Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The job was simple.

A little too simple for his liking.

“Guard the perimeter,” they’d said. “Keep an eye out for intruders. Report anomalies. Do not enter restricted areas.”

Guest 1337 had taken stranger jobs before, but something about this one felt… unfinished. The facility was clean. Buildings above and below ground. Professional, though it seemed uninhabited. Too clean. A place that large, with no signage, no visible staff besides a suspicious handful of armed guards, and an unusual number of locked doors? It didn’t sit right with him.

Something’s off.

He’d done countless patrols now over the last two weeks. Though randomly scheduled, each one was the same. Looping through long, pale hallways lined with harsh LED lights and cameras that turned just a second too late. The silence rang in his ears louder than any alarm. No chatter. No passing carts. No techs or doctors moving between rooms. Not even the buzz of the overhead lights.

Something’s wrong.

Just doors. Locked, reinforced, and unlabeled.

His heavy footsteps reverberated through the sterile corridors. The only other sound he’d heard was from a room located in the sublevels. Guest could have sworn he heard a voice. Weak. Almost animalistic. But when he paused to listen, the sound was gone. A camera above him whirred. That was enough to get him moving again.

He followed orders. He didn't ask questions. But he wasn’t an idiot, either.

Something’s deathly wrong.

Something was wrong here.

Still, he played the part. Flashlight in hand. Ironed uniform. Calm expression. Just another hired pair of boots doing night shifts.

When his patrol ended, Guest would return to his assigned quarters, modest, long-term, singular window. The bed creaked like it resented him, and the room always smelled faintly of bleach and metal. He'd stopped leaving personal items out. It didn’t feel safe. None of this did.

Guest made his way back through the unnervingly quiet compound. A scientist intercepted him. Straightening his back, Guest keenly listened and learnt an incident had gone down. A wild animal of some kind had snuck into the ground level facility and wreaked havoc among the labs. It had been shot multiple times, yet managed to escape. The man warned him to be alert and suspected the animal was still on site.

“If you see it, don’t engage. Call us.”

“Got it.” Guest’s jaw clenched. He offered a small nod. The man wandered off mumbling to himself, just loud enough for Guest to hear.

“We should have killed that monster and kept its body..”

Monster? I thought it was a wild animal..

He doubted he would see the so-called ‘monster’. He wasn’t here to be a hero.

As he passed the damaged facility doors, Guest spotted trails of dried blood smeared against the walls and holes peppered through the plaster. Not just tranquilliser rounds either. Real ammunition. Stunned by the sight, Guest silently noted how much manpower had been used to unsuccessfully take out the rampaging animal.

Not exactly the right time to be around here. 

Guest quickly crossed the premises and made his way to his room. For the length of his contact, they’d issued Guest a sizeable room with a small kitchen, with a small island table, bedroom, bathroom, and small living room. The door hissed shut behind him. He rubbed at the scar across his nose bridge and yawned.

The room should have felt safe. Guest had meticulously checked for cameras and recording devices. Found none, but the feeling of safety never came.

Tonight, however, something was off.

He turned, intending to wash his face, when instinct flared in his gut.

The bedroom door creaked open. He paused.

Muscles tense, Guest stepped inside, hands already near his sidearm, but the moment he entered, what he saw surprised him.

Something was on his bed.

Someone is on my bed.

-

A person, young, probably mid-thirties at most, shorter than him by a few inches, was circled up awkwardly on the sheets with the thin blanket barely covering him. His back rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths. Barefoot, dressed in torn medical scrubs. Bathed under the moonlight, blood peaked out from under the sheets.

That’s going to be a bitch to get out.

And from the corner of the blanket, hidden in the shadows, something moved. A glimmer of wet, silver-smooth skin.

Guest moved forward, cautious.

A tail.

Shark-like. Sleek. Pale at the fin edges. Muscular and twitching unconsciously in agitation. Not artificial. Not a prop.

His eyes scanned quickly. Light gill markings along the man’s neck and collarbone. Slight webbing between his fingers. His brown hair was dyed with blue tips, damp with sweat.

Guest exhaled slowly and knelt beside the bed. He lifted the blanket, checking for signs of danger. There were none, no weapon, no fight response. Just a barely conscious body and a steady trickle of blood from deep bullet grazes littered across his body.

How did he even get into my room?

Whatever had happened, the man ended up in his room. Like he was running from something far worse. Guest opened his spare first aid kit. Methodically, he cleaned the wounds and bandaged it tightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t wake the man. He just worked in silence, his mind reeling.

This guy isn’t a monster.

When he finished, he leaned back against the wall and watched.

...

He’s just hurt.

Just as Guest was nodding off in the chair, boots unlaced and breath steady. A sudden shift jolted him awake.

The hybrid was stirring.

A moment of silence. And then he panicked.

-

The man jolted upright, eyes wide and glassy. His tail thrashed, knocking objects to the floor. His hands grabbed the wall, scrambling for escape.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t–!”

Up close, cuff marks were visible along his wrists. Red and raw. Too precise to be accidental. Not from restraints used once. These had been worn in. Like they were part of a routine. His hands were covered in small burns and bruises. The edges of his fingers were rough, calloused from friction, but not from labor. From struggling. From trying to get free. 

The man’s face was gaunt, jaw tight with fear. Not from pain, from memory. Guest had seen that look before. In soldiers. In prisoners. People who thought they were back in the cage.

“Hey–” Guest stood slowly, hands raised. “It’s alright. You’re safe here.”

The hybrid shuddered and staggered into the corner. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. Hyperventilating. Shoulders tight. Slumped on the ground. His gills fluttered like they couldn’t get air fast enough. A faint shimmer glowed around the man before fading away. Like light bending wrong. 

Panic attack. Bad one.

Guest moved slowly. No sudden steps. No commands. He knelt down, arms wide but non-threatening.

“Look at me,” he said gently. “You're in my room. Nobody’s coming in here but me, alright?” 

The man’s breath stuttered. His hand clutched the wall so tight his knuckles were white. 

“Listen to me. Inhale slow... just like this.” Guest breathed in deep and slow, loud enough for him to hear. 

The man blinked. 

Eyebrow scar. I wonder what happened.

“Inhale... good. Exhale now. Slow. Keep your eyes open if you can. I’m not here to hurt you. I fixed your wounds. That’s all.” 

A webbed hand drifted slightly forward, still open. Never touching. 

“You got here on your own. You picked this room. That means you had a reason. You’re in control of that. You’re not back there.” 

The man’s breathing slowed, shaky and soft, but less erratic.

He swayed.

And then.. he slumped forward again. Out cold.

Guest caught him before his head hit the floor and gently pulled him back onto the mattress. He tucked the blanket over him and sat back down, rubbing his eyes.

What the hell is going on in this place?

He looked at the hybrid again, at his faint scars, the sharp edges of his traits, the tremble still lingering in his tail. 

He looked.. human. 

Scared. Exhausted. And not a threat.

Guest glanced toward the door, then pictured the scene he’d passed earlier. 

Maybe the thing they told him to guard the facility from wasn’t outside. 

Maybe it had already been inside this whole time. 

And maybe... it had just escaped.

Chapter Text

007n7 woke with a quiet yawn, a dull throb blooming across his skull like he’d run headfirst into a wall.

His eyelids fluttered open.

A dark ceiling. Warm air. The hum of electronics. Distant rustling of trees filtered through insulated walls.

Not the white, sanitised walls of the facility.

The pain was still there, dull in some places, sharper in others. But not the paralyzing, full body ache, he remembered from sedation and scalpels. His fingers twitched. His skin pickled where dried blood clung to bandages and healing wounds.

007n7 sighed, letting his eyes drift shut again, sinking back into the softness beneath him.

..Wait. A pillow?

He tensed.

In a snap, he bolted upright.

He was.. in a bed. A bed. Not a cot, not a cold steel table. A real bed. The guard’s bed.

Then the memory snapped into focus.

-

It was now or never. 

He’d studied the pattern for days. Maybe weeks. He couldn’t keep track anymore, there were no clocks, no sunrises or sunsets. Only the hum of lights that never turned off and the ever present voices behind mirrored glass.

But tonight was different. The guards had changed shifts late. The lights in Corridor E flickered just a little longer than usual. The door to Lab 6 hadn’t locked completely after the last injection.

His hands trembled. Blood still trickled from his last test. Something about reaction to different sedatives. 

He didn’t care. 

It was open. That was all that mattered.

He didn’t hesitate. 

He glanced over to his upper arm. A path of small scales circled around his bicep, that glowed faintly against his skin. He thought for a second. Took a breath. Then a flicker of light bent around his body as he activated the shroud. Invisibility wasn’t perfect when he was weak, but it was enough. He was never going to get another chance. Once they saw his abilities, he would be completely void of food. 

He moved fast, barefoot on cold tile, silent except for the pounding of his heartbeat. Left. Right. Then past the reinforced doors. Down the back hall that reeked of ammonia and bleach. 

Teleport.

The moment he turned the next corner and spotted a cluster of guards talking near the main stairwell, he didn’t think. He vanished, energy rippling through his body in a flash and reappeared behind a storage crate three floors up. 

His stomach turned, vision tunneled and lost his footing. The energy it took nearly dropped him. 

Keep going. No choice. 

Checking the invisibility casted over him, he darted out. Ran again. 

Left, right, up the stairs. Guards. Right, left, another left.

Just as the main entrance came into view, sun setting beyond the doors, his disguise faded. Like water sliding from his skin. It dropped. His form flickered back. Visible to the guards posted at the front and the pair who rounded the corner behind him. 

He froze, he should have teleported again.

Only then did he realise the sedatives had done a number on him. Dulled his focus, weighed him down like stones.

The alarm didn’t blare right away. But the gunfire did.

Pain exploded across his side. A bullet grazed his ribs. Another tore through the back of his arm. The impact knocked him into a wall, nearly dropped him cold.

Against all odds, he instinctively summoned enough power to cloak himself. The guard’s confusion lasted for a second. 

It was all he needed. 

Slammed into a side door, tripping over an ocean of paper. Blood smeared across forms as he caught himself. Panting, hands shaking, he closed his eyes and focused on a single thought.

‘Anywhere but here.’

By the time the armed guards burst through the doors, all that was left were the bloodied papers. 

-

Then the man. The lack of oxygen. The world blackening around the edges.

He stiffened, half-expecting that guard to be standing nearby with a rifle. But the space was empty. Just a vague warmth fading from the blanket beside him hinted that someone had arranged the blanket over him. Seven's eyes narrowed. Gratitude didn’t mean safety. And kindness didn’t mean trust.

007n7 huffed and pushed the building headache away.

His fingertips unconsciously grazed the scar on his wrist where a cuff had once dug in too far. The rest had trained him to know when to run. When to vanish. And right now, no matter how quiet the air was, no matter how soft the blanket smelled. His throat clenched at the memory, but the silence grounded him. 

The room was sheltered. Muted ambience. Dimmed lamps. The faint scent of iron and antiseptic hung in the air. 

He carefully slid his legs off the edge of the mattress, bare toes brushing the wooden floor. The blanket draped around his body slipped as he stood, revealing the delicate ring of scales that circled his upper arm. He reached for an abandoned strip of cloth from the nightstand and wrapped it tightly around the ring of scales. It covered the scales, masking their luminescence.

Seven glanced around the room. 

Empty.

Almost. 

A quiet breath. A shift in the air. 

He looked down at the source.

The man from last night, the guard, was slumped against the footboard, legs crossed, fists curled tight even in his sleep. Tension radiated off him like a coiled spring.

Unlike the clever scientists, the man made three crucial mistakes. 

Mistake number 1. He wasn’t cuffed or locked up.

007n7’s gaze flickered to the bed, landing on a small pile of folded clothes. He rummaged through them, pulling out a pair of grey sweatpants. They were too long, hems bunching at the ankles, but soft, far softer than anything he was used to. He kept the medical shirt. It fit better, familiar in a strange way.

Careful not to trip over the extra fabric, he lightly stepped into the kitchen.

Mistake number 2. He'd let him have access to the knives.

Seven’s hand hovered above the selection of cutlery before choosing a wickedly sharp kitchen knife. 

He padded over and stood to the sleeping man, knife gleaming. Then, quick and fluid, he slashed the knife across his clothes.

The comfort Seven felt after doing the act made him smile in satisfaction. The act was petty. But he wasn’t going to let go of the opportunity. He hiked up the hem of the pants and cut away the extra fabric until they fit around his legs and accommodated his tail properly. It was a joyous moment for 007n7.

