Day 148. 07:00 hours.
Forbes Park.
The Peacock Mansion.
Ground Floor.
The Atrium.
The war began at breakfast.
Not the real war.
Not the Snake Man war.
The other war.
The one that had been simmering since Day 117, when Gabriel Diaz Abadia — cousin, fighter pilot, wind manipulator, and the particular kind of woman who treated the world as her personal comedy stage — had arrived at the mansion and decided that her life's mission was to make Ji-yoo Han Del Rosario lose her mind.
It started with a shirt.
Jae-min's shirt.
The shirt.
The oversized thermal shirt that Ji-yoo had claimed as her own on Day 58 — the shirt that smelled like Jae-min, the shirt she wore every morning, the shirt she slept in, the shirt that was HERS in the way that a dragon's hoard is the dragon's — absolutely, violently, non-negotiably hers.
Gabriel was wearing it.
She was standing in the Atrium at seven in the morning, her knee-length black hair braided tight, her golden eyes bright with the particular brightness of a woman who had done something she knew she was not supposed to do and was enjoying every second of the impending consequences.
She was wearing the shirt.
Jae-min's shirt.
The shirt that was Ji-yoo's shirt.
Over her tactical pants.
With nothing underneath.
The shirt was too big on Gabriel.
The shirt was too big on everyone except Jae-min, because it was Jae-min's shirt.
On Gabriel, it hung off one shoulder, the collar wide enough to show the clavicle. The shirt hung to mid-thigh.
It looked like a dress.
A dress that was Ji-yoo's property.
Gabriel Diaz Abadia.
Cousin.
Fighter pilot.
Wind manipulator.
Thirty-three years old.
She had the body of a woman who had been genetically blessed by the Abadia side of the family — the body that made the PAF give her the callsign 'The Flying Hot Chick' before she ever manifested wind powers.
The body that was the reason Ji-yoo called her 'that bitch' under her breath every time Gabriel walked into a room.
The body that Gabriel carried with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she looked like and used it like a weapon.
Big breasts.
The kind of big that made the oversized thermal shirt — Jae-min's shirt, Ji-yoo's shirt — stretch across the chest in a way that the shirt had never stretched on Jae-min or Ji-yoo.
The shirt was designed for a man's flat chest.
Gabriel's chest was not flat.
Gabriel's chest was the opposite of flat.
The fabric strained at the buttons, gaps between them showing skin underneath — warm, golden skin, the kind that made other women look and feel a mix of admiration and resentment.
Wide hips.
The kind that made the shirt hang differently at the bottom — wider at the hips than at the shoulders, the fabric draped over curves that the shirt's original owner did not have.
Gabriel's body was built like a weapon — the kind that distracted enemy pilots in dogfights, made briefing rooms go quiet when she walked in, and got her the callsign before she ever flew a sortie.
The shirt was too big everywhere except the chest.
At the chest, the shirt was fighting for its life.
Ji-yoo came down the stairs.
Ji-yoo was barefoot.
Her black hair was loose.
She was wearing — she was NOT wearing the shirt.
She was wearing a different shirt.
A borrowed sweater.
Because her shirt — HER shirt — was not in her room.
Her shirt was not in the laundry.
Her shirt was not in the void storage.
Her shirt was GONE.
And Ji-yoo had been looking for it for eleven minutes, and Ji-yoo's mood had been deteriorating with each passing minute, and Ji-yoo had reached the bottom of the stairs and had looked across the Atrium and had SEEN her shirt.
On Gabriel.
Ji-yoo stopped.
Ji-yoo's dark eyes found the shirt.
Then found Gabriel.
Then found the shirt again.
Then found Gabriel's face.
Then found Gabriel's golden eyes, which were bright and eager and the particular eyes of a woman who had been WAITING for this moment.
The Atrium went very quiet.
Hua, in the kitchen doorway, set down the rice pot.
Slowly.
The particular slowness of a woman who recognized the signs and was not going to be holding anything breakable when the explosion came.
Marie, at the dining table, put her hand on her stomach.
The particular hand-on-stomach of a pregnant woman who was about to witness something and was hoping the baby wouldn't kick too hard.
