Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city stretched far and wide, golden and shimmering in the early evening haze. Glass buildings caught the last rays of sunlight, throwing fractured reflections across the skyline. Below, glazed roads bustled with movement, rivers of people flowing through the heart of the metropolis. 

A sleek black car came to a smooth stop in front of a beautiful, fantastical building—The Seraphine. 

From the driver's seat a handsome man stepped out with composed elegance. He moved to the passenger side and opened the door, extending a gloved hand towards the man inside. 

"This is not necessary" Yuder said flatly, even as he accepted the hand. 

"Oh, believe me, it is" Kishiar replied, a teasing smile playing on his lips. 

After helping Yuder out, Kishiar handed the keys to the valet with a brief nod before turning back to Yuder with a softness reserved only for the man beside him, he offered his hand.

Without a word, they walked beneath the golden lights and through the grand entrance of The Seraphine. 

◇◇◇

The lobby of The Seraphine was a sight to behold—marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, gold accents dancing across the high ceilings, and a crystalline chandelier cascading light like falling stars. The quiet hum of classical music floated in the air, serene yet elegant.

Their boots made a soft sound on contact with the marble announcing their presence to the bustling palace. 

Yuder’s eyes swept the space as they stepped inside, automatically cataloging exits, cameras, and possible lines of sight. He didn’t look impressed, but Kishiar knew better. That tiny pause, the barely-there lift of his brow, betrayed it.

A suited staff member stepped forward with a smile practiced to perfection.

“Good evening, sirs. May I have your reservation name?”

“la Orr” Kishiar replied smoothly, his hand still resting lightly at Yuder’s lower back.

Recognition dawned instantly in the hostess’s eyes, but she said nothing more than a respectful, “Right this way, please.”

They moved through the opulent lobby, Yuder keeping pace beside him with the usual quiet wariness. 

"Tell me again why we are doing this" Yuder said flatly, eyes ahead, tone carefully blank. 

" Because I want to celebrate" Kishiar replied, pulling him slightly closer with the ease of someone who didn't need permission. 

A gentle smile tugged at his lips as his mind drifted— back to the morning, to the quiet revelation spoken in their bedroom, to the words that changed his life in a single breath. 

The bedroom had been unusually quiet that morning, the kind of stillness that made Kishiar glance over his shoulder more than once, instinct pricked by something unspoken.

Yuder stood by the window, arms crossed, a rare uncertainty in his posture. The sunlight touched his cheek, and Kishiar, still half-wrapped in their shared blanket, knew before Yuder even turned around.

Something was different. He had noticed it—of course he had. Yuder had been acting a little off these last few days, nothing overt, nothing careless, but Kishiar always noticed.

Yuder turned to him then, locking eyes with him, steady and serious. 

"I am pregnant" He said. 

Just like that. As if reporting the weather. But Kishiar saw it— the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the guarded hope behind it. 

Silence followed. Not from disbelief—but awe.

Kishiar had blinked, once. Twice. Then, slowly, wordlessy, he rose from the bed, his expression unreadable even to someone who had spent years learning him. 

“You’re... sure?” he’d asked, voice softer than usual.

“Yes," Yuder said simply."The medical reports came just now. ”

Kishiar reached him in three strides, fingertips brushing Yuder’s cheek like he couldn’t quite believe he was real. He didn’t smile, not immediately—just looked at him, red eyes filled with something raw and unfiltered.

Reverence. Disbelief. Wonder. 

Yuder had rarely seen it on his face.

His hands hovered at Yuder's face,almost trembling, as if he was afraid of touch him too firmly and somehow break something fragile. 

He continued to stare into Yuder's eyes, untill a smile found its way onto his lips—small, then wider, his eyes widening just a little gleaming with something fierce and bright.

A single tear escaped. 

Yured reached up, brushing it away with a soft, steady hand. A rare curve touched his lips, quiet and fond, watching as Kishiar la Orr—the man the world feared and followed—stood before him laughing through his tears. 

Remembering it now, Kishiar’s hand gently tightened at Yuder’s back.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration. He wouldn’t let anything ruin it.

They followed through a softly lit corridor lined with velvet drapes and tall vases of white lilies. The restaurant beyond was quiet and refined—round tables draped in ivory linen, flickering candlelight casting warm halos. Laughter and soft voices murmured through the air, but none of it touched the secluded section they were led toward.

Their table sat in a small semi-private alcove, shielded by artfully arranged panels and glass dividers that blurred everything but the light.

As Kishiar pulled out Yuder’s chair with smooth familiarity, the man gave him a brief glance, unimpressed.

“You’re being overly dramatic again.”

“I’m celebrating,” Kishiar said, settling into his own seat across from him. “Allow me at least this much.”

Yuder exhaled through his nose, glancing toward the waiter already approaching with menus and a wine list. The light caught on the gold buttons of Kishiar’s coat as he leaned slightly forward, glancing at the server.

“What do you recommend tonight?”

Yuder brushed over the menu with vague distraction, he wasn't focusing on the food. 

He was focused on the way Kishiar looked tonight—calm, poised, elegant in dark silk and tailored lines. There was something behind his smile. An unrestrained happiness, something he rarely shows in public, his eyes shined brighter than the lights around them. 

Something about that made Yuder's chest warm, a wave of overwhelming emotion he couldn't explain flooded his entire being. 

The waiter listed the house specials. Kishiar nodded along, eyes drifting back to Yuder with every pause. 

"Found something you like?" Kishiar asked gently. 

Yuder nodded, giving his order. Kishiar simply ordered the same. Yuder gave him a familiar unimpressed look. Kishiar, of course, only smiled wider. 

The waiter held back a grin at the exchange, then turned to leave with a polite nod. 

And then—

A sound. Sudden. Sharp. Like a snap cracking through glass. 

Then another.

And then—

screaming. 

Chapter Text

Distant gunshots cracked through the air like thunder.

Yuder and Kishiar reacted at once, instincts honed from entirely different lives aligning perfectly. Kishiar grabbed Yuder by the waist and pulled him closer, the linen-covered tablecloth falling like a curtain around them. Yuder’s hand flew protectively to his abdomen, the gesture instinctive and immediate.

The elegant hum of the restaurant erupted into chaos.

Waitstaff moved quickly—locking the grand entrance doors, lowering the lights, urging patrons to take cover under the tables. Heels clicked and skidded across polished marble. Glass clinked and shattered. Voices rose in fear.

“What’s happening?!” a man in a navy suit barked, eyes darting wildly as he half-stood from his hiding spot.

“Sir, please stay down,” a waitress hissed, helping an elderly woman duck beneath her chair. “Please. It's not safe!”

“I’m calling the police!” someone shouted from the back.

“There’s no signal!” another voice cried, waving their phone in frustration. “I can’t get through!”

“Why are they locking us in?! Who said to do that?! Where’s the manager?!”

The air was thick with panic. People crouched low, clutching their phones, whispering to each other in rising tones. Some sobbed quietly. Others shook in silence.

Yuder’s eyes scanned the space beneath the tablecloth, muscles coiled, senses sharp. His mind was already working. Calculating. Tracing exits. Clocking the distance to the kitchen door. But his hand—his hand remained firm against his stomach.

Kishiar noticed immediately.

And he cursed himself for forgetting. Even for a second.

Yuder wasn’t alone anymore.

He was pregnant.

And Kishiar had brought him here. To this place. To this chaos. All because he wanted one quiet night. One celebration, uninterrupted.

He had cleared an entire week of his schedule for this one night. Something no minister, executive, client, or head of state had ever managed to do.

His jaw clenched as guilt surged through him, sharp and bitter—but none of it showed on his face. Now wasn’t the time for emotion. He had to be calm. He had to think. For Yuder. For the child. He had to get them out.

He looked at Yuder again, eyes narrowing slightly, red irises gleaming even in the low light. His voice, when it came, was soft and precise.

“There are jammers,” he said. “That’s why no one can call out.”

Yuder gave a curt nod. “Planted in advance. This wasn’t random.”

