The hotel lobby smelled faintly of lemon polish and fresh coffee, a neutral, civilized scent that calmed even the most restless of travelers. Choi Bora sat with her back straight against the high-backed chair near the revolving doors, one ankle crossed over the other, a paper cup of tea cooling in her hands. The afternoon light, biased through the glass façade, cut across the marble floor in pale bands and made the brass of the concierge desk glint like a promise. From this small, ordered vantage she could watch the city move —business suits hurrying past, a family corralling a toddler in a stray-movement of laughter, a couple leaning close over a phone— and she could see the Task Force Delta men as soon as they came through the doors.
They were late by ten minutes, which annoyed her, but also gave her the chance to rehearse the easy, domestic part of the day: pointing out the best place for spicy rice cake, which café did the lightest chiffon cheesecake, where to avoid the tourist traps near the river. Sunday, she reminded herself, was for small mercies. No work. No sharp-eyed commanders. She would be the hospitable city guide, the woman from the north who knew whose fried fish stall made the best batter, who could stroll a group of men from the south through a city's stomach and its breath without a hitch.
Bora rose when they reached her, smoothing the front of her coat with a motion that belonged to an etiquette she'd learned as a child and honed in quieter, more dangerous places. The men greeted her with a mixture of relief and restrained affection; Task Force Delta was a family shaped by duty, and she, though not officially one of them, had been granted the same courtesies as a distant cousin.
"Alright," she murmured to herself, a trace of excitement hidden beneath her formal tone. Her plan was simple—start with lunch in the food district, let them wander through cafes and boutiques, show them the small parks tucked between the high rises. If she did it right, they would leave the day with a sense of ease, a connection to this place beyond the concrete and protocols, where she could keep on eye on Taemin's wound after Mu-hyeok had applied the salve she gave the day prior.
She offered a poised, welcoming smile, her formal tone precise yet warm. "Good morning! I thought I'd show you around the city today. Since it's Sunday, no work, just sights and local favorites." The slight tilt of her head and the careful choice of words kept her identity compartmentalized, a shield against the truth lurking beneath her polite exterior.
Junwon inclined his head politely. "Sounds good," he said. "Lead the way."
The group nodded, stretching slightly. Taemin walked with less stiffness than yesterday, the faint redness along his forearm now faded, a subtle sign of the salve she had passed discreetly to Mu-hyeok. The improvement brought her a quiet satisfaction. She could see the difference in his movements—less wincing, a little more fluidity in his steps, and she took it as a compliment to her skills that he was doing better.
She led them out into streets that smelled of charcoal and spice. Spring sunlight made the puddles left from last night's rain wink, and the city thrummed with the conscious ease of a Sunday — hawker calls softened, bicycle bells more frequent than vehicle horns. The food district lay a few blocks away, a honeycomb of narrow alleys and wider boulevards, where steam rose from stone grills and the air carried a thousand invitations at once: sesame, soy, garlic, the seductive, fatty tang of slow-cooked meat. Bora walked with the confident cadence of someone restoring the city to itself, and the men fell in behind her like a small tide.
Seungmin asked questions the way someone reads a map out loud, as if each answer rearranged his sense of this new place into a more navigable shape. He wanted to know where to find a good cup of coffee, where to buy a warm scarf, which street vendors were safe, which store kept antiques but did not overcharge. Bora answered with the exactitude of someone who had catalogued the city in episodes, each recommendation folded into the next like a secret route.
Seungmin leaned toward her, whispering conspiratorially, "So, Chief, do you come here often, or is this part of your tour guide act?"
"I'm cataloging the city in episodes," she said, eyes flicking to each man in turn. "Each alley, each shop, each stall has its own story. You just need to know where to look."
"I thought we'd start with something everyone appreciates—grill and lettuce. Samgyeopsal first, then whatever stamina remains for walking." Her tone was light; she kept the plan tidy in case anything went wrong. Inside, she catalogued each face: Taemin's austerity softening already at the idea of warm meat; Mu-hyeok's watchfulness turning into something indulgent—he liked food. He was a southern man, yes, but he was also the kind who took the time to learn the texture of a city through its kitchens.
