Morning Again
The alarm didn't wake him—Mira did, with a spoon tapping a glass like a tiny cymbal.
"Up, maestro. If you sleep through your encore, I'm selling your pillow."
Junheon stretched, the last of yesterday's noise draining off like rain from a coat. They dressed and packed with a rhythm they'd practiced for years—Mira narrating her day in bullet points, Junheon answering with dry counterpoints—then stepped out.
Two Lightward soldiers at the entrance lifted their hands in a clean salute. Junheon returned it. The hallway's hush trailed them to the street, where the world was louder, brighter—and today, oddly busier.
Patrol SUVs ghosted past in pairs. Overhead, the chuff-chuff-chuff of rotors laid a moving grid on the sky.
Mira pointed up, eyes wide. "Helicopters. Stylish. I approve."
"You approve of anything that goes thump-thump," Junheon said.
"Correct," she said. "It's the sound of being escorted by fate."
They caught the bus. Through the window, Lightward checkpoints flickered by—quick scans, green flashes. Mira's chatter ran from homeroom gossip to gourmet notes on yesterday's pizza to a point-by-point critique of the school's hallway posters.
Halfway to Naves she tugged the pull cord. "Here's good."
"This isn't your stop."
"Exactly," she said, standing. "No need to draw a crowd at the gate. You, however, are going to be on time. Go. Go!"
She hugged him quick—fast enough to be casual, tight enough to be real. "Thanks for yesterday," she added, softer. Then she hopped off, waved once, and vanished into a side street like a magician's final trick.
Junheon rode two more stops, disembarked, and cut toward Novarion at a steady clip. Extra patrols hummed in the periphery. He set his pace, even, calm.
The Pull
He had one hand on the classroom door when three boys and a couple of girls slid from the flow of students and closed around him with the easy geometry of practice.
"Bathroom," one boy said. "Now."
No yelling. No spectacle. Just firm hands and a corridor that seemed suddenly well-designed for detours. They funneled him into a tiled room at the end of the hall; the lock clicked behind them.
"Let's talk," said the tallest. "About boundaries. About how close you stand to Seol Harin. About how you look at things that aren't yours."
Junheon leaned against the sink, palms visible, voice even. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Wrong answer," a girl said. Her smile was thin and self-pleased. "You people always think you can ride a name up the stairs."
Another boy lifted his chin toward the mirror. "You hear that? Burslu thinks he's invisible."
Junheon's silence held. If they needed to throw words at him, let them throw words. Words wash off.
Then one of them—shorter, angrier—stepped too close. "How's your family, scholarship? Oh right, you don't have one—"
The punch never happened. Junheon didn't throw one either. He simply caught the wrist, turned, and set the arm into a lock so clean it was almost polite. The boy gasped; tendons sang. Junheon released before anything snapped.
"Don't," he said.
The room changed temperature. The tallest moved first, a shove that tried to be a tackle. The next came low, the girl swung high with her bag; two more cut in from the sides. It was messy, fast, and quiet—sneakers sliding, elbows clipping tile, the muffled thud of a shoulder into a stall.
Junheon stayed small and close, redirecting more than striking—forearm checks, pivots, a knee that found a stomach just hard enough to end that angle. He took a hit to the rib, another to the shoulder. The mirror rattled in its frame. He kept his feet.
"Hold him," someone hissed.
A stall door banged open behind him. A shadow lifted for a blindside shot—
White Door, White Dragon
—when the bathroom door exploded inward. Not shattered—surrendered, as if it had decided in a hurry that it now opened the other way.
Harin stood in the threshold, hair a pale river, blazer immaculate, eyes like ground ice. In her hand: an antique staff, clear as mountain glass—a white crystal that held light the way a note holds air.
Her voice was calm and ceremonial at once. "Naraka, grant me strength."
She lifted the staff. "Crowley!"
Light didn't burst; it arrived—as if the room had always been full of it and only now remembered. Spirit threaded it, silver within silver. From that braided brilliance unfolded a white dragon, long and powerful and beautiful, scales like snow forged under pressure.
The roar filled the building and kept going, a clean, flawless tone that settled somewhere behind the eyes. The dragon dipped its head; white fire kindled behind its teeth—not a blast, a promise.
Everyone ran.
