𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐤𝐜. 𝟎𝟔 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫. 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧. 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤. 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐧.

[mrsha-ang-kim]

it's your gurl, kc!

welcome to my side...

divider creds @carnage-cathedral

MASTERLIST

my lovely 🐮ties include:

@pixie-felix @pessimisticloather @lixies-favorite-cookie

kc's anons:

❤️‍🩹 anon, 🩵 anon,

Click here if you want to join the taglist

~kc💗

[mrsha-ang-kim]

This post has been sitting with me for a while now, unfinished, like so many other things lately. This isn’t easy to write, but it feels necessary.

Dear my lovely readers,

Lately, I haven’t been able to show up for this blog the way I once did, or the way you deserve. I’ve been feeling empty, constantly undriven, and painfully uninspired. Writing, which used to feel like breathing, now feels heavy. Fatigue has settled into my bones, and the demands of the real world have grown louder and harder to ignore and the pressure is getting too heavy to carry alongside this space the way I want to.bMy blog has become stagnant, not because I don’t care, but because I’m scared. Scared that my words feel fake. Scared that what once flowed so naturally now feels forced. Tired in a way that rest alone doesn’t seem to fix. My drafts are piling up, collecting dust.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry to every reader who’s been kind, patient, and present. Every like, reblog, message, and laugh has meant more to me than I’ve ever been able to put into words. I wish I could explain exactly how I’m feeling, but for now, this will have to do. I don’t know if I’ll come back.

And I don’t know when.

But what I do know—what I’m certain of—is this: every story I have already shared, and every story left unfinished, will be completed. You have my word. Ghost Protocol, Stranger in the Pines, and The Son of a Sparrow, I will finish them. New stories, however, may not come for a while. Or at all. And I hope you can understand that too.

Thank you for the warmth you’ve given me here. Thank you for the interactions, the jokes, the comfort, the quiet companionship of existing together through words. This space has meant more to me than numbers or notes could ever show. For now, I’m choosing to step back gently, with gratitude in my hands.

Until then, please be kind to yourselves. And thank you for being kind to me.

With love always,

KC

[pixie-felix]

toxic exes | in front of the cameras

felix x ex reader | 10 ss | less toxic because it's felix and i'm just a girl

Taglist: @sthaay @bluesungology @chrizzztopherbang @avnche @kemkem33 @mikaelless @n-kiie @eevenus @mrsha-ang-kim @sheerfreesia007 @aasthamoon @amazinglystay @delulustardust @galaxy4489 @lil-bear08 @abby-loves-aphrodite @a-jazzy-bitch @incognitoinstigator @auroramirage @breakmeoff @beppybeesnuggets @skzlover24 @hansxcheesecake @velvetmoonlght @aliceskzfan @tsunderelino @leehyejoon1 @writteninessence @littlepotaaatosimp @omghidokyeom @thequeenofdramaqueens @hyunniesprincess @bangchansgirlsblog @kingsqueensandvagabonds

[mrsha-ang-kim]

This is less toxic, girl????

[mrsha-ang-kim]

What do you mean "Jisung's alter ego" ? Is it finally the time he's gonna reveal that his real name is Peter? And by that I mean SPIDER-MAN?

Cause I'm sure no one here saw spider man and Han Jisung in the same place at the same time... Just saying

-💙

(happy new year, my beautiful Kc)

Yeah, yeah sure let's put a whole multiverse while we're at it 😅😅

Happy New Yearrrr my lovely blue! 💙 Kissesss

I can't say what it's gonna be for but you'll find out if the vote wins

Also I'm yet to respond to your previous askkk 😩 bare with me

💗💗

[mrsha-ang-kim]

HAPPY NEW YEAR BB😍😍

Happy New Yearrrr my delectable baby!!! 🎉🎉❤️❤️❤️

Welcome to 2026!!

[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐧 𝐎𝐟 𝐀 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐭. 𝟑

pairings: Capitan!jeongin x afab!reader, non idol au, fantasy

synopsis: you believed the rumor of Jeongin Sparrow being guilty of your mothers death. through this rage, the Crown hired you to go undercover as a crewmate and expose Jeongin's secrets. everything gets confusing when you soon find out that he's innocent.

chapter synopsis: jane is more deep into it than you thought.and now jeongin is determined to

warnings: none...i guess

a/n: HAPPY NEW YEAR! im so happy to see another 365!! there's so much in store! and if your reading this, welcome to 2026!! if you have extra eyes for error, not you don't

The door creaked open like it was hesitating, sensing the weight of the moment before it dared to intrude.

Jane stepped inside slowly, her posture careful, her brows tugged low in mild concern. “What’s going on?” she asked, gaze bouncing from you to Jeongin and back again. “Why’s the air in here thick enough to choke on?”

You stiffened, your shoulders still tense from everything that had just unraveled. Jeongin didn’t look at her right away. He was staring at the letter still spread across the desk like a corpse mid-autopsy. He exhaled hard through his nose before finally lifting his eyes to her. “It’s nothing that concerns you,” he said, voice calm, too calm. “But since you’re here, I need you to excuse us.”

Jane blinked. “Why?”

Jeongin’s gaze sharpened. “Because I asked kindly… unless you have something useful to add to this.”

Jane crossed her arms. “No. I just heard shouting.” He tilted his head slightly, gaze narrowing. “Actually… now that I think about it… I do have something for you.”

You turned toward him, confused.

Jeongin’s jaw flexed, his tone now coiled in steel. “How did you know about Liora’s death before I did?”

That made you freeze. Your gaze snapped to Jane, who blinked once, then tilted her head like she hadn’t heard correctly.

“I told you,” she said cautiously, “I heard it from one of the traders.”

“Yes,” Jeongin nodded slowly, stepping around the desk toward her. “You said that. But which trader? Who could’ve possibly told you about her death… and not told me at that same moment? I knew Liora personally. I traded with her for years.”

Mira’s lips parted slightly, and for the first time, the cracks showed. “I—don’t remember. It was—” she tried to wave it off, already taking a step toward the door.

And that’s when Jeongin moved. His arm snapped forward, quick and precise one of the daggers from his hip slicing the air and thudding hard into the wood of the door, inches from Jane’s outstretched hand.

You flinched.

Jane froze.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jeongin growled.

His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It held the kind of threat that made the air crawl across your skin like cold fingers. Jane’s posture shifted but she still didn’t turn.

“You’re acting crazy,” she whispered.

“No, I’m acting like someone who just realized lover might be hiding something that could have cost lives,” Jeongin snapped back. “If you knew about Liora’s death before the word even reached me—someone who has eyes on every dock for miles—then someone told you deliberately. Privately. And that means you’re either being used…” His voice dropped, “...or you’re the one doing the using.” Jane’s jaw clenched.

You stared at her, heart pounding. “You knew?” you asked quietly. “You knew what happened to my mother and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t know it was your mother,” she said defensively, turning back toward the room.

Jeongin stalked forward, his voice a razor. “But you knew it was someone important to me. And you still didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t know it would matter!” she shot back. “It always matters!” Jeongin’s voice cracked like thunder against the wood. The room went still again. Jane took a slow breath and looked away. Jeongin finally exhaled, the fury simmering beneath his skin but reined in, for now. “Sit,” he said, pointing to the chair by the wall.

“I’m not—”

“Sit.”

And in his tone, there left no room for argument. Jane sat. And you stood in the middle of it all caught between revelations, feeling the tides shift with every breath. Because if Jane knew more than she said, then maybe the lies hadn’t stopped at the Crown. Maybe they were already sewn into the wood of this ship. And trust, like anything on open water, was now a dangerously slippery thing.

Jeongin’s shoulders rose and fell in one heavy exhale, the tension in his jaw softening barely. The air still felt like iron, but when he turned to you, his voice carried a fragile gentleness. “...I’m sorry you had to see that,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s just— I’m very angry right now.”

You shook your head, still trying to steady your heartbeat. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. “You have every right to be.”

“Please, sit,” he said after a pause, motioning to the chair again. You obeyed, though your eyes didn’t leave his face. He turned then slowly, like a storm deciding where to strike toward Jane. She was still seated, back straight, fingers knotted in her lap. Her eyes wouldn’t meet his, no matter how long his gaze lingered.

“Jane,” Jeongin started, voice deceptively calm, “I am so… very disappointed in you.”

Her chin lifted slightly, lips parting to speak, but his glare pinned her in place.

“You’re going to tell me everything.”

“Jeongin,” she started, voice trembling, “It’s not what you think, Innie, I—”

“Really?” His laugh came out sharp, bitter. “Because what I think of you right now is that you’re tangled up in something that involves me… and you don’t want me to know about it.” He stepped closer, the light from the oil lamp catching the gold trim on his coat. “What I think… is that you’d rather see me dead just like the Crown does.”

Her breath hitched. “That’s not true—”

He cut her off, leaning against the edge of his desk, eyes dark with betrayal. “What I think, Jane,” he said quietly, “is that I spent so much time, so much trust and—hell—love on you, that I was too blind to see what you were doing behind my back.”

“Jeongin…” she whispered, voice breaking. “No, no, I love you. I do, I swear it’s not like that. You have to understand—”

You couldn’t stop yourself. “Understand what?” you snapped. “That you were using him all along?”

Jane turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “I wasn’t talking to you.” But Jeongin didn’t tell you to stop. He didn’t say anything. He just watched, silent, his hands clasped behind his back. Jane took that silence as permission to keep going. Her hand trembled as she reached across the desk, fingertips brushing toward his. “Jeongin, please,” she said softly, “I didn’t have a choice.”

And for a second you thought he might let her touch him.

But he didn’t.

His hand shifted away, smooth but deliberate, leaving her fingers suspended in the air like broken promises. “Jane, I’ll ask again,” he said quietly. “How did you know about Liora’s death?”

Her lips trembled. She stared at the desk, then at him, and then at you. Her throat bobbed. “I… I—”

“Answer me.”

“I was there,” she whispered. The words hit like a cannon blast in silence.

You froze. Every sound on the ship, the distant waves, the shifting of the ropes, fell away. Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, hand gripping the table’s edge like it might stop the world from spinning.

“You what?” you breathed.

Jeongin leaned back in his chair slowly, eyes never leaving her. He tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Go on,” he said quietly, dangerously.

Jane’s breath came fast, tears glinting in her eyes under the low light. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. We were given an order, me and some of the men. We didn’t even know who the target was, just that it was someone who’d been selling for the wrong buyer. They told us to make it look like a trade deal gone wrong.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. “You killed her,” you whispered. “You killed my mother.”

“I didn’t know it was her!” Jane cried, looking up at you, eyes desperate. “I didn’t know she was Liora, I swear it! I only found out after—after it was done.”

Jeongin’s voice was quiet, but it cut through her words like a blade. “Who gave the order?”

“I don’t know,” Jane said shakily. “We were paid in advance, no names, no insignias. The man who gave us the coordinates said he was working through the Crown, but—”

“But?” Jeongin’s knuckles tightened on the arm of his chair.

Jane hesitated. “But it wasn’t the first time they’d hired us to get rid of someone close to the Sparrow line.” Jeongin’s expression changed. It wasn’t anger now, it was something else. Something cold and knowing. He leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the flickering lamp. “So this goes deeper than the Council,” he muttered, half to himself. “They’ve been pulling strings for years.”

Jane looked at him helplessly. “Jeongin, please—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t say my name right now.”

You could barely breathe. Your mother’s face was flickering in your mind, her voice, her smile, the songs she sang at the docks. And now this woman, sitting right in front of you, had been part of taking her away. Jeongin finally stood, turning his back to both of you, staring out the cabin window toward the dark waves. His reflection in the glass looked older, heavier.

“Get her out of my sight,” he said quietly, voice trembling with controlled rage.

Wren, who’d been standing outside by the door silently evasdropping the whole time, stepped forward.

Jane reached out, panic in her voice. “Jeongin, please, ” He didn’t turn around. “If I look at you right now, Jane, I might forget the man I’m trying to be.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

The room felt impossibly small after Jane left, lamplight trembling on the dark wood, the sea a distant, steady roar beyond the window. You could still taste the metallic tang of anger in the air, the memory of Jane’s voice like a bruise on the inside of your skull.

Jeongin’s shoulders slackened for the first time since you’d stepped into the cabin. He looked at you—really looked—and for a second the hard edges of the captain softened. When he saw the wet shine gathering at the corners of your eyes, his jaw loosened like something relieved.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the apology raw and immediate. He blinked, and you watched as the apology settled into something heavier. “I’m sorry you had to—” His voice broke, then steadied. “I’m so sorry.”

You forced out a small, useless smile. “It’s okay,” you said, but it wasn’t steady. The tautness in your throat trembled into a sob before you could swallow it down.

Without a word, Jeongin closed the distance between you. He moved with the kind of certainty you’d seen him command the deck with quiet and inevitable. He wrapped his arms around you, one strong hand settling at the base of your skull, the other cupping the small of your back. The warmth of him surprised you: not the theatrical blaze of a pirate’s bravado, but a steady, grounding heat that steadied your shaking shoulders.

You let go of whatever brittle armor you’d been wearing. The tears came hot and sudden, wet tracks down your cheeks. He held you as if holding you in itself could stop whatever had started to unravel inside you. For a long while there were no words only the sound of your breath, his shirt against your face, the slow rise and fall of his chest. In that hold, for a moment, the cabin and the map-strewn desk and the dagger in the door all fell away. It was just two people stranded in the dark, clinging to each other so they wouldn’t drift.

When he finally eased back, his eyes were rimmed red, on the very edge of tears himself. He looked smaller and kinder, and some old, complicated thing in his face had shifted. He swallowed and said it like a promise, voice low and raw: “We’re going to find the people that killed her. I swear it.”

