#Trade and Trafficking Routes: Then and Now

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

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Masterlist

Chapter 6

Echoes of the Past

The officers' mess was bathed in morning light as Ella approached. Conversation drifted through the partially open door, along with the smell of fresh bread and something spiced.

"Absolutely not!" Wooyoung's protest carried clearly. "You can't possibly think dried fish is an acceptable breakfast food."

"Nutritionally superior," came Mingi's response.

"Nutrition isn't the only thing that matters at breakfast," Seonghwa countered. "Morale affects crew performance."

"Which is why we need both," Yunho said. "Wooyoung's pastries and Mingi's proteins."

A chuckle—Hongjoong, Ella guessed—followed this solution. Their easy banter created an unexpected tightness in her chest. She lingered outside, reluctant to interrupt what felt like a private moment.

Before she could decide whether to enter, Wooyoung appeared in the doorway, a basket of bread in his hands. His surprised expression turned to welcome.

"Ella! Perfect timing—I was just taking these out of the oven." He gestured for her to enter, adding in a whisper, "Save me from these heathens who think breakfast should be practical rather than joyful."

His easy inclusion momentarily disarmed her. Ella found herself smiling despite her carefully maintained barriers.

"Surely there's room for both," she suggested, stepping inside.

The other officers turned at her entrance. Hongjoong straightened slightly. Seonghwa nodded politely. Yunho offered a gentle smile, while Mingi's gaze briefly met hers before shifting away.

"Join us," Hongjoong invited, indicating an empty chair. "Breakfast this morning has become quite the debate."

"Only because some people don't understand the importance of properly spiced morning pastries," Wooyoung declared, setting the basket in the center of the table.

The bread was golden-crusted, spiral-shaped, and dusted with cinnamon and sugar. The sight triggered a memory—a small boy arranging similar spirals on a makeshift plate, calling them "magic wheels" that would carry them away from danger.

"Cinnamon wheels," she said before she could stop herself.

Wooyoung froze, his hand still on the basket. "You recognize them?"

His tone carried such hope that Ella immediately regretted the slip. "The shape is distinctive," she said carefully. "And the smell is unmistakable."

"My specialty," Wooyoung confirmed, though his expression showed disappointment. "An old recipe I've worked on for years."

As they ate breakfast, Ella noticed a shift in the atmosphere. The easy banter had diminished, replaced by more careful conversation. Hongjoong discussed the day's sailing conditions, Seonghwa commented on supplies they needed at their next port, and Yunho detailed repairs scheduled for the rigging.

The change wasn't obvious—nothing in their manner suggested suspicion—but Ella sensed she had altered the dynamic by recognizing the pastries. Wooyoung, normally chatty, seemed particularly affected, his usual energy slightly subdued as he watched her break one of the cinnamon wheels in half.

Ella participated in the conversation carefully—offering useful information about shipping routes and trading patterns while watching each officer's responses. Seonghwa's questions revealed his methodical mind as he asked about Blackwell's security protocols. Yunho inquired about navigational markers used by Southern Trade Company vessels. Even Mingi occasionally asked precise questions about weaponry or harbor defenses.

Throughout, Hongjoong watched with that searching gaze she'd noticed since their first meeting. Unlike previous interrogations she'd endured, his questions never pressed into territory she was reluctant to discuss. When she hesitated over details of Blackwell's private quarters, he immediately changed the subject.

This consistent respect for her boundaries continued to unsettle her. Fifteen years of captivity had taught her that all information extraction had its price, that apparent consideration usually masked more sophisticated manipulation. Yet the pattern aboard the ATEEZ suggested something different—a genuine respect for her choice to share or withhold.

"The weather looks perfect for stargazing tonight," Yunho mentioned as breakfast concluded. "If you're still interested?"

Ella nodded, finding herself genuinely looking forward to it despite her usual caution. "I would enjoy that."

"Great." His smile warmed his features. "Sunset on the observation deck, then?"

As the officers dispersed to their duties, Hongjoong addressed her directly. "You're welcome to explore the ship today," he said. "The crew knows you have access to non-restricted areas."

"And what areas are restricted?" she asked, testing the boundaries of this apparent freedom.

"Only the munitions storage and my private navigation room when I'm not present," he replied without hesitation. "Standard security protocol rather than specific limitation for you."

The honesty of his response further disrupted her expectations. No false pretenses, no illusion of complete freedom later to be revealed as conditional. Just straightforward boundaries that acknowledged both trust and reasonable precaution.

"Thank you, Captain," she said, the formality shielding her growing confusion. "I appreciate that."

Hongjoong studied her for a moment, as if about to say something more, then simply nodded before leaving. Ella found herself alone in the officers' mess, the remnants of breakfast still scattered across the table—evidence of communal living so different from the rigid hierarchy she'd endured under Blackwell.

As she helped gather the dishes, a habit from years of service, she noticed a small wooden object that had been hidden beneath Mingi's plate. A tiny, perfectly carved compass rose embedded in wood, its points meticulously detailed despite its small size. She picked it up carefully, studying the craftsmanship. Something about the small carving tugged at her memory—not just from her brief time aboard the ATEEZ, but from somewhere deeper in her past.

"He marks everything he creates," Wooyoung's voice came from the doorway, startling her. "Mingi's compass signature."

Ella carefully set the carving back where she'd found it. "It's beautiful work."

"Always has been," Wooyoung agreed, moving to collect the remaining dishes. His hands worked with practiced efficiency despite his theatrical personality. "Even as a child, he could make wood speak."

The casual reference to their shared childhood created an opening too valuable to ignore.

"You've all known each other since childhood?" she asked, keeping her tone casual as she helped stack plates.

Wooyoung nodded, his expression softening. "We grew up together aboard—a ship, all of us cabin boys before we formed the ATEEZ."

The confirmation sent a quiet tremor through her carefully maintained composure. Five cabin boys? Five protective boys, where she had given them special nicknames, where she had entrusted Mr. Hugs to them before being sold at auction.

"That must have created strong bonds," she observed neutrally, despite her quickening heartbeat.

"The strongest," Wooyoung confirmed, suddenly serious. "We became family—the only one any of us had." He hesitated, then added casually, "There were six of us, originally."

Ella's hands stilled momentarily over the dishes. "Six?"

"Yes, six captured children." Wooyoung explained, watching her reaction. "They were separated from us during an escape attempt in Halazia. We... lost them."

The reference to their shared history hung in the air between them. Fifteen years of survival instinct screamed at Ella to deflect, to maintain her protective disguise. Yet something else—something buried beneath years of calculated self-preservation—urged acknowledgment.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, choosing words that offered sympathy without confirmation. "That must have been devastating for children to experience."

"It defined us," Wooyoung admitted, a rare solemnity replacing his usual animation. "We made an oath that night. To find them, no matter the cost." 

The implications were impossible to misinterpret. This wasn't casual conversation; it was deliberate disclosure—an opening offered without demand for reciprocation.

"And have you?" she asked, the question emerging before she could stop it.

Wooyoung's eyes met hers with unexpected intensity. "Possibly, only time will tell," he said simply. Then, before she could respond, his characteristic smile returned as he gathered the stacked dishes. "But that's a story for another time. Enjoy your exploration today, Ella."

He departed with his usual flourish, leaving her alone with implications too significant to process hastily. The conversation had confirmed what she'd begun to suspect: these men believed she was the lost girl from their childhood. Their behavior—the careful consideration, the absence of pressure despite clear interest in her connection to Blackwell, the subtle tests of recognition—reflected this conviction.

As she finished tidying the breakfast remnants, Ella considered her position with new clarity. If they believed she was y/n, why not confront her directly? What purpose did this elaborate dance of hints serve?

And more importantly—what would happen if she confirmed their suspicions? Would they expect the frightened five-year-old they had known, unaltered despite fifteen years of captivity and calculated survival? Would her value to them diminish once curiosity was satisfied and childhood oath fulfilled?

The small compass marking caught her attention once more. She picked it up again, running her fingers over its smooth surface. Something about this specific design triggered a deeper memory than she had initially recognized—not just from brief observation aboard the ATEEZ, but from somewhere in her fragmented childhood.

She returned the compass to its place, a decision forming in her mind. Today's exploration would have new purpose: not just observing the ATEEZ and its crew, but seeking evidence to confirm or refute Wooyoung's claim. If these men had truly searched for y/n for fifteen years, tangible proof would exist somewhere aboard this ship.

With this resolution guiding her, Ella left the officers' mess, stepping into the corridor with renewed determination. Whatever game was being played aboard the ATEEZ, she would uncover its rules before deciding whether to acknowledge her true identity—whether to become the y/n once more after fifteen years.

Sunset painted the western horizon in orange and purple as Ella made her way to the observation deck. Her day of exploration had produce useful and jarring knowledge.

Despite the ATEEZ's reputation for ruthless efficiency in battle, its internal culture reflected principles beyond mere piracy. Guards maintained careful watch for danger without unnecessary intimidation. Weapons were meticulously maintained, with gunners practicing precision drills with calculated force rather than chaotic violence.

More relevant to her personal investigation, she'd discovered subtle evidence supporting Wooyoung's claim: a locked sea chest in the captain's cabin glimpsed through a partially open door, navigational charts marking systematic search patterns through ports known for slave trading, and most significantly, a worn ledger in the quartermaster's office listing auction houses visited repeatedly over fifteen years, each entry containing the notation "N.F." in carefully maintained columns.

None meant definitive proof, yet collectively they added up to commitment beyond mere coincidence or recent fabrication.

Yunho awaited her at the observation deck's railing, his tall frame silhouetted against the fading light. Unlike their previous encounters, he appeared slightly nervous, his usual gentle confidence edged with tension.

"You came," he said as she approached, relief evident in his voice.

“Of course," she replied, somewhat puzzled by his uncertainty.

He smiled, relaxing slightly. "Some find other priorities as sunset approaches. The sky changes quickly this time of year."

The observation deck provided clear skies in all directions, with specially designed railings that incorporated Star gazing tools. Technology typically reserved for military ships rather than merchant or pirate craft.

"This is impressive," she acknowledged, running her fingers over a calibrated sighting apparatus. "Not standard equipment for most vessels."

"The ATEEZ was designed for specific purpose," Yunho explained, pride in his voice. "Navigation and tracking capabilities were prioritized during construction."

"Tracking slave ships?" she asked directly.

He nodded, neither surprised by her intuitive leap nor hesitant to confirm it. "Among other targets. Captain Hongjoong has particular interest in disrupting the Southern Trade Company's operations."

"Because of Blackwell's business practices? Or something more personal?"

The question hung between them as the last sliver of sun disappeared beneath the horizon. Yunho considered her for a long moment.

"Both," he finally answered. "Though the full explanation is the captain's to share when he chooses."

Darkness gathered around them as the first stars appeared, tiny points of light emerging against the deepening blue. Ella tilted her head back, absorbing the vast canopy with familiar wonder. Despite fifteen years of captivity, the stars had remained constant companions—visible through high windows, from ship decks during transfers between owners, even reflected in harbor waters during rare moments alone.

"There," Yunho said softly, pointing toward the eastern sky. "Orion rises early this season."

The familiar constellation took shape as her eyes adjusted to the darkness—the three aligned stars of his belt, the four corners marking shoulders and feet, the nebulous glow of his sword.

"And there," she responded, gesturing toward the southeast, "Canis Major follows faithfully."

"With Sirius leading the way," Yunho completed, genuine pleasure warming his voice. "You really do know your stars."

"They were... consistent," she explained, choosing words carefully. "When everything else changed—owners, locations, circumstances—the stars remained the same. They provided stability when nothing else did."

The admission revealed more than she typically allowed, yet something about the quiet darkness and Yunho's gentle presence encouraged it. Unlike her calculated openings with Hongjoong or Seonghwa, designed to extract reciprocal information, this felt genuinely conversational.

"They guided us too," Yunho said quietly. "Through some very dark periods."

The statement seemed weighted with significance beyond its literal meaning, but he didn't elaborate further. Instead, he pointed out other constellations as they appeared—Cassiopeia's distinctive W, the Great Square of Pegasus, the faint cluster of the Pleiades.

For nearly an hour, they engaged in astronomical observation, Yunho occasionally adjusting a small telescope mounted to the railing to show her particularly interesting features. His knowledge was impressive, combining navigational functionality with genuine appreciation for celestial beauty.

"That one," she said eventually, pointing to a relatively dim star near the horizon, "what's its name?"

Yunho smiled, something bittersweet crossing his features. "It doesn't have an official designation in most navigational charts. But... I've always called it y/n's Star."

The direct reference to her true name created a momentary silence between them. Ella's heartbeat accelerated, though she maintained her outward composure.

"Why that name?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral despite internal turmoil.

Yunho's gaze remained fixed on the distant point of light. "Because it's small but resilient, easy to overlook unless you know exactly where to look." He paused, then added softly, "And because I promised someone once that I'd give her a star of her own."

The memory surfaced unbidden—a tall boy lifting a small girl to see through a porthole, telling fantastic stories about the night sky, promising that one day she'd have her very own star "right next to mine, so we can always find each other."

Ella swallowed against unexpected emotion. "A meaningful promise."

"The most important I've ever made," Yunho confirmed, finally turning to look directly at her. "One I intend to keep, even if she doesn't remember making it."

The implicit acknowledgment hung between them, an opening without demand. Ella felt the weight of potential recognition—the vulnerability of being known after fifteen years of necessary anonymity. Part of her urged acknowledgment, craved the connection this gentle man offered without pressure. Another part, forged through years of calculated survival, counseled continued caution.

Before she could formulate a response that balanced these competing impulses, a flare of light streaked across the sky—a meteor burning briefly before disappearing into darkness.

"Make a wish," Yunho said softly, the childhood phrase emerging naturally.

Despite herself, Ella closed her eyes momentarily, an old ritual from before captivity had taught her the futility of wishes. When she opened them again, she found Yunho watching her with gentle curiosity.

"Did you wish for something?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted. "Though I know better than to expect fulfillment."

"Sometimes wishes do come true," he countered, his voice gentle but certain. "Sometimes people find what they've been searching for, even after many years of looking."

The pointed reference was impossible to misinterpret. Like Wooyoung's earlier disclosure, it offered recognition without demanding acknowledgment—a space for truth without pressure for immediate revelation.

"And sometimes," she responded carefully, "what they find isn't what they remembered. Time changes people, Yunho. Especially difficult time."

He nodded, accepting this caution without offense. "It changes everyone involved. The searchers as well as the sought."

Another comfortable silence settled between them as more stars appeared overhead. Ella found herself increasingly at ease in Yunho's presence, his patient approach creating space for reflection rather than tactical response. Unlike most interactions during her captivity, this conversation flowed without underlying power dynamics—a genuine exchange between equals despite the circumstances of her rescue.

"May I show you something?" Yunho asked eventually. "A navigational technique specific to the ATEEZ."

At her nod, he guided her to a particular sighting tool mounted to the railing. "This was designed by Mingi and Seonghwa together," he explained. "It allows us to track specific star patterns and calculate our position with unusual precision."

As she examined the device, Yunho pointed out a small symbol engraved near its base—a simplified compass rose with five distinct points.

"Our marker," he explained. "It appears on all our specialized equipment."

"Five points," she observed. "One for each officer?"

"Originally, yes." His fingers traced the familiar pattern. "Though the symbolism has evolved over time."

She studied the engraving more closely, noting how four points formed a protective circle around the fifth. The design suggested more than mere representation—it implied relationship, purpose, commitment. Protection.

"We should head back down," Yunho suggested as a cool breeze strengthened from the north. "The temperature drops quickly once full darkness sets in."

As they moved toward the stairs, Ella was struck by sudden dizziness—a wave of lightheadedness that forced her to grasp the railing for support. Yunho immediately stepped closer, concern evident in his expression.

"Are you alright?"

"Just dizzy," she assured him, though the sensation persisted. "I'm fine."

"You're pale," he observed, professional assessment replacing casual concern. "How long has it been since you've been in open air for extended periods?"

The question gave her pause. Under Blackwell's ownership, her movements had been strictly controlled, outdoor access limited to supervised transfers between properties or occasional garden duties under guard.

"Some time," she admitted reluctantly.

"Come with me," Yunho decided, offering his arm for support. "You need to see our ship's doctor. This could be simple adjustment to sea air after prolonged confinement, but better to have you examined properly."

Ella initially hesitated at the mention of a doctor—medical examinations during her captivity had rarely been pleasant experiences—but the persistent lightheadedness suggested genuine need rather than excessive concern.

"Very well," she agreed, accepting his offered arm with measured trust. "Lead the way."

The medical bay occupied a surprisingly spacious compartment on the ATEEZ's lower deck, equipped with ventilation systems more sophisticated than Ella had observed elsewhere on the ship. As Yunho guided her through the doorway, the clinical space revealed itself to be unexpectedly welcoming—well-organized but softened by small touches that distinguished it from the other medical quarters she'd encountered during captivity.

"Yeosang?" Yunho called, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet space. "Are you here?"

Ella's breath caught in her lungs hearing that name. Her eyes moved around the space, searching in a practiced way that wouldn't alert Yunho to her frazzled state. 

Movement from an adjacent small room answered his question as a young man emerged, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. He paused in the doorway, his gaze locking with Ella's in immediate, unmistakable recognition.

In that frozen moment, an entire history passed between them—seven years in Blackwell's household, a young boy's gentle hands treating a frightened girl's injuries, subtle kindnesses offered at tremendous personal risk.

Yeosang—the eight-year-old healer's apprentice who had become her only friend and ally under Blackwell's cruel ownership. The teenager whose forced separation had been deliberately orchestrated to teach her the futility of attachment.

His eyes widened fractionally, the distinctive birthmark near his left eye momentarily crinkling with suppressed emotion before his features smoothed into professional composure. It happened so quickly that Yunho, glancing between them, noticed nothing amiss.

"Yunho," Yeosang acknowledged, his voice betraying nothing despite the storm Ella could see raging behind his carefully controlled expression. "What brings you here?"

"Ella experienced dizziness on the observation deck," Yunho explained, unaware of the silent communication happening before him. "Possible reaction to extended exposure after prolonged confinement."

Yeosang nodded, his assessment appearing purely clinical though Ella recognized the subtle softening around his eyes that had always betrayed his true feelings. "Sit," he directed, gesturing toward the examination table. "When did the symptoms begin?"

As Ella complied, she maintained her own composure through years of practiced concealment, though her heart raced with the effort of containing her reaction. This was the boy she had once called "Angel" in the privacy of their whispered conversations—her protector and friend, the one whose forced sale had broken something fundamental in her twelve-year-old heart.

"Just a few minutes ago," she answered, watching as he gathered examination tools with the same precise movements she remembered from childhood, when he had treated her injuries with materials secretly collected from the manor's gardens. "It came suddenly."

"Any nausea? Visual disturbances?" His questions were clinically specific yet delivered with the gentle intonation she remembered from countless clandestine treatments in the shadows of Blackwell's mansion.

"No," she confirmed, carefully maintaining the pretense of unfamiliarity for Yunho's benefit. "Just lightheadedness and slight disorientation."

Yeosang's fingers pressed against her wrist to check her pulse, the touch containing the same careful respect for boundaries he had always shown. His eyes fixed deliberately on a point past her shoulder rather than meeting her gaze directly—a precaution she recognized as self-protection against revealing emotion.

"Your pulse is elevated," he noted, releasing her wrist. "Breathe deeply, please."

As he continued his examination, Ella noticed what Yunho could not see—the slight tremor in Yeosang's normally steady hands, the careful maintenance of physical distance beyond what medical procedure required, the deliberate avoidance of extended eye contact.

Most telling was a small wooden object partially visible within a half-open drawer near the examination table—a small wooden trinket box with distinctive compass marking inlaid on its lid. The same compass design she had noticed at breakfast, the one that had triggered deeper memory she couldn't quite place.

"Your blood pressure is likely affected by environmental changes," Yeosang concluded, stepping back slightly. "Prolonged confinement followed by sudden exposure to open sea air, combined with potential nutritional deficiencies common to..." he hesitated briefly, a flicker of shared memory passing between them, "...those who have been in captivity."

The careful phrasing registered as their old code—clinical terminology that disguised deeper meaning. During their childhood under Blackwell, Yeosang had developed a system of double meanings, medical terms that conveyed warning or comfort without alerting their captors.

"I'll prepare a tonic," he continued, moving to a shelf containing various prepared medicines. "Mild adaptogens with mineral support. It should stabilize your system while you adjust to ship conditions."

He selected a small bottle, measuring its contents with precise attention before adding drops of another substance and shaking the mixture thoroughly. His back to Yunho, he allowed himself a single unguarded glance at Ella—a look containing such complex emotion that her breath caught momentarily.

Recognition. Relief. Residual pain. Protective vigilance. All compressed into a single moment before his professional mask returned.

"Yeosang joined us two years ago," Yunho explained, apparently noticing nothing unusual in their interaction. "Best doctor in the seven seas, though his bedside manner occasionally lacks Wooyoung's charm."

"Fortunately, medicine doesn't require theatrical flourish to be effective," Yeosang responded dryly, the familiar deadpan delivery so characteristic of the boy she had known that Ella nearly smiled despite her carefully maintained facade. "Unlike cooking, which apparently depends entirely on dramatic presentation."

Despite his deadpan delivery, something like affection colored the doctor's tone, revealing genuine connection with the crew despite his carefully maintained professional distance. Ella found herself wondering at Yeosang's journey from Blackwell's household to the ATEEZ—whether the officers knew of their shared history, whether he had recognized her immediately or only upon seeing her in his medical bay.

