Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

BASE07, situated deep within the dense forest that surrounded the outskirts of Seoul, was not built for comfort. It was built for readiness.

Its reinforced concrete walls and corridors lit by cold LED lights housed one of the most important units of the South Korean Special Armed Forces, and the soldiers stationed there almost never had rest. Since the world had plunged into chaos, with the emergence of a virus that turned humans into something the media insisted on calling "zombies," bases like that one had become the last line of defense between civilization and total anarchy.

The government had declared a state of emergency during the first outbreaks, but no one knew the truth: the virus was not an accident of nature. It was a military project, developed to create more resilient soldiers, stronger soldiers, incapable of feeling fear or emotions considered weaknesses in combat.

Only something had gone wrong.

Or perhaps it had gone too right, depending on your point of view.

Infected individuals in the early stage still preserved some human appearance, but over time their eyes became increasingly red, their nails brittle, and their teeth sharp, while a superhuman strength began to manifest in their bodies. In the advanced stages, extreme emotional instability took over, transforming them into aggressive and uncontrollable creatures, capable of hurting and infecting anyone who crossed their path. Infected individuals in the early stage were taken to the laboratory in the center of Seoul, a place from which no one ever left. The advanced ones needed to be killed immediately. That was the order.

It was late at night when Colonel Park Martin Edwards found himself in his office, reviewing the latest reports sent by the government. The room was small and functional, with a metal desk taking up most of the space, covered in stacks of papers and folders organized with the military precision he demanded of himself. A single fluorescent light on the ceiling emitted a low, constant hum, and the bare concrete walls seemed to close in around him as the hours passed.

Martin was exhausted, that was undeniable, but he wasn't the type to stop when tired. He hadn't slept well in days, his back burned as if someone had shoved live embers between his shoulder blades, and the medicines Seonghyeon had prescribed for him no longer had any effect. Not that it mattered. Martin would keep working even if he were on his deathbed, even if his body screamed for rest, even if the pain was so intense it blurred his vision for a few seconds. The pressure and expectation that weighed on his shoulders were like invisible chains that kept him moving, and the coldness he projected was nothing more than a defense mechanism he had perfected over the years. If the people around him saw him as a machine incapable of faltering, perhaps they would stop expecting something more from him. Perhaps they would stop looking for signs of humanity in his eyes.

"Colonel, are you awake?" James's voice sounded through the walkie-talkie resting on the desk, breaking the heavy silence of the office.

Martin reached for the device with a slow movement, his fingers wrapping around the cold plastic before pressing the response button.

"Proceed."

"Suspicious movement detected outside the base. Should I send soldiers out there?"

Martin tilted his head back for a moment, feeling the vertebrae in his neck crack in protest. His dark eyes, marked by deep dark circles he refused to acknowledge, fixed on the ceiling for an instant before he responded.

"Can you see what it is through the cameras?"

There was a pause on the other end, the static sound of the walkie-talkie filling the void as James checked the footage. Martin took the opportunity to put the signed reports inside a folder, his movements methodical and precise even with the fatigue that weighed on every muscle.

"I believe they are civilians, but one of them seems injured," James's voice returned, hesitant now. "Seonghyeon could take care of his wound."

The hesitation in the lieutenant colonel's voice did not go unnoticed. James knew him too well not to anticipate his response, not to know exactly what Martin would say next. And yet, he had asked. And yet, he had hoped that maybe, this time, the answer would be different.

"Not our problem," Martin said, his voice as flat as the concrete that surrounded him.

"But, sir..." James insisted, and Martin could hear the poorly disguised nervousness in his tone, the way his voice became lower as if he were trying to compensate for the audacity of the challenge. "They are defenseless civilians out there!"

James knew he wouldn't stay alive long if he yelled at Martin. Everyone on the base knew that. Not because Martin was violent or cruel, but because he simply did not tolerate disobedience. Hierarchy existed for a reason, and orders were given to be followed, not questioned. Still, James was his right-hand man, his friend even before all this started, and perhaps that was why he allowed himself certain liberties that others wouldn't dare take.

"James, no means no."

Martin ended the conversation right there, pressing the walkie-talkie button harder than necessary before placing it back on the desk. He already had to worry about the various soldiers inside the base, about the safety of all those who depended on his orders to survive another day. The civilians outside were a different matter, a variable he could not afford to consider. There were protocols, there were rules, and the rules existed to protect those inside. If the civilians were foolish enough to wander around the base's perimeter after dark, that was their problem.

Martin rested his elbows on the desk and rubbed his face with his hands, feeling the roughness of his stubble under his palms. His eyes burned, and for a moment he allowed his eyelids to close, just for a moment, just to relieve the pressure that seemed to pulse behind his eyes. But the moment lasted less than a second before the walkie-talkie crackled again.

"Colonel!" Keonho's voice burst through the device, tense and urgent, completely different from the cautious tone James had used minutes earlier. "I'm outside the base, arriving with the supplies. We have a problem."

Martin straightened up instantly, all the fatigue retreating to some deep place where he could ignore it. His hand found the walkie-talkie before he even consciously processed the movement.

"What's the situation?"

"A group of infected is approaching the base. At least a dozen of them, coming from the east. Requesting backup to contain them before they get too close."

Martin was already on his feet, his body moving with the efficiency of years of training while his mind quickly calculated the available options. He pressed the walkie-talkie button again.

"Backup on the way. Hold your position and don't let any of them through."

As he spoke, he had already opened the door to his office and was advancing down the corridor towards the main room, where the soldiers on duty awaited orders. His voice echoed off the concrete walls, cutting through the silence of the night with the clarity of someone accustomed to commanding.

"Team B, gear up and head out now. Support Keonho in containing the infected at the east entrance."

The soldiers moved with the speed of those who knew the routine well, grabbing their rifles and equipment in silence before disappearing through the main door. Martin watched them leave for a moment before James's voice sounded again on his walkie-talkie.

"Colonel, there are more infected on the monitors. They are approaching the civilians I mentioned earlier."

Martin closed his eyes for an instant, feeling the tension increase in his shoulders. He silently cursed the stubbornness of the civilians who insisted on showing up just that night, just when he was already at his wit's end. But there was no choice. If the infected reached the civilians, the problem would no longer be just theirs. Fed infected were stronger, faster, harder to contain. And if there was a mass contamination near the base, quarantine protocols would be activated, and that would mean days of extra work for everyone.

"I'm on my way," he replied, his voice as controlled as ever, even though inside something seemed to vibrate with alert.

He grabbed his rifle from the rack next to the door and quickly checked the magazine before heading out. The cold night air hit his face like a blow as he went through the main door, and for a moment Martin smelled the forest scent he had learned to recognize as the odor of the infected. Soldiers were scattered around the perimeter, their rifles aimed at the darkness beyond the base's floodlights, and Martin advanced among them with firm steps, his eyes scanning the shadows for the threat.

Outside, chaos had already set in. Keonho and his team were facing the infected at the east entrance, gunfire echoing through the night like dry, repetitive thunder. Martin looked away for a moment, focusing on the opposite direction, where James had indicated the presence of the civilians. And then he saw them.

There were three figures huddled near a fallen tree, their silhouettes outlined against the faint light of the more distant floodlights. Two of them were standing, their bodies tense and ready to run, while the third was sitting on the ground, holding his bloody arm against his chest. Before Martin could fully process the scene, the infected emerged from the shadows.

They came from all sides, their humanoid forms distorted by the advanced stage of infection. Red eyes glowing in the darkness, mouths open in sounds that were almost screams, almost laughter, almost nothing that could be identified as human. The two civilians who were standing tried to retreat, but the infected were faster. Martin watched as one of them grabbed the first civilian by the arm, pulling him into the darkness as the man screamed. The second civilian tried to run, but another infected intercepted him, its deformed hands wrapping around the victim's neck before he could escape.

The civilian who had been sitting on the ground jumped to his feet, his thin, bruised body moving with a determination Martin did not expect. He took two steps towards his friends before the Colonel reached his side, his hand gripping the young man's arm tightly enough to stop him from continuing.

"If you go after them, you'll die," Martin said, his voice low but sharp as a blade.

The civilian did not respond. He did not complain, did not try to break free, did not say a single word. He just stood there, motionless, his dark eyes fixed on the point where his friends had disappeared into the darkness as Martin dragged him towards the base. The infected who had attacked the civilians had already vanished, taking their victims to some place Martin preferred not to imagine. There were soldiers dealing with the other infected, there was Keonho coordinating the containment, there was James in the watchtower watching everything through the cameras. Martin didn't need to worry about the rest.

James watched everything from the watchtower, one eyebrow raised in an expression of poorly disguised surprise as he saw the Colonel drag the civilian inside the base. He had known Martin long enough to know that this wasn't normal, that this behavior didn't fit with anything he expected from the man who had refused to help the civilians minutes earlier.

Martin led the civilian through the base corridors without saying a word, his hand still firm around the young man's thin arm. The cold LED lights illuminated the path, creating elongated shadows that stretched ahead of them like silent ghosts. The civilian offered no resistance, asked no questions, made no sound beyond his irregular breathing. He just followed, passive, his eyes fixed on the floor as if the world around him had ceased to exist.

When they reached the infirmary wing, Martin pushed the door open with his shoulder and found Seonghyeon still awake, as expected. The base doctor was sitting in a chair near the instrument counter, an open book on his lap, but his eyes lifted immediately as the door opened. He observed the scene for a moment, then stood up and put the book somewhere out of sight.

"Colonel? Who is this?" Seonghyeon asked, his hands finding the pockets of his white coat while his eyes scanned the civilian from head to toe, assessing each visible wound with the practice of someone who had seen countless injured bodies.

Martin explained quickly, his voice as concise and direct as always. The attack, the infected taking the other two civilians, the decision to bring this one inside. As he spoke, he indicated the gurney with a nod of his head, and the civilian obeyed the silent command, sitting on its edge without any reaction. Seonghyeon approached, his eyes meeting Martin's for a moment before focusing on the patient before him.

The medical procedures began with the efficiency of someone who performed them daily. Seonghyeon asked where it hurt, what he was feeling, if he could move his fingers and arms and legs. His voice was calm and gentle, a tone he reserved especially for moments when he needed to calm someone down. But the civilian did not respond. He just sat there, his head lowered so that his face remained hidden in the shadow of his own hair. Seonghyeon cleaned the wounds on the young man's arms and legs with careful movements, applied antiseptic and bandaged where necessary, but throughout the entire process he did not get a single word in response.

Confused, Seonghyeon raised his eyes to Martin, a silent question hovering in his gaze. Martin just shook his head once, an almost imperceptible movement, before turning and leaving the room without saying anything.

Outside, he found Keonho approaching down the corridor, his expression tired but satisfied after confirming that everything was under control out there. The supplies had been stored, the soldiers were back without serious injuries, and the infected had been contained before they could cause further damage.

"Colonel," Keonho greeted as he approached, but Martin just gestured for him to follow.

Over the walkie-talkie, he called James to meet them at the infirmary wing. Minutes later, the three were gathered outside the room where Seonghyeon was still trying, without success, to talk to the civilian. Through the glass that separated the corridor from the infirmary, they could see the scene: the doctor sitting in a chair next to the gurney, his lips moving in words that did not reach the other side, and the civilian motionless, his head still lowered, his shoulders tense in a posture that suggested both exhaustion and defense.

"Why did you bring a civilian here?" Keonho questioned, his voice laden with genuine confusion as he watched the silent figure on the other side of the glass.

"I want to know that too," James added, turning to look directly at Martin. "When I told the Colonel about the civilians, he didn't care, and now he brought one inside? Why?"

Martin kept his eyes fixed on the civilian for a long moment before responding. His expression was impenetrable, but something in his eyes seemed different, sharper, more attentive than before.

"There were many infected out there, but none of them touched him," he said, his voice simplistic as if stating an obvious fact.

The two soldiers exchanged confused glances, none of Martin's words making sense in their minds. It was at that moment that Seonghyeon came out of the infirmary, closing the door softly behind him before approaching the group to hear the conversation.

"What does that mean?" Keonho asked, his brow furrowed in an expression of someone trying to solve a puzzle without having all the pieces.

"Maybe he is one of them."

The sentence hung in the air like a blow, and for a moment no one moved. Then the three young men spoke at once, their voices overlapping in an explosion of disbelief.

"What?!"

"But he looks like an ordinary human, that confuses me," Martin continued, ignoring the others' reaction. His eyes were still fixed on the civilian through the glass, on the way he remained motionless on the gurney, on how his breathing seemed too controlled for someone who had just witnessed his friends being taken by infected. "He didn't react when the others were attacked. He didn't try to run when the infected were near. And none of them even looked in his direction."

"Even if he really is infected, what's the point of bringing him here?" James asked, his voice now more controlled but still laden with apprehension. "I mean, what can we do here besides getting infected too?"

"He needs to talk, and then we'll know," Martin concluded, crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture that was both defensive and determined.

Keonho let out a short, incredulous laugh before responding.

"Are you drunk, Colonel?" he asked, and despite the words, his tone was not disrespectful, just utterly confused. "With all due respect, but this doesn't make sense."

Martin did not respond. He didn't even seem to care about the way Keonho and the other two had spoken to him, the informality that under any other circumstance he would have corrected immediately. They had known each other for too long for him to care about those things, for the hierarchy to mean anything more than a necessary formality when strangers were around. There, among themselves, the rules had always been different.

He continued to watch the civilian through the glass, his mind working at speeds the others could not keep up with. There was something about that young man, something his trained eyes had caught even in the darkness of the forest, something that had made him act against his own protocols and bring him inside. The infected had ignored him, and that was not normal. Nothing about that night was normal, and Martin hated it when things slipped out of his control.

"We'll wait," he said finally, his voice low but firm. "Seonghyeon, try to make him talk. Find out who he is, where he came from, what he knows about the infected."

"And if he doesn't talk?" Seonghyeon asked, his kind eyes now worried as they turned to the motionless figure on the other side of the glass.

"Then we'll have to find out another way," Martin replied, and there was something in his tone that made the other three exchange glances again, something that suggested the Colonel was already several steps ahead of them, that he had already considered all the possibilities and was just waiting for the right moment to act.

Inside the infirmary, the civilian remained seated on the gurney, his head still lowered, his wounds cleaned and bandaged. He did not look at the glass, did not show any awareness that he was being watched, but something in his posture suggested that he knew. Something in his tense shoulders, in his motionless hands on his knees, in the way his breathing remained controlled despite everything, suggested that he was perfectly aware of every gaze fixed on him through that glass.

And for the first time in a long time, Martin felt that he was facing something he could not predict. Something that escaped his control, that challenged all his certainties, that intrigued him in a way he had not experienced since before the world fell apart.

That night, all Martin knew was that there was a silent civilian in his infirmary, a young man with dark eyes and an empty expression that the infected had ignored, and that he needed answers before he could even begin to understand what to do with him.

The silence stretched between the four soldiers as they continued watching, each lost in their own thoughts, each processing the night's events in their own way. Outside, the forest remained dark and full of dangers. Inside, something new had begun, something none of them could predict.

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The morning light filtering through the small windows high in the concrete corridors was not enough to completely dispel the gloom that pervaded BASE07, but it brought with it a different kind of quiet than the one that inhabited the place during the night.

During the day, the soldiers worked in shifts, machines hummed somewhere deep within the building, and there was a sense of almost normalcy to the military routine that repeated like a mantra. But on that particular morning, something seemed different, although none of the ordinary soldiers could pinpoint exactly what. Perhaps it was the fact that Colonel Park Martin Edwards, known for being the first to wake and the last to sleep, had not yet appeared.

Usually, Martin was on his feet even before the sun rose, his body moving with the precision of a Swiss watch as he walked the corridors, inspected the posts, checked every detail of the operation with eyes that missed nothing. But the analog clock fixed on the wall of the main corridor already read nine o'clock, and the Colonel was still in his room, something James noticed immediately when he took his post in the watchtower at dawn.

Martin woke up with a strange feeling of disorientation, something that hadn't happened to him in years. For a few seconds, he just lay there, listening to the silence of his own room while his mind struggled to remember where he was and why he felt so heavy. The faint light filtering through the military curtain indicated that it was already late, much later than he normally allowed himself.

He slowly turned his head to the side, his eyes still cloudy with sleep finding the clock on the opposite wall. Nine o'clock. Martin sat up in bed suddenly, the abrupt movement making his spine protest with a sharp pain that made him hold his breath for an instant. He ran his hands over his face and his disheveled blonde hair, something that never happened because he always combed it before sleeping. It had been a long time since he last slept that much, and instead of feeling rested, Martin felt as if he had been run over by something heavy. His body asked for more hours of sleep, but his mind was already working at high speed, listing all the tasks he had neglected by remaining unconscious for so long.

He stood up with an effort he refused to show, his bare feet touching the cold concrete floor as he crossed the small space to the bathroom attached to his room. Martin stared at his own reflection for a moment, observing the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the way his features seemed harder than he remembered.

He performed his morning hygiene routinely, moving with the efficiency of someone who had performed those gestures thousands of times before, and put on his uniform with the precision the occasion demanded. The military boots were laced carefully, each knot in the right place, because Martin believed that discipline began with the small details. When he finally left the room, his expression was controlled, impassive, a mask he had perfected over the years so that no one could see what was really going on inside him.

The corridor was relatively empty at that hour, most of the soldiers already having taken their posts or resting after the night shifts. Martin walked towards the operations center, his boots echoing on the concrete floor in a steady rhythm, and it was then that he saw James approaching from the other end of the corridor. The lieutenant colonel walked hurriedly, a folder of documents under his arm, and his eyes lit up with something Martin could not immediately identify when their gazes met.

"Good morning, Colonel," James greeted him as soon as he got close, his voice carrying an energy that Martin did not share that morning. "Seonghyeon found some things about the civilian."

James extended the folder towards him, and Martin took it without saying a word. He didn't open the document immediately, just holding it against his chest while his eyes scanned the corridor ahead. There was something in that folder, something he needed to read calmly, and his office was the appropriate place for that. But before he could take a step towards the elevator, James was already at his side, walking in sync as if they had rehearsed that movement.

Martin said nothing when James entered the elevator with him, pressing the ground floor button with a gesture that suggested the lieutenant colonel's company was expected, or at least tolerated. The elevator descended in silence, the noise of the mechanisms echoing off the metallic walls, and for a moment neither spoke. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that only exists between people who have known each other long enough not to need to fill it with empty words.

When the doors opened on the ground floor, Martin exited first, his eyes already fixed on the direction of the infirmary. James followed close behind, his presence a constant shadow that Martin had long learned to ignore. The path to the medical wing was short, but seemed longer that morning, perhaps because Martin knew that something had changed, that the previous night had introduced a variable into his carefully calculated equation.

Upon arrival, they found Keonho and Seonghyeon talking at the entrance, their voices low and their postures relaxed, as if they hadn't yet started the day's tasks. Seonghyeon was the first to notice the Colonel's approach, and his face lit up with a warm smile that was as characteristic of him as the white coat he wore.

"Good morning, Colonel," Seonghyeon greeted him, his smile intact despite the late hour and the restless night everyone had had. "Did James give you the civilian's file?"

Martin nodded, finally approaching the group so that everyone could see the folder's contents when he opened it. His fingers found the folder's tab and lifted it with a sharp movement, revealing the first page where a photograph of the civilian was attached with a metal clip.

The image showed a young face, fine and delicate features that contrasted with the harshness of the surrounding environment, dark eyes that seemed to look through the camera instead of posing for it. There was something about that photograph that bothered Martin, something he couldn't name, and so he pushed the thought away before it could deepen too much.

"Kim Juhoon?" Keonho read aloud, his brow furrowed in concentration as his eyes scanned the information on the page.

Inside the room, the civilian's head lifted for the first time since he arrived the previous night. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but his dark eyes fixed on the glass separating the infirmary from the corridor, as if he could hear what was being said on the other side. None of the four soldiers noticed this, all their attention focused on the open document before them.

"It has everything about him here, even his blood type and zodiac sign," Keonho continued, his fingers pointing to the printed lines on the page. "But it doesn't say who his parents are?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, and Seonghyeon tilted his head to the side, confused.

"Why do you want to know about his parents?"

"He's a Kim!" Keonho replied as if the answer were obvious, his eyes widening slightly. "Did you forget how rare that name has become?"

Keonho was right, and everyone there knew it. Since that wave of infections began to spread across the country, society had slowly diminished, families being decimated, lineages being interrupted. The number of Kims in Korea had declined even further, which was strange to think about, given the fact that in the old days the country was full of people with the last name Kim.

The numerical drop was so drastic that it had become a significant statistical datum, something researchers studied and the military monitored. The world was truly ending, Martin thought, and evidence like that was just another reminder that the life they knew before would never return.

"Maybe he's the president's son," James joked, the reference to North Korean President Kim Jong-un drawing a low laugh from Keonho.

The Colonel let them read, observe, make their comments and jokes. He himself had already run his eyes over the sheet minutes before, absorbing every bit of information about the civilian.

There was something deeply wrong about that, Martin knew, but he also knew it was necessary. In a world where people could turn into monsters at any moment, knowing who you were sheltering was not a luxury, it was a matter of survival. He closed the folder with a sharp thud that made the others look up at him.

"Has he been fed?" Martin asked, returning the folder to James with a gesture that admitted no argument.

Seonghyeon shook his head, his eyes briefly glancing towards the infirmary glass.

"He refused to eat anything. I tried offering bread, fruits, even the soup the kitchen prepared last night, but he just looked at the tray and shook his head. He didn't touch anything."

"And water?" Martin insisted, and Seonghyeon shook his head again, his expression now worried.

The Colonel narrowed his eyes, his mind working through the possibilities. Either the civilian simply hadn't felt hungry or thirsty since the previous night, or he was afraid of being poisoned. Both options were intriguing, but the second was more interesting because it suggested the civilian was smart enough to distrust strangers in a hostile environment, and perhaps cautious enough not to accept anything before fully understanding his situation.

"Let me talk to him," Martin said, and before anyone could protest or offer company, he was already moving towards the infirmary door.

His steps were firm, resolute, and when he opened the door and entered, the other three remained outside, watching through the glass as if they were watching a play whose outcome they could not predict. Martin closed the door behind him with a soft click and his eyes immediately found the figure sitting on the gurney.

The civilian was exactly where he had been left the night before, his posture unchanged, his head still lowered. But when Martin crossed the room and sat down in Seonghyeon's chair, directly in front of the gurney, something changed. The civilian slowly raised his face, as if making a conscious effort to face what was coming, and their gazes met for the first time.

Martin observed the civilian's gaze, trying to find any kind of feeling in it.

Perhaps anger, because his friends had been taken while Martin ignored them.

Perhaps fear, for being surrounded by armed soldiers in an unknown military base.

Perhaps gratitude, for being rescued from the forest's shadows.

But all Martin found in those dark eyes was emptiness and confusion, a disconcerting combination that made him feel as if he were staring into a broken mirror. There was something there, something he couldn't identify, and that disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

Martin looked away first. It was a subtle movement, a blink that lasted a second longer than necessary, but it was enough for him to realize what had happened.

The civilian had not looked away. He had remained there, firm, staring at Martin as if trying to decipher a complex code. That intrigued Martin deeply, because that civilian was the first who did not feel intimidated in his presence. Trained soldiers, men and women who had faced the infected and survived combat situations, often lowered their gaze when Martin confronted them. But that civilian, that young man with a fragile appearance and empty gaze, held his stare as if there was nothing there worthy of fear.

"Kim Juhoon, twenty-five years old," Martin said finally, his voice filling the silence of the room as he opened the folder again and read the words on the first page as if needing to confirm them aloud. "Newly graduated engineer? Even with all this chaos, you still had time for college. Impressive."

There was no sarcasm in his voice, just a factual observation. In a world where survival was the top priority, where universities had closed their doors and educational systems had collapsed, someone who managed to graduate was, indeed, a rarity. This suggested that Juhoon had had privileges, or luck, or perhaps an unusual determination.

Juhoon continued to stare deeply at him, his dark eyes scanning the Colonel's face as if trying to find any trace indicating danger in the blonde's face before him. It was a meticulous, almost scientific examination, and Martin felt uncomfortable under that scrutiny for the first time in years. There was something in the way Juhoon observed him that seemed to pierce through layers, that seemed to see beyond the facade Martin had so carefully constructed.

"I'm hungry," Juhoon said suddenly, so low as a whisper that Martin almost didn't hear it.

The voice was hoarse, rough, as if it hadn't been used in a long time, or as if it were being forced out against its owner's will. Martin lifted his eyes from the sheet with one eyebrow raised, surprised both by the content of the speech and by the voice itself. The civilian's voice was much deeper than he thought it would be, given his childish, angelic appearance. There was a dissonance there, something that didn't fit, and Martin filed that information somewhere in his mind for later consideration.

"Seonghyeon said you refused everything offered to you," Martin replied, closing the folder and resting his elbows on the chair's arms.

"I don't trust them," Juhoon responded immediately, without hesitation, as if the answer were obvious.

The direct honesty of the statement caught Martin off guard. He had expected evasiveness, perhaps lies, perhaps silence. Instead, he received a frank admission of distrust, something few would have the courage to say to a Special Armed Forces Colonel.

"But you trust me?" Martin asked, watching Juhoon tilt his head to the side, thoughtful. The movement was almost animalistic, like a bird examining something new and potentially dangerous. "You're afraid my subordinates might poison you, perhaps, but you're not afraid that I might do it myself?"

The question was a test, and both knew it. Martin wanted to see how Juhoon would react, if he would hesitate, show fear, try to back down. But the civilian remained still, his eyes still fixed on Martin's, and when he responded, his voice was calm.

"You wouldn't have brought me all the way here just to kill me... Would you?"

The question was asked with a disarming sincerity, as if Juhoon were genuinely asking, as if he weren't sure of the answer. Martin felt something move in his chest, something he recognized as involuntary respect. The civilian was intelligent, and that was both useful and dangerous.

"I brought you here hoping you would be useful," Martin concluded, his voice as flat as always, but there was something behind it, something he couldn't completely control.

The silence that followed lasted much longer than necessary. The seconds stretched like elastic being pulled, and both remained there, just staring at each other, each trying to decipher the other. Martin watched Juhoon and saw an enigma wrapped in flesh and bone, a person who did not fit into any of the categories he had established. Juhoon watched Martin and saw something that perhaps even the Colonel himself didn't know existed.

It was Martin who broke the silence minutes later, his patience for staring games having limits.

"Tell me what you want to eat."

The offer was simple, direct, and Martin didn't have to wait long for a response. Juhoon pondered for a few seconds, his lips moving slightly as if he were testing words mentally before speaking them.

"Anything is fine."

Martin shrugged and stood up, his knees cracking in protest after sitting for so long. He expected Juhoon to remain on the gurney, to continue being the passive patient he had been since he arrived. So, when he heard the rustle of fabric and the movement behind him, he turned and found the civilian standing, his bare feet on the infirmary's cold floor, his expression as indecipherable as before.

"What are you doing?" Martin asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

"I don't want to stay here," Juhoon replied, and for the first time Martin could detect something in his tone, something that sounded like fear, or at least discomfort. "The way they look at me is scary."

Juhoon discreetly nodded his head towards the glass, where the three soldiers remained watching curiously, their silhouettes outlined against the corridor light. Martin followed his gaze and saw James with his arms crossed, Keonho with an expression of skepticism on his face, Seonghyeon with his hands in his coat pockets. They looked like an audience, and Martin suddenly understood what Juhoon meant. Being watched all the time was not a pleasant experience. Martin knew that better than most.

He didn't protest. He didn't say that Juhoon should stay where he was, that protocols required civilians to remain in the infirmary until a full assessment was completed, that it would be safer for everyone if he didn't move around the base. Instead, Martin simply left the room, and when he heard the light footsteps of the civilian behind him, he didn't look back to confirm that he was following. He just knew.

Outside, the three soldiers stared at the scene, confused and impressed at the same time. James's eyebrows were so high they almost reached his hairline. Keonho seemed to be suppressing a smile. Seonghyeon just watched, his attentive eyes scanning the figure of the civilian walking behind Martin like a chick following its mother.

"James, prepare a room for the civilian, next to mine," Martin ordered, not even looking in the lieutenant colonel's direction as he dictated the instructions.

James raised his eyebrows even higher, surprised, but just nodded, his mouth opening as if to say something and then closing again when he thought better of it. Martin turned to Keonho before continuing, his voice carrying the authority of someone used to being obeyed without question.

"Have a hearty meal prepared, and have it delivered to my office."

"Yes, sir!" Keonho replied, his formal tone contrasting with the glint of amusement in his eyes.

Martin didn't wait to see if the orders would be carried out. He simply turned and began walking towards the elevator, his steps echoing on the concrete corridor. Behind him, the civilian followed in silence, his bare feet making a soft sound against the cold floor. The scene was so surreal that Keonho couldn't resist.

"Is it just me, or did Martin actually make that mute, paralyzed civilian walk and talk again?" he asked, his voice laden with amusement.

Seonghyeon laughed, a soft, warm sound that contrasted with the harshness of the surrounding environment.

"Do we have a Jesus in the crew?" he joked, shaking his head in disbelief.

James also laughed, but his laughter slowly died, his eyes still fixed on the elevator where Martin and the civilian had disappeared. He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression becoming serious as the humor of the situation dissipated.

"Jokes aside," he cleared his throat, a nervous gesture that Seonghyeon immediately recognized. "Don't you think it's strange? Martin just took the civilian, who we still don't know if he's infected or not, and took him to God knows where! And without any soldier along to escort him."

Keonho yawned, not having slept well last night, sleep still lingering in his eyes.

"Thinking about it, it really is very strange," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "But the civilian is weak, Martin could kill him with minimal movement if he tried anything."

"That doesn't make me feel better," James retorted, his voice more tense than before.

"Weren't you the one who alerted him about the civilians?" Keonho turned completely towards James, his hands in his military pants pockets, his relaxed posture contrasting with the lieutenant colonel's rigidity. "Now that he brought him, you're scared?"

"I'm not scared of a civilian, but as I said, we still have no certainty about him!" James shot back, his voice a little louder than necessary, echoing through the empty corridor. "What if he really is a threat? Are we going to let Martin, our leader, sleep next to him?"

The question was rhetorical, but Keonho, tired and perhaps a little mischievous, decided to treat it as if it weren't.

"Only you can sleep with him now?" Keonho laughed, mockery playing on his lips. "What? Jealous, Chao?"

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with unspoken things. James clenched his hands into fists by his sides, his knuckles turning white from being squeezed so tight. Keonho was playing with fire, and everyone there knew it.

Many years ago, in school days, James had a crush on Martin. Back then, they were all just teenagers, confused about their own sexualities and about the feelings that arose uninvited. James had never really told anyone about it, but both Keonho and Seonghyeon knew. In fact, anyone who knew them long enough would notice James's real intentions towards Martin in the way he looked at him, in the way his voice softened when he spoke to him, in all the small gestures that betrayed a feeling he tried to hide.

Except the blonde.

Martin had never cared about romance, never seemed to notice the looks, never responded to the hints. Of course, he had ventured into life with some people, but they were always one-night stands, quick encounters that meant nothing, that left no traces. He was completely oblivious to the old feelings James still carried, or perhaps he simply chose to ignore them.

"Guys, please! Now is not the time for this," Seonghyeon stepped between them, pushing Keonho gently with his arm, his body serving as a physical barrier between the two. "Go do what the Colonel ordered, before he complains."

James huffed, a sound that was both frustration and resignation, and walked away quickly without looking back. Seonghyeon could notice the tension in his shoulders as he moved away, the way his steps were heavier than normal, as if each step required extra effort. He sighed deeply, running his fingers through his brown hair that insisted on falling over his face, a gesture he repeated whenever he was worried.

"What are you waiting for?" Seonghyeon turned to Keonho, who remained standing in the same spot, looking in the direction James had gone. "Go carry out your order."

"I haven't received my good morning kiss yet today," Keonho smiled, his easy, gentle smile shining under the harsh corridor lights, those fluorescent lamps that made everything look sickly and artificial.

Seonghyeon's face reddened in seconds, a blush that rose from his neck to the tips of his ears, and he looked away from Keonho with a sharp movement.

"Fuck you," he muttered, his voice coming out weaker than he would have liked, before pushing Keonho aside with his shoulder and entering the infirmary.

Keonho had this annoying habit of flirting with Seonghyeon. Without malice or intentions behind it. The youngest just found it fun because Seonghyeon always got embarrassed afterward, always blushed, always looked away and muttered some unconvincing insult. It was a game they had played for years, and Keonho never got tired of it.

He continued smiling as he walked away towards the kitchen wing, his steps light and carefree, as if the world around him wasn't falling apart, as if there weren't infected outside and a mysterious civilian inside.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

In the elevator, heading up to his office on the top floor, Martin stood in silence next to Juhoon. The space was small, confined, and the proximity between them was unavoidable. Martin could feel the heat of the civilian's body beside him, could hear his calm, controlled breathing, could smell the antiseptic Seonghyeon had used on his wounds.

The civilian did not look at him, his eyes fixed on the closed elevator doors, his expression as empty as before. Martin didn't know what to think about that man. He didn't know if he was a threat, a victim, or something completely different. All he knew was that something in those dark eyes had made him break his own protocols, had made him bring a civilian inside his base, inside his carefully controlled world. And that, more than anything else, frightened him.

The elevator doors opened with a soft sound, and Martin exited first, walking towards his office with Juhoon following behind. The top floor corridor was quieter than the others, less busy, and their footsteps echoed on the concrete walls as if they were the only living beings in the entire building. Martin opened his office door and entered, leaving the civilian to decide if he wanted to follow or stay outside. Juhoon entered without hesitation, his eyes scanning the environment with a curiosity he did not try to hide.

