, though she wasn’t sure if it was comfort or defiance.

And under that promise, the tunnel exhaled again. The drip returned, slow and steady — as if reminding them that survival always comes with a sound.

V. INCIDENT HISTORY (CLASSIFIED LOGS)

Fire at Seo Dahyun’s Family Home: Coordinated “containment accident” that eliminated family witnesses to prior extraction. Casualties erased as civilian mishap.

The drainage gate glistened with condensation, the air damp and metallic. Joobin crouched beside the narrow vent, knees drawn up, headset pressed tight against her ear. The faint buzz of intercepted Red Vigil frequencies filled the space — a constant hum of static, half words and clipped commands bleeding through.

Beside her, the plant line pulsed faintly along the tunnel wall — a living vine, thin as wire, its roots buried deep through the facility’s plumbing system. Lynn had grown it herself, its fibers tuned to respond to vibration. The girls used it to communicate between sections: two taps for mid danger, three for high, endless for emergency escape. The plant shivered under Joobin’s palm like something alive and listening.

She adjusted the radio’s frequency, voice hushed to a whisper. “Copy — Sector B secure,” she said, perfectly mimicking a Wallkeeper’s clipped tone. Her mimicry was calm, practiced, eerie in its precision. Through her mouth came someone else’s cadence, someone else’s command. The illusion held just long enough for the guards on the other end to confirm and move on.

Joobin exhaled softly, pulling the headset away. Her throat hurt — mimicry always left an echo in her chest, like she’d swallowed another person’s breath. She rubbed her neck absently and leaned closer to the vine, pressing two fingers against it, checking for response. The surface felt faintly warm; the plant’s pulse carried the distant vibration of movement from the tunnel where Kaede and Dahyun were working. She imagined them there — mud, salt, silence — their faith resting on her keeping the air clear.

Then the channel crackled again. A male voice, lower, colder.

“Sector D will be on full lockdown by dawn. Orders from Captain Lee.”

Joobin froze. The words hit like a switchblade — sharp, quiet, irreversible.

Her eyes darted to the vine. Without hesitation, she tapped twice against it — short, precise pulses. Mid danger. The plant trembled faintly, carrying the vibration through its roots, the signal traveling down the tunnel like a heartbeat Kaede would feel in the soil.

She didn’t pull her hand back right away. Her reflection stared back at her in a puddle — pale face, shadowed eyes, the faint outline of the resin keychain resting in her lap. It was old, worn smooth by her thumb; a small token passed down, proof that someone once called her by name instead of number.

Joobin turned it in her hand, the sound of distant rain echoing through the pipes.

Then, softly, she spoke — not in her own voice, but in Dahyun’s.

“We’ll make it out, right?”

Her mimicry was perfect. The tone gentle, the rhythm familiar. For a second, she almost believed it.

But when the sound faded, only silence answered back — deep, patient, and unkind.

The dorm lights hummed low above her, their sterile glow turning the room the color of bone. Lynn sat cross-legged on the floor, mortar balanced between her knees, grinding roots into paste. The scent was sharp—sap, soil, something metallic underneath. Her palms were stained green. Every push of the pestle drew a faint vibration from the plants around her; leaves trembled in rhythm, as if listening.

The air was heavy with humidity from the miniature garden she’d coaxed to life along the wall—vines trailing through vents, moss spreading over cracked tile. They curled toward her hands, reaching for the warmth of her skin. She murmured softly to them, half habit, half prayer.

Two bowls sat at her side. One shimmered faintly gold, the healing salve meant for Dahyun’s team: a mixture of bruisewort, resin, and ground kelp. The other was darker, tinged with violet—a formula she hadn’t perfected yet, its scent acrid, dangerous. The line between medicine and weapon had become too thin to see.

Lynn’s pen scratched across a scrap of paper beside her:

Water once a week. Trim dying petals. Keep away from direct light.

The words looked harmless, ordinary. To anyone else, it was a plant note. To Mayu, it was code—a recipe hidden inside the pattern of verbs. Every letter of “water” meant weight; every “light” meant voltage. It was how they stayed alive inside a system built to erase messages.

A flicker passed through the light overhead. Lynn’s body stiffened; the fluorescent buzz rose into a pitch that made her vision blur. Her Photosynthetic Surge reacted on instinct, absorbing too much of the artificial glow. For a few seconds the world brightened, every surface edged in white, before it all dimmed again.

She pressed a hand to her temple, dizzy but refusing to stop. The darker mixture was almost ready; she needed it before the next cycle, before the facility’s filtration reset. Sweat rolled down her neck, and the leaves around her rustled as though worried.

“I hope I’m not too late,” she whispered, voice unsteady. “I hope we’re fast enough to save Hyerin…”

Her fingers trembled, the pestle slipping slightly. She caught it before it hit the floor, clutching it against her chest. The silence that followed was thick enough to hear her heartbeat in it.

The vines near her feet stirred, faintly glowing where they touched the floor. The plant line—Lynn’s living network—vibrated once, twice. Joobin’s signal. Mid danger.

Lynn froze, eyes lifting toward the ceiling as if she could see the tremor travel through the roots and pipes. Her lips parted, and for a heartbeat the entire dorm seemed to hold its breath with her.

Then she straightened, the exhaustion in her posture hardening into resolve. The vines coiled gently around her wrist, as if to steady her.

“Hold on,” she murmured—to the plants, to the others, maybe to herself. “We’ll be there soon.”

The words hung in the air like chlorophyll-scented smoke, half hope, half dread, carried down the roots toward the tunnel below.

The wall gave way with a muffled crack, a rush of cold air cutting through the stale humidity of the tunnel. Dust rose like ash, swirling in the beam of their flickering lantern. Kaede lowered her arm slowly, her barrier dimming to a faint pulse around her fingers.

They had reached it.

What had once been a sealed wall of debris and concrete now stood open — the remains of the old tunnel collapse the Facility pretended never existed. The air that drifted through was dry, faintly metallic, carrying a smell that wasn’t saltwater anymore but something older — rust, bones, and forgotten metal.

Dahyun lifted the lantern higher, and both froze.

The other side wasn’t empty.

The light caught the outlines first — pale shapes embedded in the collapsed wall. Bone turned grey, half-merged with cement and steel. There were more than a dozen, maybe more, twisted as if they’d tried to crawl through before the wall came down.

Kaede’s throat tightened. She’d heard whispers about this place, the “harbor mouth” that once led to the open sea before the facility walled it off. When the flood took the first batch of test subjects, the Depthline sealed the passage with bodies still inside.

And now the dust of those same walls coated her hands.

“They were trapped here…” Dahyun whispered.

Kaede nodded faintly, unable to speak. She brushed her fingers along the newly opened edge — the air that seeped through was colder, cleaner, but felt haunted.

“Don’t breathe too loud,” Dahyun said softly. “Not yet.”

Kaede’s lips quirked into a small, grim smile. “Wasn’t planning to.”

They crouched lower, stepping through the breach together. On the other side lay a narrow corridor sloping upward, steel beams half-collapsed but passable. The lantern’s light fell on markings scratched into the wall — initials, tally marks, and a faint, smudged dandelion drawn in chalk.

Kaede stopped. The symbol wasn’t new. It had been here long before them.

“Someone else made it this far,” she murmured.

Dahyun’s hand brushed hers, grounding her. “Then we will too.”

Kaede took a piece of chalk from her pocket — the same one used in every safe route they mapped — and traced a fresh dandelion next to the faded one. Its stem curved toward the open corridor, the petals scattering toward the light.

Before either could move again, the plant line running along the wall shuddered — Joobin’s signal. Two taps. Then three. Then two again. The rhythm was wrong — too fast, too anxious.

Kaede’s body went rigid. She grabbed Dahyun’s arm, extinguishing the lantern in one motion. Darkness swallowed them.

Above, faint and distant through the layers of concrete, came the muffled thud of boots. The hiss of dampeners. A low voice through static: “Sector D… unauthorized access near the old harbor wall.”