"Drink this," Yeosang instructed, returning with a small cup containing amber liquid. "All of it, please."

The directive—one she'd heard countless times during childhood illnesses—carried the same gentle authority that had always characterized his care. Ella accepted the cup without hesitation, recognizing the familiar aroma of his signature healing blend, and swallowed the contents.

"The taste is better than I expected," she remarked carefully, a coded acknowledgment of recognition that Yunho would interpret as mere politeness.

"I've refined the formula over the years," Yeosang replied with equal care, taking the empty cup. Their fingers brushed momentarily, the brief contact conveying more than words could safely express in Yunho's presence.

"Thank you," she said simply, the gratitude encompassing far more than the immediate treatment.

Yeosang nodded, his professional demeanor maintained despite the slight softening around his eyes that only she would recognize as emotional response. "You should rest for the remainder of the evening. I'll prepare a week's supply of the tonic for continued support."

"Is that necessary?" she asked, the dizziness already subsiding. "I feel better already."

"Prevention rather than crisis response," he replied simply. "A philosophy that extends beyond medicine."

The phrase was one he had often repeated during their childhood—a principle he had taught her when treating minor injuries before they could worsen into conditions that would draw unwanted attention from Blackwell. The deliberate echo of their shared past confirmed what his expression had already revealed: he remembered everything.

"Here," Yeosang said, returning with a small bottle containing amber liquid. "Three drops in water, morning and evening."

As she accepted the medicine, their fingers brushed again—a contact that appeared accidental but conveyed deliberate reassurance. The gesture was so familiar, so characteristic of how they had communicated under surveillance, that Ella had to force herself to maintain a neutral expression.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said formally, the professional title serving as shield for Yunho's benefit.

"Rest well," Yeosang replied with equal formality, though his eyes held promise of future conversation outside watchful observation.

As Yunho escorted her toward the door, she glanced back for a final assessment. Yeosang had moved to his desk, making notes with practiced efficiency that revealed nothing of the emotional recognition she had witnessed in his initial reaction. Only the slight tension in his shoulders betrayed inner turmoil carefully disguised beneath professional detachment.

"He's an excellent doctor despite his reserved manner," Yunho commented as they moved through the corridor toward her cabin. "The crew would face far worse fates without his skills after battle."

The casual reference to combat reminded Ella that despite the ATEEZ's unusual culture, it remained a pirate vessel—its black sails feared throughout the maritime world, its reputation built on ruthless efficiency against chosen targets rather than indiscriminate violence. These men were not merely sailors but fighters, their hands equally skilled at healing and harm depending on circumstance.

"He seems very proficient," she agreed neutrally, her mind still reeling from unexpected reunion despite outward composure.

"Especially considering his past," Yunho added, then stopped suddenly, as if realizing he might be revealing information beyond his right to share. "But that's his story to tell if he chooses."

The hesitation confirmed what she had already suspected—Yeosang maintained privacy about his history, his connection to Blackwell unknown to the crew despite their campaign against the slave trader. The realization created additional complexity in her already complicated situation: not only did the ATEEZ officers believe she might be their lost y/n , but they had unknowingly brought aboard the one person who could confirm her identity through separate experience.

"I appreciate his assistance," she said simply, redirecting conversation away from dangerous territory.

As they reached her cabin door, Yunho hesitated. "Will you be comfortable alone? I could have someone bring you dinner if you'd prefer not to join the officers this evening."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine," she assured him. "The tonic is already working. I simply need rest."

He nodded, accepting her assessment without pressing further—another example of the respect for boundaries that characterized the ATEEZ officers despite their fearsome reputation. The apparent contradiction continued to intrigue her: men known for ruthless efficiency in battle showing such careful consideration in personal interactions.

"Sleep well," Yunho said, stepping back from her doorway. "Our next conversation with the stars will wait for another night."

As he departed, Ella entered her cabin and closed the door firmly behind her. For several long moments, she simply stood motionless, allowing the carefully maintained composure of the past hours to dissolve into genuine emotion. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed them against her face, breath coming in short gasps as the shock of recognition finally registered fully.

Yeosang. Here, aboard the same ship that had somehow collected five boys from The Crimson Serpent—the five who had tried and failed to protect her, followed now by the sixth who had sustained her through seven years of captivity under Blackwell's control.

The coincidence was too precise to be accidental, yet Yunho's casual introduction suggested the officers might not know of her connection to their ship's doctor. The implications raced through her mind as she paced the small confines of her cabin. If Yeosang had joined the ATEEZ two years ago as Yunho claimed, he had arrived long after the crew began their campaign against Blackwell. His presence represented separate convergence rather than coordinated search.

Did he know they sought y/n? Did they know his history with Blackwell included connection to the very girl they had sworn to find?

As she sank onto her bunk, the dizziness returning briefly with the emotional impact of discovery, Ella's mind drifted back to her childhood years in Blackwell's household—to the unexpected ally who had been ripped away from her like everything she cared for. 

—————

Blackwell's Estate - Fourteen Years Earlier

Six-year-old y/n crouched beneath the servants' staircase, her small body contorted to fit the narrow hiding space as she waited for the household's daily inspection to conclude. One year in Victor Blackwell's ownership had taught her which moments permitted temporary invisibility, which infractions earned tolerable punishment versus genuine danger.

"You shouldn't be here," came a familiar whisper as a shadow fell across her hiding place. "Blackwell's inspecting the east wing personally today."

She looked up to find Yeosang—no longer the uncertain child from the auction house but a more confident nine-year-old who had established himself as valuable through his expanding medical knowledge. His position as the doctor's assistant gave him mobility throughout the household denied to most child servants, freedom he regularly risked to check on her welfare.

"Cook said I took extra bread," she whispered back, fear evident despite her attempted bravery. "I didn't, but she needs someone to blame for the missing loaf."

Yeosang's expression darkened momentarily before smoothing into practiced neutrality. "Come with me. The doctor's quarantining the laundry staff for suspected fever. No one will check the medicine storage today."

He extended his hand, offering assistance she had learned to accept despite initial wariness. Unlike other household staff who viewed each other as competition for limited resources and favor, Yeosang had demonstrated consistent protection without demanding payment or submission in return.

They navigated the mansion's servants' passages with practiced stealth, utilizing routes mapped through shared exploration during rare moments of unsupervised time. The medicine storage—a small room adjacent to the doctor's office—remained one of the few spaces where Blackwell rarely ventured personally, his aversion to illness known throughout the household.

Once safely inside, y/n relaxed slightly, her small shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch. "Thank you," she whispered, the gratitude encompassing more than just this current assistance.

Yeosang nodded acknowledgment, his own posture remaining alert despite their relative safety. "I found something yesterday," he said after ensuring the door was securely closed. "In the garden, near the west wall where the old oak fell during winter storms."

From his pocket, he withdrew an object wrapped in clean bandage cloth. With careful movements that suggested treasured discovery, he unwrapped the bundle to reveal a small wooden carving—not the rough bird he had given her at the auction house, but a more sophisticated animal figure. A tiny wolf, perfectly proportioned despite its miniature size, its details remarkably precise from pointed ears to textured fur.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, reaching out but stopping short of touching, afraid her hands might somehow damage its delicate features.

"Look at the bottom," Yeosang urged, gently turning the carving to reveal its underside.

There, carved with remarkable precision, sat a tiny compass rose—five points arranged in perfect symmetry, the craftsmanship suggesting specialized tools rather than improvised implements. The symbol stirred something in her memory, a fleeting connection to her time before Blackwell that disappeared before she could fully grasp it.

"Who made it?" she asked, finally daring to trace the compass marking with one careful finger.

"I don't know," Yeosang admitted. "It was half-buried in disturbed soil near the garden wall—like someone tossed it over from outside the estate."

The mystery of its origin added to the carving's significance, transforming it from mere object to potential message from the world beyond Blackwell's controlled domain. For children whose movements were constantly monitored and restricted, such connection to unknown outside forces represented rare hope.

"Keep it," Yeosang said, pressing the wolf into her palm. "Hide it somewhere safe. When things become difficult, remember that beauty exists beyond these walls, that someone took time to create this even though it served no practical purpose."

She clutched the carving carefully, its solid presence providing comfort beyond its size. "But you found it," she protested weakly. "You should keep it."

Yeosang shook his head slightly. "I have more freedom than you," he said, wisdom beyond his years evident in his assessment. "More opportunities for small pleasures through my duties. You need this more."

The generosity—giving away his discovery despite its obvious value—sealed the connection forming between them, transforming cautious alliance into genuine friendship. Unlike the calculated exchanges that characterized most relationships within Blackwell's household, where every favor expected repayment and every kindness concealed potential manipulation, Yeosang's gift came without evident advantage to himself.

"Thank you, Angel," she whispered, the nickname emerging spontaneously. When his expression registered confusion, she explained shyly: "Because you help when no one else will. Like guardian angels in the stories my mother used to tell."

Something shifted in his carefully controlled expression—surprise followed by unfamiliar warmth. No one in Blackwell's household used names beyond functional designations; personal identifiers represented connection that their owner deliberately discouraged among his property.

"We should return before they notice our absence," he said finally, though his tone carried new softness despite the practical words. "Different passages to avoid suspicion. You take the service corridor, I'll go through the main hallway."

As they prepared to separate, y/n impulsively pressed the wooden wolf back into his hands. "You keep it safe for now," she said. "My hiding places aren't secure enough yet. We can pass it between us when either needs it most."

The suggestion—sharing their sole treasure rather than claiming individual ownership—created connection beyond simple friendship. Through this exchange, they established their first deliberate resistance against Blackwell's systematic isolation of his household staff, their first shared secret that belonged to them alone.

Yeosang accepted the carving with solemn understanding of its significance. "Until next time," he agreed, carefully concealing it within his clothing before checking the corridor for witnesses.

Neither child recognized that the wooden wolf with its distinctive compass marking represented connection beyond their immediate circumstances—that its creator was one of five boys who had sworn blood oath to find a lost girl, that its compass rose symbolized promise rather than merely decorative detail. For them, it simply represented tangible proof that somewhere beyond Blackwell's walls, beauty survived despite cruelty—a small hope that sustained them through increasingly difficult years ahead.

Present

Exhaustion finally overcame her. Tomorrow would bring necessary decisions about potentially revealing her identity, strategic assessment of her position aboard the ATEEZ, and careful communication with Yeosang away from watchful eyes and ears.

But tonight, cradled in the gentle rocking of a pirate vessel feared throughout maritime waters for precision and ruthlessness, Ella whispered her nightly ritual with new understanding of its significance: "Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy."

And for the first time in years, she added without hesitation, "Angel."

Six names. Six protectors. Six separate threads of connection woven together against impossible odds into a single pattern she was only beginning to comprehend. The compass that had guided five cabin boys toward vengeance and purpose now pointed toward recognition and potential restoration—if she found courage to claim identity long buried beneath necessary disguise.

Outside her cabin, the black-sailed ATEEZ continued its relentless progress through night waters, its fearsome reputation flowing before it like shadow across waves, its crew unaware that the sacred oath driving fifteen years of mission had already been fulfilled.

Taglist: @hopeless-lovex0 @frankielou02 @jilxxasu @kur0kki @lezleeferguson-120 @uniquecloudbread @miniverse-zen @symmieangela

[evilminji]

Back at it again with the BNHA crossover Ponderings!

Nedzu is LITERALLY one of THE smartest beings on the planet, right? Like... he's probably on some internationally recognized list of Top Planetary IQs? Which is why Japan let's him get away with so much?

Cause they REALLY fucked him over, he has the power to leave, and that would be really, REALLY bad Brain Drain wise/politically for the Japanese Government? (Also pls don't become a Supervillian we literally can not afford that, Mr. Nedzu Sir? Etc etc)

You think he has... like? Chats? With the OTHER top intellects? Some kid in Siberia with the New Super Intelligence Quirk his parents can't begin to even handle, gets put in history's WEIRDEST group chat? I like to think so.

But the REASON I ask this?

What hero do you call? For Weird Shit in international waters?

Suspicious, floating, weirdly two dimensional and HIGHLY radioactive... corrosive... green goop? Rings? Orbs? CAN it be an orb if it's two dimensional? It certainly LOOKS like there is depth to it... somehow...

A THING. In the sky.

Shouldn't be there, man. This is a shipping lane. It's scaring the people on passing ships. No one knows what Quirk could have made this. Might be a trafficking victim's call for help. Might be a first Quirk Use mishap. They need to know what it IS and how to get rid of it.

They go the normal routes first. Doesn't work. Okay, call in some professionals. Kinda pricey, but no big. Right? Doesn't work. Okaaaay, call in a SPECIALIST. REAL pricey, but this thing is holding up international trade, making people in fancy ass suit all Nervous(TM).

Doesn't Work.

Specialist tells um to not to bother with calling anyone else on their normal list. Is looking at the green goo like it spat on his mother and called his dog a whore. They would prefer he NOT make that facial expression. That is a facial expression that will get them yelled at by their bosses. Fuck(TM).

Now Politics(TM) are involved. People want to STUDY the green goo. Harness it for dubious and unknown green goo experiments. Poke it with their Quirk to see what'll happen. There's fuckin REPORTER with no concept of self-preservation, trying to get CLOSER to the RADIOACTIVE POISON GOO.

Fuckin Heros have shown up.

Why are you bastards even HERE. What? Are you peacocks gonna PUNCH it? Get off their rig! Stop posing in front of the GOO!

Then? Oh thank GOD. The SMART people show up. Certified, highest grade, triple refined, PREMIUM Nerds(TM). The WAY above our pay grade folks. We're SAVED! Can we PLEASE go home now? We are just ocean cleaners! Our job is debris! Not weird GOO!

Enter, stage Super Cool Helicopters? The Elite Nerds of Earth. Of which Nedzu is one. Since Japan is closest. And it's a school weekend! He had some time.

And?

Ha ha... Thanks, he hates it! Nedzu's stoat brain is SCREAMING and he wants NOTHING to do with...? What he is somehow CERTAIN is a floating pit of Death! Interesting effect. Anyone getting that or just him?

Then? Some hot head on loan to Korea from the states? Spots something. SomeONE. And does he TELL the newly arrived professionals? So they may do a risk assessment? Figure out a way to rescue this individual SAFELY? Of course not!

Said hot head has supposedly indescribable chains! So he just flings them rights on in! Grabbing the boy from the center of the portal, pulling him free, and in the process? Immediately destabilizing it. Causing it to collapse down towards everyone bellow.

He also then proceeds to DROP the young lad, in his alarm at this entirely predictable outcome.

Right. Into. The Ocean.

A boy, who is dressed in filthy medical scrubs, haunting familiar in a way nothing should EVER be again, and entirely unconscious. Plunge down into the briny deeps and bitter cold. Alone. Abandoned. Death, thick and viscous, losing form and raining down like bile.

Everyone saving themselves.

Ah, he rather liked this suit.

The salt water ruins it. The droplets of Green, burn like molten glass each time they touch him. He will likely have at least a few new scars, after today. Assuming this is not the end of him. But he swims fast. The boy sinking slower then his size would suggest he should. He grabs hold and arcs, dragging them both from beneath the fallout of yet another humans hubris.

He does not stop swimming. Not until he knows he is near the helicopter. He is thankful, that he dragged Aizawa along. The man takes one look at his serious expression, the state of his rescued young friend, and merely hauls them both out of the water and into the machine.

Time to go.

They saw nothing, it seems. And there is nothing to be found.

The boy does not wake. Not for quite a while. Long enough, that Nedzu, perhaps unwisely, has grown attached. Is considering adoption. If only too terrorize a few goverment bodies. And... well... the boy will need some who UNDERSTANDS. And the scars paint a very specific sort of tale. But first, the most important question, when beginning these things...

"Tea? Or would you prefer coffee?"

@the-witchhunter @mutable-manifestation @hypewinter @hdgnj

[azukiel]

Nightfall Heir

Chapter 7

🔞 MDNI 🔞 NSFW

Warnings (as a whole): Explicit sexual content, Graphic descriptions of violence, PTSD, Angst, Blood kink, Pregnancy and Childbirth, Sexual Assault.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11

⭐Here is the story on Archive of Our Own ⭐

🔥Comments and reblogs are much appreciated! 🔥

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later in the afternoon, Astarion’s thoughts were more inclined to getting his reports done swiftly so he could get home and tend to the sexual appetites he had stoked within you. The taste of your blood in his mouth was exhilarating, and his fangs twitched at the memory of the rich and lustrous flavour.

While he worked, he couldn’t keep the small smile from his face. Nor could he stop his mind from wandering into other sordid fantasies he was planning on conjuring, should he be inclined to try out some role play and make use of his recently acquired magistrate attire. Oh, the possibilities made him chuckle.

Still smiling to himself, he continued working on the pile of reports on his desk. He needed to discuss the ongoing issues concerning the Bhaalinist rabble with Wyll, as well as the lack of prison space to house those criminals captured. Astarion had suggested publicly executing them to deter the other members, but Wyll wanted to opt for a more humane approach to the matter. If Baldur’s Gate were to hope to retain its trading routes and stop the trafficking and murder of its citizenry, then the roads and the metropolis itself needed to be made safer. So many things had caused law and order to be thrown into the air, but with Astarion’s appointment, the governing system had been put to rights. At least to some degree. There was still much to do, and a lot of damage control to be carried out.

Regardless of all the arduous work that needed to be done and the pining to once more explore the world with his beloved, his work as magistrate made him somewhat happy. Since you had walked into his life, you had inspired and taught him a plethora of things. If he could help others, then he knew he could one day forgive himself for the sins of his past.

Yelping suddenly, he yanked his hand away from the strands of sunlight that shone through the high windows, staring down at the scorched flesh in a daze. Had he just imagined that? Cautiously, he stretched out his hand once more, immediately yanking it back from the burning pain.

“Shit!”

You had obviously taken off the ring. But he knew it would take the gods to pry the ring from your finger. You were always so adamant and quick to remind him to never take it off himself. Thus, for you to do so was unthinkable.

It had to have been an accident.

Alas, he could feel a sudden tightness in his chest. Something was wrong, he could tell. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and a feeling of absolute despair was consuming his non-beating heart.

Something was very, very wrong.

He knew exactly where you would have been. At the Sundries.

But he could not leave his office, nor the Halls of Justice, in which streamers of sunlight shone through the glass ceilings of the main hall. He called out to his secretary, a burly dwarf by the name of Gendry. The dwarf seemed somewhat miffed having been separated from his work.

“Yes, Magistrate?” He grumbled before his eyes gaped in surprise. “Magistrate, you’re burnt!”

Astarion rolled his eyes and groaned, “I can see that, Gendry! Now be a good dwarf and close the shutters.”

Gendry set to the task immediately. “Do you think something has happened to Lady Tavrin?” He asked as he pulled closed the last shutter.

“I am uncertain,” Astarion responded, concern lacing his voice, “But, Gendry, I need you to go to the Sundries as quickly as you can and inform the wizard. He can send word to the others quicker than a carrier pigeon with his magic. Have him go to the house to check on Tavrin. I have a dreadful feeling in my gut that something has happened.”

“Yes, Magistrate. I will hurry there immediately!” Gendry saluted and ran out the door.

Astarion stood there in the darkness of his office, staring at the shutters with a grim expression. It was the first time since he had been with you that he had felt utterly hopeless.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You groaned, a throbbing ache spreading across your face and head like a wildfire. There was a foul smell, like the stench of rotten eggs, permeating the air. You also heard a steady dripping somewhere. Your eyes strained to see in the dim torchlight, which illuminated the dank prison cell you had been thrown into. The ground was made of stone and covered in filth and grime, and you could feel the coldness seep through the cotton of your clothes.

Slowly, you tried to sit up, yet a great agony ripped through your side. Had your ribs been broken? You could not entirely tell, but the pain was significant enough to render you unable to move. You felt nauseated, and the cold and damp of your surroundings were not helping.

You could not see your hands, for they were tied behind your back.

“Well, isn’t this a sorry sight?”

The voice echoed throughout the room, and you struggled to turn your head.

“You may have banished our masters, Bhaalspawn, but you have not ridden the world of all of us.”

You recognised the voice.

“Yet,” you spat. “You should have remained dead, Faceless!”

No sooner did you speak those words did her steel spiked boots smash into the side of your face. You cried out, rolling onto your knees to move away your pounding head. You tasted the warm iron of your own blood and fought a sob, feeling the jagged bones grind against each other in your face. The ripping of your cheek skin brought more of your crimson liquid into your mouth.

She had been a fellow disciple of the cult and had looked up to you when once the dark urge had control of your senses. She always wore a hooded cloak and black mask, and no one knew her appearance. No one knew why. Rumour was that you had melted the skin from her face in years passed during a fit of rage. She had revered you anyway. You, the Bhaalspawn.

Yet, you could not remember what you had done to her, or to others. You could remember nothing from before the tadpoles, at least not where your adult life was concerned. All you could remember was your horrid childhood and adolescence. All you could remember right then was the pubescent drow boys ganging up on you and violating you, and the trauma of the event triggering your abilities with wild magic... the boys screaming as your hands fried them... and then blood... blood everywhere...

You pushed the agonizing thoughts and pain aside as you knelt defiantly on the cold, crimson-stained stones. Another boot met your flank. This time you withheld the groan as a dark chuckle filled the air.

“You’re nothing but the worthless scum of a drow!” Faceless hissed at you.

Oh, she was bitter about her defeat and no doubt the one responsible for what happened to you. How could she even possibly have survived your previous encounter? She should have been dead.

