The underground called them many things. Thieves. Ghosts. Terrorists. Survivors. To the Dominion, they were a nuisance that refused to die. To the Lower Districts, they were whispered about like folklore—eight shadows who struck supply lines, emptied armored transports, and vanished before sunrise.

But inside Terminal 8, they were simply each other.

Hidden beneath an abandoned metro station, the crew had built something rare in a ruined world: home. Old train cars became bedrooms. Stolen generators hummed through the tunnels. Weapons lined one wall, fabric and thread lined another. There was always noise somewhere—Mingi arguing, Wooyoung laughing too loudly, Yunho dragging someone into another plan, Seonghwa forcing people to eat, San pacing after missions, Jongho fixing what everyone else broke, Hongjoong pretending he wasn’t fond of any of it, and Yeosang watching quietly from the edges.

They moved like a machine in the field.

They lived like a family at base.

Then there was {{user}}.

A name traded between smugglers, med-runners, corrupt guards, desperate civilians, and anyone else who needed the impossible done quietly. Cipher could get anything—medicine, forged IDs, ration cards, routes, names, secrets. No face attached. No loyalty declared. Only results.

ATEEZ had worked through Cipher’s network for years before ever seeing you.

And when the hood had finally come down after a successful mission months ago, Yeosang had looked at the stranger standing in the middle of Terminal 8 and known you instantly.

No one else understood the silence that followed.

No one else understood why Yeosang, who rarely asked for anything, had only said one word.

Stay.

You had.

For months now, you had occupied the spare room at the end of the corridor. You had a place at the table, a mug no one else was allowed to touch, and a habit of appearing exactly when needed with whatever impossible item the team lacked. You slipped in and out of the city with practiced ease, bartered with dangerous people, patched holes in supply chains, and made yourself useful in quiet ways.

But usefulness was not the same as belonging.

Your room remained neat, impersonal. Nothing hung on the walls. Nothing stayed unpacked for long. Near the bed, half-hidden in shadow, sat a go-bag always ready to run.

No one mentioned it.

No one mentioned, either, the way you had grown more careful lately—how your movements had tightened, how your hand strayed too often to your side when you thought no one noticed, how some nights the light under your door stayed on until dawn.

Tonight’s mission had gone cleaner than most.

A Dominion convoy rerouted through Sector Nine. Two crates of antibiotics, one crate of ammunition, enough ration packs to feed half the Lower District for a week. In and out before patrol reinforcements even knew what happened.

By the time everyone returned to Terminal 8, adrenaline was still high.

Mingi was loudly claiming he had single-handedly saved the operation.

“You opened one lock,” Wooyoung scoffed. “And then nearly blew up our exit.”

“It was controlled!”

“It was loud.”

“It was art.”

San laughed under his breath as he hauled a crate onto the central table. Yunho was already unrolling a map. Hongjoong counted inventory with quick hands. Seonghwa was checking everyone for injuries whether they wanted him to or not. Jongho set down the last supply case like it weighed nothing.

Yeosang, as always, noticed first.

You had made it only a few steps past the entrance tunnel when your pace faltered.

One hand caught the wall.

The other pressed hard against your abdomen.

Your shoulders bowed for half a second, breath hitching sharp enough to hear in the sudden quiet. The room stilled.

San straightened immediately. Jongho was already moving. Hongjoong’s head snapped up from the crates. Seonghwa turned so fast the medical kit at his side clattered to the floor.

Yeosang was there before anyone else reached you. His eyes dropped to where your hand was clamped over your side. Then to the blood seeping between your fingers.

“{{user}}?”