Dahyun pressed her back against the cold steel. Kaede raised her hand, her barrier flickering faintly — a thin distortion that dulled the sound of their breathing, bending the air around them. The glow was barely visible, but enough to blur their heat signatures from scanning.

Flashlights sliced through the cracks above — beams of white that brushed the dust where they had been seconds ago. The walls vibrated with the movement of the guards, voices overlapping as they argued over which sensor had triggered.

Then silence.

Kaede exhaled slowly. The barrier dimmed.

“They didn’t see us,” Dahyun whispered.

“Not yet,” Kaede replied.

The tunnel beyond yawned open, stretching toward darkness, no longer the ocean’s mouth but something deeper — the buried arteries of the Facility itself.

Dahyun reached for Kaede’s hand, squeezing once. “Let’s move before they check again.”

Kaede nodded, stepping over the debris. The air beyond smelled like dust and endings — but it was air they had made themselves.

Behind them, the new chalk dandelion gleamed faintly in the dark — white petals scattered across a wall built from the dead.

The tunnel lights had long since gone dark behind them. By the time Kaede and Dahyun emerged back into the dorm sector, the air was different—too still, too sterile. The sharp sting of disinfectant replaced the salt and dust they had breathed for hours. Every movement felt heavier now that the adrenaline was gone.

Lynn’s supplies were waiting for them by the door—carefully wrapped bundles of salve and cloth sealed in one of Mayu’s repurposed storage bags. A single dandelion stem was drawn on the corner in white chalk, her silent signature. Dahyun stooped to pick it up, the soft scrape of her boots against the floor echoing too loudly in the narrow hall.

Kaede leaned against the wall, mud streaking her uniform, hands shaking as she peeled off her gloves. The smell of earth and rust still clung to her skin, even though the air here was dry and filtered. Dahyun moved closer, catching Kaede’s wrist in both hands, her fingers finding the faint thrum of a pulse she’d stabilized earlier. It beat steady now, calm and human.

“You did it,” Dahyun whispered. Her voice was a tremor wrapped in relief. “You found the mouth.”

Kaede didn’t answer at first. Her eyes stayed on the floor, where their muddy footprints left smears against the immaculate tiles. She nodded once, slow.

The words sank in—but not the way Dahyun meant them to. The “mouth” wasn’t an exit. It wasn’t even hope. It was just another threshold, another door the Facility had forgotten to close properly. The air they’d reached wasn’t freedom—it was evidence. Proof that someone had tried before them and never made it back.

The realization settled in her chest, heavy as the dirt still stuck under her nails. “Not yet,” Kaede said finally, so quiet Dahyun almost didn’t hear. “We just found another gate.”

Dahyun wanted to protest, but she saw the exhaustion in Kaede’s eyes and stayed silent.

The camera at the end of the corridor clicked softly, its lens adjusting. A red light blinked once, twice, then went dark again.

Kaede caught it.

She followed the dark circle of the lens with her gaze until it was all she could see—its small, unblinking silence, like the Facility watching without needing to.

A faint vibration rolled through the wall behind them, so subtle it could have been imagination. The kind that came before a system reboot, or before a lockdown protocol came online.

The tunnel wasn’t the only thing they had awakened tonight.

Kaede took a slow breath and reached for Dahyun’s hand. “Let’s go,” she said.

Behind them, the faint mechanical hum deepened—the sound of shutters beginning to slide into place, one by one, somewhere far below.

The Facility had felt the tremor. It was starting to breathe back.

Chapter Text

Jiwoo had heard Kaede’s voice through the plant line—its tremor too steady, too final. She leaned her back against the cold wall, the sound of the rain pressing against the dome like static. Her knees gave a little, sliding until she was half-seated, half-collapsed. The message looped in her head, thin and cruel in its clarity. Another dead end. Another hope snuffed out before it even began.

She had prayed, in her quiet, desperate way, that Kaede and Dahyun might find a way out. A new route, a new promise. Anything. But every tunnel seemed to curl back into itself, leading not to freedom but to another locked door with another code that wasn’t meant to open.

Her eyes flicked to the window. The rain blurred the outside world into a watercolor haze. It had been falling for days now, or maybe only hours—time lost meaning here. She frowned faintly. Did the dome even let rain fall? Or was it just another simulation—another trick to make them believe the sky still wept with them? Jiwoo tried to remember the scent of a real storm, the weight of water in the air, the way puddles used to swallow her reflection when she was still allowed to exist under open clouds. Nothing came. Not even a trace.

Her chest ached at the thought. The rain others spoke of—the one from the outside—was a myth to her, and myths hurt in ways facts couldn’t. Her head dropped forward, hands digging into her knees. “Hyerin…” The name left her in a whisper, cracked and small.

She thought of Yooyeon’s last report—the failed scan, the empty hallways of headquarters echoing like mockery. Hyerin wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere. Jiwoo wanted to scream, to tear through the sterile walls until something gave, until she could drag Hyerin out of whatever hell they’d buried her in. But all she could do was breathe through the ache.

The corridors outside were unusually quiet. The kind of quiet that made her skin prickle. Then—boots. Two sets. The sound of them cutting through puddles. She turned her head toward the narrow window just as two Depthline officers passed by—dark coats soaked to the knees, voices low and unhurried.

“INT-132,” one said. “Can’t believe they put her in our care.”

“Yeah,” the other replied. “Third day? Fourth? They’ve been doing all sorts of things on her. I think they want to use her, not just study her.”

“Would make sense,” the first muttered. “She’s the ‘seer’ of batch one after all. Could save them time if they just… taught her to predict for them.”

Their footsteps faded down the hall.

Jiwoo didn’t breathe until they were gone. The silence that followed wasn’t relief—it was a wound reopening. Her fingers trembled, nails scraping the concrete behind her. The words they’d said crawled inside her head, replaying over and over until they twisted into images she didn’t want to see. Hyerin strapped to a chair, eyes wide but unflinching. Hyerin counting probabilities while someone counted down her sanity.

Her body began to shake. Not with fear—but fury. The kind that made her jaw lock and her throat burn. “Hyerin…” Her voice cracked. “Wait for eonnie a little longer, yeah?”

Her reflection in the window looked nothing like a healer anymore—dark hair damp with sweat, eyes glassy and wild. She reached out, fingertips pressing against the glass, tracing the faint silhouette of the Depthline officers disappearing into the distance. The rain slid down the other side, streaking her reflection apart.

For a moment, she could almost imagine it wasn’t rain at all, but the dome itself—leaking, cracking, weeping with them.

The first thing Yubin noticed that morning wasn’t the light—it was the rhythm. The steady, deliberate rhythm of boots moving past the dorm again. Depthline. Too many of them. The low murmur of their comms crackled faintly through the walls, overlapping with the sharper tone of a STEMCAST convoy headed toward the harbor. It had been happening for days now—quiet movements, systematic, too synchronized to be coincidence.

Yubin leaned against the window frame, her reflection pale against the rain-streaked glass. Something about it clawed at her instincts. The facility was never this restless without reason. She’d lived too long under its breathing walls to mistake order for calm. “Something’s wrong,” she muttered, voice barely more than breath. The words fogged against the glass before dissolving.

That was when the plant line rang.

The soft hum cut through the quiet like a pulse. Yubin turned fast, crossing the room to pick up the small, leaf-shaped transmitter. The glow at its base flickered—a private line, directed to her. Her stomach knotted. No one used this line unless it was urgent.

“Hello—”

“I know where Hyerin is.”

The voice on the other end came fast, trembling, swallowed by the sound of rain and distant shouting. Jiwoo. Yubin froze, fingers tightening around the plant. The tone alone sent her heart stuttering—Jiwoo sounded raw, panicked, almost unrecognizable.

“Yubin-ah… I know where Hyerin is.”

There was noise behind her—wind, movement, metal clanging. Yubin’s pulse climbed. “Jiwoo, what are you doing?”

“I’m gonna go get her.” Her words broke like glass, scattered and trembling. “I— I want to save her, Yubin.”

