Their relationship wasn’t public. It wasn’t even supposed to exist. Three people—one girl, two boys—sharing something quiet, careful, and real beneath the hum of Cleaners HQ. It wasn’t about grand gestures. It was about glances, affection in the dark, and knowing looks across a crowded mission hall.

•

That night, you and Follo slipped through the dorm hallway, keeping your voices low. Zanka had come back from the field with a bruised arm and a badly dented ego.

“Last thing he needs is the whole base hearing us,” you whispered.

Follo nodded, eyes flicking nervously down the corridor. They stopped at Zanka’s door; you pushed it open gently while Follo made sure it clicked shut behind them, locking it tight.

The room was dim, lit by the weak yellow glow of the desk lamp. Zanka sat on the bed, bandages trailing from one arm, jaw set. His usual composure had curdled into irritation.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping in. “You look like you lost a fight with your own pride.”

Zanka gave a short snort, looking away. “It wasn’t the Beast that hurt me. Just… stupid footing.”

Follo lingered nearby, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “You… should rest,” he said finally. “We’ve got it covered here.”

Zanka eyed him, then you, and finally let his shoulders sink. “You two are ridiculous,” he said—but his voice was quieter now.