The brave ran fastest. The cruel set a speed record. Even the boy with the smarting wrist found at least three new gears. The bathroom emptied in four heartbeats and a single skid mark.
Junheon did not move.
Harin didn't take her eyes off the space where the trouble had been. "You can return," she said, clear and sure. "Thank you—as always."
The dragon's blaze dimmed to pearl. It coiled once in midair, then flowed inward—light and spirit drawing down into the staff, into the crystal's patient heart. The tiles remembered how to be tiles. The air remembered how to be air.
Harin stepped fully inside, set the broken door gently against the wall as if it had merely chosen to rest, and turned to him. Only then did the steel in her face relax by a millimeter.
"You okay?" she asked.
Junheon exhaled. "Define okay."
"Standing. Not bleeding. Capable of sarcasm," Harin said. "That's a passing grade."
He flexed the shoulder that had met the wall. "I'll audit the course."
Her gaze flicked to the reddening spot at his ribs. "Clinic," she said.
"I can walk."
"I wasn't planning to carry you," she said, then paused. "Unless you insist. That would be dramatic. People would talk."
"That's the problem," he said. "People are already talking."
"Then we'll give them enviable material." She reached out, took his forearm—not the wrist, not the hand; a grip that was firm and formal. "Come on."
He let her lead. At the threshold she glanced back at the crooked door, then at the crystal staff in her other hand. The staff looked perfectly at home there, like a word she'd been born knowing.
In the hall, the world remembered how to be ordinary: footsteps, locker clinks, a distant announcement about library hours. Somewhere far off, students were still buzzing about the roar.
Harin angled them into the flow. "For the record," she said lightly, "if anyone asks, we were discussing resonance integrals—and some geniuses thought it would be fun to break the door."
"Geniuses," Junheon echoed dryly. "Got it. Broken doors, integrals, completely normal day."
They turned the last corner toward the clinic. Harin's hand stayed steady on his arm, and the crystal staff caught the ceiling lights and quietly made them better.
As they merged into the corridor, the school's hum slid back into its own rhythm. Harin had Junheon by the crook of the elbow—gentle, but not up for debate. The crystal staff moved at her knee, as if it buffed the ceiling lights on its way past.
"Official record reads like this," Harin said, not bothering to hide the irony. "We were discussing resonance integrals… and a few geniuses decided breaking the door might be fun."
"Geniuses," Junheon echoed. "Broken doors, integrals. Perfectly ordinary."
"Almost there," he added. "Uncle Yoon's clinic."
---
The clinic sign flickered a tired Health Station. Inside, an elderly attendant in a white coat slid his glasses down his nose and looked them over—more habit than alarm.
"Go on," he said. "Falls, bumps, heartbreak—everyone takes a number."
"Rib-cage pride," Harin said.
"Hardest tissue to heal," he grinned. "I'm Yoon—everyone calls me Uncle Yoon. Sit, son; in… out."
Stethoscope. Cold gel. A careful press along the ribs. Yoon took a small mask from the cabinet and offered it to Junheon.
"Two or three breaths," he said. "Relaxes the muscles, dulls the pain. Might make you a touch woozy; you'll rest here. I'll go file the forms."
Junheon didn't argue. Two deep draws through the mask. The sharp edge in his chest softened; his shoulders unwound. His thoughts stayed clear—only the filter between them felt thinner.
The door clicked shut.
Junheon sat, pleasantly dazed. The anesthesia still weighed on his eyelids. Harin drew her chair a little closer, an impish smile at the corner of her mouth.
"Ready?" she said, leaning in. "A few questions. Purely scientific. Of course."
Junheon gave the smallest nod. He looked like someone drifting through a gentle dream.
Harin narrowed her eyes, tilting her head. "One," she said. "Dragons or cats?"
"Dragons," he answered without thinking. "Small ones, though."
Harin laughed. "Two… Be honest: who's smarter—me or you?"
"You," said Junheon. His eyes narrowed in mock seriousness. "But I'm more charismatic."
"Three: would you go bare-knuckle with a monster to protect your family?"
"Fists aren't enough," Junheon said, not pausing. "I'd bite if I had to."
Harin's laugh turned bright and unguarded.
"Four," she went on, then softened. "There's no one else at this school I can trust as much as I trust you—you know that, right?"
Junheon's eyes steadied for a heartbeat. "I trust you the same."