“At least I am not Orin’s shadow!” You spat the blood that had been flooding your mouth onto the ground at your side.

Faceless grimaced. “You were regarded higher than Orin! You were the chosen one! You were...”

“I banished Bhaal from my heart for a reason! I will not drag myself to this pitiful cult’s level ever again!”

Another kick to the gut.

“You forget your place, wielder of destruction!’”

You hissed at her in response.

Faceless squatted to the side of you. “There are other ways of disposing a person other than burning the flesh from their bones.”

“You intend to kill me, then?” You rasped, your voice hoarse and laboured. “Fucking try it, you cunt!”

The cackle that came from Faceless sent a chill down your core. Her laughter became sinister, mocking. Your muscles spasmed and your skin prickled in absolute revulsion.

“We’re going to break you,” she growled.

With her foot, she lifted your face upwards, revealing the swelling, blood and bruises. “And let us hope your darling vampire lover burns to ash first.” She held up your ring to your face and you could only just discern it through the puffiness of your eyes.

“Astarion!” You coughed up more blood.

“It would be a shame if that pretty boy had no place to hide.” She bent forward again, her gauntleted finger tracing the indentation of your upper cheek where the skin was ripped. She leaned closer, pulling back her cowl, the mangled skin barely covering her cheekbones and nose, with a white and an amber eye glaring down upon you.

She took in a deep waft of your scent.

“I smell him on you, and not just his cologne...” She grinned wolfishly and bit her lip, her voice becoming breathy. “My, my, my, little vixen, has that icy touch of his turned you?”

“FUCK OFF!”

She snatched you by the neck at your outburst.

You kicked and squirmed in her grasp, but it only made her choke you harder. With the collar around your neck, you could not use the weave. With your body bound and bloodied, you could barely move, let alone resist. The two ghouls that were standing in the room's corner drew their claws and inched towards you both.

“Can I give her another taste of discipline?” One of them spoke.

Faceless snorted and kicked you in the side again. Your coughing did nothing to dislodge the blood in your throat.

“Take her to the rack. Let us flay the little whelp.”

One took you by the hair whilst the other grabbed your legs. The mangled armour of the monsters clinked as they dragged you down a long, dimly lit and winding corridor. You were somewhere deep underground. That, at least, you could tell.

Once through the iron barred doors they brought you to, the stench of old, rotted blood and decaying flesh was almost palpable. It was stifling, and you found it hard to draw breath as the noxious air clogged your nostrils.

In the very middle of the vast room was an iron-railed stand containing four chains on either side. They looked decrepit; the metal green with moss and mould. Grotesque, crusty remains on the floor beneath the contraption made your stomach roll. The smell was becoming overbearing, and you tried swallowing to stop your retches. You wondered how long those unfortunate prisoners had lingered there before being brutally murdered.

Faceless beckoned to her lackeys. Your ropes were cut, giving you but a second of reprieve before you were chained to the stand. Faceless leaned forward once more and licked the tears and blood from the corner of your swollen eye.

The two guards strapped your ankles to the irons and slid their palms over your legs, gripping your thighs greedily like rabid dogs.

With a nod from their mistress, they began tearing off your clothes with their claws, wailing loudly at the scent of the blood that stained your legs.

“Oh, what is this?” Faceless came towards you, eying the junction of your thighs.

“She bleeds...” One ghoul moaned, the sound so starved it frightened you.

You drew a sharp breath when her now ungloved fingers traced the split between your legs. You spat at her, but your wrists had been manacled and pulled high above your head. Faceless smirked and lapped up your juices. She then hummed as she looked back at you curiously. Without a word, she dove her fingers into you, scraping her nails painfully around the inside. You screamed at the pain, but you were helpless to resist. You wanted to tear that smug grin right off her wretched face.

Withdrawing her fingers she sucked upon them, savouring their flavour while watching every inch of expression change across your paled features. “Interesting...”

“Can we taste her, mistress? Have we not been good?” One ghoul hissed hungrily through its gnashing teeth. Half of its jaw had rotted off, and you writhed in disgust.

“No.” Faceless put out her hand abruptly to stop them from advancing. They stopped dead in their tracks at her command.

“Despite her bleeding, she is with child, and to a vampire at that. How curious, indeed...”

What?

But your voice was a mere gurgle in your throat.

“Oh, I am going to have so much more fun torturing you now!” She laughed wickedly, taunting you with the flail she now held in her hands.

The ghouls shifted their hungry eyes towards you and laughed along with her.

“When will we get our fill of this pretty piece, Mistress? We have never eaten drow.”

You thrashed uselessly against the shackles and the blood dripping from your naked body had pooled on the floor between your feet, mingling with the dry crust of the previous victim.

The scent was bringing the ghouls closer until Faceless’ sharp orders once more stopped their feral nature from taking over. “When it is our turn to feast? “

Their excited hissing filled your ears as Faceless lifted your head to lick her prey’s face. You turned it, grunting against the sudden flash of agony as her next words filled you with even more terror.

“Yes, let us feast after the Magistrate’s love bleeds her final.”

“Astarion...” But your entire world faded into nothingness.

[mariacallous]

Foreign policy isn’t usually a decisive factor in Ecuador’s elections. But as the country heads into Sunday’s razor-edge presidential runoff, Renato Rivera, the director of the Ecuadorian Observatory of Organized Crime, said that the candidates’ stances toward the United States are playing a “fundamental role in the elections.”

In the first round of voting in February, leftist Luisa González, a 47-year-old lawyer and single mother, virtually tied with the incumbent, Daniel Noboa, the 37-year-old son of a banana tycoon and Ecuador’s youngest-ever elected president, who was favored to win.

As Ecuador has quickly gone from one of the safest countries in Latin America to one of the deadliest, security is top of mind for voters, followed by unemployment. For both issues, Ecuador’s ties to the United States loom large—and the two candidates offer divergent visions for the country’s most important bilateral relationship.

While González represents the ideological counterpoint to Donald Trump, Noboa is betting big on the U.S. president. Born in Miami, Florida, and educated in the United States, Noboa was one of the few regional leaders to attend Trump’s second inauguration, and his campaign has focused on cracking down on crime with U.S. support.

“Noboa believes he can win based on desperation for security, and that the United States is the only way to do that,” said Guillaume Long, Ecuador’s former foreign affairs minister and a senior research fellow at the Center for Economic and Policy Research. The question ahead of Sunday’s vote is whether Noboa’s ties to Trump will give him the edge he needs—or represent a liability in a neck-and-neck race.

Ecuador’s relationship with the United States, the country’s biggest trading partner, has long been important to Ecuadorians. “They see closeness to the U.S. as a strength,” Beatriz García Nice, an Ecuador analyst, said.

But bilateral ties have not always been smooth. During former President Rafael Correa’s tenure from 2007 to 2017, relations were marked by Ecuador’s expulsion of the U.S. ambassador and other officials after accusing them of meddling in internal affairs; the granting of asylum to WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange, who published classified U.S. military documents in 2010; and the closure of a U.S. military base in the coastal city of Manta.

Then, in the late 2010s, under President Lenín Moreno, Ecuador’s foreign policy underwent a sharp turn. Moreno’s tenure coincided with the end of the so-called pink tide, an era of left-leaning governments in Latin America, as well as with Trump’s first term. Once Correa’s protégé, Moreno broke with his predecessor and realigned with the United States as he revoked Assange’s asylum, renewed security cooperation with U.S. entities, and exited the Union of South American Nations, a political bloc created largely by leftist leaders.

Moreno was followed by Ecuador’s first conservative president in nearly two decades, Guillermo Lasso, who positioned himself firmly as a U.S.-aligned leader. “Now, there is a renewed closeness between Ecuador and the U.S. based on security cooperation,” Long said. But Noboa has taken bilateral relations with the United States “to an extreme level.”

Noboa won snap elections in October 2023, after Lasso’s decision to dissolve congress amid an impeachment trial against him. Noboa ran on a mano dura (“iron fist”) platform to confront rising crime in Ecuador, driven partly by an expansion and redirection of regional drug-trafficking routes. In just four years, the country’s homicide rate increased from 6.9 per 100,000 people in 2019 to 45 per 100,000 in 2023—one of the world’s “fastest, most radical rises in peacetime,” Long said.

Noboa’s campaign platform included plans to criminalize small-scale drug use, invest in surveillance technology, and install floating prisons. Once elected, he quickly made the United States an important part of his security strategy, dubbed Plan Fénix. The U.S. government has supported the program by providing equipment, military cooperation, and financial assistance to Ecuadorian security forces.

So far, Noboa’s tough-on-crime approach has not made much of a dent. January and February saw a record number of killings, with 781 and 736 violent deaths, respectively. Sixty-one percent of Ecuadorians say that their economic situation and personal security have not improved under Noboa, according to a recent poll.

“A [Nayib] Bukele model won’t work in Ecuador,” said Rebecca Bill Chavez, CEO of the Inter-American Dialogue, referring to the Salvadoran president’s hard-line security strategy, which has landed 1.7 percent of the population in prison—the highest rate of any country. Chavez added that Ecuador’s violence is related to transnational organized crime groups that require tight intelligence cooperation and will not be solved by mass incarceration.

Nevertheless, Noboa still plans to double down on militarization and mano dura. And he is hoping to use his ties with Trump—which he reportedly forged with the help of a family friend, U.S. Health Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—to do so.

Noboa wants to amend Ecuador’s constitution to permit foreign military bases in the country, upending a Correa-era ban. He has also asked Trump to designate local gangs as foreign terrorist organizations, as the U.S. president recently did with eight other Latin American cartels and criminal gangs. (According to Noboa, Trump said that he would consider it.)

Last weekend, Erik Prince, the founder of controversial U.S. security contractor Blackwater, arrived on Noboa’s invitation to Guayaquil, one of Ecuador’s most violent cities, to provide support to the country’s military. Prince is a longtime Trump ally who has pushed the United States to outsource its deportation program and recently proposed a plan to set up a U.S.-run migrant detention center in El Salvador.

Human rights activists have criticized Prince’s trip to Ecuador, which Chavez said could “undermine civilian oversight, basic rights, and the rule of law.”

Altogether, Noboa’s proposals “highlight high levels of improvisation in the country’s security management,” Rivera said. He added that Noboa’s decision to use the United States “as a platform to attract votes” will have extreme consequences—namely, “the privatization of the war on organized crime.”

Many Ecuadorians do not necessarily see Noboa’s efforts to combat crime as a threat to the country’s sovereignty, García Nice said. Some are disappointed, however, about Noboa’s inability to use his relationship with Trump to negotiate a special deal to exempt Ecuador from the new 10 percent tariff on nearly all U.S. trading partners.

Last month, Noboa reinforced his rapport with Trump during an informal visit to his Mar-a-Lago resort in Florida. A few days later, the United States announced its new tariffs, leading González to mock Noboa, saying that her opponent met with Trump and now “things are worse for us.”

Noboa’s relationship with Trump may not translate into economic advantages, Chavez said. Ecuador has expressed interest in a bilateral trade deal, but Chavez said that the Trump administration will always prioritize its own interests first. Still, analysts point out that González is even less likely to sway Trump’s economic policy.

For her part, González—who served in Correa’s government—has mostly stayed quiet about Trump, carefully balancing Ecuador’s close ties with the United States with her Citizen Revolution Movement party’s criticism of the U.S. president’s leadership and policies. (She has, however, condemned his “inhumane treatment” of Latin American migrants.)

“With the correístas [supporters of Correa’s socialist ideology], it will be a more complicated relationship,” Sebastián Hurtado, the director of Quito-based consultancy Prófitas, said. He added that the correístas are less transactional than Noboa and driven more by ideology.

Chavez believes that González could forge her own political identity. “There is this assumption that she will be like Correa, a replica,” Chavez said. But she points to Moreno as breaking with Correa despite earning his initial support, as well as Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum, who has developed a distinct political platform from that of her mentor and predecessor, Andrés Manuel López Obrador. “González has shown signs of pragmatism,” Chavez said.

García Nice agreed that though Noboa losing would create some distance in the U.S.-Ecuador relationship, González would likely try to have a cordial and functional relationship with Trump, taking note of Sheinbaum.

Nevertheless, some Ecuadorians remain nervous about how a leftist president may fare against Trump, especially after a recent dispute over deportation flights between Trump and Colombian President Gustavo Petro, which led the former to threaten a tariff of up to 50 percent on Colombian imports and visa restrictions for Colombians.

In an attempt to allay concerns, González recently met with U.S. Ambassador Arthur W. Brown and members of the U.S. business community. She has since said publicly that she and Brown discussed how to strengthen Ecuador’s security cooperation with the United States.

At this point, the race is a toss-up, but Long, for one, thinks that González’s restrained approach may have its advantages vis-à-vis Noboa’s, which has likely become too extreme for many voters. “If he takes it too far—which he did this week [with Prince]—it could backfire,” Long said.

[the-goldenbunny-diaries]

W.I.A (Wounded in Action)

⚢ Pairing - Jihyo x Reader

✎ Word Count - 2.1k

☆ Genre - Angst

♡ Description - Embarking on a spy mission with your girlfriend Jihyo goes terribly wrong when you get severely injured (A/N: I hope you like this one 🐰 anon)

★・・・・・・★

Months after you first met, you found yourself in an extraordinary relationship with the skilled, brilliant leader of the secret spy organization TWICE: Park Jihyo. Together, you made a formidable team, tackling dangerous missions and growing closer with every challenge you faced side by side.

One day, you were assigned a critical mission that involved intercepting highly classified information related to a sinister global organization known as "The Black Lotus." This organization was notorious for its involvement in illegal arms trade, human trafficking, and acts of terrorism.

The intel you received indicated that The Black Lotus was about to finalize a deal with a rogue nation, supplying them with advanced weaponry and technology. If the deal went through, it could destabilize the delicate balance of power in the region, putting countless innocent lives at risk.

To prevent this catastrophic event, your mission objectives were twofold:

1. Infiltrate the High-Security Facility: Jihyo, being a master of disguise and stealth, was tasked with infiltrating the heavily fortified headquarters of a Black Lotus subsidiary. The facility was protected by state-of-the-art security measures, including retinal scanners, laser grids, and an army of well-trained guards.

Your mission was to guide Jihyo, providing her with real-time analysis and strategic support from a secure location. As an experienced spy, you had excess knowledge of surveillance cameras, could hack into the facility's communications, and process information swiftly.

2. Retrieve the Encrypted Data: Jihyo's task was to gain access to the facility's central computer system and download the encrypted data containing information about the impending arms deal. Her skills as an expert hacker and martial artist would be essential in navigating the complex security network.

★・・・・・・★

The day of the mission arrived, and tension filled the air as you and Jihyo prepared to execute the operation. Jihyo noticed a flicker of concern in your eyes.

"You seem a bit off today," Jihyo said, her voice tinged with worry. "Are you sure you're up for this, my love?"

You couldn't hide your hesitation from her penetrating gaze. "I'll be fine, Jihyo. We have a duty to carry out, and the stakes are too high to back down now."

Her hand gently rested on yours, her touch soothing. "I trust you, but please promise me that you'll be cautious. I couldn't bear to lose you."

"I promise," you replied, mustering a smile. "We make an unbeatable team, and we'll get through this together."

With renewed determination, Jihyo slipped into the role of a Black Lotus operative, blending seamlessly with her surroundings. As she ventured into the heart of the heavily fortified headquarters, you couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and anxiety.

"I'm inside," Jihyo's voice crackled over the communication device. "The security is tighter than we expected, but I'm adapting. Keep an eye on those cameras, okay?"

"Roger that," you responded, your focus intensifying as you monitored the facility's surveillance feeds. "Stay sharp, Jihyo. You've got this."

As Jihyo progressed deeper into the facility, her every move became crucial. Unexpected obstacles and guards blocked her path, but she tackled each challenge with her trademark skill and tenacity. However, the situation escalated beyond your initial intelligence.

"Jihyo, the security protocols are more complicated than we thought," you said, your voice tense with concern. "Be careful. There's a patrol headed your way."

"I see them," Jihyo replied, her breath quickening. "I'll find another route. Just keep guiding me."

Your heart raced as you navigated her through the labyrinthine hallways. Then, the unexpected happened – an alarm blared, and chaos ensued.

"Damn it!" Jihyo's voice was urgent. "I tripped an alarm. They're on high alert now."

"Don't panic," you said, trying to steady your own nerves. "Take cover, and I'll guide you through. You've trained for this."

Ducking into a nearby supply room, Jihyo's mind raced as she planned her next move. The adrenaline coursing through her veins sharpened her focus, and she peered through the cracked door to assess the situation.

The guards, armed with high-tech weaponry, spread out to sweep the area. Jihyo's heart sank as she realized the extent of the challenge before her. She knew that taking them down quietly would be nearly impossible, and she had no choice but to engage in a full-blown confrontation.

"Get ready, Jihyo. They're closing in," you warned, your voice a lifeline in the chaos.

With swift and calculated movements, Jihyo sprung into action. She leaped out of the supply room, surprising the guards with her agility. Before they could react, she disarmed the closest one with a well-timed kick, sending his weapon clattering to the floor.

However, the element of surprise only bought her a moment. The remaining guards opened fire, forcing Jihyo to take cover behind nearby crates. Bullets ricocheted off metal surfaces, and she knew she had to act quickly.

"Look for any advantage in the environment," you suggested, analyzing the situation from the surveillance cameras. "There's a storage unit on your right. See if there's anything you can use."

Jihyo's eyes darted around, and she spotted a rack of pipes and metal rods nearby. Taking a deep breath, she lunged toward them, her agility and combat skills allowing her to evade the onslaught of bullets. She grabbed a metal rod, using it as both a shield and a weapon. 

With newfound determination, Jihyo sprang from behind cover, deflecting bullets with the metal rod as she closed the distance between herself and the guards. With precise strikes, she incapacitated two of them, leaving the rest scrambling to regain their composure. 

But one guard managed to get a clean shot, and a bullet grazed Jihyo's arm, causing her to wince in pain. However, she gritted her teeth and fought through the injury, knowing that time was of the essence.

"Jihyo, you're injured. G-get to cover," you urged, voice strained but your concern palpable. 

Ignoring the pain, Jihyo pressed forward, taking down the remaining guards one by one. With sheer determination, she cleared a path to the central computer system, but the struggle had taken its toll. As she initiated the data download, her injured arm trembled with exhaustion. Despite the pain, she refused to give in. The encrypted data was her prize, a testament to her unwavering dedication and the strength of your partnership. 

 "Y/N, I have the data," Jihyo breathed out, her voice pained from her wounds. "I'm heading to the rendezvous point." She awaited your acknowledgment but didn’t receive anything in return. Even in her weakened state, Jihyo started to panic, rushing to the extraction point to find you.

★・・・・・・★

As Jihyo fought her way through the intensified security, you remained focused on providing real-time analysis and support. The pressure to guide her safely through the facility weighed heavily on your shoulders. In your determination to ensure her success, you inadvertently neglected your own well-being. As she faced an onslaught of guards, you fought with your mind, utilizing your combat knowledge and quick thinking to guide Jihyo as best as you could.

Unbeknownst to you, The Black Lotus guards detected your presence within their facility. Recognizing the threat you posed, they quickly surrounded you, outnumbering you by far. Armed and highly skilled, they launched a coordinated attack, making it difficult for you to defend yourself and help Jihyo.

Despite your valiant efforts, the odds were stacked against you. You managed to take down a few guards, but fatigue began to set in, and your movements slowed. A powerful blow to your side left you staggering, and another struck you on the back of your head, causing your vision to blur. With every ounce of strength, you tried to fight back, but the guards were unrelenting. In a final, desperate attempt to protect yourself, you swung wildly, but a skilled adversary managed to deliver a decisive blow, knocking you unconscious.

As darkness enveloped you, the sound of Jihyo's battle cries faded away, leaving you in a state of vulnerable unconsciousness. Your body lay motionless, and the guards, satisfied with their victory, left you there to succumb to the darkness.

★・・・・・・★

As Jihyo discovered you lying unconscious and injured at the rendezvous point, panic and anguish washed over her. She knelt beside you, gently cradling your head in her hands, desperately trying to rouse you.

"No, no, this can't be happening," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "Wake up, my love. Please, wake up!"

Her heart sank and tears streamed down her cheeks at the sight of your unconscious form. With a mix of worry and determination, she carefully assessed your injuries. Her skilled eyes scanned over your battered body, noting the cuts, bruises, and the gash on your forehead where you were struck. Her hands trembled slightly as she gently touched your wounds, making sure not to cause you any further pain. Jihyo's mind raced, guilt gnawing at her, believing that it was her actions that led to this devastating outcome. She couldn't bear the thought of having put you in harm's way. 

With a trembling hand, she activated the communication device to call for backup and medical assistance. Her voice was steady, but it quivered with an underlying layer of distress.

"This is Jihyo. We have an emergency at the rendezvous point. I need immediate medical assistance. Hurry!"

As she waited for help to arrive, she refused to leave your side. Gently, she brushed a strand of hair away from your face and spoke softly, as if her voice could somehow reach your unconscious mind.

"Don't worry, my love. Help is on the way," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "I won't leave you. You mean everything to me, and I promise to keep you safe."

Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps and the arrival of medical personnel filled the air. Jihyo stepped aside, allowing the medical team to take over. She watched anxiously as they carefully assessed your injuries and worked swiftly to stabilize you.

"I'm sorry," Jihyo said to the medical team, her voice heavy with guilt. "I should have been more cautious. It's my fault he's hurt."

One of the medics placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We'll do our best to take care of them. You did what you could, and they’re in good hands now."