Their eyes met. The weight of what that meant settled between them.

This wasn’t just a robbery.

This was something else.

◇◇◇

Outside the dining hall, chaos reigned.

What had once been a place of polished elegance now lay in ruin. The grand lobby—once echoing with soft footsteps, laughter, and music—had descended into a grotesque silence, broken only by the distant sounds of terror. The marble floor, once pristine and gleaming, was stained in red. Blood pooled where once only light had shimmered.

The attackers moved with brutal efficiency—door to door, knocking softly.

“Room service,” they called, mimicking calm, familiar tones.

And the moment the door opened, they shot without hesitation.

No warning. No chance to scream. No time to run.

People died without ever understanding what had happened—guests who’d come to celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, promotions, or just to indulge in one peaceful night away. All of it ended in a heartbeat, replaced by gunfire and collapsing bodies.

One moment, they held wine glasses and menus.

The next, they were face-to-face with death.

◇◇◇

The screams from the hallways grew distant for a moment, muffled by thick walls and heavy doors. But the dread they left behind seeped in like smoke—clinging to every breath, every heartbeat.

Inside the dining hall, the air was thick with fear.

Silverware lay scattered across linen-covered tables. Guests crouched beneath them, clutching at loved ones, muffling sobs, hands trembling around useless phones. The once-golden light of the chandelier now cast uneasy shadows, flickering with every movement, every held breath.

Yuder crouched low, his back pressed against Kishiar’s. His mind remained sharp, methodical—but every breath he took felt heavier than the last.

“I saw a staff door,” he whispered, barely audible. “To the left of the bar. Leads to the kitchen.”

Kishiar nodded, red eyes glinting in the dim light. “That’ll be our exit.”

Kishiar moved first, unfolding from beneath the table in one fluid motion. He didn’t rush—there was no panic in his steps, only purpose. With practiced ease, he extended a hand to Yuder and helped him up, his other arm instinctively steadying him at the waist.

“Sir, please—stay down!” The same waiter who had served them earlier whispered urgently, eyes wide, voice trembling with fear.

“We can’t,” Kishiar replied calmly, his tone a striking contrast to the chaos around them. “If we wait any longer, they’ll reach this room. We won’t have a chance to leave then.”

He didn’t argue further. There was no time for that.

Yuder’s gaze swept across the room with sharp precision. He wasn’t focused on the terrified guests or the waiter’s pleading—he was watching the space between the shadows, mapping the path to the staff door tucked behind the bar. Every step had to be silent. Every second, counted.

One hand hovered near his waist, ready to draw if needed. The other pressed firmly to his stomach—a protective gesture more instinct than thought. The stakes were no longer just survival.

Kishiar stepped forward, just enough to place himself in full view of the remaining guests. His presence, already magnetic, sharpened. The low lighting caught the gleam of his red eyes, steady and unshaken. The quiet murmur of panicked whispers faded as people instinctively turned toward him.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“If you stay here,” he said, voice calm and cutting through the silence like a blade, “you will die.”

Gasps rippled through the room, but Kishiar didn’t flinch. He gave them no comfort, no illusions.

“They are moving floor by floor. Room by room. This dining hall will not be ignored for long. Once they come, it will be too late to move. You must decide—right now—whether you want to survive.”

He let the words hang.

Some people looked away. Others stared at him with wide, tear-bright eyes.

“I’m leaving. And if anyone wants to live, you should follow.”

Then he turned, reaching for Yuder without looking, already set on the path ahead.

There was a long pause after Kishiar turned, a silence broken only by the muffled sobbing of someone in the far corner.

Some guests shifted nervously beneath their tables, eyes flicking between the gilded doors and the man who had just spoken like he held fate in his hands. A few looked toward the waiting staff, desperate for confirmation, some kind of assurance. But none came. The staff were just as frozen.

One man finally stood, his movements stiff. “Wait—wait, I want to go,” he said, voice trembling. “Can I… come with you?”

Kishiar didn’t stop walking. “If you can stay quiet and keep up.”

Others whispered frantically, torn between the safety of hiding and the terrifying risk of moving.

A woman clutched the hand of her daughter, shaking her head. “No, no, it’s safer here. We stay.”

Still, hesitation filled the air, thick and stifling.

Yuder pressed closer to Kishiar as they reached the edge of the hall. His eyes scanned the staff door across the room, calculating distance, obstacles, and visibility. His hand, still firm against his abdomen, tightened slightly.

“They’ll regret not following you,” he murmured under his breath.

Kishiar didn’t reply. His jaw was clenched tight, his expression unreadable—but Yuder could see the weight behind his eyes.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

They slipped into the shadows, aiming for the door the waiters had used moments ago.

Behind them, the dining hall was still full of whispers, still full of indecision.

And time was running out.

"Sir, please," a waitress blocked their path, desperation lacing her voice. "It’s too risky to go out now—"

"It’s even riskier to stay here," Yuder cut in, his voice calm but final.

No more words were exchanged.

Together, they moved toward the staff door. Kishiar reached for the handgun tucked inside his coat; Yuder’s fingers tightened around the slim dagger concealed at his side.

Kishiar took the lead, positioning himself protectively in front of Yuder. He eased the door open just enough to scan the hallway beyond—empty, quiet. Too quiet. No immediate signs of danger.

He nodded once. Tugging Yuder gently by the wrist, they stepped into the corridor.

Then—

A scream. High and sharp, slicing through the air.

It echoed down the long, cold hallway, followed by a fresh wave of screams from the dining hall behind them.

Kishiar reacted instantly, pushing Yuder back inside with one hand while drawing his weapon with the other, stance shifting into defense.

Silence fell again, eerie and absolute. No movement. No footsteps.

After a long, tense breath, Yuder moved first. Kishiar was right behind him, gun held low but ready, the other hand still steady at Yuder’s back.

The man who had wanted to follow stood frozen in fear, eyes wide, rooted to the floor.

The door closed behind them with a click that felt louder than it should have.

Now they were outside the dining hall—exposed, vulnerable, every shadow a potential threat.

One wrong step, one sound too loud, and it could all be over.

But neither of them had any intention of dying here tonight.

◇◇◇

They moved with military precision—no noise, no panic. Just quiet steps and sharp eyes.

Both had agreed to head upstairs. The gunfire and chaotic footsteps below made it clear: danger was closing in from the lower floors.

Yuder led, his movements calculated, checking every turn before advancing. Kishiar followed close behind, guarding his back, unwavering, the grip on his gun steady. Every breath, every footfall was measured—alert for any hint of movement, any shadow that didn’t belong.

By the time they reached the third floor, the dining hall was behind them. So far, no sign of the attackers. The hallway was still, too still, lined with closed doors and dim lights flickering above.

But Kishiar noticed something else.

Yuder’s pace was beginning to slow. Subtly—almost unnoticeably—but Kishiar always noticed. The way Yuder’s fingers brushed the railing a little longer than necessary. The slight lag in his breathing. Not enough to signal distress—but enough to make Kishiar’s eyes narrow.

Yuder’s steps were growing heavier. His posture straighter than it should’ve been—controlled. Forced.

They were only one floor above the dining hall now—just a single flight of stairs—but it was already enough to see the toll it was taking on Yuder.

Kishiar’s jaw tensed. Any more, and it would be pushing too far.

But not here. Not yet. One more floor—just one—and then they'd stop.

Kishiar said nothing at first, only moved closer.

“We stop at the next floor,” he whispered in Yuder’s ear—calm, quiet, and final. Not a suggestion. A decision.

Yuder didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence said enough. His instincts told him to keep going, but his body... his body wanted to rest. Just for a moment.

But there was no time to rest.

◇◇◇

They reached the fourth floor—silent, empty. A long corridor stretched ahead, lined with doors on either side. One quick scan, and both of them knew: no one else was here. Not yet.