The samgyeopsal restaurant she chose sat low and crowded on the edge of the food district, its windows steamed by a choreography of sizzling fat and breathing customers. They slid into a long table beneath a paper lantern, and the server set down a metal grill with a ceremony that suggested the first cut of meat might be a sacrament. The plates arrived in quick succession: slabs of pork that gleamed with a promise of crisp edges, bowls of ssamjang, ribbons of kimchi, and baskets of lettuce leaf like little green boats. The air filled with a fat-sweet smoke that smelled of iron and comfort; it was the city's honest perfume.
Taemin made a face—delighted, involuntary—when the first piece crackled and browned, and Mu-hyeok, who had taken the tongs as naturally as a man takes up a habit, began to orchestrate the grill. He was deft—no wasted time, precise flips—and Bora watched his hands, noting the ease with which he made small decisions. He passed a wrapped piece of pork to Taemin with a dry remark about dignity and the importance of not burning the lieutenant. Laughter loosened them; a brittle thing in the lobby started to yield.
Seungmin, cheeks flushed from laughter, added, "I swear, it's like having a local encyclopedia with a face."
Taek shook his head, amusement in his eyes. "You exaggerate. It's more like a walking food critic."
Junwon spoke up, his tone calm and measured. "The city seems… welcoming. Well-selected, Chief. Thank you for guiding us."
They ate in a comfortable cacophony: the clink of implements, the conversation that skipped from trivial to earnest without the pretense of transition. Bora found herself narrating the city in fragments while lamenting nothing at all—where to find the best tteokbokki to soak a hangover, which café had the most honest scones, the name of an indie bookshop that always smelled faintly of smoked tea.
At one point, as a group of teenagers jostled past the entrance, Mu-hyeok looked thoughtful. "Is there a park with a fountain—three stone lanterns around it?" he asked between bites, the fork pausing midair.
Bora's heart skipped a beat. She recognized it immediately — the spot she had mentioned yesterday as Foxglove. She kept her expression calm, a soft smile on her lips. "Yes, there's a park near the old municipal gardens. The fountain is surrounded by three lanterns, so it's easy to find. People like to meet there because it's a small landmark."
Taemin overheard and cocked his head. "Sounds like a trap for lovers."
"Or for meeting friends," Mu-hyeok said quickly. "Depends which side of the fountain you stand on."
She kept her face smooth. "Yes," she said. "They installed lanterns around the fountain during renovation. People like it because you can see the lights from the crosswalk." She added, because small myths lubricated conversation, "There's a local superstition — three lanterns, three wishes. Or if you're practical," she gave a half-smile, "three sensible reasons to avoid bad coffee."
Mu-hyeok laughed, satisfied. "Three wishes, eh? I suppose that's convenient."
Taemin tilted his chin at Bora, that thin smile again. "You seem to know an awful lot about the city."
She met his gaze evenly. "I grew up here. We learned to know what to keep and what to share."
She let the compliment pass. "And you, Taemin? From the south. I was told your recruits were good at enduring heat." She pushed the remark with a lightness she did not feel; small barbs were part of their language, and she could trade them with the best.
Taemin's mouth quirked in something like amusement. "We endure a lot," he said. "Worse, sometimes." The bruise along his mouth deepened with the movement.
Junwon, watching them, saw the exchange as nothing more than a guide explaining where the city kept its prettiness. Taek barely looked up; his assessment of the story was an almost imperceptible nod that meant nothing and everything. Seungmin, however, immediately brightened. "Wishes? We should make them then. I'll wish for a pastry stall that never closes."
Taemin's gaze lingered on Bora for a fraction of a second longer than natural. There was a lightness to his next words designed to deflect. "I'll make sure my wish is for the city to stop sending me headaches."
After lunch, they wandered into a series of narrow streets lined with small shops and cafés. Junwon walked slightly ahead, his posture formal, scanning their surroundings with the precision of a leader used to control. Taek, more reserved than the others, stayed close behind Bora, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes quiet but attentive.
Taemin flopped onto the grass first, stretching with a long groan. "Much better. I needed this," he said, the stiffness in his shoulders easing.
Bora took a bench but kept her eyes loose and roaming, the practiced sentinel who could guard with the angle of her head. The conversation drifted: inconsequential, precise, comforting.
They joked about the city's inscrutable charm, the southern boys teasing each other about homesickness and the otherness of the capital.