As they prepared to transport you to the hospital, Jihyo insisted on accompanying you. She couldn't bear to be separated from you, even for a moment.

In the hospital, Jihyo never left your side. She held your hand tightly, silently praying for your recovery. Her mind was filled with regrets and promises to never let anything like this happen again.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I can't lose you, not like this. Please, wake up."

As the days passed with you unconscious in the hospital, Jihyo remained by your side, consumed by worry and love. She hardly ate or slept, her focus entirely on your well-being. Her appetite vanished, and her nights were spent restlessly, unable to find solace without you awake and by her side. Her dedication to your recovery was unwavering, and she refused to leave the hospital room, knowing that her presence might be the anchor that brought you back to consciousness. Jihyo's determination to be there for you, regardless of her own needs, was a testament to the depth of her love and the unbreakable bond between you.

As you slowly regained consciousness in the hospital bed, you noticed tears streaming down Jihyo's cheeks. She looked both relieved and distraught at the same time. 

"I'm so sorry," she choked out, her voice trembling with guilt. "I should have been there to protect you from getting hurt. This is all my fault." 

You mustered all the strength you had to reach out and gently wipe away her tears. "No, Jihyo, don't blame yourself," you reassured her, your voice soft but earnest. "You did everything you could, and it was a dangerous mission. We knew the risks. I don't blame you for what happened." 

She looked into your eyes, her own filled with emotion. "But I promised to keep you safe," she said, her voice breaking. "I love you so much, and I never want to see you hurt like this again." 

You smiled weakly, your heart swelling with love for her. "You being here now, by my side, is all that matters," you said, squeezing her hand gently. "We'll get through this together. I love you too, and I know that with you here, everything will be okay." 

In that moment, you found solace in each other's presence, knowing that your love and support were the pillars that would help you overcome any obstacle that came your way.

[rosemaryreaper]

Where was Nick when Hancock evacuated the Diamond City ghouls to Goodneighbor?

Back in September, I started working on a fic that covered exactly that…then I tossed it aside because I thought it was bad. But now I actually want to finish it. It’s a short Nick POV fic that follows the three days before McDonough passes the Anti-Ghoul decree. Also featured are Ellie, Security Captain Lennie Sullivan, and a still human Hancock. Here’s a snippet from Chapter 2, which is the night before everything goes to hell.

* * * *

In the end, there was nothing to be done but wait. Ellie returned with more than enough documents to fit the bill, and after another round through the line, the guard let him through with minimal hostility. When he tried to subtly linger to keep an eye on things, Security threatened to shoot him for loitering, so there was no choice but to return to the office. Lennie never returned. Neither did many of the ghouls.

Convincing his old circuit board of a brain to focus on work after that morning was difficult, but it didn’t change the fact that he still had a half dozen interconnected missing persons cases on his desk. Sitting around doing nothing wasn’t going to help anyone, ghoul or missing girl, so the least they could do was be productive with the spare time. He got Ellie to bring out what she had dubbed “the conspiracy board”—a big map of the Commonwealth they had pinned to a corkboard—and the two of them spent the afternoon moving around colored pins and strings, trying to work out which route the traffickers were using to smuggle these girls around the state.

“Think Bunker Hill could be a stopover?” Ellie asked, tapping her fingernail on a red circle to the northeast.

“They’d have to go through Goodneighbor first,” Nick said.

“I don’t doubt it. Sounds like the sort of business Vic’s gang would get mixed up in. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s responsible for this whole horrible trade.”

“Still could be a third party. Or a bit of both. We won’t know till we learn more.” He paused. “But I wouldn’t be surprised either.” He added another pin to the board. “If they’re using Bunker Hill, then they aren’t the only party stashing that particular kind of cargo there overnight. I have a contact I can talk to, see if his guys have noticed any odd goings on.”

“Sounds promising,” Ellie said.

“Let’s hope so. This is one trail I absolutely do not want to leave to get cold.”

Arturo was the neighborhood tourist. Nick would have to catch him alone sometime soon; ask him to get a message through to Deacon and his crew. If anyone was an expert on smuggling people through the Commonwealth undetected, it was the Railroad.

The door screeched open, and a choked sob tumbled through its frame. Violet shuffled in, fully weeping within Riley’s embrace. To her, Riley said, “Here, sweetheart, let’s just sit down for a spell, okay?” To the rest of the room, she said, “I’m going to fucking kill someone.”

“Oh, Violet.” Ellie rushed to grab a blanket from the bedroom. “Here, have a seat, honey.” While Riley lowered Violet into the cushioned chair, Ellie wrapped the blanket around the poor ghoul.

Jax stumbled out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed and in their undershirt, which had rolled up to expose their bandages. “Vi? What happened?”

Riley’s brows shot up. “What the hell happened to you?”

“New exercise regime,” Jax said.

“Jesus Christ,” Riley said. “Somebody jumped you.”

“What?” Violet gasped through tears.

“It’s nothing, Vi,” Jax said. “What’s wrong?”

Violet let out another sob. “I’ve never been s-so humiliated.”

“Oh no,” Ellie said. “They didn’t accept any of your papers?”

“None! The boys and I tried everything. Yefim even tried to draw up something last minute, but they wouldn’t take any of it! Now I’m going to lose everything—my home, my job. I won’t survive outside the Wall, not for a night.” She bowed her head and cried.

Ellie yanked open the drawers of her desk, pulling out a whole stack of handkerchiefs and a mug, the latter of which she filled from the coffee thermos. She murmured to Violet, out of even Nick’s broad earshot, until she could convince her to hold the mug in her hands. Nick sent a silent thanks to fate that he had hired her. He had been about to say something a hell of a lot more blunt.

“Nonhumans,” Riley snarled. “Nonhumans! We’re not another species. We’re not animals. I have half a mind to march up to the Stands right now—kick down doors until I find every councilman responsible. They want to see feral? I’ll show them feral.”

Nick said, “You’ll get yourself shot.”

“I’ll get myself shot outside too. This way will be quicker.”

Jax said, “None of our lot are getting shot outside if I can help it. Not if they stick with me.”

“Oh, look, it’s the ghoul savior,” Riley deadpanned. “Right now, if I had to bet on who would win in a fight, you or a mole rat, I’d back the mole rat.”

“It’s not all hopeless, is it?” Ellie asked, rubbing Violet’s back. “Some ghouls still managed to vote. Riley, you did.”

Riley scowled. “I did, barely, because I’m fortunate. They gave us no warning, no time to get our papers in order—and a lot of ghouls didn’t. Screw all the drifters, I guess.”

Nick could sense Jax giving him a look out of the corner of his eye. One of the “I told you so” variety. Ellie was giving him a different kind of look. One that placed far too must trust in his nonexistent ability to overcome the odds. You can do something, Nicky. Right?

Nick could do something. He could turn his investigation towards the city, root out who was pulling the strings—who had organized the guards, who had influenced the Council, who had to benefit from all the chaos. It would take time, but he was nothing if not persistent. His joints hadn’t rusted to a halt yet.

But the ghouls didn’t have time. They had tonight. The proverbial nuke had already been launched. Catching the crook here wouldn’t save anyone until after there was no one left to be saved. So, Nick would do something all right: he would shield them from the blast best he could and help those who survived out of the debris. No more. No better.

“Jax is working on an escape route,” Nick said. “I’ve been scrounging up supplies. You need something—help organizing a caravan, a spare gun, anything—you say the word.”

The room calmed, but not in a comfortable way. The room calmed in the same way a snake calms when it is too cold to move. Violet had quieted. Jax looked determined; Riley grim. Ellie turned her face away.

Jax crossed over to Violet, offering her a hand up. “Come on, Vi. Why don’t we get you back to the Dugout? You look like you could use something stronger than coffee.”

Violet accepted, sniffling, and they slipped an arm around her shoulders. With a quiet murmur of thanks to Nick, she and Jax made their exit. Riley didn’t follow. She gazed down at the empty chair, then up at Nick with that grim expression. She stalked forward, and he froze, startled, as she threw her arms around him.

Most folks weren’t lining up to give the metal man hugs. It wasn’t the kind of relationship he had with Ellie, who was technically his employee, and it wasn’t something he would ever initiate with a client, no matter how distraught. He was hyper aware of his own strength as he lifted his arms, and they hung suspended for too long as he tried to recall the last time he had calibrated them. He briefly considered blacking out to run a quick diagnostic.

But the moment had already gone on too long, and something of the old Nick kicked in. He rested his hands on her back.

“Hey now, Doc, this isn’t like you,” he said with something like humor.

Riley chuckled, with something a little less like humor. “Just saying thank you, gumshoe—for everything. In case I don’t get the chance to.” She pulled away. “I could use a drink too. Might as well celebrate my last night, while it lasts. Feel free to join.” Then she made her exit.

Ellie was on the verge of a question again, but she still didn’t want to ask it, because she still wasn’t looking at him. He looked at the board with all its strings and pins. He looked at the empty chair, the abandoned blanket, the untouched coffee. He released a long breath, forever weaker than it should be. Then he donned his coat and his hat, and he offered his secretary his arm.

It got her attention. With a faint smile, she linked her elbow with his, resting her other hand on his forearm. And they made their exit too.

[burningknucklecraftworks]

Finished product first, held by my wonderful spouse. Northshield is a kingdom big on the power of light. Our motto includes illumination as a virtue. We have a star named Griffin's Light. On top of the society A&S badge being a candle, our A&S awards are the Black Flame and Brigit's Flame. Since about year two of my tenure in the SCA I've dreamed of making a lantern scroll to honor that aspect and now I've done two. I'm so grateful to be surrounded by people who inspire me to push my boundaries and make cool art.

As such, these are lantern scrolls for Brigit's Flame awards, the GOA level Northshield arts and science award. One is for my wonderful friend Thegn Samson Muskovich (aka Samii), who does so much for the arts and sciences of the SCA. From metalworking with bronze and silver, to leatherwork and armoring, to teaching about existing as a trans person in the SCA and deep diving into the experience of the Gullah Geechee and making sure we know that the experience of Africans trafficked to America is as period as their resilience and resistance. I'm so proud that he's my cousin in the Choctaw tribe. The second is for the magnificent Dame Katerinka Lvovicha (aka Kat), who received her Brigit's Flame in 2015 but never got the scroll for it. She also does so much for Northshield, especially in the realms of heraldry and scribal arts, and she blasts a path for all Northshielders to feel safe by being extremely proactive about pronouns, cultural touchstones, and literally offering housing and travel assistance to people.

The inspirations for the project include these four lanterns and Morgan Donner's lantern build video. In the top row are two illustrations from period showing lanterns. The red lantern is from Book of Hours, MS M.972 fol. 1r, and has a bit of a splayed shape with a wider base and a turned dome at the top. It also has horn panels that aren't quite perfect fits for each side panel, as evidenced by the uneven horizontal lines. The second lantern, held by a crotchety dragonesque beast, is from Breviary, MS M. 8 fol. 158r and has a flat top with straight sides.

The second row shows two lantern awards made by other SCAdians. The first was made by Brig Ingen Erennaigh for a baronial service award called the Coill's Beacon, and the second is an Award of Arms by Northshield's own Tatiana Melville.

My original plan was actually to make a couple of so-called Viking lanterns like the kind you see all over Etsy. These usually consist of a top and bottom disc of wood, with dowels in between, and parchment or rawhide wrapped around the exterior. Extremely simple, and the parchment provides the perfect scroll text surface, but thanks to Morgan Donner's video, I now know those are dated to the 1800s. The idea of illuminated parchment stuck with me though and I decided to make a lantern more along the lines of the Breviary lantern but with simulated parchment in place of horn panes. I felt this was a good compromise between my original plan and a documentably period shape.

I didn't leave myself enough time to make this scroll, between the shield I made for Crown Tournament and Halloween festivities. Thinking fast, I ran out to my local hardware store for some precut 6 inch rounds. The ones I got have an ahistoric Roman ogee routed into the edge, but they'll add some nice visual detail to the scrolls.

Splitting my poplar side beams to width was vaguely harrowing on my radial arm saw. It would've been better to use my bandsaw but it's really not set up for use yet, so I made a janky jig and stood off to the side.

I was successful, and began the annoying process of carving 24 dowel tips.

Tools of the trade, and five doweled supports installed in the first base.

The coping saw did a great job of parting off each dowel end.

Dog bless the Shinso rasp. This thing makes my woodworking experience so much easier.

I got one set done and checked my progress. This looks really, really good so far.

I then grabbed some copper and went to town making the candle holders. I wanted these to have some give for different diameters of candles, including electric candles. These were made entirely off of Morgan Donner's video and aren't based on anything I personally researched, so I can't say anything to their historocity beyond knowing that sheet copper definitely wasn't the material of choice back then. I used a spare fat poplar dowel to form both holders.

I then used sidecutters to make the flanges, and bent them out flat. I used some brass brads to nail the holders to the bases, and pressed them through with my drill press just as I did with the tacks to the targe I made last month.

At this stage I needed to do a test fit, and boy was I happy with the way it looked so far. Now, I must say that this is not enough spacing between the candle and the lantern roof. It'll probably be alright, but it could also get pretty dang hot and risk a fire in there. A shorter candle would be better, but I have a hundred of these beeswax candles so I'm gonna give them away as gifts whenever I can.

Since the Book of Hours lantern is red and Samii's livery colors are red and gold, I painted his lantern red. I used a few different paints mixed together to achieve this shade, and then I sprayed the whole thing with matte polyurethane sealant.

I decided to make Kat's a nice golden oak color in contrast to the red lantern, based on so many being light colored in the various illustrations and illuminations I saw. It was down between this and painting it blue to match her arms, but I think I'm glad I did two very different finishes. The poplar is so green that the oak stain couldn't really compensate, but it's not bad. This lantern was sealed with finishing wax.

At this point Kim stepped in to get the scrolls done. This is Pergamenata, a perennial favorite of SCA scribes for having a similar surface feel and translucency to animal parchment. Usually I do illumination and word smithing while they just do the hand writing, but this time they took on all three of those tasks, much to my joy.

Here's Kat's scroll panes before color. You can see Kim used a template made off my test fit of the lantern to get the spacing correct. They used Speedball india ink and matched the hand to the calligraphy in CNM XXIII.C.124 Velislavova Bible, which they also took the design of the torch from.

Both scroll panes inked, painted and drying. We chose these scrolls to try tempera paint for the first time and the translucency of the tempera on the translucency of the perg is just so good.

Here's Kat's scroll panels with the oak-stained side supports.

Here's Samii's scroll panels with the red side supports.

The final assembly process. I had to cut the scroll panels into individual panes, because the spacing wasn't perfect. I used wood glue to affix the perg panes to the backside of each support, holding or clamping alternately to keep everything in place as the glue-wet perg curled away from the supports and then uncurled as the adhesive cured. It was a pain in the ass but it worked out. I then had to form two bronze rings for the tops of each lantern, and install hooks and loops to close the back pane, which has one end loose and wrapped around a thin piece of basswood.

Here is the final assembly completed, showing the door hooks made of bronze and the eyelet screws made of brass. This is not a very historic door shape, but it's what Morgan Donner hacked together for her lanterns and if it worked for her it'll work for me.

Kat's scroll completed as well, and here's the only view I have of the top suspension ring.

And of course it's not a lantern if you don't see it illuminated. I gave both recipients a beeswax candle and an electric candle, and this photo was taken with the electric candle in place. I had to wrap gaffer tape around the base to make it fit. The electric candle is actually pretty bright! Look at that pretty red paint, and not the fact that the support is slightly angled.

[princesscolumbia]

Code of Ethics - Chapter 40 - Shock and Awe

...no, you forgot to keep posting CoE previews and notification posts to my blog from all the way back in Chapter 29 to today! Look, a demonic duck! *runs*

(gonna do an extra-long synopsis for people who may not be up-to-date on this...like the folks on my Discord server, now merged with @anne-is-ominous's server! More on this in another post)

The story so far...

Diane Somni'els may be the hero of the sector for rescuing slaves and shattering sentient trafficking organizations, but that's just in the game Galaxies Unlimited: Master and Commander. IRL, "she" is really Dylan Samuels, cyber-agent for the American Republic, establishing a foothold for the American Republic in the non-American parts of the Internet and in virtual reality. Prior to "her" current mission, she deleted a batch of rogue A.I. that were fleeing from their servers. After going undercover as an alien woman in GU:MC, she discovers that one of the "rogue" A.I. was a full Sentient A.I. and The Singularity had, indeed, happened...and she'd killed off a child. In the wake of her existential crisis of being a child murderer and knowing she'll never, ever be held accountable by her superiors, she meets a woman who she very quickly falls deeply in love with named Caitlynn.

Caitlynn is another player, 'just like' her (though not, Diane assumes, another undercover agent) and somehow makes it so Diane forgets the path of pain she's created for herself and Diane is able to start living again...even if 'living' means continuing her fake existence in a virtual reality game.

And then...she gets some news that threatens to shatter her fragile peace.

Preview below the cut:

Three ships had been built by the station so far, and when the first two were finished, Diane had been busy enough with other matters that she hadn’t been able to attend their launch. Today, however, Diane and members of her crew were gathered in the observation lounge as a bottle of wine, pitched at it by a space suited volunteer from one of the shipyard’s airlocks, crashed against the prow of the vessel and its running lights activated. Cheers rose from the crowd, mirrored by the crew still in ops, as the new cruiser’s engines kicked on and the ship pushed away from the safety of the shipyard unassisted for the first time.

More bottles of wine were broken out, these having been only recently received via the new, fully established trade route between Mortan and the Matron’s Aerie. Recordings of the event were going to be sent back, mostly via the social media streams that proliferated across the galaxy, but also via the two actual media outlets that established offices on the station.

Nobody was in anything resembling formalwear, but Norma wore something a bit nicer than her usual jeans and t-shirt combo under her father’s beaten-down old flight jacket, and Russe had actually consented to wear a button-up shirt. Diane, ever the sentimentalist, wore a blue tunic under her white jacket with a pair of red dress pants. The rest of the Ops crew that could be spared the time from their posts to attend the celebration in the observation lounge were there, as well as a handful of guests. The rest of the Morvucks were present, either having put in some time on the new ship or being personally invited by a crew member. Even Mr. Bendenson showed up, but his much-discussed wife that Diane had never seen remained back in their quarters for reasons the old salt wasn’t divulging.

Mess Attendants given the honor duty of serving snacks and beverages were circulating throughout both main Ops and the Observation Lounge. Diane’s plucking of a wineglass from Sani’s hands with a stern, “Nope, too young!” drew a round of laughter from the nearby revelers as Cynthy and Kymberlynn took their offered water glasses and snickered at their friend. All in all, it was a very good, happy atmosphere where a party was likely to break out and nobody was about to mind.

“So,” said Norma in an obviously louder than necessary voice, clearly intended to gather the attention of the room, “Have you decided what you’re going to name the ship, oh glorious commander?” The laughter that greeted this question from the assembled crew and staff made it clear she had succeeded; Diane was now the focus of everyone there.

“Way to put me on the spot, Norma,” Diane snarked back at her mayor, “And I happened to have given it at least a little thought, thank you very much.”

“I’m shocked!” Norma prodded.

“Shocked that I thought about this?”

“No, shocked that you thought, I figured you were all about just charging in and eating people, no thoughts, head empty.”

There wasn’t a single person on the crew or staff rosters that didn’t know what Diane had done for the former slaves (and continued to do, a few of the former slaves had even returned to the station, citing less than favorable receptions on their home worlds), so the good-natured ribbing drew companionable laughs while Diane rolled her eyes and did her best to bite back a smile.

“Well surprise, your commander has a brain,” she stuck her tongue out at Norma, letting it extend a good six inches before pulling it back into her mouth.

“Don’t threaten a girl with that if you’re not planning to use it!” Norma purred.

Diane blushed, “Russe, are you gonna let your girl flirt with me like that in front of you?”

Russe just chuckled, “Are you going to stop her? Since when has she let anyone tell her what to do?”

She rolled her eyes, “Okay, yeah, fair point.” She let the laughter die down a bit before she announced, “I decided to go simple, the ISS Athena.”

“‘ISS’? What’s that mean?” asked Russe.

“Well, we aren’t exactly part of a nation, so U.S.S. didn’t seem appropriate, but we are Independents, so the Independent Star Ship Athena.”

There were nods all around at her explanation when Koarla raised her glass and said, “Give us a toast, sister!”

The cry was joined by everyone else in the observation lounge and the voices chanting over the speakers thanks to the feed from Ops as everyone there raised their glasses of non-alcoholic drinks to the camera. Diane rolled her eyes again and raised her hand to issue a silencing gesture, “Okay, okay, shush, I gotta be heard if I’m going to offer a toast.” The crowd went quiet as she lidded her eyes in thought for a moment.

“We’re alone in the dark out here,” she finally began, “When the Branwell Consortium came along we were just another seed station that had unlocked her doors to the universe. They saw us as...freshly hatched, if you will, easy pickings for a predator that thought it was the biggest, meanest creature in the territory.”

She’d always loved watching the rousing speeches on Star Trek, especially when there was seemingly little to say but the person giving the speech revealed that there was, indeed, something that needed saying to remind the crew who they were. She always wondered if she’d be able to deliver such a speech, and even though this wasn’t a high-tension moment, she felt like this was a rare opportunity to step into the shoes of someone worthy of the command role and provide inspiration to her people.