Seven knelt down and examined the man closely. A long scar ran along his nose bridge. Stubble along his jaw, darker where the shadows fell. Navy, yet vibrant blue hair and thick with natural waves. His face was weathered in that quiet way people get when they’ve seen too much and say too little.

For some reason, it made 007n7 pause.

"Thanks," he murmured aloud, voice raw, to the slumbering man. Then quieter, as if it mattered, “...for the help.”

The forgotten knife clattered onto the ground, falling out of Seven's slackened hands. 

He stirred.

The man groaned faintly, rubbing his eyes as the crease between his brows tightened. 

In that split second, before their gazes could meet, Seven disappeared. Leaving behind only a trace of air and the faintest click of the front door.

..

Mistake number 3? 

Help 007n7. 

The shark hybrid.

-

Seven crept through the darkness of the building, every nerve burning with urgency. The guards would be on their afternoon break. It was his best shot, maybe his only one after the chaos he caused the previous day. The main gate was far from where he’d been hiding, a brutal stretch of open ground with little cover, no walls to duck behind. Just concrete, small bushes, and sun.

His tail twitched anxiously, betraying his uncertainty.

He exhaled slowly, feeling the ripple of air pulse around him. Subtle and quiet. It clung to his skin and slipped across his limbs like wet silk. The shimmer began, a veil of distorted light, hiding him from sight. It wasn’t perfect. It never was. But it held. More steadily than yesterday, now that his body had briefly rested.

A faint distortion like heatwaves over asphalt. A flicker at the edges of vision.

To most eyes, he was invisible. 

To the wrong ones, he was a duck waiting to be caught.

It wouldn’t last.

Still, he moved. A final glance behind him, toward the hallway where safety had almost felt real. He stepped into the corridor. Barefoot. Silent.

He passed a pair of guards on the corner, standard patrol. They didn’t even look twice. The only reaction came when a sudden breeze brushed the woman’s neck. She paused, eyes narrowing, but found nothing. A shrug. Then they moved on.

Seven ducked past her with practiced care, heading for the southern exit. It linked the guard housing to the courtyard, with a run before the outer perimeter fence.

Freedom.

He stepped through the door and into open air. The sun felt harsher out here. The plaza was wide, concrete ground blistered with heat. The main entrance lay across the yard. Tauntingly far. 

He bolted.

His cloak shimmered but held. He sprinted across the courtyard, tail sweeping low, arms pumping. He passed the small housing units. It wasn’t until he ran halfway across the yard, just past another centre, that it happened.

He knew instantly when the wrong guards strode out the facility. Upper security. Not patrol. 

His breath caught. 

007n7 veered toward the inner perimeter fence, hoping to duck into the blind spot between sectors. His cloak still held. They shouldn’t have seen him. 

They shouldn’t have.

But someone did.

A man shouted something garbled into his radio. Another raised a weapon, not a standard rifle, but one calibrated for movement, for pattern recognition. 

Seven didn’t even realize what he saw until it was too late. 

The first shot rammed into his shoulder, slicing the air with a crack.

Agony tore through his side. He stumbled, gasping, hands clutching at the bleeding wound. The cloak wavered.

Another guard raised a different weapon. Sleek. Syringe-tipped. 

A tranquilizer. 

The dart hit low in his arm. 

“Target sedated!”

A second round, grazed his old wounds, pain instantly flaring through his body. His body flickered back to visibility.

His knees buckled. The edges of his vision curled into black. His tail lashed wildly.

Another shot, sharper, struck the base of his tail, making him collapse.

Dirt filled his mouth. Leaves crunched beneath him. He tried to crawl, nails chipping as he dug through the undergrowth. 

The world spun. 

“Hold fire!” someone barked. 

“Contain him–” 

A pause. 

“–Negative, kill order confirmed. Take the shot!” 

No. No, no, no-

He couldn't see straight. Couldn’t hide. Couldn’t breathe.

But he knew what to do when his body failed him.

Go back. Go where it’s safe. 

The teleport triggered on instinct, not by choice.

The guards barely had time to shout as the broken shimmer of his body vanished in a flash of displacement. The ground where he'd bled was suddenly empty. 

And the silence returned.

-

He stayed sprawled on the wooden floor, every breath slicing sharp through his ribs. Old bandages clung loose around his limbs, unraveling like dead skin. New wounds stained the floor beneath him, blood pooling slow and thick. The scent of copper clung to the air like smoke after fire.

His breath hitched. 

Seven could barely keep his eyes open. They jittered in and out of focus, shadows bleeding into light, the room tilting. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, wild and uneven. A corner of the kitchen counter swam in his vision, distorted through pain.

He couldn’t move. He was too tired. Too broken. 

And too aware of how easily things could snap. 

Click. 

The sound of the doorknob froze him to the marrow. 

Too soon. Not even a minute. 

Creak. 

The door opened slowly and closed again. 

Boots crossed the threshold.

It was him.

That man. Again.

His silhouette cut across the low light, solid and heavy. His hand was raking back through his messy, sweat-damp hair, broad shoulders heavy from whatever patrol or shift he’d just finished. Jaw tight, his shirt was half-unbuttoned at the collar, fatigue loose on his frame. He moved like someone who needed a shower and three hours of silence.

Then he saw the blood. 

Everything in his face stopped.

Time collapsed into seconds. 

Seven’s body tensed. A low whine built at the back of his throat. Panic clawed its way up from somewhere deep and cold. He tried to sit, to vanish, to do something. But all that happened was a shudder, pain crackling down his spine like static.

They stared at each other.

Light brown flecked with pale blue, startled, wild, and glassy, met softer ones, a rich vibrant blue.

Seven bared his teeth without thinking, his sharp canines catching the dim light. “Don’t,” he rasped, voice shredded and dry. “Don’t touch me.”

The guard didn’t move. His face wasn’t angry. Just stunned. Then wary. Then something else, concern flickering at the edges of his guarded expression.

He hated how his voice shook. Hated that his body shook. Hated that some part of him still felt a flare of relief that it was that man’s face looking down at him, and not a scientist’s. The blue haired man dropped to his knees beside him, slowly, like approaching a wounded creature.

“You’re bleeding,” he said simply. Not loud. Not panicked.

Then, like it was obvious, “You teleported blind.”

Seven’s lip curled, but his strength was gone. He said nothing. He wanted to lie. Wanted to laugh. Wanted to disappear into the wall. Shame clawed somewhere in his ribs. The man’s gaze softened just a fraction.

“You came back here,” he murmured.

Briefly, Seven closed his eyes. He hated this. Hated the way the words hit something in him, something raw and unfinished. Hated that his mouth moved before he could stop it. 

“..What’s your name?”

The man didn't reply right away. But his hand twitched, then lifted like he meant to touch 7's face. He stopped himself just inches away, curling it into a loose fist instead. Seven’s eyes flickered open at the motion.

Then, instead of answering, he pulled something from around his neck. 

A chain. Dog tags.

He slid them into Seven’s trembling hand. The cool metal stung against burned skin. It was heavier than it looked. 

“Guest,” the man said. “Guest 1337. Not much of a name. But it’s mine.”

“Is this a joke?” he whispered, like he was afraid to believe it wasn’t. 

“No.” Guest’s voice was steady, almost gentle. “You asked. I figured… you deserved more than just ‘hey you’.”

“Seven,” he breathed, pain dragging the words down into a hoarse whisper. “Formally.. 007n7. But I don’t.. I mean, it’s just... Seven.”

He paused to take a breath, “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Seven tried to sit again. Failed. The pain shot through his shoulder and hip. A growl slipped out of his chest as he fell back with a jolt.

Guest instantly moved. Hands gentle, he slipped an arm under Seven’s knees and shoulders. 

“Don’t–”

“Relax. I’m just moving you to the bed,” Guest murmured, not waiting for permission. “I’ll patch you up again. Just.. stop bleeding all over my floor.” 

Seven hissed.

The bed creaked as he laid him down. Warmer than the floor. Safer than the dark. The blanket felt softer this time. Or maybe it was the fact that he didn’t flinch when Guest rested his hand on Seven’s side, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. He was still tense, still wary. But he didn’t shove Guest off. 

“You keep bleeding on my floors,” Guest muttered, half a smile tugging at his tired mouth as he grabbed fresh gauze.

Seven let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a gasp. “Sorry to inconvenience you.” 

“You’re fine.” Guest crouched beside him, applying pressure to a wound on his side. His hands were steady. Warm. “Though you’ve got a talent for scaring the hell out of me.”

Seven watched him in the silence that followed. He studied the furrow in his brow, the concentration behind his touch, the way his eyes lingered. There were dark circles under his eyes.. Guest looked tired. Not from annoyance. From.. caring .

He’d come back here. Not the woods. Not some ruined facility corner. Not the ocean. 

But his body had brought him here.

To this stranger. This man with calm eyes and dog tags and a voice that didn’t flinch when he saw the blood.

“Why are you doing this?” Seven asked hoarsely. 

Guest didn’t look up. “Because someone has to.” He wrapped the bandage tightly, not unkindly. “And I don’t think anyone ever did.”

The silence that followed that was too much. It ached like a bruise.

Seven turned his head away, blinking fast.

“..You don't even know what I am,” he said, quieter. 

Guest’s hands stilled, then pulled out the small dart and continued wrapping his leg. 

“Maybe not. But I’m starting to figure out who you are.”

Seven shut his eyes.

That was worse. 

Because it sounded like he meant it.

Because he wanted it to be true.

And that was dangerous.

Chapter Text

The room had fallen quiet.

Whether from the sedative tipped dart or not, 007n7 had drifted to sleep not long after Guest had finished. He’d changed into fresh clothes and huddled into the little warmth the blanket provided. Guest didn’t blame him. It was colder than usual today.

Outside, the occasional thump of boots echoed faintly through the corridor. Inside, the hybrid slept. He twitched now and then, but the gasping had stopped. The tension had drained from his frame.

Guest leaned in the timber chair, close where he could hear 007n7’s shallow breaths. The dim lamp cast a soft amber glow over the room. His arms crossed loosely across his chest, blue hair mussed from his own neglect. His eyes, half-lidded but still watchful, flicked toward the clock. A minute passed. Then a few more.

Guest hadn’t stirred in nearly an hour. 

He told himself it was to make sure the wounds didn’t reopen. To keep watch. To wait in case Seven woke disoriented again.

But that wasn’t all of it. 

His eyes drifted to the slow rise and fall of Seven’s chest under the blanket. He was healing, even if too slowly. Guest had seen enough trauma to know when a body was fighting to stay. He was still fighting. His gaze flicked up to 007n7’s face. There was color returning to his cheeks now, faint, but real. His brow wasn’t furrowed. His lips weren’t curled in warning. There was something softer in it when he wasn’t awake. 

When he first found 007n7 on the bed, he hadn’t planned to let him stay. Not for more than a day. He’d patch him up, point him toward the compound’s exit, and that would be it. Done. Clean hands. But then the hybrid returned. Worse off than before. Not just injured, but desperate, frightened, displeased with his situation. Guest had made a choice again. Stupid, maybe. Or hopeful.

Now the hybrid, no, Seven , was curled up in his bed, wearing his clothes, silent except for the rustle of breath.

He let out a soft sigh, running a hand over his tired face.

This was more than loneliness. Wasn’t it?

He glanced at Seven again, then pushed himself up and padded toward the bathroom. A shower might help clear his head. Mist coiled around him as the hot water ran, stinging slightly against skin that had grown numb from sleepless nights and too much thinking.

He’d been alone before. A long time, actually. Even back in the army, alongside Matt, there were long stretches of silence. Solo missions with little contact, just orders and reports. He and Daisy had made it work for a while before Guest enlisted. They laughed often, joked a little. She was his closest friend more than anything, and they both realized that’s all it ever really was. The divorce had been mutual, calm. He still visited sometimes, told Charlotte bedtime stories spun from cleaned-up versions of his missions, braided her hair with slow hands, let her paint his nails bright pink once just to see her burst out laughing. 

But over time, he started fading out of that life. Assignments took him further and further away. Calls got shorter. Visits became fewer. And now.. now it felt like a different life entirely.

-

Steam still curled from his skin as he leaned over the sink, hands braced against cold porcelain. Water dripped from his hair, trailing down the curve of his jaw, along his neck. Guest looked up, the mirror in front of him was fogged, blurred at the edges, like a memory that wouldn’t quite sharpen. He wiped clean with the side of his hand and stared into his reflection.

