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thatfeelinwhenyou · 4 months ago

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SAFE & SOUND — part 6

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 18k

a/n: heavy trigger warning for depiction of gore, blood, killing and death. reader discretion is advised. enjoy! ☺️

MASTERLIST

Dusk.

It settles over the camp, painting the sky in deep purples and burnt oranges. The air is thick with the kind of quiet that only comes before a storm, heavy and expectant.

You and Jungwon sit side by side on the rooftop, gazing out at the horizon, lost in your own thoughts. Your head rests against his shoulder, his warmth grounding you, the occasional brush of your legs against each other a quiet reminder of just how close you are.

Neither of you has spoken for hours, yet the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s comfortable, weighted with everything that doesn’t need to be said. Words feel pointless when the future is a gaping unknown, when death lingers at the edge of every decision you make.

You still don’t know what your feelings for Jungwon truly are. Is it respect? Admiration? Or something deeper—something dangerous—something resembling affection? You don’t want to find out. Not now. Not when either of you could be dead by sunrise. Naming it would only make it real, and you can’t afford that kind of pain.

A shift in the air makes you straighten slightly. The atmosphere thickens, the world around you seeming to still. And then, in the distance, you see it.

The horde.

It moves like a single entity, a writhing, heaving mass of death spilling over the landscape. Even from miles away, the sheer size of it is terrifying, bigger than what you remember from the bus terminal. Bigger than what you had prepared for. A lump forms in your throat.

You feel Jungwon tense beneath you, his muscles coiling like a wire pulled too tight.

“They’re here,” he murmurs.

The words send a ripple of finality through your chest, cold and sharp. No hesitation, no maybe, no they’re coming—they’re already here.

Without another word, the two of you silently pull apart from one another. Your muscles move on instinct, years of survival kicking in, pushing back the rush of dread clawing up your spine. Your fingers twitch at your sides, curling into fists before flexing out again, steadying yourself.

Your feet barely touch the ground as you move, slipping down from your vantage point with Jungwon close behind. “You see ‘em?” Jake appears beside you just as your feet touch the ground.

You nod. “Yeah. And… the horde’s bigger than I remember.”

A sharp exhale. Jake runs a hand through his hair, his usual confidence slipping. “Fuck, man. Is it too late to pack up and leave?”

Jungwon ignores the comment, already shifting into leader mode. He turns to Sunoo. “The masks?”

Sunoo jerks his thumb towards a small crate by the petrol pumps. “Over there. Though we haven’t actually tried them on…” His voice trails off as the weight of what you’re about to do sinks in.

The idea of wearing the dead suddenly feels more real. More horrifying.

Jungwon strides over to the crate, crouching beside it. He lifts the lid, revealing a mess of grotesque masks, stitched together from the rotting flesh of the dead. The smell alone is enough to make your stomach churn.

Even though you knew what to expect, seeing them up close, knowing you’re about to wear them—it sends an involuntary shudder down your spine.

Sunoo hesitates, eyeing the pile of decayed flesh like it might lunge at him. “I don’t think I can do this,” he mutters, swallowing hard.

“You can,” Jungwon says, his voice steady, leaving no room for argument. “We don’t have a choice.”

Jake exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off the dread creeping up his spine. “Well, no point in putting it off,” he mutters before reaching into the crate. He hesitates for only a second before pulling one out, inspecting it under the dimming light. His face twists in disgust. “Jesus Christ.”

“You think A’s people ever got used to this?” Sunghoon mutters, grabbing a mask and flipping it over in his hands.

“No,” Jay answers. “You don’t get used to things like this. You just learn to live with it.”

Just then, a muffled scream cuts through the tense air, sharp and urgent. Your attention snaps to Lieutenant Kim, still bound to the chair beside the convenience store entrance, her body jerking violently as she struggles against the restraints. Her feet slam against the floorboards, the hollow thuds echoing in the heavy silence.

“Shit, I forgot about her,” Ni-ki mutters under his breath, exasperation laced with something closer to unease.

Heeseung strides over without hesitation, yanking the cloth from her mouth in one swift motion. The moment she’s able to breathe freely, she sucks in a sharp breath before her smirk returns, curling at the edges like a predator baring its teeth.

“Hah,” she exhales, eyes flicking straight to you. “That mask… looks like it was made for you.”

Her words slither through the air, taunting. But they don’t hit their mark. Not like she wants them to. Not when you’ve already embraced the horror of what you’re about to do.

Heeseung doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction, moving to shove the cloth straight back in her mouth.

But then she panics.

“Wait!” she blurts out, her voice cracking ever so slightly, the first sign of real fear slipping through the cracks in her bravado. “You can’t just leave me out here with nothing! I’ll die!”

Heeseung pauses, cloth still gripped in his hand, his gaze narrowing as he watches her panic take hold.

The mask of arrogance slips from her face, replaced with something raw. Desperation. The kind that seeps into your bones when you know—truly know—that death is coming for you.

“You knew this was coming,” you say, your voice eerily calm. “You knew we’d figured out A’s plan. That’s why you went after Sunoo. You were buying time, weren’t you? Hoping that if you could keep up the act just a little longer, you’d distract us long enough for them to get here.”

Lieutenant Kim’s eyes snap to yours, her expression flickering with something unreadable.

“You should’ve known what you were getting into the moment you decided to reveal yourself,” you continue, your gaze unwavering. “So why are you acting like the victim?”

Her jaw tightens, and for a split second, she hesitates. It’s barely perceptible, but you see it—the tiny fracture in her composure. The smug confidence she had only moments ago is slipping, cracking at the edges like glass under pressure. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and for the first time since she first revealed herself, she looks afraid.

Then, just as quickly, she scowls, yanking at the ropes again, frustration spilling out in sharp bursts of breath. “I was foolish,” she spits, voice laced with venom. “That was before I realised just how fucking insane you all are.”

Her laugh is bitter, hollow, like something jagged scraping against stone. “You’re actually going through with this? Walking in there like sheep to the slaughter? You don’t know the first thing about walking with the dead.” She shakes her head, eyes flashing with something almost close to disbelief. “The dead don’t think. They don’t hesitate. One slip-up—one wrong breath—and they’ll tear you apart before you can even blink.”

Jungwon steps forward then, his shadow stretching across the floor as he towers over her. “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it—sharp and unyielding. “You wanted to see us dead. Whether it’s by their hands or yours, the outcome is the same, isn’t it?”

Lieutenant Kim’s breath catches. The bravado she clung to so fiercely is slipping from her grasp. “You don’t understand,” she says, her voice lower now, strained. “I know A. You don’t. You think this is just about killing you? He wants you to turn. He wants you to become part of his army.”

You’ve already figured that much on your own.

She swallows hard, her eyes darting between you all. “You think you can play his game, but you’re not like him. You still care. And that’s why you’re going to lose.”

A heavy silence follows.

No one moves. No one breathes.

Jungwon tilts his head slightly, regarding her with cold calculation. Then he kneels, lowering himself to her eye level. “If you’re so sure we’re going to lose,” he murmurs, “why are you afraid?”

Lieutenant Kim flinches, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

“That’s what I thought,” Jungwon says, standing back up. He nods towards Heeseung. “Stuff the cloth back in.”

“No, wait—you need me,” she spits, trying to regain some ground. “You think you can just walk among them without understanding how it really works? You’ll fuck it up, and then what? You’ll be torn apart before you even reach the first one of them. I know how they move. I know how they think. You need me alive!”

It’s a compelling argument. But the fear in her voice betrays her—this isn’t about being needed. This is about survival. The truth is, she’s terrified. Of being left behind. Of facing the things she’s been walking with for so long without the protection of her disguise.

You step forward then, slow and deliberate, your expression unreadable. The flickering light from the campfire casts long shadows across your face, making your eyes seem darker, more hollow. You look down at her, considering.

“You think we’re going to risk our survival for yours?” Your voice is quiet, dangerous. “You spent how long spying on us? Hunting us? Forcing us into this mess? And now you expect us to trust you?”

“I didn’t force you into anything,” she snaps back, but there’s no real bite to her words anymore. “You were always going to lead them back here. That was inevitable.”

A chill runs through you at her words. So they have been watching you, ever since you ran into the group at the auto shop.

No. Not just since the auto shop. Not just since the city. Not even since the forest.

They’ve been watching you ever since you first rolled up to this rest stop, all those months ago. The horde that swarmed the city that night—it wasn’t a coincidence. They released it. Because that was the night the group finally came out of hiding. The night you ran into them. The night they made sure you would meet.

The night they ensured you would lead them back here.

Your breath stills, your mind racing to fit the pieces together. The city—the ambush—it wasn’t just bad luck. It was orchestrated. Every move you made, every choice you thought was your own—it was all guided. Manipulated. They herded you like cattle back to this place. Back home. Only they hadn’t considered you would leave and expose their plans.

It makes your skin crawl.

“You were there, weren’t you?” you ask, your voice lower now, almost to yourself. “That night in the city. You knew I would run into them. You made sure I did.”

Jungwon’s brows furrow, his mouth parting slightly as if to respond, but he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t know. None of them do.

You scan their faces. They’re all wearing the same expression, a mixture of unease and complete bewilderment. They have no idea what you’re talking about.

The realisation makes your pulse spike. You hadn’t even had time to sit them down, to tell them what you suspected, to lay out the signs that had been gnawing at the back of your mind since that night.

Because everything was happening too fast. Your emotions are a mess—your anger, your fear, your desperation all tangling together, clouding your judgment, making you second-guess things you know are true.

There was no time to think, to process, to make sense of the truth before you were already neck-deep in it.

Lieutenant Kim tilts her head, her smirk creeping back like an old habit. “We were always watching. We knew you tried coming back here for supplies.”

The rage comes quick, burning through your veins. You knew something was off that night in the city, you knew it wasn’t just bad luck. But hearing it confirmed, hearing it from her—it makes your fists clench so tight your nails dig into your palms.

“You led me to them,” you grit out, the realisation settling like a stone in your stomach.

“And you led them here.” Her eyes gleam, victorious. “Funny how that works, huh?”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Your mind is screaming at you to do something. To hit her. To shut her up. To make her feel the fear she forced onto all of you. But you don’t. You can’t. Because deep down, she’s right. You did lead them here. Whether you meant to or not, whether it was orchestrated or just fate, it doesn’t matter now. It happened.

And now, you have to deal with it.

Your throat feels tight as you try to swallow the guilt, but it clings to you, digging its claws into your ribs. You force yourself to breathe. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you focus on the ground beneath your feet, the slight chill of the night air, the distant groans of the horde closing in. You don’t have time for this. There’s no room for regret, no space for self-pity. If you stop now, if you let yourself spiral, you’ll fall apart.

And you can’t afford to fall apart. Not now.

Jungwon sighs beside you, the sound heavy, exhausted. When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking at you, his gaze searching, measured. “What do you think?” he asks.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I need to know what you think,” he says, his voice calm, but firm. “Do you think we should keep her alive?”

His words hang between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. He’s asking you something deeper than just a yes or no. He’s asking if you can handle this. If you’re still the person who came back, the person who stood in front of them and said this was the only way. If you’re willing to see it through.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself, and look at the group. At the way they’re waiting, expecting you to take responsibility for your own mess. Your throat feels dry, the weight of the decision hangs in the air like a guillotine, waiting to fall, waiting for you to let it.

Lieutenant Kim watches you, her smirk fading ever so slightly as she realises that Jungwon has placed her fate in your hands. Your psychotic hands.

Jungwon’s eyes are locked on you, unwavering, searching. He’s not testing you, not challenging you. He’s just waiting. Letting you make the call. Because you’re the one who brought this plan to life. You’re the one who gave them hope. And now you have to decide what to do with the person who tried to take that hope away.

You swallow hard, forcing your voice steady. “We keep her alive.”

A few people tense. Sunoo shifts uncomfortably, his fingers still curled around the pistol he took from her. Jake exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. Jungwon doesn’t react, doesn’t move, just waits for you to continue.

“She’s right,” you say, hating the words as they leave your mouth. “She knows how they move, how they think. She knows what they’ll do when they get here. We’d be idiots not to use that.”

Lieutenant Kim raises a brow, the smirk crawling back onto her face, but you cut her off before she can speak.

“But make no mistake,” you say, stepping forward, letting the words press into her like a blade. “The only reason you’re still breathing is because I let you. Don’t mistake that for mercy.”

The smirk falters.

Jungwon watches you, unreadable, before giving a slow nod. “Fine. But she’s not getting any chances to turn this on us. We keep her tied up with Jay on the roof. And if she so much as thinks about playing games—” His voice drops, dark and final. “She’s dead.”

No one argues.

She exhales through her nose, looking between you and Jungwon, something unreadable flashing through her eyes. “Fine,” she says simply. “Have it your way. As long as I come out of it alive.”

Despite the restraints, she looks unnervingly comfortable, like she’s been in worse situations and lived to tell the tale. She’s watching you all carefully, like a cat surrounded by mice, waiting to see who flinches first.

“Well?” Jungwon prompts, arms crossed, standing a few paces away. “You wanted to live. Start talking.”

She exhales through her nose, tilting her head slightly. “I’ll tell you, but don’t think for a second that it means you’ll survive doing it.”

Ni-ki scoffs from where he’s crouched near the crate of masks. “Really selling it to us, thanks.”

She ignores him, shifting slightly in her seat. “Walking with the dead isn’t just about the masks,” she starts. “It’s about becoming them.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She lets the words sink in before continuing. “You can’t just put on rotting skin and expect them to ignore you. They sense things. They’re drawn to movement, sound. They can tell when something isn’t right. The mask covers your scent, sure. But if you twitch too much, breathe too hard, look too alive—they’ll notice.”

“Right,” Jay mutters, voice laced with something between disbelief and dark amusement. “Act like the living, and you’ll be dead. How ironic.”

A shiver crawls up your spine.

