amoryeonjun

[amoryeonjun]

Tidebound☠️

Chapter Six (PART TWO/2)

PirateOT8AteezAU X F!Reader/Original Character

In a fractured, salt-soaked world ruled by magic and machines, the feared pirate crew of the HalaVeil sails in search of a myth, a cursed potion known as Luminaer, said to be the only cure for a deadly affliction slowly killing one of their own. When they cross paths with their most hated rivals, the Blackeyes, the crew demands revenge… and receives a strange girl instead. You. Betrayed. Bruised. Bound. They call you Curse; a liar, a threat, a scapegoat. But as the storm deepens and the curse tightens its grip, it becomes clear: you might be the key to everything. Or the end of them all. And in the eyes of a crew that trusts no one… you’ll have to survive long enough to prove which.

Genre: PirateAU, Angst, Slow burn, enemies to ??, OT8

Warnings: Angst, Flashbacks/memory distortion, head pain, pshycological tension, trauma, violence, injury/blood, swearing, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, panic, despression (lmk if i missed anything!)

Words count: 10k (MAKE SURE TO READ PART ONE OF THIS CHAPTER FOR IT TO MAKE SENSE :) )

Seonghwa stands still for a moment.

The echo of your footsteps fades down the corridor, but the weight of your absence lingers like smoke, clinging to the folds of his jacket, stinging in the space just beneath his collarbone. He breathes in through his nose. Out through gritted teeth. Then, with mechanical precision, he straightens and turns, heading toward the captain.

Hongjoong doesn’t move. He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable. That cruel calm he wears like armor.

Seonghwa stops directly in front of him. Neither speaks. The silence is a blade between them- sharp, thin, waiting to be used. “She’s breaking,” Seonghwa says finally.

Hongjoong’s eyes flick, slow and measured. “She needs to.”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know how close she is to cracking.”

“I know exactly how close,” Hongjoong replies. “And I know exactly what she’ll do when she finally does.”

Seonghwa doesn’t respond. Not yet.

So Hongjoong continues. “Do you trust me or not?”

There’s the faintest falter in Seonghwa’s breath. “…I follow you,” he answers quietly. “Even when I don’t like it.”

A beat passes. “I didn’t ask if you follow.”

That strikes something deeper. Seonghwa glances away. His voice, when it comes again, is lower. “What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve been before.”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow, but not in rage. It’s something else- dangerous, quiet, terrifying in its stillness.

“I know what she is, Hwa.” He says it softly, almost reverently. “I’m just waiting for her to see it too.”

And then he walks past. Seonghwa doesn’t move. Not for a long time.

Seonghwa leans against the railing of the upper deck, arms folded tight. He watches the ocean roll beneath a dim sky, clouds dragging across the moon like ghosts.

His mind isn’t on the horizon. It’s still in the hallway. In the look on your face when you walked away from him- cold, distant, resigned.

He’s never seen someone wear so much fire yet look so hollow. He thought he understood you when you first came aboard. Another liar. Another curse. Another storm wearing skin. But now… he isn’t so sure.

Your pain isn’t performative. Your rage isn’t calculated. And your silence… it doesn’t scream with manipulation. It echoes with absence.

There’s something missing in you. Something broken in a way that doesn’t feel strategic—it feels human.

He clenches his jaw.

You looked him dead in the eye tonight and asked if he was real. He didn’t know how to answer. Now he’s wondering if maybe you weren’t just panicking. Maybe you weren’t just playing a part. Maybe you really don���t know what’s real and what isn’t. Maybe you meant it.

He exhales through his nose.

You’re not just a danger to Yeosang. Or to the crew. Or to Hongjoong’s tight grip on control. You’re a danger to yourself. And suddenly, that’s what terrifies Seonghwa most. Not that you’ll destroy something.

But that no one’s going to save you before you do.

You walk slowly.

The corridors stretch ahead like veins through a dying beast- worn, familiar, and yet still pulsing with something unreadable. The ship breathes around you. Or maybe it’s just the sea. You’ve learned not to tell the difference.

Your steps are heavier than before. Not from pain, at least not the kind that shows. This is something else. A weight behind your ribs. A silence that’s no longer afraid, but numb.

You reach the dining hall. Your fingers brush the edge of the doorframe, but you pause. Voices slip through the cracked doorway- sharp, hushed, biting.

San.

And Wooyoung.

You still, leaning just a fraction closer.

“You didn’t have to look at her like that, Wooyoung snaps. His voice is low but electric.

“Look at her like what?” San’s voice is sharper, defensive, laced with something uglier underneath.

“Like she's already dead.”

“Maybe she is.” A beat. “Maybe she’ll be the reason someone else dies next time.”

There’s silence.

Then Wooyoung’s voice, quieter now. Almost hurt.

“You're still convinced, huh?”

“No,” San says. “I know it.”

You can hear him pacing. The sound of boots on old planks, short and frustrated.

“You're obsessed with being right,” Wooyoung mutters. “And too damn proud to admit you're scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Of her or of yourself?”

That lands like a cannon.

You can’t see their faces, but you feel the shift. The tension in the air thickens like smoke.

“Say that again,” San growls.

“I would- ” Wooyoung starts, but the floor creaks beneath your weight and cuts him off.

A sudden hush.

You straighten as the door swings slowly open. Two pairs of eyes whip toward you.

San’s brows knit in surprise, then narrow. Wooyoung just lets out a soft breath and steps back from him.

No one speaks.

You take one quiet step forward. Then another. You cross into the room without a word, the tension following you like a shadow. San looks ready to spit fire. Wooyoung looks like he’s calculating something behind his eyes.

But you? You walk to your seat and lower yourself into it without flinching. Because you already heard everything. And now they know it too.

You sit in silence.

Not the kind that simmers, ready to spark. This one just… lingers. Dull and cold like embers long forgotten. The fire they saw earlier—the one that banged on doors and spat truth in the captain’s face, is gone.

Extinguished.

Your shoulders slump slightly. You don’t mean to, but they do. Your eyes don’t hold a challenge. Just exhaustion.

They notice. You don’t even look up when Wooyoung speaks. “You okay?”

It’s not sarcastic. Not this time. Just… quiet. Careful.

You blink. Then blink again. Like the question didn’t make sense in your brain. “I’m fine,” you murmur, and it’s the weakest lie you’ve ever told.

San scoffs under his breath.

You flinch a little, barely noticeable, but enough that Wooyoung catches it.

“Cut it out,” Wooyoung snaps at him. “Can’t you see-?”

“See what?” San bites back. “That they’re falling apart now instead of when it actually mattered?”

Your jaw clenches. Your hands curl in your lap. But still, you don’t snap. You don’t fight. Not like earlier. Wooyoung turns to you again, softer now. “You don’t have to pretend with us. Not here. Not right now.”

You glance at him. His expression is hard to read- somewhere between sympathy and suspicion. But his voice? It’s the gentlest thing you’ve heard in days.

“I’m not pretending,” you say, quieter still. “I just… I’m tired.” A pause. You shake your head. Force a thin smile. “Besides, none of this matters if I’m gone tomorrow, right?”

San tenses. Wooyoung looks like he might say something- something meaningful, something honest, but the words die in his throat.

The silence returns. Not angry. Just... defeated.

The weight of everything presses down on your shoulders. The dining hall feels too big now, too open. You feel exposed. Watched. Like the walls themselves know your name and are just waiting for the right moment to whisper it back with a blade.

You stare at the table. And wait for someone to tell you what comes next.

You don’t expect Wooyoung to speak again. But he does. “What changed?” he asks, voice quieter now, but sharp enough to cut through the silence. “Just earlier… in the hallway… you had that spark. Threw San completely off.”

You pause mid-blink, not even fully looking at them yet.

San’s head snaps toward Wooyoung, his jaw clenched. “I wasn’t flustered.”

“You were,” Wooyoung says simply, almost amused. “You stood there like you’d never heard a voice like that before.”

“Shut up.”

It comes out harsher than expected. San’s eyes don’t meet yours. He shifts where he stands, like the memory of it makes his skin itch.

But Wooyoung doesn’t back off. He tilts his head at you, his teasing edge fading just slightly. “You had fire,” he says. “Enough to rattle him. And now…” He gestures at you, taking in your dulled posture, your unfocused gaze. “Now you’re back to walking like a ghost. So what happened? After that?”

You hesitate.

You could lie. Say it was nothing. That you’re just tired. That it was an act. That he imagined it.

But your fingers are still twitching from the necklace in your pocket. And your throat is still tight from the voice that whispered into your head. And your chest still aches from how Seonghwa held you on that deck like he wasn’t supposed to.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, eyes unfocused. “Something just… changed.”

San scoffs. “Of course it did.”

“San,” Wooyoung warns, but San keeps going.

“Everything changes when she’s around,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

You stiffen at that. “I didn’t ask for this,” you snap, just a flicker of your old spark returning.

Wooyoung’s brows lift slightly, like he’s relieved to see it.

“Then what do you want?” San asks, stepping toward you. “Because one minute you’re a problem, the next you’re a solution. You make no sense.”

You look right at him. “Yeah,” you say. “Welcome to my life.”

For once, San doesn’t have anything to say.

You exhale- long and shaky, and lean against the doorway frame. “He’s sending me out again,” you say quietly. “Hongjoong.”

The words hang there. Wooyoung goes still. San doesn’t move either. No one asks what the mission is.

“I don’t think he even sees me as a person,” you add. “Not really.”

San’s eyes flick toward you at that, but he says nothing.

You give a short, bitter laugh, trying to shake it off, but your voice cracks around the edges.  “Maybe I’m not,” you whisper. “Maybe I really am just an object.”

“You’re not,” Wooyoung says instantly, like it physically hurt him to hear you say it.

You glance at him. “A tool,” you continue, ignoring his words. “A missing puzzle piece. Whatever he needs me to be. If I die, it’s convenient. If I survive, it’s useful. That’s all.”

San scoffs from behind you. But there’s no heat in it. “Don’t act like you know what it means to be used,” he mutters, almost under his breath.

“I do,” you snap, whirling around. “I know exactly what it feels like. You think I chose this? You think I wanted to be whatever it is that’s happening to me?”

There’s a long silence.

Wooyoung runs a hand through his hair, glancing between the two of you. “You’re not just an object,” he says again, this time softer. “You’re not.”

You stare at the floor. “Then why don’t I feel like a person?” you whisper.

No one has an answer.

You don’t lift your head.

The silence is so heavy it presses against your ribs, and the dull rocking of the ship makes everything feel just a little more surreal. As if none of this is actually happening. As if you're somewhere else- someone else.

“What’s even the point in all this?” Your voice is hollow. Not angry. Not desperate. Just... tired.

San tenses, his arms folded but his posture shifting, uncomfortable.

“All of this—me being here, the missions, the fighting, the blood, the whispers behind my back. You all act like I’m some cursed artifact or some broken map to fix Yeosang or unlock whatever the hell you think is wrong with this ship. But for what? What happens when he dies anyway?”

No one speaks. You let out a breath. “I’m so tired,” you say, quieter. “Not from walking or fighting or even hurting. Just... from being.”

Wooyoung takes a step toward you, but you keep going.

“I wake up, and I don’t know who I am. I look in the mirror, and I see someone who doesn’t belong anywhere. I’m either being threatened or pitied, and I don’t know which is worse. I don’t know what I am, and honestly? I’m not sure I care anymore.”

There’s a hitch in your throat. You clench your fists. “Maybe it’d be better if I just... stopped. Disappeared. Took the choice out of everyone’s hands.”

The room feels like it’s shrunk. Even the air grows harder to breathe.

“Don’t say that,” Wooyoung says, voice sharp with panic. “Don’t you dare say that.”

San mutters something, but it’s too low to catch.

You look between them. Your chest rises and falls too quickly. “I’m not saying I will,” you lie. “I’m just saying... I wouldn’t mind if fate decided for me.”

There’s a silence that screams louder than any voice.

You keep your eyes fixed on the floor. It’s easier than looking at either of them. Easier than seeing the expression you know is plastered across their faces.

But then-

“You really don’t care?” Wooyoung’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You’d just… let go? After everything?”

You glance up.

He looks stunned. Not teary-eyed, not frantic, just- gutted. Like something inside him split and he’s only just realised it was holding him together. His brows pull together as he stares at you like he’s trying to make sense of what you just said. Like it hurt him in a place he didn’t expect.

“Do you have any idea what it means that you’re even still alive?” he asks suddenly. “After the fire? After crawling back half-dead? That should’ve meant something. To you.”

You open your mouth, but San cuts in.

“Stop,” he snaps at Wooyoung. “Just stop pretending like this is surprising.”

He turns to you, jaw tight, voice venomous. “I told all of you. She’s not here to help Yeosang. She’s a damn ticking bomb. And now she’s what- playing martyr to get our sympathy?”

Wooyoung's head whips toward him. “Shut up, San. This isn’t the time-”

“No,” San growls. “It is. You think this is bravery? You think we’re supposed to clap because she’s sad and wants to give up?”

You finally stand, your fists clenched. “That’s not what I said.”

“You said enough.”

San’s eyes are burning, but his voice drops, lower now. Controlled, dangerous. “You want to disappear? Fine. But don’t drag everyone else into your misery. Especially not Yeosang. Especially not me.”

You flinch.

Wooyoung moves fast, puts himself between you and San. “Back off.”

“Or what?” San hisses. “You’ll cuddle her back to life?”

Wooyoung’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “You don’t know what she’s been through.”

“Neither do you.”

Silence again.

You step back from both of them. The weight of their words presses against your skull like water. Drowning without even getting wet.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to be whatever I am.”

The silence breathes, jagged and raw. Neither of them speaks.

You take a slow step forward, your throat tight but your voice firm. “What do you want from me then?”

Your words are quiet. But they slice through the air like a blade.

San turns his head slightly, eyes locking with yours. His lips part, but nothing comes out at first. You watch his jaw clench. The muscle there twitches.

“What do you want from me, San?” You take another step. “Do you want me to beg? To bleed? To die? Would that make you feel better?”

His expression flickers. Just for a second. Like something behind his eyes cracked.

“Do you want me to apologise for something I don’t even remember doing?” you continue.

“Do you want me to say I’m the villain, the curse, the thing that’s killing him? Will that finally give you peace?”

San doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

“Or…” you murmur, “do you just want me to be afraid of you?” That lands like a punch.

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything. He stays still, watching, tight-lipped, the way someone might if they were standing between a fuse and the lit match at the end of it.

San steps forward. “You think this is about fear?” he says, voice low and trembling.

“I’ve seen fear. I’ve felt it. That night, when Yeosang collapsed? I thought he was going to die- because of you. And maybe that’s unfair. Maybe it’s not even true. But it felt real.”

His hand lifts slightly,then drops back to his side. “I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he says. “I just want the truth.”

You look at him. And for the first time… you think he might mean it. But you don’t have it to give.

“Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” you say. “Because I don’t even know what the truth is.”

San flinches at that, then turns sharply and storms out the dining hall, leaving nothing but the sound of his boots retreating and the dull ache of everything left unsaid.

Wooyoung exhales softly. “You okay?” he asks, his voice gentle again.

You don’t answer. Because you’re not sure.

The silence stretches after San’s footsteps fade.

You’re still staring at the floor where he stood, jaw tight, hands curled into your sides like you’re trying to hold yourself together.

Then a soft voice pulls you out of it.

“Hey,” Wooyoung says. “Look at me.”

You do, slowly. Your eyes are glassy, but you don’t cry.

“I know things are messed up. I know you feel messed up. But please, don’t do anything… permanent.”

There’s no teasing in his voice this time. No sarcasm. Just something painfully genuine.

“You don’t have to prove anything to them. Or to him. Or even to Yeosang. Not like that.”

You blink. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck.

“I don’t know what you are. No one does. But you’re not just some curse.”

He kneels beside you, rests one hand lightly on your knee. “You're alive. You’re trying. That’s enough for now.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

“And besides,” he says suddenly, standing upright again with a snap of energy, “if you’re going to be sent out again by that bastard, I’m not letting you go without a way to contact me.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

“I’ll get Mingi to build something! A...-uh-like a transmitter or a comm device or something sneaky like that. I’ll make him put a Wooyoung button on it, so you can call me when you need.”

You open your mouth to argue, or laugh, or say anything at all, but he’s already halfway to the door.

“Stay here. Don’t move. Seriously. Just… hold on, alright?”

He flashes you the quickest grin. It’s a little crooked. A little sad. Then he bolts out the dining hall like a man on a mission, his boots echoing down the corridor as your heart beats a little lighter.

You’re still not okay. But someone is trying to keep you here. And that’s something.

Wooyoung’s boots thunder down the metal stairs.

He doesn’t stop to apologize when he nearly barrels into a crew member turning a corner. Doesn’t look back when someone calls his name. He has one destination in mind.

Mingi.

He spots him in the workshop- a room lit by a cluster of flickering bulbs, wires strewn like vines across every surface. Mingi’s hunched over a desk, goggles pushed up into his wild hair, soldering something small and mechanical.

“Mingi!” Wooyoung gasps, already breathless as he stumbles in.

The  slightly older man flinches, the tool in his hand sparking before he yanks it away. “Shit, Woo. You nearly made me fry my own fingers-”

“I need you to make something,” Wooyoung blurts, words tumbling too fast. “Something for her. A communicator. Something she can use to reach me, no matter where she is. Small. Hidden, if possible.”

Mingi blinks. His expression shifts from confusion… to something more serious.

Something guiltier.

“What?” Wooyoung demands. “What is it?”

Mingi exhales, slowly putting down his tools. He takes off his goggles and meets Wooyoung’s eyes.

“I’ve… already built something.”

Wooyoung freezes. “What do you mean already?”

“The captain asked me to a couple days ago. Said it was for her next mission.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?!”

Mingi flinches slightly at the sharpness in Wooyoung’s voice. “I didn’t know what it was for at first. Thought maybe it was just standard. A backup. But now that you’re asking me to make one too…”

He trails off. The implications are obvious.

Wooyoung’s heart drops into his stomach. “Is it… is it just a tracker?”

Mingi doesn’t answer right away. That is the answer.

Wooyoung steps back, jaw tightening. with realization. “He’s not sending her out to scout something. He’s sending her out to watch her.”

“Or worse,” Mingi mutters.

The room goes quiet. Then Wooyoung’s voice drops, colder now. Controlled.

“You’re going to help me make a second device. One she can control. One that doesn’t report back to him.”

Mingi hesitates-but then nods. “Okay.”

“Tonight,” Wooyoung says. “No one else can know.”

And with that, he storms out of the workshop, leaving Mingi staring at the flickering soldering iron, heart pounding louder than the sparks.

He bolts out of Mingi’s workspace, the echo of his words still ringing in his head.

“The captain already asked for a tracking device for her.”

Already asked. Already planned. Already decided.

 Wooyoung is furious- not at Mingi, not really, but at the fact that none of this feels like a choice. Not for her.

He's halfway down the corridor when he collides with something solid.

Someone.



Wooyoung barely noticed the sting on his shoulder where he’d collided with Jongho. He stumbled back, blinking rapidly as the younger man raised a brow.

"Where are you rushing off to?" Jongho asked, calm as always.

Wooyoung opened his mouth, then quickly shut it. His thoughts raced. He couldn't say the truth. Not when the truth involved her, and the tracking device, and Mingi’s pale face when he brought up the mission.

So he forced a laugh and waved his hand. "Nowhere. Just… forgot something."

Jongho didn’t seem convinced, but he let it slide. His sharp eyes softened slightly as he tilted his head.

“You seem tense. Something happen?”

Before Wooyoung could find another excuse, Jongho changed the subject himself. "Yeosang seems better today. Like… noticeably. He was actually talking to me this morning.”

Wooyoung blinked, the change in topic catching him off guard. "Really?"

Jongho gave a small nod, hands tucked in his pockets. “Yeah. Color’s coming back a little too. He said he felt lighter. Stronger.”

Wooyoung’s lips twitched into something small- hopeful, maybe. "That’s good. That’s… really good." He glanced down the hallway, the thought of her bleeding out energy and confidence earlier gnawing at his gut.

But if Yeosang was getting better... then maybe she was helping. Even if she didn’t believe it herself.

Or maybe, maybe it was all just lining up too cleanly.

He didn't know which thought was worse.

You shut the door behind you with more care than usual. The hallway feels quieter now, like the whole ship has exhaled and left you to your own thoughts. Your you were given quarters aren’t grand- just a simple room with a stiff mattress, a single blanket, and that strange stillness that only comes before something unknown.

You don’t bother changing. There’s no point. You’ll be back on your feet soon enough.

You sit on the edge of the bed for a long while, your fingers tracing the seam of your trousers, your eyes fixed on nothing. Your mind keeps looping- through Wooyoung’s kindness, San’s silence, Hongjoong’s coldness, Seonghwa’s riddles, and Mingi’s quiet concern. Even Jongho and Yeosang flicker in the back of your mind like old memories you never meant to keep.

But none of it changes the fact that tomorrow, you leave again.

You eventually lie down, your limbs heavy. You shift under the thin blanket, trying to find comfort in a place that still doesn’t quite feel like yours. The ceiling above is dark, unfamiliar. Your fingers curl into the fabric as you breathe in the scent of salt, metal, and something faintly floral, perhaps left behind by someone before you.

Your body aches. But it’s the ache inside your chest that truly lingers. You turn on your side.

Tomorrow. Again, you’re a pawn. Again, you’re alone.

Your fingers brush the edge of the necklace still tucked away in your pocket.

And as your eyes begin to close, just before sleep claims you, you wonder: If I die on this mission… Will they grieve me? Or just replace me?

You’re not sure when sleep pulled you under. But suddenly, you’re there again.

The floor is cold. So cold it burns.

Your breath fogs in the air, even though there are no windows. Just white walls. Endless white walls. You try to move, but your limbs don’t respond the way they should. They feel… smaller. Lighter. Childlike.

You blink slowly, and the room pulses once, then shifts.

A figure stands behind glass. You can’t make out their face, only a silhouette in a long coat, scribbling something on a clipboard. Another shadow moves behind them. And another. You don’t know how many.

You want to scream. But there’s no sound.

There are wires. Tubes. They’re attached to you. Something hums above- soft, mechanical, steady. A drip. A beep. A static crackle that crawls into your bones. You try to speak, but your mouth is dry and your tongue feels wrong. Too heavy. Too soft.

One of the figures approaches the glass.

You recoil. But the floor holds you in place.

There’s a voice. Not loud. Not clear. Just- “She’s adapting… faster than expected.” Then laughter. Not cruel. Just amused.

The sound makes your stomach turn.

Your vision flickers. Suddenly you’re underwater, but you’re not wet. You’re drowning, but not dying. Something claws at your mind. A feeling. A name. A memory that won’t stay still.

And then- A sharp light above. You’re strapped down. You’re screaming this time, but only inside.

“She’s stabilizing.” Another voice now. Lower. More curious. “She might survive after all.”

Your fingers twitch.

Pain. Fire in your veins.

You thrash- You gasp- You-

You jolt upright in bed, breath ragged, skin damp with sweat. The room is still dark. The hum of the ship replaces the hum of the machines.

You’re not in that room anymore. You’re here. But your hands still tremble.

And for just a moment… You wonder if it wasn’t a dream.

A knock jolts you back to reality.

You sit up slower this time, rubbing your face as the ghost of the nightmare clings to your skin. You don’t say anything, not yet. Just listen.

Another knock. This one gentler.

“…It’s Yunho.”

You push yourself out of bed, legs stiff, body aching with exhaustion that goes far deeper than muscle or bone. When you finally crack open the door, Yunho’s standing there - posture soft, gaze sharper than usual.

He scans your face, and immediately something shifts behind his eyes. “I’m here to get you,” he says carefully. “For the mission.”

You blink at him. “I told Seonghwa to come get me.”

Yunho grimaces, like he knew that would be your first response. “Yeah… he asked me to instead.”

You narrow your eyes, but you don’t ask why.

There’s a pause. His gaze lingers longer this time. You know what’s coming before he says it.

“Bad dream?”

You shake your head too quickly. “No.”

He doesn’t believe you. Not for a second. But Yunho isn’t like the others. He doesn’t press. Just lets the silence rest between you like a folded map - full of directions he’s choosing not to follow.

He straightens, gestures over his shoulder. “Come on. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

You nod. Pull your coat tighter. The hallway feels colder than it should.

And as you step into it, something about the way Yunho walks ahead, quiet, steady, watchful- reminds you: He’s not just the ship’s medic.

He’s also one of the only ones who hasn’t looked at you like a weapon.

Yet.

You walk in silence for a while. Yunho’s footsteps echo beside yours, steady and calm, like the quiet hum of waves beneath the ship.

Your own steps are slower, more careful. Your body still feels like it’s remembering pain.

“You good?” he asks, glancing sideways.

“I can walk.”

“I didn’t ask that,” he murmurs, already reaching. Before you can react, his arm slips around your waist - gentle, not forceful. Just support.

You stiffen. “I said I’m fine,” you repeat.

“Mm,” he hums, not letting go. “And I heard you. Doesn’t mean I believe you.”

You don’t have the energy to fight him on it. And maybe, just maybe, part of you doesn’t want to. You let him hold you as you walk.

He doesn’t talk for a bit, and neither do you. The ship creaks above, gulls cry somewhere in the distance, and the breeze leaks through narrow windows like cold whispers.

Then Yunho speaks again - softly, but with weight. “Be careful.”

You blink, look up at him.

“Whatever it is they’re sending you into… don’t try to prove anything. Just come back.”

You try to scoff. Try to act like that didn’t hit something deep inside. But before you can say anything sarcastic, you’re suddenly spun around.

You gasp quietly, caught off guard- as he turns you to face him. You’re just outside the final corridor that leads to the deck. The light behind him silhouettes his face, casting it in soft gold and shadows.

He brushes some hair from your cheek, fingers lingering longer than they need to. “Get back safe,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches.

Not because of what he says, but how he says it. Like you’re worth coming back for.

He doesn’t wait for your response. Just holds your gaze one second longer, then steps back, turning away like it meant nothing.

But it did.

And you’re not sure how long you stand there before your legs remember how to move.

You’re still reeling.

Yunho’s words loop in your head like an echo you can’t outrun. Get back safe. Not if you can- just get back. Like it’s something you're supposed to do. Like he needs you to.

Your feet carry you to the deck before your brain can catch up.

The sea air bites your cheeks. The morning is cloudy, grey and thick, as if the world itself is holding its breath. And there they are- waiting.

Seonghwa, already geared up in his coat. Hongjoong, arms crossed. San, leaning against the rail like a storm in waiting. Jongho, Yunho, and even Mingi lingering in the back.

All eyes on you.

You stand a little straighter, even if your stomach twists.

Then, from behind you, a shadow slips close, soft, fast. Wooyoung.

Before you can turn, you feel something slide into your back pocket- smooth, flat, metallic.

You glance at him in alarm.

“Shh,” he whispers into your ear, voice barely audible. “Don’t show it. Don’t tell anyone.”

You feel his breath against your skin. His hand lingers just long enough to make sure you know it’s important.

“It’s a communicator,” he murmurs. “Modified. Just press the flat side twice if you’re in trouble. It’ll send a ping to me only.”

You’re stunned, but you nod once. Then he’s already slipping away, back into the group like nothing happened.

Hongjoong steps forward. “Let’s move.”

You barely hear him. Your fingers curl around the edge of your pocket where the device now hides.

Your heart beats harder than it should. Maybe for the mission. Maybe for something else.

Just as Hongjoong turns to lead the way, a voice cuts through the thick morning air.

"Wait."

You turn. So does everyone else.

Yeosang stands in the doorway of the ship, wrapped in a thick coat that clearly isn’t warm enough for how frail he looks, but he’s standing. On his own. And smiling.

Your breath catches.

His skin is still pale, his frame too thin, but there’s color in his lips, light in his eyes. He takes a few careful steps forward, one hand trailing the edge of the ship for balance.

“I heard what’s happening,” he says, eyes settling on you. “I came to wish you luck.”

You blink. For a moment, no words come. No one else speaks either.

Then you nod, slowly, unsure if you want to smile or cry. “Thank you.”

Yeosang’s smile softens, something bittersweet flickering in it. “Come back safe.”

You nod again, this time a little firmer.

Jongho is behind him, watching carefully, ready to steady him if needed. But Yeosang doesn’t fall. He stays standing, gaze locked on yours.

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.

Then Seonghwa’s voice breaks the quiet. “We should go.”

You glance one more time at Yeosang before turning back to face the others. But the look he gave you lingers. A warmth that stays with you, even as you step closer to danger.

You stand beside Seonghwa at the edge of the deck, the cool wind tugging at your clothes and hair as the gangplank creaks below. The sky is grey and wide above the port, the unfamiliar city sprawling out in the distance like a wound stitched with gold and stone. Braxis-glittering and terrifying, like a crown made of glass and teeth.

You glance at Seonghwa, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. “What exactly are we doing?”

He doesn't answer right away. His gaze remains fixed on the far horizon, jaw set, arms folded with an edge of quiet tension. Eventually, he exhales- just once, and turns his head slightly toward you.

“I’m not completely sure,” he admits. “The captain’s orders were vague.”

You frown. “You’re not sure?”

He finally looks at you. “Only that we’re both meant to get off at the Empire of Braxis.”

Something twists in your gut at the way he says it. Both. Not just you.

“Why?” you ask.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, “He didn’t tell me that either.”

The way his eyes flicker, you’re not sure if he’s being completely honest. But if he’s lying, he’s doing it well.

You look back at the dock, where locals in finely woven fabrics and dusty uniforms scurry past, too busy to care about two pirates standing like ghosts on the edge of something unknown.

Braxis is far from the ruined coasts you’ve known. It's a place of power, of ancient money and secrets buried beneath polished stone. Just stepping off this ship into that world feels wrong. Like trespassing.

You inhale slowly. “So… we walk into one of the most dangerous cities in the region with no plan?”

Seonghwa’s voice is calm. “Not no plan. Just one we’re not meant to know yet.”

You scoff under your breath, but something about the steadiness of his tone anchors you.

Still, you don’t move.

He watches you. “Ready?”

You nod, even though you’re not. Together, you step onto the gangplank. And descend into Braxis.

You walk beside Seonghwa through the winding alleys of Braxis, the city rising like a cathedral of memory around you. Tall buildings cast long, skeletal shadows over narrow streets. The stone beneath your boots feels worn- ancient, almost sacred. Each corner you turn drips with something eerily familiar, though the details slip through your grasp like water through cupped hands.

You slow down without realizing it.

Seonghwa notices. His steps pause, and his head tilts slightly as he watches you. “Are you okay?”

Your throat feels dry. You nod at first, but then your voice betrays you. “This place…” you whisper. “It feels familiar.”

His brow furrows. “You’ve been here before?”

“I don’t know.” You look around, scanning cracked signs, rusted lanterns, and cobbled windows. “I think I have. But I don’t remember when. Or why.”

Seonghwa watches you a moment longer, and then speaks gently, “Could this be where you're from?”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know.”

It comes out more frustrated than you intended.

You hate how many times you’ve said that lately- I don’t know.

And still, the feeling won’t leave you. A smell in the air, a mix of spice and sea salt, claws at the edges of something deep inside. A hallway with flickering lights. The soft drip of water against tile. Screams muffled behind metal.

You stop walking.

Seonghwa takes a half step closer. “If it’s too much-”

“I’m fine,” you cut in quickly. “I want to keep going. We have to”

You don’t meet his eyes. Because if you do, you’re afraid he’ll see how un-fine you really are.

The city around you doesn’t care. Braxis watches in silence. You walk on.

The Empire of Braxis spreads out before you like a secret kept too long. You and Seonghwa walk in silence now, your boots echoing against uneven stone.

This place is not like the docktowns or floating markets you’ve seen before. Braxis is cleaner, but not in a welcoming way. It’s sterile. The air smells too processed. The buildings are pristine but unnaturally so, like someone scrubbed the soul from them. Smooth, pale walls curve into sharp corners. Everything is symmetrical. Unsettlingly quiet.

There are no children. No barking dogs. No old women shouting from balconies. Just the low hum of distant generators and the occasional buzz of overhead wires that stretch like veins between structures.

You pass an alley where water drips from a metal pipe into a grate. One drop. Then another. You pause, staring at it longer than you should.

A flicker behind your eyes. A metal table. A light above it that swings slowly, rhythmically.

You shake your head and move on.

Seonghwa glances at you again, eyes sharp beneath his windswept hair, but he doesn’t speak. He knows better than to break the silence of a haunted city.

Further in, the buildings get taller. Windows are tinted. Some have metal shutters locked from the outside. The people you do pass wear dark coats, hoods drawn up even though there’s no sun. None of them look at you directly. None smile.

Somewhere in the distance, a loudspeaker crackles to life- just static and a faint mechanical voice repeating something in a language you don’t understand. It’s gone as quickly as it came.

Seonghwa murmurs, “This place always felt wrong.”

You blink. “You’ve been here before?”

He nods once, slowly. “Years ago. A long job. I didn’t like it then either.”

“Did anyone?” He doesn’t answer.

You round a corner, and there it is: a tall, narrow building lined with copper piping that disappears into the concrete like roots. It’s not the hotel. But it makes your chest tighten.

You don’t know why. You only know the air feels heavier here. And something in the shadows is watching.

The wind shifts as you and Seonghwa approach the building. It’s older than the rest. Not crumbling, but… forgotten. The kind of structure time doesn’t destroy - it just stops acknowledging.

Vines crawl up one side, their leaves dull and brittle as if even nature didn’t truly belong here. The metal siding is rusted at the seams, but something about it draws you in. A stillness. A familiarity.

Your footsteps slow. Your breath does too. Then you see it.

On the stone archway above the doorway, carved so deep it must have been etched with intention, not time - is a symbol. An intricate one. Circular. Spiraled. Like an eye, or a vortex. Like water draining down, down, down.

Your stomach flips. You step closer, almost unaware of Seonghwa beside you. Your hand lifts slowly.

Fingers meet the stone.

The second you touch it-

Pain.

Not sharp like a blade. But deep. Pressing. Like a pressure in your skull trying to cave it in from the inside.

Your knees buckle.

A voice- no, not a voice- a scream echoes behind your eyes.

Flashes of light. Steel. Restraints. The sound of water dripping in a long, empty hallway. A humming noise like electricity crawling along skin.

And that symbol, glowing on a door. No... on a floor. No... on you.

You stumble back with a gasp, hand clutching your temple.

Seonghwa grabs your arm just in time. “What happened? What did you see?”

You can’t speak. Not yet. You look at him through the white-hot pulse still dancing in your head.

“I know this place,” you whisper. “I don’t know how... but I know it.”

“I want to go in,” you say, still catching your breath, your fingers trembling as they lower from your temple.

Seonghwa stares at you. Really stares. His gaze flickers over your face like he’s searching for the logic behind your words, like maybe he misheard you. “You want to what?”

Your eyes lock on the building again. That symbol still burns in your mind, etched behind your eyelids. “I think… I think I’ll find answers in there.”

“You don’t even know what this place is,” he says, incredulous. “It’s probably been abandoned for decades. Could collapse the second we step inside. And you’re still not healed from everything else.”

“I know,” you reply, voice quiet but steady. “But something’s in there. I don’t know what. I just-” You cut yourself off, frustrated at your own vagueness. “Even if it hurts, I think I need to see.”

There’s a silence. A tense one.

The wind pulls at Seonghwa’s coat. He looks at you again, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes - frustration, concern, hesitation. Maybe all of it. But not anger.

“You look like someone walking straight into a nightmare,” he mutters, almost to himself. “And doing it willingly.”

You don’t respond. Because he’s not wrong.

Finally, he exhales harshly through his nose. “Fine. But I go first. You stay behind me. If anything feels off, worse than it already is, we leave. Understand?”

You nod. The two of you step toward the door. It creaks like a warning. But you ignore it. Because something inside is calling.

The door groans as Seonghwa pushes it open, the sound scraping through the silence like a blade against bone.

You step in behind him, breath catching in your throat.

The air is heavy. Not just stale, but old. It smells of rust, rot, and something else underneath. A chemical tang. Almost sterile. Almost metallic. Like a hospital left too long in the rain.

The floor is cracked tile, some sections flooded with stagnant puddles that reflect the weak light bleeding through shattered skylights. The walls are a dull green, peeling in thick, curling layers. You can see the outlines of long-faded signage on the walls. One looks like it once said "Pediatrics," another bears a crooked arrow that points down a dark hallway marked "Observation Wing."

It doesn’t feel like a hospital meant for healing.

The silence here is wrong. Not peaceful. More like something is holding its breath.

Glass crunches under Seonghwa’s boots. You follow closely, heart thudding as your fingers trail over a dusty metal gurney, long forgotten and tilted on one wheel. Straps hang limply from its sides. Dried brown stains speckle the surface.

You stop.

That symbol-your symbol- is burned into a section of the wall ahead. Seared in, not painted. The lines are sharper here. Angrier. Your head throbs the moment you look at it, like it’s remembering you too.

You stagger a little, but Seonghwa catches your arm before you fall. He doesn’t say anything.

Down the hall, there are doors with reinforced glass. Some are shattered. Others are fogged from the inside with grime or- scratches.

There’s a room labeled Treatment 03.

And another: Containment B.

You swallow hard.

This place isn’t just abandoned. It was left.

Quickly. Quietly. Like whoever worked here wanted to pretend it never existed.

And maybe… you were supposed to do the same.

“What the hell…” Seonghwa’s voice cuts through the silence, low and almost breathless as he turns in place, taking in the shattered facility around him.

You glance at him. His usual composure has cracked- just slightly. His eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape, as he steps cautiously past another broken gurney.

“I didn’t even know a place like this existed,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “This… this isn’t on any map. Not even the smuggler grids.”

“I think it was never supposed to be,” you say quietly.

Your fingers brush over a metal tray on a counter. There are rusted tools left behind, scalpels, clamps, things you don’t have names for. But they’re small. Too small. You don’t want to think about what that means.

Seonghwa lifts a curtain that’s half-burnt away and steps through a narrow corridor. You follow.

Eventually, you both stop at a door that hangs halfway off its hinges. There’s a small sign, barely clinging to the frame: Records & Observation Notes.

You exchange a glance, then push it open.

The room is chaos.

Papers are scattered like leaves in a storm. Filing cabinets have been yanked open violently, drawers left gaping or tipped over entirely. One cabinet is smashed in completely, as if someone had taken a crowbar to it.

A thick layer of dust covers the floor- except for one path. A trail where someone’s boots disturbed the years of abandonment. Recently.

Seonghwa notices it too. “Someone’s been here,” he says flatly. “Not long ago.”

You walk further in, crunching over cracked folders and yellowed files. Some of the paper is water-damaged, some shredded, some burned. But not all.

One file is left on the desk, partially open. You step toward it.

“Be careful,” Seonghwa warns, his voice unusually tense.

You nod, but your hands are already moving, already flipping it open.

There’s no name on the folder. Only a symbol embossed on the cover.

The same one you keep seeing. Your chest tightens.

Inside: old photographs- blurred and faded. Some are of medical equipment. Others… of people.

Children, maybe.

Some have their faces blacked out. Others are strapped to machines. You can’t breathe.

Then something hits you- sharp and sudden.

A flash of memory- no, sensation- blinds you:

Steel against your wrist. Cold light. A voice whispering, “Still now, Subject E–”

The moment’s gone. You stumble back a step.

Seonghwa is at your side immediately, his hand catching your arm. You look at him, the folder pressed to your chest like a shield.

“I think,” you whisper, “this place knew me.”

He doesn’t respond. But his grip on your arm tightens.

You move past Seonghwa, your legs feeling heavier with each step.

There’s something pulling you deeper into the room, toward the line of filing cabinets near the back, their drawers twisted and half-open like broken jaws. You kneel down in front of one, running your fingers across the faded metal labels.

Patient Logs.

You open one drawer slowly. It groans in protest, the rails screeching. Inside, the files are alphabetized, though most of the dividers are crooked now, and some folders have spilled onto the bottom.

You run your fingers along them, searching for anything that feels familiar.

Then you stop.

There’s a gap. Two gaps, actually.

Between folders labeled Subject D94 and Subject D96, there is nothing. Just air. An unnatural, obvious space, like something was ripped out. You check again. Then again. Slowly.

Another drawer. Same thing. Subject E31. Subject E33.

E32 is gone.

"Seonghwa," you say, your voice a little distant, “someone’s taken files.”

He turns, still watching the entrance, and crosses to you. You point to the empty space. He kneels beside you.

"Maybe they decayed-"

“No.” You shake your head. “The space is too clean. Like they were… carefully removed.”

His brows knit. “But why only certain ones?”

You stare at the missing slots. Your fingers twitch. A cold sweat crawls up the back of your neck. You don't know for sure.

But something deep inside you whispers a truth you’re not ready to say out loud: Whatever was in those folders… …it was about you. And someone didn’t want you to ever see it.

Seonghwa doesn’t speak for a long moment. He just stares at the vacant spaces where the folders should be, his jaw tense, eyes flicking over the cabinet like he could will the missing answers back into existence.

Eventually, he mutters, “Someone’s been here… recently.” His voice is low. Controlled. But you can hear the thread of alarm winding beneath it. “And they knew what they were looking for.”

You nod.

Neither of you says what you're thinking - that whoever it was might still be around.

You both stand slowly. The overhead light flickers again, throwing your shadow across the peeling floor tiles. You turn toward the hallway, the air feeling colder than before.

“I want to check that room,” you say softly, pointing toward a heavy steel door just down the corridor, the one with the strange carved symbol etched into the center. That symbol again. Twisting, interlocked curves like tides spiraling inward.

The pain in your head from earlier lingers like an echo, a dull throb right behind your eyes.

Seonghwa follows your gaze, then turns the other direction. “I’ll check that one.” He nods toward a different room just opposite yours, the rusted nameplate above it too faded to read. “We won’t split far.”

You glance at each other for a beat too long.

Then you break apart.

The echo of your footsteps stretches down the corridor, chasing your breath as you approach the symbol.

It’s waiting for you. Watching.

The door groans as it opens, a sound too loud in the suffocating silence. You step inside.

The air shifts instantly.

It’s colder in here. Staler. As if the room itself had held its breath for years - waiting.

The space is bigger than you expected. A wide, oval-shaped room with a domed ceiling. The flickering light through a cracked skylight bathes everything in a pallid, dreamlike glow. Or maybe it’s a nightmare. You’re not sure yet.

The walls are lined with what look like bookshelves and cabinets, but most are empty or overturned. On the floor, a few scattered toys remain. A cloth doll with a missing eye. Wooden blocks with faded letters. A tiny rocking horse half splintered, frozen mid-rock.

A child’s playroom.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

The air smells like dust and disinfectant. Metal and mold. And beneath it, something else. Something bitter. Almost… burnt.

You walk slowly across the soft, faded rug in the middle of the room. There are faint shapes worn into the fabric, like multiple sets of small feet once ran in circles here. A few faded drawings remain tacked onto the wall. Crayon scrawls. A blue sky. A yellow sun. A wave crashing.

You pause. Look closer. Every picture has the ocean in it. All of them.

Your breath catches in your throat.

And then you see it - across the room, behind a shattered glass barrier, is a two-way mirror. A viewing window.

They watched us, you think suddenly, though you don’t know where the thought comes from.

Your reflection in the broken glass stares back, small, fragmented, not your usual self.

You shiver, suddenly cold despite the stillness.

In the far corner of the room, something glints faintly beneath an overturned chair.

Your foot hovers just above the floor, one step away from the glinting object when-

Tap.

You freeze.

Tap… tap…

Footsteps.

Not boots. Not shoes. Bare.

Soft, flesh against stone, deliberate. Uneven.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You scan the room, heart hammering. But it’s empty. The door behind you still hangs ajar, the hallway beyond still and quiet. Too quiet. You hear it again:

Tap… scrape.

It’s closer.

You crouch without thinking, reaching under the overturned chair for the object. Your fingers brush cold metal - a tag? A pendant?

But you don’t get to see.

Because the moment your fingers close around it, something shifts in the atmosphere. The air contracts, thickens like the sky before a storm. The faint scent of brine and antiseptic floods your nose.

You turn sharply - eyes wide, throat dry.

And for a fraction of a second, you see something at the edge of your vision.

A shape.

Small. Human-shaped. Standing in the shadows by the mirror. Watching.

Bare feet. Pale. Wet.

You blink, and it’s gone.

The footsteps stop.

Your knees shake slightly as you stand, gripping the cold object in your palm. Your pulse thuds in your ears, too loud. Was it your mind playing tricks?

Or is the room remembering something? You don’t know which is worse.

Suddenly-

“Hey...?” It’s Seonghwa’s voice, distant but approaching fast. “You okay?”

You swallow and glance at the pendant clutched in your hand before quickly slipping it into your pocket.

“…Yeah,” you call back, voice rough. “Just- this room is… weird.”

You don’t tell him what you saw. Not yet. Not when you’re not even sure it was real.

You reach for the doorknob, chest tight, wanting nothing more than to get out of this room.

But before your fingers can touch the handle- SLAM.

The door jerks violently shut on its own, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the hollow walls. You scream, just a small, breathless sound, but it’s enough.

“What was that?!” Seonghwa’s voice, muffled through the thick metal. You hear his hands bang against it, once-twice. “Open the door!” You grab the handle. It doesn’t budge. Locked. Somehow.

You spin around. And freeze.

There’s someone else in the room.

A figure, standing in the corner where the dim, broken light barely reaches. Pale skin. Gaunt limbs. Dressed in a faded, pale-blue hospital gown that hangs loose over a thin, almost boneless frame.

Their feet are bare.

Their head is tilted slightly, hair hanging over most of their face. But one eye is visible- staring straight at you.

Dark. Empty. Yet too knowing.

You can’t speak. You don’t even breathe.

And then-

They smile.

It’s not kind.

“You came back.”

Their voice is cracked like a long-forgotten record. Soft. Gentle, almost- but the weight behind it is suffocating.

You back up slowly. Your heel brushes against the locket still lying on the rug.

“I remember you…” the figure says, stepping forward. Their voice lowers, distorted with something you can’t name. “You used to scream a lot more.”

Your knees weaken.

From the other side of the door, Seonghwa’s pounding becomes more frantic. He tries to ram it with his shoulder. You can hear the wood strain. “Talk to me! What’s happening?!”

But you can’t answer.

Because you’ve just realized something that makes your blood turn to ice: This figure isn’t just familiar.

You’ve seen them in your dreams. Your nightmares.

And they know you’ve forgotten.

The door slammed shut with the force of a storm.

His eyes widened. “Hey!”

Seonghwa was across the hallway in a heartbeat, hand grasping the doorknob, twisting violently. Locked.

“Damn it-!” He slammed his shoulder into the metal frame, once, twice, again. “Can you hear me?!”

Inside, silence.

Then-

A sound.

A scream.

Short. Sharp. Raw.

It sliced through the stale air like a blade. It was her.

Seonghwa’s blood ran cold. He pounded on the door harder. “Answer me! Are you alright?! Say something!”

Nothing. Only more silence.

His breath hitched as he took a step back, scanning the hallway for anything-anything-that might help. A weapon, a crowbar, another door to loop around. Nothing but dust and the flicker of an old, dying light.

He turned back to the door. Hands on the frame. Forehead pressed against the cold metal.

Then...faint.

Shuffling. Dragging. Something moving.

Not her. Not alone.

His heart hammered in his chest as he growled under his breath. “What the hell is in there?”

No answer. Just the door. Just that suffocating silence.

And her.

That girl Hongjoong barely trusted, the one who always looked like she was on the edge of remembering something dangerous. The one Seonghwa had just started to see differently.

He didn’t even know her real name. And now he couldn’t even get to her.

“Damn it!” His fist slammed once more into the steel, helpless. The echo that followed felt like it swallowed everything. 

The next scream shattered him.

It was longer this time. Cracked. Wet with tears.

Her voice- ragged, muffled by steel and stone, hit something in his chest so deeply he nearly collapsed.

He banged both fists against the door, over and over, teeth bared. “Open- damn it, open!”

No use.

The door didn’t budge. The lock didn’t give. No hinges rattled, no mechanisms shifted. Whoever shut it… knew what they were doing.

Another sob reached him. Softer. But no less haunting.

Seonghwa’s breath caught, panic crawling like fire under his skin. He backed away, pacing, eyes darting across the hallway for something to break it open—but there was nothing. The whole place had been gutted of tools and stripped bare.

His voice cracked as he pressed his forehead against the metal. “Hey- listen to me. I’m going to get help, alright? I’ll be back.”

A pause. He didn’t know if she heard.

“Hold on. Just… hold on.”

And then he ran.

Out of the corridor, down the warped stairs. Through the hollow ruin of the facility where every shadow now seemed to lurch toward him, every hallway echoed with imagined cries. His boots slammed against the tile as he sprinted through it all, heart hammering.

The sharp outside air hit his lungs like ice when he burst through the front doors. He didn’t stop. Not even to check behind him.

The empire of Braxis loomed around him in all its eerie stillness, but Seonghwa had only one thought: Get back to the HalaVeil. Get help. Save her.

Whoever she was. Whatever she was. He just knew he had to bring her back. Alive.

The sound of his boots pounding against the gangplank echoed like gunfire. The HalaVeil loomed ahead, quiet and still, the way it always was just before a storm.

Seonghwa didn’t knock. Didn’t slow down.

He shoved the heavy door open with both arms, nearly tearing it from its hinges, and bolted down the corridor.

The murmur of voices rose ahead- laughter, low conversation, forks scraping plates. A normal meal. A normal moment.

He didn’t even stop to think.

The dining hall burst into chaos when he slammed the doors open, chest heaving. “SHE’S TRAPPED-IN THE BUILDING-LOCKED IN-”

Every head snapped to him.

They all froze, every last one.

“What the hell-” Wooyoung started, but Seonghwa stumbled further in, grabbing the edge of the table, his hair disheveled, sweat shining across his temple. “She’s in that building....someone’s in there with her-she’s screaming! She’s screaming and I couldn’t-”

“Seonghwa!” Hongjoong barked.

“I COULDN’T GET HER OUT!” he roared, voice breaking. “THEY TOOK HER!”

His panic was a flood now, uncontrollable, choking. His words tangled, collided, fell out of his mouth with ragged breath. “The door shut on its own- some thing is in there-she’s screaming-crying-I didn’t know what to do ”

San was already standing. Yunho too.

Yeosang looked stricken. Jongho’s knuckles had gone white.

No one spoke for a moment, just the sound of Seonghwa gasping for air, hands shaking where they gripped the table’s edge. His eyes wide, feral. The worst they'd ever seen him.

“She’s alone,” he rasped, finally. “I left her alone.”

Silence. Then Hongjoong’s voice cut through it like a knife.

“Arm up.”

The room was moving too fast. Or maybe it was just him.

Boots scraped chairs back. Blades were already being buckled to belts. Voices barked over one another, but none of it made it through the fog clouding Seonghwa’s mind.

“She was right there,” he whispered. No one heard him.

“She was right there. I told her I’d-”

“Seonghwa!” Hongjoong snapped. “Did you see what it was? Who locked her in?”

He blinked. “No. No, I just- I heard it. Footsteps. The door slammed shut. I couldn’t see through the glass, I couldn’t-”

His chest heaved.

“I heard her scream,” he said, quieter now. “And I couldn’t do a thing.”

Everyone stopped. The sudden stillness made the ship feel haunted.

Yunho slowly stepped forward, hand gentle on Seonghwa’s arm. “We’ll go back. We’ll find her.”

But Seonghwa shook his head. Not at Yunho- at himself.

He looked up at the crew. His brothers. His captain. His eyes were rimmed red, expression a twisted mix of fury and something dangerously close to grief.

His voice cracked when he said it.

“She’s gone.”

A pause.

“I failed.”

Taglist-open: @nijisanjigenshin @littlebear005 @jellyjellyghost @deafeningpandareview @marvolos @stxrrielle @ramadiiiisme @kimarii-00 @f1-lh44 @astuteataraxy @mortalasystem

[amoryeonjun]

Tidebound☠️

Chapter Six (PART ONE/2)

PirateOT8AteezAU X F!Reader/Original Character

In a fractured, salt-soaked world ruled by magic and machines, the feared pirate crew of the HalaVeil sails in search of a myth, a cursed potion known as Luminaer, said to be the only cure for a deadly affliction slowly killing one of their own. When they cross paths with their most hated rivals, the Blackeyes, the crew demands revenge… and receives a strange girl instead. You. Betrayed. Bruised. Bound. They call you Curse; a liar, a threat, a scapegoat. But as the storm deepens and the curse tightens its grip, it becomes clear: you might be the key to everything. Or the end of them all. And in the eyes of a crew that trusts no one… you’ll have to survive long enough to prove which.

Genre: PirateAU, Angst, Slow burn, enemies to ??, OT8

Warnings: Angst, Flashbacks/memory distortion, head pain, psychological tension, trauma, violence, injury/bleeding, swearing, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, panic, depression (lmk if i missed anything!)

Word count: 11K (THIS CHAPTER MAY SEEM SUPER BORING BUT IT'S ONLY PART ONE!!)

White tiles.

Fluorescent lights that hum too loud. One is flickering above the door with the blue code: A-07. The air smells of chemicals and wet metal. There’s a shadow of someone being dragged past. Small limbs. Silent. Compliant.

“Pulse response irregular. Subject B reacting to the tide proximity-again.”

Footsteps. Clipboards. The sound of something submerging, liquid sloshing inside a tank behind the reinforced glass.

Screams, somewhere. Not loud. Muffled. Trained. Like whoever it is has been taught to cry with their mouth closed.

“Separate them.” “They accelerate each other’s decay.” “One must be silenced.”

Then darkness.

The infirmary felt colder than usual.

Not in temperature-no, it was something else. Something in the air. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

Yeosang lay slumped against the pillows, his skin sickly pale, the black veins crawling higher along his neck, like ink spilled in slow motion. His breath was shallow. Labored. Every inhale whistled faintly like cracked glass straining to hold its shape.

Jongho sat nearby, hands clenched tight around the edge of the bedframe. His eyes hadn’t moved from Yeosang’s face in what felt like hours.

“I told him not to come,” Jongho muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “He should’ve stayed in bed.”

Across the room, San paced. Slowly. Methodically. Each step like a fuse burning low. His clothes still smelled faintly of smoke. His jaw was locked tight, a muscle in it ticking with frustration. “He didn’t listen,” San finally said, voice sharp. “Because he’s stubborn. Because he always thinks he has to prove something.”

“He just wanted to help,” Jongho replied quietly.

“He almost coughed up blood in front of all of them.”

A long silence.

The candlelight cast flickering shadows across Yeosang’s face. He looked… small. Not like the Yeosang they knew. Not the scout who could read lies in a heartbeat. Not the one who stood beside them, blade drawn, eyes like glass storms. No, this version looked like he was slipping.

“He’s not getting better,” San muttered. “No matter what they say. Even with Curse here.”

Jongho finally turned his head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t start.”

San met his gaze, unblinking. “Don’t what? Say what everyone’s thinking? That she’s not helping. That she might be making it worse?” Jongho stood up. Quietly. Carefully. “Yeosang trusts her.”

San scoffed. “Yeosang trusted the wrong people once before. Look where that got him.” Another silence. This one heavy.

Behind them, Yeosang stirred slightly. A soft sound, a pained breath. His eyes fluttered open for a moment. Glazed. Unfocused. “…Jongho?” he rasped.

“I’m here,” Jongho said instantly, stepping closer. His voice softened, but his hands trembled as he reached to adjust the blankets. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Yeosang blinked slowly. “…hurts.”

“I know,” Jongho murmured. “I know.”

From across the room, San watched. Silent now. Something unreadable in his expression. The shadows grew longer as the night crept on. And Yeosang, fragile as he looked, remained caught somewhere between this world and whatever had its grip on his blood.

The air was so quiet, even Yeosang’s breathing, strained and shallow, sounded loud.

San leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, foot tapping restlessly against the floorboards. His patience was wearing thinner by the second. He kept glancing at Yeosang like he was waiting for him to vanish. “How the fuck is this supposed to work?” San snapped suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip. “She’s supposed to help him, right? That’s what we’re all dancing around? She’s supposed to be the miracle that saves him?”

Jongho didn’t respond. He sat beside Yeosang, holding a damp cloth to his forehead, his jaw clenched.

San kept going, the fury building now, the fear underneath it bleeding through. “Because I don’t see it. All I see is this.” He gestured sharply to Yeosang’s still body. “This is the worst he’s ever looked, and she’s been here for days. What, are we just going to sit around and wait for him to choke on his own breath while that cursed thing walks around pretending she’s one of us?”

“Shut the fuck up, San,” Jongho said. His voice was low, steady, but dangerous.

San’s mouth froze mid-sentence. He turned to Jongho, startled.

Jongho didn’t even look at him. His eyes were fixed on Yeosang. Still pressing the cloth. Still breathing deep like he was holding something back. “He hasn't been this bad before. Not even when the veins first started showing. You think I don't notice?”

“Then-”

“I said shut up.”

San went quiet. Jongho finally looked at him. “You’re not the only one hurting. But if you let that pain turn you against the wrong people, you’ll lose him faster.”

That struck something.

San’s eyes flicked to Yeosang again. His gaze softened, just slightly. The black veins were crawling just beneath the skin at Yeosang’s jaw now. His lips were pale. His chest barely lifted with each breath.

The fury drained from San’s posture. Not all of it-but enough to show the grief beneath it. Enough to show that this wasn’t just rage. It was fear. Raw and real. “I don’t know how to fix him,” San muttered. “I don’t know how to help.”

“None of us do,” Jongho replied. “But tearing her down before we even know the truth? That won’t do shit.”

A heavy silence settled over them once more. In the cot, Yeosang stirred again. A weak whimper escaped him. San flinched at the sound.

Then, after a moment-he moved. Slowly. Quietly. He crossed the room and crouched beside Jongho. Didn’t say anything. Just sat there. His eyes flicked up to Yeosang’s face, and stayed there.

And together, they waited. Two pirates, helpless against something they couldn’t fight with fists or blades.

Hongjoong hadn’t moved from his seat. He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, elbows digging into a map that looked like it had been clawed apart in frustration. His gaze pierced through me like you was nothing more than parchment, waiting to be read. Or burned.

You didn’t speak first this time. You was too tired for anger. Too worn for fear. You stood there, chest rising and falling, the phantom sting of the knife on your throat still fresh, even if the skin had already healed.

Eventually, his voice sliced through the silence. “You’re very theatrical, you know that?”

You said nothing.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping one ringed finger against the armrest. “You want to know what I think? I think you’re dangerous. Not because of what you did. But because you don’t even know what you are.”

You opened my mouth. Then closed it.

He stood slowly. Walked around the desk like a predator circling meat. “But here’s the part you’re forgetting- you’re mine. Whether you’re some failed experiment, a lost little monster, or the answer to saving Yeosang, none of that matters. You're under my command. My crew. My ship.”

He stopped in front of you. Both of you were nearly eye to eye now, though you could still feel the difference in height- no, not height. Weight. His presence was heavier than any blade.

“I don’t give a damn what you used to be,” he said lowly. “All I care about is what you’re going to do next.”

“And if I don’t?” You asked.

His lip curled, barely a smile. “Then you’ll burn long before Yeosang does.”

A pause.

Then-

“I need answers,” you said. Your voice cracked, but you didn’t back down. “I need to know who I am. What I am.”

“You’ll get them.” He turned and walked back to his desk. “But not all at once. You’re not ready.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do,” he snapped. “I always do.”

You clenched your fists, every part of your being shaking, but you knew pushing further wouldn’t work. Not here. Not yet. After a beat of silence, he spoke again, calmer. “You want to prove you’re not a curse? Then start acting like someone worth believing in.”

You swallowed thickly. “And what if I am a curse?”

Hongjoong glanced up. “Then heaven help the ones who tried to use you.”

The room felt colder now. Or maybe you was just coming down from whatever heat had set your veins alight earlier. Either way, the silence between you wasn’t the kind that begged to be broken, it dared you to.

But you broke it anyway. your voice came out hoarse. “What do I have to do?”

Hongjoong didn’t respond at first. He didn’t even look up. Just stared down at the corner of a map where some long-faded bloodstain had soaked into the parchment.

“I’m tired,” You added, softer this time. “Not just... physically.”

That made him glance up. Barely.

You kept going. “I don’t even know who I am. What I am. And you-” You swallowed. “You keep talking like you’ve got answers. But if you don’t know either, then what the hell am I even doing here?”

He let out a slow exhale through his nose. No amusement. No anger. Just stillness. “You think you’re the only one tired?” he asked, voice quiet. “I’ve seen more men die screaming than I’ve seen sunrises. I’ve held this ship together with bleeding hands and broken loyalty. And now I’ve got you- a question with skin on it.” He stepped around the desk again, stopping a few feet from you. Not close enough to intimidate. Just close enough that I had to hold his stare.

“I don’t know what you are,” he said. “But I know what I see.”

“Which is?”

“Something powerful. And unpredictable.” A pause.

“You want answers? Start earning them. Start remembering.”

Your breath hitched. “I can’t just will memories back.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you can bleed for them. And I think,” he said, nodding toward the spot where the knife had kissed your throat earlier, “you’re just about ready to.”

You didn’t know if that was a threat or… something darker. But you didn’t flinch. “I’ll do what you want,” I said finally. “I’ll play your game.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“But if I find out you’re lying to me, or keeping something I deserve to know-”

“You’ll what?” he asked coolly.

I held his gaze. “Then you’ll finally see what kind of monster I really am.” For the first time in all our conversations, Hongjoong didn’t smirk. He just nodded once. “Then we understand each other.”

“I want you to rest for the night,” Hongjoong said. His voice was quieter now. Not like it had lost its edge, but like it had been carefully slid back into its sheath.

You blinked. “Rest?”

He nodded once. “You’ll need your strength.”

It was the first time he’d spoken to you like you was human. Before you could question the sudden shift, he turned his head slightly and called, “Wooyoung.”

The door opened a second later and Wooyoung stepped in. His red hair was slightly tousled like he’d been running his hand through it too much. His eyes flicked between the two of us, cautious. He didn’t say anything.

“She’s not to sleep in the storeroom again,” Hongjoong said. “Show her to the crew quarters. One of the empties.”