There he was. Same tired face. Scar across his nose, faint stubble along his jaw. Hunched shoulders. Tension settled so deep in his frame it might as well have grown there.

He waited, then tilted his head to the side, gaze dropping lower. Scars traced his body like old paths on a map. Narrow reminders of past decisions, past missions, past mistakes. But one in particular caught his eye, like it always did.

Inconspicuous. Nothing remarkable. A pale, faintly brown mark curled from the side of his nape and arced down across his shoulder. Thick and clean-edged. Burn scar.

 A reminder.

I trusted you. Bastard.

Even now, years later, it felt fresh. The scent of burning cloth. The sting in his throat. The disbelief that stung worse than the wound. 

He blinked hard, shaking off the memory, but it cracked open the dam. One painful image after another surfaced.

The water hadn’t helped. It never did.

No matter how many showers. No matter how many years. It clung to him.

It stained him. Under his fingernails. Under his skin.

“Please.. “

His jaw clenched, breath shifting just slightly through his nose.

He wasn't the perfect soldier, not the model guard. Just a man underneath. Sleep-deprived. Lonely. Hollow. A little more broken than he remembered feeling. 

“I’ll do anything! Just-”

He missed them. The smiling faces of Daisy and Charlotte. The long nights with Matt, filled with meaningless jokes.

Maybe that was part of why this all felt so sharp now. So jarring.

In the mirror, he didn’t look like someone in control. He looked like someone unraveling slowly and carefully. Someone who didn’t know why a stranger bleeding out in his bed made his heart twist. Why he'd gone so still when he saw Seven collapsed on the ground.

The warmth he felt now, it reminded him of the early days with Daisy. Before the war. Before everything that bled them dry. But it was different, too. Seven was sharp and soft all at once, terrified and wild, fragile and furious. And under all that, something beautiful and shattered he didn’t understand. Not yet. 

“-leave my children alone..!”

Perhaps never.

Hands gripping the sink, knuckles pale. His mind was slipping places he didn’t want it to go. He couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not now. 007n7 had to escape. And Guest? Guest had to stay. Stay quiet. Stay loyal to a system that never deserved it.

Dammit.

Why did he care so much about Seven?

A dry laugh escaped him. It didn’t sound like humor. More like disbelief.

I should’ve turned him in. I was supposed to. That was the job.

He shouldn’t feel this much. He knew better. Caring too much got people killed. Especially when you were supposed to be the steady one. The safe one.

He sighed and looked into the sink. Eyes closed, his arm moved before he could stop it. The punch came fast, too fast, but his knuckles halted an inch from the mirror, trembling in the air. A single breath hung in the space between his skin and the cold glass. 

If he’d followed through, the glass would’ve shattered. Blood, everywhere. Noise. Enough to wake Seven. Enough to scare him. 

Enough to lose him.

But the second I saw him bleeding on that floor, it wasn’t about the job. It hasn’t been for a while, has it?

His own reflection offered no answers.

He turned away. He dressed slowly, slipping into his standard off-duty shirt and pants, still trying to shake the thoughts crawling up the back of his mind. Sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon. Not with this weight in his chest.

This isn't just pity. You know that.

Stepping out the bathroom, he glanced towards the ajar bedroom door. 

You're not just some escaped hybrid. You're... you. And I can't look away.

He looked at his own hands, scarred, steady. Hands made to protect. Or to destroy . 

They trembled slightly now. Not from fear. From the weight of holding something too fragile.

Then what about me?

The room felt claustrophobic. Overthinking wasn't going to do him any good. Being near 007n7 for the moment felt like too much.

So he slipped out into the hallway, keeping his steps soft and locking the door behind him. The corridor lights buzzed softly overhead. Guards’ quarters were still somewhat busy this time of night, just after dusk. A few members would have the night shift. 

The facility was mostly asleep, lights dimmed to evening mode. He passed a few security cams, nodded at the one still sweeping the corner of the hallway near the housing wing, and made his way toward the cafeteria.

It was mostly empty. A few tables, chairs scattered in no real pattern. Most guards didn’t cook. They ate what was given. Guest didn’t trust it. Never had. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was experience. But he always made his own meals when he could.

He poured himself a cup of coffee from the still-warm pot and leaned on the counter, sipping slowly. The strong bitter taste grounded him. Not good coffee. But real.

Washing his used cup, he mentally listed the ingredients needed for dinner and tomorrow's breakfast. Guest opened the kitchen’s fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs, a pack of smoked fish, some rice, and instant miso paste. Simple. Real. Luxury, honestly. 

A luxury, he thought bitterly, that the hybrid never got here.

Alongside the thought of 007n7, he considered different options, and decided that toast should be simple enough.

Best not to force him to eat.

Gathering the armful of ingredients into a cloth bag, Guest prepared to leave the kitchen and cafeteria to head back to his room. As he turned, he heard voices.

“..heard it was some kind of magic user. Not even human. That’s why the higher-ups are scrambling.”

Two guards again. Night shift. Talking low near the kitchen line.

Guest didn’t look their way. But old habits kicked in. His eyes scanned their stances, the way one carried his pistol too far back.

..Bad spot to holster a gun. Leads to unnecessary movement. One lunge, quick jab at the solar plexus is enough. He wouldn't even be able to draw the gun.

Guest inwardly paused. He really needed to stop analyzing situations. But he couldn’t. Training had saved his life more times than he could count.

“Yeah. Something escaped from inside. They’re calling it a breach, not even labeling it a defection. Real hush-hush stuff.”

Guest stayed quiet, nodded as he passed. One of them gave him a wave.

“Hey, 1337. You’re on break?” 

“Just grabbing something to eat,” he said with a tired smile. “Figured I’d cook for once.” 

They laughed, but didn’t press. One nudged the other, talking about how the head of research was pissed. His stomach twisted. He forced a nod, smiled tiredly when one of them looked at him. Made small talk. Then slipped away.

He made his way back through the halls, noting additional changes to security. The housing block had guards now, two posted at the front, eyes tracking him as he passed. 

“Oi, mandatory room checks starting tomorrow.”

He nodded, feigning disinterest. “Sure thing.”

He entered his room and shut the door behind him. Seven hadn’t moved much. Still curled up, still breathing slowly.

Looks like he’s still here.

Guest set the ingredients aside, leaned back against the counter, and relaxed his tense muscles. 

He’ll leave anyway.

He looked back at Seven again, just a little longer this time. Seven’s breathing had shifted. Not awake, but not deep asleep either. A kind of restless limbo. Guest understood it too well.

The bleeding had stopped. That was something. But the memory of it hadn’t. He kept flashing back to those seconds, when he found Seven collapsed, and Guest thought he might actually die there on the floor. The blood. The frantic recoil as Guest walked towards him. That second heartbeat in his ears, too fast, too loud.

He’d felt it then. Not just panic. Not just duty. Something else.

What am I doing?

He was a guard. A soldier. Someone whose whole job was to follow orders, not question them. And yet, here he was, protecting a hybrid, hiding him, cooking for him, letting him sleep in his bed. Because he couldn’t bear the idea of sending him back.

But it didn’t matter. He’d be gone soon. Guest knew that.

And Guest.. he’d have to let him go. 

...

Oh. Room checks.

The darkness behind his eyes was comforting.

For once, it wasn’t haunted by images of wires or the sharp cold of metal. No restraint, no white walls. Just… warmth. A slow, golden warmth that curled softly in his chest.

And a scent. 

Not antiseptic. Not iron or gas. Not the low, biting stench of his old cell.

Eggs, perhaps? Seasoned. Familiar. He could almost taste it. But beneath that was something greener. Pine, earthy, sharp. The smell of wet bark and fresh rain. 

His lashes fluttered. The world behind them painted itself carefully.

His boots pressed against the thick leaf-litter, soft and muffled. The crunch beneath his steps was slow, rhythmic. Autumn leaves scattered beneath him in reds and oranges so vibrant they almost glowed. Their color clung to the branches above, catching the last rays of a fading sunset, and in the fading fog, the forest shimmered.

I’ll always be there.

The air kissed his skin with a brisk chill, but it didn’t bother him. It was the kind of cold that meant comfort, a reminder that he was alive, that this place was safe. The air here smelled of damp earth, chimney smoke, and something... nostalgic.

He took another step forward, the underbrush parting quietly, and the sight met him like a warm embrace.

The cabin. 

Slanted, weathered, tucked into the soft cradle of a hill, it stood exactly where it always had in his dreams. The corners were softened with age, but it was loved. Maintained. Its windows gleamed faintly in the twilight like watchful eyes. Smoke curled lazily from the crooked chimney. The front door was slightly ajar, as if waiting.

007n7 stopped for a moment, letting the wind ruffle through his hair. A few leaves danced past him in its wake, drawn toward the porch. He smiled without meaning to, shoulders relaxing.

Home.

He was home. 

Then–

A burst of red exploded from the front door, slamming it against the wall with a high-pitched screech that echoed into the forest.

The next moment, the wind was knocked out of him.

He hit the ground with a surprised grunt, cushioned only by the thick scatter of leaves. A flurry of motion barreled into his chest, knocking him flat. Wings and limbs flailed. Something then promptly slipped onto Seven, with his face showing a brief look of delight.

"Wh–?"

He blinked up into a mess of wild red hair, wide eyes, and a tail flicking leaves everywhere. Twitching wings fluttered against the ground like they were catching the last bits of sunlight.

Seven breathed, chest tightening.

The little hybrid looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hi, Papa!” 

Leaves clung to his tangled hair, but he paid them no mind, sitting proudly atop Seven’s stomach like a little king on his throne. His legs rested cross legged on 007n7’s stomach as he began listing his day, grinning ear to ear.

“Princess and Bluu came over! We played tag, then we climbed the pine near the ravine, you know, the really big one? I almost made it to the crow’s nest this time!”

Seven gave him a disapproving raise of his brow.

“I didn’t fall!” 

A tired sigh escaped Seven, but it was fond. Always fond. He reached up and gently ruffled the boy’s windblown hair. 

“Couldn’t wait for me, huh?”

He shook his head, as he proceeded to flare out his wings for a little balance. C00lkidd proceeded to happily recount the rest of his adventure, ticking off his day with clawed fingers.

“Mr. Elliot came by too,” he added excitedly, “and we made pizza! Real pizza. I even cut mushrooms without squishing them!”

That earned a chuckle. Seven let his eyes close for a second, fingers resting in the leaves. His chest rose and fell slowly, contentedly. C00lkidd continued babbling excitedly, tail waving around. For a moment, nothing hurt. For a moment, nothing was wrong.

Until it was. 

The air shifted.

It happened subtly, first, a drop in the sound. The air grew thick and quiet. No birdsong. No breeze. The warmth began to leech from the edges of the light. 

Seven opened his eyes. His gaze snapped toward the cabin. 

The door.

It was still open, still swaying on its hinges. But it looked... wrong now. The creaking too slow, too deep. The shadows around it pulsed, bending like oil in water.

His heart began to thrum with unease. 

He glanced down. 

C00lkidd was gone.

He sat up fast, leaves falling from his hair. The dream around him blurred, the edges of the trees warping like old glass. Dusk didn’t look like dusk anymore. It looked like something wearing dusk’s skin. The color bled unnaturally into the clouds. The light no longer touched the ground.

“Wait,” he whispered, barely hearing himself. “This isn’t–”

An ominous feeling swirled in his chest. The looming darkness crept in. It blocked the remaining rays of light. The unbearable weight of suffocation–

Where is C00lkidd?

–pressed down on him. 

His fingers dug into the leaves beside him. A futile attempt to ground himself into the world. The world where he never got caught, stayed with his son, and lived happily ever after.

But I would have never met him.

007n7 physically pushed the nagging thought out his mind.

He turned back toward the door, now too far, too stretched, and slowly reached for it. The tips of his fingers brushed the frame, even though he hadn’t moved. The scent from before hit him again, sharp and jarring now.

Eggs. 

Pine. 

But something else, too. Something real.  

He blinked. 

The world fractured.

Chapter Text

He woke with a start. 

A soft exhale caught in his throat, chest tightening as if held in invisible hands. His ribs ached with each breath, though not as sharply as before. The blanket over him was warm. Heavy. A strange kind of comfort. 

He blinked, letting his eyes adjust.

The room was dim, quiet in a way that felt... neutral. Not comforting, not dangerous. Just still. No chirping birds, no filtered sunlight cutting through cracks in the wall. Only a faint thread of brightness spilling from under the door, warm-toned, steady. Not fluorescent. Softer. Natural?