Sunghoon crosses his arms. “So what, we just shamble around like zombies?”

“Yes,” she says, with an almost sick kind of amusement. “Slow, steady, unbothered. And most importantly—quiet.”

Sunoo, who’s been unusually silent, finally speaks. “How did you learn to do it?” His eyes flick to her missing arm, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

She hums, tilting her head slightly. “I guess I’m just naturally gifted,” she wiggles her remaining fingers as if to taunt you. “You get it wrong once, you don’t get a second chance.”

The room falls silent for a moment, the weight of that statement settling over everyone.

Jake exhales sharply. “And the people who got it right?”

“They learned that fear is the biggest giveaway,” she continues. “If you panic, if you start breathing too fast, moving too much—they’ll know. You have to be still inside. Empty.” She flicks her gaze to you, then to Jungwon. “That’s why A’s people don’t hesitate to kill. When you strip yourself down to nothing, there’s nothing left to be afraid of.”

Your stomach churns at her words, a deep, unsettling nausea curling in your gut. There’s a casual ease in the way she speaks, like she’s explaining something as simple as tying a shoelace, as if becoming nothing is a switch you can just flip.

And maybe for her, it is. Maybe that’s why she’s so willing to spill every secret, to reveal all the intricacies of how A’s people move and survive. Because, at the end of the day, she doesn’t care about them—not more than she cares about herself.

It makes sense now, the way she smirked when you asked how she got here, how she survived this long. There was no grand loyalty to A, no deep-seated belief in his cause. She simply did what she had to do to not die. And now, she’s doing it again.

Jungwon seems to come to the same conclusion, his gaze narrowing slightly. “So that’s it, then?” His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it, something edged with quiet contempt. “You don’t care who wins, who dies. You’ll sell out anyone as long as you get to keep breathing?”

She doesn’t even flinch. If anything, she looks amused. “Now you’re getting it.”

There’s no shame in her expression. No guilt. Just the bare, stripped-down truth of what she is.

Survival at all costs.

Jungwon’s expression remains unreadable. “So what’s stopping you from walking out of here?”

She smiles, slow and sharp. “Nothing. If you hadn’t tied me up.”

It’s a warning. A challenge. And a reminder that this is not something you can half-ass. If you’re going to do this, you have to commit.

Jungwon glances at you. “You still think this will work?”

You swallow hard, pushing down the unease clawing at your ribs. “We don’t have a choice.”

Lieutenant Kim’s smile widens. “Then I suggest you start practising.”

You, Heeseung, and Sunghoon move in unspoken sync, lifting her from the ground, each of you gripping a limb as you haul her up toward the roof. She’s heavier than she looks, dead weight in your grasp, but she doesn’t resist. Even as you tighten the ropes around her body, securing them to the support pillar, she doesn’t flinch. She only watches, her dark eyes gleaming under the moonlight, the ghost of a smirk still tugging at the corners of her lips.

You steal a glance towards the horizon, your breath catching slightly as your eyes settle on the horde. They are closer now. A wave of bodies stretching far into the darkness, moving in sluggish, restless synchrony. From up here, they look almost surreal—like a living, breathing organism, pulsing forward with one singular purpose: consume.

Your stomach twists. You count the minutes in your head, assessing their pace, the way they stumble but never truly slow down. Thirty minutes. Maybe forty at best. That’s all the time you have before they reach the outer perimeter. Before they begin pressing against the barricades, before the presence of the living draws them forward in a frenzy.

It’s not enough time. It never is.

You force yourself to look away, tearing your gaze from the inevitable and climbing back down.

By the time your feet hit the ground, the fire crackles against the heavy quiet, flickering shadows dancing across the tense faces gathered around it. The warmth barely reaches you. It should—should seep into your bones, chase away the cold curling at your core—but instead, the chill settles deeper in your chest, curling into the spaces between your lungs.

Jungwon is already watching you, his expression unreadable. You don’t know what he’s looking for, what he sees when he looks at you, but after a moment, he nods. “Put them on,” he instructs the group, his voice calm but firm.

Lieutenant Kim’s warning must have sunk deep into him. What she said about never being able to truly walk with the dead unless you learn to become them.

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the mask in the crate, fingers brushing against the decayed flesh. You force yourself to pick it up, ignoring the way your stomach twists at the thought of pressing this thing against your skin.

The texture is sickly, stiff yet disturbingly soft, like leather left out to rot in the rain. The edges are uneven, jagged where it had been hastily cut from whatever corpse it once belonged to.

You swallow down the bile rising in your throat.

A deep breath. In. Out.

You can do this. You have to.

The stench hits next. A foul, overwhelming odour of decay and stagnant blood floods your senses the moment you lift the mask closer to your face. It’s a putrid mix of damp earth, copper, and something sickly sweet—the unmistakable scent of death. It clings to the inside of your nostrils, coating your tongue as if you’ve tasted it rather than smelled it. You breathe through your mouth in an attempt to lessen the nausea, but it doesn’t help. The scent seeps into you, invasive and inescapable.

You hesitate, staring down at it, your grip tightening. You tell yourself that it’s just a mask. Just a means to an end. A tool for survival. But as you turn it over in your hands, inspecting the ragged stitching that barely holds the flesh together, the hollowed-out sockets where real eyes once sat, the weight of what you’re about to do settles deep in your chest.

It’s not just a mask. It was once a person.

A shudder rakes through you, your mind flashing to the possibility��who were they before they became this? Before their face was carved from their skull and turned into a disguise? A survivor? A fighter? Someone clinging to their last shred of humanity?

Would this be your fate too, if you failed? Would your face be the next to be hollowed out and worn by someone desperate enough to do whatever it takes to live?

Your breath shakes as you glance at the others. They’re watching you, waiting for someone to move first. Waiting for you to move first.

This was your idea.

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself. Then, slowly, you lift the mask to your face, your heart hammering against your ribs. The moment it presses against your skin, everything inside you screams. The dampness of rot sinking into your pores, the way the texture clings to your cheek, how the rancid scent floods every sense—it feels suffocating. The edges don’t sit comfortably; they scratch against your jaw, the flaps curling slightly where the flesh has begun to peel. You feel it stretch across the back of your head, tightening against your forehead, your breath now trapped in the confined, hellish space beneath.

The worst part? It moves.

The lingering remnants of decay shift with each breath you take, subtle but unmistakable, as if the dead thing is still breathing with you. The mask absorbs your warmth, dampening further, moulding itself onto you as if it has claimed you as its own.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, your instincts screaming at you to rip it off, get it off, get it off! But you don’t. You can’t. Everyone is watching you. You force yourself to stay still, to endure.

For a moment, you feel sickeningly, terrifyingly not yourself.

But then you remind yourself: This is survival. This is how you live.

The silence around you is suffocating, save for the faint rustle of movement as the others follow suit. No one speaks. You don’t need to look at them to know they’re struggling, too, each reaction ranging from silent horror to barely suppressed gags.

Sunoo dry heaves. “I think I’m actually going to be sick.”

Sunghoon, adjusting his mask, smacks him on the back. “Not in the mask, dude.”

Jake groans. “I swear to god, if I hear one more joke, I’m ripping this thing off and taking my chances.”

Despite everything, a faint smirk tugs at Jungwon’s lips. “Good. If we can joke, we can handle this.”

Your fingers clench into fists at your sides as you watch Jungwon secure his mask. His hands don’t shake, his breath doesn’t falter. Even now, even when you know he’s just as afraid as the rest of you, he refuses to show it. He carries it all in silence, swallowing the fear, locking it away where no one else can see.

Except you.

You can see the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders are rigid with tension. He’s terrified—just like you, just like all of you—but he won’t show it. He won’t let himself. Not when everyone is looking to him for reassurance.

And as much as it hurts to see, it makes you admire him even more.

The moment he fastens the last strap, he turns to you. The sight of him like this—his sharp eyes peering out from behind something so grotesque, something that doesn’t belong to him, doesn’t deserve to be him—it unsettles you in a way you can’t quite name. Not because he looks different, but because he doesn’t. The mask, with its decayed flesh and empty, hollowed-out sockets, should strip him of his identity, should erase the Jungwon you know.

But it doesn’t. Even through the filth, through the horrid disguise, he’s still him. Still Jungwon. Still the boy who pulled you back from the edge when you thought you had nowhere left to turn. Still the boy who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders without ever asking for help. Still the same person standing beside you on the rooftop just hours ago.

And yet, something about this feels wrong. Like you’re looking at a ghost of him, a version of him twisted by the world you’re trying so hard to survive in.

He moves with purpose, with certainty, with that same quiet resolve that makes your chest tighten. Because it’s real now. This is real. There is no pretending, no hypothetical outcome where this isn’t happening. You’re doing this.

The world suddenly feels too small, like it’s closing in on you, squeezing the air from your lungs. You’re painfully, horribly aware of the texture of dead flesh pressing against your forehead, against your cheeks. Your vision is slightly obscured, the edges blurred, distorted. The mask is heavy. It’s claustrophobic.

For a split second, panic swells in your chest.

But then you hear it—Jungwon’s breathing. Slow. Measured. Steady.

You focus on that.

If he can do this, so can you.

You lift your chin, squaring your shoulders, forcing yourself to push past the nausea crawling up your throat, past the revulsion, past the unbearable itch of decay against your skin.

This is survival. This is what it takes.

Jungwon watches you for a beat longer, his sharp gaze scanning your face, searching for something. Maybe he’s making sure you’re not going to bolt, that you’re not second-guessing this at the last second. Maybe he’s trying to commit your face to memory before it’s buried beneath the grotesque mask.

“Alright.” His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it now, like he’s bracing himself for what’s to come. He adjusts his mask once more, as if settling into this new, monstrous identity. As if making peace with the fact that he has to become something unrecognisable to survive.

“It’s time.” The words ring through the silence like a final verdict.

He had given you the chance to walk away—multiple times. Every step of the way, he had left the door open to let you decide if this was a fight you were willing to take on. No pressure, no demands. Just a choice. And yet, here you are.

You chose this. Chose to stay. Chose to fight. Chose to bury whatever fear, whatever hesitation still lingered inside you, and stand with them.

Now, you have to hold your ground and finish what you started.

The air is thick with tension, the dying embers of the campfire flickering weakly in the distance, casting long, warped shadows that stretch long and distorted against the walls—the same walls that will either be left standing or reduced to rubble by the time this is all over. There is no in-between.

Everyone stands ready, motionless, save for the occasional shifting of weight, the tightening of fingers around thin air, the quiet, steadying breaths swallowed into the night.

In the dim light, their silhouettes blend into the darkness, merging with the moment. Because from this point forward, none of you are who you were before.

And then, there’s Jay.

He’s the only one still wearing his own face, the last reminder of what normal used to look like. His jaw is tight as he exhales a slow, controlled breath, eyes moving between each of you. The faintest crease in his brows betrays the frustration, the helplessness. He hates this. You can see it in the way his fists clench at his sides, in the way he looks at Jungwon as if asking to be given a role more substantial than being a distraction.

But there is nothing for him. Not tonight.

You know he understands. Knows why he has to stay behind. But knowing doesn’t make it easier. You’d feel the same if you were in his position—sidelined while the people you care about throw themselves into the unknown.

Still, it’s better this way. Better to have him on the bench than risk him collapsing in the middle of the dead, his wound opening up like a beacon in the dark.

Jungwon steps forward, his voice calm and controlled. “Remember the plan. A small cut is all it takes. Even when they catch on to what we’re doing, don’t engage. They won’t be stupid enough to expose themselves in the middle of the horde either. We move in groups and we don’t leave anyone behind.”

He hands each of you a small pocket knife, pressing the cold steel into your palms. You feel its weight, its deadly potential, and the knowledge of what you have to do settles deeper into your bones. Your fingers curl around the handle instinctively, as if your body already knows what your mind is still trying to accept.

Jungwon scans the group, his expression sharp, calculating. “There are seven of us. Let’s split into two pairs and a group of three—”

You don’t let him finish. You do what you do best.

“No.” The word leaves your lips before you can stop it. “Having three of the us walking together could look too out of place. It’s dangerous. We stick to pairs.”

Jungwon sucks in a breath, his jaw tightening. He knows where this is going. You can see it in the way his eyes twitch, in the way his posture stiffens. Despite that, he pushes. “Then I’ll—”

“No,” you cut him off again, firmer this time. “You already know I’m not going to let you do that.”

Jungwon’s entire body stills, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. His chest rises and falls in measured breaths, but his eyes are locked onto yours, searching, challenging.

“Y/N.”

It’s not just your name. It’s a warning. A command.

But you don’t back down. You can’t.

Because you know exactly what he’s thinking. You know that look. You’ve seen it before—the night before you left—when he’s making a decision he knows he won’t change, when he’s preparing to throw himself into the fire, to take on the worst of it, to shoulder the danger like it’s his duty. And maybe, on some level, he thinks if he’s the one to do it, if he’s the one leading the charge, it’ll keep the rest of you safe.

But you know better.

This isn’t just strategy. It’s not just about what makes sense.

It’s about him. It’s about the way he carries the weight of this group like it’s carved into his bones, the way he never lets himself be the one protected. It’s about the way he expects to be the one who pays the price.

And you refuse to let him.

You refuse to lose him.

The tension coils tighter, suffocating, pressing into the space between you like a force of nature neither of you can control. It coils around your throat, wraps around your ribs, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. Every second wasted here is a second closer to death, and yet, neither you nor Jungwon back down.

The others watch in silence, their gazes shifting between you and Jungwon, their fingers tightening around their weapons. They don’t speak, don’t interfere—because this isn’t their fight. It never is when it comes to the two of you.

Whatever moment you shared before—whatever fragile, unspoken thing that had existed in the quiet safety of the rooftop—it stayed there. Preserved like an ancient relic, untouched, unspoken, waiting for a future where the two of you return to reclaim it—a future that may never come.