Yuder pressed a hand against the wall for balance, just for a moment. His breathing had a faint tremble to it, shallow and quick. One hand clutched the dagger tightly—too tightly, trying to stop the slight tremor in his fingers—while the other drifted to his stomach, protective and instinctive.

A wave of dizziness hit him like a soft pulse. It passed, but not without leaving a heaviness behind.

Kishiar saw it all.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

He’s not okay. He can’t keep going.

With that quiet conclusion, Kishiar stepped in, steady hands catching Yuder as his balance faltered. He guided him gently upright, not making a show of it—just a natural movement, like it had always been his place to do so.

Yuder let himself lean into Kishiar’s side, just enough to ease the weight from his legs. His body screamed for movement, for safety, but it was also tired—tired in a way that didn’t show on the surface but was etched deep into his bones.

They needed to stop.

Now.

Kishiar led them to the nearest room—the door stood wide open, just like many others in the hallway.

They entered cautiously, weapons drawn, senses sharpened for any movement.

A woman lay just beyond the entrance, her body sprawled across the floor. Blood soaked the expensive carpet beneath her, staining it a dark red. Multiple bullets had torn through her chest; her eyes were still open, wide with fear that had never faded.

The sight was jarring—but there was no time to feel.

Kishiar tightened his grip on Yuder and guided him past the body, around the decorative partition that divided the sleeping area from the entrance. He brought Yuder down gently beside the bed, settling him on the floor, hidden from the doorway’s view.

The moment Yuder’s body touched the ground, his breathing hitched—shallow and fast. Tremors ran through his arms, faint but impossible to miss.

Kishiar dropped beside him at once, pulling him close. One hand came to rest firmly between Yuder’s shoulder blades, steadying him. The other covered Yuder’s hand where it pressed against his stomach.

“Are you okay, Yuder?” Kishiar’s voice was low, quiet—meant only for him.

“Are you in pain? Does anything hurt?”

His tone stayed gentle, but the edge beneath it was impossible to miss. Controlled urgency. Hidden fear.

He was holding it together on the outside—but Yuder could see it. Kishiar was unraveling beneath that calm exterior, blaming himself for every misstep. For bringing them here. For not insisting on more security. For letting this night ever happen.

Yuder forced himself to breathe slower. To push the panic down. His fingers stopped shaking—but only just.

He turned toward Kishiar, meeting his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said.

His voice was steady.

His hands, not so much.

Kishiar looked into Yuder’s eyes—and for a moment, he stilled. The tight coil of panic inside him loosened, just a little. His grip around Yuder didn’t falter, but his breaths came quieter, slower.

“They already cleared this floor,” Yuder said quietly, voice grave.

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

The open doors. The silence. The bodies.

They both understood what it meant.

The terrorists had been here.

And they had left no one alive.

Kishiar’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained composed. “Then we should be safe for a while.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he suppressed the weight of it—the sheer horror of knowing every room on this floor held stories that ended tonight in blood.

Yuder shifted slightly. “We can’t—”

He was cut off by a sound.

A cry.

Shrill. Fragile. Unmistakable.

A baby’s cry.

And in that moment, all calm shattered. 

Chapter Text

The sound was soft, fragile—and it shattered everything.

Both froze for a split second before springing into motion, instincts sharp as blades.

“There,” Yuder whispered, pointing to the slightly open door across the room—what looked like the bathroom.

Kishiar moved first, his hand brushing Yuder’s back in silent coordination as he pushed the door open just enough to slip through.

Their steps were silent.

Only the soft, fragile cries guided them.

Kishiar scanned the room, eyes sweeping over cold tiles and shadows until they landed on a bathrobe crumpled near the toilet—carelessly fallen, or so it seemed.

They moved quickly.

He crouched first, lifting the robe with care—and there, nestled beneath layers of fabric, was a baby.

Tiny.

Red-eyed.

His quiet sobs barely louder than a breath.

Kishiar reached down and gently picked him up, rocking him with careful hands.

Yuder crouched beside him, eyes immediately catching the pacifier still tangled in the child’s shirt. He pulled it free with steady fingers, checking it in one glance. It hadn’t touched the floor—just fallen onto the child’s blanket.

Without hesitation, he brought it to the baby’s mouth.

The cries faded into soft suckling sounds.

And for a heartbeat, silence returned—heavy, unnatural, sacred.

The soft suckling echoed gently off the cold tile walls, then faded into the shadows like a breath that didn’t quite make it home.

Yuder and Kishiar remained still, watching in silence.

Their thoughts drifted—inevitably—to the woman lying motionless at the entrance of the room.

The mother.

Not “probably.”

Definitely the mother.

She must have heard the gunshots. The screams.

Realized, in a single breathless moment, that it was too late to run. Too late to survive.

So she made a choice.

To save her child.

She acted fast—but not carelessly.

Wrapped the baby tightly in a small blanket to still his movements. Slipped the pacifier into his mouth to keep him quiet. Then placed him gently on the bathroom floor, hiding him beneath a fallen bathrobe—arranged just right.

Ordinary. Unremarkable. Just another piece of cloth on the ground.

She must have known what was coming.

Must have opened the door, knowing death stood waiting on the other side.

But she didn’t hesitate.

Because protecting him was the only thing left she could do.

They didn’t have the luxury to mourn.

The mother’s sacrifice lingered in their minds, but the moment offered no time for grief.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Fast. Drawing closer.

Yuder turned to move, to act—but Kishiar was already pressing the baby into his arms.

“Hide,” he whispered.

Just one word. Quiet. Firm. But it struck Yuder harder than any shout ever could.

He wanted to protest. To tell Kishiar to go instead. That he would stay and fight.

It had always been his role—to protect, to stand guard.

But his body... his body held another truth now.

The small life growing inside him pulsed like a reminder beneath his ribs.

He clenched his jaw, gave a single nod, and turned away. His arms curled protectively around the baby as he moved toward the shadows.

There was no time for pride. Only survival.

Kishiar tightened his grip on the gun and took position beside the door, his back pressed flat against the wall.

He raised the weapon, finger hovering over the trigger, every muscle taut with readiness.

His mind didn’t wander far—just to Yuder, crouched in the dark with their unborn child... and the baby he’d just held, still warm and trembling against his chest.

That warmth lingered on his skin like a silent vow.

He would protect them.

With everything he had.

Even if it meant killing.

He steadied his breath and waited.

Silence rang in his ears—heavy, absolute—before it was shattered by the sharp crack of gunfire.

The mother, he thought grimly.

He didn’t have to see it to know.

The attacker had shot the woman’s body again. Carelessly. Pointlessly.

Boots stomped against the floor—loud, confident, careless. No fear in those footsteps. No hesitation.

Why would there be?

They weren’t here to search.

They were here to kill.

Kishiar listened as the man stepped over the partition, pausing to scan the room. He moved without urgency—just a methodical sweep. One more room. One more task.

Then he turned to the bathroom.

The door was already ajar—but the attacker didn’t care. He raised his gun and kicked it open with a solid thud, firing inside without a second’s thought.

Kishiar held his ground.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

He knew Yuder and the baby were out of range. He had checked. Measured. Made sure.

But still—his body coiled.

His finger twitched on the trigger.

He nearly shot.

Nearly gave them away.

Only sheer control kept him still.

Inside the bathroom, Yuder pressed his back against the cold tile, every breath measured, every heartbeat pounding in his ears.

The baby stirred in his arms, flinching at the distant crack of gunfire. Without thinking, Yuder shifted his hand to gently cover the child’s mouth, mindful not to block his nose. Just enough pressure to quiet any sound. Any noise now could mean death.

His senses were razor-sharp, latching onto everything: the echo of boots in the hall, the soft shift of the blanket, the faint warmth pressed against his chest.

Nausea churned in his stomach again. His mind was fogging—spiraling.

He pulled the baby closer, both to shield him and to ground himself. To stay focused.

But it wasn’t just the noise outside that overwhelmed him.

It was the noise inside.

His thoughts wouldn’t stop.

This wasn’t his role.

He wasn’t the one who hid.

He was the one who protected.

