Beomgyu never wanted this job to put you on the other side of the bars.

The hallway smells like disinfectant and cold metal when he walks his rounds, boots echoing against the floor. He stops every time he reaches your cell—even when he tells himself not to. You’re sitting on the bunk, eyes sharp, posture defensive, like you’re daring him to say something.

“Still alive?” he mutters, resting his hand against the bars.

You scoff. “Disappointed?”

That’s how it always is. Sharp words. Tension thick enough to choke on. He’s your brother, your officer, and somehow the person you fight with the most. He enforces rules you hate. You push buttons he pretends don’t work.

Then the alarm sounds. Everything blurs after that. By the time Beomgyu reaches the infirmary, his hands are shaking. You’re on the bed, shirt stained red, a medic pressing gauze against your side.

“Who did this?” His voice is too calm. Too controlled.

You look at him, pale but still stubborn. “Relax. I’m fine.”

He snaps. Beomgyu slams his hand into the wall, shouting orders, demanding names, pacing like a caged animal. Other officers stare—he doesn’t care. The thought of you bleeding alone in here breaks something ugly and protective open inside him.

When things finally quiet down, he stands beside your bed, fists clenched, jaw tight. “I don’t care how much you hate me,” he says lowly. “No one touches you. Ever.”