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The heavy metal door slammed shut behind you with a resounding clang that echoed down the empty hallway, sealing you inside the cluttered common room. The sound still hung in the air when Enjin’s voice cut through from the other side, muffled but unmistakably sharp.
“Don’t break anything!” A brief pause, then louder: “And don’t let the kids break anything either!”
His boots thudded away, growing fainter until silence swallowed them.
You stood motionless for a moment, arms crossed tightly over your chest, staring at the scarred surface of the door as though it might offer an explanation. Across the room, Zanka mirrored your posture, jaw clenched, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket, expression carved from stone. Neither of you spoke.
The space around you buzzed with restless energy. Younger Givers, none older than twelve, filled the room with small, chaotic sounds. Chalk scraped rhythmically against the cracked concrete floor as one child hunched over a sprawling, multicolored drawing. Empty tin cans clinked and rattled as another balanced them into a precarious tower, tongue poking out in concentration. In the far corner, two more argued in shrill whispers over a jagged shard of glass they’d scavenged, their voices rising and falling like squabbling birds.
You exchanged a single glance with Zanka. His dark eyes met yours, flat and unimpressed. The age gap between you two and the rest of the room felt suddenly vast, almost comical.
With a slow exhale, you rubbed the back of your neck. The gold bangles encircling your wrist shifted with the motion, cool metal sliding against warm skin and catching the dim overhead light in brief, liquid flashes.
Zanka’s gaze flicked to them, quick, then lingering. He’d noticed the bracelets earlier, but now, up close, he could see the careful polish, the subtle weight, the way they seemed almost alive against your skin. Vital Instrument. He knew what they became. He forced his eyes away.
One of the smaller kids had started scaling a rickety wooden chair, tiny sneakers scrabbling for purchase. You stepped forward without raising your voice.
“Hey.”
The child froze mid-climb, wide-eyed.
“Chair legs break easy.”
Slowly, sheepishly, they slid back down. Crisis averted in four calm words.
Zanka lifted an eyebrow, a silent question.
You turned back to him and shrugged one shoulder. “So. Guess we’re babysitting.”
He huffed through his nose. “Not my idea.”
“Same.”
Another beat of quiet stretched between you. You tilted your head, studying him openly, curious rather than wary. Zanka, from Akuta’s team. The loud one. The violent one. The one Enjin had half-dragged into the Cleaners. He’d braced for annoyance, intimidation, maybe even fear.
Instead your expression held only mild interest, and somehow that unsettled him more.
You extended your hand. “I’m seventeen. Figured I should lead with that since we’re apparently coworkers now.”
He stared at your open palm for half a second before gripping it. His hold was firm, callused. Yours was warm.
“Zanka,” he muttered, releasing you a fraction too quickly.
A sudden yell shattered the moment. The can tower had collapsed in a metallic clatter; accusations flew between the two architects. You sighed.
“Five minutes,” you said under your breath.
Zanka snorted. “Optimistic.”
You crossed the room and crouched between the squabbling pair without a hint of scolding in your posture. Instead you asked, voice low and even, “What happened?”
They both launched into overlapping explanations. You listened, really listened, head tilted, expression patient. When they ran out of breath you pointed at the scattered cans.
“Rebuild it together. You knocked it over together.”
A small lie, but their eyes met, considered, accepted. Within moments they were stacking again, cooperation replacing combat.
Zanka watched the entire exchange without blinking.
You rose, brushing fine dust from your palms, and returned to where he stood. He looked away the instant your eyes found him, as though he hadn’t been staring.
“You’re good with them,” he muttered, almost against his will.
You lifted one shoulder. “Someone’s gotta be.”
You hopped lightly onto the edge of a sturdy metal table. The bangles clinked together like soft chimes. Up close now, Zanka registered more details he hadn’t meant to catalog: the way loose strands of your hair slipped forward when you leaned, brushing your cheek; the faint pale scratch across one knuckle; the warm contrast of gold against your skin.
He knew those bangles became chakram. Lethal, spinning rings of metal. He tried, and failed, to picture you hurling them across a battlefield. You looked… not soft, exactly. Just quieter. Less like destruction made flesh.
You caught him looking this time.
“You okay?”
He straightened instantly. “Yeah.”
A pause.
“Your instrument,” he said, nodding toward your wrist.
You glanced down, rotated your hand so the gold caught the light again. “Chakram. They come back.” A small, wry curve of your lips. “Usually.”