Wooyoung’s brows lifted, clearly surprised, but he didn’t argue. “Aye, Captain.”

You looked between them slowly. “A room? Like... a real room?”

Neither of them replied. But Wooyoung motioned for you to follow, and that was answer enough.

You stepped out of the Captain’s quarters and into the dim corridor. The walls creaked gently, the sway of the ship rhythmic under myour boots. It was oddly quiet here- no shouting, no footfalls, no blade being dragged against wood. Just lanterns throwing long shadows and the occasional low hum of the tide beyond the hull.

You both walked. Each corridor you passed seemed to grow less hostile, more... lived-in. Worn boots had scuffed the floors. Crew sigils were carved faintly into doorframes. The air smelled less like damp rot and more like leather, smoke, and sea-salt.

Wooyoung didn’t speak, but you caught him glancing at me occasionally. Like he wasn’t sure what to make of you still. Honestly? you didn’t blame him.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a modest wooden door. “It’s nothing fancy,” he said, scratching behind his ear. “But it’s dry. And there’s a proper bed.”

You looked at the door, then back at him.

“You’re surprised,” he said. “Getting special treatment?”

“It’s the first time anyone’s shown me anything other than suspicion or orders since I got here,” You said quietly. “So yeah. A bit.”

He didn’t smile exactly, but his expression softened. “This doesn’t mean they trust you,” he said. “But it means he’s watching.”

“Hongjoong?”

He nodded. “He doesn’t give second chances. If he’s giving you one now, it’s either because he sees something… or he’s planning something.”

You swallowed. “Good to know.”

Wooyoung reached for the door and opened it. A small room. Sparse, but real. A low bed against the wall. A shelf. A rusted lantern. A folded blanket. It might as well have been a castle compared to the storeroom floor.

“You’ll hear the bell if anything happens,” Wooyoung said. “Don’t sleep too deep.” And with that, he left.

You stood in the doorway for a moment longer, letting it sink in. The silence. The space. The strange, tentative offering of something resembling trust. You stepped inside. And for the first time since you was dragged aboard the HalaVeil, you closed a door behind you on my own terms. The door clicked softly behind you, the sound strangely loud in the stillness of the room.

You turned the lantern down low and stood in place for a moment, just staring at the small bed. The mattress was thin and the blanket scratchy, but it wasn’t the infirmary cot. It wasn’t a crate in a storeroom, or a splintered floor with a pile of cloth for a pillow.

It was… something like kindness. Maybe even mercy. You didn’t trust it.

Still, You moved slowly, toeing off the oversized boots, untying the rope that kept them secured. The remnants of ash clung to the soles. Your arms still ached, the skin where they’d burned tight and raw, but you was alive. Again. Somehow.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hesitating. The silence felt like it pressed on your chest harder than anything else. No waves crashing. No voices. No metal on wood.

Just the creak of the ship around you… and your own thoughts. Too many of them.

Mingi and Wooyoung.

They’d helped you. Protected you, even. Hid you.  You didn’t understand why, not fully-but you owed them. You owed them more than they knew. You could still hear Wooyoung’s panicked voice, feel Mingi’s steady hands trying to cool the burns, the way they spoke to each other in hurried whispers when they thought you couldn’t hear.

The mission. San’s blade. The blood. The fire.

And your own stupid decision to follow those Blackeyes into the flames.-you don’t even know why you did it.

No-you do. Deep down, you think you do.

Because something inside you said you know why. Because something inside you screamed you’ve been here before.

You lay back on the bed, stiffly. The mattress creaked under your weight. The ceiling above was a patchwork of wooden beams and faint water stains. Your eyes flicked across them slowly. Mapping, counting, grounding yourself in something real.

The dining hall scene played over and over in your mind. The silence. The stares. The knife at your throat. The look on Yeosang’s face when he stepped forward. His voice when he yelled. The way your wound healed before anyone could even blink.

You exhaled shakily.

What are you?

You didn’t know. But they all wanted answers. And you was the one bleeding them out.

And then there was San.

You hadn't seen him since we got back. Since you collapsed and Wooyoung found you. You didn’t know what he thought now-if he was still convinced you was a traitor. If he’d still kill you on sight. The memory of his expression, twisted with fury, ash smudged across his cheek, blade still dripping, haunted the edges of your vision.

He wasn’t afraid to hurt you. And for some reason… that terrified you less than the idea of him being right.

You turned over, the blanket pulling awkwardly around you. Your eyes grew heavier. One last thought:

I’m not used to being this comfortable.

Which is probably why it scared you so much. Eventually, you slept. And the ship rocked gently beneath you, like the sea itself was holding its breath.

The softness didn’t last.

It started with a drip.

Water.

Somewhere, distant but rhythmic.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Then the sound of rope tightening. Of metal sliding against metal. Of breath held too long.

Then came the voices.

Not shouting. Not angry.

Worse.

Mocking. Smooth. Sweet like rot.

"Don't look away now… you’re one of us, remember?"

I was standing.

Somewhere below deck. The wood damp beneath my bare feet, my hands sticky with something I didn’t want to name. The air was heavy. Salty. Tainted with oil and sweat.

And blood. Always blood.

I turned and they were there-shadows wearing faces. Faces I knew.

But couldn’t name.

A man with a gold tooth and mismatched eyes. A woman who kept knives hidden in her sleeves. A boy too young to be this cruel, and a captain who never shouted but always smiled.

Their names slipped through my mind like water through fingers.

The ship creaked around me like it was alive.

"Come on, girl. You’ve got good eyes. Sharp eyes. Watch this."

They threw something at my feet. A bird, maybe. Or something once human. Its wings-or arms-were twisted. Bent. It twitched once, then went still.

My stomach turned.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I’d learned not to.

A rough hand clapped me on the back. “You’re gonna be real useful someday,” someone whispered in my ear. “We’ll make sure of it.”

I turned, and their faces shifted, melted into masks. No features. Just black. Endless black where their eyes should have been.

Blackeyes.

“You’re ours now,” they said in unison. “You were born for this.”

I took a step back, but the floor was gone. Water rose up around my ankles, then my waist, then my chest. I gasped.

And someone laughed.

Yeosang’s laugh.

But it was wrong. Hollow. Distant.

“You were always going to kill me.”

"No-"

I tried to scream. To swim. To breathe.

But the water filled my lungs.

You woke up with a start, the blanket tangled around your legs, sweat beading at your brow. The room was silent again. But the echo of the voices still rang in your ears.

The morning came heavy with cloud, the kind that made everything feel muffled- like the ship itself had fallen into a hush.

Below deck, past a narrow corridor and a series of rusted metal pipes that pulsed faintly with energy, Mingi was already awake. He always was.

The small workshop tucked into the heart of the HalaVeil was dim and hazy. Soft lanterns lined the walls, casting a warm amber glow over cluttered tables and crates of salvaged tech and half-gutted weapons. Gears clicked. Sparks flared. Something hissed in the far corner.

Mingi stood over his workbench, goggles low over his eyes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His shirt was stained with soot and oil, and the chain at his neck gleamed faintly with each movement. He moved with a strange kind of grace- messy, yes, but practiced. Confident.

A metal panel lay open before him, its insides a twisted nest of wires and glass tubing. A small  battery pulsed weakly to his side, flickering blue. He tapped it once, and it buzzed in response.

“Don’t short on me again, you stubborn little bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

Behind him, a kettle on a rusted stove let out a soft whistle. The scent of burnt copper and salt hung in the air, mixed with something surprisingly warm, dried sea herbs, maybe. Tea?

Tools clinked. The floor creaked above as someone moved across the deck. But down here, it was just Mingi and the rhythmic hum of machines. He didn’t speak much when he worked. Didn’t smile either. His usual playfulness quieted, replaced by something sharper - like this was the one space where he let himself focus without apology. Without masks.

On a hook beside the door hung an old canvas bag, patched over and over again with mismatched thread. Inside it, tucked between small glass vials and scraps of wire, was a piece of paper, folded and refolded so many times it was almost soft. If one were to peek, they’d see faint writing. A sketch of a weapon design, maybe. Or a letter never sent.

He reached for a soldering iron, adjusted his grip. Sparks jumped. Mingi didn’t flinch. Whatever he was building - it wasn’t just repair. It was preparation.

Tick… click… buzz…

The air in the small lower-deck workshop was thick with the scent of solder and burning wire. Mingi leaned in close, a wire clamped between his teeth, goggles smeared with fingerprint smudges. His hands were deft despite the chaos, wrapping copper around a delicate core, careful not to misalign the polarity nodes.

On the table in front of him was a strange, intricate shell of brushed metal - barely the size of his palm. It pulsed faintly with blue light every few seconds. Inside it was a hastily-jury-rigged convergence of signal wires, a crystal shard tuned to a low frequency, and a transmitter salvaged from three completely different devices.

Mingi murmured under his breath. “Come on, just link already…”

Click.

“Don’t short out, don’t short out, don’t you-"

The door creaked open behind him.

Without looking up, Mingi snapped, “If that’s Wooyoung: no, you cannot borrow my prototype for a prank. If it’s San, I already told you, I’m not blowing up the engine room to ‘see what happens.’”

No response.

“…Guys?”

Still nothing.

He paused, frowning, and turned-

“Jesus fuck-!”

Yunho stood just inside the doorway, arms folded, looking entirely unbothered. “Morning.”

Mingi nearly fell off his stool. His goggles flew halfway across the bench. “What the hell is WRONG with you?! You don’t just sneak in like that! You almost made me cross the wrong wire!”

Yunho shrugged. “You talk to yourself so much I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Mingi clutched his chest dramatically. “I was concentrating.”

Yunho’s gaze flicked toward the glowing shell on the bench. “You’re still trying to finish the relay beacon?”

“It’s not just a beacon,” Mingi huffed, retrieving his goggles. “It’s a low-band signal transmitter and tracker. Completely untethered. If it works, I’ll be able to tag someone with it and pick them up from half a continent away - no tether, no radar, no magic pinging.”

“You say that like we’re not pirates.”

“Pirates who keep losing people,” Mingi muttered. “So yeah. It matters.”

Yunho didn’t respond right away. His eyes softened just slightly as he leaned closer, examining the delicate etching of runes around the casing’s edge.

“Has it worked yet?”

Mingi clicked his tongue. “It blinks. It hums. It’s only exploded twice this week. So... almost?” A faint, rare smile touched Yunho’s lips. “You’re a lunatic.”

“And you’re a jump-scare in boots,” Mingi shot back. “You ever think about warning people before you enter a room?”

“I did. I said ‘good morning.’”

“After you materialized like some cursed mist.”

Yunho only chuckled, shifting to stand fully upright. His voice quieted a bit. “You slept at all?”

Mingi hesitated. “…I dozed.”

“Uh huh.”

“I rested my eyes in between calibrations. That counts.”

Yunho gave him a knowing look, the kind that made it clear he wasn’t buying any of it. Mingi tried to look anywhere else. They both went quiet for a moment, the workshop filled only with the soft pulsing glow of the unfinished device.

Then, Yunho tapped the bench gently. “You’re doing good work.”

Mingi blinked. The words landed heavier than he expected. “…Thanks,” he said. “That means more than I wanna admit.”

Yunho nodded once, and turned for the door. But just before he disappeared, he paused.

“Oh - and next time?” he added over his shoulder. “Maybe ward the door. Or put a bell on it. Something.”

“Next time,” Mingi called after him, “you’re getting a tracker sewn into your coat!”

Click. The door shut.

Mingi exhaled slowly, eyes falling back on the glowing, humming device. The pulse was steadier now. “…Maybe,” he whispered, “just maybe.”

The faint pulse had gone solid.

For the first time in days, the glow inside Mingi’s device didn’t stutter, didn’t spark, didn’t flicker. It burned bright and steady - like a heartbeat, like a signal finally found.

Mingi stared at it in disbelief. His jaw fell slightly open. Then he whooped.

The sound echoed off the workshop walls as he tossed his goggles aside and bolted from the room, the small metal device clutched tight in one hand. A few startled crew members jumped as he careened down the hall, laughing breathlessly.

He didn’t stop until he reached the captain’s quarters. No hesitation. He pounded on the door.

A pause.

“Enter,” came the voice, low and even.

Mingi stepped in.

Hongjoong was seated behind his desk, coat draped over his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he poured over a map cluttered with marks and annotations. His eyes rose slowly to meet Mingi’s, sharp as ever. “…Well?”

Mingi held up the device with a grin. “It’s done.”

A silence followed. Tense, assessing. Hongjoong leaned back slightly in his chair. “How accurate?”

“Dead on,” Mingi said. “It’ll track anyone tagged with it, no need for matching frequencies or direct line-of-sight. Even if they’re underground. And they won’t even know it’s there.” He hesitated. Then added, “It can also send back vitals. Not in detail, but enough to tell if they’re alive… or not.”

That made Hongjoong’s gaze narrow. But he nodded once, slowly. “Well done.”

Mingi blinked. Praise from Hongjoong never came easy. Or quickly.

“…So,” Mingi ventured, “who’s it for?”

Hongjoong reached for the device without answering right away. He turned it over in his palm, examining the etched metal like it might whisper its own secrets. Then, finally:

“It’s for our curse.”

Mingi frowned. “The girl?”

Hongjoong’s lips quirked into something unreadable. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. “For her next mission,” he said. “She’ll need to be watched.”

There was a finality to his tone. A sharp edge tucked under the calm.

Mingi didn’t ask any more questions. He just nodded, and stepped back as Hongjoong tucked the device away into a locked drawer.

The moment the latch clicked, the captain's eyes lifted once more.

“Get some rest, Mingi.”

“…Right.”

But as Mingi turned to leave, he couldn’t help the quiet churn rising in his stomach, the faint unease clawing at the edge of his pride. Because whatever mission this was… it didn’t sound like one meant to bring her back.

The door clicked shut.

Silence settled again, thick and heavy in the captain’s quarters, disturbed only by the gentle creak of the ship and the far-off cry of gulls outside the porthole.

Hongjoong didn’t move at first. He simply stared at the drawer where he’d just locked the device. The small thing weighed next to nothing, yet in his mind, it felt heavier than iron. With a quiet exhale, he leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, a storm of thought behind them. After a long moment, he reached forward and slid the drawer open again with a metallic scrape. The device was still there. Still blinking. Still alive.

It fit easily in the center of his palm - smaller than expected, almost delicate. One twist of his wrist and he could crush it. But he didn’t.

He turned it over slowly, watching how the light pulsed along its seams. Like a pulse. Like a signal.

Or a leash.

“This won’t fix him,” he murmured to himself.

His voice was low, strained with something that might have been guilt, or anger, or both twisted into something colder.

“But maybe it’ll prove what she is.”

He wasn’t one for hope. That was Seonghwa’s burden. Or Jongho’s. Even Yeosang, once, before his body began to betray him.

No. Hongjoong didn’t deal in hope. He dealt in results. In weapons.

And right now… she was both the problem and the solution. A tideborn? Maybe. A curse? Likely. But she’d returned from fire and ruin, from blood and betrayal. That meant something. It had to.

If she could survive that, then she could handle what came next. And if she couldn’t? His fingers curled slowly around the device. At least they’d know.

The pulse light blinked again, steady and slow. Watching. Waiting. Just like him.

With a sigh, Hongjoong calls the bell connecting to the First Mates quarters.  He makes a sharp decision, a new test for his Curse.

There was a sharp knock.

“Come in,” Hongjoong called without looking up.

The door creaked open, and in stepped Seonghwa - posture upright, hands behind his back, eyes alert as always. The faint scent of salt and gunmetal clung to him, and his boots echoed softly against the wooden floor. “You called for me, Captain?”

Hongjoong finally lifted his gaze from the desk, where the small device still sat in the open drawer, its quiet blinking hidden from view.

“I did.” He motioned toward the opposite chair. “Sit.”

Seonghwa did, wordlessly, with a slight nod. His face was unreadable, but there was a quiet tension in his jaw, the kind he only wore when something didn’t feel right.

“We’re sending her out again,” Hongjoong said bluntly.

That made Seonghwa blink, just once. “Already?”

Hongjoong hummed low. “It’s not an attack. Not yet. Something smaller. Something cleaner.” He tapped the edge of the desk. “I want you to go with her.”

There was a pause. “You trust her?” Seonghwa asked, tone careful.

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed slightly. “No,” he replied. “But I trust you.”

Another pause. Seonghwa’s gaze dropped briefly to the desk, then returned to meet the captain’s. “What’s the goal?”

Hongjoong smirked - a sharp thing, more knife than smile. “You’ll know when you get there.”

That answer didn’t sit well. It never did. But Seonghwa didn’t argue. He simply nodded once. “When?”

“Soon.” Hongjoong reached into the drawer, fingers brushing the device. “Be ready.”

And that was it. No pleasantries. No farewells. Seonghwa stood and left without another word, the door closing behind him like the beat of a war drum.

You jolted upright in bed, chest heaving, breath ragged like you’d been running for hours.

The room was still. The air smelled of old wood and ocean rot. But you could still hear it- laughter, coarse and cruel. Tankards slamming. A fist pounding the table. That voice. That voice in your ear telling you to smile sweeter. To listen better. To follow orders.

You pressed your hands to your face. They were slick with sweat. It wasn’t a dream. Not really.

It was them. The Blackeyes.

But blurred. Flickering in and out like waves crashing too fast to hold shape. You couldn’t see their faces clearly, but you could feel the weight of them. Their voices worming through you. Their orders. Their threats. Their hands. Always taking.

The firelight in the corner of the room had felt warm at first. Then too hot. Then-

You shook your head.

Enough.

You slipped your legs off the edge of the bed. The floor was cool under your feet. Your whole body ached, but nothing compared to the twisting knot in your gut. You rubbed at my arms as you stood, trying to shake off the filth of the memory. Trying to remember where you were now. Who you were now.

This ship was no heaven. But it wasn’t there.

Your throat felt like sand. Your tongue too dry. You needed water. Maybe something stronger. You stepped out into the hall. The ship creaked gently. No one else was stirring. Or maybe they just didn’t care enough to notice you anymore.

You followed your feet to the one place you knew would be quiet this early: the kitchen. It smelled like iron pans left too long on the fire. Like something rich, brewed low overnight. You stood in the doorway for a moment, steadying your breath.

You didn’t know if you werelooking for food, or quiet, or... something to bring you back into my body. Maybe just a moment to feel human.

But as you stepped inside, the silence felt too loud. And you couldn’t stop hearing that voice again.

“Be good, girl. Smile for the captain.”

You clenched your jaw and kept moving.

The stale bread doesn’t taste like much. Dry, chewy, borderline inedible- but it’s something. You tear off a chunk with your teeth and chew like it matters. The pan crackles behind you, some scrap of egg and something vaguely meat-like simmering in leftover oil. You eat in silence. You drink from a dented tin mug, water cold enough to make your throat tighten.

For the first time since… everything, your hands have stopped shaking. The weight in your chest doesn’t vanish, but it settles. Just slightly. Enough for you to breathe without feeling like you're drowning. You let yourself lean against the counter. Let the quiet seep into your bones like warmth from a dying fire.

Then-

Boots. Heavy. Deliberate. Pacing like thunder across the wooden floor.

You don’t have to look. But you do.

San.

He stands in the doorway like he owns it- shoulders squared, jaw tight, dark eyes sharp and unreadable. His shirt’s half-done, bruises lining the edge of his throat like ghostly fingers. A split still decorates his bottom lip.

He looks at you. At the food in your hand. At your body still very much alive and upright. His mouth twists.

“So,” he says, voice low and coated in something bitter. “You’re up. Eating. Walking around like you didn’t nearly get us both killed.”

You don’t move. You don’t flinch. You chew. Swallow. Set your mug down with more care than you feel. “Didn’t realise this was your kitchen,” you murmur.

His brow tics. “Didn’t realise you were still this ungrateful.”

You straighten, not bothering to hide the exhaustion lining your voice. “Ungrateful for what? Being blamed again and again for something I didn’t do?”

His body tenses. The storm’s right there in his spine. “You don’t know what you did,” he snaps, stepping closer. “And that’s the problem.”

You hold your ground. You don’t let your shoulders drop, even when the space between you grows razor-thin. His breath brushes your cheek. “And neither do you,” you say.

Something shifts in his face. Just for a second.

Not anger. Not fury. Something colder. Sharper.

Fear.

But it isn’t of you. It’s of the truth neither of you can name yet.

He takes a single step back. “You’re not done paying for that mission,” he says quietly. “Don’t get comfortable.”

And with that, he’s gone. Footsteps echoing down the hall like a warning.

The silence chokes the room the moment he leaves it.

That heavy storm-cloud weight still clings to your chest,  San’s words echoing in the corners like a curse that won’t settle. You stare at the door he walked through.

Your fingers curl around the crust of bread in your hand. And something inside you snaps.

Without thinking - without planning, you twist your body and launch it.

The stale hunk of bread sails through the air and hits the back of his coat just as he rounds the corner.

Thud. A dry, pitiful noise - but satisfying all the same.

“Here,” you bark after him. “You can choke on that instead of your pride.”

There’s a pause. Long enough to make your stomach twist. Then a slow, deliberate turn of his head. San leans back slightly, just enough so his shadowed face peeks into view from the corridor. His brows raise, dark eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of amusement and fury.

“You throw like a dying rat,” he says. A slow, mocking smile spreads across his lips.

“Still hit you though,” you say sweetly.

He stares. Lingers. You can feel the heat of it even from here. Then he lets out a soft laugh. One of those unsettling ones, not from joy, but from disbelief. “You're lucky you’re still breathing.”

You tilt your head, voice dripping with mock innocence. “Maybe you’re the lucky one.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not really.

Then he’s gone again. For real this time.

And for the first time in days… you feel something almost like yourself again.

Still trapped. Still hunted. Still cursed, apparently. But no longer afraid to throw something back. Even if it was just a piece of stale bread. 

You walk the halls with a different rhythm now.

It’s not confidence exactly- more like defiance that hasn’t had time to sour yet. Your steps are cautious but no longer afraid. The echo of your boots against the wood is sharper today. More certain.

No one's around to stop you. No one’s dragged you back to the storeroom or shoved you toward the brig. You haven’t earned trust - not really,  but you’ve bought yourself some space.

For now, it’s enough.

You drift past shut doors and splintered beams, your fingers brushing across the walls as if they might whisper back. The ship creaks beneath you, not threatening, not kind. Just alive. Like it’s watching.

Eventually, you slip into a room. You don’t know whose it is, or maybe you do, and you’re just not admitting it yet. It smells faintly of salt and leather. It’s neat. Quiet. Sparse.

A small drawer half-tucked beneath the edge of a desk catches your eye.

You hesitate. Then open it.

Inside, buried among old folded parchment and a faded strip of ribbon - a necklace.

Your breath catches.

Thin, silver chain. A small, round pendant. It glimmers faintly in the low light. Ocean-blue stone in the center. Cracked, like it’s been dropped before. You lift it carefully. It swings slightly from your fingertips, catching the sun that pours through the slit in the wooden wall.

It looks… familiar. Painfully so.

Your chest tightens as you tilt it in your palm. You remember hands- maybe yours, holding something like this in a darker place. Somewhere cold. Somewhere far from this ship.

You don’t know when. But you know it was yours. You know it meant something. Something important.

Your thumb brushes the pendant and suddenly it feels like a thread’s been pulled loose in your chest. A memory almost surfaces - then slips back under.

You clutch it tightly. And for the first time, you wonder what else of yours is hidden in this place.

You’re still holding the necklace when the door creaks behind you. You whip around fast, heart thudding.

It’s Mingi.

He freezes in the doorway, a rag slung over his shoulder and a smudge of black grease on his cheek. His eyes flick from your hand to the open drawer. The relaxed tilt of his mouth fades.

“What are you doing with that?” he asks, slower than usual. His voice doesn’t sound angry. Just confused. Almost cautious.

You hesitate. Your fingers curl tighter around the chain, like it might vanish if you let go.

“I think it’s mine,” you say honestly. “I remember… something. Not clearly. But I’ve seen it before. Worn it. I know I have.”

There’s a silence. A long one. Mingi steps inside, shutting the door gently behind him. He walks over and looks down at the pendant in your hand. His brow furrows deeper, head tilting like he’s trying to piece something together.

Then he says it.

“That belongs to Yeosang.”

Your stomach drops. You blink, stunned. “No… it can’t be. Are you sure?”

Mingi nods, still frowning. “He’s had that since we were kids. Said it was one of the only things he had before joining the crew. Always kept it locked away. Hongjoong told him not to wear it anymore- too sentimental, too risky.”

You don’t know what to say.

Something cracks quietly in your chest. “But… I remember it,” you whisper. “Not like seeing it on him. I wore it.”

Mingi looks at you longer now. His usual warmth replaced by something quieter. Wary. Thoughtful. “That’s not something you’d mistake,” he says eventually. “Not if you remember it like that.”

You glance around the room suddenly, something unsettling crawling under your skin. The worn books on the shelves. The pale blue curtain, drawn halfway. The faint scent of sea salt and something older.

“Mingi,” you murmur slowly, “whose room is this?”

He blinks. “Yeosang’s.”

You go cold.

“What?”

“He hasn’t stayed in here since the curse got worse,” Mingi says, voice low. “He sleeps near the infirmary now. This room’s barely touched anymore.”

You stare, stunned. You didn’t know. You didn’t mean to come here. But now that you think about it… you didn’t choose this door randomly, did you? You felt something. A pull. Like you belonged here. Your hand tightens on the necklace.

If this is Yeosang’s room… Why does it feel like yours?

You don’t realize how tight your grip on the necklace is until Mingi quietly says, “Hey… you okay?”

You blink, slowly lowering your hand. Your fingers feel numb from how hard you’d been clutching the pendant.

“I… yeah,” you mutter, not looking at him. “I think so. Just… confused.”

He doesn’t press. Just shifts his weight, arms folding across his chest as he leans lightly against the nearby shelf. There’s a beat of silence- no tension, just space.

“I didn’t mean to come in here,” you admit softly. “I didn’t even know it was his room. I just… felt like I needed to.”

Mingi hums, trying to break the tension. “Don’t think you’re the first person who’s wandered into a place they weren’t supposed to on this ship. You didn’t break anything.”

You glance at him, half-expecting a smirk. But he’s watching you gently, eyes warm despite the confusion still lingering. “Still,” you say, stepping back from the drawer, “I’m sorry.”

Mingi shrugs. “You’ve got enough to be sorry for already, don’t you think?”

You pause. Then huff out a breath that might be a laugh. “Depends who you ask.”

He smiles faintly. “If you ask San, you’re probably the devil. If you ask Wooyoung… well, he’s still figuring it out.”

You look at him. “And you?”

Mingi’s gaze flicks toward the necklace in your hand again. Then to you. “I think you’re still alive for a reason,” he says simply. “That’s gotta count for something.”

That silences you.

He rubs at his neck, sheepish now. “Anyway, uh… glad you’re up. Wooyoung told me to keep an eye on you. Not in a creepy way. More like… he’s worried.”

Your chest aches in a strange way. “I know you both helped me,” you say, voice quieter now. “Back when I got back from the hotel. You didn’t have to. Especially not when it meant lying to the others.”

Mingi shifts again but doesn’t look away. “Yeah, well…” he mutters. “Didn’t feel right leaving you like that. You’re not nothing. Just- figuring your shit out, I guess.”

You smile, small, but real. “Still. Thank you. Both of you. I mean it.”

He looks away at that. “You should tell Wooyoung yourself. He’ll pretend he doesn’t care, but he’ll melt like butter.”

You laugh under your breath. And for a moment, the storm that’s always hanging over your head clears just enough to let a little light in.

You’re still holding the necklace when Mingi clears his throat, shifting his stance like the floor might open up and swallow him if he stays still too long.

For a guy built like that- broad shoulders, strong arms, the type you’d assume would be loud and intimidating- he sure fidgets like a schoolboy caught staring at a crush.

“I, uh,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

You raise a brow. “You didn’t.”

He looks at you, startled by the honesty. Then looks away just as fast. “I just don’t usually… talk that much,” he mumbles, almost like he’s apologizing for existing. “Not unless it’s about, you know. Wires. Circuits. Bombs.”

You tilt your head. “You’re awkward.”

He groans dramatically. “I know!”

You laugh, not mockingly, just genuinely. “I think it’s kinda charming,” you say, crossing your arms as you lean against the wall. “You’re the only one on this ship who doesn’t look at me like I’m a threat or a ticking bomb.”

He flinches. “To be fair… we did kinda think you were a ticking bomb.”

You snort. “Right. But you were the one who helped defuse me, remember?”

He looks up then. Really looks. And there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. Still shy. But proud, too. “I just… didn’t want to lose anyone else,” he says quietly. “Not after Yeosang.”

That name still sits heavy in the air between you. You both fall silent for a beat. Then you whisper, “I didn’t want to lose him either.”

Mingi smiles again, smaller this time. “Guess we have that in common.”

You nod. It’s quiet again, but not uncomfortable. Just two people sitting in the aftermath of chaos, holding a moment that neither of you really expected to share.

“Hey,” he says eventually, eyes flicking to the necklace again. “If it really is yours… you should keep it.”

You blink. “But you said it belonged to Yeosang.”

Mingi shrugs, a little helpless. “Maybe he’d want you to have it.”

And with that, he gently excuses himself, awkwardly bumping his shoulder on the way out and muttering something about needing to recalibrate a compass- anything to escape before he gets too soft again.

You watch him leave. And for the first time in a while, the weight in your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

You slip the necklace into your pocket, fingers brushing the metal like a secret only you’re allowed to carry. There’s a flicker of something close to peace in your chest- rare, delicate. You leave the room with a soft smile tugging at your lips.

The hallway is quiet. For once, your footsteps don’t feel like echoes of a threat. You walk slower, shoulders slightly relaxed, the weight of the ship a little less unbearable.

Until you turn a corner and walk straight into a wall of muscle.

Except it’s not a wall.

It’s San.

You stumble, and he doesn’t move, he just stares down at you with that familiar sharpness in his eyes, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he’s already planning to bite into you.

Your lips part, a breath catches. But then something sparks in you- maybe it’s boldness, maybe it’s stupidity.

You tilt your head and let your eyes rake over him, slow, deliberate. “You should really watch where you’re going,” you say, voice silk-wrapped, smooth and dangerously close to teasing. “Or were you just hoping to catch me?”

San blinks. You swear his shoulders tense. “You think I’m following you?” he scoffs, but there’s a crack in his tone. One you hear. One he probably didn’t mean to let slip.

You smile wider, leaning in just a little, close enough that your breath brushes his collarbone.

“I don’t know… you do show up an awful lot.”

He takes half a step back, like the air just shifted under his feet. His eyes flicker- confused, disarmed, maybe even a little bit… flustered?

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him at a loss. And you revel in it.

His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, something biting, something cruel, maybe- but-

A loud, purposeful throat-clear slices through the tension .

You both snap your heads toward the sound.

Wooyoung is standing at the end of the corridor, a brow raised high, a knowing smirk dancing on his face. “Am I interrupting… something?”

You instantly step back. San’s jaw tightens again, color rising to his ears, though he tries to cover it with a sneer.

“No,” he growls.

Wooyoung just shrugs, the smirk still very much present as he strolls off, whistling lowly under his breath.

You glance back at San. His eyes are on you again- narrowed, intense, but not with hatred this time. With something else.

You don’t say anything. You just smile again, slow, dangerous, and walk away. This time, you leave him speechless.

"You looked panicked," Wooyoung says, grinning like a devil with a secret. "Did she say something scandalous? Or was that little breath hitch all you?"

San glares. “I’m not panicked.”

They’re walking side by side now, boots tapping in uneven rhythm down the hall. San’s face is hot. Not from embarrassment, obviously. From the frustration. And maybe the humidity. Definitely that.

“Okay,” Wooyoung says, still far too amused, “so explain the way you were blinking like a broken compass when she leaned in like that. You weren’t even breathing right.”

“She was just trying to mess with me,” San mutters. “She does that.”

Wooyoung hums, hands tucked behind his head as if he’s trying to seem casual. “You sure it was just to mess with you? She looked a little too comfortable standing that close, if you ask me.”

San clenches his jaw. “She’s trying to get under my skin.”

“Looks like she got there.”

“Wooyoung.”

“What?” Wooyoung flashes an exaggeratedly innocent look. “Look, all I’m saying is… you’re the one who’s been screaming bloody murder about her since day one. But now you’re letting her talk to you like that?”

San goes quiet.

Wooyoung slows his pace, finally looking at him with something a little more serious behind his expression. “You still think she’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know what I think,” San replies, low and stiff. “But something’s not right. It never was.”

Wooyoung studies him for a moment. “No,” he agrees quietly. “But we’re not exactly the picture of right either.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence, tension hanging between them like a fog neither of them can name. But one thing’s certain- San is still thinking about your voice. Still feeling the heat of your breath. And it’s starting to feel like the game he thought he was winning… might’ve just changed entirely.

San scoffs sharply, trying to shake the heat still creeping up the back of his neck.

"You’re just jealous,” he snaps, jaw tight.

Wooyoung stops in his tracks with a blink. “Jealous?” A beat. Then laughter- loud, incredulous, echoing down the corridor. “Of you?”

“Yeah,” San growls, refusing to look at him. “You’ve been real friendly with her lately. Real helpful. Real... soft.”

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow, still grinning. “Soft?”

San spins around, now facing him fully. “Yeah. You’re going soft, Wooyoung. Maybe she cursed you too, just a different kind. Not one to rot your body, but your brain. Or your heart.”

Wooyoung snorts. “You think she put a love curse on me?”

“Would explain a lot.”

“San,” Wooyoung says slowly, trying not to laugh again, “if she did, I think you’re the one it’s hitting hardest.”

San steps closer, eyes narrowed. “You think I’d fall for someone like her?”

Wooyoung’s smirk falters for a second-  just a flicker. “You already have a bit of a history with falling for danger.”

San’s lips press into a thin line.

Wooyoung leans against the nearest wall, arms crossed. “You’re angry because she got to you. And that terrifies you. But what if she’s not trying to ruin us? What if she’s just… surviving the only way she knows how?”

Silence. Then, after a long moment, San mutters, “She’s still dangerous.”

Wooyoung shrugs. “So are we.”

Their eyes lock, something unspoken sparking in the middle- not quite agreement, not quite tension - and then Wooyoung pushes off the wall, heading down the corridor.

“I’m not cursed,” he says over his shoulder with a grin. “But if I was… she’d make one hell of a beautiful hex.”

San doesn’t respond. But he’s still standing there long after Wooyoung disappears.

And your voice? Still ringing in his head.

San lets out a sharp, irritated scoff and follows after Wooyoung, boots thudding a little too hard against the floor. “You’re all idiots,” he mutters. “Following her around like lovesick dogs.”

Wooyoung doesn’t even look back. “Oh, we’re lovesick now?”

“You know what I mean,” San snaps. “She blinks and suddenly you’re all bending over backwards for her. You, Mingi… what’s next? Yunho? Jongho? She going to start charming the whole crew with those cursed eyes?”

Wooyoung slows his pace, finally glancing over. “Is that what this is really about? I don't even understand where this is coming from. You know how everyone has been with her. Not exactly kind.”

San frowns. “What?”

“You think we’re all just… infatuated with her?”

“She’s dangerous,” San insists. “But you’re all too busy drooling over her to see it.”

Wooyoung actually laughs. “San, where are you getting this delusion from?”

San scowls.

Wooyoung sighs. “Look. She’s not in the captain’s good books. Not even close. If Hongjoong had it his way, she’d still be rotting in the brig or tossed off the edge.”

San grumbles something under his breath.

“And Seonghwa?” Wooyoung continues. “Please. He’s two seconds away from dissecting her out of sheer suspicion.”

San slows down.

“As for the rest of us,” Wooyoung adds, “I don’t know. Yunho’s curious, but that’s just how he is. Jongho keeps his cards close. Yeosang… well, Yeosang doesn’t trust easily. And me? I’m just watching.”

San raises an eyebrow. “Watching what?”

Wooyoung smirks faintly. “To see if you’re right.”

That throws San off for a beat. Wooyoung keeps walking. “But don’t lump me in with you, San,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’re the one who can’t stop thinking about her. Not me.”

San stays frozen in place. His jaw tightens. His fists curl. He says nothing. But his silence says everything.

You lean against the edge of the HalaVeil’s deck, arms draped lazily over the railing. The wind brushes against your skin like a whisper, cool and salty, lifting strands of your hair and carrying them into the soft morning light. The sky is clear today - a rare, sharp blue - and the sea glistens like polished obsidian, endless and stretching far beyond what the eye can hold.

For the first time in what feels like days, you're not burning. Not sweating. Not bleeding. You're just… breathing.

The sound of the water slapping rhythmically against the hull grounds you, the creak of the sails above, the distant clank of chain or boots or some unknown tool. Life on the HalaVeil never really stops, but here, in this quiet spot on the upper deck, it feels like you’ve stolen a moment no one else is aware of.

Your fingers tap absently on the wood beneath you. You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there- minutes? An hour? You’re not even sure what time it is.

A flock of seabirds squawk and dive into the waves far off the port side. You watch them. It’s strangely peaceful. Too peaceful.

And with peace always comes the echo.

Your mind drifts- to Mingi and Wooyoung, to Yunho’s strange kindness in the kitchen, to the weight of San’s glare, to the moment you stared Hongjoong dead in the eye with blood on your neck.

And then, of course…

Yeosang.

You sigh quietly and close your eyes. The wind brushes your skin like a memory. Like a warning. Something tugs at your chest. Familiar and heavy. You don’t know what you’re doing here. Not really. Not yet. But for now - just for now, you let the wind carry your questions away.

You slip a hand into your pocket and close your fingers around the cold weight of the necklace.

That same tug in your chest again- low, magnetic. Like gravity… or fate.

You slowly pull it out, holding it up to the sunlight as it catches and scatters reflections across the deck. The chain glints like it remembers something. The pendant, a small shimmering orb nestled inside a jagged, metallic design, almost like a broken tide- spins slightly as the breeze toys with it.

You stare. Why does it look so familiar? You trace your thumb over the intricate edges. Something about it makes your stomach twist, not in fear, but anticipation.

And then your thumb presses against the center.

Click.

A sharp, invisible line cuts through your thoughts, a hot pain stabs straight through your skull. You stumble back with a quiet gasp, gripping the rail to stay upright as a soundless scream rings behind your eyes.

And then-

Darkness. Cold. Water. Screams. A voice-yours?  Children? A hallway, white. A locked door. A silver tray. Footsteps. A number being called. Someone's eyes-terrified, screaming but silent. The sting of a needle. A hand on your head. “You’ll kill him, won’t you?”

You collapse to your knees on the deck, breathing hard, eyes wide and unfocused. The necklace dangles from your hand, trembling.

That wasn’t a dream. That was a memory.

The ocean is gone. The ship, gone. Everything is just noise.

A sharp screech pulsing through your skull. Pain like a metal fork dragging down your spine. Your hands clamp over your ears but it won’t stop. It won’t stop. Your eyes are screwed shut, your breath comes in panicked shudders, and you’re rocking, rocking like some terrified child.

A voice cuts through- muffled, distant.

You can’t make it out. Another voice. Louder. Still garbled.

Your name? The world sways like a boat caught in a storm, but not from the sea, from the memory that still echoes behind your eyes.

Then-

Warmth.

Hands - not your own, wrap gently over yours, pressing your palms tighter to your ears. It’s grounding. Anchoring.

The voice comes again, but it’s closer now. Still low, still distorted. Not yelling, not cruel. Firm, though. Intentional. The touch shifts. One hand stays on your ear, the other moves to your shoulder, just resting there, steady. Like a weight that means to say: you’re here. come back.

The breeze brushes over your tear-wet face.

Your rocking slows. A shiver races through you as the numbness cracks. Your fingers twitch, easing off your ears. Sound returns, not as sharp now, but low and present.

You open your eyes. A shadow looms just beside you, kneeling. You turn your head.

Seonghwa.

Expression unreadable. Eyes calm, but not cold. He doesn’t say anything at first. Doesn’t rush. Just watches you with a furrow in his brow like he’s trying to work something out- about you, or about himself.

The silence between you stretches. But this time, it isn’t heavy.

Then finally, he speaks - soft, low: “Are you back?”

You blink up at him through the haze, your vision still blurred, as if seawater clings to your lashes. The deck beneath you feels distant, your body heavier than it should be. Your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, trying to catch up with a world that moved too fast.

Your lips part, dry. Your voice is barely audible. “…Is this real?”

Seonghwa doesn’t flinch.

You squint a little, studying the lines of his face, the sharp brow, the shadow of his cheekbone, the way the wind lifts a few strands of his black hair. You’re searching for something. Anything.

“…Are you real?” you ask, quieter this time. “Because I don’t know anymore.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. He shifts, lowering his body a little more so you’re nearly eye-level. “I’m real enough,” he says, voice flat. “Unfortunately for both of us.”

You huff out a weak sound - not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. Just something.

His hand is still resting on your shoulder. Solid. Warm. Present. "You're shaking," he mutters. You hadn't noticed. Maybe you're always shaking now.

When you don’t respond, he continues. “What did you see?”

You hesitate. The memory flashes again- metal halls, screaming, the coldness of being watched. But you don’t answer. “I don’t know,” you murmur, voice cracking. “Something I wasn’t meant to.”

He watches you carefully, then quietly stands. A beat passes. Then a hand reaches out. You look at it. His fingers. Scarred knuckles. That same unnerving stillness.

You take it.

You don’t think. You just move.

Your body leans forward and folds into his chest, your forehead pressing against the fabric of his shirt, your fingers clutching at the edge of his coat like a lifeline. You don’t care if he pushes you away. You just need something to hold you here.

For a second - just a second, he stiffens. His shoulders tighten, breath caught in his throat like he’s never been touched before.

Then… slowly… he exhales.

You feel his hand, hesitant, then firm- rest on your back. The other joins a moment later, splayed between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t pull you closer, but he doesn’t let go either.

His voice comes low. Low enough that it feels like it's being whispered into the side of your head. “Breathe.”

You try. Your chest stutters.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re not there anymore. You’re here.”

Your grip tightens. “I’m scared,” you admit, the words trembling out of you before you can stop them. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know who I am.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, softer than before- “I know.”

You swallow hard. His voice wraps around you in a way nothing has in a long time. It doesn't promise answers. Just... presence.

And somehow, that feels like enough. For now.

You stay there.

No one says it aloud, but he lets you stay.

His hand stays firm on your back, his breath steady. You feel the tension in him soften, slowly, as if your collapse chipped away at the stone he wears like armor. You’re still shaking, but not as violently. Not as hopelessly.

For a long time, there’s only the sound of the wind and the faint creak of wood beneath you both.

“You came to find me,” you say quietly, voice scratchy from the aftermath of panic. “Why?”

Seonghwa’s thumb moves, just once, over your spine. “Because I heard you scream.”

You blink. “You heard me?”

“I always hear you,” he says, and for a second, you can’t tell if that’s metaphor or something more.

A breath slips from your lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared.”

“You’ve been through worse than most,” he replies. “But fear doesn’t make you weak.”

“Then why does everyone look at me like I’m about to break?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then; “Because they’re scared of what happens if you don’t.”

You pull back, just slightly, enough to meet his eyes. They’re storm-dark, still unreadable, but softer now. Less of the soldier. More of the man beneath.

“What am I, Seonghwa?” you whisper.

He opens his mouth- And freezes.

Footsteps. Sharp. Heavy.

A voice cuts through the calm like a blade.

“Well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

You both turn.

Hongjoong stands a few paces away on the deck, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But his eyes- those cold, calculating eyes- land on where Seonghwa’s hand still rests against your back.

“You look cozy,” the captain says, tone dipped in poison. “Should I come back later, or are we done playing vulnerable?”

Seonghwa’s grip on your arm tightens. Just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to remind you he’s still here. “Not now,” he says, sharp and cold.

You’ve never heard him speak that way to Hongjoong before.

The captain doesn’t stop. “You’re soft now, is that it?” His eyes slide from Seonghwa to you, razor-sharp. “Letting them fall apart in your arms. What’s next, you gonna hold their hand into battle too?”

You try to back away, but Seonghwa doesn’t move. You don’t know if he’s holding you in place… or holding himself there. “I said not now,” Seonghwa growls.

But Hongjoong, of course, doesn’t care. He just laughs under his breath. “This isn’t about now. This is about  what's next.”

Your chest tightens. “What do you mean?” you ask, hesitant.

Hongjoong’s eyes glint. “Another mission.”

Your blood turns cold. “I just got back,” you whisper. “I’m still-”

“Alive,” he cuts in. “And you’ll keep being useful until that stops being the case.”

Seonghwa doesn’t flinch this time. But he doesn’t look at you either.

“You knew,” you whisper, stepping back, your voice cracking. “You knew he was going to send me again.”

Seonghwa exhales slowly through his nose. “Yes.”

Your heart stings. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“There wasn’t a point,” he says flatly. “You would’ve just spiraled.”

You open your mouth, but Hongjoong steps in again. “You’re going with Seonghwa this time,” he says. “Different location. Smaller task. Should be easy.”

“And if it’s not?” you bite.

He smirks. “Then I get to find out what else you’re capable of.”

You stare at him. “Why me?” you ask, voice low, shaky.

“Because,” Hongjoong says, “whatever you are, I want it working for me, not against me.”

He takes one step closer. “You’re not a person to me yet. You’re a possibility. A threat. A miracle. You decide which.”

And with that, he turns and walks away. You’re still standing there, breath caught in your throat.

Seonghwa doesn’t move for a moment. Then, finally, he sighs. “I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

You look up at him. “Don’t lie,” you say. “You didn’t want me to know at all.”

He doesn't answer. And that’s answer enough. You don’t say anything for a long moment.

Just… breathe.

In. Out. Eyes on the floor. The weight of Seonghwa’s arms still around you.

And then-

You go cold.

Like something inside you has been switched off. You shift out of his arms. Not harshly. Not dramatically. Just… gone. Like it never meant anything.

He straightens, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Your voice is flat. “Get me when it’s time.”

“A-”

“Don’t.”

It’s a soft word, but sharp. A blade hidden in silk.

He tries again. “I didn’t want-”

You’re already turning away. “Just get me.”

You walk. Down the hallway, away from his steady eyes and Hongjoong’s cruelty and the feel of your heart trying so hard to hope. You walk like it’s all still intact. Like you’re not falling apart again.

Taglist-open: @nijisanjigenshin @littlebear005 @jellyjellyghost @deafeningpandareview @marvolos @stxrrielle @ramadiiiisme @kimarii-00 @f1-lh44 @astuteataraxy @mortalasystem

[amoryeonjun]

— S T O R Y B O O K R O M A N C E

choi jongho x fem!reader

𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎.

✷ 　 　　 　 · 　 ˚ * . 　 　　 *　　 * ⋆ 　 . · 　　 ⋆ 　　　 ˚ ˚ 　　 ✦ 　 ⋆ · 　 * 　　　　 ⋆ ✧　 　 · 　 ✧　✵ 　 · ✵

╭──────༺♡༻──────╮ [𝚔𝚢𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚘𝚘 - 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚜] 𝟷:𝟺𝟼 ───|────── 𝟸:𝟻𝟻 ↻ ◁ 𝕀𝕀 ▷ ↺ νσℓυмє: ■■■■■□□□ ╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏, 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚔-𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚢𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚓𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚑𝚘.

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘪 𝘏𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘓𝘠 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘋.𝘖. - 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘮 𝘈𝘭𝘣𝘶𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘤.

You had met him in passing, well more like noticed him. He was so dedicated to his guitar playing, you don't think he ever noticed you watching. It was obvious the world around him ceased to exist when he played. You often watched him from a small table in the corner of the music shop, poorly disguising your staring as reading a book about music and its positive impact on mental health. You were sure people thought it was your favorite book considering you never picked up anything else.

It was simply just the book sitting on top of the pile on the table that never moved, and you never cared to switch it out for another one. You never read it anyway.

Your infatuation turned into something akin to a kindergarten crush. An almost embarrassingly sweet sappiness that settled in your stomach, that left your face warm and your lips bitten raw with nerves. Eyelashes fluttering as they drifted over the sharp edges and soft plains of his face. Peaking over the edges of your book, your eyes followed the motions of his pretty fingers, imagining how the callouses would be comforting against your own fingers when you intertwined hands. You imagined it encompassing your own, warm and strong, but still delicate, the same gentleness in which he handled his guitar.

It was a warm feeling. Innocent crushes often were. There's nothing in the world that makes a girl giggle quite like it.

Like candy, he's sweet. Still, nothing could prepare you for the sweetness that was his voice. The first time you heard him sing, you swore you stopped breathing entirely. Only remembering to breath when your lungs began to scream at you. It was strong, loud without strain, but so delicate, you would think it would crack at any moment. It never did. Your heart raced in your chest, a feeling you hadn't quite experienced like this before. You were smitten.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

You were near burning to your ears when you offered him the same iced americano you always see him drink. You held out the cup with both hands, gaze locked on the drink rather than his face, bottom lip trapped beneath your teeth. The sun was bright outside the shop windows, a summer temp so high you could see the sweat forming on his brow, even in the air-conditioned shop. When he took a moment to take the drink, you built the courage to meet his eyes that were waiting to catch your gaze. For a moment, there was shock from him, but then his eyes settled into a softened, warm familiar pool of brown. The same warmth you were used to seeing him eye his friends with, a rowdy group of boys. The same way he looked at his guitar. He was now looking at you like that, and if he hadn't taken the coffee from you with a soft thank you, you might've dropped it in favor of scurrying away. Which you wasted no time doing.

You all but dived back to your corner table, hiding behind that same book. Leg bouncing in nervousness as your heart raced, hoping he had gone back to being distracted by his guitar. Little did you know, he watched, he smiled, he chuckled quietly, taking a long drink from the coffee, all the while taking in your adorably nervous ticks. His own heart fluttering a bit in his chest.

It was from that day forward that he began to notice you in a whole new light. The girl in the corner with her book became the girl who as just as sweet as the strawberry sando you also ate. Cute, shy, and so sweet, it felt like a tooth ache he never wanted to get rid of. He noticed things about you that never noticed before. How pretty your eyes looked as they glanced over the book "discreetly." How cute you were to think he didn't notice. The way you shyly smiled when he would make eye contact while singing and playing. All of it felt like a romance straight from the storybooks his mother used to read him. He was falling, just like you, and he didn't want to catch himself. He was a reserved man, quiet and observant. But this time, he wanted to fall, entirely and utterly into you.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Your first real conversation happened when the shop owner closed up early, forcing both you to gather your things, ending up side by side in front of the shop window, watching the summer showers wash away the day. He was much bigger when you stood beside him, but there was nothing less soft about him. His chestnut hair fell in soft waves to the top of his eyebrows, shiny and soft. His eyes though pearly and large, were relaxed.

His gaze drifted from the street to you, just as you looked at him as well. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, in fact, it was a moment spent with racing hearts, eyes locked in silent understanding that maybe, just maybe, you both had for your person.

You cleared your throat and bit the fat of your lip, thumb brushing the fabric of your tote strap. The intensity of his gaze, though comforting, was not weightless. You found that familiar shyness settling in your bones, but you searched for that courage you had spent these last week's building just to say hi to him.

You smiled sweetly, and though he didn’t smile back, his eyes told you all you needed to know. It didn't matter, because he spoke first.

“I’m Jongho.”

Your face was once again warm, your hands clutching tighter around the straps of your tote.

“Hi Jongho.” You gave him your name, and though it felt like a whole story was told to get to his point, it was just the beginning for you both.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

You had never really paid attention to firsts in your past relationships. First hugs, first kisses, first time holding hands. It felt childish to do. With Jongho, you couldn’t help but write in your journal about all your firsts. Your first walk in the park together, the first time he held your hand, your first hug. The first time he held you to teach you to play guitar that resulted in that first kiss.

His arms were warm. They weren’t meant to be a distraction but even as he guided your hands to hold the guitar correctly, all you could think about was how it felt to have his chest to your back, near swallowing your figure with all of him. You found yourself turning to look at him from where his face was positioned over your shoulder to look down at your joined hands, guiding you softly. He was ethereal up close. Lips and cheeks plump but they led to a strong jawline, a beautifully curved nose, sweetly curled lashes and those godforsaken chocolate brown eyes.

He noticed eventually, that you weren’t really paying attention, looking up to meet your gaze in question. The confusion was quick to leave his expression when he noticed the proximity of your face to his. He swallowed thickly but he never pulled away. Instead, his gaze fell from your own to your lips, tracing the edges, fighting the same urge he had the first day he noticed you. He was a composed man, never one to fall for impulse. Even still, he found himself, leaning in, his breath reaching your own to mingle, noses brushing. Then it was his turn to admire how pretty your eyelashes were as your eyes slid closed, leaning into him further.

“Can I?” He asked quietly, barely a whisper. It would be impossible for anyone other than you to hear it. You leaned into him further.

“Please.”

A just like that, his lips met your own in a devastatingly soft kiss. Your lips brushing over each other until you connected again, your grip on the guitar going slack as Jongho’s fell from your own to drift to the small of your back, the other raising to cup your cheek. He motion was gentle in the way he tipped your head back slightly, all but consuming your lips with his own. The guitar was long forgotten, slipping to the soft carpet as your hands came to rest on his chest, gripping the lapels of his flannel.

You never knew how long the kiss lasted. You know you disconnected from each other eventually if only to breath but the laughter was immediate. Jongho’s chuckles settling a warmth in your belly, your own giggles mingling with his.

You counted your firsts with him, because they were worth remembering. Every single moment.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Authors Note: I haven't written anything in forever but Kyungsoo's (EXO) albums have me feeling some type of way. Please be nice I'm sensitive

.∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) / づ▄︻デ══━一

[amoryeonjun]

Honey, you’re adorable

Mingi x girlfriend!reader

Summary: Mingi spends a cozy day teasing and adoring his cute girlfriend, from a lazy morning to sweet messages and cuddles at night, completely smitten by her charm.

Word count: 603

The first thing Mingi says when he sees you that morning is, “You’re too cute. It’s a problem.”

Still half-asleep, you blink at him in confusion, one sock on, the other missing, hair sticking up like you’ve wrestled your pillow and lost. “What?”

He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, head tilted with that lazy smile of his. “You. You look like a sleepy bunny, and it’s making it very hard for me to be a functioning adult right now.”

You throw your sock at him. “Go to practice.”

He catches it with one hand, laughing. “I have ten minutes. That’s ten minutes of boyfriend time.”

Ten minutes turns into fifteen, because he insists on helping you find your missing sock, even though he mostly just walks around the room going, “Here, socky socky,” like it’s going to crawl out and greet him. You end up finding it under the bed yourself.

Still, he plops beside you on the couch like he did all the work, pulling you into his lap. “I don’t want to go.”

“You’ll be late.”

“I’m already late. Might as well get a proper goodbye.”

You roll your eyes but smile as you lean in. He kisses you softly, like he has all the time in the world. His hand brushes against your cheek, warm and gentle, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. When he pulls back, his grin has softened into something more tender.

“You always look like that when you kiss me,” you mumble.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m made of sugar and stars.”

Mingi laughs, low and warm. “Maybe you are.”

You push your face into his shoulder to hide how hot your cheeks are. He laughs again, clearly satisfied with himself. “Told you. Too cute.”

Later that evening, you send him a photo of the tiny heart-shaped pancake you made for dinner. Just one. The rest turned out like lumpy blobs.

Mingi replies with a flurry of emojis and then, “YOU’RE SO CUTE I’M GONNA CRY.”

You send a voice note laughing. “You’re dramatic.”

He sends one back. “I miss you. Pancakes look lonely. Come here.”

You hear the whine in his voice and bite back your smile. “You’re still at practice, Mingi.”

“Exactly. Come fix it.”

When he finally gets home, he all but tackles you into a hug, lifting you off the floor with a happy noise.

“You smell like syrup,” he says into your hair.

“You smell like sweat.”

“Perfect match,” he grins.

You cuddle on the couch, legs tangled, a blanket wrapped around you both. He talks about practice, the new choreo, the moment he forgot what move came next because he was thinking about you holding a heart pancake like it was a national treasure.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you tease.

He presses his forehead to yours. “You’re soft and sweet and sleepy and always accidentally matching your socks wrong. How could I not be obsessed?”

“You’re such a sap.”

“I’m your sap.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is doing that fluttery thing it always does around him. You tuck your face into his chest, letting yourself melt into his warmth.

Mingi sighs contentedly and squeezes you tighter.

“I hope you always let me love you like this,” he whispers.

Your answer is muffled, sleepy, but certain: “Always.”

And just like that, in the quiet of your shared space, tangled in soft blankets and each other, the world fades away—and it’s just you and Mingi, two hearts beating in perfect, cuddly harmony.

[amoryeonjun]

[14:36] | ATEEZ JEONG YUNHO

yun: good girl

pairing » ateez jeong yunho x fem!reader

trope/au » establish relationship au, non-idol au

genre » suggestive, fluff, ceo yunho loves to spoil you, and you're kind of mischevious

word count; estimated reading time » 1210; ~5 mins

warnings (lmk if i missed anything!) » suggestive!!!, pet names (good girl, darling, baby), suggestive talking, illusions to s*x, reader wears a lingerie

navi/masterlist!! 🤍 ateez masterlist

hello hello everyone!!~

...

bye everyone!!-

(i couldn't get a better name for yunho's contact name sorry 😭)

One of the reasons why Yunho loves going to work is that he knows that he'll be able to provide for you. Heck, you're an independent woman, and he knows that you'll be fine on your own. But the fact that he has the ability to spoil you is something that he loves to do.

But today, he's dreading the office and the meeting that he's in. Being the CEO, it's just one of his responsibilities, but he hoped it wasn't a responsibility that he needed to fulfil today, when you're on your day off. Both you and Yunho barely had any days off together, and Yunho made it his goal to make sure any meetings that he needed to go to would align with your days at work. Yet, he couldn't align every single one, like this one.

So, he's left fidgeting with the pen in his hand while the other hand taps on his thighs impatiently. He can't help but shake his legs up and down, stalking the minute clock to see the seconds passing by. In his head, he has a mental countdown of when this meeting will end so that he can snuggle up with you in your shared bed; maybe sneak a finger or two past the waistband of your panties.

The thought has him inhaling sharply, and he props an elbow to the table and shields his red face with his palm. It's then that his watch brightens up with the contact name that he saves you as. Yunho shouldn't be on his devices, but at this point, he couldn't care less. He taps on the screen, a smile overtaking his face at your greetings.

love of my life: bby what time are you home love of my life: i bought so many clothes today and i wanna know what you think of themmm

Yunho chuckles lightly, knowing just how much you love showing him your shopping spree. He couldn't help but to message you back immediately, now clearly breaking obvious rules by going on his personal device during work hours. But before that, he made sure to check his card balance.

yun: ill be back asap darling yun: i see you used my card yun: good girl

The final text has your cheeks heating up, and you're sure that Yunho knows of the effect that he has on you. Your response to him came a beat later, something he couldn't help pointing out.

yun: you're always a good girl aren't you yun: how about you help me pass time by sending pictures of your new clothes now

The suggestion is new. You know how much Yunho loves it whenever he can gush about your outfits in real life. It would give him an adrenaline rush seeing you in all the new beautiful dresses that hug your figure in all the right places. That's why today, when you went shopping, you decided to get something…different. Something that you haven't gotten with his card. Something that you wanted to keep until he's right in front of you, sitting on the edge of the bed, while you kiss every inch of his face as you sit on his lap.

But you decide to help him pass the time a bit to his excitement. You bought new jackets, tops and skirts. They're all enthusiastically received by your husband with endless compliments on your mirror selfies with them, and a few fire and drooling emojis reactions to them. Yunho definitely saved them all on his phone, and between you changing into the next outfit and waiting for the picture to send, he bites his bottom lip harder at how he's not at home.

love of my life: that's all i have baby

An eyebrow raises at that. Usually, you would have bought more than just five outfits, and he can't help but straighten his back against his seat. 

yun: only that :’( yun: could you go and buy more

You couldn't help but squeal at his messages. Your eyes divert to the untouched shopping bag, knowing well that you did buy more than the ones you've shown him. But you didn't want to ruin the surprise. You've already decorated the bedroom with roses, balloons, and printed pictures of you leading from the front door to the bedroom, and telling him now that you have more is going to ruin the excitement. Mustering your will, you texted him a smirk emoji.

yun: not such a good girl are you yun: get ready when i get home yun: i know you're hiding something

A corner of your lip raises into a smirk. “Maybe I can give him a little spoiler.”

You fished out one of the most intimate lingerie from its bag, fitting the material around your chest and bottom perfectly. The fabric hugs your body snugly, tight enough to seemingly support your features upwards. Your stomach does a little flip when you admire your reflection, doing a few twirls before posing for another selfie against the full body mirror. A thumb sneaks itself to hook on the side of your panties’ waistband, pulling the string down past your hipbone.

It's perfect timing for Yunho, who finally finishes his meeting and packs up immediately. He switches his phone for the time being, braving a confident smile and pushing the things he would do with you later when he's home. He wants to have your body against his, connected and together until you're out of air. He'll let you rest for a while before spoiling your skin with his whispers and kisses again, and as much as you haven't been the good girl that he would want you to be, he would make sure you're taken care of well; possibly to the point where you would take a day off tomorrow.

He quickly walks to the lift after locking his office, and it's then his phone buzzes with another notification from you. As soon as he opens the new picture, the grip around his phone tightens. The gulp down his throat is heavy, and he couldn't peel his eyes off the screen that almost walked into a pole. The picture on his phone mesmerises him, and he yanks the tie around his neck loose immediately. With shaking fingers and his back against the wall, he dials your number.

“Hi, baby!” Your voice sounds innocent despite your ministrations from earlier. “I miss you.”

The man chuckles, giving a light scoff. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” You played dumb.

“That you're a good girl,” he huskily compliments you. “I want you on the bed when I get home.”

“Hm,” you elongate the sound of the syllable. “But I don't want to. I want to greet you at the front door.”

“With that outfit you're wearing? Not a chance,” he reprimands. “I don't want the neighbours catching a glimpse of you. You're all mine tonight.”

You cross a leg over your other, thinking of a comeback to excite him when he gets home. From the corner of your eye, you sit on the bed with your skin to the air, almost wearing nothing. So, why not go one step further?

