The male voice snapped through the corridor with enough force to make two of the newer recruits glance over their shoulders. The accent hit Sasha first, rough-edged and Germanic, the kind of voice that sounded like it had scraped itself over gravel before deciding to become words. She barely had time to turn her head before hands came down on her shoulders, hard and certain, spinning her around and shoving her back into the wall beside a row of dull metal lockers. The impact rattled the thin doors behind her, and somewhere down the hall, someone stopped walking.
Sasha’s eyes went wide for half a second, more from surprise than fear. Then they narrowed. Her gaze dragged up from the gloved hands clamped on her shoulders to the veiled face in front of her, taking in the tactical gear, the mesh netting, the broad shape of him beneath the kit, and the hateful familiarity of those eyes behind all of it. She had not noticed him in the introduction meeting because he had been standing like another armed shadow near the back, geared up for whatever job Chimera was throwing him into next. Now that he had spoken, though, she knew him immediately, and the sharp glare on her face curled into something far worse.
“Well, hello to you too,” Sasha said, her voice bright with false delight. “I was wondering when the alley decoration would crawl back into my life.”
Krueger’s grip tightened once, not enough to hurt badly but enough to warn. He was close enough that she could see the line of his mouth through the mesh, the bruises from weeks ago long gone but the irritation apparently still alive and well. Sasha bared her teeth at him in a grin that was too wide to be friendly, then leaned forward as much as his hold allowed and snarled at him like a dog. The sound was low, ugly, and deliberate, and it made the nearest recruit wisely decide that whatever he had forgotten in the hallway was no longer worth retrieving.
“Get your grubby little sausage fingers off me,” Sasha said sweetly, “before I dice them up and throw them in a frying pan.”
Krueger stared at her for a beat. Then his eyes narrowed, and the shape of his mouth twisted into something that might have been disgust if it did not look so much like amusement trying to hide. “You are as annoying as a knife dragging on frozen glass,” he said, every word clipped and rough, his own insult landing neatly over the edge of her accent. “Still making noise after someone should have broken you.”
Sasha looked delighted. Not offended, not even properly angry, but delighted in the way a child might be if someone had handed her a lighter in a room full of curtains. There he was. The bloody alley man had not died, had not disappeared, and apparently had a mouth after all. She had wondered if he only communicated through glaring and inconvenient knife throws, but this was much better. He could be annoyed, and more importantly, she could be the thing annoying him.
“Oh, keep talking,” she said, her eyes bright. “It helps me decide where to cut first.”
Krueger released her shoulders with a small shove, more dismissal than violent, and Sasha let her back rest against the wall for only a second before pushing off it. She rolled one shoulder, brushed imaginary dust from the front of her sweater, and looked him over as though he were a problem she had already solved once and was considering solving again. The corridor around them was clean in the ugly, practical way of military spaces: a grey floor, white light, closed doors, and the smell of oil, coffee, and damp gear. It made Sasha look even more out of place, too loose and cheerful for all that discipline, like someone had let a lit match wander into an ammunition locker.
“Why are you here?” Krueger asked. “How did you get into Chimera?”
Sasha’s smile sharpened. “I was invited.”
That bothered him. She saw it immediately, the tiny pause, the shift in his posture, the way his head angled down just slightly as if the word had confirmed something unpleasant. Nikolai had offered her the contract a week after the alley, and Sasha had accepted because the pay was decent, the work was interesting, and people in private military companies tended to get upset in entertaining ways. Krueger, apparently, was already upset. That made the job feel promising.
“Invited,” he repeated.
“Yes.” She blinked up at him, all innocence and mischief. “Do you need me to explain the word?”
“You will be a menace.”
Sasha laughed, short and bright, and several people farther down the hallway pretended very hard not to listen. “That is what I put on my résumé.”
Krueger took half a step closer again, not touching her this time but crowding enough to see whether she would retreat. Sasha did not. She stood with her weight loose and balanced, one hand hanging beside her thigh, the other casually fixing a strand of hair near her face. She was smiling, but her eyes were already measuring distance, reach, weapons, and how much damage she could do before someone important came running. He seemed to notice that too, because his eyes flicked once to her hands before returning to her face.
“Touch me again,” Sasha said softly, “and I cut off your hands. I will even label the bag so someone knows who it belonged to.”
Through the mesh, Krueger’s expression twisted with annoyance. But there was something else there too, something almost pleased, some private spark of enjoyment that he had no intention of admitting. He did not like her. That was obvious. He also did not look bored, and Sasha found that almost as satisfying as making him angry.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low. “This is a base, not a back alley. You cannot just start killing every man who annoys you.”
Sasha’s smile vanished for half a heartbeat, not from hurt but from the sharp little bite of being challenged. Then it came back wider, meaner, brighter. “Relax,” she said. “If I killed every man I wanted to, or every man who annoyed me, you might not be standing there.”
A breath left him through his nose, almost a laugh and almost a threat. “You think very highly of yourself.”
“I think accurately of myself.” Sasha tilted her head, letting her gaze move over him again, from boots to weapon straps to the veiled face she wanted to annoy until it cracked. “You should try it. Might help next time a gang of idiots beats you bloody behind a bin.”
The words landed exactly where she wanted them to. Krueger went very still, and the air between them tightened in a way that made the hallway feel smaller. Sasha knew she had pissed him off. She could read it in the set of his shoulders, the cold focus in his eyes, the way his hands stayed perfectly still instead of curling into fists. Good, she thought. Anger made most people stupid. With him, it made him interesting.
“Smarten up,” he said at last, stepping back from her with visible restraint. “Before I get you fired.”
Sasha pushed away from the wall fully, smoothing her clothes as though the conversation had been no more than an inconvenience on the way to lunch. “That is rich,” she called after him as he started down the corridor, “coming from the man who got folded by street trash in an alley.”
Krueger did not turn around, but his stride changed just enough for her to know he had heard every word. The mesh over his face shifted slightly as his jaw moved beneath it, and Sasha imagined him grinding his teeth until one cracked. The thought made her grin. Around her, the hallway slowly remembered how to move again, recruits and operators returning to their own business with the careful silence of people who had just witnessed two dangerous animals discover the same territory.
Sasha turned in the opposite direction, tossing her hair back over her shoulder and walking away with a bounce in her step that had no business following a threat exchange. Her shoulder ached where he had grabbed her, and she made a mental note to return the favor someday with interest. Nikolai had hired her for Chimera, and if Krueger hated that, then maybe this job would be more fun than she had expected. Behind her, somewhere farther down the hall, the man with the Germanic accent disappeared toward his mission, and Sasha smiled to herself like she had just found a new hobby.
So, I'm back to publishing things again after a long while. I have a lot of editing to do and I'm also working so posts will take a while to come out. I've been developing Sasha and Krueger's story though and making up more OCs to go along with other COD characters.
Enjoy this little sprawl!
WARNING: Mentions of blood, death, fighting, violence and more. Though, it is Krueger we are talking about here sooo it's expected no?
“You should go away,” a woman said brightly, almost sweetly, as she twirled a knife between her fingers with the lazy ease of someone playing with a pen. The blade flashed beneath the weak alley light, quick and silver, then disappeared against her palm before appearing again between her knuckles. She stood at the mouth of the alley like she had wandered into the wrong place by accident, all loose hair, soft sweater, and that cheerful little smile that made her look harmless for exactly half a second. Then her eyes moved over the men, the blood, the man on the ground, and something behind that smile sharpened.
“Oh, look,” one of the men laughed, turning toward her with a nasty grin. “A bitch.”
Sasha tilted her head, her gaze slipping past him to the man folded on the pavement behind them. He was on his side near a stack of split garbage bags, one arm braced under him like he had tried to rise more than once and failed. His sweater and jeans were torn, darkened with alley filth and blood, and his breathing had the rough, uneven drag of someone who had taken more hits than any normal man should still be conscious through. Still, he was not limp. His jaw was tight, his eyes were open, and even beaten nearly into the ground, there was something in him that felt less like prey and more like a wolf pinned under too many dogs.
There were five men around him, and none of them looked untouched. Split lips, swollen brows, and blood on knuckles that was not all his; the man had put up a fight before numbers and weight dragged him down. Sasha noticed that first, because she noticed useful things first. She had been trained to count bodies, exits, weapons, angles, and lies before she counted her own bruises. The Russian army had tried to teach discipline into her bones, and when that failed, her PMC had learned to point her at problems and keep other women out of her working radius. It was easier that way. Less paperwork.
“Is that supposed to insult me?” Sasha asked, bringing the tip of her knife lightly between her teeth. She bit down just enough to hold it there, smiling around the steel with a glint in her eyes that did not belong in a friendly woman’s face. “Because I have heard better things from drunk teenagers.”
One of the men barked a laugh and looked at the others as though she had performed for them. “Looks like this chick thinks she’s something, boys.”
“You’ve got a pretty little face, dolly,” another said, wiping blood from beneath his nose with the back of his hand. “Why don’t you run off now before things get too nasty?”
“Pretty eyes don’t need to see dirty things,” the first one added, and to punctuate the sentence, he drove his boot into the downed man’s ribs.
The man on the ground coughed, a harsh, ugly sound that scraped out of him despite his clenched teeth. His fingers dug into the wet pavement, and for a moment Sasha saw him fighting the instinct to curl in on himself. He did not make a plea. He did not even look at her like he expected saving. That, more than the kick, irritated her.
“You think I’m pretty?” Sasha’s expression shifted so fast it was almost obscene, the dangerous brightness smoothing into wide-eyed innocence. She blinked at them, soft and delighted, like a girl being complimented at a market stall instead of threatened in an alley. “That is nice. I do try to keep my skin clear.” Her smile returned by degrees, small and crooked and full of teeth. “Too bad no one will be able to say the same for you.”
“Fuck off, woman,” one of them snapped, reaching for her arm as if the conversation had bored him enough to grab the ending himself.
Sasha moved before his fingers closed. She threw herself at him with no warning, not a graceful little dodge, not a tidy military strike, but a full-body impact that drove the air out of him and smashed him backward onto the pavement. His skull hit hard enough to make the sound vanish from his mouth, and Sasha landed on top of him with one knee pinning his ribs. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, lifted his head, and slammed it down once, twice, then again with a vicious efficiency that made the others finally stop laughing. When his body went loose under her, she let go as if bored with him already.
By the time the next two reached her, she was on her feet. One came in with a knife low at his side, shoulders hunched, anger making him clumsy. Sasha stepped into him instead of away, caught both his shoulders, and jumped, using his body like a ladder. He shouted as her weight hit him, his knife hand jerking uselessly between them, but she was already swinging herself upward, loose hair whipping across his face and mouth.
Her boot caught the second man hard between the legs. The sound he made was high, broken, and immediate, and he dropped with both hands going to himself as if prayer had become physical. Sasha laughed once, breathless and delighted, but the man she had climbed onto recovered enough to throw himself sideways. They crashed down together, his weight landing over her, and his knife swept blindly through the air as he tried to cut whatever part of her he could reach. Her hair had spilled across his face, black strands sticking to his bloodied cheek and mouth, and he cursed against it, half-blind and furious.
A fourth man rushed in and grabbed her arm with both hands, dragging her out from under his friend before she could hook a leg around his throat. Sasha’s shoulder screamed as she was hauled over broken glass and wet grit, but pain rarely made her stop; it only made her focus. Her knife had skittered a hand’s length away when she hit the ground, and her free fingers found it by memory more than sight. She twisted, gripped the handle, and drove the blade into the thigh of the man holding her hard enough that his grip tore away with a strangled cry. He stumbled back, clutching his leg, his face going pale as blood spread under his fingers.
The last man, the only one still clean enough to think clearly, surged toward her at the same time the knife-wielder shoved to his feet. Somewhere behind them, the man she had kicked was wheezing curses into the pavement, and the one with the ruined leg shouted something about finding the gun. The word changed the air in the alley. Sasha felt it the way she felt shifts before ambushes, the tiny tightening of time before everything became simple and deadly.
“Gun?” she asked, rising into a fighting stance, one shoulder lower than the other, knife angled close to her body. “You had one and still needed five men? Embarrassing.”
The two still standing came at her together. Their punches were ugly but heavy, the kind thrown by men used to winning through size and surprise rather than skill. Sasha deflected what mattered and accepted what did not, letting a softer strike glance off her shoulder so she could step inside and slice with cruel precision across one man’s face. He screamed, staggering back as blood spilled into his eyes, both hands flying up too late to protect what had already been opened. She turned with the motion, catching the other man’s wrist when he tried to jab at her ribs, and slammed her forearm into his elbow until he dropped the knife with a grunt.
Now it was one-on-one, or close enough to pretend. The man facing her spat blood onto the ground and drew another small blade from his pocket, like he thought showing steel made him equal. Sasha looked at it, then at him, and the innocence came back into her face for one mocking second. He lunged. She knocked the knife from his hand almost lazily, stepped inside his reach, and hit him three times in the face with clean, compact punches that snapped his head back and turned his knees unreliable.
She might have finished him there if the first man had stayed unconscious like a polite person. Instead, he lurched back into the world with a wet groan and threw his entire body into her from behind. Sasha went down hard beside the beaten man, the impact punching the breath from her lungs and sending her knife skidding away again. The attacker landed across her back and shoulder, heavy and desperate, one arm trying to trap her while he snarled into her ear. Sasha twisted under him, teeth bared, already reaching for leverage, but for the first time the angle was bad.
The beaten man beside her moved. It was not much at first, just a shift of weight and a harsh breath through bloodied teeth, but then his hand slid under his torn sweater and came out with a military knife. His fingers were shaking, whether from pain or rage Sasha could not tell, but the grip changed when he flipped the blade. For a split second his eyes met hers, dark, flat, and utterly alive. Then he threw.
The knife buried itself into the man on top of her with a dull, brutal sound. The attacker whimpered, all the strength leaving him at once, and rolled off Sasha as if his bones had been cut loose from their strings. Sasha sucked in air, pushed herself up on one elbow, and looked at the beaten stranger with something between amusement and approval. He was still on his hands and knees, barely holding himself upright, but his expression had not softened. If anything, he looked annoyed that his throw had been necessary.
“Nice,” Sasha breathed, then shoved herself to her feet.
The alley cracked with movement again. The man she had kicked earlier had found the gun and was standing at the far end of the narrow space, legs bent awkwardly, face twisted with pain and panic. His stance was terrible. His hands shook. He had the muzzle pointed in her direction, but everything about him said he was firing from fear, not training. Sasha’s smile thinned as her fingers slipped behind her back and under the hem of her sweater, finding the small handgun tucked into the back of her waistband where none of them had thought to look.
He fired wildly. The first shot sparked off a brick; the second cracked past her as she dropped low and rolled over one shoulder, moving with the practiced calm of someone who had been shot at enough times to stop treating it like a personal insult. She came up on one knee with both hands locked around her weapon. Her face had lost every trace of sweetness now. She fired twice, controlled and accurate, and the man with the gun jerked backward before folding to the ground.
The man with the wounded leg made one last mistake. He launched himself at her from the side, more animal than tactic, his hands reaching for her throat as if he could still turn the fight into something simple. The gun her hand was dropped from in surprise as Sasha started to pivot to attack, but a gunshot split the alley before she finished the motion. The wounded man’s body dropped heavily onto the pavement, and behind him, the beaten stranger held Sasha’s gun in both hands, his arms trembling from the effort. Smoke curled faintly from the barrel.
For several seconds, there was only breathing. The men who could run ran, staggering over garbage and each other in their hurry to escape. The ones who could not move stayed where they had fallen, groaning or silent beneath the buzzing alley light. Sasha lowered her hands slowly, her eyes moving over the scene with the detached precision of a professional checking the aftermath. Then she turned toward the stranger.
He was still kneeling, one hand braced on the ground, her gun loose in the other. Blood ran from his mouth, and one of his eyes was swelling, but he held himself with stubborn, ugly pride. Most men in his condition would have been grateful, frightened, or unconscious. He looked irritated. Sasha liked that immediately, which was inconvenient.
“You are very hard to kill,” she said, stepping closer and crouching in front of him as if they were discussing the weather.
The man lifted his gaze to her. His breathing was uneven, but his stare did not waver. “Not hard enough,” he rasped, his accent thick under the blood in his mouth.
Sasha’s smile returned, smaller this time, not friendly but interested. Around them, the alley stank of rainwater, blood, garbage, and gunpowder, and somewhere beyond the narrow walls, the city continued as if nothing had happened. She reached out, not to touch his face, but to take her gun carefully from his hand. His fingers resisted for half a heartbeat before letting go.
“Do not be dramatic,” she said. “You are alive.”
He gave her a look that suggested he disliked both her tone and her optimism. Sasha only smiled wider, because that was usually what she did when people looked at her like that. She had gone on a night walk, hoping to clear her head, maybe find a snack, maybe set nothing on fire for once. Instead, she had found five idiots, a ruined alley, and a half-dead man with enough spite in him to throw a knife from the ground.
“Well,” she said, standing and offering him a hand with bright, terrible cheer. “This was fun. Can you walk, or am I dragging you?”
The man narrowed his eyes at her, the movement slow and suspicious beneath the swelling already beginning to close one side of his face. He did not look grateful. Gratitude would have made him easier to read, and he seemed like the type of man who would rather bleed out on principle than make himself easy for anyone. His gaze moved over Sasha’s stance, the knife still in her hand, the gun tucked low but not forgotten, and something in his expression hardened with recognition. She had not fought like a civilian. She had fought like someone trained, dismissed, and left meaner.
“I can stand,” he growled.
Sasha did not offer again. She simply stood there with one hand resting loose at her side, watching him force himself upright one painful inch at a time. He used the brick wall first, fingers scraping over old mortar, then pushed off it once he had enough balance to pretend he was not using it. His clothes were in miserable shape, sweater torn at the shoulder and jeans dark with grime and blood, but he adjusted them anyway with the stubborn dignity of a man trying to put himself back in order before anyone could decide he had been broken. Sasha’s smile twitched, not quite amusement and not quite approval, as he rolled one shoulder and swallowed whatever sound the movement dragged up his throat.
He walked past her without asking permission, limping toward the man he had struck with the thrown knife. The wounded man was still alive enough to whimper, curled on his side with both hands pressed uselessly near the blade. Krueger crouched beside him with the same emotional investment someone might show retrieving a dropped glove. He gripped the handle, pulled the knife free in one rough motion, and wiped the blade clean on the man’s own clothes before sliding it back into his waistband. He did not check the others. His eyes went instead to the far end of the alley, where two of the attackers had vanished into the street.
That, Sasha noticed, was what bothered him. Not the bodies. Not the blood. Not the fact that five men had nearly beaten him into the pavement. The ones who had escaped were the problem, and the look on his face said he was already calculating how much information had just slipped away with them. She could recognize that sort of irritation because she had felt it often enough herself, usually right before someone else ruined her plan and made it necessary for her to become unpleasant. It made her curious, and Sasha’s curiosity had always been a dangerous thing to leave unfed.
“Who are you?” she asked, tilting her head as she watched him. “And how does someone like you end up getting kicked around in an alley by amateurs?”
His jaw shifted. “None of your business.”
Sasha blinked at him, then laughed once, bright and disbelieving. “That is funny. Very funny, really. I just stabbed, shot, and beat several men because you were decorating the pavement with your face, but now it is none of my business?” She stepped over one sprawled body with careless grace, stopping just outside his reach. “No. I think after a murder or two, we have graduated into business.”
Krueger’s gaze sharpened. Even bruised, even breathing through pain, he had a way of going still that made the air around him feel narrower. “You chose to involve yourself.”
“Yes,” Sasha agreed cheerfully. “And I am choosing to remain involved until I know what needs disappearing.”
His eyes moved slightly, tracking her face. “Disappearing?”
Sasha pointed lazily toward the mouth of the alley. Across the street, tucked beneath a rusted awning on the corner of another building, a security camera angled down over the road. It was old, dirty, and badly placed, but not useless. “There is a camera there. Terrible angle, but good enough to make both of us very annoying to explain.” She smiled at him with all the sweetness of a woman offering tea. “If you do not tell me who you are, I erase myself from the footage and leave you in it.”
The threat landed. She saw it in the smallest change around his eyes, the nearly invisible tightening of his mouth, and the colder set of his shoulders. He did not like being cornered, and he liked even less that she had found a way to do it while standing there looking bright and pleased with herself. Sasha could read enough body language to know when a man was deciding whether pain was worth another fight. She also knew he was injured, half-spent, armed only with a knife, and not nearly close enough to get his hands on her before she could make him regret trying.
“You should watch your mouth,” he said quietly, “before I shut it for you.”
Sasha rolled her eyes so hard it was almost theatrical. “Try.”
The alley seemed to hold its breath around them. Somewhere nearby, a bottle rolled slowly through a puddle, nudged by runoff from a leaking pipe. The buzzing light above them flickered, throwing Krueger’s battered face in and out of shadow, but Sasha did not step back. She had no intention of underestimating him; injured predators were often worse than healthy ones. That was exactly why she kept herself beyond grabbing range, weight balanced, fingers loose near her gun, her smile careless enough to irritate and sharp enough to warn.
Krueger’s stare dropped briefly to her hands, then returned to her face. “Are you threatening to kill me?”
“Take my words how you like.” Sasha nudged the arm of one of the bodies with the toe of her boot, not hard, just enough to move it out of her path. “People usually do.”
His expression did not change, but she could feel his irritation like heat off pavement. Men like him hated being handled, and Sasha was handling him with both hands while pretending it was a game. She had met soldiers, mercenaries, killers, smugglers, and rich men who thought paid bodyguards made them immortal. Krueger did not feel like any of those exactly. He felt like trouble with a pulse, and that was unfortunate because Sasha had always been very bad at walking away from trouble before poking it once.
“So,” she said, rocking lightly on her heels. “Are you going to tell me your name?”
“No.”
She stared at him for a second, then shrugged as if she had been expecting nothing better. “Boring.” Her hand lifted, and she flipped him off with a cheerful lack of fear. “Enjoy the alley, then. I am not cleaning up your mess for you.”
She turned before he could answer, which was rude, but Sasha had never been overly respectful of dangerous men unless they were paying her. As she walked, she adjusted the hem of her sweater, smoothed her hair back from her face, and tucked her gun away as neatly as if she had only stopped to fix her reflection in a shop window. The night air beyond the alley was cold and damp, carrying the smell of rain, exhaust, and fried food from a late-night place down the street. Behind her were blood, bodies, a half-dead stranger, and a surveillance problem she would probably still have to deal with later because she hated loose ends more than she hated being annoyed.
At the mouth of the alley, she paused just long enough to glance back over her shoulder. Krueger stood among the wreckage with blood on his mouth, one hand near his knife, and murder still sitting calmly behind his eyes. He looked like a man who had been denied information he wanted and given an enemy he had not planned for. Sasha smiled at him, bright as a match struck in the dark.
“Try not to die before I decide if you are interesting,” she called.
Then she stepped out onto the street, blending into the city’s ordinary noise with her clothes crooked, her knuckles bruised, and her expression once again soft enough that anyone passing her might have thought she was harmless. Krueger remained in the alley behind her, battered and silent, surrounded by the consequences of a night that had gone wrong for everyone involved. For several seconds he did not move. Then his eyes lifted toward the camera across the road, and his mouth curved into something that was not quite a smile.