“What the Branwell Consortium learned was that this wasn’t some helpless little bird that hatched, but a fire-breathing DRAGON!” a brief cheer met her words before dying down into an anticipatory silence, “We had one scout-class ship, a crew scraped from the bottom of the barrel, and a commander who’d never led troops into combat in her life, and we rose up and slew the monsters and rescued the damsels! And now with our newest cruiser, we’re declaring to the darkness, this is our territory, challenge us if you dare!” she raised her glass to the observation window, eyes on the ship slowly passing by.

Norma clinked her glass against Diane’s, “To the ISS Athena!”

Cheers and the clinking of glass filled the small space and was echoed by the crew in Ops.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Read the rest on Scribble Hub, where new chapters are released every Monday. You can also read chapters as soon as their completed (which, depending on how I've done on time and spoons management, could be up to weeks in advance) by joining the free tier of my Patreon.

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

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Authors note: Thank you for the love so far on this fic! I’ve spent a lot of time on it and I love sharing it with you! Please comment and let me know what you think! I’m about 4 chapters ahead so I’ll update as much as I can!💜

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Masterlist

Chapter 3

The Auction

*Fifteen Years Later*

Captain Kim Hongjoong of the infamous pirate vessel ATEEZ adjusted his hat lower over his eyes as he entered Halazia's eastern auction house. The cavernous building stank of perfumed wealth mingling with human fear—a scent he recognized from countless similar establishments across a dozen ports. Behind him, Quartermaster Park Seonghwa moved with characteristic silent grace, his elegant attire belying the deadly weapons concealed beneath his finely tailored coat.

"I despise these places," Seonghwa murmured, voice pitched for Hongjoong's ears alone. His face maintained the bored expression expected of wealthy buyers, while his eyes continuously scanned for threats.

"We're only here for information," Hongjoong reminded him. Their actual purpose was intelligence gathering about shipping routes—specifically, vessels owned by the Southern Trade Company. "One hour, then we leave."

Fifteen years had transformed the frightened cabin boys of The Crimson Serpent into men feared throughout the maritime world. At twenty-three, Hongjoong commanded not just his ship but a reputation that made naval captains alter course at the mere rumor of the ATEEZ's black sails on the horizon. His slender build and youthful features often led enemies to underestimate him—a fatal mistake many had not lived to repeat.

Seonghwa, tall and imposing at his side, had perfected an air of elegant menace that served their purposes well in places like this. His immaculate appearance and cold eyes suggested aristocratic danger—a man comfortable in society's highest circles yet capable of ordering executions between sips of fine wine.

They moved deeper into the auction house, nodding to merchants who recognized them only by reputation and gave them wide berth. The ATEEZ's unusual code was well known in maritime circles: they never harmed children, attacked slave ships rather than merchant vessels, and left distinctive compass marks on the foreheads of slave traders they encountered. This last practice had earned them the nickname "The Compass Crew" among frightened traders.

"Southern Trade Company representatives?" Hongjoong asked quietly as they claimed seats near the back of the room.

Seonghwa inclined his head slightly toward a cluster of well-dressed men near the auctioneer's platform. "Navy blue jackets with gold buttons. Victor Blackwell himself doesn't appear to be present."

Hongjoong nodded, memorizing faces for future reference. Victor Blackwell, owner of the Southern Trade Company, had risen to prominence in the slave trade over the past fifteen years. His name had appeared with increasing frequency in their investigations, though the man himself remained elusive.

"The auction begins in twenty minutes," Seonghwa noted, consulting his pocket watch. "We should have sufficient time to observe their bidding patterns and identify key vessels before departing."

"Agreed." Hongjoong shifted in his seat, uncomfortably aware of the small object nestled in the custom-sewn inner pocket of his captain's coat. For fifteen years, he had carried Mr. Hugs with him to every port, every auction house, every place where slaves were bought and sold. The teddy bear had become both talisman and conscience, a constant reminder of their unfulfilled promise.

Today was no different. Their annual return to Halazia always included visits to auction houses, following the slim possibility that they might find some trace of a girl long since grown to womanhood—if she had survived at all. After fifteen years of searching, hope had worn thin, but the obligation remained.

"We should begin considering alternatives," Seonghwa said, continuing a conversation they'd had many times. "Wooyoung's intelligence network has expanded significantly. Perhaps centralized record searching rather than physical presence would be more efficient."

Hongjoong didn't respond immediately. The same thought had occurred to him with increasing frequency. Fifteen years of searching auction houses and slave quarters had yielded nothing. The little girl they had known was now twenty, if she lived. Her appearance would have changed beyond recognition. Even her name might be different, slave owners often renaming their property to erase former identities.

Yet something kept him returning to these despised places, something beyond rational strategy. Perhaps it was simply that he couldn't bear to break their blood oath by admitting defeat.

"After today's auction," he finally conceded. "We'll discuss it with the others."

Seonghwa nodded, recognizing the significance of this small surrender. Before he could respond further, a bell rang, signaling the auction's commencement.

The auctioneer, a corpulent man in expensive but ill-fitting clothes, took his position on the platform as the first "merchandise" was brought forward—a middle-aged man with the muscled build of a dockworker, his eyes downcast as his physical attributes were described in clinical detail.

Hongjoong observed the Southern Trade Company representatives, noting which items drew their interest and which they ignored. The pattern confirmed their intelligence: the company was focusing on specialized labor, particularly those with maritime skills, likely for their expanding shipping fleet.

The auction proceeded with mechanical efficiency, human beings reduced to commodities with listed attributes and prices. Hongjoong maintained his impassive expression through years of practice, though the familiar weight of Mr. Hugs against his chest seemed heavier with each sale concluded.

"We have what we need," he murmured to Seonghwa after thirty minutes. "Their purchasing pattern is clear."

Seonghwa nodded slightly. "Two more lots, then we leave without drawing attention."

As they prepared to depart, the auctioneer's voice cut through the general murmur of the crowd.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to our premium offering."

Something in his tone—a particular inflection of anticipated profit—made Hongjoong pause. The crowd's attention sharpened perceptibly as a young woman was led onto the platform.

"Observe," the auctioneer continued, "a domestic servant of exceptional quality. Twenty years old, healthy, literate, and trained in household management, music, and languages. Suitable for the finest households requiring a presentable, well-mannered addition."

Hongjoong's attention drifted from the auctioneer's patter to the woman herself. Unlike previous lots who stood with defeated postures or rebellious tension, she maintained a quiet dignity—back straight, eyes forward but unfocused, as if mentally elsewhere despite her physical presence.

Something about her struck him as vaguely familiar, though he couldn't identify what. Her features were delicate, framed by dark hair pulled severely back. Her simple dress, clearly provided for the auction, hung on a frame too thin for true health but not emaciated.

As he studied her, a strange sensation washed over him—not recognition exactly, but a curious pull, like a half-remembered dream. He found himself absentmindedly touching the pocket where Mr. Hugs rested, a gesture he hadn't consciously initiated.

"Note the excellent condition," the auctioneer continued, gesturing as if presenting a prize animal. "Previous owner was a gentleman merchant who maintained his property with care. No physical marks, no history of rebellion or escape attempts."

The audience murmured appreciatively, several potential buyers leaning forward with increased interest. The Southern Trade Company representatives conferred briefly before one raised his hand to signal interest.

"We'll begin the bidding at five hundred gold pieces," the auctioneer announced.

Bids came quickly, the price climbing as several wealthy merchants joined the competition. The woman on the platform remained expressionless, though Hongjoong noticed her eyes moving systematically across the room—not seeking assistance, but cataloging exits, noting guard positions, assessing threats. It was a behavior he recognized from his own crew when entering potentially hostile situations.

"Something's wrong," Seonghwa whispered, noticing Hongjoong's intense focus. "What is it?"

Hongjoong shook his head slightly, unable to articulate the strange sensation tugging at him. "I'm not sure."

The bidding continued, narrowing to three serious contenders—the Southern Trade Company representative, a nobleman in imported silk, and a naval officer whose insignia marked him as captain of a merchant vessel.

"Fifteen hundred," called the nobleman.

"Sixteen hundred," countered the naval officer.

"Eighteen hundred," the Southern Trade Company representative responded smoothly.

The woman's systematic scanning of the room suddenly stopped, her gaze fixing on something—or someone—in the audience. Hongjoong followed her line of sight to the Southern Trade Company representative, noting how her carefully maintained composure faltered briefly before reasserting itself.

"She knows him," he murmured to Seonghwa. "Or at least his organization."

Seonghwa's eyes narrowed as he observed the subtle interaction. "If Blackwell's company is specifically targeting her, there must be a reason."

"Two thousand gold pieces," announced the naval officer, drawing murmurs from the crowd at the exceptional price.

"Twenty-one hundred," the nobleman replied, though with visible hesitation.

"Twenty-five hundred," countered the Southern Trade representative without pause.

The woman's breathing quickened almost imperceptibly, the only sign of emotion breaking through her composed exterior. Whatever awaited her with the Southern Trade Company clearly terrified her, despite her efforts to hide it.

"Any advance on twenty-five hundred?" the auctioneer inquired, looking between the remaining bidders. The naval officer shook his head regretfully, while the nobleman wavered.

"Twenty-six hundred," the nobleman offered finally.

"Three thousand," responded the Southern Trade representative immediately.

A collective intake of breath swept through the audience. Three thousand gold pieces was an extraordinary sum for any slave, even one marketed as "premium."

The auctioneer's eyes gleamed with undisguised greed. "Three thousand gold pieces from the Southern Trade Company. Do I hear any advance?"

The nobleman shook his head, yielding to the aggressive bidding. The auctioneer raised his gavel, preparing to conclude the sale.

In that suspended moment, as the woman's carefully maintained facade began to crack with the finality of her fate, Hongjoong felt something shift within him. The weight of Mr. Hugs against his chest suddenly seemed to burn, a physical manifestation of a promise made fifteen years ago in blood and desperation.

"Twenty thousand," he said, his voice carrying clearly through the suddenly silent room.

Seonghwa's head whipped toward him, shock briefly displacing his cultivated composure. "Captain—" he began in an urgent whisper.

"Twenty thousand gold pieces," Hongjoong repeated firmly, ignoring his quartermaster's concern.

The auctioneer froze, gavel suspended in mid-air, face reflecting disbelief. "Sir, perhaps I misheard—"

"You did not." Hongjoong stood, allowing his coat to fall open enough to reveal the distinctive captain's insignia of the ATEEZ. "Twenty thousand gold pieces. In immediate payment."

The Southern Trade representative half-rose from his seat, face flushing with anger. "This is highly irregular. We were clearly—"

"Outbid," Hongjoong interrupted calmly, though his heart pounded against his ribs where Mr. Hugs rested. "Unless you wish to offer more?"

A tense silence fell over the auction house. The ATEEZ's reputation guaranteed Hongjoong would not be physically challenged, but the unprecedented bid for an ordinary domestic slave created a situation outside normal protocols.

The auctioneer recovered first, professional greed overwhelming confusion. "Twenty thousand gold pieces bid by Captain Hongjoong of the... ATEEZ." He stumbled slightly over the name, clearly recognizing it. "Does the Southern Trade Company wish to respond?"

The representative conferred urgently with his colleagues before slowly resuming his seat. "We yield," he said tightly. "But this will be reported to Mr. Blackwell."

"I would expect nothing less," Hongjoong replied, unconcerned by the implied threat.

The auctioneer, visibly relieved to avoid conflict in his establishment, brought down his gavel with unnecessary force. "Sold! To Captain Hongjoong for twenty thousand gold pieces."

Throughout this exchange, the woman on the platform had remained frozen, her eyes widening slightly at Hongjoong's intervention. Her gaze moved between him and Seonghwa with a mixture of confusion and wariness, clearly unable to comprehend why unknown pirates would pay such an extraordinary sum for her.

"Payment will be rendered immediately," Hongjoong informed the auctioneer. "My quartermaster will oversee the transaction while I inspect my purchase."

Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the platform, aware of Seonghwa falling into step behind him after only a moment's hesitation. The crowd parted before them, whispers following in their wake.

As Hongjoong approached the platform, the woman's posture stiffened further, her chin rising slightly in a gesture of defiance despite her circumstances. Up close, he could see the controlled fear in her eyes—not of him specifically, but of change, of new ownership, of unknown intentions.

"Leave us," he instructed the guards flanking her. When they hesitated, his hand moved casually toward his weapon. "Now."

They retreated hastily, leaving Hongjoong alone with the woman as Seonghwa moved to handle the financial arrangements. For a long moment, neither spoke, mutual assessment flowing between them.

"Why?" she finally asked, her voice soft but clear, containing none of the servile tone expected of merchandise addressing its new owner.

Hongjoong studied her face, still unable to identify what had compelled his impulsive action. "I'm not entirely certain," he admitted.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, searching his face for deception. "Twenty thousand gold pieces requires certainty, Captain."

The hint of challenge in her tone surprised him. Most slaves, particularly those described as "well-mannered," would display only fearful obedience to a new master—especially one with the ATEEZ's fearsome reputation. But there was something in her direct gaze, the slight tilt of her chin, that triggered a peculiar sense of familiarity.

For a heartbeat, the word "treasure" formed on his lips before he caught himself, startled by the unbidden impulse. He covered his confusion with a slight clearing of his throat.

"Perhaps I disliked the Southern Trade Company's interest in you," he offered instead, watching her reaction carefully.

A flash of genuine fear crossed her features before being quickly suppressed. "They would have paid far less than twenty thousand."

"True." He stepped closer, keeping his movements deliberate and non-threatening. "What's your name?"

She hesitated, as if weighing whether to answer truthfully. A shadow passed behind her eyes, something calculated and cautious.

"Ella," she said finally.

The name was not what Hongjoong had expected, though he couldn't have explained why. He felt a strange disappointment that made no logical sense.

"How long have you been enslaved?" he asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Fifteen years," she replied, watching him with increasing puzzlement. "Since I was five."

A jolt went through Hongjoong at this information, though he kept his expression neutral. Coincidences happened. Many children were enslaved at five. The timing meant nothing.

"Your previous owner," he continued, struggling to maintain casual interrogation. "Was it always the merchant mentioned by the auctioneer?"

She shook her head slightly. "No. I was initially purchased by Victor Blackwell. He... transferred me to one of his business associates 3 years ago."

Blackwell. The name registered immediately—owner of the Southern Trade Company, the very organization they had been investigating. The connection was too specific to be coincidental.

"Captain?" Seonghwa approached, having completed the financial transaction. "Everything is arranged. We should depart before complications arise."

Hongjoong nodded, his focus still on the woman—on Ella. "We're leaving," he confirmed, then addressed her directly. "You'll accompany us to our ship."

Wariness returned to her expression. "And what will be my duties aboard this ship, Captain?"

The implication was clear—what service would justify his extraordinary purchase? Hongjoong recognized the question as a way of preparing herself for whatever awaited, a survival strategy born of long experience.

"For now, simply to follow us without creating difficulties," he replied. "Further discussions can wait until we're safely aboard."

She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once, decision made. "As you wish, Captain."

Seonghwa arranged his coat around her shoulders as they left the auction house, partially concealing her identity while providing protection from curious onlookers. The gesture, automatic and protective, drew a surprised glance from her but no comment.

As Seonghwa stepped ahead to clear their path, Hongjoong noticed the woman glance sideways at him with a strange expression—not fear or suspicion, but something closer to bewilderment, as if trying to place a half-remembered face. It faded quickly, replaced by the careful mask she maintained, but the moment left him unsettled.

They moved through Halazia's crowded streets with practiced efficiency, avoiding main thoroughfares where Southern Trade Company representatives might attempt confrontation. Hongjoong's mind raced with possibilities and questions that defied logical explanation.

The ATEEZ waited at the docks, black sails furled but distinctive even among dozens of vessels. Crew members paused in their duties as the captain, quartermaster, and unfamiliar woman approached. Whispers spread rapidly—word of Hongjoong's unprecedented auction bid had already reached the waterfront.

As they stepped onto the gangplank, Hongjoong noticed Ella's step falter momentarily, her eyes taking in the ship with an experienced assessment that surprised him. Her gaze lingered on details most would overlook—the modified rigging that allowed for superior speed, the disguised gun ports that hid their true firepower, the strategic positioning of lookout posts.

"Is something wrong?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head quickly. "No, Captain. I've simply... never been aboard a vessel like this."

Her answer seemed genuine, yet something in her careful observation suggested more than mere curiosity. She was searching for escape routes, defensive weaknesses, potential weapons—the behavior of someone who had learned to survive through constant vigilance.

"Jung Wooyoung," Hongjoong called to his cook, who was observing their arrival with undisguised curiosity from the main deck. "Prepare quarters for our guest."

Wooyoung approached with his characteristic flamboyant stride, though his eyes reflected the same questions evident throughout the crew. "Of course, Captain. The small cabin near yours is prepared, as always." His gaze swept over Ella with professional assessment rather than impropriety. "Food and fresh clothing, I assume?"

"Yes," Hongjoong confirmed. "And water for washing."

Ella watched this exchange carefully, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts. When Wooyoung turned his attention fully to her, offering a theatrical bow that somehow managed to be both respectful and playful, she remained composed but watchful.

"Welcome aboard the ATEEZ," Wooyoung greeted her with a warm smile that had charmed information from countless sources. "I'm Jung Wooyoung, ship's cook and intelligence officer. And very much at your service."

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Wooyoung's eyes as he straightened from his bow—a flash of confusion quickly masked by his usual charm. Hongjoong noticed his cook's hand twitch slightly, as if he'd started to make a gesture and stopped himself.

"Thank you," Ella replied with perfect politeness, though Hongjoong noticed her attention moving past Wooyoung to the tall figure approaching from the foredeck.

Jeong Yunho's imposing height and powerful build often intimidated newcomers, but his gentle face and warm eyes typically reassured them quickly. As the ship's boatswain, his responsibilities for maintenance and deck operations kept him constantly visible to the crew, an unofficial morale officer through his natural optimism.

"Captain," Yunho greeted, then nodded respectfully to Ella. As their eyes met, an odd expression crossed his features—something between puzzlement and déjà vu, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined.

"Is there anything you need prepared?" he continued smoothly, his professional demeanor reasserting itself.

"Ensure our departure preparations are complete," Hongjoong instructed. "I want to leave harbor before nightfall."

"Already underway," Yunho confirmed, his gaze flickering curiously to Ella before returning to his captain. "Mingi reports the cannons are secured for departure."

At the mention of the master gunner, Hongjoong saw Ella's attention sharpen slightly, though she maintained her carefully neutral expression. "Good. Tell him to join us for dinner in my quarters. You and Wooyoung as well."

Yunho nodded, offering a gentle smile to Ella before returning to his duties. Hongjoong noticed how her eyes followed the tall boatswain, something unreadable in her expression.

"Wooyoung will show you to your quarters," Hongjoong told her. "You'll find everything you need there. We dine at sunset."

She nodded, the perfect picture of compliance, though Hongjoong sensed calculation behind her composed exterior. "Thank you, Captain."

As Wooyoung led her below decks, chattering amiably about the ship and its amenities, Seonghwa moved closer to Hongjoong.

"Twenty thousand gold pieces," the quartermaster said quietly, not a question but a statement requiring explanation.

Hongjoong sighed, unable to articulate the impulse that had driven his unprecedented bid. "I don't know, Seonghwa. Something about her..."

Seonghwa hummed in contemplation.

"She matches the age and timeline," Seonghwa observed. "But so would hundreds of others."

"It's more than that. Did you see how she assessed the ship? How she watched us? There's something familiar in her movements."

Seonghwa hummed again, his voice dropping further. "When I placed my coat around her shoulders, I almost called her..." He stopped, shaking his head slightly. "It's foolish. A trick of memory and hope."

"She gave her name as Ella, not y/n,"He added, leaning against the railing.

"Slave names are often changed by their owners," Hongjoong countered. "You know this."

"True." Seonghwa’s voice remained measured. "And her connection to Blackwell is... convenient for our current mission."

"Did you notice Wooyoung's reaction?" Hongjoong asked. "He started to make that hand gesture he uses when excited, then caught himself. And Yunho—"

"I saw," Seonghwa interrupted. "But it proves nothing. We've been searching for fifteen years, Hongjoong. We've had false hopes before."

"I know." Hongjoong’s voice held rare emotion and frustration. "But we should observe her carefully."

"We'll proceed cautiously," Hongjoong decided. "Watch her, but reveal nothing about our search or our past."

"And Mr. Hugs?" Seonghwa asked quietly, referring to the teddy bear that normally sat prominently on Hongjoong's navigation table.

"I'll secure him in my private chest. She won't see him until we're certain. If she is..." he couldn't bring himself to say the name, "...if she is who we've been seeking, we need to understand why she's concealing her identity."

Seonghwa nodded, satisfied with this caution. "And if she isn't?"

The question hung between them, weighted with fifteen years of searching and the substantial sum just spent on its possibility.

"Then we've rescued someone from Blackwell's organization and potentially gained valuable intelligence," Hongjoong replied firmly. "Either way, I don't regret the purchase."

As he spoke, his hand unconsciously moved to the inner pocket where Mr. Hugs rested, feeling the familiar weight like a talisman against uncertainty. For fifteen years, they had searched for a little girl with a teddy bear. Now, a woman with guarded eyes and a carefully neutral expression had walked onto his ship, triggering inexplicable reactions from his most trusted officers.

Coincidence, or something more? The answer would have to wait.

Ella stood alone in the small cabin assigned to her, carefully assessing her new surroundings. The space was surprisingly comfortable for a pirate vessel—clean linens on a narrow but adequate bed, a small writing desk bolted to the floor, a washing basin with fresh water, and even a tiny porthole providing natural light.

