Chapter 1
Notes:
Hello, to everyone who is coming here for the first time, I want to say that I had an idea for the playlist to have songs for each chapter, but I decided that it wouldn't work, it's not necesery to listen to it, this is mainly what I listened to while writing the fic, in the future for a better experience I may put songs for certain scenes, also if you decide to listen to the playlist the songs are not in order with the chapters just something I thought you guys should know. Also the art that is in the first chapter I hope It won't be the only want if i have the time to add more will be nice, I start university in October and I don't know how much time I will have but I want to add that I have many other fanfics planned, some of them already have art because I had thought a lot about it.
This as my first fanfic didn't turn out the way I wanted it got a little sweet towards the end but I promised myself that if I have the motivation and time for the others I will try and strive to stay within the canon of the series, and again I hope people reading this for the first time will find more art in the chapters and added songs for specific scenes.https://open.spotify.com/playlist/11rs58QoY2u6L9TVuAIDX7?si=1f1941fe71034599
Chapter Text
★
Everything is happening so fast, one second Till is on stage, he’s pretty sure Luka is winning, there is loud cheering echoing in his ears – obviously it's not for him.
Ivan’s name lingers in his head the whole time; his face, is it up on the screen behind the stage, or is he imagining it? It feels as if he’s been everywhere since he died, always there, reminding him that the only reason he’s still up on that stage is because he sabotaged himself for Till.
His contestant, Luka, lifts Till’s chin up with his hand, a smile spreads over his face, it lacks any emotion, he sees Ivan in place of the man with golden, dead eyes, even now, the eyes miss something Ivan had, but Till can't pinpoint it.
He feels dizzy, unsteady, he’s pretty sure he sees pink hair in the corner of his eye, and a hand, reaching out – it’s her, he could tell no matter how different she looked now.
He reached for Mizi’s hand, fingers outstretched, almost brushing hers—
And then the sound cracked through the stage like a whip.
For a second, he didn’t register it. Just a jolt, like something had snapped inside him—sharp, wrong. Then the heat bloomed in his side, spreading fast, messy, and real. His breath hitched. His legs folded before he told them to move. The lights above spun as the floor surged up to meet him.
There wasn’t even time for pain, not really. Just confusion—then the weight. Heavy and immediate. He hit the stage hard, the echo swallowed by silence. Luka won.
Everything was slipping sideways—his vision, the lights, time itself.
Till blinked, trying to keep his eyes open, the stage swimming in and out of focus. Shapes moved through the smoke and shadows—figures climbing onto the platform, fast and low to the ground. Not aliens. Not staff. Rebels. Beside him, Mizi dropped to her knees. Her voice was tight, frantic—he couldn’t make out the words, but her hands were on him, shaking, grounding. Her face was pale, lit in flashes by the dying stage lights. She looked like she was trying not to fall apart.
Till’s eyes were on this other girl, clutching her stomach, red blooming through her fingers like spilled paint. She locked eyes with Luka—something between fury and disbelief carved into her expression. For a second, the world shrank to that look. Then someone dragged her back into the dark.
The lights above flickered violently—and then went out.
Only noise remained. Shouting, footsteps, static from the speakers. Somewhere in it, Till felt his body being pulled, or maybe just falling again. He couldn’t tell anymore.
The sound hit like a wave—gunfire, alarms, shouting from every direction. Something exploded behind the stage, too close, sending heat and smoke rolling through the space like a living thing.
Till barely registered being lifted—arms under his shoulders, dragging or carrying him, his boots scraping against the floor. His vision stuttered with every step, light flashing in bursts: red, white, orange. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, drowning everything out.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees this girl again. Her eyes locked onto Luka with something fierce—sharp and knowing. She didn’t speak. Didn’t shout over the noise. She just looked at him, like she was making sure he saw her. Then, with a grimace, she raised her free hand and made a small, deliberate gesture.
A flick of the fingers. A tilt of the head.
Follow me.
Fuck, he thinks everything hurts, his ear ringing, but at the same time, questioning why would they take that bastard with them, where are they even going, he has so many questions. They spilled into separate vehicles, engines already roaring to life in the dim light. Till barely registered the jostle as he was eased into the backseat, his head finding Mizi’s lap like a fragile anchor amid the storm. Her fingers tangled gently in his hair, steadying him, even as his vision flickered.
Through the blur, he saw someone else climb into the vehicle — a figure moving fast, tense, but his attention snapped back to the driver.
That girl again, she looks really familiar.
Blood seeped through the fabric wrapped tightly around her midsection, but her hands gripped the wheel with a fierce determination that defied her pale face. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t wince.
She just started the engine, eyes fixed forward, driving them through the darkness.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly, voice low but firm.
Till blinked, throat dry. “She’s… hurt. How can she even drive like this?”
Mizi’s gaze didn’t waver. “Hyuna knows exactly what she’s doing. If she didn’t, we’d already be dead.’’
Hyuna Hyuna Hyuna
He knows that name, of course, she lost her round during the 49th season of Alien Stage but escaped.
‘’Where… are we going?”
Mizi’s eyes flicked to the dark road ahead, her tone steady but urgent.
“To the base. The other rebels are there too.”
Till allowed himself to close his eyes for now.
★
Till’s eyelids fluttered open, heavy like curtains drawn against the light. The sharp scent of antiseptic was the first thing that hit him—a sterile contrast to the chaos he'd left behind. Above him, the ceiling was a blank, unyielding white, humming softly with the steady pulse of lights.
His body felt oddly lighter, the burning pain in his side dulled by bandages and care. Someone had already treated his wounds. The edges of the room came into focus: sparse, functional, but safe.
Mizi sat nearby, her face a calm island in the storm. Relief and exhaustion mingled in her eyes as she watched him stir.
For the first time in hours, Till let himself breathe.
Till blinked up at the white ceiling, the sterile lights humming faintly overhead. His voice came out dry and cracked. “So we made it.”
Mizi chuckles.“Yeah. Somehow.”
Mizi sat nearby, elbows on her knees, a distant look in her eyes.
“You were out cold. We thought we lost you in the truck...''
‘’You’re not getting rid of me again,’’ he chuckles. ‘’What about uh...Hyuna?”
‘’Oh, she’s fine, she is a stubborn one’’ Mizi says, leaning back on her chair.
Till turned his head again, slower this time.
“What about Luka?”
Mizi didn’t answer right away.
Her gaze dropped to the floor, fingers threading together, knuckles white. Then she sighs.
‘’I think he’s somewhere else around here. He didn’t seem to want to talk to anyone except Hyuna, and then he looked irritated when she didn’t want to talk to him…yet I guess. I mean, it’s kinda funny you should have seen him looking like a lost puppy, kicked in the corner. He acts all high and mighty, and the moment he came here, he didn’t know what to do. I don’t know, I don’t think his place is here with the rebels, but the moment Hyuna saw him, she just gestured for him to follow us. I know they have some kind of past together, she hasn’t told me the whole story.’’
‘’Damn, you don’t like him too huh?’’ Till chuckles.
Mizi shrugs. ‘’Maybe some other day I’ll tell you the story, I guess you didn’t watch round five’’
Till doesn’t comment on that, for now, he’ll keep his opinion for Luka to himself, he’s tired, and he doesn’t want to spend his time hating on a man he doesn’t deserve his attention. He is finally free, no collar, no Urak, he’s with the rebels and, most importantly, with Mizi. Everything should be fine now, or at least he thought so...
Chapter 2
Notes:
I was tryna figure out what personality to put on Luka, well I settled on this one. The next chapter is gonna be a Luka Pov.
Chapter Text
The second time Till woke up, it was to the smell of something vaguely edible and the sound of voices down the hall.
He blinked blearily at the dull ceiling, then groaned as he sat up, his side twinging like it had something to prove. Bandages tugged slightly against his skin. Someone had done a decent job patching him up. He swung his legs off the cot and stared at the floor for a moment. Concrete. Cold. Real. No lights were burning into his retinas, no collar biting into his neck, just… this.
Rebel base. Hideout. Home? Maybe.
He pulled on the shirt folded neatly at the foot of his bed — and padded barefoot into the hallway, drawn by the familiar rhythm of voices.
The hallway outside was dim, concrete and cables, but not cold. A map had been pinned lazily to the wall with inked arrows, and he followed the scent of warm food until it led him to a wide room with mismatched tables and chairs scattered around.
Not exactly a cafeteria. More like a communal crash site.
Mizi sat at one of the tables, curled around a chipped mug, a rare look of calm on her face as she spoke to someone seated across from her.
Hyuna.
She sat with the same tension she’d had behind the wheel — spine straight, hands still, sharp eyes flicking up the moment Till stepped inside.
Mizi turned at the sound too, her expression softening instantly.
“There he is,” she said, standing up and walking toward him. “Was wondering when you’d finally drag yourself out of bed.”
Till chuckles as he joins them at the table.
Footsteps — slow, hesitant.
He didn’t turn around right away, but he didn’t have to. The air in the room shifted the second Luka stepped in. That quiet, buzzing alertness. Like someone had just let a wolf into the sheep pen… except the wolf looked more like a kicked show dog now.
Till finally glanced over his shoulder.
Luka stood in the doorway, arms loose at his sides, wearing clothes that weren’t his — dark, plain, functional. His usual sleek, spotlight-ready style had been traded in for rebel-standard anonymity, and it didn’t suit him.
He wasn’t posturing. He wasn't sneering. Just… standing there. Uncertain.
His eyes flicked around the room and landed on Hyuna first. If he expected some kind of signal, he didn’t get one. She didn’t even blink.
Then he looked at Mizi.
That was shorter. Colder.
She didn’t bother hiding her glare. Her fingers tensed on the handle of her mug like she had to physically stop herself from standing.
Finally, his eyes landed on Till.
Till stared back. Blankly. No smile, no scowl — just exhaustion carved deep behind his eyes.
No one spoke.
The air in the room was thick, like it was holding something back — words, anger, whatever hadn’t bled out on that stage days ago. Luka sat like a shadow at the end of the table, posture tight, eyes fixed somewhere near the wall.
Till watched him for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke.
Quietly. Not loud. Not dramatic.
But sharp enough to cut.
“Why is he even here?”
His voice wasn’t angry — just flat. Cold. Like the question had been sitting on his tongue since the moment Luka walked in, waiting for the silence to crack wide enough to drop it.
He didn’t look at Luka when he said it.
He looked at Hyuna.
The words hung heavy in the air.
‘’Luka’s not any different. He was still on that stage. Still being used. That’s what we rebels do, we help.’’
Luka hadn’t moved since entering the room. Not a word. Not a flicker of ego. He just sat there like he didn’t deserve to speak. Luka sat motionless, eyes fixed on the wall. He didn’t speak. Didn’t twitch. But something in his jaw tensed — a subtle shift, quickly buried.
His hands rested on the table in front of him, one palm open, fingers slightly curled. Just enough to see the tremor in them.
He curled them into fists slowly, deliberately. Controlled. Contained.
Not weakness — not in front of them.
His eyes flicked briefly toward Hyuna, almost too quick to catch. Then away again.
She didn’t return the glance.
And that, somehow, was worse than words.
—Till knows Luka tried talking to Hyuna, but she refused. He's curious what happened between them.
Mizi broke the silence first, not looking at either of them.
“The point is... if you didn’t want him here, Hyuna, you shouldn’t’ve brought him.”
Hyuna’s eyes flicked toward her, unreadable.
“We’ve been over this.”
Mizi shrugged, too casually. “Yeah. But bringing more of us in means more mouths to feed. More heat. More risk every time we go out.”
She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed.
“And Luka’s not exactly low-maintenance. He needs meds, right?”
That finally drew a reaction from Luka — the faintest flinch, almost imperceptible.
Hyuna didn’t respond immediately. Just pressed her lips into a thinner line.
“We’ll manage it.”
“How? Risk a pharmacy run in Sector Twelve just so he can keep breathing right?” Mizi’s tone was dry, but her eyes were sharp.
‘’You know, if you’re gonna talk about me like I’m not in the room, at least make it interesting.”
His voice dripped with mock amusement, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.
“At this rate, I’m gonna start thinking you miss me.”
Silence.
Hyuna didn’t react. Didn’t even blink
Till watched him with that same unreadable stare, like he was trying to decide if Luka was worth speaking to at all.
Finally, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low but sharp.
“You really don’t know how to shut up, do you?”
Luka smiled — faint, crooked.
“Not when the alternative’s sitting here pretending we’re a team.”
That one hung in the air longer.
Hyuna stood suddenly, not fast, but deliberate. She took her mug, walked past Luka without a glance, and left the room.
The sound of the door closing behind her was somehow louder than anything else. No one moved.
Luka’s smirk still hovered at the edge of his face, but it looked brittle now — like it didn’t know what it was holding up anymore.
Till leaned back slightly, his arms crossed.
“So is that your thing?” he said, tone mild but cutting. “Crack a joke and hope nobody notices the mess you made?”
Luka’s eyes flicked to him — not amused, not angry. Just tired.
Luka didn’t move.
He sat there with one leg hooked over the other, arms folded like he belonged, but he hadn’t touched the food. His eyes flicked once toward the door Hyuna had left through… then didn’t look again.
Till didn’t speak.
But the longer Luka sat there — acting like he belonged, acting like he hadn’t done anything — the harder it got to stay quiet.
He thought he’d buried it. Let it go. Said he didn’t have the strength to waste on hatred anymore.
But now, Luka was right there. Breathing the same air. Wearing different clothes like it erased what happened on that stage.
And what? Till is just supposed to act like nothing happened on that stage…for a moment there when Luka got close his hands on his neck thumb touching his lip…he thought it was gonna happen again.
And all Till could see was his face — inches from his own, eyes glowing under the lights, voice low and heavy and not his, whispering in a way that didn’t belong to him at all.
Ivan.
Luka had made him see Ivan. Hear him, feel like he was still there.
It wasn’t real. Just a trick — Luka’s stupid, twisted manipulation, warping light and sound, bending memory and grief like it was a prop on stage.
Till remembered his knees shaking. His voice breaking. The crowd creaming for someone else.
He remembered Luka lifting his chin, those dead gold eyes locked onto his, full of something that almost looked like empathy. Almost. Just enough to fool him.
Till hated himself more than he hated Luka in that moment — for falling for it. For wanting to believe it.
Now here they were. Rebels. Safe. Supposedly.
And Luka was just… here. Like nothing broke.
Till’s jaw tightened. He looked away.
He remembered the memory — Ivan’s hand on his collar, the throat-clutch turned ritual, the weight of inevitability that came before the shots. The lights went dark, and Till realized: Ivan hadn’t let go of him yet. Till stared at the bottom of his cup. His reflection rippled in the water, faint and warped. He hadn’t thought about Ivan in the past ten minutes. That somehow felt worse than thinking about him all the time.
They were best friends. That was the shape of it, at least. Ivan always had his back, kept him grounded when things started slipping—when the rules of Alien Stage blurred with the ones in his own head. Ivan was steady. Stupidly brave. And now gone.
Gone, because of him.
Till swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. It wasn’t just guilt, not anymore. Ever since Round 6, he couldn’t stop thinking about Ivan. The way he looked before the final note hit. The way he grabbed him and kissed him.
The kiss.
Was that love? Was it mercy? Was it just survival—another rule Ivan broke so Till wouldn’t?
He used to think he loved Mizi. Maybe he still did, in some faded, jagged way. That feeling had been so loud, so desperate—especially when he knew she loved someone else. But Ivan… Ivan was quiet. A presence that never demanded attention. And Till had ignored him anyway.
He kept circling back to the kiss.
Ivan’s lips on his — sudden, grounding, brutal in its necessity. Not soft. Not gentle. But real. Present. It wasn’t about romance, not in the moment. It was a warning, a tether, a goodbye disguised as something else. Maybe love. Maybe not.
Till didn’t kiss back. But he didn’t pull away, either. Sometimes, in the silence, he wonders if that moment had been meant for something more. If he’d seen it too late. If Ivan had known before he did.
And then Luka—
That was different. That was theater. Calculated. When Luka touched his chin in Round 7, there was no warmth, just cold mimicry. Ivan’s face ghosted over Luka’s for a heartbeat, and it worked. Till let himself believe it was real—let himself believe Ivan was there again, saving him, forgiving him.
But it was just Luka. A trick. A performance laced with poison. It had scraped open something raw and unresolved, and now Ivan wouldn’t leave him alone. Not in his dreams. Not in Luka’s eyes. Not in the hollow echo of the kiss.
Till exhaled slowly, eyes locked on the far wall.
Was it guilt? Or something more? Was he mourning a friend or grieving something he didn’t know how to name?
He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know
★
The base never really slept, but some corners were quieter than others.
Till sat cross-legged on the edge of a table, arms draped over his knees, watching Mizi pace slowly around the dim room like her thoughts were louder than her footsteps.
Neither of them spoke much. It was one of those silences that didn’t need fixing.
He was just about to say something—anything—when a voice crackled from the hallway:
“Meeting in the main room. Now.”
Mizi stopped pacing. “Guess we’re still needed.”
The room was bigger than Till expected — a repurposed storage hangar, maybe, with high ceilings and cold cement floors. Harsh lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the mismatched chairs and scarred-up table in the center.
Maps, markers, scattered tablets, and printouts covered the surface. In one corner: crates of supplies. In another: weapons. Real ones. Not props. Guns, blades, things that looked handmade and dangerous.
Dewey stood over the table, hands braced against the edge, talking low to Isaac. Till didn’t know either of them well, but their presence had weight. They were rebels — not just the ones who saved Hyuna, but the kind people who didn’t flinch when things went loud.
A few unfamiliar faces lined the wall — rebels, sharp-eyed and silent, watching everything.
Mizi slid into a seat without a word. Till stayed standing, arms crossed loosely.
Hyuna entered last, brisk and unreadable, a data pad in one hand. She didn’t sit down.
Hyuna barely glanced up from the data pad in her hand. “Where’s Luka?”
The room went quiet for a beat — not shocked, just stiff.
It was Isaac who answered, voice low but firm. “Didn’t tell him.”
“On purpose,” Dewey added without looking up. “We don’t trust him.”
Till shifted where he stood, catching Mizi’s eyes across the table. She didn’t look surprised.
Hyuna gave a short nod, almost too casual. “Fine.”
But Till caught the flicker in her expression — not quite agreement. Not quite protesting either.
He didn’t know what it meant.
Maybe even she didn’t.
The table buzzed with low voices, quick terms, unfamiliar codes. Names and zones he didn’t know, plans he couldn’t follow.
Till ended up sitting on the metal chair, fingers laced loosely in his lap, eyes fixed on the shifting map in front of him — red lines, blinking lights, too many layers. They spoke in clipped phrases, efficient, experienced. Rebels who knew what they were doing.
The map kept blinking. Someone mentioned coordinates. Another name. Another route.
Till blinked, and the room dissolved.
★
He didn’t remember how they got here — a quieter room, somewhere deeper in the base, dimmer, low ceilings. A hum from the wall panels. The table between them was smaller now, no maps, just cold metal and a flickering lamp.
Mizi was talking.
Hyuna, too, maybe. Their voices drifted in and out, like they were underwater. He tries to focus.
"...not enough to move them all. Not yet."
"And we still don’t know who they’ll bring in for the next round," Mizi was saying. “We can’t keep reacting.”
‘’Maybe we should stay low'’ Till suddenly says. ‘’I mean, for now, I don't know how you guys usually do this, but I was thinking that maybe there should be some kind of training, not just diving right into it…’’It gives weight to Till speaking up in a room where he’s still unsure of his place.
‘’Hyuna, he’s right.’’ Mizi agrees with him. ‘’Dewey can start showing people how to use guns at least, we don't exactly have an official plan, so in the meantime we could at least do that.’’
Maybe a subtle glance exchanged between Mizi and Hyuna, or Hyuna just watching him for a second before agreeing.
Hyuna shrugs ‘’I mean yeah, sure, fine with me.’’
They kept talking long after that — laying out rough ideas, others chiming in with territory names, risk levels, outdated supply routes. Till tried to keep up, but most of it blurred together. He caught pieces: recon teams, fallback points, Hyuna explaining the structure of their cells, how they stayed hidden, how fragile it all still was.
It felt like everyone had a role already. Everyone but him. He’s not really complaining, no, he just wants to do something, but they promised him he’ll have a role in this, eventually.
He guessed that made him a rebel now. Just being here. Breathing the same air, standing in the same room, hearing plans that might get people killed. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t done anything yet — the moment he stepped off that stage, bleeding and alive, it became real.
Luka wasn’t here again.
No one said it outright, but Till could feel it — the absence was deliberate. People whispered when they thought Hyuna couldn’t hear. That she’d made a mistake bringing him. That someone like him couldn’t be trusted, not after what he did. Not after what he was in there.
Till didn't miss the part in the meeting where even Isaac and Dewey said they don't trust Luka.
And part of Till agreed. Luka is not really suited for a rebel role. He looked like he was still trying to remember how to breathe without a spotlight.
★
Till decided to take a walk; he was bored, and he didn't really know what to do with himself. He steps out onto a narrow balcony. The air outside was sharp, thin with cold. Not enough to bite, but enough to remind Till he was alive. Arms crossed over his chest, eyes tracing the dark outline of the city beyond.
Dewey was already out there, leaning back against the railing with a cigarette balanced between his fingers. The ember glowed with each inhale, casting a faint orange light across his face.
He didn’t say anything when Till stepped out — just flicked ash off the edge and looked forward, like he’d been expecting someone but didn’t care who.
Till stood there in silence, unsure if he should go back inside.
Then Dewey glanced at him. “You smoke?”
Till shook his head. “Not really.”
Dewey shrugged and held the pack out anyway.
Till hesitated. “Never tried one.”
“That’s the spirit.” Dewey handed one over and offered the lighter. “First one’s the worst. After that, it’s a slow descent into cool mysterious guy status.”
Till lit it. Coughed immediately. Dewey grinned.
“Perfect. You’re halfway there.’’
They stood like that for a moment. Quiet. Till getting used to the smoke, it felt nice.
Dewey glanced sideways. “So. You settling in, or still thinking about bolting?”
Till exhaled smoke, eyes still on the dark skyline. “I’m here.”
“That’s not a yes.”
Till shrugged. “Doesn’t feel real yet. But I never thought of leaving.’’
Dewey nodded like he got it. “Yeah, well. Nothing here does. We fake it ‘til something explodes. Then it’s real again.”
Till laughed under his breath. “Inspiring.”
“Hey, I do what I can.”
They didn’t say anything for a while after that. Just two guys on a busted balcony, pretending the world hadn’t ended — or maybe just figuring out what to do now that it had.
★
The cafeteria—or whatever passed for one—was louder than usual. The long tables buzzed with tired laughter, scraps of inside jokes passed between rebels too exhausted to care if they were funny. Mizi sat across from Till, her tray half-eaten, hands moving as she told some story that had Hyuna snorting into her drink. For a second, it felt… normal.
Till wasn’t laughing, but he was listening. He let the warmth of the scene settle against his skin, trying to soak it in before reality caught up again.
The door opened.
It wasn’t loud, just the soft hiss of old hinges—but it cut through the noise anyway. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. And then Luka stood in the doorway, like a glitch in the room’s rhythm.
He looked washed out under the pale lights, out of place in every possible way. He didn’t say anything. Just scanned the room with those unreadable gold eyes.
Till watched him.
Nobody said it, but the message was clear. The way shoulders stiffened. The way no one gestured for him to join. Not even Hyuna looked up.
Luka stood there for another second too long.
Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and left.
Till didn’t follow him with his eyes. He just picked up his cup, fingers tight around the handle. His food didn’t taste like anything anymore.
He was used to being the one unwelcome.
Now someone else wore that look.
It’s not about stripping away Luka’s power; it’s about stripping away the illusion that he ever had a real connection. He’s not used to being on the outside looking in, and now that he is , he’s not even sure who he is without the applause, without the love, without the mask.
A prisoner with no cage, freedom that feels like exile.
And Till was kinda enjoying it.
Hyuna suddenly stood up.
Not abruptly. Not with anger. Just a quiet, tired sigh — the kind that carried weight and command without needing volume. The kind people noticed.
Conversations around the table dimmed for a beat. Mizi glanced up but didn’t say anything. No one did.
She didn’t explain. Didn’t announce. She just walked out.
Till watched her go, jaw tightening. He didn’t know what annoyed him more — Luka showing up at all, or Hyuna deciding to care now.
Chapter 3
Notes:
Finally, a Luka pov. It's a canon, by the way, that Till admired Luka, and Urak wanted Till to be more like Luka. And he thought it was a great honor to sing with him in the final round. Pretty sure those heart tests were canon too.
Chapter Text
He didn’t expect her to come after him.
Not really.
He had left quietly, too proud to sit under the weight of their stares, too worn down to pretend it didn’t matter. It did. Of course it did. But he’d die before he left that show.
The corridor outside the cafeteria was cold. Bare walls, humming lights. Somewhere far away, someone laughed. He hated that it sounded so normal.
Footsteps behind him.
He knew it was her before she spoke.
Hyuna.
Luka didn’t turn around. Didn’t breathe.
He’d spent years memorizing that sound — the way her boots struck the ground, steady and sharp, like she was born to lead. Even now, something in him reacted to it, instinctively, painfully.
And still… he couldn’t make himself look at her.
She stopped a few feet away. He felt it — the stillness, the silence thickening around them like fog.
Luka stared ahead at nothing. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. Say something. Anything.
But the words tangled up. Apologies. Explanations. Questions.
He wanted to say he was sorry.
He glanced at her, finally — just enough to catch the edge of her profile, unreadable as always. She looked older now. Harder. He wondered if she ever missed the boy he used to be. The one who trembled every time she smiled at him.
Now she wouldn’t even look him in the eyes.
He wanted to ask her why she brought him here. If she hated him so much — why not just leave him behind?
But he didn’t. He stood there in the silence like a statue carved out of guilt and pride and regret.
Hyuna didn’t look at him when she spoke.
He waited — a question, an insult, even a command. But Hyuna just stood there like the silence between them had already answered everything.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to let her eyes meet his.
“You’ve changed,” she said quietly. “So much.”
Luka didn’t breathe.
Hyuna’s gaze flicked over him, as if trying to match the man in front of her with the boy from Anakt Garden.
“I just… I can’t tell if it’s for better or worse.”
He swallowed hard. The cold in his chest deepened.
“Hyuna…”
His voice cracked — just barely — but it was enough. He hated how desperate it sounded. How small.
She looked away again.
“I used to think I knew you better than anyone,” Hyuna continued, voice low. “Back at Anakt Garden. You were... everything to us. Me. Hyunwoo.”
The name landed between them like a knife. Luka flinched — barely — but she saw it.
Hyuna didn’t push it.
“I miss that boy sometimes,” she said. “The one who used to laugh even when he was scared. The one who would drag me out of the dorm just to stare at the sky.”
She let out a breath, almost a laugh — but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I don’t know if that was really you,” she said. “Or just someone we imagined.”
Luka finally looked at her, and his voice came out quiet, almost childlike.
“It was me.”
He said, and it didn’t sound convincing — just hollow. Like he needed her to believe it more than he did himself.
Hyuna looked at him for a long moment. Her expression was unreadable. She wasn’t angry. Just… tired.
“I loved you,” she said. Or at least I thought so…We were kids.
The words weren’t soft. They were steady, sharp. Like a truth she’d been keeping pressed under her tongue.
“Not just as a friend. You were Luka. And I thought that meant something.”
Luka’s lips parted, but no sound came.
She went on, gentler now. “But then everything happened. And I couldn’t trust what I felt anymore. Every time I looked at you, all I could think was… what if I’m wrong about you too?”
Her voice dropped to almost a whisper.
“I didn’t stop caring, Luka. That’s the worst part.”
She turned her head, blinking fast.
“You scare me now. Because you still feel like home. And I don’t know what that says about me.”
He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head.
“You know, I’ve been wondering this whole time… why am I even here?”
He didn’t look at her when he said it. He was staring at the floor, hands deep in his pockets, like he might vanish into the shadows if he stood still enough.
“I belong to the Alien Stage. I’m good at that. Bleeding in front of cameras. Saying what they want. Pretending I’m whole.”
He looked up finally, something hollow in his eyes.
“I’m not built for this rebel redemption arc. I break things. I break people. You know that better than anyone.”
A pause. He gave a crooked, humorless smile.
“I'm not trying to be ungrateful, maybe I do deserve this treatment, I guess it’s fitting, though. Being here, but not really here. Everyone looks at me like I’m still one of them.
His smile curled again — but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I used to need attention to breathe. Now I get silence. Distrust. A locked door between every sentence.”
He took a step back, just slightly, like the distance made it easier to keep pretending.
“Maybe that’s the price. For everything I did. For everything I was.”
Hyuna finally looked at him, really looked — and there was no softness in her eyes.
“You want pity now?”
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through him sharper than any scream could have.
“I lost my brother, Luka. I watched you fall apart and never once did you try to explain. Not then. Not after. You just disappeared into that stage and turned into someone none of us could recognize.”
She shook her head slightly, something bitter on her tongue.
“If this is your way of asking to be forgiven, you’re going about it wrong.”
She looked at him like she didn’t know him anymore.
Maybe she didn’t.
But what could he say? That he never wanted to become this? That the stage turned people into things — glittering, broken things? That losing wasn’t an option, not when punishment came with silence, with pain, with being forgotten ?
He’d learned how to smile through it. How to sing, and shine, and win. Because losing meant not existing at all .
He wasn’t allowed to fail. Not once. And the shame of that — of being fragile, of being sick, of gasping for air when no one cared — never really left.
They didn’t see it. Not Hyuna, not anyone.
He wasn’t made for freedom. He was built for performance.
Luka exhaled — not a breath of relief, but something heavier, tired. He shook his head, eyes somewhere past her shoulder.
“Forget it,” he muttered, voice low, then turned, steps already pulling him away.
Hyuna didn’t move at first.
Then—
“So you’re just gonna run away again?”
He didn’t look back.
★
The hallway was quiet — too quiet. Luka hated silence. On stage, silence meant failure. In the garden, it meant punishment. Here… it just meant thinking .
And right now, thinking was the worst thing he could do.
He sat down on a crate pushed against the wall, hands trembling in the cold or maybe just in memory.
Till.
He hadn’t meant to look him in the eye during the round. Hadn’t meant to pull that trick — but he did. He always did. Because performance was all he was .
He saw the way Till’s expression cracked, the hope flickering in his eyes before reality set in.
He remembered the gunshot.
Luka swallowed hard, throat dry.
Till used to look up to him. Back then, when Luka still had that goddamn shine, before it all rusted out. He knew it. He’d seen it in the way Till watched him backstage — not envy, not awe… admiration.
And Luka had destroyed it. Like he destroyed everything.
He remembers the blinding lights — the kind that turned people into gods or ghosts.
Till was lying there on the stage, blood pooling under him, eyes wide, fading. And then came Hyuna and Mizi — storming in like they had nothing left to lose, the rebels behind them chaos crashing through perfection.
They came for him . For Till.
No one ever came for Luka.
Not when he fell. Not when he failed.
Not even Hyuna.
She only took him now out of some sense of duty, maybe guilt. Like a weight around her neck — not a choice, just a burden.
Luka let out a dry laugh, head tipped back against the wall. It echoed too loud in the empty corridor.
He had once been the crown jewel of Alien Stage. People cheered his name like a hymn. Now? He was an afterthought. An extra. An inconvenience.
Not a rebel. Not one of them . Just a reminder of everything that went wrong.
And yet here he was.
Saved.
How funny.
Or tragic.
He couldn’t decide which.
The door shut behind him with a dull thud. Luka didn’t bother turning on the lights. The room was bare, like a box with no windows, just a bed and the silence pressing down on him.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. The tips of his fingers trembled faintly, like they always did after too much thinking.
He kept going back to that day — when the rebels stormed in and everything shattered like glass. They fled with fire behind them and nothing planned ahead. He hadn’t known where they were going. He hadn’t cared. All he knew was Hyuna was there, and he had followed.
Like a ghost trailing her shadow.
He had stuck close on instinct, practically clinging to her side. She was the only thing familiar in the chaos. But she hadn’t looked at him — not really. Not once.
Not during the ride.
Not when they arrived.
Not when he whispered her name.
He told himself it was fine. That he deserved it. That it was easier this way.
But even now, in the cold dark of the room, he felt the ache where her attention used to be
His stomach growled.
Pathetic, really. He barely noticed it anymore. Just another dull ache layered beneath everything else.
The first time, he told himself he’d play it cool. Act unbothered. Familiar.
Like the old Luka. The one they couldn’t stop watching.
He remembered walking into the cafeteria. The second he stepped through the doorway, the air changed — like someone had opened a window to a winter storm. Eyes. So many eyes. Not one of them kind.
He told himself it didn’t matter. That it was just food. That he wasn’t hungry anyway.
But some small, rotting hope had flickered inside him. Maybe… maybe Hyuna would look up and say “Come sit.” Maybe someone would pretend, for just a second, that he belonged here.
But she didn’t say anything.
And neither did anyone else.
So he stood there like an idiot—half-waiting, half-rooted to the floor—until Mizi’s voice cut through the murmur of conversation like a scalpel.
“Why bring someone who needs special meds? That’s more risk, more supply runs. For him. ”
She hadn’t even looked at him. None of them did.
They talked about him like he wasn’t there, like some burden left on their doorstep.
And then Till — icy, sharp, so different from the boy who once stared at Luka on stage like he was untouchable — finally said it.
“Why is he even here?”
Not a shout. Just a quiet blade meant for Luka's throat.
And he… had smiled. Or whatever his face did now when it had to survive something. Something crooked, cocky — a little too loud.
He’d said something like, “Glad to see I’m still the center of attention.”
He gave her that crooked grin, all teeth and nerves wrapped in old performance skin. Tried to make it a joke, something easy.
She stood up and left.
No words. No warning. Just gone.
And Luka? He stayed frozen for a moment, hand twitching like it had meant to reach out, like he hadn’t meant to fuck it up again.
And then he sat anyway. Pretended he didn’t care.
Didn’t eat. Didn’t speak.
The second time, he didn’t even pretend. He just stood there in the doorway again, hungry and humiliated.
Maybe this time would be different.
It wasn’t.
there were even more people, giving him the cold shoulder so he turned on his heel and left
Because staying would’ve broken him.
He hadn’t asked about the meeting.
Didn’t need to.
He knew there was one.
He wasn’t invited.
He wasn't surprised either — not really.
They didn’t trust him. Why would they? Even he wouldn’t trust himself.
Still, it burned. Quietly. Under the skin like a low fever.
They looked at him like he was dangerous, unstable — like he was still one of them , the stage's pet, the favored doll of something much darker.
But that was the part no one said out loud.
They forgot he knew everything.
Every corridor in Anakt Garden, every rule bent and twisted, every spotlight trick meant to break the mind just right.
He knew the names of the guards that liked to punish kids too much. Knew which contestants never made it past rehearsal — and why.
He knew what they made you give up to stay alive.
And what they took anyway.
So yeah. He could help. He could really help.
But they didn’t want that.
They just wanted him to disappear quietly — maybe feel bad enough to stay out of their way.
And he was doing a damn good job of that, wasn’t he?
But it wasn’t just the rebels shutting him out that stung.
It was her .
Hyuna.
The hallway felt like a bruise now, pressed too hard by the memory of her voice — low, tired, distant.
She’d looked at him like someone she used to know.
Not like someone she missed. Not even like someone she hated.
Just… someone irrelevant.
He could live with hatred. He was used to it.
But the indifference — that hurt .
He stared at the ceiling.
His chest rose slowly.
Tight.
He remembered her hand on his back once, years ago.
Another place. Another name.
Anakt Garden.
He closes his eyes, and the room disappears.
What comes instead is green.
Not the real kind. The color was always too even. The sky too still. A dome stretched overhead painted with clouds that never moved. But to a child with no windows, it had been everything.
Anakt Garden.
The grass had always been cold. Too perfect. Trimmed every morning by something not quite human. Flowers arranged in rows like they were performing, too.
He remembers lying there once. His throat clenched. Chest seizing. Couldn’t get enough air in. Couldn’t sit up.
And then—small hands. Warm. Pressed to his back. Hyuna.
She didn’t speak. She never needed to.
He remembers the scent of fake lavender. Her shadow cast across his face. She didn’t leave until he could breathe again.
He was young the first time they put him in the water.
Not for a bath. Not to learn how to swim.
But to see how long he could last.
His owner called it a “test.”
The doctors called it “research.”
But Luka only remembered the silence that came after the bubbles stopped.
They would let him breathe again. Then do it again.
Again.
Again.
The first time, he cried. The second, he begged. By the fifth, he didn’t make a sound. That’s when they called him a promising subject.
Some days, it wasn’t water. Sometimes it was treadmills and injections. Sometimes ice baths. They called it stress testing. They wanted to know what broke him first—the lungs or the heart.
He never told Hyuna.
Not once.
She had her own pain, and there was something about hers that felt cleaner, purer. She was fire. He was rot.
They told him he was a failure. His lungs were weak. His heart arrhythmic. No alien would want a contestant that dropped dead mid-performance. But his owner smiled, thin-lipped and calm, and said:
“Then we train him not to die.”
And so they did.
Hyuna became his anchor. Her calm presence helped him through asthma attacks and breakdowns—she was his only real human connection amid cruelty and control
He’d stopped counting the days since they arrived. But he still counted his fingers sometimes — one, two, three — a reflex from back then.
Heperu used to tell him to do that. “Count until you forget to feel.”
The room was cold. Or maybe he was just always cold.
He curled his toes into the blanket, barely registering the hunger buzzing in the back of his mind
He hadn’t been built to belong anywhere.
Heperu made him in a lab and trained him in pools—holding him under just to see when his heart would give out. He still remembered the feeling of water in his lungs. Not drowning. Just... waiting.
Again and again. Reset. Again.
The only one who ever reached in—who ever saw him choke on his own panic and didn’t flinch—was Hyuna.
He would panic and she would sit next to him, not say a word, just let him breathe in her rhythm.
It used to work. He hated that it still might.
He tried to kiss her once, stupidly. She pulled away so fast, like he’d burned her.
Now he wondered if she only stayed back then out of guilt.
Maybe she feels the same now. The hallway earlier—her voice was calm but empty.
She still looked at him like he was a ghost from a memory she’d rather not keep.
And maybe that’s what he was. A phantom of what Heperu made. A breathing statue with lungs that betrayed him.
He was supposed to be perfect. A winner. The others called it “Luka Syndrome.” Screaming fans. Bright lights. Immortality.
He didn’t even remember when the fear of death stopped being a fear and started being the expectation.
It wasn’t just the pool tests. It wasn’t just the exhaustion or the shaking hands or the gasping lungs.
It was Heperu.
Heperu, who once stopped his heart—on purpose. Just to see what would happen. Just to watch the panic rise in his eyes as the world dimmed and blurred, his body convulsing, silence crashing in.
“Don’t die,” they had whispered like it was a joke. “Not until you win.”
And so Luka had. Over and over. Because death wasn’t abstract—it had touched him, sat beside him like an old friend, waited patiently at the edge of every performance.
It made sense now, he guessed. Why he clung to every victory like it was breath. Why losing even once felt like drowning all over again.
They had taught him not to want to live. Only to survive.
There were things no one ever saw.
Because they were cut out. Erased. Unimportant.
Like how after the “training,” he used to bleed—quietly, alone, curled up on cold tile floors where no one would look for him. The floor always seemed to take it better than he did. Maybe because it didn’t shake. Maybe because it never felt.
And the worst wasn’t Heperu. Not even the drowning, not even the moment his heart stopped like someone flipping a switch.
The worst was waving to the others.
The ones from Anakt. The ones who smiled at each other and never at him.
They didn’t wave back.
They never did.
And so Luka smiled harder. Brighter. Perfect.
Then turned the corner.
And slapped himself. Again and again until he felt something, anything—until he remembered how to cry without making a sound.
He doesn’t let himself think about Hyunwoo.
Not properly. Not as a person. Just…
a moment. A blur. A scream. A rock.
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
He hadn’t meant to fight. He just—
wanted Hyunwoo to stop. To stop pushing, stop yelling, stop dragging Hyuna further away.
But Luka wasn’t built to accept things the way other kids were. He snapped—the way they’d taught him to, hadn’t they? React or die. Fight or drown.
He remembers blood. His hands were shaking. Hyunwoo still.
And Hyuna’s face when she saw him.
He’s not sure what hurt more—Hyunwoo on the ground or Hyuna looking at him like he was already dead
★
No one stops him now. No lines to be cut, no one slapping his wrist, muttering “watch your portions.”
He could eat.
But his body doesn’t want to. Or maybe it does, but it’s forgotten how to ask.
Luka sits with his stomach knotted, gaze flicking to the others. Laughing. Chewing. Living.
He wonders how they make it look so easy.
Back then, he used to steal bites in secret—he’d take a scolding if it meant one full spoon.
Now the plate stays full. And cold. And untouched.
It’s not hunger. It’s memory, tangled in his gut like wire.and how could he just sit there and eat with those people, he remembers when he won, his owner offered his something he was hesitant but realised he can’t really refuse it, at first he hated it then he learned how to handle it he learned again how to handle it with confidence and not to affect him, he was a people pleaser after all.
He’d been rewarded, in the end. Not with rest, but with touch. Alien hands, lacquered smiles, the pressure to perform—again and again. They’d said he was beautiful. Said he was special.
“And he was. He’d learned how to be.”
“They liked it when he moaned. So he did. They liked it when he bled, sometimes. He didn’t mind. He knew what they wanted. And if that meant he wasn’t hungry the next day, or got to sleep without shocks, that was just smart.”
He was escorted to a different wing of the compound. He knew the hallway already—he’d seen others go there and not come back for a while. Some came back changed. Some didn’t come back at all.
His owner didn’t explain. Just said: “You’re valuable now.”
So Luka learned. How to act like he wanted it. How to please them—aliens with cold hands and glittering eyes. Some were delicate. Some were brutal. Some didn’t speak. Some wanted him to cry. Some paid extra for silence.
He was good at it. That was the part that mattered.
He figured it out fast—how to breathe right, how to move, when to flinch and when to lean in. How to fake hunger, fake devotion, fake need. He wasn’t punished when he did it right. Sometimes he got extra food. Sometimes, meds.
Better than the pool.
Better than the tests.
Better than being useless.
He started to think maybe this was what he was actually built for—not the stage, not the lights. Just this. Just body, not voice.
He gets back to the present, staying here, he realizes how he hates overthinking, he hates being in his head
They taught him how to be perfect. But they never taught him how to be good.
He doesn't know how to say sorry. He doesn't know how to eat without choking. He doesn't know how to stay in a room full of people who hate him and not laugh like it's a joke.
He should sleep. He won’t.
He should get up. He doesn’t.
Tomorrow, they'll still hate him. He might even agree with them.
The silence in the room wraps around him like a second skin. He’s lying there, unmoving, but his thoughts won’t stop echoing.
He hasn't cried. He never does. At least not anymore. But something in his chest feels raw—like the cold pool tiles beneath him during those tests. Like he’s always been meant to lie still and survive it.
His throat feels dry.
The air feels thin.
Luka gets up.
No one hears him leave. The corridors of the rebel base are dim and uneven in light, flickering weakly from some old system they never fully fixed. His steps are soft—habitual quiet, learned from years of needing to disappear even when he was the one everyone watched.
He passes the meeting room. The cafeteria. Everything looks different at night.
He finds something to drink, juice, maybe. Luka doesn’t care. He pours himself a glass with slow, steady hands, the sound of liquid hitting glass too loud in the quiet.
On the counter, there’s half a loaf of bread. Some dried fruit. Crackers sealed in a tin. Someone must’ve left it out for late rounds or lazy mornings
That’s honestly pathetic… he looks pathetic….
He stands there, bare feet planted against the cold tile, eating like he’s stealing it. Like he’s breaking a rule.
He wonders if they’ll notice anything missing. He wonders if they’d care.
He finishes the glass, sets it down with a soft clink, and stares at his reflection in the dark window above the sink.
No stage lights.
Just him.
Alone, and quiet.
He doesn’t feel like going back to bed.
The quiet inside the base feels heavier at night. No voices, no shuffling boots, no one watching him. For once, no stares. Just silence.
He notices the balcony—metal railing, part of the old structure. Someone probably comes out here to smoke, or breathe when the air inside gets too tight. He walks to it without thinking.
The night air is cold, but not cruel. Still, it bites at his skin. He steps closer to the edge,
He leans on the railing and looks up. The stars don’t care who he is. What he’s done. They don’t flinch at his name.
It’s… relieving.
His breath fogs out in the cold, and for a moment, he watches it vanish. Like everything else.
It would be easy to disappear out here. Not in the dramatic way—not in a jump kind of way—but just… slowly. Quietly. One night after another.
Luka closes his eyes and lets the night wind cut into him, just a little. Just enough to remind him he's still here.
Luka doesn’t move when the balcony door slides open behind him.
The cold air shifts. Soft steps. A pause. Then a flick—Till lights a cigarette, the glow briefly lighting his face.
Till mutters, taking a drag. “Hiding again?”
Luka doesn’t respond. He leans on the railing, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of nothing in front of them.
Till steps closer. Not too close. Just enough. He exhales smoke into the night, then holds the pack out toward Luka without looking.
Luka blinks at it. For a second, he thinks Till’s joking.
He glances at the cigarette, then back at Till. “Really?”
Till finally turns his head. “What?”
“I have asthma,” Luka says flatly.
A beat. Then Till lets out a laugh—dry, humorless. “Right. Forgot your lungs are as fake as your charm.”
He rolls his eyes, scoffs under his breath, and walks away—back into the base, not saying a single thing.
Till stays there, cigarette burning, watching the door swing shut behind him.
Luka walks back inside, the cold air still clinging to his skin. He doesn’t go far. Just slumps into one of the chairs in the dim kitchen space, legs splayed out, staring at the wall like it’s trying to say something to him.
He’s not sure why he doesn’t go back to his room. Maybe part of him is still waiting—for what, he doesn’t know. Regret, maybe. Or punishment.
The balcony door creaks open again after a while. Till steps in, the smell of smoke trailing behind him.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
Just look at Luka.
Luka doesn’t look back.
The silence stretches, tight like wire.
‘’What, are you following me now?"
Till leans against the wall near the door, arms crossed.
"Didn’t know the kitchen was yours. My bad."
A pause. Luka finally glances at him, eyes sharp, dark under the dim light.
"Don't expect an apology, dear…If that’s what you’re waiting and hoping for."
‘’Oh, believe me. You’d choke on the word.” Till scoffed.
Till leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Funny. I used to think you meant everything.”
Luka turned slightly, brows furrowed, skeptical. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, I used to look up to you.” The words came sharp, like he resented every syllable. “Back at the Garden—before I even made it to the Stage. My owner used to say, ‘Watch Luka. Train like him. Be like him.’’
Luka’s lips curled faintly. “Wasn’t meant to inspire.”
“Yeah,” Till said, low. “I figured that out around the time I was passing out from exhaustion just to hit your goddamn numbers.”
‘’You can’t be like me.”
Till blinked. “Excuse me?”
“No one can.” Luka wasn’t looking at him anymore—he was somewhere else entirely, gaze distant. “And they shouldn’t want to.”
But it landed wrong. Till’s expression twisted.
“Right,” he said. “There it is. Classic. No one measures up. No one understands.”
Luka flinched like he wanted to explain, but Till was already pushing forward.
“Guess all that time alone at the top made you forget what the bottom feels like.”
‘’Funny. You know who else people used to say that about?”
Till doesn’t respond, but Luka continues anyway.
“Ivan. He was adored. Trusted. And still…” Luka breathes a laugh, bitter and flat. “He had his secrets. Just like me.”
Till’s head jerks, eyes narrowing. “Don’t.”
Luka glances at him now, brow raised. “What?”
“Don’t you dare say you’re like him.”
“I didn’t say I was. I said people—”
“You’re not,” Till snaps, louder this time. “Don’t put his name in your mouth like that.”
Luka watches him for a second. Then shrugs. “Struck a nerve.”
“You wish you were half the person he was.”
Till stands there, eyes narrowing slightly. “You really have no shame,” he says, voice low, almost tired. “Comparing yourself to him.”
Luka doesn’t answer. His stare lingers on Till, unreadable.
“You think just because people liked him and people liked you, that makes you the same?” Till laughs — sharp, humorless. “Ivan was—he mattered.”
There’s a pause. The weight of the name hangs between them.
“You… don’t get to drag him into your self-pity circus,” Till adds, tone colder now. “You don’t deserve that.”
He doesn’t wait for Luka to respond. He steps back, jaw tight, then turns to go.
Luka doesn’t move at first. Just sits there, the silence stretching out, pressing in.
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched — not out of anger, not really. Just… exhaustion. Like he’s chasing his own shadow in circles and keeps wondering why he ends up in the dark.
“You keep wondering why no one here wants you.”
He lets out a bitter breath. Not a laugh. Not quite.
Because if they already hate him… why not make it easier?
He closes his eyes, lets the silence wash over him. He doesn’t feel dramatic. He just feels done.
But the worst part?
A small, buried part of him still wanted Till to stay.
Till’s words still echo, louder than they should: “I used to admire you.”
It shouldn’t matter. Luka’s been called a lot of things in his life — idol, prodigy, perfect — most of them lies. But that? From Till?
He squeezes his eyes shut, the back of his throat tightening.
It hits differently, because he remembers. Back then, in the colder days before Round 7, in that sterilized, polished hell they trained in — Till always watched him. From the corner of the room, always quiet. Eyes burning, not with hatred like now, but something like awe. Luka never acknowledged it. Never knew what to do with that kind of gaze. He barely knew what to do with himself.
And now?
Now he’s ruined that, too.
He scoffs softly. He always ruins it.
Till had admired him once. Probably imagined him as strong, collected — someone worth becoming.
He’s pretty sure that once, when they were training, Till called him “hyung.” Luka didn’t know how to feel about that. Till immediately looked embarrassed, it was almost cute.
But Luka knows what he really was: a polished cage of panic, a boy trained not to breathe unless ordered. Till didn’t see that. No one did.
And now? Now they all see too much.
He leans back, pressing his head to the wall behind him, eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling.
Till finally said it out loud — what Luka had always suspected. That quiet reverence. That belief in him. And Luka, the idiot that he is, couldn’t even let that memory stay untouched.
He had to taint it.
Again.
He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. A reminder. That he’s still here. That he still can’t seem to not destroy the few things that ever meant something.
Maybe that’s what he deserves.
It’s too loud in his head.
He hates this part.
The quiet.
The stillness.
He stands, not even sure when he decided to move.
His legs feel heavy as he crosses the common space. Past the dim light spilling in from the hallway, past the silence that stretches like a warning.
Back to his room.
He doesn’t even bother closing the door fully. Just let it click halfway shut behind him.
He’ll try to sleep.
Even if he knows he won’t.
But it’s better than staying awake. Better than thinking.
Better than feeling this.
Chapter 4
Notes:
I love to write Dewey and Till; they're hilarious.
Chapter Text
His morning already started wrong by remembering what happened last night, the nerve this bastard had.
And it wasn’t just the comparison. It was the nerve. The gall of Luka to say something like that, like Till wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t feel that punch between his ribs.
Till’s fork clattered to the plate. Mizi glanced at him. Hyuna didn’t. She hadn’t said anything since sitting down.
He didn’t say anything either.
Because what was he supposed to do? Admit it got to him? That Luka still knew how to push past his armor, even if accidentally?
He just needed to breathe. Or punch something.
Or both.
Till leaned back in his chair, pulling the half-crushed cigarette pack from his jacket pocket. He lit one like it was muscle memory, jaw set, fingers a little too tight on the lighter.
Mizi wrinkled her nose. “Since when do you smoke?”
Till exhaled slowly, the smoke curling upward like a sigh. “Blame Dewey,” he said, flicking ash into his tray. “Bad influence.”
Hyuna snorted into her cup. “Right. Because you were the picture of innocence before.”
That pulled a twitch of a smile out of him. Barely.
“So you and Dewey…”
“God, no shut up”
He laughs along with the others, flicking ash into the tray, but the warmth doesn’t touch him. It’s all just noise, movement—just something to keep his head busy.
Because if he stops for even a second, it comes crawling back.
Till catches movement from the corner of his eye.
And there he is.
Luka.
Still looking like he hadn’t slept. Still looking like he owned the damn room.
He strolls in slowly, like he’s modeling for someone. Hands in his pockets. Chin tilted up just enough to be annoying. And that little smirk—that unbearable little smirk—already pulling at his lips.
“Wow,” Mizi mutters. “Look who decided to join the living.”
Luka doesn’t flinch. Don't even look at her.
Instead, he heads straight toward the counter, pours himself something like he isn’t being dissected by every eye in the room. Like he hasn’t been the topic of every whispered conversation for days.
Till blows smoke out through his teeth, watching. Waiting.
“You really don’t realize much, do you?” he says, voice low, like a dare. “Or are you just pretending again?”
Luka raises a brow. “Pretending? Darling, if I started pretending, I’d pretend to give a damn about what you think.”
Hyuna looks between them, tense but not interfering. Mizi slowly leans back, like she’s watching a show she didn’t pay for but definitely won’t stop now.
Till lets out a short laugh—mean, bitter. “Right. That’s what you always do. Smile, smirk, say something clever.’’
Luka leans against the cafeteria table, way too relaxed for someone clearly not welcome.
“Don’t get up,” he says, flashing his usual grin. “I won’t steal your spotlight. Wouldn’t dare.”
Till doesn’t look up. “Then don’t talk.”
“Ouch,” Luka says, mock-pouting. “So cold. I thought you rebels were all about community.”
Till exhales sharply through his nose, still not looking at him. “You wouldn’t know what that means if it punched you in the face.”
Luka snickers. “Guess you’re volunteering, then?”
That finally gets Till to glance up — and the glare is deadly. “Why are you even here? You ruin every room you walk into.”
Luka shrugs, clearly unfazed. “Talent.”
Till stands. Chairs scrape. The mood shifts fast.
“God, you think this is funny?” he snaps. “You stroll in like you matter, like no one remembers the shit you’ve done—like you’re some kind of misunderstood genius.”
Luka blinks slowly, then tilts his head. “I am misunderstood.”
Till doesn’t hesitate.
SLAP.
It’s loud, sudden, and Luka’s smile drops for the first time. He blinks, stunned—but still standing.
Mizi gasps under her breath. Hyuna doesn’t move.
Luka slowly turns his face back toward Till, cheek red, expression unreadable.
‘’Feel better now?” he says, voice velvety smooth. “Or do you need to hit me a few more times to process your unresolved issues?”
Till shoves him.
Hard.
Luka stumbles back a step, but doesn’t lose his footing. His grin fades a little—not out of fear, more like disappointment.
“Don’t,” Luka says lowly, lifting a hand between them. “You don’t want to do this.”
From behind, Hyuna stands sharply. Her chair screeches against the floor. Mizi grabs her arm, but Hyuna doesn’t move.
Her breath’s caught. Hands trembling just slightly.
She’s seeing something else.
Hyunwoo. Blood. Luka’s hands.
The silence stretches for a second too long.
Luka glances toward her—just for a second—and when he looks back at Till, he’s no longer smiling.
“I told you,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t want this.”
And for the first time, there’s something tired in his voice. Something that isn’t playing games.
Till’s chest rises and falls too quickly. His fists are still clenched, but something flickers in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Of the line he just crossed. Of the silence ringing around them.
Luka stands still for a second, not meeting anyone’s gaze. His cheek is already flushed a deep red, swelling near the bone. A thin trickle of blood slides from his nose, not much, but enough to stain his lip. His skin is pale, always too pale, and bruises bloom like ink beneath the surface with barely a touch.
He brings a hand to his face, wipes the blood carelessly with the back of his sleeve. Doesn’t look at Till. Doesn’t look at Hyuna.
Then he turns on his heel and walks out, one shoulder slightly curled inward, like even that one blow was enough to jar something deeper loose.
Hyuna sits down slowly, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Her fingers are digging into the edge of the table.
No one speaks.
And Luka’s footsteps echo down the hallway like a closing door.
Till stays seated, trying to ground himself, the tension still thick around him. Then—
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hyuna stand. Quietly. No words. No dramatic exit. She just leaves her tray and follows the direction Luka went.
And that… that does something strange to him.
He doesn’t say her name, doesn’t stop her. But his jaw tightens, and he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to keep something down.
He doesn’t get her.
★
Luka’s cheek throbbed. Every pulse echoed behind his eyes like a warning. He could still feel Till’s hand — the shape of it — stinging across his face. He didn’t know if it was from pain or shame or something worse.
He pressed the back of his hand under his nose. Blood. Of course.
He didn’t cry. Not now. Not for them.
Not even for himself.
He barely heard the footsteps until they stopped near him. Light. Familiar.
Hyuna.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t want to see her expression. Pity? Disgust?
He wanted her to walk away.
He wanted her to stay.
He kept his head down, hand still hovering near his bruised face.
“Why do you do this?” Her voice was soft — too soft. Not pitying, not angry. Just… tired.
He didn’t answer. The tile under his feet seemed more deserving of his attention.
Hyuna didn’t wait. “You poke at people. You want them to hit back. Is that it?”
Hyuna folded her arms, expression unreadable. “It does matter. You’re not some tragic loner. You’re just making it easier for everyone to give up on you.”
He laughed again, but it cracked at the end. “What, you want me to beg for forgiveness? Tell Till I’m sorry and throw myself at his feet?”
“I want you to stop acting like you’re proud of falling apart.”
Luka’s smile faded. His voice dropped low. “You have no idea what I’m proud of.”
They stared at each other. Something thick hung between them — history, silence, guilt.
She broke it first, voice barely above a whisper. “Then tell me.”
He looked away. “It wouldn’t change anything.”
She looked like she was about to turn away, like she’d had enough of him again. Of course. She always had enough of him. But something burned too hot in his throat to swallow this time.
“You never forgave me.” He said.
Hyuna froze.
“I never stopped hoping you would.”
For a second, nothing. No breath, no word.
Then her voice, low and sharp:
“You don’t get to want things from me.”
Luka didn’t look at her when he spoke. His voice was quiet, raw at the edges.
“I know I don’t deserve you. Or your forgiveness. I’m not asking for it.”
He paused, eyes on the floor like the words were too heavy to lift.
“But I still hoped. Stupid, right?”
That made her chest tighten — but her jaw stayed set. She didn’t move.
She stepped closer.
Her fingers hovered at his face — not quite touching, but close enough to see the bruising forming on his cheek, the dried blood just under his nose. She made a small sound in her throat, something between a sigh and a scoff.
“You should clean that,” she muttered, more to the wound than to him.
Luka flinched, not from pain, but from how gently she looked at him. It was unbearable.
Luka stayed still, not daring to breathe as Hyuna’s fingers barely grazed his cheek. It wasn’t even a real touch — just enough to stir the sting of the bruise and something else, deeper, softer.
Warmth bloomed in his chest, quiet and sudden, like a match lit in a long-cold room.
It startled him more than her closeness.
He looked at her — really looked.
And for a second, just a second, there was hope in his eyes. Not the desperate, clinging kind he usually buried behind smirks and sarcasm — but something quieter. Almost shy.
Hyuna noticed. She hesitated.
And then pulled her hand back like nothing happened.
‘’Stop provoking Till,” she said, voice even. “It won’t end well. For anyone.”
Luka didn’t answer right away. He just watched her, lips parted, that flicker of warmth already dying out beneath the familiar chill settling back in his chest.
Hyuna turned before he could say anything, footsteps soft but final as she left him standing there — alone again, as usual, with nothing but the fading echo of where her touch had been.
He didn’t cry. He just sat there.
Until the silence was loud enough to drown him again.
★
Till stayed where he was, slouched in the cafeteria seat like nothing happened, though his fingers were still curled into fists on the table. Mizi was glaring at him over her half-finished plate, arms crossed.
“You should’ve controlled yourself,” she said. “You know better than this. He’s not worth it.”
He gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah? Says the girl who beat his ass on stage in Round 5.”
Mizi’s eyes narrowed. “That was a performance.” She jokes, obviously it wasn't.
“Sure,” Till muttered. “So was mine.”
“You let him get to you,” Mizi went on. “That’s what he wants. You give him power when you react like that.”
Till didn’t answer right away. He lit another cigarette with too much force, the lighter flicking sharply. The smoke didn’t calm him — it only made his chest tighter.
“He always knew how to get under people’s skin,” he finally said, voice low. “It’s like he feeds on it.”
Mizi shook her head. “And you keep feeding him.”
Till’s cigarette burned low between his fingers, but he didn’t put it out. His gaze shifted when he saw Hyuna walk back into the cafeteria. She moved slower now — not heavy, not shaken, just distant. She slid into her usual seat like nothing happened, but the edge in her eyes hadn’t dulled.
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.
Mizi raised a brow. “So?”
Hyuna glanced at her, then at Till. Her arms folded, defensive.
Hyuna exhaled sharply, eyes drifting to her untouched glass of water.
“You think I’m forgiving him,” she said. “I’m not.”
Till blinked. “Then what are you doing?”
Hyuna didn’t look at him. Her voice was quieter now. “Trying to understand why I can’t hate him as much as I want to.”
Silence sat down with them like a fourth person.
Mizi’s fingers tapped against the table. “He hurt you, Hyuna.”
“I know.”
Till swallowed. “He hurt all of us.”
Hyuna finally looked up, her eyes sharp again. “You think I don’t remember that?”
“No,” Till muttered. “I think you remember it too well.”
She stared at him a moment longer, then looked away again. “He’s broken. And I’m not saying that to make excuses. I’m saying it because he doesn’t even know what part of him is still real anymore.”
Mizi’s jaw tightened. “And that makes it okay?”
“No,” Hyuna said. “But it makes it… complicated.”
Hyuna didn’t go on. She just fell silent again, staring down at the table like the words she wanted to say were somewhere in the scratches on the surface.
Till watched her closely. He could see it — the conflict behind her calm. There was more. Of course there was more. But she didn’t say it.
And he didn’t ask.
Neither did Mizi.
The pause hung for a second too long before Mizi sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Fine. Whatever.”
Hyuna nodded, as if that was all she needed — the permission to say nothing more.
Till took a final drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out in the empty cup beside him.
No one said anything about Luka again.
The moment passed like it always did — tight throats, silent anger, too many things left unsaid.
And they pretended, again, like everything was fine.
Just like always.
★
The next morning feels the same as the one before it — and maybe the o
He catches sight of Luka sometimes, around the base. Not during training. Of course not.
Luka’s not part of that. Not trusted, not assigned.
What did he expect?
Till doesn’t know why that thought annoys him.
Sometimes, when the drills are over, he stays in the gym longer than he needs to. He punches harder than Dewey tells him to.
He says it’s discipline.
Maybe it’s rage.
Maybe it’s something worse.
He keeps going back to the gym.
At first, it was just after the gun lessons. A few minutes with the punching bag. A couple of sets with the weights.
But now it’s every day.
Routine.
Not because someone told him to — not even Dewey.
Because it’s the only place where he doesn’t feel like something’s cracking inside him.
He doesn’t talk much when he’s there. Doesn’t need to.
The silence between each rep is enough.
He’s learning how his body works.
How it changes when he pushes it.
Muscle burns. Breath shortens. He watches the way his arms have started to define, his stomach beginning to firm, the shape of himself shifting into something leaner, harder.
Something useful.
Something that doesn’t break.
He starts to like how he looks.
Not out of vanity — not really.
Just… for once, he’s proud of something.
It’s not applause or fake lights or alien stages.
It’s his work.
His sweat.
It makes him feel real.
‘’You’re gonna turn into Dewey if you keep this up,” Mizi says, leaning against the gym doorway with a bottle of water in hand.
Till doesn’t look up right away. His knuckles sting from the bag, and his shirt is clinging to his back.
“Could be worse,” he mutters, wiping sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt.
“Worse than becoming a guy who trains like a maniac and never sleeps?”
She steps in, tossing him the bottle. “You’ve been in here every day, Till. Since when do you do ‘routine’?”
He catches it, unscrews the cap. Drinks too fast. “Since I figured out I’m shit at everything else.”
Mizi clicks her tongue and crosses her arms. “You’re not shit. Just… a little dramatic sometimes.”
“Whatever.” He sits down on the bench, elbows on his knees, breathing hard. “You guys had another meeting?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Not sure if Hyuna told you. One of the outposts needs meds and rations. Dewey’s putting together a team.”
“I’m not on it.”
“You think you would be?”
“I’ve been here long enough.”
“That’s not the same as earning it.”
Till doesn’t reply. He just stares at the floor.
‘’So… who’s going out this time?”
Mizi leans back, arms crossed. “Dewey’s leading. Kain, Gahi, and some new guy — Joon, I think, came in from Base 3.”
Till stares at the floor for a moment, jaw clenched. “When?”
“In two days.”
He nods, then after a beat, asks, “And what about me?”
Mizi raises a brow. “What about you?”
“Why can’t I go out on one of these runs?”
“Because you’re still in training. And because Dewey says you’re not ready.”
He scowls. “I’ve been ready.”
“You’ve been strong. That’s different.”
He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to swallow his frustration.
“I’m just stuck here. Punching the same bag every day.”
She softens a little. “You’re doing good, Till. But this isn’t a game. You want to be out there, you have to prove you’re not a risk.”
He doesn’t respond, just nods again, tighter this time. He picks up a weight, but his grip on it says he’s somewhere else in his head entirely.
Till shuts the gym door behind him with more force than necessary. The hallway feels too quiet, too narrow. His boots echo against the floor as he walks, jaw locked, breath sharp. When he gets to his room, he doesn’t bother turning on the light. He just drops onto the bed, arms stretched out, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
He hates this—this waiting, this repetition. The weight room, the shooting lessons, the endless routines like they’re trying to tire him into obedience.
But he’s not tired. Not even close.
He wants something different.
He wants something real.
Something outside.
His fingers twitch against the blanket. He’s been here long enough. He’s learned enough. He knows how to fight, shoot, and survive. What else does Dewey need?
He sits up, elbows on knees, face buried in his palms. Then he looks toward the door.
Maybe it’s time to ask.
He doesn’t want to be left behind anymore.
Till strips out of his clothes and heads to the shower, the water barely lukewarm, but he doesn’t care. It rushes over him in fast, sharp rivulets, washing off the sweat but not the tension. He scrubs quickly, mechanically, like he’s racing his own thoughts.
By the time he steps out, toweling off his hair, his mind is already made up.
He throws on a fresh shirt, pulls on his jacket, and leaves his room without another glance back.
The halls are dim, silent, most of the base already settling in for the night. But he moves with purpose, steps quickly and firmly.
He doesn’t knock when he reaches the training wing. He knows Dewey is usually around—this time of night, maybe cleaning a rifle or going over mission details.
Till’s not sure what he’ll say yet. Just that he needs to say it.
He needs out.
He needs something real.
The door to the small armory and training office is slightly ajar, yellow light seeping into the hallway. Till stops outside, jaw clenched, hand hovering for a moment before he finally pushes it open.
Dewey is inside, seated at the workbench, head bowed as he cleans a disassembled pistol piece by piece with calm precision. He glances up, unfazed.
“You’re up late.”
Till steps in, closing the door behind him. “Yeah.”
A silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft click of metal against the cloth Dewey is using. Till shifts on his feet, unsure.
“I—” He starts, stops. Runs a hand through his damp hair.
Dewey doesn’t rush him. He just keeps working, waiting.
“I want to go out,” Till says finally, voice quieter than he means it to be.
Dewey looks up again, eyebrows raised but not surprised.
“Out?”
“You said there’s a team going soon. I want in.”
Dewey sets the gun part down slowly. “You’re not even fully cleared for live gear yet. You’ve been training for, what, two weeks?”
“I’m learning fast.” There’s a sharper edge to Till’s voice now, frustration surfacing. “I can handle myself. I just… I need to do something. Not sit around waiting for people to treat me like a kid.”
Dewey leans back in his chair, studying him. “You’re not a kid. But this isn’t a game either. Out there, things go wrong fast.”
“I know,” Till says. He means it. His voice drops a little. “That’s kind of the point.”
Another pause. Dewey watches him for a beat longer, eyes narrowing—not with suspicion, but like he’s measuring something. Then he nods slowly.
“I’ll think about it. No promises.”
Till exhales, a quiet release of the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. He nods back.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
★
Later that night he hears a knock on the door
‘’You want to go out?” he says, voice low. “Fine.”
Till straightens.
“But if I do this,” Dewey continues, unlatching the case, “you’re not just someone training anymore. You’re part of something. That means consequences. That means responsibility.”
He opens the case—inside is a compact rifle, polished and pristine. It gleams under the harsh lighting.
“You get caught out there? You’re not Till, the grieving performer from Alien Stage. You’re a rebel. You’ll be treated like one.”
Till’s breath catches, just slightly. But he nods.
“I understand.”
“No,” Dewey says, gaze sharp. “You don’t. But you will.”
He closes the case and slides it toward him. “You’re coming with me tomorrow. No one else. Consider it a test run.”
Till’s chest tightens. It’s not fear exactly—it’s something colder. Anticipation laced with danger.
Dewey’s lips twitch. Not quite a smile. “We’ll talk in the morning. Be ready by six. And get sleep. You’ll need it.”
Till nods, jaw tense, every nerve buzzing. He turns to go, but Dewey stops him with one last line:
“If you mess this up, I won’t cover for you. You walk into this, you own it.”
Till glances back. “I know.”
He walks out, and the hallway suddenly darker than before. And for the first time in a long while, something in his blood starts to burn alive.
He wakes up before the others. Not because he set an alarm—his body just… knew.
There’s no sunlight in this place, but the air feels different. Like something’s shifted overnight. Or maybe it’s just him.
He doesn’t lie there.
He swings his legs over the bed and sits up, elbows on his knees, staring at the wall like it might speak. His boots are already by the door. He puts them on without a sound.
By the time he steps into the hallway, the place is still half-asleep. Doors closed, low murmurs behind them. No one in the cafeteria. No sign of Luka. Good.
He finds Dewey waiting in the same spot as yesterday. Same tired eyes. Same cup of black coffee in hand. Only this time, there’s no smile.
Just a nod.
Till stops in front of him. Doesn’t say anything.
“You’re up early,” Dewey mutters, sipping. “Didn’t think you’d sleep at all.”
“I slept fine,” Till lies.
Another nod. Then Dewey turns and starts walking.
Till follows.
They don’t go to the gym.
They take a different hallway, one that turns twice and leads down a short flight of stairs, until the walls feel heavier, colder, like they’re getting closer to something people don’t talk about.
Finally, Dewey stops at a reinforced door. He enters a code. The lock clicks.
He pushes it open and steps aside.
Inside, the room is clean. Cold. No windows. Just equipment. Weapons. Vests. Blank screens. A table in the center with maps and marked reports. It’s quiet here—but not dead. It breathes with purpose.
“Welcome to your next lesson,” Dewey says simply. “And your next mistake, if you’re not careful.”
Till swallows once and steps inside.
He doesn’t look back.
Dewey walks over to a wall panel and unlocks a metal cabinet. It opens with a hiss, revealing several compact weapons lined up like tools on a surgeon’s tray. He pulls one free—a small, matte-black pulse handgun—and places it on the table.
“This is yours for today.”
Till steps closer, eyes locked on it. His pulse quickens.
“Don’t point it unless you’re ready to use it. Don’t use it unless you’re ready to deal with what happens after.”
Dewey slides the gun forward. Till takes it. It’s lighter than it looks, but the weight sinks into his palm like a secret.
“You’re not going to be out there shooting things,” Dewey continues. “But if it comes to it… it’s not a drill.”
He lays out a holster, attaches it to Till’s side, then gestures for him to follow. As they walk, Dewey gives him the basics—concise, clipped, practiced:
“Outside’s different. The air’s thinner. You won’t be gone long, but if your mask gets compromised, don’t waste time. Cover your face and signal. Don’t play the hero.”
Till nods once.
They reach the last checkpoint. Another locked door. Dewey enters the code.
Till nods again. His jaw tightens.
“You sure?”
“No.”
Dewey almost smiles. “Good.”
The door opens.
Till blinks at the light—gray, blinding, not sunlight, but still brighter than anything underground. He steps outside.
It smells like dust and rust and burning wires.
The world is quiet. Until it isn’t.
They don’t get far before Dewey stops beside a sleek, rugged motorbike parked near the perimeter gate. He throws a glance back at Till.
“You know how to ride?”
Till blinks. “What?”
Dewey raises an eyebrow. “Thought so.”
He swings one leg over the bike and adjusts the grips. “We’re not taking it today—too much noise, not enough cover. But next time, you’re learning.”
Till stares at it. The thing looks like it was built from spare war parts, black metal and sharp edges. It hums faintly, like it’s breathing.
“Uh, okay. Sure,” he mutters, not entirely sure what he just agreed to.
Dewey tosses him a look over his shoulder. “Don’t say yes like that unless you’re ready to eat gravel.”
Till smirks despite himself. “I’ve had worse.”
“Let’s hope you survive long enough for me to find out.”
They move on—on foot for now—but Till glances back at the bike one more time. Something about it lingers in his mind. Maybe it’s the idea of moving that fast. Maybe it’s just the first time someone said “next time” to him like they meant it.
Till follows after Dewey, boots crunching softly against the cracked pavement. The streets are still half-asleep, drenched in early light and silence. It’s too early for most of the base to be awake — which makes it the perfect time for this.
A test. That’s all it is.
They move past the last checkpoint, where buildings thin out and the edge of the forest looms, wild and damp. Dewey doesn’t speak. He just walks, like he’s done this a hundred times and doesn’t care if Till keeps up or not.
Till does.
They reach the tree line, and Dewey finally stops. Turns. Look at him.
“We’re not going far,” he says. “This isn’t your invitation into the real world. It’s just me figuring out whether I’d regret dragging you into it.”
He gestures toward a narrow trail that cuts through thick undergrowth. “Run. Half a klick, straight. I’ll time you. Then we’ll talk about strength.”
Till stares at the trail, breathing slow. There’s no smartass reply. He just nods.
And runs.
His lungs burn almost instantly. The ground is uneven, his boots slide on wet moss and tangled roots. But he doesn’t slow down. Not once.
Because this isn’t about impressing Dewey.
It’s about leaving something behind with every step.
When he stumbles back out of the trees, chest heaving, covered in sweat and mud, Dewey’s leaning against a tree with his arms crossed.
“Not bad,” he says. “Didn’t expect you to be that fast.”
Till wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Are you expecting me to faint or something?”
Dewey gives him a dry look. “Not faint. Just maybe cry.”
Till grins, breathless. “Not my thing.”
“Good. Now let’s see what your arms can do.”
He tosses a duffel on the ground — full of weighted gear and training tools. Till glances down at it, then back up.
His heart’s still pounding, but there’s something electric in his veins now.
Finally, something that makes sense.
Till thinks it’s over after the run, but Dewey doesn’t even give him five minutes.
“Drop the jacket,” Dewey says, voice sharp now. Less mentor, more commander. “On the ground. Let’s go.”
Till hesitates only a second before stripping it off. The morning air bites at his damp skin.
Dewey circles him, quiet. Then — without warning — lunges.
Till barely reacts in time, stumbling backward as Dewey swings low and knocks his legs out from under him. He hits the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him.
“What the fuck,” he gasps.
“Lesson one,” Dewey says, standing over him. “Nobody waits for you. Get up.”
Till rolls, coughs, pushes himself to his feet.
Then it begins.
The fight isn’t pretty. Dewey doesn’t hold back. He’s faster, smarter, and far more brutal than Till’s used to. It’s not about form — it’s survival. Till lands some hits, fueled by stubborn pride and adrenaline, but he’s clearly losing.
At one point, Dewey elbows him in the ribs and Till crumples, wheezing. His arms shake, his jaw is sore, and blood drips faintly from a split in his lip.
But he doesn’t quit.
By the time they make it back to the facility, the sun is higher and Till looks like hell. Shirt stained, knuckles raw, face bruised.
Mizi spots them first in the hallway. “Are you kidding me?” she snaps, standing abruptly.
Till tries a grin. “Relax. I’m alive.”
Hyuna appears a second later and goes still. Her gaze locks on the blood at his collarbone, the slight limp in his walk.
“What happened?” Her voice is low. Cold.
“Training,” Dewey says simply, unbothered. “He asked for it.”
“Yeah, and you nearly killed him?” Mizi bites back.
Till tries to laugh, but it hurts. “I’m fine. Seriously.”
But Hyuna doesn’t look convinced. She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing at Dewey — then flicking back to Till, softer. “You push yourself like this again, you’ll break. And we can’t afford that.”
Till shrugs. “Maybe breaking is part of the plan.”
Nobody laughs. Not this time.
Hyuna rounds on Dewey the moment they step inside.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she snaps, stepping between the two men. “Look at him!”
Dewey doesn’t flinch. “I was thinking. That’s why we went alone. That’s why it was just a test run.”
“Test run?” Mizi echoes, incredulous. “He’s bleeding.”
Till lets out a dry laugh, sharp and humorless. “Wow. Didn’t know I needed a permission slip to get a few bruises.”
“Don’t start,” Hyuna says, not even turning to him.
“No—actually, I will start,” Till says, voice rising. “You keep talking like I’m ten years old. I’m not. I asked for this.”
“You didn’t ask to come back like this.”
“I wanted this!” he shouts now. “I’m sick of sitting around, pretending like we’re safe here when we’re not. I wanted something real. Adrenaline, danger—whatever the fuck it is that makes me feel alive for five seconds.”
Everyone goes silent.
Till stands there, chest heaving, blood dried at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t look brave. Or defiant. He looks tired. Frayed.
“I don’t need protection,” he says, quieter. “I need to stop feeling like a caged animal.”
Hyuna’s face softens, barely.
Mizi looks away.
And Dewey, for once, says nothing.
Till shakes his head, brushing past them toward the stairs. “Next time, just let me do what I came here to do.”
Mizi steps forward, eyes narrowing. “There won’t be a next time.”
Till doesn’t even pause. “I’m going out with the group tomorrow.”
Hyuna blinks. “What?”
“You’re not serious,” Mizi says, stunned. “You had one test run—barely a training—and now you think you’re ready to—”
“I don’t think I’m ready.” Till crosses his arms. “Dewey agreed.”
Hyuna’s gaze snaps to Dewey. “You what?”
Dewey meets her eyes evenly. “He asked. I said yes. He passed today.”
“He’s bleeding,” Mizi says again, voice sharp, like they all forgot.
“And he’s breathing,” Dewey replies. “That’s how you learn.”
“You didn’t even tell us?” Hyuna says, voice rising. “You’re throwing him out there like—like he’s expendable.”
“I made the call,” Dewey says. “We all want to stay alive. He’s learning how.”
Till doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, jaw clenched, blood on his knuckles, trying not to shake.
“Unbelievable,” Mizi mutters. “He’s not even trained.”
Till snaps back, “Then train me. Or shut up.”
Silence.
No one knows what to say.
And then, as always, Till’s voice breaks the tension: “If I die tomorrow, at least it won’t be from boredom.”
He turns and walks toward the dorms without another word.
Till pushes open the door, storming out into the hallway, blood still drying on his shirt, the sting of scratches on his arms barely registering past the burn in his muscles. He’s buzzing with leftover adrenaline, pissed off that everyone treated him like glass.
Then he sees him.
Luka. Leaning by the wall like he’s been there the whole time, arms crossed, eyes unreadable but fixed on him. Of course he was watching.
Till stops. “What are you staring at?”
Luka doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even try to look away.
“Just wondering how far you’ll go to prove something you don’t need to.”
Till takes a breath that burns. “Don’t act like you understand me.”
Luka’s voice stays flat. “I don’t. But you keep trying too hard to be understood.”
“Keep talking and I’ll give you something to really watch,” Till snaps.
Luka shrugs. “Already did.”
Till slams the door to his room shut behind him, kicks off his boots, his bloodied shirt sticking slightly to his side. He doesn’t even look at the mess he’s made. Straight to the bathroom. Strips fast. The hot water stings against the cuts but he doesn’t stop it—lets it scald down his neck, over his back. His hands press against the tiled wall, head bowed.
But his brain doesn’t stop.
Luka’s face. That calm, detached way he just stood there. Watching.
Why was he watching?
Till huffs, dragging a hand down his wet face. He tries to focus on the burn of water, on the ache in his arms, the throb in his shoulder. He tries to focus on anything but the heat pooling lower in his stomach, the way tension knots up in his chest and doesn’t go away.
It’s been like this before. After Ivan. After stage fights. After anger he didn’t know what to do with.
But this time, it’s different. Because it’s him.
Because Luka didn’t even flinch.
His hand clenches into a fist against the tile.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
The steam rises around him, fogging the mirror and the glass. The water is burning hot, just how he likes it. Just how it scalds the sting out of his skin and forces his thoughts to shut up.
But they don’t.
He presses his palm to the wall, jaw clenched.
It’s not just the anger anymore. It’s not just the adrenaline, the bruises, the way his muscles ache in that satisfying way.
It’s Luka. Standing there. Watching. Not saying a thing. Always watching.
Till squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to shove the image out of his mind. The stupid expression Luka wears, that smug, unreadable calm, the way his mouth moves when he talks. Fuck.
He breathes hard through his nose. His hand drags down his stomach, pauses. His body doesn’t care about what his mind is screaming. It just wants.
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t give in.
And just like that, he twists the knob.
The water crashes from blistering hot to ice cold in a second. His breath punches out of his chest, sharp and shocked.
He leans into the cold, lets it freeze the heat out of him.
Punishment. Clarity. Control.
The cold bites into his skin like knives, but he doesn’t move. Just stands there, hand still against the tile, breath fogging in front of his face.
He’s not cold.
He’s shaking, but it’s not from the water.
He drags his hand down his face, letting the freezing stream blur everything out. His thoughts, his anger, his shame.
“This is insane,” he mutters, barely audible. “I’m losing it.”
He steps back, the shower still running, and stares at the wall like it might give him an answer.
Nothing.
Just the sound of cold water pounding down and the feeling that whatever’s happening in his head—it’s not normal.
Not healthy.
Not something he can fix by bleeding more in the gym or snapping at people.
He dries off in silence. The mirror is fogged, but he doesn’t wipe it. Doesn’t want to see his own face. Not right now.
He gets dressed in a rush, like if he moves fast enough, he can outrun whatever this is.
But it clings.
He sits on the edge of the bed, towel slung around his shoulders, hair still damp. The room is quiet—too quiet. His breath echoes in the stillness, the kind that creeps in only after you’ve worn yourself thin.
His fingers twitch.
He used to sing when he felt like this. Late at night, voice hoarse, chords familiar under his hands. He used to feel something when he did—something real, something pure.
But here?
There’s no guitar. No stage.
Just this bunker, and the hum of the vents overhead.
He closes his eyes.
Tries to remember the feeling of strings under his fingers. That little sting in his fingertips after hours of playing.
He misses it.
God, he misses it.
Drawing, too.
He used to draw Ivan. He was a good model. He was…pretty.
He was good at it. Not brilliant or anything, but good. It helped him focus. Helped him sort through things in his head that words couldn’t reach. Sketchbooks stacked high, full of fragmented thoughts and sharp lines. He hasn’t picked up a pencil in ages.
Maybe he could find something. Somewhere out there—an old guitar, even a broken one.
Or just a scrap of paper and something to draw with.
He needs it.
Something more than the gym, more than running himself into the ground.
Something that doesn’t turn his thoughts into weapons.
Because if he doesn’t find something soon—
He’s going to burn out.
Or worse, explode.
He leans back on the bed, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
“I need a fucking break,” he mutters.
But no one hears it.
And maybe that’s the point.
He pulls the blanket over himself, the room still humming low, the light from the hallway bleeding faintly under the door. His body aches in places he didn’t know could hurt. Bruises bloom like muted flowers under his skin, but he welcomes it. At least it makes sense.
He lies there, staring at the ceiling again.
Tomorrow.
The group’s going out.
And this time—he’s going with them.
His chest tightens. Not fear. Not exactly. Something else.
Restlessness.
A gnawing need to do something.
To prove something.
To feel something real.
His fingers curl into the fabric of the sheets.
He doesn’t know what he expects out there. Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
But at least it’s not here.
He closes his eyes, the soreness in his limbs making it easier to surrender to sleep.
And just before he drifts off, he thinks:
Let it be different.
Let it be enough.
He dreams of Ivan.
Not the blood or the screaming or the lights of Round Six.
No—this time, it’s at anakt garden. That half-wild patch near the back fence where the grass grew uneven and the air always smelled like something green trying to survive.
Ivan sits cross-legged in the sun, chewing on a flower stem, talking too loud about nothing. Till is crouched nearby with a sketchbook he never let anyone see. He’s pretending not to look, but his pencil won’t stop moving.
Ivan glances over and throws a leaf at him. “You’re not drawing me again, are you?”
Till lies, badly. Ivan grins, tosses another leaf.
They’re bickering before long—Till rolls his eyes, Ivan calls him a dramatic princess, Till throws the pencil at him—and then they’re laughing, somehow closer than before. That was how it always went. Fight, flare, forgive. Like something magnetic pulling them back.
Till tries to remember what Ivan’s laugh sounded like. In the dream, it’s clear. Too clear.
Then it shifts.
The sunlight dims. The garden melts into the stage—Round Six again, too bright, too loud. Ivan is there, standing across from him, face unreadable. But when Till blinks, it’s not Ivan anymore—Luka stands there instead, smiling with a mouth too sharp.
Till stumbles back. “Ivan?”
Ivan’s voice comes through Luka’s lips. “You still want me, don’t you?”
Till tries to move, but he can’t. His body won’t listen.
Luka steps closer. The stage is dark now, and Ivan’s face flickers in and out of his—just fragments, a smile, a bruise, a memory. And then Luka kisses him.
Till jerks back—no, he tries to—but he’s trapped. The kiss is deep, greedy, and familiar in a way that makes him want to scream. It’s Ivan. It’s Luka. It’s not right.
His heart slams in his chest. He shouts—he thinks he shouts—and suddenly—
He jolts awake.
Breathless. Sweating. Shaking.
The dark of the room presses down on him like punishment.
His throat is dry. Too dry.
He pushes the covers off, legs heavy as if the dream still clings to them. The room is too quiet, too warm, and his pulse is still rattling against his ribs. He sits there for a moment, pressing his palms into his eyes, trying to shake off the leftover taste of something that wasn’t Ivan—but felt like him.
He sighs.
No water. Of course.
He groans as he stands up, bones creaking more from stress than exhaustion. The kitchen’s far, on the other side of the hall, but he doesn’t care. He needs the walk. The cold tiles. The silence. The water.
He pulls on a hoodie, mostly for show, and slips out of the room.
The hallway is dark, but not silent—somewhere, the faint hum of machinery. Maybe someone snoring behind closed doors. His footsteps are soft, careful. He doesn’t want to be seen. Not now. Not like this.
There’s still that ghost of Luka’s mouth on his.
He walks faster.
The kitchen is dim, lit only by the low blue of a screen someone forgot to turn off. It hums softly, casting shadows across the counter.
Till steps inside barefoot, silent.
He opens a cabinet, grabs a glass, and fills it from the tap. The sound of water echoes too loud in the quiet. For a second, he just stares at it—cool and still—and presses the rim to his lips.
It tastes sharp, too clean.
He drinks slowly, trying not to think. But it creeps back in—the shift in Ivan’s face mid-dream, the feeling of lips that didn’t belong. The betrayal of wanting it for half a second before the shame snapped down on him.
He finishes the glass in one go.
His hand tightens around it for a moment before he forces himself to set it down. No use smashing things. No use waking anyone. No use feeling any of it.
He places the glass back on the counter with a soft clink. Just as he turns to leave, something catches his eye.
A figure. Still. Out on the balcony.
The door is cracked open an inch, and through it, he sees Luka—leaning against the railing, eyes tilted up to the sky like he’s searching for something out there. Or waiting for it to fall.
Till freezes.
He could just walk away. Luka hasn’t noticed him. The kitchen is quiet. No one would know.
But he doesn’t.
He watches for a second too long. Luka’s arms are crossed, jaw set like usual, but there’s something tired in the way his shoulders slope. The sky spills violet over him, stars barely clinging on.
He looks peaceful.
And Till hates that.
Hates the dream.
Hates that his body still remembers the taste of something that never happened.
He exhales, sharp through his nose, then turns and leaves.
He doesn’t need more ghosts tonight.
Till shakes his head, muttering under his breath—something bitter and half-formed—then turns away.
He walks back to his room, the cold water forgotten on his tongue, and shuts the door behind him like it’s the only thing he can control.
He needs to sleep.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
Chapter Text
Till woke up before the alarm.
His eyes opened to the dim light filtering in through the half-closed blinds, and for a moment, he just stared at the ceiling. It was too early—his body still heavy with sleep—but there was no going back now. His chest felt tight. Not in a bad way. Not like fear. More like… anticipation.
It was today.
He sat up slowly, pressing a palm to his face. His breath came out shaky. There was a strange heat in his blood, like adrenaline already creeping in before he’d even left the bed. He hadn’t felt this kind of nervous excitement.
Now it was something else entirely. Life outside. Guns. Danger. His heart kicked harder at the thought.
He swung his legs out of bed and ran a hand through his hair. His palms were sweating.
He wasn’t scared. Not really. Or maybe a little. But that didn’t matter. He was going out. Finally, no more waiting. No more sitting still while others did all the work.
He didn’t care if it was stupid.
He just needed to move.
He got dressed fast. No lingering, no second-guessing in the mirror. Just the essentials — the black cargo pants, the fitted top, the boots he’d worn so many times they molded to his feet like a second skin. His hands moved on their own, pulling his hair back loosely, brushing his teeth without really looking.
His mind was already out there.
He grabbed his jacket, didn’t bother zipping it up, and slung the small utility bag over his shoulder like he’d done this a hundred times before. He hadn’t. But no one needed to know that.
Fake it till you make it or whatever.
The hallway outside his room was still half-dark, the artificial lighting in the base dimmed to early morning. He didn’t pass anyone. Just the quiet hum of the lights and his own quick footsteps echoing as he made his way down.
His heart kept thudding — not out of fear. Out of something sharper. Like hunger.
By the time he reached the front exit, he was fully awake, skin tingling, nerves electric.
He was ready.
Dewey was already there when Till arrived — leaning against one of the armored bikes, arms crossed, looking like he hadn’t slept but didn’t need to. That calm, unshakable kind of presence that always made people straighten their backs.
The rest of the group was scattered nearby, checking gear, strapping knives and rifles to belts, adjusting vests. No one talked much. There was a tension in the air — not fear, but purpose. They’d done this before. For them, it was routine.
For Till, it was his first time.
He stood for a second, just watching them. The crisp morning air bit at his cheeks, the kind of cold that kept you alert. The sky above the compound walls was pale blue, stretched thin and cloudless.
Then Dewey turned to him. “You’re early.”
“So are you,” Till answered, not even trying to sound cocky this time. He was buzzing inside, but his voice stayed steady.
Dewey nodded, motioning for him to come over. “Grab your vest. You’ll ride in the back today. Stay close.”
Till didn’t need to be told twice. He took the vest handed to him, slipped it on, and adjusted the straps across his chest. It felt heavier than he thought it would. Real.
The others gave him a few quick glances — sizing him up, not unfriendly, but distant. He wasn’t one of them yet.
Dewey started giving out final instructions. Where they were headed. What they were watching for. What to do if things went south.
Till kept nodding along, heart pounding harder with each word.
This was it.
No more waiting.
No more watching.
He was going out.
So yes, the supply missions are brutal. And everyone knows it.
“They’re always worse than the real missions,” someone muttered as they finished loading up. Till didn’t catch who said it, but Dewey didn’t correct them.
Because it was true.
A mission had rules. Structure. You were sent to kill or protect or recover something important.
Supply runs? They were chaotic.
One list might include batteries, canned food, medical kits. The next one might have someone’s favorite scarf.
And while your team dug through ash and glass and silence — you were being watched.
Till glanced down at the list Dewey handed him. It looked harmless. Practical, even. But the weight behind it was something else entirely.
“Stick close to me,” Dewey said, voice low. “This isn’t about bravery today. It’s about staying smart.”
Till climbs on the bike behind Dewey he doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, Dewey notices he chuckles and tilts his head slightly without turning back.
“You can hold on, rookie. I don’t bite.”
Till hesitates, then grips the sides of Dewey’s jacket awkwardly at first — two stiff hands barely touching fabric.
Dewey shakes his head with another small laugh. “Unless you wanna go flying, maybe try not holding me like I’m your grandma.”
Till scowls, tightens his grip. “Shut up.”
“See? That’s better,” Dewey says, and revs the engine.
The roar of the motor drowns out whatever Till was about to say next. The bike lurches forward, smooth but fast, and for a second Till forgets to be tense. The wind rushes around them, the cold morning air biting through his clothes. The roads are cracked and rough, but Dewey rides like he’s part of the terrain — calm, fast, alert.
Till presses a little closer — not out of fear, just instinct — and tries not to think about how fast his heart is beating.
Not from the ride.
Not entirely.
Just… this was it. He was out.
Really out.
And maybe for once, he didn’t want to go back.
The motorbike growled low beneath them before Dewey cut the engine. They had pulled behind the skeletal remains of an old billboard—once bright with human advertisements, now just a rusted frame strangled by dead vines and wind-tattered plastic. It towered over them like some forgotten god.
“Off,” Dewey muttered, nudging Till with his elbow.
Till slid off the bike, boots crunching on broken glass and dust. The morning air was colder here, thinner too. He looked around — a ghost town, or what was left of one. Faded signs swung on broken hinges. Some of the buildings still had old logos, half-obscured by time. Chainmart. MetroEX. SafeBuy Storage. Names he’d never seen.
The rest of the group pulled up quietly behind them. No one said much — they knew better. Even here, in a so-called “safe” area, the walls could have eyes. Drones. Scanners. Or worse, scavengers willing to shoot first.
Dewey signaled silently — two fingers pointed forward, one to the left. They were heading for a half-sunken storage center across the street. Its roof had collapsed on one side, and the rest of the building was leaning like it wanted to give up entirely. It looked like it had been looted before, but everyone knew the smart ones left caches behind, and even now, people left lists of things they desperately wanted: vitamins, soap, clothes, a hairbrush.
Till followed Dewey’s lead, ducking under a bent metal beam. His pulse was fast but steady. He liked this feeling — the rush of it, the edge. The moment before something could go wrong.
And for once, he didn’t feel small
Inside the storage center, the air was thick with mildew and old dust. Till could smell metal, plastic, and the faintest trace of rot. But there were still shelves standing, still rows of forgotten goods hidden in corners. The team split up quickly and silently, working like they’d done this before — because they had.
Dewey flung open the rusted metal door to a back section and barked low, “Check expiration dates, pack anything sealed. No luxuries, just survival.”
Till moved through the shelves with quick hands, grabbing cans, vacuum-packed meals, rice, and boxes of dried noodles. He filled his bag halfway before seeing a row of electrolyte packs and protein bars. Jackpot. He shoved them in, tight.
Outside, two of the older boys kept watch. One stood by the crumbling entrance with a scanner in hand, the other crouched low behind a broken vending machine. They were ready. If someone came, they’d alert the rest.
Till ducked into another aisle, found what looked like an untouched crate of canned peaches. He smiled a little. He used to like these as a kid. He shoved a few into his bag before hearing a sudden clang in the distance.
Everyone froze.
Dewey’s voice was low, sharp. “Wrap it up. Now.”
There was movement outside — one of the watchers waved a signal. Two fingers up, one down. Someone — or something — was approaching.
Till’s heart thudded, but he didn’t hesitate. He yanked the last zipper shut, slung the bag over his shoulder, and jogged toward Dewey, who was already motioning toward the exit.
The others came quickly behind them, boots thudding against broken tile, bags bouncing on their backs. No one spoke. They moved like they were born for this — and maybe some of them were.
As they slipped out the side, Dewey gave a final glance over his shoulder before nodding. “Move. Now.”
They ran back toward the bikes.
They didn’t waste time.
As soon as they hit the bikes, Dewey gave a sharp whistle, and they all climbed back on, engines growling to life. The tires kicked up dust and debris as they tore away from the storage unit, wind whipping at their jackets. Till held on tighter this time, his chest pressed to Dewey’s back, trying not to think too hard about the way his heart was hammering.
They drove fast. Too fast. But no one said a word.
Next stop: the pharmacy.
The building partially collapsed on one side, windows long shattered, glass glittering across the sidewalk like frozen stars. Dewey slowed as they approached, making a hand signal. They parked behind an abandoned bus, hidden from the street. No one spoke. Just eyes — sharp, alert.
Inside, it smelled like old chemicals and mildew. Till had to cover his nose.
They moved efficiently, fanning out between the aisles. Dewey had a list. Of course he did. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Bandages. Saline. Creams. Injections. Everything.
Till noticed how some of the guys started filling a separate bag — more delicate supplies, specific meds he didn’t recognize. One bottle rolled near his boot, and he picked it up. The label was half-faded, but he could read enough.
He frowned. Asthma inhaler. High dosage.
He looked over. Eli caught his glance and shrugged, muttering, “For Luka.’’ He says as he rolls his eyes.
He didn’t say anything. Just shoved it into the bag and kept moving.
There were others too — syringes, hormone patches, creams, stabilizers. Stuff you wouldn’t bother grabbing unless it was for someone who needed it all the time.
It hit Till more than he wanted to admit. How much they were preparing for Luka. How much he cost them.
Not just space. Not just nerves.
Resources.
It made his jaw tighten.
Still, he packed what Dewey told him. Kept his head down. Acted like it didn’t bother him. Like he wasn’t suddenly remembering Luka standing on the balcony last night like a ghost. Like he wasn’t still half-haunted by that stupid dream.
They finished fast. Faster than the last stop. Outside again, silent. No one wanted to stay longer than they had to.
Once the bags were secure, Dewey looked back at Till and raised a brow. “Still holding up?”
Till nodded. “Yeah.
As they climbed back on the bikes, Till glanced over his shoulder at the ruined pharmacy behind them. His hands were still a little shaky from the rush, but the adrenaline felt good. Real.
He leaned toward Dewey slightly, his voice low under his helmet. “Honestly? I thought it’d be worse.”
Dewey chuckled as he adjusted the strap on his bag. “That’s cute.”
Till raised a brow. “What?”
“You’re just lucky today.” Dewey revved the engine. “Don’t get used to it.”
The words hung heavy for a second. Not a warning. A fact. Till didn’t answer — just held on tighter as the bike growled forward again, speeding off toward the next stop.
They reach what used to be a large distribution center — the kind that once held donated clothes, books, random supplies. It’s quiet when they arrive, but the silence feels off. Dewey signals the group to stay sharp.
Inside, it’s chaos — overturned shelves, dust-covered crates, old posters hanging from torn wires. Some of them fan out, collecting things they were sent for: clothes, batteries, toiletries.
Till lingers near the back.
Something draws him in — a low, half-collapsed aisle with faded signs above: HOBBIES • CRAFTS • LEISURE.
He slips in. Steps over a broken plastic bin. And then he sees it:
A sketchbook, its pages yellowed but clean.
A tin of graphite pencils, barely rusted.
Till steps over a collapsed shelf, careful not to knock anything over. Dust clings to his boots. The air smells like mold and stale paper. Somewhere behind him, footsteps echo — the others are still checking the main area. No one’s paying attention to him.
Good.
He rounds a corner and pauses.
There’s a narrow side room — a tiny showroom once, maybe. The sign above is almost illegible, but it still reads:
Music & Audio
Inside, it’s half-collapsed. Broken stands, old speakers, tangled wires everywhere. But there’s one bin still intact, wedged beneath a shelf.
He crouches, brushes off the dust, and pulls out a thin sketchbook. Blank pages. Almost too perfect. Like it was waiting for him.
Behind the display glass, still miraculously unbroken, is an electric guitar.
It’s dusty, missing a string, but it’s there. Black body, chrome frets, still gleaming beneath layers of time.
He stares.
And suddenly, the noise outside fades. There’s only this: the weight of something he lost and might just get back.
He must be dreaming, or he’s really lucky today.
Till helps strap the guitar across his back, wrapped in a torn old jacket he found. The sketchbook’s tucked into his vest. The adrenaline’s starting to fade — until Dewey’s voice cuts sharp:
“Let’s move. The others have already rolled out.”
The motorbikes are ready. Bags are loaded. Everything’s going according to plan.
And then—
crack.
A noise. Not close. But not far, either.
Everyone freezes.
One of the boys curses under his breath. Another drops the box he was carrying.
Dewey doesn’t move. His head turns toward the sound. A second later, another crack — this time followed by the low screech of something metal dragging.
Till’s pulse spikes.
“Eyes up,” Dewey mutters. “Now.”
Figures emerge in the distance
The bags were loaded. The trucks were already rumbling in the distance, heading back. The motorbikes were lined up—smaller packs strapped, lighter and faster. Till lingered, sketchbook in hand, fingers still slightly dusty from flipping through old paper.
He wasn’t sure what made him pause, maybe the sky, maybe the feeling crawling under his skin.
A low hum answered that question.
It didn’t sound mechanical—not exactly. Not like a truck or engine or even anything human.
Then came the light. Pale blue, flickering in the overcast morning. Just a strip at first—then two, hovering silently above the roof of the building across the street.
“Dewey,” someone called. Calm, at first. Then sharper.
“Dewey. Up.”
Dewey looked up. His jaw clenched.
“Segyein flyers,” he said. “Two. No—three.”
He turned fast. “We’ve gotta move. Now.”
The air cracked. A thin static buzz hit the back of Till’s neck.
A red light swept across the broken glass on the ground. Fast. Scanning.
Till’s heart jumped. He clutched the sketchbook tighter before slamming it into his bag and flinging it over his shoulder. One of the boys fired toward the roof—a sharp snap of sound—and the blue lights jerked.
One drone spiraled down, crashing into a rusted car with a sizzle. But the second light shot forward—tagging one of the motorbikes with a blip.
“They’ve got it locked,” Dewey barked.
Till’s legs moved before his brain did. He shoved the guitar case under the seat of another bike, jumped behind Dewey.
“Hold tight,” Dewey said. “Don’t drop shit.”
And then they were gone. Tires burned against the concrete, bouncing over curbs, twisting between long-abandoned cars. Somewhere behind them, someone shouted. One of the others maybe, or maybe not.
They didn’t look back.
Another drone whirred past—faster than the wind, scanning wide. Dewey swerved under it.
Till held on tighter.
They dipped under a shattered overpass and then through the frame of a crumbled wall, the cold air burning against his eyes. Something hissed from the street behind them—faint but not gone. Not yet.
“What the hell is that?” Till shouted.
“Crawler,” Dewey said over the roar. “Freezing mist. If it gets close, we’re done.”
Till didn’t know what that meant exactly—freezing mist sounded like bullshit—but it didn’t matter. The panic in Dewey’s voice wasn’t.
They took a sharp left. Dewey ducked low. The cold hit a second later. Not the kind of cold you’d feel on a normal day. It was wet, slick, clinging to Till’s arms like fingers.
He didn’t realize he’d screamed until it echoed back at him.
They didn’t stop until they reached the far side of the old district, deep enough into the rubble that the drones wouldn’t scan easily. The mist had stopped chasing them. For now.
Till climbed off the bike. His knees gave slightly.
Dewey was already checking something in his jacket. His own arm was blue where the mist touched him.
They were quiet for a moment, catching their breath, lungs burning.
Till finally exhaled.
“…That was just a supply run?” he asked, voice hoarse.
Dewey smirked grimly, blood crusting on his lip.
“Welcome to the real world, pretty boy.”
The others had already vanished ahead—motorbikes like bullets through the rubble, zigzagging down the cracked road. Fast. Too fast.
Till’s bike jerked as Dewey swerved hard around a burned-out truck, his knuckles white against the handles.
“Can you go faster?” Till yelled over the wind.
“I’m trying!” Dewey barked back. “Something’s wrong with the engine—”
Before he could finish, a blast cracked through the air.
Louder than before. Closer.
Then another.
Till’s body flung forward as Dewey lost control. The motorbike skidded—something had hit the back wheel—and they tumbled.
Metal screeched. Dust exploded.
Till rolled, his shoulder slamming into a broken street sign. Dewey groaned from somewhere behind.
Smoke. Fire. Somewhere nearby.
Till scrambled up, dizzy. “Dewey—?”
“I’m fine,” Dewey hissed. But his leg was twisted under him, blood soaking through his pants. “Shit. Bike’s totaled.”
A mechanical screech echoed through the sky. That sound again—wet static and humming metal.
A Segyein drone lowered behind the flames, blinking blue.
Till pulled the gun Dewey had given him earlier—shaking. He hadn’t used it in real combat. Training was one thing. This wasn’t that.
Dewey looked at him. “Don’t just stand there.”
Till gritted his teeth.
BANG.
He missed.
The drone jerked to the side and scanned fast—light slicing across the street. Dewey fired from the ground. Another miss.
The drone advanced.
Till steadied his hand, breath caught in his throat. This is it. This is real. He fired again—
—And hit.
The drone exploded midair, blue light splintering into sparks.
He didn’t have time to celebrate.
Another screech. Another shape moving above.
Till turned. “We have to move—now.”
He pulled Dewey up, arm around his shoulder. Dewey winced, teeth clenched so tight it looked like he might crack them.
They hobbled fast through the alley. The explosions behind them got louder. Someone was still fighting—maybe one of their guys, maybe not.
A second blast blew apart the road just behind them, flames licking up their heels.
“Left!” Dewey shouted, and they turned into a collapsed stairwell.
It could’ve ended there. But Till saw something.
More drones, farther down the block. They were converging—too close to where the trucks had gone. If the others were caught…
He let Dewey slump against a wall.
“What are you doing?” Dewey snapped. “We have to move.”
“I’m not done,” Till said.
He ran.
He ran straight into the open street.
Like an idiot.
Like someone who didn’t value his life at all.
But someone had to distract them.
A Segyein dropped down, almost graceful, light crawling down its limbs like liquid. It saw him.
Till screamed and fired.
The recoil jerked his shoulder. The blast missed. Again.
It aimed at him—and before he could react, it shot.
White-hot pain lanced through his side.
He screamed.
He hit the ground hard, vision spinning.
Dumb. He was so fucking dumb.
He didn’t even know if Dewey was behind him anymore.
Everything throbbed. He couldn’t breathe right.
But he rolled—just enough to aim again. The creature stalked closer, clicking low and inhuman.
He shot again.
And again.
One bullet struck dead center.
The alien collapsed with a sickening screech.
Till lay there. Breathing. Gasping.
He felt warm blood on his side and thought, This is what I wanted, right? Adrenaline. Action. Hero shit.
He didn’t feel like a hero.
He felt like he was dying.
He didn’t remember Dewey getting to him. Or shouting. Or the other bike finally circling back.
He remembered hands grabbing his jacket. Blurry shapes yelling.
And the cold air against his face as they flew back through the ruins.
They made it to the base—barely.
Till’s shirt was soaked red.
His hand still clenched the gun like it was glued to him.
Someone pulled it from him. Someone else pressed a cloth to his wound.
He faded in and out.
But he heard Dewey.
“This kid’s insane.”
A beat. Then lower: “But he saved my ass.”
They burst through the entrance just before the gate locked again.
Till was barely conscious—one arm thrown over someone’s shoulder, jacket soaked in blood, one eye fluttering half-shut. Dewey stumbled beside him, lips tight with pain, his own leg a mess.
The room went silent.
The whole floor had gathered, drawn by the sound of the approaching vehicles—jokes ready on their tongues, expecting a successful supply run.
But no one expected this.
Mizi was the first to move, eyes widening.
“What the—? TILL ?!”
They dropped what they were holding and ran toward him. “What the hell happened?!”
Hyuna was already halfway there, shoving through the others. She froze as she saw the state Till was in—his knees buckling, face pale and bloody, a gash splitting down his side.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” she snapped, to no one in particular.
Dewey looked up. “Get a medic. Now.” Somehow Till’s condition was worse than Dewey’s
Some of the others finally rushed forward. Arms caught Till as he collapsed. He groaned faintly, barely lifting his head. “I’m fine…”
“You are not fine,” Mizi snapped, her voice cracking. “Look at you—!”
The medics were already hauling him up, rushing him out of the main hall. Blood dotted the floor behind them.
Hyuna turned on Dewey. “What the hell were you thinking bringing him out?!”
“He asked,” Dewey said. “I didn’t expect him to pull a goddamn hero stunt.”
“He’s the youngest here! He’s never even—”
“He saved my life.”
The words cut clean through the room.
Hyuna went still.
Mizi didn’t look convinced. “He could’ve died.”
“He didn’t.”
“And next time?”
There was no answer. Just a grim set of Dewey’s jaw as he limped to the med station.
A hush settled over the room.
Someone coughed. The medics’ voices echoed down the corridor. Someone said “stitches.”
And Luka?
Luka had been standing by the corner, half in the shadows, leaning on the wall.
He hadn’t said a word.
But he was watching.
Unblinking.
Expression unreadable.
Not even he knew what the fuck he felt.
Regret? Anger? Fear?
All he knew was, he hadn’t looked away once.
★
Till wakes up to a full room warzone. Voices. Footsteps. Heat. He’s barely conscious, head fogged, pain burning along his side—but the first thing he registers is that everyone is yelling.
The first thing he hears is Mizi’s voice. Loud. Angry. Worried.
“You’re insane—he’s not a soldier, Dewey! You don’t just take a kid out and throw him into that—!”
“I didn’t throw him into anything,” Dewey bit back. “He held his ground when things went to hell. You think I planned for that to happen?”
“You knew the risks!”
“I told him there would be consequences.”
“He’s twenty-one, not a goddamn tank!”
“Then don’t act like he’s a child—”
“Enough.”
Hyuna’s voice cut through like a blade.
A beat of silence followed.
Till blinked his eyes open. The light was dim, but the silhouettes around him were unmistakable. Hyuna standing near the door, arms crossed, eyes cold. Dewey sitting by the wall, bleeding through a half-wrapped bandage. Mizi pacing. One of the medics hovering awkwardly by the corner.
He let out a low groan. It still felt like something was stabbing through his ribs.
The arguing paused.
Mizi turned immediately. “Oh my god—Till?”
He tried to sit up. Bad idea. A gasp left his mouth before he could stop it, and he fell back against the pillows. “Shit…”
“Lie down,” Hyuna snapped, moving closer. “You opened your stitches, dumbass.”
Till exhaled hard through his nose, blinking up at the ceiling.
“What’s the damage?” he rasped.
“Three stitches, one broken rib, deep bruises. Lucky you didn’t break your skull while diving through that explosion,” Dewey said dryly. “Impressive, really.”
“You think this is a joke?” Mizi whipped around. “You should’ve stopped him. You’re the adult—”
“I’m not his babysitter.”
“I didn’t ask you to coddle him. But maybe don’t hand him a gun and a death wish.”
Till coughed and finally croaked, “Okay, can everyone shut up?”
They all looked at him.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Hyuna said sharply.
“I will be,” he said. “I don’t regret it.”
“Oh my god,” Mizi muttered, turning away and dragging her hand down her face.
Till looked between them. “What, do I just stay here forever and rot? I want to do something.”
“Almost dying isn’t something,” Hyuna snapped. “It’s stupid.”
He stared at her, jaw clenched.
Dewey shrugged. “Well. At least now he knows what it feels like.”
Till gave a crooked smile despite the pain. “I shot an alien, didn’t I?”
“More like pissed one off and almost got shredded for it,” Dewey muttered, but his voice lacked heat.
Then Mizi threw a pillow at him.
It hit him right in the stomach.
“Ow—!”
“Good,” she said.
After the argument dies down, the others slowly filter out. Hyuna is the last to leave, giving Till one last, hard stare before muttering, “Next time, think before you try to get yourself killed,” and shutting the door behind her.
It’s quiet now.
Till exhales and lets his head fall back, the dull hum of pain in his ribs now a familiar background noise. The bed smells like antiseptic and sweat and smoke. But he’s still here. Still alive.
Then—a knock.
He flinches. “It’s open,” he calls.
The door creaks slightly, and Mizi slips in again, a little calmer this time. He’s holding something.
“Well,” he says, walking over, “Since you almost got yourself killed and all, figured I might as well give you these now, before you try it again.”
He drops a sketchbook on Till’s lap—slightly beat up, but clean pages inside.
Till blinks.
“And,” Mizi continues, stepping aside—
Another person slips in behind him. One of the older boys from the bike team, carrying a dusty black electric guitar case.
“You left this in the truck. We figured you didn’t want it lost.”
Till stares.
“Holy shit,” he whispers. “You… you grabbed it?”
“Yeah. Thought you’d yell if we didn’t.”
They set the guitar carefully on the side of the bed and leave without another word.
Mizi ruffles Till’s hair on the way out. “Don’t be stupid again, alright?”
Till opens the sketchbook slowly, flipping to a blank page. His fingers are shaky, but the feel of paper under his hand is comforting—something familiar, something his. Then he opens the guitar case. The strings are a little loose, but they’re there. His.
A lump rises in his throat.
The room is dim, lit only by the small lamp near Till’s bed. It’s late. The base is mostly asleep—quiet except for the occasional creak of metal or wind brushing against the old structure.
Till is sitting cross-legged on the bed, sketchbook balanced on his knees. Pencil moving in steady, thoughtful lines. He’s focused, eyebrows furrowed slightly, lip caught between his teeth. There’s a soft frown on his face—but not angry, just concentrated. He’s drawing something from memory. A face. A hand. He’s not sure yet.
The guitar leans quietly beside the bed. Waiting.
The door is half-open. He left it like that by accident—forgot about it in the haze of painkillers and emotion.
A soft footstep outside.
Then—
A quiet voice. “Didn’t know you could draw.”
Till freezes.
His eyes snap up to the door. Luka’s leaning there, one arm pressed to the frame, shoulder dipped slightly. His expression is unreadable, but not mocking—just… watching.
“I—” Till closes the sketchbook a little too fast. “What are you doing here?”
Luka raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know the hallway was off-limits.”
Till rolls his eyes. “Don’t you have someone else to haunt?”
Luka’s lip twitches. “Maybe. But they don’t keep their doors open like idiots.”
A tense silence.
Luka steps just slightly inside the room. “You alright?”
Till doesn’t answer right away. Then: “Why do you care?”
Luka exhales through his nose, something flickering across his face. “Maybe I don’t.”
Till scoffs.
“But maybe I do,” Luka adds, eyes narrowing. “Or maybe I’m just making sure you’re not dead so I don’t get blamed for your next tantrum.”
“Wow.” Till leans back against the pillow. “Touching.”
They stare at each other.
Then Luka nods toward the sketchbook. “What were you drawing?”
“…Nothing.”
‘’Didn’t peg you for the artsy type,” Luka adds. “Though I guess brooding and sketching alone does kinda fit your whole… thing.”
Till shoots him a look. “Thanks. And what’s your thing again? Professional asshole?”
Luka clicks his tongue. “Better than a reckless idiot.”
Till narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on.” Luka steps in now, slowly. “I heard what happened. You charging into danger like a dumbass, trying to play hero while Dewey’s bleeding out.”
“I handled it,” Till snaps, suddenly defensive. “I got us back.”
“Yeah—with a wrecked shoulder and blood all over your face. Bet that was really helpful.”
Till sets the sketchbook down beside him, jaw tight. “You weren’t even there.”
“I didn’t have to be. Half the base was there when Dewey dragged you in.”
“Then maybe you should’ve said something then instead.’’
Luka’s face twitches. “Didn’t feel like talking to someone who nearly got himself killed for what? A fucking guitar?”
Till stands now, wincing but refusing to let it show. “It wasn’t about the guitar.”
Luka scoffs. “Right. Because bleeding out in the middle of a ruined city is all part of your deep plan to prove something?”
“I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
“Then stop acting like you do,” Luka snaps. His voice is low, sharp. “No one’s impressed, Till. You think going out and getting yourself messed up makes you brave? It just makes you reckless.”
There's silence. Breathing tight. Muscles clenched.
Then Till mutters, quieter but cold, “At least I’m doing something.”
Luka scoffs under his breath, shaking his head—but then, he stops. Voice lower now, less biting, he says:
“It’s hard to do something… when I’m not included.”
He shrugs right after, casually. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Till looks up sharply.
“Oh, so now you’re the victim?” he snaps.
Luka lifts a brow. “Didn’t say that.”
“Sure felt like it.”
“I’m just saying—” Luka gestures vaguely, “—you’re not the only one losing your mind in here.”
Till doesn’t reply. Not at first. His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the sketchbook.
Then Luka adds, dry, “But hey, congrats on your little hero moment. Everyone’s talking.”
Till’s glare could kill. “Are you jealous or something?”
Luka’s smile is tight. “Of you bleeding out in an alley? Not really.”
Silence again. The kind that feels like something’s pushing up behind it, threatening to break.
Till finally mutters, “Go away.”
Luka doesn’t move right away, he glances one last time at Till
And then he turns and leaves.
Till stays sitting there long after Luka’s footsteps fade down the hall.
He stares at the door. Then, at the sketchbook still open on his lap. His pencil is hovering mid-line, like he forgot what he was even drawing.
That conversation… wasn’t like the others.
It was—
God, was it normal?
Till blinks, then snorts at himself. “Normal,” he mutters. “With him.”
He leans back against the pillows, arms crossed tight. Still feels the heat of annoyance from Luka’s voice, but also a strange tightness in his chest. Not anger exactly. Not hate. Just… something unsettled.
Why the hell did Luka look like he actually meant what he said? Why did that bother him?
He glances down at his sketchbook again.
Then, without really thinking about it, he flips to a new page and starts drawing something else. He doesn’t know what. Just lines and shapes, something to stop his brain from spinning.
But his hands feel just a bit more tense than before.
He wishes he could stop thinking about Luka.
He doesn’t.
He ends up falling asleep with the sketchbook open on his chest.
The dreams aren’t vivid this time, just color and noise and the hum of a guitar string in his ears.
★
The next two days blur together.
He stays in bed—not because he wants to, but because Dewey said so, and because every time he stands for more than five minutes, his side starts burning like it’s on fire.
He doesn’t fight it.
Mostly because he’s too tired. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t really mind it. The peace. The excuse to stay still.
He draws a lot. Messy stuff. Random stuff. A face he doesn’t finish. The outline of a hand, scribbled over. A page filled with jagged lines that look like sound waves or maybe barbed wire.
He plays guitar too. Quietly.
His fingers are rougher than he remembers, but it’s still there—how it feels to pluck the strings, how the sound settles in his chest and fills something he didn’t know was empty.
Hyuna comes by a few times, always bringing him fruit or tea she swears he needs. She never stays long. But she squeezes his wrist gently when she leaves, like she wants him to know she’s not mad at him for being reckless.
Mizi stays longer. Talks about the others. Gossips. Teases him for turning his room into an “art therapy corner.” Tries to hide the way he keeps glancing at the bruises that haven’t faded yet.
Even Dewey drops in, grumbling something about how he’s still not forgiven for pulling hero stunts, but the guy leaves a box of strings for the guitar, so. That’s probably an apology.
A few days pass quietly.
Till is finally back in his room. The soreness hasn’t completely faded, but he’s moving again—slowly, stiffly, stubbornly. The scabs on his side itch like hell. His ribs still protest every time he laughs, coughs, or breathes too hard. But he’s walking, and that’s enough.
The others have mostly stopped treating him like he’ll fall apart. Mostly.
He spends most of his time pacing the halls,
It’s quiet again.
The base feels still in that strange way it only does at night—like the walls are holding their breath. Till’s back in his own room now, still bandaged in places, sketchbook open on his bed, guitar leaning against the nightstand. He’s not really doing anything. Just staring at the pages—half-finished drawings, none of them good enough to show anyone.
A knock.
He looks up. The door creaks open without waiting.
Isaac. Calm. Sharp. Always with that unreadable face like he already knows what you’re t hinking.
“You awake?”
Till shrugs. “Sure.”
Isaac steps in but doesn’t sit. Just look around the room. Then down at the sketchbook.
“You’ve been quiet.”
Till’s eyes flicker. “Not much to say.”
Isaac crosses his arms. “That’s new.”
A pause.
“I heard what happened out there,” Isaac says. “Dewey told me. And Hyuna.”
“Yeah?” Till tries to sound casual. “You here to say I was reckless?”
Isaac doesn’t answer that right away.
“You were. But you also didn’t freeze up. You thought fast. Got Dewey out.”
He finally sits—not all the way, just leans against the wall near the door.
“You did better than I expected.”
Till doesn’t know what to say to that. His fingers twitch over the edge of the sketchbook.
“So what now?” he mutters. “You gonna start letting me go out regularly?”
“Not yet.”
Of course.
“But I’m watching.”
Till looks at him. He’s not sure what that means. Approval? A warning?
Maybe both.
“You’re not like the others,” Isaac adds. “You weren’t trained for this. But you want it. That’s something.”
“I just wanna do something,” Till says.
Isaac nods once.
“Then earn it.”
He pushes off the wall, heading for the door.
Right before he leaves, he turns back, voice lower this time:
“And next time you decide to jump into fire for someone—don’t.”
“Why?” Till smirks, bitter. “You’d rather I left Dewey to bleed out?”
“No. But we don’t need more ghosts around here.”
The door clicks shut.
Till sits there for a long while.
No more drawing tonight.
Chapter 6
Notes:
Two chapters again in one day, why not? Btw I love Luka's eyes, but I can't draw them...
Chapter Text
Luka sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin. The room was dark except for the glow of the hallway light leaking under the door. He hadn’t moved much in the past hour. Just sat there, thinking.
It wasn’t like he cared. Not really.
But he remembered the way everyone had crowded around Till when they got back from the mission. The bandages. The voices, rising over each other. The scolding. The concern. Like Till was fragile. Like he was a kid.
Luka hadn’t said anything. He’d been in the corner—watching, listening, invisible like always. And maybe it should’ve been annoying. Or funny. Or irrelevant. But instead it lodged somewhere deep in his ribs and refused to let go.
He hadn’t even done anything, and yet he felt blamed. Again.
Not directly. Just the way Hyuna had looked at him when she noticed he was there. Just the way Mizi had ignored him, more on purpose than usual. The way Till had stared straight through him like he was some kind of ghost.
Luka leaned back, head hitting the wall with a dull thud.
Why was he even thinking about it?
Why was he thinking about Till?
He was loud. Impulsive. Constantly throwing himself into danger like he had something to prove. And yet—there was something about the way he kept going. As if nothing could break him. As if he’d already been broken and decided he didn’t care anymore.
That part… Luka understood
The kitchen wasn’t far, but he moved like it was—quiet steps, shoulders tense, eyes sharp. Not because he was afraid of getting in trouble. But because if someone saw him, they’d ask questions. And he didn’t want to explain.
He opened the cupboard under the counter—the one no one touched unless there was something to celebrate—and slid the bottle out.
He poured only a little. Enough to warm his chest, not enough to feel slow. He leaned against the sink, the moonlight casting him in blue and grey, and took the first sip in silence.
His hand trembled just a little. He hated that it did.
The first sip was supposed to be the only one.
But Luka’s fingers lingered on the bottle. He hadn’t tasted warmth like that in a long time. Not the kind that burned going down and settled in his chest like it belonged there. Like it was allowed.
So he poured again. Just a little. Then more.
He lost track of how many sips he took. Just that his limbs felt looser. His thoughts are quieter. His mouth curled into a tired smile, the kind no one saw.
He leaned back against the counter, half-sitting, his head tilted up toward the ceiling. The coldness in his bones—the sharp edge of every word Till had ever thrown at him, the dull ache of knowing Hyuna would never fully trust him again—it all blurred. Not gone. Just… farther away.
He laughed under his breath. Quiet. Bitter. It echoed in the empty kitchen like a secret.
“Just a little,” he whispered to no one. “Just enough to feel like I exist.”
His cheeks were flushed. His eyes unfocused. But for the first time in days, he didn’t feel like screaming.
He felt warm.
Too warm.
The cold air hit him like a slap when he stepped onto the balcony, but he welcomed it. The alcohol made him feel too warm, and the chill was grounding in a strange way. He leaned against the railing, arms folded loosely, bottle dangling from one hand. The city was silent beneath the night—just flickers of movement, echoes of something distant. Too quiet to feel safe.
His head buzzed. His vision swam a little. But he liked this better than lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about him.
He took another swig. The bottle was almost empty now.
“Should’ve brought a blanket,” he muttered, breath fogging the air. “Or a personality people liked.” He’s slowly losing his mind here he thinks.
The door creaked open behind him.
He turned lazily, expecting no one.
But of course.
Till.
The worst person to see him like this. Or the best. He wasn’t sure anymore.
Till paused in the doorway, arms crossed, brow twitching.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Luka blinked at him, smile curling despite himself. “Admiring the stars. Drowning the trauma. Being dramatic. Take your pick.”
He raised the bottle slightly, like a toast.
“You’re drunk,” Till said flatly.
Luka hummed. “Not really. Just… warm.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“As a dying star,” Luka said, voice slurring slightly. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna fall off the edge or anything. Tempting, but dramatic exits are so last year.”
Till took a slow step closer, jaw tight. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse.” Luka turned his eyes back to the sky. “But this might be the first time you sound worried about me. Aww.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Till snapped, but he didn’t leave.
He stayed.
And Luka just kept smiling, quiet and tired, bottle resting against the railing.
Luka sank onto the concrete, legs stretched out in front of him, shoulders hunched as the warmth in his chest dulled into a slow ache. The bottle dangled loosely in his fingers now, swinging slightly as he stared ahead at nothing.
Till sighed—loudly, like the sound was meant to sting—and walked over. He hesitated just a second too long before sitting down beside him, knees bouncing once before settling.
“Give me that,” he muttered, eyes on the bottle.
Luka glanced at him, then at the half-inch of liquid left. “Didn’t know you drank.”
“I don’t,” Till said.
Luka considered the bottle, then shrugged and passed it over.
Till took it, studied it in the moonlight, and then drank—not a long sip, but not hesitant either. Luka raised a brow as he watched the other boy wince slightly at the taste.
“Disgusting, right?”
Till set the bottle down between them. “Better than listening to your mouth.”
“Ouch.” Luka let his head fall back against the railing. “You really know how to sweet-talk.”
They were quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that came with too many things unsaid. Not comfortable. Not peaceful. Just there.
‘’You know,” Luka said, eyes on the sky, “if you’re gonna sit here with me, I might actually start to believe you don’t hate me as much as you pretend.”
Till didn’t answer.
Not immediately.
And when he did, it was quiet.
“Don’t push it.”
★
Till had a mixture of disdain and begrudging respect for Luka in all honesty. There was an immediate dislike of how he treated Mizi during their round, but also…Till got it. He understood that dirty tactics are what win this hellhole of a competition. He did a dirty tactic himself in round two. He sang over Acorn and sang a song that was not the one planned. The blood on both their hands was very real.
So maybe he’s not any different.
Maybe it’s the alcohol making him suddenly think about this…
The drink burned on the way down, but it was nothing compared to the heat simmering under his skin—confusion, anger, something else. He didn’t even know why he sat next to Luka. Just that it felt inevitable.
He glanced at him now—his head tipped back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted like he was halfway to sleep or somewhere else. Luka always looked tired these days, and Till didn’t know if it pissed him off or made him feel… something else.
“Why’re you even drinking?” he asked.
Luka chuckled without humor. “Why are you?”
“I asked first.”
“Does it matter?” Luka murmured. “Nothing else is working.”
Till looked away. His jaw tensed. “Right. Poor you.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
Luka didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted one night where my head was quiet.”
That got Till. Just a little. Not enough to say it out loud, but enough for him to stay silent instead of biting back.
They sat like that for a few seconds—tension tight between them, until Luka spoke again.
“You’re always watching me,” he said, voice too light to be casual.
Till blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Back there. After the mission. Even before. You always look at me like you’re waiting for something.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for you to say something real for once.”
Luka turned to him, lazy and sharp all at once. “Like what?”
Till stared at him. “I don’t know. Maybe stop pretending like you’re above it all. Like you’re not always three steps away from falling apart.”
Luka smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And you’d like that, huh? Watching me fall?”
“Hm”
The bottle was lighter now. Luka’s fingers were looser around it, his head slumping against the wall as the warm buzz pulled him down.
They hadn’t said much. Didn’t need to.
The quiet stretched between them, broken only by the distant wind and the occasional clink of glass against metal.
He thought about standing. About walking away.
Instead, he stayed.
The night stretched on.
He didn’t know when it happened—when Luka’s head actually fell against his shoulder, or when his own dropped to the side too. The bottle was empty, tipped lazily against Luka’s thigh, forgotten.
The balcony was quiet. Warm. Almost peaceful.
His shoulder was numb.
But neither of them moved.
Sleep came hazy, slow, like sinking into something weightless.
And then—
“Are you serious right now?”
Till jerked awake at the voice. Luka groaned against him, blinking, still half-asleep, still leaning.
Hyuna stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes wide like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
Till tried to sit up, but Luka was dead weight on his side.
“What the hell are you two doing?” she asked, incredulous.
“We—” Till looked down at Luka. His head was still slumped against his shoulder, hair messy, lips parted, drunk and knocked out. “We were just… drinking.”
“Clearly.”
She stepped forward, snatched the bottle off Luka’s lap with a frown. “Seriously? Who let you get this? What are you—God, you’re idiots.”
“I didn’t even drink that much,” Till mumbled, cheeks hot now, suddenly very aware of how this looked.
Hyuna narrowed her eyes. “Whatever. Both of you, get up. If anyone else saw this—”
She stopped herself, but the damage was done. The implication hung in the air like smoke.
Hyuna didn’t wait. “Get back to your rooms. Now.”
She turned and left, bottle in hand.
Luka sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “Did… Hyuna just yelled at us?”
“Yep,” Till said. “She’s gonna kill you.”
“…Think she’ll remember it in the morning?”
“Definitely.”
They didn’t look at each other for a while.
But when they finally stood, and Luka swayed, Till caught his arm without thinking.
Neither of them said anything about that either.
Till shuts the door behind him and leans against it for a second.
What the hell was that?
He drags a hand down his face, still tasting the cheap alcohol on his tongue, the warm press of Luka’s shoulder from earlier lingering like an echo he can’t shake. They hadn’t even said anything important. No big confessions. No fights. Just… drank themselves into some weird truce and fell asleep like idiots.
That’s the part that gets to him the most.
He crosses the room, throws himself onto the bed, and stares at the ceiling.
Luka, being quiet. Luka, not throwing a single insult.
Till groans and flips onto his stomach.
Maybe Luka was too drunk to be his usual self. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe Till’s just being dumb about it.
But a little voice in his head—one he hates—won’t shut up.
He looked at you like he knew something. Like he saw through you.
He buries his face in the pillow. Nope. Not going there.
This isn’t some twisted redemption arc. Luka’s still Luka. This doesn’t change anything.
It shouldn’t.
So why the hell does it feel like something’s changing anyway?
★
Till wakes up feeling groggy, annoyed, and… weirdly warm. The kind of warmth that comes from something emotional, not physical — and he hates it. He glares at the ceiling for a while, remembering Luka slumped against his shoulder, and immediately decides none of it happened.
He dresses, brushes his teeth with a little too much force, and acts like he doesn’t care about anything.
He bumps into Hyuna, who pauses just long enough to say:
“Hope your neck’s not sore. Sleeping on balconies isn’t exactly recommended.”
Till freezes. Glares at her. She smirks, keeps walking.
He nearly combusts.
Later in the cafeteria, Luka walks in, looking like he knows exactly what he’s doing. The smugness is subtle, but it’s there. He doesn’t even sit down before dropping:
“Didn’t think you’d be up. You looked so comfortable last night.”
Mizi raises an eyebrow. Dewey stares. Hyuna does not make eye contact.
“You’re disgusting.” Till snaps.
“You didn’t say that last night’’ The bastard has the audacity to wink at him.
Luka leaves like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just drop a bomb and walk off whistling.
Till doesn’t move. He stares at his tray. The toast’s gone cold.
He knows the eyes are on him. He can feel them — Mizi’s most of all. And Hyuna’s, but hers are sharper. Knowing.
Mizi leans in, voice low:
“You’re talking to Luka now?”
Till doesn’t answer right away. He pushes the tray aside and slouches back in his seat.
Hyuna exhales, arms crossed over her chest.
“They got drunk,” she says flatly. “On the balcony. I found them both passed out.”
Mizi blinks. “What?! You mean like—together?”
A pause. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
Hyuna gives her a sharp look. “It wasn’t like that.”
Till’s jaw tightens. “It really wasn’t.”
Mizi leans on the table. “You drank with him?”
“I didn’t plan to,” he mutters. “He was already drunk.”
Hyuna’s eyes don’t leave him. “And you sat with him.”
“I was bored, don't make it a big deal.”
Silence follows. No one knows what to say to that.
Hyuna shifts her weight, her voice softer now.
Mizi sighs, clearly not satisfied but also not wanting to push further. “Well… I guess I missed a lot in two days.”
“You didn’t miss much,” Till says. “Just more of the same.”
And maybe that’s true. Maybe Luka hasn’t changed at all.
Maybe Till is the one who has.
★
The day drags.
He doesn’t see Luka again. Not in the halls, not on the balcony, not anywhere.
Maybe he’s hiding. Or maybe Till’s just not looking hard enough.
The afternoon sun is low now, casting a pale orange haze over the floor of his room. Till sprawled on the bed with his sketchbook open on his chest. He hasn’t drawn anything. Just the same page, same pencil hovering midair. His hand hurts from gripping too tightly.
He sighs and rolls onto his side.
People keep acting like something’s changed. Maybe it has.
But if it has… he doesn’t know what. Or how. Or why.
There’s a knock on the door, soft and hesitant.
Till frowns. “Yeah?”
It’s Mizi.
She slips in holding a bowl of something warm — maybe soup, maybe radioactive sludge. Hard to tell. She’s wearing her “I’m worried but not gonna say it” face.
“Thought you might be hungry.”
Till sits up and takes the bowl. “Thanks.”
She lingers in the doorway, arms crossed. “I still think drinking with Luka was a bad idea.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” he says.
“Yeah, you said that.”
“You know you don’t have to save him, right?”
Till doesn’t reply. He just stares at the soup.
She leaves him with that.
He eats in silence, sketchbook still open beside him.
Outside, the sky starts turning darker — shadows stretching long and thin across the base. Everything feels still. Like something’s about to shift. Or snap.
But maybe that’s just him.
The base is quiet this late. Most of the lights have gone dim. It’s the kind of silence that hums — not peaceful, not tense. Just expectant.
Till’s in the gym alone.
Shirtless. Sweat glistened down his back as he wrappe his hands for another round on the punching bag. His arms ache, knuckles already bruised, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. His head’s been too full all day, spinning with thoughts he doesn’t know what to do with.
Thoughts like last night. And Luka.
He exhales sharply and throws another punch.
Then another.
And—
“You’re gonna break your hand.”
Till freezes.
He turns. Of fucking course.
Luka’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed lazily over his chest. There’s no smirk this time, just something unreadable on his face. He steps in, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.
Till straightens up and wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. “Don’t you knock?”
“I did. You didn’t hear it.” Luka’s voice is calm, casual. But his eyes are moving — slow and deliberate — taking in Till’s chest, the sweat, the bruised knuckles. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What?”
Luka shrugs. “The gym obsession. Thought you were all bark.”
Till scoffs. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Sure.” Luka starts walking toward him, not hurried, just… there. “But I’m learning. One punch at a time.”
Till steps away from the bag and grabs a towel from the bench. “What do you want?”
Luka pauses. “Nothing.
They stand in the quiet, gym lights buzzing faintly above them. Luka finally glances at the bag.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he says.
Till glares. “You wanna come show me?”
Luka smiles, slowly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Till’s stomach turns. His heart stutters — not that he’d admit it.
“I could still knock you out,” he mutters, half-joking.
“You already did,” Luka says, tone dropping dangerously low.
“You’re training now?” Till asks, trying not to sound surprised.
“I used to. Not much lately,” Luka says, flexing his fingers, rotating one shoulder like testing how his body feels. “Figured I’d try again.”
A pause. Then Luka gives him a sideways look, something almost teasing in it.
“Don’t get excited. I’m not trying to copy your new gym rat routine.”
Till snorts but doesn’t smile. “You’d pass out halfway through.”
Luka grins faintly. “Probably.”
He grabs one of the lighter weights, starts doing slow reps with practiced form. Not showing off — just… proving something. Maybe to Till. Maybe to himself.
Till watches for a moment, towel hanging loose in his hands.
“You don’t need to train,” he says quietly. “You already think you’re better than everyone.”
Luka glances at him. “I don’t think that. I just know who I am.”
Another pause. Till walks back to the bag, fists still wrapped.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
And just like that, the tension tightens again — but this time it’s different. It’s not the same sharp anger. It’s a low thrum beneath the skin, something half-forgotten from the night they passed out on each other’s shoulders. Something neither of them wants to name.
Till yanks his shirt over his head a little too forcefully, fabric clinging to his damp skin. He doesn’t look at Luka.
But he feels him.
Still standing there. Not moving. Not leaving.
The hallway is quiet as they walk side by side — not talking, not touching, just existing in the same space, steps echoing against the dim walls. It’s late. Most people are asleep. The whole base feels heavy with silence, like it’s holding its breath.
They step into the kitchen—
And freeze.
Hyuna looks up first from her seat at the end of the table, a mug of tea cradled in her hands.
Mizi blinks at them like she’s seen a ghost.
Dewey just raises an eyebrow slowly.
The silence is so loud.
Luka stops walking entirely, lips parted slightly, and Till stiffens like he’s just been caught red-handed, even though technically, they didn’t do anything.
Mizi is the first to speak.
“…Were you two together?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she glances between them.
Till exhales through his nose. “We were at the gym.”
“That’s not helping your case,” Dewey mutters, leaning back in his chair.
Hyuna’s eyes linger on Luka — sharp, unreadable. She doesn’t say anything.
Luka clears his throat. “We were training.”
“Together?” Mizi says, voice climbing just a little. “Again?”
“You guys are being dramatic,” Till says as he takes the bottle of water
Till exhales and takes another sip of water, then leans on the counter, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
Luka, ever the shadow, still hasn’t moved from beside him.
Then he stretches lazily, smug and drawling, “You know, if we keep getting caught like this, people might start thinking we’re bonding.”
Till doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes, but—
Mizi’s voice cuts through the room like a blade: “Kill yourself.”
She’s not even fully out of earshot yet. The door swings back half an inch as she calls it, and then it closes again with a soft click.
Luka lets out a long, exaggerated whistle, low and impressed, one brow arching. “She’s really starting to warm up to me.”
That gets a sharp snort out of Till — almost a laugh, but not quite.
He shakes his head, finishes his water, and mutters, “You’re unbelievable.”
Luka just grins. “You’re welcome.”
They stand in silence for a beat longer, the hum of the fridge the only sound between them.
Eventually, Luka straightens up, the smirk fading just enough to leave his expression unreadable. “Guess I’ll head out,” he says, already turning.
Till watches him move toward the hall.
He doesn’t know why he speaks. Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s the look on Luka’s face. Or maybe he’s just tired of pretending it doesn’t feel strange to leave without a word.
“Night,” he says simply.
Luka pauses mid-step.
There’s the smallest hitch in his movement—like the word caught him off guard—but he doesn’t turn around. Just lifts one hand slightly as he walks away. “Yeah. Night.”
Till lingers in the kitchen for a few seconds longer. Then he pushes off the counter and makes his way to his room, his thoughts trailing behind him like smoke.
Back in his room, Till tosses his shirt aside and sinks into the mattress, but sleep doesn’t come easily. Not right away.
He stares at the ceiling, the shadows shifting lazily in the corners of the room. His muscles ache slightly from the gym, but it’s not what keeps him awake. It’s the same thing that’s been tugging at him every night lately.
Luka.
He didn’t plan any of this—didn’t plan on sitting next to him drunk on the balcony, or hearing the way he laughed under his breath, or finding himself in situations that weren’t fights or stares that lasted too long. It’s not bonding, not really. He doesn’t even know what to call it. Just—something weird that keeps happening.
And no one says anything. Not even Hyuna. Maybe she knows better than anyone to stay out of it. She and Luka have a long, twisted history—something carved out in secrets Till hasn’t been let in on. But Mizi? Mizi hates him. And if Mizi knew half of the moments Till was accidentally sharing with Luka, there’d be a riot.
He doesn’t even think about Ivan as he used to before; he almost feels guilty about it. People should move on eventually, yes but it feels, but it doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right lately.
He drapes an arm over his eyes and exhales through his nose.
He’s just… tired. That’s all.
That’s all.
Chapter Text
The air in the war room was heavy—not hot, just dense. Even before Isaac said a word, the sharp silence warned them this wasn’t going to be one of those casual briefings with side comments and complaints about rationed coffee.
Till sat near the far end of the table, hands on his knees, posture rigid.
Hyuna stood beside Isaac, arms crossed, face unreadable. She scanned the room slowly, her eyes pausing—just a fraction too long—on Till. But she said nothing.
Isaac was the one to speak.
“We’ve got three separate points of interest. One: a small storage unit west of Sector D—probably abandoned, possibly looted. Two: a signal flare was spotted near the old trainyard. Could be survivors. Could be bait. And three…” he paused, clicking a remote and bringing up a fuzzy overhead photo of a cluster of buildings, “…a research facility. We’ve intercepted weak signals from it for weeks. No one’s answered our check-ins. It’s time we go in.”
A murmur went through the room. Mizi shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.
Isaac didn’t give anyone time to ask questions yet.
“We’ll split into three teams. Smaller, faster, less obvious. We leave in 48 hours. Gear up tomorrow. No unnecessary risks.”
Then Hyuna stepped forward, her voice lower but firmer.
“We’re not just scavenging anymore. We’re pushing out. Whatever’s coming, we need to be ahead of it. This base won’t hold forever.”
Till’s heart knocked hard against his ribs. There was a quiet, electric buzz in his head. Not fear. Adrenaline, maybe.
He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to raise his hand or just speak, but he didn’t wait.
“I want in.”
The silence that followed wasn’t loud—it was pointed. Mizi exhaled like she already knew this was coming. A few others exchanged glances. Someone scoffed under their breath.
Isaac met his eyes directly.
“You’re already listed.”
Till blinked. That wasn’t what he’d expected.
Hyuna added, “Sector D run. With Dewey, Min, and Rina. Smaller team. Keep your head down.”
There was no protest from Till. Just a short nod. But Mizi wasn’t so silent.
“He had one field run. He got nearly torn apart.”
Isaac didn’t look at her. “And now he knows what it feels like. That’s more than some of the rookies here.”
“That’s your logic?” she snapped.
Hyuna raised her hand calmly. “Enough. The list is final. If anyone wants to argue, save it for after we get back.”
Mizi sat back in her chair, clearly biting down on something she wanted to say.
Till didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at anyone.
He just sat there, gripping the edge of his seat like if he let go, he might fly out of the room from the force of whatever was thrumming through him. Not excitement. Not quite fear either.
Just… want.
He wanted to be out there again.
To do something. To matter.
The hallway outside the war room buzzed with quiet urgency. No one was wasting time. Boots thudded against concrete, lists were passed between hands, and gear was getting counted, packed, double-checked. This wasn’t a one-day grab-and-go.
They were staying out for the night.
Till found himself pacing beside Dewey as they went through their assigned gear. Dewey was focused, but calm in that weird Dewey way—like this was just another gym session, just another broken rib waiting to happen.
“You pack your meds?” Dewey asked, not looking up.
Till frowned. “What meds?”
Dewey gave him a long look. “Painkillers. Wraps. Your shoulder’s still bruised. You’re not impressing anyone limping.”
“I’m fine.”
“You will be if you prep right,” Dewey muttered, tossing him a small pouch. “Pack smart. You don’t want to owe someone out there.”
Till zipped it into his bag without another word. It was strange, this quiet between them. After everything that happened on their last mission—the injuries, the gunshots, the heat of it all—it felt like the two of them had silently agreed not to talk about it too much.
Back in his room, Till threw open his drawers. Most of what he needed was already packed—Isaac had warned them this was coming, and he’d started keeping his things ready. But now it felt different. That was real exposure. It wasn’t like running errands. It meant sleeping with one eye open, maybe not sleeping at all. It meant the possibility of never coming back.
He glanced at the sketchbook on his desk. Part of him wanted to bring it, just in case. Maybe drawing could keep him sane again like it used to.
He didn’t pack it.
Instead, he grabbed a folded bandana, a pair of gloves, and stared at himself in the small cracked mirror above his dresser. He looked older lately. Sharper in the face. Tired, but wired.
Just as Till was adjusting the strap of his pack, heading for the exit, he caught sight of Luka leaning against the hallway wall. Half in the shadow, hands tucked into the sleeves of his worn sweater. His gaze was steady, unreadable as always.
Till slowed, annoyed that he slowed.
Luka didn’t move. “You’re heading out.”
“Obviously.”
Luka nodded once. “Good luck.”
Till stared at him. “Didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” Luka replied easily. “Just saying it.”
That made Till scoff under his breath. He turned away, but then paused again—like something in Luka’s tone had snagged at him.
He glanced back. Luka still hadn’t moved.
“…Thanks,” Till muttered, almost reluctantly.
Luka raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
That was it. No drama, no follow-up. Just two people with too many thoughts in their heads and no idea what they meant to each other—yet.
Till left without another word.
And Luka stayed right where he was, eyes fixed on the spot where Till had been.
★
Outside, the compound buzzed with motion. The sun was just starting to rise, casting sharp gold across the cracked pavement and long silhouettes of the riders already gearing up. Engines rumbled low in the distance, a few of the motorbikes already tearing out into the road ahead. The air smelled like fuel, dust, and morning cold.
Till walked fast, slipping the straps of his bag higher on his shoulders, scanning for his group. Dewey stood by the bikes, sharp-eyed and already halfway through a cigarette, tossing orders at two others while adjusting the gear on his back. Mizi passed by in a blur, her hair tied up tight, pack bulging with medical supplies. She nodded once at Till as she jogged past.