You reached for the formal title on reflex “Captain—” but he cut you off with a gentle, urgent laugh that sounded like relief. “Jeongin, please. Call me Jeongin.” The word felt like permission. You breathed his name out soft, a little breathless and the way it landed between you seemed to carve space for something new.

“How are you going to do it?” you asked, wiping your cheeks on the back of your hand.

He didn’t answer with a plan so much as with certainty. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. Then, with a small, almost whimsical motion that didn’t fit his usual reserve, he moved to the desk. His fingers rummaged through a shallow drawer and came up with a folded square of linen, an old handkerchief, edged in a faded thread, as practical as anything on the ship. He handed it to you with the oddest mixture of ceremony and tenderness.

“Here,” he said. “For the theatrics.”

You took it, fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” you whispered, and pressed the linen to your face until the last of your shaking subsided.

Jeongin set his jaw, leaning forward, hands flat on the desk as if bracing himself against the whole world. “I swear on my name as captain,” he said slowly, each word a hammer. “I will hunt the people that killed your mother. I will expose whoever tricked you into coming for me. I will use every scrap of what I have, my crew, my maps, whatever debts my father left, to tear the men who did this to you to pieces. I promise you that.”

His eyes were fierce now, old determination flaring, Jack Sparrow’s stubborn spine caught in his son’s expression, but steadier, more focused. In that stare you could see everything: the claim on the sea, the memory of wrongs to be set right, and a personal vow that no one on his watch would be forgotten.

“And,” he added quieter, extending his hand across the desk in an offering that felt like a covenant, “if you’d care to join me…”

Your hand hovered a heartbeat above his. When you looked up into his face you saw the same fire that must have driven his father—the same relentless will—but tempered by the man standing before you: loyal, furious, and undeniably human. Something soft and fierce swelled in your chest, and you smiled, small, tired, hopeful.

“Gladly,” you said.

You closed the gap and shook his hand.

His grip was warm and firm, not the mockery of a challenge but the real clasp of two people who had just agreed to walk into the dark together. In that handshake there was both a contract and a comfort: revenge would be hunted, and you would not be alone in it.

Outside, the sea kept its steady cadence, indifferent and eternal. Inside the cabin, two people let the ache of loss rearrange into purpose, a promise made by the light of a wavering lamp, sealed with a handkerchief and a name.

Taglist: purple means i cant tag ya...

@lillymochilover @imeverycliche @pessimisticloather @iknow-uknow-leeknow @maxidential @aiden2708 @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @Zerillia @queenofdumbfuckery @btch8008s @jamroses @geni-627 @sspersonally @possum_playground @enhacolor @pinkflowerdream @jitrulyslayyed @pinkflowerdream  @jeonginnieswifey  @leeknow-minho2 @sh0rdor1 @necrozica @igotajuicyass @katyxstay @maisyyyyyy @katchowbbie @morkleesgirl @yoongiismylove2018 @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @rockstarkkami @alisonysus @peterparkoure @crazy4books1 @sunshinestaytiny @143straykidsot8 @iloveavatar @kwanniehae @kkmiso @Imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @maddy24207 @aloe-7 @kpopgirliez @d4ily-snsh1ne

check out my pinned if you want to be added to the taglist!

~kc 💗💗

[auroramirage]

As Christmas draws ever closer, I thought we could have a bit of festive fun today, so how about we play a lil game....

Using the preface 'Winter' - use Pinterest to show me;

❄️ Your bias

❄️ Getaway

❄️ Activity

❄️ Drink

❄️ Bed

Tagging @pixie-felix @c-h-e-r-r-i-e-s @diamondheartyux @daeteez @sam-staytiny888

Looking forward to seeing your seasonal shenanigans 😘

[pixie-felix]

THIS IS SO CUTE AND COZY! LAHUSGB>DFUAGBFAHBSFHCBA UWIGDASGBFAJKSB LFWUAYIGDF O:UAGHFAH>FJNYUHGWFLUGFHAJBFLSAUFGWUAFYGHAUOFIHAHLFGAISU&YFG*OWIUGF

Okay here we go: bias, getaway, activity, drink, bed

This is so cute if anyone needs me I'll be in the corner sobbing that it isn't my current reality...

LOOK AT HIS STUPID LIL FACE YES BBY I WANNA MAKE SNOW ANGELS WITH YOU AND THEN DRINK HOT CHOCOLATE AND GET COZY WITH OUR CHOICE OF BEDS LET'S FUCKIN GAURR to sleep I am old and tired

No pressure tags: @mrsha-ang-kim @chrizzztopherbang @leislibrary @a-jazzy-bitch @incognitoinstigator @n-kiie @linoxpudding @breakmeoff @hyunniesprincess

🎄dividers by @lariesographic🎄

[mrsha-ang-kim]

im sooo late but here!!!

[pixie-felix]

NEW YEAR'S PINTEREST DATE!!

What better way is there to start a new year than a date with your bias?

I was inspired by @auroramirage's seasonal shenanigans, so I thought I'd add to the fun with a New Year's version!

Pinterest Searches: Bias, Celebration, Date, Outfit, and Motto 🥰 feel free to search for resolution instead, it just gave me a bunch of lists which was not ✨aesthetic✨ enough for this 💁‍♀️

No Pressure Tags: @auroramirage @mrsha-ang-kim @chrizzztopherbang @a-jazzy-bitch @incognitoinstigator @n-kiie @linoxpudding @breakmeoff @hyunniesprincess

🥂divider by @lariesographic 🥂

[mrsha-ang-kim]

thank youu @pixie-felix 💗💗

[hyunchans]

[mrsha-ang-kim]

Two words.

SLIM SHADY

[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥 𝐩𝐭. 𝟏𝟏

paring: ex!FBIagent!chan x SCUagent!afab!reader, non idol au,

synonsis: he died. Everyone believed he did. But you found out. And whether you like it or not, keeping you alive is now his job.

chapter synopsis: the plan is in motion, though it sounds ever so simple. Hyunjin decides to pick a side and heaven knows what tomorrow may lead to.

a/n: everyone's been waiting. if you have extra eyes for errors, no you dont. Christmas present? also...please ensure you answer the poll at the end of this chapter before it expires!!

previously...

The house had settled into that strange, tense calm that only comes after chaos when the adrenaline drains but the danger hasn’t. Morning light filtered through the curtains in pale stripes, dust floating lazily in the air like it didn’t know it was sitting in the middle of a war room.

Food was scattered across the living room: half-eaten takeout, cold coffee, a forgotten bottle of water sweating onto the table. Everyone was spread out, exhausted but alert.

Reynolds was no longer tied to the chair. Instead, he sat stiffly on one end of the couch, his injured leg stretched out and elevated on stacked pillows, bandage clean but tight. Changbin occupied the other end of the couch, and Y/N sat beside him, one wrist cuffed to Changbin's, per Chan’s request, the metal chain short enough that she couldn’t get comfortable without him noticing.

Changbin didn’t complain. If anything, his arm stayed solid and grounded, like an anchor.

Jisung had turned the dining table into his personal tech nest. Laptop open. Secondary monitor propped on a chair. Wires everywhere. A small router blinking softly. He was half-listening, half-working, fingers flying, eyes darting on the screen.

Minho leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. Chan stood near the center of the room, quiet for once, listening as the pieces began to click together.

“Alright,” Chan finally said, breaking the low hum of tension. “Let’s stop circling the problem. One day. That’s all we’ve got. Start talking.”

Jisung didn’t look up. “AEGIS VEIL is split into three things,” he said simply. “The idea. The funding. And the proof. We already have the idea”—he tapped the flash drive—“but without funding trails and approvals, it’s just theory.”

Minho nodded. “So we need receipts.”

Changbin leaned forward slightly. “Who signs off on it?”

Reynolds cleared his throat. “Petrov doesn’t sign directly. He uses intermediaries, shell committees, private research approvals. But Oscar?” His jaw tightened. “Oscar signs. Always.”

Chan’s eyes flicked to him. “Meaning if we expose Oscar—”

“—Petrov falls with her,” Reynolds finished. “Or runs.”

Y/N shifted slightly. The cuff chain clinked softly. Chan noticed immediately. “You have something to say?” he asked, voice calm but dangerous.

She swallowed. “Petrov trusts results. Not loyalty. If he thinks I’m still embedded, he won’t pull out yet.” Chan stepped closer, looming just enough to remind her where she stood. “You will be used,” he said bluntly. “You will act like you’re still undercover. You will make him believe everything is fine.”

She opened her mouth.

“And listen very carefully,” Chan cut in, his voice dropping. “If you warn him. If you try to run. If you blink wrong—I will be the one to put a bullet in your head. Not Minho. Not Changbin. Me.”

No shouting. No dramatics. Just a promise. Y/N nodded once. “Understood.” Changbin exhaled quietly through his nose. Minho cracked his neck. Jisung muttered, “Jesus,” under his breath, still typing.

Chan turned. “Jisung. Message Kallisto.”

Jisung finally looked up. “What do you want it to say?”

“Tell him he's been found out,” Chan replied. “Make it look messy, but believable.” Jisung nodded, fingers already moving. Minho tilted his head. “You’re gonna be remote, tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” Jisung said. “I’ll need to work from outside. Car, nearby building somewhere mobile. If the signal drops, I can reroute.” Changbin frowned. “What about Chan getting inside? Even with a fake ID, they might recognize his face.”

Jisung winced. “Yeah… that’s the problem. Facial recognition isn’t dumb.” Chan deadpanned, “Don’t you have those things that copy people’s faces?”

Jisung stared at him. “…You mean prosthetic facial overlays?”

Chan blinked. “So that’s a no.”

“It’s a very expensive no,” Jisung shot back.

Changbin suddenly straightened. “Wait. Basement.”

Everyone looked at him. “I confiscated some stuff years ago,” Changbin said slowly. “Masks, silicone, heat-reactive. Old black-ops junk.”

Minho grinned. “Of course you did.”

Changbin shrugged. “Don’t ask.”

Reynolds shifted on the couch. “If Chan gets inside,” he added, “and Jisung pulls the approval logs remotely, you’ll have everything. Signatures. Transfers. Dates.”

“And once we have that,” Minho said, pushing off the wall, “we leak it. Not quietly.” Chan nodded. “Every channel. Every watchdog. No chance to bury it.” Jisung glanced up. “Main goal?”

“We expose AEGIS VEIL,” he said. “Not destroy it quietly. We drag it into the light so bright they can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.” Chan looked around at them, his people, bruised and tired and still standing.

“One day,” he said firmly. “We move tomorrow. Get some rest. When this starts, it doesn’t stop until it’s done.”

---

The hotel room was expensive with polished marble, low amber lighting, city glow bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. It smelled like sharp liquor.

The glass shattered against the wall with a violent crack.

Liquid splattered down the wallpaper, shards skidding across the floor.

“You said what?!” Oscar’s voice rang sharp and unrestrained as she stood near the minibar, chest heaving, eyes blazing. “Say that again.” Hyunjin—Kallisto—sat perched on the edge of an armchair, phone in hand, posture deceptively calm. “Y/N thinks her mission may go south,” he said evenly. “She felt… pressure. Enough to warn me.”

Petrov, seated near the window, lifted a hand. “Oscar, let’s calm down—”

“Do not tell me to fucking calm down, Viktor.” She rounded on him instantly. “You told me you had this under control. You told me Chan was a ghost.” She dragged a hand through her hair, pacing now, fury barely contained. “Where was her last known location?” she snapped, eyes cutting to Hyunjin.

“Georgetown,” Hyunjin answered.

Oscar stopped cold. “How far is that from the Bureau?”

Hyunjin didn’t miss a beat. “Not far.”

The silence that followed was pregnant with what that meant. Petrov leaned forward, trying to regain control. “Y/N won’t let herself be exposed,” he said firmly. “She’s disciplined. She understands the stakes.”

Oscar laughed, sharp and humorless. “And if she doesn’t?” She spun back toward him. “What if she slips? What if they already know?”

She gestured wildly toward the window, the city beyond it. “We have a meeting tomorrow. Tomorrow, Viktor. The AEGIS Veil project gets finalized, funding, approvals, public-facing rollout. If she’s exposed, everything collapses. Do you understand the gravity of that?”

Petrov sighed, rubbing his temple. “I understand. I just don’t believe she’s compromised.”

That was when Hyunjin’s phone vibrated. He glanced down and the color drained from his face.

The message was short. Encrypted. Familiar.

Guess who destroyed the spiderweb? also, you’ve been found out.

His stomach dropped.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, fingers tightening around the phone.

 “What is it?”

 “What did you just say?”

Hyunjin felt the moment stretch felt the weight of years, blood, lies, and bargains press in all at once. This was the fork in the road. He could sell them out… or be buried with them.

He made his choice. He locked his screen, forced a breath, and looked up.

“One of my handlers flagged unusual traffic near Georgetown,” he said smoothly. “Nothing confirmed. Probably internal paranoia. But it means we should accelerate.”

Oscar studied him, suspicion flickering but urgency won. She turned on Petrov, grabbing his collar and yanking him close. “We meet Reynolds tomorrow,” she hissed. “No delays. No second-guessing. We finalize everything.”

She released him with a shove and stormed toward the door. “If this goes sideways, Viktor, I will not be the one taking the fall.”

The door slammed behind her.

Petrov stood there for a moment, then slowly adjusted his collar, exhaling through his nose.

___

Changbin and Han were gone, the rumble of the car long faded down the road, leaving behind the soft hum of the fridge and the low tick of the clock on the wall. Y/N sat on the couch again, wrists fully cuffed now, plastic plate balanced on her knees as she ate mechanically, eyes unfocused. Reynolds had passed out on the opposite couch, leg elevated, chest rising and falling unevenly with shallow sleep.

Minho slipped out onto the porch for air.

The door shut softly behind him, and that’s when he saw Chan. Chan was sitting on the porch steps, elbows braced on his knees, a gun magazine resting in his palm. The metallic click of bullets being pressed into place was steady, calm for what lived behind his eyes.

