The safehouse felt impossibly quiet.

You sat alone at the battered kitchen table, coffee growing cold, mind replaying every step that led you here—the guards, the games, then the escape. You’d lost track of everything you held dear.

The door clicked open. Drenched coat, bruised knuckles, but somehow… You sensed her before you saw her.

Kim Young‑mi stepped in, boots slicing stale air, hands full of canned soup. Her face was drained, but her eyes… those eyes held something steadier than grief. Determination.

“I brought dinner,” she said softly, setting the cans down.

You looked up, swallowing hard.

She gave you a small, almost shy smile—it didn’t reach her eyes, but it came close.

“You don’t have to talk.”

Still, the world had shifted. You reached out, taking her hand—calloused, warm, strangely grounding.