Martin's office was functional, minimalist, without any personal touch. A metal desk occupied the center of the room, covered in stacks of documents organized in color-coded categories. A steel bookcase against the wall contained folders and manuals, all aligned with military precision. There were no photographs, no plants, nothing to suggest that the space belonged to a human being with tastes and preferences. Just the fluorescent light on the ceiling and the swivel chair behind the desk, which creaked slightly when Martin sat down.

He indicated a simpler chair, leaning against the opposite wall, and Juhoon pulled it closer to the desk before sitting down. There was no challenge in the gesture, nor subservience. Just a silent practicality, as if he were choosing the most logical place to position himself.

Martin watched the movement with an interest he couldn't suppress. It was strange how that civilian seemed at ease in a hostile environment, strange how he moved around the base as if he already knew its intricacies, strange how he seemed to fear nothing but the soldiers' gazes.

"Why are you here?" Martin asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

Juhoon raised his eyes to him, and for the first time, Martin saw something beyond the emptiness. There was a spark there, something that could be sadness, or perhaps resignation.

"I have nowhere else to go," he replied, his voice still hoarse, but now with a weight that hadn't been present before.

Martin didn't know why, but that simple answer, that admission of homelessness and helplessness, struck him in a way that no information in that folder could have. He looked away quickly, his eyes fixing on the opposite wall, at nowhere in particular.

"After you eat, I'll assign a room for you," he said, his voice colder than before, as if trying to regain the control he felt slipping through his fingers. "You'll stay here until we can determine if you pose a threat."

"I understand," Juhoon replied, and he didn't ask what would happen if he was considered a threat, didn't ask for more information, didn't protest or thank.

He just accepted, as if he had expected that, as if being in a military base under suspicion of infection was just another obstacle in a life full of them. Martin watched him for a long moment, trying to reconcile what he saw with what he read in the report. Kim Juhoon, twenty-five years old, newly graduated engineer. An ordinary person in an extraordinary world. Except nothing about him seemed ordinary, and Martin had the disturbing feeling that he was only scratching the surface of something much larger than he could imagine.

The knock on the door announced the arrival of the meal, and Martin pushed his thoughts aside to deal with the present.

It was a full meal, worthy of being served to a high-ranking officer. The soldier placed it on Martin's desk with a care bordering on ceremonial, his eyes quickly darting towards the civilian sitting in the chair against the wall before he withdrew in silence.

Juhoon watched the tray being placed before him as if he were facing an alien object, his eyes scanning each dish with an attention that seemed almost clinical. Martin remained behind his own desk, his fingers interlaced on the metal top, watching in silence as the civilian assessed the food as if looking for poison, perhaps, or some sign that it shouldn't be consumed.

For a long moment, neither moved. The constant hum of the fluorescent light filled the space between them, and outside, in the corridor, the distant footsteps of some soldier echoed as a reminder that the world kept turning, even when everything seemed suspended.

It was Juhoon who broke the impasse first. His hands, which had been resting on his knees, slowly rose and reached for the wooden chopsticks resting on the edge of the tray. His fingers wrapped around them with a precision that suggested familiarity, and he separated a small piece of fish with economical movements before bringing it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, his eyes half-closed as if analyzing each layer of flavor, and then swallowed before repeating the process with the rice, then the vegetables, then the soup.

Martin watched everything without saying a word, noticing how Juhoon didn't rush, didn't devour the food like someone who had been hungry for hours should. Instead, he ate with a calm almost meditative, each bite followed by a pause, each pause filled by that empty gaze that seemed to see nothing around.

"You don't look hungry," Martin commented finally, his voice breaking the silence that had settled between them like a stone thrown into a still pond.

Juhoon lifted his eyes from the chopsticks for a moment, meeting the Colonel's gaze before looking back at the food.

"I am hungry," he replied, his voice still hoarse, but now a bit firmer, as if the food were restoring not only his physical strength but also his ability to make himself heard. "I just don't want to eat too fast and get sick. My stomach isn't used to it."

The explanation was logical, practical, and Martin accepted it with an almost imperceptible nod. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers still interlaced, and continued to watch. There was something in the way Juhoon ate that reminded him of something, some distant memory he couldn't fully access.

Perhaps it was the upright posture, the shoulders aligned despite the thinness and injuries.

Perhaps it was the way his eyes moved, always alert, always calculating.

Or perhaps it was simply the fact that he was there, in that office, eating a meal prepared by the base kitchen while outside the world crumbled to pieces.

"Where did you come from?" Martin asked when Juhoon had already consumed about half the contents of the tray. The question was asked in a casual tone, as if just another attempt to fill the silence, but both knew there was nothing casual about that conversation.

Juhoon stopped chewing for a moment, his eyes fixed on some point between the dishes in front of him.

"From the south," he replied finally, and the word was so vague that Martin felt his jaw tense.

"From the south of Korea?" he insisted, his voice staying controlled despite his growing irritation. "From Jeolla province? From Busan?"

"From a place that no longer exists," Juhoon replied, and there was something in his tone that suggested that was not a poetic statement, but a factual description. "Where I lived was evacuated three weeks ago. The infected took over everything. The people who couldn't escape were transformed or killed. I managed to escape."

Martin tilted his head slightly, processing the information. Mass evacuations had become common in recent months, entire cities being declared danger zones as the government tried to contain the spread of the virus. Some of those zones were recoverable, with teams of soldiers being sent to eliminate the infected and clear the area. Others were simply abandoned, declared total losses, and the survivors who remained there were considered dead or unrecoverable. Martin didn't ask which category Juhoon's home fell into. The way the civilian avoided giving details was an answer in itself.

"And your friends?" Martin continued, referring to the two civilians who had been taken by the infected the night before. "Where were they from?"

Juhoon's expression changed subtly. It wasn't sadness, exactly, nor pain. It was something more contained, more controlled, as if he were making a conscious effort not to let emotions show on his face.

"They were people I met along the way," he said, and his voice wavered just enough for Martin to notice. "I didn't know them before. They were fleeing too, so we decided to stick together. We thought it would be safer in a group."

"But it wasn't," Martin observed, and the statement was so dry, so devoid of any attempt at comfort, that Juhoon finally raised his eyes to meet his directly.

"No, it wasn't," he agreed, and for the first time since arriving at the base, Martin saw something like a flash of genuine emotion in those dark eyes. It wasn't sadness, wasn't anger. It was exhaustion. An exhaustion so deep, so absolute, that it seemed to have seeped into his bones and settled there as a permanent tenant.

The silence that followed was different from the previous ones. It wasn't tense, nor uncomfortable. It was a silence of mutual recognition, of two men who had seen things they shouldn't have seen and had survived despite it. Martin didn't know why he felt connected to that civilian in a way he couldn't explain, but the feeling was there, throbbing somewhere deep in his consciousness like a wound he refused to examine.

"After you finish eating, I'll ask them to take you to your room," Martin said finally, changing the subject with the skill of someone used to controlling the direction of conversations. "You'll be locked in there until we can determine if you're infected. You won't be able to move freely around the base, you won't have access to restricted areas, and you'll be watched twenty-four hours a day. If you try to escape, you'll be killed. Is that clear?"

Juhoon nodded, his eyes returning to the food tray as if the conversation were already over.

"It's clear."

Martin watched him for a few more moments, trying to decipher if the civilian's passive acceptance was genuine or just a facade. There was something about Juhoon that intrigued him deeply, something that went beyond professional curiosity or the natural suspicion any soldier should feel towards a stranger.

It was something more personal, more intimate, and Martin didn't like that.

He didn't like feeling intrigued by someone, didn't like admitting that there was something he couldn't fully comprehend. The coldness he cultivated as a defense mechanism existed precisely to avoid situations like that, to prevent people from becoming too interesting, too important, too dangerous.

A sharp sound from the radio resting on a corner of the desk interrupted his thoughts. Martin reached for the device with a quick movement, his fingers finding the receive button with the precision of someone who had performed that gesture thousands of times before.

"Colonel, we have another problem," James's voice came from the speaker, tense, urgent.

Martin felt his stomach clench, but his voice remained calm when he replied.

"Proceed."

"We just received a transmission from the government. There's a group of soldiers heading to the base for a surprise inspection. They should arrive tonight."

Martin closed his eyes for a moment, processing the information. Surprise inspections weren't uncommon, but they were usually announced with at least twenty-four hours' notice. An inspection on the same day, arriving at night, was something that had never happened before. Something was wrong, and Martin knew it as certainly as he knew his own name.

"How many soldiers?" he asked, his mind already working on the implications.

"At least twelve. Led by General Park."

Martin held his breath for a tenth of a second, just enough for someone who knew him very well to notice the shock. General Park was his superior's direct superior, a man who rarely left Seoul and who had never, in the entire history of the base, made a personal visit. If he was coming, it was because something important was happening, something that required his physical presence instead of a simple radio communication.

"Prepare the base for the inspection. I want all soldiers at their posts, all equipment reviewed, and all reports updated by eighteen hundred hours. And James?" Martin paused, his eyes briefly glancing towards Juhoon, who continued eating as if not listening to the conversation. "Find a place to hide the civilian."

There was a silence on the other end of the radio, and Martin could imagine James processing the order, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Hide?" James repeated, as if needing to confirm he had heard correctly.

"Yes. The General cannot know that we have an unregistered civilian on base. The consequences would be... problematic."

"Understood," James replied, and although his voice still carried a trace of hesitation, there was also a firmness that Martin recognized as reliability. James understood the gravity of the situation, even if he didn't fully agree with the decisions that led to it. "I'll find a safe location."

"Keep me informed," Martin said before turning off the radio and placing it back on the desk.

For a long moment, he was silent, his eyes fixed on the metallic surface before him as if it could offer him answers to questions he hadn't yet formulated.

The arrival of General Park changed everything. Not just the base's routine, but also Juhoon's fate, which had now become a much larger logistical problem than Martin had anticipated. He couldn't just kill the civilian, and he also couldn't let him be discovered. Protocols for civilians on military bases were clear, and the presence of an unregistered individual in a classified facility was grounds for summary execution, or at least indefinite detention in some place from which no one ever left. The laboratory in the center of Seoul came to Martin's mind, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Why are you doing this?" Juhoon's voice surprised him, and Martin looked up to find the civilian staring directly at him, the chopsticks still in his hands, the tray now almost empty. "Why are you hiding me? Why didn't you just hand me over to your superiors?"

Martin considered the question for a moment, not because he needed to think about the answer, but because he needed to think about how much of the truth he was willing to reveal.

"Because you might be useful," he replied finally, echoing his own words from the night before. "And because if you're not a threat, you don't deserve to die."

"You don't even know me," Juhoon observed, and there was something in his tone that sounded like a challenge, or perhaps a warning. "How do you know I'm not a threat?"

"I don't," Martin admitted, and the honesty of the response seemed to surprise both of them equally. "But I'm willing to find out. In the meantime, you stay alive and I get a chance to obtain information that could be valuable. It's a fair trade."

Juhoon studied him for a long moment, his eyes scanning the Colonel's face as if trying to decipher a complex code. Then, slowly, he set the chopsticks aside and pushed the tray to the center of the desk, a gesture indicating he had finished eating.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, his voice now strangely calm, as if he had reached some internal conclusion that Martin couldn't see.

Martin leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands unlacing so his fingers could drum softly on the metallic surface. The sound was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, and he used it to organize his thoughts while formulating the next question.

"How did you survive?" he asked finally. "The world is collapsing, there are infected everywhere, and you're here, alone, with injuries that seem to have been caused by humans and not creatures. What happened to you before you got here?"

Juhoon lowered his eyes for a moment, his hands now resting on his knees, his fingers twitching slightly as if holding something invisible. When he looked up again, his eyes were different. No longer empty, but filled with something Martin couldn't immediately identify.

"I was in a survivor group," Juhoon began, his voice lower than before, as if telling a secret. "There were about twenty of us in the beginning. We hid in abandoned buildings, moved at night to avoid the infected, tried to find supplies where we could. But the group started to disintegrate slowly. People died, disappeared, or just decided it would be better to go alone."

"And your injuries?" Martin insisted, pointing to the bandages on Juhoon's arms and legs. "What happened?"

The civilian hesitated, his eyes looking away again, and Martin had the impression he was weighing how much of the truth to reveal.

"There was a fight," Juhoon said finally. "Some men in the group decided they didn't want to share the supplies with the others anymore. There was an argument, which turned violent, and in the confusion some people got hurt. I was one of them."

"And the others?" Martin asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Dead," Juhoon replied, and his voice was perfectly flat now, as if he were reporting the weather or the price of rice. "Those who couldn't escape were killed. Those who managed to escape... well, you already saw what happened to them."

Martin leaned back in his chair again, his eyes still fixed on Juhoon's face. The story made sense, up to a point. Survivor groups often clashed when resources became scarce, and violence was a predictable consequence. But something in the way Juhoon told the story didn't quite fit. It was as if he were narrating something that had happened to someone else, somewhere else, in another time. As if he were emotionally distancing himself from what he described.

"Why are you here, Juhoon?" Martin asked again, but this time the question was different. It wasn't about how he had gotten to the base, but about why he had chosen to keep living when so many others had given up.

Juhoon stared at him for a long moment, and Martin saw something change in his eyes. It wasn't vulnerability, exactly, but something close to it. A breach, a crack in the armor the civilian had built around himself.

"Because dying seemed too tiring," he replied finally, and the brutal honesty of the answer hit Martin like a punch to the chest. "And because somewhere, somewhere out there, there must still be something worth living for. I just haven't figured out what it is yet."

The silence that followed was different from all the others. It was heavy, laden with meanings that neither was ready to explore. Martin felt as if he were on the edge of something, as if there were a truth hovering in the air between them that he refused to acknowledge. He didn't know what it was, didn't know why he felt so drawn to that man with empty eyes and a hoarse voice, but he knew he needed to step back before it was too late.

"Finish eating," he said, his voice colder than before, more distant. "In half an hour, someone will come to get you to take you to your room. Stay there and don't cause any trouble. We'll talk again tomorrow."

Juhoon didn't respond. He just picked up the chopsticks again and went back to eating, his eyes fixed on the tray, his face an empty mask. Martin watched for a few more moments, feeling something churn in his stomach, and then stood up and left the office without looking back.

In the corridor, he leaned against the concrete wall for a moment, his eyes closed, his breathing heavier than it should be. The facade, which he had maintained so carefully, had cracked for an instant, and he could feel the cold air of the base seeping through the cracks. Juhoon had said that dying seemed too tiring, and Martin understood that feeling better than he cared to admit. He himself had felt that, many times, in the long days and endless nights when the weight of command seemed to crush him to the ground. But he had never said it out loud. He had never admitted to anyone that sometimes the only thing keeping him alive was the inertia of continuing.

He pushed off the wall with his hands and straightened up, his expression returning to normal, his posture rigid again. There was no time for weakness, no room for feelings. General Park was on his way, and Martin needed to ensure everything was in order. He began walking towards the command center, his steps echoing in the empty corridor, his mind already focusing on the tasks awaiting him.

In the following hours, the base transformed into a beehive of activity. Soldiers ran back and forth, reviewing equipment, cleaning weapons, organizing supplies. James supervised everything with an efficiency bordering on obsessive, checking every detail, correcting every imperfection. Keonho had been assigned to lead the storage wing preparation team, ensuring supplies were properly cataloged and no item was out of place. Even Seonghyeon was busy, organizing the infirmary and preparing updated medical reports that Martin could present to the General if necessary.

The only one who seemed immune to the commotion was Juhoon, who had been led by two soldiers to a small room in the back of the base, an area rarely used and not appearing on any official maps. The room was cramped, poorly lit, with a simple bed and a wooden chair as the only furniture. There were no windows, and the only light source was a weak bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was, for all intents and purposes, a cell, although no one used that word.

The soldiers closed the door behind them, and Juhoon heard the click of the lock being turned from the outside. He didn't move, didn't try to open the door, didn't call for help. Instead, he sat on the bed, leaned his back against the cold wall, and closed his eyes. The exhaustion he had mentioned to Martin seemed to have spread throughout his body, making his limbs heavy and his mind cloudy. He didn't know if he was really tired or if it was just the effect of finally being in a safe place after running for so long. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Outside, the base prepared for the arrival of General Park, and Martin moved among the soldiers like a ghost, his eyes assessing everything, his mind calculating every possibility. The inspection would be a challenge, but not insurmountable. What worried him was not the base, the supplies, or the reports. What worried him was the civilian locked in a back room, and the fact that every minute that passed, every hour that stretched on, he felt more reluctant to simply get rid of Juhoon as any sensible commander would.

He thought of the civilian's dark eyes, the way they seemed to see through his facade, and felt a shiver run down his spine. There was something wrong with that man, something that didn't fit the story he had told. But there was also something right, something that resonated with Martin in a way he couldn't ignore.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Nightfall came faster than expected, and with it, the sound of military vehicles approaching the base. Martin was at the entrance when the headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the perimeter with a white, blinding light. He straightened up, his expression impassive, his posture impeccable, and waited.

General Park descended from the lead vehicle with the pomp of someone expecting to be received with all due ceremony. He was a middle-aged man, graying hair combed back, piercing eyes that seemed to assess everything around him with a cynicism that only years of military service could produce. He wore an impeccable uniform, adorned with medals and insignias that told the story of a career dedicated to hierarchy and power.

"Colonel Park Martin Edwards," the General said, extending his hand for a handshake that Martin accepted with appropriate firmness. "It's a pleasure to finally visit your facility. I've been hearing interesting things about the work you've been doing here."

"The pleasure is mine, General," Martin replied, his voice perfectly neutral. "Please, feel free to inspect whatever you wish. We are at your disposal."

General Park smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, and Martin felt his stomach clench. There was something threatening in that smile, something that suggested the inspection was not the true purpose of the visit.

"Excellent," the General said, his eyes scanning the interior of the base as he advanced, his soldiers spreading around him like an armed escort. "I look forward to seeing everything you have to offer."

Martin followed, staying a few steps behind, and as they walked through the concrete corridors, he couldn't help but think of the civilian locked in the back room, and all the ways this visit could go terribly wrong.

The night was just beginning, and Martin had the disturbing feeling that when it ended, nothing would ever be the same again.

General Park's inspection lasted over three hours, and every minute that passed, Martin felt the weight of military protocol close in around him like a trap. The General was not content to observe the main posts or check the reports James had so carefully organized. He wanted to see the living quarters, the kitchen, the armory, the supply depot. He opened doors that usually remained closed, asked questions Martin didn't expect, and observed every corner of the base with a meticulous attention bordering on suspicion.

With each new area visited, each new soldier interrogated, Martin felt the knot in his stomach tighten a little more, because somewhere in the back of the base, locked in a room that did not appear on official maps, was an unregistered civilian whose existence could cost Martin not only his post, but also his freedom, or perhaps his life.

Keonho stayed close to the General throughout the inspection, answering questions about the warehouse and supplies with a skill Martin rarely had the chance to appreciate. The youngest major was, under normal circumstances, prone to jokes and sarcastic comments, but that night he was flawless. His eyes, however, met Martin's at strategic moments, and in those brief visual contacts there was a silent question: "Is everything okay? Is the civilian safe?" Martin responded with the slightest nod, or an almost imperceptible blink, and Keonho resumed his performance as if nothing had happened.

James, for his part, remained in the watchtower, monitoring the base's surroundings and ensuring no suspicious movement occurred during the General's visit. It was a strategic position Martin had purposely chosen to keep him away from the spotlight, away from difficult questions, away from the possibility of saying something that could raise suspicion. James was loyal and competent, but he was also emotional, and Martin knew that his actions towards the civilian had shaken something in the lieutenant colonel. The last thing he needed that night was an argument or a confrontation in front of General Park.

Seonghyeon had been assigned to stay in the infirmary, and when the General insisted on visiting it, the doctor received him with a calm smile and a confidence that seemed unshakeable. Martin watched as Seonghyeon explained the base's medical protocols, showed the stocks of medicines and equipment, and answered questions about the soldiers' health with a precision bordering on perfection. General Park seemed satisfied, or at least not dissatisfied, and that was all Martin could ask for.

It was when the General mentioned the word "infected" that Martin felt the air in the room change. There was nothing unusual about the topic, but the way the man spoke about it, the gleam in his eyes when he mentioned the laboratories in central Seoul, made something churn in Martin's stomach.

"I've been hearing about some interesting advances in the laboratories recently," General Park said, his hands clasped behind his back as he walked through the infirmary, observing the equipment as if he were in a museum. "It seems we are closer than ever to finding a solution to the infected problem. The government is very optimistic."

"That's good to hear, General," Martin replied, his voice neutral, although inside he felt a silent alarm go off. The General's words were vague, carefully chosen, and Martin knew that in the mouth of someone of that rank, vague words almost always meant something that couldn't be said aloud.

"Yes, yes," the General continued, stopping in front of a shelf of medicines and examining the labels with an attention that seemed excessive. "Science is a wonderful thing, don't you agree, Colonel? It can turn the impossible into possible, the unimaginable into reality. Sometimes, of course, there are setbacks. Accidents along the way. But in the end, progress always wins."

Martin didn't respond, because he wasn't sure what the General was really saying, and silence seemed the safest option. The older man seemed not to notice his lack of response, or perhaps simply didn't care. He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the room once more before fixing on Martin's face.

"You know, Colonel, a base like this is a valuable asset to the government," he said, and his voice now had a different tone, more personal, almost intimate. "Well-trained soldiers, state-of-the-art equipment, strategic location. It's exactly the kind of facility we need for... special projects."

The phrase "special projects" hung in the air like a veiled threat, and Martin felt a chill run down his spine. He didn't ask what the General meant. He didn't want to know. Some truths were more dangerous than ignorance, and Martin had learned over the years that knowledge, sometimes, was a death sentence.

"We are at the government's disposal, General," Martin replied, reciting the words like a mantra, an empty formula that filled the space where real answers should be. "Whatever the mission, we will be ready to carry it out."

General Park smiled, and for the first time that night, the smile seemed genuine. He patted Martin on the shoulder, a gesture that should have been friendly but felt, somehow, condescending.

"I know you will be, Colonel. You've always been one of our best. That's why I'm here. That's why I trust you."

The statement was so sudden, so laden with unspoken implications, that Martin felt his hands sweat inside the leather gloves he wore as part of his uniform. He didn't move a muscle in his face, didn't let any emotion show, but inside something was stirring, something that resembled fear. General Park had not come to the base for a simple inspection. Martin knew it would only be a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.

The inspection ended shortly after midnight, with General Park and his soldiers departing in a caravan of dark vehicles that disappeared into the forest darkness like ghosts. Martin remained at the base entrance until the last headlights faded on the horizon, and then, slowly, allowed his shoulders to relax just enough to relieve the accumulated tension. Around him, soldiers began returning to their positions, the silent buzz of the base returning to normal after hours of containment.

"That was strange," James said, appearing beside Martin like a shadow. The lieutenant colonel had come down from the watchtower as soon as the vehicles left, and his expression was laden with poorly disguised concern. "General Park never visits bases personally. And the questions he asked... it seemed more like an investigation than an inspection."

"I noticed," Martin replied, his eyes still fixed on the dark spot where the vehicles had disappeared. "But we can't do anything about that now. What matters is that he's gone, and the base remains intact."

"For now," James murmured, and Martin couldn't disagree.

They stood in silence for a moment, standing at the base entrance as the night stretched around them like a dark, endless ocean. James seemed to want to say something more, something that was weighing on his mind, but the words wouldn't come. Martin waited, patient, knowing that eventually his right-hand man would find the courage to speak.

"About the civilian..." James began, and his voice was lower now, almost a whisper. "Do you really think it's safe to keep him here? General Park could have found out. If he had opened the wrong door, if he had asked about the back room..."

"But he didn't open it, and he didn't ask," Martin interrupted, his voice sharper than intended. He sighed, running a hand over his face in a gesture of fatigue he rarely allowed others to see. "James, I know you don't agree with this decision. I know it seems reckless, perhaps even dangerous. But there's something about that civilian, something I can't explain, that tells me he's important. I can't just ignore that."

"Important how?" James asked, and there was an edge of frustration in his voice, a sharpness he rarely let show when speaking to Martin. "Important for what? We don't even know if he's infected. We don't even know if he's human."

"He's human," Martin replied, with more certainty than he actually felt. "I know that."

"How?" James insisted.

Martin didn't respond immediately. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the base's perimeter, and when he finally spoke, his voice was so low James had to lean in to hear.

"Because I saw his eyes, James. The infected don't have that emptiness. They have rage, they have hunger, they have hatred. But that civilian... what he has isn't any of those things. What he has is sadness. A human being who has lost everything is still a human being."

James didn't respond, because there was no answer he could give. He had also seen the civilian's eyes, through the infirmary glass, and although he couldn't name what he saw, he knew Martin was right. That look wasn't bestial, wasn't animalistic. It was deeper, more human than any infected could produce. That didn't mean Juhoon wasn't infected. But it meant that, for now, that night, it was safe to treat him as a person.

Martin left James at the entrance and walked back into the base, his boots echoing on the concrete floor as he walked through the empty corridors. Most of the soldiers had already returned to their posts or gone to rest, and the base was silent in that peculiar way that only existed in the early morning hours, when even the most vigilant felt the weight of sleep pulling their eyelids down. Martin wasn't sleepy, or at least he didn't feel sleepy. What he felt was a deep restlessness, a sense that something was about to happen, something he couldn't predict or control.

His steps took him, almost without realizing it, to the back corridor where Juhoon's room was located. Two soldiers stood guard outside, their postures erect, their eyes attentive. They saluted Martin as he approached, and he returned the gesture with a nod before stopping in front of the closed door.

"Is he quiet?" Martin asked, his voice low so as not to echo down the corridor.

"Yes, sir," one of the soldiers replied. "He hasn't made a sound since being locked up. Not a word, not a groan. Sometimes we forget he's in there."

Martin nodded, his eyes fixed on the metal door in front of him. He knew he should leave, should return to his office and review the inspection reports, should try to sleep a few hours before the next day began. But his feet wouldn't move. His hands wouldn't move. He was paralyzed in front of that door, thinking about the man on the other side, the man who had said that dying seemed too tiring.

"Open the door," Martin ordered, and his own voice sounded strange to his ears, as if it weren't him speaking.

The soldier hesitated for only a second before obeying, inserting the key into the lock and turning it with a dry click. The door swung inward, revealing the small room beyond, and Martin entered without looking back.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the corridor through the open door. Martin blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness, and then saw Juhoon sitting on the bed, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. His eyes were open, fixed on some point on the floor before him, and his breathing was slow and controlled. He didn't look up when the Colonel entered, didn't show any reaction to his presence. He just sat there, motionless, as if he were part of the furniture.

"You haven't slept," Martin said, closing the door behind him and cutting off most of the corridor light.

"No," Juhoon replied, and his voice was calm, almost serene, as if he were talking about the weather. "I can't sleep in new places."

Martin didn't say anything for a moment. He approached slowly, his eyes scanning the small space, noting the empty food tray on the wooden chair and the thin blanket bunched at the foot of the bed, untouched.

"General Park is gone," Martin said, sitting on the chair without waiting for permission. He was too tired to care about formalities. "The base is safe again. You can... you can leave the room tomorrow. Not to walk freely, but at least to go to the infirmary or the kitchen. Being locked in here isn't good for anyone."

Juhoon finally looked up, and even in the dim light, Martin could see the exhaustion on his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin.

"Why are you here?" Juhoon asked, echoing the words Martin had said to him hours earlier. "Shouldn't you be resting? You look as tired as I am."

The observation was so unexpected, so direct, that a low, rough sound escaped Martin's lips before he could control it. He hadn't laughed in weeks, maybe months, and the sensation was so strange that for a moment he didn't know how to react.

"I'm tired," he admitted, and the honesty of the statement surprised him as much as the laugh. "I've been tired for years. But rest isn't a luxury I can afford."

"Why not?" Juhoon asked, tilting his head to the side again, that gesture Martin had already noticed before. "You're the leader here. You can do whatever you want."

"Leaders don't do what they want," Martin replied, his hands resting on his knees, his fingers twitching slightly. "Leaders do what needs to be done. Even when they're tired. Even when they don't want to."

Juhoon studied him for a long moment, his eyes scanning Martin's face as if looking for something, some truth hidden beneath the surface. Martin felt uncomfortable under that scrutiny, but didn't look away. He was too tired to look away, too tired to maintain the walls he normally kept around himself.

"You're a strange man, Colonel Park," Juhoon said finally, and there was something in his tone that could be affection, or perhaps just curiosity. "You saved me when you didn't have to, hid me when it would have been easier to hand me over, and now you're sitting here, talking to me as if we were friends, when in reality we're strangers."

"We are," Martin agreed, and the word seemed to weigh more than it should. "But maybe we don't have to be strangers forever."

The words escaped before he could stop them, and Martin felt his face warm slightly, a reaction he hadn't experienced since adolescence. He stood up abruptly, knocking the chair over backward with a noise that echoed through the small room.

"Tomorrow, we'll talk more about what to do with you," he said, his voice more controlled now, more formal. "For now, try to sleep. That's an order."

Juhoon didn't respond, but his lips curved slightly, almost a smile, and Martin felt something tighten in his chest. He left the room without looking back, closing the door behind him harder than necessary, and ordered the soldiers to lock it again.

What had happened in there? What had given him the courage to say those words? He had never been good at opening up to others, had never allowed anyone to see beyond the facade he had built. But with Juhoon, something was different. Something made him lower his guard, made him say things he didn't plan, made him feel vulnerable in a way he hated.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself, beginning to walk back to his office.

The base was silent, and Martin walked alone through the empty corridors, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions he couldn't organize. He thought of Juhoon, his dark eyes and hoarse voice. He thought of General Park, his mysterious visit and his talk of "special projects." He thought of James, his poorly disguised concern, of Keonho and Seonghyeon and all the soldiers who depended on him to keep them alive.

And for the first time in a long time, Martin wasn't sure he could.

In his office, he sat behind his desk and rested his head on his crossed arms, closing his eyes. The fatigue he had denied for so long finally caught up with him, enveloping him like a heavy, dark blanket. He didn't fight the sleep. He didn't have the strength for that anymore.

Chapter Text

The days that followed General Park's inspection were strangely calm, as if the base itself were holding its breath after the unexpected visit.

The routine returned to its usual course, with soldiers taking their posts, carrying out their tasks, and sleeping in their shifts, but there was a latent tension that no one mentioned aloud, but that everyone felt.

The civilian, Kim Juhoon, was now a constant presence in the corridors of BASE07, and although the ordinary soldiers had been instructed to treat him with professionalism and distance, curiosity was inevitable. They watched him as he passed, their eyes assessing every movement, every gesture, as if expecting that at any moment he would transform into something monstrous.

But Juhoon did not transform.

He walked silently through the permitted spaces, always accompanied by two heavily armed soldiers who never let him out of their sight, and he never touched anything that was not expressly authorized. His presence was so discreet that sometimes the soldiers forgot he was there, until his dark eyes appeared in some corner, watching, learning, absorbing everything around him like a silent sponge.

Martin avoided meeting him.

Not deliberately, or at least that's what he told himself.

He was just busy, overwhelmed with work, with no time to worry about the routine of a civilian who wasn't his problem. Government reports needed to be reviewed, ammunition stocks needed to be accounted for, soldier shifts needed to be organized.

There was always something demanding his attention, something that justified his absence from the corridors Juhoon frequented. But in his quieter moments, when the office was empty and the hum of the fluorescent light filled the space like a mantra, Martin found himself thinking about the conversation they had in the dark room, about the words that had escaped his lips before he could stop them.

"Maybe we don't have to be strangers forever."

The phrase echoed in his mind like a promise he didn't remember making, and every time it happened, Martin clenched his jaw and forced himself to think of something else.

James, for his part, couldn't avoid Juhoon even if he tried. As the lieutenant colonel responsible for the control room and the watchtower, he was constantly circulating around the base, supervising operations, checking protocols. And the civilian seemed to be everywhere at once, or at least in all the places James needed to be.

In the kitchen, when James went to get his morning coffee, there was Juhoon sitting in a corner, a bowl of rice in front of him, his eyes fixed on some distant point.

In the main corridor, when James headed to the watchtower, there was Juhoon being escorted by his two soldiers, his expression as empty as ever.

In the infirmary, when James went to get the medical reports Seonghyeon prepared weekly, there was Juhoon sitting on the gurney, allowing the doctor to examine his wounds with a patience that bordered on resignation.

And in each of these encounters, James felt something churn in his stomach. It wasn't fear, exactly, nor revulsion. It was a deep distrust, an instinct screaming that this civilian was not what he seemed, that there was something wrong with him, something that didn't fit.

James trusted Martin more than he trusted anyone else in the world, but in this specific decision he couldn't find any justification. The fact that Martin insisted on keeping Juhoon around, without a clear reason beyond a vague "he might be useful," bothered James more than anything else. And what bothered him even more was the way Juhoon seemed to perceive his discomfort. As if he could read his mind. As if he knew exactly what James was thinking and, somehow, found it amusing.

It was on one of those mornings, as James was crossing the main corridor with a folder of documents under his arm, that the first "incident" occurred.

Juhoon was leaning against the wall near the kitchen entrance, waiting for his escort soldiers to finish talking to a superior about the day's schedule. When he saw James approaching, his eyes slowly lifted, and his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, but wasn't neutral either. James felt his shoulders tense, but he kept walking, determined to ignore the civilian as he had done since he arrived. Only, as he passed Juhoon, he heard a low voice, almost a whisper, that made him stop mid-step.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Colonel. You look tired. Didn't sleep well?"

The question was asked in such a casual, unconcerned tone that it took James a second to process it. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowed, and found Juhoon exactly where he was, his expression as indifferent as before, as if he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary.