“Who said I was going to be wearing an outfit when I greet you?” 

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[amoryeonjun]

Soaked - C.S

~"You taste better than anything else I've ever had..."

pairing: san x fem reader

genre: 18+, summer, model x model

summary: you and your man, san, decide to spend some time together at a private villa to celebrate one year of having your own luxury brand

wc: 1.9k

warnings: established relationship, model x model, dom san, soft dom san, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex, creampie, pool sex, sex against a glass door, unprotected (boo use protection irl!!), alcohol use (they're tipsy nothing too serious, champagne), hair pulling, rough sex, moaning, multiple orgasms, worshipping, he's so so in love with her, teasing, some manhandling, he eats her out nicely on the ledge, completely consensual!, might edit later, for sure forgot something.

Author's Note: I loved writing this ngl. Also, this fic is based... on a villa I saw yesterday while visiting the center of Makarska, the zone I'm visiting on my trip oops-. Croatia is so beautiful 😭 I love it sm, tomorrow I'm sadly leaving 👹 but I wanna come back for suuure

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the member in any way.

The sliding glass door glides shut behind you with a faint click, sealing off the villa’s cool interior from the sea-scented dusk outside. A hush settles, soft and almost reverent, broken only by the distant caw of gulls and the subtle lapping of waves far below. The entire Adriatic spreads endlessly before you, cobalt turning lavender, then amber, like spilled ink slowly washing into fire. But your eyes aren’t on the view.

They’re on him.

San leans lazily against the whitewashed bedroom wall, just to the right of the open terrace. The fading sunlight kisses every curve of his chest, golden skin still slick from a recent shower, droplets tracking the lines of his collarbones, pooling briefly at the dip of his sternum before sliding lower. He’s wearing nothing but black swim trunks that ride low on his hips, clinging faintly to damp skin. Stray locks of wet hair curl against his forehead, and his gaze, half-lidded but unwavering, drags over you like a physical touch.

You shift, the white bikini you chose earlier feeling tighter under his stare, and not just because of the fit. He’s always had this effect on you. That silent possession. That unwavering attention that turns every breath electric. You’ve been with him for years, but somehow his gaze still makes your spine arc with anticipation.

“Come here,” he says, low, quiet, like a private sin passed between lips in church.

You walk slowly. Intentionally. The tiles are warm beneath your bare feet, and the straps of your bikini brush your skin with each step. He watches you with the kind of hunger that doesn’t need explanation, eyes lingering on the swell of your chest, the curve of your waist, the sheen of salt still clinging to your skin from your earlier swim in the sea. When you stop in front of him, he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

His fingers hover just shy of your hips, teasing the air between you. Then, featherlight, he lets them skim beneath the band of your bikini bottom, dragging against your skin. His touch is slow. Measured. Like he's relearning you cell by cell.

“I can’t believe it’s already been a year,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder. Not rushed, not showy, just lips against skin and a breath drawn like worship. “One year since we launched this crazy dream. And look at you now. My muse. My partner. My problem.”

You laugh, a soft, breathless sound that falters when his hands roam lower. “Don’t start. We haven’t even opened the champagne.”

His lips curve into a smile against your skin. “I’m not starting anything,” he lies. “Just touching what’s mine.”

-

Outside on the terrace, the world glows.

Sunlight bathes the horizon in gradients of apricot and soft rose, casting a golden shimmer across the glass-like surface of the infinity pool. The stone tiles beneath your feet still hold the heat of the day, and a warm breeze carries traces of jasmine and brine through the air.

You stand by the outdoor kitchenette, fingers curled around the chilled neck of a champagne bottle. You angle it, pop the cork, and watch as it fizzes over with a delicate hiss. San, behind you, lights two slim candles on the edge of the pool. The flames flicker against the dying sun, casting flickers of orange across his cheekbones.

He steps over, shirtless, barefoot, effortless. He takes a flute from your hand.

“To us,” he says, voice like poured wine. “To one year of turning our names into something bigger than just faces in campaigns. To the brand. To the blood and sweat. And to tonight, where I want you all to myself.”

You clink glasses.

The champagne dances across your tongue, sharp and cold and just sweet enough. The second sip goes down easier. The third, smoother. Your shoulders begin to drop. You’re relaxed, but charged, aware of every place his skin might brush yours, every glance that lingers just a bit too long.

San rests his hand on your lower back. His thumb slides beneath the delicate string of your bikini bottoms, tracing idle circles just above the swell of your ass. The contact is light, teasing, but precise.

“You always drink like that?” he asks, watching you over the rim of his glass.

You smirk. “Only when I want to get kissed.”

He leans in instantly, pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Then I’m clearly not drinking fast enough.”

The mood between you tightens, not tense, but intimate. Familiar. Buzzing.

You glance toward the pool. “Swim?”

He raises a brow. “You first.”

-

The water is warm from the day’s sun, wrapping around your legs like silk as you descend the steps. Your bikini clings tighter now, soaked in seconds, and the world takes on an underwater hush, only broken by the ripple of your movements and the distant rhythm of cicadas.

The view is surreal. From here, the Adriatic seems to melt into the edge of the pool, sky and sea one endless sweep of rose gold and periwinkle. You float for a moment, watching the last sliver of sun kiss the horizon.

Then you feel him.

San slides in behind you, arms strong, slow-moving under the surface, gathering you against his chest. Your back presses into his torso, slick skin against slick skin. One of your legs floats up, his leg catching it effortlessly. You can feel him, hard, pulsing, a subtle pressure against your ass. His nose nudges your temple.

“You look like a fucking goddess,” he whispers, brushing his lips down your jaw. “And you’re making it very hard to behave.”

You turn around and your hands snake around his neck, fingers threading into damp hair. “Then don’t.”

The growl he lets out rumbles deep in his chest.

His mouth finds yours, and it’s everything. Slow but hungry, deliberate but dizzying. His tongue teases, his lips press and part and claim. Your toes curl under the water. His hands travel. one up your ribs, the other gripping your ass beneath the surface. He lifts you effortlessly, setting you onto the warm stone ledge.

The air hits your skin, suddenly, cool, but his mouth is already on your thigh.

The stone is smooth beneath your palms as you lean back. San stays in the water between your legs, eyes flicking up to yours like a man about to pray and then sin.

His hands part your thighs, slow and reverent, until you’re fully open to him. His lips trail up your leg, open-mouth kisses, tongue dragging in lazy circles until he reaches the place you want him most.

His mouth finds your cunt.

It’s soft at first, exploratory, savoring. Then deeper. Needier. His tongue flicks over your clit with tight, devastating precision, and your hips jerk.

“Oh my”

“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs, voice strained and dark with want. “I want to hear what I do to you.”

You don’t hold back.

Your moans echo into the warm air, mingling with the slap of water against the pool walls. San’s hands hold you open, unrelenting, as his tongue works you in slow spirals, then faster, hungrier. He groans when you tug at his hair, and the vibration pushes you closer and closer.

He flattens his tongue, circling your clit with a maddening rhythm. Then he dips down, sucking, licking, devouring like he’s desperate.

You come hard.

Thighs shaking, head tipped back, mouth open as you cry out his name. He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, slow strokes, tasting, worshipping every twitch of your body. He only stops when your legs go slack and your hips try to pull away.

Then he pulls back, dripping and flushed, hair slicked back from his face. “You taste better than anything else I’ve ever had.”

You barely catch your breath before he pulls you in the water, back into his arms, back into his hunger.

He kisses you, deep and unrestrained. You taste yourself on his tongue. His hands roam beneath the water, cupping your breasts through the thin fabric, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak. His cock presses between your thighs, hot and heavy.

“Here?” you whisper, gasping.

“Please…” he says, teeth grazing your lip.

He lifts your leg and sinks into you. Slow, deep, agonizingly controlled. Every inch is a stretch, a drag, a claim.

You gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders. “San- ah”

The water shifts around you, each thrust sending little waves to lap at the pool’s edge. His movements are fluid but strong, slow at first, then faster, rougher. He fucks you like he owns you. Like he’s proving a point.

Your moans mix with his groans, the sounds low and needy, raw. He keeps you close, chest to chest, one hand gripping your thigh while the other cradles your lower back.

“God, baby,” he pants. “You’re so wet. So fucking tight. Made for me.”

Moments later he comes inside you, full-body quake, breath caught, thighs trembling. He kisses you through it, tongue sliding against yours as your body clenches around him.

But he doesn’t stop.

-

San carries you out of the water, gripping your thighs, walking barefoot across the stone floor. Water drips from your bodies, leaving a trail to the villa’s sliding glass doors.

He presses you against the cool glass, your back arching from the temperature contrast. His hand smooths up your spine, then grabs your hair, wrapping it tightly around his wrist.

He turns you.

“Stay just like that.”

You brace your palms against the door, panting, nipples hard against the glass. You see your own reflection, dazed, flushed, glowing. San watches too.

He thrusts into you hard.

The sound is obscene. Wet skin on wet skin. Your gasp fogs the glass.

“You want everyone on that fucking coast to see you like this?” he growls. “Want them to know who you belong to?”

His hand tugs your hair, arching your back. You whimper. His name breaks from your throat.

He pounds into you with a punishing rhythm, body crashing into yours, breathing a snarl in your ear. The glass rattles. His other hand slides up to your chest, fingers rolling your nipple until you sob his name.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grits. “Look at us.”

He slams into you once more, deep, relentless, and you unravel again, voice hoarse, body trembling.

He comes with a guttural groan, hips jerking, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as he fills you to the brim.

He doesn’t let go.

Not right away. His chest presses to your back. His breath is hot against your ear. You both stand there, suspended in golden silence.

Eventually, his grip softens. He untangles his hand from your hair, smoothing it gently down your back.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You turn to him. He gathers you close, cradling your face.

“Still mine?” he asks, almost too softly.

Your smile is sleepy but sure. “Always.”

The sun vanishes beyond the sea. The sky dims. Crickets begin to sing.

Inside the villa, San kisses you again. softer now. Slower. Less lust and more love. The kind of kiss you’d wait a lifetime for. The kind of kiss that tastes like home.

And for one long, sacred moment, the world feels still, his arms around you, and a love that feels bigger than heaven itself.

NETWORKS:

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PERMANENT TAGLIST:

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[amoryeonjun]

GENTLE GIANT ᝰ c. san

in which ,, things san does in your relationship that shows he’s really a gentle giant.

contains ,, more tooth rotting fluff, small smut, small angst (mention of death) bf!san, headcannons

gentlegiant!san who softly kisses you on your any exposed part on your body at random times, whether it being your shoulder, hands, arms, lips, etc.

gentlegiant!san who lifts you up if you’re too short to be seen in pictures

gentlegiant!san who picks you up and carries you around even if youre not taking pictures

gentlegiant!san who texts you “i love you” 50 times a day, just because he thought about you

gentlegiant!san who feeds you when youre sick, even if its just a small cough

gentlegiant!san who buys you flowers just because

– “I got you flowers baby” “why’d you do that?” “there has to be a reason???”

gentlegiant!san who has a crush on you, even tho you’re already together ??

gentlegiant!san who buys you stuff because he saw the way your eyes lit up when you looked at it

gentlegiant!san who refers to you as “mybaby” when talking to other people about you

gentlegiant!san who buys you flowers every monday, so you can start off your week with new flowers

gentlegiant!san who still blushes and gets all squishy when you compliment him

gentlegiant!san who goes so gentle with you when you’re having sex, just wanting to please his baby (but gets a little TOO into it n overstimulates you )

gentlegiant!san who admires you doing literally anything, you’ll look up and he’s looking at you with soft eyes and a small smile

gentlegiant!san who NEVER lets you open the door, or pull your own seat out if you’re with him

gentlegiant!san who gives you lil taps on the butt when you go to the gym with him and you get through your workout 🙂‍↕️

gentlegiant!san who loves seeing you and his family getting along (makes him wanna marry u even more )

gentlegiant!san who fixes your messy hair when you wake up in the morning

gentlegiant!san who kisses all over you to wake up when you sleep in

gentlegiant!san who acts like he loves whatever food you have even if he think it’s nasty, just to make you happy

gentlegiant!san who sandwiches your hands between his when it’s cold out

gentlegiant!san who eyes soften and smile widens when someone mentions you, or when you walk in the room

gentlegiant!san who loves you with every ounce in his body , your literally the love of his life

gentlegiant!san who finds you absolutely stunning( which can be shown all in his face when he looks at you ), and brags to people about you like your a goddess

gentlegiant!san who would never let you go, even on your last breath

a/n ,, AHH thank yall for the support on my last post 🥳 !! I hope you guys enjoy this one <3 !!

last post :: JUST FRIENDS, RIGHT ? l. felix

[amoryeonjun]

hate you. not. || c.jh (m)

Jongho hates you. It's a fact. Though in order to finally be a part of a negotiation, your father forces you to go with Jongho—the most skilled at the task. After the negotiation goes wrong, Jongho rushes you to one of your father's safe houses where you experience a new side of Jongho. One that makes your heart and legs tremble.

♠️ Pairing: mafia!Jongho x mafiaBossDaughter!Reader ♠️ Rating/Genres/AUs: M(18+)/Smut, angst/mafia au ♠️ Warnings: Reader's pronouns (she/her), guns, blood, minor character death, bigDick!Jongho, Jongho's thick thighs yum, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, oral (m. rec), gagging, one pussy slap lol ♠️ Word Count: 6.1k ♠️ Author’s Note: I'm embarrassed to admit I started brainstorming this after the Crazy Form mv and just finally finished it 😭 I jump around my WIPs too often lkjhf... Also inspired by this video (sfw).

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Jongho sits next to you in the backseat, mouth set in a straight line and fingers drumming his thick thighs. You know he isn’t happy with your company, but you don’t care. You’ve been begging your father to go to a negotiation meeting for months, and he has finally agreed. Though not without his right-hand man—Choi Jongho.

You’ve known Jongho for years and have witnessed the countless promotions that got him where he is now. He knows how to bargain and seal deals better than anyone you know. There’s no doubt in his abilities. However, Jongho being the top-skilled means he’s grown a big head.

It’s made him arrogant. Bossy. Insufferable.

No matter how friendly you were to him, he never gave you the time or day—even if he did, he didn’t take you seriously. Eventually, you gave up and accepted you’d never be close. Sure, he was attractive and at one point, you had a crush on him, but now, you didn’t want to pursue anything romantically. You just wanted to be cordial, considering he works with your father a lot.

“We’re here,” the driver, Hanjae, states in a monotone.

Jongho steps out of the car, not bothering to help you step out. He adjusts his suit and rolls back his shoulders.

“No talking. You’re just here to observe and learn, understood?” Jongho instructs, gaze nearly meeting yours for a half second.

“What if they ask me a question?” you wonder, smoothing out your own clothes.

“You stay silent. I’ll answer,” he replies firmly.

You wonder if he’s acting more annoying to punish you for joining him. If you could have gone with another member, you would’ve. He can divert this attitude to your father—not you.

“I bet you’re really fun at parties,” you huff sarcastically.

“The funniest,” he mutters with an eye roll, and then he’s walking to the casino.

You follow close behind, two bodyguards flanking you both. You’ll show Jongho you’re worthy of being here. You’ll show him you’re more than the mafia boss’s daughter.

You straighten your posture as you near the entrance, eyes scanning your surroundings like you were trained to. Confidence can get you far.

There are bodyguards on either side of the door. Various car types fill the parking lot and zoom by. Men and women walk in and out of the building, all dressed in formal wear. It feels too sophisticated for a casino.

Jongho doesn’t glance back as he makes his way through various game tables and patrons. The only time he stops is when he gets to a poker table with two men already present. They appear to be older than Jongho by a couple of years.

“Evening,” Jongho greets, voice firm with a hint of friendliness—just enough to not appear devoid of emotion.

“I see you have a guest,” one of the men says, eyeing you suspiciously. He dons a simple suit and a green tie.

You smile regardless. You open your mouth to reply, but Jongho cuts in.

“She’s just learning the ropes. Just pretend she’s not here,” he says, taking a seat.

“Rude,” you mutter, but Jongho ignores it while the men smile.

You take a seat next to him and wait for the bargain to begin.

“How can we ignore a pretty woman like you? What’s your name, princess?” the second man with the brown tie asks, leaning onto the table. He smiles politely, but you can see the twinkle of danger in his eyes. However, he doesn’t intimidate you.

“It’s—” you begin to say, but suddenly Jongho rests a hand on your leg beneath the table. Your heart skips a beat at his unexpected touch. His grip is firm enough to convey a warning, and you know he’s not even using a third of his strength.

You turn to look at him with slightly wide eyes; however, his face remains stoic and forward. His hand soon relaxes, and instead of removing it after you comply, he lets it linger on your thigh. You excuse it as him worrying that you might speak again. That has to be the reason. He’s never shown interest in you, so why would he now? At this moment? He wouldn’t.

Yet, the way the heat from his hand is traveling south makes you wish otherwise.

“Not necessary,” Jongho replies sternly. “Now, how much do you need?”

Brown Tie tries to hide his snarl, but the twitch of his lips shows his irritation. Green Tie takes charge and gestures for the dealer to hand out cards. They do as requested.

You watch as the men begin picking up a set of cards and glancing at them.

When Jongho does the same, you follow suit—a little upset at having lost Jongho’s touch on your thigh. You’re vaguely aware of how to play poker, but it’s not your strongest asset. Luckily, it appears you don’t have to play.

You remain quiet as they discuss business. You tell yourself it’s not because Jongho instructed you to, but because you actually want to learn something. You notice the dealer’s face remains the same throughout the game. They’re probably part of the “in-crowd”. This table must be common for groups to do business at.

“That’s not fair,” Green Tie exasperates after hearing Jongho’s countering offering price.

“If that’s what you think, fine,” Jongho replies, leaning back into his chair and crossing a leg. He looks annoyingly egotistical. “You think you’re the only group who wants what we have?”

Green Tie glances at his friend. You watch their expressions with rapt attention. Green Tie’s eyebrows twitch in what you guess is a question about whether this deal is worth it after all. Brown Tie inhales a deep breath, then turns to Jongho.

“How ‘bout we lower our quantity, keep your price, but include the girl,” Brown Tie says. He holds Jongho’s gaze, not even bothering to look at you as if your opinion doesn’t matter.

You try to conceal your reaction, but your jaw drops slightly.

“How ‘bout I shov—” you begin to say.

“Deal’s off,” Jongho states with finality. He tosses his cards on the table and starts to stand when a soft click comes from beneath the table. You don’t need to look to know one of them pulled a gun out.

“I think you should reconsider,” Green Tie suggests, but you know it’s more of a command.

Jongho purses his lips and takes a seat again. He looks even more unamused than when you were talking to him in the car. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen him so cold.

“We’ll take the girl now and meet you later for the rest of the transaction,” Green Tie commands.

“The deal’s not finalized,” you interject, not caring that Jongho’s going to lecture you about it on the way home. And you will be going home. You’re not going to let these pigs take you.

Brown Tie chuckles. “We’ll give you a moment to say goodbye.”

You glance at Jongho, thinking he’ll stop this nonsense, but he’s not looking at you. He has his gaze forward with a callous expression etched on his face.

You hear Brown Tie laugh a little louder. It makes your blood turn cold.

“Seems like your friend doesn’t need one. You ready, baby?” he asks and holds a hand out to you from across the table.

Your face scrunches in disgust as you move away. There’s an odd pain in your chest at Jongho’s silence. You know he isn’t your number one fan, but you hoped he would’ve fought harder for you. You’re his boss’s daughter after all!

When another patron walks by, Jongho’s attention drifts to them.

Green Tie adjusts his clothes and says, “Grab her. Let’s—”

Jongho suddenly reaches out and yanks something out of the passing patron’s pants. Your brain can’t register the object fast enough when a gunshot rings out.

Before you can process what’s happening, another pop emits. Green Tie slumps over the table while Brown Tie falls back on the floor. Blood flows over the cards and poker chips on the table.

Your gaze snaps to Jongho. It’s then you catch a glimpse of a gun in his hand.

“Move,” Jongho urges as he grabs your wrist and runs. You don’t have time to question or do anything. You can only pump your legs and follow behind quickly.

Chaos explodes in the building. People are running like frightened rats. You can hear a man yelling about going in a certain direction. You get the feeling he’s referring to you and Jongho’s. It’s probably the person Jongho stole from.

Unable to stop yourself, you glance behind you quickly.

A group of three is facing your direction while others race around them. When you make eye contact with them, they all point and shout. Their movements become more frantic, but luckily, they’re still pushing their way through the crowd.

“Shit,” you mutter. It won’t be long until they break free.

Jongho runs to a nearby door.

“Fuck,” he growls when it doesn’t open. You frantically glance back again. The group is almost at the edge of the crowd.

“Jongho,” you whisper, worried.

Jongho doesn’t look back or reply. He leads you a bit away from the door, then lets go of your wrist. He takes a step back, lunges, and then rams the heel of his foot near the door’s knob. You hear the wood creak, but it doesn’t open.

The shouting gets louder with excitement. Although you don’t need to look back to know what happened, you do anyway.

The group has finally made it out of the sea of people and is sprinting in your direction.

“Jong—” you begin to warn, but he slams his foot against the door again. The material cracks and breaks open.

Without another second to waste, Jongho grabs you and shoves the door open with his shoulder and yanks you through. He doesn’t bother to close it since he broke the lock and makes a run.

The outside air is warm but has a nice breeze that evens out the heat. It would be a nice night out if people weren’t chasing you.

You follow Jongho as he runs. You think he’s just mindlessly going until you realize his steps look determined. He doesn’t hesitate in a direction or stumble over his feet. He must know a place.

Sure enough, he’s hoisting you up a fire escape route a few minutes later. You watch as he pockets the gun before picking the lock. You have so many questions, but you’re not stupid enough to talk and risk your position.

As soon as Jongho pushes the window up, he pulls you inside first and follows suit. Only when he’s locked the window and checked the rest of the small apartment do you finally whisper to him.

“Where are we? Why did you shoot them? What’s going to happen?” you hurriedly question.

Jongho turns to you, gaze drifting down your figure.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

His question takes you off guard.

“N-No,” you stutter, confused. “Are you?”

He shakes his head while moving to the kitchen. You follow like a needy cat, not wanting to be left alone in an unknown environment.

Jongho leaves the lights off, so you walk extra slow to avoid bumping into anything—only relying on the moonlight seeping through the blinds. He, on the other hand, walks without a problem.

“Is this one of the safe houses my father mentions?” you ask when you get closer.

Jongho doesn’t answer as he grabs a glass from a cabinet and fills it with water.

“Are we staying here for the night or calling Hanjae to pick us up?” you inquire.

Jongho drowns the liquid before filling it up again. He hands it to you this time. You stare down at it with puzzlement.

“I’m not thirsty,” you comment.

“Don’t care,” he says with a gruff tone and shoves the drink in your hand. "Drink it so you’ll shut up.”

He walks away as you scoff. You set the glass down and scramble to catch up, accidentally stubbing your toe on the couch’s leg. You whimper a curse and kneel to caress your hurt foot.

“Maybe if you stopped following me like a dog, that wouldn’t have happened,” Jongho berates as he plops on the couch. He says dog like it’s an insult. He might as well have just called you a bitch instead.

“Well, maybe if you’d answer my questions, I wouldn’t have to nag you,” you grumble. You pat along the back of the couch as you circle it.

Jongho kicks off his shoes and swings his legs horizontally on the cushions, halting your intentions to sit beside him.

“Seriously, Jongho?” You roll your eyes.

“You’re taking the bed. Now, leave me alone. I need some rest.”

Jongho crosses his arms and rests his head against the only pillow, eyes shutting. You stare down with daggers. Who knew starting chaos and running away would stuff the stick farther up his ass?

When he doesn’t speak again, you storm off to the bedroom. You only know of its location due to following Jongho as he scoped out the area.

You start taking off your shirt when you recall Jongho sleeping in his clothes. At first, you thought it was ridiculous, but now you understand why. Someone may find you and force you to flee.

Sighing, you tug down your shirt and remove your shoes. At least your feet can breathe a little.

You lay down, wishing Jongho wasn’t being so distant and that you knew what had happened and what was going to happen. You’ve been around gunfire multiple times, but it’s always been in a controlled environment. You know the risks of your father’s business; you know people die too frequently in this field. Yet, you’ve never been more fearful and worried about someone’s life.

Why did Jongho shoot those men? What’s going to be the repercussions? Surely, he could’ve found a way to talk you out of the deal. But maybe he couldn’t… Did he save your life in more ways than you know?

With his cold attitude, you’d think he didn’t care about your well-being. Perhaps he’s just worried about what Father will do to him if you died on his watch. Conversely, what would your father do if Jongho died on your watch? After all, Jongho is his best negotiator. Yet, isn't blood a stronger bond? Father can replace Jongho; he cannot replace you.

However, the idea of Jongho dying brings a nasty feeling in your chest. Even though he’s being ruthless to you, there’s still an odd feeling in your chest that makes you care. You care for his life, even if he doesn’t care for yours.

Your mind starts replaying what happened, but instead of escaping, Jongho gets shot. Not once, or twice, but three times. All in his chest.

You watch as he collapses to his knees, blood oozing out of his wounds. All you can do is cry out his name and try to stop the bleeding. You know it’s no use; he’s already gone, but you refuse to give up.

You try because you care. Even when you shouldn’t. Not when he treats you so harshly.

You don’t realize you fell asleep until someone’s shaking you.

Your eyes snap open, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Jongho's face comes into focus, and for once, he’s not scowling at you. He looks… worried.

“What’s going on?” you mumble, tired.

“You were screaming my name. You tell me!” he urges lowly.

“I was?”

He nods.

You swallow harshly, your throat dry.

“I—" you attempt to say.

Jongho pulls away and leaves without a word.

You don’t know why, but your chest tightens painfully watching him go. Does he really not care that much? Frowning, you lay back down and stare at the ceiling. How embarrassing you were screaming his name. You must have been dreaming of his—

“Here,” Jongho says next to you.

You jump, startled, and turn to him. He holds out a glass of water. You mutter a hoarse thanks as you take it and drink.

“You didn’t hear me come in.” He observes.

You rest the class on your covered leg and shrug. “I was asleep.”

“No, I mean just now.”

“I was distracted.”

“That’s dangerous.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why do you care?”

“Because it could cost you your life,” he replies sternly.

“Again,” you huff and set your glass on the bedside table. “Why do you care?”

Jongho stands still next to the bed. You're unsure if he’ll leave again or answer you. He does the latter, but it’s not the response you wanted.

“Why were you screaming my name?” he asks.

You look away. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Were you… dreaming of me?”

You can’t decipher his tone. It’s softer than before, but still on edge.

“Don’t be flattered,” you grumble and shift your attention down. “My mind’s still caught up with everything that happened. That’s all.”

Jongho’s quiet again. You watch in your peripheral vision to see if he goes. He doesn’t.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he whispers. “Get some sleep. I’m calling Hanjae in an hour or so.”

Jongho turns to go, but you quickly shoot out a hand. Although he doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t pull away either. You take that as a sign to continue.

“I’m glad you’re safe too,” you reply, feeling vulnerable from his sudden change. You haven’t seen this side of Jongho, but you like it. You like it when he’s not Choi Jongho the Fierce Negotiator.

“I was really scared,” you confess.

“Of?” Jongho asks, back still to you.

You laugh quietly because you feel it’s silly.

“You getting hurt. T-That’s why I was screaming. In my dream, you had…” you fade off, embarrassed and nervous to put that out into the world.

You watch his back as he takes in a deep breath and releases it. He finally pulls out of your grasp.

“I wasn’t going to let anything happen. Now, sleep,” he says, then leaves the room.

You watch as he disappears from view, a little sad to see him go. You don’t know where his sudden softness came from, but you’re not going to complain. Jongho’s always been curt with you. It’s nice to know he actually has a heart.

You don’t know how much time has passed. Your eyes are closed, trying to get some more rest, when you hear the floorboards creak close by.

“Jongho?” you call out gently, heart racing with the idea it might be someone else.

“Not distracted now, huh?” he says with a hint of a tease. You see him round the corner a second later.

“Shut up,” you groan.

Jongho stops next to you by the bed and watches as you sit up.

“I just wanted to let you know I called Hanjae. He’ll be here in thirty,” he informs.

You nod, staring up at him. You wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just holds your gaze. You can tell he started to put his walls up again, but through the cracks, you can see that softness from before. Even him teasing you a bit ago was new. Sure, maybe he’s joked with you playfully before, but it was always on rare occasions.

Feeling awkward, you ask, “You seem to know the place. Do you get into trouble often? How many people know about this place? Are you sure it’s safe? What if—"

Soft lips press against yours at the speed of light.

Your eyes widen, and your body stiffens.

Jongho pulls away before you can get lost in his touch.

“You always talk too much.” He huffs halfheartedly.

“You—me—kiss—why?” you stammer, completely turned upside down. Your heart beats crazily. Never would you think he’d kiss you. You let that dream dissipate with your crush on him years ago. Though now that you’ve had his mouth on yours, you can’t help but stop those feelings bubbling to the surface.

Jongho chuckles, and then he lets out a big sigh while standing up. He rubs the back of his neck like he’s in a deep dilemma.

“Needed to shut you up,” he excuses.

You roll your eyes and tug him down by his arm. He stares at you with a mix of worry and anxiety.

“So if I keep talking, you’ll do that again?” you question, a small smile on your lips. His gaze dips down to your mouth.

“I shouldn’t.” He sighs.

“Why? Because you hate me?” you ask, half jokingly to hide the hurt.

“I don’t hate you,” he replies with a subtle frown. He sits down on the edge of the bed so he’s more comfortable.

“You’re lying,” you declare.

“I’m not,” he says. Then, hesitantly, “But I wanted you to hate me.”

“That sounds absurd,” you gawk.

He shrugs. “It’s easier that way.”

“Why does it matter if I hate you or not?”

“Because then you wouldn’t want to be near me.”

You cock your head. “I wouldn't trust you, either! You’re not making any sense, Jongho.”

“We live in a dangerous world, Yn. I like your father, but him being the leader puts a bigger target on his head. Now, with my status, it does the same,” he begins.

“I’m his daughter. People come after me too,” you argue with an exasperated sigh.

He nods. “I know.” He sounds sad.

“Then?”

“I don’t want to put you in any more danger than you already are,” he says.

“So, you pushed me away and were rude to me?” you conclude.

He shrugs. “It worked.”

You huff and flick his arm. He flinches.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” you grit.

“I’m protecting you,” he counters, obviously offended by your insult.

“You protect someone by watching after them!” you exclaim.

“I do!”

“Oh, yeah? Pushing me away is watching after me?” You roll your eyes.

Jongho’s lips purse at your argument.

“No wonder your daddy never let you out. You’re so oblivious,” he huffs.

You jab a finger against his arm, body heat rising from annoyance. “And you’re a dumbass dealer who doesn’t know shit about protecting—"

Jongho grabs your wrist and yanks you back until your back hits the bed. His lips smash into yours and move so quickly, you struggle to keep up. You’re hyperaware of the way your soft breasts push into his taut torso. Your brain is split between feeling his mouth on you and feeling his chest against yours.

As Jongho continues the kiss, he shifts a knee between your legs.

“So unobservant,” Jongho hisses against your mouth.

You nip at his lip in retaliation. He grabs your second wrist and puts it with the other, pinning them with one hand. His free hand grips your jaw. He puts enough strength in his hold to keep you still, but not to hurt you.

You stare up with big eyes, noticing a hunger you've never seen in him before.

“So clueless," he continues, then captures your mouth again roughly.

You gasp and clench your fist when Jongho's thigh brushes your core.

"I couldn't"—he kisses you—"have you"—another kiss—"get attached." His next kiss is harsh, yet filled with bottled-up desperation. It feels like your lips are going to bruise.

"Jongho," you whine. You want to reply, but how can you when he's taking your thoughts along with your breath?

His hold on your wrists tightened. "Do you understand now?"

Your chest rises and falls rapidly. You tug against Jongho's hand, and he finally lets you go. Your hands instantly cup his face.

"I understand your logic," you say between breaths. "But I still think you're dumb."

His brows furrow, and his hands clench the sheets beneath you.

"If I were around you more, your risk of safety would've doubled," he says sternly.

He shifts to get more comfortable, but it only causes his thigh to touch your core. You suck in a breath and close your eyes.

"I-I can't think with you on top of me," you mutter.

Jongho chuckles. He rubs his leg harder against you. The little shit.

Your hands move to grasp his shoulders like you're going to push him away, but Jongho puts more weight on you to tell you he's not moving. He shifts one hand to rest on your hips while the other stays by your head.

"Then don't," he whispers, breath fanning over your throat. "It's not like you were doing that in the first place."

"Fuck you. You're such a—" You choke on your breath when Jongho lifts your hips slightly. The friction between your bodies is heavenly.

Jongho places wet, open-mouthed kisses along your neck before finding a spot to suck and nip. Your hands grip his shoulders, throwing your head back. He moves your hips once more before you take over. Jongho tenses his leg as you roll and grind your hips over his big thigh. You moan quietly.

"There you go," he murmurs between kisses. "Feels good, Yn?"

You nod, putting more power in your movements. You need more. You need him to touch you. To fill you up.

Your hands slide down his muscular torso, then unbutton his pants. Jongho pulls off your neck with a small pop to remove his pants and underwear. However, he only pulls them down to free his hard cock. Seeing how thick he is makes your walls clench.

"We don't have long before Hanjae gets here," Jongho says while reaching for your pants. He swiftly discards them and adjusts your body so you're on the mattress more. You widen your legs for him when he climbs over you. Jongho glances down at your exposed pussy and curses under his breath.

He snaps his gaze to yours and leans over, his tip brushing your stomach.

"Do you want this?" he asks, voice deep and airy.

You nod and reach out for his hips. You need him inside you now. However, Jongho turns his body into steel, so you can't move him.

"Your words," he says. "I need you to say it out loud."

"Yes," you say hurriedly. "Yes, I want this. Yes, I want you. Please, Jongho."

"Fuck, okay," he says and lowers himself to your entrance.

"I'll go slo—"

"Just fuck me, Jongho!" you cry. "Fuck me, because you hate me."

Jongho shakes his head. "I don't think I ever could."

You open your mouth to reply, but all the words evaporate when Jongho's cock breaches your hole. Your eyes widen, your mouth drops more, and your hands clutch his hips.

"Relax for me, Yn," Jongho instructs softly. He eases out of you, then slides back in. You don't even think he got a third in, but fuck, he's so damn big. He's stretching you like you've never been before.

Jongho leans down and kisses you gently. Your hands fly to his face, focusing on the glide of his tongue rather than the stretch of your pussy.

"You're doing so good," he whispers against your lips, pulling back again. He continues with his steady thrusts, gradually putting more of his length in you. Your hands glide down his face, over his shoulders, then rest on his biceps. You love how you can feel his muscles tense from holding himself up.

"Breathe, baby," Jongho reminds. Although your mind is starting to get hazy, it's not hazy enough to dismiss the nickname. You clench around him unknowingly, causing Jongho to pause with a hiss. Then, he chuckles.

"You like when I call you that?" he asks and tilts your head to make eye contact. Your eyes are a little watery, and your mouth is open in silent whimpers. You nod.

Jongho smiles and kisses you. "Just a little more, baby. Your pussy feels so good."

You nod again, getting lost in his words—lost in this little world you and Jongho have created.

"Oh, shit," Jongho gasps when his hips meet yours.

"Jongho," you whine and lean up. Jongho meets you halfway to complete the kiss.

You moan into his mouth when he slides all the way out. There's a second of feeling empty before his length fills you to the brim again. He slides in and out slowly a few more times then picks up his speed. You moan loudly as he rocks into you.

"Harder," you pant. "Please."

Jongho swallows harshly and stares into your eyes.

"Okay, but not because I hate you. You understand?" he questions.

You nod, but Jongho pulls out and stops. You nearly cry at the loss of contact.

"Words," he reminds.

"I understand," you repeat.

"What are you understanding?" Jongho prompts, brushing a few tears from your face.

"You don't hate me," you say, ignoring the tightening in your chest.

"And I?" he fades off.

"A-And you never could."

"That's my clever baby," he praises.

He captures your lips and thrusts into you roughly, forcing you to break the kiss with a loud cry. He pauses to adjust himself, gripping your hips and sitting up. He jerks you closer, making you gasp and clench around him. The way he uses his strength rushes more heat to your core.

Once Jongho positions himself the way he wants, he starts snapping his hips quickly. He uses his grip on your hips to pull you down while he thrusts forward simultaneously.

"Jongho! Oh, fuck," you gasp, eyes wide. His skin slapping yours sounds like a song you're becoming addicted to.

Jongho throws his head back for a moment, seemingly basking in the feeling of your tight walls wrapped around his fat cock.

"I-I feel g-good?" you ask, staring up at him with hope.

Jongho looks down and grins. "So fucking good, baby. Your pussy doesn't want to let me go."

Something akin to pride fills your chest. You love that he feels as good as he's making you feel.

"Let me see more of you, Yn," he says and reaches for your shirt.

You hastily lift it up, holding it to your collarbones and exposing your clothed breasts. Jongho adjusts your bra so he can see your bare tits.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his sight locked on them, then slams you down on his cock. Your breasts bounce with the movement. Jongho does it again. And again. And again. And each time he does, a moan escapes your throat.

Suddenly, headlights shine through the blinds.

Jongho halts to watch the light move. You almost tell him to ignore it and fuck you, but his expression is one of seriousness.

The lights flash three times, the last two faster than the first, before shutting off.

"Hanjae's here," Jongho explains.

You shake your head. You reach out to grab his shirt.

"I need to come, please," you beg. "T-Tell him we're be there in a sec."

Jongho's solemn expression turns playful with a smirk. "You think you can finish in a second?"

You huff. "If you fuck me good, maybe."

Jongho cocks an eyebrow before pulling out.

"Jong—" you begin to whine, but he shushes you with a kiss.

"I need to text him so he doesn't leave," he explains and grabs his phone, which must've fallen onto the floor earlier.

While he messages Hanjae, you reach out and wrap a hand around his thick length. Jongho's cock jumps in your hands, making you giggle.

"Fuck," he rasps above you, fingers pausing in their typing. He looks down as you bring your lips to his tip. You're not able to take him whole, but you bob your head quickly and suck while pumping the part not in your mouth.

"Want my cock so bad you c-can't even wait one damn minute?" he scoffs.

You smile and continue moving your head.

Jongho averts his gaze to his phone, moving his fingers over his keyboard so fast they're a blur. He locks and tosses his phone on the bed afterward, then grabs your head and shoves you down.

You yelp and gag, hands shooting out for his thighs. His cock slides down your throat repeatedly and causes more tears to slide down.

"Is this what you want?" he questions and holds your head still. "My cock stuffing this pretty, annoying mouth?"

He pulls you off, and you gasp for breath. Saliva coats your bottom lip, but you don't care to wipe it off.

Jongho gives you one more second for air, then he's pulling you back down on his cock and leaning over. One of his hands pushes your legs apart while the other rests on your head, moving you up and down.

You moan around his cock when he starts rubbing your clit harshly.

"Can you taste yourself on me?" he asks. "Bet you taste delicious."

Your gags feel so loud in your ears, it's hard to hear him, but you do, and you nod.

"I need to taste you," he says, pulling away his hand. You peer up and watch as he sucks his fingers.

"Fuck, next time I'm going to eat your sweet pussy," he declares. "Right now, I need you to come."

He pulls away long enough to flip you on your back, and then he's back down your throat and rubbing your clit.

"I'm close, baby," he says, rocking his hips. You force yourself to breathe through your nose.

You hum, reaching up to hold onto his thighs. You grind your hips into his hand, chasing your high.

"That's it. Get yourself off on my hand," he hums approvingly.

Your legs begin to tremble; your climax is approaching fast.

"Come on, baby. Come for me. Let me see you fall apart," Jongho coaxes. He slaps your dripping cunt, making you jump, before roughly circling your clit again.

You cry out, sound gargled by Jongho's cock still pumping slowly in your mouth. Your legs shake as you come.

"Shit," Jongho rasps. He rubs your nub until you twitch with sensitivity. Then, before you can do anything, he thrusts quickly. You hollow your cheeks and start sucking.

Jongho groans out your name as he stills. A second later, he's shuddering above you as his cum shoots down your throat. You swallow every drop, bobbing your head as much as you can at the angle.

He hisses and pulls back when it starts becoming too much.

"Fuck, you're amazing," he says.

"You too." You smile and reach up, bringing his face to yours for a kiss. It lasts a few seconds before he pulls away.

"As much as I want to stay and rest, we need to go. Hanjae is getting antsy," he says and gestures to his buzzing phone. You didn't even hear it.

You nod reluctantly, sliding to the edge of the bed to grab your clothes. You stand on shaky legs and hope you don't fall on your face as you change. Jongho dresses faster than you, so he leaves and puts on his shoes in the other room.

By the time he comes back, you're putting on one shoe. He kneels down and helps with the other.

"Thanks," you mutter.

"No problem," he says. You both retrieve all your belongings quickly.

"You got everything?" he asks. You nod. "Let's go, then."

Jongho locks the window on the way out and guides you down the fire escape. When you reach the car, he slides into the back with you.

Hanjae eyes you both suspiciously.

"Seems like you guys had a fun time," he grumbles and starts the car.

Your cheeks heat.

"Sure, if you consider getting shot at fun," Jongho replies in monotone. You suddenly wish it were just you two again. You don't miss this side of him.

"Yeah, that was what I was talking about," Hanjae says with an eye roll.

The car ride is silent the rest of the way. There's an odd tension that you want to escape from. You don't know what will happen between you and Jongho now. From the way he's acting, it feels like you'd just go back to how things were before—with him being distant and snappy. The uncertainty makes the silence feel suffocating.

Jongho shifts in his seat, leg rubbing against yours. When you look up, he's already watching you. He offers a small smile that dispels the doubt. It's a subtle gesture, but you appreciate the reassurance. You know if you want to pursue anything, this is how it'll be for a while. Quick glances across tables, secret kisses shared in the shadows, and subtle touches that appear as accidents. However, as long as you can have him wholly in private, it will be worth it.

For my “shy/silent” readers, I’ve created a feedback form where you can share your thoughts on my fics more anonymously and privately. ^-^

Taglist: @nina-at-any-time, @toplinehyunjin, @doom-fics

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[amoryeonjun]

Roommate!Ateez finding your toy

Warnings: mentions of sex toys, dirty talk, suggestive

A/n: so…this was inspired by my mom seeing my dildo…I was very embarrassed😭 I had forgotten to put it away and she was there while I was gone and so she for sure saw it ughhh

Hongjoong

Hongjoong has impeccable manners. He would never let himself into someone else’s room without permission, except this time. It’s really an emergency. He can’t find the batteries for his lamp and he knows you have some stashed into your room. You’re not home but it wouldn’t hurt to look for just a few minutes right?

He twists the knob, walking in slowly as if he’s about to get caught doing something illegal. He goes straight to your desk, where the batteries would most likely be. The top drawer is just a bunch of random things, a combination of post its, hair ties, and nail polish. Second drawer, more random things. Clearly you don’t have a thing for organization.

Third drawer…he opens it and closes it again with an open mouth. He looks around comically as if he’s being watched, and then slowly opens it up again. His eyes fix upon a hot pink dildo. He can’t help but snort out a laugh. Of course you would have a hot pink dildo. Clearly you were in a rush, not even having it put in the package. After another second of staring at it, he smirks as a thought comes to him.

~

You open the door to the apartment, winded from the seemingly thousands of stairs. You immediately head to your room, seeking the calm of a familiar space. As you walk in, you scream in terror, dropping your phone on the floor with a clang.

“WHAT THE FUCK” You yell out, as you see Hongjoong casually lounging on your bed. “WHAT are you doing-” you stop short as you see what’s in his hand. It’s your dildo. Your dildo. What. The. Fuck.

“Hey love, I just saw this in your drawer and I was curious.” Deciding to ignore the fact that he was snooping in your drawer, you walk closer to where he is. “This was an unexpected surprise. Lovely surprise though.”

You’re at a loss for words, like all the air has been sucker punched out of you. He laughs at your incredulous face, beckoning you toward him with a hooked finger. He gets close to your face and makes you shiver with his breath tickling your ear.

“Show me how you use it.”

Seonghwa

“Yes, yes it’s in my room! I can get it.” You and Seonghwa are about to have your weekly game night together, which consists of countless card and board games, which usually end up with some bout of violence due to the competitive spirit that you both possess.

The two of you near your door, and as you enter the room Seonghwa stops right in front of it. “You can come in you know. It’s not forbidden.” You laugh at his hesitant face. He laughs himself and follows you inside. You look through the shelves for monopoly, a favorite of yours. “Aha! There it is.” You explain in triumph. You turn around beaming at Seonghwa, but your smile fades as you follow his line of sight.

He’s staring at your bed, which to your horror, has your vibrator that you forgot to stash away this morning. You let out a yelp of surprise and stumble towards the toy, snatching it off the bed and throwing it haphazardly under the desk. The small burst of energy has you feeling out of breath, and you can feel your face getting redder by the second.

You risk a look at Seonghwa, expecting to find a disgusted expression on his beautiful face. However, he has an easy grin on, looking at you with suppressed laughter. “It’s ok Y/n, don’t be embarrassed. It’s not like it’s illegal.” He says.

“Yeah but-” He interrupts you mid sentence. “Sweetheart, it’s ok, I promise.” You slightly melt at his tone, and your cheeks heat up at him calling you sweetheart. “Alright.” You say while avoiding eye contact.

Yunho

You can hear Yunho with his friends in the living room, yelling at the screen, playing their game intensely. They’ve been going at it for a while, so your privacy and alone time was basically guaranteed, so you took advantage of that to um…take care of your business.

After a very pleasurable hour and a half, you stand up to put away your toys. Right at that moment, there’s a knock at your door. You panic and shuffle around frantically while shouting out. “Yeah??”

“Can I come in?” You hear the voice of Yunho, muffled from the noises outside. Amidst your panic, it’s almost like you can’t control what comes out of your mouth. “Yeah!” You yell, and then quickly realize what you said before yelling once more, but saying no this time. However, it’s too late, and Yunho is already entering your room and he stops in his tracks when he sees you.

You, standing in the middle of the room, one hand holding a dildo and the other a vibrator. He chokes on his own saliva, coughing, while his eyes are as big as saucers. You’re still frozen like a statue, unmoving. Clearly, your fight or flight is broken.

You giggle nervously, and fling the toys onto the bed behind you, standing in front to cover the view. Yunho has turned so red, all the way to the tips of his ears. He looks so flustered that you kind of feel bad.

“I-I’m sorry Yunho I didn’t mean to- I mean oh god I’m sorry. This is so incredibly humiliating.” You ramble. He laughs breathily, almost like sighing. “It’s ok! I shouldn’t have come in, it’s fine it’s fine. I’ll leave you to…whatever…I- ok yes goodbye!” He leaves just as fast as he came in, while you stare in mortification.

Yeosang

Yeosang left practice as a sweaty mess, he just couldn’t wait to get in the shower and rinse off all the exhaustion. As soon as he got home, he went to the bathroom and locked it behind himself, stripping his clothes and putting them in a neat pile. He pulls the shower curtain aside and almost falls backwards.

Sticking to the wall, is a dildo.

Yeosang is so taken aback that his mouth is just wide open in shock, unsure what to do. He realizes there’s not much he can do, he just has to deal with it and take his much needed shower. He gets in, and tries his best to ignore the very obvious erection hanging on the wall. As he lathers up his hair, he can’t help but sneak wary glances down to the object as if it’s going to attack him.

After a tense fifteen minutes of showering, Yeosang leaves the bathroom with his new change of clothes. You and him make eye contact as he comes into the living room and he looks so incredibly nervous. You’re reading your rom com on the couch and he takes a seat, turning on a random tv show.

While you’re reading, you look at him from the corner of your eyes, and you notice how twitchy and nervous he is, but you choose to ignore it. It’s probably just typical Yeosang. You turn to the next page when you hear Yeosang blurt out a bunch of words.

“Youhaveyourdildohangingontheshowerwallstill” he says in a rush, while avoiding looking at you completely. The blood drains from your face at the realization that you left your toy in there, and you physically facepalm yourself.

“Oh my god, Yeosang I’m SO sorry.” You apologize earnestly.

“It’s ok!” He squeaks out, ears turning red.

San

“San!” You call out for him. It doesn’t even take him more than a minute before he’s there.

“Hey what’s up?” His face looks kind and open and you melt a little inside.

“I really need your help. I need to save this file but I can’t for the life of me figure it out.” You say, letting out a frustrated grumble. He chuckles, and asks you to move aside. He quickly saves the file and looks at you triumphantly. “Easy as a cupcake.”

You can’t help but laugh. “That’s not a saying.” He just shrugs and keeps smiling. “Anyways, are you up for doing a puzzle?” You ask him.

“Oh hell yeah let’s do it.” He opens your drawer, thinking that’s where the puzzle is, but instead opens the drawer. You flinch and slam it shut, but it’s too late. He already saw it.

He smirks at you and you want to wipe it off his face immediately. “You know ~ I could help you with something else.” He steps toward you and you take a step back, the back of your knees hitting the bed. You sharply inhale, speechless. What got into him?

“Cat got your tongue?” He drags a hand down your waist, pulling you against him. “This will be way more fun than a puzzle, I promise. Much more…stimulating.” He says with a glint in his eye.

Mingi

Mingi looks at the clock hanging on the living room wall, showing that it’s nearing 9am. Your classes start at 10 and he hasn’t heard a peep from you. You’re always on top of things, never late, so he can’t help but worry a bit. He waits ten more minutes, until he can’t anymore. He walks to your room, trying to listen for any signs of you being awake.

He knocks on the door, and no response. He knocks again, this time calling out your name. You must still be asleep. He gently cracks open the door, seeing your soft sleeping form. You’re spread out comfortably, looking content. He eyes you fondly, thinking of how adorable you look, but then he sees your nightstand, and what’s on it.

He accidentally lets out a snort, trying to muffle his laughter the best he can. Your vibrator is in plain sight and even though it’s nothing crazy, Mingi and his little boy brain can’t help but be immature. He doesn’t know why it’s so funny but it is. And he decides that this is the perfect opportunity to tease you.

He practically yells, “Good morning Sunshine!!” You jolt from your deep sleep at his loud voice, hand holding your heart in fright. “Mingi oh my god.” You say, breathing heavily as if you ran a marathon.

“You were gonna be late to class, you’re welcome.” He says with a smug smile. Then his eyebrows raise. “I see you were a little preoccupied last night.” Your face is confused, wondering what he means by that. Then your head whips to your left, seeing what you left out on the nightstand.

You scramble out of bed and run towards Mingi, ushering him out of your room in a panic. “Get out get out get out.” He lets you push him out while he laughs deep from his belly. Your face is reddening as you think of what he saw and groan loudly.

“I’m never talking to you ever again.” You say, while he laughs even harder.

Wooyoung

The doorbell rings and Wooyoung jumps to his feet, opening the door. There’s a delivery man, who looks exhausted from the heat.

“Delivery for Y/n L/n.” He says.

“That’s my roommate, thank you!” Wooyoung says, grabbing the small box from the man. He closes the door and heads back to the couch. Ever since you two have become roommates, you’ve been a mystery to him. He knows practically nothing about you, and you’re not the social type in the slightest. He’s so curious about everything about you, so he feels the obligation to open your package, just for research purposes of course. He shouldn’t, but he’s going to anyways.

He rips the cardboard apart, and what emerges from the box surprises him. In the best way possible. It’s a vibrator. A very fancy vibrator mind you. He smiles in victory, as if he’s uncovered your greatest secret. He takes out the package from the box and waits for you to get home.

~

You get home from work and walk into the apartment, no signs of life whatsoever. The light is off, the air undisturbed. You shrug your coat off and walk to the bathroom to freshen up. You look at your tired face, wincing at the dark circles underneath your eyes. You splash some cold water onto you and turn to leave. You open the door and yelp in surprise.

Wooyoung is blocking your way out of the bathroom, leaning on the wood frame, almost seductively. His hand is hidden behind his back, and he brings it up slowly, revealing your package that you were waiting for.

“Wooyoung, w-what are you doing with that? How did you…” you trail off, shocked. Why on earth would he open your package? You’re so embarrassed and can’t help but think of the many ways that you could run away right now.

“Oh don’t be embarrassed princess. I just wanted to get to know more about you.” He speaks casually, so relaxed that it unnerves you. “Would you like my help?” He asks with a glint in his eye.

“Uh um what d-do you mean?” You ask uncertainly.

He steps closer, caging you in with his arms. “You know exactly what I mean.” He whispers.

Jongho

Jongho was in charge of making dinner tonight. He doesn’t consider himself the best chef but he can make a pretty damn good steak, and that’s what he was making. You could smell the enticing scent of the meat in your room, making your mouth water. You’re determined to finish this essay however, before going to dinner. You hear two brief knocks at your door, and Jongho comes in.

“Hey roomie, dinner’s ready!” He announces. He comes over to stand next to you at your desk, looking at your screen. You groan and stretch out your back. “Come on, you’re working too hard. You deserve a break.” He says, gently lifting your hands from the keyboard. You take a look at him and then at the computer and sigh. “Alright.” He gives you a big smile and stands you up.

As the two of you start heading out, you pass by your bed, where you see the dildo that you accidentally left out. Your eyes widen and you’re filled with panic and try to distract and steer Jongho as far away from your bed as possible. You find his eyes and mentally will him to only look at you. But luck isn’t with you today.

Jongho sees what’s on your bed and you look at him with eyes full of fear, awaiting his reaction. But his face doesn’t show even a single twitch. He’s completely unaffected. You can’t help a nervous laugh escaping you and slap a hand over your mouth.

“Oh god this is humiliating.” You groan into your hand.

Jongho simply shrugs, moving to walk out of the room. “Eh it’s fine.” You’re baffled by his nonchalance, but are relieved.

As you both sit down for dinner, you notice his ears, turning a shade of bright pink. He tried to put on an air of indifference but his ears betrayed him. You smirk to yourself and just keep eating.

Masterlist

[amoryeonjun]

Make a Wish | Choi San x reader

Synopsis: where san gets his birthday surprise

Pairing: choi san x fem!reader

Genre: fluff

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: none :)

Notes: Happy (late) San day!! There will be a day when i post on time :’) the writing seems a little off i know :(

Main masterlist

You stared out the airplane window as the lights of Atlanta sparkled beneath the clouds. Your heart pounded in sync with the soft hum of the engine, nerves and excitement dancing through your veins.

It had been too long.

Despite living in the same city, you and San had barely seen each other the past few months—his comeback preparations, tour rehearsals, and your absurd work schedule had pulled you apart. Texts and late-night calls weren’t enough anymore. You missed his warmth, his laughter, the way his eyes lit up when he talked to you about anything and everything.

So when you saw that his birthday coincided with Ateez’s tour stop in Atlanta, you did what anyone in love and desperation would do.

You flew across the world.

You’d coordinated everything in secret with Ateez’s manager and the KQ staff weeks in advance. VIP concert tickets, a backstage pass, a small but beautiful cake from a local bakery—they’d help you along the way, knowing how much San had missed you. You had one week off from work. You were going to spend it with him, starting today.

And he had no idea.

…

The venue was buzzing with excitement. The bass shook the floor as thousands of fans jumped and screamed, lightsticks flickering like stars. You stood in the VIP pit, masked and hooded, careful not to draw attention. Even with half your face covered, San kept glancing your way during certain songs.

His brows furrowed slightly. A flash of confusion. A half-smile. You ducked your head and laughed under your breath.

“He totally suspects something,” one of the staff near you whispered.

“Only if he connects the dots,” you murmured. “Let’s hope he’s too distracted.”

You watched him pour himself into every movement, melting easily from intense performances to singing softly during the more lighthearted moments. Your chest swelled with pride. This was your San—magnetic, powerful, alive on stage.

But you also saw the fatigue behind his eyes.

The ache to hold him close grew.

…

After the final ment, as the crowd erupted in applause and confetti rained from above, you slipped out quietly with the help of staff. While the boys bowed one last time, you made your way backstage, heart pounding as you held the small birthday cake in your hands.

You stood just outside the dressing room area, hiding in the shadows with a few stylists and managers who were in on the surprise. The other guys came down first, sweaty and exhausted but still on the post-concert high. Hongjoong spotted you immediately.

He grinned and raised a brow. “You sure you don’t want to call him over now?”

You held up a finger. “Let him come to me.”

Seonghwa chuckled softly beside him. “He might actually miss you entirely, you know.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Wooyoung muttered, watching the entrance.

Right on cue, San walked in—head down, towel over his neck, dabbing his face with tissues. He looked utterly drained.

“Can I have some water?” he asked no one in particular, still patting his forehead.

You had to press your palm to your mouth to keep from laughing.

He walked right past you.

Wooyoung stared at him, incredulous. “No way.”

Yunho didn’t hesitate. With a shake of his head, he stepped forward and grabbed San by the shoulders, spinning him around gently.

“What—” San began, confused. And then he saw you.

Your mask was off. Your smile was crooked like always. And your eyes twinkled the way they always had—for him.

He froze.

“Happy birthday,” you said softly.

San’s breath caught. The towel dropped from his hands. “No way. No—”

You barely had time to hand off the cake before he lunged at you.

He crushed you in his arms, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around, burying his face in your neck. His body shook slightly, and you felt his lips pressing frantically to your skin—your cheek, your jaw, your temple, everywhere he could reach.

“I missed you. I missed you so much,” he whispered between kisses.

You laughed, your arms wrapping tightly around his back. “Happy birthday, San.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face flushed, eyes damp but glowing. “You’re really here?”

You gave him a dazzling grin, “Surprise.”

He kissed you again—slower this time, deeper—and then leaned his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“This may be the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.”

“I’ll have to up my game next year then.”

He laughed at this, his chest vibrating against yours.

“Oh the cake!” You turned and took it back, now with a few candles on it, holding it up carefully as the team and staff started singing.

San’s smile stretched across his face. He looked at you like you hung the stars just for him.

He blew out the candles, and you whispered, “Make a wish.”

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

“It already came true.”

…

The little celebration that followed was chaotic in the best possible way. The boys tore into the cake, staff handed out food, and someone had even brought balloons, one of which had somehow been tied to the back of San’s clothes. You all sat on the dressing room sofa, eating and laughing, limbs tangled and bodies leaning against each other.

San never let you go too far.

You caught him staring at you multiple times.

“What?” you finally asked, smiling mid-bite.

“I thought I forgot what your face looked like,” he whispered, “but I didn’t. I could draw it with my eyes closed.”

You reached out and squeezed his hand. “I missed you too.”

…

Later, after the partying mood had dwindled and the boys had filed out one by one—Hongjoong mumbling about editing something even tonight, Wooyoung begging for late-night fried chicken, Jongho dragging him away—you and San returned to the hotel together.

You sat beside each other in the van, his warm hand wrapped around yours, your head on his shoulder. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.

In the room, once he’d showered and changed into soft pajamas, he crawled into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I keep thinking I’m dreaming,” he murmured, his lips brushing your hairline. “Like I’ll blink and you’ll be back in Seoul again.”

“I’m here for the week,” you whispered. “I needed this too, you know. Being apart… it sucked.”

He nodded, rubbing your back gently. “I hated it. Every night I’d come back to the dorm or the hotel and look at my phone, hoping you’d be free to call. I missed everything—your voice, your laugh, your rants about your weird coworkers.”

You snorted. “They’re not just weird, they’re also dumb. One of them microwaved foil last week.”

San chuckled, his voice sleepy and low. “God, I missed this.”

You shifted closer until your legs tangled together under the covers. “I’ll be here every day this week. You can rant about the tour to me. I’ll even take notes.”

“Deal. And then when you go back, I’ll fly to Seoul for the weekend, no matter where we are.”

You looked up at him. “Promise?”

He leaned down and kissed your lips, soft and lingering.

“Promise.”

You lay like that for a while, limbs entwined, breathing slow and in sync. The room was quiet except for your occasional laughter and his random, sleepy murmurs.

“I still can’t believe you flew all the way here.”

“You think I was gonna let your birthday pass without seeing that ridiculous cute face of yours?”

He grinned. “You really are the best.”

You shrugged playfully. “Well, I do aim to please.”

He buried his face into your neck again. “I love you.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut.

“I love you more.”

…

The last thing you remembered before sleep took you was the rhythm of his heartbeat next to your ear and the warmth of his arms around you—like you got everything you’d been missing back finally.

Happy birthday, indeed.

© alxtiny . Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, repost, or use my works on any platform in any way.

Send an ask or a message to be added to taglist

DISCLAIMER: THIS IS PURE FICTION AND NOT RELATED TO THE MEMBERS OF ATEEZ IN REAL LIFE PLEASE DO NOT TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

Net : @cromerstudios

Taglist: @yuyuurinna @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @daniela-f-uwu @ffenjoyerdazme @tangerineastronaut @sophiemoloney @starryjoong-jeongcheollie @ahhacheyneenvs

[amoryeonjun]

Tidebound☠️

Chapter Five

PirateOT8AteezAU X F!Reader/Original Character

In a fractured, salt-soaked world ruled by magic and machines, the feared pirate crew of the HalaVeil sails in search of a myth, a cursed potion known as Luminaer, said to be the only cure for a deadly affliction slowly killing one of their own. When they cross paths with their most hated rivals, the Blackeyes, the crew demands revenge… and receives a strange girl instead. You. Betrayed. Bruised. Bound. They call you Curse; a liar, a threat, a scapegoat. But as the storm deepens and the curse tightens its grip, it becomes clear: you might be the key to everything. Or the end of them all. And in the eyes of a crew that trusts no one… you’ll have to survive long enough to prove which.

Genre: PirateAU, Angst, Slow burn, enemies to ??, OT8

Warnings: Psychological manipulation, trauma-related symptoms, medical vulnerability, power imbalance (non-sexual), and implied threat. (i'm sorry)

Word count: 12.5K

The sea was red.

Not with the sunset, not with rust or wine or dreams. Red with something heavier. Thicker. It lapped at the hull like hungry tongues, reaching, pulling, whispering secrets through the creaks in the wood.