For a heartbeat, everything inside Yubin went still. The storm outside blurred with the one that began inside her. Fear, anger, disbelief—all tangled. “Wait—Jiwoo, don’t do anything reckless—”

But the line went dead before she could finish. The faint static cut off into silence, and suddenly the room felt too large, too quiet. The rain hit harder, like it knew.

Yubin stood there for a long second, staring at the dimmed plant as if willing it to pulse again. Her mind churned. Jiwoo was many things—defiant, stubborn, brave to the point of foolishness—but she wasn’t suicidal. Not until now.

“Damn it,” Yubin hissed under her breath, throwing on her jacket. Her hands shook as she reached for the comm, punching in Mayu’s frequency, then Seoyeon’s. Nothing. No answer. Each second stretched longer than the last. The silence between rings felt unbearable, like the pause between heartbeats right before they stop.

She paced the dorm, every muscle pulled taut, eyes flicking toward the door again and again. The facility’s hum felt heavier tonight—the sound of air filters, of surveillance gears turning behind the walls, of something watching. It wasn’t just fear that gripped her—it was dread. The kind that settles deep, cold, and unshakable.

Yubin pressed her palms against the desk, head bowed. “Please, Jiwoo,” she whispered, more prayer than plea. “Don’t make me lose you too.”

But the rain outside didn’t answer. It just kept falling—steady, relentless, like the ticking of a clock counting down to something she couldn’t stop.

Soomin didn’t see Jiwoo in her room that morning. The emptiness felt wrong, like the air itself had forgotten to breathe. Maybe Jiwoo was still weighed down by Hyerin’s absence—by the way that room stayed untouched, her sheets still folded, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the air. But now, seeing Jiwoo’s bed empty too, Soomin’s chest tightened. Two absences in a place this small felt unbearable.

She stood still through the examination, cold instruments grazing her skin. It had become routine now, a daily ritual dressed up as care. Each scan, each question, felt like another wall closing in. There was no privacy left, no silence that wasn’t recorded. She stared ahead and thought: if Hyerin were here, she’d whisper something to make this feel less like a trap. Hyerin always knew how to make fear smaller. Without her, Soomin felt like she was being hollowed out—slowly, neatly, from the inside.

The STEMCAST nearby were gossiping, their voices sharp and careless.
“Have you heard that Yooyeon might have a child?”
“Her?” a scoff. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“A pretty face like that is usually a slut, no?”

Laughter followed. Soomin’s hands curled into fists. The sound scraped against her chest. She bit down hard on her lip, willing herself to stay still.

“They said her child might’ve been part of this facility,” one whispered.
“Then the child’s probably dead.”
“How devastating,” the other replied, almost cheerfully.

The words slid into her like knives. Her hands curled on instinct, but she didn’t move. Not here. Not where they could see. The rage had nowhere to go but inward.

And that’s when the memory came back—like a crack in the wall where light slipped through.

She was sitting in the cafeteria, picking at her food, and Yooyeon was watching her like a hawk.
“I’m eating,” Soomin had muttered.
“Then eat properly,” Yooyeon replied. “You need the energy when it’s time to get her out.”

Soomin remembered grumbling something—“You sound like my mom or something”—and how Yooyeon had just smiled. That small, tired smile that never quite reached her eyes. Back then, she hadn’t understood why it made her chest ache.

Now she did.

She remembered the silence that followed, how Yooyeon’s eyes had softened—not pity, not authority, but something else entirely. Something that looked like loss. The kind that didn’t fade.

Back in the present, Soomin sat still under the examination light, that memory clinging to her like a heartbeat. The room felt colder now. Jiwoo was gone. Hyerin was gone. And somewhere out there, Yooyeon was probably still carrying that same quiet ache.

Soomin exhaled shakily. The rain outside pressed against the dome again, steady and endless.
For a moment, she let herself imagine what it would’ve been like—if Yooyeon had been a mother. If any of them had been allowed to be anything more than what the facility made them.

Jiwoo’s breath caught the second she saw it.

The dampener towered at the harbor’s edge—bigger than she’d ever imagined, pulsing faintly with blue light that crawled through the cables like veins under skin. The machinery snaked up the wall of the dome, anchoring into the steel plates that framed the artificial sky. Every hum, every flicker of light made her stomach twist. The thing wasn’t just a dampener anymore. It was alive, and it was feeding.

She forced herself to keep walking, every step measured, casual—the practiced gait of a Depthline on patrol. The stolen uniform fit too perfectly, the fabric heavy against her sweat-slicked back. Behind her, the Depthline she’d knocked unconscious earlier lay hidden beneath the shadow of a loading truck, hands and feet bound tight. No one had noticed. Not yet.

She approached the structure, pretending to check the perimeter, but her eyes stayed fixed on the core. Its hum deepened, vibrating through her chest. Then, a voice behind her:

“This one’s insane, right?”

Jiwoo turned slowly. Another Depthline leaned against the railing, smirking, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. “The Crownroot designed it herself,” he said, almost proud. “Makes fake rain—infused with dampener particles. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Her body went cold.

The words sank in like lead. Infused with dampener. The rain that hadn’t stopped for days. The rain that soaked the dorms, the training yard, the tunnels—everything. Jiwoo’s pulse spiked as realization hit her. That’s why Sohyun, Xinyu, Nien, and Chaeyeon came back sick that night. That’s why the others had been weak, sluggish, fevered. The rain wasn’t weather—it was poison disguised as mercy.

Her hands trembled inside the gloves. She forced herself to laugh, a brittle sound. “Guess she wants a show, huh?”

“Exactly!” the Depthline said, grinning. “Come on. You’ll love this.”

Show. The word echoed in her skull like a gunshot. But she followed anyway, silent, heart pounding.

They led her into a narrow corridor that opened into a chamber filled with light. For a moment, she couldn’t understand what she was seeing. Then she did—and her body froze.

Hyerin.

She was strapped to a chair in the center of the room, drenched in artificial rain that dripped from her hair and pooled beneath her feet. Wires coiled around her limbs, feeding into the dampener’s core. Her eyes were vacant, glassy with exhaustion. Every few seconds, her body convulsed as another surge of electricity ripped through her. The sound of her scream split the air, raw and animal.

The Depthline laughed.

They were laughing.

Jiwoo’s knees nearly gave out. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, forcing herself to stay still, to not break cover. Her whole body shook beneath the armor, her breaths shallow and ragged. She wanted to tear off the helmet, to scream, to kill every single one of them. But she couldn’t—not yet.

Then Hyerin’s head turned.

Through the rain and the blur of tears, their eyes met. Even from across the room, Jiwoo could feel it—that flicker of recognition, that unspoken plea. Hyerin’s lips moved, trembling. Jiwoo stared, trying to read the motion.

Run.

The word cut through her like glass.

And then—chaos. The lights flickered violently. The floor began to quake, the dampener shrieking as sparks burst from the walls. The Depthline stumbled, shouting orders, tripping over each other in the confusion. Jiwoo didn’t wait. She moved.

She slipped through the smoke and noise, sprinting toward the chair as alarms blared overhead. Hyerin looked up weakly, her voice barely a whisper. “You should’ve run…”

Jiwoo dropped to her knees beside her, hands already ripping the wires from her skin. “And leave you behind?” she rasped, tearing another cord free. The scent of burnt metal and ozone filled her lungs.

Hyerin winced, trembling as Jiwoo yanked out the final electrode. “You’re insane,” she whispered—but there was relief in her voice, a flicker of something alive again.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Jiwoo pulled her close, cradling her as alarms howled and steam hissed from the cracked dampener. The artificial rain poured harder, streaking across her visor like tears she refused to shed. With Hyerin’s weight in her arms, Jiwoo ran into the storm—carrying her through the smoke, through the fear, through the chaos that felt one heartbeat away from collapse.

Behind them, the dome trembled. But Jiwoo didn’t look back.

Hyungseo paused at the console, corrected a timestamp, and let the altered log submit — she watched the entry go through and did nothing more.

