Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Chungpire sat in their shared apartment nestled at the top floor of Hero Headquarters, shielded behind thick, bulletproof windows that overlooked the glimmering city skyline. Inside, the space buzzed with the odd mixture of comfort and barely-restrained chaos — part sanctuary, part battlefield. It smelled like cookies and ozone. A place stitched together by memory, laughter, exhaustion, and far too many life-or-death decisions.
Minute, ever the responsible one, sat at the dining table surrounded by a fortress of mission files and legal documents. His pen scratched rhythmically across paper, precise and tireless, trying to keep the team’s paperwork as spotless as their record. A mug of now-cold tea sat beside him, untouched.
On the couch, Mapicc and Jepex were mid-Mario Kart war, slouched deep into the cushions, their focus razor-sharp as they hurled colorful insults and blue shells with equal fervor.
“You literally sabotaged me,” Jepex accused, mashing his controller.
“You brake like a grandma on ice!” Mapicc shouted back.
From the far corner, Clown sat cross-legged, methodically sharpening his scythe. The smooth shhhink of the blade slicing across the whetstone created a strange counterpoint to the noise — quiet, deliberate, and deadly. He didn’t speak, didn’t react. But his presence anchored the room in a way none of them ever questioned.
And then—Bacon emerged from the kitchen, an explosion of flour trailing behind him like a dramatic fog. He was grinning so hard his dimples practically cast shadows, his hair dusted white, and Hannah’s apron — bright pink with glittering bows — tied proudly around his waist. He held a plate piled high with still-warm chocolate chip cookies like a trophy.
“Guys! Me and Hannah made cookies!” he announced triumphantly. “Come get some before she takes them to the rest of HQ!”
The spell shattered.
Mapicc and Jepex abandoned their game mid-race, lunging toward the plate like children in a candy store.
“You mean Hannah made cookies while you stood there and ate the ingredients,” Clown muttered, inspecting a cookie before taking one with the precision of someone defusing a bomb.
“I helped—!” Bacon began, hands flailing for emphasis, but he was cut off by the sound of the kitchen door swinging open again.
Hannah stepped out.
Elegant, poised, precise — even in an apron dusted with powdered sugar. She carried three trays stacked high with perfect desserts: brownies with razor-straight edges, cupcakes frosted with exacting swirls, cookies decorated like they belonged in a magazine. She glided past the mess of laughter and crumbs like a calm breeze, unaffected but not unobservant.
She stopped by the counter and carefully set the trays down. Without even turning, she pointed toward the untouched centerpiece — three silver platters arranged with near-artistic symmetry.
“If anyone eats those,” she said flatly, “I will grab you by a vine and toss you out the window.”
Mapicc and Jepex froze mid-bite.
Then, like flipping a switch, her stern face softened into a sunny, practiced smile. She crossed over to Minute without hesitation, leaning over his shoulder with effortless familiarity. She glanced at his papers — skimming, absorbing — then gently placed a small plate beside him.
One sugar cookie. Shaped like a bat signal. No chocolate — just the way he liked it.
Minute blinked, caught between surprise and warmth. He looked up at her, smiling — but she was already turning away.
It was a quiet, wordless gesture. One of a thousand she made, never demanding thanks, never asking for acknowledgment. But he noticed. He always did.
She returned to the counter, adjusted a tray, and then — her communicator buzzed.
It was a subtle change. A flicker. Barely there. But Minute saw it.
She paused, lips parting slightly as she read the message. The light in her eyes dimmed, just for a second. Her shoulders tensed, just slightly, almost imperceptibly — but not to him. Never to him.
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask for help. She just gathered the trays, every motion mechanical, and walked toward the elevator. A mask slid over her features so smoothly, you’d think it had always been there.
Minute turned his head just as the doors began to close, and in that final instant — he saw it.
Not fear. Not anger.
Grief.
A grief so quiet it might have been mistaken for nothing, if you weren’t watching closely.
The doors shut.
Around him, the room roared back to life — Mapicc arguing about Rainbow Road physics, Jeoex chasing Bacon with an icing-smeared spatula. The laughter was loud, the crumbs were flying. Normal. Happy.
But Clown was gone.
Something in Minute’s chest twisted.
He tapped into the building’s security feed. Not paranoia. Instinct.
There: Clown in the training room, already sparring with Mane and Flame every movement fast and fluid.
Then: the elevator camera.
Hannah, her face blank, fingers flying across her communicator. Not angry typing. Urgent. Desperate.
The elevator dinged and stopped on the Sticklers’ floor. She stepped out, trays still perfectly balanced. She smiled at someone in the hallway — it looked real. Believable. Then she turned a corner and disappeared.
Minute sat back in his chair, heart unsettled.
He’d seen her hold off a riot with vines as thick as tree trunks. He’d seen her command a mission while bleeding from the ribs and still smile through the debrief. But something in her eyes today…
Something was wrong.
It was their one day off this month. One day to breathe. To laugh. To feel normal.
And yet, she looked like she hadn’t taken a real breath in days.
Minute made a mental note, his jaw tightening.
Talk to her. Tonight. No matter what.
Because the world could wait. But if Hannah was cracking beneath the surface — even a little — they needed to see it now.
Before it shattered them all.