Minho closed the door fully and leaned back against one of the wooden beams, arms crossing loosely. He watched Chan for a second, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes.

Chan glanced up as Minho slid one free.

“What,” Minho said casually, already smiling, “you want one?”

Chan barely looked at him. “No.”

He went back to the magazine. Minho shrugged, flicked open his lighter, and sparked the flame. The cigarette caught, orange tip glowing as he took a slow drag.

Chan paused.

“I never knew you smoked.”

Minho exhaled through his nose, smoke curling lazily into the cold morning air. “Well,” he said smugly, “you can’t know everything.”

Chan huffed a quiet breath. “Guess not.”

Another bullet clicked into place.

Chan didn’t look up when he spoke again. “I really never understood how Han fell for you anyway.” Minho barked a laugh, head tipping back against the beam. “What? You mean my charm? My winning personality? My undeniable emotional availability?”

He glanced down at Chan, grin sharp. “I’m a catch.”

Chan snorted despite himself.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was heavy. The kind that settles when two people know exactly how bad things are and don’t need to say it out loud. Minho watched Chan for a long moment, really watched him this time. The tight jaw. The dark circles under his eyes. The way his hands moved like this was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“It’s crazy, huh,” Minho said quietly. “None of us thought it’d turn out like this.”

Chan didn’t answer.

“I mean,” Minho continued, flicking ash over the porch railing, “you always had a plan. Take down Reynolds. Expose the Bureau’s rot. Maybe ruin a few egos along the way.” A faint smirk. “But not… this.”

Chan finally slid the last bullet into place and let the magazine rest in his palm.

“Yeah,” he muttered. Minho took another drag, slower this time. “How’re you feeling?”

Chan stared straight ahead. The seconds stretched.

“Tired,” he said at last. “Yeah. I’m… fucking tired.”

Minho laughed softly, just understanding. Chan set the gun down on the small mini table beside him with a dull thunk. His shoulders sagged, just a fraction, like something finally gave. “I feel used,” he said, voice rough. “More than words can describe.”

He swallowed.

“And I feel… scared.” A beat. “And I hate that. I don’t want to feel like this. Not again.”

Minho pushed off the beam and stood beside him, close enough to matter but not crowding him.

“No one’s gonna die, Chan,” he said firmly. “Not again.”

Chan turned his head slightly. “Not even Y/N,” Minho added. “Because I know you still care about her. Even after everything. Even after the betrayal.”

Chan opened his mouth. “And don’t,” Minho cut in immediately, sharp now, “don’t say if someone dies it’ll be your fault.”

He leaned down a little, meeting Chan’s eyes. “Stop taking the fucking blame for everything. You’re not God. You’re not fate. You’re just a guy trying to hold the line.”

Chan’s jaw tightened.

“We’ve come this far,” Minho went on. “We’re finishing this mission. And everyone walks out alive. That’s the goal.” Chan looked up at him fully now. Minho held his gaze. “I’m behind you. All the way.” Chan exhaled, something steadier settling into his chest. “I’m not gonna leave you behind,” he said quietly. Minho smiled, real this time. Took one last drag and flicked the cigarette away into the dirt.

“Better fucking not.”

The porch fell quiet again two soldiers bracing themselves before the last march, the morning air cold and honest around them.

The crunch of tires on gravel broke the quiet.

Minho lifted his head first, eyes flicking toward the driveway just as Changbin’s car rolled in, engine humming low before cutting off. The morning light caught the windshield, soft but sharp enough to make everything feel exposed.

Doors opened.

Changbin stepped out with two grocery bags hooked on his arms, already scanning the house out of habit. Han followed a second later, another bag in his hand. He looked tired but wired, like his brain never actually shut off. “We got some things that should help,” Han said as he shut the car door with his hip. His voice tried for light, but there was an edge to it. “Not miracles, but… resources.”

Minho straightened off the porch railing, eyes landing on Han immediately.

“Hey,” he said, softer than he’d been all morning. “Can I talk to you for a second, baby?”

Han froze for half a beat. Minho didn’t miss the way his shoulders tensed. Han’s brows pulled together, concern flashing across his face. “Yeah—yeah, sure.”

He glanced once toward the house, like he could feel the weight of everything waiting inside, then followed Minho as Minho stepped off the porch and moved a few paces down the driveway, just far enough to give them space.

Changbin watched them go, lips pressing together.

He turned to Chan, who was still on the porch, posture stiff again now that the moment with Minho had passed. Chan met Changbin’s eyes and gave a small nod toward the door.

Changbin didn’t argue. He adjusted his grip on the bags and headed for the door, pushing it open with his shoulder.

Chan followed a step behind him. As Changbin crossed the threshold, the house greeted him with its tension like a held breath Y/N’s cuffs faintly clinking as she shifted on the couch, Reynolds’ uneven breathing from the other side of the room, the hum of equipment still set up where Han had left it.

Han lets out a soft, breathy chuckle as he shifts his weight beside Minho, boots scraping lightly against the concrete.

“Everything okay?” Han asks, casual on the surface, but there’s a tightness around his mouth that gives him away. Minho glances at him, eyes sharp and assessing in that way he has when he’s already three steps ahead of everyone else. “Are you nervous?”

Han huffs, a humorless sound. “Yeah, of course I am. Who isn’t?” He drags a hand through his hair. “We’re about to expose the FBI. Shit—yeah, I’m definitely nervous.” Minho doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke it off. He just nods once, slow. “I need you to be careful tomorrow, Han.”

Han scoffs, immediately shaking his head, but it’s not mocking, more defensive. “I’ll be careful. It’s not like I’m out there shooting and shit.” He tilts his head, trying to flip the concern back where it belongs. “Hey, you should be the careful one.”

“I’m not joking, Han.”

That stops him.

Han turns fully now, brows knitting together. “I’m not fucking joking either.”

There’s a beat. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, buzzing with things neither of them wants to say out loud. Han exhales through his nose, shoulders dropping just a fraction.

“I’ll be careful, hyung,” he says finally.

Minho’s jaw tightens. “Anything could happen. And I need to know that you won’t react in a way that could get you hurt—”

“Hyung,” Han cuts in sharply, offense flashing across his face. “Do you think I haven’t been on a mission before?” His voice rises just enough to crack the calm. “I know how to handle myself if things go south. I know what to do.”

“I know,” Minho says quickly, holding his ground. “But we’ve never done this before. Together.” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “And if something happened to me,”

Han opens his mouth to argue, then stops. Minho presses on. “You could do something stupid. You act on instinct. You don’t stop to think when someone you care about is involved.”

Han’s lips part, then close again. His gaze drops to the ground, jaw working. “…Okay,” he mutters. “You have a point.”

Minho nods once, relieved but still tense. “Look. All I’m saying is I need to know that you won’t rush out if” he swallows, “if I get shot,”

“What?!” Han snaps, head jerking up.

“Or if something goes south and I’m involved—”

“Hyung, nothing will go south,” Han interrupts, voice firm, almost desperate. “It’s a simple in-and-out. Information extraction. Not a fucking ambush.”

“Or if I die—”

“You’re not gonna fucking die!” he shouts, stepping forward. His breathing spikes, chest heaving, eyes wild, confused and furious all at once. “You’re not gonna fucking die, Minho. It’s not happening.”

Minho freezes.

Han runs a hand through his hair, pacing now, words tumbling over each other. “It’s a simple mission. How could you die? Why would you even say that?” His voice cracks with anger, but underneath it is something rawer, uglier. Fear. “What the fuck, hyung?!”

Minho exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath the entire conversation. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?” he says quietly. “Don’t risk your life over mine.”

He reaches out, instinctive, to rest a hand on Han’s shoulder.

Han swats it away.

“So much for fucking motivation,” he scoffs, bitterness coating every word.

Without another glance, he turns and storms toward the house, the door slamming shut behind him with a sharp finality.

Minho stays where he is.

He sighs, long and heavy, staring at the closed door like he can still see Han through it reckless, brilliant, loyal to a fault. Tomorrow hangs over him like a shadow, and for the first time, Minho isn’t sure which of them he’s more afraid of losing.

Inside the house, Reynolds is half-awake on the far end of the couch, head lolling slightly to one side, eyes blinking slowly like his brain is still catching up with reality. He groans under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face, the room swimming just enough to make him nauseous.

The front door slams.

Changbin looks up immediately. Jisung storms in like a thunderclap jaw clenched, shoulders tight, eyes blazing with something dangerously close to panic. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone. Doesn’t even slow down.

“Is everything okay?” Changbin asks carefully, already knowing the answer is no.

Jisung walks right past him.

No response. No glance. He drops into the chair at the table, shoves his laptop open with more force than necessary, and starts typing like he’s trying to punch holes through the keys.

Changbin frowns. “Okay, then—”

“Don’t push it, Bin,” Chan says quietly.

Changbin glances at Chan, then back at Jisung, then shrugs. “Whatever,” he mutters, backing off.

Chan exhales and moves toward the couch, sitting down but deliberately leaving space between himself and Y/N. She’s lying there stiffly, wrists cuffed in front of her, metal biting faintly into her skin. Her eyes are fixed on the ceiling, unblinking, like she’s counting cracks just to stay grounded. Chan’s presence shifts the air immediately he’s close enough to feel, but emotionally miles away.

He sighs, rubbing his hands together once, restless.

Y/N turns her head slowly toward him.

“Chan.”

No answer.

“…Chan?”

Nothing.

Her jaw tightens. She swallows. “…Chris.”

That gets him. “What?” he snaps, not even looking at her. “What do you want?” She flinches, but keeps her voice steady. “Well, for starters, it’d be nice if you uncuffed me.”

Chan lets out a short, humorless scoff. “Not until tomorrow.” He leans back, eyes drifting to the opposite wall, voice lowering like he’s thinking out loud but loud enough for her to hear. “Or maybe I should keep them on tomorrow too. Hmm.”

Y/N closes her eyes for a second, breath shuddering out of her. “Look, Chan, I…I’m sorry, okay?” Her voice cracks despite her effort. “None of this was what I intended. You can believe me—”

“Believe you?” Chan cuts in sharply, finally turning his head to face her. His eyes are cold. Surgical. “Wrong word.”

She inhales shakily. “I get that you hate me now, but… I’m still useful.” That earns a slow, unsettling smile.

“Oh, no doubt about that,” Chan says smoothly. “You’re still very useful.” He tilts his head slightly, studying her like a long-term experiment. “I wonder if this’ll have an effect on you later in life.”

Y/N’s brow furrows.

“Like,” he continues casually, “one of those moments you replay in your head. Where you finally see how badly you fucked up.” His smile widens just a fraction. “You look back and go, ‘Wow. I was a total bitch.’”

He chuckles under his breath. “That’d be funny.”

Her eyes sting. Her voice drops to barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

The word hangs there, small, fragile, inadequate. Chan’s smile fades.

“I’m sorry too, Y/N,” he says quietly.

She looks at him, hope flickering despite herself. “I’m sorry too,” he repeats but there’s no warmth in it. No forgiveness. Just something heavy and unresolved, sitting between them like a loaded gun.

The room stays silent after that.

And no one, not a single person in that house, knows how tomorrow is supposed to go without everything falling apart.

---

The hotel restaurant hums with artificial calm, soft jazz, muted conversations, silverware clinking against porcelain like nothing in the world is wrong. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, sunlight pouring in far too brightly for the tension sitting at the corner table.

Petrov sits rigidly in his chair, phone pressed to his ear.

Voicemail.

Again.

He lowers it slowly, thumb hovering as if the screen might suddenly change its mind. A nervous chuckle slips out of him, thin and unconvincing. “Maybe he’s asleep,” he says, trying to sell the idea more to himself than anyone else.

Oscar, seated across from him, lifts her eyes with painful slowness.

“It’s twelve p.m., Petrov.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah.” He clears his throat, fidgets with the phone, then sets it face down on the table like it’s offended him. Oscar pinches the bridge of her nose, then massages her temples with both hands. She exhales, long and controlled, like she’s bleeding tension out through her breath.

“This is all going to work out fine,” she murmurs. “This is all going to work out fine.”

Her hands drop.

She fixes Petrov with a sharp look. “Why didn’t you get a hold of that golden boy at the gala that night?”

Petrov blinks. “What?”

“You saw Y/N,” Oscar continues, voice calm but razor-edged. “Which means you obviously saw him. So why didn’t you capture him then?”

Petrov shifts in his seat, discomfort creeping up his spine. “Well… uh… I—I don’t know. I didn’t actually know it was him.”

Oscar stares at him, incredulous. “The FBI’s golden boy,” she says flatly. “You didn’t know it was him?”

“He wasn’t the mission, Oscar,” Petrov snaps back, a hint of defensiveness breaking through. “That wasn’t the objective.”

“Well,” she says coolly, leaning back in her chair, “he is now.”

Petrov stills. “Alongside AEGIS VEIL,” Oscar continues, eyes gleaming with something ambitious and dangerous. “We launch the project. We integrate it into the Bureau. We let them think it’s a solution, a safeguard, a necessary evolution.” A faint smile curls her lips. “And then we make our own golden boy.”

Petrov swallows. “A controllable one,” she adds. “Polished. Loyal. Engineered.”

“I understand,” Petrov says quietly, nodding.

“Good.” Oscar straightens. “Then get all your security on standby for tomorrow. Every armed asset. Every agent you can get your hands on. I don’t care how thin it stretches you.” Petrov’s fingers curl against the tablecloth. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Her voice hardens. “The deal will be made whether a goody-two-shoes agent likes it or not.”