Jungwon exhales sharply, jaw tightening as he secures the pocket knife into his belt with clipped movements, frustration simmering beneath his skin. But it’s not just frustration. It’s anger. Not at you—never at you—but at the situation. At the inevitability of it all. At the way you refuse to let him shoulder this weight alone.

“Forget about it. I’m not letting you have this one.”

You watch the way his fingers tremble, the way his breath hitches ever so slightly before he forces it into something steady, something controlled. It’s the same way he always is—poised on the edge of breaking, but never quite letting himself fall.

“Jungwon,” you persist.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at you. As if ignoring you will make you accept his decision. As if you’ll ever just accept it.

“You know I work better alone anyway.” The words come out firmer than you expect, but you don’t take them back. You mean them. You always have. “Hell, having one of you with me probably signs my death penalty.”

The words land between you like a blade, sharp and cutting, splitting open the raw truth neither of you wants to acknowledge.

Jungwon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, but something shifts in his eyes—something unreadable, something you can’t afford to decipher right now.

Silence stretches between you, thick and unrelenting. You know he wants to argue, to push back, to demand that you don’t do this. But you also know that, deep down, he understands.

Because you do work better alone. You move faster. Think sharper. Fight harder when there’s no one to slow you down, no one to hold you back. No one to lose.

And maybe that’s why he hesitates. Because if you’re alone, there’s no one to stop you from making the kind of choices that get people killed.

No one to stop you from getting yourself killed.

His fists clench, his knuckles white, his breathing even, but you can see it—the storm behind his gaze, the way his mind races for an argument he knows won’t change anything. He’s searching for an opening, for something he can say to pull you back from this. But there isn’t one.

“Y/N…” His voice is low, raw, edged with something dangerously close to surrender.

There’s a finality in the way he looks at you now, dark eyes burning beneath the grotesque mask. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like you standing beside him like this, just as willing to throw yourself into the fire as he is.

But he won’t stop you. He can’t.

And you both know it.

Jungwon exhales sharply, the sound heavy with frustration, his jaw tightening as he finally looks away. You hear it—the quiet resignation in the breath he releases, the way his chest falls just slightly.

And you know you’ve won.

"Jake and Ni-ki. Sunghoon and Sunoo. Heeseung with me." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there’s an edge to it—a thread of reluctance he can’t quite hide. His gaze flickers back to you, lingering for just a second longer, before he turns to Heeseung and the latter nods.

“We’ll tie a white cloth around our left arms,” Heeseung says, moving swiftly to pass down strips of lazily torn fabric. “It’ll help us tell each other apart.”

The cloth feels rough as Sunoo helps you tie it around your arm, the knot tightening like a promise. It’s a fragile identifier, but it’s all you have.

Ni-ki moves to put out the fire completely, the last glow of warmth vanishing in a final flicker. Darkness swallows the camp whole, wrapping around you like a living, breathing entity. The absence of light shifts something in the air, thickens it. You blink, trying to adjust, barely able to make out the vague outlines of the masks surrounding you. The decaying disguises blur into the night, turning your friends into fragments of shadow.

The absence of the fire’s crackling also seem to make everything else sharper. The sound of your own breathing. The faint scuff of movement as someone shifts their weight. And beyond the walls, bleeding through the night like a slow, creeping tide—the groans and shuffling of the dead.

They’re closer than before.

You strain your ears, trying to gauge just how near they are, but it’s impossible to tell. Their movements are uneven, unpredictable, a restless shifting mass of bodies dragging themselves forward, step by step, inch by inch. Every groan, every shuffle, every wet, hollow breath is a reminder of what waits for you on the other side of these walls.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. The weight of the mask presses against your skin, suffocating, the scent of decay curling thick in your nose. You can’t afford to slip up. Especially not now. Not when you’re about to step into the midst of the very things that have haunted you since the world fell apart.

“Move into position.” The command ripples through the group in an instant, setting everything in motion.

Ni-ki and Jake move first, guiding Jay towards the rooftop where Lieutenant Kim remains bound, a cloth still stuffed into her mouth. Her presence is almost an afterthought now—just another problem to deal with once this night is over, if any of you make it that far. The only access point to the roof is a narrow chokepoint, and with Jay positioned there, armed and watching, there’s no chance A’s people will be reckless enough to attempt an ambush from above. Not unless they have a death wish.

At the same time, Sunghoon and Sunoo slip into the shadows behind the convenience store, their silhouettes dissolving into the darkness. When the dead breach the camp, they’ll blend in seamlessly from the side, hidden in plain sight.

Jungwon and Heeseung move next, their footsteps light, measured, a careful synchrony of movement as they make their way towards the gate. Even in the heavy silence, they communicate without words, understanding what needs to be done.

Jungwon reaches the barricade first, fingers curling tightly around the reinforced metal. His breath is steady, his shoulders squared, but you can see the tension in his grip, the way his knuckles whiten as he glances at Heeseung. No hesitation, no uncertainty—just the briefest nod before they begin.

The creak of shifting metal fills the air, a slow, deliberate screech that makes you cringe. The sound alone is enough to make your pulse spike, your body stiffening as your ears strain for any sign of movement beyond the walls.

And then—you hear it.

A shift in the groans outside. A change in the rhythm of their movements. A ripple through the dead.

They know. They feel it—the space opening, the presence of the living.

Heeseung glances back at Jungwon, something unspoken passing between them before they push further, widening the gap just enough for them to slip through.

The threshold stands open, a gaping maw in the barricade, an invitation to the horrors waiting just beyond. And now, all that’s left to do is wait for them to step through.

Ni-ki and Jake are waiting inside the convenience store, bodies pressed against the shadows. They won’t move until the horde has fully pushed through, until they can slip between them unnoticed, blending into the chaos like ghosts.

Meanwhile, Jungwon and Heeseung are taking the longer route, slipping outside the barricade to wrap around from the back, disappearing into the darkness beyond the rest stop. You trust them to know what they’re doing. You trust them to know how to move without hesitation, without fear.

And you—you are right here. Right by the gate. Right in the thick of it.

The cold metal of the barricade presses against your palm as you steady yourself. The night is alive with the low, guttural groans of the dead, shuffling closer, their movements slow but deliberate, drawn in by the sound of something living just beyond their reach.

The gate is open just enough. Just enough to let them pour in, one by one. And when they do, you will be right there with them.

Your plan is to let the dead surround you from the moment they step through. A’s people won’t risk being the first ones to enter the rest stop. Not when there’s a chance they’ll be gunned down before they even make it inside. They’ll wait, watching from the darkness, using the dead as their shields.

They’ll release a handful first, let them flood in, let them test the waters. And only when they’re sure it’s safe, only when they believe the dead have done their job, when they hear the panicked screams of the living being torn apart—then they will come.

Only they won’t hear a single thing. No cries of pain. No desperate gunfire. No sound of bodies hitting the dirt. Only silence.

And silence breeds curiosity.

They’ll hesitate, uncertain, waiting for a sign that their plan is working. But by then, the dead will have filled the space within the barricades, their numbers too dense to pick apart who is living and who isn’t.

And in that moment, that single beat of doubt—it will already be too late.

Because you’ll be waiting.

Right in the heart of it.

The night feels colder now, the wind carrying the putrid scent of rot as the dead shuffle forward, drawn to the opening like moths to a flame.

The closer they get, the more overwhelming the sounds that accompany them—the wet, sickening squelch of decomposing flesh dragging against the ground. The suffocated gurgle of air forced through ruined throats, moans stretching into the night in a discordant chorus. The dull clack of exposed teeth clicking together like chattering bones. Feet scrape against the pavement, shuffling, stumbling, pushing forward with no will, no purpose beyond the primal hunger that keeps them tethered to what remains of existence.

It’s no longer a distant warning carried by the wind, no longer something that exists just beyond reach. It’s here, pressing against the boundaries of your world, seeping through the cracks in the barricade, slithering into the spaces between heartbeats.

It’s everywhere.

Echoing. Reverberating. Surrounding you.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, a frantic drumbeat against the overwhelming noise. The sound of your own breath feels deafening but you force it to stay steady.

And then, the barricade shifts.

A creak of metal echoes into the night, the rusted hinges straining as something presses against it from the other side. Your fingers twitch at your side, but you don’t move. You don’t react. You force yourself to stay still.

And then—

Tok. Tok. Tok.

A deliberate, unnatural knock against the metal. You know that sound. It’s not the dead.

It’s one of them.

Another knock. Tok. Tok. Tok.

A’s people are out there, controlling the horde, directing them like sheepdogs herding cattle. They aren’t pushing through blindly—they’re being led, positioned, placed exactly where they need to be.

Another shove. The metal creaks louder this time.

And then, the first one reaches the gate.

A hand presses through the opening, gnarled fingers curling around the rusted metal, nails cracked and blackened, skin peeling away in wet, glistening strips. It clutches, pulling itself forward, its eyes locking onto you, no consciousness behind that milky, clouded gaze.

It groans, and the sound is guttural, rattling from deep within its ruined throat. More hands appear—reaching, grasping, clawing.

Then, the first body pushes through.

It stumbles, jerking unnaturally, the sheer weight of the horde behind it forcing it forward. Its head lolls to the side, neck bent at an impossible angle, skin stretched taut over exposed bone, lips chewed away leaving only the glistening remains of its teeth permanently bared in an endless, frozen snarl. A second follows. A third.

One by one, they seep into your world, like ink spilling into water, like a plague swallowing everything in its path. It stumbles, feet dragging through the dirt, jerking forward with that disturbing, twisted movement.

Another pushes in behind it. Then another.

They’re so close now. Close enough that you can hear the faint creak of joints stiffened by death, the sticky squelch of exposed muscle shifting beneath half-rotted skin.

And then, one of them turns towards you. Your breath catches, freezing in your throat as it lurches forward, its head tilting unnaturally, as though sniffing the air.

It’s testing you.

A lump forms in your throat, and you will yourself to remain still. Don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t breathe too fast. Lieutenant Kim’s words echos in your head, over and over.

Fear is the biggest giveaway.

The thing sways slightly, its milky-white eyes staring right through you, empty yet searching. It leans closer, enough that you can see the way its skin peels away in slow, sickening strips, revealing the raw, festering tissue underneath. Its breath—if it can even be called that—hits your cheek, rancid and thick with the scent of spoiled meat so pungent that you almost gag.

A low groan rattles from its throat, and for a terrifying second, you swear it knows. It knows you don’t belong.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, an instinct to reach for the knife strapped to your belt. But the thing’s head jerks suddenly, its jaw slack, teeth clicking together as if considering something. Then—

It moves past you.

The second it turns away, your lungs burn from the breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. Your pulse is erratic, hammering against your ribs so hard it physically hurts.

You don’t dare move just yet. Not when another is staggering past you, its shoulder bumping yours with enough force to send a sickening squelch of something wet against your sleeve.

The dead move past you, groaning and shuffling, their scent wrapping around you like smoke, their bodies brushing against yours as they push further in, filling the gaps between the pillars, the scattered supplies, the places they had laughed and planned and hoped.

From where you stand, you can’t see them anymore—Jungwon, Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, Ni-ki, or even Jay.

But you can feel them. Their presence lingers, just out of sight but never truly gone.

A’s people must be thinking you’ve been caught off guard, that the horde is nothing more than a terrifying accident, a cruel twist of fate forcing you into a corner.

But they’re wrong.

You’ve come to terms with it—the fear that once gnawed at your ribs has dulled into something quieter, something steadier. This isn’t an accident. This isn’t a mistake. This is what has to be done. And now, standing at the edge of it all, watching the dead spill through the gate like water rushing through a cracked dam, all that’s left is the hope that they’ll make it.

That they’ll survive.

That they’ll no longer have to run.

So you let go of whatever fear is left, whatever hesitation still lingers in the back of your mind. You swallow the bile rising in your throat and keep walking.

Walk like you belong.

Blend in.

Be nothing.

Time has lost all meaning. You keep walking, one sluggish step after another, matching the mindless rhythm of the dead around you. You’re searching, scanning, waiting for movement that doesn’t belong. But you’ve seen no sign of A’s people, no flicker of a shadow that moves with intention.

You wonder if the others have had better luck. But if they had, you’d know. You’d hear it. A scream, a shout—something that would disrupt the sickening harmony of the horde.

Nothing.

A flicker of doubt creeps into your mind. Were they even here? Or had they figured you out before you even had a chance to act? The thought sends a shiver down your spine, despite the heat pressing in from all directions. If they’ve already seen through your plan, if somehow Lieutenant Kim managed to send a message out, if they’re just watching, waiting for you to make the first mistake—

You spot Jay.

He’s crouched low near the edge of the rooftop, barely visible unless you tilt your head just right. His body is still, his presence so well-hidden that you almost miss him entirely. But his hand—his hand is moving. Pointing to somewhere ahead of you.

Your pulse spikes. You follow the angle of his gesture, gaze sharpening, focusing—

Movement. Your muscles lock instinctively as your eyes snap to it. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible against the shifting mass of the horde. A figure standing slightly apart, just enough to not be swallowed by the dead. But it’s not the stillness that gives them away.

It’s the way they shift. Too smoothly. Too deliberately. The dead don’t move like that.

Got you.

Your grip tightens around the pocket knife, the cold metal slick against your clammy palm. You don’t hesitate—hesitation will get you killed. Your movements are careful, calculated, slipping through the sea of bodies like a ghost, closing the distance between you and the figure that doesn’t belong.

Your breath is shallow, controlled, just as Lieutenant Kim told you. No fear. No hesitation.

You are nothing.

The figure stands just ahead, barely distinguishable from the others, their posture slightly too rigid, their movements too alive. They’re trying to blend in, just like you. But you see them.

You get close enough that you could reach out and touch them, close enough that the rancid stench clinging to them mixes with your own.

You strike. The blade slices clean across the back of their arm, just deep enough to draw blood.