Hi, sorry to bother you, I just wanted to know if there will be a continuation of the zombie story. I really love it and I'm looking forward to it (sorry if there are any mistakes, English is not my native language).
There will be a continuation of the zombie story starting again in the Autumn, though chapters will only come out once a week. I switched programs so my schedule will be a bit different. I'm also working all summer so I won't be as active as I was during the school season.
Hey! Yeah, I am alive! I've been working in a provincial park though so I haven't been that active. Haha, I work seven hour shifts so I like to spend the time I have doing other stuff. I am working on some stories though!
WARNING/CAUTION: This story contain blood and mentions of death and suicide
ALL STORIES HERE
HESH MASTERLIST HERE
The worst kind of pain wasn’t the kind you could patch up with gauze and antiseptic. It wasn’t the sharp crack of a bullet grazing skin or the deep, throbbing ache of bruised ribs after a bad landing. Those, at least, made sense. They had a cause. A solution. An end.
This kind didn’t.
It settled somewhere behind the sternum—tight, suffocating, and blooming slow and cruel like something alive.
Most people dealt with it the normal way. They confessed. Took the risk. Either walked away with something real… or with their pride in pieces. Either way, it ended.
But not everyone could do that.
Some people stayed quiet.
Some people let it fester.
And for a very, very unlucky few… it turned into something worse.
Hanahaki.
Y/n pressed her tongue lightly to the roof of her mouth, trying to ignore the faint, scratchy feeling sitting at the back of her throat. It had been there since extraction—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. Now it felt like something was caught there, something fragile and wrong.
She swallowed. It didn’t help.
Focus.
The briefing room smelled faintly of gun oil, damp fabric, and dust baked into concrete walls. The overhead lights buzzed softly, casting a dull, sterile glow over the long table where the Ghosts sat scattered in various states of exhaustion. Boots were planted wide, some kicked up against chair legs, others stretched out stiff from hours of movement.
Y/n sat among them, back straight out of habit more than discipline, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She kept her eyes forward—on Elias Walker, who stood at the head of the room with a datapad in hand.
Normally, these briefings were quick. Efficient. In, out, done.
Not tonight.
“Entry point was compromised the second the second unit breached early,” Elias was saying, voice steady but edged with that tone that meant he wasn’t impressed. “That delay cost us time on extraction.”
Three hours.
Three. Goddamn. Hours.
Y/n shifted slightly in her chair, careful not to draw attention, her lungs feeling… tight. Not painful—not yet—but like they weren’t pulling in quite enough air. Like something inside her chest was pressing outward, taking up space that shouldn’t be occupied.
She knew what was coming.
She just needed this to end before it did.
Around the table, the rest of the team weren't faring much better.
Merrick leaned back in his chair, one boot hooked against the table leg as he absently scraped dirt from beneath his fingernails with the edge of a knife—slow, methodical movements that screamed boredom more than anything else.
Kick had his head dipped just slightly, thumbs moving under the table where his phone was hidden out of sight. Every now and then his eyes flicked up, checking Elias’ position before dropping again.
Ajax looked like he was fighting for his life to stay conscious. His head dipped once—twice—jerking back up each time before it could fully drop. One of these times, Y/n was sure he was just going to faceplant onto the table.
She almost wished he would.
Might get them dismissed faster.
A sudden, light kick tapped against her boot.
Y/n’s jaw tightened.
Another one followed—more deliberate this time.
She didn’t look over immediately. Didn’t react.
A finger jabbed lightly into her arm.
That did it.
“Hesh,” she muttered under her breath, not even turning her head fully. “Stop.”
There was a quiet snort beside her.
“I’m just bored,” Hesh whispered back, voice low, timed perfectly with Elias turning to gesture toward the screen behind him.
Y/n finally glanced over, shooting him a look that was meant to be annoyed—but it faltered just slightly when she caught the grin tugging at his mouth, green eyes bright with that familiar, restless mischief.
“Then leave,” she murmured.
Hesh gave a soft, incredulous scoff. “Yeah, and get chewed out after? Hard pass.”
Across the table, Logan’s gaze flicked toward them—sharp, observant. He didn’t say anything, just watched for a second too long before shifting his attention back to his father the second Elias turned around again.
Like they weren’t whispering like kids in the back of a classroom.
Elias continued, now moving into extraction details, his voice cutting clean through the room. “Timing on evac was tight. We had less than a two-minute window—any slower and we would’ve—”
Y/n tuned it out.
Not completely. Just enough to survive.
Her fingers curled slightly against her pants as the feeling in her throat worsened—sharper now, like something delicate dragging against the inside every time she swallowed. Her chest tightened again, a shallow breath catching halfway in before she forced it deeper.
Don’t.
Not here.
Not now.
Her gaze shifted—just for a second.
To him.
Keegan sat a few seats down, posture completely different from the rest of them. Where others slouched or fidgeted, he was still. Legs stretched out slightly, boots planted firmly, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
Relaxed—but not careless.
His eyes were locked on Elias, blue and steady, not a flicker of distraction in them. He didn’t look bored. Didn’t look tired.
Just… focused.
Like the three-hour briefing didn’t matter.
Like nothing ever broke his attention.
Y/n’s chest tightened—but this time it had nothing to do with the illness.
God.
Hesh’s elbow nudged into her side—harder this time.
She jolted slightly, shooting him a sharp glare.
He raised a brow at her, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knew exactly what he’d just caught.
Y/n turned forward again immediately, jaw tightening as she forced her breathing to stay even.
Across the room, Keegan didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t look at her.
And somehow, that made it worse.
“There was also the risk that the team carrying the intel could’ve been intercepted—” Elias’ voice cut clean through the room, sharp and controlled, though there was an edge beneath it now. Not anger, not quite—but close enough that no one wanted to be the reason it tipped over. “—because certain positions weren’t being watched. Eyes off sectors. That doesn’t happen again.”
The room seemed to tighten around his words.
No one moved.
Y/n kept her posture straight, shoulders squared, and gaze fixed forward like she was supposed to be listening to every word—because she was, just… not all of them. Her mind filtered what mattered, instinctively sorting through his tone more than the details.
That wasn’t directed at her.
She was sure of it.
Her team—Merrick and Kick—had been running diversion on the east side of the grid the entire op, drawing heat away from the intel team. Loud, obvious, intentional. They hadn’t had the luxury of slipping up unnoticed.
Which meant someone else had.
Her eyes flicked, just briefly, around the table.
No one looked guilty.
No one ever did.
Merrick hadn’t stopped picking at his hands, though now the knife had gone still, resting loosely between his fingers. Kick’s phone had disappeared completely—likely shoved into a pocket the second Elias’ tone shifted. Ajax had straightened up, both boots planted now, jaw set like he was trying to look more alert than he felt.
No one wanted to be called out.
Y/n shifted slightly in her seat, slow enough not to draw attention.
Her throat burned.
It wasn’t sudden. It hadn’t been all night—it had been building. A dry, scraping irritation that felt like it was sitting just beneath the surface, catching every time she swallowed, every time she breathed a little too deep.
She pressed her tongue lightly against the roof of her mouth again, trying to ground herself, to ignore it.
It didn’t work.
Her lungs felt… tight.
Not enough to alarm anyone. Not enough to stop her from functioning.
Just enough to remind her it was there.
Waiting.
She swallowed again.
Wrong move.
The sensation shifted—sharper now, like something delicate dragging where it shouldn’t exist. A cough threatened to rise up her throat, sudden and insistent.
No.
Not here.
Her fingers curled slightly against her thigh, nails pressing into fabric as she forced the feeling back down, locking her jaw just enough to stop it from slipping out.
She didn’t know yet.
That was the worst part.
She didn’t know if the next cough would be nothing—or if it would be petals, blood, or both.
And she wasn’t about to find out in front of the entire team.
Elias turned away from them, stepping toward the screen mounted on the wall, one hand lifting to point at the map—highlighted sectors blinking faintly under the harsh lighting.
The moment his back turned—
A nudge hit her side.
Y/n exhaled quietly through her nose, eyes closing for half a second before she turned her head just enough.
“What?” she whispered, voice low and careful, her gaze flicking between Hesh and Elias to make sure she wasn’t being obvious.
Hesh leaned slightly toward her, already forming like he knew exactly what he was about to do.
“Keegan’s looking at you.”
Her head snapped across the aisle before she could stop herself.
Too fast.
Too obvious.
Her eyes landed on Keegan immediately—
—and he wasn’t looking at her.
He hadn’t moved.
Still sitting the same way—legs stretched slightly forward, boots planted, arms crossed. His head angled toward the screen, eyes fixed on the map Elias was pointing at. Focused. Still.
Unbothered.
Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
Heat crept up the back of her neck.
Y/n turned back slowly, her glare landing squarely on Hesh.
“Asshole,” she hissed under her breath.
Hesh’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, the sound barely there—controlled, deliberate, practiced. Just enough that she could hear it. Not enough that Elias would.
Of course he knew.
Hesh had figured it out weeks ago—long before she had any idea how bad it would get. He noticed things. People.
And she hadn’t exactly been subtle.
Not really.
She listened when Keegan spoke—really listened, the way most people didn’t. She watched him more than she should’ve. Took note of where he was, what he was doing, and whether he was in the room.
She volunteered for things if he was already assigned.
Stayed a little longer if he was still around.
It wasn’t obvious—unless you knew what to look for.
Hesh did.
Keegan… didn’t.
Or if he did, he didn’t show it.
That was the problem.
Y/n dragged her gaze forward again, forcing herself to focus on Elias, though his voice blurred slightly at the edges now.
She had been close to asking Logan once.
That had been the plan.
Logan was quiet and observant—closer to Keegan than most. If anyone could’ve figured it out without making it obvious, it would’ve been him.
She’d almost asked.
The day before.
And then—
Her grip tightened slightly on her pant leg.
She could still see it.
The sink.
The white porcelain stained red, petals scattered like something out of a nightmare. Too real. Too solid. Her breath catching halfway through a cough she hadn’t been able to stop. The way her chest had burned afterward. The way her hands had shaken when she turned on the tap, trying to wash it away like that would undo it.
At first, she’d thought she was losing it. Then she’d looked it up. It hadn’t taken her too long to figure out what it was.
Hanahaki.
Fictional.
Supposedly.
Except it wasn’t.
Not when you were standing there with blood in your sink and petals stuck to your skin.
She hadn’t gone to the medics.
There was no way.
She could already hear the conversation—see the looks. The disbelief. The questions she couldn’t answer without sounding insane.
So she hadn’t.
Instead, on a rare day off, she’d gone somewhere else. Someone else.
The memory flickered—dim lighting, the smell of herbs, and something bitter in the air. The woman’s voice was low, knowing in a way that had made something in Y/n’s chest drop.
Real.
That was what she’d said.
Rare—but real.
And there were only two ways out.
Confession.
Or surgery.
Nothing else.
No middle ground.
Y/n shifted again slightly, her breathing measured and careful.
No records. No paperwork. No one knew.
And she was going to keep it that way.
Because the alternative?
Being pulled from duty.
She couldn’t afford that.
Not here. Not with them.
Another flicker of irritation scratched at her throat, sharper this time, and she forced herself to breathe slowly, steadily, and controlled. There was no way—no way—she was going to walk up to Hesh or anyone else and say it out loud.
Hey, I like Keegan enough that flowers are growing in my lungs, and I’m probably going to die if he doesn’t like me back.
Yeah. No.
That wasn’t happening.
It sounded insane just thinking it.
Embarrassing.
Too much.
Because she didn’t feel insane.
She didn’t feel obsessed.
She just—
Her gaze flicked again, against her better judgment.
Keegan hadn’t moved.
Still watching. Still listening. Completely locked in, like nothing else in the room existed.
Like she didn’t.
Y/n looked away quickly, jaw tightening slightly.
She just liked him.
More than she’d ever liked anyone before.
And apparently—
That was enough.
“And you are all free to go now. Have those reports on my desk within the next two weeks.”
Elias shut the screen off with a firm click, the glow of the map disappearing and leaving the room under the dull hum of overhead lights. Papers shifted in his hands as he began gathering them into a neat stack, already moving on, already done with them.
Chairs scraped almost immediately.
The tension that had been stretched thin across the room snapped all at once. Men stood, some slower than others, stretching stiff shoulders, rolling out necks, muttering under their breath. Boots thudded against the concrete floor as everyone started filtering out, conversations low and tired, the kind that came after long operations and longer debriefs.
Y/n didn’t wait.
The second the words left Elias’ mouth, she was on her feet, faster than she’d meant to be. The motion made her head feel light for a split second, her lungs tightening sharply in protest, but she didn’t slow down. She couldn’t.
Her throat burned.
Not just irritated anymore—burning.
It felt like something was lodged there now, something fragile and wrong that shifted when she swallowed, scraping just enough to make her eyes sting. A cough pressed at the back of her throat, insistent and rising, and she had to clamp down on it, forcing it back with sheer will.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
She pushed her chair in quickly, barely registering the others around her as she moved for the door. Hesh was already talking to Logan, something quiet and casual, too focused on his brother to notice the way she was practically slipping out of the room.
Good.
That was good.
Normally, this was the part where everyone stuck together—food, noise, something resembling normal after the kind of work they did. It wasn’t official, but it was routine. Tonight, though, that routine had cracked. People split off without much hesitation, heading in different directions down the hallways. No one had the energy to pretend they weren’t exhausted.
Y/n stepped out into the corridor, the air cooler out here, carrying that familiar scent of concrete, cleaning chemicals, and faint traces of oil and metal that seemed to cling to everything in the base.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, trying to steady her breathing.
Didn’t work.
The tightness in her chest pressed harder, like something inside was expanding, taking up space it shouldn’t. Another cough tried to force its way up, sharper this time, and she swallowed hard, her throat protesting.
She needed a bathroom.
Now.
Her pace picked up again, boots hitting the floor just a little too quickly, just a little too loud, but no one stopped her. Most of the others were too caught up in their own routines—Ajax had already peeled off down a different hallway, likely heading straight for his bunk. Y/n could practically picture him collapsing face-first and not waking up for the next twelve hours, maybe longer.
Lucky.
Her eyes scanned ahead, landing on the familiar sign marking the women’s washroom just down the next stretch of hall. Relief flickered briefly in her chest, though it was short-lived, swallowed quickly by the growing pressure in her lungs.
She forced herself to slow down.
Casual.
Normal.
She adjusted her stride, smoothing it out, shoulders loosening just enough that she didn’t look like she was about to bolt. The last thing she needed was someone noticing and asking questions she couldn’t answer.
She was almost there.
“Hey.”
The hand on her shoulder stopped her cold.
Y/n’s breath hitched, her body going rigid for a fraction of a second before she turned. Her expression shifted quickly—controlled, practiced—into something easy, something normal.
Keegan stood there, close enough that she could see the faint lines of dirt still caught along the edges of his gloves and the slight smudge near his jaw that hadn’t been wiped away yet. His posture was relaxed, but not careless. It never was.
“Hey, Keegan,” she said, forcing a small smile.
His eyes moved over her, not lingering anywhere inappropriate, just… scanning. Quick. Efficient. Taking in details the way he always did—like he was assessing a situation instead of looking at a person.
It made her stomach tighten.
He noticed things.
Too many things.
“Are you doing okay?” he asked.
His voice was even and low, but there was something underneath it—attention sharpened just enough that it wasn’t a casual question. He was watching her face now, waiting.
Y/n held his gaze for a second too long before answering.
“Uh—yeah. I’ve just been feeling a cold coming on, actually.”
The lie came out smoother than she expected.
Not perfect.
But close enough.
Her throat itched again, sharper this time, and she resisted the urge to cough, forcing herself to breathe through it slowly. If he noticed that—
“Yeah,” Keegan hummed quietly, like he’d already come to that conclusion himself. “Thought so.”
He shifted his weight slightly, arms still crossed, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
“Your shots were off today,” he added. “Not by much—but enough. And you haven’t been on the range lately.”
It wasn’t accusatory.
It was worse.
It was factual.
He wasn’t guessing—he knew.
Y/n felt her stomach drop slightly, a tight knot forming there as she searched for something to say. Something believable.
“Just been a bit off,” she said, shrugging lightly, trying to play it down. “Figured it’d pass.”
Keegan studied her for another second, like he was deciding whether or not to push it further.
Then, “Come down to the range tomorrow. I’ll run drills with you.”
The offer was simple. Direct.
No pressure.
Just… there.
“Team’s not doing dinner tonight anyway,” he added. “Could come now.”
For a split second, something in her chest lifted—automatic, instinctive.
Then reality hit just as fast.
The closer she was to him, the worse it got.
She could already feel it.
The way her lungs tightened. The way her throat burned. The way something inside her reacted every time he was near.
If she went—
She wouldn’t be able to hide it.
Not for long.
“Um…” she hesitated, just briefly, before forcing that same small smile back onto her face. “I would, but I think I just need to get some rest tonight.”
It sounded reasonable.
Normal.
Like someone who was just tired.
Keegan didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered for a moment longer, searching, like he was weighing the answer against everything he’d already observed.
Then he gave a small nod.
“Alright,” he said simply. “Don’t let it slide too long.”
There was no judgment in it.
Just expectation.
Y/n nodded quickly. “Yeah. I won’t.”
Another cough pressed up her throat—harder this time—and she couldn’t risk it.
“See you tomorrow,” she added, already reaching for the door.
She grabbed the handle and pulled it open a little too fast, stepping inside before the conversation could stretch any further. The door swung shut behind her with a heavy thud, cutting off the hallway—and him—with it.
The second it closed, the control she’d been holding onto slipped.
Her hand shot to her mouth as the cough finally broke free.
Y/n tilted her chin up toward the sky, forcing her airway open the way she’d been taught years ago. It was muscle memory at this point—tilt the head, straighten the throat, and draw in air as cleanly as possible. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped. It always had. Right now, though, the air still felt thin going in, like her lungs couldn’t quite take in enough no matter how hard she tried.
The treeline above her swayed slightly in the wind, dark branches cutting against the fading light. The mission had wrapped not long ago, and the area still carried that post-operation tension—distant movement, boots shifting through underbrush, low voices from the others regrouping somewhere behind her. The smell of disturbed earth and spent gunpowder lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the cold bite of evening.
She forced a slow inhale.
Then another.
Come on.
Her chest ached—tight, overworked, like she’d been sprinting for miles instead of doing what had actually been a relatively controlled operation. Two months.
Two months of this.
It wasn’t manageable anymore.
Y/n swallowed, her throat catching slightly as she forced the thought aside. She had already made the decision. This would be her last mission. There wasn’t a way around it anymore—not without risking someone noticing, or worse, it getting her killed out here. She’d already started adjusting, taking smaller assignments, and asking Elias for roles that kept her away from the main line of action. Overwatch. Recon positions further out. Anything that let her be alone when it hit.
He’d noticed.
Of course he had.
Elias Walker didn’t miss things like that. He hadn’t said anything yet, but she’d caught the way his eyes lingered on her a second longer than usual, the way his tone shifted slightly when assigning roles. Questioning without asking.
She knew it was coming.
Just… not yet.
Behind her, voices carried faintly through the trees—Hesh, Ajax, Merrick—closing the distance. They’d been saying it for weeks now, complaining half-jokingly that she’d disappeared, that they never saw her anymore unless it was during missions or briefings. Even Keegan had started looking at her differently.
Not softer.
Just… sharper.
More focused.
Like he was trying to solve something.
Y/n exhaled slowly, lowering her chin slightly as her lungs finally pulled in a fuller breath. It didn’t last. The tightness settled back in almost immediately, a pressure building low in her chest that she knew better than to ignore.
It was coming.
She barely had time to bring her arm up before the cough hit.
It tore out of her hard—violent, uncontrolled—forcing her forward slightly as her body tried to expel something it wasn’t meant to hold. The first one burned. The second was worse.
She couldn’t stop it.
Her fingers clenched into the fabric of her sleeve as she tried to muffle it, but it didn’t matter anymore. The sound alone was too much—too harsh, too wrong.
Another cough ripped through her, and something came with it.
She felt it.
That awful, sickening shift in her throat as it moved upward.
She gave up trying to hide it.
Her hand dropped, and she bent forward, one arm bracing against her knee as the next cough forced it out.
Petals.
Darkened with blood.
They hit the ground in front of her in a wet, scattered mess, followed by more—larger this time, some still partially whole, twisted and soaked through. A thin spray of blood followed, spattering faintly against the front of her uniform, barely noticeable unless someone was looking for it.
Her vision blurred slightly at the edges as she forced the coughing to stop, dragging in a shaky breath through parted lips. It burned all the way down.
She stayed bent for a second longer, breathing hard, trying to steady herself.
Then she lifted her head—
—and froze.
Hesh stood a few feet away, completely still.
His green eyes were wide—locked on the ground in front of her, then snapping up to her face like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at.
“Hesh…” Y/n’s voice came out rough, strained, her throat raw. Panic surged up fast, sharp, and immediate. “Don’t—don’t panic.”
He blinked once, like his brain was catching up.
Then, “What the fuck, Y/n—” His voice dropped low immediately, sharp and controlled despite the shock, as he closed the distance between them in two quick steps. “What the fuck is that?”
His gaze flicked down again, taking in the mess of petals and blood at her feet, then back up to her face like he was trying to make it make sense.
“It’s fine,” Y/n rushed out, too fast, too desperate. “I’m fine, I swear—”
Her breath hitched, another cough threatening, and she turned slightly away, bracing her hand against the rough bark of a nearby tree as it came back.
This one was worse.
Deeper.
It dragged at her chest, forcing more out—petals, pieces of flowers, streaked red and clinging together as they fell. The sound of it echoed too loud in her ears, drowning out everything else for a moment.
Hesh’s hand came down on her shoulder, firm, grounding.
“Jesus—” he muttered under his breath, watching, his grip tightening slightly without realizing it. “Y/n…”
She finished coughing with a sharp inhale, her body sagging slightly against the tree as she tried to catch her breath again.
“Are you fucking eating flowers?” Hesh demanded suddenly, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her back to look at her properly. His eyes scanned her face, searching for something—anything that made sense. “You’re going to kill yourself doing that!”
“I’m not eating flowers,” she snapped back weakly, pushing his arms off her. The movement took more effort than it should have, her muscles already drained.
“Then why the hell are you coughing them up?” He shot back, his voice still low but tight with something close to panic. He glanced down again. “That’s blood, Y/n. That’s not normal—none of that is normal.”
She hesitated.
For half a second.
Because there was no good way to explain it.
No way, that didn’t sound insane.
“It’s hanahaki,” she said finally, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Hesh blinked. “It’s what?”
She dragged in a breath, already regretting it, already wishing she could take it back.
“It’s—”
Voices.
Closer now.
Merrick’s low tone. Ajax saying something loud but indiscernible from the distance.
They were almost there.
Y/n’s head snapped slightly toward the sound before she looked back at Hesh, urgency replacing the hesitation.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said quickly. “Just—please don’t say anything right now.”
Hesh stared at her like she’d just told him the sky was green.
“Y/n, you’re coughing up blood and flowers,” he hissed, glancing back toward the approaching voices before looking at her again. “I have to tell Dad.”