ACT 2 END

Chapter Text

ACT 3 BEGIN

Sullin frowned when the faint static of the plant line brushed against her thoughts. It wasn’t unusual for Seoyeon to reach out that way, but the voice that came through this time wasn’t calm or composed—it was trembling, rushed, threaded with panic that didn’t sound like her at all.

“Sullin, I— I need your help.”

The urgency in her tone froze the air. Seoah, who had already been half-asleep beside her, blinked awake and sat up slowly, her quiet breathing cutting through the darkness of the confinement room.

“I remember you mentioned that your Core Burst is more controlled lately,” Seoyeon said, each word slightly broken by static.

Sullin hesitated, confused. “Yeah… when I’ve had enough rest. When I take care of myself.” She could hear her own voice tremble, the confusion mixing with a strange, rising dread.

“How’s your condition today?”

“…Pretty good?” Her brows knitted tighter. “Seoyeon-nim, did something happen?”

Silence. Just the sound of faint interference hissing in her ear. Then Seoyeon’s breath—quick, shaky.

“I need you to create an earthquake strong enough around the harbor area. I also need Yeonji to trigger a short circuit there.”

The request hit like a slap. Sullin blinked, her mouth parting. “Yeonji’s asleep. The Red Vigil forced our training longer than usual today…”

Her eyes flicked to Seoah. The younger girl had stilled completely, watching her with that soft, unblinking gaze that always carried too much knowing. Sullin pressed herself against the wall, finding the only blind spot from the camera’s angle, whispering between clenched teeth.

Seoah understood without words. She lifted her hand toward the lamp. The faint blue pulse that lived in her fingertips sparked, and the bulb above them flickered—once, twice, until the light began to stutter in rhythm.

Sullin caught the message. Electricity. Echoing Yeonji.
She looked back at Seoah, and they shared a glance that said we’re really doing this.

“How long?” Sullin asked. “How long do you need us to do this?”

There was another stretch of silence. The kind that presses against your ribs until breathing feels like guilt.

Then Seoyeon’s voice came again—hoarse, restrained, but carrying something close to desperation.

“Until I tell you to stop.”

Sullin drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her nose. The air felt too dry. Too thin. She lowered both palms to the cold floor, her skin prickling as she reached inward for the pulse that lived in her chest—the one that wasn’t a heartbeat but something deeper, heavier.

She imagined the harbor. The sound of the waves, faint but real, somewhere beyond the concrete and steel that caged them. That memory was enough.

Her focus anchored there.

The first tremor came like a breath withheld for too long—soft, uncertain, then swelling into a rolling growl that climbed the walls. Dust rained down from the ceiling; the bedframe rattled beneath Seoah’s knees. Panic began to ripple through the hallway beyond their door, voices shouting, boots pounding. The facility shivered. The lights hiccupped in a staccato that felt like a broken metronome.

But Seoyeon hadn’t said to stop.

Sullin clenched her jaw, every muscle in her arms burning. She could feel the power building behind her palms, the heat of friction between earth and will. Her focus wavered—every second longer felt like an invitation to collapse. Seoah’s breathing grew sharper beside her; the light bulb sputtered and cracked, showering tiny sparks that fizzled against the floor.

Still, Seoyeon’s voice didn’t come.

The ground shook harder, the air trembling with that deep, low hum that made her teeth ache. Sullin gritted her teeth, whispering, “Come on… come on, tell us…” Her vision blurred; her fingers felt carved from stone. She could feel her pulse fracturing through her fingertips, the lines of force trembling beneath her skin.

Then she thought of Seoah again—small, pale, trembling—and fear cut through the exhaustion. Seoah was echoing Yeonji’s ability, mimicking voltage itself. Sullin knew how much that could cost. She’d seen Yeonji faint for hours after even short bursts. The thought made her breath hitch.

If she burns herself out because of me—

Then, finally—

“SULLIN! SEOAH! YOU GIRLS CAN STOP NOW!”

The voice thundered through the static, raw and loud and almost breaking.

Sullin’s eyes flew open. She gasped, her body shaking as she pulled her hands from the floor. The tremors stopped almost instantly, the silence slamming into the room like a wave. She fell back against the wall, chest heaving. Seoah’s head dropped forward; her hair clung to her damp forehead, but her breathing was steady—surprisingly steady.

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Then Sullin laughed—half sob, half disbelief—and pressed her trembling fingers against her knees.

“Thank you…”

The voice came again, soft this time. A whisper through static.

Seoyeon.

Sullin blinked, realizing the sound was thick, uneven. Is she crying? she wondered, her throat tightening before she could stop it.

“Thank you so much,” Seoyeon said. “I owe you girls my life.”

And just like that, the line fell silent.

Sullin stared at the dark ceiling above her, heart pounding, and thought—not for the first time—that even victories here felt like pain wearing a different name.

The alarm keened like a thing with teeth as the tremor rolled through the compound. Lights hiccupped and guttered, casting everything in a staccato of shadow and sick white.

Seoyeon paced the narrow gap between the hospital wing and the dorms as if she could walk the panic into order; her hands jittered at her sides. Soomin crouched in the dark, a small cone of light held like an anchor, eyes straining down the corridor for Jiwoo’s shape. Chaeyeon and Yooyeon waited with them—tense silhouettes against the blinking strip-lights—each face a different map of disbelief and fear.

Then Jiwoo came into view, running—the hem of a stolen Depthline uniform snagging at her knees, Hyerin a limp, wet weight in her arms. Soomin waved the lightstick hard; the glow caught Jiwoo’s face, and she dove toward it as if toward promise. Hyerin’s eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. She smelled of metal and rain and something electric that made Soomin’s throat close.

Seoyeon’s voice cut across the cacophony, sharp and raw through the plant line.
“SULLIN! SEOAH! YOU GIRLS CAN STOP NOW!”

The command was both a signal and a prayer. When Jiwoo looked up, relief washed over Seoyeon like rain after drought; a single sound left her and broke, small and ragged.

“Thank you,” she whispered, trembling; the world narrowed to that gratitude and then widened again to the cost it implied.

“Thank you so much,” she added, softer, the words almost private. “I owe you girls my life.”

Chaeyeon took Hyerin from Jiwoo’s arms with the kind of rough gentleness of someone used to doing what must be done. She laid her on the tarpaulin they’d spread between the buildings, and Soomin knelt at her side. Her hands were cool on Hyerin’s pale wrist.

“Hyerin,” Soomin said, voice thin with relief. She watched the chest for that stubborn, miraculous rise.

Seoyeon opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. Her breath hitched like something tearing inside her — then the slap landed. A single, explosive sound that cut through the siren and the ringing in everyone’s ears. It was louder than the alarm, a punctuation that made heads turn and steel pipes sing. For a second, the night held its breath.

“Did you even realize what you did?!” Seoyeon demanded, hands trembling now in the aftermath of tears, the anger raw around the edges. Her voice shook. She forced it into a command that could have been Crownroot’s—disciplined, accusing.

“Lee Jiwoo! Answer me!”

Jiwoo flinched as if struck. Her jaw tightened; she swallowed and said nothing. The silence took on weight. It held the memory of what Jiwoo had seen—Hyerin strapped to that machine, the wetness of the artificial rain, the way the Depthlines had laughed—and it held the knowledge of what that sight would mean if the facility found proof.

“And this uniform… Jiwoo,” Seoyeon pressed on, voice sharper now, exhaustion and calculation coexisting like two hands on the same blade.

“Did you kill that guard? Lee Jiwoo, did you kill that guard?!”

Her words demanded confession and, more urgently, a ledger: names, traces, mistakes. Jiwoo’s silence was an answer of its own. She stayed still, teeth clenched, the uniform damp against her skin. The thing around her shoulders smelled of the place she’d stolen it from—oil and human sweat and the sour sting of authority. It was a coat of culpability as much as protection.

“Lee Jiwoo,” Seoyeon lowered her voice then; the fury thinned into a dangerous, cold calculation. The tracks of her tears had already dried on her cheeks. Her fist tightened at her side as she laid out the calculus no one wanted to voice.

