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The patrol car’s engine growled like a wounded animal as [___] slammed it into gear. Rain hammered the roof in a relentless staccato, turning the windshield into a fractured mirror of neon and shadow. Linkon City outside was a blur—streetlights smeared into glowing streaks, the occasional flash of a protestor’s sign or the glint of barricades. The LCBI compound faded behind them like a bad dream—and maybe it was. Maybe she’d wake up and Rafayel wouldn’t be bleeding out in her passenger seat. Maybe the world wouldn’t be tilting on the edge of war.
Rafayel slumped in the passenger seat, his breathing shallow, shaky but controlled, like he was counting each inhale to prove he still could. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandages she’d hastily wrapped around his ribs, staining the gray LCBI jacket she got for him a dark crimson.
He had one arm draped over his stomach, fingers twitching occasionally—whether from pain or the lingering adrenaline of the trial, she couldn’t tell.
[___]’s grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. She could still hear the researchers’ voices in her head.
"Fascinating how much punishment he can take."
"We’ll push further next time."
"If he survives, of course."
Her foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, tires skidding on wet pavement.
Rafayel tilted his head toward her. "Grandma? I see the light.."
"Shut up," she snapped.
He exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh. "You’re angry."
Damn right she was angry.
Angry at the LCBI. Angry at the researchers who treated him like a lab rat. Angry at the protesters who screamed for Praedator blood without knowing what the hell they were talking about.
But most of all, she was angry at him.
"You could’ve ended that trial anytime," she said, voice low. "If it was too much you could have faked it and they would've stopped."
He didn’t answer right away. Outside, the city flickered past—broken storefronts, flickering holograms, the occasional silhouette of a Praedator lurking in an alleyway.
Finally, he spoke. "You really want that?"
[___]’s jaw tightened. "Don’t turn this around on me."
Rafayel shifted, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wounds.
She risked a glance at him. His eyes—that eerie, ocean-blue with the faintest pink hue—were fixed on her, unreadable.
Then he looked away.
The car rattled over a pothole. [___] winced—at the sound, at the memory of him crumbling in her arms.
She was scared. Of how much it hurt to see him that way.
Of how much it mattered.
"How did you score us this fine vehicle anyway?" Rafayel changed the subject.
“Your blood,” she finally said, not looking at him, “might attract other Praedators on the way back.”
A lie. She knew it. He knew it.
Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. The only sounds were the rain, the hum of the engine, and Rafayel’s slow, measured breaths as he watched the rain trace lazy trails down the windshield, city lights bleeding into rivers of gold and green.
[___]’s throat burned. She wanted to scream. To demand answers. To ask him why the hell he cared about her opinion at all. why does he even willingly do this.
But she didn’t.
Neither of them spoke the rest of the way home.
She parked a block away from the apartment—too exposed to risk pulling up front. The rain hadn’t let up, still pouring like the city itself was trying to drown.
“Come on,” she muttered, shoving open the passenger door.
Rafayel gave her a tired, confused look like she got the address wrong. He squinted slightly at the road ahead. “This better be a short walk.”
“It’s not,” she said, slipping under his arm and hauling it over her shoulder, gritting her teeth as she supported his weight. He was heavy—heavier than he looked. He was burning up and the wounds didn’t help. It felt like dragging a statue made of blood and stubbornness.
Every few steps, he’d stumble, and she’d curse under her breath and adjust her grip.
"I could’ve had a normal job. An office. A plant on my desk. Maybe a cat," Her voice was low but sharp, every word a jab.
"But nooo, now I have to drag your half-dead ass up three flights of stairs. Three. like some discount action movie heroine."
"You flatter yourself, miss enforcer" he rasped.
She nearly let him drop right there.
He was stifling groans with every other step. Low, guttural sounds pressed through clenched teeth, like he was trying not to let her hear how much it hurt.
But she did.
And she couldn’t decide if it made her feel worse for him… or just angrier.
The stairwell was worse—narrow, damp, and dimly lit by a dying bulb that flickered randomly like it was trying to mock her in morse before completely giving up. The two of them barely fit side by side, and more than once, she banged her elbow or smacked her knee against the railing.