Taglist: Purple means i cant tag you

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @pessimisticloather @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @morkleesgirl @yoongiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixie-felix @maisyyyyyy @day138 @necrozica @nebugalaxy @strsforjsb @iknowyouknowminho @imagine-all-the-imagines @jc27s @igotajuicyass @jitrulyslayyed @sh0dor1 @idiotmaterial @leeknow-minho2 @btskzfav @glenda2107-blog @jeonginnieswifey @makeawitchoutofme @nikki143777 @sharnnnnnn @akindaflora @chungdol @lillymochilover @lixies-favourite-cookie @heartsbystars @idol-dream-catcher @iknow-uknow-leeknow @rachmmb @min-doesnt-know @maxidential @ebnabi  @aiden2708 @burntbang @therealmrsbahng @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @Zerillia @lveegsoi @queenofdumbfuckery @intartaruguinha @lorialia  @btch8008s @jamroses @hhwangsmoon @pnkcasket @alix-nai @geni-627 @sspersonally @dolphin-scream-s @enhacolor @possum_playground @pinkflowerdream @peterparkoure @crazy4books1  @sunshinestaytiny @143straykidsot8 @bbxbxxy @iloveavatar @kwanniehae @kkmiso @Imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @wobblewobble822 @maddy24207 @strywme @aloe-7 @Idinttlikeapples @kpopgirliez @luna585 @vetvetmoonlght @laikaskz @my-venus @d4ily-snsh1ne

A canon event,

Jisung's alter ego is shown

Minho, dies

Voting ended onDec 26, 2025

either way, the plan isn't going to be simple.

Check out my pinned if you want to be added to the taglist!!

~kc 💗

[mrsha-ang-kim]

PLEASEEEEEEEE GHOST PROTOCOL PLEASEEEEE PLEASEEEE PLEASEEEEE I NEED IT PLEAAAAAAAASSSSEEEEEEEE

.

[mrsha-ang-kim]

Hey girll im just done with my first semester of my college life i have my finals now im actually proud of myself that i didntendme.. jokes

anyways i missed you

awww hi baby! merry Christmas!! i missed you too! congrats on finishing strong. take this time to rest and recover okay?

please dont end yourself, lol

💗💗💗

[pixie-felix]

toxic exes | after the afterparty

hyunjin x ex reader | 10 ss | explict references

unpleasant word warning: skanks

Apparently this is turning into a series now, not sure what that says about my mental state 😅 but we'll roll with it. Angst and toxicity ftw I guess?

Taglist: @sthaay @bluesungology @chrizzztopherbang @avnche @kemkem33 @mikaelless @n-kiie @eevenus @mrsha-ang-kim @sheerfreesia007 @aasthamoon @amazinglystay @delulustardust @galaxy4489 @lil-bear08 @abby-loves-aphrodite @a-jazzy-bitch @incognitoinstigator

More Taglist: @auroramirage @breakmeoff @beppybeesnuggets @skzlover24 @hansxcheesecake @velvetmoonlght @aliceskzfan @tsunderelino @leehyejoon1 @writteninessence @littlepotaaatosimp @omghidokyeom @thequeenofdramaqueens

📱 dividers by @lariesographic 📱

toxic exes masterlist here

[mrsha-ang-kim]

Well fuck...not me hoping she'd get a second chance...

[pixie-felix]

I was gonna give her one... and then I decided I prefered pain and here we are 😈 and now we've got a new series which will likely never be finished but that's the fun of it right?

[mrsha-ang-kim]

I love it tho. I can't wait to see what goy have for han- or even better. KIM. SEUNG. MIN. AHHHHHHH

[pixie-felix]

bubble bath

chan x ex gf reader | 4ss | cussing & angst

Long time no see 🧚‍♂️ not sure if I'm properly back yet, but after today's bubble I couldn't resist 💁‍♀️

Taglist: @sthaay @bluesungology @chrizzztopherbang @avnche @kemkem33 @mikaelless @n-kiie @eevenus @mrsha-ang-kim @sheerfreesia007 @aasthamoon @amazinglystay @delulustardust @galaxy4489 @lil-bear08 @abby-loves-aphrodite @a-jazzy-bitch @incognitoinstigator @auroramirage @breakmeoff @beppybeesnuggets @skzlover24 @hansxcheesecake @velvetmoonlght @aliceskzfan @tsunderelino @leehyejoon1 @writteninessence @littlepotaaatosimp @omghidokyeom @thequeenofdramaqueens

📱 dividers by @lariesographic 📱

[mrsha-ang-kim]

if she's out of hibernation, so am i....

i say now that everyone who's been waiting patiently shall get thier reward.

[pixie-felix]

ASUOAGH:FCUG>WUOIG:BASBCA>:WUIGRHDF:?OA*VGHFDBCKA>WUJGOF:AGH>SVFBHCNAJHNDUGF:>OAUYHGFCAISHJNFC:?

KC?!?!??!?!

I wasn't planning on being back yet, but if KC is back I AM SO BACK

(I apologise for the absolute potato quality of this gif but I needed to make my feelings known) (also yes I write in pink now nurse pixie has taken over my entire soul)

[mrsha-ang-kim]

LET'S FUCKING GAURRRRR!!!!! AHHHHH GNNNFNKSJNNFUFUUIF EWOOF WOOF!! I MISSED YOU SO MUCH FR 😭😭😭

[pixie-felix]

WOOF WOOF BARK BARK I DON'T KNOW OTHER LOUD ANIMAL NOISES TO TYPE BUT I MISSED YOU TOO!!

[mrsha-ang-kim]

GURL STAWWPPP 😭😭😭 I REALLY CANT TELL YOU. I HONESTLY FELT KINDA SAD WHEN YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING OFFLINE FOR A BIT. but everyone needs their downtime fr. I'm really happy you're backkkkk

[papawolfchris]

Making of [IT TAPE] DO IT with BANG CHAN

[mrsha-ang-kim]

The stretch thoo 😭😭

[mrsha-ang-kim]

𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠…

pairings: chan x afab(female)!reader, married, nonidol au, fantasy

synopsis: chan gets his blood mixed with an alien. and he becomes a mutant. i cant express it any further.

warnings: blood, a weapon, allusions to sex (mentioned and brushed off)

a/n: this was a continuation of @vampywolf 's work. this only picks up where the story ends, and because of this the beginning of mine and the ending of hers is different. for context you can read her's before mine or just read mine as is. I TOOK PERMISSION BEFORE POSTING THIS. This story has an open ending for you all to imagine what could possibly happen next.

The screen door creaked open again with that familiar sound, like a sigh from the old hinges that had seen one too many summers. You didn’t have to look up to know it was him, the sound of his boots thunking against the floorboards was rhythmic, grounded.  Chan walked in, wiping the sweat off his face with the hem of his white tank top, leaving a smear of dirt across his temple. His cheeks were flushed, the kind of sun-kissed that came from a morning spent bent over crops, coaxing life from the soil.

“Whew,” he huffed, kicking off his boots by the door and ruffling his hair until it stood up in messy, boyish tufts. “I swear, those cucumbers are growing faster than I can keep up. The vines are halfway to the fence line. I’m gonna need to reinforce the trellis before the end of the week or we’ll have a cucumber uprising.”

You glanced at him from the stove, hiding a smile. “Not the uprising again. Didn’t we already survive the Great Zucchini Rebellion last year?”

“That was different,” he said seriously, crossing to the sink and splashing water on his face. “Zucchinis are sneaky bastards. Cucumbers are aggressive.” You laughed, shaking your head as you slid two golden cornbread muffins onto his plate beside the roast chicken and garlic butter potatoes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And charming,” he added, drying his face with the kitchen towel, then throwing it over his shoulder. “Don’t forget charming.”

“Oh, I could never forget that.” You turned slightly, resting a hand on your hip. “Hey, by the way, can you look at the truck tomorrow? I need to run into town. We’re low on rice, honey, and laundry soap. And I wanted to check the market for new seed catalogs.”

Chan nodded, reaching for a clean shirt from the back of one of the chairs and pulling it over his head. “Yeah, I’ll handle it after feeding the chickens. Think it’s the carburetor again. She’s been wheezing like an old man trying to climb stairs.”

“That’s oddly specific,” you teased, handing him his plate. “Want extra gravy?”

He looked at the food like it was a love letter. “God, yes. Smother it. Baptize that chicken in it.”

You snorted, grabbing the ladle and pouring another generous helping of the thick, golden gravy over his meal. “Alright, Reverend. Your chicken has been baptized.” You both moved to the table—the one Chan built by hand the first year you moved in. It still had a scratch in the corner from when you accidentally dropped a cast iron pan. You called it a reminder not to cook while distracted by his back muscles.

You sat across from each other, the late afternoon sunlight catching the floating dust in golden swirls. The only sound for a while was the clink of silverware against ceramic, the occasional hum of approval from Chan as he devoured your cooking.

The silence was comfortable. Like the way his hand always found your thigh under the table. Halfway through his second muffin, he glanced up at you with a lazy grin. “Y’know, if you ever decide to open a restaurant, I’ll quit farming and be your taste tester full-time.”

“You’d quit farming?” you raised a brow, teasing.

He smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay, maybe not quit. I’d farm and be your taste tester. Multitasking, baby. It’s called vertical integration.” You snorted. “Now you sound like my old economics professor.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Professor Baby. I’ll stick to hoeing and heavy lifting.” You kicked him gently under the table, grinning as he let out a dramatic “Ow!” and clutched his chest like he’d been mortally wounded.

A moment passed. Then two. The breeze rolled in through the open windows, carrying the smell of lavender and something baking from the neighbor’s farm three hills over. Chan leaned back in his chair, fork paused halfway to his mouth.

“I like this,” he said softly, gaze on you now, not flirtatious, but warm. Anchored. “Us. Eating like this. No rush. No noise. Just you, me, and gravy.”

Your heart did that little flutter it always did when he got unguarded, golden in the quiet. You reached for his hand across the table, fingers brushing over his. “I like it too.”

“You’re my home, you know that?” he added, voice quieter. “Doesn’t matter where we are—city, farm, truck with a busted carburetor. You make it feel like everything’s… right.” You squeezed his hand, eyes soft. “That’s 'cause we built this. You and me. From scratch.”

He grinned, leaning in with a raised brow. “Like your biscuits?”

You nodded solemnly. “Exactly like my biscuits. Flaky. But sturdy.”

“And slightly addictive,” he added.

“And warm,” you said.

“And best served with—”

“Chan.”

He laughed, the sound echoing through the rafters and into your chest, where it settled like sunlight.

The last of the dinner plates clinked as Chan stacked them in the sink, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing with each movement. He glanced back at you with a little grin, wiping his hands on the towel and walking over.

He leaned down, pressing a warm, slow kiss to your forehead, then your temple, and finally your lips a gentle, grateful peck that tasted like garlic and comfort. “Thank you for dinner, my love,” he murmured, hand brushing your cheek before he straightened and walked back to the sink.

You watched him from the couch as he began washing up, water running, soft splashes and the sound of dishes clinking together filling the kitchen. There was something so quietly sexy about seeing him there with his shirt slightly wrinkled, jaw set in that casual concentration, arms moving with ease like he was made for this domestic rhythm.

You grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. The news came on first, talking heads debating, a graphic flashing across the screen about rising taxes and some new local ordinance. You weren’t even two minutes in when you heard Chan’s voice pipe up from the kitchen.

“Oh, come on! That guy hasn’t done anything useful since—ugh, do they even read the bills they vote on?”

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You offended, Senator?” Chan pointed a sudsy spoon at the screen like it personally offended him. “I’m just saying, if I were running things, we’d have solar-powered tractors and free breakfast for all farmers by now.”

You clicked the remote, changing the channel without a word. “Alright, alright, Farmer Bang. No more politics for the evening.” He chuckled, rinsing the last plate and shaking the water from his hands before drying them. “I just want peace in my home, babygirl. Is that too much to ask?”

You patted the space beside you on the couch with a teasing look. “Then sit your dramatic ass down and cuddle me.” He obeyed instantly, slipping onto the couch beside you with that familiar warmth, his arm stretching behind you to pull you closer into his side. You tucked yourself into him like muscle memory even if he was dirty, your cheek against his shoulder, your leg over his, the world melting a little more around the edges.

Chan let out a long, satisfied sigh as he rested his chin on your head. “Mmm. This is the good life.”

After a moment, you tilted your head to look up at him. “Oh, did my mom call you today?” He blinked, processing, then rolled his eyes with a grin. “Oh her. Of course, she did.” You laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chan shifted slightly so he could look at you more directly, his mouth tugging into that mock-annoyed smirk he wore only when it came to your mother’s antics. “Your mom is not trying to talk, babe. She’s trying to negotiate.”

You snorted, already knowing where this was going. “Negotiate what, exactly?”

“A special batch of peaches,” he said in a high-pitched, mock-innocent voice, hands flapping like he was impersonating your mother. “Oh, Chan-yah, your fruit always tastes sweeter than the market’s. I bet it’s because you put so much love in your soil—”

You burst into laughter, slapping his chest playfully.

“—and also, when are you going to give me a grandchild, hmm?” he continued, raising his eyebrows dramatically. “You’re not getting any younger, and you know how fertile the spring is—perfect time to start a little sprout!”

You were wheezing by now, clutching your side. “Oh my God, stop she does not say ‘sprout.’”

“She would if she thought it’d get you pregnant faster,” he deadpanned, laughing. You leaned into him, still giggling, tears at the corners of your eyes. “She’s so obsessed. She talks about baby clothes more than I talk about soap.”

Chan kissed the top of your head again, voice softer now. “She just loves you. Wants to see us with a little one running around.” Then, in a lower tone, almost like a promise: “Not that I’m opposed to the idea... eventually. You’d be such a good mom, babygirl.”

You looked up at him, catching something tender in his eyes that made your heart flip.

“I’d have to fight you for the title of Best Parent.”

“Oh no, no,” he said, hand resting over your belly, fingers curling just a little. “We’d be the dream team.”