"I'm fine," James replied, his voice shorter than he intended. "And how I sleep is none of your business."

Juhoon tilted his head slightly to the side, that gesture James had noticed before when he saw him interacting with Martin. There was something about that movement that deeply irritated him, perhaps because it seemed so innocent and so calculating at the same time.

"That's true," Juhoon agreed, and his eyes glowed for an instant with something James could almost classify as amusement. "It's none of my business. But you get very dark circles under your eyes when you don't sleep. It's hard not to notice."

James felt his jaw clench. Juhoon's escort soldiers, who had finished their conversation, were now approaching again, their eyes darting between the lieutenant colonel and the civilian with poorly disguised curiosity. For a moment, James considered responding to the provocation, saying something sharp that would put that insolent civilian in his place. But then he thought better of it.

It wasn't worth it. Not worth the effort.

Instead, he simply turned and continued on his way, his steps heavier than before, his mind seething with the image of that almost imperceptible smile Juhoon had flashed.

Two days later, the same scene repeated itself, but with a slightly different tone. James was in the control room, reviewing the security camera footage, when Juhoon entered escorted, as always, by his two soldiers.

The civilian had permission to be in the main rooms, and the control room, although restricted, was not off-limits to him as long as he remained under supervision. James looked up when the door opened, and his eyes met Juhoon's for a brief instant before he turned his attention back to the monitors.

"What are you doing here?" James asked, his voice laden with poorly contained impatience.

"Seonghyeon said I could wait for him here," Juhoon replied, sitting down in a chair against the wall, away from any sensitive equipment. "He wants to change my bandages. He said it would be faster if I were already in the area."

James didn't answer.

His fingers drummed on the table in front of the monitors, a nervous habit he had developed in recent days and couldn't control. The cameras showed the base perimeter, the dark forest beyond the floodlights, the gray sky that never seemed to change color. Everything normal, everything calm, everything safe. Except for the civilian sitting in the chair behind him, whose breathing he could hear, whose presence he could feel like an invisible pressure in the air.

"You don't like me, do you, Lieutenant Colonel?" Juhoon's voice came from behind, breaking the silence with a frankness that made James turn in his chair.

"It's not about liking or disliking," James replied, his words measured. "It's about trust. And I don't trust you."

Juhoon nodded slowly, as if the answer was exactly what he expected.

"That's fair," he said. "I don't trust you either. The difference is that I don't pretend I do."

The statement was so direct, so disarming, that James didn't know how to respond. He had expected denial, or perhaps justification. Instead, he received an honest admission that the distrust was mutual. For a moment, he almost felt compelled to respect the civilian for his frankness. Almost.

"Does the Colonel trust you?" James asked, and the question escaped before he could assess whether it was appropriate or not.

Juhoon seemed to consider the question for a moment, his eyes fixed on some point on the opposite wall.

"I don't know," he replied finally. "He says he does. But people say a lot of things, don't they? They don't always mean what they say."

The answer was vague, evasive, and James felt his frustration increase. He was about to respond when the control room door opened again, and Seonghyeon entered with his white coat and his usual smile. The doctor seemed to immediately notice the tension in the air, his eyes darting from James to Juhoon and back to James.

"Am I interrupting something?" Seonghyeon asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"No," James replied quickly, turning back to the monitors. "I was leaving anyway. I need to check the posts."

He stood up, grabbed his folder, and left the room without looking back. Seonghyeon watched him go, one eyebrow raised, and then turned to Juhoon, who was still sitting in the chair, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

"What did you say to him?" Seonghyeon asked, opening his medical bag and beginning to remove the bandages.

"The truth," Juhoon replied, extending his arm so the doctor could examine his wounds. "That I don't trust him."

Seonghyeon laughed softly, shaking his head.

"You have a peculiar way of making friends, Kim Juhoon."

"I'm not trying to make friends," Juhoon replied, and there was something in his tone that suggested that was one of the few things he was completely certain about.

In the following days, this dynamic repeated itself in small doses.

Juhoon didn't actively seek out James, but when their paths crossed, the civilian made a point of saying something, even if it was just a simple "good morning" in a tone that bordered on sarcasm.

James, for his part, had learned not to respond, not to give Juhoon the satisfaction of seeing him irritated. But that didn't stop his fists from clenching a little tighter with each provocation, his jaw from tensing a little more with each ironic smile.

Meanwhile, Juhoon spent more and more time in the infirmary.

Not because he was sick, but because it was the only place in the base where he felt remotely safe. The white walls, the smell of antiseptic, the medical instruments organized on metal trays, everything in the infirmary spoke of order and control, two things Juhoon had lost long ago.

And Seonghyeon, with his calm smile and infinite patience, was a comforting presence in a hostile environment.

"Your wounds are healing well," Seonghyeon commented during one of these visits, examining the cuts on Juhoon's arms with trained eyes. "Faster than I expected, actually."

Juhoon looked at his own arms, where the bandages had been removed to reveal pinkish scars that looked weeks old, not days.

"That's good, isn't it?" he asked, his voice neutral.

"Yes. Very good," Seonghyeon replied, but there was something in his tone that suggested he was thinking about something else, something he didn't say aloud. "Have you always healed this fast?"

Juhoon seemed to consider the question for a moment.

"I don't know," he replied finally. "I never paid attention."

The answer was shallow, and Seonghyeon accepted it with a nod, although his eyes remained fixed on Juhoon's arms for a second longer than necessary.

H had been a doctor long enough to know when something didn't fit, and that accelerated healing didn't fit. But he had also been a doctor long enough to know that some questions couldn't be asked hastily, that some answers required patience and trust. And Juhoon, despite spending hours in the infirmary, still didn't fully trust anyone.

"I'm going to use a different ointment today," Seonghyeon said, changing the subject with a skill that bordered on art. "It's gentler. I think your skin will like it better."

Juhoon nodded, allowing the doctor to apply the new ointment to his wounds with gentle, precise movements. He watched Seonghyeon work with silent interest, noticing the way his hands never trembled, the way his eyes never strayed from what they were doing. There was a dedication in that man, a commitment to caring for others, that Juhoon hadn't seen in anyone for a long time. Not since before the world fell apart.

"Why did you become a doctor?" Juhoon asked suddenly, and the question seemed to catch Seonghyeon off guard.

The doctor looked up from Juhoon's wounds for a moment, a shy smile curving his lips.

"Because I wanted to help people," he replied, and the answer was so simple, so genuine, that Juhoon felt something tighten in his chest. "Sounds silly, doesn't it? In a world like this, wanting to help people is almost a sick joke."

"It's not silly," Juhoon replied, and his voice was softer than usual, more sincere. "It's rare. And beautiful."

Seonghyeon blushed slightly, looking away to the instrument counter as he put away the ointment.

"You're strange, Kim Juhoon," he said, but there was no accusation in his tone. Just an affectionate observation. "One minute you're provoking James until he wants to put you through a wall, the next you're saying nice things about my work. I can't understand you."

"Maybe you don't need to understand me," Juhoon replied, a small smile appearing on his lips for the first time since he'd arrived at the base. "Maybe you just need to accept that I'm strange like that."

Seonghyeon laughed, shaking his head, and Juhoon felt something warm in his chest. It wasn't happiness, exactly, nor gratitude. It was something closer to hope, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this place could become less of a captivity and more of a home.

Keonho, who had entered the infirmary in the middle of the conversation, watched the scene from afar, leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes scanned Seonghyeon with an intensity he didn't even notice himself, and when the doctor finally noticed his presence and blushed even more, Keonho felt an easy smile spread across his face.

"What is it?" Seonghyeon asked, his voice coming out higher than he would have liked. "Are you staring at me like I'm a ghost?"

"You're pretty when you're shy," Keonho replied, pushing the door open and entering the room as if he owned the place. "Have you noticed that? Every time someone compliments you, your face gets red like a tomato. It's cute."

"Fuck you, Ahn," Seonghyeon muttered, turning to the counter to hide the blush spreading across his face. "Don't you have anything better to do? Why don't you go bother James?"

"James is already bothered enough by our friend Kim here," Keonho said, nodding towards Juhoon with a casual gesture. "I don't need to help. He's doing an excellent job on his own."

Juhoon looked up at Keonho, and for the first time, something like respect glowed in his eyes.

"You're observant," Juhoon commented.

"Of course I am," Keonho replied, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to Juhoon's gurney with an informality that made the escort soldiers exchange uncomfortable glances. "James has been my friend for years. I know every wrinkle on his face. And he gets a new one every time you show up."

Seonghyeon laughed, despite himself, and Keonho felt his heart skip a beat hearing the sound. He loved making Seonghyeon laugh, loved the way his eyes lit up and his cheeks got even rosier. That's why he flirted, or at least that's what he told himself. Because it was fun. Because Seonghyeon got red and uncomfortable, and that was funny.

"You two are strange," Juhoon observed, his eyes darting from Keonho to Seonghyeon and back. "But in a good way."

"Good how?" Keonho asked, tilting his head.

"Like you like each other," Juhoon replied, and the statement was so casual, so unpretentious, that Seonghyeon almost dropped the ointment jar he was holding.

"What? No!" Seonghyeon exclaimed, his voice coming out in a higher pitch than necessary. "It's nothing like that. He's just... a colleague. An annoying colleague."

"Maybe I am a bit annoying," Keonho agreed, a mischievous smile curving his lips.

He winked at Juhoon, and Juhoon, for the first time, almost smiled back. There was something about that major, something in the way he moved through the world with a lightness that contrasted with the harshness of the surrounding environment, that Juhoon found intriguing.

Keonho didn't seem to carry the weight that others carried, didn't seem haunted by ghosts or regrets. He was just there, present, living one day at a time as if tomorrow were guaranteed.

Juhoon didn't know if that was courage or naivety, but he respected anyone who could maintain that posture in a crumbling world.

Meanwhile, in the office on the top floor, Martin was reviewing reports that didn't need to be reviewed, organizing folders that were already organized, and trying not to think about a certain civilian.

He wasn't having much success.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Juhoon sitting in the chair against the wall, eating rice with wooden chopsticks. Every time he opened his eyes, he saw the empty chair, and felt an absence he shouldn't feel.

He knew where Juhoon was at that moment. The escort soldiers reported every movement of the civilian to James, and James reported to him, so Martin knew exactly where Juhoon was every hour of the day.

He knew that he preferred the infirmary to any other place, that he had started talking more with Seonghyeon, that he provoked James with little phrases that made the lieutenant colonel clench his fists.

He knew that Juhoon hadn't tried to escape, hadn't broken any rules, hadn't given any reason to be locked in the back room again.

Martin also knew that he hadn't visited him since that night. He knew he was deliberately avoiding the civilian, although he refused to admit it aloud. There was always work to do, always reports to review, always something that justified his absence. And as long as he remained busy, he wouldn't have to think about why Juhoon's image seemed etched into his mind like a scar.

It was in this state of productive denial that the alarm found him.

The sharp, shrill sound echoed through the corridors of BASE07 like a scream of pain, and Martin jumped out of his chair before his brain even processed what was happening. His hand found the rifle leaning against the wall next to the desk, and his fingers were already checking the magazine as he ran to the corridor.

"What's happening?" he shouted into the walkie-talkie, his voice cutting through the noise of the alarm like a knife.

"Infected on the east perimeter," James's voice replied, tense, controlled. "At least twenty, maybe more. They're approaching fast. Keonho is already organizing the containment team."

"I'm on my way," Martin replied, and started running.

In the corridor, he passed soldiers heading to their posts, their faces masks of concentration and fear. Martin didn't stop to talk to any of them, didn't offer words of encouragement or specific orders. They knew what to do. They had trained for it. What they needed now was action, not words.

When he reached the main entrance, Keonho was already there, his rifle on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the floodlights.

"What do we have?" Martin asked, stopping beside the major.

"A large group coming from the east," Keonho replied, his voice strangely calm for someone about to face twenty infected. "They're moving fast, faster than normal. I don't know if it's because of the stage of infection or if something is motivating them."

Martin narrowed his eyes, his mind working through the possibilities. Advanced-stage infected were faster, stronger, more aggressive. If those approaching were at that stage, containment would be harder, more dangerous. But not impossible.

"How many soldiers do you have?"

"Ten, plus me. James is in the tower, coordinating. Seonghyeon is in the infirmary, prepared to receive the wounded."

Martin nodded, checking his rifle one last time.

"Let's go," he said, and advanced into the darkness.

The fight was brutal, but quick. The infected were indeed faster than normal, their movements erratic and unpredictable, their red eyes glowing in the darkness like live coals.

Martin fired once, twice, three times, each shot hitting its target with the precision of someone who had performed that gesture thousands of times. Beside him, Keonho fought with a ferocity that bordered on savagery, his teeth clenched, his eyes flashing. The soldiers moved as a cohesive unit, containing the infected, pushing them back, killing them one by one.

When the last infected fell, Martin stood still in the middle of the battlefield, his breathing heavy, his heart beating so fast it seemed like it wanted to leap out of his chest. Around him, the soldiers also breathed heavily, their faces sweaty and stained with the blood of the infected. The smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh filled the air, and Martin felt his stomach churn, although his expression remained impassive.

"Is everyone okay?" he asked, his voice echoing in the silence that followed the fight.

"Only minor injuries," Keonho replied, examining the soldiers around him with trained eyes. "Nothing Seonghyeon can't handle."

Martin nodded, putting away his rifle.

"Go back inside. I want detailed reports on my desk by tomorrow morning."

The soldiers began to move towards the base, their heavy steps on the blood-soaked ground. Martin stayed behind for a moment, his eyes scanning the battlefield, the bodies of the infected scattered on the ground like broken dolls. He felt something close to emptiness, the realization that this scene would repeat itself, that there would always be more infected, more battles, more deaths.

The cycle never ended.

And perhaps it never would.

"Colonel?" Keonho's voice brought him back to the present. "Shall we go?"

Martin nodded, and began to walk back to the base.

At the entrance, James was waiting for him, his expression laden with concern.

"Are you okay?" the lieutenant colonel asked, his eyes scanning Martin's body for injuries.

"I'm fine," Martin replied, passing by him without stopping. "Go back to the tower. I want the cameras watching the perimeter for the rest of the night. If there's any more movement, let me know immediately."

"Yes, sir," James replied, but he didn't move immediately. He stood there, watching Martin walk away, his expression a mixture of concern and something else, something he couldn't name.

Martin walked through the base corridors with heavy steps, his mind a whirlwind of images from the fight. The blood, the screams, the red eyes of the infected. He didn't realize that his feet were taking him to the infirmary until he was already in front of the door, his hand raised to open it. He hesitated for a moment, considering turning and going to his office, to the shower, anywhere but there. But then the door opened from the inside, and Seonghyeon appeared, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the colonel covered in dirt and blood.

"Colonel? Are you injured?" the doctor asked, already reaching for his arm to examine him.

"No," Martin replied, pulling away from the touch. "I'm fine. I just..."

His voice died in his throat when his eyes found Juhoon, sitting on the gurney at the back of the room, his dark eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made him feel naked. The civilian didn't say anything, didn't move, but something in his gaze seemed to be asking, questioning, trying to decipher what Martin was doing there.

Martin looked away first.

"I thought Keonho had come here," he said to Seonghyeon, although both knew that wasn't the truth. "But since he hasn't, I'm going to take a shower. Good work today."

He turned and left before Seonghyeon could respond, his steps echoing in the corridor as he walked away. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The image of Juhoon sitting on the gurney, his dark eyes fixed on him, was already etched in his mind, and he knew he wouldn't forget it anytime soon.

Inside, Seonghyeon closed the door and turned to Juhoon, one eyebrow raised.

"What was that?" he asked.

Juhoon shrugged, his expression returning to normal.

"I don't know," he replied. "Maybe he was just tired."

But there was something in his voice, something in the way his eyes darted to the closed door, that suggested he didn't believe that. And that maybe, just maybe, that unexpected visit meant more than he was willing to admit.

The days following the attack on the east entrance were an endless sequence of small tensions and exhausting routines. The base had returned to its apparent normalcy, with soldiers doing their shifts, equipment being reviewed, reports being filled out and filed. But there was something different in the air, a restlessness that no one could name, but that everyone felt.

The infected hadn't returned since that night, and although that was technically good news, their absence was almost more disturbing than their presence. It was as if they were waiting, watching, choosing the right moment to attack again.

Martin spent most of his time in the office or in the radio room, where he maintained contact with his superiors and received daily updates on the situation in Seoul and the surrounding areas.

The news was not good.

The infected were spreading faster, the laboratories in the city center were receiving more "patients" than they could process, and the government was considering more drastic measures to contain the spread.

Martin read the reports with an impassive face, but inside he felt something churn. Drastic measures almost always meant more violence, more deaths, more people being sacrificed in the name of collective security. He had seen that before, and he knew how it ended.

When he wasn't trapped in his office, Martin circulated around the base, checking every post, talking to every soldier, keeping himself visible and present. It was part of his job as a colonel, but it was also a way to avoid what he didn't want to face.

Not that Martin was deliberately avoiding Juhoon. There was no reason for that. Juhoon was just a civilian, a potential resource, a logistical problem that needed to be managed. There was nothing personal about it. Absolutely nothing.

And yet, whenever Martin approached the medical wing, his steps involuntarily slowed, his eyes darted to the half-open door, and for a moment, just a moment, he found himself imagining what Juhoon would be doing in there.

Would he be sitting on the gurney, with that empty expression that seemed to see through people?

Would he be talking to Seonghyeon, his few words laden with a weight that contrasted with his calm voice?

Would he be staring at some invisible point, thinking about things no one else could see?

Martin never went in. He moved on, leaving the infirmary behind, leaving Juhoon behind, leaving behind that nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to know more about the man with dark eyes and mysterious scars.

James noticed the change in Martin's behavior, although he couldn't prove it was happening.

It was something in the way the Colonel sometimes hesitated before turning a corner, the way his eyes darted sideways when passing the infirmary wing, the way his jaw tensed slightly whenever someone mentioned the civilian's name.

James didn't know what it meant, but he didn't like it. He didn't like seeing Martin distracted, didn't like seeing his attention divided, didn't like feeling that there was something happening that he couldn't understand.

"You've been strange," James said to Martin one afternoon, when they met in the main corridor.

Martin raised an eyebrow, his expression as impassive as ever.

"I'm always strange."

"No, it's different," James insisted, stopping in front of the Colonel and blocking his path. "You're distant. Distracted. What's going on?"

Martin stared at him for a long moment, and James had the uncomfortable feeling of being assessed, measured, judged.

"Nothing is going on," Martin replied finally. "I'm just tired. Like everyone else here."

"It's not just tiredness," James said, but his voice had lost its conviction. He knew it was useless to push. Martin only spoke when he wanted to, and clearly he didn't want to now.

"Go back to the tower, James," Martin said, passing by him without looking back. "The perimeter isn't going to watch itself."

James stood there for a moment, watching the Colonel walk away, and felt something tighten in his chest. An old frustration, an unresolved feeling he thought he had buried years ago, but that insisted on resurfacing at the most inopportune moments.

He shook his head, pushing the thoughts away, and headed to the watchtower. There was no point in dwelling on the past. The past was gone, and the present demanded his attention.

It was that same afternoon that something changed.

Martin was in the radio room, reviewing the latest government transmissions, when he heard footsteps in the corridor. They weren't the heavy, rhythmic steps of the soldiers. They were lighter, more hesitant, like someone not used to walking through those concrete corridors. Martin looked up from the desk and saw Juhoon standing at the entrance, the two escort soldiers right behind him, their expressions tired from having accompanied the civilian for hours on end.

"What are you doing here?" Martin asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

Juhoon didn't respond immediately. He stood there, his dark eyes scanning the radio room before finally fixing on Martin's face.

"Seonghyeon told me to move around," Juhoon said, his voice calm, almost monotonous. "He said staying still all the time isn't good for my wounds."

Martin narrowed his eyes.

"And you chose to come here?"

"I've been to the kitchen, the control room, the warehouse," Juhoon listed, as if reading a shopping list. "This is the last place I haven't seen. Then I'll go back to the infirmary."

For a moment, Martin considered sending him away. The radio room was a restricted area, and although Juhoon had permission to circulate in the common areas, that specific space contained classified communications that a civilian shouldn't see. But something made him hesitate.

"You can stay," Martin said, turning his attention back to the documents in front of him. "But don't touch anything."

Juhoon entered the room slowly, his eyes still scanning every corner, every detail. He remained standing, leaning against the wall opposite Martin's desk, his arms crossed over his chest. The escort soldiers remained outside, as always, their silhouettes visible through the frosted glass door.

The silence that settled between them was not comfortable, but it was not hostile either. It was a silence laden with unspoken things, with questions not asked, with answers neither was ready to give.

Martin continued reading his documents, although the words had become a blur before his eyes. He was aware of Juhoon's presence in a way he couldn't explain, as if the civilian emitted some kind of frequency that only he could pick up.

"You work too much," Juhoon said finally, breaking the silence.

"It's my job," Martin looked up.

"Your job will kill you," Juhoon continued, and his voice carried no provocation, just a factual observation. "Do you sleep? Eat? Or just work?"

Martin felt his jaw tense. He didn't like being analyzed, didn't like strangers asking questions about his life, didn't like the way Juhoon seemed to see him in a way others didn't.

"That's none of your business," he replied, his voice colder than before.

"I know," Juhoon said, and his eyes didn't look away. "But I'm asking anyway."

The silent challenge hung in the air between them, and Martin felt something like surprise move in his chest at the realization that this civilian was not intimidated by him, did not back down when he used his commanding tone, and did not bow to the authority Martin represented. That was both irritating and...

Interesting.

"I sleep when I can," Martin replied finally, and he didn't know why he was answering. "Eat when there's time. Work when I need to."

Juhoon nodded slowly, as if processing the information.

"It must be hard," he said. "Being responsible for so many people."

Martin didn't answer. Not because he didn't have an answer, but because the answer was yes, it was hard, and he didn't want to admit that to a civilian he barely knew.

The silence returned, but now it was different. It was denser, heavier, as if something were forming in the air between them. Martin kept his eyes on his documents, but his mind was not on the documents. It was on Juhoon, on the way he moved, on the way he spoke, on the fact that the infected had ignored him in the forest.

"Can I ask a question?" Juhoon asked suddenly.

"You're already asking."

"Why did you bring me inside?"

Martin looked up again, and for the first time, allowed something of his true expression to show, not much, just enough for Juhoon to see that the question had hit him.

"I already answered that," Martin said. "You might be useful."

"And if I'm not?" Juhoon insisted, his eyes fixed on Martin's. "And if I'm just an ordinary civilian, with no valuable information, no useful connections? What happens to me?"

The question was legitimate, and Martin knew it. He also knew he didn't have a good answer. The truth was, he didn't know what would happen if Juhoon proved useless.

Maybe he would send him to Seoul, to the laboratories.

Maybe he would leave him on the base, like a sort of mascot.

Maybe he would just forget him in some corner until he ceased to exist.

"I don't know," Martin replied honestly. "I haven't decided yet."

Juhoon stared at him for a long moment, and then, slowly, his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, but wasn't neutral either.

"At least you're honest," he said. "That's more than most people give me."

Martin didn't know how to respond to that, and before he could formulate anything, the radio room door opened and James entered, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Juhoon there.

"Colonel," James said, his voice controlled, but with a hint of surprise. "I didn't know we had a visitor."

"The civilian is just getting to know the facilities," Martin replied, turning his attention back to the documents as if the conversation had never happened. "He's leaving now."

Juhoon didn't protest. He moved away from the wall, his eyes meeting James's for a brief instant, and then turned to leave. But before crossing the door, he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and spoke in a tone that only Martin could hear.

"Rest, Colonel."

And then he left, his light footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving behind an awkward silence and a Martin who didn't know if he was irritated or surprised.

"He's getting too comfortable," James commented, closing the door behind him. "Talking to you like you're friends."

"He's not my friend," Martin replied, more sharply than intended. "What do you want, James?"

James hesitated for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the closed door, as if he could see Juhoon through it.

"The perimeter is clear," he said finally. "No movement since the attack. I wanted to know if I should reduce the night watch."

"No," Martin replied immediately. "Keep it as is. They'll be back. It's only a matter of time."

James nodded, but didn't move. He stood there, as if wanting to say something more, something Martin didn't want to hear.

"Is there something else?" Martin asked, his voice impatient.

James shook his head.

"No. Nothing."

He left, closing the door behind him, and Martin was left alone with his documents and the echo of Juhoon's words in his mind.

"Rest, Colonel."

As if it were that simple. As if he could just close his eyes and ignore the outside world, the infected, the reports, the expectations, the weight of all that responsibility.

Martin rested his head in his hands and sighed deeply. He was tired. He was exhausted. But he couldn't stop.

Stopping meant failing, and failing meant people would die.

He couldn't allow that to happen.

That night, as the base sank into the silence of the early morning hours, Seonghyeon was in the infirmary, as usual.

He had spent the entire day attending to soldiers with minor injuries, organizing medical supplies, updating medical reports. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, hadn't slept in the last thirty hours, and his body was beginning to send signals that it couldn't take any more. But Seonghyeon ignored the signals, as he always did. There was work to be done, and as long as there was work, he couldn't stop.

Juhoon had been taken back to his room hours earlier, so Seonghyeon was alone in the infirmary for the first time in days. The silence was almost deafening after so much time with the civilian's constant company, but Seonghyeon didn't mind. He liked the silence. He liked being able to hear his own thoughts, even when they weren't pleasant.

He was at the instrument counter, organizing medicine bottles in alphabetical order, when he felt the first sign that something was wrong. His vision blurred for a second, just a second, and he blinked a few times to clear it. Then came an intense, suffocating heat that seemed to come from within his bones. His hands began to shake, the glass bottles clinking against each other in a sharp sound that echoed through the silent room.

"Not now," Seonghyeon murmured to himself, bracing his hands on the counter to steady himself. "Not now, please."

But his body didn't obey. The heat increased, turning into a fever, and the fever brought with it a weakness that Seonghyeon couldn't fight. His legs began to give way, his knees buckling as if made of paper. He tried to scream, but his throat was dry, his vocal cords refusing to work.

The floor came towards him in slow motion, and Seonghyeon didn't feel the impact when he fell. He just felt the cold of the floor against his cheek, and then darkness swallowed everything.

No one found him in the following hours. The soldiers outside assumed he was working, as always, and didn't want to interrupt him. The night shift passed slowly, with the on-duty doctors busy in other wings, and the infirmary remained silent and still.

It was Keonho who found him.

The major had gone to the infirmary around five in the morning, after an exhausting shift in the warehouse. He didn't have a specific reason to be there, he just wanted to see Seonghyeon, hear his voice, maybe provoke him to see him blush. It was a habit Keonho had developed over the years, the habit of seeking out Seonghyeon when the day was hard, when thoughts were too heavy, when he needed something he didn't exactly know what.

The infirmary door was closed, which wasn't unusual. Keonho knocked once, twice, three times. No answer. He frowned, worried, and opened the door slowly.

The scene he saw made him freeze for a second.

Seonghyeon was lying on the floor next to the counter, his body stretched out in an uncomfortable position, his face pale and covered in sweat. Keonho felt his heart stop for an instant, and then panic hit him like a wave.

"Seonghyeon!" he shouted, running to the doctor's side and falling to his knees beside him.

His hands trembled as he touched Seonghyeon's face, feeling the abnormal heat of his skin, the fever burning beneath the surface. The doctor's eyes were closed, his lips parted, his breathing rapid and irregular.

"Seonghyeon!" Keonho called again, his voice more desperate now. "Wake up! Please, wake up."

The doctor didn't respond. Didn't move. Keonho felt tears burning in his eyes, but he didn't let them fall.

He pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt with shaking hands and pressed the button hard.

"Martin! James!" his voice echoed through the channel, loud and urgent. "I need help in the infirmary now! Seonghyeon passed out... H-he... He has a high fever, he's not responding!"

On the other end, there was a moment of silence, and then Martin's voice, sharp and controlled despite the hour.

"I'm on my way. James, call the on-duty doctors. Keonho, stay with him. Don't move him."

Keonho obeyed, although every fiber of his being screamed to do something, anything, not to stand there while Seonghyeon lay unconscious at his feet.

He held Seonghyeon's hand, feeling the abnormal heat of his fingers, the dampness of sweat on his palm.

Seonghyeon's hand was smaller than his, more delicate, but always so steady when applying bandages or giving injections. Now it was limp, inert, and Keonho squeezed it tighter, as if he could transfer his own energy to the doctor through the contact.

"You can't do this to me," Keonho murmured, his voice so low that only Seonghyeon could hear him, if he were awake. "You can't just... Leave me here. Who's going to take care of me? Who's going to put up with me?"

The words escaped before he could stop them, and Keonho realized, at that moment, that they weren't just empty words.

They were true.

They were a truth he had been ignoring for weeks, for months, perhaps for years.

Seonghyeon wasn't just a colleague, wasn't just a friend, wasn't just someone he provoked to see him blush.

He was more than that.

He was someone Keonho needed.

The thought frightened him, and Keonho pushed it to the back of his mind, where he couldn't see it. Not now. Now he needed to focus on Seonghyeon, on keeping him alive, on ensuring the doctors arrived in time.

Martin was the first to arrive. He entered the infirmary like a hurricane, his eyes scanning the scene in a second, assessing the situation with the efficiency of someone used to making quick decisions under pressure.

"What happened?" he asked, kneeling beside Keonho and touching Seonghyeon's neck to check his pulse.

"I don't know," Keonho replied, his voice trembling despite his efforts to control it. "I arrived and he was already like this. I don't know how long he's been lying there."

"Pulse is fast, but strong," Martin said, his eyes fixed on Seonghyeon's pale face. "The fever is high. Could be many things. Exhaustion, infection..."

The virus also caused fever, in the beginning. The virus also caused weakness and fainting, before the eyes began to change color, before the nails became brittle, before the teeth sharpened.

Keonho knew that, and felt cold fear run down his spine.

"He's not infected," Keonho said, but his voice carried no conviction. It was a wish, a prayer, not a certainty.

"We don't know that yet," Martin replied, and his honesty was cruel, but necessary. "Let's wait for the doctors. They'll know what to do."

James arrived next, with two on-duty doctors right behind him. They took control immediately, pushing Martin and Keonho aside so they could examine Seonghyeon more carefully. Keonho resisted for a moment, not wanting to let go of the doctor's hand, but Martin pulled him back with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Let them work," Martin said, his voice softer than Keonho expected. "You won't help by getting in the way."

Keonho nodded, but didn't move away. He stood there, still, his eyes fixed on Seonghyeon as the doctors examined him, took his temperature, checked his pupils, administered IV fluids and medication. Every second felt like an hour, and every minute felt like a century.

"He'll be fine," James said, placing a hand on Keonho's shoulder. "Seonghyeon is resilient. He's been through worse."

"Not on this base," Keonho replied, his voice low. "He was always the one who took care of others. He never needed to be taken care of."

James's gaze softened, and he squeezed Keonho's shoulder tighter.

"Everyone needs to be taken care of sometimes," he said. "Even the best doctors."

The diagnosis came after almost an hour of tests.

"Severe exhaustion combined with a bacterial infection," the on-duty doctor explained, adjusting the IV in Seonghyeon's arm. "He's dehydrated, malnourished, and clearly hasn't slept in days. There's no sign of viral infection, but he should remain under observation."

Keonho felt relief flood his chest like a wave.

Not infected. Just sick. Just human.

"Will he be okay?" Keonho asked, his voice still trembling.

"With rest and medication, yes," the doctor replied. "But he'll need at least a week away from work. If he tries to come back before that, he could faint again, and next time the consequences could be worse."

Keonho nodded, his eyes fixed on Seonghyeon's pale face, which was beginning to regain some color.

"I'll take care of him," Keonho said, and it wasn't an offer. It was a promise. "I won't let him do anything stupid."

Martin watched the scene from afar, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression impenetrable. He noticed the way Keonho didn't leave Seonghyeon's side, the way his hands trembled slightly whenever Seonghyeon moved, the way his eyes never strayed from the doctor's face for more than a few seconds. There was something there, something Martin wasn't sure Keonho had even noticed yet.

"He likes him," James's voice came from behind, low so only Martin could hear.

Martin didn't respond immediately. He just watched Keonho take Seonghyeon's hand again, squeeze it with a gentleness that contrasted with his brute strength.

"It seems so," Martin said finally. "The question is whether he knows it."

"Sooner or later, he'll have to face it," James shrugged. "You can't run from feelings forever."

The phrase seemed laden with a meaning that went beyond Keonho and Seonghyeon, and Martin felt its weight against his chest like a stone.

He didn't respond. He just turned and left the infirmary, leaving James behind, leaving Keonho and Seonghyeon behind, leaving behind the image of two men who were perhaps about to discover something he himself didn't have the courage to face.

In the corridor, he almost bumped into Juhoon, who was standing outside, his eyes fixed on the closed door of the infirmary.

"What happened?" Juhoon asked, his voice carrying a concern Martin didn't expect.

"Seonghyeon passed out," Martin replied, passing by the civilian without stopping. "Exhaustion. He'll be fine."

"Can I see him?"

The question made Martin stop. He turned slowly, his eyes meeting Juhoon's.

"Not now. He needs to rest."

Juhoon nodded, but didn't move. He stood there, still, his eyes still fixed on the closed door, and Martin saw genuine concern, perhaps even affection, in his expression.

Seonghyeon had achieved something no one else on the base had achieved: Juhoon's trust.

"You care about him," Martin said, and it wasn't a question.

Juhoon finally looked away from the door to meet Martin's eyes.

"He's the only person here who treats me like a human being," Juhoon replied. "So yes. I care."