He exhaled, the crisp air stinging his lungs. This was real now. No practice run. No second test.
A couple others were already revving engines—Hyuna among them, perched on her bike with Isaac close behind, talking fast and low like they always did before heading out. Even they looked tense.
Till reached Dewey just as he was zipping his jacket up to his neck.
“You’re late,” Dewey said, but there was no bite in his voice. He flicked the cigarette aside and gestured to the bike. “Get on. You remember what I told you.”
“Yeah,” Till said, climbing on behind him.
He didn’t need Luka’s luck. He’d make his own.
The motorbikes shot forward, one by one, peeling off from the compound like streaks of black and rust. The wind slapped against Till’s face, biting at the skin just above his scarf, but the adrenaline dulled everything else. He held tighter to Dewey, keeping low behind him as they swerved through cracked roads and overgrown paths, weaving between the debris of what used to be a city.
They rode for what felt like an hour, stopping only briefly to check their map and adjust formation. At one point, a few of the bigger trucks passed them, loaded with storage crates and guarded by two of the others with rifles drawn. Isaac and Hyuna rode ahead on their own route, keeping an eye on the far end of the grid.
The sun dipped fast behind the broken skyline, painting everything in ash-blue and rust-orange. By the time they reached the designated shelter for the night, Till’s legs ached and his fingers had gone stiff around the straps of his pack.
It wasn’t much of a camp—just a crumbled building with a half-roof, surrounded by thick trees and brick ruins. Safe enough. Quiet enough. The others had already started setting things up. Some lit small, smokeless fires hidden behind stone. Others rolled out mats and counted supplies under flashlight beams.
Till dropped his bag with a heavy breath and stretched his back. He didn’t say much. No one really did. There was a different kind of silence here—not the suffocating kind from earlier, but the kind shared by people who knew they needed to save their breath for the next day.
He caught Dewey’s eye across the cracked floor. The older boy nodded once, a silent we made it kind of gesture.
They were down one bike and two bags short from what they’d planned, but they were all still alive.
For now.
Till sat near the wall, unrolling his sleeping bag beside a broken window frame. He could see the stars if he leaned the right way. There were more than he remembered.
He leaned back on his elbows, muscles sore, mind restless. Tomorrow wasn’t going to be easier. If anything, it was going to be worse.
And they hadn’t even seen the worst of what was out there yet.
Till sat outside the crumbled building, legs pulled up to his chest, picking at a stray thread on his sleeve. The air was cold, but not sharp. It smelled like moss and dust and faint smoke from the fire someone had buried under rocks.
He heard the light steps before he saw her.
Mizi plopped down beside him, wrapping her arms around her knees. She didn’t say anything at first—just stared ahead at the woods like they might grow teeth.
After a minute, she spoke, voice low and without bite.
“Didn’t think you’d still be awake.”
Till shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She glanced sideways at him. “Because of the mission, or…”
A pause. She didn’t have to say the name.
He let out a quiet breath. “He wished me luck, you know. Before we left.”
Mizi’s eyes narrowed. “Luka did?”
“Yeah. Just… quietly. In that stupid tone of his,” Till said, almost smiling. “But still. I didn’t expect it.”
Mizi snorted softly. “He’s always full of surprises.”
Till looked at her. “You still hate him?”
“I don’t hate him,” she replied, but her voice was tight. “I just don’t trust him. And I don’t want you getting hurt again.”
Till turned his gaze back to the trees. “It’s not like that.”
“No?” she said, gently but pointedly. “Because the way you keep mentioning him, the way you look when you talk about him—it’s starting to feel like something.”
He didn’t answer right away.
“Maybe he’s not a bad person,” Till finally said, his voice quiet. “Just a messed up one. Like the rest of us.”
Mizi rested her chin on her arms. “Yeah. But messed up people can still break other messed up people.”
Another silence passed between them.
“I just don’t want to see you spiral again, Till. You’ve come too far since Ivan.”
Her voice was soft, careful. No judgment—just care. Tired care.
He nodded slowly. “I know.”
They sat like that a while longer. The stars stayed still above them, and the night pressed on, slow and watchful.
He realised for the first time he didn’t flinch when he heard Ivan’s name.
He didn’t know what it meant.
★
Till woke with a dry mouth and stiff shoulders. For a moment, he thought he’d overslept—until the voices hit him. Loud. Panicked. Arguing.
He blinked, groggy, heart suddenly kicking into gear.
“…don’t know how they found us—”
“They must’ve followed—”
“They’re moving fast, we have five minutes at best!”
A hand jolted his shoulder. Hard.
“Till—get up. Now.”
It was Hyuna. Her face was stone. Focused. No time for anything but command. Around her, people were rushing, packing up, loading gear, grabbing weapons. The sky was still pale, not quite dawn.
“What’s happening?” Till asked, already scrambling up.
“Scouts spotted a group coming fast. Armed. Too organized to be a random gang. Could be Collectors. Could be worse.”
Till’s stomach dropped. “Aliens?”
“We’re not waiting to find out.”
He grabbed his bag, boots half-laced, adrenaline punching the sleep from his system.
Mizi sprinted past with two packs slung over her shoulders, eyes wild. “East route’s clear, for now—Hyuna wants us moving in pairs!”
People were shouting. Zipping tents. Kicking out fire pits. Somewhere, someone yelled that they lost their comms device.
“Dewey and Isaac are trying to buy us time,” Hyuna said, checking her weapon. “Stick with me until we split. We need to move.”
Till didn’t even have time to breathe. Just move. He threw on his jacket and followed Hyuna into the early morning chaos—feet pounding dirt, heart hammering, unsure if this was the kind of mission you returned from.
They moved fast—through the trees, over the uneven terrain, branches slapping at their faces, breath clouding in the cold morning air. The sun barely crested the horizon, a weak line of gold behind gray.
Gunfire cracked in the distance. Then closer.
They weren’t alone anymore.
Isaac’s voice rang out ahead: “Left! Cut east—NOW!”
Then a scream.
Till turned his head—just for a second—and saw one of the boys, Jaemin, collapse. Blood sprayed from his chest as he dropped, his gun skidding out of reach. Mizi shouted something and lunged toward him, but Hyuna grabbed her and yanked her back.
“No time!” Hyuna barked. “He’s gone!”
But Till… he couldn’t look away.
Jaemin’s eyes were still open. The way his body hit the ground—so still, so sudden—it felt unreal. Like his mind hadn’t caught up to what he’d seen. The colors were wrong. Too much red. Too much silence in the space where a person had just been alive.
“Till!” someone screamed.
He didn’t flinch.
Gunshots again. Closer. Footsteps crashing. Someone grabbed him by the back of his jacket—Mizi—and yanked him hard.
“Don’t stop moving!” she snapped in his face. “He’s dead, you’re not!”
She shoved him forward. He stumbled, boots slipping, lungs burning.
The mission wasn’t just a mission anymore. This was survival.
By some miracle, they all regrouped.
Scratched. Bruised. Bloodied.
But together.
The sun was higher now, spilling cold light over the wreckage they’d left behind. The bags were still there, tossed beside the bikes. The backup vehicle had already taken the injured ones back earlier, but the rest of them—those who stayed, those who survived—were silent as they moved.
No one said a word as they checked supplies.
A few things were missing. A few lives too.
Till didn’t ask who else didn’t make it. He didn’t want to know.
Hyuna was barking orders in that low, commanding voice, her arm wrapped tightly where she’d been grazed. Isaac looked like hell, dirt streaked down his jaw, something dark in his eyes. Dewey was limping, clutching his ribs, but still helped strap the bags to the bikes.
No one mentioned Jaemin.
Till’s hands trembled slightly as he fastened his helmet. Mizi kept glancing at him like she wanted to say something—but she didn’t. Not yet.
There’d be time later. Or not.
They all mounted up, engines roaring like they were shaking off death itself.
Time to go home.
The gates opened, and they rode in.
No one cheered. No one even looked up.
The base swallowed them in silence.
Their boots hit the ground one by one, heavy, slow. Helmets came off. Bags unloaded. Weapons returned without a word. There was no rush, no chatter, no joking around like after the last mission.
They all looked… hollow.
Hyuna was the first to disappear, barely glancing at anyone before heading down the hall. Isaac followed, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. Dewey didn’t say a thing either—just handed in his gun and limped toward the med wing.
Mizi pulled off her jacket and tossed it aside, her expression unreadable, her mouth a hard line.
Till stood there for a while, still by the entrance, helmet in hand, staring at nothing.
No one looked at him.
And he didn’t look at anyone.
He eventually turned and headed to his room. Didn’t bother checking if Luka was watching again. Didn’t care.
Everything felt wrong.
They had made it back.
But something was definitely missing.
★
He’d been sitting on the stairwell for nearly an hour, half-finished drink in hand, staring at the rusted railing like it had answers. It didn’t.
When the first engines echoed in the distance, he stood. Quietly. Moved to the edge of the hallway, just out of sight.
And then they came back.
One by one.
Like ghosts.
Hyuna didn’t even glance his way. Isaac’s face was stormy—he looked like he could punch through a wall. Dewey’s shoulder was bleeding again. Mizi’s hands trembled as she walked past, but her face was ice.
Luka didn’t see Till at first.
But then he came into view. Helmet under his arm. Dried blood on his shirt. Staring blankly ahead like he didn’t recognize this place anymore.
Luka took a step forward.
Stopped.
He wanted to say something—anything—but the words sat heavy in his throat. Till didn’t even look his way. Just kept walking, his steps slow, his back stiff like he’d break in half if someone touched him.
Luka swallowed.
That guilt again, sharp and metallic in the back of his mouth.
It wasn’t even his mission, and yet something inside him twisted like he’d failed.
He turned away before anyone could notice he was watching.
He found himself doing it again.
Watching.
Always watching.
Till moved differently than the others—less polished than Isaac, less composed than Hyuna, more fire than logic. Something about that caught Luka’s attention, kept catching it even when he told himself to stop.
Maybe it was boredom.
He was bored, after all. Left out. Excluded.
He took another sip from the bottle in his hand. Something cheap. Burned just enough to feel real.
But lately, it wasn’t just boredom, was it?
He liked when Till spoke to him. Even if it was just to argue. Even if it was to insult him. It made him feel… here. Like he existed. Like someone noticed him without pity or fear. Like someone still saw Luka as something other than a liability.
And now here he was.
Standing in front of Till’s door.
Bottle in one hand. Other hand hovering in the air, not quite brave enough to knock.
What was he even doing?
He hated this feeling—this restlessness, this tight coil in his stomach. This strange urge to go inside and just be near Till, even if for no reason at all.
What did he even want?
An answer?
A fight?
A touch?
He didn’t know. And that scared him more than the silence.
So he stood there. Breathing slow. Listening to the quiet on the other side of the door.
And still—
He hated how loud the knock sounded.
Just two quick raps. Controlled. Almost too casual—like he didn’t care, like he wasn’t standing there wondering what the hell he was doing.
He stepped back a little, glanced at the hallway behind him. Empty.
The door stayed closed for a beat too long. Luka thought about turning around.
Then it opened.
Till stood there.
Shirt slightly wrinkled. Hair a mess from sleep or stress or both. His expression was unreadable at first—then narrowing, immediately guarded.
“…What.”
Not a question. More like a warning.
Luka met his eyes and didn’t flinch. “Can I come in?”
Silence.
Till didn’t move. He just stood there, eyes sharp, shoulders tense. Luka saw the exhaustion under it, saw something else too—confusion maybe. Or curiosity.
Then, finally, Till stepped aside. Barely.
“You’re already here,” he muttered, moving back to his desk where the sketchbook still sat open. He didn’t look at Luka as he spoke. “Might as well.”
Luka stepped in, closing the door gently behind him. The room was dim. Quiet. A little warmer than the hallway. He didn’t sit. He just stood there, bottle still in hand.
Till looked over his shoulder. “You’re drunk again.”
“Not enough,” Luka said quietly. “Trust me.”
A tense silence settled between them.
What happened out there?” he asked, voice low.
Till’s pencil paused.
Luka took a slow sip from the bottle, eyes on the back of Till’s neck. “You look like hell.”
Till didn’t turn around. “Thanks.”
“I heard something went wrong,” Luka went on, quieter now. “I didn’t get details.”
Till finally turned then. Not fully, just enough to meet Luka’s gaze over his shoulder. His expression was blank, but his eyes were tired, too tired to pretend it didn’t affect him.
“People died,” Till said flatly.
Luka stayed silent. He could’ve said I’m sorry, but he didn’t. Would that even mean anything?
Till turned back to his desk. “Don’t pretend to care now.”
“I’m not pretending.”
Till let out a short laugh. “Then you’re doing it wrong.”
Luka took another drink. He felt it sting a little more now.
“I just wanted to know,” he said. “That’s all.”
Till didn’t answer. Luka almost left again.
But something in the quiet made him stay
Till was still turned away, his hand tight around the pencil, knuckles pale. Luka didn’t move. The silence stretched too long.
“You want details?” Till said suddenly, his voice sharp. “Why? So you can sit around here and imagine it all like a movie?”
Luka blinked. “That’s not—”
“No, seriously,” Till stood now, turning fully toward him, his expression twisted somewhere between fury and exhaustion. “You just want to play witness again, right? Stand on the side and ask your little questions like it’s not real—like none of it touches you. Like you’re not part of this mess.”
Luka opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Till’s voice didn’t rise, but it grew colder. “You sit in your corner, you drink, you watch. That’s what you do. You don’t help. You don’t fight. You don’t even try.”
“Till…” Luka’s voice was hoarse, barely there.
“You think just showing up at my door suddenly makes you part of this?” Till snapped. “Don’t come to me pretending you care. You don’t even care about yourself.”
That last line landed like a slap.
Luka staggered back half a step, bottle still in hand. His lips parted, eyes wide—but not in anger. In something worse. Something hollow.
He turned without a word, stumbling toward the door. His hand fumbled on the handle for a second too long before yanking it open.
And then he was gone.
Till stood there, heart racing, breath heavy, and only now noticed the tremble in his own hands.
He didn’t even hear the distant wheezing echo down the hall.
Luka barely registered the sound of the door clicking shut behind him.
The hallway blurred. Not because he was drunk—but because the edges of his vision were starting to dim.
His knees buckled against the wall. He caught himself with one hand, palm scraping against the cold surface. Too hot. His chest was burning. Not tight—constricted. Each breath scraped like sandpaper down his throat, and nothing was filling his lungs. Just shallow gasps. Whispers of air.
Where’s—
His fingers clawed at his pocket. Nothing. Not with him.
The panic rushed in like a flood, faster than the dizziness. His throat locked tighter, and his lips parted uselessly. Nothing. No oxygen. No words. Just that awful wheezing, like a dying thing.
Shit. Shit. No—no, not now.
He sank lower, one hand to his chest, nails biting into fabric. His vision blurred again—but this time with tears he didn’t even know were forming.
Not because he was scared.
But because of how fucking pathetic it all was. Crumbling outside someone’s door, right after being told he didn’t try. That he didn’t care. That he didn’t fight.
He wanted to scream. Or laugh. But he didn’t have enough air for either.
Instead, he just pressed his head to the wall, trembling and gasping in silence.
And for the first time in weeks, Luka didn’t feel angry.
He just felt small.
Footsteps.
He didn’t hear them—just felt them. Dull vibrations through the floor as someone approached, fast.
“Luka?”
Her voice was sharp at first—worried, alert. Then she saw him.
“Oh my god—”
Hyuna was beside him in seconds, crouching, arms steadying his slumped form. Luka didn’t resist. Couldn’t. His head lolled back against the wall, lips parted, breath ragged and failing.
‘’Hey. Look at me.”
Luka shook his head—not to say no, just to try and move. He felt like stone. Cold stone. Frozen somewhere between guilt and exhaustion and whatever Till’s voice had cracked open inside him.
Hyuna reached out, took his wrist—not rough, just grounding. “Breathe slowly. You’re not having an asthma attack.”
He still couldn’t speak. His mouth moved, nothing came.
“Luka,” she said softly, kneeling now, face close. “Count your fingers. Come on. You remember?”
That got through to him. His lashes fluttered. He looked at his trembling hands, spreading them slowly.
“One…”
Hyuna’s voice followed, gently matching his count.
“Two… three… that’s it. Four. Five.”
He started over. Once. Twice. It didn’t fix everything. But the spiral paused. Just enough for the air to come back in.
“I’m here,” she murmured.
He nodded. The memory—her hand over his, her voice counting softly under the stars, when he couldn’t sleep for days—hit him harder than the panic. It was safe. A small, familiar island in his shaking mind.
“I didn’t…” His voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to lose it.”
“I know,” she said simply. “You didn’t.”
Her hand moved to the back of his head. She didn’t pull him into a hug—she let him fall into it. And he did. Shoulders caving, cheek pressing into her jacket, the warmth finally seeping in.
‘’I'm pathetic.’’
“You’re not pathetic,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
She stayed with him like that for a long time, without a word—she opened her arms.
Luka didn’t even hesitate.
He folded into her, burying his face into her shoulder like it was instinct. His whole body sank into the hug, arms clinging to her like she was the only thing keeping him from collapsing completely.
She held him tight. One hand on his back, the other cradling his head, rocking him just slightly.
He cries, it's silent, nothing dramatic. He really needed this.
Eventually, his breathing slowed.
Not completely steady—but slower. Measured. His fingers had stopped trembling under hers. His body no longer hunched in panic, only slumped in exhaustion.
Hyuna didn’t ask what triggered it. She didn’t mention the bottle she smelled faintly on him, or the fact that he was in a part of the building he had no reason to be in. She didn’t even glance toward the direction of Till’s room.
She just sat with him, her arm still resting around his shoulders as his head leaned against the wall now, not her.
After a few minutes, she said gently, “Come on. You need rest.”
Luka didn’t argue.
He let her guide him back—quiet, steps dragging—and when they reached the doorway of his room, he paused. He didn’t look at her, but his voice came out low, rough.
“I’m sorry.”
She blinked.
Not because he’d said it, but because it sounded real. Like the kind of sorry that took a long time to come out—maybe months. Maybe longer.
Still facing the door, Luka added, “For everything. Back then. You… You didn’t deserve that.”
Hyuna was quiet for a long moment.
Then, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him again—this time not because he was falling apart, but because he was finally trying to put himself back together.
“I know,” she said. “And I forgive you.”
Luka closed his eyes. He didn’t say thank you. He just nodded—just once—and stepped inside.
She watched the door close behind him, then stood there a few more seconds.
Redemption wouldn’t come all at once.
But this was where it would begin.
★
Till hadn’t really slept.
His eyes might have closed at some point, but his thoughts had never stopped racing. By the time the early sun started creeping through the blinds, his body ached more from tension than exhaustion.
He sat on the edge of his bed now, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it owed him answers.
He felt guilty.
He’d lashed out. At Luka. No real reason. Not really. Sure, Luka had shown up drunk again and asked about the mission, but it wasn’t even what he said—it was how he said it, like he had no right to know. Like he cared.
And maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. Till didn’t even know anymore.
But he shouldn’t have snapped. Not like that.
Especially not after…
He rubbed his face with both hands, groaning into his palms. “Fuck.”
The image of Luka standing there flashed again—unsteady on his feet, that distant look in his eyes like he’d already given up. He hadn’t even snapped back. Not a word. He’d just…left.
And Till hadn’t followed.
He hadn’t even wondered if he was okay until now, and now it felt too late.
“Shit,” he muttered, pressing his palms harder against his eyes like he could scrub the memory away.
The cafeteria was quieter than usual, a few people scattered across the tables, eating in tired silence. Till grabbed something simple—a protein bar and black coffee—and tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted. He hadn’t eaten properly in a day, but food didn’t feel real right now.
He was halfway to an empty table when Hyuna stepped into his path.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, arms crossed, eyes sharp—not angry, not cold, just… knowing.
Till swallowed. “Something wrong?”
“You tell me,” she said calmly.
He blinked.
She lowered her voice. “You want to explain what happened with Luka last night?”
Till froze. The cup in his hand felt too hot now.
“I…” he began, but the words stuck. “What are you talking about?”
“I found him in the hall,” she said. “Quite the mess, haven't seen sim like that in a long time.’’
Till’s lips parted, a breath caught in his throat.
She tilted her head slightly. “So I’ll ask again, Till. What happened?”
He stared at her, stunned. Guilt punched through his ribs.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said, voice too low. “He asked about the mission. I—I snapped. I didn’t think he’d…” He shook his head. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”
Hyuna studied him for a moment. “He’s not fine, Till. Not even close. And I don’t expect you to fix that. But if you’re going to be part of his mess, you better know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t want to be part of his mess,” Till muttered, but even to his own ears it sounded like a lie.
She raised a brow. “Then stop acting like you are.”
Then she stepped aside, leaving him standing there with a cold coffee in his hand and a mouthful of silence.
Till hesitated, then walked over and dropped into the seat across from her.
She didn’t look up. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, sipping the now-lukewarm coffee.
They sat in silence for a beat. Then she sighed and said,
“Hyuna talked to me.”
Till’s head snapped up.
She took a sip of her juice, then said more quietly, “Apparently… he apologized to Hyuna. Last night. Said sorry. And she forgave him.”
That landed hard.
He blinked, processing. Luka? Apologizing?
“She said it was the first time he’s said it out loud. To anyone.”
Till just sat there, feeling like someone had cracked his chest open and dumped in a hundred questions he wasn’t ready to answer
★
Till didn’t see him all day. Not in the halls, not in the cafeteria, not even in passing. It was strange, but not unexpected. Luka had always been good at disappearing.
Still, something tugged at Till as the sun began to drop. He couldn’t shake the image of Hyuna’s quiet concern, or Mizi’s words that kept echoing in his mind like a drumbeat he couldn’t ignore.
He apologized. She forgave him.
His legs moved before he really decided on it. Quiet steps down the dim hallway, hands in the pockets of his jacket, head low. He didn’t know what he was going to say. He only knew where to go.
The balcony door was already cracked open, letting in the cool breeze. And there Luka was—sitting alone, hood up, knees drawn up with one arm resting lazily on top, the other hand dangling a half-empty bottle he hadn’t touched in a while. He wasn’t drunk. Not tonight.
He didn’t even flinch when Till stepped out.
“I figured you’d show up,” Luka said, not turning around.
Till stopped. “You always sit out here?”
Luka shrugs.
A small, humorless huff escaped Till as he walked over. He sat down beside Luka, leaving a careful space between them. The silence stretched between them—not tense, just… uncertain.
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Till said. “That night. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Luka didn’t respond right away. His fingers played with the label on the bottle, peeling it off in slow strips.
‘’It’s fine.” Luka said at last.
“It’s not,” Till said. “I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”
Luka finally glanced at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.
“Why would you?” he asked.
Till opened his mouth, but nothing came out. That sentence—barely like me—hit wrong. Like it was meant to be light, maybe even teasing, but it carried something raw beneath it. Like Luka didn’t expect to be liked. Like he didn’t let himself expect it.
“I don’t know what I think of you,” Till admitted. “Some days I hate you. Some days I… don’t.”
Luka let out a sharp breath—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“Well,” he said, voice low, “that’s better than most people.”
They both sat there, side by side, the cold air wrapping around them.
No confessions. No apologies. No plans.
Just… understanding. Maybe the beginning of it.
It was becoming a routine, wasn’t it?
Every night, sometime between the last light fading and the base going quiet, Till found himself on the balcony. And Luka was always there—or maybe he arrived after Till, or maybe he waited until he thought Till would show up. Either way, it didn’t matter. They never said much. Some nights they didn’t speak at all. But Luka would sit near him, and Till never asked him to leave.
There was something comforting in the silence. Not the awkward kind. Not the sharp-edged tension they used to live in. Just… something still. Something normal.
Till caught himself looking forward to it. He hated that.
Worse—he caught himself noticing when Luka wasn’t there first. And how something inside him relaxed the moment he showed up.
It bled into other parts of the day, too.
Luka started showing up at the cafeteria more often. Not always sitting at their table—but close enough. Close enough to nod. Sometimes he brought a tray. Sometimes he stood with his arms crossed, leaning back like he was just passing through.
Sometimes he made a comment just to get a rise out of Mizi. Sometimes it worked.
And Till… didn’t mind. That’s what was throwing him off.
But Luka—Luka wasn’t trying to take anything. He wasn’t trying anything at all. He was just there. Consistent. In that quiet, irritating, stupidly observant way.
Till didn’t know what it meant.
But for now, he didn’t mind sitting in silence with someone who didn’t demand anything from him.
They didn’t speak at first. The night was too still, the stars hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds. Just the faint hum of wind and the scratch of Till’s pencil against paper.
He wasn’t even drawing, really—just moving his hand so he wouldn’t have to think too much. But Luka was there beside him, a presence Till didn’t question anymore. They kept ending up here, night after night, like it was the only place they could breathe.
Luka broke the silence first, voice low, almost hesitant.
“You remember that one night… during our practice for the final?”
Till glanced up, unsure where this was going. Luka wasn’t looking at him—his eyes were on the dark horizon, bottle dangling from his fingertips, half-forgotten.
“It was late,you weren’t talking much.”
Till nodded faintly. He did remember.
Luka’s voice softened, like the memory hurt and comforted him at once. “I think I made some kind of compliment, and you looked at me and just said, ‘thanks hyung.’ Like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
Till blinked. He remembered saying it, and how embarrassed he was.
They sat there, nothing more to say. The memory hung between them like a thread, delicate and glowing.
Maybe it was the only time either of them had felt something like belonging.
——The next few days passed quietly. Missions were being discussed, plans adjusted, but nothing urgent was sent out yet. People lingered in the hallways more. Spoke softer. Ate slower.
Till, however, had started something new.
“Hyung, pass me that,” he said one afternoon, nodding toward a water bottle across the table. Luka barely looked up from his tray—but his fingers froze mid-bite.
Mizi, sitting across from Till, blinked. “Did you just—”
Till snaps “C’mon. Be useful.”
Hyuna let out a short laugh, then covered it with a cough. Dewey glanced between them, confused and mildly alarmed.
Luka raised an eyebrow at Till but handed him the bottle anyway. “Are you trying to be funny?”
Till shrugged with a smirk. “What, you don’t like it? Thought I’d make it official. You are older than me, right?”
“Barely,” Luka muttered, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. A faint, reluctant curve at the corner of his lips.
‘’This is gross.” Mizi comments.
Till turned to her innocently. “What? Respecting my elders?”
She threw a napkin at his face.
★
The second bottle was Luka’s idea, but Till hadn’t objected.
The night air was cooler than usual, carrying that sharp bite that made your skin feel awake. They sat on the floor of the balcony, legs half-crossed, backs against the wall, bottles between them. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, but no one touched it.
Neither of them had spoken for a while.
Till’s hand brushed over his ankle. “You know,” he said, voice quiet, “when I first saw you on Round 4, I thought you were… invincible.”
Luka chuckled, low and bitter. “That was the point.”
Till glanced over, just enough to catch the edge of Luka’s expression. There was a shadow under his eyes that hadn’t left since the mission, and the flush on his cheeks was either from alcohol or shame. Maybe both.
“I mean it,” Till added. “ You were like—” He hesitated. “You were the only one who didn’t look scared.”
Luka tilted his head back against the wall, staring at the sky. “That’s because I wasn’t allowed to.”
The air tensed. The words weren’t dramatic—they were delivered like fact.
Till’s fingers curled into his thigh. “What does that mean?”
Luka took a deep breath. “My owner put me through pool tests, for my heart, i was just in the water until i couldn't breathe, he wanted to see how far i can manage, i was scared, then just one time…he just stopped my heart, just to see my reaction, i guess since then i learned a few things, fear was something i couldn't feel.’’
Till stared at him, his chest suddenly too tight.
‘’I mean, I was a pet, they liked to try a lot ot stuff on me, i got used to it, and i had to be perfect because if i wasn’t…’’ He doesn’t finish the sentence. Till also wonders how much more there is to that story, and he realises this is just one of the few things they’ve put Luka through.
Till couldn’t look away. “Why are you telling me this?”
Luka’s head turned. His eyes met Till’s, bloodshot, glassy, but sharp. “Because you admired me. And I think that’s the cruelest thing anyone’s ever done.”
Silence.
The bottles sat between them, almost empty now.
‘’You don’t deserve any of it.”
Luka turned his head, finally. Their eyes met.
And Luka said, quiet and sharp: “Don’t look at me like that.”
Till blinked, pulled slightly back. “Like what?”
“Like you pity me.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” Luka’s voice cracked just a little. “Right now you do. I can feel it.”
There was a long pause.
“I just…” Till’s voice softened, thick with something he didn’t want to name. “I didn’t know they did that to you.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
They didn’t move.
Their eyes locked again. Neither of them looked away this time.
They were staring at each other's eyes, there was tension.
And then they found themselves leaning in.
The first touch of lips was quiet. Soft. A careful breath shared between them. Luka’s hand twitched like he might pull back, but he didn’t. Neither did Till. It lingered.
But it didn’t stay soft.
Luka shifted first, mouth pressing harder. And then it was like something cracked open—like both of them gave up pretending they didn’t want it. The kiss deepened, sudden and rougher, Luka’s fingers tangling into Till’s shirt, pulling him closer, harder.
Till gasped softly, one hand catching Luka’s jaw, tilting his head—then another breath, then another. Luka was kissing like he wanted to forget something, and Till was answering like he already had.
Teeth scraped. A muffled noise escaped one of them—neither knew who. Hands slid—one over a neck, one against ribs, someone’s fingers tightening in someone else’s hair.
They were drunk, but not enough to forget the warmth.
Not enough to miss how Luka’s legs shifted, pulling Till closer without really thinking about it. Luka’s chest heaved, breath hot and ragged against Till’s mouth. It was messy. It was desperate.
It was so alive.
They broke only for air, their foreheads touching, panting, breathing each other in.
Luka was flushed. His lips were red. His eyes searched Till’s face like he didn’t know what to say.
And Till—Till was staring, dazed, stunned, unsure if he was supposed to move or say anything or pretend this never happened.
Until suddenly—Till pulled back.
Abrupt.
Breathing hard, lips swollen, his hand still twisted in Luka’s shirt.
“What the hell are we doing,” he muttered. But it wasn’t a question. It was a reaction.
Luka blinked, dazed. “I—”
“No.” Till stood. Backed away. “No, forget it.”
Luka didn’t move.
Till wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste of Luka still there. He didn’t look at him again as he left.
Just walked out. Fast. Without another word.
And Luka sat there.
Still.
★
The night was too quiet.
Till sat on the edge of his bed, still in last night’s clothes, the taste of alcohol and guilt still thick in his mouth. His lips tingled. His heart wouldn’t calm down. His hands were clammy and restless in his lap.
He kissed Luka.
No.
They kissed.
He rubbed at his face, fingers digging into his skin like he could scrape off the memory if he just tried hard enough.
What the hell was that?
He replayed it over and over—how it started soft, how Luka looked at him, the way their breathing shifted. He could still feel Luka’s hands on him. Still hear the little gasp when it got rougher. Still see the moment they both realized they’d done something they couldn’t take back.
And then he left.
He just stood up and walked out. Didn’t say a word.
What the fuck what the fuck why why
It wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was. Luka wasn’t even supposed to be someone he could stand, let alone kiss. And it wasn’t like Luka was suddenly a changed person. He never apologized. He never explained. He was just there, being quiet and pathetic and… and honest for once.
“Shit,” Till muttered. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
What was he doing?
Was this what bonding looked like now? This twisted, confusing half-trust and touches in the dark?
He should be angry. He was angry. But part of him also… wasn’t.
And that was the worst part of all.
Luka’s lips.
His hands.
His voice when he said, don’t look at me like that.
Till flips over, stares at the ceiling. The corners of his eyes burn. He isn’t supposed to feel like this. Not toward him.
Because Luka isn’t apologetic. Luka doesn’t say thank you. He just sits on the balcony like a ghost waiting to be seen. And Till—he sees him. That’s the problem.
He hates that he wants to understand him. Hates that part of him wants to comfort him.
He’s angry. With Luka. With himself. With how easily he gave in to the moment. It wasn’t supposed to happen.
Till buries his face in the pillow again and lets out a muffled scream.
He tells himself he won’t go.
He tells himself, Stay in your room. Don’t be seen. Don’t be stupid.
★
But by late morning, the hunger kicks in. Not the physical kind—he could go days without eating, no problem. This is different. He wants noise. Distraction. A reason to pretend everything is fine. If he stays cooped up any longer, he’s going to lose his mind.
So he goes to the cafeteria.
He thinks he’s in the clear.
Until Mizi slides onto the bench across from him without a tray, arms crossed, eyes sharp. She doesn’t even blink.
“Okay,” she says. “What’s wrong with you?”
Till doesn’t answer. He scoops another bite of food just to avoid looking at her.
“You’re twitchy,” she adds. “Weirdly quiet.
He drops the fork with a soft clatter and rubs a hand down his face. “I did something stupid.”
Mizi stares. Then blinks once. “....With Luka?”
His silence is louder than any confession.
She scoffs, leaning back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Mizi—”
“No. No, Till. Seriously? Him? After everything?”
“It was—” He rubs a hand over his face. “It wasn’t planned. We were drunk. It just happened.”
She lets out a sharp laugh. Not the fun kind. “Yeah. That’s what he’s good at, isn’t he? Making things just happen.”
He winces.
“I’m not judging you for… whatever it was,” she continues, voice tight. “But don’t come crying when he ruins it. Or when you start thinking he’s changed and he hasn’t. Because he never says sorry. He never fixes anything. And I’ve watched him do this before.”
Till says nothing. He just stares down at his tray, stomach twisting.
Mizi lowers her voice a little, but she doesn’t soften. “You think you’re strong enough to handle him. But you’re already overthinking this, and it hasn’t even started.”
He glances up, finally meeting her eyes.
“I’m not going to stop you,” she says. “But I’m not going to lie and pretend I support it either.”
He doesn’t say anything more. Mizi leaves eventually, her footsteps clipped and angry.
Till stays at the table long after the food’s gone cold, arms folded, eyes blank.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe Luka’s just playing a game he doesn’t even know he’s playing. Maybe Till is the idiot who let something fragile slip through his fingers the moment he reached for it.
But the worst part isn’t what happened.
It’s that he can’t stop thinking about it.
The way Luka looked at him right before. Like he wanted to be seen. Just once. Just by him.
And now he can’t shake it. Can’t name what it was or what it meant—but he knows it meant something.
That’s the part that’s going to break him.
Chapter 8
Notes:
of course i don’t have a posting schedule. BUT i give you chapter 8 with 9k words!
Chapter Text
The door had clicked shut behind him hours ago, but Luka still hadn’t moved. He sat on the floor of his room, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn to his chest like he could physically hold himself together.
His lips still tingled.
He pressed the back of his hand to them, but the memory didn’t go away. The taste of alcohol still clung to his tongue, bitter and warm, but it wasn’t that that made his stomach twist—it was the way Till had looked at him. Like he was something fragile. Something broken. Like he needed saving.
“Don’t look at me like that.” He’d said it quietly, almost begging. But he hadn’t meant for things to fall apart so fast. He hadn’t meant for them to kiss, or… maybe he had. He didn’t even know anymore.
His breath hitched. Everything was spiraling again.
He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots like pain could bring him back down. His throat burned—half with shame, half with something else he didn’t want to name.
He hadn’t seen Till since. Hadn’t left his room either. He didn’t want to see anyone. Not Hyuna, not Mizi, and definitely not Till. What would he even say? What could he say? Sorry for existing? Sorry for letting things get this far?
It had been easier when he hated him.
He wanted to drink again. Just enough to stop thinking. But his stomach turned at the thought, and his chest was already too tight.
He curled tighter into himself. Maybe he should sleep. Maybe he should leave.
But he didn’t move.
He just stayed there, alone in the silence, clutching his knees, wondering when everything had gotten so loud inside his head.
He had always thought it would be Hyuna.
She was the only one who had ever stayed. Through the training, the tests, the punishments. Through all the years where no one else had even looked at him like a person. She was his anchor, his partner, his lifeline.
They were supposed to end up together, weren’t they?
That’s what everyone thought. That’s what he thought. Maybe even Hyuna did, at some point.
But it had never really felt like love—not the kind that consumed you or cracked you open. It was survival. Familiarity. Something soft they built in the wreckage of everything else. He still cared about her deeply—loved her, even—but not like that anymore. Maybe not ever.
He groaned and leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly. His fingers twitched against his knees.
So why did Till feel so dangerous?
Why did that kiss feel more real than anything he’d ever had.
Why did it feel like something had just shifted off its axis and now nothing made sense?
It wasn’t about the kiss. Not really. It was the way Till looked at him after—the anger, the confusion. The pity. It made Luka’s stomach twist. He hated that look more than anything. He hated that he could still feel the warmth of it in his chest like a brand.
He wasn’t supposed to want this. Not from someone like Till.
He rubbed his eyes roughly, like that would scrub it all away. The alcohol haze was gone, but the memory was sharp and bright and cutting.
Maybe he was just broken. Maybe he was just clinging to anyone who saw him.
Maybe he didn’t know what he wanted.
But the worst part—the part he couldn’t admit, even to himself—was that for the first time in forever, he didn’t feel invisible.
And that terrified him.
Luka didn’t leave his room for the next few days.
He barely ate. Barely slept. Just sat in the same spot, back against the cold wall, watching the hours bleed together. The walls were too thin here—he could hear voices outside, the hum of daily life continuing like nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
He ignored the knock at his door on the first day. And the second. Someone—probably Hyuna—left food. He didn’t touch it. The smell made him nauseous.
He didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t want Till to see him like this.
He hated that he still thought about him. Hated that every time he closed his eyes, it came back—how it felt, how he felt. And then the guilt swallowed him whole.
Because wasn’t he supposed to be over this?
Wasn’t he supposed to be better by now?
He pressed his palms over his eyes until sparks bloomed behind them. He didn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry. He was just… tired.
He’d spent years convincing himself he didn’t need anyone. That all the feelings were just noise. Distractions. But now everything was too loud. Every breath, every heartbeat, every whisper under his skin screaming that he’d messed up something that hadn’t even started.
It was pathetic.
He knew he couldn’t stay like this forever. But for now, it was easier. To be alone. To be still. To not be seen.
Luka’s legs felt stiff when he finally stood. He hadn’t left his room in days, hadn’t spoken to anyone. The hallway was quiet when he stepped out, the cold air biting against his skin like it resented him for leaving.
He didn’t know where he was going—just that he needed to move.
He didn’t get far before someone called his name.
“Luka.”
He turned. Isaac was standing near the corridor junction, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
For a moment, Luka considered pretending he hadn’t heard him. But Isaac was already walking over.
“You look like shit,” he said bluntly. “Glad to see you’re alive, though.”
Luka said nothing. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Isaac didn’t look away. “Someone put in a good word for you.”
That caught Luka’s attention. His brows twitched, confused. “What?”
“There’s a meeting later today,” Isaac continued, ignoring the question. “We’re reviewing what happened on the last mission. Planning what’s next. If you want to come, you can. But if you’re sitting in on meetings, you’re expected to contribute.”
Luka’s mouth felt dry. “I didn’t—ask to be included.”
“You didn’t. That’s why this is an opportunity, not a handout.” Isaac’s gaze softened slightly. “It’s your choice. But if you’re going to be part of this, you need to start acting like you are.”
Luka looked away, jaw tight. “Who said anything good about me?”
Isaac gave a half-shrug. “Does it matter?”
“…Yes.”
Isaac didn’t answer. He just clapped Luka lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “Meeting in two hours. Think about it.”
And then he was gone, leaving Luka standing in the hallway, heart pounding, unsure if he felt seen—or exposed.
★
Luka stood frozen outside the meeting room, one hand curled into a fist at his side. He could hear voices inside—muffled, overlapping, some tense. He didn’t know who all was in there, but he knew Till probably was.
He could turn back. No one would blame him. No one expected him.
But he stayed.
With a breath that felt heavier than it should have, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The conversation dipped, just for a second, as a few heads turned.
Mizi stared.
Hyuna, seated at the far end, blinked—surprised, but not displeased.
Dewey leaned back in his chair with a raised brow.
Isaac didn’t react at all. As if this was exactly what he expected.
And Till—Luka didn’t look at him. Not directly. Not yet.
He stayed near the wall, half-hidden by a shelf stacked with dusty folders, arms crossed tightly over his chest like armor. No one said anything to him. No one called him out. But he felt it—the air shift.
Whispers beneath breath. Tension threading through the room like a wire pulled taut.
He didn’t care. He told himself that over and over.
He didn’t care.
But still, he couldn’t stop glancing toward Till’s silhouette, seated just a few chairs away, not looking at him either.
The silence stretched a second too long before Isaac cleared his throat and spoke, clipboard in hand.
“We need to be sharper this time. No more close calls. We lost too much on the last run.”
The energy in the room shifted again—everyone straightened. Focus returned, or at least pretended to.
Isaac tapped the board once with his pen. “There’s a supply cache here—” he pointed to a red-marked area on the map laid out in the center of the table, “—abandoned but heavily secured. If we get in and out before patrols catch wind of it, we can restock for the next three months. We’ll be moving in three squads.”
Hyuna leaned forward. “What’s the terrain?”
“Ruined metro. Collapsed roads, exposed tracks. You’ll have to go underground part of the way.”
Dewey muttered, “Of course it’s underground.”
Mizi crossed her arms, clearly irritated already. “And the patrols?”
“Active. Aggressive. But the cache is worth it.” Isaac turned toward the back, gaze flicking once toward Luka before moving on. “That’s why I need people I trust. No half-effort.”
Luka’s jaw clenched. He didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. Just kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here.
But he stayed.
There was a quiet pause after Isaac finished laying out the terrain. Most were scribbling notes, calculating risks.
Then Dewey raised his hand halfway, like he didn’t care if anyone gave him the floor.
“I’ll take care of Till,” he said. “The kid still rides like we’ve strapped a ticking bomb under him, so I’ll be the one teaching him how not to fly off a cliff this time.”
A few people chuckled under their breath. Even Hyuna smirked faintly. Till, sitting in the far corner, groaned and sunk lower into his seat.
“I didn’t ask to be born into foot traffic,” Till muttered.
Dewey grinned. “And yet here we are.”
Even Luka felt his lips twitch. It was brief—barely a shift—but he caught himself before it turned into anything visible.
He looked down again.
Till knew Luka was there.
He hadn’t looked directly at him—not once since entering the room—but he didn’t need to. That familiar weight pressed at the edge of his awareness, like a storm waiting just beyond the horizon.
He could feel the way the air shifted. Like eyes on him. Like regret. Or maybe guilt. Or maybe something else entirely.
But he didn’t turn. He didn’t want to. He didn’t know what would happen if he did.
So instead, he focused on Dewey’s dumb comments. Let them wash over him like static. Forced a half-smile when people laughed. Pretended his chest wasn’t tightening every time he felt that damn silence lingering in the corner where Luka sat.
He was avoiding him. He knew it. Everyone probably did.
But that didn’t make him stop.
It was already late when the meeting wrapped. People left in scattered silence, dragging their chairs and thoughts out with them. Luka stayed seated, still in his corner, still pretending he wasn’t watching Till walk toward the door. Still pretending Till wasn’t watching him too.
Their eyes met for just a second. Not long enough for anything. Not long enough to mean anything.
And then Till was gone.
“Luka.”
Isaac’s voice cut through the quiet. He hadn’t left. He stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, unreadable as always.
Luka straightened. “Yeah?”
Isaac tilted his head, studying him for a moment before speaking. “You want to go on the next run?”
Luka blinked. “The… next mission?”
Isaac nodded.
For a second, Luka just stared. “You sure?”
“You’ve been cleared,” Isaac said simply.
That didn’t sit right. Luka’s brows knit together. “I haven’t trained for it. Not like Till. He had the full thing—physical prep, drills, practice scenarios. Why are you just asking me?”
Isaac gave a small shrug. “You’ve survived worse.”
The words were meant to be encouraging. They weren’t.
Luka looked toward the door again, even though it was empty now. His stomach twisted. He wasn’t sure if it was because of Till, or the mission, or just the fact that he didn’t know how to say no anymore.
“…Yeah,” he said. “Okay.” He knows he can handle it without the training. But he’s surprised because the others don't know it.
Isaac nodded once. “Good.”
The hallway was dim, just the buzz of the overhead lights and the weight of exhaustion settling over the base like fog. Luka walked slowly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. His thoughts were louder than the silence around him.
He kept replaying Isaac’s words. “You’ve survived worse.”
Yeah. He had. But that wasn’t the point.
He turned the corner, steps heavier now as he approached his room. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to collapse onto his bed or punch the wall. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
The hallway was empty—
Or at least, it seemed that way until he saw a figure leaning against the wall near his door.
His heart sank a little when he realized who it was.
Till.
Of course it was Till.
For a second, Luka froze. The distance between them felt longer than the entire hallway. He didn’t say anything. Just waited.
Luka’s jaw tightened the moment their eyes met. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
He didn’t know what he’d say even if he tried.
Till didn’t move from where he stood, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Then—quietly, like it was something fragile between them—he spoke.
“You’re really doing this?”
Luka didn’t answer. Not yet. He looked away for a second, as if the floor might hold the clarity he needed.
“I thought you didn’t want to be involved in anything,” Till added, his voice lower this time. Less confrontational. Not gentle, but not cruel either.
Luka swallowed. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
“I changed my mind,” he muttered.
Till let out a dry breath. Almost a laugh, almost a sigh.
“Right. Just like that.”
Luka glanced at him. The tension wasn’t gone—it never really was—but something in Till’s eyes was different. Tired. Confused, maybe. He looked like he’d been holding in more than he wanted to say.
“If you’re going to keep watching me like a problem,” Luka said, voice quiet but sharp, “say it.”
“I don’t think you’re a problem,” Till replied. “I think you’re trouble.”
Silence again. The kind that curled around them like smoke.
Luka turned to unlock his door.
He didn’t invite Till in.
Didn’t expect him to stay.
But Till’s voice came again, before Luka could close the door behind him.
“…I don’t know what you’re doing.”
Luka paused, his hand still on the doorframe.
“Neither do I.”
He shut the door.
★
The soft click of Luka’s door felt louder than it should’ve. Final.
But it wasn’t.
Till stood in the hallway, arms loose at his sides, staring at the spot where Luka had just been. He didn’t know what he expected. An apology? A fight? A joke? Something to explain why everything between them felt like a bruise.
He scoffed under his breath.
“Neither do I.”
That was the last thing Luka said. And maybe it was honest. Or maybe it was just another way to avoid taking responsibility.
Till ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. Not with Luka—no, not just Luka—but with himself. For being there. For speaking first. For still caring enough to ask.
He should’ve walked away the moment he saw him. Should’ve ignored the way Luka’s shoulders were tense, like he was ready to break or bite. Should’ve told himself this was nothing, that it never meant anything. Not the kiss. Not the balcony. Not the way Luka looked at him like he was both familiar and impossible.
Instead, he stood there like an idiot, waiting for something that never came.
He turned and walked away.
Not back to his room. Not yet. His thoughts were loud and tangled, and he needed space from them. From this. From the version of himself that kept making exceptions for someone who barely said thank you.
He found himself in the gym before he even realized where his legs were taking him.
The place was dark, empty, save for the moonlight cutting through the high windows. That was good. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this—wound-up, unsettled, thinking too much.
He dropped his jacket on the bench and wrapped his fists, tight and clumsy. No warm-up. Just fists against the bag.
The first punch didn’t hurt.
The second echoed in his knuckles.
By the third, his breathing had already gone ragged, but he didn’t stop.
Not when his arms started to ache.
Not when the stinging behind his eyes felt dangerously close to something else.
He wasn’t angry at Luka, not entirely. It wasn’t just that. It was everything. The silence, the confusion, the way Luka kept appearing and disappearing like a thought he couldn’t get rid of.
And the kiss.
He hit harder, jaw clenched.
That kiss wasn’t supposed to happen.
He wasn’t supposed to want it.
Till slammed another punch into the bag. It barely moved. His hands were starting to throb, but he welcomed the pain. It was clear. Physical. Not like the mess spiraling in his head.
He paused, breathing fast, hands braced on the bag.
This wasn’t helping.
It was still there—that voice in his head whispering questions he didn’t want to answer.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the worn leather. The room was silent except for his breathing.
He hated this.
He hated not knowing.
He hated that Luka had gotten under his skin without even trying.
And most of all, he hated that part of him didn’t want to let it go.
He sank down onto the floor, back against the wall, drenched in sweat, hands limp in his lap. The silence closed in around him again, heavier this time.
Why did I kiss him?
It wasn’t just the alcohol. It wasn’t even the conversation. Luka had looked at him like—
No. That didn’t matter.
He buried his face in his hands, chest tightening. Because the kiss wasn’t the real problem.
The real problem was that he imagined Ivan.
Ivan, with trembling hands.
Ivan, who kissed him when he knew he wouldn’t make it out.
Ivan, who gave everything to save him.
And Till had been angry—furious, even—because that kiss had felt like goodbye. Like surrender.
So what the hell did this make him now?
Kissing Luka in the dark like none of it mattered?
Like Ivan hadn’t mattered?
He wanted to scream. Or punch something again. But he didn’t move.
Because he knew Luka didn’t even care. Luka was probably drunk out of his mind again, or curled up somewhere hiding like always. He hadn’t even said anything after the kiss—just looked scared. Lost.
And Till had been the one who walked away.
He felt sick.
Ivan died. Luka’s still here. That was the difference, wasn’t it?
But it wasn’t enough. It didn’t make it okay.
He pressed his fingers into his temple, hard. Trying to push the thoughts out. Trying to breathe through the confusion.
He wasn’t supposed to like Luka.
He wasn’t supposed to hate him either.
And he definitely wasn’t supposed to miss him already.
★
The sun was barely up when Till stepped outside. The air still held that thin bite of morning chill, and the lot behind the base was nearly empty—except for Dewey, already crouched by the bike, checking something with his usual quiet focus.
Till hesitated. His limbs still ached from the gym last night, and his thoughts hadn’t left him alone even in sleep. But Dewey glanced up, gave him a small nod, and that was enough to get him walking forward.
The next few minutes were technical. Controls, balance, brakes—Dewey talked through everything like he was explaining it to a child, but never condescending. He even let Till test the weight of the bike while it was off.
“Just keep your back straight. Center your balance. Don’t fight it.”
“I’m not fighting it,” Till muttered as the bike leaned unexpectedly.
“You are,” Dewey said, deadpan. “Stop tensing. It’s not going to eat you.”
Till rolled his eyes but tried again, letting his shoulders drop.
He didn’t notice the pair of eyes watching from one of the upper windows.
By midday, Till had lost count of how many times he fell.
The gravel had scraped his palms, his pride was bruised worse than his knees, and Dewey hadn’t stopped laughing the entire time—at first. But something shifted after the fifth or sixth tumble. The laughter gave way to actual instruction, sharper focus, and eventually, a quiet kind of approval when Till finally kept his balance.
“Not bad,” Dewey said, tossing him a water bottle as they took a break. “You’re stubborn as hell. That helps.”
Till, breathing hard and drenched in sweat, didn’t answer. But for the first time in hours, he let himself smile.
★
The soreness still clung to Till’s legs the next morning, but he pushed through it, slipping back into routine like it was armor. Guitar strings in the early hours, a few quiet minutes alone in the hallway, protein bar half-eaten as he sat outside the training room. No one commented, and he didn’t offer anything.
He didn’t expect anything different when the mission call came either. Just a quiet announcement, everyone gathering their gear in the same deadened silence as last time.
Except this time, Luka was there.
Standing near the back, arms crossed, face unreadable as always. Till’s eyes flicked toward him, just for a second, then away. They didn’t speak. No one did. But something felt different. Maybe it was just tension. Maybe it was everything they weren’t saying.
Either way, they were leaving again—and this time, Luka was coming too.
Except this time, Luka was there.
Till almost missed him at first, standing near the back, half-shadowed by the doorway. But something—someone—pulled at the edge of his vision.
And when he looked again, it did something to him.
Luka wasn’t dressed like usual. No soft sweatshirts, no lazy layered shirts like he’d been lounging in these past weeks. Now it was something darker. Fitted. Tactical. The black vest clung to him like he was born to wear it, and his hair, messier than usual, curled just enough to make him look effortless. He didn’t belong here—but at that moment, he looked like he did. Not as an idol.But like someone who could burn things down if you gave him the match.
Till remembered the all-white suit Luka used to wear onstage. He’d looked like an angel back then—something untouchable.
Now, he looked like a rebel. Sharp edges and silence. Less holy, more dangerous.
And Till hated that it made his chest feel tight.
He turned his head away, jaw tense.
They were going on a mission.
Of course he was on Till’s team.
The universe must really hate him.
Out of all the squads they could’ve put together, Luka somehow ended up on his. Alongside Dewey and two other guys Till didn’t even register the names of because all he could focus on was him.
Till tried not to react. Not in his face, not in his voice. But the second their eyes met — even just a glance — something inside him twisted.
Luka didn’t even flinch. Just gave the smallest nod, like they were back to being strangers. Or worse, pretending they were.
Till clenched his jaw.
Great. Just great.
Now he had to survive a mission with him right there. Looking like that. Acting like none of it mattered.
They rode out just after noon, the sun already high, casting harsh light over the cracked roads ahead. The air buzzed with heat and engine noise, but Till barely noticed. His hands gripped the handlebars too tightly, eyes flicking to the side every so often—just enough to catch glimpses of Luka in his peripheral vision.
Luka was keeping pace, his face unreadable, focused straight ahead.
Not a single word passed between them.
Dewey filled in the gaps easily, talking to the others, making occasional comments about the terrain, about the plan. Till responded when he had to. Mostly, he kept his jaw tight and his thoughts silent.
Luka hadn’t even looked at him.
That was the worst part. Not a smirk, not a glance, not even that stupid fake-politeness he sometimes used. It was like the kiss hadn’t even happened. Like Till hadn’t pushed him away like he always did. Like Luka hadn’t looked so wrecked when he left.
The road curved sharply, and Till leaned into it, biting down on the memory.
They were heading toward the outer zone this time, the other team headed to the metro—scouting the remnants of another collapsed shelter. Maybe there’d be survivors, maybe not. They’d been warned to keep eyes open and stay quiet. There’d been movement in the area lately, and not the good kind.
Till didn’t mind the silence. Not when it came from the outside.
But the quiet between him and Luka felt louder than any gunfire.
The heat hadn’t let up by the time they reached the edge of the ruins. The group slowed, spreading out, boots crunching over gravel and ash. Till dropped off his bike and checked his bag, scanning the perimeter like he’d been taught—like he’d drilled for years.
And there was Luka.
Moving through the debris like he belonged there. No hesitation. No struggling. His breathing seemed steady, even as he ducked beneath a collapsed beam and signaled something to Dewey. He looked—damn it—natural.
And Luka? Asthmatic Luka, golden-stage-boy Luka, Luka who slept through drills and showed up at meetings because someone vouched for him?
Now he was suddenly out here like he was part of the team?
It wasn’t fair.
Till knew it. And still, he couldn’t stop the thought: Why does he make it look so easy?
He caught himself watching again. Luka knelt by a half-buried panel, brushing off the dust, calm as ever. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms—thin, scarred, stronger than Till remembered. He still moved with the softness of someone who used to perform. But there was tension in his shoulders now. A sharpness in how he checked over his shoulder, like he expected danger.
Till forced himself to look away.
“Everything okay?” Dewey asked, walking past him with his usual grin.
“Fine,” Till said quickly.
He wasn’t. And he hated that too.
They split up to scout the western side of the ruins. Dewey and the others took the far stretch, leaving Till and Luka in the silence of cracked concrete and dry wind.
Till didn’t mean to slow down. But he did. Just enough for Luka to catch up, walking a few steps behind him until he finally spoke.
“You’re limping,” Luka said quietly.
Till didn’t answer right away. “The bike landed on me yesterday.”
A pause. “You okay?”
“Does it matter?” Till muttered.
Luka didn’t reply. Just kept walking beside him, eyes ahead. Till could feel the words coming, but Luka didn’t say them. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. Didn’t do anything.
It irritated him more than it should.
They reached a collapsed wall and stopped. Till crouched, scanning the rubble. Luka leaned against the edge, arms crossed, wind tugging lightly at his hair.
“You didn’t look at me. Not once during the meeting,” Luka said.
Till glanced up. “Maybe I was trying to focus.”
Luka’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something bitter.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Luka added, voice low. “About… that night.”
“Good,” Till snapped. “Because I don’t want to talk about it.”
Silence again. Long and sharp.
They didn’t speak again after that.
They just kept moving.
The sun dipped lower, bleeding orange across the horizon as the group started regrouping near the designated pick-up point. Everyone was tired, dust-covered, but in one piece.
“Let’s wrap,” Dewey said, tapping his communicator. “We’ll radio in for extraction—”
A sharp crack echoed across the rubble.
Then a low hum. Metallic. Familiar.
Till froze. His fingers curled instinctively toward his weapon. He heard it—Luka’s breath hitch beside him. Not fear. Recognition.
“Above,” someone shouted.
The air shimmered—figures dropped fast from cloaked shuttles, landing hard and precise. Tall. Angular. Glowing veins beneath their suits.
Aliens. Enforcers. The kind they didn’t usually see this far from the city.
“How the hell did they track us here?” Dewey barked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Till muttered, pulling his gun. “They’re here.”
Panic spread fast. Some of their team started to run. Others opened fire.
Luka was already moving—Till saw him duck low behind a crumbled wall, eyes scanning like muscle memory kicked in. A sharp contrast to the way he usually slouched around the base.
Till’s heart pounded, adrenaline overriding the ache in his leg.
They weren’t ready for a fight. Not here. Not this deep.
And yet here they were.
The first blast punched the air out of Till’s lungs.
Concrete and dust erupted behind him, the concussive wave hurling him to the ground. Ears ringing, he rolled instinctively, came up on one knee just as a second bolt of alien plasma split the twilight, carving a molten groove through the ruined wall.
“Left flank is collapsing!” Dewey’s voice cracked over comms—then cut to static.
Till spotted him thirty meters away, pinned with two others behind a toppled metro carriage. Sparks spat from overhead lines; the whole wreck groaned, ready to drop.
A third Enforcer slammed down in the clearing—taller than the rest, exo-armor hissing. Its visor swept, locked on Till.
Move.
Till sprinted, bullets snapping past his shoulder. He vaulted a low barrier, hit the broken rail bed—tripped. His bad leg dumped him hard, the pistol skittering out of reach.
The Enforcer’s gauntlet powered up, humming bright violet.
Till scrabbled backward—too slow.
Something barreled into the alien from the side. Armor clanged. Both figures tumbled into the rubble.
Luka.
He wrenched the Enforcer’s arm up, forcing the plasma bolt skyward. It detonated against an overhead girder—showering white-hot slag. Luka took the hit on his back, teeth bared, but didn’t let go. He jammed a knife between plating seams, twisted until the alien shrieked, then shoved it aside.
More Enforcers dropped—three, four—advancing in disciplined arcs. Gunfire answered from Dewey’s direction; grenades popped, sending waves of dust and red sparks.
Till scrambled to his feet; Luka hauled him the last meter, half-dragging, half-pushing. A bolt hissed past Luka’s ear, searing the skin. He flinched but kept moving.
They cleared the carriage just as a fuel cell inside it ruptured. The explosion lit the sky orange; the shockwave punched them forward, debris peppering their helmets.
Till hit the ground again—hard—but Luka didn’t get up.
“Luka—” He rolled him over.
Blood soaked Luka’s side; a ragged shard of metal jutted just below the vest seam. His breaths were shallow, lips pale.
“D-don’t… look at me like that,” Luka rasped, trying for a smirk that never formed.
“Shut up.” Till pressed a dressing against the wound, hands slick. His voice cracked.
Footsteps— Dewey slid in beside them, covering the mouth of the tunnel with suppressive fire.
Till looped Luka’s arm over his shoulders; Dewey grabbed the other side. Together they half-carried, half-hauled him into the dark, plasma bolts spattering the concrete behind them.
The tunnel swallowed them—black, echoing—and the fight raged on outside, but for now they were alive.
Till’s heart hammered against Luka’s weight. Guilt, panic, relief tangled so tight he could barely breathe.
The mission was chaotic; nothing went to plan. But as Till pressed harder on the bandage and felt Luka’s pulse flutter beneath his fingers, he knew one truth with aching clarity:
He no longer had any idea where hate ended and everything else began.
The ride back was a blur of static and flashing lights.
Till held Luka against him on the back of the bike, his arms clamped tight around Luka’s chest, fingers slippery with blood. Every bump on the terrain made Luka jolt with a breathless, unconscious flinch. His head lolled, sweat soaked his neck.
“Stay with me,” Till muttered over and over, his voice low and desperate. “Don’t die.’’
‘’I won’t give you the satisfaction’’ Luka scoffs.
The base gates opened without a word from inside. They were expected. Word of the failed ambush had already reached the others, and when Till skidded the bike into the courtyard, people were already rushing out.
“I think we need a medic,” Dewey says as he yanks his own helmet off.
Till jumped off before the bike had fully stopped, dragging Luka with him, ignoring the way Luka groaned, his body slack. Hyuna was the first to reach them.
“Oh my god—” she took one look at the blood on Luka’s side. “Get him inside. Now.”
The med team was ready. Till moved with them, one hand still gripping Luka’s wrist as if letting go would mean losing him entirely. Though Luka was being stubborn pretending he was fine.
Hyuna placed a firm hand on his chest. “You can’t follow.”
Till’s jaw clenched, but nods.
He stood there frozen as the medics disappeared down the hall with Luka, the stain on the sheets vivid and red.
The courtyard slowly emptied. The survivors of the mission drifted to the showers, to their rooms, to the quiet corners of the base where they could sit with their shaking hands and frayed nerves.
But Till didn’t move.
He stood by the wall long after night fell, sweat drying on his skin, Luka’s blood still on his shirt.
★
Till sat on the edge of the bench outside the med wing, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed low. The hallway was dim and quiet now, the chaos of earlier simmered down to faint murmurs behind closed doors. His hands were still stained with Luka’s blood.
He rubbed his palms together like he could erase the guilt.
Why did he do that?
Why did Luka push him out of the way like that, like he didn’t even think?
“Idiot,” Till muttered under his breath. “Stupid fucking idiot.”
He didn’t know if he meant Luka or himself.
He’d seen that kind of move before. The reckless kind. The desperate kind.
It was the same thing he’d done on his first mission when Dewey had nearly gotten caught in the blast zone. Till had lunged in, pulled him out just in time—only to get shot through the leg.
He remembered the pain, the ringing in his ears, the way Dewey had screamed at him like he was the dumbest person alive.
He was.
Back then, Till hadn’t done it to be heroic. He’d done it to prove something.
That he wasn’t useless. That he mattered to the team. That he could do something right, even if it cost him.
And Luka—
God, Luka had looked natural on the field today. Unbothered. Smooth. Like he wasn’t the same person who curled in on himself when things got too loud. But that didn’t mean he was ready.
That didn’t mean he should’ve been there.
And yet…
Till could still feel the weight of Luka’s body collapsing against him.
He did it to save me.
But why?
Was it to prove he was capable? To prove he wasn’t some pathetic broken ex-idol clinging to a spot in the rebellion?
Or was it something else?
Till didn’t know. And that was what twisted his stomach the most.
He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes stinging with exhaustion.
★
Luka winced, his eyes fluttering open against the too-bright light above. Everything was blurry at first. White ceiling. Pale walls. Shadows moving in the corner of his vision.
Where…
His throat was dry. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
He turned his head slightly, slow like the movement might break something.
The med wing.
He knew it without needing confirmation.
He blinked slowly, piecing things together — flashes of the mission, running, gunfire, shouting, Till.
He remembered Till shouting his name.
Then the moment everything went black.
He had pushed him.
He hadn’t thought. It just happened.
A soft breath escaped him. He stared at the ceiling.
So he’s alive.
He didn’t know if that relieved him or terrified him.
There was no one in the room. It was quiet.
Which meant it was safe…for now.
He shifted again, biting back a hiss at the sting under his ribs.
He stayed still, listening to the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor, letting it remind him that, yes, he was still here. Still breathing.
Even if it didn’t feel like it.
He hated hospitals.
He always had.
The sterile smell. The scratchy sheets. The way his body felt like it didn’t belong to him — sedated, bandaged, prodded.
A reminder of weakness.
Luka squeezed his eyes shut.
Not again.
The pressure in his chest was building. The white lights made his vision spin. His side burned.
He couldn’t breathe —
He could.
He could.
But his brain didn’t believe it.
He turned his head into the pillow, trying to block out the sound of the machines, the weight in his chest, the horrible stillness of this room.
I need to get up. I need to move.
He clenched his jaw, trying to sit up — and immediately regretted it. Pain lanced up his ribs, and a choked sound escaped his throat before he collapsed back down, sweat blooming cold on his neck.
His vision blurred.
He hated this.
He hated how easily he fell apart.
He hated—
He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.
Then—
A soft knock.
He didn’t answer.
The door creaked open anyway.
And there he was.
Till stood in the doorway. Hands in the pockets of his jacket, hair damp from a recent shower, eyes shadowed like he hadn’t slept. He didn’t look angry. Or smug. Or annoyed. Just tired.
He stepped inside, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Luka shifted slightly, hating the way the movement made his side burn again. But he kept his face blank.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay.”
Luka almost scoffed — but stopped himself. Not because he didn’t want to. But because something about Till’s voice told him this wasn’t some guilt-fueled performance. It wasn’t pity either.
It was something else.
“…I’m fine,” Luka said quietly, eyes not leaving the window.
Till walked a little closer, standing near the end of the bed but not sitting down.
“You lost a lot of blood.”
“I noticed.”
A beat passed.
“…Why did you do it?” Till asked, not accusatory, not bitter — just direct. “You could’ve died.”
Luka didn’t answer right away. His fingers twitched against the blanket.
“I didn’t think about it,” he muttered eventually.
Till exhaled, like he was both relieved and frustrated at once. He stepped closer now, just a bit.
“Well… I did,” he said.
Another pause
Till pulled the chair from the corner of the room, the scraping soft, legs skimming against the tile. But he didn’t sit on it. He sat down on the edge of the bed instead. Not too close. But not far either.
It was awkward. But neither of them minded the silence.
Luka let his head sink into the pillow. His body felt heavy. Not just from the pain meds or the weight of the bandages around his ribs. Heavy in the chest. Behind the eyes.
Till hadn’t said anything.
He wasn’t looking at Luka, either. His eyes were fixed somewhere on the floor. He looked so out of place here — legs tense, hands resting on his thighs like he needed them to stay still, like if he moved too much he’d ruin the moment.
Luka breathed out through his nose. Slow. Careful.
He didn’t know why Till was still here.
And Till probably didn’t know either.
But he wasn’t leaving.
So Luka let it happen.
His thoughts were a mess, running in every direction. The mission. The blood. The way it had felt when he’d shoved Till out of the way without thinking. The way it had burned when everything hit him after. He should feel proud. Or maybe relieved.
But he didn’t.
He just felt… like everything was too loud in his head.
He was tired. So tired of feeling weak. Tired of pretending he was okay. Tired of the games, the avoidance, the stares, the almosts and the what-ifs.
He didn’t know what this was now — what they were now. If anything.
But he didn’t ask Till to leave.
And Till didn’t get up.
Luka closed his eyes for a moment, letting the quiet hum of the room settle over him.
Just for now… they could exist like this.
Together, but silent.
Imperfect, but here.
★
After a few more days in bed, Luka is cleared. The bruises fade, the stitches stay in. He doesn’t thank anyone.
He walks the halls like nothing happened. No limp, no pause, no visible pain
Luka was already at the cafeteria table when Till walked in, sitting beside Dewey and across from Hyuna, lazily spinning his spoon through a half-finished bowl of something greyish and lukewarm. His posture was relaxed, almost indifferent — like he hadn’t just been half-dead in the infirmary a few days ago.
Till’s steps slowed without meaning to. He didn’t expect to see him out so soon. His eyes scanned quickly — color back in his face, though his skin still looked too pale under the overhead lights. His arm was wrapped, one shoulder stiff. But he was here. Alive.
Their eyes met, brief and sharp. Luka didn’t look away first.
“Look who’s walking again,” Till muttered as he took a seat a few chairs away.
Luka raised an eyebrow, lips twitching in something almost like a smile. “You sound disappointed.”
“I just thought you’d take a few days to recover. That’s all.”
“Well.” Luka leaned back, one hand lazily brushing through his hair. “Turns out I bounce back. Not that anyone was particularly concerned.”
Hyuna glanced between the two but didn’t say anything. Mizi sighed audibly.
Till clenched his jaw. “I was concerned.”
Luka looked at him now, fully, eyes sharp. “Oh, right. Of course. Especially after all that… closeness.”
There was a shift at the table. Dewey blinked. Mizi set her spoon down with a soft clink. Hyuna subtly reached for her water.
“Relax,” he said, tone deliberately easy. “I’m not here to ruin your mood.”
Till narrowed his eyes slightly. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
A smirk tugged at Luka’s lips. “Glad to know I’m still consistent.”
Hyuna shifted uncomfortably. Dewey cleared his throat and stood up to grab seconds.
Till set his fork down, eyes not leaving Luka. “You always do this. Show up, act like nothing happened.”
“And you always act like I’m supposed to apologize just for existing.” Luka sipped from his mug, gaze flat. “We all have our roles, I guess.”
Till didn’t answer. He pushed back his chair, grabbed his tray, and walked off without another word.
Mizi didn’t bother hiding the way she was glaring at Luka. Arms crossed, lips tight, eyes sharp. Luka didn’t return the look; he just kept his focus on his mug, like there was something fascinating about the chipped rim.
Hyuna shifted next to her, frowning. “Okay,” she said, slowly. “Did I miss something… or should I ask?”
Mizi scoffed, her voice low but cutting. “Don’t bother. Apparently it’s none of our business.”
Luka’s fingers tightened around the mug just slightly, but his face stayed neutral.
Hyuna looked between them, eyes narrowed. “You two seriously want me to play the guessing game now?”
Still, no answer.
Mizi stood up suddenly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I’m not sitting here with him.”
Luka didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance her way.
Hyuna stayed seated, watching Mizi leave before turning back to Luka. “What the hell is going on with you and Till?”
Luka looked up finally — tired, a little hollow, but with a forced smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
‘’Nothing.” And maybe that's the problem he thinks.
★
Till didn’t go back to the cafeteria after walking out.
He needed air — the kind that didn’t cling to his skin like guilt.
Leaning against the cool wall outside the east wing, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The moment with Luka kept playing over and over. That damn smirk. That vague little jab. And Till had reacted — not violently, not loudly — but he walked away, again. Like he always did when things started to fray.
But it wasn’t just Luka’s fault. He knew that.
He hadn’t expected things to suddenly get better between them. Even now, Till tried to show he cared — in his own awkward, stiff way. But what right did he have?
He didn’t even know Luka. Not really.
What was there to him, beyond that nightmarish story about the pool — the heart-stopping tests that still made Till’s stomach churn when he thought about it?
Till had gone through hell himself. Evaluations. Reports that marked him as a “threat.” A rebel with unpredictable behavior. But at least they feared him. At least they thought he’d survive.
Luka? They didn’t expect him to survive. He was built to be used.
And maybe that’s why it all felt heavier now. Till couldn’t separate pity from anger, guilt from attraction. Everything about Luka stirred something raw in him — and it wasn’t romantic. Not yet. It was something messier, uglier.
They didn’t know each other. Not enough. Not the important parts. And Till wasn’t sure he even wanted to. But he was sure about one thing:
He didn’t want to keep hurting him.
Whatever the hell this was between them… it was already leaving scars.
★
The briefing room felt heavier than usual.
Everyone was gathered again — Isaac at the head, arms crossed, face unreadable. Maps scattered across the table, projected diagrams flickering against the far wall. This wasn’t just another scouting run or supply mission.
This was something bigger. Riskier. Coordinated.
Till sat quietly, trying to focus. Luka was sitting across the room, back against the wall like usual, arms folded, eyes shadowed. He hadn’t said a word since entering. No one expected him to. They never did.
Isaac cleared his throat, cutting through the murmur of tension.
“We’ve intercepted comms. There’s a lab complex in the outer perimeter. Hidden, but active. We think they’re doing advanced-level testing. Human-based. Possibly worse.”
Till’s stomach dropped.
Dewey leaned forward. “You want us to breach it?”
“That’s the idea,” Isaac said. “We need intel. Confirmation. Maybe even to extract whoever’s left inside.”
He paused. “But it won’t be easy. Security’s going to be layered. We need someone who understands how their systems work—”
“I do.”
The room fell still.
It took a second to realize who had spoken.
Luka. Still slouched, still quiet — but his voice had cut clean through the room like a blade.
Isaac blinked, surprised. “You do?”
Luka looked up. “It’s not just a lab. It’s a hybrid facility. They don’t just run tests — they build stages there. They sort people. Some disappear. Others get reshaped.”
He exhaled slowly, voice quieter. “I was there. Years ago. I remember the floors. The code patterns. I can still draw the layouts. If it’s the same place — I can get us in.”
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Till couldn’t look away.
It was the first time Luka had offered anything in these meetings. The first time he’d opened his mouth in front of all of them and not just been background noise.
Mizi stared at him, jaw clenched. Hyuna looked stunned, concern flickering in her eyes. Even Isaac seemed taken off guard. But he nodded slowly.
“All right,” he said. “Then you’re on the team. But this time — you follow orders.”
Luka gave a short nod. “I always do.”
★
The sound of gunfire echoed flat against the concrete walls. Controlled. Precise. Again.
He fired.
The kick of the weapon barely moved his arm anymore. It felt mechanical — something his body remembered even when his head didn’t. Bullet after bullet struck center mass on the worn-out paper target across the room.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
The lower floors were almost always empty at this hour. That was the point. The silence let him focus — or at least pretend he was someone else. Someone useful.
He loaded another clip, snapping it into place with a soft click.
It wasn’t just about the mission.
It wasn’t just about proving anything.
It was the only time his hands didn’t shake.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Every shot landed. His aim had always been good. He was taught to be precise — for performance, for perfection, for survival.
The meeting still rang in his ears.
The way they looked at him when he spoke.
The way Till looked at him.
And he hated that it mattered.
He fired again. Harder. Faster.
He was still angry. Still confused. Still stuck in the space between guilt and pride — between wanting to help and wanting to disappear.
But right now, there was a target in front of him. Something he could hit. Something he could break.
He reloaded, jaw clenched.
Let them stare. Let them doubt. Let Till pretend he didn’t care.
Luka would show them he wasn’t fragile.
He would show them all.
He used to think this place would swallow him whole.
When he first arrived, their eyes had burned holes in his back — suspicion, distrust, even fear. Not that he blamed them. He had looked like everything they hated: spoiled, arrogant, part of the system that ruined their lives.
And maybe, back then, he was.
He remembered the way they’d moved aside when he passed, like he was something dangerous. A threat. Mizi never hid her disgust. Even Hyuna, the only one who knew him before, had kept her distance. And Till—Till looked at him like he was a ghost from a different world.
So Luka had leaned into it. Cold. Distant. He told himself he didn’t care. That he didn’t need them.
But the truth was simpler, more pathetic:
He didn’t know how to be anyone else.
And he was terrified they’d see through him.
So he stayed in his room. Didn’t show up. Didn’t try. Let them believe he was too good to care — when really, he felt like nothing.
Just a pretty face with a pretty voice. Trained for the stage. Taught how to smile on command, how to look like art. Not how to fight. Not how to survive.
But now—
Now he was here. Bleeding fingers. Steady aim.
The gun in his hand felt realer than any mic ever had.
And he wasn’t doing it for them.
He wasn’t doing it for Till, or Hyuna, or Isaac.
He was doing it because maybe, for the first time, he wanted to prove himself wrong.
He wasn’t just decoration.
He wasn’t fragile.
He wasn’t done.
He exhales. A strange kind of pride settles in his chest, like unfamiliar warmth. He doesn’t want to lose it.
“You’re getting good at that.”
Luka tenses.
He turns his head slightly and finds Hyuna standing near the door. She’s dressed down, hair tied back, no sharp edge to her posture — just calm observation. Familiar. Safe.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just sets the gun down on the table and stretches his fingers out like they’re someone else’s. Still trembling a little.
“You always sneak up on people?” he mutters, not cold, just tired.
Hyuna walks in slowly. “Only when they’re trying really hard to hide.”
Luka almost smiles.
She stops beside him, gaze flicking to the target. “You’ve changed.”
He flinches, just slightly. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” Her voice is low. Steady. “You used to look like you were waiting to run.”
“I was,” Luka admits. “I didn’t think I’d last here. I didn’t think I was supposed to.”
“But now?” she asks.
Luka hesitates. Swallows the knot in his throat. “Now… I think I want to.”
Hyuna’s expression softens, and for a moment, she just looks at him like she used to. Like the old days — Anakt Garden, simpler hours. Before the world broke them both.
“I’m the one who put in the good word,” she says quietly. “To Isaac.”
Luka blinks. His breath catches, just a little.
“You?” he says, like he doesn’t believe it.
“You’re trying,” Hyuna says. “And that means something. It’s not about perfect aim or how fast you run. It’s about showing up. And you’ve been doing that.”
Luka looks down. His chest feels tight again, but not the painful kind this time. Just full.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she replies. “But I wanted to.”
There’s a long pause. Then Luka finally speaks, voice low, hesitant. “Thank you.”
Hyuna doesn’t smile. Not really. But she gives him that look — the one he remembers from training sessions, from nights they shared music through thin walls, from when they still believed in each other.
“You’re not alone, Luka,” she says gently. “Not anymore. You just have to let people see you.”
He looks away, blinking fast. Something stings behind his eyes.
And for once, he doesn’t run.
Hyuna’s words hang in the air for a long moment.
You’re not alone, Luka.
He nods, slowly. Doesn’t speak. She sits down next to him on the bench, not close, just enough to let the silence settle between them without pressing it.
He steals a glance at her.
She looks tired, but not worn down — just real. Older than the last time he let himself really look at her. There were years when he convinced himself he loved her. Or maybe just needed her. She was the only thing that ever made sense in that gilded, cold stage of a life. She reminded him of who he used to be, or who he wished he could have been.
But now…
He breathes in, then out.
Now, when he looks at her, he doesn’t feel the ache anymore. Not that sharp longing. Not the confusion. It’s something else. Something simpler.
He’s thankful she forgave him. He’s thankful she’s still here.
But he doesn’t need her to love him back. He doesn’t even want that anymore.
The thought settles softly in his chest. Not bitter, not regretful. Just… quiet.
He turns toward her and says, “You know… I used to think you were the only reason I could be okay.”
She looks at him — not surprised, just waiting.
“But I think I was wrong. I think I’m learning how to be okay on my own,” he finishes.
Hyuna doesn’t answer right away. But there’s a small breath of a smile, barely-there.
“I’m glad,” she says. “That’s what I wanted for you.”
Luka exhales, gaze drifting back to the target still hanging across the room. His voice is softer now. “I still mess everything up.”
“You’re still trying,” she says. “That’s what counts.”
He leans back on the bench, eyes closed briefly.
Yeah.
That does count.
Chapter Text
Luka knew the kiss changed everything. He just didn’t know what to do with that truth.
The silence between him and Till had grown dense. Not cold exactly, not warm either. Tense. Like a room holding its breath. They hadn’t spoken since the day he was discharged. Since the hospital room. Since everything. Luka had slipped back into routine easily enough—at least on the surface. But there was something heavier in his shoulders now. Something more grounded in the way he carried himself. Less show. More control.
He walked into the meeting room late, again. Not out of rebellion. Just a habit he hadn’t shaken off yet.
Heads turned. He felt the usual flicker of unease, but it passed quicker now. He wasn’t the same. He had proved himself, even if just a little.
Isaac didn’t acknowledge him outright, but Luka caught the smallest nod as he stepped into his usual spot—off to the side, away from the crowd. The meeting was already in motion, maps projected, sketches of hallways and air vents drawn out across the walls. Everyone was gathered around the table—Hyuna, Mizi, Dewey, Till…
Luka didn’t let his eyes rest too long on him.
“We’re focusing on this wing,” Isaac said, tapping the edge of a blueprint. “Security’s doubled. The last raid set off a chain reaction, so this time we need a cleaner entrance. Luka?”
Luka stepped forward without hesitation. “There’s a secondary loading route, here,” he pointed. “It won’t be listed on the security logs.It bypasses the main floors.”
“Why would they leave that open?” someone questioned.
“Because they don’t know I remember it.”
Murmurs rippled through the group. Luka didn’t flinch.
Till said nothing. But he was listening.
Isaac nodded. “Alright. That’s our in.”
He turned to assign teams. Luka was bracing himself when it happened.
“Till, Dewey, me, Hyuna, Mizi and Luka,” Isaac said.
Luka didn’t look up. Not right away. He felt the air shift though. Saw it in the edge of Dewey’s smirk and Hyuna’s slight pause. Saw it in the way Till’s expression flickered—only for a moment—before he looked away again.
The rest of the meeting passed in silence. People spoke, plans were finalized, times and gear discussed. Luka kept his answers short. Accurate. Cold, maybe. But reliable. When the session wrapped, chairs scraped against floors and people filtered out slowly, murmuring in low voices.
He was heading to the door when Isaac stopped him.
“You sure about this?” Isaac asked.
Luka blinked. “About what?”
“Coming on this mission. You’ve got the intel, but that’s not enough if you freeze out there.”
“I won’t.”
He didn’t notice Till standing down the hallway until he was halfway back to his room. Their eyes met. Luka clenched his jaw. He didn’t speak.
But Till did
“You know…” Till’s voice was low, almost hesitant. “This look suits you.”
Luka glanced over his shoulder, brow raised.
Till shrugged, eyes flicking away. “The rebel thing. You fit it more than you think.”
Luka was quiet for a moment. “That’s funny. For a while, I thought I was nothing but someone’s product.”
Till didn’t answer that.
And Luka didn’t wait for him to.
He just turned back to the crates and kept working.
Till lingered for a moment longer, watching Luka’s back as he sorted the last of the supplies. He wanted to say something else—something that might loosen the knot in the air between them—but Luka didn’t look at him again.
Just went about his business with that quiet distance Till had started to hate.
Maybe that’s what bothered him most. The silence. The way Luka didn’t snap back like before. No sarcastic remarks. No smartass deflections. Just… cold, quiet.
Till took a slow breath. You did this.
The worst part? Luka had every reason to act like this. Just because he was older didn’t mean he had to carry it better. He didn’t owe Till the grace he hadn’t been given himself.
Till shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to go, the weight of his own mistakes pressing into his spine.
There was nothing to fix—not unless Luka wanted it fixed.
And right now, he clearly didn’t.
★
He wasn’t looking for Luka.
Honestly, he wasn’t even thinking about him. He was just coming to grab one of the resistance bands he’d left behind the other day—nothing more. But the second he pushes the door open, the sound of steady breaths and the muted thud of fists on a sandbag stops him short.
Luka’s in the gym.
The room smells like rubber, old sweat, and something sharper—like the past, maybe.
Luka doesn’t see him. He’s focused, half-lowered into a fighting stance, fists clenched, shoulders bare. His back is slick with sweat, muscles defined and moving like he actually knows what he’s doing. His shirt is abandoned on the floor nearby, and his chest rises and falls with effort, a little too fast—Till notices that—but Luka keeps going.
Till swallows.
He tells himself to leave. He tells himself not to look. But his feet don’t listen.
Luka spins on instinct, catching the movement in the mirror.
Their eyes lock.
He straightens immediately, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “Didn’t know anyone was here.”
Till shrugs, but his mouth is dry. “Didn’t know you trained.”
Luka’s lip twitches—not quite a smirk, but something. “Didn’t know you watched.”
That shuts Till up for a beat.
He steps further into the room, trying to focus on anything else. The weights. The clock. The water bottle rolling slightly near Luka’s foot.
“Aren’t you supposed to take it easy?” Till asks finally, nodding at his chest. “The asthma thing.”
Luka scoffs and grabs his shirt off the ground but doesn’t put it on. “I’m not gonna die. I'm just bored.”
Till crosses his arms. “You look like shit when you’re bored.”
“Still better than when I was performing, right?”
Till hesitates. There’s an opening there. It could turn into something. But instead he bites down on the inside of his cheek and forces a stiff nod.
“You look…”
The words come out before he can catch them.
“You look like you belong here.”
Luka stares at him, sweat dripping down his temple. And for a second—just a second—it feels like the room shifts. Like the weight of everything between them is pulling tighter and tighter.
The silence turns heavier.Their eyes don’t break.
Luka doesn’t say anything. He just drops to the floor and starts doing push-ups like Till isn’t standing right there watching.
And that’s worse, somehow.
His back flexes with every motion, shoulder blades sharp under skin that’s already red and slick. His breathing’s controlled, focused. He pauses once to stretch out his arms, then drops back down—like this is nothing, like he hasn’t been through hell lately and he can still do this. Prove something.
Till watches for a second too long.
Then—impulse, stupid impulse—he yanks his own shirt over his head and tosses it onto the bench.
Luka doesn’t stop. But his rhythm falters for just half a second.
Just enough for Till to catch it.
“Didn’t peg you for a show-off,” Luka mutters between reps.
“Didn’t peg you for someone who could do ten push-ups without passing out.”
Luka grits his teeth but says nothing. He finishes the set, sits back on his knees, and wipes his face again, this time with his shirt.
Their eyes meet. Tension crackles in the silence—thick, hot, angry.
Till grabs a set of weights, drops to the mat beside him, and starts doing curls like it’s some kind of challenge.
It is.
They don’t talk. They don’t smile.
It’s quiet, save for their breaths, the soft thud of movement, the squeak of sneakers on the floor. And underneath all of it, that same thing that’s been following them since the balcony, since the kiss neither of them wants to talk about.
Hate, or something worse.
When Luka moves again, Till follows.
Luka drops to do another set. So does Till.
Neither of them says it, but they’re trying to outlast each other. Out-burn whatever it is building in their chests. Like maybe if they just push hard enough, they won’t feel it anymore.
But it’s there.
It’s so there.
And Till wonders—is he imagining this? Or does Luka feel it too?
By the end, they’re both breathless. Luka leans against the wall.
Till doesn’t know why he walks closer. Maybe just to grab his towel.
Maybe something else.
He brushes past Luka—barely. A whisper of contact. Not even intentional.
Luka’s head tilts toward him, like he’s about to say something.
But he doesn’t.
Neither does Till.
The whole thing—every movement, every breath—felt like a stage again.
But not the kind with lights and music.
The kind where every second was a silent battle, eyes locked, timing perfect.
And something else they were both pretending not to notice.
Till had turned, was reaching for his towel, when he felt movement—
Luka stepped closer.
Too close.
His body stiffened instinctively, heart skipping once and then stuttering fast when Luka didn’t stop.
He moved in with that same calculated grace he used to walk with on stage, when his voice alone was enough to make crowds fall silent.
But this time—
He wasn’t performing for strangers.
His arm ghosted up, like he was going to loop it around Till’s shoulder. His breath brushed Till’s cheek. The space between them disappeared, one heartbeat at a time.
Till didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.
Luka leaned in—
And instead of a kiss, his fingers closed around the t-shirt draped behind Till on the bench.
Soft fabric. A whisper of touch.
And then Luka pulled back, still close enough that Till could see the smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
His smirk was infuriating. Calculated.
And it was working.
Till blinked—something hot flaring in his chest, a mix of what the hell was that and why did I want it to be more.
Luka turned, wiping his chest with the shirt like he hadn’t just pulled off the most mind-screwing stunt of Till’s week.
Till didn’t answer.
He couldn’t even think of something sharp to throw back.
Because the worst part?
He had leaned in.
Even if just a little. Even if he didn’t mean to.
He stared after Luka as he left the gym, heartbeat still frantic, skin still hot, and thoughts—
God.
A complete mess.
You really think you can mess with me and then walk away like nothing happened?” Luka spits suddenly, voice cracking at the end. “Because that’s what you did.”
Till’s hand drops.
Luka steps back, sharp and fast, throwing his shirt across the bench.
Luka pulls the shirt over his head, eyes fixed on a spot past Till like he’s not even there.
“Don’t worry,” he says flatly. “Whatever that was… it won’t happen again.”
He tosses the towel onto the bench, casual, like this is nothing more than a conversation about the weather.
“You made it pretty clear darling.”
A pause—just long enough to sting—before he turns.
“Go back to your mission reports or whatever it is that makes you feel important.”
“I’ve got my own life to ruin.”
And with that, he’s already walking away.
Till doesn’t move.
The gym feels colder now, even with the sweat still sticking to his skin. He watches Luka disappear down the hallway like he didn’t just gut him with a few words and a look that said you blew it. But it doesn't feel like it, he feels guilty for something he’s not even sure they had.
And maybe he did.
Because there was a moment—wasn’t there? Somewhere between the silence on the balcony and the bruised breaths in the field, between Luka’s apology to Hyuna and that kiss neither of them were ready for. A fragile, flickering moment of hope. Like they were building something, even if neither of them knew what it was yet.
But then came the mission. The blood. The tension. The weight of everything unsaid.
Now it’s like trying to grab smoke.
Till sinks onto the bench, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his hair. He doesn’t even know what he wants anymore—just that he wants this to stop hurting. He thought maybe it could go back to how it was, back before the kiss, before Luka’s voice started getting under his skin in the wrong kind of way.
But they passed that line, didn’t they?
And there’s no going back now.
★
Luka didn’t sleep much. Not that it mattered.
The morning light slants through the cracked windows, pale and empty, and he doesn’t even glance at it. His boots hit the floor with purpose. His shirt clings to him from the training, but he doesn’t slow down to change. Today, there’s a briefing. Today, there’s a mission.
And that’s all that matters.
He doesn’t think about the gym. About the way Till looked at him like he wanted to say something but didn’t. About the way their bodies were close enough to burn again before everything soured like it always does. Luka doesn’t need to think about it. He knows the game. He played it better than anyone back on stage.
Now it’s just a different kind of stage. New mask, same rules.
He walks the corridor with calm, expression unreadable. If Till wants to act like that, to pull away after every time they inch too close, fine. Luka doesn’t expect anything. Maybe he used to. Maybe there was a time he’d lie awake thinking about what that kiss meant. What Till meant.
But he’s done with that.
He’s here to prove himself. Not to Till. Not even to Hyuna.
To himself.
So when the door to the war room swings open and all eyes turn toward him, Luka doesn’t flinch. He steps inside, chin high, shoulders squared.
He’s got work to do.
The war room hums with tension. A low thrum of whispered voices, shifting bodies, eyes flicking to one another but not for long. They’re all waiting for Isaac to speak.
Luka stands near the far wall, arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to—not yet. His presence alone is loud enough, judging by the way a few of the younger recruits keep glancing his way like he’s a ghost that shouldn’t be here.
He’s used to it by now.
Isaac’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade. “Alright. One more time, then we move.”
The room stills.
Hyuna steps forward first, pulling up the 3D blueprint on the tablet and casting it on the screen behind them. “The target facility is thirty minutes outside city limits. Heavy surveillance, but if we move fast and keep to the east ridge—where the sensors are weaker—we’ll get in.”
Isaac gestures to Luka. “Go over the internal layout.”
Luka moves closer, fingers tapping through the hologram. “There’s a maintenance hall that leads under the east labs.
He shifts the blueprint. “It’ll be tight, but we can enter there.I’ll go first.”
No one questions it.
Not even Till.
Till doesn’t look at him. But Luka catches the way his jaw tenses.
The room is silent for a moment. Then Isaac nods.
“That’s it. Pack light. Armor on. We leave in two hours. No mistakes.”
★
Everyone begins to scatter, footsteps fading into the corridor, orders exchanged in low voices. Luka doesn’t linger. He has his bag ready already—he didn’t unpack much to begin with.
As he walks out of the war room, Hyuna steps beside him. No words, just a small glance that says: be careful.
He gives her a nod. That’s all she needs.
Outside, the night is starting to fall. The wind bites colder than usual. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
Luka pulls his jacket tighter around him and keeps walking.
He’s not scared.
Not of the mission.
Not of failing.
Not even of what might happen if he ends up alone with Till again.
The vehicles stopped on the ridge, their engines dying in unison.
No one spoke.
In the distance, the facility loomed—steel and shadow carved into the valley like a wound. Floodlights moved across the outer perimeter in slow, methodical sweeps. It was heavily guarded. Just like the reports said.
Luka stepped out first.
He was the calmest of them all. His breathing steady, his jaw sharp in the low light. There was something different about him tonight—not just the gear he wore or the weapon strapped to his back. It was the way he moved.
Unbothered.
Confident.
Natural.
No one had expected that.
He gave a short nod to the rest of the team, then began running. The others followed. They crossed the open terrain in silence, ducking low between tree lines and outcrops, making their way closer without triggering the outer sensors.
He crouched near the base of a ridge, just below the perimeter’s outer line. Two alien guards stood ahead—tall, armor-clad, humming softly with bio-kinetic energy. They hadn’t seen them yet.
Luka mouthed: Quiet.
Till narrowed his eyes but nodded. He followed Luka’s hand signals—flank left, wait for the flash, take the one on the right.
It happened fast.
A flicker of movement. A blade catching light. A body hitting the ground before it could even cry out.
Clean.
Efficient.
No noise.
Luka kept going, weaving through blind spots like he had been doing this his entire life. Maybe, in a way, he had.
He remembered the first time he came here—held by the wrist, barely fifteen, marched into the lower labs like a prize. Back then, they all talked like he wasn’t there. Like he couldn’t possibly understand the words coming out of their mouths.
Too pretty to think.
Too delicate to notice.
They whispered secrets around him, laughed in his presence, showed maps on open screens, spoke of codes and vents and weak spots—because to them, he was just an idol with soft hands and softer thoughts.
But Luka remembered everything.
And now, he was using it.
He led them toward a utility shaft half-buried in the side of the compound. He knelt, punched in the old access code, and when it blinked green, he just smiled faintly to himself.
Till watched him, brows furrowed.
“You sure you’ve only been here once?” he whispered.
Luka didn’t look back. “They liked to talk around me.” He knows it's not the answer he wants.
He pushed the hatch open and slipped inside.
They followed him like shadows.
No one spoke—just the sound of boots on concrete and the quiet whir of the emergency lights lining the upper corners of the corridor. Dust hung thick in the air, and the deeper they went, the more it looked like no one had been here in months. Maybe years.
The halls twisted, layered and identical, like a maze designed to make them question every step.
But Luka didn’t hesitate.
He moved with certainty, fingers brushing lightly along the wall where certain panels were loose—he remembered that. He ducked before a low sensor beam that hadn’t been visible to anyone else. When they reached a sealed door with a rusted keypad, Luka didn’t even look at the others before kneeling in front of it.
His fingers danced across the numbers.
Beep.
Beep.
Click.
The metal door hissed, then slid open with a grinding sound.
Everyone stared.
Till blinked. Dewey tilted his head like he wasn’t sure if what he saw was real. Even Hyuna looked thrown for a moment, watching Luka with a different kind of focus.
Only Isaac remained still—his arms crossed, eyes sharp, but there was something else there.
Pride.
They reached the underground labs. The deeper floor was colder, almost silent except for the low electric buzz beneath their boots. Wires spilled from broken panels, glass tanks stood shattered and empty. There were strange stains on the floor, old and faded.
Luka stepped forward, stopping just before another security lock.
The second keypad looked more complex, but Luka didn’t falter. Another string of codes, faster this time. The screen flashed green.
The door is open.
“Is he hacking that?” Dewey mumbled.
“No,” Isaac said, stepping forward and patting Luka’s shoulder once as he passed. “He just remembers it”
The room beyond was darker. Heavy steel doors lined the sides, each one marked with faded labels. Luka’s gaze lingered on one in particular—but only for a second.
He took a breath, then kept walking.
Behind him, Till followed. He didn’t say anything.
But his thoughts were loud.
What else had Luka seen here?
And why did it look like this wasn’t a mission for him—but a return?
They split off into smaller groups once they were inside, each of them knowing what they were here for—pull data, take pictures, recover anything worth salvaging.
But Luka barely heard any of it.
He walked slower than the rest, hands at his sides, eyes scanning the space like it wasn’t real. The labs were quiet. Echoey. Most of the lights didn’t work, flickering faintly over long, hollow rooms that still smelled like antiseptic and dust.
There were no children.
No bodies.
Just ghosts.
One of the smaller rooms had drawings taped to the wall—crayon sketches faded with time. Some were cheerful: smiling suns, stick figures holding hands. Others… not. Black scribbles, frantic red circles. One drawing had been torn down the middle and left on the floor.
There were toys too. A soft bear missing an eye. Plastic blocks. A small doll with its legs melted.
And blood.
Streaks on the floor. On the walls. Dried brown stains beneath some of the beds. A smeared handprint on a cabinet door.
Luka swallowed thickly, pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth. He didn’t throw up. He just stood there for a moment, letting the nausea settle like ash in his chest.
He followed the hallway into a different room.
This one was colder.
Harsher.
The beds here were metal slabs with no mattresses. Machines were lined up against the wall—monitors, tubes, oxygen tanks. Strapping belts dangled from the edges of the tables, still stained with rust and something darker.
He didn’t mean to move toward them. His feet just… took him there.
He stood at the foot of one table.
He remembered this one.
His fingers brushed the edge, barely a touch, and a breath caught in his throat.
He used to scream here.
They strapped him down and injected him with something blue. Sometimes they made him sing while they tested his heart rate. Other times they lowered him into the pool right after and waited to see how long it took before he blacked out. That was always the scariest part—the quiet of the water, and the cold, and the sound of his own heartbeat crashing louder and louder in his skull until—
“Luka.”
He blinked.
Till stood by the doorway, eyes sharp, unreadable. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.
Luka stepped back from the table.
“I’m fine,” he said.
It was automatic.
He turned away before Till could say anything else, already walking down the hall again.
He wasn’t fine.
But there were no kids left here, and the only thing to do now was make sure this place never held another one.
Dewey was the one who found the files first. He cracked open one of the dusty cabinets, expecting old maps or floor plans. What he pulled out instead was a file labeled simply: Subject #08.
He flipped it open. Then froze.
Isaac noticed. “What is it?”
Dewey didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the paper again. Then again. “It’s not schematics,” he said quietly. “It’s… medical records. Experiment logs.”
Everyone gathered around as more files were pulled out, all neatly labeled. Subject #05. Subject #11. Subject #13.
There were pictures clipped inside—blurry headshots of children, most of them no older than ten. Notes were scribbled in shorthand. Psychological evaluations. Physical endurance scores. Diagrams of brain scans, lists of numbers no one could make sense of.
Hyuna stepped back, a hand over her mouth. “They tested kids here?”
Mizi was already leafing through one of the folders, her face grim. “Each one had a different focus,” she said. “This one—Subject 11—they were testing pain tolerance. High doses of electric stimulation. Without anesthesia. They never took us here’’
Till’s stomach turned.
“What about this one?” someone asked, holding up a folder marked Subject #02.
Isaac took it and read quietly. “Heart control,” he muttered. ‘’Forced underwater breath control. Sensory deprivation and…’’
He stopped reading.
Because there was a picture.
The child in it had shorter hair. Thinner face. Big, scared eyes.
But it was Luka.
No one said anything for a long time.
Till felt his chest tighten as he looked across the room—Luka was by himself, crouched near a broken monitor, fiddling with its wiring. He hadn’t noticed them yet. Or maybe he had and just didn’t care.
Mizi’s voice was low. “That’s why he knew the codes. The layout. The traps.”
“He was here,” Hyuna whispered. “They did this to him.”
Till’s hands curled into fists. He already knew those stuff. But it was just horrible to be standing here where they used to do it.
Suddenly, every memory of Luka’s odd silences, his sudden rage, the sharp words, the pain behind his eyes—it all clicked. It wasn’t just ego or drama. He had lived through this place. Survived it. And no one had seen it before.
Not like this.
Not so clearly.
Isaac slowly closed the folder. “We’re taking these,” he said. “Everything we can.”
He didn’t say anything else.
And no one dared approach Luka just yet.
Isaac looked up slowly. Across the room, Luka was crouched beside a broken terminal, fiddling with its wiring like nothing had happened.
Till stepped forward, unsure what to say.
Before anyone could, Luka looked up.
He saw the file in Isaac’s hand. He must’ve known exactly what it was.
He snorted, dry and tired. “Oh. That.”
He stood up, dusting his hands on his pants. “You can keep it, if you want. Makes for great bedtime reading.”
No one spoke.
Luka shrugged. “It’s not that deep. Everyone had their tests.”
“But this wasn’t just any test site,” Hyuna said quietly. “These labs are different.”
“Yeah.” Luka’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “They only brought the special ones here.”
He turned his back before anyone could answer.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. The others exchanged glances, but no one chased him. What could they say? What did you say to someone who had lived in a place like this and could laugh about it?
Till held the file tighter in his hands, heart sinking.
It explained so much.
Too much.
Luka disappeared through the next hallway without another word.
The sound of his footsteps faded quickly, like he’d been waiting for an excuse to get away.
No one followed him.
Mizi stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw clenched. Even Dewey—who usually had something to say—kept quiet. Hyuna’s eyes lingered on the open folder in Isaac’s hands, then dropped away.
Till still held his copy. His thumb brushed over the edge of the page, tracing Luka’s photo.
Isaac cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s take what we can. Files, drives, anything. Then we’re out.”
They moved with quiet purpose after that. No one mentioned the folder. No one said Luka’s name. They avoided the section he disappeared into, letting him be. Maybe it was respect. Maybe it was guilt.
Till wanted to say something—to go after him—but he didn’t.
He knew better by now.
Luka didn’t want pity.
And he definitely didn’t want Till’s.
So they kept moving, past the bloodstained walls and dust-covered toys, through what remained of a lab designed to break people.
But they weren’t broken—not yet.
Not all of them.
Luka walked into the next room without looking back.
It was smaller than the others—no beds, no cages—just a lab, untouched and frozen in time. Dust floated in the air like ash. The lights flickered weakly overhead, casting pale circles across the metal counters.
He approached a desk near the center, where rows of small test tubes sat half-organized in racks. Some of them had dried blood inside—dark, almost black now. Luka picked one up, turning it in his hand. A faded label clung to the glass.
Subject #17 — FAIL
He set it down and picked another.
#23 — FAIL
Then another.
#31 — FAIL
One after the other, they were all the same. Failures. Experiments. Discarded names and broken bodies.
Luka’s hand hovered over a folder nearby, its corner marked with a smudge of rust-colored brown. He opened it slowly, revealing pages of clinical notes, medical terms, numbers, side effects. The handwriting was rushed, almost violent.
Trial C—Oxygen deprivation resistance failed.
The subject entered cardiac arrest within 2:41 minutes.
Resuscitated. Increased dosage scheduled.
His name was scribbled in the top corner.
Not Subject #. Not a code.
Just Luka.
He stared at it for a moment. Then flipped to the next page. And the next.
Each one worse than the last. The water submersion trials. The electric threshold tests. One involved sound. Another sleep deprivation. One page just said:
“Appearance: suitable. Compliance: acceptable. Response to pain: inconsistent.”
He pressed the folder shut.
No reaction. No flinch. No sigh.
He just stood there, hand resting on the dusty metal desk, eyes fixed on nothing.
It wasn’t new.
He already lived through it.
But now the others knew the details—the pieces he’d hoped they wouldn’t be able to guess. Now it was all printed on paper. Now it could be passed around.
And Luka hated that more than the memories themselves.
He picked up one last vial—this one had no label. The blood inside looked fresher than the rest, as if it hadn’t dried out properly.
He didn’t know why he pocketed it.
He just did.
Then he turned around and left the room.
No one needed to see this part.
The hallway outside the lab felt colder. Narrower.
Luka kept walking, farther away from the others—his hand clenched tight around the folder he never meant to take. The air down here tasted sterile and stale, like dust and chemicals, like the past hadn’t bothered to rot away, only hardened.
His chest tightened.
He slowed his steps.
Stopped.
His hand moved automatically to his jacket, pulling out the small metal inhaler. The first hit wasn’t enough. He took another. Then another, just to be sure.
The pressure didn’t go away. His breath came fast, shallow. He leaned against the wall, head tilted back, eyes shut tight. It wasn’t just the asthma. It was the fucking walls. The lights. The silence. The way it all looked the same as then.
He hated how quiet it was.
“Hey—”
Luka flinched, eyes snapping open.
Till stood at the end of the corridor, half in shadow, gaze locked on him.
Luka didn’t say anything. He shoved the inhaler back in his pocket quickly, like he hadn’t been using it, like he hadn’t been struggling to breathe. He straightened, wiped his palms down his pants.
Till took a slow step forward. “You okay?”
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel either. Just cautious.
Luka scoffed, faint but sharp. “Do I not look okay?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned away, but didn’t walk. He couldn’t—not yet.
“You shouldn’t be alone down here,” Till said after a beat.
Luka exhaled, finally steady. “I’ve been alone in worse places.”
Till didn’t argue.
He didn’t step closer either.
Just silence. That kind of silence where everything felt like it was about to tip.
★
They emerged from the underground labs hours later, their bags heavier with stolen files and evidence, but no trace of life left behind.
Only silence. And memories.
Luka was the last to step out, pausing in the doorway of the facility’s ruined shell. The building loomed behind them like a carcass—its walls scorched by time, its purpose long abandoned, but still reeking of cruelty.
He turned, just for a moment, his eyes lingering on the cracks in the concrete, the shattered glass, the broken lights overhead.
He wanted to ask.
Can I burn it?
The words sat at the edge of his tongue, sharp and aching.
But he didn’t say them.
The others were moving ahead, talking in low voices, focused on the mission, on the road back. This place had already taken enough time. Enough breath.
Still, Luka stayed one second longer, just long enough for the thought to settle deep in his chest:
This place should be ash.
He didn’t look back again.
The ride back was quiet. Too quiet.
They didn’t speak much—not out of fatigue, but out of something heavier. A tension that clung to the air, even after they’d left the facility far behind.
There had been no guards. No cameras. No traps.
No signs of anyone watching.
And that was the problem.
They all felt it. That prickling at the back of their necks. That sinking weight in their gut.
This wasn’t luck.
Hyuna sat with her arms crossed, eyes locked on the darkened road ahead, jaw tight. Isaac hadn’t said a word since they loaded the files into the vehicle. Even Dewey—usually the first to crack a joke when things got too tense—was unusually still.
It had gone too smoothly. That kind of ease didn’t happen. Not in a place like this. Not in their world.
Something was coming.
They could all feel it.
It was only a matter of time.
Not directly.
The road felt too open—too exposed—so they turned into the woods. The cover of the trees seemed safer. They were wrong.
It began with a sound.
Low. Mechanical.
A sharp hum that rattled the ground beneath their boots.
Then—
BAAM
A shockwave split the forest open like a scream. Trees splintered. Dirt exploded skyward. One of the vehicles flipped—just like that. Gone.
“DRONES!” someone shouted—too late. The sky lit up with beams of red and white and blue, engines roaring overhead. Massive ships hovered above the trees, breaking through the clouds like monsters.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Explosions tore the silence apart. Screams echoed. Bark flew like shrapnel. Fire caught on dead leaves, spreading fast. The woods were a warzone in seconds.
Luka dove behind a fallen log, chest heaving. His ears rang from the blast, vision blurry.
He could barely make out Till across the clearing, blood down the side of his face, screaming something Luka couldn’t hear.
Another explosion.
More blood.
The drones circled like vultures, lasers slicing into the ground, trees toppling in waves.
This wasn’t like the missions they’d done before. This was full-on extermination.
Isaac barked orders through the chaos, Hyuna dragging someone to safety. Dewey was already firing back, his face a mask of fury and survival.
The enemy was smarter this time. Faster. Brutal.
Like they knew.
Like they’d been waiting.
Luka felt something burn past his face—heat searing his cheek—and he scrambled, using every second to duck and move, heart slamming in his throat. He didn’t know if they’d make it out.
And for the first time,
He wasn't sure who was going to die next.
Luka sprinted toward the trees, lungs burning, trying to find cover. His hand gripped his side, where a sharp pain had bloomed after the last blast. He didn’t make it far.
Something exploded behind him—too close.
CRACK—BOOM.
The shockwave hit him like a wall. His body was flung forward, crashing hard into the dirt. The world tilted, then disappeared.
Darkness for a few seconds. Maybe more.
When Luka came to, everything was wrong.
Luka's ears were ringing as he lay dazed in the rubble for a moment. The world sounded muffled, and a warm liquid was trickling down his neck. He wheezed softly, the dust in the air making his asthma start to flare. There was a weight on his chest.
He wheezed softly, blinking through dust that coated his lashes. His asthma flared instantly—the thick smoke in the air making each breath feel tight, scraped raw. He fumbled for his inhaler, hand trembling.
There was a weight on his chest.
Heavy.
A shattered piece of wreckage—a twisted metal shard, or maybe part of a broken drone—had landed on him, pinning him to the ground. It wasn’t crushing him, but it bit into his ribs, making breathing harder. His vision swam.
He didn’t know if he was bleeding from the head, or if it just felt like it.
Somewhere beyond the ringing, gunshots cracked. Voices shouted. But it all sounded so far away.
Luka pressed his eyes shut and told himself not to panic.
Move. You have to move. Now.
But he couldn’t.
Dewey’s voice cut through the haze, distant at first, then closer—sharper. He stumbled over the wreckage, eyes scanning frantically until he spotted the crumpled body behind the blown tree.
“Shit—TILL!”
Till was already running.
They both dropped beside him. Luka’s face was pale under the smears of ash and blood, eyes barely open. His breathing was shallow, wheezing, as his fingers weakly clutched the edge of his jacket.
“Help me with this,” Dewey grunted, grabbing the twisted metal lodged across Luka’s chest. Together, with a low heave, they lifted the debris and tossed it aside.
Luka winced sharply, gasping. He tried to sit up—but his body refused.
“Don’t—just stay down,” Till said, more urgent than gentle. His hands hovered over Luka’s shoulders, not quite touching. “You’re not okay.”
Luka blinked up at them, lips parting like he wanted to say something—but all that came out was a soft, raw cough. He closed his eyes, head tipping back against the dirt.
All around them, the forest was still burning. Explosions cracked in the distance. But for a second, it was just the three of them—Luka broken on the ground, and Till staring at him like he might fall apart next. Suddenly everything went quiet.
★
The room smelled like antiseptic and stale air. Too quiet. Too clean. A smell they know by heart.
Till stood at the edge of it all, arms crossed tightly against his chest, gaze fixed on the motionless figure lying on the bed.
Luka.
A pale sheet was draped over him, wires trailing from his arm, his chest rising and falling in steady but fragile rhythm. His face was scratched, bruised, one side wrapped in gauze. His hair was matted, damp against his temple. He looked too still—too quiet for someone who used to command a whole stage with just a glance.
Till hadn’t moved since they brought him in. Not really. Dewey had been the one barking orders. Hyuna had helped stabilize Luka on the field. And Till… Till had just stood there. Frozen. Like watching someone else’s past crawl out from the wreckage.
Luka stirred—barely. A wince. A soft sound.
Then finally, those familiar eyes fluttered open, hazy, unfocused. He blinked at the ceiling. Then at the IV. Then—slowly—at Till.
“…the hell,” Luka whispered, voice thin and raw.
Till let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You’re back.”
Luka didn’t smile. Just blinked again, slower this time, like everything hurt. “Did we—”
“We got everything.” Till stepped closer, the edge of the bed just brushing his hip. “Files, drives, data…all of it. The others are fine too.”
Luka closed his eyes again, as if that answer gave him permission to let go.
“You’ve been out for a few hours,” Till added, quieter. “You’ve got a fractured rib—went through your lung. They did a small surgery. It’s patched up, but you need rest. Your leg’s a mess too, but nothing permanent. You were lucky.”
Luka gave a dry, hoarse noise that might’ve been a laugh. “Feels like shit.”
“I imagine.” Till shifted on his feet. “You passed out before we got back. I didn’t get to say anything.”
He didn’t continue. Luka didn’t ask.
Till glanced at the machines humming softly beside the bed. Luka looked half-asleep again, but Till still said it anyway.
“…Everyone’s thankful,” he said, careful with the words. “For what you did at the facility.”
Luka didn’t open his eyes. His jaw tensed.
“You led us through it. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have gotten half as far.”
Still nothing. Just silence, the kind that made Till feel like he was talking through glass.
There was something sharp behind his tired expression. Not anger, not quite. Just… recognition. He knew what Till wasn’t saying. That behind the thank you was sorry. And behind grateful was pity.
Luka let out a breath. “Don’t.”
Till frowned. “What?”
“That voice. Like you’re walking on eggshells. Like I’m gonna break if you say the wrong thing.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Luka’s voice was strained, but steady. “Don’t thank me like I’m some tragic story.”
Till didn’t have anything to say to that. Because maybe he had. Maybe that was the voice he used.
“I’m not proud of what happened there,” Luka said, softer now. “But I don’t need your pity.”
“…It’s not pity.”
Luka didn’t argue. He just looked away, at the sterile ceiling again, like the conversation bored him now.
Till stayed there, shifting on his feet, unsure what else to say—or if he even had the right to say anything more.
The silence between them stretched again, tight and uncomfortable.
Then Luka muttered, almost like an afterthought, “You should go.”
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold. Just… done.
Till didn’t move right away. But eventually, he nodded.
“I’ll check in later.”
Luka didn’t answer.
★
When he’d seen Luka’s name in those files—when he realized what kind of facility it was, what kind of testing went on there—it hit him harder than he thought it would. Not because he felt sorry for Luka. But because he knew. He remembered.
Not the exact place. Not the same kind of test. But the fear. The restraint.
Till shut his eyes for a moment, leaning against the cold wall outside Luka’s room.
He remembered being strapped down. Not like the usual ones—no. This was after he tried to escape, when he nearly made it out before the alarms went off. They’d punished him for that. They didn’t say it, but he knew. It was different after.
The restraints weren’t just around his wrists or ankles. They strapped his head, too. His chest. Something over his eyes. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t see. Could barely breathe. The panic was worse than the tests themselves—worse than the cold burn of the needles or the dizziness afterward.
Because when you can’t move, and you can’t see, and no one speaks to you except to say “don’t fight it”—you stop feeling human.
Till’s jaw locked.
He hated needles, yeah.
He opened his eyes again, blinking fast.
And Luka—Luka had walked through that building like a ghost in a place that once held him down. Luka had cracked open the door and let everyone else walk through it. Calm. Efficient. Distant. Till doesn't feel pity for him, not really, he admires him, though he knows Luka is good at pretending being fine, but if it was Till he would be having mental breakdown.
And then he’d brushed off the files like they meant nothing. Like it was just history. Like he didn’t feel the weight of it anymore.
Till didn’t know if that was strength or denial. Maybe both.
But it made him think about all the things he never told anyone either.
All the things he still didn’t know how to say.
It had started small. That’s what they always said when things got worse.
First, they just locked him up. No food, no light. Days at a time. He thought he could handle that. He told himself it was normal.
Then came the hunger. Weeks where meals were skipped “by accident.” Where he’d only eat if he completed his training without flaw. Then came the beatings. Hands, tools, metal batons. Urak liked to say pain was a better motivator than praise.
Till thought he’d grown used to pain.
He hadn’t.
When he got older—when his voice settled and his bones stopped growing—something changed. Urak started watching him differently. Talking to others about how “marketable” he was. About “versatility.” About “obedience.”
It was after Round Two. After Till broke that guitar—flashing defiance instead of fear. That was when Urak really snapped.
He didn’t punish him with silence or fists that time.
He sent Till to one of the underground clubs. A place where aliens drank until they forgot they weren’t gods, a place where music was less about art and more about obedience.
“You’ll sing,” Urak said. “That’s all.”
But he wasn’t feeling well. He hadn’t eaten. Something was wrong. His hands were shaking. His chest felt tight. He was dizzy. But he always took the pills they gave him. Always. Because saying no was worse. Because saying no was pointless.
They made him sing ‘My clematis’ and he refused, he refused to mock Mizi and Sua. And when they shoved him on the table showing the article that Mizi’s missing, he lost it.
He didn’t remember standing up. Just the way his fist hit the alien’s jaw. The silence after. The weight of eyes on him. The sound of glass shattering.
They dragged him backstage.
And that night… for the first time… his punishment wasn’t just fists or starvation. It was his body.
Till’s nails dug into his palms as he stood in the hallway outside Luka’s room, shoulders trembling with the effort of staying still.
He hated this.
He hated remembering.
But he also hated that Luka’s file made something sharp twist in his chest—not just pity, but recognition. Familiarity. Anger.
Because if Luka had gone through that… if he had gone through that… and they were still here, still breathing, still fighting—
Then maybe that was something.
Maybe survival was the rebellion.
Flashes.
Too fast. Too much.
Hands.
Not his. Cold. Slippery. Gray skin.
Dragging. Pushing. Gripping.
A pill under his tongue. Needles.
Sweet. Bitter. Can’t spit it out.
Naked. His clothes were torn apart.
His body isn’t his body.
He remembers that. The way it stopped being his.
Laughter. Voices. Alien. Twisted.
Something pressed into him. In.
He cried. He thinks.
Pain. So much pain.
Maybe he screamed.
Maybe he didn’t.
Then nothing.
Not blackness—just blank.
The kind of emptiness that hurts more than pain.
He stood still now, breathing hard, his palms pressed into the concrete wall. His forehead touched the cold surface. He didn’t even realize when he got there.
The memories came like a tide: relentless, choking.
He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. Let the sting of his bitten tongue keep him grounded. He wasn’t there anymore.
But his body didn’t know that.
His body was still there.
Till didn’t remember falling asleep.
He just remembered the cold.
Naked, wrists still bound.
The stink of alien sweat.
His own blood.
A gag he’d bitten through.
And then—
Something different.
A touch.
Warm.
Human.
Fingers brushing the side of his face, soft as feathers.
A thumb across his cheekbone.
So gentle he wanted to cry.
He didn’t open his eyes.
He was too scared it would vanish.
Or worse—that it wouldn’t.
The ropes were cut.
A blanket thrown over him.
Hands carried him like he weighed nothing.
He never asked who it was.
He didn’t want to know.
He couldn’t.
But he knew.
It was Ivan.
And he never said thank you.
Maybe because it didn’t matter. Or maybe they weren't the type to talk about those stuff.
Or because a thank-you wouldn’t change the fact that it kept happening.
That Urak let it happen.
That he was just a thing for them—a body.
A body they liked.
So even when he was saved, it didn’t feel like salvation.
Just a pause between punishments.
Till stared at the folder across the room. It was still there, half-buried under the rest of the files they’d taken from the facility—just a mess of paper and old plastic sheets and digital drives. He hadn’t touched them again since they brought them back.
Luka’s name was scribbled on the label.
He could look.
He could.
There might be more in there. More than what the others read aloud. More than the words that made Mizi go silent and Dewey curse under his breath. More than Hyuna’s face falling, just a fraction, before she quickly looked away.
Till had stood there frozen.
He’d heard enough.
His fingers curled against the edge of the table. His knuckles were white. The room felt colder than it should’ve.
He didn’t want to know more.
He shouldn’t know more.
It wasn’t his business. It wasn’t his place.
And still—
God, he wanted to understand.
Why Luka acted like it didn’t matter.
Why did he look so calm when they read the worst parts?
But no.
No.
He turned his back on the folder.
He was doing fine.
He was.
He had a routine. He had missions. He had a purpose again.
And now he was breaking down in the middle of the fucking night, just thinking about it.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, pressing his palms into his eyes. He wanted silence. He wanted to sleep. He wanted his brain to shut the hell up.
But all he could feel was this awful weight in his chest. Like something was twisting inside him—something tight and sick and full of memories.
He didn’t want to remember anything.
Not Ivan.
Not Luka’s blank expression when the files were read.
Not the way everything started falling apart again.
He stayed like that, breathing slow and shaky, until the weight in his chest dulled to a numb ache.
Then he got up and left the room.
He didn’t even know where he was going.
He just needed to move.
He ended up in the shower.
He wasn’t sure when or how—just that suddenly the cold tiles were under him, slick and hard against his back as he sat on the floor. Water poured from above, scalding hot when he first turned it on, but now lukewarm and forgotten, soaking through his hair, his shirt, his pants.
He didn’t bother to undress.
Didn’t bother to move.
His arms hung limp at his sides. His head tilted back against the wall. Water streamed down his face and clung to his lashes like tears he couldn’t cry.
His throat ached.
His chest ached worse.
He sat like that until his skin started to wrinkle and the water turned cold. He might’ve fallen asleep for a moment—he wasn’t sure.
He didn’t remember getting up.
Didn’t remember turning the water off.
Didn’t remember peeling off the soaked clothes, or dragging on dry ones with shaking fingers.
He just remembered lying in bed after.
Wide awake.
Staring at the ceiling, still damp, still shivering.
His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. His body ached like it had been broken open again. And in the silence of the room, with the dim lights from the corridor bleeding under his door, he felt like he was back in the dark again—trapped in his own mind, back where he never wanted to be.
He turned on his side, curled up.
Sleep didn’t come.
It didn’t even try.
He sat up suddenly.
Couldn’t stand lying still anymore. Couldn’t stand the feeling in his chest, like it was caving in on itself—tight and heavy and full of something that wouldn’t move.
Before he knew it, he was already halfway down the hall.
His steps were silent. His body moved without thinking.
He stopped in front of Luka’s door.
The light was off inside. No sound.
He didn’t raise his hand. Didn’t knock. Just stood there for a long, long moment, staring at the door like it might speak first.
But he remembered.
Luka didn’t want him there.
Not anymore.
Things weren’t okay. They never had the time or the space or the right moment to talk. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe that moment had already passed.
Maybe they’d ruined it. He did.
He stood there long enough for the cold of the corridor to sink into his skin, then turned.
The kitchen was dark when he entered, quiet but not peaceful. The hum of the fridge filled the silence. He moved on instinct, opened the cabinet, pulled out the half-empty bottle that was always there.
He didn’t even bother with a proper glass.
Just grabbed one from the counter, poured too much, and downed it in a single motion.
It burned all the way down—sharp, fiery, bitter. He poured another. Slower this time. Let it rest in his hand a second longer.
He didn’t drink that one. Just looked at it.
Then he set it aside and left the room, the numbness finally starting to crawl over his bones.
By the time he reached his bed, his limbs felt heavy. His head spun just enough to blur the thoughts he didn’t want to have.
He crawled under the blanket, the world hazy at the edges. Not quite drunk. Not quite asleep. Somewhere in between.
It was the only way he could rest tonight.
★
Till didn’t move.
The light in the room had changed. It was already late morning—he could tell by the warmth bleeding through the curtains. The sun was out. He should’ve been up. Should’ve been training, drawing, doing something.
But he wasn’t.
He lay there, the blanket half off, eyes on the ceiling, unmoving.
His guitar leaned against the wall across the room.
His sketchpad was still open on the desk with a pen lying crooked across the paper.
He thought maybe he’d get up. Maybe he’d force himself into the gym.
Maybe he’d just do something that made him feel like he still had control.
But he didn’t move.
His body didn’t listen. His limbs felt heavy, like his bones had given up.
How pathetic was that?
He wasn’t injured. He wasn’t sick. There was no excuse.
Except… everything.
A soft knock on the door barely stirred him.
He said nothing. Closed his eyes and waited for whoever it was to go away.
But the door creaked open anyway.
“Till?”
It was Mizi. Of course it was.
He remembers when he was a kid he used to have sparkles in his eyes every time he saw her, whatever childish love was there for her it was long gone, the moment Ivan kissed him. He doesnt wanna go back there, he doesnt like those thoughts.
She stepped in with that quiet carefulness that meant she already knew something was wrong. She crossed the room slowly, then leaned against the desk, eyes on him. She didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him.
“I told you,” she said after a long pause. And he knows what she talks about.
‘’It’s my fault.’’
Mizi tilted her head. “You fucked up.”
He blinked at the ceiling. “Yeah.”
“You gonna tell me how?”
He stayed quiet. Then slowly turned his head to look at her. He looked lost—honestly lost, like someone who couldn’t find the thread anymore.
“I don’t even know what I fucked up,” he admitted. “There wasn’t even a friendship, Mizi. Nothing real. We didn’t talk. We fought. We bled.’’ We kissed, that one is left unsaid. “That’s it.”
“But you care.”
He looked away.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Mizi added softly. “You care, and you don’t know how to show it without burning it down.”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at the window.
The light was too bright today. It made everything look worse.
Till didn’t respond right away. He just sat there in the silence Mizi left hanging, staring through it like it wasn’t even there. But she didn’t press him. She just waited.
Eventually, he spoke.
“I care about him.”
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t whispered like a confession. It was just… truth. Dry and simple. It came out like something that had been sitting in his throat for too long, collecting dust.
“I’ve been trying to convince myself that I don’t,” he continued, “but I do. I care. It’s not something I planned or wanted or even understood. But it’s there. In some weird way”
Mizi nodded, quietly. She didn’t look surprised. Maybe she already knew.
“That's enough for now?” she asked gently.
He sighed. “It has to be.”
Till pressed his lips together.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything yet,” she said. “Just don’t lie to yourself anymore. That’s where you start.”
He sat with that for a while. Letting it sink in.
Yeah. He cared about Luka.
And right now… that was enough to carry.
★
Luka sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands.
They were shaking.
He hadn’t realized until now.
He wasn’t thinking of Till. Not right now. Not about the mission. Not about the files or the blood or the sound of his ribs cracking.
He was just sitting there. In the dark. Wondering when everything had become this quiet.
The kind of quiet that didn’t bring peace. The kind that made you feel like you’d already disappeared.
His fingers brushed over the scar on his side—the one from the surgery. He barely remembered it happening. Just pain. Pain and bright lights. Voices. Cold.
He used to think pain made him feel alive. It reminded him he was still here.
Now it just felt like noise.
Background noise.
Luka leaned back against the wall. His chest felt heavy again, but it wasn’t asthma this time. No wheezing. Just… that invisible weight pressing into him.
He closed his eyes.
It would be so easy to stop.
To disappear.
Not in some dramatic way. No messages, no tears. Just… leave. Let go. No one would really be surprised. That was the worst part. No one would say he was fine yesterday. Because he wasn’t. He hadn’t been for a long time.
He curled his hand into a fist.
No, he wasn’t going to do anything. Not now. Probably not ever. But the thought was there. Like an option. Like a quiet little door in the corner of the room that was always slightly open.
He didn’t want to die.
He just didn’t want to be here.
Not like this.
Not in this body that remembered too much.
Not in this place where people looked at him like they knew things now.
He hated it.
He hated himself.
Luka opened his eyes.
He breathed in slowly. Then again.
He got up. Not to do anything. Not to be productive or brave.
Just to move.
Because if he stayed in that position any longer, he was scared he might really vanish.
He walked to the sink and let the water run. Splashed his face. The cold made him blink fast. It didn’t clear his head, but it reminded him he had a body. That he was still in it.
He gripped the edge of the sink. His reflection looked back, tired and pale. The bruise near his jaw was fading, but his eyes still looked the same—glassy and distant.
And then, without warning, his thoughts drifted.
To Till.
His grip tightened.
It always came back to him lately. That look in his eyes in the gym. The way he said Luka looked like a rebel now. Like it suited him.
Why the hell did that stick?
Luka closed his eyes. That kiss. That night. The silence after. The glances that burned more than they should. The concern in Till’s voice in the infirmary. The guilt.
It made him sick.
Because part of him still wanted to lean into it. To be seen. To be touched like that again. Like he was wanted.
But then another part—louder, sharper—wanted to rip it all apart.
He hated him. He hated how he made him feel.
He hated how one person could make him feel like a human being and like a fucking wound at the same time.
Luka let out a bitter breath.
Maybe he cared. Maybe he didn’t.
He didn’t even know what caring meant anymore. All he knew was that something in him cracked open whenever Till was near—and it wasn’t healing right.
So yeah.
Maybe he cared.
Maybe he hated him.
Maybe they were the same thing.
★
When Luka thought that nothing could go wrong these days, and finally everyone will have a break after that mission…well he was very wrong.
The lights went out first.
A humming static ran under Luka’s skin. The sirens followed—short, sharp pulses like the scream of a wounded animal. He was in the hallway, already halfway to the cafeteria when the world tilted sideways.
Boots hitting metal. Shouting. A voice on the intercom: “We’re under attack. Everyone evacuate. Plan B in motion.”
His shoulder slammed into a wall as someone shoved past him. He saw Isaac barking orders, Hyuna helping someone carry boxes, Mizi cursing under her breath. Everything was moving too fast.
He ran to the weapons room.
His hands moved on instinct—gun, knife, extra clips, mask—everything he might need. His heart was pounding, adrenaline choking his throat. His fingers shook slightly, but his aim wouldn’t.
Till caught his eye across the room, frozen for a second, then nodding. Luka nodded back. That was all. No time for anything else.
They loaded the trucks.
It was chaos, yes, but it was organized chaos. Somehow, everything they needed was being moved, packed, secured. But there was something wrong in the air. Like the aliens weren’t just attacking…
They were hunting.
The main room was packed—voices layered over voices, panic gnawing at the edges of control. Luka stood near the wall, hands clenched behind his back. No one told him to stay out of the way, but he knew when he wasn’t needed.
The air felt too warm. Everyone was shouting.
“They found us too fast—”
“There’s no way they just stumbled onto us, come on—”
“This doesn’t happen unless someone left something behind—”
And then it came.
“Maybe it was him.”
The room fell into a stunned silence. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Luka to feel every eye turn to him.
His jaw tensed, his gaze sharp, unreadable.
“He was in the facility the longest. He had access. He knew the codes.” Someone says so sure.
Someone muttered. “He was one of them.”
“Maybe he’s leading them to us.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a pretty face lied to save their own skin.”
The accusations weren’t screamed. They were sharper than that—quiet, venomous, precise. Luka didn’t defend himself. He just stared straight ahead, expression unreadable. He could feel the old weight settling on his shoulders again: blame, suspicion, worthlessness.
Till stepped forward.
“That’s enough.”
His voice was calm. Cold. But loud enough to stop the murmuring.
“None of us knows what happened. But I was there. Luka didn’t touch anything except the codes we needed. You all act like he’s still that perfect stage puppet you used to watch on screens. He’s not.”
Hyuna stepped beside him. “He risked his life in that facility. You think he’d lead the aliens back just to get blown up with the rest of us? Grow up.”
Silence.
Luka looked between them—Till and Hyuna. His stomach twisted. He didn’t ask for that. He didn’t need their defense. But it still settled something inside him.
Just for a moment.
Then—
BOOM.
The wall shook violently. Lights flickered. Alarms blared again. And just like that, it all descended into chaos.
The base was tearing apart at the seams.
The vehicles roared to life outside, tires screeching as the first group sped into the trees, hauling supplies and people. Inside, the halls were lit in the sickly red of emergency lights. Explosions boomed above them like thunder. The ceiling shuddered with each hit. Dust rained from overhead pipes.
He ran with the others through the tunnels, smoke stinging his lungs.
“Go, go, go!” someone shouted behind him—maybe Isaac. Maybe Dewey. It didn’t matter. Luka followed.
They turned a corner, another detour to buy time. The rebels who stayed back to fight were already locking into formation, shouting orders, firing at the shadows that flickered just beyond the smoke.
Drones whirred overhead like locusts.
Luka ducked as one zoomed past, narrowly missing his head. He could hear gunfire, screams, the buzz of alien energy weapons cutting through metal.
They reached a split in the corridor.
He hears Hyuna’s voice in the distance, calling him.
He ran—he was dizzy—just a few steps—and then—
CRACK—BOOM—
The floor shook.
A blinding light flashed from behind. Luka’s body slammed against the wall. Pain exploded through his side. Luka’s vision flickered—
Then: arms. Cold. Grabbing him, dragging him back.
He tried to shout. The dust was thick in his throat.
He couldn’t even wheeze.
He saw Hyuna turning back.
He saw Till pushing someone off him, sprinting toward them—
But it was too late.
Everything went dark.
The lights went out.
In an instant, the base was swallowed in black.
The power failed—the buzz of electricity silenced—just alarms and distant shouting. The flicker of red emergency lights. Smoke.
And then again—hands.
Cold, clawed, brutal hands.
One around his throat. Another twisting his wrist behind his back. A third gripping his side—right where the rib hadn’t fully healed—and the pain made his legs give out.
He hit the floor with a dry gasp.
“Luka!”
Someone screamed his name.
He didn’t know who. A voice far away—distorted by noise and panic.
He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t breathe.
He kicked—fought—but his body betrayed him. His shoulder felt like it was ripping apart. His chest burned.
They dragged him.
His heels scraped the floor. Something sharp tore his pants. He tried to suck in air—tried to reach his inhaler—but there were too many hands, too much weight.
Someone ran close. Gunfire.
He heard it.
He felt one of the hands let go—heard an alien snarl—then something like a scream in a voice not human. A rebel? Till?
“LUKA—!!”
He blinked—tried to find the light—tried to answer—
But his body was shutting down.
Too much pain.
Too much fear.
His head throbbed. His lungs were collapsing. He tried to whisper something. Anything.
All that came out was a rasp.
And then—
Everything disappeared.
It was over. For now.
The smoke was starting to clear.
The aliens were gone.
And so was Luka.
Chapter 10
Notes:
For those who haven't seen the new note in chapter one, this fanfic officially has art and a playlist!! If you want to, you can take a look at chapter one, but I'll leave a link to the playlist here too, I decided I wanted a playlist when I started writing chapter 11 and you'll see why, I also should say that the songs in the playlist are not in order with the chapters, everything is mixed up, you don't have to listen to it, but some songs convey a better experience, I also said that in the future if I have the motivation and time, I can add songs for specific scenes and more art. I'm starting university in October and I don't know how much time I'll have for drawing (something that's not one of my assignments since I'm in an art academy) instead I'm focusing on many other fanfics that already have art and a pretty well-formed thoughts and I hope I'll get more experience and each new fic will be better. I also mentioned that this is my first fanfic, and in places I can say that I'm proud. English is not my first language. Maybe towards the end of the fic it got a little sweet, but when I started writing a fic about Luca and Till, I wasn't really prepared and I wasn't able to fully turn it into something that could be canon for the series. But I've prepared for other LucaTill fics and there's more thought and more canonoc parts. I also have a lot of IvanTill fics planned YES. And if you think this is angst you are not ready for what is coming. I want to thank you for the comments I also didn't expect that anyone would read this fic given the fact that not everyone approves of this ship. But anyways i appreciate it! And so without further ado, I leave you with a playlist and chapter 10. Enjoy!
PLAYLIST:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/11rs58QoY2u6L9TVuAIDX7?si=028be72d61eb4793
Chapter Text
Till stood still in the center of the ruined corridor, the red lights still pulsing across twisted metal and shattered glass. His hands were stained with soot and blood that wasn’t his. He didn’t remember when he started shaking. He didn’t remember much of anything except the sound Luka made when they grabbed him.
Like the air had been ripped out of his chest.
And now—nothing.
“I saw it,” Till said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “They took him. They didn’t kill him. They took him.”
Some of the others were already returning from the fight. Some carried crates. Some were wounded. Some are silent. Others are angry.
Dewey was the first to speak.
“They came for him?”
No one answered.
Someone else scoffed from the back. “He’s one of them. I said it from the start.”
“He’s not—” Till snapped.
“Then why’d they take him alive?” another voice said. “If they didn’t kill him on sight, it means he’s useful to them.”
“He’s a rebel,” Till growled. “He led us through the facility. He got us those files. He nearly died last time because of this mission.”
“Exactly,” the first one replied. “That mission might’ve been a setup. We don’t know. None of us trust him. Not really.”
Till stepped forward. “You didn’t trust him before and he still saved your life.”
Hyuna appeared at his side, her jaw clenched tight. “Luka fought harder than half of you ever have.”
“He’s still dangerous,” someone muttered. “If they took him, they’ll come back. We should cut our losses while we can.”
Till’s chest burned.
“Cut our losses? He’s one of us—”
“He’s not worth risking the entire rebellion,” came another voice.
Till’s fist hit the wall before he could stop himself. The crack echoed.
“You all loved using him when he could get you through locked doors and alien systems,” he snarled. “But now that he’s gone, you treat him like trash. You’re cowards.”
Everyone fell silent.
His voice was rough. Sharp. He didn’t care.
He looked around the room, at all of them, breathing hard. “You want to leave him to die? Fine. But don’t stand here pretending you ever gave a shit about anyone but yourselves.”
He turned and walked out.
He didn’t want to look at them anymore.
Didn’t want them to see the guilt crawling under his skin. The fear in his chest.
Didn’t want them to know he was already planning how to get Luka back.
Even if it killed him.
★
Later that night.
They’d relocated. The second base was buried deep in the forest—smaller, darker, quiet. Too quiet.
Till sat in the corner of one of the briefing rooms, hunched over a metal crate. His hands were wrapped tight around a half-empty water bottle, but he hadn’t taken a sip in over an hour.
The door opened. Hyuna stepped in, then Mizi. She locked the door behind them.
None of them said anything at first.
Till looked up. His voice was rough. “They’re not going to do anything, are they?”
Hyuna’s mouth was tight. “No.”
Mizi sat down beside him. “They think if we let him go, the aliens will stop coming.”
“Idiots.” Till spat the word. “He’s not a bargaining chip. He’s not—”
“Not just an idol,” Hyuna finished, leaning against the wall. “They never saw him as anything else. Not really. Even when he bled for them.”
Till’s jaw clenched. He looked at the ground. “I should’ve stayed close. I saw him get dragged and I couldn’t—”
“Don’t,” Hyuna said. “It’s not your fault. They had it planned. They waited for the right moment.”
Till still didn’t look up. “They wanted him. Not us.”
Silence.
Then Mizi spoke, sharp and certain: “We’re getting him back.”
Hyuna nodded. “The others won’t help. That’s fine. We don’t need them.”
Till looked up at them, eyes wide. “You’re serious.”
Hyuna crossed her arms. “You think we’d let them keep him? After what they’ve already done to him?”
Mizi nodded. “He’s one of us. No matter what the rest say.”
Till exhaled, slow and trembling. “We don’t even know where they took him.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Hyuna said. “But first, we make sure no one in this base stops us.”
Till stood. “We’re going to need weapons. Maps. Codes.”
Hyuna cracked her knuckles. “And a reason to stay alive.”
★
He woke up feeling cold.
Not just the sterile chill of the room, but something deeper—something inside him. He blinked slowly, vision swimming. Everything was white. Blinding.
Metal above him. Lights. Straps tight over his wrists, ankles, and chest. He tugged once—out of instinct—and felt the leather bite into his skin.
Of course. Of course.
“Great,” he muttered, voice dry and cracked. “Just what I needed.”
He turned his head slightly, wincing at the sharp pulse of pain behind his eyes. His neck ached. His ribs screamed. Something in his shoulder felt off. The last thing he remembered was someone screaming his name. Then—nothing. Darkness. Hands. Pain.
Luka looked around slowly.
This wasn’t the Alien Stage.
He’d been sure—absolutely sure—that’s where they’d take him. That they wanted to rebuild their perfect puppet again, throw him back under the lights, the music, the illusion.
But this wasn’t that.
This was worse.
He didn’t know this place. Not by memory. But the white walls, the faint hum of machines, the faint chemical burn in the air—it was a lab. Another one.
His chest tightened. Not just from panic. It was harder to breathe again.
His hand instinctively reached—only to be yanked back by the strap.
Of course. His inhaler isn't here.
Luka bit the inside of his cheek.
Panic was rising. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t. He was done being weak.
But his heart was pounding like it wanted to tear out of his chest, and he couldn’t take a full breath.
Focus.
He closed his eyes for a second.
They hadn’t even brought him back to the stage. That meant this wasn’t about idol Luka.
It was about something else.
The way they dragged him back. The way they knocked him out. The way they strapped him down.
They didn’t want him to perform.
They wanted to study him.
Again.
And maybe this time… he wouldn’t make it out.
The door hissed open again. Two aliens entered—neither of them wore the ornate armor or the flowing robes of the stage elites. No masks, no audience, no lights. Just matte black armor and visor-covered faces.
Luka narrowed his eyes. Not familiar. Not Heperu’s men.
“What is this?” he asked, voice scratchy. “You’re not with the stage unit.”
No response.
He swallowed and tried again, harsher. “Did Heperu send you? Is this some punishment? Some new project?”
Still nothing.
He let out a humorless laugh. “If he sold me, that’s not a smart deal. I’m worth more in one broadcast than—”
One of the aliens stepped forward, scanning him. Luka tensed as a cold mechanical hum moved over his skin.
“You were with the rebels,” the other one said at last. Its voice was flat, distorted through the mask. It didn’t sound like it was even speaking to him—more like confirming something aloud.
Luka blinked. “What?”
“You know their locations. Their backup systems. Who leads them? What they’re planning.”
That’s when it hit him.
They didn’t want him for his face, or his voice, or his stage presence. They didn’t care about making him sing or making money off him. They didn’t even care that he was Heperu’s property.
They just wanted a tool. An easy way in. A rebel who’d once walked their halls.
Luka’s heart pounded. “You’re not here for the show,” he muttered.
“You’re here for them.”
No reaction.
“You’re wasting your time,” he said, voice rising. “I don’t remember anything. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you—”
Something sharp pierced his thigh. He gasped. The pain bloomed instantly, burning through his nerves like fire. His body jerked in the restraints.
“Fuck—!”
“You will tell us,” the voice said.
Another needle glinted in the alien’s hand. Longer. Meaner.
Luka’s mouth was dry. His chest hurt—his ribs hadn’t healed from the last mission. His legs barely worked.
He wasn’t ready for this. Not again.
The room was quiet, except for the humming of machines and the slow drip of something behind him. Luka’s breath came out shallow and wheezing, his chest already tight from lying flat too long—he hated that feeling. He hated it more when he was strapped down.
One of the aliens stepped closer, a thin metal rod glowing at the tip.
“We’ll make this simple,” it said. “You give us what we want, and this ends quickly.”
Luka narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
“Who is the new leader? Who took Jacob’s position? Is it his brother?”
He blinked. He has no idea who the fuck Jacob is.
The rod came down on his side with a searing snap. Electricity ripped through him. Luka arched off the table, or tried to, but the straps held tight. He screamed before he could stop himself, his throat raw from disuse and dust.
Pain lingered in his ribs like a fire left burning.
“I don’t know—” he panted. “I don’t—know—Jacob!”
Wrong answer.
This time it was a closed fist—metal and flesh—slamming into his cheek, splitting his lip on impact. He tasted blood. His ears rang. The room swam in and out of focus.
“We know you were part of the infiltration team,” the alien said, voice still calm, almost bored. “You walked them through the doors.”
“Yeah,” Luka muttered through a grin, blood running down his chin, “and I didn’t even get a thank you card.”
Another hit. His vision sparked white.
“You think this is a game?” it hissed.
“No,” he gasped. “But you’re clearly losing.”
Another hit to his ribs—sharp, heavy. Luka choked on air, coughing blood onto the floor beneath him. His wrists strained against the restraints, metal biting into his skin. But when he lifted his head, lip split and eyes dark, he was laughing.
Luka raised his head, blood trailing down from his mouth. He grinned, crooked and wild.
‘’Jacob was too proud, too, but at least he was screaming.’’
Luka tilted his head back against the metal slab. “Sorry to disappoint,” he hissed. “I don’t scream for just anyone.”
The strike sent stars across his eyes. His head thudded back against the table.
The door hissed shut behind them, and the silence that followed was worse than the pain.
Luka stared at the ceiling—at the flickering light above him, warped and doubled from the tears welling in his eyes. He blinked them back, but they came anyway. Quietly. Without sound. Hot trails leaking sideways into his hair.
He didn’t sob. He didn’t make a noise. Just tears, like a crack in a mask he couldn’t hold up anymore.
It was happening again.
He was strapped down again.
His face throbbed. His ribs screamed every time he breathed in. There was blood pooling in his mouth—he didn’t even remember biting his tongue, but it tasted like iron and dirt.
He shut his eyes.
And everything came rushing back.
The cold metal restraints. The buzz of machines. The faces of the aliens who once told him he was special. The others—those who watched him sing, who ran their tests, who whispered about “potential.” Being locked away, forgotten, used. Alone.
He thought he escaped this.
He thought maybe he was strong now.
But here he was again, broken open and bleeding like before.
Luka sucked in a shaky breath. His lungs burned. He could feel the tightness creeping in, panic swelling beneath his skin—but he wouldn’t scream. Not again.
He bit his lip until it bled.
He wasn’t going to beg.
He wasn’t going to call out.
He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
They could do whatever they wanted to him.
He’d give them nothing.
★
The new base was colder. Sterile. Hidden deep underground like a secret too heavy to carry.
Dust clung to the edges of old shelves, and the air smelled like metal and mildew, but it didn’t matter. It was safe—for now. That’s all they could ask for.
People moved around, unloading what they managed to save. Some were silent. Some forced smiles. A few cracked under the pressure, snapping at each other over gear or beds or stupid things that didn’t matter. Everything felt heavier since the attack.
But the center of it all was the map room.
Till stood there, jaw tight, arms crossed, eyes glued to the table.
Hyuna was already pacing near the edge, a pen tapping against her palm. Isaac leaned over the maps, scribbling something next to a cluster of red markers. Mizi was quiet in the corner, eyes half-lidded but focused.
Luka’s name was a ghost in the room. No one said it, but they were all thinking it.
Finally, Till broke the silence.
“They didn’t bring him to the Alien Stage.”
It wasn’t a question. It was too calm to be a guess.
Isaac raised a brow. “How would you know?”
Till didn’t blink. “Because it wasn’t Alien Stage’s unit that attacked us. The uniforms. The tactics. The ships. They were different.”
Mizi nodded slowly. “He’s right. These weren’t performers. They were…raw military. Fast. Tactical. The kind that doesn’t waste time.”
Hyuna leaned her hands on the table. “So where did they take him?”
Silence again.
A red circle marked Alien Stage on the map. It was distant—farther than they could reach quickly, and too fortified for a rescue that wasn’t suicidal.