And for a moment, nothing happens.

Then—

The reaction is immediate, violent. The scent of fresh blood fills the air, and the change is instantaneous. A guttural, inhuman groan rips through the horde.

Bodies shift, jerk, twist toward the source like puppets yanked by unseen strings. The shuffle of feet turns into frantic, erratic movement. Hands that once hung limply at sides now reach, claw, grasping blindly toward the scent that calls to them like a siren’s song.

A’s man panics, the realisation hitting too late. They jolt, trying to shove past the dead, trying to escape, but it’s useless. The moment they stumble, the horde collapses on them.

Then the screaming starts.

You don’t have time to react before the wave of bodies surges forward, a relentless force slamming into you from all sides.

You stagger, nearly losing your footing as rotting arms push past you, skeletal fingers grazing your skin as they reach for something more tantalising than your presence. The pressure is crushing, bodies pressing in too tight, the heat suffocating. You can’t move. You can’t breathe.

You feel the breath of something too close against your ear. A low, gurgling moan.

Panic claws at your throat.

No, no, no—stay calm.

You are nothing.

You are one of them.

You force yourself to remain rigid, unyielding, keeping your breaths shallow. One wrong move, one slip of fear, and they’ll turn on you next.

The screams beneath the pile of dead become muffled, wet gurgles as teeth sink into flesh, tearing, consuming. The horde writhes and shifts around you, desperate, mindless. A frenzy.

And you—trapped in the middle of it all.

The air is thick with the sickly-sweet scent of blood and decay, the stench clogging your throat, coating the inside of your lungs like something tangible. Your heart is slamming against your ribs.

You need to move. You need to get out before this frenzy becomes uncontrollable.

Through the gaps between writhing bodies, you spot another figure—another one of A’s people. They’re frozen, watching the carnage unfold, horror painted across their face—the kind of terror that only comes when a plan unravels right before your eyes.

You catch their gaze. They see you. They know what you just did.

You don’t hesitate. You push forward, weaving through the dead with slow, careful steps, keeping your movements unnatural, hollow. They see you coming, their panic doubling as they shift subtly, preparing to slip away, to disappear back into the horde before you can reach them.

But then you see it—a flash of a familiar white cloth threading through the chaos.

Sunghoon.

He moves fast, quicker than even you anticipated, stepping through the wall of the undead with a precise, calculated strike. His knife cuts deep into the back of their thigh. A clean, swift motion.

The moment the blade slices through skin, the figure stumbles, a sharp, pained gasp slipping past their lips. Their leg buckles, their balance wavers and they fall right into the pit of waiting hands and gnashing teeth. The scream that follows is a raw, jarring sound of pure terror. It barely lasts a second before it’s drowned beneath the frenzied moans of the dead.

Sunghoon doesn’t linger. He doesn’t even spare them a glance as he withdraws, blending seamlessly back into the tide of bodies.

You watch as the horde reacts, the scent of fresh blood igniting them into another violent frenzy. They collapse onto the fallen figure like starving animals, the wet, sickening sounds of tearing flesh sending a shudder down your spine.

Before you can even register the chaos unfolding before you, the provoked growls of the undead rise in a deafening chorus as a shattering scream erupts from the other side of the rest stop.

Then another cry near the gates.

Another from inside the convenience store.

It’s working.

The plan is working.

It’s brutal. It’s monstrous. But it’s working.

Bodies fall beneath the swarm, the dead closing in, sinking their teeth into warm flesh, tearing, consuming. The air is filled with the sound of it—bones snapping, wet, visceral gurgles as throats are ripped open. And yet, something about this moment doesn’t sit right.

You’ve seen what happens when the dead consume the living. But this—this is different. This is calculated. You’re not fighting back. You’re not defending yourself. You’re orchestrating their deaths.

And the worst part?

You don’t feel anything. Not guilt. Not satisfaction. Just the awareness that this is what needs to be done.

That thought lingers, unsettling in its clarity, but there’s no time to dwell on it. You push forward, scanning through the chaos, searching for the next one when you hear it—

A whisper.

“Am…bush…”

Your breath catches.

It’s quiet, barely audible beneath the grotesque symphony of groans and shuffling feet, but it’s there. A hushed, broken murmur, threading its way through the carnage.

They’re communicating.

“Among… us…”

Your head snaps towards the sound, eyes darting wildly, scanning through the writhing bodies, trying to pinpoint where it came from.

But then—it spreads. Like a disease.

One whisper becomes two, then four, then too many. The words ripple through the horde, eerie and fragmented, carried on gasping, inhuman voices. The whispers spread like wildfire, bouncing between the scattered remnants of A’s people still hidden among the horde.

“Am…bush…”

“Among… us…”

Your eyes dart frantically across the shifting mass of bodies, searching for the ones still thinking. The ones who don’t stumble blindly, the ones whose steps are too careful, too measured. The ones who haven’t bled yet.

Then you see it.

One of them, face half-shrouded by the grotesque mask. Their gaze snaps to another figure just a few paces ahead in a silent exchange. They know.

A cold spike of adrenaline rushes through your veins. Your grip tightens around the knife, sweat slicking your palm despite the freezing night air. You move, carefully at first, weaving through the dead, keeping your movements slow and disjointed—just unnatural enough to blend.

The figure in front of you turns their head ever so slightly, as if listening, as if searching for—

You strike.

The blade slices clean across the wrist—deep, precise. Blood wells instantly, dark against the pale, rotting hues around you. The effect is instantaneous.

The closest zombie snaps to attention, its sunken, hollow eyes igniting with something primal. The moment the scent hits, the dead lurch forward.

The scream barely leaves their throat before they’re swallowed whole.

You don’t watch. You don’t think.

You move.

Another step. Another body.

Another quick slash. Another spill of blood. Another scream.

And the dead descend.

The horde surges, bodies slamming against yours in a frenzy, the desperate hunger of the undead overpowering even the whispers of fear.

But it’s not enough. There are still more of them. Still too many. And you don’t even know if A himself is among them.

Your heart is a relentless drum against your ribs, your breaths shallow, measured. You’re not spiralling. Not yet. But the whispers—they don’t stop.

“Am…bush...”

“Among… us...”

You push forward, eyes darting wildly through the shifting mass of bodies. There—another one. You recognise the panic before you even see their face. It’s in the stiffness of their shoulders, the way their breathing picks up just slightly, the instinct to run beginning to override the act.

They know they’ve been made. And unfortunately for them, you’re not the only one who notices the flicker of panic, the unconscious twitch of muscles, the quickening breaths beneath the mask.

Fear is a beacon—and the dead are always drawn to it.

Before they even get the chance to react, the zombie beside them lunges. Teeth sink into their neck with a sickening, wet crunch.

A strangled cry tears from their throat, raw and desperate, but it’s swallowed by the chaos, lost beneath the endless groans of the horde. Their hands claw uselessly at the decayed body latched onto them, but it’s too late—the damage is done, blood spilling down their collar, staining the air with the scent of fresh death.

They struggle. They always struggle. But there’s no winning against something that never stops coming.

You watch as their body jerks, collapsing beneath the weight of the undead, their form vanishing into the sea of rot and decay. And you can’t help but wonder—

Is A panicking too? Is he feeling that same instinctive terror, that slow-dawning horror of watching his own weapon be turned against him?

Maybe then it would save you the trouble of hunting him down.

Or maybe—

“Y/N! To your left, Jake is cornered!” Jay’s voice cuts through the groans.

The dead react instantly to his voice—clear, human, alive—pulling them in like a magnet. Their heads snap toward the direction of the noise, their bodies shifting, pressing forward, pushing closer to the convenience store.

Jake.

Where’s Jake?

Your breath catches as your head whips to the left, eyes darting wildly, scanning—

Bodies, so many bodies, all shifting, writhing, moving as one. Where is he?

Then you see him.

Jake is backed against the rusting frame of the barricade. He’s slowly retreating as two of A’s men close in on him. And not just A’s men—

The mask covers his face, but his body language betrays him—chest rising too fast, shoulders tensed, muscles coiled like a spring about to snap. He’s panicking.

And the dead is starting to pick up on it. Closing in, drawn to that silver of uncertainty, to the quickened breath that doesn’t belong.

A’s men sees it. They’re not trying to attack him, they’re taunting him, taunting the fact he’s about to die due to his inability to kill.

You move before you can think, pushing forward through the crush of bodies, the sickly heat of decay pressing against your skin. The world narrows to the space between you and Jake, to the suffocating mass of the undead, to the time—the seconds slipping through your fingers, too fast, not enough.

You reach the closest zombie, discreetly plunging your knife into it’s temple. You stumble forward towards A’s men, as if on purpose and push one of them into the horde. The yelp that escapes their lips signed their death warrant.

Then the shift. Like a ripple through water, the dead turn, their attention snapping to the unnatural sound. The bodies heading for Jake now twisting towards the new prey.

Jake stumbles forward, breath ragged, shock still clouding his face. He turns to you, eyes wide, as if still catching up to what just happened.

No time.

You grab his arm, dragging him away, forcing him to move, to blend. He’s shaking, his body still locked in fight-or-flight, but he follows.

The two of you push towards the rooftop access, barely making it through the press of bodies. Above you, Jay is already watching, crouched low near the edge. He gestures frantically, silently urging you up.

You climb. The second your feet touch the rooftop, the breath you didn’t realise you were holding escapes in a sharp exhale.

Jake’s still shaking as he rips the mask off his head.

“Are you okay?” you pant, turning to him, but he doesn’t answer. He’s staring at nothing, breath still ragged, hands trembling at his sides.

Jay grips his shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Jake. Where’s Ni-ki?”

“Ni…ki?” The realisation flickers in his eyes.

The world tilts. Your breath catches, eyes snapping to Jake, but he’s already unravelling. His fingers dig into his hair, his chest rising and falling too fast, the weight of the realisation crashing down on him in real-time.

Jay’s fingers tighten. “Jake, where is he?”

“I—I don’t know.” His voice breaks on the last word. “It was so chaotic—I must’ve lost him in the horde. Fuck. Fuck. No. What if he’s—” His breath stutters. His knees buckle slightly. “Fuck. God. No.”

He’s spiralling. You feel it too—that cold, sinking dread curling in your stomach.

Jay grips his shoulders tighter, his own panic bleeding through. “Jake, focus. Where did you last see him?” His voice is sharp, urgent, but Jake is barely hearing him. He shakes his head violently, trying to claw through the fog of shock clouding his mind.

“I—I don’t know!” The words rip from him like something physically painful. “He was right there, I swear he was right there! Then everything—everything just—” He chokes on his own breath, stumbling back a step. “I lost him. I fucking lost him.”

You don’t realise you’re moving until you’re gripping Jake’s arm, hard enough to bruise. “Where, Jake?” Your own voice is taut, barely controlled. You can’t afford to lose control. Not now. Not when Ni-ki is still down there.

Jake’s breathing is erratic, but his gaze flicks to yours, locking onto it, grounding himself just enough. He swallows thickly, blinking hard as he retraces his steps. “He—he was with me when we got separated near the barricade. We were heading toward the convenience store, but then—then the horde—” His voice cracks, and he squeezes his eyes shut as if trying to will himself back to that moment, to see through the panic.

Without a second to spare, you turn on your heel, ready to plunge back into the chaos.

“You’re going back down there?” Jay steps in front of you, his hand flying to your arm, fingers tightening around your sleeve. His grip isn’t harsh, but there’s urgency in it, in the way his breath stutters, in the disbelief written across his face.

“I’m going to find Ni-ki.”

You attempt to push past him, but he doesn’t budge—not without a wince, his hand flying to his side, pain flickering across his features. He’s still injured, but he doesn’t let that stop him.

Jay’s jaw clenches, already scanning the mass of undead below, searching for any movement that doesn’t belong. “He’s smart,” he says, but the conviction in his tone wavers just slightly. “Ni-ki’s smart, he knows how to blend in. He knows.”

You want to believe that. You need to believe that.

But the horde is still moving, still feeding, still shifting, a sea of rotting bodies and gnashing teeth. It’s impossible to tell where they begin and where they end. The noise, the suffocating stench of decay, the endless press of bodies—it’s too much, too chaotic.

And Ni-ki is down there. Alone.

Your pulse thrums in your ears, the sheer wrongness of standing here—safe—while he’s down there, somewhere in that hell, clawing its way through your body like poison. Every second that passes feels like a mistake, like a betrayal, like you are choosing safety over him.

Your eyes meet Jay’s, your voice low, steady, unwavering. “There’s nothing you can say or do that will keep me here. Let me go.”

"Y/N," he snaps, his voice lower now, harsher. "Think for a second. If you go down there without knowing where he is, you’re not saving him—you’re just adding another body to the horde."

His words cut through the panic rattling in your chest, but they don't stop you. They can’t. Because every second that passes is another second Ni-ki is alone, lost in the sea of the dead, and you cannot—will not—stand here and wait.

"He could be anywhere,” Jay presses, his own panic fraying at the edges. “Do you even have a plan? Are you just going to charge in and hope for the best? Hope that the dead don’t pick up on the fear pouring off of you right now?”

You glare at him, your breath ragged, fists clenched at your sides. "If I don’t go, he dies."

Jay exhales sharply, his jaw locking. He turns to Jake, who has barely moved, still frozen with guilt, still staring at the ground like if he looks hard enough, the earth might just swallow him whole.

"Jake," Jay grits out, snapping him back to the moment. “Come on, say something."

Jake’s head lifts, his face pale and sweat-slicked. He looks at you, then back at Jay, then at the chaos below.

"I—" He swallows hard, his voice shaking. "She’s right."

Jay’s expression twists.

Jake lets out a breath, unsteady. "If she doesn't go, and Ni-ki—if Ni-ki doesn’t make it—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "Then what the fuck are we even doing here?"