A couple hours later, the door to the common area creaked open. The laughter inside had softened into background noise — the game still going, the bickering less intense. But as soon as Hannah stepped in, the air shifted.
She’d changed into her training uniform, hair tied back, fists clenched at her sides. Her face was set in the kind of calm that only meant something was boiling underneath.
“Alright. Let’s go,” she said firmly, voice cutting through the room. “We need to be ready. Just because it’s our day off doesn’t mean we can slack.”
Mapicc groaned, throwing his head back dramatically like he’d been shot.
“Hannah, noooo,” he whined. “Come on. It’s our one break. Let us have it.”
“Yeah, training can wait,” Jepex added, half-hearted, his face buried in a couch cushion like he didn’t want to see her disappointment.
Hannah didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to Bacon — her silent, steady anchor — hoping, praying, for backup. Just one word. Just a nod. Something to tell her she wasn’t alone in thinking that vigilance mattered.
But Bacon just shrugged without looking up from his controller. “Just chill, Hannah,” he said easily. “You’re wound too tight.”
And that… that hurt more than it should have.
Her shoulders drew tight like wires pulled too thin. Her mouth opened slightly like she might argue — might remind them who she was, what she’d carried, why she trained harder when no one else could — but nothing came out.
She didn’t fight them.
She just turned. Quietly. Walked away, her footsteps softer than usual.
Only Minute tracked her all the way to the door.
He stood slowly, setting his papers down without a word, and disappeared toward the locker room.
It was nearly empty. Just the hollow sound of water dripping and the faint echo of the others laughing down the hall. Clown and Mane passed by him on their way out, nodding silently like they knew something was shifting too.
Through the long vertical window to the training chamber, he saw her — already on the mat. Hannah was wrapping her knuckles with white tape, fast, tight, angry. Across from her, a combat robot was powering up. She didn’t hesitate. She launched at it with unrelenting precision.
She knocked it flat in thirty seconds.
Reset.
Hard mode.
She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.
Minute opened the door and stepped inside.
“Want a real fight?” he asked, voice low, calm.
She glanced up, startled for a heartbeat. But then the mask was back.
“I thought you had paperwork.”
“It can wait.”
He stepped onto the mat, barefoot. She nodded once, already in position.
They sparred.
Fast. Fluid. Efficient. Blow for blow, breath for breath. Like a language spoken only between them — each block and counter a sentence, each masked a question neither of them had the words for.
It was silent. Too silent.
Until Minute broke it.
“You’ve been acting different.”
Hannah froze mid-step. Just for a second. Enough to give herself away.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been off,” he said, still circling her carefully. “You’re the one who tells us to rest. To ease up. Now you’re pushing harder than ever. Pushing us harder, too.”
Her eyes flicked away. Her guard faltered, just slightly. Then, without a word, she grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him out of the ring.
They moved quickly, quietly — through side hallways she knew like muscle memory, turning down corridors he barely recognized ones that only held two rooms. She checked corners. Waited. Then pulled him into a room.
He stumbled slightly and froze.
Her room.
He had never been here. No one had.
It was… soft.
Unexpected. Gentle vines hung from the ceiling, cradling tiny glass bulbs that pulsed with warm light. A faint floral scent clung to the air. Her bed was neatly made, her desk clean, her walls decorated with photos and dried flowers pressed behind glass. It was sacred, peaceful — a part of her heart no one had ever been invited to.
Not even Bacon.
She shut the door.
“I’ve been getting messages,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Threats.”
Minute’s brows furrowed. “We all get those. Comes with the job.”
“Not like this.”
She reached into her drawer and pulled out her communicator, fingers shaking slightly as she handed it to him.
Minute scrolled.
His chest went cold.
Hundreds of messages. Layer after layer of threats. Names. Addresses. Photos. Screenshots. Phone numbers. Pictures of Hannah as a child.. Her old scars. Things that weren’t public. Things she’d deleted.
“They got my work line first — fine. I expect that,” she said, voice trembling. “But then it was my personal line. Then… things I never told anyone. They quoted conversations I had when I was twelve. They described my childhood rooms.”
Her eyes welled, but she didn’t blink them away.
“I could deal with that. I’ve dealt with worse.”
She swallowed hard.
“But then… they threatened you. Jepex. Mapicc. And—”
Her voice cracked. She couldn’t finish.
She didn’t have to.
Bacon.
Minute’s jaw tightened. And in that silence, a thousand memories filled the room. The shared childhoods, the found family. The birthday candles and bandaged knees. The late-night talks after bad missions. The hospital stay. The six days she refused to leave his side.
He had only known her for a year but he knew Bacon wasn’t her teammate. He was her brother in everything but blood.
“And now they’ve challenged me,” she whispered. “Tomorrow. 3 A.M. Said if I don’t come alone, they’ll—”
She choked.
“I was going to go. I thought maybe if I just… faced them, it’d end there. That I could protect him.”
Her voice broke then — cracked wide open, raw and bare.
“I can’t let anything happen to him. I’d never survive it.”
Minute stepped forward without hesitation and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders.
“You’re not doing this alone.”
Her breath hitched.
“I mean it,” he said, voice like steel. “We won’t let anything happen to him. Or to you.”
And that was it.
The wall came down.
Tears spilled over before she could stop them. She folded forward into his chest, and he caught her instantly, strong and steady.
She wept — quietly, fiercely. For all the times she didn’t. For the fear. The pressure. The exhaustion of holding too much for too long.
And Minute held her.
For a long time, neither of them said a word.
Because sometimes words weren’t enough.
And sometimes, showing up was the only thing that mattered.
Later that night, after the silence had settled and the tears had dried, Minute walked beside her. Slowly. Gently.
The common room lights were low, casting soft pools of light across the space. Jepex and Bacon were asleep on the couch, tangled under a blanket like brothers passed out after a too-long movie marathon. Mapicc and Clown sat nearby, speaking in low tones, their eyes drifting toward the kitchen every so often like they were expecting Hannah to return with more desserts, like everything was still normal.
But the moment Clown saw her face, he straightened — sharp, alert. Mapicc turned next, and whatever quiet smile he’d had fell instantly.
Hannah looked like she’d been hollowed out and stitched back together.
Minute stepped forward, voice even but urgent. “We need to call a full meeting.”
Clown blinked. “A hero-wide meeting? You’re serious?”
“Those never get called unless—” Mapicc started.
“It needs to happen,” Minute interrupted. He moved to the central console and began typing. The soft ping of the alert system echoed through the room. “Wake them up. Now.”
Mapicc grumbled but obeyed, dragging Jepex off the couch with no sympathy.
“Bro—what—? I just closed my eyes—!” Jepex protested, groggy and limp as a noodle.
Clown turned to Bacon, already stepping forward.
“Wait,” Hannah said suddenly, her voice low but firm. “Let me.”
Clown paused. Looked at her. Nodded. Then turned away without a word.
She both waited for the three figures to descend down the elevator before she moved
Hannah knelt beside the couch. Gently, carefully, she touched Bacon’s shoulder, shaking him awake like she used to when they were younger, when the world was safer.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Wake up. We’ve got to go to a meeting.”
Bacon blinked, bleary-eyed. “Hannah? What’s going on?”
She hesitated. “You’ll understand soon. Please… just come on.”
He followed without protest, though confusion clouded his features.
The elevator ride was silent. Tense. Bacon kept glancing at her — trying to read her face, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Her arms were crossed, jaw tight, shoulders pulled inward. He knew that look. She was building walls again.
When the doors opened, the meeting room buzzed with quiet confusion. Dozens of heroes sat around the circular table, murmuring, checking devices. They were tired, annoyed, some of them still in pajamas.
Minute stood at the center.
“Someone has been targeting our team,” he announced. “Threats. With deep personal intel. Beyond protocol breaches.”
“That happens all the time,” Zam scoffed from across the table, unimpressed.
Then Hannah stepped forward.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
She simply placed her communicator on the table and slid it toward the nearest hero.
“Pass it down,” she said quietly.
And they did.
As the device moved, the room changed. One by one, the expressions hardened. Eyes widened. Mouths pressed into silent lines. Each message cut deeper than the last — names, faces, childhood records, unlisted addresses, photos from years ago that should no longer exist.
By the time the communicator reached Mapicc, his jaw was clenched so tight it ticked. Clown leaned in over his shoulder, face going still and cold. Jepex looked like he might throw something. Bacon took it last — and read slower than the rest, eyes locked to each word, breathing shallower with each line.
And when he looked up at Hannah… something inside him cracked.
“They want a fight,” Minute said. “Tomorrow. 3 A.M.”
He looked around the room.
“We need your help.”
He didn’t need to ask twice.
The best fighters volunteered immediately — some standing before he finished speaking. Plans were formed in minutes. Strategic formations. Communication lines. Ground support. Surveillance. Redirection teams. Backup.
It was efficient. Dead serious.
And when the rest of the heroes filed out, whispering to one another with hard eyes and fast steps, only the Chungpire remained.
The silence felt like a bruise.
Mapicc spoke first, his voice low. “How long have you been getting these?”
“A few weeks,” Hannah replied. Her voice was small. Unrecognizable.
“You didn’t tell us?” Clown asked, sharp but not unkind.
“I was scared,” she admitted. “They knew so much. About me. About… Bacon.”
“Is that why you’ve been training like a maniac?” Jepex asked, arms crossed but his voice softer than usual.
She nodded.
“I thought if I just trained hard enough, I could face it alone. Make it disappear. I didn’t want any of you in danger.”
“But why alone?” Clown demanded. “Why would you think that was the answer? We’re a team. You know that.”
Hannah looked down. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
For a moment, no one said anything.
Then Bacon stood.
His movements were quiet. Controlled.
“I should’ve known something was wrong,” he said. “You’re supposed to tell me everything.”
And without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out.
Hannah flinched like she’d been slapped.
“I—” her voice cracked. “I don’t think he wants to see me.”
She looked up at the others, her eyes wet again. “Can someone check on him?”
“I will,” Minute said, already moving toward the door. He glanced back briefly, nodding to Mapicc. “Make sure she gets to bed.”
Hannah looked down at the floor.
“He’s all I have,” she whispered. “Please… make sure he knows I was just trying to protect him.”

Minute knew exactly where to go.
He found Bacon in the garden — the one he and Hannah had built together years ago when they first joined HQ. It was a small rooftop space, tucked beneath the stars, overflowing with the scent of rosemary, lavender, and lemon thyme. A place of peace.
Bacon sat cross-legged in the middle of the path, elbows resting on his knees, head tilted toward the sky. The moonlight bathed the garden in silver.
Minute didn’t speak. He just sat down beside him.
Minutes passed.
Then finally, Bacon’s voice came, rough and low.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Because she was trying to protect you,” Minute said honestly.
“She didn’t have to,” Bacon said. His fists were clenched. “We’ve fought together. We've faced worse. She didn’t have to carry that alone.”
Minute didn’t argue.
“You know her,” he said instead. “She’d tear the world down to keep her friends safe.”
He paused. “But she’d tear herself down to keep you safe.”
That landed. Deep.
Bacon didn’t reply. But his eyes burned.
He stared ahead, unmoving, lost in thought.
Minute stood a few minutes later, letting the silence speak for them both. He didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t offer advice.
He just walked away.
Leaving Bacon in the garden — the scent of rosemary hanging in the still night air, and memories blooming like old flowers in the dark.

The next morning, Hannah sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, unmoving.
The silence in her room was nearly complete—broken only by the faint, steady hum of her communicator vibrating on the nightstand. A small, blinking light glowed beside it, blinking, waiting. She didn’t reach for it right away.
Her eyes were tired. Not from lack of sleep—she hadn’t really slept at all—but from the weight of it all. Last night looped in her mind, moment by moment, like a scene she couldn’t rewind or pause, just relive.
Eventually, she reached for the communicator. Swiped. The messages poured in.
“I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
“You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
“We’ve got your back. Just say the word.”
“You shouldn’t have had to carry that alone.”
She read each one, her thumb gliding down the screen, heart unmoved.
They meant well. Of course they did. But their sympathy didn’t change the facts. Their concern didn’t rewrite history.
None of it mattered. Not right now.
Only one thing did.
She placed the communicator down gently and stared ahead at the far wall. Her room was familiar—too familiar. A place that had always felt like safety. Like home. But this morning, even the soft shadows seemed heavier.
She rose slowly, her feet meeting the cold floor with quiet finality. Her eyes traveled to the wall covered in photographs—faded, cracked in some corners, curling at the edges from years of tape and sunlight. She moved toward it without thinking.
There were childhood photos—some in color, others in grainy black-and-white, showing groups of kids like her. Survivors. Misfits. Fighters. Each face a chapter. Some names she still remembered. Some were just scars now.
But most of the wall was covered in them. Her and Bacon.
There was the photo from when he got stuck in that tree trying to rescue a cat—smiling sheepishly while she stood below with her arms crossed, unimpressed. And the infamous flour fight: both of them covered head to toe in white dust, eggs in their hair, laughing so hard she’d forgotten what sadness even felt like.
She reached for that one now. Held it. Smiled just slightly.
Then her eyes fell on another photo—an old one. She was fifteen. In her first hero uniform, bright and clumsy, standing next to her original team: The Mice. They lasted twenty-six days. But it was still the beginning.
And finally—her eyes landed on that photo.
The one she always came back to.
The Chungpire, lined up on the rooftop after their first mission. And there she was, standing in front of Bacon, arms slightly spread, body tilted just so—protecting him. Her eyes in the photo were wild with fire. Defiant. Unbreakable.
It reminded her of who she was.
Why she fought so hard.
Why this wasn’t just a mission.
It was personal.
She inhaled deeply, then turned away. With quiet, practiced motion, she grabbed her hoodie and slipped out of the room, locking the door behind her.
The halls were still dim. Morning hadn’t quite made it in yet. HQ always existed in this strange in-between time—never fully asleep, never fully awake.
As she reached the living room, she paused.
Minute, Clown, and Mapicc sat around the table, bent over a mess of maps, diagrams, and datapads. Coffee cups littered the space. Jepex sat on the far end, legs up on a chair, half-focused on his communicator while stuffing his mouth with toast.
And there, on the couch—Bacon.
He was slouched low, arms crossed, eyes locked on the holo-screen as muted news ran in the background. His face looked carved from stone. Tired. Quiet. Unreadable.
As she stepped into the room, Minute glanced up. Nodded at her.
She said nothing. Just slid into the seat beside Mapicc and leaned over to scan the map. Her eyes flicked over the markers. Red circles. Blue paths. Rooftops. Alleys. Escape vectors.
She felt Bacon’s eyes on her. Just for a second.
When she turned to meet them—
He stood.
Without a word, he walked past her and disappeared into his room.
Her chest tightened, but she forced it down.
Focus.
Mapicc pointed to the map. “You’re meeting them here. This intersection—abandoned warehouse district. You talk to them. Find out how they know what they know. Why they’re threatening you. Keep them talking.”
He tapped another point. “We’ll be in these marked positions. As soon as they make a move—try to hurt you, run, anything—we intercept.”
She studied the layout. Cross streets. Emergency exits. Rooftop sightlines. Her fingers traced one of the escape paths instinctively.
She nodded.
Then looked down the hallway—toward Bacon’s room.
Without a word, she stood.
“I’m gonna go check my uniform,” she said.
No one stopped her.
She moved quickly back to her room. Closed the door quietly behind her.
At her desk, she reached for the drawer. Pulled out a folded piece of paper. And a pen.
Not just any pen. A pink glitter pen.
The one Bacon had given her years ago after she kept losing hers—covered in stickers and glitter, absurd and perfect. “Now you won’t lose this one,” he’d said with a grin.
She stared at it for a moment.
Then began to write.