“If they didn’t take him there…” Isaac murmured. “Then they wanted him for something else. Not the stage. Not for show.”
Till stared down at the map, the lines blurring for a moment. His hands clenched the table’s edge.
“They didn’t take anything. No files, no drives, nothing from the base. Just him. That was the mission. It was always him.”
“What if it’s not even a facility we know?” Mizi said, voice low. “What if it’s something…older? Abandoned? Off-grid?”
“Then we need to think like them,” Hyuna said. “Like the ones who built those places. Who created kids like Luka.”
Till spoke again, voice like gravel: “We find out who used to run those labs. If any of them are still active. Hidden facilities. Forgotten ones. Places meant for testing, not entertainment.”
There was a long pause.
Then Hyuna finally said it:
“We’re going to find him.”
★
They worked in silence now.
Isaac stood at the table, red pen in hand, crossing out another marked facility.
“Not this one,” he said. “It was bombed three months ago. Nothing left but ash.”
That left five.
Five locations still circled on the map, still intact, still possibilities.
Five places Luka could be bleeding in.
Till rubbed his jaw, his knuckles raw from clenching them too hard. His chest felt like it was collapsing with each passing second, but he kept his face still. If he let himself break, now of all times, they’d lose him too.
Hyuna was flipping through old records they salvaged during the evacuation, her voice steady but cold. “Three of these were part of the same network that ran Luka’s old lab. Secret branches, off-grid. No names, just coordinates.”
“They’re all far,” Isaac muttered. “Spread like fucking poison across the map.”
“We’ll split up,” Hyuna said immediately. “No waiting. We leave tonight.”
“Tonight?” Dewey echoes.
“There’s no time,” she snapped, but not cruelly. Just…desperate.
Mizi leaned over the map. “We don’t have enough people for five full teams.”
“Then we take the risk. Just us. Speed is more important.”
Isaac circled the five locations again, then glanced up. “What if he’s not in any of these?”
Till finally looked up, eyes sharp. “Then we keep looking until we run out of fucking earth.”
Silence.
Isaac has this look on his face, like he’s been in a situation like that, like he understands.
Till didn’t realize his fists were trembling until Mizi gently placed a hand over one.
Hyuna exhaled. “Gear up. Get what you need. We move in two hours.”
The map room had mostly emptied out, everyone moving to prepare for the mission. Till lingered behind, standing in front of the map like if he stared hard enough, it would give Luka back.
He heard Hyuna’s footsteps before she spoke.
“Two hours,” she said, leaning against the table next to him. “You sure you’re up for this?”
He didn’t look at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
There was a pause. Then, quietly:
“So now you want to be part of his mess.”
Till turned, sharp. “It’s not like that.”
Hyuna raised a brow. “No?”
“I’m not—” He exhaled hard, trying to find a version of this that didn’t sound like a lie. “I’m not doing this for him. He’s just one of us now. He helped. I’m not heartless.”
“Could’ve fooled me two weeks ago,” she muttered, arms crossed.
He looked away. “I don’t like him. I don’t even trust him fully.”
Hyuna tilted her head. “Sure. That’s why your voice shook when you said he’s gone. That’s why you said its not his fault when everyone blamed him”
Till swallowed. He hated how easy she read him.
“He’s… complicated. We don’t get along. That’s all.”
She watched him, unmoving. “Don’t lose yourself in this.”
“What?”
“I’ve seen it before. You’re smart, Till. Strategic. You think with your head—except when he’s involved.” Her voice softened just a bit. “If you hate him, you hate him. Fine. But don’t lie to yourself and let that screw with your decisions.”
“I’m not lying.”
Hyuna gave him that look. The one she used when someone said something stupid and didn’t realize it yet. “Aren’t you?”
He opened his mouth—closed it.
“Just be careful,” she said. “About him. About yourself. About whatever this is.” She stood straight, gaze leveling with his. “Because Luka’s already falling apart. If you jump with him, we lose two people. Not one.”
Then she walked off, leaving Till standing there, breath tight in his chest and the map blurred in front of him.
They left before dawn.
★
The first facility was closest, tucked into a valley like it didn’t want to be seen. They moved in silence, rifles raised, nerves tight.
It was empty.
Not just abandoned—scrubbed. No signs of activity. No cells. No blood. No Luka.
They didn’t speak much on the way back.
The next two facilities were farther apart, so they split up.
Till went with Hyuna to one. Dewey, Mizi, and Isaac took the other.
Both came back with the same answer: nothing.
Three wrong guesses. Three ghost halls. No Luka.
By the time they all met up again, night had fallen. The new base was cold and too quiet. A map sat unfolded on the table between them, marked with five red Xs. Three were crossed out.
Two left.
“We can’t do this randomly anymore,” Hyuna said, pinning her hair back, eyes sunken with exhaustion. “We don’t have the people. Or the time.”
Till leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “Then we make sure the next one is right.”
Dewey glanced between the two remaining circles. “If they moved him between locations…”
“They wouldn’t,” Mizi said. “They already risked enough snatching him in the middle of an attack. Moving him again would be a liability.”
Isaac nodded slowly. “They’d take him where they needed him from the start. No stops.”
They all looked at the last two marks.
Facility D: Deeper into the mountains. Known for experimental containment units.
Facility E: Underground base, rumored to be used for psychological testing and torture.
Till’s hands clenched. Pick wrong again, and Luka may not survive it.
Isaac traced both points. “We need intel. Not more blind guesses.”
“We don’t have time for intel,” Till snapped. “If they wanted information, they’ll torture it out of him. You’ve seen what they do.”
A heavy silence.
Till nodded. “We only get one more shot.”
And this time, he swore to himself—he’d bring Luka home.
Alive.
★
The terrain was quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t promise safety, just hidden danger. The entrance to the facility wasn’t even visible—it was buried beneath layers of cracked concrete and rusted fencing, hidden in the middle of nowhere. But the intel was clear: this was the only place left. If Luka was anywhere, it was here.
The map called it “Project Theta.” A ghost facility. Underground.
They stood on what looked like an abandoned research outpost—metal panels half-sunken into the earth, overgrown with moss and vines, a few flickering lights still alive somehow, like the place was waiting. The real entrance had to be somewhere beneath them.
Till crouched beside Hyuna as she scanned the blueprints again. The others stood back, silent, tense. They hadn’t spoken much since the last failure.
“Ventilation shafts lead all the way down,” she said. “But if they’re still active, they’ll have sensors. We go in loud, we won’t get out.”
He nodded slowly. “So we go quiet.”
Dewey adjusted his gun. “Till… are you sure about this?”
“ Are you gonna leave him here?” Till asked without looking at him.
No one answered.
They moved like shadows, slipping through broken hallways and twisted stairwells. The inside of the place smelled like mildew, rust, and something chemical. Water dripped somewhere constantly, echoing deep into the structure. There were no guards—at least, not yet.
Every step down was colder. The lights dimmed. A hatch opened after Hyuna hacked the code, revealing a long descending tunnel that led under the waterline. Oxygen hissed through broken vents.
Till’s stomach twisted. The silence was wrong. Not a single alarm, not a single noise.
They moved deeper.
The place was massive—layers and layers of metal and rot and flickering blue light, cold air clinging to their skin like static. The sound of dripping water never stopped. Every corridor looked the same. It was easy to get lost here, and easier to die.
They had to split up.
“Cover more ground,” Hyuna said, voice low. “We will meet back here in fifteen.”
They all nodded—there was no time for argument. Dewey headed left with Mizi, weapons drawn. Isaac went straight, checking each doorway with practiced precision. Till turned right.
He didn’t say anything. He just went.
The hallway curved down into something colder.
He took out two aliens in near silence—one with a quick strike to the neck, the other with a shot muffled by a hand over its mouth. Their weapons were old-model, but the keycards on their belts? New. He stripped them both and took what he could. The blue keycard buzzed faintly in his fingers—restricted access.
Further in, he found a digital map mounted to a glass panel in the wall. It glitched every few seconds, lines cutting in and out—but he could make out the structure. Six floors deep. Labs on the bottom two. Most marked with red Xs.
But one cluster on Level -6 was still green.
Operational.
He clicked the comm once. “I’m heading down. Labs are still online.”
“Copy,” Hyuna said. “Be careful.
★
Luka couldn’t move.
His limbs didn’t feel like limbs anymore—just weight, bruises wrapped in skin. Something was cracked in his side. His mouth was dry, lips split, blood dried on his tongue. He tried to open his eyes but the world was nothing but blur and light, pulsing like a migraine.
He was cold.
Not shivering cold—bone deep, death-at-the-door cold. His clothes had been torn from him days ago, replaced with thin fabric that clung to sweat and blood and nothing else. Every breath scraped through his throat like glass. He wheezed, and that alone lit fire in his chest.
He remembered hands.
Hands gripping him, slamming him into metal. Voices yelling in a language he still didn’t understand. Screams. He didn’t even know if they’d been his.
He didn’t know how many days had passed.
He didn’t care.
He tried to be calm and play it cool, but it was too much, he couldn't even breathe.
What was the point?
He’d been running for so long—from the stages, from the labs, from the aliens, from himself. He kept thinking if he ran fast enough, hid well enough, someone might save him. He might even save himself.
But now?
No.
There was no one here.
No Till. No Hyuna. No sarcastic Dewey or careful Isaac or even Mizi with her bitter warnings.
Just him.
Strapped down again.
Bruised again.
Useless again.
He exhaled softly, a shallow, cracked breath that barely made it out of his chest.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe this is what he deserves—for being foolish, for thinking he could change, for thinking anyone could actually care.
He wasn’t scared.
Not anymore.
He was just… done.
So when he heard boots echoing down the hall, when the light shifted under the door like someone had opened it, he didn’t even lift his head.
If death had finally come, fine.
He was ready to greet it.
The door hissed open.
Luka didn’t flinch.
Not this time.
He didn’t have the strength. His wrists were raw where the restraints rubbed his skin. One eye had swollen shut hours ago—maybe days. The other fluttered open halfway, saw only a silhouette against the white lights.
He didn’t care.
They’d come again.
They’d ask again.
He wouldn’t answer again.
“I won't say anything” he murmurs, it's like a mantra already.
Let them beat him. Let them tear pieces off until there was nothing left. Maybe that would finally shut off the memories—the voices, the faces, the singing, the goddamn hope.
He wanted silence.
He wanted it so much his teeth clenched at the sound of boots scraping the floor. They were getting closer. They always got closer.
A quiet breath left him. “Get it over with.”
No one answered.
That was new.
He let out a humorless breath, a half-laugh that hurt too much to finish. Maybe they were trying a new trick. Maybe they thought silence would break him.
Too late.
He was already broken.
His head lulled sideways. Blood dripped slowly down from his hairline to his neck, soaking into the collar of his torn shirt. His fingers twitched but didn’t lift. Even his rage had run out.
If this was death—let it be slow.
Let it hurt.
Let it take him.
But then—
A sound. Too soft. Not sharp like boots. Not clipped and efficient like the aliens.
Breathing.
Familiar breathing.
His one open eye cracked further, brow barely twitching as he forced himself to focus.
No.
It couldn’t be.
Not now.
Not when he’d already decided to die.
But the silhouette… moved differently. He knew that walk, even if it was distorted by panic and pain.
The hands that reached for his restraints weren’t cold.
They were trembling.
And warm.
His throat closed up. Not from fear.
From something worse.
Hope.
★
Till had seen a lot of things in these labs. Burned-out hallways. Empty cells. Bloodstained floors.
But nothing prepared him for this.
The room was dim, humming with cold machinery. Medical tables, steel cabinets, broken tools. A smell of rot, metal, and bleach hung heavy in the air.
But none of that mattered.
Not when he saw Luka.
Strapped down. Barely clothed. Covered in bruises and blood and—
No.
Till stopped in his tracks. It felt like the ground dropped out under him.
“Fuck…” he breathed.
He barely heard Isaac and Dewey split off behind him, taking guard positions near the entrance. Mizi slipped away, scanning through files and drawers, hunting for anything useful. But Till couldn’t look away from the table.
Hyuna was already moving.
Her voice was quiet, sharp with urgency. “Check his pulse.”
Till didn’t even answer. He stumbled forward.
The closer he got, the worse it was.
Luka’s skin was pale. His chest barely moved. The restraints dug into his wrists and ankles, leaving deep red marks. One side of his face was swollen and bloodied. His lips were cracked and dry. He looked like something the aliens had used up.
Like something they’d thrown away.
He looked…
Dead.
But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.
Till’s hand hovered over Luka’s cheek, unsure if he even had the right to touch him—but he did.
Warm.
Burning.
Still alive.
“Luka…” he whispered, voice raw.
Luka didn’t respond. Not right away. His head rolled slightly toward him, slow and heavy, like it hurt to even breathe. His one open eye blinked slowly, confused, unfocused—but then it found Till.
And it stayed there.
Till swallowed hard.
“It’s okay,” he said, not even sure what that meant. “We’re here.”
He didn’t know if Luka could hear him. He didn’t know if anything made sense to him right now.
But he stayed.
Because someone had to.
Hyuna leaned down to start unfastening the restraints, her expression unreadable but her hands gentle. “We have to move fast,” she said.
Till nodded. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.
He reached for Luka’s other wrist, undoing the strap slowly. Carefully.
There was blood dried under his fingernails.
Till’s hands shook.
They’d been too late.
Not to save him.
But too late to spare him this.
Once the last strap was off, Luka barely moved. His body was limp, like his muscles had just… given up.
Hyuna’s hand hovered at his throat briefly—checking again. “Still stable. Barely.”
Dewey was already at Till’s side, eyes locked on Luka with a frown that was more focused than worried. “I’ll take him.”
“You sure?” Till asked hoarsely.
“I’m stronger than you,” Dewey muttered, slipping an arm carefully under Luka’s back. “And we don’t have time.”
Isaac came in to help too.
They moved fast, gentle but firm. Luka didn’t protest—his head lolled slightly, a wheeze slipping out when Dewey lifted him fully.
Hyuna scanned the room quickly. “We’re triggering something, I feel it—go!”
Just as they stepped back into the corridor, a siren screamed.
Flashing red lights snapped to life overhead.
Till cursed. “Shit. Move, move!”
Alarms blared. The hallway lights turned blood-red. Distant mechanical doors began to slide open.
Dewey and Isaac surged forward with Luka held between them, careful but fast. Mizi stayed close to Till, who was already raising his stolen weapon, watching every corner like a hawk.
They didn’t even make it five turns before the first wave hit them.
Three aliens. Suits. Heavy rifles.
Till didn’t blink.
Baam—baam—baam
He and Hyuna shot them down before they had time to aim. No one even slowed down.
Isaac kept Luka shielded behind his body as they sprinted down the metal corridors, footsteps echoing like thunder. Blood smeared the walls. Doors were starting to seal—but they had the override cards.
Till jammed one into a lock.
“GO!”
They burst out onto the surface. Cold air. Open space.
Their vehicle was waiting where they left it, cloaked against the grey rock.
Dewey hauled Luka into the backseat as Isaac jumped into the driver’s side. Hyuna and Mizi covered them from the rear—Till fired at another alien sprinting toward them from the far side of the lot.
“Drive!!” Hyuna yelled, slamming the door behind her as she jumped in.
Isaac didn’t wait.
The vehicle roared to life, tires skidding over gravel, and they sped off into the dark—sirens screaming behind them, gunshots still echoing in the air.
Till turned in his seat just once.
Luka was still breathing.
Eyes closed.
But breathing.
The hum of the engine was constant. Fast. Unsteady. Every few seconds, the wheels bounced over uneven terrain, making Luka’s body shift.
He didn’t respond to any of it.
His head was tilted back at first, mouth slightly parted, eyes half-lidded like he wasn’t sure where—or when—he was. Dried blood clung to his hairline, and his lower lip was cracked.
Hyuna was seated on one side, hands clenched into fists, staring ahead like she was forcing herself to breathe normally.
Till was on the other.
Luka lay between them, knees slightly pulled up, his body curled in the seat the way someone folds themselves in after too many beatings.
He wasn’t really awake.
He blinked now and then, slow and lost, but he didn’t seem to register anything around him. A piece of his shirt still clung to him, torn and stained, and one of his wrists was scraped raw from the restraints.
Then, as the vehicle lurched slightly, his body shifted—and his head dropped gently against Till’s shoulder.
Till froze.
Just for a second.
Hyuna noticed, glancing down at the way Luka’s hand twitched a little, still limp in his lap.
Till didn’t move.
He swallowed and let him stay there.
Luka’s hair brushed his neck, and even though he knew Luka wasn’t fully here, his breath still caught in his throat at the feeling of that tiny, almost human weight leaning on him.
Hyuna didn’t say anything. She just exhaled, something quiet—almost relieved.
The engine roared forward, slicing through the dark toward home.
The new base was bigger. Cleaner. Safer—on paper.
But it didn’t feel like any of those things tonight.
There were still teams arriving, dragging in crates, equipment, weapons. People were shouting down the halls, organizing medics, setting up bunks, checking walls for weaknesses. The whole place buzzed like a broken hive.
And in the middle of it—Till was pacing.
His boots echoed against the metal floors, back and forth in front of the medbay doors, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
Inside, the medics were doing everything they could.
They’d at least managed to stabilize Luka. Got the bleeding under control. Hooked him up to fluids and pain meds. Dewey had carried him in like he was made of glass, and the moment Luka’s body hit the gurney, everyone scattered into action.
But they didn’t have everything here. Not yet.
Some supplies were still on the road. Some were lost during the attack. And if something went wrong again, if his condition dropped even a little—
It’s not like that, Till thinks to himself, I’m not here because of him. I’m just—he’s one of us. That’s all.
He scoffed.
Like that made a difference.
Hyuna’s words echoed again. “Don’t lose yourself in this.”
As if he had something left to lose.
His hands curled into fists. He looked up at the ceiling like it could give him some kind of answer. It didn’t. It never did.
“He’s just a rebel,” Till muttered under his breath. “Just one of us. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I care.”
But even he didn’t believe it anymore.
★
The ceiling looked unfamiliar.
Too white. Too still.
Luka blinked. The light above him was blurry, too bright at the edges, like it didn’t belong to this world. His eyes stung. His chest burned when he tried to move—like something inside had shattered and been put back wrong.
There was a tight pressure on his face. An oxygen mask. Something cool tugged at his arm—IV drip. The beeping nearby was steady and calm.
He was alive.
He didn’t expect to be.
He didn’t want to be.
Why is he here?
His throat tightened, and something sour crawled up his chest. His body felt heavy, disconnected, like he was floating just above it. Like if he let go a little more, he could disappear again.
Why didn’t they let him?
A shift of movement. Luka turned his head—slow, aching.
There was someone in the corner.
A figure slouched in a chair, arms crossed, chin tucked against his chest like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
Till.
Luka stared at him for a long time.
Memories crashed back in fragments—hands restraining him, voices demanding names, needles, pain, humiliation, blood, him screaming into nothing. And then… a blur. Something soft. Something warm. The sound of his voice. Familiar hands.
They came for him.
Not just Till. All of them.
But why?
He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t deserve this. They should’ve left him there. He meant what he said to death. He was ready. He had no one. Nothing. So why—
His eyes burned again. His chest clenched, and he hated it. Hated that his body was betraying him like this, that the tears were already forming.
He wasn’t supposed to cry anymore.
Not for them.
Not for him.
He wanted to scream but didn’t have the strength. He wanted to ask Till why—why he was here, why any of this mattered, why they bothered.
Instead, he closed his eyes again.
Frustrated. Angry. Confused. Sad.
And alive.
Unfortunately.
★
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
The chair creaked as Till shifted, the stiffness in his neck pulling him back to reality. The room smelled of antiseptic and metal. His mouth tasted like regret.
Then he noticed it.
Luka’s eyes were open.
His heart stuttered.
Not panic. Not fear. Just… something tight, something complicated, something that almost hurt.
“You’re awake,” Till said, voice low, unsure if it would break the silence or Luka’s nerves.
Luka didn’t answer.
Didn’t even really look at him—just blinked once, slowly, and turned his face away toward the wall.
Right. Okay.
Awkward silence pooled in the space between them. Till sat back, dragging a hand down his face. What was he supposed to say? You almost died again? I’m glad you didn’t? You scared the shit out of me?
No. That wasn’t what Luka needed.
He glanced at him again. Luka looked pale, weak, covered in new bruises layered over old ones. Worn-down. Silent. A piece of him is missing again.
“I’m not… staying long,” Till muttered. “Just wanted to make sure you—”
Still nothing. Luka didn’t even flinch.
Cold shoulder.
Fine.
He stood up, brushing off his hands like it would give them something to do. He stared at the wall, at the machines, anywhere but Luka.
“You don’t have to talk,” he added quietly, already halfway to the door. “But… you should know we didn’t hesitate. No one did.”
That made Luka shift slightly, just a flicker of motion under the blanket. But no words.
Till didn’t expect any.
He stepped out of the room, heart pounding with something unspoken, with something he didn’t want to look at too closely. He was glad Luka was alive. So glad it hurt.
But what the hell was he supposed to do with that?
He shut the door behind him a little too hard.
The hallway was empty. Just him and the echo of his thoughts, bouncing off the walls, loud and stupid.
He didn’t expect a thank you. Not from Luka.
He didn’t expect a smile or some heartfelt monologue about second chances and loyalty and maybe a tear or two while soft music played in the background. No.
But something.
A look.
A word.
Even a grunt.
Instead, Luka just lay there like he didn’t care. Like he hadn’t almost died. Like Till’s heart hadn’t tried to crawl out of his chest when he saw him strapped to that table, bleeding and unconscious.
Was it the kiss? Still?
“Fuck off,” Till muttered to himself, dragging a hand through his hair.
He stopped walking. Closed his eyes. Breathe.
This was stupid. He was being stupid.
He had to stop this. This chasing, this wondering, this hoping. Luka clearly didn’t want him around—not before, not now. Till was just making a fool of himself. Again.
He needed air. Movement. Distraction. Something to kill the buzzing in his head.
So he wandered. The base was bigger than he thought—unfinished in some places, old tech mixed with newer rebel supplies. He passed sleeping quarters, a dusty storage room, some people still unpacking boxes.
And then—finally—he found it.
A gym.
It wasn’t much. Rusted weights. A few mats. A cracked mirror on the wall. But it was enough.
He stepped inside, stripped off his jacket, and wrapped his knuckles. Punched the bag once. Twice.
Harder.
The sound echoed through the empty space.
Again.
He pictured Luka’s blank stare. His own voice choked in his throat. The silence that followed.
Again.
His arms ached. His breath got shorter.
Again.
He kept swinging until his knuckles stung and the room blurred, sweat pouring down his back.
Again.
He wasn’t mad at Luka.
He was mad at himself. For still giving a damn.
The door creaked open behind him.
Till didn’t stop punching. He knew who it was. Only one person had that kind of timing.
“You’re going to break your hand,” Hyuna said flatly.
He grunted, didn’t look back.
“Maybe I want to.”
She sighed, stepped further in. Her boots echoed against the floor. “You know what’s worse than Luka being dramatic?”
Till slammed his fist into the bag again.
“You being more dramatic.”
He turned, finally. “What the fuck do you want?”
Hyuna crossed her arms. “To see if you’re still acting like an idiot. Guess I got my answer.”
“Right,” he scoffed. “You came here to gloat.”
“No, dumbass. I came to check on you.” She walked past him, leaned against the wall. “But if it helps your ego to think I’m here just to judge, be my guest.”
Till wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, avoiding the blood on his knuckles. “You told me to stay out of his mess.”
“I did,” Hyuna said. “And I was right.”
He laughed bitterly. “Then say it. Say I told you so.”
She tilted her head. “Why? You already know.”
He dropped onto the bench, running his hands through his hair. “He didn’t even say anything. Just stared at me like I wasn’t there. After all of that. After—”
Hyuna cut in, softer now. “He’s hurting. You know that.”
“I know, Hyuna. I saw him. I was there. I watched him almost die.” His voice cracked. “And I couldn’t do anything.”
She didn’t respond right away. Just watched him for a long moment, unreadable.
“You can lie to yourself all you want, Till. Pretend this is about loyalty or guilt or whatever helps you sleep. But I was there. I saw the way you looked at him.”
Till’s throat tightened.
“And it’s not just you,” she added. “He’s messed up, but he looked relieved when he woke up and saw you.”
“No,” Till muttered. “He looked angry.”
Hyuna raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. But anger isn’t the opposite of caring. Silence isn’t either. He’s scared. Same as you.”
Till stared at the ground. His fists throbbed.
“Don’t lose yourself in this,” she said gently. “But don’t run from it either.”
She turned to leave, pausing at the door. “You two are exhausting.”
And then she was gone.
The gym was quiet now. His knuckles ached, his body heavy with sweat and regret.
Hyuna’s voice still echoed in his head.
You smiled.
He hated that she noticed. Hates that it meant something.
Till grabbed a towel, wiped his face. He should shower. He should eat. He should check on Luka.
But instead—
He went to the kitchen.
The base’s new supply shelves were still a mess. The medkits were neatly packed, the weapons organized… but the food? The drinks?
Scattered. Sloppy.
He found the bottle fast.
Some off-brand, bitter-smelling alien liquor someone must’ve stolen from a convoy. He didn’t care what it was. He didn’t even think.
He grabbed a glass out of habit, then changed his mind.
He drank straight from the bottle.
The burn down his throat was sharp—like punishment. Good. He welcomed it. Again.
And again.
He sat down at the long, metal table in the center of the room, head tilted back, bottle in hand.
He thought about Luka’s face when they found him. The bruises. The blood. The IV still in his arm upstairs. His silence.
Maybe he’s just tired.
Maybe he hated him. Maybe Till fucked everything up.
Maybe there was nothing to fix.
He drank again.
The room was quiet except for the soft clink of the bottle when he set it down.
You smiled.
He let his head fall to the table.
He didn’t want to think about Luka’s head on his shoulder. Didn’t want to think about how good it felt to be needed, even if just for a moment.
He didn’t want to think about any of it.
He just wanted to sleep. Or not wake up.
But for now… he just drank.
Chapter 11
Notes:
I'm really sorry for the delay in this chapter, it was written a long time ago, but I was on vacation for a whole week and I also paid attention to the art. The good news at least is that the whole fic is ready, I just need to edit it a little and I can say that I've already planned the next fic.
Chapter Text
The light in the room was soft—too soft. It made everything feel distant, like it wasn’t really happening. The oxygen mask was gone now, but the phantom feeling of it still lingered on his skin. His chest ached when he breathed, but not the sharp kind of pain that made him curl up. It was manageable. For now.
He hated that word. Manageable.
His body was still weak, pinned to the bed by exhaustion and leftover meds. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. A few hours? A day? More? It didn’t matter. The silence was loud enough to fill any empty space time might’ve left behind.
The door opened quietly.
Hyuna stepped in, arms crossed over her chest, eyes scanning the room before they landed on him.
Luka turned his head slowly, already expecting some lecture—or worse, pity. But she didn’t say anything right away. She just walked over, pulled a chair up beside his bed, and sat.
“You look like shit,” she said finally.
Luka let out a dry exhale—almost a laugh. “Feel worse.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Her presence wasn’t exactly comforting, but it wasn’t unwelcome either.
“I didn’t think you’d be the one to visit,” Luka murmured, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
Hyuna shrugged. “You didn’t exactly give anyone a reason to visit. Still, here I am.”
“Out of guilt?”
“No. Out of the fact that I know you’re not going to say anything unless someone pulls it out of you.” Her tone wasn’t harsh. It was just Hyuna—brutal honesty wrapped in a quiet concern she’d never admit to.
Luka didn’t answer.
She leaned forward. “Do you remember anything?”
“Too much and not enough,” Luka said. His voice was hoarse. “Just flashes. Pain. Voices. Hands.” His throat tightened. “Same old story.”
Her expression softened just slightly. “We didn’t know if you were still alive.”
“I wasn’t sure either,” he whispered.
“You know… they all wanted to come for you,” Hyuna said after a moment. “Not just Till.”
Luka scoffed under his breath but didn’t look at her.
“I’m serious. You might act like no one should care about you, but people still do.” She paused, then added quieter, “Even if you’re a pain in the ass.”
That almost made Luka smile. Almost.
“…Why did you come for me?” he asked finally.
Hyuna looked at him, something unreadable in her gaze. “Because we don’t leave our people behind.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she cut in. “Whether you like it or not.”
Luka didn’t answer. He stared at the wall, throat tight, eyes burning just a little. He hated how tired he felt. Hated that they’d come. Hated that a small part of him was glad.
“You should rest,” Hyuna said, standing again. “You’re safe now.”
She started toward the door, but before she left, she added without turning back, “And stop avoiding Till. He looks like he’s going to punch a wall or cry. Maybe both.”
‘’You proved yourself.” Her voice didn’t waver. “No one here doubts that anymore. You didn’t betray us. You didn’t run. You helped us in the facility. You survived. And… I know you didn’t tell them anything.”
“You don’t know that,” he muttered.
“I do,” she said. “Your face says it all. You’ve suffered enough. No one’s faking this much pain as you.’’
Luka looked away, jaw clenched.
“You’re one of us now,” she added gently. “Even if you don’t feel like it yet.”
Luka swallowed hard. That ache in his throat returned—hot and sharp. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I let them take me.”
“You didn’t let anything happen,” she snapped quietly, but not unkindly. “You were hurt. They planned this. We didn’t protect you in time—that’s on us, not you.”
“I wanted to die,” Luka whispered. His voice cracked. “I thought I was done.”
Hyuna didn’t flinch. She leaned closer, her voice softer now. “You’re not done, Luka. You’re here. That’s what matters.”
His eyes burned. He tried not to let anything show, but something inside cracked—quietly, like splintering glass. Maybe not enough to fall apart, but enough to hurt.
“You deserve better than what they did to you,” she said. “You deserve to be saved.”
Luka bit down hard on his lip. He didn’t cry. But God, he wanted to.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” she added, standing up again, “but… Till believed it.”
That made him blink. He looked up at her, startled.
“He’s a mess,” Hyuna said, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “But when it came to you—he didn’t even hesitate.”
Luka didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
“He cares about you, you know,” she said.
“…No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes, he does. He’s just as bad at saying it as you are at believing it.”
Hyuna paused in the doorway, glancing back one more time.
“You’re not alone, Luka. Not anymore.”
Click.
The door shut behind her.
And Luka…
Luka closed his eyes.
For once, he wanted to believe her.
★
A few weeks passed.
The new base, once barely livable, now pulsed with activity. The rebels worked fast. Faster than they ever had, like they were trying to prove to themselves that they could rebuild—that losing the old base hadn’t broken them. Somehow, the new place ended up even better. Bigger rooms. Stronger walls. Better tech. Enough supplies, enough weapons. Enough light to pretend things were okay.
Everyone had their own space now. Luka too.
He moved into his room once his body could carry itself without machines or painkillers. The worst injuries had healed. Not all of them, of course. Some aches stayed, tucked deep in bone or memory, but the medics said he was stable.
He kept to himself.
Some days he stayed curled up in bed, staring at the ceiling. Other days, he wandered the empty hallways until he got dizzy. When he needed to speak to someone—anyone—he’d find Hyuna. She always made time for him. She never made him feel like a burden.
He didn’t speak to anyone else.
Especially not Till.
They only saw each other at a distance—crossing the hallway, passing near the cafeteria, or entering the training wing at different times. Never at the same time. Never eye contact.
Till kept his days full. Drawing. Playing the guitar. Drinking. Smoking. Gym. Repeat. The same loop, the same hollow rhythm. Mizi scolded him for skipping meals. Isaac tried to drag him into conversations. Dewey gave up. He seemed to be waiting—for what, he didn’t know. Or maybe he did. He just didn’t want to admit it.
There were no missions being planned. No new attacks. The calm before another storm, maybe. But the quiet was heavier than it should’ve been. A few people still whispered about Luka. Still stared at him like he might snap. Still treated him like an outsider. Like the attack was his fault.
No one dared say it too loud, not after Hyuna shut them down once.
But Luka could still feel it.
He didn’t complain. He didn’t expect anything else.
And so the days passed—slow and aching and quiet.
And no one talked about what happened.
★
The common room was quiet. Dim lighting, the hum of the old ventilation system, a nearly empty bottle in Till’s hand. There weren’t many people left awake—just a couple rebels murmuring in a corner before eventually disappearing into their rooms. The dorms were too clean, too silent now. Everything is settled.
He hated it.
Till sat slouched on the couch, guitar untouched on the side, one boot on the coffee table. The burn of alcohol was the only warmth in his chest tonight. The sharpness dulled the edges of everything—his thoughts, his guilt, his confusion.
He was already on his second bottle when he heard a door creak open behind him.
Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.
He didn’t look up.
But he knew it was Luka.
There was a pause. The kind that stretched too long.
Till let the silence drag, expecting Luka to just leave again like he always did lately. But instead—
A sigh.
Then the couch dipped beside him. A hand reached over and pulled the bottle from Till’s grip.
Without a word, Luka drank. Long sip. His jaw clenched as he swallowed, eyes fixed ahead like he wasn’t even tasting it.
Till raised a brow, not quite turning toward him.
“You avoid me,” he muttered.
Luka scoffed, voice low, like it hurt to speak. “No. You avoid me.”
Till’s eyes flicked toward him, narrowing. “That’s rich. I’ve seen you disappear down hallways just to not look at me.”
“You think you’re so easy to look at?” Luka shot back. He passed the bottle back, his hand brushing against Till’s for a second too long. “You’re always glaring. Always pretending like none of this affects you.”
Till snorted, taking the drink. “Right. And you’re such a delight lately.”
Another long pause. The bottle sat between them, resting in Luka’s hand now.
Neither of them moved.
“You gonna say something real?” Till asked quietly, not looking at him.
Luka’s grip on the bottle tightened. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Why you’ve been acting like I fucking spat in your face when we were the ones who came back for you. Not even a thank you?”
“I didn’t ask to be saved.”
“Yeah, well, none of us ask for the shit we get.” Till leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing his temple. “You think I wanted this? To be sitting here like this—drinking just so I don’t think about you?”
That came out too raw.
Too fast.
Luka turned slowly, eyes sharp and unreadable. “What exactly are you thinking about?”
Till didn’t answer.
He just reached for the bottle again.
They stayed like that for a while.
Not saying anything.
Just passing the bottle back and forth in silence, the glass growing warmer in their hands, their shoulders barely brushing every now and then.
The air felt thick. Not quite hostile. Not quite safe.
It was Luka who broke it, voice low and rough from disuse.
“Last time we drank together,” he said, eyes still fixed on the floor, “it didn’t end well.”
Till didn’t reply right away.
He remembered. The kiss. The silence that followed. The avoidance. The guilt that clawed at him like a parasite.
He took another sip. The burn barely registered anymore.
“…Whatever,” he muttered.
“That’s what you always say,” Luka replied, voice low and tired. “Whatever.”
“I don’t remember you fighting for it,” Till snapped without thinking.
He regretted it immediately.
Because Luka flinched.
And Till felt like the world had gone silent.
They didn’t talk after that.
Not for a long moment.
They just sat—angry, distant, drowning in whatever this was. The air was thick with everything they refused to name.
And yet…
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them left.
The bottle was almost empty.
And Luka’s knee brushed against Till’s leg beneath the table, and no one pulled away.
Till stared at the floor. Luka’s words echoed in his head, that bitter “You did.” He hadn’t expected that. He thought Luka had forgotten. Or lied to himself the same way Till had tried to.
But no. Luka remembered.
“Why the hell are you even here?” Till finally muttered, not looking at him. “You said you didn’t want to see me.”
“Yeah?” Luka scoffed. “You didn’t seem in a rush to fix it.”
“I’m not the one who—”
“What? What didn’t you do?” Luka snapped, voice suddenly sharp. “Push me away? Pretend it never happened? Avoid me for weeks? So mature!”
Till turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t act like you were some saint. You barely looked at me since we got here. You’re always hiding in your room like a kicked dog—”
“Oh, fuck you,” Luka hissed, his voice cracking.
Till flinched. Luka’s face was flushed now—not just from the alcohol. His eyes were glassy, and something in them was trembling, furious, and raw.
“I’m trying,” Luka said, quieter now, but trembling. “I’m trying not to fall apart. And every time I see you—”
“What?” Till barked. “What, Luka? Say it.”
Luka stared at him. His jaw clenched. “You make it worse.”
Till laughed, humorless. “Good. Then we’re even. You ruin everything.”
That did it.
Luka surged to his feet. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. “I didn’t ask to be here, Till. I didn’t ask you to kiss me, I didn’t ask you to care, and I sure as hell didn’t ask you to make me feel like—like—”
“Like what?” Till stood too. He was close now, too close. “Like you matter to someone for once?”
Luka’s breath hitched. “Shut up.”
“You hate me, right?” Till stepped forward. “Say it. Look me in the eye and say it.”
“I do,” Luka said, voice shaking. “I hate you.”
Till’s eyes searched his. “Liar.”
Luka didn’t answer. His hands were fists. His chest rose and fell like he was about to explode.
And then—
Their mouths crashed together.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was aggressive.
It was teeth and breath and years of trauma laced into a kiss that tasted like anger and want and finally. Luka’s fingers grabbed at Till’s shirt, desperate and unsteady. Till gripped Luka’s jaw like he didn’t know whether he wanted to shove him away or hold on forever.
Till’s lips crashed against Luka’s again—because fuck it. If Luka hated him, fine. Till hated him too. But this—this was better than hating.
It was wild. Luka bit at his bottom lip, and Till pushed him back into the couch like he couldn’t stand the space between them. Hands fisted in fabric. Luka’s breath caught against his mouth, and Till felt him tremble, just a second, just enough.
They broke apart again—only for air—and Till said through clenched teeth, “I hate you.”
“Good,” Luka snarled, dragging him back down. “The feeling’s mutual.”
Their mouths met again—hotter, messier. Luka was panting, and Till didn’t know who was pulling harder, who was chasing whom. Luka’s nails scraped down Till’s arm. It hurt. It felt good. They were both drunk, both furious, and god, it felt so fucking good.
Luka tilted his head, teeth grazing Till’s throat, and that made something burn all the way down his spine. Till groaned. He grabbed Luka’s face roughly, kissed him again like he was punishing him for existing.
Their legs tangled. Luka tugged Till down until he was practically in his lap. It didn’t matter that this was stupid, reckless, and doomed. For a second, it felt like something real, even if it came wrapped in poison.
Breathing heavy, they pulled back. Just an inch. Foreheads touching.
“…You’re such a fucking problem,” Till whispered.
Luka smirked, lips red and bruised. “Then stop coming back.”
“I can’t.”
Neither moved. The air between them was electric.
And maybe they would’ve kissed again.
But something shifted.
The silence changed.
Both of them were shaking—and not just from want.
There was too much beneath this now.
It was about to break them.
Their lips crashed together again, and it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate and deep and hungry. Luka kissed like he was trying to shut him up—like Till was something he’d been starved for.
Till moaned into his mouth, low and involuntary, his body trembling as the alcohol blurred the edges of everything but this. He was fully straddling Luka now, thighs tight around his hips, hands cupping his face like he was holding on for dear life.
Luka’s tongue slid against his, rough and slick, and Till gasped through his nose, head spinning. His hands slipped down Luka’s neck, into his shirt, feeling every sharp line of him like it would explain something.
It didn’t. It just made it worse.
Luka’s hands were already on his waist, then his ribs, then his back—palms dragging slowly, too slowly. His fingers dipped beneath Till’s shirt, skin on skin, and Till arched into it with a breathy curse.
It felt wrong.
It felt so fucking right.
Teeth clashed. Luka bit at Till’s lip again and pulled. Till let out a sound—something broken and wanting—and Luka grabbed his hips, grinding up into him like a threat.
Their mouths met again, slower now but deeper, wetter, drunker. It wasn’t just alcohol anymore. They were drunk on each other.
Till pressed his forehead against Luka’s, breath ragged.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he whispered.
Luka’s thumb brushed over his hipbone, eyes dark. “Right back at you.”
Their lips met again.
Neither of them could stop.
Not yet.
Till’s back hit the sofa with a soft thud, his breath caught in his throat. The bottle rolled somewhere onto the floor, forgotten. Luka didn’t stop—he followed him down without hesitation, not pinning him, just there, hovering over him, their lips still moving like they’d never get enough.
It was clumsy, it was hot, it was drunk and reckless and real.
Luka’s hands braced on either side of Till’s head, and he kissed him like he meant it. Deep, firm, tongue sliding past Till’s lips again, tasting him, taking him. One of Till’s hands curled into the fabric of Luka’s shirt—tight, like if he let go, he’d float away.
He didn’t even realize he was gasping into Luka’s mouth until he felt Luka smile against him. It wasn’t nice. It was cocky. Infuriating. Till kissed him harder.
Luka shifted above him, knees digging into the sofa, chest pressed to Till’s. The friction made Till groan low in his throat, his hips bucking up before he could stop them.
“Shit,” he muttered, breathless.
Luka just laughed under his breath, soft and sharp. “You’re so easy to rile up.”
“Fuck you,” Till hissed.
“Not tonight, love,” Luka replied with a grin, and kissed him again, slower this time.
The pet name does something to Till. Fuck. Luka knows what he’s doing.
There was heat. So much heat. And tension under every brush of tongue, every graze of teeth. It wasn’t tender—but it wasn’t hateful either. It was something else entirely. Something dangerous.
Till didn’t know what they were doing.
He didn’t care.
Luka’s mouth moved to his jaw, then down his neck, and Till gasped again, chest heaving.
They were burning.
And neither of them wanted to put the fire out.
The sound in the distance faded—just some clatter, someone dropping something far off—but it shattered the heat like cold water.
Luka pulled back, breathing hard, lips swollen, his eyes dark. He didn’t move far, still half over Till, still close enough to feel the warmth radiating between them.
But his gaze burned.
“Are you gonna run again?” he asked, voice low, raw.
Till’s chest rose with a sharp inhale. He didn’t answer immediately—just stared at Luka like the words had scraped open something.
He shook his head.
Slow. Deliberate.
“No.”
That was all.
They didn’t say more. They didn’t need to.
Luka sat up and moved to the edge of the couch, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Till pushed himself upright, turning away slightly. They both sat there, shoulders close but not touching, the air thick with everything that hadn’t been said.
No regret. Not quite shame. Just too many feelings. Too many ghosts.
They didn’t talk about the kiss. Or the one before it. Or the one still burning between them.
It got quiet. Awkward. Their breathing slowed. The alcohol buzz hummed under their skin, but it wasn’t enough to blur what just happened.
Still, neither of them got up. Neither of them left.
They just sat there in the dim common room, avoiding each other’s eyes, pretending the night hadn’t shifted something they wouldn’t be able to take back.
Till didn’t say a word. He just let himself sink into the sofa again, head tipping back, arms loosely folded.
Luka’s body followed. Maybe accidentally. Maybe not.
Eventually, he ended up half-curled beside him, his shoulder against Till’s. They didn’t face each other. They didn’t speak. The warmth between them was still there, but neither of them reached for it again.
The room was dark. Quiet.
And the weight of exhaustion won over whatever pride they had left.
They fell asleep like that. On the same couch. Their legs tangled. The bottle was on the table beside them. The bitter taste of the kiss still lingered on their lips.
★
A sharp voice cut through the fog in Till’s head.
“Seriously?”
His eyes blinked open. The light stung, his head pounded. For a second, he didn’t remember where he was—until he felt the weight against his leg, and the faint smell of alcohol still clinging to the air.
Luka was next to him. Asleep, or pretending.
Mizi stood over them, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her expression wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. It was worse—disappointment.
She sighed. “Get up.”
Till sat slowly, blinking the haze out of his eyes. Luka did the same, rubbing his temple. He didn’t say a word.
She didn’t have to ask anything. Her eyes moved to Till’s neck, the dark bruising beginning to bloom there, the kind that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. Her lips pressed into a hard line.
“I thought we were past this kind of shit,” she muttered, then turned on her heel and left.
Till exhaled, long and shaky. His mouth was dry. His stomach twisted with something that wasn’t just the hangover.
Luka didn’t look at him. He just stared down at his hands like they weren’t his. Pale. Motionless.
The silence was so loud it made Till’s ears ring.
No one said it was a mistake—but it felt like something had shattered anyway.
Till stood up slowly, avoiding Luka’s eyes. Mizi grabbed his arm, already marching toward the hallway, but before she could pull him away entirely, he paused.
Just for a second.
He looked at Luka. Their eyes didn’t quite meet, but the air shifted. Quiet understanding. Regret, maybe. Want, still there, hidden under the hangover and shame.
Till raised two fingers, tapped them lightly against his chest, then subtly pointed toward the side hallway. A silent message—tonight.
Luka didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. But he saw it. Till knew he did.
Mizi tugged harder. “Move.”
And then he was gone, dragged away, leaving Luka alone again in the common room, lips still bitten raw, throat dry, heart not knowing what the hell to do next.
She didn’t say a word until they were out of the dorm wing.
Then, sharply: “Seriously, Till?”
He scoffed, rubbing his temples. “What?”
Mizi turned to him, arms crossed. “You think this is a game? You think now is the right time to play drunk and horny with someone who….I mean, with everything that happened.”
Till clenched his jaw. “I know what happened to him.”
“Do you?” she snapped. “Because you’re acting like a damn teenager.”
He stopped walking, yanked his arm out of her grip. “Stop treating me like I’m some idiot kid.”
Mizi didn’t back down. “Then stop acting like one.”
“I didn’t plan this,” he growled. “I wasn’t thinking, okay? And neither was he. We were drunk. We were angry. We—” His voice broke a little. “We were just trying to feel something that wasn’t fucking pain for once.”
Mizi’s expression softened, just for a moment—but she didn’t say anything.
Till’s fists tightened at his sides. “You always talk like you’re the only one who sees things clearly. Like you know better than all of us.”
“Because most of the time, I do,” she said flatly. “And right now, I know you’re fucking scared.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she cut in. “Scared because you care. Scared of what that means.”
He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek.
“I’m not your enemy, Till,” Mizi added, quieter now. “I just don’t want you to hurt each other, I don't care about him, but I care about you silly..”
He didn’t answer.
Because she’s right, Till is scared; he’s scared of his feelings.
★
He didn’t leave his room.
All day, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The taste of alcohol is long gone, replaced by guilt and anger—at Mizi, at Luka, at himself. He didn’t touch his sketchbook. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t move.
Just waited.
The sun went down hours ago. He didn’t turn the light on.
Then—
Knock knock.
Not loud. Almost hesitant.
Till sat up slowly, heart tightening in his chest. He didn’t have to ask who it was.
Another pause. Then, a second knock—barely a tap this time.
He crossed the room and opened the door.
Luka stood there, hoodie pulled over his head, eyes dark and unreadable in the dim hallway light. He didn’t speak.
Neither did Till.
After a beat, Luka glanced past him into the room. “Can I come in?”
Till stepped aside wordlessly.
Luka walked in without looking at him. Stopped in the middle of the room like he wasn’t sure what to do next. Till closed the door behind them.
Silence.
“I thought you’d run again,” Luka said, not turning around.
“I said I wouldn’t.”
“And you always do what you say?”
That made Till’s jaw clench. “Why are you here?”
Luka turned. His gaze met Till’s. “You wanted to talk.”
“Did I?”
“You made the gesture,” Luka said. “Don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything.”
Till’s mouth was dry. He didn’t know what he’d expected—but it wasn’t Luka looking at him like that. Not angry. Not flirty. Just… waiting.
Waiting for honesty.
Till sat on the bed and Luka joined him.
They didn’t talk.
Not about last night.
Not about the kiss.
Not about how Luka’s hands had been on Till’s body like he wanted him, not like he owned him.
Their knees bumped. A small touch, meaningless on its own—but now it felt like the loudest thing in the room.
Till stared ahead. Luka stared down at his hands.
It was awkward. Like their tongues hadn’t been in each other’s mouths.
Like Luka hadn’t had Till straddling his lap, panting, moaning, desperate.
But it happened.
And it felt—
It didn’t feel like it did with the aliens.
When they touched him, it was cold. Violent. Like he was something to use, not hold.
But last night… Till’s hands had been warm. His lips hadn’t tasted like demand. And when Luka’s hands had explored his chest, his waist, his hips—Till didn’t flinch. He leaned in.
Luka didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to explain it.
It felt amazing.
And that terrified him
Their knees touched again. Luka didn’t move away this time.
It was stupid to sit here in silence, pretending they weren’t thinking about the same thing. The kiss. The heat. The way it hadn’t felt empty.
Luka sucked in a breath. “We should talk.”
Till turned his head, slow and cautious, like the sentence might’ve been a trap. “About what?”
“Don’t do that,” Luka muttered, jaw tight. “You know.”
A pause. A shift in the air.
Till didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the floor.
‘’Maybe we don't have to talk.’’
He looked at him—really looked—and it was there again. That pull. That ache just beneath the skin. Neither of them moved at first. But something shifted in the silence.
Their faces were too close. Luka could feel the warmth of Till’s breath.
Till’s eyes dropped to his lips. Then back up. Then down again.
And they can't tell who learned first.
Or maybe they both did.
Their mouths met, slow this time. No rush. No fight. Just lips searching, testing, remembering.
Till’s hand moved up, fingers sinking into Luka’s hair, gripping tight—not to pull him closer, but to keep him there, as if letting go might make it all vanish.
Luka exhaled against his mouth. His own hands trembled slightly as they rested on Till’s waist, not grabbing, not desperate—just there. Present.
This kiss wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t messy.
It was soft.
Almost like they were afraid of it.
But neither pulled away.
Things were escalating again.
Hands tangled in hair. Mouths hot and hungry. Breathless murmurs between kisses, not even full words—just sounds. Groans. Shivers. The kind of silence that said don’t stop.
Till’s back hit the pillows, Luka half on top of him again. They hadn’t moved from the bed. It just… happened. Like it always did with them. One second apart, the next completely entangled.
Till broke the kiss just long enough to gasp, “This isn’t healthy…It’s not right.”
Luka’s lips hovered over his. “Maybe” he echoed.
But they didn’t stop.
Till’s mouth found his again, more urgent this time, like he was punishing himself with it. Luka kissed back just as hard. Like if he could go deep enough, make Till feel it enough, maybe he could bury the guilt. Or the fear. Or whatever the hell was always between them.
Fingertips dragged under fabric. Breath caught in their throats. No talking. They weren’t ready for words. But they were ready for this—whatever this was.
Even if it was wrong.
Even if it would ruin them.
Till’s fingers were buried in Luka’s hair again, pulling him closer, dragging him down. His mouth moved feverishly against Luka’s, and he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.
He was addicted to the way it felt.
Kissing Luka felt like breathing for the first time. It was dangerous—too much—but he kept leaning in anyway, chasing that fire. His heart was thundering, mouth tingling, skin burning under every place Luka touched.
When Ivan kissed him, it was soft. Careful. A goodbye.
When the aliens touched him, used him, there was no warmth. Just pain. Emptiness. He flinched, closed his eyes, begged it to end.
But now—
Luka’s hands were on him. Firm. Real. And Till didn’t flinch. He leaned into them. He craved for more. He hated how badly he wanted it—how badly he wanted him.
God, how did Luka know how to touch like this? How to kiss like this? It was rough and messy, lips bruising, teeth clashing—but it made something in Till’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t name.
He murmured between kisses, not even realizing he said it:
“Why are you so good at this…”
Luka didn’t answer. Just kissed him harder.
Till hated the way he trembled under that touch. Hated the way he wanted it all the same.
Till gasped into Luka’s mouth when their bodies pressed close again, Luka shifting over him, knees on either side of his thighs.
“Fuck,” Till hissed between breaths, his head tipping back as Luka’s lips left his, trailing desperate, open-mouthed kisses down his jaw, to the curve of his neck.
Then Luka grabbed his wrists—pinned them down, rough but not hurting—and something in Till snapped. A whimper crawled out of his throat, shameful and loud. His hips shifted up before he could even stop himself.
“Luka—” he said, voice trembling, “What are we—fuck—what are we doing…”
His breath was hot against Till’s neck, teeth grazing skin. A sharp moan tore out of Till’s chest when Luka bit down, just enough to sting.
‘’Tell me to stop.’’
‘’Don't you dare,’’ Till warns.
Luka smirks.
It felt too good.
Too dangerous.
He just held him there—hands above his head, lips trailing lower, sucking a mark on the soft skin just above his collarbone. Till writhed under him, gasping, legs tensing, breath caught between a moan and something close to panic.
“I hate you,” Till breathed, voice broken. “I hate you so fucking much.”
“Yeah,” Luka rasped against his throat. “Me too.”
But their mouths found each other again like magnets—rushed, desperate, addictive.
Till moaned into it, couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t stop anything. His hands were still pinned, Luka’s hips pressing down with just enough friction to make Till lose his breath entirely.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
This couldn’t happen.
Not like this.
And still—they didn’t stop.
They didn’t stop kissing. Didn’t stop moaning into each other’s mouths. Luka’s hands trembled slightly as they finally let go of Till’s wrists, only to grip his waist, dragging him closer, grinding against him just once—just once—and Till nearly cried out.
That was enough.
More than enough.
Too much.
Their breathing was ragged when they finally broke apart. Still on top of him, Luka pressed his forehead against Till’s, eyes closed.
They didn’t say a word.
Didn’t need to.
Their bodies were screaming everything
Their bodies grew hot—too hot—sweat clinging to skin, their breath shallow, ragged, desperate.
Luka’s hands were still on his waist, Till’s fingers tangled in Luka’s shirt. Their lips were swollen, slick from kissing, hearts pounding so loud Till could feel it in his throat. He didn’t know whose pulse it was—his or Luka’s—or if they were just one tangle now, too messy to pull apart.
But they stopped.
God, they finally stopped.
Because if they didn’t—
If they didn’t, it would lead them somewhere else. Somewhere they couldn’t come back from. Somewhere neither of them were ready to go, not with everything between them still cracked and bleeding.
Luka rested his forehead against Till’s again. He was panting, trembling a little. His eyes were closed.
Till’s hand slowly slipped down from his shirt, falling limply beside him. He didn’t move, didn’t dare break the silence, even though the heat of Luka’s body was still burning into his.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not desperate. Not terrifying. Not this good.
He turned his face slightly, eyes flicking up at Luka—his lips, his lashes, the bruised edge of his mouth. They’d kissed like they were starving. Like they’d been holding it in for too long. Like if they stopped, they’d collapse.
But they had to.
So they did.
And in the silence that followed, Till whispered, voice low and hoarse:
“…We shouldn’t.”
Luka didn’t say anything. Just stayed there, forehead still touching his, their breaths still syncing like they hadn’t let go.
They didn’t kiss again.
They didn’t move.
They just sat there.
Too close.
Too much.
Too afraid to break whatever this was.
They both collapsed sideways onto the bed, breath still uneven, hearts still racing. Luka’s shoulder brushed his. Neither of them moved away.
The room was quiet—too quiet. The air between them is still buzzing with everything unsaid.
Till stared at the ceiling. He could feel Luka’s warmth beside him. Could hear him breathing. Could still taste him on his lips.
But none of it mattered now. Not really.
He swallowed, voice quiet when it finally came.
“…Urak sold me.”
Luka didn’t respond right away. But he didn’t turn away either.
“I mean, it started when he took me to the club. They wanted me to sing ‘my clematis’, I refused, refused to mock Mizi and Sua in that way. They shoved me down and showed me the article that Mizi went missing. And something snapped in me, I lunged for them, but uhm…not really a smart move, that was the first time they did it, and then Urak kept sending me there.”
Till blinked, hard. “Back then. After round two, I was—” His jaw clenched. “I was a bit of trouble. Said I should be grateful for what he’s doing for me.”
His throat burned. He doesn't know why he is telling Luka this now, all of a sudden.
“They used my body,” he said, flat. “Over and over. I was just…something to fuck. Something to study. Strip away the rebel spirit, they called it. Break it out of me.”
“I didn’t scream. Not once. I don’t think I even cried. Maybe in the beginning. I just—left. In my head. Shut everything off. I don’t remember most of it. Maybe that’s the point.”
He laughed, bitter. “And now I’m here. Kissing you like it means something. Like I’m not completely fucked in the head.”
Silence.
Luka looked at him. Really looked at him.
Till’s words echoed in his mind, heavy, gutting, and all too familiar.
For a moment, Luka didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But then—slowly—he reached out and took Till’s hand.
His fingers were cold.
Luka said quietly. “Heperu. My owner. He said I owed him. That after everything he invested in me, I should at least give something back.”
He scoffed, bitter. “Guess we’ve got that in common too, huh?”
He looked down at their hands—at the way they didn’t let go.
“But I… I turned it into something useful. For myself. If they were going to use me, I made sure I was the one in control. I smiled. Performed. Pleased them.” He laughed, but it sounded wrong. “Better than the tests. The cages. The punishments.”
He shook his head. “They thought I was eager. That I wanted it. Maybe I did, in some fucked-up way. Maybe I just wanted them to like me. To stop hurting me.”
His voice cracked on the last word, and he hated it.
“I told myself it was power. That they wanted me. That I mattered, even when it hurt. Even when I couldn’t look at myself after.”
He looked up at Till. “Funny, huh? Both of us, broken in the same way. Just pretending we’re whole in different directions.”
And he didn’t say thank you or I’m sorry—because what would that even mean here? But Till knows.
He just held Till’s hand tighter.
They didn’t speak.
Not for a long time.
Their fingers stayed tangled between them, hands resting lightly on the mattress like the only thing grounding them in the moment. And they just… looked.
Till met Luka’s eyes—and Luka didn’t look away.
For once, there was no tension. No sarcasm. No hate pretending to be armor. Just two people, broken in such similar, brutal ways, stripped bare and seeing each other fully for the first time.
No one said ‘I understand.’
They didn’t have to.
The silence said it for them.
It wasn’t healing. Not yet. But it was something.
Recognition.
Understanding.
A beginning.
They kept holding on.
Eventually, their breathing slowed.
The weight of what was said—or unsaid—settled gently around them like a blanket. Neither moved. Neither dared to break it.
Till lay on his side, his forehead nearly touching Luka’s. Their hands still clasped between them, fingers loosely entwined, like they were afraid to let go and wake up alone.
Luka’s eyes fluttered shut first, but he didn’t let go.
Not once.
Even as sleep claimed him, his grip on Till’s hand remained, fragile and stubborn all at once.
Till followed not long after, drawn under by exhaustion and something else—something quieter, warmer, unfamiliar.
Their bodies, tangled under the covers, their hands locked between them, said enough.
Closer than they were last night.
Closer than ever.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
Chapter 12
Notes:
I'm uploading chapter 12 with apologies for the delay in chapter 11. And I'll try to upload the whole fic before I start uni, because it will be quite difficult to edit. The art is also ready, unfortunately, I can't draw NSFW even though I wanted to. Anyways, with no more delays, i give you ch 12!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For a moment, Till thought he was alone.
The hand that had held his all night was gone, the warmth beside him replaced by the dull chill of the morning air. His fingers twitched against the sheets, slow to wake. He stared up at the ceiling, a pit settling in his stomach.
Of course he left.
He tried not to be surprised by the ache that followed. It wasn’t like they were anything. Just two people fumbling their way through something messy and hot and broken. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t supposed to.
But then he heard it—quiet, rhythmic.
The sound of pages turning.
He tilted his head.
Luka was still there.
Sprawled on his stomach, right next to him. His feet kicked lazily at the sheets, and his back rose and fell with each soft breath.
In his hands: Till’s sketchbook.
“What are you doing?” Till asked, voice low and scratchy with sleep.
Luka didn’t look up. “You left it out.”
“I didn’t think you were the type to snoop.”
“I didn’t think you were the type to draw me while I’m not looking,” Luka muttered, flipping another page.
Till pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring half-heartedly. “Those aren't you.”
Luka hummed, noncommittal. “Sure.”
He flipped to a different page, slower this time. His eyes stayed on the paper, but his voice shifted—just enough.
“I thought about leaving,” he said. “In the morning.”
Till froze.
Luka finally turned his head, cheek pressing into the pillow. Their eyes met. Luka’s lashes were still clumped together from sleep, his voice quiet. Honest.
“But I didn’t.”
Till’s heart did something weird in his chest. He sat up more fully, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted. “I thought you had.”
“I know.”
A beat of silence passed between them. Luka closed the sketchbook and slid it to the side. His arm draped lazily over the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the floor.
Till didn’t say anything. Neither did Luka.
After closing the sketchbook, Luka just left it there—like it hadn’t meant anything, like he hadn’t just seen pages full of Till’s thoughts and hands and quiet obsession.
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy.
Their faces were close again. Too close.
Till could feel Luka’s breath on his lips.
And for a second, just one suspended moment, it felt like something might happen again—until—
Knock knock.
The sound snapped through the room like a whip.
Till jolted upright. “Shit.”
Luka didn’t even flinch.
“Don’t just sit there—hide or something!” Till hissed, already scrambling to smooth his shirt, check the state of his hair, anything to erase the night from the room.
Luka yawned. “We’re not kids, Till.”
“Luka—”
“I’m thirty,” Luka continued, propping his chin in his palm. “You’re, what, twenty-one? We’re adults. They’re not gonna ground us.”
Till gave him a wild look. “That is not the point.”
Luka laughed, low and warm. “What, you think they’re gonna walk in and see me laying here and just combust?”
“Yes—No—I don’t know!” Till snapped, pacing toward the door like it was radioactive. “God, what if it’s Mizi again?”
Luka rolled over onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “Well then let her scold you. You clearly enjoy it.”
Till shot him a glare over his shoulder. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe.” Luka smirked. “You’re cute when you panic.”
Till opened the door a crack, enough to peek out with an innocent face that fooled exactly no one. Whatever was said on the other side, it was brief. Just a passing message about breakfast and something about schedules, nothing serious.
He closed the door with a heavy exhale and turned to find Luka still lounging in bed like a smug cat.
“You could’ve at least sat up or pretended to look innocent.”
Luka stretched, arms over his head. “No point. I never look innocent.”
Till tossed a pillow at his face.
They didn’t talk about it.
Not really.
After the knock, after the jokes, after the awkward silence filled the room again, they didn’t say much else.
They didn’t kiss again. They didn’t hold hands. But they didn’t avoid each other either.
It was… different this time.
They moved around each other like something had shifted, like they weren’t trying to erase the night, just quietly carrying it.
When it was time to leave, Luka left first. No dramatic exits, no weird tension—just a glance back before slipping out of the room, raking his fingers through his hair.
Till followed a few minutes later, heading toward breakfast like it was just another morning.
But Mizi noticed. Of course she noticed.
She caught it the second Luka entered the dining hall—shirt wrinkled, hair still a little messy, that rare almost-smile tugging at his lips like he was trying not to look too smug.
Then came Till, maybe five minutes later, trying a little too hard to act natural, eyes scanning the room and pausing just half a second too long on one person.
Mizi didn’t say anything—not yet—but she raised a brow when Till sat down. He didn’t meet her eyes.
Isaac noticed too, elbowing Hyuna under the table when Till’s fingers nervously tapped the mug in front of him. Hyuna didn’t react, but she followed Luka with her gaze when he passed by.
No one said anything directly. But it was clear.
The silence between Till and Luka wasn’t like before.
Something had happened.
And they weren’t doing a very good job of hiding it.
Mizi watched them like a hawk. Hyuna raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Isaac, as usual, kept quiet.
Then Dewey, chewing on a piece of toast, broke the silence.
“Damn,” he muttered casually, “someone should cut the air in here. Pretty sure it’s thick with unresolved… something.”
He didn’t even look up from his plate.
Luka cleared his throat, pushing his plate away like he’d lost his appetite.
“There’s something I should say.”
Everyone looked up.
His voice was low, controlled. “When I was… when they had me, they didn’t care about who I was. Not really. They wanted to know about the rebels. Who was leading. Who is calling the shots now.”
Silence settled. Even Dewey didn’t crack a joke this time.
Luka’s fingers tapped once against the table before he went on, eyes fixed somewhere on the wall.
“They kept saying I reminded them of someone named Jacob.” He glanced around, confused. “Who is that? They wouldn’t stop talking about him.”
The reaction was immediate—Hyuna stiffened, Mizi looked away, and Isaac… Isaac went still.
The tension shifted. Heavy. Cold.
Till looked at Isaac, then back at Luka, heart already sinking.
Isaac’s voice was flat when he finally spoke.
“Jacob was my brother.”
Luka froze.
“…Oh.”
He didn’t know what else to say. No one did.
Isaac shifted in his seat—subtly, but it was the first time any of them had seen him look… uncomfortable. Not angry. Not cold. Just unsure.
Hyuna’s eyes were distant now, locked on the far corner of the room, her fingers curled slightly against her mug like she wasn’t really holding it anymore. Even Dewey, usually the loudest in the room, had gone quiet. His face had fallen, a sad crease forming between his brows.
“Why would they say that?” Isaac asked, voice quieter than usual. He didn’t look at Luka when he spoke. He seemed to be asking the table, or maybe the air.
Luka opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He wasn’t sure what he thought Jacob would be. Some high-ranking rebel? Some traitor? But Isaac’s tone… the way everyone suddenly looked smaller in their seats—it told him something else.
Something worse.
“I don’t know,” Luka said finally, voice low. “But they hated that about me. The pride. That I didn’t beg. That I wouldn’t break.”
Isaac nodded once. Still not looking at him.
“Sounds like him.”
And just like that, it felt like the air had been vacuumed out of the room.
Isaac stood up abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping harsh against the floor.
“I need some air,” he muttered, already turning for the exit.
Dewey didn’t even hesitate. He pushed his chair back with a soft grunt and followed after him without a word, his usual humor replaced with something quieter, steadier.
The door clicked behind them. The room fell into a heavy silence.
Hyuna let out a long, tired sigh, her shoulders sinking slightly. She didn’t look at Luka, but her fingers tapped once against her mug before going still again.
Luka sat back in his chair, the weight of the room pressing against his chest.
He hadn’t meant to stir anything up—not like that. He didn’t even know who Jacob was, not really. But now he felt it, that sting in his gut. Guilt. Discomfort. A small, sick twist in his stomach like he had accidentally cracked something fragile without realizing it.
The silence hung for another beat before Hyuna finally spoke.
“It’s fine,” she said, not looking at Luka. Her tone wasn’t sharp—just distant. “You didn’t know.”
Luka stayed quiet, eyes fixed on the table.
Hyuna ran her fingers through her hair, then leaned back in her seat. She looked tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper—like the kind of tiredness that time doesn’t fix.
“Jacob was Isaac’s older brother,” she said, glancing at the others around the table. “He was one of the original founders of the Rebellion. Back when things were smaller… more reckless. Riskier. But Jacob believed in it more than anyone else.”
Her voice lowered.
“He was loud. Proud. He had this… this fire. That’s probably why they said Luka reminded them of him. Jacob wouldn’t shut up even if he was bleeding. He’d laugh in the face of a loaded gun.” She smirked for a second, like remembering, then it faded. “He was stubborn as hell.”
A pause.
“I met Jacob under the theater,” she said suddenly, voice lower now. “In the sewers.”
Luka blinked. “What?”
She gave a dry smile. “Yeah. A really glamorous place for a first impression, I know. I was… I don’t even remember what I was doing down there. Probably trying to find a way back to Anakt Garden. I thought I could sneak in again and figure something out, how to save the children.”
Mizi tilted her head. “You used to work there?”
Hyuna nodded. “Not in the high-end stuff. I wasn’t important. But I knew the layout. Knew where the guards rotated, where the vents ran, how they stored intel. Jacob found me
‘’Jacob needed someone who knew the facility to help with the mission to break in, so he recruited me to the rebellion because of my insider knowledge. When I drank too much, he looked after me and defended me.’’
He didn’t trust me right away. But he asked questions. Smart ones. Figured out I knew things that could help him with their next mission. So he gave me a choice. Said I could keep running, or I could fight. And if I chose to fight, he’d make sure I never got left behind again.”
Till glanced at her. Luka looked down.
“I drank too much the first few months,” Hyuna admitted. “I was a wreck. But Jacob… he never judged me. Just shoved a jacket over my shoulders, brought me water, and told Isaac to shut up when he said I wasn’t pulling my weight.”
She smiled again. This one stayed longer, even if it was sad.
“He believed in people. Even when they were at their worst. I think that’s what hurt Isaac the most when we lost him. Because Jacob believed in him, too.”
‘’Isaac acted as leader while Jacob was gone,” she said. “When we thought he was just missing. We didn’t know he was captured.”
Till shifted.
“Six weeks,” she continued. “Six fucking weeks without a trace. And then…” she rubbed her face, voice catching just slightly. “Then Dewey found him.”
“He was outside the old safehouse, collapsed. Dewey carried him home on his back. He said he felt too light. It scared him. Had a tooth knocked out. Eyes sunken. We thought he was dead.”
Luka swallowed.
“He didn’t say much,” Hyuna went on. “But he gave Isaac his instructions. Told him to lead. Then he looked at me and….well, that doesn’t matter.’’
Her hands were clenched in her lap now.
“He died just like that,” Hyuna finished. ‘’ I mean, he fought, on that bed, but it was pretty obvious he won't make it, it was hard for everyone.’’
No one spoke for a long while.
Then Luka muttered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir all that.”
“You didn’t,” Hyuna said quietly. “It was always there.”
Hyuna finally stood up and made her way out of the cafeteria.
The table was quiet, save for the clink of Mizi’s chair as she stood. She gave a small nod to no one in particular and followed Hyuna out the door, her boots echoing down the hallway.
Luka watched her go before glancing at Till—only to find Till already watching him.
Now it was just the two of them.
Silence settled heavy between them. The kind that wasn’t just about what had been said—but everything that hadn’t been.
Luka exhaled, leaned back a little in his seat. “Didn’t mean to drag everyone into that.”
Till didn’t answer right away. He picked at the rim of his cup, eyes fixed on something invisible on the table.
“You didn’t,” he said finally. “They just haven’t talked about it in a while.”
Till stood up first, pushing the chair back with a low scrape.
“I’m going to the gym,” he muttered without waiting for a response. His steps were quick, focused—like he needed to move or he’d explode.
Luka stayed seated for a moment, staring blankly at the table. His fingers tapped once, then stilled. His thoughts were loud. Too loud. Eventually, he pushed himself up and walked off toward his own room.
He didn’t feel like training.
Didn’t feel like being around anyone.
Didn’t feel like thinking about what his face must’ve looked like when Hyuna told that story. Or the way Till avoided his eyes as he left.
Luka had barely moved from his room the entire day.
The shower was the only thing that made sense—steam filling the small space, water scalding against his skin. He stood under the stream until it numbed everything: his thoughts, his muscles, the weight of the day. When he finally stepped out, he didn’t bother drying his hair properly, letting damp strands cling to his forehead. He slipped into something light—just a loose hoodie and soft, worn pants, the kind that barely held onto his hips.
His room was dim, quiet. He didn’t turn on the overhead light, just the lamp in the corner. It was enough.
★
He sat cross-legged on the bed, arms resting on his knees, staring at nothing, thinking about too much. He almost didn't realise the whole day passed.
Then— a knock.
He looked up. Not surprised. Somehow, he knew.
Another pause.
Then the door creaked open.
Till.
Hair slightly disheveled, eyes shadowed like he hadn’t slept. He looked… unsure. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there in the doorway, letting the silence fill the space between them.
Luka tilted his head, voice low.
“You coming in, or are you gonna just stand there all dramatic?”
That earned him a faint scoff. Till stepped in. Closed the door behind him.
And the room felt smaller.
Hotter.
Neither of them said what they were thinking. Not yet. But it was all there—in the look they shared, in the quiet acknowledgment that they couldn’t keep circling each other forever.
Till didn’t say anything. He just walked in and sat at the desk, his back slouching against the wall, legs stretched out. He didn’t even look at Luka at first. Just stared at the floor like it had something to say.
Luka leaned back on his elbows, still sitting on the bed, wet hair dripping slightly onto the sheets.
“So?” Luka’s voice was dry. “You came all the way here to sulk in a different room?”
Till’s jaw tensed. “You always have something to say, don’t you?”
Luka raised an eyebrow. “At least I say something.”
You're gonna just sit there and glare at the wall?” Luka asked flatly.
Till’s lip curled. “You always need a reason for everything, don’t you?”
Luka blinked, taken off guard. “What the hell does that mean?”
Till stood up slowly, hands slipping into his pockets, shoulders tight. “Just saying. You act like if something doesn’t have a purpose, it doesn’t count. Like if we don’t talk about it, it’s not real.”
Luka’s jaw clenched. “You think I want to talk about it?”
“No. I think you want to pretend it didn’t happen.” Till stepped closer. “But if you’re not gonna face it, we might as well keep doing this instead.”
His voice dipped—bitter. Sarcastic. He meant kissing, obviously. That awful good thing they always fall into when words get too dangerous.
Luka stood up too, now face to face. “You think that’s all this is to me?”
God,” Luka said low, teeth clenched, “you’re impossible.”
“Yeah?” Till’s eyes burned. “So why do you keep letting me in?”
Silence.
Their chests were rising fast. Too close. Too tense.
“Act like nothing’s happened. Like you’re above all of it.”
Luka turned, leaned against the counter, water bottle in hand. Calm. Almost amused. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“You’re just chill as ever. No problem. No awkwardness. No ‘what the hell are we doing.’ Just Luka, totally fine. Totally unbothered.” Till’s voice was rising. “Meanwhile I’m—” He cut himself off.
Luka smirked. “Spinning out like a kicked puppy?”
Till’s eyes flared. “Go fuck yourself.”
“You first, sweetheart.”
It hit Till in the gut. That voice—low, almost teasing, but grounded. That annoying little smirk. Like Luka was the only adult in the room and he knew it.
Till clenched his fists. “Why do you always do that? You always turn everything into a joke.”
“I’m not joking.” Luka’s voice dropped an octave. “You’re just mad I’m not losing my mind over this like you are.”
“You think I’m losing my mind?”
Luka stepped closer, slowly, like approaching a cornered animal. “No. I think you’re scared. And angry. And you hate that I’m not.”
Till scoffed. “You’re so full of shit.”
“And you’re just dying for me to lose control, huh?” Luka’s tone sharpened. “You want me to yell? Throw something? Cry about what this means? Would that make it easier for you?”
“Fuck you,” Till snapped, pushing off the desk.
But Luka caught his wrist, effortlessly calm, pinning Till with a look.
“I’ve lived through worse than being confused over a kiss.” His voice was low, steady. Dangerous. “But I’ll say it if you won’t—you liked it. You want it again. And you’re pissed that I’m not pretending otherwise.”
Till stared at him, lips parted, breath shaky. “You think this is just easy for me?”
“No,” Luka said, stepping even closer. Their chests brushed now. “But I think you’d rather break something than feel it.”
Till’s fingers twitched. His whole body shook with it. Rage, confusion, heat.
He grabbed Luka’s hoodie and yanked him forward.
“Say one more smug thing, I swear—”
Luka tilted his head, eyes half-lidded, voice like silk.
“—you’ll what, baby?”
And that was it.
Till crashed his mouth to Luka’s, all fire and fury and frustration and god, god, relief.
Luka grinned. “You’re so easy to rile up. So hot when you’re mad.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Till growled, lunging forward—
—but Luka caught him by the waist and pulled him in again, mouths colliding in another messy kiss. Luka’s hands slid under the back of Till’s shirt, warm palms on bare skin.
“You’re not gonna scare me off,” Luka murmured against his lips.
Till’s fingers curled in Luka’s hair. “Maybe I’m trying to.”
Luka bit his bottom lip, tugging gently. “Try harder, love.”
Till hated how his knees went weak.
Luka kissed him hard—hard enough that Till’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening in Luka’s hoodie. The room blurred around them, the air between them thick and hungry.
Then—suddenly—Luka’s hands slid under Till’s thighs and lifted him clean off the floor.
“Shit—Luka—” Till gasped, arms looping around his shoulders, legs instinctively locking around Luka’s hips.
“You’re not gonna run this time, right?” Luka muttered against his mouth, voice dark and low and wrecked.
“I hate you,” Till breathed, but it came out more like a moan.
“I know,” Luka growled.
He carried him to the bed, their mouths still tangled together, kisses messy and hot and greedy. When Luka dropped Till onto the mattress, he barely gave him a chance to breathe before climbing over him, one knee between Till’s legs, hands on either side of his head.
Their lips broke for just a second—one second—long enough for their eyes to meet.
Then Luka leaned back in, biting at Till’s lower lip, dragging another moan from his throat. “You drive me crazy,” he whispered against his mouth.
Till arched up into him, his hands roaming Luka’s back, nails digging in slightly through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Then shut up and kiss me.”
Luka did—kissed him so hard it hurt—and Till welcomed it, kissed back with everything he had.
This wasn’t soft.
This was heat, frustration, and craving.
And it wasn’t going to stop here.
Luka’s hands slid up under Till’s shirt, rough palms dragging over his skin like he needed to feel him—like just kissing wasn’t enough anymore.
He pulled back, just barely, breathing hard. His mouth was red, pupils blown wide as he stared down at Till—who looked just as wrecked beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded.
They were both panting, like they’d just fought, or ran, or kissed each other like they were starving—which they had.
Luka peeled his own hoodie off in one fluid motion and tossed it somewhere behind him. His body was lean, marked up—old scars, bruises, some still healing. The dim light traced the lines of muscle across his chest, down his stomach, sweat already clinging to his skin.
Then he paused—just for a moment. His hands hooked in Till’s shirt hem, eyes locked on his, waiting.
Not asking aloud. Just waiting.
Till stared up at him, chest heaving, lips still tingling.
He nodded.
That was all Luka needed.
He stripped Till’s shirt off with a hunger he barely restrained, tossing it aside like everything else in the room didn’t matter. His hands were everywhere—over Till’s ribs, his chest, his stomach, like he couldn’t decide what he wanted more: to memorize him or to devour him.
“You’re so—fuck,” Luka muttered, kissing down his neck now, lips dragging across the collarbone, tongue flicking at a spot that made Till buck under him.
“Don’t stop,” Till gasped, voice tight, already breathless.
Luka laughed softly, but it came out low, rough, almost dangerous. “Wasn’t planning to.”
He pinned Till’s wrists above his head, leaning down again, mouth tracing the line of his jaw, then lower. “God, you’re driving me insane.”
Till moaned when Luka’s hips rolled against his. Heat everywhere. It wasn’t just kissing anymore—it was grinding, friction, the taste of each other’s skin, the sound of harsh breathing filling the room.
And the way Luka looked at him—looked at him like he mattered. Like this wasn’t just lust, even if neither of them were ready to admit what else it might be.
Till’s breath hitched, the air between them thick, heavy—his back arching slightly when Luka kissed just beneath his ribs, slow and reverent.
This time, it wasn’t frantic.
Luka took his time.
His hands traced the edges of Till’s waist, fingers brushing the softest parts of his skin, dragging upward like he was mapping every inch. His mouth followed the trail—along his stomach, the dip of his chest, up the side of his neck.
Till’s fingers curled in the sheets, eyes fluttering shut.
“Luka—” he whispered, but it didn’t sound like a protest. More like a plea.
Luka kissed up the center of his chest, then back to his throat. His lips were softer now, slower, his tongue flicking out just to taste the sweat gathering there. He dragged his mouth along Till’s jaw again, hands sliding up his arms, then down again over his sides, his hips.
It was worship disguised as exploration.
Till’s hands found Luka’s shoulders, then his back, fingertips digging into the muscle as Luka’s mouth returned to him.
And that kiss—that kiss—was something else entirely.
Slower. Deeper.
Luka kissed him like he wanted to crawl inside him, like the taste of his mouth was all he needed to survive. Their tongues slid together again, breath hitching, heat building again between them in a low, burning wave.
Till whimpered into Luka’s mouth, hips twitching up against him.
And Luka—God, Luka groaned, like the sound of it physically hurt him.
He broke the kiss only to press his forehead to Till’s, breath ragged.
“You sure?” he asked, voice almost broken with restraint.
Till’s lips were parted, face flushed, hands tangled in Luka’s hair now.
“I wouldn’t be kissing you like this if I wasn’t.”
Till’s head fell back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded, lips slick and swollen from Luka’s mouth.
He could barely think. His heart was beating out of rhythm, breath coming shallow, skin flushed and sensitive—every brush of Luka’s hands sending sparks under the surface.
And his body…
His pants were tight, unbearable now. The pressure between his legs was maddening, painful in the best kind of way. He shifted, trying to ease it, but it only made things worse.
Luka noticed. Of course he noticed.
“Something wrong?” he whispered, one eyebrow arched. His voice was a slow drag of velvet over skin, teasing and dangerous.
Till bit his lip. “No. Just—” he let out a shaky breath, “—you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Luka smirked. “Mm, I do.”
He leaned in again, kissing along the curve of Till’s jaw, his thumb pressing gently into the hollow between his hips like he was staking a claim. “You’re hard, aren’t you?” he murmured, tone low, heated. Not mocking. Just stating a fact. “Can feel it.”
Till gasped, eyes wide, heat crawling up his neck. He tried to glare, but it melted into a groan as Luka’s hand drifted lower, not quite touching where he needed, just hovering.
He was going insane.
And Luka wanted it that way.
Till’s hips lifted without permission, chasing the warmth of Luka’s hand.
“Fuck,” Till hissed. “Stop teasing.”
But Luka’s eyes darkened, mouth brushing his again. “Why? You’re begging without saying a word.”
Till wanted to punch him. Or pull him closer. Maybe both.
Luka kissed him again—slow, messy, deliberate—and started to undo the buttons of Till’s pants. One by one. Not in a rush. Like he had all night.
And maybe he did.
Because tonight… they weren’t stopping.
Luka’s fingers brushed the waistband of Till’s pants again, this time with more intent. His gaze stayed fixed on Till’s face, sharp and unreadable—but his mouth, fuck, it was curved in the faintest smirk like he already knew how wrecked Till was.
“Still not stopping me?” Luka asked, his voice low, husky.
Till didn’t answer—he couldn’t. His throat was dry, lips parted, chest rising with every breath. He didn’t trust himself to speak, but he nodded once. And that was all Luka needed.
The friction. The heat. It was unbearable.
Luka moved lower, mouth trailing down his chest, leaving open kisses across his stomach.
He paused when he reached a scar just above Till’s hip—one of the older ones. His lips pressed to it gently, lingering there like it meant something. Then, with careful hands, he slid Till’s pants down fully, along with his underwear, baring him completely.
Till’s breath hitched, and for a second, he looked like he might close off again. But Luka didn’t rush. He came back up, eyes meeting Till’s, one hand resting lightly against his cheek.
“Do you trust me?” he asked, voice quiet now—serious.
Till hesitated—but just for a second. Then he nodded, slowly. “Yeah.”
That was enough.
Luka kissed him again—soft, slow. Nothing like before. His fingers traced down Till’s sides, patient, unhurried. He didn’t reach for more yet. He just touched, mapping every inch of exposed skin with a reverence that made Till feel like something delicate. Like someone worth being careful with.
Till felt his chest tighten. It wasn’t fear, this time. It was something warmer. Something that scared him more.
Luka’s lips moved along his jaw, behind his ear, down his throat. He kissed across his collarbones, his chest, lingering over every place that had once been hurt. His hands followed, cradling him—not gripping, not using.
Just holding.
“You don’t have to brace yourself,” Luka murmured, mouth against his skin. “Not with me.”
Till’s fingers clenched into the sheets. He didn’t answer—not out loud. But he let Luka continue.
The tension in his body slowly unwound. He let himself breathe, really breathe, as Luka kissed his ribs, the inside of his thighs, lower. Every touch said I see you, every kiss said I won’t hurt you.
And Till believed him.
It was overwhelming—not from roughness or force, but from the way it made him feel. Seen. Respected. Wanted. His body reacted naturally, but his heart was what raced the hardest.
Luka returned to him, chest to chest, skin against skin. Their foreheads touched.
Luka leaned in again, their foreheads resting together, noses brushing. His hand cupped Till’s cheek as he looked into his eyes—really looked, like he could see every scar and shadow behind them.
“I promise you,” Luka whispered, “it can be good.”
His thumb swept just under Till’s eye, and he added, softer, “I’ll make it good.”
He kissed him again—slow, deep, like he meant every word. And when his hand moved lower again, guiding, coaxing, it was with full intention. No rush. Just quiet reverence, steady and sure.
And for the first time in a long time, Till didn’t feel used. He felt chosen.
Luka reached over to the nightstand, grabbed a small metal tin. ‘’Not what it’s meant for,’’ he muttered with a grin, ‘’but it’ll do.’’
He unscrewed the lid and dipped his fingers in, glancing at Till again—checking, always checking.
‘’You trust me, right?’’
Till swallowed hard, chest rising.
‘’I do.’’
‘’Good,’’ Luka murmured, voice lower now. ‘’Then let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.’’
‘’Let me take care of you.”
Luka’s voice was soft now, no teasing laced in it—just steady warmth, like heat rising from his skin. Till’s heart thudded beneath his ribs, loud and uneven. He didn’t move, just watched Luka as he dipped his fingers into the tin, rubbing the lotion between his palms to warm it up.
Till’s breath hitched when Luka leaned back down, pressing a kiss to his chest—then another to the curve of his hip. There was no rush in him. Every movement Luka made was measured, intentional, like he was learning Till’s body by memory, not instinct. His hands trailed lower, stroking over trembling thighs, and still he asked nothing. Just give.
Till’s hands twisted in the sheets. His legs had already fallen open slightly, involuntarily, welcoming something he didn’t have the words for. He wasn’t even sure he understood what he was feeling—only that it was hot and electric and terrifying in the best way.
“You’re shaking,” Luka whispered, brushing his mouth lightly against Till’s inner thigh.
“I’m not—” But he was. His voice broke, and Luka didn’t laugh. He just kissed him again.
“You can tell me to stop. Any second. Just say the word.”
Till didn’t speak. Instead, his fingers reached down, brushing through Luka’s hair, threading at the base of his neck.
“Don’t stop,” he whispered. That was enough.
Luka worked slowly, carefully, one slicked finger pressing in, gentle and steady. Till flinched, breath catching—but Luka kissed the inside of his knee, calming him.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured.
And Till—embarrassingly—moaned at just that. His face burned. “Don’t say shit like that—”
“Why not?” Luka smiled against his skin. “You deserve to be talked to like that.”
The gentleness wasn’t performative—it was real. And it wasn’t fragile. Luka’s strength was still there in the way he held him, in how steady his hands were, and how confidently he moved when Till’s body responded—opening, softening, inviting.
When Luka finally pressed in deeper, Till gasped, one hand flying up to grip the pillow. Luka’s other hand curled around his hip, grounding him.
“Still okay?”
Till nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I—just… don’t stop.”
Luka didn’t. He leaned in, capturing Till’s lips again—soft, slow, filthy in the way it made Till’s stomach twist and burn. And as Luka worked him open, coaxed him with fingers and voice and lips, Till forgot what it was like to flinch. For the first time in a long time, he let someone touch him without fear coiling tight in his gut.
This wasn’t a memory being rewritten. This was something new being made.
Something just for them.
Luka’s fingers moved steadily, still gentle but with growing intent. When he eased a second finger in, Till arched—his mouth falling open in a breathless moan that he couldn’t stop even if he tried.
“Fuck—” Till gasped, one arm flung over his eyes, biting back the sounds that threatened to spill out.
Luka stilled for a moment, his fingers still buried inside him. “Too much?”
Till shook his head, voice tight. “No, no—just… fuck. Don’t stop.”
A low breath of relief left Luka’s lips. He leaned forward again, pressing kisses along Till’s ribs, his collarbone, soothing touches to balance the overwhelming stretch building inside him. His voice was quieter now, closer. “That’s it. Let yourself feel it.”
It was maddening—the slow glide of Luka’s fingers curling just right, exploring him like he was something worth discovering, not something broken. Every thrust sent heat flaring low in Till’s belly, and he found himself rocking into it, chasing the friction, forgetting to be ashamed.
“You sound so pretty when you let go,” Luka murmured, lips brushing his ear now. “Did you know that?”
“Shut up,” Till breathed, but he didn’t mean it—not even close.
Luka chuckled softly, his free hand gripping Till’s thigh, holding him steady. “You want more?”
Till nodded helplessly, twisting under him, panting. “Yeah. Yeah, Luka—please.”
That word again—please—and Luka’s expression shifted into something darker, more serious. He pulled his fingers back slowly, savoring the way Till whimpered from the loss, and kissed him again, longer this time—hot and open-mouthed, swallowing every broken sound.
“You’re doing so fucking good,” Luka whispered against his lips. “I’ve got you.”
And he meant it.
Every touch, every kiss, every slow curl of his hand was proof.
Luka didn’t move right away. He hovered over Till, just watching him for a moment—his flushed face, the way his chest rose and fell, lips slightly parted from panting.
Then he kissed him again.
It wasn’t rushed, not anymore. Luka’s mouth moved slow and deep against his, like he had all the time in the world. He kissed Till until his body melted beneath him, until the only thing grounding him was the press of Luka’s lips and the way his hand cradled the side of his face.
It was addicting—dangerously so.
Till felt like he was falling again, deeper into something he didn’t have words for.
Luka pulled back just slightly, just enough to whisper against his mouth, “Still with me?”
Till nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck… yeah.”
Luka’s hand moved again, sliding down to Till’s hip. “Good.”
He reached down, slicking himself with what was left in the small tin, working slow. He guided himself into place, his eyes flicking up to meet Till’s. He didn’t push in yet. He waited.
“You ready?” Luka murmured, voice low, steady, but something trembled underneath.
Till hesitated—but then reached up, curling a hand around Luka’s wrist.
“Yeah.”
Luka pressed a soft kiss to the center of Till’s chest. ‘’Relax.”
And then—he started to move.
Carefully, giving Till every second to adjust, his free hand still firm on his hip. Their bodies shifted together, slow and tight and searing, until Luka was fully inside him. He let out a shaky breath, forehead dropping to Till’s shoulder.
Till’s breath hitched—sharp, but not in pain. In shock, in feeling.
He hadn’t expected this to feel so—
Whole.
Luka started slow—his movements careful, controlled. He pressed kisses along Till’s jaw, his throat, his collarbone, grounding them both in the rhythm. His hand stayed firm on Till’s hip, the other braced beside his head, his breath shaky against Till’s skin.
But then—Till kissed him.
A desperate, needy pull at Luka’s mouth. His arms wrapped around Luka’s neck, clinging.
The moment their lips met again, something shifted.
The pace changed.
Luka thrust harder—deeper—and a groan tore out of him, low and guttural. Till gasped, his back arching under the pressure, eyes fluttering shut as the sensation rocked through him.
“Fuck,” he moaned, voice breaking, his fingers tangling into Luka’s hair, pulling him back down for another kiss. “Don’t stop—don’t—”
Luka didn’t.
His hips snapped forward, harder now, each thrust making the bed creak beneath them. His hand slid under Till’s thigh, lifting it slightly to push deeper, the angle hitting just right. Till cried out, muffling the sound into Luka’s mouth.
It felt too good.
Every movement sparked heat that curled low in his stomach. Every kiss left him dizzier than the last. He couldn’t stop touching Luka—his back, his shoulders, the tension in his arms as he held himself up. He was all over him, and it still didn’t feel close enough.
“You feel so good,” Luka groaned against his lips, the words almost pained. “Fuck—Till—”
Till kissed him hard, messy, moaning into his mouth as Luka kept thrusting into him like he couldn’t get enough—like he’d waited his whole life for this. Every drag of Luka’s hips made his toes curl. His breath hitched in time with Luka’s every groan.
Their bodies moved together like they already knew how—like they were made for this.
And neither of them said it, but they felt it.
They both knew.
They were both getting close—so close.
Till’s head fell back against the pillow, his lips parted, moans slipping out freely now. Luka was right there, above him, thrusting deep and fast, eyes locked on Till’s face like he wanted to burn the sight into memory.
“Luka—” Till’s voice cracked, his thighs trembling around Luka’s hips. “I—I’m gonna—”
“I know,” Luka murmured, breathless, sweat-slick and flushed. He kissed him again, hard and messy, swallowing the sounds Till made. “Me too. Just—just hold on.”
Till dug his nails into Luka’s back, his body coiled so tight it was almost unbearable. Luka shifted slightly, hitting that spot again, and Till shattered—his body jolting, back arching as a strangled moan broke from him.
His release hit hard, overwhelming. He clung to Luka through it, shaking, gasping for air between the kisses.
Luka didn’t last much longer.
The way Till clenched around him, the heat of him, the look on his face—it was all too much. Luka groaned deeply, burying his face into the crook of Till’s neck as he thrust once, twice more, then came with a shuddering gasp, hips stuttering against him.
They collapsed together, bodies tangled, slick with sweat and breathless. Luka didn’t move right away, didn’t pull away. He just rested there, heart hammering against Till’s chest, one arm curled around his waist.
It wasn’t just sex.
They both felt it.
And that made it terrifying.
Luka finally, gently, pulled out—careful, slow—and Till winced just slightly at the sensitivity. Neither of them said anything.
Then Luka collapsed beside him, shifting so they were both on their backs, chests rising and falling hard in the dim light of the room. The sheets beneath them were wrinkled and damp with sweat, the air thick with heat and something else—something neither of them dared to name.
Their hands didn’t touch.
But they didn’t pull away either.
Till turned his head slightly, glancing sideways. Luka’s eyes were half-lidded, his lips parted, hair a mess against the pillow, chest still heaving. His arm was thrown over his face, but he wasn’t hiding—just trying to catch his breath.
They were both wrecked.
And yet… safe. Strangely. Quietly.
Till didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.
But he didn’t feel the urge to run either.
The silence between them wasn’t awkward now. It was heavy, yes, but settled. Like a storm had passed and left the air still.
After a while, Luka let out a low exhale. “You okay?”
Till swallowed, throat dry. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I think so.”
Luka turned his head to look at him, really look at him, for a long moment. Then he nodded, eyes soft. “Good.”
They stared at the ceiling after that.
The silence said everything else.
They lay there in silence, the room warm with shared breath and fading tension. It should’ve been just sex. It was supposed to be only sex. That unspoken rule—no attachments, no strings, no meaning—had lived somewhere in the back of their heads the whole time.
But now…
Now Luka could feel Till’s thigh still pressed against his. Could feel the lingering echo of those soft, desperate moans in his ear. Could still taste him on his lips.
And something in his chest wouldn’t settle.
He could reach out right now. He could pull Till closer, tuck him into his side
Till lay stiff beside him, his fingers brushing the sheets. His expression was unreadable, but his heart was beating fast—Luka could hear it in the way his breaths caught, the way his shoulders rose too quickly, like he was trying not to think too much.
Luka wanted to ask: Was it more than sex for you too?
But he didn’t.
And Till didn’t look at him either.
So they stayed like that. Close but untouching. Loud with silence.
And neither of them dared to speak it first.
Till shifted onto his side, facing Luka, eyes half-lidded but searching. Luka blinked, then slowly turned too, mirroring him. For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them was thick—still warm with everything that had just happened.
Till’s voice broke the silence. Soft. Uneven.
“…I don’t know what this means.”
Luka didn’t respond immediately. His gaze stayed on Till’s mouth for a moment too long before lifting to his eyes. He looked like he was thinking, trying to form the right words—but none came.
Instead, he reached out slowly, fingertips brushing over Till’s cheek. His thumb lingered near his lips. “You don’t have to,” Luka said, voice low. “Not now.”
“But do you?” Till asked. Not accusing—genuine. Quiet.
Luka hesitated again.
Then he leaned in.
And kissed him.
It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t desperate. It was grounding. Steady. Like an anchor dropped between them.
Till didn’t pull away.
When they broke apart, Luka’s forehead stayed pressed against his. “I’m still figuring it out,” he whispered.
After the kiss, Luka laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, while Till eventually turned over, giving each other space. Not cold—just… quiet. Nothing else was said.
But when morning came, the light slipping lazily between the blinds, Till blinked awake and realized he wasn’t where he’d started.
His head rested on Luka’s chest. One of Luka’s arms was slung loosely around his waist, as if it had found its place there sometime during the night without either of them meaning to.
Their legs were tangled beneath the blanket. Luka’s breathing was slow, deep—still asleep.
For a moment, Till just lay there, listening to the steady rhythm beneath his ear.
It felt… safe.
Too safe.
He should’ve moved. He didn’t.
Instead, he closed his eyes again.
Just a few more minutes.
★
Luka woke before Till moved. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the soft grey light in the room, and he realized the weight across his chest wasn’t a blanket.
It was Till.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe differently. Just stared up at the ceiling, hand still resting lightly on Till’s back, unsure when that had happened—sometime in the night, probably. It wasn’t planned.
Nothing about last night had been.
He felt Till shift, just a little. A sleepy inhale.
And then he froze, too. ‘’Still pretending to sleep?’’
‘’No.’’ A few seconds later, Till tilted his head up slightly. Their eyes met. Both awake. Neither of them spoke.
Till looked at Luka like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. His voice would sound too loud. His thoughts were too tangled. And Luka didn’t push.
The silence stretched out between them. Not heavy. Just full.
Till finally sat up. Ran a hand through his messy hair. Still shirtless, still marked. Luka watched him in the quiet, sitting up as well, resting his arms on his bent knees.
No words. No kisses. No arguments.
Just… something unspoken hanging in the air between them.
Something they both felt but neither was ready to say.
Till shifted on the bed, still lying halfway across Luka’s chest, his fingers tracing aimless shapes on the sheet. The morning light was soft and pale, but the air between them was still thick from everything that had happened.
He finally muttered, “Are we gonna regret this?”
Luka’s eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling. “I think you already regret it.”
That made Till snap his gaze toward him, sharp and offended. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
But Luka didn’t answer—he just looked at him now, calm but unreadable.
And maybe that was what made Till lean in. Not to make a point. Not even to argue.
He just kissed him.
Hot. Slow. Mouth open. Tongue brushing over Luka’s like it belonged there. Luka responded with a low sound in his throat, hand rising to grip Till’s jaw, thumb brushing over the hinge as the kiss deepened. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t gentle either. It was everything they hadn’t said.
Till pulled back eventually, breathless, lips red and slightly wet, eyes searching Luka’s.
“Maybe i regret it” he whispered, voice wrecked.
Luka’s mouth curved just a little. “You say that like you didn’t just kiss me like you meant every second of it.”
Till sat up, flushed. “Ugh. You’re so full of yourself.”
Luka grinned lazily, stretching back against the pillow. “And yet you keep coming back.”
Till grabbed a pillow and hit him in the chest with it—not hard, but enough to make Luka laugh.
They didn’t cuddle. But Till didn’t leave right away either.
Luka eventually sat up with a groan, stretching his back. “Shower,” he muttered, voice still gravelly from sleep. He ran a hand through his hair, then gave Till a look that was almost smug. “Try not to miss me too much.”
Till rolled his eyes, grabbing his clothes from the floor in a rush. “Fuck off,” he muttered, already halfway out the door before Luka even disappeared into the bathroom.
★
Back in his own room, Till threw his clothes into a corner and stomped into the bathroom. The second he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he froze.
“No. No, no—oh my god.”
His neck looked like it had been mauled. Dark red and purple bruises bloomed across his collarbone and throat like Luka had tried to sign his name with his mouth. His shirt wouldn’t cover all of it. Not even close.
He stared at himself, mouth parted, and groaned.
“I’m gonna kill him.”
The worst part? The bruises didn’t even look bad. They looked… good. Like he’d been wanted. Touched. Kissed like someone meant it.
And that thought made him groan again—this time with his head against the mirror.
Great. Fucking fantastic.
Now he had to go to breakfast and pretend everything was normal.
Or maybe he should just never leave this room again.
Till did end up going to breakfast. Mostly because his stomach had started growling so loudly it echoed in his skull. He shoved a hoodie over his head—though it didn’t help much—and walked down to the dining hall like a man walking toward his own public execution.
When he stepped in, the low murmur of conversation instantly died.
He froze. Eyes blinked at him from every direction. Forks hovered mid-air. Even Mizi stopped chewing.
Till blinked, slowly. “What?” he said, voice low.
No one answered.
He made his way to the table, shoulders stiff, and dropped into a chair like he wanted to disappear into it.
“What?” he repeated, louder this time. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”
Dewey, mouth twitching, leaned forward. “You want us to answer that honestly?”
Till frowned. “What are you—”
Mizi tilted her head, lips pursed. “Do you own a mirror?”
Hyuna hid a cough behind her hand.
Dewey grinned. “Buddy, your neck looks like it lost a fight with a wild animal. A very enthusiastic one.”
Till’s face turned red immediately. “Oh my god.”
He yanked the hoodie tighter around his neck, shrinking in his seat.
Just as Till was about to melt through the floor, the door creaked open.
Luka stepped in.
Freshly showered. Loose shirt hanging just right. Hair still damp and pushed back. Smug.
Till’s soul left his body.
Luka scanned the table, took one look at the awkward silence, then smirked.
“Morning,” he said, voice smooth like honey and sin. He sat down right next to Till without hesitation, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. As if he hadn’t just branded Till’s entire neck like a walking sign billboard.
Till didn’t even look at him. He was too busy praying for spontaneous combustion.
Dewey cleared his throat. “So… good night?’’
No one said anything more—but the air around the table crackled with the effort of not laughing or commenting.
They made it so damn hard.
Every single person at the table had the same look: They want us to pretend this is normal?
But neither of the two gave room for teasing—one was too smug, the other too furious.
A peace treaty of chaotic silence.
Luka walks down the dim hallway, hands in his pockets, looking like he’s been up to nothing.
Or maybe too much. Hyuna spots him turning a corner.
“Hey.”
Luka slows, glances her way, then stops. “Hey.”
Hyuna tilts her head, arms crossed.
“You and Till.”
Luka raises an eyebrow. “What about us?”
“You think no one notices, but you’re not exactly subtle.”
A beat.
“Is it a thing?”
Luka scoffs lightly, looking off. “I don’t know. Does it have to be?”
“Eventually, yeah. He’s not… He’s not the kind of person you leave confused.”
Luka shrugs. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know. But if it’s just for fun, stop now. And if it’s not…”
She steps closer, quieter.
“Then stop acting like it isn’t.”
Luka doesn’t reply for a second. He just nods once, vaguely. His posture stays casual, but something in his eyes betrays that he’s thinking—more than he’d like to.
Hyuna stepping back, lighter.
“Just don’t fuck him up. You should know better.”
Luka frowns. “Right.”
★
Luka sits at the edge of his bed, the lights off except for the faint orange glow seeping through the window. The air is still, but his thoughts are anything but.
Till’s touch still lingers on his skin. The taste of him. The way he had turned on his side this morning, eyes half-lidded, barely awake, asking ‘Are we gonna regret this?’
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands running over his face. He’s felt wanted before—used, adored, desired—but this… this feels different. Dangerous. He doesn’t want to need it.
He thinks about Hyuna’s words in the hallway. ‘If it’s not just fun, then stop pretending it is.’
Luka scoffs at the silence.
Like it’s that easy.
He exhales shakily, rests his head in his hands.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
Not now.
Not with someone like Till.
He’s not supposed to fall.
But he is.
And he fucking hates it.
Notes:
It was quite funny to me while editing this chapter how short the smut is here, considering how much longer everything is in the other chapters. And haha oh, you didn't think the slow burn tag was ending here, right? Oh no no, I was very serious, there won't be anything romantic soon, but there will be smut at least...Heh
Chapter 13
Notes:
It was a short chapter, so I managed to edit it fast so I can post it!
Chapter Text
He had sex with Luka.
He blinks. That thought hits him like a slap every time. He says it again in his head. They had sex. Him and Luka.
Not kissed, not got carried away, not hooked up a little — they went all the way, bodies tangled, skin on skin, no holding back. Luka touched him like he meant it. Kissed him like he needed it. Said “let me take care of you” in that stupid voice that’s still stuck in Till’s head.
Now Till’s heart is pounding and his face is hot. His body knows exactly what happened last night — and it remembers. The way Luka touched him. The way it felt to let go like that.
He shifts under the covers, annoyed at himself because why the hell is he getting hard again?
Like, what, his brain is panicking and his body is like: “yeah let’s do that again.”
Absolutely not.
He presses the heel of his hand to his face.
This is so embarrassing.
Till groans and drags a hand down his face. The thought won’t go away. It’s been there all morning, looping like some humiliating, twisted mantra. He keeps thinking if he says it enough in his head, it’ll lose its power.
It doesn’t.
He shifts under the sheets again, cursing when the friction only makes things worse. His skin still tingles with the memory of Luka’s hands on him. The way his voice dropped. The way he said “I promise, I’ll make it good.”
And it was. Too good. That’s the problem.
He swallows hard.
It doesn’t have to mean anything.
They could just… keep doing it. If that’s what this is. If Luka doesn’t want to talk about it and neither does he, then maybe that’s fine. Maybe they can keep ripping each other apart in the dark, and pretend it’s not emotional. Just… physical. Easy.
But it’s not easy. And it’s not nothing.
Because Till hates him.
He hates him.
He hates how Luka always knows what to say. How he’s cocky and calm even when Till is coming apart. How he makes everything a joke — even when they’re arguing. Especially when they’re arguing.
But he also hates how badly he wants him.
He wants to kiss him again.
Wants his hands again.
Wants him again.
And that’s the part that makes him furious.
These days are pretty boring, Till thinks.
No meetings. No missions. Supplies are stacked, rations accounted for. Even Mizi doesn’t have anything to fix or shout about. It’s the kind of rare calm that should feel like a blessing — but it doesn’t. Not to him.
It’s too quiet.
He lounges in bed a while longer, staring at the ceiling until the shadows shift. Eventually he gets up, drags himself to the tiny window, and watches the sun bleed lazily across the rooftops. There’s no one in the courtyard. No one yelling, training, fighting. Not even Dewey cracking jokes.
And that’s when it hits him.
This feels familiar.
Not the place — the feeling.
That same heavy, listless drag through his body. Like he’s caged. Like he’s wasting time.
Like when he was a kid in Anakt Garden.
Now, at least, the door isn’t locked. He can go out. Walk around. Talk to people.
But still—he doesn’t.
Because what’s the point?
There’s nothing to do.
And nothingness makes him dangerous to himself.
Because when he’s not busy — when he’s not moving, or fighting, or arguing — he starts to think.
About Luka.
About last night.
About what it meant.
And what it didn’t.
And worst of all, he thinks about how he misses it.
Already.
Isaac’s been acting weird lately.
Till noticed it right after Luka brought up that name — Jacob.
After Hyuna told them the story. The sewer. The rebellion. The death.
Since then, Isaac’s been distant. Present, but not really there. He walks like he’s carrying something again. Something he thought he’d buried.
Till watches him from across the courtyard that morning. Isaac’s sitting alone, hands clasped, staring at nothing.
It’s not like Till understands.
He doesn’t have a brother.
But maybe… he knows a little of what it’s like.
Ivan wasn’t family. But at some point — somewhere between the performances and the training and the whispered secrets late at night — he became something close.
His best friend. His only friend.
And maybe, maybe… if things had been different, if the world had been kinder,
It could’ve become something more.
He thinks about that sometimes. Quietly.
In the in-between moments.
Never out loud.
He doesn’t remember when exactly the hallucinations stopped — the flickers of Ivan’s face in the mirror, at the end of dark halls, behind his eyes whenever he blinked.
It just… faded.
Now, he feels better, mostly.
He doesn’t flinch at the sound of Ivan’s name anymore. Doesn’t wake up sweating, gasping, reaching.
That rock he used to carry — the one lodged in his chest, always heavy, always suffocating — it’s gone. Or maybe just smaller. Smoother. Something he’s learned to hold without cutting himself on it.
He’s not healed. He knows that.
But he’s not broken the same way anymore.
And that has to count for something.
He’s not broken the same way anymore.
And that has to count for something.
But what he didn’t expect — what catches him off guard now — is that there’s something new lodged in his chest. Something sharp. Not like the ache Ivan left behind. This one’s different.
Luka.
It’s not grief. Not yet.
It’s something else. Something heavier than it should be.
Because it’s not supposed to mean anything.
It was just sex. It didn’t have to mean anything.
They don’t talk about it. They don’t have to.
They can keep doing whatever this is without putting words to it. Without looking too close.
But every time Till thinks about him — about that night — his skin burns. Not just from memory. Not just from want.
But from the terrifying fact that he wants it again.
That maybe he wants more.
He hates him. He still hates him. God, he wants him.
And now there’s this uncomfortable pressure in his chest he can’t name, can’t ignore.
He used to think he couldn’t feel this kind of thing again.
Not after Ivan.
But Luka’s here, tangled somewhere beneath his skin. Not soft. Not comforting. But real.
And Till has no idea what to do with that.
★
Later, he finds himself in the main room.
It’s quiet — for once. No meetings. No training. No plans.
Just the dull hum of electricity and the distant shuffle of boots in the hallway.
Till leans back on the worn couch, one leg draped over the side. Cigarette between his fingers. A half-empty bottle in the other.
Smoke curls around his head like a lazy halo. He takes a long drag, then chases it with a sip of whatever bitter thing he managed to steal from Dewey’s stash.
A couple of people pass through. Eyes flicker toward him. Lingering just a second too long.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer a greeting.
They move on.
He’s used to looks. Always has been. But lately, they come with something extra — confusion, maybe. Curiosity. A little pity.
He knows exactly why.
It’s not like he can hide the mess on his neck.
He hadn’t even realized how bad it was until that morning in the mirror.
Luka really did a number on him.
Smug bastard.
At breakfast, no one said it out loud, but the silence was loud enough.
And Mizi — fuck.
She didn’t even look at him, not directly. But she didn’t need to.
He could feel it. That quiet frustration. The disappointed inhale. The judgment.
She didn’t say anything. Not like her.
But maybe she didn’t have to.
He’s been avoiding her since.
He doesn’t need a lecture. Doesn’t need a look. Doesn’t need to be reminded that he’s stupid.
Because he’s not.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
He’s not some dumb kid with stars in his eyes.
There are no feelings involved.
There aren’t.
Right?
He takes another drag, breathing smoke like it could fill the cracks inside him.
Then he takes a longer drink.
It’s fine. He can handle this.
He’s handled worse.
He’s not going to fall for Luka.
He won’t.
He swears.
★
Luka hadn’t meant to come this way.
He was just walking. Wandering, really — nowhere to be, no one to report to. It’d been quiet all day, almost too quiet. Not even Dewey’s annoying humming in the corridors.
He rounds the corner into the main room —
—and stops.
Till’s there.
Laid out on the couch like some tragic painting. One arm draped across his stomach, the other dangling off the edge, fingers still loosely curled around a cigarette that’s burned out.
Empty bottle on the floor.
Eyes closed.
Chest rising slow.
Asleep. Or passed out. Luka can’t quite tell yet.
The glow from the wall panels catches the bruises — the ones he left — painting deep violets and fading reds across Till’s neck. They’re half-hidden by the loose collar of his shirt, but Luka knows them. Knows exactly where his mouth had been. How hard he had sucked, kissed, bit.
He runs a hand down his face.
Shit.
He steps closer — quiet — careful not to startle him. Not that it looks like anything could wake him right now.
There’s something about the way Till’s sprawled there. Defenseless. Mouth slightly parted. Eyelashes too long for someone so sharp-tongued.
Luka hates how that does something to him.
He crouches a little, getting a better look.
And the smell hits him — alcohol. Cigarette smoke. And underneath it, Till.
He sighs through his nose. Idiot.
Was this because of last night?
Luka leans back on his heels, studying him.
His own chest feels tight. Uneasy.
He could walk away. Pretend he never saw it.
But… he doesn’t.
Instead, he gently reaches out and plucks the burnt-out cigarette from between Till’s fingers. His hand brushes against his, cold against warm.
Still nothing. Till’s out.
“Figures,” Luka mutters to himself.
He glances at the empty bottle. Rolls his eyes. “Real healthy coping, angel.”
Then he pauses. Looks at him again. Softer this time.
He stares for a moment longer, chewing the inside of his cheek. A few more people pass by in the distance — someone glances in. Doesn’t stop, but Luka sees the way their eyes flicker to Till and then away.
Right.
He doesn’t want anyone seeing him like this.
Not like this — slumped over, vulnerable, bruised in places only Luka knows, neck painted with reminders neither of them want to acknowledge out loud.
So Luka steps closer. Slowly. Carefully.
“Goddammit,” he mutters under his breath, crouching down.
He slips an arm under Till’s back, the other beneath his legs. The movement makes Till stir — not much, just a quiet sigh against his collarbone as Luka lifts him up. He’s light. Or maybe Luka just doesn’t feel it.
The bottle clinks as his boot nudges it aside.
He carries him through the hallway, steps measured. He’s grateful no one’s around right now — the base is silent, empty in that eerie way that sometimes makes it feel like a tomb.
Till’s head rests against Luka’s shoulder, breath warm against his neck.
Luka tries not to think about last night.
He makes it to Till’s room.
Inside, it’s dim. Smells like smoke and something faintly sweet — whatever Till washes his hair with. Luka lays him down on the bed carefully, like he’s afraid the mattress might protest.
He pulls the blanket over him, tucks it up to his chest.
And then just stands there.
Watching him.
Till shifts in his sleep. A faint sound slips from his lips — not a word. A hum. Something tired. Luka brushes his knuckles lightly along Till’s temple, then draws his hand back like it burned.
Too much.
He turns. Leaves the room without a word. Closes the door behind him.
But the ache in his chest follows.
The meeting room is cold when Luka steps inside.
Empty.
The long table stretches out before him, scattered with the same folders no one has touched since the last mission. The overhead lights flicker once before settling into a dim hum. His boots echo softly on the floor as he walks over and pulls out a chair.
He sits.
And stares at the pile.
There’s no reason for him to go through them again — not really. He knows what’s in them. Files from the facility. Old records. Maps. Classified notes they weren’t meant to find.
And his file. His name printed across the tab, plain and sharp.
He pulls it out and opens it.
Pages of data, medical logs, experiment codes. A photo — one of those cold, clinical headshots the lab always took. He looks too thin in it. Eyes hollow. Hair shorter. Like a ghost of someone who hadn’t been alive in years.
He flips through the notes.
Subject L-017. Behavioral instability. Noncompliant. Repeated failure to form submission response. Body rejection rate: 62%.
Marked unfit for continuation. Scheduled for disposal.
His jaw tenses. He remembers that word — disposal — more than any number they ever stamped onto him.
He leans back in the chair, holding the paper lightly between two fingers.
There were others. Rows of beds. Some of them didn’t even have names. Just numbers. He remembers seeing their bodies covered in wires, the pale gray tone their skin would turn. Most of them never made it to field use. Most weren’t supposed to.
And somehow he did.
He slides the papers back into the folder, turns to the map instead.
The lab. The lower corridors. He traces a line with his finger along one hallway, remembering the surgical lights, the thick stench of chemicals, the room where he bit a doctor so hard he lost a tooth in return. The chair they strapped him to.
The scars on his wrists itch even now.
A knock interrupts him.
He doesn’t move.
The door creaks open and Hyuna steps in. She’s holding a mug — probably tea — and closes the door softly behind her.
She doesn’t speak at first, just stands across the room, watching him with a quiet sort of caution. Luka finally glances up, and their eyes meet.
“You shouldn’t be reading those alone,” she says gently.
“I’m not reading,” Luka mutters. “Just…
Hyuna sits down across from him.
“Do you still see them?” she asks.
His fingers twitch on the map. “Sometimes.”
“Me too.”
Silence.
And then Luka speaks again, voice quiet, almost hoarse:
“I wasn’t supposed to live.”
Hyuna looks down at her hands, lacing her fingers slowly. “None of us were.”
Hyuna doesn’t reply right away. She just watches him, eyes softer than he wants them to be.
Luka glances at the mug, then back at her. “Let me guess,” he says, voice dry. “You came here to ask about Till again.”
Hyuna raises an eyebrow.
He keeps going. “Because you love warning me, like I’m gonna fuck it all up on purpose.”
That earns him a small exhale — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “I didn’t come here to scold you,” she says.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Hyuna tilts her head slightly. “If I warn you,” she says carefully, “it’s not because I think you’ll mess things up. It’s because I know what happens when people carry too much and pretend it doesn’t weigh anything.”
He looks away. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” she says, gently but firm.
Hyuna doesn’t flinch. “No,” she says quietly. “I think you care more than you want to admit. And it scares the shit out of you.”
He scoffs under his breath, shaking his head.
The silence stretches again.
“I’m not trying to control your choices,” Hyuna says. “Just reminding you that he’s not another one of the things you have to survive, Luka. You don’t have to break it before it breaks you.”
That hits something in his chest. A slow bruise.
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the map again, but this time, he’s not really seeing it.
Hyuna stands slowly. “I’ll leave you to it.”
She reaches for the door, then pauses before leaving. “And for what it’s worth—” she glances back, “—I don’t think you’ll fuck it up.”
The door shuts quietly behind her.
Luka exhales, hands tightening into fists over the edges of the map.
Luka stays in his seat, unmoving. The dim light flickers over the map, but it doesn’t register anymore. His mind is somewhere else entirely. A place deeper than memory — raw, shapeless.
He thinks about Till.
The way he looked that morning.
The way he sounded last night, breathless beneath him.
How warm his skin was.
How easy it was to fall into him.
Luka clenches his jaw.
No.
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
He pushes himself up from the chair, restless now, like something under his skin won’t let him sit still. He’s halfway down the hallway before the ache in his chest sharpens again — deeper than a muscle strain, more than tension.
He presses a palm to his sternum.
It’s been happening more often.
Breathing gets shallow.
Tight.
Panic crawls in when it shouldn’t.
He fumbles for the inhaler in his jacket pocket.
One dosage left.
Shit.
It was supposed to last another week, at least. He slumps against the wall outside his room, holding the inhaler but not using it yet. His fingers tremble slightly.
He could tell someone.
He could ask Hyuna or Dewey or even Till to go out and find a new supply.
But the thought of it makes his throat tighten worse than the attack itself.
He doesn’t want them worrying.
He doesn’t want him worrying.
So he’ll go. Alone.
Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.
He swallows back the rising panic and finally uses the inhaler.
One deep breath.
Then another.
The rush hits, not as strong as it used to, but enough.
Barely enough.
His chest still aches.
He doesn’t know if it’s from the lack of oxygen — or something else entirely.
Something softer. Something much more dangerous.
Luka closes his eyes.
He wants to hate Till.
Wants it to be simple.
But it isn’t.
And lately, he can’t lie to himself as well as he used to.
★
Till blinked up at the ceiling, dry-mouthed, disoriented.
His head throbbed, his body heavy beneath the covers.
Covers?
He sat up slowly, wincing as the room spun for a second. The lights were off. The air smelled like his room. Like his sheets.
But he didn’t remember coming here.
The last thing he recalled was sitting in the main room, a half-empty bottle next to him, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He remembered the numbness. The silence. He’d closed his eyes just for a second.
Yet now he was in bed, tucked in carefully like someone had placed him there — someone who didn’t just dump his drunk ass and leave. His boots were off. His jacket too. The blankets were pulled to his shoulders.
No one treated him like that.
Not since—
He ran a hand over his face and dropped back onto the pillow.
It had to be Luka.
No one else would bother.
No one else could, without him waking up swinging.
And Luka hadn’t stayed. He hadn’t left a note. No smug comment or parting insult. No trace.
That somehow felt worse.
Till stared at the ceiling again, his chest aching for reasons that weren’t just alcohol or nicotine withdrawal. He hated how tender the gesture felt. He hated that Luka had carried him here, that he’d probably been gentle — that he’d done it silently.
He hated that it didn’t feel like hate anymore.
He didn’t see Luka that night.
And for the first time in days, Luka’s absence wasn’t a relief.
It lingered.
Till stayed in his room, alone. His head still ached, and his thoughts spun between irritation and something softer, something heavier.
It was sometime mid-morning when the knock came — sharp, urgent. Till sat up with a groan.
“What,” he mumbled as he swung himself out of bed and yanked open the door.
Hyuna stood there, breathless. Her expression immediately put him on alert.
“Is Luka with you?”
Till blinked. “…No. Why would he be?”
She bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder, clearly trying not to panic. “He’s not in his room. No one’s seen him since last night.
That woke Till up.
He gripped the edge of the door. “Did he say anything? Did he leave?”
“No. He didn’t say a word. But his room’s open. His jacket and bag are missing.
Till stared at her.
And his heart dropped.
He hadn’t seen Luka since yesterday — when he passed out in the main room.
Luka had carried him to bed, and then just… what? Left? On his own?
Without backup. Without his meds.
Without saying anything.
Till’s mouth was dry again, but this time it wasn’t from the alcohol.
“Fuck,” he said.
Hyuna nodded tightly. “Yeah. I’m gonna wake Isaac and Dewey. We need to find him.
★
Luka knew it was stupid.
He wasn’t reckless. Not really. But this—
This was probably what recklessness looked like.
The city outskirts were quiet, dead quiet, the kind of quiet that always meant something worse. The sun hadn’t fully risen when he slipped out of the hideout, bag slung over his shoulder, knife strapped to his thigh, pistol hidden in the folds of his jacket.
No one saw him leave. He made sure of that.
He’d left a note. Sort of. Scribbled on the corner of an old map, shoved under his pillow. Not meant to be read unless someone was looking for it. Maybe that was cowardly.
Or maybe it was easier than saying I’m out of medicine and I didn’t want you to worry.
Because worry made things complicated.
And Luka couldn’t afford complicated.
His lungs already burned just from walking, and every breath scraped against the inside of his chest. His last proper dose had been a day and a half ago. He had the emergency inhaler tucked in his bag, but he was saving it for actual emergencies.
This wasn’t one. Not yet.
He kept his pace steady. He knew this route. He’d scouted it months ago. There was a pharmacy on the edge of a collapsed building, partly buried under rubble but accessible through the back alley. He’d seen it before and marked it on his mental map.
He didn’t plan on being gone long. Just in, out, and back before anyone noticed.
No one needed to make a big deal out of it. No one needed to follow.
Especially not Till.
Luka exhaled and pressed his hand to his chest as he walked, pushing through the sting.
He wasn’t doing anything stupid.
Just picking up meds.
★
Till sat stiffly on the edge of one of the worn-out couches, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t listening to every word Hyuna said — but he was. Of course he was. They were all gathered again, not for a mission, not for a meeting, just… waiting.
Waiting for him.
“He’s been off lately,” Hyuna said quietly, pacing the room
Till stayed silent.
He couldn’t say anything. His mouth felt dry. His skin prickled like it wanted to crawl away from his bones. Luka had been acting strange — more tense, more tired, more… distant. And Till, brilliant as ever, had been too busy stewing in his own thoughts, trying to figure out if what they did meant anything, to actually ask if Luka was okay.
Typical.
“Maybe he just needed air,” Mizi offered, but no one believed it.
Hyuna stopped pacing. “He’s not in the building. I checked everywhere. Even the supply closets.”
Dewey glanced over. “And you’re sure he didn’t say anything to you?” The question wasn’t directed at Hyuna.
It was pointed at him.
Till’s gaze stayed locked on the floor. “No,” he said after a beat. “He didn’t.”
Which was true.
But it didn’t stop the heavy feeling sinking in his gut, like he should’ve known. Like maybe Luka had said something without saying anything at all. The way he’d been using his inhaler more. The way he wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes lately. The way he carried himself — like he was holding something in that might break him if he let it out.
What if he had decided to return to Heperu? Would Luka do that? After everything he was put through…no. Luka wouldn’t do that. But Till’s mind can't help but think the worst.
Isaac, standing off to the side, spoke for the first time. “He’s not reckless. Not unless he’s desperate.”
That made Till’s stomach twist tighter.
Desperate.
Why would Luka be desperate?
Hyuna turned toward him again, gentler this time. “Till… did he seem like something was wrong?”
Till opened his mouth. Closed it. Nothing…
“I don’t know,” he said.
But the truth itched beneath his skin like a splinter.
He should’ve known.
★
The pharmacy was half-collapsed, shelves ransacked, glass crunching beneath his boots. Still, he moved fast — he knew what he needed, and thankfully, it wasn’t the kind of stuff people usually fought over.
Third drawer behind the counter. Still locked, but Luka made quick work of that with the butt of his pistol. A puff of dust, a creak of hinges, and there it was.
Inhalers. A whole box of them.
He exhaled, relief sharp in his chest as he snatched a few and stuffed them into his bag. That should last him a while.
He turned to leave, but something on the nearby shelf caught his eye — a row of small plastic bottles. He squinted. The label was torn, but he didn’t need to read it.
Lube.
Luka blinked, then snorted quietly. Of course.
For half a second, he considered walking past. But then his lips twitched into a crooked grin as he reached for one. “Would be a waste,” he muttered to himself, stuffing it into a side pocket.
It's not like he planned anything..but who knows?
The smile faded almost instantly as he stepped outside again. Clouds were shifting, sky heavy. His boots hit the dirt fast. No more delays.
He didn’t look back.
He stepped through the rusted gates of the base like he hadn’t just vanished for half a day.
Bag slung over his shoulder. Hoodie dusted in dirt. The pharmacy trip had been quiet, uneventful — all things considered, a success.
What he didn’t expect was half the group waiting at the main doors, geared up like they were about to launch a rescue mission.
Hyuna, Dewey, Mizi, Isaac.
And Till.
Everyone froze when they saw him. Luka blinked. “…Did I miss a memo?”
Till looked like he was about to hit him.
Dewey was the first to speak. “What the fuck, man?” His voice cracked with relief more than anger. “We thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
Luka shrugged, moving past them like it was nothing. “Wasn’t.”
Hyuna grabbed his arm. “You didn’t tell anyone where you were going. You disappeared.”
“I needed something,” Luka said simply. He fished in his bag, held up the inhalers with two fingers. “Got it.”
Till couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Luka, casually striding through the gates like he hadn’t just disappeared without a word. Like they hadn’t all been ready to search every ruin within a ten-mile radius. Like he hadn’t nearly lost his mind.
His hoodie was stained with dust, his hands scraped, and his face unreadable as ever. But he was breathing.
He held up the inhaler like some kind of prize. “Got what I needed.”
Till stared at it. Then at him.
He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not in front of the others.
His jaw clenched.
Hyuna was still talking, Mizi muttering curses under her breath. But Till barely heard any of it. The sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears, loud and sharp.
Luka was about to walk past him, as if nothing happened — as if he hadn’t scared the shit out of them — when Till suddenly stepped forward.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t even look him directly in the eye.
He muttered under his breath, voice tight, “You’re so fucking—”
And then his hand closed around Luka’s wrist.
He didn’t wait for permission.
He turned and walked, dragging Luka behind him without another word.
Behind them, Dewey let out a low whistle.
They barely made it down the hall before Till shoved Luka into the wall.
“Are you fucking stupid?” Till’s voice cracked as it rose. “You could’ve died out there—what the hell were you thinking?! You didn’t tell anyone—not me, not Hyuna—no one! You just vanished!”
Luka didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look surprised. His eyes dragged lazily across Till’s face, lips twitching up.
“I didn’t know I had to check in with you every time I stepped outside.”
“Don’t—don’t do that,” Till snapped, finger pointing at him. “Don’t act like this is normal. You didn’t even say anything—what if you got shot? What if they caught you again?”
Luka tilted his head. “You’re yelling an awful lot for someone who swears this doesn’t mean anything.”
That stopped Till short. His chest heaved. Heat flared in his cheeks.
Luka’s smirk deepened. “You starting to care a little too much, sweetheart?”
Till exploded.
“Fuck you—”
And then his hands were in Luka’s shirt, dragging him forward, and their mouths crashed together.
It was angry. Desperate. Teeth clashing, breath stolen, both of them burning up with things they couldn’t say.
Luka grabbed his hips hard, fingers digging in, pulling Till closer like he needed to. Till’s hands fisted in his collar, like he wanted to both shake him and never let go.
When they finally broke apart, Till’s voice was hoarse. “You—fucking—idiot.”
Luka’s grin was breathless. “You missed me.”
“Shut up,” Till hissed.
And kissed him again.
They barely made it to Till’s room—stumbling, bumping into walls, their mouths never parting. Till fumbled with the handle behind him, managing to kick the door shut with his leg.
The moment it clicked closed, he shoved Luka back by the collar, dragging him toward the bed.
“You’re so—” he breathed between kisses, “—fucking infuriating.”
“Funny,” Luka muttered, voice low against his lips, “you didn’t seem to mind last night.”
“Shut up.”
Till pushed him again—harder this time—until Luka dropped onto the mattress with a soft thud. And then Till was on him. Climbing onto his lap, thighs spread on either side, grabbing at his shirt like he could tear it off just by holding it too tight.
Luka’s hands slid under his shirt, calloused palms warm against his waist. But this time, he didn’t lead.
Till did.
Furious, frustrated, and burning.
Their kiss turned rough, sloppy with need, both of them breathless and hot. Till’s fingers raked through Luka’s hair, tugging it back, exposing his throat. He kissed down his jaw, bit at the edge of it—not gentle. Not careful.
“You think you can just disappear?” he hissed. “Come back and act like it’s fine?”
“You’re the one on top of me right now,” Luka said, breath ragged, “but sure, keep yelling.”
Till cursed under his breath and ground down harder, making Luka groan.
“I hate you,” he gasped.
“Yeah?” Luka’s hands gripped his thighs. “Then why are you shaking?”
Till didn’t answer. He just kissed him again—desperate, consuming.
He didn’t know what this was anymore. But it was something, and it was all he could think about.
Till didn’t answer. He just kissed him again—desperate, consuming.
But this time, he didn’t let it go further.
After a few more breathless seconds, he pulled back, chest heaving, lips red. His hands were still gripping Luka’s shirt, but his eyes were elsewhere now—searching his face, trying to figure out what the hell they were doing.
Luka looked back at him, stunned into silence for once.
Till stood up first, running a hand through his hair.
“Next time you pull some dumb shit like that,” he muttered, “don’t expect me to come dragging you back.”
But before Till could pull away entirely, Luka’s hand came up, fingers curling gently under his chin. He tilted his head up, made him look.
Their eyes locked—no jokes, no smirks, just something raw and unspoken.
Luka leaned in and kissed him again—slower this time. Not angry. Not teasing. Just there.
When he pulled back, he didn’t say anything. And neither did Till.
He stayed in Luka’s lap, lips parted slightly, breath still uneven. His hands were on Luka’s shoulders now, gripping lightly as if unsure what to do with himself.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
But neither of them moved.
Not yet.
Luka’s thumb brushed just beneath Till’s jaw, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“You calm now?” he murmured, voice low against the silence.
Till didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked down to Luka’s mouth, then back up again. His chest was still rising and falling a little too fast.
“No,” he muttered, even though he was.
But fuck if he was going to admit it.
They didn’t move. Luka’s hands stayed resting on Till’s waist, his thumbs brushing lazy circles through the thin fabric of his shirt. Till was still straddling him, but the urgency had passed—replaced with something slower, heavier, unspoken. Their foreheads nearly touched.
Till’s voice broke the quiet, low and hesitant.
“Was it you?”
Luka’s brows drew together slightly.
“What?”
“Who moved me to my room? Yesterday.”
Luka didn’t answer immediately. He looked away for a second, then met Till’s gaze again.
“You were passed out in the main room,” he said. “Didn’t think anyone else should see you like that.”
A beat of silence passed.
“…Thanks,” Till muttered, awkwardly.
Luka shrugged, but there was something softer in his eyes.
“You’re welcome, trouble.”
They sat in that stillness for a while, not saying much—Till’s weight comfortably settled in Luka’s lap, his fingers absently brushing against Luka’s shoulder. The closeness wasn’t charged anymore, not with lust. Just… there.
But of course, Till couldn’t leave it quiet.
“You and Hyuna,” he said suddenly. “You seem close again.”
Luka’s brows lifted a little. “Yeah?”
“I mean,” Till continued, eyes flicking away, “do you still love her?”
It was so stupid. Especially considering the position they were in—his thighs wrapped around Luka’s hips, Luka’s hands still on him, their mouths barely parted ten minutes ago. It didn’t mean anything, he reminded himself. It was just a question. Not jealousy. Not anything like that.
Luka blinked, a breath of something close to laughter leaving him. “Is this really the time to ask that?”
Till shrugged like it was nothing, like he hadn’t already regretted it the second it left his mouth. “Guess I was just curious.”
Luka tilted his head, looking at him in that frustrating way—too calm, too unreadable. “No. I don’t love her.”
The pause after that felt heavier than it should have.
“Not like that,” Luka added finally.
Luka let the silence sit for a while longer, his thumb brushing slowly along the hem of Till’s shirt. Then he asked, casually but not without intention, “What about Mizi?”
Till snorted. “Mizi? What, are we trading names now?”
Luka didn’t answer. Just kept looking at him.
Till sighed. “It was childish.”
Luka raised an eyebrow.
Till leaned back slightly—not to move away, just to look at him better. “I fell for her ’cause she was… I dunno. Pretty. Bright. She had that smile.” He glanced off. “But it got worse once I actually started knowing her. She was kind. Smart. Too good for the place we were in.”
There was a pause. Then, quieter: “So I made it my job to protect her. Not that she ever asked me to. I didn’t talk to her much, just… watched from a distance.” He shook his head with a bitter smile. “It gave me something to focus on. Something that wasn’t them. Something good.”
Luka exhaled. Not a sigh, just breath escaping slowly. “Yeah. That’s how it was with me and Hyuna.”
Till blinked at him.
“She was there when everything was going to hell. And she didn’t treat me like I was broken.” Luka glanced down at his hand still resting on Till’s thigh. “She wasn’t afraid of me, not like the others. She believed in what I could be. Not what they tried to make me.”
Till didn’t say anything at first. There was something sharp in his chest he didn’t want to name.
“It wasn’t about love,” Luka added. “Not really. More like… survival.”
“Yeah,” Till said finally, his voice softer. “I get that.”
They didn’t speak for a moment. But something settled between them. A strange, quiet understanding.
Not love. Not yet. But the start of knowing each other, and that was almost worse.
Till shifted, sliding off Luka’s lap, though not far. He stayed close, shoulder brushing Luka’s, legs still touching. The air between them had changed—no longer crackling with frustration or heat, but something quieter. Something raw.
“I almost escaped once,” Till said suddenly, his voice low.
Luka glanced at him. He didn’t interrupt.
“It was during one of those times they locked me in solitary. I was losing it. No sleep, no food, couldn’t tell if it was night or day anymore.” He paused, eyes unfocused. “I’d been fighting back too much. Guess they wanted to break me.”
Luka’s jaw tensed, but he stayed silent.
“Then Ivan shows up. I thought I was hallucinating at first, but—he was real. Opened the door, undid the restraints.” Till laughed quietly, a bitter sound. “Didn’t say much. Just took my hand and pulled me out.”
He blinked slowly. “We got all the way to the outer gates. It was nighttime—I’d never seen the sky before. Real sky. Not through screens or filtered windows. And meteors were falling. Hundreds of them. Lit up the whole place like fireflies.”
Luka was still, watching him.
“And just for a second,” Till whispered, “I thought we were gonna make it. Be free. I could feel the cold air. Smell something that wasn’t sterilized.”
“…But?”
“My hand slipped from his,” Till said quietly. “And I stopped.”
A long pause. Then:
“I couldn’t leave her. Not Mizi. I couldn’t just walk away.”
Luka turned his head toward him slowly. “So you went back.”
Till nodded. “Ivan didn’t try to stop me. He just looked at me like he understood. Like he knew I’d come back even before I did.”
He rubbed his face with one hand. “After that, they took him somewhere else. And the next time I saw him…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
The silence lingered between them like a wound, but not a new one. One they both carried in different ways.
Till didn’t expect anything. He wasn’t even sure why he told the story. Maybe it just felt safe, in this moment—after everything, after that fight, after the sex, after the closeness that still lingered like heat in the air.
But then Luka shifted beside him, rubbing his palms together like he was trying to get warm.
“…I owe you an apology,” he said quietly.
Till blinked, turning his head slowly. “What?”
“I said—” Luka looked down, jaw clenched, voice flatter now. “I’m sorry.”
The silence stretched again, this time more stunned.
“I don’t do that,” Luka added with a bitter smile, not quite meeting his eyes. “Apologies. The last time I said it was to Hyuna. Months ago. And it felt like…shoving broken glass down my throat.”
Till stared.
“But I mean it,” Luka continued, finally glancing his way. “What I did with you—at the start, the tricks, the pushing. The way I used you just to get a reaction or because I was angry with myself. I’m not proud of that.”
His voice was steadier now, but quieter. “You didn’t deserve it.”
A beat passed. Luka let out a dry laugh. “So yeah. There. That’s two in my whole life. Guess I’ll die early.”
Till didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t have to. Luka’s apology had landed like something heavy and sharp, right in the chest. Not dramatic, not begging. Just… honest. And real. He wasn't even mad about their round, he hates him for other reasons.
And that made it worse, somehow.
Till didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands like they might give him the right words. He didn’t want to say something too soft. Or too serious. Or too honest.
But then he sighed, rubbing his thumb over a faint scar on his palm.
“…You know, I don’t really blame you.”
Luka looked at him, unsure if he heard him right.
Till went on. “For the mind games. The manipulation. All of it. I wanted to. I tried to. But deep down—I knew.”
He leaned back a little, resting his head against the wall behind them.
“I didn’t even let Acorn sing,” he muttered. “Didn’t give a fuck about anyone but myself. I was so caught up in survival and proving something that I just… shut everything else out. Same as you.”
Luka watched him. Quietly. Intently.
“We’re not that different, Luka,” Till said, turning his head toward him. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s why we keep pulling and pushing like this.”
A small, bitter smirk tugged at his lips. “Two assholes trying not to feel too much.”
Luka huffed softly. “Speak for yourself.”
Till raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve been trying not to feel anything since I met you,” Luka muttered. “Clearly doing a shit job.”
They both fell silent again. But it wasn’t cold this time. It was heavier, yes—but warmer too. Something understood. Something not quite forgiven, but accepted.
Till glanced sideways at him—Luka, leaning back against the wall, legs stretched out, head tipped slightly to the side in thought. He looked calm. Or like he was pretending to be.
And yet… the more time Till spent around him, the more he began to understand. Piece by piece.
He would’ve done the same, wouldn’t he? If he had lived Luka’s life—if he had faced that kind of isolation, that kind of pressure, that kind of fear… He would’ve become cold. He would’ve shut everyone out, too.
He remembered what Hyuna said. What Luka didn’t say.
The training. The endless experiments. The near-death experiences.
The way Heperu pushed him, used fear to sharpen him into something unbreakable—stopping his heart, over and over, until he forgot how to flinch.
What kind of person survives that?
Of course Luka was desperate to win. Of course he did what he had to.
Till exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face.
He didn’t blame him anymore. Maybe he never really did.
Luka had changed. Anyone could see that. He was still guarded, sharp-edged, full of ghosts—but he’d come a long way from the version of him that walked into Alien Stage ready to tear the world apart just to survive.
And for some reason, it made something ache in Till’s chest.
“…You know,” he murmured aloud without looking at him, “you’ve changed. A lot.”
Luka turned his head slightly. “Is that your way of saying I used to be insufferable?”
Till gave a soft laugh. “Used to be?”
That earned a quiet smirk from Luka. But neither of them looked away.
Till sighed—long, heavy—and without thinking, without planning it, he shifted down and stretched out, laying flat on his back across the couch. One arm flopped above his head, the other resting across his chest.
Then, without a word, he turned just enough to press his head into Luka’s lap.
Soft fabric. The faint warmth of him. The way Luka stiffened, even just a little, before relaxing under the weight.
Impulsive. He was acting impulsive again. He knew it.
But he didn’t move.
He stared up at the ceiling, lips parted slightly, breath slow.
His body relaxed—too much, too fast—but his mind wouldn’t shut up.
He could feel Luka’s hand twitch against his shoulder, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Like touching him would mean something.
Maybe it would.
Till swallowed.
He wanted to kiss him again.
God, he wanted to kiss him so badly it made his chest feel too tight.
But he didn’t. Not yet.
So he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
Just a minute longer like this.
Just… one more minute.
Luka’s hand settled gently in his hair. The weight of it was light. Hesitant. Like Luka thought he might flinch and pull away.
But Till didn’t move.
He only breathed.
And Luka’s fingers moved. Soft. Careful. He brushed back a strand of hair from Till’s forehead like he’d done it a thousand times before.
And then he looked down at him.
Till opened his eyes. Met his gaze.
The silence between them cracked, then shattered.
Luka leaned down slowly. Like something might stop him if he moved too fast. Like the world would fall apart.
But it didn’t.
Their lips met, and it was different this time.
Not heated. Not angry. Not something to burn away whatever they didn’t want to say.
Just… warm. Terrifyingly warm.
A slow, deep kiss that lingered, like neither of them wanted to let it end.
And when Luka pulled back—barely an inch—his eyes were still closed.
Because this—whatever this was—felt too good.
Too real.
And neither of them were ready to admit what it meant.
Chapter 14
Notes:
I swear every time I write smut between them it feels so long and while I'm editing it I'm so frustrated like..is that it? like what the hell...I'm trying to calm myself down from the fact that the next fic will be much better than this one...Anyways three chatpets for one day yaa!!
Chapter Text
It was warm. That was the first thing he noticed.
The second was the soft hum that vibrated beneath his cheek—something gentle, low, almost soothing. A voice. Singing. Not loud, not even full words—just fragments of melody under Luka’s breath, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
Till blinked his eyes open slowly. He was still lying there, head resting on Luka’s lap, the other boy absentmindedly stroking his hair, lost in whatever tune he was carrying.
For a moment, Till just watched him.
Luka looked… peaceful. Relaxed in a way he rarely ever was. His expression wasn’t guarded or smug, just thoughtful, eyes somewhere far away. The sound of his voice—quiet and a little raw—was weirdly intimate. Almost like a secret.
“Are you serenading me now?” Till mumbled, voice raspy from sleep. “Damn. I’m getting a private show.”
Luka jumped slightly, startled, and then rolled his eyes. “You’re not that lucky.”
“Sure,” Till said, stretching lazily and smirking up at him.
Luka didn’t answer. Just looked at him for a beat longer than usual before shifting slightly, the moment gone.
Till sat up fully, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, trying to ignore how empty his lap felt now.
“I should go,” Luka muttered, already standing.
He didn’t say thanks or see you later. He just left. Like always.
Till sighed, running a hand through his hair, still warm where Luka had touched him. Whatever that moment had been—it didn’t matter. Not now.
The base had felt oddly quiet the last few days. Everyone had fallen into a routine of waiting, sleeping, training, avoiding. But now, something was shifting.
Isaac stood at the center of the main room, his voice loud enough to carry.
“Everyone. We need to talk. Meeting room. Now.”
His tone left no room for questions.
Till was already halfway through lighting a cigarette, but he lowered it, brow furrowing. If Isaac was calling a meeting—finally—it meant something serious was happening.
One by one, the others started to gather, tension filling the air like dust. Hyuna and Mizi exchanged glances. Dewey looked bored, but his leg bounced. Even Luka eventually appeared again, expression unreadable.
Till didn’t look at him. Not really. But he felt the shift.
Something was coming.
The meeting room was still when Isaac finally spoke. He didn’t raise his voice—but everyone leaned in.
“We found something.”
A few files were spread across the table. He tapped the top one, marked with an unfamiliar set of coordinates—an Anakt Garden sub-point no one had noticed before.
“It’s a connected facility. Underground. Tied to Anakt Garden but deeper, older. It’s not just a holding center—it’s a lab. They’re building something there.”
“Building?” Dewey raised an eyebrow.
Isaac looked at him, dead serious. “Children.”
The silence snapped tight.
“They’re growing them. Manufacturing. Not naturally. They’re using blood samples—probably from the eliminated contestants, or other donors. Creating bodies. Programs. Conditioning them early. Artificial creation to raise them in isolation and prepare them directly for Alien Stage.”
“God,” Mizi whispered.
“They’re not just taking kids anymore,” Isaac went on. “They’re making them. And while they do that, they’re still abducting others. Prepping them the usual way—physical, psychological trials. It’s like they’re running two generations at once. One organic, one manufactured.”
Till leaned back, arms crossed, trying to process. “So what… It’s not enough they pit us against each other—they want to perfect it?”
Isaac nodded. “If we’re smart about this… we can get in before they’re put on stage. Before they’re too far gone. We could get them out.”
Dewey scoffed, half-heartedly. “Break into Anakt Garden. Easy.”
But no one laughed. Not this time.
Isaac looked at all of them. “I’m not saying we go now. But it’s on the table. And if there’s a chance—any chance—to stop this before it starts again… we take it.”
Luka barely heard the rest of Isaac’s words.
His mind drifted—Anakt Garden.
He remembered the sterile lights, the humming machines, the endless corridors that all looked the same. But this… underground? Even more than before?
Hyuna had told him once—half-whispered and shaken—that when they found Jacob, she’d been led beneath the facility, to places that didn’t appear on any official map. Places that felt older, more mechanical. She said the air had been colder, and the guards there weren’t like the ones they usually saw.
But even she hadn’t mentioned a lab like this.
And now, children are being built. Grown like crops. Blood samples.
No.
Luka’s jaw tightened.
It was too easy. Too neat. The files showing up. The path is so clear. Of course it would draw their attention. Of course Isaac would want to act on it.
They’re not that stupid.
Whoever was running this—whoever had started it—wanted them to find it.
Luka looked at the map again, the pin on the coordinates glowing faint on the tablet.
Trap.
It felt like a trap.
They crowded around the screen, trying to sketch out a crude map of Anakt Garden based on what intel they had—old floor plans, scribbled diagrams, bits of memory.
“We should move from the west wing,” someone muttered, “it’s closest to the labs—”
“No, it’s not,” Luka cut in.
They all turned. He was standing back from the table, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“You’re missing entire sections,” he said. “This hallway here—” he pointed, tapping the screen—“leads to a service tunnel that connects to the guard’s barracks. You marked it as a dead end.”
Hyuna frowned. “That tunnel was sealed off.”
Luka shook his head. “They say that. But that’s where I saw the guards disappearing. Every day. It leads somewhere.”
Till stepped forward, rubbing his temples. “There’s another way out,” he said quietly. “Or there was.”