“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head. “Hesh, please—you can’t.”
“Why not?” His voice dropped even lower, more controlled now, but no less intense. Even as he spoke, he shifted slightly, using his boot to drag dirt and loose leaves over the petals at her feet, covering the evidence out of instinct.
“Because I can’t explain it right now—”
“Either you’re gonna explain it now,” he cut in, stepping closer, his voice firm despite the quiet. “Or I’m telling them.”
“Hesh—”
“Now, Y/n.” His jaw tightened slightly, eyes locked on hers. “Listen to me. I care about you, alright? You’re not just some random on the team; you are like family.” His voice softened just a fraction, but the urgency didn’t leave it. “And I’m not watching you cough up… whatever the hell that is and pretend it’s fine.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing back once more at the approaching team before stepping closer again.
“I don’t want to tell him,” he added, quieter now. “But I will.”
The space between them tightened, heavy with expectation.
“Talk.”
Y/n held his gaze, searching for any sign that he was bluffing—any flicker of hesitation, any crack in the certainty behind his words.
There wasn’t one.
Hesh’s eyes were steady, sharp with concern and something heavier underneath it. He meant what he said. If she didn’t tell him, he would go to Elias. Not out of spite—not even out of anger—but because that was who he was. Loyal to a fault. Protective in a way that didn’t leave room for secrets like this.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
She didn’t have time to argue.
“It’s a disease,” she said finally, voice low, the words feeling strange coming out of her mouth.
Her eyes flicked past him instinctively, scanning the treeline. The forest had settled again—quiet, but not silent. Wind moved through the branches overhead, leaves shifting with a soft rustle. Somewhere in the distance, she could still hear faint movement—boots against dirt, gear shifting—but it was far enough away now that no one was immediately on top of them.
Still.
She lowered her voice further.
“It’s called hanahaki.”
Hesh frowned immediately. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”
Y/n exhaled through her nose, her chest still tight, still aching from the last coughing fit. She didn’t have the luxury of easing into this.
“It happens when… you’re in love with someone,” she said quickly, forcing the explanation out before she could second-guess it. “And they don’t feel the same way back.”
Hesh blinked.
Once.
“…What?”
She swallowed, her throat scraping painfully as she continued.
“Your body reacts to it. It starts growing… flowers. In your lungs.” She gestured vaguely toward her chest, fingers pressing briefly against the fabric like she could indicate the problem from the outside. “And then you cough them up. Petals at first, then… more. Bigger. Worse.”
Hesh stared at her like she’d just told him something completely unreal.
“That’s not—” he started, then stopped, his eyes flicking down briefly to the ground where he’d just covered the evidence. “…that’s not a thing.”
“It is,” she said quietly, her voice tightening. “I didn’t think it was either. I looked it up after it started, and then I went to someone who knew more about it. It’s real. Rare, but real.”
Hesh ran a hand through his hair, pacing half a step before stopping again, his attention snapping back to her.
“So what—you just… keep coughing those up?” he asked, gesturing vaguely. “And then what? It just… stops?”
Y/n shook her head.
“No.”
The word sat heavy between them.
“It gets worse,” she said. “It keeps growing. Eventually it blocks your airway or… damages your lungs enough that you—” She cut herself off, but the implication didn’t need finishing.
Hesh’s expression shifted, the disbelief finally cracking into something sharper. Concern. Fear.
“You’re serious,” he said quietly.
She nodded once.
“There’s only two ways to get rid of it,” she added. “Either the person you—” She hesitated for half a second, then forced it out. “—the person you love has to return those feelings.”
Hesh’s gaze sharpened immediately at that, something clicking into place.
“And the other way?”
“Surgery,” she said. “They remove it. Everything.”
“And?”
Y/n looked away for a moment, her jaw tightening.
“And you don’t feel anything for them anymore after,” she said quietly. “Not love. Not attachment. Nothing.”
Silence settled between them, heavier than before.
Hesh let out a slow breath, his eyes dragging over her face again like he was trying to reassess everything he thought he knew.
“Who?” he asked.
The question came out blunt.
Direct.
Y/n froze.
Her chest tightened again—not from the illness this time, but from something else entirely.
“Hesh—”
“Who is it?” he pressed, his voice still low but firmer now. “Because I’m guessing it’s not some random person off base.”
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
The look on her face was enough.
Hesh’s expression shifted again, realization dawning in a way that made his shoulders tense slightly.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.
Y/n opened her mouth to respond—
—and the cough hit her again.
Harder than before.
It bent her forward immediately, her body folding in on itself as the force of it tore through her chest. Her hand shot out, bracing against the tree again as she tried to breathe through it, but it didn’t stop. It never stopped once it started.
Hesh was at her side instantly.
“Hey—hey, easy,” he muttered, one hand coming up to her back, rubbing firmly between her shoulder blades in a steady, grounding motion. His other hand hovered like he didn’t know whether to grab her or not. “Breathe, Y/n, come on—”
Another cough dragged up more petals, darker this time, heavier, sticking together as they fell. Hesh’s eyes flicked around quickly, scanning the treeline, the direction of the others’ voices—checking, making sure no one was close enough to see.
“Shit…” he muttered under his breath.
Y/n forced the coughing down after a few more seconds, dragging in a sharp, uneven breath as her body finally let her.
Hesh kept his hand on her back a moment longer before pulling it away, his jaw tight.
“How long?” he asked.
“Two months,” she managed, her voice rough.
“And you didn’t tell anyone?” His tone wasn’t angry—just strained.
She shook her head.
“No.”
Hesh exhaled sharply, looking away for a second before dragging his gaze back to her.
“And you were just… what? Gonna keep going like this?”
Y/n hesitated.
“…It was my last mission,” she admitted quietly.
That seemed to hit him harder than anything else she’d said.
Hesh stared at her, something unreadable flashing across his face before he looked back down at the ground, then back up again.
“…Does he know?” he asked after a moment.
Y/n’s stomach twisted.
“No,” she said.
And somehow, that answer made everything worse.
“Fuck, Y/n, you need to tell him.”
Hesh’s voice was low, sharp with urgency as he scuffed his boot over the ground again, grinding loose dirt and brittle leaves over the fresh petals. The motion was rougher now, less careful, like he was trying to erase the sight of them entirely. The blood had already soaked in, darkening the edges of the crushed flowers in a way that made his jaw tighten.
“That won’t change anything.” Y/n’s voice came out quieter than she meant it to, strained from the coughing. She lifted her gaze to him, holding it despite the way her chest still ached. “You only get hanahaki if they don’t return your feelings. He doesn’t like me.”
Hesh went still for a second.
His eyes searched her face like he was trying to find a crack in that statement—something uncertain, something he could argue against. Instead, his gaze caught on the faint streak of red along her bottom lip, trailing down toward her chin.
“Hold still,” he muttered.
He yanked one glove off with his teeth, shoved two fingers into his mouth to wet them, and then reached out, swiping the blood away in quick, efficient movements. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either—just practical, like cleaning a cut in the field before anyone else noticed.
“Can’t walk around like that,” he added under his breath.
Y/n didn’t pull away, though the contact made something in her chest tighten again for entirely different reasons.
“You didn’t think it might’ve been a good idea to tell anyone this was your last mission?” Hesh asked, quieter now. Not angry—worse. Hurt.
The words hit harder than she expected.
Y/n looked away, her shoulders shifting slightly as she reached up and pulled her mask back over her face, the fabric hiding the last of the evidence. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
Before Hesh could respond, movement broke through the trees.
Boots against dirt. Branches shifting.
The rest of the team stepped into the clearing in a loose cluster, weapons slung, postures relaxed now that the immediate danger had passed. Ajax led the way, a grin already on his face as he spotted them.
“We were looking for you two,” he said, closing the distance quickly and giving Hesh a light elbow to the side.
“Yeah,” Hesh replied, his tone flatter than usual. “We were all supposed to meet here.”
The lack of his usual energy didn’t go unnoticed—at least not by everyone.
Keegan’s eyes flicked toward him immediately, sharp and assessing. He didn’t say anything, but the look was there—brief, questioning. Hesh didn’t acknowledge it. Whether he didn’t see it or chose to ignore it, Y/n couldn’t tell.
Merrick stepped forward next, his attention shifting to Y/n as he gave a short nod. “What’s it look like ahead?”
“All clear,” she answered, forcing her voice steady despite the rawness in her throat. “Didn’t see any Federation movement close enough to interfere with evac.”
Merrick nodded once, satisfied.
Y/n swallowed—and immediately regretted it.
The irritation in her throat flared, sharp and sudden, and the urge to cough hit her hard enough that she couldn’t stop it this time. It broke through her in a series of short, harsh coughs, her shoulders tightening as she tried to keep it controlled.
Hesh moved instinctively, stepping closer again. His hand lifted slightly, hovering near her back like he was about to steady her—but he stopped himself at the last second, dropping it instead.
Y/n didn’t pull her mask down. She forced the coughing back as quickly as she could, clamping down on it, swallowing the rest even though it made her chest burn.
“You good?” Ajax asked, his tone casual, though his eyes lingered on her a second longer than usual.
“Yeah,” she answered, clearing her throat again—carefully this time. “Just a cold coming on.”
It was the same excuse.
The same one she’d been using.
Keegan’s gaze settled on her, his expression tightening just slightly. Not obvious—most wouldn’t catch it—but it was there. His eyes narrowed a fraction, attention sharpening.
Two months.
Same explanation.
It didn’t line up.
He didn’t call it out—not here, not in front of the others—but the doubt was there, written clearly in the way he watched her.
Hesh noticed that too.
And his reaction was immediate.
His jaw tightened, and his gaze shifted toward Keegan—not subtle, not hidden. There was something in it now. Frustration. Blame. Something deeper that hadn’t been there before.
Keegan caught it.
Of course he did.
His eyes flicked to Hesh again, this time more direct, a silent question in the look—but Hesh didn’t respond. He just looked away, shoulders stiff.
Merrick clapped his hands together once, breaking the moment.
“Move,” he said. “Let’s get to the LZ.”
The team fell into motion without hesitation.
They moved through the trees in a loose formation, boots crunching over dry brush and uneven ground. The forest thinned gradually, opening into a wider clearing ahead—a flatter stretch of land with fewer obstructions and better visibility. Ideal for extraction.
The wind picked up slightly as they stepped into it, carrying the distant, familiar thrum of rotor blades.
Right on time.
Y/n kept her pace steady and controlled, though every breath still felt just a little too shallow. She stayed toward the middle of the group, not too far ahead, not lagging behind—normal.
Hesh stayed close.
Closer than usual.
His eyes flicked to her more often than they should have, checking, watching. Every time they did, his gaze would shift again—to Keegan.
And it wasn’t subtle.
Not anymore.
The helicopter came into view over the treeline, descending in a controlled drop, rotors kicking up dust and loose debris as it approached the clearing. The noise swallowed everything else, forcing them to lower their heads slightly as they moved in.
They boarded quickly, one after another, practiced and efficient.
Y/n took a seat along the side, strapping in with steady hands. Across from her, Hesh sat down hard, his attention still on her—until it snapped sideways again, landing on Keegan.
Keegan noticed.
He always noticed.
He met Hesh’s stare for a brief moment, his expression unreadable, before his eyes shifted back to Y/n instead.
Assessing.
Quiet.
Watching.
The helicopter lifted off, the ground falling away beneath them as the forest stretched out below.
No one spoke over the noise.
But the tension didn’t leave.
And Hesh didn’t stop looking between them.
By the time the helicopter touched down at base, Y/n could feel the inside of her mask sticking to her skin.
The ride back had been long enough for the heat of her breath and the repeated, suppressed coughing to turn everything damp and unpleasant. Each inhale dragged against fabric that was no longer dry, the faint metallic tang of blood lingering with every breath she took. It irritated her skin, clung to her lips, made the urge to rip it off almost unbearable.
She didn’t.
She wouldn’t until she was out of sight.
The helicopter settled onto the landing pad with a heavy thud, rotors still churning the air into a chaotic rush that whipped at clothing and loose straps. Dust and debris scattered outward, forcing everyone to keep their heads slightly down as they unbuckled and moved.
Y/n was quick.
The second she was clear, she stepped off the ramp, boots hitting the concrete with purpose. She didn’t wait, didn’t linger. Her hands moved automatically—unclipping her harness, shrugging it off along with her helmet as she crossed toward the gear lockers near the edge of the hangers.
Metal clanged softly as she dumped everything inside, not bothering with neatness.
She needed out.
Now.
The base was alive around her—operators moving in different directions, some heading toward debrief, others toward the mess, a few already peeling off gear as they walked. The low hum of conversation mixed with the distant whir of machinery and the fading roar of the helicopter behind her.
Normal.
Everything was normal.
Except her.
She turned toward the corridor leading to the barracks, her pace just shy of hurried.
She didn’t make it far.
“Hey, Y/n.”
Hesh’s voice came from behind her, and she felt her shoulders tense slightly before she slowed just enough for him to catch up.
He jogged the last few steps, then matched her pace, falling into step beside her like he had no intention of letting her out of his sight.
“What?” she asked, not looking at him.
Her voice was muffled through the mask, rougher than usual.
Hesh pulled his own mask off, stuffing it into one of his cargo pockets where it hung out awkwardly, half-tucked and forgotten. His expression wasn’t his usual easygoing one.
“There’s no other way to get rid of it?” he asked.
Y/n stayed quiet for a few seconds, her gaze fixed ahead as they moved through the hallway. The lighting inside was harsher than outside—bright, sterile, bouncing off pale walls and making everything feel too exposed.
“…You can get surgery,” she said finally.
Hesh didn’t hesitate.
“Then get it.”
There was no teasing in his voice. No humour. Just blunt insistence.
Y/n’s chest tightened—not from the illness this time.
“I—I can’t,” she said, her eyes flicking upward briefly before dropping back down to the floor in front of her.
“Why?” Hesh stopped walking abruptly, his hand catching her arm and pulling her to a halt with him. “Why can’t you just get the fucking surgery? It would fix this, wouldn’t it?”
She turned slightly toward him, caught off guard by the force behind it. His eyes searched hers, frustration and worry sitting side by side in a way that made her stomach twist.
“Because…” she started, then hesitated.
She pulled her arm free, stepping past him and continuing down the hallway, her pace picking up again.
“It gets rid of everything,” she said, quieter now. “All your feelings for them. The memories tied to it… they go too.”
Hesh caught up to her again easily, his stride longer and faster.
“So what?” he shot back. “He doesn’t like you back, right? So he’s not worth it. You get the surgery, this stops, and you’re fine.”
“It’s not that simple,” she muttered, her eyes fixed on the ground ahead.
“It is that simple,” Hesh argued, his voice rising slightly before he forced it back down. “You’re killing yourself over this, Y/n.”
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
“Why not?” he demanded. “Why the fuck not?”
Y/n didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t turn around.
She just kept going, rounding the corner toward the barracks, leaving him standing there for half a second before he swore under his breath and followed.
He caught up just as she reached her door.
She fumbled the key out quickly, unlocking it with hands that weren’t quite steady anymore. The second the door swung open, she stepped inside.
Hesh followed immediately, shutting it behind them with a firm click.
“Because…” she started, turning toward him as she backed up slightly into the room. “What if he changes his mind?”
The words came out faster now, less controlled.
“What if he does like me, and I just—” her voice caught, her throat tightening suddenly. “I don’t want to lose that, Hesh. I don’t want to lose how I feel about him.”
He shook his head with a hurt look in his eyes.
Her stomach twisted sharply.
A gag forced its way up her throat.
Hesh moved without thinking.
His hand came up, grabbing the bottom of her mask and pulling it off before she could react, tossing it aside as soon as it was free.
Her skin underneath was worse than he expected.
Blood smeared across her lips, dried in places, fresh in others. A petal clung to her cheek, stuck there by moisture.
“Jesus…” he muttered under his breath.
Y/n dropped onto the edge of her bed, barely catching herself before the coughing started again.
It hit hard.
Harder than before.
Her body folded forward as she coughed, one hand bracing against the mattress while the other pressed against her chest like it might help.
Hesh stepped closer, not sitting, but close enough that his legs brushed her knees. One hand came to her back immediately, rubbing firm circles between her shoulder blades.
“Hey—hey, just let it out,” he said, his voice lower now, steadier. “Don’t fight it.”
His other hand reached up, carefully peeling the petal from her cheek and flicking it aside without looking away from her.
He didn’t flinch as it got worse.
Blood spattered lightly across the floor, the bed, and even his clothes, mixing with the petals and partially formed flowers that fell from her mouth in uneven bursts. The sight made his jaw tighten, his lips pressing together, but he stayed where he was.
Didn’t look away.
Didn’t pull back.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmured, still rubbing her back. “Get it out. All of it.”
The pile on the floor grew.
And he stayed with her through every second of it.
The coughing tapered off slowly, uneven at first before finally giving her a few seconds of quiet.
Y/n stayed bent forward, one hand braced against the mattress, the other still pressed weakly to her chest as she dragged in air. Each breath scraped on the way down, raw and shallow, but at least it came. That was something.
Hesh didn’t move away.
The moment she stopped, he reached for her again, wetting his fingers quickly and dragging them across her skin to wipe away the fresh streaks of blood. His movements were automatic now—practical, focused—like treating any other injury in the field. He didn’t comment on it, didn’t hesitate, just cleaned her face with a quiet efficiency that came from habit more than thought.
He ignored the floor for now.
Ignored the growing mess of petals and crushed flowers and dark stains that spread across the space between her boots and the bed.
Y/n lowered her hand slowly, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached down toward the pile, instinct kicking in. Clean it. Hide it. Get rid of the evidence before anyone else—
Hesh caught her wrists immediately.
“Don’t,” he said, his tone low but firm.
He guided her hands back up, pressing them gently into her lap so she wouldn’t reach again.
“I’ll clean it,” he added under his breath, already brushing a few stray petals off her pants and flicking them aside. He tugged one from the crease of his own sleeve, not even reacting to the smear it left behind.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The room felt smaller than usual, quieter. The faint hum of the base carried through the walls—distant voices, footsteps in the hallway, the occasional clang of metal somewhere farther down—but inside, it felt contained. Still.
Hesh’s eyes stayed on her.
Y/n’s stayed on the floor.
The flowers looked worse now that she wasn’t in the middle of it. Larger. Heavier. Some were still only partially formed, others more complete, their shapes warped slightly from the way they’d been forced out. The deep red staining them had already begun to darken.
Yesterday had been worse.
Two full ones.
She knew what that meant.
Her time wasn’t stretching out anymore—it was shortening. Rapidly.
The choice sat heavy in her chest, heavier than anything the illness itself was doing to her lungs.
Surgery.
Or wait.
Wait for something that wasn’t guaranteed. That probably wouldn’t happen at all.
“Y/n.”
Hesh’s voice broke the silence, quieter now.
He reached up, his hand gentler this time as he tilted her chin, guiding her to look at him. His grip wasn’t forceful—just enough to keep her from looking away.
“Please,” he said, and there was no edge to it now. Just raw honesty. “Just get the surgery.”
His eyes searched hers, desperate in a way she hadn’t seen from him before.
“He’s not going to like you back,” he continued, softer. “And there are people here who care about you. A lot of people. We’re not gonna just—” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “We’re not gonna watch you die over this.”
Y/n pressed her lips together, her throat tightening again—not from coughing this time.
“I…” she hesitated, her fingers curling slightly around his wrist without thinking. He didn’t pull away.
“What if he does?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if he does, Hesh?”
Her grip tightened just a little.
“I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose how I feel about him.” Her eyes dropped for a second before lifting again. “You don’t get it—you have to feel it to understand it.”
Hesh’s expression shifted, something frustrated and pained flickering across his face.
“He’s not going to,” he said, more firmly this time. Not cruel—just certain. “You know that.”
He held her gaze, not letting her look away.
“He’s older than you. He keeps to himself. He doesn’t do relationships.” His jaw tightened slightly. “At most? A one-night thing every few years, if that. That’s it. That’s all he’s interested in.”
His voice dropped.
“Friendship? Yeah. He’s got that. But anything more than that?” He shook his head. “No.”
His eyes softened just slightly, but the words didn’t.
The movement was slow, careful, like she was still gauging whether her body would cooperate. Then she turned away, moving toward her closet without another word.
Hesh watched her go, his chest tight for an entirely different reason now.
She started pulling things out methodically—clothes first, folding them with practiced precision before placing them into the open box on her bed. Each movement was controlled, deliberate. Like if she focused on the process, she wouldn’t have to think about anything else.
There were already two boxes packed and taped shut, sitting neatly against the wall.
He noticed them now.
Really noticed them.
This wasn’t a plan she’d just come up with.
She’d been preparing.
For a while.
“You’re serious,” he said quietly.
She didn’t answer.
“Y/n,” he tried again, stepping closer but not interrupting her as she folded another shirt. “Please.”
“I can’t,” she said, and this time her voice cracked.
The words barely left her mouth before her body betrayed her again.
She staggered back a step, her hand coming up too late as the coughing hit—shorter this time, but still violent enough to force her to bend slightly. It didn’t last as long, but when it ended, a single, full flower dropped to the floor with a soft, heavy sound.
Hesh’s stomach turned at the sight.
He stepped forward immediately, steadying her by the shoulders as she caught her breath.
“Alright, alright,” he muttered, his hand moving to her back again. “Easy.”
When it passed, he cleaned her face again without asking, wiping away what little blood had escaped this time. She tried to brush him off halfway through.
“I can do it—”
“I’ve got it,” he cut in quietly.
She didn’t fight him after that.
Once she steadied again, she went back to packing.
Like nothing had happened.
Hesh turned away from her, finally crouching down to deal with the mess on the floor. He gathered the petals and flowers with a piece of paper towel from her desk, his movements slower now, more deliberate.
His mind wasn’t quiet.
It was racing.
Every possibility running through it at once—and none of them ending well.
He didn’t want her leaving like this.
Didn’t want her alone somewhere, coughing herself to death because of something that wasn’t going to change.
“Leaving like this is desertion,” he said suddenly, glancing back at her.
It was a weak attempt.
He knew it.
But he needed something—anything—that might make her stop.
“I already handled it,” Y/n replied, not looking at him as she reached up and pulled the tie from her hair. “Paperwork’s done. I’ve been cleared.”
Her hair fell free around her shoulders.
Hesh blinked slightly, caught off guard.
It was longer than he expected—longer than he’d ever seen it. She never wore it down. Always in a bun. Tight. Controlled. Regulation.
He remembered the story she’d told once. About basic training. About someone getting their hair cut for not having it up properly.
Old habits didn’t die easily.
Neither did fear.
Hesh watched her cross the room, the last of her things already packed away, the space behind her stripped down to something impersonal again. The bed was neatly made, corners tight. The desk held only what had been issued. The closet stood half-open, empty except for a few stray items that didn’t belong to her.
Like she’d never been there.
Y/n reached the door and pulled it open wide, adjusting her grip as she stacked two of the lighter boxes together in her arms. She shifted them against her hip, using her knee to steady the bottom one before stepping forward.
Hesh moved before she could take another step.
He took the boxes from her without asking, balancing them easily against his chest as he stepped back toward the doorway to give her space.
She paused, giving him a look—half questioning, half tired.
“Let me help you,” he said simply.
