The morning light was gray, indecisive—as if the sky still hadn't chosen whether to lean into day or fall back into night. Thin curtains filtered it through the small apartment, softening the room's edges.
Junheon woke earlier than usual. From the far end of the hall came a faint murmur—the rhythm of Mira's breathing tangled with the echo of a song she must have left playing all night. He paused, listened, and smiled faintly.
"Don't wake her," my inner voice whispered. "She earned the rest."
Moving quietly, he took the bag by the door and went to the kitchen. He filled the kettle; the water's burble sounded louder than it was. When it began to heat, the simmer felt as if it might rattle the whole apartment—but Mira didn't stir.
He fished a small note from his bag, jotted a line, and stuck it to the cabinet door:
> Back soon. Breakfast is ready. —Junheon
He set out two slices of bread, a small plate of cheese, and the jar of strawberry jam Kenny had brought the day before. When the lid popped, a sweet scent spilled out; for a moment the whole apartment felt like a fairground. Junheon almost took a bite himself, but the jar was small, and he wanted to leave more for her. When he glanced through the curtains, the brightened air seemed to have erased the shadows outside.
Satisfied, he slipped on his jacket, laced his shoes with ninja-level quiet, and eased the door shut. The lock clicked once—soft as a heartbeat.
The apartment was Mira's again.
---
Mira woke later. As she rubbed her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the note on the cabinet.
She chuckled and yawned. "He's fully entered Dad Mode."
She went to the table. Bread, cheese, jam—simple, but careful. She spread the jam thick; the sweetness left an exquisite taste on her tongue, and she smiled toward the window.
The street tried to look ordinary, but it wasn't. Armored patrols moved slowly by—many more than usual.
"Stone faces, everyone today," she muttered. "Whatever. If school's canceled, the day just got sweeter."
She opened her phone. Messages were stacking up:
Miraaa, you up?
Wanna hang?
We tried the new café. Still not as good as KN.
She replied with a string of hearts, then leaned back. "Home day," she said. "When my brother gets back, I'm teaching him desserts. That's the plan."
---
Outside, the air still carried bleach and metal. The city had spent the night scrubbing away the traces, but hadn't managed it all. The asphalt was scored; barricades were patched. In the corners, heavy, oil-black shadows clung.
Hands in his pockets, Junheon walked, listening to the tense thrum of helicopters. He slipped into the corner store: milk, flour, chocolate—the basics. I'll make pancakes for her, he thought. The cashier, a woman with tired eyes, said nothing; there was the quiet fear of someone who had seen too much and said too little.
On the way back, he passed two Lightward soldiers. One gave a curt nod; the other looked away too quickly. As they moved off, one flashed hand signs Junheon didn't recognize.
He quickened his pace without drawing attention—nothing about them felt friendly. Go home, he told himself. Mira's waiting.
---
When he opened the door, Mira sat on the kitchen stool, legs swinging; the jam jar on the table was empty.
"You're back!" she said. "Perfect timing. I was about to declare a dessert emergency."
"That's why I came prepared—wait, did you finish the whole jar in one day?" He almost scolded her, then let it go. "Never mind." He set out the milk and chocolate. "Today is Pancake Day."
Mira's eyes lit up. "Pancakes? A feast fit for queens!"
They got to work. When Mira cracked an egg, a bit of shell fell into the bowl. Junheon arched a brow.
"Strategy, or accident?"
"Strategy," Mira said without blinking. "Extra calcium."
"Of course it is," he said, and deftly fished the shell out with a pair of chopsticks.
Their sweet-tempered, mock-combative cooking show produced a first pancake that was decidedly lopsided. Mira claimed it on the spot. "This one's the test subject."
Before she could pop it whole into her mouth, Junheon snatched it away. "Gremlin," he said lightly, and dropped it in the trash. The rest puffed up golden. With chocolate drizzle and jam, the stack turned the small table into a festival spread—mostly plated by Junheon, a little by Mira, but none of that mattered; what mattered was that they laughed more than the last time.
As they ate, Mira rattled on: new classmates, the cool driver, Harin, and the rumor that the chemistry lab was a "Christmas tree waiting to explode." Junheon mostly listened, nodding now and then but smiling all the while.
"Feels like a holiday," Mira said through a mouthful.