The honesty of the answer hit Martin in a way he didn't expect. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words didn't come. Instead, he just nodded and continued on his way, leaving Juhoon behind, leaving behind the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he also wanted to care and didn't know how.

The following hours were a blur of activity.

Keonho didn't leave Seonghyeon's side, even when the doctors said there was no need.

He sat in the chair next to the gurney, holding the doctor's hand, watching his chest rise and fall in a rhythm that had become reassuring after so much uncertainty.

Seonghyeon didn't wake up during the night, but his fever gradually subsided, and his breathing became more regular, and Keonho finally allowed himself to believe he would be okay.

James returned to the watchtower, but his mind wasn't on the monitors. It was on Martin, on the way he had looked at Juhoon in the corridor, on that fraction of a second before looking away. There was something there, something James didn't want to see, but couldn't ignore.

Martin, for his part, couldn't sleep that night.

He stayed in his office, staring at the concrete walls, thinking about Seonghyeon sick, Keonho desperate, Juhoon worried. He thought about James's words and felt something churn in his stomach.

He wasn't running from anything. There was nothing to run from. He was a soldier, and soldiers had no time for feelings.

Feelings were weaknesses, and weaknesses killed.

But then he thought of Juhoon's eyes and the way they seemed to see him in a way no one else did. And he felt, for the first time in a long time, that maybe he wanted to be seen.

The thought frightened him, and Martin pushed it to the back of his mind, where it couldn't hurt him.

Not now. Maybe never.

But deep down, the seed remained there, buried in the darkness, waiting.

Waiting for something to make it sprout.

⊱⊱⊱⊱⊱|⊰⊰⊰⊰⊰

The two weeks that followed Seonghyeon's fainting spell were the longest anyone at BASE07 could remember.

Time seemed to have stretched like an elastic band being pulled slowly, each day dragging on in a monotony that bordered on psychological torture.

The base's routine continued, but there was a void in the routine, an absence that everyone felt, even those who barely knew Seonghyeon personally.

The doctor was the soul of the base in a way no one had noticed until he was no longer present. His warm smile, his corny jokes, his infinite patience with the wounded and frightened, had been temporarily erased, replaced by the silence of the infirmary and the constant hum of the machines monitoring his vital signs.

Seonghyeon remained unconscious for fourteen entire days.

The on-duty doctors repeated the same mantra every morning, saying "it's normal, his body needs to replenish its energy, he's in a kind of forced hibernation," but the words sounded hollow, cold, unable to fill the hole his absence had left.

Keonho listened to the diagnoses with an impassive face, nodded in thanks, and then turned his gaze back to Seonghyeon's pale face on the gurney, as if expecting that at any moment, his eyes would open and he would return to being who he always was. But the eyes didn't open. The pale lips didn't move. And Keonho remained there, sitting in the chair in front of the gurney, his forehead resting on his hands, his elbows planted on his knees, waiting.

He didn't leave Seonghyeon's side.

Keonho arrived at the infirmary before sunrise and only left when the curfew echoed through the base corridors, forcing him to return to his quarters. He sat in the padded chair someone had brought from the break room, and there he remained, motionless, his eyes fixed on Seonghyeon's chest rising and falling in a rhythm that had become his only anchor in reality.

Seonghyeon's hygiene was done by a group of three nurses who came to the infirmary every day at the same time, religiously. They changed the IV, checked his blood pressure, took his temperature, and performed dry hygiene on his motionless body with an efficiency bordering on robotic.

The entire process took about an hour, and Keonho always used this interval to leave the infirmary. Not because he wanted to, but because he knew the nurses needed space to work, and because he himself needed to eat, shower, and inspect the soldiers' work in the warehouse.

He did everything on autopilot, his movements mechanical, his mind absent, and exactly one hour later, sometimes less, he was back in the infirmary, entering silently even before the nurses finished their procedures. They had gotten used to his presence, to his silent impatience, and simply moved away when he approached, letting him resume his post by the gurney.

At night, when the curfew sounded, Keonho reluctantly headed to his quarters on the fourth floor. He always hesitated at the infirmary door, his eyes fixed on Seonghyeon's motionless face, as if waiting for a sign, a movement, anything that would justify staying. The sign never came, and Keonho forced himself to turn his back and walk towards the elevator, his heavy footsteps echoing in the empty corridors like a death sentence.

In the second week, Keonho insisted to James that he could manage to sleep in the infirmary. There was a spare gurney in a corner, and he could easily improvise a bed on the floor. He didn't need comfort, didn't need a soft mattress or fluffy pillows. All he needed was to be near Seonghyeon, even if just to hear his regular breathing in the dark.

James stopped him. Not with an order, not with a reprimand, but with words Keonho couldn't rebut.

"You need to rest comfortably," James said, a hand on Keonho's shoulder, his voice softer than usual. "Seonghyeon will wake up, and when he wakes up, he'll need you whole, not destroyed. You won't help anyone if you faint from exhaustion too."

Keonho wanted to argue, wanted to say he didn't care about his own exhaustion, that all that mattered was Seonghyeon and no one else. But the words didn't come. Instead, he just nodded and obeyed. Because James was right, and because deep down Keonho knew Seonghyeon would say the same thing if he were awake.

During those two weeks, Juhoon also became a constant presence in the infirmary.

He arrived every morning right after breakfast, his two escort soldiers posted outside like silent sentinels, and sat in the chair against the wall, the same chair as always, where he could observe Keonho and Seonghyeon without getting in the way.

He didn't talk much. There were no words that could fill the void left by Seonghyeon's unconsciousness, no catchphrases that could console a man watching his best friend waste away before his eyes. So Juhoon just stayed there, in silence, his quiet presence serving as a kind of silent anchor for Keonho.

When the nurses arrived to do Seonghyeon's hygiene, Juhoon withdrew along with Keonho. Not out of embarrassment, but out of respect for Seonghyeon's privacy and the nurses' professionalism. He waited outside, leaning against the opposite wall, his eyes fixed on some distant point, and only re-entered when Keonho returned, the two resuming their silent places as if they had never left.

Martin and James also visited Seonghyeon regularly. Once a day, sometimes twice, they appeared in the infirmary, usually in the late afternoon, when the day's tasks had been completed and the base entered that twilight period between movement and silence. They stayed about half an hour, never more than that.

Juhoon watched these visits with silent interest.

He noticed how Martin always positioned himself by the gurney, his eyes fixed on Seonghyeon's pale face, his expression as impassive as ever. He noticed how James stayed one step behind, his gaze shifting from Martin to Seonghyeon and back again, as if trying to decipher some invisible code. He noticed how the two exchanged quick, almost imperceptible glances, laden with meanings Juhoon couldn't decipher.

And he also noticed that Martin no longer looked at him.

At first, Juhoon thought it was his imagination. There was no reason for Martin to avoid him, they had barely interacted since their conversation in the radio room, and that conversation hadn't been anything special. Just words exchanged between a tired colonel and a bored civilian. Nothing that would justify this sudden silence.

But as the days passed, the feeling became stronger, more uncomfortable.

Martin entered the infirmary, greeted Keonho with a nod, asked about Seonghyeon, and then stood there, his eyes wandering around the room without ever landing on Juhoon. It was as if Juhoon were invisible, as if he weren't sitting there, a few meters away, his presence as obvious as the nose on one's face.

On the eleventh day, after another visit where Martin completely ignored him, Juhoon finally spoke.

"Don't you think they're too close?" he asked Keonho, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret.

Keonho looked up from the desk surface where his arms were resting, his expression confused. He was exhausted, his dark circles contrasting with the pallor of his skin, and Juhoon's question seemed to have come out of nowhere.

"Are you talking about Martin and James?"

Juhoon nodded once, shifting uncomfortably in the padded chair.

He didn't know why he was asking, didn't know why he cared. Martin and James's relationship was none of his business. And yet, something bothered him about the way the two moved together, as if they were parts of the same organism, as if there was an intimacy between them that Juhoon couldn't penetrate.

"Oh, I mean, we've all known each other forever and have worked together since then," Keonho scratched the back of his neck, finding the situation almost funny. It was ironic that Juhoon, the mysterious civilian, was asking about the group's dynamic instead of asking about the outside world, or about the infected, or about any of the things someone in his position should want to know. "It would be complicated if they weren't close, right?"

Juhoon seemed thoughtful for a moment, his eyes fixed on some point on the opposite wall. He pulled his legs up onto the chair, assuming a butterfly position that made him look younger, more vulnerable, and was silent for a long time, processing Keonho's words.

"Do you think I would have a chance?" he asked after a while, his voice so low Keonho almost didn't hear.

Keonho raised one eyebrow, his expression still confused. Fatigue was affecting his ability to process the nuances of the conversation, and he wasn't sure what Juhoon was asking.

"What are you talking about?"

Juhoon didn't answer. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, his eyes darting from Keonho to the floor. He didn't want to say what he was really thinking. He didn't know how to put into words what he felt.

"Do you think I would have a chance of ruining whatever they have?"

The question lingered on the tip of Juhoon's tongue, but he didn't say it. Instead, he remained silent, his eyes fixed on the floor, his hands gripping his own knees tighter than necessary.

Keonho, too tired to insist, just shrugged and turned his attention back to Seonghyeon, leaving Juhoon's question hanging in the air like a ghost no one knew how to exorcise.

Later that same day, after Juhoon had already withdrawn with his two escort soldiers, Keonho remained alone in the infirmary for the first time.

The silence was dense, heavy, broken only by the hum of the machines and Seonghyeon's regular breathing. The fluorescent light on the ceiling emitted a low, constant sound, and Keonho felt himself floating somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, his eyes heavy with the fatigue accumulated from days without adequate rest.

He didn't make the effort to get up. He remained sitting in the chair in front of the gurney, his forehead resting on the palm of his hand, his elbows planted on his knees. His left hand rested on the edge of the gurney, close to Seonghyeon's hand, so close they almost touched, but Keonho kept a minimal distance, a centimeter of air between their skins, as if respecting some invisible boundary he had imposed on himself.

Keonho didn't know how long he stayed like that, hovering on the border between conscious and unconscious. Time had lost its meaning in those two weeks, the days blurring into a gray haze of waiting and anxiety. Perhaps minutes had passed, perhaps hours. He didn't know. He didn't care.

Then he felt it.

A touch. Light, almost imperceptible, but undeniably real. The backs of their hands brushed against each other for a fraction of a second in a quick, short movement, as if Seonghyeon had slid his fingers accidentally while sleeping.

Keonho woke immediately. Sleep evaporated from his body like water on hot metal, and he sat up in the chair with a sudden movement that made his bones crack in protest. His eyes fixed on Seonghyeon's face, searching for any sign of consciousness, anything indicating he was no longer lost in that deep sleep that looked like a coma.

Nothing. Seonghyeon remained still, his eyes closed, his breathing regular.

Keonho leaned his face closer, his right hand finding the doctor's forehead.

It wasn't hot.

The fever had gone down completely in recent days, and Seonghyeon's temperature was now normal, even slightly below normal. Keonho wasn't a doctor, didn't understand these things, but he knew fever was no longer the problem.

"Sean?" his voice came out firmer than he expected, although it was just a whisper in the infirmary's silence. "Can you hear me?"

Seonghyeon answered.

Not with words. But his hand moved again, and this time, his index finger briefly touched Keonho's hand still resting on the edge of the gurney. It was such a small, fragile movement that anyone else would have missed it. 

Keonho was watching, waiting, and he saw it.

His heart raced in his chest, beating so fast he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples. A smile spread across his face, a smile of relief and wonder and a joy so pure it hurt.

"I miss you," Keonho said, his voice so low only he could hear, or perhaps only Seonghyeon, if he was really there, somewhere inside that motionless body, aware of what was happening around him. "Much more than I'd care to admit."

Keonho's hand, still on Seonghyeon's forehead, slid gently to his brown hair. He began to stroke it, slow, delicate movements, as if calming a frightened child. The soft strands slid between his fingers.

Seonghyeon didn't move again. His fingers remained still, his breathing continued regular, and Keonho knew that was enough for now. He didn't need more. Just the certainty that Seonghyeon was there, somewhere inside himself, and that eventually he would return.

Keonho forced himself to leave the infirmary almost two hours after it happened.

His body cried out for rest, his eyes burned with fatigue, and he knew he wouldn't be useful to anyone if he continued to deprive himself of sleep. He got up from the chair with an effort that made his legs tremble, took one last look at Seonghyeon and left, closing the door behind him with excessive care, as if the noise might wake the doctor from his deep sleep.

The corridor was empty and silent, at this time of night most of the soldiers had already retired to their quarters. 

Keonho walked towards the elevator, his steps echoing on the concrete walls like those of a ghost. He clicked the button for the fourth floor and waited, his eyes fixed on the metal doors, his mind still in the infirmary, on Seonghyeon's hands, on the touch of his fingers.

The elevator rose in silence, and Keonho got out on the fourth floor, where the soldiers' quarters were located. His room was the second to last in the corridor, a metal door identical to all the others, with a simple sign indicating his name and rank. He opened the door and entered, locking it behind him, and headed to the bathroom without turning on the light.

In the darkness, Keonho rested his forehead against the cold wall of the shower and let the fatigue take over him.

The next day would be long. But maybe, just maybe, it would be calmer.

Martin woke up to the sound of the alarm.

It wasn't the routine alarm, which sounded every morning to announce the start of base activities.

This  one was sharper, more urgent, a sound that cut through the air like a blade and made the heart race before the brain even processed what was happening.

Martin jumped out of bed before opening his eyes, his body moving by pure instinct, years of military training turning the response to danger into something as automatic as breathing.

He dressed with precision bordering on automatic. His hands found the rifle leaning against the wall next to the bed, and his fingers checked the magazine, the stock, the barrel, in a sequence of movements so rehearsed he could do it with his eyes closed. The walkie-talkie was on his hip, and he pulled it out as he left the room, his steps already heading for the stairs.

"Colonel, we have a problem," James's voice sounded through the walkie-talkie, and Martin felt his stomach clench.

He had never heard James speak like that. James's voice was usually calm, controlled, even in the most tense situations. But now there was a tremor, an urgency, a poorly disguised desperation that made Martin speed up his pace.

"We received an alert directly from the city," James continued, his voice breathless, as if he were running while speaking. "General Park needs..."

He stopped mid-sentence. Martin heard his heavy breathing through the radio, and imagined James running through the corridors, his face pale, his hands shaking.

"James, what does he want?" Martin asked, and although his voice came out controlled, inside he felt the same desperation he heard in his right-hand man's voice.

He was going down the stairs at speed, jumping two, three steps at a time, his free hand holding the railing to keep his balance. His feet echoed on the concrete, a sound that mixed with the still shrill alarm.

"Soldiers," James finally replied after seconds of silence that felt like hours. Just one word, a single word, but it was enough for Martin to understand everything. "City. He needs soldiers. Lots of them."

Martin felt the blood freeze in his veins. An operation in the city. Not a reconnaissance mission, not a routine patrol. A large-scale operation, in the heart of hell, where the infected swarmed like flies on rotting flesh. General Park wasn't asking, he was ordering. And Martin couldn't refuse.

"What's the current situation in the city?" Martin asked, having already arrived on the ground floor.

The sight that awaited him was one of organized chaos. Soldiers ran from side to side, gearing up, checking weapons, packing backpacks. The base's metal gates were already being prepared for opening, and outside, the military vehicles waited with engines rumbling low. Martin found James near the large door, along with other soldiers, all with pale faces and tense expressions.

"Infestation," James replied, and his voice was more stable now, although his hands still trembled slightly as he held the walkie-talkie. "Many of the zombies are... mutants."

He hesitated before saying the last word, as if the term sounded strange in his mouth, as if he still wasn't used to accepting that the word "mutant" was now part of his vocabulary. Martin saw the walkie-talkie almost fall from his trembling hands, and felt something tighten in his chest.

James was scared.

James, who had always been his rock, his right-hand man, the person he trusted most in the world, was visibly, undeniably terrified.

"I'm scared, Martin," James said, and the use of his baptismal name, instead of his rank, was what hit Martin the hardest. It was a reminder that, despite everything, despite the ranks and hierarchies, they were still people, still felt fear, still needed each other.

Martin froze for a moment. His tired eyes met the frightened eyes of his right-hand man, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't know what to say. James had always been the bravest among them, or at least the best at hiding his fear. Seeing him like this, disarmed, vulnerable, was like watching a wall crumble.

"I can't go," Keonho's voice interrupted the moment, and Martin turned to see the major approaching, coming from the infirmary wing. His face was pale, his dark circles deep, but his expression was determined. "Seonghyeon could wake up at any moment. I can't leave him alone."

Martin considered the situation for a moment. Keonho was one of the best soldiers he had, perhaps the best after James. His absence would be felt in the field. But he also understood Keonho's position. If it were Seonghyeon who was awake and Keonhyon unconscious, Martin knew the doctor would make the same choice.

"And the civilian?" one of the soldiers, Jeon, asked. His gaze alternated between James and Martin and then to Keonho, as if seeking guidance somewhere that didn't exist. "Are we leaving him here?"

"We're not taking a civilian to die in the field, you idiot," Yoon, another soldier, replied before anyone could speak. His hands were pressed on the rifle so hard his knuckles turned white, as if he expected the weapon to explode at any moment.

Martin took a deep breath, feeling his head begin to throb. The pain throbbed in his temples, a premonition of a migraine he didn't have time for. They were wasting too much time discussing logistics while the city burned outside.

"Keonho, you stay here with Seonghyeon and keep an eye on the civilian," Martin turned to him, his voice taking on the commanding tone that admitted no argument. "You're in charge while we're gone. Don't let anyone, absolutely anyone, in or out. We'll keep in touch by radio."

"Yes, sir," Keonho nodded, casting a last look at James before turning and going back the way he came, his steps quick.

Martin turned to the soldiers gathered before him. There were about twenty of them. Their faces were a tapestry of fear, determination, fatigue, and in some, a calm so deep it bordered on resignation. Martin examined them one by one, engraving each face in his memory, because he knew that when he returned, some of those faces might no longer be there.

"Is everyone ready?" his voice echoed through the space, loud and clear, cutting through the noise of the alarm like a knife. "Vests? Loaded weapons? Extra ammunition? Helmet?"

As he listed, the soldiers examined themselves with automatic gestures, patting their pockets, checking compartments, ensuring nothing had been forgotten.

When everyone had checked and was ready, Martin ordered the gates opened.

The metal grated as the enormous doors slowly separated, revealing the outside of the base. The darkness of the night had not yet fully dissipated, and the sky was covered with dark clouds, no stars, no moon. The air entering through the open gates was cold and damp, carrying the smell of wet earth.

The soldiers filed out, one after another, their steps synchronized in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. They got into the cars positioned outside the base, the doors slamming with a solid, definitive sound. Martin was the last to leave after James, both getting into the main vehicle, an armored car with long-range radio communications.

Inside the car, the silence was deafening.

Martin sat down next to James, their shoulders almost touching, and felt the tension radiating from the lieutenant colonel like heat from an overheated engine. James's hands were resting on his knees, his fingers contracting and relaxing in a nervous, unconscious movement. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes were fixed on the horizon through the windshield.

"James," Martin called, his voice low, just for the two of them to hear above the engine noise. "Look at me."

James didn't respond immediately. For a moment, Martin thought he hadn't heard. But then, slowly, James turned his face, and his eyes met Martin's.

"This isn't the first time we've faced something like this," Martin said, his voice soft in a way he had never spoken to anyone before. Not to his subordinates, not to his superiors, not to anyone. Just to James, that night, in that car on the way to hell. "We've been through terrible things together. And we'll get through this too."

James opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn't come. Instead, he just shook his head, a gesture that could mean agreement or disagreement or just the exhaustion of someone who no longer had the strength to argue.

Martin placed his hand on James's shoulder, squeezing it lightly, a gesture he hoped was comforting. It wasn't something he normally did. Martin wasn't one for touching people, wasn't one for offering physical comfort. But James wasn't just anyone. James was his friend, the person who had been by his side since before all this started.

"I'm just as scared as you are," Martin admitted, and the honesty of the statement hurt his throat as if he were spitting glass. "But we are the leaders here. We need to be calm to command the others. If they see us panicking, they'll lose hope. And without hope, we're dead."

James nodded, his eyes still fixed on Martin's. He took a deep breath, once, twice, three times, and Martin saw the fear slowly recede, not disappearing, but being pushed somewhere deeper, where it wouldn't get in the way.

That's what soldiers did, buried their feelings so they could function, so they could fight, so they could survive.

"You're right," James said finally, his voice firmer now, although still carrying a residual tremor. "I need to control myself."

"Fear isn't weakness. It's human," Martin replied, removing his hand from James's shoulder and turning his attention back to the road ahead. "What matters is what we do with it."

James didn't respond, but Martin felt the tension in his shoulders decrease slightly.

The car continued to advance down the dark road, the city approaching with each second, and Martin knew that soon they would be in the midst of chaos, fighting for their lives and the lives of strangers.

James watched the horizon through the car window, the city lights beginning to appear in the distance, flickering like sick stars in a poisoned sky. He thought of Martin, of the words he had said, of the touch of his hand on his shoulder. He felt his eyes water, but didn't let the tears fall. It wasn't the time for that.

Martin had never been one to comfort anyone.

During all the years James had known him, Martin had always maintained an emotional distance, an invisible barrier that prevented anyone from getting too close. But there, in that car on the way to hell, Martin had let his guard down. He had admitted to feeling fear. He had touched James, comforted James, treated James as someone important, not just as a subordinate.

James realized, at that moment, that as difficult as it was to defeat the infected, it would be even harder to defeat the feelings that insisted on loving the Colonel more than they should. It wasn't the first time he thought about it, and it probably wouldn't be the last. But, for the first time, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that Martin felt something too.

The question hung in the air between them, unspoken, perhaps not even consciously formulated.

But it was there.

And when the first infected appeared on the road ahead, James pushed the question to some dark place in his mind, grabbed his rifle, and prepared to fight.

Chapter Text

The city of Seoul had never looked so dead.

When the military vehicles crossed the limits of the urban zone, what Martin saw through the windshield made him grip his rifle tighter than necessary.

The streets that once teemed with life, with their neon signs and hurried crowds, were now deserted and silent, covered in a layer of dust and debris that had accumulated for weeks, perhaps months.

The tall buildings that dotted the horizon, once symbols of Korean progress and modernity, now stood like skeletons of concrete and broken glass, their facades stained with dried blood and marks of old fires.

"This way," the soldier in the driver's seat cut through the silence, pointing to a side street. "The temporary command center is about two kilometers away. General Park is waiting for us."

Martin nodded, his eyes still scanning the devastated landscape. He had seen devastated cities before, but never Seoul. Seeing his capital, the heart of the country, reduced to that state of desolation was like witnessing the death of a loved one. There was something deeply wrong about seeing the places he knew now empty, broken, forgotten.

The vehicle turned onto the side street, followed by a caravan of other military vehicles, all transporting soldiers from BASE07. Martin mentally counted twenty soldiers in total, including himself and James. Twenty men and women against an infestation that, according to government reports, had already killed thousands. The numbers were not favorable. But Martin had learned long ago that when it came to war, numbers never favored anyone. What mattered was strategy, training, and the ability to make quick decisions under pressure.

The temporary command center was an eight-story office building that had been hastily evacuated when the infestation began. The lower floors had been transformed into command posts, with maps spread over improvised tables, communication equipment stacked on every available surface, and soldiers running back and forth with documents and tablets.

As he got out of the vehicle, Martin was immediately approached by a young soldier, probably no more than twenty years old, whose uniform bore the insignia of BASE03.

"Colonel Edwards?" the young man asked, his voice a little too shaky to be professional. "General Park is on the fourth floor. He asked that you come up as soon as you arrived."

Martin nodded, turning to James.

"Stay here with the soldiers. I want everyone ready to go into action as soon as I return. Check weapons, ammunition, vests. I don't want any surprises."

"Yes, sir," James replied, and although his voice still carried a trace of tension, he seemed more controlled than on the way there.

Martin entered the building and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, his steps echoing on the concrete steps. When he finally reached the last flight of stairs, what he saw made him stop for a moment.

The fourth floor was a sea of activity. Dozens of soldiers and officers moved between tables covered with maps and equipment, their faces a mixture of concentration and exhaustion. Computer screens showed satellite images of the city, with red markers indicating infestation zones. Martin counted at least thirty just in the central area, and knew the real number was probably double, maybe triple.

General Park was in the center of the room, surrounded by a group of colonels and high-ranking officers. His voice echoed through the space, deep and authoritative, giving orders that were immediately noted down and transmitted by the soldiers around him. When his eyes met Martin's, he gestured with his hand, indicating for him to approach.

"Colonel Park," the General said, and although his voice was neutral, there was something in his gaze that Martin couldn't interpret. "Thank you for coming so quickly. The situation is... grave."

"I am at your disposal, General," Martin replied, stopping beside the main table.

His eyes scanned the map spread out before him, a detailed representation of downtown Seoul, with named streets, numbered buildings, and areas marked in different colors according to the level of infestation. The red areas, the worst, were concentrated within a radius of about two kilometers around what used to be Seoul City Hall.

Martin felt something cold run down his spine when his eyes found the red stain right in the center of the map. It was by far the largest, covering entire blocks, and a note beside it read: "Maximum concentration of mutants. Avoid direct contact."

"Let's get straight to the point," General Park continued, pointing at the map with a red laser pointer. "There is a large concentration of infected in this area, as you can see. Most are the normal type: slow, predictable, easy to kill. But our reports indicate the presence of at least a dozen mutants in the region. And those... are a problem."

Martin frowned.

"What kind of mutants?"

"Faster. Stronger. More aggressive," the General replied, and his voice grew deeper. "Our soldiers have reported cases of mutants that could climb walls, rip doors off their hinges, and keep advancing even after several shots to the chest. The only effective way to kill them is with a shot to the head, and even then, sometimes two or three are needed."

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with the understanding of what that meant. Trained soldiers, with high-caliber weapons, struggling to kill a single creature. And there were at least a dozen of them in the city center, waiting.

"What's the plan?" Martin asked, although he already knew the answer.

"We're going to divide the teams into groups of five or six," the General explained, moving the pointer over the map. "Each group will be responsible for a specific zone. The objective is to eliminate all infected in the region and ensure that no surviving civilians remain in the area. As you know, survivors will be evacuated and taken to screening centers."

Martin didn't ask what happened at the screening centers. He didn't want to know.

"BASE07 will be responsible for the eastern zone," the General continued, pointing to a delimited yellow area on the map. "It's a medium-risk region, with some tall buildings and many narrow streets. Perfect for ambushes. I want your soldiers to be extremely vigilant."

"Understood," Martin replied, his eyes engraving the map into his mind.

It was then that a familiar, and deeply annoying, voice cut through the air behind him.

"Well, well. If it isn't Colonel Park Martin Edwards. The General's favorite."

Martin didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The voice was unmistakable, laden with sarcasm and poorly disguised envy. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, preparing for what was to come, and then turned slowly.

Kim Ryul, colonel of BASE04, was standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest and a forced smile stamped on his angular face. He was a few centimeters shorter than Martin, but compensated for his height with an arrogant posture that seemed to challenge anyone to question his authority. His uniform was impeccable, his boots so polished they reflected the fluorescent light from the ceiling, and his black hair was combed back with an excessive amount of gel.

"Colonel Kim," Martin replied, his voice perfectly neutral. He didn't offer a smile, didn't extend his hand for a handshake. He just stood there, motionless, waiting.

Ryul approached, his eyes scanning Martin from head to toe with an expression bordering on disdain.

"I heard you've been keeping your base in order," Ryul said, and his words sounded like an insult disguised as a compliment. "Impressive, considering the... quality of soldiers you have."

"My soldiers are excellent," Martin replied, and although his voice remained calm, there was an edge to it that Ryul certainly noticed. "Trained by me. Led by me. And ready to give their lives for each other, if necessary."

"How lovely to hear that," Ryul smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'm almost moved."

General Park, who had been watching the exchange of barbs with an expression of poorly disguised amusement, finally intervened.

"Enough, you two," he said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "We have a city to clean. You can fight later, when there are no infected left to kill."

Ryul took a step back, but his eyes remained fixed on Martin.

"Of course, General," he said, and then turned and walked away, his cape swaying behind him.

Martin watched him leave, feeling something churn in his stomach. He didn't hate Ryul, hating required too much energy, and Martin didn't have energy to waste. But he despised him, considered him an annoying obstacle that was always in his way, always making sarcastic comments, always trying to diminish his achievements.

If there were justice in the world, Ryul would have been demoted years ago. But the world wasn't fair, and Ryul remained there, like a stone in a shoe that wouldn't come out no matter what.

"Don't let him get to you," General Park said, placing a hand on Martin's shoulder. "Ryul is bitter because you're better than him. You always have been. You always will be."

Martin didn't reply. He just nodded and turned his attention back to the map, his thoughts already focusing on the mission.

Outside, James was organizing the BASE07 soldiers into formations, checking equipment, and distributing extra ammunition. He was so focused on his task that he didn't notice Ryul approaching until the BASE04 colonel was just a few feet away.

"Lieutenant Colonel Chao James," Ryul said, his voice softer now, almost silky. "Long time no see."

James looked up from the equipment and felt his stomach clench. Ryul was standing there, his dark eyes fixed on James with an intensity that made his skin crawl. He didn't like Ryul, but there was something in the way the colonel looked at him that made him particularly uncomfortable.

"Colonel Kim," James replied, keeping his voice professional. "Getting your soldiers ready for the mission?"

"They're already ready," Ryul said, taking a step forward. "Unlike some, my soldiers don't need constant supervision."

James felt his jaw tense, but kept his composure.

"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, and turned back to continue organizing the equipment, making it clear that the conversation was over.

Ryul, however, didn't move.

"You know," he said, his voice lower now, as if sharing a secret, "I've always admired your work, Chao. Your loyalty to Colonel Park is... inspiring. Almost touching."

James turned slowly, his eyes meeting Ryul's.

"I don't know what you're insinuating, but if you have something to say, be direct."

Ryul smiled, that forced smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm not insinuating anything. Just observing. Sometimes, loyalty can blind a person. Make them not see what's right in front of them."

The words hung in the air, laden with a double meaning that James couldn't decipher. He opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Martin's voice echoing from the building.

"James! Meeting. Now."

James turned, leaving Ryul behind, and ran towards the building. He didn't look back. He didn't want to see Ryul's smile, or the gleam in his eyes, or anything else the BASE04 colonel might be planning.

Martin was waiting for him at the entrance, his expression impenetrable.

"What did he want?" Martin asked, his eyes briefly darting in Ryul's direction.

"Nothing," James replied. "Just being unpleasant. As always."

Martin nodded, but something in his eyes suggested he wasn't convinced.

"Let's go," he said, turning and going up the stairs. "We have a mission to plan."

While Martin and James met with the other officers at the command center, Richard and his soldiers received their assignments. The eastern zone, as General Park had explained, was a medium-risk area, with narrow streets and tall buildings that offered cover for both soldiers and infected. Martin studied the map once more, memorizing every street, every alley, every possible ambush point.

"The formation will be in a V," Martin said, pointing at the map with his finger. "James, you lead the point. I'll be in the back, covering the rear. The other soldiers will position themselves on the flanks."

"Understood," James replied, his voice firm.

"I want constant communication," Martin continued. "If anyone sees a mutant, shout. Don't try to be a hero. Kill from a distance if possible, hand-to-hand only if there's no choice."

The soldiers nodded, their faces serious, their hands gripping their rifles tightly.

"Pray if you need to," Martin said, and there was something in his voice that wasn't cynicism, but rather a dark acceptance of what was to come. "But don't stop shooting."

They left the command center in formation, their synchronized steps echoing through the deserted streets. The sun had risen a few hours ago, but its light was pale, filtered through low, gray clouds that seemed to weigh on the city like a lead lid.

The silence was deafening, no sound of cars, no murmur of people, none of the little interruptions that made up the symphony of urban life. Just the wind howling through the empty buildings, and the occasional sound of glass breaking somewhere in the distance.

The first infected appeared when they had already traveled about five hundred meters.

It was a man, or what was left of him. His skin was gray and stretched over his bones, his eyes empty and red, his clothes hanging in tatters over a body that had known hunger and disease. He staggered out of an alley, his arms extended in front of him, his mouth open in a low, guttural moan.

James shot first.

The shot hit the infected in the chest, but he kept advancing, as if the bullet were just a minor inconvenience. James shot again, this time in the head, and the infected fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"Everyone alert!" Martin said, his eyes scanning the surrounding streets. "The shot will attract others."

He was right. In less than a minute, more infected began to appear. They emerged from alleys, from doors, from broken windows, their red eyes glowing in the twilight like live coals. There were men and women, young and old, all transformed into that grotesque parody of life.

The soldiers fired in formation, each covering the others' flanks, moving like a well-oiled machine. The normal infected were easy to kill, a shot to the head was enough to bring them down, and although there were many, the soldiers were trained for that choreography of violence.

They didn't hesitate, didn't feel pity, didn't think about the people those creatures had been before the infection. They couldn't. If they started thinking, they would stop shooting, and if they stopped shooting, they would die.

"Mutant on the left!" one soldier's voice cut through the air, and Martin turned his head in time to see the thing emerge from the shadows.

It wasn't like the others. This one was larger, more muscular, its skin covered in scars and protrusions that looked like healing wounds. Its eyes were such an intense red they seemed to glow, and its mouth was open in a smile that wasn't a smile, but rather a display of teeth sharp as razors.

The mutant moved faster than any infected Martin had ever seen. It crossed the distance separating it from the soldiers in seconds, its hands outstretched to grab its prey.

"Fire!" Martin shouted, and a volley of shots hit the mutant.