Yeosang stood on the deck of a ship that wasn’t his. Or maybe it was. The sky above was dark and pulsing like a heartbeat. Every breath he took came with the scent of brine and blood. Around him, voices. Familiar. Unfamiliar. Screaming. Pleading.

He turned, but no one was there. He looked down at his hands. Veins, black and writhing, like ink spilled from a shattered bottle. His skin pale and glowing like paper, stretched too thin over shaking bones.

And then he heard it.

A laugh.

Soft at first, then louder. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It was kind.

That’s what made it horrifying.

He turned again and saw them- his crew. Yunho. Wooyoung. Mingi. Jongho. San. Even Seonghwa. They were all standing still. Silent. Eyes glowing white. Empty.

And Hongjoong…

Standing at the front of the ship, hands behind his back, smiling. But not at him.

Past him.

Yeosang followed the smile and saw himself. Another version of himself. One with a straight back, glowing red mark on his neck burning like a flare, veins fully black and crackling like thunder. No emotion in his eyes. No voice in his mouth. Just silence.

And then that version stepped forward.

“Let me take it from here,” it said with his voice, but deeper. Hollow. “You’re too soft.”

“I don’t want this,” Yeosang whispered.

“You were born for this,” the other hissed.

A hand reached out.

Yeosang backed away.

And suddenly-he was falling. Through the deck. Through the sea. Deeper. Faster. The weight of it all pressing into his chest. Salt burning his lungs. Cold pulling at his skin like claws.

And the voices kept whispering.

You’re breaking. You’re nothing without us. You’re already gone.

He woke up screaming.

Sweat drenched his back. His chest heaved, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked when they moved. His vision was blurry, the walls spinning until he locked eyes with-

Yunho.

Standing at the side of the room with arms crossed. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes from exhaustion, but his jaw was tight. San was there too.

Leaning on the doorframe, gaze unreadable, clothes still a little torn, soot smudged on his cheek. For once, he wasn’t mocking. No one said anything. Yeosang gasped, trying to ground himself. The pain was still there, in his chest, in his blood.

But for now… he was awake. And not alone.

Yeosang exhaled slowly, dragging his trembling hand across his forehead. Sweat clung to his skin like a second layer, sticky and stinging in the cool night air.

"What time is it?" he asked, voice hoarse from screaming.

Yunho shifted. "Late... or early, depends on your perspective. Past the fifth bell."

Yeosang sat up against the wall with a wince, still clutching at his chest like the dream might crawl back in through his ribs. He wiped his palms on the thin blanket and blinked away the sting behind his eyes.

"You okay?" Yunho asked, crossing the room to kneel beside him. His tone was cautious, not soft. Medical. Professional.

Yeosang hesitated.

Then Yunho added, quieter, "Are the hallucinations getting worse?"

Yeosang flinched, eyes darting to him for a second too long. But then he shrugged. Dismissive. "I told you. It’s nothing."

"You were screaming in your sleep."

"I’m not a fucking ghost," Yeosang muttered. "I dream." Yunho didn’t push. Just stared for a beat, then sat back on his heels. Yeosang’s gaze shifted, slowly, deliberately, to the figure leaning against the doorframe.

San.

Still soot-smeared. Still silent. His eyes locked on Yeosang with an unreadable expression. Not rage. Not pity. Something darker. Something quieter. Yeosang’s voice was low. Dry. "What happened?"

San blinked once. Then pushed off the doorframe. "We were set up." Silence followed. The kind that dripped like pitch.

Yeosang’s eyes narrowed. "And the girl?"

San’s jaw tightened. "Burned herself chasing ghosts."

Yunho looked between them, tension thickening the air. No one spoke again. The silence that followed San’s words hung heavier than anything else in the room. Yeosang’s fists clenched in his lap, nails biting into skin. His breath came slow, but uneven. He stared straight ahead- past San, past Yunho, past the tight-lipped pity they didn’t even know they wore like uniforms.

Then-

“Stop.”

The word cracked the air like a gunshot. Yunho blinked. “Yeosang-”

“Stop looking at me like that,” Yeosang growled, his voice sharp but shaking, like steel rattling inside a scabbard. “Like I’m a fucking vase about to fall off a shelf.”

San’s expression flickered, but he didn’t speak.

Yeosang pushed the blanket off, swinging his legs off the bed with a wince. The black veins along his arms caught the lantern light. He didn’t hide them.

“I’m still a pirate,” he bit out, meeting Yunho’s gaze first. “Still part of this crew. Or did that change without anyone telling me?”

Yunho opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Yeosang stood, wobbling slightly, but straightening his spine with sheer will. “I deserve to know what happened. Properly. No whispers. No quiet glances while I’m pretending to sleep. Tell me.” Yunho’s jaw tightened. San’s eyes darkened.

Yeosang took a step closer. “You think if you don’t say it, it won’t be real? That I won’t know how fucking bad it’s getting? I do know. I feel it in my bones. Every time I wake up, it’s worse.”

His voice cracked at the end, but he didn’t back down. “I’m not useless yet,” he whispered.

San finally spoke. “I never said you were.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence again. But now it burned.

San’s shoulders were tight, his arms folded across his chest like he was holding something in. His jaw clenched. Then unclenched. Then clenched again.

“San,” Yunho said sharply, tone dipped in warning. “Don’t lose it. Just tell him. Clearly.” San didn’t respond at first. Just let out a slow, shaky breath through his nose and paced a few steps before turning back to face Yeosang. “You were right,” he started, voice low and barely steady. “Something was off.”

Yeosang’s gaze sharpened, but he stayed quiet.

“We followed the plan. At least… my version of it,” San said with a glance at Yunho. “Got to the hotel. Everything looked fine. Too fine. She-” he paused, teeth grinding. “She hesitated. Said something felt wrong.”

Yunho raised an eyebrow.

“I thought she was stalling. Playing innocent again. I didn’t listen. I pushed in.”

“And?” Yeosang asked softly.

“There were too many,” San said. “Way too many. They were waiting for us. It was a setup. A fucking trap.” The air went still.

Yeosang’s breath caught. “How did they know?”

“No idea,” San muttered. “But they mocked us. Said something about returning the favour. We barely got out alive. Killed one. That was it.”

“Just one?” Yunho echoed.

“Then they lit the damn place on fire,” San spat. “To cover their tracks. The whole building went up.”

Yeosang looked confused. “Then what?” San’s fists clenched. “She ran into the fire.”

Both Yunho and Yeosang went still.

“I told her to retreat. Gave the order. She ignored it. Chased after them through the flames like she was one of them.”

Yunho swore quietly. Yeosang blinked, taken aback. “Did she… make it?”

San hesitated. “She didn’t come back with me.”

Yunho straightened. “You left her there?”

San turned, tone sharp. “She made her choice. I wasn’t going to drag her corpse out of a burning wreck.” No one spoke for a moment.

“Then maybe…” Yeosang began carefully, “maybe she remembered something. Or realised something she hadn’t before.”

San scoffed. “Or maybe she was buying time for her old crew.”

Yunho exhaled. “Enough. The point is, we walked into a trap. And we still don’t know how they knew we were coming.” Yeosang stared at the wall, the weight of those words sitting heavy.

San growled, “If she is still alive… she better have something useful to say.”

Yeosang let the silence stretch for a moment, the tension in the air wrapping tight around all three of them. The smoke of old pain, recent violence, and unspoken truths seemed to cling to his skin more than the sweat still drying from his nightmare.

He rubbed his eyes and exhaled, the breath trembling slightly despite how hard he tried to hide it. “San.”

San turned his head, still radiating anger, but didn’t speak.

Yeosang didn’t look up as he said, softly, “If she comes back… don’t kill her.”

The words were barely above a whisper, but they cut sharper than any blade. San’s mouth twitched. His nostrils flared. “She ran into a fire, Yeosang. After everything.”

“I know,” Yeosang replied, finally looking at him. His voice didn’t shake. “But if there’s even a chance she didn’t betray us, I need answers more than I need revenge.”

San scoffed under his breath, turning his back slightly.

Yunho stepped forward slightly, arms crossed. “What makes you think she’s even alive?”

Yeosang gave him a haunted look. “I don’t. But I still want you to promise.”

San didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence that followed said enough, a reluctant tension hung from his shoulders like a blade he hadn’t swung yet.

Yeosang didn’t push. He leaned back and stared ahead for a beat before shifting slightly in bed. “Yunho.”

The medic turned.

“Can you… Can you get Jongho?”

Yunho blinked. “Now?”

Yeosang nodded. “I need him.”

There was a flicker of something behind Yunho’s eyes- surprise, maybe, or understanding.

He gave a small nod. “Alright.”

Without another word, Yunho turned and exited the infirmary, boots echoing faintly as they retreated down the corridor. San stayed behind. Silent. Still.

Yeosang didn’t look at him again. He simply exhaled and whispered to no one in particular: “I need something that’s still mine.”

San sighs heavily and follows Yunho out.

The infirmary door creaked shut behind them. For a few steps, neither San nor Yunho spoke. The corridor outside was dim, washed in dull golden lantern light. Footsteps echoed off the wood, distant sounds of the ship groaning and shifting under its own weight. San exhaled harshly, rubbing his knuckles with a scowl still embedded deep in his expression.

Yunho glanced sideways. “You going to be able to keep that promise?”

San didn’t respond right away. “I didn’t make one,” he muttered.

Yunho sighed but didn’t push. “He’s not wrong to ask.”

“She ran into the fire,” San snapped, quieter this time. “Without backup. Without thinking. That’s not courage. That’s either guilt or betrayal.”

“Maybe both,” Yunho replied, voice low and unreadable. “Maybe neither.”

San tensed, but he said nothing else. He leaned against the wall, jaw clenched.

Yunho started walking again. “I’ll get Jongho.”

San didn’t follow. Instead, he remained behind, arms folded, eyes locked on the floor like he could burn a hole through it.

Yunho made his way down the hall with heavy but steady steps. The corridors twisted through the HalaVeil like veins - tight turns, creaking beams, the occasional shadow darting from oil lamps. He found Jongho not far from the navigation room, arms crossed, leaning silently against the wall like he’d been there for hours. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flicked up the moment Yunho approached.

“Yeosang’s asking for you,” Yunho said simply.

Jongho didn’t ask why. He nodded once and pushed off the wall, falling into step beside Yunho without a word.

Neither of them spoke as they walked, but something unspoken moved between them, a mutual understanding wrapped in tension and history. When they reached the infirmary door, Yunho stepped aside. Jongho nodded again, briefly. And then, he went in.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Jongho stood there for a moment, eyes adjusting to the low light of the infirmary. Yeosang was sitting upright on the bed now, legs drawn slightly to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. His head tilted up when he noticed the movement, and for a second-just a second-his features tried to hold strong.

“Hey,” Jongho said softly, stepping closer. “How’re you holding up?”

Yeosang swallowed thickly. “I’m fine.”

Jongho arched a brow. “You sure?” No answer. Not right away.

Yeosang’s gaze lowered to his hands. He looked at them like they didn’t belong to him. Like the blackened veins curling beneath his skin weren’t something he’d woken up to every single day for weeks.

“I’m… tired,” Yeosang finally said. “Everything aches. My head. My chest. My memories.”

Jongho stepped forward quietly. “Do you want me to-”

“I saw it,” Yeosang interrupted, voice breaking. “In the dream. I saw all of you without me. You were fine. Happy. Like I’d never existed.”

Jongho froze.

Then, his eyes widened. Not because of the words. But because Yeosang’s shoulders had started to shake. And slowly-silently-tears began to trail down his pale cheeks.

“Yeosang…” Jongho said, stunned.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” Yeosang whispered, covering his face. “I didn’t-I’m not weak, I just... It won’t stop.”

The sight was unlike anything Jongho had ever seen. Yeosang, who’d once stood bloodied and grinning in the middle of a sea battle, now curled in on himself, breaking down like the tide had finally found a way inside his chest.

Jongho moved closer, slow and careful. Then, without a word, he sat on the edge of the bed beside him. He didn’t speak. Didn’t push. Just sat there, close enough to be felt. And eventually, after long minutes passed, Yeosang leaned in. Resting his temple against Jongho’s shoulder, eyes clenched shut. He didn’t ask for comfort. But Jongho gave it anyway.

Yeosang leaned in more slowly-then completely.

Like the fight had drained out of him. Like his body had finally decided to surrender to gravity, to emotion, to someone else’s presence. He slumped gently into Jongho’s arms.

“…Can you just…” Yeosang’s voice cracked so softly it was almost a breath. “…Hold me for a bit?”

No bravado. No façade.

Just a quiet request from someone who had been strong for too long.

Jongho’s breath hitched, but he didn’t hesitate.

He wrapped his arms around Yeosang’s trembling frame, pulling him close. Careful not to touch the jagged veins that coiled up his skin, careful not to hurt him more than he already was.

Yeosang didn’t cry again. He didn’t speak. He just breathed, slow and shaky, into Jongho’s shoulder.

The silence that filled the room was thick, but not empty. It was heavy with exhaustion, unspoken truths, and the quiet kind of love that didn’t need to be explained.

Jongho didn’t ask what the dream was. Didn’t ask why now, or what it meant. He just held him.

Minutes passed before Yeosang spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re the only one I’m not afraid to be like this with.”

Jongho blinked. “…What?”

Yeosang didn’t lift his head. “The others… They’d panic. Or shut down. Or treat me like I’m glass. Even Wooyoung. I know they mean well, but… it makes it worse.”

Jongho’s throat tightened. “And me?”

“You don’t flinch,” Yeosang said simply. “You just… stay. Like it’s okay. Like I’m still me.”

Jongho didn’t know what to say to that. His grip tightened just slightly around him, grounding, anchoring. “…Of course you’re still you,” he said quietly. “Even if you cry. Even if you’re hurting. That doesn’t make you less. It just makes you real.”

Yeosang let out a shaky breath. And for the first time in what felt like forever- He let himself believe it.

They stayed like that for a long time. Not counting the minutes. Not needing to. Yeosang’s breathing had steadied, soft and quiet against Jongho’s chest. His trembling had slowed. His body, still too thin and fever-warm, finally beginning to settle into the comfort of someone who wouldn’t let him fall.

Jongho sat still, like stone. But inside, everything was moving. He was aware of everything, Yeosang’s heartbeat through his shirt, the faint scent of sea salt and sweat in his hair, the soft rise and fall of his back as he rested against him.

Yeosang shifted slightly. Not away. Closer.

His head tucked beneath Jongho’s chin now. Their limbs tangled just enough that it could still be explained away as comfort.

But it wasn’t just comfort.

It couldn’t be.

“I used to hate silence,” Yeosang murmured. “When I was younger. It made me feel forgotten.”

Jongho looked down at him, surprised by the sudden confession.

“But this…” Yeosang continued. “Right now. It doesn’t feel lonely.”

Jongho’s jaw tightened slightly. “It’s not.”

Yeosang’s lips curved, barely noticeable. “Didn’t think you’d say something sweet.”

“I didn’t,” Jongho muttered, looking away.

“You did,” Yeosang whispered.

A pause.

Then, like it surprised even him- Yeosang reached out and softly placed his hand over Jongho’s, their fingers brushing.

Jongho didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak. But he didn’t move his hand either. And Yeosang didn’t let go.

They didn’t call it anything. They didn’t name what flickered in the air between them. But for a moment, just one, it felt like the kind of peace they’d forgotten could exist at sea.

The world returned in pieces.

First, the ache. A raw, burning throb down your arms, your ribs, your legs-every inch of your body ached like it had been chewed up and spat out by the sea itself. Then the scent: salt, iron, something vaguely floral… soap? Strange.

Then the voices.

Muffled. Faint. Familiar.

You groaned.

It startled one of them. "She's awake," Wooyoung’s voice came in a gasp, relief threaded through the syllables like gold through a frayed rope.

You blinked against the blurry ceiling until it sharpened. Wood beams. Dim light. A lantern flickering in the corner. You weren’t in the infirmary, that was the first thing you noticed. This room was smaller. Stuffed with mismatched crates and tools. Definitely not meant for a patient.

“You with us?” Mingi’s voice was lower, more hesitant.

You turned your head slowly. They were both sitting close, Wooyoung perched on a stool, Mingi crouched awkwardly beside you with what looked like bandages still clutched in one hand.

“…What…?” Your voice cracked like driftwood. “Where…”

“You’re not in the infirmary,” Wooyoung said quickly, eyes darting toward the door. “We couldn’t take you there. Not with-”

“San,” you rasped, the name like poison in your mouth.

Wooyoung gave a tight nod. “Yeah.”

You swallowed hard. “Did he… make it back?”

Neither of them answered at first. They shared a glance. One of those conversations that didn’t need words. Eventually, it was Mingi who spoke. “He came back alone. He didn’t… look good.”

You nodded faintly. Of course he didn’t.

“You’re lucky we were the ones who found you first,” Wooyoung muttered, glancing toward the corner of the room. You followed his gaze and noticed, just faintly, the blood-soaked cloths they must’ve used. The smell of salve lingered in the air. Your arms were wrapped tightly, a fresh shirt clumsily draped over your shoulders-clean, but clearly borrowed.

You didn’t even remember them dressing you.

“…Thanks,” you mumbled.

Wooyoung looked surprised. Then shrugged like it was nothing.

But Mingi? Mingi gave you a look. One of those complicated ones. The kind that said he still wasn’t sure what to think of you. But for now, you were breathing. And that mattered more than grudges.

“You should rest a little longer,” he said. “We couldn’t fix everything, but we stopped the worst of the bleeding.”

You nodded again. Your throat felt like ash. Your skin burned. Your thoughts swirled. But somehow… despite everything, you were still alive. For now.

You shifted on the crate-turned-bed, the thin cloth sticking to your fever-slick skin. Every movement hurt, but not as much as the thought gnawing at the edges of your mind.

“Does anyone else know I’m back?”

Your voice was low. Careful. Like you were afraid saying it too loudly would summon something worse than the pain.

Mingi hesitated. His eyes dropped to the floor. “No,” Wooyoung said bluntly. “Not yet. Just us.”

You stared at them. At the way they didn’t meet your eyes. At the way the silence stretched out between you like a noose.

“…What do you think will happen,” you asked softly, “when they do?”

Neither answered right away. You looked between them. “When he finds out. Hongjoong.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened. Wooyoung glanced toward the door, then back at you, eyes dark.

“That depends,” he said finally. “On how pissed he still is. On whether San talks first. On whether Yeosang-”

He cut himself off.

“Hongjoong’s… complicated,” Mingi offered instead, clearly trying to smooth over the edges Wooyoung had sharpened.

You let out a bitter laugh, though it came out more as a wheeze.

“Complicated,” you repeated. “He wanted me dead.”

“Wanted,” Wooyoung said. “Past tense.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re here. And that means something.”

You stared up at the ceiling.

“…He’s going to kill me.”

“No,” Mingi said, a little too fast. “No, we won’t let that happen.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His expression wasn’t confident. It was hopeful. Hopeful was dangerous.

Wooyoung sat down again, running a hand through his tangled hair. “You’re right to be scared. Hongjoong isn’t known for… forgiveness. Especially when it comes to Yeosang.”

Your stomach twisted.

“But,” he added, glancing at you, “you came back.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mingi said. “You still did.”

The silence returned. But this time it wasn’t just heavy-it was loud. Full of everything none of you could say.

Eventually, you turned your head back to the lantern on the wall. “…How much longer do you think I have?”

Wooyoung stood. Walked to the door. Paused.

“That depends,” he said without turning. “On how fast the storm reaches us.” And then he was gone.

The silence after Wooyoung  and Mingi left was heavier than before.

You sat motionless for what felt like hours, barely breathing. Every ache in your body reminded you of the fire, the fight, the pain, and the punishment that might still be waiting. You didn’t know if anyone else knew you were alive yet. You didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. You also didn’t know how long you could survive this aching thirst. Your lips were dry. Your throat burned. Your tongue felt swollen and rough against your teeth.

So, slowly, carefully, you stood.

Your legs wobbled beneath you, still bandaged, still sore, still healing. You bit down on a groan and shuffled to the door, hand resting lightly on the frame as you peeked out.

The hall was empty. You stepped into it.



The ship creaked and sighed around you. Wood and shadow swallowed you as you crept through the corridors, each step hesitant but determined. You moved like someone haunted, because you were. By everything. By fire. By San. By what came next.

As you neared the infirmary, your stomach twisted. You hesitated at the door. You knew this was Yunho’s territory. You knew it was dangerous. But thirst was winning over fear.

And it was quiet. No voices. No heavy boots. Just the faint creaking of the ship.

So you stepped inside.

The air smelled of herbs, sea salt, and something sterile. The beds were made. The lanterns glowed dimly. You spotted a pitcher of water on a side table near the supply shelves.

Your breath caught in relief. You hurried to it, hands trembling as you poured into a tin cup.

The first gulp was heaven. The second was life.

You didn’t hear the voice until the third.

“...You're back.”

Your entire body went still. You turned slowly.

Yeosang.

He sat up in one of the infirmary beds, skin still pale and mottled with black veins, hair a little messy from sleep. His expression was unreadable- blank, but not cold. Behind him, Jongho leaned against the wall, arms crossed, dark eyes heavy with calculation.

You choked on the water and set the cup down with shaking fingers.

“I didn’t- I thought-” you stammered.

“You thought you were alone?” Jongho’s voice cut in, low and flat.

You nodded, unsure what to say, unsure if you should run or beg.

Yeosang didn’t move from the bed, but he watched you. Closely. Quietly. There was something there, recognition. Maybe even disbelief.

“I didn’t know you were back,” Yeosang said again, more to himself than to you.

You shifted awkwardly. “I... didn’t mean to intrude. I just needed-water.”

Jongho pushed off the wall but didn’t step closer. “Then drink.”

You hesitated. They didn’t stop you. So you did. But the whole time, you could feel Yeosang’s eyes on you.

You set the cup down slowly, the final gulp scratching down your throat like broken glass. It wasn't enough, but it was something. You let the silence linger for a second longer, catching your breath, trying not to show how much your hands were still shaking.

Yeosang sat propped up in bed, skin still ghostly pale and threaded with dark veins. He looked worse in the harsh light than in your nightmares.

Jongho stood like a statue at the edge of the room, arms crossed over his chest, watching you like you might suddenly combust.

You cleared your throat. “How… how are you feeling?”

Yeosang didn’t look at you right away. His voice was softer than you'd expected. “I’ve had better weeks.”

You gave a weak, dry laugh. “Yeah. Same.” Jongho didn’t so much as blink.

You glanced down, hesitating. “Do… do you both know what happened?”

Yeosang turned his head a little. “I do.” Jongho's jaw tensed. “I don’t. Not yet.”

You gave a slow nod, heart pounding. “I made it back,” you said, as if that was explanation enough.

Neither responded.

“I… I got separated from San,” you added. “Things went wrong.”

Yeosang's brows drew together ever so slightly. “So he left you behind?”

“I didn’t exactly give him a choice,” you mumbled.

Jongho finally moved, just a step closer. “You expect us to believe you crawled back here alone?”

Your mouth opened-then shut. You couldn't tell them. Not yet. Not that Wooyoung had found you half-dead at the edge of the dock. Not that Mingi had helped patch you up. You weren’t ready to throw them into the fire with you.

“I got lucky,” you said simply.

Jongho didn’t look convinced. Yeosang leaned forward slightly, grimacing. “And San?”

You tried to play dumb. “He made it back, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Jongho said. “Barely.”

You stayed quiet. Yeosang stared at you then. Really stared. “You’re hurt.”

You shrugged, trying to seem unaffected, even as your arms throbbed and your muscles screamed. “I’ve had worse.”

Jongho’s brow twitched at that, but he stayed silent.

You hesitated, glancing between the two of them. “Do the others know I’m back?”

Yeosang and Jongho exchanged a glance. “No,” Yeosang said. “They don’t.”

You let out a slow breath. “What do you think will happen when they do?”

Jongho didn’t answer. Yeosang’s voice was quiet. “Depends on who finds out first.”

You nodded slowly. “Right.”

The silence returned like a thick fog, wrapping around your chest and making it hard to breathe. You risked one more look at Yeosang, the black veins beneath his skin looking more aggressive than ever.

You swallowed. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”

Yeosang watched you. Not cold. Not kind either. Just… wary. “You still don’t get it,” he murmured. “You think this is about what you meant to do.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Yeosang didn’t answer. Jongho’s eyes were still locked on you. Watching. Measuring. And suddenly, you realized: neither of them trusted you. And maybe… maybe they were right not to.

Something in you snapped.

Maybe it was the pain still screaming beneath your skin. Maybe it was the way Jongho kept staring like he was waiting for you to crack. Or maybe it was Yeosang, sick and shaking, looking at you like you were a storm he hadn’t decided whether to run from or drown in.

Whatever it was, it broke through your restraint like a cracked hull taking on seawater.

“I’m done,” you said. The words were sharp and sudden, like broken glass dropped on stone.

Jongho's head tilted slightly. “Done with what?”

“Being treated like I’m the damn curse walking this ship.” You stood-slowly, painfully, but you stood. “I’ve bled for this crew. Unwillingly, yes, but I’ve followed orders. I crawled back half-dead, and no one gives a shit. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Yeosang didn’t speak. He just looked at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Jongho’s brow twitched. “You think you’re the only one who’s hurt?”

“No,” you shot back. “But I’m the only one being punished for existing.”

The air turned tight. Electric. You took a breath, shaky but resolute. “I’m not hiding anymore.”

“Where are you going?” Yeosang asked, voice low.

You turned to the door. “To face him. Hongjoong.”

Jongho stepped forward. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I’m thinking clearer than I ever have,” you said. “If I’m going to die on this ship, it’s not going to be in the dark like a ghost.”

Neither of them stopped you.

You stepped out of the infirmary, every muscle protesting. Your legs threatened to give, but your pride kept you upright. The ship creaked around you as if it sensed the shift in the air, like it knew the tide was turning.

The hallway outside was empty. Cold. But you burned.

For the first time in days, maybe since you’d been dragged aboard the HalaVeil, you weren’t just surviving.

You were choosing. You straightened your posture, clenched your jaw, and headed for the one man who might kill you for your defiance- or respect you for it.

You didn’t knock like someone seeking an audience.

You pounded your fist against the captain’s door like you were laying siege.

Once. Twice. Three times.

The echo reverberated down the corridor like cannon fire. Anyone on this deck surely heard it.

But you didn’t care. You didn’t wait for a response. You grabbed the handle with trembling fingers-half from pain, half from fury-and shoved the heavy door open.

It slammed against the inside wall. The sound was deafening.

Maps fluttered. The scent of ink and sea salt hung heavy in the air. And behind his wide desk, surrounded by parchment and candlelight, sat Hongjoong.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up right away.

He just turned a page in the leather-bound journal before him with precise, gloved fingers. When he finally did meet your eyes, his were like storm clouds, still, but brimming with threat.

“So,” he said coolly, “you didn’t die after all.”

You took a step in, boots thudding hard against the floor. “No thanks to you.”

A smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. Not amused, dangerous. “You have some nerve.”

“I’m not hiding anymore,” you said, voice clear despite the scratch in your throat. “You said I was yours, that I’d be doing what you say. So say it to my face. Whatever punishment, whatever accusations, do it while looking me in the eyes.”

He leaned back in his chair, draping one arm lazily across the armrest. “San should’ve gutted you,” he said casually, “yet here you are. Limping back into my office like a stray dog who forgot it was kicked.”

You stepped forward again, ignoring the pounding in your chest. “You wanted results? You sent me into fire. You sent me with him. I came back.”

“You came back empty-handed,” he snapped. “You disobeyed. You jeopardised the mission. You were seen.”

“I survived,” you said, fists clenched. “I saved your crew’s life.”

“You don't even know what life you’re supposed to be saving.”

Silence.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t step back. “I’m not your enemy,” you whispered.

He stood.

Even with the desk between you, the shift in power was instant. He was taller than you remembered. Or maybe it was the way the shadows curved around him, like the ship itself obeyed him before it obeyed wind or wave.

“You keep saying that,” he said. “But you walked onto this ship with rot clinging to your back. You came from them. And now, conveniently, you come back after flames and betrayal, after my most loyal crewman nearly didn’t return-”

He walked around the desk, slow and sure. “You think your fire impresses me?” he said, voice a low growl. “You think banging on my door makes you brave?”

He stopped in front of you. Inches away. “I could kill you right now,” he murmured. “And no one would flinch.”

You didn’t blink. “Then do it.”

A silence fell between you like an executioner’s axe mid-swing. And then- he laughed.

Cold. Cruel. But not empty.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

He leaned in, voice so quiet only you could hear it. “Because I think you’re more useful alive.”

And somehow, that sounded worse than death.

"You think I’m useful alive?” you scoffed. “Then maybe start treating me like something other than sea-scum.”

Hongjoong tilted his head, gaze sharp but unreadable. “You walk into my office screaming like a child, and now you want civility?”

That was it. You snapped.

“No. What I want is to understand what you actually think I’ve done wrong.”

Your voice echoed across the polished wood walls. You didn’t care if the whole damn ship heard.

“I didn’t poison Yeosang. I didn’t make him drink it. I wasn’t even sure what was happening until it was too late. So tell me, Hongjoong- what crime have I committed exactly? Existing in the wrong place? Having the wrong past?”

He didn’t interrupt. He just watched.

“I can’t fix him. I’m not a healer, I’m not a prophet, I’m not some magical key to your problem. I’m just the unlucky fool who got dragged into your hellscape of revenge and paranoia!”

Still, nothing. That silence made you boil.

You took a step closer, face twisted with disbelief. “You don’t even believe I can help, do you?”

His eyes narrowed, just slightly.

You laughed- bitter, cold. “No. You don’t. You’ve already decided Yeosang is going to die.”

His posture tensed.

“You’re just dragging this out. Dangling me in front of your crew like a shiny coin so they keep hoping. Giving them something to believe in because the truth is too terrifying.”

His jaw flexed, but you didn’t stop.

“San’s blind with rage, Jongho’s cracking, Wooyoung’s unraveling- hell, even Seonghwa looks like he’s clinging to protocol by a thread. And you? You sit here with your maps and books, pretending like you have a plan, when really you’re just waiting.”

You stepped right up to him now, chest heaving.

“You’re just stalling for time, Captain,” you whispered. “And you’re going to let him die while everyone watches.”

The air in the room changed. Heavy. Ominous.

Hongjoong stared at you like something ancient.

Then he moved. Fast.

He slammed you back into the wall with one hand clenched around your collar, the other braced beside your head. His face was inches from yours.

"You speak again," he growled, "and you better be praying it’s your last words.”

You didn’t flinch. You just looked at him, wild-eyed, trembling, breath caught, but unbroken.

And for a flicker of a second… He looked almost impressed. But it vanished just as quickly.

He dropped his hand from your chest and stepped back.

“You want purpose?” he said. “I’ll give you one.”

He straightened his coat, adjusting the fabric like nothing had happened.

“You’re not here to fix Yeosang. You’re here to find out why it happened at all. Who planned it. How deep it runs. And if we’re lucky…” He looked at you, dark amusement in his eyes. “You’ll uncover something before the boy dies.”

He walked away from you then, back behind his desk.

“And if not?”

He shrugged. “We’ll throw your body overboard after all.”

The silence after his threat still hung in the air, thick and bitter.

You stood there, your breath sharp and shaky, back pressed against the wooden wall where he’d pinned you seconds earlier. Your heart was a war drum in your chest, but your body, it didn’t hurt like it should. Not anymore.

Hongjoong’s eyes hadn’t left you. Not once.

He slowly rounded the desk again, his sharp gaze trailing down your body with a frightening kind of calculation. Not predatory. Not even cruel, really. Just… methodical.

"You're not limping anymore,” he noted flatly.

You blinked, confused.

“Those burns…” His voice lowered, almost to himself, “...they should still have you screaming.”

You followed his gaze to your arms. The skin was still pink in places, but the bubbling welts from before had begun to smooth over already. The pain, while present, had dulled to a deep throb, nothing compared to what it should be after crawling through flame.

You looked back at him slowly. “Maybe I’m just stubborn,” you offered, lips curling bitterly.

But Hongjoong wasn’t amused. His stare pierced through you like a blade, and for the first time, you caught something in his expression that made your stomach twist.

Doubt?

No.

Suspicion.

“Funny thing about curses,” he said after a long pause, stepping closer again. “Sometimes they leave scars. Sometimes… gifts.”

He looked you in the eye, searching for something beneath your surface.

“Maybe we’ve been asking the wrong question all along.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he gave you the faintest tilt of his head, almost like a nod to himself. Then he muttered, “Go. Get out of my sight for now. Before I decide to cut you open and find out what’s keeping you alive.”

You didn’t wait to be told twice.

But as you reached for the door, you could feel it- His eyes still on your back, dissecting you piece by piece.

And deep down, a truth you didn’t want to admit: You didn’t heal like a normal person. You never had.

You barely made it two steps out of Hongjoong’s quarters before colliding into something solid.

No-someone.

You stumbled back slightly, blinking up...

It was Seonghwa.

He stared down at you, expression unreadable. His long black coat shifted with the draft from the hall, a sharp contrast against his pale, stoic features. His jaw was clenched.

You opened your mouth to speak, but before you could even manage a syllable, his hand shot out and grabbed your arm.

Tight.

“Hey-!” you protested, trying to twist away. “What are you-?”

He said nothing. Just turned and started walking, dragging you with him.

You stumbled at first, trying to find your footing, but his grip didn’t loosen. It wasn't as bruising as Hongjoong’s earlier, but it was firm. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Seonghwa, what the hell are you doing?” you tried again, digging your heels in slightly. “Where are we going?”

No response.

His eyes didn’t even flick toward you. He kept walking, guiding you down one of the ship’s quieter corridors, deeper into its belly. Away from the captain’s quarters. Away from the light. You noticed how even the air shifted down here, less salt, more rust. More secrets.

Your mind raced. Was this punishment? Had Hongjoong sent him? Was he going to lock you up again? Or worse?

“Seonghwa-” your voice cracked slightly this time, the anxiety beginning to spike. “Please just say something.”

Nothing. Just the steady rhythm of his boots.

You had no idea where he was taking you-or why, but one thing was suddenly very clear. You weren’t going back to your room. And you weren’t in control anymore.

The door slammed shut behind you with a jarring finality. You barely had time to glance around the room before Seonghwa let go of your arm and stepped away, his shoulders tense.

You spun on him, heart pounding. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

His eyes cut to you sharply. “Shut up.”

You blinked, stunned by the cold edge in his voice.

“I said shut up,” he repeated, quieter this time, but somehow more dangerous.

Your throat bobbed, anger and confusion swirling in equal measure. You took a shaky breath, arms crossed tight over your chest. You hadn't been brought here to die, probably. But still, every cell in your body was on edge.

His quarters were smaller than you expected. Sharp, clean. No clutter. Everything was meticulously placed. Maps folded. Knives hung. A single lantern cast sharp shadows across the walls, illuminating the dark wood and the glint of polished steel at his hip.

He stood by the door for a moment, back to you. Then, finally, he turned around. And when he did, the mask of indifference slipped-just slightly.

“I heard everything,” he said.

You stiffened. “Everything?”

His gaze burned into you. “Outside the captain’s quarters.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I heard what you said.” His tone was flatter now. “About Yeosang. About Hongjoong. About not being able to save him. About hope being pointless.”

Your mouth felt dry.

“I also heard the captain.” His jaw ticked. “Every damn word.”

You took a small step back. “So what, you’re dragging me in here to punish me for it?”

“No,” he snapped. “I'm dragging you in here so you don’t get killed for it.”

You froze. Seonghwa exhaled harshly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea how close you were to being gutted where you stood?”

You swallowed. “I don’t care. He needed to hear it.”

“And now the crew wants blood. Your blood.” His voice lowered. “But here’s the part you're not getting. They don’t just want to blame you because they’re angry. They want to blame you because it hurts less.”

That silenced you. He stepped closer. Not threatening, but close enough to smell the salt on his coat.

“You’re the scapegoat. And you’re feeding the fire.”

You stared up at him. “Why do you care?”

He looked at you for a long, unreadable beat. Then he muttered, “I don’t. Not really. But I care about him.”

“Yeosang?”

He nodded once. “And he… still wants you alive.”

The way he said it made something in your chest ache.

“You’re here because I’m giving you one chance to stop pushing.” His tone was back to that cold, distant steel. “Because next time you bark at the wrong person, you’re not walking away from it.”

You clenched your fists. “So what, you just want me to keep my mouth shut and play puppet for your captain?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes said enough.

The silence between you crackled.

You could still feel the heat of Seonghwa’s words in your chest, his warning pressing down like cold iron. But before you could say anything else-before your defiance could rise up again, he tilted his head slightly.

There was something strange in his eyes now. Not fury. Not annoyance. Curiosity.

He turned away from you slowly, methodically. Walked toward the wall where his weapons were hung with eerie precision. The light from the lantern flickered against the polished steel.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly, fingers brushing the hilt of a small blade.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t trust your voice.

“About the way you heal,” he continued, tone so casual it made your stomach twist. “Even Yunho’s confused. And he’s never confused.”

He plucked a short dagger from the wall, nothing elaborate, just a clean, honed edge.

“Broken ribs,” Seonghwa murmured. “Burns. Blood loss. But here you are. Talking back. Storming into the captain’s quarters.” He turned around slowly, blade hanging loose at his side. “You heal too fast.”

You stepped back, just once. He smiled. Not kind.

“I wonder…” he said. “What would happen if I hurt you now?”

Your pulse thundered.

“I’m not going to,” he added coolly. “Not unless you make me. But I want to see something.”

He held the blade out to you. Hilt first.

“Cut yourself.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “What?”

“Cut your arm,” Seonghwa said again, his voice cold and unnervingly patient. “Not deep. Just enough.”

You stared at him, heart thudding.

“Why?”

“Because I want to know what you are,” he said, finally dropping the mask. “Because something’s not right. You’re not just some castaway girl the Blackeyes tossed at our feet.”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“I said cut yourself,” he repeated. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

The blade gleamed between you. And for the first time… you weren’t sure who you were more afraid of.

You didn’t move at first.

The blade hung between you like a threat, like a promise. You stared at Seonghwa’s face- so poised, so unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes were searching you, almost hungry for answers he hadn’t voiced yet.

Finally, you broke the silence. Quiet, low. “…What do you think I am?”

Your voice cracked on the last word, but not from weakness. From something heavier. Something older.

Seonghwa didn’t answer. He didn’t flinch. His stillness unnerved you more than rage ever could.

“I don’t remember,” you snapped, suddenly sharp, suddenly alive in your skin again. “You think I’m lying? That this is some kind of act?”

You reached forward before he could react and snatched the blade from his hand.

His brows raised slightly, but he didn’t stop you.

You held it in your palm, cool and trembling. Your breath slowed. The room quieted. Even the ship’s creaking seemed to hush around you.

But instead of cutting yourself, you turned the blade slowly… watching the metal catch the light. And then you said it. Soft, but not fragile.

“I wonder…”

Seonghwa tilted his head, waiting.

You didn’t finish the sentence. You just let it hang there- unfinished, unnatural- as you stared down at the blade in your hand. Not moving. Not flinching. Not scared.

“I wonder…” you repeated again, softer now. Your voice almost didn't sound like your own.

The silence after that felt colder. Like the sea was listening.

You burst out of Seonghwa’s quarters like a cannon shot.

Your feet pounded against the wooden deck, arms flailing, hair wild, blood and soot and salt clinging to your skin like curses carved into flesh.

“Get out here!” you screamed, voice raw, violent, feral. “I’m done whispering! Come look at your little curse now!”

You shoved past crew members, who froze mid-task, eyes wide, unsure if they should restrain you or run. Somewhere behind you, Seonghwa’s door swung open again, and his heavy footsteps followed, slower but deliberate.

“I want all of you to see!” you snarled, dragging your feet toward the dining hall. You kicked the doors open so hard they banged against the walls with a thunderous crack.

“NOW!” You howled it, chest heaving.

One by one, the crew filtered in. Some cautious, some annoyed, others curious. Yunho arrived first, arms crossed and jaw tight. Mingi followed with furrowed brows, unsure whether to intervene. Jongho stepped in next, gaze sharp but silent. Then Wooyoung. Eyes scanning you like he didn’t recognize you anymore.

San didn’t walk- he stormed in, boots like war drums. Seonghwa was last, quietly closing the door behind him.

All of them were here. All of them were watching.

You stood there at the center of it all, heart pounding in your throat, sweat and madness dripping from your skin. You were shaking, but not from fear. From fury. From exhaustion. From the need to finally be heard, or destroyed trying.

Your voice was hoarse when you spoke again.

“I’m not your fucking toy,” you spat. “I’m not your cursed pet or your secret weapon or your scapegoat.”

The room was silent, breathless.

“Look at me!” you shouted, arms wide. “Really look. I’ve bled for you. I’ve burned. I’ve crawled back from death and all I get are your suspicions and threats.”

Your eyes swept across them. San’s glare. Seonghwa’s unreadable stillness. Mingi’s discomfort. Wooyoung’s guilt. Jongho’s blank mask. Yunho’s cold calculation.

You stepped forward. “If you think I’m cursed, then prove it. If you think I’m dangerous, then kill me. Right here. Right now.”

Nobody moved. But something in the air… cracked. Something had shifted.

And they all felt it.

You breathed hard, waiting- arms loose at your sides, trembling, but refusing to fall.

For once, they had nothing to say. Only stares.

You scoffed into the silence, lips curling cruelly. “Cowards,” you spat.

None of them flinched. You almost wished they had.

Then the doors creaked again.

Heavy, purposeful footsteps followed. All eyes turned. Hongjoong stepped in.

And just behind him - leaning heavily into the doorway, was Yeosang.

He was pale as moonlight, sweat beading at his temple, and veins like black lightning branching beneath skin too thin to be holding him up. He didn’t speak. Just hovered behind Jongho like a shadow, trying to melt into the wall. Your eyes flicked over him, briefly, hesitating only a second. But not long enough to matter.

Your gaze snapped instead to San.

His arms were crossed, jaw clenched so hard you thought you might hear teeth shatter. He looked like he’d spring at you the second someone gave him permission.

But you didn’t care.

You raised the knife, the same one you’d snatched from Seonghwa’s wall, still stained with salt and soot,  and pressed it to the side of your neck.

A collective intake of breath swept the room.

San tensed.

Wooyoung made a sound like he might speak, but didn’t.

Yeosang’s breath caught.

But your eyes never left Hongjoong.

“Or perhaps,” you said, voice darkly calm, “I should do it myself.”

The blade bit shallowly into skin, enough to sting. Enough to draw a bead of blood. Enough to prove your point.

The crew didn’t breathe.

You tilted your head slightly, never breaking eye contact with the captain.

“What will that solve?” Hongjoong said at last, voice low, graveled, eerily composed.

You smiled bitterly. “You tell me. You’ve got all the answers, don’t you?”

Silence.

You pressed harder. The blood welled. Jongho moved half a step - almost instinctively, but Seonghwa shot him a look. He froze again.

No one dared break the moment.

Yeosang's voice trembled softly behind Jongho. “Don’t...”

You blinked. That... wasn't for show. That was real. But you couldn’t stop now.

You stared into Hongjoong’s sharp, glinting gaze. “If I’m just a curse to you… why keep me alive?”

And for once, even he didn’t have an answer ready.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t tremble. Didn’t speak.

You just kept your gaze locked with his.

And then, slowly - you pressed the blade.

A whisper of pain bloomed across your skin. A thin line of blood trickled down your neck.

San took a sharp breath through his teeth.

Wooyoung stepped forward, half a step - then stopped himself, fists clenched at his sides. Seonghwa’s face was carved from ice, unmoving, unreadable. But his hand rested loosely near the hilt of a dagger at his waist. Jongho’s jaw was clenched so hard you thought you heard a crack. Yunho didn’t move at all. His eyes were steady. Studying. Like he was calculating something more than just blood loss.

And Yeosang… Yeosang looked like he might break in two.

His wide, glassy eyes stared at you like he’d seen this moment before. Like it haunted him in some distant dream. His lips parted. “Stop-” he whispered, barely audible.

But you didn’t.

You let the blood bead, a quiet rebellion running down your collarbone. Your chest rose and fell with ragged defiance. Your fingers didn’t shake,  not yet.

“Go ahead,” you murmured lowly, voice hoarse but venom-laced, eyes never leaving Hongjoong. “Call me your curse again.”

He was silent. Not because he was scared, but because he was listening.

His eyes narrowed, taking you in like a puzzle that didn’t fit the way he expected. He stepped forward. Once. Twice.

“You’re bleeding,” he said calmly.

You laughed. A single bitter breath. “And whose fault is that?”

“No one made you pick up the knife.”

You tilted your head, letting more blood smear against your neck. “No. You all just made sure I wanted to.”

Hongjoong studied you. He was close now. A few paces away.

He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t stop you. Didn’t raise his voice.

Instead, he spoke quiet. Low. Almost intrigued. “What are you trying to prove?”

You almost said that I matter.

But the words wouldn’t form. Not yet. So instead, you just said, “That you’ll never break me without a fight.”

And then the silence shattered-

“I SAID STOP!”

Yeosang.

His voice was raw. Broken. Loud. Louder than he’d ever been since the curse had touched him.

Everyone turned.

He was standing now - barely, one arm gripping the table like his life depended on it. The veins in his arms pulsed dark beneath his skin, red burn still glowing like embers over his collarbone. But he was standing.

His eyes locked with yours.

And for the first time in a long time, you saw him. Not the cursed version. Not the dying one. Not the fragile ghost behind Jongho.

Just Yeosang.

And he looked scared. Not of you. But for you.

Your grip tightened around the blade.

Blood dripped in slow, lazy trails down your collarbone. You could feel it. The warm sting. The way your heartbeat throbbed against steel.

But then-

“STOP!”

Yeosang’s voice cracked like thunder through the dining hall.

You flinched, almost dropped the knife from the sheer volume of it. Everyone turned. Eyes wide. Breath held.

Yeosang was standing. Full height, though unsteady. His hand shook against the table he clutched for balance, and the blackened veins across his arms writhed with every movement. His chest rose and fell sharply, his breath ragged. But his eyes, those were clear. Sharper than ever. Alive.

He didn’t wait. He moved.

And before you could stop him-

SMACK.

The knife clattered to the floor, skidding out of reach.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. Not at you. Not just at you. His voice cut across the crew like a storm breaking over calm seas. “All of you- what are you doing?!”

No one responded.

Not at first.

“I told you not to treat me like I’m already gone,” Yeosang snapped. “I’m still here. I see it- I feel it. All the mistrust. All the silence. All this- this trial you’re putting them through-” he gestured toward you, furious. “It won’t fix anything.”

San stepped forward. “Yeosang-”

“Shut up,” Yeosang bit. “You don’t get to speak right now.”

That was when the crew finally stilled. Even San’s smirk faltered, ever so slightly.

Yeosang took another step closer to you. He looked down at the cut on your neck… and his face twisted. His voice softened, but not by much. “And you, what were you thinking? Do you really think killing yourself in front of us would prove a damn thing?”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were,” he snapped. “And you know you were.”

You couldn’t answer. Not because he was right, but because suddenly, the cut… it didn’t sting anymore. It tingled.

You reached up with shaking fingers, touching the blood. Or what should have been blood. But there was nothing left. Just skin. Smooth. Barely pink. Your breath caught. So did Yeosang’s.

He stared at you. Not in judgment. Not in fear.

In understanding.

He whispered, “...It’s healing.”

The whole room watched in stunned silence as the wound on your neck disappeared entirely. The only evidence it ever existed: a faint shine, like old scar tissue or half-remembered magic.

No one moved.

No one dared.

Yeosang’s voice came again, quieter this time. “What are you?”

You didn’t have an answer.

And for the first time-neither did Hongjoong.

You sank.

First your knees hit the floor. Then your hands. Then your heart.

Like your body had finally caught up with your soul- fractured, exhausted, and unbearably lost.

The silence in the dining hall buzzed, oppressive, filled with a hundred unsaid things. No one moved. Not even Hongjoong. You barely registered the looks anymore, San’s unreadable expression, Seonghwa’s cold calculation, Wooyoung’s flicker of worry.

It didn’t matter. Because the weight of everything finally crushed down on your chest.

"I don’t know what I am,” you said, and it came out in a whisper. Broken. Shattered. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be.”

Your voice cracked mid-sentence. Something in your throat twisted, choked. The tears came, and you couldn’t stop them, not this time. Not with all of them watching. Not when you were barely held together by the string of your own confusion.

You pressed your fists to your face, trembling. “You all keep looking at me like I’m something you need to figure out. Like I’m… some thing crawling on your deck. But I don’t know, alright? I don’t remember. I never wanted this. I never asked for this. And now I’m-what? A tool? A freak?”

Yeosang stepped forward, but stopped himself.

The others didn’t move. They watched you like something sacred. Or dangerous. Maybe both.

“I didn’t curse him,” you said softly, barely audible now. “I didn’t know what that drink was. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know… who I was.”

Your voice hitched. Then came the final collapse.

“I still don’t.”

It was the most honest thing you'd ever said. The rawest part of you, flayed open in front of pirates and killers and ghosts in human skin.

You expected the silence to swallow you whole.

But then-

Soft footsteps.

And the faintest brush of fabric as someone crouched beside you.

A hand-not forceful, not cruel, hovered just over your shoulder. You didn’t dare look up. But it stayed.

Steady. Warm.

You didn’t know who it was. You didn’t need to.

Because in that moment… someone saw you. Not as a weapon. Not as a mystery. But as someone terrified of what they might be.

You didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

Your body was too heavy with shame and fire and questions you were too afraid to answer. The dining hall was a sea of shadows and silence. But the hand on your shoulder stayed.

Warm. Familiar. Not a command. Not a warning.

Just… presence.

You blinked through the blur and slowly turned your head. Only slightly. Just enough to glimpse-

Jongho.

He wasn’t saying anything. He didn’t have to.

His jaw was tense, his eyes unreadable. But something in his expression flickered, like glass catching soft sunlight instead of steel. There was no judgment. No disgust. Just that unbearable, quiet weight of someone who might’ve hated you, if he didn’t already pity you.

You hated that more.

Still, he didn’t pull away. And when your breath hitched again, he finally spoke, low, quiet, only for you.

“You need to stop bleeding in front of wolves.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something snide, or biting, or pathetic. But you didn’t.

Because before another word could pass between you-

“Enough.”

Hongjoong’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Everyone flinched.

He stepped forward slowly, hands clenched at his sides, expression unreadable in the dim glow of the dining hall lanterns. “I said-enough,” he growled again, louder.

Then came the real command.

“Out. All of you. Now.”

Nobody argued. Not this time.

Wooyoung was the first to stand, biting the inside of his cheek as he stole one last glance at you. Mingi followed with a long exhale. Seonghwa lingered for half a second, his eyes locked with Hongjoong’s, something unspoken passing between them, then turned and left.

Even San obeyed. Though he moved like a lion unwillingly dragged from a kill.

Jongho stood last.

He looked at you again. Just for a moment. Then walked away.

You were alone.

Until Hongjoong moved.

He didn’t speak to you. Didn’t look at you. Just turned on his heel and stormed off, the sharp echo of his boots cracking through the emptiness of the hall.

You were left with the silence again. But it wasn’t the same anymore. Because for one breath… someone had stayed. And that meant something. Didn’t it?

The door slammed behind him.

Hard.

Louder than he intended.

Hongjoong didn’t care. He stood there in the dim lantern-light of his quarters, chest heaving beneath his heavy coat, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His eyes flicked around the room-over maps, scrolls, ancient scripts, none of them made sense anymore.

None of it mattered.

He shoved a table with one sharp movement. It scraped violently across the floor, knocking over a stack of ink-splattered notes.

Useless.

He felt it, deep in his sternum. That old feeling. The one he never admitted to having.

Doubt.

Not in himself, no. Never that. But in the control he once held so effortlessly over this ship, this crew… over fate itself.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

That thing-you-were changing everything. Turning his men against each other. Cracking the steel he spent years forging into an empire. The dining hall had felt like a battlefield. Not one of blades and bullets, but of tension, unraveling thread by thread.

And then there was Yeosang.

The way his voice had carried. The way the others had stilled.

Hongjoong had seen that wound on your neck. He watched it heal as if time bent backward just for you. He hated that he couldn’t explain it. He hated that part of him had expected it.

He stared down at his desk. At the charts and ancient diagrams. The journals of cursed men, of Tideborn theories. The prophecies.

He’d read them all. Even the ones that sounded mad.

And now…

You. You.

He pressed his palms to the wood and leaned forward, bowing his head slightly. “…What the fuck are you?” he whispered to the silence.

But the silence didn’t answer. Because deep down, he feared it already knew.

The dining hall was nearly empty now. Just spilled tension clinging to the corners.

And Yunho.

He hadn’t moved much since everyone filed out, just stood off to the side like some kind of sentinel, arms crossed, unreadable expression locked across his face.

You hadn’t moved either.

Not since you’d crumbled to the floor, all fire gone, all fight spent. You stared blankly at the knife lying a few feet away, stained red with a few drops of blood that had since disappeared into your skin.

You didn’t even feel the sting anymore. Just cold.

Yunho finally moved.

The floor creaked softly under his boots as he crossed the space between you. You tensed for a moment-old instinct- but there was no venom in his movements. Just… duty.

He crouched slightly, eyeing you with that calculating gaze. “You need to eat,” he said flatly.

You didn’t respond.

He sighed through his nose. “If you’re strong enough to scream like that, you’re strong enough to chew.”

You almost scoffed. Almost.

But then he stood and jerked his chin toward the door. “Come on. You’re not dying in this damn room.”

Still, you didn’t move.

Yunho looked down at you again. “Don’t make me carry you. Again.”

There was something different in his tone. Not soft. Not kind. But maybe… tired. Like this had drained even him.

You slowly pushed yourself to your feet, wobbling a little. He didn’t reach to steady you, just waited. “I’m not hungry,” you muttered.

He ignored that. “This way.” He turned and walked without checking if you followed.

But you did. Because for once, you didn’t have the energy to fight it.

And because something in the way he said “you’re not dying in this room” sounded almost like he meant it.

Almost.

The kitchen wasn’t what you expected. You thought maybe it would be cold, dark, steel-lined - like everything else on this ship. But it wasn’t. Not entirely.

There was warmth here. Faint remnants of shared laughter, smoke-stained beams from meals past, the slight scent of spices that didn’t belong to pirates.

You hovered near the door as Yunho walked in like he owned the place. Maybe he did.

He didn't say anything at first. Just rolled his sleeves up and grabbed a cast-iron pan from the rack above the counter, moving with a quiet efficiency that didn’t match his usual clinical detachment.

You blinked. “...You cook?”

He didn't look at you. “Better than Mingi. Don’t tell him.”

There was a silence. Then the faintest smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. Just for a second.

You watched as he moved, lighting the small stove in the corner, grabbing ingredients like this was second nature.

“Why?” you finally asked, voice hoarse. “Why are you the one doing this?”

He cracked an egg one-handed, didn’t flinch. “Because you’d spit in it if San made it.”

That made you snort softly. And it surprised you. The sound didn’t feel like it belonged in your throat anymore. Yunho glanced at you sideways but didn’t comment. Instead, he focused on the pan, letting the food sizzle quietly between you.

“It’s nothing fancy,” he said eventually. “Just something warm. Figured you could use that.”

The way he said it… made your stomach twist. Not from fear. But from something else.

“You hate me,” you said bluntly, stepping slowly further in. He paused, then resumed cooking. “I don’t know you.”

“You’ve treated me like shit since I got here.”

“You’ve treated yourself like shit since you got here.”

That one stung. You looked away. “You’re really not like the others, are you?”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Not sure yet.”

Another silence. Then Yunho slid the pan off the heat and plated the food with surprising care. Eggs, some kind of toasted flatbread, a warm broth that smelled spiced and rich.

He placed the plate in front of you and pulled up a chair. Not across from you. But beside you. Like he didn’t need to keep you at arm’s length anymore.

“Eat slowly,” he muttered, “or I’ll have to stitch you back up again.”

You blinked at the plate. Then at him.

“You’re… weird.”

“Thanks.”

You picked up the fork. And for the first time in days, weeks, maybe, it didn’t feel like a trap. Just a meal.

The food tasted… better than it had any right to. Maybe it was the warmth. Maybe it was the fact your stomach hadn’t held anything solid in days. Or maybe it was the silence, not the heavy, suffocating kind, but the kind that allowed your thoughts to breathe.

You were halfway through your plate when you noticed Yunho still sitting there. Not eating. Not talking. Just watching.

You frowned. “You gonna stare the whole time?”

He didn’t blink. “You eat like someone who hasn’t decided whether they want to live or not.”

You froze mid-chew.

He said it so casually. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just observant. Blunt in a way that only a man of science could be.

You swallowed. “And what, you study that too?”

A slow shrug. Then, quietly, “I study everything.”

You looked at him now, properly. He looked tired - there were smudges under his eyes, a tension in his jaw that hadn’t gone away since the infirmary. But there was something else behind his gaze. Something sharper. Brighter.

“I think you’re fascinating,” he said softly.

The fork stilled in your hand.

“…What?”

Yunho leaned back slightly, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I don’t mean it like that.”

You blinked. “Then how?”

He tilted his head. “From a medical and scientific standpoint, obviously.”

You snorted. “Obviously.”

“I’ve seen injuries like yours before. But not heal like that. You were burned. Ribs cracked. Body exhausted. But… you bounce back. Quicker than anyone I’ve seen.”

There was something in his voice now, not excitement. Not concern. Just… curiosity.

“You should be dead,” he said, more to himself. “But you’re not. And I want to know why.”

You shifted uncomfortably. “So, what, you want to study me like I’m some lab rat?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I want to help you.”

That caught you off guard.

Yunho’s expression didn’t change. But his voice lost its usual dryness for just a second. “I don’t think you know what you are. And I think… that scares you.”

You swallowed thickly.

“You’re not the only one it scares,” he added. “But I don’t believe you’re dangerous. Not in the way they think.”

A pause. Then you asked, “And what if I am?”

He didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll be the first to find out.”

For a moment, the kitchen didn’t feel like a battlefield. The warm scent of the food lingered in the air, thick and comforting. You sat across from Yunho, the flicker of the lantern casting a soft golden hue across his features. His gaze hadn't left you, but not in the way it used to, sharp and clinical. Now it held something quieter.

Thought. Curiosity. Almost... concern?

You shifted in your seat. “You keep looking at me like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.”

“Maybe I am,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow. “And? Any pieces fitting together yet?”

He smirked. Just a little. “Some. But I’m missing the corner pieces. The ones that help everything else make sense.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe those corners don’t exist.”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning in ever so slightly, “they just haven’t been remembered yet.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he looked away, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth to ask something- you could tell. But just as the words were forming on his lips-

Bang.

The door opened with a firm, unhesitating push.

You both turned.

Seonghwa stood in the doorway. Back straight. Face cold. Eyes like frostbite.

All that warmth disappeared in an instant. The kitchen felt colder now.

Yunho sat up straighter, but didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

Seonghwa's gaze flicked to you, then lingered on Yunho. “Captain wants to see you.”

Yunho’s jaw tensed. “Now?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer the question. Just repeated, “He’s waiting.”

There was something unreadable in his voice - no outward anger, but something simmered beneath.

Yunho didn’t argue. He stood up slowly, pausing for just a second to glance down at you, something unsaid in his expression,  before walking past Seonghwa.

And now, the two of you were alone. Seonghwa stepped further into the room. Closed the door behind him. And that look he gave you? It could’ve carved stone.

The door shut with a soft click.

You were already on edge, the lingering warmth from Yunho’s strange kindness replaced by the icy weight Seonghwa carried in with him.

He didn’t move at first. Just stood there. Watching.

His arms crossed loosely over his chest, but there was nothing relaxed about him. His stance, his eyes - they were all calculation. Cold, deliberate calculation.

“What did Yunho say to you?” His voice was sharp. Controlled.

You swallowed. “That’s between me and him.”

A pause. A shift in the air.

Seonghwa blinked once, slowly. Then took a single step closer.

“I wasn’t asking.”

You met his gaze, and for the first time in a while, didn’t look away. “And I wasn’t offering.”

The silence between you cracked, brittle and dangerous. Seonghwa’s jaw twitched, just once, and that was the only sign you got before he suddenly crossed the distance in two long strides.

He didn’t touch you. But he stood close. Too close. Close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath, even though his tone stayed frozen.

“I’ve been patient,” he said, low. “I’ve held my tongue while you’ve stumbled through this ship like a stray dog. But don’t mistake my restraint for softness.”

“I don’t,” you said through gritted teeth. “You’re about as soft as shattered glass.”

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes - not amusement. Not fury. Something else. Something darker. Something unreadable.

“What did he say?” he asked again, quieter now.

You didn’t answer. Not out of defiance this time - but something else entirely.

Because suddenly, you weren’t sure if he was asking as Seonghwa the First Mate… or Seonghwa the man who'd heard everything from behind the captain’s door.

He stared at you a moment longer. Then he took a single step back, arms still crossed.

“He’s too curious,” he muttered to himself. “Curiosity gets people hurt.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, the door creaked open again.

And a very familiar voice called from the hallway: “Bring them to me.”

Hongjoong. Again.

Seonghwa looked at you like you were a weapon he didn’t trust to leave unattended. Then turned and walked out, holding the door open for you. Without a word.

The hallway felt colder than before.

Or maybe it was you. The heat of Seonghwa’s words still lingered somewhere between your ribs, but it didn’t stop the slow crawl of anxiety building in your chest as you stepped out of the kitchen.

He didn’t say anything this time.

Just walked ahead, expecting you to follow.

So you did.

Your footsteps were sluggish. Not from pain- though your legs still ached - but from something deeper. A weight in your bones that had nothing to do with wounds. The kind of dread that clawed at your throat and whispered: this could be it.

The ship groaned faintly around you. Familiar creaks in the wood, the distant flap of sails in the wind, the muffled voice of someone laughing far below deck. The normalcy of it all made your stomach twist.

They didn’t know where you were going. They didn’t know if you'd be coming back.

Seonghwa didn’t glance back once. When he finally stopped, it was outside that door.

The captain’s quarters. The same door you’d stormed just hours earlier.

You swallowed, heart pounding.