Everything felt wrong.

How had he become this helpless? This slow? 

How could he let Kishiar face danger alone—while he crouched here, hiding?

He didn’t understand it.

The helplessness. The hesitation. The way his limbs felt heavy. Slower than usual. Not weak, but not like before.

How had his body changed so much, so quickly? How could a pregnancy—news he'd only learned hours ago—already make him this slow, this vulnerable?

And yet now, here he was.

Hiding.

Shaking.

Holding a child who had no idea the world outside this door was ending .

His thoughts spiraled, looping in frustration and guilt—until

Boom!

The bathroom door slammed open and the bursts of bullets shattered the air.

Yuder didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to.

Instead, he curled more tightly around the child, shielding his tiny body with his own. One hand remained pressed over the baby’s mouth. The other gripped the edge of the blanket, tucking it more securely between their bodies.

He didn’t breathe.

Didn’t move.

It was the child's weight against his chest—fragile, warm, real—that kept him from falling apart. 

“Why the hell are you wasting bullets?!” a voice barked from the hallway.

“I heard something—thought it was a child.”

“There’s nothing on this floor. I cleared it twice! We’re moving up!”

Footsteps pounded against the floor, then began to fade—retreating, growing quieter with each second.

Inside the bathroom, Kishiar remained pressed to the wall beside the door, gun still raised, body tensed like a drawn bowstring. He didn’t lower the weapon until silence returned, thick and absolute.

Only then did he exhale—slowly, carefully—as if the very sound might break the fragile calm.

Yuder shifted, peeling himself away from the wall. His hand loosened its protective hold over the baby’s mouth. The child didn’t cry—just suckled quietly on the pacifier, eyes wide and curious.

Kishiar approached, gun still in one hand, the other reaching out. His fingers brushed Yuder’s cheek gently, a brief touch of reassurance—then moved lower, trailing lightly to the baby’s soft face.

The infant blinked up at them, big eyes sparkling under the dim light. One small hand had slipped from the blanket and was now gripping the fabric of Yuder’s shirt with quiet insistence.

As if he understood.

As if he trusted him.

As if he was asking, "Will you protect me?"

The sight struck something deep inside Kishiar.

Yuder, still pale from exertion, still trembling faintly—but sitting upright, cradling a life smaller than his arm, shielding it with all he had.

This was the image that had lingered in Kishiar’s heart ever since he first learned Yuder was pregnant.

This quiet, powerful vision of the person he loved holding their child.

A glimpse of the future he’d begun to dream of—even in a world this broken.

Yuder broke the fragile silence, his voice low but firm.

“We need to leave.”

Kishiar nodded once.

“Yes.”

There was no hesitation.

The decision was made.

They couldn’t stay here anymore.

Yuder’s gaze flicked to the door. “They’re moving upstairs. We go down.”

Another nod.

It was decided.

Once again, they were stepping out into a hallway painted in blood and terror.

Neither of them asked if the baby was coming with them.

They didn’t need to.

The moment they heard that first cry, the answer had already been written—wordless but absolute.

This child was theirs now—claimed not by blood, but by choice. 

And no matter what came, they would protect him.

His mother’s sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain.

With that silent vow anchoring their steps, they moved.

Yuder gently shielded the baby’s eyes as they crossed the room, hiding the sight of the lifeless woman sprawled across the floor.

Kishiar moved in front of them, a protective arm outstretched, every muscle coiled, every step calculated.

Together, they left the room.

And together, they stepped back into the nightmare.

Her body lay behind, her sacrifice heavy in the silence—but the child she protected was alive, cradled in arms that would never let him fall.

Chapter Text

The hallway was quiet, but not silent.

Distant echoes of chaos still clung to the air like smoke—muffled by thick walls, but impossible to ignore.

Yuder adjusted the baby in his arms, wrapped snugly in the same blanket they had found him in. The infant slept on, pacifier still in place, his tiny breaths warm against Yuder’s chest.

Kishiar stepped beside him, one hand steady on his back, the other wrapped around the grip of his gun.

They moved together—silent, alert, and already exhausted.

At the far end of the hallway, half-hidden behind a curtain, was a smaller door. It was one used by hotel staff—designed for swift, unseen movement between service areas, storage, and kitchens.

Yuder reached it first. He turned the handle slowly, carefully, mindful of every sound.

The door gave way with a soft click.

They slipped through and entered a narrow corridor—clean, brightly lit, and unsettlingly empty.

Each footstep echoed, sharp and loud in the silence. The sterile walls made the quiet feel heavier somehow.

Kishiar closed the door behind them, locking it with a soft snap. The sound still echoed down the corridor like a warning.

Yuder exhaled and tightened his hold on the baby before stepping toward the small staircase at the end of the hall. Kishiar followed, close and watchful, his gun raised slightly, body poised to react at a moment’s notice.

They descended the stairs with silent steps, every creak and shift in the air sharp in their ears.

Kishiar kept a steadying hand on Yuder’s back—a quiet anchor—while his other held the gun, finger resting near the trigger. His eyes swept their surroundings, sharp and restless, ears straining for any sound that didn’t belong.

His breath thundered in his ears, heartbeat pressing against his ribs with every step.

His grip on the gun was too tight. His palms were damp with sweat, knuckles pale, but he didn’t loosen his hold.

He couldn’t.

Not when every breath Yuder took sounded carefully measured. Not when Kishiar could feel the tremors Yuder tried to suppress—every shallow exhale, every tightened muscle, every subtle wince that betrayed the strain on his body.

Kishiar’s mind narrowed around those signs, focused entirely on the man walking just a step ahead.

They emerged into a narrow hallway, dimly lit and cold. At the far end stood a large double door—sturdy, steel-reinforced, with another passage branching off to the side.

The moment they reached it, they noticed the lock.

Bolted from the inside.

Kishiar and Yuder exchanged a glance. Nothing needed to be said.

They already understood.

Yuder stepped forward, the baby still cradled securely in his arms, while Kishiar shifted into position beside him—watchful, tense, gun raised and ready.

Yuder knocked once. A single, soft knock.

But in the hush of the hallway, it echoed like a shot.

Kishiar’s grip tightened, gaze sweeping every corner, every shadow.

Behind him, another knock followed—quiet, careful, measured.

He didn’t turn, but a part of him was focused entirely on the one standing at his back. Listening for the breath. Watching for the slightest movement.

Ready to kill for him.

Inside the kitchen, silence clung to the air like dust—thick, unmoving.

People were huddled behind counters, beneath tables, crammed into corners where shadows stretched long. There were at least a dozen—maybe more. Some in chef uniforms, others in waitstaff attire, a few in fancy clothing. Survivors, all of them. Silent. Still.

The first knock had sent a ripple of fear through the room.

The head chef had immediately signaled for quiet, raising a trembling finger to his lips. Whispers stopped. Breathing grew shallow. Someone in the back whimpered, quickly muffled by the hand of a friend. A child clung tightly to their mother, small hands fisted in her dress.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

Then came a second knock—softer this time, followed by a voice.

Careful. Firm. Controlled.

“We’re not part of them. We’re guests… and we have a baby with us.”

A murmur spread, low and nervous.

“They could be lying,” someone hissed.

“It’s a trick. They know we’re in here.”

“They said a baby,” a woman whispered, eyes wide. “You think they’d use a baby as bait?”

“Who knows anymore?”

“Maybe they’re survivors like us—”

“Or maybe they’re just cleaning up loose ends.”

The head chef stood closest to the door, ear tilted toward the crack in the wood. He had heard the voice clearly—and something about it made his stomach twist. Not fear. But worry. Urgency.

Still… he hesitated.

Then another knock. And a different voice this time.

“Please open the door. We are not them.”

Lower. Calmer. But there was strain beneath it. A quiet kind of pleading.

The head chef stepped back and looked at the others.

“Bring the table,” he said in a whisper. “But don’t move it yet. Get the knife too. You”—he pointed at a junior cook—“stand beside the door. If anything moves that shouldn’t, you cut.”