Paolo, at his station in the L1 corridor entrance, looked up from his tablet.
His cracked eyeglasses caught the light.
His black eyes went wide.
The particular wide of a man who recognized the signs and was calculating the blast radius.
Jae-min was on the Third Floor.
He did not know what was about to happen.
He would know in approximately three seconds, when Ji-yoo's voice hit a frequency that his spatial awareness would register as 'incoming' from two floors away.
Three.
Two.
One.
"GABRIEL."
Ji-yoo's voice hit the Atrium like a sonic weapon.
The Steinway piano hummed.
The LED strips flickered.
Chocho, on Mei's lap at the Command Deck terminal one floor below, pressed her ears flat and clicked once — the particular click of a creature that had been startled and was not happy about it.
Gabriel's golden eyes went very, very wide.
The particular wide of a woman who had been waiting for the explosion and was now savoring it.
"Morning, Ji-yoo~," Gabriel offered, bright, her voice the particular voice of a woman who was innocent and knew she was not. "Nice sweater~."
"That is my shirt," Ji-yoo pressed, fierce, her dark eyes locked on the thermal fabric hanging off Gabriel's shoulder. "That is Jae-min's shirt. That is MY Jae-min shirt. The shirt I wear. The shirt I sleep in. The shirt that is MINE! Take it off!"
"I do not know what you are talking about~," Gabriel returned, bright, examining her nails. "This is my shirt. I found it in the communal wardrobe~."
"There IS no communal wardrobe. That shirt was in MY room. On MY bed. You went into MY room and took MY shirt." Ji-yoo pressed, fierce, her dark eyes locked on Gabriel's face.
"Prove it~," Gabriel offered, bright.
"PROVE IT?" Ji-yoo repeated, fierce, her voice climbing. "It smells like Jae-min. It smells like ME. It smells like the particular combination of Jae-min and me that ONLY happens when I have been wearing his shirt for three months straight. That shirt smells like TERRITORY, Gabriel. That shirt smells like MINE."
"It smells like fabric softener," Gabriel returned, bright, sniffing the collar. "Mmm~. Lavender. I like lavender."
Ji-yoo took a step forward.
The particular step of a woman whose gravity-shift sense was humming beneath her feet and whose Soulcleaver was dormant in her soul and who was, at this moment, seriously considering whether summoning an eight-foot dimensional scythe in the Atrium over a shirt was proportionate.
It was proportionate.
The shirt was HERS.
"Gabriel," Ji-yoo laid out, fierce, her voice dropping to the particular low that was more dangerous than the shouting. "You have ten seconds to take off that shirt and hand it to me. If you do not, I will take it off you myself. And I will not be gentle."
"You want me to take off my shirt?" Gabriel repeated, bright, her golden eyes gleaming. "In the Atrium. In front of everyone~. Ji-yoo, are you sure? I am not wearing anything under this."
The Atrium went very, very quiet again.
Paolo's tablet hit the floor.
"I —" Ji-yoo started, fierce, then stopped. The particular stop of a woman who had been outmaneuvered and knew it. "You — that is — you did that on purpose."
"I did~," Gabriel confirmed, bright, grinning. "I absolutely did. And it worked. You should see your face right now, Ji-yoo. It is the best face. It is the face I live for."
Ji-yoo's jaw tightened.
Her dark eyes narrowed.
The particular narrowing of a woman who was recalculating and was about to change tactics.
"Fine," Ji-yoo offered, fierce, her voice going suddenly calm. The particular calm that was more terrifying than the shouting. "Keep the shirt."
Gabriel's grin flickered.
The particular flicker of a woman who had expected the war to escalate, not de-escalate.
"Keep it?" Gabriel repeated, bright, suspicious.
"Keep it," Ji-yoo confirmed, fierce, calm. "I will just take one of YOUR shirts. You have that black compression shirt. The one that is too tight. The one that shows everything. I will wear that. To breakfast. In front of Jae-min. And I will tell him you gave it to me."
Gabriel's golden eyes went wide. The particular wide of a woman who had just been outmaneuvered back.