Mu-hyeok perched on the low wall near the fountain, eyes flicking to the water. "It's nice here. Calm. Different from the streets, different from work."
Seungmin leaned against a tree, nodding. "It feels… peaceful," he said softly.
Junwon, still formal, took a bench nearby, hands resting on his knees. "It's well-maintained. I like that," he said, scanning the surroundings with a quiet approval.
Taemin laughed — a sound small and clean — and for a moment his shoulder moved without the memory of pain. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and tested a small, pleased grimace.
Bora's lips curved, a quiet satisfaction rising in her chest. The small miracle she had arranged last night had worked, and no one suspected her secret role in it. For now, at least, the day belonged to them: laughter, stories, and the slow, easy companionship of men enjoying a city and a park that had been waiting for them all along.
As afternoon folded toward evening, the three lanterns took on a different quality; the sun warmed the glass to a honeyed glow that made them seem to pulse. Bora felt the city close around them like a hand cupping something fragile. In this little pocket of light and chatter, with a fountain that sang and men who were beginning to call her friend, the world simplified. There were risks, of course: Junwon's responsibilities, Taek's counsel, Taemin's unpredictable razor-edge. But for now, they were only five people under three ornamental lanterns, letting the city teach them how to breathe.
Seungmin, ever polite, glanced toward Bora and offered with a gentle smile, "It's getting late. If you don't mind, I can walk you back to your place. It's not far, and… well, it's better than wandering the streets alone."
Bora considered for a moment, weighing the risks. She knew the men before her were members of Task Force Delta; their movements, their expressions, and their body language betrayed both discipline and civility. There was no malice in them, no ill intentions toward a civilian. Nodding, she allowed herself a small, courteous smile. "That would be fine. Thank you, Seungmin-nim."
The walk was quiet at first, filled with casual chatter about the city and its night markets, the occasional laughter punctuating the soft thrum of their footsteps. She guided them along well-lit streets, careful to keep her composure while her mind cataloged the paths, street signs, and alleys, all the while noting how the group reacted to different areas. Every detail, every minor distraction, was filed away for later use.
When they reached her apartment complex, the building's modest lobby bathed in the soft hum of overhead lights, she hesitated slightly before pressing the elevator button. The boys remained respectful, chatting quietly as they waited for the doors to open. Just as they arrived on the ground floor, Seungmin stepped close to her and said, "Here we are. I'll wait until you're safely inside."
As they bowed to say their goodbyes, a small clink drew her attention. A tiny jar rolled across the floor between her and the entrance. She bent down instinctively and recognized the salve immediately, the one she had handed to Mu-hyeok the night before for Taemin. The lid had come loose, and it had slipped out of Taemin's pocket.
She bent down instinctively, picking up the small jar and holding it out to him. "Here," she said, her voice neutral but carrying a curious undertone. Before Taemin could even answer, her brow furrowed slightly. "Don't get wet after applying it, okay?"
Taemin finally took the jar, his hand brushing hers. "Yeah," he said quietly, a touch embarrassed, "I'll keep that in mind."
Bora nodded, then straightened and adjusted her coat, turning away without another word. "Good night, everyone!" she said, her voice light and almost deliberately casual as she walked toward the elevator.
The rest of the group stood frozen, mouths slightly agape. Even Seungmin's usual charm was replaced with surprise, while Taek and Mu-hyeok exchanged sharp glances of confusion.
Down in the lobby, the group exchanged looks, the silence thick as they processed what had just occurred. Taek's brows were furrowed, suspicion gnawing at him.
"Did anyone else notice that?" Mu-hyeok leaned forward, eyes wide, the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin. "You don't think… she's Foxglove, do you?" he whispered, almost audibly. "The way she knew immediately it was for Taemin, that aura she carries, it's too precise to be a coincidence!"
Seungmin snorted immediately, slapping the seat beside him lightly. "Come on, Mu-hyeok. That's ridiculous. She just put two and two together. She's observant, that's all."
Mu-hyeok shook his head, leaning forward slightly. "No, listen. How could she know? Nobody mentioned it, not even Taemin. And she asked if it makes his arm feel better. That's… that's exactly how Foxglove would notice something like that."
"It would be reasonable to assume she noticed because she saw Taemin moving more freely today than yesterday. A simple deduction: salve applied, arm less painful, observable improvement. I think your mind might be overexposed, Mu-hyeok. Seeing Foxglove again makes your imagination jump to conclusions."