Seonghwa raised a hand, knocked once. Then turned the handle. He didn’t walk in. Just opened it. Then looked over his shoulder at you, gaze unreadable. “You heard him,” he said. “Don’t make him wait.”

You hesitated for a breath, two. Then stepped past him, into the room. The door clicked shut behind you.

And there he was.

Hongjoong stood near his desk this time, not seated. He wasn’t looking at you. His back was turned, hands braced on the wooden surface like he was steadying himself. Papers were scattered around - maps, scribbled notes, diagrams you couldn’t make sense of.

The tension in the room was suffocating.

“Sit,” he said, without turning.

You didn’t move. He finally turned to face you. His expression wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t angry. It was unreadable.

And somehow… that made it worse.

“I didn’t summon you to punish you,” he said quietly, though his voice still carried power.

You furrowed your brow. “Then why am I here?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just tilted his head slightly.

“To figure out what the hell you are,” he said.

Taglist-open: @nijisanjigenshin @littlebear005 @jellyjellyghost @deafeningpandareview @marvolos @stxrrielle @ramadiiiisme

[amoryeonjun]

hi baby🍓❤️ how are you?

what about rainy day with bf san? Baking cookies with hot chocolate, cuddles and making out (just kissing) in the end cuz why not🫣

I'm lonely right now and All what I'm thinking about is something make my stomach full with butterfly😭

Love you be fine💋

⋆˚✿˖°𐙚 | HEAD BAKER | C.S

❝He tastes like hot chocolate. You smile into his mouth.❞

info: gn!reader | blurb | fluff wc: 1.0k a/n: hii anon! you're too sweet!! i'm hanging in there—hope you're doing well! it's rainy where i live today so this is perrrrfect vibes. one big serving of choi san butterflies coming right up 🫡

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

“Sannie, it’s pouring!” you whine, watching raindrops race down the windowpane.

“Oh no, really?”

He moves to stand behind you, leaning in close to look out the window. His warmth radiates against your back. You glance up at him, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes.

“Yeah. It’s coming down hard. We can’t go to the park in this. We’ll be soaked before we even get to the car.”

He mimics your pout.

“Aww, I’m sorry, jagi. Guess we’ll have to figure out something else to do.”

“But I had everything planned!” you say, frustrated. “I’ve been planning it for months. You only get a few days off…”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch warm and gentle against your skin.

“You’re so sweet, baby. What did I do to deserve you? Don’t be sad. We can still have fun. What did you plan?”

“Well, I wanted a picnic. I thought we could grab cake and coffee from the bakery, but now...”

His eyebrows furrow for a moment as he thinks. He lights up.

“What if we bake cookies? Then, we can cuddle on the couch, watch a movie, and drink hot chocolate.”

You smile brightly.

“Oh, Sannie! That sounds perfect.”

His strong arms wrap around your waist, hoisting you onto his shoulder. You squeal and giggle as he carries you into the kitchen and then plops you down on the counter. He holds up a finger, asking you to wait a second, then disappears behind the pantry door to fiddle with something. When he moves back toward you, he’s wearing a pretty pink apron. You giggle.

You tell him what baking materials to gather. He salutes you after every direction and refers to you as “Head Baker,” which makes you laugh every time. Once all the ingredients are laid out, he helps you down from the counter, and you get to work.

He hands over materials like a surgeon’s assistant and watches over your shoulder as you mix them together. Every three seconds, he asks a question—why do we mix the wet ingredients first? How come you melted the butter? Salt, why is there salt in cookies?

He accidentally spills flour at one point. You take a pinch and dust it over the tip of his nose. He acts offended but captures you in his arms. You squeal and wriggle in his grasp, but he’s too strong. Before you can escape, he sprinkles some flour on top of your hair. You’re only a little bit annoyed.

When he’s not grilling your baking knowledge or making a mess, he’s getting confused by your instructions. If it were anyone else, you’d be insanely annoyed, but San’s helpless expression is so adorable, you just pat him on the head and take over. 

“Just stand there and be strong and pretty for now,” you finally say through giggles. He flushes, cheeks and ears going lobster red, but smiles nonetheless.

When the cookies are ready for the oven, he takes one tray in each hand and carefully loads them into the oven. Even though you did 90% of the work, you still high five him as if he was the best assistant in the world. He beams, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

While the warm smell of brown sugar and chocolate fill the apartment, you heat up some milk for your hot chocolate. Since he was such a helpful aide, you let Sannie pick the movie. You don’t even care what it is—you’d watch paint dry if it meant you could cuddle up to your big, strong man.

San pulls the blanket over your legs, swinging his arm around you so you can cuddle into his side. He’s warm and soft, and he smells like clean soap and baby powder. His fingers absentmindedly play with your hair and trace shapes across your shoulder.

It only takes a few minutes before you find your gaze shifting away from the TV and up to San. His head is slightly tilted, jawline sharp, eyes focused on the flashing images of the k-drama he picked. He looks so devastatingly handsome. You resist the urge to bite him.

He must feel you staring, because he drops his eyes down to you. A smirk spreads across his face. Your stomach flips. You catch your lip between your teeth. He leans down slowly, brushing his nose against yours. Instinctively, your eyes close and lips pop open. His warm breath fans across your face.

He kisses you sweetly at first, just lips touching. Once, twice, three times. When you nuzzle your nose against his, he surges forward. He kisses you harder, mouths turning to the side to deepen it. His palm slides onto your face to hold you steady. His tongue swipes your bottom lip, and you open without question. He tastes like hot chocolate. You smile into his mouth.

His body tips forward, and the weight feels surprisingly nice on your chest. You wrap your legs around his waist as he settles between your thighs. Your arms encircle his neck, fingers absentmindedly tangling in his hair. His kisses are getting wetter, sloppier, hungrier. His left hand starts to slide down your side. His fingertips brush the hem of your top, slipping underneath to touch your skin.

A sharp ding makes you snap straight, head whipping toward the kitchen. The timer on the oven is flashing and beeping, trying to tell you that the cookies are finished. You feel heat creep across your face as you glance back at San sheepishly. His eyes are glassy, and he looks a little dazed. He laughs breathlessly, running a knuckle along your cheek.

“I should get those…” you say quietly. “We worked so hard. They’ll burn.”

He nods.

“Hurry back? I miss you already.”

You don’t think you’ve ever moved faster in your entire life. With the cookies cooling on the counter, you settle back into San’s warm embrace. You’ll never complain about a rainy day ever again.

taglist: @rileylovescats @wooyoungsbrat @estrnrea @strawberrymars98 @elunicornus

[amoryeonjun]

Tidebound☠️

Chapter Four

PirateOT8AteezAU X F!Reader/Original Character

In a fractured, salt-soaked world ruled by magic and machines, the feared pirate crew of the HalaVeil sails in search of a myth, a cursed potion known as Luminaer, said to be the only cure for a deadly affliction slowly killing one of their own. When they cross paths with their most hated rivals, the Blackeyes, the crew demands revenge… and receives a strange girl instead. You. Betrayed. Bruised. Bound. They call you Curse; a liar, a threat, a scapegoat. But as the storm deepens and the curse tightens its grip, it becomes clear: you might be the key to everything. Or the end of them all. And in the eyes of a crew that trusts no one… you’ll have to survive long enough to prove which.

Genre: PirateAu, Angst, slow burn, enemies to ??, OT8

Warnings: Graphic injury, medical trauma (semi-conscious state), emotional breakdowns, fever/delirium, power imbalance, and betrayal.

Word count: 15.6K

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The sky was violet.

Not the bruised grey of a storm or the glowing blue of an open sea, but violet, rich, unnatural, like something born from magic instead of weather. You were standing at the bow of a ship you didn’t recognize. It wasn’t the Blackeyes. It wasn’t the HalaVeil. This vessel had no name etched into the wood, no flag above, no sounds of crew or seagulls or water.

Just wind.

And him.

Yeosang stood beside you. Healthy. Whole. The black veins were gone from his skin, his posture tall again, his hair catching light like fire-gold. His eyes were locked on the horizon, but you weren’t sure he saw it.

He said something. You couldn’t hear it.

The wind stole it too fast. You reached out, fingers nearly brushing his sleeve, but something cracked.

And suddenly his head turned.

His eyes were bleeding. Green.

Not red, not black.

A bright, acid green that glowed from within.

You stumbled back, but your feet didn’t catch on wood, they caught on nothing. The deck dissolved beneath you and suddenly you were falling into something that looked like the sea but felt like a scream.

You jolted upright with a ragged breath. Still in the storeroom. Still cold. Still… real. You ran a trembling hand over your mouth. The dream already fading like smoke, but the fear of it lingered.

Was it a dream? Or a memory?

Somewhere, muffled through the walls, you heard movement. Voices. Footsteps. Steel dragging on wood.

It was time.

The sea outside roared against the HalaVeil, waves slamming the hull in rhythm with the fury twisting through the room.

Hongjoong stood at the far end of his quarters, the door freshly shut behind Seonghwa, whose boots echoed across the wooden floor as he entered. The captain's office was in chaos- parchments scattered, maps stabbed through with rusted knives, thick volumes of texts on ancient magic and sea curses strewn across every surface. The scent of salt, candle wax, and old ink clung to the air.

Seonghwa stepped further inside, his expression unreadable, arms behind his back in that ever-poised stance. “That didn’t go how you expected.”

“No,” Hongjoong muttered. He was staring at one of the charts, fingers twitching like he wanted to tear it to shreds. “It went exactly as I expected.”

He turned slowly, face sharp and pale in the low lantern light, dark hair hanging loose from where he had torn it out of its tie. His eyes were storm-grey. Dangerous. “She’s hiding something,” Hongjoong continued. “I don’t know what. But she is.”

Seonghwa nodded once. “San may not be entirely wrong.”

“He’s emotional. Reckless. But his instincts?” Hongjoong let out a humorless laugh. “Too damn sharp to ignore.”

Seonghwa’s gaze flicked to the broken compass on the desk. “So. What now?”

“I test her.”

“You already are.”

Hongjoong’s smirk returned, crooked and unsettling. “Not enough.”

He picked up a silver pin from his desk. The object was sharp and unassuming, but something about the way he turned it in his fingers was menacing. “I want to see what happens when she’s dropped into the fire,” he said calmly. “If she’s really Tideborn, it’ll show. If she’s not, San might break her. Either way... I’ll have my answer.”

Seonghwa tilted his head slightly. “And if he kills her?”

Hongjoong didn’t flinch. “Then she was useless to begin with.” A long silence followed.

Finally, Seonghwa spoke. “You want me to brief San?”

“No.” Hongjoong met his gaze directly. “Let him be surprised. He’ll enjoy it more.”

Seonghwa gave a subtle nod, then stepped back toward the door. “And if she’s telling the truth?”

Hongjoong’s voice was low, cold. “Then she’ll help me kill the man who made the potion.”

The candle flickered. The ship groaned. Outside, the storm gathered. The knock at the door was soft, barely a tap, like the knuckles behind it didn’t have the strength to make sound.

“Come in,” Hongjoong said, voice quieter than usual. Not kind, just... measured.

The door creaked open. Yeosang stood in the frame, slightly hunched and wrapped in a loose, greyed cloak that swallowed his frame. The red birthmark along his cheek was flushed deeper today, likely from fever. His skin looked stretched too tightly over sharp bones, those inky black veins barely concealed now, crawling up the side of his neck like cracks in porcelain.

He stepped inside slowly.

Seonghwa moved wordlessly from the center of the room, just enough to give Yeosang space. His hands remained clasped behind his back, his jaw tight-but his sharp gaze didn’t carry its usual sting.

Hongjoong gestured toward the small wooden chair across from his desk. Yeosang looked at it for a moment, then sat. Carefully. For a few seconds, no one spoke. Only the groaning timbers of the ship filled the room.

Then Hongjoong leaned forward.

“You’re worse,” he said, flatly. No accusation. No venom. Just truth.

Yeosang didn’t argue. Seonghwa finally stepped forward. “We’re going to try something.”

Yeosang’s eyes flicked between them. Hongjoong met his gaze. “It’s a risk. But so is waiting.”

Still, Yeosang didn’t speak. Just nodded, once. That flicker of silence between them held something else, buried beneath duty, iron discipline, and sharp-edged cruelty. Familiarity. A shared burden.

“We wouldn’t do this if we had time,” Seonghwa added, voice slightly softer. Only slightly.

Yeosang shifted, a hand tightening over the fabric at his knee. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “Who?”

Hongjoong tilted his head. “The girl.”

The silence sharpened.

Yeosang didn’t react, didn’t scowl, didn’t flinch-but something changed in his posture. Stiffer. Guarded.

“She was there when it happened,” Hongjoong continued. “We need her alive. For now.”

Yeosang glanced toward the door. “And after?” Seonghwa stepped closer. “That depends.”

Yeosang’s voice came quieter this time. “If I die, does she die with me?”

The question hung.

Hongjoong didn’t answer right away. His expression stayed unreadable-calculating, emotion buried deep behind cold resolve. But his fingers drummed once on the wooden desk. “No,” he said eventually.

Yeosang blinked, eyes low.

“No,” Hongjoong repeated, more firm. “We’re not those men.”

Seonghwa turned his face away slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching into something unreadable, maybe approval. Maybe restraint.

“She’s going on a mission with San,” Hongjoong said. “We’ll see what she’s made of.”

Yeosang’s brow furrowed slightly. “You trust him with her?”

“No,” Hongjoong said simply. “I trust him with rage.”

Yeosang exhaled through his nose, weary. “Then I’ll pray she has enough left to survive it.” Hongjoong actually smiled. A grim, sharp thing. “You always were too soft under it all.” Yeosang said nothing. But the flicker in his eyes made it clear: he wasn’t denying it.

Seonghwa looks over Yeosangs tired apperance, he can tell he's practically fighting consciousness right now. With a sharp sigh, "Go.. get some rest. There's no use worrying about this now. What's done is done." Yeosang lifted his head that seemed entirely too heavy for his own body and gave a small nod. He guided himself out the way like a ghost returning to his grave.

The door closed behind Yeosang with a soft click. Silence settled in its place. A silence that didn’t feel still, it felt watchful, like it had a pulse of its own.

Hongjoong didn’t look up from the map sprawled across his desk. His fingers traced along the curling edge of a region marked in dark ink, the paper smudged where his hands had lingered too long. Seonghwa remained standing. He didn’t speak at first. Not out of deference, but calculation. Watching the way Hongjoong’s shoulders curved forward, his jaw set tight. There was no humanity in his captain’s expression. Just tension. Precision.

Finally, Seonghwa broke the quiet.

“You’re not really going to keep her alive if Yeosang dies… are you?” It wasn’t accusatory. Just a question. Clean. Simple. But sharp enough to make the air in the captain’s quarters curdle.

Hongjoong didn’t look up. “Do you think I should?” His voice was soft. Too soft. The kind of quiet that made men flinch more than a scream.

Seonghwa didn’t answer immediately. “You told Yeosang we’re not those men.”

Hongjoong smiled. It wasn’t kind.

“We’re not,” he murmured. “We’re worse.”

He finally lifted his eyes. That sharp, merciless gaze met Seonghwa’s. There was nothing warm in it. Nothing redemptive. Just fire behind glass. “If he dies,” Hongjoong said slowly, “then whatever use she had dies with him. And if she had anything to do with it-”

He leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked beneath him. “I won’t even give the order. San will know what to do.”

Seonghwa’s expression didn’t change. But a muscle in his jaw twitched. “So you lied to him.”

Hongjoong raised a brow. “Did I?”

There was a pause. A beat where the only sound was the soft flutter of papers shifting from the sea breeze through the open porthole. Then, Hongjoong shrugged. “I told him what he needed to hear.”

Seonghwa crossed his arms, voice like stone. “He’s not stupid.”

“No,” Hongjoong agreed. “But he’s desperate.”

That silence returned, thicker this time. Like it could press between bones. Hongjoong rose from his chair, hands braced against the desk. His next words were quiet, but they rang with iron.

“If Yeosang dies, then the only thing that matters is making sure it was worth it.”

He turned his back, gazing out toward the sea through the glass. “And if she can’t give me that-then she’s not worth keeping.”

The sea beyond the windows was a sheet of mercury, dull and endless. Hongjoong watched it for a long moment, his reflection fractured against the glass.

“She’s not going to last long,” he murmured, half to himself. “And yet…” He trailed off.

Behind him, Seonghwa remained still, arms folded, his posture formal but strained. There was something tight in the line of his mouth. A tension he didn’t often show.

Hongjoong turned. “You’re thinking something.”

“I’m always thinking.”

Hongjoong gave a faint scoff. “You’re hesitating.”

A pause. Then Seonghwa sighed. Low. Guttural. “You want me to wake her up.”

“I want a cure for Yeosang. What I need is a test. And she’s it.” He pushed away from the table, his steps slow and deliberate. “Go. San’s already preparing.”

Another beat of stillness. Then, to Hongjoong’s slight surprise, Seonghwa didn’t move.

“Problem?” Hongjoong asked, voice dipped in amusement but edged in steel.

Seonghwa looked away, jaw tightening. “No.”

“Then go.”

Still, he didn’t move. Hongjoong tilted his head. “You’re stalling.”

“I said no.”

“Really?” A smirk tugged at the captain’s lips. “You almost sound like you care.”

That made Seonghwa lift his gaze, sharp and ice-pale. “Don’t start.”

“Not like you to hesitate, Hwa.”

Seonghwa looked away again, then finally exhaled through his nose. “It’s not hesitation. It’s exhaustion. This crew is already fraying. Yeosang is barely breathing. San’s waiting like a wolf. And now you want her dragged into it?”

“She’s already in it.”

Seonghwa didn’t argue. He just closed his eyes briefly, then turned to leave, expression unreadable again.

Hongjoong’s voice followed him. “Don’t go soft on me now, First Mate.” He spits out the title as if reminding him of his place. Beneath him.

Seonghwa paused at the door. “Get some rest, Captain,” he spits back over his shoulder. And left with a heavy echo of boots down the hall.

You woke with your heart already racing. You weren’t sure what roused you- whether it was a sound, a shift in the air, or just the remnants of the dream  still whispering behind your eyes.

The room was dim, but no longer pitch black. A single lantern hung near the ceiling, its flame flickering gently, casting slow-moving shadows across the walls. Your limbs felt stiff beneath the scratchy blanket. The bandage around your ribs itched with dried sweat. You sat up slowly, groaning at the ache in your bones.

And then-you heard it.

Bootsteps. Familiar now. Heavy. Measured.

They stopped outside the door. It didn’t open right away. Whoever was there waited. For you to panic? For silence? For dominance?

Then, the handle turned.

Seonghwa stepped into the room like a blade being drawn. His posture was composed, not aggressive- but every line of him was honed to precision. Tall, lean, dark clothes pressed and clean despite the salt air. His black hair was tucked neatly behind one ear, the other side left to fall forward and frame that statuesque, unreadable face.

Cold eyes. No warmth. No recognition. Just duty.

You held your breath, unsure why.

“We’re leaving,” he said. His voice was emotionless. Not even annoyed, just empty.

You didn’t move.

“You have ten seconds to stand,” he added flatly.

Your limbs screamed in protest as you slowly swung your legs over the edge of the bed. You winced as your feet met the cold floor.

Seonghwa said nothing more. Just watched. Not impatient. Not sympathetic. Just waiting.

The ship felt colder today.

Maybe it was just the wind bleeding in through the cracks in your jacket, or the ache in your ribs that hadn’t quite settled, but as you followed Seonghwa through the winding halls of the HalaVeil, the air itself seemed quieter. Thicker. Like the ship knew something was about to unfold.

Seonghwa didn’t speak. He walked with the same sharp precision he always did, boots echoing faintly against the old wooden boards. He didn’t look back to see if you were keeping up. He didn’t slow when you stumbled once on the stairs.

You trailed behind him with wary steps, still slightly dizzy from being wrenched out of sleep. Your throat was dry, and the dim oil-lamps lining the corridor did little to warm the tension stretching between you.

You tried first. “So,” you murmured, voice scratchy. “Big mission, huh?”

No answer.

 A few steps more “Are you always this talkative or am I just special?”

He didn’t even glance at you. Only said, coolly: “Keep walking.”

You bit your tongue. But not for long.

“Right,” you muttered. “I forgot. Conversation’s beneath the crew’s icy prince.”

That earned you a brief pause. Just a flicker. His head turned slightly-barely enough to catch the sharp line of his jaw under the shadows.

“Keep pushing,” he said lowly, “and I’ll forget I was told to bring you there in one piece.”

The words weren’t yelled. No bite in the tone. But they landed harder than any scream.

You walked the rest of the way in silence.

The HalaVeil creaked above you. Outside, somewhere on the deck, a gull shrieked in the wind.

When Seonghwa finally stopped, it was in front of a heavy door you didn’t recognize. He didn’t look at you.

“Get ready,” he said. “San’s waiting.”

And with that, he knocked once, then stepped aside.

The door groaned as it opened, revealing a smaller chamber just before the open air of the main deck. It wasn’t what you were expecting. No blades waiting at your throat. No snarling pirate already gripping your collar. Just… emptiness.

The room was dimly lit by the filtered grey light spilling in from the cracks above. The faint creak of the HalaVeil surrounded you, wood shifting with every slow roll of the sea. It smelled like salt, old rope, and something faintly metallic-like dried blood buried in the grain.

San wasn’t here. And somehow, that was worse.

You hesitated at the threshold, then stepped in slowly, boots clicking lightly against the floor. The silence pressed in immediately. Heavy. Thick. Like the air itself was watching.

Behind you, Seonghwa lingered just a moment longer. You turned slightly, expecting another harsh command or cold warning.

Instead, his voice came quieter than expected. Not warm, but not cruel either.

“Try to be useful,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder. “And… don’t die.”

You blinked.

But before you could process it, he was already gone. The door clicked softly behind him.

And then you were alone.

Alone… waiting for San.

Your heart kicked up slowly in your chest, thudding with a quiet warning. You crossed your arms, doing your best to look relaxed, casual. But your mind spun with possibilities. Was this part of the mission? A test? A trap?

You didn’t like not knowing. Your fingers twitched at your sides. The light breeze from the deck beyond tickled your skin, tauntingly close to freedom, but entirely out of reach. Still, you stood your ground. Even if your legs weren’t sure how long they’d hold.

A knock startled you.

Sharp. Three raps against the door.

Your breath hitched. Your shoulders tensed.

San.

It had to be San.

You backed up instinctively, a flicker of panic rushing beneath your skin, until the door creaked open and the figure that stepped inside stopped you in your tracks.

It wasn’t San.

It was… Mingi.

Broad-shouldered, tall-easily one of the largest on the crew, but with something in his face that didn’t scream immediate threat. His dirty-blond hair was slightly wind-tossed, a few curls clinging to his forehead. His earrings swayed as he stepped in, eyes scanning the room briefly before landing on you.

He looked… surprised, maybe. Or confused. But not hostile. In his hands, he held a bundle of fabric. Folded clothes. Boots tucked under one arm.

“You look like hell,” he said casually, but not cruelly.

Your brow furrowed as he stepped closer and set the pile on the nearest bench, dusting it off with the side of his arm.

“They said you’re going out today.” He looked at you fully now. “Probably be easier if you didn’t smell like death.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Charming.”

He shrugged. “Not trying to be. Just being honest.”

You glanced down at yourself, your bloodied jacket still clinging to your skin, stained shirt wrinkled and stiff, your boots barely holding together.

You hadn’t even realized how filthy you were. Not really. You’d been too busy surviving.

He gestured to the clothes. Nothing elegant. A plain linen shirt, a faded brown vest, dark trousers, and boots that looked one size too big- but they were clean. Sturdy.

“Don’t get excited,” he muttered. “They're just spares.”

You hesitated. “Why bring them?”

Mingi gave a small shrug, his expression unreadable. “Dunno. Maybe your luck would shift if you didn’t look like a half-drowned ghost.”

You blinked. For a moment, it almost sounded like concern, buried under layers of dry sarcasm. He turned to leave, hand on the door, then paused.

“San’s not far,” he said, voice quieter now. “You’ll hear him before you see him. He doesn’t know how to be subtle.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t trust yourself to. He nodded once, then disappeared out the door. You stared at the clothes in silence.

The first kindness, if it even was one, you’d been shown since waking on this ship. And it came from Mingi, the one you haven't really met before.

You stared at the clothes a moment longer before finally moving.

No point in waiting.

The moment you peeled off your old layers, a faint shudder ran through you. Your skin felt foreign beneath the tattered fabric-raw, clammy, dotted in bruises and bandages, like someone else’s body entirely. You moved carefully, aching with every shift.

The clean shirt slid over your head stiffly, the linen rough against your fever-dulled skin. The sleeves were too long, swallowing your hands. The trousers hung off your hips, made for someone broader in the waist and taller in the leg. You had to roll the fabric twice just to keep them from dragging.

The boots-gods, the boots.

You slipped your feet in and they immediately sunk, oversized and heavy, your heel slipping with every step. You stood for a moment, wobbling slightly, arms out for balance. If San saw you like this, he’d laugh until his lungs gave out.

You exhaled sharply through your nose and glanced around the room, jaw tightening.

A table. A bit of rope curled loosely near a bundle of unused sails.

You limped over, snatched it, and sat down with a grunt, pulling the boots off just long enough to thread the rope around your ankles, crisscrossed tightly above the heel, knotted over the tongue of each boot.

Not elegant. Not comfortable. But functional.

You stared at your feet, wrapped in mismatched fabric and rope, and let out a humorless chuckle. You looked like a child playing dress-up in her father’s clothes. Or a scarecrow patched together by pirates.

Still… they didn’t smell like rot. And they weren’t soaked in your own blood. You tugged the shirt collar straighter and sat back down.

Waiting.

You didn’t know where San was. But something told you, you’d hear him soon enough.

The quiet didn’t last.

A sharp sound cut through it-metal against wood. Slow. Dragging. Deliberate.

Shhhhkkk… shhhhkkk…

Your breath caught.

Footsteps followed-heavy, lazy, like whoever owned them had all the time in the world. And the worst part?

The voice.

A teasing, sing-song lilt. Mocking. Familiar.

“Curse~” came the soft, syrupy drawl. “Hope you’re dressed. I’d hate to drag you out by your skin~.”

You tensed, fingers curling against your thighs. The sound stopped just outside the door.

Then a soft knock, mockingly polite. And the door creaked open.

San filled the frame like a bad omen. Hair swept back, dark eyes glittering with something unreadable and sharp. His blade hung loosely from one hand, the tip already stained with scratches from where he’d been dragging it along the walls.

He grinned like the devil.

“Well, look at you,” he said, stepping in without being invited. “Someone got a makeover.”

His eyes dragged down your frame, pausing on the too-big clothes, the rope-tied boots.

He cackled.

“Oh, that’s rich. You look like a kicked puppy trying to play pirate.”

You clenched your jaw but said nothing. San stepped closer, circling slightly as he tapped the blunt side of his blade against his shoulder.

“Yunho patch you up just so I can take you out for a stroll? Sweet of him.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “I hope you’re ready to bleed again, Curse.”

Then he turned with a dramatic flourish, gesturing to the open hallway. “Come along now,” he said brightly, all mock cheer. “Captain’s orders. You’re mine for the day.”

And from the glint in his eyes, you knew he was going to enjoy every second.

You trailed behind him down the narrow passageway, the ship creaking softly underfoot as the morning light bled through the slats above. San didn’t speak. He just whistled-low and off-key-spinning his blade once with a flourish like it was more companion than weapon.

You cleared your throat. “So… what exactly is the mission?”

He didn’t stop walking, didn’t even look back.

“Oh? We’re talking now?” he said. “Thought you’d still be sulking after last time.”

“I’m asking a question,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice level. Civil.

He shrugged. “Alright, Curse. Since you asked so politely…” He finally glanced over his shoulder with a sharp grin, eyes like glass just before it shattered.

“We’re paying a visit to your old friends.”

Your blood ran cold.

San continued casually, like he was listing off ingredients for a stew. “Few of the Blackeyes docked just north of Sunsdase... you know... the fancy area, holed up in some fancy little hotel with silk pillows and overpriced wine. The kind of place they think keeps them hidden.”

Your stomach twisted.

San twirled his blade again. “We ambush them. Kill them. Deliver what’s left back to their beloved captain.” His smile widened. “As a message.”

You stumbled slightly, heart thudding in your ears. “And… I’m going with you?” you asked, quieter now.

San didn’t miss a beat. “That’s the best part.” He stopped walking and turned fully to face you. His eyes scanned your expression like he was hunting something beneath the surface. “See, the captain wants to test you. Says maybe you’re not completely useless. Says maybe you’re not a traitor. Or maybe…” He leaned in close, his breath warm and sharp like copper and spice. “...maybe this’ll prove once and for all what side you’re really on.”

You tried to hold his gaze, but it was like staring into the sun-violent, consuming.

San pulled away, smile still intact, then turned back toward the door leading to the deck. “Let’s get going,” he called behind him. “Wouldn’t want your friends to die before you get to watch.”

The door to the deck creaked open under San’s boot, and the harsh light of morning bled into your vision. Salt air rushed your senses, carried by a biting wind that tugged at your too-big clothes and the fraying rope around your boots. You stepped onto the deck behind him, squinting against the sudden glare.

And there he was.

Hongjoong.

Standing near the helm like he belonged to the sea itself. Arms crossed, coat whipping in the breeze, sharp black gloves gripping his sleeves. His presence cut cleaner than San’s blade-colder too. His eyes landed on you instantly.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

San gave a lazy salute as he approached, blade still in hand. “We’re here.”

Hongjoong’s gaze flicked to him, then back to you.

“Good,” he said, voice smooth but firm. “You’re both to head out in under an hour. There are three targets confirmed-Blackeyes crew members. Armed. Dangerous.” He took a step forward, the wood creaking beneath his boots. “They’re stationed in the Noble Spire Inn,” he continued. “A gaudy little place east of the wharf. The location is cramped. Civilians will be nearby. But that’s no excuse for failure.”

You tried to keep your expression even, even as your palms began to sweat.

Hongjoong walked in a slow circle around you, eyeing the way you stood, the way you flinched when San’s blade tapped lightly against your leg.

“You’re the bait if needed,” he said flatly. “They might still recognize you. Use that. Distract them. Stall them. Get close enough for San to cut them open.”

Your jaw tightened. “And if they attack me first?”

He stopped walking.

“If they kill you,” Hongjoong said, tone like ice cracking on a lake, “then you were useless.”

San chuckled behind you, pleased.

“But if you survive,” Hongjoong added, stepping closer, “maybe you’ll earn something beyond a cell and spoiled bread. Maybe.”

He tilted his head. “Understand?”

You nodded stiffly. “Yes… Captain...”

He stared at you for another second too long, then finally turned to San.

“You know the way. You lead. She follows. I want three bodies and no witnesses. I want them to fear what name they hear whispered in the smoke after we leave.”

San grinned. “HalaVeil.”

“Damn right.”

Hongjoong stepped back, his coat catching the wind as he walked away. The silence that followed was nearly sacred.

Then San stretched his arms behind his head with a smirk. “Well then, Curse. Let’s go hunting.”

He finally steps away.

The dock creaked faintly in the distance. You could hear it groaning against the tide, paired with the faint jangle of rigging and the cry of gulls overhead. From the ship’s railing, the town lay stretched before you like a lie too sweet to trust. Lanterns flickered between alleyways and cobbled paths. It was far too quiet to be innocent.

You stood near the gangplank, arms stiff at your sides, boots still a size too large and bound with rope. They pinched when you shifted your weight. Your new clothes smelled like someone else's life. The fabric was coarse. A little bloodstained. Your hands fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. You weren’t nervous, at least not outwardly, but your heart hadn’t stopped tapping against your ribs since San stalked off to prepare.

Then came the sound of footsteps behind you.

You tensed.

But they were lighter. Quicker.

“Relax,” came the familiar voice. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it past breakfast.”

You turned just in time to see Wooyoung approach, his silhouette framed by the misty silver glow of morning. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, dark fabric rolled at the elbows, fingers glinting with rings. His red hair was wind-tossed, eyes narrowed like the sea itself had insulted him.

He didn’t smile.

“I heard you're going on a field trip,” he said dryly, glancing at the faint outline of the Sunsdase l in the distance. “Lucky you.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

Wooyoung shrugged. “Just came to see if you’d cry before stepping off.”

He stopped beside you, leaned slightly against the railing, close but not touching. His tone stayed flat, but his eyes flicked over your appearance. You weren’t sure what he was looking for- weakness, maybe. Guilt. Fear. Some sign of what you were.

“I don’t get it,” you muttered after a moment. “One second you want me dead. The next you're giving me fashion advice.”

He snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t like messy things. Like betrayal. Or blood on the floorboards.”

You frowned. “What do you want then?”

His gaze slid to you like a knife.

“I want you to remember,” he said slowly, “that if Yeosang dies, this ship becomes hell. And the rest of us? We don’t burn alone. We bring others with us.”

Your breath hitched slightly. He hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t have to. There was a beat of silence before he tilted his head. “You're lucky, you know. Getting a second chance. Most people tied to that curse are already seafoam by now.” His tone softened, barely. ��So don’t waste it.”

You were quiet. Studying him. “You care about him.”

His jaw clenched. He looked away. Then, after a moment, he nodded once. A sharp, barely-there motion.

“Yeosang’s one of the only people on this floating wreck who still looks at the world like it might love him back.” His voice was quieter now. “Even after everything.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything at all.

Wooyoung pushed off the railing, stepping back.

“You screw this up,” he said, voice regaining its bitter edge, “and I’ll personally deliver your body to the Blackeyes in ribbons. Consider that a promise.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned. And walked back toward the shadows of the ship, coat trailing behind him like smoke.

You didn’t step off the ship right away.

Not because you were scared-at least, not just that, but because Wooyoung’s words clung to you like salt in your mouth. Bitter. Lingering. Not easy to swallow.

"If Yeosang dies, this ship becomes hell."

You leaned against the cool metal of the gangway, the wood beneath your boots groaning with the gentle sway of the tide. The docks ahead were drowsy, the town still waking. Lanterns flickered low behind frosted glass. A bell chimed somewhere far off, and the sea yawned in fog.

For a second, you could almost pretend none of this was happening. That you were just another tired sailor on shore leave. That your ribs weren’t still tender from San’s kick. That you weren’t walking into a building to help murder your former crew.

But that illusion was thin. Paper-thin. And the moment you blinked, it tore. The Halaveils weren’t giving you a second chance. They were sending a warning.

You glanced down at your hands. Scarred knuckles, cracked nailbeds. A pair of pants fitting loosely on my body. You looked ridiculous- like a child in someone else’s life.

But that wasn’t what unnerved you. It was the way your fingers didn’t tremble. Not when Wooyoung threatened you. Not when Hongjoong dragged you through the ship like you were nothing but a sack of bones and guilt. And not now, when you were walking into the hotel where you’d likely paint the walls red.

You exhaled slowly.

Truth was, you weren’t sure if this would be the first time you killed someone. Your memories of those early months with the Blackeyes were murky. Blurred by adrenaline, survival, orders barked through smoke. You remembered holding a blade. You remembered blood.

But whether it was yours or theirs? You never asked. Didn’t want to. Not back then. Not now.

You tightened your jaw and looked up at the fading stars. The wind was picking up, brushing your cheek like fingers long since dead. Somewhere behind you, the ship creaked- a low, patient groan that reminded you time was running out.

You were already someone they didn’t trust. The only way out was forward. And maybe, just maybe, that scared you less than it should.

The city was velvet-draped and gold-dusted, waking slowly under a pink-grey sky. Gas lamps still glowed against ornate brickwork, their reflections trembling in rain-wet cobbles. Elegant balconies hung above delicate storefronts, stitched with iron railings and sleeping vines. This place was rich, filthy with it.

Too clean for pirates. Too clean for people like you.

San didn’t seem to care.

He walked a pace ahead, shoulders sharp, boots heavy against the dainty streets. The morning crowds hadn’t started yet, just a few carriages rolling by, their drivers uninterested in the sight of two dark-clad figures cutting through their city like smoke. You struggled to match his pace, not because you were tired, though you were, but because San had a kind of rhythm you couldn’t copy. Every step of his felt like it led toward something. Like he was already in the moment where the blood hit the floor.

He hadn’t spoken since you left the ship. Not a word. And that silence was more unnerving than his usual cruelty.

You glanced at him.

His face was unreadable in profile, elegant and cold. The sunlight made his raven hair glow like spilt oil caught in motion, and his blade sat holstered at his hip, polished, waiting. But it wasn’t the weapon that made your pulse skip.

It was the glint in his eye. Murderous. Focused. Hungry.

You hated how calm he looked. Like this was routine. Like this meant something to him, but you weren’t sure if that something was justice or just… bloodlust.

So you asked. Quietly. Warily.

“Are you excited to get revenge for Yeosang… or just to kill?”

San didn’t stop walking. Didn’t glance your way. But a slow smile curled across his lips, dangerous and almost beautiful in the worst kind of way. “Does it matter?” he said simply, voice low.

You looked at him, something cold settling in your gut.

He finally glanced back at you over his shoulder, grin sharpening. “You think revenge and killing are different things?”

You said nothing. He turned away again, still smiling, still walking. And in that moment, the city seemed smaller. Because no matter how tall the buildings were or how golden the light, you were still just prey in a place that didn't belong to you.

And the wolf beside you? He was starving.

You stopped just short of the hotel.

From the outside, it didn’t look like the kind of place anyone died in. Towering white stone, carved archways, lanterns that burned soft and warm above the brass-framed doors. Ivy wound itself elegantly along the second-floor balcony, and a valet stood near the entrance with his hands clasped behind his back, unaware he’d soon be standing near a grave.

San ducked into the alley first. He pressed his back to the wall and gestured for you to do the same. You obeyed, if only because you didn’t want to test him in such close quarters.

“We go through the side,” he muttered. “Back staff entrance-kitchen, most likely. One of them usually sneaks down for food or a fuckin’ drink. I’ll slit his throat quietly, then we’ll head up the back stairwell.”

His voice was casual, like he was reading a menu.

“They’re in suite forty-five. Fancy bastards. Big space, corner room. We knock once, make a noise, wait for the door to crack, and I go in first. You stay behind me until I tell you to move.”

You stared at him, eyebrows pulling together. “That’s your plan?”

He blinked. “What?”

“That’s sloppy as hell,” you muttered. “You think they won’t notice a body in the kitchen? You think a corner room has one entrance? What if one of them goes to the window? What if the staff door’s locked? What if the valet has eyes on it?”

His gaze turned razor sharp. “You questioning me?”

“I’m not trying to,” you replied, “but your plan’s a coin toss. If even one thing goes wrong, the whole floor hears. And if the Blackeyes know they’re being hunted…”

You didn’t have to finish the sentence. He knew. He bristled.

You let the silence hold for just a moment longer before you leaned forward, voice low.

“They keep a rotation of guards in the east hallway. I’ve seen it. It’s slower after breakfast-less foot traffic. They change at the quarter-hour. If we wait another ten minutes, we can blend with staff from the front. They always let guests bring in ‘assistants’ through the side staircase near the atrium. It’s unmarked.”

San narrowed his eyes. “How the fuck do you know that?”

You froze.

Your lips parted. Then shut again. How did you know that?

“I-” you hesitated. “I think I… remember seeing it. Before.”

“When?” he pushed, tone sharp. “You’ve been here before?”

You looked toward the hotel. Your chest tightened. A strange fog was forming behind your memories, like smoke over broken glass. You had seen that hallway. You knew those rotations. But when?

“I don’t know,” you admitted softly. “I can’t remember.”

San was quiet for a long moment. He studied you, not like he was angry, but like he was trying to decide if you were dangerous.

And then…

He grinned. Slowly. Unsettling.

“Well,” he said, “maybe you are useful after all.”

You didn't reply. And across the street, the hotel doors opened wide. Showtime.

San crouched low, blade resting lazily against his thigh. He kept glancing at the hotel like it had personally offended him, like every polished tile and gilded balcony was mocking him. The murderous glint in his eye hadn’t faded. If anything, it was sharper now, simmering under his skin like embers behind glass.

You stayed still beside him, eyes scanning the alley, the windows, the guard rotations. Then you spoke. “We’re not killing anyone else.”

His head whipped toward you. “Excuse me?”

“We’re not here for chaos,” you said firmly. “Just the three. No guards. No witnesses unless it’s necessary.”

He scoffed, standing straighter. “You’re joking. You think I’m gonna tiptoe around for your peace of mind?”

“No,” you replied, voice flat. “I think you’re going to tiptoe because if we don’t, we won’t reach the Blackeyes. Someone will scream, someone will report us, someone will remember our faces. And then they’ll disappear before we can get close.”

You stepped in front of him, lifting your chin.

“They’re not stupid. They’ll run if they know we’re here. You want revenge? You want to make them feel it?” You pointed toward the side entrance. “Then follow my lead. Quick, clean. No mess. No distractions.”

San glared. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Three,” you repeated, slower this time. “Just the three.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Fucking hell.” There was a pause. A dangerous one.

Then… “Fine. We do it your way.”

You didn’t breathe until he looked away again, sheathing his blade with a frustrated clink.

But under all that tension, beneath the snarling teeth and burning glare, you sensed something else. Respect. Reluctant. Bitter. Buried under layers of fury. But it was there.

The early morning air clung heavy to your skin as you and San slipped from the alleyway, shadows stretching long beneath the pale lanterns lining the street. The city was quiet at this hour, the kind of rich quiet that only came from places so far removed from consequence. A few drunks staggered by. A couple in velvet cloaks laughed behind closed windows. No one looked down.

San didn’t speak. Not anymore. He just followed, steps unnervingly silent for someone so eager to kill.

You stayed close to the buildings, weaving between the carved stone columns and decorative potted palms. When you reached the side entrance - the one you’d spotted earlier during your "confused" memory lapse - you gave him a signal with your fingers.

Three.

Two.

One.

You moved.

The door wasn’t locked. Not exactly. It had one of those ornate twist knobs used more for aesthetics than security, the kind rich people believed kept danger out. You slipped in first, San watching your back, then closing the door behind you with a soft click.

The hallway was dimly lit, plush carpet swallowing your footsteps. You passed a cracked mirror, caught your reflection for a second- pale, tense, too many shadows in your eyes.

This place smelled of perfume, gold polish, and lies. You turned a corner, counting doors.

“Third floor,” you whispered.

San nodded once, still quiet, gaze sharp.

You took the servant stairs at the back. Narrow, creaky, dustier than the front ones, but less chance of running into someone important. Or someone alive for much longer. Each step felt like it echoed in your chest. By the time you reached the landing, you were both cloaked in silence. Listening. Waiting.

A man’s laugh, faint and slurred, filtered through the walls. You froze.

San grinned. You glared.

He mouthed: Which room?

You pointed. He reached for his blade.

You heard the footsteps a second too late.

Not loud. Not hurried. Just… wrong.

San’s hand shot out, pressing you back into the shadows of the hallway as the door at the far end creaked open. A man emerged, not one of the Blackeyes, but a hotel guard by the look of him. Not in uniform, not anymore. Off-shift maybe. But sharp-eyed. Sharp enough to notice two strangers crouched in a noble’s hallway.

He stopped mid-step. You both froze. His gaze narrowed.

You stepped forward first, heart hammering but mouth curled into a smile. “Evening,” you said sweetly. “Sorry-bit lost. This place is a maze.”

The guard's eyes flicked over you both. He didn’t return the smile.

“Don’t see guests sneaking through staff corridors at midnight,” he muttered.

San tilted his head. “We’re not sneaking,” he said with mock offense. “We’re exploring.”

You elbowed him subtly.

The man didn’t budge. “Papers?”

You blinked. “Papers?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Identification. License. Anything to prove you're not here to rob someone.”

San’s mouth twitched into something almost amused. “What if we are?”

You hissed under your breath: “San-”

The man’s hand dropped to his side, where the glint of a blade caught the hallway light. “Get against the wall.”

“No need for that,” you said quickly, lifting your hands slightly, palms up. “We’ll be on our way. Just a wrong turn-”

“Against the wall,” he barked.

San stepped forward. You saw it before it happened.

A flicker of motion - San’s knee collided with the man’s gut in one brutal move, knocking the wind out of him. The guard stumbled back, reaching for his blade, but you were already moving, grabbing the man’s wrist before the steel fully cleared its sheath. He was stronger. You were faster.

The two of you tumbled to the ground, San crouched beside you instantly. The man lashed out wildly, knife flashing. It grazed your arm - a shallow slice, but pain bloomed nonetheless.

San grabbed his head and slammed it into the polished floor.

Once.

Twice.

Blood spread beneath the man’s skull in a blooming stain. He stopped moving.

Silence fell again. Your chest heaved. San wiped the blood from his knuckles on the man’s coat.

“Charming didn’t work,” he said, voice dark with satisfaction.

You shot him a glare. “You think?”

He rose, grabbing your elbow to steady you. “Come on. Bodies draw flies.”

And just like that, you slipped through the corridor toward your true targets. With one less witness behind you.

The hallway was empty again, save for the blood-slick tiles and the echo of what you’d just done. You rubbed the shallow cut on your arm, still warm and damp, but your focus was locked on San, who knelt over the guard’s body, rifling through his coat like it meant nothing.

"You're robbing him?" you hissed.

He didn’t look up. “Would be a waste not to.”

Your stomach twisted. “He wasn’t even on the list.”

He scoffed. “He pulled a blade. That put him on the list.”

You took a step closer. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“And yet here we are.” He held up a coin pouch and tossed it once before stuffing it into his belt. “A man’s got to earn, sweetheart.”

You clenched your jaw and turned away, storming ahead.

The room wasn’t far now, just a few paces down. The ornate door loomed like a gallows.

Room 314.

Your breath hitched. You stopped. Your boots planted, rooted.

San walked up beside you. “Why’d you stop?”

Your voice was tight. “I need a second.”

He stared at you, unblinking. “A second?”

“I just-”

“No,” he snapped. “You don’t get a second. Not now.”

You didn’t move. He stepped in front of you, chest brushing yours. “You freezing up?” he asked lowly. “Right when it matters?”

You swallowed hard, the old instincts screaming to be quiet, but your lips parted anyway. “I’m not freezing. I just-something feels-”

His hand lashed out before you could finish. Fingers grabbed your throat, not tight enough to choke, but enough to shove you hard back against the hallway wall. The impact stole your breath.

His eyes burned inches from yours. “I knew it,” he growled. “I fucking knew. Back in the dining room, when I said you were one of them. I saw it. You’re still theirs.”

You clawed at his wrist. “I’m-not.”

“You hesitated,” he said, voice pure venom. “You hesitated. After all this time, after what they did to Yeosang, you're still holding on?” His grip tightened slightly. A warning. “Give me one reason,” he hissed, “one, why I shouldn’t open this door, shove you inside first, and tell them you’ve come home.”

Pain flared behind your ribs, right where his fingers pressed too close to the healing wound. You gasped softly.

And San… smiled.

“I could say it was an accident,” he whispered. “I could say you ran. Hell, I could say you were never on this ship at all.”

He released you with a hard shove. You stumbled forward, gasping, but caught yourself.

“You’ve got one job,” he said, now low and vicious. “And I swear, if you screw this up, if you hesitate again, I will kill you myself.”

The door loomed just ahead, untouched. Your hand shook as you reached for the handle.

“San, wait-” you said, voice hoarse, one hand still outstretched toward the door.

But he wasn’t listening. Of course he wasn’t.

The warning left your lips half a second too late. He threw his shoulder into the door with practiced force, and the wood cracked inward with a bang that swallowed the hallway. The hinges groaned. The scent of candle wax and tobacco bled out into the corridor as the door swung open into the dimly lit hotel suite.

And just like that-you were in.

San stepped through first, blade already in his hand, shoulders squared, ready to kill. You followed behind slowly, something crawling in the pit of your stomach. Something you couldn’t explain. Not fear. Not exactly.

Wrong.

Everything about this room felt wrong. There was no movement. No startled yells. No retreating footsteps. Just silence. And smoke.

The room was larger than expected, luxurious even. Golden drapes fluttered from the open balcony window. An empty dinner plate sat abandoned on a small table, next to a half-empty glass of wine.

But no Blackeyes. Not in sight.

San tilted his head, scanning. “They were here,” he muttered. “This is the room. You said it yourself.”

“I know what I said,” you hissed. “But something’s off. Doesn’t it feel-”

He held up a hand to silence you.

Too late.

From the shadows behind the curtain, something creaked. A whisper of movement, fast-too fast.

San turned just in time as a figure lunged.

Steel met steel.

The room erupted into chaos.

You stumbled back, slamming into the wall as San met the attacker head-on. Their blades clashed with a sickening clang, sparks flying as he snarled, knocking the stranger across the table. Furniture splintered. A bottle of liquor exploded on the floor, the fumes igniting tension like a match.

More footsteps-another figure appeared in the far doorway, eyes flashing under a hood.

They weren’t on the list. You didn’t recognize them.

And worst of all-

They were waiting.

This wasn’t just a mission.

This was a trap.

Your throat tightened. “San!”

But he already knew.

His smile twisted, sharp as a sickle. “Guess we’re doing this the fun way.”.

Four men.

No - five.

Blackeyes. They weren’t startled. They weren’t even moving. They were waiting.

“Trap,” you breathed, your heart dropping.

San tensed beside you. He didn’t even look at you. “No shit.”

Then - the room erupted. Steel unsheathed. Chairs scraped. Someone lunged.

San moved fast,  faster than you’d seen him before. His blade met the first attacker’s, teeth bared in something close to joy. “You fuckers picked the wrong day,” he spat.

You spun just in time to duck a wide swing. Another Blackeye came for you, face twisted in smugness. You ducked under his arm and kicked his leg out from under him. He fell, but another was already behind you.

The room was too small. Too full of shadows and blades.

San fought two at once, barely keeping pace. Another was trying to get behind him.

“San!” you shouted.

He didn’t hear you. So you acted.

You surged forward and slammed into the man behind him, knocking him off balance. San twisted just in time, sword arcing clean through his shoulder. Blood sprayed as the man screamed and collapsed.

One down.

San turned, eyes flicking to the scene. To you. Something dangerous shifted in his stare. “You always know where they are,” he said lowly, a growl under his breath.

You barely had time to react before a gunshot rang out, splintering the table behind you.

“Split!” San barked, ducking and dragging a body in front of him as a shield.

You moved to flank. The room was hell - fists, steel, firelight from the lamps. You caught the glint of a blade slashing for your ribs. Pain bloomed, but you twisted away just in time.

A table overturned. One of the Blackeyes was lighting something, something with an oil trail.

You realized too late. They were going to burn the building.

“NO!” you shouted.

But the fire was already racing.

San locked blades with the largest man, shouting something obscene. You knocked another aside with the edge of a broken chair leg.

“Back! We need to fall back!” San ordered, panting. “It’s a message, they want the fire to speak for them!”

You hesitated. There were only two Blackeyes left - both escaping. One darted through the kitchen door. Another bolted through the fire-blackened hallway.

San turned to run. But you didn’t. You looked to the flames. And ran the opposite way.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” San shouted behind you.

But you were already disappearing into the smoke.

You pushed through the smoke, lungs screaming.

The world was nothing but orange and black, light and void,  heat and fear. Each step was a battle. The hallway burned beneath your boots, wood groaning as it split under the strain. But you saw them - two shadows darting just ahead. Moving fast, ducking low. Escaping.

You chased harder.

“HEY!” you shouted, voice torn raw from the smoke. “STOP! I NEED ANSWERS!”

They turned down another corridor, one you vaguely remembered from entering. You followed. The flames licked higher, chasing your heels.

Finally, you burst out of the hallway and into the loading area behind the building, the back exit. The sky above was dark, early night descending, but the fire behind you lit everything like a false dawn.

The two Blackeyes stopped briefly.

One turned, a jagged grin splitting his smoke-streaked face. “What’s this?” he mocked, panting. “A little rat that thinks she’s a hound?”

The other spat into the dirt. “Go back to your leash, girl. We’re done with you.”

“Why did you wait for us?” you demanded, stepping forward. “You knew we were coming. Why?”

That earned a sharp, cruel laugh.

“You think the Blackeyes don’t have eyes on their enemies?” he sneered. “You lot are louder than cannon fire. We saw you coming before you even docked.”

“But why here?  Why set the fire?” you insisted, voice rising with desperation. “Why trap him?”

The one with the grin tilted his head. “Captain said to send a message. So we did.”

“What message?” you snapped.

The second man stepped close, his face only a breath away from yours. “That even curses scream when they burn.”

And then- he shoved you.

You stumbled backwards, boots slipping on the scorched ground. Your foot caught on something, a broken beam, half on fire, and you fell hard.

Your hands instinctively reached out to break your fall-

-and landed in the flames.

Pain.

Not sharp. Not slicing. But consuming.

It rushed through your arms in a molten wave. You screamed, curling in on yourself, trying to drag your hands back, but the fire had already kissed your skin too long. The flesh was red, blistering in places. You could smell it.

They were already gone. Smoke clogged your throat as you scrambled up and staggered away, arms cradled against your chest. And behind you, the building screamed with you.

You couldn’t go back the way you came.

The fire had swallowed the hallway, angry tongues of orange and red devouring wood, screaming through every crack. Your breath caught as you turned away from the heat, arms searing, eyes blurred with smoke and tears.

No sign of San.

No sign of anyone.

Just you and the blaze.

You stumbled down a side hall, vision narrowing to a tunnel of flickering light and black haze. Every surface you brushed left ashes smeared on your skin. You gritted your teeth as another wave of pain rolled through your arms - raw, blistered, screaming.

A window. You saw it. Cracked. Half open. Smoke curling through the top pane. You forced your way toward it.

Your legs gave out just as you reached the wall. You collapsed to your knees, forehead thudding against the scorched wood. You tried again, dragging your body with one shoulder, your bloodied palms trembling. You had to use your elbows,  your wrists useless, swollen, burnt.

Every breath was a gasp. Every movement a curse.

You finally reached it. With one last wrenching effort, you shoved the window open wider with your forearm, ignoring the splinters and the sting. Cool night air rushed in, mixing with the smoke in your lungs. You took it in like a drowning thing.

Below… a rickety iron fire escape. Maybe two stories down. It would have to do.

You hauled yourself through the frame, dragging your body out headfirst and twisting to land awkwardly on the metal grating. It groaned under you.

Your vision spun. You tasted copper. You couldn’t scream anymore. You’d done enough.

Hand over shaking hand, you slid your body down each rung of the escape ladder, feet fumbling to find the bars below. At one point, your boot slipped entirely and you hung there- swinging-  your entire weight resting on your half-burnt grip.

You nearly let go. But your body refused to die just yet.

When your boots finally scraped dirt, you collapsed completely, a trembling heap on the alley floor. The fire roared above. Embers fell like dying stars behind you.

Still no San.

Still no one.

Just you and the pain.

And the question you couldn’t stop asking: Why did they wait for us?

Your knees scraped against the cobblestones, slick with ash and something that might’ve been your own blood. The alley twisted, unfamiliar. Or maybe you’d passed here before - maybe everything just looked the same in this light. Dim. Dead. Smudged by smoke.

Each breath clawed its way out. Each thought was worse than the last.

You pressed one hand against a brick wall for balance, but even that slight pressure made your vision flicker. Burned skin. Torn muscle. You could barely feel your fingers anymore.

Should I even go back?

What was left to return to?

You'd disobeyed. You'd failed. You’d walked into flames like an idiot and came out with nothing but pain and smoke in your lungs.

San might be dead.

The thought hit harder than it should have. And if he wasn’t… he was going to kill you himself. Or beg Hongjoong to. Either way, it was over.

You collapsed again, chest heaving. The cold of the stone seeped into your burned forearms, but you didn’t flinch this time. You were too tired. The city pressed down around you, narrow walls and sooty air, the occasional scream or siren in the distance. But no footsteps. No rescue.

You were alone.

Like you were always meant to be.

They’d never trusted you. And now San had proof , at least in his eyes. You went against the plan. You followed the enemy into the fire like a traitor chasing her real crew. You even got burned for it.

It didn’t matter that you tried to stop him. That you were right about something feeling wrong.

All they’d see was the fallout. No dead Blackeyes- not the ones we wanted. No message delivered.

Just you.

You could lie here. Let the street swallow you. Maybe the fire would finish what it started. Maybe the smoke in your lungs would finally settle. But even that wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve peace. Not yet.

You rolled onto your side, groaning, pushing yourself up with a raw, shaking elbow. You didn’t know where San was. You didn’t know if he’d made it out.

But you knew this: if you didn’t get back, if you didn’t try to fix this…

…Hongjoong wouldn’t need to punish you.

You’d do it yourself.

You gritted your teeth, spat blood onto the cobblestones, and started crawling again. Back toward the docks. Back toward your worst decision. And maybe, if the gods felt cruel enough,  back toward San.

The pain was beginning to blur into something more surreal than real. Your limbs felt scorched from the inside out, your breath rasping like torn sails in your throat. The city around you was dim- fancy buildings casting long shadows in the early morning haze. You were alone, dragging your bloodied body down the cobbled streets like some discarded soul the tide forgot to take.

Each movement was agony. Each step made you wonder why you didn’t just collapse and let it all end here.

Then you saw her.

At first, you thought your fever was back. A figure stood at the edge of an alleyway, half-shadowed. Cloaked in a heavy tattered shawl that brushed the floor, with wild grey hair spilling out like sea foam.

But it was her eyes that stopped you cold. Icy blue. Unnaturally sharp. Like looking straight into a storm.

You blinked, unsure if she was real.

She stepped forward slowly. Each movement deliberate.

"Salt’s in your blood now, child," she rasped. Her voice wasn’t frail, it was ancient. Like barnacles on a shipwreck.

You stared, unsure what to say.

She looked you over. Not with pity. But something stranger. Recognition, maybe.

"You’re walking a crooked path," she murmured, her eyes never leaving yours. "But not the wrong one."

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"They’ll try to use you. Some already are. But the tide… the tide doesn’t forget who it chose."

You shook your head. “Wait-what are you talking about? Tide? What does that mean? Do I know you?”

She smiled softly. "Not yet. But you will."

You took one shaky step toward her, and she was gone. No sound. No steps. Just… vanished.

The alley was empty. You looked around wildly, but there was no sign of her. Not even a wet footprint. Maybe the pain had finally cracked your mind.

But those eyes- You’d seen them before. Maybe in a dream. Maybe somewhere deeper.

You didn’t know. All you knew was that her words wouldn’t leave you.

Salt’s in your blood now.

Your body moved on instinct now, burning, shaking, scraped raw in every way a person could be. You weren’t even sure you were crawling anymore. It felt more like dragging. As if your body had long since given up, but something beneath it all refused to die. Refused to stop. Your fingers bled as they scraped over stone and splintered boardwalk.

And then-

Through the burning haze of your vision, you saw it.

The HalaVeil.

Anchored at the far edge of the docks, tall and sharp against the sky. Her black sails were furled, her hull as sleek and ominous as ever. She looked like a beast asleep, chains humming low with the kind of tension that never fully relaxed. She hadn’t left.

You froze, breath caught in your throat.

They were still here.

Your limbs nearly collapsed beneath you with relief—or dread, you couldn’t tell. You had been so sure… So sure that they'd left you behind.

That when the Blackeyes ambushed you, when the plan crumbled, when the flames rose high, you thought they'd use that as an excuse to cut ties. To let you burn. Bury the evidence.

But the ship was still docked. Which could only mean one thing:

San might not be back yet.

The thought hit harder than the pain. You swallowed the sour taste in your mouth, a mix of blood and guilt. He was hurt because of you. He might be dead because of you.

And yet… the ship remained. That tether. That looming threat. That promise.

Part of you ached to get there, to throw yourself onto its deck and surrender to the burn in your arms, the throb in your ribs, the sting of your charred skin.

But another part-the deeper one-whispered you shouldn’t be going back at all.

Still, you kept crawling. Like the tide pulling you in whether you wanted it or not. The closer you got to the ship, the less real it felt.

Your body was a pulsing bruise, every movement a scream beneath your skin. The salt of the dock air stung your burned arms, your legs barely worked, dragged more than walked, your vision doubled and blurred. You weren’t even sure if your eyes were open anymore. Only the dark outline of the HalaVeil guided you forward like a cruel lighthouse.

Closer. Closer.

Your fingertips grazed the dock planks.

The scent of sea salt and iron was everywhere. Your blood, the flames, the ash in your hair. And under it all, the faint familiar smell of the ship. Cold wood. Engine smoke. Salted leather. Home to monsters.

Something shifted above-movement.

Voices.

You were too far gone to register what they were saying, but suddenly, a shadow darted across the deck. Quick footsteps thundered.

Then-

“Holy shit-”

A voice.

Sharp. Familiar.

“It’s them! Hey-HEY!”

The world tilted. You lifted your head just enough to see him.

Wooyoung.

He stood at the edge of the ship like he’d seen a ghost. His sharp eyes-usually glinting with mischief or narrowed with suspicion-were now wide, horrified. He leapt down to the dock faster than you thought possible. You smiled. Or tried to.

“...W-Woo…” your voice cracked, just air and blood.

He dropped to his knees beside you, grabbing your shoulders far too firmly for how broken you were. “Don’t move,” he hissed. “Don’t even try.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted to say more. But nothing came out. Only black. The last thing you saw was the flash of panic in Wooyoung’s eyes, and the way his voice cracked when he called for help.

Back on deck- as the mission begins:

From the highest deck of the HalaVeil, just beside the portside rail, Hongjoong stood silently with his hands clasped behind his back.

The early light cast sharp gold lines across the ocean’s dark skin, and the city beyond was already stirring, Sunsdase never truly slept, only dozed between sins. The captain’s coat hung heavy on his shoulders, stiff with age and salt, the high collar sharp against his jaw. The breeze ruffled the ends of his raven-black hair, but his eyes didn’t flinch from the two figures shrinking in the distance.

San and the traitor.

Together.

A low breath escaped through his nose. “Fitting.”

Behind him, Seonghwa stood just out of reach, watching the same retreating silhouettes with a stillness that bordered on unsettling. His arms were folded, lean frame draped in black, and the expression on his face was unreadable, but Hongjoong knew him too well to miss the slight tension in his jaw.