“Usually?”
“Depends how hard I throw them.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a laugh. Almost.
A child streaked past you both, shrieking about a dragon drawing that now needed to breathe fire. You twisted to call over your shoulder, voice carrying easily, “Make sure the dragon doesn’t eat the building!”
“Okay!”
Zanka watched the exchange, then looked back at you. “You don’t act like a Cleaner.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Most of us are idiots.”
That pulled a real laugh from you, quiet, surprised. “That part sounds accurate.”
He let out a short, involuntary huff of amusement before he could stop it. The sound startled both of you.
You grinned. “See. You can smile.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Did not.”
You leaned back on your hands, bangles sliding down your wrist again with a musical clink. “Why’d Enjin bring you in?”
“Punch things.”
“Valid.” You paused. “What about you?”
“Tamsy.”
Simple. Sufficient. Zanka nodded; he’d already pieced that together. Everyone knew Tamsy had pulled you into team Eager.
“You close with him?”
“Yeah.” Your voice softened, edges blurring. “He found me first.”
Zanka filed the quiet reverence in your tone away like evidence.
Across the room a child tripped, arms windmilling. You were on your feet in an instant, catching them gently before they hit the ground. The kid clung to your sleeve for a heartbeat, wide-eyed.
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” you murmured, guiding them back to the others with a steady hand on their shoulder.
When you returned to the table Zanka was still watching.
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He crossed his arms tighter. “You talk too much.”
“Someone has to. You’re quiet.”
“I’m not quiet.”
“You are right now.”
He had no rebuttal.
The dragon drawing had evolved into a full-scale war against the can tower. You glanced over and hopped down. Zanka followed without thinking.
“Alright,” you said to the artists and builders. “Dragon gets its own city.” You pointed to a clear patch of floor. “Tower stays here.”
They considered, then agreed like diplomats sealing a treaty.
Zanka leaned in slightly. “You do this a lot?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why.”
You shrugged. “Someone helped me when I was little.”
The words lingered, heavy with unspoken history.
A few minutes ticked by in relative calm. The kids stayed occupied; the room’s energy ebbed to a low hum.
You sat back on the table. Zanka leaned against the wall nearby.
“Hey, Zanka.”
“What.”
“Do you always look like you’re about to fight someone?”
“That’s my face.”
You studied him. “You’re actually nice.”
He choked. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I literally punch people for a living.”
“Still nice.”
He glared. You smiled, then said the thing that short-circuited his thoughts entirely.
“You should train with me sometime.”
He blinked. “What.”
You gestured to the bangles. “I wanna see how fast you are.”
Casual. Like asking for the time. Heat crept up the back of his neck.
“You just met me.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“You’re interesting.”
The word landed heavier than any insult ever had. Interesting. Not loud, not reckless, not violent. Interesting.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe.”
Your grin widened. “Cool.”
The door suddenly slammed open. Enjin and Tamsy strode in, laughing about some shared joke. The kids swarmed them instantly, chaos reigniting in a whirlwind of small bodies and excited voices.
Tamsy scanned the room, eyes landing on you. “You alive?”
“Barely.”
“Good.”
Then he noticed you and Zanka standing close, talking. A smirk tugged at his mouth.
Enjin noticed too. “Oh look,” he said loudly. “They didn’t kill each other.”
Zanka groaned.
You laughed.
Tamsy walked over and ruffled your hair briefly. “You behaved, little one?”
Your eyes narrowed, but you didn’t protest. “Mostly.”
He nodded, then looked at Zanka. “Did they cause trouble?”
Zanka glanced at you, you were smiling at one of the kids again. He looked away. “No.”
Tamsy raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”
You turned back to Zanka. “See you around?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
You waved once, bangles glinting, before following Tamsy out.
Enjin elbowed Zanka. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You totally are.”
Zanka crossed his arms and said nothing.
But the thought of training with you, of seeing those chakram flash through the air, of matching your speed, burned quietly behind his ribs for the rest of the day.
The training yard woke slowly under a pale morning sky, carrying the sharp metallic bite of rust and the dry, powdery scent of packed dirt. You hated mornings in general; training mornings felt like personal insults.
Zanka arrived already irritated, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off invisible tension. Enjin had called it a “team exercise”, code for organized chaos. He’d expected shouting, the usual Eager energy.
