He reached the building alone. Harin and Kenny had peeled off with a simple, "Let's call it a night," and Mira's friends were just filing out of the lobby as he arrived. They exchanged quick greetings; he slipped past them and stepped inside. At the apartment door, Mira was already waiting, pretending not to have been listening for his footsteps.
"Biiiig bro!" she whispered. "The sedan… the driver… the desserts… all of it was real?"
Junheon winked. "Desserts are in the fridge. I'll tell you the rest—in the recap of your dreams."
They giggled; her friends offered tiny theatrical bows and drifted away. Junheon handed his bag to Mira, then followed her in.
---
The apartment kept the day's warmth like a held breath. Mira dropped her schoolbag on a kitchen stool and flung her arms wide.
"Report: two assignments, three new friends, and one massive ego explosion—not mine, the new kid's."
"I'm a new kid," Junheon said.
"No. You're 'scholarship brother.' Different species."
They laughed. Junheon opened the fridge: Kenny had lined up groceries with parade precision. "Dinner menu: omurice + salad + tea," he announced, rolling up his sleeves.
Butter hissed in the pan. Onions turned glassy; diced chicken, carrots, and peas followed in quick ranks. He tossed the rice with sauce in a bowl, slid it into the pan, and let it caramelize at the edges. In another pan, he spread an egg as thin as paper—exact, glossy, perfect—then swaddled the rice and drew a fine ribbon of sweet soy (Kenny's contribution) instead of ketchup. A simple salad, two steaming cups of tea.
"Chef Junheon," Mira said, inhaling deeply, "I'm lucky to live here."
He hid a smile and plated.
For a while it was only cutlery and quiet. Then Mira glanced up.
"So… did you talk to that girl today?"
"Which girl?"
Mira squinted. "My future sister."
"A little," he said. "Class, project, this and that."
"This and that," Mira echoed, the corner of her mouth tugging up. "Good. Because tomorrow we're stopping by KN. I'm showing my friends where 'scholarship brother' works."
"Seat belt first, then sweets," Junheon said.
"Seat belt first, then sweets," she intoned, raising a finger—and somehow producing a joker card from nowhere.
"We'll see if the trick is contagious," he said.
They cleaned up together. She cleared the table; he wiped the counters and killed the flame. With the lights turned down, the place shrank into something safe.
"Brush your teeth, then bed," he said. "Early start."
"Yes, Dad."
"Brother," he corrected.
"Dad-bro," she sang, and vanished down the hall.
---
The lights were about to go out when a short, muffled boom reached them; metal shrieked on metal, then distant shouts, a stuttering siren.
Mira paused in her doorway. "What was that?"
"Neighborhood argument," Junheon said evenly. "Could be nothing. Room. Now."
She nodded, though her eyes had widened. He followed her in, queued her favorite pop playlist on his phone. Bright, harmless rhythm bounced against the walls. Lights low, curtains drawn.
"Talk?" Mira mumbled as she curled up, tired and a little brittle.
"Talk."
"Stop lying to me, please. When does it end? When does our planet stop being a trash pit for monsters?"
"That answer isn't mine to give," he said softly. "But Lightward says we'll move from the Dark Side to the Light—where Mother is—before Serekhka finds us. It'll be slow. And if anything tries us first, Mother's children—the Shinrei—will come. I'll help if I have to."
Mira's shoulders loosened; she even smiled. "They'll handle it. You don't need to go. Also—that's premium intel. Who told you?"
"Grandfather Seo Janheon," Junheon said. "And a little gossip."
She laughed, but the noise outside cut, then edged closer. He nudged the volume up a notch.
"A game," he said. "Three good things. From today."
She counted on her fingers. "One: new friends. Two: I did not blow up the chem lab. Three: omurice."
"Four: Junheon," Mira added, lids drooping. "Bro?"
"Yes, Princess?"
"Come tomorrow… please."
"Even if the planet splits in half, I'll be there."
"Don't say awful things," she murmured—and drifted off on the chorus. He watched her breathing settle, tucked the blanket, set a glass of water by the lamp. Door ajar, nightlight dim, he slipped out.