Morning, probably.

He remained still for a moment longer, eyes drifting to the ceiling. The dream was already slipping. Muddled shapes, a small laugh, the outline of someone at his side, but the ache it left in his chest clung like brine. That dull throb behind the heart that didn't fade.

Seven swallowed thickly, pulling the blanket up closer before realizing he was already wrapped tight in it. The fabric was unfamiliar but soft, its warmth soaked through with an unfamiliar scent. Clean, earthy, a hint of smoke and something faintly like pine sap. It reminded 007n7 of the woods.

The scent caught him first. Eggs, something crispy at the edges, butter maybe.

He rolled onto his side, wincing. The shirt he wore stuck slightly to his skin from sweat. His body was sore, stiff in all the places the bandages pressed, but less pain than yesterday. Less fear, too. Maybe.

Then a faint sound broke the stillness.

He sat up, too fast. Pain flared through his ribs. His hand flew to his side.

Guest?

His eyes scanned the small room, breath pausing. No sign of anyone else. Just an ajar door and a folded hoodie near the chair.

Shifting the blanket aside, he swung his legs over the edge. Another flash of pain bloomed in his side, dull but biting. Still, it was bearable. His body had felt worse before. Much worse. The shirt he wore clung damp with sweat. It wasn’t his. Oversized, soft, and faintly frayed around the collar. His arms were littered with faint bruises, but the blood had dried, the newer wounds properly wrapped. 

007n7 inhaled once, braced himself, and stood. His legs trembled slightly as they met the cold floor. His hand braced the wall for balance. He padded toward the doorway, tail coiling behind him for balance. The soreness tugged at his joints and side, but it grounded him. Pain made things real.

-

The light didn’t soothe him. 

He crept forward, hand trailing the wall, muscles tight and ready. Each step carried a soft ache through his side. His gills pulsed once in irritation at the dry air, but he ignored it.

His eyes darted along the floor. No blood. No smeared prints. No medical tools left behind. Like last night hadn’t happened at all.

Like he hadn't. 

That twisted something inside him more than he wanted to admit.

He reached the edge of the living room and paused, half-hidden by the doorway. The light beyond spilled warmly across the wooden floorboards.

Guest stood by the stove, back to him. Rolling up his sleeves as he flipped the eggs in a pan, movements unhurried. His shoulders were broad, relaxed. His body language didn’t scream threat, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t one. 

He hadn’t realized Guest had already seen him standing there. The man's head turned briefly, catching him like a deer caught under a spotlight. Seven froze. Guest said nothing at first. Just held the gaze. Assessing. Measuring. Then, with an unreadable flick of his eyes, he turned back to the food, calmly flipping the eggs as if nothing had changed.

Seven let out a slow breath. His hands had curled into fists without him realizing. Tiny half-moons dug into his palms. He flexed his fingers, watching him.

“I’ve got some eggs here,” Guest said, voice calm, like they were mid-conversation. “You should eat while it’s hot. I’ve got a morning shift. Won’t be back ‘til later.”

He flipped the eggs with a soft scrape of the spatula, the hiss of the pan filling the quiet. Without looking at him, Guest continued. 

“Depending on how it goes, you’ll probably have to skip lunch.”

Seven’s eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced at the food.

He eyed the plate Guest had set on the counter. Steam curled up in soft spirals. Toast, eggs, maybe something green on the side. It smelled good. Real. Tangible.

Too good to trust. 

It’s bait. Laced. They always feed you before the test. Make you think you’re safe.

“They’re not poisoned,” Guest said plainly, still without turning. His tone wasn’t defensive. Just matter-of-fact. Like he’d already played this conversation out.

Seven blinked. His pulse jumped.

Guest glanced at him over his shoulder with a small, tired smile. Not mocking. Just... faintly amused.

Still, he hesitated.

This could be part of a bigger plan. Gain your trust, make you let your guard down, get you fed, get you weak–

His stomach growled at the worst possible moment. 

...Damn it.

Guest didn’t say anything. But his eyebrow lifted just barely, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

Seven’s face burned. He shifted on his feet, defensive. “I’ve eaten worse.” 

Guest brought his attention back to the pan. He made a small noise, like a stifled laugh. 

“Well, that’s comforting.”

Wary, 007n7 inched toward the island table. He didn’t sit. Only hovered near the plate. Toast. Eggs. Pepper. No smell of chemicals.

He picked up a piece of toast and bit in, gaze still flicking between the counter and Guest’s shoulder. The food was good. Warm. Crisp. Real.

“...If I keel over, at least I’ll die with something decent in my mouth,” he muttered, quieter now.

Guest let out a soft snort.

For a few moments, neither of them said anything. The quiet didn’t feel oppressive.

The ache in his chest lingered. Heavy. C00lkidd’s voice still echoed faintly in the back of his head, laughter he couldn’t get back to. Arms he couldn’t reach. It shifted, dulling slightly under the crunch of warm bread. 

He didn’t trust Guest. Not fully. Maybe not even halfway.

But his body was still healing. 

And Guest, whether out of guilt, duty, or something else, hadn’t hurt him. 

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The morning light had climbed higher in the sky, peeking through the blinds and casting long streaks of warmth over the kitchen. The plate had been cleared. Crumbs of toast left scattered along the rim, a smear of yolk dried gold on the edge. For a while, there was only the soft clink of dishes being cleaned and the absent, rhythmic tap of 007n7’s finger against the side of his glass.

Tap. Tap. Tap

He hadn't meant to eat the whole thing. Hell, he hadn’t even planned to eat at all, really. But the food had smelled... real. The kind that didn’t come in packets or syringes. Like something made, not given. And for once, no one had forced it on him. No pressure. Just a plate, and a quiet look that said: Take it or don’t. It’s yours.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Guest moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, rinsing out a pan at the sink. He didn’t say much, only shifting between the counter and sink, sleeves rolled back up, shoulders squared but relaxed. The sink water ran steadily as he rinsed the frying pan, wiping it down with a frayed cloth.

Seven sat at the island table, gaze unfocused, his eyes drifting towards the window. His fingers continued tapping, like a code only he understood. He wasn’t really there. Not fully. His tail twitched faintly where it coiled loosely around the leg of the stool. The gills along his neck had flared once or twice, like they did when his nerves ticked too loud.

“They’ll do a room check today,” Guest said without looking up. “Most likely my unit. Routine sweep.” 

A pause, then almost casual, “I assume they’re looking for you.”

The words hit like a slap, even though he had delivered them evenly.

Tap. Tap– 

007n7's finger stopped. 

What?

Guest continued, voice even. "I cleaned up your blood already. I’ll toss the old sheets on my way out."

The faucet squeaked as it turned off. The silence after was louder than it should’ve been. 

Seven didn’t speak. His mind had snapped back, body suddenly rigid. His finger, once tapping, now pressed flat against the counter, slowly curling into a fist. His entire frame tensed as if ready to bolt. Gaze downcast. Jaw clenched.

Guest turned, drying his hands with the edge of a towel. He didn’t need to look long to notice the shift. 

"Hey," he said softly. 

No response.

Guest crossed the space between them in a few careful steps, his footsteps quiet on the floorboards. He didn't reach out, just stopped a pace away.

“The sheets.” His voice came out low. Controlled, but thin. “The prints. They’ll know. They’ll trace it.”

Guest shook his head slowly. "I’ll make sure they won't be able to."

Seven's fist trembled, still clenched tight against the counter. 

“They’ll find you,” he snapped suddenly, voice rising, teeth clenched. “They’ll come here. And you’ll–”

Get hurt. Get taken. Get killed.

His voice had sharpened. The thought curled behind his tongue, unsaid but loud. He couldn’t bear the idea of hurting someone else just by existing. Just by being what he was. He hated all of it. This guilt that wrapped around his ribs like barbed wire. Just existing meant dragging another person into danger. 

Someone who didn’t even know what he’d done.

He hated it.

I can't do this again. I can't be the reason someone else–

Guest exhaled slowly. He reached out.

“Hey. Breathe for me.” Resting his hand on Seven’s trembling shoulder.

That made 007n7 glance up.

He hadn’t even noticed his breathing had stopped until it hitched in his throat. His chest stuttered on the inhale, tight like caught in brambles, before finally taking in air. He met Guest’s gaze – sharp, clear and steady.

His face was angled toward him, a pace away, leaning just slightly forward – close enough for warmth to bridge the gap between them. Seven’s breath caught again. Not from fear. Not really. It was something else. Something nameless. A pressure that built in his chest like a storm just out of reach. 

He tried to breathe past it. 

Guest was watching him. Not in a threatening way. Not even like he was assessing. Just... watching. With a kind of stillness that made Seven feel like he might shatter under the weight of it.

Up close like this, 007n7 could finally see the finer details of Guest’s face. Details that distance usually dulled.

The old scar across the bridge of his nose, sharp and pale like a memory carved into him. A faint, healed cut at his temple, half-faded but not gone. The kind of mark that only came from close calls. His jaw was clenched – not harshly, but tight in a way that spoke of restraint. There was tension in it, and in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like he was keeping something just beneath the surface, wrapped up and locked away.

Guest’s eyes, a cool steel-blue, looked tired in a way that didn’t show in posture but was written plain across his face. That kind of quiet exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from years of carrying things alone. And yet, even through that weight, there was something unshakably steady in them. Something tethered. Grounded.

He wasn’t flinching.

He wasn’t pulling away. 

He just stood there, calm and unbothered by the inches of space between them. Close enough that 007n7 could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, could see the individual strands of hair falling across his forehead.

And then there was Seven. All he could think was,

Why aren’t you panicking too?

Because he was. Deep down, under the surface, he was unraveling. 

It was in the tight knot behind his ribs. In the way his throat felt dry despite the warmth of the room. In how his tail had wrapped tighter around the stool leg like a lifeline, gills twitching as if trying to sense something in the air. 

Danger. Judgment. Rejection.

The quiet was unbearable. Not because Guest was silent. But because Guest was still. 

Unshaken. 

And Seven didn’t know if that steadiness was a comfort or a threat. 

Could he see it? The way Seven’s chest barely moved, too afraid to draw a full breath? The way his shoulders shook, just a little, just enough? Could Guest tell how close he was to folding in on himself?

Because Seven felt exposed. Unreasonably so.

He hated it. 

But more than that – he hated how much he wanted Guest to stay steady. How much his heart leaned into that calmness, like it might make the noise in his head go quiet. 

The fierceness in Guest’s face wasn’t cold. It was controlled – sharpened and softened at once... Like someone who had been shaped by war and worn down by peace. It wasn’t a mask. It was real. And beneath all of it, beneath the warmth and steadiness, there was a sadness in him. Not loud. Not performative. Just... there. A sadness that lived in the corners of his eyes and the slope of his shoulders. The kind that didn’t go away with rest.

And 007n7 didn’t understand why seeing that made his chest ache more than any wound ever had. 

Why looking at someone who looked fine on the outside made him want to crumble. 

Why that look – tired, sad, and somehow still strong – made him feel like he was being seen. 

And what terrified him most was the thought that maybe Guest saw him too. 

Really saw him. 

And still chose to stand there.

Unflinching.

“I...” 007n7 hesitated. 

He wanted to ask it. 

Needed to. 

So he did.

“Why are you helping me?” The words left his throat hoarse, a scrape of air more than sound. “You’ll get hurt.”

The second they left his mouth, he saw it. 

The guard’s expression didn’t change at first. But his eyes did. Something behind them went still. A flicker, like a candle about to go out. His hand, still resting on Seven’s shoulder, didn’t tighten – but it didn’t linger either. 

That quiet, unreadable mask slid back into place like armor. Seven could see it this time. The slow close-off. Like watching a door swing shut in slow motion.

He didn’t understand it. And that scared him more than anything.

They stayed like that for a breath. Then another. Just... looking.

Seven’s pulse wouldn’t slow. His face felt too hot, collar too tight. His skin prickled like static. He didn’t know why he suddenly wanted to reach out. Maybe to anchor himself, maybe to make Guest stay in this moment just a second longer. Maybe because–

But then Guest blinked. 

A slow, heavy blink. Like someone trying to shake off a memory that refused to leave. 

He stepped back. 

Abrupt. Clean. Final.

–it was all too similar.

The warmth vanished. The closeness gone. 

The air between them turned cold. 

Guest’s expression was blank again. Remote.

Before 007n7 could catch a glimpse of his trembling irises, Guest turned his head.

