She hadn't meant to hit him that hard.
But once the pipe connected—
Once the boy crumpled—
Something inside her snapped loose.
Run.
It was the only word in her head.
She bolted.
The world fractured. Lights flared and guttered like heat lightning, the hallway bending longer and narrower with each step. Her feet slapped against tile that seemed to pulse beneath her, every echo chasing her like something alive. Breath came in ragged knives.
She didn't look back.
Didn't think.
Didn't feel.
Her palm slammed against the elevator button.
Ding.
A green light. The doors shuddered open.
She threw herself inside, jabbing the highest number without thinking.
Up. Away. Anywhere but here.
Her knees trembled. Her grip on the rusted pipe was a lifeline.
The elevator hummed upward, a coffin rising through the dark. Numbers ticked past, sluggish, unreal.
Ding.
The doors slid open.
And there she was.
Chi-Long.
She stood at the far end of the corridor, haloed in the soft red light that bled from the walls. Black suit sharp as a blade. Black leather gloves catching faint glints of light. Her hair bound back in a severe, perfect tail, like every strand had been ordered into obedience.
Her posture was still, her face unreadable—except for the smallest curve at her lips. Not a smile. Not exactly. Something colder.
The girl froze. Her grip on the pipe tightened until her knuckles screamed.
"Don't come closer," she rasped.
Chi-Long didn't answer.
"I swear I'll hit you! I'll—"
Chi-Long stepped forward.
Unhurried. Unblinking.
The red light seemed to deepen, shadows folding in on themselves. Behind her, the air thickened, and the girl saw it—a shape coiling up from Chi-Long's shadow, its body formed from molten scales, its eyes embers that burned without smoke. A dragon of red flame, silent but searing. Its claws curled against the floor, its neck arched, gaze fixed on her like prey already caught.
"Stay back!" the girl shrieked.
She swung.
The motion was wild, desperate—fast.
But fast never beats practiced.
Clink.
Chi-Long's gloved hand caught the pipe mid-swing. Effortless. Soundless.
The dragon leaned closer.
The first slap cracked the air—open palm, sharp enough to ring in her ears.
She reeled.
The second came harder, splitting her lip, jolting her back into breathless clarity.
Before she could fall, Chi-Long caught her by the collar and yanked her into the elevator. Her free hand slammed the down button.
No words. No apology. Only steel.
The dragon's heat pressed against the girl's back, as if it had followed them inside.
Chi-Long handed the pipe back to her, eyes cool and almost amused—like all of this was another drill, another set to complete.
Ding.
The doors opened to the bottom floor.
The boy still sat slumped against the wall, clutching his head.
Chi-Long stepped out, dragging the girl behind her like a broken marionette. Passing Ha Joon, she stopped.
The pipe clattered into his lap.
The girl dropped beside him.
A single slap to his cheek—not hard, just enough to snap his eyes wide.
Then she turned, walking away without a glance.
The doors closed with a final, soft ding.
Silence.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The pipes groaned overhead.
Ha Joon's hand lingered on his cheek. His eyes moved from the girl's trembling face, to the pipe, to the elevator, then to the ceiling—like he was searching for some answer there.
Finally, he whispered, almost to himself:
"…What the hell have I gotten myself into?"