---
Knife tucked under his shirt, he ghosted down the stairwell. The front door eased open without a sound—and the street was wrong.
The stone barricade at the corner lay toppled; a mini defense turret's barrel was kinked like a bent straw. A service truck lay on its side, a toy hurled by a bored child. Two Lightward soldiers, slicked with an oily black film, lurched at each other with movements that mimicked human intent but landed off-beat, like shadows trying to remember bodies.
Junheon flattened into the building's shadow and shortened his breath. Something slid along the curb—quick, viscous—a tar-hand that wrapped a soldier's ankle; the man clawed at his own visor instead of attacking.
A metronome struck inside his chest. Sleep, Mira. Stay asleep.
The air changed pitch. Three Naraka Hand helidrones cut the dark without a blade of noise, and then they were simply there, dropping ghost-quiet shadows onto the street. Rappelling figures hit asphalt: matte armor, faceplates with pale blue readouts. Even the wind couldn't carry any smell off them. They smelled only of order.
"Team One: isolate contaminated contact," said the lead—metallic, calm. "Team Two: perimeter. Siphon nets up."
Two troopers cast fine-mesh nets; impact bloomed a faint blue halo, and the black slick drew itself back through honeycombed filaments, evaporating on the lattice. Another lifted the truck like a toy and righted it with a hydraulic sigh.
"Analysis: shadow-silt, low density," a voice reported. "Source: unknown. Ingress vector: likely proximity of a Dark Prince."
"'Vekhir Tolen' notified," the leader answered. "Lock down by rings. Civilians?"
"Unplanned surge, partial spill," came the reply. "Containment in progress."
Junheon inhaled, then didn't. He looked not at the drones but at his shoes—until a Naraka Hand trooper at the corner turned his visor his way. Even cats don't have that many lives, the man said, voice unhurried. Junheon took a step back—and a second set of hands seized him from behind.
"Mine," a new voice cut in—breathless, familiar. A figure in Naraka Hand black jogged up. "Family."
The leader tilted his head. "You're retired, Kenny."
"Yes, sir," Kenny said, straightening. "And the young man my lady favors doesn't get hurt on my shift."
The leader exhaled through his nose. "Fine. Someone give the old man a water." He turned his visor to Junheon. "Listen up. You spread what you saw, people get hurt. All of us. Understood?" To the man holding him: "Let him go."
Junheon dipped a small, tight nod. Warmth slid under his ribs—a layer of trust laid over the fear.
Ten minutes was enough. The street was cleared; black residue neutralized; the downed hardware rolled aside. The unit remounted.
"Perimeter is yours," the leader told Lightward. "We'll chase the source."
"Copy," the channel answered. "Top line secure. All blocks: 'threat isolated.'"
The helidrones bled back into the sky. The asphalt seemed to swallow the panic; the streetlights went a shade softer, as if choosing not to remember. A low Lightward announcement washed the block: "Remain calm. The incident is contained."
Before he pushed off the wall, Junheon caught a click of command in the shortband—didn't mean to, couldn't help it:
"Note to central: 'Vekhir Tolen' briefed. Low classification for now. No second wave expected on this line. Temporary closure: two hours."
He swallowed. "Okay," he said to nobody. "This block is fine."
No one saw him slip back inside. He took the stairs quiet, checked the chain—Mira's handiwork—and let himself in. He peeked into her room: still sleeping, pop chorus a faint ghost in the quiet. He eased a curl off her shoulder, straightened the pillow.
In the kitchen he didn't turn on the overhead. He rinsed one glass and left a small note on the counter:
> "We'll swing by KN in the morning. Seat belt, homework, dessert. —Bro"
He sat for a minute with his forehead in his hands. On the dark side of a universe, good things still happened: an omurice, a playlist, a blue rose—and, when required, discipline from the sky.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, low and sure. "Stronger."
He rose, left the door ajar, and settled on the carpet beside Mira's bed. He waited until his breathing matched hers. Outside, the city's noise went back to ordinary; inside, two people's small order seemed to be winning the night.