The cook—Wooyoung—had shown her to the cabin with theatrical flourishes and genuine kindness that she found disconcerting after years of calculated cruelty or cold indifference. His cheerful chatter had seemed designed to put her at ease, but she recognized intelligence gathering when she experienced it. His casual questions about her preferences and background had been skillfully designed to extract information while appearing merely friendly.

She had responded with the careful blend of politeness and reticence that had kept her alive for fifteen years—answering directly but minimally, volunteering nothing beyond what was specifically asked. The act of submission without surrender that she had perfected under Blackwell's ownership.

Yet something about the cook's manner had triggered an odd sensation—a feeling of déjà vu so strong it had momentarily disrupted her careful composure. There had been a moment when he'd made a particular gesture, waving his hands animatedly as he described the galley, that had sent an unexpected pulse of familiarity through her. His bright, expressive face and theatrical movements seemed to echo from somewhere deep in her memory, though she couldn't place when or where she might have encountered him before.

Now, alone for the first time since the auction, she allowed herself a moment of genuine emotion. She sank onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling slightly as she processed the extraordinary events of the day.

Twenty thousand gold pieces. An amount so extraordinary it defied rational explanation. No domestic slave, regardless of training or appearance, was worth even a fraction of that sum. The Captain's impulsive bid made no logical sense unless he knew something about her—something worth more than a merchant captain's annual profits.

As she washed using the provided basin and changed into the clothing left for her—simple but well-made garments that fit surprisingly well—she considered her situation carefully. The consideration behind these preparations was puzzling. Pirates with a reputation for ruthlessness toward slave traders shouldn't show such care toward an auction purchase.

There had been moments on deck—the tall boatswain's gentle smile, the cook's theatrical bow, the careful way the captain had modulated his voice when addressing her—that had stirred strange emotional echoes. Like fragments of a dream she couldn't quite recall upon waking, they hovered just beyond the reach of clear memory.

It was dangerous to dwell on such feelings. Fifteen years had taught her that apparent kindness often masked deeper motives. Yet as she prepared for dinner with the captain and his officers, a strange wariness mingled with curiosity. Who were these men who had paid a fortune to purchase her, only to treat her with unexpected consideration?

The name she had given—Ella—was deliberate, a middle name. It was neither truth nor lie, simply a practical necessity. Fifteen years had taught her the value of partial truths. She would keep the name y/n to herself.

As sunset approached, bringing the promised dinner with the captain and his officers, she carefully reconstructed her composed exterior. Whatever their purpose in purchasing her, whatever they wanted from her, she would survive as she always had—observing, adapting, revealing nothing of herself until absolutely necessary.

Before leaving her cabin, she conducted her nightly ritual, though it was not yet time for sleep. The whispered names had kept her sane through fifteen years of captivity, five treasured syllables that connected her to the last moment she had felt truly safe:

"Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy."

Like a prayer or a spell, the childhood nicknames centered her. Tonight, for reasons she couldn't explain, they seemed to carry particular weight, as if the words themselves were trying to tell her something just beyond her understanding.

Shaking off the strange feeling, she prepared to face the captain and his officers—to learn, if possible, why her freedom had been worth twenty thousand gold pieces to a man who didn't even know her name.

The captain's dining cabin was larger than Ella had expected, dominated by a heavy wooden table with seating for six. Maps and charts covered one wall, while navigational instruments occupied various surfaces. The space reflected its owner: organized but not sterile, functional but with surprising touches of personality. A bookshelf held volumes ranging from navigational texts to what appeared to be poetry. A collection of small carved animals lined one shelf—whales, dolphins, birds rendered with remarkable skill.

As she entered, escorted by Wooyoung, Ella paused briefly, an unexpected wave of déjà vu washing over her at the sight of the carved figures. Something about their simple but expressive shapes triggered a memory just out of reach—tiny wooden animals pressed into a small palm, meant to be hidden in the hem of a dress.

She pushed the bewildering sensation aside, focusing on maintaining her composed exterior as Captain Hongjoong rose slightly from his seat at the head of the table—a courtesy normally reserved for ladies of quality, not former slaves. The gesture caught her off-guard, another unexpected consideration that made her wary even as part of her responded to the simple dignity it afforded her.

"I trust you found your accommodations acceptable?" he inquired as she took the seat indicated.

"Very much so, Captain. Thank you."

Seonghwa sat to the captain's right, his elegant posture and immaculate appearance a contrast to Hongjoong's more relaxed bearing. Wooyoung settled beside her with characteristic flourish, while two empty chairs remained—presumably for the tall boatswain and the as-yet-unseen master gunner.

Before further conversation could develop, the door opened to admit Yunho, ducking slightly despite the cabin's generous headroom—a habitual motion for a man of his height. Behind him followed a figure Ella had not yet seen: a tall, powerfully built man whose broad shoulders and muscular arms marked him as someone accustomed to physical labor, though his movements held surprising grace.

"Forgive our delay, Captain," Yunho said with an easy smile. "Last-minute departure checks."

"All is secure," the newcomer added, his deep voice unexpectedly soft. His eyes briefly met Ella's before shifting away, a flash of something unreadable crossing his features.

"Excellent." Hongjoong gestured to the empty seats. "Join us."

As the two men settled at the table, the captain made formal introductions. "Ella, you've met Quartermaster Seonghwa and Cook Wooyoung. This is Jeong Yunho, our boatswain, and Song Mingi, master gunner."

Ella nodded acknowledgment to each, careful to maintain her composed expression despite a strange sensation that washed over her. Something about these five men together—their voices, their mannerisms, the way they moved in coordinated harmony—triggered a peculiar feeling of déjà vu so powerful it momentarily disoriented her.

Mingi, in particular, captured her attention. The powerful gunner moved with the careful precision of someone constantly aware of his size and strength, eyes often downcast, words minimal but meaningful. There was something achingly familiar in his reserved demeanor that made her chest tighten inexplicably.

"Before we begin," Hongjoong said, addressing the table but watching Ella specifically, "I should clarify your position aboard this ship."

She tensed slightly, prepared for the revelation of whatever purpose had driven her purchase.

"You are not a slave here," the captain stated firmly. "I purchased your freedom, not your person."

Murmurs of approval came from the others, particularly Yunho, whose warm smile widened at this declaration.

"That's…" Ella hesitated, genuinely caught off-guard by this statement. "Very generous, Captain. But why? Twenty thousand gold pieces is…"

"An unprecedented sum?" Hongjoong finished when she trailed off. The phrase sounded almost rehearsed, though his expression remained genuine. "Yes. I'm aware."

"What the captain means," Seonghwa interjected with characteristic precision, "is that the ATEEZ has a particular interest in disrupting the Southern Trade Company's operations. Your connection to Victor Blackwell makes you valuable to us."

"As an information source," Ella concluded, relaxing slightly as the explanation aligned with her expectations. This made sense—a strategic investment rather than an inexplicable impulse.

"Partly," Hongjoong agreed. "But also as a witness to their practices. Our campaign against slave traders requires evidence beyond rumors and hearsay."

Again, this aligned with logical objectives. The ATEEZ's unusual code—targeting slave ships while sparing merchant vessels—was apparently more than reputation. These men genuinely opposed the trade that had defined her existence for fifteen years.

"I see." She chose her words carefully. "And what happens once I've provided this information and testimony?"

"You'll be free to go wherever you wish," Hongjoong replied without hesitation. "With sufficient funds to establish yourself independently."

The matter-of-fact offer of both freedom and financial independence struck Ella as either extraordinary generosity or tactical manipulation. No one gave away twenty thousand gold pieces plus additional funds without expecting significant return on investment.

"That's… remarkably generous," she said cautiously.

"It's not generosity," Wooyoung interjected with unexpected seriousness beneath his typically light tone. "It's justice."

Something in his phrasing, in the conviction behind the words, triggered a strange flutter of memory that she couldn't quite grasp. It felt like trying to recall a dream upon waking—the sensation remained while the specifics evaporated.

"I'll help however I can," she promised, the words true despite her cautious reticence. Victor Blackwell had been the architect of her suffering for fifteen years—first directly, then through his business associate. Any opportunity to undermine his operations aligned perfectly with her own interests.

"Excellent," Hongjoong approved. "We'll begin formal questioning tomorrow. For tonight, simply rest and acclimate to the ship."

Wooyoung, seemingly eager to lighten the atmosphere, began serving the meal he had prepared—a surprisingly sophisticated fare for a pirate vessel, featuring fresh fish, vegetables, and even fruits that must have been purchased at significant expense in Halazia's markets.

"I hope the seasoning isn't too strong," he said as he placed a plate before her. The words seemed casual, but Ella noticed him watching her reaction carefully, as if testing something.

The spiced fish carried an unexpected flavor she hadn't tasted in years—star anise and cardamom in a particular combination that triggered another flash of memory: a small hand offering her a piece of sweetbread drizzled with honey, a conspiratorial wink, a whispered "Special treats for special people."

The memory faded as quickly as it had formed, leaving her momentarily disoriented. She recovered quickly, taking another bite to cover her confusion.

"It's perfect," she assured him. "I've always favored cardamom."

Something pleased flickered across Wooyoung's expressive face before he turned to serve the others. Across the table, she noticed Mingi watching her with that same unreadable expression, his dark eyes intense despite his minimal participation in the conversation.

As they ate, conversation flowed naturally among the officers, revealing dynamics clearly established through years of close association. Seonghwa's meticulous attention to detail balanced Hongjoong's more intuitive leadership. Wooyoung's theatrical storytelling drew reluctant smiles even from the quiet Mingi. Yunho's gentle mediating presence smoothed any moments of tension.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Ella observed it all carefully, noting both what was said and—more importantly—what wasn't. They asked her no personal questions beyond general inquiries about her comfort and preferences. The careful avoidance of her past suggested either unusual sensitivity or specific instruction from the captain.

Throughout the meal, she felt Hongjoong watching her with particular intensity during unguarded moments. Not the predatory assessment she had experienced from other men, but something more complicated—a searching look, as if trying to confirm a suspicion or memory.

Most disconcerting was Mingi's careful avoidance of direct interaction. The master gunner spoke little, primarily to answer direct questions from Hongjoong or respond to Yunho's gentle prompting. Yet Ella repeatedly caught him studying her when he thought her attention elsewhere, his expression unreadable but somehow pained.

As the meal concluded, Hongjoong addressed a question that had clearly been on the others' minds: "You may be wondering why I've included you in this initial meeting rather than questioning our guest privately."

The officers exchanged glances that confirmed this curiosity.

"The campaign against the Southern Trade Company involves us all," the captain continued. "Each of you will participate in gathering information from Ella based on your specific expertise and knowledge of Blackwell's operations."

This explanation seemed to satisfy them, though Ella sensed an undercurrent of something unspoken—as if the captain's words answered the stated question while leaving deeper curiosities unaddressed.

"For now," Hongjoong concluded, rising from his seat to signal the evening's end, "Wooyoung will escort you back to your quarters. Tomorrow, once we're safely away from Halazia, we'll begin more formal discussions."

As the others prepared to depart, Ella found herself unexpectedly reluctant to leave. Despite the strangeness of her situation and the uncertainty of her future, something about these five men stirred an odd feeling of déjà vu—a sensation so disorienting she had to focus on her breathing to maintain composure.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

It was Wooyoung's laugh that triggered it first—a bright, musical sound that seemed to echo from somewhere deep in her memory. Then the way Seonghwa straightened items on the table with unconscious precision, as if disorder physically bothered him. The gentle care in Yunho's movements despite his size. The way Mingi's eyes briefly met hers before looking away. Even the captain's habit of rubbing the back of his neck when thinking deeply.

All of it felt hauntingly familiar in a way she couldn't possibly explain. These men were strangers—pirates who had purchased her for strategic information. Yet being among them felt like… remembering something she'd never consciously forgotten.

She shook off the unsettling sensation as Wooyoung escorted her back to her cabin, his cheerful chatter about the ship's daily routines washing over her like comfortable background noise.

"Sleep well," he said when they reached her door, his smile genuine in a way that made her chest ache with some unnamed emotion. "Tomorrow will be a new beginning."

Alone in her cabin, Ella carefully examined her surroundings once more, searching for any sign that these men might somehow know her true identity. Finding nothing conclusive, she prepared for sleep with the mechanical efficiency of someone accustomed to making do with brief rest.

As she had every night for fifteen years, she lay in the darkness and whispered the five names that had kept her sane through the worst moments of her captivity: "Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy."

The childish nicknames were all she remembered of their real names—five boys who had protected her aboard a different ship long ago. Their faces had blurred with time, becoming more ideal than memory, but the nicknames remained crisp and clear, a litany that connected her to the last moment she had felt truly safe.

"Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy," she repeated softly, a prayer and a promise that had sustained her through fifteen years of survival.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[rainytimetravelfart]

10 Navy Current Affairs You Must Know in 2025

In 2025, the world's oceans have become more than just trade routes—they are frontlines of strategy, security, and innovation. Nations are ramping up naval power to assert dominance, protect maritime borders, and secure global interests. At the heart of this shift lie 10 essential navy current affairs that define this pivotal year. Here’s your comprehensive guide, exclusively for TheVeza readers.

1. Indo-Pacific Command Reinforcement

The Indo-Pacific has emerged as the epicenter of maritime tension and cooperation. With rising tensions in the South China Sea, the U.S., India, Japan, and Australia (QUAD nations) have strengthened joint naval drills and surveillance operations. The expanded role of the Indo-Pacific Command reflects a broader strategy to counterbalance China's assertive naval expansion.

2. India’s Naval Expansion Strategy

India is set to commission INS Vishal, its second indigenous aircraft carrier, by the end of 2025. This move cements India’s strategic vision of a “Blue Water Navy”. In addition, India is expanding its submarine fleet with nuclear-powered attack submarines (SSNs), marking a significant leap in underwater warfare capability.

3. Artificial Intelligence & Autonomous Warships

AI is no longer theoretical in naval warfare. In 2025, countries like the U.S., UK, and China have operationalized AI-driven autonomous vessels for surveillance, mine detection, and reconnaissance. The Royal Navy’s Ghost Fleet and the U.S. Navy’s Unmanned Surface Vehicle (USV) programs are transforming naval tactics globally.

4. Strategic Naval Bases: A Global Chessboard

Naval bases are turning into power projection hubs. China’s base in Djibouti, India’s expansion in Agalega (Mauritius), and the U.S. upgrades in Guam highlight the global competition for maritime strongholds. In 2025, control over these bases is as critical as the fleets themselves.

5. Submarine Arms Race

Silent yet powerful, submarines are central to strategic deterrence. 2025 sees an intensified submarine race: Australia’s AUKUS pact has fast-tracked nuclear-powered submarine acquisition; China is investing in stealthier platforms; and Russia continues modernizing its Arctic-deployed Borei-class submarines.

6. Climate Change and Arctic Naval Strategy

Melting ice is opening new shipping routes and strategic zones in the Arctic. As a result, navies are recalibrating their Arctic policies. The U.S. Navy’s Ice Edge Operations, Russia’s Northern Fleet expansion, and Canada’s Arctic patrol programs are significant developments in 2025’s environmental-military nexus.

7. Cybersecurity in Naval Command

Modern warships and command structures are deeply integrated with digital systems. In 2025, naval cybersecurity has become a strategic priority. There have been reported breaches in unmanned systems and GPS spoofing incidents in contested waters. Naval Cyber Commands in NATO and the U.S. now play a crucial operational role.

8. Green Naval Technologies

With a global push toward sustainability, navies are investing in green tech. Hybrid propulsion systems, emission-controlled ships, and biofuel usage are becoming norms. The Royal Netherlands Navy and Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force are leading the charge with environmentally conscious naval fleets.

9. Increased Women Participation in Naval Forces

Gender diversity in the navy has seen remarkable growth. In 2025, the Indian Navy has inducted its first batch of women sailors in combat roles, while the U.S. and UK continue to advance inclusivity at leadership levels. Representation is not only symbolic but strategic, shaping modern naval culture.

10. Maritime Law Enforcement and Anti-Piracy

Piracy and illegal trafficking remain persistent issues. In 2025, joint patrols in the Gulf of Guinea, Southeast Asia, and Horn of Africa have become more coordinated. The Combined Maritime Forces (CMF) and EU NAVFOR operations demonstrate global commitment to safe seas.

Conclusion: Why These Affairs Matter

Understanding these 10 navy current affairs of 2025 is essential—not just for defense analysts or policy planners—but for anyone concerned with global security, trade stability, and technological evolution. As maritime boundaries blur and new threats emerge, navies are at the frontline of change.

[ruinedlucency]

📍  1992  –  CHILDHOOD

18 JAN  1992  –  Alessandra  Evelyn  Beaumont  is  born  in  Melbourne,  Australia,  to  Charles  ( 45 )  &  Evelyn ( Evie )  Beaumont  ( 39 ).

Mid-to-Late  90s  –  Raised  in  wealth  &  luxury,  she begins to be  exposed  to  the higher  society  through  her  mom's  influence  &  business  acumen.

1999  –  Shortly after her 7th birthday she begins  to  notice  inconsistencies  in  her  dad's  behavior — strange  visitors,  late-night  meetings,  &  secret  conversations.

📍  2004, AGE 12  –  THE  CRACKS  ARE  SHOWING

The Beaumont household  irrupts  in arguments  between  her  parents,  mostly  about  missing  money  &  Charles'  questionable  actions.

Evie,  fully aware  of  her husband’s  growing  corruption,  tries  to  protect  her daughter  from  it,  keeping  her  involved  in  only  the  legitimate  side  of  their  business.

📍  2007, AGE 15  –  WELCOME TO  THE  UNDERWORLD 

Alessa  finds  evidence  of  her  father’s  illegal  smuggling  activities  but  says  nothing,  choosing  to  quietly  observe  rather  than  intervene.

Her  mother  warns  Charles  that  his  greed  will  get  them  all  killed.  Alessa internalizes  her words &  lesson  about  power  &  self-preservation.

📍  2009, AGE 17  –  EVELYN: BETRAYAL & DEATH

21 MAR  2009  –  Charles’  business  catches  up  with  him.  A  shipment  goes  missing,  &  a  rival  smuggling  group — believing  he'd  crossed  them — attacks  their  home.

Evie  is  killed  trying  to  protect  Alessa  during  the  chaos.

Afterward, the Beaumont's flee  the  country.

📍  2010, AGE 18  –  WHAT THE FUCK IS A PORT CITY ?

They make it to  an  unnamed  port  city  known  for  its  corruption  &  criminal  activity.

The struggle  begins when her dad tries  to  rebuild  his  underworld  contacts. It's here that Alessa, finally,  sees  him  for  what  he  is — weak,  desperate,  &  doomed.

She  starts  hustling  on  her  own,  running  errands  for  local  criminals,  using  the  lessons  she  learned  from  observing  her  mother  &  father.

📍  2012, AGE 20  –  CHECKMATE 

Gambling  debts  &  failed  business  ventures  leave  her dad  at  the  mercy  of  the  local  cartel,  who  nearly beat  him  to  death.

In  an effort to protect Charles,  she  trades  some  of  his  old  shipping  routes with the Port City underworld  & cuts  him  out  to save her own ass.

She  officially  begins  working  for  the  cartel,  learning  about  smuggling,  logistics,  &  money  laundering  from  a  more  strategic  position.

📍  2014, AGE 22  –  FROM THE SHADOWS SHE RISES

Alessa  gains  control  over  several small-scale  operations,  using  her  ability  to  read  people  &  build  alliances  to  expand  her  influence.

She  outmaneuvers  many  mid-level  traffickers,  proving  herself  a  more  capable  strategist  than  most  of  her  male  counterparts.

Around  this  time,  she's  introduced  to  Specter,  a  memory-enhanced  hallucinagenic.  Recognizing  its  potential,  she  invests  in  refining  it  into  a  high-end  product.

📍  2016, AGE 24  –  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EMPIRE.

By now she's  launched  her  own  criminal  network,  separating  herself  from  the  men  she  once  worked  under.

She  rebrands  Specter  as  an  exclusive,  luxury  experience,  marketing  it  to  the  wealthy  elite  rather  than  just  the  streets.

Her  operations  expand  beyond  smuggling,  now  incorporating  money  laundering,  security,  &  intelligence  gathering.

📍  2020, AGE 28  –  IT'S ALL ABOUT CONTROL

She continues to  expand  her  influence  into  politics,  forging  alliances  with  corrupt  officials  &  law  enforcement  who  look  the  other  way  in  exchange  for  financial  support.

By  this  point,  she's  one  of  the  most  powerful  criminal  figures  in  the  city,  balancing  power &  the  constant  threat  of  betrayal.

📍  2024, AGE 32  –  IN TODAY'S TERMS 

Alessa  sits  at  the  peak  of  her  empire,  a  self-made  queenpin  who's  outlived  most  of  her  rivals. However,  she  begins  to  question  her  own  legacy & starts to wonder  if  she  can  truly  sustain  her  power  or  if  she’s  fated  to  fall  like  her father.

[mariacallous]

Early last December, opposition fighters led by Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) entered the Syrian capital of Damascus, capping a lightning offensive that had captured significant territory in just over one week. A day later, Syrian dictator and President Bashar al-Assad fled to Moscow by plane. Assad’s ouster unraveled an illicit industry embedded within his regime: the Captagon trade.

Since the late 2010s, Assad’s regime had been involved in the production and trafficking of Captagon, an amphetamine-type stimulant. The drug trade provided Damascus with a crucial financial lifeline during the Syrian civil war, undermining the effects of international sanctions. The regime orchestrated the trade through its security agencies and branches, including the Fourth Armored Division and Air Force Intelligence Directorate, as well as via Assad family members and elite business associates.