"You would not," Gabriel offered, bright, her voice losing the brightness for the first time.
"I would," Ji-yoo confirmed, fierce, calm, smiling now. The particular smile of a twin who had won. "And I will also tell him that you were wearing his shirt with nothing underneath. And I will let HIM deal with you."
Gabriel stared at Ji-yoo.
Ji-yoo stared at Gabriel.
The Atrium held its breath.
Gabriel's mouth twitched.
Ji-yoo's mouth twitched.
Gabriel's mouth curved.
Ji-yoo's mouth curved.
Gabriel laughed.
Ji-yoo laughed.
The two women laughed in the Atrium at seven in the morning — the particular laugh of two women who had been fighting over a shirt and who had both known, the entire time, that the fight was not about a shirt.
The fight was about the particular thing that Ji-yoo and Gabriel had been doing since Day 117 — the thing where Gabriel poked, and Ji-yoo growled, and Gabriel poked harder, and Ji-yoo growled louder, and the whole thing was a game that neither of them wanted to stop playing because the game was how they showed each other they cared.
Gabriel pulled the shirt over her head.
She was, as advertised, wearing nothing underneath.
The Atrium went very quiet again.
Her breasts were full and heavy — the kind of full and heavy that the Abadia genetics had designed with a very specific purpose and that the Threshold had only amplified.
They stood high and firm on her chest, the areolas pink — pink from the soft, round circles to the nipples at their centers, pink all the way through, the kind of pink that made the Atrium go very, very quiet.
The nipples were hard in the minus-seventy air that leaked through the Atrium's entrance, hard the way a body gets hard when it is used to the cold and responds with professional indifference.
Paolo's black eyes went very wide.
Marie covered her eyes with one hand and peeked through her fingers.
Ji-yoo's dark eyes went to Gabriel's chest — to the pink — and then away and then back and then away — the away-and-back of a woman who was furious and also, against her will, impressed.
Gabriel handed the shirt to Ji-yoo.
"Here," Gabriel offered, bright. "Take your stinky shirt. It smells like twin."
"It does not stink," Ji-yoo returned, fierce, pressing the shirt to her face and inhaling. "It smells like Oppa. It smells like mine."
"You are both insane," Hua offered, sharp, from the kitchen doorway, picking up the rice pot she had set down. "Breakfast in ten minutes. Put on clothes. Both of you."
Gabriel, still shirtless, shrugged.
Ji-yoo, holding the shirt like a trophy, stuck her tongue out at Gabriel.
Gabriel stuck her tongue out back.
Jae-min's voice came from the Third Floor staircase: "What is happening down there?"
Ji-yoo and Gabriel looked at each other.
"Nothing!" they called, in unison.
Jae-min's spatial awareness told him exactly what had happened.
He sighed.
The particular sigh of a man who had been dealing with this for thirty-one days and was going to be dealing with it for the foreseeable future.
He came downstairs anyway.
Breakfast was going to be interesting.
— • • • —
Day 148. 07:30 hours.
Forbes Park.
The Peacock Mansion.
Ground Floor.
The Kitchen.
Jae-min sat at the head of the table.
Ji-yoo was on his left.
Gabriel was on his right.
Alessia was beside Ji-yoo.
Jennifer was beside Gabriel.
Yue was across from Jae-min.
Hua was at the far end, plating food.
Rico and Marie were at the opposite end.
Paolo was at the corner, between Carmen and Sofia, his cracked eyeglasses slightly crooked, his Sailor Moon doll (he had started bringing it to meals) propped against the soy sauce bottle.
Lina and Esperanza were beside Carmen and Sofia.
The orgy five — as Ji-yoo had taken to calling them — were clustered at one end of the table, eating quietly, trying not to draw attention to themselves.
This never worked, because Ji-yoo always drew attention to them.
Mei was in her wheelchair at her usual spot, Aiko beside her, Chocho on her lap.
Elena Cortez was at the thermal console station near the wall, eating standing up, her black eyes on the compound's thermal readouts.
Mark Jordan was beside Paolo, eating with the mechanical efficiency of a man who treated food as fuel.