Dear Bacon,
I’m so sorry.
You deserved to know the truth.
You’ve done everything for me—more than anyone ever has. From the beginning, when you offered me your strawberry ice cream like it was nothing… that’s when I knew you were different. That you were safe.
You became the family I never thought I deserved. Maybe I still don’t.
You followed me to the Hero Academy. You didn’t have to. No one asked you. But you did it because you believed in me—even when I couldn’t.
You reminded me I mattered.
Everything I am, I owe to you. My strength. My courage. My hope.
You’re not just my best friend. You’re my brother.
I’m sorry I kept this from you. You deserved better.
With all my heart,
Hannah

She folded the letter slowly. Carefully. Then slipped it into an envelope and walked to the rooftop garden.
She knelt beside the rosemary bush and tucked it beneath the petals of the roses, sliding a small silver key next to it.
He’d find it. When he was ready.
And when he did—he’d understand.
Back downstairs, she entered the locker room without a word and changed into her gear. Not just armor. Memory.Purpose.
She stepped onto the training floor.
The whispers began again. Low voices. Glances.
She didn’t care.
She walked straight to the combat simulator.
Set the difficulty to max.
And began.
Strike. Block. Dodge. Again. Again. Again.
The pain grounded her. The movement silenced her thoughts. Time disappeared. She didn’t stop.
Not until a hand touched her shoulder.
She spun, reflex taking over, flipping the person onto the floor with force.
“Easy!” Mapicc grunted. “It’s me.”
She blinked, realizing.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on someone mid-fight,” she said breathlessly.
“I called out twice,” he said, dusting himself off. “Also, you’ve been here for hours. I’ve had seven people come ask if you’re okay.”
She frowned. “What time is it?”
“Eleven.”
Her eyes widened. “At night?”
“Come on. Dinner’s ready.”
She changed. Followed.
In the dining room, six plates were laid out. Five were full.
She reached for hers. “I’m gonna eat in my room.”
“No, you’re not,” Clown said. Firm. Final.
She paused.
“We’re eating together,” he said, not looking up from his plate. “Like a team.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she sat.
She barely touched her food.
Later, back in her room, she paced. Her hands moved on instinct—grabbing gear, prepping blades, smoke bombs, potions. She packed Bacon’s suit, too. Like always.
Eventually, dressed in full gear, she made her way to the meeting room.
The door opened with a soft hiss.
Inside, the space buzzed with quiet intensity. Heroes were already gathering—some she knew well, others she’d only seen in battle reports. They all stood or sat in silent readiness.
She took a seat at the table. Steady. Unshaken.
A few minutes later, Minute entered. He carried a thick stack of files.
Without a word, he distributed them.
Hannah opened hers and began reading. The plan. The full operation. Every route. Every exit. Every risk.
She scanned it like her life depended on it—because it did.
Minute activated the holographic map, and the room leaned in.
He spoke clearly, assigning positions, building the strategy. It was airtight. Coordinated. Ruthless.
An hour passed in a blur.
Then Minute looked up.
“Everyone ready?”
A chorus of nods and affirmations. Some louder than others.
Then he looked at her.
Hannah stood.
Her voice was calm. Even. But her eyes burned with something deeper.
“Let’s go get them,” she said.
And the room moved as one. At 2:47 AM, only the Chungpire assembled on a rooftop overlooking the city. Neon lights pulsed below like veins of energy through steel. The night was humid and silent—the kind of silence right before something explodes.
Hannah stood near the edge, eyes locked on the skyline. Every shift of wind, every unnatural shadow between buildings—she tracked it all.
Minute’s voice broke the stillness behind her. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
She turned slightly, meeting Bacon’s gaze.
“I’m always ready,” she said.
Her earpiece crackled. Minute’s voice coordinated final check-ins. One by one, heroes confirmed their positions. When the last voice came through, Minute gave the go.
She leapt.
Bounding across rooftops, she moved like instinct and muscle had merged into one. From the highest point in the city, she scanned everything—and saw nothing. Too still.
Crouched low, she listened. Breath steady. Muscles tense.
At exactly 3:00 AM, footsteps echoed behind her.
She spun, vines primed.
A figure stepped from the shadows, face hidden behind a smooth, featureless mask.
“You came,” the voice said—robotic, distorted. Familiar.
“I don’t run.”
The figure circled her slowly.
“At first, I thought you might not show,” he said. “But then I remembered what I threatened. Or rather—who.”
Her jaw clenched. “I don’t tolerate threats. Especially against my friends.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”
He turned toward the city. “You took everything. You won. I lost. But not tonight.” He faced her again. “Tonight, I don’t plan on losing.”
Static bursts in her earpiece. Confused voices. Something was off.
“What do you mean?” she pressed, voice low.
“You ruined my life,” he spat. “While you were thriving in your perfect tower, I was suffering. It’s your fault!”
That voice. That fury. Who was he?
Then—he lunged.
She called for backup, but the words barely left her lips before black-armored figures surged from the shadows. A dozen. Maybe more.
She fought—fast, brutal—but she was outnumbered.
Slamming her to the rooftop, they pinned her down—
—and then the night exploded.
Blurs of motion. A whirlwind of heroes.
She rose instantly, flinging a vine at the masked figure. He caught it mid-air.
Stopped it cold, he stopped her powers.
Her stomach dropped.
Only one person had ever done that.
Everything else faded. The battle blurred behind her.
“Hannah, watch out!” someone screamed.
She turned—too late.
A body slammed into her, knocking her flat.
She hit the ground, dazed. Looked down.
Bacon.
Bleeding. Hurt. In her arms.
“No—no, no, no,” she whispered. “STOP!”
The rooftop stilled. Even the enemy froze.
She looked up, voice razor-sharp. “What do you want?”
The masked figure studied her. Then calmly:
“I want you to come with me.”
She wrapped a vine around Manepear, someone good at fighting, pulled him close, and gently transferred Bacon into his arms.
“Get him to Planet. He’ll heal him. Go.”
Manepear hesitated—then vanished.
She stood, slowly. Every eye followed her.
“Fine,” she said. “But you don’t lay a hand on them. Not one.”
Gasps rippled. The masked figure tilted his head.
“Deal.”
She stepped forward.
Minute grabbed her wrist. “Hannah, what are you doing?”
“I’m making sure he doesn’t get hurt again.”
“No. He’s not taking you.”
She gave a bitter smile. “You don’t get to choose this for me.”
She tugged. He didn’t let go.
Then—“Wait!” Jepex shouted.
They turned.
Darkness.
A wave of black swallowed the rooftop.
Hannah collapsed. Minute caught her, held her close.
“You’re not taking her,” he growled.
The masked figure chuckled. “I don’t think that’s your choice.”
He reached out—
—and the world fell into black.

