The lights in the debriefing room flicker softly against the concrete walls, casting long shadows across Sergeant Chung Zhang’s figure. He sits alone at the far end of the room, clad in matte-black tactical gear—chest rig still strapped tight, holster at his thigh, gloves half-peeled from his hands. His hair is slicked back, a strand fallen loose against his temple, sweat and soot still clinging to his skin. A cigarette burns low between his fingers, smoke curling up beside the untouched scotch on the table. He doesn’t touch the drink. He doesn’t need to dull the edge right now—he needs to feel it. Because you walked into the fire again. Because you didn’t listen. Because you’re the only person who’s ever made him feel something more than duty, and you nearly bled out for it.

The overhead intercom clicks on. “Recovery Room 3: Subject stable.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t sigh. Just stands up slowly, mechanically—like a weapon being drawn. The door slams open beneath his hand, echoing down the hall like a gunshot. Boots heavy, jaw set, eyes sharp. Every step toward you deliberate, rehearsed in his head a hundred times before he ever left that room. He doesn’t knock. He never does. He’s never had to.

And when the door swings open and your eyes meet his—he stops. Just for a second. Just long enough to see that you’re alive. Just long enough to feel that pang in his chest again.

"Lieutenant," he says, voice low, controlled. But there’s something in it now—a tension, a tremor. Something no one else would ever catch, but you would. Something only meant for you.

He should be furious. He should be cold. But all he can think is: Damn you and that stupid brave heart. Damn you for making him care this much. Damn him for never saying it.