Junwon's expression softened into a rational sort of amusement. "It would be reasonable to assume she noticed because she saw Taemin moving more freely today than yesterday. A simple deduction: salve applied, arm less painful, observable improvement. I think your mind might be overexposed, Mu-hyeok. Seeing Foxglove again makes your imagination jump to conclusions."
Seungmin, however, scoffed lightly, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. "Come on, Mu-hyeok. Really? Sweet, shy, careful, attentive Choi Bora? The one who offered us hotel suggestions and guided us politely through dinner?" He waved a hand dismissively, though the faint furrow of his brow betrayed a flicker of doubt. "No way. Foxglove is flashy, ruthless, and cunning. That girl we just met is… kind, soft-spoken, and polite. They don't match."
Mu-hyeok leaned back, still grinning with excitement at the possibility. "I'm telling you, there's something about her. Something we're not seeing. I'm keeping an eye on her."
Seungmin's eyes immediately narrowed, and he shot Mu-hyeok a sharp glare. "No. You will do no such thing as spying on a lady without her permission," he said firmly, voice edged with authority. "That is completely unacceptable."
Junwon, leaning against a nearby pillar, nodded in agreement. "Seungmin's right. Stalking her would be extremely rude, and we're better than that." his sharp eyes turned thoughtful as he considered the incident.
Taek remained silent, arms crossed, his sharp gaze lingering on the elevator as it slid smoothly upward. The evening had left more questions than answers, yet beneath the polite façades and casual conversation, the group knew one truth: Bora was extraordinary in ways they couldn't yet fully comprehend, and gaining her trust —or at least understanding her methods— could be essential to navigating the unpredictable path ahead.
Mu-hyeok pursed his lips, glancing at the others but clearly unconvinced. "Maybe… maybe you're right. But still. That felt…" he trailed off, shrugging, "specific. Too specific."
The group settled into a brief silence, each lost in their own thoughts for a moment, when Taek finally spoke, his voice measured, deliberate. "By the way…" He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he scanned the lobby. "Taemin's gone."
"What do you mean, gone?" Seungmin asked, already half-standing. "He was right here a second ago."
Mu-hyeok leaned forward, his pulse picking up. "Did he step out? But why—"
Junwon's calm returned, but the tension lingered. "Check the street. Quietly. He could be anywhere within a block."
The evening had left more questions than answers, yet beneath the polite façades and casual conversation, the group knew one truth: Bora was extraordinary in ways they couldn't yet fully comprehend, and gaining her trust —or at least understanding her methods— could be essential to navigating the unpredictable path ahead.
The soft chime of the elevator faded as Bora unlocked the door to the penthouse and slipped inside. The silence wrapped around her like a comforter, warm and familiar after the tension of keeping up her mask around the task force. She exhaled, letting her shoulders sag, and slipped off her coat. The city lights beyond the tall windows glittered like scattered jewels, and for the first time that evening, she allowed herself the luxury of a small, satisfied smile.
They trusted her — or at least Seungmin did. And that was all she needed. His trust was a thread, a tether, that would let her weave her way back into their circle whenever she wished. If she kept him close, she could find Taemin whenever she wanted. She almost laughed at the irony: the same man who always aimed to cut her throat, now was her shield and tether as long as she played the part of the helpful, quiet guide.
She'd studied him long enough to know he was sharp, but what surprised her was the difference in how he treated her depending on the mask she wore. As Foxglove, she was a threat, an enemy to be outmaneuvered. But as Bora, he softened. He was protective, gentle even, quick to defend her dignity, quick to shield her from suspicion. It was understandable of course, anyone would be wary of the woman who often aimed to kill their comrade. Still, the vast shift in his demeanor was almost amusing.
She tilted her head, tapping her fingers on the lid of the tin. "Still… the salve worked, didn't it?" she murmured to herself. Her lips curved, this time with genuine relief. The edge of poison in Taemin's body had dulled, his pain momentarily eased. Perhaps it bought her time to observe, to adjust, to make sure he didn't succumb too soon. "I'll need to check again tomorrow… see if it holds, or if it worsens."