"A little surprised," Junheon admitted. "But staying home feels better."
---
After the plates were cleared, they moved to the living room. Mira flopped onto the couch; Junheon took the chair beside her. An old music competition glittered on the TV.
"You know," Mira said suddenly, "you never act like a kid. You're always so serious."
"Because someone has to be."
"Nope." She poked his arm. "Sometimes you've gotta be silly. Otherwise life's boring."
He considered it. "Silly… maybe. But without you, this place would be too quiet. Way too quiet."
Her smile softened. "Something happened last night, didn't it?"
He froze, said nothing. She held his gaze a beat, then sighed theatrically. "Fine, don't tell me. You still owe me two desserts."
They laughed, and the heavy air lifted. The conversation wandered—old family dinners, Mira's friends, the unreadable curve of Harin's smile. Mira filled the room with words; Junheon's brief replies gave them rhythm.
---
As the sun dipped, the apartment turned amber. Mira stretched. "I'm going to my room. Music and a book. You do the dishes."
"Aye-aye, boss."
When he finished, Junheon checked the window. More patrols. Small armored vehicles crept at the corners, headlights cutting the dark. The air carried a warning.
Then—shouting. Distant at first, then closer. Metal on metal, ragged screams.
He didn't hesitate. He went straight to Mira's room. She had her headphones on, music blasting.
"Something wrong?" she asked, tugging one earcup aside.
"No. Just… turn it up. I'll sit with you a while."
She frowned, then smiled. "Okay."
When it was time to sleep, she drifted off to pop music; Junheon sat sentry in the chair. Half-asleep, she tossed him questions:
"Favorite game?"
"League."
"Favorite food?"
"Omurice."
"Favorite person?"
He hesitated. "…Mira."
She smiled, eyes closing. "Knew iiiit," she mumbled, then was gone.
---
Only when her breathing settled did Junheon leave the room. Outside was unrecognizable.
A heavy armored truck lay overturned, its metal guts spilled across the street. Automated defense turrets were torn apart. Soldiers staggered, a black fluid seeping from cracks in their armor. Anyone it touched turned on their comrades—blank-eyed, feral.
His breath caught. The stench was tar and blood.
Then—the sky opened.
Helicopters thundered in, ropes unspooling. Figures in sleek black armor descended, marked with the burning sigil of Naraka Hand. They moved with surgical precision. Nets of shimmering light unfurled, trapping the infected. The black sludge hissed and recoiled from the glow.
"Area secured."
"Contamination minimal."
"Source likely an underground conduit."
Even the streetlamps flickered, as if the current itself had flinched. Then—silence.
Junheon didn't move. He stayed still, half-hid behind the curtain, until the last of the sludge was contained and the sounds died away.
---
The apartment was quiet again—unnaturally so. The city still carried the echo of engines and clipped orders, but in here it felt like someone had lowered a glass dome over the world.
He stepped into Mira's room. She had rolled onto her side; one arm dangled off the bed, her headphones half-slipped. A tinny, cheerful chorus leaked into the air.
He adjusted the headphones and tucked the blanket around her. Then he slid down the wall to the floor and watched. She was safe. For now.
His mind was still full of black fluid and shattered turrets. He shook his head. Not tonight. Not while she sleeps.
In her sleep, Mira murmured, "…more pancakes."
A quiet laugh escaped him. "You'll get them," he whispered.
Time thickened. The bedside clock inched forward, its green digits carving the dark. His eyes grew heavy, but he didn't let them close. One hand rested lightly on the edge of her blanket, as if anchoring her to safety.
Outside, the noise faded. Helicopters withdrew. The street surrendered to silence. Dawn touched the horizon, pale and cautious.
At last he stood, joints stiff, and pulled Mira's blanket up to her chin. He pressed two fingers gently to her forehead.
"You'll never know what brushed past us tonight," he whispered. "And that's how it should be."
He closed her door without a sound. The apartment seemed smaller now, but warmer. Fragile—yet alive.
He leaned against the wall and breathed deep. For the first time that evening, exhaustion took him in its arms. Tomorrow would bring new questions, new burdens.
But for tonight there was only this: a girl's steady breath, the soft hum of a forgotten song, and the fragile peace of a home still standing.