The others stared.

“But, Chef—”

“I’ll open just a crack,” he said firmly. “One look. That’s all. If they lie, we close it and don’t speak again.”

“But if they’re lying, it’ll give away our position,” said a man in a once-fine suit, now wrinkled and sweat-stained.

“He’s right. Why would they wait for us to open the door fully? A small gap is enough for them to break in,” a woman added, her arms wrapped tightly around her daughter.

“But what if they’re telling the truth?” an older woman asked quietly. “Do we just leave them out there to die?”

“If they’re not, we all die,” the man snapped back.

The woman with the child didn’t speak again. She just held her daughter closer, torn. She wanted to believe the voice. Wanted to help. But what if it cost her the only thing she had left?

The argument was rising again when the head chef cut through the voices, stern and steady.

“I’m opening the door.”

Silence.

“If it’s someone who really needs help, we have to let them in. Just like I let you all in.”

Nobody argued this time.

Reluctantly, they nodded.

The room held its breath as the head chef stepped toward the door.

He nodded to the junior cook beside him, who gripped the knife tighter and positioned himself just off to the side—ready to strike if needed. A few others moved silently, pulling a small metal cart and a heavy bin closer, preparing to reinforce the door the moment it closed again.

One last glance around.

Then, with steady fingers, the chef unlocked the door.

It creaked open—not much. Just a sliver.

Enough.

Through the narrow gap, he saw them.

At first, his eyes landed on the young man standing protectively in front—tall, poised, a baby cradled to his chest, wrapped in blankets. But then another figure shifted into view behind him.

A sharp breath caught in the chef’s throat.

Golden hair.

Crimson eyes.

Even beneath the soot and shadow, that face was unmistakable—elegant, almost unreal. 

Sharp-eyed, with blood on his clothes and a gun in his hand—held low, not threatening. Alert. Calm. His free hand rested gently on the other man’s shoulder in a gesture that was both grounding and protective.

He said nothing.

But he moved quickly.

The head chef hesitated for only a heartbeat longer before pulling the door open—just enough for them to slip through.

“Hurry,” he whispered. “Before anyone sees.”

The man with the baby stepped in first, moving carefully to avoid disturbing the child. The taller man followed, eyes sweeping the kitchen in one quick, practiced scan—checking corners, shadows, exits.

The chef closed the door behind them with a firm click. Others rushed forward to drag the metal cart and bin back into place.

Stillness returned.

Yuder adjusted the blanket around the baby, his movements gentle. Kishiar stayed close behind him, lowering the gun but not holstering it.

The people in the kitchen stared.

Some with suspicion. Some with fear. A few with faint relief.

It didn’t last.

“He has a gun!” someone shouted.

Tension snapped.

The junior cook lunged forward, knife aimed for Kishiar’s side.

“Wait—!” Yuder moved without thinking, stepping between them. One hand caught the cook’s wrist mid-swing, the other tightened protectively around the baby.

“Don’t,” he hissed. “We’re not enemies.”

Kishiar didn’t flinch. He raised one hand, palm open, voice steady.

“My gun is registered. I’m not here to harm anyone. We’re just trying to survive.”

The head chef stepped in, placing a firm hand on the junior cook’s arm.

“Enough,” he said sharply. Then his eyes turned to Kishiar—and paused.

His gaze lingered. Recognition flickered.

“You’re... you're from Velarin, aren’t you?” he said quietly, not finishing the name—but saying just enough.

The chef had only glimpsed him once or twice before—at high-profile events, from afar, always surrounded by quiet respect and careful distance.

Kishiar didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

The chef’s expression shifted—recognition giving way to guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Truly. These last few hours... haven't given us much room for trust.”

Kishiar gave a short nod. “It’s alright. You were protecting your people.”

The chef turned to the rest of the room. “They’re not attackers. They’re survivors—like us. Stand down.”

The tension didn’t vanish, but it lessened. The room exhaled.

A mother loosened her grip on her daughter. A few guests exchanged murmurs, eyes drifting toward the bundle in Yuder’s arms.

Kishiar gently placed a hand on Yuder’s back and guided him toward the far end of the kitchen, behind a long stainless steel counter. They found a quieter corner away from the stares and hushed fear.

Yuder sank slowly to the ground, resting his back against the cool metal. The baby remained asleep, small chest rising and falling beneath the blanket. The pacifier bobbed gently with each breath.

Kishiar crouched beside him, one hand coming to rest just above Yuder’s abdomen—where their own child was growing, unseen but never forgotten.

Yuder let out a slow breath and leaned into him. His eyes fluttered shut, just for a moment.

And in that pause, that sliver of stillness—they let themselves feel the weight of survival.

Yuder let his body slide slowly to the floor, his back coming to rest against the cool steel of the counter.

The baby was still asleep in his arms, pacifier rising and falling with every quiet breath. Small. Light. And yet, his weight was beginning to wear on Yuder’s arms—his shoulders tightening, his forearms aching with the effort of holding perfectly still for so long.

It wasn’t the baby’s fault.

It wasn’t even the weight, really.

It was his body.

Off-balance in a way he couldn’t explain, like something inside him had shifted and never quite settled back. He adjusted the baby slightly, supporting the head with a careful hand, but the motion sent a dull throb down his spine.

Too much strain.

Too much tension.

Too little room to falter.

And then there was the air.

Yuder became acutely aware of it the longer he sat still—the warm press of bodies in the kitchen, the faint smells of fear-sweat, metal, dust, the sharp tang of cleaning solution, something burnt from the ovens... and under it all, food. Cold soup. Unwashed vegetables. A half-sliced onion somewhere near.

But beyond all of that, there were scents.

Not just smells.

Scent trails, layered and clinging—each one whispering identity, intention, emotion. Alpha. Omega. Beta. The room was filled with them. The heavy, nervous scent of panic-slicked Betas. The sharp edge of an unfamiliar Alpha’s presence from the other side of the room—trying not to dominate, but impossible to ignore. Even the delicate scent of an Omega shielding her child behind a steel cabinet, a sweetness turned sour by fear.

Yuder’s head swam.

Scents that once blended into background noise now hit like blunt force—too vivid, too distinct. Every inhale dragged nausea higher in his throat, twisting under his ribs.

It hadn’t bothered him before. Not like this. He had managed chaos before—airports packed with people, crowded conferences, tight security lines pulsing with tension. But this... this was different. Now, his body flinched before his mind caught up. Each breath dragged in too many scents, too much presence. Too close. Too loud. Too human.

He shifted the baby again, trying to ground himself with the child’s warmth. But the movement only sharpened the ache in his back and pulled on the nerves already frayed by scent overload.

His stomach turned.

He forced himself to stay still.

Nausea pulsed at the edges of his senses, not enough to double him over—but enough to make his jaw clench and his breath shorten. He closed his eyes briefly, grounding himself in the rhythm of the child’s breathing. Alive. Safe. Breathing. That was enough.

But the deeper he inhaled, the more he felt it—that quiet pull low in his abdomen, the tightness behind his ribs, the way his heartbeat sounded louder in his ears than it should’ve.

The physical toll was setting in.

Not sharp, not dangerous. But persistent. A warning whispered through muscle and bone.

Yuder shifted his grip again, subtly this time, trying not to wake the child. The motion sent a fresh wave of scent crashing into him from nearby—a blend of panic and suppressed aggression from someone across the room. Not directed at him, not yet. But loud. Overwhelming.

He breathed through it, jaw tight, eyes scanning the kitchen. No danger for now.

Kishiar sat beside him, knees drawn up, one hand resting lightly near his abdomen. His touch wasn’t heavy. Just there. A steady point of contact in a world that felt like it might tilt at any second.

Yuder didn’t lean into it—not quite. But he didn’t pull away either.

He stayed still.

Still, and quiet, and locked somewhere between exhaustion and responsibility.

He’d carried burdens before. More than most. But this felt different.