Gabriel had put on a shirt.
The black compression shirt.
The one that was too tight.
The one that Ji-yoo had threatened to wear.
Gabriel was wearing it because Gabriel was Gabriel, and Gabriel did not back down from a dare, even a dare that she had dared herself into.
Ji-yoo was wearing Jae-min's shirt.
She had put it on over her sweater.
She was wearing both.
She was warm.
She was happy.
She was wearing her shirt.
Jae-min looked at Ji-yoo.
Then at Gabriel.
Then at Ji-yoo's shirt.
Then at Gabriel's compression shirt.
"Do I want to know?" Jae-min pressed, low.
"No," Ji-yoo returned, fierce, taking a bite of rice.
"Definitely not," Gabriel offered, bright, taking a bite of rice.
"Okay," Jae-min allowed, low, and went back to eating.
Ji-yoo waited exactly forty-five seconds.
The particular wait of a woman who had been holding something and could not hold it any longer.
"So, Oppa," Ji-yoo offered, fierce, casual, her dark eyes on her plate. "I heard something interesting."
Jae-min's chopsticks paused.
The particular pause of a man who recognized the tone and was bracing.
"What did you hear?" Jae-min allowed, flat.
"I heard," Ji-yoo continued, fierce, casual, still looking at her plate, "that someone was in the L4 Hangar yesterday. At ten in the morning. Alone. With a car."
The table went quiet.
Not the whole table — the people who didn't know what Ji-yoo was talking about went quiet because they could feel the particular energy of someone who was about to be roasted.
The people who DID know — nobody knew, actually, because Jae-min's visit to the Hangar had been private — the people who could GUESS went quiet because they recognized Ji-yoo's tone.
Elena Cortez, at the thermal console, did not look up.
Her black eyes stayed on the readouts.
Her chopsticks did not pause.
She was the particular kind of still that a person is when they are pretending very hard to not be present.
"I was doing my rounds," Jae-min offered, low, his dark eyes on his plate.
"Your rounds," Ji-yoo repeated, fierce, casual. "Your rounds that ended in the Hangar. With the GT-R. For forty-five minutes."
"I was checking the vehicles," Jae-min returned, flat.
"Checking the vehicles," Ji-yoo confirmed, fierce, casual. "For forty-five minutes. In a car that you sit inside. With the door closed."
Gabriel's golden eyes were very bright.
She was eating rice with the particular focus of a woman who was watching the show and did not want to miss a frame.
"The GT-R needed a systems check," Jae-min offered flatly.
"A systems check," Ji-yoo repeated, fiercely. She put down her chopsticks. She turned to face Jae-min. Her dark eyes were very bright. The particular bright of a twin who was about to deliver a kill shot. "Oppa. The GT-R is a combustion engine vehicle. It has been parked in a climate-controlled Hangar for one hundred and forty-seven days. It does not need a systems check. It needs nothing. It is a car. It is fine. You were not checking the car."
Jae-min's jaw tightened.
The particular tightening of a man who was cornered.
"I was reminiscing," Jae-min offered, low.
"Reminiscing," Ji-yoo repeated, fiercely. "For forty-five minutes. In a car. With the door closed. And the windows fogged."
The table erupted.
Gabriel choked on her rice.
Alessia's blue eyes went wide.
Jennifer's icy-blue eyes went wide.
Yue's marble eyes flickered — the particular flicker of a woman who was amused and was not going to show it.
Hua, at the far end, set down the serving spoon and pressed her hand over her mouth.
Rico's jaw tightened — the particular tightening of an uncle who was hearing something about his nephew that he did not want to hear.
Marie's hand went to her stomach — the particular hand-on-stomach of a pregnant woman who was trying not to laugh.
Paolo's black eyes went very wide behind his cracked eyeglasses.
He looked at Jae-min.
He looked at the table.
He looked at his Sailor Moon doll, which was smiling its permanent smile and offering no help whatsoever.
"The windows were not fogged," Jae-min offered, flat, his voice the particular flat of a man who was losing and knew it.
"Were they clear?" Ji-yoo pressed, fierce.
"They were —" Jae-min started.