It staggered, but didn't fall. It kept advancing, its eyes fixed on the soldiers, its mouth wide open in a roar that echoed through the empty streets like thunder.

"Head! Aim for the head!" James shouted, his own shots joining those of the others.

The mutant finally fell after five shots to the head, its heavy body hitting the asphalt with a dull thud. Martin ran up to it and fired once more, just to be sure, and then turned to the soldiers.

"Everyone okay?" he asked, his eyes scanning the group.

"Cuts and scrapes only," one of the soldiers replied. "Nothing serious."

"Keep moving. Don't stop."

They advanced, and the same scene repeated itself countless times: normal infected falling like flies, mutants demanding more effort, more ammunition, more blood. The smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air, and Martin felt his arms ache with each shot, his ears ring with each explosion. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

Meanwhile, at BASE07, the silence was as heavy as the chaos in the city.

Keonho was in the infirmary, sitting in the chair next to Seonghyeon's gurney, his eyes fixed on the doctor's pale face. It had been another day without changes, the same regular breathing, the same steady heartbeat, the same immobility that was beginning to become unbearable. The finger movement the night before had been a relief, but also a torture, because since then Seonghyeon had shown no other sign of consciousness.

Keonho held Seonghyeon's hand carefully, as if holding something fragile, something that could break if he squeezed too hard. His fingers traced the back of the doctor's hand in soft, unconscious movements, while his mind wandered to dark places he preferred not to visit.

"You're going to wake up soon, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice so low only he could hear. "You've always been stubborn, but this is going too far."

Seonghyeon didn't respond, as Keonho expected. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, and closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a brief rest.

It was then that the infirmary door opened.

"Where are the other soldiers?" Juhoon's voice came from the entrance, and Keonho opened his eyes to see the civilian standing there, his two escort soldiers right behind him. "And the Colonel?"

Keonho straightened in his chair, releasing Seonghyeon's hand with a movement he hoped didn't look as reluctant as it was.

"External operation," he replied, his voice tired. "The city is infested. General Park requested reinforcements. Martin and James went, along with most of the soldiers."

Juhoon entered the infirmary slowly, his eyes scanning the space as if looking for something or someone.

"All of them?"

"Almost all," Keonho replied. "And I stayed to take care of Seonghyeon."

Juhoon was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on some point on the opposite wall. Keonho watched his expression, the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his hands clenched and unclenched into unconscious fists. There was something there, something Keonho couldn't decipher.

"I can help," Juhoon said finally, his voice lower than before, almost a whisper. "I can go with them. I can help against the infected."

Keonho raised his eyebrows, surprised. He opened his mouth to question, but the words died on his lips. Instead, he shook his head, his expression serious.

"Martin ordered that no one enter or leave the base until he returns. And I'm not going to disobey a direct order."

Juhoon stared at him for a long moment, his dark eyes seemingly burning with an intensity Keonho had never seen before. For a second, just a second, Keonho had the strange sensation that Juhoon wasn't who he seemed to be, that there was something hidden beneath that calm surface, something deep, something dangerous.

But then Juhoon's expression softened. He turned and walked towards the door, his escort soldiers immediately positioning themselves at his side.

"I'm going to lie down," Juhoon said, without looking back. "I'm tired."

And then he left, leaving Keonho alone in the infirmary with Seonghyeon and the silence.

The escort soldiers accompanied Juhoon to his room at the back of the base, as they did every night. The metal door creaked open, and Juhoon entered without saying a word, hearing the familiar click of the lock being turned from the outside.

The room was small, dark, with concrete walls that seemed to absorb any sound, any light, any hope. The only window was tiny and offered a limited view of the night sky, if that gray, starless sky could be called "night".

Juhoon sat on the bed, his back against the cold wall, his eyes fixed on the tiny window. For a long moment, he did nothing but breathe, the cold air filling his lungs and leaving again. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions he couldn't organize, couldn't name, couldn't control.

Martin was out there. Martin was fighting infected, risking his life, while Juhoon was locked in a dark room like an animal in a cage.

But maybe he could help.

Juhoon closed his eyes and concentrated.

He couldn't explain what he was doing, nor how he knew he could do it. It was an instinct, an inner voice whispering somewhere deep in his consciousness, telling him there was something there, something he could access if he tried hard enough. He didn't know what it was. He didn't know how it worked. But he knew, with a certainty bordering on madness, that somehow he could connect with the infected and feel their presence, their hunger, their rage. And maybe, just maybe, he could direct them.

He didn't question how that was possible. He didn't have time for philosophical questions. All he knew was that Martin was in danger, and he needed to do something to help.

Juhoon dived into himself, going deeper and deeper into his own consciousness, seeking that connection he had felt before, in the forest, when the infected ignored him and his friends were taken. He remembered a hum at the back of his mind, a frequency he couldn't hear but felt vibrating in his bones. It was as if there was an invisible network connecting all the infected, and Juhoon, somehow, could access it.

He concentrated, extending his mind outward, beyond the concrete walls of the base, through the dark forest, reaching the devastated city. He felt the presence of the infected, an amorphous mass of hunger and rage and despair.

He could feel them, could almost touch them, could...

The hum became a roar.

Juhoon felt something connect in his mind. It was a strong, clear presence, like a light shining in the darkness. A human mind, not infected, full of fear and determination and exhaustion.

Juhoon recognized the mind immediately.

Martin.

The shock was so intense that Juhoon almost lost his concentration. He didn't want to connect with Martin, he wanted to connect with the infected, wanted to use them to protect the soldiers, wanted to do something useful for the first time in his life. Instead, he was there, inside Martin's mind, feeling what Martin felt, seeing what Martin saw, experiencing what Martin experienced.

It was overwhelming.

Juhoon felt Martin's exhaustion, the weight of years of command pressing on his shoulders like a mountain. He felt his determination, his refusal to give up even when everything seemed lost. He felt his fear, not for himself, but for the soldiers under his command, for James, for everyone who depended on him.

And beneath all of that, Juhoon felt something else. Something Martin probably didn't even notice, something buried so deep that perhaps he himself didn't know it existed. It was an emptiness, a dark hole where there should have been love, perhaps, or human connection, or simply the ability to trust another person. Martin had closed himself off so much, had built so many walls around himself, that he had forgotten what it was like to let someone in.

Juhoon felt a sharp pain in his chest, not his own, but Martin's. The pain of years of loneliness, of carrying the world on his back alone, of never having anyone to lean on.

"Martin," Juhoon whispered, although he knew the colonel couldn't hear him.

But something happened.

Martin's mind seemed to turn towards him, as if it had felt his presence.

For a moment, just a moment, Juhoon felt Martin aware of him, not as a conscious thought, but as an intuition, a feeling that something was there, something he couldn't explain.

And then the connection broke.

Juhoon opened his eyes with a gasp, his body trembling, his forehead covered in sweat. He was back in the dark room, sitting on the bed, the cold wall pressing against his back. The tiny window showed the same gray sky, the same absence of stars.

What had happened?

He didn't know. He didn't understand. But he knew he had failed, hadn't managed to connect with the infected, hadn't managed to help Martin. Instead, he had invaded the colonel's mind, felt his deepest emotions, witnessed his loneliness.

And now, Juhoon felt something he couldn't ignore.

A concern. A need to protect.

A desire to be near Martin, not as a soldier or a civilian, but as...

The thought frightened him, and Juhoon pushed it to the back of his mind.

But as he lay down on the bed, his eyes fixed on the concrete ceiling, Martin's image remained in his mind.

And Juhoon knew, with a certainty he couldn't explain, that nothing would ever be the same again.

In the city, Martin stumbled.

It was a moment of imbalance, a misstep as he dodged an infected advancing towards him. He recovered quickly, shooting and killing the creature with a fluid movement, but for a second, just a second, he felt something strange.

As if someone had called his name.

"Colonel?" James's voice came over his walkie-talkie, worried. "Are you okay?"

Martin blinked, shaking off the feeling.

"I'm fine," he replied, his voice firmer than he felt. "Continue."

He didn't know what had happened. He didn't know why, for a brief moment, he had felt Juhoon's presence as clearly as if the civilian were standing beside him. It was impossible, of course. Juhoon was at the base, kilometers away. There was no way he could be there.

And yet, Martin couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed.

He kept fighting, kept shooting, kept advancing. But in the deepest part of his mind, where even he wouldn't venture, Juhoon's presence remained like a faint light in the darkness, a distant echo in his heart.

And Martin, for the first time in a long time, didn't feel completely alone.

The operation in the city stretched on for hours that felt like days. The sun, which had risen pale and weak behind the gray clouds, moved slowly across the sky as if reluctant to witness what was happening below.

Martin lost track of time in the first hour, when the first soldier fell, whose face Martin barely had time to memorize before an infected bit him in the neck.

Choi Minjae, newly transferred from BASE12, fell to his knees, his hands pressing on the open wound, his blood flowing between his fingers like a hot, red river. His eyes met Martin's for a brief moment, not with fear, but with a dark acceptance, as if he already knew, from the moment he enlisted, that his life would end that way.

"Colonel..." Minjae tried to say, but his voice was cut off by a fit of coughing that brought more blood to his lips.

Martin didn't have time to respond. Another infected was already on top of Minjae, its deformed hands tearing the soldier's uniform, its mouth open in a wild roar. Martin shot, killing the infected, but it was too late. Minjae was already on the ground, his eyes open and fixed on the sky, his lips still. Martin couldn't tell if he was dead or just unconscious, and he didn't have time to find out. The horde was advancing, and he needed to keep moving.

"Keep moving!" Martin shouted, his voice lost in the noise of gunfire and roars. "Don't stop for anything!"

The soldiers obeyed, but with every step, every corner, every dark alley, more infected emerged. They weren't just the normal ones, slow and predictable. The mutants were everywhere, their deformed bodies moving with an agility that defied logic, their red eyes glowing in the shadows like lighthouses of a ghost ship.

Martin saw a mutant climb the wall of a four-story building in seconds, its claws digging into the concrete as if it were quicksand. He saw another rip the door off an abandoned car and hurl it at a group of soldiers, hitting two of them squarely and knocking them to the ground. He saw a third keep advancing even after taking six shots to the chest, its mouth wide open in a smile that wasn't human, that had never been human.

"Explosives!" James's voice came over the walkie-talkie, cutting through the chaos with a clarity bordering on miraculous. "Prepare the explosives! We're going to detonate the building on the corner!"

Martin understood the plan immediately. The building James indicated was an old shopping center, already partially collapsed, but still with enough structure that, if knocked down, it would block the main street and prevent more infected from approaching the soldiers' position. It was a desperate tactic, but maybe it would work.

"Team A, prepare the explosives!" Martin ordered. "Team B, cover the rear! Team C, with me!"

The soldiers moved with the precision of those who had rehearsed those movements hundreds of times.

Team A, led by a sergeant named Lee Dohwan, ran towards the shopping center, their backpacks full of military-grade explosives.

Team B positioned themselves in a defensive formation, shooting at any infected that approached.

Martin led Team C towards a neighboring building, from where they would have a privileged view of the street.

From above, Martin saw Dohwan and his soldiers enter the shopping center. Saw them climb the broken escalators, spread the explosives on the support pillars, configure the remote detonators. Saw them run back to the exit, their faces sweaty and tense, their eyes fixed on the path ahead.

That's when the mutant appeared.

It was larger than the others, its gray skin covered in scars and protrusions that looked like healing wounds. Its eyes were such an intense red they seemed to glow, and its mouth was open in a smile that wasn't a smile, but rather a display of teeth sharp as razors.

The mutant lunged at Team A before anyone could react. Martin saw Dohwan thrown against a wall with a blow that broke his bones before he even fell. Saw two other soldiers hit, their weapons flying from their hands, their bodies falling to the ground like broken dolls. Saw the mutant grab a fourth soldier, a young woman named Kang Soyeon, and throw her out the shopping center window as if she weighed nothing.

"Detonate the explosives!" Martin shouted into the walkie-talkie. "Detonate now!"

There was no response. The soldiers of Team A who were still alive were too busy trying to survive to worry about detonators. Martin saw Dohwan crawl across the floor, his left leg twisted at an unnatural angle, his hand reaching for the detonator that had fallen a few meters away. Saw the mutant turn, its eyes finding Dohwan, its smile widening.

"No..." Martin murmured, but it was already too late.

The mutant stepped on Dohwan's hand with a wet crack that Martin heard even from a distance. Dohwan screamed, a high-pitched, unbearable sound that echoed through the empty streets. The mutant leaned in, its mouth close to Dohwan's face, and Martin couldn't see what happened next, but he heard Dohwan's scream become a sob and then silence.

"James," Martin said, his voice calmer than he felt. "Shoot the detonator. Now."

There was a pause. Martin imagined James climbing somewhere high, his sniper aimed at the shopping center, his heart beating as fast as Martin's.

"Target acquired," James replied. "Firing."

The shot echoed through the street like thunder. Martin saw the detonator explode in sparks, saw the explosives in the shopping center activate in a chain reaction that turned the building into a ball of fire and debris. The shockwave hit Martin even from a distance, throwing him against the wall of the building he was in. He fell to his knees, his ears ringing, his vision blurred.

When he managed to get up, the shopping center no longer existed. In the place where there had once been a structure of concrete and glass, there was now only a mountain of smoldering rubble, blocking the main street like an improvised wall. The infected on the other side wouldn't be able to get through, at least not for the next few hours.

"Teams B and C," Martin said into the walkie-talkie, his voice hoarse from smoke and exertion. "Regroup at my position. We're going to advance to the next sector."

No one responded, but Martin heard the footsteps of the soldiers approaching, their boots echoing on the broken asphalt. He mentally counted the soldiers who had started the mission, those who had fallen, those still standing. The numbers were bad. Very bad.

And the operation wasn't over yet.

The following hours were a blur of violence and exhaustion. Martin led his soldiers through streets infested with infected, clearing block by block, alley by alley. There was no more sophisticated strategy, just survival.

Shoot, reload, shoot again.

Advance, retreat, flank.

Shout orders, hear screams of pain, ignore the screams of pain.

Every hour, more soldiers fell.

Shin Jaehyun was bitten on the arm while protecting a comrade's back. Martin saw the wound, saw the blood flowing, saw Jaehyun's eyes fill with tears when he realized what that meant.

"Colonel," Jaehyun said, his voice trembling, "Kill me, please... I don't want to turn."

Martin didn't respond. Instead, he shot Jaehyun, not to kill him, but to knock him unconscious. Later, when the battle was over, he would decide what to do. But the battle didn't end.

It never ended.

Im Nayeon was hit by a mutant that lunged at her from a dark alley. Martin heard her scream, ran towards her, but arrived too late. The mutant had already sunk its claws into Nayeon's chest, its red eyes glowing with an intelligence that shouldn't exist in an infected creature. Martin shot the mutant, once, twice, three times, until it finally fell. Nayeon was already dead.

Yoon Taesan, the soldier who had spoken about not taking the civilian to the city, was surrounded by a group of normal infected. Martin saw him fight, saw him kill three, four, five creatures, but there were always more. When the soldiers finally managed to reach him, he was already on the ground, his body covered in bites, his eyes glassy.

"Leave me," he whispered, and Martin knew he wasn't asking to be left behind. He was asking to be left to die.

Martin shot Taesan. Quick, clean, painless. Or at least he hoped it was painless.

At the end of the first day, the operation wasn't over yet. General Park sent extra supplies and ammunition, but no soldiers. There were no soldiers to send, all available bases had already contributed as much as they could. Martin and his soldiers ate military rations in silence, sitting on the stairs of abandoned buildings, their faces dirty with blood and soot, their hands trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline.

James was sitting next to Martin, his left leg hastily bandaged after a close encounter with a mutant that had torn his thigh with a claw. The wound wasn't deep enough to take him out of combat, but it hurt like hell, and James felt every beat of his heart pulsing in the wound like a drum.

"How many did we lose?" James asked, his voice low.

Martin didn't respond immediately. He was counting mentally, reviewing the list of soldiers who had left the base that morning.

"Fifteen," he said finally. "Fifteen soldiers in total."

James closed his eyes, feeling the weight of those words on his chest like stones.

"And the wounded?"

"Eight. Some light, some serious. The serious ones... I don't know if they'll survive."

The silence between them was heavy, laden with grief and frustration. Martin thought of the faces of the soldiers he had lost and all the others whose names he knew, but were beginning to blur in his memory. He had promised himself, years ago, that he wouldn't let this happen. That he would be a better leader, more careful, more strategic. And yet, there he was, sitting on a dirty staircase, mourning the death of young people who had entrusted their lives to him.

"It wasn't your fault," James said, as if reading his thoughts. "No one could have predicted there would be so many mutants."

"I should have predicted it," Martin replied, his voice bitter. "It's my job."

James didn't insist. He knew Martin too well to know there was no comfort in that situation, that there were no words that could fill the void left by the dead soldiers. Instead, he just stayed there, sitting next to Martin, his shoulder almost touching the colonel's shoulder, and offered his presence as the only possible comfort.

The next morning, the operation finally ended. General Park, visibly exhausted and frustrated, called all the colonels for a brief meeting at the temporary command center.

"The infestation wasn't contained, but it was temporarily reduced," the General said, bluntly. "The remaining infected are dispersing, probably because there isn't enough food left in the region to sustain them."

"And the mutants?" asked a colonel from another base, a bald man with hard eyes.

"Some were eliminated. Others retreated underground, into the sewers, into the subway tunnels. We don't have the resources to pursue them now."

General Park looked at each of the colonels, his tired eyes fixing on Martin for a moment longer than the others.

"Return to your bases. Rest your soldiers. Restock your supplies. And stay alert, the alarm could sound again at any moment. And when it sounds, we'll need you back."

The meeting ended without further delay. The colonels dispersed, each heading towards their vehicles, their exhausted soldiers dragging their feet behind them.

Ryul didn't try to approach Martin or James. He just cast a quick glance towards the lieutenant colonel and then disappeared into his vehicle, his BASE04 soldiers in formation behind him.

Martin and James walked in silence to their own vehicle. The remaining BASE07 soldiers were already inside or around it, their faces empty, their eyes fixed on some distant point. No one spoke. There was no energy for conversation, no words that could express what everyone was feeling.

The return to the base was a silent journey. The vehicle advanced along the bumpy road, the dense forest on both sides, and Martin watched the trees pass by the window without really seeing them.

James, beside him, was also silent. His leg hurt, and he felt every movement of the vehicle like a needle in his flesh. But the physical pain was insignificant compared to the pain of having seen so many soldiers die, so many young people whose faces he knew, whose names he knew, whose families might never know what had happened to them.

When the base finally appeared on the horizon, Martin felt something loosen in his chest. It wasn't relief. It was just the recognition that, for now, the danger had passed.

For now.

The gates opened, and the vehicles entered. Inside, a team of doctors and nurses waited, ready to treat the wounded. They ran towards the vehicles as soon as they stopped, opening the doors, assessing the soldiers with trained eyes, taking the most serious to the medical wing on improvised stretchers.

James was one of the first to be attended to. A dark-skinned doctor with kind eyes examined his leg, frowned, and ordered two nurses to take him to the infirmary immediately.

"It's not serious, but it needs stitches," the doctor said, as James was helped out of the vehicle. "And absolute rest for the next few days."

"I can't," James protested, trying to break free from the nurses. "I have to go back to the tower. I have to..."

"Lieutenant Colonel," Martin's voice came from behind, cutting off James's objection like a knife. "You're going to the infirmary. That's an order."

James opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again when he saw the expression on Martin's face. It wasn't anger, nor impatience, nor anything else James expected. It was concern. Genuine concern, poorly hidden behind the command facade.

"Yes, sir," James murmured, allowing the nurses to guide him towards the base.

Martin stood there for a moment, watching James walk away, and then was approached by one of the doctors.

"Colonel, you are also injured," the doctor said, pointing to the cuts and scratches on Martin's arms, to the dried blood on his forehead. "You need to be examined."

"Not now," Martin replied, pulling away. "I have work to do."

"But, sir..."

"Not now."

The doctor stepped back, accustomed to the stubbornness of wounded soldiers, and turned his attention back to other patients. Martin walked towards the base, his steps heavy, his mind already focusing on what needed to be done. Reports to write, equipment to restock, wounded soldiers to supervise while others comforted them.

He entered the base and climbed the stairs towards his room, ignoring the looks of the soldiers he encountered along the way. He needed a shower, a change of clothes, five minutes of silence before facing the rest of the day. Just five minutes.

His room was dark and silent, exactly as he had left it. Martin closed the door behind him, rested his forehead on the cold wooden surface, and stood there for a long moment, just breathing.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

The rhythm was comforting, an anchor in the midst of chaos.

Then he turned, walked to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. The hot water gushed over his tired body, washing away the dried blood, the soot, the smell of death that seemed to have impregnated his skin. Martin closed his eyes and let the water wash everything away, even knowing that some stains would never come out.

In the infirmary, the chaos was organized.

Keonho was sitting in the chair next to Seonghyeon's gurney, as he had done every day for the past two weeks.

His dark circles were darker than ever, his unshaven beard framing his face in a way that made him look older, more tired. He held Seonghyeon's hand with a lightness that contrasted with the brute strength of his arms, and his eyes were fixed on the doctor's pale face, as if expecting that at any moment, Seonghyeon would open his eyes and return to being who he always was.

It was then that the door opened and soldier Jeon entered the infirmary, his face sweaty, his breathing labored.

"Major," Jeon said, bending over to catch his breath. "The soldiers are back. We need help with some supplies. You're the only one who knows what those green boxes in the warehouse are for."

Keonho hesitated, his eyes darting to Seonghyeon.

"I'm coming," he said, getting up from the chair. He turned to Juhoon, who was sitting in his usual chair against the wall, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor. "Civilian, keep an eye on him. If anything happens, call me immediately."

Juhoon looked up slowly, as if emerging from a deep dream.

"Yes, sir," he replied, his voice calm.

Keonho left the infirmary, followed by Jeon, and the door closed behind them. Juhoon was left alone with Seonghyeon, the silence of the room broken only by the hum of the machines and the doctor's regular breathing.

He sat there for a long moment, in his chair, his eyes fixed on Seonghyeon's face. Something was different. He didn't know what, but he felt it. Since the connection the night before, since that moment when he had inadvertently invaded Martin's mind, something had changed in the air, in the base's atmosphere, inside himself.

Juhoon closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall.

He was mentally exhausted. The connection with Martin had drained his energy in a way he couldn't explain. It was as if he had run a marathon, or carried rocks all day. His muscles ached, his head throbbed with a dull, constant pain, and there was a weight in his chest that wouldn't go away, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that, floating between wakefulness and sleep. Time had lost its meaning in that silent room, in that uncomfortable chair, beside that unconscious man.

Then he heard it.

~ Juhoon, I know you can hear me. 

The voice didn't come from outside. It didn't come from his ears, didn't travel through the air, wasn't picked up by his eardrums. It came from inside, from somewhere deep in his mind, like an echo resonating off invisible walls.

Juhoon tried to open his eyes. He couldn't. Tried to move. He couldn't. His body was paralyzed, trapped in a position that wasn't comfortable, but from which he couldn't escape.

~ I don't know how I did it. But you know how to do it too. Don't tell them.

The voice was familiar. Juhoon recognized it immediately, although he had never heard it that way, inside his mind, intimate and frighteningly close.

It was Seonghyeon.

Juhoon opened his eyes with a gasp, his body trembling, his forehead covered in sweat. He almost fell out of his chair, having to hold onto the arm of Seonghyeon's gurney to keep from falling to the floor. His breathing was fast, gasping, and his eyes were fixed on the doctor's face, which remained exactly as before: pale, motionless, unconscious.

There was no sign that Seonghyeon had spoken. No lip movement, no eyelid flutter, no change in breathing. He remained there, lost in his deep sleep, oblivious to the world around him.

But Juhoon knew what he had heard. Knew it wasn't imagination. The voice was there, inside his mind, clear and unmistakable.

What did that mean?

Before Juhoon could process the question, the alarm sounded.

The sharp, shrill sound cut through the silence of the infirmary like a blade, and Juhoon felt his head explode with pain. He put his hands over his ears, trying to muffle the noise, but the pain was already there, throbbing in his temples as if someone were hammering inside his skull.

He got up from the chair with an effort, stumbling over his own feet, and opened the infirmary door.

The corridor was chaos, soldiers running from side to side, gearing up, grabbing weapons, shouting orders at each other. Some of them had just returned from the city operation, their faces still covered in blood and soot, but were already preparing to go out again.

"What's happening?" Juhoon asked a soldier running past.

The soldier, a young man with the name Min Haejun embroidered on his uniform, stopped for a moment, his breathing labored.

"Mutants are trying to invade the base," he replied, his eyes wide. "We saw dozens of them on the cameras. Maybe hundreds."

And then he continued running, disappearing at the end of the corridor.

Juhoon felt his heart race. Mutants. Hundreds of them. Trying to invade the base. Martin was somewhere, probably already preparing for the defense.

"Juhoon!"

Keonho's voice came from the end of the corridor, and Juhoon saw him running towards him, his face tense, his expression determined. When he got close, he placed his hands on Juhoon's shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes.

"Listen, you cannot leave the infirmary. No matter what," Keonho said, his voice firm. "Do you understand? I want you to take care of Seonghyeon. Don't let anyone or anything enter the infirmary except me. Not soldiers, not doctors, no one."

"But what is..."

"There's no time for explanations," Keonho interrupted. "Just do what I said. Lock the door from the inside and don't open it for anyone, okay?"

Juhoon didn't fully understand, but something in Keonho's gaze made him agree.

"I understand, sir," Juhoon said, his voice calmer than he felt.

Keonho nodded, squeezed Juhoon's shoulders one last time, and then ran back down the corridor, disappearing towards the watchtower at the opposite end.

Juhoon entered the infirmary, closed the door behind him, and turned the lock. The metallic sound echoed through the silent room, and Juhoon rested his forehead against the door for a moment, feeling his heart beating so fast it seemed about to leap out of his chest.

Outside, the alarm continued to sound.

Martin left his room as soon as the alarm sounded. His tired body complained with every movement, but he ignored the pains, the scratches, the deep exhaustion that seemed to have settled in his bones. There was a base to defend, soldiers to command, and he had no time for weaknesses.

He ran down the stairs, his steps echoing on the concrete steps, and headed straight for the control room. When he entered, he found James already there, sitting in a chair in front of the monitors, his bandaged leg extended in front of him, his face pale with pain and fatigue.

"James," Martin said, approaching the monitors. "What do we have?"

"Mutants," James replied, pointing at the screens. "Dozens of them. They're coming from the east, the same ones that attacked last week."

Martin watched the camera images, his stomach clenching. The mutants moved in formation, too coordinated to be just a random horde. It was as if they were being guided, controlled, organized.

And then Martin saw.

"James, look at camera four," he said, his voice low and tense. "Zoom in."

James obeyed, his fingers adjusting the controls. The magnified image revealed something Martin couldn't believe: among the mutants, walking in their midst as if protected by an invisible escort, were humans.

Normal humans. In normal clothes. Walking among the creatures that should kill them.

"What..." James began, but couldn't finish the sentence.

"I don't know," Martin replied. "But we're not going to find out by staying here."

He turned, almost bumping into James, who was trying to get up from his chair.

"You stay here," Martin said, his voice allowing no argument. "You can't fight like that."

"I can help," James insisted, trying to put weight on his injured leg and almost falling. "Martin, I can..."

"Zhao Yufan," Martin used James's baptismal name, something he hadn't done in years. "You stay here. That's an order."

James closed his mouth, his jaw tense, but didn't argue. He knew Martin was right. Knew he would be more dead weight than a soldier in the field.

"Stay on the monitors and keep me informed of everything that happens out there," Martin continued, his voice softer now. "Every movement, every infected, every human. I need your eyes."

"Yes, sir," James replied, allowing a nearby soldier to help him sit down again.

Martin grabbed a sniper rifle from the base's armory, checked the barrel, the magazine, the scope, and began climbing the stairs towards the watchtower. His steps were heavy, his legs ached, but he didn't stop.

On the way, he pressed the button on his walkie-talkie.

"Keonho, go up to the west end tower. We'll cover the soldiers from above."

"On my way," Keonho's voice replied, breathless.

"Soldiers, exit through the side door," Martin continued, his voice echoing through the corridors. "Don't use the main entrance. The infected are concentrated in the east, so the side should be clear. Use the cover of the trees and advance in formation."

The soldiers, those still standing after the city operation, moved towards the side door, their rifles ready, their faces tense. There were few, but they would do their best.

Martin reached the watchtower and positioned the sniper on the edge of the platform, his eyes scanning the horizon through the scope. The sight he found made him hold his breath.

The mutants were less than five hundred meters from the base, a tide of deformed bodies and red eyes advancing through the forest. Martin counted at least fifty, maybe more, and among them, the humans walking among the creatures as if they were in no danger.

"James," Martin spoke into the walkie-talkie. "Are you seeing this?"

"I am," James's voice replied, tense. "I can't understand it. The humans... the mutants aren't attacking them. They just... let them through."

"Make a note of that," Martin said. "We'll find out what it means later."

He aimed at a mutant leading the attack, adjusted the scope for wind and distance, and fired.

The shot echoed through the forest like thunder. The mutant fell, its head exploding in a red cloud. The other mutants hesitated for a moment, their red eyes turning towards the tower, and then continued advancing.

"Keonho, start shooting," Martin said. "Let's try to reduce their number before they reach the base."

The sound of Keonho's first shot echoed from the other tower, and a second mutant fell. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth. Martin and Keonho fired at a constant pace, their snipers eliminating mutants one by one, but it wasn't enough. There were too many. Even with accurate shots, even with the advantage of height, they couldn't stop them all.

"James," Martin said, "Have the soldiers gone out yet?"

"Yes. They're positioned at the edge of the forest, ready to shoot when the mutants come into range."

"Warn them about the humans," Martin ordered. "Don't shoot at the humans unless they pose a threat. I want answers when this is over, and those humans might have the answers."

"Understood," James replied.

Martin kept shooting, his scope finding head after head, his body moving in an almost mechanical rhythm. The hum of the shots echoed in his ears, and the smell of gunpowder impregnated the air.

The mutants were two hundred meters away. One hundred and fifty. One hundred.

"Fire!" Martin shouted into the walkie-talkie, and the soldiers at the forest's edge opened fire.

The volley of shots was deafening, a symphony of violence that echoed through the forest and rose into the gray sky. The mutants fell in droves, but still advanced, their bodies trampling the dead, their red eyes glowing with a determination bordering on madness.

Then the first mutants reached the base wall.

Martin saw their claws scraping the concrete, saw some of them try to climb, saw the soldiers below shoot them at point-blank range. The battle was chaotic, brutal, and Martin felt his ammunition beginning to run out.

"Keonho," he said, "How many bullets do you have?"

"Few," the reply came breathless. "Maybe ten more shots, maybe."

"The soldiers' must be running out too. We need a quick solution."

But there was no quick solution. Just more shots, more blood, more deaths.

While Martin and Keonho fought from the top of their towers, and the soldiers fought the mutants on the front line, something was happening in the infirmary.

Juhoon was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall next to the gurney, his hands pressed over his ears. The noise of the shots penetrated even through his fingers, each explosion echoing in his head like a hammer against his skull. The pain was unbearable, a constant throbbing that seemed to want to split his brain in two.

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his breathing, tried to find a point of calm amidst the chaos. It didn't work. The pain was everywhere, inside and out, and Juhoon felt like he was going to pass out at any moment.

It was then that he heard the movement.

Juhoon opened his eyes and saw Seonghyeon moving on the gurney, his fingers twitching, his arms moving slowly, as if emerging from a deep sleep. The catheter in his arm swayed with the movement, and Seonghyeon frowned, as if feeling discomfort for the first time in weeks.

Then his eyes opened.

Seonghyeon blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of the room, and then closed them again, as if the light were too painful. He opened them again, slowly, and Juhoon saw the moment when consciousness returned to his eyes, the moment when he remembered where he was and what had happened.

Seonghyeon coughed, a dry, harsh cough that shook his whole body, and Juhoon got up from the floor with a quick movement, forgetting the pain in his head.

"Seonghyeon!" Juhoon said, approaching the gurney. "You're awake..."

Seonghyeon coughed again, his eyes meeting Juhoon's, and for a moment, just a moment, Juhoon saw an intensity in his gaze, a recognition that went beyond normal.

"Juhoon," Seonghyeon said, his voice hoarse from so long without use. "What... what happened?"

"You passed out," Juhoon explained, helping Seonghyeon sit up on the gurney. "You were unconscious for two weeks. The doctors said you would be fine, but you needed rest."

"Two weeks?" Seonghyeon repeated, as if he couldn't believe it. "And the base? The soldiers? What's happening out there?"

Juhoon hesitated, his eyes darting to the locked door, where the sound of gunfire still echoed outside.

"The base is under attack," he said. "Many mutants. The soldiers are fighting out there."

Seonghyeon closed his eyes for a moment, processing the information.

"Is Keonho out there?" he murmured, and there was something in his tone that Juhoon couldn't identify.

Before Juhoon could answer, a frantic knock echoed on the infirmary door.

"Help me..." the voice outside was drawn, weak, as if belonging to someone who barely had the strength to speak. "Please... help me..."

Juhoon felt his blood freeze. He looked at Seonghyeon, his eyes wide with fear.

"We shouldn't open it," Juhoon said, remembering Keonho's orders. "He said not to open it for anyone."

"Open it," Seonghyeon replied, and his voice was strangely calm, strangely firm. "Someone needs help."

"But Keonho said not to..."

"Juhoon, open the door."

Seonghyeon's tone had changed. It was no longer the gentle doctor Juhoon knew. It was something more, something Juhoon couldn't name, but that made him obey even against his will.