They looked at him.
“When I was still there… Ivan tried to help me escape. He got me out of solitary and into the upper levels. We almost made it. There’s a tunnel near the generator room—it leads to the outer fence. I don’t know if it’s still there. But it worked once.”
Luka glanced at him, surprised—but didn’t say anything.
They kept mapping, marking every new suggestion. But the deeper they went, the more Luka’s gut twisted.
No underground routes. No clean exits from the lower levels. Just a drop into silence.
“It’s too perfect,” Luka said finally, voice low. “This layout… the lab’s location… it’s surrounded by blind spots. And if you go too far down—there’s no way out.”
He stared at the blinking pin again.
“Perfect place for a trap.”
Everyone went quiet after Luka’s warning.
No one had thought of it like that. Not even Isaac, and he’d been the one to call this meeting.
Luka didn’t bask in the silence. He just leaned back, expression unreadable, arms crossed tight over his chest like he regretted speaking at all.
Isaac let out a slow whistle and shook his head.
“Damn,” he said. “Are you trying to take my job or something?”
A few people chuckled, tension cracking just enough to breathe again.
“I’d do it better,” he said flatly.
Till choked on his water.
Isaac raised both hands. “Okay, alright, we got ourselves a little genius with a mouth. Noted.”
Luka rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
★
The hallway is quiet, the low hum of lights and distant voices behind closed doors. Luka moves quickly, barely making it around the corner before the air shifts in his chest—tight, sharp, and wrong.
He leans against the wall, coughs once, then again. It won’t stop. His breathing is shallow, erratic, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. His hand trembles as he grips the inhaler tucked in his coat. He doesn’t use it yet.
Just wait. Breathe through it. It’ll pass.
He hears footsteps too late.
Till freezes when he spots him.
Luka’s bent over slightly, one arm braced on the wall, coughing into his shoulder like he can hide it. He doesn’t look up.
Till says nothing at first. He just watches, tense. He could ask. He could step forward.
But he doesn’t.
“…You good?” he mutters finally, voice flat.
Luka clears his throat, straightens. “Yeah,” he says, hoarse but trying to sound normal.
Till doesn’t buy it. Luka knows he doesn’t.
But Till just nods slowly, eyes lingering a second too long, then turns and keeps walking.
No one says anything else.
The silence clings like static.
★
Later that night, the base quieted down. Most of the others are tucked away in their rooms, murmurs replaced by the occasional creak of old pipes or wind against the windows.
Luka’s sitting near the window, one leg pulled up lazily, eyes watching the dark outside but not really seeing it.
Till sits across from him, lighter flicking, the soft glow catching the side of his face. He takes a drag, exhales, and says, casually—
“You know, I’m really fucking impressed.”
Luka lifts a brow. “With what? My lung capacity?”
Till snorts, amused. “No. Your brain. The way you remember everything. Every room in Anakt Garden. Every fucking hallway. You made a whole map in like five minutes. I couldn’t even draw my way to the kitchen.”
Luka hums. “Trauma has a way of sharpening the memory.”
Till glances at him, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Still. It’s a talent. Strategy too. You see things in a way no one else here does.”
He takes another drag.
Luka looks at him now. “Are you trying to seduce me with compliments?”
Till grins around the cigarette. “Would it work?”
Luka doesn’t answer right away. Just watch him, unreadable.
Luka lets out a low sigh, running a hand through his hair. Something in him looks coiled, uneasy. He’s been like this lately—like his mind’s somewhere else, like his skin doesn’t quite fit right.
Then, without a word, he leans forward and plucks the cigarette from Till’s fingers.
Till freezes. “What the fuck—”
Luka takes a drag. Long. Deep. Like he needs it to survive.
Till stares at him, wide-eyed. “Are you insane? You’re literally—literally—going to die. Like I saw you coughing your lungs out earlier and now this?”
Luka exhales the smoke slowly, eyes half-lidded. He coughs a little. “Calm down. It’s not like one’s gonna kill me.”
Luka leans back, taking another drag like he didn’t just drop a live grenade in the room. The smoke curls lazily out of his mouth, his expression unreadable.
Till watches him. Not blinking. Not moving. His jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
Luka glances over and catches the look. He huffs a soft laugh, dry as dust. “Relax. I might already be dying anyway.”
Silence.
Till doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even scoff.
He just stares at him, that worry in his eyes growing heavier, darker. “Why would you say that?”
Luka shrugs like it’s nothing. “You’ve seen me. Doesn’t take a genius. You think I haven’t noticed how often I can’t breathe right lately?”
“That’s not funny,” Till snaps. His voice is low but sharp. “Don’t fucking joke about that.”
Luka’s smile falters.
“I’m serious,” Till adds, quieter now, but firmer. “You don’t get to brush it off like it’s a joke. You—you left without telling anyone. You came back like it was nothing. Now this?”
Luka stares ahead, cigarette burning low between his purple fingers. “…I’m tired.”
Till doesn’t answer.
He wants to reach out, maybe grab Luka’s hand, or take the cigarette again, or say something that would make Luka stop acting like he’s already gone.
But he doesn’t move.
They just sit there, smoke curling between them, heavy silence pressing in from all sides.
Till’s hand shoots out.
He snatches the cigarette from Luka’s fingers, crushes it out in the ashtray like it personally offended him.
“I said stop saying that.”
Luka blinks at him, surprised—but only for a second. Then he exhales, slow and bitter. “Why? It’s true.”
“Shut up.” Till’s voice is shaking now. “You don’t get to say that like it doesn’t matter.”
“You want me to lie?” Luka mutters, turning his face away. “You want me to pretend I’m not getting worse every damn week?”
“Yes!” Till growls. “Yes, because the real thing is worse, Luka! You say shit like that like you’re ready to give up—like you don’t care who it hurts.”
“I don’t,” Luka mutters.
“Liar.”
Luka’s face twists, shoulders curling in on themselves like he’s folding under the weight of it all. “I didn’t ask you to care.”
“Well, too bad,” Till snaps, stepping in, too close, too fast. “I do.”
Luka flinches—just slightly. He looks at Till, then, and there’s something hopeless in his eyes. Raw. Miserable. Like he’s barely holding himself together anymore.
Till doesn’t think. He just acts.
He grabs Luka’s face, fingers threading through his hair, and kisses him. Hard. Desperate. Like it’s the only way to shut him up—like he’s trying to say everything at once, all the fear and anger and the feeling of losing someone before they’re even gone.
Luka breathes out against his mouth, startled, but he doesn’t pull away.
He kisses him back.
Till’s breath catches, lips still barely touching Luka’s. He whispers, “I don’t care.”
Luka scoffs, the corner of his mouth lifting into a crooked smirk. “Yeah? Why are you kissing me like that then?”
“I’m not—” Till starts, but Luka’s already moving.
He grabs Till by the waist, sudden and sure, pulling him down into his lap. Till lands with a slight gasp, knees bracketing Luka’s thighs, chest pressed close—and then Luka kisses him.
Hard.
All tongue and teeth, his hands sliding up under Till’s shirt like he needs to touch skin. There’s nothing gentle in it. It’s heated, punishing, like Luka’s trying to make him admit the truth with every movement.
Till groans, fists curling in Luka’s shirt, but he doesn’t stop him. He deepens the kiss instead, head tipping, hips shifting like he wants more—needs it.
“You don’t care, huh?” Luka murmurs between kisses, his lips brushing against Till’s jaw now, breath hot and uneven. “Are you sure about that?”
“Shut up,” Till says, but it’s weak. He kisses Luka again to silence him, to keep himself from admitting anything else.
Because if this is what not caring feels like—he’s fucked.
They keep kissing, like they forgot what the world is. Like it’s only lips and hands and breath and the heat building between them.
Till’s hands clutch at Luka’s shirt, tugging him closer, and Luka pulls him tighter by the waist, deepening the kiss until it’s hard to breathe. Their bodies press together like they’re afraid of letting go, like something will shatter if they stop.
It’s not gentle. It’s urgent, messy, and hungry.
Till murmurs something against Luka’s mouth—he doesn’t even know what. Luka swallows it, lips parting again to taste more of him. The way Luka kisses him makes it feel like they’ll burn out if they stop.
And maybe they will.
But they don’t stop.
They can’t.
Till moans softly into the kiss, unable to hold it back. The sound slips out of him, breathy and low, and it sparks something deep in Luka—he groans in response, the sound rough and wanting.
Luka’s grip tightens on Till’s waist, like that one sound undid all the restraint he had left. He kisses him harder, deeper, their mouths moving together like they’ve done this a hundred times, like it’s muscle memory now.
Till gasps as Luka shifts, lips trailing briefly along his jaw before coming right back to claim his mouth again. The moan had cracked something open, and now there’s no stopping it—heat rising fast, the space between them practically disappearing.
Neither of them speaks. There’s no room for words here.
Just lips, hands, and the way they pull each other closer like they’re afraid to fall apart.
They’re still on the floor—main room, doors wide open, footsteps echo sometimes just down the hall—and it hits Till only when Luka shifts beneath him, like he’s about to move.
But Luka doesn’t say a word. He just wraps an arm under Till’s legs and the other around his back, and before Till can even react, he’s being lifted clean off the floor.
“Wha– hey—” Till’s hands instinctively latch onto Luka’s shoulders. He doesn’t protest, not really. He could’ve jumped down. But he doesn’t.
Luka carries him like it’s nothing. Doesn’t even look like he’s straining.
Till’s breath catches—because what the fuck—when did Luka get strong enough to lift him like that?
He never really thought about it. Luka’s always been quick, sharp, clever. Not this. Not muscle under hoodie sleeves and arms that didn’t even hesitate. There’s something about it that makes heat stir under Till’s skin again, and he hates it. Or pretends to.
He doesn’t say anything. Just lets himself stay there, arms loosely hooked around Luka’s neck, face half-hidden in the crook of it.
Luka doesn’t comment either. Just smirks slightly to himself and walks—confident and silent—straight out of the room like he didn’t just leave Till breathless on purpose.
The door clicks shut behind them. Luka doesn’t pause, doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate—he carries Till straight to the bed like he’s done it a thousand times before.
Then, with that same quiet confidence, he drops him.
Till lands with a soft thud against the mattress, bouncing slightly as Luka stands over him, looking down with that unreadable expression—half smug, half serious, all trouble.
Everything feels exactly like last time. The air. The heat. The way their eyes lock and don’t move.
Luka leans down, and their mouths crash together—no words, no warning. Just heat. Just want.
Till pulls him in harder, his hands clutching Luka’s shoulders like he’s angry about it, like he’s trying to burn out whatever’s in his chest. He locks his legs around Luka’s hips without thinking, without hesitation, dragging him down until there’s nothing between them. Luka groans low against his mouth, the sound rough and sharp, and Till swallows it like it belongs to him.
It’s desperate again—hot and fast and full of everything they won’t say. Every kiss feels like a dare. Every touch, like it might end in a fight or something worse.
But neither of them stops.
Till moans into Luka’s mouth, and it’s shameless—needy in a way that makes his whole body tense. He grips tighter, arching into him like he’s trying to say it without saying it.
He wants him. God, he needs him.
He tilts his head back just enough to breathe, voice low and wrecked:
“…Luka—”
There’s no sentence, no request. Just a name, full of hunger and something else tangled beneath it. Something he’s too scared to name.
Luka doesn’t need the rest of the sentence. The way Till says his name—it’s all there. The rasp of it, desperate and breathless, curls around his spine and drags a groan from deep in his chest.
He kisses him again, harder this time, like he’s trying to swallow the heat between them. His hands slide down Till’s sides, gripping his thighs, dragging him closer until there’s no space left. Till locks his ankles tighter around Luka’s back, gasping into his mouth, fingers clutching his shirt like he’s afraid he might disappear.
Their breaths are ragged, every touch sparking, every grind pushing closer to that edge neither of them wants to fall over but can’t pull away from.
Till pulls back just enough to whisper, “Don’t stop…”
And Luka doesn’t.
Luka doesn’t ask. He doesn’t whisper or tease.
He growls something low under his breath—Till doesn’t even catch the words before Luka’s hands are back on him, rough and demanding, dragging his hips closer like he’s owed something. Their mouths crash together again, nothing gentle about it. It’s all teeth and heat, desperation disguised as anger.
Till grabs Luka’s jaw, forcing his face up. “You think you can do whatever the hell you want—?”
“You let me,” Luka spits, breathless, eyes wild. “Every fucking time.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re trying.”
Till shoves him back against the mattress, and Luka only laughs, dark and wrecked, pulling him right back down. Their bodies collide again, feverish and hot, like they’re trying to punish each other for feeling anything at all.
They hate each other—at least, that’s what they keep telling themselves. But neither one is stopping.
Luka doesn’t expect it—not from Till, not now.
One second, he’s holding onto control by the edge of his teeth, the next—Till shifts, legs tightening, and suddenly flips them.
It’s not rough. It’s slow. Calculated. And it sends a jolt straight through Luka, a noise caught in his throat as he stares up, eyes wide, breath knocked out of him.
Till doesn’t say anything. He just looks down at him, lips parted, hair falling a little messily into his face. He leans in and kisses Luka—slowly. Deeply. Like he’s taking something back. Like he wants this.
Luka swears under his breath, hands gripping Till’s sides before they even finish falling. He lets himself melt into the kiss, lets Till take over for once—and he enjoys it.
Maybe too much.
Because it’s terrifying how good this feels.
Till groans—low, guttural—when Luka’s hands slide down his back and settle there, fingers digging in like he owns the moment.
It’s possessive, shameless. Luka lets his head fall back slightly against the pillow, mouth twitching into the beginning of a grin, his voice just a breath:
“…You’re making noises again.”
Till glares, flush rising in his cheeks, but he doesn’t pull away. He leans down, lips brushing Luka’s jaw as he mutters against his skin, “Don’t act like you’re not enjoying it.”
Luka chuckles. His hands tighten on Till’s hips, grounding them both as he shifts beneath him.
“Oh, I am.”
And god, they’re both so far gone.
Till grinds down against Luka, slow and heavy—it pulls a sharp breath from both of them, the friction catching just right. Luka’s hands tighten again, digging into Till’s hips, but he doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t even try.
Till leans in, breath hot against Luka’s neck. He lingers there, lips brushing skin, and then he sinks his teeth in—not too hard, but enough to leave something behind. Luka lets out a low groan, the sound rough and strained.
“You’re not the only one who gets to do that,” Till mutters against his skin, voice breathless.
Luka huffs a laugh, chest rising fast beneath him. “Territorial now?”
“Shut up.”
He presses another kiss there, softer this time—then goes right back to grinding down on him again. He’s not going to take control fully—he doesn’t want to—but he does want Luka to feel it. He wants Luka to remember.
They don’t know when it shifts—how Till ends up on his back again, how Luka gets above him, how it turns feverish and rough. Everything blurs. One kiss turns to another, hands tug, clothes vanish to the floor like smoke.
All Till can feel is Luka.
His hands—gripping, steady, dragging over his ribs, down his sides like he’s memorizing every line. His mouth—hot and relentless, kissing, biting, moving lower, pulling out sounds Till didn’t know he could make. It’s too much and not enough.
“Fuck,” Till breathes, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut as Luka’s mouth finds skin that makes him jolt.
He should say something, stop this, think—but he can’t. All he wants is more.
They don’t remember when the last piece of clothing hit the ground—somewhere between the kisses and the need, the urgency and the anger. It just happened.
Till wraps his arms around Luka’s neck, pulling him closer until their bodies are pressed together like they’re trying to fuse. His breath hitches when Luka shifts, fitting perfectly against him.
He doesn’t want to let go. Not tonight.
Not when Luka is here, right here, and the world finally feels quiet.
He digs his fingers into the back of Luka’s neck, murmuring something too soft to hear, and tilts his head just enough to kiss him again—slow this time, like he’s afraid the moment might vanish.
Luka groans against Till’s mouth, voice low and ragged, like he’s losing his grip.
“Fuck,” he breathes, lips brushing Till’s jaw, “the things you do to me…”
His hands tighten on Till’s waist, dragging him impossibly closer, like that could somehow ease the ache or make sense of what they’re doing—what they keep doing.
But it doesn’t help. It only makes it worse. Makes it better.
Till lets out a breathless laugh against Luka’s neck, his voice rough, teasing—but there’s nothing playful in his eyes.
“Are you gonna keep talking,” he mutters, biting down lightly on Luka’s shoulder, “or are you finally gonna fuck me?”
His hips roll, slow and deliberate, making it very clear what he wants—what he needs. There’s heat in his eyes, but something vulnerable too, like he hates how much he wants this. He wants Luka.
Luka smirks against Till’s mouth, his breath hot, his voice low and amused.
“You’re so fucking eager,” he murmurs, letting his hands trail down Till’s sides, gripping tight. “Didn’t think you’d be the impatient type.”
Till breathes out shakily, pressing closer like he can’t stand the space between them, eyes dark and unfocused. Luka watches him, chest rising, lips parted—and damn if that look doesn’t go straight to his head.
He tilts his chin, lips brushing against Till’s jaw. “You want it that bad, huh?” he teases, voice rough with desire now. “Say it.”
And he’s half-joking, half-serious, because Luka likes this—likes how wild and desperate Till gets around him, how all the anger melts into something else entirely.
Till exhales a shaky breath, his fingers curling into Luka’s shoulders like he’s holding on for balance, for control—though he has none. His voice comes out rough, almost embarrassed through gritted teeth:
“Fuck, Luka, I need you.”
Luka freezes for just a second—not expecting it to sound so raw, so real. But it does something to him. His hands grip Till harder, his mouth drags along his throat, breath hot, and all the teasing slips into something heavier.
“Yeah?” Luka breathes, his voice barely more than a growl now, “Then take me. I’m right here.”
And that’s it. Till doesn’t think—doesn’t want to think. His mouth is on Luka’s again, hungry and relentless, as if the words snapped something loose inside him. They move together like there’s nothing else, the lines between hate and want blurring fast, if they were ever real at all.
Luka’s grin is wicked as he reaches into the drawer by the bed and casually pulls out the small bottle. The same one he grabbed from the pharmacy.
Till stares at it like it personally offended him. “Are you fucking serious right now?” he pants, breathless, still half in Luka’s lap.
Luka just shrugs, his smirk smug and infuriating. “What? Thought it might come in handy.”
“Is that what you were really out there for?” Till growls, half-tempted to punch him, half-tempted to kiss him again.
Luka leans close, their foreheads almost touching. “You’re not complaining now, are you?”
Till grits his teeth. He is complaining. He’s furious. He’s turned on. He wants to kill Luka. He wants to have him.
“…Shut up,” he mutters.
Luka’s grin only widens as he flicks the cap open. “Make me.”
Till crashes their mouths together before Luka can say another word.
It’s messy, all tongue and frustration and heat. Their teeth clash for a second—Luka lets out a low laugh into the kiss, but quickly swallows it down when Till grabs him by the jaw, tilting his head to kiss him deeper, rougher.
Luka’s hands are already back on him, greedy and unrelenting, but Till presses him down again, taking control without even thinking about it. Their bodies move like instinct, like muscle memory—like they’ve done this a thousand times, even though it’s barely the second.
He makes him shut up.
And Luka? Luka lets him.
This time it’s rushed, not clumsy but desperate. There’s less caution, more want. Luka’s hands are steady, even if everything else between them is not. He fingers Till just enough to get him ready, to make sure it won’t hurt, but it’s fast—almost careless, because they both want more and they both know what they’re doing now.
There’s a breathless moment, heavy with tension, before Luka leans over him again, their foreheads almost touching. Nothing is said, nothing needs to be.
Till gasps when Luka finds that spot again—his back arches slightly, legs tightening around Luka’s waist without thinking. He breathes out a shaky, broken sound, and it’s clear: he’s ready.
He reaches down, grabs Luka’s wrist as he pulls his fingers out. “Just do it,” he mutters, voice hoarse and low, not even trying to hide how much he wants it.
Luka leans in, brushing their lips together, and murmurs, “Yeah. I know.”
Luka doesn’t hesitate—he thrusts in with a low groan, his hands gripping Till’s hips tightly as he sinks all the way in. Till’s breath catches, his nails digging into Luka’s back, the stretch familiar now but still intense. He gasps out Luka’s name, his body tensing before slowly relaxing beneath him.
They stay like that for a moment, neither of them speaking. Just breathing. Just staring.
Luka leans down, foreheads nearly touching, and their eyes lock—hot, dark, wanting, and something else they won’t name. The kind of look that makes Till feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being naked.
Then Luka starts to move. Slow at first. Deliberate. Deep.
Once Luka finds the rhythm, everything shifts—his hips slam into Till with force, quick and relentless. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes through the room, broken only by their ragged breaths and Till’s gasping moans.
Till arches into it, needing more, taking more—he loves it like this. Fast, rough, messy. It makes his head spin, makes him feel drunk on Luka’s body, Luka’s touch.
And then Luka’s hand comes up, wraps around his neck—not tight, just there. Possessive. Dominant. Till moans at the contact, eyes fluttering, and he grabs Luka’s shoulders like he’ll fall apart if he lets go. The pressure isn’t choking, but it sends sparks rushing straight down his spine.
“Fuck, Luka…” he whines, his voice low and wrecked.
Luka leans closer, teeth grazing Till’s ear. “You like that?” he growls, hips snapping harder, hand still resting on his throat like a warning.
Till can’t speak—he just moans again, back arching. His answer is written all over him.
They keep that brutal, perfect pace—each thrust forcing soft gasps and deep moans from Till’s parted lips. Luka’s panting now, breath hot and ragged against Till’s skin as sweat drips down his temple, sliding along his jaw. Every part of them is slick and flushed, muscles burning, but neither of them slows down.
Luka presses in harder, deeper, and Till rolls his hips up to meet him with a desperate, reckless rhythm. It’s not graceful—it’s messy, greedy, needy. The tension coils tighter and tighter between them, and Luka curses under his breath as his body trembles.
“So—fucking—tight,” Luka growls, voice hoarse as he drives forward again.
Till gasps, clutches Luka’s back, and his whole body shakes with every thrust. “Luka—” he moans, barely holding on, “I’m close—fuck—”
Their bodies crash together like they’re trying to crawl inside each other, and they both know it’s not going to last much longer. The edge is right there—blinding and overwhelming—just one more grind of Luka’s hips and—
They come undone together—spilling into heat and chaos and shuddering pleasure that rips through them in perfect sync. It hits like a wave crashing over, leaving both of them breathless, trembling, pressed so close it’s like the air between them no longer exists.
But even as their bodies twitch and slow, even as their heartbeats begin to calm, they don’t stop.
Luka’s lips stay pressed to Till’s, soft now, slower—but still there. Kissing through the aftermath. Their mouths part just enough to let out shallow breaths, foreheads pressed together, panting against each other’s lips. There’s no need for words. Not yet.
Just the feeling of mouths meeting again and again, like neither of them wants to let go. Like they’re trying to catch their breath in the space between one kiss and the next.
And maybe… maybe they are.
Luka eventually pulls out, slow and careful, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even try.
Till lets out a shaky breath but doesn’t loosen his hold. His arms stay wrapped around Luka’s shoulders, legs still curled around him, keeping him close—like he’s scared Luka might vanish if he lets go. Their bodies are still slick with sweat, skin flushed and hot, but it doesn’t matter.
Till tilts his head just slightly and finds Luka’s mouth again.
It’s less desperate now, but no softer. Their kisses stay messy, uncoordinated—lips parting only to draw in breath before clashing again, like they’re caught in something they can’t untangle themselves from.
Luka mutters something under his breath between kisses, Till doesn't catch it, doesn't care.
★
Eventually, Till gets up with a strong need for a shower. The hot water feels good on his body, and he just lets it fall on his face.
Till flinches slightly when he turns and sees Luka standing there, already slipping under the stream of hot water. “Shit—!” he curses, instinctively covering himself, then scowls. “Ever heard of knocking?”
Luka, completely unfazed, steps closer like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “It’s a shower, not a bedroom,” he says, voice dry, eyes scanning Till slowly—unapologetically. “And you left the door open.”
Till rolls his eyes, but there’s heat crawling up his neck. “That’s not an invitation.”
Luka smirks as the water runs over his shoulders. “Didn’t say it was.” Then, when he catches the way Till’s eyes linger—just for a second too long—he tilts his head and adds, low and smug, “Enjoying the view?”
Till snorts but doesn’t deny it. He mutters, “You wish,” and turns back around—but Luka’s already stepping closer behind him.
“Thought we were saving water,” Luka murmurs, and joins him fully under the spray, like he belongs there.
Till stands there, water cascading down his face, mouth slightly open in disbelief. The audacity of Luka—walking in like it’s his shower, like this is normal, like Till is normal about it.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. But he doesn’t shove him out. He doesn't tell him to leave. He just stands there.
Two full minutes pass in silence. The spray beats against their skin, steam curling around them, and Till keeps his eyes on the tile ahead—not on Luka’s body, definitely not on his face. He’s pretending this is fine. That he’s not warm all over for a different reason.
And then Luka’s hands are on him again.
One slips casually around his waist, fingers brushing skin like he’s done this a thousand times. The other follows the trail of water down Till’s arm, slow, easy, shameless.
“You’re not kicking me out,” Luka says, voice smug against the back of Till’s neck.
Till exhales, jaw tight, and says nothing. Because Luka’s right.
Luka doesn’t wait for permission—he steps in closer, body slick with water, and presses Till against the cold tile wall. The contrast between the steaming water and the chill of the surface shocks a gasp out of Till, but before he can say anything, Luka’s lips are on his.
It’s a kiss like every other one of theirs—hungry, intense, full of the things neither of them wants to say. The water runs over their skin, pooling at their feet, steam curling around them like smoke. Luka’s hand finds Till’s jaw, tilting it up, deepening the kiss until their mouths slide together in perfect, messy rhythm.
Till groans into it. His fingers thread into Luka’s wet hair, gripping tight like he’s anchoring himself, nails dragging across Luka’s scalp. His back arches slightly off the wall, like he wants more—closer—anything Luka is willing to give. He doesn’t care that they’re still in the shower, that this is reckless, that nothing about them makes sense.
He just kisses him back, harder, wetter, desperate.
Luka’s hands slide down with a sort of lazy confidence, settling on Till’s ass and squeezing hard enough to make Till jolt forward against him. The low, involuntary moan that escapes Till’s mouth is swallowed right into the kiss, and Luka grins against his lips—cocky, pleased, and maybe just a little smug.
“You like that?” he mutters, breathing warm and heavy between kisses.
Till doesn’t answer with words—he just kisses him harder, like it’s the only response that matters. His fingers tighten in Luka’s hair, pulling slightly, and that only makes Luka groan low in his throat, pressing in closer, grinding against him through the slick heat of their skin.
The water keeps falling, but it’s nothing compared to the burn of this moment.
Till’s breath hitches, eyes shut tight, head tilted back against the shower wall, completely giving in to the moment. The water runs in rivulets down his skin, hot and steady, but it’s nothing compared to Luka’s mouth—his lips trailing over the sensitive skin of Till’s neck, his tongue drawing wet paths before he sucks, bites, leaves marks like he’s claiming him all over again.
Luka’s fingers work him open again—faster this time, slick with some random lotion he found by the sink, but it’s enough. Till doesn’t need much, not now. His body’s already used to the shape of Luka, already aching for more.
Luka groans against his neck, biting down a little harder just as he presses in deeper with his fingers. “Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs, voice rough, and he grins when Till gasps.
“Fuck—Luka…”
“You love this, don’t you?” Luka whispers, breath hot against Till’s ear. “You love it when I take you like this.”
Till doesn’t answer—but the way his hips rock forward, the way his mouth parts around a breathless moan, says enough
Luka doesn’t wait once he’s sure—he turns Till around smoothly, guiding him with firm hands, water cascading over both of them. Till’s chest presses flat to the wall, breath catching as Luka lines himself up behind him. The pressure builds—then Luka pushes in with a slow, deliberate thrust, and Till moans, low and breathless, forehead resting against the cool tiles.
His hands reach up instinctively, fingers bracing on the wall—until Luka’s hand slides over his, intertwining their fingers together. It’s almost too intimate, too grounding, but Till doesn’t pull away. Luka’s other hand finds his hip, gripping tight.
Luka leans in, his lips brushing the curve of Till’s neck—kissing, dragging his teeth lightly over the damp skin, nipping, then soothing. Till shudders beneath him, his muscles tightening around Luka. He turns his head slightly, just enough for their mouths to meet again. The kiss is messy, wet, half-gasping—but they both push into it like they need it to breathe.
The rhythm between them builds again, slow but heavy, deliberate. Every push forward makes Till press harder into Luka’s palm, into the wall, chasing the heat coiling deep
Luka slows down, his thrusts deep and steady now, each one dragging a breathless sound from Till. The pace is deliberate—less wild, more intense. He doesn’t break the kiss, mouths sliding together with a kind of aching urgency, like he’s trying to say something through every brush of lips, every press of tongue.
Their fingers stay tightly laced, wet palms slick but still holding on. Till squeezes Luka’s hand without meaning to, overwhelmed. Luka responds with a gentle squeeze back, grounding him.
He keeps kissing Till’s neck, his jaw, his shoulder—wherever he can reach—never pulling too far away. The water keeps falling, hot and endless, masking their breathless noises and the quiet moans Till can’t hold back. There’s nothing rough here, not now—it’s heavy and slow and so full it’s almost unbearable.
When they both come, it hits like a wave—deep, blinding, everything tightening then breaking all at once. Till doesn’t feel his body for a moment, his head tipping back against the wall, breath stuck somewhere in his chest. It’s overwhelming, but in the best way—like everything inside him’s been burned clean.
Luka pulls out gently, his hands steadying Till when his legs threaten to give out. He turns him around with careful hands, and for a second, they just look at each other, wet and flushed and panting under the hot stream of water. Then Luka leans in and kisses him—slow, almost tender, lips parted but soft. No teasing now. No anger. Just that fragile, quiet connection.
The water falls on them, steaming between their bodies, but neither of them moves to turn it off. They just stand there, foreheads almost touching, breathing the same air. Just… there. Together.
They don’t say anything. They never do.
No aftermath, no debrief. Just steam fading from the mirror and silence filling in the spaces where their bodies once pressed so tightly. They dry off without meeting each other’s eyes, dressing without ceremony, like it didn’t mean anything—or like it meant too much to name.
Luka’s the one who breaks the stillness with a quiet, “I don’t feel like leaving.”
And he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask if it’s okay, just climbs into Till’s bed, turns his back, and within seconds—like always—he’s fast asleep.
Till stands there for a while. Watching. Thinking. Trying not to.
He tells himself it’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything. They just… did it again.
No big deal. Just that thing they do.
Friends who fuck sometimes.
(If they’re even friends.)
It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
Till wants his head to shut up.
He climbs into bed, slow and unsure, barely disturbing the blankets. Luka’s breathing is already soft and steady—completely gone to the world. Something about that makes Till’s chest ache. Not in a painful way. Just… something heavy. Something real.
He does something stupid. Impulsive again.
He shifts closer and carefully rests his head on Luka’s chest.
Luka doesn’t stir.
Till closes his eyes and listens to the heartbeat beneath his cheek.
No words. No feelings. He’s allowed to want closeness.
Right?
Right.
Chapter 15
Notes:
Ahh, more angst, cuz why not?
Chapter Text
Luka stirs before the sun rises, a faint ache in his chest—not the sharp kind, not from his lungs, but something dull and low, gnawing. It’s warm. Warmer than it ever should be. His hand is curled instinctively around something soft, breathing.
He opens his eyes.
Till is there.
Curled close into his chest, still fast asleep, lashes brushing his cheeks, face buried in the space between Luka’s shoulder and neck like he belongs there. Luka’s hand is splayed across his back, and at some point in the night, their legs tangled, so naturally it almost makes him feel sick.
He doesn’t move.
He should. He knows he should.
This is too much. It’s not just fucking, not anymore. Maybe it never was. It’s a feeling that presses against his ribs with teeth, whispering that it won’t end well. That nothing good lasts. That if he lets himself keep this, it’ll only make it worse when it’s taken away.
But he doesn’t let go.
His arm pulls Till closer, almost greedily, almost like he needs it. Like he’s starving. His fingers curl in the fabric of Till’s shirt—or maybe it’s Luka’s shirt Till is wearing, he doesn’t remember.
He presses his lips together.
Don’t ruin it. Not yet.
He closes his eyes again, breathing in the scent of him, letting it settle in his lungs like something sacred.
★
The next time Till wakes, it’s because of the way the light shifts behind the curtains—not enough to blind, just enough to remind him the day has already started. And they’re still here.
Still like this.
Luka’s arm is around him, loose but present, resting on his side like it’s meant to be there. He could move. He probably should. There’s a meeting later. Something important. Something that should matter more than the heat pressed between their bodies, or the feeling of Luka’s slow breath ghosting against the back of his neck.
But he doesn’t move either.
And that’s the problem.
They don’t say anything. They don’t need to. But it’s all there. In the stillness. In how their bodies have molded to each other in sleep like they do this all the time. Like it’s safe.
Till hates that he likes it so much.
It makes it worse.
Because comfort was never promised. Not to people like them. And still—he lets his hand drift to where Luka’s fingers are resting near his hip and touches them, soft, barely there.
Luka doesn’t pull away.
Till closes his eyes again.
They’ve already ruined it, haven’t they? Whatever this is. It was supposed to be a mistake. A one-time thing. A second-time thing. A desperate thing. But now it’s quiet mornings and Luka falling asleep in his bed and this. This ache in his chest that feels dangerously close to wanting.
He thinks about the meeting. About the others. About how this needs to stop.
But he doesn’t move.
He just sinks a little deeper into the warmth, letting the silence stretch too long—letting it feel like something real.
Something he knows he shouldn’t want.
Till shifts, his voice still rough with sleep.
“…I’m getting used to this.”
Luka doesn’t respond right away. His hand just slides down, resting lightly on Till’s thigh. Warm. Steady.
“…Is that bad?” Till adds, barely above a whisper.
Luka exhales through his nose, tired. “No,” he murmurs. “I don’t mind this.”
His fingers curl slightly. “But it won’t end well. We both know that.”
Till hums, eyes closing again like he doesn’t want to hear it—but he knows Luka’s right. They both are. And still, neither of them moves.
“…We’re gonna be late,” Luka mutters eventually.
Till snorts. “Again.”
Luka doesn’t let go.
Neither does Till.
The knock is loud and rushed—more of a warning than a request. Before either of them can react, the door swings open.
Mizi stands there, eyes sharp, clearly expecting to see only Till.
She freezes.
So does Luka.
She blinks once. Then again. Her gaze drops to where Luka’s still in bed, shirtless, hair a mess, Till half under the blanket next to him.
“…You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Till sits up too fast, the blanket sliding down. “Mizi—”
She holds up a hand. “Don’t. I don’t even wanna hear it.”
Luka doesn’t say anything, just runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight.
Mizi looks between them, and then exhales through her nose like she’s beyond done. “The meeting’s in five. Isaac is already pissed.”
She doesn’t wait for a reply. She just turns and walks out.
The door clicks shut behind her.
Silence.
Luka sits on the edge of the bed, tugging his shirt back over his head, still staring at the door.
“…Is she giving you a hard time about this?” he asks eventually, not looking at Till.
Till, still under the covers, shrugs. “She acts like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Luka glances back at him.
“And do you?” he asks, not mocking, just curious.
Till sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “No,” he admits. “But that’s not her business.”
Luka lets out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.
★
They don’t talk about it. They don’t say a word about Mizi, or what just happened, or the fact that Luka’s still in Till’s room when they both step out and start heading down the hallway.
They walk together, not too close, not too far. No one’s clinging or hiding.
Not holding hands. Not trying to make a statement.
But not denying anything either.
If someone sees them, they might think—oh, maybe they’re just friends now.
And maybe that’s what they’re going for. Maybe it’s easier that way.
By the time they step into the meeting room, they take their usual seats. No big announcement. No tension. Just them, side by side. Like always.
But anyone who’s paying attention would see it: something’s shifted.
The room is already filled when Till and Luka walk in—late, but no one comments.
Isaac is pacing at the front, eyes fixed on a map projected against the wall. Hyuna sits with her arms crossed, brows tight. Mizi doesn’t even glance their way. Dewey gives them both a once-over, but says nothing, though there’s a twitch of a smirk on his lips.
No one mentions how they entered together.
No one asks why Luka’s wearing yesterday’s clothes.
No one dares.
The weight in the room is different today. There’s no space for distractions.
“We finalized the plan,” Isaac starts without greeting. “We move tomorrow.”
A red circle flashes on the map, right over ANAKT GARDEN.
“There’s a passage. A pattern in the patrol schedules. If we time it right, we can get in and out without alerting them.”
Luka steps forward, quiet but focused. “They’re not guarding the south basement as tightly. Probably don’t think anyone would try going that deep.”
“And that’s exactly where we’re going,” Isaac confirms.
“We’ll split into two teams,” Hyuna adds. “One goes in to retrieve whatever files or evidence they can. The other stays close to the exit in case we need a fast retreat.”
“And the kids?” someone asks from the back.
“If there’s time,” Isaac says. His tone sharpens. “We get them out. But we can’t jeopardize the mission unless it’s safe.”
The silence that follows is tense.
The meeting doesn’t end with a vote, or a moment of reflection. Just tension. Quiet determination. The kind of quiet that comes before something dangerous.
Till doesn’t look at Luka.
Luka doesn’t look at Till.
But both of them know—they’re in this together.
The atmosphere was unusually subdued around the table that night. Plates half-filled, glasses passed slowly between hands. Everyone is trying to relax, to act normal, but the weight of what’s ahead hangs over them like fog.
Till sits beside Luka, a glass of something lukewarm in his hand. He stares at the label without drinking, thumb idly tracing the rim.
Then, softly, not quite to Luka but not hiding it either, he says,
“Does it feel weird to you?”
Luka glances at him, not speaking yet. He waits.
Till nods toward the others, toward the low buzz of conversation, the half-hearted laughter.
“This. All of us… sitting here. Eating. Talking. Acting like we’re not going back there tomorrow. Back to that place.”
Luka’s gaze drops. He exhales slowly, leans forward, elbows on the table.
“Yeah,” he says eventually. “It feels fucked up.”
A pause. Then Luka adds, “But it also feels… right. Like this is what we should be doing. What we should’ve done a long time ago.”
Till hums. Doesn’t smile, but something flickers behind his eyes. He glances around—Isaac in a deep conversation with Hyuna, Dewey grinning tiredly at something Mizi said, the others lingering close.
“Do you think any of us are ready?”
“No,” Luka says without hesitation. “But we’re going anyway.”
Till raises his glass halfway, nods once, and drinks.
★
Till slows the second he sees her.
Mizi stands in front of his door, arms crossed tightly over her chest, gaze locked on him like she’d been waiting there a while.No fake smile. Just that expression—disappointment, frustration, worry all tangled together.
He sighs, stops a few feet away, jaw tight.
“If we’re about to have the same conversation again,” he mutters, “you can skip it.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Mizi says flatly.
Till raises an eyebrow.
She hesitates. “But maybe I should.”
He groans under his breath and walks past her, pushing open his door. “Suit yourself.”
“I don’t get you,” she snaps before he can shut it.
He pauses, the door half-open.
Mizi’s eyes narrow. “You know what you’re doing is reckless. You know it’s going to end badly. And yet you keep doing it.”
Till doesn’t respond right away. He leans against the doorframe instead, looking at her with that tired, closed-off stare. The kind that says I’ve been through worse and I don’t need your concern.
“You think I don’t know that?” he says quietly. “You think I haven’t already thought about it a thousand times?”
“Then why—”
“Because I want to.” His voice is sharp now. Honest. “Because for once, I’m doing what I want.”
Mizi flinches slightly, but recovers quickly. “And what about when it falls apart? When you’re the one left hurting again?”
Till looks away.
Silence.
‘’I don’t think it has to end badly,” Till says, his voice firmer now, like he’s trying to convince himself more than her.
Mizi doesn’t move. She stares at him like she’s watching a slow-motion car crash. “It always does when there are feelings involved.”
That shuts him up.
Feelings.
The word hits like a slap. Not loud, but heavy—like it drops straight into his chest and sits there, sinking deeper and deeper.
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
Because no. No, that’s not what this is.
Right?
It’s not that.
It’s just—they’re comfortable like that. It’s safe. It’s quiet. They don’t talk. They don’t ask. They don’t name what they’re doing. That’s why it works.
He scoffs lightly, masking how his jaw tightens. “You think I’m in love or something?”
“I think,” Mizi says quietly, “that you wouldn’t let someone that close if you didn’t feel something.”
Her voice isn’t angry anymore. Just tired.
Till runs a hand through his hair, backing into the doorframe. “You don’t know anything.”
“I saw you.” Her voice sharpens again. “You think I didn’t? You were in bed. You were asleep, Till. You don’t sleep like that next to someone you don’t trust. Not you.”
He turns his face away. His head aches now—like something inside is splitting from the inside out.
He whispers, “Don’t talk like that.”
Mizi blinks. “Why?”
“Because it ruins it.” His voice cracks a little. “We don’t… say things. We just are. If we talk about it, it’ll fall apart.”
Mizi studies him for a moment, the fight draining out of her.
“I hope you’re right,” she says softly. “But you’re not.”
He doesn’t say anything as she leaves.
The hallway is quiet again.
And for the first time in days, Till doesn’t go into his room. He just leans his head against the door and breathes like it’s the only thing he still knows how to do.
Sometimes he wishes he could go back to when he hated Luka.
Back when things were sharp and simple. When Luka was just an arrogant bastard who played dirty and smirked too much. When Till could sit across the room and feel nothing but cold resentment. When he didn’t care where Luka slept, or if he was hurt, or if his lungs gave out.
He thought he still hated him.
He told himself that for weeks. Over and over. That it was still hate. Just… complicated. Laced with a bit of lust, maybe. That they were just fucking. That it meant nothing.
But he doesn’t know when that stopped being true. When it turned into something else.
Maybe it was when Luka found him on the roof and didn’t speak, just sat. Maybe when he kissed him and didn’t ask questions. Maybe when Till shared things he swore he’d never say out loud. Maybe when Luka listened.
All he knows is that it’s too late now.
Because now, he craves his touch. His mouth. His presence.
Every. Single. Minute.
And god, it was easier when they didn’t talk. When they didn’t bond. When Till could pretend none of this meant anything.
Now it’s messy.
And he doesn’t know how to stop.
★
The morning air feels heavier than usual.
Till wakes up to the wet slide of tears down his cheek. He doesn’t remember falling asleep crying, but the dreams were vivid—too vivid. Ivan’s voice. His owner’s shadow. The past bleeding through the veil of sleep. It makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t want to examine. He brushes it off, lets the memory scatter like ash as he gets dressed.
By the time he steps out of his room, he looks… different.
Half his hair is pulled back in a loose tie, strands falling around his face, softening the sharpness of his cheekbones but somehow making him look even more dangerous. He didn’t mean to draw attention—he just wanted it out of his eyes—but the effect is striking. A calm before the storm. A warrior in disguise.
Luka notices, of course.
Everyone does.
But no one says anything.
When Till steps into the hallway, Luka’s already there—half leaning against the wall, arms crossed, half-lidded eyes flicking lazily toward the sound of footsteps. But the second he sees Till, his gaze lingers longer than usual.
It’s subtle, the change. The way Till’s hair is pulled back just enough to show more of his face. Messy but deliberate. It’s unfair, Luka thinks. The kind of unfairness that makes you pause. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he can stop it.
“Trying to show off or something?” Luka asks, voice low, teasing.
Till rolls his eyes, brushing past him. “Tied it back so I can see. Don’t flatter yourself.”
But he catches the smile. And maybe, just maybe, it does something to him.
Luka doesn’t mention that his own hair’s gotten longer too—that it falls just enough over his eyes now, that the back brushes the collar of his shirt when he moves. He hasn’t bothered to tie it up, but it suits him like this. A little more wild. A little more lived-in.
And when they stand side by side, neither of them says it—but they look good together. They match in a way that shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
The vehicle hums low beneath them, tires eating the distance between safety and the dark weight of Anakt Garden. No one talks. Not even Isaac. Mizi’s eyes stay glued to the window, arms folded tight. She hasn’t said a word since they left. It must be hard on her too, he knows he wants to talk to her about it but he’s too scared how she’ll react if he brings Sua’s name.
Till hates it.
The silence scratches at the edges of his thoughts, trying to pull up things he doesn’t want to remember. Things from dreams. Things with Ivan. His owner’s voice, distorted and echoing. He clenches his jaw and glances sideways.
Luka’s beside him, staring ahead like he’s not even here. Sharp profile, calm face, but the tension in his shoulders says otherwise. Of course he’d sit next to Luka. They don’t talk about it, but they always end up next to each other anyway.
Till clears his throat. “You know…you’re not the only one who looks stupid with long hair now.”
Luka glances over slowly. “Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?”
“Neither,” Till mutters, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Just trying to distract myself before I jump out of this thing.”
Luka shifts, like he’s going to say something clever, but he doesn’t. Just let out a quiet breath.
After a beat, he asks, “Did you sleep at all?”
Till shrugs. “Don’t remember. Probably.”
Luka doesn’t push, but he nudges their knees together slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for Till to feel it.
And somehow, it helps.
★
The vehicles are left behind in silence, covered and concealed beneath branches and old canvas. One by one, they tie bandanas around their mouths and noses—more for dust than disguise, but the anonymity helps. Makes it easier to pretend they’re not themselves.
Then they run.
Anakt Garden looms in the distance, jagged and unnatural against the gray morning sky. They split up—small teams, scattered routes—just like the plan. But of course the main six stay together. There’s no question in that.
Till’s lungs burn from the pace, but he keeps going. He barely notices Luka beside him, or Hyuna’s sharp gestures to stay low. Not until he sees it…
Till nearly trips over it when he slows down to catch his breath—just a patch of dirt that looks too smooth, too sunken. Then he sees the edges: disturbed earth, a mess of broken roots and concrete fragments. It’s a hole. Wide enough for a person. A dark tunnel carved straight into the ground.
“What the fuck,” he breathes.
“Till—wait,” Hyuna calls sharply, but he’s already dropping to his knees.
“It could be something,” he mutters, mostly to himself. And then, without a second thought, he dives in.
“Till!” Isaac shouts.
“You idiot—!” Luka’s voice cuts through behind him.
But it’s too late.
Till slides into the hole and the light vanishes in an instant. The air changes—stuffy and damp, chokingly still. The space is narrow, barely enough for him to crawl on elbows and knees. Dirt scrapes his arms, his bandana slips. It’s dark. Claustrophobic.
But there’s something here.
A tunnel. Carved with purpose, maybe even reinforced somewhere further in. It bends slightly to the right. He keeps moving, even as his heart hammers against his ribs. He can’t turn around now. Not without checking.
From above, faint voices echo down.
“Till?! You better fucking say something!”
He grins—tightly—and shouts back. “I’m fine! There’s a tunnel!”
“You reckless piece of shit!” Luka yells.
But Till keeps crawling forward. Something’s here. He can feel it in his bones.
After a few more meters, the dirt shifts beneath his hands—less crumbling soil, more… tile?
Till frowns. He reaches forward and his fingers touch something smooth. He shuffles further and then suddenly, the tunnel widens. The ceiling lifts just enough for him to kneel. The walls change.
White.
Dust-covered, cracked in some places, but unmistakably man-made. It’s a hallway.
He turns his head slowly. Behind him, the dark tunnel yawns, silent. Ahead, everything’s covered in debris—boxes shoved into corners, toppled medical carts, old lights hanging uselessly from the ceiling. It smells like mildew and chemicals. A low hum buzzes through the silence, maybe from a broken generator far away.
He breathes out, barely a whisper. “What the hell is this place…”
He walks forward cautiously, boots crunching over glass and paper. A toppled metal rack leans against the wall, holding what look like sealed containers, empty now. Everything is dusty. Unused. But not abandoned.
Not entirely.
He searches the walls until he finds a panel—half-detached from the plaster, but behind it, a door. Heavy. Reinforced. Probably sealed before, but not anymore.
He glances up and spots it—another hole. Smaller than the one he came through, but wide enough for someone to drop in. Probably where they dragged supplies down from the surface. Maybe where they took people, too.
Till frowns and pulls out his comm. “I found an opening down here. Looks like some kind of basement… lab maybe. There’s another way in. I think I can open it for you.”
A beat.
Then Luka’s voice, sharp: “Are you okay?”
He hesitates. “…Yeah.”
“You’re an idiot.”
But Till hears the worry underneath. He lets out a shaky breath, fingers brushing a wall streaked with some kind of dried-up liquid. Blood? Maybe. Hard to tell.
He moves toward the sealed hatch.
“I’ll get it open. Just give me a second.”
Till pushes further into the hallway, weaving past the broken carts and torn posters hanging from the walls. He squints into the dark—his flashlight flickers faintly from his chest strap, catching on something metallic ahead.
A door. No—double doors, half-jammed open, light dusted across the ground in a pattern like it had been disturbed recently.
He ducks under a fallen pipe, steps over a tangle of wires, and finds himself in a wider room. Cold, cleaner than the rest somehow, with walls lined in white plastic panels and rusted cabinets. In the far corner—
“An elevator?” he mutters.
It’s unmistakable. The panel is cracked, the glass cover of the buttons smashed in. But he sees them: numbers, some scratched out, others still glowing faintly. There’s a green button marked “DOWN.” Of course there is.
He approaches, but the way is blocked—piles of metal beams, half a filing cabinet, something that might have been part of a surgical table. He presses a hand against it. It doesn’t budge.
“Of course,” he mutters again, setting down his bag. “This is why I go to the gym”
He rolls up his sleeves and starts pulling the debris aside, one jagged piece at a time. The metal scrapes his palms. Something crashes down nearby when he shifts a heavier slab, but he doesn’t stop. It takes minutes—his breath is loud in the space, and the dust makes his eyes sting—but finally the space in front of the elevator clears just enough for him to reach the panel.
He presses the green button.
Nothing.
He slams it again.
And again.
The light blinks once. Then again. A rumble sounds beneath the floor, faint and mechanical. The metal doors tremble.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The green light blinks again. A low hum groans from beneath the floor.
Then the ground shudders.
Till stumbles back, his hand flying to the wall for balance as the whole tunnel trembles beneath his feet—dust rains down from the ceiling, a deep metallic grinding echoing from somewhere far below. It feels like the earth itself is moving.
“Shit—”
The elevator doors screech open.
The lights above flicker violently as the opening reveals a pitch-black shaft—no music, no welcoming tone, just a yawning, clinical box of darkness waiting for him.
The air rushing out is different—stale. Too clean, too still. Like it’s been sealed for a long time.
Till doesn’t move at first, chest heaving, heart racing with adrenaline that has nowhere to go.
Then, over the distant roar of the tunnel shaking, he hears footsteps above. The others.
Finally.
He turns toward the sound, still breathless, and calls out:
“Down here!”
He doesn’t wait.
Not for the others to catch up. Not for someone to stop him.
Maybe that’s stupid. But standing there, staring into the dark elevator shaft, something inside him moves—a quiet, grim certainty.
This was always going to be him.
Till steps inside.
The doors creak closed behind him, sealing him in with stale air and silence.
There are only a few buttons, and none are labeled—just smooth surfaces with soft glows.
Only one of them is lit.
Up.
He hesitates, swallows hard, then presses it.
A whir. A groan. Then the entire thing lurches.
His stomach drops as the elevator begins to rise, slowly at first—then smoother, faster.
He grips the cold railing, trying not to think about how alone he is.
No radio. No backup. No exit. Just him and whatever waits above.
You’re acting stupid again, he tells himself.
But it’s too late for that.
The elevator shudders to a stop.
Till’s breath catches in his throat.
With a slow hiss, the doors slide open—only to reveal another hallway.
It’s cleaner than the tunnel below. Pale walls. Flickering lights overhead.
But it’s still dark. Still dead. Still full of debris.
He steps out, the silence pressing against his ears like static.
His foot catches on something—metal, sharp, heavy—and he stumbles.
“Fuck—” he falls hard, palms and knees scraping across the ruined floor.
He hisses as he pushes himself back up. Blood streaks his skin, but he doesn’t stop.
Ahead, there’s a faint light… a door.
It looks like an exit. Maybe.
He limps toward it, finds a long pipe nearby and starts slamming it into the frame.
The door doesn’t budge—until something slams back from the other side.
Voices.
“Till?”
“He’s in there—back up—”
“One, two—!”
With a crunch of metal and a violent shove, the door bursts open.
Hyuna, Luka, Isaac—they’re all there, faces lit with relief and fury.
Till stumbles back, pipe falling from his hands.
He doesn’t say anything. Just backs into the wall and sinks down, chest rising and falling in harsh breaths, blood still dripping from his hands.
Finally, he mutters, “Found an entrance…”
The second the door bursts open, they’re on him.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Hyuna snaps, already crouching down beside him.
Isaac pushes in behind her, his voice sharp. “You could’ve triggered a collapse—what if it wasn’t stable? What if you’d gotten stuck?”
Till barely lifts his head, breathing hard. “It was stable…”
“It wasn’t smart,” Luka growls. His voice is low, furious—but there’s something in it. Not just anger. Panic.
He storms forward, eyes darting down to Till’s knees, his bloodied palms, the way he’s still trying to catch his breath.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Till winces but doesn’t answer.
“You didn’t even tell us!” Luka yells, louder this time. “You just jumped. You’re not a one-man army, Till!”
“I found the entrance,” Till mutters, chest still heaving.
“You found a way to die,” Luka shoots back. He’s crouched down now, grabbing Till’s wrist to look at the cuts more closely. “Fuck—your hands—”
“Don’t touch me like you care,” Till snaps without heat.
“I do care!” Luka fires back, startling them both.
The room goes silent for a second, thick with dust and tension.
Hyuna clears her throat, standing up again. “We need to keep moving. The place won’t stay safe forever.”
Dewey offers Till a hand. “Come on. You walk, or we carry you.”
Till waves him off and gets up on his own, wincing when he does. Luka’s still glaring at him like he could shake him and kiss him at the same time.
They keep moving through the ruined corridor, footsteps echoing softly against the broken tiles. The others lead the way, their voices hushed now, checking corners and old rooms.
Till hangs back.
So does Luka.
He doesn’t say anything—not at first. Just stay close. Then, without a word, Luka tugs Till gently by the wrist, pulling him to a stop behind a bent metal support beam, half hidden from view.
Till frowns. “What?”
Luka doesn’t answer. Instead, he shrugs off his hoodie, revealing the worn black shirt beneath. He pulls at the bottom hem, grips it tight, then rips it in two long strips.
Till watches, quiet, as Luka crouches a bit, takes one of Till’s hands. “Hold still.”
The cloth presses against the cut in his palm. Luka wraps it carefully—not too tight, not too loose—and ties it off with a knot. Then he does the same with the other hand.
“You didn’t have to—” Till starts.
“I did,” Luka says, without looking up
Luka finally glances up. Their eyes meet—just for a second—and something flickers there. Frustration. Worry. More.
The second strip is tied off. Luka doesn’t let go of Till’s wrist right away.
“Next time you get a suicidal idea,” he mutters, “maybe talk to someone first.”
Till smirks faintly. “Like you’d listen.”
“I listen to you more than you think,” Luka says softly.
And then he lets go.
They walk a little closer now, their shoulders brushing as they catch up to the rest of the group.
The hallway leads them to a set of thick steel doors, cracked just enough for Mizi and Hyuna to force open. Behind it: stairs.
A stairwell, narrow and winding, with concrete walls stained by water and time. The lights are long dead. It smells of rust and earth.
Till glances sideways. Luka is right behind him, hands in his pockets, silent. He’s watching everything—quietly tense.
“How far does it go?” Mizi whispers from ahead.
“Far enough,” Hyuna answers grimly.
They keep walking.
Every step feels heavier.
They walk.
And walk.
The air feels different the further they go—colder, thinner. No more debris. Just smooth walls. Just silence.
No one talks now. Even Till keeps quiet, the ache in his hands a dull reminder of how far they’ve already gone. The tunnel stretches forward in an unnatural straight line, like it was designed by something that didn’t need to turn.
Finally, they stop.
There’s an elevator.
This one doesn’t creak or groan. It’s newer. Clean. Almost untouched. The panel glows dimly: only one button. It points up.
Hyuna exhales. “No stairs?”
“None,” Isaac mutters.
Till swallows hard. The air hums. This isn’t just a door. It’s a point of no return.
“Up there is the lab?” Mizi asks.
“If the map’s right,” Luka says. His voice is quiet, but it echoes too much in the hollow corridor. “That’s the heart of it.”
Isaac steps forward, hand hovering over the button. “Once we’re in, we’re in. No idea what’s waiting on the other side.”
The tension is thick now. They all know: this is where it begins—for real.
Till shifts his weight and glances at Luka.
Their eyes meet.
No words. Just a silent agreement.
Luka nods once.
And Isaac presses the button.
The elevator doors slide shut with a soft hiss.
It’s small—way too small for six people and this much awkward tension. Everyone’s pressed close, shoulders touching, weapons clinking. No one talks at first. The lights above flicker once. The elevator starts to move.
Till shifts uncomfortably—and immediately bumps into Luka’s chest.
“Could you not breathe so close to my neck?” he mutters.
Luka leans down a little, his mouth dangerously near Till’s ear. “Could you not be so short?”
Till glares up at him. Their faces are way too close.
Luka smirks. “Hey,” he whispers.
Till blinks. That stupid voice, low and smug and warm in his ear, makes his stomach twist. He feels Luka’s hand sneak around his waist.
“Luka—” he hisses.
Luka’s grin widens.
Till blushes. Then slaps his chest—not hard, but enough to say stop being annoying.
Everyone else pretends they didn’t hear anything, except Isaac who lets out the tiniest sigh.
The elevator dings.
“Finally,” Mizi mutters.
The doors slide open—and just like that, the moment’s gone. It’s time.
They step into the unknown.
The doors slide open with a soft hiss.
Silence.
Not just quiet—unnatural silence. No guards. No footsteps. No alarms. No voices behind glass. Just flickering overhead lights and the stale, metallic scent of old air.
They step out slowly, weapons drawn, boots echoing faintly against the polished tile.
Till’s eyes sweep the space. “This is part of the labs,” he murmurs. “I remember the floor patterns… the reinforced doors.”
Luka steps ahead a few feet, peering down the long corridor. “No sign of life.”
“Which doesn’t make sense,” Mizi says. “There should be something.”
Isaac gestures to the others. “We start here. This section looks untouched. If there’s anything—files, equipment, clues about where they moved the kids—it’ll be here.”
No one argues.
They split off into smaller pairs, the air heavy with unease. Even with no immediate threat, something feels off. Like they’re being watched. Or like the place itself remembers what happened here.
Till lingers at the edge of a darkened doorway before he follows Luka in.
They have to find something. Anything to make this mission worth it.
They search the first stretch of labs for nearly half an hour. Room after room—empty. No files, no samples, not even scattered tools. Just sterile, dust-coated silence. It’s like someone wiped this entire section clean, erasing every trace of what it once was.
“Nothing,” Hyuna says, stepping back from a darkened office. “No logs. No computers.”
“Feels like a decoy wing,” Mizi mutters. “They cleaned this place out and left it here to waste our time.”
Isaac spreads the old, slightly crumpled map out over a table. “This wing’s too far from the garden. If they were doing real work, it’d be closer to the core.”
Luka leans over his shoulder. “The east corridors lead into the central labs… and beyond that, the garden.”
Till’s throat tightens at the word. “If there’s anything useful, it’ll be in there. The files. The equipment. The truth.”
“And more likely, the guards,” Isaac says flatly. “If the garden’s still running—or partially running—they’ll have protection. Armed or worse.”
Mizi folds her arms. “So we go quiet, or we go loud?”
“Quiet, until we can’t,” Luka answers. “We need information. Not a firefight.”
Till exhales, rubbing at the back of his neck. The place is too familiar. Every shadow feels like it’s watching him. Every hallway feels like a memory waiting to grab his throat.
But they move.
They pass a few deeper corridors, bypassing labs that are locked down tight or too destroyed to explore. It becomes clear: the farther they go, the more guarded and real the place begins to feel. Like whatever is important wasn’t left behind in the outer ring.
They’re getting close.
Too close.
They move through the corridor in silence.
It’s not just the echo of their footsteps that presses against their ears—it’s the memories. Every door they pass feels like a wound. A room they were dragged into. A room they escaped from. A room where someone screamed.
Till slows near one of the metal doors. It’s rusted now. Unused. But he knows what used to happen behind it.
Luka notices. He doesn’t speak, just walks closer. His shoulder almost touches Till’s as they move forward again.
The hallway spills open into the main lab.
It’s bigger than Till remembered. Or maybe it just feels that way now that he’s not a child looking up at impossible machines.
There are four guards. Too few.
Too easy.
They don’t speak. They act—quick and coordinated. A silent takedown, each of them handling it like they’ve done this before. Because they have. Too many times.
By the end of it, the guards are unconscious on the floor, zip-tied and stripped of comms. No alarms. No noise.
Mizi and Hyuna stay behind to keep watch. Isaac radios in, voice low.
“The others found files on the west side. Some half-burnt records, but it’s something. They’re heading out now.”
“What about us?” Luka asks, his voice quieter than usual.
There’s a pause. Then Isaac looks at the rest of them—Till, Luka, Hyuna, Mizi, and the two others beside them.
They stand in the center of the place that broke them.
“…We don’t know what we’re doing anymore,” Mizi says. Her eyes stay fixed on one of the massive tanks pushed against the wall. Empty now, but it used to hold something. Someone.
“We’re here,” Hyuna mutters. “But what now? What do we even want?”
“To destroy it,” Till says, too fast. Then quieter. “Or… I don’t know.”
He stares at the shattered console near the center of the lab. Monitors black. Files wiped. But this was the heart of it all.
Their memories. Their torture. Their past.
Luka’s voice breaks the silence, low and steady. “If there’s anything left in here worth taking… Now's the time. If not, we burn it.”
No one argues.
They fan out, heavy boots thudding softly against the tiled floor. But even as they search drawers and terminals, there’s this emptiness. Because the worst things that ever happened to them… don’t live on paper.
They’re already written in their bodies. Their minds.
And none of them know what comes next.
They don’t find hope in the lab. But they find something else.
Files. Physical and digital. Hidden under the floor panel near the console. Luka pries it open with a crowbar, and Mizi pulls out the box.
Hyuna flips through the folders. Her hands are shaking.
Photos. Names. Numbers. Kids.
“These aren’t us,” she murmurs.
“No,” Isaac agrees, his jaw tight. “They’re newer.”
Files sorted neatly by category—generation, mutation type, behavioral class. Test results. Notes scribbled in red ink.
Till picks up one of the files and flips it open. A boy with pale green eyes. Hair cropped short. Nine years old. “Subject #325. Failure to comply with voice trigger. Sedation recommended. Memory reconstruction scheduled.”
He swallows hard.
“They’re still doing it,” Mizi says. Her voice is hollow.
Luka says nothing. He stares down at one of the photos, expression unreadable.
“These kids,” Hyuna says, flipping to the final page. “They’re scheduled to be returned to their rooms after the Garden.”
“They’re in there now?” Till asks.
Hyuna nods.
Till wants to punch something. He does punch the wall. Luka flinches slightly beside him but says nothing.
“We’re too late,” Isaac mutters.
“Then we keep going,” Luka says. “Maybe we can’t save them now. But we can still do something.”
They descend deeper into the facility—hallways growing narrower, colder, more heavily guarded. It becomes clear: this part is still active.
More footsteps. Shouting.
The first round of guards comes fast—four of them at the end of the corridor. Armed.
The group reacts instantly. Bullets fly. Mizi throws a smoke bomb down the corridor, and in the haze, Hyuna knocks one out cold. Isaac fires without hesitation. Luka takes down another with a knife to the gut.
Till doesn’t think. He’s not scared. He moves like muscle memory—dodging, attacking, slamming one of the guards against the wall with all the anger in his body.
By the end of it, they’re breathing hard. Bloody. No time to rest.
More guards. More fights.
They keep moving. They have to.
The floors are stained. Sirens blink red overhead—no sound, just the visual alarms. A quiet panic. They know someone’s here, but they don’t know who. That gives them an edge.
But not for long.
They take a turn into a lower corridor—Level C, according to the peeling sign overhead—and this time, the guards are waiting. Eight of them.
Heavily armed.
No one speaks. Not even Luka.
Till grips his weapon tighter.
And they charge.
Luka doesn’t know how they ended up here.
This wing wasn’t marked on the map. It shouldn’t even exist anymore. But the hallways curved the wrong way. The door opened with a code that hadn’t changed. And suddenly, they’re inside.
The air is thick with humidity. The lights flicker above them.
The room is circular. Cold. Silent. A faint hum of machinery in the background, still alive, still breathing.
And in the center…
The tanks.
Tubes—or that’s what most of them would call them.
But Luka knows the real word.
Containment tanks.
Seven of them.
Glass cylinders, tall enough to drown in. Wires spiraling down into the ground. Liquid residue still clinging to the sides, faint blue. Empty now.
His boots splash faintly against the floor as he walks closer.
He doesn’t hear the others behind him. Doesn’t want to.
This was the room. His room.
He remembers it without trying.
The way the world blurred behind glass.
The way his body felt suspended—both weightless and caged.
That sound. The low mechanical whine before they’d lower him in. Or pull him out.
He presses his hand to the glass.
Tank #3.
His name was never on it. Just a number: L-094.
He was nine when they started using the tank regularly. A year earlier, he’d fought too hard. Burned the doctor’s hand when they tried to inject him. So they made it painless, they said. Peaceful.
Floating didn’t feel peaceful.
It felt like dying.
“Luka,” someone calls behind him. Quiet. Careful.
He doesn’t turn around.
He watches a single bubble rise along the inside of the glass, stuck in a crack. How long has it been since they used this one? Since he was in it?
He wonders if this is where he was made. Or just where he was broken.
He finally speaks. Barely louder than a breath.
“This place… shouldn’t still be here.”
No one answers.
But he hears the shift of someone stepping behind him. A hand barely brushing his arm.
He doesn’t look, but he knows it’s Till.
Of course it’s Till.
Luka closes his eyes. Just for a moment.
He thought he was past this.
He thought none of it mattered anymore.
But now, standing here again, in front of that tank, he feels like he’s a kid again. Weak. Afraid. Alone.
No—
Not alone.
Till is still there.
And Luka, even now, doesn’t pull away.
The others move forward. No one says anything.
No one has to.
They know what this room is. Maybe not in detail, not like Luka does—but they know. And they respect the weight of it. They leave quietly, giving him space.
Only Till stays.
He doesn’t speak either. Just watches Luka from a short distance, as if waiting for him to fall apart or walk away—he can’t tell which one he’s hoping for.
Luka’s hands are clenched. Shoulders locked, his chest heaving in quick, uneven bursts. His breathing’s gone shallow, erratic—that edge of panic again.
Till moves.
He crosses the space and stops in front of him, steady and calm despite the flickering lights and the ghosts pressing in from the walls.
Then, without a word, he lifts his hands and gently cups Luka’s face.
Luka flinches. Barely. But he doesn’t pull away.
His eyes are wide—not scared, just… exposed. Raw.
Till doesn’t kiss him.
He just looks at him.
Right into him.
He holds him like that—just his face in his hands—as if grounding him back to the now, as if to say you’re not there anymore. You’re here. With me.
Luka’s breathing slows, little by little.
Till’s thumbs brush lightly under his eyes, not quite wiping away sweat or tears, just being there.
No one says anything.
There’s nothing to say.
Eventually Luka closes his eyes and breathes, finally deeper, and Till lets his hands fall away slowly—but only after making sure Luka can stand on his own again.
Then they move to follow the others, silent as shadows.
But something between them lingers. A weight. A bond.
Not spoken. Not defined.
But undeniably there.
They keep moving.
There’s no time to process what that room meant, no space to breathe too deeply. The facility stretches wide, cold and quiet—but they all know that won’t last. The only way out now is through the far exit, the one near the Garden.
The one crawling with danger.
The silence doesn’t help. Every step echoes too loud. Every breath feels like a countdown.
Then it happens.
Not a warning. Not a shout. Just—gunfire.
From the side. From the shadows. From above. They didn’t see them.
Bullets rain down. Everyone ducks, rolls, pulls their weapons fast.
Yelling. Sparks. Blinding muzzle flashes.
Till feels the adrenaline snap back into place like instinct. He fires. Luka moves beside him like muscle memory. Mizi’s already diving for cover, Hyuna barking out commands. Isaac curses under his breath, clipped and calm even as he reloads.
They don’t have time to think.
Only react.
When the last guard drops, the room goes dead silent except for the ringing in their ears and the pounding of their hearts.
Then—“Shit!” Dewey’s voice cracks through the silence.
Till whips around. Luka’s already at his side.
Blood is staining Dewey’s jacket, his hand pressed to his shoulder.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “Not a bullet. Just a fucking cut.”
They all pause for just a second.
That was too close.
And the worst part?
It’s not over.
Till looks ahead. The hallway bends, and just past it—they all know what’s there.
The Garden.
But first, they have to move again. Fast.
The vehicles are still far, and once they’re out, they’ll be exposed.
They’ll worry about that later.
For now, they check their weapons, press tighter bandages to wounds, nod to each other silently—and keep going.
They’re running.
The last stretch, through narrow tunnels that twist beneath the far side of the facility. The ones no one uses anymore. Old emergency exits, maybe—Till’s not even sure.
They’re almost there.
Isaac’s ahead with Hyuna, guns raised, checking every corner. Mizi’s beside Luka. Dewey’s further back, still nursing his injured shoulder but managing. And Till—Till is in the middle, heart pounding, legs aching, but alive.
Then—
Bang.
One shot.
Sharp. Precise.
And everything explodes.
It hits Till.
Clean through.
Just under his ear—his neck—
There’s a second where he feels nothing. Just a sting.
Then the warmth hits. The sound. The pain.
The blood.
He gasps and it gurgles. He staggers back into Luka, hands flying to his neck, but it’s pouring—pouring—too fast.
Mizi screams. Luka catches him before he hits the ground.
“TILL!”
His eyes are wide, shocked. He’s choking, mouth filling with blood, hands clutching at Luka’s jacket, at his own throat.
Luka doesn’t think.
He drops his gun, tears the bandana from his face, and presses it hard against the wound. “No no no no—fuck—fuck—”
Mizi’s already shooting, covering them. Hyuna yells something about backup. Dewey’s firing blind.
Luka’s fingers are shaking but he’s holding the bandana in place, his other arm around Till, who’s convulsing, trying to breathe, failing.
“Stay with me—Till, please—just fucking stay awake—” Luka’s voice is breaking, barely above a whisper.
Till’s eyes flutter. His lips are red, soaked. He tries to speak but chokes again.
His pulse is fluttering under Luka’s hands.
“Isaac!!” Mizi yells, desperate, “WE NEED TO MOVE!”
They can’t stay here.
The tunnel’s compromised.
But they can’t move him like this.
Luka’s head lowers, forehead pressed against Till’s, blood smearing between them.
“I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re not going to die. Do you hear me?”
He doesn’t know if Till hears.
But he keeps saying it.
The tunnels don’t end soon enough.
Till’s heavy in Luka’s arms—too heavy. Not from weight, but from fear. From the way he keeps slipping—too still, too quiet, eyes barely open.
“Hold on,” Luka pants, arms locked under Till’s back and knees. “Don’t you dare.”
Blood seeps through the makeshift bandage, soaking Luka’s hoodie. His boots slip on the dusty ground as they run. Run, because they have no choice.
They burst through the old exit door—Hyuna kicks it open, gun raised—and suddenly it’s night. Cold. Too dark. Moonlight barely lighting the forest beyond.
The vehicles are nowhere close.
Mizi spins, counting heads. “Isaac, where the hell are the trucks?!”
“Too far—we parked too far—” Isaac’s voice is raw. “We’ll have to carry him.”
“Luka is carrying him!” Dewey shouts, pushing forward despite his bleeding arm. “We all run.”
Hyuna fires one last shot behind them—just in case—and then they’re moving.
Branches whip at their faces. The ground is uneven. Luka doesn’t care.
He only looks at Till.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he mutters, his voice cracking, “just a little more—just a bit more—”
Till blinks slowly. He’s so pale. His mouth opens like he’s trying to speak again, but it’s just another bloody breath.
“Don’t,” Luka says, panicking. “Don’t try. Just breathe. Please.”
Mizi stays close, shielding both of them as they push through the brush.
No one speaks. Just their footsteps, and Till’s labored breaths. That’s all.
The vans come into view like a miracle. Parked just where the forest thins—moonlight bouncing off the metal.
“OPEN THE DOOR!” Hyuna shouts.
Luka climbs in first, laying Till down across the backseat. Blood is everywhere. His hands are shaking as he presses down on the wound again. The fabric is soaked.
Isaac jumps in front, starting the engine. “We’re taking him to the base. No stops.”
Luka doesn’t respond.
His hands are drenched.
His breathing is uneven.
Till doesn’t look alive.
He’s too still. Too pale.
Luka presses his hand harder against the soaked bandana around his neck, but it’s useless—the fabric is drenched, warm and slick. He rips it off, replaces it with his own sleeve, torn from his hoodie with trembling hands.
“Come on, come on—fuck—come on,” he mutters. His voice breaks. “Breathe, Till.”
There’s blood everywhere. Running from the wound in his neck, from his mouth, from his ear—his body twitching every now and then like he’s choking. The back of the van is chaotic.
Hyuna is leaning in from the front seat, shouting something, but Luka doesn’t hear her. He only sees Till.
Mizi climbs in beside him, pressing gauze she found in the med kit against the side of Till’s neck, but the blood won’t stop. Her hands are shaking. “This artery—this is serious—this is so much blood.
‘’He’s not breathing right,” Luka says, barely getting the words out. “His chest—look at his chest—it’s not rising. Shit. Fuck, Till—”
Till’s head is cradled in Luka’s lap, his blood staining Luka’s thighs. Luka’s fingers are trembling as he cups Till’s jaw—blood smeared across his chin, his neck, soaking into his hair.
“Please,” he whispers now, voice barely audible. “Please don’t die. Don’t die, not like this.”
Hyuna reaches a hand back to Luka’s shoulder. “Keep him awake. Talk to him. Just talk.”
But Till’s eyes are fluttering.
And Luka can feel the warmth leaving his skin.
“No,” Luka says. “You stay here. You stay with me. You’re not going anywhere. I—”
He can’t breathe. The panic is crawling up his throat.
Mizi looks like she wants to cry, but she holds the gauze firm, muttering prayers under her breath.
“Almost there,” Dewey says. “Almost there.”
The van speeds through the dirt road like it’s flying.
But inside—it feels like everything is slowing down.
Luka strokes the side of Till’s face, just once, gently.
He leans down, forehead resting against Till’s temple, voice quiet.
“Don’t do this. Don’t leave me like this.”
And Till doesn’t answer.
The moment the vehicle stops, the doors fly open.
They all rush out—Hyuna first, yelling for the nurses, waving her arms. Dewey and Mizi scramble to get out. Luka tries to follow but—
“Wait—wait—Till?”
Till stirs.
His eyes crack open, glazed and unfocused—but open.
And then, against all logic, he moves.
He pushes himself up, hands trembling under him, blood still leaking from the side of his neck.
Everyone freezes.
“Till—!” Luka breathes, reaching for him.
He’s upright for a second—just one. Kneeling on both hands like he’s trying to speak, trying to do something.
Then his body collapses forward, limp, hitting the dirt with a sickening thud.
It looks too familiar.
Too much like that night.
The stage.
The lights.
The gun.
Till on the ground, bleeding.
And Luka had just stood there.
Staring.
Frozen.
But not this time.
This time he cares.
“Shit! Shit!” Luka curses, falling to his knees beside him. “No no no—don’t do this again—”
He turns Till over, cradling him again, pulling him into his arms. His body is heavier now.
Too heavy.
Breath shallow.
Skin cold.
Hyuna’s voice shouts something about a stretcher—Mizi runs past them—Isaac is yelling orders—but Luka doesn’t hear them. He only sees Till’s face, pale and blood-slicked.
“Stay with me, stay here,” Luka begs. His voice is hoarse.
Till doesn’t respond.
But he’s breathing.
Barely.
And Luka won’t let go.
His eyes widened as his brain caught up with the rest of him, registering the crushing weight in his lap, the warmth—too warm—and the head of silver hair against his chest.
“Till—” he croaked, throat raw. His voice sounded muffled, unreal, like it came from underwater.
Panic surged in his chest as Luka shakily sat up, arms tightening around the body in his lap. “Till, hey—”
No answer.
His fingers brushed lightly across Till’s neck—where the soaked bandana clung—and pulled back.
Red.
Sticky, dark red.
So much blood.
“Fuck—” Luka whispered, his heart lurching into his throat. His other hand flew up, tearing off the bandana to replace it, pressing harder, too hard maybe, but he didn’t know what else to do. Blood kept coming, bubbling from his neck, leaking from his lips, painting Luka’s palms, his hoodie, everything.
Till’s lashes fluttered just faintly, but it was hard to tell if it was real or just Luka imagining it.
“No no no no—stay with me, please,” Luka whispered, leaning over him, his forehead pressed to Till’s temple. “You’re not allowed to leave me like this, not like this, you asshole—”
The silver hair was damp with sweat and blood. His breathing was wet and shallow. Luka could feel it stuttering in his chest like it might give out any second.
The sound of footsteps thundered nearby—Hyuna yelling something about a stretcher—Mizi’s hands suddenly on Luka’s shoulder, trying to pull him back, but he didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
His whole body shook as he gripped Till like his life depended on it.
Maybe it did.
‘’Till…’’
His voice cracked into silence, and all that remained was the wet sound of Till’s breathing and the echo of approaching help.
It all happens fast.
One second Luka’s kneeling in the dirt, Till’s blood all over his hands, and the next there are arms pulling him away—gentle but urgent. Someone takes Till from him and Luka stumbles as he stands, his legs nearly giving out.
He watches, frozen, as they disappear into the infirmary, the doors swinging shut behind them. The blood on the floor leaves a trail. A stain.
No one says anything.
No one moves.
The rest of them—the ones who made it out—stand outside, backs pressed to the wall, breathing hard and saying nothing. Mizi’s pacing, Isaac is hunched over near the edge, elbows on knees. Dewey sits against the wall, one hand still clutched to his wounded shoulder, ignoring it completely. Even Hyuna looks shaken, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stares at the infirmary doors like she can will them open with sheer force.
This is different.
The silence is different. The fear is different. This isn’t just another wound or another close call. This is Till. And Till was bleeding out in Luka’s lap.
Luka doesn’t sit.
He can’t.
He stands closest to the door, his hands trembling slightly, stained red and stiff. He hasn’t looked down at them. He doesn’t want to. His hoodie is sticky. His sleeves soaked. He can’t even feel cold.
He just stands there, eyes locked on the doors.
Because what else is he supposed to do?
They wait.
And wait.
The hallway is full of tension—held breath, unspoken prayers, and the kind of silence that only comes when everyone’s too afraid to speak, too afraid to say what if.
Because they can’t lose him.
They won’t.
Right?
★
Risa, their doctor steps out, her white coat stained at the hem, gloves in one hand, exhaustion written across her face. She looks around at the group—at their eyes, wide with hope and dread—and she doesn’t soften it. She knows better.
“He’s alive,” she says first. It’s what matters most.
Everyone exhales—some shakily, some silently.
“But…” Her voice lowers, and it’s the kind of but that makes Luka’s chest tighten all over again.
“The artery wasn’t fully severed, but the damage to his neck was serious. His vocal cords were affected. If he pushes himself, if he tries to talk too soon—he might lose his voice permanently.”
Silence again.
“He’ll need rest. And patience. If the healing goes well, he might be able to speak again in a few weeks. But if he ignores it—if he speaks too early—he could… rupture everything. He might never speak again.”
Luka just stares.
The weight of it hits him slowly.
No voice.
Till, who’s always sarcastic. Always biting. Always talking back even when he shouldn’t. The quiet ones hurt most, but Till was never quiet. Not really.
Till who actually loves singing, who pours his heart and soul into it. It will be cruel if he loses his voice.
★
The room is quiet except for the low beeping from the monitors and the soft sound of Till’s breathing. He’s asleep—he hasn’t moved in a while, and Luka can’t decide if that’s comforting or terrifying. The bandages around his neck are thick, pristine white turned faintly pink near the edges. His ear’s wrapped too, a little dried blood still visible near the hairline.
He looks… fragile.
Too fragile.
The others stayed for a bit—Hyuna helped settle him, murmuring words he probably didn’t hear. Dewey limped out, swearing he’d be back soon. Isaac lingered the longest, standing in the corner like a statue before nodding once and disappearing without a word. Now, it’s just Luka and Mizi.
She hasn’t said anything since the others left. She hasn’t even looked at him. She sits by Till’s other side, hands clasped, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on the boy in the bed like she might protect him with sheer will.
Luka exhales slowly, watching her. He knows what she’s thinking. He can practically feel it radiating off her.
“You still hate me huh,” he says quietly, voice low but steady.
Mizi doesn’t look at him. “I don’t hate you.”
He waits.
She finally glances at him. “I just think you’re going to break him.”
Luka flinches like she slapped him. Maybe she did.
He looks down at Till’s hand, resting limp against the blanket. He doesn’t reach for it. Not with her watching.
“Maybe I already did,” he says. “Maybe I’m just bad news. You’re not wrong.”
Mizi doesn’t argue. That almost hurts more.
“But,” Luka goes on, quieter now, “I’m here. I’m not leaving. Even if you think I should.”
A beat of silence passes.
Mizi sighs and leans back in her chair. “Then don’t break him.”
“I’m trying,” Luka whispers.
They don’t speak again after that.
They just sit there—on either side of the sleeping boy, the one with the bandaged throat and too many scars—and for once, neither of them moves.
Mizi doesn’t bring up what happened between them in round five, and Luka is glad she doesn’t.
There’s too much blood between them for an apology to mean anything now—too many things that were said, done, broken. And maybe they both know this moment isn’t about that.
It’s about Till.
She stays a little longer, arms folded, eyes on the slow rise and fall of Till’s chest. The tension in her jaw never fades. Maybe she’s waiting for Luka to speak again. Maybe she’s trying to decide whether she trusts him here—whether she’ll ever trust him again.
But she stands eventually.
Not a word.
No nod.
No threat.
No parting glance.
Just the soft sound of her boots on the floor as she walks out and closes the door behind her.
Luka doesn’t move right away. The silence in the room is louder now. He can hear his own heartbeat, can feel it thudding in his throat as his gaze lingers on Till. The younger boy hasn’t stirred, and the stillness feels almost cruel.
Finally, Luka reaches out.
His fingers find Till’s hand beneath the blanket—cool, slender, familiar. He wraps his own hand around it gently, carefully, like it might break if he squeezes too hard.
He swallows.
The air tastes like antiseptic. His eyes sting. He doesn’t say anything.
But he doesn’t let go.
Hyuna knocks once before coming in, a folded stack of clothes in her hands. She’s quiet as she approaches the bed, setting them gently on the table beside Till.
She doesn’t say much—just looks at him for a moment. His face, the bandages. The slow, rhythmic rise of his chest.
“Figured he’ll want something warm,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone. “The room’s cold.”
Luka nods silently. He hasn’t moved from the chair. His hand is still loosely wrapped around Till’s, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall like he’s barely in the room at all.
Hyuna looks at him for a second. There’s sympathy there, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or both.
“You should go clean up,” she says, quieter. “You look like you crawled out of a grave.”
Luka blinks like she pulled him out of a trance. His eyes drop to his shirt, the dried blood flaking at the seams, the stains that soaked through to his hoodie. The smell. His hands. His wrists. It’s all still there.
He nods again—slower this time—and stands.
He murmurs. “I’ll be back.”
“You don’t need to say it.” Hyuna’s already pulled the chair closer to Till’s bedside. “Go.”
Luka hesitates, his fingers brushing Till’s again before he lets go. Then he walks out of the room without looking back.
The shower is scalding.
Luka scrubs until his skin goes red, until his fingers hurt, until Till’s blood is gone and he feels like a raw nerve. He stands under the water long after it’s necessary, eyes closed, chest heaving like the adrenaline hasn’t stopped pumping.
He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream.
But he stays under that water like he might fall apart if he steps out too soon.
When he finally emerges, clean clothes clinging to damp skin, his hair still dripping, he looks less like a mess. But only on the surface.
He heads back toward the infirmary, quieter this time.
A little more put back together.
But still holding onto the edge of something sharp inside.
He stays the whole night. Doesn’t move from that chair.
The room grows quiet as the hours pass. The machines hum. Till breathes. The lights are low. Outside, the facility is silent—too silent. No shouting, no missions, no Mizi pacing outside his door. Just this room, and the weight of it.
Luka doesn’t sleep. He sits hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. His eyes never leave Till. Not for long.
He didn’t cry when Till was shot.
Not when he caught him—his body going limp, warm blood soaking through his hands.
Not when he screamed at him to stay awake, or when he carried him through the dark, too afraid to look down.
Not in the backseat with Till’s head in his lap.
Not in the shower, when he watched red swirl down the drain.
But now…
Now it hits. Like it’s allowed to.
The tears come slowly—at first just a sting in his eyes. Then a blink, and they spill, silent and unannounced. No shaking shoulders. No sobs that split him open.
Just quiet crying. The kind that leaks out because there’s no space left to hold it in.
He presses his palms over his eyes, wipes at his face with the sleeve of a borrowed hoodie. His shoulders curl in, small and tired.
No one sees.
No one needs to.
He just needed to cry.
Needed to let some of it go—
The fear.
The guilt.
The sick helplessness of holding someone who might die and not being able to stop it.
He stays like that until the tears run out. Until his breathing slows.
And then…
He sits back in the chair, his hand reaching out again to hold Till’s.
Still there.
Still warm.
He exhales shakily and closes his eyes, just for a second.
He doesn’t know when he fell asleep.
One second, he was just resting his eyes. The next—morning light is peeking through the window, soft and grey, and the chair beneath him is stiff and cold.
The bandages on Till’s neck are different. Cleaner. Tighter.
And there’s a blanket over his shoulders.
Luka touches it briefly, confused for a second—then realizes it must’ve been Hyuna. Quiet, careful Hyuna. She must’ve come while he was asleep. He makes a mental note to thank her later.
His whole body aches when he stands. He stretches, runs a hand down his face, and stumbles to the bathroom just to splash water on his skin, like that’ll wash away the weight in his chest. He stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red. His face pale.
But when he comes back—
Till’s eyes are open.
Luka freezes in the doorway.
Till looks…confused. Dazed. Like he’s still piecing together what happened.
And Luka doesn’t think—he just moves.
He drops back into the chair beside the bed, leans in quickly, searching his face. “Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, voice raw. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
He doesn’t touch him, not yet. Just stays close, close enough that Till can see him clearly.
“You’re back,” Luka breathes. “Fuck, Till. You’re back.”
As soon as Till parts his lips—just barely, the ghost of a sound catching in his throat—Luka’s hand gently but firmly cups his jaw.
“Don’t try to talk,” he murmurs, eyes locked onto him. “The doctors said—if you push it too soon, it might not heal right.”
There’s a pause.
“I know you want to. But not yet. Just…stay with me, yeah?”
He lets his hand fall slowly, fingers brushing the side of Till’s neck where soft, fresh bandages hide what could’ve been the end of everything.
Luka exhales shakily.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
Luka sees the movement—slow, uncertain—and meets Till’s hand halfway.
Their fingers tangle, and Luka holds on gently but firmly, like he’s afraid Till might disappear if he lets go.
He doesn’t speak. There’s nothing he can say that won’t break them both.
Till’s eyes shimmer, lashes damp. One tear slips down the side of his face, and Luka brushes it away without thinking, thumb soft against his cheek. It lingers there for a second.
The silence between them isn’t empty. It’s heavy with everything they’ve never said.
So Luka just stays. Not as someone looking for answers. Not as someone trying to explain anything.
Just someone who’s still here. Who didn’t leave. Who won’t.
Chapter Text
The room was too quiet.
Till hated it. He hated the silence pressing in on all sides like walls. He hated the way his voice had been taken from him. Even more, he hated how everyone looked at him like he might break if they spoke too loud or touched him too suddenly.
He sat in bed, wrapped in blankets, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to his skin no matter how many times he showered. The bandages around his throat itched constantly. He couldn’t scratch them. Couldn’t scream about it either.
So he drew. Or wrote. In the little sketchbook someone had left on the table.
“Don’t hover.” he scribbled and held it up the moment Hyuna stepped in.
She just gave him a smile, then left quietly, pretending she hadn’t even seen the page.
He hates that he can’t talk. But everyone loves to remind him that if he tries to talk so soon he may not be able to talk at all.
Luka didn’t come around much. Not anymore.
He doesn’t know why…He wonders if he did something.
He always had an excuse. “Training.” “Helping Isaac.” “Sorting the files.” Bullshit.
Till didn’t ask. He didn’t want to beg, but deep down it hurt him.
And every time the door opened and it wasn’t him, something curled inside his chest. Something bitter.
★
The sharp crack of a bullet echoed through the abandoned practice range, cutting through the dry afternoon like a blade. Luka didn’t flinch.
He cocked the gun again, arm tense, sweat slicking his brow despite the breeze. One shot after another rang out in succession, methodical but ruthless. The recoil pulsed through his arm, grounding him. He needed it. He needed the ache. He needed the distraction.
The target ahead had long since torn, paper curling at the edges from the repeated impact. He hadn’t bothered replacing it.
His heart still hadn’t stopped racing since that night. The memory of Till’s blood soaking into his hoodie, his body limp in Luka’s arms, made his stomach twist even now. But what was worse—far worse—was the look on Till’s face in that hospital bed. The fear. The trust. The way his fingers trembled just to reach out to him.
He didn’t know how to handle it.
Another shot. Then another. Luka lowered the gun, panting.
Why does it always come back to this?
He tossed the weapon on the table nearby and ran a hand through his hair, shoving the strands back in frustration. He doesn’t want to cry.
Not here. Not now.
So he turned to something easier—something numb.
The liquor stash was modest—rationed—but Luka found a bottle regardless, buried under clutter. He didn’t think twice. He poured. Drank. Again.
By the time Hyuna found him slouched against the kitchen counter, half the bottle was gone and his eyes were glazed.
“Seriously?” she snapped, storming over to yank the drink from his hands. “You’re drinking?”
Luka blinked at her, lips curling into a smirk that didn’t meet his eyes. “Didn’t know I needed permission.”
“Till is barely alive and you’re here getting wasted?”
“Don’t start,” Luka muttered, pushing past her. “He’s not my responsibility.”
Hyuna caught his arm. “You’ve been with him every night since. And now suddenly you disappear?”
Luka turned to her sharply, eyes narrowing. “It’s not like that, okay? We’re not—I’m not—” He exhaled harshly. “We’re not together. We just…help each other. Physical shit. That’s all.”
Hyuna looked like she’d been slapped. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
He shrugged, jaw clenched. “I don’t hate him. That’s something, right? But don’t act like it’s something, it’s not. It’s not some romance.”
She scoffed, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m realistic.”
“No,” she snapped, stepping closer, “you’re a coward.”
He laughed bitterly. “Of course.”
★
Neither of them noticed the shadow standing just outside the kitchen. Till stood frozen, back pressed against the wall, the sketchbook he had been carrying nearly slipping from his hands.
He had come looking for Luka. He had something he wanted to show him—maybe even say to him, with his notebook.
But now—
His breath caught.
‘We just help each other.’
‘Physical shit.’
His fingers curled tightly around the notebook’s edge, nails digging into the paper.
He didn’t wait to hear the rest.
Till squeezed his eyes shut.
That was what it was, wasn’t it? That’s what it was always supposed to be. They never talked about it. They never defined it. They just acted on it—rushed kisses in the dark, Luka’s fingers tangled in his hair, breathless nights with no promises when morning came.
There was no space for softness. No time for emotions. No reason to expect more.
So why did it hurt so damn much?
His throat tightened—though pain there was nothing new now. His fingers curled around the edge of his sketchbook as if gripping it tightly could somehow keep everything else from breaking.
He knew Luka wasn’t good with feelings. Not that Till is.
He knew Luka didn’t owe him anything.
And yet… there had been moments. Quiet ones. Honest ones. Luka, trembling in the dark, reaching for him like he was the only lifeline left. Luka holding his hand in the infirmary like he didn’t want to let go. Luka wrapping bandages around his bloodied palms with shaking hands. Luka’s voice whispering “Till” like it meant something more.
So why did it feel like all of that had meant nothing?
His chest ached—not from the wound, but something deeper, rawer. Stupider.
You knew what this was, he told himself. You knew better than to hope.
But his body didn’t listen. Neither did his heart.
He backed away from the doorway, silent. His footsteps were light, steady, and practiced. Like he’d never been there.
Like he hadn’t heard a damn thing.
But the pain clung to him.
★
Till didn’t leave his room.
He’d gotten good at being quiet again. Main reason, because he can’t fucking talk yet. Moving around like a ghost, taking his meals late or early when no one else would be there, slipping past people with his head low.
His voice still wasn’t back. Maybe it never would be. But that wasn’t the reason he stopped trying to be seen.
He just didn’t want to feel anything right now.
The guitar lay across his lap again, fingers brushing the strings, plucking out melodies with no rhythm. Sometimes it was something soft and aimless. Sometimes it was sharp and messy and bitter. His music was the only voice he had lately, and even that cracked when his hands trembled too much.
He told himself he wasn’t mad. Luka had said what he had to say. It was the truth, wasn’t it?
They helped each other. That’s all it was. That’s all it had ever been.
No promises.
No warmth.
No reason to expect more.
So why couldn’t he let it go?
He laid the guitar down on the bed, strings humming softly when his arm brushed against them. He stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on nothing. Sometimes the pain in his throat felt dull. Sometimes it burns. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst part was the silence.
He thought… maybe Luka would come.
Maybe—stupid as it sounded—maybe Luka would knock. Maybe he’d walk in and pretend like nothing happened. Or maybe he’d sit down and apologize. Or try. Or not say anything at all but lie next to him like he used to, just… be there.
But when a knock came at the door that night, Till sat up too fast.
His heart stuttered.
He opened the door.
It wasn’t Luka.
It was Mizi.
She looked surprised to see him like this—eyes tired, hair messy, hoodie pulled over his head like he was trying to hide. Her lips pressed together, like maybe she wanted to say something. Maybe even comfort him. But she didn’t. She just said she was checking in. That he should eat.
Till nodded. Wrote a word or two in his notebook. She left soon after.
He waited a long time after the door shut before lying down again.
The tears didn’t come, but they stung behind his eyes.
He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t that pathetic. He wasn’t a kid anymore. And this wasn’t heartbreak. It was just—just disappointment. Just reality setting in.
He turned on his side, pulled the blanket over his shoulders, and closed his eyes.
Maybe in the morning it’d hurt less.
But it didn’t.
Most days blurred together.
Till stayed alone in his room, tucked under blankets that smelled like antiseptic and faintly of Luka. He’d been moved to one of the medical recovery rooms—bigger than what he was used to, but still cold, still white, still empty.
People came and went.
Hyuna brought him food and warm clothes, always with a kind word and a soft pat on the head. Dewey cracked jokes that made him smile even when it hurt. Isaac dropped by with short, awkward updates about the next missions. Even Mizi sometimes came in, stiff and silent, setting things down and pretending not to glance at his bandages.
They didn’t stay long.
And Luka… didn’t come.
Not anymore.
Till stopped looking toward the door.
The first few days, he barely moved. The pain was sharp—his neck, his ear, his throat—but it dulled after a while. What didn’t dull was the ache inside him, heavier with each quiet hour. He wrote in his sketchbook when he had to. Just a word or two for Hyuna, a nod for Dewey. Most of the time, he didn’t bother.
When he was alone, he played his guitar again. Quietly. Cautiously. His fingers didn’t tremble as much anymore. He played lullabies, mostly—fragments of memories he didn’t know he remembered. They soothed him. Not enough, but it was something.
By the end of the week, he could hum.
Barely. Just under his breath. A scratchy sound, dry and soft, like something rusted trying to work again.
It scared him.
He remembered Risa’s warning—that trying to talk too soon might ruin everything. That it might break something for good.
But he missed his voice.
He missed talking. Laughing. Arguing. Teasing. Saying things that mattered.
He missed saying Luka’s name.
One afternoon, when the light was leaking in through the blinds and everything was quiet, Till laughed.
It startled him.
A small noise, soft and hoarse, escaped from his chest, memories were flashing, some from Anakt Garden that made him laugh. The laugh cracked halfway through and faded instantly, but it was real. It sounded wrong, broken and unfamiliar, but it was his.
His hand flew to his throat.
Nothing hurt.
He exhaled shakily and looked down at his lap.
His guitar rested there again, and for a moment, he didn’t feel so useless.
But when the moment passed, the silence came back.
He reached for his sketchbook and wrote, slowly:
“I miss you.”
He stared at the words. Then tore out the page.
He wasn’t pathetic. He wasn’t.
Till didn’t expect Mizi to show up that morning.
She didn’t say anything when she entered—just waited until he finished buttoning up the shirt Hyuna had left for him and held out her hand, a silent come with me. He stared at it for a second, confused, but followed anyway.
Risa was already waiting in the infirmary, flipping through his records with a coffee in hand and tired eyes. “Two weeks,” she said, without looking up. “Think it’s time we try.”
Till froze.
His fingers curled into the hem of his sleeve.
Risa finally glanced at him. “You’ve been healing well. I can’t promise anything permanent yet, but… you should be able to speak again.”
He swallowed.
Mizi was sitting on the small couch in the corner now, arms crossed, but her face was… not as cold. Just watchful.
Risa leaned on the counter, voice softer now. “You don’t have to say a lot. Just a word. A sound. Try.”
Till blinked. Slowly.
His throat felt tight, dry. The nerves in his neck flared slightly when he moved. He touched the edge of the bandage unconsciously. There was a tremble in his fingers again.
He took a breath. Shallow. Then deeper.
And tried.
“…H—”
It caught, rasping like sandpaper, and he winced. He coughed, softly, one hand over his chest.
Risa nodded. “It’s okay. Try again.”
He nodded once, jaw clenched. His eyes flickered to Mizi. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frowning either. Just watching. Waiting.
He opened his mouth again.
“…Hi.”
It came out wrong.
Not his voice.
Scratchy. Flat. Barely more than a whisper, shaky at the edges, like wind trying to take form. His own eyes widened slightly at the sound—familiar and alien all at once.
Mizi blinked. Risa straightened, hopeful.
“Good,” the doctor said. “That’s good. It’ll feel like that for a while—strained, off. You haven’t spoken in two weeks. It’s going to take time.”
Till didn’t respond.
He just stood there, eyes cast down, throat tight again for a whole different reason.
Mizi stood up slowly and walked to his side. She didn’t touch him, didn’t say anything—just gave a small nod. That was enough.
Till sat down again, exhausted from the one word.
But somewhere under the nervous static in his chest… he felt something shift. Just a little.
Like the silence wasn’t permanent after all.
The first few days after that, Till didn’t try much. A word here, another there—testing the feel of it on his tongue. The sound still didn’t quite feel like his. It was scratchy, tired, like someone had taken sandpaper to his throat and forgotten to smooth it back.
But the soreness faded. The fear didn’t.
Still, each day it came easier. And on the fourth day, he sat at the edge of his bed and said a full sentence..
It surprised him—how loud it sounded. Not loud, exactly, but… there. Real. No more writing on sketchbooks or mouthing answers. Just sound again. His voice.
A bit lower, maybe. A little cracked.
But his.
He didn’t tell anyone right away. Let them figure it out. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for Luka to hear it. Or maybe he didn’t want Luka to be the first to hear it.
Not after what he said.
Till hated how much that still lingered in his chest—how one stupid, careless sentence could stay like a bruise under the ribs. He wasn’t even supposed to be upset. Luka was right. It wasn’t anything serious. It was never labeled. Never defined.
And yet.
He touched his neck out of habit, fingers brushing the edge of healing skin under the bandages. It was ugly. Rough and uneven. He’d seen it in the mirror. But he didn’t care.
His voice came back. Not fully—but enough. It would get better, Risa said.
And maybe—maybe the rest of him would too.
★
Luka didn’t mean to stay away this long.
At first, it was just a day. Then another. Then a week. He kept telling himself he’d go see him tomorrow—after training, after reviewing maps with Isaac, after… anything. But “tomorrow” kept stretching farther and farther out, and every time he thought about walking into that room again, something twisted hard in his chest.
So he didn’t.
He spent most of his days on the training floor, pushing himself too far, bruising knuckles until his hands throbbed, staying up too late in meetings with Isaac, poring over recon plans and updating supply runs, or drinking.
Now he was just filling space. Filling the hours with anything that kept him from remembering the sound of Till choking on blood or the way his body had gone limp in Luka’s arms.
The image still lived in the back of his mind, sharp and fresh and cruel.
He told himself Till wasn’t alone. Mizi was always around, Hyuna too. Even Dewey stopped by. That should’ve been enough.
Right?
It didn’t make it easier to sleep at night.
The worst part was how easy it was to pretend they were fine. On the surface, at least. Luka kept his mouth shut, kept busy, kept away. But it wasn’t really far. Not with the way his eyes still flickered toward Till’s room every time he passed by. Not with the way his heart clenched every time he heard someone mention his name.
He didn’t ask for updates, but people talked.
He overheard Hyuna telling someone in the corridor, voice low but excited. “He spoke this morning. Said a full sentence. His voice is a bit rough, but he’s getting there.”
Luka had stopped walking. He didn’t mean to.
A strange kind of relief pooled in his chest. Like he could finally breathe again. He smiled, faintly. Just for a moment.
He was glad.
And he hated that he wasn’t there to hear it.
The base had gone quiet hours ago. Most of the lights were dimmed, and the echo of his footsteps down the corridor felt too loud in the silence. Luka hadn’t planned to go anywhere in particular—just couldn’t sleep, as usual. His body was still tense from training, his head buzzing from too many thoughts.
He ended up in the main room. It was stupid, maybe. This was the place it had started—whatever this was between them. All those quiet nights. The way Till used to sit curled on the couch with a blanket over his shoulders, sketchbook in his lap, guitar resting at his side. Luka always found him here. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all, just sat with the silence between them.
It had never felt like pressure.
Just something real. Something safe.
He exhaled, rubbing his tired eyes, then blinked—and stopped.
Someone was already there.
Till.
He sat on the couch, legs pulled up loosely beneath him. His silver hair fell around his face in soft strands, catching the low light from the corner lamp. He didn’t look surprised to see Luka—just lifted his gaze slowly and met his eyes.
Luka froze.
His throat went dry.
He hadn’t seen him this close since—since that day. Since the blood and the shaking and the screaming and—
Till’s expression was unreadable. Not angry. Not soft, either. Just… tired. Older, somehow.
Luka didn’t know what to say. His hands curled into fists by his sides, then slowly relaxed again. He shifted his weight, unsure if he should move closer, unsure if he even had the right.
“Hey,” he said quietly, voice hoarse. The word caught like a burr in his throat.
Till didn’t say anything. But his eyes didn’t leave him.
His voice—it had come back. Luka could say something else. Apologize. Explain. Lie.
But all he could do was stand there.
He thought Till might look away. He didn’t. Instead, slowly, deliberately, he shifted to the side on the couch—just enough to make space beside him.
An invitation.
It hurt more than silence.
Luka hesitated only a second before stepping forward. He sat down carefully, leaving space between them. It wasn’t like before. There were invisible walls between their bodies now, made of things unsaid, of pain still fresh and unhealed.
The room stayed quiet. The air thick.
Till looked forward again, arms crossed loosely. Luka stared at the floor.
He didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t leave, either.
Luka barely breathed.
He didn’t know what he expected—maybe that Till would stand and walk away, or that he wouldn’t say anything at all. Maybe he’d pretend Luka wasn’t even there.
But after a while, in a voice still hoarse and raw from healing, Till asked quietly:
“What’s been going on with you?”
Luka’s jaw clenched.
Of course he asked. Of course Till would look at him like that, voice steady but so clearly hiding how much it all hurt. How much he still hurts.
Luka didn’t answer at first.
He could’ve said a hundred things. About how he kept busy with Isaac and the others. About how he’d been shooting again. About how he couldn’t stay near Till after what he said—how guilt had been eating him alive but he didn’t know how to fix it.
So fucking small.
But all that came out was:
“I don’t know.”
His voice sounded rough. Useless.
Till turned his face slightly toward him, not saying anything, but Luka felt the weight of that gaze like it was pressing against his ribs.
The quiet between them stretched.
Luka didn’t know what else to say. Being near Till again made his thoughts buzz in a way he’d been trying to avoid for weeks. He was too aware of the stillness, the dim lights, the fact that they hadn’t been alone like this since—God, since before the mission.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Till said suddenly.
Not a question. Just a fact.
Luka glanced at him sharply.
“I’ve been busy.”
Till hummed. Not convinced. Not surprised either.
“Everyone else came to see me,” Till added after a moment, still not looking at him. “You didn’t.”
Luka’s mouth opened. Then closed.
He’d told himself it was better that way. That Till had people. That he wasn’t needed. That they’d only been…
Whatever the hell they’d been.
Till sat cross-legged on the couch, the soft hum of the building filling the silence. His guitar rested on his thigh, one hand absentmindedly brushing the strings.
Luka stood awkwardly by the wall for a few seconds longer before finally stepping closer. He dropped into the seat opposite Till, careful not to look too closely.
It had been weeks. He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe anger. Maybe silence.
Instead, Till smiled.
“You look tired,” he said gently, voice still low and a little raw, but better than before.
Luka blinked. The smile caught him off guard. It wasn’t wide or bright—but it was soft. Familiar. Kind.
“You don’t sound great either,” Luka answered, more dry than teasing, but his lips twitched just a bit.
Till chuckled—a breathy sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’m getting there,” he said, fingers sliding off the strings. “Doc says I should be fine. I’ll sound normal again soon.”
“You sound fine.”
Their eyes met for a second. Luka looked away first.
He didn’t ask if Till was okay. And Till didn’t ask why Luka had disappeared.
Instead, Till stretched his arms over his head, a little stiff from sitting too long, and shifted the guitar off to the side.
“I’ve been playing again,” he said lightly, gesturing to it. “Not writing, not really. But it helps.”
Luka nodded. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t much, but Till didn’t seem to mind. He just leaned back, tucking his knees close, arms wrapped around them in a way that made him look far too small again.
The silence was almost comfortable. Almost.
Then, Till glanced over and said, with that same too-soft smile:
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Luka swallowed hard.
“Yeah. Me too.”
Till didn’t push. He didn’t ask what Luka meant. He didn’t say where were you or why did you lie.
He just smiled again.
But his fingers curled tightly into his sleeves—like he was holding something in.
Till stared at Luka for a moment longer after those quiet words.
I’m glad you’re here.
He should’ve stopped there.
He should’ve said goodnight. Should’ve smiled again and let the moment pass. Luka was right. About everything. Whatever they had—if they even had anything—wasn’t what Till had built up in his head. Luka didn’t owe him anything. He didn’t promise anything. It was just what it was. Physical. Fleeting.
And still…
His chest tightened.
Then why does it hurt like this?
Till looked away first this time, biting the inside of his cheek, feeling something start to build—heavy, stupid, desperate. He wished he could scrape the feeling out of himself like old paint. He wished he hadn’t heard what Luka said. He wished he didn’t care.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.
It's fine.
Then, like the fool he was, he moved before thinking.
He shifted closer—slowly at first, watching Luka’s face for any sign to stop. But Luka didn’t move. His eyes followed Till’s, a little wide now, like he didn’t expect anything.
Till leaned in, every nerve in his body screaming at him to stop, to pull away, to not do something so stupid again—
But he didn’t stop.
His fingers caught Luka’s hoodie, and in one motion—quick and trembling—he pressed their mouths together.
It was nothing like the soft, slow kisses they’d once shared. It was desperate. Thoughtless. His heart pounded so loud in his ears it drowned out the rest of the world. It wasn’t long—barely a second—but he kissed him like it would fix something. Like maybe it could make the ache go away.
He didn’t leave.
He didn’t say sorry.
He just… stayed.
Till stood there, close enough that Luka could feel the heat of him, and could still taste the kiss lingering in the space between them. He wasn’t backing off. He wasn’t giving him an out.
And Luka—
God, he just stood there too.
His chest tightened. His throat was dry. He could hear his own heartbeat louder than the silence.
Why wasn’t he saying something?
He should say something. Something sharp. Something to remind them both that this—whatever this was—shouldn’t be happening again. He should remind Till that none of this meant anything. That it never did.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Luka looked at him, really looked—and something twisted in his chest. Till looked tired. Hurt. But still warm. Still there. Still stupid enough to kiss him again even after everything Luka had said that night.
And Luka had been so sure that was the right thing. To push him away. To stay away. To let the silence speak.
So why did it hurt to look at him?
Why did it ache?
Luka’s eyes flicked down to his lips. He hated how much he missed them. How his body remembered the way Till kissed. How he’d thought about it more than once in the past two weeks, alone in the dark, fists clenched in guilt.
This shouldn’t be happening.
But—
He reached up anyway. Hand trembling just a little, he brushed his fingers along Till’s jaw. His skin was soft. Warm. Real. Too fucking real.
And in that moment, Luka stopped pretending.
He kissed him.
Not out of habit. Not to distract himself.
Not because he needed to feel something—but because he needed to feel him.
He pulled Till closer, lips slow but aching, heart pounding so loud it hurt. The kiss deepened like gravity took over, and Luka just… gave in. His hands gripped Till’s sides, like he was scared to let go. His whole body burned.
And the worst part?
It felt good.
Too good.
And it meant something.
Goddamn it, it meant everything.
And Luka hated himself for how much he didn’t want to stop.
Till was the one who pulled away.
His breath was warm against Luka’s lips for a moment longer… and then it was gone.
Luka opened his eyes slowly, still dazed, still halfway in the kiss. But the look Till gave him—
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t happy.
It wasn’t what Luka expected.
There was heat in his gaze, yes—but not the kind Luka wanted. Not desire. Not comfort.
It was… disappointment.
Luka blinked, throat tight. “What?” he asked, voice low. “What is it?”
Till didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him, like he wanted to say a thousand things but didn’t trust himself to say any of them.
Luka shifted. His hands were still half on Till’s waist, but they’d started to fall away. He felt stupidly cold. He hated the silence. He hated not knowing.
“You—you’re looking at me like that again,” he muttered, frustration bleeding in. “Like I did something wrong.”
Still nothing.
Luka let out a breath, jaw tightening. “What do you want from me?”
But even as he asked, he already knew the answer.
And he already knew he couldn’t give it.
Not the way Till wanted.
Not the way Luka was terrified to want it too.
And Till… Till must’ve seen it written all over his face.
That was the real disappointment.
And for some reason, it burned.
Till’s eyes didn’t move away. His mouth opened just slightly—like he almost didn’t want to answer.
But he did. Soft. Quiet. A little raw.
“I want a lot of things…” he said. His voice was rough, still healing, but steady.
“…but you can’t give them to me.”
Luka felt it like a gut punch. Not loud. Not cruel. But final.
Till didn’t yell. He didn’t cry. He didn’t even sound mad.
Just tired. Sad.
And then he turned.
Luka instinctively reached forward—half a step, a half-second too late.
“Wait—” he started, but Till was already walking away, hands shoved into the sleeves of that oversized hoodie, head slightly down as he slipped through the hallway like he didn’t want to be seen.
Luka stood frozen in place. Watching the door. Listening to the fading footsteps.
The silence after was the loudest thing in the room.
And it was his fault.
Luka doesn’t move from the spot for a long time.
The words echo over and over again.
“I want a lot of things… but you can’t give them to me.”
He stares at the door, like Till might come back. Like maybe if he stands still long enough, he’ll understand what just happened.
But nothing makes sense.
He thought—God, he thought they both knew what this was.
Nothing serious. Physical comfort. Survival instincts. Maybe trauma-bonding
So why does it feel like his lungs are collapsing?
Yes, he’d pulled away. Yes, he left Till alone after the injury.
But he thought it was for the best—safe. He didn’t want to hurt him more than he already had.
He told himself that keeping distance would make it easier. That this thing between them wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
Till knew that.
Didn’t he?
Then why did his voice shake like that? Why did it sound like he expected Luka to fail him?
Luka runs both hands down his face, dragging them through his hair, pacing. A sharp breath leaves him—half a curse under his breath.
His chest is tight. His throat aches.
He wants to scream.
Punch the wall.
Break something.
Instead, he just sinks to the floor.
All this time he thought he was in control. He thought if he didn’t ask questions, if he didn’t let himself feel, then it wouldn’t be real.
But Till looked at him like he was already disappointed.
Like he’d waited.
Like he hoped.
And Luka never gave him what he needed.
Maybe Hyuna was right—maybe he is just reckless, selfish, doomed to ruin everything he touches.
Maybe Mizi saw it first—that he’d leave a mess in Till’s life without even trying.
He doesn’t know how to fix this.
He doesn’t even know if it can be fixed.
All he knows is that it hurts.
And the worst part?
He misses Till.
Even though he was just here. Even though his lips still sting from the kiss.
He already misses him
The silence is louder than anything.
★
Days pass, and Luka feels like he’s watching the world through glass. Everything moves around him, people talk, plans are made—missions, rotations, recovery schedules—but there’s this hum of wrongness under it all. Like something fundamental’s been knocked out of place.
Till doesn’t talk to him.
Not in passing, not in the halls, not even with a look.
There’s no teasing. No arguing. No casual brushes of fingertips when they reach for the same gun.
No stupid late-night visits.
No kisses stolen between breaths.
No touch, no sound, no Till.
And it’s his fault.
He knows that.
But it still doesn’t make sense. It all happened so suddenly, like he blinked and the thread snapped.
Luka’s mind keeps circling.
Did he say something?
Do something?
Was it something he doesn’t remember?
The night Hyuna found him drunk.
He remembers her yelling.
He remembers the sting in her words.
He remembers saying something—cold and distant and cruel, because that’s how he protects himself.
But he doesn’t remember if Till was there.
He doesn’t remember if he was heard.
And maybe that’s worse than if he’d known for sure.
So he throws himself into work—helps Isaac plan recon routes, manage inventory, assess risk levels for future missions. Keeps himself busy enough to stop thinking.
It doesn’t help.
Every room he walks into, he half-expects to see that familiar silhouette hunched over a sketchbook, or strumming his guitar with his legs folded up, or leaning against the wall like he owns the whole damn base.
But Till’s never there.
And Luka tells himself he doesn’t care.
He tries to mean it.
But his chest keeps aching in ways he doesn’t understand.
And every night, he lies awake thinking:
What if I ruined it?
What if I already lost him, and I didn’t even notice when it happened?
★
Luka had just returned to his room when the first alarm blared—loud, shrill, unnatural. It wasn’t the usual perimeter breach or meeting call. This one was sharp, strobing through the hallways in angry pulses.
He was still halfway through unzipping his hoodie when the smell hit him. Smoke. Burnt plastic. Something else—sharper. Metal and ash. His heart jumped.
He froze for only a second before rushing out the door, pulling the hoodie back on. The hallway lights flickered in an ugly rhythm, half the emergency power already down. People were shouting—some running, others frozen in confusion.
“Luka!” someone yelled—maybe Hyuna, maybe Mizi. He couldn’t tell. His ears rang.
Then the floor trembled.
The sound of the explosion swallowed everything else.
A violent roar ripped through the south corridor—too close—and Luka stumbled, grabbing the wall as hot air rushed down the hallway. Dust. Screams. Lights blew out entirely.
For a moment, there was only smoke and the taste of copper in the back of his throat.
He coughed, covering his nose with the inside of his sleeve. Somewhere behind him, someone was yelling names. The smell was stronger now—something was really burning. Luka didn’t wait for orders.
In the haze of smoke and bodies moving, he saw Till.
He was standing down the hallway, barefoot, in pajama pants and a hoodie too big for him, eyes wide and shining in the red emergency lights.
Luka blinked, wiped his face. When he looked again, Till was gone.
Or maybe he’d imagined him.
Maybe he was losing it.
Maybe everything was just smoke.
The fire was out.
It took an hour, maybe more. Time had started bleeding together, smudged into smoke and sirens and too many voices shouting at once. Luka wasn’t sure when exactly someone had grabbed him—maybe Hyuna—and guided him away from the chaos. He remembered collapsing onto a couch in one of the less-used lounges, his lungs refusing to work the way they should. Everything felt too tight. Each breath is like dragging broken glass through his throat.
His hands were still shaking.
The world around him pulsed in and out of focus.
He didn’t mean to fall asleep, or black out, or whatever it was—but when his eyes opened again, the light in the room had shifted. Dim. Smoke-tinted. Silent, except for the low murmur of voices nearby.
He turned his head slowly.
Across the room, he saw them—Till, Dewey, Mizi, Hyuna, and Isaac—gathered in a half-circle, deep in conversation. From the look on their faces, whatever they were talking about wasn’t good.
Luka’s chest clenched, and not just from the pain.
For a second—just one sharp, dizzy second—he thought it had happened again. That it was the aliens. That they’d found them.
That this was just another version of that hell.
He tried to sit up straighter, but his head spun. His lungs refused. A deep cough shook through him, wet and raw, tearing out of his chest.
Hyuna turned first.
She came over fast, already kneeling beside him, checking his forehead, his pulse. “You shouldn’t be breathing that shit in, dumbass,” she muttered, not unkindly.
“I’m fine,” he rasped. It didn’t even sound like him.
“Sure you are.” She helped him sit upright, placing a bottle of water in his hand. “You’re staying here for a while. Risa already checked you—your lungs took a hit, and if you push it, they might collapse. Don’t make me tie you down.”
He didn’t respond.
His eyes flicked past her, drawn again to the group across the room. Isaac had a tablet in his hands. Dewey looked pissed. Mizi was holding something—papers, maybe. Till stood slightly apart from them, arms folded, lips pressed into a tight line.
He didn’t look this way.
“Was it…” Luka’s voice cracked. “Was it them?”
Hyuna shook her head. “We don’t know yet. No one’s claiming it. No perimeter breach. No messages. Isaac thinks it might’ve been sabotage from inside. Or malfunction. But…” She paused. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Of course it didn’t.
Nothing ever did.
His eyes landed on Till again. He was talking now. Calm, serious. Luka couldn’t hear the words, but he knew that look. Till always looked like that when something mattered. When he’d already thought it through and everyone else was just catching up.
It made Luka feel—
He didn’t finish the thought.
He looked away instead, focusing on the bottle in his hand, the cough creeping up his throat, the weight in his chest that had nothing to do with the smoke.
Now, even with his lungs burning, and his body wrecked, and a goddamn explosion behind them—
Luka didn’t matter.
He was the one who walked away this time.
And maybe he deserved this
Luka leaned back against the couch, chest still aching like fire, trying to keep his breaths shallow. The room was half-lit, makeshift, the windows fogged from outside cold and inside stress. Isaac had rolled out the blueprints of the base again. Till stood at the end of the table, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he read the lines. Everyone looked like they hadn’t slept.
Mizi pointed at a section near the air vents.
“We need someone to check this tunnel. If the fire started from there—”
“I’ll go,” Till said simply.
Luka didn’t even think before snapping, “Of course you will.”
The silence was immediate. Hyuna paused mid-note. Till turned his head, expression unreadable. Luka could feel their eyes on him—Dewey, Mizi, even Isaac—but he kept his gaze fixed on Till.
“You have something to say?” Till asked.
“You just got your voice back,” Luka muttered. “Didn’t realize it came with a death wish.”
Till laughed once, humorless. “Right. I forgot. I should stay quiet and useless.”
“It’s not about that,” Luka bit out. “It’s about not rushing into everything like you’re trying to prove something.”
“Why do you care?” Till asked, voice tight. “You haven’t spoken to me in two weeks.”
That hung in the air, heavy and ugly.
“I’ve been busy,” Luka replied, cold.
Till’s eyes narrowed. “Right. Too busy pretending I don’t exist.”
Hyuna cleared her throat, trying to move on. “We don’t need to—”
But Luka stepped forward. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be telling you to stop playing hero.”
“And if I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have expected you to show up.”
That hit harder than it should’ve. Luka’s jaw clenched.
“I’m not your fucking—” He stopped. Looked around. Everyone was watching now.
Isaac sighed, “Alright, break’s over. We’ll reconvene in an hour.”
People started shifting out, but Till and Luka stood frozen in the same place.
When Till turned to leave, Luka didn’t stop him.
The burned part of the base still stank like melted wires and scorched plastic. They were down there to check for structural damage—Isaac, Hyuna, Dewey, Luka, Till, and two others.
It was quiet, everyone moving around with flashlights and uneasy steps. The crackle of ruined pipes, the soft hiss of steam.
“Watch it,” Luka said when Till almost tripped over a broken support beam.
“I saw it,” Till muttered.
“Right. Like you saw the last one.”
Till turned, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Maybe if you weren’t breathing down my neck—”
“Oh, I forgot, I’m not supposed to be near you, right?” Luka snapped.
“Okay, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Till stopped in his tracks.
“You figure it out, since you’re the one who walked away.”
Till’s jaw clenched. “Because you made it clear there’s nothing to stay for.”
Hyuna dropped her clipboard with a clatter. “Are you serious right now?”
Everyone turned to her.
“God—can you two shut up for one damn minute?” she snapped. “People nearly died last night. No one gives a shit about your little whatever this is. Figure it out or keep it the fuck down.”
No one said anything.
Hyuna exhaled hard and turned away, muttering to Isaac. The others quietly resumed what they were doing, awkward silence stretching between everyone.
Till didn’t look at Luka again. Luka didn’t look at anyone.
But the tension stayed like smoke in the air. Unspoken. Heavy.
★
Later that evening, after hours of checking, testing, and crawling through half-collapsed corridors, Isaac finally pulled back from the blackened panel just outside the building.
“It wasn’t an accident,” he said grimly. “Someone tampered with the main electricity box. It was forced open. Wires cut deliberately.”
Hyuna swore under her breath.
“It wasn’t random,” Dewey added, pointing with his flashlight. “Someone knew exactly what to hit to cause a fire like that and cover their tracks.”
There was a long silence.
They all stood there under the dying sun, the burned air still lingering. The part of the base affected was sealed off now, but it would take weeks to fix the power and systems inside.
“No security breach,” Isaac said. “At least not one we’ve detected. Whoever did this either snuck in… or was already inside.”
Luka glanced toward Till, who was standing with his arms crossed, looking pale under the harsh orange glow of the emergency lights. He wasn’t looking back.
Hyuna turned to the group. “For now, we’ll reroute power from the east wing, but that’ll overload it soon. Everyone needs to be careful. No extra lights, no long showers, no pointless tech running.”
No one laughed.
Isaac’s voice was low. “We don’t talk about this outside this group. Not yet. We keep watch, we fix the system, and we wait.”
Till finally spoke. His voice was still rough. “You think it was one of us?”
“No,” Isaac said. “I hope not.”
But no one dared to promise it wasn’t
He sat on the windowsill again, same one as always, knees tucked close, his fingers absently tapping against the glass like a metronome for his spiraling thoughts.
He kept thinking about that night. The words that slipped from his mouth like they’d been waiting all along.
“I want a lot of things. But you can’t give them to me.”
Why had he said that? What was he expecting? A change? A reaction? Maybe. Maybe he wanted Luka to chase him, to argue back, to care enough to say he was wrong. But Luka just stood there, looking like someone had knocked the breath out of him, and Till had left.
And now everything was quiet again. But not the good kind. Not the soft, peaceful quiet of a shared cigarette or brushing shoulders in the hallway. No. This was a sharp silence. Heavy with everything unsaid.
He didn’t even know what he wanted anymore. Luka? Yeah. Of course he did. He had fallen—not tripped, not stumbled—he had fallen, deep and dumb and all the way in. And maybe that was the problem. He knew what kind of person Luka was. He had been warned. He had seen it with his own eyes. The selfishness, the distance, the refusal to let anyone close for too long. And yet… he still wanted him.
He hated that. Hated that he’d let it happen. Hated Luka for being so careless with him. Hated himself for wanting more when Luka had made it clear that there was nothing more to give.
Till let his head rest against the cool glass, closing his eyes.
He should talk to him. He should.
But then what? Crawl back? Pretend the past few weeks didn’t tear a hole through his chest? Let Luka off that easily? It would prove nothing. Luka would just think Till was fine with everything again.
No. If it had to mean something, Luka needed to come to him first.
That was the part that hurt the most. That he was always the one reaching out. That every moment that ever mattered between them started with him trying. And Luka just… letting him.
They never talked. That was always the issue. Always cowardice, pride, and silence.
And now it was too late. Too many things left unsaid. And of course it got messy.
He clenched his jaw and wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. No tears came, but the ache sat heavy in his ribs.
He didn’t know how this was supposed to end. He wasn’t sure if there even was an end—just more waiting, more damage, more space between them.
And yet…
He still wanted him.
That was the worst part.
Chapter 17
Notes:
How many chapters do you think I'll post in one day...
Chapter Text
People are repairing damaged parts of the base. It smells like burnt metal. The hallway where the fire hit is still sealed off. Everyone is tense—no one knows if it was sabotage or an accident, but Hyuna and Isaac are already pulling together contingency plans.
Luka’s been helping Isaac, doing everything to stay busy—repairs, checking surveillance, helping train a few new recruits. He still hasn’t talked to Till since that night. He thinks about it sometimes. Too often. But he shoves it down.
Then Hyuna finds him.
“You’re sorting through the files we recovered from the lab fire. Mizi can’t do it alone.”
“Why not Dewey?”
“Because he’s with the injured. And because Till is already working on it.”
Luka hesitates. Hyuna doesn’t care. She walks off.
The storeroom smelled like dust and dried oil, metal and mold blending into something distinctly unpleasant. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in a rhythm that made Luka want to punch something. He sat on the edge of the table, flicking through faded documents and maps they’d recovered from their last mission. His fingers were smudged with ink and dust, and his head was pounding—not from the work, but from the fact that he wasn’t alone in here.
Till stood by the far wall, sorting through old weapons and magazines. His back was turned, but Luka could still feel the weight of his presence like a heat pressing against his skin.
It had been days. Maybe a week. Luka wasn’t counting anymore. Not since that night—the kiss, the look in Till’s eyes, the words that came after.
“I want a lot of things. But you can’t give them to me.”
Luka swallowed hard and looked down at the paper in his hands, realizing he hadn’t read a single word.
“You’re folding that wrong,” Till said suddenly, voice calm, pointed.
Luka didn’t even look up. “Didn’t realize there was a right way to fold paper that’s already falling apart.”
Till’s footsteps were slow as he crossed the room. He didn’t come close, just enough to be in Luka’s peripheral vision. “Some of those files are coded. If you damage the edges, it makes them unreadable.”
Of course Till would know that. Of course he’d correct him. Luka rolled his eyes and set the paper aside a little too loudly.
“Thanks.’’ He rolls his eyes.
“Just trying to help.”
There it was. That tone. Neutral, careful, like they were strangers again. Like none of it had happened.
Luka pushed himself off the table. “Right. Because we’re so great at helping each other.”
That made Till pause. He didn’t look at Luka, just shifted the bag of guns on the table like he didn’t hear the bite in his voice. But Luka knew he did. Knew it hit.
“We have work to do,” Till said, quietly.
Luka paced a few steps, fingers twitching at his sides. He wanted to drop it, to let it slide like he always did. But being this close to Till again, hearing his voice, seeing the way he carefully avoided looking at him—it was driving him crazy.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” Luka muttered.
That made Till look up.
“What is?”
“This.” Luka motioned vaguely between them. “Us. Or—not us. Whatever.”
Till blinked. His lips parted like he might say something—ask something—but he shook his head instead and looked away.
They both stood in the silence that followed. Only the soft hum of the lights, the shuffling of paper, and the low click of metal from the weapons.
And then, softly, Till said, “I didn’t mean to make things worse.”
Luka stared at him. His heart kicked up hard against his ribs.
“You didn’t.”
Till finally looked at him.
“I did.”
Luka bit his tongue. He wanted to yell, to say You don’t get to say that after walking away. But instead, his voice came out smaller than he liked. “I thought you wanted space.”
“I thought you didn’t care.”
Luka’s jaw tensed. “Don’t do that.”
Till’s brow furrowed. “Do what?”
“Act like this was all just me—like you weren’t part of it too.”
“I never said I wasn’t.”
The tension snapped like a wire being pulled too tight. Luka stepped back, shaking his head. He didn’t want to fight. Not here. Not with the smell of smoke still clinging to the base and the stress of everything else piling up on his chest. But Till had this way of pulling the worst out of him—of reaching in and pressing on every sore spot without even trying.
A beat passed. Luka turned away, ran a hand through his hair.
Till finally stepped back toward the table, picking up the next folder. He didn’t say anything else. And Luka didn’t either.
Until a voice came from the doorway.
“Are you two done yet?” Hyuna’s sharp tone cut through the tension like a blade. “If you’re going to throw your unresolved drama around like this, do it somewhere that isn’t a weapons room.”
They both turned.
Hyuna was standing with her arms crossed, staring between them with narrowed eyes.
“Seriously. Either fight it out or figure it out. But stop this half-measured crap. You’re making it weird.”
She turned on her heel and walked off without waiting for a response.
Till blinked.
Luka sighed.
The room felt louder in the silence that followed.
The gym was empty, save for the low hum of old lights and the rhythmic thump thump thump of his fists against the bag.
He didn’t wrap his hands. He never did when he felt like this.
Sweat clung to his back, his breath came out in quick bursts, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Every punch landed harder than the last, as if the pain would drown the thoughts out.
“You didn’t care.”
“I thought you wanted space.”
“I want a lot of things. But you can’t give them to me.”
God. He wanted to scream.
Instead, he hit.
Again.
And again.
The skin on his knuckles split sometime between the third and fourth round of blows, but Till didn’t stop to check. He only saw the red when it started to smear on the bag. The dull sting felt right. Like proof that something still hurt—that something still mattered.
He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t sense the presence until the voice came, half amused, half cold.
“Are you picturing my face while you hit it?”
Till froze.
The silence stretched between them like a rope pulled taut.
He didn’t look over his shoulder. Just stared at the blood on the bag.
Then he scoffed, half bitter, half tired. “Maybe.”
Luka didn’t respond at first. And Till hated how his heart sped up just at the sound of his voice—how it made him feel something in a place he was trying to keep empty.
He heard the slow steps behind him. Then Luka was there, near enough to touch, and Till still couldn’t bring himself to look at him.
“You’re bleeding,” Luka said, voice low.
Till said nothing. He didn’t need to.
There was a pause—Luka hesitating. He always hesitated now.
But then, carefully, his hand reached out and took Till’s.
Till flinched slightly, not from the pain but the touch—the softness of it. Luka’s fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning it upward, examining the torn skin, the blood already drying in the creases of his knuckles.
“Fuck, Till…” Luka muttered.
He said it softly, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to care.
Till looked at him then. Really looked.
And Luka looked… guilty. Worried. Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out where to begin.
“You don’t have to…” Till started, voice hoarse.
“I know,” Luka cut in. But his grip didn’t loosen. “Just let me.”
Till stared at his own hand, Luka’s thumb brushing lightly against a patch of bruising skin, the way his eyes flicked to the worst of it with a frown.
He hated how badly he wanted to lean into that.
How badly he wanted to believe it meant something.
“I didn’t come here to see you,” Luka said after a moment, like he needed to make that clear. “I needed to clear my head.”
Till gave a short, humorless laugh. “Right. And you found me instead. What a treat.”
Luka’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t let go.
Neither of them moved for a while.
Just blood. Breath. And too many unspoken words between them.
★
The water was scalding. Just how he liked it.
Steam rolled off his shoulders, curling around his face, and he leaned forward, letting the hot spray hit his neck, his bruised knuckles stinging under the stream. He didn’t flinch.
He needed to feel something else. Something physical. Something real.
His chest rose and fell, breath fogging the air around him. The anger was still there—buzzing under his skin, blooming like fire in his stomach. He let his eyes shut.
And that was a mistake.
Because he saw Luka’s face.
The same one he saw in the gym doorway, half-cocked smile like a challenge, like a ghost.
“Are you picturing my face?”
Till cursed softly under his breath. “Fuck you…”
But his fists tightened. His throat clenched. The image refused to go away.
Not the Luka of today. No. His mind betrayed him with a memory, a night etched into him like a scar.
Here. This shower. The same tiles. The same damn water pressure.
Luka’s body against his. His fingers threaded through Till’s. He hadn’t let go. Not even once.
He kept Till grounded. Not just physically—emotionally. Kept him tethered when he was slipping under. Luka had kissed him like he knew, like he could feel the panic coming before it even reached Till’s lungs. Every move, every brush of his lips, had been slow. Intentional. Real.
That night had changed something in him.
And maybe it hadn’t meant anything to Luka.
But Till had felt it.
He slammed a fist weakly against the wall.
Stupid. Stupid to remember that now. To want that again.
But his body wasn’t listening. It never listened when it came to Luka.
Heat curled deep in his belly. It wasn’t just the water. It wasn’t just anger.
His hand slid down, almost automatically—frustrated, ashamed, needy.
He was hard.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, his voice low, broken.
He didn’t want this.
Not like this.
But he wanted Luka. His mouth. His hands. His presence.
He needed something—someone—to pull him out of the hell he was spiraling into, and all his body knew to reach for was him.
He pressed his forehead against the tile wall, breathing heavy, water cascading over him. Every nerve felt lit, every memory branded into his skin.
He wanted Luka to touch him again. To handle him like he knew how. To keep him tethered.
But Luka wasn’t here.
Just the ghost of him, burned into Till’s mind like a fever dream.
His knuckles still throbbed. He could feel the sting of broken skin, raw and red, but it was nothing compared to the ache building deep in his stomach—the one Luka left behind like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.
He hated this.
He hated him.
He hated the way Luka made him feel like this. Weak. Wanting.
His hand slid down again, hesitant for only a second, and then he gave in.
Fuck it.
His fingers wrapped around himself, stroking slowly under the water, forehead still pressed against the cool tile. The contrast burned—hot water, cold wall, the fire in his gut.
He groaned softly, biting back the sound.
Every movement pulled more memories to the surface. Luka’s breath on his neck. His hand in his. That firm grip on his hips. The way he’d murmured soft, grounding things in his ear without realizing—“I’ve got you. Just stay with me.”
Till’s teeth clenched. He worked faster, angrier. He wanted to get it over with. Get it out of him. Like purging poison.
But it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was. Not since Luka touched him like he meant it. Not since Luka kissed him like he cared.
He hated that he still craved that.
He panted, the water roaring in his ears, and hated himself a little more every second. He could picture Luka’s mouth. His eyes. That damn smirk he wore when he thought he was unreadable. The way he’d touched Till like he knew him—the real him. The scared, fucked-up mess underneath.
A shudder ripped through him as he came, spilling against his hand, the tile, washed away instantly by the shower.
It didn’t feel good. Not really.
It felt hollow. Ugly.
He sagged against the wall, chest heaving, head bowed low. A bitter taste clung to the back of his throat.
There was no satisfaction. No relief. Just the same hollow ache, deeper than before.
And Luka was still in his head.
Always. Still.
By the time he crawled into bed, the sheets felt cold, untouched for hours. His hair was still damp from the shower, leaving spots on the pillowcase, but he didn’t care enough to dry it. He lay there on his side, facing the wall, arms pulled tight around himself like they could hold him together.
But his thoughts didn’t stop.
They never stopped.
Everything spun in his head—Luka’s voice, his face, the echo of things said and unsaid. The way he’d looked at him during the kiss, confused, maybe even a little guilty. Like Till was some mistake he’d keep making over and over again.
It wasn’t fair. He knew that.
Luka didn’t owe him anything. He didn’t promise anything. Not once.
And yet—
Till pressed his face into the pillow, biting down hard, but the tears came anyway.
Hot. Silent.
He promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
There was nothing to cry about.
There was no breakup. No real love story. No ‘us’ to mourn. No Luka to lose—not really. Because he never had him.
And still… he wept.
Like a child crying for a dream that never came true.
He didn’t even know what he wanted. Maybe just… for Luka to have meant it. All of it. The touches, the kisses. The way he held him like something fragile he was scared to break.
But Luka said it wasn’t real.
He said it didn’t matter.
Just physical.
Till curled tighter under the blanket, ashamed. His chest hurt like he was holding something in too long—rage, grief, longing, everything. All squeezed inside his ribs with nowhere to go.
He cried quietly, alone in the dark, no one there to hear it.
Maybe that’s what he deserved.
And still… somewhere deep inside, he wanted to be seen. Wanted someone—Luka—to knock on the door, ask what was wrong, tell him it wasn’t nothing, that he mattered.
But the hallway stayed quiet.
No one came.
★
He cried himself to sleep.
Till hated mornings like this. His eyes felt heavy, swollen, the sting of last night still tucked into the corners. He blinked blearily at the mirror as he brushed his teeth, avoiding his own reflection, but it was no use. His face gave him away. Red-rimmed eyes, puffy cheeks. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he’d been crying for hours.
Because he had.
He tied his hair back messily, threw on a hoodie and headed down the hall. The base felt quieter today. Maybe people were still recovering after the fire incident. Maybe he was just tuning them out.
He found Hyuna in the common area, going over some tablet notes, her expression pulled tight with exhaustion. She glanced up when he walked in, and her brows furrowed immediately.
“You look like shit,” she said bluntly.
He forced a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck.
“M’fine” he muttered, voice still a little rough.
But Hyuna didn’t buy it. She never did. She stood, stepping closer, arms folded. “Is everything alright?”
Till hesitated, then shrugged, looking away. “Just tired.”
“Mm.” Her eyes didn’t move off him. “You know, I’ve been trying not to meddle. Really. I figured it wasn’t my place. But…” She paused, as if measuring her words. “There’s something going on between you and Luka. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t need the details. But it’s… obvious.”
His stomach sank a little, chest going tight.
Hyuna continued, softer now, “When you got shot, Luka was the first one out of the building with you. I was right behind him. He was—Till, I’ve never seen him like that. He was shaking, holding onto you so tightly I thought we’d have to pry you out of his arms.”
Till said nothing. He couldn’t.
“He wouldn’t leave your side. Not even once. Didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. He sat next to the med bed for hours. Hold your hand the whole time. Like letting go meant losing you.”
Till stared at the floor.
“But then you woke up,” she said, voice quieter. “And everything changed.”
A lump rose in his throat, but he forced it down.
“I don’t know what happened,” Hyuna went on. “But it doesn’t make sense. How someone can act like that one moment, and then… pretend you don’t exist the next.”
Till still didn’t speak. His hands were in his pockets, his body still.
“I just wanted you to know what I saw,” she said gently. “I don’t know what he told you. Or what he didn’t. But Luka’s not easy. And he’s been even harder lately. I’m not defending him. I just… think he’s scared. Of himself. Of you. Of what he’s feeling.”
Till looked up, jaw tight, eyes wet again before he even noticed.
Hyuna didn’t push further. She simply gave a small nod, as if she’d said what she needed to, and turned back to her notes.
Maybe Luka was scared.
But Till was tired of being someone people ran from when they got scared.
‘’You said you didn’t know what happened,” he said, voice low.
Hyuna blinked. “I meant after—”
“I heard you.”
She froze.
“I heard what he said that night. When you found him drunk,” Till went on, a hollow laugh breaking under the words. “The part where he said it wasn’t anything. That it wasn’t like that. That we were just… using each other for physical needs.”
Hyuna opened her mouth, but he cut her off.
“I wasn’t supposed to hear it, right?” he asked, dry. “It was fine, I wasn’t supposed to be awake yet. But I was.”
Silence stretched. His heart pounded in his ears.
“He was drunk,” she said finally, carefully. “He was… he was being stupid, Till. That’s what he does when he’s scared. He pushes people away.”
Till scoffed, shaking his head.
“I know he was drunk. But drunk words mean something, don’t they?” His voice cracked, but he kept going. “He said what he really thought. That it wasn’t real. That I wasn’t anything.”
“Till—”
“He made it very clear,” he said bitterly. “And maybe he was right. Maybe I just read into things that weren’t there.”
Hyuna stood now, gently, like approaching a wounded animal. “You didn’t imagine it, okay? I saw how he looked at you. He just—he panicked. He says stupid things when he panics. He hates how much he feels.”
“That’s not my problem,” Till said, voice trembling. “I’m not going to keep being some temporary thing someone uses to feel better until it’s too real.”
Hyuna softened. “I know.”
“I’m not doing that to myself again.”
He took a step back. The pain was there, tightly wound in his chest, but his voice had steadied now.
“I’m tired of being something people regret.”
And with that, he left—again. This time not to run from pain, but to finally protect himself from it.
The padded mats smelled like old sweat and rubber. Dewey cracked his knuckles as he stepped into the training area, already rolling his shoulders in slow, loose circles.
“You’re late,” he called, smirking.
Till dropped his water bottle by the wall and shrugged. “Didn’t know we were keeping time.”
Dewey tossed him a practice knife without warning. Till barely caught it.
“Maybe you should start,” Dewey said, tone light, but there was something more serious under it. “You’ve been slacking.”
Till raised an eyebrow, twirling the knife once between his fingers. “You’re that desperate for someone to spar with?”
“No,” Dewey said, stepping closer. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself the next time shit goes sideways.”
That earned a bitter little laugh from Till. “Appreciate the concern.”
They circled each other. The first few strikes were clumsy—at least on Till’s side. He was slower than usual, reflexes dulled by exhaustion, or distraction, or both. Dewey didn’t say anything at first, just adjusted, dodged, countered.
But after a particularly sloppy step that nearly got Till knocked flat, Dewey dropped the playful act.
“Alright, stop.”
Till straightened, panting slightly. “What?”
“You’re not here,” Dewey said bluntly. “You’re physically in front of me, but your head’s in a completely different goddamn room.”
Till wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “So?”
“So, it’s dangerous,” Dewey said, folding his arms. “You used to be sharp. You don’t hesitate. You don’t let openings like that slip past you. What’s going on?”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
Till’s jaw tensed.
Dewey sighed, quieter this time. “Listen, buddy. I’m not trying to get in your business. But we’re on the same team. If your mind’s messed up, it matters. And right now? You’re distracted. You’re off.”
“I said I’m fine,” Till snapped.
They stood there for a beat.
Then Dewey softened his posture and offered, “Just… take care of yourself. Whatever’s going on, don’t let it rot your edge.”
Till looked away. “I’ll be better.”
“Good,” Dewey said. “Next time I’m not going easy on you.”
The base was too quiet.
It took Till a while to realize what was bothering him—no distant chatter, no footsteps echoing in the halls, no clatter from the weapons room. He passed the kitchen and it was empty. The infirmary too. Mizi’s plants had been watered, but she was gone.
He checked the time. It was already past noon.
A pit started to open in his stomach.
No one had told him anything.
Not a word.
Not even a knock on his door.
He finally spotted someone—him—slouched on the couch in the common room, flipping lazily through a folder of reports. Luka’s boots were kicked off, one foot up on the coffee table like he owned the place.
Till stopped a few feet away, voice flat. “Where is everyone?”
Luka looked up like he hadn’t noticed Till there. “Supply run.”
Till blinked. “What?”
“They went out,” Luka said, shrugging. “Won’t be back until late.”
“No one told me.”
“They didn’t want to bother you.”
“Bother me?” Till’s voice sharpened, a sting of disbelief in his tone. “I’m part of this team. I can still walk, can’t I?”
Luka set the folder down, already sighing like he’d been waiting for this. “You’re still healing, Till.”
“So?”
“So you shouldn’t go out yet. That’s it. Don’t make it a thing.”
Till took a slow step closer. “Let me guess… you stayed behind to make sure I don’t sneak out too? Babysitting duty?”
Luka looked up at him, something unreadable in his eyes. “Not babysitting. Just… making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
“Oh, right,” Till laughed bitterly. “Because I’m the reckless one. I’m the one who needs watching. I can’t possibly decide for myself whether I’m ready.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
Silence stretched. Luka stared, jaw tense but unreadable. Till’s fists clenched.
“You should’ve just left with them,” Till muttered. “Would’ve made it easier for both of us.”
He turned before Luka could respond, storming down the hall and slamming the door behind him.
He stormed into his room, fists clenched, chest tight with something he couldn’t name. Anger, maybe. Or worse — hurt.
Of course they all left without telling him.
He should’ve expected it. They were always whispering lately, tiptoeing around him like he was fragile. Even Luka.
Especially Luka.
Till barely made it three steps before the door opened again behind him.
“Don’t,” he said, without turning. “Don’t fucking start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Luka said calmly, shutting the door behind him.
His voice—so even, so careful—set something off inside Till. He turned, eyes already burning.
“You’re the one who stayed behind, right? To babysit me? Make sure I don’t trip and die on my way to the kitchen?”
Luka crossed his arms. “I stayed because you’re not ready to be out there again.”
“Bullshit.”
“Till—”
“No! Don’t act like you know what’s best for me!” Till snapped, stepping closer. “You don’t get to decide how broken I am. You don’t get to watch me like I’m a fucking responsibility!”
“I’m not watching you like—”
“Yes, you are!” he yelled, voice rising fast. “You and the rest of them—like I’m some lost cause they keep around because they feel bad!”
“Stop yelling,” Luka said sharply. “You’ll strain your voice.”
Till laughed bitterly. “Right. Can’t have that, huh? After all, that’s the one thing I’m good for, right? Being quiet and obedient.”
Luka’s expression twisted. “That’s not what I meant—”
“Then what did you mean, Luka? Because all I’m hearing is that I should sit still, shut up, and not get in the way.”
“You’re twisting this.”
“I’m not! I’m telling you how it feels!”
Till’s voice cracked on that last word. He felt it catch, sharp in his throat. But he didn’t stop.
He was too far gone.
“You push me away every time I get close! And then you hover like it’s your job to protect me! What the fuck do you want from me, Luka?!”
“I don’t know!” Luka snapped, stepping forward suddenly. “I don’t fucking know what I want!”