Instead he found you alone in the center of the yard, quietly adjusting the gold bangles on your wrists. The metal caught the weak sunlight and threw it back in soft, molten gleams. When you looked up and saw him your face brightened, open, easy, familiar.
“Oh, hey.”
Just like that. As though you’d been waiting specifically for him.
His stomach executed a slow, embarrassing flip.
“Hey.”
“You ready?”
“For what.”
Before you could answer, Ms. T’s voice rang out from the raised platform.
“Alright, children!”
She stood with clipboard under one arm and steaming coffee in the other, expression promising mischief. The bitter aroma of her drink wafted faintly across the yard.
Zanka groaned under his breath.
You waved cheerfully. “Morning, Ms. T!”
“Morning, sweetheart.”
She clapped once, sharp. “Today’s lesson is partner evaluation.”
Zanka squinted. “That sounds fake.”
“It absolutely is,” she said brightly, then pointed directly at both of you. “You’re sparring.”
Your eyes lit up. “Oh!”
Zanka’s brain stalled. You looked excited, like this was a game, not him fighting to avoid accidentally breaking you.
Ms. T hopped down and circled you slowly, assessing with a predator’s eye. “You’ve both got good instincts. But instincts mean nothing if you can’t read another fighter under pressure.”
She stopped between you. “Try not to kill each other.” A deliberate pause. “…or flirt too much.”
Zanka nearly choked.
You blinked. “Flirt?”
“Start.”
The bangles shimmered the instant you moved. Gold light rippled along the metal; the rings split and reshaped in your palms, two sleek, humming chakram, edges catching light like liquid fire. The air hummed with their subtle vibration. You spun one idly around your finger, effortless.
“Ready?” you asked.
Zanka dropped into stance. “…Yeah.”
You moved first, not a charge, but a glide. The first chakram sliced through the air with a low whistle; he dodged. The second came from an unexpected angle. He blocked, CLANG, the impact reverberating up his arm like a struck bell. The weapon curved back to your hand like it was magnetized, the arc cutting through dust motes in the air. You caught it without looking.
Ms. T whistled. “Boomerang return. Nice control.”
You grinned. “Thanks!”
He lunged. You pivoted. Metal met metal in bright sparks, the scent of scorched iron sharp and immediate. You were faster than he’d anticipated, fluid, almost liquid, intercepting every swing, retrieving every throw. One chakram flew low, skimming dust; the other high, forcing him to duck. He started smiling despite himself.
This was fun.
“You’re smiling,” you said.
“Shut up.”
You threw both at once. He dodged the first; the second nearly grazed his shoulder. He caught your wrist as you stepped in to retrieve it, bad decision. You twisted, hooked a leg behind his, and suddenly gravity flipped.
You crashed together into the dirt. A cloud of dust billowed outward, gritty and choking.
When it settled you were half-sprawled across him, one arm trapped between your bodies, faces inches apart. Your hair brushed his jaw like silk; your breath ghosted warm against his cheek, carrying a faint hint of salt and exertion.
Everything stopped.
“…Oh,” you whispered.
The chakram clattered back into bangles around your wrists with a soft, resonant click.
From the sidelines Ms. T wheezed with laughter, doubled over.
“Oh my GOD.”
You scrambled upright. “Sorry!”
Zanka sat up slowly, face burning, refusing eye contact.
Ms. T wiped tears from her eyes. “Training’s over. I’ve seen enough.”
“What?” Zanka snapped.
“You’re both skilled,” she said. Then, directly to him: “Also, Zanka, just ask them out, baby.”
He combusted. “I WAS NOT, ”
“It’s painfully obvious.”
“I WAS FOCUSED ON THE SPARRING.”
“Sure you were.”
You blinked, eyes sliding to Zanka. “…Wait. Oh.”
He wanted the earth to open.
You tilted your head, thoughtful, then smiled. “…I wouldn’t say no.”
Ms. T slapped her knee, cackling. “Good luck, lovebirds!” She waved and left.
Zanka sat frozen, processing.
Then, quietly: “…Do you wanna get food later.”
Your grin returned, bright and certain. “Yeah.”
His heart felt dangerously close to breaking open.
A few weeks later, the day started normal enough, the HQ filled with the familiar hum of routine, the scrape of metal on whetstones, the low murmur of conversations, the faint oily tang of weapon maintenance in the air. Zanka was halfway through scrubbing rust from his blade, the gritty flakes falling away under his fingers, when the main doors exploded inward with a thunderous slam that rattled every surface in the building.