Harin's voice dropped. "Five." She paused, leaned just a little closer. "Who is the sweetest person in the world?"
Junheon didn't look away; the answer settled at the edge of his mouth. "Mira."
Harin nodded. "Correct answer," she said quietly. The smile at her lips thinned. "Then…"—her gaze grew a shade heavier—"who's second?"
Junheon's face stayed calm, his eyes fixed. A syllable fell from his lips: "Har—"
His head tipped to the side before he could finish. The anesthetic claimed its victory.
---
For a few seconds Harin simply sat there. The unspent "Har…" hung in the air. In the room's hush, the only sound she heard was her own pulse running fast.
Then she leaned forward, caught his shoulder, and gave him a small, urgent shake. "Please," she whispered, voice tight. "Was it Harin? Finish the sentence. Please."
But Junheon's eyes were closed. His breathing was even. He was, unmistakably, fast asleep.
Harin heard her own tone and, ashamed of the impatience in it, let her hands fall back. She turned to her chair. "Me?" she murmured to no one, again and again.
The word didn't shatter. It settled—arrow-true.
Her head drifted, almost against her will. Heat in her cheeks, a soft, dizzy sway—then, gently, she tipped onto his shoulder and closed her eyes.
---
About half an hour later, Junheon blinked awake. The first thing he saw was Harin, still resting against his chest.
A quick slice of panic. What—? He eased her upright, supported her under the arms, and settled her onto the clinic cot. The fog was gone from his head; he moved with clear, careful hands. A few stray hairs tickled her brow—an old habit from Mira made him whisper, "Sorry," and smooth them back just as the door opened.
Yoon stepped in, and the scene had flipped: Junheon steady on his feet, Harin the one asleep.
"My turn to faint?" Yoon chirped.
Junheon managed a crooked smile. "Let's call it a temporary nap."
After a brief check, Yoon nodded. "She's fine." He said something else under his breath; Junheon glanced up. "Sorry—didn't catch that."
"Nothing," Yoon said easily. "When she wakes, you two can head out. Take it slow."
Right on cue, Harin's eyes fluttered.
"Speak of good people," Yoon said. "They appear."
"You're both excused from heavy activity today," he added. "But a little time in the gym's rest row will do you good."
"Need a hand?" Junheon asked.
"No, thank you," Harin said, composed but a touch pink. "Just nodded off for a moment." She stood—straight enough to prove it. "Let's go before we're actually late."
---
They took the stairs, then crossed into the gym. A game was on; every shot sent a ripple of applause through the stands. Because they were on the injury list, Harin and Junheon took seats on the rest bench. Up high, a knot of students watched and whispered, tossing glances that said, Is the Queen really with him?
"Your fan club is expanding," Junheon said.
"The only club permitted to expand is the Mira Club," Harin replied, perfectly grave. "Membership fee: strawberry ice cream."
Junheon laughed, then sobered. "I have a favor. No early dismissal today, it seems. Could your driver—pick up Mira at Naves?"
Harin dipped her head as if to say Already thought of it. "I pinged him at noon. If your sister wants it, he'll take her home. Let her decide the route."
"Deal," Junheon said. A notch of tension slid off his shoulders. "Thank you."
A quiet glance from Harin answered You're welcome.
They watched until the buzzer. Junheon's class lost 3–9 to a younger group; the stands took it kindly.
---
The bell rang. They detoured through the canteen for a quick chocolate, then headed downstairs into the Plant Room.
Next period: Control of Magic. Clear, column-shaped capsules lined the room; each held a hazy, hazelnut-sized seed beneath a small hand rest.
Junheon and Harin were already side by side.
"Today we work with Dual Resonance Seeds," the teacher said, fingers tasting the air. "Rules are simple: two people, one intent. If your phases align, the seed blooms a flower that reflects your sum. If they don't—" He snapped his fingers. "Puff."
Murmurs rose. Three students stepped into Harin's path at once.
"Seol, with me?"
"Just one chance—"
"We'd be the best pair—"
Harin smiled—polite, immovable. "I'm already partnered."
Eyes pivoted to Junheon. Some brows knit; some mouths curled into Of course.
"Set up," the teacher said. "Palms to the glass. Eyes closed—no, not you," he added to Junheon. "Keep those open; a blue gaze helps. Count your breath: four in, four hold, four out."