No teasing. No sarcasm.
Just quiet insistence.
Y/n exhaled softly through her nose and didn’t argue. She turned back, grabbing the last box—the heaviest one—and held it against her front. Before leaving, she glanced around the room one final time, her eyes moving over everything with a careful, almost practiced sweep.
Nothing left.
Nothing that mattered.
She stepped out into the hallway.
Hesh followed, pulling the door shut behind them with his foot.
The base corridors were busier now than before—shift changes, people moving between assignments, voices carrying in low conversation. The overhead lights cast everything in a clean, artificial brightness, making it harder to disappear even when you wanted to.
And they stood out.
It wasn’t subtle.
A Ghost walking through the halls in civilian clothes, hair down, carrying a box—while another followed with two more. Heads turned. Not openly, not rudely, but enough. Enough that Y/n could feel it, even without looking.
No one stopped them.
No one asked.
People filled in their own explanations. Transfer. Leave. Off-duty. Something classified.
That was the nature of the place.
Don’t ask unless you’re told to.
They walked in silence.
Boots echoed softly against the polished floor, the sound steady and rhythmic. Hesh kept pace beside her, adjusting his grip slightly on the boxes when they shifted.
Neither of them spoke.
What was there left to say?
They made it outside without interruption, the air cooler now that the sun had dipped lower. The parking area stretched out ahead, rows of vehicles lined up under the fading light.
Y/n’s truck sat where she’d left it.
Hesh stepped ahead this time, opening the back door and setting the boxes inside carefully—though when he shut it, it came down harder than it needed to. The sound echoed slightly in the open space.
He turned back to her immediately.
“Y/n?”
His voice gave him away before anything else did.
“Yes?” she asked, her throat rough as she cleared it—only to cough again, briefly, turning her head to the side as a few petals slipped free.
Hesh didn’t wait.
“This is suicide,” he said bluntly, stepping forward and grabbing her shoulders. “You know that, right? You’re basically killing yourself because a guy doesn’t like you.”
“Suicide is when you actively kill yourself,” she replied, her voice quieter, almost automatic.
“And that’s what you’re doing,” he shot back immediately. “Just slower.”
His grip tightened slightly.
“Just get the surgery. Please. Or I swear to God, I’ll knock you out and drag you to a hospital myself.”
“They won’t operate if I’m drugged on something they didn’t give me or if I’m already knocked out,” she said, blinking at him tiredly. “You know that.”
“Then I’ll figure something else out,” he snapped. “I’m not letting you just walk away and die like this.”
“There isn’t anything you can do,” she said, her voice wavering now as she wiped her nose against her arm, her composure starting to crack.
Hesh shook his head hard.
“No. No, I can’t do that. I can’t let you do this.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “I can’t watch you throw your life away because of him.”
She didn’t get the chance to respond.
The coughing hit again.
Hard.
It bent her forward, her arms instinctively wrapping around herself as she tried to breathe through it, but it only got worse—deeper, harsher, dragging everything up with it.
Hesh moved instantly.
He pulled her into him without hesitation, one arm wrapping around her shoulders while the other came up to cradle the back of her head, pressing her against his chest to steady her.
“I’ve got you,” he muttered, his hand rubbing firm circles along her back. “Just breathe. Don’t fight it.”
He didn’t care about the mess.
Didn’t flinch when petals fell between them, when blood stained through fabric, when it smeared across his uniform.
He just held her.
Kept her upright.
“Yeah… yeah, there you go,” he murmured, softer now, his thumb brushing slowly against her hair. “Just get it out.”
Her coughing stretched on longer this time, broken only by the desperate gasps she managed to pull in between. Her hands clutched at his shirt, gripping tight without thinking.
And he stayed.
Didn’t let go.
“Please,” he said quietly, his voice cracking just slightly as he leaned his head down closer to hers. “Please, Y/n.”
She started to calm, the coughing easing into shallow, shaky breaths. Her body sagged slightly against him, exhausted, spent.
“There are people who care about you,” he continued, his voice low, almost unsteady now. “You don’t get to just disappear like that. Not like this.”
He hesitated.
Then forced the words out.
“I care about you.”
Y/n stilled slightly against him.
Hesh swallowed hard, pushing through it.
“I mean it,” he said. “I care about you a lot more than I should, probably. And I’m not—” his voice faltered again, then steadied. “I’m not gonna stand here and watch you die because someone else doesn’t feel the same way.”
His grip tightened just slightly.
“I like you,” he admitted, quieter now, the words heavier than anything else he’d said. “Maybe not the same way you like him, but… enough. Enough that I want you here. Alive. Not—” he cut himself off, exhaling sharply.
“Just get the surgery,” he said again, softer this time. “Please.”
Y/n’s eyes burned.
Tears welled up faster than she could stop them, spilling over as she let out a small, broken breath. Her arms moved slowly, wrapping around him in return, holding onto him like it might steady something inside her that was falling apart.
She cried quietly against him.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just enough that her shoulders shook slightly with it.
It made her cough again—short, painful bursts that she tried to suppress but couldn’t fully stop.
“I…” she started, her voice cracking. “I can’t.”
The words came out barely audible.
“I can’t do it.”
Hesh’s hold tightened instinctively.
“You can—”
“I can’t,” she repeated, pulling back slightly, her hands slipping from his grip. Her eyes were wet, red, and exhausted. “I can’t lose that. I can’t lose how I feel about him.”
Her voice broke again.
“I just… can’t.”
Hesh’s arms fell back to his sides as she stepped away from him.
The distance between them felt bigger than it should have.
She turned, moving toward the driver’s side of her truck without looking back. Her steps were unsteady but determined.
The door opened with a creak.
She climbed in, pulling it shut behind her.
For a second, she just sat there.
Then her forehead dropped forward, hitting the steering wheel once with a dull thud.
Hesh didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He just stood there, watching.
The engine turned over.
The truck rumbled to life.
Y/n didn’t look at him.
Not once.
She shifted into gear and pulled out, tires crunching against gravel as she drove away.
So, lets say I have a story in thr editing phase about the Reader loving/liking Keegan. Keegan does not love/like the Reader back. Hesh loves/likes the Reader. Reader does not love/like him back.
Do I put this under the Keegan section, the Hesh section, or both?
WARNING/CAUTION: This story contains a person stuck in a fire and suffering from burns and blisters, blood, talk of dying and death and pain
The end of the world was something people had always imagined in vivid, terrifying detail.
Long before Y/n had been born, long before the war, before ODIN, before the sky itself had turned into a weapon—people had sat in quiet rooms and wondered how everything would end. They gave it meaning and shaped it into stories they could understand.
Fire and brimstone sent by God, some said.
The Seventh Fire, others whispered—an age of choice, of destruction or renewal.
Others spoke of earthquakes, of the ground splitting open beneath cities. Of the sky burning. Of stars dying and taking everything with them.
Different beliefs. Different stories.
But they all shared one thing.
Fire.
There was always fire.
Maybe that was why Y/n was thinking about it now.
Because everything around her was burning.
The heat pressed in from all sides, heavy and suffocating, like the building itself had turned into a furnace and she’d been locked inside it. The air shimmered, warped, and was thick with smoke so dense it felt almost solid in her lungs. It curled around her, clung to her skin, and seeped into her mouth and nose no matter how tightly she tried to control her breathing.
She couldn’t see.
Not really.
At some point—she didn’t know when—she’d stopped trying. Her eyes were open; she knew that much, but it didn’t matter. Everything was swallowed in grey and black, shifting shadows that offered no shape, no direction. Her own hand, if she lifted it, would disappear into the haze inches from her face.
So she didn’t lift it.
She stayed where she was, pressed low against the floor, cheek against the burning-hot concrete that still somehow felt cooler than the air above it.
Was the end of the world like this?
Would people choke on it?
Would they stumble blindly through smoke so thick they couldn’t see their own families, their own hands reaching out for them? Would they hear the collapse before they saw it—the groan of steel, the scream of concrete—before everything came down?
Her chest tightened.
Breathing hurt.
Every inhale scraped down her throat like she was swallowing ash and needles, coating the inside of her lungs with something thick and wrong. It didn’t feel like air anymore. It felt heavy. Useless. Like her body was working harder and harder for less and less in return.
She coughed, the sound weak and raw, and immediately regretted it.
It burned.
Her throat felt like it had been lined with fire itself, each breath dragging more heat inside her, blistering where it touched. Her nose stung, the tiny hairs inside it singed away, leaving nothing to filter what she was breathing in. Smoke. Chemicals. God knew what else.
Paint. Insulation. Fuel.
Things no one was ever meant to inhale.
She knew that much, even without a medical degree. You didn’t need training to understand when your body was failing.
Her fingers twitched against the floor, curling weakly.
What was worse?
The smoke… or the heat?
It changed every few seconds. One moment, it was the suffocating weight in her chest, the desperate, clawing need for oxygen that never quite came. The next, it was the fire itself—radiating closer, hotter, licking at her skin in waves that made her flinch even when she couldn’t see it.
Neither gave her a break.
They took turns.
Like they were deciding which one would kill her first.
A shaky breath left her, catching halfway out.
So this was how it ended.
Not some grand, meaningful sacrifice. Not in the middle of a fight with a gun in her hands and her people at her back.
Just… this.
Suffocation.
Smoke inhalation, people would call it. Make it sound cleaner than it was.
But it was still suffocation.
Just slower. Dirtier.
Her lips twitched faintly, something almost like a bitter laugh trying to form before dying in her throat.
She’d never been smothered before—never had a pillow pressed over her face—but she was almost certain that had to be better than this. At least then, you could fight. You could thrash, claw, or do something.
Here?
There was nothing to grab. Nothing to hit. Nothing to push away.
Just heat.
Just smoke.
Just the slow, creeping failure of her own body.
She shifted slightly, instinct more than intention, and pain flared along her arm where her skin brushed against something hotter than the rest. A sharp inhale followed, immediate and reflexive—and worse than before.
Too much.
The air above her was worse.
Hotter. Thicker.
She forced herself back down, cheek pressing harder into the ground, even as it burned.
Stay low.
The thought came automatically, drilled into her from years of surviving things most people never had to think about. Fires, raids, collapsing structures—rules learned the hard way.
Stay low where the air is clearer.
Except it wasn’t clear.
Not really.
Just… less deadly than the alternative.
Her body felt heavy.
Too heavy.
Like her limbs didn’t quite belong to her anymore, like they were sinking into the floor instead of resting on it. Getting up—just the idea of it—felt impossible. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew.
The moment she lifted her head, she’d breathe in more smoke.
Less oxygen.
Her vision—what little there was—would go completely.
She’d take a few steps, maybe. Blind. Disoriented.
And then she’d drop and that would be it.
No one would find her in time. Not in this. Not in the middle of a building that had taken a direct hit, buried under flames and debris with no clear exit.
There were no windows here. No doors. She’d been too far inside when the bombs fell. Trapped from the start because she was stupidly heroic and brave.
Her fingers curled tighter, nails scraping faintly against the concrete.
She could try.
She could still try.
Push herself up. Run. Guess.
But it would just change how she died.
Not if.
How?
Another cough tore from her, weaker than before, her body struggling to even manage that.
Her chest rose.
Fell.
Shallower now.
The heat pressed closer.
The smoke thicker.
And somewhere, distant and fading, a thought drifted through her mind—
Maybe this was what the end of the world really felt like.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
Just… slow.
Burning.
And impossible to escape.
A warm orange glow began to bloom through the smoke, faint at first, like the last light of a dying sunset. It flickered weakly against the grey haze, and for a moment her oxygen-starved brain couldn’t place it. It felt distant, unreal—just another trick of the suffocating dark pressing in around her.
Then it shifted. Brightened. Moved.
Fire.
The realization came slowly, sluggishly, as if it had to force its way through the thick fog filling her head. The flames were close now—too close. Close enough that their light painted the concrete walls in restless, shifting shadows. Close enough that she could feel the heat changing, sharpening, and turning from something distant and unbearable into something immediate and alive.
It crept along the walls like something searching, hungry and patient. Long tongues of flame stretched outward, curling and flicking as if tasting the air, seeking anything left to consume. The building groaned around her, faint cracks and pops echoing through the smoke as materials weakened, warped, and gave in to the heat.
She needed to move.
The thought hit hard, urgent, and almost violent in its desperation.
Move. Get up. Crawl. Do something.
Her mind screamed at her body, sending command after command, but nothing happened. Her limbs felt disconnected, heavy in a way that went beyond exhaustion. It was like the signal just… stopped somewhere between thought and action, swallowed by the same thing that was stealing the air from her lungs.
She tried again.
Nothing.
It reminded her of those moments when words got stuck—when you knew exactly what you wanted to say, could feel it sitting right there, ready, but your mouth wouldn’t form the sounds. Only this was worse. Much worse.
Because this wasn’t just words.
This was survival.
Her lips parted slightly, her breathing shallow and uneven, more instinct than control now. The air burned going in and scraped going out, and still her body kept trying, kept fighting for something that wasn’t really there.
The fire shifted again, brighter now, and despite everything—despite the pain clawing through her chest and the heat pressing against her skin—she found herself staring at it.
It was… pretty.
That thought felt wrong the moment it formed, but it didn’t leave.
As a kid, she’d loved fire.
She remembered sitting outside during camping trips, bundled up in a blanket while the night settled in around them. The crackle of wood, the steady warmth, the way the flames danced and twisted in ways that never quite repeated. Her mother’s hands guiding hers as they held a stick over the fire, slowly turning a marshmallow until it browned just right.
The smell had been the best part.
Wood smoke—clean, earthy, familiar. It clung to clothes and hair, followed you inside, and lingered long after the fire burned out. It meant warmth. Food. Family.
Safety.
This wasn’t that.
The smell here was thick and sickening, layered with things that had no place being burned. Chemicals. Paint. Melted plastic. Something bitter and sharp that coated the back of her throat and refused to leave.
And beneath it—
Something worse.
Something she didn’t want to name.
Her stomach twisted weakly, the reaction dulled by how little strength she had left. She forced the thought away as quickly as it came, pushing it down before it could settle, before it could become something real she had to face.
Instead, she reached for anything else.
Campfires.
Food cooking over open flames.
The familiar, comforting scent of gun oil when cleaning weapons after a mission.
And then, without meaning to, her mind landed on something else entirely.
Hesh.
The memory came clearer than anything else had. His presence, close enough that she could almost convince herself he was there now, cutting through the smoke and heat. The way he smelled—faintly of sweat, metal, and whatever soap he used when they actually had the chance to clean up. The way his voice carried, steady and grounded even when everything around them went to hell.
She clung to that.
But the smoke didn’t let her hold onto it for long. It dragged her back, forced its way into every corner of her mind, leaving no space untouched.
Her focus slipped again, drifting.
Fire brought people together.
That was something she’d always noticed.
When camping, everyone gathered around it. Conversations stretched longer, laughter came easier, and even the worst jokes somehow landed better in the flickering light. There was something about it that pulled people close and made them stay.
Even in the city, when something caught fire, people came. They stood at a distance, watching, drawn in despite themselves. Firefighters, neighbours, strangers—all pulled toward the same thing, united for a moment by destruction.
Even now… there were probably people outside.
Watching.
Waiting.
She wondered if the Ghosts were out there too.
If Hesh was standing somewhere beyond the walls, eyes locked on the building as it burned. If he was scanning the structure, assessing, calculating, completely unaware that she was inside. That she’d been trapped from the moment the bombs hit, buried too deep within the building to have any real chance of getting out.
The thought settled heavily in her chest.
He wouldn’t know.
None of them would.
To them, this would just be another structure lost. Another casualty in a war that had taken too much already.
She swallowed, or at least tried to. Her throat barely cooperated.
If she died here… it would be quiet.
Unseen.
Just another name added to a list, if they even found enough of her to confirm it.
Her gaze drifted back toward the fire, watching as it edged closer, growing stronger and brighter. The heat shifted again, intensifying and pressing harder against her skin.
She hoped it wouldn’t be that.
Not the flames.
She didn’t want to feel that.
Smoke was already bad enough—slow, suffocating, painful in its own way—but burning… she couldn’t imagine it being anything other than worse.
Hesh had been on fire once.
The memory surfaced unexpectedly, sharp despite everything else fading. It hadn’t lasted long—he’d reacted fast, throwing himself into a river before it could spread—but she remembered the moment clearly. The brief flash of panic, the way the flames had caught on his clothes, and the immediate, instinctive movement to put it out.
He’d been fine.
More annoyed than anything once it was over.
She’d laughed about it afterward, once she knew he wasn’t hurt. Teased him, even. He’d rolled his eyes, maybe shoved her lightly, the tension breaking as easily as it always did between them.
Her chest tightened.
She hoped he wouldn’t laugh about this.
The thought came uninvited, quiet and fragile.
If she died here… what would he do?
She wanted to believe it would matter. That it would hit him hard, that he’d feel it the same way she knew she would if the roles were reversed. But doubt crept in just as quickly.
They’d always been… something.
Not quite friends.
Not quite more.
The line blurred so often it was hard to tell where it even was anymore.
They joked. Teased. Fell into easy, almost effortless banter that felt natural in a way nothing else did. He touched her without thinking—hands brushing her arm, steadying her back, small, fleeting things that never lingered long enough to mean anything and yet meant everything at the same time.
She did the same.
But it had never gone further.
He’d never said anything.
Never crossed that line.
And sometimes—too often—he asked about other women. Casual questions, like it didn’t mean anything. Names. Whether they were single. What they were like.
It shouldn’t have bothered her.
But it did.
Every time.
He’d even asked her once how to tell if a woman liked a man. She’d answered, keeping her voice steady, listing things off like it was nothing more than information to pass along. She’d left out the parts that applied to her, the things she knew she did around him without thinking.
She hadn’t wanted him to know.
Hadn’t wanted to risk it.
Her chest ached, deeper than the strain from the smoke now, something quieter but just as suffocating.
Maybe it hadn’t mattered anyway.
Maybe she’d been reading into things that weren’t there.
The fire shifted closer.
The heat surged.
Her vision dimmed at the edges, the world narrowing, shrinking.
And the last thought that lingered, stubborn and unrelenting, wasn’t about the flames or the smoke or even the fear of dying.
It was him.
“Y/n!”
The voice cut through the haze like something solid, sharp enough to catch on what little awareness she had left and drag her back from the edge she’d been slipping toward. It didn’t belong in the fire. It didn’t belong in the suffocating dark pressing in around her.
For a second, she thought it was just another trick.
Her mind had already started to drift, to loosen its grip on reality in a way that felt almost… peaceful. Dangerous, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that came right before everything went dark.
Then the voice came again—closer, louder, edged with something that made her chest tighten.
“Y/n!”
Her name.
Someone was calling her name.
It took longer than it should have for the realization to settle. Her thoughts moved sluggishly, like they were trying to push through thick mud instead of air. Oxygen. That’s what her brain needed. Without it, everything slowed down—reactions, understanding, even memory.
She knew that.
She’d seen it happen before.
And now it was happening to her.
Her brows twitched faintly, eyes shifting behind a veil of smoke that made everything blur together. The sound wasn’t muffled the way she expected it to be. If it had been a firefighter, their voice should’ve been filtered through a mask, distorted by equipment meant to keep them alive in conditions like this.
But this voice—
It was clearer.
Still strained, still fighting through the crackle of flames and the heavy air—but not filtered. Not distant in the way it should’ve been.
And worse—she knew it.
Somewhere deep in the fog clouding her head, recognition stirred. Not fully formed, not strong enough to grab onto, but there. Familiar in a way that didn’t fit with the situation at all.
Her chest rose weakly, another shallow breath dragging more heat into her lungs. The edges of her vision pulsed faintly, dimming and sharpening in uneven waves.
Was she hallucinating?
That made sense.
Lack of oxygen. Smoke inhalation. Her brain trying to fill in gaps, trying to make sense of something it couldn’t process properly anymore. People hallucinated under worse conditions than this. It wouldn’t be strange for her mind to reach for something familiar—something safe—in the middle of this.
But…
It didn’t feel like a hallucination.
It felt too real.
Curiosity stirred, cutting through the heavy fog just enough to push her toward movement. Weak, stubborn, and completely irrational.
She needed to see.
Her muscles resisted when she tried to move, sluggish and uncooperative, but something in her forced the effort anyway. Her hand twitched against the ground first, fingers dragging faintly against the rough surface before her arm followed. It took far more effort than it should have, her body protesting every inch of movement, but eventually she managed to push herself up.
The second her head lifted higher into the air, it hit her.
The smoke was thicker above her.
Hotter.
Her breath hitched immediately, coughing tearing through her chest as her lungs tried—and failed—to cope with the sudden change. Her eyes watered harder, vision blurring even more as the world tilted slightly to one side.
Too much.
Too fast.
Her head swam, balance wavering as if she were no longer fully anchored in her own body. It felt like she was half there and half somewhere else, like her mind had taken a step back and was watching everything from a distance instead of living it.
That feeling wasn’t new.
It hit her suddenly, pulling her backward into a memory she hadn’t meant to revisit.
The field.
The sound of gunfire.
The impact.
She could still remember the exact moment the bullet hit her—how it had slammed her backward into the rock behind her, the force knocking the air from her lungs before her brain had even caught up to what had happened. For a few seconds, there had been nothing. No pain. No fear. Just shock.
Then everything hit at once.
Pain. Adrenaline. Confusion.
And Hesh.
He’d been there almost instantly.
She could see it so clearly, even now—the way he’d dropped beside her, hands already moving before he’d even spoken. His voice had been sharp, commanding, cutting through the chaos around them as he forced her to sit up, dragging her into cover like it was second nature.
She hadn’t understood how bad it was at first.
She’d tried to move her arm, only to be met with resistance and pain that didn’t quite make sense yet. It hadn’t felt real. Not fully.
Not until he cut her sleeve open.
The memory sharpened, her stomach tightening faintly as she recalled the exact moment his expression changed.
Panic.
Not controlled. Not hidden.
Real panic.
It had been written all over his face, in the way his movements stuttered for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into urgency. His hands had been covered in her blood before she even realized how much of it there was.
She hadn’t known she was bleeding that badly.
Not until she saw him.
That was what made it real.
The way his composure cracked just enough to show what he was thinking.
She’d started to panic then too.
Everything had spiraled after that. Voices overlapping, movement all around her as others rushed in. Keegan abandoning his position to help, someone shouting for a medic, hands pressing down on the wound as her vision started to dim around the edges.
And that same feeling—
Like she wasn’t fully there.
Like she was watching it all from somewhere above, detached from the pain, from the fear, from her own body.
She remembered thinking she might already be dead.
It had felt that distant.
That unreal.
Until she’d blinked and found herself staring up at the sky, strapped to a board, people moving around her in a controlled kind of chaos as they carried her out.
Alive.
Barely—but alive.
The memory faded slowly, bleeding back into the present as the heat and smoke dragged her focus away from it. Her chest tightened again, each breath shallower than the last.
This wasn’t the same.
Not exactly.
But it was close.
Too close.
Her head dipped slightly, her body struggling to keep itself upright as the weakness settled deeper into her limbs. The voice—whoever it belonged to—felt further away now, harder to latch onto as her awareness slipped in and out.
She wasn’t feeling great.
That was an understatement.