Boots pounded across the floor in a frantic rhythm. Heads snapped up everywhere.
Team Eager.
Something was terribly wrong.
Delmon barreled through first, his voice booming like a crack of thunder. “MEDICS! NOW!”
The command echoed off the walls, sending chairs scraping and bodies surging into motion.
Zanka rose slowly, his stomach already twisting into a cold knot. Missions went bad sometimes, bruises, cuts, the occasional broken bone, but this panic carried a sharper edge, thick with dread.
Then he saw Tamsy.
Tamsy was carrying someone. Your arm dangled limp over his shoulder, fingers slack. Your shirt clung to your skin, soaked through, not with sweat or water, but a deep, spreading crimson that gleamed wetly under the harsh lights. The metallic copper scent of blood hit Zanka like a wave, turning his gut.
His mind blanked at first, refusing to connect the image. It took precious seconds for reality to crash in: you were bleeding. Badly. Your head lolled against Tamsy’s chest, utterly still, skin pale against the dark fabric of his jacket.
Tamsy muttered to you under his breath, voice low and strained, stripped of its usual lazy drawl. “Stay with me, little one. Don’t you pull this on me.”
Zanka’s stomach plummeted, the sensation like freefalling from a rooftop.
Medics swarmed forward. “Here! Lay them down!”
Tamsy hesitated a fraction too long, reluctant to release you, before easing you onto the stretcher with careful hands, one palm lingering on your shoulder. The fabric squelched faintly under the pressure.
“Missection,” Delmon barked to the team. “Something tore through the left side.”
The word sliced through Zanka. Missection. Those abominations didn’t just wound, they shredded, unraveling flesh and bone with unnatural precision.
The medics moved in a blur: bandages unrolling in crisp white strips, hands applying firm pressure that drew a faint, unconscious twitch from you, shouts for supplies echoing. Your gold bangles remained on your wrist, smeared with sticky red streaks that caught the light in grotesque patterns.
Zanka felt bile rise, sharp and hot. He turned away, and that was worse. Panic flooded him unchecked now, hands trembling, chest constricting like a vice. He swallowed hard, but the nausea clung.
Across the chaos, Tamsy finally lifted his gaze, eyes sharp, exhausted, simmering with fury. Then he spotted Zanka: pale as ash, staring at the medics like the world was crumbling.
Tamsy squinted. Huh. He tucked that observation away.
The stretcher vanished into the med bay. Zanka followed on autopilot; no one stopped him.
He claimed a corner chair, the room assaulting his senses, the sharp sting of antiseptic warring with the lingering iron of blood, the steady beep of monitors, the low voices of medics at work. You lay motionless on the bed, skin ashen under the fluorescent glare.
He watched every stitch pulled through torn flesh, every bandage layered on, every swab cleaning the jagged wound. Each faint twitch from you sent his shoulders rigid with tension.
Hours blurred unnoticed. Food appeared beside him; he ignored it. Someone suggested a break; he stayed rooted.
Tamsy entered eventually, pausing in the doorway to take in the scene: Zanka hunched by the bed, eyes locked on you, fists clenched white-knuckled, face drawn like he was the one bleeding out.
Tamsy approached slowly, leaning against the wall. “…Kid.”
No response.
“Hey.”
Zanka looked up, eyes rimmed red.
Tamsy arched a brow. “Well damn.” He glanced between you two. “Didn’t know you cared this much.”
Zanka averted his gaze. “I just…”
He trailed off.
Tamsy hummed, protective instincts flaring. Who the hell was this kid stressing over his found family like this? But Zanka’s vigil never wavered, not once.
Tamsy sighed. “Relax. They’re tough.”
Zanka swallowed thickly. “…I know.”
Tamsy lingered, watching. Then, under his breath: “Still gonna break his nose if he hurts you.”
You remained unconscious through the long night and into the gray dawn. Zanka didn’t leave. Eventually exhaustion won; he slumped forward, head pillowed on the mattress edge, hand curling loosely around yours, warm skin against cool sheets.
Across the room, Tamsy sat in a chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed on Zanka with a protective edge sharp as a blade.
Your fingers twitched first, a faint flutter. Then your eyes cracked open to blinding pain and blurred vision: sterile white ceiling, harsh medical lights buzzing overhead.