You smiled, leaning into his touch.

---

The house had been put to sleep like a well-loved animal. Every door locked, the barn checked, lights off one by one. The crickets outside played their soft, rhythmic lullaby, and the old wood of the house creaked under the weight of the wind gently brushing past it.

Upstairs, the bedroom glowed in soft lamplight, honey-gold and sleepy, wrapping around the two of you like a blanket. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the breeze, the scent of hay, soil, and wildflowers clinging to the air.

Chan was already on his back, arms behind his head, his bed shirt slightly wrinkled and collarbone peeking from where the fabric loosened. His legs were stretched long over the bed, and his gaze was soft and slow, drinking you in like he had all the time in the world.

You climbed onto him without a word, knees straddling his waist, hands on his chest, your hair falling like curtains around both your faces. He smiled up at you, something playful but deeply reverent in his eyes.

“Hi,” you whispered against his mouth before you kissed him, soft, unrushed. His hands found your thighs first, squeezing gently, his breath hitching slightly at the feel of your weight on him. You kissed him again, a little longer this time, lips molding perfectly, his stubble scratching softly against your chin.

But then he pulled back with a quiet chuckle, eyes crinkling.

“Really, baby,” he murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I’m not opposed to the baby idea, y’know.” You tilted your head, still catching your breath. “Yeah?” Chan nodded, fingers sliding up your spine lazily. “I mean… if we go down that road, eventually we’ll have to move out.” That made you pause. You pulled back slightly, furrowing your brows. “Why would we move?”

He gave you a look like it was obvious. “Because soon, we won’t just be two people anymore.”

You blinked. “Oh, we’re jumping from kissing to population growth now?” Chan laughed, hands steady on your waist. “I’m serious! One day we’ll be three… maybe four.” You gave him a mock-horrified face. “Four? That’s a lot of little feet running around.”

“Two kids,” he nodded firmly, eyes twinkling. “I can handle two. One’s too quiet, and three’s chaos. Two’s the sweet spot.”

You laughed against his chest, but the next thing he said was softer almost contemplative. “And when they grow up, we’re gonna have to think about schools… making friends… chasing their dreams.”

You looked down at him, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his shirt. He wasn’t teasing now. He was dreaming aloud, just for you. Chan met your gaze, rubbing slow circles into your hips. “And as much as I love this land—this life—I don’t think I see education in just farming. Not forever. Not for them.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. Just honesty. Hope. Love stretched wide across a horizon neither of you had reached yet.

You leaned down and pressed your forehead to his. “That’s for the future.”

He nodded. “That’s for the future.” His thumb stroked your cheek tenderly, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s our future, baby.” And with that, your lips met again this time slower, deeper. A kiss that curled into your bones, all heat and quiet wanting. You shifted slightly, and his grip tightened just enough to let you know he was still with you, anchored in every second.

Your fingers found the hem of your shirt, and with one breathless laugh, you pulled it over your head, letting it drop behind you onto the floor.

Chan blinked, lips parted. “Oh,” he said, blinking up at you like you’d just suggested building a second sun. “So… you want to make the babies now?”

You burst into laughter, covering your face with both hands. “Oh my God, Chan—”

“What?!” he said, grinning like a dork, eyes absolutely glued to you. “I mean… I’m down. I’m very down. I’ve never been more down in my life—” You silenced him with a kiss, laughing into his mouth, your hands slipping into his hair as you pressed your chest against his, heartbeats syncing, skin warming fast.

Chan groaned against your lips, then with a swift motion, rolled you over gently, placing you beneath him, his body settling between your legs like he belonged there.

And he did. In every sense.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered against your throat.

“But at least it’ll be slow and pleasurable,” you teased back. He laughed low, lips brushing your skin like a promise. “You’re damn right, my love.”

The night stretched out around you, long and golden and slow. And maybe, just maybe, a few dreams started to bloom right there.

---

The sun was just beginning to rise soft amber light creeping lazily through the gauzy bedroom curtains, spilling across tangled sheets and warm skin. The house was quiet, save for the faint rustling of leaves outside and the rhythmic breath of someone deeply asleep: you.

Chan blinked up at the ceiling for a moment, arms still draped over your waist. Your cheek was pressed to his chest, mouth slightly parted, hair a halo across his skin. He smiled softly, letting his hand graze the small of your back before gently slipping out from beneath you, careful not to wake you.

He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his messy hair before pulling on his sweatpants and slipping into an old, oil-stained tee. He stood, stretching with a quiet groan before leaning over and planting a lingering kiss to your temple.

“Gonna go work on the truck,” he whispered against your skin. “But if you get up before I’m back—please make those wheat pancakes. You know, the fluffy ones with the cinnamon?” He kissed your shoulder again for good measure. “I’ll love you forever. I mean, I already do, but like extra.”

You groaned sleepily, one eye cracking open. “You’re ridiculous.”

Chan grinned. “Yeah, but you like me like that.”

You waved him off playfully, still half-asleep. “Fine. Wheat pancakes. But only if you don’t burn down the garage this time.”

“No promises,” he winked, already backing out of the room.

---

The barn-style garage stood tall beside the house, its red paint sun-faded, with ivy slowly claiming one side like nature’s soft revenge. The moment Chan stepped out into the golden morning light, he stretched his arms wide, the air crisp with dew and that subtle, earthy scent that only exists in early summer mornings.

He hummed to himself as he unlocked the garage, swinging the doors open wide with a satisfying creak. Dust swirled in the sunlight, and the scent of motor oil and dry hay hung in the air. The truck—a dented but beloved ‘94 pickup—sat there with its hood up like it was waiting for a second chance at life.

Chan pulled out his toolbox with a grunt, set it beside the truck, then reached for his speaker, clicking it on and tuning it to the classic rock station. Soft guitar chords and warm, raspy vocals filtered through the space. He bobbed his head in approval.

“Yeah, this’ll work.”

He grabbed a rag from a hook and wiped his hands, already mentally running through the plan, check the carburetor, flush out the fuel lines, tighten the belts. Easy enough. He rolled up his sleeves, leaned into the engine like he was talking to it.

“Alright, I need you to work with me today,” he muttered. “Let’s make this a win-win.”

With that, he unscrewed the cap on the carburetor and began inspecting it brows furrowed, mouth tucked into a focused pout, fingers already stained with grease. The music played on, birds chirped outside, and somewhere in the kitchen, you were starting to stir.

He grinned to himself when he heard the faint clatter of pans from inside the house.

“You’re my favorite girl, you know that?” he called out even though you couldn’t hear him. “Well, second favorite, right after my carburetor.”

And he laughed at his own joke, wiping sweat from his brow.

---

The day had started easy, grease on his hands, music playing softly as Chan twisted his wrench into the old carburetor. The engine was being stubborn, as usual, but it was work that made sense. Work that kept the world quiet.

He paused to wipe his hands on a cloth, then stood and grabbed a broken belt he’d meant to throw out since last week. Slinging it over his shoulder, he ambled out toward the trash heap at the edge of the garage. The field stretched beside him in lazy rows wheat stalks gently swaying under the breeze. A picture of peace, framed in gold.

But as he lifted the lid of the bin, something flickered in the corner of his vision.

A rustle.

Not like the wind. No. Something deliberate. Sharp.

His body stilled, senses suddenly sharpened as he slowly turned toward the field’s edge. It was a patch right near the scarecrow, just past the old irrigation pipe something moving. And not just swaying in the breeze. There was weight to it.

He furrowed his brows, trying to reason it away. Maybe a raccoon. Or a fox.

Still, the hairs on the back of his neck stood. “Who's there?” he called out across the field, his voice carrying over the quiet. A firm, calm demand.

No answer. Just another shiver of the stalks, shifting unnaturally. Chan narrowed his eyes, tension crawling through his shoulders. His voice was louder this time, more assertive. “If you're out there, I suggest you speak up. It’s inappropriate and illegal to be on this property without notice.”

Still silence.

But that silence felt wrong.

He turned on his heel and went back into the garage, grabbing the long hunting rifle mounted on the wall. It was dusty from disuse, but always loaded, always clean. He popped open the chamber, slid in fresh rounds with practiced ease, then shut it with a hard click. He stopped the music. His heart thudded louder than it.

Stepping back outside, he angled the gun up and stalked carefully toward the disturbance. Slow, steady paces. “Come out now,” he barked again, his voice low and edged with warning.

He rounded the irrigation pipe, eyes scanning every shift in the wheat, every flicker of shadow.

And then.

Thud.

A body tumbled out of the crops.

Chan staggered back a step, breath catching.

It hit the dirt with a sickening weight—limbs crumpled, skin torn, the scent of blood clinging to the air in thick waves. The figure was humanoid but… not right. Its skin shimmered faintly beneath the crimson, pale blue veins running like roots under its flesh. Its face was battered one eye bloodied shut, the other… strangely glowing. Faint and fading.

“What the fuck,” Chan muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on the rifle as he approached. His boots crunched softly over dry soil, breath shallow.

He extended the barrel, nudging the body cautiously.

A sharp, weak gasp left the creature's mouth.

It was alive.

Chan blinked, tension crackling through every part of him. His instincts screamed one thing: run. But the part of him said otherwise. He knelt slowly, still cautious, and checked the creature’s pulse. Weak… but there.

“Shit…” he whispered, eyes darting toward the house. Toward you. “You need help,” he said aloud this time, staring down at the stranger.

His jaw clenched. The moment stretched long and heavy. One wrong move, and it could all go to hell. But if he left it there to die… Chan stared at the thing's broken, human-ish form the metallic scent of its blood mixing with the dirt.

His fingers tightened around the gun, conflicted.

“Fuck…” He looked back at the house again. You were inside, probably flipping pancakes, humming to yourself. Peaceful. Safe.

And he had to decide if he was about to ruin that.

The decision had barely settled in his chest when Chan bent down, strong arms threading under the unconscious man’s back and knees. The body was heavier than expected muscles limp, breath shallow, head lolling to the side as blood soaked into the soil.

But just as Chan lifted him, a shriek tore through the silence.

A blur of movement burst from the wheat a creature, smaller, low to the ground, slick with the same metallic blood as its master. Its limbs moved too fast, its eyes glowing feral red, and claws glinted as it launched itself straight at Chan with the speed of a bullet.

“Shit—!”

Chan stumbled back just as the thing latched onto his arm, claws tearing across his bicep with a wet, vicious rip.

He let out a sharp grunt, pain flaring white-hot as the creature bit down toward his neck. Adrenaline surged. His survival instincts flared.

With a pained yell, Chan slammed the butt of his fist into the creature’s jaw, staggering it, then kicked out hard with his boot, sending it skidding through the dirt. Blood poured from the gash in his arm, already soaking his rolled-up sleeve.

The beast snarled, crouching low like it was ready to pounce again, but Chan was faster. He reached for the gun he’d dropped, swung it up, and fired once.

Boom.

The creature jerked midair, the shot tearing through its side. It crumpled into the wheat with a final, twitching exhale. Chan stood there, panting blood dripping from his arm, muscles taut, heart racing.

“What the fuck was that?!” he hissed, staggering a bit as the burn in his shoulder grew sharper.

That’s when he heard you.

“CHAN?!”

Your voice cracked through the fields like thunder. Barefoot in your sleep shorts and one of his old t-shirts, you came sprinting down the porch steps, hair wild from bed, eyes wide in horror. You skidded to a stop when you saw the scene the body on the ground, the dead alien creature, Chan clutching his bleeding arm.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

“Oh my god, Chan!”

You ran to him, hands already reaching to inspect the gash, but he pulled back slightly, still steady even through the pain. “It’s alright, baby, I’m okay…” he said through gritted teeth, but the color in his face was fading.

You weren’t convinced. “You’re bleeding! Chan, that thing attacked you—what the hell was it?!” Chan glanced at the corpse of the small beast, its skin still twitching, foreign blood pooling beneath it. His own blood ran freely down his arm, unseen to both of you, a dark strand of the creature’s blood lacing into his own. Thin, almost invisible its color nearly blending with his. But it pulsed. Once. Then again. Then faded under the skin.

He hissed as you applied pressure with your palm.

“We’ll bandage it,” he murmured. “But this guy—” He gestured to the larger man, still unconscious in the field. “He’s barely alive. We need to get him inside, now.”

You looked between the stranger’s mutilated body and Chan’s wound, hesitating.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Chan’s voice was firm. He straightened, ignoring the pain like he always did, grabbing the man’s arms. “Help me with his legs, babygirl.”

You swallowed hard but nodded, slipping your arms under the man’s legs, ignoring the stickiness of his blood as best you could. The weight was awkward, but Chan guided you both. His grip on the man was steady, even as his arm throbbed. Even as that subtle alien blood burned into him unnoticed. The screen door creaked as you both brought the body into the house.

Neither of you saw the faint shimmer crawling up Chan’s veins.

Nor the way his pupils dilated briefly as he carried the body inside.

---

You cleared the dining table in a frantic rush, shoving aside the breakfast things and yesterday’s mail. The stranger’s body hit the wood with a soft, sickening thud, his skin leaving dark stains on the surface. The overhead light hummed to life, casting sharp white across the room and that’s when you saw it in full.

The alien features.

His skin wasn’t just pale it was grayish-blue, faintly opalescent like moonstone. His veins glowed in dull lines beneath the surface, and parts of his face were… off. One cheek was normal, human almost, but the other half was scarred across his eye beyond recognition bone and thickened skin fused with something metallic. And that wasn't even mentioning the gashes along his abdomen and shoulder.

You blinked, overwhelmed, hands still shaking from the adrenaline.

“Baby, what can we do?” Chan asked hoarsely from behind you.

You turned to him, eyes wide, still catching your breath.

“What can we do?” you echoed, your voice rising. “Baby, all I’ve got is a first aid kit and a damn toolbox, have you seen his body?!”