"Because I checked," Ji-yoo continued, fierce. "After you left. The windows were clear. But the driver's seat was warm. And there was a smell."
Jae-min's chopsticks hit the table.
"You went to the Hangar after I left," Jae-min laid out, flat.
"I did," Ji-yoo confirmed, fierce, grinning. "I wanted to see my Z too. And when I got there, the GT-R driver's seat was warm, and the car smelled like —" she paused. The particular pause of a woman who was enjoying this too much. "— like fabric softener. Lavender. The same fabric softener that someone uses. Who is not you? And not me."
Elena Cortez, at the thermal console, very carefully did not move.
Jae-min's dark eyes found Elena Cortez across the room.
The particular finding of a man who had just realized that his secret was not as secret as he had thought.
Elena's black eyes met his for a fraction of a second — the particular fraction of a second in which a woman who was pretending to not be present acknowledged that she was present and that they both knew it — and then her eyes went back to the readouts.
Ji-yoo did not notice the exchange.
Ji-yoo was too busy enjoying the roast.
"So, Oppa," Ji-yoo offered, fierce, casual, picking up her chopsticks again. "Who were you reminiscing with? In the GT-R? For forty-five minutes? With the lavender fabric softener?"
"I was alone," Jae-min offered, flat.
"Alone," Ji-yoo repeated, fiercely. "With lavender fabric softener. In a car that does not use lavender fabric softener. Because you do not use lavender fabric softener. Because I do your laundry. And I do not use lavender fabric softener. So someone else was in that car. Someone who uses lavender fabric softener. Someone who —"
"Ji-yoo," Jae-min directed flatly.
— was sitting in your lap?" Ji-yoo finished, fierce, grinning.
The table exploded.
Gabriel laughed so hard she fell off her chair.
Alessia covered her face with both hands — her shoulders shaking.
Jennifer's icy-blue eyes were huge — her telepathy picking up the collective amusement of twenty-six people and being overwhelmed by it.
Yue's marble eyes were definitely flickering now — the particular flicker of a woman who had broken.
Hua was laughing silently, her hand over her mouth, her violet-blue eyes crinkled.
Rico had his face in his hands.
Marie was crying — not sad crying, the particular crying of a pregnant woman who was laughing too hard.
Paolo looked at his Sailor Moon doll.
The doll smiled.
Paolo whispered to the doll: "I am never going to the Hangar again."
Chocho clicked once.
The click was amused.
The particular amusement of a fox who was watching her humans embarrass each other and was enjoying it.
Jae-min's face was the color of old paper.
The particular color of a man who had been publicly roasted by his twin at the breakfast table and who was not going to recover from this for the rest of the day.
"I was checking the car," Jae-min offered, flat, one last time.
"Sure you were, Oppa," Ji-yoo returned, fierce, patting his hand. "Sure, you were. So who was —"
Jae-min looked at her.
Not the flat look.
Not the commanding look.
The other look.
The one he used approximately three times in his life — the look that went past the teasing and past the comedy and past the noise and landed on the thing that was underneath.
The thing that was always underneath.
The thing they both carried in the same place behind the same dark eyes.
"Mom and dad," Jae-min offered, low.
Two words.
Two words and the table went silent.
Not the laughing silent.
Not the silent comedy.
The real silence.
The particular silence that falls when someone says the names of the dead in a room full of people who know the story.
Ji-yoo's mouth closed.
Her dark eyes met his.
The particular meeting of twins who shared the same grief and the same memory and the same morning in a driveway when their parents had handed them keys to two cars and laughed while they screamed.
The GT-R.
The Z.
The twin presents.
The eighteenth birthday.
Hermano and Eun-hae.
Flight KE627.
The Alishan Mountains.
No survivors.
Ji-yoo's hand found his.
Under the table.
Where nobody could see.
Her fingers interlaced with his.
The particular interlacing of a twin who understood — who had understood the moment he said it — that the Hangar was not about lavender fabric softener.
The Hangar was about a white car in a climate-controlled vault that was the last physical thing their parents had given him.
And he had been sitting in it.
Remembering.