Like nothing had happened.

Seven's heart dropped. The sudden retreat stung more than it should've. 

What did I do?

His mind scrambled.

“I won’t be back till later.” His voice lacked the warmth from earlier. “Checks should only happen past 12."

It wasn’t just a retreat. It was a wall. A quiet one. Solid. Silent. Impossibly high. 

Seven’s mouth parted slightly, unsure if he should say something. Apologize, maybe. Ask again.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

The moment was already gone.

The cold in the room wasn’t from the air.

It was in him now too.

Sitting thick and heavy in his chest, beside the ache that had never really left.

He looked down at his hands. One of them was still curled in a fist on the countertop. He uncurled it slowly, fingers tingling with phantom tension.

Was it what I said? Did I sound pathetic? Did I remind him I’m not worth this?

He couldn’t name the feeling clawing at the inside of his ribs. Just that it made it hard to swallow.

Hard to stay.

Harder to leave.

He didn’t linger. His motions were sharp now, tighter. Guest gathered his jacket from the back of the chair, pulling it over his arms. He reached over to grab his belt, buckling it with quiet focus, then glanced back at Seven still sitting at the table. 

When he finally spoke again, his tone was more professional than personal. 

“There are a few snacks in the cabinets. I won’t be here to cook lunch.”

007n7 glanced up, feeling his gaze on him. And nodded in acknowledgement.

As a second thought, Seven stood up quickly, gripping onto the edge of the table. “Wait. Did I... do something wrong?” 

Guest pulled his eyes away and paused with his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t turn around. “No. You didn’t.” 

“...Stay in here. Don’t open the door. I’ll be back later.” And he left.

Something had cracked open.

And something else had shut.

Seven just wasn’t sure what part was his fault.

You idiot. You pushed again. Why couldn't you have stayed quiet?

-

007n7 nudged the door open with a hesitant touch, breath shallow as he peered inside – not what he expected.

It wasn’t what he expected. It was normal. Not sterile like the labs. Not reeking of bleach or humming with the buzz of fluorescent lights. Just a small, lived-in bathroom. A faint soap scent lingered in the air, mixing with something slightly woodsy – shampoo maybe. A towel hung off the side of the sink, used but clean. The mirror was speckled faintly with water marks, and the counter was clutter-free, save for a razor, a spare toothbrush, and a bottle of painkillers.

He stepped in carefully, letting the door drift shut behind him. His eyes swept the space like someone waiting for it to shift – like it might transform into something dangerous if he looked away.

His gaze landed on the mirror. 

For a long moment, he just stared. At the mess of his hair. The bruise shadowing his jaw. The faint lines around his eyes that made him look older than he was. His gills twitched once, picking up the warmth in the air. The scale patches under his jaw looked duller than usual. Faded.

Swallowing, he pulled up the hem of the oversized shirt Guest had given him, careful not to tug at the skin beneath. The fabric lifted slowly, catching on the fresh bandage across his stomach and arms. He carefully rested the shirt on his shoulder and peeled back a section of bandage along his abdomen, checking the wound. It wasn’t bleeding anymore. Just sore and ugly and pink-edged.

He pressed a finger just beside it and hissed quietly.

Still tender. Still healing.

There were others – bruises in blotched greens and purples mottled along his side. Small cuts along his shins where he'd scraped against the ground during the escape. The bandaging was better than he expected, if only because Guest had known what he was doing

His fingers paused over the bandage again. Guest had done this himself. 

Why? Why did he even bother? 

He shook the thought off and lowered the shirt carefully. His gaze flicked to the sink.

He twisted the faucet with a quiet creak, letting the water run until it turned from cold to lukewarm. His hands hovered over it, unsure for a second—then dipped beneath the stream. 

The warmth hit his palms first. Then his wrists. The sensation crawled up his arms, and with it came something else. 

Familiarity. 

He blinked. Let the water run over the backs of his knuckles.

It felt like–

–the ocean.

How he used to wake up late at night when the others were asleep just to swim in the ocean. Let his body cool down. Let his mind quiet. He would stay like that for minutes, sometimes hours. Sometimes just crouched by the water, feeling the pressure, the rush, the stillness beneath it.

Something about it had always grounded him.

It still did.

The sound soothed the static in his skull, the racing thoughts slowing. Until they didn’t.

Until it came back.

The morning. Guest’s hand on his shoulder. The closeness. The voice. That steady look in his eyes. And then–

The pullback. The silence. The wall.

A harsh breath caught in his throat, and he yanked his hands out of the water like it had burned him. He gripped the edge of the sink, eyes wide, heartbeat rising.

He hated that it still stung.

He didn’t even know why.

One second they’d been... close. Not safe, not comfortable, but close. Something real. And the next? Guest had vanished behind that damn expression. Like someone flipping a switch. 

The same thoughts started cycling again. Loud. Sharp. Spiraling.

He hates you now. You asked too much. You pushed too hard. You said the wrong thing. No one stays when they see too much.

His stomach churned. It hadn’t been anger on Guest’s face. But it hadn’t been nothing either. Seven couldn’t name the expression, but it lived in the back of his throat now, choking him with the weight of it. 

He smacked his forehead against the cool tile above the sink, the sound a soft, dull thud. Then again. Not hard enough to hurt – just enough to shut something off. The thoughts. The voices. The guilt.

He wasn’t used to this kind of uncertainty. Usually, people made their intentions clear with threats or cruelty. Not silence. Not careful kindness.

The water running beside him. 

He stayed like that for a long moment. Head bowed. Hands shaking. Letting the faint hum of the faucet fill the space where his thoughts had been. Only when the tremor in his fingers eased did he finally reach over, twist the tap off, and lift his head.

His reflection looked no calmer. Just... wetter. 

At least the noise had stopped. Without a word, he stepped back from the sink and opened the bathroom door again. The hallway felt colder now. 

But he walked it anyway.

-

The hallway had cooled since he left the bathroom, but the tension in his chest stayed stubbornly warm. 007n7 moved slower now, unsure if he was walking to clear his head or just too tired to sit still.

He didn’t know where he was going. Couldn’t return to the stool in the kitchen where everything had tilted sideways. So he followed the hallway, past a narrow closet door and the bedroom, until it led into the living room.

He hadn’t noticed the space before. Not really. Earlier, it had just been somewhere he passed through to get to the kitchen, his attention narrowed to the pain in his side and the scrape of Guest’s voice. But now, alone and quiet, the room stretched open like a memory waiting to be read. 

It was simple, like the rest of the apartment. Modest. But it had the lived-in kind of warmth that made his throat close a little.

A brown couch sat against one wall, creased and faintly sunken on one side. A pair of boots had been kicked off near the coffee table. There was a throw blanket tossed across the back, one corner still folded from where someone had tried – and failed – to tidy it.

His eyes were drawn to the shelf near the window. Low and quiet in the corner, half-covered by dust and shadow. He approached cautiously, his fingers brushing the side of the wood as he leaned closer.

Low. Wooden. Half-dusty.

He drifted over without thinking.

The first thing he noticed was the frame.

A photo.

Two people in uniform, arms hooked over each other’s shoulders. Guest and someone else. The other man looked younger, brighter maybe, or just less guarded. Short brown hair, grinning at the camera like he hadn’t learned to fear it yet. 

Guest stood beside him. Same jaw. Same scar across the bridge of his nose. But the look in his eyes was different. Still serious, but looser. Smiling, not quite, but close. A slant of the mouth. A kind of ease.

He reached out and gently nudged the edge of the frame, angling it toward the light. There was a name scribbled on the back in faint marker: Matt - Oh, come on. Smile!

The second frame was smaller, but the image hit harder.

Guest again. But not in uniform.

He was crouched in the picture, one knee bent beside a woman with brown hair. She had her arm around a little girl. Messy pigtails. Bright pink jacket. The kid looked like she was mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes scrunched in joy. Guest had a hand on her back, holding her steady, his other hand barely touching the woman’s knee.

And he was smiling. 

Not the ghost of one. Not the forced kind. A real, lived-in smile that made something twist in Seven’s stomach.

It was... soft. Peaceful. The kind of softness that didn’t come from stillness, but from safety. The lines around his eyes had eased. His shoulders looked lighter. Like the world wasn’t sitting on them for once. 

Seven’s chest ached. 

He traced the edge of the photo with his eyes. Studied it. Trying to understand something that had no words. That version of Guest – laughing with a child, framed by light and ordinary joy – felt galaxies away from the one who had stepped back from him this morning like he was something fragile, or dangerous.

What did I do? 

The question landed heavy in his mind.

Maybe Guest regretted it already. Letting him in. Helping. Feeding. Speaking. 

You pushed too far. You ruined it.

His throat tightened. He hated how easy it was to believe that.

Seven reached out, hands feather-light as he adjusted the frames—just barely. Straightening them. Making sure they were back exactly as they had been. The same angle. The same spacing. As if tampering with them any more might undo something sacred.

He turned to move away, but paused.

There, beside the frames, half-tucked behind a mug on the shelf, was a wooden keychain.

A keychain. 

Wooden. Hand-carved. 

He reached for it gently.

It was shaped like a small piece of driftwood, whittled into a narrow curve – not unlike a shark’s tooth. Smooth on one side, rougher on the edges where it hadn’t been sanded fully. There were small lines engraved near the base. It formed a pine tree.

No name. Just that symbol. Seven held it in his palm and stared at it for a long time. It wasn’t just a trinket. That much was obvious. Someone had made it. Maybe with dull tools and too much time. But it had meaning. History. Memory carved into its uneven edges.

He couldn’t explain why he kept it.

But he slipped it into his pocket anyway, fingers brushing over the tree again as if it might give him answers.

The shelf also had books. 007n7 considered it was quite the collection for one man. Worn at the edges, spines cracked from years of rereads. His fingers hovered over the titles that seemed interesting.

Survival Techniques: 2nd Edition – A field manual with water-damaged corners.

Salt and Steel: A Guide to Dangers of Ocean Currents and Creatures – An excessively over-exaggerated picture of a stormy ocean.

And one more. The Lost Man’s Compass . The cover showed a man on a lifeboat, staring into the mist. The kind of thing people called fiction when it was too sad to be real.

Seven blinked slowly. 

He pulled the books down one by one, bringing them over to the patch of sunlight. He sat down, setting them around him in a messy semicircle. Legs folded beneath him, tail curled to the side, he started flipping through the pages – not reading, not yet. Just opening. Skimming. Touching. Like he was trying to understand what kind of person lived in these pages.

He opened all of them at once, like a kid too impatient to finish one before starting another. His fingers traced highlighted sentences. Dog-eared pages. Notes in the margins. The odd smudge of dirt from a hand pressed too hard. And for a moment, just a breath of a moment, the silence in the room felt like company, not punishment.

And 007n7 wasn’t sure if the ache in his chest was from guilt or comfort.

-

One of the pages crackled under his thumb. It wasn’t loud, but the brittle sound pulled something out of him anyway. He hadn’t meant to pause. But a sentence had caught him. 

“Even in isolation, some creatures remember where home used to be.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything. Just a throwaway line in a badly researched chapter about migratory patterns. But something about it – it pressed on the wrong part of him. Sharp. Precise. Like a hook catching in old scar tissue. 

His fingers stopped moving. His eyes didn’t blink. The book sat open in his lap, half-forgotten.

C00lkidd’s laugh flickered through his mind. Quick, bright, the kind of sound that filled whole rooms. The cold snowy day he had found him.

Seven sat still for a long moment. His tail curled tighter beside him, twitching once at the end. He wasn’t crying. Not really. His face was blank. Too blank. Like if he moved too suddenly, everything would come loose.

His stomach growled. Not loud, but unmistakable. A low, twisting reminder that he was, unfortunately, still alive and had needs.

He snapped the book closed with a little more force than necessary, rising stiffly from the floor. His joints popped as he moved. 

He remembered Guest’s words from earlier. “There’s food in the cabinets.” 

Seven grabbed one of the ocean books – Salt and Steel – and carried it with him to the kitchen, still holding the wooden keychain in his other hand like a nervous tic. The wood had warmed slightly against his palm.

He opened the top cabinet cautiously, like something might jump out. Nothing did. Just cans, a half-used loaf of bread sealed with a clip, a few packets of dried fruit. He moved slower than he needed to, careful not to leave things messy or out of place.

He selected one of the cans, soup, maybe. And a packet of dried seaweed. Familiar. Comforting, in an odd way. He ate in silence at the table, flipping open Salt and Steel again as he chewed.

