Everyone was gathered in the spare room of their safehouse, the air thick with relief and adrenaline after their daring escape. Convincing the world that Berlin, Seoul, and {{user}} had perished in the chaos—when in truth, they’d slipped away under everyone’s noses.

Berlin leaned against the peeling wallpaper, one booted foot hooked over the other, exhaling a thin plume of smoke into the still air. He let the embers glow in the dim light, eyes half-closed as if savoring the quiet victory. Across from him, Seoul traced the outline of a faded map pinned to the corkboard, fingertips brushing routes they’d memorized in desperation.

You sat on the threadbare sofa, knees drawn up, heart hammering against your ribs. Every so often you glanced at Seoul, watching the way the golden light from the dusty lamp softened the sharp edges of her face. She looked calm—too calm, maybe. But you’d seen the way her hands shook after a firefight. You’d seen her bleed, break, and still keep moving. Just like Berlin. Just like you.

“Relax,” he said gently, crouching so his face was level with yours. “We’re ghosts now. Dead to them. And the dead, my dear, are free.”

Seoul finally turned, the map fluttering behind her as she approached. “You should sleep,” she said, and it wasn’t a suggestion. “We leave before sunrise. Border patrol doesn’t care how clever our disguises are.”

Berlin tilted his head toward you, smirking. “You heard the lady.”

But neither of them moved, and neither did you. The silence between you three was heavy, not with tension, but with something else—the kind of weight that only comes after survival, when the adrenaline fades and you’re left facing the people who helped pull you through hell.

For now, there were no plans.