Chapter Text

Mapicc could only watch, helpless and horrified, as the chaos around him blurred into something silent and still. The fight was over—but not in any way that felt like a victory. Across the battlefield, littered with broken pavement and flickering streetlights, he saw two of his teammates—Hannah and Minute—unconscious. Vulnerable. Within seconds, the villain moved in, grabbing them with an almost casual cruelty. And then—gone. Just like that, the three of them disappeared, vanishing into thin air. Along with them, every other figure that had been fighting on that rooftop. As if they’d never existed.
Mapicc’s breath caught in his throat. Around him, heroes stood bloodied and bruised, their bodies aching, their faces smeared with soot and sweat—but their eyes were still lit with determination. They were warriors, survivors. Yet someone in the crowd echoed the exact fear gripping his chest.
“How are we gonna fix this?”
Mapicc couldn’t answer. He wasn’t even sure he heard it clearly. Everything around him felt muted, like he was watching it all underwater. He felt nothing and everything at once—panic, fear, guilt. But mostly, a hollow numbness.
Minute, the one who always kept the team grounded, organized, functioning. The guy who made sure every mission report was filed and every supply order was stocked. Gone.
And Hannah. The heart of their group. She made sure they didn’t burn out. Forced them to rest. To eat. To take a break when the pressure got too high. She was the soul of the Chungpire.
How was the team supposed to move forward without them?
Were they even still a team?
He barely noticed the hand that gently touched his shoulder until he looked up and saw Zam and Clown standing beside him, concern etched deep into their faces.
Eventually, they all made it back to Hero HQ. It didn’t feel like home this time. It felt like a graveyard of hope. Heroes dragged their injured teammates to the infirmary, some limping, some being carried. When Mapicc arrived, it wasn’t because he was hurt—though he felt like he’d been cracked open from the inside.
He stepped into the room and stopped cold. Beds were filled with heroes groaning in pain, wrapped in gauze and fading hope. But one sight held him in place.
Manepear, motionless, stood beside a bed. And lying there was Bacon.
Mapicc moved without thinking, crossing the room and sitting down next to Mane without a word. He stared at Bacon’s unconscious body, taking in the bruises, the pale skin, the slight rise and fall of his chest.
Minutes passed in silence before Mane spoke, voice raw. “How are we gonna tell Bacon that Hannah’s gone?”
Mapicc’s heart clenched. He hadn’t even thought about that. Bacon didn’t know. His best friend—his sister in every way but blood—was gone, and he didn’t even know.
“I—I don’t know,” Mapicc whispered.
And then—groaning.
Bacon stirred. His eyes fluttered open, groggy and confused, until they landed on Mapicc.
“Where’s Hannah?” he asked, voice low and scratchy.
Mapicc hesitated. “She’s… not here right now.”
Bacon’s eyes narrowed. “Well, obviously. I can see that. I mean, where is she?”
Mane stepped in, trying to soften the blow. “Do you… remember the fight?”
Bacon furrowed his brow. “Yeah. I remember fighting, and then… I got slammed into something.”
“You got slammed into Hannah,” Mane said, hesitating. “She—she pushed you out of the way. Took the hit instead.”
Bacon’s eyes snapped to Mapicc, demanding the truth.
“You couldn’t have told him gentler?” Mapicc hissed at Mane.
Mane just mumbled, “Sorry,” and left the room.
Mapicc exhaled slowly. “Once she saw you were unconscious, she made Mane carry you back to the tower… and then she stayed behind to keep everyone else safe.”
Bacon’s expression twisted into a storm of fury and guilt. “And you let her?! If not you, then Minute should’ve knocked some sense into her—!”
“She doesn’t let anyone boss her around, Bacon. You know that better than anyone. And… Minute tried. He got taken too.”
Before Bacon could argue, Planet walked in, clipboard in hand. “You’ll be fine—no major damage. But you need to rest. Sleep. That’s an order.”
When Planet finally left, Mapicc stood and placed a hand on Bacon’s shoulder. “Get some sleep. We’ll finish this tomorrow.”
Bacon didn’t answer, but eventually, his eyes fluttered shut again.

Minute woke with a sharp groan, pain blooming behind his eyes like a sudden explosion. His head throbbed, every inch of his body aching like he’d been dropped from the sky. But it wasn’t the pain that made his heart race.
It was the room.
Not their apartment.
This place was wrong.
Freezing. Sterile. Too white.
Walls like hospital sheets, ceiling humming with cold fluorescent light.
Cameras—four of them—one in each corner, unblinking red eyes that watched.
Then he saw her.
Hannah.
She lay crumpled across the room, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of her chest. Relief flooded him so fast it made him dizzy. He staggered to his feet, every movement stiff and foreign, and scanned the room with growing unease.
Quietly, he crossed to the nearest camera. One by one, he twisted them toward the wall. The soft click of shifting lenses echoed like gunshots in the silence.
Behind him, a breath caught. Fabric rustled.
Hannah stirred.
Her eyes flew open—wild, panicked—but the fear vanished the moment they landed on him. Just like that, her mask slid into place. Calm. Composed. Always the steady one.
But Minute saw the crack.
“Where are we?” he rasped, throat dry, voice barely more than air.
Hannah sat up slowly, every movement deliberate. Her eyes didn’t meet his when she answered, and that made it worse.
“This is where I grew up,” she said.
A beat of silence.
“Until I was six.”

Hannah never spoke much about her life before Bacon—not because she was hiding something, but because the memories were like live wires. Touch them wrong, and they burned. Some days, she could feel them pulsing under her skin, waiting to be triggered. Even with Minute, who knew her better than almost anyone, she rarely let her guard slip. She had become something solid over time, someone others could lean on—quietly strong, impossibly steady.
But now, in the cold, sterile cell, that strength was cracking.
The walls were too white. Not just painted white—bleached, antiseptic, hollow. Designed to erase any sense of time, of comfort, of self. Even the air tasted artificial. Clean in a way that hurt your lungs, like breathing in guilt and ghosts.
Minute sat on the hard bench across from her, the fluorescent lights flickering above them in a slow, taunting rhythm. He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes searching her face, looking for something—reassurance, maybe. Answers. But Hannah kept her gaze low, her hands pressed flat on her thighs, every muscle in her body coiled like a spring.
“Why’d you leave?” he asked at last, voice soft, tentative. He wasn't just asking about the moment she stepped out of the cell with the villain. He was asking about everything. The months of silence. The secrets. The cracks she let widen without a word.
Hannah didn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicked upward, scanning the room. The faint outline of a door—blended seamlessly with the walls—caught her attention. Everything here was designed to trick the senses, to make you question what was real. Camouflaged edges. Rounded corners. Nothing sharp. Nothing stable.
She opened her mouth to speak, to try to explain, but a voice interrupted her before a single word could form.
It came from everywhere and nowhere—low, smooth, and far too pleased with itself.
“Someone will be in soon. Be ready.”
The voice was laced with amusement. Not just control, not just power—but joy. This was entertainment to them. A performance. A test.
Minute turned his head slowly, his shoulders tensing. “They’re watching,” he murmured.
Hannah’s gaze swept upward again, more sharply this time. She spotted it—the cameras. Or rather, the absence of them. All four corners of the room were now subtly off-kilter. Someone had moved them. All except for one.
She pointed, just a small movement of her finger.
Minute followed her line of sight and gave the faintest nod. “Yeah… I didn’t want them watching us. Not after they locked you in here. Not after what they did last time.”
Hannah’s eyes met his for a heartbeat. Gratitude flickered there—but also something darker. A memory threatening to rise.
Then she heard it.
A sound. Barely there. A shift in air pressure, a mechanical sigh. But it was enough.
She moved.
In a blur, she yanked Minute away from the door just as it slid open with an eerie smoothness.
And there he was.
The man from the rooftop. The one who had smiled too calmly in the face of chaos. He stepped into the room with the kind of casual confidence that only came from knowing no one could stop you. He wore black gloves, pristine and sleek, and a tailored coat that swayed as he moved—like even his clothes didn’t dare defy him.
Hannah placed herself in front of Minute instantly, her stance shifting from stillness to shield in a single breath.
“You said you wouldn’t harm any of them,” she said, her voice sharp and cold, like steel pulled from ice.
The man smirked. “That was before he got in my way.” His tone was almost playful, like this was all a mild inconvenience. “Can’t have him interrupting my plans, now can I?”
He tilted his head slightly. “And I think you know what time it is.”
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
She turned to Minute, her expression softening by degrees. Just enough for him to see the goodbye in her eyes.
Then she stepped forward.
And the door slid shut behind her with a hiss.

Hannah followed him down corridors she wished she had forgotten. The hallways were cold and lined with thick concrete, every inch humming with memories she had buried.
They reached a room. Three metal tables were bolted to the floor, their surfaces stained, their restraints ancient and cracked from use. One of them had her name written in invisible ink, somewhere only she would know. She walked to the one closest to the door and sat down. Old instincts took over—always sit closest to the exit.
The villain stood back, watching her. The walls around them were peppered with scratches—some old, some terrifyingly fresh.
Her voice broke the silence. “Will you let him go… if I stay?”
He laughed, too loud, too long. “Oh, Hannah. You're not escaping this time. And now that he’s here, we have leverage. You wouldn’t want anything... unfortunate happening to him, would you?”
She lowered her gaze, forcing herself to look weak, her body tense with the act. Pretending fear—something she had learned as a child, here, in this very place. Let them think they’ve won.
The silence returned until a door creaked open. A man in a lab coat stepped inside, carrying supplies. She saw the needle first—long, thin, gleaming under the harsh light.
The villain turned to leave. “Better behave,” he said smugly. “He’s your weakness now.”
The door shut behind him.
She turned toward the doctor, her heart racing. He was older now, but she remembered him. The lines on his face were deeper, and guilt clung to him like sweat. He avoided her eyes as he scribbled something down in a new file, then turned with the needle in hand.
Her stomach twisted.
They were going to test her again.
Her blood could power weapons, manipulate minds, enhance abilities. They’d torture her until she cracked—or worse, until she didn’t.
She wouldn’t run this time.
She would survive.
She didn’t flinch as the doctor reached for her.
Didn’t move, even when the needle caught the light.
But the moment he was close enough to touch her skin—
She struck.
Roots burst from the floor, wrapping around him like live wires. In the blink of an eye, he was dangling upside down, feet off the ground, clipboard clattering to the floor as the needle rolled across the tiles. He let out a startled yelp, papers fluttering from his coat pocket.
Hannah stood up slowly, shadows cast across her face from the flickering fluorescent light above.
“Let me go,” she said, her voice low and lethal, each word dipped in venom, “and don’t even think about sounding the alarm.”
She stepped forward, the weight of every scar and memory pressing into her footsteps.
“Or I’ll make you regret ever walking into this room.”
The doctor didn’t speak. He just stared, wide-eyed, his hands shaking as they hung beside his head.
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable at first—until that smile slid across her face.
It wasn’t warm.
It wasn’t kind.
It was the kind of smile you see just before something horrible happens.
A slow, chilling curve of her lips that made the air in the room feel colder.
“Next time,” she whispered, her voice a terrifying promise, “the vines will have thorns.”
Her eyes gleamed with something unspoken, feral and ancient, born from too many nights in this place.
“I’ll take my time,” she continued softly, like she was telling him a secret. “I’ll make you beg.”
She held his terrified gaze for one more beat, then snapped her fingers.
The vines hurled him across the room like a ragdoll. His body slammed into the wall with a sickening crunch, and he crumpled to the floor.
She adjusted the strap on her uniform and turned toward the door without a second glance.
He wasn’t worth it.
Not anymore.