Everything hurt. Everything felt wrong. Her body was working too hard for too little return, and her mind was starting to follow it, slowing, fading, losing its grip.
But somewhere, buried under all of that—
That voice was still there.
Familiar.
Real.
And calling her back.
A cough hit her all at once—violent, tearing, uncontrollable.
It ripped through her chest in a series of sharp, broken bursts, each one dragging more heat into her lungs instead of relief. Her body curled in on itself instinctively, shoulders shaking as she tried to force air in between the spasms, but it didn’t work. Nothing worked.
Somewhere nearby, something gave way.
A heavy, splintering crack echoed through the building, followed by the thunder of collapsing material. The ground beneath her trembled faintly, and a rush of ash and debris surged through the air, thickening the smoke until it felt almost suffocatingly dense.
Her coughing worsened.
She couldn’t stop.
Her lungs seized, desperate and frantic, pulling in breath after breath that did nothing—absolutely nothing. It burned going in, scraped going down, and still her body kept trying, kept gasping like it could force oxygen out of something that didn’t have any left to give.
Panic hit next.
It didn’t creep in—it slammed into her, heavy and overwhelming, flooding her system so fast it almost made her dizzy. Her heart stuttered and then raced, adrenaline surging through her veins in one last desperate attempt to keep her going.
She forced herself upright.
Her arms shook violently as she pushed up, dragging herself onto her knees. The movement sent her head spinning, the world tilting sharply to one side before snapping back again, but she barely registered it. She was too focused on trying to breathe.
Inhale.
Nothing.
Exhale.
Nothing.
Her mouth opened wider, gasping, dragging in air that felt like fire and sand all at once. It scraped her throat raw, coated her lungs in something thick and suffocating, and still—still—it didn’t help.
“I—” The sound that left her was barely a sound at all, strangled and broken by another cough.
The world spun harder.
Or maybe it didn’t.
She couldn’t tell anymore.
Everything felt wrong—too hot, too heavy, too distant—all at the same time. Her skin burned, every inch of it, like the heat had sunk beneath the surface and settled into her nerves. It hurt to exist in her own body, hurt to breathe, and hurt to move.
A weak, muffled cry slipped from her, more instinct than intention.
Then something touched her.
Firm. Sudden.
Her body flinched violently at the contact, a small, strained whine escaping her as her head jerked away. She didn’t want that—didn’t want anything touching her. Everything already hurt too much, every nerve was too sensitive and too overwhelmed.
But the pressure didn’t leave.
It stayed at her neck, steady and grounding in a way that didn’t quite register properly through the haze in her mind.
Voices filtered in next.
Muffled. Distorted.
Too many to make sense of.
They blended together, overlapping in a way that made it impossible to separate one from the other—except for one.
The name surfaced slowly, like it had to fight its way through layers of fog to reach her.
Hesh.
He sounded… wrong.
Not wrong, exactly—but not like himself either. There was something in his voice she wasn’t used to hearing so clearly. Urgency. Tension. Something tight and strained beneath the words, like he was holding something back and barely managing it.
“…come on, Y/n, don’t do this—stay with me—just stay right here, alright? You’re doing good—”
Her brow furrowed faintly, confusion cutting through the panic just enough to make her pause.
Stay here?
Why?
Why would he tell her that?
Her head felt heavy, her thoughts slipping in and out of place as she tried to make sense of it. Stay here—in the fire? In the smoke?
That didn’t make any sense.
If he was here, if he had found her, then why wasn’t he pulling her out? Why was he telling her to stay where she was, to keep breathing in something that wasn’t even working?
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
She couldn’t tell if she was speaking or not.
Couldn’t tell if her body was even listening to her anymore.
Everything felt distant again.
Muted.
Like she was still there, but also… not.
The voices continued around her, but they blurred together once more, fading at the edges. Hesh’s voice stayed the strongest, the clearest, even as it seemed to echo in and out of reach.
“…that’s it—just like that—stay with me—”
She didn’t understand.
Didn’t understand why he sounded so close.
Didn’t understand why the heat felt… different.
Didn’t understand why everything was still so dark.
Her eyes felt heavy.
Too heavy.
The change was sudden enough to feel unreal.
One second there was nothing but heat and smoke choking her lungs, and the next—air.
Real air.
It hit her face first, cool against skin that had felt like it was burning moments ago. Then it filled her lungs, clean and sharp and almost painful in its clarity. It didn’t scrape or suffocate or weigh her down. It moved. It worked.
It felt like drowning in reverse.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. She jerked upright with a harsh, desperate gasp, dragging in breath after breath as if she could store it, as if it might disappear again if she didn’t take enough fast enough. Her chest heaved violently, each inhale deep and greedy, her lungs trying to make up for everything they hadn’t been getting.
It was overwhelming.
Too much and not enough all at once.
Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers curling weakly as she tried to ground herself in the sensation. The heat was gone—or at least not suffocating anymore. The air didn’t burn the same way. Her skin still hurt, sharp and sensitive, every brush of movement sending small jolts of pain through her, but it wasn’t the same all-consuming fire it had been inside.
Her eyes snapped open.
The darkness disappeared.
Light flooded in so suddenly it made her squint, her vision struggling to adjust as shapes formed slowly, blurring and sharpening in uneven waves. Blue sky stretched above her—wide and open, scattered with bright white clouds that looked almost too clean, too untouched compared to what she’d just come from.
She wasn’t inside anymore.
She was outside.
Figures moved around her, silhouettes at first, then clearer—people she didn’t recognize, their voices overlapping in controlled urgency. Equipment shifted, hands moved, and something pressed lightly at her face.
Then she saw him.
“H-Hesh—” The name tore out of her throat, broken by a cough that followed immediately after.
Her lungs protested the effort, the fresh air triggering another fit as they tried to clear everything that had built up inside. Each cough felt deep, dragging something loose but never enough to fully relieve the pressure. It burned in a different way now—raw instead of suffocating.
The source of the air became clear as she tried to breathe through it. A mask pressed over her nose and mouth, held firmly in place by gloved hands. Oxygen. Clean, controlled, steady.
Her body latched onto it instinctively.
Hands suddenly gripped her shoulders, firm and unyielding, pushing her back down before she could try to sit up again. The movement was quick but careful, guiding rather than forcing, but still enough to make her chest tighten in protest.
She resisted for half a second—panic still clinging to her—but then her gaze caught on something that stopped her completely.
Hesh.
He was right there.
Closer than he should’ve been.
Closer than she remembered him being in the fire.
His face filled her vision as she was eased back against something solid beneath her—likely a stretcher or board. The sky disappeared behind him, replaced by the sharp focus of green eyes locked onto hers.
There was soot smeared across his face, streaked unevenly along his jaw and cheekbones. His hands—still on her shoulders—were dark with ash, the skin beneath barely visible. Strands of his hair were singed at the ends, uneven and slightly curled from the heat.
And he was wearing—
Her brows pulled together faintly.
A firefighter’s coat.
Heavy. Protective. Completely out of place on him and yet… not, at the same time.
“Hesh—” she tried again, but the word dissolved into another cough before it could fully form.
This one was worse.
It hit deeper, harder, her entire body tensing as her lungs fought to clear themselves. It felt like something was stuck there—thick, stubborn, refusing to come loose no matter how much she coughed. Her breaths turned uneven again, broken between each attempt to get it out.
The oxygen mask shifted slightly as she moved, and she instinctively leaned toward it, trying to keep it in place.
Hesh moved immediately.
The jacket was gone in the next second, shrugged off and discarded somewhere out of her line of sight without a second thought. He stepped closer, one hand steadying her shoulder while the other reached for the mask.
Around them, paramedics adjusted their positions, giving him space but not stepping away entirely.
“Do not get up in her face,” one of them said, voice firm but controlled. “She’s going to be disoriented. A lot of coughing, shortness of breath—her adrenaline’s going to drop hard.”
“I know that,” Hesh snapped back, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut through everything else.
There was no hesitation in him.
No second-guessing.
His focus stayed entirely on her as he took the mask, holding it more securely over her face, adjusting it slightly to make sure it was positioned properly. His movements were quick but careful, like he was trying to do everything at once without overwhelming her more than she already was.
“Easy,” he said, voice lower now, still tight but more controlled. “Don’t fight it. Just breathe.”
His thumb pressed lightly against the side of the mask, steadying it as her head shifted slightly with another cough. He didn’t pull away and didn’t give her space the way the paramedic had suggested. Instead, he leaned in just enough to stay in her line of sight.
Grounding her.
Keeping her there.
“Slow it down,” he added, quieter this time. “You’re alright. Just breathe, yeah? In and out.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers.
Not for a second.
Even as she coughed again, even as her breathing hitched and stuttered, even as her body struggled to catch up with everything that had just happened—he stayed right there, solid and unmoving.
Like if he let go for even a second, she might disappear again.
“Hesh.”
His name came out of her again, soft and unsteady, like it was the only thing her mind could still hold onto.
“Yeah—yeah, I’m here.” His voice dropped immediately, rough at the edges but steady where it needed to be. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
One of his hands stayed firm on her shoulder, grounding her, while the other moved up to her face. He brushed her hair back carefully, fingers catching slightly on strands that had been singed and tangled by heat and ash. He didn’t react to it—didn’t let anything show—but his touch gentled even more, like he was afraid of hurting her.
That was when it hit her.
Not the fire.
Not the smoke.
Everything else.
Her chest stuttered, breath hitching hard against the oxygen mask as tears welled up without warning. They spilled over quickly, hot and constant, sliding down her temples and into her hairline. Her body followed a second later, shaking in uneven bursts she couldn’t control.
It wasn’t quiet crying.
It was messy. Sharp. Broken by the way her breathing kept catching, each inhale interrupted by a hitch that made her chest tighten instead of expand.
Hesh saw it immediately.
“Hey—hey, no, don’t—” His tone shifted, urgency creeping back in as he adjusted his grip on the mask, keeping it steady over her nose and mouth. “Don’t do that, alright? You’ve gotta breathe. Slow down.”
Her crying only hitched harder in response, her lungs already struggling, now fighting against the way her breaths kept breaking apart. It felt impossible to stop, like everything was spilling out at once and she didn’t have the strength to hold it back.
“Y/n, listen to me.” His voice cut through it, sharper now, not harsh—just firm enough to catch her attention. “You keep crying like that, you’re gonna pass out. You hear me? I need you to stay with me.”
Stay with me.
The words settled somewhere deeper than the rest, even through the fog.
“If you go out, they’re pulling you,” he added quickly, leaning in just enough that his voice stayed clear over everything else. “And they’re not letting me near you until you’re back. So don’t—don’t do that. Just breathe.”
There was something in his tone then—something tight and almost desperate—that made her try.
She focused on him.
On his voice.
On the way his hand steadied the mask, the way his other hand stayed firm on her shoulder, anchoring her.
In.
Out.
It didn’t work at first. Her breathing kept catching, her chest still jerking with the remnants of each sob, but slowly—slowly—it started to even out. The tears didn’t stop completely, but they quieted, turning from sharp sobs into shaky, uneven breaths.
She managed to get control of it.
Barely.
And then the pain hit.
It came in hard, like her body had been holding it back until now and finally let go all at once. Her skin burned—not the overwhelming, suffocating heat from before, but something sharper, more localized. Every inch of her felt too sensitive, like even the air brushing against her was enough to sting.
A weak whimper slipped out of her before she could stop it.
Her body tensed, trying to curl in on itself, but Hesh’s grip steadied her again before she could move too much.
“I know,” he murmured immediately, his voice dropping back down, softer now. “I know—it’s gonna hurt. Just… stay still, alright? They’ve got you.”
Her clothes felt wrong against her skin—too rough, too hot in places, sticking where they shouldn’t. The fabric of her uniform was scorched in patches, edges darkened and brittle, clinging in some spots and hanging loose in others. Her hair smelled faintly burnt, with strands uneven where the heat had caught them.
She let out another small sound, more breath than voice, and that seemed to be enough for him.
Hesh shifted closer.
Carefully, like he was calculating every movement before he made it, he leaned down and pulled her into him just enough to be felt without putting pressure anywhere it might hurt. One arm slid behind her shoulders, the other still steadying her, keeping her in place.
It wasn’t a tight hold.
It couldn’t be.
But it was there.
Solid.
Safe.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, quieter now, the words meant just for her. “You’re good. You made it out. Just breathe, alright? That’s all you’ve gotta do.”
His voice stayed low and steady, a constant stream of reassurance that didn’t ask anything from her except to stay where she was.
Somewhere nearby, the sound of a vehicle cut through the noise—heavier than the others, louder, purposeful. Boots moved quickly across pavement, voices calling out as a military transport pulled in, ready to take the wounded.
The paramedics shifted around them again, more urgent now.
“We’re moving her,” one of them said.
Hesh didn’t pull away immediately.
For a second longer, he stayed right where he was, his grip steady, his forehead almost brushing hers as he spoke again, quieter this time.
“They’re taking you back to base,” he told her. “You’ll be alright there. I’ll be right behind you, okay?”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a promise.
Then, slowly, reluctantly, he eased back just enough for them to do their job—but he didn’t let go completely.
Not until they made him.
The movement started before she was ready for it.
Hands shifted beneath her, firm but careful, lifting and guiding her onto a stretcher with practiced efficiency. The world tilted again as they raised her, the sky sliding out of view as metal edges and straps came into focus instead. The oxygen mask stayed in place, pressed securely to her face, but everything else felt unstable—too fast, too much.
She tried to look for him.
Her head turned slightly, just enough to catch blurred movement at the edge of her vision—dark shapes, uniforms, people—but Hesh wasn’t there. Or if he was, she couldn’t find him before they started moving.
The stretcher jolted as they loaded her into the transport.
The inside was louder than she expected. Metal rattling softly, voices overlapping in quick, efficient exchanges, the low hum of the engine vibrating through the floor beneath her. It smelled different in here—cleaner, but still laced with smoke and something sharp and medical.
The doors slammed shut.
And he was gone.
Her chest tightened at that, a small, quiet panic threading its way through the pain. She shifted faintly, as if that alone might bring him back into view, but it only made everything worse. The movement dragged against her skin, sending sharp, stinging pain across her arms and shoulders where the heat had done its damage.
A weak sound slipped from her throat, more breath than voice.
Every bump in the road made it worse.
The stretcher shifted slightly with each one, the straps holding her in place but doing nothing to soften the way her body reacted. The vibrations traveled straight through her, jarring every sore spot, every blistered patch of skin. It wasn’t unbearable—but it was constant. Annoying in a way that wore her down, second by second.
She tried to stay still.
Tried to focus on her breathing the way she’d been told.
In.
Out.
In—
Her chest hitched slightly, the rhythm breaking as her thoughts drifted.
She wished he was there.
It wasn’t a complicated thought.
Just… simple. Quiet.
She wanted his voice. The way it cut through everything else and made things feel a little more manageable. She wanted the steady pressure of his hand, the grounding presence that made it easier to stay present instead of slipping away into the pain.
Even just him talking—about anything—would’ve been enough.
A distraction.
Something to hold onto.
But there was nothing like that here.
Just the hum of the engine. The occasional clipped instructions from the medics. The steady hiss of oxygen filling her lungs.
It wasn’t the same.
Her fingers twitched weakly against the stretcher, curling slightly like she was reaching for something that wasn’t there. The motion was small, barely noticeable, but it made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the fire.
She swallowed hard, her throat still raw, and let her head sink further back.
The pain didn’t stop.
The noise didn’t stop.
And Hesh still wasn’t there.
The transport slowed as it pulled into base, the steady rumble of the engine easing into a low idle before cutting off completely. The sudden quiet felt almost unnatural after everything that had come before it. For a brief second, nothing moved.
Then the doors opened.
Cooler air rushed in—not clean, not entirely free of smoke, but better than before. Hands were on her again almost immediately, careful but efficient as the stretcher was lifted and guided out. The light outside was softer here, filtered through structures and movement, and voices carried in controlled tones instead of chaos.
They didn’t rush her.
That stood out.
Everything moved quickly, but not frantically. Controlled urgency. People who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t need to panic to do it.
She was wheeled through the base, past blurred shapes of soldiers and medics, into a building that smelled sharply of antiseptic and something faintly metallic. The temperature dropped slightly inside, enough to make the air feel cooler against her overheated skin.
It still hurt.
Every shift of the stretcher, every brush of fabric or glove against her arms, sent small, stinging shocks across her skin. Her fingers twitched weakly at her sides, trying to pull away from touches she couldn’t avoid.
“Easy,” someone murmured, though she wasn’t sure who.
They brought her into the medical ward and transferred her onto a bed, the surface firmer but steadier than the stretcher. Lights overhead were too bright, forcing her eyes to narrow as figures moved around her again.
A tag was clipped onto her.
A doctor stepped in shortly after, his expression focused as he looked her over. His hands were quicker than the others and more precise, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Every time he or one of the medics touched her skin, she flinched faintly, a small sound catching in her throat despite her attempts to stay still.
“I know,” he said without looking up, his tone calm but not unkind. “It’s going to sting.”
That was an understatement.
He worked quickly, assessing what he could before stepping back slightly.
“Low-degree burns,” he said to the others, voice steady and clinical. “Mostly superficial. Blistering, but nothing too deep. She’s lucky.”
Lucky.
It didn’t feel like it.
“Get those treated,” he continued. “Clean, dress, keep it sterile. I’ll come back and check her lungs—she’s had significant smoke exposure. We’ll need to monitor her breathing and run a few tests. I also want neurological checks—make sure there’s no hypoxia-related damage.”
The words blurred together a bit, but she caught enough.
Lungs.
Tests.
Brain.
Her chest tightened faintly at that, but before she could focus on it, hands were on her again, working over her arms, her shoulders, carefully tending to the burns. It was methodical, practiced—but it hurt.
A lot.
She clenched her jaw, trying not to react, but small sounds slipped through anyway when they cleaned and dressed the worst of it. Her breathing hitched unevenly, the oxygen mask still in place, helping but not taking away the discomfort.
Time passed.
She wasn’t sure how much.
Then—
Movement at the doorway.
Her eyes shifted, unfocused at first, before catching on a familiar shape standing just inside the entrance.
Logan.
He wasn’t coming in. Just… watching. Hovering like he wasn’t sure if he should step closer or stay where he was.
Before she could fully process that, someone else stepped past him.
Hesh.
He moved straight toward her without hesitation, cutting through the space like everything else in the room didn’t matter. The medics shifted slightly to make room, but didn’t stop him.
He reached her side in seconds.
His hand found hers carefully, fingers closing around it in a grip that was firm but controlled, like he was constantly aware of how much pressure he was using.
His skin felt cooler than hers.
A noticeable difference.
Grounding.
“You’re doing alright,” he said quietly, his voice steadier now, though the tension hadn’t fully left it. “They’re just fixing you up. Nothing you can’t handle.”
His thumb moved slightly against her hand, a small, absent motion that felt more like reassurance than anything else.
He stayed there while they worked.
While they cleaned and dressed her burns. While they started an IV, sliding the needle in with practiced ease before securing it in place. Fluids first, then pain medication.
Her body slowly began to ease, the sharpest edges of the pain dulling just slightly.
Eventually, the medics stepped back.
“We’ll grab the doctor,” one of them said, and just like that, they were gone.
The room quieted.
Hesh didn’t move right away.
Then, carefully, he shifted closer and sat down beside her. His hand left hers only long enough to reach up, fingers moving gently through her hair. He worked slowly, untangling what he could, smoothing it back from her face where it had stuck or curled from the heat.
It wasn’t perfect.
But he tried.
His touch was light—almost hesitant in a way that didn’t match him at all. Like he was holding himself back, measuring every movement to avoid hurting her.
He didn’t pull her into him.
Didn’t lean in too close.
Didn’t do any of the things he probably wanted to.
Instead, he stayed where he was, voice low and steady as he spoke.
“I’ve seen worse,” he muttered quietly, more to reassure her than anything else. “You’re gonna be fine.”
His hand paused briefly in her hair before continuing, slower this time.
Hey everyone! I looked through my messages and inbox and saw so many people worried about me and checking in. Thanks so much for checking in on me! I appreciate it!
Life got really busy for a bit for me, but I'm back!
School got in the way, and I got distracted hanging out with my partner. I also got stuck on a reservation because of a snow storm for a few days.
But I am alive and stories will continue to start up again over the weekend!
Wait okay hear me out with this one, what if Nikto comes home from a long deployment, ready to see reader again after so long, only to find the house has been obviously broken into. There's a dead man on the floor, but as he clears the house, he damn near gets shot by reader in a blind panic. Then he talks them down and comforts them since they're scared to death...
Just a thought 👀
I love this idea, and I came up with this. I hope it's what you were looking for!!
Y/n stood in the bathroom, palms braced against the porcelain sink, staring at her reflection like it might blink first.
The mirror didn’t lie.
Two clean, precise cuts ran down her cheek, parallel and narrow, as if measured rather than inflicted. They had stopped bleeding properly now—just a faint redness clinging to the edges, a thin sheen of moisture catching the overhead light when she shifted. She’d done a good job cleaning them. Better than most people would have, probably. Warm water, antiseptic, steady hands. No shaking. No panic.
Still, they were there.
She lifted her chin slightly, tilting her face side to side, watching how the cuts caught the light. There was no way she’d be able to cover them convincingly. Makeup would cake, cling, and crack. A bandage would be worse—messy, obvious, something Nikto would notice the second his eyes touched her face.
And Nikto was supposed to be home sometime this week.
She exhaled slowly through her nose and reached up, touching the skin beside the cuts with careful fingers, avoiding the tender lines themselves. Letting them air out was probably best. Clean wounds healed faster when they weren’t fussed over. She knew that. He’d taught her that, in his way—short comments, quiet corrections, and the occasional “leave it” when she worried something to death.
It was better for the cuts.
Not better for the cat.
Y/n’s mouth tightened as she dropped her hand and glanced toward the closed bathroom door, as if she could see through it and into the laundry room down the hall. He was in there. Locked up. The nasty little bastard.
She’d shut him in there an hour ago, right after it happened—after the flash of movement on the stairs, the sudden impact, and the sharp, burning pain that had made her gasp and stumble back with her hands flying to her face. He’d leapt from the railing like an idiot, misjudged the distance, and landed claws-first.
On her face.
She should have known better than to walk past him when he was already wound tight, coneless, and furious after last week. Getting him fixed had been necessary—non-negotiable—but that didn’t mean he’d forgiven her for it.
She’d locked him in the laundry room without a word, jaw clenched, eyes stinging for reasons that had nothing to do with the scratches. He was fine in there. Litter box. Food. Water. A window for light. He wasn’t suffering. He was just…contained.
Contained was better than what might’ve happened if she’d tried to handle him while she was still angry.
Nikto handled anger like that too.
When something set him off—really set him off—he didn’t explode. He withdrew. Pulled himself away from whatever had caused it, like a controlled retreat. He didn’t trust himself in that state, and he knew it. So he removed the variables.
He would leave the house, keys set down deliberately, boots laced without rush. She never let him drive when he was angry; that had been a boundary she’d drawn early on, and to his credit, he’d never pushed it. He’d walk instead, disappearing for hours into the world, coming back only when whatever had been grinding inside him had settled into something manageable.