Jay curses again, his hands dragging down his face before he lets them fall limply to his sides. He looks back at you, his frustration bleeding into something else—something that almost looks like resignation.

You don’t wait for his approval.

Your feet hit the ladder, the rungs cold against your hands as you descend. The stench of rot thickens, the groans of the dead stretching into the night like an eerie melody. Your heartbeat is steady, your muscles locked tight with focus.

You slip back into the horde.

And you become nothing.

The dead press against you, their heat suffocating, their slow, dragging movements brushing against your limbs. You move like them, let yourself become one of them, let your breath still in your lungs.

Ni-ki. Where is Ni-ki?

Your heart hammers as you push forward, eyes darting through the mass of rotting flesh and hollow faces. If you were him, where would you go? The convenience store? The back entrance? Had he managed to climb up somewhere, out of reach?

A flicker of movement catches your eye, but before you can react, a hand shoots out from the darkness, latching onto your wrist with an iron grip.

Panic surges through you as you're yanked sideways, dragged into the shadowed entryway of the convenience store. The noise of the horde muffles around you as you’re pulled inside, the door swinging shut with a soft but final thud—swallowing you into sudden silence.

Your knife is already in your hand as you twist, heart hammering, ready to drive it into whoever grabbed you—

“It’s me.”

Jungwon.

You barely have time to register his presence before another figure steps forward—Heeseung. His eyes are sharp, scanning you for injuries, for any sign that you’ve been compromised. The tension in his posture doesn’t ease when he sees you’re unharmed

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Jungwon hisses, his grip still tight around your wrist. His voice is low, controlled, but the anger—the sheer panic—lurks just beneath the surface. His fingers are cold against your skin, but his hold is firm, unrelenting. There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your stomach twist—a mixture of frustration, disbelief, and something else, something deeper.

“Everyone and their mothers could see you climb down from the roof,” he continues, his voice sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence of the store. “It’s like you want them to find you.”

The words sting. Because he’s right. You were careless.

His breathing is measured, but you can tell he’s barely holding himself together, barely keeping himself from shaking you for being so reckless. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can see the tension in it, the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

But you don’t have time for this. You don’t have time to let his concern sink in, don’t have time to unpack the way his voice wavers at the edges, the way his fingers twitch against your wrist like he’s afraid to let go.

You don’t attempt to calm him down. You don’t explain yourself. You shove his grip off and cut straight to the point.

“Ni-ki is alone somewhere in the horde. I need to find him.”

The shift is instant.

Heeseung’s face darkens as he exhales sharply. “And Jake?”

“He’s on the roof,” you say, voice tight. “Scared shitless out of his mind.”

Heeseung curses under his breath, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. His usual easy confidence is nowhere to be found—he knows what this means. What it could mean.

Jungwon is silent, but his eyes remain locked on yours, unreadable. His breathing is heavier now, barely noticeable unless you’re close enough to feel it in the air between you.

Still, his voice is clearer than everything else when he says, “You should’ve been more careful. What if one of A’s people were waiting for you below the ladder?”

You glare at him. “I didn’t have a choice.” Your voice is sharp, frustration laced into every syllable. “I’m not going to sit up there while he’s trapped in all that.” You gesture wildly to the boarded-up windows, beyond which the dead are still groaning, still hunting.

Jungwon exhales sharply, rubbing his face, trying to suppress whatever storm of emotions is raging inside him. “You never think,” he mutters. But there’s no real anger in it. Not really.

You swallow against the lump rising in your throat. “Where was he last?” Heeseung asks, stepping forward, all business.

“Near the barricade,” you say quickly. “Jake was with him, but then things got chaotic, and he—” You falter, pressing your lips together. “He could be anywhere by now.”

Jungwon exchanges a glance with Heeseung.

“Alright,” Jungwon exhales, nodding. “We’ll find him.”

You nod quickly, your grip tightening on the knife at your belt, already bracing yourself to head back out.

But then—

“And by we, I mean Heeseung and I.” Jungwon’s tone is firm as he meets your gaze.

Your eyebrows draw together. “What?”

“You’re not in control right now,” he states simply. “I need you to stay here until we get back.”

“No.” You shake your head, already stepping forward. “That’s not happening. I’m going out there.”

“Y/N.” Jungwon’s voice stops you cold.

He’s looking at you now—really looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that roots you to the spot.

“Please,” he says. It’s barely above a whisper. Not an order. Not a command.

A plea.

It nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You open your mouth to argue—to fight—but you can’t. Because suddenly, it’s hitting you why he’s saying this.

He knows. He knows that if you go back out there, you’ll do something reckless. You’ll throw yourself headfirst into the chaos. You’ll act without thinking. You’ll do whatever it takes, no matter the cost.

Your hands tremble slightly as you tighten your grip on the knife. You hate this. You hate feeling useless. But as much as you want to deny it, you know he’s right. You’re not thinking straight. You’re acting on impulse.

Jungwon must see the conflict in your expression because his fingers brush your wrist—gentle, grounding.

“Let us do this,” he murmurs.

You force yourself to nod.

It nearly kills you.

You hold your breath as Jungwon and Heeseung slip through the entrance of the convenience store, vanishing back into the seething mass of bodies outside. Your fingers twitch uselessly at your sides, every fibre of your being screaming to do something. But all you can do is watch as they move deeper into the horde, their forms blurring, dissolving into the restless sea of death.

And then—just like that—they’re gone.

You stay put, just as Jungwon instructed, though the restraint feels like a noose tightening around your ribs. Every so often, a scream pierces through the night, sharp and sudden, cutting through the air like a blade. A shout follows somewhere deeper in the horde, indistinct but undeniably human. Your stomach churns. What’s taking them so long?

The longer you stand here, trapped in your own silence, the harder it is to keep your mind from spiralling.

What if Ni-ki is injured? What if Jungwon or Heeseung gets caught up trying to keep each other safe—trying to keep everyone safe—and gets bitten? What if something happens to them, and Jake never recovers from the trauma, the guilt? Where even are Sunghoon and Sunoo?

What if all of this—every risk, every desperate move—was for nothing?

Your pulse thrums violently against your skin as your eyes sweep the horde once more, searching, searching—until they land on something familiar.

A strip of white cloth.

It’s tied around the steering wheel of the van, barely visible beneath the layers of grime and blood staining the windshield. The van sits in the middle of the petrol station, wedged between the pumps, surrounded by the dead.

Your breath catches. A flicker of movement.

Then, through the dust-streaked glass, a pair of eyes rise just above the dashboard.

Ni-ki.

You don’t think. There isn’t time to think.

Before you even register what you’re doing, you’re already moving, pushing through the door and stepping back into the horde. The stench hits you like a brick wall, thick and suffocating, but you ignore it. You keep moving, head ducked low, steps slow and unnatural as you weave through the crush of bodies.

It’s congested here—too congested. Every inch of space is occupied by the dead, the air thick with the sound of gurgling breaths and the grotesque squelch of decayed limbs shifting against one another. You can barely squeeze through without making contact, without brushing against clammy, rotting flesh.

With painstaking effort, you reach the van, every step an exercise in restraint, every movement deliberate and calculated. Your breath is shallow as you discreetly tap your knuckles against the metal frame, the sound barely audible over the discordant moans of the horde. After awhile, a pair of eyes flick up over the window.

Relief surges through you like a tide as recognition dawns in his gaze, the tension in his expression softening ever so slightly. You hear the faint click of the door unlocking, followed by the hesitant creak of rusted metal as he pushes it slightly ajar—just enough for you to slip through if needed.

But movement catches your eye. A zombie shifts, turning its head toward the noise. Your muscles seize, heart hammering against your ribs as you brace for it to lurch towards you.

It doesn’t. The corpse stares for a moment, milky eyes sweeping over you—before turning its attention elsewhere, back to the lifeless rhythm of its existence.

You exhale shakily and push forward, peeking through the gap in the door. The van reeks of stale sweat and rust, the interior cloaked in darkness save for the weak glow of the moonlight filtering through the grime-smeared glass.

Ni-ki sits hunched against the driver’s seat, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. Your eyes scan him, searching, cataloguing every detail for anything out of place.

And then he moves—shifting slightly as he gestures downward. Your gaze follows and the dim light catches the swollen outline of his ankle.

He’s injured.

"Can you walk?" The words slip past your lips, barely above a whisper, the sound almost lost in the cacophony of groans surrounding you. The sweat rolling down the back of your neck feels almost like an invitation—an open door for something to bite you, to tear into your flesh if you so much as make one wrong move.

Ni-ki doesn’t answer immediately and you see the contemplation flicker in his eyes. He’s calculating—debating if it’s worth it. If risking your life to get him out of here is a choice he can live with.

But there’s no need. You’ve already made up your mind. You’re getting him out of here, whether he agrees to it or not.

His jaw tightens before he finally speaks, his voice barely audible over the noise outside. “It hurts if I put pressure on it. I’m afraid I might make a sound that’ll give both of us away.”

Your eyes flick to his injured ankle, noticing the way it's slightly swollen, the bruising starting to form beneath the fabric of his trousers. But that’s not your biggest concern.

“Are you bleeding?” You keep your voice steady, but the weight of the question presses hard against your ribs. If he is—if there’s even a drop of fresh blood—then the moment he steps outside, the horde will catch the scent. And you won’t stand a chance.

He swallows thickly, lifting his hand and tugging at the fabric of his jeans just enough to expose the injury. You strain your eyes in the dim light, scanning for any sign of an open wound. Your breath catches when you see nothing but bruising. No cuts. No breaks in the skin.

You nod, already forming a plan in your mind, already pushing aside the worst-case scenarios clawing at the back of your thoughts. "You can lean on me," you murmur. "We’ll limp towards the ladder and get you to the rooftop. You think you can do that?"

A beat of silence.

Then—he nods.

Your hands tremble slightly as you shift, angling your body just enough to shield Ni-ki from immediate view. The dead are close—too close—but if you do this right, they’ll remain oblivious, unaware that their next meal is slipping right through them.

Ni-ki grits his teeth, his face contorted in silent pain as he struggles to ease himself out of the van. His body tenses when his injured ankle makes contact with the ground, the jolt of agony flashing through him so intense that his breath hitches. You feel it in the way he stiffens, the sharp inhale he quickly muffles, as if sheer willpower alone can keep him from making a sound. The moment hangs precariously between failure and survival, teetering on the edge of catastrophe.

Without thinking, you move—instincts overriding hesitation. You duck beneath his arm, your shoulder pressing firmly against his side as you slip an arm around his waist. He’s heavier than you expected, his weight pressing into you, but you adjust quickly, steadying him against you. He leans into your hold, muscles tense, breaths shallow. You can feel the warmth of him through the layers of grime and sweat-soaked fabric, the stark contrast to the cold, lifeless bodies that surround you.

The dead continue their slow, aimless shuffling, bodies pressing together in a writhing sea of decay, yet they don’t react to you—not yet. You mimic their movements, forcing yourself to stagger in disjointed steps, your limbs slack, your breaths shallow. Ni-ki follows suit, matching your pace as you move in eerie synchronisation with the horde. Every step is agonisingly slow, every second stretching into an eternity.

A noise breaks through the suffocating tension—a sudden clang, sharp and jarring against the restless murmurs of the undead. Your head snaps up instinctively, heart lurching in your chest. Across the rest stop, movement flashes in the corner of your vision—shadows shifting along the rooftop.

Jay and Jake.

They’ve caught on.

The realisation sends a fresh wave of relief through you, but you don’t have time to dwell on it. They’re making noise—deliberate, strategic—drawing attention away from your position. The dead react instantly, their heads snapping toward the source, bodies lurching forward in slow, uncoordinated steps. The groans rise in volume, filling the air as they shift, their hunger reeling them in like a magnet.

A gap opens in the horde—small, fleeting, but just enough.

Your grip on Ni-ki tightens.

This is your chance.

You exhale slowly, steadying both your nerves and your footing before dragging him forward, each staggered step calculated, each movement a fine line between blending in and being discovered. The dead remain oblivious for now, too distracted by the rooftop noise to notice the two living bodies slipping through their midst.

But the living—the living is different.

You feel it—the weight of a gaze cutting through the thick rot-stained air, sharp and knowing. Unlike the vacant, mindless stares of the dead, this one lingers. It searches. It sees.

Your breath hitches, fingers tightening around Ni-ki as you force yourself to keep moving, keep staggering, keep pretending. But the prickle at the back of your neck won’t go away.

Someone is watching you. You don’t know how long, if they saw you help Ni-ki out of the van, if they recognise the way your movements are just slightly too deliberate, too measured.

But if one of them has caught on, how long until the others do? How long until they abandon their own disguises and make their move? How long before this entire plan unravels into chaos?

The rooftop feels impossibly far away now. Every step feels heavier, every moment stretching unbearably thin. Jay and Jake are still making noise, still doing everything they can to keep the attention of the horde. But that won’t help if the real threat isn’t the dead.

The real threat is the living.

The moment it happens, you feel it before you see it. A shift in the air—subtle yet unmistakable, like the quiet before a storm. An unspoken warning prickles along your spine, a whisper of danger slithering beneath your skin. Your stomach lurches, a hollow pit of dread unfurling as your senses sharpen, heightening to a razor’s edge.

Someone is charging straight for you.

Your breath stutters, heart pounding in frantic warning, but you barely have time to react before—

BANG!

The gunshot tears through the night, sharp and deafening. A body crumples before it reaches you, a lifeless heap of tangled limbs and fabric collapsing in on itself. The scent of gunpowder lingers in the air, mixing with the sickly metallic tang of fresh blood. A second later, the dead react.

A grotesque chorus of guttural moans rises like a wave, carried on the wind, deep and insatiable. The horde shifts in unison, their rotting bodies lurching toward the fresh kill with single-minded hunger.