She moved through the hallways like a ghost haunting her old life. No alarms yet. No guards. Maybe they thought she was broken. Maybe they were wrong.
She reached the cell and used her plants to wrench the door open.
Minute startled awake, jumping to his feet. But his fear faded instantly when he saw her.
“Let’s go,” she said quickly. “We don’t have long.”
They ran through the hallways—grim, dark, the air thick with dust and old screams. She moved with purpose, turning sharp corners with practiced ease. Minute followed, glancing around in confusion.
They stopped at a lone door, red signs screaming “HR — DANGEROUS.”
She ripped the sign down and picked the lock with a bobby pin like it was second nature. Inside, the walls were white, but stained with dried red.
“It’s blood,” she said flatly. “Not mine. From the last time I was here.”
Minute looked horrified. “You killed people when you were eight?”
She didn’t answer. She walked to a wall, counted six floor tiles, then pulled away a panel to reveal a tunnel.
“This is how I escaped.”
He stared at it, unsure. “Will we fit?”
“You’re going to have to,” she said, shrugging. “Go.”
“You first,” he said gently.
She glared at him. “Minute, they will kill you to get to me. Now crawl, or I’ll make you.”
“Hannah, you have to make it out. Bacon—he needs you.”
Her expression cracked for just a moment before it hardened again.
“My only goal is keeping them from hurting anyone I love. If that means staying behind to give you time… I’ll do it.”
“I’ll follow right behind,” he promised.
But footsteps echoed down the hallway.
She shot a vine at the door, the green tendrils slamming into the metal frame with a sharp crack as they wrapped tightly around the handle, trying to hold it shut. The pressure from the other side grew stronger with every second.
“GO!” she screamed, her voice raw with urgency and fear.
Minute froze. His feet wouldn’t move. “I’m not leaving you!” he shouted back, shaking his head, his eyes pleading.
But the door couldn’t wait.
With a sudden, violent blast, it exploded open. The vine snapped in two as the force of the explosion sent a shockwave through the room. Smoke curled in from the hallway as three men in dark armor charged inside.
Hannah didn’t even hesitate.
She was airborne before they took two steps—her fists a blur, her vines lashing out like whips. Her body moved like it remembered every fight she’d ever had in this place. Every bruise. Every scar. Every lesson.
In mere seconds, the three attackers were down, their bodies crumpled at unnatural angles, motionless on the floor.
But it wasn’t over.
More boots thundered from the hall.
Guards poured in like a flood.
And Hannah met them like a storm.
She was rage and memory and survival made flesh. Her vines tore through the air, slamming into guards and throwing them against the walls. Her fists cracked bones, her legs swept them off their feet. Minute tried to help—but she moved too fast, like she was everywhere at once.
Then everything slowed.
She saw him.
A guard—sneaking up behind Minute.
A glint of steel.
Too close.
“MINUTE! BEHIND YOU!” she screamed, her voice shattering the chaos.
He turned.
Too late.
The blade plunged into his stomach.
His breath hitched, eyes wide, as blood blossomed across his shirt.
Something inside her shattered.
Her scream wasn’t human.
She erupted, tearing through the last wave of guards with terrifying force. She was pure fury. Her vines split the air like whips, slamming into anyone still standing. She ripped through them without restraint, every movement fueled by terror and rage and heartbreak.
When the last guard hit the ground, she dropped to her knees beside Minute.
“You idiot,” she whispered, voice trembling, eyes locked on his face. “I told you to leave…”
His lips parted, his voice barely more than a rasp. “You need to… go… before more come—”
“I’m not leaving you,” she snapped, her tone sharp, her hands already pressed over his stomach. “Not now. Not ever.”
She felt the heat of his blood soak into her palms. He was losing too much. Too fast.
Panic clawed at her chest—until something sparked.
A memory. One of the tests.
The impossible theories.
What if…?
Her hands trembled as she closed her eyes and focused everything she had. She pushed her energy forward, into him. Not her vines. Not her strength. Just… her.
Pain surged through her chest and arms, raw and electric, like something being pulled out of her. She gritted her teeth as her power transferred into him, sinking into his wound.
She didn’t know if it would work.
But the bleeding slowed.
Then stopped.
Minute gasped beneath her touch, his body jolting slightly. His hand clutched her wrist weakly.
“You… you can heal?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
“Apparently,” she whispered, out of breath, her forehead beaded with sweat. “Lucky you.”
She hauled him upright. He stumbled, woozy, but she kept him moving. “Come on. Through the tunnel. Now.”
He didn’t argue this time.
He crawled into the dark space, groaning softly with every motion. She waited, watching until he was thirty feet in.
Then she grabbed the wall panel and sealed the tunnel shut, vines wrapping it tightly.
And turned to face the door.

It opened with a slow creak, as if it was mocking her.
He stepped inside, calm and smug.
“You stayed,” he said with a smirk, hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world.
“I just had to make sure you didn’t have any more power over me,” she replied coldly, standing in the middle of the room surrounded by broken bodies.
His eyes scanned the carnage, expression unreadable.
“I’m guessing the doctor snitched?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Nope,” he said, slightly amused. “Someone came by and found him curled up on the floor. Shaking.”
That made her laugh. A short, bitter, real laugh.
She stepped toward him. “So… where am I staying now? Because I don’t think it’ll be in here,” she said, gesturing to the stained floor of her childhood prison.
He reached forward and grabbed her arm.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, tone dropping, voice colder. “I’ll find something you deserve.”
The room spun.
Her knees buckled.
And everything went black.

The tunnel ended in a narrow pipe opening behind a crumbling building on the edge of the city. Minute crawled out and turned around, eyes squinting into the darkness behind him.
She wasn’t there.
She hadn’t followed.
His stomach still ached, the pain dulled but not gone. His shirt clung to the scar where the knife had pierced him. He stood on shaking legs and limped forward into the street, the city lights blinding after the underground dark.
People passed him, staring but not stopping.
He walked for what felt like hours.
Finally, he saw it.
The hero tower.
A beacon of safety. Of home.
The windows were dark, the tower silent, but it was close. He dragged himself up the steps, hand on the wall for balance. When he reached the front doors, he leaned heavily against the fingerprint pad.
They opened.
The lights inside stung his eyes.
He stumbled the last few feet to the front desk and collapsed against it.
The receptionist looked up—and froze.
“Minute?” she gasped, rushing forward.
But he was already falling.
The world tilted.
And then nothing.

Mapicc’s alert buzzed at 12:03 AM. His groggy hand fumbled for his phone. The message was urgent.
Main floor. Now.
He ran into the elevator in his pajamas, chest tight with dread. Halfway down, Clown and Flame stepped in beside him. No one said a word. The silence was suffocating.
When the doors opened, he saw a crowd gathered around the front desk.
He pushed through.
And there, on the floor, was Minute.
He looked barely alive.
Planet knelt beside him, checking vitals. “Clown, Flame—get him to the infirmary. Now.”
They obeyed instantly, carrying Minute carefully.
Mapicc followed, heart in his throat.
They laid him beside Bacon, whose chest rose and fell steadily. Planet was already shouting orders to the medics, and Mapicc was shoved out of the room, pacing in the hall, hands shaking.
Fifteen minutes later, Planet stepped out.
“He’s stable,” he said. “He was stabbed—badly—but someone healed him. The wound’s sealed. Just a scar.”
Mapicc blinked. “Healed… by who?”
Planet shook his head. “No idea.”
Mapicc stayed there, silent, watching the door like it might open and give him all the answers.
Where were they?
Where was she?
How had they escaped?
He didn’t know.
But he swore to himself—he’d get them all back.
All six of them. Together again.

When Minute opened his eyes, pain pulsed through every limb—but he was in the infirmary.
He was safe.
To his side, Mapicc was slumped in a chair, snoring lightly. Bacon was in the next bed, fast asleep.
He nudged Mapicc weakly.
The younger boy jolted awake. “Minute?! You’re awake!” His voice echoed too loud.
Planet rushed in seconds later, disbelief on his face. “You’re… you shouldn’t be awake for days—”
“Keep it down…” Bacon groaned.
Then he sat up slowly, blinking.
His eyes landed on Minute.
“You’re back?” he asked, breathless. “Where’s Hannah?”
Minute flinched. “She’s… she’s still there.”
Mapicc’s expression darkened. “What happened? Who healed you?”
Minute looked down at the scar, memories flashing back. He took a breath and started to speak.
“She broke me out. We were escaping. I tried to stay behind, but she wouldn’t let me. We got ambushed. She fought… everyone. Took them all down.”
He paused. “I got stabbed. Then… that's all i remember.”
They all felt frozen.
Silence followed for a moment. Then Bacon whispered, “Thank you… for going with her.”
Minute smiled faintly. “Of course. Just like she said she’d protect you… I’ll protect her.”
And for the first time in hours, maybe days, the weight in the room lightened just a little.
Because they knew now: she was still fighting.
And she wasn’t done yet.

