The dawn outside was pale as bone when Min‑jun finally stirred. His fever had broken, but his body trembled under its absence like something had been violently uprooted from him. Amal knelt beside the makeshift bed in the factory's dim corner, her hand pressed against his chest, counting the beats like a metronome trying to coax a melody back.
"You've got to stop dying in increments," she whispered, half‑angry, half‑pleading.
He opened his eyes—honey‑gold ringed in crimson. "And you've got to stop pulling me back."
"Not happening."
A weak smile tugged his lips. "Then I guess we're doomed to each other."
Before she could scold the poetry out of him, the door slammed open. Zara Naseer entered, carrying an oblong case etched with code lines. "We located the serum," she said without preamble. "Mira gave coordinates—District Nine. The old cathedral beneath the river docks. But it's guarded."
"Guarded how?" asked Hae‑jin Song, already reaching for his rifle.
"By the Crimson Choir. They chant sonic frequencies capable of rupturing neuron pathways. One verse can liquefy your mind in ten seconds."
Prisha Devi whistled low. "That's festive."
Saira Malik flicked her holo‑screen closed. "They're moving the serum tonight to Elara's high‑tower vault. We have maybe an hour to intercept."
Min‑jun shifted upright, muscles corded with new strength but shadows still beneath his eyes. "Then we move now."
Amal rose with him. "You can barely stand."
"I don't need to stand," he said, voice faintly feral. "I just need to bite."
Everyone went silent. Half fear, half admiration.
***
Rain sheeted down again as they loaded the van. The sky above Neo‑Seoul rippled with advertisements, the Queen's glowing face fractured across billboards—eyes glossy, voice looping: *"A blessing for my children of the night."*
Driving through flashing puddles, the team looked more like ghosts than rebels. Zara spread a map on her knees, the routes traced in blue light. Hae‑jin led a second vehicle with newcomers—Lena Petrova, Rowan Hale, and Mira seated between them, silent in guilt.
Amal turned to Min‑jun, his profile limned by passing neon. "If this goes wrong—"
"It won't," he interrupted.
"But if it does?"
He finally looked at her, expression unreadable. "Then let the city remember what happens when prey learns art from the hunter."
It wasn't reassurance, but it worked anyway.
***
They reached District Nine as the city's lights dimmed for the energy‑cycle reset. The cathedral dominated the ruined square, towers broken, stained glass crawling with ivy. Streams of data flickered faintly along the cracks—holy architecture rewired with circuitry.
"This was her first temple," Mira whispered. "Before the laboratories, before the addiction."
The team slipped through a rusted side door. The scent hit first—iron and incense. Beneath a half‑collapsed ceiling stood rows of glass tanks humming faintly blue, veins of tubing crossing overhead like a metal web.
"The Choir used sonic resonance to preserve the bodies," Zara murmured. "Don't touch the glass."
Too late. Prisha brushed one, and a soft note rang through the hall. The air quivered; dust lifted like ash stirred by breath.
"Down!" Hae‑jin barked.
Figures peeled from the walls—tall, robed, faces hidden behind iron masks. Their mouths glowed faint red, pulsing in time with an unseen rhythm.
The **Crimson Choir** had awakened.
They sang.
The melody was wrong, agonizingly beautiful and perfectly dissonant. Every note seemed to carve into Amal's skull. She dropped to one knee, clutching her ears. Saira tried counter‑frequencies on her wrist‑console, but the sound bent around them like armor made of noise.
Then Min‑jun stood.
"Cover your ears," he commanded.
His voice rose—not shouting, but resonating deeper than sound itself. Shadows rippled out from him as he took three steps forward, bare‑handed, eyes blazing.
He began to hum. Low, dark, dangerous. It wasn't music exactly—it was defiance made audible.
The Choir's harmony faltered, splitting apart like shattered glass. Amal felt the vibration through her bones—a duet of predator and protector, his raw growl swallowing their chant until silence collapsed the hall like a storm dying mid‑roar.
When the last echo died, only one voice remained—Mira's, trembling. "The vault's beneath the altar."
***
Zara and Amal pried aside carved slabs, revealing the entrance to a sterile lab below. Cold vapor rolled up from the stairs. Lights came alive as they descended—Rows of computers, vats of glowing fluid, and in the center, suspended over a dais, a capsule filled with shimmering liquid: *Sunline Serum.*
"This is it," Zara breathed. "One dose—maybe two."
Min‑jun reached for it, fingers shaking. "It's… calling me."
"It's poison wrapped in cure," Mira warned. "Too much and it fuses your DNA to hers."
He hesitated.
Amal stepped beside him. "Then we measure carefully." She guided his hand, gloved fingers pressed over his. Together they lifted the capsule out of its suspension lock. For a second, the world turned golden—reflected light painting them like icons in melted glass.
And then the alarms began.
The remaining Choir flooded the chamber, sonic blades slicing through air. Lena fired tranquilizers; Rowan blocked a strike that shattered his sword. Prisha screamed over the noise, "I really hate concerts!"
Amal shoved Min‑jun toward the vanishing stair, vial in her grip. "Go—now!"
He turned back mid‑run, pulling her into motion. Around them, everything split into flashes—gunfire, music, blood, and shattered divinity. They soared up the stairs as heat and sound bent reality behind them.
When they burst into the courtyard, wind howled through skeletal towers. Min‑jun grabbed her wrist and looked back once, breathing hard. "Give it to me."
The moment the serum touched his lips, the color flared through him—red burning into gold, venom into velvet. For a heartbeat Amal saw what she always painted but could never describe: destruction turned divine.
Min‑jun opened his eyes. "It's working."
Lightning split the sky, striking the cathedral dome. The structure caved, releasing a wave of dust and paper angels. They stood in the center, gilded in fire and rain, hand in hand, alive.
"Velvet and venom," Amal whispered.
He smiled—the real one this time. "Two shades of the same art."
***
High above, in her tower of mirrors, Elara Voss watched the surveillance feed and tilted her head thoughtfully. "Let them savor their cure," she said. "Every masterpiece needs its tragedy."
The screen flickered off, bathing the room in bloodlight.
Far below, Amal and Min‑jun disappeared into the storm, their team following—the family they'd bled, painted, and sung into being. The city whispered after them, torn between worship and fear.
And somewhere in that electric hush, the next chapter was already beginning to breathe.