Chan opened his mouth, trying to play it calm like he always did, but there was a tremble in his words.

“We… we gotta think of something. He’s alive. We can’t just leave him—”

Then you really looked at him.

His face had gone almost gray, paler than you’d seen in years. Sweat beaded along his hairline, and when he blinked, it was slow, delayed, like he wasn’t fully there.

“Chan,” you said, stepping toward him, concern ripping through you. “Baby, you need more attention than this guy. You’re losing blood.”

He tried to protest with a breathy “I’m fine,” but you were already dragging a chair over.

“Sit. Now.”

You reached for the medical kit and began to work with practiced hands. He winced as you cleaned the long gash across his bicep, and blood soaked through the gauze faster than you liked. His pupils looked a little dilated, but you told yourself it was the blood loss. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling something else was wrong.

“Stay with me, okay?” you whispered, wrapping the gauze firm. “You’re burning up.”

Chan didn’t answer. He stared ahead, lips slightly parted, eyes locked on something that wasn’t there.

“Chan?”

Nothing. Your heart dropped. You put down the bandage roll, grabbed the flashlight from the drawer, and cupped his chin gently.

“Baby—look at me.”

You flicked the light across his eyes.

That’s when you saw it.

For just a second, his pupils flared, lit up from the inside, not just dilated but glowing faintly with a strange, unnatural light. Almost like embers behind his irises. Then just as quickly gone. You blinked, stunned, your breath caught in your throat.

“What… what was that?”

Chan’s gaze finally slid to meet yours. He forced a smile, but it was sluggish, off. “I’m okay,” he mumbled. “Just tired, babe. S’a scratch.”

You didn’t believe him. Not one bit.

You moved back to the table, wiping sweat from your brow, continuing to clean up the alien man’s wounds, which to your shock were healing themselves, but your eyes kept flicking to your husband. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his head lolling slightly to the side, pupils once again just a little too wide.

And under your breath, barely a whisper:

“What the hell is happening to you, Chan?”

After cleaning Chan up, you barely managed to walk him to the couch without collapsing yourself. His arm was fully bandaged, still damp with antiseptic and stained gauze, and his whole body felt hot to the touch. You sat beside him for a long moment, stroking his hair, waiting until his breathing evened out and his eyes fluttered shut. Sleep took him fast, too fast for Chan.

You kissed his forehead gently.

“You’re okay, baby. Just rest.”

Then you turned back to the stranger on your dining table.

The kitchen light hummed overhead as you resumed your makeshift medical routine. You’d done what you could washed the blood from his face, patched what was patchable, wrapped cloth around tvghe gashes that looked dangerously deep. His body was unnaturally light for someone his size, like bone density meant something different for whatever species he was. And though his features were alien, there was still… humanity to him. A mouth, nose, eyes. Well one eye at this point. But his skin had now begun to pulse faintly like veins reacting to the heat, glowing a faint opal hue beneath layers of grayish-blue as if his body was slowly reacting to the treatment and healing itself.

A twitch. You froze, standing at the edge of the table, one bloodied towel in your hands.

His fingers curled, twitched again. His chest hitched like he was choking on air.

A violent inhale. He gasped. Eyes flew open. A radiant, eerie, shifting silver. You stepped back slightly, heart pounding. He blinked rapidly, mouth parting, lips dry and cracked. Then slowly… his head turned, taking in the room. The kitchen. The beams. The soft creak of the ceiling fan.

You.

“…Where am I?” His voice was deep, layered. Very unsettling. You steadied your voice.

“You’re safe? You’re at our house—our farm. You collapsed out in the field.”

He sat up a little too quickly and winced immediately, grabbing at his ribs. Still disoriented, his eyes flicked all over the place, windows, corners, the door, the beams like he was mapping it in real time.

“What quadrant is this?” he asked.

You hesitated.

“…Montana?”

He blinked again clearly still trying to compute. His gaze landed back on you and lingered this time, more aware. “I… don’t remember…” he murmured, voice lower now, less distorted.

You nodded slowly. “You were unconscious. Covered in blood… and I assume you weren’t alone.” You pointed toward the living room. Chan. Lying on the couch, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The man’s silver eyes narrowed slightly.

“Who is he?”

“My husband,” you said quietly. “He found you. Got attacked by—by that thing you had with you.”

The man froze.

A second passed. Then two.

He shut his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.

“…Zhurin,” he said, almost to himself. “She protected me.”

You crossed your arms. “She attacked him. He’s injured. That cut got him good, he hasn’t been right since.”

He opened his eyes again, guilt flickering behind the strange light. “She didn’t know. I was dying. She didn’t know…” You didn’t respond right away. You just studied him, the unnatural symmetry of his features, the way his glowing veins flickered like bioluminescent signals.

You finally asked, voice soft but firm:

“Who are you?”

He looked back at you. Then his eyes flicked once more toward Chan on the couch.

Then back to you.

“Someone who wasn’t supposed to survive.”

He was shaking.

His muscles tensed as he tried to sit up again, clearly fighting against the sharp stabs of pain coursing through his ribs and legs. You stepped forward gently, placing a supportive hand behind his back, the other on his arm. His skin was warm—hot, actually—and soft like silk stretched over sinew. Light flickered beneath it, like lightning trapped under water. His breath caught in his throat as you helped him lean against the stacked books and pillows you'd quickly wedged at the edge of the table.

“Slowly,” you murmured. “You’ve got a fractured rib… maybe more. There was a pretty nasty gash along your side, too.”

He gave a small nod, jaw clenched, silver eyes dull with pain but alert.

“You’re safe here, alright?” you added gently. “This is Montana. Farmhouse. Middle of nowhere. Just you, me, and him.” You nodded toward the living room, where Chan’s form still lay unconscious on the couch, rising and falling steadily beneath a thin throw.

The man followed your gaze, then back to you.

“…Your mate is strong,” he murmured. “Fought Zhurin off. Not many can.”

“Yeah well, she got a good hit in,” you said, arms crossed now as you leaned against the table’s edge. “We’re lucky he didn’t bleed out. So maybe start talking.”

He looked at you again. Blinked. Then sighed.

And spoke.

“My name is Aerith. I’m from Sector 92. Not… here. Not your Earth. Not even this system.”

His voice slowed, like he was translating his thoughts mid-sentence. “I wasn’t supposed to come to this world. My people—what’s left of them—we don’t travel outside. We’re not… built for it.”

You furrowed your brow. “Then how did you get here?”

Aerith looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly. Then he looked back up, glowing veins pulsing once beneath his skin like a dim heartbeat.

“I was cargo.”

You frowned. “What do you mean, cargo?”

His jaw tightened.

“Experiment. I was taken. Captured by an off-world faction rogue scientists. They… harvest blood. DNA. Create hybrids. Sold across systems to the highest bidder.”

He swallowed, gaze darkening. “They didn’t care that we were sentient. That we could feel. I wasn’t the only one. There were hundreds. Maybe thousands. I don’t know. I was unconscious most of the time. Woke up once. In a cage.”

You felt a lump rise in your throat. He wasn’t lying. No one talks about pain like that without knowing it personally.

“…And Zhurin?” you asked softly.

“She was bonded to me since birth. We communicate without speaking. They tried to separate us, but she broke out during a transfer. Caused a breach. Explosions… flames… I remember alarms.” He shut his eyes tightly, head falling back for a second. “We escaped in a carrier pod. Damaged. Couldn’t navigate. We hit atmosphere too hard. The pod shattered on impact probably somewhere close.”

He paused, breathing shallow. “I blacked out. I guess she dragged me toward your house. She was only trying to protect me. She didn’t know your mate wasn’t a threat.”

You swallowed hard, processing. “And the people who did this to you… are they coming?”

He opened his eyes and looked directly at you.

“…If they know I survived… they won’t stop looking.”

Your breath hitched. You turned slightly, looking at Chan still fast asleep, peaceful, unaware.

“…You can’t stay here,” you said slowly. “If they track you, we’re not ready for something like that.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I can’t move yet. And your mate… he was injured because of me. I owe him that much.” He looked down at his bloodstained chest again. Then up at you with sincerity carved into every inch of his sharp alien face.

“I won’t bring harm to your home.”

You stood there for a beat, arms crossed, your heart caught somewhere between fear and sympathy. The wind rustled through the broken kitchen window, and somewhere outside a dog barked. Probably miles away.

And in that silence, you nodded.

“…You can stay. Just for now. Till you can move again.”

Aerith blinked once, slowly. Then bowed his head in thanks.

---

You weren’t sure if it was muscle memory or survival instinct, but your body moved on autopilot, your hands careful as you poured boiling water into a chipped ceramic mug, the peppermint tea bag steeping in silence. The warm herbal scent filled the kitchen, a small comfort in the chaos of the night.

Aerith sat at the edge of the dining table, still upright but weakened, watching you like you were some impossibly rare animal. His glowing eyes flickered in the dim kitchen light, his head tilting with soft curiosity.

“You are… unlike others I’ve met,” he murmured.

You raised a brow, sliding the mug across the table to him. “How so?”

“Your energy. The way you handled everything. Even me.”

He wrapped his slender fingers around the mug, steam curling between them. “You didn’t run. You didn’t scream. You stitched up a stranger like you knew his blood wouldn’t hurt you.”

You gave a tired laugh, pushing stray hair behind your ear. “It’s called being married to a man who nearly dies every time he fixes a tractor.” You motioned toward the living room with a playful smirk. “At this point, trauma and gauze are my love languages.”

Aerith blinked, lips quirking. “Is that what you call him? ‘Love’? What’s his name?”

You smiled softly. “Christopher. But I call him Chan. He’s… mine.” (the author may have blushed at this point) Yousighed, leaning against the counter, your arms folded. “Strong. Stubborn. A little too good at making me laugh when I’m trying to be mad at him.”

Aerith nodded slowly, taking it all in. “He risked his life for me.”

“That’s just who he is,” you replied.

A low sound. A groan. Deep. Hoarse. And close.

Your heart flipped.

“Chan—?” You rushed around the table to the couch, your feet sliding a little across the hardwood as you dropped to your knees beside him.

His body shifted, head turning sluggishly, mouth dry as he blinked against the glow of the kitchen light. “Baby,” you whispered, brushing his hair back, “hey—how are you feeling?”

Chan groaned softly again, his jaw tight, his breath uneven but his hand found yours immediately. “Like I wrestled a bear… made of metal,” he rasped, voice scratchy.

“You kinda did,” you whispered with a faint grin, but your eyes studied his face, alert.

And then…

He opened his eyes fully.

And locked with Aerith.

Something shifted. It was barely noticeable at first. But then you saw it. A flicker fast but distinct. Chan’s pupils dilated unnaturally. His eyes glowed, faintly… softly… but unmistakably. Like embers behind dark brown.

Your breath caught.

“…Baby?” you said softly, fingers tightening in his.

Chan blinked once, the glow gone in an instant, and his head turned smoothly to you.

“Yeah?” he asked casually, like nothing had happened.

You blinked at him. Something about his tone was… off. Not wrong, just unfamiliar. As if you were speaking to Chan in a dream. He pushed himself up—wincing slightly—blanket falling from his shoulders, and you instinctively reached to help, but he was already rising to his feet.

His body moved with strange fluidity, slow but deliberate.

He walked. Right past you.

Right to Aerith. And stood.

Right in front of him.

Neither of them spoke. Just looked.

And for a second, you saw it again, Chan’s gaze narrowing, Aerith’s grip tightening on the tea mug as the glow in his eyes pulsed in response, like an instinctual warning.

You stayed frozen by the couch, watching them.

Until Chan finally tilted his head, studying the man.

“…You’re the one who brought the thing here.” His voice was calm, measured. But low. Too low. Aerith’s lips parted, his body tensing despite the pain. “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t control where we crashed.”

Chan leaned slightly forward, his voice now barely a whisper.

“…But now you’re here.”

His hand twitched at his side, like it wanted to reach for something that wasn’t there.

And your breath caught again. Because beneath the bandage on Chan’s arm—right where the gash had been—his skin was glowing.

Just… pulsing.

Your fingers twitched.

Something in your gut twisted uncomfortably, a sharp intuition that wouldn’t let go. Chan stood still, rigid before Aerith, his posture tense like a wire stretched too tight. His voice had changed. His eyes had flickered. And now, beneath the linen wrap you'd bandaged him with less than two hours ago, something pulsed, too softly to be natural.

You stepped forward. Instinct over fear. “Let me see your arm.”

“Babe—” Chan turned to you, his tone laced with warning, but you were already reaching for him.

“I need to check,” you said firmly, not even looking at him as your fingers brushed past his to grasp his forearm. He flinched. Not from pain, but something like hesitation. But he let you. With careful, focused hands, you began to unwrap the makeshift bandage. The blood-soaked gauze came undone layer by layer, but with each rotation, the faint glow under his skin flickered and dimmed. Like it sensed your attention. Like it was hiding.

“No… no, no, no—don’t do that,” you whispered under your breath, your brows furrowed. “I saw it. It was glowing—”

You peeled away the final strip.

And froze.

The gash was gone.

Not scabbed.

Not partially healed.

Gone.

Smooth, unmarred skin stretched across his bicep, not even a faint scar or sign of inflammation. The skin looked… perfect. Almost too perfect. Like it had never been wounded at all.

“Chan,” you breathed, stepping back. “Your wound. It’s—”

He looked down.

His eyes widened, just a fraction but enough.

“What the f—?”

Aerith leaned forward from the table, brow furrowed in confusion. “That’s… strange.”

You shot him a look. “Strange?” Your voice cracked slightly. “He was bleeding out a few hours ago. I had to hold pressure—he was losing color—and now it’s like nothing even happened.”

Chan flexed his arm slowly, staring at the smooth skin. He looked unsettled, but tried to hide it.