Everything ached, a deep, throbbing fire in your side. You shifted minutely and felt warmth enclosing your hand.
Glancing down: Zanka, asleep, gripping your hand like an anchor.
Your mind lagged, piecing it together. “…Oh.”
From the other side: “You’re awake.”
You turned. Tamsy sat there, eyeing Zanka like he was debating a window toss.
“Tamsy?” Your voice rasped, dry as sandpaper.
He rose instantly, leaning in to inspect the bandages with gentle precision. “Easy. You scared the hell outta me, little one.”
The nickname emerged softer, laced with relief.
You mustered a weak smile. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Now you are.”
You looked down again. Zanka still slept, hand firm in yours. “How long has he been here?”
Tamsy snorted. “Since you got dragged in. Kid looked like he was gonna puke when he saw you.”
Your eyes widened. “…Seriously?”
You gazed at Zanka, hair disheveled, face etched with fatigue. Something softened in your chest.
Tamsy caught it. He sighed. “Yeah, I saw that look too.”
You laughed faintly. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He ruffled your hair lightly. “Just don’t do that again.”
You nodded. “I’ll try.”
Tamsy straightened. “I’m grabbing Eishia.” He paused, glancing at Zanka. “…Don’t let him die of embarrassment when he wakes up.”
You grinned weakly. “No promises.”
He left, door clicking shut.
You turned back to Zanka, squeezing his hand gently. “Hey.”
Nothing.
A light shake. “Zanka.”
He jolted awake. “WHAT, ”
Awareness hit: the room, his hand in yours, you awake.
His face flamed crimson. “Oh.”
You smiled. “Hi.”
Zanka’s mind blanked again. “…Hi.”
Months passed in a slow, steady rhythm after that, long enough that training together became routine, the yard’s dust familiar underfoot, the clash of weapons a comforting cadence. You sat beside each other during briefings without discussion, shoulders brushing incidentally. People started making jokes; Zanka hated them, not because they were inaccurate, but because they were loud.
Today HQ felt unusually calm, no alarms, no frantic boots. Just the low hum of conversation, the metallic tang of weapon oil, the occasional clink of tools.
You perched on a worktable, legs swinging lazily, polishing your bangles until they glowed under the lights. The soft cloth moved in slow circles; you hummed under your breath, completely absorbed.
Zanka sat across the room, pretending to sharpen his blade. He’d been pretending for ten minutes while watching you instead.
A younger Cleaner, fourteen, maybe fifteen, approached you hesitantly. Zanka noticed instantly. His grip tightened on the sharpening stone.
The kid cleared his throat. “Um.”
You looked up, smiled the same warm smile you gave everyone. “Oh, hey.”
The boy flushed crimson. “I… uh… I like you.”
The room narrowed to a pinpoint in Zanka’s head.
“I just think you’re really cool and strong and nice and I was wondering if maybe you’d want to, ”
Zanka was already moving, fast, instinctive. He crossed the distance, closed his hand around your wrist, and tugged you gently but firmly off the table.
You stumbled half a step. “Zanka?”
He planted himself between you and the kid, arms crossed, glare locked.
The boy froze.
“She’s busy,” Zanka said, voice low and edged.
“S-sorry!” The kid fled.
You frowned, arms crossing. “Zanka. That was rude.”
“He was annoying.”
“He was nervous!”
“He was hitting on you.”
“…And?”
The single word punched the air out of him.
“Because, ” He stopped, heart slamming. “Because I like you.”
The confession burst out before he could cage it.
“I’ve liked you since that stupid babysitting thing. And then you almost died and I thought you were gone and it made me realize I, ”
He cut himself off, mortified, face blazing.
“I just… like you.”
Silence.
You stepped closer. He looked up, braced for laughter or pity.
Instead your expression softened.
“…Zanka.”
“Yeah.”
“You know you’re kind of an idiot.”
He flinched.
Then you leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to his cheek.
He froze solid.
You pulled back, smiling. “So. Do you wanna go on a date with me?”
He stared.
“…What.”
You laughed, soft, bright. “I like you too.”
His brain rebooted.
“Oh.”
He straightened, trying for composure and failing. “…Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Good.”
Someone across the room whistled.
Zanka didn’t care.
Your smile stayed fixed on him, close and certain, and the warm print of your lips still lingered on his cheek like a promise.