“You think I’m wrong,” Hongjoong said without looking at him.

“I think,” Seonghwa replied after a beat, “that you’re not giving San a leash. Just teeth.”

A ghost of a smirk touched Hongjoong’s lips. “He doesn’t need a leash. He needs a purpose. And she’s going to give it to him.”

Seonghwa said nothing.

“She’ll either prove herself,” Hongjoong continued, “or she won’t.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Seonghwa’s voice was low. Cold.

Hongjoong finally turned his head, eyes glinting. “Then he’ll handle it.”

They both knew what handle it meant.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of firewood and sea grease from the nearby docks. Hongjoong returned his gaze to the shrinking pair. The way she walked slightly behind. The way San kept turning his head to glance at her, not protectively. Calculatingly.

“Do you believe her?” Seonghwa asked after a long silence. “Everything she said during the debrief?”

Hongjoong didn’t answer right away.

“I believe she thinks she’s telling the truth,” he said finally. “Which is more dangerous than lying.”

Below them, movement stirred on the ship-Mingi calling out to one of the deckhands, Wooyoung disappearing toward the infirmary again. Business as usual. Except it wasn’t. Not since Yeosang. Not since the curse.

“I want eyes on the docks,” Hongjoong said without turning. “If she does anything-anything-that San can’t report back himself, I want to know about it.”

Seonghwa gave a tight nod and turned to leave. Just before stepping below deck, he paused. “...You never did say what happens if she survives.”

Hongjoong didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Because in the captain’s mind, the real question was: What happens if she doesn’t?

"Go check on him." 

Hongjoong didn’t look up from the horizon, but his voice cut clean through the air. Cold. Final. The demand wasn't targeted to Seonghwa.

Jongho gave a short nod and turned, knowing instantly it was for him, boots thudding against the wooden floor of the ships deck as he exited. He didn’t ask which him-he already knew.

The infirmary door creaked open, and the scent hit him first. Salt. Disinfectant. And something bitter, like rotting copper beneath freshly cleaned linens.

Yeosang.

He lay curled on the cot furthest from the light. A thin blanket clung to his body like a shroud, rising and falling in shaky rhythm. The black veins had spread again. Jongho’s jaw tightened as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stared.

“…Jongho?”

The voice was barely there- soft, like torn thread.

Jongho grunted, stepping closer. "Captain asked me to check on you."

Yeosang gave the faintest smile, pale lips twitching. "So I’m still worth checking on, huh?"

"…Barely."

A silence settled between them. Not awkward. Just heavy. Yeosang’s eyes fluttered shut. “Did she make it back yet?”

Jongho’s stare sharpened.

“You shouldn’t be asking about her.”

“She’s part of this.”

“She’s a problem.”

Yeosang turned his head slowly. Despite the illness draining him, there was something clear in his gaze. Something that hadn’t dimmed. “You don’t think I know that?”

Jongho didn’t reply. His silence said enough.

“She doesn’t feel like a stranger,” Yeosang murmured. “Not entirely.”

“That’s the curse talking.”

“Maybe.”

Jongho approached the bedside. His hands moved out of habit, checking Yeosang’s pulse, brushing fingers across his forehead. Cooler than yesterday. Still not good. He scribbled something onto Yunho’s chart.

Yeosang watched him. “You ever think maybe she didn’t know what she was doing?”

“I don’t care.”

“She looked scared.”

“She should be.”

Yeosang closed his eyes again, sighing. The silence lingered.

“Does it still hurt?” Jongho asked eventually, voice quieter.

Yeosang didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The curse spoke through the tremble in his limbs. Through the way his breathing hitched when he shifted. Through the black web growing beneath his skin.

Jongho stared. Then finally said, “You don’t get to die.”

Yeosang smiled faintly. “Didn’t plan on it.”

Jongho stepped back, folding the chart and placing it onto the side table. But he didn’t leave. Yeosang blinked up at the ceiling. “Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we’d stayed on land?”

Jongho tilted his head. “No.”

“Liar.”

Jongho gave the barest shrug. “Land doesn’t change fate.”

Yeosang let out a soft exhale. Almost a laugh.

“You think she’s really part of this? Like… the bigger thing?”

“I think she’s dangerous,” Jongho said flatly. “And not because she fights.”

Yeosang turned to face him again. “Then why?”

Jongho looked at him for a long moment.

“Because she’s not lying. And that makes this worse.”

Neither said anything for a while. Eventually, Jongho sat in the chair beside the bed, arms crossed. Just watching. Yeosang didn’t tell him to leave. And Jongho didn’t plan to.

Yeosang rasped, a faint curve to his lips. “Shouldn’t you be sharpening your axe or something?” Jongho grunted and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “If I used an axe, maybe.”

They stared at each other a moment. The silence wasn’t awkward, just familiar.

“You look worse,” Jongho eventually said, nodding at the black veins creeping higher on Yeosang’s throat.

“You always know how to flatter a man.”

There was a pause. Then, quietly, Yeosang added, “It’s spreading.”

Jongho's jaw tightened. “I know.”

Yeosang’s gaze dropped. His fingers twisted the blanket in his lap. “I don’t… I don’t feel like myself.”

For a while, Jongho didn’t respond. He walked over, sat on the edge of a stool beside the bed. The low creak of wood between them.

“You’re still you,” he said eventually, voice low. “Just a little more… cursed.”

Yeosang laughed, dry and bitter. “Thanks.” Another long silence.

“You remember that job in Blackspur?” Jongho asked suddenly, tone lighter. Yeosang blinked. “With the sea glass vault?”

Jongho smirked. “You tripped the silent alarm and still convinced the guards they set it off.”

Yeosang let out a small huff of a laugh. “I was good back then.”

“You still are.” Jongho leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You’re not broken, Yeosang. You're just… dented.”

Yeosang looked at him. “Dented doesn’t kill you, huh?”

“No,” Jongho said. “Not unless you let it.”

Yeosang closed his eyes. “Sometimes I think I already did.”

The two of them sat in the silence that followed. Not comforting, exactly, but steady. Salt hung in the air from the nearby port windows. The kind of silence that only long friendships could survive. Jongho eventually stood. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently adjusted the blanket over Yeosang’s chest.

“Rest. We’ll need your mouth back at full sass soon.”

Yeosang smiled faintly without opening his eyes. “You miss it already?”

“I’d never admit it.”

Jongho turned to leave, the shadows swallowing him near the door. Before stepping out, he paused—just long enough for Yeosang to hear:

“I’d kill the world if it meant saving you. You know that, right?”

Then he was gone. Yeosang lay there, eyes wide open now, watching the cracks in the ceiling.

And he whispered into the empty room, “I know.”

The door hadn’t quite latched when Jongho left.

Yeosang heard his boots pause just outside, lingering longer than necessary. A shadow crossed the crack in the frame. Then gone.

He didn’t call him back. Didn’t have to.

The room was quiet again, but it held warmth now. Faint, like steam rising from a mug left too long untouched. It clung to the edges of the cot, to the lingering scent of salt and leather. Jongho’s scent.

Yeosang exhaled slowly.

His body ached. Every breath scraped like coral in his lungs. But his mind… that was louder than ever. He glanced toward the door. The one Jongho had slipped through. His gaze lingered too long.

Always the last one to leave. Always the first to look back.

His fingers curled around the blanket, knuckles pale. He didn’t know when Jongho had started seeing through him. Past the sarcasm, the reckless bravado. Past the pirate and into something… softer. Something Yeosang tried to keep buried beneath blade and blood and that damn lie-detecting stare.

And Jongho never said anything. Never pushed. Never needed to. But sometimes, he sat too close. Sometimes, his voice softened just for him. Sometimes, he looked at Yeosang like he already knew every terrible thing, and stayed anyway.

Yeosang closed his eyes again, breathing in the space Jongho had just left. And for just a moment, his pain dulled. Not from magic.

But from memory.

The morning fog still clung to the rails of the HalaVeil like something alive, something stubborn. Gulls circled overhead, cutting through the grey sky, but their cries felt too sharp in the heavy silence that coated the deck.

Hongjoong stood at the bow, arms folded behind his back, eyes locked on the far docks. He hadn’t moved for almost an hour. Just stared- calculating, simmering. Behind him, Yunho leaned against a mast, arms crossed, his brow low. His usual calm looked frayed at the edges. “It’s been too long.”

Seonghwa stood a few paces away, posture crisp and spine straight, but his jaw was tense. “They should’ve been back before sunrise.”

Hongjoong didn’t respond.

The wind toyed with the edges of the maps still pinned to the deck table behind them, snapping one free. Yunho caught it with one hand, eyes flicking toward the captain.

“Do you think it went wrong?” he asked, voice lower now. Sharper.

Hongjoong’s jaw twitched. “It wasn’t meant to take this long. Not unless one of them’s bleeding out. Or both.”

Yunho grimaced.

Seonghwa finally stepped forward, speaking in that cool, unfazed tone of his. “Should we prepare to retrieve them?”

“No,” Hongjoong said instantly. “We wait. A little longer.”

“But-”

“I said, we wait.”

There was a bite to his words now. Not anger. Not yet. But irritation curled around the syllables like smoke. He didn’t need to say what they were all thinking. If it had gone wrong, it could’ve been sabotage. It could’ve been her. Or worse, something they hadn’t accounted for.

Yunho ran a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing at the horizon. “You really think she’d do it? Turn on us?”

“We gave her a leash,” Seonghwa muttered, “but we never checked if she bites.”

Hongjoong’s gaze stayed locked on the dockside buildings. Still. Silent. Then, low: “We’ll know soon enough.”

Yunho's boots tapped against the wooden deck as he paced in a small circle, his brows knitted tightly. The tension in his jaw made his sharp features stand out even more, the morning sun catching against his high cheekbones and the edge of his nose ring. His long coat was undone, swaying slightly in the sea breeze, the soft fabric contrasting with the blade at his hip.

Seonghwa, in contrast, stood unnervingly still.

The early light hit his pale complexion in fragments, catching on the metal fastenings of his dark coat and the neatly-tied leather straps down his arms. Tall and sharp, like someone carved from frost, he looked every bit the first mate he was feared to be — a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to silence a room. His eyes were cold steel, watching the docks with the precision of a hawk.

Hongjoong didn’t say a word. The captain’s arms were still folded behind him, his rings glinting as his fingers flexed. His shorter frame didn’t detract from his presence — if anything, it only made it more concentrated. Compact and volatile. His dark hair ruffled slightly in the wind, strands falling across the high sweep of his cheekbone as he stared down the horizon like it had personally offended him.

Tension crackled between them like a fraying wire. None of them liked waiting. And this wait was far too long.

“I don’t like this,” Yunho muttered again.

“You’ve said that three times,” Seonghwa replied flatly, still not blinking.

“And I’ll say it a fourth if it gets us moving.”

Before another retort could be traded, Seonghwa shifted slightly. His head tilted. A flash of motion caught his eye - there, just beyond the fog.

A figure. A lone one.

He narrowed his gaze.

“…There,” he said, voice razor-thin. “Someone’s coming.”

Hongjoong immediately turned. His eyes scanned the edges of the dock, sharpening. Yunho stepped closer, squinting into the distance.

And then - the shape became clearer.

A coat. A red-tinted blade. A saunter that didn’t belong to anyone else.

San.

Alone.

Seonghwa’s eyes narrowed further. “Where is she?”

San’s boots slammed against the gangplank with a fury none of them were prepared for. He was always volatile. A spark too close to dry tinder. But this… this was different.

Yunho took one look at him and straightened, all prior amusement draining from his face.

San’s coat was dusted with soot, one of the sleeves singed near the shoulder. A thin streak of blood marked the corner of his lip, and there was a wildness in his eyes, not adrenaline, not joy. Rage. Bare and unchecked.

Seonghwa’s posture didn’t change, but his eyes tracked the scorch marks. The rip in the fabric near San’s hip. The tightness in his fists. The blade, still clutched in one hand.

No smile. No mocking. Not even a snide remark.

Hongjoong spoke first.

“You’re late.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a test.

San stopped just short of the captain, his chest heaving. His face was flushed, half with exertion, half with pure unfiltered rage. He said nothing.

“What happened?” Seonghwa asked, voice sharp.

San’s lip curled. “They knew we were coming.” Silence. He dropped his bloodied blade onto the deck with a dull clang. “We were set up,” he spat. “They were waiting for us.”

Yunho’s eyes narrowed. “What about-”

“She ran into the fire,” San snapped. His gaze shot to the medic like a blade. “She followed them. Into the fucking flames.”

Hongjoong blinked slowly. “So she’s dead?”

San’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped, trembling with barely-contained wrath. “No. Not yet. But she should be.”

A stunned silence fell between the three senior crew members. Even Seonghwa seemed taken aback by the venom in his tone.

“She disobeyed direct orders. Put the mission at risk. Slowed me down. We lost the targets,” San hissed. “And I had to watch three Blackeyes slip through the goddamn smoke.”

“Did you see their faces?” Seonghwa asked coolly.

San gave a curt nod. “Two of them. The third kept to the shadows.”

“And her?”

San scoffed, dragging a hand through his soot-laced hair. “ Probably burned. Stupid. Still crawling after them like she gave a damn.”

“She didn’t return with you,” Yunho said quietly.

“I left her,” San said, without remorse. “She wants to follow the wrong crew? Let her die with them.”

Another beat of silence passed.

Then - Hongjoong’s voice, soft. Dangerous. “Are you sure she ran with them… or after them?”

San didn’t answer. He just stared, chest rising and falling. Still trembling from fury. And for the first time in a long time… the air on the HalaVeil deck felt colder than the sea.

The air was tight. Thick with something unspoken.

San stormed down the deck, boots slamming against the wood. His curses echoed over the water, sharp and venomous. Yunho followed without a word, catching his shoulder only once to steer him toward the infirmary.

Hongjoong didn’t move. Not at first. He remained still at the rail, one hand gripping the edge so tightly his knuckles paled. The other hung loose by his side, fingers twitching slightly, as if debating whether to clench or strike. His expression was calm. Cold. Composed. But the way his jaw shifted betrayed him.

Seonghwa stayed silent a few paces away, arms folded neatly behind his back. Only when San and Yunho disappeared below deck did he speak. “He broke formation.”

It wasn’t a question.

Hongjoong gave a single nod, eyes still locked on the horizon.

“And she ran,” Seonghwa added.

Still no reaction. But Seonghwa knew him. Knew him better than anyone. So he stepped forward just slightly, just enough for the low whisper of his voice to carry.

“They’ll all feel it, you know.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and unreadable.

“The crew,” Seonghwa clarified. “The chaos. The doubt. The punishment.”

A beat passed. The wind pulled at the edge of Hongjoong’s coat. Then, at last, Hongjoong spoke. “I let her live to find the truth.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “And instead,” he continued, “she runs into flames, with them.”

He finally looked away from the sea and down toward the faint scorch marks still staining the deck beneath his feet.

“Am I the fool, Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa didn’t flinch. “Only if you keep her alive much longer.”

Hongjoong exhaled slowly, the sound almost like steam releasing from deep within. His voice came quieter this time. “Not yet.”

Seonghwa nodded. “You’ll break her eventually.”

“No,” Hongjoong murmured. “I think she’ll break herself.” And then-silence again. Heavy. Watching. Waiting.

The deck trembled beneath the captain’s fury. Hongjoong’s voice roared across the quiet ship, louder than thunder, sharper than steel.

“FUCK!”

He slammed his fist against the rail hard enough that the wood splintered under his knuckles. His breaths came ragged, chest rising and falling like a tide in storm.

“She ran into the flames! And San-that reckless son of a bitch-let her!”

Seonghwa stood nearby, unmoving. Calm. A necessary anchor when the tide began to thrash.

“You don’t disobey my orders!” Hongjoong shouted into the open sea, as if it might echo back the answers he didn’t have. “You don’t fuck up a mission this simple and come crawling back like nothing fucking happened!”

“Hongjoong-” Seonghwa started gently.

But it was too late. The door behind them creaked open.

Wooyoung stepped out, half-lidded eyes blinking into the daylight. He looked surprised, disoriented, maybe even a little curious, until he froze.

The captain’s gaze snapped to him like a beast scenting blood.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Hongjoong snarled.

Wooyoung stiffened. “I-I just-”

“GET BACK INSIDE!”

His voice cracked through the air like a whip. Even the gulls nearby scattered into the sky. Wooyoung took a step back, clearly startled, but didn’t move fast enough.

Seonghwa’s voice cut in smoothly. “He stays.”

Hongjoong turned to him sharply, jaw clenched.

Seonghwa didn't flinch. “We need eyes on the docks. Let him watch.”

Wooyoung stood very still between them, clearly sensing the tension but smart enough not to speak again.

Hongjoong stared hard at Seonghwa for a long moment, before spitting a curse under his breath and turning away, shoulders still taut with rage.

“Come,” Seonghwa said calmly, placing a hand on the captain’s arm and steering him away from the railing, from the crew, from the storm he’d nearly unleashed.

Wooyoung remained behind, silent, the weight of what he’d just witnessed settling heavy on his chest.

The wind tugged softly at Wooyoung’s shirt, salt-stained and rumpled from sleepless nights. He leaned both hands against the railing, eyes fixed on the sea ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing it.

Not at first. His mind was still echoing with the captain’s fury. The venom in Hongjoong’s voice. The way Seonghwa had calmly defused it. The way he had stood there-useless. Weak.

And more than that, the words. The fragments of chaos he'd overheard.

She ran into the flames. San let her.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t know what burned worse, Hongjoong’s anger, or the image of someone that fragile, that bleeding, willingly diving into fire.

Why would she do that? What if she didn’t care if she made it back? What if… she didn’t think she deserved to?

He exhaled through his nose. The horizon shimmered, the golden light of early morning spreading like oil on water. It was quiet now, deceptively so. No shouting. No footsteps.

Just his thoughts. His guilt. His fear for Yeosang. His confusion about her. His chest ached.

And then-he saw it.

A flicker of movement near the dock. Small. Sluggish. Almost like-

Wooyoung blinked, straightening sharply. His eyes narrowed. At first, he thought it was driftwood. A trick of the light. But then it moved again-crawled.

His heart dropped.

“No…” he whispered.

He bolted. Boots slamming against the deck, hair whipping in the wind as he sprinted toward the gangplank and down toward the dock, already shouting.

“HEY! HEY!”

The figure crumpled just beyond the edge of the stone path, body dragging forward weakly. Clothes scorched. Skin red and raw. Bloody arms trembling beneath them.

And then-his name. Croaked.

“...Wooyoung…”

His stomach twisted violently. He fell to his knees beside you, grabbing your shoulders a bit too strongly, panic swelling in his throat as he looked you over.

You barely registered him. Your eyes rolled, breath catching. Your hands tried to cling to his jacket before slipping away, fingers too weak. Your head dropped against his chest.

And then-

Darkness.

Wooyoung’s hands were shaking. Not from exhaustion. Not from fear of the others.

But from you.

Your skin-hot, fevered, sticky with blood and soot. Your arms hung limp. Your breath was shallow and inconsistent. He could barely feel a pulse under the bruises. He looked up the gangplank, toward the door that led to the infirmary.

Yunho’s in there, maybe he could help.

His stomach twisted harder. No...

San.

San.

The last thing San needed right now was to see you. He's not sure how long you'd last in there with him.

And if the captain caught sight of you in this state… not after that failed mission. Not after San came back alone and empty-handed, radiating rage and bruised pride.

“Shit,” Wooyoung muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “Shit, shit…”

Your head lolled in his lap. He gently cupped your cheek, fingers trembling as he brushed a burn near your temple.

“Why the hell did you run into fire, huh?” he whispered, almost breaking. “Why’d you have to make it harder to hate you…”

He sucked in a breath, grabbed your wrist- and pulled. You groaned, barely conscious. A ragged, broken sound that made his throat tighten even more.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, shifting your weight. He crouched lower, hooked an arm beneath your knees, the other behind your back, and stood with a grunt of effort. Your body sagged against him. You smelled like smoke and ash and singed fabric. His chest burned.

“I’ve got you,” he mumbled, more to himself than you. “You’re not dying. Not like this. Not after everything.”

He glanced one last time toward the infirmary. No. Not an option. Then toward the deck. Not up there either.

Wooyoung spun on his heel, boots thudding against the steps as he carried you down into the ship’s lower quarters- past the sleeping rooms, past the storage doors.

Down toward a small, rusted metal door near the very belly of the ship. Almost no one came down here anymore.

He shifted your weight, knocked the door open with his foot, and stepped inside. The room was dark, empty save for a few old cots and crates. It smelled of dust and seawater and long-forgotten sweat. Not ideal. Not safe.

But hidden.

He laid you down as gently as he could on a frayed mattress, brushing strands of hair from your face as he took in your burnt arms and the soot clinging to your lashes.

You didn’t stir. He hovered. Just for a moment longer. Then whispered, “Don’t die.” And shut the door behind him.

Wooyoung’s boots slammed against the lower deck steps as he sprinted upward, lungs burning. He weaved past hanging ropes and water barrels, eyes darting like a hunted animal. No one could see him like this-heart racing, wild-eyed, guilt painted across his features.

Not now.

He found Mingi near the gun maintenance room, crouched low beside a disassembled launcher, grease streaked across his fingers, sleeves rolled up. Focused. Calm.

“Mingi-!”

The taller man barely looked up. “Wooyoung?” he grunted, wiping his hand on a cloth. “You okay? You’re pale-”

“I need your help.”

Mingi stood, alert now. “What happened?”

“There’s no time to explain,” Wooyoung hissed, grabbing his wrist. “Come on.”

“Wooyoung-hey...slow down-”

But Wooyoung didn’t let him finish. He was already tugging Mingi down the hall. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t serious.”

“Did something explode? Did someone get hurt? Is it San—?”

“No.”

They rounded the corner. Wooyoung’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s her.” Mingi stopped walking. “What?”

“She’s back. She made it back. She’s in bad shape-burns, cuts, unconscious. San didn’t bring her back. I found her crawling by the dock.”

Mingi blinked. “Shit.”

“Exactly. And Yunho’s in the infirmary. And the captain, he’d kill her if he sees her like this.”

Mingi looked at Wooyoung, searching his face. “You’re serious.”

“She’s in the old storeroom,” Wooyoung said, voice shaking now. “Please, Mingi.”

For a heartbeat, Mingi didn’t move. Then, finally, he nodded once. “Show me.”

The storeroom was dim, cluttered with unused rope coils, dusty crates, and a leaking pipe that tapped against the wall like a ticking clock. In the corner, barely visible in the low light, was your body-slumped, half-conscious, barely breathing.

Mingi stopped in the doorway. His breath hitched. “…Shit.”

Wooyoung was already kneeling beside you, tugging at the rope wrapped around your burnt boots. “She’s alive. Barely.”

“How long has she been like this?”

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung said through clenched teeth. “I found her at the edge of the dock. I didn’t think she was gonna make it. She was just-there, like a ghost.”

Mingi dropped to his knees beside him. “She’s burnt.”

“Her arms,” Wooyoung nodded. “Fire. I don’t know what happened in there, San didn’t say anything. Just stomped on board like a demon.”

Mingi carefully peeled back part of your shredded sleeve. The skin underneath was blistered, angry, raw. “Damn it,” he muttered. “This is bad. We don’t have proper salve down here.”

Wooyoung reached into a crate and pulled out a small jar. “Found this. It’s not medical grade-it’s for rope burn, but it’s better than nothing.”

They worked quickly. As gently as they could, Mingi poured cool water from a flask over your wounds while Wooyoung dabbed at the burns. You stirred, but didn’t wake.

“I think some of the skin's already started to get infected…” Mingi mumbled.

“I didn’t know where else to take her,” Wooyoung whispered. “San would’ve killed her. Yunho might’ve let him.”

Mingi was quiet for a moment before he nodded. “You did the right thing.” Wooyoung exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for hours.

Then, after a beat, Mingi glanced at him. “But why?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer right away. “She’s… not what they think she is,” he said eventually. “You didn’t hear what I heard.”

Mingi’s eyes narrowed. “What did you hear?”

Wooyoung sat back on his heels, voice low. “That night. Outside the infirmary. Remember when I heard Yunho talking to Yeosang?  About the curse. He said… it wasn’t going to be a year. Maybe not even six months. Maybe less.”

Mingi went still.

Wooyoung continued, voice trembling, “And I saw the way she looked at Yeosang before she passed out on the first day. Like she knew something. Like she cared.”

“She’s Blackeyes.”

“She also dragged herself through fire to get back here. I don’t know what that means. But it means something.”

Mingi looked at you- ashen, trembling, barely breathing, and then at his best friend. “I’m with you,” he said. “But no one can know.”

Wooyoung nodded. “No one.”

Taglist- open: @nijisanjigenshin @littlebear005 @jellyjellyghost @deafeningpandareview @ramadiiiisme

[amoryeonjun]

Tidebound ☠️

Chapter Three

PirateOt8Ateezau x F!Reader/Original Character

- In a fractured, salt-soaked world ruled by magic and machines, the feared pirate crew of the HalaVeil sails in search of a myth, a cursed potion known as Luminaer, said to be the only cure for a deadly affliction slowly killing one of their own. When they cross paths with their most hated rivals, the Blackeyes, the crew demands revenge… and receives a strange girl instead.

You. Betrayed. Bruised. Bound. They call you Curse; a liar, a threat, a scapegoat. But as the storm deepens and the curse tightens its grip, it becomes clear: you might be the key to everything. Or the end of them all. And in the eyes of a crew that trusts no one… you’ll have to survive long enough to prove which. -

Genre: PirateAu, angst, slow burn, enemies to ??, Ot8

Warnings: Violence, swearing, fighting, injury, blood, curses, medical trauma, manipulation, distress, power imbalance, abuse, captivity, implied neglect/abandonment (lmk if i missed any!)

Word count: 15k

Masterlist > Previous > Next

The footsteps paused just outside the door.

You froze.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, the same ribs that still ached from San’s kick, now pulsing with the beat of fresh fear. You couldn’t tell who it was. The shadow under the doorway was unmoving, quiet. Listening? You sat up slightly, the stiff cot groaning beneath you.

Then, a slow, quiet turn of the latch.

The door creaked open. You squinted, ready to flinch. But it wasn’t Yunho. Not Seonghwa. Not even Jongho. It was someone else entirely. He stepped in without a word, shutting the door gently behind him. And when the low lantern light flickered across his face, your breath caught in your throat.

Yeosang.

He looked like a memory. Or maybe a warning. He stood in the doorway like a ghost unsure if he belonged, tall but slightly hunched, like he hadn’t stood fully straight in days. His skin was pale, nearly translucent, but threaded with faint, jagged black veins that snaked out from beneath his collar and disappeared into his sleeves. It looked wrong, like ink had been poured into his bloodstream and never washed out. His birthmark, the crimson splash across his cheekbone, pulsed darker now-  brighter under the lantern, as if fevered or awakened. His eyes were hollow but sharp. There was a trembling clarity in them, like he saw you in perfect detail... and didn’t quite know what to make of you.

You stared.

He said nothing.

You sat up further, confused, afraid, and somehow... concerned. He took a shaky step closer, breathing carefully, like even that effort cost him something.

“Are you...?” you started, then stopped yourself.

His eyes softened a fraction. “I’m not supposed to be here.” His voice was low, ragged. Not cold. Not mocking. Not like the others.

But it still sent a chill down your spine, not because of the tone, but the fragility behind it. Like each word had to pass through pain just to exist. He didn’t move again.

You swallowed. “If they catch you-”

“I know.” His gaze dropped. “They won’t. I… I just needed to see you.”

You weren’t sure what unsettled you more, the fact that he was here, breaking some unspoken rule… or the fact that he looked worse than you did. His hands trembled at his sides. His lips were pale. His jaw clenched as another line of dark vein crept subtly down his neck.

Whatever Echo’s Decay was doing to him… it was spreading.

And fast.

You sat there, speechless, unsure what to do. Say something? Help him? Call for Yunho? Instead, you just asked the first thing that came to mind:

“…Why me?”

Yeosang looked at you then- really looked at you.

And behind all the pain, you swore you saw something you hadn’t seen in anyone else here. Not cruelty. Not hunger. Not power. But curiosity. And maybe even a sliver of hope.

You didn’t know what to say.

The silence between you stretched, carved from tension and something far more fragile- guilt. Not just yours.

Yeosang leaned lightly against the wall, his frame tense with effort, breath shallow. His eyes had lost the sharpness from earlier. Now they looked tired. Not just physically- something deeper. Like he’d been shouldering silence for too long.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said again, quieter this time.

You opened your mouth, but he beat you to it.

“I don’t want them to know I came.”

His voice cracked, soft and sandpapered, like it hadn’t been used much recently. It didn’t sound like the voice of the man these pirates whispered about. It sounded like someone halfway between this world and the next. He stepped away from the wall, carefully, like his legs barely remembered how. The black veins curled like ink across his throat as he moved. "I know it wasn’t you,” he said.

You blinked. “…What?”

He didn’t look at you. His gaze was on the floor now, as if saying it aloud cost him more than the fever.

“I know you didn’t curse me.”

You stared. The words sank in slowly, like water through stone. You’d waited so long to hear that from any of them, to be seen as something more than a scapegoat. But Yeosang’s next words made the breath hitch in your throat.

“But I do know you were one of them.”

Your heart twisted.

“I remember your face,” he continued. “In the background. Quiet. You didn’t speak. You didn’t fight. But you were there.”

His gaze finally met yours again, not cruel, not angry… but not soft either.

“Maybe you didn’t pour the curse into my drink. Maybe you didn’t know what that captain was planning. But you were part of the crew that let it happen.”

You felt like you’d been struck. But Yeosang wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t throwing accusations. He just looked… tired.

“I don’t hate you,” he said after a beat, surprising you again. “That’s the strange part.”

You looked away, unsure if you believed him.

“I should. It would be easier.”

The room was still, save for the gentle creak of the ship and the buzz of the lantern. He stepped closer, stopping just a few feet from your cot. The black veins pulsed faintly at his collarbone. “But this curse…” he looked down at his hands. “It feels… old. Like it’s not just mine. Like it was waiting. Looking for someone.”

He glanced at you again. “And then… we found you.”

You frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know yet.”

That honesty, raw and unfiltered, hung between you both.

“I think you’re more important than they realize,” he said, almost to himself. “More than you realize.”

You swallowed, unsure how to respond. Your throat ached. He took another weak step back, gripping the wall for balance.

“I should go,” he muttered. “If they catch me…”

You didn’t move. You didn’t even breathe. Before leaving, Yeosang looked at you one last time.

“I don’t trust you.”

You nodded.

“But I think I want to.”

And with that, he slipped out the door, leaving you alone in the flickering quiet, heart pounding, eyes burning, and unsure which side of the story you were really standing on. The door shut behind Yeosang like a whisper.

Then silence.

Again.

It clung heavier this time. The air felt warmer, like it had soaked up his presence and left behind the memory of his voice. You stared at the wooden planks above you, the low flicker of the lantern still dancing in the corner of your eye. You didn’t dare move for a while. Not because you were afraid someone might return, but because you weren’t sure how much more your body could take. And more truthfully… you weren’t sure how much more your mind could either. Yeosang didn’t hate you. But he didn’t trust you. And somehow, that felt worse.

You let your head roll slightly to the side, cheek pressed against the thin pillow as your thoughts spiraled- loose, wild ropes tangling together in the dark.

You thought about San first.

How could you not?

The sound of his laughter still echoed in your ribs. You could feel the weight of his boot like it had only just landed. He was the most dangerous kind of cruel, the kind that enjoyed it. That looked at you like breaking you was a game, not a crime. And yet… somewhere beneath that sharp grin, there had been something flickering. Unstable. Not just anger. But something… wounded.

Then Jongho. Stone-faced. Cold. Precise. But out of all of them, the only one who had helped you eat, even if it was with the gentleness of a boot to a bowl. He didn’t see you as human. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he saw you as something worth keeping alive. Even if only for now.

Seonghwa came next in your mind.

That stare.

Unblinking. Calculated. Like he was always ten steps ahead of you, and you were a bug crawling across his map. There was no empathy there. No warmth. Just orders and restraint and a blade sharpened by time. He didn’t curse. He didn’t yell. But you could feel the threat in every quiet word. He didn’t need to raise his voice to control a room- or end one.

And Yunho.

You remembered the way he worked- hands steady, gloves tight, eyes barely flicking up. He didn’t speak to you unless he had to. His voice was curt, clipped. But his skill was unmatched. Everything he did, he did well. Efficient. Logical. He treated your injuries like broken parts, nothing more. You weren't a person to him. Just a job. A wound. A threat wrapped in flesh. Still… he hadn’t hit you. He hadn’t sneered. That was worth something, wasn’t it?

And then… Yeosang.

The cursed one.

The one who shouldn’t have come to you. Who looked like death was already calling. And yet, he’d spoken softly. Honestly. He didn’t scream or scowl. He looked at you. Like a person. Like someone with answers he couldn’t yet read.

You curled tighter into yourself on the cot, mind aching. They were monsters. All of them. But so had your old crew been. You thought of your former captain, the way his eyes gleamed whenever someone cried. The way he laughed too loud. The threats. The silence. The weight of fear pressed into your spine every time you heard your name.

The Blackeyes had betrayed you because it was easy. Because it was convenient.

And now here you were… among your enemies. But at least the HalaVeil didn’t pretend. They were cruel. Blunt. Bloody. But they were real. You weren’t sure if that made them better or worse. And you weren’t sure which side you feared more: the pirates who threw you away. Or the ones still deciding what to do with you.

The sea looked different that morning. It was quiet. Too quiet.

No gulls screamed overhead. No laughter rang out from the docks. Just the gentle lap of tidewater against splintered wood and the low creak of sails not yet caught by wind.

You stood on the deck of the Blackeyes, boots planted against wet timber, eyes staring out across the misted horizon. Siltshore barely peeked over the edge of the world- a sleepy port, half drowned in fog, its rooftops hunched like secrets waiting to be cracked open.

Behind you, the crew moved like smoke, sluggish, grumbling. Men with crooked teeth and crooked hearts, brushing off hangovers and shouldering weapons they barely cared to clean. The Blackeyes never had discipline. Just desperation. Greed. Cruelty that didn’t always need a reason.

The ship groaned as someone dropped a barrel too hard. You glanced back. The deck was slick with the aftermath of a stormy night. Ropes coiled in lazy knots, sails still slack, crates of supplies strapped down beside crates of something else, something no one had told you about. No one ever told you anything. You just kept your head low and your hands busy.

The captain emerged from below deck with a sneer curling beneath his beard. His coat was damp and stained, but his boots still shone. He always made sure of that. Power meant nothing if it didn’t come with polish.

“Move out,” he barked. “Tide waits for no man.”

He passed you without a glance. You didn’t flinch. You’d learned not to. As the crew snapped into motion, sails were hoisted and the hull gave a lurch. The sea accepted you greedily, pulling the Blackeyes from the harbor with a reluctant groan. The wind picked up, slow but sharp. Salt bit your face. The fog grew thicker.

The ship cut through it like a knife through cloth. You felt it, then. That strange shift in the air. Like something had changed. Not loudly. Not suddenly. But undeniably. You glanced toward the captain again, watched the way he reached into his coat, pulled out a flask, took a sip, and smiled to himself.

Smiled.

Like he knew something.

Like he’d already won.

You didn’t know yet what was in that flask. You didn’t know the name Yeosang. You didn’t know what Echo’s Decay was. What it would cost. But the sea did. It always knows before we do.

The Blackeyes drifted into Siltshore like a vulture gliding over a graveyard. By mid-morning, the port was awake, though barely. Most of its townsfolk moved slowly, heads down, carts creaking along cracked cobbles. Salt clung to the rooftops. Fish guts and smoke lingered in the air like fog that wouldn’t lift. You kept close to the rail, eyes scanning the crumbling town from the edge of the ship. A familiar unease was twisting in your gut, the kind that always came when you docked. You never knew what the captain had planned. But it was never anything good.

The first group of Blackeyes crew members filed off the ship like shadows, blending into the town with the kind of menace that didn’t need to be loud. You watched them scatter with weapons hidden in coat folds and poison tucked behind their teeth. You weren’t told what the goal was this time. You never were.

Until—

“You.”

You turned quickly, spine snapping straight. The captain stood near the helm, his face tight with thinly veiled irritation, a half-empty flask swinging loosely from his hand. His eyes locked onto you like a hawk sizing up something disposable.

“Yes, sir?” you managed, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

He jerked his head toward the docks. “You see that group over there? Moving past the fish carts?”

You followed his line of sight. Three silhouettes moved quickly, cloaked and deliberate, vanishing between alleyways.

“That’s who you’re tailing.”

You blinked. “Tail-? Why me?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. His stare hardened. “Because I fucking said so.”

You swallowed.

“Keep your distance. Don’t get caught. Don’t ask again.”

You hesitated, just for a second too long. He took a step toward you. “I swear on the salt in your lungs,” he hissed, “if you come back empty or spotted, I’ll carve you up and send your bones to your mother.”

You clenched your jaw.  Nodded. And turned before he could say anything else.

Your boots hit the dock a moment later, a cold sweat running down your spine. You kept your hood low and your steps light, weaving through crates and fish stalls, eyes fixed on the fading shapes ahead.

You didn’t know who they were. Or what they were here for. But something about the way they moved- precise, silent, like they owned the shadows they stepped through, made your stomach twist.

And something colder still whispered at the edge of your thoughts. You’re not following strangers. You’re following pirates. That you could tell straight away. 

The streets of Siltshore were tighter now. Buildings leaned in toward each other like gossiping old men, their wood swollen with salt and age. Clotheslines strung above like makeshift flags, dripping damp laundry and shadow. The ground underfoot was slick with rainwater and alley grime. You moved like you were born to it.

The three figures stayed ahead, darting between market stalls and rusting gates with the ease of men who’d done this a hundred times before. They didn’t speak. Just moved- swift, smooth, coordinated. Professional. You didn’t know who they were yet. But they weren’t normal dockside thieves. They walked like they had purpose.

Siltshore murmured around you, the clatter of fish buckets, dogs barking from balconies, old women swearing as they swept doorsteps. A child ran barefoot past you, laughing with a mouth full of seaweed. Somewhere, a bell rang twice. But you didn’t stop. Not until the three silhouettes finally slowed. You tucked behind a low wall, crouching just enough to stay hidden. They stepped into a narrow street, half-swallowed by mist and the burnt scent of oil. At the end of the road sat a crooked building, an inn, faded sign swinging in the wind:

THE BRINE TOOTH.

The door creaked as they entered.

You waited, breath caught in your throat, before darting back through the back alleys you knew so well. Past crates of rotting shrimp, under the broken archway where rats nested, down the slope of stones that led to the quiet end of the docks. The Blackeyes ship still loomed there, black sails half-drawn like sleeping wings. You found the captain near the stern, leaned over a warped map, chewing on a piece of salt jerky with far too much satisfaction.

“They stopped,” you said, out of breath. “Some run-down inn off Crooked Street. The Brine Tooth.”

He looked up. His eyes gleamed.

“Well, well…”

You hated that smile. It always came before something horrible.

“Good work,” he said, then pointed the jerky at you. “Now go back.”

Your brow furrowed. “Back?”

“Inside,” he clarified. “Sit in the inn. Watch them.”

“What if they-”

“Did I stutter?”

You flinched. He stepped closer, voice dropping to something quiet and sharp. “Stay in the shadows. Sit far. Act like a stray dog if you have to. I want ears in that room. If you get caught…” He grinned. “Don’t.”

You nodded stiffly. He patted your cheek hard enough to make your jaw ache. “That’s my little rat.”

You stiffened and turned away. That nickname...

Back through the alleyways. Back toward the inn. And as you neared the crooked door, heart pounding, you wondered: What exactly am I walking into?

The Brine Tooth smelled like sweat and spoiled rum. Low lanterns cast everything in the same dull amber, making the warped tables and greasy floorboards seem like they were dipped in honey and bile. A haze hung thick in the air, laced with pipe smoke and something iron underneath.

You slipped through the door quietly. The old hinges groaned, but no one turned. Not yet. The inn was small. One main room, a counter at the back, and a scattering of patrons who looked like they’d been soaked in brine and wrung out. A few fishermen. Two women counting coins. A drunk slouched over a broken stool.

And then them.

They sat near the back- cloaks lowered now, hoods pulled back.

Three men. One leaning lazily in his chair, boots up on the table. Another flicking a dagger between his fingers, disinterested but alert. And the third…

The third was looking directly at you. Your body froze mid-step. Just for a second. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched. But his eyes had found yours like he already knew where you’d be.

They were dark- not cold, but calculating. Curious. Pale skin, a splash of red curling under one cheekbone, too perfect to be blood. You looked away quickly. Heart hammering. Throat dry. That couldn’t be them. That couldn’t be… You moved to a far corner, slipping into a half-shadowed booth by the fire. Head down. Hands folded. Just another traveler. A stray. But you still felt his gaze on your skin like it had burned something into you.

It took everything in you not to look again. Because you knew those faces. Not personally. But from the posters. The ones that hung from every naval outpost and trade town bulletin board.

The face of men wanted for treason, for piracy, for disappearing ships whole.

The face on a name stained in blood and myth:

HalaVeil.

You weren’t following strangers. You were sitting across the room from the most wanted crew in Thalrune.

And they had seen you.

Even if they didn’t know who you were yet-

One of them had.

And you weren’t sure how long it would be before that look turned into something worse.

The door groaned again. You barely glanced up. But the air changed. A different kind of weight pressed on the room, one that didn’t announce itself with noise, but presence. Like someone who always knew how to take control without ever needing to raise his voice. You saw him in your peripheral first, a heavy coat draped over his shoulders, thick beard trimmed shorter than usual, one eye covered with a dull brass monocle. A disguise, but not one you’d mistake. Not him.

The Captain.

Even without the black coat he wore on deck. Even without the trident sigil on his rings. You knew the way he walked, like he owned every step, every table, every breath in the room. No one else in the tavern noticed. But you shrank deeper into your shadowed corner, breath held tight in your lungs.

He approached the trio with practiced ease, nodding in faux respect.

“Mind if I join?” he asked smoothly, voice lower than usual. Less like a bark, more like a silver knife.

The man with the dagger in his fingers gave a nod- cautious. The other two exchanged glances. One shrugged. The third, the one with the black eyes and red mark-you dared not look at again.

"Buy us a drink first," one of them said with a half-smile. Probably a joke. Probably not.

Your captain chuckled. “Gladly.”

You watched, frozen, as he settled in. He didn’t act like he recognized them. But he knew who they were. Of course he did. Anyone worth their salt knew what HalaVeil’s crew looked like. The conversation started slow. Weather. Trade. Siltshore’s dwindling supplies. He was warm, polite even. Like a merchant too rich to care about coin. Like a man used to getting what he wanted just by asking.

He offered information too- small, useless scraps about fake fleets and made-up cargo routes. Fishing for their interest. Measuring their reactions. You saw the one with the knife grow bored. The other kept watching the door.

But the silent one -the one who had seen you, kept his eyes on your captain. Silent. Listening. Never sipping his drink.

Not yet.

You flinched when your captain leaned forward, calling over the barmaid with a flick of his wrist. He paid for another round. Four mugs arrived, each filled with dark, spiced ale, strong enough to mask anything bitter. You knew the look he got when he was about to make a move. The subtle curl of his fingers. The twitch at the corner of his smile. You saw it just in time to catch the flick of his hand.

Your skin went cold.

You didn’t know what it was.

You didn’t know why.

But something was being set in motion, something you were too far away to stop.

And the look your captain gave him afterward?

That smug, small smile?

That was the smile of a man who’s just about to seal someone’s fate.

Eventually, the talk died down. One of the men grew tired of the useless back and forth, so he called them to leave. The first two straggle out of the inn with a permanent scowl on their faces. The third lagged behind. The tavern was thick with noise now , laughter rising, boots scraping, a drunken ballad being slurred out by a cluster of fishermen in the corner. The flickering lanternlight cast everything in shades of amber and soot.

Your captain leaned closer to the table, voice quiet, confidential.

“You’ve got sharp eyes,” he said, nodding toward the pirate. “Bet they see more than most.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just narrowed his eyes, like he wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or warned.

“Sometimes,” he said finally.

Your captain smiled that lazy merchant smile. “Ever get too much noise up there? Too many thoughts all at once?”

He tilted his head.

“I’ve got something for that,” the captain continued, slipping a small corked vial from the inside of his coat. The glass was clouded, but inside swirled a faint shimmer, silver against green.

“Old herbal stuff. Clears the head. Calms the nerves. Little trick I picked up from the desert ports,” he lied smoothly.

He set it on the table with a quiet clink, then raised both hands like it meant nothing.

The dark eyed pirate glanced at it. Skeptical. But curiosity glinted in his eyes. He lifted the vial, swirled it once. No scent. No label.

“Try just a drop,” the captain offered. “Works best mixed into something warm.”

He hesitated for a breath. Then reached for his mug of ale, still half-full. Uncorked the vial. And poured it in. The moment the liquid hit, the color shifted — dark amber turning to a murky green. Bubbles fizzed up like carbonation, then sank back down.

He blinked. “Strange.”

“Strong minds need stronger remedies,” the captain replied.

 He lifted the mug. But almost... hesitantly.

You looked away.

You never saw him drink it.

But you heard the captain chuckle softly.

And you would never forget that green.

The HalaVeil groaned in the early morning wind.

Her dark sails hung loose, not yet filled, swaying gently as though still dreaming. The deck was slick with the night’s mist, and the sky overhead was a dull bruised grey- sun not yet risen, but the sea already awake. Somewhere deep in her bones, the ship breathed. And above deck, so did her crew.

Mingi was the first to emerge.

His steps were heavy, not with tiredness, but with the weight of always thinking ahead. He stretched his arms over his head with a quiet grunt, jacket hanging off one shoulder, the coppery glint of his tools already slung at his hip. Pale hair still damp from washing, curls pressed against his forehead. His eyes, however,  sharp and scanning,  already clocked everything. The angle of the sails. The air pressure. The faint tremble of the boards beneath his boots.

He moved toward the starboard gunline, running gloved fingers over the latches. Muttering numbers to himself.

Not far behind him, Wooyoung stepped out.

His walk was slower. Barefoot, unbothered, still shrugging on the thin wrap of a long-sleeved tunic as he moved. His red hair was messier than usual, no product today, just wind-swept and loose. There were shadows under his eyes, but the familiar spark hadn't left. He gave Mingi a slight nudge with his elbow as he passed.

Mingi didn’t look up. “You sleep?”

“Define sleep.”

Mingi hummed. “That bad?”

“Worse,” Wooyoung muttered, turning his gaze toward the sea.

Silence passed between them, not awkward, but known. A silence that came from knowing each other far too long to bother filling every space.

Below deck, heavier boots echoed.

Jongho emerged from below, already dressed in full gear. His hair was neat, tied back at the nape of his neck. His jaw tight, always clenched like he was fighting the urge to tell someone off. His expression didn’t shift when he saw the others. He simply walked across the deck, arms crossed, gaze flicking to the horizon like he could see something in the fog no one else could.

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “He’s got his death glare on extra early.”

“He’s always got that on,” Mingi replied.

“True.”

Behind them, the door to the strategy quarters creaked open. Seonghwa stepped out with the quiet precision of a blade being unsheathed. His black coat swayed lightly as he moved, and even this early, not a strand of hair dared fall out of place. His gaze cut across the deck like he was already calculating which one of them needed correcting today.

Wooyoung offered a mock salute. “Good morning, sir.”

Seonghwa didn’t answer. Just walked past. Stillness returned to the ship. Only the faint hum of the tide remained, lapping gently at her sides. And below deck, hidden in the deeper veins of the vessel, two more still stirred in shadows: Yeosang, weak and fevered in the medbay. And you, alone in the smaller room where they’d left you. Unaware of how much the tide was already shifting again.

You woke with your heart in your throat.

Sweat clung to your skin, sticky at the nape of your neck. Your breath came shallow at first, as if your body hadn’t realized you were no longer trapped in that memory. Your limbs ached. Your ribs burned dully. But more than anything, your mind was clearer. And that was worse. Because you remembered.

Not just the poisoned drink. Not just your captain’s voice in that godforsaken tavern. You remembered the green. The moment it changed. The moment Yeosang’s fate might’ve been sealed, and how you’d just stood there, too scared to ask questions.

You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to block it out. But it lingered. Crawling behind your ribs like rot. The door opened without a knock.

You tensed.

Yunho stepped inside, carrying a bowl of water and a fresh cloth. He didn’t glance at you at first, just set them down on the nearby table with his usual slow precision. His dark hair was still damp from a recent rinse, pushed back from his forehead. His broad shoulders took up the doorway for a moment too long before he finally crossed the room.

“You’re finally awake,” he said dryly, not a trace of warmth in his voice. You didn’t bother answering.

He pulled a stool closer and sat down beside the bed, eyes scanning you like a puzzle he didn’t particularly want to solve.

“Sleep well?” he asked flatly, like he was reading a script.

You met his gaze, voice hoarse but steady. “I dreamt of poison.”

That caught his attention. Just slightly. One brow twitched up, but his smirk didn’t falter. “Sounds like a you problem.”

Your fists clenched in the sheets. “You’re all the same.”

“Not quite,” he said, leaning forward with a clinical detachment that still somehow felt personal. “Some of us are worse.”

You glared. He didn’t flinch. He grabbed the cloth, dipped it in the water, and began wiping down your forearm, not roughly, but not gently either. His touch was firm, efficient.

“I’m going to do a quick check-up,” he muttered.

He said it casually.

But his eyes lingered for a beat too long.

“…Before I- ” he started, then cut himself off.

He smirked. "Well... I won't spoil the surprise for you. Where's the fun in that huh?"

And that was somehow worse than if he’d finished the sentence. You stared at him, pulse crawling up your throat. But Yunho didn’t elaborate. He just wrung out the cloth again. And you lay there, heart racing, wondering which part of you would be examined next, and which part of yourself would shatter first.

Yunho’s fingers pressed firmly just under your ribs, his brows drawn slightly as he examined the area. You hissed through your teeth, jerking slightly at the pressure. He didn’t apologize.

“Still bruised,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the forming yellow around the edges of the break. “But it’s healing. Fast, actually.”

He sat back, peeling off the gloves he’d worn for the inspection and tossing them into the small bin nearby. His lips twitched with a dry kind of amusement.

“Even your rib,” he added, voice lightly laced with sarcasm. “Guess you’re too stubborn to stay broken.”

You glared up at him.

“Or maybe it’s just the will to punch someone.”

He chuckled, the sound low and unbothered. “Please. You’d pass out before your arm even lifted.”

“I’d still aim for your throat.”

He leaned in slightly, arms folding across his broad chest as his eyes scanned you, not as a patient, but a person he didn’t quite understand. Not yet.

“And here I thought you’d be more grateful. You’ve been given food, water, medical attention. Warm bed.”

“Chains. Threats. Mockery.”

He shrugged. “We’re pirates. Not a health spa.”

You exhaled harshly, forcing yourself upright more fully against the pillows. The ache in your muscles told you it was too soon, but you pushed through it, just to show him you could. “How long?” you finally asked.

His brows raised.

“How long are you all planning to keep me locked up here?”

Yunho’s gaze lingered. And then-his lips curled slightly. Not a smile. A smirk. “Your questions,” he said, reaching for the bandage roll, “will be answered soon.”

You frowned.

“But not by me.” He didn’t elaborate. Just stood up.

And began repacking his supplies with slow, deliberate ease, like he already knew what was coming. And exactly who was about to walk through that door next.

Yunho stayed longer than you expected. He moved with slow, precise motions, the kind that made you feel like time was stalling on purpose. Like the seconds were stretching just to see how long you’d last. He filled a clean glass from the water jug and brought it over without a word. You took it from him, cautious fingers curling around the cool glass like it might vanish. The first sip burned down your throat, not from heat, but from how dry everything inside you had become.

Yunho watched you drink with the detached patience of someone studying a storm cloud. “Don’t get used to it,” he said finally. “You’ll probably be allowed to eat later.”

That word- allowed- slid off his tongue like a knife across silk.

You lowered the glass slowly. “Do I get a treat if I behave too?” He arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Depends. Are you planning to bark or bite?”

You smiled, a small, cold, bitter thing. “Haven’t decided yet.”

The silence stretched. But you were already testing fate, so your voice rose again, quieter this time. “…Is ...Yeosang... okay?” You say his name with an uncertainty.

Yunho didn’t answer at first. Didn’t even look at you.

He began tidying up the table instead, restacking his supplies, tightening a few bottles. Each movement sharp and controlled.

Then he turned. And his face had shifted. No more dry sarcasm. No vague amusement. Just ice.

“You don’t get to say his name.”

You swallowed. The tension in the room crackled like salt against raw skin.

“I just-”

“I don’t care,” Yunho cut in. “Whatever sympathy you think you’ve earned, it doesn’t stretch that far.” His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might walk out.

But he didn’t. He stood there. Watching you. Like he was waiting for you to break again.

Instead, you looked away first. And that’s when the door creaked open. Both your heads turned at once. Boots stepped into the frame.

A familiar figure. But not the one you expected. The room chilled by a few degrees the moment the door opened. Boots stepped forward with silent authority. You didn’t need to look twice.

Seonghwa.

Even without words, his presence hit like a cold gust of wind- sharp, slicing, absolute. He moved like someone who knew control was something he never had to raise his voice for. His long black coat shifted with each step, tailored tightly to his tall frame. Not a hair out of place, not a glance wasted. When his eyes finally settled on you, they didn't linger. Just a flicker, more an assessment than an acknowledgment.

He looked through you.

Then turned to Yunho.

“Is it ready?” Seonghwa asked, voice smooth and low, like the sea before a storm.

Yunho didn’t hesitate. “She’s ready.”

That tone. The emphasis. Like you weren’t even there. Your brows furrowed, heart climbing into your throat. “Ready for what-?”

“No one asked you,” Seonghwa said flatly, not even turning to face you.

Yunho didn’t bother hiding his scoff as he stepped back and began putting his gloves away. “Don’t waste your breath.”

“But I-”

“Be quiet,” Seonghwa cut in again, sharper now. His eyes finally met yours, cold and unreadable. “You’ll know when you need to.”

The silence that followed made your skin crawl. Neither man moved to explain. They didn’t offer answers, didn’t offer comfort. They simply acted like your confusion was irrelevant. Like you were a package being prepared for delivery, not a person.

You glanced between them, pulse loud in your ears. What was ready? What did they mean? And why the hell did it feel like something was about to shift forever?

Seonghwa didn’t need to raise his voice. He just stepped closer, expression sharp as ever, and said-

“Come.”

One word. No warmth. No question. A command carved from ice. You stayed still for a second too long.

His gaze narrowed.

“I wasn’t asking.”

Your spine stiffened despite the dull ache still coiled in your muscles. You shifted, planting one foot down off the bed, then another. The floor was cold beneath your soles. Your knees buckled slightly, body still weak from starvation and fever, but you didn’t fall.

Not yet.

You swayed, one hand gripping the wall as you tried to steady yourself.

Seonghwa watched you with disinterest. Like he was waiting for a dying candle to flicker out.

When your body gave a slight lurch again, he let out a soft breath, not concerned, just annoyed.

“Crawl, then since you can't follow basic instructions.”

The word hit like a slap.

Your head snapped up.

“Go to hell,” you snapped back, voice hoarse but steady.

A slow smirk tugged at the edge of his lips, not amused, but pleased that you still had some bite in you. He said nothing else, simply turned on his heel and started walking. And you followed. You didn’t want to. But you did.

Each step was shaky. Your legs felt like driftwood, barely holding. But you forced them forward one after the other, limping behind him through the narrow corridor.

The HalaVeil creaked beneath your feet, the groaning bones of the ship whispering above and below. The walls were lined with thick pipes, brine-soaked beams, and old netting that swayed with the ship’s slow rock. Crates stamped with foreign symbols were tucked into alcoves, most bolted down. Some were glowing faintly from within - Tideborn tech, no doubt.

Every surface bore the mark of wear. Rust. Scratches. Blood, maybe, dry and cracked in the grooves of the wooden planks. The ship smelled of salt, oil, and smoke.

Seonghwa said nothing as he led you down a winding path, past closed metal doors and bolted hatches. A few crew members passed, some nodded at him respectfully, others cast you long, suspicious glances.

No one spoke to you. No one looked kindly. Somewhere above, a gull cried. Somewhere below, something mechanical hissed and churned. It felt like walking through a machine. A living thing made of tide and blood and iron.

And Seonghwa?

He didn’t spare you a single glance. Just kept walking, sure you would follow. Sure you wouldn’t dare stop. And he was right.

The ship groaned again beneath your feet as you followed Seonghwa through another narrow hallway, this one tighter and lined with faded maps pinned between oil-stained beams. The higher you climbed, the more the air shifted- warmer, heavier. Like the walls themselves had started listening.

Your legs still trembled, but you kept up. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you fall behind. Then, up ahead, you saw someone turn the corner.

Wooyoung.

His stride faltered the second he saw you.

He didn’t speak. Not right away. Just stood there, gaze locked onto you like a question he hadn’t found the answer to.

You recognized him immediately — he had one of those faces you didn’t forget. Dark, sharp eyes under heavy brows, his lips a permanent smirk even when it wasn’t aimed at anyone. He was the first to come and see you when you were trapped in the hold. He was the only one to bare a smile in your presence, even if fake. But this time, the expression faltered. Something flickered there.

Recognition?

Disgust?

Pity?

It wasn’t clear.

What was clear was the way his eyes dipped, just for a second, to your still-bruised ribs, the fading blood dried at the edge of your shirt.

He looked away. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

Seonghwa didn’t stop. He barely spared Wooyoung a nod. Just kept walking, and so did you, though your heart thudded hard in your chest now, loud enough you were sure someone could hear it. Finally, after another short flight of steps, Seonghwa came to a door unlike the others.

Thicker. Darker. The frame was reinforced with bolted steel bands, and the handle glinted like it had been polished recently, a rare thing on a pirate ship.

Seonghwa stopped.

You did too, swallowing against the dry weight in your throat. He didn’t look at you at first. Just stood with his back to the door, glancing down at the worn floorboards like he could already hear whatever storm was about to follow.

Then he lifted his head. And smiled. Not kindly. Not even smug. But cruel. Sharp enough to cut.

“The captain,” he said, voice low and taunting, “will see you now.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned the handle.

And opened the door.

You stood frozen in the threshold. The door clicked shut behind you. Seonghwa was gone.

And now… you were alone. Well-not alone.

Your eyes slowly adjusted to the dim glow of the captain’s quarters. It was warmer here, the air thick with candle smoke, parchment dust, and old sea brine. Shadows flickered along the slanted walls, cast by a dozen mismatched lanterns swinging gently from the ceiling’s beams. It didn’t look like a pirate captain’s room. It looked like a war council disguised as a study. Maps lined the walls, dozens of them- overlapping like a spider’s web. Torn edges, ink stains, curling corners, annotations scrawled in languages you didn’t recognize. Some had pins in them. Others had strings connecting ports and islands, red wax dots marking places you really didn’t want to know about. A few maps glowed faintly. Tideborn-infused. Below the wall of maps was a heavy desk, wide, cracked along the edges, ancient. Spread across it were more papers, scrolls, compasses, and jagged bits of machinery half-gutted and rewired. There were vials too, some empty, some filled with swirling liquid that shimmered unnaturally under the dim light.

And behind it?

Sat him.

Hongjoong.

You knew it was him even before your eyes had fully settled on him. He had that kind of presence, the kind that hit before he even moved. The kind that said this is mine without needing to say anything at all. He sat in a high-backed leather chair, one boot propped up casually against the side of the desk, elbow resting on the armrest, fingers toying with the edge of a small blade that caught the light every time it spun. His hair was brushed back, dark and disheveled but still intentional, like even his chaos was calculated. His cheekbones were razor-sharp, casting deep shadows down his face, and his lips curved with something that wasn’t quite a smile.

But it was his eyes that stilled you.

Sharp. Intelligent. Completely unreadable.

You understood immediately why the crew followed him like gods obeying fate. He didn’t look up right away. Didn’t acknowledge your presence with words. Just let the silence swell until it pressed against your ribs like a rising tide. Your hands twitched. You took one step in. Then another. Every creak of the wood underfoot felt like a scream in your ears.

Hongjoong’s fingers finally stilled. The blade stopped spinning. He looked up. And when he did, the full weight of him hit like a drop in pressure before a storm.

Cold.

Controlled.

Cruel.

And deeply, deeply aware of you.

His gaze swept you once, slow and surgical, taking in your limp, your fading wounds, the bruises across your collarbone, the flicker of defiance still left in your eyes.

Then he leaned forward. Both feet on the floor now. Hands clasped. Elbows on the desk. Waiting. You couldn’t tell if he was about to speak… Or let you hang in silence until you broke first.

The silence snapped like a rope pulled too tight.

“So,” Hongjoong said, voice calm, almost conversational- but laced with something jagged, “you’re not dead.”

Your breath caught. His eyes narrowed slightly, lips twitching into something like a smirk. “That’s… surprising.”

He leaned back in his chair again, gaze still pinned on you. “I half-expected I’d be dragging your body up from the hold by now. Toss you to the sea. Let her judge you.”

You flinched. He noticed.

“Though really,” he continued, voice dropping to something colder, “you’re lucky. San was one of the ones who put you down there. I would’ve bet money he’d throw you into the brig just for fun. Guess he’s developing restraint.” A pause. “Or boredom.”

Your throat burned. “San…?”

You had only heard that name once, but had no face to place it with.  Not with meaning.

Hongjoong’s grin widened.

“The one who gave you that lovely souvenir.” He gestured lazily toward your side.

Your ribs. The ones still bandaged. Still aching. Ah... now you know the name of who enjoyed toying with you when you were on deaths door. You make a sharp note to remember that.

Your fingers twitched over the bandage instinctively, eyes narrowing. He caught it - and laughed. Not loudly. Not with joy. But with something much crueler. Amusement sharpened into a blade.

“He has a temper, our San. You probably noticed. Not the patient type.” You stared at him, jaw clenching. “Why?”

His brow arched. “Why what?”

“Why did he do that?”

Hongjoong tilted his head slightly, as though considering. Then: “Because he could.” The words landed heavy. Like truth soaked in salt.