When he returned, he always returned the same way.
Quietly. Calmly. With a soft, habitual, “Hello, pretty wife,” like nothing had ever been wrong.
The memory tugged at her mouth despite herself. Nikto used “pretty” the way other people used punctuation—sparingly with others, constantly with her. Pretty wife. Pretty girl. Lovely. Wife. Each one meant something slightly different depending on the moment, and she’d learned them like a second language.
Pretty was reassurance.
Wife was grounding.
Princess—rare as it was—meant he was trying.
She leaned closer to the mirror, studying the cuts again, imagining his eyes tracking them the moment he saw her. Nikto noticed everything. He wouldn’t ask what happened right away. He’d catalogue first. Depth. Placement. Healing stage. Risk.
And then—only then—he’d say something.
She sighed and reached for a towel, pressing it gently against her cheek to dry the lingering dampness. The cat hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d been a shelter stray, used to moving, to hands, to noise. The shelter policy had been brutal—three weeks, then euthanasia if placement didn’t happen. He’d had three days left.
Three.
Grey and white fur, long-haired, oversized paws with extra toes like he’d been built wrong on purpose. A handsome thing. A survivor. She hadn’t even named him yet, like some part of her had been afraid that doing so would jinx it.
She’d saved him. That had mattered to her.
Nikto…would see the problem.
He’d warned her, once, about animals. Not harshly. Just a quiet, factual statement: “They get hurt. Or they hurt you.” He would absolutely use the scratches as evidence. He’d be right, in his own way. It would mess up her face. Risk infection. Draw attention.
Still.
She lowered the towel and met her own eyes again, steadier now.
When Nikto got upset with her—rare as it was—he never yelled. He swore like a sailor at the world, at objects, at fate, but never at her. With her, he went silent. Cold. Distant. He could hold that silence longer than anyone she’d ever met.
She always broke first.
She hated the quiet more than raised voices. Hated not knowing where she stood. She’d eventually corner him in the kitchen or the hallway, hands on her hips, demanding he stop ignoring her because she didn’t like it.
He wouldn’t respond. Not that day.
The next day, he’d be back to normal. As if nothing had happened. As if the conflict had been filed away, resolved internally, and no longer worth discussing.
It annoyed her. It always would.
But as she turned away from the mirror and headed down the hall, she knew the truth she always circled back to.
For all his sharp edges, his silences, and his fractured way of existing in the world, Nikto gave her more good than bad. More safety than fear. More certainty than doubt.
And what if he decided the cat could stay?
That would mean more than any apology ever could.
She let out a slow breath and finally pulled away from the mirror.
Staring at herself wasn’t going to make the cuts heal any faster. Bodies didn’t work that way—no matter how much someone wished they did. She knew that better than most. Once upon a time, before her life had taken a hard left turn into secrecy and silence and a man who lived behind a mask, she’d been a nurse. She’d memorized healing timelines, tissue regeneration, and signs of infection. She knew exactly what she was looking at.
The face healed fast. Faster than almost anywhere else on the body. Too many blood vessels, too much importance placed on keeping it intact. Cuts closed quicker, and scratches faded sooner. Scars didn’t like to linger there unless the damage was deep, deliberate, or repeated.
That didn’t mean faces couldn’t be ruined.
She had seen Nikto’s.
She’d seen all of him, eventually—every scar, every uneven patch of skin, every place where his body told a story he never spoke out loud. And even then, she knew his face healed better than the rest of him had. The damage there had faded more than the scars along his ribs, his back, and his arms. Not gone. Never gone. But softer. Less angry-looking.
He didn’t see it that way.
Nikto hated his scars. He hated what they did to his reflection, to the way people looked at him when they saw beneath the mask. It was one of the reasons he kept his face covered even when he didn’t technically have to. He said it was practical. Tactical. Habit.
She knew better.
He was afraid.
Afraid that if people really saw him, they would see a monster. A demon. Something broken past recognition. Afraid they would say the words out loud that the voices in his head already whispered to him when he was tired, or angry, or too quiet for too long.
He had already accepted what he was good at.
Killing came easily to him. Too easily. He didn’t dress it up or pretend otherwise. It was his job. His function. One of the few things his fractured mind did without hesitation. Accepting that he was dangerous hadn’t been hard.
Accepting that he was a monster would be easier still.
That was the line she refused to let him cross.
On the rare occasions he let those thoughts slip—late at night, voice low, words clipped like they embarrassed him—she shut them down hard and fast. No gentle reassurances. No soft coaxing. He didn’t respond to that. He responded to certainty.
If he ever dared to say those lies about himself in front of her again, she told him, she’d go stand on a street corner and play prostitute just to prove a point. To prove she could have anyone she wanted and still came home to him. Rich men had asked her out before—doctors, businessmen, men with clean hands and predictable lives. She’d turned them all down.
She chose Nikto.
Every time.
It always made him furious.
Not loud and furious. Not explosive. The dangerous kind of quiet fury that pulled his shoulders tight and sharpened his movements. He hated the idea of other men touching her, looking at her, wanting her in a sexual sense. He hated even more the idea of her offering herself to prove something.
He would grab her wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm—and drag her back to their bedroom like the argument had flipped a switch in him. He’d press her into the mattress and remind her, in no uncertain terms, that she was his wife. That he wasn’t going to allow her to play around with anyone else. That whatever she was trying to prove, she didn’t need to.
It always worked.
It ripped him out of the spiral and grounded him in something solid. Physical. Real. Afterwards, she’d dote on him shamelessly for days—extra affection, extra attention, cooking his favourite meals, curling into his side at night like she was afraid he might disappear if she didn’t keep a hand on him.
She knew it wasn’t the healthiest way to handle it.
She also knew it was what worked.
She had tried to get him proper help. Real help. He saw a therapist once a month—someone she’d carefully vetted and set up for him, someone who understood trauma and dissociation and didn’t flinch at his file. Sometimes Nikto missed appointments because of work. Sometimes he didn’t. But he went often enough that it mattered.
He took medication too. For his personality disorder. For sleep.
That was, he took them when he remembered and when he felt like it.
She knew he skipped doses. She knew he sometimes refused his sleep aids entirely, claiming he’d rather exhaust himself into dreamless unconsciousness than risk seeing what his mind dragged up at night. She suspected nightmares. Worse than nightmares. Things he didn’t want to revisit.
She’d tried to force the issue once.
He hadn’t slept in three nights. Not really. Pacing, sitting in the dark, cleaning weapons that didn’t need cleaning. She’d finally snapped and ground up one of his sleep aids, slipping it into his dinner like she was fixing a problem instead of starting a war.
He noticed halfway through the meal.
Stopped chewing. Stared at the plate. Said nothing.
When she pouted and complained about him not eating the food she’d made, he rolled his eyes and finished it anyway. She thought she’d won.
She hadn’t.
That evening, he made them tea while they watched a movie. She didn’t even taste anything off. Didn’t question it. She woke up two days later to Nikto sitting beside the bed, mask off, eyes fixed on her with something dangerously close to concern.
The dose hadn’t been enough to put her in a hospital. But it had been enough to knock her out for awhile.
She’d been furious.
She packed a bag and went to her parents’ house for a week, refusing to answer his calls. He let it go for exactly six days before he showed up in person, stood in the driveway, and apologized. Properly. No excuses. No deflection. Promised he’d never do it again.
He didn’t.
For all his faults, Nikto was a man of his word.
She touched her cheek again, gentler this time, and turned away from the mirror.
The cuts would heal.
Everything else—they handled one compromise at a time.
The sudden crash from the living room was loud enough to make her straighten sharply, breath catching in her throat.
Glass.
It wasn’t the dull thud of something soft tipping over. It was sharp, brittle, unmistakable. She stood there for a second, listening, heart ticking faster as silence rushed back in to fill the space. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing else falling.
She cracked the bathroom door and leaned out into the hallway, peering down its length. The lights were still on, casting familiar shadows along the walls, but nothing moved. No flicker of fur. No telltale shape darting away.
Great, she thought tiredly. I must’ve left something too close to an edge.
She stepped out into the hall and took a few careful steps toward the bedroom, already thinking about the broom and dustpan. Sweeping up glass barefoot was out of the question. She’d learned that lesson once and never intended to repeat it.
When she reached the bedroom, she turned in and immediately spotted her slippers waiting beside the bed, exactly where she’d kicked them off earlier.
Nikto had gotten them for her for her birthday a few months back. Not ordered online. Not bought casually. He’d had them made—handcrafted by a Sámi woman in Norway, chosen with the same quiet precision he applied to everything else. The fur was black, dense, and impossibly soft, real in a way that was obvious the second you touched it. Practical, too. Dark enough to hide dirt. Warm enough for winter mornings when the floor bit through socks.
When she’d first gotten them, she’d pressed them against her cheek, laughing softly as she rubbed the fur back and forth just to feel it. Nikto had scolded her every time—low, gruff warnings about rashes and bacteria and dirty faces. She hadn’t listened. She’d just smiled and done it again until the novelty wore off and the slippers found their proper place on her feet instead of on her face.
She slid her feet into them now, then lifted one foot at a time, hooking a finger into the back to pull them fully over her heels. They fit snugly. Properly. She made sure of it.
If there was broken glass, she wasn’t about to slice open the bottoms of her feet. She’d had enough injuries in her life without adding “idiot who stepped on glass in her own house” to the list. She had no interest in sitting on the edge of the tub later, pulling shards out of her skin and watching blood cloud the water while she worried about infection.
Slippers on, she stepped back into the hallway.
She paused at the open laundry room door.
Her stomach dropped.
The room was empty.
The litter box was still there. The food dish. The water. But the cat—grey, white, oversized, angry—was gone.
Her eyes widened, then narrowed as irritation surged up fast and hot. She leaned into the doorway, scanning the room like maybe he’d phased into the walls. Nothing. No movement. No sound.
You little bastard, she thought, already bracing herself.
Before she could step fully inside, a clatter sounded from the kitchen—drawers slamming, something metallic skidding across the counter. Her irritation evaporated instantly, replaced by something colder.
That wasn’t a cat.
Her body went still as her mind shifted gears. Quiet. Careful. She moved down the hallway without thinking about it, weight rolling from heel to toe, breath shallow. She hugged the wall as she approached the corner and peeked around—
—and froze.
There was a man in her kitchen.
Not masked. Not subtle. Just there, rifling through drawers, tossing utensils aside like he owned the place. The sound was wrong in the space—too loud, too invasive. He wasn’t moving like someone who belonged.
For half a second, neither of them moved.
Then he turned.
Their eyes met.
Her pulse spiked so hard she felt it in her throat.
The man’s expression shifted instantly—surprise hardening into intent. His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as he took a step toward her.
She gasped and spun on her heel, adrenaline kicking in hard. She ran.
Her feet barely made a sound against the floor as she sprinted down the hall toward the bedroom, already reaching for the memory of Nikto’s voice in her head. Closet floor. Don’t hesitate.
She didn’t make it far.
Hands grabbed the back of her hoodie, fingers twisting into the fabric hard enough to jerk her backward. A startled sound tore from her throat—
—and then weight slammed into the man from the side.
A snarling blur of grey and white launched itself at his face.
The cat.
The man swore violently as claws raked across his cheek, digging in deep. Blood welled instantly, thin streams streaking down his skin as he staggered, one hand flying up to try and tear the animal off him. The grip on her hoodie loosened.
That was all she needed.
She bolted.
She hit the bedroom rug at full speed and went down hard, the air knocked out of her lungs as her knee smacked the floor. Pain flared—but she was already scrambling back up, heart hammering as she threw herself at the closet.
The door flew open.
She dropped to her knees and shoved boxes aside, hands shaking now as she tried to remember which one Nikto had pointed out. Not that one. Not that one—
Shoebox.
Her fingers closed around it, and she yanked it free, flipping the lid open and pulling the gun out without hesitation.
It was heavy. Solid. Familiar enough.
Loaded.
Safety on.
Exactly the way Nikto kept it.
Relief surged through her so hard it almost made her dizzy. He’d insisted on keeping it ready, even after arguments. “You don’t know how to load one,” he’d said flatly. “So it stays loaded.”
He’d been right.
She didn’t know how to load a gun. And there wasn’t time—no chance to pause, no luxury of instructions or second guesses. She snapped the safety off, breath shaking, and pushed herself to her feet.
Her hands were steady.
Nikto had made sure of that.
She stepped back into the hallway just in time to see the man hurl her cat across the room with both hands.
The sound the animal made when he hit the wall wasn’t just a yowl—it was raw, panicked pain, sharp enough to slice straight through her chest. His body struck beside the living room window, glass already shattered there, tiny fragments skittering across the floor as he slid down the wall and crumpled. He didn’t get back up. He just lay there, sides heaving, crying in a way that didn’t sound like an animal anymore. It sounded small. Broken.
Something inside her snapped.
“G—get out!” she screamed, her voice cracking hard as she fumbled with the gun, fingers slipping, pressing at the wrong parts, heart hammering so violently she thought it might tear free of her ribs. She couldn’t remember what Nikto had said about the safety—left? Right? Thumb or finger? Her hands were shaking too badly to listen to her brain anyway.
The man saw it immediately.
He saw the way she held the gun too loose, too low. Saw the panic in her eyes. The hesitation.
He charged.
Everything happened at once.
She screamed and dropped instinctively, her knees slamming into the floor as she ducked and scrambled, crawling blindly as the man barreled past her and slammed shoulder-first into the wall instead. Plaster cracked. The impact shook the house. She didn’t think—she ran.
She bolted into the living room, feet sliding on glass as she aimed for the front door, lungs burning. She almost made it.
Almost.
Weight crashed into her back, driving her face-first into the floor. Pain exploded through her ribs as he straddled her, fists slamming down hard and heavy, knocking the breath from her lungs in choking bursts. She screamed—once, twice—and then her body locked up, fear freezing her muscles solid.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Her eyes blurred, tears streaking down her face as they landed on the cat.
He was still there. Curled wrong. Shaking. Crying.
The man did that.
Rage flooded her so fast it drowned out the fear.
She slammed her forehead back into the man’s face with everything she had.
The impact was brutal. Pain flashed white behind her eyes, stars bursting across her vision as the man howled and reeled back, hands flying to his nose. She rocked her hips violently, shoving him off balance, and rolled, scrambling on hands and knees. The gun lay on the floor a few feet away.
She grabbed it.
“You bitch!” he snarled, blood pouring freely now, his nose already swelling and broken.
Her head throbbed. She tasted blood in her mouth and realized distantly it was hers. Hit too hard, some stupid, detached part of her thought.
Didn’t matter.
He lunged again.
She panicked.
Her finger jerked. Something clicked under her thumb—she didn’t know what she’d moved and didn’t care. He was too close, filling her vision, breathing hard, eyes wild—
She pulled the trigger.
The bang was deafening.
The recoil slammed the gun back into her face, her grip too loose, wrists unprepared. Pain flared as the metal struck her cheekbone, and she screamed again, stumbling backward.
The man screamed too.
The sound tore straight through her.
He dropped to his knees, hands clutching his chest as dark red bloomed between his fingers. He wheezed, choking, the noise wet and awful as he sagged forward, blood spilling through his hands and onto the floor.
She stared.
Her ears rang. Everything felt far away and muffled, like she was underwater.
I killed him.
The thought hit her all at once, heavy and absolute.
She stumbled back into the hallway, legs giving out, tears pouring down her face as sobs ripped out of her chest. She had just killed a person. Shot him. Put a bullet in him. Murdered a man.
He wasn’t moving right.
That meant he was dead.
Her hands went numb. She dropped the gun like it burned her and collapsed onto the floor, curling in on herself as her body began to shake uncontrollably. Her breath came in short, broken gasps, her chest hitching painfully as panic clawed its way up her throat.
Jail.
Police.
Murder.
She was going to prison. She was going to be arrested. Nikto was going to come home and—
Her thoughts spiralled, tumbling over each other as she stared at her hands, convinced they were soaked in blood even though they were clean. She rubbed them together desperately, trying to wipe away something that wasn’t there, sobbing harder when it didn’t work.
The man groaned somewhere behind her.
The cat cried.
And Y/n stayed curled on the cold wooden floor, shaking, crying, and mind splintering under the weight of what she thought she had done, shock pulling her deeper and deeper as the world narrowed down to terror, sound, and breath.
Dim lights. Familiar shadows. The particular stillness of a house that knew him and had learned how to wait.
He did not expect blood on his living room floor.
He did not expect shattered glass crunching under his boots, a cat screaming in pain from the corner, and—most jarringly of all—his wife standing in the hallway with a gun pointed straight at his chest, hands shaking so badly the barrel wobbled with each breath she dragged in.
For a fraction of a second, his mind simply catalogued.
Man on the floor. Alive, but failing. Chest wound. Severe blood loss.
Glass everywhere. Signs of forced entry.
Cat injured.
Wife—shock state. Armed. Not seeing him.
Then the gun went off.
“Wait—Y/n!”
His eyes went wide as instinct took over. He dropped, body folding low and sideways in one smooth motion as the bullet punched into the wall behind him, plaster exploding in a white burst where his head had been a heartbeat before.
There was no hesitation.
Nikto moved.
He crossed the hallway in seconds—faster than fear, faster than thought—and slammed into her space, hands clamping around her wrists with brutal precision. He twisted sharply, deliberately, pain flaring through her joints just enough to make her cry out and loosen her grip.
The gun clattered to the floor.
He kicked it away, scooped it up in one motion, flicked the safety on without even looking, and shoved it into the waistband of his pants. Then his arms were around her, solid and unyielding, pulling her into his chest like a shield.
Only then did he really look.
Her face was blotchy and wet, eyes swollen and wild, and breath coming in jagged gasps that didn’t sound human anymore. Her body was shaking violently, fingers clawing into his jacket like she might fall apart if she let go. Her gaze darted past him again and again—to the man groaning on the floor, to the blood, to the cat limping and hissing from the wreckage.
She was in full panic.
Shock.
“Nononono—” she sobbed, words tumbling over each other. “I—I killed him—I shot him, Nikto. I killed him. Oh God—”
Her breathing hitched hard, too fast, and too shallow. Hyperventilating. Spiralling.
Nikto tightened his hold and angled his body slightly, turning her so she couldn’t see the man as clearly. He didn’t shout. Didn’t raise his voice. He never did in moments like this.
“Look at me,” he said low and firm, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Pretty wife, look.”
She didn’t.
“I’m a murderer,” she cried, nails digging into his chest. “I shot him, I—I’m going to jail, they’re going to take me away, I ruined everything—”
“No.” One word.
“You are not listening,” he said, calmer than the situation had any right to allow. “You were attacked. You defended yourself. That is not murder.”
She shook her head violently, tears flying. “He—he was on the floor, and I—I pulled the trigger, Nikto, I pulled it—”
“You were in danger.” His grip tightened just enough to anchor her. “You were afraid. He hurt you. He hurt the cat. He broke into our home.”
Her breathing sped up again, sharp little gasps that made her lightheaded. She sagged slightly against him, legs threatening to give out.
Nikto felt it immediately.
“Breathe,” he ordered softly, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, pressing her face into his chest so she couldn’t see anything else. “Not like that. Slow.”
She tried. Failed. Sucked in too much air and choked on it, sobbing harder.
“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said, unwavering. “Listen to me. We do this together.”
He shifted his stance, feet braced, body solid as stone around her shaking frame.
“In,” he murmured, tapping twice against her back. “Now.”
She gasped.
“Out,” he said, slower. “Long.”
Her breath stuttered out, uneven.
Again.
“In.”
Out.
She tried to match him, but panic kept tripping her up. Tears soaked into his jacket. Her fingers trembled like she was freezing.
“I killed him,” she whimpered again, her voice small now, broken. “I killed a man.”
Nikto’s eyes flicked over her head—to the intruder on the floor.
The man was still alive.
Barely.
Gurgling. Bleeding out. Suffering.
Nikto made a decision without ceremony.
He loosened his hold just enough to reach into his waistband and pull the gun free. His movements were controlled, almost gentle, as he flicked the safety off.
Y/n felt the shift immediately.
“N—Nikto?” she sobbed, head lifting slightly. “What—what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer her right away.
He adjusted his grip so one arm still held her securely, her head tucked under his chin, her face pressed to his chest. He angled his body, placing himself between her and the man, blocking her view entirely.
Then he raised the gun.
The shot was clean. Efficient. Final.
The man’s groaning cut off instantly.
Silence crashed down hard and heavy.
Nikto lowered the gun.
He flicked the safety back on.
Then, calmly, as if discussing the weather, he said, “Now you did not kill him.”
She froze.
“What…?” Her voice was barely audible.
“I did,” Nikto said flatly. “He is dead because of me. Not you.”
Her body went limp against him, confusion cutting through the hysteria for just a moment. “B—but—I shot him first—”
“You defended yourself,” he repeated, voice steady. “That man broke into our home. He attacked you. He hurt you. He hurt the cat. You survived.”
He tipped her chin up gently, forcing her tear-blurred eyes to meet his masked gaze.
“You are my wife,” he said quietly. “My very pretty wife. My little wife. And you are safe now.”
Her breathing hitched again, but this time it slowed, just a fraction.
“I’m here,” he continued. “You are not going to jail. No one is taking you away. I will not allow it.”
She clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world, sobbing into his chest as the reality of what had almost happened—and what had happened—crashed over her in waves.
“I was so scared,” she whispered. “I thought—I thought I was going to die.”
“I know,” he said simply.
He shifted, lowering himself to sit on the floor with her, pulling her into his lap so she wouldn’t collapse. He cradled her head with one hand, fingers threading through her hair, the other arm locked securely around her back.
“Breathe with me,” he said again, softer now. “We do this slowly.”
He exaggerated the rhythm this time, forcing his chest to rise and fall clearly beneath her cheek.
“In,” he counted quietly. “One. Two.”
Out. “One. Two. Three.”
She followed, shakily at first.
Again.
Her sobs softened into hiccupping breaths. The shaking eased, though it didn’t stop completely.
A low hiss sounded near them.
Nikto’s eyes snapped to the side just as the cat limped closer, fur bristling, tail low. He hissed again—angry, pained, and defensive—and curled himself against Y/n’s side protectively.
Nikto narrowed his eyes at the animal.
The cat glared back, unrepentant.
“Tch,” Nikto muttered.
Y/n made a small, broken sound of relief and curled slightly toward the cat, fingers brushing his fur. The animal settled, still hissing softly at Nikto before tucking himself closer to her warmth.
Nikto let it happen—for now.
He gathered her carefully into his arms, lifting her with practiced ease despite the way she clung to him, still fragile and exhausted from the shock.
“Bedroom,” he murmured against her hair. “You stay there.”
She nodded weakly.
The cat followed immediately, limping but determined, tail flicking as if daring Nikto to say something about it.
Nikto carried her down the hall, laid her gently on the bed, and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead—brief, grounding, unmistakably his.
“Do not move,” he told her. “Do not think. Just breathe.”
She nodded again, curling slightly, the cat climbing up beside her and settling against her ribs.
Nikto turned and left the room.
He made one call.
His voice was calm, detached, and precise as he informed the authorities that there was “garbage” in his living room that needed to be removed. Forced entry. Intruder neutralized. Wife safe.
Then he returned.