Chapter Text

It had been a full day passed before Minute and Bacon were finally cleared to return to their apartment in the Hero Headquarters. Their injuries had been treated, their vitals checked and rechecked, and despite protests from Minute, they were ordered to rest for at least the night.
The elevator ride up felt endless, the hum of it too calm compared to everything that had happened. The moment the doors opened onto their floor, Mapicc was already halfway down the hallway, arms crossed like a mother waiting to scold two reckless kids.
Bacon barely mumbled something before flopping onto the couch with a groan. “I’m bored already.”
Minute laughed under his breath, rubbing his temple. He made a beeline for the kitchen table, sneaking paperwork out from under his jacket like a kid sneaking snacks past curfew. He didn’t even make it through the first page before Mapicc noticed.
“Absolutely not.” The papers were yanked out of his hands in a swift motion. “You just got back from being kidnapped. You are not doing logistics.”
“But I’m fine—”
“You’re banned from being fine. There's a meeting in a few hours. Rest.”
And just like that, Minute joined Bacon on the couch, both of them dramatically sprawled across the cushions, wallowing in their mutual boredom.
That is, until Jepex came barreling into the living room like a caffeine-fueled tornado. Within seconds, he was bouncing between them, poking Bacon’s bandages and throwing popcorn at Minute’s head. Chaos ensued. For a while, it was enough to laugh. Enough to forget.
By the time the meeting was set to begin, the five of them crammed into the elevator like sardines. Minute leaned against Clown, eyelids heavy, while Bacon and Jepex practically melted into Mapicc’s side. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened onto the high-floor meeting room where dozens of heroes were already seated, murmuring among themselves.
The moment they walked in, the room quieted, then burst into questions.
“Where were you?”
“How’d you escape?”
“Who patched you up?”
“Is Hannah safe?”
Minute exhaled, long and quiet, and walked slowly to his seat. The fluorescent lights made everything feel sharp. His hands trembled slightly as he rested them on the table. He could feel the weight of every eye in the room.
He started talking.
“So… we woke up after the rooftop fight. White room. All white. Cold. Hannah… She knew the place. Like—like she’d been there before. Then he took her.” His voice faltered. “And maybe twenty minutes later… She came back. She broke me out. We ran down this long hallway, and she pulled off a wall panel. There was a tunnel, like, behind it. We were almost out—then guards swarmed us.” His fingers clenched. “I got stabbed. After that, I don’t remember anything. But she… she stayed behind.”
Silence followed.
Mapicc stood slowly. “They were taken at approximately 3:07 AM. Minute returned to the tower at 11:59 PM. That’s just under twenty-one hours missing. But he walked here. Which means wherever they were being held—can’t be too far. And considering his physical condition when he got back, we believe she’s being kept within the city.”
The room buzzed with tension, soft murmurs, people whispering strategy and possibilities.
“What if they move her?” Mane finally asked. “We know they can knock her out. What if they’ve already relocated her?”
Minute stared at the floor, something in his chest tightening. He hated how possible that sounded. But—
“She knew the place,” he said quietly. “She knew the routines, the layout, the villain. She walked those halls like she belonged there. She didn’t act scared. She acted like… like she had the upper hand. I don’t think they’ll move her. She would find a way out”
“But none of this helps us find her,” Bacon snapped, his voice brittle. “We have no lead. He doesn’t remember anything.”
Minute flinched. The words weren’t meant to be cruel, but they landed like a blade. He didn’t remember. Nothing useful. Nothing that helped.
Mapicc stepped in. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow. It’s been a long couple of days—for all of us.”
One by one, the heroes filtered out of the room.
Minute barely made it to his bed before collapsing onto it, fully clothed, face in the sheets. He had to find her. He had to stop the villain. But for now… he could only close his eyes and lie still.

Elsewhere, deep underground, Hannah opened her eyes to darkness. No vents. No light. The faint glow of cameras hung too high to reach. Cold concrete walls boxed her in. The air smelled like damp stone and rust. No bed. Just chains. A cuff clamped around her ankle.
Her energy was nearly gone—burned up by healing Minute.
But she didn’t regret it.
She sat up slowly, testing the limits of the chain, grimacing at the pull. No escape this time. They’d learned.
Good.
Minute was safe now. They wouldn’t bother with any of them—they needed her too much.
The door creaked open.
The villain stood in the doorway, a grin spread like oil.
“Comfortable?” he said, mock-sweet. “Stuck in a room you can’t escape from?”
She tilted her head. Shrugged. “Doesn’t need to be escapable.”
That made him pause. “What?”
“You think I couldn’t escape earlier?” She laughed, low and sharp. “I chose to stay. I made sure he got out. I waited for you to come. I could’ve been long gone—you never would’ve caught me. But I didn’t leave. There’s no reason to now.”
He stared at her, thrown off. “That’s not… what I expected you to say.”
“You never were very good at expectations,” she murmured, eyes fluttering shut as she leaned back against the wall. “You always underestimated me.”
He didn’t answer. She felt him still standing there. Watching. Measuring.
Eventually, the door slammed shut again.
She smiled faintly in the dark.

Minute awoke the next morning before the sun had risen. He suited up before breakfast, eager to return to the streets.
He met the others in the briefing room. All five of them in full uniform, determined.
“If you see anything that jogs your memory,” Mapicc said, “tell us immediately.”
Minute nodded.
They split into two smaller groups—he was with Clown and Bacon. They leapt across rooftops, scanned alleys, watched the city breathe below them. But the hours passed with little progress. They stopped a robbery at a market. Rescued a dog. Even helped a kid down from a tree.
Minute smiled at the kid—until he turned around and realized Bacon was gone.
Panic surged. “Be right back,” he called to Clown before rushing to search for him.
He searched alley after alley until he found him—curled against a brick wall, face buried in his arms.
“You okay?” Minute asked gently.
Bacon didn’t look up. “The kid in the tree reminded me of myself, when Hannah saved me”
Minute sat down beside him. “We’re gonna get her back.”
“I know,” Bacon whispered. “I’m just scared. I can’t lose her.”
“You won’t.”
Bacon stood slowly, wiped his eyes. They rejoined Clown and made their way back in silence, slowly.
As they neared the tower, Minute slowed. He stopped on the sidewalk and stared up.
“What is it?” Clown asked, confused.
Minute blinked. “I came from this way. When I returned that night—I came from this direction.”
Bacon’s eyes widened. “You remember?”
“I remember standing here. Looking up at the tower.”
They all stare at each other before the sprint to the tower.
They bolted inside. Rush to the elevator.
As soon as they get upstairs, they find Mapicc and Jepex wrestling on the couch.
“I remember something!” Minute shouted.
They instantly stop.
Mapicc jumps to his feet. “Where?”
“North side. Near the bakery. I looked at the tower from there.”
Mapicc pulled out his communicator and started typing. “Everyone—shift focus north tomorrow. More time there. We may have a lead.”
Eventually they all drifted to their rooms, exhausted but hopeful.
In his room, Minute stripped off his uniform, but paused when something fell from his pocket.
A small sign. Plastic. Scratched.
“HR — DANGEROUS.”
His breath caught. This was from Hannah’s room. She’d slipped it into his pocket. A message.
He ran a thumb over the cracked letters, eyes burning.
Tomorrow, he’d bring it up. Tomorrow, they’d search harder. Tomorrow, they'll find her.
He placed the sign gently on his nightstand, lay back, and stared at the ceiling.
She was out there. He could feel it.
And he would find her.

Bacon stood alone in the middle of the city street, disoriented by how quiet it was. The usual buzz of cars and chatter had faded into a kind of muted hum, like the world was underwater. He looked around, confused. And then—he saw him.
A kid. Small, familiar. Familiar in a way that made something in Bacon’s chest seize.
It was him. Younger. Maybe six or seven, wearing a faded hoodie and sneakers with laces that never stayed tied. His younger self stood at the corner, eyes darting like he wasn’t sure if he should run or hide. Without thinking, Bacon followed.
He trailed the boy through winding streets, losing all sense of time. Hours passed—or maybe it was only minutes. The sun dipped lower, casting the city in honey-colored light. His younger self seemed to drift from place to place with no real destination, just wandering like he was looking for something that didn’t exist.
Eventually, they stopped at a corner store. The boy went in, and Bacon followed silently. Inside, he got a strawberry ice cream cup and two spoons.
And that’s when Bacon felt it—like the memory had snapped into place.
He knew this moment.
They walked again, side by side now, past cracked sidewalks and old buildings until they reached a small park. Children ran barefoot in the grass, shouting and laughing, and birds zipped past tree branches like they were racing. The boy kept walking until they reached a bench shaded by a crooked tree.
There, waiting with crossed arms and a sharp glare, was a girl.
Brown hair, with a tattered pink sweater
Younger, but unmistakably Hannah.
She looked up at the boy with a practiced scowl. “What?” she asked flatly.
“Want some ice cream?” the boy offered, holding out a spoon. “It’s strawberry.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, suspicious. But then—after a long pause—she scooted over just enough to accept the spoon.
They sat there in silence, legs swinging above the ground, sharing ice cream without another word. It was such a small moment. Quiet. Human. But it meant something. It was something. Bacon could feel the warmth of it curling into his chest.
“Why’d you bring another spoon?” she asked eventually.
“I saw you here yesterday,” the boy answered, “and thought you'd be here again.”
Bacon watched them—himself and Hannah—and smiled.
And then the world twisted.
The colors drained. The sky cracked open. Bacon blinked—
And woke up in a white room.
Everything was too quiet. Too clean. Too empty. The walls were blindingly white, seamless, sterile. There were two beds—one in each corner—and nothing else but suffocating silence.
He stood, his limbs heavy with dread, and walked to what looked like a door. It blended so seamlessly into the wall he almost missed it. When he touched it, it opened soundlessly.
He stepped through—and fell.
There was no gravity, no warning—just a cold rush as the world dropped out beneath him.
He hit the ground hard, but felt no pain. Just confusion.
Lying ahead of him was a body.
A girl. Small. Still.
Hospital gown. Bare feet. Brown hair spread across the concrete.
He stumbled forward and collapsed beside her, heart racing, blood freezing in his veins.
It was Hannah.
“Hannah!” he screamed, the sound cracking like lightning through the air.