“That’s not normal,” you said again. “Baby… what the hell’s happening?”

Aerith’s gaze narrowed slightly. He took a breath and leaned his elbows on the table. “It may have something to do with… the blood.”

Chan turned to him, eyes sharpening instantly. “What do you mean?”

Aerith held his hands up calmly. “I’m not accusing. I’m explaining. Listen.” He took a sip of the now-cool tea, the mug trembling faintly in his hand. “There are two dominant blood types among my people. Mine—Type V—enhances cellular regeneration and neural feedback. It’s how we survive intense battles or atmospheric burns.”

You stared. “Wait—your blood heals you?”

“Not instantly. But yes, it accelerates recovery, especially when stimulated by adrenaline.”

Chan’s brow furrowed. “And the creature? The one that attacked me?” Aerith nodded grimly. “Zhurin have Type Z blood. It's a mutagenic strand, used for hunting, evolving, adapting. Their blood mutates rapidly, especially when in contact with foreign cells.”

You blinked slowly, your heart rate picking up. “So when it cut him…”

“It bled on him.” Aerith’s voice darkened slightly. “And that blood, if it entered an open wound, would’ve been absorbed almost immediately.”

He looked between the two of you. “Which means… Chan now has trace elements of both V and Z blood in his system.”

Chan backed up a step, his face pale again, but this time from something deeper. “You’re saying I’ve been… injected with alien blood?” “More like infected,” Aerith replied softly. “But not in a traditional sense. Your body didn’t reject it. It fused. Adapted.”

You grabbed Chan’s hand again, holding it tightly. “So what does that mean for him? What’s going to happen?”

Aerith paused, eyes flickering to Chan’s arm. “It’s hard to say. It could fade. Or it could grow. The healing is only the beginning. Zhurin blood responds to aggression, territory, instinct.”

Chan scoffed softly, eyes narrowing. “So I’m a walking science experiment now.” You shook your head. “No. You’re still you.” You touched his cheek gently, voice low. “But something’s changed. We just… need to figure out what.”

Chan met your eyes, and for the briefest second, the glow flickered again in the depths of his pupils.

This time, neither of you pretended not to notice it. And from behind you, Aerith’s voice dropped into something distant and uneasy.

---

You tucked the last blanket over Aerith's makeshift bed on the floor beside the couch. The living room was dim now, the only light spilling in from the kitchen lamp you'd left on low. Aerith was already asleep, or at least, pretending to be. His breathing was slow, steady, but his brows still furrowed slightly, as if the corners of his dreams were curled in unrest.

You had followed Aerith to retrieve some of his tech from his crashed carrier after he has kindly pleaded, saying they were important technologies there for understanding Chan’s gradual mutation. The ship had been lying fra in the wheat field broken and destroyed. Chan couldn’t follow. Rather he didn’t want to. His head was spiraling. With a sigh, you tiptoed to the front door, flicked the bolt into place, and quietly padded upstairs.

The bedroom door creaked softly as you opened it.

There he was.

Chan sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, hunched forward with his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced too tight. His head was tilted slightly down, his eyes locked on some invisible point across the room. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared.

His back rose and fell slowly. But something about him… was still.

Your heart ached at the sight. You approached gently, softly, like trying not to startle a wounded animal. “Hey baby…” you whispered, leaning in behind him. You pressed a tender kiss to his collarbone, your arms ghosting up to wrap around him.

He flinched.

“Not now, baby.”

The words weren’t harsh. Just… hollow. Unsteady.

You blinked, lips still parted near his skin. Then slowly—so slowly—you pulled back, murmuring, “Sorry…” as you stepped away.

A quiet filled the room like fog.

You sat on the edge of the mattress behind him, not touching, just… there. A beat passed. Then another.

And then—

“Baby…” his voice cracked, quiet and broken, “…no, I’m sorry.”

He turned halfway, eyes still not meeting yours. “I just… I feel a little off right now.”

You nodded gently. You didn’t need him to explain further. You knew. You’d felt it too.

You reached out, brushing your hand lightly down his spine, grounding him with a touch. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

But he pulled away. And then—like a fuse finally reaching its end—he snapped.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with an alien in my house?!” His voice rose sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet like a knife. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, Y/N? I’m not even human anymore, I don’t know what I am!”

You froze, lips parting, stunned but not angry. His shoulders trembled, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. He was spiraling, hard.

“Do you even get that?” he shouted again, chest rising rapidly. “I have alien blood in me. I healed like I was made of fucking sci-fi. I don’t know what’s real in my body anymore. I feel it, Y/N—I feel it shifting. And I’m scared.”

And there it was.

The truth beneath the rage.

“I’m fucking scared.” Your eyes shimmered instantly.

You moved. No hesitation.

You slid across the mattress and wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek to his back, your embrace gentle but anchoring. You felt his body tremble under you, strong but unraveling.

“I know, baby,” you whispered, voice thick. “I know. You don’t have to be okay.”

Your hand gently stroked up to his hair, brushing the damp strands from his forehead, threading through slowly. He leaned back into your touch, eyes fluttering closed, lashes damp.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” he whispered after a pause, voice rough. “I just—there’s too much in my head. It’s loud. And I can’t turn it off.” You kissed his temple, voice soft against his skin. “It’s okay, my love. You don’t have to fix anything tonight. You just need to rest.”

He exhaled, long, shaky, broken. Then he turned slowly, face now tilted toward yours. He looked at you, eyes glassy but tender. He pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“Thank you…” he murmured. “I’ll sleep now.”

You nodded, pulling the covers back gently. He slid under them without another word, curling toward you instinctively. And even with his arms wrapped around your waist, the air still crackled faintly with something… not human.

But you didn’t pull away.

You held him.

And whispered into the dark, “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

---

The sun had only just begun to brush its light against the edges of the curtains. A soft golden hue bled through the fabric, dancing gently across the sheets in lazy lines. Outside, birds chirped faintly.

Chan stirred under the covers. His brows furrowed slightly as his lashes fluttered open. For a few seconds, everything seemed normal.

Stillness. Soft air.

Your scent lingering on the pillow beside him. His breath caught.

The world felt louder.

The hum of the refrigerator from downstairs. The ticking of the thermostat on the wall. The microscopic shift of the floorboards under pressure. All of it surged into his ears like a wave.

“W-What…?” Chan mumbled, blinking hard.

He sat up slowly, one hand bracing the mattress, and even that felt wrong. Too much. He could feel the weave of the fabric. The subtle difference in thread tension beneath his fingers. The cotton wasn't just soft, it was structured. Textured. Overwhelming.

He clenched his jaw and tried to focus. “Just need to pee. That’s it. Nothing crazy.”

He threw the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Big mistake.

As soon as he stood, a rush of vertigo slammed into him. The room spun, not in a dizzy way, but like it expanded around him too quickly. The colors sharpened. The shadows deepened. The air felt thicker somehow, as if it was clinging to his skin.

“Shit—” He staggered, catching himself on the wall. His knees buckled slightly.

From downstairs, Aerith stirred.

Eyes fluttering open. Not panicked. But alert. Sharp. He sat up slowly from the makeshift bed, tilting his head toward the ceiling like he could feel the imbalance in the air itself.

Back upstairs, Chan groaned, dragging himself toward the bathroom, gripping onto the doorframe like a lifeline. His breathing was shallow. His heartbeat loud. He pressed his palm to the cold tile wall and blinked at the mirror.

And for a split second. His reflection flickered. A faint shimmer pulsed across his irises electric, silver-blue. Gone in a blink.

“No, no, no…” he muttered under his breath. He reached for the sink and splashed cold water on his face, panting softly.

Downstairs, Aerith stood, gaze fixed on the ceiling now.

You stirred with a stretch, your fingers brushing the empty sheets beside you.

The absence was immediate. Your eyes snapped open, and you sat up slowly, frowning toward the faint glow bleeding out from under the cracked bathroom door.

“Chan?” you called groggily, brushing hair from your face. No answer. “Baby… you good?”

Silence. Not even the sound of water running. Just stillness. That quiet, heavy kind that sinks into your chest. You pushed the covers off and padded softly to the bathroom door, heartbeat already picking up.

“Chan?” you tried again, knocking gently, twice. Still nothing.

Knock knock.

A firmer tap echoed from the bedroom door. You turned and opened it, startled to see Aerith standing there fully alert, eyes flickering between the floor and your face.

“Can I come in?” he asked carefully, tone neutral but taut.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah—yeah, come. I think something’s wrong. He’s in the bathroom but he won’t answer.”

Aerith’s brow creased. He moved past you and gently pushed open the bathroom door.

Chan was there, hunched in front of the sink, both hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles had gone white, skin stretched taut, tendons visible. The veins in his arms pulsed unnaturally beneath his skin, a faint bioluminescent glow tracing up his forearms like roots of some tree.

His breath came in short, shallow bursts. Sweat soaked his shirt, clinging to every curve of his spine. His skin, normally so warm-toned and sun-kissed, had paled to a faint silver hue under the bathroom lights.

His eyes, glowing. Brilliant silver-blue, like lightning behind a storm cloud. But shifting… the glow was moving, like it was alive within him. His muscles twitched beneath his skin in spasms like his body was recalibrating itself, nerves rewriting code in real time.

He exhaled, and for a heartbeat, his breath fogged the mirror in front of him not like normal condensation, but a smoky mist, shimmering faintly, unnatural.

“Oh my God—Chan,” you whispered, rushing in, heart climbing to your throat. You grabbed his shoulder. “Baby, look at me, please,”

He flinched under your touch like you’d hit a nerve directly. His head slowly turned, eyes wide and unseeing, pupils dilated to eclipse the glow. He didn’t even recognize you. You gasped, stepping back slightly, and Aerith stepped forward calmly, placing a hand on your arm.

“He’s going to be fine,” Aerith said firmly.

You turned on him, panicked. “How is this fine?! He looks like he's about to combust—his skin, his eyes—what the hell is happening to him?!”

Aerith nodded, lowering his voice. “It’s a reaction.”

“To what?” you hissed.

Aerith looked back at Chan with something between awe and worry. “The blood from Zhurin’s creature. It’s trying to bond with his human system. His body’s evolving, adapting to traits it was never meant to absorb.”

You blinked, trembling. “So you’re saying… he’s becoming one of you?”

“No,” Aerith said softly. “He’s becoming something new.”

Chan’s body is like fire and electricity wrapped in glass. Every nerve ending is awake. Every sense overloaded. He can feel the heartbeat of the walls. He can hear the air shift between seconds. His bones ache, not from pain, but restructuring.

A memory of your voice cuts through the noise.

“Baby?”

“Breathe with me, okay?”

And for a second. His eyes flicker. The glow dims. His fingers loosen their grip on the sink.

And he whispers, barely audible:

“Y/N…?”

The world narrowed down to Chan’s voice.

A sharp, guttural cry that made your heart splinter in your chest.

You turned instantly. He was hunched again, back arching, knees shaking, but this time when his head snapped toward you.

His eyes. Still glowing, but now blinding. A swirling storm of silver and icy sapphire that moved, twisted, as if they held galaxies behind them.

They were crying. Tears fell like mercury down his cheeks, too luminous to be human. His lips trembled, his jaw clenched, and his voice broke, a soft, desperate whisper.

"Baby… baby, it—"

His voice hitched. "It hurts. It hurts so much." Your chest crumbled like paper.

“No, no—come here—” You dropped to your knees in front of him, pulling him close as his forehead collapsed to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. His arms wrapped around you, but they trembled violently, his muscles twitching, vibrating like they were being rewired.

You held him tighter, rocking slightly. “You're okay, baby—just breathe. I’m here, you’re not alone. It’s gonna be okay—”

He stilled.

The shuddering breath caught in his throat. The glow in his eyes snapped brighter.

And just like that, his body went rigid.

"Chan?" you pulled back a bit. His hands were still on you—but tighter now. "Chan, baby, can you hear me?"

No answer. Just that eerie, empty look.

“Y/N,” Aerith’s voice sounded at your back, strained. “You need to let him go.”

You shook your head, panicking. “No—no, I’m not leaving him like this he needs me.”

“Y/N, listen to me—”

“No!” You cupped Chan’s face, voice trembling. “Baby, it’s me, I’m right here, okay? Look at me. It’s just us.” Aerith stepped closer, urgency rising. “You don’t understand—you need to let go of him now.”

Before you could react, Chan’s grip tightened.

Bone-crushingly tight.

“Ah—Chan!” you gasped, trying to shift. “That hurts—”

“Y/N!” Aerith reached forward and ripped you from Chan’s grasp, arms wrapping around your waist as he dragged you out of the bathroom. And that’s when it happened.

Chan’s head turned slowly.

His eyes glowed so violently now, the whites were gone only that blinding storm of color remained. His entire body was pulsing lit from the inside.

He looked like a god born from static and wrath.

And his voice. Low. Warped. Echoing with a second tone.

“Where are you taking my baby to?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a threat. His voice chilled your spine. It felt like it pressed against your eardrums from the inside. You stumbled back, heart in your throat.

“If she wants to stay,” he muttered, stepping forward slowly, eyes locked on you, “then she can stay.”

His hand rose, almost reverently. You instinctively stepped back, but Aerith stepped in front of you, his hand flying up protectively.

“Don’t look at him,” Aerith whispered sharply, pulling you behind him and covering your eyes with one hand. “Don’t look directly at his face.”

“What the hell is happening to him?” you whispered, voice cracking. Aerith’s own hands were trembling now.

“Is… is this part of the change?” you asked, barely breathing.

There was a long pause.

“…I—I don’t know.”

The hallway pulsed with an otherworldly hum, electric tension slicing through the silence. Aerith stood like a wall between you and Chan your chest heaving.

And Chan was no longer just Chan. He was glowing like the embers of a dying star. Shadows twisted beneath his skin, and light bled from his veins.