He shut the bedroom door behind him and crossed the room in long strides, eyes going immediately to Y/n. He gently nudged the cat aside—earning another hiss—and climbed onto the bed, pulling her back into his chest.
“There,” he murmured, cradling her again. “I’ve got you.”
And slowly, steadily, as he coached her breathing and held her together piece by piece, Y/n finally began to believe that she would survive this too.
Sorry this chapter is so short and kind of...well...badly written. I've been so busy lately it's crazy. I haven't even found time to go visit my grandpa on the weekends, and I typically prioritize that. This chapter is kinda just filler, and I might come back later and change it a bit. Not in a way that will really affect the plot, but...yeah.
This chapter is supposed to show that Y/n is worried about Keegan and putting him above other things at the moment and also supposed to show how different people react to the shock of seeing another person. Sometimes it can take days for shock to actually hit a person; it just depends.
Part 54 | Part 56 |
ALL PARTS HERE
Y/n wrenched her hatchet free from the Biter’s skull with a wet, resisting sound and shoved herself upright in one sharp motion. Her knees screamed in protest, muscles trembling from the strain, but she ignored it and broke back into a run. The corpse collapsed at her feet, finally still, and she didn’t spare it another glance.
She couldn’t afford to.
Her breath burned her lungs as she sprinted onward, boots slapping hard against cracked pavement and packed dirt. The Biters nearby turned toward her at the sound, their dead eyes tracking her movement, but none of them were close enough to matter. Not yet. She’d already had to put down five just to get through the narrow pedestrian way—slow, methodical kills, one at a time. It had taken far longer than she liked, and every second had felt stolen.
She hadn’t fired a single shot.
The gun at her hip stayed holstered for a reason. One gunshot echoed in this town, and every violent bastard still alive would come running. She could handle Biters. She could not afford another sniper.
Speed mattered more than anything now.
She burst out of the narrow passageway and skidded to a half-stop, chest heaving, eyes snapping up.
There.
Relief hit her so hard it almost knocked the breath from her lungs.
The transport and her truck sat exactly where they’d left them—parked crookedly in the empty lot beside a rusting, abandoned food truck. The faded paint peeled off its sides in long strips, and the serving window hung half-open, useless and gutted. They’d checked it when they first rolled into Marathon. A handful of chips, a half-stocked first aid kit—nothing worth lingering for. Logan and Hesh would’ve mocked the place if they were here now.
Cold medicine. That had been the whole reason they’d pushed deeper into town.
Y/n tore across the lot, fumbling the keys from her zipped pocket with shaking fingers. She jammed them into the driver’s door lock—
Snap.
The sound came from the treeline.
Her whole body reacted before her mind caught up. Sidearm in one hand, hatchet in the other, she spun on her heel, stance wide, heart hammering as she sighted down the pistol and prepared to bury metal in whatever stepped out next.
Four figures stood at the edge of the road.
Human.
Alive.
And staring at her like she was a ghost.
The silence stretched, thick and unreal. Keller. Reese. Fox. Standing there in stunned disbelief, eyes locked on the blood-soaked woman bristling with weapons by the truck.
Y/n’s chest rose and fell sharply as recognition slammed into her.
Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her pistol. The hatchet followed, sliding back into its loop on her belt. Her movements were cautious, controlled—like she still half-expected them to turn on her.
Fox was the first to move.
“Y/n—”
He crossed the distance in seconds and wrapped her up in a crushing embrace before she could react. His arms locked around her ribs, squeezing so tight it knocked the air from her lungs.
“Oof—fuck,” she wheezed, hands coming up instinctively, unsure whether to shove him off or cling back.
Fox didn’t let go. He rocked slightly, breathing hard, fingers digging into her shoulders like he was afraid she might vanish if he loosened his grip.
“My niece,” he choked softly. “You’re alive!”
Keller leaned toward Reese, voice barely above a whisper. “Who… who is that?”
“My niece,” Fox repeated, voice breaking. “That’s my niece.”
Reese stared at the blood coating Y/n’s clothes—her arms, her neck, streaked across her face—before she snapped into motion. She stepped forward and grabbed Y/n’s arm, fingers already probing for injuries.
“Oh my god,” Reese said, panic creeping into her voice. “Why are you covered in blood? Are you hurt? Where are you bleeding from?”
“My—” Y/n blinked, brain struggling to keep up. The word hit her a second late. “Uncle… Wagosh?”
Shock surged through her, sharp and disorienting.
Then it vanished.
Asshole mode snapped back into place like a slammed door.
She yanked her arm free, turned away, and finished unlocking the truck in one aggressive motion. The door flew open.
“Keegan’s fucking shot,” she barked, words tumbling over each other. “I need to get to him. Now.”
“What?” Fox demanded, horror cutting through his relief. Keller moved at the same time.
“Who is shot?” Keller asked sharply. “Where?”
“My—my partner,” Y/n snapped, slamming the door shut again and moving for the driver’s side. “Fuck!”
“He’s a doctor,” Reese said urgently, pushing Keller forward. “From Thunder Bay. He can help.”
Y/n whirled on them, eyes wild. “Then get the fuck in, you morons!”
Reese flinched—clearly not expecting that kind of language from her boyfriend’s niece—but she didn’t hesitate. She scrambled into the back seat with Keller and Fox, barely getting the door closed before the engine roared to life.
Y/n peeled out of the lot, tires screeching as she cut hard onto the road. She drove like the apocalypse itself was chasing her, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, foot heavy on the gas as she blew past any concept of speed limits.
“You have a partner?” Fox asked, gripping the back of her seat as the truck swerved.
“Yes,” Y/n snapped. “And he’s going to fucking die if we don’t move.”
She took a corner too sharp. The truck fishtailed slightly, and everyone except her slammed into the doors.
“Easy!” Fox barked, reaching out to steady himself. “Reese is pregnant!”
Y/n shot him a sharp look in the mirror. “Oh? Good for her.”
She slammed the brakes as they skidded into the storefront parking lot, tires smoking slightly.
“Out,” she ordered. “Move your ass and help him, doctor.”
She was already out the door before the sentence finished, sprinting toward the store where she’d left Ajax and Keegan. Blood still streaked her hands. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Behind her, Reese climbed out more cautiously, eyes wide. “What is happening?”
And then he broke into a run too—chasing the blood, the gunfire, and the woman who had somehow survived the end of the world.
Y/n slammed the store door open hard enough that it bounced once against the wall, the sound sharp in the too-quiet space. Her eyes went straight to the floor.
Ajax was still kneeling beside Keegan, two fingers pressed firmly to the side of his neck, his posture rigid with focus. Blood darkened the concrete beneath Keegan’s back despite the pressure dressings, the metallic smell thick in the air.
Y/n dropped to her knees beside him so fast her palms stung when they hit the floor.
Keegan’s eyes were closed.
Her breath caught painfully in her chest. “Ajax?” Her voice cracked despite her effort to keep it steady.
“He’s just passed out,” Ajax said immediately, not looking away from Keegan as his free hand drifted instinctively toward his sidearm when footsteps rushed in behind her. “Pulse is still there.”
Keller and Fox burst into the store seconds later, skidding to a halt at the sight. Y/n didn’t turn around—she stayed focused on Keegan, grabbing his hand in both of hers like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the room.
“He’s a doctor,” Y/n said quickly, finally glancing up at Ajax. “And he’s my uncle.”
Ajax blinked at Fox. “You have an uncle?”
“Long story,” Y/n muttered.
Keller was already kneeling, hands gentle but efficient as he checked Keegan’s pupils, felt his pulse for himself, and pressed lightly around the bandaged wounds.
“What happened?” Keller asked, voice calm but urgent.
“Close-range sniper,” Ajax replied without hesitation. “Through-and-through. Entry in the back, exit in the front. We packed both wounds. He lost a lot of blood.”
Keller nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. “He’s at serious risk of shock. And internal bleeding.” He glanced up. “I can’t tell what organs were hit without imaging.”
“We need to get him back to camp,” Ajax said. “We’ve got more supplies there.”
“What kind?” Fox asked, stepping closer and placing a steadying hand on Y/n’s shoulder. She barely noticed—her focus never left Keegan.
“Bandages. Pain meds,” Y/n answered immediately.
Keller shook his head. “That’s not enough. He needs antibiotics. Broad-spectrum if possible.” He looked up sharply. “Is there a hospital in this town?”
“Yes,” Y/n said at once, releasing Keegan’s hand and standing. “I have the key for the padlock.”
All three men looked at her.
“Good,” Keller said, relief flickering across his face. “You need to go there and get whatever you can—antibiotics, IV supplies, sterile equipment. Anything.”
“I’ll go,” Y/n said, already turning toward the door.
“Hold on.” Fox grabbed her wrist firmly. “You can’t go alone. Hospitals are Biter nests. That’s suicide.”
“I’ll go with her,” Ajax said, standing.
Fox frowned sharply. “Then how are we supposed to get him to camp?”
“I’ve been in the hospital here before,” Fox cut in. “I’ll go with Y/n to the hospital. You take him back.”
Ajax looked between them, then to Y/n, waiting. He trusted her judgment—but this was a gamble.
Y/n didn’t hesitate. “Okay. Uncle Wagosh and I go to the hospital. Ajax, you take everyone else back to camp. Load Keegan into the transport and leave my truck for us.”
Ajax’s jaw tightened. “I’m the better shot.”
“And you’re the only one who knows the way back to camp other than me. Keep him alive on the way back,” Y/n shot back. “Move.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Ajax nodded. “Alright. Be careful.”
Y/n was already moving, dragging Fox with her toward the door. “We don’t have time to be careful.”
Behind them, Ajax dropped back down beside Keegan, hands steady and voice low, already preparing to move him—while Y/n ran headlong toward the hospital, fear pounding in her chest but purpose locking her spine straight.
Fox surprised her.
Not because he was fast—Y/n could still outpace him if she really wanted to—but because he didn’t fall behind. He stayed close, boots slapping pavement just a half-beat behind hers, breath controlled, shoulders loose despite the grey in his hair and the years etched into his face. He moved like someone who had spent his life working outdoors, someone whose body never quite forgot how to keep going.
She knew, distantly, that if her thigh hadn’t been stabbed weeks ago, she would’ve been gone already—cutting through alleys and tree lines without a second thought, leaving him to follow the noise and curse her name. She also knew she wouldn’t have waited for him.
Not today.
Pain flared with every longer stride, a deep, ugly ache that radiated up her leg and reminded her of how much she’d already pushed herself. She kept running anyway. Keegan was bleeding somewhere behind her. Everything else was secondary.
They slowed only when they reached the library beside the hospital, its brick exterior scarred with old graffiti and soot marks. Y/n climbed the steps and stopped at the edge of the roof access, hands braced on her knees as she leaned forward, chest heaving. From here, she could see the hospital clearly—too clearly.
Biters clustered around the main entrance, drawn there by old noise, old smells, and old instinct. More lingered in the parking lot. Some pressed their hands against glass doors. Others wandered aimlessly, bumping into abandoned cars or each other, drawn back again and again to the same place like moths to a dead flame.
Her heart pounded hard enough that she thought it might choke her.
She straightened, jaw tight, eyes scanning routes. Side entrance. Fire escape. Loading dock. None of them looked clean.
Fox came up behind her, slower now, one hand braced on the low wall as he caught his breath. “You always run like that?” he asked lightly.
She didn’t answer.
He glanced at her leg, then at the way she favoured it despite trying not to. “You’re hurt.”
“Old injury,” she said flatly.
“Still counts.”
She huffed and looked back at the hospital. Anxiety crawled under her skin, sharp and restless, eating at her thoughts. She shoved it down hard. If Elodie were here, she’d be having a goddamn field day—mocking her, calling her soft, and saying she was finally cracking.
Y/n clenched her fists. She wasn’t cracking. She was thinking.
Fox watched her for a moment, then spoke again, gentler this time. “Your grandparents,” he said. “What happened to them?”
Her shoulders stiffened.
“My grandpa fell through the ice,” she answered after a pause, voice clipped. “Got stuck. Didn’t make it back to the cabin in time, and he didn’t go to the hospital. Froze in bed the night before everything went to shit.”
Fox inhaled slowly.
“My grandma…” Y/n continued, eyes never leaving the hospital. “She didn’t want to live being a burden. Took herself out two days later.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and respectful.
“I’m sorry,” Fox said quietly.
She shrugged once, sharp and dismissive. “Happened fast. Didn’t have time to dwell.”
He didn’t push. Instead, he shifted gears, like someone who understood when to step sideways instead of forward.
“You got a partner now?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Yes,” she repeated, sharper this time. “Keegan.”
Fox nodded, absorbing that. “The one who got shot.”
Her jaw clenched. “Yes.”
He studied her profile—the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands flexed like she was already gripping a weapon. “You care about him.”
She shot him a look. “Obviously.”
“Just checking,” he said mildly. “Hard world. People don’t always let themselves care.”
She turned away from him again, eyes narrowing as she traced a potential path through the Biters. “Caring doesn’t make you weak. It makes you dangerous.”
Fox smiled faintly at that.
They stood there for another beat, the distant moans and shuffling sounds drifting up from the hospital grounds. Fox followed her gaze.
“So,” he said. “What were you doing down here in White River? Why not stay closer to Constance Lake?”
That one, she didn’t answer.
Her silence stretched, deliberate and absolute. She shifted her weight, tested her leg again, and mapped out the timing in her head. Distractions. Choke points. The padlock. How long she’d be exposed while unlocking it. How many Biters could she drop quietly before it turned loud?
Fox glanced at her, then back at the hospital, understanding settling in.
“Alright,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
Y/n finally nodded, eyes hard with resolve.
“We need a plan,” Y/n said, blinking hard as she forced her racing thoughts into some kind of order. “Fast.”
Fox stood beside her, eyes tracking the hospital grounds with a calm that irritated her even as she respected it. The building loomed ahead—too quiet, too still—its windows boarded from the outside, its doors sealed and chained like someone had known exactly what was coming.
“Front doors are suicide,” Fox said plainly. “Key or no key. Too many Biters stacked there.” He tilted his head, studying the windows. “But the boards are on the outside. That means we can get in through a window.”
“Right,” Y/n replied dryly, “and while I’m prying boards off like an idiot, the Biters swarm and eat me alive.”
Fox glanced at her sideways. “You’ve got an attitude, little missy.”
She scoffed. “It’s the apocalypse. Grow up, Grandpa.”
He huffed, folding his arms. “I thought my niece would be happy to see her only uncle alive.”
“I would be,” she shot back, “if my partner wasn’t bleeding out on a truck floor right now.”
That shut him up.
For a moment they just stood there, the distant groans drifting across the lot, the wind rattling loose boards and broken signage. Y/n flexed her fingers, feeling the ache in her thigh and the deeper, sharper ache in her chest.
Fox exhaled slowly. “Alright. Here’s the play.” He pointed toward the densest cluster of Biters. “I draw them. All of them. Make noise; keep them focused on me. I’ll get up on a roof—fire escape, awning, whatever works. They won’t reach me.”
“And I sneak in,” Y/n finished, already seeing it. “Pry open a window while they’re busy trying to eat you.”
“Exactly.”
“And how do you get down?” she asked, suspicion lacing her tone.
“Once you’re done, you drive your truck right up beside the building. I jump in. Biters don’t run faster than engines.”
She frowned. “So I fight my way through a hospital alone.”
“You were planning to do that anyway,” Fox said mildly. Then his gaze sharpened. “And listen to me—if there are too many, you get out. No reckless hero shit. Don’t throw your life away for a white guy.”
She snorted. “Racist.”
“Honest.”
Y/n pulled her hatchet from her belt, rolling her shoulders. “If I’m not out in two or three hours, leave me. I’m either dead, or I found my own way back. You do not wait past dark. Biters smell better then, and I won’t see shit.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Fox said firmly.
“You’ve got a pregnant woman,” Y/n snapped. “Leave me. I’ll survive, or I won’t.”
They stared at each other, stubborn meeting stubborn.
Finally, Fox sighed and drew his knife. “Fine.”
They moved.
Fox didn’t hesitate—he stepped into the open, shouting, clapping his hands, and kicking over a metal bin hard enough to send it screeching across the pavement. The sound carried instantly. Heads snapped toward him. Bodies turned. Groans rose into hungry howls.
“Hey!” Fox yelled, waving his arms. “Over here, you ugly bastards!”
They came.
Y/n didn’t look back. She ran low and fast along the hospital wall, boots barely whispering against concrete. She chose a second-floor window near the side—less traffic, less light—and jammed her fingers under the edge of the first board.
It didn’t budge.
“Fuck,” she muttered, teeth gritting.
She braced her foot against the wall and pulled again. The board creaked but stayed put. Her thigh screamed in protest.
No time.
She raised her hatchet and slammed the blade into the wood near the nails, levering hard. The board shrieked as it tore free, dropping with a clatter that made her heart lurch.
A few Biters turned.
“Shit—”
She kicked the second board loose faster, glass cracking behind it. Hands reached for her as she wrenched the last board away. One Biter lunged close enough that she could smell rot on its breath.
She drove her boot into its chest, shoving it back, then ducked and shoved herself through the opening.
Glass bit into her arms and shoulders as she squeezed through, tearing skin and ripping fabric. Pain flared hot and sharp—but she didn’t slow.
She hit the floor inside hard, rolling instinctively, coming up on one knee with her hatchet raised.
Nothing.
The room was empty.
No Biters. No movement. Just overturned furniture and dust drifting in the dim light.
She sucked in a shaky breath and slammed the door shut behind her, locking it.
For the first time in minutes, there was silence.
Y/n pressed her forehead to the wall for half a second—just long enough to steady herself—then straightened.
She wiped blood from her arm, tightened her grip on the hatchet, and turned toward the hallway.
Keegan was waiting.
And she was not leaving this hospital without what he needed.
So, you are Native American, right? Can you write a story on what if one of the boys met a Native American reader at a pow wow??
Hey! Yeah, I'm Indigenous, specifically Ojibwe, so what I wrote for this is based more off of my culture than other Native nations. I also based the jingle dress off of mine because I don't want to describe a dress that someone else has, and it's easier to write about something that I can already picture and know about. The picture of the jingle dress is mine; I cropped my face out. Hehe.
Sorry if this doesn't go as deep as you wanted into a powwow; you also didn't say which boys, so I just went with the TF141 boys. I feel like the Ghost team would know already what a powwow is or have been to one, and I wanted to make this story show that not everyone knows and some people still think we live in a wigwam. (We don't; I live in a house and have a bedroom with a messy desk).
I also find that writing a lot about native culture, since it's looked down upon to share certain teachings online, is a bit harder, even though I'm a competitive dancer myself and know a lot of stuff. So I tried not to overshare or anything.
Ghost blinked slowly, arms folded across his chest as he leaned back against the concrete wall of the briefing room. The low hum of the projector filled the silence for a beat longer than usual.
“We are going to a what?” Gaz finally asked, brow furrowing as he glanced between Laswell and Price. The word felt strange in his mouth, half-remembered from childhood textbooks and documentaries he’d never really paid attention to.
“A powwow,” Laswell repeated evenly, tapping the remote and bringing up a map of southern Ontario on the screen. “A large one. Public. Annual.”
Soap shifted in his chair, elbows propped on the table. “Right, yeah—those Native American party things, yeah?” he said, trying to sound confident and failing spectacularly.
Price shot him a look without turning his head. “Indigenous, Johnny.”
Soap opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “Right. Indigenous.”
“First Nations, actually,” Laswell added, correcting gently but firmly. “In Canada, that’s the proper term. Though you’ll see other Indigenous groups there as well. Métis. Inuit visitors. Different Nations.”
Soap’s face scrunched in confusion. “So… like the Aztecs?”
The room went quiet.
Ghost tilted his head slightly. “The Aztecs don’t exist anymore, Johnny.”
Soap bristled. “I meant—y’know—historical—”
Price cut in before it derailed completely. “Enough.”
Gaz leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, concern creeping into his expression. “Are they even going to let us go?” he asked. “I mean… us.”
Laswell nodded once. “Powwows are generally open to the public. Anyone can attend. You don’t need an invitation. You do need to keep your mouths shut, follow protocol, and not interfere with ceremonies.”
She paused, eyes sweeping over them. “You are observers. Nothing more.”
Price stepped in then, folding his hands behind his back as he paced slowly in front of the table. “We intercepted chatter last week. A terrorist cell tied to Ritoka has shown interest in Indigenous communities in Canada. Specifically powwows.”
Soap straightened. “Why?”
“That,” Laswell said, “is what you’re there to find out.”
The projector clicked again, photos of past powwows flashing across the screen—dancers in bright regalia, drums, feathers, beadwork, crowds gathered in wide circles.
“No known threats yet,” Price continued. “But Ritoka doesn’t get curious without reason. Recruitment, resources, influence—could be any of it.”
Soap stared at the images, frowning. “Why them, though? I mean… they’re not exactly—”
“Violent?” Gaz supplied quietly.
Soap hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Gaz swallowed, unease settling heavy in his chest. He knew enough history—just enough to feel uncomfortable standing in that arena wearing a Union Jack on his shoulder. Residential schools. Forced assimilation. Cultural erasure. English boots on stolen land. It wasn’t something he’d learned properly in school, but it was enough to make his skin prickle.
“What if they don’t want us there?” Gaz asked. “Given… everything.”
Laswell met his gaze. “That’s why you don’t announce yourselves as soldiers. You’re civilians. Observers, blend in.”
Ghost remained silent, eyes fixed on the screen. His knowledge of Indigenous history was fragmented at best—colonization, displacement, and treaties broken. Casinos. That was about the extent of it. He didn’t like going into an environment he didn’t understand. Didn’t like not knowing the rules.
But he also knew how to watch.
Price stopped pacing and turned to face them. “I’ll be clear,” he said. “You’re guests. That means respect. No jokes. No assumptions. No interfering with dancers, drummers, or elders.”
Soap raised a hand halfway. “What if I accidentally—”
“Then don’t,” Price said flatly.
Laswell exhaled. “I’ve been to one,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Once. My wife wanted to go. It’s not a spectacle. It’s a cultural event with proper ceremonies.”
She glanced at Ghost. “You’ll be surrounded by people who notice everything. You’ll need to notice more.”
Ghost pushed off the wall at last, arms still crossed. “Understood.”
Gaz nodded slowly. “Yeah. Understood.”
Soap leaned back in his chair, staring at the images again, suddenly quieter than usual. “Right. No Aztecs. Got it.”
Price sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Pack light. You fly out tomorrow.”
The projector clicked off, plunging the room back into muted grey. As they stood to leave, Ghost lingered a moment longer, eyes lingering on the frozen image of a dancer mid-step—feathers lifted, body grounded, powerful.
Whatever Ritoka wanted here, it wasn’t going to be simple.
And none of them were prepared for what they were walking into.
The call cut through the layered noise of the parking lot—engines idling, people laughing, drums being tuned somewhere beyond the treeline. It carried clean and bright, threaded with excitement.
John turned away from Gaz mid-sentence, scanning the wide sprawl of asphalt and dust. For a second, Ghost saw nothing out of the ordinary—rows of trucks, pop-up tents, and dancers adjusting regalia beside open tailgates. Then the sound hit.
Metal on metal. Not sharp. Not harsh. A chiming rattle, like rain striking brass bells.