That stunned them both into silence.
Luka dragged a hand through his hair, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. “I don’t know how to do this. With you. Around you. Near you. I don’t know how to stop.”
Till stared at him.
Then, quietly — bitterly — he said, “Then maybe you shouldn’t have started.”
That did it.
Luka stepped back like he’d been slapped.
And Till, breathing hard, turned away before the burn behind his eyes betrayed him.
He didn’t want to cry in front of him again.
Not this time.
The silence after their fight was thick. Not peaceful — not even close. Just heavy. Exhausting. Like the aftermath of a storm that hadn’t cleared the air, only soaked everything in mud.
Till stood with his back turned, shoulders tight, heart hammering painfully in his chest. He could still feel Luka behind him. Not moving. Not speaking.
Then — the sound of a step. Careful. Slow.
“Till…” Luka said, voice quiet now. Like he was afraid of shattering something between them. “I…”
But the words didn’t come.
Till didn’t turn.
He felt Luka’s hands first — one sliding behind his neck, the other cupping his cheek. Warm. Familiar.
Soft.
His breath caught. Against his will.
He let Luka touch him. Just for a moment. Just to remember. Luka’s forehead was almost touching his now, eyes boring into his.
So fucking close.
Till let his eyes fall shut.
For a moment, he hated how badly he wanted this.
But then he pulled back.
“No.”
Luka blinked, hands falling away. “What?”
Till stepped back, just enough. Enough to breathe again. “You don’t get to do that.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Till said, eyes meeting his. And he hated how tired he sounded. “This is what we do, right? We scream, we bleed, and then you touch me like it’ll fix something.”
Luka opened his mouth, but Till kept going.
“I can’t… I won’t let it happen again. Because nothing’s fixed. We’re just pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
He swallowed. “But it does. Every time.”
The worst part? Luka looked like he understood.
Till hated that too.
So he turned around, walked to the door, and said quietly, “Just… don’t follow me this time.”
And this time, Luka listened.
Chapter 18
Notes:
I actually love this chapter, I dunno why
Chapter Text
He hadn’t slept much lately.
Not because of the coughing — though his lungs still burned from the smoke some nights — but because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Till. Not just his face, but the look in his eyes when he said “I want a lot of things. But you can’t give them to me.”
It played on repeat. Over and over.
Luka rubbed his hands over his face, leaning against the wall outside the armory. The early morning air was still cold in the hallway. Too quiet. Too still. Like something waiting to break.
He knew he fucked it up.
Maybe not all at once. But in small, cowardly steps. Pushing Till away. Saying the wrong things. Not saying anything when it mattered.
He thought if he kept his distance, it would protect them both. He thought what they had would stay simple. Physical. Controlled. But Till had never been simple. And Luka had never really been in control, not when it came to him.
The truth was, it felt good. Too good. Being with Till. Kissing him. Touching him. Waking up to his voice in his head long after he was gone.
It scared the hell out of him.
Luka exhaled through his teeth, hands trembling slightly.
He wasn’t supposed to care this much. That wasn’t the deal.
So why did it feel like something vital had been ripped out of him now?
Why did he want to go to Till’s room and say something — anything — if it meant he could take it all back?
But it was too late.
He saw it in Till’s eyes, that night when he tried to touch him again. There was hesitation. There was sadness.
There was distance.
Luka had broken something.
And he didn’t know how to fix it.
Luka sat in the quiet storage room, the only light coming from the cracked door. His head rested against the metal shelf behind him, eyes unfocused, hands twitching slightly in his lap.
He felt weird. No—he felt like shit.
Everyone had said he changed. Dewey, Mizi, even Hyuna. Said he wasn’t the same reckless, impulsive asshole he used to be. Said he had softened. Grown. Cared more.
And yet… he still managed to hurt Till.
How did that make sense?
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. When they first started… whatever it was, it was meant to be simple. They both agreed. No strings. No emotions. Just something to feel. Something to forget, for a little while.
Even Till had said it. “It’s just physical.” Luka remembered the exact tone, flat and guarded. Like a shield. He should’ve known.
But something shifted. Quietly, slowly, then all at once.
And now—
Now Luka couldn’t even breathe properly without thinking about Till.
He closed his eyes, jaw clenched.
He didn’t even know what this feeling was. It made his chest feel tight. Made his stomach twist. Made him want to go back in time and redo everything from the moment Till first touched his wrist in the hallway.
It wasn’t like when he was a kid and thought he loved Hyuna. That had been safe. Familiar. Childish. She was strong, warm, always there. But that wasn’t love. That was comfort. A dream of protection in a fucked-up world.
But this—what he felt for Till—it was something else.
Raw. Messy. Terrifying.
Luka didn’t know what it meant. But he knew it was real. And he hated that it might be too late.
Luka had heard the others talking.
That Till had snapped at them too—not just him.
That he’d been angry they didn’t tell him about the supply run, that they left him behind. Treated him like glass again. Like he’d shatter if he stepped outside. Like he wasn’t capable of making his own goddamn decisions.
And they’d left him with Luka.
Luka, the one who broke him the most.
It made his stomach twist.
Because truthfully, Luka was scared of Till breaking.
He remembered the way Till’s body went limp when he was shot—how the blood soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky against Luka’s arms. How pale he was. How terrifyingly still.
He had screamed for someone—anyone—to help. Clung to Till like if he let go, he’d disappear. He hadn’t cried, not in front of anyone, but his chest had cracked open that night. Something inside him snapped.
He hadn’t been able to breathe properly since.
He never told Till what that did to him. He never told him how fucking close he was to losing it. Never told him that for those hours, waiting to see if Till would wake up, he kept thinking about all the things he never said.
He never even told him the truth.
But what was the truth?
Luka stared at the floor, brows furrowed. His jaw clenched.
What is the truth?
That he cared?
That he always did?
That maybe, just maybe, he—
No. He didn’t know. That was the worst part.
Everything was so loud inside his head, but all he felt was numb.
★
Hyuna quietly announces they’ve started putting together a little underground club. Nothing too fancy—just music, lights, some makeshift bar, and a space to breathe. Some of the younger members took charge of decorating it, Dewey helped wire the sound system. It’s chaotic and weirdly cozy. The club ended up being better than the old one in the old base.
She hasn’t performed in a while, but she wants to. She says maybe, just for tonight, they can let themselves forget what’s waiting outside.
Luka isn’t sure he’ll go. Neither is Till.
But they both do.
The air smells like old metal and cheap alcohol and something sweet someone smuggled in. The lights are dim, colored strips lining the walls. People are already dancing. The music's loud, not perfect, but it feels alive.
Hyuna’s singing something playful, something that’s not a battle cry or a goodbye or a lullaby to the dead. Just a song. Her voice carries through the club like it was meant to be there. And for the first time, it’s not about surviving—it’s just about being young and alive.
Luka’s in the corner with a drink in his hand. Watching. Not just her—everyone. The way Isaac laughs. The way Dewey jumps into the dance floor. The way even Mizi lets her hair down.
And then he sees Till walk in.
Dressed casually, quieter than usual, looking around like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Like part of him is scared of…feeling something good.
Their eyes meet. Neither of them moves.
They don’t talk. They don’t argue. But they feel it—this is what it could’ve been. What it still could be.
★
The music thrummed through the walls, bassline pulsing like a second heartbeat under his skin. Lights flickered lazily—purple bleeding into blue, then back again—casting soft shadows over the old steel beams and mismatched furniture. Somehow it all worked.
The club was alive.
It wasn’t like the old bases. Not cold. Not a war camp. It felt… real. Like they were building something, not just surviving in someone else’s ruins.
And there she was.
Hyuna.
Standing under the spotlight like it was always hers. She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. She stood still, one hand holding the mic loosely, the other resting near her ribs like she was feeling the music from the inside. Her voice slipped into the room—low and rich and absolutely fearless.
Till watched her, unmoving from where he sat near the edge of the floor.
There was something magnetic about her. Not because she was beautiful—though she was—but because she looked unafraid. Not the kind of courage born from recklessness, but the kind that came from knowing who you were, even after everything. Hyuna sang like the world didn’t scare her anymore.
And he envied that.
God, he envied that.
Till hadn’t stepped on a stage since—
Well.
He didn’t think about that. Not tonight.
Dewey appeared beside him, shoving a drink into his hand with a too-cheerful grin. “Drink it,” he said, already downing his own. “It’s not poisoned. Probably.”
Till raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Nooo,” Dewey said, dragging the word out like he was the worst liar on Earth. “I’m trying to get you to dance. Which is basically the same thing.”
Till gave a small, dry laugh, but didn’t say no.
He took a sip. Something burned. Definitely not water.
“See?” Dewey smirked. “You’re halfway there.”
Till rolled his eyes and tilted the glass again. The second sip was easier. His fingers were still tapping quietly on his thigh—nervous energy leaking out.
God, when was the last time he let himself feel like this? Music, lights, laughter in the background—people dancing, touching, forgetting for a moment that they might die tomorrow.
And still, deep in his chest, something twisted.
Like the moment he let his guard down, someone might take everything from him again.
Like he might ruin it.
But for now… Hyuna’s voice held everything together.
The table was too crowded, their drinks all half-finished, shoulders bumping as laughter spilled louder than the music. Mizi was waving her hands as she told some story, slurring slightly, and Isaac leaned back with his arms crossed, grinning at whatever Dewey had just whispered to him. Luka sat across from Till, and for once, he wasn’t looking at him. Or maybe he was—Till couldn’t tell in the shifting lights.
Hyuna had finally stepped off stage, sweat on her temples and a flushed grin on her lips. She dropped down beside Isaac and knocked back a drink like she hadn’t just stunned the whole room with her voice. Someone slid her another shot. She didn’t hesitate.
It felt good. The way her presence glued them all together.
Till was sipping something sweet and dangerous. He’d lost track of which round this was.
Then someone—Mizi, maybe—grinned and leaned across the table.
“You know what would make this night perfect?”
Till blinked slowly. “What?”
“You.” She pointed directly at him. “Singing.”
Till laughed once, short and surprised, but the table immediately lit up with noise.
“YES.”
“Come on!”
“You haven’t sung since—”
They didn’t say since the final. They didn’t say since you almost died. But it was in the air.
His mouth went dry.
“Absolutely not,” Till said, and his voice was still hoarse enough to get a few groans of sympathy—but no one let it drop.
Dewey leaned in, drunk and smiling. “You were a damn star, man. Come on. Give us one song.”
“I’m not a star,” Till muttered. “Not anymore.”
Luka’s eyes flicked up at that. Just a second. Just enough.
Till looked down at his glass.
Last time he sang on a stage, Luka was beside him, and they were both bleeding. He remembered the spotlight, the blood pooling in his mouth, the gunshot that followed. But even worse—the memory that clawed behind his ribs—was Round 6. Ivan on stage.
Till, silent in the corner.
Frozen. A ghost of himself.
He missed it.
God, he missed it so much.
Not the competition. Not the violence.
But the way his pulse used to race for something.
There was no reason to be scared now. No guns. No rules.
Just lights. Just people. Just sound. No aliens.
He stared into his glass, and saw the reflection of the stage behind him.
And maybe—maybe—he just needed one more drink.
They wouldn’t let it go. Not Dewey, not Mizi, not Hyuna—especially not Hyuna. She kept nudging him, her voice cutting through the music with playful insistence.
“Come on, Till. You used to own stages like this.”
“I also used to almost die on them,” he muttered.
But no one heard over the bass. Or maybe they just chose not to.
He was tipsy enough that his head felt light, and the world around him pulsed with purple and blue. His drink was long gone, and Dewey was already waving the bartender down for another. People were singing and dancing around them. None of this was dangerous. No one was watching him with a gun in their hand. And still—
He felt Luka’s eyes on him. From across the table.
Till didn’t look.
He could feel it. The concern. The caution. Like Luka knew what he was thinking.
And maybe he did.
That made Till’s jaw tighten.
What, did he think he was going to crumble? Freeze up again? Shatter under the lights?
He could practically hear Luka’s voice in his head. “Don’t push yourself. You’re not ready.”
Like hell he wasn’t.
“One song,” Hyuna said, louder now, hand on his shoulder. Her smile was warm and steady. “Just one.”
The beat changed. The music shifted into something slower, something smooth. A good choice. Not too demanding. Not too loud. His throat could take it. His body could handle it.
His mind—he wasn’t so sure.
But maybe that was the point.
He pushed his chair back. The metal legs scraped loudly against the floor.
Their table erupted. Cheering, clapping. Mizi shouted something unintelligible. Dewey slammed his hand on the table in approval. Even Isaac raised a glass in his direction.
Till stood.
For a moment, the room tilted. The lights turned again—blue, then red, then purple—and the memory of that stage, the one with the blood and the screams, flickered like a glitch in his mind.
But the club was alive. No one was dying here. No winners. No losers. Just this.
He started walking.
Luka didn’t move.
He just sat there, hands clasped in front of his mouth, watching with a look Till hated.
Not because it was cold.
But because it was soft.
Because it cared.
Till looked away fast.
He wasn’t doing this for Luka.
He wasn’t doing it to prove something.
He was doing it for himself.
To take the stage back.
He stepped into the glow of the lights.
The mic felt cold in his hand.
He stared at the crowd. Not too big. Familiar faces mixed with strangers, all blurred by the lights and haze. For a second, he almost backed out.
Then the first beat dropped.
Something clicked.
Till took a breath—and sang.
Not a safe song. Not a soft one. This wasn’t one of the stripped, melancholic things they liked him to sing during the competition. It was loud. Rough. The kind of sound that didn’t hold back. That pushed forward, fast and sharp and raw.
His style.
His heart.
And the moment he opened his mouth, it all spilled out of him.
He sang like he meant it. Like he was on fire.
He felt the floor vibrate beneath him. The rhythm crawling through his veins. He felt the rasp in his throat—not painful, but alive. He let it out, note after note, the tension in his shoulders fading with each line.
Eyes closed.
Head tilted slightly upward.
He didn’t think about Luka. Or the blood. Or the time he froze up, standing silent while Ivan bled out on the stage beside him.
He didn’t think about what he’d lost.
Only what he had now.
The music drowned everything. Even the cheering, which got louder with every second. Someone was clapping off-beat. Someone else was shouting his name. It echoed in the distance, warped by the sound system and the haze in his head.
It didn’t matter.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Till felt good.
Not numb.
Not scared.
Just good.
Alive.
★
Luka had barely touched his drink.
He sat at the edge of the booth, not really part of the conversation. The music thumped against his ribs, the bass shaking the glass in his hand, but it barely registered. Everyone had been laughing, pushing, teasing Till like it was nothing. Like this was some game.
And maybe it was.
But not for Till.
Luka could see it on his face—the way his shoulders tensed, the way he smiled but didn’t mean it. And when they said his name again, louder this time, Luka had almost told them to shut up.
He didn’t.
Because part of him wanted to hear it too.
He told himself it was worry. That he didn’t want Till to be pushed too far, too fast. That he was just concerned. That it wasn’t about him.
Luka knew that was bullshit.
Because when Till finally stood up and walked toward the stage, Luka’s breath caught.
And once he started singing?
He couldn’t look away.
It hit him like a slap—the voice, the presence, the way Till moved. The lights hit his body just right, flashes of purple and blue chasing down the curves of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the black shimmer of his shirt.
He looked alive. On fire. Untouchable.
God.
Luka’s mouth went dry.
He watched the way Till closed his eyes, fully lost in the music. He wasn’t just performing—he was reclaiming something. Something Luka had tried to strip away, even if he didn’t mean to. That fire. That edge. That freedom.
And all Luka could do was sit there and watch as it came back.
Piece by piece.
And it did something to him. The way Till sang—raw, powerful, unapologetic—it made Luka ache. Not in a physical way, though that too, maybe. But deeper. Like regret and want tangled up in a tight, twisted knot inside his chest.
This was what he’d been afraid of.
And maybe what he’d wanted all along.
Till’s voice still echoed in Luka’s head even after the music faded.
He watched him come down from the stage, cheeks flushed, eyes shining with adrenaline and drink. Dewey pulled him into a half-hug. Mizi was clapping like an idiot. Hyuna stood and clinked her glass against his before anyone else could.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” she laughed, and the others joined in, raising their glasses high.
Till laughed too. A real laugh. Loud and open and free.
Luka had missed that sound.
He scooted over as Till returned to the table, making room even though no one asked him to. Till dropped into the booth beside Dewey, eyes darting between everyone, overwhelmed in the best way. There was still color in his cheeks. He looked alive.
God, he looked so happy.
He downed another shot before someone could toast again, and everyone followed, cheers echoing in the club.
Luka finally took a long sip from his own drink. The bitter burn at the back of his throat barely registered.
He wanted to say something. He did.
You were amazing.
I missed seeing you like that.
I’m sorry I ever made you feel like you couldn’t shine.
But he didn’t say any of it.
Because that smile—the one that hadn’t been on Till’s face in weeks—was brighter than the lights above them.
And Luka knew that if he got too close now, if he so much as opened his mouth, he’d ruin it.
He always did.
So instead, he just kept drinking.
Someone poured him another drink—he wasn’t even sure who—and before he could lift the glass, Dewey leaned forward with a loud grin and said:
“Wait a damn minute.”
Everyone turned.
Dewey pointed across the table, dramatic as ever. “We’ve got the Luka—Luka-fucking-idol Luka—sitting right here, and he’s not going anywhere near the stage? That’s illegal. Literally a crime.”
Mizi laughed. “He’s scared Till will upstage him.”
“He already did,” Hyuna quipped with a smirk.
The table erupted.
Luka scoffed and raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, calm down.”
“C’mon, what happened to that stage presence?” Dewey teased, nudging his shoulder. “Or are you washed up already?”
Luka gave a dry smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Retired,” he said. “Early.”
Till didn’t say anything. Luka could feel his gaze flick toward him and then away just as quickly.
That tiny glance burned more than the drink.
No one pushed after that.
Not seriously, anyway.
Maybe they all knew better. Luka had been the idol once. The face on every screen. The voice drilled to perfection until it didn’t even sound like him anymore. Singing used to mean survival—ratings, ranking, applause that meant staying alive. And even now, in this safe place, the idea of stepping on a stage still made his throat tighten.
He could do it. He could. But he didn’t want to—not when it might feel like a performance again. Not when the last time he truly enjoyed singing felt like another life entirely.
He sank deeper into the cushions, letting the buzz of the alcohol settle in his chest as Hyuna returned to the stage. Her voice swelled through the speakers, warm and steady. Mizi was already off somewhere, maybe dancing or getting another drink. Isaac and Dewey wandered off to the bar.
Only two glasses remained on the table now. His and Till’s.
Luka glanced sideways.
Till hadn’t looked at him since returning from the stage. He was still glowing a little—flushed from the alcohol and the adrenaline, his smile faint but real. That same expression he wore right after a good performance during the show, back when it was real for him, before the fear set in. Before everything got complicated.
Luka studied him in the flickering lights. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words caught. Like always.
So they just sat there, in silence. Not arguing. Not touching.
Not fixing it.
Just breathing in the same air, with all that space between them feeling heavier than ever.
The music was loud—too loud. The bass rattled under the table, thumping through their bodies like a second heartbeat. Lights flickered overhead, and laughter echoed from the bar. Hyuna’s voice spilled over the speakers again, bright and sultry.
Till didn’t notice Luka shift closer until he felt the warmth of him—his arm brushing against Till’s, the scent of his cologne sharp and stupidly familiar.
“Can’t hear shit in here,” Luka muttered, leaning in, his voice brushing close to Till’s ear.
Till didn’t move. He could have. But he didn’t.
For a second, he swore he leaned into it—the proximity, the touch. Just for a second.
Luka pulled back slightly, enough to meet his eyes. “You were amazing up there.”
Then, softer, with something unreadable behind his voice: “How did it feel?”
Till stared at him for a beat. He didn’t snap back, didn’t say something cold. Not this time.
Instead, he shrugged, then gave a small, tired smile. “Better than I thought.”
He took a sip from his drink. “Still feels weird, though. Like I was holding my breath the whole time.”
Then he tilted his head, considering. “Would you ever want to do it again? Sing?”
Luka blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah,” Till said. “Not now. I mean someday. Me and you. Maybe even with Hyuna. Just… us. No stage, no death. Just music.”
Luka was quiet. But something softened in his eyes.
“I think I’d like that,” he said.
They fell into silence again, but this one didn’t feel heavy. It was slower, quieter. Familiar.
Till lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the violet light.
No one came back to the table. Not yet.
And neither of them moved away.
They lingered at the table, drinks half-finished, ash curling from Till’s cigarette, the smoke rising lazily in the purple-blue light. The noise of the club pressed in around them—Hyuna’s voice rising again from the stage, the occasional laugh or clink of a glass—but here, in this small pocket of space, it felt strangely quiet.
“I felt alive,” Till said after a pause, his eyes fixed somewhere in the crowd. “Up there. Just for a bit.”
Luka turned to him, his brows furrowing faintly. “Alive?”
“Yeah.” Till glanced at him, then looked away with a breathy laugh. “In Alien Stage, every performance felt like… survival. Like I was one wrong note away from dying. Because sometimes, I was.” He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “But this—tonight—it wasn’t about that. It was just… me.”
Luka hummed low, thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that.”
Till tilted his head. “You’ve never felt alive on stage?”
“I mean…” Luka hesitated. “I’ve felt adrenaline. Pressure. Even excitement, sometimes. But… not that. Not like what you’re describing.”
Till watched him. “Weird.”
“What?”
“That you, of all people, haven’t felt it.” He leaned back, smirking a little. “The most likable idol in all of Alien Stage.”
Luka rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”
“Seriously.” Till raised his glass. “Everyone loved you. Even I liked you, and I was supposed to hate you.”
Luka laughed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only the aliens liked me,” he muttered. “They made me like this. I had to be perfect.”
The joke faded. Till’s expression shifted, something tighter behind his eyes.
“I know,” he said quietly. “Believe me, I know.”
It wasn’t the first time they’d brushed the edges of this conversation—about perfection, performance, control. But tonight, it felt different. There were no sharp words, no sarcasm. Just truth, sitting heavy between them.
Luka glanced toward the stage. Hyuna’s voice dipped into something slower now. Melancholy.
“I used to think if I was perfect enough, they’d let me live,” Luka said, voice low. “And when that didn’t work, I started thinking I was only alive because they liked watching me fall apart.”
Till didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, slow and understanding. Because he did understand.
But after a beat, he offered a crooked smile.
“Well,” he said, “tonight you don’t have to be perfect.”
Luka looked at him. Really looked at him.
And for once, he believed it.
Till finished his drink in one long swallow and thunked the glass down on the table. His cheeks were flushed, eyes hazy with alcohol and adrenaline, still riding the high of being on stage.
“Okay,” he said, a little too loudly over the music, “you owe me.”
Luka blinked. “Owe you what?”
“A second round. Between us. On stage. No dirty tricks. No dying. Just music.” Till leaned in, grinning. “Not tonight, though. Tonight…” He stood abruptly, wobbling just a bit, and extended a hand. “You could at least dance with me.”
Luka raised an eyebrow. “I don’t dance.”
Till rolled his eyes, swaying closer. “No one can see us,” he said, voice lower now, conspiratorial. “It’s dark. There’s too many people. Who cares.”
He didn’t wait for Luka to answer. He just grabbed his wrist and tugged him toward the mess of bodies moving to the rhythm.
Luka hesitated at the edge of the crowd, but Till was already moving—his body loose, fluid, lost in the music. The lights painted him in flashes of violet and blue. And then he turned, reached for Luka again.
Luka let himself be pulled in.
At first, he stayed stiff, unsure. He’d danced before—choreography, performance—but this wasn’t that. This was messy. Intimate. Close.
Then Till pressed in, chest to chest, his arms looping lazily around Luka’s neck, and Luka’s hands instinctively found his waist.
It was selfish. He knew it was. Till was drunk—laughing, flushed, vulnerable. It wasn’t fair.
But Luka had always been selfish when it came to him.
He let his hands settle, warm against Till’s sides, just above his hips. Their bodies moved together, slow and deliberate despite the heavy beat. Till’s head dipped, their foreheads almost touching, the air between them tasting like liquor and heat.
Luka thought he’d never get to hold him like this again.
He didn’t deserve to.
And yet, here they were—lost in the crowd, in the rhythm, in the blur of something that couldn’t last but still felt too good to stop.
Till clung to him, swaying, fingertips brushing at the nape of Luka’s neck. Their chests pressed, breaths syncing, something too intimate to be ignored simmering just beneath the surface.
It felt like almost….
Like maybe…
But it wasn’t.
Still, Luka held him tighter.
Just for now.
Till moved like he was weightless, like the song was written for his body. Luka couldn’t keep his eyes off him, the way the shadows kissed his skin, the way he swayed against him—trusting him with all that closeness despite everything.
And then, just like that, Till leaned in and pressed his lips to Luka’s.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was reckless. The kind of kiss that came from too much alcohol, too many emotions shoved down too long. It was needy. Hurting. Confused.
Luka’s first instinct was to pull away.
No. Not like this. Not when Till is drunk. Not when he’s still angry.
But the hesitation was only a second long. Because Till’s fingers curled into his hair, and Luka felt himself falling—again, again, always.
So he kissed him back.
It was a quiet kind of desperation, the kind Luka had gotten used to carrying but never expressing. Their mouths moved like a rhythm they knew too well, like something familiar and dangerous. Like they were still trying to fix everything the only way they knew how—through touch.
Luka’s hands gripped Till’s waist tighter, holding him like the kiss was a lifeline. He didn’t care that it was stupid. That it didn’t solve anything. That it would probably hurt more later.
Right now, it just felt real.
And Till—
Till didn’t pull away.
Not yet.
★
Till’s lips were still on Luka’s when it hit him—
What the hell is he doing?
He froze, breath caught between their mouths, the taste of alcohol and Luka thick on his tongue. Slowly—so slowly—he pulled back. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but nothing came. His chest rose and fell with heavy, shallow breaths. He was panting, blinking like he didn’t know where he was.
Luka stayed still, his hands still resting on Till’s waist, but not pulling him in this time.
Till looked at him—no, through him—his eyes wide and scared and angry all at once. The kind of look Luka hadn’t seen since before the hospital, before the kiss on the balcony, before everything. It felt like something cracked open again.
And then Till stepped back.
No words. No excuses. No apology.
He just turned and walked.
Not fast. But determined. Shoving past the crowd and the music and the dim lights, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway beyond the club.
Luka hesitated, his mind shouting don’t follow him, but his feet were already moving.
By the time he got to the stairs, Till was already halfway up—stumbling a little, his hand gripping the railing tight. Luka followed him in silence, heart racing, guilt already bubbling up inside him. He saw the way Till swiped a hand over his face. Like he was either sweating or crying—or both.
Till didn’t go far. Just into the hall near their rooms. His hand trembled as he grabbed the doorknob.
Luka’s voice came out rough. “Till—”
Till stopped. He didn’t turn.
For a second, Luka thought he’d just go in. Slam the door. End it there.
But instead, Till whispered—barely audible—
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Then he slipped inside.
The door hadn’t even closed all the way before Luka pushed it open again.
He heard it—the retching. The sharp sound of Till’s breath as he choked over the toilet.
“Shit…” Luka muttered under his breath, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind him.
Till was on his knees, one hand gripping the edge of the toilet bowl, the other pressed to his stomach. His back heaved with every gag. His hair clung to his damp forehead, and his shirt was pulled up slightly from the way he’d bent forward so fast.
Luka crouched down next to him but didn’t touch him. He didn’t know if he was allowed to.
Didn’t know what the hell he was anymore.
“…Are you—”
Stupid question.
He swallowed it and tried again. “I’m here.”
Till didn’t respond. He kept breathing in those shaky, shallow gulps, spitting the last of the nausea into the toilet before slumping back onto his heels.
“Don’t—” he rasped out, voice cracked and ruined, “Don’t say anything.”
Luka nodded. “Okay.”
A silence fell over them. Just the low hum of the base’s old plumbing and Till’s soft, uneven breathing.
“…You didn’t have to follow me,” Till whispered eventually, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.” Luka sat on the floor beside him. “But I did anyway.”
Till’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look at him.
Luka glanced down at Till’s shaking hands. “You’re drunk,” he said softly.
“So are you.”
“Not enough to forget that kiss.”
That finally made Till look up. And his eyes—glassier than before—narrowed. “Is that why you followed me? You want to keep doing this?”
Luka opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted Till, sure. But not like this. Not shaking on the bathroom floor. Not after vomiting up all the confidence he’d gained in the club. Not in regret.
“I just…” Luka exhaled. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”
That silence again. He hated it.
Till leaned his head against the cold wall, eyes closing. “It’s worse,” he muttered. “It’s so much worse when you’re nice.”
They sat on the bathroom floor. The tiles were cold. Too cold. Or maybe that was just Till.
His back hit the wall and he leaned into it like his spine couldn’t hold him up anymore. He looked like hell—eyes red, lips pale, sick still clinging to his skin. Luka didn’t look great either, but at least he wasn’t trembling.
The silence was heavy, dragging like wet clothes. Luka rubbed his palms against his knees.
“Why did you kiss me?” he asked quietly.
Till scoffed. “Are you serious?”
“I’m asking.”
“You’re unbelievable.” Till shook his head, biting his tongue hard before speaking again. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
“I’m trying to understand—”
“What is there to understand?” Till snapped, voice sharp, slurred with alcohol but still cutting. “Im drunk. We danced. You touched me like you wanted me. What the hell did you expect?”
Luka flinched. “I didn’t make you kiss me.”
“No,” Till said, bitter, “you just stood there and let me.”
That landed like a punch.
Luka’s jaw tensed. “You said you weren’t going to crawl back to me.”
“I’m not.” Till’s voice cracked. “You think that was crawling back?”
“You kissed me, Till!”
“Fuck you!” he yelled, eyes wild. “I kissed you because—for one goddamn second—it felt good. I forgot what you said. I forgot what you did. I forgot what I promised myself.”
Luka stared at him, chest rising and falling. “And you regret it.”
“Of course I regret it!”
He laughed—bitter and broken. “You make everything worse, Luka. I was starting to be okay again. I was trying. And then you go and—look at me like that, touch me like that, and suddenly I’m back in your bed, back in your arms, back in the same stupid fucking cycle!”
Luka’s voice lowered, tight and dangerous. “Don’t act like I’m the only one who wanted it.”
“I’m not,” Till hissed, “but at least I admit it ruined me.”
There was a pause—raw, painful, and breathless.
Luka pressed a hand to his temple. “I didn’t want this to happen like this.”
“You never want things to happen,” Till spat. “That’s your whole thing, isn’t it? You never want anything but you still take it. You took me. You took what you wanted and you didn’t care what it would do to me.”
Luka stood up suddenly, fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t say I didn’t care.”
“Then why did you do it?!” Till shouted, dragging himself up on shaky legs. “Why did you sleep with me when you knew how I felt? Why did you stay close if you were going to pull away every time I needed something real?”
“Because I didn’t know what to do!” Luka yelled back. “Because it scared me! Because I thought if I pushed you away, you’d hate me less than if I stayed and ruined everything!”
Too late.
Till blinked hard, breathing heavily. His hands were shaking again. He looked like he was about to fall apart.
“You already ruined it,” he whispered. “So congrats. Mission accomplished.”
Till wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, dizzy, cold sweat on his skin. He didn’t look at Luka—just stared at the floor, glassy-eyed.
But Luka had had enough.
“What do you want me to say, Till?” he snapped, voice rough, tired. “That I’m the villain again? Fine. I hurt you. I know I did.”
Till didn’t respond.
“I never promised you anything,” Luka continued, louder now, anger rising. “I told you from the start what this was. I didn’t lie to you.’’
“You didn’t have to,” Till muttered, voice muffled by his knees. “You just let me lie to myself.”
Luka’s hands flew up. “You never said anything to me! Not once! You acted like you were fine with it, every time—every single time! And I was supposed to just know that you were falling for me? That I was breaking something in you?”
Till lifted his head slowly, eyes wide and tired and furious. “I thought you knew!”
“Well I didn’t!” Luka snapped, stepping closer, flushed now with frustration and panic. “God, Till—how could I have known when you never said anything? You kept agreeing. You never stopped me. You never—”
“Because I wanted to be close to you!” Till shouted, finally standing, suddenly burning through the haze. “Even if it was killing me! Even if it wasn’t real for you!”
They stood chest-to-chest, both trembling in the fluorescent bathroom light.
Till grabbed at his own hair, fingers tangled tight in it, as if trying to hold his skull together. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to ask for more—because I knew you’d say no.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Luka opened his mouth. Then shut it again. His fists curled at his sides.
He softened—not much, just a fraction. His voice lowered. “I would’ve listened.”
Till laughed bitterly. “No, you wouldn’t have. You would’ve looked at me with pity. Or worse—you’d stay out of guilt.”
“I care about you, Till.”
But it didn’t help. It only made it worse.
Till shook his head like he couldn’t hear another word. His eyes brimmed, red and puffy. “Just leave.”
Luka blinked. “What?”
“Leave, Luka.” He didn’t yell this time. He didn’t scream. Just whispered it like a wound. “I can’t stand you right now. Just—go.”
And for once, Luka didn’t argue.
As the door clicked shut behind Luka, Till didn’t move.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the shouting.
He stayed there on the floor, knees pulled in tight, his arms shaking. His body wasn’t done punishing him—his stomach turned again violently, and he lurched forward, barely making it to the toilet in time.
It burned. His eyes watered, throat raw, but he couldn’t stop. Like his body was trying to purge everything—alcohol, shame, confusion, Luka.
When it finally passed, he slumped against the cold tile. He could barely breathe.
He didn’t cry. He felt like he should, but nothing came. Just a sick sort of emptiness.
After what felt like hours, he forced himself to stand. The bathroom spun around him.
Stripping off his sweat-drenched shirt, he stepped into the shower. The water was too hot, scalding almost, but he didn’t turn it down. He just stood there, letting it burn him clean.
His head throbbed.
He felt disgusting.
Eventually, he dried off, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and stumbled to bed.
The lights were off. He didn’t pull the covers up. Just collapsed onto the mattress, face half-buried in the pillow, stomach twisting.
His thoughts buzzed like a swarm—flashes of Luka’s voice, Luka’s hands, the kiss. The fight. The words I care about you.
Till curled in tighter. He couldn’t think. He didn’t want to. Not tonight.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow.
Chapter 19
Notes:
more plot means more angst <3
Chapter Text
Till wakes up with his head throbbing like someone’s hammering nails through his skull. His mouth is dry, tongue heavy, and the stench of alcohol clings to his skin, even after last night’s shaky shower. The pillow is too warm, the air too cold. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just lays there, eyes squeezed shut, breathing slow and shallow — because moving means thinking. And thinking means remembering.
And he doesn’t want to remember.
Not the lights. Not the music. Not the way Luka’s hands felt on his waist. Not the kiss.
Especially not the kiss.
He groans and presses the heel of his palm against his forehead. Everything is blurry, but the shame is sharp. It always is. The worst part is how good it felt in the moment — the rush of it, the closeness, the lies he let himself believe. That Luka cared. That maybe this time, it wasn’t just about comfort or sex or pretending.
Stupid.
He shifts in bed and immediately regrets it. His stomach flips. He closes his eyes again and breathes in through his nose, slow and steady. He’s not going to throw up. Not again.
And yet, somehow, this feels worse than anything his body can do to him.
He groans again, muffled against the pillow this time. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to do anything. His stomach twists — not from nausea now, but hunger. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday, but food sounds like a punishment. He deserves to feel this way. Gross. Empty. Regretful.
Still, he doesn’t move.
He flips onto his back, eyes open now, staring blankly at the ceiling. The dull throb in his head syncs with the pulse behind his eyes. He thinks about the kiss. He thinks about the fight.
God.
Why did he kiss him?
Why did Luka kiss him back?
Why did he let it happen again?
He had promised himself he wouldn’t go crawling back. Not unless Luka wanted him — all of him. Not this… this mess they always end up tangled in. Kisses instead of apologies. Touches instead of trust. Sex instead of answers.
He exhales, bitter. Maybe it was never just physical for him. Maybe it was always more. But Luka — Luka doesn’t do more. Luka flinches at the idea of feelings, like they’re poison. And Till… Till keeps hoping anyway.
He presses his hands to his face. “Idiot,” he mutters.
Five more minutes, he tells himself. Just five more minutes of lying here, where it’s quiet. Then he’ll get up. Then he’ll find something to eat, maybe even see someone. But not Luka. Not yet.
He can’t face him.
Not today.
★
He throws on a black hoodie, dragging the hood up over his messy hair. In the mirror, he barely recognizes himself. Pale. Hollow under the eyes. Like a corpse that forgot how to sleep.
Good. That’s how he feels.
The hallway feels too bright. The base too loud, even though no one’s yelling. His footsteps echo as he makes his way toward the mess hall. Each step is heavier than the last, but he keeps going. He needs something — anything — in his stomach.
When he enters, Dewey’s the first to look up. Mizi follows, and then Hyuna. They’re mid-breakfast, and all three stare at him like he’s just risen from the dead.
“Damn,” Dewey says, dragging the word out dramatically. “You okay, champ? Or did you lose a fight to your pillow?”
“I’d say ghost,” Mizi hums, sipping from her cup, “but ghosts usually have more color in their face.”
Till ignores them. Or tries to. He grabs a plate and dumps whatever’s left into it — toast, eggs, something lukewarm and definitely overcooked.
“You look like shit,” Hyuna says matter-of-factly. “Worse than usual, I mean.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, dropping into the seat at the edge of their table. His head falls into his hand.
“I’m just saying.” Hyuna leans her chin on her palm. “If you’re gonna walk around looking like someone just murdered your soul, at least give us the story. That’s only fair.”
Mizi smirks. “Or at least tell us whose soul you murdered.”
Till stabs a piece of egg with his fork but doesn’t eat it. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
Dewey raises an eyebrow. “Not physically. But emotionally? You look like someone who left a crime scene behind.”
Hyuna’s voice softens, just barely. “You good?”
He nods slowly. He’s not ready to talk about it — not last night, not Luka, not the way his body is sore in the wrong kind of way or how his mind won’t shut up. But sitting here, listening to them tease and bicker like always, it’s a little easier to breathe.
Just a little.
He zones out while he eats.
The food is bland, but he doesn’t care. His mind drifts in and out of last night like static on a broken screen — flashes of lights, music, Luka’s hands on his waist, the kiss, the heat between them, then the cold that followed.
Someone laughs at the table. A joke. He doesn’t catch it. Doesn’t try.
They’re talking, maybe even about him, but it all washes over like white noise.
When his plate’s empty, he stands up quietly. Doesn’t say goodbye. Just walks.
He hears footsteps following him.
“Till,” Mizi says gently.
He doesn’t turn around. Just keeps walking back toward his room, head pounding worse with every step.
“Wait up,” she calls again, quicker this time.
He stops outside his door, hand on the handle. He still doesn’t look at her. “What?”
“I wanna talk.”
Of course she does.
He doesn’t have the energy to argue. Not right now. Not if she’s going to say I saw you two, or you’re making a mistake, or what were you thinking.
He sighs through his nose and pushes the door open. “Fine,” he mutters. “Come in.”
She steps inside as he closes the door behind them. His room is dim, quiet. He throws the hoodie off and sits at the edge of the bed, hunched forward, elbows on his knees.
Mizi doesn’t mention last night. Not the kiss. Not the mess. Not even the way Till looked.
Instead, she smiles a little, soft and tired.
“I’m proud of you, you know,” she says.
Till blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“For singing,” she says. “Last night. You looked… good. Strong.” Her eyes flick to his throat. “Your voice—it’s coming back. I can hear it.”
He touches his neck without thinking. The phantom sting of the wound still haunts him sometimes, even if it’s mostly healed.
“It felt like it used to,” he says. “Almost.”
She nods. “You sang like you meant it. Like you weren’t scared.”
“I was,” he admits.
“I know,” she replies. “But you still did it. I could never.”
He looks at her, confused. “You’ve sung on stage more times than me.”
“Yeah,” she says, quiet now. “But not since…”
Her voice trails off. Till doesn’t push. But he knows what’s coming. What name hovers there, just behind her lips.
“…Sua,” Mizi says. “Not since Sua died.”
The name settles between them like ash.
“I think about her all the time,” she murmurs. “Even if I don’t talk about her. I know I should. I just…”
She shrugs. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
“I loved her,” she says after a pause.
“I couldn’t sing anymore. Not like I used to. I tried. Round 5, with Luka. I got through it, but…” she laughs weakly. “That was a disaster. And not just because Luka was being Luka.”
He almost smiles.
“Nothing’s been the same since she died,” she goes on. “And for a long time I didn’t want it to be. I thought maybe I’d follow her.”
“Mizi…”
She shakes her head. “It’s fine. I didn’t. I’m still here.”
She lets that sink in, then adds, “When the rebels came—during your final round—I saw you were still alive. And I thought, maybe… I could live. Maybe I could live in a world with my best friend in it.”
He looks down at his hands. Shame creeps into his chest. He’s been so lost in his own spiral lately—so wrapped in his guilt and heartbreak and confusion—that he forgot how much everyone had lost.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Mizi nudges his shoulder gently. “Don’t be. I didn’t tell you to make you feel bad. I just… I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you sang. That was brave.”
She stands. Walk toward the door.
“You don’t have to talk about last night,” she adds without turning around. “I won’t ask. But whatever happens between you two…” She looks back at him. “Don’t forget you’re allowed to want good things. You deserve them.”
Then she leaves.
Till lay on his bed again, the ceiling blurry through the pounding in his head. Mizi’s words kept circling in his mind like smoke he couldn’t clear.
She had finally said Sua’s name.
I loved her, she’d said.
He never imagined Mizi would open up about that, least of all to him. For so long, she kept it buried beneath jokes and fake smiles, but he had always known there was a weight behind her eyes. Everyone carried something. But that…
He turned on his side, pressing his face against the pillow.
Sua’s death had been a disaster—worse than a disaster. It had broken something that could never be fixed. It had shattered Mizi’s voice, and stolen the joy from her songs. She still hadn’t sung again. Maybe never would. But she hadn’t broken. Not all the way.
And somehow… he was proud of her.
She hadn’t followed Sua. She was still here, still standing, still teasing him at breakfast like the world hadn’t fallen apart.
He couldn’t have done that.
He hadn’t done that.
After Ivan died, he hadn’t been the same. His whole world had turned sideways, full of cracks and voids he didn’t know how to fill. And maybe it was different with Ivan—different feelings, different grief—but the way it swallowed him was just as complete. He wasn’t strong like Mizi.
Still, being here, in this place, with them, gave him something back. Not everything. Not yet. But something.
A reason.
He breathed in sharply and closed his eyes.
Back in the Anakt Garden, before any of this madness had started, he remembered watching Mizi from afar. Her laugh had always come easily, the way she moved like she didn’t care if anyone watched. Of course Ivan had gotten close to her. Of course he could talk to her. Carry her on piggyback, joke around like the cameras weren’t even there.
Till had been too shy to even approach her.
He remembered sitting in the dorm hallway once, watching her and Ivan laughing over something stupid. He had been jealous. Of both of them.
Jealous that Ivan could talk to Mizi like it was nothing. Jealous that Ivan didn’t seem to care if Till watched.
…Jealous that Ivan looked back.
His breath caught.
God.
Maybe Ivan had been jealous, too.
Maybe he saw how Till’s eyes followed Mizi around the room. How they didn’t follow him, not then.
Maybe that’s why it all ended the way it did. Maybe that’s why Ivan went to the stage alone. Maybe that’s why he—
“Stop,” Till muttered aloud, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face deeper into the pillow.
He didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not again.
He let out a long, shaky breath and flipped onto his back again, sighing as he stared at the ceiling.
Mizi was right.
They were still here.
And maybe that meant something.
His thoughts wouldn’t stop.
Not for a second.
Not even to breathe.
It was like his mind hated him. Like something in his head wanted him ruined. The gears never stopped spinning—loud, grinding, choking up on themselves. He wanted silence. Real silence. The kind that wrapped around you like a blanket.
But there was never silence anymore.
Because now it was Luka echoing in his head. Luka, whose hands had been on his waist, Luka, whose lips had answered the kiss Till shouldn’t have started.
God.
Why did he kiss him?
He didn’t even know what he was thinking. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t want to admit it.
Didn’t want to admit that he wanted it. That some part of him thought it meant something.
But it didn’t.
Of course it didn’t.
He already blamed Luka. And that was easier.
Easier than taking the blame for himself.
Easier than saying, I started it.
Easier than thinking, I wanted it.
He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Everything was Luka’s fault anyway.
It had to be.
Because if it wasn’t—
If even part of this was his fault—
Then he’d have to face what that meant.
What it said about him.
And he couldn’t.
He hated this. Hated his brain.
How it wouldn’t shut up.
How it wouldn’t let him feel okay.
The thoughts kept repeating. The same damn thoughts, over and over.
The same what-ifs. The same regrets. The same mistakes.
They never stopped.
Nothing changed.
Nothing ever changed.
He wanted to smash his head against the wall until it finally got quiet. Until everything inside him just cracked and spilled out and stopped being so much.
He turned over and dragged the blanket over his head, curling in on himself.
And even in the dark, even under the blanket, Luka’s name burned like acid in his chest.
He lay there with his arm flung over his eyes, blocking out the light from the window. The pressure behind his eyes was still pounding from the hangover, but not even that could drown out the thoughts clawing at his skull.
Till turned onto his side, curling his knees toward his chest. The hoodie clung to him like static — heavy, suffocating. He wanted to disappear inside it. Maybe if he got small enough, folded enough, this feeling would go away.
But it didn’t.
He couldn’t stop thinking about what Mizi had said either. About Sua. About how close she came to falling apart and how she still carried all that weight around and somehow sang through it. Not for a show. Not for aliens. Just to feel something.
She was strong. Not loud, not unbreakable. Just strong in that way Till knew he wasn’t.
He hated himself for that.
★
The hallways were quiet, washed in blue from the weak emergency lights that buzzed softly in the corners. It was after sunset, and most of the others had probably gone down to the club again. Good. He didn’t want to see anyone. Didn’t want anyone to see him.
He walked slowly, hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, the hood still up over his head. His shoes were nearly silent on the floor. He didn’t have anywhere to go. He just didn’t want to be in his room anymore. Not with those walls pressing in. Not with the echo of Luka’s voice and his own heartbeat, thudding painfully under his skin.
He dragged his fingers along the wall as he walked. Cold, solid. At least this was real.
They were all so happy. Laughing, drinking, dancing. They deserved it. God, they did. After everything, of course they needed some joy. Something normal. Something that didn’t feel like death breathing down their necks.
And last night…he was happy, too.
Until he kissed Luka.
He should’ve just danced, just laughed and gone to bed drunk and content. But no, he had to ruin it. He always ruined it.
The silence in the halls was almost sacred. There was no music, no voices, no pressure to be anything. Here, he didn’t have to smile. He didn’t have to explain why he looked like shit. He could just exist. Float. Be a ghost of himself for a while.
He turned a corner and sat down against the wall, the concrete cold through the fabric of his clothes. He brought his knees up and rested his chin on them.
God, he was pathetic.
He closed his eyes. He could still hear the club in the distance — the faint pulse of bass through the walls. People were having fun. Living. And here he was, hiding like the fragile thing they always thought he was.
Maybe they were right.
He almost didn’t see Isaac through the doorway at first — the room was dimly lit, just a lamp buzzing over a cluttered desk. But Isaac glanced up and made a small gesture, subtle, like you can come in if you want.
Till hesitated for a second before stepping inside. The door clicked softly shut behind him.
Isaac didn’t say anything right away. There were papers and tools and data pads scattered across the desk, half-assembled gear, and a few open folders that looked like reports. But what caught Till’s eyes were the posters.
They were all laid out in a sort of controlled mess — creased and crumpled from being ripped down or folded too many times. Rebel propaganda. Wanted lists. Photos of familiar faces. Hyuna with her jaw set, Dewey grinning even in his mugshot. Mizi’s eyes looking straight into the camera, dark and unreadable.
And then—
His own face.
It took him a second to recognize it. It was newer than the ones from Alien Stage — his hair was longer now, his face a little sharper, older in a way. But there was no mistaking it. WANTED, in bold capital letters. A bounty. A rebel.
He used to see his face on different kinds of posters. Ads for concerts. Voting polls. Elimination boards. Sparkly designs, cold white lights. Back then, he was still a rebel inside — just dressed in a glitter suit and pretending it didn’t matter.
Now it mattered.
He almost laughed. It was funny. Not in a ha ha way, but in a this-is-my-life-now kind of way.
“I found that one in Sector 3,” Isaac said, not looking up from whatever he was doing. His voice was calm, always that soft even tone. “You’re famous now. Again.”
Till didn’t respond.
“Guess they finally realized what side you’re on.”
He stared at the paper. At his own eyes, printed in black and white. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Took them long enough.”
He’s been here for what? almost 6 months? more less? he can't tell. But it took them long enough..Some photos are old ones from Alien stage, and the other apparently they had managed to catch them while they were outside…
Till’s eyes moved to the next poster, half-buried under some scattered blueprints.
Luka.
It was one of the old ones — from Alien Stage. High gloss, perfectly lit. That familiar image: his silver hair styled just right, skin flawless, eyes sharp and empty at the same time. Everything about him looked untouchable. Idol. Angel. Product.
Till had seen that poster a hundred times back then, pasted on the walls, flashing across the screens. He used to stare at it for too long, trying to figure out what exactly made people fall in love with Luka. Maybe it was the face. Maybe it was the lies behind it.
Underneath, a second poster. New. The print was cheaper, grainier — not meant to sell anything, just to warn. Luka again, but different. Hair a bit longer now, the color faded out. His clothes were rebel gear — dark, practical. There was no makeup, no lighting, no performance. Just his face. And even though it was rougher, older, more human—
He looked more real.
Till knelt down without thinking and lined them up side by side, one in each hand. He stared at both of them for a long, quiet second.
The Luka on the left was designed. Sculpted. A fantasy.
The Luka on the right was just… a person.
The difference made something in Till’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.
He set them down and leaned his back against the table, tilting his head up toward the ceiling.
He wasn’t sure what hurt more — that Luka had changed…
Or that he had changed too.
And they still didn’t know what to do with each other now.
Till blinked and looked away from the posters just as Isaac slid a few more papers across the table toward him. News. Articles. Real ones. Not printed by rebel hands, not scrawled on wrinkled napkins or whispered in low halls — real reports, fresh from the outside.
“We finally got a hold of new transmissions,” Isaac said simply. “Intercepted from three different channels. All say the same thing.”
Till leaned over, flipping one of the pages toward him.
His eyes caught the headline immediately.
“Alien Stage ready for a great new comeback — Season 51 confirmed.”
His stomach dropped.
He stared at the words, trying to process them. Each syllable carved itself into his skull like they were branded.
Comeback.
Confirmed.
Season 51.
He thought he was going to be sick again.
Isaac didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were on the other page, but there was something heavy in his silence. Eventually, he nodded. “It never stopped. Not really. They just needed time to recover after the final.”
After your final, is what he didn’t say.
Till’s hands curled into fists over the table. The page crumpled under his fingers.
“They’re just replacing us,” he said. “Like it’s nothing.”
“Not replacing,” Isaac said. “Repackaging.”
That was somehow worse.
He flipped through the rest of the papers — new contestants, vague profiles, performance previews. The same artificial excitement. The same bright colors and bold fonts. But behind it all, the same blood-soaked system.
Till swallowed, jaw clenched.
“All those people,” he whispered. “All those kids…”
Isaac nodded slowly. “That’s why we can’t stop.”
Till didn’t answer.
He just sat there in silence, staring at the headlines, as the familiar bitterness pooled inside his chest. He thought about Round 6. He thought about Ivan. About the crowd screaming. About Luka. About himself.
He thought about how he had survived it.
And how someone else was about to take his place on that stage.
Isaac gave him a final glance before patting him on the shoulder — firm, steady — and quietly left the room.
“I’m going to the club,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll call a meeting tomorrow. Everyone needs to see this.”
Then the door clicked shut.
Till didn’t move.
The quiet of the room returned like a weight pressing down on his chest. He stared at the open papers for a moment longer, then slowly pulled another toward him.
A bold title at the top of the page:
“The Idol Luka — Guardian Heperu finally speaks out.”
He froze.
He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t read this. Luka should be the one to read this. Not him.
But his hand moved anyway.
He scanned the article. Short. Polished. Cold.
“He was always a gifted pet. He had everything. It’s heartbreaking to see such talent wasted like this. We can only hope he finds his way back, or that justice is served. Either way… Luka knows what he owes us.”
Till’s fingers tightened around the edge of the page.
Heperu.
He remembered Luka’s voice, hoarse and broken, whispering in the dark about the cages, the lights, the training. The punishments. He remembered thinking: no wonder Luka turned out like that.
And now Heperu was on the news, talking like he was the one betrayed.
Fuck that.
The bile rose again in his throat, but he swallowed it down.
He flipped to the next page.
This one was worse.
A flood of public comments. Faces. Names. Polls.
“We want him back!”
“He was the greatest idol we ever had!”
‘’We want our prince!’’
“Traitor. He should be hunted like the others.”
“We’ll never forgive him.”
And then Luka’s face — two photos side by side. One from the old days: shimmering eyes, styled hair, soft smile. And one more recent: the poster Isaac showed, a rebel, jacket and longer hair, shadows under his eyes.
The first image was untouchable. A dream.
The second… was just a boy.
Till turned the page quickly, hands shaking. The next one hit harder.
Mizi’s bounty.
It was real. It was massive.
Beneath her name:
“Extremely dangerous. Final Round survivor. Believed to be a leading rebel operative.”
Reward: 5,000,000 CR. Alive or dead.”
He couldn’t breathe.
And then—
Another article:
“Alien Stage responds to contestant survival: ‘An unfortunate deviation from the system.’”
“We are looking into this error. No future mistakes will be tolerated.”
And the worst—
“Rumors persist of body preservation and contestant containment for scientific experimentation. These remain unconfirmed.”
Till felt cold all over.
Labs.
Bodies.
He thought of Ivan. Of Sua. Of everyone who died on that stage.
His stomach turned violently.
He shoved the pages away, chest heaving, and pressed his palm to his eyes.
It wasn’t over.
It never ended.
He stared down at the mess of papers on the table.
Photos. Names. Faces. Prices.
And beneath all of it, something darker.
Something rotting.
He realized—suddenly, violently—that he didn’t know what they had done with the bodies.
Ivan. Sua. So many others.
Where did they go?
He’d seen the blood. Heard the final gunshots. Felt the silence afterward, like the world itself had gone hollow. But he’d never asked what happened after.
No one talked about it.
They all just… moved on.
He pressed a hand to his mouth.
They were still in the labs, maybe. Still there. Preserved. Cut open. Pumped full of whatever the fuck those aliens wanted to test. Or stored in frozen tubes. Or maybe not even whole anymore. Maybe—
Till stumbled back from the table, his chair screeching.
He turned away, pacing the small space like he could outrun the thought.
How had he never asked?
He should’ve.
He should’ve demanded to know what they did to Ivan’s body. To everyone who died.
But he was a coward. Too broken. Too tired. Or maybe it was easier not to know. To imagine something gentler. A burial. A goodbye.
But now…
There were rumors. And the rumors made sense.
Alien Stage wouldn’t waste valuable resources.
His legs gave out and he sank to the floor, curling forward, hands gripping his hair like he could squeeze the thoughts out of his skull.
They kept them. Like test subjects.
Maybe even like trophies.
He choked on a sob he didn’t mean to let out.
No one ever told him the truth. Not even Isaac. Not even Hyuna.
Because the truth was unbearable.
And now he could see it.
In the sharp corners of Luka’s photo. In the perfect cruelty of Heperu’s words. In the price stamped over Mizi’s face like she wasn’t human.
Till thought he was getting better.
But there was no getting better from this.
Tears burned in his eyes and he didn’t even bother to wipe them away. His fingers shook as he pushed back from the table.
He needed—more. Something. Anything.
His body moved on its own, a bitter force driving him into the next room. One of the storage spaces Isaac used to keep paper records, old intel, printed archives for safekeeping.
He flicked on the light and it buzzed cold above him. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with old reports and rolled-up posters, some yellowed with age.
He started digging.
Newspapers first. Photos. Notes scribbled in the margins. His breath hitched with every line he read, every caption, every twisted headline.
“Unconfirmed: Contestants preserved for future experiments?”
“Inside the Labs: What Alien Stage Won’t Show You.”
”‘Their hearts still beat’: Scientist claims biological stasis used on rebel corpses.”
Till’s stomach twisted. He felt like he was going to vomit again. He should stop.
But he couldn’t.
He kept searching—ripping open folders now, drawers, boxes. His hands are moving faster, more frantic. He couldn’t tell what he was even looking for, only that it was there. Somewhere.
Then he saw it.
A folded poster.
He pulled it open with trembling hands—and Ivan’s face stared back at him.
Clear. Alive.
He stopped breathing.
He traced the face with his fingers. He’d forgotten what Ivan really looked like. His features had blurred in Till’s memory—lost under guilt and time and nightmares.
But here he was.
Ivan.
And just like that, the tears fell again.
“I’m sorry,” Till whispered to the paper. His voice cracked. “I’m so fucking sorry…”
He folded the poster, carefully, tucked it into his hoodie pocket.
And then he saw the others.
A whole folder full of Luka’s face.
So many versions. Idol Luka. Rebel Luka. Smiling, emotionless, blank. Perfect. Always perfect.
In one photo, Luka was young—maybe ten. Heperu had his hand clamped tight on the boy’s shoulder. Luka’s posture was stiff, his mouth pressed into a thin line. His eyes were distant, resigned.
He looked like a pet.
A possession.
A puppet.
Till felt his throat tighten. He held the image in his hands for too long before setting it aside.
Then, at the bottom of the pile—something that made his heart stop.
Round 6.
His and Ivan’s round.
A front-page headline:
“What really happened between the lovers in Round 6?”
Till’s fingers clenched around the paper. His eyes scanned the lines.
“Till refused to sing.”
“Ivan broke the script.”
“A kiss. Then a fight.”
“Was it real?”
“Owner statements: disappointment, disgrace.”
“Unprofessional conduct from both units.”
“Homosexual behavior reported. Unacceptable.”
“Till’s punishment: stripped of privileges, limited access, withdrawal from following rounds.”
“Ivan: terminated by request.”
He couldn’t breathe.
He hadn’t seen this.
He never saw this.
He was too busy recovering. Or crying. Or losing his fucking mind.
He gripped the edges of the paper so tightly it started to tear.
There were comments. Endless, anonymous, vile comments.
“Disgusting.”
“I can’t believe I used to vote for them.”
“He kissed another boy on live transmission.”
“I want my credits back.”
“Kill them both.”
“Is that even legal?”
“They made me feel sick.”
“This is what Alien Stage has become?”
“I saw the way Ivan looked at him. He wanted it. Freaks.”
Till shut his eyes. But he could still see it.
Ivan’s lips. The kiss. His hand on Till’s face. The warmth. The terror.
Everything had been so loud that night—and now it was all too quiet.
And then—at the bottom of the page—a single comment from Urak, Till’s owner.
“He stood there. He didn’t sing. He failed. That was his punishment.”
Till let the newspaper drop to the floor.
He sank to his knees again, pressing his forehead to the cold tile. His whole body was shaking.
There was so much he didn’t know.
So much he missed.
And it was too late for all of it.
He moved slower now.
The papers were scattered around him, some already crumpled, torn at the edges. His hands were stained with black ink, fingertips smudged, but he didn’t stop.
One newspaper caught his eye—season 49.
A photo of a girl mid-performance, eyes burning, mouth open in a silent scream.
Hyuna.
The headline screamed:
“CONTESTANT MISSING AFTER LOSS: WHERE IS HYUNA?”
He swallowed thickly and read on.
“A loss in Round 7 shocked fans, especially given her popularity and performance record. No elimination footage was released.
Alien Stage claims a technical error.
Hyuna’s owner has not commented.”
“Early rebel sympathizers claim she’s escaped.”
“Some believe she was taken by an underground movement.”
“No body. No exit.”
“She simply vanished.”
Till felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He knew she had survived. He knew that. She was here. She was alive. But back then, to the world—
She was a ghost.
Then—another article. Season 50.
The layout was almost identical. Another face, another scream.
“ANOTHER LOSS, ANOTHER GHOST: WHERE IS MIZI?”
“Two consecutive seasons. Two disappearances.
‘’Alien Stage can’t hold them down.”
“Do these ‘losers’ live on?”
“Or are we watching fakes?”
Till blinked. He felt cold.
So many comments. So many voices.
“Rebel trash.”
“Maybe they’re planning a comeback.”
“They both got what was coming.”
“This is why they need to die on stage. No more ‘disappearances.’’
He shoved the paper aside.
He didn’t want to look anymore.
But his eyes caught on something new.
Posters.
Rows and rows of them, tucked into an old crate. Carefully rolled. Labeled by year.
He grabbed one and unrolled it slowly.
Hyuna.
A wanted poster. Not glossy like the old Alien Stage ones—this was grungier. Rebel colors. Stark background. Her face was set like stone.
REBEL HYUNA — DANGEROUS. ARMED. WANTED.
A list of alleged crimes beneath.
Treason. Subversion. Armed rebellion. Theft of Alien Stage property. Unauthorized detainment of Luka.
He choked on a bitter laugh.
They made them sound like a villains.
Poster after poster.
Then Mizi.
Then Till.
Then—someone else.
Someone he didn’t recognize.
Name: Jacob.
Face sharp, eyes cold, cropped hair and a jagged scar cutting across one eyebrow.
Another wanted poster—but this one was different.
LEADER OF THE REBELS — JACOB
Questions filled the corners of the page. Speculative headlines, black-barred information.
“Is he the real leader?”
“Or just a face?”
“Where is he hiding?”
“Where is the base?”
“How many rebels are there?”
“How long has this gone on?”
“Who protects them?”
“How many ARE LEFT?”
Till sat back, breath caught in his throat.
Jacob… Isaac’s brother.
He remembered Luka saying the name once. Just once.
Till let the posters fall from his hands.
His chest ached like it had been pried open.
They were all ghosts. Survivors by accident.
Hyuna. Mizi. Ivan. Sua. Himself.
Even Luka.
Everything had been stolen from them—and now they were crawling through ashes trying to find something. Anything.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it made them bleed.
He found more.
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t even know why.
His hands moved on their own now—unfolding posters, flipping pages, dragging out yellowed clippings from under piles of dust. His brain was too tired to think but his eyes kept reading. Word after word. Accusation after accusation. Hateful speculation. “Exposé” articles written by people who had never been there—people who didn’t even know what Anakt Garden looked like.
“The Garden is failing—children emerge with no manners, no discipline.”
“They need stronger punishment methods. No child should disobey an owner.”
“Rebels are created when you spoil the youth.”
“Anakt Garden should be reformed with stricter methods.”
“Break the body before the mind learns rebellion.”
Till stared.
That was him.
That was all of them.
Children, called rebels, called broken, called monsters.
They should teach him better.
They should punish him harder.
He saw a blurry photo—an old one. A shot of the Anakt Garden gates. Closed.
There were chains on them.
A child stood outside, crying.
He didn’t remember that photo being taken.
He looked away.
He dug deeper.
More posters.
Some are familiar.
Some not.
Eyes of children staring out of slick paper. Names he didn’t know. Aliens. Garden kids. Rebels.
He was so tired his body felt numb, but he couldn’t stop.
He grabbed every piece, every paper, every photograph. He staggered across the room, arms full of this rotting world and dumped it all on the table where Isaac had left the most recent news.
He stared at the pile.
It looked like evidence.
It was evidence.
They were being hunted. Still. Always.
The question carved itself into his head:
Did Isaac show this to the others?
Before they joined?
Did Hyuna know all this? Did Dewey? Mizi?
Did Luka?
Or was it just sitting here all along—gathering dust like it didn’t matter anymore?
Till sat down hard in the chair. His back ached. His legs shook.
He looked at the heap of posters and printouts.
His face. Mizi’s. Ivan’s. Luka’s. Jacob’s.
He remembered the look in Isaac’s eyes when he handed him that first page—quiet, grim, practiced. Like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he expected Till to break.
Maybe he had shown them.
Maybe this was how the others were welcomed in.
“Here’s what they think of you.”
Till reached for the top paper. It was Luka’s face again. Two versions side by side.
The Idol.
The Traitor.
He dragged a shaky hand through his hair.
He wasn’t going to sleep tonight.
He’d have things to say in the meeting tomorrow.
He had to.
They couldn’t keep being silent. Not when this was the truth.
★
He went back to his room, arms shaking from carrying all the files, his head spinning so hard he thought it might snap off. He dumped himself into bed, but his thoughts never stopped. They were too loud. Too cruel.
So when morning came, he got up.
He didn’t eat.
He didn’t change.
He didn’t say a word to anyone.
He just returned to the room—that room, where all those posters and articles were still scattered across the long table, still raw, still poisonous, still true.
The air was cold. The light from the ceiling too sharp.
He sat down.
Tapping.
His foot wouldn’t stop moving.
Up, down, up, down.
The rhythm of anxiety.
The rhythm of waiting.
The nails of his fingers scratched softly against the table’s surface. Tap. Tap. Tap. He could hear it over the hum of the base’s machinery. Every second felt like it dragged across his skin.
He didn’t look up when Isaac entered.
The door creaked, the footsteps halted—and then Isaac stood there, confused for just a beat. Till didn’t look at him, didn’t say anything.
Isaac didn’t ask. He just nodded once and leaned against the far wall, arms crossed.
Silence.
More time passed.
Till’s heart ticked behind his ribs like a broken metronome.
Then the door opened again.
Hyuna came in first—tired but alert. She paused when she saw Till already there, seated like he’d been waiting for hours. Her gaze narrowed slightly. She knew something was off.
Then Dewey slipped in behind her, Mizi at his side. They exchanged a glance when they saw the papers laid out across the table—some still curling at the edges like they’d been gripped too hard.
No one spoke.
Footsteps echoed one last time.
The door opened again.
Till didn’t need to look up.
He felt it.
Luka walked in.
The room felt different immediately. Like the air dropped several degrees. Or maybe it was just in Till’s chest.
He still didn’t look at him.
He just sat there, hunched slightly forward, hood still over his head, hands clasped in front of him, leg bouncing.
Everyone is here now.
It was quiet.
Uncomfortably quiet.
The kind of quiet that only comes before something important.
Till exhaled slowly. His hands were shaking, just a little. Enough to feel it. His eyes traced over the newspaper at the center of the table:
“Alien Stage returns for 51st Season!”
He could feel all of them watching him, waiting for someone to speak.
But this was his turn.
He was the one who brought them here.
And when he spoke, his voice would break that silence like glass.
Till’s fingers curled into the edge of the table. His voice came out hoarse, dry from disuse.
“…Did you ever see these?”
His words cut through the air like a blade. No one responded at first. His eyes flicked up just briefly, scanning across their faces.
Isaac looked at the table, then at Till. “…Some of them,” he said carefully.
Till’s eyes narrowed. “Did they?” he gestured vaguely to the others.
No answer.
“Hyuna? Mizi? Dewey?” His voice cracked slightly, something sharp and ugly buried beneath it. “Did you see any of this before you joined?”
Hyuna shifted her weight. She didn’t answer.
Mizi’s eyes flicked across the table—Luka’s name, Luka’s face, his face. Ivan’s.
“No,” Dewey said. Quiet. “Not all of it.”
Till leaned back slowly, let out a small laugh. It wasn’t amusing. “Yeah. I figured.”
He reached for one of the newspapers—one of the older ones, the ink faded. He held it up like it was evidence. “You know what they said after Ivan died? That it was punishment. That he was disgusting. A failure. That I—I—should’ve stood there and let it happen.”
No one spoke. Till slapped the paper down again.
“They put a price on Mizi’s head. A big one. There’s a whole article calling Hyuna a traitor. Dewey? You’re barely even mentioned. They probably think you’re already dead.”
He grabbed another—one with Luka’s face. The old idol photo. Pristine. Beautiful.
“They still want him back. Half of them.”
He threw the paper down again. Another.
“And the rest? They want his head.”
He stood slowly, pressing both palms flat against the table, voice rising. “They have labs. They keep the bodies. They don’t even hide it. They say we’re missing, or dangerous, or monsters—but they keep us alive if they can. Or use us if we’re dead.”
His voice broke at the end, but he didn’t care. His hands were trembling again.
“You should’ve shown us this, Isaac,” he said, softer now. Accusing. “You should’ve let us know what we were walking into. Not eight months later. Not after we’ve already lost everything.”
Isaac didn’t move. He just stared at Till with something unreadable in his eyes.
“It wouldn’t have changed your choices,” he said, calm. “You all still chose this.”
Till scoffed bitterly. “Yeah. We chose it. Chose to be hunted. Chose to be hated. Chose to be turned into symbols instead of people.”
He looked around the room again.
“They dehumanized us,” he whispered. “And now we’re doing it to each other.”
His gaze finally, finally landed on Luka. Not directly. Just enough to hurt.
“We’re not even… talking. We’re barely breathing next to each other. We keep pretending it’s fine. That it didn’t mean anything. That it’s just… easier that way.”
A pause.
Then he sat down again, harsh and graceless.
His voice was low when he spoke next. “I can’t keep pretending it’s easier.”
Isaac exhales, slow and deliberate. He steps forward.
“I wasn’t hiding them,” he says. “I just didn’t… show them.”
That makes Till’s head snap toward him. Not fast—but sharp. Calculated. His eyes say more than his mouth does.
“Oh,” he mutters. “Well. That’s comforting.”
Isaac ignores the jab, his tone steady but not cold. “They were always out there. Anyone could’ve found them. You’re not the first to dig through it, you won’t be the last.”
Till stares at him. “And yet you left it all to rot in this room like it’s some archive of trauma.”
“I left it,” Isaac says slowly, “because I didn’t think you were ready to see it yet.”
Silence.
Till’s mouth twitches, like he might argue—but he doesn’t. Maybe because he knows part of that is true. Maybe because he’s not ready, and yet he saw it all anyway.
Hyuna finally reaches for one of the newspapers near her elbow. She holds it with both hands and reads:
“Rebel Contestant Hyuna: A Loyal Trainee’s Tragic Fall.”
She flips to the second column.
“No body found. Alien Stage claims she ‘vanished’—suspicions of external interference rise. Questions remain: is she alive, or was she erased?
She blinks. Her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t say anything else. Just sets the page down with careful fingers.
Dewey pulls something closer, reading low but audible:
“Luka—The Idol of Perfection. Betrayal or Brainwashing?”
He glances awkwardly toward Luka, but Luka doesn’t look back. Dewey reads on.
“Guardian Heperu states Luka was always… fragile. Easily swayed. He was loved, of course. Adored. But perhaps not built for the pressures of the stage.”
Till hears that and nearly scoffs.
He already read it last night. He already memorized it. But hearing it now, from someone else’s voice—it still makes his stomach clench.
Mizi pulls the article with her face on it. She doesn’t read it aloud. Just stare at it.
Her lips press tight. Her name next to numbers. Her bounty listed like a discount coupon.
Finally, she says, low:
“They offered a double for me alive.”
No one speaks.
Then, Luka.
He picks up one of the older posters. The one from Alien Stage—him in full glam, perfect smile, outfit crisp. He stares at it for a long time, unreadable. Then flips it, revealing the newer one—his current face, rebel uniform, longer hair, circles under his eyes.
“…They liked me more when I didn’t talk,” he murmurs.
No one argues.
Till just leans back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’s heard it all. Read every word. Felt every gut-punch line the night before when no one else was watching.
Now he just listens.
Let them read. Let them feel it.
Most of them had reached for something familiar—articles with their names in bold, photographs they half-remembered, headlines twisted into knives. They didn’t speak much. Just read. Quiet. A different kind of mourning in each of their faces.
The table was scattered now—papers, crumpled posters, old glossy prints from the early years of Alien Stage. Some were kids in the photos. Till saw one of himself, no older than nine, standing stiffly beside another trainee he didn’t even remember. Hyuna had one too—black and white, her hair in a tight ponytail, wide-eyed and smiling, like she didn’t know the machine was already swallowing her whole.
It was disturbing. Not because they looked so young. But because it was all… normal. Institutional. Cold.
Till’s eyes flicked sideways.
Luka sat hunched, elbows on his knees, a few photos in his hands. He hadn’t said a word since that line about “not talking.” He held a photo with both hands like it might break. His own face stared back at him—idol Luka, all gloss and angel. In another, he was a child, probably six or seven, standing beside Heperu in a pristine Anakt Garden hallway. Heperu’s hand rested firmly on his shoulder.
Till could see it in his jaw—the way Luka was trying not to react. His eyes are unreadable. But his knuckles had gone white around the paper.
Till looked away first.
Then someone—he didn’t catch who—flipped to one of the center spreads in the pile, and everything in the room shifted.
Round 6.
Ivan.
Till.
The energy drained like someone had cut the air.
It was Hyuna who read it out loud. Slowly.
“Round 6: A violent interruption. Confusion erupted between contestants Ivan and Till, culminating in a kiss and a broken performance. Judges refused to comment. Till’s owner: ‘He disobeyed again. And he was punished as always.’”
The words hung like a fog.
Someone else quietly slid forward a second piece—another tabloid, full of yellow font and hate.
“Till’s silence was staged, some claim. Others believe Ivan manipulated him into breaking. One fan says: ‘He was always too soft. They should’ve broken him earlier.’”
Mizi pushed the page away.
Dewey muttered under his breath, “…this is sick.”
Till didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, heart banging dully in his chest, but he didn’t say a word.
He felt eyes on him. He didn’t look to see whose.
But then Luka spoke.
“…You were punished for this?”
His voice wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even surprised. Just quiet. Barely audible.
Till finally turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Till gave a tired half-smile, humorless and fraying at the edges.
“You didn’t know?”
Luka didn’t answer. He looked down again. His hands shook a little.
No one spoke for a while after that.
They just kept flipping pages, reading silently, until the weight of it all pressed down like a second gravity.
Luka didn’t look up again. He just kept his eyes on the edge of the page like he was trying to fall into it.
Till’s voice came, low.
“I never told you what I did to get punished,” he said, not even sure why the words left his mouth. “And I’m not going to.”
Everyone heard it. The room went still again.
He didn’t say it to be cruel. It was just the truth. There were too many reasons. And none of them mattered anymore.
He leaned back in the chair, his hand curled into a fist under the table, pressing against his thigh.
There were a few old posts from Round 1, small in the pile, nearly forgotten among the newer chaos. Some photos of Mizi and Sua—smiling in their first debut shot, cheeks round and flushed. A clip from a fanpost calling them “stars to watch.” Another image, blurred, of Sua alone in the hallway after Round 1, shoulders slumped.
Till glanced at Mizi.
She was holding one of those photos now, her fingers trembling just slightly at the edges of the paper. Her eyes didn’t move. Her lips were pressed tight.
She didn’t say anything about it.
Because what was there to say?
Sua was dead.
And yet, she was everywhere in that room—on the table, in the silence, in the pieces of Mizi that still hadn’t healed.
Till let out a long, shaky breath.
He understood that. More than he wanted to admit.
This place made graves out of everything. Even the living.
Hyuna turned a page, then immediately froze.
“What is it?” Dewey leaned toward her, brows furrowed.
She slowly pushed the paper to the center of the table. The headline screamed at them:
“Alien Stage Accused of Preserving Contestant Bodies in Secret Facilities”
No one said anything.
Till’s throat tightened.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it before—but only in flashes, nightmares he forced back into the dark. But to see it written, printed like it was just another news blurb… it made something twist violently in his stomach.
Mizi’s voice was quiet. “So we’re… what? Experiments now?”
Dewey laughed under his breath. A breath too sharp. “Well, guess we were always kind of that.”
Isaac didn’t look up. “They’ve been spreading these rumours for a while. Some believe it, some don’t. No proof, of course. There never is.”
“Would they need proof?” Luka muttered, finally breaking his silence. “They owned us. They could do whatever they wanted.”
No one argued.
They sat there like that, the silence circling like smoke.
Then Dewey reached across the table and held up one of the more dramatic “WANTED” posters. His own face—half-shadowed, stylized like a villain from a bad movie.
“Well,” he said, forcing a grin, “at least we’re famous again.”
It got a few weak laughs. Even Till snorted under his breath.
Hyuna raised her hand. “Autographs later.”
Mizi added, “Only if you buy the collector’s edition.”
Another small chuckle. It fizzled fast.
Because they could pretend for a second. Pretend this wasn’t horrifying. Pretend they weren’t all thinking the same thing:
If our bodies were never found…
If they do that to the ones who die…
Then what are we to them, really?
Not idols.
Not rebels.
Just inventory.
“So they’re really doing it,” Hyuna said after a long pause, turning one of the newspapers toward the others. The headline was bold, obnoxious:
“Alien Stage: The Great Revival – Season 51 Set to Break Records”
Dewey scoffed. “Of course they are. Gotta squeeze every last drop of blood from the golden goose.”
Mizi leaned forward, reading aloud from the smaller print. “‘New systems, new faces, greater stakes. Alien Stage is back and more daring than ever.’” She wrinkled her nose. “God.”
Isaac muttered, “Daring. That’s one word for it.”
Hyuna’s eyes scanned the column. “They’re selling it like it’s some grand redemption arc. Like everyone forgot what happened to us.”
“They did,” Luka said flatly.
That made everyone look up.
He didn’t flinch, just kept his gaze on the article in front of him. “The people watching? They moved on. They always do.”
Mizi’s jaw tensed. “Not all of them.”
“They’re still writing about us,” Dewey added, quieter this time. “They talk about what happened, how it all ended. They’re curious, yeah, but… it’s all just a game again, isn’t it? Season 51 is just the next level.”
Hyuna flipped through more pages, some of the newer promotional posters still slick with ink. “Look at this cast lineup,” she said. “Look at how young they are. They’re recruiting earlier now.”
“Desperate,” Isaac said under his breath.
“They’re scared,” Hyuna corrected. “They know people are watching more closely after the last rebellion. But they don’t care. They’re still doing it.”
Till still hadn’t spoken. He didn’t need to. He’d sat here all night, absorbing all this alone, and now he just watched them reacting, one by one.
Mizi brushed her fingers along one photo—the stage set, gleaming and grotesque as ever. “Do you think they’ll talk about us? This season?”
Hyuna laughed. “Oh, they’ll rewrite the whole thing. Make it seem like some myth. Or like we were just… bugs that got squashed.”
“No,” Luka said again, sharper. “They can’t erase us.”
Till looked at him then. Just briefly.
Isaac, who had remained quiet for most of this, finally spoke: “That’s why we have to be louder. Make sure no one forgets. Season 51… might be the biggest one yet. But it can also be the one where they fall.”
A pause.
Hyuna nodded once. “We’ll be ready.”
Till finally spoke, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself.
“Maybe that’s the point,” he muttered. “With all those rumours going around… this season, they’ll try harder than ever. No mistakes. No escapes. No missing contestants.” He looked at the table but didn’t really see it. “There won’t be rebels next time.”
The room went quiet.
Hyuna leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. “They’ll tighten the system. Clean it up. Make sure there are no cracks left to slip through.”
Dewey frowned. “Which means… whoever ends up in Season 51, they’re fucked.”
Luka’s hand curled into a fist on the table, his knuckles pressing against the paper like he wanted to tear through it. He didn’t speak.
Isaac nodded grimly. “That’s why we have to make this count. Whatever we decide tomorrow… has to matter. No more watching from the sidelines.”
The silence after that wasn’t empty—it was loaded.
Till’s fingers tapped once against the table.
He didn’t say it aloud, but he knew it now:
Season 51 wasn’t just another round.
It was a war.
★
He didn’t notice when the others left.
At some point the voices had faded, chairs scraped back, footsteps disappearing down the hall—he didn’t move. Just sat there, surrounded by the mess: newspapers, photos, reports. The weight of all of it settled heavy over him, like dust in an abandoned room.
One photo was still in front of him.
His own face stared back at him from the glossy page—idol Luka, skin porcelain-perfect, hair styled just right, smiling like someone told him to. The caption under it read something about “the golden boy of Alien Stage” and it made his stomach twist.
He didn’t even remember that shoot. He remembered being tired. Hungry. His owner kept telling him to smile bigger, hold the pose longer. He did it, of course. He always did it.
A perfect toy.
That’s what he looked like.
He flipped through another paper. His eyes caught on Heperu’s name.
“We poured everything into him. And for what? He was supposed to be the future of this world. Now look at what he’s become.”
Luka blinked. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.
The articles went on. Public statements. Photos. Screenshots. People online are calling him a disgrace. A traitor. Some wanted him punished. Some wanted him dragged back onstage. Others… still begged for him to return. Their Luka. Their idol. Their fantasy.
He wasn’t sure which one made him feel worse.
He flipped to another page and it was his face again—older, now. In the rebels uniform. Hair longer. Less perfect. A wanted sign stamped across his chest like a brand.
It felt surreal. Like watching someone else’s life.
But no. That was him.
That was all him.
His throat tightened. There were too many photos. Too many memories flooding in—things he’d buried, things he thought he’d escaped. He saw himself singing with a dead smile. Kneeling during the final announcement. Laughing, crying, bleeding.
He pressed his fingers into his temples.
It felt weird.
All of it felt so goddamn weird.
He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. The pages kept dragging him in. Like the past had claws and it wasn’t ready to let go.
His eyes landed on another line.
He wished he hadn’t read it.
“Luka knows too much about the system. He’s dangerous now. I won’t dirty my hands with him — but someone will. They always do.”
Heperu’s words. So clean, so calm. Like it was just business.
Like Luka was just another loose end to tie up.
And then—
“He owes me everything.”
Luka stared at the sentence for a long time.
It didn’t matter how many times he read it. The meaning didn’t change.
He owes him nothing.
Nothing.
Luka’s hand crumpled the edge of the page without meaning to. His breath was shallow. Chest tight.
Perfect. Lika the idol. Luka the traitor.
It all echoed the same way.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Hard. Harder. Like that would make the pressure go away.
But it didn’t.
It just throbbed, low and painful in his ribs.
He hated this.
He hated how it still hurt.
Luka couldn’t take it anymore.
He left everything on the table. The newspapers, the photos, the pieces of himself scattered across headlines and lies. He walked out with nothing but the ache in his chest and the pressure in his skull.
The halls were quiet now. Cold, gray. But not empty.
Till was there.
Just standing. Hood up. Hands in the pockets of his black jacket. Eyes already on him — like he’d been on him.
Waiting.
Luka stopped in his tracks. His heart jumped, then sank.
Till’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.
“Finally.”
Luka swallowed hard. “You were waiting for me?”
Till didn’t answer right away. His stare was unreadable, but heavy. Unmoving.
“I figured you’d come out eventually.”
That tone… it wasn’t angry. Not even bitter. But it was tired. Sharp. And Luka could feel it — something simmering just under the surface.
He stepped closer. Slowly.
“You’ve been standing here this whole time?”
Till shrugged. “What else is new?”
A beat of silence passed. Neither of them looked away.
Luka wanted to speak — to say something, anything. But his mouth was dry. His voice felt caught somewhere behind his ribs.
Till shifted, the hallway light catching the edge of his face. His eyes looked darker than usual.
“I wanted to talk,” he said quietly.
“I shouldn’t have read it before you.”
That’s it. No excuse. No explanation. Just that. Luka exhales hard through his nose.
“But you did.”
He keeps walking, brushing past Till, but Till follows. He hears his footsteps.
“Isaac left it all out. I didn’t know it’d be your stuff in there too—”
Luka cuts him off.
“Everyone’s stuff was in there.”
“Everyone’s.”
He stops again, turns. His voice doesn’t even sound like his. Too sharp, too tired.
“You think it felt good, walking in and seeing my whole life scattered on a table? You think I wanted you to see those comments before I did?”
Till’s quiet. Of course he is. Luka laughs once, bitter.
“Heperu said I was dangerous now. Said he wouldn’t kill me himself, but he’d let someone else do it.”
“Did you read that part, or skip it?”
Till flinches. Good. He fucking read it. Luka’s heart is pounding now, too hard.
“I didn’t want you to see any of it,” Luka mutters.
“Not because I care what you think—”
“But because it’s mine.”
That part hits something in him. He crosses his arms. His skin feels too tight.
“I was just a thing to them. A toy. Perfect. No mistakes. Smile. Dance. Bow. Obey.”
He looks at Till then, dead in the eye.
“Did you like seeing what they turned me into?”
Till doesn’t blink. His voice is quiet. “No. I hated it.”
Luka doesn’t believe that. He doesn’t believe anything. He wants to say more, but he can’t even breathe properly.
Then Till says, slower “Especially the part where he said he’d let someone else kill you.”
Luka’s chest twists. His jaw clenches. He swallows it down.
“You shouldn’t care.”
Till’s closer now. Not enough to touch. Just enough to feel. His voice is soft.
“But I do.”
And that’s when Luka wants to scream. He wants to grab him and shove him into the wall, kiss him or punch him or both. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring at him like Till’s a ghost.
“You still hate me.”
“I never really did,” Till says.
Luka shakes his head.
“You should.”
There’s a pause.
“I know.”
The silence between them is unbearable. Luka almost walks. He should walk. But he hesitates.
And then, quietly, Till says:
“Heperu’s wrong.”
Luka doesn’t turn.
“You’re not a disappointment.”
It’s worse than a slap. Luka closes his eyes, breath held tight in his lungs.
“Don’t say that.”
And he walks.
He keeps walking. Doesn’t look back.
His heart is still thudding too loud. His hands are shaking. Every step echoes like a scream in the hallway.
Till came to him.
He stood there, like he wanted to talk, like he waited. Like maybe — maybe — there was something left to fix.
And what did Luka do?
He pushed. Again.
He said cruel shit, because it’s easier than letting someone see you break.
He turned his back. Again.
Fuck.
Luka leans against the wall. One hand runs through his hair, shaking. The sting in his eyes comes fast. He swallows it, but it doesn’t go away.
He had a chance.
He could’ve said something else. Could’ve asked Till why he looked like he hadn’t slept. Could’ve apologized. Could’ve let himself just feel something real for once.
But no.
Because Till came with pity in his voice. Like he felt bad. That’s all it ever is. Luka the tragic little doll, snapped in half. Everyone pities a broken toy.
That’s why he kissed me in the first place, right?
Because he pitied him.
Back then, and now too.
Luka’s fist hits the wall. Quiet, but sharp. He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood.
“You shouldn’t care,” he’d said.
And Till said he did.
“You’re not a disappointment.”
He said that too.
It’s twisted. It’s so twisted Luka wants to scream. He wanted to believe it. He still wants to believe it. But it hurts more than anything.
Because Luka knows the truth:
He keeps fucking it up.
Every. Single. Time.
People try to reach him — and he snaps. He runs. He pulls away like he’s some wounded animal that doesn’t know what to do with a hand held out toward him.
And now he’s bleeding again, and he’s the one who twisted the knife.
Luka shuts the door behind him and leans against it, pressing his forehead to the wood. His lungs feel tight again. It’s not panic, not exactly—it’s just everything pressing down all at once.
He grabs the inhaler from the shelf, shaking fingers barely keeping it steady.
One puff.
He holds it in.
Another.
He exhales slowly, but it doesn’t help as much as it used to.
The canister’s almost empty.
Shit.
He tosses it onto the desk. It rattles and rolls, hitting the edge of the pile of papers he never bothered to clean up. He stares at it for a moment, just breathing, just trying to feel okay.
And then—
He remembers.
The last time.
When he went out alone.
Sneaking off before dawn. Breathing hard the whole way. Every shadow looked like a threat. The city felt like it wanted to eat him alive.
He remembers coming back.
He remembers Till standing in the hallway, waiting.
His arms were crossed, his face unreadable, but the second he saw Luka limping through the door, his mask cracked. Just a little.
Luka saw it.
The worry. The anger.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Till had said. “You could’ve died.”
He almost had.
And Luka almost liked that Till cared.
But not this time.
He won’t go again. Not like that. Maybe he won’t go at all.
He stares at the inhaler.
Maybe this is just what it is now.
Let it happen.
Let the world catch up with him for once.
He’s been running forever.
From death. From everything.
From the moment he was born with lungs that hated him, a heart that beat too hard, a body that didn’t know how to live. From Anakt Garden where the kids whispered when he collapsed in training. From Alien Stage where every round was a knife to the chest. From the labs, the wires, the tests.
From himself.
He looks at his fingers.
Still purple.
Still cold.
He used to hide them.
Used to cry over them.
Used to think they made him disgusting, broken, unworthy of the stage, unworthy of love.
But now?
He just stares.
He sits down slowly on the bed and lets out a breath that trembles too much.
Maybe he should just stop.
People have reasons to live.
Luka isn’t sure if he ever did.
Maybe once—when he was younger—he thought it was Hyuna. She was his whole world back then. The only thing that felt warm in that sterile cage they called Anakt Garden. She laughed with him. She defended him. She gave him a reason to get up when everything else hurt too much.
And then—
After that—
After everything—
For a moment, he thought maybe it could be Till.
Maybe Till could be that reason.
Not in some fairy-tale way. Not in some perfect ending. Just… something. A reason. A weight that anchored him to the world. He let himself believe in that—for a second. For as long as it took for Till to look at him like he was sorry.
Like Luka was something to pity.
Now?
He doesn’t know anymore.
He likes being here. With the rebels.
He does.
At first it felt like another place he didn’t belong. Another room full of people who already knew who they were. Who already earned their scars. He was just the ghost of a fake idol clinging to life on sheer instinct. He thought they hated him. Maybe some of them did.
But things changed.
He changed.
He worked. He helped. He bled beside them. He laughed too. Sometimes. He shot things, he built things, he tried.
Even if no one noticed, he tried.
And now he sits here, in the dark of his room, his chest aching, his fingers numb, and he wonders—
What is his reason?
Is it still Hyuna? She doesn’t look at him the same anymore. She barely speaks unless she has to.
Is it Till?
No.
No. Not when it hurts this much just to look at him.
It was never meant to be Till. It never could be. Luka doesn’t blame him. He just wishes it didn’t feel so much like drowning every time Till looks away.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, hands in his hair.
Maybe his reason is gone. Maybe it’s always been missing and he just filled the hole with whatever he could find.
Fake dreams.
Fake stages.
Fake love.
All of it.
He doesn’t know what’s left now.
Just him. His thoughts. His broken body. A name that used to mean something.
Luka the Idol.
He snorts softly. No one’s idol now.
Just a traitor.
Just a stain on someone else’s legacy.
Maybe the posters are right.
Maybe he is dangerous.
Just not in the way they think.
His mind loops back—again—to Till’s voice in the club.
The words weren’t loud. They weren’t clear. But they stuck.
“We should sing together again.”
Luka should’ve thought more about that. Really thought about it. But he was too busy feeling sorry for himself, too lost in his own guilt and shame.
Now, in the silence of his room, it hits him like a wave to the chest.
Till wants to sing.
With him.
After everything Luka did. After what happened between them. After the fight. The kiss. The cold war of silence that stretched between glances and rooms. Luka was the last person Till should want near a microphone, let alone beside him.
But he said it.
And Luka heard it.
Even now, just remembering makes his chest feel warm. Tight, but warm. Like something fragile that could glow if he didn’t touch it too hard.
He scoffs under his breath.
“He was drunk,” he mutters, bitter. “Didn’t mean it.”
But that voice in his head keeps pressing.
What if he did?
What if, even for a second, Till wanted that too?
What if there’s still something between them that isn’t just pain?
Luka squeezes his eyes shut, lets his head fall back against the wall. The memory plays again behind his eyelids.
Till’s voice.
The faint light of the club.
That look he gave him.
“We should sing together again.”
He swallows. Hard.
He imagines it, lets the image bloom just once—just to see what it feels like.
No collars.
No cameras.
No blood.
No winners. No losers.
Just him and Till. On some cracked stage. Just voices.
Just them.
Not as weapons.
Not as puppets.
Just as… people.
It’s stupid.
It’ll never happen.
But for a second—just a second—Luka lets himself believe in that moment.
Then he breathes out and lets the warmth fade.
It was nothing.
Just a line.
Just a moment.
Just another thing he’ll tuck away and pretend didn’t mean the world.
The halls are quiet now. Somewhere far down, someone laughs—maybe from the club, maybe from a dream. It doesn’t matter. Luka closes his eyes and lets the silence press against his ears.
He wonders if anyone would notice if he disappeared for a few days.
He wonders if anyone would care if he never came back.
Chapter 20
Notes:
Is this the chapter everyone needed? Perhaps, but again the angst doesn't end here xoxo
But for now, enjoy!
Chapter Text
Luka wakes with a sharp, burning pressure in his chest.
His breath catches before he’s even fully awake, ribs squeezing like something’s pressing down on him from the inside. He doesn’t think—just moves. His fingers scramble against the nightstand until they find the familiar plastic. He pulls the inhaler to his mouth, pauses.
Two.
There are two dosages left.
He doesn’t press down. Not yet.
His head leans back against the wall behind his bed, jaw tight. His throat tastes like metal, and his chest still aches, but not in the way it did during the worst of it. This is manageable. It has to be.
And then he remembers the dream.
The lights. The screams. The stage.
He was there again—Alien Stage.
And Till was lying still. Too still.
Dead.
His fingers tighten around the inhaler until the plastic creaks.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.
Till isn’t dead.
But the image still clings like ash in his lungs.
He keeps the inhaler in his pocket but doesn’t use it. He won’t. Not this time.
Later, Hyuna finds him.
She’s tying her hair up, jacket half-zipped, already looking like she’s halfway out the door. “We’re going for supplies,” she says, nodding toward the corridor. “Do you want anything? More of your stuff?”
She means his meds.
The things that keep him alive.
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
Her eyes narrow. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” His voice is hollow, but she lets it slide. She’s tired, too. They all are.
When she leaves, Luka leans against the cold wall and closes his eyes.
He can’t keep depending on this thing forever.
Maybe he won’t refill it.
Maybe he won’t need to.
He knows it’s not just the asthma.
If that doesn’t kill him, his heart will.
The doctors had a name for it.
Cardiomyopathy.
Heart failure.
They always tried to explain it like that made it better. As if labeling it somehow made it less terrifying. As if it wasn’t written in red ink across every chart in every lab he’s ever been. A reminder that something inside him has always been broken. Weak. Slowly collapsing in on itself.
And now?
Now he drinks too much.
He knows that.
They probably warned him about that too, once. Back then. Before.
But here—with the rebels—he drinks. He smokes sometimes. He goes on missions when he’s not ready. Doesn’t eat for days if he forgets. Doesn’t rest. Doesn’t care. He’s pretty sure his heart’s giving up faster, but he doesn’t care about that either.
Because now—for the first time in years—he feels alive.
When he wasn’t here, he was lying on hospital beds with wires stuck into his chest and tubes in his nose. He was pale and tired and half-drugged, letting aliens roll him around like he was already dead. Always something poking him.
Always someone telling him to breathe slower, eat better, sleep more.
Always tests. Always meds. Always waiting to die.
But now?
Now, he doesn’t want to deal with symptoms. Doesn’t want to be monitored. Doesn’t want to be told to take it easy or take care.
If it comes, it comes.
He’ll die free.
No hospitals.
No white ceilings.
And if he dies here, in this rebel base, somewhere far from cameras and monitors and fake concerned voices?
Good.
He’d rather that than live one more day as someone’s perfect, fragile little puppet.
He wanders.
There’s not much else to do.
He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone. Doesn’t feel like thinking, either.
Especially not about last night.
Especially not about Till.
But it’s hard to forget when his room’s right there. Just a few steps down the hall.
Too close.
He tries not to look.
Tries not to care.
Most of the others went out for supplies today. The place is quieter. Emptier.
He should feel more relaxed.
But there it is.
That sound.
Thud.
Thud. Thud. THUD.
Fists.
Heavy fists hitting something solid.
Till.
Of course it’s Till.
He’s in the gym at the end of the hall. Luka doesn’t have to go look to know that.
He’s heard that sound before—countless times.
He knows what it means.
Till’s not with the others.
Till’s here, alone, beating the shit out of the bag like it owes him something.
Luka swallows.
He could go.
He could walk down that hall, lean on the doorway, maybe make a joke, say something stupid like “You’re gonna break your hands before you break that thing.”
He used to do that.
Back then.
When things were…less complicated. Less ruined.
Sometimes, if the timing was right, he’d grab Till’s wrists, tug him away from the bag, wrap his hands for him—tight but gentle.
Sometimes he kissed his knuckles.
Soft, when the skin was torn and red.
Till never asked for that.
But he never pulled away, either.
Now Luka just sighs and lets his body sink into the couch in the main room.
He grabs a book off the low shelf. Something old and water-damaged. He doesn’t even check the title.
He tries to read.
But he can still hear the punches.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He flips a page. Doesn’t take in a single word.
He doesn’t know what they’re doing anymore.
And he hates that part of him still wants to walk down that hallway.
Just to see if Till’s hands are bleeding again.
The quiet snaps.
The front door slams open, metal hitting metal.
Footsteps. Voices. Shouting.
Panicked. Loud. Fast.
“—get him down—someone calls for a medic—!”
Luka jerks upright, book tumbling to the floor.
He’s already on his feet by the time the first figure stumbles into the main room.
Isaac, dragging someone with him.
Not dragging—supporting.
Dewey.
Blood down the side of his face. Head lolling forward.
One of his arms hangs limp.
He’s not fully conscious.
Luka’s chest tightens as he steps closer.
From the other side of the hall, another figure appears—Till, hair damp with sweat, shirt clinging to him, brows tight with worry.
“What the hell happened?” Till’s voice cuts through the room.
Isaac’s still catching his breath. “Ambush. We thought the new base was safe—no tracks, no surveillance. But they found us.”
“Again?” Luka blurts. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Isaac snaps, but not at him—just at the air, the fear. “We barely got out. We had to split up. Mizi and Hyuna are fine—they’re still out checking if we were followed. Dewey caught the hit.”
A groan pulls their attention back—Dewey stirs weakly, a low whimper escaping his lips as he grips his side. Blood smeared down his temple.
“Is he going to be okay?” Luka asks.
“He will be.” Isaac’s voice is firm, but his hands shake slightly as he guides Dewey down onto the couch. “It’s not as bad as it looks. But if we hadn’t gotten there when we did…”
The sentence hangs.
Till crouches beside Dewey, gently checking the gash. His voice softens. “Where’s Hyuna now?”
“Watching the perimeter. Making sure we weren’t followed.”
Luka looks around. A few more rebels have arrived, all silent. Some with bruises, some with torn sleeves. Everyone’s tense.
The new base—it was supposed to be safe.
Nowhere is safe.
Eventually, the front door creaks open again—but this time, no shouting.
Just the low thud of boots. Cautious steps.
Hyuna and Mizi. Finally.
Till looks up. Luka does too.
“We weren’t followed,” Hyuna says before anyone asks. Her voice is steady, but her jaw is locked tight. “We circled around three times. Nothing on our trail.”
Relief moves through the room, quiet and invisible, like an exhale no one dares to fully let out.
Still, no one relaxes.
They don’t get to.
★
Later in the day, when the sun starts to dip, Luka’s still in the common room—too tired to move, too wound up to sleep.
From the hallway, a voice echoes faintly:
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
It’s Isaac.
Luka looks up.
Dewey, stumbling into the room like he just woke from a nap and decided he’s healed.
Blood’s cleaned up. Bandage around his head. Still pale.
“I’m fine,” Dewey mutters, brushing Isaac off.
“You are absolutely not fine.” Isaac grabs him gently but firmly by the arm. “Back to bed, dumbass.”
Luka watches it happen with a faint, breathy laugh.
He doesn’t mean to.
It just… escapes.
The tone. The way Isaac stands in Dewey’s way, not budging. The way Dewey keeps pretending he’s okay, like it doesn’t hurt to breathe.
It reminds him of someone.
Of Till.
Of himself.
He sighs, looks down at the floor.
Not now. He’s not doing this now.
Still, that image lingers.
That echo of care disguised as frustration.
That quiet concern neither of them ever say out loud.
That night, the club stayed quiet.
No one mentions it, but everyone feels it.
No music. No lights. No bodies pressed together in the dark, trying to forget how close they came again.
There’s no celebration tonight.
Not after blood on the floor and shouting at the door. Not when Dewey’s still sleeping off a concussion and everyone keeps glancing over their shoulders like someone followed them anyway.
The base breathes uneasily. One room at a time.
Luka stays in the main room longer than usual, curled in the corner of the couch with a book he’s not reading.
Till passes by once, on his way to the kitchen.
They don’t speak.
Luka looks up.
So does Till.
A second too long.
Like maybe they were going to say something. Like maybe this would be the moment.
But it isn’t.
Just that stiff, sharp pull in the air, and then one of them looks away.
And walks past.
Later, Luka heads down the hall toward his room.
Till’s coming from the opposite direction.
Their eyes meet again.
Every step feels like glass underfoot.
Eggshells, Luka thinks bitterly.
He hates that it feels like this. He hates that Till won’t look at him the way he used to.
He hates that he doesn’t blame him.
Just like that, they pass each other again—a few inches of silence, wide enough to drown in.
In the meeting room, no one speaks at first.
Till sits near the end of the table, his arms crossed tight, eyes narrowed at the stack of papers they’ve all been combing through for days now.
Everyone’s exhausted—physically, emotionally. The air feels heavy with silence.
Then Isaac speaks.
Quietly at first. But there’s something steady behind his voice.
“We could burn it,” he says.
Heads turn.
“ The arena of Alien Stage.”
They all stare.
“We already did that,” Mizi mutters. “When we rescued Luka and Till, remember? We lit up the holding wing.”
“That was just a distraction,” Isaac replies. “A diversion. This time… I’m saying we burn it for real. Something bigger. Something loud. We destroy what we can. Draw the cameras. Make sure the world sees. It’ll give the next kids a chance to run.”
“It’s suicide,” Hyuna says. But not like she’s against it—more like she’s calculating.
They fall into arguments. Everyone speaks.
Hyuna wants to help the kids but is worried they don’t have enough information.
Mizi wants to make a statement but fears the casualties.
Luka stays quiet for a long time.
Dewey, bandages still visible under his hoodie, just mutters:
“They’ll replace the building in a week.”
Till’s jaw clenches.
Then he speaks.
“We still don’t know what’s under Alien Stage.”
“What?” Isaac asks.
“We never got far. Just the stage and the cells. What if there’s more?” Till leans forward. “Underground labs, training rooms, records, hell—bodies. If the rumours are true…”
No one says it.
But everyone thinks it.
They start voting.
One by one.
Hyuna says yes—but not until they know what’s underneath.
Mizi votes yes too, if it helps the kids.
Dewey grunts and says yeah, fuck it.
Luka hesitates… but nods eventually.
Till? He’s already in.
Isaac doesn’t vote. He just stands there.
“Then we plan,” he says. “This won’t be tomorrow. We’ll explore the building first. Every floor, every tunnel, if there are any. We need maps. Schedules. We need to know where the kids are. If they’re still alive…”
No one speaks for a long while.
And that silence says everything.
Till leans back in his chair as Isaac rolls out the map on the table.
It’s huge—crinkled at the edges, old, but not useless. Lines, blocks, roads… the perimeter of Alien Stage and the surrounding complex. But nothing inside. Just greyed-out space where the real nightmare lives.
“This is insane,” Till mutters under his breath.
Isaac doesn’t flinch. He flattens the map with both hands like a surgeon preparing for open heart surgery.
“We know the exits. The delivery gates. Back generator doors. We’ve used these. What we don’t have—” he points, “—is the internal layout. But we can build it.”
He pulls a marker out of his pocket. Clicks it open.
“We’ve all been inside. Some of us more than others. If we work together, we can sketch it. Hallways. Stages. Holding cells. Draw what we remember. Guess where they hide what we haven’t seen.”
Hyuna frowns, arms crossed tightly.
“We’ll be guessing.”
“Better than going in blind,” Isaac says.
“Better than doing nothing,” Till adds quietly.
The others exchange looks.
Till watches as Isaac starts marking the map, red lines branching like veins.
His throat feels tight. He thinks about the kids still there.
Think about himself—Luka.
Ivan.
They’re going to burn it.
He almost laughs.
The map doesn’t lie, but it doesn’t say much either. The real floorplan of Alien Stage is still a secret, protected by darkness and dead men’s silence. But they can imagine it.
Draw it.
He takes the marker from Isaac’s hand.
“Here,” Till says, sketching the first hallway. “The corridor from the arena to the dorm blocks. Remember how long it was? Two doors on each side.”
Mizi leans over.
“And the gate where they dragged us through, round two. There’s a path there.”
“A trapdoor too,” Hyuna adds. “They used it to change props during my round.”
Slowly, the paper begins to transform. Scribbled lines. Circles. Names. Question marks.
They’re not just rebels anymore.
They’re cartographers of hell.
Luka watches in silence for a while. The others sketch and mutter, Till’s hand never stopping as he maps out corridors with grim determination. But they’re missing things—important things.
And maybe Luka is tired of watching.
“The architecture,” he says, voice low but steady. “It’s like Anakt Garden. Some parts are the same.”
Everyone turns to look at him. Even Till.
He steps closer to the table, eyes scanning the red lines, already rewriting them in his head.
“Anakt was the beginning,” he continues. “That’s where we were raised. Taught. Conditioned.”
“Brainwashed,” Mizi mutters.
Luka doesn’t deny it.
“When you’re a certain age—twelve, usually—they move you to the arena. But they make sure you never really leave the system. The hallways. The doors. The underground… it’s all part of one machine.”
He leans down, tapping part of the map.
“Here. There’s likely a tunnel. They used it to bring us in for medical checks—tests. Bloodwork. Some of us went down there more often than others.”
His voice hitches slightly.
“I… did.”
A pause. No one asks.
“We didn’t explore much. You don’t explore in the Alien Stage. You obey. You survive. But they brought me around a lot. I remember some of it.”
Isaac nods, already handing him the marker. Luka takes it.
“So where do they keep the bodies?” Dewey asks, and it’s a dark joke but not really.
Luka doesn’t answer. Instead, he draws another line.
“They liked mirrors. Observation windows. Walls that aren’t walls.”
He draws a square, crosses it out.
“This part? Never trust it. That door only opens from the outside.”
Hyuna steps closer.
“Are you sure?”
Luka doesn’t look up.
“I’m sure.”
He’s a strategist. A survivor. A weapon they built and discarded.
Now he’s using that knowledge against them.
“This place isn’t just an arena,” he says, finally. “It’s a laboratory. A factory. A grave.”
The map starts to look more terrifying now.
Till’s fingers brush the edge of the paper.
“And we’re going back.”
Luka doesn’t say anything, but his grip on the marker tightens.
Yeah.
They are.
Eventually, everyone files out one by one. Isaac takes the map with him but leaves their scribbles behind. Chairs scrape. Doors creak. Someone yawns. The moment breathes out.
Luka doesn’t move.
He stands there, eyes on the whiteboard still half-filled with red lines, paths, notes. His own handwriting scrawled next to Till’s. It looks like something they built together.
He exhales.
“You always remember the worst parts,” comes Till’s voice behind him.
Luka flinches. He didn’t hear him stay.
He doesn’t turn around. Not yet.
“Not the worst,” Luka murmurs. “Just the parts that mattered.”
A pause. The silence between them stretches again.
Till steps closer, his voice quieter now.
“You’re strategic. You always were.”
Something about the way he says it doesn’t sound like a compliment.
Luka finally turns, brows slightly furrowed.
“You make that sound like an insult.”
Till shrugs, arms crossed, leaning in the doorway.
“Maybe I’m just surprised. How calm you can be while remembering all that.”
Luka laughs, bitter.
“I’m not calm.”
Another pause.
Till’s expression softens just slightly, as if he’s about to say something more. But he doesn’t. He just watches Luka. For a moment, it feels like the air shifts—he’s not looking at him like a soldier. Not like a rebel. Not like a memory.
Just him.
Luka shakes his head and looks back at the board.
“Go to sleep, Till.”
Till doesn’t argue. Doesn’t leave either. Not right away.
He just lingers there a moment longer, like he’s still trying to say something but doesn’t know how.
Eventually, he turns.
And leaves.
And Luka is alone with the ghosts again.
★
Till watches him. Something feels off.
There’s something about Luka lately—off. Paler. His shoulders are heavier. The kind of tiredness that sleep doesn’t fix.
Till wonders if he’s been having more attacks. He hasn’t seen him with the inhaler lately. Not even once.
Not since…
His thoughts trail.
Maybe he thinks back to the last time Luka used it. To the argument. To how Luka’s been quiet ever since. Distant in a way that hurts.
He looks like a ghost of the idol they used to plaster on every wall. Bags under his eyes, fingers twitching like he’s cold. He’s always cold.
Till wants to ask. He wants to reach out. But he doesn’t.
★
He walks into the meeting room the next day. Everyone’s already there.
He sits. Pretends to listen. Nods when someone asks him something. His mind isn’t here.
Sometimes it’s like that. The voice in his head is louder than the ones in the room. The planning, the voting, the future—none of it feels real today.
Luka’s there, of course. Doesn’t look at him once.
Till watches him from the corner of his eye. He looks the same as last night. Tired. Distant. But the difference now is he’s not even pretending to meet his gaze.
Like he’s erased him completely.
He doesn’t even remember what happened last. Not clearly. It’s all blurring together—fighting, then pretending not to fight, then pretending everything’s fine, then falling apart again. Repeat.
He’s sick of it.
The meeting ends early. No one argues.
Good. He can barely stay in the room.
That night, people drift to the club. Music, drinks, dancing—whatever distraction they can find.
Till doesn’t go. He stands at the end of the hall, leans against the wall. Watch from a distance.
He sees Luka pass by. Dressed casually. Same as always. Head up. Eyes forward. Doesn’t even glance at him.
Nothing. Like Till isn’t even there.
And something—something snaps in him.
It’s not rage. It’s not pain. It’s something between. Like he’s been gripping a blade for too long and only now realizes it’s cut all the way through.
Till watches him go. Watch him disappear into the hallway like nothing’s wrong. Like he hasn’t been fucking dragging Till along with this cold, selfish silence for days.
He pushes off the wall.
No. No, he’s not letting this slide. Not tonight. Not again.
He follows.
Doesn’t call his name. Doesn’t warn him. Just trails a few steps behind. The others are busy—music, drinks, laughter. No one pays attention. Good.
Luka opens the door to his room.
Till steps inside before it shuts.
Luka turns. Startled. Frowns.
“What—?”
Till doesn’t wait.
“You think you can just ignore me now?”
His voice is low, sharp. Measured fury.
Luka blinks. “Get out.”
“No.”
Silence stretches between them—tighter than ever.
“You really think you get to do this?” Till says. “After everything you’ve said—everything you’ve done—you think you get to walk past me like I’m not even fucking here?”
Luka’s jaw tightens.
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“No, you never fucking did, right?” Till’s laughing now—but there’s no humor in it. “That’s always been your line.”
Luka shakes his head, already backing away like he’s done with this, done with him, again.
And Till sees red.
“You think I came to you out of pity? Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?”
Luka’s eyes snap to him. “Don’t—”
“You think you’re so hard to love that the only reason someone would ever come back is pity?”
That one hits. Luka looks away.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do, Luka. I heard you. That night with Hyuna.”
Luka freezes. Slowly lifts his eyes.
Till nods. “Yeah. I heard everything.”
“…Then why the fuck are you here?” Luka snaps. “You should hate me.”
“I do.”
It comes out like a breath. Like something sacred.
“I hate you so fucking much I can’t breathe.”
Luka stares at him, something breaking apart in his face—too fast to hide. Too raw to run from now.
Beat. Beat.
Till steps closer.
“But I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Luka’s voice is hoarse. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know how to be good to you.”
“Then hurt me.”
“I already did.”
“Then do it again.”
And that’s when it snaps.
“But you will be if you stay near me.”
“Everyone dies around me. Ivan did. I’ve been running from death since I was born, and now I’m just dragging you into it.”
“I never asked you to protect me.”
“No, you asked for something worse,” Luka spits, voice trembling. “You asked me to believe I deserve someone like you.”
That one cuts deep. Till’s jaw clenches.
“Then why did you let me in?”
“Because for a second I wanted to believe it too,” Luka says, eyes glossy. “I wanted to believe I could have something real. Something warm. Something that didn’t come with a collar or a bullet.”
“You still can.”
“No, I can’t!” Luka shouts. “Because it wasn’t real! You came to me out of pity!”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did! Just like in the beginning, when you thought I was something broken you could fix. Some sad little boy you could fuck to forget Ivan.”
“Don’t you fucking say his name like that.”
“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?! He died and I took his place!”
“You didn’t.”
“I did! You let me. And I let myself believe I mattered because you looked at me like I did.”
“You do matter!” Till’s voice breaks—his throat raw, fists clenched.
“No, you pity me. That’s what this is. You feel bad for the broken boy, and you wanna fix me.”
“You’re not broken, you’re just an asshole!”
“You think I want to be this way?”
“I think you choose it.”
“You think I don’t care?” Luka shouts, jabbing a finger into Till’s chest. “I care more than I fucking should!”
“Then say it!”
“I care about you!”
It explodes out of him like venom.
Silence. One second. Two.
Then Till’s voice, just as sharp—
“I care too, you fucking idiot!”
Luka’s breathing hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s been punched. Till’s face is flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild.
They’re so close now—almost nose to nose. Rage vibrating off their skin.
“I hate this,” Luka mutters.
“I hate you,” Till growls back.
They stare.
And then—Till shoves him against the wall and kisses him.
Hard. Messy. Teeth clash. It’s not gentle. It’s not romantic. It’s war.
Luka grabs the collar of Till’s shirt, drags him closer, bites his lip hard enough to taste blood.
“I’m still mad at you,” Luka breathes against his mouth.
“Good,” Till snarls. “Stay mad. Im mad too”
They kiss again—deeper this time, more desperate, hands gripping, pushing, needing.
The confession is there.
Twisted in the anger, tangled in spit and hate and everything they can’t say yet.
But it’s real.
And neither of them is pulling away.
Luka grabs the back of Till’s neck, pulling him closer, walking them backward—shoving Till against the wall now. The air between them is fire. Their mouths find each other again—sloppier this time, more desperate. Neither of them can breathe and neither of them gives a shit.
Till’s hands slide under Luka’s shirt, nails digging into his ribs like he wants to anchor himself there, like he’s afraid Luka will disappear again.
“Don’t,” Till breathes between kisses. “Don’t fucking do this if you’re gonna leave again.”
Luka pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes. His lips are red, swollen. His pupils blown wide.
“I’m not leaving.”
Till just stares at him.
Luka shoves his forehead against Till’s.
“I won’t leave you. Not again.”
His voice is raw. Barely there. But it’s true. It’s in the way his hands shake now, gripping Till’s shirt like he’s clinging for dear life. He doesn’t even realize he’s trembling until Till’s hands steady him.
“I’m still fucking mad at you,” Till says, almost breathless.
“Then shut up and kiss me.”
Till does. He kisses him like it’s a war. Like they’re still fighting, but also like they’re done fighting. Like this is the only way they know how to say anything that means something.
This is not forgiveness.
This is not healing.
This is a truce sealed in blood and spit and too many broken things between them.
But it’s real.
And neither of them is pulling away.
Luka pushes Till back—hard.
He stumbles, hits the edge of the bed, falls onto it with a gasp that’s half shock, half something desperate. Luka climbs on top of him before he can even breathe, straddling him, pinning him down like he’s claiming him.
“You talk too much,” Luka mutters against his mouth, dragging his teeth along Till’s jaw.
Till laughs—breathless, shaking.
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Then Luka kisses him again—and it’s not soft. There’s nothing tender in it. It’s all tongue and teeth and heat and the frustration of a hundred unsaid things crashing down between them. Luka kisses him like he’s trying to erase every fight, every awful word, every fucked-up moment that led to this.
Till lets him.
God, he missed this.
The weight of Luka on top of him, the pressure of his hands, the way he tastes like alcohol and bitterness and something dangerously close to affection. It’s different this time—more aggressive, more desperate, more like they might die tomorrow and this is all they’ll have.
Till digs his nails into Luka’s back.
“You missed me,” Luka breathes into his neck, like it’s a fact, not a question.
“Shut up.”
“You missed me.”
“You think I didn’t?” Till snaps. “You fucking left.”
Luka growls low in his throat, angry again, furious at himself, at Till, at all of it. He buries his face in Till’s neck, teeth scraping skin, biting down like he can’t handle the weight of his own feelings.
“I didn’t know how to stay,” he mumbles.
Till stills—just for a second.
Luka pulls back, just enough to look him in the eyes.
“I still don’t.”
“Figure it out,” Till says, voice low. “Because I’m not doing this again. You want me? Then fucking stay.”
And Luka doesn’t answer—he just kisses him again, rougher this time, like that is the answer.
Like he’s promising with his body what his mouth is too scared to say.
Luka kisses him like it’s instinct.
Like muscle memory.
Like he never forgot.
And Till—Till melts into it. Into the heat, the weight of Luka on top of him, the way his mouth keeps returning to him like he’s afraid to let go for more than a second.
Their mouths find each other over and over again—kissing like they’re mapping each other out, desperate and unrelenting. Like they’re finally allowed. Hands roam like they’re starved, like they’re relearning a body they once memorized.
Till moans softly against Luka’s mouth—too soft to be anything but involuntary—and grabs at his hips, like grounding himself. Luka’s fingers are everywhere—in his hair, at his jaw, down his chest like he’s tracing every inch he missed.
And fuck, Till missed his hands.
He’s always loved Luka’s hands—those long, slender fingers that somehow always feel precise, intentional. Every touch is like a decision, like a claim.
Luka drags his knuckles down Till’s chest and Till shudders, breath hitching.
“Your hands,” Till gasps, his voice wrecked and uneven, “you know I—”
But Luka just kisses him again, harder, swallowing the words like he can’t bear to hear them. His hand slides beneath Till’s shirt, warm skin against skin, and Till arches into the touch like he’s starving for it.
“I remember everything,” Luka breathes against his lips. “Every single thing you liked.”
And he proves it—mouth moving down to kiss along Till’s jaw, behind his ear, his throat, dragging his teeth gently across that spot that makes Till gasp.
Till grabs Luka’s face—forces him to look at him.
Their foreheads touch.
Their breathing syncs.
“Don’t you dare run again,” Till says, voice trembling. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Luka nods. No words this time. Just his mouth crashing against Till’s again, deep and desperate.
They kiss like they’re burning, like they’ll drown without this.
Luka’s hands keep moving—slow now, more exploring than frantic, as if worshipping the body beneath him. And Till lets him, lets himself feel everything again. The weight. The pressure. The familiarity of Luka’s mouth.
They haven’t forgotten a single thing.
They never could.
Till’s hands drift down to the hem of Luka’s shirt, fingers curling in the fabric.
He doesn’t even pull back to ask—he just starts lifting, slow, hesitant. Luka chuckles against his mouth, a low breathy sound that sends heat straight through Till’s body.
“So eager,” Luka mutters against his lips.
“Shut up,” Till breathes, and it sounds more like a plea than an insult.
Luka grins into the kiss but lifts his arms anyway, letting Till peel the shirt over his head. And fuck, Till forgets how gorgeous Luka looks like this. Under the low lights, skin pale and marked with faint shadows of old bruises and scars. His chest rising and falling like he’s breathless too.
Till’s hands hover for a second, unsure—then press to Luka’s chest, spreading over his ribs, his heart. Luka leans into the touch, just a little. Like he’s letting Till feel it.
“Still here,” Luka whispers, almost mockingly. “Still beating. Barely.”
“Don’t,” Till says, and it comes out sharper than he intended. Luka flinches.
But before Luka can twist it into something bitter again, Till pulls him back down—kisses him deeper this time, his fingers digging into his back like he’s afraid to lose him again.
Luka doesn’t fight it.
His own hands move now, confident, sliding beneath Till’s shirt, palms dragging up the warm skin of his stomach. It makes Till twitch—he remembers that, Luka thinks.
“You want it off?” Luka murmurs, teasing, already knowing the answer.
Till nods, wordless.
And Luka—slowly, intentionally—pulls it over his head and tosses it aside. His eyes trail down, taking him in. It’s not like he’s never seen Till like this before, but it feels different now. There’s tension beneath Till’s skin—wounds that have barely started healing. Luka’s hands skim over his ribs, his collarbone, his shoulder, ghosting over the lines of pain that were once fresh and raw.
But he doesn’t stop. He leans in again, this time slower, his mouth finding Till’s like a truce—fragile and hot, a promise laced in anger. His hands keep exploring, down Till’s arms, over his sides, memorizing the changes, the damage, the body that still welcomed him.
Till gasps softly, fingers tangling in Luka’s hair.
He just pulls Luka closer—desperate hands, aching kisses, skin on skin—and lets it keep escalating, slowly, like they’ve got the whole night to remember every inch.
Till pulls Luka back down, mouths crashing like they’ve been starving for this. His hands are everywhere—pale skin under his fingertips, the hard lines of Luka’s chest, his sides, the curve of his back.
Luka exhales against his lips, sharp and trembling, as if trying to hold back a moan. His hands glide over Till’s stomach, slow and certain, thumbs brushing against the ribs he knows so well. Till arches into it, helpless.
Their bodies move closer, chests pressed, lips dragging open-mouthed kisses along jawlines, throats, shoulders. Luka pushes him back onto the bed, climbing over him with purpose, with weight, straddling his hips like he owns him.
Till loves this—Luka above him, breathing heavy, hair falling into his eyes. His fingers dig into Luka’s waist, dragging him down to kiss him again. It’s deeper now—hungrier. Luka groans low in his throat, hips rolling without thought.
Hands wander. Till traces the slope of Luka’s spine, the sharp bones of his shoulder blades, before one hand slips lower, gripping his thigh and dragging it tighter around his waist. Luka lets him.
He leans down, kisses trailing over Till’s neck, his collarbone, slow and claiming. His teeth graze skin, just enough to make Till gasp, then soothe with his tongue. It’s punishment and worship all at once.
Till’s fingers tangle in Luka’s hair again, pulling him up just to kiss him harder. There’s no rhythm, no restraint—just want. The tension never leaves. It twists between them, even as clothes come off piece by piece, even as their hands move lower, slower, claiming and remembering.
Every kiss feels like it’s making up for all the time they spent pretending this didn’t mean something.
Luka’s mouth moves down Till’s chest, kissing, painting a path over his skin. His hands follow, stroking, gripping, exploring every part of Till he missed. And Till—he can’t stop touching him either. Fingers mapping out Luka’s sides, his hips, his back, memorizing him all over again.
They move together like they never forgot how. Bodies slotting in perfectly, breaths syncing, lips never straying far for long. The bed creaks beneath them, the sheets twisted, the air thick with heat and need.
And still, it’s not enough. It never is.
Because even in the silence, everything they feel pours out in every kiss, every touch, every desperate grasp to pull each other closer.
They’re still angry. Still scared. Still aching.
But in this moment—none of it matters. Only this.
Only them.
Luka lowers his head, mouth brushing over the curve of Till’s neck, right beneath his jaw. He breathes in there for a second—slow, heavy—before opening his mouth and pressing a deep kiss to the skin.
Till gasps, hands fisting in the sheets.
Luka smirks against him. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
He licks a stripe up, then sinks his teeth in just enough to leave a sting before sucking slow, deliberate, possessive. A mark—one of many, if he gets his way.
Till moans again, hips rolling up into Luka’s without thinking, needing more friction, more contact, more him. Luka groans in response, tongue dragging over the now-darkening mark, loving how warm Till feels under him, how responsive.
“Fuck,” Till breathes out, barely able to hold still.
Luka doesn’t stop. He kisses lower, along the line of Till’s throat, wet and open-mouthed, lips dragging, teeth grazing—another mark, and another, until Till’s neck is scattered with proof that he was here. That they happened.
Till’s hands reach up, tugging at Luka’s hair, dragging him back up into a kiss—messy, eager, tasting of breath and need. Their mouths collide again, teeth clashing a little, but neither of them care. It’s like they’re trying to devour each other.
Luka presses down harder, their hips meeting again, grinding, and Till gasps into his mouth, nearly trembling with how much he missed this. Missed him.
And Luka—he just grins against Till’s lips and goes right back to his neck.
Luka’s lips trail lower again, returning to the curve of Till’s throat, then down to his collarbone—biting, kissing, tasting—and Till’s head tips back with a soft, broken sound. Somewhere between all that heat, the kisses, the weight of Luka’s body pressing down on him, he hadn’t even realized when their pants had been kicked to the floor.
But he does feel Luka’s hand now—sliding slowly and deliberate along his leg, fingertips brushing over the inside of his thigh.
His breath hitches. Then Luka’s hand squeezes—just a little, just enough—and Till moans into the kiss, low and wrecked.
His lips drag against Luka’s jaw as he exhales, and he hears himself whisper: “I hate you…”
Luka doesn’t pull back, doesn’t stop. His voice is low, rough, teasing—intimate.
“No, love,” he breathes against Till’s lips. “You don’t.”
His mouth crashes back into Till’s before he can even respond—devouring, bruising, knowing.
Till never thought he’d be one for pet names—he always hated how fake they sounded, how easily they slipped from people’s lips without meaning. But when Luka says it—love—with that low, breathless voice, half spit and half spite, it’s different. It’s raw.
It’s real.
It coils deep in Till’s stomach like a punch and a promise, and fuck—he could come just from the sound of it.
Their hands are everywhere—desperate, searching, like they’re trying to memorize each other all over again. Touch after touch, every inch of skin is rediscovered, every shiver mapped with greedy fingers. Till spreads his legs, breath hitching, and Luka moves between them without hesitation, his body pressing down with hunger and heat.
Then Luka shifts, slow but deliberate, sliding his knee right up between Till’s thighs—pressing it to his crotch. The friction draws a startled, broken sound from Till’s lips, his back arching as he gasps into Luka’s mouth. It’s almost too much. It’s not enough. His hips roll against Luka’s leg instinctively, chasing the pressure, chasing anything Luka gives him.
He needs more—needs everything.
Till breathes it out like a confession, lips barely parting from Luka’s—“I need you.”
It’s not a plea, not a whimper. It’s raw, urgent, honest. It lands heavy between them.
And Luka breaks with it.
Because he needs Till too. Too much. More than he should. More than he ever thought possible. It burns in his chest, swells in his throat. He kisses Till harder, as if that’ll say it for him—as if pressing their mouths together will make this feeling less unbearable.
His hands grip tighter. He can’t let go. Not now. Not again.
Till gasps—not from pain, but from the shock of it, the rush of Luka’s touch, the heat of his mouth still lingering on his skin. He doesn’t even think to look at what Luka grabbed—he just hears the slick sound of the cap, the quiet snap that makes his stomach clench in anticipation.
Luka leans up, kisses him again—slow, steady, grounding. It’s not soft, it’s not gentle, but it’s intentional. Meant to anchor Till. Meant to remind him: I’m here. I’m not leaving.
Then Luka slides down again, lips trailing with purpose—over his stomach, his v-line, the inside of his thigh. Till’s hips twitch at the first press of Luka’s mouth there, heat pulsing through him, sharp and sweet.
And then he feels it—Luka’s finger, slick, firm, pressing in slowly. Not rushed, but not hesitant either. Just right.
Till moans, breath shivering out of him. His legs twitch slightly, spreading wider on instinct, his chest rising fast. He bites his lip and murmurs, “Fuck—Luka…”
Luka leans back up, catches Till’s lips again, and Till melts into it like he always does—like he can’t not. He’s so fucking addicted to Luka’s mouth, the taste of him, the pressure of his lips, the way his tongue moves with his. It drives him insane.
Till moans into the kiss as Luka starts to move his finger—slow at first, careful, but deep, and it makes his whole body arch. The kiss turns messy fast, Luka swallowing every sound he pulls from Till’s throat, groaning against his mouth in response.
Till’s hands are gripping at Luka’s shoulders now, dragging him closer, needing more—needing him. His hips roll up without thinking, and he gasps into Luka’s mouth, “Fuck—keep going…”
Luka kisses down his neck again as he adds a second finger, curling them just right—just to hear the way Till gasps, the way his body arches up into his touch. Till’s nails dig into his back, hips aching forward for more, chasing it without shame.
By the time the third finger slips in, Till is a mess beneath him, panting, biting his lip, whining into Luka’s shoulder. It’s deeper now, rougher, Luka moving faster, knowing exactly how to unravel him.
“Please,” Till chokes out, voice cracked and raw, “please—Luka, fuck—fuck me.”
He’s shaking, desperate, his thighs trembling around Luka’s waist. Nothing else matters. Just this. Just him.
Luka groans low against Till’s neck, dragging his lips along his jaw as his fingers keep working him open, slow now, deep and deliberate. He presses a kiss to the corner of Till’s mouth before murmuring, voice dark and thick with heat,
“Say it.”
He rolls his fingers again, hitting that spot just right—Till moans loud, trembling.
“How much do you want it?” Luka whispers, lips brushing his ear now. “You’re already so dizzy, love. What, can’t even speak?”
Till tries to grind down, to chase the pressure, but Luka pulls his hand back slightly, teasing. He chuckles against Till’s skin.
“I’ll stop if you don’t tell me.”
He doesn’t mean it—he won’t—but he loves watching Till squirm for it.
Till gasps, squirming beneath him, every nerve ending set on fire. He grabs at Luka’s shoulders, nails digging in as he chokes on a moan, head tipping back against the sheets.
“Fuck—” he curses, breathless, “when the hell did you start talking like that—?”
Luka smirks, cocky, lips dragging down Till’s throat again, fingers still tormenting him just enough to keep him desperate.
Till’s voice breaks on a gasp, body twitching under him.
“Please,” he breathes, raw and needy, “fuck—I want it so bad… I want you.”
Luka’s eyes flash at that, the words sinking deep, and he groans like he’s the one losing control.
Of course he wasn’t going to deny him. Not when Till was like this—spread out, flushed, trembling beneath him, begging for it with a voice that sounded half like a cry and half like a prayer.
Luka’s teasing drops away like a mask. He exhales hard through his nose, then presses a kiss to Till’s knee as he pulls his fingers out slowly, deliberately, watching Till’s thighs twitch.
Till gasps at the loss—but it doesn’t last.
Luka reaches down, steadying himself. His other hand slips over Till’s hip, grounding him.
Then—he lines himself up.
Their eyes lock. Till’s chest is heaving, his lips parted, gaze wild with want.
No more teasing. No more running.
Luka pushes in, slow, deep, and Till arches with a broken moan.
He pants against Till’s mouth, their foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling in the heated space between them. Luka’s eyes flicker down, then right back up—staring into Till’s, wide and dark and burning.
He’s never looked more beautiful.
Till’s lips part in a breathless, shaky smile, the kind that only makes Luka’s heart twist harder in his chest. He leans in and kisses him—soft, almost reverent, a moment of stillness before everything breaks again.
Then Luka starts to move.
Till clings to him like he’s drowning—like Luka’s the only thing anchoring him to the world. His arms wrap tightly around Luka’s neck, fingers buried in his hair, his legs spread wide and locked around Luka’s hips, pulling him in, holding him there, closer, closer.
His face is pressed into the crook of Luka’s neck, his moans muffled against heated skin, breath stuttering with every thrust. Luka’s pace is fast, relentless—one hand gripping Till’s hip, the other splayed over the inside of his thigh, holding him open, steadying him.
The bed creaks beneath them, sharp gasps and broken whimpers filling the room. Luka murmurs something low into his ear—words lost in the haze—but it makes Till’s nails dig into his back as he cries out louder, trembling under every movement.
Their bodies are so tangled, slick with sweat and flushed with heat, they can’t tell where one ends and the other begins—only the press of skin, the throb of need, the way they move like they’ve always belonged to each other.
Till’s voice is barely a breath against Luka’s neck, desperate and aching.
“Kiss me… kiss me…”
And Luka does.
He pulls back just enough to capture Till’s mouth, crashing into him like he’s starved—like he’s waited lifetimes. Their lips meet in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, all tongue and teeth and unspoken promises, Till moaning into it, clutching Luka harder like he’s afraid he’ll disappear.
Luka groans low against Till’s lips, his voice thick, rough with desire as he murmurs, “You’re so tight, love…”
He kisses him again, softer this time—slower, deeper—like he’s trying to calm the storm he’s also fueling. His hands never stop moving, one soothing along Till’s thigh, the other gripping his waist to hold him steady as he starts to rock into him with more care, easing him into the rhythm.
“Breathe,” he whispers between kisses, dragging his mouth along Till’s jaw, then down to his neck. “Just feel me.”
Luka plants his hands firmly on either side of Till’s head, caging him in, his arms trembling slightly from the effort and the intensity. He shifts his hips, adjusting the angle—changing the rhythm from frantic to deep, controlled thrusts that make Till gasp beneath him.
Till’s fingers twist tighter in Luka’s hair, pulling just enough to make Luka groan. His legs stay locked around Luka’s waist, holding him close, refusing to let go. Each movement draws a breathless sound from him, each thrust hitting something that makes his back arch off the mattress.
Their eyes meet—hot, burning, unsaid things in them—and Luka leans down again, lips brushing Till’s cheek, his temple, before kissing him hard.
Till’s head falls back against the pillow, his breath stuttering. His fingers drag down Luka’s back, his body trembling with the buildup.
He gasps, “Luka—fuck—I’m close…”
His voice is wrecked, barely holding on. His hips roll up instinctively to meet each thrust, his legs tightening even more around Luka’s waist.
Luka groans into his neck, murmuring something low and dirty against his skin, hands gripping Till’s hips harder to keep control, but even he is starting to lose it—feeling the way Till clenches around him, how every sound from his mouth sounds like breaking.
Till fists the sheets with one hand, the other still tangled in Luka’s hair. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”
And he does.
Luka groans deep in his throat, the sound rough and wrecked as he presses in one last time, hips stuttering. He buries his face in Till’s neck, breath hot and shaky as he spills inside him, the tension finally snapping.
Till swears under his breath, still trembling, still clinging to Luka like he might disappear.
The sound Luka makes—God—it’s low, primal, strained, and it sends a shiver through Till’s entire body. If he weren’t already spent, that sound alone would ruin him.
They stay like that for a long moment, breathless and tangled, the air still thick with heat and everything they didn’t say.
Luka pulls out slowly, careful even now, even when everything between them has been nothing but desperate and bruising. He doesn’t move away—just stays there, forehead pressed to Till’s, both of them breathing hard, sweat cooling between their bodies.
His chest aches. It really fucking aches. But he doesn’t care. Not when Till’s eyes are on him like this. Not when the world finally feels quiet.
Till stares back, lips parted, eyes wide and glassy. He feels dizzy—wrecked in the best way—but it’s more than that. It’s the way Luka looks at him like he’s real, like he’s the only real thing left in this fucked-up world.
Three times. That’s all it’s been. Three times.
But Till thinks—he knows—if he let himself, he could fall in love with him just from this.
From Luka’s gaze.
From the way he touches him.
From the way he stays.
And Luka… Luka thinks he already has.
Till’s fingers stay curled around the back of Luka’s neck, gentle now—nothing like before. He pulls him down, eyes half-lidded, lips already parting.
The kiss starts soft. Slow.
Like a promise.
Like an apology.
Like everything they couldn’t say without screaming.
Luka melts into it without hesitation, one hand sliding up Till’s side, the other still braced beside his head. There’s no teasing now. No heat. Just mouths moving together like they finally found something that made sense.
Till kisses him deeper, like he wants Luka to feel it in his chest, in his ribs, in every breath.
And Luka lets him. Because he feels it too
Till’s voice is a whisper between kisses, breathless and hoarse.
“I missed this,” he says, his thumb brushing lazily at Luka’s neck.
Luka swallows hard. He leans in again, presses his forehead to Till’s.
His voice is just as quiet, but it hits deeper.
“I missed you.”
Not the touches. Not the sex. You.
And Till feels it—every word, every space between them suddenly heavy with meaning.
Luka’s eyes flicker down, then back to Till’s. His voice is low, rough—like it hurts to say it, but he says it anyway.
“…I’m sorry.”
Words he doesn’t use. Words he doesn’t like.
But God, he means them. Every syllable scraped from somewhere deep and raw.
Till stares at him.
Because Luka doesn’t apologize.
Not like this. Not unless it’s real.
And it is.
“I’m sorry too,” Till whispers, his thumb brushing Luka’s cheek.
Luka shakes his head almost instantly, brows drawn, voice low and firm.
“No. You don’t have to apologize.”
His hand finds Till’s, fingers curling tightly around his.
“I fucked it up. Not you.”
He means it. Just like before.
No games. No pushing. No running. Just this.
Luka knows the truth won’t change.
That the damage is already done—inside his chest, inside his blood, maybe in places no one could fix even if they tried.
He knows he might die.
And worse—he’s not doing anything to stop it.
But as he lies there, wrapped in Till’s arms, feeling the warmth of his skin, the weight of his hand still resting on his chest like a promise… Luka makes another choice.
He won’t push him away.
Not this time.
He’ll hold on.
He’ll stay.
He’ll enjoy this—Till—for as long as it lasts.
Even if it breaks him.
They stay like that for a while.
No words. Just the silence between two people who’ve broken each other and still reached out anyway.
They share small kisses—soft, slow, almost reverent.
It’s not lust anymore.
It’s something warmer, quieter. Something that sits heavy in their chests and makes their hands linger longer, makes their touches gentler.
Something they can’t quite name yet, but it’s real.
This time, it feels real.
Eventually, Luka sighs. He shifts, and his body moves like it’s reluctant to leave. But he does—just enough to settle next to Till instead, lying on his side, close enough to still feel his warmth.
Till doesn’t stop him.
He just reaches for Luka’s hand.
Their fingers lace together easily, like they’ve always known how.
Till shifts again, slow and careful, the blankets rustling around him. He rolls onto his stomach, inching closer, half-draped over Luka’s body—not putting weight on his chest, just enough to feel him, to breathe the same air.
He reaches up, cupping Luka’s cheek with one hand. His thumb brushes across the skin gently, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to his lips—soft, deep, full of everything unsaid.
Luka sighs into it. His hand lifts, fingers curling around Till’s wrist like he doesn’t want to let him go.
It’s not rushed this time. It’s not desperate.
It’s just them. Just this.
They don’t ask what this means now.
They don’t ask what they are.
There are no labels, no definitions. No need to ruin it with questions that don’t matter—not tonight.
Because they know.
The promise was made, unspoken but loud in every kiss, every touch, every breath they shared.
It’s them now. Whatever this is, it’s theirs.
No one’s leaving. Not this time.
Neither of them wants to fall asleep.
Sleep feels too final, too risky—like if they close their eyes, this might all vanish, and they’ll wake up back in that cold, distant space where nothing made sense.
Luka’s fingers trail lazily down Till’s arm, slow and tender, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of him by touch alone. Their bodies are still tangled under the blanket, bare and flushed and exhausted, but neither of them bothers reaching for their clothes.
There’s no need. Not now.
They just want to feel this—each other. The heat, the closeness, the quiet after the storm.
It’s not fear that keeps them awake.
It’s something else. The thrill of what they just allowed themselves to have.
The rush of the unknown, of being held and kissed and wanted like this.
It’s overwhelming—too much and not enough.
But it’s real.
And for now, that’s everything.
★
No one knows who falls asleep first.
At some point, their whispers faded, their kisses slowed, their breaths evened out—and sleep took them quietly, without warning.
Morning comes, soft and muted.
Thank god the room isn’t bright.
Till’s face is buried in Luka’s neck, lips brushing gently against his skin with every exhale. His body is pressed close, chest to chest, skin against skin, and Luka’s arm is wrapped firmly around his waist—like he’s still holding him in his sleep, unwilling to let him go.
It’s quiet. Safe.
And for once, neither of them dreams.
Luka wakes up first.
The first thing he feels is the weight of Till on him—warm, steady, grounding.
The second is the ache in his chest.
A familiar pressure, not too sharp this time, but heavy enough to make him sigh.
He doesn’t move.
Till looks too peaceful, too comfortable. His breath fans gently over Luka’s collarbone, and his hand twitches in sleep where it rests against Luka’s side. Luka watches him for a long moment, unmoving, trying not to disturb him.
And in the silence, with nothing but the soft beat of morning and the dull throb under his ribs, Luka thinks.
He thinks of everything that led them here.
The fights. The silence. The ache of wanting something he kept pushing away.
The fear that maybe he’d ruin this too.
The choice he made—not to run.
A choice they both made.
He presses a hand to Till’s back, fingertips gently brushing down his spine.
For once, he feels like he did the right thing.
Not for anyone else.
For himself.
And for Till.
Till stirs with a quiet yawn, his lashes fluttering as he shifts slightly. His body stretches—arms reaching forward, legs brushing against Luka’s under the blanket—before he melts back into the warmth beside him, nestling closer.
He doesn’t open his eyes, just makes a soft sound in his throat, like a hum, and buries his face deeper into Luka’s neck.
Luka doesn’t say anything. He just wraps his arm tighter around Till’s waist, fingers splaying across bare skin.
And Till murmurs, barely awake, “You’re still here…”—soft, sleep-rough, like he’s not even sure he meant to say it out loud.
“You thought I was going to leave?” Luka says, voice low, a little hoarse from sleep but steady.
Till hums again, almost like a guilty sound, his nose brushing Luka’s throat.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says after a moment.
Till hums in agreement, soft and almost shy, then shifts—slowly, deliberately—until he’s between Luka’s legs, laying fully on top of him. His chest presses to Luka’s, arms resting on either side of his head, their skin warm against each other. The blanket stays draped over them, heavy and comforting, hiding the world away.
Luka blinks up at him, and Till leans down to brush his nose against Luka’s. “Better,” he murmurs.
Luka smiles faintly, like it’s something he’s not used to doing in the morning. “You’re heavy.”
“You like it,” Till says, deadpan, and Luka doesn’t even deny it.
Till leans in and kisses him—softly, slowly. The kind of kiss that doesn’t need heat or urgency, just presence. Just lips pressing together like they’ve done this forever, like it’s second nature. Luka’s eyes flutter shut, and he exhales through his nose, one hand lifting to rest at the back of Till’s neck, keeping him close.
It’s quiet for a moment. Just that kiss. Just them.
The last time they were like this—bare skin tangled under sheets, breaths mingling in the hush of morning—it hadn’t ended well. Till remembers it all too vividly: the quiet that followed, the unspoken things, the way Luka had shut down after. He’d thought it was real back then too. He’d wanted it to be.
When they hadn’t wanted to leave the bed. When they’d held onto each other like the world didn’t exist.
But this time… this time, it is real.
He feels it in the way Luka’s hand rests steady on his waist. In the way his heart, no matter how broken or tired, beats a little softer under Till’s cheek. There’s no pretending anymore. No “just physical.” No running.
Just them.
And Till knows—whatever happens, they’re not walking away again.
Till’s lips press harder, more eagerly, against Luka’s, the soft moan escaping him giving away just how much he wants—no, needs—this all over again.
And Luka, of course, doesn’t let that slide.
He smirks against the kiss, hand slipping down Till’s back to pull him even closer, voice low and teasing as he murmurs,
“Already moaning, love?”
His fingers graze down the curve of Till’s spine, and he presses his hips up just enough to make Till gasp again.
“Didn’t get enough last night?”
Till shifts just a little—just enough to feel Luka’s hands slide down and settle firmly on his ass. They squeeze, hard and possessive, pulling him closer, grinding him down against Luka’s body.
Till groans into Luka’s mouth, hips twitching.
He pulls back only enough to pant, “What is your deal with my ass?”
Luka’s lips are already trailing down his neck, and he laughs, low and breathless.
“It’s perfect,” he says, biting lightly at Till’s collarbone. “Why wouldn’t I be obsessed?”
Then he grabs him again, even harder this time, dragging another shameless moan out of Till.
They sink back into each other, mouths crashing in kisses that grow messy and eager, fingers tangled in hair and under skin. It’s like they’re drunk on each other again—no hesitation this time, no restraint, just heat and desperation and want.
Till breathes hard against Luka’s mouth, then murmurs, voice low and a little shaky, “I want to try something.”
Luka stills just slightly, eyes flickering open. His breath is warm against Till’s lips as he asks, equally breathless, “Yeah? What is it?”
But there’s a glint in his eyes—curious, hungry, already ready to say yes.
Till doesn’t say a word. His gaze is heavy, deliberate, locked onto Luka’s as he begins to move. With slow, fluid movements, he sits up, the sheets rustling around them. His hands find Luka’s shoulders, guiding him gently back until Luka’s spine meets the headboard, cushioned by the soft press of pillows.
Luka lets it happen—breathing deep, eyes tracking every motion, the way Till’s body shifts with purpose, with confidence. Then Till climbs into his lap, one knee on either side, straddling him. His thighs press firm around Luka’s hips, his bare skin flush against Luka’s chest. It’s intimate—quiet—but the tension crackles between them.
He settles down slowly, letting his full weight sink into Luka’s lap, their bodies aligning perfectly. One of his hands steadies himself on Luka’s shoulder, the other traces the side of his jaw. He doesn’t need to speak. Everything about the way he moves says it for him.
This is what he wants. This is what they both want
Luka watches, chest rising with every breath, lips parted—not from surprise, but anticipation. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His hands instinctively settle on Till’s waist as Till straddles him, thighs snug around Luka’s hips, their skin pressed close.
It’s slow, intentional. The silence between them says everything. The way Till looks down at him, steady and sure. The way Luka tilts his head back just slightly, swallowing hard, eyes locked on him like he’s something to be worshiped.
The signs speak for themselves.
Luka’s voice is low when it comes. A whisper more than a sound, rough with awe.
“…You sure?”
Till just leans forward, kisses him—not with fire this time, but with something deeper. He rolls his hips once, slow, testing, and Luka groans into his mouth. The message is clear.
He’s sure.
Till had never done this before.
The aliens never gave him the chance. With them, it was always from behind—quick, brutal, impersonal. There was no eye contact. No control. No space to feel anything but shame and survival.
But this—this was different.