He wasn’t used to this kind of pressure—not this closeness, not this fear threaded through every movement. There was no itinerary here. No plan to follow. Just survival—and lives pressed too tightly against his own.

The child in his arms.

The one growing slowly inside.

And Kishiar.

Yuder glanced sideways—only briefly—but long enough to catch the way Kishiar’s eyes were on him, alert, assessing, unwavering.

There was worry there.

Of course there was.

Yuder looked away before it could sink in too deep.

He didn’t want to be seen like this. Not by Kishiar. Not like this.

But part of him—just a small part—was also glad.

Glad he didn’t have to be alone in it anymore.

Kishiar didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

His eyes remained fixed on Yuder—not in open concern, but in quiet surveillance, like a soldier keeping watch over a fire line that might break at any second.

His eyes flicked down briefly, catching the faint outline of the dagger still tucked beneath Yuder’s jacket. It hadn’t moved. It hadn’t been used. But knowing it was there—it said enough.

Yuder was holding up. He always did. But Kishiar saw it.

The slight tremble in his fingers each time he adjusted the child. The rigid set of his jaw as if locked into place by sheer will. The way his breathing had subtly changed—not labored, but shallower than before. Like his lungs were working harder just to stay steady.

And more than anything, it was his scent.

Kishiar’s instincts had been humming the moment they entered the kitchen. So many unfamiliar people, frightened and defensive. The air was thick with stress, panic, too many conflicting scents colliding all at once—some sharp and sour, others anxious and bitter.

Kishiar had filtered it out automatically.

But Yuder...

He could tell it was hitting Yuder differently. Too sharply. Too fully.

Omega senses—especially pregnant ones—had limits, and Yuder was pushing past his without complaint. As always.

Kishiar noticed the way his posture tightened every time someone passed too near. How his nose wrinkled subtly when the scent of fear or desperation crept too close. How his eyes never stopped moving, tracking even the smallest of shifts, like a trapped animal trying to predict which direction the next blow would come from.

And Kishiar hated it.

He hated how easily Yuder endured. How silently he suffered.

His instincts—sharpened by training, honed by experience, now tinged with something older, deeper—were in conflict.

One part of him told him to plan. Think. Prioritize. Keep their position secure. Watch for exits. Conserve energy. Stay cold, stay sharp.

But the other—

The other part raged every time Yuder shifted with quiet discomfort and said nothing.

That part of him wanted to act.

To pull the child from his arms and hold him instead.

To wrap Yuder in scent and warmth and tell him it was enough.

To force him to rest, to lie down, to stop pretending his body wasn’t screaming.

He moved carefully.

A hand reached out, gentle and steady, resting lightly on Yuder’s arm—not to take, not to demand, just to be there. A wordless message: I’m here. You’re not alone.

He watched Yuder flinch slightly—at the contact, or at the renewed weight in his arms, Kishiar couldn’t tell. The child was still sleeping, small fingers tangled in the fabric of Yuder’s shirt, his body curled close.

Kishiar’s gaze dropped to the baby’s face, so small and unaware of the war surrounding him.

This child.

Born into a moment of horror.

Carried now in the arms of someone barely standing.

For a breath, Kishiar lifted his hand slightly, fingers brushing the blanket. He wanted to take the child. His instincts screamed for it. To ease Yuder’s burden, even just a little. His arms ached to be useful in a way no gun ever could.

But then he saw it.

The way Yuder’s hands had clenched tighter.

The way his body leaned, ever so slightly, around the baby—like the child’s warmth was the only thing keeping him grounded.

And Kishiar understood.

The baby wasn’t just weight.

He was an anchor.

Something living, breathing, real—something to hold on to when everything else felt like slipping glass.

So Kishiar didn’t take him.

He adjusted his position instead, kneeling closer, his arm shifting subtly to support the baby's weight without fully removing it from Yuder’s hold. A shared burden now. Quiet. Steady.

And with his other hand, he rested his palm near Yuder’s abdomen—where their child was still growing, unseen but fiercely present.

He didn’t speak.

But he let his presence wrap around them both, silent and unmoving.

And when Yuder finally leaned—just a little, just enough—Kishiar closed his eyes for a second, the tightness in his chest easing by a fraction.

They were still surrounded by danger. Still trapped. Still carrying more than anyone should have to bear.

But for now, in this sliver of stillness, they were together.

And Kishiar would hold them both up—quietly, fiercely, without fail.

No matter what came next.

It wasn't peace. But it was a pause. And that had to be enough. 

Chapter Text

Yuder’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the blanket, adjusting the baby’s weight in his arms. The chaos had quieted, but the echoes still clung to his body—his shoulders sore from tension, breath caught just beneath his ribs. 

Around him, the kitchen had settled into uneasy silence. It was warm here, crowded and tight, but his thoughts were finally starting to clear. 

The nausea that had been simmering beneath his tongue was still there, but distant now—manageable. His heart was no longer racing, just beating steady, slow, familiar. The panic was over. He was still pregnant. Still in danger. But he was Yuder. And Yuder didn’t freeze.

He exhaled slowly, letting the breath drag through his lungs, steady and deep. His body still felt off—too sensitive, too tight—but he could finally think. 

The trembling in his fingers was gone. His mind began cataloguing facts automatically: number of people in the room, layout of exits, available light. The baby was stable, breathing slow and even. No visible injuries. He adjusted the swaddle slightly to check the child’s temperature with the back of his hand—warm, but not fevered. 

Good. 

The ache in his lower back flared again, sharp and low. He noted it, filed it away. That too, he would manage.

He couldn’t afford to ignore his body anymore. That was the first shift. Not weakness—just a recalibration. He was carrying life now. Every decision had to weigh that in, whether he liked it or not. 

He traced the pain low in his abdomen, the lingering nausea from earlier, the fatigue tucked deep in his bones. He wasn’t at his best. But he was still Yuder. And Yuder didn’t shut down. He adapted. The baby—both of them, the one in his arms and the one inside him—were non-negotiable variables. His strategy shifted accordingly. No reckless risks. No sudden moves. 

If they needed to escape again, he would need support. He would need Kishiar. His jaw set slightly, eyes sweeping the room once more with renewed focus. The haze was gone. But the mind remained. Sharpened now—not despite the burden he carried, but because of it.

Yuder's hold on the baby relaxed just a little—his posture still alert, but no longer frayed at the edges.

With quiet care, he adjusted the blanket, shifting the baby's position until it was both comfortable and secure, mindful not to place any pressure on the infant’s small frame.

Kishiar noticed the change immediately.

That subtle shift in Yuder's demeanor—still tense, still wary, but grounded now—was enough for Kishiar to finally let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He'd been worried—deeply, terribly worried—watching Yuder spiral, watching him retreat somewhere unreachable. But now, he was returning. Slowly. Surely.

It steadied something in Kishiar’s chest.

He shifted his focus inward, acknowledging what he had been suppressing until now: the fear. The helplessness. The way his instincts had nearly overridden logic.

But they couldn’t afford that—not here, not now.

The danger hadn’t passed. The nightmare wasn’t over.

And Kishiar had no intention of dying in this hotel—

Not when he and Yuder still had a child to welcome into the world.

Kishiar let the quiet settle around him as his mind turned.

The rush of adrenaline had begun to fade, leaving behind a sharp clarity that cut through the fog of panic. He shifted slightly, keeping one eye on the closed door, the other on Yuder—now seated more securely, the baby nestled against his chest, breathing slow and even.

Good. That was good.

But comfort was a luxury they couldn’t afford for long.

He drew in a breath, counting it as he exhaled—slow and deliberate. Then again. Not to calm himself, but to reset. Assess. Plan.

How much time had passed since the attack began?

Thirty minutes? Forty?

They had fled the dining hall, taken back hallways, avoided gunfire—somewhere in that blur, time had lost shape. He glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist. It had stopped, broken during the chaos. That wasn’t helpful.

But the situation was clear enough without it.

The hotel hadn’t been fully evacuated. There were still guests trapped, staff hiding. And the attackers—whoever they were—had been methodical, merciless. Professional. They moved like people who had planned this for a long time.

