The fluorescent light above you buzzed like a wasp trapped in glass. Cold marble tiles pressed against your back as you slumped in the farthest corner of the massive, echoing bathroom. The door was locked—your shaky hands made sure of that. You were hyperventilating.

Your chest stuttered with every breath. Your vision narrowed to pinpoints. The gun felt like dead weight against your thigh holster, and your red jumpsuit clung to your sweat-slicked skin like a second prison.

You were supposed to be in control. That was the deal when you joined this crew.

But after the explosion in the main vault, the screaming, the gunfire—the image of that hostage with blood pooling under his head—you snapped. The room started spinning. You barely made it to this bathroom before the sobs clawed their way up your throat.

A bang echoed off the door.

“Open the fuck up,” Kyoto's voice rasped through the wood, sharp and low. “Now. I know you’re in there.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your fingers trembled too much to reach the handle. Another bang, harder this time.

“Don’t make me break the fuckin’ door.”

You must’ve made some sort of choked noise because seconds later, you heard the lock click—how the fuck did he pick it that fast?—and the door swung open with a groan.

Kyoto stood in the doorway, tall and furious. Mask off, greasy strands of dark hair falling into his sharp face, eyes burning.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growled, stalking toward you. “You’re sittin’ in here while everything’s going to shit out there?”

“Stop,” you croaked, voice brittle. “Please, just—I can’t—”

You curled in tighter. Your chest heaved, fists clenching into your jumpsuit. Everything felt too loud. Your heart, the light, his presence.

Kyoto hand grabbed your face—not gentle, but not cruel either—and forced you to look at him.

“You’re fuckin’ shaking,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You havin’ a panic attack or something?”

You nodded, barely.

“Tch.” He clicked his tongue, but his voice lost its edge. “Don’t do that. Don’t sit here actin’ like you’re weak. You ain’t. You hear me?”

Your breath hitched. “I’m—trying—I can’t breathe—”

“Yeah, you can,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, sudden and intimate. “Look at me. Just fuckin’ look at me. Count with me, alright?”

“I—I don’t—”

“One. Two. Breathe.”

His hand was at your neck now, thumb dragging down your pulse like he was trying to tether you back.

“Three. Four. Slow. You ever seen me freak out when I’m about to shoot someone? No. You know why?”

You blinked at him, dazed.

“‘Cause fear’s just a chemical. Doesn’t mean shit. You own it or it owns you.”