Harin and Junheon placed their hands on either side of the capsule; the seed inside seemed to prick up its ears. Harin's voice was barely there.
"Intent?"
Junheon thought for a beat. "Get home safe."
The corner of Harin's mouth moved. "And dessert."
"Does a seed understand dessert?"
"It does. Dessert equals peace."
Breaths aligned. In the capsule, a pale filament of light woke; fine veins began to spread. The room grew quiet.
Another pair coaxed a daisy—applause. A third pulled up a red rose—whistles. At a fourth station a seed went pof and misted a corner of the class; there were groans, and a few muffled snickers.
Harin and Junheon's seed gathered the light and deepened it. Petal curls took shape; a cool glint at the heart. The teacher drifted closer without meaning to.
The capsule opened into a rose—blue. Not garish—noble. Along the petal edges, the faintest stitch of silver.
A held breath through the room; then applause. The teacher lifted one brow through a tangle of envious looks.
"High resonance: Blue Rose. Clean lock. Your mark is high."
From the back: "But one group got a white rose, sir!"
"And that's why they take first," the teacher said mildly. "White means perfect phase lock. But blue requires clarity of intent and patience of feeling. Well done."
Praise mixed with a low growl of jealousy. Harin sealed the capsule; the bloom clicked softly under guard. She tipped her head toward Junheon and whispered:
"Seems the dessert clause has teeth."
"Then the formula holds," Junheon said. "Will to live + dessert = blue."
"And add don't hurt anyone," Harin said, gaze brief and steady. "You supplied that term."
They stepped back into the corridor, now loud again. A few students passed with sly, needling smiles; a few others said plainly, "I'm copying that guy," like a vow. Harin let her shoulder brush Junheon's—neither too much nor too little.
"Day's summary," she said. "One clinic. One basketball watch. One blue rose."
"And still on our feet," Junheon answered. "I wonder what my tiny menace is up to without me."
"Right," said Harin. "Add KN to the list. After a day like this, I could eat a hundred pastries."
"A bit light," Junheon said. "Make it a thousand."
"I know," Harin laughed. "I usually stop at two slices, though."
The corridor lights flashed once on the crystal staff; two shadows turned the same corner in the same step. Outside, the world was loud again. Inside, their sum had already settled into a simple, clear formula.
From the car beyond the crowd, the driver's voice came through the crush of people: "I'm in position, ma'am."
They walked toward the car. The driver approached, took their bags, and placed them carefully in the trunk before opening the door.
"Welcome, Miss. Sir," he said with a polite nod.
Junheon inclined his head. "I just realized—I never asked your name. Apologies."
"Kenny, sir. Pleased to meet you."
"Likewise, Kenny," Junheon replied warmly.
The three got into the vehicle. The doors closed with a soft click; the engine hummed to life. Kenny glanced in the rearview mirror and gave his report:
"I picked up Miss Mira from Naves. She's home now with two of her friends. The fridge was a bit empty, so I stocked some essentials and sweets. Locks and security cams are active. Everything's safe."
Junheon exhaled, relieved. "That's… a lot. I owe you. Thank you."
"My pleasure, sir," Kenny replied, dimming the route lights slightly. "There's a quiet café nearby if you'd like a stop."
Harin, still gazing out the window, caught his offer. "If you're up for it, let's go. Her friends will probably head out in an hour or two—then we can join her."
"Sounds good," Junheon agreed. "Nice idea."
---
The café sat on the ground floor of an old stone building at the corner. Inside, there was a soft haze of cardamom and coffee. They found a quiet table near the window. Kenny stayed by the entrance.
"The car is just outside. Comms are open," he said, then returned to his post.
"Two black coffees," Harin told the waiter. Once the cups arrived, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small magnetic travel chessboard—matte black and white squares, satisfying little clicks as she set it up.
"Up for a round?"
"Gladly," said Junheon.
They placed the pieces. Harin opened with e4; Junheon replied calmly with c5. A few moves passed in comfortable silence before the conversation found its rhythm.
"How was your day?" Harin asked.
"Busy, but good," Junheon answered. "Math's clean. Structured. I like that. And the cafeteria wasn't terrible."
"Clean structure," Harin echoed with a slight smile. "We had enough noise for one day."
She moved her knight, pressing center control. Junheon countered with a bishop, sealing off the diagonal.