Bacon shot upright in bed, gasping.
His room spun. Everything was shadows and flickers. His blankets were tangled around him like restraints. His chest heaved, and his throat was raw from screaming. Tears streamed down his face and soaked the collar of his shirt.
Footsteps thundered down the hallway. The door burst open.
Two figures stood in the frame, backlit by the hallway light. He couldn’t make out their faces—just silhouettes. He backed away instinctively, scrambling, panicked, breath coming in sharp bursts.
They stepped closer.
“No!” he cried out, flinching as one of them reached for him.
He fought, trying to twist away, but they held firm. Hands grabbed his arms—not rough, not hurting, but grounding. Steady. Familiar. One of them tapped gently on his forearm, over and over, the way you’d calm a frightened animal.
He didn’t understand their words. Not at first. Everything was noise.
Until it wasn’t.
His ears cleared.
“Bacon. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
It was Mapicc. And Minute.
The fear in his chest loosened its grip. His breathing slowed. The shaking dulled into trembles.
The three of them sat together in the center of the floor—Bacon crumpled, Minute beside him, and Mapicc gently rubbing his back.
“Why are you guys here?” Bacon finally whispered, voice raw.
“I heard you scream,” Mapicc said. “I grabbed Minute on the way. You were… freaking out.”
Bacon stared at the floor, too tired to lift his head. “I had a dream. No… a nightmare.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Minute asked gently.
He shook his head at first.
Then, after a long silence, he whispered, “It was the first time Hannah and I met. Then I was in the white room you told me about. I walked through a door and fell, and she was just lying there. Like she was dead.”
His voice broke.
No one spoke. They didn’t have to.
Eventually, Bacon’s head rested on Mapicc’s shoulder, and his breathing evened out. Sleep pulled him back under, and he drifted off between the two people.

Deep underground, Hannah sat in the cold cell that had become her new reality. The walls were stone and steel, unforgiving and dull. The air smelled like rust, and the only window was a flickering light in the ceiling that never turned off.
But she wasn’t broken.
She had chosen this.
For them.
A metal tray of food sat just out of reach near the door—lukewarm, probably recycled from the bottom of some cafeteria barrel. She sighed, stood, and felt the sharp pull of the ankle cuff still chained to the wall.
Annoyed, she rolled her eyes.
From the hem of her pants, she pulled out a bent hairpin. With practiced ease, fidgeted with it, and popped it open. The cuff clattered to the ground.
She grabbed the tray and sat back down, inspecting the sad excuse for a meal. Cold chicken and even colder potatoes. She took a bite and immediately regretted it.
“Disgusting.”
She missed cooking. She missed feeding people. She missed her little kitchen and the smell of pancakes in the mornings and the way the team would rush out to eat her food.
She was halfway through choking the food down when the door opened.
A guard stood in the frame, frowning.
“How’d you get out?” he asked flatly.
She looked at him and shrugged not answering his question. “You set the food too far away.”
He didn’t respond. Just nodded. “Noted.”
He waved her forward.
She stood, wiping her hands on her pants. “What now?”
They walked in silence down long metal corridors. Guards lined the walls, watching her with tight jaws and tight grips on their weapons.
“Nervous?” she asked with a crooked grin. “You need more guards to babysit me?”
“After your little escape stunt? Yeah. We’re not taking chances.”
They stopped in front of a wide steel door. It opened slowly, revealing a training room. Mats on the floor. teenagers standing in rows. And in the center—him.
He smiled when he saw her.
“We’ll be doing some training today,” he said. “Care to show the recruits how it’s done?”
“I’d love to,” she said with surprise calm in her voice.
She stepped onto the mat, expression unreadable. Someone whispered in the back.
A boy stepped forward, a cocky smirk plastered on his face.
“You think you’re gonna beat me?” he asked. “I’m undefeated.”
At that, Hannah burst out laughing. Full-body laughter that echoed off the walls.
“That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks,” she said between laughs. “I’ve taken down better with one finger.”
The boy didn’t like that. He lunged forward with a shout. She dodged. Easily. Effortlessly. Every punch and kick missed by a mile.
“So predictable.”
She caught his ankle mid-kick, twisted, and sent him crashing face-first into the mat.
Silence. Then clapping.
She turned toward the line of kids. “Who’s next?”
She pointed at a girl standing off to the side. “You. Come here.”
The girl approached nervously.
“Try to punch me.”
The girl hesitated, then tried.
Hannah dodged before the fist had even formed.
“Predictable.”
She looked back at the villain, her voice like ice.
“Do you have someone worth a real challenge?”
He said nothing, just waved a guard forward.
The man stepped onto the mat—and didn’t even have time to blink.
Hannah was on him.
A blur of fists, feet, and precision. She dropped him to the floor in less than ten seconds.
She turned away, chin high, a smirk tugging at her lips.
She had lost everything. Her freedom. Her comfort.
But they hadn’t taken her.

The next morning, the Chungpire gathered quietly in the living room, a hush settling over them like dust in the early light. No one spoke much—there wasn’t anything to say that hadn’t already been said a hundred different ways.
They were waiting on Jepex. Minute sat on the armrest of the couch, leg bouncing nervously. Mapicc paced near the windows. Clown had made coffee, but it sat untouched on the table, growing cold. There was no comfort to be found this morning.
Finally, Jepex emerged from the hallway, gear strapped and ready. Without a word, they all stood and made their way into the elevator, silent but united. The descent was slow, heavy, like the air itself was dragging them down.
When they reached the meeting floor, they took their usual seats around the long table. There were still a few empty chairs—some heroes hadn’t arrived yet—but Minute didn’t wait. He leaned forward, his voice steady but strained.
“Yesterday, while we were out on patrol…” he started, glancing briefly at Bacon, “…I remembered something. The day I came back to the tower—really came back—I passed a bakery. North of here. I stood there and saw the tower through the haze. It triggered something in me.”
The others leaned in. Minute pressed on, fingers tapping lightly against the table.
“We need to search that part of the city first. It’s possible there’s something hidden in plain sight—tunnels, old entrances, abandoned buildings… anything suspicious. We don’t leave it to chance.”
He looked up, eyes sharp. “And no one goes alone. Pair up. Watch each other’s backs. Whoever’s behind this isn’t playing games.”
What followed was hours of careful, meticulous planning. Maps were pulled up, routes drawn and redrawn. Everyone was involved—adjusting timetables, refining strategies, rerouting for safety. By the end, every hero had a partner, a route, a mission.
The tower, once a place of rest and laughter, was now humming with focused determination.
Some left immediately, heading into the city. Others stayed behind to rest or regroup. Bacon stood for a moment in the hallway after the meeting, watching everyone disperse. For the first time in days, he felt something close to hope. The whole team was in this. The entire tower was fighting for her.
They were going to get Hannah back.

“One by one,” the villain said, his voice low and smooth, like this was some kind of game. He stood off to the side, arms folded, watching Hannah with that detached amusement she’d grown to hate. “I want each of you to fight her.”
The line of teens standing across from her shifted uncomfortably, some puffing up with false confidence, others visibly nervous. Most looked around eighteen—young, raw, still full of ideas about glory and proving themselves.
Hannah didn’t move.
She stood in the middle of the training room, square stance, breathing even, eyes scanning each of them without a hint of fear. Her hair was tied back, her muscles coiled and ready, not because she wanted to fight—but because she didn’t have a choice.
The first one stepped forward. A tall boy, probably a little older than the others. He cracked his knuckles like it meant something.
He lunged.
Big mistake.
His footwork was sloppy. Wide stance. Too eager. She sidestepped his punch easily, caught his wrist mid-swing, and used his own momentum to throw him hard over her shoulder. He hit the ground with a sharp grunt, air rushing from his lungs.
Before he even processed what happened, she pressed her boot to his chest and shoved him back toward the line.
“Next,” she said, voice flat.
Another stepped forward. A girl with fire in her eyes. She didn’t wait—she charged, arms up, clearly trying to go for a takedown.
Hannah met her halfway.
She threw a jab, fast and precise—cracked the girl right in the nose. The sound was unmistakable. A sharp snap of cartilage. Blood gushed instantly. The girl staggered back, but Hannah wasn’t done. She swept her leg out and took the girl’s feet from under her, sending her to the mat with a thud.
Two down.
No celebration. No flair. Just cold, clean execution.
They kept coming. One by one. All full of fight and bravado. All using techniques someone else had drilled into them.
A punch from the left—Hannah blocked with her forearm and countered with an elbow to the jaw.
A kid tried to grab her—she spun out, hooked his ankle, and sent him sprawling.
Two came at once once—testing boundaries, probably trying to impress everybody else.
Hannah didn’t hesitate.
She ducked under a punch from the first, grabbed his uniform mid-spin, and used it to sling him directly into the second kid. Both collapsed in a tangled heap.
She never used more energy than necessary. No wasted motion. She didn’t need to show off. She needed to finish.
These weren’t fights. These were reminders.
She wasn’t some test subject. She was a survivor.
She moved with that unmistakable calm that only came from experience. Her fists knew where to land. Her feet knew when to shift. Her eyes read every twitch, every hesitation. Every single opponent telegraphed their moves, and Hannah picked them apart.
She’d fought real battles—against heroes twice her size, against villains with no rules and no mercy. She fought against the same people who taught these kids.
Now, she is back in this place. That caused that part of her brain that turned sharp and still, where pain became background noise and movement became instinct.
Time blurred.
Fifteen minutes turned into thirty. Then longer. Her arms burned. Her knuckles throbbed. Sweat slicked her back, dripping down her spine. But she didn’t falter. She was taught better.
The line of kids grew shorter.
The next one tried to fake her out with a high kick. She ducked, came up inside his reach, and slammed her palm into his chin.
A girl with short hair and fast feet danced around her, trying to stay out of reach. Hannah let her circle, let her think she had the upper hand. Then—when the girl blinked—Hannah shot forward, grabbed her arm, twisted it behind her back, and forced her to the ground with surgical precision.
The villain never stopped watching. No commentary. No reaction.
Just a quiet calculation.
Finally, only one was left. A shorter girl, all nerves and clenched fists. She stepped forward, visibly shaking. But she still came.
That, at least, Hannah respected.
Still, it didn’t matter.
The girl swung wildly—telegraphing the blow a mile away. Hannah caught the arm with one hand, swept her leg out with the other, and the girl crumpled. Hannah stepped over her, steady, heart pounding but eyes unreadable.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Hannah turned slowly and looked at the rest of them—bruised, bloodied, stunned.
She exhaled, finally, and spoke.
“You’re all so predictable,” she said, voice low and cold. “You fight the way they taught you. But you were all taught the same things.”
She scanned their faces. Some of them looked angry. Some were humiliated. Most just confused.
“I took down every one of you in seconds because I don’t just follow what I’ve learned. I adapt. I evolve. I fight for more than a gold star and praise.”
She turned her gaze to the villain.
“I fought to survive. You can’t teach that in a room like this.”
He tilted his head slightly, as if evaluating her like a weapon on a rack.
“Am I done being needed here?” she asked, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice.
There was a beat of silence before he finally gave a nod.
Hannah didn’t wait.
She turned and walked toward the exit, not limping, not dragging her feet, even though her entire body ached. A guard stood by the door, but she didn’t look at him. She just kept moving.
As she walked down the hallway, she kept her pace calm, but her mind was spinning. Memorizing doors. Counting steps. Taking note of cameras, flickering lights, vents.
Every detail mattered. Because one day soon, she wouldn’t be walking these halls with permission.
She’d be escaping them.
When she reached her room, the door slid shut behind her. She sank to the ground and laid flat, arms stretched out, chest rising and falling, her body trembling with exhaustion.
Around her, the guard’s voice filtered through the speakers.
“If I put the chain on… are you just gonna escape it?”
Eyes still closed, Hannah let out a breathless laugh. It was bitter, humorless.
“What do you think?” she whispered.
Silence.
Footsteps retreated.
And Hannah lay there, staring at the ceiling, blood on her knuckles, sweat on her skin, but something burning hotter than all of it in her chest.
She wasn’t done.
She was just beginning.
She thinks as she drifts asleep