Your head jerks up, breath snagging in your throat as your gaze snaps to the rooftop. Jay stands steady, rifle still raised, the tension rolling off him in waves despite his unwavering stance. His aim had been precise, unerring. He saved you again.

But there’s no time to process the relief. The reality of your situation presses down on you like a crushing weight. The distraction Jake had been orchestrating across the compound is rendered useless as every pair of eyes—dead and alive—now fixates on the spot where the gunshot rang out. The frenzy has begun.

You tighten your grip on Ni-ki’s wrist and push forward, muscles burning, heart hammering as you force your way through the thick, unyielding press of decayed bodies. The air is thick, stifling, choked with the rancid stench of rot. Fingers—some whole, others stripped to sinew and bone—graze your skin, reaching, grasping, desperate. The heat of their decaying flesh is suffocating.

A second shot cracks through the night.

Another body collapses. Another life extinguished.

Ni-ki starts to turn, his instincts telling him to look, but you shove him forward, jaw clenched, refusing to acknowledge what you already know.

The ladder is within reach now, just a few more feet. Just a few more agonising steps—

Then the ground shifts beneath you.

A body drops right in front of you with a sickening thud. The sudden obstruction is unavoidable. Your foot catches on the sprawled corpse, balance teetering on the edge of disaster, and before you know it, the world tilts. You’re falling.

The impact slams through you like a sledgehammer, pain exploding through your ribs as the unforgiving ground rushes up to meet you. The breath is knocked from your lungs in a violent gasp. Your knife slips from your grasp, clattering away into the darkness, lost among the sea of writhing bodies.

You blink, dazed, before your vision locks onto the body lying inches away. The vacant eyes of one of A’s men stare back at you, glassy and unseeing, a bullet hole punched clean through his temple. Blood seeps into the cracks of the pavement beneath him, dark and thick, pooling like ink in the dim light.

Shit.

You have to move. Now.

The dead are shifting, the scent of fresh blood igniting their primal hunger. You can feel it in the way they stir, the guttural growls reverberating through the air. They’re moments away from turning their attention on the body in front of you.

You scramble to your feet, hands grasping at slick concrete, fingers slipping in the growing pool of blood. Desperation claws at your chest, white-hot and searing. You don’t even bother trying to blend in—there’s no time. You just need to get away before the dead close around the body with you inside it.

Ni-ki reaches his hand out for you. His face is taut with fear, his fingers stretched toward yours, urging you to take it. Relief surges in your chest as you lunge for him—but the moment your fingertips brush against his, the horde surges forward. The press of bodies crashes into you, dragging you back into the abyss.

A strangled sound rips from your throat as you’re swallowed whole by the swarm. Panic flares in your chest, a raw, visceral thing, sinking its claws deep.

You thrash against the press of decayed bodies, but it’s like drowning in quicksand. The heat is suffocating and the weight is unbearable. The slick, clammy flesh of the dead clings to you, grasping, pulling, consuming. Your left arm is trapped, ensnared in the tangle of limbs, the rancid breath of the undead hot against your skin.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Ni-ki yanks at your free arm, his grip bruising, desperate, but the sudden movement only draws more attention. The nearest corpse jerks its head toward you, milky eyes locking onto yours. Its lips peel back, revealing blackened gums and jagged teeth, and then—

A groan. Low. Hungry.

More follow.

The walls are closing in.

Ni-ki is shouting something—your name, maybe—but the sound is distant, drowned beneath the deafening roar of blood rushing in your ears. You see the way Ni-ki’s expression crumbles, the sheer desperation as he refuses to let go. His grip tightens, fingers digging in, raw desperation in his eyes.

He’s trying to save you, but in doing so, he’s going to get himself killed too.

No. Not like this. Not after risking your life to get him out of this mess.

You open your mouth to tell him to run—to leave you—but before the words can leave your lips, a spray of blood splatters across your mask.

A skull erupts into fragments inches from your face. The force of the shot sends the corpse toppling backward. But the bullet—it didn’t come from above. It came from in front.

Then another. And another.

Jungwon and Heeseung.

Then, Sunghoon and Sunoo emerge, pistols raised, their movements cold, precise. They’ve abandoned their disguises, stepping out of the shadows, tearing through the horde with practiced efficiency. Each shot is a lifeline. Each bullet carving a path straight toward you.

Above, Jay and Jake rain down gunfire, thinning the horde before they can overwhelm.

“GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE, NOW!”

You don’t hesitate.

Adrenaline fuels you, burning through your veins as you throw your weight forward, kicking free of the bodies threatening to swallow you whole. You stumble as you come loose easily now that majority of the zombies around you have been shot dead. Ni-ki stumbles with you, his breath ragged, his fingers still locked around your wrist.

Almost there.

Your legs feel like lead, every muscle in your body screaming, but you push forward, forcing your way through. You hit the base of the ladder, hands fumbling for purchase, every second stretching unbearably long.

You shove Ni-ki up first. He scrambles desperately, his body trembling from the pain in his ankle, but he doesn’t hesitate or falter.

The moment he starts climbing, you push Sunoo up after him while taking out another zombie that manages to get too close. Sunghoon follows, then Heeseung.

Then it’s just you and Jungwon again.

It reminds you of that moment in the motel, when you first ran into them. Back then, you insisted Jungwon go first, and he did. But now, as you turn to him, intending to do the same, the fear in his eyes stops you. And in that moment, you know he won’t take no for an answer.

You start to climb. Your limbs feel heavy, exhaustion weighing you down, but you force yourself up, step after step, gripping the metal so tightly your knuckles ache. You can still hear the gunshots being fired from above and below you but the sounds are muffled, like you’re underwater and all you can really hear is the sound of your own heartbeat.

As you near the crawlspace, a hand locks around your forearm, yanking you onto the rooftop. Your knees hit the concrete, your chest heaving, lungs burning, the night air rushing into your body like fire. You mutter a small ‘thanks’ though you don’t know who it was.

You don’t even register the pain at first. Your body is running on pure adrenaline, every nerve still screaming from the chaos below. You tear the mask off your face as your vision swims, breath coming in ragged gasps, but you force your gaze across the rooftop.

They’re here.

They’re safe.

Alive.

The weight pressing against your chest loosens just slightly.

Thank God.

You did it.

You—

“You’re bleeding.”

The words cut through the haze, spoken so quietly, so eerily calm, that they don’t quite register at first.

Your heart stops as you notice something in Jay’s expression. It almost makes you throw up. His wide eyes stay fixed—not on your face, not on the carnage behind you—on you.

More specifically—your arm.

Your breath catches as your gaze drops, following his line of sight.

Your sleeve is torn. The fabric is soaked in red, the colour spreading, seeping into the seams, staining your skin. A sharp, pulsing pain finally reaches your brain, cutting through the numbness like a blade.

No.

With trembling fingers, you peel back the fabric. Your stomach twists into a suffocating knot as the wound is exposed.

Teeth marks.

Deep, raw and final. A wound that does not heal.

The rooftop is silent. You can feel their eyes on you—frozen, watching. The weight of their gazes is crushing, suffocating.

No one speaks. No one breathes.

The world seems to tip sideways, the ground slipping out from beneath you. The air is too thick. Your lungs won’t expand.

The relief, the victory—the hope—it all vanishes.

It takes everything in you to force the words out.

“…I’m bit.”

And just like that—everything shatters.

“You’re what?” The moment his voice breaks through the suffocating silence, something inside you completely shatters. The sheer disbelief in his tone makes your throat tighten, makes the wound on your wrist throb as if your body is reminding you of the truth you can’t escape.

“Say that again.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you exchange a knowing glance with Jay. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, the weight of his unspoken words pressing down on you like a stone.

There’s no point in dragging this out. No point in trying to soften the blow. You inhale sharply, gathering what little strength you have left, and turn to face Jungwon.

His mask is already coming off, ripped away with shaking fingers, discarded like it’s suffocating him. And for a brief second—a single, fleeting moment—you think you almost forgot what he looked like.

But there he is. Jaw clenched, eyes burning, exhaustion etched into every sharp line of his face.

Jungwon—the leader, the fighter, the survivor.

Jungwon—who has carried everyone through this war, through this night, through the impossible weight of survival.

And now he’s standing in front of you, waiting, eyes searching yours for an answer you already know he won’t be able to accept.

So you don’t draw it out. You don’t let yourself waver. You don’t waste what little time you have.

“I’m bit.”

The way he stills—it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the rooftop. For a second, he doesn’t react. Just stands there, staring at you, expression blank, unreadable, as if his mind is struggling to process the weight of your words, to piece them together into something that makes sense. But his eyes—his eyes—they tell you everything.

“You’re lying.”

You wish you were. You really, really wish you were.

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips, but it’s hollow, lifeless. It doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to defeat. The world has won.

Jungwon shakes his head, stepping forward, desperate, refusing to let the words sink in. “No. No.” His voice is cracking, trembling under the weight of something he’s never allowed himself to feel. “Why?”

Then his entire body seems to fold inward, like something inside him has snapped. His hands fly to his hair, gripping, pulling, trembling. “I told you to stay put inside. I told you.” His voice is shaking, rising, unraveling into something wild. “You never listen. Fuck.”

“Jungwon—”

“NO.” His breath is ragged. His eyes are blazing, glassy with emotions he refuses to name. He looks like he wants to grab you, to shake you, to force you to take back what you just said—to make this not real.

But you don’t move.

Because it is real.

“I’m sorry…” The words come out in a whisper, fractured, barely holding themselves together. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep standing, to keep from breaking apart completely.

But you can’t stop your hands from trembling. You can’t stop your fingers from curling into fists, nails digging into your palms, grounding yourself against the pain threatening to consume you whole.

Jungwon stares at you, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unsteady. Then, all at once, you see it happen.

You’re watching his world fall apart.

And this time, he isn’t trying to hide it.

There’s no mask, no pretense, no desperate attempt to hold himself together like he always does. He doesn’t fight it.

Because he can’t.

Because he’s breaking.

And so are you.

Then, without a second thought—without hesitation, without permission—he drops the weapon in his hands, the metallic clang drowned out by the imminent death roaring in your ears, and pulls you into him.

It’s not careful. It’s not slow.

It’s crushing.

One arm winds around your neck, the other cradling the back of your head, his fingers digging into your scalp as if he can keep you here, keep you whole, keep you alive just by holding on tight enough.

He’s trembling. He’s holding you so tight, as if letting go would kill you—when in fact, you both know that letting go would kill him.

And something tells you that if you don’t pry him off of you—he’ll never let go. Even when you’re no longer yourself, even when there’s nothing left but a hollow shell of what you once were, he’d still be here, still holding onto you, still refusing to let go. Even if it destroys him. Even if it means exposing the bare skin of his neck, offering himself to you without fear, without hesitation, without care for what happens next.

Because this isn’t just grief.

This is affection in its most dangerous, most reckless form.

And yet you don’t push him away. You should. You really should tell him to stop. To pull himself together. To walk away before it’s too late.

But instead your arms slowly wrap around his waist, your hands gripping the fabric of his t-shirt so tightly it creases beneath your fingers. Your body sinks into his warmth, and for just a second—you savour it.

The way he feels against you, the way his heartbeat pounds in time with yours, the way he’s breathing you in like this moment is the last thing he’ll ever have of you. And maybe it is. Because this moment will never come back.

And you will never have this again.

Slowly, you feel it—the warmth of hands wrapping around you, one by one, hesitant at first, then stronger, until you’re encased in something far greater than just Jungwon’s embrace.

The others press in, their bodies closing the space, forming a human shield around you like this little confined bubble between all of you is the only thing that matters.

And in that instant—you break. A sob rips from your throat, raw and uncontrollable, and once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

You crumble into Jungwon’s arms—into all of their arms—sobbing incessantly, helplessly, like the sheer weight of everything you’ve been holding back is finally too much to bear.

You don’t know how long you stay like that—clutching, breaking, falling apart together—but when you finally pull back, when your bodies part, Jungwon’s hand never leaves yours.

And it kills you when you bring yourself back to earth. Because this—whatever this is, whatever this moment is meant to be—it’s not over.

A’s people are still out there, still roaming beneath you, waiting, watching. A himself is still out there. And even with your death penalty signed, stamped, and sealed—you still have to finish this. Now more than ever, because you won’t be here in the future. You won’t be around to throw yourself into the fire again and again for them.

And when you’re gone—Jungwon will pick up that role again.

And it’ll get him killed.

Your chest tightens, resolve hardening as you take a slow, shaky breath. You know what you have to do.

"I need to go." The firmness in your voice catches them off guard.

"No." Jungwon doesn’t even give you the chance to argue. His voice is sharp, final, a command, like sheer refusal will be enough to stop you.

But he should know better. A simple "no" isn’t going to suffice.

"I’m no help up here," you push, forcing yourself to be rational, to be cold, even though every fibre of your being wants to fall apart in his arms all over again. "In fact, I’d be a threat. A is still out there. If I don’t find him, he’ll come back. He’ll keep coming back."

"No." Jungwon’s grip tightens on your wrist, his fingers digging in, like he’s trying to anchor you here, to stop you from slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“We can still win, we can—”

“I’ve already lost, Y/N.” You freeze at that. But your conviction doesn’t waver.

“Please, Jungwon.” Your voice quivers, but you step closer, looking into his eyes, begging him to understand, to let you go before it’s too late. “I need to know that you’re safe. Only then can I die in peace.”

The words leave your lips like a final nail in the coffin. You’re going to die. Period.

And the moment they do—you see it sink in. The reality of it. The undeniable, unforgiving truth that this is how it ends.

You see it in the way his head shakes, as if denying it will make it disappear, as if he can erase the bite on your skin just by refusing to believe in it. You see it in the way his gaze drops to the ground, unfocused, staring at nothing, his mind spiralling into a place you can’t reach.

So, with one swift motion, you cup his face between your hands, lifting it so his eyes have no choice but to meet yours.