He approached the door, his hands trembling, and turned the lock.

The door opened, and Juhoon immediately recoiled, his heart stopping for an instant.

It was a soldier. His face was stained with blood, his skin pale as wax, his eyes were red. Not the bright red of the mutants, but the cloudy red of the early stage of infection, when the virus hadn't yet taken full control. There was a deep bite on his neck, so deep that Juhoon could see the muscle beneath the torn skin, and his veins were bulging, pulsing under the skin like worms trying to escape.

The soldier dragged himself into the infirmary, his legs barely able to support his weight, and fell to his knees on the floor. His eyes found Seonghyeon, and he extended a trembling hand towards the doctor.

"Please..." the soldier whispered. "Doctor... help me..."

Seonghyeon didn't move. He showed no fear, no compassion, nothing. He just looked at the soldier with an expression that was both empty and intense, as if studying a specimen in a laboratory.

The soldier fell silent. His eyes closed, his body fell to the floor, and for a moment, Juhoon thought he was dead. But then his eyes opened again, and Juhoon felt the air leave his lungs.

The soldier's eyes were no longer red. They were black. Dark as a moonless night, as a bottomless abyss, as death personified.

The soldier stood up.

Not slowly, like someone who barely had the strength to stand. But quickly, in the blink of an eye, as if an invisible force had pulled him up. His nails had grown, transforming into sharp claws that tore the gloves from his hands. His mouth opened in a smile that wasn't human, and Juhoon saw his pointed, irregular teeth, like those of a wild animal.

The soldier lunged at Juhoon.

Juhoon had no time to react. No time to run, to scream, to hide. The soldier was just a few steps away, his claws outstretched, his black eyes fixed on Juhoon's.

Then a shot rang out.

The soldier fell to the floor, a smoking hole in his thigh, and Juhoon saw Jeon standing in the infirmary doorway, his rifle still smoking, his expression as impassive as Seonghyeon's.

Jeon entered the infirmary, grabbed the infected soldier by his right leg, and dragged him out without saying a word. His face showed no emotion. He just did what needed to be done and disappeared into the corridor, leaving Juhoon alone with Seonghyeon and the silence.

Juhoon locked the door again, his hands trembling so much he could barely turn the key. Then he turned to Seonghyeon.

The doctor was sitting on the gurney, his expression perfectly calm. There was no fear in his eyes, nor relief, nor surprise. He seemed... tranquil. Too tranquil for someone who had just witnessed a man transform into a monstrous creature before his eyes.

"Are you okay?" Seonghyeon asked, his voice as calm as his expression.

Juhoon didn't respond immediately. He just looked at Seonghyeon, his eyes scanning the doctor's face, looking for any sign that he was who he said he was.

"The voice inside my head. Your voice..." Juhoon said finally. "Can you do that too?"

Seonghyeon neither confirmed nor denied. He just looked at Juhoon with those calm eyes, that serene face, and Juhoon felt something cold run down his spine.

Outside, the noise of the gunfire continued.

And the base kept fighting.

Chapter Text

The battle lasted hours that felt like centuries.

Martin no longer knew how many shots he had fired. His sniper rifle, which at the start of the defense had been a precise extension of his will, now weighed on his arms as if made of lead. Every movement required a superhuman effort, every breath was a struggle against the fatigue that threatened to knock him down.

But he couldn't stop.

Below, on the front line, the soldiers shouted, shot, died. And Martin kept shooting, his scope finding head after head, his finger pulling the trigger in a rhythm that had become automatic, mechanical, almost unconscious.

"Colonel," James's voice came over the walkie-talkie, laden with a tension Martin had learned to recognize as the harbinger of disaster. "Ammunition is running out. The soldiers on the front line have less than ten shots per man."

Martin closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of those words on his chest. He knew this would happen. He had known from the start that there wasn't enough ammunition, that the soldiers were too exhausted, that the mutants were too many and too strong. But hearing the confirmation was like receiving a punch to the stomach.

"Tell them to save their ammo," Martin replied, although he knew it was useless. Saving ammunition meant shooting less, and shooting less meant letting more infected get closer. There was no way out.

"They're already saving, sir," James replied, and his voice was strangely calm now, as if he had already accepted what was to come. "But it won't be enough."

Martin didn't respond. Instead, he kept shooting, his sniper rifle eliminating mutants one by one, but there were always more. The black tide of deformed bodies and red eyes advanced relentlessly, trampling the dead, climbing over the wounded, ignoring pain and fear. They were a destruction machine driven by hunger and rage, and there was nothing Martin could do to stop them.

The first line of defense fell as the sun began to set.

Martin saw it through the cameras. James was transmitting the images to his walkie-talkie, a small screen showing the horror in real time. The soldiers at the forest's edge were overwhelmed by the mutants, their guns falling silent as ammunition ran out. What followed was a carnage. Martin saw soldiers being torn apart, saw others being bitten and transforming in seconds, saw still others fleeing in desperation, their empty guns swinging uselessly in their hands.

"Fall back to the second line!" Martin shouted into the walkie-talkie, but it was too late. There was no second line. The infected were already inside the perimeter, climbing the walls, breaking down the doors, entering.

They poured into the base like a sewer river breaching a dam.

Martin heard the screams echoing through the corridors, saw through the cameras soldiers being attacked inside their own home, saw the base he had built and protected for years being invaded by that tide of monsters. His hand trembled on the trigger, and he felt a dark acceptance that everything he had built was crumbling.

"Colonel," the voice of a soldier, Park Sunghoon, came over the walkie-talkie, breathless, desperate. "They're everywhere. We're not going to be able to hold them off. Requesting permission to..."

The transmission was cut off by a scream, and then silence.

Martin didn't wait to find out what happened to Sunghoon. He already knew.

He pressed the button on his walkie-talkie and spoke, his voice calmer than it had ever been.

"All soldiers, attention. Evacuate the base immediately. I repeat: evacuate the base. Use the cars in the back. Don't wait for anyone. We will regroup at Temporary Base No. 3 Incheon."

There was a moment of silence, as if the soldiers couldn't believe what they were hearing. Evacuate the base. Abandon the home they had defended for so long. The order no soldier wanted to hear, and no colonel wanted to give.

"Keonho, get Seonghyeon and the civilian," Martin continued, using the private channel. "Go to the cars. I'll meet you there."

"Understood," Keonho's voice replied, tense, but firm.

"Jeon," Martin said, descending the tower stairs at speed, his sniper rifle still in his hands. "Grab as many supplies as you can carry. Rations, water, ammunition, medicine. Then help the soldiers get to the cars."

"Yes, sir," Jeon replied, and Martin heard his footsteps running down the corridor on the other end of the walkie-talkie.

Martin raced down the stairs, his steps echoing on the concrete steps. The alarm was still sounding, but now it seemed more like a lament than a warning. When he reached the ground floor, what he saw made him stop for an instant.

Infected.

They wandered through the corridors as if they owned the place, their red eyes glowing in the twilight, their mouths open in low, guttural moans. Martin saw one of them rip the door off a supply closet, saw another tear a mattress with its claws, saw a third who was wearing the BASE07 uniform.

It was a soldier. Transformed. His face, which Martin recognized, was now distorted by infection, his eyes empty, his mouth open in a smile that wasn't human.

Martin shot. The soldier fell, and Martin kept running, using the long barrel of the sniper rifle to push away the infected blocking his path. Each blow was an effort, each step a struggle, but he couldn't stop.

"James," Martin said into the walkie-talkie, as he climbed the stairs towards the control room. "Have you left yet?"

"I'm going," James replied, his voice breathless. "A soldier is helping me walk. We're going to take the elevator."

"Don't use the elevator," Martin ordered. "Infected could be anywhere. Use the stairs."

"The stairs... with my leg..." James hesitated.

"I know. But it's safer. Go slow, but go. We'll meet outside."

There was no response, but Martin heard the sound of slow, uneven footsteps on the walkie-talkie, and knew James was obeying.

On the way to the infirmary, Martin found Keonho.

The major was coming out of a side corridor, his face sweaty, his rifle in his hand. When he saw Martin, he ran towards him, his eyes wide with urgency.

"Martin," Keonho said, without formalities. "The infirmary. The infected are close. We need to get there before them."

Martin nodded, and the two ran together through the corridors, pushing through the infected they encountered along the way. Keonho shot, Martin used the sniper rifle as a club, and together they managed to reach the infirmary door in less than two minutes.

Keonho pounded on the door frantically, his fists echoing on the metal.

"Juhoon! Open up! It's me!"

There was a moment of silence, and then the sound of the lock being unlocked. The door opened, and Keonho froze.

Seonghyeon was awake.

He was standing, next to the gurney, his eyes clear and focused, his posture erect and firm. The catheter that had been attached to his arm was now on the table, next to other sensors he had ripped off. His skin was still pale, but there was something in his eyes that Keonho had never seen before.

"Sean," Keonho whispered, and his voice was so shaky he barely recognized himself. "You... you're awake."

Seonghyeon smiled. It was the same smile as always, but there was something different about it too. Something Keonho couldn't identify, but that made his heart beat faster.

"I am," Seonghyeon replied, his voice still hoarse, but firm. "And it seems I woke up just in time."

Keonho wanted to hug him. Wanted to run to him, wrap his arms around him, never let him go. But there was no time. The moans of the infected echoed through the corridor, getting closer and closer, and Martin was already calling them to leave.

"Keonho, let's go," Martin said, his voice cutting through the moment. "No time for celebrations. We need to go now."

Keonho nodded, forcing himself back to reality. He entered the infirmary and reached out his hand to help Seonghyeon, but the doctor ignored him. With slow but firm movements, Seonghyeon moved away from the gurney, his bare feet touching the cold concrete floor. He turned to Keonho and smiled again.

"Let's go," he said, and began walking towards the door.

Keonho stood there for a second, stunned. Seonghyeon had been unconscious for two weeks. Two weeks without eating, without drinking, without moving his muscles.

And now he was walking on his own as if nothing had happened?

"Keonho, move!" Martin's voice came from the corridor, and Keonho shook himself, running after Seonghyeon and Juhoon.

The four advanced through the base corridors, an unlikely group of survivors. Martin led the way, his sniper rifle clearing a path through the infected. Keonho came behind, covering the rear, his rifle firing in short, controlled bursts. Seonghyeon and Juhoon ran in the middle, protected by the two soldiers, their hands empty, their eyes attentive.

"This way," Martin said, turning into a side corridor. "The cars are in the back."

They ran, their steps echoing on the concrete walls. The moans of the infected were everywhere, and Martin felt their eyes on them, felt the hunger and rage of those creatures like waves of heat.

When they finally reached the back gate, Martin saw the cars. There were several of them, parked in a row, their engines already rumbling low. Wounded and bloodied soldiers occupied the seats, their faces empty, their eyes fixed on some distant point. James was in the first car, sitting in the passenger seat, his bandaged leg extended in front of him. Jeon was at the wheel, and another soldier was in the back seat, his expression as tired as the others'.

"Get in," Martin ordered, opening the door of the main car.

Keonho helped Seonghyeon in, although the doctor said he didn't need help. Juhoon got in next, his eyes scanning the interior of the vehicle with an expression Martin couldn't decipher. Martin was the last to get in, closing the door behind him with a thud that echoed through the parking lot.

"Go!" Martin said to Jeon, and the soldier stepped on the accelerator.

The car moved forward, followed by the other three, and Martin looked back through the rear window. BASE07 was left behind, its gates open, its corridors infested, its walls stained with blood. He watched it disappear into the darkness of the forest, and felt something break inside him.

It wasn't just a base. It was his home. It was the only home he had known since the world fell apart. And now it was lost, taken by that tide of monsters, and Martin didn't know if he would ever return.

"How long has he been awake?" James's voice cut through the silence, and Martin turned to see him looking at Seonghyeon with an expression of surprise and relief.

"He just woke up," Juhoon replied, before anyone else could speak. "Minutes before you arrived."

James nodded, his eyes still fixed on Seonghyeon.

"You look... well," James said, and there was something in his tone that suggested he too had noticed what Keonho had noticed.

"I'm better," Seonghyeon replied, his voice calm.

Martin didn't say anything. He just watched Seonghyeon, his eyes scanning the doctor's face, his mind working at speeds the others couldn't keep up with. Something was wrong. Martin didn't know what, but he felt it. Seonghyeon's recovery had been too fast, too complete. It didn't make sense.

But he didn't have the energy to investigate. Not now.

The car advanced down the dark road, followed by the other three vehicles, and Martin closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to rest. Just for a moment.

The silence inside the car was heavy, laden with grief and exhaustion and unasked questions. Keonho was sitting next to Seonghyeon, his eyes fixed on the doctor's face, his hand so close to Seonghyeon's hand that they almost touched. Juhoon was huddled in the corner of the seat, his arms wrapped around his knees, his eyes fixed on nothing. James looked out the window, watching the trees pass by in a dark-green blur. Jeon kept his eyes on the road, his hands firm on the wheel.

And Martin thought about everything he had lost.

Soldiers. Friends. His base. His home.

And wondered what was left to lose.

The journey to Temporary Base No. 3 Incheon took about two hours. Two hours of silence, of bumpy roads, of dense forests that seemed to close around the vehicles like the jaws of a giant animal. No one spoke. There were no words that could express what everyone was feeling.

When the lights of the temporary base finally appeared on the horizon, Martin felt the recognition that, for now, they were safe.

Temporary Base No. 3 Incheon was different from BASE07. It was larger, more modern, with higher concrete walls and more powerful floodlights. There were armed soldiers on every corner, and the air smelled of disinfectant and metal. It was a real military installation, not a makeshift base in the middle of the forest.

The vehicles stopped at the checkpoint, and a soldier with a clipboard approached, his eyes scanning the cars with a professional expression.

"Identification," he said, his voice monotonous, as if he had repeated that word thousands of times.

Martin showed his badge. And everyone else showed their identifications without problems.

Then it was Juhoon's turn.

The civilian was pale, his hands trembling slightly on his knees. He had no identification. He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't on any list. He was a ghost, a nothing, a someone who shouldn't exist.

"And you?" the soldier asked, his eyes fixed on Juhoon. "Your identification?"

Juhoon opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His heart was beating so fast he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples, and his mind was empty, absolutely empty, unable to formulate a single word.

He was panicking. Martin could see it in his eyes, in his gasping breath, in his fingers that clenched and unclenched into unconscious fists.

"Juhoon," Seonghyeon's voice came from behind, low, calm, almost a whisper.

Juhoon turned, his eyes meeting the doctor's. And then something happened.

It wasn't like when Martin had felt his presence in the city. This was deeper, more intimate, more controlled. Juhoon felt a wave of calm invade his mind, as if someone had poured cold water on a fire. His heart slowed, his breathing normalized, and the panic that threatened to consume him retreated into the shadows from which it came.

He turned to the soldier and spoke.

"My identification was lost during the evacuation," he said, and his voice was surprisingly calm, surprisingly convincing. "But I'm an authorized civilian. Colonel Park can confirm."

The soldier looked at Martin, who nodded.

"It's true," Martin said. "He works for me. He'll be under my responsibility."

The soldier hesitated for a moment, his eyes scanning Juhoon from head to toe. Then, with a grunt of acceptance, he noted something on his clipboard and walked away.

"You may enter," he said, without looking back.

The vehicles advanced, and Juhoon felt relief flood his chest like a wave. He looked at Seonghyeon, who just smiled.

"Thank you," Juhoon whispered, so low that only Seonghyeon could hear.

The doctor didn't respond, but his eyes glowed for a moment, and Juhoon knew that moment, that connection, had been real.

Inside the temporary base, the chaos was organized. Soldiers and civilian personnel moved back and forth, carrying boxes, organizing equipment, tending to the wounded. Martin recognized some soldiers from other bases that had been evacuated, officers he had met in training, doctors who had worked with Seonghyeon in the past.

"Colonel Park," a familiar voice came from behind, and Martin turned to find a middle-aged man, graying hair, hard eyes. It was Colonel Lee, commander of Temporary Base No. 3. "I heard your base fell. My condolences."

"Thank you," Martin replied, his voice neutral. "We need a place to stay. My soldiers are exhausted and injured."

"We have space," Colonel Lee said, waving towards one of the buildings on the left. "The quarters are over there. They're not luxurious, but they'll do. Meals are served three times a day in the central canteen. The wounded should be taken to the medical wing."

Martin nodded, thanking him, and began giving orders to his soldiers. Slowly, the survivors of BASE07 dispersed, each heading to their designated destination.

It was then that James approached Martin, his expression worried.

"Martin, what are we going to do about the civilian?" he asked, his voice low. "He has no identification. Sooner or later, someone will notice."

Martin didn't respond immediately. He looked at the horizon, at the gray sky that stretched over the temporary base.

"We'll find a way," Martin said finally.

James didn't respond. He just shook his head, too tired to argue, and walked away towards the quarters, limping on his injured leg.

Martin stood there for a moment, alone, watching the soldiers and civilians move around him like ants in a destroyed anthill. He thought about everything he had lost, about everything he could still lose, about everything that remained.

And then, without knowing why, his eyes met Juhoon's, who was standing a few meters away, leaning against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest. The two looked at each other for a long moment, and Martin felt something move in his chest.

It was just the certainty that no matter how much the world crumbled around him, that man would still be there. His strangely comforting presence amidst the chaos.

For now, that was enough.

The next day dawned rainy and cloudy. The gray light that filtered through the windows of Temporary Base No. 3 Incheon was barely enough to illuminate the corridors, and the sound of rain hitting the glass created a monotonous and melancholic melody that seemed to perfectly match the mood of all the survivors. The defeat was still fresh, the loss still hurt, and the future was a dark fog that no one had the courage to face.

The first thing Keonho did when he woke up was look for Seonghyeon.

It wasn't a conscious decision, at least that's what he told himself. His body simply moved before his brain could protest, his feet finding the cold floor of the room as he dressed in the new clothes he had received from the laundry the night before. The fabric still smelled of industrial soap, and Keonho missed the uniform he used to wear at his base. But BASE07 no longer existed, and those new clothes were just another reminder that nothing would ever be the same again.

They were divided into separate wings in the temporary base. Keonho was in the combat soldiers' wing, sharing a cramped room with five other surviving soldiers, all as exhausted and traumatized as he was. Seonghyeon was in the non-combat soldiers' wing, alongside doctors, cooks, mechanics, and others who kept the base running. And also Juhoon, of course.

Keonho left the room before all the other soldiers sharing the space with him. The silence of the empty corridor was almost deafening after hours of hearing snores and heavy breathing, and Keonho walked towards the canteen with slow steps, still half asleep, still half lost in thoughts he didn't want to have.

In the canteen, he only ate an apple. Exhaustion had stolen his appetite, and the only thing his stomach could process without churning was that simple, crunchy fruit. He bit into the white flesh as he walked, chewing slowly, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

The corridor was getting busier as he approached the non-combat soldiers' wing. Soldiers from other bases hurried about, some carrying boxes of supplies, others talking in small groups, others just walking without direction. Keonho greeted some soldiers he had met in training, on joint missions or in casual encounters over the years. But none of them mattered to him at that moment. His mind was elsewhere, on someone else.

He continued to dormitory number 404 on the second floor, a metal door identical to all the others, with a simple sign indicating the names of the occupants. Keonho didn't read the names, he didn't need to. He knew Seonghyeon was there.

He knocked three times on the door.

The sound echoed through the empty corridor, and Keonho waited, his fingers drumming on his thigh in a nervous rhythm he couldn't control. For a moment, he thought Seonghyeon wouldn't answer and that maybe he was sleeping, or in the bathroom, or just didn't want to see anyone.

But then the door opened.

Seonghyeon was there, standing, wearing simple clothes that contrasted with the white coat Keonho was used to seeing. His brown hair was slightly damp, as if he had just gotten out of the shower.

"Keonho?" Seonghyeon asked, still holding the doorknob of the half-open door, his expression neutral, his gaze empty.

"Good morning to you too, Sean," Keonho smiled, forcing a lightness he didn't feel, and pushed the door gently, entering the room without being invited.

The room was clean and empty. The beds were made, the sheets stretched and unwrinkled, and the occupants' personal belongings were stored in metal lockers against the wall. Seonghyeon's roommates had probably already left for breakfast, or for their work posts, or for any of the places that required their presence on that rainy morning.

Keonho walked to Seonghyeon's bed, the one by the window, and sat down with his legs apart, his hands resting on the soft sheet of the freshly made bed. The window showed the gray sky and the rain falling in thin trickles, and Keonho stared outside for a moment, lost in thought.

Seonghyeon closed the door and turned to Keonho, his head slightly tilted to the side, that gesture Keonho knew so well but which now seemed strangely different.

"What are you doing here?" Seonghyeon asked, and his voice carried no hostility, but also not the warmth of before. It was a neutral, professional voice, almost as if he were talking to a patient instead of a friend.

"I missed my friend," Keonho shrugged, the smile still playing on his lips, although something in his chest hurt hearing the coldness in Seonghyeon's voice. "Can't I come see him?"

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, but Seonghyeon looked away quickly, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor.

Seonghyeon walked to the other end of the room and sat on Juhoon's bed, keeping a safe distance between them. His shoulders were tense, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on nothing.

Keonho followed his movement with his eyes, watching every detail.

Was it his imagination, or had even Seonghyeon's way of walking changed?

Before, he walked with a light, almost floating grace, as if he were always ready to smile, to help, to comfort. Now, his steps were firmer, more determined, as if he were always going somewhere and didn't want to be interrupted.

"I missed you, you know?" Keonho let it slip, and the words came out before he could stop them. He didn't regret it. It was true. "It seemed like you were never going to wake up... I was scared."

Seonghyeon didn't move. His eyes remained fixed on some empty point in the room, and Keonho wondered if he was really listening.

"Scared of what?" Seonghyeon asked, frowning slightly.

"Of losing you forever."

The silence that followed was strange, bordering on uncomfortable. Keonho heard the rain hitting the glass, heard the distant footsteps of soldiers in the corridor, heard his own breathing and the beating of his heart. But from Seonghyeon, no sound came. He simply didn't say anything else, lost in thoughts Keonho would never understand.

Keonho stood still watching the boy on the other side of the room. The feeling of strangeness grew even more in his chest, like an invasive plant spreading and suffocating everything around it. The Seonghyeon who woke up was different from the Seonghyeon who had fainted weeks ago. At the same time as they were the same person, Keonho felt that something had changed. Something he couldn't see but could feel like a cold current in the air.

"You've changed," Keonho continued, trying to break the silence, trying to find some point of connection with the man before him. "You're even more handsome."

Seonghyeon turned to face him.

Keonho held his breath. He thought he would hear a curse like so many other times. Thought he would see his friend's face blush with shame, his cheeks rosy, his eyes looking away in embarrassment. Thought that moment would be like all the other moments they had shared over the years.

But all he saw was nothing.

Seonghyeon showed no emotion or facial expression. His eyes remained fixed on Keonho's, calm and empty, as if he were looking at a wall instead of a friend.

"It doesn't make sense," Seonghyeon said, and his voice was as flat as his expression. "Beauty is relative and that's your opinion, it doesn't mean it's true. I'm still the same."

Keonho rolled his eyes, a little laugh escaping his lips. The answer was so technical, so rational, so... Seonghyeon. But at the same time, there was something wrong with it. Seonghyeon never responded to his flirting with logic. He responded with embarrassment, with awkwardness, with that fake irritation that Keonho loved to provoke.

"I don't understand what's funny," Seonghyeon said, frowning.

"You're funny, Seonghyeon," Keonho replied, and stood up, walking towards Seonghyeon on the other side of the room. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if he were approaching a wild animal that might startle at any moment. "That's why we're best friends."

Keonho sat down next to Seonghyeon on the edge of Juhoon's bed, so close their shoulders almost touched. He felt the heat of Seonghyeon's body, felt his soft perfume, and for a moment, just a moment, everything seemed normal.

"Who told you that?" Seonghyeon turned to face him, his eyes meeting Keonho's with an intensity that made him shiver. "I never agreed to be your best friend! We're just soldiers from the same base."

Keonho laughed.

He laughed a lot. His loud laugh filled the empty room, echoing off the concrete walls as if many people were laughing together. He laughed until his eyes watered, until his stomach hurt, until his breathing became labored.

Seonghyeon raised one eyebrow, his expression changing from neutral to slightly confused. Being unconscious for so long had made him forget how good it was to hear Keonho's laugh, that easy, contagious laugh that seemed to light up any environment. He almost laughed too, almost. He felt the muscles in his face contract, felt a warmth rise in his chest, felt something loosen inside him.

Instead, he gave an almost imperceptible smile with his lips.

But Keonho noticed anyway.

His gaze shifted from Seonghyeon's eyes and descended almost unconsciously to his mouth. Seonghyeon's lips looked extremely hydrated, smooth and shiny in the dim light of the cloudy day mixed with the yellow, warm light of the room. There was something hypnotic about those lips, something that pulled Keonho closer like a magnet.

Keonho raised his hand, hesitant. His heart was beating so fast he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples, and his mind screamed for him to stop, to back away, not to do anything he was about to do.

But he didn't obey.

Seconds after hesitating, Keonho touched Seonghyeon's lower lip with his thumb, parting his lips in a smooth, deliberate movement. The skin was soft, warm, and Keonho felt a shock run through his arm, his chest, his entire body.

Seonghyeon didn't protest.

He didn't pull away, didn't push Keonho's hand away, didn't say that it was wrong or inappropriate. Instead, he stood there, motionless, allowing Keonho's thumb to roam freely over his lips, tracing the contour of his mouth as if drawing a map.

Unconsciously, or almost, Seonghyeon opened his lips even wider.

Keonho's thumb slid into his mouth.

The sensation was electric. Keonho felt the wet heat of Seonghyeon's oral cavity, felt his tongue brush the tip of his finger, felt his teeth close gently around his skin. Seonghyeon's lips closed around the finger, trapping it inside his mouth with a pressure that wasn't painful, but wasn't comfortable either. It was possessive.

Seonghyeon wrapped his tongue around the finger, sucking it.

Keonho held his breath.

Seonghyeon's eyes were fixed on Keonho's face, evaluating every minute change in his expression. He saw Keonho's pupils dilate, saw his jaw tense, saw his breathing become faster and more irregular. Every reaction was observed, cataloged, filed away somewhere in Seonghyeon's mind.

Keonho, on the other hand, had his eyes fixed on Seonghyeon's mouth, where his finger was being practically swallowed by the other's oral cavity. He saw Seonghyeon's lips moving around his finger, saw his tongue sliding over his skin, saw the saliva glistening in the yellow light of the room.

"Fuck..." Keonho murmured softly, feeling warm under his clothes. He didn't know if it was because of the room's heater being on or because of the situation itself, but his body was reacting in a way he couldn't control.

Seonghyeon grabbed Keonho's wrist with one hand, his thin, strong fingers wrapping around the friend's brown skin. He pushed the finger even deeper into his throat, and Keonho felt the tip of his thumb touch the back of Seonghyeon's mouth, felt the muscles of his throat contract around his finger.

Keonho was fascinated and paralyzed. His finger was entirely inside Seonghyeon's mouth, which seemed to want to swallow it whole. The sensation was strange, intimate, almost erotic, and Keonho couldn't think of anything but that.

It wasn't a scene he ever expected to see, but he was really enjoying the sensation.

Seonghyeon finally released his finger, licking it one last time before removing it completely from his mouth. A wet, obscene sound echoed through the silent room, and Keonho felt his lips part slightly, fascinated.

A thin layer of saliva dripped from the corner of Seonghyeon's mouth, glistening under the yellow light. Keonho didn't think twice.

He leaned in and licked the saliva, touching his tongue lightly to Seonghyeon's lips in the process. The taste was salty, slightly sweet, and Keonho felt a shiver run down his spine.

Keonho pulled away, and now the two stared intensely at each other, not knowing what to say or what to speak. The silence between them was heavy, charged with electricity, charged with questions neither had the courage to ask.

Who would have thought that a simple conversation would lead them to this point? 

Seonghyeon was the first to move.

He pulled Keonho by the nape of his neck without warning, his fingers intertwining in the major's dark hair, his strength surprising for someone who had just spent two weeks unconscious.

Their lips collided in a desperate kiss.

Keonho held his breath for a second, surprised. He didn't expect Seonghyeon to take the initiative, didn't expect Seonghyeon to pull him so hard, didn't expect Seonghyeon to be so intense.

But the surprise vanished the next second, when Seonghyeon ran his tongue over his lips.

Keonho opened his mouth without delay.

Seonghyeon's tongue invaded his mouth, wet and warm, and tangled with his own tongue in a dance that was both strange and familiar.

Then a war for control began.

Both wanted to dominate the kiss, both wanted to be dominated. A clash of teeth colliding occasionally, tongues fighting for dominance in each other's mouths, sighs and soft sounds coming from both boys. Keonho bit Seonghyeon's lower lip hard enough to draw a moan, and Seonghyeon responded by pulling his hair harder.

Keonho's hands slid to Seonghyeon's waist. He squeezed the flesh there with force and possessiveness, feeling the bones of his ribs under the skin, feeling the heat of Seonghyeon's body through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Drew a low moan from Seonghyeon, a muffled sound that vibrated between their joined lips.

Seonghyeon's hands were intertwined around Keonho's neck, pulling him even closer, as if wanting to fuse their bodies into one. His nails scratched lightly at Keonho's nape, leaving red marks that burned like fire.

When air ran out, Seonghyeon cut the contact, pulling back slightly. His hands quickly released Keonho's face, as if they had been burned. He stood up, staggering, and leaned against the wall near the door. His breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his lips were red and swollen from the kiss.

"That was..." he began, his voice failing, his eyes averted to the floor.

"Delicious?" Keonho replied, his left hand on his lips still feeling the ghostly touch of Seonghyeon's lips on his. His heart was still beating fast, his body still trembling with adrenaline, and he could feel the warmth in his cheeks.

"Irresponsible," Seonghyeon replied. He wasn't looking at Keonho, he couldn't. His eyes were fixed on the opposite wall, on the floor, anywhere but the face of the man he had just kissed.

That kiss shouldn't have happened. He had lost control, had given in to an impulse he should have repressed, and now the consequences spread before him like a dark, endless road.

He turned to Keonho before continuing, forcing himself to meet his eyes.

"Don't tell anyone about this, understand?" his voice was firm now, controlled, although inside he was still trembling. "None of this is going to happen again."

"Yes, sir. You have my word," Keonho smiled, as if the situation wasn't extremely serious but just a joke. "It won't happen again!"

Seonghyeon snorted. Of course Keonho wasn't taking it seriously. Of course he was treating that moment as just another one of his jokes, as if kissing was no big deal, as if there were no consequences.

But the situation was never going to happen again. They had no time to waste on this. The base was in ruins, soldiers were dying, the world was crumbling, and they couldn't afford to be distracted by foolish feelings.

Or, that's what he repeated to himself.

Martin couldn't sleep.

Not that he expected to. Every time he closed his eyes, the images of the city operation, the soldiers falling, the base being invaded, the blood flowing down the concrete floor, came flooding in. He saw the faces of the dead, heard their screams, felt the weight of each lost life like stones being piled on his shoulders.

He got up as soon as the sun rose, or whatever was behind those thick, dark clouds. The rain was still falling, thin and persistent, and the sky was as gray as Martin's soul.

The soldiers sharing the room with him remained asleep, still exhausted. Their bodies were sprawled on the beds in uncomfortable positions, their faces marked by fatigue and pain. Martin watched them for a moment, feeling something tighten in his chest. There were so few. So few compared to those who had left.

Martin left the room and closed the door carefully, the sound of the lock echoing in the empty corridor.

The temporary base was already awake. Soldiers from other bases circulated through the corridors, some carrying boxes of supplies, others talking in small groups, others just walking without direction. Martin blended in with them, anonymous among so many strangers, and began to walk without destination.

The corridor was so full of soldiers that Martin could barely move without bumping into someone. Bodies crowded into that limited space like sardines in a can, and Martin felt claustrophobia beginning to tighten his chest. He wasn't used to crowds. At BASE07, he had his office, his own room, his empty spaces where he could be alone with his thoughts. Here, there was no privacy.

It was in the midst of that crowd that he bumped into someone.

It was a light bump, nothing more than a brush of shoulders, but it was enough to momentarily unbalance the shorter figure. Martin acted on instinct, reaching out and grabbing the person's wrist to keep them from falling on the wet floor.

And that's when he saw the face of the person he had bumped into.

Kim Juhoon.

The civilian was paler than usual, his eyes red from not having slept in days. He wore the same simple clothes as always, and his dark hair was disheveled, as if he had been awake all night.

"What are you doing in this corridor?" Martin asked, frowning. He knew Juhoon was housed in another corridor, alongside Seonghyeon and other non-combat soldiers. It didn't make sense for him to be in the soldiers' wing.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Juhoon murmured, his eyes meeting Martin's for a brief instant before looking away. His expression was empty, as always. "I was..."

"Juhoonie!"

A female voice sounded in the distance, cheerful and familiar, and Martin saw Juhoon stiffen as if he had received an electric shock.

"Shit..." he cursed softly, and Martin heard it perfectly, raising one eyebrow in surprise.

Juhoon looked back, and Martin followed his gaze.

Waving in the distance, advancing through the crowd of soldiers with quick, determined steps, was a woman not much older than them.

Major Megan, from BASE09.

Her orange hair was tied in a ponytail, and her smile was as wide as Martin remembered.

Juhoon didn't have time to think much. He grabbed Martin's wrist tightly, ready to pull him in the opposite direction from Megan, away from the crowd, away from the question that would certainly come.

But the strong headache made him stop mid-motion.