Her long hair clung to her face and neck, plastered in wet strands that kept slipping into her mouth every time she turned to adjust him. She kept trying to spit it out, but it wouldn’t stop sticking to her lips.
She huffed as they climbed. Each step pulled another breath from her lungs, her muscles aching from the weight.
“Why is this stairwell so goddamn narrow?” she hissed under her breath. “Who builds apartments with staircases like this? Sadist?”
Rafayel didn’t answer. But his lips curled ever so slightly in amusement.
By the time they reached the third floor, she was soaked, flushed, and visibly shaking from exertion.
She pressed him against the wall—not too gently, letting him lean there while she fumbled for her keys with wet fingers. Her hands trembled, too slick with sweat and rain to grip properly, and it took three failed attempts before she finally got the key into the lock.
The door creaked open at last. She exhaled like she’d just finished running a marathon through hell.
“Welcome home,” it sounded more like a threat as she helped him inside, kicking the door shut behind them.
[___] flicked on the lights—a single, flickering bulb that cast long shadows across the cramped apartment. At least this one's consistent.
The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the damp, musty scent of rain clinging to their clothes.
She dragged him to the kitchen,
"Sit," [___] ordered, pointing to the rickety chair by the kitchen table.
Rafayel eyed it. "That looks like it’ll collapse if I breathe on it wrong."
"it won't. Sit."
He sat. The chair groaned but held.
He shrugged off his ruined LCBI jacket, letting it drop to the floor with a wet slap. Blood has soaked through the fabric, dark and glistening.
She stalked to the bathroom, her fingers trembling as she yanked open the cabinet. Bandages. Antiseptic. Where the hell were the painkillers? She shoved aside half-empty bottles and loose gauze, her breath coming too fast. The LCBI uniform, all stiff and suffocating, suddenly felt like a second skin she needed to shed immediately.
With a frustrated growl, she ripped the jacket off of her, then the tactical vest beneath it. The undershirt followed, tossed carelessly onto the bathroom floor. Cool air hit her bare skin as she stood there in just her tank top and underwear, the mirror reflecting her flushed face and wild eyes. Out of breath.
She gripped the edges of the sink like it might hold her together.
Her head bowed. Wet strands of hair clung to her temples, her spine tight as a drawn wire.
She inhaled sharply through her nose, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Her arms trembled from exhaustion, from fury, from something deeper she didn’t want to name.
Get it together.
She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned harder against the sink.
For a moment, she just stood there—braced, breath ragged, like if she moved too fast the whole night might collapse in on itself.
She splashed water on her face, the shock of it grounding her. Droplets slid down her neck, dampening the fabric of her tank top. When she looked up again, her reflection stared back—hair disheveled, lips pressed into a thin line.
Deep breath. In. Out.
Medkit in hand, she turned to leave—but a small bottle slipped from the edge, clattering to the tiles and rolling lazily to a stop near her foot.
The painkillers.
They’d been there the whole time.
Her breath caught. Not with relief—no, not even close. It was the kind of breath that trembled before a scream.
She bent to snatch the bottle off the floor, her fingers curling around it too tightly. Then she stormed out, the weight of everything pressing down with each footfall.
Rafayel hadn’t moved. Slouched back in the chair, head tipped against the wall, eyes closed. Blood streaked his chest, the wounds glistening under the weak light.
[___] stopped in the doorway.
His nostrils flared. Eyes still closed, he murmured, "You smell like gunpowder, cherry soap." A pause. "And panic."
"Shut up," she said, but there was no venom in it. Her voice was too breathless. Making her way to sit next to him.
He opened his eyes. Languidly. Like he was surfacing from deep water just to look at her.
And he looked at her.
Her long legs were bare. The thin, white tank top clung to her damp skin, fabric molded to the curve of her chest as it rose and fell softly. Water still clung to her collarbones, tracing rivulets down skin she rarely let anyone see.
Rafayel didn’t speak. His gaze traveled up her body—unhurried, unreadable—but something in his expression shifted. The tightness around his mouth. The flicker of something raw, dark and hungry in his eyes.