“If they found your DNA or fingerprints there—”

“I did not kill him,” Jiwoo interrupted finally, the words a bare thing. They had the small, brittle dignity of truth.

“But I will return this uniform—”

Seoyeon cut her off. “Did you even realize,” her words were sharper than before, the anger folded into fear, “the risk you put us through with this act of yours—”

“I saved Hyerin! Isn’t that enough?” Jiwoo’s protest came out raw, a child’s howl stored in an adult’s throat. It cracked and rang in the thin air between the buildings.

Chaeyeon stepped forward then—not to defend the system, but from a hard, pragmatic sense of what they were trying to build. Her voice was low, but it carried.

“Do you even know what you’ve started?” she demanded. The accusation felt less like judgment and more like a ledger being read out loud: losses counted before they happened.

“Our movement will be limited. It was pure luck that Nien eonnie and I were able to secure our supply.”

Jiwoo’s hands curled into fists. “Did you see what I saw, eonnie?” she pushed back. “They were torturing her. They were experimenting on her—they were cruel to her!” The memory of Hyerin’s hollow eyes made her fingers tremble.

“And soon that cruelty will fall on us,” Chaeyeon shot back, the truth blunt as a hammer. “You could have told us first, you could have informed us. If Yubin didn’t call us in panic, and if Seoyeon hadn’t asked Sullin and Seoah to create the chaos that allowed you to get away,” her voice cut like wind, “you and Hyerin could have died on the spot.”

Words hung, frayed and sharp. Yooyeon and Soomin both wanted to speak—both held anger and mercy in their chests—but Hyerin’s condition pulled them like tide. The corridor shrank to the pale figure on the tarpaulin and the breath that might yet be coaxed from her. Yooyeon’s hands hovered over Hyerin’s ribs, trembling. She knew the pattern of that bruising — she’d logged it before. She didn’t say it out loud.

“Everyone, inside, now”

Yooyeon said, signaling Chaeyeon to help her carry Hyerin inside but then she noticed Seoyeon straightened slowly. For a moment there was only the wet glow of the lightstick and the distant, stuttering siren and the soft rustle of the tarpaulin.

She looked at Jiwoo with the tiredness of someone who had to carry everyone’s choices in her chest. Her voice came out quiet but precise, the sentence of a commander and a mourner.

“Burn that uniform. Leave no trace.”

Jiwoo’s mouth opened once, then closed again. Her knuckles were white. The words stayed where they always did — somewhere between her teeth and her heart.

She swept her gaze across the huddled faces—steely, warning, a crack of mercy. The siren choked itself quiet, leaving only the sound of rain and breathing. Seoyeon’s eyes swept over them, one by one. When she spoke, it was almost gentle.

“Because from tonight,” she said, and the words settled like ash, “freedom will be nothing but luxury.”

Yooyeon stayed by Hyerin’s side, her movements small, methodical, and trembling at the edges from exhaustion. Every thirty minutes, she administered the medicine Lynn had managed to create—a thin vial of cloudy amber that smelled faintly of chlorophyll and metal. Between doses, she pressed her palms to Hyerin’s temples, closing her eyes as faint light traced the lines of her fingers. Neural Mapping was supposed to be clinical—precise, detached—but here, it felt more like prayer. Each scan was a plea, a whisper inside her own head: stay with us… stay with us.

The storage alcove they had claimed had once been used for supplies, but now it was just another forgotten corner of the hospital—a place the cameras no longer bothered to watch. Dust clung to the walls like old breath. Yooyeon had cleaned what she could, wiping the grime from the floor with gauze strips and sterilizing the air with what little alcohol remained. The faint, flickering bulb above their heads threw everything in faded yellow, turning faces into ghosts.

Soomin sat beside Hyerin, refusing to move even when her head began to nod forward from exhaustion. She cupped Hyerin’s hand between her own as if she could keep the warmth from leaving. Every time Hyerin’s breathing slowed, Soomin’s grip tightened; every time it steadied again, she wept in silence, small tears that traced over her knuckles before soaking into Hyerin’s sleeve.

In the corner, Seoyeon sat in shadow, her body still. Her eyes were locked on her own hand—the one that had struck Jiwoo earlier. She kept flexing her fingers as though trying to scrub the memory from her skin. The ache in her palm was gone, but the echo remained: the sound, the recoil, the trembling aftershock that wasn’t just physical. She hadn’t meant to hit Jiwoo out of cruelty. It was fear, it was grief, it was the weight of command made flesh. Yet knowing that didn’t absolve her. She stared at that hand until it blurred in her vision, until it no longer looked like hers.

Chaeyeon stood by the door, a shadow framed by flickering light. Her posture was rigid, her eyes fixed on the hall. Every few seconds she would glance back, measuring everyone’s breathing, counting heads. She wasn’t watching for enemies as much as she was convincing herself that they were all still here—that no one had vanished in the chaos.

Across from them, Jiwoo sat on the floor, the small fire she’d built throwing a weak glow against the wall. She was burning the Depthline uniform piece by piece—gloves, sleeves, insignia—watching each scrap curl and blacken before turning to ash. Her tears glistened in the firelight, silent and steady. She whispered between sobs, words that were meant for no one but herself—apologies spilling from her lips in fragments, breaking apart before they could finish forming.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to— I just couldn’t—”

Each piece of fabric that fell into the flame made the room smell of melted plastic and old blood. Jiwoo pressed a fist to her mouth, stifling a sound that was almost a scream. Her shadow flickered against the walls, long and trembling, like someone being swallowed whole.

Yooyeon looked up once, just for a moment, and saw her. The sight burned itself into her—the girl who had defied everything, now crumbling quietly beside the remnants of her own defiance. Seoyeon didn’t move. Chaeyeon didn’t speak. The silence between them all felt heavy, thick enough to drown in.

The fire cracked. The bulb above them buzzed once before going dim. Hyerin’s breathing steadied, faint but even.

For a brief, fragile second, they all let themselves believe it was enough.

Kotone felt the air shift before anyone said a word. The usual hum of the corridor had turned sharp, the kind of silence that waits for orders. She’d been in enough security briefings to know what it meant: a command had come down from above. When she overheard the Wallkeepers muttering about new directives, her stomach knotted. The words they used—“sweep,” “containment,” “search order”—were all too familiar, but this time, the tone was different. They weren’t hunting anomalies. They were hunting someone.

By midday, the facility’s calm façade had cracked open into chaos. The news of Hyerin’s escape spread like wildfire, each retelling feeding on the fear of the last. Every staff member had been mobilized—administrators, med techs, even the STEMCAST personnel. People who had never held weapons now carried scanners and restraint cuffs. The corridors that once smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal now reeked of sweat and tension.

From her dorm window, Kotone could hear Crownroot’s fury echo through the intercom system. The Administrator’s voice wasn’t words so much as a roar—each syllable reverberating through the vents like thunder. She didn’t need to see her to know that Catherine had lost control. Somewhere above them, an order had gone out, and now the Dome itself felt like it was holding its breath.

That morning, a Depthline was found unconscious in one of the lower sectors. His uniform was gone. The discovery set off the chain reaction she’d been dreading. Military trucks had begun to arrive by noon, engines growling through the perimeter gates, their cargo a flood of armed personnel dressed in matte gray. Soldiers. Not guards. Soldiers.

Kotone sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor until the hum of the facility felt like it was inside her head. Her hands shook once before she forced them still. Beneath the mattress, hidden behind the layer of folded sheets, sat a narrow steel box. She slid it out carefully. The lock clicked open with the familiarity of ritual.

Inside were rows of ammunition—sleek, clean, efficient. Her mind went blank for a moment as she ran a gloved thumb over the label. She’d made sure each batch had reached its destination, every piece tailored to its bearer: Seoyeon’s silenced SMG, Chaeyeon’s knife, Jiwoo’s baton, Yubin’s reinforced knuckle dusters. Every weapon was a promise she’d made quietly under her breath: You’ll have something if they come for you.