Your thumb grazes over his cheekbone, the touch gentle, almost reverent, and for a split second, your gaze catches on the bite marks decorating your own wrist.

They taunt you.

Remind you of what’s coming.

But when you look back at Jungwon, it’s suddenly acceptable.

Because in exchange for your life, they will be rewarded. And that thought makes you wonder—when did it happen?

When did their survival become just as important as your own?

When did you stop seeing them as liabilities?

When did you start caring?

You don’t leave room for regret. You lean in, pressing a soft, longing kiss against his lips. It’s gentle—not desperate, not rushed—just enough.

You feel the moment he tenses, the shock rippling through his body. Then, he releases it into you. His jaw relaxes, his grip on you tightens, like he’s pouring everything he can into this moment.

When you pull back, you hesitate.

Just for a second. Just long enough to press your forehead against his.

“Now there’s no way I’m letting you go.” His voice is quiet, a whisper against your lips, but there’s so much weight in it, so much desperation, so much hope—

And you ruin it.

Because you pull away. And he chases after your warmth, his eyes still closed, still pretending you’re there. But when he opens them, his heart drops.

Because he knows. He sees it in your face.

You’re going to do it.

Your gaze moves past Jungwon, landing on Jay behind him.

No words are needed.

Jay understands immediately. And Jungwon realises too late.

“Well, you don’t have a choice.”

The moment the words leave your lips, Jungwon lunges forward, his arms reaching out but he doesn’t reach you. Because Jay and Heeseung are holding him back.

Your heart shatters seeing Jungwon struggle, his entire body writhing in their grip, crying out your name, his voice hoarse, desperate, like sheer force of will could somehow stop this from happening.

Like if he just screams loud enough—you won’t leave.

And then, you see it.

Something you don’t have to wonder about this time. Something you know for certain.

Fear.

Not of the dead. Not of the dangers lurking in every corner. Not of you—

But fear of losing you.

And there it is. The weakness.

Love makes you vulnerable. Caring makes you weak. Hope makes you blind to reality.

But maybe—just maybe—it’s also what makes you human.

You don’t look back as you reach down, picking up the mask from the floor, securing it over your head. Even with the wailing screams, the sobs ripping through Jungwon’s chest, you steel yourself.

You rip the white cloth off your arm, wrapping it around the bite, tying it tight.

It’s not ideal. It won’t change anything. But at least it’ll contain the scent of fresh blood. Not that it matters. You’re already as good as dead.

As you begin your descent down the ladder, you catch the gaze of Lieutenant Kim.

She’s still tied to the sign, cloth in her mouth, her eyes sharp with amusement. And even though she can’t speak, the ghost of a smirk is evident on her lips.

She’s mocking you. Like she knows exactly what’s coming. Like she’s already seen how this will play out. But you swear, to every divine being that still exists, that you will rid this world of every last one of them.

When your feet hit the ground, you push forward. Instincts scream at you to act fast. They haven’t run yet—haven’t broken formation.

But if they do, if even one of them makes it out—this will have all been for nothing. And the vicious cycle of revenge will just keep repeating itself until no one is left to claim victory.

part 5 - people | masterlist | part 7 - hope

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: this chapter actually sucked so much out of me i'm not even kidding. fr put my vocabulary to test because girl was i running out of nouns and verbs and adjectives to use 🤡 also would like to apologise for the mental distress because the next chapter is going to take awhile...

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi @jyunsim @enhastolemyheart @kawaiichu32 @layzfy @renjunsbirthmark13 @enhaprettystars @Stercul1a

taglist open. 1/3 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob @doublebunv @thinkinboutbin @eunandonly

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uyinq · 9 days ago

Text

THE CONTAINMENT INITIATIVE ☆ B.R

chapter 1 — incomprehensible

[bob reynolds x AFAB! reader, psychic!reader, empath?reader,slow burn,fluff,angst,slow burn,eventual smut, messy co-dependent relationships]

❱❱ WORD COUNT ﹕4,652

❱❱ SUMMARY﹕

The Thunderbolts need the Sentry, but they can’t have him without the Void. No matter how hard Bob Reynolds tries to hold himself together, he comes apart again and again, like a runaway train on decaying tracks. Unstable. Unstoppable. Dangerous. They decide he needs an anchor. Valentina finds you by accident, a psychic empath barely holding yourself together, broken in all the right ways to be useful. Your job is simple on paper: connect with Bob before and after each mission. Keep him calm. Keep him grounded. Keep the Void at bay. But the deeper you go, the more blurred the lines become– between Sentry and Void, between duty and feeling, between who’s saving who.

❱❱ WARNINGS ﹕ profanity, violence, trauma, eventual smut, psychological horror, mentions of: needles, injections, torture, and human testing

❱❱ NOTES ﹕ this is such an amalgamation of ideas lord help me

(divider from uzmacchiato)

★ chapters ﹒﹒ masterlist

★ tags - empty for now (ask to be tagged!)

CONTAINMENT INITIATIVE : SENTRY PROJECT — SUBJECT FILE 08L

Designation: [REDACTED]

Classification: Psychic Empath

Status: Operational

Assignment: Psychological support for Sentry [Reynolds, Robert]

Notes:

Subject displays high neural receptivity with touch and proximity to others. Side effects on the Subject have not yet been quantified.

Directive: Maintain controlled contact. Under no circumstances is Subject to engage the Void directly.

— END LOG —

You were lost when Valentina found you.

Living above a dingy laundromat in a 500-square-foot apartment that was far too small to count as a home. She let herself in, turning her nose up at the… quaintness of it all. She plastered on her deceptive little smirk when you poked your head out of the bathroom, furrowing your brows.

“Am I getting evicted or something?”

You remember saying, watching the way her eyes widened as she burst into condescending laughter.

“No, no. Not really. Something much better than that.”

Then she handed you the file. A plain manila folder, “CLASSIFIED” stamped across the front in red. You flicked it open as she spoke, scanning military jargon and vague test logs– impersonal language meant to describe you.

You remember glancing up at her, downright terrified, with a worried crease on your forehead. You thought you kept your head down once you were free from captivity, after Prometheon Labs was outed for genetically tampering with humans and their minds. You thought you could stay unnoticed.

You thought she’d come to kill you. Or blackmail you. Or worse– send you back.

But she gave you that fake motherly smile and touched your shoulder gently.

“We need someone emotionally resilient,” she said. “Someone who can handle the weight.”

You didn’t say yes.

You just didn’t say no.

The more you read, the worse it gets.

His file is thick. Heavy. Dense with information you’re not sure you want, even if you need it.

“A victim of domestic abuse throughout his childhood… was addicted to orally-administered morphine during middle school… history of drug-related arrests for nonviolent crimes…”

You groan at the fine print, even though you’re in the back of a moving cab. The whole thing reads like a warning sign duct-taped over a power plant.

No wonder he went full nightmare-mode and turned New York into a psychic hellscape. You’ll never forget that day– because for a solid hour, you were right back where you started. Clawing at restraints. Crying in silence. Begging for it to end.

When the driver lurches to a stop, you gasp and slap the file shut. The driver gives you a look in the rearview. You mutter a quick apology and pass crumpled bills through the divider before stepping out into sunlight and steel.

The newly renovated Avengers Tower looms overhead — bigger, sleeker, colder than you'd imagined. It feels less like a monument and more like judgment. It’s bustling with activity, analysts and interns buzzing around like bees in a hive.

You scan your temporary keycard– the one Valentina gave you a few days ago – and the elevator dings open. Warm light. Brushed chrome. Sterile peace.

You hesitate.

But your feet don’t.

You step in.

You press the button for the top floor.

Whatever's waiting for you up there, bright future or dark end, you’ll meet it head-on.

When the doors slide open again, your breath catches in your chest. A quiet hallway stretches out ahead. You take one cautious step, then another, until your gut takes over and you start walking with more purpose.

A sharp left turn, and there it is.

A massive steel door, sealed with a gleaming “A,” stands between you and whatever this job actually is.

You scan your card. The center twists counterclockwise with a mechanical groan, and the door yawns open to reveal the newly renovated penthouse.

You know you’re in the right place the moment you feel it– that crushing weight that settles into your bones. The weight of being at the top of the food chain. At the top of the Tower.

You move quietly, footsteps soft as you enter, peeking around corners, instinctively cautious. A few steps down into the sunken center of the room, and you’re already planning your retreat.

You're halfway to turning around when–

“Look who made it!”

Valentina’s voice cracks through the silence like a gunshot.

You jolt, whip around. Her heels clack across the floor as she emerges from a hallway you hadn’t noticed before, all polished smiles and cruel charm.

She’s beaming, arms wide, practically glowing with smug satisfaction, and she’s not alone.

Behind her, the new team follows in her wake.

The Thunderbolts.

It’s not as grand as you expected. They all look vaguely uncomfortable, like Valentina just dragged her children into the living room to show them off to her guests.

You offer a polite smile. A nod. Valentina sweeps through introductions with a breezy indifference, rattling off names and blurting some oversimplified version of their abilities and feats.

Then she grabs someone lurking near the back by the arm.

You hadn’t seen him at first.

He looks… different than he did in the file. Still emotionally wrecked, still carrying that buried-glass kind of tension– but not quite the same. His hair is a sun-warmed shade of gold-brown, catching the light that spills through the penthouse windows.

And there’s something distant in his eyes. Like he’s here, but not really.

Valentina gives his arm a little tug and announces, all cheer:

“And this ball of anxiety is Bob.”

You’d chuckle at his introduction if he didn’t look so confused and uncomfortable.

Matter of fact… they all look confused.

Finally, someone says it.

“And who the hell is this?”

The voice belongs to the petite blonde with a thick accent, Yelena. She’s waving a dismissive hand in your direction like you’re someone’s plus-one at a funeral.

Honestly, it tracks. Very on-brand for Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to make secret plans, to neglect filling anyone in, especially at someone else’s expense.

She just laughs it off, breezy as ever, letting go of Bob only to drape an arm awkwardly around you instead.

“Oh, did I not tell you? Seriously?”

She grins. You brace yourself.

“This is your new team member.”

The groan that echoes around the room is unanimous. A blond man throws his head back dramatically, while someone with a mop of dark hair just shakes his head in defeat. Yelena scoffs in disbelief– and you’re really starting to wish Valentina had maybe run this whole idea past someone before now.

“Team member?” the blonde snaps. “Look at her, Val. She’s dressed like a secretary. What’s she gonna do, ask our enemies for their coffee orders?”

Ouch.

You weren’t going for a secretary look. You were going for the ‘young-but-intelligent therapist’ look.

“I think personal assistants take coffee orders, not secretaries.”

The words are out before you can stop them. Crisp. Clipped. Not exactly friendly.

The room goes dead silent.

Then Bob laughs.

It’s an awkward little chuckle that breaks the tension, and everyone suddenly remembers why they were annoyed in the first place.

Valentina steps behind you, squeezing your shoulders in a way that’s meant to be reassuring, but just feels like control.

“She doesn’t look like much, I get it,” she says, all syrup and smirk. “But she’s got powers. Real ones. She can touch one of you and render you completely useless with a little poke.”

The blond man– John Walker, if you remember right– crosses his arms.

“Do it, then.”

You glance back at Valentina, searching for reassurance.

She just gives you an overly friendly shove and a wide, sharp smile.

“Go on.”

Something about that smile says don’t fuck this up. Or you’ll regret it.

You step forward slowly. Hands loose at your sides. Not threatening– but not exactly sure what you are, either.

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you with that steely, judgmental stare.

You barely touch him– fingertips brushing the fabric of his uniform– and he hits the ground like a sack of bricks.

Everyone takes a half-step back, one girl laughs, and the big man, Alexei, beams from ear to ear.

“I like her!” The russian bear chimes, already pushing past everyone else to wrap you up in an abrupt, bone-crushing hug. You barely get to wheeze out a breath as he whisks you off your feet, squeezing you like he’s trying to kill you.

“Welcome to the team, zaika!”

Yelena hits him on the arm, her steely gaze fixed on Valentina.

“Put her down, Dad.”

The man pouts before releasing you, making sure you’re stable before he crosses his arms, suddenly remembering that he’s supposed to be angry with the woman standing across from him.

“Fine, she has powers. But why do we need some sort of touch-starved psychic?” The Russian woman gestures wildly as she speaks, her words sharp enough to draw blood. You’d laugh if the target wasn’t you.

Valentina is suddenly beside you again. Too close. Her voice honeyed. Her smile pure performance.

She presses her head against yours, mock-affectionate.

“You don’t need her,” she says. “Bob does.

You get settled into your room without many issues. It’s barren, nothing like your cluttered apartment in Brooklyn. It feels like a hospital room, empty save for the essentials. The bed, the desk, the closet, the bathroom, the nightstand.

You make a point of sorting out the few things you had delivered a few days prior, making sure your clothes are neat and sorted in your closet. That everything on your desk is square or touching a corner.

You plop down on the edge of your bed once you get settled, opening Bob’s file again while you gnaw on your lip.

You flip through the pages, trying to figure out exactly what you can do or say to bring him back to Earth when he starts slipping without having to use your powers.

It feels… wrong. The whole idea of using your ability to pacify his sadistic counterpart.

You flip another page. Then another.

Psych evals. Mission transcripts. Eyewitness reports that were written with trembling handwriting.

There’s a pattern in all of it– not just chaos, not just destruction. It’s pain. Repetition. A man who wants so badly to stay good, and a force inside him that keeps pulling him apart molecule by molecule.

You stare down at one phrase, underlined three times in red.

“Sometimes I feel like I'm watching myself rot from the inside.”

You close the file.

It does feel wrong. To be someone’s leash. Someone’s handler. To reach into someone’s head and force quiet when the storm rises. You didn’t sign up to be a human tranquilizer.

But it’s not like anyone asked him if he wanted to be the Sentry, either.

You’re still chewing that thought when there’s a knock at the door.