This position… it was intimate. Vulnerable, yes—but powerful too. He could look Luka in the eyes. He could choose this. And even though he’d never said it out loud, part of him had always been curious. Wondering what it would feel like to take just a little of that power back—not in a violent way, not like the past—but in a way that was his. Something soft and slow and real.
Settling into Luka’s lap, he feels it. The shift. Not just in their bodies, but in the air, the meaning of it all. His hands rest on Luka’s chest, his thighs tightening around his waist. He lets himself guide the pace, the rhythm. He lets himself be seen.
Because here, like this, he knows he could take control. Just a bit. Just enough to remind himself that he’s not broken. Not powerless. Not anyone’s thing anymore.
This was his choice. His curiosity. His body. His moment.
And the way Luka looks up at him—soft, reverent, wanting—it tells him everything.
He can be wanted like this. He can want this.
They kiss—slow at first, then deeper, messier, Till’s breath catching every time Luka’s hands shift. From his waist… to his face… then back again, always moving, always touching. It grounds him and drives him a little crazy all at once.
Till knows what’s coming when Luka leans toward the drawer again. The sound of the cap clicks into the quiet air like clockwork. Luka always prepares him. Every time.
And even if Till doesn’t say it, he hates that they have to. He hates what it reminds him of.
The aliens didn’t prepare him. They didn’t care. They just took what they wanted, and every time was a sharp ache and an emptiness that made him want to crawl out of his skin.
This isn’t like that—he knows it isn’t—but still, the waiting, the slick sound, the first press of Luka’s fingers… it brings it all back sometimes.
He doesn’t say it though.
Because Luka’s fingers feel good. They always do. They move like they know him. But what Till wants—what he really wants—is Luka. All of him. Inside.
Luka doesn’t tease. He doesn’t draw it out like he did last night. No smug little grins, no whispering filth into his ear just to watch him squirm.
Luka is quiet. Focused.
Two fingers. Then three. Quick. Efficient.
He’s preparing him, yes, but he’s also listening—to every little breath, every hitch in Till’s throat, every shift of his hips.
And Till?
Till is done waiting.
He grits his teeth and exhales hard, frustrated not from pain but from how badly he wants Luka. He wants the burn, the stretch, the fullness—he wants him.
Because Luka’s fingers are good, so good, but nothing compares to the way it feels when his cock is inside.
Till moans—low and shaky—as Luka’s fingers slip out, the absence brief before anticipation takes over. The position isn’t ideal for prep, not like last night. Straddling him like this, upright, Luka against the headboard and Till perched in his lap—there’s not much room to move, not much leverage. But he doesn’t care.
Because he’s ready.
Luka’s hands are there, steady on his waist, helping him line up, guiding him gently as the blunt head of his cock presses right where Till needs it most.
Till lowers himself slowly, breath catching with every inch.
Fuck.
He still feels sore from last night—it’s a deep ache, a stretch that lingers—but he doesn’t mind. He wants it. Wants to feel full again, wants to take Luka in completely, wants the sting, the satisfaction, the ache and pleasure all twisted together.
And god—this angle.
This angle is insane.
He sinks down further, thighs trembling, and when he bottoms out, settling fully into Luka’s lap, he gasps, chest heaving.
He can feel everything. Every vein, every pulse, every twitch. The way Luka stretches him, fills him—claims him.
His body shudders as he exhales, trying to settle on the feeling. But it’s intense. Almost too much.
Luka sees it immediately—sees the tightness in Till’s jaw, the way his eyes flutter. He brings one hand up, brushing sweaty strands of hair from Till’s face, murmuring soft things, coaxing him to breathe, to relax.
“Easy,” he says, voice low, “I got you.”
He should’ve known. The position shifts everything—the angle, the depth. And Luka… Luka’s dick wasn’t exactly small. Not by a long shot. Big enough that Till should’ve known better. Should’ve braced more. Should’ve waited a second longer.
But now it’s too late.
Because he’s losing it.
He’s never felt this full. Never felt Luka so deep, so overwhelming.
And he loves it.
His hands grip Luka’s shoulders, nails digging in, and his mouth drops open in a silent moan as he tries not to move too fast too soon.
“F-fuck, Luka…” he breathes, and Luka swears under his breath, trying to stay still, to give Till a moment to adjust.
But even Luka’s patience is wearing thin.
Luka pulls him in—not rough, but firm—a single shift of their bodies that drives Luka impossibly deeper.
Till gasps, the moan caught in his throat as his body tenses instinctively. His arms wrap tight around Luka’s neck, face burying in the crook of it like he needs to hide from the feeling. Or maybe anchor himself—because everything is too much already.
He starts to move, slow at first. Just small rocks of his hips. Careful, deliberate.
And fuck—it’s already enough.
He’s so full. The stretch burns, sharp and raw, and he has to force himself to breathe through it. His thighs tremble on either side of Luka’s, his grip tight around him, holding on like he might break apart otherwise.
It hurts.
Not unbearable. Not like before.
But enough to make him clench his eyes shut. Enough to remind him this position isn’t forgiving. That Luka’s size doesn’t let him ease into it like nothing.
Luka notices. Of course he does.
His hands slide down, palms smooth against Till’s thighs, fingers curling around the backs of them. His touch is grounding—steady, intentional—his thumbs brushing gentle circles over the soft skin just beneath Till’s ass.
“You’re okay,” Luka whispers, voice low and rasped from restraint. “Just breathe. I got you.”
And Till does.
He tries.
Every breath he pulls in is shaky. But Luka’s hands are there. Luka’s chest is warm against his. And his voice—that voice—it tethers him, makes him believe he can get through the ache. That he’ll adjust. That it’ll get better.
Because it always does—with him.
Luka finally kisses him—slow at first, like he’s trying to soothe him, like his lips alone could ease the ache. Till melts into it, groaning softly against his mouth, and when Luka’s tongue brushes his, something shifts—need rises again, burning deeper than the pain.
Till starts to move. Tentative, at first—a slow lift of his hips, a careful drop back down. He gasps into Luka’s mouth, the stretch still sharp, but the way Luka’s hands steady him at the waist makes it bearable. More than that—good. He keeps going, slow, testing the rhythm.
Luka helps him—his fingers gripping a little firmer, guiding his hips in sync with the motion. That bit of control tips everything. It changes the angle—just slightly—but enough.
Enough to hit that spot.
Till moans into the kiss, loud and guttural ‘’Ah…fuck.’’
His whole body jerks as heat bolts through his spine. His rhythm falters from the shock of it, and Luka just chuckles softly, breathless against his lips, before pulling him in deeper with another roll of his hips.
“Right there,” Till gasps, voice wrecked. “There—ngh”
And Luka gives it to him again. Again. And again.
Till’s mouth goes slack against Luka’s. He’s moaning into him, kissing him with a desperation he doesn’t bother to hide anymore—his hips rolling hard now, chasing that high, lost in the feel of Luka everywhere.
Till starts to move faster, grinding down with growing urgency, his breath ragged, panting between moans that spill from his lips without shame. Every movement sends a jolt up his spine, and the heat coiling in his belly is sharp, relentless. Skin slaps against skin, the sound loud and filthy, echoing in the quiet room.
He braces himself against Luka’s chest, eyes fluttering as he rocks his hips faster, harder—chasing that perfect spot, the one that makes him see stars.
Then he rolls his hips—slow at first, then sharper—and Luka gasps.
His head snaps back, mouth falling open, a low moan ripping out of him. “Fuck—Till—” he groans, voice wrecked, hands gripping his waist tighter. “Do that again.”
And god—Till does, because how could he not?
He watches Luka fall apart, head thrown back, throat exposed, cursing like he’s losing control—and fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing Till’s ever seen.
He does it again, again, rolling his hips just right, biting his lip to keep from crying out, but failing miserably.
He loves this—loves seeing Luka like this, the way he moans, the way he grips him like he’s scared he might disappear, the way he gives himself over to it.
Luka’s hands slide down with purpose—firm, steady—until they settle on Till’s ass. His fingers dig in, squeezing hard like he needs to feel every inch of him, like he owns it.
Then, without warning, Luka lifts him—just enough—and guides him back down, slow at first, then again, harder. He sets the rhythm, using his grip to move Till, fucking up into him from below with every lift and drop.
“There—right there,” Luka breathes, voice rough, eyes locked on Till’s face like it’s the only thing that matters.
And fuck—that angle.
Every motion hits that spot perfectly, sharp and overwhelming. Till moans, back arching, hands flying to Luka’s shoulders for balance—but also to hold on, because it’s too much in the best way.
“Shit—Luka—” he gasps, as Luka keeps moving him, keeps lifting him, keeps fucking him deeper and deeper with every thrust. He’s falling apart, and Luka’s watching it all—eyes dark, jaw tight, hands gripping him like he’ll never let go.
Till smirks through the moan that slips from his lips—he knows exactly what he’s doing. He rolls his hips again, slow and deep, dragging himself over Luka’s cock just right before leaning in and biting at his neck. Not hard, but enough to make Luka grunt and tremble beneath him.
He presses open-mouthed kisses there, licks the sensitive skin, then does it all again. “Fuck—Till,” Luka groans, head tilted back, eyes fluttering.
Till laughs—breathy, cocky, turned on. He rolls his hips again, smoother this time, more deliberate, grinding in a way that makes Luka’s thighs twitch. “You like that?” he whispers, voice low against his throat.
Luka curses under his breath, hands tightening on Till’s waist. “You play dirty,” he growls, barely holding it together. “But I can fucking play too.”
And before Till can reply, Luka’s hand is wrapping around his cock—hot, tight, and perfect. He strokes him once—firm, all the way down—and Till gasps, his whole body jolting.
“Luka—shit—” he pants, collapsing forward a little, forehead resting against Luka’s as his rhythm falters. Luka grins through the mess, lips brushing his, then gives another slow stroke—then faster.
Till loses it.
He moans, thighs shaking, rolling his hips helplessly as the pressure builds fast and unforgiving. Luka holds him, watches him fall apart, drives him to the edge with every stroke like he knows exactly how to ruin him.
Till comes with a choked-off moan, his whole body trembling as he clings to Luka—hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat as pleasure rips through him, loud and raw and real. Luka isn’t far behind. The way Till tightens around him, the way he falls apart in his arms—it’s too much.
Luka groans, deep in his chest, and his body locks up as he follows him over the edge. “Fuck—Till,” he gasps, voice hoarse, low, broken apart by the force of it. His head falls back, a string of curses slipping from his lips as he rides it out.
When the haze clears, he blinks up at the ceiling, still panting, still holding Till close. “What a way to start the morning,” he mutters, breathless.
Till snorts a laugh, weakly thumping his head against Luka’s shoulder. “We should start every morning like this.”
Luka gives a short, incredulous laugh—half a breath, half a wheeze. “Yeah,” he says, smirking as he tries to catch his breath. “If you’re trying to kill me.”
But then his voice falters. Just slightly.
He looks at Till—really looks at him, soft and flushed and tangled up with him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And he thinks… every morning.
Yeah.
Maybe he wouldn’t mind dying like that.
“…Every morning,” Luka says again, quieter this time. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He brushes a thumb over Till’s waist. “I’d love that.”
They don’t rush.
There’s no need to—no urgency, no shame, no lingering awkwardness between them. Just shared breath, soft touches, and the lazy, satisfied calm that comes after something real.
★
They eventually peel themselves off the sheets, trading sleep-heavy glances as they stumble to the shower, limbs aching, skin sticky, but neither of them complaining.
The water is warm. Comforting. They don’t do much more than stand under the spray, quietly leaning into each other, rinsing off the night in slow, drowsy silence. No teasing. No round two. Just the sound of the water and the occasional, tired brush of lips or fingers across skin.
Till doesn’t have clothes here—nothing but the ones from last night, a little rumpled and faintly marked by everything they did—but he puts them on anyway, grumbling softly under his breath as he tugs his shirt down. Luka just watches from where he leans against the wall, towel slung around his waist, still drying his hair.
Till’s halfway out the door when Luka moves.
No warning. Just a hand around his wrist, sudden and firm, pulling him back—and then Luka kisses him.
Hard. Quick. Certain.
It steals the breath right out of Till’s lungs.
And just as quickly, Luka lets go, turns, and walks away. Not a word. No smirk. No explanation. Just the quiet tap of his footsteps as he disappears back into the room, leaving Till standing in the doorway, stunned, flushed, and breathless.
Like he’s been struck.
Like he’s already missing him.
Till shuts the door behind him with a soft click. The quiet of his own room settles over him like a heavy blanket. He moves on instinct—kicks off his shoes, pulls off the clothes that now feel too tight with sleep and Luka still clinging to his skin. He grabs something fresh and changes without thinking.
Then he just sits.
On the edge of the bed, shirt half-buttoned, his fingers resting over the center of his chest like he can calm the thrum still there.
He exhales. Then again, slower.
“Fuck…”
It’s not even a whisper. It’s just breath, a confession to the empty air.
He buries his face in his hands for a second. Rubs at his eyes. His hair is still damp. His lips are still tingling. His body is still sore in ways that make him blush when he remembers why.
And his heart—god, his heart won’t shut up.
He leans back, lets himself fall onto the mattress, one hand dragging through his messy hair. His thoughts race but circle the same, stubborn truth.
He’s so in love.
He tries to scoff at himself, but it doesn’t land. There’s no real sarcasm in him right now. Just this warm, terrifying thing expanding in his chest like it’s been there all along, waiting for him to finally notice.
Please, he thinks, please don’t let this be what brings me down.
Because nothing’s ever felt more dangerous than this.
And nothing’s ever felt more worth it.
Chapter 21
Notes:
The foreshadowing in this chapter is actually crazy. You guys could try to play detectives and guess what is coming very soon...
Chapter Text
The kitchen smelled like coffee and warm bread, but Till felt like he was walking into something else entirely—like a spotlight had suddenly found him and dragged him straight into the center of a stage he didn’t ask for.
He paused in the doorway.
Everyone was already there.
Hyuna sat closest to the far end, nursing a chipped mug, eyes sharp and tired but tracking everything. Isaac had his arms crossed, gaze low but occasionally flicking up to observe. The others were scattered around the long table—eating, talking, pretending to be relaxed. Pretending.
Then he walked in.
And everything got just a little quieter.
Not silent, no—but quiet enough to notice. Like a shift in the room’s air pressure. Like someone turned the volume down by accident and no one knew how to fix it.
Till’s skin prickled.
He wasn’t even sure why.
Okay, no—he knew exactly why.
He moved to sit at his usual spot, trying to keep it casual. He felt the tension in his shoulders, the slight soreness in his thighs from the night before. Every inch of him remembered Luka. His mouth. His hands. The weight of his body, the way he said Till’s name like he owned it.
Till had barely slept. He didn’t care. He felt like he could float through the day.
Until now.
Because Hyuna was watching him over the rim of her cup. Isaac gave him the kind of look that made you feel like your clothes were see-through. Mizi, across the table, kept glancing between him and the doorway like she was waiting for something.
And then—
Speak of the devil.
Luka walked in.
His expression is unreadable, but his steps sure. His black shirt clung a little too well to his body. His hair was still damp. His jaw was still red in places—from Till. His eyes flicked over everyone, then finally landed on Till.
He hesitated. For a split second.
And then he sat.
Right next to him.
No one said anything.
That’s what made it worse.
Because suddenly it felt loud—the silence. Everyone pretending they weren’t watching. The way Hyuna’s brow arched slightly. The way Mizi’s hand paused mid-spoon. Even Isaac gave Luka the briefest, most obvious look, like he was marking something down in his head.
Luka didn’t say anything either. He didn’t even look at Till.
But his knee brushed Till’s under the table.
And stayed there.
Till picked at the crust of the bread on his plate, suddenly unsure if he could eat. His ears felt hot.
He didn’t know what they were now. What last night meant. If it even meant anything. Maybe it was just one of Luka’s moods—one of those nights where you don’t ask questions and you don’t get answers.
But the way Luka sat next to him now—close but quiet—made something in his chest curl. Not fear. Not shame. Just… nerves.
Like something had changed.
Like everyone could see it.
Even if no one said a word.
Dewey slides onto the bench like he owns the place, tray in hand, a smug little tilt to his eyebrows. He barely glances at the food before his eyes flick between the faces at the table—Mizi, Isaac, Hyuna, Luka, Till. Then right back to Luka. Then Till. Then everyone again.
He doesn’t say a word.
He just lets out a long, low whistle.
Till rolls his eyes immediately, picking at the edge of his plate, refusing to look up.
Luka exhales through his nose, clearly resisting the urge to react. He just shovels food into his mouth, like chewing aggressively is going to distract from the way his ears have started to tint red.
Dewey grins, clearly satisfied with the chaos he’s caused without uttering a full sentence.
Hyuna stifles a cough. Isaac lifts his cup to his lips to hide a smile. Mizi mutters something like, “God, finally,” under her breath.
No one says it out loud—but it’s obvious now.
Something changed.
And the silence that follows is louder than Dewey’s damn whistle.
The silence creeps back in like smoke. And then Dewey, of course, can’t help himself.
“You guys sleep okay?” he asks way too casually.
Hyuna shoots him a look like she will personally kill him if he keeps going.
Till doesn’t answer. Luka snorts softly.
Dewey throws his hands up. “What? Just making conversation.”
Isaac clears his throat. “We have a strategy meeting at eleven. We can be idiots after we don’t all die.”
That finally gets a soft laugh out of Mizi. Even Luka huffs a little.
Till glances at him then—just for a second. Luka’s already looking at him.
They both look away.
★
Later, they all gather in the dimly lit meeting room — chairs pulled into a wide circle, a rough map of the area spread across the table in the center, marked up with highlighters, notes, and coordinates.
It’s quiet at first. Everyone’s settling in, waiting for Isaac to start. The kind of quiet that feels like it means something.
Till walks in a few steps behind Luka, but the moment they sit, they end up side by side again — not touching, but close. Too close not to notice. Their chairs are angled slightly toward each other, like instinct.
Mizi clocks it immediately. She doesn’t comment — just raises an eyebrow and sinks back in her seat with a small, amused exhale.
Hyuna’s face is unreadable, as always. But she’s watching. Not judging. Just… calculating. Like she’s wondering if this is going to become a liability — or maybe, just maybe, a strength.
Dewey leans in to whisper something to Mizi. She swats him with the back of her hand before he can even finish.
Isaac clears his throat, snapping the room into focus.
“We need to talk about the patrol routes. Something’s changed,” he says. “Last night’s recon spotted more movement than usual along the northeast block.”
“Near the overpass?” Hyuna asks, leaning forward.
“Yeah,” Isaac nods. “Same pattern as last time before the last ambush. We think they’re setting up again.”
A few people curse under their breath. Mizi shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
Luka hasn’t spoken yet. But he’s listening. Till can feel it — the way Luka’s knee brushes against his every now and then. Like a quiet anchor.
Till doesn’t move away.
Not this time.
“We’ll have to reroute the supply runs,” Hyuna says flatly, arms crossed as she eyes the map. “If they’re setting up that close, anything we send through the usual paths is dead meat.”
“We don’t have the fuel to keep making long loops,” Mizi mutters. “Unless someone wants to volunteer to haul thirty kilos of dried rations on foot for three hours through enemy territory.”
“We’ll make new paths,” Isaac cuts in. “Shorter, tighter. Two-man runs, max. In and out — fast and quiet.”
Till leans forward. “Through the canal?” he suggests, pointing to the eastern edge of the map.
Hyuna’s eyes flick to it. “Too exposed. If they’ve posted lookouts near the overpass, they’ll have eyes on the canal entrance.”
“Not if we drop in from the south,” Luka says suddenly. His voice is calm but decisive. “There’s cover along the ridgeline — remember when it collapsed last winter? It’s overgrown now. We can follow it right into the warehouse district.”
Silence. Then Dewey nods slowly. “He’s right. That path’s tight, but it’ll work. We’ll need someone fast to test it.”
“Dewey and Mizi,” Isaac says without hesitation.
“What?!” Dewey protests immediately. “Why do I always get picked for the suicide missions?”
“Because you always come back,” Hyuna says, not looking up from the map.
Till hides a small smirk.
They spend the next hour plotting out the new routes, carefully tracing through less-patrolled streets, avoiding major intersections, and identifying landmarks that haven’t collapsed yet. The air is tense — no one’s joking anymore.
Luka and Till work quietly, seamlessly. Luka makes notes in sharp, efficient handwriting while Till marks suggested turns on the map with red marker. Their heads lean close together. They don’t speak much, but they don’t have to.
Finally, Isaac leans back. “This will hold. For now.”
“Until they shift again,” Mizi mutters, tying her hair up. “They always do.”
“Then we shift faster,” Hyuna says, standing. “The meeting's over. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
Just as everyone starts to push their chairs back, Luka stays seated, his gaze fixed on the map.
He hums softly under his breath. “There’s… another way,” he says, almost to himself.
That’s enough to make the others pause.
Then he stands up, leaning over the table. His finger traces along a less detailed part of the map — one of the older sections near the edge. “Here,” he says. “It’s farther out. Adds time. But—”
Hyuna raises an eyebrow. “But?”
“There’s water,” Luka explains. “A river that cuts through the cliffs. Fast current. There’s a narrow path along the rock wall, and no one patrols it. Too dangerous, they think.”
Isaac crosses his arms, watching him closely. “That’s because it is dangerous. The cliff drops straight down.”
Luka nods once. “Exactly. That’s why no one expects anyone to use it.”
Dewey whistles again under his breath. “You trying to kill us, man?”
Luka ignores him. “It’s quiet. Covered. And there’s a way to get across upstream — a stone bridge. Old. From there, we’d be behind the enemy lines.”
Isaac’s eyes narrow. “We’d need climbing gear. And someone who knows the terrain.”
“I’ll go,” Luka says simply.
Of course he would.
Till’s chair scrapes back sharply.
“No,” he says, voice firmer than he expected it to come out.
All eyes shift to him. Luka lifts an eyebrow, arms still braced on the table.
“No?” Luka echoes, tone neutral but clearly amused. “You got a better idea?”
“I have a better heart,” Till shoots back—too fast.
Luka’s brow twitches. He tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes in silent warning.
But Till doesn’t back down. He can’t.
He glances at the others, all of whom are now watching intently, but none say anything. The tension is thick. Till breathes in through his nose, then says more evenly, “We shouldn’t risk you. Not for a scouting route.”
Luka’s smile is tight. “It’s not a risk if I’ve done it before.”
“You’re not going,” Till says, quieter this time — not for lack of conviction, but because there’s more weight behind it now.
Luka stares at him.
He knows. He knows what Till isn’t saying.
He knows that Till’s seen the way Luka clutches his chest when no one’s watching. How he hasn’t used his inhaler in days. How his breath sometimes catches too hard in the cold air. How he still hasn’t asked for help.
Isaac clears his throat. “Okay,” he says, finally breaking the silence. “We’ll table that route for now. Explore other options first.”
Luka doesn’t argue.
He just looks at Till for a moment longer — something unreadable flickering behind his eyes — then sits down again with a muttered, “Fine.”
When the meeting ends and the others start filing out, Luka doesn’t follow. He catches Till’s wrist before he can leave the room, his grip firm but not rough.
“Hey,” Luka says lowly, tugging him aside. “What the fuck was that back there?”
Till stiffens. “What?”
“You know what,” Luka says. He’s frustrated, trying not to raise his voice, but it’s all over his face. “The way you shut me down in front of everyone.”
“I wasn’t trying to make a scene,” Till mutters, avoiding his gaze.
“But you did.” Luka steps closer, voice quieter now. “What’s going on?”
Till swallows. He hesitates—then looks up, his expression tight. “I haven’t seen you use your inhaler.”
Luka falters. Just for a second. Then he sighs and rubs a hand down his face.
“It’s not—” he stops, as if something in his throat burns too much to finish the sentence. He exhales through his nose. “That’s because I ran out of dosage.”
“What?”
“I ran out, Till. But I’m fine.” Luka insists it like it’s supposed to make everything okay. “It’s literally fine.”
Till stares at him. “You didn’t tell anyone?”
“I didn’t want to make it a thing,” Luka says, biting the inside of his cheek. “I was gonna ask Hyuna for more soon.”
“When? When you collapse again?”
Luka’s mouth opens, but he says nothing.
Silence stretches between them. Luka looks away first.
Till’s voice is quieter this time. “You can’t keep doing this.”
Luka doesn’t answer.
Till grabs Luka’s face with both hands—not roughly, but firm enough to force his attention. His thumbs brush Luka’s cheekbones, his fingers curled behind his ears. Their eyes lock.
He looks furious. But beneath it, Luka sees it—the fear.
“Promise me,” Till says, his voice sharp but trembling. “Promise me that you’ll be okay. Really okay. And then I’ll think about letting you go.”
Luka’s jaw tightens. “I don’t need your permission.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” Till shoots back instantly. No hesitation. “I’m not letting you do this alone. Not when you can barely breathe some days.”
“I said I’m fine—”
“You’re not!” Till snaps. His fingers tighten on Luka’s face. “You’re not. And if you don’t see that, then I’m definitely coming with you.”
Luka exhales, staring at him. He doesn’t know what to say—because the truth is sitting heavy in his chest like everything else. He can lie. He can push. But Till’s not backing down this time.
And it’s killing him how much he wants him to stay.
The day moves on without another word about it.
No one brings up the argument. No one mentions Luka’s chest, his inhaler, or Till’s sharp voice from earlier. Instead, they move as a group—marking new paths, exploring alternate routes, checking corners and escape points. It’s long, slow work under a warm sun, but it keeps their minds busy.
Eventually, they reach a wide curve in the path, where the sound of rushing water hums softly in the distance.
Till glances ahead, then turns to the group. “Can’t we check the river now?”
Luka looks at him, arms crossed, a brow raised. “Why? So you don’t have to worry about me going alone? Now you want to make the whole group go?”
Till doesn’t answer. He just looks at Luka, gaze steady.
There’s a beat of silence. Then Isaac sighs.
“Might as well,” he mutters. “We’re already out here. It’ll be better if we all check it anyway.”
Till smiles. Luka just groans and rolls his eyes, turning to follow the others as they start heading that way.
But before they catch up, Till falls in step beside him again.
Luka shakes his head, smirking slightly. “You’re impossible.”
Till bumps his shoulder gently. “You’re the one still walking.”
And for a few seconds—despite everything—they both smile.
They make it to the river before the sun starts to dip too low. The trees thin out at the edge of a rocky slope, and there it is—tucked between two cliffs, the river roaring louder now.
It’s not too high.
But it’s high enough.
The edge doesn’t have a proper ledge or safety. Just loose stones, patches of overgrown grass, and sharp dips between jagged rocks. And the water? Not calm. It churns with a kind of force that feels dangerous even from up here.
No one says anything at first. They just stare.
“Technically,” Dewey says slowly, “if you fall… you won’t die.”
“Technically,” Mizi mutters, “if you fall, you won’t come back up, either.”
Till eyes the water warily. It’s true. You wouldn’t die from the fall alone, but there’s no way you could swim through that current. Not with the weight of your clothes. Not if you didn’t know how.
And if he’s being honest—he doesn’t think any of them can swim.
He swallows and takes a careful step back from the edge.
“We can still use the path above it,” Luka says, crouching near the rocks to examine the narrow trail that winds upward. “No one will be watching from this side.”
Till grabs his arm without thinking. “Don’t lean too far.”
Luka looks over his shoulder, raising a brow. “You nervous again?”
“No,” Till says quickly. Then softer, “Just—careful.”
Isaac calls out to them from farther down. “Don’t get too close. It’s not worth it.”
Luka stands, brushing off his hands. He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t move closer again either.
Till watches the water. His chest feels tight, not from fear of the river exactly—but from knowing Luka had wanted to come here alone.
He doesn’t say it, but he’s glad they all came instead.
They keep walking until Mizi spots something just beyond the overgrown brush.
“Is that the bridge?” she asks, squinting.
They push through the trees, and yeah—there it is. A narrow bridge made of stone and worn slabs, half-covered in moss. The structure blends so well into the landscape it’s a miracle they even noticed it.
It stretches over a narrow part of the river, curving slightly with the natural bend. The rocks it’s made of look old but solid. Stable.
The water underneath is another story.
It’s faster here. Narrower, too—so the current builds and rages through, slamming against the rocks below in a constant roar.
Dewey stares at the bridge for two seconds before saying flatly, “No way.”
“The bridge looks fine,” Luka mutters, crouching to test a stone near the edge.
“Sure,” Dewey snaps, “if you don’t look down. You fall in there, you’re done.”
Till stands beside Luka, eyes fixed on the foaming water beneath. “It’s not that it’s high,” he says slowly, “it’s that the current would drag you under. No chance.”
Isaac walks up and places a hand on one of the support stones. He pushes, leans. It doesn’t budge.
“It’ll hold,” he says. “But one at a time. Carefully.”
“Not all of us need to cross right now,” Hyuna adds. “We’re just scouting. No need to risk anyone.”
Still, there’s a pause. The kind where everyone kind of waits for someone else to go first.
Luka straightens up. “I’ll go.”
“No,” Till says quickly, grabbing his sleeve. “Let me.”
Luka blinks at him. “You don’t trust the bridge?”
“I don’t trust the river,” Till says quietly. “And you’re the one who’s got a heart ready to collapse.”
There’s a flicker of something in Luka’s eyes, but he doesn’t argue this time.
Till steps forward instead.
He can feel all of them watching.
One step. Then another.
The stones hold. His boots scrape, and the sound echoes slightly underfoot. The water churns beneath him, loud and restless.
He makes it to the other side.
“It’s fine,” he calls back. “Really. Just don’t rush it.”
One by one, they cross.
Even Dewey, though he mutters curses the entire time.
Eventually, Luka came over. He walks steady. Confident. Like it doesn’t bother him at all. But when he reaches Till, he doesn’t let go of his arm right away.
“See?” he murmurs. “I can be careful.”
Till smiles. “I’m shocked.”
They fall into step behind the others again, but not before Luka squeezes his hand once, brief and grounding, before letting go.
Dewey steps off the last slab and brushes his hands dramatically. “Well, that wasn’t so ba—”
CRACK.
A low, grinding sound cuts him off.
Everyone turns just in time to see it—a large stone near the edge, loosened by weight or time or both, slipping free and crashing into the river below.
WHOOSH—SPLASH!
The impact sends up a wave that slaps hard against the underside of the bridge. The whole thing jolts. Water sprays, the stones suddenly darkened and slick from the splash. A few smaller pebbles scatter off the side and into the current.
The sound of the river grows louder, like it’s waking up.
Nobody says anything.
Till grips Luka’s arm. Hard.
Dewey just stands there, wide-eyed, drenched from the knees down. “…Okay. That was bad.”
Hyuna curses under her breath. Mizi takes a careful step back from the edge.
Luka is already scanning the surface of the bridge. “We don’t cross this in the rain. Ever.”
Isaac nods. “If it’s wet, it’s death. This place is only useful if the weather’s on our side.”
Till looks at the stones again, the glisten of water still clinging to them, the way the current below churns like it’s waiting.
Yeah. One wrong step and you’d be gone.
Till hasn’t let go of Luka’s hand.
Not since the rock fell. Not since the splash.
He’s holding it so tight now, Luka can feel the way his knuckles strain, and Luka doesn’t even try to pull away. He lets him. Just letting him grip like his hand is the only stable thing in this whole damn place.
The others notice. Of course they do.
Dewey gives a look but says nothing. Mizi nudges Hyuna subtly. Even Isaac glances over, then quickly back at the bridge like it didn’t happen.
But Till doesn’t care. Not this time.
He stands there, hand locked with Luka’s, eyes fixed on the rushing water like he’s imagining the worst outcome. Like he can’t unsee it.
Luka leans closer and murmurs, low so only Till hears, “I’m fine.”
Till swallows, jaw tight. “You wouldn’t be if you slipped.”
Luka doesn’t answer right away. Just glances back at the bridge, then down at their hands. “But I didn’t.”
“Doesn’t change that you could have,” Till snaps quietly.
A beat.
Luka exhales through his nose. “We’ll mark it. Make it a last-resort path.”
Till finally looks at him then, his hand loosening only a little. “Promise.”
“I’m not making promises I can’t keep.”
Till’s stare doesn’t waver. “Then don’t cross it alone.”
Luka hesitates—and nods.
And still, he doesn’t let go.
They take a different path back. One that curves along the riverbank, far from the dangerous drop, but close enough that they can still hear the water.
It’s quieter now. The group spreads out a bit, relaxed after a long day. The tension that hung in the air by the cliff has thinned.
The water reflects the sunset—soft gold bleeding into pinks and oranges. The rush of it is slower here, smoother. Calm.
Till slows his steps and looks toward it. “It almost looks… nice.”
Luka glances over, then back at the water. “Yeah. Like you could swim in it.”
“Not that any of us can,” Till says under his breath.
Luka smirks. “Speak for yourself.”
Till raises an eyebrow. “You can swim?”
Luka shrugs. “Not well. But enough not to drown.”
That earns a small snort from Till. “You didn’t think to mention that when we were standing on a cliff?”
“I wasn’t planning on falling,” Luka says simply.
They walk in silence for a moment. The sun keeps sinking. Shadows stretch. Somewhere behind them, the group’s laughter is faint but present.
Luka nudges him. “You thinking about it?”
Till blinks. “What?”
“A swim.”
He pauses. “A little.”
Luka hums, hands in his pockets. “We could come back. Just us.”
Till doesn’t answer right away. Then: “You’d like that?”
Luka shrugs again, but there’s something softer in his voice. “Yeah.”
Their shoulders brush as they walk, closer than necessary. Neither of them pulls away.
The river keeps moving beside them, smooth and steady.
★
They make it back to base just as the last light fades behind the trees. Everyone’s exhausted, dusty, and sore—but the mission went well. No one got hurt. No one got spotted. The new routes are promising.
And after the week they’ve all had—tense missions, impossible decisions, and all the silent things no one says—they need a break.
So when Isaac suggests, “Let’s go out tonight. Just… unwind a little,” no one argues.
Even Hyuna doesn’t protest.
By the time night falls, they’re changed and ready. There are already a lot of other people in the club.
Music plays low at first, then louder. Dewey and Mizi already dance like they’ve forgotten every bad thing in the world. Hyuna sits with Isaac at a table, both pretending they’re not watching everyone else. Laughter fills the corners.
Luka shows up last, jacket slung over his shoulder, freshly showered, hair still damp. He moves through the small crowd like it means nothing, but Till sees it—how Luka’s eyes immediately find him across the room.
Till sips whatever drink Dewey shoved into his hand. Something sweet, too strong. His eyes don’t leave Luka’s either.
When Luka reaches him, he doesn’t say anything. Just smirks a little. “You clean up nice.”
“You didn’t,” Till replies, just to be difficult. But he smiles too.
They don’t dance. Not at first. They just hover near each other at the edge of the room, sipping drinks, exchanging glances. But it’s easy tonight. No pressure, no talk about missions or maps or bridges.
Just music, lights, warmth.
Eventually Luka leans in, close to his ear. “Wanna dance?”
Till doesn’t answer. He just sets his drink down and grabs Luka’s hand.
They move to the dance floor without words.
The music isn’t anything special—some old track Dewey found and insists on playing every time—but it’s slow enough. Close enough. Luka pulls Till in by the waist, and Till goes willingly, settling his hands behind Luka’s neck. Their bodies fit together like they’ve done this a hundred times.
But this time is different.
This time, there’s no tension. No bitterness burning underneath their skin. Just the sound of the music, the beat guiding them, and the slow, almost lazy rhythm of their steps. They sway more than they dance, moving just to stay close.
Till rests his forehead against Luka’s cheek, lips brushing his skin. “You promised me we’d sing.”
Luka laughs softly, the sound vibrating against him. “Not tonight, love.” His voice is low, not teasing—just honest, a little tired.
He presses a kiss to Till’s lips before he can say more. Slow. Intimate. A quiet kind of reassurance.
And Till lets it go, lets himself melt into it.
He doesn’t need a song tonight.
Just this.
Just Luka.
They make their way back to the table where the others are already drinking—Hyuna laughing at something Mizi said, Isaac swirling the drink in his hand with a look that says he’d rather be anywhere else, and Dewey halfway through telling some ridiculous story with full hand gestures.
Till doesn’t let go of Luka’s hand.
Not even as they weave through the crowd, not when people look, not when they sit down. He just drops into the seat next to Luka, their hands still clasped, resting on the table between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Hyuna notices first. Her brow lifts, just a little, but she says nothing—just hides a smirk behind her drink. Mizi nudges Dewey, and Dewey grins like a man who’s been waiting for this exact moment.
No one says anything. But the table feels warmer all of a sudden. Lighter.
Luka leans close, voice low in Till’s ear. “You know you’re holding my hand in front of everyone, right?”
Till turns his head, eyes meeting Luka’s. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t let go.
Everyone drinks. A lot.
Hyuna won’t stop making toasts—“To the new route!” / “To the bridge that didn’t kill Dewey!” / “To Luka’s lungs not giving out today!”—and every time she raises her glass, everyone groans but drinks anyway. Even Luka, whose heart is already cursing him in silent, sharp thuds. He mutters under his breath every time he takes a sip, but he still drinks.
It’s warm in the club, lights flashing in soft pulses, the crowd growing louder with every song. Tipsy laughter echoes around the table, and more people from the base join the chaos. Someone yells something from across the dance floor, someone else climbs on a chair, and the music cranks even louder.
Luka gets closer to Till without really thinking about it. Maybe it’s the drinks, maybe it’s the music, maybe it’s just…everything. He puts an arm around Till’s shoulders, pulls him in. Till leans against him like he belongs there, like it’s nothing.
Sometimes they kiss—quick and soft, whenever no one is looking.
Till keeps smiling against his lips.
Luka thinks: maybe nights like this won’t be so rare anymore.
★
Till’s back hits the wall with a dull thud.
He gasps—more out of surprise than pain—eyes wide, heart racing. He doesn’t even know when they got here. One minute they were at the table, Luka whispering something against his ear, lips brushing skin, and the next—they’re in the hall.
Luka’s mouth is on him now. Hot. Hungry. Hands sliding under his shirt like he’s desperate to feel every inch of him. Till claws at Luka’s shoulders, breathing hard, trying to keep up.
They try to move. Or at least they think they do—half-stumbling, lips still locked, hands still grabbing, teeth grazing.
They barely make it down the hall, Luka fumbling for the handle of the door—any door. Till laughs against his lips, breathless, drunk on him, whispering something that sounds like “Just pick one, I don’t care.”
The door opens.
They crash through it like a storm.
Somehow—God knows how—they manage to make it to Luka’s room. The door slams behind them, and a second later Till’s back hits the bed, bouncing slightly from the impact.
Luka’s already on top of him.
Clothes are flying—shirts pulled off without care, buttons snapping, zippers half undone. They’re laughing, panting, drunk on alcohol and each other. Their kisses are messy and desperate, tongues tangling, teeth clashing. Luka tastes like vodka and sweat and something else Till can’t name but wants more of.
Till’s hands are everywhere—Luka’s chest, his back, tangled in his hair. Luka kisses down his neck, murmuring something he doesn’t finish, and Till arches into him, groaning.
They’re both bare before they even realize it. Luka hovers above him, flushed and wild-eyed, his pupils blown wide.
“This is insane,” he breathes.
Till drags him back down with a smirk. “So? Keep going.”
And Luka does.
They kiss, again and again, like they can’t get enough—can’t get close enough. Luka laughs against Till’s mouth when they fumble for a moment, tipsy hands clumsy with too many buttons, not enough focus.
Till laughs too, breathless, head tilted back against the pillow as Luka trails kisses along his throat. But then Luka’s teeth graze a sensitive spot near his collarbone, and the laugh melts into a moan—low, drawn out, completely unguarded.
Luka stills for a second, like the sound hits him right in the chest. He pulls back just enough to look at Till.
“You’re so sensitive when you’re drunk,” he murmurs, voice thick. His hands slide down Till’s sides, fingers ghosting over his skin.
Till shivers. “Shut up.”
Luka grins and leans back in. “No. I like it.”
He licks a slow stripe up Till’s neck just to prove a point, and the way Till arches into him—moaning, trembling—makes Luka groan too. He presses closer, hands exploring again, every touch making Till gasp like it’s the first time.
He swears Till’s skin is buzzing beneath his palms. Everything feels hotter, messier, more desperate.
And God, Luka loves that.
It’s messy this time. Neither of them have the coordination or patience for anything else. The preparation is rushed, fingers slipping, bodies pressing too close too fast—but they don’t care. All that matters is the way Till trembles beneath Luka, the way his whole body shakes as he finally sinks into it.
Luka has to stop—just for a second—has to breathe through it because the way Till moans when he enters him, the way he clings, desperate and eager, nearly undoes him right there.
Drunk Till is louder, needier—he doesn’t hold anything back. He begs, again and again, breath catching on every gasp of ‘please’ and ‘faster’, nails digging into Luka’s shoulders, pulling him closer like he’d crawl inside him if he could.
Luka gives in. He always does.
He holds Till tight, moves the way he’s asked, lets the rhythm fall apart and rebuild itself in the heat and the haze, their bodies crashing together over and over again.
And through it all, Till doesn’t stop whispering his name.
Till comes with Luka’s name on his tongue—a broken sound, whispered against his neck like a prayer. Luka follows not long after, buried deep inside him, the pleasure crashing through him like a wave he didn’t see coming.
Afterward, they collapse into each other—breathless, flushed, their skin damp and sticky with sweat and everything else. Luka doesn’t pull away. He stays there, wrapped around Till like he’s afraid the moment might slip from his fingers if he lets go.
They don’t speak at first.
They just lie there in the dark, tangled in the sheets, in each other—hearts racing, lungs catching up, heads spinning from the alcohol and the way it all felt too good, too real.
Till blinks up at the ceiling. His chest rises and falls in time with Luka’s. The silence between them isn’t awkward—not anymore. It’s full of something else.
Something warm. Something terrifying. Something neither of them want to name.
Not yet.
They don’t say anything as sleep begins to pull them under.
Their limbs are still tangled, Luka’s arm heavy around Till’s waist, Till’s face nuzzled somewhere against his collarbone. They exchange a few lazy kisses—slow, unfocused, nothing more than lips brushing lips and soft hums of contentment.
It’s quiet. Peaceful. Their breathing slows in sync.
Neither of them mean to fall asleep—but eventually, the warmth, the exhaustion, and the alcohol wins.
Sleep takes them, still wrapped up in each other.
★
Luka wakes up with a sharp, burning pain in his chest.
It pulls him out of sleep all at once—no drifting, no warning. Just pain. He groans quietly, trying not to wake Till, but a cough forces its way out. Then another. His chest tightens like a fist, and he feels the weight of it pressing hard beneath his ribs.
Carefully, he untangles himself from Till’s arms, slipping out of bed with a quiet apology he doesn’t say out loud. His legs are shaky as he makes his way to the bathroom, one hand gripping the doorframe as he shuts it behind him.
He leans over the sink.
His breathing is uneven, shallow. He knows this feeling. It’s gotten worse.
His hand instinctively reaches for the inhaler on the counter—but stops. Empty. He already knows. His last dosage was days ago. He’s been stretching it, pretending it’s fine. But it’s not.
Another cough hits, and this one tastes like metal.
He spits into the sink and sees it: blood.
“Fuck,” he mutters, gripping the edge of the sink harder. He stares at the red for a long moment, jaw clenched, throat burning.
He runs the water, tries to wash it away, drink some, anything to get his heart to slow down. He tries to breathe deep—but it only makes him cough again.
He presses the heel of his hand to his chest, willing it to stop.
He doesn’t want Till to see him like this.
He doesn’t want anyone to.
When Luka finally calms down—his breathing still rough but steady enough—he lingers in the bathroom a moment longer, eyes fixed on his reflection. He looks pale. Tired. But it’s fine. He’ll make it fine. Like always.
He turns off the light and walks slowly back into the room, careful with his steps like silence might erase what just happened.
Till’s still in bed, curled on his side facing the wall.
Luka slips under the blanket again, the sheets still warm. He shifts closer, his arms sliding around Till’s waist like nothing happened. Like it’s just another night. He exhales slowly, trying not to make a sound, and buries his face in Till’s shoulder.
He doesn’t see the way Till’s eyes blink open slowly.
Because Till had woken up the second he heard Luka coughing. Had lain there in the dark, frozen, listening. Not moving—because if he moved, Luka might lie. Might say “I’m fine,” like always.
So he stayed quiet.
But now Luka is back, holding him like nothing happened.
Till doesn’t say anything either.
He just reaches up, gently, and rests his hand over Luka’s. Keeps it there.
And they stay like that until sleep takes them again
★
When they wake up, it’s slow—like the morning itself is taking its time,
There’s warmth everywhere.
Till stirs first, just enough to register the weight around him, the rise and fall of Luka’s chest against his back. Luka’s arms are still wrapped around him, their legs tangled lazily, like they had no plans of letting go in the night.
Till doesn’t move. He just lets himself breathe for a moment, eyes half-closed, lips curved into something quiet and real. It’s that rare feeling again—like everything’s right just for a second. Like the world outside doesn’t matter.
Luka groans a little behind him, voice rough from sleep. His arm tightens instinctively around Till’s waist. He presses his face into the curve of Till’s neck and murmurs something that sounds like “Don’t move yet.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Till whispers back, voice soft, almost shy.
They lie there in silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s full—of comfort, of something warm and alive. The kind of silence people earn.
Fingers trace aimlessly over skin, small movements that don’t mean anything but feel like everything. Neither of them says what they’re thinking.
But they both feel it.
This—this right here—it’s the best feeling in the world.
Till shifts a little, still nestled in Luka’s arms, and whispers, “Luka…”
It’s soft. Almost hesitant.
Luka’s response is a sleepy, muffled hum against Till’s shoulder. He doesn’t even open his eyes, just nuzzles closer, his voice low and rough with sleep. “Mmm?”
It makes Till smile—how defenseless he sounds, how soft he gets when he’s not quite awake. It tugs at something in his chest.
He doesn’t ask the question yet. Not when Luka’s like this. Not when the moment is too perfect to ruin with doubts or worries.
So instead, he just turns a little more in his arms, brushing his nose against Luka’s, and murmurs, “Nothing.”
Luka hums again, the corners of his lips twitching into the beginning of a smile, still not quite conscious. His grip tightens slightly around Till’s waist, pulling him closer, and just like that, he’s drifting again.
Till stays awake a little longer, watching him, heart too full.
Till stays quiet, his cheek pressed against Luka’s chest, listening to the steady, slow rhythm of his heartbeat. It’s comforting—strong and real—but it’s not enough to silence the thoughts spinning in his head.
Last night plays over in fragments. The messy kisses, Luka’s hands shaking a little, how his breath sometimes caught in the wrong way. And then… the cough.
That cough.
He thought it was nothing at first. Luka always brushed it off. But last night, Till had woken when he heard it again—different this time. Deeper. Rougher. Something in the sound had made his chest tighten, panic pressing in.
And Luka left the bed.
He hadn’t followed. He pretended to be asleep. But he’d heard the water running, heard him curse, heard the ragged breaths trying to calm down. And when he came back, Luka still smiled, still held him close, like nothing happened.
But Till knows something’s wrong.
He watches him now, lips parted slightly in sleep, arm draped around Till like he never wants to let go. His skin is a little paler than usual. There are dark shadows under his eyes. And that pain—Till can feel it clinging to Luka even now. Hidden under the surface. Waiting to rise again.
He’s getting worse.
And the worst part is—Luka knows. He knows and he’s not saying anything.
Till exhales slowly, fingers curling against Luka’s chest. He wants to help. God, he wants to fix it. But how can he, when Luka won’t let him in? When he keeps pretending it’s fine?
That helplessness claws at his insides. He doesn’t want to lose him. Not now. Not when they’ve finally started to feel like something real.
But how do you save someone who keeps walking toward the edge and won’t tell you they’re slipping?
He presses a soft kiss to Luka’s collarbone and closes his eyes, heart heavy. Maybe today… Maybe today he’ll try to talk again. Or maybe… he’ll just stay like this a little longer. Just in case this feeling, this closeness, has an expiration date.
Till doesn’t sleep.
He pretends for a while—eyes closed, breath steady—his head tucked just beneath Luka’s chin, the familiar warmth of his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calms him more than he’d admit. He listens to it, counts the beats like they might disappear if he doesn’t.
But the longer he listens, the more he stays awake.
Eventually, he opens his eyes again.
The light filtering through the curtains is soft, not quite morning, not quite night. A pale haze casting Luka’s features in a gentle glow. His lashes flutter just slightly in his sleep, his lips parted, still a little swollen from last night’s kisses.
Till exhales quietly and lifts his hand, brushing a few strands of Luka’s hair away from his forehead. Then, with a small smile, he starts to run his fingers through it. Slow, absent. Just exploring the softness, the texture. It’s messier than usual—dried sweat, sleep, and everything they didn’t say.
But it’s still so soft.
He tangles a strand between his fingers, lets it slide free, and does it again. Again. Luka stirs just faintly, murmurs something incoherent under his breath, but he doesn’t wake. His hand stays right where it is, holding onto Till’s waist like he’s afraid he’ll vanish.
“You don’t make it easy to let go,” Till whispers, even though he knows Luka can’t hear him.
His fingers stay in his hair. He watches him, quietly, painfully, lovingly. Like he’s afraid to blink in case this all slips away.
Luka shifts slightly, a low breath leaving his chest as he blinks his eyes open.
He’d been teetering on the edge of sleep for a while now—conscious enough to register the weight of Till against him, the way their bodies fit, warm and close, under the covers. Conscious enough to feel fingers sliding gently through his hair. Over and over. Like a lullaby.
God, it’s nice.
He doesn’t move right away. He’s tired—more than usual—and he knows it. His limbs are heavy, his chest still tight from earlier, but for now, none of that matters. He lets his eyes flutter open, just enough to see Till still watching him.
“Mm,” Luka hums, voice rough with sleep. “You’re still awake?”
Till doesn’t answer right away, like he’s not sure if he should lie. Luka offers him a crooked smile, the kind that’s half-exhausted and half-playful.
“You trying to put me back to sleep or something?” he murmurs, nudging his head a little closer into the touch.
The fingers in his hair slow, pause—then resume again. Gentler now.
He exhales. “I’m… not used to this,” he admits, voice low, almost shy in a way he rarely is. “All this… affection. The softness.”
He doesn’t say he likes it. But it’s obvious. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tease. He just closes his eyes again, letting himself settle into the warmth of it, into Till’s hands and the quiet comfort of not needing to pretend for once.
Their lips meet in a slow, lazy kiss—soft and unhurried, nothing meant to lead anywhere. Just the simple act of closeness. A morning kind of kiss. Tired and warm and full of something they still don’t have the words for.
Till shifts just a little, barely pressing closer, and Luka lets out a small sound—not a moan, not really, more like contentment. His hand finds Till’s side under the covers, resting there. He kisses back gently, like he’s trying to say: I’m here. I’m still here.
Their noses brush. Neither pulls away right away.
It’s not like before—no hunger behind it, no urgency. Just the comfort of lips pressed together in the quiet of a morning where they don’t have to run yet. A kind of quiet promise.
When they part, Luka keeps his eyes closed, still close, forehead almost touching Till’s.
★
They arrive late, like always—shoulders brushing, Till’s hair still a little messy, Luka with that dazed, sleepy look still lingering on his face.
The others are already at the table, halfway through breakfast. Mizi glances up from her cup and offers them a small smile. Dewey raises his mug and leans back in his chair.
“Well, guess we all needed a night like that,” he says, voice light but sincere. “A little break. Even just for a few hours.”
Isaac, flipping through a few maps and notes on his tablet, doesn’t lift his head. “We’ve still got a lot to do today.”
Dewey nods. “Yeah, yeah. But pretending the world’s not ending for one night… I can't say it didn’t help.”
Isaac hesitates, then exhales through his nose. “Maybe. Just don’t let it slow us down.”
Luka sits next to Till, who’s already sipping from a shared cup. No one really brings up the way they’d disappeared from the club early. No one needs to. It’s not the focus today.
Because for a moment, they had felt like a group of kids again. Not fighters. Not survivors. Just kids, dancing in the dark.
But now, the real world waits again.
★
They don’t bother moving to the other room. Isaac spreads the maps and notes across the same table where half-eaten plates and coffee mugs still sit. Dewey scoots over to make space, wiping crumbs off with his sleeve.
Hyuna hands him a pen as he starts circling sectors.
“Alright,” Isaac says. “Let’s get real. If we don’t figure out safer paths by the end of the week, we’ll be stuck rationing again.”
Everyone shifts into place. Luka leans forward, expression tight as he studies the spread.
“What about here?” he says, tapping a route that veers southeast. “It’s a longer path, but it’s quiet. There’s a tree line that keeps it mostly covered until you hit the ridge.”
Isaac glances at the area, frowning. “That route’s too exposed. You’re pinned on the left by the cliff and open on the right. You lose cover and there’s no backup if something goes wrong.”
“Not if we move at night,” Luka replies, sitting up straighter. “If we wait till late—two or three a.m.—there’s barely any patrol traffic in this zone. We could make it back before dawn. Leave the drops in the trees. That way if they’re discovered, we’re not standing over them.”
Isaac doesn’t budge. “It’s too risky. We can’t assume night guarantees safety. If something goes wrong out there, no one’s coming for you. No radio signal, no backup.”
Luka’s jaw tightens. “We don’t get to play it safe anymore, Isaac. We’re already being tracked—we have to stop using the obvious routes or it’s just a matter of time.”
“That doesn’t mean we run blind into places we can’t control,” Isaac says sharply.
“I’m not running blind,” Luka snaps. “I know that path. I’ve taken it twice. We’re wasting time circling the same safe zones that got hit last week.”
The room grows tense. Dewey glances between them but says nothing. Even Hyuna doesn’t step in—yet.
Luka shakes his head, breath flaring through his nose. “Whatever,” he mutters finally, and pushes back from the table. The chair scrapes harshly against the floor.
He doesn’t storm out immediately. He pauses behind Till’s chair for just a second, then reaches down, grabs his chin with one hand, and pulls him into a kiss.
It’s abrupt. A little rough. A kiss full of tension—of things left unsaid. Luka lingers there for a heartbeat, breathing against Till’s mouth, then pulls back and walks out without another word.
Till stays frozen in his chair. The others look everywhere except at him.
Dewey clears his throat. “So, uh. We’re still voting on the night runs, or—?”
Hyuna flicks him on the forehead. Isaac exhales, rubbing his temples. But it’s Till who finally blinks, pulling the map toward himself without a word—still feeling Luka’s breath against his lips.
Till sits frozen for a moment, his fingers still curled on the edge of the table where Luka left him.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
Heat creeps up his neck, all the way to his cheeks—slow and uncontrollable. He feels it before he even registers what just happened. His lips still tingle from the kiss. His heart’s doing something weird—fluttery and tight—and he’s very aware that everyone is staring at him.
Or at least, trying not to.
Dewey quickly looks down at the map like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Hyuna raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word. Isaac… well. Isaac sighs again, clearly holding back commentary he doesn’t have the energy to make.
Till swallows hard.
He doesn’t know what just got into Luka. Frustration? Possessiveness? Something else?
But whatever it was, it left him breathless and blushing like a schoolboy with a crush—and with the added bonus of the group’s collective gaze heavy on his skin.
He clears his throat, grabs a pen, and leans in over the map like nothing happened.
“So…” he mumbles, his voice a little higher than usual. “Where were we?”
★
Till finds Luka later— he’s outside, leaning against a railing or smoking something he shouldn’t be, just acting like nothing happened.
Till stops in front of him, arms crossed, expression tight.
“Okay. What the hell was that?”
Luka looks over, unimpressed.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb. You picked a fight with Isaac and then kissed me in front of everyone and just walked off like nothing happened. You’ve been acting weird all day.”
Luka exhales, like this is exhausting.
“Because I am exhausted. Everyone wants something from me—plans, routes, risks—and then I suggest one thing and Isaac looks at me like I’m crazy.”
“And that makes you kiss me?”
Luka shrugs, turning away like he’s done.
“Would you rather I punched him instead?”
“Luka.”
Till’s voice is sharper now, frustrated. He steps closer.
“You’ve been off. Since last night. Since the coughing—yeah, I heard it.”
That finally gets Luka’s attention. He stiffens a little.
“It’s nothing,” he says, too fast.
“It’s not nothing if you’re spitting blood—”
Luka interrupts:
“I didn’t spit blood.”
“I saw the towel, Luka.”
Silence.
Till softens—not because he’s over it, but because he sees Luka spiraling.
“I’m not mad about the kiss.”
His voice is low now.
“I just… I don’t like when you act like nothing matters.”
Luka rubs the back of his neck, not meeting his eyes.
“That’s the point, Till. If I let it matter too much… it’ll all get too real.”
“It is real.”
Luka doesn’t answer right away. Then, like he can’t help it, he grabs Till by the chin again—like earlier—and kisses him hard, messy, unresolved.
Then pulls back, voice low:
“That’s all I’ve got right now. Is that enough?”
Till sighs, shoulders dropping.
“What did I expect…” he murmurs, not really a question.
He doesn’t push further. Doesn’t fight him on the blood or the kiss or the fact that Luka always walls up when things get hard.
He just stays. Like always.
Then, quieter—
“Your plan isn’t so bad, by the way.”
Luka lets out a dry little scoff, barely a smile.
“I know.”
He runs a hand through his hair.
“Isaac just likes arguing with me. I think it gives him something to live for.”
Till huffs a half-laugh, eyes softening just a bit.
“You give all of us something to live for, Luka.”
Luka freezes for half a second—not ready to unpack that.
“Don’t say stuff like that,” he mutters.
Till shrugs.
“Too late.”
They stand in silence for a moment—Luka still not looking at him, but not walking away either. And Till…he’s not leaving either.
Not yet.
★
Later that day, after they all return to their own tasks—cleaning gear, checking supplies, going over maps again—Till finds himself alone in the hallway, wiping his hands with a rag after helping Mizi sort through salvaged materials.
“Finally.”
He looks up.
Hyuna’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. She doesn’t even try to look casual.
“So. You two figure your shit out or what?”
Till blinks.
“…What?”
She steps forward, gives him a look.
“Don’t play dumb. The way you were holding hands all day. The kiss at the table? We’re not blind, Till.”
Then, teasing:
“I mean, you could’ve given us a warning before declaring him your boyfriend in the middle of a tactical argument.”
Till’s ears turn pink immediately.
“He—he’s not my—”
Hyuna cuts him off with a grin.
“Relax. I’m happy for you.”
He exhales slowly, still looking a little overwhelmed.
“It’s…complicated.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
Hyuna leans beside him against the wall.
“But you look happier than before. And he doesn’t look like he wants to jump off the balcony anymore. So…whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
There’s a beat of silence before Till mumbles,
“I’m scared.”
Hyuna doesn’t tease this time. Just nods.
“Good. Means it’s real.”
★
Luka doesn’t sleep.
He tosses around in bed for a while, arm still aching from the bruises he hasn’t bothered to treat, chest heavy again. At some point he gives up, pulls on a hoodie over his shirt, and wanders to the kitchen hoping—hoping—to be alone.
The lights are dim. The fridge hums. He opens the cabinet quietly, eyes half-closed, hand reaching for a cup when—
“You.”
He freezes.
Turns.
Mizi stands near the counter, arms crossed, tea mug in hand. Eyes narrowed. Her expression isn’t playful. It’s more like: I’ve been waiting for you.
Luka blinks.
“…Hi.”
“So,” she says, “you kissed him.”
He chokes on his breath.
“What—?”
“Till. You kissed him. In front of everyone.”
She tilts her head.
“What’s your deal?”
Luka puts the cup down. He’s not even thirsty anymore.
“Is this some kind of interrogation?”
“Yes.” She doesn’t even hesitate. “Because I actually care about him. And you? You’ve been acting like a human disaster for weeks. And then you kiss him like it’s some romcom moment and just leave.”
He exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.
“I didn’t plan that.”
“Clearly.”
There's silence. Luka leans against the counter, eyes tired.
“…I know I’m not good at this. Okay? I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Mizi softens for a second. Just a second. Then:
“Then figure it out. Because if you’re gonna keep being in his bed and in his life, you better start acting like someone worth his time.”
Luka winces. Not because she’s wrong—because she’s too right.
“He cares, you know.” Mizi’s voice is quieter now. “You don’t get to treat that like it’s nothing.”
He doesn’t answer. Just nods. Stares down at the cup.
“Good.” She takes another sip of her tea. “Now go back to bed before I punch you.”
When Luka finally returns to his room, he moves quietly—half-expecting Till to be asleep. But the light’s still dimly on, and there he is, curled under the blanket, blinking at him with sleep-heavy eyes.
Luka exhales. That tension he carried all the way back eases just a little.
Luka climbs into bed, still warm from Till’s body heat. Without a word, he pulls him close, arms wrapping around Till like it’s instinct now—like he needs the contact as much as the comfort. Till shifts, fitting himself against Luka’s chest, and lets out a quiet sigh.
They lay there for a while, the silence soft between them, the kind that doesn’t demand to be broken.
Then Till speaks, voice low and thoughtful:
“I like it when things are like this.”
Luka hums.
“Like… normal,” Till continues. “When I forget what the world is. When it’s just us. No rebels, no missions, no Alien Stage. Just… two people. In bed. Complaining or sleeping too long.”
Luka doesn’t say anything yet—just tightens his arms a little.
“I think…” Till says slowly, “I do love the adrenaline. The action. Because I’ve been thrown into it, and now I need it to feel like I matter. But—”
He pauses.
“If we were in another world… one where we didn’t have to fight like this every day… I think I’d really love that life too. One where my biggest problem is you being a moody asshole.”
Luka lets out a short laugh, muffled against Till’s hair.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“You’d still fall for me, even if we were boring and normal?” Luka teases softly, the smile behind his words unmistakable.
Till twists a little to look at him, eyes steady.
“You’re the only thing I’d want to be sure about in any version of my life.”
Luka’s smirk fades. He looks at him for a long time, then just presses a kiss to Till’s forehead.
“Then maybe we’ll find that world someday.”
Till doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes, warm in Luka’s arms.
Chapter 22
Notes:
Ahh, you guys just don't have any idea what is coming...
Chapter Text
The room was colder today—maybe it was just the mood.
They sat around the table, papers sprawled out, a map half-folded at the edge. No one was joking. No drinks. No Dewey dumb comments. No Luka smirking.
Isaac stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the map like it personally owed him something. When he finally spoke, it was without looking up:
“I’ve been thinking about Luka’s proposal. Moving at night.”
Eyes flicked toward Luka. He leaned back, arms crossed, not smug. Just waiting.
“It’s reckless,” Isaac continued. “But maybe we don’t have a choice. Not with how visible our daytime supply runs have become.”
Mizi nodded, serious for once.
“Only specific paths,” Isaac said, pointing to marked trails. “Ones with full tree cover or terrain that works in our favor. We’ll need scouting first. Testing.”
He glanced at Luka.
“You lead the first one. You suggested it, you prove it works.”
Luka didn’t flinch. Just nodded once.
“Fine.”
Till shifts in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He tries to keep his voice level, but it comes out a little too sharp.
“You’re sending him alone?”
The room stills for a second—Isaac glances at him, eyebrow twitching. Luka exhales through his nose, not quite sighing, not quite amused.
“If we go through here during the night, we avoid the patrols. It’s risky, but possible. I’m thinking Luka takes points. Dewey and Hyuna go with him.”
Before anyone responds, Luka lifts his head with a casual shrug.
“I can go alone.”
“No, you can’t,” Till snaps, a little too fast, a little too loud.
Everyone looks up.
“What?” Luka says, brows raised, almost amused. “You don’t think I can handle a night stroll?”
“That’s not what I—” Till exhales sharply. “I just think it’s stupid to send someone alone in the dark when we know how dangerous it is. That’s all.”
Luka leans back in his chair, lips quivering. “So it’s stupid if it’s me?”
“It’s stupid no matter who it is,” Till shoots back. “But yeah—especially if it’s you, and especially if you’re coughing up blood when no one’s watching.”
you can’t.”
Everyone turns. Luka raises a brow.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Till says, arms crossed. “You’re not going out there alone.”
Luka leans back, half-laughing like it’s a joke.
“You’re not the one giving orders.”
“No,” Till says, voice low and tight, “but I am the one watching you get worse every damn day.”
Luka’s expression freezes. The table goes quiet. There’s tension in the air — not confusion, but understanding. The kind of silence when everyone knows something but chooses not to speak on it.
Isaac sighs. “No one’s going alone. That’s final.”
Luka doesn’t respond right away. Then he scoffs and turns his head, jaw clenched.
They don’t talk during the rest of the meeting. But Luka’s eyes flick to Till more than once, sharp and unreadable.
When it’s over, the others start clearing the table or walking out. Luka doesn’t say anything — he just grabs Till’s arm and pulls him aside, past the hallway and into an empty room.
He closes the door behind them.
“What the hell was that?” Luka hisses.
Till crosses his arms. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Luka says, mock thoughtful. “Maybe the part where you said I’m getting worse in front of the entire team?”
Till stares back, unflinching. “Because you are.”
“You don’t get to do that,” Luka says, stepping closer. “You don’t get to throw that out in the middle of a mission briefing like you’re my doctor.”
Till’s jaw tightens. “And you don’t get to pretend like you’re fine when I know you’re not. You keep saying it’s fine — and then I wake up in the middle of the night hearing you cough your lungs out in the bathroom.”
Luka looks away, but Till presses on.
“You promised me,” Till says quietly. “You said you’d be okay.”
There’s a pause. Luka runs a hand through his hair.
“And I will be. I don’t need the whole team looking at me like I’m gonna drop dead.”
“Then stop acting like you’re invincible,” Till snaps.
They stare at each other, the air tense. Then Luka’s voice softens, the edge crumbling just a bit.
“I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
Till doesn’t respond right away. Then he breathes out, tension slowly draining from his shoulders.
“Too late.”
★
The air is colder at night. Quieter. Still.
Luka slips out after lights are supposed to be off. He’s careful. He knows how to move without being heard, how to mask the creak of a door, how to make his steps vanish into the dark. He made sure Till wouldn’t notice — said something vague about being tired, kissed him, stayed close long enough to lull him to sleep. Then left.
He’s not doing this to disobey Isaac. Not exactly. He doesn’t have anything against going with Hyuna or Dewey. But tonight… he needs to be alone.
The ground crunches softly beneath his boots as he walks. He takes the longer route, one of the ones they mapped recently. Past the river, where the water is calmer now. He watches it for a while, then keeps going.
His breath fogs in the air. His chest aches, but he doesn’t stop.
His head is quieter now. Ever since things with Till settled — since they stopped pretending it was just a phase, or sex, or convenience. They aren’t pretending anymore.
That’s exactly the problem.
He sits on a large rock, overlooking the trees and the moonlit path ahead. For a while, he just stays there. Silent.
Then, almost to himself, he whispers:
“What happens when I die?”
The wind doesn’t answer.
“Will you be okay, Till?”
His voice almost cracks. He swallows it down.
He thinks of the inhaler still empty in his jacket. How even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t change anything. It doesn’t heal him. It just buys time. Each time he uses it, it’s a little weaker. Each time the pain stays a little longer.
He presses a hand to his chest. Not now, he thinks. Not tonight.
He wonders, not for the first time, if he should tell Till all of it. The real version — not just “I’m fine,” not just “It’s nothing.” What it really feels like.
Would Till understand?
Would he stay? Would he cry? Would he hate Luka for keeping it quiet so long?
Would it break him?
Luka breathes out slowly and closes his eyes.
“I don’t want to die with him watching.”
That’s what it really is.
If he goes, he wants it to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere alone. He wants Till to remember the last thing being good — not the image of him in pain, coughing, gasping.
He pulls his knees up to his chest, rests his chin on them, and stays there, waiting for the night to pass.
★
They find out the next morning.
Luka tries to be quiet when he slips back inside — boots damp, hair tousled, the cold air still clinging to his clothes.
But Hyuna sees him instantly. She’s in the hallway with a mug in her hands, and her eyes narrow like she knew this would happen.
“…You’re kidding.”
He gives her a half-hearted shrug.
By the time he walks into the main room, everyone’s already awake — Isaac is looking over maps, Dewey is eating cereal straight from the box, and Mizi is… there. Watching. Judging. Silently sipping tea.
Hyuna stomps in right behind him. “He went out. Alone. Last night.”
The room goes still.
Till straightens up from his seat. “What?”
Luka sighs. “It was nothing.”
“You went out?!” Dewey says, mouth full.
Luka blinks, doesn’t even bother with a guilty face. “We needed the route checked.”
“You could’ve told someone!” Till snaps. “You remember what happened the last time you went alone for supplies? We spent hours thinking something happened to you!”
“That was different—”
“No, it wasn’t!” Till cuts in, angrier now. “You did the same thing. Disappeared. Thought you knew better. I woke up and you were just gone.”
Luka shrugs, brushing past him to toss his jacket onto a chair. “Everything went fine. I checked the path, it’s clear. No one saw me, I moved fast.”
Isaac crosses his arms. “That’s not the point.”
“Right,” Dewey mutters. “Also, uh, can we talk about the part where you disobeyed a direct order?”
Hyuna just sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.
Isaac lifts a brow. “You’re grounded.”
Luka scoffs. “What? You can’t ground me. I’m thirty.”
“I just did.”
Dewey leans in, stage-whispers, “Can we even do that?”
Till sits back down hard, arms crossed, still fuming. “Unbelievable.”
Luka huffs and rolls his eyes, jaw tight. “Fine,” he mutters, voice dry with irritation. “Whatever.”
He doesn’t wait for another word. Doesn’t even look at Till. He just turns on his heel and walks out, boots heavy against the floor.
“Okay,” Dewey says into the awkward silence. “So… definitely grounded.”
Hyuna smacks his arm lightly, but even she looks a little concerned.
Till watches the door swing shut behind Luka, teeth gritted. He knows Luka expected to get caught. He knows Luka doesn’t regret it. And that makes it worse.
Luka sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
The room is dim, curtains drawn, silence pressing in like a second skin. It’s what he wanted. What he needed. No noise. No lectures. No panic in anyone’s eyes.
The door creaks open.
He doesn’t need to look.
He knows it’s Till. Knows it by the sound of his footsteps, by the quiet way the door clicks shut behind him. Knows it by the way his chest tightens with guilt and something too close to fear.
Till doesn’t speak.
Luka exhales and lets his hands fall from his face, but he still doesn’t turn. He stares at the floor, jaw clenched.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says flatly. “You’re just gonna say the same shit.”
He hears Till move, slow steps across the room, the creak of the floorboards. Still no words. Just presence.
It’s worse than yelling.
Luka swallows hard, fists resting on his thighs. “I don’t need another fight right now,” he mutters, softer this time. “I really don’t.”
Till doesn’t say a word.
Luka still doesn’t look. He stares at the floor like it might offer answers, like it might crack open and swallow him whole if he just waits long enough.
But then he feels the mattress shift behind him.
A slow movement.
Weight pressing down.
He feels Till climb onto the bed—not close enough to crowd him, but not far either. There’s a quiet moment, like Till is figuring out if he’s even allowed to be here.
Then—soft.
Till settles behind him and gently leans forward, resting his head on Luka’s shoulder. His arms don’t wrap around him. His hands don’t reach for Luka’s. Just his head, right there, silent and warm.
Luka breathes in. Sharp. Then again, slower this time.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t shrug him off.
And he hates how much he needed that.
They stay like that for a long while.
Nothing moves but the rise and fall of their breathing.
The silence stretches between them—not awkward, just full. Heavy, but not crushing.
Luka’s eyes are still on the floor, his hands slack between his knees. Till’s head stays on his shoulder, his breath brushing against Luka’s neck, calm and steady. It keeps him grounded. Keeps the spiral from pulling him in.
Then finally—soft, quiet—Till speaks.
“…I’m not mad because you went.”
Luka doesn’t respond, but his shoulders tense just slightly.
“I’m mad because you didn’t tell anyone. Again.”
A pause.
Till swallows. “You could’ve gotten hurt. You could’ve—”
He cuts himself off. His voice almost cracked.
He doesn’t finish the thought. Doesn’t have to.
They both know.
Luka sighs, low and tired. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse but calm.
“I know I’m not exactly the best at… protocol. Or, whatever.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “But I’m not stupid, Till. I know what I’m doing when I go out there.”
He turns his head slightly, enough that he can almost see Till from the corner of his eye.
“You should trust me more.”
It’s not defensive. It’s not said to hurt. It’s just… honest.
Quiet, and maybe a little sad.
Because Luka doesn’t mean “you should trust me not to die.”
He means “you should trust me to choose when I take risks.”
And maybe that’s even harder
Neither of them speaks after that. The air is thick, not with tension—but with everything unspoken.
Till leans in and presses a soft kiss to Luka’s cheek. It lingers just long enough to mean I’m not mad anymore and be safe next time.
He murmurs, “I’m heading to the gym.”
Luka just nods, eyes still on the floor. He doesn’t stop him.
He stays in the room. The silence feels different now. Not heavy. Just… still.
Luka stays there in the quiet, fingers loosely intertwined in his lap, and thinks about how much things have changed.
It’s weird. Not in a bad way—just strange, surreal almost. If someone had told him months ago that he’d be here, like this, he would’ve laughed in their face. Or punched them.
He’s changed. His personality’s hardened in some ways, softened in others. He’s more grounded now—less angry for the sake of being angry. Less desperate to prove something to a world that was never going to listen. He’s grown up. And Till… Till changed too.
He thinks back to when they were first brought in by the rebels. Everything about it rubbed him the wrong way. The people. The noise. The orders. The hope. He hated it. He hated them.
Especially Till.
He couldn’t even stand the way Till looked at him—like he wanted to understand him. Like he believed there was something worth saving. That kind of patience pissed him off more than anything else.
And now…
Luka sighs, running a hand through his hair, eyes drifting toward the door Till just walked out of.
Now, he misses him the moment he’s gone.
★
Till slams his fists into the punching bag again and again, sweat dripping from his forehead. His knuckles ache, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. The rhythm keeps the noise in his head at bay—barely.
He doesn’t notice Isaac at first. It’s only when the older man clears his throat that Till blinks out of it, slowing his punches until he finally lets the bag swing.
“Hey,” Isaac says casually, arms crossed as he leans against the wall. “You should talk to Luka.”
Till wipes his face with the towel draped over his shoulder. “I did.” His voice is quiet. “He doesn’t listen. He never does. He’s… stubborn.”
Isaac chuckles under his breath. “Yeah. He is.”
He steps further into the gym, his voice softer now. “But I’ll admit, I’m impressed. That you two managed to fix your shit. It’s better for the team… and for him.”
Till doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring down at the floor like it might give him answers.
Isaac hesitates, then sighs. “You know… my brother Jacob used to be like Luka. Reckless. Confident to the point it felt unshakable. Made it look like nothing could ever touch him.”
There’s a pause, the weight of memory creeping into Isaac’s tone.
“And for a while, it wasn’t so bad. You start believing that. You think maybe it’s okay. Maybe they know something you don’t. But then one day… it goes wrong.”
Till glances up, finally meeting his eyes.
“It hurts more when it goes wrong,” Isaac says plainly. “Because you start trusting it. You let your guard down. And then suddenly, they’re just… gone.”
Silence.
“I’ve seen it,” Isaac continues, voice quiet now. “Friends. Family. Teammates. One by one. That kind of confidence burns out fast in this world.”
Till’s chest feels tight, his breath shallow. His heart pounds harder than it did during training.
He swallows thickly. The warning settles in him like a rock.
Isaac gives him a small nod. “Just… keep an eye on him, yeah?”
He walks out without another word, leaving Till standing there, fists clenched, head screaming again.
Till sits down on the bench, letting the towel drop from his hands as his chest rises and falls with uneven breaths.
What Isaac said… it wasn’t new. Not really. Till already knows what it’s like to watch someone burn too bright and too fast. Luka has always been like that—sharp-tongued, arrogant, fearless. Always stepping into danger like he’s untouchable. And somehow… always slipping through the cracks just before death could reach him.
But death isn’t his friend. Death is patient. Death waits. And Till knows that too well.
It scares him.
He doesn’t want to lose anyone. Not anymore.
The first loss was his mom. He can barely remember her face now. Just impressions—warm eyes, the sound of humming, the softness of a hand in his hair. It’s all blurry. Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, he thinks maybe their eyes were the same. That’s what people used to say. But it feels like a stranger’s face now. A ghost of someone he never got the chance to really know.
Then there was the Garden.
Being sent to Anakt Garden, being surrounded by other kids who were just trying to survive. Getting close even when he knew—knew—they were all going to die.
And then Ivan.
Ivan, who slipped into his life like he’d always been meant to be there. His death had haunted Till more than anything. For a long time, it felt like it hollowed him out, left a permanent ache in his chest. But now… now he feels something else when he thinks about Ivan. Something warmer. Pride.
He did make something of himself.
Ivan didn’t die just so Till could live and waste it all. No. He’s here, with the rebels. He’s doing something real. He fights. He survives. Maybe—just maybe—Ivan would be proud of him.
Hell, Ivan would’ve loved it here. The others would’ve loved him too. When Ivan smiled, genuinely smiled, it changed everything around him. Made things feel lighter. Brighter.
Till closes his eyes. Back then, he was too busy watching Mizi. Too busy holding all his feelings in his chest like they were shameful. And maybe that’s why he missed things—missed them.
Till wonders—if Ivan were here now… would he be with Luka?
Would Luka even look at him, if Ivan were still around?
It stings. It does. But not in the way it once did.
Because he knows now Luka’s not a replacement. Not for Ivan. Not for anything he lost.
But it’s still a dangerous road to walk down, this line of thought.
So he shakes it off. Force it away before it spirals further.
No. He won’t go there. Not tonight.
Why did Isaac have to put those thoughts in his head….
Because Isaac cares. And because he’s seen it happen before.
Isaac isn’t trying to hurt Till—he’s trying to warn him, in his own way. His tone might be blunt, his stories laced with grief instead of comfort, but that’s all Isaac knows. He’s lost people. So many people. His brother, friends, comrades. And he sees the same recklessness in Luka that he once saw in Jacob. He sees the same fear in Till that he once carried himself.
He doesn’t want Till to go through what he did.
But Isaac doesn’t realize that Till’s already been through it. He doesn’t know about Ivan, not really. He doesn’t know the weight Till’s been carrying for years. So instead of preparing Till, his words just scrape the old wounds open again.
It’s not fair—but it is real.
And that’s the curse of surviving, isn’t it? Everyone thinks you’re strong enough to hear the warnings… even when you’re already breaking.
Isaac didn’t mean to put those thoughts in Till’s head.
But now that they’re there… they won’t be leaving easily.
★
The team gathers around the same table—no one’s really sat properly, some leaning, arms crossed, tired but listening. Isaac spreads out a map, pointing sharply.
Isaac speaks first “We need more explosives. We’re going to need to blast through reinforced walls. Alien Stage isn’t a game anymore—it never was—but we’re taking it for real this time.”
A beat. The words hang heavy in the air.
Everyone knows what he means. They’re going in.
No more scouting. No more waiting.
Isaac says firmly “So. We stock up—tonight. Bombs, ammo, whatever we can carry.”
Hyuna nods. Dewey’s already half-standing, like he’s ready to go.
Luka walks in, already zipping up his jacket, slinging a weapon bag over his shoulder. Ready like he wasn’t just grounded earlier.
“Who’s driving?” Luka ask casually.
Isaac doesn’t even look at him. He just says:
“You’re grounded.” Isaac points a finger at him.
Everyone freezes. Even Hyuna blinks.
“Oh, that’s cute.” Luka smiles as he rolls his eyes at him.
“What are you gonna do, take my TV time? Lock me in my room? I’m not twelve.”
Isaac doesn’t back off “You’re thirty and disobedient. Stay. Here.”
Luka laughs under his breath and keeps walking past him.
“Ground me when I’m dead.”
He moves out before Isaac can say more, and you just hear Dewey mumble behind them:
“Again…Can we actually ground him? Is that legal?”
‘’I thought I did’’ Isaac huffs.
The world outside blanketed in heavy, uneasy dark. Clouds crawl slowly over the sky, no stars in sight. The rebels move like shadows through the hallway—quiet but focused, bags packed, weapons checked.
Luka walks ahead of them—coat flaring slightly, still annoyed, still grounded—but no one stops him.
Hyuna throws him a look as they head for the exit.
“So grounded, huh?”
“Yeah,” Luka mutters, “guess I’ll go cry in the van.”
Dewey’s dragging a bag of homemade explosives that rattles dangerously every few steps.
“If any of these blow up,” he says, “you’ll be more than grounded.”
“At least I’ll be right next to you when it happens,” Luka mutters, without missing a beat.
Till falls in step beside him. Luka glances sideways, maybe surprised, maybe not.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“I know.”
That’s it. That’s all.
No apologies. No lectures. Just I know.
And that says more than enough.
The vehicle hums low and steady as it moves through the night. It’s too quiet.
No music. No chatter. Just the occasional rattle of equipment or the low rumble of tires over broken concrete.
Till glances across the van. Dewey sits with his arms crossed tight over his chest, one leg bouncing just barely. He looks like he’s holding himself together with duct tape and spit—eyes staring out the window, jaw tight.
When Dewey doesn’t make a joke in over ten minutes.
That’s when Till knows.
This mission isn’t just serious.
It’s bad.
The silence stretches longer.
Then Dewey finally breaks it.
“Can someone sing or something? I’m bored as hell.”
Hyuna snorts, but doesn’t say anything. Isaac just keeps his eyes on the road.
Luka, leaning back with his arms crossed, raises an eyebrow. “What, you gonna pay me?”
Dewey looks at him, unimpressed. “Absolutely not.”
Luka lets out a soft, mock-offended scoff. “Then you don’t get the deluxe performance.”
Till chuckles under his breath. It’s almost weird. The way Luka said it—so smooth, half-serious—just for a second, he sounded like he did back then. Like an idol with an ego the size of the sun. A different life, another version of him, shining and smug.
“I’ll do backup vocals,” Dewey offers with a grin that’s almost real again.
“No thanks,” Luka says, “I’m not trying to bomb the mission before we even get there.”
Hyuna rolls her eyes. “Both of you shut up before I leave you on the road.”
The laughter is quiet, short-lived—but it’s something.
And then it fades again.
The city has long disappeared behind them. This route—this place they’re heading—it’s far. Longer than the supply runs. Farther than the labs. Somewhere none of them have gone before.
Way out. Almost to the edge of everything.
The weapons they thought they had?
Not enough.
Not nearly enough
The road doesn’t end.
It just stretches, long and narrow, cutting through fields of dead silence and fog. The lights from the van barely touch the edges of the path anymore. It feels like they’re driving into the mouth of something.
Nobody speaks.
The tension settles back in like smoke.
And then—quiet at first—Till hums.
A soft, low melody.
Nothing dramatic. Just… something.
It slips out of him without thinking, like a breath.
Heads turn. One by one.
Luka side-eyes him from the seat beside. Dewey twists around slowly, eyebrows lifted. Hyuna doesn’t even try to hide her look—sharp and full of judgment.
Even Isaac glances at him in the rearview mirror, the barest twitch of his brow.
The collective expression is clear: Seriously?
Till hums louder. Unbothered..
A beat.
Then—grudgingly—Dewey starts tapping the rhythm out with his fingers on his leg.
Luka doesn’t say anything, but he leans a little closer, just a little.
And the van keeps moving.
Through the dark, through the cold, through nothing.
And now, at least, there’s music. Even if it’s just them making it up as they go.
Till shrugs, still humming under his breath.
“I should’ve taken the guitar,” he says casually, like this is a road trip and not a supply run for explosives.
Luka scoffs beside him in the backseat, head leaning against the window.
“That’s the only thing that’s missing here,” he mutters, deadpan.
Next to him, Mizi snorts. “A guitar. A bonfire. Maybe a bottle of wine. Real rebel-core.”
Dewey nods along with exaggerated seriousness. “We set the bombs to go off on the beat. Very dramatic.”
Till chuckles softly. “Okay, maybe I’m trying to keep the mood up.”
Isaac, from the front, doesn’t even glance back. “Focus on the mission. Not the vibe.”
Dewey whispers, “He’s just mad no one invited him to the bonfire.”
They all bite back grins.
The van rolls on, heavy with weapons and tension—but for a brief second, it almost feels like it could be normal. A bunch of tired kids packed in too tight, going somewhere together. The silence doesn’t come back completely. It’s frayed now, loosened by the thread of dry jokes and humming.
It doesn’t fix anything.
But it helps.
They finally arrive. The vehicle slows, gravel crunching under the tires.
Till leans forward, squinting out the window. “Wait… this isn’t abandoned?”
The building stands tall. old, yeah, worn down—but intact. and worse… guarded. not bots. people. two on the roof, one at the door, another pacing near the side.
“Are those guards?” Luka says flatly. “With guns?”
Dewey stretches his arms with a dramatic sigh. “yuup.”
Mizi's already checking her ammo. “Yeah. Isaac said it’s guarded. just lightly.”
“That's not light,” Till snaps, eyes still on the guards. “He didn't say this.”
Luka shifts, annoyed. “He said we were grabbing weapons. Not walking into a damn fortress.”
“This is the only spot left we haven’t cleared,” Hyuna says from the front, calm as ever. “They keep extra stashes here. old staff outposts. dangerous, but worth it.”
Luka scoffs. “and that little detail didn’t need to be mentioned back at base?”
Mizi shrugs. “You’re grounded. Maybe he didn’t trust you with the details.”
Till glares at her.
“Joking,” she deadpans.
Dewey leans into the tension. “Well. since we’re all shocked and outraged, do we do the usual—sneak in, grab the toys, maybe shoot someone?”
Luka's still staring out the window. “This is so fucked.”
“You can stay in the van, grounded boy,” Dewey teases.
Till ignores them all, just watching the guards. “We’ll have to be fast, and quiet. They look bored. That's good.”
Hyuna nods. “We wait till dark.”
Luka mutters, “great. more waiting.”
And just like that, the fun little road trip turns into a silent stakeout in the shadow of a half-guarded ruin.
Isaac doesn’t say anything.
He leaned back against the vehicle, arms crossed, watching them bicker like it’s entertainment. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s just waiting to see who snaps first. Luka, probably.
Till notices. Of course he does. Isaac enjoys this—watching them unravel before the danger even starts.
But this… this feels different.
They've done dangerous things before. raids. rescues. escaping traps. Till’s been shot at, chased, starved, silenced. he’s made it out every time.
But this? This building, the way the guards stand—lazy but trained. the stillness in the air. the long road behind them, the total silence ahead. It's not just another run.
Till swallows hard, arms crossed tight against his chest. His instincts are loud now, louder than ever.
He glances at Luka, who’s crouched by the tire pretending he’s calm. Pretending this is just another night.
But it’s not.
Till doesn’t say it out loud. not yet.
But he’s not so sure they’re walking away from this one untouched.
They circle around the vehicle, maps spread across the hood. the building looms in the distance, untouched by time but not by purpose. It's clean. guarded. quiet in the wrong way.
Isaac draws a line across the paper with his finger.
“We go in through the east service door,” he says. “Still unsealed. Same one we used last time.”
Mizi leans in. “And if it’s not unsealed anymore?”
“We improvise,” Isaac answers flatly.
No one laughs.
He continues. "Storage's in the sublevel. We're not taking everything—just what fits in the crates. Nothing too heavy. We move fast. Don't split unless we have to.”
Hyuna chimes in, “They only do patrols every forty minutes. We've got that window.”
“Forty minutes,” Luka mutters. “No pressure.”
Isaac ignores him. “You’ll follow me and Hyuna in. Dewey and Mizi are on lookout. Till and Luka, you’re with me. We need fast hands.”
Luka has to bite the inside of his cheek not to make a dirty joke…Dewey is not a good influence on him…
Till stays quiet. He traces the lines on the map with his eyes, trying to memorize the route. service door, narrow hallway, stairs, double door, storage room. He repeats it in his head like a prayer.
They've done this before. And no one got caught.
But this time, he can’t help but feel like someone might.
Till lights a cigarette while they wait, leaning back against the vehicle, eyes fixed on the fence-line ahead. The others check gear and run over last-minute orders, but for a moment, Till lets the quiet settle over him.
Then—because of course—Luka reaches over, plucks the cigarette from between Till’s fingers, and takes a drag.
He holds it, looking smug, until the smoke hits his lungs a second too late.
He coughs, sharp and low, trying to turn it into a scoff, but it’s obvious.
Till just stares at him.
“…seriously?”
Luka hands the cigarette back, eyes watering. “It really calms the nerves”
Till shakes his head, fighting a smile, and takes it back. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, well. You like idiots, apparently.”
Till doesn’t answer. He just exhales smoke, slow and steady, watching the curl of it disappear into the gray sky. The seconds drag. Then Isaac calls out from the other side of the truck.
“Let's move.”
Till drops the cigarette, crushes it under his heel.
“Stay close,” he tells Luka quietly.
Luka grins, still a little breathless. “Always do.”
And then they go.
They finally move. Isaac signals with two fingers, and the group spreads out across the overgrown perimeter. Getting in is easier than Till expected—wire fence cut, guards nowhere in sight. Just like hyuna said, forty-minute patrols. A small window, but enough.
They slip through the crack and past the shadows.
Inside, the storage building is eerily quiet. Dusty concrete, cold air, shelves stacked high with crates and old gear. The fluorescent lights overhead are half-broken, flickering in and out. They move quickly, no one speaks unless necessary.
Till stays near the back, his fingers brushing against the handle of his pistol, eyes sharp. He catches Luka glancing around too, tense but focused. There's a calm to him when things go serious—his breath slows, movements smooth. Till watches him for a moment, then refocuses.
Dewey breaks the silence with a whisper. “Clear.”
Mizi nods. “We've got about thirty-five minutes left.”
They get to work. Crates are pried open, checked, sorted. explosives, wires, weapons. Isaac marks what they need, tells Hyuna to load fast.
Still no guards.
So far, everything’s going well. Maybe too well.
The guards start moving.
Till catches it first — a glint of movement outside the narrow, dirty window. His body goes still, breath caught in his throat. He leans just enough to peek. Shadows shift between crates and towers of rusted metal. Armed. Fast.
“They’re coming,” he mutters, voice barely audible.
The team tenses. Mizi stops stacking, Hyuna freezes with a bag half-zipped. Isaac curses under his breath.
“We're almost done,” he says. “Start passing the rest outside. Now.”
Hands move faster. Crates get handed out to the team waiting beyond the fence. Tension coils in Till's stomach as he helps shove one last box toward Dewey, who waits crouched by the vehicle.
The last bag gets passed.
They’re about to leave.
The door slams open.
Shots fired.
“GO!” Isaac shouts, already pulling his gun. Till grabs Luka’s arm—no hesitation this time—and they bolt. Bullets ping off shelves and ricochet around the room. One clips a crate near Till and sparks fly.
“THE BOMBS!” Hyuna yells.
They don’t wait to see who hits what. The three of them—Till, Luka, Isaac—run for the exit, ducking behind steel beams and half-toppled crates. Till’s lungs burn, and behind them—
BOOM.
The explosion throws them off their feet. Fire bursts behind their backs, a wall of heat and sound. Till lands hard, pain flashing up his side. Isaac is groaning. Luka is coughing, already trying to push himself up.
More yelling from the vehicle. Dewey's voice.
“GET UP! RUN!”
Another explosion—louder, sharper, the kind that shakes your ribs from the inside out. The guards must’ve hit something important—idiots. They'll blow the entire storage if they keep shooting blind.
Fire spreads like it’s alive, racing over the walls, leaping to the crates left behind.
Luka stumbles forward, one hand over his mouth. The smoke’s thick, black, clawing down his throat.
Till grabs his arm again. “Come on—come on!”
They sprint toward the vehicle, dodging flaming debris. The heat is unbearable. Till’s ears ring. The sky’s lit orange behind them, and the ground trembles like it’s angry.
They don’t look back. They can’t afford to.
The only goal now: get the hell out alive.
They throw themselves into the vehicle, one after the other, smoke trailing in behind them like it wants to come too. Mizi slams the door shut. Dewey’s already behind the wheel, swearing and starting the engine like his life depends on it — because it probably does.
For a second, no one says anything.
It would’ve been dead silent — shaken, scorched, breathless silence —
If Luka didn’t start coughing.
A rough, choking sound, from deep in his chest. He tries to hold it back with the sleeve of his jacket, but it keeps ripping out of him, one after the other. Till turns toward him instantly, jaw tight.
“I'm fine,” Luka wheezes out, not even looking up.
“You sound like you’re dying,” Dewey mutters from the front, eyes locked on the road.
“I said I'm fine,” Luka snaps, voice hoarse, and then coughs again, worse than before.
Hyuna leans forward. “You burned your lungs, dumbass.”
“Better than my eyebrows,” Luka rasps, managing a weak grin.
It doesn’t land.
Till watches him for a long moment. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t push, doesn’t scold. Just reaches out — hand on Luka’s back, steady. His fingers press between Luka’s shoulder blades, gentle but grounding. Like he’s reminding him he’s here. That they’re both still here.
Outside, the fire is still raging.
Inside, Luka is shaking, but no one calls him out for it.
The silence comes eventually — thick and heavy, settling over them like the smoke still clinging to their clothes. It takes over the moment Luka's coughing fades into shaky breaths, when he leans in and rests his head on Till's shoulder like it’s the only place that still makes sense. Till shifts just enough to hold his hand under the edge of the blanket someone had thrown over them.
He holds it tight.
No one says anything. There’s nothing to say, really. At least they got what they came for, crates of weapons and explosives loaded in the back, their mission technically a success. No one got shot. No one’s bleeding. No one died.
But the building is gone. Their weapons supply — one of the only decent ones left — reduced to ash and twisted metal. They don’t even know how many of the weapons made it. If they’ll ever find a place like that again.
Till doesn’t think about it. Not right now. Not when Luka’s hand is still trembling slightly in his.
He only thinks about the road ahead — long, dark, and quiet. they’ll drive through the night. maybe sleep when they’re back. Maybe not. But they’re going home, at least.
Whatever that means these days.
Till glances down, barely turning his head. His voice comes out low, almost a whisper, like he doesn’t want the others to hear — or maybe like he’s scared of the answer.
“Where's your inhaler?”
Luka doesn’t answer right away. His hand twitches slightly in Till’s, his fingers curling in. He exhales slowly, eyes still half-shut, head resting on Till’s shoulder like he might fall asleep right there.
After a long pause, he mutters,
“Don't have it.”
Just like that. Casual. Careless. But Till can feel how tense he’s gone.
He stares ahead at the road again, jaw tight, gripping Luka’s hand harder than before.
He doesn't say anything.
Not yet.
But he’s not letting this go.
The moment they pull up to base, the adrenaline fades like a crashing wave.
The doors open slowly, no urgency now — just the groan of tired bodies moving again.
They have to carry everything in.
Every box. Every bag. Every weapon they risked their lives for.
The bombs too — what’s left of them.
No one complains. But it’s all in the way they walk.
Heavy. Silent. Like every step is dragging them deeper into exhaustion.
Dewey lugs a crate against his hip, muttering something incoherent under his breath.
Hyuna rubs her eyes, already planning where she’ll collapse.
Till’s fingers ache. Luka’s still coughing here and there, but quieter now — like he’s holding it back.
No one talks about what happened.
Not yet.
They're too tired.
They just want to sleep.
Till doesn’t even ask.
He just takes Luka by the wrist and leads him straight to his room, not giving him the chance to pretend like he’s fine again.
Luka doesn’t resist. He's too tired to argue, too out of breath to fake anything.
The door closes softly behind them.
The world stays out there.
If Till wasn’t this exhausted — if his bones didn’t feel like stone — he would’ve already started something about the inhaler.
But no.
Not now.
He needs proof. He'll check tomorrow. He has a feeling.
He knows Luka too well.
They don’t even undress properly.
Just kick off shoes, drop jackets to the floor, and crawl into bed like it’s the only safe place left in the world.
Till curls into luka’s chest.
Luka wraps both arms around him, buries his nose in Till's hair.
They share a few soft, silent kisses — not trying to start anything, just needing that closeness,
And within seconds, they’re both asleep.
Exhausted.
Alive.
Together.
Chapter 23
Notes:
Finally?
Chapter Text
The morning light spills weakly through the cracked windows of the base. It’s late—well past breakfast—but no one’s moving. Not really.
Till stirs first. His body aches in that dull, after-battle way. Not injured, not sore—just tired down to the bone. Luka’s still curled beside him, arm tossed lazily across Till’s waist like he doesn’t plan on getting up today.
Till could let it stay like this. He could kiss Luka’s forehead, close his eyes again, and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist. But his mind won’t stop. The mission plays on repeat behind his eyes. The guards, the bombs, the smoke. The way Luka coughed and wouldn’t stop.
And the words echo again:
“I don’t have it.”
He should’ve started a fight right there. But he didn’t. He was too tired. Too scared, maybe.
He doesn’t remember the last time he saw Luka using his inhaler.
Not during the missions. Not after them. Not even when he was coughing his lungs out in the backseat, swearing up and down he was fine.
It used to be a constant thing. Luka always had it—always. Even when he was pretending not to care if he lived or died, he still used the damn thing. Out of reflex. Out of habit. Maybe out of fear.
But now… nothing.
And it makes something inside Till itch, a low panic bubbling under his ribs.
Till huffs out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Luka’s voice is rough, still edged with sleep, and he shifts a little under the covers, eyes barely open.
“I can hear you thinking,” Luka mumbles, stretching lazily. “The way the gears are turning in your head—it’s louder than the gunfire yesterday.” He chuckles, throat still raspy.
Till doesn’t answer at first. He stares at the ceiling a moment longer before glancing down at him.
“You should’ve used it,” he says simply.
Luka blinks. “Used what?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
Luka sighs, rolls onto his back, and rubs his face with both hands. “I thought we were too tired to argue.”
“I’m not arguing,” Till says, voice flat. “I’m asking.”
Silence stretches. Luka stares at the ceiling too now. And then—“I didn’t need it.”
Till doesn’t buy that for a second. But he doesn’t call him out on it. Not yet.
He just says, quietly, “You’re lying.”
Luka shifts under the sheets, sitting up with a tired groan. He rakes a hand through his messy hair and exhales sharply, not looking at Till.
“Can we not do this right now?”
His voice isn’t harsh. Just worn out. Raw around the edges. The kind that says he’s been running on fumes longer than anyone noticed.
Till sits up slower, eyes fixed on him. “When, then?”
Luka doesn’t answer.
Till watches him. “You keep saying you’re fine, but you’re not. You’re coughing blood, Luka.”
“I’m not coughing blood,” Luka mutters, but it’s weak, automatic.
“You’re coughing something, and you can barely breathe sometimes—”
“I said not now,” Luka snaps, sharper this time, shoulders tensing. Then softer, quieter, almost guilty, “Please.”
Till swallows down the rest. He doesn’t like this—being shut out, again—but he nods once, stiff.
“Okay. Not now.”
But soon.
Luka doesn’t look back. He grabs whatever gear he needs, like the day is just a day, like last night didn’t end with fire and smoke and his lungs barely keeping up. And Till — Till just watches, jaw tense.
There will be a time for this. A conversation. A confrontation, maybe. But not now.
Now, they both pretend everything is fine.
★
Till barely finishes lacing his boots when someone knocks sharp at the door. One of the younger rebels pokes their head in.
“Isaac wants everyone in the meeting room. Now.”
Luka glances at Till from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, still pulling on his jacket. “Guess we’re not done with drama for today.”
Till doesn’t laugh.
They head out together but say nothing on the way. Down the hall, others are filing into the room too — Hyuna already inside with her arms crossed, Dewey slumped back in a chair but his eyes sharp. Mizi stands near the map table, lips pursed, saying nothing. Even some of the less combat-trained rebels are here this time. It’s packed.
Isaac stands at the front, arms behind his back, waiting for the last few stragglers to get in before he speaks. His expression is tighter than usual. No casual remarks. No jokes to soften the tension.
When the doors close, he finally says it.
“This is it.”
A beat. Then:
“The official break-in. We’re doing it. The Arena is our next target. No more scouting. No more waiting.”
That quiet falls over the room — the kind that makes people straighten up in their seats, make eye contact, sit forward like the weight of the words just hit them.
He gestures toward the map laid out, with new markings, details — probably worked on all night. He starts listing details: the teams, the breach point, the backup plan, the techs involved, the bomb placements, the extraction.
It’s clear. This isn’t a vague plan anymore.
It’s real.
They stay there the whole day.
No one complains.
The air is thick with tension, and still — even after hours — the plan isn’t perfect. It’s messy. Overlapping diagrams, cluttered notes, scribbles in red pen. Mizi rewrites parts of the map twice. Dewey double-checks the schedules. Hyuna’s already snapped at three people.
But they have done this before.
First to save Mizi. Then to get Till. And Luka.
Each time was barely pulled off. Close calls. Guns drawn. Near deaths.
Now… things might be different. Worse.
Isaac stands at the whiteboard, staring at the newest intel like it personally offended him. “We’ve confirmed at least three system changes inside the main arena. Could be updated patrols. Could be more surveillance. The newspaper leaks don’t say much — but the buzz says they’re ‘preparing.’”
“Preparing for what?” someone asks.
Isaac doesn’t answer. He just draws a big red X over one of the older paths.
“They’re expecting something,” Mizi mutters. She’s been silent for most of the meeting, seated at the edge of the room, arms tucked around herself. “Maybe not us, but something. The fact that it’s even being talked about out there? They’re paranoid. They know we’re not finished.”
Till exchanges a glance with Luka, who hasn’t said much either — just watching, absorbing, calculating. Till can feel how tense he is, the way his knee bounces under the table. Quiet Luka always means thinking-too-much Luka.
They repeat the plan again.
And again.
The layout. The entries. The exit routes. Who covers who. What each team is supposed to do.
By hour six, people are starting to burn out, but no one leaves. No one says let’s take a break. They can’t afford to.
Because if Alien Stage is changing its systems…
They won’t get a third chance.
At some point, Till excuses himself.
No one questions it. The meeting drags on, minds fogging, voices raised over technicalities and hypotheticals. But Till’s already halfway down the corridor, silent footsteps echoing faintly as he turns the familiar corner.
Yes, he was thinking about the plan. Of course he was.
But behind that—like a dull ache beneath bruised skin—was something else.
He’s not proud of this.
Not the sneaking.
Not the way his hand turns Luka’s doorknob without hesitation.
They figured their shit out. That should’ve been enough. But with that clarity came something uglier: the kind of protectiveness that feels more like obsession. Obsession with Luka being okay. Knowing he’s okay.
Maybe that excuses what Till’s doing now. Maybe it doesn’t.
But he’s already in the room.
It smells faintly like Luka—clean laundry, smoke, and something warm underneath. The bed’s messy. Till doesn’t waste time. He heads straight for the nightstand.
The top drawer opens with a creak.
The first thing he sees is the damn lube.
Till snorts under his breath, shaking his head. “Of course.”
He shuts it and opens the next.
Folded newspaper clippings. Glossy pages. Posters. Luka’s own face stares back at him from one of them—Alien Stage era. Clean smile, styled hair. There are articles too. Headlines. Some brutal. Some are nostalgic.
Till swallows. “Not depressing at all,” he mutters.
Then he sees it.
The inhaler.
He picks it up, turns it in his hand.
Empty.
Not just low—completely dead.
That alone would be bad enough. But Till checks more drawers. The desk. The small cabinet Luka uses for his clothes. Even the bathroom.
Nothing.
No spares. No doses. No meds of any kind.
Just… nothing.
Till grips the edge of the dresser for a second. He could punch something. He could scream. But he doesn’t.
He just holds it all in—stuffing the anger, the fear, the helplessness—and walks out.
Back to the meeting room.
Back to pretending he can focus.
Back to Luka, who’s sitting there like nothing’s wrong.
Back to this plan they all better survive, or Till will never forgive himself.
★
Till doesn’t say a word when he sits back down.
He ignores the way Luka glances at him—quick, unsure. Then again, longer. Luka’s hand shifts subtly on the table, reaching—not touching, just there, like a silent question.
Till doesn’t react.
Doesn’t even flinch.
And that’s how Luka knows.
Shit.
He leans back in his seat, pulling his hand away slowly like it burned him. Doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t say anything. But his whole posture shifts, jaw tightening, eyes suddenly a little too focused on the map spread out in front of them.
It was too good to be true, wasn’t it?
They’d woken up tangled together. Safe, warm, exhausted. And for a moment, Luka had actually believed it could stay like that.
But he knows this look. Knows Till.
Maybe he wants to bring up that morning again. The inhaler. Or worse—maybe he went and checked. No. Till wouldn’t do that. But something is definitely wrong.
Luka chews the inside of his cheek.
He’s sick of this. Sick of lying. But what’s he supposed to say?
“Hey, by the way, I ran out of meds and decided to just let it be—because it’s easier to pretend I’m fine than admit I’m dying.”
Yeah. Right.
He sinks further into his chair, gaze flicking toward Till—who still won’t look at him.
And Luka thinks, fine.
If you’re not gonna ask, I’m not gonna tell.
He tries to focus. Really, he does.
He crosses his arms, narrows his eyes at the blueprints, nods when someone says something about security patterns—but it all sounds static in his ears.
North entrance, night patrol, second wave…
He doesn’t even know who’s talking anymore. Isaac? Hyuna? It blurs together.
His mind keeps drifting—back to Till’s silence, the way he walked in like nothing, like everything, like he knew exactly what he was looking for.
Luka had half a second to hope it wasn’t what he feared—but then Till didn’t look at him. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even breathe in his direction.
And that was enough.
Luka stares at a sketch of the Alien Corp entrance and realizes he hasn’t heard a single word for the last ten minutes.
He blinks, shifts in his seat. Tries again.
He has to focus. This mission isn’t like the others. It’s bigger. More dangerous. This is the thing they’ve been building up to for months.
But all he can think about is that drawer.
And the look in Till’s eyes when he sat back down.
What if he knows?
And now Luka doesn’t know if he’s more afraid of Till being angry at him…
…or of Till not being angry at all.
Luka doesn’t even ask. He sees the look in Till’s eyes — sharp, unreadable — and he knows something’s coming. No smile, no teasing edge. Just that calm, cool silence Till uses when he’s keeping himself from blowing up.
He follows.
They don’t say a word as they walk down the hall. Luka’s steps are slower, hesitant. He keeps glancing at Till’s back, trying to read him — is it about the fight? About this morning?
The moment they’re in the room and the door closes, Till turns around. Doesn’t come closer. Doesn’t touch him.
Just look.
“…What is it?” he asks, voice quieter than usual. Defensive. He crosses his arms. “If this is about this morning, I told you I didn’t wanna—”
“It’s not about this morning,” Till cuts in. Calm. Too calm.
Luka blinks. “…Then what?”
Till doesn’t answer right away. He exhales slowly, then says, quiet but certain,
“I know.”
There’s a beat. Luka stares at him.
“What?”
“I know about the dosage,” Till says, voice low. “I looked. You don’t have any left.”
Luka’s expression doesn’t shift — not at first. No shame, no guilt.
Just disbelief.
“You went through my stuff?”
Till doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t deny it.
Luka’s face hardens. “Seriously? That’s what we’re doing now? You think you can just go into my room and dig through my shit like—what, like you’re entitled to?”
“You weren’t going to tell me,” Till says.
“Because it’s mine!” Luka’s voice rises. “It’s not yours, it’s not the team’s, it’s not some group inventory shit. It’s mine. You had no right.”
“I had every right,” Till snaps back. “You could’ve died.”
“I could’ve died a hundred times. That’s not new.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s fine!”
Luka steps back, shaking his head, laughing bitterly. “Wow. You actually went through my drawers. What were you looking for, Till? Huh? A reason to be mad at me? A reason to feel self-righteous?”
“I was looking for a reason not to panic!” Till fires back. “You think I’m doing this for fun? You think I want to go behind your back?”
“Then don’t!”
“I had to! You lied!”
“No,” Luka says sharply. “I avoided a fight. There’s a difference.”
Till’s jaw tightens. “You didn’t just avoid it. You decided for both of us.”
Luka’s face twists. “Oh, fuck off with that. Don’t act like you’d have been calm if I told you. You’d be like this—*exactly like this—*only earlier.”
“Maybe I would,” Till says, voice quieter now, but his eyes don’t soften. “But at least you wouldn’t be lying to my face.”
There’s a pause. Luka’s breathing harder now. He runs a hand through his hair, visibly struggling to stay still. Then, quieter,
“Why do you care this much?”
The question lands heavy. Till blinks at him. Then, almost incredulous,
“Why do I—Luka, are you serious?”
Luka shrugs one shoulder. “It’s not like I’m gonna be magically fixed if I say, ‘hey Till, I’m out of meds.’ Nothing changes.”
“I could’ve gotten you more,” Till says, quieter now, but with sharpness still there. “I would have.”
Luka looks away. “You’re not responsible for me.”
“I know that,” Till snaps. “Believe me, I know. But I care. And that’s not something I’m turning off just because you tell me to.”
Luka stays silent.
For a moment, all that tension, all that fire, simmers between them.
Then Luka mutters, “Whatever,” and turns his back, running both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s trying not to explode himself now. “You don’t get it.”
“Then make me understand,” Till says, stepping closer. “Tell me why you’re doing this. Why you’re acting like it doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t!” Luka turns around, eyes wild. “What do you want me to say, huh? That it hurts? That I can’t breathe? That I’m scared every time I sleep? That I wake up thinking about what you’ll do when I’m fucking gone?”
Silence.
Till swallows. Hard.
Luka’s chest is heaving. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, quieter now. “So I didn’t. That’s it.”
Till’s voice is barely audible now. “You think I’ll be fine when you’re gone?”
“…It doesn’t matter what I think,” Luka mumbles. “You’ll survive. You always do.”
“Stop saying that,” Till says sharply.
“I’m being realistic.”
“No,” Till snaps. “You’re giving up.”
Luka glares at him, lips parted, but nothing comes out right away. And suddenly it looks like he might say something cruel — like he might push Till away completely just to end it — but then he just… exhales.
Long and bitter.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”
Till looks tired. Hurt. “But you weren’t going to tell me.”
“I told you,” Luka says. “Because if I told you… then it’s real.”
Luka exhales, trying to steady himself.
But then it hits him — all over again — and he yells:
“This is my choice!”
The sound echoes. He doesn’t care.
Till’s face drops. Whatever thread of patience he was clinging to—it snaps.
“No. No, you don’t get to do this to me!”
Luka throws his hands up. “Do what? What am I doing?!”
“You don’t get to decide you’re dying and just not tell me!”
Luka steps forward, eyes blazing. “You don’t get a saying in this!”
“I do!” Till shouts, voice cracking with it. “I do, Luka! Because I’m the one who’s going to have to live with it!”
That silences the room.
Luka flinches, like the words physically hit him. But it’s anger that flares right after. Pure anger.
He points at Till, voice shaking:
“Don’t you dare make this about you.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are! You think you’re the only one scared? You think I’m not fucking terrified? I live with it. Every. Day. And you—” He cuts himself off, turning away, hands in his hair again. “You think I haven’t thought about what it means? You think I’m doing this to hurt you?”
Till breathes in deep. His voice lowers, but it’s no less intense.
“Then what are you doing, Luka? Because I don’t get it. I don’t. You’re just waiting for it to happen?”
Silence.
Luka doesn’t turn around.
“I’m tired,” he says finally. “That’s what I’m doing. I’m just tired.”
Till stares at him. That’s not enough. It can’t be.
“And I’m not?” he says quietly. “You think I’m not tired too? But I still fight for you. Every fucking time. You’re the one giving up.”
Luka’s shoulders stiffen. “I never asked you to.”
“That’s the part that hurts the most,” Till says. “That you think I need your permission to care.”
Luka finally turns. He doesn’t look angry anymore. Just… cornered. Raw.
They stare at each other.
Nothing fixed. Nothing soft.
Just everything they’ve been avoiding, thrown out into the open, and there’s no taking it back.
Luka shakes his head, pacing now, all wound-up tension and disbelief.
“You keep acting like this is your problem,” he throws at Till. “Like you get to decide what I do with my body.”
“Because I’m the one who has to watch you fall apart!” Till fires back.
“Then look away!” Luka yells, sharp. “You don’t have to be in it! No one’s forcing you to care!”
Till moves closer, voice rising with every word.
“I am in it, Luka! You pulled me in! You sleep next to me, you kiss me like I matter—what, and now I’m just supposed to stand there while you kill yourself slowly and say nothing?”
Luka snarls. “That’s not what I’m doing!”
“Then what is it?!” Till shouts.
Silence.
And then Till keeps going, voice rough, cutting, trembling at the edges.
“You think I don’t have a saying in this?” he snaps. “I do. Because I’m the one staying up at night wondering if you’ll still be breathing in the morning. Because I’m the one watching you cough your lungs out and pretend you’re fine. Because I’m the one who—who has to hold all of this together when you’re too damn proud to ask for help!”
He gestures wildly, like it’s all too much to hold in anymore.
“So yeah, Luka, I do get a saying in this! I have every right to be angry—because I’m the one who gives a damn when you don’t!”
Luka looks stunned, eyes burning, chest heaving.
He doesn’t understand. He still doesn’t get it.
“But why? Why do you care this much?! Why do you get to care this much?” he throws at him, desperate, confused, loud.
And Till—
He doesn’t even think.
He just breaks.
“Because I love you!!”
Everything stops.
The silence hits harder than the yelling ever did.
Luka freezes, like the floor just gave out beneath him.
Till stands there, breathing heavy, wide-eyed like he just realized he said it out loud.
No one moves.
No one says anything.
It just hangs there.
Real. Raw. Irrevocable.
His throat burns.
Not just from shouting — though his voice is frayed, raw — but from everything that just tore itself out of him. He stands there, chest rising and falling fast, heart hammering.
He finally said it.
And it’s like everything in him just stopped after that.
He doesn’t take it back. He won’t.
His voice drops, barely above a whisper now, but the weight in it hasn’t changed.
“I love you.”
He says it again, like maybe if he repeats it it’ll make this moment real. Or maybe because he just needs to hear himself say it — needs to know he can.
He looks at Luka, who hasn’t moved, who hasn’t said a word. Just watching him. Like he’s trying to figure out what the hell to do with what he just heard.
Till swallows. “I’m not saying it because I want something from you. I’m saying it because it’s true.” He hesitates. “I know we’re both a mess. I know this whole thing is…” His eyes flick away for a second, then back. “It’s complicated. But this part isn’t. This part’s simple.”
His voice cracks on the next breath.
“I love you, Luka.”
And still—nothing.
Just the weight of it all hanging between them like smoke.
Then Luka moves.
He steps forward fast, almost like it hurts not to. And then—
He kisses him.
No words, no explanation — just the desperate press of lips, a hand sliding behind Till’s neck, like that’s the answer.
And maybe it is.
Till doesn’t breathe for a moment. Then he kisses him back — not soft, not sweet, but real — like he’d been waiting for this, fighting for it, even if he didn’t know until now.
Till doesn’t even realize his eyes are closed until he feels Luka’s mouth move against his.
A soft sound, like a gasp. A word.
“I love you…”
It’s barely there — caught between breath and lips, like Luka isn’t even sure he said it out loud.
Till freezes for just a second, eyes opening, heart slamming into his ribs.
Then Luka says it again. Still soft, still hesitant, but real.
“I love you.”
It’s not the kind of love that comes easy. It’s the kind born from grief and scars and too many damn walls. But it’s there. Luka’s voice trembles with it.
And Till forgets, just for a second — forgets the inhaler, the drawer, the argument, the fear.
He forgets everything except this.
His hands cup Luka’s face, gentle now, thumbs brushing over the edge of his cheekbone. His forehead presses against Luka’s.
Breathing the same air.
“Say it again,” Till whispers.
And Luka does.
Till’s still breathless, his pulse thudding in his ears, but he hears it — he hears Luka say it again.
“I love you.”
It sounds like he’s still testing the words, like he’s never said them out loud before. Like they burn a little on the way out.
Till knows it must be hard for him. Luka, who never says how he feels unless it’s masked with a joke or buried under anger. Luka, who avoids anything too soft, too open, too vulnerable.
But he’s saying it now.
And it hits Till deep — not just because he’s hearing the words, but because of who they’re coming from. Because Luka means it, and that’s everything.
Till wasn’t the type either. He wasn’t supposed to have anyone. Not here. Not like this. He spent too long building walls, hiding things, thinking that if he didn’t say it, didn’t name it, it wouldn’t hurt when it was taken away.
But here they are. In the quiet after the storm. Still standing. Still choosing each other.
He leans in again. Another kiss. Slower this time. Like a promise.
They don’t say anything else. They don’t need to.
Their mouths find each other again, and this time the kiss is more than just a kiss — it’s relief, it’s release, it’s everything unsaid crashing into everything they’ve just admitted.
Luka pulls Till closer like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. His hands are shaky but insistent, fingers threading into Till’s shirt, his hair, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. Till sinks into it, into him, into the heat of Luka’s mouth and the familiar rhythm they fall into when words aren’t enough.
They move without thinking. Urgently. Desperately. Like this is the only way they know how to speak now.
Till’s hands are under Luka’s shirt. Luka’s breath stutters against his lips. The kisses grow heavier, slower, but still burning. Like they’ve both been holding back for too long and now there’s no reason to.
Because now it’s out.
Because now it’s real.
They don’t rush. They know this won’t fix everything — not the argument, not the danger outside these walls, not the fears they still carry. But at this moment, none of that matters.
It’s just them. Their bodies, their mouths, their breath.
And that feeling — wild, terrifying, grounding — of being loved back.
Luka’s hands slip beneath Till’s shirt, warm palms pressing against bare skin like he’s trying to feel his way through everything he can’t say. Till breathes in sharp through his teeth, chest rising into the touch. His heart’s pounding, and he knows Luka can feel it.
He lets Luka pull the shirt over his head, toss it somewhere they won’t care to find later. Then he does the same to Luka, his fingers ghosting down Luka’s sides as the shirt peels away. They don’t break the kiss — not really. Their mouths part for only a second, desperate to return.
There’s a hunger in it now.
Luka kisses like he’s angry, like he still wants to fight — but Till gets it. He tastes the frustration in it, the fear, the guilt. He kisses back just as hard, just as deep, and holds Luka’s face like he’s trying to anchor him.
They’re kissing like it’s the only thing that matters.
Till can’t think. He doesn’t want to. Luka’s hands are on his face, in his hair, then moving — hungry, shaking, unsure. It’s clumsy in a way that makes Till’s chest ache. It’s not perfect, but it’s real. Luka presses him back onto the bed like he’s asking without words, and Till lets him.
Of course he lets him.
Luka’s body hovers over him for a moment, his eyes searching Till’s face, waiting for some kind of hesitation. But there’s none. Just quiet, heavy breaths and that same open look in Till’s eyes — like this, right now, is safe.
Till’s chest is tight, his head spinning from everything — the yelling, the I love you, the fear he’s been holding in ever since he found that empty inhaler. But none of it matters when Luka’s mouth is on his, when his hands are pulling him closer like he might vanish again.
Till groans as Luka pushes him back onto the bed. It’s familiar now, the weight of him, the way Luka settles between his legs, knows just how to touch him — even when he’s shaking a little. It’s not new. It’s not rushed. They’ve done this before — many times — but tonight, it’s different. It’s sharp around the edges. Tired. Raw.
Luka kisses him like he’s trying to say sorry without saying the words.
“Still mad?” Luka breathes against his lips, hand sliding under Till’s shirt, over the skin he’s already memorized.
Till exhales, voice low. “Ask me after.”
Clothes come off easily. There’s no fumbling now — Luka knows how Till likes it, what pace, what rhythm. There’s trust in the way Till relaxes under him, the way his hand reaches for the nightstand without needing to be asked. He tosses Luka the bottle and murmurs, “You take care of it.”
Luka does. He always does.
His fingers are practiced, gentle. It doesn’t take long before Till’s breathing is shallow, his hips twitching under Luka’s touch, biting back quiet moans that Luka drinks in like oxygen. He watches every reaction — the flush, the sharp intake of breath, the stretch of his throat as he tips his head back.
“You’re still mad,” Luka mutters, a little bitter as he lines himself up.
Till’s eyes flick open, half-lidded. “So are you.”
And then Luka pushes in — slowly, deliberately, no games. Till gasps, his hand flying to Luka’s arm, fingers digging in. But it’s good. They know each other. Luka moves like he’s trying to feel everything — every inch, every shift, every part of Till he thought he might’ve lost if things had gone worse.
They fall into rhythm easily. Familiar. Luka leans down, foreheads brushing, sweat sticking their skin together. He thrusts deep, steady, and Till takes it, moaning softly into his mouth, wrapping his legs around his waist.
Neither of them says much — they don’t need to. It’s been said. Shouted. Whispered. Cried. This, now, is the answer to all of it.
Till runs his hands up Luka’s back, nails scraping just a little. He feels Luka shudder, hears his breath stutter.
“You’re so—” Luka starts, but his voice breaks.
Till cups his jaw and kisses him hard, silencing it. He doesn’t need compliments. Just Luka. Here. Alive. His.
They move together, faster, rougher, until the bed creaks and their gasps fill the room. Luka falls apart first, breathing out Till’s name, his whole body curling forward. And even though he’s still pissed, still hurting, Till holds him through it — letting himself go a moment later, hips jerking up, heart racing.
They don’t speak at first. Just breathe.
Then Luka drops beside him, still panting, resting his hand against Till’s chest.
“I meant it,” Luka says, voice hoarse.
“I know,” Till answers, turning his head just enough to brush his lips against Luka’s temple. “Me too.”
The silence after should’ve been restful, soft. But it’s not. It’s too charged. Their bodies are still humming, nerves still on fire, hearts pounding like they haven’t quite made it back down yet. The air is hot between them, and it’s not just from the sex.
It’s the fight still lingering in their mouths.
It’s the love they finally admitted.
It’s the fear that hasn’t let go of either of them yet.
Till leans in again — barely a pause, barely a thought — and kisses Luka. Not rushed. Not shy. Not even gentle.
Just needy.
Luka reacts immediately, a low sound caught in his throat as he presses back, hand sliding into Till’s hair. Their mouths open against each other, wet and messy, no space between them. Till shifts, rolls them over without breaking the kiss, climbing into Luka’s lap like he needs to feel every part of him again.
They don’t talk. They don’t need to.
Luka’s hands are already on Till’s hips, squeezing like he’s afraid he might disappear if he lets go. Till ruts against him, whimpering into his mouth, kissing him again and again like he can’t get enough — like it still doesn’t feel real that they said it, that Luka said it back.
I love you.
It plays in his head like a siren.
“I need you,” Till breathes out, forehead pressed to Luka’s. It’s barely a whisper, but it shakes.
Luka’s eyes burn as he nods, arms curling around Till’s waist, pulling him closer — like that’s the only answer.
That they’re scared.
That they’re angry.
That they’re still in love anyway.
Luka doesn’t let go.
Not after that kiss. Not after those words. Not after the way Till melted against him like he meant every syllable.
This time, he doesn’t need to rush — doesn’t want to. His hands roam gently across Till’s skin, like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. And maybe he is. Maybe he needs to, after everything.
He leans down, kissing along Till’s collarbone, slow and soft. Then his jaw. His neck. The edge of his shoulder. Each press of his lips lingers longer than the last. It’s not teasing. It’s reverent.
Till lets out a shaky breath, his head falling back against the pillow. “Fuck…”
Luka smiles against his skin, just a little. Then he starts to trail lower, slow and deliberate — lips brushing over Till’s chest, his sternum, the soft space just under his ribs. He presses an open-mouthed kiss there and feels Till shiver.
He keeps going.
Down past his navel. Down the line of his abdomen, where sweat still clings. Luka pauses just above his hips, nudging Till’s thighs open with gentle, insistent hands. His thumbs stroke the inside of them, and he lowers his head between.
Till curses again, sharp and breathless. “Luka—”
But Luka doesn’t respond. His mouth is already on him.
Just the head at first — a soft, wet kiss to the tip. Nothing more.
It makes Till jolt.
His cock twitches, throbs, already so hard he aches. Luka barely brushes him with his lips again, and it’s enough to draw out a ragged moan. His whole body tenses, thighs trembling slightly.
“Shit, fuck,” Till mutters, voice broken, eyes fluttering closed.
Luka wraps a hand around the base, finally, finally taking more of him in — slow, almost lazy. His lips part, hot and wet and perfect. He doesn’t rush. He sucks just enough to make Till gasp. His tongue moves over him, exploring like he wants to learn every reaction.
Till’s hand tangles in Luka’s hair without thinking. His hips twitch upward but Luka presses him down, firm. He takes his time, hollowing his cheeks around him, letting spit drip down, gliding his hand up to meet his mouth.
Everything about it is slow. Filthy. Focused.
It’s not just sex. Not tonight.
It’s Luka showing him — reminding him — I’m still here.
And Till’s falling apart.
Luka feels Till tense, his thighs twitching around him, his grip tightening in his hair.
He’s close.
He knows it.
And Luka pulls away.
Just like that.
A wet sound, a curse, and Till lets out a choked noise that’s halfway between frustration and disbelief.
“Luka—!”
But Luka’s already moving up again, crawling over him with his mouth swollen and glistening, breath hot against Till’s ear. He whispers low.
“Not yet.”
Till’s chest rises and falls fast. His cock is still rock hard, wet and leaking between them, and Luka shifts his hips just enough to brush their bodies together — a teasing grind, a friction that makes Till moan.
“I was close,” Till says, breathless, almost accusing.
“I know.” Luka presses a kiss to his jaw, smug. “You’ll come when I say.”
His voice is low, dark, filled with a heat that makes Till shudder.
He kisses him again — softer this time. Then deeper. Their tongues tangle and Till tastes himself on Luka’s mouth. It only makes him hungrier. He grabs at Luka’s sides, but Luka pins his wrists above his head, dragging the kiss out until Till’s gasping for breath.
Luka spreads Till’s legs again, hands steady. When his fingers press in, slow but certain, Till bites his lip and whimpers. Luka watches him. Watch every reaction.
“You always open up for me like this,” Luka murmurs. “So fucking pretty.”
Till doesn’t answer — he can’t. His hips move on instinct, chasing the pressure, the stretch, the fullness. Luka works him open with care, but not hesitation. They’ve done this before. He knows what Till likes. He curls his fingers, hits the spot just right, and Till lets out a cry.
But Luka pulls away again before it’s too much.
Till is panting now, sweating, blinking up at him with pupils blown wide. “If you don’t—”
Luka cuts him off with a kiss.
Till barely has time to catch his breath before Luka grabs his hips and shifts him around.
“What—”
“Hands on the wall,” Luka murmurs against his ear.
Till blinks, dazed, but obeys.
Luka gets on his knees behind him, pulling Till into place — not bent down, not fully upright either, just enough so that his knees sink into the bed and his palms brace on the wall above the headboard. His spine arches naturally, chest heaving. The position leaves him exposed and vulnerable, but still upright, still held.
Then Luka presses in behind him — his chest flush against Till’s back, arms slipping around his waist, lips finding the back of his neck.
“You always let me have you like this,” Luka whispers, voice low and teasing. “So fucking obedient when you want it.”
Till swears under his breath, but it comes out breathy, needy.
Then Luka reaches down, lines himself up, and pushes in — slowly, steadily, until he’s buried to the hilt.
Till gasps, head falling forward against his arm, fingers digging into the wall for support. Luka doesn’t move right away. He stays there, chest against his back, lips brushing against his shoulder. He kisses him — slow, possessive, almost reverent.
“This okay?” Luka murmurs, even as his hips give the smallest roll.
Till nods, shakily. “Yeah—fuck, yeah—”
Luka fucks into him slowly, deliberately. Each thrust pushes Till slightly forward, his palms slipping on the wall, but Luka’s arms around his waist keep him grounded, keep him his. He kisses him between every few thrusts — the side of his neck, the back of his shoulder, even between his shoulder blades.
It’s rough in motion but gentle in touch. Like he’s staking a claim and showing love at the same time.
“Luka—” Till breathes, voice catching. “God—don’t stop—”
“Not planning to.”
Luka shifts just enough to change the angle — then he picks up the pace.
His hips snap forward, sharp, relentless. Every thrust drives Till closer to the wall, making the headboard rattle against it with loud, rhythmic thuds. The mattress groans beneath them, caught in the chaos. The room fills with the sound of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, the ragged noise of their breathing.
Till cries out, one hand flying up to grip the headboard for support. His knuckles go white from the strain, his thighs shaking, back arching with every brutal, perfect thrust.
“Fuck—Luka—”
Luka groans low in his throat, chest slick against Till’s back. He leans in, kisses the sweat-damp skin just below his ear, then down the side of his neck. He bites lightly at his shoulder, soothes it with a kiss, then crashes their mouths together again. It’s sloppy and desperate, full of tongue and teeth and heat.
He doesn’t stop moving — not even for a second. His hips slam forward again, and again, and again.
Till’s head falls back onto Luka’s shoulder with a ragged moan, and Luka kisses him there too. Then his shoulder. Then his spine.
“Can’t—” Till gasps. “Can’t think—”
“Good,” Luka pants. “Don’t think. Just feel me.”
He drives into him harder, deeper. His grip on Till’s waist tightens. The rhythm is unforgiving now, intense, like he’s chasing something — like he needs this, more than he can say.
Every thrust pulls a sound from Till, soft and broken, like he’s being unraveled completely.
Luka’s hand leaves Till’s waist and moves up—slow, deliberate—until those long, cold fingers wrap firmly around his throat.
Till chokes on a gasp.
The chill of Luka’s skin sends a full-body shiver through him, not from fear, but from the sheer electricity of it. Luka’s hand is big, his fingers easily spanning the length of Till’s throat, thumb brushing his jaw. He doesn’t squeeze—just holds—possessive, steady, controlling.
Till feels like he’s burning from the inside out.
Then Luka leans in, mouth against the corner of Till’s lips, and turns his head toward him by the jaw. The kiss he gives him is deep and slow, almost sweet, and that contrast only makes it worse—makes Till groan into his mouth, makes his knees nearly give out.
The pace slows just for a second. Luka’s hips roll forward in slow, grinding thrusts while his hand slides from Till’s neck down his chest… over the lines of his stomach…
Till moans again, helpless.
And then Luka wraps his hand around Till’s cock.
“Fuck—” Till nearly sobs it.
Luka strokes him in rhythm with his thrusts—smooth, practiced, merciless. The tension winds fast in Till’s gut, coils tight, too much at once: Luka’s voice low in his ear, the grip on his hips, the stretch, the heat, the stroke—
He comes with a gasp, legs trembling, body jerking, Luka’s name stuttering from his lips like a prayer.
Luka thrusts a few more times and then groans—low, desperate—as he follows, chest pressed to Till’s back, one arm around his waist, the other braced against the wall beside him.
Till would’ve collapsed right there if Luka wasn’t holding him up. His knees buckle, but Luka catches him, breath hot against his skin, still kissing his shoulder, his neck, anywhere he can reach.
They stay like that, still pressed together, skin sticky and heaving.
Luka pulls out slowly, and they both shake—legs weak, breath still ragged. He curses under his breath, chest rising and falling, and collapses on the bed without even caring where—half on the edge, not even on his side.
Till doesn’t trust his own knees, so he turns, shifts, and lets himself fall too—right on top of Luka. Not with full weight—he braces himself just enough to keep from crushing him—but his head rests over Luka’s chest, body cradled between Luka’s thighs. It’s clumsy and messy and somehow perfect.
Luka’s hand lifts, weaving into Till’s hair without thinking, fingers carding through the sweaty strands. He lets out a breath, slow and shaky, like he’s trying to steady both of them with it.
They’re still panting.
No words at first.
But then—soft, barely audible, against Luka’s lips:
“I love you…” Till murmurs, his voice hoarse, tired, but certain.
Luka breathes out like he’s exhaling every defense he has left.
“I love you too…” he says back, just as soft. A little unsure still—but he means it. And this time, he doesn’t wait to be asked. He leans in, kisses Till slow and deep—none of the desperation from before. Just something real.
Till kisses him back, gently, arms curling around him as if to anchor them both.
For now, the world can wait.
They stay like this—pressed together, skin warm, breaths syncing slowly. Neither of them has the strength to move, and for a while, it’s enough. Till lets himself sink into it, head rising and falling gently with Luka’s chest, the steady beat of his heart just beneath his ear.
But that sound—it pulls at something.
It’s comforting. Alive. Proof Luka’s still here.
And yet—
The memory creeps in.
The way Luka had looked at him earlier… the way he sounded. The exhaustion in his voice. The cold edge behind his words—not angry, not even defensive. Just… tired. Like he was giving up.
Like he was ready to walk away.
Till clenches his eyes shut.
No. He refuses to accept that.
He can’t say I love you and then just let Luka go. That’s not how this works. Not now. Not after everything. Not after this.
His fingers curl against Luka’s side, holding tighter.
He can’t lose him.
He won’t.
Till doesn’t even realize when the tears started. They’re silent—soft, undramatic, just sliding down the sides of his face and into Luka’s skin. He doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t sob. Doesn’t sniff. He keeps still, hoping Luka won’t notice. Hoping he can keep this part hidden.
But Luka feels it.
The subtle tremble. The sudden dampness where Till’s cheek rests. The shift in his breathing.
He stiffens beneath him immediately, alarm shooting through his chest.
—Did I hurt you? That’s his first thought. His hands come up instinctively, pulling Till closer, searching his face in the dark. “Hey…” he whispers, rough and hoarse. “Hey, are you okay?”
Till doesn’t answer. Not at first. He just shakes his head a little and buries his face closer into Luka’s chest, trying to quiet it. But Luka can feel it now—the way Till’s hands tremble faintly against his ribs. The way his whole body is curled inward like he’s trying to keep something from spilling out.
Luka’s heart clenches.
He didn’t hurt him. Not physically.
But something’s broken open inside Till. Something Luka had tried to ignore.
And Till… he wants to say something. Anything.
He wants to beg him—not with words but with every fiber of his being—
Don’t give up on me. Please.
Don’t give up on us.
I can’t lose you. I just found you.
He still doesn’t speak.
But Luka gets it.
Luka pulls Till closer without hesitation. Wraps his arms around him tightly, as if that might be enough to stop the quiet shattering inside him. His hand slides into Till’s hair again, his breath still uneven, but softer now. Less from exhaustion. More from worry.
Till’s voice is a whisper—fragile and small—yet it cuts through the silence like a blade.
“Promise me…”
Luka goes still.
His throat tightens. He swallows hard. But he says nothing.
Because he can’t promise.
Till lifts his head just slightly, his tearful eyes searching Luka’s face in the darkness.
“There has to be a solution,” he murmurs. “There has to be something we can do. The Segyeins didn’t find one—or maybe they just didn’t want to. But we will. We have to.”
Luka doesn’t say anything. He just looks at him.
His mind is spiraling. Not just with the weight of Till’s words, but everything else—the confession that slipped from his own mouth like it had always been there. I love you. He hadn’t planned to say it. He hadn’t even known it was real until it was too late to take it back.
It scared him—still does—but the moment Till said it, he felt it too.
Not the childish, half-formed affection he once mistook for love toward Hyuna. That was different. That was… wishful thinking. Something safe and distant. This—what he has with Till—it’s raw. It’s terrifying. It’s consuming.
But it’s real.
And Till deserved to know it.
Even if… even if Luka’s running out of time.
He brushes his fingers gently down Till’s back. Then presses his forehead to his.
“I want to promise,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I really do.”
Till nods like he understands. But Luka knows that’s not enough.
Till pulls away—not in anger, not in bitterness. Just… quietly. And Luka doesn’t fight it. There’s a silent understanding hanging in the air between them now, heavier than words.
They don’t speak as Till slips off the bed and disappears into the bathroom. Luka hears the water turn on. The faint sound of it rushing against the tile. He stares at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath in this thick, aching quiet.
When Till comes back, hair damp, face calm but red-eyed, he’s wearing Luka’s hoodie—one that swallows his frame—and a pair of shorts. He doesn’t say anything. Just gets into bed, pulling the covers around himself without meeting Luka’s eyes.
Luka showers next. He doesn’t take long. He doesn’t know how to take long. His head’s too full.
When he returns, Till is still facing the wall. Luka climbs in carefully beside him, unsure if he should offer anything more than presence.
But then—Till moves. He turns slowly, silently, and collapses against Luka’s chest like gravity pulled him there.
Luka catches him. Holds him.
He doesn’t say a word—because what the hell could he even say?
Till is shaking. He’s trying to hold back, Luka can tell—his breathing uneven, shoulders tensed—but it only lasts seconds. Then it breaks.
A quiet, wounded sound tears out of him, and he starts to sob.
Luka’s chest aches. No. It splinters.
He’s seen Till cry before—but never like this.
Not Till, the boy who lights up entire rooms with his grin. Who always finds something smart or sharp to say. Who rolls his eyes and huffs like he’s above it all, but carries everyone’s weight like it’s nothing. Who looks at the world like it’s full of problems he can solve, like he has a place in it no matter how many times it tries to hurt him.
And now—now he looks like a child.
Small. Fragile. Shattered.
Luka wraps his arms around him tighter. Runs a hand through his hair gently, fingers gliding slow and soft.
He doesn’t tell him it’s okay. Doesn’t lie.
He just holds him while he breaks. Because right now, that’s all he can do.
★
Till falls asleep mid-sob, breath hitching quietly as it fades into something steadier. His body gives out all at once—the way exhaustion does, when it’s been waiting in the wings too long. When your body has been running on fear and hope and heartbreak for too many days in a row.
Luka feels it—the way Till’s weight shifts heavier, softer. His arms slacken slightly but didn't let go. His breathing evens out. He’s out.
And god, it hurts to see him like this.
Luka adjusts them gently. One arm under Till’s shoulders, the other cradling around his waist, he shifts them down so they’re lying properly. He pulls the blanket up. Till doesn’t stir. His face is still wet with tears.
Luka brushes his thumb across Till’s cheek, wiping the last trail away.
Then he closes his eyes.
He doesn’t want to think. Not about the argument. Not about the inhaler. Not about the plan. Not about how saying “I love you” somehow cracked him open. Not about how he’s never said it like that before and meant it so deeply it scared him.
He can’t.
So he just lets it all blur. Let the warmth of Till against him dull the edges. And slowly, Luka drifts off too—arms wrapped tight, face pressed into damp curls, holding on like it might keep them both here a little longer.
Chapter 24
Notes:
Ahh shit is about to go down..
Chapter Text
He wakes up slowly.
It’s the kind of morning where time doesn’t matter—where the sunlight through the window feels unreal and distant, like it belongs to someone else. His body aches in places he’s not surprised by, a dull soreness that reminds him of last night—of how desperate they were for each other, how they kept going like it would keep the world from falling apart. But it’s not just his body. His eyes burn. His chest feels tight. His throat, raw.
He blinks. The ceiling swims above him.
He must’ve cried himself to sleep.
Again.
His hand shifts, curled loosely in a hoodie sleeve that isn’t his. Luka’s hoodie. Still smells like him. He doesn’t even remember changing clothes, doesn’t remember much after the sobs started. It all blurred—he knows Luka held him, knows the warmth of his arms, the weight of his hands in his hair. But even that memory feels fragile now, like it might crack if he touches it too hard.
Till turns his head on the pillow. Luka’s still asleep, or pretending to be.
He lets out a soft breath and tries not to move. He doesn’t want to wake him. Doesn’t want to speak. Doesn’t want to ruin the quiet, even if it’s heavy.
His thoughts drift.
He doesn’t remember crying this much in his life. Not like that. Not until now.
He cried when they took him from his mom—when he still thought someone might come for him. He cried when he was punished, when they told him it was his fault. He cried when they raped him, when they stripped away everything and left him empty. He cried when Ivan died, when he couldn’t even hold his hand because they pulled him away too fast.
He cried a lot here, too. When he first came to the rebels. When he didn’t know how to be free. When he didn’t know how to breathe without orders.
But this was different.
Last night…he broke.
Not because of the argument. Not even because Luka lied. But because the moment he realized what Luka was doing to himself—what he was choosing—something inside him shattered. He cried like he’d already lost him. Like it was too late. Like “I love you” was the last thing he’d ever get to say.
And Luka saw it.
That’s the part that makes him shrink a little under the blanket.
Luka saw him like that. Small. Sobbing. Clutching at him like a scared kid. That wasn’t strength. That wasn’t dignity. That was raw, exposed pain—and Luka saw every inch of it.
Till swallows. His throat still hurts. He brings the hoodie sleeve up, rubs at his face.
He wants to tell himself he’s okay now, but he’s not sure that’s true.
He’s just… here.
In this room. With the boy he loves. With the boy who might still be slipping through his fingers.
Till doesn’t move.
He just shifts slightly, letting his body melt down until he’s lying fully across Luka’s chest—like maybe the weight of him will keep Luka here. Keep him alive. Keep him from slipping away again. His fingers curl in the fabric of the hoodie, and without thinking, he pulls the hood over his own head. It smells like Luka. Like the faintest trace of smoke and cold night air and something warm underneath it all.
It covers his messy hair, his swollen eyes, the expression he’s too tired to hide.
Luka’s heartbeat is steady beneath his cheek.
It pisses him off a little. Not really. But kind of.
He looks so calm.
Of course he does. He’s always calm. Always quiet. Always unreadable.
Unless it’s about Till.
Then he snaps. Then he yells. Then he looks like he’s drowning and trying to pretend he isn’t.
Till wonders if that’s love, or guilt, or fear. Wonders what any of this even is anymore. But Luka said I love you. Whispered it into his mouth like it was the only thing he could say without choking.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
Maybe it has to be.
Till doesn’t cry. Not this time. He just listens to Luka breathe and wonders how long they’ll have this calm before something else breaks.
Luka stirs beneath him, a subtle shift—barely more than a breath, but Till feels it. The rise of his chest, the twitch of fingers at Till’s waist. A slow inhale, long and deep, and then—
“Hey,” Luka murmurs, voice gravelly from sleep.
Till doesn’t move, doesn’t answer.
He hears the soft rustle of Luka adjusting, the slight frown in his voice when he speaks again.
“You awake?”
Till nods once, hood still over his head.
There’s a pause. Luka’s hand moves, gently tugging the hood back enough to see his face. His other hand slides up Till’s back, warm and careful.
“You okay?” he asks, quiet. But not calm now. There’s something behind the words—hesitation, guilt, maybe fear.
Till shrugs.
Till shifts a little and winces. “Im sore…,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
He doesn’t say it like a complaint. More like a fact. Something quiet, tired.
Luka blinks slowly, instinctively ready with a grin—some stupid, smug comment already forming on his tongue.
But when he looks down, really looks at Till, the words don’t come.
Till pulls his hood deeper over his head, face mostly hidden, just his cheek resting on Luka’s chest.
He’s still, too still. His body’s tense in a way Luka can’t ignore.
He knows what this is.
Till wants to talk about it—about last night, the fight, the inhaler—but he won’t.
Not yet. Maybe not even today.
So Luka doesn’t joke. Doesn’t push.
Instead, he runs his hand slowly through Till’s hair, quiet for a while.
“You want breakfast?” he asks eventually. The softest possible change of subject.
Till shrugs again. “In a bit.”
And that’s it.
They stay like that.
Not quite fine.
Not quite ready.
But still here.
★
They don’t bother changing.
Till keeps Luka’s hoodie on, the sleeves swallowing his hands. He throws on a pair of shorts that don’t really match. Luka doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look like he’s slept either. Just throws a shirt over his head, ties his hair back lazily, slips on his shoes.
They’re not touching.
Not even looking at each other much. But they move at the same time—open the door, step out into the hallway like nothing happened.
When they step into the cafeteria, it’s already full. Mizi is at the coffee machine, Dewey and Hyuna are at the table talking, Isaac is by the window going through something on a tablet. The hum of voices and dishes fills the space.
No one looks up at first.
But when they do, there’s a pause. A quick glance between them. Luka looks like himself. Calm. Collected.
Till looks like he hasn’t slept at all.
And the hoodie doesn’t hide the way his body’s still sore, the way he moves like he’s trying not to feel too much.
No one says anything.
Maybe because they don’t want to ask.
Maybe because they already know.
Till grabs a tray like normal. Luka follows.
Business as usual. Except it isn’t.
Till forces a smile as he steps into the cafeteria. It’s faint, crooked. The kind of smile you wear when your whole chest feels tight but you’re trying to make it through the day.
He goes for the coffee first, like usual. Pretends he’s fine. Pretends he isn’t sore all over. Pretends he slept. Pretends he didn’t cry himself empty into Luka’s chest just hours ago. Pretends Luka didn’t say he loves him and admits he’s given up all in the same breath.
He should’ve been happy.
He should’ve felt happy.
But how could he?
How could he feel anything like happiness when the person he loves doesn’t even care if he lives?
He grips the mug tighter.
He’s halfway to pouring himself coffee when he feels someone watching.
His eyes flick up.
Mizi.
Sitting across the room, her hands wrapped around a half-empty mug. She’s not smiling. Just… watching. Her eyes linger a second too long.
Till lowers his gaze and pretends not to notice.
Keep the smile on. Keep it steady.
He can’t afford to fall apart again.
Not here. Not now.
Not in front of everyone.
He grabs a tray, walks past her, and sits down like nothing’s wrong.
★
Later that morning, after breakfast starts thinning out and the cafeteria noise dims down to a low hum, Mizi walks past Till once—then doubles back. She brushes her knuckles casually against his arm.
“Hey,” she says, quietly. “You got a minute?”
Till blinks, halfway through poking at whatever lukewarm food was left on his tray. Luka had stepped out maybe ten minutes ago—he hadn’t said where, just mumbled something about checking supplies.
Till hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”
Mizi leads him out without another word. Not far—just down the hall, around the corner, to a spot near the supply room. It’s not exactly private, but it’s quiet enough.
She doesn’t ask right away. Just leans against the wall and looks at him like she’s trying to read his mind.
“You don’t have to fake it, you know,” she says finally.
