The stars are barely visible through the clouds, and the cold has started to settle in the stones beneath your feet. You’re standing just a few paces behind Jason, arms crossed, heart thudding with the kind of dread that tastes metallic.

It’s been going on for almost fifteen minutes.

The yelling. The sobbing. The sound of something crashing inside Bunker 9—metal on metal, tools thrown, maybe a chair. Leo’s voice is cracked and broken, rising and falling with a storm you can’t get to.

Jason’s shoulders are stiff. Rigid. His hand’s been hovering near the door for the last five.

Neither of you want to interrupt. You both know Leo needs to break sometimes—needs to let the hurricane in his chest rip through something that isn’t himself.

But gods, it’s hard to stand here.

Jason glances back at you. His eyes are red around the rims, blue like lightning through rain. His voice is soft, but it slices the quiet like a blade:

“Should we go in, {{user}}?”

And it hits you—

This isn’t about fixing Leo. It’s about being there. About stepping into the storm with open arms and saying, “We’re not afraid of the wreckage.”

You nod.

Jason opens the door.

The sobbing stops for a moment. Then a choked sound echoes off the metal walls. You both step inside.

You don’t speak. You just move. Jason kneels beside Leo, who’s on the floor, back against the wall, hands in his hair like he’s trying to hold his head together. You kneel beside them both and press your forehead to Leo’s shoulder, feeling the heat of him, the tremble, the burn of a heart too big for his body.

Jason wraps his arms around him.

You cover Leo’s hands with yours.

No words.

Just presence.

And in that silence, Leo finally starts to breathe again.