The words lingered in the quiet of the penthouse, swallowed by the hum of the city below. The curtains billowed faintly against the open window, carrying in a thin strand of autumn air. Bora set the tin carefully onto the low glass table, her movements precise, almost ritualistic, as though the wrong touch might undo her progress.
Her gaze drifted to the small bundle of notes scattered across her worktable—sketches of herbs, calculations of dosage, hurriedly scrawled theories in the margins. She ran her hand over them, smudging ink where her wrist pressed down. "I'll need to refine it," she muttered. The salve had been a gamble, hastily blended from scraps of old knowledge, trial and error stitched together. It wasn't elegant, not by her standards. But Taemin was still breathing. That counted for something.
The silence of her penthouse pressed on her, almost too loud. She pushed herself up and wandered toward the balcony, sliding open the glass door. The night breeze slipped in, cool against her bare arms, carrying the faint aroma of the small pots of herbs she kept outside. She glanced down at them absently—rosemary, mint, a stubborn patch of mugwort—none of which would help her tonight. She leaned against the railing instead, eyes fixed on the city below.
"Tomorrow," she whispered, her voice almost lost to the hum of cars far below. "I'll know by tomorrow."
Her chest tightened with something she refused to name. Worry was weakness, and weakness she could not afford. Still, as she stood there with the city stretching endlessly beneath her feet, she couldn't banish the image of Taemin's pale face, the way his breaths had labored before the salve eased them. She pressed her fingers to her lips, closing her eyes briefly.
If it failed, she would find another way. She always did. But tonight she let herself hold on to the fragile thread of relief the salve had given her, just enough to let her rest before the storm of decisions came again with morning light.
The group moved back toward the hotel in a loose, swinging line, the city breathing around them in wet neon and the distant hiss of a midnight bus. The night smelled of rain on asphalt and the sharp promise of frying oil from a vendor stall that refused to close; someone in the group hummed tunelessly at the rhythm of their boots on the sidewalk. Mu-hyeok carried his bag over one broad shoulder, Seungmin walked with his hands in his pockets and a small, almost shy cadence to his steps, and Junwon kept a few paces ahead with that steady, watchful half-smile that meant he was listening for more than the conversation offered.
It was Seungmin who drew the first curious looks. He sat with one leg hooked lazily over the other, a glass of water in hand, posture far looser than usual. Normally, he was prickly—the one to bark at them for tracking mud indoors, to glare if someone spoke out of turn, to sigh audibly when Taemin decided to be reckless. But tonight, his expression was softened, even pleasant. He had a half-smile lingering on his lips as though something had amused him deeply, and his voice, when he chimed in to their banter, lacked the sharp edge they had grown accustomed to.
Mu-hyeok watched him for a beat, then grinned, the expression loud enough to break the quiet. "Look at you," he said, letting the words hang like a tease. "You're practically decent tonight."
Seungmin threw him a look that was half-annoyed, half-amused. "There are limits to decency, Mu-hyeok. Don't test them."
"Right," Mu-hyeok said, wagging a finger. "But seriously—one woman, and our resident porcupine de-fluffs. It must've been the beauty. Either that, or she slipped something in your tea." His tone was light, conspiratorial. He leaned forward as if sharing a state secret. "Either way, I'm impressed. You needed something pretty to take your chill pill, huh?"
Taek, who had been watching the exchange with his habitual leisure, offered a dry chuckle. "Or perhaps the city air did what months of sarcasm could not." His voice was neutral; his eyes were a fold of calculation. "Environmental variable: exposure to civility. Result: temporary personality adaptation."
Junwon rubbed his temple and glanced between them. "She's good company. That's what it was," he said, even and steady. "No need to spin it into a mystery."
Mu-hyeok shook his head like a man savoring the moment. "No, Junwon, we should catalogue this properly." He sat up straighter, struck by the impulse to perform. "Seungmin was a prick at 13:05. At 15:23, he softened. Trigger: Choi Bora. Effects observed: decreased sarcasm, increased protectiveness, vocal endorsement to walk her home." He drew breath, eyes gleaming with the performative thrill of praise.
Seungmin's mouth twitched. "I resent the implication that I'm susceptible to pretty faces."