[___] faltered under the weight of it. Her heart lurched, caught somewhere between alarm and heat. She hadn’t meant to walk in like that. Hadn’t thought about it, honestly.
But now she felt exposed. Not just physically.
Exposed.
She crossed to him and knelt beside the chair. Her hands trembled only slightly as she laid out the supplies on the kitchen table. She pushed aside a mostly empty bottle of honeydew yogurt to make room for a bowl of water and a small towel to clean him up with.
"Take this off. I need to check your wounds."
Rafayel exhaled, slow. "Bossy." But he obeyed.
Rafayel was already peeling off his leather top, his movements slow but deliberate. The fabric stuck to his wounds in places, pulling free with a sickening tack sound.
[___]’s breath caught.
The damage was worse than she’d thought.
Deep gashes crisscrossed his torso—some fresh and still weeping, others already knitting together with unnatural speed. Bruises bloomed along his ribs in mottled purples and blacks. A particularly nasty cut ran from his collarbone to his sternum, the edges ragged, as if something had tried to claw its way into his chest.
She swallowed hard. "You should’ve stopped the trial." She repeated, more to herself this time.
Rafayel didn’t answer. Instead, he watched her uncap the antiseptic and soak a cloth.
"This is going to sting."
Rafayel’s lips quirked. "I’ll try not to cry."
She ignored his sarcasm and pressed the cloth to the worst of the wounds.
Rafayel didn’t flinch. Didn’t even tense. But his fingers curled around the edge of the chair, the wood creaking under his grip.
[___] worked in silence, her movements methodical. Clean the wound. Apply pressure. Bandage. Repeat.
The apartment was too quiet. The only sounds were their breathing and the occasional drip of the leaky faucet in the kitchen.
Outside, the city buzzed and breathed and bled. Sirens wailed in the distance like haunted wolves.
Rafayel's eyes wandered to her face—downcast, focused, but not cold. Never cold.
She leaned closer to inspect the wound along his chest. As she tilted her head, a loose strand of her hair slipped across her cheek. Rafayel reached out without thinking, fingers brushing it back behind her ear with a gentleness that didn’t belong to a creature like him.
"You’re shaking," Rafayel half-whispered.
[___] stilled. She hadn’t even realized.
His hand lingered near her jaw and the room seemed to shrink, air thickening around them. Rafayel’s breathing slowed, like he was waiting.
But now—his touch made her hyperaware of every nerve ending in her body. Her heart was pounding. Her lips parted, unthinking. Her hand froze mid-bandage.
His eyes met hers—deep, too blue, too pink, like two galaxies colliding behind them.
Her face was just inches from his. His hand still hovered near her jaw, gentle, warm. And suddenly it didn’t matter who they were—enforcer, experiment, handler, weapon. It didn’t matter what they’d seen or done or sworn never to feel.
She leaned in.
So did he.
The space between them narrowed to a breath. Their lips nearly touched. Her eyelids fluttered.
And then—
BANG
A sharp, echoing crack rang through the city streets, followed by a shrill whirrrrrrrr as a Praedator’s body hit the pavement outside, just past the apartment’s rain-fogged window.
An LCBI pulse rifle had been fired.
A second later came the siren—cold, mechanical, impersonal. A flat monotone:
“Unauthorized Praedator terminated. Sector C-9. Remain indoors.”
The moment shattered like glass.
[___] jerked back slightly, breath trembling. Her chest rose and fell fast, her hands clenched around the bandages like it was an anchor.
Rafayel’s eyes stayed on her a moment longer. Then, with a breathy exhale, he leaned back in the chair, the spell fading but not forgotten.
“I should let you finish,” he said softly, like the words cost him something.
[___] blinked, struggling to pull herself together.
“I—uh,” she stood too fast, voice catching in her throat. “I need to change the water.”
It was an excuse. A bad one.
She left the room, bowl in hand, heart hammering against her ribs. In the quiet space between sirens and silence, she could still feel the ghost of his breath on her lips.
They hadn’t kissed.
But almost was dangerous enough.