With backing from the commercial, security, and political sectors, the Captagon trade flourished. Regime cronies in agriculture, pharmaceuticals, and industry helped manufacture, package, and conceal pills with licit goods, while security agencies facilitated transport and immunity from law enforcement. Meanwhile, ministerial officials maintained a strict counternarcotics narrative, denying the presence of Captagon production in regime-held territories.

By the early 2020s, the Captagon trade had become a $10 billion industry, and the regime used the drug as a political bargaining tool. By flooding conservative markets in the Gulf with Captagon and provoking clashes along Syria’s borders with Jordan, the Assad regime sought to pressure its regional neighbors into normalization talks and sanctions relief.

This tactic was most evident in the spring and summer of 2023, when Captagon became a key agenda item in normalization negotiations between the Assad regime and Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and other regional counterparts. The regime leveraged the threat of flooding its neighbors’ borders with illicit drugs and engaging in kinetic smuggling incidents with border guards to resist demands related to human rights abuses, Syria’s relationship with Iran, and regional relations more broadly.

Though Syria gained reentry into the Arab League, this strategy failed, and Syria’s neighbors largely refrained from intervening on the Assad regime’s behalf as opposition forces dismantled the regime.

Opposition forces and local communities are now beginning to uncover evidence of the regime’s extensive involvement in the Captagon trade. They have searched palaces, villas, prisons, detention facilities, military bases, and even luxury car garages tied to Assad and his cronies, finding enormous caches of Captagon pills and manufacturing equipment.

At the Mezzeh air base—a facility often used by the Assad family, the Republican Guard, and the Air Force Intelligence Directorate—HTS forces discovered and destroyed millions of Captagon pills. In Latakia, residents raided a car-trading company—owned and operated by Munther al-Assad, a prominent member of the Assad family—and found thousands of pills that were soon strewn across streets and sewers. And in Douma, local residents and HTS forces identified one of the largest Captagon production sites: a former potato chip factory affiliated with Assad’s brother, Maher, and the regime-allied businessman Amer Khiti.

On Dec. 8, HTS leader Abu Mohammed al-Jolani delivered a victory speech at the historic Umayyad Mosque, outlining his objectives for governance in Syria. He stated that Syria had become a Captagon “factory” under Assad and would be “purified.” His comments are indicative of HTS’s stance on counternarcotics policy. Before the group expanded its control beyond Idlib, it was already focused on curbing regime-linked drug trafficking, particularly along routes to Turkey and northeast Syria, a popular corridor for trade into Iraq. HTS Captagon seizures in the early 2020s often directly implicated Damascus.

As HTS seeks to attract international support and investment, it may adopt a strategy of expose-and-dispose toward the Captagon trade in the immediate term. This includes revealing and dismantling the Assad regime’s industrial-scale manufacturing centers. However, such a strategy could take months, require immense resources, and risk the political goodwill with local communities that the new government needs.

HTS will also need to demonstrate its long-term commitment to combating Captagon networks. The group might not fully eradicate smaller-scale Captagon laboratories or prevent former regime officials who may receive amnesty from continuing their operations during or after a transitional process.

Syria’s path forward may lie in revitalizing its pharmaceutical sector. Before the war, the country was a regional leader in generic drug production. Reconstruction efforts should focus on restoring Captagon laboratories and storage sites to create jobs for displaced skilled workers and help Syria regain its position as a regional drug supplier. Redirecting the workforce and expertise previously tied to Captagon production toward legitimate pharmaceutical manufacturing must be a central counternarcotics objective for the United States and its partners in Syria.

Such a strategy, however, would partially rely upon sectoral sanctions relief, particularly with respect to sanctions imposed on Syria’s pharmaceutical industry that have prevented acquisition of raw materials for licit drug production. The United States and its partners can play a role in encouraging and potentially providing material support to rebuild Syria’s pharmaceutical infrastructure, production lines, and export economy.

HTS lacks the interest and capacity to address the inevitable balloon effect of the Captagon drug trade—the likely spillover of drug production and trafficking into countries including Iraq, Turkey, Kuwait, and Lebanon. The group is concentrated on managing Syria’s transitional political process, maintaining control over border checkpoints, and getting support from local communities. HTS will likely have the means to target large players in the illicit drugs industry if its leaders choose to, but smaller actors will be able to exploit new gaps in enforcement.

Major geopolitical events often prompt creative and entrepreneurial criminal networks to adapt, seeking alternative trafficking routes, production hubs, and markets. Criminal actors have already established Captagon production and trafficking sites in Lebanon, Iraq, Turkey, Kuwait, and even Europe, positioning them close to consumption markets in the Gulf and beyond.

These actors are also likely to expand trade-based money laundering, which enables traffickers to conceal funds by leveraging legitimate businesses, to new production centers. Emerging Captagon hubs in Lebanon, Iraq, Turkey, and the Gulf could exploit regional trade routes—for example, having agricultural export figures masking both Captagon and its revenue. Free trade zones in the United Arab Emirates or Turkey may further facilitate fund transfers. Without robust international coordination and stricter financial regulations, these networks could adapt and diversify.

Assad’s fall means that Syria is no longer a narcostate, but it does not spell the end of the Captagon trade. Instead, it complicates it. Without production hubs in Syria, Captagon criminal agents are no longer tied down and can now stretch their operations beyond Syria to destinations unknown.

[rabbitcruiser]

International Tiger Day

Help raise awareness and join the fight against threats facing the world’s largest big cat. Tigers are majestic creatures, who may face extinction if not helped.

The tiger is the largest of the world’s big cats and this magnificent creature, with its distinctive orange and black stripes and beautifully marked face, has a day that is dedicated to it.

Learn about International Tiger Day

International Tiger Day has been created so that people around the world can raise awareness for tiger conservation. The aim of the day is to help promote a worldwide system whereby we are dedicated to protecting tigers and their natural habitats.

We can also use this day to support tiger conservation issues and to raise awareness. After all, when more people are aware of something, they are going to be more inclined to help, and that is why this day is so important.

There are a number of different issues that tigers all around the world face. There are a number of treats that are driving tigers close to extinction, and we can do our bit to make sure that we do not lose these incredible creatures. Some of the threats that tigers face include poaching, conflict with humans, and habitat loss.

Poaching and the illegal trade industry is a very worrying one. This is the biggest threat that wild tigers face. Demand for tiger bone, skin, and other body parts is leading to poaching and trafficking. This is having a monumental impact on the sub-populations of tigers, resulting in localized extinctions. We often see tiger skins being used in home decor.

Moreover, bones are used for medicines and tonics. This has seen illegal criminal syndicates get involved in the tiger trade in order to make huge profits. It really is a worrying industry. In fact, it is thought to be worth 10 billion dollars per annum in the United States alone. This is why we need to support charities and work hard to put an end to poaching and the illegal trade of tiger parts.

While this represents the biggest threats to tigers, there are a number of other threats as well. This includes habitat loss. Throughout the world, tiger habitats have reduced because of access routes, human settlements, timber logging, plantations, and agriculture.

In fact, only around seven percent of the historical range of a tiger is still intact today. That is an incredibly small and worrying amount. This can increase the number of conflicts between tigers, as they roman about and try to locate new habitats. Not only this, but genetic diversity can reduce because it can cause there to be inbreeding in small populations.

History of International Tiger Day

This was first celebrated in 2010 and was founded at an international summit that had been called in response to the shocking news that 97% of all wild tigers had disappeared in the last century, with only around 3,000 left alive.

Tigers are on the brink of extinction and International Tiger Day aims to bring attention to this fact and try to halt their decline. Many factors have caused their numbers to fall, including habitat loss, climate change, hunting and poaching and Tiger Day aims to protect and expand their habitats and raise awareness of the need for conservation.

Many international organizations are involved in the day, including the WWF, the IFAW and the Smithsonian Institute.

How to observe International Tiger Day

Wild tiger populations have declined by around 95% since the beginning of the 20th century. There’s now estimated to be around 3,900 wild tigers.

Each tiger has a unique set of stripes – like a fingerprint – and this helps us identify individuals in the wild. Since the beginning of the 20th century, wild tiger populations have declined by around 95%. Sadly, there are more tigers in captivity in the US than are left in the wild. The tiger is officially classed as endangered by the IUCN.

Animal adoptions give a huge boost to the work that the WWF is doing. They not only help fund projects to work with local communities to monitor tiger movements, reduce poaching and help people to realize benefits from living in close proximity to wild tigers – but they also support our other vital work around the world.

So what are you waiting for head over to the WWF adopt a tiger page to help this fantastic organization and their efforts to protect this amazing animal.

Of course, adopting a tiger is not the only way that you can help on this date. There are a number of other things that you can do. You could raise funds for a tiger charity, for example. Moreover, raising awareness is critically important. You can take to social media to make sure that your friends, followers, and family members are aware of the different threats that tigers face.

A lot of people are not aware of these threats, and so spreading the knowledge can help to make sure that we all do our bit to ensure that the tiger’s future is a fruitful one. There will be a lot of videos, infographics, and interesting pieces of content going around that you can share with others.

Source

[lordmartiya]

My take on the story:

As the Bab-el-Mandeb (meaning Gate of Grief, as this trait of sea is notoriously treacherous and many ships sank here) strait is a chokepoint on the very trafficked route between the Atlantic and Indian Oceans through the Suez Canal, keeping it open is a strategic necessity for any power relying on global trade. Once upon a time that was the British Empire (that had control or influence at ALL chokepoints on this route: Gibraltar at the passage between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea, Malta near the Strait of Sicily, full control of the Suez Canal, and then control of Yemen. It happened mostly for other reasons, but once they paid to have the Suez Canal dug...), now it's the US.

When Israel used Hamas' attacks as excuse to invade Gaza and start a genocide, the Houti, one of the parties in the Yemeni Civil War backed by Iran like Hamas and in control of the Yemeni side of Bab-el-Mandeb, started attacking ships coming from or going to Suez, first hitting Israeli-controlled ships and then declaring open season on ships linked to Israel or Israeli-friendly governments and companies. This was done to impose economic and political pressure on the US, Israel's main backer, that cannot afford, economically and politically, to allow anyone but themselves to close any of the four chokepoints. This kind of attacks are also extremely close to piracy, something that by international law would automatically authorize any country to come after them as Enemies of the Human Race (that's the actual legal term. Only pirates and torturers are held as such), to give an idea of the risk they've taken.

The US under the Biden administration reacted the only politically feasible way, by deploying military forces in the open to protect shipping and target the Houti while trying to negotiate a truce between Hamas and Israel (one favorable to Israel, as anything else would be political suicide).

The truce was established, and the Houti stopped their attacks on shipping, showing their political reliability. As the Houti stopped, the US Navy ceased their own attacks as well.

Israel has broken the truce with Hamas, so the Houti THREATENED to resume the attacks, showing restraint while also applying serious pressure... And Trump, like a bully, ordered to attack, breaking the truce at the Bab-el-Mandeb first when the proper action would have been to threaten back (and maybe have a flyover of combat assets as a show of force) while pressuring Israel to stop being assholes.

At the same time the Trump regime is trying to force Iran to abandon its nuclear program, for now with increased economic sanctions with the added threat of war. Trump is also directly responsible for the existence of this program, as the Obama administration had previously established a deal that was keeping Iran from having the need to refine their own uranium or even feeling threatened enough to start desiring nuclear weapons only for Trump to retire the US from said deal.

As an aside note, Trump also played a role in North Korea developing the ability to use nuclear weapons by stringing along and directly insulting Kim Jong-Un (whose rule was objectively less oppressive on his people and more friendly to the outside world than that of his father and grandfather), undermining literal decades of efforts from US presidents of both parties, South Korean administrations, and even Kim himself, to not only prevent exactly this scenario but also to not restart the Korean War. The Biden administration failed in its attempts at reapproachment, as now the North Koreans know the Americans can live up to how they're presented in NK propaganda (and I can't believe what I've just typed).

My conclusion? Someone please throw this idiot in jail head first before the Gate of Grief lives up to its name by starting a war.

Trump has ordered airstrikes against rebels in Yemen. Here's why | AP News

This trick @$$ bastard is gonna' get us all killed...

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose., blood, injury. More warnings to be updated.

Want to be notified when a chapter is updated? Join the Taglist!

‼️if you have read chapter 7 already please go back and make sure you have read the reunion part with Ella/Yeosang! It’s after the flash back scene! Something happened with posting and it got removed‼️

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist

Chapter 9

Breaking Walls

The first cannon shot shattered the morning stillness. Seconds later came the distinctive crack of a ball striking water near the ATEEZ's port side. A warning shot rather than a direct assault, meant to force compliance instead of inflicting damage—yet unmistakably hostile.

Ella stood frozen by her cabin's small porthole, knuckles white against the wooden frame as she strained to glimpse the approaching vessel. Through the limited opening, she could see little more than water and occasional flashes of movement as crew members raced across the deck above. The sounds told a clearer story—Seonghwa's precise commands carrying easily through the wooden bulkheads, followed by the coordinated responses of crew implementing well-rehearsed protocols.

Most unsettling was the transformation in tone that swept through the ship—the comfortable camaraderie of breakfast giving way to professional precision that forcefully reminded her of the ATEEZ's true nature. These men who had shown her consistent kindness were simultaneously the feared Compass Crew, whose efficiency against slave traders had become maritime legend.

A second boom echoed across the water, closer this time though still clearly a warning. The distinctive creak of gun ports opening followed immediately—Mingi's clever mechanisms deploying the concealed weaponry she had examined days earlier. The transition from merchant appearance to combat-ready vessel happened with a speed that spoke of countless previous engagements.

"Southern Trade Company vessel Meridian requests immediate compliance with inspection protocols," a voice bellowed across the water, amplified by speaking trumpet yet barely audible through Ella's closed door. "Heave to and prepare for boarding by authorized personnel."

The Meridian—Blackwell's personal flagship. Not merely a patrol vessel or standard escort, but his primary command ship typically reserved for high-value operations or personal travel. Its presence here, intercepting the ATEEZ in open water rather than protected harbor, suggested deliberate hunting rather than coincidental encounter.

"Curious timing," came Hongjoong's voice from above, pitched to carry across water. "Southern Trade Company suddenly developing interest in merchant vessels beyond established patrol routes."

His tone carried a carefully calibrated blend of casual observation and subtle warning—neither immediate aggression nor submissive compliance. Through years of navigating dangerous social contexts, Ella recognized the tactical approach: creating space for negotiation while simultaneously preparing for combat, revealing nothing of true intention while assessing the opponent's commitment.

"Your vessel matches description of pirate ship responsible for recent attacks against Southern Trade Company property," the Meridian's officer responded, formal terminology barely disguising accusatory intent. "Inspection required under maritime security protocols established by Regional Naval Authority."

The pretense of legitimate authority—using official terminology to disguise private vengeance—revealed Blackwell's typical methodology. Like his approach to slave trading, which disguised human trafficking beneath bureaucratic language of "labor acquisition" and "personnel management," this naval interception employed official-sounding justification for what amounted to personal vendetta.

"Our manifest and flag indicate legitimate commercial operation," Hongjoong countered, maintaining the performance despite obvious preparation for combat. "We carry no contraband requiring inspection. Your authority extends only to vessels demonstrably engaged in illicit activities."

The exchange continued in this manner—formal language disguising hostile intent, each side maintaining pretense of legitimate interaction while preparing for imminent violence. Through her limited vantage point, Ella could see only a fragment of the approaching vessel—naval design modified for commercial operation, its weathered hull suggesting extensive service despite relatively recent commissioning.

Most concerning was the visible naval cannon positioned on its foredeck—official armament that private vessels couldn't legally carry without special dispensation. The Southern Trade Company's influence with corrupt officials had clearly secured military-grade weaponry that exceeded standard merchant protection, creating combat advantage beyond typical pirate engagement.

The muffled sounds of preparation continued throughout the ATEEZ—feet moving with practiced efficiency, weapons being distributed according to established protocol, defensive positions being secured against potential boarding attempt. Unlike chaotic activity that might characterize less disciplined vessels, these movements flowed with coordinated purpose that reflected years of increasingly dangerous operations.

A sharp knock at her cabin door startled Ella from her observations. Before she could respond, the door opened to reveal a crew member she recognized from the galley—one of Wooyoung's assistants, now armed with short sword and grim expression that transformed his usually cheerful demeanor.

"Captain's orders," he stated without preamble. "All non-combat personnel to secure below central hold. Please come immediately."

His tone left no room for argument despite being phrased as a request. The ATEEZ's transition to combat operations had clearly shifted protocols—civilian guests no longer granted the autonomy that peaceful sailing permitted.

"What's happening?" she asked as she followed him into the corridor, where other non-combat crew members moved with purpose toward designated shelter.

"Southern Trade Company vessel initiating hostile engagement," he replied, his usual casual conversation replaced by professional brevity. "Standard protection protocols being implemented while officers assess specific threat level."

The explanation, delivered in language that mimicked official naval communication, revealed how thoroughly combat readiness had transformed the ATEEZ's internal culture. Even the cook's assistant now operated with military precision, personal characteristics temporarily subsumed beneath tactical necessity.

As they reached the central hold—a heavily reinforced compartment located deep within the ship's structure—Ella noted the methodical organization already in progress. Medical supplies had been strategically positioned near the entrance, while defensive armaments were distributed to personnel with secondary combat training. Unlike the chaos she had witnessed during previous naval encounters while in captivity, the ATEEZ operated with precision that suggested extensive preparation for exactly this scenario.

"Please remain here until all-clear signal," the crew member instructed, already turning toward his assigned position. "Doctor Yeosang will coordinate medical response if necessary."

Yeosang's presence registered immediately—her childhood friend positioned near the medical supplies, directing assistants with quiet efficiency while simultaneously preparing emergency treatment area. Their eyes met briefly across the crowded space, his expression revealing nothing to casual observers while communicating volumes to her alone: concern without panic, preparation without fatalism, confidence tempered by realistic assessment.

"Water secure?" he asked a passing crew member, his focus professional despite the chaos surrounding them.

"Six barrels," came the prompt response. "Plus emergency rations per protocol."

The exchange—brief yet revealing—demonstrated the ATEEZ's careful preparation for worst-case scenarios. Unlike vessels that prepared only for victory, Hongjoong's command had clearly established protocols for all potential outcomes, including situations where the secured hold might need to sustain crew for extended period.

Above them, cannon fire erupted with sudden violence—not warning shots but genuine engagement, multiple batteries discharged in coordinated sequence. The distinctive sound of the ATEEZ's guns answered immediately, Mingi's modified weapons systems delivering precise response that shook the entire vessel with their concussive force.

The battle had begun in earnest, pretense of inspection abandoned for naked hostility. Whatever diplomatic exchange Hongjoong had attempted had clearly failed—or perhaps had merely been tactical delay while combat preparations were completed. Either way, the feared Black Ship now engaged in the type of confrontation that had built its fearsome reputation throughout the maritime world.

"Damage assessment teams ready," Yeosang called, his voice carrying authority that transcended his usual reserved demeanor. "Protocols in effect if casualties reported."

Despite never having witnessed him in this context, Ella recognized Yeosang's natural transition to emergency authority—his medical expertise creating leadership role typically absent during normal ship operations. The crew responded to his directives with immediate compliance, revealing established trust that transcended traditional hierarchy.

"First wave, port side midship," someone called from near the communication tube that connected to upper decks. "Minimal structural damage. No casualties reported."

Yeosang nodded acknowledgment, continuing his preparations without visible relief or heightened concern. His clinical focus—assessing information without emotional response—reminded Ella of their shared childhood experience treating injuries within Blackwell's household, where maintaining calm often meant difference between successful intervention and dangerous exposure.

Another series of explosions rocked the ship, closer and more violent than the previous exchange. The distinctive cracking of wooden hull plates followed immediately, suggesting direct hit rather than near miss. Voices called through the communication tubes, reporting damage locations and severity with practiced efficiency that nonetheless carried underlying urgency.

"Starboard gun deck, positions three and four," came the report. "Hull breach contained but mounting platform compromised. Two wounded, non-critical."

Within moments, injured crew members were delivered to the hold, Yeosang directing their treatment with calm precision despite the chaos surrounding them. His movements were economical yet thorough, assessing damage while simultaneously instructing assistants regarding treatment protocol. Once again, Ella found herself struck by the transformation fifteen years had created—the frightened medical apprentice from Blackwell's household now commanding emergency response with absolute authority.

The battle continued above, cannon fire punctuated by smaller weapons discharge suggesting closer engagement. Through the communication tubes came fragmentary reports—boarding attempt repelled, rigging damaged but functional, gun crews maintaining coordinated response despite increasing pressure. Throughout, Yeosang continued directing medical operations while other shelter occupants prepared for potential escalation.

Then came the report that changed everything:

"Explosive round, forward gun deck. Primary mechanism compromised. Master Gunner down, condition unknown."

Mingi.

The simple designation—"Master Gunner"—created immediate shift in the hold's atmosphere. Even those unfamiliar with officer designations recognized the significance, the quiet gunner's critical role in the ATEEZ's defensive capability. Anxious murmurs spread through the compartment, concern evident despite continued professional response.

Yeosang's reaction proved most revealing—momentary stillness that broke his fluid efficiency, expression shifting briefly before professional mask reasserted control. Though he had never indicated particular connection to the taciturn officer during their private conversation, his response suggested deeper relationship than mere crew assignment.