Suddenly, several voices began to speak inside his head at the same time. Loud, incomprehensible, overlapping each other in a deafening cacophony. He squeezed his eyes shut, the pain becoming unbearable, as if someone were piercing his skull with incandescent needles.

His hands trembled. His legs weakened. Juhoon fell to his knees on the floor, his knees hitting the concrete with a dull thud he barely heard above the horrible ringing filling his ears. External sounds were muffled, distorted, as if he were submerged in water.

Juhoon still kept his fingers tightly closed around Martin's wrist, which forced the colonel to also crouch down on the floor. Martin didn't seem bothered, his eyes were fixed on Juhoon's face, searching for any sign of what was happening.

"Juhoon?" Martin's voice sounded close, cutting through the ringing like a knife. "Are you okay?"

The ringing slowly disappeared.

Juhoon opened his eyes, which he had closed without realizing. The voices dispersed, disappearing like mist in the sun, and absolute silence settled in his mind. His eyes met Martin's, and he lost himself in the vastness of the colonel's brown eyes.

He felt something connect in his mind.

Martin.

But different from the first time, when he had inadvertently invaded Martin's mind, this time the connection was different. There was no pain, no chaos, no overload. There was only a strangely good peace, a deep calm, as if he were floating in a lake of warm water under a cloudless sky.

Martin also felt the silence.

But unlike the peace Juhoon experienced, Martin felt pain.

Not physical pain. It was a mental pain, abstract, as if something were being ripped out of him without anesthesia. He felt the weight of untold secrets, the burden of crushing responsibilities, the loneliness of years carrying the world on his back. He felt the guilt for the soldiers he had lost, the fear for those who remained, the exhaustion of a body that had been asking for rest for years.

And beneath all that, he felt something more. A deep sadness, an emptiness that seemed bottomless, a pain that came from so far away that Martin no longer even knew it was there.

Juhoon had many things he was hiding, secrets he carried alone. Martin couldn't see exactly what it was, because the connection was cut off before he could delve deeper.

"Is he okay?" Megan's voice cut the moment, and Martin blinked, returning to reality.

Juhoon was the first to look away. He stood up abruptly, releasing Martin's wrist as if it had burned, and took a step back, his eyes fixed on the floor.

Martin stood up shortly after, with the strange and familiar sensation that this had happened before. He remembered the previous days, when he stumbled in the city and felt as if someone had called his name.

Had Juhoon done that?

But that was impossible... right?

"I'm fine," Juhoon replied, his gaze meeting Megan's with a calmness that contrasted with his haggard appearance. "Forgive me, Major, but..."

He hesitated, his gaze going from Megan to Martin, thinking about what he was going to say.

"But the Colonel needs to come with me to the infirmary," he finally said.

Martin raised an eyebrow, confused. He wasn't injured, wasn't sick, had no appointment at the infirmary. But something in Juhoon's gaze made him remain silent.

"Oh... You two are close, aren't you?" Megan's gaze went from Juhoon to Martin and then back to Juhoon, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "That's fine, see you later!"

And so she walked away, her orange hair swaying with the movement, looking back a few times until she finally disappeared from sight.

Juhoon's gaze was fixed on the direction she had disappeared, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Are we going to the infirmary or not?" Martin's voice made him wake up.

Juhoon turned to him, avoiding looking directly into his eyes.

"Actually..."

"What is your relationship with the Major?"

Martin interrupted him, his arms crossed over his chest. His voice wasn't hostile, but it wasn't friendly either; it was the voice of a colonel interrogating a subordinate, not the voice of a friend talking to another.

"You know you can't walk around without identification, don't you? If Commander Lee asks who you are, what are you going to answer? If he asks how an unidentified civilian entered a military base, are you going to lie?"

The questions fell on Juhoon like a shower of stones, and he felt each one hit his chest hard. He opened his mouth to answer, to explain himself, to say anything that could mitigate the situation. But he couldn't think of answers. His mind was empty, white, unable to formulate a single coherent word.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice so low Martin almost didn't hear it. "I was... running from the Major."

The confession was so honest, so disarming, that Martin felt his expression soften slightly.

"I promise to be more careful, sir."

Martin nodded, his eyes still fixed on Juhoon's face.

"Don't walk around alone," he concluded, and turned to continue in the direction he was initially going.

Juhoon saw Martin begin to walk away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the crowd, and felt something tighten in his chest. He couldn't let him go. Not now. Not after what had happened.

"Can you..." Juhoon stretched out his arm, but didn't quite touch the colonel. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, hesitant, before he pulled it back against his chest. "I mean, could you... help me?"

Martin stopped in his tracks. He didn't turn around immediately, stood with his back to Juhoon for a moment that seemed like an eternity. Then, slowly, he turned.

"With what, exactly?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Juhoon felt his mouth go dry. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't say them.

How to explain the inexplicable?

How to confess something he didn't even fully understand himself?

"With..." he began, and stopped mid-sentence.

The chip.

Juhoon hadn't told anyone. The secret was locked in his chest like a wounded animal, waiting for the right moment to escape. But maybe this was the moment. Maybe Martin could help.

He remembered the invasion of the old village he lived in, before everything fell apart. It wasn't an invasion of infected, those came later. It was an invasion of internal government soldiers.

They all wore black clothes and masks, camouflaging themselves among the trees on that dark night. Juhoon remembered the sound of helicopters flying over the houses, the lights of the floodlights sweeping the streets, the screams of people being pulled from their beds. The laboratory in the center of Seoul received new guinea pigs that night, and Juhoon was one of those taken by the soldiers.

He would never forget the pain and torture he went through in that place. The days blurred into a fog of needles and machines and faceless eyes watching through armored glass. He would never forget the feeling of his skin being cut, his flesh being opened, the chip being inserted into his back that burned like fire.

And he would never forget the day he managed to escape, running through endless corridors, tripping over his own feet, the blood streaming down his back. He ran until he couldn't anymore, until his lungs burned, until his legs gave way. And then he ran a little more.

No one could know. No one would believe it. The chips were government secrets, classified projects that had never been officially confirmed. If he told anyone, he would be called crazy, a liar, anything but the truth.

But what if Martin knew?

Martin's eyes were fixed on his. Juhoon felt that gaze weigh on his shoulders like an invisible hand, and for a moment, just a moment, he almost told everything.

"With what, Juhoon?" Martin asked again.

Juhoon opened his mouth.

"I need you to know something," he said, his voice so low Martin had to lean in to hear. "It's not about the Major. It's about... me."

Martin waited, his face impenetrable.

Juhoon looked around at the passing soldiers, at the curious glances turning in their direction, at the security cameras in the corners of the corridor.

"Not here," he said. "Not now. But maybe... maybe tonight. Can you make it at eleven?"

Martin was silent for a moment, pondering. He had a million questions, but something in the civilian's gaze made him agree.

"Eleven o'clock," Martin said. "Don't keep me waiting."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving Juhoon behind with his heart beating so fast he could feel the blood pulsing in his temples.

Juhoon stood there for a long moment, motionless, his eyes fixed on the spot where Martin had disappeared. The rain continued to fall outside, and the sky remained gray.

"Colonel," he whispered, so low that even he didn't hear it. "Please, believe me."

The rain that had been falling since morning didn't let up when night came.

On the contrary, it seemed to become more intense, as if the sky were pouring down on the base all the tears the soldiers couldn't shed.

The concrete corridors were emptier than during the day, most of the soldiers having already retired to their quarters after curfew. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling emitted a low, constant hum, and the sound of rain hitting the windows created a melancholic melody that seemed to perfectly match Martin's mood as he walked through the deserted corridors.

He didn't know why he had agreed to that meeting.

He didn't know why he was walking to an isolated location in the middle of the night to talk to a civilian he barely knew. He didn't know why his heart was beating a little faster than normal, or why his thoughts kept returning to the moment Juhoon had fallen to his knees on the floor and their eyes had met as if there were an invisible thread connecting their minds.

Martin hated not understanding things. Hated feeling that something was escaping his control. And ever since Juhoon had entered his life, everything seemed to be slipping through his fingers like fine sand.

The location Juhoon had suggested was an abandoned living room on the third floor, an area that had been designated for renovations before the chaos and was never completed. There was little furniture and the smell of dust and mold permeated the air. The only source of light was a flashlight positioned on the table, casting dancing shadows on the peeling walls.

Juhoon was already there when Martin arrived.

He was sitting on the sofa, his arms resting on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white. The flashlight's light illuminated half of his face, leaving the other half in shadow, and Martin had the strange sensation that he was facing someone carrying a weight so great he could barely stand.

"You came," Juhoon said, and his voice was so low Martin barely heard it above the sound of the rain.

"You asked," Martin replied, closing the door behind him.

The sound of the lock echoed through the empty room, and suddenly the silence between them was as dense as the darkness outside. Martin approached slowly, his steps echoing on the wooden floor, and sat down in the chair opposite the sofa. The wood creaked under his weight, and he rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward slightly.

"Why are we here, Juhoon?" Martin asked, his voice softer than he intended. "What do you need to tell me?"

Juhoon didn't respond immediately. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor between them, his hands still clasped tightly together. Martin could see him struggling against fear, against hesitation, against years of habit of keeping everything locked inside. It was like watching someone trying to break an invisible chain, someone trying to find strength where it seemed to have ceased to exist long ago.

"Have you ever wondered how I survived?" Juhoon began, his voice so low Martin had to hold his breath to hear. "So long alone, in the midst of chaos, without being infected? Why the infected ignore me?"

Martin tilted his head slightly, not answering.

"It's not because I'm lucky," Juhoon continued. "It's not because I'm special or blessed. It's because... they did something to me. In the government laboratory."

Martin felt the air leave his lungs.

Government laboratory.

The words echoed in his mind like gunshots in an empty corridor.

He thought of the laboratories in the center of Seoul, the infected who went in and never came out, the rumors about experiments and torture that circulated among soldiers like frightened whispers. He had always known something wrong was happening there, something the government kept hidden behind layers of secrecy and lies. But he never imagined a civilian could be involved.

"What are you talking about?" Martin asked, and although his voice was calm, inside he was trembling. "What did they do to you?"

Juhoon closed his eyes for a moment, as if reliving something terrible in his mind. When he opened them again, his eyes were watery, though no tears fell.

"They took me a few months ago," he began, his voice faltering at first, gaining strength slowly, as if he were forcing each word out of his throat. "The village where I lived was invaded by government soldiers."

Martin felt his stomach clench. He had never heard of government invasions. He had never received any orders, any reports, any warning that civilians were being captured and taken to the laboratories. Unless those orders were so secret that even high-ranking colonels like him didn't have access.

"They put us on trucks with no water, no food, not knowing where we were going or what was going to happen to us," Juhoon continued, his voice getting lower with each word. "Those who tried to escape were shot in front of the others. To serve as an example."

The last sentence was said with such coldness, such absence of emotion, that Martin felt a shiver run down his spine. He had seen soldiers harden after battles, after losing comrades, after witnessing things no human being should witness. But what he saw in Juhoon's eyes was different. It was much deeper than he could understand.

"When we arrived at the laboratory..." Juhoon paused, his breathing becoming irregular. "That's when hell really began."

Martin didn't say anything. Didn't interrupt. He just waited, his eyes fixed on Juhoon's face, feeling each word like a knife being driven into his own flesh.

"Men, women, children. Age or gender didn't matter. We were all guinea pigs," Juhoon said. "They put us in glass rooms, where they could observe us from all angles. They did exams, tests, drew blood, gave injections, and measured our reactions to different stimuli."

"What kind of stimuli?" Martin asked, although he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Juhoon hesitated. His hands clenched tighter, and Martin saw his fingers tremble slightly.

"Pain," he replied finally. "They hurt us to see how we reacted. Shocks, burns, sleep deprivation, food deprivation. Everything was recorded, analyzed, used for something. I never knew for what."

Martin felt hatred bubbling in his chest. Cold, controlled, the kind of hatred that came from the certainty that something was deeply wrong and needed to be fixed.

"But the worst was when they started the implants," Juhoon continued, and his voice was even lower now, almost a whisper.

Martin frowned.

"Implants?"

Juhoon stood up slowly, his movements so careful they seemed like those of a wounded animal trying not to worsen its own pain. He turned his back to Martin, and with trembling hands, began to pull down the collar of his t-shirt, exposing the upper part of his back.

In the middle of his spine, just below his neck, was a small, round scar with irregular edges, as if it had been made with a hot instrument and then left to heal on its own. The skin around it was slightly discolored, as if still recovering from a recent trauma. But around the scar, Martin noticed the skin slightly swollen and reddish, as if something there was reacting, inflamed, alive in a way it shouldn't be.

"What is that?" 

"A chip, I think," Juhoon replied, lowering his t-shirt and turning around again. His expression was pale, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor. "They inserted it in me. And in many others. I don't know exactly what it does, but I know it's there. And I know I can't remove it."

Martin was silent, processing the information. Chips implanted in human guinea pigs. Experiments carried out in secret by the government. The possibility that everything that was happening in the world was, somehow, connected to those atrocities Juhoon had told him about.

"Why are you telling me this now?" Martin asked, his voice more controlled than he felt. "The chip has been there for months, from what you said. Why did you only decide to speak now?"

Juhoon hesitated. His right hand instinctively rose to touch his back, to press on the spot where the chip was lodged, and Martin saw his fingers tremble as they touched the skin over the scar.

"Because it's hurting," Juhoon replied, and there was in his voice a raw fear, unfiltered by the empty facade he maintained. "It never hurt before. But now... now it's hurting. As if something is happening in there."

Martin felt a chill run down his spine. The government. The laboratories. Someone there, somewhere, knew that Juhoon was alive. Probably knew where he was. And was activating the chip, perhaps, or tracking it, or preparing it for something much worse.

"How long?" Martin asked. "How long has it been hurting?"

"It started yesterday," Juhoon replied. "Slightly. But today it got stronger. I feel it with every step, every movement. That's why I wanted to tell you. I couldn't wait any longer."

Martin nodded slowly, his mind working at supersonic speeds. The government had discovered Juhoon's existence, or perhaps was conducting some kind of large-scale test, activating all the chips implanted in guinea pigs scattered across the country.

"Have you told anyone else about this?" Martin asked. "Seonghyeon?"

Juhoon shook his head, his eyes fixed on Martin's.

"No. Besides me, only you know now."

The answer was simple, direct, but laden with a meaning both understood. Juhoon had chosen Martin. Juhoon trusted Martin. Among all the soldiers, among all the people who could help, he had come precisely to the colonel.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Martin asked, keeping his voice neutral. "You seem to trust Seonghyeon."

Juhoon was silent for a moment, thinking about the answer. The truth was that he trusted Seonghyeon in many ways.

Seonghyeon was the only person at the base who treated him like a human before Martin started getting close. But there was also something about Seonghyeon that Juhoon couldn't ignore, something that made him cautious.

"I trust him," Juhoon said, choosing his words carefully. "But I preferred to tell you first. Before telling anyone else."

The explanation was vague, but Martin didn't press. He didn't need to know the details of Juhoon's relationship with Seonghyeon. What mattered was that Juhoon had come to him, and that now he carried the responsibility of doing something about it.

"What do you want me to do?" Martin asked.

Juhoon looked up again, and Martin saw a fragile, hesitant hope shine in them, as if he wasn't used to asking for help and didn't quite know how.

"I don't know," he admitted, lowering his voice. "I just didn't want to carry this alone..."

The words were said so simply, so honestly, that Martin felt something tighten in his chest. He thought about everything Juhoon had been through. Thought about how he managed to maintain that empty facade even after all that, even when his body was being consumed by a pain he didn't understand.

For a moment, just a moment, Martin felt like touching him.

It was just a human impulse, a primitive need to comfort someone who was suffering. He wanted to reach out, touch Juhoon's shoulder, say everything would be okay.

But he didn't.

Martin kept his hands firmly on his knees, his fingers twitching slightly with the effort of not moving. It wasn't appropriate. It wasn't professional. Besides, he didn't know if Juhoon wanted to be touched or if physical contact would bring back unwanted memories of the days in the laboratory.

Instead, Martin sighed.

"You don't have to carry this alone," he said, and his voice was softer than he intended, gentler than he wanted. "I'm here. I'm not going away."

Juhoon felt his eyes burn.

He didn't want to cry. He couldn't cry. Crying was weakness, and weakness was something the black-clad soldiers loved to exploit. He had learned in the months in the laboratory that every tear was a victory for them, every sob was applause. So he learned not to cry. Learned to keep his eyes dry even when the pain was unbearable, even when his body trembled with exhaustion and fear.

But now, hearing Martin's voice, something broke inside him.

A tear escaped.

Just one, silently running down his left cheek before he could stop it. Juhoon blinked quickly, forcing the others back, and raised his hand to wipe his face with a brusque movement, almost annoyed with himself.

"Sorry," he murmured, his voice faltering slightly. "This shouldn't..."

"Don't apologize," Martin interrupted him, his voice firm. "You've been through things no one should go through. You have the right to cry as much as you want."

Juhoon shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the floor.

"In the laboratory, they liked it when we cried," he said, his voice so low Martin could barely hear. "They said tears showed the experiments were working. That the pain was real. That we were still alive."

Martin felt his stomach churn. The cruelty of it, the physical and psychological violation, the way the soldiers had turned even emotions into weapons against their victims.

"Crying isn't weakness," Martin said. "It's survival."

Juhoon looked up again, and Martin saw that his eyes were redder now, although only that single tear had fallen.

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do. Despite everything they did, you're still here. That's not weakness. That's more strength than most people have."

The silence that followed was different from the previous ones. It wasn't charged with tension or fear, but rather with a silent understanding, of two people who had seen the worst of the world and still chose to move forward.

Martin wanted to say more. Wanted to ask about the chip, about the laboratory, about the black-clad soldiers. Wanted to make plans, outline strategies, figure out how to help.

But looking at Juhoon, Martin knew it was late. The conversation had been too heavy, and Juhoon was at his limit.

"Go rest," Martin said, getting up from the chair. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

Juhoon also stood up, his movements slow, as if each gesture required a superhuman effort.

"Thank you," he said, so low Martin almost didn't hear it. "For listening. For... understanding."

Martin nodded.

"You don't have to thank me. It's my duty."

The words came out colder than he intended. Martin felt like correcting himself, to say it wasn't just duty, that there was something more, that Juhoon meant something beyond just another responsibility he had.

But he didn't say it.

Instead, he just walked to the door, holding it open for Juhoon to pass.

"See you tomorrow, Colonel," Juhoon said, passing by him without looking back.

"See you tomorrow, civilian," Martin replied, and stood there for a moment, watching Juhoon disappear into the dark corridor, his silhouette merging with the shadows.

When Juhoon finally returned to the room he shared with Seonghyeon and two other occupants, the light was off and the silence was deep. The regular breathing of his roommates filled the space, and Juhoon closed the door carefully, his movements silent so as not to wake anyone.

Seonghyeon was lying on his bed, turned to the wall, his body motionless. From the regularity of his breathing, Juhoon assumed he was sleeping deeply, like someone still recovering from two weeks in a coma.

He didn't wake when Juhoon sat on his own bed. He didn't move when Juhoon took off his shoes and lay down, his eyes fixed on the dark ceiling.

Juhoon lay there, listening to the rain outside and the breathing around him, and thought about everything he had told Martin. Thought about the laboratory, the glass rooms, the needles and the shocks. Thought about the black-clad soldiers, their impersonal masks, their empty eyes. Thought about the other guinea pigs who didn't survive, who were taken away and never seen again, whom he left behind when he fled.

The chip in his back pulsed again, a sharp, stabbing pain that made him hold his breath. It seemed to be getting worse. It seemed to be calling for something or someone.

Juhoon closed his eyes and placed his hand over his chest, feeling his heart beat fast, very fast.

He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know if the government would find him, if the chip could be removed, if he would ever have peace.

But he knew he was no longer alone.

Martin believed him.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The days that followed the conversation in the abandoned room were strangely calm, as if the base itself were holding its breath after so many storms.

The rain that had battered the temporary base for days finally subsided, and now the sun rose hidden behind thin, grayish clouds that painted the sky in pastel tones. The light that filtered through the corridor windows was soft, almost timid, as if nature itself were recovering from something terrible.

The soldiers of BASE07 were still recovering from the loss of their home. They walked through the corridors of the temporary base with a slowness that came not only from physical fatigue, but from a deeper exhaustion.

Some of them had already begun to integrate into the activities of the new base, taking up posts, carrying out tasks, trying to rebuild a routine from the rubble.

Others still wandered without direction, their eyes empty, their minds trapped in some moment of the past that they couldn't leave behind.

Keonho belonged to the first group, although sometimes he wished he belonged to the second.

He woke up every morning before sunrise, dressed in the dark so as not to disturb the other soldiers sharing the room with him, and walked to the canteen even before the cooks started preparing breakfast. Not because he was hungry, but because the canteen was the closest place to the wing where Seonghyeon slept.

He would never admit that aloud, of course.

If anyone asked why he woke up so early, Keonho would say it was to organize supplies, or to review warehouse stocks, or any of the tasks his position required. And it wouldn't be a lie, he actually did those things, but that wasn't the main reason.

The main reason sat at a table in the corner of the canteen every morning, at six-thirty sharp, with a cup of tea between his hands and an open book before him. And the main reason, in recent days, had been avoiding his gaze as if he were the plague.

Seonghyeon.

Keonho didn't know what he expected after the kiss. He didn't know if he expected something to change, or for everything to stay the same, or for Seonghyeon to finally admit that there was something between them.

The truth was that Keonho hadn't planned anything. The kiss happened, and now he was there, floating in a limbo of uncertainty, not knowing whether to advance or retreat, whether to speak or remain silent, whether to act as if nothing had happened or confront Seonghyeon once and for all.

The problem was that Seonghyeon seemed to have decided for him.

The doctor who used to blush at his flirting, who used to murmur unconvincing curses, who used to laugh at his jokes even when they weren't funny, had disappeared. In his place was someone colder, more distant, more controlled. Someone who responded to his greetings with monosyllables, who moved away slightly when Keonho got too close, who pretended to be busy whenever Keonho tried to strike up a conversation.

It wasn't hostility. It was worse. It was indifference.

Keonho had faced infected, mutants, explosions, and the loss of his base without hesitation. He had seen soldiers die in his arms and kept fighting. He had held Seonghyeon's hand while he slept for fourteen days straight, without eating properly, without sleeping properly, without thinking of anything else but that pale face on the gurney.

But Seonghyeon's indifference... that was something he didn't know how to face.

That particular morning, Keonho woke up earlier than usual. The sun had not yet risen, and the room was immersed in almost complete darkness, broken only by the faint light penetrating through the crack under the door. The other soldiers snored in their beds, their exhausted bodies finally yielding to the rest they deserved.

Keonho lay there for a moment, eyes open in the dark, and thought of nothing. His mind was empty of thoughts, as if his brain were protecting itself from something he didn't want to process. He knew he should be thinking about supplies, about base logistics, about the orders Martin had given him the day before.

But all he could think about was Seonghyeon.

The way he looked away when Keonho approached.

The way his shoulders tensed when Keonho entered the same room as him.

The way his lips had moved against Keonho's in that moment in the room, hot and wet and desperate.

Keonho sighed and got up.

He dressed in the dark, with the precision of someone who had performed that movement a thousand times, and left the room without making a sound. The corridor was empty and silent, lit only by the emergency lights the government had installed on every corner. Keonho walked towards the canteen, his steps echoing on the concrete walls like those of a ghost.

The canteen was almost empty at this hour. Only a few early-rising soldiers sat at the tables, their steaming coffee cups before them, their eyes still heavy with sleep. Keonho grabbed an apple and sat at a table against the wall, from where he could see the entrance door.

He didn't have to wait long.

Seonghyeon entered the canteen exactly at six-thirty, as always. He wore his white coat over simple clothes, and his brown hair was combed back, leaving his face fully visible. He carried a book under his arm and his eyes quickly scanned the canteen, landing on Keonho for a fraction of a second before looking away.

Seonghyeon grabbed a cup of tea from the counter and sat at his usual table, in the opposite corner of the canteen. The table as far away from Keonho's as possible.

Keonho felt something tighten in his chest.

He didn't know what to do.

He didn't know if he should go there, sit next to Seonghyeon and force a conversation, or if he should respect the space the doctor clearly wanted. The first option was tempting, but something in Seonghyeon's posture made him hesitate.

Keonho finished his apple in silence, biting into the white flesh with a violence he didn't feel, and stood up. He needed to go to the warehouse. He couldn't just sit there, staring at Seonghyeon like a stray dog waiting for a pat.

On the way to the door, he passed by Seonghyeon's table. He hadn't planned it, it was just the shortest path. But as he approached, his steps involuntarily slowed, and his eyes dropped to the doctor's lips.

It wasn't intentional. Or maybe it was. Keonho no longer knew what was intentional and what was instinct.

Seonghyeon's lips were slightly rosy, slightly glossy from the hot tea, and Keonho felt a warmth rise in his chest. He had to make a conscious effort not to lean in, not to repeat the gesture, not to find out if the kiss had been an accident or a beginning.

Seonghyeon noticed.

His eyes met Keonho's for only a second, but there was no color in his cheeks. There was no blush that Keonho loved to provoke. Just a controlled coldness, a mask Keonho didn't know how to penetrate.

"Good morning, Keonho," Seonghyeon said, and his voice was neutral, professional, as if he were talking to a patient instead of a friend.

"Good morning, Seonghyeon," Keonho replied, and his name came out of his mouth like a whisper.

The silence that followed was short, but dense. Keonho wanted to say something that could break the ice, that could bring back the Seonghyeon who laughed at his jokes, who blushed at his flirting, who called him curses without conviction. But the words wouldn't come. They were stuck somewhere in his throat, blocked by something he couldn't name.

"I need to go," Seonghyeon said, and stood up, picking up his book and his empty cup. "I have medical records to organize."

"Of course," Keonho replied, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I won't hold you up."

Seonghyeon passed by him without saying anything more, and Keonho stood there for a moment, watching his back as he walked away, his straight shoulders, his raised head. He seemed so secure, so confident, so unreachable. There was no sign of the man who had pulled him by the neck and kissed him desperately.

Keonho wondered if that moment had been real. If the kiss had actually happened or if it had just a feverish dream, a delirium caused by exhaustion and despair.

But the memory of Seonghyeon's lips against his was too vivid to be imagination.

In the warehouse, Keonho worked in silence for hours.

The space was large and cold, with metal shelves that extended from floor to ceiling, crammed with boxes of supplies of all kinds.

Keonho knew the location of every item, knew exactly how many boxes there were of each thing, could find any product in seconds. It was tedious but comforting work. The order and organization contrasted with the chaos of his mind, and Keonho clung to them as an anchor.

He was stacking boxes of military rations when the warehouse door opened.

Keonho looked up, expecting to see some soldier looking for supplies, and felt his heart skip a beat when he recognized the figure in the entrance.

The doctor was holding a clipboard, his eyes scanning the environment with a professional expression. He didn't seem to notice Keonho immediately and walked to the medicine shelf, where he began checking the stocks.

Keonho stood still, the ration box still in his hands, and watched Seonghyeon work. His white coat swayed slightly with his movements, and his brown hair fell over his eyes from time to time, forcing him to push it away with an impatient gesture.

There was something hypnotic about watching him. Keonho had never noticed before how handsome Seonghyeon was. It wasn't a flashy beauty, the kind that jumps out and demands attention. It was a silent, quiet beauty, that revealed itself little by little, in small details: the curve of his jaw, the line of his nose, the way his eyes narrowed when he concentrated.

Keonho forced himself back to work.

He put the ration box on the shelf and grabbed another, his movements automatic, his mind elsewhere. The warehouse was silent, except for the sound of occasional footsteps and the rustle of paper, and Keonho felt Seonghyeon's presence like an invisible pressure in the air.

They worked on opposite sides of the warehouse for a while.

Keonho organizing the rations, Seonghyeon counting medicine bottles. Neither spoke. The silence between them was heavy, laden with unspoken things, and Keonho felt every second as if it were an eternity.

It was Seonghyeon who broke the silence first.

"Keonho," he called, and his voice echoed through the empty warehouse.

Keonho turned, his heart beating faster.

"What?"

"Do you know where the morphine vials are? The stock is outdated, and I can't find them."

Keonho walked to the shelf where he knew the vials were kept, his steps echoing on the concrete floor. He pointed to the top shelf, where a small box was labeled with the medicine's name.

"There," he said. "In the red box."

Seonghyeon followed his direction, and Keonho saw his fingers run over the labels until they found the indicated box. He pulled it from the shelf, his movements careful, and began counting the vials, noting the numbers on his clipboard.

Keonho should have gone back to work. He had boxes to stack, inventories to update, tasks to complete. There was no reason to stand there, frozen, staring at Seonghyeon as if he were the most fascinating thing in the world.

But he couldn't move.

His eyes dropped to Seonghyeon's lips again.

It was automatic now, a conditioned reflex he couldn't control. Every time he saw the doctor, his eyes immediately sought his mouth, as if expecting to find there some answer, some clue, some sign that the kiss had meant something.

Seonghyeon noticed.

Of course, he always noticed. His eyes rose from the clipboard and met Keonho's.

The silence that followed was different from before. It wasn't heavy, tense, or uncomfortable. It was a silence of possibilities, of unasked questions, of ungiven answers. Keonho felt the air between them become denser, warmer, and his fingers itched to reach for Seonghyeon, to touch him, to pull him closer.

But he did none of that.

Instead, Seonghyeon looked away first.

"I need to finish the inventory," he said, and his voice was neutral again, the mask back in place. "I'm going to take the box to the infirmary."

Keonho watched Seonghyeon walk away, his steps quick, his shoulders tense. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come.

The warehouse door closed behind Seonghyeon, and Keonho was left alone among the metal shelves, with the echo of retreating footsteps and the certainty that something was breaking between them.

Something that perhaps could never be fixed.

Over the following days, the pattern repeated itself.

Keonho saw Seonghyeon in the corridors, in the canteens, in the infirmary. His eyes always found the doctor's, and Seonghyeon's eyes always looked away. Keonho tried to strike up conversations, make jokes, provoke as he always did, and Seonghyeon responded with short answers, with that polite distance that hurt more than any insult.

Keonho tried not to think about the kiss.

He couldn't.

The memory of Seonghyeon's lips against his haunted him day and night. He remembered the heat, the taste, the way Seonghyeon had pulled him closer as if he didn't want to let him escape. He remembered Seonghyeon's fingers in his hair, his tongue invading his mouth, his muffled moans against his lips.

And then he remembered Seonghyeon's words afterwards: "None of this is going to happen again."

Did he really believe that? Did he really want it not to happen again?

Keonho didn't know. The only thing he knew was that Seonghyeon's indifference hurt him more than any explicit rejection.

If Seonghyeon had said "I don't like you," or "it was a mistake," or "never touch me again," Keonho could accept it. Could move on, bury his feelings somewhere deep where they couldn't hurt him.

But indifference... indifference was a bottomless abyss. There was nothing to hold onto, no words to interpret, no gestures to decipher.

Just emptiness.

On w ednesday of that week, Keonho was in the main corridor when he saw Seonghyeon leaving the infirmary. The doctor carried a stack of medical records, his eyes fixed on the path ahead, and didn't seem to notice Keonho until he was a few steps away.

"Seonghyeon," Keonho called, forcing a smile he hoped looked natural.

Seonghyeon looked up, and Keonho saw his shoulders tense slightly. The gesture was so subtle that anyone else wouldn't have noticed. But Keonho was paying too much attention. He noticed every little movement, every change in Seonghyeon's posture, every micro-expression that crossed his face.

"Keonho," Seonghyeon replied, his voice neutral. "Do you need something?"

"Can't I just want to talk?"

Seonghyeon didn't respond. He just stood there, his eyes fixed on Keonho's, and Keonho felt something churn in his stomach.

"I'm busy," Seonghyeon said finally. "I have medical records to deliver."

"I can walk with you," Keonho offered, and he knew he was being insistent, knew he should back off, knew he was ignoring all the signs that Seonghyeon wanted distance. But he couldn't stop. "Just to talk a little."

Seonghyeon hesitated. Keonho saw his fingers tighten on the medical records, saw his jaw tense, saw his eyes dart away for a fraction of a second.

"If you want," Seonghyeon said finally, and began to walk.

Keonho walked beside him, keeping a respectful distance, although every fiber of his being wanted to get closer. They walked through the corridors in silence, passing soldiers who greeted them with distracted nods, and Keonho tried to think of something to say.

"How are the wounded?" he asked, just to break the silence.

"Stable," Seonghyeon replied. "Most have already been discharged."

"And you?" Keonho asked, and the question came out lower than he intended. "How are you?"

Seonghyeon didn't respond immediately. They walked a few more steps in silence, and Keonho began to think he wouldn't get an answer.

"I'm fine," Seonghyeon said finally. "Just tired."

The answer was vague, evasive, and Keonho felt there was something behind it that Seonghyeon wasn't saying, something he hid behind his calm facade.

"If you need to talk..." Keonho began.

"I know," Seonghyeon interrupted him. "You're here."

The words were the same ones Keonho had said to him on the day he woke up, when Keonho had tried to connect, when Seonghyeon still seemed accessible. Now, they sounded hollow. Like a promise neither of them believed in anymore.

They arrived at the infirmary, and Seonghyeon entered, leaving the door ajar. Keonho stood outside for a moment, hesitating, and then entered as well.

The infirmary was empty; at this time of day, most patients had already been discharged. Seonghyeon put the medical records on the table and began organizing them into separate piles, his back turned to Keonho.

Keonho stood there, in the middle of the room, watching Seonghyeon work. The afternoon light came through the window, painting the doctor's white coat in golden tones, and Keonho felt something tighten in his chest.

"Why are you avoiding me?" the question escaped before he could stop it.