"Do you?" Mu-hyeok demanded, unrepentant. "Because I saw you paying attention. Noticing the little things. She's got that—" he spread his hands as if trying to hold an invisible object delicately, "—the kind of precise, quiet beauty. The way she helps people without announcing it. The small smile that doesn't try to win anything. Soft voice, but not weak. Hands that work like they remember how things are built and how to fix them. You saw the way she gave Taemin that salve — calm, practical, like she'd done it a hundred times. Eyes that measure risk and kindness in the same look. She's… a lot of things."
"Well, now that you're praising Bora, I can't help but lose faith." Taemin went on, turning in his seat to point accusingly at Mu-hyeok. "You have terrible taste. The woman literally tried to murder me. More than once."
Mu-hyeok grinned, unbothered. "Exactly. You can't buy that kind of dedication. It's passion, brother."
"That's attempted homicide." Taemin muttered.
Seungmin snickered, finally relaxing enough to join the banter. "So let me get this straight. My crush is polite, soft-spoken, helpful. Yours is a lethal maniac with a vendetta. And somehow I'm the one you're teasing?"
"Because yours is boring!" Mu-hyeok shot back, laughing. "Where's the thrill in that? You like her because she's nice. I like Foxglove because she keeps me on my toes. You never know when she'll stab someone—or save them. That's the fun."
Junwon's reflection in the rearview mirror showed his quiet amusement. "Remind me never to let you near the psych evaluations again."
"Come on, Leader," Mu-hyeok said, grinning. "You've gotta admit, Foxglove's got style. Even when she's blowing things up."
Mu-hyeok pushed his duffel tighter into his shoulder and let his voice turn serious in a way that made the rest of them still. "Look. People keep saying 'dangerous woman' like that's a warning sign. For me, danger is honesty. Foxglove doesn't pretend. She picks a target and she goes for it. There's integrity there — twisted, maybe, but definite. It's easier to understand someone who's consistent, even if their consistency is murderous."
Seungmin listened, thumb worrying the seam of his jacket. "You two make me sound soft," he said. "Maybe I like soft. Maybe I like someone who makes being decent feel… easy. She didn't pose; she offered things without calculation. That's rare." He stopped, breath fogging in the cool air. "And she noticed Taemin's arm. The way she asked — like she already knew. That curious attention? It made me… I don't know. Protective, I guess. Weirdly domestic."
Taek's fingers tightened on the strap of his satchel. "Domesticity is underrated as a weapon," he said flatly. "Stability confers a kind of strategic advantage. People who can make a safe home can often make a safe mind. That's useful when you're deciding whether to take a risk."
Junwon turned toward them again, loosening the watchful leadership that always underlay his casual remarks. "All right, let's be blunt. Crushes are tactical liabilities. They make you sentimental, they cloud judgment, and they leave you open." He met Mu-hyeok's eyes and then Seungmin's. "If you two are interested, fine. But keep the line clear between curiosity and compromise. If either of you starts bending rules because of a woman, I'll be the first to put you on report."
Mu-hyeok's grin was sudden and foolish. "You sound jealous."
Junwon's lip twitched. "I sound responsible."
Seungmin's answer was quieter. "We know. We're not idiots. We can want things and still do our jobs. Remember when you wanted a new radio and still had to get intel on the perimeter?" He gave them an expectant look. "We're professionals with hobbies."
"But it's a good conversation," Taek added. "It tells us things about all of you. Who you are when you're not on a mission. Who you want to be."
They crossed the street, the hotel looming near now, its automatic doors sighing open as if to welcome them back to order. Mu-hyeok stopped for a beat, turned his face a fraction toward the apartment building they'd just left and squinted at the high window where, moments before, a faint light might have lingered.
No one said anything for a beat. Night, after a day of motion and noise, tightened and settled.
Seungmin, finally, gave a small, private smile that could barely be seen but was acutely felt by the others. "Let's invite her again," he said, voice low. "Bring her into our chaos for another day. See what she does when she knows we're not just customers on a tour."
"Focus, gentlemen. Our mission doesn't involve debating Bora's beauty or Mu-hyeok's… questionable taste in women." Junwon exhaled slowly, ever the composed one, though his voice carried dry amusement. "Although, it wouldn't hurt. After Taemin is healed, we have no other missions. You would be able to have more time for an actual life since there's peace now, maybe you could stay here up north. It seems nice."
Taemin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You two need help."
"Correction," Taek murmured, tapping his tablet screen, "they need therapy."