...

Whoever wrote it had never touched real ocean water in their life.

-

A little while later, he found himself perched on the kitchen counter – cross-legged, book open, spoon in hand.

A plastic spoon. 

He balanced it precariously on the tip of his tail. 

It wobbled, tilted, and toppled onto the floor. 

He cursed softly and picked it up, trying again. 

The spoon balancing turned into a game he didn’t fully register he was playing.

And all the while, he was scribbling furiously into the margins of the thick ocean book. 

Bright sticky notes stuck out from nearly every other page now, like the thing had grown fins of its own.

“Completely wrong, jellyfish don’t even move like that. Hello? Who writes this crap?”

“Not all sharks eat people, idiot.”

“Who hurt this author?? They sound salty as hell. Pun intended.”

Beside one of the diagrams of a reef, he’d drawn a fish wearing sunglasses. Next to another, a doodle of what looked like a smug shark holding a clipboard labeled “Sea Expert.” He’d added a speech bubble. “Do your research next time.”

At least I’m correcting this brain-dead imbecile.

Somewhere between the sarcastic annotations and the balance game, he’d stopped thinking about the photos. About the morning. About how cold Guest’s voice had gone.

And for a flicker of a moment, just a flicker, he felt like himself again.

Not the version they built in the facility.

Not the one bleeding on a stranger’s floor.

But the one from the cabin, cross-legged with Coolkidd on rainy days, arguing over books and bad fact sheets. The one who used to draw octopuses in the margins and laugh like it wasn’t going to be taken from him.

Not anymore.

But the ache behind his ribs eased. Just a little.

The keychain stayed in his pocket. Like a stone at the bottom of a river.

And the world, for a short while, felt almost warm again.

-

The living room didn’t look as harsh now. The corners weren’t as sharp. The silence didn’t bite quite so hard.

007n7 had drifted back into the room without even realizing it. The book – still crammed with notes and too many angry tabs – was tucked under his arm, its weight oddly comforting. He placed it gently on the arm of the couch, almost like setting down something precious. Then he sank into the cushions.

It was softer than he expected.

The space didn’t feel like it was trying to reject him anymore. The scent of old books and detergent still lingered faintly in the air, and Guest’s scent was there too, quiet, muted, but present. That strange cologne-meets-dried-salt smell. He didn’t curl up or lie down fully, but he let himself lean, just slightly.

The stiffness in his tail had eased. His shoulders no longer itched with the urge to bolt. The wooden keychain sat warm in his palm, no longer clenched, just held. It didn’t feel like it belonged to someone else now. It felt... necessary.

His gills fluttered once, then calmed.

This isn’t mine. I shouldn’t be this at ease.

But the thought came gentler this time. No barbed-wire guilt. Just a slow, creeping question in the back of his mind. 

What would it be like if this was safe all the time?

If this room just stayed quiet?

He let his eyes fall shut for a moment, just one. Not asleep. Not letting his guard down, not fully. But maybe... maybe okay enough to rest in place.

-

He didn’t even get a full breath in.

-

007n7 shifted as his ears picked up a faint sound.

Boots.

His eyes snapped open. The calm he’d wrapped around himself shattered on instinct.

The book slid from his thigh to the floor with a quiet thump.

He paused, thinking he had imagined them. His tail flicked uncertainty.

No.

The unmistakable footsteps, familiar in a way that made his skin crawl. Sharp and clinical. Authoritative.

Not the casual walk of off-duty guards.

Not the steady thud of Guest’s return.

Seven stiffened. Chest hollow. His tail began to coil again.

Maybe they’re passing. Maybe it’s another floor.

The sound was getting closer.

He froze mid-movement, pulse roaring in his ears. His gaze darted to the door, then the window, calculating. Fast.

Too close.

He stood without sound, hand tightening around the keychain. The pressure grounded him, but only barely. His body ran cold.

He left the book where it was, sprawled open on the couch, still filled with scribbled notes and sea creatures in sunglasses. His eyes lingered on it for a heartbeat longer than they should’ve.

Seven turned.

He’d been through this before. Had heard boots like that just before doors were kicked in. Just before needles and cages. Just before screaming.

He didn’t panic. 

But he moved.

He crossed into the hallway, then the bedroom, sliding the door shut behind him with a soft, breathless click. He didn’t lock it. 

Don’t. That’s too obvious. Too desperate.

Inside, the air was cooler. Dim. The smell of cotton, of metal and old warmth, filled his lungs. Guest’s room. 

A half-open closet sat to the side. Coats. Uniforms. Shadows. It beckoned.

He hesitated.

Every part of him screamed: HIDE NOW.

But it wasn’t just fear of being caught. It was fear of what that would mean.

Not for him.

For Guest.

WHY?

For harboring something like him.

Guest didn’t even know what he was. Not really. Not all the way. And yet, he’d helped anyway.

Helped someone who didn’t even belong. 

BROKEN.

His breath hitched sharply. His chest squeezed so tight it hurt. He could already hear them knocking on the door. Hear the cold voices muttering outside, like they were right beside him. 

007n7 squeezed his eyes shut. No. No, please, no. 

He couldn’t let that happen.

THEY’RE HERE.

The closet door creaked softly with the shift in air as he passed it.

From the other side of the apartment, the front door opened with a mechanical click.

Boots hit the floorboards in sharp succession, at least three, maybe four pairs. Not rushing, but sure. These men weren’t guessing. They were clearing.

One voice low. “Nothing yet.” 

Another chuckled, humorless. “Still think he’s hiding?”

The shuffle of hands rifling through drawers. A cabinet door opened, then closed. Someone muttered something about honored war-veterans.

“They really think someone’s hiding here?” the first of them said. Their tone was amused, but bored.

A third, clipped and impatient. “Orders. Everyone’s room. Even his.”

Even his.

The ache behind Seven’s ribs got worse.

He crouched lower, arms curled tight to his middle, tail pinned against the bottom to keep it from twitching. The keychain, still clutched in his hand, pressed into his palm. The carved shape dug in, grounding him.

007n7’s pulse pounded in his ears.

The keychain’s carved edge dug into his palm.

His thoughts blurred. 

Get out. Stay hidden. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Even teleporting wasn’t safe now. Not without a visual. Not with eyes so close. Not without risking the light. 

Don’t lead them to the others. 

The floor creaked.

Voices grew closer. Less muffled.

Slow. Inevitable.

He could feel them. The shift in air pressure. The scent of metal and boot polish. The cold edge of authority like static on skin.

007n7 blinked rapidly. His breathing flattened until it was just a flutter in his throat. The kind of stillness that came from years of being hunted. The kind of silence pain teaches.

Two sets of steps entered the room. Heavy boots. Softer ones behind, more deliberate. Pacing.

“There’s nothing here,” a voice said. “Same layout. Just a jacket and boots.” 

A pause. Then, “We mark it anyway. Let's move.”

But the steps didn’t move. 

Not right away. One pair came closer. 

Closer.

DANGER.

Right in front of the closet.

A moment passed.

FEAR. FEAR. FEAR–

Just long enough for 007n7’s chest to tighten.

He could feel the weight of the boots still standing there. Just an arms length away.

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

His fingers curled tighter around the keychain. Shoulders rigid. Tail still.

FOUND.

The air in his lungs didn’t move.

The thin stream of light disappeared.

RUN. HIDE. RUN–

...

Chapter Text

But he knew what it would mean if they found him first.

The corridor was quiet. Not the good kind, but the stale, watchful kind that pressed in like fog.

Guest stepped off the elevator, ration box snug against his ribs. His movements were careful. Shoulders loose. Boots dragging just enough to look tired, but not unprofessional.

The hall ahead was mostly quiet, save for the low hum of the lights. The air was too still, the kind that followed disturbance, not calm. It felt... used. Like someone had breathed too loud and left the air unsettled. The kind that didn’t settle.

Someone had been through.

He adjusted his grip on the box, angling it so the logo faced up. Just another man returning from supply. Inconspicuous.

But movement at the edge of his vision stopped him.

Three figures. Uniformed. Methodical.

A patrol unit.

Sweeping rooms this late?

He saw them in a glance. One held the clipboard too tightly, shoulders stiff with rank. A senior in the lead, gray trim, flat stare, followed by two younger shadows in silence. Conducting a routine check. No clipboard delay, no casual remarks. They were moving with purpose.

It was when he neared the final corridor – his corridor – that his stomach sank.

His door.

Slightly open

An inch, maybe two – but it may as well have been torn from its hinges. 

No patrol left a door open – not unless they’d found something. Or weren’t finished.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t twitch. Just shifted the weight of the box in his arms and turned the corner, smooth and natural – like he wasn’t already counting the guards, tracking the angles, calculating how many steps until the next blind spot.

He made it look like an afterthought. Natural. Calm.

A younger guard stepped back from the room opposite his, muttering something about “nothing here either” as another marked it off on the list. 

Guest walked past with a faint nod of acknowledgement, offering nothing. There was a rule to things like this. Don’t speak unless asked. Don’t draw attention. Don’t linger.

Just a man. Just a box. Maybe the cold bothered him tonight. 

At the end of the hallway, a senior stepped out of Guest’s room. Clipboard in hand. Gray uniform sharp at the shoulders. Not military, not pure science. Mid-command. Enough rank to hurt someone, not enough to think twice about it.

Their eyes met.

“Evening,” the officer said. Friendly, but empty. “Routine sweep. Nothing to worry about.”

A tight smile flicked across Guest's face. “Didn’t realize we were doing room sweeps this late.”

“Post-1700 sweep. Orders from upper clearance. Contraband, falsified IDs, restricted tech.”

He raised an eyebrow like that was news to him, but not the kind worth questioning. 

The officer kept speaking, marking something off with a tap of the pen. “We’re just finishing up.”

A heartbeat passed. The man didn’t look tense. Didn’t look like he’d seen anything unusual. Didn’t act like someone who’d found a shark  hiding in his bedroom closet.

Which meant either Seven was still hidden, or the wrong person was going to be the next one through that door.

Or gone.

“Right,” Guest said, voice easy. “Forgot something.”

“What’s that?”

“Jacket.” He lifted his chin, gesturing vaguely behind the officer. “Didn’t think the cold would set in so fast.”

The senior made a note and waved him past. “Better grab it now. Heard we’re dipping below freezing tonight.”

“Appreciate it.”

-

The smell hit first. Slightly off.

It wasn’t blood. Wasn’t sweat or something metallic. 

It was the faintest trace of something familiar – sweeter, sharper – left behind from someone not authorized to be here.

Even the dust on the baseboards had been disturbed. Smudged, not settled

Books out of place. Cabinet doors left half-open. Items scattered with no regard for order – not how he left it.

They had gone through everything.

Almost everything.

He didn’t let the tension show. Not in the arch of his brow, not in the set of his jaw. But the moment he stepped closer, the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Guest narrowed his eyes. He didn’t stop walking. Just continued past the living room into the bedroom as though heading for the closet.

Someone was still inside – not footsteps, not air, but presence. Wrong and lingering.

As his bedroom entered his sight, his pace faltered. Not enough to notice, but enough to tighten the air.

One of the guards was still inside.

Not a junior. Higher ranked. Late thirties. Hard-set jaw. Weapon holstered, but his hand hovered close. Sight focused on the far wall.

Focused on the far wall where the closet stood.

His breath stayed even.

“You guys aren’t finished?” his voice broke the moment like it was nothing.

The man glanced over his shoulder, no surprise in his face. “Orders from the head scientist. Doing one last check.”

He didn’t step away from the closet. 

“Just a feeling.”

Something cold slid down Guest's spine and his grip on the ration box tightened.

That instinct. The kind that saved lives. The kind that ruined them.

“Feeling?” he echoed lightly.

Loose posture, but his mind was already calculating. He stepped further into the room. Into the trap. 

“It’s just clothes,” Guest said, voice low. “You won’t find anything interesting.”

The guard looked at him, long enough to read something. Or nothing.

“You wouldn’t mind if I checked then,” he said. Not a question. A blade wrapped in etiquette.

The room felt smaller. Thicker. 

He didn’t answer at first. He made a quiet show of shifting the ration box from one hand to the other. Setting it down by the corner.

Calm as anything, Guest gestured faintly with one hand. “Go ahead.”

His right hand slipped behind the ration box. Fingers brushing the grip of the sidearm at his thigh. He didn’t draw it. Not yet.

One.

But he was ready. 

The angle. The guard’s center of balance. Distance to his gun. How long it would take to grab it.