"By the way," Harin continued without looking up, "about the questions I asked in the clinic—I owe you an apology. Yoon gave you anesthetics and I… got curious about your 'honest answers'."
"No harm done," said Junheon. "I only gave one real answer anyway: Mira."
"…Right."
Junheon tilted her head slightly. "Why the sudden awkward face? Did I make you say something embarrassing?"
"No, no," she said, waving it off, clearly flustered. "Let's focus on the game."
A few more pieces exchanged. Harin gained space on the queenside; Junheon aligned his rooks through the center.
"Kenny's a good man," said Harin. "Doesn't warm up to many people. But I think he likes you."
"The feeling's mutual," Junheon said. "He looks terrifying, but there's a small child hiding in there somewhere."
Harin laughed. "We've run enough today. A bit of quiet isn't a bad reward."
She made a clever diagonal maneuver. Junheon chuckled.
"Nice trap," he said.
"Not a trap," she replied. "A challenge. Loser owes the winner one secret… and one dessert."
"I'm in. Secret later, dessert now."
Two moves later, Junheon's rook swept the back rank; his bishop cut off the escape.
"Checkmate."
Harin studied the board, then smiled briefly at him. "Your second lock today. First the blue rose, now this."
"Just a little luck and clean planning," Junheon said.
"Earned luck," she corrected. "As promised—my secret… I trust you, Junheon."
"…Thank you."
"Dessert?"
"Strawberry," Junheon replied.
The waiter brought out a small strawberry dessert—two spoons, one plate. Harin took the first bite.
"We haven't talked about the blue rose yet," she said. "Tell me… which one do you like more—blue or white?"
"Blue. It symbolizes resilience. It grows in ice storms. The real ones? Ridiculously expensive. Wealthy collectors pay a fortune for even one."
"We have one," Harin said. "Not real, of course. But it looks amazing—and that's what matters."
"Clarity + patience = excellence," she summed up. "And if you add kindness, the color deepens."
They sipped their coffee. Outside, the city hummed in low tones. Inside, their words stayed simple and clear.
"Another round?" Harin asked.
"Sure," Junheon said. "But no stakes this time. Let's just enjoy it."
"Agreed."
She moved her pawns. Junheon didn't repeat his earlier mistake—he castled early, controlled space. The conversation moved naturally.
"Did you tell Lenny?" Junheon asked.
"Yeah," Harin replied. "Yoon shared the clinic report. The opening ceremony's been postponed. We're off the hook."
She paused, her voice dropping a bit.
"I can't apologize for what happened in the hallway. I didn't start it. But I ended it. That's part of what I do."
Junheon gave a small nod. "If you hadn't come, I'd have ended it in a few more minutes."
"Mm," Harin replied. "Didn't look like that. But for today, I'll pretend to believe you."
Midgame, Harin lured Junheon's queen into a trap. The tempo shifted.
"Let's name this move," she said.
"White Rose Squeeze?"
"Fits."
Three moves later, Harin brought her rook to the seventh rank. Junheon miscalculated an escape—checkmate.
"Nice game," he said, bowing his head.
The waiter refreshed their coffee. Junheon offered the last bite of dessert with a smile.
"By the way," Harin said, "we're not calling Kenny in—but we should thank him."
"We will when we get home," said Junheon. "He's done more than his share today."
Harin's expression sobered. "One rule: what happened today—clinic, hallway, 'that' summoning—stays between us. Novarion feeds on gossip."
"Understood," said Junheon. "My lock's tight."
A pause, then Harin added, "One more thing. Tomorrow, pairwork resumes. If you're willing to partner again… I'm available."
Junheon didn't even blink. "I'd be crazy to say no."
A message buzzed from Kenny: "Exit route is clear when you're ready."
Harin closed the chess set and slipped it into her bag. "Let's go. Walk to the car. Slowly."
They stepped out into the evening air. Streetlights traced soft lines on the sidewalk. They said nothing. The silence between them was gentle—healing, not empty.
When they reached the car, Kenny opened the door.
"Ready?"
"Ready," Harin replied. "Let's go see Mira."
Kenny smiled. The engine stirred like a silk thread through quiet water.
As the car slipped into the secure lane, the city's noise faded behind them. Inside, three people and half an hour of calm silence felt like the best reward the day could offer.
---
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. Junheon thought, Even cats don't have that many lives. 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.