Seonghyeon stopped moving.

He stood there, with his back to Keonho, motionless as a statue. The silence between them was so dense that Keonho could hear his own breathing, the beating of his heart, the distant hum of the fluorescent lights.

"I'm not avoiding you," Seonghyeon replied, but his voice was strange, different.

"Yes, you are," Keonho insisted, taking a step forward. "You barely look at me. When I get close, you move away. When I speak, you answer with few words, sometimes none. That's not you, Sean."

Seonghyeon finally turned around.

His face was neutral, controlled, but Keonho saw a flash of emotion in his eyes that he was trying to hide.

"Maybe I've changed," Seonghyeon said. "Maybe the coma did that to me."

"I don't believe that," Keonho replied, taking another step forward. "I know you're still in there. Somewhere."

Seonghyeon looked away.

"Keonho..." he began, but didn't continue. The words died on his lips, and he stood there, in silence, his fingers gripping the edge of the table tightly.

Keonho moved closer.

He was only a step away now. He could feel the heat of Seonghyeon's body, could smell his familiar perfume, could see the details of his face he normally didn't notice.

His eyes dropped to Seonghyeon's lips again.

He couldn't help it. It was stronger than him. The memory of the kiss was etched in his mind, in his bones, in his skin, on his lips, and every time he saw Seonghyeon, it was as if his body were trying to recapture that moment.

"Stop that," Seonghyeon said, and his voice was lower now, almost a whisper.

"Stop what?" Keonho asked, although he knew the answer.

"You know what."

Keonho took the last step.

They were now just a few centimeters apart. Keonho could feel Seonghyeon's breath on his face, could see the shine in his eyes, could feel the tension in the air between them.

"Every time I see you... I can't help it," Keonho admitted, his voice faltering slightly. "It's not intentional. It just happens. And I can't make it stop."

Seonghyeon didn't move away. Didn't retreat. Didn't say anything. He just stood there, motionless, his eyes fixed on Keonho's, and Keonho felt a fragile, hesitant hope, move in his chest.

"What do you want from me?" Seonghyeon asked, and his voice was strangely vulnerable, different from anything Keonho had heard from him since he woke up.

"I don't know," Keonho answered honestly. "I just know I don't want you to pull away."

The silence that followed was long, dense, laden with things neither knew how to say. Keonho felt his heart beating so fast it seemed like it wanted to leap out of his chest, and his fingers itched to touch Seonghyeon, to feel his skin, to confirm he was real.

But he did nothing.

Instead, he stepped back.

He took one step back, then another, and forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'll... I'll go back to the warehouse."

He turned and walked towards the door, his steps heavy, his shoulders slumped. Each step was an effort, each step took him further away from Seonghyeon, and Keonho felt as if he were leaving something behind that he might never recover.

"Keonho," Seonghyeon's voice came from behind, and Keonho stopped.

He didn't turn around. He couldn't. If he turned, he wouldn't have the strength to leave.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice calmer than he felt.

There was a pause. Keonho heard Seonghyeon breathe, heard his footsteps approach, and felt his hand touch his shoulder.

"I don't want you to go," Seonghyeon said, and his voice was so low Keonho could barely hear it.

Keonho closed his eyes.

Felt Seonghyeon's fingers squeeze his shoulder, felt his warmth through the fabric of his shirt, felt something loosen inside him.

"Don't ask me to stay," Keonho replied. "Just don't pull away anymore."

The silence between them was different now. It wasn't tense, uncomfortable, or laden with unspoken things. It was a silence of possibilities. Of a beginning. Of something that, maybe, just maybe, could bloom if given time and space.

Juhoon's pain didn't worsen drastically in the following days.

It was slow, almost imperceptible, a light, constant pulsation that accompanied him like a shadow. He woke up with it, slept with it, lived with it. It wasn't unbearable, but it was always there, like a silent reminder that his body didn't completely belong to him, that something had been implanted in his flesh and that now, for some reason, it was awakening.

Juhoon didn't tell Martin that the pain continued. He didn't want to worry him unnecessarily, didn't want to seem fragile, didn't want the colonel to think he couldn't handle a little discomfort. In the laboratory, he had learned to endure much worse pain. A small pulse in his back was nothing compared to that.

And yet, something about that pain frightened him. It wasn't the intensity, it was the origin. It was the fact that, after months of silence, the chip had decided to manifest. Something was happening. Something was changing. And Juhoon didn't know what it was, or how to prepare.

It was on one of those quiet afternoons, when the other occupants of room 404 were out, that he finally found himself alone with Seonghyeon.

The doctor was sitting on his bed, legs crossed, an open book on his lap. But his eyes were fixed on some point in the middle of the room, as if his mind were elsewhere, in another time.

"Seonghyeon," Juhoon called, breaking the silence.

The doctor looked up slowly, as if emerging from a deep dream.

"Hm?"

"I need to tell you something."

Seonghyeon closed the book and placed it beside him on the bed, his eyes now completely focused on Juhoon. There was something in those eyes that made Juhoon feel that the doctor already knew what he was going to say. Maybe he did know. Seonghyeon had proven he could access minds, could feel emotions, could hear thoughts. If he wanted, he could simply enter Juhoon's mind and find out everything himself.

But he didn't do that. And Juhoon was grateful for that.

"About what happened to me before I arrived at the base," Juhoon began, sitting on his own bed, the one by the window. The light of the setting sun came through the dirty glass, painting the floor in orange tones. "About the laboratory."

Seonghyeon tilted his head slightly, that familiar gesture that now seemed laden with hidden meanings.

"The laboratory in Seoul?"

"Yes."

Juhoon took a deep breath. Telling Martin had been difficult, but telling Seonghyeon was different. Martin was a soldier, a leader, someone used to making decisions and solving problems. Seonghyeon was a doctor, someone who had dedicated his life to healing, comforting, protecting. Seonghyeon's response would be different from Martin's, perhaps, but even more empathetic.

He told him everything.

The same words he had said to Martin in the abandoned room, but now with less hesitation, less fear. He spoke of the village invasion, the black-clad soldiers, the trucks packed with people huddled together like animals. He spoke of the glass rooms, the needles, the shocks, the burns. He spoke of the experiments, the pain, the emptiness that had settled in his chest when he realized that no one would come to rescue him, that he was alone, that his life now belonged to people who saw him as nothing more than a number on a spreadsheet.

And he spoke of the chip.

When he finished, Seonghyeon was silent. His face showed no shock, no horror, no pity, just a silent understanding, as if he had known all of this for a long time.

"You already knew," Juhoon said. It wasn't a question.

Seonghyeon slowly shook his head.

"I didn't know," he replied. "But I suspected. Since I woke up... I can feel things. Things I didn't feel before. Emotions, thoughts, memories. Not from everyone, and not all the time. But from some people, at some moments. And you... you're very easy to read, Juhoon."

Juhoon felt a shiver run down his spine.

"You mean you knew about the chip? About the laboratory?"

"Not the details," Seonghyeon replied. "But I knew you were carrying something heavy. Something dark. Something that prevented you from being... whole."

The word echoed in the silent room, and Juhoon felt something tighten in his chest.

Whole.

He hadn't felt whole in months.

Perhaps he had never felt whole, even before the laboratory.

"Thank you for trusting me," Seonghyeon continued, his voice soft. "For telling me."

"I trust you," Juhoon said. "You're the only person here, besides Martin, who treats me like a human being."

"I'm glad to hear that," Seonghyeon smiled.

The silence that followed was comfortable, the kind that only exists between people who don't need to fill every moment with words. Juhoon watched the sunlight slowly move across the floor, painting elongated shadows on the walls, and felt something loosen inside him. Telling Seonghyeon had been the right decision. The doctor didn't judge him, didn't condemn him, didn't look at him as if he were a broken thing that needed to be fixed.

It was Seonghyeon who broke the silence first.

"I need to tell you something too."

Juhoon looked up, curious.

"I kissed Keonho."

For a moment, Juhoon thought he hadn't heard correctly. He blinked a few times, processing the information, and saw Seonghyeon's face flush slightly.

"You... what?" Juhoon asked, his voice coming out louder than he intended.

"I kissed Keonho," Seonghyeon repeated, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. "The other day. He came to see me in the room, and we talked, and... it happened."

Juhoon was silent for a moment, processing the information. He had always known there was something unspoken between them, something hanging in the air like static electricity before a storm. But he never imagined it would actually happen.

"Tell me everything," Juhoon said, leaning forward as if listening to delicious gossip. "I want every detail."

Seonghyeon blushed even more, looking away towards the window.

"There's not much to tell. We talked, he provoked me like he always does, and I... I don't know what came over me. I just pulled him, kissed him. And it was... good."

"Good how?" Juhoon insisted, a smile playing on his lips.

"Good like... I don't know how to explain," Seonghyeon replied, clearly uncomfortable. "Warm? Intense? Kind of desperate? I don't know. I just know it happened."

"And was it just a kiss?" Juhoon asked, raising an eyebrow.

Seonghyeon finally looked up, shame and embarrassment shining in them.

"It was just a kiss," he said. "Nothing more than that."

"Where?" Juhoon asked, and the smile on his lips widened.

Seonghyeon hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right words.

"On the bed," he admitted finally, and Juhoon saw his cheeks grow even rosier. "And it was on your bed... I'm sorry, it was an accident! I didn't think straight at the time."

Juhoon feigned exaggerated shock, getting up from the bed as if he had been burned.

"You kissed him on my bed?" he exclaimed, raising his hand to his mouth in a gesture of simulated shock. "And I've been sitting on it all this time? What if you had done more than just kiss?"

Seonghyeon blushed deeply, his hands waving in the air as if trying to defend himself from an unfair accusation.

"We didn't do anything but kiss, Juhoon!" he protested, his voice coming out higher than normal. "Just a kiss! I swear!"

Juhoon let out a low laugh, then louder, and the sound filled the empty room like music. A genuine, carefree laugh, coming from somewhere deep in his chest that he thought had been sealed forever. He hadn't laughed like that in months.

Seonghyeon watched him, his expression shifting from embarrassed to confused to surprised. He hadn't heard Juhoon laugh like that since he'd met him either. Juhoon's laugh was something rare, precious, and Seonghyeon felt something warm in his chest hearing it.

"Sorry," Juhoon said, still laughing, sitting back down on the bed. "I didn't mean it badly. It's just that you got so nervous... it was funny!"

"I didn't get nervous," Seonghyeon lied, but his face was still flushed.

"Yes, you did! You're red now."

Seonghyeon sighed, running his hands over his face.

"Okay, maybe I got a little nervous. But I didn't expect you to react like that."

"Like what?"

"Like... a high school friend listening to gossip," Seonghyeon said, and a smile finally appeared on his lips.

Juhoon laughed again, shaking his head.

"It's just that you never talk about these things. I thought you were... I don't know, more reserved."

"I am reserved," Seonghyeon replied. "But you're... different. It's easy to talk to you."

Juhoon felt something warm in his chest, like an invisible hug.

"What are you going to do about Keonho?" Juhoon asked, changing the subject. "Do you like him?"

Seonghyeon was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I like his company, but... I don't know if it's just friendship. And I don't know if I want to find out. At least, not now. There's so much happening at once... I don't have the mental space to think about it."

"But he likes you," Juhoon said. "It's obvious."

"I know," Seonghyeon replied, sadness and resignation in his voice. "And that's why I'm trying to keep my distance. I don't want to give false hope."

Juhoon didn't respond. He wasn't an expert on relationships, had no experience with romantic feelings, didn't know how to help Seonghyeon navigate those murky waters.

Instead, he returned to the subject of the chip.

"It's hurting," Juhoon said, his voice lower now. "Not much, but it is. It never hurt before. It started a few days ago."

Seonghyeon looked up, his expression immediately shifting from light to serious.

"Where does it hurt?"

"In my back. Where the chip is."

"Let me see."

Juhoon turned, pulling down the collar of his t-shirt so Seonghyeon could examine the scar. The doctor's fingers touched his skin with a delicacy that surprised Juhoon, gently pressing the area around the scar.

"It's swollen," Seonghyeon said, frowning. "Not much, but a little. The skin is warmer than it should be."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Seonghyeon admitted. "But it's not a good sign. Something is happening with the chip. Maybe the government activated some mechanism. Maybe it's sending a signal."

Juhoon lowered his t-shirt and turned around again, his eyes fixed on Seonghyeon's face.

"What if they find me?" he asked, and his voice was more fragile than he would have liked. "What if the black-clad soldiers come for me?"

Seonghyeon didn't respond immediately. He was silent for a moment, thinking, and then said:

"We're not going to let that happen. Martin won't let it. I won't let it."

"And the connection with Martin?" Juhoon asked, changing the subject again. "Can you explain that?"

Seonghyeon shook his head.

"Not completely. I said I could feel emotions, thoughts, sometimes. But what happens between you and Martin is... different. It's stronger. Clearer. As if you two were two instruments tuned to the same frequency."

"Is that good or bad?"

"I don't know," Seonghyeon answered honestly. "But it's rare. Very rare. I've never seen anything like it before."

Juhoon was silent, thinking. The connection with Martin was both frightening and comforting. Frightening because he didn't understand how it worked. Comforting because, when connected to Martin, the chaos in his mind calmed, the voices fell silent, and he felt... safe.

"Do you think he feels it?" Juhoon asked. "When I enter his mind?"

"I think so," Seonghyeon replied. "But I don't think he understands what he's feeling. Martin isn't very good with emotions."

Juhoon laughed softly.

"I noticed."

The silence that followed was comfortable, two friends sharing secrets in an empty room as the sunlight faded on the horizon.

"And you?" Seonghyeon asked. "What do you feel when you enter his mind?"

Juhoon was silent for a long moment, thinking about the question.

"The first time, I felt many bad things... But now I feel peace," he replied finally. "When I'm near him, or when I hear his voice, or when we connect... I feel peace. As if, for the first time in months, I could let my guard down."

Seonghyeon nodded, as if the answer made sense.

"Maybe that's why you connect," he said. "Because you need to. And maybe he needs it too."

The sound of boots echoed through the corridors of Temporary Base No. 3 Incheon like drums announcing an imminent war.

It wasn't the rhythmic, coordinated step of the soldiers who lived there. It was heavier, more threatening, the kind of step belonging to men who weren't there to make friends. Juhoon heard the noise before he saw them, and his fingers froze on the bed sheet.

Seonghyeon heard it too.

His body tensed for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting to the window. The afternoon light was already fading, tinging the sky with orange and purplish hues, and shadows were beginning to lengthen in the corners of the room.

"What is that?" Seonghyeon asked, although his voice suggested he already knew the answer.

Juhoon didn't respond.

He got up from the bed with the movement of a survivor, a cornered animal, someone who had already learned to recognize the smell of danger before even seeing it. His bare feet touched the cold concrete floor, and he walked to the window in three long strides.

The glass was dirty, stained by the rain of the previous days and the dust accumulating on the edges. But Juhoon could see through it. Could see the main courtyard of the temporary base, where a line of military vehicles was parked in formation. Could see the soldiers moving between the vehicles, their dark uniforms, their rigid postures, their faces covered by masks that revealed nothing.

Black-clad soldiers.

Juhoon felt his heart stop.

It was them. The same ones. The faceless masks, the uniforms that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, the weapons hanging from their shoulders like extensions of their bodies. He would recognize them anywhere, in any context, in any life.

The same ones who had invaded his village. The same ones who had dragged him into a truck as he screamed and struggled. The same ones who had tortured him in the laboratory, who had laughed when he cried, who had inserted the chip into his back as if he were an animal being branded.

They were there. At the base. A few meters away.

The chip pulsed.

It wasn't the light, almost imperceptible pulsation of the previous days. It wasn't the dull discomfort that had accompanied him since it started hurting. It was an explosion, a detonation inside his own flesh, as if someone had stabbed a knife into his back and slowly twisted it, grinding his muscles, his bones, his soul.

Juhoon fell to his knees.

The fall was sudden, his knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud that Seonghyeon clearly heard from the other side of the room. The doctor stood up in the blink of an eye, his movements quick and precise, and ran to Juhoon's side.

"Juhoon! What is it? What's happening?"

Juhoon couldn't answer. His mouth was open, but no sound came out. Just a screaming silence, a scream trapped somewhere between his chest and his throat, blocked by the knot of pain and fear that tightened ever stronger.

His hands trembled violently, and one of them instinctively rose to his wrist, fingers closing in search of an anchor, a distraction, something that could override the unbearable pain radiating from his back.

He bit his wrist.

He didn't think about what he was doing, just acted, sinking his teeth into the soft skin of the inner part of his arm, biting hard enough to taste blood. The pain of the bite overrode the pain of the chip for just a second, and that second was enough for him not to scream, not to attract the attention of the soldiers downstairs, not to give away his location to the monsters he knew were looking for him.

The connection opened like a flower blooming in slow motion.

It wasn't like the other times. It wasn't a sudden shock, an involuntary dive into Martin's mind. It was a soft, almost gentle blooming, as if the connection itself were trying to protect him, cushion the blow of the pain he felt. Martin's mind opened before him like a book whose pages he could turn, and Juhoon felt what Martin felt in that moment: confusion, concern, a flash of alarm that quickly turned into something closer to desperation.

"Colonel..." Juhoon thought, and knew Martin could hear him. "Colonel... I need you."

On the ground floor, Martin was standing in the main hall, flanked by James and other colonels, witnessing the scene unfolding before his eyes. The black-clad soldiers had arrived a few minutes ago, and Ryul was already being led towards the vehicles, his steps slow, his shoulders slumped, his face pale and empty.

Martin watched the transfer with narrowed eyes, something churning in his stomach. He didn't like it. He didn't like the way the black-clad soldiers moved as if they were robots, as if there were nothing human behind those masks. He didn't like the way Ryul seemed to have given up before even starting to fight. He didn't like the feeling that something was terribly wrong, something he couldn't identify, but that throbbed in the back of his consciousness like an infection about to explode.

It was then that the headache came.

It was quick, stabbing, an invisible needle driven into his left temple. Martin blinked a few times, trying to push away the discomfort, and felt a door open in his mind, a door he didn't know existed, a channel extending from his consciousness to some distant place.

"Colonel... I need you."

Juhoon's voice echoed in his mind like a bell ringing in an empty cathedral. It was clear, distinct, unmistakable. There was no way to pretend he hadn't heard, no way to ignore it, no way to continue standing there, watching Ryul being taken away, while Juhoon cried out for him somewhere on the upper floors.

"James," Martin said, his voice more controlled than he felt, "Give me the details later."

And then he turned and walked away, without waiting for an answer, without explaining himself, without looking back.

James opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again when he saw the expression on Martin's face. It wasn't anger, wasn't impatience. It was something closer to controlled, contained desperation, but unmistakable to anyone who had known Martin for so long.

Martin ran up the stairs.

His steps echoed on the concrete steps, each leap a promise, each breath a silent prayer. The corridors were emptier than during the day, most of the soldiers having already retired to their quarters or being on the ground floor witnessing Ryul's departure.

He reached the corridor of room 404 in less than two minutes.

The door was closed, but not locked. Martin didn't knock, didn't have time for formalities. He turned the doorknob and pushed the door open with a shove that made the frame creak in protest.

The scene he saw made his heart stop.

Juhoon was on the floor, leaning against the wall below the window, his knees pulled up to his chest. His left wrist was in his mouth, and Martin saw blood dripping between his fingers, running down his arm, dripping onto the concrete floor in dark, shiny drops. His face was pale and his eyes were squeezed shut, as if trying to block out the world, block out the pain, block out everything.

Beside him, kneeling on the floor, was Seonghyeon. The doctor held Juhoon's shoulder with one hand and tried to pull his wrist away from his mouth with the other, but Juhoon resisted, his teeth sunk into his own flesh as if that were the only thing keeping him conscious.

"What happened?" Martin asked, and his voice came out louder than he intended, harsher.

Seonghyeon looked up, and Martin saw something in his eyes, a strange gleam, an intensity bordering on the supernatural he had never seen before.

"I don't know," Seonghyeon replied. "He was looking out the window and suddenly fell. He started shaking, biting his wrist... he's not responding."

Martin knelt beside Juhoon, ignoring the pain in his knees as they hit the hard floor.

"Juhoon," he called, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "Look at me."

Juhoon's eyes didn't open. His body continued to tremble, his teeth still sunk into his wrist, and Martin saw the blood flowing faster now, forming a small puddle on the floor beside his arm.

"He's not listening," Seonghyeon said, and his voice was tense.

"Yes, he is," Martin replied. "He's listening."

Martin reached out slowly, giving Juhoon time to pull back if he wanted. His fingers touched the civilian's wrist with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He pulled Juhoon's arm gently, pulling it away from his mouth, and saw the deep, bloody marks of teeth sunk into the skin.

"Seonghyeon," Martin said, without taking his eyes off Juhoon. "Leave."

The doctor hesitated.

"Colonel, I can help..."

"I know you can. But now, leave."

Seonghyeon was silent for a moment, his eyes scanning Martin's face, assessing, calculating. Then he stood up, his knees cracking with the movement, and walked to the door.

"If you need me, I'll be outside," he said, and left, closing the door behind him.

The room fell silent, except for Juhoon's ragged breathing and the distant hum of the fluorescent corridor lights.

Martin moved closer.

He was just a few centimeters from Juhoon now, so close he could feel the heat of his body.

"Juhoon," he called again, and his voice was so low it seemed to come from another place, another time, another life. "I'm here. Open your eyes."

Juhoon obeyed.

There was a hesitation, an internal struggle between fear and trust. But then, slowly, his eyes opened.

They were red. Not the red of infection, but the red of someone who had been crying, who hadn't slept in days, who carried a pain that didn't fit into words. His pupils were dilated, his eyes glassy, and for a moment Martin wasn't sure Juhoon really saw him.

"Martin..." Juhoon whispered, and his name came out of his mouth like a prayer.

Martin felt something loosen inside him.

It wasn't the quiver of responsibility he always carried in his chest. It wasn't the weight of command accumulating on his shoulders like stones. It was something deeper, more ancient, something he had forgotten existed.

Juhoon moved.

It wasn't a fast or planned movement. It was a collapse, as if something inside him had finally broken, as if the walls he had built around himself had all crumbled at once. His body leaned forward, his arms stretched out, and he fell into Martin's arms like a leaf detaching from a branch in autumn.

His face buried itself in the curve between the colonel's neck and shoulder. His fingers closed around Martin's uniform as if he were the only anchor in a storm. His whole body trembled as if he had a fever, as if he were brittle, as if he would shatter at any moment.

Martin went rigid.

He wasn't used to that kind of contact. He wasn't used to hugging, comforting, holding someone as if that person were the most precious thing in the world. The most he allowed himself was a handshake or a hand on the shoulder, gestures that kept people at a distance, reinforced the hierarchy, reminded everyone that he was the colonel and they were his subordinates.

But that hug was different.

There was no hierarchy there. No distance. There were just two people: one falling apart, and another who didn't know how to put the pieces together, but was willing to try.

Martin took a deep breath.

And then he wrapped his arms around Juhoon.

It wasn't a hesitant or uncomfortable hug. It was a firm, secure hug, pulling Juhoon even closer, holding him against his chest as if wanting to protect him from all the evil in the world.

One of Martin's hands rose to Juhoon's hair, stroking it in slow, gentle movements. The dark strands slid between his fingers, soft and slightly damp with sweat, and Martin felt the tension in Juhoon's shoulders diminish slightly.

The other hand went to his back, landing exactly on the spot where the chip was lodged. Martin didn't press, just left his hand there, warming the skin through the thin t-shirt, offering a silent presence.

"I'm here," Martin murmured, his voice so low only Juhoon could hear. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Juhoon didn't respond.

He couldn't. His throat was closed, his lips trembling, his words lost somewhere between his chest and his mouth. But his arms tightened around Martin's neck with more force, his face buried even deeper in the curve of his shoulder, his tears finally fell.

Martin felt the fabric of his uniform become damp.

He didn't pull away. Didn't say everything was okay, because it wasn't, and lying to Juhoon at that moment would be a worse betrayal than any silence. He just stayed there, kneeling on the floor of room 404, with Juhoon in his arms, and let him cry.

The sun set completely behind the thin clouds, painting the sky in dark, deep tones, and the moon began to rise on the horizon, pale and cold. The room was immersed in almost complete darkness, lit only by the faint light penetrating through the dirty window and the crack under the door.

Martin didn't know how long they stayed like that.

He had lost track of time. Minutes stretched like elastic being pulled, each second an eternity, each breath a promise. He felt Juhoon's thin, fragile body, yet so incredibly alive, against his own. Felt his heartbeat, fast at first, then calmer, then almost normal. Felt his tears dry on his uniform, leaving dark stains that might never come out.

When Juhoon finally calmed down, his breathing became regular and his tremors subsided, Martin didn't let him go.

He remained there, with his arms around the civilian, and felt something move in his chest that deeply frightened him, that concerned only Juhoon and no one else.

He had never felt anything like it before.

It wasn't love.

Or maybe it was, and he just didn't know how to recognize it.

Love was something he had left behind long ago, along with his youth and his naivety and his belief that the world was a fair place. Love was a weakness, a distraction, a luxury soldiers like him couldn't afford.

But this... this hurt in a way that wasn't physical, but was as real as any wound. It was as if something were growing inside him, something he hadn't invited, but refused to go away.

Martin closed his eyes and rested his chin on top of Juhoon's head.

"Is the chip still hurting?" he asked, his voice low and slightly hoarse.

Juhoon took a while to respond. His voice came out muffled against Martin's shoulder.

"Less. When you arrived... it lessened."

Martin held Juhoon a little tighter.

"We're going to find out what's happening," he said. "We're going to find a way to get this out of you. But not now. Now you need to rest."

Juhoon shook his head, a weak, almost imperceptible movement.

"I can't," he whispered. "If I sleep... they'll find me. The black-clad soldiers... they know I'm here. I know they know."

"They won't find you," Martin replied, and his voice was firm, unshakable, a promise he didn't know if he could keep, but would do everything to uphold. "I won't let them."

Juhoon lifted his face from Martin's shoulder just enough to look into his eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" Juhoon asked, echoing his own words from the night before. "Why are you protecting me?"

Martin could have said it was his duty. Could have said it was because Juhoon was useful, or because it was the right thing to do, or because he was the colonel and that was his responsibility.

But he said none of that.

"Because you deserve it," he replied simply. "After everything you've been through, you deserve someone to fight for you."

Juhoon felt his eyes water again, but he had no more tears left to shed. Instead, he just nestled against Martin with a movement so natural, so intimate, that it seemed he had always been there, had always belonged to that place.

Martin didn't pull away.

Outside, the moon continued its journey across the night sky, indifferent to the small dramas unfolding at the base. The black-clad soldiers had already left, taking Ryul with them to some destination none there dared imagine. The temporary base returned to its usual calm, the soldiers returning to their posts, the night taking its silent place over the world.

But in room 404, in the almost complete darkness, two men remained embraced on the floor: a tired colonel who had never learned to trust anyone, and a broken civilian who had forgotten what it was like to be touched gently.

And in that moment, despite everything, they were no longer alone.

And that was enough.

Seonghyeon was leaning against the wall outside the room, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the closed door.

He had heard nothing but silence, dense and heavy, like a lead blanket. But he didn't need to hear. He could feel. The wave of despair emanating from Juhoon, followed by sudden calm, as if someone had calmed a storm with a gesture.

Seonghyeon felt something warm in his chest. It was something closer to silent relief, the certainty that no matter how much the world crumbled around them, some things could still be fixed.

The moonlight came through the dirty window of room 404, painting the floor in a cold, ghostly white. The silence was dense, broken only by Juhoon's irregular breathing and the distant sound of footsteps in the corridor of soldiers coming and going, oblivious to what was happening in that small room forgotten by most.

Martin was still on his knees on the floor.

He didn't remember moving after Juhoon had nestled in his arms. The civilian's body was still against his own, more relaxed now, although his fingers were still intertwined in Martin's uniform as if fearing he would disappear at any moment. The colonel didn't know how long they had been like that. Time had lost its meaning in that dark room, in that silent embrace.

It was Juhoon who pulled away first.

Not completely, just enough to lift his face and look into Martin's eyes. His eyes were red, swollen, but there was something in them that wasn't there before. A glimmer. As if something had been awakened, something he thought he had lost forever.

The door opened.

Seonghyeon entered without knocking, his eyes scanning the scene with a calm bordering on the supernatural. He didn't seem surprised to see Martin and Juhoon on the floor, embraced. He didn't seem shocked or embarrassed. He just closed the door behind him and sat on Juhoon's bed, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the two.

"The soldiers are gone," Seonghyeon said. "The base is silent again."

Martin didn't move. Didn't let go of Juhoon. Didn't pull away.

"He saw the soldiers through the window," Martin explained, his voice colder than he intended, as if giving a report instead of describing a human being's collapse. "The chip reacted to that."

Seonghyeon tilted his head slightly, that familiar gesture that now seemed laden with silent understanding.

"The chip has a tracker," Seonghyeon said, and it wasn't a question. "Or something that activates when the soldiers are nearby."

"Probably both," Martin replied.

Juhoon pulled away a little more, his arms releasing Martin's neck, although his knees were still touching the colonel's. He couldn't look at Seonghyeon. Not after throwing himself into Martin's arms like that, not after crying like a child, not after showing all his fragility to two people in a single night.

"I told him," Juhoon said, his voice low. "About the laboratory. About the chip."

Seonghyeon didn't seem surprised.

"I know," he replied. "I felt it."

Martin frowned.

"You felt it?"

Seonghyeon hesitated for only a second. His eyes met Juhoon's, and something passed between them like a silent agreement, a decision made together.

"I also have... abilities," Seonghyeon said, and his voice was lower now, as if sharing a dangerous secret. "Since I woke up from the coma. I can feel people's emotions. Sometimes, thoughts. And with some people... I can do more."

Martin didn't move. His face remained impassive, but inside his mind worked at supersonic speeds. 

"Like what?" Martin asked.

"I can enter some people's minds," Seonghyeon replied. "Control them temporarily. Not for long, and not with everyone. But I can."

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with implications none of the three wanted to explore aloud. Martin thought of the infected who ignored Juhoon, the mental connection between them, the chip that hurt when government soldiers approached. Everything was connected. The virus, the experiments, the chips, the abilities. The government knew more than they let on. Much more.

"Does anyone else know about this?" Martin asked. "Keonho? James?"

"Only Juhoon. And now you," Seonghyeon replied. "I haven't told anyone else. I don't know how they would react."

Martin was silent for a moment, thinking.

"We'll keep it that way, for now," he said finally.

"And when are we going to tell them?" Seonghyeon asked, and there was a hint of frustration and concern in his voice. "They'll notice something is happening. Keonho is already suspicious."

"For now, we don't tell them anything," Martin replied, his voice firm. "Until we have a plan. Until we know what to do about the chip. Until we understand what the government is planning."

Juhoon shifted, his knees brushing against Martin's. The contact was brief, almost accidental, but Martin felt a shiver run through his body that didn't come from the cold, but from something deeper, something he didn't want to examine.

Seonghyeon noticed.

His eyes darted to the point where Martin and Juhoon's knees touched, and something gleamed in his gaze. It was a silent understanding, as if he knew something the others didn't.

"The chip," Seonghyeon said, changing the subject with a skill bordering on art. "The pain... you said it went away when the Colonel arrived?"

Juhoon nodded.

"Yes. When he got close, the pain lessened. When he touched me... it went away almost completely."

Seonghyeon frowned, his eyes scanning Martin's face with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

"It could be the connection between you," Seonghyeon said. "The same one that allows you to communicate mentally. Maybe the Colonel's presence interferes with the chip."

Martin felt something cold run down his spine.

"The chip reacts to me?" he asked.

"I don't know," Seonghyeon answered honestly. "But it's a possibility."

The silence that followed was interrupted by the distant sound of a vehicle engine approaching, footsteps in the corridor, muffled voices. The base was returning to its nightly routine, indifferent to the revelations happening in that small room.

Martin stood up.

His knees were sore from being on the floor so long, and he felt his back protest the movement. Juhoon also stood up, his movements slower, as if each gesture required a superhuman effort.

"I need to go back," Martin said. "James is going to start asking questions."

"What are you going to tell him?" Seonghyeon asked.

"The truth," Martin replied. "Part of it. Nothing more."

Seonghyeon nodded, although his eyes were fixed on Martin's face with an expression he couldn't decipher.

Martin walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned and his eyes met Juhoon's.

It was only a second. Maybe less. But in that brief instant, something that wasn't words, wasn't thoughts, wasn't emotions that could be named passed between them. It was an invisible current, a connection stretching from one chest to another, pulsing like a shared heart.

Martin felt a warmth rise in his chest, something more primitive. 

He opened his mouth to say something, anything that could break the tension building between them. But the words didn't come. Instead, he just nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Juhoon stood there for a moment, his eyes fixed on the closed door. The pulse in his back was still there, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was as if something were awakening inside him, something he didn't know existed.

"Juhoon," Seonghyeon called, and his voice brought Juhoon back to reality. "Is the pain completely gone?"

Juhoon blinked a few times, forcing his mind to concentrate.

"Almost," he replied. "It's still there, but weak. Bearable."

Seonghyeon nodded, his eyes still fixed on Juhoon's face.

"You need to rest," he said. "I'll stay awake for a while longer. In case the pain returns."

Juhoon wanted to protest, wanted to say he didn't need a babysitter, that he had been through worse things alone. But the words didn't come. Instead, he just nodded and lay down on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the pulse of the chip echoing in his back like a distant drum.

He thought of Martin. The warmth of his arms. The strength of his hands. The way his eyes had softened when he said "you deserve it."

Juhoon closed his eyes.

And, for the first time in months, slept without nightmares.