The door. The hallway. Too tight. Too loud. Too many ears nearby.

The guard still didn’t move. Just stood there, fingers lingering over the handle.

If he opened that door and saw anything, there wouldn’t be time. Not to explain. Not to shoot. Just enough to watch everything fall apart.

He opened the closet.

The door swung open, revealing only darkness and fabric – jackets, the lower hems of long coats. Faintly the scent of leather, detergent, dust.

The guard stared.

Ten.

Longer than he should have.

His hand tightened around the gun’s handle. Not drawing. Not showing. But locked and ready.

The guard leaned in, as if expecting something to blink back from the dark.

Guest could hear the blood in his ears now. Hear the hallway, faint voices muffled behind layered walls. The tension so sharp it threatened to slice the moment in two. 

Still, the guard didn’t speak. 

After an unbearable pause, he turned slightly.

Guest let his hand fall away from the gun. Just a millimeter. The guard gave the closet one last look, then stepped back. Closed the door with a soft click.

The guard let out a breath. Short. Neutral.

“No contraband,” he called out. “Room clear.”

The guard strode out, brushing past without another glance.

The front door clicked shut behind him.

-

The silence that followed the closing door didn’t feel like relief. Instead, the quiet returned like fog – gradual, weighty, thick. It settled into the corners of the room, coating every object in stillness.

It’s delaying the inevitable.

He didn’t move for several long seconds. He stood beside the closed closet, hand still resting lightly on the handle, like part of him hadn’t caught up to the fact that they were gone. His pulse was still loud in his ears, other hand still ghosting the holster at his side, ration box undisturbed by the wall. He listened.

Nothing.

The patrol didn’t return. No footsteps, no chatter, no creak of boots doubling back.

He let himself breathe. Slow and careful, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders. The faint tick of the hallway clock echoed the silence. 

Slower this time, Guest turned scanning the room again. His eyes moved over the floor, the corner where his chair had been pushed too far out. The faint crease in the rug near the bed. He knew what it meant. A breath of sound confirmed it.

“007n7–”

Guest gave a short exhale through his nose, quiet. He took a step forward, crouched beside the low frame, voice soft and without force.

“–you can come out.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then, after a beat, a rustle.

The edge of the blanket lifted, and 007n7 slid out from the shadows beneath. His hair was a mess of blanket fibers and dust that clung to hair in fine stripes, with more grey smudges streaked across his cheeks, his shoulders, and clothes. Fibers from the underside of the bed stuck to his elbows and back.

His gills flared weakly as he sat back on his heels, slow and unfocused. His face was drawn, but not with panic – more like someone caught somewhere between exhaustion and thought. His lips were pale, pressed together in a quiet kind of tension. Breathing short, but not strained.

Guest watched him carefully. There was something off – not wrong, exactly. Just... distant.

Seven’s eyes didn’t dart or search. They simply wandered, unfocused, like he was seeing the room but not really in it. When they did flick up to Guest’s, they held no spark, no real contact. Just a brief, dull flicker – not avoidance, but absence. As if he was answering questions in his head no one else could hear.

Seven opened his mouth. Tried  to speak.

Then, he sneezed.

A violent, sharp burst that made him curl slightly and brace a hand against the floor. He tried to stifle it, but another cough tore through, rough and tight, scraping down his throat. His gills fluttered once, trying to vent through the irritation, only to shudder again.

Guest masked the startled expression, returning his face to neutral. He looked at Seven and stood up. Crossing over to the dresser, he tossed a towel onto the bed next to Seven. Then a folded set of clothes – one of his smaller shirts and sweats, loose but clean.

“Take a shower,” he said, voice dry, yet soft around the edges. “You’re wheezing like a busted fan.”

Seven nodded once. Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

He got up slowly, brushing at his arms and shoulders with a half-hearted swipe. The ends of his hair were curled in uneven waves from sweat and dust. His gait was fine. Breathing a little shallow, maybe, but otherwise unhurt. No bleeding. No limping. 007n7 bundled the clothes with gentle hands, careful not to leave dust on them. 

There were no fresh injuries, but something about his walk – the slumped shoulders, the flicker of his tail dragging behind instead of lifted – made Guest’s chest pinch a little tighter than he’d admit. His fingers twitched at his sides – an instinct to reach out, to offer som comfort – but he didn’t move.

“They didn’t see you,” he said quietly.

Seven paused in the doorway. His reply was automatic, voice thin. “I know.”

He turned and walked off without another glance, the bundle of clothes tucked close to his chest. His steps were too light. Not cautious – distant.

Guest watched the retreating figure disappear down the hallway, frown tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth.

Not suspicion – not yet. But something didn’t sit right.

The silence 007n7 left behind was heavier than the one before.

There was more to it than the sweep.

What is it?

Chapter Text

For a long moment, Guest stood still in the middle of the room, listening.

The faint hiss of running water had just begun behind the bathroom door – steady, real. It grounded him. Proof that 007n7 was still here. That the night, with all its spiraling panic and half-whispered truths, hadn’t just been some weird dream carved out of exhaustion and too many shifts stacked back to back.

Still here. Still alive.

Guest let out a slow exhale and leaned his shoulder against the wall. The tension hadn’t left the air – it had simply moved to another room. Followed Seven like a shadow, slipping beneath the door with the steam.

Something was off with him. He was certain.

Seven had been quieter after the search. Not scared, not exactly. But withdrawn in a way that felt more distant than guarded. His reply had come short and clipped, as if distracted by a thousand thoughts too tangled to voice. His eyes hadn’t quite met Guest’s – they’d hovered nearby, unseeing, unfocused. He’d fiddled with the hem of his shirt without realizing it, picking at the threads in an absent-minded rhythm.

Guest had noticed. And kept noticing.

Something had shifted. Not enough to alarm him, but enough to weigh on his thoughts.

Was it exhaustion? Guilt? Leftover pain from the fall? Guest had quietly ruled out fever or injury – the hybrid had moved stiffly, but he wasn’t limping. He hadn’t flinched under the light or favored his arm.

Then what is it?

Guest frowned and called out over his shoulder, tone light but purposeful, “Hey. Once you’re done in there, grab the salve and bandages from under the sink, alright?”

Silence.

The water still ran, steady and unbroken.

He waited a few seconds longer, half-expecting a muffled ‘okay’ or some kind of grumble from behind the steam. But none came.

Still, he was certain Seven had heard him.

Guest sighed and closed his eyes, resting them for a second. All while the question looped again in his head.

What changed since this morning?

Why is Seven so quiet?

And why did Guest have the feeling that whatever answer was waiting, it wasn’t going to be easy?

-

His eyes swept the room.

The wreckage of the earlier panic clung to every corner like a fading memory. Twisted blankets spilled off the bed, one corner pooling onto the scuffed floor. Dust rose faintly underfoot as he shifted, his boot catching on a scattered piece – shrapnel from the cupboard, maybe. He crouched near it, fingers brushing over the edge where the wood had splintered at the hinges. It had been pulled open with force. Desperation, maybe.

Guest shook his head, more thoughtful than frustrated. Without fully thinking, he moved into action. Muscle memory more than intention. Clean. Assess. Reset.

He worked in measured, steady motions – fixing the cupboard first, guiding it back into place with a creak of old hinges. Then the bed. He shook out the rumpled blankets, smoothing the fabric with practiced care. The pattern of creases caught his eye – uneven pacing around the edge, like someone had circled it more than once. The pillows sat askew, the bedside drawer left slightly ajar. Not ransacked, not careless. Intentional.

Guest gathered each item gently, the silence around him somehow denser than before. It wasn’t oppressive, not exactly. But it wasn’t peaceful either. Something in between. Like static in the air after lightning – charged, quiet, uncertain.

He moved into the living room, pausing just inside the threshold.

His gaze moved slowly, taking inventory. A few papers on his desk had shifted – no longer neatly stacked, but not rifled through. The drawers of the cabinet beneath were left slightly open. There were fresh marks on the glass of the window, like someone had leaned close, searching the world outside. The books on the low table had been moved too – three volumes left open as if skimmed in a rush, or distracted pause.

Guest sighed, not in frustration but in defeat.

-

He moved to set a few of the books back into place, but paused as his hand brushed the space where the keychain used to sit.

The small trinket he’d received before – faded, unimportant to anyone else but oddly sentimental – was missing. His brow furrowed. And then, in a slow exhale, he remembered. Seven’s clenched fist earlier, white-knuckled around something small. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But now...

Guest didn't move to check. He didn’t need to. That instinct of his – same one that had kept him alive longer than most – was already confirming it. 007n7 had taken it.

But not stolen it. Not really. Guest would’ve felt something different if that were the case. There had been no guilt in the hybrid’s eyes, only... distraction. 

Seven had been different. Distant. Not exactly cold, but somewhere else. His reply had been short, his gaze unfocused, lips drawn in a soft line that didn’t seem to know how to smile. Even now, Guest couldn’t stop replaying the moment when Seven had crawled from under the bed. Dust clinging to him, lashes heavy. He hadn’t looked afraid. Just far away. Disconnected in a way Guest couldn’t name. 

Not quite fear. Not quite shame. 

Spaced out.

And that was what kept catching him off-guard.

-

Peeking out from beneath the pillow on the couch, his eyes landed on the worn spine of Salt and Steel. His old guidebook was thicker than he remembered – not from new chapters, but from the flurry of sticky notes now jutting from its sides like colorful gills. Guest picked it up, careful not to tug any of the tabs loose, and thumbed through the pages.

Scattered throughout were notes, scribbled in the margins in several distinct styles. Some were tight and deliberate, as if written during quiet moments of thought. Others were hurried, looping mid-thought, interrupting paragraphs or scribbled over printed diagrams.

“Not all sharks eat people, idiot.”

He blinked. That one had been written in bold script over a paragraph about predatory species. 

Guest huffed, surprised by the flicker of warmth that touched the corner of his mouth. It was such a stark contrast from the reserved, guarded Seven he knew – but there was no mistaking who had written it.

Another line had been underlined in thick strokes, with a note scrawled beside it.

“Who hurt this author?? They sound salty as hell. Pun intended.”

The writing was full of attitude, but there was humor beneath it. Personality. Something sharp but oddly endearing. Guest turned another page, finding more annotations – underlined facts, arguments with the text, and half-formed questions.

There were even doodles in some of the margins. One was a rough, stylized sketch of something that looked like a shark, but with extra fins. Labeled simply: “Do your research next time.”

His eyes lingered.

Some notes were different – less sarcastic, more focused. The ink pressed heavier into the paper, as if rewritten more than once. In those moments, he could see the effort. The dedication. Someone trying to make sense of something, or perhaps leave a record behind.

Guest hadn’t realized he was smiling until he closed the book halfway and felt the curve of it in his face. He ran his thumb gently down the edge of one page, the tip catching on a sticky note that simply read: “Remember: open ocean = open danger.”

Without fully thinking, he walked across the room, the book still in hand. In the corner sat a short wooden shelf with only a few items on it. He paused in front of it.

There were two framed photos. One of Daisy, Charlotte, and himself, taken under the crooked pine tree near the park’s south trail. Charlotte’s laugh had frozen mid-motion, all teeth and sunshine. Daisy had been teasing him about the grill. That summer had felt impossibly far away now.

The other photo was smaller. Him and Matt, arms slung over each other's shoulders, after their successful completion of the first of many team missions and with the familiar stubborn beginnings of a smile on Matt’s face.

The solo missions didn't turn out the way you wanted, did it?

He hesitated – then slid the ocean book between the two frames. Right in the center. It stood a little crooked from the sticky notes, but it fit.

He stared at the shelf a moment longer.

The placement hadn’t been intentional, and yet... it felt right. Nestled between memory and loss, that book didn’t look out of place. It looked like it belonged. Another piece of something he hadn’t meant to carry but had chosen to keep anyway.

A fragile part of now, among everything that had already been.

Guest let out a slow breath and reached up, fingers brushing the back of his neck where the scar curved beneath the collar . His hand lingered there for a moment.

Maybe he was still waiting for something to fall apart. For the silence to turn on him, or for Seven to disappear again.

But right now, the quiet didn’t feel like a void.

And maybe that was enough.

-

The water had long since stopped running.

The low hum of the wind against the windows had taken its place, soft and constant, broken only by the flip of a page. Guest sat hunched on the couch, elbows on his knees, an old photobook balanced in his hand. The spine cracked with age every time he turned a page, but he didn't mind. The book wasn’t valuable – at least not in any real sense. Just something he used to bring out on the quieter evenings. His own looping notes filled the blanks beneath the photos, curling under margins that felt too empty.