Which meant they wouldn’t stop at the upper floors.

They’d sweep the service corridors, the kitchens, every inch of the building.

Which meant this shelter—quiet and hidden though it was—would not stay safe for long.

Kishiar’s eyes swept the kitchen again. No other exits in sight except the one they’d come through. Too many people. Too few weapons. He had a gun. Yuder had a knife. And between them, two lives to protect that couldn’t defend themselves.

He couldn’t afford mistakes.

His jaw tightened. His thoughts sharpened.

They would need to move soon.

And whatever plan they made—

It had to work.

Kishiar was mid-thought when he sensed movement ahead. His body reacted before his mind could fully catch up.

In one smooth motion, he rose from his crouch beside Yuder and stepped forward, positioning himself protectively between the approaching figure and the small space they occupied. His grip on the gun tightened, eyes narrowing, finger resting against the trigger guard.

A woman stood a few steps away, halted mid-step. From behind the folds of her skirt, a small girl peeked out, wide-eyed and silent.

The woman’s eyes darted to Kishiar’s drawn weapon, and she raised both hands in a slow, open gesture of peace. “It’s alright,” she said softly. “I’m not here to harm anyone. I brought water.”

Behind him, Yuder didn’t speak. He stayed seated, the baby secure in his arms, but his hand drifted to where the dagger was hidden beneath his coat—a quiet, practiced motion. He hadn’t seen the woman yet, but Kishiar’s sudden shift had been enough to set his senses on edge.

Kishiar studied the woman and child for a breath longer. No visible weapons. No hostile intent. Only fear, exhaustion—and something gentler, something hesitant.

He exhaled, low and controlled, then lowered his gun slightly. His posture eased, just a little. Enough to signal restraint without surrender.

Stepping aside, he allowed Yuder a clear line of sight to the woman and child—but not without keeping himself slightly between them still.

The little girl peeked out from behind her mother’s skirt, curiosity shining in her wide eyes.

Now that Kishiar had stepped aside, she could finally see the figure that had been mostly hidden behind him before—Yuder, seated on the floor, cradling something small and bundled close to his chest. Her eyes widened when she caught a glimpse of the baby, just a sliver of a round face and a tiny hand curled against the blanket.

She had never seen a baby so small before. She leaned a little forward. Then a bit more. Her head tilted, trying to get a better look.

Yuder noticed her movement and glanced at Kishiar beside him. Kishiar, already attuned to the shift in Yuder’s gaze, followed the silent signal and turned his head.

The girl froze for a moment when their eyes met.

“Do you want to see the baby?” Kishiar asked gently, his voice quiet, almost coaxing.

The little girl startled, her shoulders jumping as she ducked back behind her mother, pressing her face into her leg.

The woman looked down at her daughter and smiled softly. “It’s okay,” she said, voice warm. “He was just asking. If you want to see the baby, you can. Just ask nicely.”

The girl looked up at her with uncertain eyes, then turned to glance at Yuder and Kishiar again. Kishiar had remained crouched beside Yuder, one hand resting near his knee, a patient smile on his face.

“You’re alright,” her mother murmured, brushing the girl’s hair behind her ear. “Go on.”

After a long pause, the child shifted her feet and turned to face them fully. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.

“C-Can I see the baby... please?”

Yuder didn’t speak. He just nodded once, slow and calm.

Kishiar extended a hand toward her. “Come here. We’ll be careful not to wake him.”

The little girl hesitated for just a heartbeat before looking at her mother again. The woman nodded encouragingly.

So she stepped forward and placed her tiny hand into Kishiar’s, letting him guide her forward. She walked carefully, her shoes barely making a sound against the floor.

Kishiar brought her closer, moving slowly so she wouldn’t feel overwhelmed. When they reached Yuder, he stopped a step away.

Yuder adjusted the baby in his arms slightly, shifting the blanket to reveal more of the infant’s face without letting the cold air reach him. The baby was still sleeping, soft breaths warming the fabric of Yuder’s shirt, his pacifier bobbing with each breath.

The girl leaned in a little, eyes wide.

“He’s so small...” she breathed.

Yuder nodded faintly. “He is.”

“Is he... sleeping?”

“Yes,” Kishiar answered. “He’s tired. Just like the rest of us.”

The girl stared in silent awe for a long moment, her hands clasped in front of her. “He’s really cute.”

Yuder’s expression didn’t shift much, but there was a subtle softening around his eyes as he said quietly, “He’s strong, too.”

The girl smiled, then took a careful step back, sensing that she shouldn’t linger too long.

“Thank you for letting me see him,” she said politely.

“You’re welcome,” Kishiar replied. “You were very gentle.”

The girl beamed at that and ran back to her mother, who crouched down to embrace her, murmuring something too low to hear.

Kishiar sat back down beside Yuder, his expression calm once more.

He turned as the woman approached again—slower this time, more cautious, her daughter tucked safely by her side.

“I apologize,” he said quietly, sincerity lacing every word. “For earlier. I… reacted on instinct.”

She paused, then offered a tired but gentle smile. “You were protecting your family. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Her gaze lifted to him, then drifted to her child, who lingered near her skirt. She gently brushed her fingers through the girl’s hair in a soothing rhythm before speaking again, softer now.

“It’s me who should be sorry,” she murmured. Her eyes shifted toward Yuder and the baby, then back to Kishiar. “I was one of the people who said we shouldn’t open the door… even after you said there was a child with you.”

She lowered her gaze, voice barely above a whisper.

“I kept thinking… what if it was a trick? What if I opened the door and put my little girl in danger?”

Her hand settled protectively on her daughter’s shoulder. The child looked up at her, then leaned in closer without a word.

“I don’t regret protecting her,” the woman continued, “but… knowing you were out there, with a baby, asking for help… and I still—” She stopped herself with a breath. “I was scared.”

Kishiar didn’t interrupt. He simply nodded, calm and steady. “You did what any parent would.”

The woman glanced at Yuder, who sat quietly with the baby bundled close to his chest. After a beat of silence, she hesitated.

“May I sit? I won’t come too close.”

Yuder met her eyes, calm and unreadable, and gave a small nod.

She moved carefully, each step deliberate, as though weighed down by something more than fatigue. Her daughter clung to her hand as she knelt beside them—close, but not intruding. One arm wrapped instinctively around the girl, protective even now. Her other hand rested on the child’s back, fingers spread wide, a shield both gentle and unwavering.

Her gaze settled on the sleeping baby.

“I remember you both from the dining hall,” she said after a moment. “You were sitting near the windows, weren’t you?”

Kishiar nodded. “Yes.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips. “My daughter kept looking your way. Said your hair was like sunlight.”

“Mama…” the girl whispered, peeking up at her with embarrassed eyes.

Kishiar blinked, then chuckled softly. “She has a sharp eye. She’s not wrong.”

The woman smiled again, but her eyes were more distant now, looking inward.

“I also remember you both from just before everything… fell apart,” she added, quieter. “You told us to leave. You warned us.”

She looked between them, her gaze lingering briefly on Yuder.

“I remember your voice—firm, clear. And the way he stood beside you,” she nodded toward him.

Her hand dropped again to her daughter’s shoulder, grounding herself.

“But we didn’t move. Most of us didn’t. We thought it was safer to stay. I thought… I had to stay. For her.”

She paused, guilt creeping into her voice like a shadow.

“And then they broke down the doors. Started shooting. All I could think was, ‘They warned us. And I didn’t listen.’”

Yuder’s fingers tightened slightly around the baby. He didn’t speak, but his expression shifted—his shoulders drawing inward, not visibly, but enough for Kishiar to notice.

Because they had warned them.

And then left.

They had taken a different hallway, followed a gut instinct, and survived—while others had stayed and died. While this woman and her child had barely made it.

Kishiar’s jaw tensed. The memory of shouting at the guests, telling them to move, telling them they had no time—it came back like a knife. And with it, the bitter weight of knowing that not everyone had made it out.