Till looks at her, feigning confusion. “What?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” Her voice isn’t accusing. It’s gentle. Too gentle. “Your smile looks like it’s about to fall off. You look like you haven’t slept. And Luka’s avoiding eye contact like it’s a death sentence.”
Till swallows. Looks away.
“I’m fine,” he mutters.
Mizi sighs. “You’re not. You’ve never been a good liar, Till.”
He lets out a humorless breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Guess I’m out of practice.”
She crosses her arms. “Look, I’m not trying to push. I just…” Her voice softens. “You’ve been through hell. And I know Luka means a lot to you. But if he’s hurting you, or—”
“No.” The answer is sharp. Too sharp. “He’s not.”
Mizi studies him. “Then what is it?”
He hesitates. His voice is low when he finally speaks. “He said he loves me.”
Mizi blinks, surprised. “…Okay?”
“But he also gave up,” Till says, his voice cracking a little despite himself. “He’s just… letting himself die.”
That quiets her.
“Oh,” she says softly.
Till nods, eyes burning. “Yeah. Oh.”
And for a second, they both just stand there. In the silence. Letting the weight of it sink in.
Mizi’s face cycles through a storm of emotions as Till talks. At first, her eyes light up—he said he loves you?—but it only lasts a moment before her expression shifts, first to surprise, then to shock, then to anger. Her eyebrows furrow, jaw tightening. She opens her mouth, maybe to say something, but nothing comes. The confusion settles in last, mingling with quiet worry.
Till watches her reaction like he’s watching someone translate a foreign language in real time. His voice stays low. Careful. Like if he talks too loud, he’ll fall apart again.
“I know,” he says, eyes flicking to the wall behind her. “I know it sounds like—like a good thing. And it was. It was. But… fuck.”
His voice wavers. He exhales, shaky. “We were fighting. I found out he—he hasn’t even been using his inhaler. Not even when he needed it.’’
Mizi’s eyes widened again. “He what?”
“I didn’t mean to find it,” Till rushes to say, lifting a hand like he needs to defend himself. “I went through his stuff. I shouldn’t have, I know. But—he was acting weird and I just—God, I was worried. And when I saw it, I—” He stops. Swallows. “We yelled. We really yelled. And then we were just—screaming that we love each other, like that made it okay somehow.”
Mizi doesn’t say anything yet. Just keep watching him with that unreadable expression.
“I didn’t tell you everything,” he adds, a little quieter. “Doesn’t matter. I broke down after. He held me. Said it back. But he sounded—he just sounded done. Like he really meant to just…” His voice breaks. “Give up.”
He lets his hands fall to his sides, fingers curled slightly like he’s holding on to something invisible.
“I don’t know what to do, Mizi,” he admits, finally looking at her. His eyes are glassy, but he blinks fast, keeping the tears back with stubborn effort. “How am I supposed to be happy when he says he loves me, but he doesn’t love himself enough to want to stay alive?”
Mizi is silent. Still. Processing.
Till feels lighter, in a way—relieved to have said it—but also hollow. Like spilling it out just made the emptiness louder. He wipes his nose roughly on his sleeve, sniffing once, quiet.
“It’s pointless,” he mutters. “Telling you. It’s not like you can fix it either.”
Mizi sighs, her shoulders slumping as the weight of Till’s words settles between them. Then, quietly, with a softness that Till doesn’t expect, she says:
“I’m always here to listen, Till.”
Her voice is gentle, but there’s something buried beneath it—something raw and old. She looks down, picking at the edge of her sleeve, then glances back up, eyes meeting his.
“I don’t wanna turn this into my story,” she says, almost apologetic. “But… I get it. More than I wish I did.”
Till furrows his brow slightly, unsure what she means.
“She planned it,” Mizi says, a little tighter now. “Sua. She planned her death. On stage.”
Till’s breath catches.
Mizi goes on, voice low and measured, like she’s walked this memory so many times that she knows every word of it. “She was rehearsing it for weeks. So I could win. She knew what would make people remember. What would make them vote for me. And I—”
She swallows, then forces herself to continue.
“I pretended not to know. I didn’t want to know. But she… she highlighted her own lines. In pink. Over mine. Mine were always in blue. It was her way of giving me more parts to sing. Quietly. Without telling me directly.”
Till’s eyes widen. He doesn’t speak. He can’t.
“I found the notebook later,” Mizi says. “I saw all of it. The pink over the blue. The choreography changes. The way she stepped back from every spotlight until the only one left was on me.”
She laughs—dry, bitter, sad. “I didn’t stop her. And when she died, everyone just… clapped.”
Till stares at her, stunned. He doesn’t know what to say. It feels like someone cracked something open in the room, and now it’s just the two of them standing in the aftermath—holding these impossible stories.
Mizi shrugs. Her eyes are glassy, too.
“I know what it’s like,” she says. “To love someone who’s already decided they’re not going to make it. And to feel like there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
Silence stretches between them. It’s not awkward—it’s heavy. Real. Painful.
Till finally nods. A small, broken nod. Like an apology. Like thanks. Like understanding.
He whispers, “I didn’t know…”
“No one does,” Mizi murmurs. “That’s why I’m telling you.”
They stay like that for a while. They don't say anything, don't have to. Eventually Till gets back to his room.
Till doesn’t remember when he left the cafeteria. He doesn’t remember crossing the hallways, passing anyone, or even opening his door. It’s all a blur. He only knows he’s here now—lying facedown on his bed, still in Luka’s hoodie, his limbs heavy like he’s sinking into the mattress. The scent clings to him, faintly Luka’s, and it makes his chest ache.
He should be with him.
But he can’t move.
Every thought hits like a wave—Luka’s voice in the argument, the way he sounded like he’d already let go, the breathless I love you, the silence that followed. The way Till broke. The way he’s still breaking.
His eyes sting. But no tears come this time. He’s too tired for that.
Time passes. He doesn’t know how much. The room is quiet. Still. It could be minutes or hours. At some point he thinks he dozes off, but it’s a shallow, restless thing.
Then—barely audible over the hum of the building—he hears the soft creak of the door opening.
He doesn’t move.
Footsteps. Slow. Hesitant.
The door clicks shut again.
A pause. Long. Quiet.
Till keeps his face buried in the pillow, muscles unmoving, like maybe if he stays still enough he can pretend he’s asleep. Or gone. Or—
The mattress dips behind him. A familiar weight.
He doesn’t turn.
But he breathes.
“Are we back to avoiding each other again?” Luka asks softly.
His voice isn’t sharp—just tired, maybe even careful. Till slowly turns onto his side, facing him. His eyes are red-rimmed, cheeks still warm from lying with his face pressed to the pillow. He meets Luka’s gaze.
“No,” he murmurs. “No, no… I just…”
He falters. His voice is hoarse, breath catching.
“I just didn’t know what to say. Or how to… be around you, after everything. After what I said. What you said.”
Luka doesn’t reply immediately. He watches him, searching his face, then shifts closer on the bed, just enough that their knees brush.
“I don’t want to avoid you,” Till adds quickly, afraid Luka might take it the wrong way. “I just… I feel like I’m holding on so hard, and you’re already letting go.”
Luka sighs, long and heavy, dragging a hand through his hair.
“See, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” he mutters. “You act like I’m already dead.”
Till’s face tightens, but he says nothing.
“Seriously, it pisses me off, Till. I… I know you don’t like this. I know it. But I really didn’t expect you to act like this.” His voice cracks a little, more from frustration than anything else. “I thought…”
He trails off. Then shakes his head and tries again, slower this time, like he’s forcing himself to be calm.
“I told you already. Nothing helps me. There’s nothing left to try. The Segyeins didn’t fix it. They couldn’t. And if they couldn’t, who the hell will? I’m just being realistic.”
Till’s fingers dig into the blanket. His jaw clenches. “But we haven’t even tried.”
Luka blinks. “We—?”
“You and me,” Till snaps, then softens immediately. “Us. Together. We haven’t tried. You gave up before I could even try with you.”
Luka sighs again, sharp and tired. “Till, look where we are. The doctors here at the base don’t exactly have this kind of luxury—”
But Till can’t take it anymore.
He shakes his head hard, frustration twisting in his chest, and suddenly climbs into Luka’s lap—not in a sexual way, not even close. He just needs to be close. He straddles him and grabs Luka’s face with both hands, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at him.
“I know that!” Till says, louder than he means to, his voice shaking. “I know where we are, I know what we don’t have, but fuck, Luka, stop talking like there’s no point.”
Luka opens his mouth to speak, but Till cuts him off.
“You used to be so fucking confident,” he pushes. “Not that you aren’t now—you changed, you grew, I know that—but this? This isn’t you.”
Luka’s eyes narrow just a little, his hands resting on Till’s thighs, not pushing him away.
“You weren’t always nice. God, people hated you. I hated you! But you used to stand up straight, chin high, voice like nothing could touch you. And yeah, that version of you was an asshole sometimes—but he fought. He didn’t give up. He dared people to knock him down.”
Till’s hands shake against Luka’s skin, his thumbs brushing over sharp cheekbones. “You were more than this. You are more than this.”
Luka doesn’t speak. His throat moves, a swallow.
“And now… now I feel like I’m the only one fighting for you. And I can’t—” Till chokes, holding back tears. “If you won’t fight, then what the hell am I supposed to do?”
His voice drops, trembling, barely more than a whisper.
“If you stop being strong… I’m gonna lose it. I will.”
Luka finally speaks—his voice low, quiet, a little rough.
“That version of me… it was always a mask.”
Till freezes. Luka’s hands are still resting gently on his thighs, grounding him, but the words cut deep.
“You know that, Till,” Luka adds, eyes searching his. “I wasn’t strong. I was scared shitless. I just… acted the way they wanted me to. Perfect performer, flawless voice, no mistakes, no weakness. It was the only way I survived.”
And yeah—Till does know that. He knows about the tests. The expectations. The cruelty disguised as praise. Luka was groomed for perfection. Rewarded when he was cold and untouchable, punished when he faltered. He was forced to build a mask and wear it, or be discarded like everyone else.
Till’s chest aches, but he keeps holding Luka’s face, thumbs still brushing over his cheeks.
“I know,” he says, softer now. “I know it wasn’t real. But I’m not asking you to be that Luka again. I wouldn’t. You’re not like that anymore. And I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t want you to go back to pretending.”
His voice catches.
“I just want you to believe. That you’re worth saving. That you’re worth trying for.”
Luka’s eyes flicker. The shield slips for a second—exhaustion, guilt, fear.
Till leans forward, their foreheads almost touching now. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, Luka. I’m asking you to live.”
Luka’s voice drops to a murmur. “Maybe… in that other life we talked about…”
Till stills. For a second, it doesn’t even register—what Luka’s saying. That quiet resignation. That sad smile. That fucking sentence.
And then—Till nearly shakes. His hands fall from Luka’s face, and for a terrifying moment, he almost wants to slap him.
“How about this one?” he snaps, voice suddenly sharp, cracking. “This life, Luka. The one where you’re still breathing. The one where you’re here.”
Luka flinches like he didn’t expect that. Maybe he thought Till would just cry again. Beg. Stay soft.
But no.
“Don’t give me that poetic bullshit,” Till continues, his fists curling in Luka’s sweatshirt now, his face right there, almost furious. “Stop talking like we’re already ghosts. Like this—” his voice breaks, his chest heaving, “like we don’t deserve this life. I’m not waiting for another one. I want this one.”
Luka just stares at him—blinking, stunned, lips parted like he’s trying to form words but can’t.
Till’s breath shudders. He whispers again, lower, rawer: “I want this one with you.”
Luka doesn’t say anything. He just leans forward and kisses him.
Not rough. Not desperate. Just full—full of everything he can’t say.
His hands curl around Till’s jaw, keeping him close, like he’s scared he’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold him like this. His eyes sting, and he hates it—god, he hates that they sting. That Till always knows exactly how to get to him. To pull at the parts he tries so hard to keep buried.
And Till doesn’t push. He doesn’t say anything more. He kisses Luka back just as softly, just as quietly, like this is the only language they still have left.
Like they’re both afraid if they speak again, they’ll break.
If someone else walked in and saw them like this…
They might think one of them was dying.
Not because of any visible wounds, but because of the way they held each other. Like they were trying to memorize it all. Like letting go would mean losing everything. Their bodies pressed so close, arms locked around each other like a lifeline, lips brushing like a prayer—gentle, quiet, desperate.
Like nothing in the world could separate them.
Like nothing should.
It wasn’t romantic in the dreamy, easy sense. It was raw. Fragile. A kind of love that only exists when time feels borrowed. When pain is constant. When the mere thought of losing the other feels like being torn apart from the inside out.
And yet—they stayed like that. Because they had to. Because it was the only thing keeping them from falling.
‘’I love you…” Till whispers, barely breathing it. “I love you so much…”
Luka closes his eyes, holding him tighter. “I love you too, Tilly.”
There’s a pause.
Till lets out a soft, broken chuckle against his neck. “Tilly? Seriously?”
Luka smiles faintly, brushing his nose against Till’s temple. “Shut up. It fits. You’re soft.”
“I’m not soft.”
“You’re crying in my arms right now.”
“Shut up.”
Luka kisses the top of his head. “Still love you though.”
“…I hate you,” Till mumbles.
“Sure you do,” Luka murmurs, and they both know that’s not true.
★
A few days pass.
Nothing really happens. Not the kind of thing that changes anything. Plans are made, strategies whispered over cold coffee and cluttered maps, people move in and out of rooms like pieces on a board. The tension builds, quietly, like a wire being pulled taut—but it hasn’t snapped yet.
Till and Luka stay close. Too close, maybe.
When Till goes to the gym, Luka is there—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, saying nothing. Just watching. Sometimes he’ll correct Till’s form, sometimes he’ll leave a bottle of water near him and say nothing.
When they eat, they sit next to each other. When they talk, they talk quietly. Not much about what’s coming. Not much about that night. But there’s no distance between them anymore. Even when there are no words, there’s always a touch—Luka’s fingers brushing Till’s wrist, or Till’s head leaning into Luka’s shoulder.
And at night…
Not every night, but most nights—
Their naked bodies find each other again beneath the blankets. Wordless. Desperate. A rhythm they fall into like muscle memory. Till’s hands clutching Luka’s back. Luka’s lips searching Till’s throat. Breathless. Shaking. Each time like they’re trying to say don’t go without saying it.
Each time like they’re making love for the last time.
But morning always comes.
And they wake up beside each other again.
For now.
★
Isaac walks in holding a bundle of old, slightly burned newspapers — found from a scout raid. The paper’s yellowed, dusty. But one headline is painfully clear:
ALIEN STAGE: ONE WEEK UNTIL THE FINAL SEASON
“Watch as our stars burn out for your entertainment.”
The paper is dated exactly one week from today.
Everything stops. Forks clatter. A hush falls. Someone whispers, “It’s real.”
Isaac lays it out on the table for everyone to see. His voice is calm but serious:
“Now we know. One week. We don’t have time.”
Maybe Luka’s face goes blank.
Maybe Till grips the edge of the table
Hyuna says, “We'll go sooner. End of discussion.”
★
The words blur.
The edges of the room flicker like static.
He hears Isaac. Hyuna. The plan is forming around them.
And Luka just…drifts.
Not physically — not yet. But in his mind, he’s slipping.
The numbers bounce in his head like echoes: one week. Seven days.
He tries to listen. Really, he tries. But all he hears is his own heartbeat — no, more like the absence of it.
Because it skips. It stutters.
It’s too loud. It’s too quiet.
And it hits him again: They won’t let him fight.
Not like this. Not if they know.
If Till says something—
If anyone says something—
They’ll lock him in this goddamn base like a child too fragile to be touched.
He doesn’t blame them.
He’d do the same.
…Still.
It doesn’t make it easier.
He wants to be useful. He has to be.
He’s not ready to sit here and wait for someone to die for him again.
He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he stands.
His legs nearly give. His hand braces on the wall, then slides as he forces himself out.
He barely remembers leaving the meeting — if he even said anything.
His room feels too far. The hallway too long.
The pressure’s building again. Behind his ribs.
Just breathe. Just drink something. Sit down. Sleep.
His vision wavers.
By the time he fumbles for his water bottle, he’s already falling.
Hits the floor too fast, too hard. His back slams against the wall.
His throat is tight. His lungs don’t work.
The door flies open.
Footsteps.
A familiar panic.
“Luka—!”
Of course.
Of course it’s Till.
He saw him in the meeting. Maybe he followed. Maybe he just knew.
Luka can barely lift his head.
But he sees the panic flash in Till’s eyes.
The fear. The heartbreak. The guilt—
He doesn’t want that.
He hates that.
“I’m fine—” Luka tries, but it comes out shredded. Not convincing.
Till’s already on his knees. Hands hovering.
He’s trying not to touch too much, trying to help without making Luka feel small, but his voice is trembling.
“You’re not fine. You’re not— I knew something was wrong—fuck, Luka, why didn’t you say anything—”
Luka leans his head back against the wall.
His voice is almost a whisper:
“Because I knew you’d look at me like that.”
Till doesn’t answer.
He just stays there. Staring. Breathing heavy.
Too scared to move, too scared not to.
Everything inside him tells him to panic.
To shake Luka. To cry. To scream.
But he doesn’t.
He can’t.
He drops to his knees in front of him, heart pounding so hard it hurts.
Luka’s chest is barely moving.
His skin is pale. His fingers trembling.
His water bottle lies on the floor beside him, unopened.
“Hey… hey, I got you. Luka, look at me. Look at me.”
Luka does. Barely. Eyes glassy, unfocused.
He’s trying to be strong. Even now.
Trying to act like it’s fine.
“You don’t have to fake it,” Till says gently, pulling the cap off the bottle. “Not with me.”
He lifts it to Luka’s lips, careful not to spill.
Luka manages a few sips. Then breathes again—still shallow, still wrong, but something.
Till cups his face, thumb brushing Luka’s cold cheek.
“Just breathe with me, okay? In… and out. Like this.”
He demonstrates.
“In… two… three… out.”
Luka tries.
He follows. He fails. He tries again.
Till holds his shoulders, grounding him.
“You’re okay. You’re not alone. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s just us,” he whispers. “Just us.”
Minutes pass.
Till doesn’t count them.
He just breathes — loud, steady — over and over, until Luka’s shoulders slowly drop.
Until the air doesn’t rattle in his throat.
Until the color starts to come back to his lips.
Luka finally blinks, more aware now, his gaze finding Till again. Shame in it. Frustration. Embarrassment.
Till doesn’t let him speak.
He pulls him close — carefully, gently — wrapping his arms around him.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just let me hold you.”
And Luka does.
He leans into him, head pressed into Till’s neck.
His whole body shakes once, then goes still.
His breathing isn’t perfect, but it’s there. It’s enough.
“You scared the shit out of me,” Till whispers into his hair.
Luka doesn’t answer.
But his fingers tighten on Till’s back — just slightly.
That’s answer enough.
Luka is calm now.
Breathing easier. Sitting with his back still to the wall.
Till hasn’t moved far. He’s just sitting beside him, legs drawn up, arms loosely resting over his knees. He’s been quiet since Luka’s grip on his shirt finally loosened.
They haven’t spoken in a while.
The silence is thick. Heavy.
But Till can’t keep it in anymore.
He swallows the lump in his throat.
“I don’t think you should come on the missions anymore.”
He doesn’t look at Luka when he says it.
Not right away.
Luka doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue.
He just nods, slow and quiet.
Like he knew it was coming.
Because of course he did.
“I figured,” Luka says, voice hoarse. “I mean… yeah.”
And that’s what hurts.
That Luka expected it.
That he’d already counted himself out.
“I didn’t say that to punish you,” Till says, finally looking at him. “I’m not—trying to push you away. But today… fuck, Luka. You could’ve—” He cuts himself off. His throat tightens. “You were on the floor. I couldn’t get you to breathe.”
Luka stares ahead, silent.
“You lied, too,” Till says, more quietly now. “You kept saying you were fine. You… weren’t. And I can’t—I can’t watch that happen again.”
He wipes his face roughly.
“Maybe you think you’re being strong. But you’re not. You’re not protecting anyone when you lie. You’re just making it worse.”
Still nothing from Luka.
Not defensiveness. Not even sadness.
Just… quiet acceptance.
“Say something,” Till murmurs.
Luka finally speaks.
“You’re right.”
And somehow that’s even worse.
Because it sounds like resignation.
Not a fight. Not fire.
Just giving up.
He doesn’t say it out loud.
Not now. Not with Till looking at him like that — eyes tired, heart already cracked open too many times.
But he knows.
No one is going to stop him.
“You’re right,” he said. And maybe he meant it. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was easier to let Till believe he’d stay behind, recover, stay safe.
But the truth?
He can’t.
He won’t.
He’ll figure something out. There’s always a way. Maybe he’s not as fast as before, maybe his chest hurts like hell, maybe he only has one or two uses left on that inhaler — but Luka’s not about to sit behind while the others go to die. While Till goes.
That’s not happening.
“What are you thinking?” Till’s voice is soft.
Luka shakes his head, gives him a tired smile.
“Nothing. Just tired.”
He lies so easily now.
It comes as natural as breathing — when he can breathe.
★
Luka doesn't go to the meetings. He doesn’t have to, he has a plan. For now that will make Till to believe that Luka is really staying behind.
He waits until it’s quiet again — until the building settles into that low hum of tension it always holds right before something big. Then he slips on a hoodie and walks straight to Isaac’s office.
This time, he knocks. Once. Twice.
No answer.
He pushes the door open anyway. Isaac is still inside, marking things down on a sheet. He looks up fast, surprised.
“Why weren’t you at the meeting?”
Luka steps in and closes the door behind him.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Isaac doesn’t look up immediately — still flipping through a folder of reports — but his attention shifts fast when the silence stretches too long.
Luka finally speaks.
“I should be on the mission.”
Isaac blinks.
“You… are on the mission.”
A beat. Luka watches him closely.
And that’s when it hits him.
Till hasn’t told anyone.
“If Till says anything about it—” Luka starts, steady but sharp, “—don’t listen to him.”
That gets Isaac’s full attention. He straightens up slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly. The room feels heavier.
“Why would he say anything?”
Luka shrugs.
Or tries to.
“He’s just… worried. Overthinking. You know how he gets.”
But Isaac’s not buying it. His gaze lingers — calculating, concerned. The dots are already connecting.
Luka shifts on his feet. Arms crossed. Still holding the act together.
But not well enough.
“Luka,” Isaac says slowly, “are you okay?”
Silence.
And Luka doesn’t answer. Because if he says yes, it’ll sound like a lie.
If he says no… it might become real.
“I’m fine,” he says finally. “I need this. You don’t understand.”
Isaac does understand. That’s the problem.
His hands curl slowly into fists on the desk.
Because Luka isn’t the first one to stand in this room with too much fire in his eyes and not enough breath in his lungs.
Jacob was like this too.
Exactly like this.
Isaac can see it — the same recklessness wrapped in loyalty.
The same refusal to give up control.
The same quiet self-destruction, all masked with a smile and a shrug and a “don’t worry about me.”
And it scares the hell out of him.
“Luka…” he says, quieter now. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
Luka just shakes his head.
“This isn’t about proving anything. I’m not sitting this one out.”
Another pause.
“Just don’t listen to him,” Luka says again. “Please.”
Isaac exhales sharply and runs a hand down his face.
“If something happens to you, Luka…”
“It’ll be on me again.”
Luka stays still. Doesn’t argue.
Because he knows.
He knows it would be.
Isaac’s voice is low now, like it’s more to himself than Luka.
“It’s always on me.”
The weight of every mission gone wrong. Every name they carved into the walls.
And now Luka, standing in front of him with that same stubborn fire in his chest, too close to burning out.
“I don’t even want to know what Till’s gonna do,” Isaac mutters.
Luka’s jaw tightens at the mention of him.
He looks away for a second — just a second — then back again.
“He won’t have to do anything,” Luka says. Quiet. Firm. “I’ll make sure nothing happens.”
Isaac watches him. Hates how young he looks when he says it. Hates how much it sounds like a promise he can’t keep.
“You can’t guarantee that.”
“No. But I’ll try.”
A silence settles between them again.
And Isaac knows, deep down, there’s no stopping him. Luka’s already made up his mind.
Just like Jacob did.
★
Till looks up from the desk the moment he hears the door open — doesn’t even flinch when Luka walks in without knocking. He’s used to it. He likes it.
Luka’s eyes lock onto him immediately.
Till straightens up, brushing his hands on his thighs like he was ready to move anyway. The papers he was reading are forgotten.
“Hey,” Till says, soft, smiling.
And then Luka’s already in front of him, pulling him into a kiss — not rushed, not hungry, just… real.
Till blinks when it ends, breath caught somewhere between surprise and amusement.
“What was that for?” he chuckles.
Luka shrugs, completely unreadable.
“Can’t I just kiss you?”
Till grins, but it’s lopsided, tired at the edges.
“You can. You absolutely can. Just… unexpected.”
“Good,” Luka murmurs, resting his forehead against Till’s. “You need more surprises.”
They stand like that for a second, wrapped in that quiet stillness.
But Luka’s heart is racing.
He just told Isaac. He told Isaac not to listen to Till.
And Till is right here, smiling at him like he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know yet.
And maybe for now, Luka doesn’t want to ruin this minute. Just one more normal moment —
Before it breaks again.
Till lingered outside the planning room, papers in his hand, though he wasn’t really reading them. His shoulders sagged slightly, exhaustion creeping back into every movement. The meeting had drained him more than he’d expected.
Hyuna approached with her usual purposeful steps, a clipboard tucked under one arm. She stood beside him in silence for a moment before speaking.
“You and Luka,” she said. “You’ve been… close lately.”
Till blinked, caught off guard. A faint smile tugged at his mouth as he looked down.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s been good. I mean—strange. Messy. But good.” His fingers fidgeted at the corner of the paper.
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed her face before it softened into something warm.
“I’m happy for you,” she said. “You deserve that. But…” She paused. “Is he okay?”
The smile faltered. Till stared at a crack in the floor tiles.
“He’s trying,” he murmured. “But I don’t think he’s ready for this mission. He hasn’t been feeling well, and we’ve… we’ve fought about it a few times.” He hesitated. “I told him not to come. And I told Isaac, too.”
She looked at him closely, studying more than just his words.
“He’s not coming?” she asked.
Till gave a slight nod. “He said he agreed. He hasn’t shown up to the recent meetings, either. I think… I think he finally got it. It’s just not worth the risk.”
There was a pause. His voice dropped a little lower, something raw beneath the surface.
“I love him, you know. And if that means keeping him away from this, then… then I’ll take the fallout.”
For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then her voice softened.
“Just make sure you’re not giving everything up to protect someone who might not let you.”
He smiled faintly. “Too late for that.”
★
He didn’t hear her approach at first.
Luka had found an excuse to hang around the storage corridor longer than necessary. Old gear, outdated rations, faded tags on crates that no one had touched in years. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for—just something to keep his hands busy. Something that didn’t require breathing too hard.
A familiar presence settled nearby. He didn’t look up.
“You’re really not coming?” Hyuna’s voice was casual, but she never asked meaningless questions.
Luka wiped his hands on his pants. “Let me guess,” he muttered, eyes still on the open crate in front of him. “Till told you.”
“He said you finally agreed to stay behind.”
He closed his eyes for a second. The lie stung more than it should’ve. Not because Till said it—but because it had almost felt true. For a second, he’d considered it.
He straightened slowly, meeting Hyuna’s eyes. “If Till asks,” he said, “I’m not coming.”
There was a long pause.
“But you are,” she said flatly.
Luka gave a quiet, humorless laugh and shrugged. “No one can stop me.”
Her expression tightened. She didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at him, hard and unflinching. She always had that way of seeing right through people—cutting past the layers, the fronts, the practiced shrugs.
“You know what this is going to do to him, right?” she asked. “When he finds out?”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re not okay.”
He flinched before he could hide it. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I need this,” he said, sharper than he intended. “I need to be there.”
Her eyes softened, but not with sympathy. With something closer to frustration, or grief.
“You sound just like Jacob.”
The name landed like a punch.
Luka looked away.
“Always needing to prove something,” she went on. “Even when it meant dragging yourself to the edge of death. Even when it hurt the people who loved you most.”
He clenched his jaw, letting the words hang in the air.
“If something happens to you out there,” she said, “it’s going to be on Till. He’s going to blame himself for letting you go. I’m going to blame myself for not stopping you. Isaac’s already carrying enough dead weight in his memory.”
Her voice had dropped low, the anger slipping out in favor of something far more dangerous—fear.
Luka finally met her eyes again. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
She stared at him.
“I’ll make sure,” he said.
Then, without another word, he turned and left.
He’d been pretending to read a file on the sofa, the type of outdated report that no one really cared about anymore, but it gave him something to hold. Something to stare at while he tried to slow his breathing and not think too much.
The room was mostly quiet—just the soft hum of the base, a few passing footsteps outside. He had counted the pages in his folder twice already when someone approached.
Mizi dropped down onto the armrest beside him like she belonged there. She peered at him for a second, then rested her elbow on his shoulder.
“What is this?” she asked. “Ambush Luka Day?”
He glanced up. “Apparently.”
“Hyuna got you first?”
He didn’t respond. Just turned the page in his file without reading it.
“Was it about the mission?” she asked, voice gentler now. “About Till?”
He sighed through his nose, closing the folder and letting it slump in his lap. “What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing,” she said. “But you’re not good at hiding when something’s wrong. You know that, right?”
“Could’ve fooled me. Till didn’t even realize I was dying.”
Mizi’s face twitched. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m not. I’m just—tired.”
He didn’t mean to say it like that, and judging by the look on her face, it landed wrong. She watched him for a moment longer, then nudged his arm with her knee.
“Do you want me to lie and say you look great?”
He cracked a smile, just barely. “Wouldn’t believe you anyway.”
She exhaled. “I don’t want to be the millionth person to tell you not to go. So I won’t.”
“Thanks.”
“But if you think I’m going to sit back and let you throw yourself into something without a plan—” she raised her brows, “—then you clearly don’t know me.”
He let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. “I have a plan.”
“You always have a plan.”
He looked at her again. “You’re going to help me, aren’t you?”
Mizi gave him a look like that was the dumbest question he’d ever asked.
“Obviously,” she said.
Luka stayed quiet for a long moment after Mizi’s promise. His thumb traced the edge of the folder absently, his gaze locked on the floor.
“If Till finds out you helped me,” he said finally, “he’ll be furious with you.”
Mizi didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I know.”
“He won’t understand.”
“He’ll understand one day,” she replied softly. “Just… not now.”
Luka looked up at her again, this time really meeting her eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
He watched her closely, trying to figure her out. She wasn’t the kind of person to take sides easily—she was loyal, but she wasn’t stupid. And she’d been through enough herself to know when someone was making a reckless choice.
“You said you wouldn’t be the millionth person to tell me not to go,” Luka muttered. “But if you are, I might actually listen.”
She let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it.
“I’m not helping you die,” she said. Her voice didn’t waver. “Don’t mistake that.”
“I’m not trying to die,” he replied. “I just… need to be there.”
“I get it,” Mizi said. “More than you think.”
‘’You know Sua used to highlight her own lines in pink,” she said. “Over the ones I marked in blue. Gave me more parts. Slowly. So I wouldn’t catch on.”
Luka blinked. He didn’t know where this was going—he hadn’t expected her to say anything like that at all.
“She didn’t tell me obviously,” Mizi continued, voice tight. “But she planned it. Rehearsed it. She made sure I had everything I needed to win after she was gone.”
Luka sat up a little straighter. “Mizi—”
“I’m not telling you this because I want pity,” she cut in quickly. “I’m telling you because I know how that felt. And I know how Till would feel if you did the same.”
“I’m not planning anything like that,” Luka said, sharper now.
“Good,” she replied. “Because I won’t let you.”
He stared at her again. She looked steady. Unshaken. Like her entire soul was braced between defiance and pain.
“I want to help Till,” she said. “He means the world to me.”
“And yet you’re helping me lie to him.”
“I’m helping you stay alive,” she corrected. “And I’m going to make sure no one dies. That’s my promise. To you and to him.”
Luka’s throat felt tight. He didn’t have the words.
“Don’t make me regret it,” she said, finally.
“I won’t,” he answered.
And for the first time in days, he meant it.
★
Luka sat alone with his knees drawn up, his back pressed into the cold wall of his room. The door was closed, the lights low, and yet his thoughts were louder than any noise ever could be. He rubbed his hands together like it would warm something in him.
When did it start?
The moment everyone began treating him differently—when their eyes shifted, when their voices softened. People kept telling him he’d changed. He smiled when they said it, even laughed sometimes, but deep down he didn’t feel changed. He just felt tired.
So fucking tired.
He thought about Mizi. About how not long ago, they couldn’t even look at each other without one of them snapping. She hated him. No—resented him. And for good reason. Back in Round 5, he did what he had to do, but it wasn’t clean. Nothing ever was. And Mizi… God, she used to tell him to kill himself like it was casual. Like it wasn’t tearing him apart already.
And now she was the one telling him to live.
He snorted quietly, the sound bitter in his throat. How did they get here? How was it possible to sit in the same room and talk about real things—about death, about pain—and not rip each other apart?
He didn’t want to think about what she said about Sua. About the highlighters, about the rehearsed endings. It made him sick. It made him feel like a monster again, dragging up all the old guilt he thought he buried. How could she share something that painful, something so personal, and he… he played tricks on her. He lied to her. Used her. He couldn’t bear to think about it too long. Not tonight. Not when everything already felt fragile.
And Hyuna. Another laugh escaped him, a little less bitter this time.
He never thought he could sit across from Hyuna and speak like a normal person—no obsession, no desperation. Just… Hyuna. For years she was oxygen. She was the reason he stayed alive in ways no one really knew. And he was just a child pretending to know what love meant. They both were.
When they talked it out months ago, it felt like breathing for the first time. There was no tension, no shame. Just two people who had grown up, scarred and worn down, but honest. She was a friend now. A real one. He never imagined that would be possible.
And then there was Till.
God.
Luka leaned his head back against the wall and let his eyes fall shut.
He never thought he’d find love—not the kind that actually held him up. Not the kind that made him feel like he was more than just what he’d done, more than what was rotting inside his lungs. But Till… with Till, everything somehow fell into place. Even after all the screaming and the pain, even after the mistakes and the ways he broke him—they ended up here. Together.
He used to be scared he was just a replacement. A shadow of Ivan.
That was the fear he never voiced aloud.
He and Ivan were close. The crowd favorites. The golden boys of Alien Stage.
It haunts him. Because if Ivan were still alive… Luka knew they wouldn’t be together. He knew it. Ivan and Till would’ve had something different. And Luka would’ve stepped aside…he wouldn’t even try.
He didn’t feel like a replacement now. Not really. Not after everything Till said. The way Till looked at him—the way he touched him, clung to him, said I love you like it broke him each time. Luka knew the difference between what Till had with Ivan and what they had now.
But sometimes… sometimes, the thought still curled in the back of his skull like smoke. That maybe he wasn’t meant for this. That he only ever had what was left behind.
He curled his arms around himself, and tried to push that thought away.
Because what he had with Till was real. And even if it didn’t last forever, even if it ended tomorrow—God, it mattered.
That was more than he ever thought he’d have.
He wanted to bury the thought.
That lingering ache, the one that crept in whenever Till spoke softly of another life—some kinder, distant timeline where things weren’t so cruel, where maybe they could be happy without fighting so hard for it. “Maybe in another life…” Till had said once, lips brushing Luka’s hair, his voice heavy with something Luka couldn’t name.
And Luka knew. He knew.
It wouldn’t be him in that other life.
It would be Ivan.
And maybe that was okay.
Maybe that was fair.
He could imagine it, too clearly for his own good—Till and Ivan, hands clasped tight, laughing without weight, surviving together, living. It was a nice picture. Soft. Warm. And so far away from the cold that clung to his chest now.
But still—still—he remembered Till’s voice again, low and stubborn and breaking: “Let’s focus on that life. The one we’re in.”
And Luka nodded to himself. Yeah. That one. This one.
Because this life… this was the only one they had. The only one that mattered. Till chose him here, now. With the shaking hands, and the weakness, and the way his breath caught too easily. He chose him anyway. And Luka wanted to believe that meant something. Maybe fate didn’t matter, because they found each other here.
It should be enough.
No. It was enough.
They weren’t meant to be together in all their lives. Maybe just this one. Maybe this fleeting, imperfect life was the only one they got to share. So it had to be special. It had to be.
And yet…
Luka swallowed hard and brought his knees tighter to his chest, burying his face there for a second.
He was going to fuck it up, wasn’t he?
Not by choice. Not in the ways he used to.
But by dying.
He was going to leave Till in this life, too. Just like Ivan did.
And that—that was the worst part. Because now that he had love, he finally understood the kind of pain he was about to cause.
And there would be no next life to make it right.
Not for him.
The door creaked open with hesitation.
Till stepped in, eyes scanning the room until they landed on the shape curled against the wall. Panic shot through his chest.
“Luka?”
He dropped his voice but hurried forward—already imagining the worst. Luka’s breathing wasn’t ragged, not sharp like before. But he was sitting slumped against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees, chin resting on them. His eyes lifted slowly at the sound of Till’s voice.
“I’m okay,” he said hoarsely. “Just thinking.”
Till crouched in front of him. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Luka’s lips curved slightly, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s stupid stuff.”
“You want to talk about it?”
Luka shook his head. “Not now.”
So Till didn’t push. He just stood, then reached down with both hands. Luka took them without hesitation, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He swayed a little, but Till caught him.
Wordless, they walked together to the bed.
Luka collapsed first with a sigh, eyes half-lidded, the weight of his thoughts still heavy behind them. Till lay beside him, one arm draped across Luka’s chest. Their legs tangled naturally, bodies fitting together like they always had—softly, instinctively.
The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was filled with everything unspoken.
Till tucked his head under Luka’s chin. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that,” he mumbled into his skin.
“I’ll try not to,” Luka whispered. But even now, his voice carried the truth he couldn’t say.
They lay like that until their breathing synced—slow and calm, almost like peace.
Outside, the storm hadn’t started yet.
But it would.
And inside the quiet warmth of their bed, pressed chest to chest, Luka thought:
If this is the life we only get once… then maybe it’s okay I’m not meant to see it through.
But Till—Till held him like he would fight the world to make sure he did.
And Luka let him.
Chapter 25
Notes:
sorry not sorry
Chapter Text
Luka barely stirred when the gentle pressure of lips brushed his cheek.
Warmth lingered there for a second—then disappeared, replaced by the soft shuffle of clothing, the familiar weight of the bed shifting, and the sound of footsteps across the room. He cracked one eye open. Morning light bled in through the blinds, painting Till’s back in soft lines of gold as he pulled on his hoodie.
He should’ve said something. He should’ve sat up, asked where Till was going, told him not to leave.
But Luka only closed his eyes again, listening to the door click shut.
He lay still in the silence that followed, alone in their bed. The sheets were still warm where Till had been, but it already felt like the cold had started to settle in. Luka brought a hand up to his face and touched the spot where Till kissed him. He smiled faintly to himself.
So soft. Like they were any other couple. Like he wasn’t lying to the man who loved him.
The meeting was happening now—final plans for the mission. He wasn’t invited, not anymore. And he’d let that belief settle in everyone’s minds. A few missed meetings, quiet absence, silence. He’d made Till think he’d given up on going. That he was staying behind. That he’d chosen safety.
They wanted him safe. He understood that. But that didn’t mean he could stay.
He waited until enough time had passed. The base was always quiet during meetings. He pulled on a clean shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and left their room like nothing was wrong. Like his chest wasn’t aching and his throat wasn’t dry from swallowing back the truth.
He found Till in the hallway later, papers tucked under his arm, still flushed from talking. Probably from arguing. His eyes lit up when he saw Luka.
“How’d it go?”
Till huffed. “Isaac thinks he’s in charge of the world, Mizi almost stabbed someone with a pen, and Hyuna wants to blow up three buildings instead of two. But we’ve got a plan now. It’s actually… kind of solid.”
“Oh?” Luka tilted his head. “Wanna tell me?”
He shouldn’t have asked. He knew what he was doing. But Till beamed at the idea of explaining it, and Luka felt something deep inside him crack.
They sat in the common room together, Luka sprawled across the couch, Till pacing as he talked—about entrances and exits, guard shifts, escape routes. About who was going where, doing what. About risks.
Luka listened to all of it. Every detail.
And nodded along like he wasn’t memorizing it to use himself.
Till left for another meeting that afternoon, called away with a half-eaten sandwich still in his hand and a string of curses about how Isaac couldn’t do anything without him.
Luka nodded, kissed his cheek, watched him go.
And then, the moment the door clicked shut, he stood up and walked to the desk.
The sketchbook was there—right where Till had left it. Luka’s fingers hovered over it for a second. Not because he was unsure, but because something about it felt sacred. This was Till’s world. His voice when he didn’t have one. His quiet place.
But Luka opened it anyway.
The pages rustled softly as he flipped through the old drawings—Till’s angry scrawls from weeks ago, diagrams, maps, portraits done in quiet moments. One of Luka. One of all of them. Luka’s heart twisted, but he kept turning until he found the clean pages near the back.
Then he started writing.
First, a breakdown of the plan Till had explained—almost word for word. Then, arrows. Timelines. Enemy positions. Blind spots.
He began marking where he could step in without disrupting anything, where he could cover others, where he could be useful without being seen too early. He even drew himself into the mission’s layout—just a small figure at the edge of the page, near the loading dock.
A role that didn’t exist yet. But one he’d carve out for himself.
He didn’t want to go rogue. He didn’t want to risk everything. But he couldn’t sit and wait. Not this time. Not when the end was so close, not when he’d spent years doing nothing but surviving.
He needed to do something that mattered.
He flipped to the next page, sketched an alternate route for evac, faster than the one they planned. Circled the weak spots in their current infiltration strategy. Wrote questions in the margins.
His hands didn’t stop. For hours, he kept at it—calculating, planning, drawing lines like battle scars. He wasn’t Isaac. He wasn’t Hyuna. He wasn’t even Till.
But Luka had learned how to survive hell. And if this was going to be their final shot, he would make sure it worked.
He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t notice Till came in until he felt a hand brush his shoulder gently.
“Hey,” Till said softly behind him. “Whatcha doing?”
Luka blinked down at the sketchbook, heart skipping for a second. But he didn’t close it. He just glanced back and smiled.
“Just messing around,” he said.
Till leaned over, eyes on the page. “You planning your own mission?” he teased.
“Something like that.”
Till chuckled and kissed the top of his head, not thinking anything of it. “Well, if it’s better than Isaac’s, let me know.”
And then he walked off toward the bed, kicking his shoes off and lying down with a sigh, exhausted.
Luka stared at the sketchbook a second longer.
He wouldn’t let anyone know—not yet. Not Till. Just Isaac. But he had a role to play, and he’d already stepped into it.
★
The hallways were quiet.
Late enough that even the most caffeinated planners had gone to bed. Even the lights were dimmed—red-tinged and low, guiding the few insomniacs or guards drifting through the base. Luka walked quietly, footsteps soft, like someone slipping away for a cigarette or a secret. In a way, it was both.
Isaac’s door was closed, but the glow underneath gave him away.
Luka knocked once and didn’t wait.
Isaac was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, reading something that looked more like a blueprint than any casual file. His eyes lifted when Luka entered. He didn’t look surprised.
“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” Isaac said, sitting back.
Luka closed the door behind him. “I figured you’re the only person who wouldn’t yell at me right now.”
Isaac gave a dry smile. “Don’t be so sure.”
Luka crossed the room and pulled Till’s sketchbook from under his hoodie. He flipped to the marked pages and laid it open on the desk.
“I changed some stuff,” he said. “Only a few adjustments. Here—there’s a blind spot. The northeast wall has a camera that’s not in the report. I’ve seen the same model. You can jam it without alerting the internal system if you do it from the second junction inside.”
Isaac leaned forward, brow furrowing. He didn’t speak.
Luka pointed again. “And here—if the team splits into two instead of three, it’ll cut response time by a full minute if things go wrong. I wrote alternate exits too.”
“Where’d you even learn to—” Isaac stopped himself, sighing. “Right. Of course you’d know all this. You lived it.”
Luka didn’t answer.
Isaac kept flipping pages, absorbing every diagram.
Isaac met his eyes, tired but sharp. “Don’t make me regret this Lu.”
The nickname feels weird from Isaac, he doesn’t comment on it and just nods.
★
Till stirred when Luka climbed into bed, the mattress dipping under the familiar weight. He didn’t open his eyes at first—just turned slightly, enough to feel Luka’s chest press against his back, warm and grounding.
He kissed Till’s shoulder again, then his neck. Till shifted fully this time, rolling over to face him. The glow from the hallway spilled through the cracked door, casting a faint blue across his face. His eyes searched Luka’s for a beat, then he reached up to push a strand of hair behind Luka’s ear.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Till said.
Luka smiled faintly. “Just tired.”
“Tomorrow’s gonna be okay,” Till told him. “I know it feels like everything could go wrong, but we’ve planned for this. We’ve trained. We’re not alone out there.”
“I know,” Luka said softly.
“And you’ll be here. Safe.” Till touched Luka’s chest lightly, right over his heart. “You can rest. Let us handle it this time.”
Luka hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I will. I promise.”
Till leaned in, brushing his lips against Luka’s—once, twice, a little longer the third time. There was no urgency in the way they kissed, just something gentle and aching, like they were trying to memorize each other one last time. Luka pulled Till closer by the waist, their foreheads touching as they breathed the same air.
“I love you,” Till whispered. “You know that, right?”
Luka closed his eyes. “Yeah. I know.”
“And you love me.”
“I do.”
Till smiled, so soft. “Then whatever happens, we’ll be fine.”
Luka bit the inside of his cheek, and nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “We’ll be fine.”
They settled back into the sheets, arms tangled, legs entwined. Luka listened to Till’s breathing until it evened out, steady and calm. He waited longer, just to be sure he was asleep, before whispering the words he couldn’t say out loud:
“I’m sorry.”
He kissed Till’s hair, then finally let himself close his eyes.
Tomorrow, the lie will end.
But tonight, he’d give them both peace.
★
Luka felt Till long before he opened his eyes.
The quiet rustle of clothes being pulled on. The soft scrape of a zipper. The shifting of weight as Till moved around the room, careful not to make noise, careful not to wake him.
Luka kept his breathing steady. Eyes closed.
He knew what was happening—what this morning was. The mission. The departure.
A second later, a kiss pressed against his cheek. Warm. Familiar. Lingering.
Luka didn’t move.
He heard Till whisper something he couldn’t quite make out. Then the door clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
Luka’s eyes opened.
He moved fast. Threw the blanket off, swung his legs over the bed, and grabbed his bag from under it. It was already packed. He’d done it two nights ago, quietly, methodically. Every piece in its place.
He dressed in the clothes he set aside—dark, flexible. He wrapped the bandana around the lower half of his face, tugged it tight until only his eyes were visible. It was hot. He didn’t care.
The hallway was mostly empty. Most were already outside, loading up. He knew the routine. The final checks. The quiet conversations. The way people lingered before going into something they might not come back from.
He slipped out the back, took the long route behind the equipment shed to avoid any eyes. His heart thudded in his chest—not from the effort, but the lie.
He passed no one. The sky was still pink with early light.
When he reached the vehicles, people were moving with purpose. Some revving up motorcycles, others checking weapons, strapping on supplies. The energy was high. Focused. Everyone knew what was at stake.
Luka kept to the edge, head low.
He didn’t need to find Isaac. Isaac found him.
A brief flick of fingers—come on.
Luka followed wordlessly, his boots silent on the dirt.
Isaac opened the door of one of the larger armored vehicles. Inside, Hyuna was already seated, staring straight ahead. Mizi looked up as Luka climbed in and shut the door behind him. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t say anything.
He nodded at them both. A silent acknowledgement.
No one questioned it. Not out loud.
The vehicle was quiet as more people started to climb into others. The engine hadn’t started yet. Not everyone was ready.
Luka sat still, back pressed to the windowl, hands on his knees. The bandana stayed on. He could feel the heat of their gazes on him, even if no one looked directly at him anymore.
Mizi leaned closer, her voice a quiet murmur. “You know he’s gonna lose his shit when he sees you.”
Luka exhaled through his nose. “I know.”
Hyuna tilted her head, watching him now. “You’re really doing this.”
He nodded once.
No one argued with him. No one tried to stop him.
The road ahead would be long—especially with the new base location. Hours, maybe. Time for the truth to catch up. Time for Till to find out.
But for now, he was in the vehicle.
For now, no one has stopped him.
The engine hummed low beneath them as the vehicle rumbled to life. Dewey climbed in with his usual chaos, muttering something under his breath, and Isaac followed after, expression unreadable.
Luka stayed low by the window, the bandana still over his face, gaze fixed outside.
He felt Hyuna stiffen beside him when Mizi opened the door again.
And then—Till’s voice. “Sorry, I had to—”
Boots hit the metal floor.
The door slammed shut.
Till dropped heavily into the seat beside Hyuna, his backpack slung across his lap. “Is everyone here?”
Silence.
Hyuna said nothing.
Mizi didn’t either.
★
The vehicle bumped over the rough dirt road. Still, no one spoke. The sound of gravel under tires filled the silence.
Luka didn’t move.
He barely breathed.
Till turned slightly. “Why is it so—?”
He stopped.
Hyuna hadn’t shifted, but his eyes must’ve caught something—Luka’s arm, his leg, the curve of his shoulder behind her. His hand moved like he meant to reach, then stopped midair.
‘’Who the hell is that?” Till said, confused, sharp.
Hyuna didn’t answer.
Luka slowly turned his head.
The bandana was still up.
But his eyes met Till’s.
It was over in a breath. The shift.
Till blinked once.
Twice.
Then his mouth opened, and for a second, no words came.
“Luka?” His voice cracked.
Luka didn’t move.
Till jolted up in his seat. “What the fuck—what the hell is he doing here?”
No one answered.
Till turned to Isaac, voice rising. “Isaac, stop the damn car. I swear to God—”
Isaac didn’t flinch. “Too late.”
“We’re barely five minutes out—turn it around.”
“No.”
“Isaac—”
Mizi cut in flatly, “He’s here. He’s staying. You think he got in without a plan?”
Hyuna still hadn’t looked at Luka. She said quietly, “We all knew.”
That made Till whip around. “You knew?”
Luka finally pulled down the bandana.
The air went still.
His voice was low. “I had to.”
“Had to?” Till’s voice cracked again, this time not just from anger—but something rawer. “You lied. You looked me in the eye—”
“I know.”
“You said you’d stay.”
“I know.”
Till looked like he was about to crawl across Hyuna just to reach him. “Are you insane? You think this is noble? You think this is brave? You can’t even—”
“I’m not dying today,” Luka said quietly.
“No?” Till spat. “Because it fucking looks like you’re trying.”
Dewey mumbled, “Okay…so it is ambush Luka day.”
No one laughed.
Luka just leaned his head back against the window, eyes closed.
“I had to come,” he said again. “You don’t get it, Till. I have to.”
Till didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then, all at once—he exploded.
“You all knew?” His voice was ragged. “You all fucking knew and no one said anything to me?!”
The vehicle went dead silent again.
Luka didn’t look at him.
Mizi shifted in the back, glancing toward the window like she’d rather jump out than sit through this.
“I asked,” Till went on, voice rising, voice breaking, “I asked all of you—Hyuna, Isaac—you just—what? Lied to my face?!”
“Till—” Hyuna started.
“No. Don’t. Don’t try to explain it.” He was shaking, hands clenched on his knees. “You told me to protect him. You said that. You said Luka was—was like Jacob, reckless, and—and I should—” He cut off, a dry, hollow laugh in his throat. “You were right. You knew it, you all knew it, and you still helped him.”
Isaac didn’t say a word. His eyes stayed locked on the road.
Luka felt it coming before it happened—the shift in weight, the shuffle of limbs.
Till stood, bracing himself with one hand on the roof as the vehicle rocked over a bump.
“Move,” he said, low.
“What?” Hyuna blinked.
“I said move.”
Hyuna swore under her breath but slid past Luka and took Till’s seat beside the window.
Now it was Till next to him. A wall of anger and betrayal, right there, barely breathing.
Luka didn’t look at him.
He couldn’t.
“So.” Till’s voice was razor-sharp. “The whole time, huh?”
Silence.
“You planned this,” he said bitterly. “Made me believe you’d stay behind, made me sleep next to you knowing you’d lie the moment I left. And then you just—you fucking used my trust to make your move.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No?” He laughed again—short, furious. “Then how was it?”
“I had to do it like this,” Luka said. “You would’ve stopped me.”
“You’re goddamn right I would’ve.”
Another bump in the road. The silence stretched.
“And Isaac?” Till spat. “You dragged him into this too? He helped you?”
Luka hesitated.
“I knew it,” Till growled. “Those strategies—those fucking brilliant strategies he brought in out of nowhere? They were yours.”
Luka stayed still.
“You even used my sketchbook.”
Luka’s jaw clenched. “…Yeah.”
“You lied right to my face.”
“I’m sorry, Till—”
“Don’t.” Till’s voice cracked again. “Just—don’t.”
His hands were fists on his thighs.
Luka wanted to touch him, to explain, but there was no space for it here. Not now. Not while Till’s entire body vibrated with betrayal.
The worst part wasn’t even the anger.
It was the hurt in his voice.
Like Luka had been something precious, and now he’d gone and smashed it on purpose.
Till exhaled harshly and turned away, pressing a hand over his mouth, blinking hard.
No one said anything.
Even Dewey was silent now.
The vehicle kept moving.
Luka turned his head toward the window, hiding the burn in his eyes.
He had no idea if Till would ever forgive him.
But it didn’t matter.
He’d already chosen this path.
And he couldn’t go back.
The road kept stretching, endless and cruel.
The hum of the engine filled the silence that none of them knew how to cut.
Till hadn’t looked at him once.
Luka sat still, shoulder pressed lightly to the door, the bandana now hanging loose around his neck. He didn’t know what he’d expected—that Till would shout some more, maybe. Or shove him. Or say something.
But this—this cold, bitter silence?
This was worse.
Their knees bumped when the truck took a hard turn. Till moved his leg away instantly, as if burned.
Luka winced. Tried again.
“I know you’re mad—”
Nothing.
“I just—can you let me explain?”
Nothing.
Luka stared down at his hands, twisting his fingers in his lap. “I didn’t want to do this like that. I just didn’t know how else. You would’ve—” He stopped himself. Swallowed. “I couldn’t stay behind, Till.”
Still no answer.
Mizi, leaning her head against the window behind them, finally broke the silence. “It was his decision,” she said gently. “You don’t have to like it, but you have to accept it. He chose this.”
Till let out a sharp breath. Not quite a laugh. More like a bark of disbelief.
“You’re one to talk,” he snapped, turning halfway in his seat to glare at her. “After what you told me? ‘I just want to help Till’—was that it? You told me you’d keep him safe. That you wouldn’t let him die.”
Mizi didn’t flinch.
“I’m still not going to let him die,” she said.
“And you think letting him come here is helping? You think this is protecting him?”
“It’s trusting him.”
Till made another noise—this one bitter, exhausted, broken.
Luka touched his arm, just lightly. “Till…”
Till jerked away.
“Don’t.”
“I made you a promise,” Luka said, voice low, trying not to shake. “We said we’d sing together again, remember? I’m not dying today. I swear.”
Till finally turned his face toward him. His eyes were glassy, jaw tight.
“You swear,” he echoed hollowly. “Just like you swore you were staying at the base?”
Luka froze.
“Your promises don’t mean shit anymore.”
That one hit. Luka sat back, blinking hard, letting the weight of those words settle like stones in his chest.
He didn’t try again.
Not for a while.
The road kept going.
And the silence between them grew colder than ever.
★
Isaac gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
The silence behind him felt like a storm cloud—heavy, suffocating. He could feel Till’s anger radiating off him in waves. He didn’t even need to look in the rearview mirror to know Luka was sitting perfectly still, probably trying not to breathe too loud.
Then, from beside him, Dewey leaned in just slightly.
He cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered, terribly un-smooth:
“Lovers’ quarrel. But I bet you ten bucks they make out before we reach the checkpoint.”
Isaac’s eyes flicked sideways.
“I swear to God, Dewey,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” Dewey shrugged, still whispering. “They’re so dramatic. It’s like driving a live soap opera.”
Isaac shot him a glare, but Dewey just grinned.
“I mean, if it weren’t life or death, this would be the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all month.”
Isaac didn’t answer. He just turned his eyes back to the road.
He wasn’t going to admit it—not out loud—but part of him hoped Dewey was right.
Because if they didn’t make up..
God help them all.
The silence was unbearable.
Not because no one had anything to say—God, there were too many things to say—but because no one dared to speak too loud. Not with Till sitting in the middle row, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight it might snap. Not with Luka at his side, his knee barely grazing Till’s every time the vehicle bumped or turned, but neither of them moving.
Not with all of them knowing they had just hours left before the mission began.
Hyuna risked a glance back, over the seat, toward where Mizi sat. She leaned in a little, voice hushed.
“I didn’t think it would be this bad,” she whispered.
Mizi shook her head. “Of course it’s bad. You’ve seen Luka. You’ve seen Till. They’re both… insane.”
“They’re in love.”
“Same thing.”
They shared a small look—exhausted, nervous—but it wasn’t funny. Not today. Not when anything could happen.
In the front, Dewey let out a long, overly audible exhale. “Whew. Tense ride, huh?”
Isaac gave him a sharp look.
Dewey held up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Yeah,” Dewey whispered. “About how much I love being trapped in a car with two people who might murder each other with eye contact.”
Till didn’t say a word, but Isaac saw the way his shoulders stiffened. He glared out the window.
Another bump in the road. Luka’s knee touched his again. This time, Luka pulled away fast, almost like it burned. Till noticed. He noticed everything. Every look. Every breath Luka wasn’t taking. He was watching him through the corner of his eye, pretending not to.
Luka looked at him again. Quick. Just a glance.
Then looked away.
He hadn’t tried speaking again. Not since earlier, when Till had ignored him, refused to even turn his head.
It hurt. Of course it hurt. But worse was the guilt. Because Till knew—he knew—if it had been the other way around, if Luka had begged him to stay behind and he knew the others were in danger, if he had a chance to do something… maybe he would’ve done the same.
He hated how much he understood it.
He hated it because it meant forgiving Luka. And he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Because even if Luka was right, he still lied. He looked Till in the eyes and told him he wouldn’t go. Then here he was, sitting next to him like nothing happened. Wrapped in silence, as if they hadn’t broken something between them.
Till shifted. Sighed. His fingers tightened around his arm.
He wanted to yell. He wanted to pull Luka into him, shake him, kiss him, hit something. All of it at once. But he just stayed still.
Luka was part of Alien Stage. He had suffered more than most of them. And he wanted his revenge—Till got that.
But God, if Luka dies on this mission…
He doesn’t know what he’d do.
They were already in the city.
No one said it out loud, but the shift was obvious. The noise changed. The rhythm of the road beneath the wheels felt different. The buildings grew closer, shadows stretched longer, and the air felt heavier—as if it already knew why they’d come.
Till had been here before. All of them had, in one way or another. But not like this.
The last time, when they came for him and Luka, it was a warzone. Explosions, sirens, fire. An all-out storm crashing through the heart of the Anakt Corp. The city screamed around them then. There was no mistaking it.
But now—now it was too quiet. Careful. Strategic. A mission they couldn’t afford to fail.
Till’s eyes scanned the streets as they turned another corner, Isaac’s driving sharp but smooth. Every intersection brought a new possibility. Every alley looked like a trap.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the rumors.
The ones about what was under Anakt Corp. The ones they all pretended not to believe—but that brought them here anyway.
The bodies.
If the rumors were true, if Anakt really was keeping them—storing the lost contestants, discarded test subjects, old experiments—beneath the very place they turned people into entertainment…
He didn’t want to see that.
He could feel it in his stomach already. The sickness. The fear. He didn’t want to believe it—but if it was true, they had to expose it. They had to destroy it.
Because Alien Stage was starting soon.
They couldn’t let it continue.
He felt Luka shift beside him. Just a small movement. But enough to catch his attention.
Another stolen glance.
He wanted to be mad. It would be so much easier. But every time he looked at Luka, his heart twisted instead.
Luka didn’t try speaking again. Maybe he was scared to. Maybe he knew there wasn’t anything he could say to fix this.
Till didn’t trust his promises anymore.
But part of him still wanted to believe them.
Isaac slowed the car. They were nearing the back entry point, close to one of the underground loading docks—supposedly disconnected from the official map. From there, they’d split up. Check the lower levels. Confirm if the bodies were real. Take photos. Collect evidence. Then regroup before anyone notices.
A perfect plan.
But none of them believed in perfect plans anymore.
Dewey leaned forward from the passenger seat, looking back at the others. “We’re almost there.”
No one replied.
Mizi was clutching something in her hands. Hyuna had her eyes on Till, as if she was waiting for him to crack. Luka just looked down at his knees.
No one spoke, but they were all thinking the same thing.
If the rumors were true…
They weren’t just breaking into the Arena of Alien Stage.
They were walking into a graveyard.
They left the vehicles one by one, boots crunching against the broken pavement as they approached the edge of the arena.
Behind them, the rest of the rebels held their positions—some hidden in alleys, others scattered on rooftops, watching. The patrols were already set, comms open, ready to alert them if anything shifted. There would be no backup once they were inside.
Just the six of them.
The building loomed like a beast in the dark. Massive. Familiar in all the wrong ways.
Till felt it in his throat again—the way the structure made him feel small. Not in awe. But in disgust.
He’d died in there once, and yet here they were again, returning like they had a choice.
Isaac raised his hand for them to stop just short of the hidden access gate, now cracked open. He turned, gesturing them into a tight circle. “Last time,” he said, voice low. “We go fast, we go quiet, we get what we need.”
Till nodded automatically, his eyes already flicking to Luka.
“And we’re splitting up here,” Isaac continued. “Two teams. That way we cover more ground before they even know we’re in. Hyuna, Luka, with me. Till, you go with Mizi and Dewey.”
It was immediate.
The pulse of panic. It slammed into Till like a fist.
“No.”
The word left him sharper than he intended.
Everyone turned. Mizi blinked. Hyuna’s brow furrowed. Luka didn’t say anything, didn’t even flinch.
“No,” Till said again, more firmly now. “That’s not the plan we talked about.”
Isaac gave him a look. Calm. Practical. “It is. It’s the plan we talked about.”
“No, you—he’s not even supposed to be here, and now you’re sending him off without me?”
Till stepped forward, his voice rising. “He doesn’t have meds. He hasn’t slept. If something happens to him—”
“We all agreed on this,” Isaac cut in. “The routes are safer this way. And Luka’s capable.”
Till’s fists clenched. “He lied. You all lied to me.”
Dewey shifted beside him, awkwardly watching. Mizi looked away.
Still, no one changed the plan.
No one even paused.
Till’s voice cracked, even as he tried to steel it. “You’re just going to separate us now? After everything?”
Hyuna crossed her arms. “We don’t have time to debate this. You think we want to split up? It’s the only way. You know that.”
But Till’s breathing was ragged. He looked at Luka—who still hadn’t said a word. Bandana around his neck, his eyes unreadable.
It wasn’t enough that he came. Now they were sending him off again. Into the same building that ruined them both.
Something snapped in him. Something old. Something terrified.
“I’m not okay with this,” Till said, quieter now, but far more dangerous. “I’m not.”
Isaac didn’t move. “You don’t have to be. You just have to move.”
The gate creaked open further with the wind.
They were out of time.
The moment they slipped through the gate and into the shadowed corridor of the arena, the group stilled. Dust and silence choked the air inside, the echo of their footsteps swallowed by cold concrete.
This was it.
They were in.
Isaac turned toward the others, ready to gesture toward the branching tunnels—Hyuna and Luka would go left with him, the rest right. They all knew their routes. They all knew what was at stake.
But before he could say a word, Till moved.
Fast. Unthinking. Heart in his throat.
He closed the distance between him and Luka in seconds, grabbing him by the back of the neck and the side of his face and pulling him in.
Their mouths collided—desperate, firm. Not gentle. Not soft.
Luka’s hands immediately found Till’s waist, clenching in the fabric of his jacket like he’d fall without the grip. The kiss was raw and silent and everything Till couldn’t say—don’t you dare die, don’t you fucking die, I’ll see you soon.
Behind them, Dewey whispered, “I told you,” low enough for only Isaac to hear.
Isaac didn’t respond.
No one said anything.
The rest looked away, or down, or simply waited—for the kiss to break, for the moment to end, for the war to resume.
But Till didn’t care.
He leaned into Luka, pressed their foreheads together when he finally pulled back, eyes flickering over every inch of him. His voice was a whisper, just for him. “This isn’t goodbye.”
Luka gave a shaky nod. “I know.”
Till lingered a second more—then turned before he lost the strength to.
He didn’t look back as he followed Mizi and Dewey down the opposite tunnel.
But he felt it.
Luka watching him go.
And everything in him burned to turn around.
The kiss still burned on his lips as they slipped into the shadows.
Luka didn’t look back.
He couldn’t.
If he did, he’d break.
The weight of Till’s hands still lingered — on his face — but now, the warmth was gone, and the silence around him wasn’t romantic or intimate. It was cold. Sharp. The mission had officially started.
Beside him, Hyuna moved with purpose, scanning corners with practiced eyes. Isaac gave curt hand signals, leading them deeper into the maze of concrete and steel. There were no guards in sight — not yet — but that almost made it worse. The quiet felt staged. Like the building was waiting.
He followed without a word. He didn’t dare break the tension.
He knew Till was angry. He’d felt the weight of that kiss — how desperate it was. It wasn’t love, not in that moment. It was fear. It was ‘don’t die.’ It was if this is the last time I touch you, remember me.
Luka bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to ground himself.
Focus. You’re here. You made your choice.
They had to find the access point to the underground. If the rumors were right, there were hidden elevators somewhere behind the main staging area — not the obvious ones, but old ones. Forgotten, dusty. The kind used by people who didn’t want to be seen.
The three of them moved silently past abandoned tech rooms and dim corridors, the fluorescent lights overhead flickering. Somewhere above them, Luka could faintly hear a speaker testing. Alien Stage rehearsals had likely begun. It was happening. It was really happening.
Hyuna turned to him briefly. “You okay?”
He nodded once. Lie. But she didn’t push it.
They’d trained for this. But training didn’t prepare you for the smell of dust and death and blood in the air.
Isaac stopped suddenly at the end of a hallway, holding a hand out to stop them.
“There,” he whispered.
On the far wall, mostly hidden behind stacked crates and loose wiring, was a rusted door with a biometric lock. It looked inactive. Old. Exactly the kind of entrance no one would look twice at.
Isaac knelt beside the panel, pulling something small from his bag — a modified scanner. He started working in silence, wires sparking under his careful fingers.
Luka glanced at Hyuna. Her jaw was tight. She hadn’t spoken since.
He hated this part. The waiting. Knowing that behind the door, something was waiting — maybe the truth. Maybe horror. Maybe nothing.
If the rumors were real…
Luka swallowed hard.
Then Till was right to be afraid.
But Luka was right to come.
The door hissed open with a reluctant groan.
It hadn’t been opened in a long time.
The air that spilled out was stale — thick with dust and metal. It smelled like rust and rot. Not blood, not exactly. But not clean either.
Isaac went in first, a flashlight sweeping the dark, narrow passage.
They stepped into a sloped hallway — metal-lined, descending deeper. A service corridor, maybe. Not on any map. Definitely pre-Alien Stage. Maybe even pre-Anakt Corp. Luka felt the temperature drop with every step.
They descended in silence.
At the end of the passage, the hallway opened into a wide chamber — empty, at first glance. Just walls, stripped of paint. Crates. A few panels of old tech with blinking red lights, long disconnected.
But then Hyuna noticed the dust.
Footprints. Multiple pairs. Recent.
Someone had been here.
Luka’s skin crawled.
Isaac signaled for them to move forward. Luka followed, eyes sharp.
They found the elevators tucked in the back wall — heavy industrial ones, wide enough to move crates, maybe even stage equipment. But these weren’t in use anymore. One was dead entirely. The other had a manual override panel beside it. It looked old, but not untouched. The dust was disturbed. The lock was recently accessed.
“Someone is using this,” Hyuna whispered. Her voice was tight. Nervous.
Isaac nodded. “We’re close.”
Luka stepped back from the elevator and looked around the room again.
That was when he saw it — in the corner.
A chute. Steel. Large. Hinged. Streaks of something dry along the edge.
It looked like a disposal unit.
“Hyuna,” he called softly, nodding toward it.
She moved over, crouched. The streaks were too dry to identify. Blood? Oil?
“Could be a waste,” she said. “Could be worse.”
Luka didn’t respond. He didn’t want to guess.
Isaac was already at the override panel, working on bringing power back to the elevator. The moment it lit up, a deep mechanical rumble filled the room — echoing through the floor.
It moved.
Slowly.
Painfully.
The elevator groaned open.
A blast of air rushed up from the shaft — ice cold.
Luka took a step forward and shined his light down into the darkness.
It was deeper than he thought.
Much deeper.
And carved into the cement wall at the back of the shaft, in faded white paint, was a number:
“Sector C - Preservation.”
Hyuna stared at it, voice low. “Preservation of what?”
Luka didn’t answer.
But something inside him was screaming.
Don’t go down there.
You need to.
He set his jaw. “Let’s move.”
★
They stayed on the main floors.
Till moved quietly behind Dewey, who walked ahead with purpose, while Mizi stuck close to Till’s side, silent, her eyes locked on every door they passed.
It hurts to be here.
Worse than Till had prepared for. Worse than he thought it would be.
Even without the screaming. Even without the pain.
Just walking these halls again was like dragging open a half-healed wound.
Unlike the Anakt Garden, they hadn’t been allowed to wander here. There were no accidental encounters. No lingering in corridors. Every hour had a purpose. Every room had a number. Every moment had to be accounted for.
He passed one of the studios — narrow, cold, mirrors smeared from years of use. He remembered standing there, spine straight, shoulders back, one breath away from breaking.
They found nothing on the first floor.
Not even signs of movement. Not a single guard. Just abandoned chairs, cables, crates.
They moved to the second floor.
Till’s footsteps were too loud in his own ears, though he knew he was being careful. Mizi said nothing. Her hand was hovering near the gun at her side, though they hadn’t seen any threat.
Maybe they were too late.
Or maybe the threat was just deeper.
Till’s eyes flicked to the upper levels, toward the direction of the stage. He wondered where the kids were. If they were already being prepared. If they were getting strapped into things they didn’t understand.
Then they heard it.
The music.
Faint at first, but unmistakable — filtered through the ventilation like a ghost. The harsh, digital pulse of Alien Stage.
Till froze. So did Dewey and Mizi.
They all turned slowly toward the sound.
“…Shit,” Dewey muttered, voice flat. “That’s the final rehearsal, isn’t it?”
Till nodded, his chest tightening.
That meant the kids were already up there — every one of them. All of them gathered around the main stage for the final test. For the final prep before the show.
They wouldn’t be able to get them. Not now.
But at least—
“No guards,” Mizi said under her breath, scanning the hall. “They’re all needed up there.”
A small mercy.
Till looked back the way they came, as if he could still see Luka.
They were running out of time.
And they hadn’t found anything yet.
The medical wing was tucked behind two grey doors at the far end of the hall, partially open like someone had left in a hurry.
Till pushed one door with his fingertips.
The lights inside flickered dimly, buzzing overhead. Cold, sharp air met his face — sterile, metallic, wrong.
Rows of narrow beds lined the walls. Thin white sheets. Restraint straps dangling from the sides. Some beds were still stained.
He didn’t go in at first.
His throat closed up.
Mizi stepped beside him. She didn’t speak, just rested her hand briefly on his arm before moving ahead to check the corners.
Till followed slowly, his eyes scanning the beds, the monitors, the unused IVs.
He probably lay on one of these.
He tried not to picture it.
But he couldn’t stop the image — Luka, smaller than he was now, wrists strapped down, eyes hollow. Machines buzzing. Someone adjusting something he couldn’t see.
Luka had spent too much of his life in hospital beds.
And not all of them had been in a real hospital.
Till clenched his fists.
He was thankful Luka wasn’t here.
Nothing in the drawers. No power to the computers. Even the cabinets with medical records had been stripped clean.
Just ghosts left behind.
They exited quickly.
The next door down was locked. Dewey crouched near it before anyone could speak, already pulling out his tools.
“Eyes up,” Mizi warned softly, drawing her gun. “This one’s guarded.”
Till’s heart jumped.
That door.
He knew that door.
Behind it was a reinforced file room. He remembered being escorted past it once. White walls. A glass chamber at the center. Locked drawers with names they weren’t allowed to see.
Files on the contestants. Data. Footage. Details on the implants. Everything they had no right to own — and everything they might need now.
Dewey cursed under his breath. “This one’s newer. Magnetic.”
“How many guards?” Till asked, already peeking around the corner.
Mizi answered without looking. “Three. Two standard rifles, one stun baton.”
He nodded.
There was no time to wait.
Whatever was behind that door—they needed it.
★
The air shifted as they moved further down.
Colder.
Thicker.
Each step echoed too loud on the metal flooring, every sound bouncing down the long corridor like it didn’t want to be alone.
Luka’s flashlight barely cut through the darkness. The walls were smooth, gray, unfinished. No markings. No rooms. Just one long, endless hallway that made his skin crawl.
He hated this place.
It wasn’t just quiet — it was dead.
Nothing lived down here.
No cameras. No voices. Not even those creepy screens that watched you blink. Just the hum of the vents above and the shuffle of their boots.
What the hell was this place for?
He cursed under his breath. “Fucking hell…”
Hyuna threw him a sharp glance but didn’t say anything. She probably felt it too.
It was too clean. Too empty.
Too planned.
If the rumors were true — if they really kept bodies down here — this would be the perfect place for it. Hidden beneath the glitter and lights of the stage. Cold. Forgotten.
His stomach turned.
He didn’t want to see it.
And yet, they kept going.
They had to.
Finally, at the end of the hallway, the metal wall split.
Two massive, industrial doors stood ahead. Seamless. No window. Just a single red panel pulsing dimly beside them.
They stopped.
No one moved right away.
Isaac scanned the top of the frame, his jaw tight. “This has power.”
“Not on backup,” Hyuna added. “This is connected to something bigger.”
Luka’s fingers slid down to the handle of his weapon.
He glanced sideways — Hyuna had hers already out, Isaac too. No one said it, but they were thinking the same thing.
Whatever was behind that door wasn’t storage.
It wasn’t safe.
He steadied his breath, barely, and lifted his weapon.
They all shared one look.
Then Luka said quietly, “On three?”
Isaac nodded.
“One…”
“Two…”
“Three.”
Isaac slammed his hand to the panel. The doors let out a heavy mechanical groan before dragging open, metal grinding against metal. They raised their weapons—
But nothing came.
No alarm. No footsteps. No guards.
Just… air.
Hot air.
The moment they stepped in, it hit them — thick and suffocating, like walking into a furnace sealed shut for years. The room was darker than the hallway, dust heavy in the air, catching in the beam of Luka’s flashlight like ash.
“God” he muttered, pulling his collar up over his mouth. “It stinks.”
It did. The smell wasn’t rot — not exactly— but something stale and metallic. The heat made it worse. A dry, industrial stink like rust, oil, and something chemical.
They spread out, boots crunching over the dust-coated floor. No lights. No machinery humming. No signs of activity.
“Looks abandoned,” Hyuna whispered, sweeping the far corner with her flashlight. “But… recent.”
Luka caught it too — the way the dust trailed oddly, the smudge marks on the walls, the scratches near the back door. Someone had been here. Someone had used this place. Just… not lately.
His stomach twisted again. He didn’t know if he wanted to find anything. Part of him hoped the rumors were wrong. That they came down here for nothing.
But they moved forward.
There were tables. A few chairs overturned. A broken light fixture lying in the corner. And at the very end of the room — more doors.
Luka’s breath fogged slightly in front of him. It wasn’t cold. He blinked. Not fog. Steam?
Hyuna was already moving toward the second set of doors. She looked back at him and Isaac.
“Ready?”
Luka nodded, hand tight on his weapon again. “Let’s finish this.”
They crossed the room slowly, scanning every inch before approaching the three doors lined along the back wall.
The first one opened with a hiss, and Luka stepped inside first.
A storage room.
Boxes stacked to the ceiling, most of them sealed or half-collapsed. Shelves of unidentifiable machine parts lined the walls — wires, panels, tubes, some medical-looking, others industrial. He ran a gloved hand over a dusty console, frowning.
“Looks like building materials,” Isaac muttered behind him. “Spare tech. Not useful.”
“Not what we’re here for,” Hyuna added, her voice tense.
They backed out and closed the door behind them.
Second door.
Luka didn’t know why, but something made him hesitate before reaching for the panel. The air was already different. Heavy. Still.
He opened it anyway.
The moment the door slid open, they all stopped.
Cold.
The heat from before was gone — replaced by a biting chill that crept in under his clothes, slicked over his skin like ice water.
“What the hell…?” Hyuna whispered.
They stepped in cautiously.
It was a large, sterile room. Empty, except for a single metal table in the center. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, flickering once. The walls were lined with large compartments—square, industrial units. Luka’s breath caught.
He knew what this was.
A morgue.
His stomach turned violently.
Hyuna moved ahead, reaching the table first. It was spotless. Too spotless. Wiped down with intent. Like it had been used recently. Or was still waiting to be.
Then came the sound. A click.
Isaac had opened one of the compartments.
“No—” Luka started, too late.
The drawer slid out.
Inside, a body.
A boy. Young. Still in a thin stage outfit. His eyes were closed, lips pale. Hands folded neatly over his chest. Luka took an unsteady step back, bile rising in his throat.
There were more.
So many more.
Every drawer they opened revealed another child. Some looked untouched. Others—
He turned away, covering his mouth with his arm, breath shaking.
“This is what they did,” Hyuna said, voice low and cold. “This is where they brought the ones who didn’t make it.”
Luka’s fingers dug into the edge of the table as he tried to steady himself. The cold in the room wasn’t just physical now — it had sunk into his bones, into the base of his spine. It was grief, it was guilt, it was rot.
He looked around, and it was too obvious now.
These weren’t bodies waiting for burial. There were no rites here. No reverence. Just drawers. Just names printed in fading ink. Just tools and tables like they were nothing more than materials—scraps of a failed experiment.
Because the Segyeins hadn’t been burying the dead.
And the owners of the contestants… They didn’t care anymore, did they?
They had lost their property. That’s all it was to them.
So they kept the bodies here, cold and silent, until they were forgotten. Until someone needed a part, or a sample, or some sick curiosity answered.
Luka’s gaze swept the room again. The tray of instruments beside the table gleamed beneath the flickering light. He didn’t want to think about what they were used for. What was done to these bodies. Dissected? Augmented? Stored like they might be useful again?
He clenched his jaw and looked away.
And then he saw her.
Hyuna hadn’t moved.
She stood frozen in front of one of the drawers, her hand hovering just inches from the label.
Luka didn’t need to read it. He knew.
They had to put the names, didn’t they?
They wanted to catalogue their losses.
“Hyunwoo,” Luka whispered under his breath.
The first blood on his hands.
He remembered it too vividly.
It wasn’t blood that made Luka’s hands feel heavy—it was the moment before.
The push. The shouting. The rock. Hyunwoo slipping out of his grip. Luka backing away like he didn’t understand what happened. Like he didn’t mean to.
Because he hadn’t.
But Hyunwoo was still dead.
And Hyuna had still looked at him that day like her whole world had gone silent.
She said she forgave him.
He knew she meant it.
But forgiveness didn’t erase it. Not when the body was probably here.
He took a step closer to her, slowly.
“Hyuna…” he said, barely audible.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t turn. Her hands were clenched at her sides. Not shaking. Just tight. She had locked herself in the moment.
He didn’t say anything else.
He couldn’t.
What was there to say?
That he was sorry? Again?
That it should’ve been him?
That he never stopped thinking about it?
He stayed beside her, close enough for her to push him if she wanted. Close enough to share the cold.
She didn’t move.
And he didn’t look away from the name.
It doesn’t really make sense though, usually kids who died in Anakt Garden…their ashes were spread from the ceiling making the other kids believe it's snow, Luka obviously realised that after Hyunwoo’s death. When he was sitting next to Hyuna, crying, snow falling on them, only later to realise it was Hyunwoo’s ashes. So it doesn’t make sense. Was his body here first? Perhaps for experiments? He doesn’t want to put this image in his head. He really doesn’t want to think about this.
His gaze dropped.
And then it drifted—unwillingly, like it didn’t want to see but had no choice.
Further down the row of drawers, another pair of names stopped him cold.
Ivan.
Sua.
Right next to each other.
His chest tightened, his lips parting on a sharp breath he didn’t release.
Fuck.
He looked away, then forced himself to look again. Like if he blinked too fast, they’d disappear, and he could lie to himself a little longer.
But they didn’t.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, biting back a sound of rage and grief. This room felt like a trap—like if he stayed in here too long, it would pull him under too.
He was glad Mizi and Till weren’t here.
They didn’t need to see this. Not like this.
Till would’ve stood frozen, staring at Ivan’s name, trying not to scream. Mizi… she’d crumble.
He could barely keep himself standing.
“Shit…” Luka whispered, turning away from the wall, the names, the cold.
There was nothing else to say.
Just grief hanging in the air like dust.
“Luka!”
His head jerked up.
Isaac’s voice rang from across the hallway—sharp, urgent, the kind of tone he only used when it mattered.
Luka took one last glance at the drawers, then turned and moved, fast, out the morgue room. His boots echoed down the hall as he rejoined the others.
They were standing in the third room now, the last one.
Isaac didn’t even look at him. His eyes were fixed on the towering shelves inside. The others stood still, silent.
It was cold here too. Not like before—but the kind of cold that sank in slowly, the kind that came with realization.
Files.
Hundreds. Thousands.
Stacked in pristine order, each one labeled, dated, stamped.
Sorted neatly into boxes. Into seasons.
Alien Stage had fifty seasons.
And this was where it all ended.
“All of them,” Isaac said, voice low. “Everyone who died in this building. Their records are here.”
He moved aside so Luka could see more clearly. Each shelf was labeled with a number.
Season 1. Season 2. Season 3.
All the way to 50.
“Two morgues,” Luks said, voice hollow. “Two whole rooms. Fifty seasons.”
“Someone else can do the count,” Isaac muttered. “I’m not touching that math.”
No one laughed.
No one breathed.
And Luka could feel it—how far the silence stretched. How deep this place went. This wasn’t just the end of their friends.
This was a mass grave.
Organized. Sanitized. Filed away like it was just another part of the job.
Alien Stage had always been cruel. But this?
This was ritualized.
Luka swallowed, his throat dry. He didn’t even know what they were looking for anymore.
Maybe it didn’t matter.
They found what was left of the dead.
★
The guard hit the floor with a heavy thud, unconscious.
Dewey stepped over him silently, already turning to watch the hallway.
“Three minutes,” he muttered. “Maybe less.”
Till and Mizi didn’t waste time.
The room was clean—sickeningly so. Cold metal tables. Bright white lights overhead. No dust, no signs of disuse. This place has been active recently.
The files were already laid out.
Season 51.
Till’s stomach turned.
Mizi moved ahead, flipping open the first folder. She went still.
He stepped up beside her.
Inside—just like before—was a photo.
A young boy. Wide-eyed. Maybe thirteen.
Below it:
Name.
Owner.
Height. Weight.
Assigned Talents.
The songs that they are supposed to sing.
He picked up another. Then another.
Each one, a child. Labeled. Catalogued. Stamped with the symbol of Alien Stage at the top corner like it was a brand.
“These are all of them,” Mizi whispered
He looked down at one photo. A girl with freckles. Smiling just a little. There was a note in the margin: Uncooperative. Improving. Like it was just a report card.
His chest tightened.
They hadn’t walked these halls much when they were here. In Anakt Garden, there had been some freedom. Not much. But enough to breathe.
Here, though… The schedule had been relentless. Practice. Practice. Practice.
Only the worthy moved on. The rest just—disappeared.
Till glanced at the door. Dewey was still there, tense and watching.
He forced himself to focus again.
One of the files was marked “Pre-Stage Evaluation: 48 Hours.”
That meant the show was coming soon.
They didn’t have time.
Mizi picked up another file, flipping to the back pages.
There were updates written in red. Some of the kids had already been moved. A note beside one of them: Final Medical Adjustments Complete. Cleared for Performance.
Adjustments.
Till didn’t even want to ask.
His jaw clenched.
“I’m taking this one,” Mizi said, slipping it into her jacket. Her voice was tight. “We’re not leaving without evidence.”
He nodded.
And then he picked up one more file—just to keep his hands busy. Just to keep himself from shaking.
A boy. Maybe eleven. Black ink scribbled across the corner of the page: OWNER REFUSED CLAIM.
Unclaimed.
And still forced to perform.
He set the file down carefully.
They were all just kids.
They took as many files as they could fit. Evidence. Faces. Names. Even if they couldn’t save everyone—someone had to remember them.
But there was nothing else in that room. Just paper trails of exploitation.
They left quickly, Dewey checking corners with his gun raised, Mizi holding the file clutched to her chest like it would vanish if she let go.
“We need something worse,” Dewey muttered. “Something real. Not just numbers.”
Till nodded.
They kept searching.
The second floor was a blur. Room after room. Cabinets. Offices. Conference tables. Monitors that had already been wiped clean.
They ran faster now, urgency mounting in their steps.
Nothing.
Nothing.
They pushed through doors, checked for safes, yanked open every drawer, pulled at cracked wall panels for hidden wiring. Something. But the floor was scrubbed. Hollow.
The Segyeins had cleaned it.
They didn’t want to leave empty-handed—but worse, they didn’t want to leave with just paper.
By the time they hit the third floor, their hearts were racing—not from fear, but from frustration.
They knew this level.
They had lived on this level.
Their rooms. Their routines. Where they lined up to be inspected before the next round. Where they were fed, cleaned, changed, drilled.
The walls hadn’t changed.
It smelled the same.
Mizi slowed near one of the doors, eyes flickering over the number etched into the metal. Her hand hesitated on the handle.
“Is this—?”
He didn’t let her finish.
“Don’t,” he said, hoarse.
He didn’t want to remember which one had been his.
They were beneath the stage now. Exactly beneath it.
The air thrummed above them with the weight of the performance about to begin—music, cheering, countdowns.
And here they were, digging through the dust of their own history, trying to find a crack in the machine.
But there was nothing here.
They had taken everything.
Sanitized it.
Made it livable again, maybe even for the new contestants.
His throat burned.
No blood on these floors. No hidden labs. Just childhood memories soaked in fear.
And still…
Still they carried the files.
Even if it wasn’t enough.
Even if this mission failed.
They would not let those kids vanish.
★
He didn’t mean to look.
He wasn’t supposed to. He told himself not to.
But the file was right there. Season 50. The last one before everything went to hell. The last one before the resistance found out.
He told himself it would just be a glance. Just information. Something useful.
He flipped it open.
Height, weight, blood type. Talents. Voice range. Movement ability. Emotional capacity.
Normal.
The same as always.
But then—
His fingers froze.
The last pages were different. Stained, red. A different kind of red. Not ink. Not a print mark.
Notes.
Reports.
“Subject lost function after fourth evaluation.”
“The owner refused reclamation. No transfer permitted.”
“No burial. Medical dissection approved.”
Luka’s stomach turned.
He kept reading.
His eyes moved faster than his brain could process.
Why are you still looking?
The pages blurred, but the words sharpened, slicing into him.
“Autopsy authorized. Preservation: partial.”
“Display documentation: attached.”
Then came the photographs.
He hadn’t meant to see those either.
He blinked—and there they were.
A dozen shots laid out in a pocket sleeve. Cold table. Colder skin. Stripped.
No names. No dignity.
Some with incisions. Some with tags.
All of them so young.
All of them—
Why?
Why keep them?
Why open them?
They were dead.
They were kids.
They had sung for them. Danced for them. Bled for them.
Why—
He shoved the folder back like it burned.
His hands shook.
He wanted to throw up.
No—he was going to throw up.
He staggered back until his shoulder hit the wall, his chest tight, eyes unfocused, trying to breathe around the bile in his throat.
Behind him, Hyuna hadn’t moved. She was still standing in front of Hyunwoo’s name, staring at it like it might wake up.
Isaac was pulling files without reading, collecting them like evidence in a trial no one would ever attend.
But Luka couldn’t move.
His gaze dropped again, against his will.
Another photo had slipped out, fallen on the floor.
A boy.
Eyes open.
Tears still on his cheeks.
Luka turned away, covered his mouth, and sank to his knees.
He couldn’t breathe.
And all he could think was—
What if Till had been one of them.
Isaac gets all the files in the bagpack, it’s enough evidence, they get out of there, there are no other rooms, they need to get back to the others.
Luka really needs to see Till right now.
★
The third floor was as silent as the rest of the building, but the air felt heavier here.
Till’s boots scraped faintly against the old tiles, each step echoing down the hallway. Dewey walked ahead, rifle low but ready, glancing into each open doorway. Mizi stayed close to Till’s side, her eyes darting around like she expected someone to jump out.
These were their rooms. He remembered the exact corners, the shape of the doors, the faint marks on the walls where the paint had chipped. He’d spent nights here, counting the hours until his turn to go on stage, until the lights blinded him and the music swallowed everything.
It was too quiet.
“Nothing here either,” Dewey muttered, checking the last door.
Till let his gaze drift down the hallway. No movement. No sound but their breathing. The files from the second floor weighed heavy in his hands — all those new faces, smiling in their photographs, not knowing where they’d end up.
Then, faintly, the click of footsteps somewhere below. He froze, holding up a hand.
Mizi’s eyes met his, tense.
“That them?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he tilted his head, listening. Another footstep, then a low voice, just out of range.
Dewey’s grip on his rifle tightened.
“We go down?”
Till nodded. They still had nothing damning enough to bring Alien Stage down, but maybe the others did.
They moved quickly, slipping down the narrow stairwell, the voices getting clearer with each step until—
“Till.”
He looked up and saw Luka’s silhouette at the end of the hall, Isaac and Hyuna just behind him.
The sound of his name was all it took. He didn’t even think.
His boots pounded against the floor as he closed the distance, and before Luka could react, Till’s arms were around him.
Luka stiffened for a heartbeat, caught off guard, then exhaled slowly, one hand hovering before settling against Till’s back.
“You’re okay,” Till murmured, the words muffled against Luka’s shoulder.
Luka’s chest rose and fell unevenly. “Yeah. You too.”
It wasn’t the place for it — the air here reeked of dust and something worse, and Isaac was already glancing over his shoulder like they’d overstayed their welcome — but for a few seconds, Till didn’t care. Luka was here. Alive.
Till finally stepped back, scanning Luka’s face like he was looking for proof. “What did you find?”
Luka’s expression shifted, shadowed by something heavy. “You don’t want to know.”
Isaac cut in before Till could press, his voice clipped. “We’ve got enough. Let’s move before someone comes down here.”
Till didn’t move when Isaac started toward the hallway.
He’d seen Luka wear every kind of expression — smug, annoyed, bored — but this one was different. His skin looked paler, his eyes glassy but unfocused, like whatever he’d just seen had yanked him somewhere else entirely.
Mizi noticed too. “What happened down there?” she asked quietly.
“Nothing we need to talk about here,” Isaac said, his tone final.
“Bullshit,” Till snapped, stepping in front of Luka before he could follow Isaac. “You don’t look like that over nothing.”
Luka’s gaze flicked to him, then away. “Till—”
“No.” Till’s voice shook, not with anger but with a deep, gnawing dread. “I’ve been in this place. I know what it can do. If you saw something—”
“We saw a lot of things,” Luka cut in, sharper now, but it sounded more like self-defense than actual bite.
“Then tell us,” Mizi said, moving closer, her eyes narrowing. “Because if it’s as bad as your face says it is, we need to know. We can’t just—”
“Not here,” Luka said again, but softer this time. He glanced at the ceiling, at the faint vibration in the walls from the music above. “Trust me. Just… not here.”
Till’s stomach knotted. He didn’t like it — the way Luka wouldn’t meet his eyes, the way Isaac’s jaw was tight — but he let it drop for now.
Only for now.
They finally moved, their footsteps echoing in the too-quiet hall. Till stayed a few paces behind Luka, unable to stop glancing at him. His eyes were distant, unfocused, like he wasn’t even seeing the walls they passed. And when his gaze did meet Till’s — just for a heartbeat — there was something almost apologetic there.
Hyuna walked ahead, her shoulders stiff, eyes red like she’d been crying. She didn’t look at anyone.
Till’s stomach twisted.
Fuck.
Were the rumors true? Had they really… seen the bodies?
He didn’t ask again. Whatever it was, it was written all over their faces. And right now, it felt like one wrong word would make the whole thing collapse. So he just kept walking, each step heavier than the last.
Till kept walking, watching Luka’s back disappear into the shadows ahead, when Isaac’s voice cut through the silence.
“We don’t have much time,” he said, low but sharp. “If we’re doing this, we do it now.”
Everyone stopped.
Hyuna turned to him. “The contestants?”
“They’re on stage,” Mizi said quickly. “Final rehearsal. All the guards are focused there — we’ll never get them out without tipping the whole building off.”
“We can’t leave them.” Dewey’s tone was almost a growl.
“No,” Isaac agreed, “but if we destroy the stage, destroy the files, destroy everything in here, Season 51 never happens. We’ll be saving a lot of people. The owners will scatter before they can rebuild.”
“If they scatter,” Luka muttered, but he was already checking his ammo.
The air felt heavier now — not with grief, but with something electric. A decision.
“We set charges,” Isaac said. “Four points. Basement, medical, main stage, and the entry hall. We’ll meet back here in eight minutes.”
Mizi snapped open her bag. Small, rectangular explosives clinked together inside. “Timers or remote?”
“Remote,” Isaac answered. “We go up through the stage, plant it underneath the platform supports. Bring the whole thing down.”
Till’s chest was tight. “And the contestants?”
“We give them a chance to run,” Hyuna said. “Cut the lights. Sound the alarms. They’ll think it’s a fire drill until they hear the blast.”
The plan wasn’t perfect — it was desperate. But desperate was all they had.
They moved fast. Down one hallway, up another, their footsteps hammering the floors. Somewhere above, the muffled thump of music still played, oblivious to what was coming.
Till’s pulse raced as they pushed through the doors into the backstage area, the glow of the stage lights leaking under the curtain. Guards were thin here, distracted by the performance. Isaac gave a quick hand signal — two down each side, silent takedowns, no bullets.
Till grabbed one by the collar and yanked him back into the dark, Mizi knocking the man out cold with the butt of her gun. Across the way, Luka slid a knife between a guard’s armor plates, catching him before he hit the floor. No hesitation. No sound.
They pushed on. Every second counted.
Isaac’s fingers flicked twice. Go.
Till darted left with Mizi, weaving through crates and scaffolding until the roar of the music overhead became a vibrating pulse in his ribs. He knelt under the stage’s massive steel supports, hands trembling only slightly as Mizi unpacked the charges.
“Two here, two there,” she said, already setting the magnetic clamps. The red arm of the detonator light winked to life.
Till’s eyes flicked upward — shadowy silhouettes pacing on the stage above them. Contestants, rehearsing. Kids. He swallowed hard, forcing his hands to work faster.
The second charge clicked into place. They had two minutes before meeting back at the rendezvous.
“Move,” Mizi hissed, shoving the empty pack over her shoulder.
Up in the medical wing, the air was still icy, and the fluorescent lights buzzed like flies. Luka’s boots crunched on something brittle — a fallen scalpel, or maybe a shard of glass — as Hyuna pulled open the heavy morgue door.
“Make it quick,” she said, posting herself in the hall with her rifle.
Luka crouched, slapping a charge against the underside of the central autopsy table, the sticky pad anchoring with a dull thunk. Another went behind the file cabinets, where fire would eat the paper before the blast even hit.
For a second, his eyes caught on the corner of a photo lying face-up on the desk. A boy’s smiling face, black marker spelling his number. He looked away fast.
“Done,” Luka muttered.
They hit the main stairwell at the same time as Dewey, who had powder burns on his sleeves.
“Guards are starting to notice,” Dewey panted.
They didn’t have time to discuss it — the lights above flickered, a ripple of confusion spreading through the music.
Mizi grinned. “That’s our cue.”
In the basement storage, Isaac was finishing the last placement. He straightened, voice sharp: “Go. Now.”
They regrouped under the catwalk. The air had changed — not just tense, but vibrating, wrong. Up above, a contestant’s voice cracked mid-line. The music stuttered. Then came the blare of the fire alarm.
Stagehands burst into shouts, herding the contestants toward the side exits. Chaos bloomed instantly — some ran, some froze. Guards scrambled, their attention split.
“Thirty seconds!” Mizi yelled over the siren.
Till shoved through the panicked crowd, grabbing the arm of a kid in glittered boots. “Go! Get out!” he shouted, pushing them toward the fire door.
Across the stage, Luka was doing the same, his face set like stone, barking orders at anyone who hesitated.
The countdown buzzed in his earpiece — Isaac’s voice steady: “Ten… nine… eight…”
Luka shoved another contestant through the curtain and bolted for the side stairs.
“…three… two… one—”
The world tore apart.
A column of heat and light surged upward from beneath the stage, the metal screaming as supports bent and snapped. Fire rolled across the curtains like it had been waiting for this moment.
The crowd’s panic became a single, wordless roar.
The blast was a punch from every direction at once — light, heat, sound slamming through his ribs. The stage buckled under his boots, the boards groaning like something alive.
And for a moment, he wasn’t here.
He was there. Again. Under those lights, with the music too loud and the crowd screaming his name for all the wrong reasons. His lungs locked, his ears ringing.
A voice — Luka? — or maybe it was Mizi — yanked him back. Smoke poured across the stage like a living thing, curling low and hot.
Luka’s knees nearly gave out as the shockwave passed. Not because of fear — not exactly — but because of what flashed through his mind.
Season 50.
The tables. The photographs. The cold air in the morgue.
They’d never get to bury them all. The rebels wouldn’t have time, the Segyein wouldn’t allow it. But the flames were already taking what the aliens had left behind. No one would touch them again. That was something. That was freedom enough.
The stage trembled again, throwing him forward. His teeth clicked hard enough to sting.
“Guards incoming — everywhere,” someone crackled in Luka’s earpiece. Outside, the rebels’ voices were a mix of panic and command. “Segyeins have the kids. They’re pulling out.”
That meant the contestants were safe. For now. But none of them were.
Till was suddenly at Luka’s side, coughing into the bandana he’d yanked up over his face. Luka did the same, the cloth damp almost instantly from the heat in the air.
The two locked eyes through the haze. Till’s gaze was sharp, scanning his face like he was checking for blood. Luka just jerked his head toward the far wings. Move.
They ran.
The heat chased them, eating the curtains, licking at the catwalk above. Every shake of the ground felt like the last one before the whole place gave out.
The ceiling groaned above them — a deep, twisting sound that didn’t belong to anything alive — before a chunk of the catwalk crashed to the floor in a burst of sparks.
They ran.
Smoke clawed at their throats, even through the bandanas. Fire licked up the stage curtains, turning them to ribbons of black ash.
Till’s boot caught on a warped board and he went down hard, the air knocked out of him.
“—Till!” Luka was on him instantly, one hand yanking him up, the other cradling his own wrist where angry red heat had already blistered the skin. No time to care.
Gunshots cracked somewhere ahead. Close.
Luka grabbed Till’s hand and didn’t let go, hauling him forward. Every breath scraped his lungs raw, his chest clenching tighter and tighter until it felt like something was squeezing the life out of him. His heart slammed against his ribs, too fast, too hard, like it might quit altogether.
They kept running — over splintered boards, under collapsing beams — the fire chasing them faster than their legs could carry.
The exit was there. Right there. Just a few more steps and they’d be out—
The ceiling gave way with a deafening crack.
A wall of flaming debris crashed down between them and the open air, the blast of heat knocking them backward. Smoke poured in, thick and choking.
Through the haze, Till saw shapes — their own people — already outside, shouting, reaching for them, but the gap was sealed.
Half of them are out.
Half of them are still inside.
And the fire was closing in.
Chapter Text
The heat slammed into them like a living thing, forcing the air from Till’s lungs. He coughed hard, the smoke clawing at his throat, stinging his eyes until he could barely see Luka’s face through the blur. Someone was shouting his name — maybe Mizi, maybe Hyuna — but it was muffled under the roar of the fire.
Luka grabbed his wrist, dragging him back as another beam cracked overhead. Sparks rained down like burning snow. The only way out now was deeper inside, away from the flames blocking the door — but that meant running blind into the maze of collapsing hallways, with the building groaning like it was ready to bury them alive.
Outside, the gunfire hadn’t stopped. Inside, the fire was winning.
And they were running out of both time and air.
Luka’s grip on Till was iron, almost desperate, as they ducked under a falling cable that spat blue sparks across the floor. Somewhere behind them, Isaac was yelling orders, trying to keep the group together, but the smoke made it impossible to tell who was still with them and who had made it out.
They stumbled past a wall of lockers that had toppled over, blocking half the hall. Luka didn’t let go, shoving Till ahead and covering his own mouth with the bandana, his shoulders heaving with each breath. His chest sounded like it was tearing itself apart, but he kept moving, faster, like slowing down wasn’t an option.
A section of the ceiling caved in ahead with a deafening crash, sending them skidding to a halt. The exit was somewhere beyond the flames and rubble — but all Till could see was twisted metal and the shadow of the stage above them groaning as if it might drop entirely.
Through the haze, Till caught Hyuna’s silhouette waving them back, her voice sharp:
“Not that way! MOVE!”
The ground shook, another blast rumbling from deep within the building. The air pressure shifted, heat surging past them — and that was when Till realized the fire had sealed off every direction except one.
The only way left… was toward the backstage tunnels.
The same ones they swore they’d never set foot in again.
The sound was a living thing.
Screaming steel. Roaring fire. The deafening slam of concrete sealing their way out.
Till’s ears rang from the impact, vision blotched white for a second before shapes began to form again — Hyuna and Isaac on the other side of the collapsed exit, their shouts muffled by the smoke. Mizi’s arm was around Dewey, dragging him back from the falling debris. The gap was gone. Completely gone.
“Shit—” Luka’s voice tore through the chaos, raw and ragged, his hand tightening around Till’s wrist.
The fire behind them surged, forcing the remaining half of the team to stumble deeper into the backstage tunnels. The air was hot enough to burn with every breath, even through the bandanas. Luka was coughing already, the sound rough and too familiar, but he didn’t slow.
No one spoke. There wasn’t time.
The floor vibrated under their feet — distant explosions still tearing through the upper levels, chunks of plaster raining down like hail.
Till’s chest heaved as they ran, every shadow in the flickering red light making the hall seem longer, tighter. Somewhere ahead, a heavy metal door slammed shut. Were they being herded?
He didn’t want to think about it.
Not now. Not when the only thing between them and being buried alive was the fact their legs were still moving.
They pounded down the narrow tunnel, the fire at their backs breathing down their necks. The air was thick enough to chew, the walls sweating heat.
Till could feel Luka’s grip weakening with every stride. Then, without warning, it yanked him to a stop.
Luka had doubled over, one hand braced against the wall, the other clawing at the bandana over his mouth. His chest heaved, pulling in nothing. A dry, rasping wheeze scraped from his throat.
“Luka—” Till’s voice cracked. He moved in front of him, instinctively shielding him from the smoke curling low along the ceiling.
“I—can’t—” Luka choked out, shaking his head hard. Even without seeing his eyes, Till could feel the panic radiating off him. The fabric over his face was supposed to help, but it was still choking him, keeping him from pulling in enough air.
Till ripped the bandana off him before Luka could protest.
The next inhale sounded like glass breaking inside his lungs.
Somewhere ahead, gunshots echoed — closer now. The fire behind them roared, licking into the tunnel, the heat on their backs like a threat. They had seconds.
“On me,” Till barked, grabbing Luka’s arm and forcing him forward.
Till yanked him forward, practically dragging him through the tunnel. Luka stumbled, every step a battle, breath tearing from his lungs in sharp, uneven bursts. His grip on Till’s sleeve was desperate now, his strength leaking away with each second.
The tunnel shook. Something behind them crashed down, sending a wave of heat and dust. They didn’t look back.
“Don’t stop,” Till growled, though it was as much to himself as to Luka. His own lungs were burning, the smoke finding its way in no matter how tightly he pressed the cloth over his mouth.
Luka’s knees buckled once, twice—Till caught him under the arm and forced him upright. “We’re almost there,” he lied.
Light finally broke ahead, flickering orange and red. The tunnel’s end.
They stumbled out into a nightmare. The sky was a low ceiling of smoke, the ground lit by fire crawling over the wreckage. Every breath was heat and ash.
Shouts tore through the chaos — the others, pinned behind what cover they could find, firing at guards pushing through the smoke.
Till shoved Luka behind a half-collapsed wall and scanned for the others. Isaac waved them over, Mizi covering with precise shots. The heat was unbearable — the building behind them groaned like it was alive, about to collapse for good.
“Move!” Isaac barked.
Till pulled Luka up again, and together they ran for the others. The fire chased them, sparks raining down, the air so hot it felt like it would peel skin. Luka didn’t let go of Till’s hand. Not once.
The moment they reached the vehicle, Isaac was already behind the wheel, engine roaring to life. Dewey and Hyuna took the sides, rifles snapping out quick, sharp bursts at the figures breaking through the smoke.
The doors slammed shut, and Isaac floored it. The tires screamed against the scorched road, jolting them forward.
Till half-fell into the backseat, pulling Luka with him. Luka collapsed instantly, his head in Till’s lap, chest heaving as if each breath had to fight its way through stone.
“Luka—hey—” Till tore the bandana from his face, but it didn’t help. Luka’s eyes were closed, lashes damp from sweat or tears — Till couldn’t tell. His body trembled under Till’s hands, every inhale shallow and broken.
The vehicle jolted as Isaac swerved hard, a bullet pinging off the side. Hyuna leaned out the window, returning fire without missing a beat. Dewey’s curses mixed with the gunshots.
“They’re following,” Dewey barked, reloading. “They’re not letting us go.”
Till barely heard him. He pressed his palm to Luka’s chest, feeling the frantic, uneven thud beneath. Luka’s lips were pale, almost blue.
“Stay with me,” Till muttered, the words slipping out low, urgent. Luka didn’t answer — just shivered once, breath rattling, and clutched weakly at Till’s wrist like he needed to anchor himself to something real.
Isaac slammed the vehicle into another sharp turn. “Hold on. We’re not safe yet.”
Till wrapped both arms around Luka, bracing him against the jolts. The fire outside was gone now, but the night ahead felt just as dangerous.
★
The world tilts every time the vehicle jerks. The air inside is hot, thick, even without the smoke. Luka’s lungs feel like they’ve shrunk to fists inside his chest, each breath scraping raw on the way in. His ribs ache. His heart pounds too fast, like it’s trying to punch its way out.
Voices. He hears voices, muffled, slipping in and out between the ringing in his ears. Shots cracking in the distance. They’re following. Of course, they’re following.
He can’t keep his eyes open for long, but he forces them to stay open. Till’s face is above him, tight with worry, lips moving. Luka can’t make out the words. Doesn’t matter. He knows that look.
He needs to say it. Needs to get it out before it’s too late.
He swallows hard, the taste of ash still there, and mumbles something. His own voice is so quiet, he’s not sure if it’s real. Till blinks down at him, confusion in his eyes.
Not enough. Luka drags in another breath, pain flaring in his lungs. “The bridge…”
Till leans closer, frowning.
“The bridge,” Luka forces out again, louder this time. “Near the river. We… should take that route.”
Every word feels like it costs him, but he keeps his gaze locked on Till until he sees the faint flicker of understanding.
Till snaps his head toward the front. “Isaac! The bridge by the river—he says we should take it!”
Isaac glances in the rearview, sees Luka pale and half-collapsed in Till’s lap, and doesn’t ask questions. “That bridge is a death trap,” he mutters—but his hands are already turning the wheel hard.
The vehicle lurches, tires squealing as they break from the main road. Dewey curses as he nearly loses his grip on his rifle. Hyuna twists in her seat, firing at the guards still in pursuit.
Ahead, the road narrows, the bridge just a dark outline over the rushing water. It’s old, unstable. One wrong move and they’re all in the river. But the path is clear—for now.
Isaac presses down on the gas. “Hold on!”
The sound of gunfire fades behind them for a heartbeat, replaced by the roar of the water below and the pounding of everyone’s hearts. The bridge shudders under the wheels as they speed across, metal groaning like it might give way any second.
And just as the far end comes into view—something explodes in the distance, lighting the smoke-choked night in a violent orange glow.
The road stretched on forever, the hum of the engine the only sound now. No more gunfire—just the low growl of their tires on cracked asphalt and the rasp of Luka’s breathing.
Till’s arm was locked tight around him, keeping him upright in his lap. Dewey had twisted halfway around in his seat, eyes wide. “What’s going on with him? Is he okay?”
“Luka,” Hyuna’s voice was sharp, almost desperate, from the passenger side. “Talk to me—are you with us?”
He gave the faintest nod, though his eyes stayed shut. His chest rose in quick, shallow bursts, each one sounding like it hurt.
Isaac didn’t look back, but his voice carried over the roar of the road. “Keep him awake. We’re not stopping.”
Till brushed Luka’s damp hair from his forehead. “Hey. Stay with me, you hear? Just… stay.”
Behind them, headlights still burned through the smoke—too close, far too close—but for that long stretch of road, all any of them could see was Luka, pale and shaking, like the world had narrowed to him alone.
They kept driving. The dark road unspooled endlessly ahead, smoke still clinging to the night air. Luka’s breathing hitched, then cracked into a violent cough.
Hyuna twisted around in her seat. “Till—where’s his inhaler?”
Silence. The kind that made everyone look at each other instead of answering.
“Till.” Her voice sharpened.
He swallowed hard. “…He stopped using it.”
The reaction was instant—Dewey’s head snapped toward him, Isaac’s grip on the wheel tightened.
“I’m sorry, what?” Hyuna’s voice was a razor. “Say that again?”
Till opened his mouth, but before he could, Luka lurched forward with another cough—only this time, a spray of dark red hit his hand.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The only sound was the steady rumble of the engine and Luka’s broken, wet breathing.
The words barely had time to hang in the air before Luka coughed again, harder, a fleck of blood at the corner of his mouth.
“Stopped—?!” Dewey’s voice rose from the front. “Are you out of your—”
“I’m fine,” Luka rasped, cutting them all off. His eyes opened just enough to glare at the concerned faces leaning over him. “This isn’t—this isn’t the first time.”
“That’s supposed to make us feel better?” Hyuna snapped, one hand still braced on the side of the vehicle as Isaac swerved hard.
“I said I’m fine,” Luka hissed, though the tremor in his voice and the way his fingers dug into Till’s sleeve betrayed him. “Just—keep driving.”
The engine screamed as Isaac took another sharp turn, tires skidding on the half-collapsed road. The enemy lights behind them flashed, gaining ground.
The headlights cut through the smoke, barely illuminating the jagged path ahead. The bridge loomed like a skeleton over the river, ancient stone archways slick with moss and spray. Below, the black water churned and foamed, the roar of the current almost swallowing the sound of the engine.
“Hold on,” Isaac growled, knuckles white on the wheel.
The first explosion hit behind them — a deafening crack that rattled the glass and sent a flash of orange across their faces. The shockwave jolted the vehicle forward.
“They’re on us again!” Dewey shouted, twisting in his seat to fire out the back window. Muzzle flashes stuttered against the night as bullets clanged off the railing.
Another blast — closer this time. Stone dust rained down from above as part of the bridge wall crumbled into the river.
“Faster, Isaac!” Hyuna barked.
The wheels skidded on loose gravel, the whole vehicle swaying dangerously toward the drop. Till’s grip on Luka tightened instinctively, feeling the uneven stutter of his breathing against his arm. Luka’s eyes were glassy but fixed ahead, jaw clenched.
A third explosion tore through the air. The rear axle lifted for a heartbeat before slamming back down, tires squealing. Isaac swore under his breath, the speedometer climbing, the narrow bridge a blur beneath them.
They made it almost to the far end when a convoy of Segyein vehicles crested the opposite side. Headlights flared in the darkness like a wall of blinding eyes.
“Shit—” Dewey was already moving, reloading, firing in bursts.
The bridge shuddered under the combined weight. The ancient stone groaned, and somewhere deep below, the structure began to give way. Rocks splintered off the edge, splashing into the raging river.
“Go, go, go!” Hyuna yelled, bracing herself against the roof.
Isaac floored it. The vehicle lurched forward, bouncing violently over the last stretch of intact road. For a split second, the front tires left the ground — and then they slammed down on the other side. The rear bumper scraped against the collapsing edge.
They had barely cleared the bridge when a final explosion sent the center span crashing into the water, taking three Segyein trucks with it.
The relief lasted all of two seconds before the impact hit — a rocket slamming into the side of their vehicle. The force knocked them sideways, metal shrieking. They spun out, skidding across the dirt until the world stopped moving.
“Everyone out!” Isaac barked, already reaching for his rifle.
They spilled into the open, smoke and heat wrapping around them. Enemy silhouettes closed in from the treeline.
Till grabbed Luka’s arm, shoving him toward a patch of fallen stone. “Stay down—”
“No,” Luka snapped, shaking him off, already reaching for the pistol at his hip. His chest heaved, heart pounding so hard it hurt, but he forced himself upright. “I’m not sitting this out.”
Gunfire erupted, drowning out Till’s reply. The fight began in earnest — close, brutal, and desperate, every weapon and bullet they had thrown into keeping the enemy at bay until Isaac’s frantic calls for backup were answered.
The air on the bridge was thick with smoke and dust, the crack of gunfire rattling through the stone beneath their boots. Isaac shouted something Luka didn’t catch over the roar of engines and the splintering of rock. Till’s voice cut through for a moment—sharp, angry—telling him to stay down, stay hidden.
As if he would.
The rebels were outnumbered, the enemy swarming across the bridge like ants. Luka’s pulse pounded against his temples, the ache in his chest growing heavier with each breath. It didn’t matter. He pushed forward, weaving between the wreckage of a burnt-out vehicle, squeezing the trigger of his pistol until it clicked empty. A fresh magazine slid in with a practiced motion.
Hyuna’s rifle barked from somewhere to his left. Isaac’s shotgun boomed ahead. Luka found his opening—a guard charging toward Dewey from the blind side—and sprinted for it.
Every step jarred his lungs. The air was too thin, the smoke too thick, but he didn’t stop.
The guard swung a rifle toward him. Luka’s shot landed first, the recoil jolting up his arms. The man stumbled, dropped his weapon, and crumpled to the stone.
Luka staggered to a halt, chest heaving. The world seemed to tilt under him. For a heartbeat, the chaos around him dulled—the shouting, the shots, even the ringing in his ears.
Till was there, across the bridge, cutting down another enemy with brutal precision. His head snapped up, their eyes locking across the smoke and ruin. Luka couldn’t hear him, but he could see the alarm in his face.
Something slammed into his shoulder.
A hot, tearing pain bloomed down his arm, stealing his breath. His hand went slack around the gun. He didn’t even see where the shot came from, only felt the shock push him back a step. His vision swam, the stone under his boots slick from spray and debris.
Till shouted—Luka could see his mouth forming the word—but the ringing drowned it out.
The railing was gone behind him. Just empty air, the grey smear of water below.
His knees buckled.
The last thing he saw was Till lunging forward, face pale with panic, before the bridge tilted away and the cold took him.
Cold hit like a wall.
It wasn’t deep, but the shock stole what little air he had. His chest convulsed, heart thundering painfully, the burn spreading until it was all he felt. He tried to kick, but his legs felt leaden. His arms moved sluggishly, dragging against the water like it wanted to keep him.
The surface was right there—he just couldn’t reach it.
He thought he heard voices above, muffled, desperate. Then everything went dark.
★
Till saw it happen before he understood it—Luka, standing too close to the edge, staggering back as if the world itself had tipped under his feet. For a split second, their eyes met across the chaos.
And then he was gone.
Till’s chest seized. “No—!” The word tore from him, but the wind and gunfire swallowed it whole. He took a step forward, instinct screaming at him to jump, to follow—but the river below looked dark, deep, and merciless, and he knew he wouldn’t make it two meters before it pulled him under.
A splash cracked through the noise. Dewey was already in the water, arms slicing down into the current, disappearing beneath the surface without hesitation.
Till’s legs carried him to the edge, eyes locked on the ripples below, every muscle wired tight. Time blurred—seconds stretched, each one a fist around his throat.
Then Dewey broke the surface, gasping, one arm hooked under Luka’s limp body.
Till was there when they dragged him up over the rocks, knees hitting hard stone. Luka’s head lolled to the side, his skin pale under the streaks of water and blood.
“Luka—” Till’s voice cracked as he pulled him into his lap, cradling the back of his head like something fragile. Water dripped from Luka’s hair, soaking into Till’s sleeves, but he barely noticed. His chest rose—shallow, slow—but his eyes stayed closed.
Somewhere nearby, Hyuna shouted orders, Isaac’s gun roared, but it all felt far away. Here, behind the cover of a broken wall, the fight was a muffled echo.
Till pressed his palm to Luka’s cheek. Cold. Too cold. He leaned closer, his voice shaking. “Hey… come on. Open your eyes.”
Nothing. Just the faintest tremor of breath. His heartbeat under Till’s fingers was sluggish, uneven, as if each one took an effort Luka didn’t have left to give.
Till blinked hard, the burn in his eyes spilling over. He pulled Luka closer, his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. “Stay with me,” he whispered, voice breaking on the words. “Please.”
Somewhere beyond the ringing in Till’s ears, a low rumble grew louder—the grind of wheels on stone. He barely turned his head, still clutching Luka close, but the sound was enough to make his chest tighten. Help.
Boots hit the ground fast. Mizi’s voice, sharp with urgency. Hyuna’s breathing, ragged. Dewey, soaked to the waist. And Isaac, silent.
They rounded the corner into the strip of cover where Till knelt. Every one of them looked worn down, faces streaked with sweat and dirt—but the moment their eyes landed on Luka, something shifted. The fight behind them might as well have gone silent.
Till didn’t wait for them to ask. His voice cracked apart as soon as it left him. “Help—please—he’s not—he’s—” The rest tangled in his throat. He was already crying, shoulders trembling, his fingers gripping the back of Luka’s head as if holding him there could keep him alive.
Isaac dropped to his knees beside them. His eyes flicked from Luka’s face to Till’s shaking hands, and something like guilt settled heavy in his expression. He’d let Luka come.
“Till—listen to me.” His voice was calm, but too tight to be steady. “We need to try CPR. Do you know how?”
Till shook his head, tears slipping fast. “N-no—”
Isaac was already explaining, short and clipped, like he knew every second mattered. “Tilt his head back, pinch his nose. Give him two breaths—deep. Then press on his chest, right here—hard and fast, thirty times.”
Till followed blindly, leaning over Luka. His lips brushed against cold skin as he breathed into him once, twice. He pressed his palms to Luka’s chest and started pushing, counting in his head, though the numbers warped under the sound of his own heartbeat.
Nothing.
“Again,” Isaac urged.
Till did it again. Breath. Breath. Press. Press. Press. His arms ached but he didn’t stop. His tears dripped onto Luka’s shirt, mixing with the river water.
Still nothing.
“Till—again!”
He kept going. Breath. Chest. Breath. Chest. His own sobs broke the rhythm, his breathing turning shallow, almost panicked. He didn’t see the exact moment Isaac’s face changed, but he felt it—the subtle shift in the air.
Till didn’t realize Luka’s heartbeat had stopped. Not yet. He couldn’t hear anything over the desperate thud of his own.
Till’s hands wouldn’t stop. Breath. Press. Breath. Press. He couldn’t feel his arms anymore, but his body moved on instinct, forcing the air into Luka’s lungs, pushing at his chest like he could bully his heart into starting again.
Mizi’s voice broke through, soft but shaking. “Till… stop.”
He didn’t even look at her. “No—he just—he just needs—”
“Till,” she said again, and this time it cracked.
The others stood around them, silent except for the wet hitch of their breathing. Dewey’s jaw was tight, eyes glassy. Hyuna had one hand over her mouth. Isaac stared at the ground like the weight of it would break him in half.
They knew.
Till’s sobs came harder, sharper, but his hands kept moving. He didn’t care that his own lungs burned, or that every press to Luka’s chest did nothing. He couldn’t stop.
“Till,” Mizi whispered again, kneeling now, her hand resting on his shoulder. “He’s gone.”
“No.” It was barely a sound, more breath than word.
Hyuna knelt on his other side, her fingers curling gently around his wrist. Isaac stepped forward, too, and suddenly they were pulling at him, trying to still his movements.
Till fought them, twisting away, but the fight drained out of him in a rush. His hands fell useless to his sides. Without thinking, he gathered Luka back into his lap, cradling him against his chest like something fragile. His arms wrapped tight, one hand in wet hair, the other pressed between Luka’s shoulder blades.
He bowed his head, the sobs shaking him so hard it hurt. He couldn’t let go. Not now. Not ever.
Someone was shouting—harsh, urgent. The words barely cut through the ringing in Till’s head.
“We have to go!” a voice barked. “Now!”
Go? Leave? The idea didn’t make sense. He was still on the ground, still holding Luka. Leaving wasn’t an option.
Hands were on him again, not pulling this time, but supporting—Hyuna’s voice, steadier now, “We’ll take him. Till, we’ll take him.”
He shook his head, tightening his grip, but they didn’t try to take Luka from him completely. Someone else bent down, lifting from under Luka’s legs, and together they moved him without breaking Till’s hold. His knees scraped the ground as they carried them both, feet stumbling over dirt and debris.
Till didn’t see the faces staring, didn’t see the bodies littered across the field—guards in bloodied armor, aliens sprawled in unnatural shapes. All he saw was Luka’s slack face, all he felt was the cold weight in his arms.
A voice near his ear murmured something about a jeep. Then hands guided him up, into the back, and suddenly he was sitting again, Luka in his lap, the motion of the engine starting beneath them.
He curled forward, his forehead pressed into damp hair, his shoulders shaking. The sobs were quieter now, breaking into his chest instead of the air, but they didn’t stop.
Hyuna was beside him, her gaze fixed on Luka too. She didn’t speak. The only sound she made was a soft, uneven breath—like she was trying not to cry, but failing.
The road blurred away beneath them. Till didn’t care where they were going. All he could do was hold on.
★
The jeep’s brakes squealed as they rolled into the base. The doors were yanked open before they’d even stopped moving.
“Medic!” Till’s voice cracked, too loud, almost a shout. “Medic—now! He’s—he’s hurt—” His breath caught, ragged.
Someone reached for Luka, but Till flinched back. “No—be careful—he’s hurt, he’s hurt—” The words tumbled out, frantic, as if saying them would somehow make Luka safer.
A shadow fell across them. It was one of the medics, kneeling by the open tailgate, eyes flicking to Luka’s pale face, then to Till’s. The pause was too long. Till could see it in their expression—that hesitation, that unspoken doubt.
“What are you waiting for?!” Till’s voice cracked again, sharp with fear. “Do something! Please—”
“T-Till…” Hyuna started, her voice tight, but he cut her off, shaking his head violently.
“No—don’t say it. Don’t—you don’t know, you don’t—” His grip on Luka tightened until his arms ached.
Finally, hands eased Luka from his lap, medics moving with practiced speed. They carried him toward the infirmary, and Till stumbled after them, his chest heaving.
They vanished through the nearest set of double doors. Till took a step to follow, but someone stopped him—Hyuna again, her hand firm on his shoulder. “They’ll… try.”
The doors shut with a soft click.
For a moment, Till just stood there. Then his knees gave way. He sank to the floor, palms hitting the cold concrete before he folded in on himself, the sobs ripping through him without restraint.
He stayed there, his forehead pressed against the floor, until the world around him blurred into the sound of his own shaking breath.
The hallway outside the infirmary felt too narrow, too suffocating. A row of tired, bloodstained faces lined the wall—Hyuna, Isaac, Mizi, Dewey, even some of the rebels who’d come to help. No one spoke. The only sound was Till’s quiet, uneven breathing, each inhale catching in his throat.
He sat slumped against the wall, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around himself. His cheeks were wet, but he barely noticed anymore. Every muscle in his body ached, but he stayed where he was, because moving meant letting go, and he couldn’t—not until someone told him something, anything.
Once or twice, his head dipped forward and his vision blurred at the edges, but he forced himself upright again. He wouldn’t pass out. Not before he knew.
★
The double doors finally creaked open.
A medic stepped out, mask hanging loose around their neck, face drawn and pale under the harsh lights. Everyone in the hall straightened. Till almost tripped over himself trying to stand, his legs shaking so badly he had to grab the wall for support.
The medic looked at him first, then at the group as a whole, and took a slow, steady breath before speaking.
“There’s… significant damage,” they began, voice heavy. “He’d already been struggling before today—there's an old strain we can see. The water in his lungs was severe, and on top of that…” They hesitated, glancing down as if choosing the right words would soften the truth. “…Smoke inhalation from the fire. That combination—” they shook their head slowly, “—it made things much worse.”
Till’s stomach dropped. His nails dug into the wall without him realizing.
“The lungs can be treated,” the medic continued carefully. “It’ll be a slow recovery, but it’s possible. The bigger concern…” They trailed off again. “…is his heart. We’re seeing signs of failure, and that’s something we can’t treat here. Not with what we have.”
Silence closed in on the hall. Till’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“His heartbeat really stopped, we did our best, and maybe he’s trying to fight too…”
The medic’s gaze softened, though their tone didn’t change. “We’ve stabilized him for now, but… there’s a very real chance he may not wake up.”
The words echoed in Till’s ears, dull and heavy, like they weren’t really meant for him but were still cutting straight through.
He swayed on his feet, almost losing his balance again. He felt Hyuna’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him, but he didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on the medic, as if by staring hard enough he could force them to take it back.
“He’s alive right now,” the medic added quietly, “but you should prepare yourself.”
Till didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice. He just lowered himself back to the floor, pulling his knees up again, his forehead resting against them. The hallway seemed even smaller now, the air thicker. Somewhere, someone sniffled. Mizi wiped at her eyes. Dewey stared at the floor like he wanted to punch it.
Till kept breathing, slow and shallow, because if he let it go too far, if he let the sobs come again, he knew he might not stop.
The medic’s words kept circling in Till’s head, twisting into something sharp. May not wake up. They didn’t echo—they just sank, heavy and final.
He blinked, but his vision stayed blurry, not from tears this time but from the strange fizzing at the edges of his sight. His ears rang, loud and high-pitched, and yet… it felt like the hallway had gone completely silent.
He didn’t remember sitting down again. He didn’t remember when the arms came around him, pulling him in tight. He didn’t even know who it was—Hyuna, maybe, or Mizi—but he didn’t lean away. His body felt numb, like he’d been dropped into cold water too.
Somewhere under the haze, a sharp, ugly heat flared. He wanted to scream—at Isaac, at anyone. Isaac had said Luka was reckless. That he was too confident for his own good, and that confidence got people killed. Isaac knew. He knew, and he still let Luka come on the mission.
Till had tried. He’d tried to keep Luka here. To make him stay. But Luka had gone anyway—snuck out without a word. Maybe it wasn’t just Isaac’s fault. Maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault. But right now, none of that mattered.
Right now, he didn’t want answers. He didn’t want blame. He wanted Luka.
He lifted his head from his knees, the ringing in his ears fading into a low, hollow throb. His throat was raw, his voice unsteady even in his own mind, but the need was solid and clear:
He needed to see him.
“Can I… see him?” Till’s voice cracked halfway through the question.
The medic hesitated, glancing to the others, but after a quiet exchange of nods, they stepped aside. No one followed him. The hallway behind him felt thick with unsaid things, but he couldn’t focus on them now.
The door shut with a faint click, and the first thing he noticed was the sound—low, rhythmic beeps layered under the faint hiss of oxygen. The light in the room was dim, tinted an unnatural pale green from a monitor screen in the corner.
Luka lay still on the bed, and for a moment Till’s chest tightened so sharply he thought he’d stop breathing. He looked… wrong. The Luka he knew was all movement and edge, never still, never this quiet. Now, his skin looked drained of color, pale under the harsh fluorescent strips overhead. Tubes ran from his arms to hanging bags, clear liquid dripping steadily through the lines. Wires trailed from his chest and temples to the machines around the bed, each one humming or ticking softly, their little blinking lights proof that something—someone—was still here.
There was a mask over his mouth and nose, the steady hiss and sigh of the respirator filling the space between the beeps. A faint sheen of water still clung to his hair, pushed back haphazardly, as though someone had dried it in a hurry. The blanket was pulled up to his chest, but even under it, Till could see the way his body barely moved with each breath.
Till hesitated at the foot of the bed, his hand gripping the rail as if moving closer might shatter something fragile. Part of him was terrified to touch him—terrified that if he did, he’d find that same coldness from before, the chill of someone pulled from the water too long. But standing still was worse.
Slowly, he stepped forward, his knees threatening to give out as he reached the chair beside the bed. The legs scraped softly against the floor as he pulled it closer, the sound too loud in the otherwise hushed room.
He sat, leaning forward so close he could see the tiny tremor in Luka’s lashes with each forced breath, the faint dampness at the corner of his mouth where the mask didn’t quite seal. It was as if Luka was both here and miles away at the same time.
His own hands trembled as he reached out. For a second, he hovered his palm over Luka’s arm, almost pulling back. Then, with a breath that felt like it scraped his lungs raw, he let his fingers curl around Luka’s hand.
It was limp.
Not gone, not ice-cold like before—but limp, as if every ounce of Luka’s stubborn, unyielding energy had been drained away. Till’s thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles, afraid to grip too tightly, afraid this fragile thread between them might snap.
He bowed his head, holding onto that hand as though it were the only solid thing in the world, his other hand gripping the edge of the mattress. He didn’t care about the wires, or the machines, or the way the oxygen hissed like a reminder of how close it had been. He just needed Luka to stay here.
Till’s gaze drifted to the steady rise and fall of Luka’s chest beneath the blanket—barely there, almost invisible unless you looked closely enough to catch the faint shift of fabric. The soft hiss of the respirator filled the room, each sound a reminder that it was the machine breathing for him now.
He knew. He’d heard the words in the hall, even if they felt muffled through the haze in his mind. Luka’s heart had been failing. He’d stopped using his inhaler. His lungs were already weak, worn down from smoke and water. It was only a matter of time, they’d said—Till didn’t want to believe it, but he understood now. One day, the lungs would give up entirely, and maybe this was already that day.
But he hadn’t been ready. Not for this.
He had told himself Luka was stubborn enough to outlive them all. That the fire in him would be enough to fight off anything. That this wasn’t a possibility—at least not yet.
And now here he was, pale and unmoving, and Till could finally see the truth for what it was.
Was this what Luka wanted? No… no, Till knew he hadn’t wanted to die. He’d just wanted the pain to stop. The fear, the exhaustion, the endless ache in his chest—Till had seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice on the bad days.
But did Luka care if stopping the pain also meant stopping everything? Till didn’t know anymore, and that thought made his throat ache.
“I love you,” Till whispered, his voice breaking before the last word even left his lips. He squeezed Luka’s limp hand gently, thumb brushing over the knuckles in slow, trembling strokes. “I need you to know. I love you. So much.”
His breathing hitched, but he pressed on, leaning closer so the words were for Luka alone. “And I’m proud of you. You’ve… you’ve changed so much. You fight for people now. You take risks for them. You should be proud of yourself, Luka. I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”
A lump formed in his throat so tight he thought he’d choke on it, but he kept talking. “We haven’t even done half the things we’re supposed to do yet. You can’t—” His voice cracked into a ragged whisper. “You can’t leave me. Not yet. We still have to sing together. You promised you’d sing with me.”
He bowed his head, squeezing Luka’s hand harder as if it would keep him tethered. “Please don’t leave me.”
The sob tore out of him before he could stop it, sharp and quiet, his shoulders shaking as the words gave way to choked breaths.
When he could finally force himself to move, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Luka’s cheek. The coldness of his skin made Till flinch, and for a moment he had to close his eyes against the sting. He stayed there for a long time, cheek pressed against Luka’s, as if he could warm back into him by refusing to let go.
Then he sat back, still holding Luka’s hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the room. The tears kept coming in quiet waves until exhaustion finally began to pull him under. His head dipped, resting against the edge of the bed, his fingers still wrapped around Luka’s.
He fell asleep there, the machines’ beeps and hisses the only sound in the room, as if the world outside had gone silent for them alone.
★
Till stirred at the faint, persistent sensation of someone shaking his shoulder. For a moment, he thought it might be Luka, pulling him out of some uneasy dream, but when his eyes fluttered open, the harsh hospital light reminded him where he was—and who couldn’t be the one waking him.
Hyuna stood beside him, her expression softer than usual, though worry sat heavy in her gaze. “Come on,” she murmured, crouching slightly so she was at his level. “You need to change.”
Till blinked, sluggish, every muscle aching as if he’d run for miles. His clothes clung to him, stiff with dried blood—his, Luka’s, he couldn’t tell anymore. His throat felt raw from crying.
Hyuna set a clean set of clothes on the chair. “You can shower. I’ll stay here. He won’t be alone.”
He glanced at Luka, the thought of leaving making something in his chest twist painfully. He wanted to say no, to stay exactly where he was in case something happened in the seconds he was gone.
But Hyuna’s voice cut through his hesitation. “I promise, Till. I’ll be right here. Go.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. He would come back the moment he was done. No lingering, no wasting time.
The shower room was small and plain, its tile cracked in places, but the hot spray of water hit him instantly, loosening muscles that had been tight for hours. He glanced down and watched the red-tinted water swirl toward the drain, streaks of rust-colored trails running down his arms. Some of it was his—scrapes from the fight, maybe from when he’d been pulled out of the water. The rest… the rest was Luka’s.
Normally, this would be the part where his thoughts spiraled—where he would stand here and go over every detail, wondering what he could have done differently, how he could have stopped Luka from going, from sneaking out, from ending up like this.
But today, the thoughts didn’t come. He didn’t want them.
All he wanted was to get back to Luka.
He scrubbed quickly, just enough to wash the worst of it away, then pulled on the clean clothes. His hair was still dripping when he stepped back into the hallway and returned to the room.
Hyuna was still there, seated in the same chair, Luka’s still form in front of her. She looked up as he came in, nodding slightly before standing to give him his place back.
Till sank into the chair without a word, his eyes finding Luka again as if the rest of the world no longer existed.
★
The days blurred together, marked only by the changing slant of light through the window and the steady, mechanical rhythm of the machines keeping Luka alive. Till stayed rooted to the chair by his bed, Luka’s limp hand caught in both of his, fingers curled protectively around it as if letting go might make him vanish.
He didn’t try to talk to Luka much—words felt too fragile, too easily broken—but he listened for every faint shift in the monitor, every subtle change in his breathing. The only conversations he had were with the people who came in, and even then, it wasn’t really about Luka. They came to check on Till.
Hyuna was the exception. She always glanced at Luka first, checking the readings, adjusting the blanket, brushing his hair back when it got messy. The others—Isaac, Dewey, sometimes even Mizi—came only long enough to make sure Till was still holding up.
When Till needed the bathroom, someone would take his place in the chair. They never touched Luka, not like he did, but their presence was enough for him to step away for a moment.
Mizi was the one who brought him food the most, balancing a tray and muttering that she didn’t want to hear any complaints about it going cold. He’d take it, sometimes eating without even looking away from Luka, other times forgetting it was there until she came back and scolded him.
In the still moments, Till found his mind drifting. He remembered the time he’d been injured—how Hyuna had told him Luka wouldn’t leave his side for days, how Luka had been there when he’d opened his eyes. That memory settled heavy in his chest. Would Luka wake up for him, too?
The doctors had explained it as gently as they could. They would begin treating his lungs soon, now that the coma made it easier to manage the procedures. It would be a long process—weeks, maybe a month or two. But even if they healed, Luka’s heart was another battle entirely. Without major surgery, without a transplant, it wouldn’t get better.
Till didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to picture what “wouldn’t get better” actually meant.
And yet, one afternoon, he caught himself with a stack of medical books and papers, flipping through pages about cardiac care, transplants, survival rates. It was ridiculous—paranoid, even. He wasn’t a doctor. But his mind kept chasing the same impossible thought: if he knew more, maybe he could help somehow.
He barely noticed the time until Hyuna came in, mentioning there’d be a meeting soon. “Isaac wants you there,” she said. “It’s important.”
Till glanced at Luka, then back at her. “…I’ll think about it,” he muttered. He already knew what his answer would be.
Till sat back in the chair, the medical papers still open in his lap, though he wasn’t really reading anymore. The lines on the page blurred and shifted until they were nothing but meaningless shapes. His gaze drifted to Luka again—still, pale, breathing only because the machines told him to.
The thought of leaving him, even for an hour, made Till’s stomach twist. The meeting might be important, but Luka was important in a way nothing else could match.
He reached out, brushing his thumb over the back of Luka’s hand. It was warm, but not warm enough.
The door opened quietly. Hyuna peeked in, scanning the room before speaking. “They’ll be starting soon.”
Till didn’t answer right away. He squeezed Luka’s hand instead, as if the silent gesture might anchor him to the moment.
“…I said I’d think about it,” he murmured at last.
Hyuna gave a small nod. “Alright. I’ll tell them you’re still deciding.”
When she left, the room felt even quieter than before. The hum of the machines, the steady rise and fall of Luka’s chest—it all pulled Till back down into the chair. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight.
He leaned forward, resting his head on the edge of the bed beside Luka’s arm, letting the familiar exhaustion roll through him. The world outside the door could wait until tomorrow.
And yet…Luka would want him to go, Till can almost hear him scold him..”I'm literally not going anywhere you can go and take Isaac’s job for me” Till almost laughs. He remembers when Luka wasn’t even allowed to meetings in the beginning, then stuff happened, and the moment he was on the first meeting he managed to impress everyone, then with every meeting more and more, it came so natural for him, the strategy, the way he remembers everything, he miss when people joked that Luka could take Isaac’s job.
Luka once shared with him it's so weird that people keep saying that he reminds them of Jacob, a dead man he doesn’t know and Isaac’s brother, and to hear it from Isaac he didn’t know what to do and say in these situations.
Till laughed at that he remembers saying that maybe Isaac sees him as a brother, he received the most mean stare from Luka.
Till was tired that night he remembers but he clearly saw Luka wanted to talk about that, if it was Till probably it would be weird for him, in the end they agreed he should take this as a compliment every time they say he reminds them of Jacob. After all they wouldn’t be here without Jacob, the one who started this, the one who led the rebels. They wish they could’ve met him. He would be proud.
Till gets back into the present, he doesn’t know what time it is, Hyuna said the meeting is soon, so….
He gets up from the chair, he leaves a kiss on Luka’s cheek with a final glance at him he leaves the room.
If not for himself, for Luka he will try to stay in that meeting.
Notes:
I love angst yall...
Chapter Text
Till stepped into the meeting room, his shoulders tense, the air inside already thick with the low murmur of voices.
Some people glanced up, startled to see him. A few looked relieved, offering faint nods. Others only looked worried, their gazes flicking between him and the empty chair that used to belong to Luka.
He crossed the room quietly and slid into that chair anyway. It felt wrong—the seat was still Luka’s in his mind—but it was the only place he could sit without feeling like he was intruding somewhere else.
Isaac stood at the head of the table, papers and files stacked neatly in front of him, though some were far from neat. Till’s eyes caught on a few at the edge—dusty, smudged, the edges wrinkled and stained like they’d been carried through mud or worse. He recognized those as the ones they’d brought back from underground. Nobody had explained what they’d seen there, not really. Just that they’d found “things.”
Till didn’t press. Part of him had been grateful not to know.
But that changed when Isaac cleared his throat and began to speak.
“We separated into two teams that day,” Isaac began, his voice steady but his jaw tight. “One above ground. One below.” He glanced down at the pile of worn files before continuing. “Below… we found something we weren’t prepared for.”
Till’s stomach knotted.
Isaac rested his hand on the topmost file, fingers curling slightly against the paper. “It was a morgue. Not just for recent seasons—every contestant from every season. Fifty in total.”
Till blinked, trying to picture it, but his brain stuttered over the numbers. Fifty seasons. How many bodies was that? He didn’t want to know.
Hyuna didn’t speak. Her hands were folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on a spot on the table, her lips pressed so tightly together it looked painful. Till knew that look—she was holding back tears.
Isaac continued, his voice quieter now, but heavier. “There were files on every single one of them. And pictures.” His gaze lifted briefly, scanning the table. “You shouldn’t look at them. I mean that. Some are… bad.”
“Bad” wasn’t enough to cover the way his voice strained on the word.
“They did experiments. Dissections. Sometimes both. Some of them… the state of the bodies…” He stopped, took a breath, then said it plain: “Blood. Open incisions. People cut apart like—” he stopped himself again, shaking his head. “Just don’t look.”
Till’s stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat. He pushed his chair back an inch as if distance from the table would help. It didn’t.
Mizi sat across from him, her eyes wide, one hand pressed against her mouth. Till didn’t have to ask what she was thinking. He knew—because he was thinking it too. Ivan. Sua.
He didn’t want to imagine what they might have done to them. He couldn’t. The thought alone made his hands tremble under the table.
Isaac gestured toward the dusty files, his tone flat. “Everything is in there. Every name. Every photo.”
Till didn’t even glance at them. He couldn’t. He knew the images would burn themselves into his memory forever, haunting every quiet moment afterward. Maybe that was why Luka had never told him. Why he’d kept it to himself that day.
It was too much. Too much to see. Too much to feel.
And for the first time, Till was glad he hadn’t been there with them. He wouldn’t have been able to take it.
Isaac let the silence hang for a moment after his last words. No one moved. The only sound was the low hum of the old lights above the table.
Finally, he straightened, pulling a different set of papers toward him. His tone shifted—not lighter, but steadier, more deliberate.
“We have a plan moving forward,” he said. “Even if they rebuild Alien Stage—and they will—it will take them at least a year, maybe two. In the meantime, no one will die there.”
A quiet ripple of relief passed through the room. Small. Fleeting. But it was there.
Isaac went on, “The contestants from the upcoming season—Season Fifty-One—the ones who escaped during the attack… They're with their owners now. That’s our first priority. We’re going to focus on getting them out before the stage is rebuilt, before the whole system is running again.”
Till’s mind flickered with the image of that day—the chaos, the fire, the explosions. Isaac’s voice cut through the memory, explaining what Till already half-knew.
“We couldn’t take them with us that day. It was too much. Too dangerous. We would’ve lost more people trying. Now…” Isaac’s eyes swept the table, meeting each person’s gaze in turn, “…now we have more time. We can think. Plan. Do it right.”
Till tries not to think about the words ‘lost more people’ because they didn’t lose anyone, and if Isaac means Luka…he is not dead…he’s still here fighting.
He spread the map in front of him, tapping one corner where Till saw notes scrawled in dark ink. “Once we’ve saved the ones from Season Fifty-One, we’ll start looking for more kids. Maybe in Anakt Garden again. Anywhere they might be hiding them. We’ll do anything we have to.”
The conviction in his voice was solid, almost stubborn. It made Till believe, at least for a moment, that it could work.
“In the meantime,” Isaac said, sliding the dusty morgue files into the center of the table, “we try to expose Alien Stage for what it is. We have proof now—proof of the experiments, the dead bodies, everything they’ve done.”
Someone scoffed quietly, and Till knew exactly why. Isaac didn’t ignore it.
“I know,” he admitted, “it’s stupid. Aliens are heartless. They won’t care. They killed them—why would they believe us, let alone stop?”
The words hung bitter in the air, but Isaac’s eyes sharpened as he continued. “The only chance we have is with the ones who wrote about the rumors before. The ones who posted in the newspapers. They were devastated when they heard whispers about what was happening. If we can confirm it for them—with these files—maybe they’ll make it public. Maybe it’ll matter.”
It wasn’t much of a win. But it was still a win.
★
Two weeks have passed since the mission. The rebels had started making plans in quiet, late-night meetings, but Till barely noticed. Most of his hours were spent in Luka’s room—watching, waiting, hoping. There was no change.
The doctors had begun Luka’s treatment, but it was slow, careful, and measured. Too careful, in Till’s eyes.
That day, the room was crowded—Isaac, a few others, the doctors discussing numbers and medicine and timelines. Till stood off to the side at first, silent, but his chest burned with every clinical word they spoke.
And then his voice cut through the quiet, sharp and trembling. “Can I go somewhere—just tell me where—to get what you need for him. For his treatment. For the surgery. For his heart meds. Anything. Everything. I’ll bring it all back.”
The room stilled.
“I’ll go myself,” Till said, stepping forward, eyes moving from one face to the next. “I can get the equipment for the surgery if that’s what you need. Just… tell me where to find it.”
He didn’t want Luka to wake up in pain. He didn’t want him to wake up and feel like he was still dying. And dying—no—that wasn’t an option. Till wouldn’t allow it.
His voice broke, and he fought not to let it turn into sobs. “Please… just tell me what I have to do.”
The doctors glanced at each other, then at Isaac, uncertain. No one seemed to know how to answer Till’s plea.
Isaac finally stepped forward, his voice steady but low. “You’re not going alone.”
Till’s eyes snapped to him, ready to argue, but he caught something in Isaac’s expression—guilt, maybe. The kind that had been sitting there ever since Jacob. Back then, they’d had nothing to help him. No real doctors, no proper equipment. They’d just watched him fade.
But now… now they had more. More people. More resources. And Isaac wasn’t going to let Luka end up like Jacob.
“I’ll go with you,” Isaac said firmly. “We’ll get what we can. Everything we can.”
He looked at the doctors. “Tell us exactly what you need for his treatment. For the surgery. Make a list. No half-measures.”
One of them began listing supplies, hesitantly at first, but soon the words came quicker—medications, machines, specialized tools, replacements for the worn equipment they already had. Till listened to every word, his hands clenched, already picturing himself carrying it all back, piece by piece if he had to.