"I am sorry, Oppa," Ji-yoo offered quietly. The particular quiet of a twin who had pushed too hard and had just been pulled back. "I did not — I should not have —"
"It is okay," Jae-min allowed, low.
His hand squeezed hers.
Once.
The particular squeeze that meant I knew, and it was okay, and stop talking.
Ji-yoo stopped talking.
She ate her rice.
She did not tease him anymore.
Not about the Hangar.
Not about the car.
Not about the lavender.
The table slowly came back.
The particular coming-back of a room that had gone somewhere heavy and was now returning to the surface.
Gabriel ate her rice.
Alessia ate her rice.
Jennifer's telepathy retreated — the particular retreating of a telepath who had felt the grief through the tether and was giving it space.
Yue's marble eyes were on her plate.
Hua's hand was on her stomach.
Rico's jaw was tight — the particular tight of an uncle who had heard his nephew say the names of his dead brother and dead sister-in-law at a breakfast table and was not going to say anything about it.
The breakfast continued.
The particular continuation of a family that had grief and had food and had each other and was going to keep going because that was what Del Rosarios did.
She winked at Gabriel.
Gabriel winked back.
The pact of the two menaces held.
But Ji-yoo would not tease Jae-min about the Hangar again.
Some things were not for teasing.
Some things were for holding.
Under the table.
Where nobody could see.
— • • • —
Day 148. 14:00 hours.
Metro Manila.
The Frozen City.
1.2 kilometers north of the Peacock Mansion.
She watched.
She was on a rooftop — the frozen shell of a condo building, twelve stories up, the kind of building that had been luxury before the freeze and was now just a skeleton of glass and steel and ice.
She stood at the edge, her white winter coat blending with the snow that covered everything, her goggles reflecting the charcoal-gray sky, her balaclava hiding everything.
She could see the mansion from here.
1.2 kilometers south.
She had been watching it for a long time.
Today, she had done three things.
The first: a collapsed section of road on the north patrol route — the snow had given way over a frozen vehicle, creating a crater that would have swallowed a soldier.
She had climbed into the crater, assessed the structural integrity of the surrounding snow, and packed the edges with compacted ice — reinforcing the lip so that a patrol crossing it would not trigger a secondary collapse.
The patrol would walk over it without knowing.
The second: a frozen corpse.
A man, half-buried in the snow at the intersection of McKinley and Commerce.
He had been crawling south when he died.
She had buried him.
Not deep.
Just enough that the patrol would not see him.
Just enough that they would walk past without stopping. Without knowing.
The third: a tendril.
She had stopped when she saw it.
The tendril was thin — maybe two centimeters across.
It was the color of spoiled meat.
It was growing out of a crack in the asphalt, reaching upward through the snow, questing.
She had seen them before.
In other places.
Other rooftops.
Other patrol routes.
The tendrils were spreading.
From the crater.
Through the frozen ground, through the cracked asphalt.
Reaching.
Growing.
She had cut it.
She had a blade — a salvaged ka-bar.
She had cut the tendril at the base.
It had bled — black fluid.
It had writhed.
Then it had died.
She had buried the dead tendril in the snow.
The patrol would not see it.
But she had looked at the cut stump — the place where the tendril had been growing from the crack — and she had stayed there for a long time.
Cutting one tendril did not stop what was beneath.
Cutting ten did not.
Cutting a hundred did not.
Something was under the city.
Something was spreading.
Something was reaching for the mansion.
She turned.
She walked north, along the rooftop edge, her white coat catching the wind.
She moved without limp, without stiffness, without fatigue.
She could walk for days.
She had walked for days.
Below her, in the frozen street, a patrol was forming.
Four soldiers, emerging from the mansion's south gate, weapons up, breath fogging.
They turned north — toward the route she had cleared.
They would walk the route.
They would not find the crater.
They would not find the corpse.
They would not find the tendril.
They would report: "All clear. Route secure. Nothing to report."
Nothing to report.
She watched them from the rooftop.
She watched until they had passed the intersection of McKinley and Commerce — and they had walked over it without stopping.
Without knowing.
She disappeared into the white.