She’d told herself she did it for protection. That it was logistics, not rebellion. But as the sirens wailed again in the distance, she felt the truth press hard against her ribs. These weren’t just tools—they were declarations. Lines drawn in secret ink.

Kotone let out a slow breath, sat straighter, and pulled the small leather notebook from her nightstand. Its pages were filled with fake daily reports—routine logs, task notes, the kind of dull compliance that Crownroot expected from her. She opened to a blank page and uncapped her pen, the soft scratch of it steadying her heartbeat.

She began to write, her hand moving faster than her thoughts.

Dandelions.

The first word was deliberate, a signal disguised as habit. Her pulse thrummed in her ears as she continued, the letters forming with quiet precision.

Secure your weapons.
War is coming.
Do not take any food from staff.
Do not drink anything from anyone.
Do not do anything without command.
Until the war starts—keep yourself ready.

She closed the notebook, slipped it under the loose floor tile, and forced herself to breathe evenly. Her reflection in the metal wall looked composed, but she could feel her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

Outside, the trucks rumbled closer. The vibration crawled up the walls, into her bones. It sounded like war already. The key hidden under her pillow sat still.

And for the first time, Kotone didn’t know if she was preparing to survive it—or start it.

Steam coiled from the spout like breath from a dying thing. The kettle rattled softly on the stove, the metal quivering with every heartbeat of the flame beneath it. Lynn watched the water roll and hiss, her reflection warping in the sheen of boiling silver.

When the whistle finally screamed, she moved with practiced grace—lifting the lid, slipping in the tea bag, stirring once, twice, until the surface went calm again. The faint scent of jasmine bloomed into the air, soft and familiar, the kind that once meant comfort. But this wasn’t comfort anymore. Inside the sachet, mixed with the leaves, was her newest creation: a poison so subtle it could wear the mask of warmth.

She’d crafted it the night she heard the soldiers were coming—news carried in whispers through the ventilation shafts, through trembling lips that didn’t dare say too much. Even before confirmation, she had known what her role would be. The facility wanted control. The soldiers would enforce it. And so, she would take it back the only way she could.

The poison smelled harmless. Sweet, even. It would taste faintly of honey and relief. The sugar she added would soothe the throat, but it would not belong to them. The moment the warmth touched their tongues, it would already be hers. Their bodies would slow, their hearts would falter, their muscles would betray them—not instantly, but in quiet, creeping surrender.

As she poured the tea into small porcelain cups, Lynn’s hands didn’t shake. She smiled as she always did—soft, polite, the model image of civility. It was easy, this mimicry of grace. She’d been playing the part for so long that her body remembered it better than her conscience did.

The first staff member approached, muttering thanks as he reached for the cup. Lynn tilted her head slightly, the corners of her lips curving into something almost kind. Watching him sip, she felt the old guilt stir deep in her stomach—an ache that once would’ve stopped her hand. But guilt was a luxury she could no longer afford.

Her smile lingered even as her eyes dimmed. Beneath the pleasant mask, something cold stirred—a quiet, private farewell. A silent prayer not for mercy, but for balance.

For every breath they had taken from the girls, for every name the facility erased, she offered them this one small, perfect cup of retribution.

When she turned away, the faint sound of china touching lips filled the room. Her expression softened into something unrecognizable—neither relief nor satisfaction, only the hollow calm of someone who knew she had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.

It wasn’t vengeance she tasted when the scent of tea filled her lungs. It was survival, bitter and slow, steeped in quiet death.

Chapter Text

Nien used to think memories came back like songs—soft and blurry at the edges. But this one returned like a bruise pressed too hard.

“Dad?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Will the day I end up alone ever come?”
“I hope not.”
“Really?”
“And even if you did get separated from us and become alone, I hope you’ll find someone to share that space with you.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, Nien.”

The words hung in her mind like smoke, fragile and false against the chaos around her. The tunnel shook with gunfire, air thick with the reek of gun oil and fear. She blinked through the ringing in her ears, the metallic taste of blood sliding down her nose. A soldier’s fist had split her lip, and she could feel the pulse of it with every breath.

Chaeyeon’s voice broke through the static, distant but sharp with panic. “Nien! Nien, stay with me!”

Her vision steadied. Dahyun knelt nearby—hands glowing faintly as Kaede shielded her behind a shimmering barrier. The sight of that gentle light in a place so cruel hurt more than the blood did. Nien’s whole body trembled, but she refused to move backward. Not again. Not when the ground itself could answer her.

The soldiers shouted orders, rifles aimed, voices shaking more than they should. “On your knees! Now!”

She didn’t respond. Her eyes flicked sideways to Chaeyeon. Her girl—her anchor—was pale, her hands trembling, her face set in the calm of someone about to break and keep breaking anyway. And then—without warning—one of the soldiers screamed.

It was not pain like she’d ever heard. It was animal.

He clawed at his face as blood began to pour from his eyes and ears, a howl that made even the others freeze. Nien’s heart lurched. There was no blood on Chaeyeon’s hands, but the air felt wrong—thick, iron-laced, humming with something alive.

Chaeyeon’s eyes met hers. They weren’t pleading. They were command. “Do it!”

For a second, Nien just stared, the world narrowing to that one voice—steady, unyielding, desperate. Then instinct swallowed thought.

Her palms slammed into the ground.

The tunnel convulsed. The earth beneath their feet cracked open with a roar, concrete splintering like ribs beneath pressure. The tremor raced outward, shaking loose a rain of dust and debris that cloaked them in a gray storm. The soldiers stumbled; a few screamed again as the ceiling spat chunks of stone.

Kaede’s barrier flared bright, a transparent wall shimmering as bullets ricocheted off it. Dahyun’s healing glow pulsed beneath, her breath ragged as she steadied Kaede’s shaking arm. Together, they charged through the chaos—an impossible rhythm of survival.

Nien followed, her pulse thundering. Her own power thrummed up her arms, hungry, wild. The ground obeyed her, but it scared her too—how easy it was to command something that could bury them all.

Behind her, faint voices echoed through the crumbling dark. “HELP! I CAN’T SEE!”

She stumbled, turning her head just enough to see Chaeyeon again—still moving, still fighting, blood slicking her cheek where shrapnel had kissed her skin.

For a moment, Nien forgot the gunfire, the smoke, even the ringing in her skull. She could only stare. Chaeyeon’s fingers twitched once more, and another soldier dropped screaming.

Blood Memory, she thought numbly. But there was no blood in her grasp. No source. No logic.

Just power.

Nien’s heart slammed against her ribs. “Did I just—” Her whisper vanished under the roar of collapsing stone.

She looked back at Chaeyeon, horror and awe tangled in her chest. The thought hit her like a blade through fog—sharp, impossible, true.

Was she seeing Blood Bending come to life?
Or was she finally losing her mind?

Shion’s breath came ragged through the smoke of the alarm. The red lights pulsed against the steel walls like a heartbeat, painting her trembling hands in flashes of crimson. The confinement wing was alive now—sirens shrieking, the automated voice repeating Containment Breach Detected—but she had already silenced half its defenses. The shattered remains of a camera smoked on the ceiling, glass glittering at her feet like stars crushed under her boots.

Her throat burned from overuse, but she pressed forward anyway, steps unsteady. Each one echoed like a countdown. The air was thick—metal, ozone, and fear.

She had done it. Her training had finally borne fruit. A single note from her voice, sustained and honed until it could cut through anything. She hadn’t screamed, not really—she’d just opened her mouth, and the air itself had turned to a blade. The lock on the containment door split clean down the middle, smoking faintly.

And yet, as she faced the door she was meant to open, Shion hesitated.

Her reflection wavered faintly on the polished metal, wide-eyed, mouth half-open. For the first time since she’d joined Seoyeon’s rebellion, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see what came next.

“What’s the hold up?”

The voice came from behind her, smooth, unhurried—like the world wasn’t collapsing around them.