"Prepare primary treatment station," he instructed, voice betraying no emotion despite the obvious significance. "Full trauma protocol, category unknown pending assessment."

The matter-of-fact response, delivered without panic despite the potential severity, demonstrated Yeosang's professional commitment transcending personal concern. Yet Ella, who knew him better than anyone aboard the ATEEZ, recognized the subtle tells that indicated deeper worry—slight tension around his eyes, fractionally altered breathing pattern, minimally increased movement efficiency.

Above them, the battle's intensity appeared to diminish—cannon fire becoming sporadic rather than continuous, orders shifting from defense to damage assessment. Whether the Meridian had been repelled or simply withdrawn to safer distance remained unclear, though the gradual reduction in violent motion suggested immediate threat had passed.

"Secure from general quarters," came the announcement through communication tubes. "Damage control teams to assigned stations. Medical personnel prepare for casualties."

The directive, delivered in Seonghwa's precise tone despite obvious strain, indicated transition from active combat to recovery operations. Throughout the hold, personnel shifted accordingly—some moving toward assigned damage control positions, others preparing to receive potential wounded, the remainder securing equipment that had been displaced during violent engagement.

Yeosang moved immediately toward the hold's exit, medical bag already in hand as he prepared to assess injuries above. As he passed Ella's position, his eyes met hers briefly—silent communication flowing between them without need for words. Unlike others aboard the ATEEZ, he understood exactly what this moment represented for her: first direct exposure to the violence that had defined these men's existence for fifteen years, practical demonstration of the fearsome reputation their childhood protectors had earned.

"Stay here," he directed, the simple instruction carrying multiple meanings beyond immediate safety concern. "Until we've assessed full situation."

Before she could respond, he was gone—professional responsibility carrying him toward whatever injuries the battle had created, personal connection temporarily subordinated to medical necessity. The hold began emptying as crew members returned to regular duties, combat threat apparently neutralized despite ongoing damage control operations.

For several long minutes, Ella remained in the designated shelter, processing the implications of what had just occurred. The ATEEZ—vessel that had seemed increasingly homelike during her days aboard—had transformed within moments from peaceful sailing ship to combat vessel of legendary efficiency. The men who had shown her consistent kindness had simultaneously demonstrated tactical brilliance that had earned their fearsome reputation throughout maritime waters.

Most significantly, somewhere above her position, Mingi had been injured defending the ship from Southern Trade Company attackers—the quiet boy who had once carved tiny wooden animals for comfort now wounded while operating weapons systems he had designed to protect his found family.

The truth hit her like a wave - something deeper than calculation or strategy. For fifteen years, she'd buried the emotional reality beneath layers of survival instinct, but she couldn't deny it anymore: these weren't just potential allies or tactical advantages. They were those five boys from The Crimson Serpent - the same ones who'd tried to protect her, whose failed rescue attempt had shaped all their lives for fifteen years.

Before she even realized what she was doing, Ella was moving toward the hold's exit, pulled by something stronger than caution. The careful composure she'd maintained through fifteen years of captivity, the calculated observation she'd practiced since coming aboard the ATEEZ - all of it cracked under the weight of something more powerful than strategic thinking.

The corridor outside looked surprisingly orderly considering they'd just been in combat. Damage control teams worked efficiently, fixing what they could, while the regular crew got back to their duties wherever possible. Despite damaged woodwork and equipment knocked out of place, the ship felt like it had weathered the fight well rather than taking a beating.

She headed for the medical bay, pulled by worry for Mingi and knowing Yeosang would be there treating the wounded. As she made her way through the passageways, she heard the growing noise before she saw anything - urgent voices and hurried footsteps that told her this wasn't routine medical work but an emergency.

Turning the final corner, she encountered scene that shattered her remaining composure.

Yunho and another crew member struggled to support Mingi's unconscious form, the gunner's powerful body limp between them as they navigated toward the medical bay. Blood soaked his right side, darkening his clothing and dripping onto the corridor's wooden planking despite pressure bandage hastily applied. His face appeared alarmingly pale beneath smudges of gunpowder, eyes closed and features slack in way that suggested severe injury rather than minor wound.

Behind them followed Hongjoong, his captain's coat torn and face streaked with smoke residue, his demeanor controlled despite evident concern.

"How's he holding up?" Hongjoong called forward, his voice tight with worry.

Yunho glanced back, still supporting Mingi's weight. "Bleeding's slowed, but he hasn't stirred. Yeosang needs to see him now."

"Faster," Hongjoong ordered, though they were already moving as quickly as Mingi's condition allowed.

Seonghwa moved alongside, supporting Wooyoung whose expression revealed uncharacteristic gravity—the usual theatrical animation replaced by focused determination.

"This isn't happening," Wooyoung muttered, his voice barely audible. "Not to him. Not to Mingi."

"Save your strength," Seonghwa replied quietly. "Focus on the task at hand."

"I'll focus on whatever I damn well please," Wooyoung snapped, though he kept moving in perfect sync with the others. "He took that blast protecting my station."

Hongjoong's hand landed on Wooyoung's shoulder. "And he'll hear you blame yourself when he wakes up. For now, get him to Yeosang."

The officers' presence spoke volumes - they'd abandoned ship management during critical recovery to accompany their wounded friend. These men weren't just a crew following military hierarchy; they were family. Their concern went far beyond professional duty, revealing the deep bonds between them.

As they approached the medical bay, Yeosang appeared in the doorway. His face, prepared for clinical work, momentarily dropped its mask when he saw Mingi's condition. Only someone who knew him as well as Ella did would catch that split-second of shock before he recovered - but she saw it clearly, and it told her this was worse than he'd expected.

"Get him on the table," Yeosang ordered, his voice steady despite the momentary lapse. "Now."

"How bad?" Hongjoong asked as they maneuvered Mingi through the doorway.

Yeosang's hands were already moving, cutting away blood-soaked fabric. "Bad enough. The shrapnel tore through muscle, possibly nicked an artery." His eyes flicked up to meet Hongjoong's. "I need room to work."

"We'll stay," Wooyoung insisted, his voice breaking slightly.

"You'll get out," Yeosang countered, not unkindly but with unmistakable authority. "All of you except whoever's strongest to help hold him if he wakes. I need space."

Hongjoong nodded. "Yunho stays. The rest of us wait outside." When Wooyoung opened his mouth to protest, Hongjoong cut him off. "That's an order, Wooyoung. Let Yeosang work."

"The main table," Yeosang directed, already moving to clear necessary space. "Keep firm pressure on the wound. Prepare the laudanum and clean cloths for when I examine him."

The measured instructions—delivered with detached efficiency despite obvious personal concern—demonstrated Yeosang's professional focus overriding emotional response. As Yunho and his assistant maneuvered Mingi's unconscious form into the medical bay, the doctor's hands moved with practiced precision, cutting away blood-soaked clothing with shears to expose the wound beneath.

Ella stood frozen in the corridor, watching the five men she'd known as children rally around their wounded friend. Calculation and self-preservation warred within her as they maneuvered Mingi's unconscious form through the medical bay doorway.

Then his head rolled to the side, and she saw his face clearly for the first time since the explosion. Despite the blood and soot, there was no mistaking those features—older now, but still unmistakably the quiet boy who had protected her aboard The Crimson Serpent.

Seonghwa glanced up and spotted her, concern immediately crossing his face. "You shouldn't be here," he said, stepping between her and the treatment area. "Doctor Yeosang needs room to work without distractions."

His words barely registered as she pushed forward, drawn by something stronger than caution or reason. As they placed Mingi on the table, his arm fell limply to the side, his sleeve riding up to reveal his wrist. There, barely visible beneath the blood and grime, was the faded scar of their childhood blood oath—the five-pointed star they'd all cut into their skin the night she was taken.

Something in her face must have alarmed Seonghwa - his normally composed expression gave way to genuine concern.

"Ella," he said more firmly, placing himself in her path, "this isn't the appropriate time for—"

Suddenly Mingi's body jerked on the table, a pain-filled sound escaping his lips though his eyes remained closed. Blood began flowing more freely from his wound, dark red against the pale fabric beneath him.

"He’s dropping," Yeosang called sharply. "I need someone to hold this compress while I prepare—"

The words faded into background noise as Ella watched Mingi's face contort in pain. The quiet boy who never cried out, even when injured aboard The Crimson Serpent. The one who communicated more with gentle touches than words. The one who'd taught her to be strong in silence.

Now in pain. Possibly dying.

"PUPPY!"

The name - that childhood nickname - burst from her throat with fifteen years of bottled emotion behind it. In that single word, y/n broke through Ella's careful disguise. The frightened five-year-old and the calculating twenty-year-old survivor merged into one authentic person.

Complete silence fell over the medical bay, despite the crisis of just moments before. Seonghwa stood motionless, his usually composed face transformed by shock. Behind him, Hongjoong turned slowly from Mingi's bedside, disbelief and dawning hope battling across his features.

Wooyoung gasped audibly, his hands flying to cover his mouth as tears immediately sprang to his eyes. Yunho straightened from his position helping Yeosang, his tall frame seeming to expand with sudden emotion.

Only Yeosang continued working without visible reaction, though his movements carried a new tension. His hands never paused in treating Mingi's wound, prioritizing immediate survival above the emotional revelation happening around him.

"Y/n," Hongjoong whispered, her name carrying fifteen years of searching in its sound. Not a question but a recognition, certainty rather than doubt, completion rather than inquiry.

The acknowledgment—simple name spoken with absolute conviction—broke the momentary paralysis that had gripped the medical bay. Seonghwa moved aside without conscious decision, his quartermaster's authority temporarily forgotten as emotional reality overwhelmed tactical consideration.

Ella—now fully y/n without qualification or disguise—moved directly to Mingi's bedside, ignoring protocol or propriety in wake of emotional imperative too powerful to suppress. She reached for his limp hand, covering it with both of hers as tears flowed freely down her face.

"Don't you dare leave," she whispered fiercely, words directed toward unconscious gunner rather than stunned observers. "Not when I've finally found you again. Not when we've all found each other."

Yeosang continued working with professional focus, though his eyes briefly met hers across Mingi's prone form—acknowledgment flowing between them without need for explanation. He had known her identity since their reunion in this same medical bay, had maintained her secret until she chose to reveal it herself. Now, as that revelation transformed the atmosphere around them, he simply nodded once—approval and support compressed into minimal gesture—before returning to critical treatment.

"Puppy," she repeated softly, using the childhood nickname that had emerged instinctively in moment of crisis. "Stay with us. Please."

Behind her, she heard Wooyoung's quiet sobbing, the theatrical cook's natural emotional expression flowing without restraint. Yunho's breathing had become audibly uneven, the gentle giant's composure fracturing beneath weight of confirmation. Seonghwa remained silent, though his typical precise control had given way to visible emotion despite habitual reserve.

Hongjoong approached slowly, his movements careful yet uncertain—the captain's authority temporarily set aside for simple human vulnerability. When he reached her, his hand hovered briefly above her shoulder before settling with a gentle touch that asked permission rather than demanded it.

"We thought..." his voice roughened with emotion. "We suspected, hoped, but to know for certain..." He shook his head slightly, as if still unable to believe the reality before him. "After fifteen years of searching..."

"Treasure," he whispered finally, the private nickname slipping out after fifteen years of careful silence.

The simple word—confirmation rather than question, recognition rather than inquiry—completed circuit of acknowledgment flowing through the medical bay. Five boys who had protected a little girl aboard The Crimson Serpent had been reunited with her at last, their fifteen-year search fulfilled in moment of crisis rather than calculated revelation.

"I knew it," Wooyoung managed through tears, his voice wavering yet carrying absolute certainty. "I knew! The way you broke the honey cakes, the way you watched everything, the way you moved. I knew it was you."

"We've been searching for so long," Yunho added softly, his gentle voice thick with emotion. "Every port, every auction house, every slave market."

"Fifteen years," Seonghwa confirmed, his typical precision giving way to uncharacteristic emotional openness. "Every decision, every voyage, every mission—all directed toward finding you."

Their collective recognition—five separate confirmations flowing from individual perspective rather than group assumption—created emotional resonance beyond simple identification. This wasn't merely correct person acknowledged, but specific individual recognized by five separate observers who had known her as child and now confirmed her as adult.

"I know," y/n whispered, tears flowing freely down her face as fifteen years of necessary caution gave way to authentic expression. "I've known since Wooyoung and told me about the lost girl. I just needed...time. Certainty."

Her free hand moved unconsciously to touch her collarbone, where the wooden wolf remained secured beneath her clothing—Mingi's tiny carving preserved through fifteen years of captivity, hidden companion during darkest moments. "I needed to be sure it was truly you, not coincidence or manipulation. That Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, and Puppy had actually found me after all this time."

The childhood nicknames—spoken openly rather than whispered in private ritual—created visible impact throughout the room. Wooyoung's tears flowed faster, his typical animation transformed into profound stillness. Yunho's breathing caught audibly, the simple sound revealing deeper emotion than dramatic gesture could convey. Seonghwa's perfect posture faltered momentarily, shoulders dropping from their habitual precision as fifteen years of methodical searching reached unexpected fulfillment.

Most revealing was Hongjoong's reaction—the captain's hand moving unconsciously to the place where Mr. Hugs had traveled for fifteen years, the hidden pocket that had carried her teddy bear through countless dangers and disappointments. In that simple gesture, the feared pirate captain revealed the boy who had promised to find her again, who had carried physical reminder of that promise through fifteen increasingly dangerous years.

Beneath their collective focus, Mingi remained unconscious, though Yeosang's methodical treatment had begun showing results—bleeding controlled, wound cleaned and dressed with professional efficiency despite the emotionally charged atmosphere surrounding him. The doctor moved with careful precision, prioritizing medical necessity above the profound revelation transforming the space around him.

"Fragments from the explosion," he reported, breaking the emotional silence with practical assessment. "The flesh is badly torn, but thank goodness the larger blood vessels weren't severed. If we can keep infection away and prevent fever, he should recover in time."

The straightforward evaluation—delivered without emotional qualification despite the moment's significance—provided necessary grounding amid overwhelming recognition. Yeosang's focus remained on immediate survival rather than profound reunion, his practical priorities transcending even this long-awaited revelation.

"He needs rest and watchful care," he continued, medical authority evident despite his youth compared to other officers. "The immediate danger has passed, but recovery requires quiet surroundings and freedom from disturbance."

The instruction, while necessary, carried unfortunate timing given the emotional significance surrounding them. Yet before disappointment could register, Yeosang added unexpected modification to his directive:

"Familiar voices may help call his spirit back to strength. A few visitors can remain, so long as they don't interfere with the treatment."

The careful wording disguised compassionate exception—medical necessity balanced with human consideration, practical requirement tempered by emotional awareness. In this subtle compromise, Yeosang revealed understanding beyond mere treatment, acknowledging significance that transcended ordinary healing practices.

"He'll hear you," Yeosang added, his tone softening slightly as he addressed y/n directly. "Even in deepest sleep, the soul recognizes those it holds dear."

The assurance, delivered with both medical authority and personal understanding, created unexpected connection between past and present—the boy who had treated her childhood injuries now tending wounded man who had once carved tiny animals for comfort. Three separate paths converging in single location against impossible odds, fifteen years of separate survival culminating in unexpected reunion.

"We should move this conversation elsewhere," Seonghwa suggested, quartermaster's practical consideration reasserting itself despite emotional context. "The ship remains in recovery operations, and Mingi requires appropriate medical environment."

The reminder—delivered with characteristic precision despite uncharacteristic emotion—brought necessary perspective to overwhelming moment. Despite profound significance of their reunion, practical responsibilities remained: a damaged ship requiring attention, a wounded officer needing treatment, a crew depending on leadership despite personal revelation.

"Seonghwa's right," Hongjoong acknowledged, captain's responsibility temporarily displacing personal emotion. "We have duties that cannot wait despite..." he paused, words momentarily failing before concluding simply, "despite everything."

The brief hesitation—unusual for man whose strategic brilliance had created maritime legend—revealed emotional impact beneath professional exterior. For fifteen years, finding y/n had represented defining mission, driving purpose beyond mere survival or profit. Now, with that mission unexpectedly fulfilled during moment of crisis, adjustment required more than simple acknowledgment.

"Go," y/n urged, surprising herself with immediate understanding of their conflicted responsibilities. "The ship needs you. The crew needs you. Mingi needs proper medical attention without audience impeding treatment."

Her quick assessment—prioritizing collective welfare above personal comfort—demonstrated maturity beyond the child they had known aboard The Crimson Serpent. This wasn't merely grown version of five-year-old they remembered, but woman whose fifteen years of captivity had created both strategic thinking and genuine compassion despite systematic attempts to eliminate both.

"We'll need to talk," Hongjoong said, the simple statement containing multitudes beneath its surface. "When ship management allows appropriate space."

"I know," she replied, matching his direct approach with equal honesty. "There's much to discuss. But practical matters come first—they always have."

The acknowledgment—recognizing priority beyond emotional significance—revealed understanding that transcended simple reunion. Unlike potential expectation that childhood connection would immediately supersede all other considerations, y/n demonstrated awareness of broader responsibilities that defined these men's existence beyond their search for her.

"I'll stay with Mingi," she continued, her hand still covering the unconscious gunner's larger one. "If Doctor Yeosang permits."

The formal designation—professional title rather than childhood nickname—acknowledged Yeosang's current role rather than merely their shared past. Unlike potential claim based solely on emotional connection, she recognized hierarchy and expertise that transcended personal history.

"You may stay," Yeosang confirmed, professional demeanor maintained despite momentary softening around his eyes. "So long as you don't hinder the healing work."

"We'll return when ship operations permit," Hongjoong assured her, reluctance evident despite his captain's responsibilities. "Seonghwa will establish security detail to ensure your safety during transition period."

As the officers prepared to leave - ship duties temporarily outweighing personal connections - Wooyoung stood rooted in place, clearly torn between duty and desire to stay. His face contorted in an almost comical struggle as he tried to compose himself, dabbing frantically at his eyes.

"I'm fine," he insisted to no one in particular, his voice cracking as he straightened his uniform with trembling hands. "Completely professional. Just got some... ship dust... in my eyes."

He took three deliberate steps toward the door before spinning back around. "But you'll be here when we get back? You won't disappear? Because I have fifteen years of stories to tell you and at least seven new spice combinations you need to taste and I've been planning a celebration feast in my head for years just in case we ever—"

"Wooyoung," Seonghwa interrupted gently, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Right. Yes. Ship duties. Professional pirating to do." He nodded vigorously, backing toward the door while keeping his eyes fixed on y/n. "But later - celebrations! Music! Fifteen years of missed birthday cakes all at once!"

"The ship is still recovering from battle damage," Seonghwa reminded him, though with more patience than usual.

"Minor details!" Wooyoung waved dismissively, even as he allowed himself to be guided toward the exit. "Nothing stops a reunion feast! I've had recipes set aside for this day since—"

"Wooyoung," Hongjoong's voice held both amusement and authority. "We'll have time for all of that."

"Promise?" The simple question directed at both the captain and y/n contained a vulnerability beneath his theatrical presentation.

Y/n felt unexpected warmth at his childlike eagerness. "I'll be here," she promised, the simple words containing commitment beyond immediate circumstance. "When you return."

The assurance created a momentary pause in their departure. For fifteen years, these men had pursued a phantom possibility without guarantee of success. Now, with confirmation beyond doubt, the transition required adjustment beyond simple recognition.

Hongjoong nodded acknowledgment, emotion visible beneath his captain's authority. Seonghwa's precise movements carried unusual softness despite his continued efficiency. Yunho's gentle features revealed both joy and lingering concern as he glanced toward Mingi's unconscious form. Wooyoung, finally allowing himself to be guided out, kept turning back to look at her, as if afraid she might vanish if he took his eyes off her completely.

As they departed to address ship responsibilities, y/n remained beside Mingi's treatment table, her hand still covering his as Yeosang continued his methodical care.

"Just us now," she whispered to Mingi's unconscious form, words meant for him alone despite Yeosang's nearby presence. "Your little shadow still following after all these years."

The childhood private name Mingi had given her aboard The Crimson Serpent, emerged naturally after fifteen years of whispered remembrance. Unlike calculated disclosure or strategic revelation, this quiet acknowledgment flowed from authentic connection that had survived despite systematic attempts to eliminate all such bonds.

As she maintained gentle contact with the wounded gunner, y/n found unexpected peace settling within her consciousness. After fifteen years of necessary vigilance, of calculated survival through strategic isolation, she had found not merely individual ally but complete connection—five separate threads rejoining single weave against impossible odds.

Beyond the medical bay, the ATEEZ continued repairs after the battle. The ship's fearsome reputation had been built on something few would have guessed - a promise made by five children fifteen years ago. The feared Black Ship and its Compass Crew hadn't started as pirates for profit, but as boys determined to find someone they'd lost.

In the medical bay, y/n sat beside Mingi, her hand still covering his as Yeosang worked. The connection between them had survived fifteen years of separation. Whatever challenges would come from this revelation, they'd face them together - the foundation had been set.

Five boys from The Crimson Serpent had finally found the girl they'd sworn to protect. Their search had ended during a crisis rather than the careful, planned moment any of them might have imagined. And y/n, after fifteen years of hiding and calculating every move, could finally be herself again instead of just surviving.

For fifteen years, they'd all been guided by the same purpose. Now they'd need to figure out what came next.

As Yeosang continued his methodical work, y/n watched Mingi's steady breathing and realized something had changed inside her. After fifteen years of constant watchfulness, she could finally let her guard down, even if just a little. She wasn't alone anymore.

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