You didn’t answer. What could you say?

Hongjoong didn’t seem to care for a reply anyway. He just leaned forward again, fingertips tapping slowly against the wood.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“You’re not part of the Blackeyes anymore,” he said, voice quieter now. “But you were. And that makes you ours.”

Your breath caught. Ours. Not a guest. Not a prisoner. Ours. Like possession. Like prey. He didn’t blink as he added, “So. Let’s talk about what that means, shall we?”

You hadn’t realized how hard you were clenching your fists until your nails bit into your palms. Hongjoong hadn’t blinked in the last full minute. Just stared. Like a cat waiting for the mouse to stop trembling so it could finish the game.

Then he said it.

“I don’t care what you were called before.”

You froze.

His voice dropped, smooth and lethal. “What you were named. What they called you. It doesn’t matter.”

He stood now, slowly,  the chair groaning behind him as he moved around the desk. Every step deliberate. Like he wanted you to hear the scrape of his boots against the floor. “You’re on my ship now.”

He stopped just in front of you. Close enough to make your skin crawl. Close enough to see the faint Tideborn shimmer in his irises under the low light.

He looked you over again, jaw tight. His lip curled slightly. Not at your appearance, but at the defiance still burning in your eyes. Then he smiled.

“You’re Curse now.”

The word echoed in the room like a chain dragging across wood. “That’s what my crew will call you. That’s what you’ll answer to. That’s what you are.”

Your stomach twisted. It didn’t feel like a nickname. It felt like a sentence. You stared at him. “What the fuck am I doing here?” The second the words left your mouth, you regretted it.

Hongjoong didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His expression darkened so subtly, so coldly, that it made your breath catch in your throat.

“What,” he repeated, stepping even closer, “did you just say?”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes were fire now. Not burning bright. But the kind that smoldered after everything else had already been reduced to ash.

“You don’t speak to me like that,” he said. Quiet. Measured. Terrifying. “This ship runs on one thing.” He tapped his chest. “Me.” His hand dropped, fingers grazing the hilt of a dagger strapped to his hip. “You want answers? You earn them. You want mercy?” His grin returned, sharper now. “Too late.”

Then he turned. Walked back to his desk like nothing happened.

“Now sit,” he said without looking back, “before I really decide what to do with you.”

You didn’t sit.

Not right away.

You stood there, locked in place, heart pounding like cannonfire in your ears, part from fear, part from fury. You hated him. Hated the way he made the room feel too small, too hot. Hated the way he hadn’t raised his voice once, and yet it had you trembling.

And he saw it. He always saw.

“You think I’m cruel,” Hongjoong said casually as he sat again, flipping open a worn map on his desk like you weren’t even there. “I see it in your eyes.”

He didn't look at you, not yet.

“But let me ask you something.” He raised his head slowly, fingers still tracing the map.

“Did your old captain ever call you by your name?”

Your mouth stayed shut. His head tilted slightly, waiting. “Did he care if you made it back on board each night?”

Still silence.

“Did he let you eat if you disappointed him?”

The lump in your throat burned.

“You think you were free over there?” he asked, voice still soft. Too soft. “You weren’t. You were just forgotten. Here? Here you’ll be remembered.”

His eyes glinted. “For better or worse.”

He stood again.

“You’re not with the Blackeyes anymore. And you’re not some innocent little survivor I’m rescuing from the sea.” His gaze dragged over you like a knife.

“You’re mine.”

You flinched before you could stop it. He smiled. “Not a guest. Not a prisoner.”

His hand reached out, fingers lifting your chin before you could recoil. Not rough. Not bruising. Just sure.

“You are what I say you are. And you will do what I say you’ll do.” He leaned in, and his breath was cold despite the heat of the room.

“Because now, little Curse... you belong to the HalaVeil.”

You jerked your face away from his touch, a weak spark of defiance flashing through your chest. “And what exactly do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just turned from you, picking up a rolled parchment and flicking it open with a single snap.

“To save Yeosang.”

The name landed like an anchor. You blinked. “Why would I-?”

“You don’t get to ask why.” He cut you off, voice slicing through yours like a blade through rope. “You’re going to help us fix what your crew started.”

He walked slowly to the wall of maps, eyes scanning paths and symbols drawn in crimson.

“Whether or not you actually cursed him doesn’t matter anymore. You were theirs.” He turned his head. “Which means you know something. Even if you don’t realize it yet.”

“And if I don’t?” you whispered.

He smiled again. Not kind. Not merciful.

“You will.”

He didn’t speak at first when looking over his papers. Just stood there, back turned, tracing a path over the maps with his finger like your future was etched somewhere in the lines. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was a held breath. A storm that hadn’t decided where to break yet.

Finally, he spoke,  low and pointed. “There’s something poetic about it, don’t you think?”

You blinked. “About what?”

He turned his head slowly, eyes burning into you.

“About the fact that you were left to rot in the dark by the people you bled for… only to be dragged into the light by the ones who hate you.”

He took a step forward. “I wonder which hurts more.”

You swallowed hard but said nothing.

“Don’t bother answering,” he added, voice smooth and mocking. “I already know.”

He moved again, coming out from behind the desk. It was the first time you’d seen him fully rise to his feet, not slouched over - and somehow, the room felt smaller for it. He wasn’t towering. Still taller than you, yes- but not in the way some of the others were. He didn’t need to be. Because it wasn’t about size.

It was about presence.

About the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his coat flared like it had weight, the Tideborn glint in his eyes that shimmered like a storm just beneath the surface. The energy rolling off of him was the kind that made your skin crawl and your knees ache, the kind of authority that didn’t ask to be respected.

It demanded it.

He approached slowly, gaze flicking over your face with something unreadable. Then, that smirk returned. Cold. Final. “Well,” he said. “You’re not dying anymore. Not tied down. Not pissing yourself in the infirmary.”

Your jaw clenched.

“Which means it’s time.”

You frowned. “Time for what?”

He tilted his head. “To meet the rest of the crew,” he said simply. “Properly.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You wanted answers, didn’t you?” he added, turning toward the door and pulling it open. “You want to know what you’re doing here?”

He looked back at you one last time, the candlelight catching in the gold of his earring, in the cruel glint of his eyes. “Then come see the people you’ll be doing it with.”

You barely had time to speak. The door hadn’t even shut behind you before Hongjoong grabbed a fistful of your collar, the same one soaked with blood, salt, and days-old sweat, and shoved you forward.

You stumbled, caught yourself, but not fast enough.

Another shove.

Then a hand tangled into your jacket, gripping the torn fabric like a leash.

“Move,” he growled, voice low and tight.

You bit your tongue as the hallways blurred past in dim lantern light, your feet dragging, your ribs aching with every jolt. The floor beneath you creaked with age and fury. You passed doors, bolts, hatchways, none of them opening. None of them welcoming.

No one stopped him. Of course they didn’t.

You were the Curse now.

The filth under their boots. The thing dragged behind the captain like an animal too pitiful to kill. Your boots scraped against the floorboards, your balance barely holding as you were yanked down another corridor, your jacket soaked through with old blood clinging to your skin like guilt. Not one fresh thread on you. Just the same torn sleeves and stained collar you’d arrived in.

Not one of them had offered better.

Not even Yunho.

The last turn was the worst. Because you knew what was waiting behind that set of double doors.

He yanked them open without ceremony.

And silence met you.

A large room- the largest you’d seen, stretched out before you in deep candlelight and shadows. The dining hall of the HalaVeil. A long, dark table carved from sea-oak took up most of the space, its surface cluttered with half-eaten meals, old maps, liquor bottles, and weapons too casually discarded.

And there they were. All of them. Seven pairs of eyes turned toward you.

Jongho, cold and unreadable, sitting with his arms crossed near the end of the table.

Wooyoung, expression tight, fingers tapping something absentmindedly, not even pretending to hide his discomfort.

Mingi, eyes darker than usual, jaw stiff where he leaned forward.

San, sprawled too comfortably, grinning wide like he’d been waiting for this.

Seonghwa, pristine posture, gaze sharp and lined with contempt.

Yunho, leaning against a side wall, arms folded, unreadable as always, though something flickered in his stare.

And Yeosang… slouched quietly near the middle. Pale. Fragile. His eyes barely met yours before they turned away.

And then Hongjoong pushed you one last time, hard.

You stumbled into the room, breath catching, legs shaky. The silence was suffocating.

“Everyone,” Hongjoong said calmly, stepping in behind you and letting the door creak shut. “You’ve met our guest.” He paused. “But not properly.”

His hand rested on your shoulder like a weight, fingers tightening just enough to make it clear: you weren’t allowed to speak.

“This,” he said, voice slicing the silence cleanly, “is Curse.”

Not your name. Not who you were. Just what you’d become.

“Get used to it.” You wasn't sure if that was directed to them... or you.

The silence didn’t break when you stepped in. It worsened.

Every flickering candle in the room seemed to draw attention to the grime crusted on your skin, the dried blood spattered across your sleeves, the bruises coloring your jaw. Your feet were unsteady, your pulse too loud.

No one spoke. Not a word.

Hongjoong’s hand dug into your shoulder once again, a silent command - before he shoved you down into the nearest chair. The wood creaked beneath your weight. Your spine jarred with the impact, ribs throbbing instantly in protest.

You didn’t dare meet their eyes. The silence stayed. Heavy. Crowded. Like the air itself didn’t want to move.

Hongjoong stepped forward and claimed his place at the head of the table, arms wide, posture easy, king of this warped kingdom. His coat fell perfectly around him, gold thread glinting at the edges, a smirk carved deep into his face.

You could feel them all staring.

They smelled it first.

You smelled it.

Salt, sweat, dried blood, infection, the rank scent of someone who’d been caged like an animal for days, left to rot in their own skin. No soap. No clean cloth. Not even water for most of it. You wanted to shrink into the floor.

“Comfortable?” San’s voice cut through like a blade.

You looked up. He was directly across from you, lounging in his seat with his chin resting lazily on his hand. His lips curved in an amused, malicious smile. He was loving this. You didn’t answer but just glared ahead.

“Thought so,” he said, eyes glinting.

Jongho shifted beside you, not bothering to hide the way he angled his body away, like your stench might spread. Your fists clenched under the table.

Opposite you, next to San, sat Seonghwa, pristine and composed, not even looking at you, like you were beneath notice.

Mingi swirled a drink around in his hand, not speaking, but his expression was unreadable. Wooyoung’s jaw was tight. Yunho glanced between you and Hongjoong, eyes calculating.

And Yeosang?

He was at the far end. Furthest from you. Quiet. Distant. Pale. He didn’t look up. Didn’t need to.

The distance said enough. You were the filth in the room. The curse.

And as the crew finally started to talk again, low murmurs, a few dark chuckles, one clink of a blade on wood, you realized something far worse than being hated.

You were outnumbered. And absolutely alone.

The voices died again after the first few murmurs.

You could feel their stares brushing across your skin like blades. The sound of cutlery scraping against plates. A mug placed too hard on wood. The flickering of a candle behind you casting your shadow in ways you didn’t like.

Then-

“I’ll ask what everyone’s thinking.”

The voice was sharp. Clipped. Icy.

Seonghwa.

He hadn’t looked at you once, but now his gaze was pinned forward,  jaw tense, black hair smooth, pale skin lit by golden candlelight. There was no curiosity in his voice. Only command.

“What are we doing with that?” he asked, nodding slightly toward you like you were a piece of furniture that didn’t belong in the room.

You didn’t flinch, but your eyes lowered. You weren’t sure why.

Hongjoong didn’t answer right away.

He took a long sip from his cup, leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled lightly. He watched Seonghwa - then let his gaze drift to you, just long enough to make your chest tighten.

“She’s going to help us,” he said finally. Calm. Unbothered. A few heads turned sharply. Someone scoffed.

“What?” The voice was lower - angry. San. Of course. “She’s from them. The fuck is she gonna do, apologize the curse away?”

Your eyes snapped up to meet his. San’s face was already twisted into something mean, but the second you stared back, it worsened.

“She’ll slow us down,” he said, turning his attention to Hongjoong. “She’ll ruin everything.”

The room went tense again. Not even Wooyoung moved. Hongjoong didn’t blink. He didn’t yell. Didn’t stand. Didn’t threaten. Just smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.

“Do I look like I’m taking votes?” he asked softly.

San went silent.

Hongjoong leaned forward, arms on the table now, voice still quiet, but colder. Much colder. “If I wanted her gone, she’d be ashes in the sea by now.”

He didn’t need to raise his tone. His words did all the slicing.

“She has knowledge we don’t,” he said. “Whether she knows it yet or not.”

Your chest tightened.

“She’s here until she stops being useful,” he continued, glancing your way. “And trust me…” That smile deepened into something cruel.

“She wants to be useful.”

No one spoke after that. Not even Seonghwa. And for the first time, you weren’t sure if silence was better than what might come next.

The quiet remained, but it didn’t last. Hongjoong pushed his chair back. The scraping of the wood against the floor rang out like thunder. It echoed through your bones.

You tensed. Everyone stilled.

He stood slowly, smoothing down the front of his coat. Gold thread gleamed like veins across dark crimson fabric. His rings caught the candlelight- sharp, heavy, deliberate. His eyes swept across the table, then fell squarely on you.

“Stand up,” he said.

Your stomach turned. You didn’t move.

“I said-” his voice sharpened, “...stand up.”

You pushed yourself up on trembling legs, your chair scraping harshly behind you. You stood unevenly, every muscle aching, every rib flaring with heat. Your tattered clothes hung limp, stained from days of fever and filth.

The crew watched. You felt like meat on a butcher’s hook.

Hongjoong stepped closer. You could hear his boots on the floor, measured, exact. He stopped only a foot away, head slightly tilted, lips curled into something unreadable.

“Tell me your name,” he said.

You stared up at him. Your lips parted. You hesitated.

“…A-,” you said quietly.

His smile dropped like a blade  as he cut you off.

“No,” he said. “Try again.”

Your brow furrowed.

“I said—what’s your name?”

“…I just tried telling you”

His hand moved faster than your eyes could track. It wasn’t a slap, it was a shove. Hard, direct, to your chest. You stumbled back and hit the edge of the table, gasping as your injured ribs screamed in pain.

“You don’t tell me who you are,” he said coldly. “You are mine. What I call you is what you are.”

You barely stayed upright. The others didn’t move. Not one of them flinched. Not even Yunho. You felt your heart racing, fury and helplessness clawing inside you like dogs in a pit.

“What do you want me to say?” you spat through gritted teeth.

He smiled again.

“Good,” he said softly. “There’s that fire.”

He turned slightly and faced the others, his voice loud enough for all to hear. “She wants to know what her name is,” he said. “Should we remind her?”

A few of them chuckled.

Mingi looked away. Yeosang was still silent. Seonghwa’s gaze was icy.

Hongjoong turned back to you.

“Your name is Curse.”

The word fell heavy and final.

“That’s what you are now,” he said. “That’s what they’ll call you. What they’ll remember you as.”

He stepped closer again. You refused to back down this time.

“You don’t eat unless I say. You don’t speak unless I allow it. And you don’t breathe unless I still think you’re worth the air.” He turned, began pacing around you now, like a shark scenting blood in the water.

“But…” he said slowly, “we need you. For now. So let’s see just how useful you can be.”

He gestured to Yunho, who stood with a small satchel in hand. He brought it over and dropped it on the table with a dull thud.

“Inside this bag,” Hongjoong said, “is an object we recovered from the dockside temple where we last traced the cursed aura.”

Your throat tightened.

“Touch it.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

He stepped back, allowing the satchel to sit between you and everyone’s eyes.

“Touch it,” he repeated. “If you’re cursed, if your blood ties to it- let’s find out.”

You looked around. No one moved to help. Your hand slowly reached out. Your fingers brushed the satchel.

Then paused.

“You said I was going to help,” you rasped. “Not that I was some kind of-”

“Test subject?” Seonghwa offered smoothly from his seat.

You looked at him, and he didn’t bother looking back. You clenched your jaw and reached into the bag. Your fingers curled around something cold. Smooth. Sharp-edged.

You pulled it out slowly, a shard of obsidian, etched with runes, humming faintly with a pulse you couldn’t hear but could feel.

The second your fingers closed around it-

You gasped.

Your head pulsed.

A flash of something- a scream, a face, something wet and wrong- shot behind your eyes.

You dropped it instantly, stumbling back.

The room watched in eerie stillness. Your body shook. You couldn’t breathe.

But Hongjoong smiled.

“Interesting,” he said.

He picked up the shard himself, as if it meant nothing. Tossed it back into the bag. “Well then,” he said, his voice satisfied. “It seems we’re getting somewhere.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. But you could feel the word burning into your skin like a brand.

Curse.

The silence that followed Hongjoong’s announcement was heavy, like the ship itself was holding its breath.

You were still gasping, knuckles white as they clutched the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself. That obsidian shard had sunk something sharp into your chest, something old, something terrifying.

But what terrified you more… was the voice that came next.

"Stop."

It was soft. Barely there. A whisper scraped from worn lungs. Heads turned. All eyes shifted.

Yeosang.

He was sitting on the far corner of the table, hunched and pale. His body was wrapped in layered dark cloth, a blanket over his shoulders. But it was his skin that caught the light, the black veins spiderwebbed under the surface, dark and crawling up his neck. His birthmark flared a deep crimson, as if it were pulsing with heat. His lips were dry. His hair clung to his forehead. But his gaze… that was steady.

Mingi, seated closest to him, leaned forward immediately. "Yeosang, don’t. Don’t speak-"

Yeosang weakly shook his head. "I said stop."

Hongjoong raised a brow, clearly amused. "Speak of the devil."

You locked eyes with him, the man whose fate you were supposedly tied to. Yeosang’s eyes weren’t cruel. Not like the others. But they weren’t soft either.

"She didn’t curse me," he said. Every word was effort. "Not her."

San scoffed from across the table. "How would you know? You were drugged by her captain."

"I felt it before that," Yeosang rasped. "Before I drank it. Before she was close. It was already in me."

You blinked, unsure if you were hearing right.

Yeosang continued, breath stuttering. "If she was the curse... I’d already be dead."

Hongjoong said nothing. Seonghwa looked unconvinced. Wooyoung watched Yeosang like a storm cloud waiting to break.

Mingi stood slowly. "You’ve said enough. Come on. You need rest."

"I’m not done," Yeosang whispered, though his body was clearly failing him.

You watched as Mingi stepped closer and gripped Yeosang’s shoulder gently, but with force.

Yeosang’s face twisted in pain. Not from the touch. From the truth pressing behind his lips.

"Let her speak," he said. "If you want me to live, we need her... I need her."

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know why your throat felt tight. But for the first time since being taken aboard the HalaVeil, someone had spoken on your behalf.

And it was the one dying the fastest.

The table sat heavy with silence again, the echo of Yeosang’s words still clinging to the walls like smoke. Mingi had finally coaxed him to sit back, though his hands stayed tense on Yeosang’s arm, half-comfort, half-anchor. Across from you, Wooyoung’s eyes were unreadable, lips pressed in a tight, bitter line.

San broke the silence first, scoffing. “So what? She gets a pass now because the ghost said so?”

“She didn’t deny it,” Jongho said coolly, arms crossed. “She’s just been breathing and glaring.”

“Enough,” Seonghwa snapped, voice like frost against metal. “We’re not here to argue circles.”

You pushed your chair back slowly, the wood groaning beneath your weight. Legs still weak, but your spine was steel now. You stood. The crew watched.

Your eyes went to Hongjoong, still seated at the head of the table like a god among executioners.

“What the hell was that thing?” you asked. “What did you put in my hand?”

He didn’t answer. Not yet. So you pressed.

“That shard. It wasn’t just some test. It… it burned. It knew something.”

Hongjoong finally looked at you, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s called a Tide Fragment,” he said simply. “It reacts to deception. Echoes memory. And it left a mark.”

You looked down. Your palm still stung faintly, the faint trace of a scar glimmering like a healed brand.

“What does it mean?” you whispered.

“That you know something,” Seonghwa answered. “Even if you don’t realise it yet.”

You exhaled shakily. “Then I’ll tell you,” you said.

They looked at you again-some surprised, others skeptical, and Hongjoong… intrigued.

“I’ll tell you everything I remember from that day at Siltshore,” you said. “The day Yeosang was cursed.”

The room grew impossibly still. Because for the first time, you weren’t just a prisoner. You were the only lead they had.

You hadn’t even drawn breath to begin when a voice cut through the quiet:

“Don’t lie.”

It was Seonghwa.

His tone was calm-too calm. Like a blade right before it’s drawn. You glanced toward him, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at Hongjoong. Waiting for the order.

Then Hongjoong stood.

The captain didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His very presence dragged the room into silence like gravity pulling at the spine. His gaze pinned you where you stood. “You lie,” he said slowly, “you won’t get another warning.”

The quiet in the room deepened. Even the creaking of the ship’s bones seemed to still.

Hongjoong stepped forward, just once. Just enough to let you feel the weight behind the threat.

“You’re not special,” he said, eyes locked onto yours. “You’re not clever. You’re a leftover from a ship of cowards, and you’re only still breathing because you might-might-be useful.”

You didn’t move. But your jaw clenched.

He tilted his head. “So speak. Truthfully. Because the last person who wasted my time...”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Somewhere across the table, Mingi shifted. Wooyoung’s gaze flicked to Yeosang’s fragile figure, then back to you, like a silent reminder of the stakes.

You swallowed.

You didn’t know what that shard had done to you, what it marked or measured. But something told you that even if you wanted to lie, it might not let you.

What you didn’t know was the cruel irony wrapped around this interrogation. You were being warned not to lie in front of Yeosang. The one person who, before he was cursed, could have told them if you had. But now? That power was gone. Clouded. Tainted.

And all they had left… was you.

Your truth.

And their mercy.

You stood there for a moment longer, heart thudding painfully beneath your ribs. You could feel all of them watching you, some cold, some curious, some already sharpening their judgments. But you didn’t shrink.

You straightened your back, even if your legs trembled. You spoke.

“I didn’t know what they were planning. Not the full thing. Not the curse.”

You scanned the room-Wooyoung’s narrowed stare, Jongho’s icy focus, Mingi’s conflicted glance, San’s smirk. Seonghwa was unreadable. And Hongjoong… watched like a hunter with nothing but time.

You continued.

"The day started like any other. We’d docked early. Blackeyes doesn’t waste time when there’s coin on the line, and the Captain-"

You faltered for a breath.

"-he was already too quiet that morning. That’s when I should’ve known."

You described the docktown in vivid detail. The salt-flecked air, the creaky old planks of the Siltshore wharf, how the market smelled like fish guts and overripe fruit. How the sky was split between grey and bruised blue.

“I was ordered to tail a group,” you went on. “Didn’t know who they were, just that they were pirates who split from the main crowd and might be scouting.”

You glanced briefly at Yeosang- still quiet, still pale and withdrawn. “Now I know.”

“I followed them through the markets. I didn’t get close, just kept my head down like I was taught. Watched them stop outside a tavern. Not the best place in town, but not the worst either.”

You hesitated. “And that’s when he came.”

They knew who he was. The Blackeyes' captain. A name you hadn’t dared speak aloud since you’d been brought on board. You didn’t have to say it, his reputation preceded him like rot.

“He had a disguise on. I almost didn’t recognise him. But then he smiled that smile, like he was carving you up before you even said a word, and I knew. He walked into the tavern and sat down with them.”

You looked down. The memory tasted bitter.

“He was... pleasant. That’s the worst part. He laughed. Talked. Pretended to be some merchant. Said he had something to help with navigation or focus, I don’t know. It sounded innocent.”

You paused, hands clenching.

“He pulled out a vial. Tiny. Glass. Clear liquid inside, but when the light hit it, it shimmered green. Told him- Yeosang, to put a few drops in his drink. Said it’d help with the headaches? ... I think.”

You glanced at Yeosang again, quieter now. “He didn’t even hesitate.”

There was silence.

“I didn’t know what it was. I swear I didn’t. If I had-”

“Then what?” Wooyoung’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

You didn’t flinch. “Then I would’ve stopped it.” A pause. You added, more quietly, “Or tried.” You kept going.

“I was told to stay. Keep watching. The Captain left soon after. He looked... satisfied. I knew that look too well.”

You clenched your fists. “I reported it, but no one said anything about curses. They just... smiled. Like the job was done.” You looked up again, letting your voice grow stronger.

“I never wanted any of this. But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I’m innocent either. I worked under him. I did what I was told. I survived. That doesn’t make me trustworthy. But it does mean I remember things.”

You met Hongjoong’s eyes dead-on.

“And if you want to save him-” you nodded toward Yeosang, “-then maybe you should stop treating me like I’m the enemy. Because I’m the only one who saw it happen.”

The silence afterward was different. Not trusting. Not soft. But it wasn’t the same disgusted silence as before. You breathed in. You’d done it. You told them your truth. Now all you could do… was wait to see if it meant anything at all.

You hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

But the words slipped free, like breath from cracked lungs.  “There’s one thing I can’t wrap my head around…”

You stared at the wooden floor beneath your feet, brows drawn, voice quieter now. Your throat felt tight. Like the thought had been lodged there for days.

“Why he drank it.”

A long pause stretched the room like a drawn blade.

“Why he didn’t hesitate. Not even a blink. Like… like he was supposed to.”

You looked up, slowly, catching the flicker in Wooyoung’s eyes. He was frozen. A muscle jumped in his jaw. You pressed on, the memory haunting your tone. “He didn’t question it. The vial. The stranger. The timing. It felt... unnatural. Like something was already off.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. For the first time since you were brought aboard the HalaVeil, no one interrupted. No one mocked. They were listening. And not because they wanted to. Because something you said scratched at something in all of them. Yeosang hadn’t hesitated. And that was the most dangerous part of all.

The silence shattered like glass underfoot.

“You think he wanted it?” Wooyoung’s voice was a whipcrack, sharp and accusing. He’d stood without meaning to, fists clenched tight at his sides. “That he chose this?”

The others stirred. Jongho’s gaze sharpened. Mingi’s jaw tensed. Even Seonghwa’s eyes flicked up with new intensity, glinting like frost.

“That’s not what I-”

“You just said he didn’t hesitate,” Wooyoung spat. “Like he knew. Like he wanted it.”

You took a step back, panic pressing into your ribs.

“No-no, that’s not what I meant!” You looked at Yeosang, then quickly back at the others. “I just...he looked off before he drank it. Off in a way I didn’t understand until now. Like… like he already felt something.”

Seonghwa’s voice was low and cold, slicing through the noise. “Be very careful with what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not suggesting he wanted to be cursed!” Your voice cracked, raw from exhaustion and frustration. “I’m saying something was wrong before the drink ever touched his lips. Ask him. Ask him!”

All eyes turned to Yeosang. He hadn't moved from his seat, head still low. But his lips had parted, breathing just a little faster.

“I felt it,” he whispered.

The room stilled.

His voice was like crumpled silk, weak, fragile-but it carried enough weight to silence even Wooyoung.

“I felt it before,” Yeosang repeated. “Something in my head… dull. Like fog. The moment he sat down beside me.”

He didn’t lift his gaze. Just breathed. “I didn’t hesitate… because it already had me.”

“Enough.”

Hongjoong’s voice wasn’t loud. But it sliced through every voice, every breath, with a finality that echoed.

Even Wooyoung stopped mid-step, lips parted as if caught mid-curse. Seonghwa lowered his head slightly. Mingi leaned back, tension rippling in his arms.

Hongjoong remained still, seated at the head of the table. His fingers tapped once against the wood, sharp and deliberate.

He didn’t look at you. He looked at Yeosang.

“Tell me,” he said. “In your own words. Everything you remember from that day.”

A pause.

Everyone turned to Yeosang. It was the first time he had been asked. Really asked.

Before now, the curse had rendered him too weak. Half-conscious. Sweating, shaking, delirious. Yunho had kept him away from full conversation, afraid of accelerating the spread.

But now, he looked up.

His face was gaunt, skin pale with veins still spidering faintly beneath. The red birthmark on his cheek blazed brighter in the low lamplight, as if his body was warning them all.

His voice was hushed. Gravelly from disuse. But steady.

“We’d just finished clearing the storage behind the inn, we stole everything we could,” he began, slowly. “I was tired. My head hurt, but I thought it was just the noise from the docks. So we sat down for a drink and waited for the informant”

He paused to breathe, eyes locked somewhere far away.

“Then he walked in. Merchant clothes. Too clean. I remember thinking that. Too clean for Siltshore.”

Everyone was listening. No one moved.

Yeosang’s fingers twitched slightly.

“He bought us drinks. Said we looked like men who could use a rest. He was charming, almost… too charming. But I was too fogged to care. I kept rubbing my temples.”

He pressed his hand briefly to his head, like the memory itself still ached.

“Then he handed me a vial when the others left before me. Said it would help clear the pain. Clarity, he called it. I asked what it was.”

Yeosang’s lips tightened.

“And he said, ‘Truth.’”

A silence settled again, heavier than before.

“I didn’t even question it,” he whispered. “I poured it in. It turned green. I laughed. Thought maybe it was just some fancy herbal thing.”

He finally looked up - and it was like his gaze passed through all of them.

“But it didn’t feel like something new entering me. It felt like something waking up. Something that was already there.”

He exhaled shakily.

“Like a curse that had been waiting.”

“Bullshit.”

The word sliced through the stillness like a blade.

You flinched.

All eyes shifted, toward San.

He leaned forward from where he sat, arms draped lazily over the back of his chair, but his jaw was tense, and his eyes were burning.

“Don’t you get it?” he said, voice louder now, dangerous. “She did it. Not the bastard in the bar. That was just the final strike.”

You blinked, heart in your throat. San pointed at you, eyes locked and merciless. “She cursed him before that. That’s why he drank it so easily. That’s why he didn’t hesitate. The curse was already in him, she planted it. And the captain just activated it.”

“That’s not-!” you started, but San cut you off.

“Shut up.”

He stood up slowly now, and the tension in the room thickened.

“You show up with the Blackeyes-our enemy. You’re already caught spying on us. You admit to trailing us before it happened. And now you just happen to remember all this convenient detail?”

Wooyoung’s brows furrowed. Jongho shifted in his seat. Mingi didn’t look at you. Seonghwa’s expression remained unreadable, but his eyes… sharpened.

“She cursed him,” San said again, dead serious now. “She’s Tideborn. That’s why she’s alive. That’s why the curse didn’t kill her when she cast it. It wants him. Not her.”

Your breath caught.

“She’s been rotting in our hold for days and hasn’t died,” San growled. “Even after the fever. Even after no food, no water. And her wounds? Healing too fast.”

He looked around the table. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

A low murmur rippled through the room.

And for the first time, you saw the doubt flicker in their eyes.

The table had gone silent. But Hongjoong’s stare hadn’t.

He sat still, elbow resting on the arm of his chair, one hand pressed thoughtfully to his mouth. He was watching you- no, studying you. Like a specimen in a cage. Like prey that didn’t know it had already been snared. The silence dragged long enough that the others grew uneasy. Only the ship’s creaks and the distant hum of waves filled the space.

Then, slowly, he dropped his hand.

“You know,” he murmured, “San makes a compelling case.”

Your pulse thundered. His voice was calm. Casual, even. But behind his gaze was something serrated, something gleaming in the dark.

“You arrive in chains, half-dead. And yet…” He tilted his head. “You survive things most men wouldn’t.”

He stood. A subtle movement, but it shifted everything. The air grew tighter. He circled the table slowly, boots tapping softly against the wooden floor. As he passed each crew member, they straightened. Watched him. Waited.

When he reached your side, he didn’t stop.

He stepped behind you.

His voice was at your ear now. Low. Cold.

“You ever wonder why you lived?”

You gritted your teeth.

“Why the fever didn’t kill you. Why your ribs mended faster than Yunho expected. Why you were even conscious after what San did?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You could feel his eyes burning into the back of your skull.

“You think you’re just unlucky?” he murmured. “Wrong place, wrong time?” A soft scoff. “I think you’ve known something was off for a long time.”

His fingers lightly grazed your shoulder. Just for a second. You flinched anyway. “I don’t think you’re normal,” he continued. “And I don’t think you think you’re normal either.”

He walked again. Calm. Pacing like a man enjoying the tension.

“I think you know what you are,” he said. “Or at least… you’ve guessed.”

He turned back toward the head of the table, meeting your gaze across it now. His face unreadable.

“But I won’t say it yet,” he added softly. “Not until I prove it.”

A shiver crawled down your spine. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll show us soon enough.”

Hongjoong hadn’t sat back down.

He was still standing at the head of the table, hand braced lightly on the chair he hadn’t reclaimed. The light above him flickered with the rhythm of the ship’s slow rock, casting his face in shifting shadows, a crownless monarch bathed in ghostlight.

You didn’t dare speak. You were still caught in his last words. “You’ll show us soon enough.”

“Let’s make it simple,” he said at last, voice cutting through the silence. “We test it.”

You frowned.

He met your confusion with a slow tilt of the head, like he pitied your ignorance. “You say you’re not involved in Yeosang’s curse.” His fingers tapped once against the wood. “You say you didn’t know anything about what was given to him. You even claim you care that it happened.”

He raised his chin slightly. “Fine. Prove it.”

Your eyes narrowed. “How?”

He smiled. And that’s when you felt it. That icy drop in your stomach. Like you were standing on the edge of something very, very deep.

“You’re going on a mission,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Dangerous one,” he clarified. “One none of us want to waste time on. A message needs to be delivered , violently. A warning to those who may be considering siding with the Blackeyes.”

Your mouth went dry.

“I want them to see what happens when they try to poison my crew. And who better to send than the poison herself?”

He turned to the side without waiting for your reaction.

“San.”

There was a scrape of wood, a stretch of silence , and then slow, deliberate boots on the floor.

San rose from his seat like a shadow peeling off the wall. His smirk was already there, too wide. Too pleased. His sharp jaw clenched just once before he cracked his knuckles without breaking eye contact with you.

“Really?” he said, tone like honey over blades. “You’re sending me with her?”

Hongjoong nodded. “You’ll lead.”

San chuckled darkly. “Good.”

You felt your blood chill. San started to circle the table slowly, not unlike Hongjoong had earlier, except there was no control to him. No poise. Just energy coiled like a fuse waiting to snap.

“I’ve been so bored,” he muttered. “And she’s still breathing.”

He stopped right beside you. Bent slightly. Grinned down. His breath right on your neck.

“I’ll take good care of her,” he said to no one in particular. “Promise.”

You felt your body tense. You didn’t mean to, but your hands curled slightly into fists. Hongjoong noticed.

“Oh, don’t look so offended,” he said. “Think of it as your chance.”

“To earn your place here,” he continued, stepping forward again. “To prove your loyalty.”

San leaned down further, mouth now just beside your ear. “Or to be dragged back in pieces,” he whispered.

“You’re being watched,” Hongjoong added, tone sharper now. “If you run, San will kill you. If you lie to the people we’re sending you to, San will kill you. If you hesitate?”

He didn’t need to finish. You swallowed the bile rising in your throat.

“This is the price of breathing,” Hongjoong said coldly. “Take it. Or I can take that, too.”

San straightened beside you, eyes glinting. “When do we leave?”

Hongjoong smirked.

“Dawn.”

The room they left you in was small again. Not the same one as before, this one was darker, colder, and smelled like gunmetal and damp wood. Maybe a storage room, cleared out just enough for a body.

You sat on the floor. Arms around your knees. Trying to stay warm. Trying not to think too hard. But it was no use.

San’s grin still haunted your ears. Hongjoong’s words echoed in a loop. The poison herself. You scoffed. Bitter. Shaking. But something else too.

You didn’t sleep.

You thought.

And when you did, your memories came like water. Slippery. Refracting. Changing shape depending on the angle.

You remembered Yeosang’s face. Not as he was now - pale, veined with creeping black - but that day in the pub. Sitting at the table, just beyond the shadows. The way his eyes flicked up when you entered, the flicker of recognition.

Did you recognize him first?

Or did he recognize you?

You weren’t sure anymore.

And then… that vial.

You remembered seeing it, maybe. You thought you saw the Blackeyes captain slip something across the table. Or was it just a gesture? A trade of words? The memory blurred.

You remembered his drink changing color. Vivid green. Sickly. Too fast. Too wrong.

But… was it green?

Or was it just the lighting? The tinted glass of the bottle? The smoke in the room?

Your eyebrows furrowed.

You’d sworn he looked different before he drank it. That something about him already felt… off. Distant. Hollow. But maybe that was just hindsight. Maybe your mind was twisting it because you wanted there to be a reason.

Because otherwise-

You stopped the thought before it could finish. You pressed your forehead to your knees.

But the memories didn’t stop.

You remembered the Captain- your old one- pulling you aside. That slick smile, those dark eyes. He whispered something to you, didn't he? Something about watching closely. About proving yourself.

Wait. No.

That wasn’t then. That was weeks before.

Wasn’t it?

You tried to anchor the timeline, but the past was a shifting map and your hands were shaking too hard to hold it still.

You didn’t hear the door open. You didn’t notice the figure standing just beyond the threshold. But if they’d been watching, they would have seen it.

The moment your eyes glazed over, not with fear - but calculation.

They would have seen your fingers twitch. As if reaching for something long gone.

And your lips moving silently. Not a prayer.

A name.

Who was you really?

Taglist- open: @nijisanjigenshin @littlebear005 @jellyjellyghost @deafeningpandareview @ramadiiiisme

[amoryeonjun]

Tidebound ☠

Chapter Two

PirateOt8AteezAU x F!Reader/Original Character

-

In a fractured, salt-soaked world ruled by magic and machines, the feared pirate crew of the HalaVeil sails in search of a myth, a cursed potion known as Luminaer, said to be the only cure for a deadly affliction slowly killing one of their own.

When they cross paths with their most hated rivals, the Blackeyes, the crew demands revenge… and receives a strange girl instead.

You.

Betrayed. Bruised. Bound.

They call you Curse; a liar, a threat, a scapegoat. But as the storm deepens and the curse tightens its grip, it becomes clear: you might be the key to everything. Or the end of them all.

And in the eyes of a crew that trusts no one… you’ll have to survive long enough to prove which.-

Genre: PirateAu, Angst, Slow burn, Enemies to ??, OT8

Warnings: Violence, swearing, fighting, injury, blood, medical scenes, abuse, torture(kinda), angst, San is very mean, dehydration, hallucinations. (lmk if i missed anything)

Word count: 11.6K (i promised they'd get longer)

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They called it Tideborn energy.

A ripple through bloodlines. A whisper in the bones. Some said it was magic. Others said it was rot. But no one denied it had changed the world, the sea no longer moved like it used to. The wind carried voices. And the water remembered every ship that dared to ride it.

Some said the first Tideborn came from the Abyssian Wives, drowned goddesses who gave up their lungs to sing the truth. Others said they were cursed.

You were dreaming of water. Cold. Heavy. Pressed against your skin like grief. There was shouting far away, metal clanging, someone swearing. Your ribs ached. Your wrists burned.

Then silence.

Above deck, the HalaVeil swayed gently against Thalrune’s open currents, but the air was tense, thick with salt and the unspoken. Yunho sat near the med bay, arms folded, watching Yeosang through the doorway. The scout was curled on a cot, half-conscious. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his lips kept forming words no one could hear.

“He’s getting worse,” Yunho muttered.

Seonghwa didn’t look up from where he was wiping blood from a blade. “He said he can’t tell when someone’s lying anymore.”

“He also said the ocean was whispering his name. Over and over.”

“Maybe it is.”

Mingi, crouched nearby, cracked open a scorched stormcore they’d stolen from Siltshore. Its light was weak, flickering. “Whatever that Blackeyes captain gave him, it’s no common Saltbinder trick.”

“I don’t think it was meant to be,” Seonghwa said darkly.

Wooyoung leaned against the hallway just outside the brig. He watched the cell where you lay unconscious, bound at the wrists, a bruise blooming under your jaw.

“Do you think she really knows anything?” he asked.

San, pacing like a caged animal, spat off the side of the deck. “Don’t care.”

Wooyoung tilted his head. “You don’t think it’s strange? They just handed her over?”

“Strange would be her surviving the night.”

San looked over the deck, calculating. The brig was quiet. Too quiet. The air hung thick with brine and sweat, the walls damp with condensation that never dried. A single lantern swung from the overhead beam, creaking with every roll of the ship, casting lazy shadows across the slumped body inside the cell.

You hadn’t moved in hours.

Not since they dropped you there, bleeding, unconscious, a broken offering from traitors who claimed you knew more than you should. Now, you looked like discarded cargo. Just another mess someone would have to clean up. Boots echoed on the stairs.

San slowly sauntered over, a cloth slung over his shoulder, a faint line of dried blood still clinging to his temple from the last fight. He stopped at your feet. Stared at you. Silent.

“Still breathing?” he muttered.

Behind him, Seonghwa stepped into view, arms crossed, posture tight, always a shadow sharper than the rest.

“Barely,” Seonghwa replied. “But enough to cause trouble.”

San kicked your foot once, hard enough to startle even the dead. You didn’t flinch.

“She’s pissing herself down there,” San said darkly, with a sharp chuckle. “Might as well toss her in the bilges and let the rats chew the rest.”

Seonghwa gave him a look, but not of disgust. “Bilges are for dead things.”

“Exactly.”

Seonghwa didn’t rise to it. He just walked closer, crouched to your level, and studied your face through your matted and wild hair. There was dried blood on your lip. Sweat clung to your brow. A fever was still simmering beneath your skin, twitching through your fingers now and then.

“She’s not dying yet,” he said simply.

“She will if she stays down here.” San leaned against the deck. “Or maybe that’s the idea.”

Seonghwa didn’t answer immediately. He looked at you again, gaze unreadable.

“She’s not worth the space,” he said finally. “Move her to the hold.”

“Seriously?” San frowned. “You want her under the powder crates and spare sails? The roaches will finish her faster than we can.”

“Good.”

When they opened the cell, San didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your arms , rough, impersonal,  and hoisted you up like dead weight. You groaned faintly.

“Aw,” he muttered. “She lives.”

You couldn’t respond. Could barely lift your head. Your legs dragged behind you, useless.

The hold was worse. No lanterns. No airflow. Just crates of supplies, splintering barrels, old nets that stank of rot. The floor was damp and uneven, slick with old seawater, rat droppings, oil, and salt. San dropped you unceremoniously in the corner, beside a broken coil of rope. You hit the floor with a choked sound, more instinct than voice.

Seonghwa tossed a dirty canvas over you, not out of mercy, but more like someone covering cargo to keep it from molding. Perhaps even to the cover the smell of something... rotting

“She tries anything,” San said gruffly, slightly out of breath, “I will throw her in the bilges.”

“Noted,” Seonghwa replied with a short not, his expression saying nothing.

They turned. Footsteps. Silence. The hatch above slammed shut. Darkness. Salt. And the sound of your own shallow breathing.

Deep in the hull, Hongjoong stood alone in the war room, a cramped metal chamber with maps etched into the walls and runes painted over circuitry. A cracked book lay open on the table, its pages bleeding ink.

'Echo’s Decay A curse born of corrupted truth. It festers through a Tideborn’s gift. One year. No more. No less.'

The entry ended in a single word, scrawled in someone else's hand:

“Sacrifice.”

He closed the book, slowly. Above him, the ship creaked like it was listening. The wind shifted. The war room was quiet, save for the low crackle of flame.

Hongjoong stood alone, coat draped heavy over his shoulders, the worn fabric printed with warnings like they were stitched into his skin. Smoke curled from the oil lamp beside him, casting a slow dance of orange across his cheekbones. The glow made him look almost otherworldly, all sharp edges, hollow light, and slow, simmering wrath.

The journal lay open in front of him. The same page. The same curse.

Echo’s Decay. Truth collapses inward. Lies corrupt the blood. Twelve months before death.

The ink was faded, but the edges of the page had been torn. Like someone else had read this once… and didn’t want anyone to know.

He ran his fingers down the margin, the same hand that had held Yeosang steady earlier that night. The boy had twitched under his grip. Said his name wrong. Called him “Captain” like he was a stranger.

Hongjoong’s jaw tensed.

Twelve months.

He read it again.

Twelve.

“It's not enough,” he muttered.

His voice barely filled the room. Because the truth was: he’d seen the signs earlier. Days ago. The nosebleeds. The disoriented stares. The moments Yeosang would blink and seem not to recognize his own hands.

He should’ve stopped them in Siltshore. Should’ve pulled Yeosang off the street the moment that man-that thing, spoke to him.

But he hadn’t. Because Hongjoong had thought he could control it. Like he controlled everything else. Like he controlled them.

He turned, slowly. Behind him, maps flickered under candlelight, Thalrune, the Uncharted Ring, the jagged coasts of lost islands and dead currents. His eyes scanned the pages, seeing not strategy, but pressure.

Each dot was a life he had kept alive. Each X was one he had ordered lost. And not once had he hesitated. That was what a captain did.

He moved to the small drawer under the desk. Opened it. Pulled out a sealed vial, deep purple liquid sloshing inside like oil. A last-resort potion. Not the cure. Just something to speed up the process and end it all before it gets too late... too painful. Risky. Unstable. Unlicensed. Stolen.

He didn’t even know if Yeosang could... or should take it. But he was preparing anyway. Because that’s what you did when you were captain.

You played god until something finally broke you.

And then, his mind slipped, just a flash- to you. Lying in the brig. Collapsed. Unconscious.

“She knows something,” Yeosang had said earlier, half in a haze. Or had he?

Hongjoong wasn’t sure anymore. Couldn’t trust memory. Couldn’t trust anything. But he could trust rage. And right now, you were the only thing he could crush beneath his heel that might fight back.

“If you’re lying…” “If this is because of you…”

His fingers clenched around the desk edge.

“Then your death will be slow.”

Not because he wanted it to be. But because justice, in his world, was personal. And his crew was the only thing left that mattered.

The deck was quiet.

Most of the HalaVeil slept, or pretended to. Below, wounds were healing, curses were festering, and a girl bled slowly in the dark. But up here, the sky stretched wide and open. Black velvet, pinpricked with cold stars. The kind of night that felt like it could swallow you whole if you looked at it too long.

Jongho stood near the railing, forearms resting on the edge, eyes scanning the horizon. His dark coat barely moved in the breeze. He looked carved from the shadows themselves, still, unreadable, haunted by something only he could see. Behind him, footsteps creaked.

Mingi dropped down beside him, legs stretched out, flame-light from the ship’s lanterns dancing across his face. A fresh bandage wrapped across the bridge of his nose, and he still smelled faintly of smoke and gunpowder. He is constantly covered head to toe in cuts, scars, scrapes and bruises due to his role. His layered necklaces clinked as he leaned back on his elbows.

“You always this dramatic when you brood?” Mingi asked, half a smirk curling his lips.

Jongho didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Mingi sighed, tilting his head back toward the stars. “I blew a hole in the starboard crate. Thought you’d yell at me.”

“I will,” Jongho said flatly.

“Later?”

“Loudly.”

Mingi grinned.

They sat in silence for a while. Just the creak of wood. The deep breath of the sea. Somewhere far below, the ship’s engine hummed low, a leftover relic from a time when ships flew more than sailed.

Eventually, Mingi’s grin faded.

“She doesn’t look like a curse,” he murmured. “Just a girl.”

“She’s not one of us,” Jongho replied.

“She didn’t curse Yeosang.”

“No.”

“But we’re still keeping her in the dark like she did.”

Jongho didn’t respond. He just kept staring out at the sea, pupils flickering, just barely. Like they were adjusting to something no one else could see.

“I saw something earlier,” he said finally. Voice low. Uncertain. “When we left the dock.”

Mingi sat up straighter.

“What kind of something?”

Jongho’s jaw tightened.

“Fog. And then… shapes. Ships that shouldn’t be there. Or maybe they will be.”

Mingi didn’t joke this time.

“More Blackeyes?”

“No,” Jongho said. “Worse."

Jongho wasn't so sure if his ability was more of a blessing or a hinderance. They lapsed into silence again. The kind that meant something was coming. Something they couldn’t stop. And below them, the cursed bled. And the girl slept in the dark. And the sea remembered everything.

From the crow’s perch, Jongho narrowed his eyes toward the far horizon.

“The fog’s coming back.”

“Another storm?” Mingi asked.

“No. Not yet. Just the sea remembering something.”

Below deck, your fingers twitched. You’re cold. No, you’re burning. Your skin is wet. Your mouth tastes like iron. The floor beneath you shifts like breathing metal, groaning with every wave. Chains rattle when you move, or maybe that’s just in your head. Your fingers twitch. A tug at your wrist, raw rope. Dried blood. Your stomach turns. The darkness blinks. And the world opens up beneath you.

You’re on the deck again, their ship. The Blackeyes. You smell oil, sweat, clove smoke. Rust. The kind of rot that never leaves metal. Your captain stands at the helm, laughing. That laugh- God, you hated it. It never meant joy. Only cruelty.

He’s not facing you, but you know he’s smiling. That ugly grin with too-white teeth and gold rings glinting like stolen light.

“You’re good for something, girl,” he says. “Everyone’s good for something.”

You look down.

Your hands are red. You don’t remember the knife. You don’t remember who it’s in.

Someone’s screaming below deck. You know that scream. You pretended not to hear it the first time.

“You could leave,” a voice says- not his. Another crew member? A memory? A ghost? “You could jump.”

You turn to the edge of the ship.

The sea is black. Not dark, black. Like ink. Like blood that’s forgotten how to shine.

You step closer.

But the rope around your neck pulls tight.

Your eyes open and gasp for breath.

Dim light. Damp metal. The sound of a ship creaking. A voice far away. Boots. Someone murmuring. You feel something warm and sticky under your side, blood. Your shirt is soaked. The knot at your wrists digs deeper into torn skin. You try to move, but it hurts too much. You groan, or try to. It sounds like a hiss through grit teeth.

Then: cold fingers on your cheek. Checking your pulse.

Someone’s near.

They say something you can’t understand.

Your eyes roll back as you fade back.

A bowl. A spoon. Slop too thick to swallow.

Your crew is laughing again. But not with you. At you.

You remember this, the week they stopped feeding you because you “talked too much.” You’d bled from the mouth that day. One of them had shoved your face into the table until you tasted metal and wood.

“Still think you’re smart?” “Still think you’re one of us?”

You tried to answer. They didn’t let you.

Your old friend, the one with the soft eyes, the one you can only faintly remember-  just watched.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just let it happen.

Voices above deck. Footsteps. Metal shifting.

You think you hear:

“She’s still out.” “Should we wake her?” “No. Let her rot for a bit longer.”

You can’t tell. Your tongue is heavy. The taste of blood is back. You shiver violently, your body is soaked, either from sweat or water or the fever breaking through skin. Your wound stings. Your side pulses. You think you're leaking. You think you're dying.

You smile a little.

That would be easier, wouldn’t it?

You're standing at the edge of the dock.

You’re not bound.

But you know what’s coming.

You turn — and your captain is smiling.

That same sick grin.

He holds out a paper. Sealed. Blood-waxed.

A contract.

“Your value just went up, sweetheart,” he says.

You look down and realize he’s holding a bill of sale.

Your name is on it.

In place of “cargo.”

The signature at the bottom?

“To be delivered to: The HalaVeil.”

You scream.

But it’s too late.

You’re already falling.

Your eyes snap open again.

For real this time.

You don’t know how long it’s been, hours? A day? The air feels thicker now. Your breath rattles. There’s dried blood on your shirt, your lip, your fingers. You can’t tell if it’s yours. Your side aches. Someone wrapped it, sloppily. Or maybe just recently. A ragged bandage is tied around your torso.

You wake to pain.

Thick, dull, bone-deep pain that drags you back into your body like a hook behind your ribs. Your head throbs. Your mouth tastes like metal. Every limb feels wrong, swollen, stiff, half-numb from where you were lying curled on your side. The air is wet. Salt-laced. Muffled. Cold in a way that’s somehow humid. You try to breathe- too fast. Too shallow.

Something shifts near your feet.

You freeze.

There’s someone in front of you.

A low voice, quiet in the dark.

“Look who’s finally alive.”

The shadows part just enough for the lantern to catch his face.

Red hair.

Flaming even in the dimness, vivid and wild beneath the black hood draped over his head. His eyes are sharp and mismatched, slanted just enough to make every glance feel like a warning. There’s a long cut healing on his cheekbone, and his lips curl at the edges, like he’s never had a thought he didn’t enjoy a little too much. Perched like a crow on the edge of a crate, one leg propped up, a wide-brimmed hat twirling between his fingers. The dark coat hanging off him flares slightly as he shifts, the silver stripes catching glints of light like fangs.

He’s smiling.

But it’s not a kind smile.

“You were starting to smell,” he says, casually. “Some of the crew thought you were rotting.”

Your lips part, throat raw.

“Water,” you croak.

He raises an eyebrow. “Say please.”

You don’t.

He tosses a flask onto the floor near your hand. It sloshes.

You reach for it, every joint screaming- and drink greedily. Some spills down your chin, soaking the canvas you’re wrapped in. You cough. His expression doesn’t change.

“How long,” you croak out a whisper. “How… long was I out?”

He shrugs. “Couple days.”

You blink.

“Days?” your voice cracks.

“Mm. We took bets. I thought you’d die before day three, so I owe Yunho five credits.” He clicks his tongue. “Embarrassing, really.”

You try to push yourself up, but your arms give out. Your vision swims. You bite your lip until you taste blood again.

“I didn’t—” you gasp. “I didn’t curse him.”

Wooyoung laughs softly. It’s not nice.

“You think that matters?” he asks. “To us? To him?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Your chest rises and falls too quickly. A noise escapes you, something between a breath and a sob.

His smile fades just slightly.

“I get it,” he says, voice lower now. “Your crew sold you out. You didn’t even know what was in the drink. You’re not a threat.”

You look at him, eyes wide.

“Then let me go.”

Wooyoung tilts his head.

And this time, he doesn’t smile.

“We don’t keep you because we think you’re dangerous.” “We keep you because we hope you are.”

He stands, stretching with a crack of his neck. Then pauses in the doorway of the hold, just before vanishing into the dark.

“Oh,” he says. “Try not to bleed out. San said if you do, he gets to dissect you.”

The hatch slams shut.

Darkness returns.

And now, you’re finally awake.

The hold’s iron hatch thudded shut behind him, swallowing the last glimpse of you in the dark. For a moment, he didn’t move. His gloved fingers flexed at his side, brushing dust off the lapel of his coat as he exhaled slow through his nose, like he had to bleed out whatever sympathy had nearly pooled in his chest before it hardened again.

Sympathy was dangerous here.

Especially now.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, boots thudding over wood warped by salt and war. Every nail groaned beneath his steps, every rope above hummed from the pull of wind. The HalaVeil whispered constantly- her old bones alive with motion, sound, memory. She never quite slept, even when the crew did.

Torchlight flickered off metal rails and spines of rusted pipes that lined the walls. Smoke from the deck’s braziers drifted down in ghostly coils, curling around his ankles as he passed through the corridor toward the inner quarters. His reflection caught in the porthole glass. Just for a second. Red hair, wild and windswept. Eyes like a storm that had stopped pretending to be calm. A dark hood still slouched over one side of his head, the ends of it frayed and damp from sea mist. The faint smear of blood under his thumb told him he'd pressed your wound too hard when helping move you, but he hadn’t wiped it off.

Not yet.

Not until he was sure.

He didn’t knock when he pushed open the door. The air inside the quarters was thicker. Hotter. Too quiet.

“Yeosang,” Wooyoung said flatly. “I’m coming in.”

There was no response.

The room had been cleared of everything nonessential, books, weapons, maps, all shoved against the walls or into the shelves to make space for the makeshift medical cot now bolted to the floor. Candles burned on both sides, casting their flickering glow across pale sheets, soiled towels, a half-empty basin of water already tinted with blood.

And Yeosang.

He lay half-curled, shirt peeled halfway off to expose his back and side where the mark had begun to spread- thin, smoky veins like spiderwebs of ink crawling under his skin. His breath came shallow, his brow glistening with sweat. That signature red birthmark beneath his eye now looked too red, feverish, inflamed, like the curse had twisted even that.

His lips parted as Wooyoung stepped closer.

“I didn’t think… you'd come back.”

“I needed air,” Wooyoung muttered. “And you needed to not listen to me scream at the wall.”

Yeosang gave a faint smile. “Still screaming?”

“Internally.”

He pulled up a chair beside the cot and sat with a huff. For a while, neither of them spoke. Just the soft creak of the ship, the occasional crackle of flame.

“Did she wake?” Yeosang eventually rasped.

Wooyoung leaned back, running a hand through his sweat-dampened fringe. “Barely. She tried to lie with the same voice she begged water with.”

“You don’t think she knows anything.”

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered. “I said she’s broken. There’s a difference.”

Yeosang closed his eyes. “We’re all a little broken, Woo.”

“Yeah, well. You’re the one bleeding black and hallucinating. That’s a lot broken.”

His tone was flippant, but his eyes didn’t leave Yeosang’s face. The way his jaw clenched. The way his lashes trembled when the pain spiked.

The way he winced when the candle flame flickered too close, not from heat, but from whatever was crawling inside his blood now, reacting to light and energy like a living thing.

“She said she didn’t curse me,” Yeosang whispered.

Wooyoung didn’t answer.

He just sat there, gloved fingers tapping once against his knee.

Then again.

And again.

Like a countdown he wasn’t ready to reach the end of.

“Do you think we’ll find it?” Yeosang murmured. “The Luminaer?”

Wooyoung’s face darkened.

“If we don’t,” he said quietly, “I’ll burn every inch of Thalrune until something gives.”

Yeosang didn’t reply.

But that time, he did smile.

There was a soft knock, respectful, even, but it still made Wooyoung flinch. He sat up straighter in the low chair beside Yeosang’s cot, eyes narrowing as he turned toward the heavy door.

Another knock.

“Open it,” came the muffled voice from the other side. Calm. Clear.

Wooyoung let out a sharp breath and stood. His boots scuffed faintly across the floorboards as he unlatched the lock and pulled the door open.

And there stood Yunho.

Hair slicked back from the mist outside, black vest snug over his broad frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows. There was a polished neatness to him that didn’t match the ship, like he didn’t belong among splinters and blood. A silver ring gleamed on one finger, and a heavy black watch ticked steadily on his wrist. Even the moonlight from the hall softened when it touched his face.

Wooyoung stepped aside reluctantly. “He’s conscious. Barely.”

Yunho nodded once and entered.

He didn’t waste time.

The moment he reached the cot, he was all hands and muscle memory, checking Yeosang’s pulse, inspecting the stretch of his ribs with two careful fingers, peeling back a section of gauze to examine the slow rot of the creeping veins. His brows furrowed.

“Spread’s accelerated. Nearly another inch. This was slower yesterday.”

“You don’t say,” Wooyoung muttered, arms crossed. “Maybe because he hasn’t been able to keep down anything I’ve fed him.”

Yunho glanced at him briefly. “How long since the last dose?”

“Six hours. I kept track.”

“Hmm.”

Wooyoung’s mouth tightened.

“Hmm? That’s all?”

“I’m not a miracle worker, Wooyoung.”

He moved to the small cabinet beside the cot, drawing out two small bottles, one filled with a viscous silver liquid, the other a chalky powder that had to be mixed. His fingers worked in silence, pouring, measuring, stirring, his face carved from calm stone.

Wooyoung hovered behind him like a storm cloud.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Then let me.”

Yunho looked up. “No.”

Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. “You’re not the only one who cares if he dies.”

“No,” Yunho agreed, gently lifting Yeosang’s head to help him sip the elixir. “But I’m the only one trained to keep that from happening.”

Yeosang stirred faintly, coughing between sips. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused.

“Yunho…?”

“Yeah,” the medic said softly. “I’m here.”

“Still looks like death.”

 Scoff... “Yeah that’s the look he’s going for,” Wooyoung snapped from the shadows.

Yunho didn’t look up. “Quiet, Woo.”

And that, that was the moment it cracked. Wooyoung shoved himself away from the wall with a low scoff, eyes flashing.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m just some loudmouth with a knife and no use.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” He pointed a gloved finger. “Every time you show up, you act like we’re all liabilities.”

“You’re angry,” Yunho said, not unkindly, not mockingly- but like he was stating the weather. “That’s fine. Pirates lose their temper. Comes with the trade.”

“And medics get punched when they act like saints.”

Yunho finally looked at him fully.

And for a second, just a second, the room felt too quiet. Too still. Then Yeosang coughed again, a wet, exhausted sound that snapped the tension like glass. Wooyoung swallowed whatever came next. His chest rose and fell, shoulders tight. Yunho turned back to Yeosang, voice steady. “You’re going to feel colder tonight. The serum’s side effects include chills, shallow hallucinations. Let me know if the dreams get vivid. We’re not sure what’s triggering the mental links yet.” Yeosang nodded weakly. And Wooyoung turned, storming toward the door.

But just before he opened it, he paused.

Then, without looking back:

“If he dies, I’ll never forgive you.”

And he was gone.

The lantern burned low in the infirmary, casting amber shadows against the wooden walls. Yeosang lay motionless beneath the blanket, but his eyes were open now- pale, reflective, rimmed with exhaustion. Yunho sat beside him, his usual crispness dulled by sleeplessness. His sleeves were rolled up again, fingers smudged with ink and ash from whatever brew he'd been adjusting in the corner. Despite the stoic calm on his face, the silence between them was heavy.

Yeosang finally broke it.

"Is it true?"

Yunho looked up. "What is?"

"The curse." Yeosang's voice was dry, but steady. "Is it really a year? Until it kills me?"

Yunho inhaled slowly, shoulders rising.

He didn't answer right away.

Instead, he leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. The shadows from the lantern flickered across his sharp features.

"That’s the estimate," he said. "Based on what we know. What the old texts say."

Yeosang blinked slowly. "So I have a year."

Yunho looked at him. This time, his eyes didn’t waver. "I don’t know if you’ll make it half of that."

Silence.

He continued, quieter. "I’ve never seen a curse take root like this. So fast. It’s feeding on something inside you. Or something around you. I can’t tell."

Yeosang turned his head slightly, the effort making him wince. "Do you think I’m already dying?"

"You’re already cursed. That's close enough."

Yunho rubbed a hand over his face. It was the first time Yeosang had seen him look this tired. Human. Less medic, more man.

