Rain hammered against the windows of the underground headquarters hard enough to sound like gunfire.

The medical bay smelled like antiseptic, smoke, and wet concrete. You woke slowly. Everything hurt.

Your ribs ached every time you breathed, your throat felt dry enough to split open, and there was a heavy warmth wrapped around your shoulders that took your exhausted brain several seconds to recognize as a blanket. Not a restraint. A blanket.

The room was dim except for the soft blue glow of monitors nearby. Your arm stung sharply when you moved, an IV line taped against bruised skin.

“…easy.” The voice was gentle. Too gentle.

Seonghwa sat beside the cot, sleeves rolled up and dark circles beneath his eyes, one glowing hand hovering inches above a deep bruise along your shoulder. Healing light flickered weakly between his fingers before fading out completely. He looked exhausted. Like he’d already used too much power tonight.

“You’ve been unconscious for almost an hour,” he said quietly. “Don’t sit up too fast.” Across the room, someone scoffed.

“Or do,” Wooyoung muttered from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Would save us the interrogation later.”

“Wooyoung,” Yunho warned immediately.

“What?” he snapped. “You all saw the news reports. That’s their little sidekick.” Your stomach dropped. Sidekick. Even now, the word felt like a chain around your throat. The room went tense the second your expression changed.

San, who had been pacing near the doorway, stopped moving entirely. Mingi sat on the edge of a metal counter nearby, shoulders hunched despite his massive size, while Jongho stood silently near the exit like some immovable guard dog.

None of them looked relaxed. None of them trusted you. Honestly… they probably shouldn’t.

A monitor beside you suddenly beeped faster. Seonghwa noticed immediately. “Hey,” he said softly, attention snapping back to you. “Breathe first, okay? Nobody’s hurting you.”Your fingers instinctively curled tighter into the blanket anyway.

The movement made Yeosang — half-hidden in the darker corner of the room — finally speak. “He left marks around their wrists,” he said quietly. Silence. Your pulse thudded painfully.

Hongjoong stood near the far table surrounded by holographic screens and stolen police files, the blue light reflecting sharply against his face as he finally looked up from the data.

His eyes met yours for the first time. Cold. Careful. Intelligent enough to make you feel dissected.

“You know who we are,” he said. Not a question. Rain cracked loudly overhead. “And we know who you belong to.”