She was surrounded—3 men loud and oblivious, just another blur in a city that never looked too closely.
Then, someone grabbed her wrist.
And she let them.
Inside, her mind clicked into gear. This was a mission. One she was meant to walk into. She remembered the files.
They had sent her because they knew she could do what others couldn’t.
Because she didn’t flinch when things got dark.
The man’s grip tightened, yanking her toward a black van waiting in the alley. Her wrists were tied—too tight, rough rope burning her skin—but she stayed silent. Still.
Three figures, all masked. Blank faces. Unreadable.
She was shoved into the van, landing hard on her side. Metal floor. Cold. The door slammed shut.
She waited.
The man beside her barely paid attention, lazily glancing her way between conversations. She watched his rhythm—his distractions. Waited for the lull.
Then—
Her wrists slipped free.
The rope burned as she wriggled out, but it didn’t matter. She reached into her sleeve, her fingers curling around cool steel. Her knife.
One breath.
One strike.
The blade slid up between ribs. A single gasp. No scream.
He dropped without a sound.
She didn’t hesitate.
Crawled to the front of the van—low, silent. The driver laughed at something, tapping on the wheel.
She reached forward and dragged the blade across his throat. Blood splashed on the dashboard.
The passenger turned, shouting—
She flung the knife.
It hit his heart. He crumpled.
Panting softly, she searched. Gloves kept her prints off everything. Pockets. Inner coats. Finally—files. Pages wrapped in plastic, drives tucked away.
Mission completed.
She opened the door and slipped into the dark.
The docks were silent. She waited behind a container, moonlight slicing shadows across the pier.
Footsteps approached.
She stepped out and whispered, “I got the files. No fingerprints.”
A woman nodded. The handoff was quick. No words exchanged.
Hannah climbed into the waiting car.
And her memory blurred into black.

Now, she stood in a corner of the training room that raised her. Concrete walls. Blood soaked mats. The scent of sweat and fear clinging to the air.
Children stood in a ring, small figures with blank eyes.
In the center—her younger self. Seven years old. Shoulders squared. Hands clenched. Not afraid.
Across from her—a boy nearly twice her age.
They were both armed.
Knives flew between them, glinting in the overhead light. A blur of motion and steel. Her younger self ducked low—one blade grazed her cheek, another embedded deep into her shoulder.
But she didn’t cry out.
Didn’t flinch.
She grabbed the handle. Blood ran down her arm as she tore the knife free—without hesitation—and threw it.
It struck the boy in the gut. He dropped.
The room didn’t applaud.
No praise. No comfort.
Just silence.
This was the world Hannah had grown up in. Where pain was normal. Where emotion was weakness. Where survival was the only reward.

She saw herself again—older now. Her footsteps were soft on the cold floor, her breathing measured.
No guards stopped her. Nobody had done what she was planning.
She was part of the background. Just another kid born inside these walls.
She reached her bedroom, closed the door, and quickly crouched beside the tile. Fingers slid under the edge and pried it loose. Inside—a tunnel. Narrow. Cramped.
She climbed in.
Pulled the panel back in place.
Darkness wrapped around her.
She crawled. Her elbows scraped against the walls. Her knees bruised. But she didn’t care. She had done this a hundred times before.
Dirt. Rust. Silence.
No one had told her to. No one even knew. But she did it every night.
Because one day… she would need to know how to escape.

Warm light filtered through broken windows of an old building, long since abandoned.
Hannah and Bacon sat on the floor, surrounded by junk food and empty soda bottles. A stack of forms sat between them.
Hero application paperwork.
She watched her past self glance over at Bacon—he was doodling on the side of his sheet, laughing to himself.
She laughed too.
It had been one of those rare days. No fear.
Just two kids. Dreaming about being something better.
Her past self reached for another form, hair falling in her face, and Bacon nudged her playfully with his shoulder.
She smiled as she watched it now, heart aching.
They didn’t know it then—but this was happiness.

She was older again—teenage Hannah, lying on her back in the bunk bed of her dorm room. Her hair was damp with sweat from training. Her knuckles bruised, skin torn at the edges.
She had beaten everyone.
In fights. In strategy tests. In courses built to break people.
And still… her heart felt heavy.
She stared at the ceiling, thoughts churning. Every mission she’d gone on. Every person she’d taken down. Every “accident” she knew hadn’t been one.
Her goal had always been clear: be the best. Not for the glory.
But to make sure no one else got hurt.
Not by her hands. Not by anyone else's.

Her graduation. The day she got her team
She stood stiffly beside four others, all chatting and celebrating.
And she was seething.
Bacon wasn’t next to her.
He’d been assigned to a different team.
She kept her arms crossed, jaw tight. The four beside her were already bonded—laughing like they belonged together. But Hannah stood apart.
Alone again.
She didn’t trust them.
Strangers always wore masks.
And she knew what people were capable of when no one was looking.

The memory shifted again.
Her new team. Her real team.
They were forming duos. Minute and Clown—already a terrifying pair. Jepex and Mapicc—close, loyal, solid.
And then her and Bacon.
She didn’t show how relieved she was.
Anytime someone approached, she automatically took her place behind Bacon—eyes narrowed, scanning every expression, every twitch.
Looking for lies.
Looking for threats.
She didn’t need to be told to protect him.
It was instinct.

Laughter rang through the apartment.
A strawberry cake sat on the table, frosting uneven but full of care. Hannah had made it herself.
Bacon unwrapped gifts, grinning ear to ear.
Minute and Clown handed him a shoebox—a pair he had been talking about.
Jepex and Mapicc’s gift—a bright pink unicorn plush—was met with dramatic eye rolls and laughter.
Then her gift.
“A book?” Bacon asked, eyebrows raised.
“Bro, open it,” Hannah smirked.
He did.
Inside—pages filled with photos.
Her and Bacon on their first mission. Their first Christmas as a team. A picture of a dog chasing him down the street, laughter frozen mid-motion.
Each photo was a piece of their life.
A piece she had fought to protect.
She stood behind him, watching his face.
Just needing to see him smile.

Silence.
The room smelled of antiseptic and metal.
She sat in the same chair she had been in for days, unmoving. Her hands were pale. Her shoulders hunched.
Bacon lay unconscious in the bed.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep.
She just sat.
The rest of the team had come and gone, trying to coax her out, trying to get her to rest. She ignored them.
Clown and Minute eventually had to drag her away. The whole way out she was fighting and screaming. She was too tired to win that fight.
That night, once the hallway lights dimmed and the last bedroom door clicked shut, she returned.
Sat beside him. Head bowed. Hand on the edge of the mattress.
She stayed until dawn.
And when Bacon finally opened his eyes, her tears came fast and hard—but silent.
When Mapicc found her asleep in the chair, cheeks stained and body leaned against the bed, he didn’t say a word.
He just pulled a blanket over her shoulders.

Hannah shot awake.
The concrete floor was cold against her spine. The room was dark.
Her chest heaved.
Every memory burned in her blood—her childhood, her missions, her team, her family.
And now… she was back where it had all started.
Trapped.
The sound of laughter, the warmth of cookies baking, the feeling of soil on her hands in the garden—gone.
All replaced cold. Concrete.
She curled in on herself.
Because the only thing worse than pain was the ache of being forgotten.
And she would not be forgotten.
Not by them.
Not by him.
Not by the world she had built with her bare hands.