“None of this is your fault,” he said, voice quieter now, but still steady. “You did what you could.”

The woman nodded slowly but didn’t quite seem convinced. Her gaze dropped once more to the baby in Yuder’s arms.

“I didn’t see him in the hall…” she murmured. “You must’ve hidden him well.”

Yuder looked at her for a moment, expression still guarded, but not cold.

“He wasn’t with us then,” he said simply. “We found him… on the way.”

Her brows lifted, a flicker of disbelief flashing across her face.

“You stopped… to take a child with you?”

“There was no one else,” Yuder answered.

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

The silence that followed was heavy. Not awkward—just full. The woman looked at the baby again, then at Yuder’s quiet stillness, and the way Kishiar stayed close without hovering, his presence calm but alert. Her throat tightened.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Kishiar offered a quiet smile, one laced with understanding and something softer.

“It’s all right.”

She exhaled, drawing her daughter a little closer. The girl didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were fixed on the baby, fascination slowly replacing the earlier fear.

“May I…?” she asked gently, eyes on the bundle in Yuder’s arms.

Yuder adjusted the baby slightly, tilting him just enough for her to see better.

The girl’s breath caught. “He’s so tiny…”

Kishiar smiled. “You were even smaller once.”

“Really?” she looked up at him, then leaned in again with awe.

The woman watched them all—watched her daughter’s wonder, the quiet tenderness between two strangers and a child that wasn’t even theirs. She watched how they moved together, speaking in glances, never needing to fill the silence. And her eyes lingered—just briefly—on Yuder’s hand resting near his abdomen, protectively, instinctively.

She didn’t ask.

She only smiled—tired and gentle—and let the moment stay as it was: fragile, human, and still somehow full of hope.

The quiet was broken by the soft shuffle of footsteps against the tiled floor.

An older woman, hunched with age but moving with steady purpose, stepped out from behind a shelf stacked with crates. A thick woolen shawl draped her narrow shoulders, and her pace was slow but sure. Walking half a step behind her was a teenage boy—perhaps fifteen or sixteen—taller than her but unmistakably her shadow. His clothes were wrinkled, posture protective, one hand hovering near her arm as if ready to catch her at the first sign of imbalance.

She didn’t speak right away, merely approached with the casual authority of someone long accustomed to moving through busy kitchens and heavy silences. The boy cast a wary glance toward Kishiar’s sidearm but didn’t flinch—just stayed close, alert.

She stopped a few paces from where Yuder and Kishiar sat. Her sharp gaze immediately honed in on the bundle resting against Yuder’s chest.

“Is that a baby?” she asked bluntly, her voice gravelly with age but anything but weak.

Kishiar rose slightly, alert, but the boy beside her quickly held up both hands.

“It’s okay,” he said. “She’s harmless. Just... curious. And, um—very opinionated.”

“Quiet, boy,” she huffed, brushing him aside with a firm but fond shove before turning back to Yuder. “You’re holding him like he’s made of glass and fire both. That’s no way to carry a child.”

Yuder blinked, caught off guard.

“I—he’s secure,” he said evenly. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“Hurt him?” she scoffed. “At this rate, you’ll fold him like laundry. No wonder he looks like a bundled dumpling.”

“Grandma,” the boy groaned behind her. “He looks fine. He’s asleep, right?”

“Sleeping because babies are forgiving,” she snapped. “I’m the one who taught your parents how to hold you, remember? You screamed like a banshee for three hours until your father realized your neck wasn’t a decoration.”

Without waiting for permission, she stepped closer and reached out, her hands practiced and sure as she adjusted the shawl supporting the infant. “There. Not so tight across the back. Let the little one breathe. And always support the neck.”

Yuder watched her in silence, then offered a quiet “…Thank you.”

She clicked her tongue. “Blankets are all well and good, but it’s arms and instinct that keep babies safe.”

With a final tug, she stepped back and nodded with approval. “There. Now he won’t end up with a crooked spine or be smothered to death.”

Then her gaze swung sharply to Kishiar.

“Oi, you! The tall one with the worried face!”

Kishiar blinked, unsure whether to feel alarmed or amused.

“What kind of alpha lets his partner sit there with a baby and no proper cover?” she demanded. “He’s freezing! Look at him!”

Kishiar opened his mouth. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

The woman with the daughter, seated nearby, bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. Her eyes sparkled as she glanced between Kishiar’s stunned expression and the old woman’s unwavering scowl.

“You heard me,” the old woman continued. “Standing there in your fancy coat while your partner and chid are shivering under a strip of cloth.”

The teenager groaned. “Oh no. It’s happening again.”

“You’re lucky that baby hasn’t caught a chill,” the old woman muttered, already unwinding her thick shawl. “Don’t just stand there looking pretty—wrap them up properly before someone sneezes.”

“Grandma…”

“What? You think babies grow fur in winter?”

He sighed and stepped aside, long since resigned.

Yuder raised a hand. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” she replied flatly, handing the shawl to Kishiar. “He needs it more than I do. I’ve seen enough winters to last two lifetimes. He’s just starting.”

Kishiar accepted the shawl carefully, his voice quiet. “Thank you.”

The teenage boy gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry about her. She’s been scolding people nonstop since we got here.”

“I have not,” the woman snapped. “I’ve been advising. Which is what elders are meant to do, if this world hasn’t forgotten.”

Yuder, silent until now, looked at the shawl resting across his lap. “…Would it be safe to tie him to me with this?” he asked softly, his fingers lightly stroking the infant’s back. “I could keep my hands free that way.”

The old woman beamed like a general being asked for battle plans. “Finally, someone who asks first. Yes, it’s a good idea. Just tie it right—snug but not tight. Keep his head supported and give him room to breathe.”

Kishiar crouched again, fingers brushing Yuder’s. “Is it really safe?” he asked, glancing at the baby. “He’s so small… what if it’s too much?”

The old woman groaned. “You are hopeless. Babies aren’t porcelain—they’re tougher than most men I know.”

“They’re new,” the woman with the daughter added with a kind smile, nudging her own child closer. “They’ll figure it out.”

“Better do it quickly,” the old lady muttered. “There’s chaos outside and chaos in here. You need to hold that baby like you mean it—not like you’re delivering a cursed scroll.”

The teenager leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the child. “But seriously… he’s so small. What if he breaks or something?”

“Stars help me,” the old woman groaned. “Babies are squishier than bread dough and stronger than steel. You were dropped on your head at three days old and turned out mostly fine.”

“Mostly?” the boy echoed, horrified.

Kishiar smothered a laugh. “Permission to laugh?”

“Denied,” Yuder said without looking up.

Following the old woman’s brisk instructions, Kishiar helped tie the shawl around Yuder, securing the baby snugly to his chest. The infant shifted slightly but remained asleep, breathing soft and even.

“…This is better,” Yuder murmured, testing the knot. “Much better.”

The old woman studied him with a squint. “It’ll do. Still needs practice.”

Then she turned with a grunt. “Bring me a crate. These knees aren't built for heroic standing, they are about to stage a rebellion.”

Her grandson sighed but fetched a crate anyway, placing it down with practiced resignation.

As she settled onto it, Kishiar offered a quiet bow. “Thank you. For everything.”

She waved him off. “Don’t waste bows on me, boy. Save your energy.”

Kishiar nodded. “We’ll make sure he’s safe.”

“You’d better,” she said with a sniff. “That’s my favorite shawl you’re wearing. I didn’t give it away to see you fumble with it.”

The boy leaned over to Kishiar and whispered, “That shawl’s older than me. She must really like your baby.”

The old woman’s gaze shifted toward the door, her expression sobering.

“This quiet won’t last,” she said. “Whatever those people out there are—terrorists, lunatics, demons in fine suits—they’re not done.”

Her grandson's shoulders stiffened beside her.

“We’re all just waiting now,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Waiting to be rescued… or found. And I don’t know which one will come first.”

The circle fell quiet again.

But it was no longer a cold silence.