Jiyeon stepped out of the shadow, the crimson light licking across her pale skin. She looked smaller than Shion remembered, but somehow more vast. Her presence filled the corridor like pressure—something heavy and invisible that made Shion’s throat dry.

“Thank you for saving me that day,” Jiyeon said, smiling with disarming warmth. “You sounded so sweet. It was more than enough to keep me calm for days.”

The words sank like stones.

Shion swallowed hard. She wanted to speak, to return something—anything—but her tongue felt thick. Every instinct screamed to keep her distance, to shut the door, to leave this woman in the dark where she belonged. The Lunatic, they called her. EXP-314. The one even Crownroot feared.

And now Shion was the fool breaking her out.

Her voice trembled as she managed, “No funny business. Okay? I’m only doing this because Seoyeon-nim ordered it. Don’t—don’t touch me without my consent.”

Jiyeon laughed. Not cruelly, but with a kind of knowing mirth that chilled more than anger ever could. “I might be a psycho,” she said lightly, “but I’m not a predator.”

The door gave way under Shion’s next breath. Metal screamed, then split open. The scent of rust and antiseptic flooded the air. Jiyeon stepped out, unhurried, stretching her arms as if tasting freedom for the first time in years.

Shion could barely look at her. The way she moved—too graceful, too composed—felt wrong. Like a storm pretending to be still.

Then came the sound of boots.

Guards rounded the corner, their voices sharp, their rifles raised. The tunnel filled with their shouts, their fear. Jiyeon didn’t move. She only smiled wider, eyes glittering with something between joy and madness.

“Stay close to me, Shion,” she murmured, almost tender. “I’ll show you why they kept me in that room.”

Shion’s instincts took over. She stepped behind her before she even realized it, heart hammering, her voice useless in her throat. The soldiers opened fire.

And then—silence.

A wet, heavy sound followed. The splatter hit her cheek before she understood what it was.

Blood.

She blinked once. Twice. The body closest to them crumpled to the floor—headless, twitching. The air stank of iron and ozone. Another fell, and another, each one dropping like a puppet with its strings cut.

Jiyeon was laughing now. Not the shriek of madness Shion had expected, but a laugh threaded with euphoria and control. Every burst of her power was deliberate—surgical. The corridor became a gallery of ruin, and yet not a single drop of blood touched Shion again.

Shion’s knees nearly buckled. The horror of it sank in waves—the carnage, the precision, the impossible truth that this “lunatic” wielded her chaos like art.

And still, Jiyeon laughed.

Her silhouette gleamed in the red light, radiant and monstrous. Shion couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Her ears rang not from her own voice this time, but from the awful realization blooming in her chest—

That this was control.
That Seoyeon had unleashed this.
And that Shion, trembling in Jiyeon’s shadow, had been the one to open the door.

Chapter Text

They moved through the chaos like blades cutting through rope. Soldiers sprinted past them, boots hammering the ground in a frantic rhythm, radios snapping with bursts of static. The main quarter had dissolved into confusion, leaving an open path for them to slip through unnoticed. People pushed the other way, faces pale with fear, breaths fogging under the cold fluorescent light.

Seoyeon felt the noise crawl under her skin—shouted orders, the clatter of harnesses, alarms screaming through the vents until the air itself vibrated. She kept her shoulders low and her hand close to the compact SMG pressed against her back, the only thing that felt solid in the chaos. When two guards stumbled by, whispering in panic—“the girls from containment… free?”—she caught the crack in their voices. The fear sounded genuine this time. For years, she and the others had been treated like dangerous anomalies. Now, the ones who confined them were the ones afraid. The irony was cold and satisfying.

At the door leading to Crownroot’s wing, Yooyeon’s hand caught hers—small, firm, trembling. For a moment, the world shrank to the warmth of that grip. Between their joined fingers lay the weight of years: exile, silence, and the burden of survival. Yooyeon’s voice came out soft, trembling but sincere.

“Be safe,” she whispered. Then, as if saying it once wasn’t enough, “Be safe, and meet me here, okay?”

Seoyeon’s chest tightened. She wanted to promise, to make it simple, but promises in their world were dangerous things. She nodded instead. No words. Just an understanding that felt both heavy and fragile.

The doors slid open with a hiss.

Crownroot’s office glared with sterile light. The intercoms blared with overlapping voices, alarms echoing from every wall. Catherine sat at her desk like the calm eye of a storm, her head tilted slightly as if curious, amused even. The chaos outside only seemed to sharpen her poise.

“Yoon Seoyeon,” she said, her voice smooth but cutting.

Seoyeon stepped forward, her expression unreadable. “I despise how my name sounds when you say it,” she replied. Her voice was steady, her hand firm on the weapon at her back. Years of fear had been boiled down into this single confrontation.

Catherine smiled faintly. “You wish you could end this. We’ll kill all of you and start over—it’s not that hard.”

Seoyeon rolled her shoulders, her muscles tense. “Then,” she said, eyes locked on the woman who had built the system that destroyed them, “I’ll make it difficult for you.”

There was no bravado in her tone. Only resolve—the kind that came from someone who had been patient with her pain for far too long, and had finally decided to act.

The trail of blood behind them looked almost deliberate—like a red thread marking every mistake, every second wasted. The alarm shrieked through the hallways in a pitch that sank its teeth into Shion’s nerves, vibrating through her jaw, her ribs, her already-raw throat. Footsteps hammered somewhere behind them, the echo of pursuit always too close, too loud.

Mayu’s warning replayed in her mind like a heartbeat: “Deeper. Confinement goes deeper.”
Not toward freedom. Not yet. Shion hated that she remembered it so clearly.

Her fingers fumbled for the vial Lynn made—her throat’s instant salvation. Even uncorking it made her flinch; the herbal smell hit first, soft and green, a small mercy in a place that ate softness alive. She lifted it to her lips—

—and jumped when she felt eyes on her.

Jiyeon was staring.

Her focus was unsettling in its serenity, like Shion was the quiet in the room instead of the alarms. Jiyeon’s gaze didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t tremble. It simply watched.

“What is that?” Jiyeon asked. Her voice wasn’t curious—just calm, like the question didn’t matter but Shion’s answer did.

Shion sighed, tilting the vial back and swallowing. Relief spread instantly, unclenching something inside her. “Something for my throat.”

Jiyeon nodded once and returned her gaze forward. “Is this where we’re going?”

Shion nodded too, even though her stomach twisted answering it. They were heading toward the deepest part of the facility. Toward the girls the world forgot.

She looked at Jiyeon again.

Blood streaked across the girl’s cheek—not hers. Never hers. No one ever managed to land a hit on Jiyeon. The idea of anyone even trying was absurd… or suicidal. Shion shouldn’t have felt safer with her, but she did, and that realization was its own kind of fear.

“Some of the girls in confinement are basically children,” Shion murmured, pulling out her handkerchief. She hesitated—touching Jiyeon was always a gamble. But she wiped the blood anyway.

“Let’s not scare them.”

Jiyeon flinched—just a flicker. A shiver, not of fear but of surprise. Then she leaned into the touch as though it had been meant for her alone.

“It’s not like they’ve never seen me,” Jiyeon murmured.

“Not covered in blood, obviously,” Shion replied, rolling her eyes even as she stroked the last streak from Jiyeon’s cheek.

Jiyeon’s smile bloomed slowly, softly. Too soft for someone who could tear steel apart when her emotions spiked. “You sound sweeter when you scold me.”

Heat shot up Shion’s neck before she could stop it.
Why. Why did that affect her?

“Lunatic,” she muttered, blunt and defensive.

“That’s what I am,” Jiyeon said, and winked—an impossible little spark in a collapsing world.

Shion shoved her shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to risk a surge, but enough to make a point—and shoved the handkerchief into Jiyeon’s chest.

“Let’s go. Time is ticking.”

Jiyeon held the stained cloth like it was something precious, her grin so bright it felt wrong in the crimson-lit hallway. “I love it when you’re in a hurry.”