"We’re still looking," Yunho said. "There might be answers out there. Hongjoong's searching. So am I. You’re not alone in this."

Yeosang gave a faint nod, eyes falling shut for a moment. "Doesn’t feel like it."

"I know."

Outside the infirmary, just beyond the wooden door, the hallway was still. And silent. Except for the shadow pressed against the wall. Wooyoung stood there, one hand curled against his chest, the other clenched at his side. He hadn’t meant to listen. He’d just come to check. To bring another blanket, maybe. To make sure Yeosang was sleeping. But the door hadn’t fully closed. And now, the words echoed in his head.

I don’t know if you’ll make it half of that.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t cry.

He just stood there, like a storm frozen mid-swell.

Waiting.

Until he eventually dragged his feet back to his own quarters.

You didn’t dream this time. No distant voices or haunting faces behind your eyelids. Just black.

When your body began to stir, pain came first. A dull throb in your skull like a war drum. Then heat-fevered, suffocating heat, pooling under your skin and rising like a tide. Every breath scraped your throat raw, your lips cracked and tasted of copper. You couldn’t remember when you'd last drunk anything. Or eaten. You shifted slightly, and your wrists cried out in protest. Still bound. Still in the dark. The pitch blackness was so complete it felt like a second skin, clinging to you with every shallow breath. Cold stone beneath you. Damp air heavy with salt and mold. Somewhere far above, a faint creak of the ship’s bones reminded you you were alive, barely.

Then the sound came.

Boots.

Deliberate.

Close.

The door groaned open. You winced at the sudden brightness, a blinding, stinging light that pierced your swollen eyelids and tore through your skull. A silhouette blocked the glow, tall and broad-shouldered. Then the light shifted. The figure stepped into view.

San.

His jet black was slicked back with sweat, a few rebellious strands falling over his brow. Eyes sharp, lined darkly to mirror the shadows he carried. The light hit the defined curve of his smirking lips, still stained with something dark, something dry. He looked every bit the threat his reputation promised. More than pirate. Predator. He looked you over, taking his time. His gaze dragged across your body like a blade, catching on the dried blood, the sunken cheeks, the slackness in your limbs.

And then he laughed.

“Holy shit,” he exhaled, dragging his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he crouched beside you. “You look fucked.”

He tilted his head. “No, seriously. Damn near dead. That’s what you get, sweetheart. For messing with the wrong crew.”

He leaned in closer, suddenly grabbing your chin between two fingers tight. Too tight. “You know… one little twitch of my boot, and I could end this right now. No one would miss you. Not really. They’d just say the curse claimed another.”

You tried to flinch back, but your body barely obeyed. Limbs weak, vision swimming. A soft, broken noise left your throat.

He scoffed. “Pathetic.”

He unlatched the metal cover of a small box he’d carried in—revealing a steaming bowl of food. Real food. Cooked. Sizzling. The scent hit you like a bullet to the chest, thick broth, herbs, warmth. Your stomach clenched so violently it nearly made you whimper.

San noticed.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re hungry,” he mocked. “You didn’t ask nicely.”

He stood up again and placed the bowl on the floor. Just out of reach.

“So close, right?” He kicked the bowl an inch farther. “Oops.”

Then he turned and-without warning, his boot connected with your ribs. Not hard enough to kill. But hard enough to steal your breath and drag a strangled wheeze from your chest.

“Maybe next time you’ll learn your place.”

He leaned in again, lowering himself to your eye level. “I was told to feed you. They didn’t say how.” His breath smelled like spiced rum and satisfaction. “You want it?”

Your lips parted, a rasp barely escaping.

He hummed, standing again. “Too bad.”

He walked to the door, boots scraping the wood. He paused in the frame.

“You’re lucky Hongjoong didn’t send me down here earlier. He’d have done worse.” A wicked grin touched his lips. “Maybe next time, I will.”

The door slammed shut.

The bowl remained. Steam curling into the dark.

Mocking.

You didn’t know how long it had been since San left. Minutes. Hours. Time didn’t matter anymore, not down here. Only the endless ache in your ribs and the cruel scent of the meal just out of reach. The steam had lessened, but it was still warm enough to sting your senses. Your throat trembled with a dry sob. It escaped weakly, like wind leaking through cracked hull boards. You weren’t sure when the tears began, but they burned as they came. Salt on salt. Pain on pain.

“Please…” you whispered, voice barely a ghost in the dark. “Please…”

But no one answered. You curled inward the best you could with your restraints, trying not to move your side where San had kicked you. Everything felt broken. Your pride. Your hope. Maybe even your ribs.

The door opened again.

No dramatic entrance. No laughter.

Just boots. And silence.

Jongho.

He stepped inside with the kind of presence that demanded attention despite saying nothing. His frame was solid, more carved than built, and his expression gave away nothing. Sharp jaw, black hair tousled, and piercing eyes that didn't waver. He didn’t look at you for a long moment. Just stood there, evaluating.

Finally, his voice came. Low. Cold.

“You look like shit.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn't. His eyes flicked to the untouched bowl. He sighed through his nose and, without a word-lifted his boot.

A soft kick.

The bowl skidded across the wooden floor, stopping inches from your bound hands.

“Eat,” he said. “You need it before I drag you to Yunho.”

You blinked slowly, mouth parting. “Yunho…?” It barely came out.

“Ship’s medic,” he muttered. “Don’t make him wait.”

You looked at the food, hesitant. Every instinct screamed at you to devour it, but something colder crept up your spine.

Was it safe?

Jongho’s eyes met yours. “If we wanted you dead, you’d already be rotting.”

And with that, he turned and walked out. The door creaked closed. You stared at the bowl. And finally, your beaten and tied hands trembled toward it. Your hands barely worked. Fingers trembling, wrists raw from days of tight restraints, you reached for the bowl Jongho had kicked toward you. The metal was still warm. Just holding it sent a jolt of desperation through your chest.

And then you ate.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t cautious. It was messy, slurping, shoveling, barely chewing. Bits of broth spilled down your chin and onto your already soiled clothes. You didn’t care. Your stomach roared with relief, and you let it. Every swallow hurt, but it also reminded you you were still alive. Just barely.

The door creaked again.

You flinched.

Jongho stepped back in, eyes glancing once at the half-empty bowl in your lap. His face didn’t shift.

“Good,” he muttered. “Now get up.”

You blinked, still on the floor, legs curled under you awkwardly. “Get up…?”

“We’re going to see Yunho.”

You hesitated, fear pressing in. You still didn’t know who Yunho was- nor anyone. And every name on this ship felt like a threat.

You braced your hands to the ground and tried to push up. Your arms shook. Your legs refused to respond. Pain lanced through your side where San had kicked you. You tried again. Nothing.

Jongho’s jaw tensed. “Are you serious?”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

“Get up,” he snapped, louder this time.

You flinched at the tone. It spurred you, panicked, trembling, you forced your knees under you and tried to rise. But the moment you lifted even a little, your body gave out. You collapsed sideways, catching yourself on the wall with a whimper. A long sigh filled the room. Boots approached. Strong hands grabbed your arm, not gentle, but not cruel either. Jongho pulled you up with ease, supporting your weight like you were nothing. His grip was firm, no-nonsense. He didn’t say anything, but his brows were pulled together like he was annoyed at himself for even bothering.

“Don’t fall again,” he muttered.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because for the first time in days, someone was holding you up. And for just a second, it felt like you weren’t entirely alone.

The walk was slow.

Every step sent pain vibrating through your bones, and if not for Jongho’s unrelenting grip around your arm, you would’ve crumpled after the first few feet. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you. Just dragged you forward like baggage, his hand firm, fingers locked just tight enough to bruise. You passed the narrow halls of the HalaVeil, the ship groaning and creaking with each wave beneath its hull. The air was thick with salt and oil. Metal pipes along the ceiling hissed faintly, and the occasional flickering lantern cast long shadows across the walls, bending reality just enough to feel dreamlike.

You didn’t see many of the crew. Just fragments, boots outside a door, a low voice behind heavy wood, a glint of a blade catching light as someone cleaned it in the dark. None of them looked up. None of them acknowledged you. Eventually, Jongho pushed open a reinforced door at the far end of the corridor. The air inside was cooler. Cleaner. Sterile in a way nothing else on the ship had been.

The infirmary.

Dim blue lighting filtered from thin, slatted windows, bathing the room in a ghostly glow. Shelves lined with bandages, bottles of murky liquid, and metal tools glinted faintly. Everything was surprisingly organized, precise, even. The kind of space kept by someone who valued control above all else.

Yunho stood near the center table, back turned as he sorted through a small tray of instruments. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to the elbows, a dark vest stretched across his broad shoulders. His black tie hung neatly, not a wrinkle out of place. The sharp line of his jaw shifted as he turned at your entrance, expression unreadable. His eyes raked over you clinically, taking in the bruises, the dried blood, your staggering posture.

Behind him, in the far corner of the room, you caught sight of something else.

Someone.

Yeosang.

He was lying on a cot, body curled weakly beneath a blanket. One arm flung over his chest, the other limp at his side. His face, usually so composed in the brief glimpses you'd caught, was pale—drawn, sick. Even from here, you could see the faint flush of fever high on his cheekbones. The red birthmark near his eye stood out against his skin like fresh paint.

Your gaze lingered.

A mistake.

Jongho noticed.

He stepped in close, voice a sharp whisper in your ear. “Don’t look at him.”

You flinched.

“I see your eyes on him again, I’ll make sure you don’t have any left,” he hissed. Then shoved you forward. “Move.”

Yunho’s voice broke the tension. “Put her on the middle table.”

He sounded… different. Still cold, but not cruel. Detached, like this was just another task on a long list.

Jongho led you forward, stopping at the metal bed. You lowered yourself down slowly, grateful to no longer be standing. Your head throbbed, and your ribs screamed with the movement, but you didn’t dare groan.

Yunho approached, setting the tray beside you.

“Vitals first,” he muttered to himself. “Pupil response… obvious dehydration… facial swelling on the left, bruised orbital socket.” His gloved fingers moved with eerie precision, checking your pulse, brushing lightly against your cheek as he tilted your chin. “Signs of fever—temperature likely above one-oh-two. Breathing shallow. Probable cracked rib, left side.”

You watched him with wary eyes.

“Malnourished. Possibly borderline septic if that wound on your side was infected.”

He didn’t soften as he worked, but there was no mockery in his tone. No delight in your pain. Just assessment. Cold, focused intelligence.

“Were you conscious when the fever began?” he asked, not looking up.

You blinked slowly. “I… don’t know.”

“Hm.” He picked up a thin metal instrument and ran it gently across your arm. “Any hallucinations? Muscle spasms?”

You hesitated. “Dreams. About… people who aren’t here.”

“Fever-induced.” He jotted something quickly in a small black notebook by the tray. “You’re lucky your body held out this long. Tied up, starving, infected… I’ve seen grown men drop after three days. You lasted five.”

You swallowed. That… explained a lot.

Yunho finally glanced up, and for the briefest second, his expression shifted. Not pity. Not sympathy. But a flicker of curiosity. Like he couldn’t quite figure out what was keeping you alive.

He said nothing more, and turned back to his notes.

He turns back to you with a drip bag ready. The pinch of the needle was sharp, but nothing compared to everything else you’d endured. You barely flinched as Yunho slid the IV beneath your skin, connecting the clear tubing to a battered bag of fluid that dangled from a metal arm beside the cot. It wasn’t fancy, but it was sterile. Somehow.

“Finally,” he murmured to himself, taping it in place. “Hydration’s the priority.”

You watched the drip begin. Clear liquid beading down the tube like distant rain.

“You’ll feel a little strange at first,” he continued. “Stomach cramps, cold fingers, maybe dizziness. That’s normal.”

Jongho stood near the door like a sentinel, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you with an expression that made your skin itch. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just watched.

You wanted to shrink away from the heat of it. Instead, you leaned back slowly against the stiff pillow, jaw tight. Yunho worked in silence, pulling on fresh gloves before beginning to clean your wounds. The process was methodical, nothing wasted, no extra words. He lifted the edge of your shirt to reveal the bruising on your ribs. His fingers ghosted over your skin, pressing down with calculated pressure.

You hissed in pain. He paused.

“Cracked, not broken,” he muttered. “Could’ve been worse.”

You scoff coldly, "Wow... I'm so lucky.."

Your side was bathed in a cold antiseptic, then wrapped in tight bandages. His hands moved next to your wrists, gently peeling away the dried blood where rope burns had turned raw. He cleaned them, applied ointment, then covered them neatly. Every touch was precise. Mechanical. No warmth, no cruelty. Just the business of keeping you alive.

“You could ask what I’m doing,” he said, eyes still on your forearm. “Instead of staring at me like I’m about to take your teeth.”

You hesitated. Then, your voice cracked out, rough from disuse. “You are pirates, right? Isn’t that on the list?”

Yunho snorted softly through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite. “We don’t waste resources. Even cursed ones.”

You flinched at that word.

Your eyes flicked to Jongho. Still unmoving. Still watching.

“What is this curse?” you asked. “What do you think I know?”

Yunho said nothing. He unwrapped a smaller gash on your thigh instead, inspecting it with a critical eye. He cleaned it in silence, the sting sharp enough to make your jaw clench. He wrapped it tight. You didn’t thank him. He didn’t expect it. Time passed. The IV bag slowly drained, and with it, something inside you shifted. Your mind cleared. The fog lifted. And slowly, like embers catching a breeze, a small fire inside you began to stir. Your eyes opened wider. Your breathing evened. The ache was still there, but your thoughts sharpened. Grounded.

You lifted your head, gaze flicking between the two of them.

“You,” you rasped, voice low, your eyes pointed to Jongho. “You gonna keep staring at me like that all day? Or are you afraid I might curse you next?”

His eyes narrowed. No smile. No reply.

Yunho glanced between you both, lips pressing into a flat line.

“Oh,” you added bitterly, letting your head tilt back. “I forgot. I’m just cargo to you. Maybe next time you drag me in here, put me on a leash.”

Yunho’s hand paused in its reach for another bandage. His expression didn’t change, but something in the air shifted—an unspoken acknowledgment that you had shifted.

You weren’t broken anymore. Not yet whole. But no longer silent.

The room fell into a fragile silence.

You’d finally begun to feel a flicker of life again, liquid dripping slowly through the IV at your arm, cold and strangely grounding. You still felt weak, battered, but your tongue had begun to remember its edge. You’d spoken, sharp enough to earn a narrowed glare from Jongho, who looked ready to retaliate—

SLAM.

The door burst open.

The sound cracked across the room like a gunshot, even startling Yunho, who hadn’t looked up from your arm until now. His head turned sharply.

You froze.

The man who entered carried a storm behind him.

He was tall, elegant in a way the others weren’t. His long coat swung behind him like a cape, boots clicking cleanly on the wooden floor. There was something ghostlike in his presence, refined, still, but cold. Unfeeling. His face was sharp, eerily symmetrical, jawline cutting and cheekbones high beneath smooth skin. Raven-black hair slicked back, glinting faintly in the infirmary light. A single earring swayed with every step, catching the glow like a fang.

His eyes scanned the room and stopped on you. The sneer was instant. He didn’t speak. Didn’t acknowledge you beyond that look of absolute disdain, like your very existence was an offense he wasn’t sure was worth addressing.

Jongho straightened beside you. Yunho simply sighed.

“Seonghwa,” he said, like he’d been expecting this visit.

“Report,” Seonghwa replied curtly, already moving toward the table cluttered with vials and scribbled notes. “On the prisoner. And Yeosang.”

You blinked. Prisoner. The word echoed. Yunho turned to look at him but didn’t move from your side.

“She’s still alive. Barely. Someone roughed her up more than necessary, but she’s responding to fluids. Will need a full blood cleanse once I’m sure she’ll survive the night.”

Seonghwa didn’t glance your way again. “And Yeosang?”

Yunho stiffened.

Your gaze slid to the corner of the room instinctively where the limp shape of Yeosang lay in a narrow cot, skin pale and jaw slack in an uncomfortable angle. His chest moved, faintly, but that was all. You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring.

“Don’t look at him.”

The words came like a whipcrack. Jongho.

You flinched under the weight of his tone. He hadn’t raised his voice, but it sliced straight through your bones. He was staring at you, jaw clenched. “You don’t get to look at him.” You lowered your eyes.

Seonghwa turned toward Yunho again. “His condition?”

“I’m not discussing that with her in the room,” Yunho said simply, jabbing his thumb toward you.

It was the first time he’d referred to you directly. Not a name. Not even ‘prisoner.’

Just her.

Seonghwa looked unimpressed but said nothing. His fingers tapped once against the wood. The tension between the three men was thick, layered, unreadable. You stayed silent. Because for once, it felt safer that way. 

Seonghwa’s gaze flicked back to Yunho. Just a glance, but something passed between them. An understanding built over years at sea, unspoken but ironclad. He nodded once. “Come. We’ll talk outside.”

Yunho exhaled through his nose, like he knew it was coming. He set the last bandage down and peeled off his gloves, dropping them into a metal basin with a dull clink. Before stepping away, Yunho looked at Jongho.

“Don’t let her move.”

Seonghwa’s voice followed right after, colder. “Don’t let her think.”

Jongho’s stance straightened slightly. “Understood.”

You watched all of it, eyes darting between them like a cornered animal trying to track the pack. The door shut behind Seonghwa and Yunho with a soft click, but it sounded final. Now it was just you and Jongho.

And the silence.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t speak. Just stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on you like he was waiting for the first twitch of defiance. He looked more like a stone statue than a man, broad, dark, solid. His shadow stretched across the wooden floor and almost reached your bed. You stared right back. Your body still ached. Your arm itched where the IV fed into your skin. But the spark inside you-however small, was back. And right now, it chose to burn at him. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But your eyes narrowed. So did his. A silent war of wills. One flicker of rebellion. One breath too loud. One wrong word, and he looked like he’d crush you into dust.

But you didn’t look away.

You wouldn’t give him that.

Not now.

Not again.

The silence sat between you and Jongho like a drawn blade. You couldn’t stop staring. Not because you were curious, but because it felt like if you looked away, you’d lose something. Control. Dignity. The smallest shred of your self-worth. Your mouth was dry, your body aching in every inch. But your voice still found its way through.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you rasped.

Jongho’s head tilted slightly, just enough to catch the shift in your tone. His jaw clenched. “And?”

You blinked. “You think I wanted to be dragged onto this ship? To be starved? Beaten? Mocked by your sick little crew?”

He didn’t move. But his voice was sharp. “You think we care what you wanted?”

Your lips curled. “Then why keep me alive?”

The question lingered. Long enough to make the silence feel like it was pressing against your ribs. Jongho took a slow breath, then stepped closer. “That’s not something you should be asking,” he said, voice low, “unless you want the answer to come from him.”

You flinched.

He didn’t need to say who he was.

Just then, the door opened.

Yunho stepped in, brushing past the tension like it wasn’t even there. His eyes scanned the scene, your glare, Jongho’s stance-and something behind them tightened.

“Jongho,” Yunho said firmly. “Out.”

There was a pause. Jongho didn’t like being dismissed. But he obeyed. With one final glance your way, cold, unreadable, he turned and walked out, boots thudding against the floor like a warning. Yunho walked over to a cabinet, pulled out a small metal container, and dropped it onto the table beside you with a dull clack. Inside was a bowl of something warm, plain rice and fish. It smelled faintly seasoned.

“Eat,” he said.

You hesitated.

He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want another IV.”

Reluctantly, you picked up the spoon and started. Your hands still trembled, but the food soothed something in your chest. Not kindness. Not comfort. Just… survival. When the bowl was empty, Yunho took it back without a word. Then he stepped forward.

“Get up.”

You blinked at him, confused.

“What—?”

He grabbed your arm—not hard, but not gentle either—and began pulling you to your feet. Your body protested, legs trembling under the sudden shift. You barely managed to stay upright, leaning heavily into him for balance.

“Where are you taking me?” you asked, breathless.

“A different room.”

You frowned. “Why?”

He didn’t look at you as he said, “Because you’re not sleeping next to Yeosang. No one wants that.” His voice held something else there. Not fear. Not disgust. Grief, maybe. But it was gone before you could be sure. Yunho opened the door to a side room, small, barely furnished. A thin cot. A single blanket. He all but dropped you onto it.

“You’ll rest here,” he said, turning toward the door. “I’ll check on you later.”

You watched him walk away, the door closing softly behind him. And once again, you were alone. But at least this time, there was a blanket. And a locked door between you and the monsters. For now.

The ship groaned beneath the weight of its bones and burdens. Salt-logged wood moaned with every wave, every gust of wind that snapped against the sails. Down below, away from the light of the sea and the chaos of the upper deck, a door creaked open for the first time in days.

Wooyoung stepped out.

Barely.

He moved like a shadow, feet dragging, head low, eyes half-lidded with fatigue and something deeper. Something cracked and buried. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since overhearing Yunho’s grim words. Hadn’t looked anyone in the eye. His room had become a cage, and he hadn’t fought it. Until now. He made his way down the corridor, boots scuffing the floor. Not out of laziness. He simply had nothing left to lift them with. His long black coat hung from his frame like it didn’t want to touch him. His collarbone was sharp, his skin paler than usual in the low glow of corridor lanterns. His lip ring glinted faintly. His eyeliner had smudged from sleep and sweat, giving him a haunted look beneath already heavy eyes.

He stopped outside a thick iron-plated door. Behind it: the smell of gunpowder and grease. Mingi.

Wooyoung didn’t knock. Just walked in. The workshop was alive with noise. Sparks jumped from a coil in the corner, and metal tools clinked over a large table. Disassembled weapons, energy cores, glass tubes with glowing liquids, and wrenches too large for civilian use. It was chaos to most. But to Mingi-it was order.

The taller man looked up, surprised.

Wooyoung didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Mingi pulled up his goggles, revealing warm eyes dulled by exhaustion. His pale blonde hair was slicked back with sweat and oil, jaw tense from hours hunched over his work.

“Didn’t expect you,” Mingi said quietly, wiping his hands on a stained cloth.

“I needed air,” Wooyoung muttered.

“Shit, I thought you might’ve died in there.”

Wooyoung gave a humorless twitch of a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped further inside. The door sealed behind him with a soft hiss. The tension lingered in the air like steam from an overworked engine. Neither man spoke for a long time. Mingi returned to adjusting a pressure gauge. Wooyoung watched him without moving.

“I heard Yunho,” Wooyoung finally whispered. “Outside the infirmary.”

Mingi’s hands stilled.

“He said Yeosang wouldn’t last a year. Might not even make it halfway.”

The air thickened. The spark coil behind Mingi buzzed louder, almost reacting.

“Then we find the cure faster,” Mingi said, voice lower than before. Controlled. Heavy.

Wooyoung leaned against the wall. His hands were shaking.

“Do you think she knows anything?” he asked. “The girl they brought in?”

Mingi didn’t look at him. Just tightened the bolt in front of him. “She better.”

“Hongjoong’s losing his mind,” Wooyoung muttered. “San looks like he enjoys torturing her. Jongho’s ready to snap her neck. And Seonghwa’s… worse. All she’s done is survive.”

“She’s a piece of the puzzle,” Mingi replied. “Whether she likes it or not.”

Silence again. Wooyoung stared down at the floor.

“She looked terrified,” he said. “When I passed her door.”

“You pity her?”

“No,” Wooyoung lied.

Mingi finally turned. His gaze was sharp. Focused. “We can’t afford softness, Woo.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Mingi stared a moment longer. Then gave a slight nod. “Alright.”

Another beat of silence. Then Mingi gestured to a box of dismantled gun cores beside him. “If you’re not dead, help me recalibrate the ignition chambers. They’re acting up again.”

Wooyoung didn’t move at first. But eventually, with a tired sigh, he pushed off the wall… and walked over. And for the first time in days, he sat beside someone else. Not to hurt. Not to fight. But to work. And stay alive.

The quiet between them wasn’t empty anymore. It was filled with tools being passed back and forth. Sparks dancing inside cracked cores. The low hum of the HalaVeil’s underbelly, alive with tideborn magic and steel. And finally… words. Mingi tightened a fuse cap with practiced ease, his large hands moving like they’d been built for this. He didn’t look at Wooyoung when he spoke again.

“You remember the first time we met?”

Wooyoung scoffed softly. “Yeah. You tried to steal my boots.”

“They were good boots.”

“They were mine.”

Mingi shrugged, grinning faintly as he adjusted a copper coil. “You kicked me in the stomach. Real hard.”

“And you cried.”

“Lies. I wheezed dramatically. Different thing.”

Wooyoung let out something that almost sounded like a laugh. “I thought you were the dumbest bastard I’d ever met.”

“And you were the loudest.”

They shared a glance. And for a flicker of a second, the weight on both their shoulders lifted. Two boys again, covered in dirt, fighting over scraps in a dockyard on the edge of nowhere. Before the blood. Before the name HalaVeil meant anything more than escape.

“…Never thought we’d end up here,” Wooyoung said quietly, voice settling into something more real.

Mingi nodded, slowly. “We never end up where we think.”

He set down the barrel he was reinforcing and leaned back on his hands. “You know… I still think about it sometimes. Yeosang.”

Wooyoung’s jaw tightened. “What about him?”

“How he always pretended he was the unbreakable one.”

Wooyoung looked away.

Mingi continued, gently, “But it was always him, wasn’t it? The most fragile.”

“He was fearless,” Wooyoung snapped, too quickly.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

“He took hits harder than any of us.”

“I know.”

“He stared down bounty hunters. Royals. Hell, he once dove off the deck mid-battle just to gut that sea beast—”

“I know, Woo.”

Wooyoung stopped. Mingi looked at him with something raw in his eyes. “That’s what made it worse. He was fearless… but glass. All that fire in him—it burned through fast. Quietly. He hid it. From us. From himself.”

Wooyoung’s hands clenched in his lap. “And now he’s dying.” Mingi didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The air around them seemed to quiet. Even the ship groaned softer, as if listening.

“…We’re gonna find the cure,” Wooyoung said, voice shaking despite his best efforts. “We’re not letting him die like this.”

“No,” Mingi agreed. “We’re not.”

They worked in silence for a while longer. A little closer now. A little steadier. And somewhere in the heart of the ship, beneath layers of salt and steel, two childhood promises rekindled in the firelight of desperation.

The captain’s quarters sat at the highest point of the HalaVeil’s core deck, just below the helm, hidden behind thick, reinforced doors etched with tideborn runes and old blood. It was the quietest room on the ship. It was also the most dangerous. 

Seonghwa didn’t knock.

He stepped in, boots quiet over the creaking wood, and shut the door behind him with a deliberate click. The room looked like a storm had passed through it. Maps were scattered over every surface, coastal outlines, sea routes, cursed coves marked in dark ink and ominous symbols. Open books, loose pages, fragments of old legends. One section of the wall had inked diagrams pinned haphazardly in a line-almost like a timeline. Every document told a story, and every story led to Luminaer.

And in the center of the chaos stood Hongjoong. He was hunched over the desk, wild-eyed, jaw tight, his usually neat layers of dark clothing rumpled from hours, maybe days, of unbroken work. His sleeves were rolled up, veins in his forearms tense as he turned the page of an ancient, sea-worn ledger. His eyes flicked up as Seonghwa entered. Sharp. Tired. Suspicious. But always sharp. “You’re late.”

Seonghwa stepped forward, folding his arms. “Yunho needed privacy to speak freely.”

Hongjoong straightened slowly, cracking his neck. “And?”

“He says the girl’s injuries are real. Not staged.”

“I could tell that from the bruises.”

“He also said she’s recovering faster than expected,” Seonghwa added. “Even after the fever.”

That got a pause.

Hongjoong’s gaze shifted. “Tideborn resistance?”

“Possibly. Or just spite.”

The captain exhaled, long and heavy. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. A few strands clung to the side of his face, damp with sweat and seawater air.

He looked like a ghost of himself. A shadow pressed too thin.

“Yeosang?” he asked, voice lower.

Seonghwa hesitated, then answered: “Unchanged. But Yunho wouldn’t say more in front of her.”

“Smart,” Hongjoong muttered.

His hand dropped to the edge of the desk, fingers brushing over a torn page, one he had copied from an outlawed alchemist’s journal. His other hand rested over a compass. But it wasn’t pointing north.

“He’s running out of time,” he whispered.

Seonghwa didn’t move. “That’s why we’re here.”

“I don’t want her,” Hongjoong snarled suddenly, slamming a fist onto the desk. The maps jumped. “She’s nothing but a liability.”

“But a necessary one,” Seonghwa said coolly.

“I don’t trust her.”

“None of us do.”

“But I’m supposed to lead her.”

“You’re supposed to use her,” Seonghwa corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Hongjoong’s chest rose and fell, breath labored like he’d just been in a fight. Maybe he had. Maybe with himself.

He turned back toward the desk, gripping its edge tightly.

“I won’t lose him,” he said quietly. “I won’t let that curse take him.”

Seonghwa’s expression didn’t change. But something flickered behind his eyes. “Then we make her talk.”

The room had settled into a heavy silence after Seonghwa’s last words. Hongjoong remained still for a moment, eyes narrowed at the ripple of parchment caught in a draft. Then he finally turned, leaning against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed tightly.

“She’s healing,” he repeated. “But slowly. Which means someone got creative.” Seonghwa nodded once. “Yunho found fresh bruising. A fractured rib.”

Hongjoong didn’t move. Not a twitch. But the air in the captain’s quarters shifted.

“The kind of fracture you get from a deliberate kick. And Yunho said the bruising pattern was… familiar.”

A long beat. Then Hongjoong scoffed, low and amused. “Let me guess.”

Seonghwa’s lips curled faintly, more shadow than smile. “Dark hair. Smirks too much.”

“San.”

They said the name together.

Not with anger.

With expectation.

Hongjoong pushed off the desk and began to pace, fingers laced behind his back. “He’s useful, I’ll give him that. Efficient. Dangerous. Loyal- just not to rules.”

“He’s impulsive,” Seonghwa added. “Predictable. But always just careful enough not to cross the line completely.”

Hongjoong stopped mid-stride. “But this time?”

“Close. Too close.”

They were quiet again, letting the weight of that settle. Both men knew San. Knew his flair for violence and his complete lack of fear. He obeyed orders, sure, but only in the way a wolf might obey a leash made of silk. Thin. Temporary. Hongjoong turned to the door. “Summon him.”

Seonghwa didn’t need to move. He just reached back, grabbed the speaking pipe mounted on the wall, and tapped twice on the metal bell that alerted the lower deck.

A pause.

Then: “San. Captain’s quarters.”

It didn’t take long.

When the door finally opened, it was with a dramatic, almost lazy flair. San stepped in like he owned the place, expression cocky, jet black hair swept back, a smudge of grease along one cheek. He hadn’t even tried to clean up.

“Captain,” he drawled. “First mate.” A lazy salute followed.

Hongjoong didn’t return it. “Close the door.”

San raised a brow, but obeyed. Once it clicked shut, silence folded in like a blanket of tension. “We’ve been hearing things,” Seonghwa said calmly, arms still crossed. “About the girl.”

San’s smirk deepened, not even hiding it. “Lot of things to hear. She cries pretty.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flashed, but his voice stayed eerily calm. “Specifically, that she has a broken rib.” San tilted his head, feigning confusion. “Huh. Weird.”

Seonghwa stepped forward just slightly. “Yunho said the bruising pattern looked like a kick. One strong enough to almost puncture her lung.”

San gave a little mock wince. “Ouch. Hope she lives.”

“San,” Hongjoong said slowly, voice like velvet over broken glass, “you know what I don’t like?”

San blinked innocently. “Sharing rum?”

“Sloppiness.”

That wiped the smirk off, just a little. “You were told to feed her. Intimidate her, sure. Keep her cornered. But not cripple her.”

San shrugged, but there was a twitch in his jaw. “She mouthed off. Thought I’d remind her where she was.” Lies.

“Now she’s slower to heal,” Seonghwa said. “Less useful to us. Less useful to save Yeosang.”

San didn’t reply.

“Next time,” Hongjoong said, stepping closer, voice low and razor-sharp, “you put her in a coma, and I’ll tie your ass to the keel and let the current decide what’s left of you when we surface.”

San’s eyes flicked up, glinting, but he didn’t speak.

Hongjoong smiled darkly. “That clear?”

“…Yes, Captain.”

“Good.” He stepped back toward his desk. “Now get out.”

San turned without another word. But as he opened the door, he glanced over his shoulder, grinning faintly again, this time at Seonghwa.

“Didn’t break her spirit, though.” And he was gone, the door slammed shut.

The door clicked shut behind San.

Silence returned like a wave, pressing in around the flickering oil lanterns and the mess of books still open across the desk. But this silence was heavier now. Settled. Hongjoong exhaled, long and quiet, then turned back toward the center of the room. The golden glow of lamplight clung to him, catching on the edges of his dark attire, the subtle metal fastenings along his collar, the cuffs worn smooth from use. His dark hair framed his face in soft waves, deceptively gentle against the sharpness of his features. He was shorter than most of his crew, but no one ever noticed. Not when he looked at you like he already knew your sins and planned to carve them from your skin.

Seonghwa stood nearby, his arms still folded across his chest. The light hit him differently. His black hair caught a colder hue under the flame. He was taller,  lean but not fragile. There was a predator’s quiet in his stillness, as if every muscle had been trained to wait, not strike. A blade left half-sheathed.

“You think he’ll actually rein it in?” Seonghwa asked finally.

Hongjoong’s gaze trailed over a map pinned to the wall, torn along the corner, smeared with ink. “He’ll have to.”

Seonghwa arched a brow. “And when he doesn’t?”

“We decide what parts of him we can afford to lose.”

The room fell quiet again. The captains cold ways become more apparent.  Outside the thick glass windows, the ocean shifted. A distant bird cried. The ship groaned under the weight of magic, time, and something older,  the steady churn of the world moving, whether they survived it or not. Hongjoong moved slowly, gathering a stack of papers from the edge of the table. He sorted through them with a careful hand, and for a moment, Seonghwa could see the exhaustion buried in the captain’s shoulders. All the sleepless nights. The pressure of command. The weight of knowing Yeosang’s time was running out.

“She needs to start talking,” Hongjoong said, voice low. “We’ve played soft long enough.”

Seonghwa’s jaw twitched. “She’s still recovering.”

“She’s breathing. That’s enough.”

A long pause passed between them. Then Hongjoong looked up, eyes burning with something more dangerous than rage: purpose. “When she’s awake again,” he said slowly, “send her here.”

Seonghwa didn’t flinch. Just nodded.

“Understood.”

Hongjoong went back to his notes. Seonghwa turned for the door. And the room remained lit by two things: flamelight and the sharp edges of unspoken plans.

You lay still.

The room was small. A storage closet repurposed as a resting place, if you were feeling generous. But the walls were lined with nothing but shadows, and the faint flicker of a single lantern barely reached the corners. It smelled of salt, old rope, and something older. Something like rusted blood and secrets. You didn’t know how long you’d been here. The drip still fed into your arm, cold against your fevered skin. Yunho had placed it there with clinical detachment, and Jongho had all but dragged you into this box without speaking another word. You’d collapsed onto the cot the second they left, too weak to fight the pull of sleep again. But now, your body had begun to ache in new ways.

More awake.

More aware.

More angry.

You stared at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. Every inhale pulled at the bruises San had left on your ribs, and every exhale reminded you you were still alive.

Why?

You hadn’t asked for any of this. Your mind spiraled.

The betrayal. The lies. Your old crew, Blackeyes, selling you out like you were just a broken coin in their pocket. The fear. The pain. The mocking eyes that watched you crawl. You shifted slightly, grimacing as a bolt of pain sparked down your side. Every inch of you felt ruined. Your lips were dry and split. Dirt clung to your skin in smudges. You could feel dried blood on your temple and collarbone. Your wrists were raw, still marked from the bindings. Even your hair was matted, sticking to the nape of your neck from sweat. If you saw yourself in a mirror right now, you weren’t sure you’d recognize the reflection. Your stomach twisted again. Hunger and sickness dancing a tightrope.

And yet... some stubborn thing inside you refused to break.

They wanted you quiet. Scared. Weak.

You’d been all three.

But not forever.

The lantern buzzed gently. You blinked, lifting your head slightly from the makeshift pillow.

Footsteps.

Just outside the door. Your heart climbed into your throat. Was it Yunho again? Or worse? You weren’t sure you could take another lecture from the medic,  or another smirk from that sadist with the black hair or the cold stare from Jongho.

Your fingers curled into the blanket.

Who was coming for you this time?

And what would they take next?

Taglist- open: @nijisanjigenshin @littlebear005 @jellyjellyghost

[amoryeonjun]

Tidebound ☠

Chapter One

PirateOt8AU x F!Reader/original character

-In a fractured, salt-soaked world ruled by magic and machines, the feared pirate crew of the HalaVeil sails in search of a myth, a cursed potion known as Luminaer, said to be the only cure for a deadly affliction slowly killing one of their own.

When they cross paths with their most hated rivals, the Blackeyes, the crew demands revenge… and receives a strange girl instead.

You.

Betrayed. Bruised. Bound.

They call you Curse; a liar, a threat, a scapegoat. But as the storm deepens and the curse tightens its grip, it becomes clear: you might be the key to everything. Or the end of them all.

And in the eyes of a crew that trusts no one… you’ll have to survive long enough to prove which.-

Genre: PirateAU, Angst, Slow burn, Enemies to ??, OT8

Warnings: violence, death, swearing, fighting, drugging, angst (lmk if i missed anything)

Word count: 3.2k (i promise they'll be longer in future chapters!)

Taglist: open!

Masterlist > Previous > Next

Before there were pirates, there were gods. Not kind ones. Not ones who wept for man. They lived in the depths- in salt and pressure and silence. They fed on secrets. And they hated liars most of all. The old ones say the sea once held a voice. A chorus, even, the Abyssian Wives, sirens who sang truth into the bones of the world. But truth has always been dangerous. And man has always tried to steal it.

So the Wives drowned themselves, willingly One by one, dragging kingdoms with them. And when the last of them fell, she cursed the ocean with her final breath.

“Let all who chase immortality be claimed by it. Let the liars rot.”

The waters changed after that. Ships vanished between one tide and the next. Storms brewed in minutes. Sailors began waking with glowing eyes. And the word “Tideborn” was whispered like a warning. Some could see the future. Some could warp it. Others… could never lie again. Not without bleeding for it.

Then came the pirates. Not to beg the sea, but to take from it.

They built iron-clad monsters that ran on stormcores and salvaged tech. They called themselves kings, gods, devils.

But one name rose above all.

The HalaVeil.

Eight men. No master. No mercy. Only a curse ahead of them, and a storm always at their back.

They sail not for gold, but for a myth. A potion that doesn’t exist. A cure that demands a soul. A lie that just might save one of their own, if it doesn’t damn the rest. The sea remembers. And it always takes back what it’s owed.

The HalaVeil didn’t glide through the water, it tore through it. The sea bent beneath its keel like it feared the name carved into its hull. Metal and driftwood fused together with glowing scars, sails stitched with symbols from a language long dead. The wind screamed across the deck, dragging ropes and salt through the air like ghost fingers.

From the crow’s nest, Jongho squinted into the grey-blue horizon. His eyes gleamed pale for a heartbeat , and then dulled again.

“Storm in thirty,” he called down. “Big one. Hungry.”

Below, Seonghwa didn’t flinch. He stood near the wheel, hands behind his back, expression unreadable.

“We’ll go around.”

Behind him, Mingi scoffed. “You’re no fun.”

Seonghwa gave no reply,  which, in Mingi’s experience, usually meant death glare pending.

Somewhere below deck, Yunho tightened a new bandage around his own shoulder. He hissed at the sting, but didn’t stop. Cuts healed fast, but not if you ignored them. Especially not with his gift — or his curse, depending on the day. Footsteps echoed above. A blur of movement. Wooyoung landed beside the main mast, swinging down like a shadow loosed from its tether.

“The merchant ship’s empty,” he announced. “Clean sweep. Food, cores, a few antique storm charts. And…” - he held up a flask - “...something that might kill us.”

“Just drink it,” Mingi muttered. “You’ve eaten worse.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

At the helm, Hongjoong said nothing. He gripped the wheel with gloved hands, his dark coat snapped by the wind, his expression carved from ice. When he was quiet this long, no one interrupted. Unless they wanted to lose something.

He finally spoke without turning.

“Siltshore.”

Yeosang, perched on a crate not far from the port railing, blinked. “No.”

“Seconded,” Yunho added, stepping into view. “You said we’d never go back there.”

“I changed my mind.”

“That’s not how this works,” San growled, spinning one of his blades in his hand. “We nearly died the last time.”

“And we will again,” Yeosang said coldly, “if you keep trusting liars.”

“Then maybe your power should’ve told us who was lying, Scout,” San shot back.

Wooyoung raised both hands between them. “Okay, okay. Everyone take a breath and maybe punch something inanimate.”

“Or punch Yeosang,” Mingi offered.

“Or shut up,” Seonghwa added.

“Enough.” Hongjoong let go of the wheel and turned, dark eyes raking over them all like he was taking inventory of strengths, of weaknesses, of who would die first if he chose wrong.

“We’re going to Siltshore,” he repeated. “Because the Blackeyes were seen there. And if we’re going to find anything good… we need to follow every ghost, every rumor, and every lie.”

Yeosang went still.

“You think they know something,” he said quietly.

“I think someone's hiding something from me,” Hongjoong replied. “And I’m going to kill whoever it is.”

Above them, thunder cracked. The sea rose. And far below, beneath rusted ruins and salt-bleached bones, something ancient turned its head.

The HalaVeil cut through the night like a scar across dark silk.

In the distance, Siltshore glowed, not golden like most ports, but flickering blue and red, like dying neon. A city built on bones and water. The closer they sailed, the more the air changed: metallic, chemical, thick with salt and smoke. The kind of place where sailors went to disappear, and some of them did.

On deck, tension clung like damp air.

"Thirty clicks until shore,” Jongho called from above, voice sharp. “We’re drifting too fast.”

“I know,” Seonghwa muttered from the wheel, fingers tight on the spokes. “The currents are wrong here.”

“They’re always wrong here,” Yeosang said quietly, gaze fixed on the distant glow. “It’s not the tide.”

San slammed his sword into its sheath with more force than necessary. “Maybe we just don’t go in like idiots this time.”

“Why ruin the tradition?” Wooyoung leaned over the railing, upside down, feet hooked casually on the ropes. “I’m sure there’s some local crime boss dying to stab me again.”

“You laughed when he stabbed you,” Yunho pointed out, adjusting the strap of his medkit. “You thanked him.”

“I did. He was cute.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” Mingi asked from where he was packing a bag full of explosives and storm cores.

Wooyoung flipped upright. “Nope.”

“Great,” Mingi muttered, shoving a smoke canister in with a bit too much force. “We’re definitely surviving this.”

From the captain’s quarters, Hongjoong finally emerged, coat donned, hair pulled back, expression unreadable.

“You’re packing too much,” he told Mingi.

“I’m packing exactly enough,” Mingi shot back.

Hongjoong ignored him. “We go in quiet. No blood unless I say. We get the contact, get what we need, and leave.”

“And if someone recognizes us?” Seonghwa asked without looking up.

Hongjoong’s mouth twitched. “Then we burn the city.”

A silence passed over the deck.

Yunho stepped in, trying to pull the tension back down. “We’re not here to pick fights, remember? Just whispers. I’ll stay close to Yeosang. If anyone tries to lie, he’ll hear it.”

“Only if you stop being louder than the liars,” Yeosang muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Yunho raised an eyebrow.

“I said I’ll do my best,” Yeosang said, deadpan.

Wooyoung grinned. “He’s getting sassier. I like this timeline.”

Hongjoong cut them off with a single look. “We dock at midnight. I want the crew split into three.”

He tapped the map on the crate beside him.

“Seonghwa, Mingi, and Jongho — you take the east end. The stormcore black markets.”

“Mmm, my favorite kind of illegal,” Mingi hummed.

“San, Yeosang, and Yunho — stay near the central run. Get information. Stay clean.”

“I always stay clean,” San said, running a blade across his palm with a glint in his eyes.

“And I’m heading west,” Hongjoong finished. “Wooyoung’s with me.”

“Oh?” Wooyoung perked up. “Because I’m your favorite?”

“Because you lie the best.”

The crew scattered to prep: blades sharpened, cloaks donned, runes stitched into collars and cuffs. Saltbinding charms were passed around, cracked glass beads on corded string, meant to ward off curses or misdirection. No one knew if they actually worked, but wearing one was better than not. In the shared quarters, Yeosang sat on the edge of his bunk, fingers twitching.

“You okay?” Yunho asked, tightening the last strap on his gear.

Yeosang didn’t look at him. “This place feels wrong.”

“It always feels wrong.”

“No,” Yeosang said slowly. “It feels… watching.”

Yunho’s brow furrowed. “What do you hear?”

Yeosang shook his head. “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

Across the room, San grunted. “If anything does happen, I’m stabbing first and asking questions never.”

“You’re so romantic,” Wooyoung called from the hallway.

“Go choke on your illusions.”

“Gladly.”

By the time the HalaVeil reached the edge of Siltshore’s radius, the water beneath them had changed, thicker, darker, almost heavy. The ship groaned, wood creaking unnaturally. A shiver passed through them all, quiet, collective. Even Hongjoong paused as he stepped onto the landing deck, one gloved hand brushing against the railing like he was listening to the ship breathe.

“We’re being watched,” Seonghwa said, softly.

“No,” Hongjoong replied. “We’re being expected.”

Siltshore reeked of rust and rain.

The port was built like a trap, spiraling alleys, twisted bridges, dripping signs in every language, half of them glowing, half of them flickering. It rained even when the sky was clear. Salt clung to everything. So did blood. The HalaVeil’s crew didn’t exactly blend in. But they didn’t need to. Not here.

Seonghwa, Mingi and Jongho scouted out first.

They moved like wolves in a field of mice.

The stormcore market was tucked into the broken belly of an old sea-fort, surrounded by makeshift stalls and armed guards with rusted weapons. But no one questioned them when Seonghwa stepped through the gates first, tall, composed, and silent as a blade.

“Mouths shut. Eyes open,” he ordered. He didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to.

Mingi trailed a step behind, eyes already scanning for weak spots in the guards’ armor. “You want quiet theft or loud boom?”

“Neither,” Seonghwa replied. “Yet.”

Jongho watched everything- every twitch of the merchants, every shadow shift. His vision flickered briefly, the future humming at the edge of his skull.

“I see two outcomes,” he muttered. “One where we walk away. One where Mingi gets shot.”

“Which one’s more fun?” Mingi grinned.

At the core stall, the merchant tried to haggle.

“These are top grade. No pirate scum discount.”

Seonghwa didn’t blink. “You’ll hand them over.”

“Not unless you want your ribs electrified.”

Mingi leaned close, voice all sugar. “You ever see a man implode from the inside? No? Want a demonstration?”

The merchant paled. Five minutes later, they walked away with every stormcore on the table.

San, Yunho and Yeosang went in the east direction. This part of the town is said to be the more gritty end. No one stays out here past dark. The central run of Siltshore was louder, music, bodies, blood. Smoke curled from incense burners and weapon stalls. Everything was for sale. Especially people. San moved like he owned the place. He shouldered past market goers, knocked over a table, stole fruit without paying. The locals scowled, until they recognized him. Then they ran.

Yunho stayed closer to Yeosang, keeping a protective radius. “We’re not here to kill anyone.”

“Speak for yourself,” San muttered.

Yeosang paused at a charm stall. A small girl offered him a saltbinding necklace.

“It keeps the ghosts out,” she whispered.

He tilted his head. “Does it?”

She nodded, solemn. He handed her a silver chip anyway, and then turned away before anyone could see the tremor in his hands.

In the tavern, their contact was drunk and twitchy.

“There’s no potion,” he slurred. “Just stories. And death.”

Yeosang’s gaze sharpened. His power surged a chill like iron in his mouth. Yeosang drinks his mead to soothe his nerves, looking down and seeing a fizz inside his cup. 

“He’s lying,” he said.

San was already pulling out his blade. “I’ll make him bleed the truth.”

“Wait,” Yunho said.

But it was too late. None of the locals look over at the commotion. It's just the norm there.

 Hongjoong and  Wooyoung went a different direction. They didn’t sneak. They strolled.

The western end of Siltshore was quieter, darker. All shadows and echoes. Perfect for people who wanted to disappear. Wooyoung leaned against a doorframe, smiling too easily at a passing courier. “Do you know who we are?”

“No,” the man stammered.

“Good.” Wooyoung’s smile widened. “Tell your boss we’re here anyway.”

Inside the smokehouse, Hongjoong stood over the map table, speaking to no one, fingers tracing routes no one else saw.

“You’re pushing too hard,” Wooyoung said softly.

“I’m not pushing hard enough,” Hongjoong replied. “Every second we waste…”

“Yeosang’s fine.”

“Not yet. But he won’t be for long.”

As they left, Wooyoung stopped to rob a smuggler blind while smiling into his face. Hongjoong didn’t stop him. He didn’t stop him when he broke the man’s kneecap either.

“Message delivery fee,” Wooyoung said, brushing blood off his boot.

Eventually, the crew finishes their pillaging, only just to further add fear to their name. They regrouped near the edges of Siltshore just before midnight. Heavy with supplies. Heavier with silence.

“Anything useful?” Seonghwa asked.

“Plenty,” Hongjoong said. “But not enough.”

Yeosang swayed slightly on his feet.

Yunho caught his elbow. “You okay?”

Yeosang blinked once. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

And by the next hour, they would all know.

The dock should’ve been quiet.

The HalaVeil crew moved like ghosts, returning from their split missions, boots echoing against warped wood and rain-slick stone. Siltshore slept, or pretended to. The city never truly rested. Not with the kind of things that crawled its underbelly. Yeosang lagged behind. At first, no one said anything. He always lingered. Always looked back at shadows as if they whispered to him. But this time, it was different. He was paler. Eyes sunken. Movements sluggish, like walking through water.

Yunho stepped closer, whispering, “Still with us?”

Yeosang blinked slowly. “My head hurts.”

“Sleep it off when we’re off this dock.”

Yeosang nodded faintly , and said nothing else.

On deck, Seonghwa was locking down the course map while Mingi counted what they stole. Wooyoung hummed as he cleaned his bloodied blade with someone’s stolen shirt.

San was sharpening his own weapons again, faster than necessary.

“Something’s wrong with him,” San said aloud, eyes locked on Yeosang as he climbed aboard.

“No shit,” Wooyoung muttered. “He looks like a drowned ghost.”

Yunho shot him a glare. “Not helping.”

“We should move,” Seonghwa called. “Wind’s changed. Storm’s building. I want us gone in ten.”

But Yeosang didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at his own hand.

“…it was the drink,” he whispered.

Hongjoong turned sharply. “What?”

Yeosang’s voice cracked, barely audible. “The merchant. The contact. He gave me something after we talked. Said it would help clear the noise.”

“And you drank it?” San barked.

“I didn’t… mean to... I-I didn't want to” Yeosang looked dazed, voice breaking apart like glass. “It tasted like salt and iron. Then it turned green.”

“Green,” Yunho repeated, tone flat with dread. “Shit.”

The crew went still.

Everyone knew what green meant in Siltshore. Especially when it came from a man known for selling truth-warding potions. It wasn’t a gift. It was a curse. And it was working.

Yeosang’s lie detection, his entire power, had been corrupted.

“Who was the man?” Hongjoong demanded. “What did he look like?”

Yeosang’s brow furrowed. “Tall. Gold rings. Left hand tattooed. Smelled like clove smoke.”

A long silence.

Then Jongho, up in the nest, called out: “Captain. Starboard side.”

The crew turned.

Docked across from them, as if summoned by the storm itself, was a sleek black ship. Torn sails. Rusted teeth welded into the side of the hull. And on the prow stood a man.

Smirking. Leaning on a cane he didn’t need. Wearing gold rings. Smoke curling from his mouth. The Captain of the Blackeyes.

“Permission to kill him,” San growled.

“Seconded,” Mingi said without looking up.

“No.” Hongjoong’s voice was quiet. Cold. “Not yet.”

“What’s the plan?” Seonghwa asked.

“We board.”

“They’ll run the second they see us.”

“Then we make them bleed first.”

Yeosang took a shaky breath and turned to Hongjoong.

“Whatever he gave me… it’s killing me, isn’t it?”

Hongjoong stared at him for a long, brutal moment. His mind ran ahead, calculating symptoms, duration, trajectory. And then, finally, his answer:

“Yes.”

The attack was silent. Then it wasn’t.

Jongho fired the first shot,  a flashbomb arcing over the dock and exploding mid-air. Light shattered the fog. Shouts followed. Blades sang.

The HalaVeil crew hit the Blackeyes like a storm no one predicted.

San was first to leap across the plank, landing with a crack of steel and boot. His blade sank into the nearest crewman without hesitation. He kicked the body aside.

“Where is he?” he snarled.

Wooyoung followed next, a flicker of illusion trailing behind him like a second skin. One Blackeyes gunner raised their weapon,  and found themselves stabbing their own hallucination instead.

“Oops,” Wooyoung whispered, slashing their throat. “Wrong reality.”

Mingi hurled an explosive at the mast. Fire surged upward, catching the rigging.

“You said no full burn!” Yunho shouted.

“I didn’t!” Mingi yelled back over the roar. “I only said maybe partial!”

Seonghwa moved like a ghost, clean and surgical. His blade was silent, but his eyes burned. The sea whipped around the ship unnaturally, tilting the deck in ATEEZ’s favor.

Hongjoong walked into the chaos with his blade sheathed, expression unreadable. He didn’t need to fight, not with his crew plugged into his mind. They were synced. Every swing. Every breath. It hurt like hell, but the results were flawless.

Yeosang, barely standing, stayed behind with Jongho. His eyes were glassy.

“They’re lying again,” he whispered, even as blood trickled from his nose. “They’re all lying.”

The Blackeyes screamed. They weren’t prepared. They weren’t good enough.

Men dropped. Steel clanged. Blood spilled across the deck like oil.

And finally, finally - a voice cried out.

“STOP!”

The fighting slowed. A thin, weaselly man, the first mate, stumbled forward, arms raised, face streaked with ash and fear.

“We call for parley!”

Hongjoong stepped forward, face unreadable. “Now you want peace.”

“We’re sorry—about the curse. We didn’t know..” Lies.

“You knew enough to stand there and watch him suffer,” San growled.

“We’re not the ones who cast it!”  More lies. the man cried. “But we know someone who can help!” 

The crew froze.

That’s when The Blackeyes captain stepped forward. Sickening grin. Gold rings. Clove smoke. Eyes like rotten oil.

“We’ve got a… guest. One of ours. Used to be, anyway.”

He jerked a thumb toward the lower deck.

“Bit of a freak. Knows things. We didn’t trust her. But maybe you will.”

A pause.

“She knows where the curse came from. And maybe how to end it.”

Hongjoong’s head tilted slightly. Yunho looked at Yeosang. He was swaying. San looked at Seonghwa. He gave the faintest nod.

“Bring her out,” Hongjoong said.

You were dragged. Wrists bound. Face bruised. Eyes wild with panic. You kicked. Fought. Screamed.

“Let go of me! I didn’t do anything!”

“Shut her up,” the Blackeyes’ captain snapped. “You want a cure or not?”

You struggled harder.

“I don’t know anything! They’re lying-!”

Mingi stepped forward, rage flaring.

“I say we gut their captain and take her anyway.”

“No,” Hongjoong said coldly. “If she’s cursed him, she dies slow.”

You spat blood. “I didn’t-”

Your voice cut off as a fist slammed into the side of your head.

You crumpled.

Out cold.

Silence fell over the dock.

The Blackeyes backed away, dragging their dead, leaving their wounded.

Hongjoong watched them leave.

Then turned to your unconscious body.

“Bring her aboard,” he said.

(any errors/mistakes pls let me know!)

[amoryeonjun]

fortunate change (hjs; 10 years' love)

pairing: joshua x f!reader genre: smut; est relationship; early morning/in-bed sex; soft joshua; whipped shua agenda; p in v sex; MDNI!!! a/n: i am not embarrassed to say that i am a soft joshua supporter and whatthefuck were thoae maldives pics…. nomnomnom 10th ANNIV. TAGLIST FORM HERE

masterlist | jeonghan | jun

It starts slow. Everything with him always does.

Sunlight creeps in through the edges of the curtain, painting soft golden warmth on the rumpled sheets and over his bare shoulder, his spine a lazy curve as he sleeps on his side, half draped over you. His chest rises and falls in time with yours. The room is quiet save for the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the occasional birdsong outside.

You think you could stay like this forever.

Joshua shifts slightly beside you, his thigh sliding between yours. His hand is already on your waist — it must have stayed there all night — fingers splayed possessively across your skin. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck and breathes you in.

“Mm,” he hums, still mostly asleep. “You smell nice…”

You smile drowsily. “You always say that.”

“You always do,” he mumbles back, voice low and scratchy from sleep.

He lifts his head, finally, eyes half-lidded and soft, and leans in to press the warmest, slowest kiss to the side of your mouth. Then another. And another. He kisses like this moment, this skin-on-skin warmth that pulls him closer to you each time he exhales.

“You’re hard,” you murmur, teasing, nudging your thigh higher between his legs.

He groans softly and laughs into your neck. “Can’t help it. You’re right here. Being warm. Breathing.”

“Wow. I really did all that just by existing?”

“Mmhm,” he replies, sleep-drunk and smiling. “It’s like… the world’s finally on its axis when you’re next to me. Like everything’s warmer, just because you’re here.”

That makes your stomach flutter in a way no dirty talk ever could. He always says things like that — quietly, sincerely, like it’s the most obvious truth in the universe.

Joshua kisses you again, slower this time, one hand cupping your cheek while the other slides down your waist, anchoring you closer. His hips press forward, just enough for you to feel him — hard and hot against your thigh.

You shift under the sheets, legs parting slightly, the fabric rustling as you guide his hand lower. He doesn’t say anything — just touches you. His fingers slip beneath your underwear and slide through your folds, slow and unhurried.

“So wet already,” he breathes, kissing your shoulder. “You missed me?”

“We’ve been in the same bed all night.”

He gives you a sleepy grin. “Still.”

When he finally moves over you, it’s with unbearable tenderness — the kind that makes your chest ache. His hands frame either side of your head on the pillow, fingers splayed wide like he needs to steady himself just from looking at you. He watches you beneath him, eyes half-lidded but focused, mouth parted as if he’s still caught in that dreamlike edge between sleep and need.

His chest brushes against yours, warm and bare, skin sticking slightly where you’re already flushed and overheated. You feel the soft line of his stomach glide over yours as he shifts forward, hips slotting between your legs. Every movement is deliberate, like he doesn’t want to break the spell of the morning — like he’s savoring this before the rest of the world can touch it.

Then — slowly — he presses in.

The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, slick with your arousal, and he exhales shakily, the sound tight in his throat. His eyes flick to yours, wordless and careful.

You nod, barely, and he begins to sink into you inch by inch.

The stretch is slow — just enough to steal your breath and make your fingers clutch his shoulders. He never looks away. His gaze stays locked to yours like he wants to watch every single reaction play out on your face, like he’s memorizing the way your brows knit and your lips part in a soft gasp as he fills you.

Joshua groans — low, trembling — like this is everything he’s been waiting for. “Fuck… baby,” he murmurs, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel—god, you feel so perfect.”

There’s no rush. No urgency. No wild rhythm.

Just the quiet, steady sound of your breaths mingling, your bodies pressing together, and the bed creaking faintly beneath the slow roll of his hips. He starts to move — long, dragging thrusts that make you feel every single part of him. His pelvis presses against yours with each slow push forward, grinding deep before retreating again, only to fill you once more with aching precision.

It’s not just sex. It’s not even really about release. It’s about being here — being with him like this, in the golden warmth of a morning that belongs to no one else.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back to pull him impossibly closer. Your body arches up instinctively, needing more of him.

“You feel good,” you whisper, barely audible.

Joshua leans down and kisses you — not hurried, not hungry. Just slow. His mouth slides over yours like silk, tongue slipping in to brush against yours with aching tenderness. He kisses you like a secret. Like a vow.

“You feel like home,” he whispers into your lips, and it makes something twist deep inside you.

The room is warm now. You can’t tell if it’s the sunlight or the weight of his body or the way his love feels — slow and molten — settling between your ribs.

His thrusts stay deep and unhurried, hips rocking into you like a tide. Every movement says I love you. I missed you. I need you. He tilts his hips slightly, grinding just enough to drag across that spot inside you that makes your breath catch, and when he feels your thighs tense, he moans softly against your neck.

“You’re so good to me,” he breathes. “Always feel so good—god, I love you like this.”

He trails kisses along your jaw, the corner of your mouth, your shoulder. “Wanna stay like this. Wanna stay in bed with you forever.”

You let your hands roam ��� up the smooth plane of his back, fingers skating over the flex of his shoulder blades, then down, slow, nails dragging lightly. The muscles under your touch tense and ripple, and he shudders, his hips stuttering just once before he steadies again.

The way he’s holding himself up is shaky now — arms trembling slightly, his breath getting heavier. You can feel how close he is, how his rhythm gets a little less controlled with every thrust.

You press your lips to his temple, brushing away damp strands of hair, and whisper, “come with me.”

He moans your name into your shoulder, muffled and broken, and then he’s coming — hips pressed tight to yours, cock pulsing deep as he spills into you. His whole body tenses before melting into yours, collapsing gently so he can wrap his arms around you, bury his face in your neck, and breathe.

Your fingers thread through his hair, soothing, as you both try to come down from it together. His heart beats against yours, fast and unsteady.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Just stays there, tucked inside you, chest flush to yours, breath slowing with each passing second.

And when the air finally stills and the sun fully stretches across the bed, warming everything in gold, he lifts his head and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“See?” he murmurs, smiling like he knows something you don’t. “Still warm. Still on axis. That’s you.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You’re so cheesy.”

He grins, then nuzzles into your neck again. “And you love it.”

And with the way you cling to him — legs still wrapped around his hips, your fingers softly stroking his back — he’s not wrong.

He shifts just slightly inside you, and you feel him stir again.

“…You’re not done, are you?” you whisper.

Joshua hums. Smiles against your throat.

“Not even close.”

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