His steps were slow. Measured. Each one echoing with dreadful power.

"Move," he growled, voice still laced with that double-layered resonance, like something beneath was speaking through him.

Aerith didn’t budge.

Chan’s jaw clenched tighter, nostrils flaring. His voice dropped to a near snarl, as he hissed in Aerith’s native tongue:

“Zat'har veldah'n karu.”

(Stand aside, bastard. Did she put random letters together? Yes.)

Still, Aerith didn’t move. Only gently shielded you behind his body with one hand. Chan’s expression darkened, brows drawing low. A quiet hum rippled from his chest—low and deadly.

“Fine.”

Then he lunged.

“NO—!” you cried, but you were shoved harshly out of the way as Chan’s body slammed into Aerith.

In one smooth, terrifying motion, Chan’s hand gripped Aerith’s throat.

The alien’s back hit the wall with a sickening crack.

Veins shot up across Aerith’s neck and jaw, glowing faintly violet, the pressure suffocating. His lips parted, but he couldn’t speak.

Chan lifted him.

Off the ground.

With one arm. Aerith’s feet kicked slightly, scrabbling for stability.

His hands clutched at Chan’s wrist, eyes flickering rapidly as blood vessels began to bulge against his skin, iridescent and alien.

“STOP—Chan, please!” You screamed, trying to rush forward again. Aerith’s shaking hand dug into his clothes and found something.

A small, crystalline rod.

Almost like a scalpel, glowing with dull green light. He plunged it into Chan’s side.

There was a sharp, mechanical hiss. And then, the glow dimmed. Chan jerked back. He let go.

Aerith collapsed to the floor with a thud, gasping violently, clutching his neck as his shoulders heaved. You scrambled forward to him, helping stabilize his body. “What the hell was that—what did you just do?”

He coughed, wincing. “It’s a—tranquilizer. Originally… designed for a Zhurin. I—” he looked up at you, dread in his voice, “—don’t know if it’ll work on him.”

Your eyes shot to Chan.

He stood there, chest rising and falling slowly. His head tilted down.

Silent.

Then, he reached up, and slowly pulled the object from his side. Your breath hitched. He looked at it. Studied it like it was a child’s toy. Then he dropped it with a clink to the floor.

His body shifted, muscles tensing again, shoulders squaring.

He stepped forward.

“Oh god.” Aerith’s voice cracked. “It’s not working.”

Chan’s eyes locked onto the both of you.

And then, he stumbled.

One foot faltered, the glow around his limbs flickering erratically. Another step. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the floor, hard. You rushed to him immediately, heart clawing its way up your throat.

“Chan—! Baby—”

He didn’t respond.

Just lay there, glowing dimly, skin still radiating warmth, breath shallow, jaw slack.

You dropped to your knees beside him, brushing hair from his damp forehead, your voice shaking.

“Baby... please... stay with me. Please.”

His fingers twitched.

A tear slid down your cheek.

Aerith crouched behind you, still catching his breath, voice lower now.

“He’s… stable. For now. That compound must’ve worked—just barely.”

You nodded, but didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe right.

Your fingers curled gently into Chan’s shirt, your forehead resting to his as his glow began to fade.

“I’m right here, baby,” you whispered. “You did good. I’ve got you now.”

---

The living room was dim, heavy with tension. The soft morning light filtered through the blinds in fragmented lines, slicing across the floor, across the couch, across Chan’s body.

He was sitting upright now, barely. Slumped forward slightly, wrists bound to his sides with restraints. A thin metallic band ran across Chan’s sternum, anchoring him to the reinforced coffee table in front of him.

His head hung low, hair a curtain of damp brown around his face.

He hadn’t said a word since regaining consciousness. You were curled up near him on the arm of the couch, heart pounding in your ears. You couldn’t stop glancing over. His chest still rose and fell. His fingers still twitched.

Aerith stood across from you both, pacing slowly.

His voice was quiet. Tense.

“There are… many types of mutations in Zhurin physiology.”

His arms were crossed behind his back. “Usually they occur with intense emotion. Triggers. Trauma. And if introduced to external biological matter—especially foreign DNA—those mutations can become… volatile.”

You glanced at him sharply. “You’re saying he mutated because of something in me?”

Aerith shook his head instantly, raising a hand.

“No. Not just you. Not exactly.”

He exhaled slowly, dragging fingers through his hair, then turned to look at Chan.

Chan didn’t even lift his head.

“When you both encountered the wounded Zhurin scout, your husband came into contact with active blood from a warrior caste. High-tier. Unfiltered.”

“The scout’s blood—already unstable—merged with his. And if Chan’s immune system was compromised during that time... his body may have interpreted it as a symbiotic invasion. It didn't reject it. It... assimilated it.”

The word sat in the room like a bomb.

Assimilated. Your eyes flicked back to Chan. His knuckles were white from how hard he gripped the edge of the table.

“The aggression,” Aerith continued, stepping closer. “The enhanced senses. The inability to regulate power. It's not his fault. It’s... a genetic war happening inside him.”

You swallowed hard, eyes prickling. “Why did he attack you?”

Aerith hesitated.

“It’s possible... he no longer recognizes his own boundaries. Zhurin mutations don’t just change the body, they rewrite identity. Logic and protection instincts twist into something more primal.” He looked straight at you then.

“That moment—when he tried to stop me from pulling you away—he wasn’t trying to hurt me out of spite. He thought I was trying to take you from him.”

You felt your blood run cold. Your hands trembled.

Chan finally stirred. The faintest twitch in his jaw.

And then, hoarsely, barely audible:

“I… remember.”

Your head whipped toward him.

“Chan—?”

He lifted his head slowly.

Eyes bloodshot. Glow still faint.

“I remember all of it.”

He blinked slowly, eyes filling. “I knew what I was doing.”

“No,” you said quickly, moving toward him. “No, baby, you were—”

“I knew I was hurting him.” His voice cracked. He leaned forward, chest heaving. “And I didn’t care. I wanted him dead. Because he touched you.”

You reached for his hand, even though it was bound. “That wasn’t you.”

“But it was.” he croaked, tears spilling over now. “That part… is in me now. I don’t know where it ends.” Aerith’s face was unreadable.

The silence was fragile—hanging between the three of you like cracked glass.

Chan hadn’t moved in minutes. His glowing eyes were half-lidded now, lashes trembling, chest rising with every shallow breath as he rested in the restraints. You had pulled a chair close beside him, one hand cupping the back of his neck, your thumb rubbing slow circles against his damp skin.

He still wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“You didn’t fail, baby,” you whispered softly, hoping your words might anchor him. “But you did hurt me. Just for a second. When I held you back there. It was like I wasn’t even there.”

His throat bobbed. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard it nearly bled.

“I didn’t want to let go of you.” His voice was ragged, feral and small. “But I couldn’t feel love in that moment. Just… ownership.” He blinked slowly, a tear rolling down. “You deserve better than something that’s slipping further from human.”

Your heart splintered. Before you could respond, Aerith cleared his throat.

He was crouched near the bookshelf, rummaging through salvaged equipment and tech. “I have a theory,” he said, brows furrowed. “But I need your help to test it. I need… the med kit.”

You blinked. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, sure.”

You stood, grabbing the white and orange case from the cabinet beside the couch and handing it over. He took it with gentle hands.

Then he looked at you.

And said:

“I’m very, very sorry.”

Your brows knit.

“Sorry? For wha—”

Pain. A sharp, invasive sting as Aerith stabbed a thin alien syringe directly into your arm. You screamed, stumbling back, your knees hitting the edge of the coffee table.

Chan snapped.

“DON’T TOUCH HER!” His voice, double-layered, deep and otherworldly, like a beast and a man spoke together.

He lunged violently forward; the restraints strained to contain him. Veins rippled through his arms, muscles trembling with fury. His eyes glowed, fully now. Not flickering, not faint. Alive. Terrifying.

“I SWEAR TO EVERY STAR ABOVE I WILL RIP YOU IN HALF—”

“CHAN—!” You cried, hand on his chest, trying to calm him as Aerith scrambled back and dropped the syringe. The glow in Chan’s skin pulsed with rage. It took every inch of alien alloy to keep him from snapping free and tearing Aerith apart.

You turned, furious now. “What the fuck, Aerith?!”

But Aerith was already beside you again, opening the kit, pulling out a strange scanner and bandages. “I had to be sure. I’m sorry—I didn’t have time to explain.” His voice was firm now, but still gentle. He wrapped your arm carefully, his brows drawn tight in concentration.

“I needed to test the response Chan has to your pain.”

“WHAT?” you shouted. “You stabbed me, just to piss him off?”

“Not to piss him off, to confirm my hypothesis,” Aerith said quickly, glancing at Chan, whose glowing body still radiated fury but had quieted slightly at the sight of your injury being tended to.

“You triggered his mutation spike again, but in a contained environment. His protective response? Beyond expected thresholds. The pulse in his bloodstream? Synchronized with yours.”

You were still panting, dizzy with adrenaline. “And what does that mean?”

Aerith looked at you, lips parted like he wasn’t sure how to say it.

Then:

“It means… you’re not just emotionally bonded to him anymore. You’re biologically tethered.”

You froze. “…What?”

Aerith leaned in slightly. “I couldn’t detect it before. The readings were faint. But now? It’s clear.”

He tilted his head, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “Y/N... Are you pregnant?”

Your world tilted. “I—what? N-No! I don’t know—I haven’t even tested—”

“Your white blood cell count is elevated,” Aerith said calmly, scanning your arm again.

“You’re running a low-grade internal fever isolated to your lower abdomen. Your hormones are in flux. And Chan’s mutation... It accelerated once he physically touched you this morning.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. “That doesn’t mean…”

Aerith met your eyes, this time gentler. “It means your body has already begun forming a protective molecular field, and that only happens when a Zhurin hybrid forms within a host.”

You turned to Chan, tears slowly rising. His glowing gaze locked onto you. He looked broken. Awed. Scared. And somehow, a little bit in love.

“Baby…” you whispered, voice trembling.

“I think… we’re having a child.”

Chan was still glowing but the violent pulses across his veins had faded to something more unstable… more confused. His chest was heaving with heavy breaths, still slightly rattling the bindings around his wrists and torso. He sat in the center of the living room, restrained to the reinforced alloy chair Aerith had crafted in case of “escalation.” None of you had ever expected to use it. Definitely not like this.

You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, cradling your freshly bandaged arm, still shaken from the sudden test Aerith had inflicted.

Chan’s glowing irises flicked from you to Aerith, jaw tight. His voice was a low snarl, rumbling through his chest like a warning growl: “It doesn’t make any sense.”

You looked up, startled. “What doesn’t?” He leaned forward slightly, and even with the restraints, the movement made your breath catch. He was still dangerous right now. Still... other.

“We slept together before I got attacked. Before the Zhurin injected their venom, before anything started changing in me.” His brows furrowed, the glow in his temples flaring. “So how the hell would that affect the baby? How could the mutation pass?”

You looked to Aerith, heartbeat roaring in your ears.

He exhaled. Slow. Heavy. Then walked over to the side table and pulled out the long, translucent data slab he’d been using to track Chan’s vitals. The alien glyphs lit up like constellations as he swiped through them.

“Zhurin biology is unique. That’s the part we didn’t account for,” he said carefully. “I originally assumed the Zhurin mutation only began after they infected you. That’s true, for the external transformation. The visible powers, the aggression, the voice layers…” He gestured toward Chan’s glowing form.

“But their venom doesn’t only work in real time. It works in retroactive waves.”

Chan stared at him, eyes narrowing.

“Retroactive?” (yes, be confused)

Aerith nodded. “Zhurin blood is multidimensional. When it enters a host, it doesn’t just infect the body it infects the timeline of the body. Think of it like… splicing film. Once they inject the venom, it rewrites the host’s biology from birth so that it looks like they were always part Zhurin.”

He met your eyes, then Chan’s. “Which means… the moment they chose you, your body began adjusting from the start of your existence. Including your genetic code. Including your reproductive cells.”

Chan’s lips parted, stunned. You whispered, “…So even before the attack, his DNA was already… rewriting?”

Aerith nodded.

“Exactly. In time Zhurin DNA knew it was going to be paired with you at some point.”

You swallowed thickly, your voice small. “And when we were together, before it happened…”

“The embryo was already carrying Zhurin-coded genes.” Aerith turned the tablet toward Chan.

“Your bloodwork shows a complete integration. But the baby—your child—has a fused genome. A hybrid one.”

Chan leaned back slightly, eyes flickering with stunned disbelief. He looked at you. Then down at your arm. His jaw clenched, but his voice softened. “So you’ve been carrying part of this… mutation. Part of me… and I didn’t even know.”

“Neither did I,” you whispered, reaching to hold his hand through the binds. He gripped your fingers tightly, his thumb trembling against yours.

Aerith slowly stepped back, rubbing his temple. “This changes everything. You’re not just bonded emotionally. This baby is a tether now, for both of you. That’s why Chan went feral when you were hurt. It’s not just instinct.” He looked at Chan gravely. “It’s because your systems are connected. You felt it.”

Chan’s gaze flicked to you again, expression unreadable. Something protective and broken simmered just behind his glowing stare.

“What happens now?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Aerith looked between the two of you, then out toward the dark window beyond the safehouse.

“Now?” he muttered. “Now we prepare. Because if the other Zhurin or the scientists find out you’re carrying a hybrid… they won’t just want Chan back.” He turned to you slowly. “They’ll want your baby too.”

Go crazy...

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[pixie-felix]

toxic exes | after the afterparty

hyunjin x ex reader | 10 ss | explict references

unpleasant word warning: skanks

Apparently this is turning into a series now, not sure what that says about my mental state 😅 but we'll roll with it. Angst and toxicity ftw I guess?

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[mrsha-ang-kim]

Well fuck...not me hoping she'd get a second chance...