He wasn’t really seeing. Just turning pages. Waiting.

The door creaked. 

He didn't look up right away.

Still caught between memory and static, thinking about cupboard doors, cold food, clenched fists. About how 007n7 had seemed far away, tucked somewhere deep inside himself.

But he looked up anyway. Because he couldn’t keep wondering.

Seven stepped out, hair still damp at the ends, dark strands curling slightly around his jaw. His towel hung forgotten around his neck, draped across his shoulders. The hybrid’s movements were slower than usual – not sluggish exactly, just dulled, his posture slouched, head lowered. There was something muted in his gait, something a little too careful about how he carried himself.

Guest let the book rest against his thigh.

Seven didn’t meet his gaze. Not even in passing. His eyes flicked to the hallway, then to the book – lingered there – before falling away.

He could’ve teleported by now. Vanished without a trace.

So why didn’t you?

The thought nagged at him. Guest had dealt with evasive civilians, high-risk targets. But never a hybrid who could disappear without a trace and chose not to.

Seven crossed the room in a few quiet steps, fingers loosely clutching the bandages and salve. He held them out with one hand. The other fidgeted at the hem of his sweatpants, thumb making small, restless circles. When Guest reached to take them, their fingers brushed – briefly. No flinch. No intent. Just contact. Quiet. Half-there.

Seven blinked. Mumbled, voice low. 

“Can’t reach my back.”

It was the first thing he’d said after the long shower. His voice sounded small. Worn thin.

Guest gave a small nod and gestured toward the rug in front of him with two fingers.

Seven hesitated. Only for a second. Then he moved, slow and wordless, sinking to the floor in front of Guest with his back turned. The towel slipped from his shoulders. He tugged his shirt up, bunching the fabric at his chest. It hung over his arms like a crumpled flag.

Guest pressed his mouth into a line, silent as he took in the marks – wounds new and old, all carried without complaint.

The wound from yesterday was still raw-looking – pink around the edges but closed. It crossed just under the rib, a shallow tear from the bullet that grazed him when he fled the perimeter. Other marks dotted his skin too. Scattered bruises that bloomed in stubborn yellows and violet patches, trailing across his side. Fading, but still visible.

Guest had seen wounds like these before – on soldiers, on prisoners, on the dead. But something about them on Seven was harder to stomach. Maybe because he wasn't supposed to have them at all. Maybe because he'd learned to stop asking who had left them.

Under his quick gaze, Guest then noticed a small, subtle ridge that hadn’t been visible before. It was on his lower back, just above where his tail met skin. 

A dorsal fin.

Small, shaped in a slight arc and pressed close to the line of his spine. It looked like cartilage, smooth and clean-edged, perfectly blending into his pale skin. It had been hidden under his shirt this whole time – tucked away, kept low, like something he didn’t want noticed.

Guest didn’t comment.

He unscrewed the salve, dipped two fingers inside. The faint sting of antiseptic rose, layered under eucalyptus and lemon. Carefully, he reached out and began applying it to the healing skin. His touch was gentle. Sparse. Practiced. When his fingers brushed bruises, he lightened his pressure – just enough to coat the skin.

Closer now, he noticed faint, claw-like burns littered along Seven’s lower back. Superficial, but permanent. Old. Similar to the scars he’d seen earlier on his hands.

Guest pulled his gaze away and focused on the task.

Not my business to know.

Seven sat still, silent. His tail, however, betrayed him.

It curled and twitched, its movements minute but nervous. The way it looped tighter around his leg when Guest's fingers got too close to the healing skin on his lower back. Guest said nothing, but noted it. Seven hadn’t flinched, not once, but the subtle tension in his body told another story.

Guest worked slowly, layering the treatment in silence.

When he followed the wound around Seven’s waist, just beneath the ribs, his hand neared the curve of his back again. His fingers moved with gentle care, but as they grazed the skin closer to the fin, Seven suddenly leaned away.

Not abruptly. But clearly.

Guest’s hand froze mid-motion, salve still on his fingertips, hovering an inch from his back.

He waited.

Seven didn’t say anything – but his shoulders ever so slightly rounded, with his spine coiling defensively.

Guest spoke lowly, softly. “Should I avoid that area?”

No judgment. Just a simple offer. A little control in a space where Seven had so little of it.

A small nod.

-

Guest’s lip twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. “You’re vicious with a pen,” he started, securing the gauze.

That earned him a look. Barely a second. But a look all the same.

Seven shifted, just enough for Guest to reach around the front of his chest to wrap the bandage. His hands stayed bunched in his lap, knuckles pale with pressure.

“You annotated the ocean guide,” he murmured. A statement, not a question.

Tell me what hurts.

007n7 didn't answer. 

Guest tried again, quieter. “You do it often? Correct books?” 

Seven didn’t look at him. A beat passed, then another.

“No. Just the ones that lie.”

The response hung in the air, heavier than intended.

The way he said it made something twist inside Guest’s chest. Not bitter. Not angry. Just... tired.

The silence returned, settling heavy between them – not awkward, not yet, but thick with things left unsaid. Guest adjusted the wrap, focusing on the final loop of gauze.

He didn’t ask anything else.

And Seven didn’t offer anything more.

-

Perhaps it was curiosity. Or maybe it was the distance.

“You’ve been quiet. Since this morning.”

Guest’s voice cut through the silence, steady but heavy, like a quiet knock on a locked door. He turned his head, watching from the corner of his eye.

The evening light cast flickering shadows across 007n7’s face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. He still wouldn’t look at him. Not even a glance.

“Something happen?”

Silence again. Not the absent kind. This was pointed. Careful. Seven’s shoulders remained stiff, eyes angled toward the floor. His hands fidgeted in his lap – thumb circling his fingers, then drifting up to idly tug at the hem of his shirt. Restless. Guarded.

Guest didn’t miss the change. That avoidance wasn’t there this morning, not when they sat quietly sharing their breakfast – no words necessary, but something unspoken had been understood then. Now? Now it felt like the younger hybrid had drawn a line between them.

His instincts flickered, reflexes pulling him inward before he even realized it. His body shifted slightly forward, posture hardening. Calm wasn’t working, so something else took over. Years of leading others, of keeping squads alive through fire and loss. His tone dropped, the edge of command creeping in through old scars.

He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop remembering the ones he didn’t save.

You left them to die.

He remembered the way blood clung to his arms, and where the world didn't stop for grievances, and the devastated faces of their families as he delivered the news. The children hiding behind their single parent, too young to understand, but seeing it all together.

You’re selfish. Did you ever think of Daisy and Charlotte? Once?

He should’ve stayed distant. Should’ve never started talking to Seven in the first place. But that was the lie he always told himself. Because he never could let someone burn alone. He always went back.

“You’re not saying something,” Guest said, voice deepening with a clipped edge, unintentional but trained. Sharpened. Precise. “Tell me–”

A commander’s voice.

He didn’t mean for it to sound like an interrogation.

But it did.

Without thinking, his hand settled on Seven’s shoulder. Firm. Steady. The same way he used to ground soldiers before battle. But 007n7 wasn’t one of them – and Guest realized too late how it felt.

Under his grip, Seven’s body tensed all at once, the kind of tension born not of hesitation, but of survival. Ready to bolt.

Guest didn’t see the sudden stiffness in his tail until it coiled in toward his side, a twitch betraying nerves he hadn’t voiced. The dorsal fin along his back, usually low and relaxed, had drawn tighter, slightly raised. Defensive posture.

He won’t be able to run while I’m holding onto him.

The thought wasn’t cruel. It was just... reflex. A statement of fact from the part of him that calculated every movement before it happened. Fragments of training that never faded.

He continued. “–what is it?”

It came out wrong. Too cold. Too direct.

That’s when Seven snapped.

He surged to his feet with a sharp motion, nearly striking Guest with the edge of his tail as it whipped out. His voice broke free, loud and shaking.

“Why did you even help me?!”

Guest’s hand dropped away immediately, but his eyes stayed locked, unwavering. He didn’t flinch under the outburst – but something inside him did.

Seven stood, fists clenched, breathing uneven and quick. His feet were braced apart, but he wouldn’t meet Guest’s eyes now either, just glared off to the side like he couldn’t bear to look at him directly.

“You should’ve turned me in! That guard – remember him? He could have found me!”

His voice cracked, like the weight of his own fear was pressing into his ribs.

“I could’ve ruined everything!”

Guest blinked, pulled roughly back to the present. His body loosened, the tension in his shoulders slowly bleeding away. What the hell was he doing? Seven wasn’t a threat. He was still healing. Still scared.

He wasn’t going to treat him like a soldier.

Seven’s chest heaved as he tried to control his breathing, but the words kept pouring out, raw and aching.

“Do you even know what they think of my kind?!”

One hand rose slowly, hovering near the gills on his neck. A protective motion, not quite covering them, but almost. The other hand remained clenched at his side, shaking faintly.

“Why are you protecting something like me?”

Guest didn’t speak. Not yet. He couldn’t. Not without saying the wrong thing again.

Seven’s voice wavered – then fractured entirely. 

“Why’d you shut down this morning?”

And with those quiet words, something in the air finally broke

-

Guest just sat there.

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t even breathe too loud. Just placed the salve and bandages on the table — not with a clatter, not with any rush, but with the careful weight of someone setting down something fragile. As if the moment itself might shatter if he moved too fast.

Seven’s shoulders trembled.

Not violently. Not enough for someone to notice at a glance. But Guest had been trained to notice. The way his breath hitched. The way his spine curled slightly inward like he wanted to disappear into himself. His mouth parted—then closed again. Like a confession had climbed halfway up his throat, only to choke on the climb.

Guest stood.

Not toward Seven.

Not closer.

Just stood where he was, facing the hybrid with an expression that seemed too calm for the weight behind his next words.

“A while back,” he began, steady, but distant, “I promised a soldier I’d get him home.”

Seven blinked. Guest caught the motion. His gaze darted toward him for half a heartbeat before sliding off again, eyes unfocused, jaw locked.

“His name was Kael,” Guest continued. “He was young. Bright-eyed. Always smiling like he knew a joke no one else did. He believed in everything the army told him. Believed we were fighting for a greater cause.”

Guest swallowed thickly, his hands loosely at his sides now.

Hits a little close to home, doesn’t it?

“It was a cleanup mission. Supposed to be easy. A fallback op in the dead zone.”

His voice dipped, quiet and even.

“But command underestimated what was left there.”

Seven didn’t move.

Not much. But his tail, coiled near his side, had gone still. Too still. A tension rippling faintly beneath the skin at the base of it. Guest could read it like a breath caught in the lungs.

“We got ambushed. Chaos. Mud. Smoke. Kael was hit in the stomach. Close range. It tore through him.”

Guest looked down, but his eyes weren’t on the floor – they were somewhere else entirely. Mud. Blood. Smoke choking the sky. The high whine of broken comms.

“When I reached him, he said something. Looked me in the eye and asked...” Guest blinked hard, voice thickening just slightly. “He asked, ‘Why are you helping me? You’ll get hurt.’”

The same words. The exact same words.

Guest exhaled slowly. His hands flexed once, a tremor he didn’t stop.

“I tried to carry him out. Radioed for medevac. Nothing. Static. The channel was dead. No one came. I carried him the whole way, through the swamp. Through that goddamn rain.”

He closed his eyes.

“Kael bled out before we reached the trees. And it was my op. My orders.”

Something cracked in his tone on that last sentence.

“I got him killed.”

He remembered the mud clinging to his boots, his throat raw as he shouted through the noise. The way the rain soaked them, sliding down his neck until colour was washed from everything – until Kael looked asleep, peaceful, like a boy who had never picked up a gun. He remembered Kael’s hand weakly tugging at his sleeve just before the end, whispering “I want to be just like you.”  

He remembered the irony of it. The rage. The helplessness. The silence that followed.

It really is unfair.

He remembered the way his fiance’s smile slipped. Her sliding onto the ground, and all he could do was stare right ahead, gaze steady and blank, forbidding the sting of tears.

He lifted his eyes then, finally meeting Seven’s gaze.

“When you said it – you sounded like him.”

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Guest didn’t ask for forgiveness. He didn’t make it about redemption. He just stood there, stripped bare in that single memory.

Just a truth he hadn’t told in years.

Just the raw, quiet thread between them.

He just waited.

And for once–

Just relief.