John shook his head, already smiling, and the woman seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Ghost registered movement first, then colour. Purple—deep, rich, alive—filling the space where there had been nothing a moment ago. The sound followed her, hundreds of soft metallic voices colliding with each step. For something that loud, she moved with unsettling quiet, slipping between people and vehicles as if she belonged to the air itself.
“Niece!” John opened his arms wide.
She stepped into them without hesitation, hugging him hard, the gold cones sewn into her dress chiming with the motion. The sound rolled over Ghost’s senses, unfamiliar but oddly rhythmic. Not noise—music, almost.
When they parted, Ghost’s attention locked in before he could stop it.
The dress was unlike anything he had ever seen. Purple fabric flowed from her shoulders to her knees, covered in hummingbirds and flowers stitched with care and intention. Around her waist sat a wide belt strung with gold-coloured metal circles, layered by size in a deliberate pattern. A purple sash was tied overtop, anchoring the movement of the dress beneath it.
And then there were the jingles.
Hundreds of tiny, cone-shaped pieces of metal sewn in neat rows across the chest, sleeves, and skirt. They clashed and sang every time she shifted her weight, every breath causing a soft, cascading rattle. It explained the sound Ghost had heard echoing throughout the parking lot—this wasn’t unique. There were others like her, preparing nearby, each step adding to the pulse of the place.
What caught him, though—what held his gaze longer than the dress—was the beadwork.
It was everywhere.
Beaded cuffs hugged her wrists. A wide, circular chest piece rested over her shoulders like a halo of colour, patterned with hummingbirds so fine Ghost could see individual wings. Her earrings were beaded too—heavy, layered, pulling gently at her earlobes. Even her braids carried beadwork: circles and rectangular pieces woven in alongside strips of fur that brushed her shoulders when she moved.
Her moccasins were fully beaded—every visible surface covered in purples, golds, and greens that mirrored the dress. Even the feather tucked into her hair had beadwork wrapped carefully around its base, matched by a beaded headband resting against her forehead.
Ghost estimated the weight automatically. Fabric, metal, beads, and fur. It had to be heavy. He wondered how long it took to learn to move like that without strain.
“Gentlemen,” John said proudly, resting a hand between the woman’s shoulder blades. “This is my niece, Y/n.”
“Aniin!” she greeted, smiling wide open, warm, and unguarded.
Gaz smiled back instantly. “Hey. I’m Kyle. This is Simon, and that’s John.” He thumbed toward Ghost and Soap.
Ghost nodded once.
Soap lifted a hand in a small wave, eyes already drifting down to her feet.
Y/n’s gaze flicked over all three of them, sharp and curious without being rude. “You’re from Britain,” she said, more of a statement than a question.
“Yeah,” Gaz admitted, suddenly aware of his accent. “We weren’t sure if… uh… we were allowed to be here.”
She laughed softly, bouncing once on her toes. Her feet stayed together, heels lifting and dropping in a smooth rhythm, though they never once touched the ground. The jingles answered instantly, crashing together in a shimmering cascade. Dust puffed up beneath her moccasins as she glided in place, the movement so fluid it barely looked like effort.
“We don’t care where you come from,” she said easily. “Just don’t dance until the MC says you can.”
Her hands came to her hips, posture shifting. She lifted her feet in quick, precise motions—short steps, tight footwork, controlled and fast. The jingles sang louder now, matching her tempo perfectly. For a few seconds, the parking lot fell away, and Ghost watched something practiced and powerful unfold in front of him.
Then she stopped, breath steady, eyes bright.
Ghost realized, belatedly, that she had been showing off.
“And don’t buy anything unless it’s from a Native person,” she added. “Lots of people sell fake beadwork at powwows. Some pretend to be Native. Some don’t even bother pretending. We try to kick them out, but—” she shrugged. “People like money. And they like wearing things they didn’t earn.”
“Yeah,” Soap said quietly, still staring at her feet. “Did you… did you make those?”
She tilted her head, studying him, earrings swaying under their own weight. Ghost noticed then how heavy they were, how her earlobes stretched slightly under the pull. He wondered if they hurt. If she noticed anymore.
“Yep!” she said proudly. “Everything except the fabric and the belts. All the beadwork is mine. I made the dress too.”
“How long did that take?” Gaz asked, genuine awe in his voice.
“A year.” She blinked, like it was obvious.
“A year?” Soap let out a low whistle. “That’s—bloody hell—that’s a long time.”
“Well, you can only add one jingle cone a day,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s how it’s done. Beading takes time too. Patience. Care.”
Ghost said nothing.
Soap didn’t even bother pretending to hide his amazement and shock.
He stood there openly staring, mouth slightly parted, eyes flicking up and down Y/n’s regalia like his brain was still trying to reconcile what he was seeing with every dusty, black-and-white textbook image he’d been fed as a kid. Buckskin. Feathers. Static museum displays. That was what he’d expected—something old, stiff, frozen in time.
This was none of that.
“This—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head. “This is nothing like what they showed us in school.”
Gaz nodded slowly beside him, equally stunned. “They made it look… historical. Like it was all in the past.” He gestured vaguely at Y/n’s dress, the jingles chiming softly as she shifted her weight. “This looks alive.”
Ghost said nothing, but his attention stayed sharp, cataloguing reactions. Soap’s awe. Gaz’s discomfort turning into something closer to respect. The way Y/n stood so comfortably in something that would’ve weighed down anyone else unfamiliar with it.
Y/n glanced up suddenly, her attention pulled away as a woman in a bright red dress passed nearby. The dress flared with movement, and over it hung a massive shawl—deep red, heavy with long ribbons that streamed down her arms and back like fire. Without hesitation, Y/n stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a sharp whistle, the kind Ghost had heard echoed across construction sites and battle zones back home and on the field.
The woman looked over her shoulder and grinned, lifting a hand to wave.
A moment later, a boy caught up to her—his outfit a riot of ribbons and beadwork, his hair spilling loose down his back in a thick, glossy curtain that Ghost realized was hair, bound and styled deliberately. They walked together toward the arena, ribbons fluttering with every step.
Y/n laughed, the sound bright and unselfconscious, then turned back to the men.
“You want to sit with me?” she asked easily. “I can explain stuff as we go. Dances, what’s happening when, etiquette. All that.”
John cleared his throat, stepping in. “You should,” he said to them. “I can’t sit with you. Once I’m in the arena with the drum, I can’t leave.” His tone wasn’t apologetic—just factual. “Cultural reasons.”
He glanced at Y/n with pride. “Besides, she’s a language and culture teacher. You won’t find a better guide.”
Y/n nodded, unbothered. “I’ve already got a blanket down.”
Soap didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Absolutely.” His eyes were already drifting, tracking dancers warming up, people stretching, spinning, and bouncing lightly on their feet as metal jingles chimed and ribbons swayed. “Lead the way.”
They moved together toward the arena, the crowd thickening as they went. Indigenous families flowed around them—some heading toward the grandstand seating, others toward the vendor area beside it. Bright colours everywhere. Blues, reds, yellows, and purples. Beadwork caught the light no matter where Ghost looked.
A group of kids tore past them, laughing, weaving between adults without a single parent in sight.
Ghost slowed half a step, instinctively scanning for danger that never came. No one grabbed for them. No one shouted. The crowd adjusted around the children like water around stones.
That was… unusual.
In most places Ghost had been, crowds tightened around kids. Hands reached out. Eyes locked on them. Here, the children moved freely—trusted.
He noticed then how many people wore beadwork, even those not dressed for dancing. Beaded vests. Beaded earrings. Small beaded ties on braids. It wasn’t a costume—it was a daily presence, woven casually into who people were.
And the hair.
Ghost couldn’t stop noticing the hair.
Braids everywhere. Long hair on men, women, elders, teenagers, and kids. Single braids. Double braids. Thick, thin, wrapped with fur or beadwork, or left plain. He had never been in a crowd where so many people of every age and gender wore their hair long, uncut, and unhidden.
It felt deliberate. Intentional.
Soap and Gaz were openly gawking now, no longer pretending otherwise. Gaz’s head turned constantly, trying to take in the colours, the drums being set up in the centre of the arena, and the smaller drum groups off to the side warming their hands. Tables lined one edge—some stacked with items that looked like gifts or offerings, others with sound equipment and microphones, an announcer’s stand waiting to come alive.
“This is… a lot,” Gaz murmured.
Soap let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. And we’ve not even sat our arses down yet.”
Ghost followed Y/n in silence, senses sharp, the weight of the place settling into him slowly.
This wasn’t a performance.
This was a living world—and they were guests in it.
Y/n took the steps two at a time, metal framework clanging faintly beneath her moccasins as she climbed. The grandstand seating rose in long, shallow tiers made of weathered wood planks bolted to steel frames, the kind that creaked and flexed underfoot without ever feeling unsafe. Ghost followed a half-step behind, automatically tracking footing and sightlines, noting how the structure opened the view of the arena below with every level gained.
Blankets were everywhere.
Hundreds of them—bright quilts, woven throws, fleece, and bead-edged cloth—spread carefully across benches, draped over railings, and folded just so to claim space. Some had water bottles or bags set neatly on top, others nothing at all, as if the fabric itself was enough of a promise that someone would return. No one questioned it. People stepped around the blankets without hesitation, respecting invisible boundaries without needing to be told.
Y/n slowed near a section closer to the ground—not right at the bottom, but low enough that the arena floor felt close. She paused, looking down at the space like she was confirming something she’d already decided hours ago.
“This works,” she said, stepping into the row and kneeling to adjust a purple-and-gold blanket already spread across the bench.
Ghost clocked it immediately. Easy access. Quick descent. Not the lowest tier, which he’d already noticed was crowded with elders—older men and women settling carefully into their seats, greeted with handshakes and hugs, people making room without being asked. This spot gave her freedom to move when it was time to dance.
People were beginning to filter into the seating now, most of them white—families, couples, tourists with cameras slung around their necks—hovering uncertainly at the edges before choosing where to sit. The Indigenous crowd moved differently. Purposeful. Familiar. Like they’d been doing this their entire lives.
Soap dropped onto the bench with a sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him. “So,” he said, glancing down at the arena, “what time does all the dancing actually start?”
“Grand Entry’s around nine,” Y/n replied, smoothing the blanket. “That’s when everything really kicks off.”
Gaz checked his watch. “It’s seven.”
“Yep.”
Ghost frowned slightly. “Then why is everyone already here?”
Y/n looked at him like the question had genuinely never occurred to her. For a split second, her brows knit together—then her expression softened as understanding clicked.
“Oh. Right. You don’t know.”
She leaned back against the bench behind her, the jingles on her dress chiming softly. “First off, it takes forever for some people to even get here. A lot of us don’t travel in regalia—sitting in a car wearing all this?” She gave a short laugh. “Absolutely not.”
Soap hummed in agreement, already imagining it.
“So you get here, change, and get everything adjusted,” she continued. “Then you’ve got to register if you’re dancing and then register for competition if you are competing in those. Check in with your drum group if you’re singing. Go see the vendors before the good stuff’s gone. Catch up with cousins you didn’t even know you had until you realize you share a last name.”
Ghost watched her hands as she spoke—expressive, confident, practiced. This wasn’t a rehearsed explanation. This was muscle memory.
“And then,” she went on, “you have to find all your kids, aunties, uncles, whoever you came with, and herd them into seats. That alone can take an hour.”
Gaz chuckled under his breath.
“Before Grand Entry, all the dancers meet up outside the main gate,” Y/n added. “We have to organize by gender, age group, dance style, nation, and sometimes even by band. It’s… a process.”
Soap whistled quietly. “Sounds like organized chaos.”
She grinned. “That’s exactly what it is. And on top of that—” she tilted her head slightly, eyes bright with amusement, “everyone here runs on Nish time.”
Ghost raised an eyebrow. “Which means?”
“Which means the Grand Entry probably won’t start until nine-thirty,” she said calmly.
Soap laughed outright.
“What about the competition stuff?” he asked. “You mentioned that earlier.”
“Yeah,” Y/n said. “A lot of dancers compete. Not everyone, but plenty. I am.”
She said it without bragging—just fact.
“There are prizes for each dance category,” she explained. “Different age groups, different styles. Drummers and singers have competitions too—best lead singer, best drum, best group overall.”
Gaz glanced toward the centre of the arena, where a large drum sat waiting. “So it’s not just dancing.”
“Nope. It’s everything.”
“And this goes all weekend?” Soap asked.
“Friday to Sunday,” she nodded. “It’s a big one. There’s a lacrosse game at ten tonight too.”
Gaz blinked. “Of course there is.”
He hesitated, then asked, “What nation are you?”
Y/n’s posture shifted immediately. Chin lifting. Shoulders settling back with unmistakable pride.
“Anishinaabe,” she said. “Ojibwe.”
She smiled, softer now. “We call ourselves Anishinaabe. ‘Ojibwe’ is just one name people know us by. There are a lot of dialects—different spellings, different pronunciations—depending on where you’re from.”
Ghost absorbed that quietly, watching the way the word sat on her tongue like something precious.
Below them, drums began to warm—slow, steady beats echoing through the wooden stands as drummers warmed up.
Soap barely made it five minutes before he leaned forward again.
“So—sorry—just one more thing,” he said, hands braced on his knees, eyes flicking between Y/n and the arena below. “That dance you mentioned earlier—jingle dress—where did that come from exactly?”
“And why do the cones have to be metal?” Gaz added immediately. “Is it for sound, or—”
“And the colours,” Soap continued, steamrolling right over him. “Do they mean anything specific or—”
Ghost’s gaze cut sideways.
Sharp. Warning.
Soap ignored it completely.
Y/n answered anyway, patient and good-humoured, explaining bits and pieces without lecturing, her hands moving as she spoke, jingles chiming softly every time she shifted. Gaz listened attentively, nodding along, clearly trying to commit everything to memory. Soap bounced between awe and fascination, eyes tracking every movement, every dancer warming up below.
Ghost watched it unfold for a moment longer before exhaling through his nose.
“That’s enough,” he said quietly.
Soap blinked. “What?”
Ghost tilted his head toward the vendor area visible beyond the arena fencing. “Go. Both of you. Check out the vendors.”
Gaz hesitated. “You sure?”
Ghost’s expression didn’t change, but there was something behind his eyes—something deliberate.
“Yeah,” he said. “Kill some time.”
Soap opened his mouth to argue, then caught the look properly. His brows shot up.
“Oh,” he said, suddenly understanding. “Right. Vendors.”
He stood quickly. “Come on, Gaz.”
Gaz glanced once at Y/n, then Ghost, then nodded. “We’ll be back.”
As they disappeared down the steps, Y/n’s gaze lingered on Ghost just long enough to catch it.
The look.
Not the one he’d given Soap and Gaz—but the one beneath it. Calculating. Focused. Working.
Her expression didn’t change. No tension. No reaction. But something sharpened behind her eyes.
Once they were out of earshot, she stood, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her arms overhead in a smooth stretch. The jingles sang softly, responding to her movement like they were part of her body rather than sewn onto it. She rotated her wrists, flexed her ankles, and bent slightly at the waist.
Ghost watched, silent.
“What kind of dancing do you do?” he asked at last.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Professional jingle dress.”
“Professional,” he echoed.
She nodded. “Old-style and contemporary. But for big competitions like this?” She smiled faintly. “Contemporary.”
“To show off,” he said.
She grinned. “Exactly.”
“What’s the difference?”
She straightened, turned toward him—and winked.
“You’ll have to watch,” she said. “Figure it out for yourself.”
Ghost stared at her for a beat, then huffed quietly, shaking his head as he looked back out over the arena. Drums were being adjusted now, the low thrum starting to settle into the bones of the grandstand.
After a moment, she spoke again.
“So,” she said lightly, “why are two Brits and a Scot at a powwow in Ontario?”
Ghost’s jaw tightened.
“You’re welcome here,” she added quickly, not accusing. “Just—some people won’t be nice about it. Not to you two.” She jerked her chin vaguely toward where Soap and Gaz had gone. “They won’t bother John. Scottish accent helps. History and all that.”
“We’re on vacation,” Ghost said flatly. “Decided to check it out.”
She laughed.
Not mocking. Certain.
“Liar.”
His head snapped toward her. One brow lifted slowly.
“Excuse me?”
“I know what the SAS is,” she said calmly. “And your friend has a regimental tattoo he forgot to hide properly.” She leaned slightly, studying him openly now. “You’re all tall, built like soldiers, moving like soldiers. And no matter how much you think that sweater hides it—” she tapped two fingers lightly against her own ribs, mirroring the spot “—you’re carrying.”
She smiled. “Also, it’s summer. You look ridiculous.”
For the first time since meeting her, Ghost looked genuinely caught off guard.
Then his expression hardened.
“That’s none of your business.”
Her grin widened.
“Before we get into that,” she said suddenly, “how old do you think I am?”
The shift was abrupt enough to throw him.
His eyes narrowed. “Why.”
“Just guess.”
He studied her properly now—face, posture, energy. The way she moved. The confidence.
“Early twenties,” he said finally.
She shook her head.
“Late twenties. Early thirties.”
His gaze sharpened.
She lifted her arm, undoing the beaded cuff with practiced fingers and sliding it off. Carefully, she rolled the sleeve of her dress up her forearm.
Tattoos bloomed into view—layered, deliberate, telling a story. Lines and symbols overlapping older ink. And there, partially hidden beneath it all, unmistakable.
His breath stilled.
“That’s JTF2,” he said quietly.
She nodded.
“You’re in your thirties,” he said flatly.
“Yeah.”
He stared at her. “You don’t look it.”
She shrugged. “Good makeup. Good genes. Joy.”
His eyes didn’t soften.
“What are you doing here?”
She tilted her head, honest warmth returning to her smile. “Dancing. Being with my people. Enjoying my culture.”
She gestured to the arena. “I took time off work for this. I’m not here on assignment. I didn’t hear a word about the SAS being in town.”
Her gaze locked with his.
“So,” she said softly, “what are you doing here—at one of the biggest powwows in Canada?”
The drums below rolled louder.
And Ghost didn’t answer.
Y/n waited.
Her foot tapped against the wooden plank beneath her moccasin, the faint jingle answering the motion like an impatient breath. Ghost said nothing. His eyes stayed on the arena, posture still, jaw set in that familiar way that told her he was thinking—but not talking.
After a few seconds, she let out a slow breath through her nose and sat back down.
“Alright,” she said lightly, reaching into the fitted legging beneath her dress. Her fingers slid into a hidden pocket and came out with her phone. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll just call my base and let them know the SAS is poking around a powwow and making things weird.”
Ghost finally looked at her.
One eyebrow lifted, unimpressed. “Threats won’t work on me.”
Her mouth pulled into a frown. Without warning, she leaned forward and kicked his shin—not hard, but sharp enough to make a point.
“That wasn’t a threat,” she snapped. “That was a courtesy.”
He hissed quietly and shifted his leg back.
“This is my country,” she continued, voice tight now. “This is my people’s homeland. If you and your friends are here on assignment, I have a right to know what’s going on. You don’t get to play secret soldier on stolen land and pretend it doesn’t affect anyone.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed.
“And if you keep hiding things,” she added, pointing a finger at his chest, “I’ll pull the colonizer call and start complaining to anyone with more bars on their shoulders than you.”
“I am the superior,” he said flatly.
She blinked.
Then laughed.
“Oh, thank you,” she said sweetly. “That makes this so much easier.”
He frowned. “What.”
“Now I know you’re the one in charge.” She rose from the bench, dusting off her hands. “Guess I’ll just go get the details from Kyle and the Scot.”
She took one step.
Ghost’s hand shot out and closed around her forearm.
In a flash, she twisted free, yanking her arm back. “Careful,” she warned, eyes flashing. “You squash my jingles and I will ruin your day.”
The metal cones chimed sharply as she stepped back, creating a brief, tense silence between them.
Ghost stared at her, recalibrating.
She calmly rolled her sleeve back down, re-fastened the beaded cuff with precise fingers, and settled back onto the bench as if nothing had happened.
He scanned the area—vendors, families, elders settling in, Soap and Gaz still nowhere in sight. Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“We’re here because a terrorist has shown interest in Indigenous people,” he said quietly. “Specifically in Canada.”
Her brows knit together. “Why?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
She leaned back, arms crossing. “Why only Native people? And why here?” Her gaze sharpened. “And why haven’t we heard about it?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
She thought for a moment, eyes drifting toward the arena floor. “Unless he wants people who are more prone to diabetes,” she said dryly, “or less attractive to mosquitoes, or people with greasy hair, I don’t see why a terrorist would give a damn about Native people unless he’s Native himself—or just really into the culture.”
Ghost snorted despite himself.
“Is he Native?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “He’s from Kazakhstan.”
She blinked. “Kazakhstan?”
“Yes.”
Her confusion deepened. “What’s he even mad about?”
Ghost exhaled slowly, the weight of the answer settling into his shoulders. “He was a drug lord before he went full terrorist. Wants to destabilize smaller countries. Traffics women, children, and men. Likes blowing up medical facilities.”
Her jaw tightened.
She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. “Then maybe he’s interested in Native people because we’re easier to make disappear.”
The words landed heavily.
“Murders. Kidnappings. Assaults.” Her voice stayed steady, but something darker moved behind it. “Native women are twelve times more likely to be murdered than any other ethnic group in Canada. That’s not a statistic—it’s my childhood.”
She swallowed.
“I grew up going to more funerals than weddings,” she said quietly. “People don’t notice when we vanish. Or they notice too late.”
Ghost didn’t interrupt.
“If you actually want help,” she continued, lifting her gaze to meet his, “go to JTF2. Tell them what you told me. And tell your people—” she tapped his chest lightly, not unkindly “—that Indigenous communities are prime targets for trafficking and violence.”
She gave him a small, sharp wink. “We’ve been saying it for decades.”
Then she stood.
“Watch my seat?” she asked casually, already scanning the crowd. “I need to go talk to an elder. Haven’t seen her since a hunting trip when I was a teenager.”
Before he could answer, she was already moving down the steps, jingles singing with every confident stride.
I'm writing out stories for the mass amount of requests I have, but do not fret! I shall be posting more chapters for the Keegan Zombie fic soon! Before next week at least!
I'm going to a powwow in two weeks and I have realized that I can't bead my leggings and moccasins in time for that, so I'm just going to bead, actual leggings (like the kinds you buy in a store) instead.
R.I.P my fingers and hands, at least I don't need you to jingle dress dance.
Wow…that hesh miscarriage story was intense. But that writing was absolutely amazing. I have to ask though, if it’s not tmi, was that a personal experience? If you don’t want to answer that’s okay, but that was so real and raw, amazing writing.
I’m glad you enjoyed it so much!!
As for me having gone through that? No, I haven’t had a miscarriage before. My mother has though several times. I never even knew because she never acted like it.
I just felt that it was a good topic to write on after I went to a ceremony the other day. In my culture we hold funerals for miscarriages too and at the ceremony, they were talking about them and periods and such.
I find that not a lot of people write about them and when they do, they either make it inaccurate and crazy weird or they make it seem just off. I thought that by writing a story on it, people might also learn things about what they are like to better teach them and help them learn.
If you ever want something medical or a story like that written, feel free to request!!