Not urgent. Not hesitant. Just… there.

You stand and cross to it, unsure who you’re expecting. When you open it, your heart stutters a little.

Bob Reynolds stands in the hall, hands in the pockets of a faded hoodie, like he just woke up from a nap.

His eyes flick past you, toward the bare room, then back.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then;

“Is she making you do this?” You shift, leaning against the doorframe with furrowed brows and a soft laugh.

“Define ‘this.’”

Bob shrugs a little, eyes flicking to the side like he’s embarrassed to ask.

“This… ‘anchoring’ thing. The… psychic babysitting.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He looks awkward, not afraid. Uncomfortable in his own skin.

“No. She didn’t make me.”

He nods, slowly, like that answer just raises more questions. You don’t blame him. You’ve got your own.

“Did she tell you what happens...?” he asks, voice quieter now. Like he’s afraid of the answer.

“She gave me a file,” you say. “But I don’t think that counts.”

A beat. Then another.

Then Bob murmurs:

“She thinks I’m a bomb.”

You frown. “Are you?”

He doesn’t smile. Just meets your eyes and says, plain and honest:

“Yeah.”

You don’t flinch. That feels important.

You cross your arms over your chest, considering him, then you give him a soft smile.

“Just tell me which wire to cut.”

The room is white. Or grey. Or something in between. It's hard to tell under the LED lights that hum like bees in your skull.

No windows. One door. A camera in the corner pretending not to be watching.

Bob sits across from you, hands clasped, thumb digging into the edge of his opposite palm like he’s trying not to fly apart. You’re seated opposite him, a tablet on the desk between you. No notes yet. You’ve been sitting in silence for awhile now.

“So,” you start, voice light. “This is the part where we ‘establish baseline compatibility.’”

He looks at you. Then down at his hands.

“Right. Sure. That.”

You tap the tablet. Still not writing.

“I’m supposed to take readings. Monitor your stress levels. Track fluctuations in your–”

You pause and don’t even hold back a grimace. “–psychospiritual field.”

Bob snorts. You roll your eyes.

“Where do they come up with this shit?” You grumble under your breath, scrolling to another blank space that you’ll eventually have to fill out.

The tablet isn’t helping. The room isn’t helping. The silence isn’t helping.

So you just shut the screen off and sink back in your chair, crossing your arms.

“If you could be any animal, what would you be?” The childish question catches Bob off guard, and he glances up to meet your gaze with a perplexed look.

He raises a brow, suspicious. “Seriously?”

You shrug, legs crossed now, thumb tapping lightly on your upper arm. “We’ve been sitting in silence for ten minutes. Gotta start somewhere.”

He hesitates, thinking with a little grunt. “I don’t know. A crow?”

You blink. That’s honestly one of the last answers you expected. You watch him for a moment, the way he stares at you expectantly. You just give him a look that encourages him to continue.

“Well,” he says, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “They’re scavengers. Messy. Smart. They remember people’s faces.”

There’s a pause. Then he adds, a little softer:

“They carry grief. Like a… like a flock.”

You study him, that quiet weight of something unspoken curling at the edges of his words.

“That’s actually kind of poetic.”

He snorts again, but there’s less edge to it now.

“What about you?” he asks. “What’s your animal?”

You grin. “Opossum.”

That draws an actual laugh from him–brief, involuntary, almost like it surprises him.

You sit up straighter, proud of yourself. “They fake their death when things get stressful. Wish I could do that.”

Bob shakes his head, still smiling faintly. “God help us.”

You don’t answer that. Just let the moment settle. Let the silence fill with something that isn’t heavy.

Eventually, you turn the tablet back on, slowly this time.

“I’ll mark this down as a ‘moderately successful initial sync,’” you say lightly.

Bob raises an eyebrow. “Moderate?”

“Well,” you glance at him sideways, “you haven’t stormed out or vaporized me yet, so I’m counting it as a win.”

There’s a beat of quiet. And then, surprisingly, a murmur:

“Thanks for not… Treating me like a bomb.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“I won’t,” you say. “Unless you start ticking.”

Your sessions with Bob start to feel like therapy. Not just for him, but for you. You’re nowhere near being a licensed psychologist, just because you can feel the way people think and alter the way they think doesn’t mean you know how to fix them naturally.

You haven’t used your powers on him. Not a single time. It feels like a violation. Like you’re reaching into someone’s head and forcing their cells to collide and neurons to fire a certain way– the way you want them to.

Bob doesn’t deserve that. Not when he smiles so sweetly every time you make a joke under your breath or snap back at John like you’ve been on the team as long as everyone else. Not when he finds you in those awkward moments when you feel like a stranger in the Watchtower– like you somehow don’t belong just because you came in later.

Valentina’s been trying to ease him back into missions, letting him monitor the team from the tower while they’re working. You’re with him the whole time, trying to keep his emotions and worries at bay when someone narrowly dodges a bullet or takes a kick the wrong way.

It’s one of those casual afternoons, where the world is quiet and the Thunderbolts can actually unwind. It feels… odd, to say the least. As much as they’d fight tooth and nail to deny it, they like each other. Their banter is effortless, and their smiles and laughter are contagious.

You’re curled up on your corner of the couch, sinking into the cushions and your hoodie, when Bob plops down beside you. He’s fully immersed in the movie from the moment he enters the common area, a bowl of popcorn in his lap as he leans back against the couch.

You watch him longer than you’d like to admit– the way his eyes twinkle in the dim lighting of the room when the scene gets a little brighter. The way the corners of his lips turn up at a poorly written joke or emotionally charged scene.

You turn back to the screen, reaching over for a handful of popcorn, when it happens.

You touch him.

Just a graze of your fingers against his own.

The lights flicker, and a sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and down your spine.

You jump, yelp, and meet Bob’s gaze.

It’s flickering, blue, gold, black.

Gold wins.

And you’re on your back in half a second.

You hit the rug with a thud, the breath knocked clean out of you. Bob is hovering over you, jaw twitching and eyes narrowed.

But it’s not quite Bob, is it?

You had read enough to know it wasn’t him.

It’s Sentry.

He had seen you plenty of times before. Felt your presence like a buzzing fly that wouldn’t quite go away. He didn’t think much of you–you were nothing to him. He didn’t see you as a threat or something that could reel him back in. Not until you touched Bob for the first time.

Then he felt you. Felt what kind of power was lingering in your touch.

Right before he can get his hands on you– the blue comes back.

Your chest heaves. The room spins. Your head is still echoing with static and a thousand half-formed thoughts that aren’t your own. Heavy boots pound the floor. A hand grips the back of Bob’s hoodie and yanks, hard, dragging him off you.

Bob slams into the far wall with a grunt, more startled than hurt. He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to blink the world back into place.

You flinch at the sound but don’t move, too dazed to do anything but stare up at the ceiling lights–still flickering.

A gentler hand finds your arm.

“Hey. Hey. You with me?”

Yelena’s voice. Grounding. Sharp but not unkind.

You nod, or try to.

“Jesus,” someone mutters. Probably Walker. “That was not normal.”

You sit up slowly, ribs aching. The rug is rough under your palms.

Your eyes find Bob across the room, where Bucky is crouched down talking to him. Probably trying to keep him calm.

He’s sitting with his back against the wall, hands in his hair, curled in on himself. Mute. Shaking.

It wasn’t his fault.

But no one else in the room looks convinced.

Valentina bursts in not two seconds later, and the look she gives you is less concerned and more… calculating. Like she’s doing the math. Wondering just how useful you’re going to be after this.

Now, more than ever, you’re certain.

You have to be his anchor.

The buzzing of the LEDs seems louder than usual.

Bob hasn’t looked at you once. He’s staring down at his lap, hands fidgeting as you type on your tablet nervously.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Your voice cuts through the silence, breaking him out of the invisible box he’s been trapped in for days. He still won’t look at you.

He shifts, fingers curling tighter around the hem of his hoodie. The fabric is worn thin from how often he picks at it. You pretend not to notice.

“Bob,” You whisper his name, hand sliding halfway across the table. You don’t touch him, though.

“It wasn’t you. It was me.”

He swallows hard. His voice is a scrape of gravel when it finally comes.

“It was him.”

You blink. “What?”

“You touched me,” he says. “He noticed. He felt you. That’s why he lashed out.”

His hands tremble. He presses them flat against his knees like he can still feel the leftover electricity there.

“You grounded me,” he adds, and finally, he looks at you. “And Sentry didn’t like it.”

A beat passes. Then another.

Bob takes a shaky breath, reaching out to find your hand. Your fingers touch– but sparks don’t go flying this time. It still feels a little unsteady, like a warped battery waiting to explode.

“He thought he was invincible until you touched me.”

Your fingers twitch beneath his, but you don’t pull away.

You can feel it, even without trying. The echo of something immense. Coiled just beneath his skin like a dormant storm.

But he’s trying. Grounded. Human.

You meet his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “And what do you think?”

He hesitates. That flicker of gold threatens to rise again in his eyes, but it doesn’t. He keeps it at bay. For you.

“I think…” He whispers, jaw ticking as he glances off again. “I’m scared he’ll hurt you. Because, as far as I’m aware, you’re his only weakness.”

And that, somehow, doesn’t terrify you.

His words settle over you like smoke, thick and lingering.

You don’t know what to say at first. Weakness isn’t the word you’d use. But maybe it is, to something like him. To something that sees compassion as a fracture. Humanity as a flaw.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you say softly. “I don’t want to lose you to him, though.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap back to yours, something like surprise flickering there– followed by something gentler. Sadder.

“I lose myself to him all the time,” he says, his voice thick. “I just… don’t want to take anyone else with me.”

“You won’t,” you say, with more certainty than you feel. “Not if we keep doing this. Together.”

His hand tightens around yours again. Firmer this time. Like he’s trying to anchor himself to the words, to you.

“I don’t need a leash,” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to be your leash,” you say, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “I’d rather be your tether.”

That word sits between you for a long moment.

And then he nods.

“Okay.”

The next day, you’re in one of the Watchtower’s reinforced training rooms.

Everything is steel and sterile white. No windows. No warmth. Just flickering fluorescent lights, a two-way mirror, and the quiet hum of surveillance.

Bob stands across from you, arms loose at his sides. His hoodie’s gone. Replaced with standard issue training gear. You hate how clinical it all feels — how observed.

Valentina’s watching behind the glass. So is Bucky. You can feel him.

Your voice is soft, meant just for Bob. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just nods once. Tight. Nervous.

You take one step forward, slowly, like you’re trying to keep a cornered animal calm.

“Hold your hand out.”

He listens after a half-second of hesitation, holding his hand out, palm up, low enough for you to reach without struggling. You take a deep breath, your gaze scanning his face as you take another step closer.

“Relax.” You murmur, and he tries his best to. But he’s failing.

“Just… tell me if it’s too much, okay?” You whisper, and he nods once. You realize he’s ready when his gentle features turn a little harsher, brows furrowing and jaw clenching.

You place your hand in his slowly, fingers gliding over his palm before they rest at the edge of his wrist.

This time, the world doesn’t crack. But you can feel it wanting to. Something is simmering beneath his skin like lightning behind cloud cover. His palm twitches beneath yours, but you don’t pull away. You can feel it now– not just the storm, but the fear buried underneath. Not fear of you. Fear for you.

“What are you feeling?”

His throat works as he swallows.

“I don’t know how to let it out without…” he trails off, blinking hard, “...without giving him the reins.”

You nod once. “Then don’t let it out. Just tell me where it lives.”

His eyes meet yours. That gold shimmer is there, flickering again, barely restrained.

And slowly, he lifts your joined hands to rest against the center of his chest.

“Right here.”

Your breath catches. You feel it– all of it. Not just the power. The panic. The pain. The constant hum of restraint.

Behind the glass, Valentina shifts. You feel the sudden spike of her interest.

But you don’t look. You keep your eyes on him.

“You’re doing fine,” you whisper.

And he starts to believe you.

Your fingers are still pressed to his wrist when it happens.

One breath, you’re there– in the sterile training room, the chill of steel underfoot, Valentina watching behind the glass.

The next?

Black.

Not just darkness– absence. The hum of the lights is gone. The air is gone. The room is gone. You're gone.

You're standing somewhere else now, barefoot on damp concrete. The air is thick. Heavy. Pressed against your chest like a weighted blanket soaked through. You see yourself in the corner of the dim room, curled into a ball as you chew at the sleeve of your hospital gown.

Your younger self is a mess. Red-faced, eyes bloodshot, skin worn and covered in angry red marks. She sniffles softly, eyes wide and unfocused as they dart around the room. The door behind you shifts, and it opens with a loud, familiar creak.

You turn around, watching the man who plagues your nightmares saunter into the room. Standing in the hallway is Bob, eyes wide as he steps forward, trying to find your gaze.

This isn’t his void. It’s yours.

“I didn’t mean to–” He croaks.

You don’t look when the memory starts to play out. You– screaming as he holds you down and injects you with whatever he feels like injecting you with that day. The way you try to fight him off is hard to ignore, and Bob is torn between stopping it and trying to distract you.

"Where are we?" he asks, and his voice sounds wrong here. Softer. Distorted, like it's passing through water.

You can't answer. You can't breathe.

But then, something changes.

The pressure begins to ease, not because the void is gone, but because he’s grounding you this time.

Bob lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, he takes your hand. A mirror of what you once did for him.

"I'm here," he says, and the room begins to dissolve.

The voice fades. The shadows recede. The void doesn’t vanish, but it retreats. Yielding.

When you blink again, you're back on the cold training room floor, on your knees. You're gasping. Shaking.

Bob is right in front of you, shaking as he struggles in his mind. He’s scared to touch you again.

Scared to take you right back to that awful place in your head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to see.”

You want to believe him. But it’s hard to when there’s a golden twinkle in his eye.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #reader insert #afab reader #the thunderbolts #thunderbolts fanfic

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