The intercom had been screaming for minutes, but inside the confinement corridor, the sound felt muffled—like the walls were swallowing panic before it could reach the girls inside. Sullin felt every vibration in her bones. The alarms rattled the metal frames of their doors, shook dust from the vents, sent Seoah trembling against her back while Joobin clung to her hand so tightly her fingers tingled.

She gathered them into the hallway the moment the locks disengaged—whether from malfunction or chaos above, she didn’t know. Yeonji hovered near her shoulder, eyes sharp despite the lingering fear pulsing through her. Seoah kept herself small, hiding behind Sullin’s arm, her breath warm against Sullin’s spine. Joobin squeezed her hand once, asking silently if she should mimic someone. Sullin shook her head. Not yet.

Then footsteps.

One pair light and measured.
One pair too calm, too familiar in its serenity.

Jiyeon.

The Lunatic herself emerged first from the smoke-streaked end of the hallway, her expression a strange mix of focus and delight—as if the blaring alarms were her favorite song. Sullin’s muscles locked on instinct. Every cell in her body remembered the tremors Jiyeon could cause without meaning to, the way walls shook when her emotions frayed.

But then—an unfamiliar face appeared behind her.

Slim frame. Careful eyes. Voice raw like it had recently been pushed too far.

She shoved Jiyeon to the side—not out of violence, but out of pure reflex, like clearing debris from a path. Jiyeon barely budged, blinking at her like she’d just been playfully nudged by the wind.

“Did you girls wait long?” the newcomer asked, breathless but steady. “I’m Shion. Seoyeon-nim sent me to get you out of here.”

Sullin straightened, instinctively placing herself between Shion and the others. Seoah peeked from behind her arm, her small fingers curling into Sullin’s sleeve. Yeonji held her ground, chin lifted in a defiance she didn’t fully feel. Joobin tightened her grip again—tiny, trembling.

“It certainly didn’t feel longer than the time we’ve been locked in here,” Sullin shot back, voice dry but controlled. Humor pressed thin over fear.

Shion flinched at that, just subtly. Her gaze flickered over them—Sullin, Seoah, Yeonji, Joobin—and something in her posture shifted. Not pity. Not horror. Something closer to realization.

They were all dangerous.

She was surrounded by the subjects the facility whispered about:
Core Burst.
Power Echo.
Pulse Overload.
Voice Mimicry.

Sullin watched Shion’s throat tighten. Watched how she tried—and failed—not to step closer to Jiyeon as if seeking cover from the only monster she understood.

“Just stay calm on our way out, got it?” Jiyeon said suddenly, voice slicing clean through the tension. She didn’t look at the girls—she looked at Shion, almost amused at her stiff shoulders. “Stay close to me. And only use your abilities when I tell you to.”

Sullin nodded automatically, the words hitting something deep and unexpectedly warm. This was exactly what Seoyeon had warned her about.

Jiyeon might scare you a bit.
But trust her.
She can lead you out.

Sullin exhaled once, sharply. That trust didn’t come easily, but it settled into her now like a weight she was finally allowed to carry.

“What are you waiting for?” Jiyeon asked, her tone tilting toward impatience. “Let them out.”

Only then did Sullin realize:
Shion wasn’t frozen.
She was scared.

Cornered by danger she had walked into willingly. Surrounded by children labeled as disasters. Her fear wasn’t loud—it was quiet and tight, coiled behind her ribs like she was waiting to be hit by something she couldn’t see.

Her mouth opened.

No words came.

But the air thickened—
then detonated.

A concussive blast shot from her lips, slamming into the steel door at the end of the hall. It exploded clean off its hinges, crashing to the ground in a cloud of shattered bolts and dust.

The four confined girls stared.

Even Jiyeon blinked in surprise.

Silence held for one heartbeat
two
three—

Then Jiyeon’s grin stretched slow and bright, sharp with promise.

“Okay, girls,” she murmured, stepping over the fallen door like crossing a threshold she’d been waiting years to reach. “Let’s bring havoc to this fucking dome.”

The alarms smothered the facility in red light—pulsing, frantic, like the entire dome was a single lung wheezing in panic. Kotone and Mayu moved through the chaos like shadows slipping between cracks, their bodies pushed along by the terrified rush of Wallkeepers scrambling toward Confinement. No one paid attention to two girls running the other direction. Every soldier’s eyes were fixed on the breach.

That was their only mercy.

Kotone’s breath burned in her throat as they reached the parking deck, but she didn’t let it show. She had to be steel right now—sharp, unmovable. Her hand clenched the stolen truck key as if it were a lifeline. The truck loomed ahead, its metallic frame trembling under the distant thud of explosions echoing from Confinement.

Mayu jumped inside first, scanning the interior with precise, drilled habit—everything recorded, everything counted. “All twenty-four can fit…” she whispered, half to herself, half to the heavy air. “Supplies are ready… fuel’s full…”

Then she shut her eyes.

Her breath settled into something shallow and terrifyingly still, her ability slipping outward like an invisible bloom spreading across a battlefield. In the middle of panic—running boots, shouted commands, metal doors slamming shut—Mayu only listened for the girls.

She counted them like beads on a rosary.

Six clustered near confinement.
One flickering in stuttered blinks.
One sprinting too fast for the system to track.
Eleven tangled in dorm hallways.
Three in headquarters.

Three?

Her eyes snapped open, heart stuttering.

There should only be two.
Seoyeon and Yooyeon.
So who’s the third?

A sharp voice carved through the space.

Mayu leapt out of the truck.

“Tone—”

Kotone froze immediately. “Mayu-nee. Stay still.”

She lifted her hands slowly, surrender carved in every angle of her posture. Mayu’s breath hitched as her eyes traced the line of a gun—raised, steady, pointed at Kotone’s heart.

Red Vigil uniform.
Helmet off.
Eyes burning.

“Tell me where Nakyoung is.”

Mayu felt her stomach drop.

Hyungseo.

Nakyoung’s older sister.

Seoyeon had warned her once—quietly, almost sorrowfully—about a Red Vigil girl who glitched whenever Nakyoung flickered. Mayu felt that knowledge settle in her bones like a weight she wasn’t ready to carry.

Kotone didn’t flinch. Even with a gun aimed at her chest, she didn’t blink. She simply turned her head slightly—just enough to see Mayu in her peripheral.

“Mayu-nee,” she said softly, “keep the command going.”

The words landed like a stone thrown into ice water.

“Tell the girls they have five to eight minutes till pickup. Confinement first. Dorms second. Headquarters last.”

“Don’t move!” Hyungseo barked, switching her aim to Mayu now. Mayu stiffened, breath catching in her ribcage, every instinct screaming to freeze.

But Kotone kept talking—calm as rain, quiet as truth.

“Tell Yubin to finish her part and be at confinement. We pick her up there.”

Hyungseo snapped the gun back toward Kotone, furious.

Kotone didn’t stop.

“…and tell Nakyoung eonnie,” she continued, voice steady as stone, “to finish by the hospital. She can flicker her way back to the truck.”

The word hit the air like a live wire.

Hospital.

And Hyungseo—disciplined, stone-faced, a Red Vigil soldier trained to kill—broke.

Her breath hitched.
Her eyes widened.
Her hand trembled.

The gun lowered.

Little by little.
Like each inch cost her something precious.

Then—without a word—she backed away. One step. Two. Barely breathing.

And then she ran.

Mayu exhaled so hard her knees nearly buckled. Kotone let out a long, shaky sigh and lowered her arms.

Mayu was at her side instantly, hands on her shoulders, checking her for—
What? Bullet wounds? Shrapnel?
The truth was simpler: she just needed to feel Kotone breathing.

Kotone gave her a small, tired smile. “Nee-chan… we should go.”

Her voice cracked just slightly, the fear she’d hidden finally bleeding through.

“Before they remember,” she whispered, “that this facility does have ways to kill us.”

And then she grabbed Mayu’s hand, pulled her toward the truck, and together they ran—not away from danger, but straight into the heart of their rebellion.