For the first time in weeks, he felt like he could do something.
★
Till stood at Luka’s bedside, the outside world a quiet blur. The soft beeps of machines and the faint hiss of oxygen were constants—cold reminders that Luka’s body wasn’t doing the work on its own anymore.
He had spent days holding Luka’s hand, watching, waiting. But today, something inside him broke, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Gathering the courage, he rose and pulled a nearby medical reference from Hyuna’s stack—a guide about cyanosis.
It's not like Luka hasn’t told him the main stuff, but Till wants to understand it better.
His chest tightened as he read:
Cyanosis is a bluish or purplish cast to the skin and mucous membranes, often visible on the lips, nail beds, and eyelids, especially when blood oxygen drops below 85%.
He glanced at Luka’s lips—pale, nearly blue beneath the thin layer of skin. His fingernails, curled around Luka’s hand, felt colder than usual. His own breath caught.
Continuing in the book, his heart pounded as he understood the connection:
Central cyanosis arises from insufficient oxygen in arterial blood, often due to heart or lung problems.
Luka’s shallow breathing wasn’t just exhaustion—it was his heart failing to pump properly, his lungs unable to oxygenate blood, causing the visible signs of cyanosis.
The text described late-stage heart failure:
When the left side of the heart fails, blood backs up into the lungs, causing fluid accumulation, difficulty breathing, and cyanosis as a late and serious symptom.
Till swallowed hard, thinking of the moment after the mission—Luka gasping, struggling, collapsing near the edge.
He sank into the chair beside Luka, closing his eyes. The words had changed something. He wasn’t just waiting anymore—he knew.
Now, when he looked at Luka, it wasn’t hope he held onto—it was fear, sharp and bright.
When he dared to look again, his tone was urgent.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispered into the quiet. The machines kept time under his fingers. The book lay open next to him, a record of reality he never wanted to know, but now couldn’t forget.
He traced the edges of Luka’s hand with his thumb, trying to heat back into it. He vowed, silently, that no matter what, he would make sure Luka had every chance—even if the heart was failing, even if the lungs were weak, even if it felt impossible.
Till kept on reading, he thought maybe he could find an answer…something.
Normally, red blood cells carry oxygen to the tissues in your body. Your blood is red when it’s filled with oxygen because your blood cells are bright red. As a result, when oxygen-filled blood circulates throughout your body, your skin has a pink or red tone.
When there’s not enough oxygen circulating in your blood, it’s darker and more of a blue or purple tone. The area of your body that’s most affected by cyanosis can help determine the cause.
Cyanosis is typically caused by another condition. Depending on what’s causing the cyanosis, other symptoms you may experience include:
Low body temperature (hypothermia).
Numbness or tingling in your arms and legs.Coughing.Wheezing.Difficulty breathing.Dizziness.Extreme tiredness (fatigue).Weakness.
Hypothermia, Till looked more closely at that word, that was the term the doctors had used for Luka, when he fell into the cold water,that was the reason for the hypothermia, it is dangerous enough and even worse with his condition, Till tried to keep Luka warm constantly changing his clothes with warmer ones always throwing more blankets on top until the doctors told him that is no longer a threat.
Till keeps on reading about the symptoms, Luka had all of them…
He reads of the cause, apparently the asthma was the main reason that cause it, from there the heart defects, it could happen at childbirth too, but it’s supposed to be treated right away. The moment the heart defects and it begins to fail slowly. He reads that this could lead to cardiac arrest.
Till doesn't know how long he's been reading this book but he doesn't like what else he sees is that drugs, alcohol and cigarettes could be the cause of this illness. As far as Till knows, Luka has never smoked or drank before. The moment they got here he got worse and Till is angry because he's sure Luka knew and continued to do so.
And it's bad enough that they don't have the right equipment here like the aliens who have kept Luka alive for these 30 years, Till understands it to some extent. Luka has never felt free to be away from all kinds of tests, not constantly being poked with a needle, he felt alive here.
Till reads about the ways of treatment, one of them is the inhaler which simply calms the asthma and still Luka should not have stopped using it, maybe now he would not be in this situation, separate treatment of the lungs with oxygen, which will start next week. Surgery is an option but only at birth, which could be risky considering the fact that Luka is 30, and such a serious surgery…Till curses under his breath. He hates this.
★
He didn’t sleep much.
One day bled into two, and he kept reading—flipping through medical texts, scribbling notes in his sketchbook, tracing diagrams of the heart and lungs with his finger as if touching them could make him understand.
The more he read, the more it felt like a hand tightening around his throat.
Luka had to have known. Not the exact numbers, maybe, not every medical term—but he knew enough. He had to. And still he kept pushing himself, running missions, sneaking off, acting like it was nothing.
Till would glance over at him, still unconscious on the bed, and feel his chest ache—not just with fear, but with a bitter question: Why didn’t you stop? Why didn’t you let me help?
★
By the end of the week, the doctors finally told Till he couldn’t stay in the room. Luka’s treatment had to be uninterrupted—no distractions, no visitors. Till stood outside the closed door, hands buried in his pockets, listening to faint metallic clinks and the low murmur of voices. He hated not being there.
That’s when Isaac found him.
He didn’t waste time. “We’re going,” he said, voice low. “Now. Before anyone tells us not to.”
It wasn’t the smartest idea—not after how many aliens they’d already angered. But the truth was, there was no one else. This wasn’t a trip for a dozen rebels; it was a quiet grab-and-go. Just the two of them, moving fast, taking what Luka needed before anyone could stop them.
They loaded up the biggest jeep they had—its back seats folded down for space, every inch meant for crates, oxygen tanks, boxes of medication, surgical kits, anything the doctors had listed.
Till tightened his jacket around himself and slid into the passenger seat.
The engine rumbled to life, low and heavy.
As they pulled out into the dark road, Isaac’s hands steady on the wheel, Till stared ahead and thought of the list in his pocket. Thought of Luka’s blue lips. Thought of how much of this trip was hope—and how much was desperation.
The road stretched ahead in a smooth, unbroken ribbon.
For once, there was no smoke in the distance, no sirens, no shadows flickering between the trees. The tires hummed against the asphalt, steady and unhurried.
Isaac drove with the calm precision of someone who already had the map memorized. He didn’t check it once, just kept his eyes forward, the faint blue light from the dashboard outlining the hard line of his jaw.
Till leaned back in the passenger seat, the paper list folded tight in his fist.
It was strange—how quiet it all was. Almost peaceful. If he didn’t know better, he could pretend they were just… going somewhere ordinary.
Isaac had said the stops would be safe. Old supply caches. Abandoned medical posts from the early years of the rebellion, tucked far enough from alien patrol routes to be forgotten. No one should be here.
Till almost laughed under his breath at the thought.
The safest trip they’d ever taken—just the two of them, hauling half a hospital’s worth of equipment—and it wasn’t even a mission. No gunfire, no running through fire.
An empty road, a clear sky.
It shouldn’t feel wrong.
But it did.
Because every time it was this quiet, the silence didn’t last.
The first stop was exactly where Isaac said it would be—an abandoned clinic half-swallowed by ivy, its windows long since smashed, dust hanging thick in the air. They moved quickly, methodically, ignoring the smell of damp and rot. The equipment they needed was still there, sealed away in old storage rooms. Some of it was heavy, awkward to carry, but neither of them complained.
By the time they finished loading the last crate into the jeep, the sun had dipped low, streaking the sky in bruised reds and purples. Isaac checked the straps holding everything in place, then shut the back doors with a solid thud.
The drive back started in silence, just the hum of the engine and the muted rattle of boxes in the rear. The road was empty, as it had been all day, but the calm felt heavier now.
It was Isaac who broke it.
“I keep thinking,” he said, eyes fixed ahead, “that if I’d been better at my job, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Till looked at him, but Isaac didn’t glance back.
“I’m in charge. I’m supposed to keep everyone safe. And I didn’t. I let Luka go on that mission, knowing the risk. I should’ve stopped him.”
Till hesitated before answering. “You couldn’t have known how bad it would get.”
“That’s my job,” Isaac said simply. His voice wasn’t angry—just tired. “Knowing.”
Till didn’t know how to argue with that. In truth, he understood the weight Isaac was talking about. Not the same kind, but close enough to feel familiar.
“We’re here now,” Till said finally. “That’s what matters.”
Isaac gave a small nod, and that was the end of it. No more words, but something unspoken settled between them—an acknowledgment, not forgiveness.
★
They reached the base long after nightfall. The sound of the jeep’s engine echoed off the walls as they pulled in, and before they could even shut it off, people were rushing to help unload. The crates were carried to the medical wing, the doctors already sorting through them with quick, practiced hands. By the next day, everything was set up, the equipment in place and ready.
Weeks slid by in a blur after that. Till kept to his routines—checking on Luka, sitting through meetings, adding his voice where it mattered. The talks shifted toward locating Segyeins known to keep children as pets. Most of it was speculation, tracing whispers and half-remembered sightings, trying to connect dots that didn’t want to be connected.
Every time the discussion circled back to dead ends, Till found himself thinking the same thing:
If it were Luka sitting at the table, he’d know something. He always did.
But Luka wasn’t there.
And for now, Till had to be the one who guessed.
The meeting dragged on, hours blurring together under the hum of the overhead lights. Maps and scattered notes covered the table, markers circling areas that were nothing more than guesses.
They kept going back to the same question—where would they keep them now?
“So, homes,” Isaac said, leaning forward. “They used to keep them in their homes before sending them to Anakt Garden. Maybe they’re doing it again. It’s not like they can leave them somewhere else—they can’t send them back to the Garden either. The place is swarming with kindergartens and small kids, not people nearing adulthood.”
Till’s head started to ache just listening to the debate circle around. Eighteen was too old to blend in with the children, too young to disappear entirely. That age meant you were…useful.
His stomach turned.
The thought came uninvited—the club.
He could see the dark corners, hear the music vibrating in his ribs, feel the way eyes followed him onstage. He remembered what had happened to him there, and the way it had all felt like a performance and a trap at the same time.
It was possible. More than possible.
But suggesting it out loud meant admitting it could be real again. And even if it was, would they risk letting them sing in front of Segyeins somewhere other than the Arena? Even for entertainment? Before Alien Stage, it happened. They’d been used to draw crowds.
It was a high possibility—too high to ignore—but Till kept the thought to himself for now.
They kept circling back, again and again, until his eyes felt heavy and the weight of the conversation pressed down like a stone in his chest. By the time they called it for the day, he was beyond tired.
When he finally made it to the medical wing, the doctors were just finishing their checks on Luka. They told him the lung treatments were going well—small victories—but they didn’t sugarcoat the rest.
His heart was another story. Fragile. Weak. There were moments when the monitors spiked or dipped, when the room seemed to hold its breath.
And soon, they said, they might try letting him breathe on his own. A trial. That was the word they used, as if it were something clinical and not terrifying. Till had overheard one of them call the machine a kind of life support.
All it would take was pulling one cable. And Luka would be gone.
They’d said it quietly, but Till had heard the other thing too—the whispered line about how if he didn’t wake up in more than six months, there wasn’t much point in keeping him like this.
Till refused to think about that. He wouldn’t allow it.
He’d wait. He’d sit here for a year if he had to. He’d pray for Luka to wake up. And not just wake up—be healthy.
He sat by the bed, the room dim and still, and took Luka’s hand again. The skin was warm but unmoving, his fingers limp in Till’s.
He talked anyway. Told him about the meeting, about the guesses they were making. Said how Luka would know all the answers—wouldn’t even have to think about it. Told him how smug he’d be about it too, how he’d flex like he always did.
He knew Luka couldn’t hear him. He knew it.
But knowing didn’t stop him.
Maybe it was delusion. Maybe he was the only one left who wanted Luka to wake up for Luka’s sake. The others might want him alive because he was useful, because he could lead missions, because they needed him to win.
Most of them had believed he was dead anyway—Till had seen it in their eyes that day, when they’d been ready to drag him away, to leave Luka behind.
They didn’t have the hope he did.
And if Till didn’t believe, then who would?
The med bay always felt colder at night, even when the heaters hummed against the walls. Maybe it was just the way the shadows stretched longer here, curling in corners like they were waiting for something to go wrong. The air smelled faintly sterile, too clean, as if it had been scrubbed of life.
Till sat in the same chair he always did, the one pulled close enough for his knees to brush the side of the bed. Luka’s hand was still in his, limp but warm. The warmth was the only sign he was still here.
The machines filled the silence with their constant rhythm—soft beeps and the low, steady sigh of the ventilator. Once you listened long enough, the patterns started to feel like language. Till found himself counting between each beep, waiting for any break in the sequence.
He didn’t realize how tense his shoulders had gotten until he rolled them back and felt the stiffness bite.
If you were here, he thought, squeezing Luka’s fingers, you’d know what to do about the mission. You’d already have three plans lined up and a smirk ready for when I admitted you were right.
The thought slipped into something sharper.
“You’d probably brag about it for weeks,” he said aloud, voice low, “just to annoy me.”
His own voice sounded strange in the room, like it didn’t belong here.
He leaned back and let his eyes half-close. The meeting replayed in his mind—Isaac’s steady voice, Hyuna’s clipped questions, the way everyone skirted around the fact that none of them knew where people were being taken now.
In his head, Luka’s voice cut in, casual and sharp all at once: They’ll keep them somewhere public. Somewhere that keeps them under control but still makes money. Like a club.
Till’s stomach twisted. The club. He didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to picture it. But Luka’s imagined voice didn’t care, filling in the ugly details like he was still right beside him.
A soft click at the door broke his thoughts. Isaac stepped inside, quiet, his gaze flicking to the bed.
“How’s he doing?”
Till shrugged. “Same.”
Isaac stayed for less than a minute. He adjusted the blanket at Luka’s feet, murmured something too low for Till to catch, then left again. The door shut behind him, and the cold came back.
Till looked at Luka. “See? That’s all they do. In and out. Nobody stays.” His thumb brushed over Luka’s knuckles. “Not like me.”
The hours passed in fragments—Till shifting in the chair, standing to stretch, pacing the room twice before sitting again. He fixed Luka’s blanket where it had slipped, smoothed a crease from the pillowcase. When a strand of hair had fallen across Luka’s forehead, he brushed it back gently.
The doctor came once more, checking the monitors, nodding to himself, jotting something down. He mentioned the trial to take Luka off the ventilator for short bursts. Said the lungs looked strong enough.
But his eyes lingered on the heart monitor in a way that made Till’s chest tighten.
When they left, Till leaned in, resting his forehead against the back of Luka’s hand.
“They think you might not wake up,” he said softly. “They think I should get ready for that. But I’m not… I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
The beeping filled the silence again.
He talked after that—about the meeting, about the ridiculous arguments over whether Segyeins would keep them in homes or somewhere else. About the Arena being gone, about how strange it was to think they might end up performing in some seedy club for an audience that didn’t care if they lived or died.
He even told Luka about the ache in his head, the way thinking too much made his temples throb. “You’d probably tell me to sleep,” he murmured. “Then you’d stay up all night yourself, just to make a point.”
His eyelids were heavy now, the chair digging into his back. He let his hand rest over Luka’s chest, feeling the faint, steady beat beneath his palm.
It was enough for now. Enough to keep believing.
★
The med bay lights were dimmed now, just enough to cast long shadows over the tile. Till sat in his usual chair, the one that had worn the faint shape of his body after days of use. Luka lay still beneath the thin blanket, his chest rising in slow, shallow breaths that barely stirred the fabric.
Till had learned every sound in this room—the ventilator’s steady hiss, the rhythmic beep of the monitors, the occasional click from the heating system. Each sound carried weight. Each one was a thread holding Luka here.
The door slid open softly. He didn’t turn until he heard the quiet murmur of voices outside in the hall.
“The lungs are stable, but the cardiac readings are still concerning. With his history… I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of cardiac arrest in the next forty-eight hours.”
Till’s stomach dropped. He kept still, straining to hear.
“We’ll keep him on observation, but if it happens, we’ll have to move fast. No promises.”
The voices faded as the doctors moved down the corridor. Till stared at Luka, the monitor’s beeping suddenly louder in his ears.
The first day came rushing back—the way he’d been obsessed with keeping Luka warm after they pulled him from the river. Even before that, Luka always ran cold; his condition left his skin cooler than most people’s, and he wore layers even when others complained about heat. But the river… the river had been colder. The shock of it had seeped into him, stealing his breath, slowing everything down.
Till remembered peeling Luka’s wet clothes away with shaking hands, wrapping him in every blanket he could find, sitting close enough that their knees touched just to share warmth. His voice had been raw from calling Luka’s name over and over. And still, it hadn’t been enough to stop what came after.
He dragged a hand over his face and leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. The thought pressed against him: This could happen again. And if it does, I might not be able to stop it this time.
His gaze drifted to Luka’s face—too pale, too still.
Memories slipped in, uninvited.
One morning at the base, when Luka had refused to get out of bed. Till had grumbled about breakfast going cold, only for Luka to tug him back under the blanket, wrapping an arm lazily around his waist. They’d stayed like that until almost noon, warm and tangled, pretending the outside world didn’t exist.
Another night, the two of them in the club, music pulsing through the floor. Luka had pulled him onto the small dance space near the corner, their movements slow despite the beat, Luka’s hand firm against his back. Till remembered the smirk when he stepped on Luka’s foot, the soft laugh that had followed.
Small moments. Warm moments. But there weren’t enough of them.
Most of their memories were stained—arguments in the middle of missions, tense silences, words said in anger they couldn’t take back. They’d had more bad days than good ones, more nights spent avoiding each other than holding on.
It wasn’t fair.
Till reached for Luka’s hand, curling his fingers around it, grounding himself in the faint heat still there. “You have to wake up,” he whispered. “We don’t have enough yet. You can’t… you can’t leave me with only the bad parts.”
His voice wavered, but he didn’t stop. “We need more. We need the mornings when you’re too stubborn to get up, the nights when I make you dance even though you’re terrible at it. We need to make… something worth keeping.”
He sat like that for a long time, thumb brushing slow arcs across Luka’s knuckles, the machines speaking in their language of beeps and sighs.
When his head grew heavy, he rested it against Luka’s arm, letting his eyes close for just a moment. He told himself he’d hear if anything changed. He told himself Luka’s heartbeat—faint but steady—was enough to hold onto for now.
Outside, the corridor stayed quiet. Inside, Till waited, breathing in time with the man who couldn’t answer him yet.
The hours after the doctors left moved like water thick with silt—slow and heavy, distorting everything it passed over.
Till didn’t want to leave the chair, even when his back ached from sitting hunched for so long. The thought of stepping out, even to stretch, felt dangerous. What if something happened while he was gone?
He shifted forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes locked on Luka’s chest. Each rise and fall of breath was a small victory.
The med bay was too clean, too quiet. He could smell the faint tang of antiseptic, hear the low hum of the lights overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattled over uneven flooring. The sound faded quickly, swallowed by the walls.
He thought about what the doctor had said—cardiac arrest. The words had a weight to them, too final for someone who still looked alive in front of him. Luka’s body might be recovering from the cold, but the river had done more than steal his warmth. It had left cracks in places Till couldn’t see, the kind that didn’t heal just because the temperature came back up.
He remembered the river’s surface the moment Luka went under—black, reflecting nothing. The splash had been too loud, the cold spray biting his face as he reached. It had taken seconds, maybe less, but his heart had thrashed in his chest the entire time. He hadn’t thought about what came next. Only about getting Luka out.
And later—so much later—he’d sat in this same chair, wrapped Luka in blankets, his own clothes damp from kneeling too close. He’d pressed his palms against Luka’s ribs, feeling the faint tremors there. He’d thought about how unnatural it was, how cold Luka’s skin could be even when everything was fine. And he’d thought about how this was worse, so much worse.
Till blinked, the med bay shifting back into focus. Luka’s hand was still in his. His thumb kept moving over the knuckles, slow and steady, a motion he didn’t have to think about.
The blanket had slipped slightly off Luka’s shoulder. Till reached over, tucking it back into place. His fingers lingered a moment on the fabric before pulling away.
He looked at Luka’s face, pale but still familiar, and the frustration burned low in his chest. “You can’t stay like this,” he murmured. “Please”
The beeping of the monitor felt louder after he spoke. He wondered if Luka could hear him, if somewhere under the fog of sleep the words were finding him.
Time dragged. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. His stomach was empty, but the idea of food seemed wrong—like stepping away from this chair would break something fragile.
Eventually, footsteps came down the hall. Isaac appeared in the doorway, his voice quiet. “You’ve been here all day. You need to get some rest.”
Till shook his head. “Not yet.”
Isaac hesitated. “They’ll call you if anything changes.”
“That’s not the point,” Till said.
Isaac didn’t push. He just nodded and left, his shadow pulling away from the doorway.
The med bay settled into its quiet again. Till leaned back, his gaze drawn once more to Luka’s face. He tried to picture them somewhere else—outside, in the sun, Luka’s expression caught between a smirk and something softer. But the image kept dissolving into the reality in front of him.
The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight. The hum of the lights seemed louder, sharper.
When his neck started to ache, he shifted, resting his head lightly on Luka’s arm. The warmth was faint but there. His eyes drifted closed, but he didn’t let himself sleep. He stayed half-awake, half-listening, counting each beat of the monitor like it was proof Luka wasn’t slipping further away.
The world narrowed to that sound, the brush of fabric, the faint heat of skin. Everything else could wait.
For now, Luka was still here. And Till wasn’t letting go.
Chapter Text
When Till woke, the first thing he saw was the ceiling — white, cracked near the corner where the paint had bubbled from old water damage. The hum of the med bay lights was steady, almost too steady, like it was trying to keep time for him.
He turned his head toward the other bed. Luka was still there, pale under the thin blanket, his hair slightly mussed where it had dried unevenly. The oxygen mask covered half his face, and the beeping from the monitor was the only proof he hadn’t slipped away in the night.
Till’s chair was still pulled up beside the bed, the blanket he’d used draped over the armrest. He thought about sitting again — staying until Luka’s eyes opened — but movement in the hall pulled him back. Voices, brisk and clipped, the kind that carried urgency.
He stood, glanced once more at Luka, and stepped out.
Isaac was halfway down the corridor, talking to Hyuna. His expression was tight, jaw working. When he spotted Till, he waved him over.
“Good, you’re up,” Isaac said. “We’re in the mess hall in five. Everyone.”
“Something happened?”
“Something’s always happening.” Isaac’s tone left no room for argument. He turned and kept walking.
By the time Till made it to the mess hall, most of the team was already there. Mizi sat at the end of the table, arms folded, watching Isaac pace at the front. Dewey was leaning back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers like this was just another morning.
The air was tense enough to taste.
Isaac didn’t waste time. “Last night we intercepted a transmission. They know our last mission was successful, and they’re not happy. We can expect retaliation within the week.”
Hyuna’s hands were braced on the table. “We’re short on ammo, fuel, and food. If they hit hard, we won’t hold long.”
Mizi cut in. “We could move before they get here. Change location.”
“That’s not happening,” Isaac said. “We have wounded. We’re not moving Luka in his state, and the others aren’t ready for travel.”
The mention of Luka’s name made Till’s attention sharpen, but Isaac didn’t elaborate.
The debate spiraled from there. Hyuna argued for reinforcing the perimeter. Dewey suggested setting traps along the old access roads. Someone else brought up the lack of working radios. The mess hall became a knot of overlapping voices, everyone pushing their own urgency.
Till kept half-listening, half-thinking about the med bay. The image of Luka’s still form kept slipping in between sentences.
When the meeting finally broke, Isaac pulled Till aside. “I need you to help Hyuna today. She’s doing a full sweep of the supply room and patching damaged gear.”
Till hesitated. “The med bay—”
“They’ll call you if anything changes,” Isaac said. His tone wasn’t unkind, but it was final.
The supply room was a mess. Shelves leaned under the weight of mismatched crates, and the smell of oil and old canvas hung heavy. Hyuna handed Till a clipboard and pointed toward a stack of dented boxes.
“Check for working parts. Separate anything rusted or cracked.”
They worked in silence at first, the only sounds were the scrape of metal and the clatter of parts hitting the wrong pile. Eventually, Hyuna said, “You’ve been glued to that med bay. You’ll burn out if you don’t move.”
Till didn’t answer.
“Just saying,” she added, not looking at him.
By the time they finished, Dewey showed up with an armful of tangled comm wires. “Guess what’s fried again.”
Hyuna groaned. “Not today.”
Till took the wires and spent the next hour trying to make sense of them. Dewey sat across from him, talking about anything but the mission — mostly old stories about raids gone wrong. Some of them were ridiculous enough that Till almost smiled, but the weight in his chest didn’t lift.
Somewhere in the background, boots thudded against the floor as guards came and went. Outside, the wind rattled something loose against the wall. The whole place felt like it was bracing for something.
Outside, the air was heavy with that pre-rain dampness that made the dirt smell richer. Isaac was already waiting by the jeep, checking the map spread over the hood. The others—two younger members and one of the older mechanics—were strapping bags to the roof and checking the tires.
“Two supply points,” Isaac said when Till joined him. “We hit the first one quickly—it’s a place I used before. The second is trickier, closer to the city, but we need what’s there.”
They all knew what “trickier” meant. More eyes. More chance of being spotted.
Till nodded, pulling his jacket tighter. “Let’s go.”
The ride was quiet at first. The road was little more than an overgrown path, the jeep’s wheels crunching over gravel and dead leaves. They avoided the main routes, keeping to back roads where the trees closed in above them like watchful guards. Every so often, Isaac would murmur a warning—“slow down here,” or “watch the bend ahead”—but otherwise, conversation was kept to a minimum.
The first supply point was a small storage shack half-swallowed by vines. It looked abandoned to anyone passing by, but the lock on the door was clean and new. Isaac hopped down first, scanning the treeline while Till crouched at the door and worked it open. Inside, the air was musty, thick with the smell of old wood and dust.
They moved quickly, grabbing only what they could carry. Non-perishable food—cans, sealed packets, dried goods—filled one crate. Another was loaded with basic tools, rope, tarps. Till found a stash of batteries and shoved them into his bag. The younger members hauled out a box of medical bandages, antiseptic, and gloves.
They were back on the road within fifteen minutes.
The second stop was further, a half-collapsed warehouse on the outskirts of a small town. They parked far away and went in on foot, sticking to alleyways and keeping their heads down. The streets were too quiet here. No children, no market chatter, just the faint hum of alien machinery somewhere in the distance.
Inside the warehouse, the air was cooler, shadows stretching long. Shelves leaned under the weight of dust-covered boxes. They split up—Till headed for the back, picking through crates.
He found clothes first, most of them too big or too small, but there were jackets, sweaters, and heavier coats. He took two for himself, and without thinking twice, started picking out things Luka could wear—soft shirts, a warm sweater in a muted grey-blue, socks thick enough to keep his feet warm. He stuffed them into his pack until it was nearly bursting. Luka would wake up. He had to.
Further back, Isaac’s voice echoed. “Got something!” He emerged carrying a heavy case marked with a faded red cross. Inside, it was stacked with old but usable medical devices—portable monitors, IV lines, oxygen masks. Exactly the kind of thing their base had been missing.
★
Back at base, the unloading began. Crates thumped onto the ground, bags were dragged in, and the mechanic immediately took the tools to sort through them. The medical supplies went straight to the infirmary, the doctors hovering like hawks.
Isaac, leaning against the jeep, nodded toward an empty corner near the wall. “Been thinking. We could build something here—a small storage unit, reinforced. Not flashy, nothing anyone flying over would notice. But if we lose even a part of the base, we don’t lose everything.”
It made sense. They didn’t have another safe place. This was it.
Plans started forming almost immediately. One of the younger members suggested using scavenged metal sheets; another talked about camouflage netting. While the builders argued about materials, some of the others began hanging up small decorations in the common space—patching holes in the wall, stringing up a few dim lights, pinning old posters they’d found.
Till helped where he could, moving boxes, sorting clothes. He kept the ones for Luka folded neatly in a separate pile, placing them in his own small corner of the dorm space. Luka would wake up. Till would make sure the first thing he saw was how much they’d done to make this place livable. A home, not just a bunker.
★
“We should think about building something more secure here,” Isaac said quietly.
By evening, the common room had been cleared for a meeting. A map of the city was spread across the table, paper copies of scattered notes pinned down with mugs and water bottles.
Isaac started.
“We can’t just sit here. The mission was never about hiding—we were supposed to expose Alien Stage. And Luka nearly died for that. We have to make it worth something.”
‘’Clubs are risky,” Isaac said flatly when Till brought it up.
“Everything is risky,” Till shot back.
Someone else suggested the black markets. If they could slip in there, they might post copies of their files anonymously—get the word spreading without showing their faces. It was a dangerous gamble, but so was every other plan on the table.
The conversation circled for over an hour, strategies spilling into disagreements, nothing feeling safe but nothing being dismissed outright. In the end, they left it unresolved. But the urgency was there. They had to act. And soon.
The meeting room felt heavier than usual, even though there were only a few people inside. The smell of strong coffee clung to the air, mixing with the faint scent of dust from the papers spread across the table. Till sat in his usual spot, notebook open but pen unmoving. He wasn’t here to draw this time.
Isaac leaned over the table, both hands braced against its surface. “We have enough proof to burn them. Files, recordings, testimony—” his gaze flicked briefly toward Till, “—but we don’t have a safe way to get it out. Not yet.”
Hyuna was already flipping through a folder thick with printouts. “If we just dump everything, it’s useless. They’ll spin it, call it propaganda, and say it’s fake.”
“Unless,” Dewey cut in, “we get it out through channels people trust. Ones they can’t control completely.”
“Like what?” Till asked, finally moving his pen but only to tap it against the page.
“Newspapers,” Dewey said. “Printed ones. Underground presses still exist, even if they’re not mainstream. If we could get a story published there—”
Hyuna shook her head. “Those places are already monitored. Anything that prints something that dangerous? It’ll be gone the same night. Burned.”
“Didn’t they already post though? about the rumours?” It’s different when you live in the city, and know where to look, we don't know the city much.
“Not if it’s spread before they can kill it,” Isaac said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “If we release the files to multiple sources at once… physical copies, digital copies, encrypted…”
“Too risky,” Hyuna replied. “The more people know, the easier it is to trace it back to us.”
Till rubbed at the back of his neck, looking down at the papers. “We can’t just sit on it. Luka nearly died for this. If we wait too long, it’ll be for nothing.”
That shut them up for a moment. No one wanted to meet his eyes.
Finally, Mizi leaned forward, voice quieter than usual. “What about black markets? They deal in illegal information too, not just weapons. You pay enough, and they’ll circulate anything—flyers, recordings, gossip. Once it’s out there, it’s hard to bury completely.”
Isaac frowned. “Again, black markets are crawling with their informants. You pay the wrong person, and you’re dead before sunrise.”
“But it’s an option,” Till said. “It’s not safe. None of this is safe. If we’re looking for something where we’re not at risk—” He let out a dry laugh. “—then we might as well give up now.”
The room fell into a tense silence again, the kind where you could hear every shift of paper and clink of a coffee cup.
Hyuna closed the folder in front of her. “We need multiple plans. A main route, and a backup in case it fails. Newspapers are one. Black market is another. Maybe even word-of-mouth—through performers, travellers. Things that can’t be censored as easily.”
“Performers?” Dewey tilted his head. “Like singers?”
“Yes. Anyone who has a stage. They don’t have to name Alien Stage directly—just hint. Drop lines, symbols. People notice patterns. They talk. It spreads faster than an article no one reads.”
Isaac still looked unconvinced, but he finally leaned back in his chair. “Alright. Let’s map out who we’d need for each method. Then we decide which to try first. The rest, we keep in reserve.”
Till sat back, letting the others argue over details. His pen moved slowly now, making small marks in the margin of his notebook—not pictures, just words: It has to work.
The argument keeps circling.
Dewey, who had been sitting half-slouched, suddenly straightened. “Newspapers. Underground ones. People still read them. If we can get a trusted source to print our story—”
Hyuna didn’t even let him finish. “You think they won’t be watching print? Please. The moment one of those presses touches paper with the wrong headline, it’s gone. Editors arrested. Printing machines destroyed. We’d be sending people to their deaths.”
Isaac turned the idea over anyway, brow furrowed. “Unless… unless it hits multiple outlets at once. They can’t kill all of them fast enough. We give each one a different piece of the story, make them too scattered to destroy in a single sweep.”
Till finally spoke, voice quiet but cutting through. “And how long before someone puts the pieces together and traces it back to us? Because they will.” His pen tapped against the paper once, twice. “We’d be lucky to last a week.”
Silence for a moment, heavy and thoughtful. Till felt the weight of it pressing against his ribs. Luka had risked—no, had given—everything to get those files. And they were sitting here, poking at ideas like they were afraid of getting burned.
Isaac leaned back in his chair, but his gaze stayed locked on her. “That takes time. And time isn’t something we have. Every day we wait, they tighten their grip. Every day Luka stays in that bed—” He stopped himself, jaw tight.
Hyuna crossed her arms. “Rushing in without a plan will only make what he did pointless. We need to get this right. Even if that means waiting until he’s awake to hear his input.”
“Waiting could kill the momentum,” Isaac shot back. “The files will still be valuable, but not as explosive. Public memory fades fast.”
Till clenched his pen harder, wishing Luka were here to answer them both. Luka had a way of cutting through Isaac’s intensity and Hyuna’s caution, dragging them toward a middle ground they could all live with.
They started mapping the options on paper.
- Newspapers: Risk of quick suppression; possible contacts through old press workers Hyuna had met before; safe drop points might be public libraries or abandoned postal depots. Pros: widespread reach. Cons: high traceability, puts contacts in danger.
- Black Market Distributors: Medium reach but harder to censor; contacts could be approached indirectly through intermediaries; possible safe handoff points in dock warehouses or closed factories. Pros: anonymity possible. Cons: infiltration risk high.
- Word-of-Mouth Networks: Low initial risk; slow spread; could use coded performances, graffiti, songs. Pros: resilience against censorship. Cons: time-consuming, limited immediate impact.
Each method had its own column of potential names, routes, and red flags. Till listened as they went over each contact they could think of, trying to imagine Luka leaning over this same table, smirking at how overcomplicated they were making it.
The discussion dragged on for hours. Voices rose, fell, then rose again. Coffee was refilled twice. At one point, Mizi nearly fell asleep in her chair, head propped on her fist, before Hyuna slid a cup of tea in front of her.
By the time they had three full pages of scribbled notes, no one looked satisfied. But at least they had something—options, however imperfect.
Isaac finally stood, closing the meeting with a curt nod. “We keep refining. No leaks. No whispers outside this room. We’ll vote on which method to lead with once we’ve tightened the details.”
Chairs scraped against the floor. People filed out, murmuring to one another, their words too low to catch.
Till lingered a moment, looking down at the notes. The ink smudged under his fingertips. Then he closed his notebook and left.
★
The medbay was quiet, lit only by the dim glow of a wall lamp. Luka lay motionless, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound.
Till sat beside the bed, pulling the chair closer until his knees brushed the mattress. He hesitated before taking Luka’s hand, feeling the coolness of his skin.
“You would’ve handled that meeting better than I did,” Till murmured, eyes tracing the lines of Luka’s face. “You’d know who to trust. Who to avoid. I just… kept thinking how much you’d hate sitting through all that arguing.”
The monitor kept its steady rhythm, almost soothing.
“We’ve got ideas now. Not good ones, maybe, but… something. We’ll make it work. We have to.” His thumb brushed against Luka’s knuckles. “You didn’t go through all of this for nothing.”
And then—sharp, sudden—the heart monitor let out a shrill alarm. The steady beeping fractured into rapid, erratic bursts.
Till’s head snapped toward the machine, pulse spiking. “What—” His chair scraped back. “What’s happening?”
The sound hit Till’s chest like a punch. His gaze snapped to the monitor—flat lines of erratic spikes and a number dropping too fast.
“…No,” Till whispered, frozen for one breath before he was on his feet, stumbling toward the door.
“HEY! Someone! The monitor—something’s wrong with Luka!”
The response was immediate. The hall outside erupted in quick, pounding footsteps. The med bay door slammed open and three doctors rushed inside like a wave, their coats flaring behind them. One of them was already barking orders before Till could step back.
“Clear the space. Now!”
Till stumbled backward until his calves hit the chair. His breath was coming too fast. He didn’t even realize his hands were shaking until he saw the way his knuckles trembled.
Two doctors were already pulling Luka’s shirt open, exposing pale skin and the jut of ribs that shouldn’t be that sharp. A third leaned over him, hands pressing rhythmically against his sternum—short, firm compressions that made Luka’s limp body rock slightly with each push.
“V-fib. Get the crash cart!” someone yelled.
“Pulse?”
“None!”
The room was all noise—gloves snapping, metal clattering, voices cutting in over each other. Till’s mind was white static.
“…Surgery. He’s not stabilizing here!” one doctor shouted.
Another nodded sharply. “We have the equipment now. Move him—now!”
“No—” Till’s voice cracked, raw in his throat. His feet carried him to the side of the bed before he even thought about moving. “What’s happening? What—”
“His heart stopped. We’re taking him to surgery. You need to stay here,” the doctor said without looking at him, already signaling for someone to grab the rolling stretcher.
Till could only nod—or maybe he didn’t nod, maybe he just stood there mute while the room moved without him.
They transferred Luka to the gurney in one practiced motion. Wires trailed after him, monitors beeping wildly. Till’s gaze clung to his face—the slack jaw, the closed eyes. His own chest hurt, like he’d forgotten how to breathe properly.
The doctors shoved the gurney toward the door, and Till followed until the same doctor turned, firm and unyielding, holding a palm up. “Stay here. We’ll do everything we can.”
And then Luka was gone, the doors swinging shut behind him.
Till stood there for a heartbeat too long before his knees gave out, dropping him back into the chair. His palms pressed over his eyes until all he saw was red. He wasn’t sure if he was breathing right.
What if he doesn’t come back? What if this is it?
His hands slipped down to his lap, trembling. He stared at the spot where Luka’s bed had been seconds ago, the sheets still rumpled with his outline. It felt wrong—too empty, too fast.
Something warm slid down his cheek. Till didn’t bother to wipe it away.
Till sat in the hallway, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tight his knuckles ached. The bright white light overhead hummed faintly, and the smell of antiseptic was sharp enough to make him dizzy. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
The medbay doors had closed behind Luka and the doctors what it felt like years ago. Now, all that was left was the sterile corridor and the faint, distant sounds of activity somewhere deep inside the wing.
Every minute stretched into ten. Every time a footstep echoed in the hall, his head jerked up, only for it to be some medic walking past with paperwork or a cart of supplies—not anyone coming to talk to him.
At some point, he realized he’d been holding his breath for far too long, and he forced himself to exhale. It came out shaky, and he didn’t bother trying to hide it.
After a while, the sound of more footsteps approached, quicker, heavier. He looked up, and Hyuna was the first to appear, her hair slightly messy like she’d run here. Mizi followed right on her heels, her eyes wide. Dewey and Isaac weren’t far behind, both breathing hard like they’d dropped everything.
Hyuna crouched in front of him immediately, her hand on his shoulder. “Till—what happened?”
Till’s mouth felt dry, but the words came out anyway, quiet and flat. “He… he went into cardiac arrest. They rushed him into surgery. I don’t know anything else.”
Mizi’s hands flew to her mouth. Dewey swore under his breath, the sound short and sharp. Isaac’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say a word. They all exchanged looks that carried too much—fear, anger, helplessness—and then slowly sank into seats around Till.
No one moved much after that. No one left. The hallway became its own little world, four walls and five people locked in the same suspended moment.
Time didn’t so much pass as it dissolved into a blur of nothing.
An hour went by. Then two. The air in the hallway felt heavier with every tick of the clock. The medbay doors stayed shut, the same sterile white as before.
Occasionally, a nurse would pass through, but they never stopped. Till thought about asking, but the words never made it past his lips. Every time he pictured speaking, he pictured them saying We’re sorry, and his chest would clench too tightly to risk it.
He barely noticed when night began to seep in through the narrow windows along the corridor, painting the floor in soft shadows. Someone must have brought food at some point—he remembered seeing a paper bag sitting near Dewey’s feet—but no one touched it.
Hyuna got up once or twice, pacing a short stretch of the hall before sitting again. Isaac leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the medbay doors like he could open them. Mizi sat with her hands clasped in her lap, head bowed,
Till didn’t move at all. He stayed in the same position, his back starting to ache, his palms pressed together so tightly his fingers felt numb.+
By the time the medbay doors finally opened, more than half the day had slipped by. It was late—too late for them to have waited this long without breaking apart—and the sight of the doctor stepping into the hall was like a shock of cold air.
Till was on his feet before he even thought about standing. The others rose too, all at once, the scrape of their chairs loud in the silence.
The doctor looked tired—his shoulders slightly slumped, his mask pulled down to hang around his neck. But he wasn’t grim. That was the only thing Till could focus on in the first second.
“We almost lost him,” the doctor began, voice steady but low. “But the surgery was a success. His heart is beating normally on its own now.”
Till’s knees nearly gave out from the force of the relief, but he stayed upright, every nerve still waiting for the rest.
“We’ll begin treatment immediately,” the doctor continued. “The goal is to strengthen his heart so it can pump blood more effectively on its own. We’ll do everything possible to help him recover.”
There was a pause then—a hesitation that made Till’s breath hitch.
“…But whether he wakes up isn’t something we can force,” the doctor said finally. “That depends entirely on him. We can’t bring him back to consciousness. He has to do that himself.”
The words sank in like stones in water, slow and heavy. The relief of knowing Luka was alive crashed into the ache of knowing he was still so far away.
Till nodded numbly, his hands curling into fists at his sides—not in anger, but just to stop them from trembling.
The doctor’s words kept echoing long after he’d gone. Only Luka himself has to.
Till stayed standing, staring at the closed medbay doors again, but now the weight in his chest was different—less of a crushing fear, more of a tight, fragile hope that he didn’t dare touch in case it shattered. The others were speaking in low voices nearby—Hyuna asking questions, Isaac responding with short, measured answers—but it all sounded muffled, like Till was underwater.
He sat back down eventually, elbows on his knees again, but now his hands were trembling, fingers curling and uncurling without him noticing. It was strange—he’d gotten the news that Luka was alive, that his heart was beating, but the uncertainty still gnawed at him.
Alive, but not awake.
That thought didn’t let go of him for the next hour.
When the medbay doors finally opened again, a pair of nurses came out pushing a bed. Till saw the pale skin first, the familiar messy hair, and then his feet were already moving before his mind caught up.
He was at Luka’s side in seconds, walking alongside the rolling bed until they stopped in a smaller, quieter room. The space was dimmer, less crowded than the chaos earlier. The beeping monitors were still there, but there weren’t as many machines as before.
Wires and tubes still connected him to the monitors, but his chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. He looked… peaceful. Almost like he was just sleeping.
Till’s breath hitched, and for the first time since this all started, some of the tension in his shoulders eased—just barely. He stayed where he was, close enough that if Luka opened his eyes, he’d see him immediately.
One of the nurses murmured something about monitoring vitals and slipped out. Till barely heard.
He pulled the single chair closer to the bed, sat down, and leaned forward, his hand resting on the edge of the mattress. He didn’t touch Luka—not yet—but the urge was there, strong and unshakable.
Now that Luka was here, within reach, the idea of leaving him felt impossible. If it had been hard before, it was going to be unbearable now. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight. Not until Luka woke up.
The quiet hum of the machines filled the room. Till let it lull him into stillness, eyes fixed on Luka’s face, as if he could bring him back to consciousness by refusing to look away.
It was strange, the way time had moved since that night.
Till couldn’t have said exactly how it happened, but when he thought back to the mission—the chaos, the shouting, the gut-punch moment Luka went down—it felt like something that had happened only days ago. And yet, the calendar on the wall told him otherwise. Almost three months.
Three months of medbay visits, of sitting in the same hard-backed chair, of watching the same slow rise and fall of Luka’s chest. Three months of living in a constant half-state of waiting, where every hour felt stretched thin and frayed around the edges.
At some point, the seasons had shifted. The air in the base no longer had the bite of winter; now it carried that softer, warmer heaviness that made the metal hallways smell faintly of dust and old wood. He hadn’t noticed the change until one afternoon, walking from the mess hall to the medbay, a shaft of sunlight caught on a cracked tile and he realized the light felt different—longer somehow, less sharp.
Life in the base didn’t stop, of course. It bent around Luka’s absence like water around a stone. In the first weeks after the surgery, Isaac and Hyuna had tried to keep the team busy with small, tangible tasks—things that could be finished and ticked off, maybe to give them all the illusion of control. They built shelving in the storage room, rearranged the common area, patched up old leaks in the dorm wing. Someone (probably Dewey) had painted over the graffiti on the east corridor wall with a splash of bright yellow that didn’t match anything else but at least made the place look less like a bunker.
There had even been moments of… not joy, exactly, but lightness. Mizi stringing old festival lanterns above the mess hall tables, muttering that it made the food taste better. Dewey organizing a poker night that ends with Hyuna confiscating the deck because apparently betting your rations wasn’t “team-friendly.”
Till was there for most of it—hammer in hand, paint under his nails—but his mind was never far from the medbay.
The plans for the next mission, the one Luka had bled for, were still pinned to the board in the strategy room. Maps, lists, coded notes. They’d been there so long the paper had curled at the edges.
He’d overheard part of the argument between Hyuna and Isaac about it, late one night when he’d gone to the kitchen for tea.
Hyuna’s voice was sharp, clipped. “We can’t just sit here forever. The longer we wait, the colder the trail gets. You know that.”
Isaac’s was lower, measured, but firm. “And if we go now, we risk everything. We don’t even know if Luka will—” A pause, then, quieter, “We owe it to him to be sure before we move.”
They’d seen him in the doorway then, and the conversation had died. The next day, nothing more was said about starting the mission.
So the weeks kept folding over each other. The base settled into a rhythm, but for Till, it always ended the same way—back in the medbay, in the same chair, staring at Luka.
He’d gotten used to the smaller room they’d moved him to after the surgery. The hum of the machines had become background noise, almost like a strange kind of white noise meant to keep him grounded. There weren’t as many wires anymore. The beeping was steady, the kind of steady that didn’t make Till’s stomach drop every time it hit his ears.
Sometimes he’d read a book balanced open in one hand, though most days the words blurred before he got to the end of a page. Other times, he’d sketch—lines that started with an idea but always ended up turning into Luka’s face.
The exhaustion had crept in slowly, like water seeping under a door. Some days it was just in the heaviness of his eyelids. Other days, it sat deep in his bones, making every movement feel slower than it should. He’d catch himself drifting off mid-thought, the hum of the machines lulling him into half-sleep, and then jolt awake again with a rush of guilt.
But he stayed.
Even when Hyuna told him, gently, that he should take a night to rest in his own bed. Even when Isaac offered to take a shift in the chair so Till could sleep without the medbay lights buzzing overhead.
He always shook his head.
Because what if? What if Luka opened his eyes and he wasn’t there? What if he missed it?
It didn’t matter that the doctors said it might be weeks, months still. It didn’t matter that the odds were impossible to guess. Till had made his decision in the moment they wheeled Luka into that quieter room—he wasn’t leaving.
Now, as the soft beeping kept time in the dim light, Till leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the still figure in the bed. Luka looked no different than he had yesterday, or the day before. His hair was still messy, his lashes still cast faint shadows on his cheeks. If it weren’t for the wires, the monitors, the faint antiseptic smell, it could have been any quiet morning from before.
Till let out a slow breath and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to that steady heartbeat he’d almost lost once already. It was the only sound that mattered.
And as another day bled into the next, he stayed right where he was.
Chapter 29
Notes:
yay
Chapter Text
It started with Isaac saying the base looked “too much like a storage unit someone abandoned in a hurry.”
Nobody argued. The walls were bare concrete, still cold even after three months of life here. The corridors felt like they had been designed for rats, not people. The few scattered pieces of furniture looked like they’d been dragged out of a junkyard—and half of them probably had.
So Isaac announced a “morale project.”
Everyone was assigned to make the place “feel human,” though he never actually explained what that meant. Mizi immediately claimed the kitchen, declaring that the bare walls and steel counters were “a crime” and she was going to fix it with stolen curtains and mismatched plates. Dewey went straight for the workshop, because apparently “repair space needs better lighting and a cooler toolbox.”
And somehow—somehow—Till ended up staring at the biggest empty wall in the common room, a crate of paint cans dumped at his feet.
“You’re the artist,” Mizi had said, already walking away. “Do something with it.”
Till didn’t argue.
He spent the first hour just standing there, sketchbook in hand, testing lines. The wall was rough, full of tiny pockmarks that would eat up paint unevenly, but he didn’t mind. He could see the image in his head before it even touched the surface—a sprawling mural that would make this place feel less like a bunker and more like something alive.
When he finally cracked open the first can of black paint, the sharp chemical smell hit him like a punch, but it was good. He mapped out the broad strokes first—sweeping curves, jagged lines that cut across the space like lightning.
Other people drifted in and out. Dewey stopped by at one point, leaning against the doorframe with a grin.
“You’re wasting good art on a wall nobody’s gonna see but us,” he teased.
Till dipped his brush in bright red paint without looking at him. “Good. Means it’ll stay.”
By the end of the second day, the mural was sprawling into something abstract but fierce—shapes and shadows that looked like wings, hands reaching upward, streaks of gold breaking through black. Between those, tiny hidden symbols—things no one would notice unless they knew where to look. A jagged heart shape tucked into the corner. A silhouette that looked, to him, almost like Luka leaning against a railing.
He didn’t plan those. His hand just… did them.
The common room began to change around him. People started leaving their things there instead of keeping them in their bunks—blankets, books, half-finished mugs of tea. Mizi started taking her lunch breaks here just to stare at the wall. Even Isaac admitted it “felt less like a concrete coffin now.”
Till didn’t say much, but every time he stepped back from the mural, the air felt a little warmer.
He sits with the sketchbook open but his hands aren’t really drawing. The brush lies across his knee, a stub of paint on his thumb, and the mural glares back at him from the other side of the room like something he half-made and can’t take credit for. People slowly trickled past — a laugh here, a shout there — and he watched them, counting the ways the base depends on Luka without ever saying it out loud.
They say he’s useful. They say it like it’s a fact, like water is wet. He remembers corridors no one else remembers, doors no one else notices, the little patterns of shifts and guards that make or break a plan. He can read a building the way I read a face. He is a map and a memory and a key all tangled into the same person. So of course, the mission planners circle back to him. Of course, Isaac’s eyes light up at the mention of his name. It’s practical. It’s logistical. It’s also terrible. They know only Luka could fix their plan.
He’s not naive about math. One man who knows the place is worth more than a dozen who don’t. One man who can move like a shadow can save lives because he can predict the shadows. But it feels ugly to reduce him to that. It feels ugly to see people’s expressions soften — not because they’ve suddenly remembered he’s a person — but because they see a tool that makes something possible. When Isaac talks, his tone is softer when Luka’s name comes up. There’s pride and strategy tangled together, and sometimes he can’t tell which it is.
And then there are the quieter things you only notice when you stare at someone for too long. The way Mizi lingers at the edge of a conversation where Luka might be a part of the plan, the way Hyuna’s jaw tightens and not because she’s worried for the mission, but because she’s worried for him. The way Dewey tries to make light of everything is because if he looks too solemn, he’ll have to admit what’s obvious: we need Luka. We need the thing he brings. And that need puts ridiculous pressure on him, like a hand pressed to the back of his neck saying, “Don’t fail us.” It’s a weight he wouldn’t put on anyone he loves.
★
It was three days into the mural project when the runners returned.
The first thing Till noticed was how quiet they were. Usually, the supply teams came back loud, laughing about near misses, bragging about what they’d managed to scavenge. This time, they walked in with their heads low, their bags full, but their expressions tight.
Hyuna met them at the door, checking inventory, but her eyes flicked toward their faces more than the supplies.
“What happened?” she asked, low enough for only the nearest few to hear.
The lead runner, a wiry man named Coren, shrugged, but it wasn’t the careless kind. It was the heavy, forced kind.
“The safe zone in District Seven’s gone,” he said. “Not just cleared out. Gone. Burned.”
Hyuna froze for half a second before hiding it under a sharp nod. “Cause?”
“No one’s saying. But we heard…” He glanced toward the others, then lowered his voice further. “…We heard it’s ’cause they talked too much. About Alien Stage. Someone ratted them out.”
Till, who had been walking past with a paint-stained rag in hand, slowed without meaning to. His chest tightened at the way Coren’s words hung in the air, heavy and toxic.
“And it’s not just them,” Coren went on. “People are disappearing. No sign of struggle, no trace. Just… gone.”
Hyuna didn’t answer right away. She dismissed the runners with instructions to rest and unload supplies later, then turned sharply on her heel, heading for Isaac’s office.
The rumors spread anyway. By dinner, the whole base was quieter than usual. Conversations stopped when certain names came up. People kept glancing toward the door as if expecting someone to come storming in.
That night, Till caught a fragment of Isaac and Hyuna’s argument through the thin walls.
“We can’t wait forever,” Hyuna was saying. “Every week we stall, more people vanish. They’re tightening their grip.”
“And going in half-prepared will get us killed,” Isaac shot back. “We need Luka, and we’re not moving until he’s ready.”
Till lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling, mural paint still under his fingernails, wondering if either of them was right.
The next morning, Till found himself sitting by Luka again, the room too quiet except for the steady beep of the heart monitor.
He rested his elbows on the edge of the bed, speaking softly like Luka could hear every word.
No reaction, of course. Luka’s face was still and pale, his chest rising slowly under the blanket. The machines were fewer now, just enough to keep track of his breathing and heart rate. It made him look almost peaceful—like he’d just fallen asleep and forgotten to wake up.
Till stayed longer than he meant to, his head slowly tipping forward until it rested against Luka’s arm.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there like that—minutes, maybe hours—before Isaac’s voice in the hallway broke the stillness. Till straightened, rubbed his eyes, and told himself he’d leave soon. But he didn’t.
The problem started small—a faint metallic taste in the drinking water. By the time anyone thought to check the filtration system, the water tanks were already showing signs of contamination.
It wasn’t an emergency yet, but it was the kind of problem that could turn into one fast.
Isaac organized the repair teams immediately, Hyuna rationed the safe water, and the rest of the base turned into a half-chaotic construction site. Pipes had to be stripped, filters replaced, tanks flushed.
Till wasn’t good with tools, but he carried crates of supplies from one end of the base to the other, muscles aching from the constant back-and-forth. At one point he almost dropped an entire box of spare filters, saved only by Dewey swooping in to grab the edge.
“Careful,” Dewey said with a grin. “Unless you want us all drinking rust.”
By evening, the worst was over. The system was running again, the water slowly clearing. People laughed in relief, the tension easing like a long exhale.
Till didn’t join the celebration. He slipped back to Luka’s room, the hum of the repaired pipes faint in the walls, and sat down beside the bed again.
Till’s thumb brushed over Luka’s knuckles, tracing absent shapes in the faint warmth of his skin. The infirmary was quiet, save for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the soft hiss of the oxygen. Every so often, one of the machines would emit a low, mechanical sigh, as if even the equipment was tired of waiting.
Till’s own hand was sore from holding Luka’s, but he didn’t let go. Not once. It had become a kind of anchor—proof that Luka was still here, still tethered to the world.
He’d been thinking about the plans again. About the mission. About all the quiet conversations behind closed doors, the murmurs that always seemed to circle back to the same thing: when Luka wakes up. As though it was a given. As though Luka would open his eyes, roll his shoulders, and pick up exactly where he’d left off.
Till hated the way that thought made his chest tighten. Not because he didn’t want Luka to wake, but because it made him realize how selfish people could be. Everyone was waiting for him to come back so he could help them. The mission. The exposure. The files. All of it resting on a man who’d nearly died twice in the span of a month.
No one seemed to be asking whether Luka could even do those things anymore.
Till wasn’t sure he’d let him.
He could already imagine the doctors shaking their heads, saying Luka would have to be careful, that his heart could only take so much strain. That the damage was permanent, even if it could be managed. He could see Luka brushing all of that off, just like he brushed off his inhaler until it was empty, until it was too late.
And the idea of watching him go into another mission—watching him get pushed to the edge again—made something deep in Till recoil.
He tightened his grip slightly, his fingers curling around Luka’s. The skin under his touch was cool, but not lifeless.
That was when it happened.
A twitch.
Just the faintest, smallest shift of Luka’s fingers against his palm, but it sent a jolt straight through Till’s chest. His breath caught, his body tensed, and for a split second, hope roared to life inside him so loud it drowned out everything else.
“Luka?”
The name left his mouth like it had been waiting there all along. He leaned forward, searching Luka’s face, scanning for the slightest movement. His heart was pounding, and for a heartbeat he was certain—certain—this was it.
But then… nothing.
No flutter of eyelids, no further movement. Just stillness again.
Till stared at their joined hands, his own trembling slightly now, the burst of adrenaline drained away, leaving behind a familiar ache in his throat. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. People in comas twitched all the time. Reflexes. Muscles are firing at random.
But he stayed leaning forward, just in case it happened again.
He didn’t dare let go.
★
Till’s legs carried him down the corridor before he’d even decided where he was going. The infirmary doors closed behind him with that muted click, and the silence on the other side felt suffocating. He could still hear the heart monitor in his head, that slow, steady beep-beep-beep that had been the soundtrack to his life for almost three months.
He hadn’t stepped into the gym in months. Not really. There’d been no time, no energy, and—if he was honest—no point. But now his body ached with the need to move, to hit something that wouldn’t break under his hands.
The air inside the gym smelled faintly of sweat, leather, and the metallic tang of old iron weights. The punching bag hung in the corner, swaying slightly from the last person who’d used it.
Till wrapped his fists, methodically winding the cloth around his knuckles, the familiar ritual settling into muscle memory. He hit the bag once, hard enough to feel it all the way up to his shoulder. Again. Again. Each blow landed heavier, sharper. His chest was tight, his jaw locked, and every strike felt like it was scraping something raw out of him.
He didn’t hear Dewey come in until the man’s voice cut through the sound of leather meeting leather.
“You look like you’re trying to murder it.”
Till didn’t answer. He hit the bag again, the impact making the chain above creak.
Dewey stepped closer, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. “Wanna try punching something that hits back?”
Till stopped mid-swing, breathing hard.
“Come on,” Dewey said, already pulling off his jacket. “You’re wound up like a spring. Better you take it out on me before you go breaking someone’s ribs in the hallway.”
They moved to the sparring mat. Dewey didn’t waste time talking; he just gestured for Till to come at him. The first few exchanges were messy—Till’s swings fast but uncalculated, driven more by emotion than technique. Dewey blocked most of them, letting a few connect just enough to feed Till’s momentum.
It wasn’t long before Till’s breathing grew ragged. Sweat trickled down his temple. He wasn’t fighting Dewey so much as fighting everything else—the fear, the frustration, the image of Luka lying motionless in that bed.
“You done yet?” Dewey asked, ducking under another punch.
Till swung harder.
Dewey caught his wrist mid-strike, twisting it just enough to throw Till off balance before letting go. “Guess not.”
By the time Till finally stepped back, his chest was heaving, and the tension in his shoulders had loosened, if only a little. Dewey tossed him a water bottle.
“Come on,” Dewey said. “Let’s go for a ride. You need air.”
★
The motorbike roared under him, the vibration humming through his bones. They didn’t go far—just far enough to get away from the base walls, far enough for the wind to cut through the heaviness pressing down on Till’s chest. The night air was cool, sharp in his lungs.
They stopped on a stretch of cracked asphalt overlooking the distant city lights. Dewey lit a cigarette, offering Till one.
Till hesitated, then took it. The first drag was bitter, but it grounded him. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. They just stood there, the hum of cooling engines filling the quiet.
“You ever think about what you’ll do when this is over?” Dewey asked finally.
Till exhaled smoke slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon. “If it ever is.”
Dewey smirked faintly, but didn’t push. They stayed there a little longer, the quiet stretching between them, before heading back.
When they rolled back into the base, the meeting room lights were still on. Voices echoed faintly from inside—Hyuna’s sharp tone, Isaac’s measured replies, the occasional murmur from someone else.
Dewey glanced toward the door. “Think we’re missing anything important?”
Till shook his head. “If it was important, they’d call us.”
They bypassed the meeting entirely, heading instead toward the kitchen. The coffee pot was still warm, a scattering of mugs on the counter suggesting everyone had been running on caffeine for hours.
Till poured himself a cup, leaning back against the counter. Through the glass wall of the meeting room, he could see Hyuna gesturing animatedly, Isaac standing with his arms folded. They looked… tired. The kind of tiredness that didn’t come from just one night without sleep.
“Bet they’re still arguing about the mission,” Dewey said.
Till hummed in agreement, taking a sip. He couldn’t shake the thought that whatever was happening in there, it was just going to loop back to the same problem—waiting for Luka.
Later, when the meeting finally broke, Till found himself pulled into a quieter corner by Mizi, who was grinning like she’d just stolen something.
“Come with me,” she whispered.
He followed her down to one of the old storage rooms. Inside, half the walls had been stripped bare, the concrete exposed and scrawled over with chalk outlines.
“They want this turned into a rec room,” Mizi explained. “Hyuna said we could get creative. You paint, right?”
Till blinked at her. “Yeah.”
“Then help me out. Make it less depressing here.”
He stared at the wall for a long moment, then set his coffee down and started sketching in chalk. The lines came easily—muscle memory, again—forming something bright, something alive. He could almost forget the smell of antiseptic and the sound of the heart monitor. Almost.
By the time he stepped back, the beginnings of a mural stretched across the wall. It wasn’t finished, but it was something. A splash of color waiting to happen.
And for the first time in days, Till felt like he’d done something that wasn’t just waiting.
The first hint that something was up came from the hall—fast footsteps, the scrape of shoes, and Dewey’s unmistakable voice shouting,
“Front page, baby!”
Till barely looked up from the mug of tea in his hands. He’d been sitting in the corner of the common room for most of the morning, half-listening to the low hum of chatter, the click of cards being shuffled. The smell of coffee drifted in from the kitchen.
Then Dewey burst in, waving a rolled-up bundle of newspapers like a prize.
“Guess who’s famous?”
Mizi’s head shot up from her book. “Not you.”
“Wrong!” Dewey dropped the papers onto the table with a dramatic thud. “Us. All of us.”
Hyuna reached first, snatching one and flipping it open. The others crowded in—Isaac leaning over the back of a chair, Mizi sidling up with an annoyed sigh. Curiosity pulled Till in despite himself, and he moved closer, setting his mug down.
The headline sprawled across the top in fat black letters:
“Rebels Strike Again — Arena in Ruins, City Shaken”
Beneath it was a grainy, zoomed-in shot of the smoke still curling over the collapsed structure. Below that…
The wanted posters.
Till’s breath caught. They’d gone all-out this time. Each of them had their own square—face, alias, an inflated bounty. His own photo was one of the few in focus, taken from some security feed.
The text beneath read:
“Till — dangerous and unpredictable. Suspected in multiple attacks. Approach with caution.”
Mizi barked a laugh at hers: “ Highly manipulative. Do not engage in conversation .”
“Wow,” she said, “someone’s projecting.”
Hyuna’s profile declared her “suspected seductress and strategist,” which made her groan and shove the paper away.
“That’s not even my job.”
Dewey said “the brains of the operation,” and the room immediately erupted into wheezing laughter. He grinned, basking in it.
“Damn right. Finally, some recognition.”
Then they reached Luka’s.
Till’s eyes found the photograph first—one from years ago, clean-cut, uniformed, eyes hard but bright. The text beneath dripped disdain:
“Luka — former promising candidate turned traitor. Now believed to be injured or incapacitated. Considered a failed experiment.”
Till felt his jaw tighten. Failed experiment. The words burned, sitting heavy in his chest.
“Wow, they’re not holding back,” Dewey muttered.
Mizi tilted her head. “Kind of makes him sound like… already done for.”
Till said nothing.
Hyuna flipped the page to the main article, reading aloud. The city officials had given a statement blaming the rebels entirely for the arena destruction, claiming “no civilian casualties thanks to the swift evacuation efforts of the security forces.”
Till’s lip curled—he could still see the chaos, the screaming. They’d left that out.
Halfway down, there was a section quoting various former owners.
“Listen to this,” Hyuna said. “‘We took them in, fed them, gave them purpose—and this is how they repay us? By burning everything to the ground?’”
“Ungrateful little pets,” another quote read. “‘They were nothing before us. Now they bite the hand that fed them.’”
“Wow,” Mizi said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I feel so bad for them.”
Isaac folded his arms. “They’re not trying to convince the public—they’re reinforcing the system. Making us look like rabid animals that need to be put down.”
Hyuna nodded grimly. “Exactly.”
But the absurdity crept back in as Dewey flipped to the second page, where a “personality profile” had been written for each of them.
“These are gold,” he said, reading: “‘Till—quiet but deadly. Potentially unstable .’ That’s basically a compliment.”
The tension broke for a moment. Someone—Dewey, probably—murmured, “We should sign autographs.”
“Pose for a new poster,” Mizi added. “Maybe with finger guns.”
But then Isaac brought it back. “They’re spreading this far. If this gets into every major paper, we’re not just wanted—we’re branded. It’ll be harder to move, harder to find allies.”
“Unless we flip it,” Hyuna said. “Use it. If they’re printing this stuff, they’re giving us visibility. We just need to make sure the right people hear the truth, too.”
“Wow, listen to this..” Dewey snorts as he reads. “Season 51 of Alien Stage failure, but is the fault entirely on the rebels or the Anakt Corp is getting things out of control”
“Perfect again to bring in the newspaper” Isaac speaks “By making them at fault, and exposing them. After all for season 50 we managed to rescue 3 people…Their guards sucks their system sucks, we show them that people can’t be pets anymore,”
“If they get motivated by the fact that they haven't thought of us well they’ll go harsher on the kids in Anakt Garden…” Hyuna says
“That’s why we will rescue the kids….”
Till only half-listened now. His eyes kept flicking back to Luka’s photo. He imagined the man in the image—alive, defiant—next to the Luka lying pale and still in the infirmary. Same man, different worlds.
The others kept talking—pros, cons, how to counter the narrative, whether they could plant their own stories. Till drifted toward the edge of the group. Dewey was still cracking jokes about being “the handsome one” in the lineup. Isaac and Hyuna bicker again, that they won't have time if they stand here and do nothing.
Till just wanted the paper gone.
He wanted Luka to be awake.
To hear his voice.
To hug him and never let go.
To kiss him.
He doesn’t realise when he left the room, suddenly everything was too much again, his feet were moving on their own already knowing the route by heart to the infirmary and to Luka’s room.
The lights in the room often were now turned off, he thinks if Luka wakes up his eyes could hurt from the light so he kept it that way.
It’s been..what? Weeks..since the surgery, the doctors said there is progress in Luka’s treatment and everything is getting better.
He doesn’t realise how all of this happened, he needs to see Luka’s reaction. He remembers Luka saying, so convinced that they could never heal him, that he’s gonna die because of it, there is nothing to be done, he gave up and made things worse.
But if Till had been more pushy about it, maybe he could’ve prevented it, the surgery could’ve been done earlier…he doesn’t know why things had to escalate like that, to get so worse and to act at the last moment.
He has a whole scolding speech for Luka that he had to take care of himself, because if he didn’t gave up he maybe he wouldn’t be here.
Lately in Till’s mind it is always.
Maybe.
What if?
Maybe.
What if.
That’s how things work, you can’t predict anything, he knows but he hates it, because he loves Luka so much. The things he would do for him. It's dangerous and a warm feeling. Love — something he thought he felt for Mizi once, then unsure what he felt for Ivan. But in the end he’s here holding Luka’s hand praying for him to wake up.
If someone gets back in time and tells Till him and Luka will end up like this? First maybe he’ll be disgusted then he will laugh at their face, because honestly, he thinks about this so often how far they’ve come, Till had his own development, he learned so much, Luka being here with the rebels helped him learn about so much too, being here with the rebels could show the best of them, sometimes the worst, but in this journey they were together, they ended up together halfway of it, the beginning was hard he snorts at that, its funny to him how he and Luka used to hate each other to bicker all the time.
Till used to think he forgave Luka out of pity when he told him about his past, but in the end it wasn’t pity,no, he just realised he learned how to understand him. He learned how to talk to him.
And their journey it’s not over, they have so much left to prove, so much to do, so many memories to make just the two of them.
But for that Luka has to wake up.
Till realise he would wait years for him if he has to. Just to see his eyes open. His beautiful eyes. His genuine smile. His laugh. Till misses all of this.
Luka’s hand twitches again in Till’s own. Nothing, again. He looks up every time with so much hope, ready to jump on his feet.
The doctors mentioned that usually after a successful surgery, the right medication and the whole treatment a person should wake up from a coma. Because right now there is nothing wrong with him.
He just refuses to wake up. And Till doesn’t know what to do, he keeps talking to him, thinking it may help, he really wants this.
He won't lose hope.
Never.
He’ll wait.
★
The smell of burnt coffee was the first thing to pull Till out of the fog of sleep. His neck ached from where he’d slumped in the chair beside Luka’s bed most of the night, and his wrist still felt the ghost of Luka’s twitch from hours ago. He rubbed at his eyes, stood, and promised himself just a short break — enough to move blood through his legs and not collapse when Luka needed him.
The mess hall was half-full when he got there, chatter bouncing between the walls. Someone had cranked up a small portable speaker, tinny music mixing with the scrape of metal utensils. A few heads turned when he walked in — not hostile, but with that quiet weight that came when people were used to seeing him next to Luka and nowhere else.
On the nearest table, two younger rebels hunched over a spread of newspapers and leaflets. “Five credits say Hyuna gets caught first,” one of them whispered loudly.
The other snorted. “Nah. Isaac’s face is way bigger on this one. That’s practically begging for someone to spot him.”
Till passed by, catching the way they laughed, and didn’t slow until he reached the serving line. His fingers tightened around the chipped mug they handed him. Famous. That was what they were calling it now — wanted posters plastered on half the city’s walls, names dragged through the dirt, but here it was just some joke about celebrity status.
Isaac was at the far table, flipping through a stapled set of pages that looked nothing like the official paper. “Underground newsletter,” he said when Till sat across from him. “Came in with the latest courier drop. Read this.”
The front page was a mess of sensational headlines: Rebel Terrorists Strike Again! Arena Death Toll Confirmed! Survivors Speak Out. Till skimmed faster, heart beating a little harder at the twisted language. They made it sound like the rebels had killed everyone in cold blood. Luka’s name was buried halfway down the second page, paired with a quote from some ex-owner: “ Always thought he was ungrateful. I gave him everything, and look what he does — turns his back on us. Pathetic.”
Till set the pages down slowly, jaw tight.
“They make it convincing,” Isaac said. “If you didn’t know us—”
“You’d think we were monsters,” Till finished.
‘’Yeah…they kill contestants in the show and somehow we are the monsters.’’
Before they could go deeper, a voice called from the doorway — Hyuna, waving him over. She was holding a box of paint cans like it weighed nothing. “We’re fixing up the mural wall. Could use another pair of hands.”
Till thinks that maybe the others are going crazy doing nothing, so they’re decorating or painting the base when there is no meeting, he heard some people go to the club the nights, but his friends don’t, well, Luka is laying in bed in coma, they’re not in a very partying mode.
The point is they miss the adrenaline of the missions and he can see it, he gets it, when he first came here he was so angry he couldn’t go out, and do something, he wanted adrenaline. But Luka was almost taken away from him, he can’t exactly dive into this again.
He snaps out of his thoughts, going back to the present.
Till almost said no — Luka’s room was still close enough in his mind that every minute away felt like an hour — but something in Hyuna’s expression made him nod.
The wall was already covered in faded slogans, a mix of rebel mottos and quick graffiti tags. Mizi was sketching an outline in chalk while Dewey sorted through brushes.
“If Luka was here,” Mizi said idly, “he’d tell us this perspective is all wrong.”
Hyuna shot her a look, but the words were already stuck under Till’s skin.
He worked in silence for a while, filling in the background colors. The rhythmic motion helped, but every time someone mentioned Luka — even in passing — it was like a splinter pressing deeper.
A supply runner showed up halfway through, lugging a crate that rattled with more than just paint. Isaac and Hyuna took him aside, voices low, checking every detail of the drop. The air stayed tense until he left again, and only then did people start talking normally.
When the paint ran low, Dewey asked Till to come with him to the market. The streets outside were cooler in the early light, and for a few minutes it almost felt normal. But the posters were everywhere — some fresh, some peeling, all screaming the same accusations. At one corner, two men were arguing about them.
Till kept walking, but the words followed him, clinging like damp air.
By the time they got back to base, the main meeting room was full — Isaac, Hyuna, and half the others deep in discussion. Till didn’t even slow. He and Dewey just set the paints down and moved on, the low hum of debate fading behind them. Whatever plans were being made, they didn’t need him there right now.
He was already thinking of Luka again.
The meeting room was already thick with voices when Till walked back in. Isaac was at the head of the table, leaning forward with his palms flat against the wood, as if pressing it down could make the debate any less volatile. Hyuna stood at his side, arms folded, her foot tapping a restless beat. Mizi was seated near the corner, chin resting in her hand, eyes fixed on some invisible point past the wall. Dewey lingered at the doorway like he wasn’t sure if stepping inside would set the whole place off.
“You keep saying wait,” someone from the back snapped, “but wait for what? Another week? Another month?”
Isaac’s voice cut over theirs, sharp. “We wait because Luka is still—”
“Luka’s not the mission,” the first voice fired back. “He’s one person.”
The room went still for a beat, like everyone had silently dared them to cross that line. Till’s stomach knotted, even before he saw Hyuna’s expression tighten.
“He’s not just ‘one person,’” Hyuna said quietly, but the softness in her tone made it more dangerous. “He’s our responsibility.”
“And while we sit here feeling responsible,” the voice countered, “the propaganda spreads. Every day, more people read those lies and believe them. You think we can win them back later? We can’t. We need to move now.”
Till’s gaze drifted to the stack of underground newsletters still sitting on the corner of the table. The headlines felt louder in his head now, the twisting of words sharper.
Isaac straightened, slow, deliberate. “You think acting without Luka is going to help us? He’s our best public face. Our strongest voice. Without him—”
“Without him, we still have something. Without him, we’re still here.” Hyuna’s foot stopped tapping. She turned slightly toward Isaac, but her eyes stayed hard. “I’m not saying abandon him. But we can’t keep pressing pause on everything until he’s ready. Every day we lose ground.”
The air felt tight in Till’s lungs. Hyuna’s voice carried no anger toward Luka, only a kind of tired grief — but it was still the first time she’d said it out loud: they had to move, even if Luka couldn’t stand with them yet.
Mizi still hadn’t spoken, and from the way she sat — chin propped in hand, mouth set in a thin line — it was impossible to tell if she agreed with either of them. Dewey shifted at the doorway, eyes darting between the two leaders like he was watching for a signal, but no one gave him one.
Isaac dragged a hand down his face. “If we rush this, we’re throwing away our credibility. Luka’s not ready. And without him, we’re just a shadow of what we could be.”
“We don’t have the luxury to wait for shadows to turn solid,” Hyuna said.
Till felt every pair of eyes shift toward him before he’d even realized the conversation had cornered him too.
He thought of Luka lying in that bed upstairs, unmoving except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He thought of the headlines. The voices in the street. The arguments at the market corner. And then he thought of the clock — not a real one, but the one he could feel ticking behind all of this, eating away at whatever chance they still had.
His own voice startled him when it came.
“We have to act.”
The words fell flat into the center of the table, no tremor, no hesitation. Not even a twitch in his jaw. For a heartbeat, it didn’t sound like him — it sounded like someone older, someone colder, someone who’d already decided this wasn’t about people, but about survival.
Hyuna’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t smile. Isaac’s eyes narrowed, scanning Till’s face like he was trying to catch the lie, the crack, the hesitation. There wasn’t one.
Till didn’t blink.
“Now or never.”
Silence settled over the room like a heavy blanket. Even the muffled noise from the hall seemed to fade. Dewey shifted again, but didn’t speak. Mizi’s gaze flicked toward him, unreadable.
For a moment, it felt like they’d all just stepped onto thinner ice than they’d ever walked before.
The silence after his words wasn’t clean — it was restless. People shifted in their seats, exchanged glances, muttered to each other like they were trying not to be heard. But in the space between the murmurs, Till could still hear the echo of something from weeks ago.
Someone had shouted in a meeting — ‘Why isn’t Till saying anything?’ — and before he could even open his mouth, another voice had cut in, sharper, nastier: ‘Of course he’s not saying anything. He’s Luka’s boy.’
It hadn’t been a joke.
He’d felt his jaw lock so tight his teeth ached. The only thing that stopped him from saying something that would’ve blown the meeting apart was Isaac’s voice, slicing over the room like a whip. ‘Enough.’ Just that one word, flat and cold, but enough to pull the teeth out of the moment before it could sink into him any deeper.
He’d wanted to stand, to demand what exactly they meant by that. Because what? The way he sat with Luka, kept vigil at his side, meant he wasn’t thinking for himself? That every decision he made was just Luka’s shadow speaking? Is that the only reason Isaac kept delaying action was because Till was somehow whispering in his ear on Luka’s behalf?
He never said anything about the delays. Not once. He stayed where he was meant to be — next to Luka, silent, steady, a guard at a post no one else volunteered to take. Isaac was the one who decided to wait. Isaac was the one who took the heat for it. But in whispers, in passing comments, it always circled back to him. Luka’s boy.
It had worn at him like grit in a wound. Every sideways glance when he walked in late from sitting with Luka, every pause in a conversation when his name came up.
So yes, maybe that was why he finally said it. Why the words We have to act had slipped from him with no hesitation. Because he was tired — tired of doubt, tired of the murmur that everything he thought was just Luka’s thoughts, tired of carrying someone else’s shadow like it was a crime.
Isaac’s gaze was on him now, sharper than the others. Not angry. Concerned. Watching him like he was trying to map out the shape of what Till was really thinking.
“You’re sure?” Hyuna asked after a moment. It wasn’t disbelief, but she was treading carefully, as if she pressed too hard, he might pull it back.
“Yes.” The word landed with the same flat weight as before.
The whispers rose again, quieter now but more pointed. He caught one — Guess Luka’s boy finally learned to speak — and his spine went stiff. His expression didn’t change, not for them.
Mizi shifted in her seat but still didn’t speak. Dewey’s eyes darted between the murmurers and Till, like he was bracing for a fight to break out in the middle of the table.
Isaac finally straightened from where he’d been leaning and spoke low enough to cut across the whispers. “Alright. Then we act.”
It didn’t erase the way people were still watching him. Not suspicion now, but something close — the kind of measuring look people gave when they were trying to see what else you might be capable of.
Till didn’t care. Not right now.
The moment the words left his mouth, Till almost wanted to take them back. Not because he didn’t mean them — he did — but because he could already feel the weight of what everyone would think.
He could’ve said them earlier. That’s the truth. This plan hadn’t fallen from his lips out of nowhere; it was Isaac’s idea in the first place. Isaac had been the one turning it over for weeks, saying they weren’t ready, that the timing wasn’t right. But the second he — Till — spoke the words, Isaac’s mind shifted. He’d seen it happen in real time, like the tilt of a compass needle. Isaac had looked at him, read whatever he saw in his face, and decided.
Of course, to the others, it would look like the opposite. Till pulling the strings. Till whispering in the leader’s ear. Till steering Isaac wherever Luka wanted.
It didn’t matter that if they did go on the mission, he wouldn’t be leaving Luka’s side. He would’ve stayed, no matter what. That was never up for debate. But to them? That was just proof. Proof that his loyalties were tangled. Proof that if Isaac held back, it was for Till’s sake — for Luka’s sake.
Of course he had to be at fault for loving him.
Was it because he was happy? Was that it?
That thought sat in his chest like something sour. People wanted that — wanted the right to be happy themselves, maybe wanted the satisfaction of seeing it stripped from someone else. And all it took for him was something so small it shouldn’t have been envied at all. Just the smile of a man who was now lying still in a bed, breath steady but unconscious. Life had become that simple: there was before Luka smiled at him, and there was after.
So yes, let them say what they wanted about him. But the moment anyone let Luka’s name slip into their accusations, he almost lost it. The memory of that moment — someone spitting Luka’s name like it was a flaw — still pulled his fists tight enough to hurt.
He shifted in his seat as Isaac began to lay out the skeleton of the plan. They were going to start moving in a week. Not sooner — there were things to set in place, routes to secure, messages to send through the channels they could trust. The black market was one option. A string of coded drops in the papers was another. They’d need people on both ends, keeping the thread alive.
Hyuna was leaning forward, pen tapping against the edge of her notebook as she asked for details. Dewey was taking notes like he wasn’t sure what else to do with himself. Mizi still said nothing, but her eyes flicked between Isaac and Till more than once.
The conversation stretched for another hour, voices rising and falling, questions sparking debate. Till kept his expression blank, his voice level when he needed to answer something. Inside, he was coiled so tight he thought he could hear his own pulse.
When the meeting finally broke, it was already late. The air outside the room felt stale, his head heavy with the heat of everything unsaid. He didn’t bother talking to anyone on his way out — just walked, every step heavier than the last until he was in the quieter hallways leading to Luka’s room.
He pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The light was low. Luka was exactly where he’d left him that morning, hair mussed, face pale but peaceful. Till lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, and let the weight of the day drain into the floor.
His exhaustion felt sharp at the edges — the kind of tired that still buzzed with anger underneath. He sat like that for a long moment, just watching Luka breathe. Then Luka’s fingers twitched.
At first, Till thought he’d imagined it, but then it happened again. And again.
“Luka?” His voice was barely a breath.
This time, Luka’s eyes opened — slow, unfocused at first, then blinking against the light as if he was fighting his way up through heavy water.
He was awake.
Chapter 30
Notes:
Luka is awake!!!
Chapter Text
For a second, Till didn’t trust his own eyes.
It had been four months of the same stillness, four months of listening for the same shallow, steady rhythm of Luka’s breathing. The idea that anything could change in that moment felt… impossible.
But it was happening. Luka’s lashes fluttered against his cheek, slow and uncertain, like the muscles had forgotten how to work. His eyes — heavy, reluctant — cracked open just enough for Till to see a thin glimmer of unfocused color.
His first instinct was that this was a dream. A vivid one. The kind that felt almost cruel in its realism, only to dissolve into nothing the second he blinked awake. He didn’t move at first, afraid that leaning closer would somehow shatter it.
But then Luka’s gaze shifted, sluggish but deliberate, and Till’s breath caught so sharply it hurt.
He was already leaning forward before he realized he’d moved, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor. His hand found Luka’s automatically, fingers curling around the familiar shape of it. Luka’s skin was warm. Not the feverish heat that had kept Till awake in those early nights, not the cool slackness of deep unconsciousness — just warm. Alive.
“Hey,” Till whispered, though his voice came out cracked.
Luka’s eyes fluttered shut again, then opened a fraction more, as if the weight of his own lids was too much to fight for long. His brow twitched in faint confusion, but his hand twitched back in Till’s grasp, a faint squeeze that was barely there — but enough.
Till’s vision blurred before he even realized the tears were coming. They slid down his face quietly, unbidden, dripping from his chin to Luka’s blanket. Four months of holding everything in — the fear, the frustration, the guilt — all condensed into that one release.
“You’re awake,” Till murmured, voice barely audible, as though saying it too loudly might make it untrue. He ducked his head slightly, letting his forehead rest near Luka’s hand, the dampness of his own tears soaking into the fabric.
Luka’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His throat must’ve been dry, unused to forming words. His eyes closed for a long, slow blink, then opened just enough to focus — properly focus — on Till’s face.
Till let out a shaky breath and smiled through the tears, brushing his thumb over Luka’s knuckles. “It’s okay…”
He didn’t care how tired Luka looked, how heavy his breathing had become from the effort of just waking up. All that mattered was that he was here, looking back at him, alive in a way he hadn’t been for months.
Till sat there, holding on, unwilling to break contact for even a second. Because for the first time in four months, he wasn’t imagining this.
At first, Till thought Luka was simply too tired to stay awake, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. But as the seconds passed, he realized the faint lines in Luka’s brow weren’t from exhaustion alone — they were from confusion.
Luka’s gaze roamed slowly, as though the room around him was unfamiliar, and when it finally landed on Till, it stayed there. Not sharp, not questioning… just warm. Warm in a way that cuts through Till’s chest like sunlight after a storm. But beneath it, there was a hint of disorientation, as though Luka was trying to make sense of why Till was here, holding his hand, looking like he might fall apart at any second.
They didn’t speak for a long moment. The only sound was the quiet, steady hum of the machines, the soft rhythm of Luka’s breathing.
Then Luka’s lips parted, and a rough, rasping sound came out before his voice finally formed around it. “…What happened?”
Till’s throat tightened. He hadn’t thought about how this conversation would go — if it would be loud with relief or soft and shattering. But now, faced with Luka’s fragile voice, he knew this wasn’t the time for the whole truth.
“It’s…” Till swallowed, keeping his voice low and steady. “It’s a long story.”
Luka blinked slowly, as though he wanted to push, but instead he let out a small exhale. His voice came again, thin and cracked. “How long?”
Till hesitated. “How long… what?”
Luka’s gaze didn’t waver, though it seemed to weigh heavily on him to keep it focused. “How long… have I been like this?”
The question twisted something deep inside Till. His fingers tightened instinctively around Luka’s. “Four months,” he said quietly. “You’ve been in a coma for four months.”
A faint shiver ran through Luka at the words. His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper. “I… thought I was gonna die that day.”
Till’s breath caught, and the heat behind his eyes sharpened.
“I remember…” Luka’s voice wavered. “It was so cold...”
The tears came faster this time, unrestrained. Till blinked hard, but it was useless — they rolled freely down his cheeks, catching in the corners of his mouth. He tried to hold himself together for Luka’s sake, but his voice betrayed him when he spoke.
“You’re here now,” Till murmured, more for himself than Luka. “You made it. You’re here.”
Luka’s eyes softened at that, the warmth in them deepening despite the exhaustion weighing him down. Slowly — almost painfully slowly — his hand shifted under Till’s. The movement was clumsy, weak, but deliberate. His fingers brushed against Till’s cheek, tracing the tear-streaked skin with the faintest pressure.
Till froze for a moment, then covered Luka’s hand with his own, pressing it more firmly against his face. His eyes closed, and he let himself lean into the touch, breathing in like he could anchor himself here, in this moment, with this proof that Luka was real and alive.
Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Luka’s hand stayed there, and Till’s stayed over it, holding it in place as though letting go would make it all disappear.
For the first time in four months, the room felt whole again.
They stayed like that for a long while. Till didn’t know exactly how many minutes passed — just that each one felt suspended, wrapped in the quiet sound of Luka’s breathing and the faint warmth of his palm against Till’s cheek.
Luka’s eyes kept flickering between open and half-closed, like he was fighting sleep, but Till could see the exhaustion winning. He could also see the questions building behind them, questions that Luka didn’t have the strength to form yet. His mouth would part slightly, like he wanted to speak, but then close again without a sound.
Till didn’t push. He didn’t dare.
“You should rest,” Till murmured after a while, his voice breaking the silence without breaking the stillness. “We’ll talk… later.”
Luka gave the faintest of nods, his fingers twitching gently under Till’s hand before slipping back to stillness.
Till finally, reluctantly, eased his hand away and stood, feeling the cool air rush in where Luka’s touch had been. His steps were quiet but fast as he left the room, his heart still racing — though now it wasn’t with fear, but something entirely different.
He found the doctor in the hallway, his words tumbling out faster than his breath. “He’s awake.”
That was all it took. Within moments, they were back in the room, the doctor’s voice calm but quick as they began checking Luka over. Luka looked around at the bustle, bewildered but compliant, letting them test his reflexes, check his eyes, and listen to his breathing.
“Everything seems fine,” the doctor finally said, stepping back with a faint, relieved smile. “For now, he just has to rest. We’ll take things slow. It’s been a long time.”
Luka blinked at that, but didn’t say anything. His eyes drifted back to Till, who stood at the side of the bed, still holding onto the rail as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
The others came when they heard — Hyuna first, then Dewey, then Mizi, Isaac trailing in last with his usual quiet presence. The news hit them in waves: surprise first, then disbelief, and then a kind of electric excitement that lit up the room.
Hyuna pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes wet. Dewey grinned so hard it almost looked painful. Even Isaac, who hardly ever showed much, gave the smallest nod, like he was letting himself feel something he’d been afraid to.
Till watched them react, and for a moment, he forgot he was part of this — that he wasn’t just observing. But when Hyuna turned to him, smiling through her tears, he smiled back. It wasn’t as wide or as bright, but it was real.
It stung, though. His eyes were raw from crying so much, his skin tight where the tears had dried. They had been happy tears, yes, but they had taken something out of him all the same.
He still couldn’t believe it. Even with Luka lying right there, breathing, alive — even after seeing his eyes open and hearing his voice — some part of Till kept waiting for it to vanish.
The others didn’t stay long. Luka was already drifting again, and the doctor insisted he needed peace and quiet. They promised they’d visit tomorrow, each giving Luka their own small, careful farewell before stepping out.
The room was silent again when Till came back.
He hesitated for a moment in the doorway, his gaze on the bed. For months, he had imagined being able to do this — to lay down beside Luka, to not have to be afraid of the machines or the tubes, to just be there without the constant hum of fear in his chest. But back then, the thought had always ended with the same cold truth: he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the chance.
Now he did.
Moving quietly, he slipped off his shoes and eased himself onto the bed, careful not to jostle Luka. The space was enough for both of them if he curled slightly, his body fitting into the shape the mattress allowed. He settled with his head against Luka’s shoulder, the rise and fall of it steady beneath his cheek.
Luka’s hand was there, loose against the sheets. Till took it without hesitation, his fingers wrapping around it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The tension in his shoulders eased, the weight behind his ribs loosening just enough for him to breathe deeper.
In the dark, with no one else watching, Till closed his eyes. Luka was warm, alive, here. The steady rhythm of his breathing was enough to lull him, and with each second that passed, the fear that this was a dream faded just a little more.
His hand tightened once around Luka’s before relaxing again. His head sank into that familiar shoulder, and for the first time in months, Till let himself drift — not into restless half-sleep, but into something deep and safe.
And if he dreamed tonight, he knew it wouldn’t be about losing Luka.
★
Luka woke to a dim, gentle light bleeding in through the thin curtains. His eyes fluttered open slowly, the room swimming in and out of focus until shapes began to make sense. For a moment, he lay completely still, unsure whether he was awake at all—or if this was another dream.
And then he saw him.
Till was curled up beside him, head resting against Luka’s shoulder, their hands loosely intertwined. His breathing was steady, deep, the way someone sleeps when they’ve been holding on for too long and finally let themselves rest. Luka stared at him, his lips twitching into a small, disbelieving smile.
If this was real, then… no. It couldn’t be real. He had to be dead.
The thought didn’t frighten him the way it should have. In fact, if this was death—soft light, quiet warmth, Till’s face close enough to touch—then maybe it wasn’t so bad. His chest rose and fell slowly, but there was no heaviness there, no sharp pain stabbing between his ribs. No tightness, no burning.
That was wrong.
Luka blinked slowly, trying to piece it together. He remembered smoke, so much smoke it clawed down his throat and filled his lungs until every breath was a battle. He remembered the water rushing up at him, dark and freezing. His body had refused to move the way he wanted; his arms had been heavy, his legs sluggish. His heart had pounded painfully, erratically, until even that felt like too much work. He had thought, in those moments, that he was already slipping away.
He remembered thinking he wouldn’t get another chance. That was why he’d looked at Till before it happened—before everything fell apart. His mind replayed that moment with crystal clarity: the noise fading, the chaos around them blurring into nothing, just so he could hold onto the sight of Till’s face one last time.
Then the cold. The shock of it made his body jolt even now, lying here in the warmth. The water had swallowed him whole, pulling at him like it wanted to keep him forever. He’d tried to swim, tried to fight, but his body had been too far gone. The last thing he remembered was darkness—absolute, suffocating darkness.
And now… this.
He shifted slightly, testing his body. No shooting pain. No suffocating weight on his chest. Not even the faint ache he’d grown used to living with. That made no sense. No one could heal him from what had happened. Not here, not with the equipment they had. He knew exactly how bad it had been.
So how was he breathing?
His eyes drifted back to Till’s sleeping face. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease in his brow even in rest. Luka almost reached up to touch him, to feel if he was solid, warm, alive—but stopped himself. If this wasn’t real, he didn’t want to know yet.
Maybe the pain would come back. Maybe when he’d fallen into a coma it had stopped, and it was only a matter of time before it returned and crushed him again. For now, though… he didn’t feel anything but warmth.
He closed his eyes again for a moment, not out of exhaustion but because the memory of those last minutes clung to him like wet cloth. The mission. The chaos. The sound of gunfire. He remembered the sharp sting—being shot. The dizziness after, the weightlessness as his balance gave way. He remembered the panic in Till’s eyes. And then the water.
Cold. Silent. Final.
Yet here he was. Breathing. Awake. And somehow, with Till beside him.
Luka kept staring at the ceiling, but his mind was far from the quiet little room.
He had been ready to die. He’d known it was coming, long before the mission even began. Maybe not the exact moment, not the exact place, but he had carried the knowledge inside him like a quiet, cold passenger: sooner or later, his body would give out.
The moment he’d stopped using the inhaler, it hadn’t been some brave act of defiance. He hadn’t thought, I’m done, let it end. It had been… something messier, harder to admit. He didn’t want to die. He just wanted the pain to stop. The choking in his chest. The relentless exhaustion. The fear that every breath might be the one that didn’t come back. He knew that inhaler wasn’t fixing him, just trying to keep him alive, but the pain didn’t stop.
Death had been trailing him for years—he could almost picture it walking just a few steps behind, silent, patient, waiting for him to stumble. There were days he had welcomed it, even wished for it, but not because he wanted to be gone. It was because he wanted this—the endless weight, the ache in his bones, the constant reminder of his limits—to be gone. He had never been able to decide if wanting death and wanting the pain to stop were different things at all.
And then there was Till.
The thought of leaving him had made everything sharper, harder to let go of. Luka loved him—more than he could stand, sometimes. More than he had planned to, more than was safe. And yet, in those moments when the air refused to fill his lungs, love had felt like another thing he couldn’t quite hold onto.
Now, lying here without pain, without cold, it didn’t make sense. This couldn’t be real. You didn’t just come back from that kind of damage. He knew what smoke could do to lungs, what water could do to a failing heart. Even in the best hospitals, with the best doctors, there were limits. Here? With what they had? No. It wasn’t possible.
His thoughts circled back to the mission, to how certain he’d been it would be the end. He had gone in with that in mind, not with resignation, but with a strange kind of clarity—it will happen, and I’ll make sure it’s for something. He remembered the sting of the bullet, the dizziness that followed, how the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. The way Till’s face blurred in his vision but stayed locked in his mind. The cold pull of the water, the way it closed over him like a lid. And then nothing.
If this wasn’t death, then… What was it?
He had so many questions, they tangled in his head until they felt like another kind of weight. Till had said “four months.” Four months. The number rattled around in his mind like a stone. That was too long. Too much time unaccounted for.
What had happened in those months?
On the way back to base—had there been more fights, more close calls? Did they lose anyone? Did they spread the news of what happened to him? Had everyone thought he was gone?
And why had Till looked so tired? Luka had caught it even through the blur of waking—a heaviness in his posture, the faint shadows under his eyes. Was it because Till had been here with him constantly, refusing to leave? Or had something else been happening, something Till hadn’t said yet?
His chest tightened—not with pain, but with the ache of needing answers. Till had them, Luka was sure of it. And he would tell him… eventually. But right now, Luka didn’t know if he was ready to hear them. If what Till said would confirm his fears about those missing months.
Still, the not knowing gnawed at him. It felt wrong to be lying here, whole and warm, when the last thing he remembered was the weight of water pulling him under. Something must have happened, something that didn’t fit into the lines of what he thought was possible.
And until he heard it from Till, all he could do was lie here with a mind full of questions, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t supposed to be here at all.
Luka lay there for a long while, watching Till’s head resting on the edge of the bed. His hand was still caught gently between Till’s palms, as if even in sleep, he wouldn’t risk letting go.
He didn’t want to wake him. Till looked… peaceful, in that fragile way a person does when they’ve been running on empty and finally let themselves stop. The soft rise and fall of his shoulders, the faint crease still lingering between his brows even in rest—it made Luka’s chest ache.
But beneath that warmth, there was something colder gnawing at him.
Fear.
It was the same fear he’d felt when the water closed over his head. Not panic—no, panic would’ve been easier. It was the quiet, bone-deep terror that came when he realized he couldn’t swim out, when the weight of it all kept pressing him down.
He’d expected something else in those last moments. People always talked about it—life flashing before your eyes, some warm light, a strange peace. Luka had been certain that when death finally came, it would be like slipping into calm water, closing your eyes, letting go.
But it wasn’t like that at all.
All he’d remembered seeing were the tanks. The glass walls. The way the light fractured through the water during the tests. The feeling of being watched, measured, recorded. Not life’s best moments, not even his regrets—just that place. That cold. That helplessness.
And he’d been scared. Scared because for all the times he’d thought about welcoming death, in that moment, he didn’t want to. He wanted to breathe. To move. To fight his way to the surface. He’d thought the end would be peaceful, but instead it had been raw and sharp and full of every instinct screaming to live.
And now… here he was. Alive.
It didn’t make sense. Which was why he needed to hear it from Till. To hear anything, even if it shattered whatever strange dream this might be.
Luka’s fingers twitched faintly against Till’s. He hesitated one last time, staring at the curve of Till’s hair falling across his cheek, before he gave a small squeeze.
“Till…”
It came out as more breath than sound, his voice rough, strained.
Till shifted, brow furrowing slightly. Luka’s heart stuttered—what if he didn’t wake? What if this was just some cruel replay in his head?
He squeezed again, a little firmer this time. “Till,” he whispered, more urgently.
Till’s eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first, then snapping wide when they found Luka’s face.
Luka swallowed. “Talk to me,” he murmured, almost pleading. “I just… I need to make sure this is real.”
Till had never seen Luka like this before.
Not shaking from fear, not wild-eyed with adrenaline—but still scared. It was in the way his shoulders drew tight, in the searching, almost desperate flick of his gaze. His breathing was steady enough, but something in it felt braced, as if he was waiting for something bad to happen.
Till sat up slowly in the bed, his joints protesting after hours in the same position. He shifted closer, leaning into Luka’s space without hesitation.
“I’m here,” Till said softly, voice still scratchy from sleep.
Luka’s eyes didn’t quite relax. “Is this… real?”
The question landed like a stone in Till’s chest. It hurt—not because Luka doubted him, but because he understood too well why he would. Luka had been trapped in his own failing body for so long that even waking up without pain must feel like a trick.
“It’s real,” Till said, steady but quiet. “You’re here. I’m here. You’re alive.”
Luka blinked at him, almost disbelieving, and Till felt something twist deep in his ribs. He reached for Luka’s hand, curling their fingers together, grounding them both.
“I thought you were gone,” Till admitted after a moment, his voice shaking despite himself. “I really thought… you were dead.” He swallowed hard, trying to push past the lump in his throat. “But I kept going. Over and over. I couldn’t stop. I just… I couldn’t let go of you. Your body was so cold, Luka. So still. I—” His breath faltered. “I wasn’t ready to lose you.”
He squeezed Luka’s hand, needing the contact to keep speaking.
“When they brought you here, the doctors hesitated,” Till continued, his voice going low, almost raw. “They didn’t think there was anything left to save. They said your heart had stopped completely. But then—” He managed a shaky smile, the memory still vivid. “It started again. On its own. And I—” He stopped, blinking hard against the tears gathering. “I didn’t lose hope after that. Not once.”
Luka was still staring at him, quiet, as if each word was carving its way in.
“They started with your lungs,” Till went on. “That was… easier, compared to everything else. They were fixable.” He gave a small, breathless laugh—more disbelief than humor. “I thought you’d never breathe right again, but they proved me wrong. It took time. Weeks. And I didn’t leave your side. Not once.”
His thumb brushed over Luka’s knuckles. “I buried myself in learning about your condition. Every chart, every report, every word from the doctors. I needed to understand what was happening to you. How to help.” He hesitated, because there was another question—about whether Luka had made certain choices to worsen his condition—but that was for later. Now wasn’t the moment.
“It was slow,” Till admitted. “Things got worse in pieces. The cardiac arrest was the turning point. Isaac and I went out for equipment ourselves—everything the doctors needed—because I begged him to help me get it. And when they finally did the surgery… they confirmed it.”
He leaned closer, his eyes not leaving Luka’s.
“Your heart was beating on its own. You didn’t need life support. No machines keeping you alive. Just… a few meds, treatments to keep your heart strong while you recover.”
Saying it all out loud made Till’s throat ache. There were moments he had to pause, gather himself, wipe at his face with the back of his free hand. But he never let go of Luka’s hand.
When the last words finally left him, Till sat there in the heavy, fragile quiet that followed. Luka still hadn’t spoken, and that was fine. Till knew he needed the silence to take it all in.
He just kept holding on.
Luka’s brows knit, his voice breaking the silence at last.
“You mean to tell me… they fixed something I never thought could be fixed?”
Till blinked at him, unsure how to answer fast enough.
“Because—” Luka’s voice wavered, sharper now, “Heperu and the others… they never bothered to even try. They left me thinking I couldn’t be helped. That nothing could make it better.” He shook his head slightly, disbelief written across every line of his face. “All this time… and it was possible?”
Till didn’t speak—there wasn’t anything to say that could take away what Luka had been made to believe.
Because he read about it, those surgeries are supposed to be done at a young age, the moment Luka was diagnosed, they chose not to. It’s a miracle everything went so well…
Luka looked down at his own hands, turning them in the dim light. The fingers were still faintly purple, skin cold to the touch. Maybe they’d never go back completely. Maybe it would be slow. But the fact that they could get better at all…
“I can’t…” Luka’s voice broke. “I never thought I could have this. That I could—” His breath hitched, and Till saw the tears gathering, slipping past the edges of his lashes.
“So I’ll…” He looked up, searching Till’s face as if for permission to believe it. “I’ll live?”
Till’s throat closed, but he nodded. And nodded again. “Yeah,” he whispered, tears spilling before he could stop them. He leaned in, pulling Luka into a fierce, trembling hug. “Yeah… you’re gonna be okay.”
That was it—the last thread of Luka’s composure snapped. A sob tore out of him, raw and shaking, as his arms came up around Till. It was too much. The belief that he’d never be okay. Waking up after four months of coma. His heart stopped and started again. Till being here through it all. The sudden, impossible fact that his body could actually heal.
It all crashed over him at once, too heavy to hold.
Till held on tighter, one hand cradling the back of Luka’s head, the other locked around his back. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to quiet him. Just stayed, feeling Luka’s shuddering breaths against his neck.
It would take time for things to feel normal again—maybe a long time. But for now, Luka let it sink in. Let himself believe.
When Luka’s sobs finally ebbed into shaky breaths, Till shifted them gently, guiding Luka back down into the pillows. For once, Luka didn’t protest when Till moved closer. Till let himself sink beside him, pulling Luka’s head onto his chest.
It felt… nice. Different.
Luka’s ear rested against the steady beat beneath Till’s ribs, and Till’s arm stayed loosely draped around him. His fingers found their way into Luka’s hair almost without thinking, combing through the strands slowly. Luka’s hand, still a little cold, sought Till’s until their fingers intertwined. They stayed like that for a while—silent, letting the air between them settle.
When Luka finally spoke, his voice was rough, low, and still a little unsteady from crying.
“I’m sure you have… many things to share.”
Till hummed, not stopping the slow, absent strokes through Luka’s hair. “I mean… yeah. For almost four months, a lot of things happened, actually.”
Luka shifted slightly, a faint furrow forming between his brows. “I can feel… some kind of tension,” he murmured.
Till hesitated for half a second before answering. “…Yeah. There’s been some… misunderstandings with the others.”
Luka’s head lifted a little from Till’s chest, his gaze curious but already edged with wariness. “Is it because of me?”
Till’s eyes softened, but he didn’t lie. “…You were one of the reasons.”
The words landed heavy, and Luka pushed himself up fully now, leaning on his forearm so he could look straight at Till. His confusion was immediate, but there was something sharper under it—a defensive spark, like he was bracing for an accusation.
“One of the reasons?” His tone was clipped, already bordering on a challenge. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Till sat up as well, resting back against the headboard. He didn’t flinch from Luka’s gaze, but there was a tiredness there, a weight that had been sitting on him for too long. “It means…” He let out a slow breath. “When you were… like that, unconscious, I wasn’t exactly myself either. I stayed with you. I missed things. I skipped things. I pushed people away. And… the others—” He stopped, choosing his words carefully. “The others started seeing me as the villain in this story.”
Luka’s frown deepened. “Villain?” His voice sharpened, incredulous. “For what? For keeping me alive?”
“That’s not how they saw it,” Till said quietly.
Luka’s mouth parted like he might argue immediately, but Till kept going. “Some of it was because of you, yes. But… in the end, they decided to make me the one to blame for everything that went wrong.”
Luka stared at him, the beginnings of anger tightening his expression. “And you just… let them?”
Till’s jaw tensed. “It wasn’t exactly a choice. I was too busy making sure you were breathing to defend myself.”
For a long moment, they just looked at each other, the unspoken tension threading between them. Luka’s confusion hadn’t eased, but now there was a kind of protectiveness in it—like he was ready to go find whoever had dared to treat Till that way.
Till glanced away, fingers still absently twisting a lock of Luka’s hair. “In the beginning… when you were in the coma… maybe two, three weeks in… everything was quiet. Too quiet.”
Luka watched him, his eyes searching.
“But there were whispers,” Till continued, voice low. “That we weren’t doing anything. That we were just sitting around, wasting time.” He gave a small, humorless huff. “Then Isaac called a meeting. And… he and Hyuna argued. A lot. About whether to make a move.”
Luka’s brows drew together. “Make a move on what?”
“Our plan,” Till said, meeting his eyes again. “You know… spreading the rumours. Making it public that the things people say about the Alien Stage are true.”
Till saw it then—how Luka’s eyes sharpened with sudden understanding. The realization was quick, and heavy. Because Luka hadn’t been there when Till found out about the bodies. He’d been lying in that bed, motionless.
“Isaac told us in that first meeting,” Till said quietly. “What you guys found. Down there.” His hand stilled in Luka’s hair for a moment. “I’m grateful I wasn't there to see it… but no one should have seen it. Not ever.”
Luka didn’t speak, but Till caught the flicker of something—guilt, maybe, or rage—passing through his expression.
“We fought a lot that day,” Till went on. “About whether to act now or wait. We couldn’t… we couldn’t move on the plan without you. Not really. And I think…” He hesitated, choosing his words. “I think the others just wanted you to get up and help them.”
Luka’s lips parted slightly. “Help them?”
“They needed you,” Till said simply. “Your strategies, your way of seeing the bigger picture. I knew you could help them—of course I knew. But out of spite…” He gave a short, dry laugh. “…I thought you shouldn’t.”
“I mean no one said it out loud but they didn’t have to, and I'm kinda mad at Isaac too, I didn't expect him to do something like that, I'll get to that part too.”
That drew a small chuckle out of Luka, low and rough. “So they cared about me, but really they just needed my brain.”
Till smirked faintly. “Something like that.”
Luka stayed quiet for a long while after Till’s last words, his fingers idly tightening around Till’s hand. His mind felt… tangled. He’d thought he’d proved himself before, more than once. But apparently, he’d proved himself a little too much. People didn’t just trust him now—they leaned on him. Depended on him in a way that almost felt like chains.
He wasn’t sure if he should feel proud… or trapped.
Till, though, didn’t seem interested in giving him space to process. His voice stayed steady, almost conversational, but Luka could hear the undercurrent—just enough edge to make it clear some of these words were out of spite. Not at Luka, but at the others.
“The first time they brought you up,” Till began, “it was because they thought you might know something. Information that could help us.” He gave a humorless huff. “You were still unconscious, by the way. Didn’t stop them from trying to make plans around you.”
Luka’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“The plan about saving the contestants from Season 51 is still on,” Till went on. “But now… well, the theories are all over the place. Maybe the contestants are scattered—living with whoever ‘owns’ them now, or maybe performing in underground clubs. Those are just guesses, because it’d take a hell of a lot to rebuild the Alien Stage itself.”
That made Luka’s gaze shift. “They can’t send them to Anakt Garden,” he said softly.
Till’s brow lifted. “You do know something.”
“Yeah,” Luka muttered. “The Segyeins… they’ve got big estates. Mansions, whole compounds. They’d probably keep them there for entertainment. And the clubs? Not impossible.” His tone was grim. “Not impossible at all.”
Till nodded slowly, as if filing that away for later. “Well. That would’ve been useful to tell them.”
He leaned back a little, letting his gaze drift toward the ceiling. “We argued for days about how to spread the story. One word at a time. Newspapers. Black market channels. Posters. Whisper networks. I think we even made a list of pros and cons for each. In the end…” He gave a small shrug. “We decided to try everything.”
Luka raised an eyebrow. “Everything?”
“Everything,” Till confirmed. “And it’s working. We’re more famous than ever now, thanks to the arena. Everyone knows it was us. Well—” he smirked faintly “—they think they know. That’s enough.”
He paused for a moment, his expression shifting as if recalling something mildly irritating. “Someone suggested we move. Go off-grid for a while. But even if we had another base—which we don’t—we couldn’t.”
Luka’s brow furrowed. “Because of me?”
“Because of you,” Till said without hesitation. “That’s what Isaac said, anyway. And not everyone liked hearing it.”
Luka’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“Anyway,” Till continued, his tone softening slightly, “we still had to do supply runs. I went once. Got more clothes for both of us. You were out of half your stuff.”
His thumb rubbed idly against Luka’s knuckles. “When I wasn’t with the others, I was here. Drawing. A lot.” His mouth twitched into a faint smile. “You probably don’t realize how quiet this place gets when you’re not talking. Even asleep, you were better company than most of them.”
Luka didn’t answer, just stared at him for a long moment, processing the weight of everything he’d missed—and everything Till had quietly shielded him from.
Till’s thumb brushed lightly over the back of Luka’s hand, more for his own grounding than for comfort. Luka’s fingers twitched—just the smallest movement—but his eyes stayed closed. Till stared at that twitch a beat too long before exhaling and continuing.
“You’d have handled those meetings better than I did,” he muttered. “Would’ve shut them up in two minutes instead of letting it drag for hours.” He gave a humorless huff. “Me? I sat there with my head pounding so bad I could barely form a sentence without snapping at someone. Half the time I didn’t even bother.”
His tone shifted, just slightly, as if pulling Luka into the memory whether he wanted to hear it or not.
“One day, Isaac just… announced we were going to make the base more secure. Out of nowhere. So we built more around it, making it harder to see from the outside. And then, because apparently everyone went stir-crazy after that, they started decorating. Painting the walls. Guess who did most of the work? Me. Kept saying I needed the distraction.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Started going to the gym again. Even sparred with Dewey once, took the bikes out. All that was after your surgery—guess I was calmer then.”
He glanced toward Luka’s still form.
“They kept talking about you like I wasn’t even there. Like I wasn’t going to tell you any of it. Which I am. Right now.”
He leaned back a little, voice dropping. “One of the safe zones in District Seven’s gone. Burned. Might be payback. Everyone knows the rebels were behind the arena collapse, and the bounty’s higher than ever. New wanted posters, and of course, comments from the owners—nothing we haven’t heard before.”
He gave a bitter little laugh. “The newspapers are back on the Anakt Garden rumors again. Saying the guards must really suck, ‘cause three people escaped in one season and then blew the place up. You’d have laughed at that. I did. But they still make us out to be the monsters. Ironic, isn’t it? They made Alien Stage, made us do all this, and somehow we’re the ones who ruined everything.”
His eyes darkened as the next memory surfaced.
“There was this meeting…” His jaw flexed. “Someone from the back said—‘You keep saying wait, but wait for what? Another week? Another month?’ Isaac snaped—‘We wait because Luka is still—’ and then this guy fires back—‘Luka’s not the mission. He’s one person.’”
Till paused.
“You could’ve heard the room freeze. Hyuna told them you’re our responsibility. He argued back—propaganda’s spreading, we can’t win them back later, we need to move now. Isaac says rushing would wreck us, that you’re not ready, and without you, we’re a shadow of what we could be. Hyuna snaped that we don’t have the luxury to wait for shadows.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“They kept… circling back to you. Everything was you. And then—someone shouts, ‘Why isn’t Till saying anything?’ Before I can answer, someone else said—‘Of course he’s not saying anything. He’s Luka’s boy.’” His lip curled, remembering the sting. “Not a joke. Just… that’s what I was now. Luka’s boy. Like the reason Isaac’s delaying is because I’m whispering in his ear for you.”
His tone sharpened. “I never said anything about the delays. Not once. I stayed where I was supposed to be—next to you, quiet. Isaac made the calls. Isaac took the heat. But every sideways glance, every pause when my name came up—it all circled back to you. And maybe that’s why I finally said it—‘We have to act.’ Because I was tired of it. Tired of them thinking I’m just your shadow. Tired of carrying that like it’s something shameful.”
His voice dropped lower, angrier. “And you know what? Isaac agreed. Right there. Made it look like I’d been pulling the strings the whole time. Made me the villain for caring about you. Maybe people are just jealous I found… something worth staying for.”
Luka’s eyes opened slowly. He looked at Till, not with the kind of softness that usually followed these confessions, but with something sharper, cooler—like a blade run across silk.
“They made you the villain?” His voice was quiet, but the edge was unmistakable. “No. They just made a mistake.”
Till frowned slightly at the tone.
“What do you mean?”
Luka’s gaze didn’t waver. “I already know what to do about it.” His hand shifted in Till’s, a deliberate movement this time. “And when I do… they’re going to regret it.”
Luka sat with that for a moment. His voice, when it came, was controlled—too controlled. “They called you my boy.”
“Yeah.”
“They think you don’t speak for yourself.”
“Pretty much.”
The look in Luka’s eyes was tired, but not defeated—tired in the way someone looks right before they strike back.
Till almost smiled, despite himself. Fresh from a coma, and Luka was already ready to fight. It made something warm flicker in his chest—admiration, pride, something harder to name.
“Like always,” Till sighed, finally letting his body sink back into the mattress. “That’s… pretty much it. If you show up to the meeting, it’ll give them satisfaction.”
“I have a plan,” Luka said again, softer this time, but with steel under it.
They lay back down, arms and legs tangled. Till kept talking—small things, updates he’d left out before—but Luka only half-listened in the end. His gaze was steady, fixed on Till. And then, without warning, Luka sighed, took Till’s face in his hands, and kissed him.
The touch was slow, deliberate, like he was answering a question neither of them had asked aloud. Till’s mind flickered with the thought—why didn’t he do this the moment he woke up?
They’d been waiting too long. Missing each other in every way that mattered. Dreaming of this.
When Luka finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed against Till’s. And Till, for once, didn’t need words to understand.
Then Luka kissed him again, just the press of his mouth like he’d finally remembered something vital. Till made a small sound against him, surprised but not resisting in the slightest. The kiss was slow, deep—not about urgency, but about everything they’d been denied.
Till’s eyes closed, and for a moment he didn’t even care about the meetings, the whispers, the way the others had looked at him. This was what he’d been holding out for.
When they finally broke apart, Till’s voice was low, almost shaky. “I missed you so much… you have no idea how much.”
Luka’s answer was to kiss him again, just as deeply. Till’s hands found his hair, holding him there like he could anchor himself to this one point in time.
“I love you,” Luka whispered when they parted, the words meant only for them, soft enough that if anyone else had been in the room, they would’ve missed it.
“I love you too,” Till said, no hesitation, no edge—just truth.
They stayed like that for a long while, tangled together in the sheets, the soft sound of their breathing filling the room. It was the first time in what felt like forever that neither of them felt the need to rush to the next moment.
★
Later, the sound of the door opening broke the spell. Till almost wanted to laugh—Luka too, judging by the twitch at the corner of his mouth—because no one had come to visit all this time. Not once. Well, not while Luka was awake, anyway. The only time someone had stepped in was during those first hours, when Luka was still asleep and didn’t even see them.
The first to come in was Hyuna, her eyes flicking quickly between them before settling on Luka. Then Dewey slipped in after her, looking a little unsure at first. Till had already told Luka that Dewey was the one who’d dived in after him, who’d pulled him out of the water when it could’ve all ended differently.
Mizi and Isaac came in last, filling the room with a sudden, strange heaviness that Till wasn’t sure was awkwardness or just the weight of everything left unsaid.
They sat side by side on the bed, Luka propped comfortably against the pillows, Till half-turned toward him. From an outside perspective, it probably looked perfectly normal—two people recovering, sitting quietly, waiting for the awkward reunion to pass.
Isaac was the first to speak once the group had shuffled into the room.
“I’m glad to see you awake,” he said, voice measured, the kind of tone people used when they wanted to sound warm but didn’t want to get too close.
Till didn’t say anything. Luka didn’t either—not at first. He just nodded once, slow and deliberate, as if weighing whether or not the words deserved a response.
Then Hyuna stepped forward a little, her eyes sharp but softened at the edges. “We were all worried,” she said.
Till caught Luka’s glance at that, and the corner of his mouth almost twitched. It wasn’t that the statement was funny in itself—it was the fact that it rang so hollow. Luka’s eyes said the same thing his mouth wouldn’t: Oh, now you’re worried.
For now, though, Luka played along. He smiled faintly, said something polite in return, and let them think everything was fine. He could wear this mask better than most—smooth, unbothered, all sharp edges tucked away for later.
The only one who seemed untouched by the act was Mizi. She stood a little off to the side, hands folded loosely, gaze flicking between Luka and Till. She already knew that Till had told Luka everything, and when their eyes met—just for a second—she caught the silent conversation passing between them. Her lips curled into a small, knowing chuckle, barely audible over the hum of the room.
Till caught it. It almost made him laugh too. The whole scene was ridiculous—pathetic, even. He was the only one who had bled, sweated, kicked down doors for Luka. The only one who had begged people to help, begged to keep him alive. And Isaac had been there through all of it. Till had thought—naively, maybe—that he cared. Maybe he did, up until the moment he realized they couldn’t get anywhere without Luka. Maybe that was why he’d truly stepped in.
Till let the voices around him fade into background noise. He didn’t listen to most of what Luka was saying to them—some harmless questions, some surface-level catching up, all of it dressed neatly in civility.
Like Luka wasn’t the one always saving them.
They should be kissing his ass.
Till should tell him that he would laugh at it.
He came back to the present when the group started shifting toward the door. They’d run out of things to say, and the final blow came in the form of a half-hearted remark about how Till had been there “pretty much 24/7.” It was said with the same tone someone might use when stating the weather. A desperate reach for something—anything—that would make them look better than their absence allowed.
They couldn’t.
After barely ten minutes of conversation, they were gone, the door closing behind them with a quiet click. The air in the room felt lighter for it.
The latch clicked shut. Silence settled.
Till let out the laugh he’d been choking back the whole time—short, sharp, more of a snort than anything.
“I’m really disappointed in them,” he said, leaning back against the headboard like the last ten minutes had been a bad play he’d been forced to sit through.
Luka gave him a sidelong look. “You shouldn’t act differently to them because of me.”
“I’m not,” Till said immediately. “Well, not just because of you.” His voice sharpened, but there was still a trace of amusement there. “You’ve saved their asses so many times they should be kissing yours.”
Luka smirked faintly. “Only you get to do that.”
Till laughed, shaking his head. “You wake up from a coma and you’re already saying things like that. Typical. That’s why I love you.”
But the humor dimmed as quickly as it came. “I’m not doing this just for you,” he went on, quieter now. “I’m doing it for me. Because what the fuck—people have said plenty of shit about me too, and they didn’t say a word in my defense. Not once. So yeah, I have every right to be pissed.”
He rubbed at his jaw, looking toward the door like the group might still be standing on the other side. “Yes, they’ve done a lot for me. For both of us. But they owe you more now. A hell of a lot more. They wouldn’t even be here without us, and still…” He shook his head. “I can’t accept that kind of treatment. Where did the friendship go? Where did the priority go?”
For a moment, his thoughts slipped inward, drifting into territory he hadn’t planned on exploring. Maybe I’ve grown. Maybe I’ve actually matured. I have Luka. I have love. And maybe that’s what’s made us distant from the others. He frowned faintly. Or maybe I pushed myself away. I don’t even know anymore. But when things like this happen… it’s hard not to feel like the gap’s been there a long time.
He glanced at Luka again, the edge in his expression softening. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not letting them treat you like that. Not now. Not ever.”
★
For the rest of the day, Till barely left Luka’s side. It was like his body refused to forget those months of absence—like if he let go, even for a second, Luka might vanish again. They talked until their voices went soft, laughed until their ribs ached, kissed until their lips were sore. Somewhere between the moments of joy, they cried too—quiet, unsteady tears neither of them bothered to hide.
Four months. Four endless months. And now, finally, he was here. Real. Warm. Breathing. Till still couldn’t believe it.
Days began to blur together after that. Nothing urgent happened; there was no reason to rush. Till stayed close, always within reach, watching over him. Doctors came in and out for routine check-ups, adjusting Luka’s meds and checking his vitals. Till learned the rhythm of it—how long the visits took, when they’d leave them alone again.
When Luka needed to change clothes, Till helped, gentle and unhurried, treating it like an unspoken privilege. Luka didn’t seem to mind. The doctors mentioned that tomorrow Till could help him with a shower. Not a long one—just enough to wash away the weeks of hospital air—then it would be back to bed. No risks, no overexertion. Luka needed to rest.
Till agreed, though a part of him hated the thought of putting him back under covers again. But if rest was what kept him here, Till would make sure he got it.
The next morning, he helped Luka sit up slowly, sliding an arm around his back to steady him. Luka didn’t complain of pain—he said he felt fine—but his legs trembled the moment they took weight. Four months without standing had left them unsure of their purpose. Till didn’t rush him. He stayed close, holding most of his weight until Luka began to adjust, taking tentative, shuffling steps that grew steadier with each try.
They made their way into the hall, and Luka paused almost immediately, looking around with quiet curiosity. The space had changed since the last time he’d walked here—the walls were covered in fresh graffiti, splashes of color breaking up the dullness. Some corners had new furniture, softer lighting, details that made the place feel lived in. Safe.
“It’s nice,” Luka murmured, his eyes catching on a piece of art done in sweeping black lines. “Feels more like home.”
Till smiled, keeping a hand on his arm as they walked toward his room. “Haven’t really been here, though,” he admitted once they were inside. “I stayed with you. The whole time.”
Luka turned, eyebrows pulling together. “Four months, Till. You should’ve—”
“I wasn’t going to leave you,” Till cut in, simple and sure.
Luka sighed, but there was no real bite to it. “I’d have done the same,” he admitted quietly.
They moved on to the bathroom. It was warmer there, steam already rising from the shower. Till helped Luka with his shirt, careful with every motion. Luka undressed him in return, though his eyes flickered downward more than once—to the faint, pale scar on his own chest from the surgery. It wasn’t large, but to Luka it looked sharp against his skin, a reminder of pain. Ugly, maybe.
Till caught the look, but said nothing. He didn’t see it that way at all.
Under the spray, it came naturally—how to stand close without crowding, how to share the space. They’d done this countless times before, though back then it always ended in something heated, in hands wandering and breath quickening. Now it was different—slower, more deliberate. Every touch said something unsaid.
Till lathered shampoo through Luka’s hair, fingers massaging gently over his scalp. Luka’s eyes drifted shut, a small sigh escaping him. They shared a few light kisses—water-warmed and easy—until Till’s lips trailed lower, brushing Luka’s chest. He knew about the insecurity, and knew Luka’s confidence would return in time. For now, his kisses were a wordless promise that the scar didn’t take away anything.
They actually managed to finish the shower, rinsing the last of the soap from their skin. But the moment their mouths met again, it was impossible to stop—the pull was too strong, too overdue.
Somehow, in between kisses and quiet laughter, Till found himself pressed back against the tiled wall, Luka’s mouth moving over his with a hunger that was still soft around the edges. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate—just a steady reminder of everything they’d been missing.
Till let himself melt into it. God, he’d missed this. The taste of him, the warmth of his breath, the way Luka’s hands settled at his waist like they belonged there.
Things didn’t escalate—neither of them was ready for that yet—but they didn’t stop either. Every time they slowed, their lips would find each other again, as if they couldn’t bear to let go.
It was the water turning cold that finally made them break apart, both shivering faintly as reality caught up. Till reached for the towels, helping Luka dry off before pulling his own clothes back on. Luka dressed slower, his movements careful, still adjusting to standing for so long.
When they stepped back into Till’s room, Luka’s gaze flicked toward the bed. “I’d rather just stay here,” he admitted, a quiet longing in his voice. “Lay down with you.”
Till smiled faintly, but shook his head. “We’ll get there. For now, the infirmary.”
Luka sighed but didn’t argue. Together, they made their way back—Till’s hand at Luka’s back the whole time, steady and protective—returning to the quiet hum of the medical wing.
The infirmary felt quieter when they got back, the hum of equipment fading into the background the moment they settled into the bed together. Luka shifted close without hesitation, kissing Till before he could even pull the blanket up.
Till chuckled into the kiss, the sound swallowed between them. Luka responded by kissing him harder, and that was all it took for time to slip away. They didn’t know how long they stayed like that—minutes, maybe hours. They didn’t need it to escalate to feel good; it never had to. They’d always loved kissing, and now there was four months of lost time to make up for.
The door opened without warning. Isaac stepped inside, taking in the scene for only a fraction of a second before looking directly at Till. “There’s a meeting,” he said simply, not even glancing at Luka—because no one expected Luka to show up to a meeting this soon. He could barely walk.
Till just nodded, and Isaac left.
“I’m coming too,” Luka said the moment the door shut.
Till turned to him. “Are you sure? You want to do this now?”
“I can’t wait to see their stupid faces,” Luka replied, and there was a look in his eyes that made Till pause. That spark of calculated intent—Luka wasn’t just curious, he was planning something.
Till could already picture it. Luka wouldn’t storm in, wouldn’t slam doors or raise his voice. No, he’d walk in calm and steady, his voice almost too level, his gestures clipped and deliberate. And when he was angry like that, he didn’t have to yell. Everyone would hear it anyway.
Till knew exactly what he was about to walk into—and he almost felt sorry for the others.
Almost.
Chapter 31
Notes:
I love Luka in this chapter
Chapter Text
They didn’t rush.
Till helped Luka with his shoes, watching him frown at the laces as if they were an unnecessary obstacle. Luka muttered something about his hair being too long now, brushing damp strands from his eyes.
“It suits you,” Till said.
Luka gave him a flat look, but didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled half of it back, tying it lazily.
By the time they left the infirmary, Till could already hear voices in the meeting room down the hall. People moved in and out with papers, notes, weapons. Inside, Isaac’s voice carried over the low murmur—already in the middle of something.
Luka stepped in slowly. No one noticed him at first. Till stayed by the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching.
“—we’ll need someone to lead this sector—” Isaac was saying when Luka’s voice cut in, low and edged.
“I’m glad you’re managing this without me.”
Heads turned.
Luka stood there, arms crossed. There was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ve been told some… interesting things,” he continued, stepping further in. His tone was casual, almost conversational, but every syllable felt deliberate.
Isaac cleared his throat. “We didn’t expect you to come.”
Luka chuckled under his breath. “Oh, I bet you didn’t.”
He scanned the faces around the table. “It’s funny,” he said. “I hear Till’s been quite the topic while I’ve been… resting…funny thing, I don't see you talking now. What is it, guys? Something wrong?” He only hums and chuckles under his breath.
His arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Really,” he added. “Looks like you’ve got it all under control. I bet you don’t even need me for this part. That’s… new.”
There was the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth as his gaze swept the room.
‘’Here I am. And from what I’ve heard, you’ve all been very… productive while I was away.” His voice stayed light, but there was an edge under it that made a couple of people glance down at their notes.
One of the younger members coughed into their hand. No one spoke.
“I mean, I don’t need to be here,” Luka continued, stepping closer to the table. “You’ve been doing fine. Better than fine. From the sound of it, everyone’s been… contributing.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Till at the door, just long enough for a few people to shift in their seats. “Plenty of ideas. Plenty of opinions.”
The air was heavier now, though Luka hadn’t raised his voice once.
Finally, Luka pulled out a chair. “So. Let’s hear it. Show me what you’ve got.” He leaned back, folding his arms again. “After all… I wouldn’t want to get in the way of such… efficient leadership.”
Isaac’s arms were still crossed when he said, “We… don’t exactly have a plan.”
For a beat, there was silence. Then Luka laughed. Not loud—just one sharp exhale through his nose, the kind that made you unsure if you were in on the joke or the target of it.
“No plan,” Luka repeated, tilting his head like he was trying to make sense of a puzzle. “Why’s that? Did you all wait for the plan to fall from the sky for the past four months?”
A few people shifted in their chairs, avoiding his eyes. Till saw Isaac’s jaw tighten.
“Oh—” Luka held up a finger, as if something had just clicked. His voice warmed with sudden mock realization. “Wait. Yeah. That’s right. It did fall from the sky a few days ago… when it woke up from a coma.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Luka smiled—small, almost polite—but there was nothing soft in his gaze. He stepped closer to the table. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said lightly. “Go on. I’d hate to interrupt such… progress.”
Till stayed at the door, heart beating faster than he wanted to admit. He’d forgotten, for a while, how Luka could do this—walk into a room full of people who thought they were in control, and strip the ground right out from under them with a few carefully placed words. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t curse. He just… dismantled them, piece by piece, until they couldn’t do anything but sit there in the quiet and feel it.
God help him, Till thought, he was falling in love all over again.
Nobody spoke after his comment. The air in the room felt tight, like everyone was waiting for Isaac to cut him off. Isaac didn’t.
Luka’s brow arched slightly, his head tilting as if he’d just noticed something strange.
“Oh, come on. Now that I’m here, I want to hear the gossip too. Seriously—after all, my boy over there didn’t tell me everything.”
Till’s stomach knotted. He knew Luka had used that phrase on purpose. ‘My boy.’ He didn’t even look at Till when he said it—just let it hang there like smoke in the room.
Someone coughed. No one spoke.
Luka strolled closer to the table, glancing down at the map spread across it. He studied it for all of two seconds before chuckling.
“…That’s wrong.”
The words were quiet, but they landed like a dropped glass.
“It’s a map of the city,” he clarified, straightening up. “And unless the plan is to wander in circles until the enemy dies of boredom…” He trailed off, still smiling. “Well, I think you get the point.”
He looked at Isaac, then at the others. “Go ahead. Scratch it. You’ve been itching to do that since you drew it.”
Nobody moved.
Luka hummed in mock disappointment. “No? Alright, keep it. Pretend you were going to make it work without me. That’s cute.”
He let his gaze drift over the table again, slow and deliberate. “You know, no one said it out loud in the past four months… but you were waiting. Waiting for me to walk in and fix this. And now that I’m here—” he tapped the edge of the table with one finger, “—I’m not sure I feel like giving you that satisfaction.”
The silence that followed was worse than any argument. You could feel the heat of it.
Till, still leaning against the doorframe, didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or drag Luka out before the tension snapped. God, he thought, Luka wasn’t even trying—and they were already in pieces.
Still nothing. Even Hyuna kept her mouth shut.
“Oh, don’t look so grim,” Luka said. “I’m just… curious. How were you managing so well without me?” His tone turned to mock awe. “In fact, you must be doing great. Look at you all, in one piece. I bet you don’t even need me to—” He gestured vaguely at the mess of notes and markers. “—make the plan. That’s a first.”
The silence thickened.
Luka chuckled under his breath, as if sharing a private joke with himself. “What’s the matter? Not enough to talk about now? Because I heard there was plenty when I wasn’t in the room.”
Hyuna shifted uncomfortably. Someone at the far end cleared their throat.
“And this route here…” Luka tapped a red-marked path on the map. “That’s a trap. You take this turn, you won’t even make it halfway before—” He stopped, then gave a lazy shrug. “But hey, maybe you like walking into fire.”
Still, nobody dared argue.
Finally, Isaac exhaled and met Luka’s gaze. “We… owe you an apology.”
Hyuna’s eyes flicked down to the table, guilt tightening her jaw. The others suddenly found the floor very interesting.
Luka just smiled—slow and unreadable. “You don’t say.”
Till, from where he stood against the wall, felt something shift in his chest. Luka hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t even raised his voice. And yet, somehow, he’d walked in here on a limp and left the entire room in pieces.
Luka tilted his head. His voice was almost curious. “That’s nice. But it’s not just me you owe.”
He let the words settle. When no one asked, he went on.
“I wasn’t the one stuck here while everything fell apart. I wasn’t the one you leaned on until he could barely stand. I wasn’t the one you left to clean up the mess while you all waited for something—someone—else to walk through the door.”
Eyes slid toward Till.
Luka’s tone shifted, sharper now, cutting without raising his voice.
“You think I don’t notice when you all go quiet around him? Like he’s some reminder you’d rather ignore. But he was here. Every damn day. And you didn’t make it easier for him. Not once.”
No one breathed.
“So if you’re passing out apologies,” Luka said, straightening, “you might want to start with him.”
The silence was so thick it felt like it might choke the air out of the room.
Then Luka glanced back at the map, tapped a section, and erased a line with one swipe of his hand. “There. That’s better. You can thank me later.”
He stepped back, letting the moment hang. “Or not. Doesn’t matter. I’ve been doing this long enough to know you won’t. You never do.” His gaze swept the room, cold and final. “But you’re still here because I bothered to drag myself out of a hospital bed, look at your mess, and—again—fix it.”
No one met his eyes.
Till, pressed against the wall, wasn’t sure if his chest hurt because Luka was defending him… or because Luka didn’t seem to expect thanks from anyone.
Luka was already halfway to the door when he paused, hand resting on the frame.
“You know…” he said over his shoulder, “for a group that prides itself on survival, you’re remarkably bad at recognising the people who keep you alive.”
A couple of people shifted uncomfortably. No one spoke.
He glanced toward Till—quick, almost unnoticeable—before turning back to the others.
“Maybe that’s why you keep losing.”
The words hung in the air like smoke, poisonous and impossible to clear.
Then, with the faintest curl of a smirk, he added, “You’re welcome.”
And he walked out without another glance, leaving the map, the plan, and the whole room in silence.
Luka strode down the hall with that same maddening calm, like he hadn’t just dismantled the entire room with a handful of words—or like he hadn’t woken from a coma mere days ago. His hands were tucked loosely in his pockets, posture relaxed, pace unhurried.
Till was still trying to catch up—not physically, but mentally. His jaw might as well have been on the floor back there. That had been… something else entirely.
The meeting room was a silent grave behind them, but the echo of Luka’s voice still rang in Till’s ears.
Before Luka could take another step, Till caught his wrist and tugged him into a shadowed alcove. He didn’t give Luka time to ask why—just pushed him back against the wall and kissed him, hard.
When he pulled back, breath short, he grinned. “That was hot as fuck.”
Luka’s chuckle was low and smug, the kind that vibrated in Till’s chest.
The walk back to the infirmary felt almost surreal. Luka was moving like the hallway belonged to him, hands in his pockets, posture loose, not a single hint of strain in his stride. If this had been a year ago—when Luka first joined those tense meetings—someone would have snapped before he even finished his first sentence. Back then, the room would have been full of interruptions, sharp retorts, and a lot of who the fuck do you think you are?
But now? Not a word. No one dared.
Because Luka had proved himself. Too much, maybe. He always did the work, always figured things out when everyone else stalled. It had become the pattern—Luka stepping in, Luka fixing it, Luka carrying more than his share—and the rest of them letting him. Whether they liked him or not didn’t matter; they were here because of him, and they knew it.
And now they couldn’t say anything, because the ugly truth was… they needed him.
Till followed a few steps behind, his mind running faster than his feet. The change was staggering when he thought about it. The man who once had to fight for every scrap of respect now walked out of a meeting having dismantled them all, and nobody even breathed in protest. A year ago, they would’ve shut him down in seconds. Now, they sat in that suffocating silence because they knew they couldn’t replace him.
They should probably prepare an official apology. Or at the very least, prove they could accomplish something without Luka holding their hand. Till didn’t think they could.
How had they done so much before Luka came along? They’d managed to get Mizi out of Alien Stage, to rescue him, to pull Luka out too. They’d pulled off missions that were dangerous and desperate—and yet, the moment Luka stepped back into the picture, it was like a curtain was pulled back. Suddenly, Till could see how much more there was to be done, how much had been left untouched.
It was almost like they weren’t even trying anymore.
Till didn’t know Jacob personally, but from what he’d heard… he doubted the man would be proud of Isaac right now. If Isaac’s own brother could see this mess—the half-baked plans, the dependence on one person—he’d probably call it out without mercy. And honestly? Till agreed. If they were going to keep operating like this, Luka should be the one in charge.
A real redemption arc, Till thought with a faint, ironic smile. From the most adored idol in Alien Stage to the best leader the rebels ever had.
But Luka wouldn’t want that. Till had learned that much over the months. Luka didn’t love the attention the way he used to—not in the same way, not with the same hunger. He didn’t want the spotlight or the title; he just wanted to help. That was all. He wanted to prove that he could be a good person, that he could matter here for more than his name and his face.
He wanted to be liked. Needed, maybe.
And the more Till thought about it, the more his stomach twisted. Because Luka had given them that—his skill, his time, his effort—and they’d used him. Used him until there was nothing left to squeeze out, and then they’d turned on him the moment it was easy.
They’d spat in his face.
Till’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t have that. Not now. Not ever again.
By the time they reached the infirmary, Luka had already kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed like the walk from the meeting hadn’t taken anything out of him. Till settled beside him, propped on one elbow, still studying him with that mix of admiration and worry he couldn’t shake.
“Do you think they’ll manage to do something without you?” Till asked quietly.
Luka’s gaze flicked toward him, almost amused at first—but the question landed heavier than either of them expected.
“I’ve seen them try,” Luka said after a beat. “They had this map of the city… routes drawn out, patrol schedules marked. And every single thing on it was wrong.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “I had to fix it before they got themselves killed.”
Till stayed silent, letting him speak.
Luka’s voice lost its edge as he stared at the ceiling. “I haven’t felt this… used in a long time.” He paused, his mind flicking through shadows of the past. Heperu. His owner. The aliens. Every chapter of his life had its own way of taking from him until there was nothing left.
He’d thought this place was different.
“I really thought I’d found it here,” Luka murmured, the words soft but cutting. “A home. Friends. Family.” His throat tightened on the last word, and he blinked fast. He didn’t cry—Luka rarely let himself cry—but there was a sting behind his eyes he couldn’t entirely hide.
Till’s hand found his without thinking, fingers curling in a quiet promise. He didn’t say anything right away. Because right now, Luka didn’t need platitudes or reassurances. He needed someone to simply stay, to be there when everyone else had let him down.
“You always handle it good,” Till said finally. His voice was steady, but in his head he added the truth Luka wouldn’t say out loud: Because you put on that mask. And you only ever take it off for me.
Till couldn’t believe what was happening right now. He didn’t even feel like yelling or making a scene—he just felt disappointed. Disappointed in all of them.
Later, he left Luka to rest and headed to the cafeteria to grab food for both of them. He’d suggested earlier they could eat here since Luka was allowed to move more now, but Luka hadn’t felt like it.
When Till walked in, the usual crowd was gathered at their table. His so-called friends. They looked at him, some with hesitation, others with a guilty sort of curiosity. He didn’t care. He ignored them completely as he crossed the room, grabbed trays, and started stacking food for himself and Luka.
A few other people glanced his way, but Till kept his eyes down, his jaw tight. Let them all watch—none of them mattered right now.
Till balanced the trays in his hands as he made his way out of the cafeteria, footsteps steady, mind elsewhere. He didn’t hear anyone calling after him until—
“Till! Wait!”
He stopped and turned. Mizi was jogging toward him, her hair slightly messy like she’d rushed to catch him before he disappeared.
He blinked at her. “What?”
She slowed, looking at the trays. “Heading back to Luka?”
“Yeah,” he said shortly.
They hadn’t really talked… he couldn’t even remember. Not since Luka had woken up. Till had been next to him most of the time, and maybe—just maybe—he would have hung out with the others more if they’d even bothered to visit Luka in the beginning.
Mizi shifted awkwardly, then straightened. “I just… I wanted to say something. About earlier. The meeting.”
Till’s brows pulled together. He’d never really heard Mizi voice an opinion on this kind of thing before. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear it now. “Go on.”
“I think Luka should help,” she said carefully. “He’s good at it. We all know that. But… I don’t think it’s right to leave it all to him. That’s not fair.”
Till stared at her for a moment, caught off guard. He’d expected her to defend the group, not… this.
“You think?”
She nodded, more certain now. “We’ve gotten used to him fixing things, and… I think some of us forgot he’s not invincible. We should step up, learn more, so he’s not carrying the whole load.”
Till exhaled slowly. “Didn’t expect to hear that from you.”
Mizi shrugged faintly. “I like Luka. And you. I don’t want to see either of you burn out.”
They walked together down the hall, his pace slowing so she could match him.
“So,” she went on, “maybe we can figure out a system. Split responsibilities. He plans routes, sure, but maybe Isaac and I can handle gathering intel. You and Luka can still go on missions, but not every single one. It’d give him space to recover without feeling like he’s… useless.”
Till gave a small, surprised smile. “You actually thought about this.”
“I did,” she admitted. “I’m not taking sides, Till. I just think… if we don’t fix this, we’re gonna lose him.”
The words settled between them, heavier than either of them liked. Till nodded once, sharply. “Yeah. We’ll talk
Till nudged the door open with his shoulder, balancing the two trays. Luka was sitting up now, one leg pulled up under him, absently scrolling through something on the tablet Isaac had dropped off earlier. He glanced up as Till came in.
“Breakfast in bed?” Luka asked, voice dry but with that faint curl of amusement that always slipped in when Till was fussing over him.
Till set the trays down on the table by the bed. “Ran into Mizi on the way. She… surprised me.”
Luka arched his brow. “Is that so?”
Till sat down on the edge of the bed, handing him a plate. “She thinks you should help. But—” he raised a finger “—she also thinks they can’t dump everything on you anymore. Said they’ve gotten too comfortable letting you fix all their problems.”
Luka just stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “I don’t have a problem helping. I never did.”
“I know.”
“I just don’t want to give them the satisfaction,” Luka went on, poking at his food without eating. “And then, not even a thank you? No. They don’t get that.”
Till studied him quietly. Luka didn’t say the rest, but he didn’t have to—Till could see it. Somewhere along the way, Luka’s edges had softened, just a bit. Enough to make what happened in that meeting sting in a way it wouldn’t have before.
“You meant every word today,” Till said.
Luka’s gaze flicked up.
“And the only reason you’d even consider helping is because you were part of Alien Stage,” Till continued. “Because they ruined you. And you want payback.”
A small, humorless smile tugged at Luka’s mouth. “Guess revenge makes for a great motivator.”
“But you don’t want to talk to them again,” Till added. “Not like before.”
Luka leaned back, exhaling. “I could walk in there and pretend everything’s fine. I know how to play that game. And if I don’t… they’ll just come to me eventually. Beg for help. They always do.”
He looked down at his plate again, voice quieter. “Everything’s just… messed up. And I don’t even know when it started going this way.”
Till didn’t answer right away. He just shifted closer, nudging Luka’s knee with his own before picking up his fork. “Eat. You’ll need strength if you’re gonna keep terrifying them.”
That got the faintest chuckle from Luka, but his eyes stayed troubled.
They ate in relative silence for a while. Till kept glancing over, making sure Luka was actually eating and not just pushing food around.
Halfway through, Luka set his fork down, leaning back against the headboard. His eyes were somewhere far past the wall.
“You know what I keep thinking about?”
Till hummed, mouth full.
“What if I was dead?”
Till froze mid-chew.
“I mean,” Luka went on, almost casually, “they knew I was in a coma. Maybe I'll wake up someday… though—” he gave Till a sidelong look “—you told me yourself they didn’t have much hope for that.”
Till felt his chest tighten. “Luka—”
“No, listen. If I was dead… what would they have done?” Luka’s tone stayed even, but there was an edge under it. “Because the way I see it, they could’ve waited for me to wake up and help. But if I wasn’t coming back at all? Then what?”
Till set his fork down slowly. The what-if sat heavy between them, thick as the air in that hospital room weeks ago. He hated the thought—hated hearing Luka say it out loud. He’d already been too close to losing him once. He didn’t want to go there again.
And yet… he wondered too.
Till swallowed hard. “I don’t know. And I don’t wanna find out.”
Luka just looked at him for a moment, something unreadable in his expression, before picking up his fork again.
Till forced himself to eat, but the question kept gnawing at him long after the plates were empty.
★
The cafeteria was busier than usual. Morning light streamed through the high windows, spilling across the rows of metal tables. Conversations died down when Luka and Till stepped in together, trays in hand. It wasn’t loud silence — more like the sound had been turned down a notch, just enough for them to notice.
Till didn’t look at anyone. Luka, for his part, had perfected that cool, disinterested walk — shoulders squared, pace steady, eyes locked ahead like he didn’t notice how people shifted in their seats. But Till knew better. He could see the subtle tightness in Luka’s jaw, the faint flick of his gaze toward the corners of the room where whispers lingered.
They picked a table near the edge, backs to the wall. Till set down the trays and slid Luka’s over without a word.
They’d just started eating when Isaac’s voice cut through the low hum.
“Alright, listen up!” he called from across the room. “We’ve had a… setback.”
Heads turned. Isaac wasn’t one for announcements unless it mattered. A few papers were slapped down on the central table — a map, Till realised — with red ink scrawled over it like angry wounds.
“Route’s blown,” Isaac said flatly. “Someone fed bad coordinates into the nav. Cost us a whole day.”
There was a ripple of muttering, sharp and suspicious. Someone — Dewey, maybe — said under his breath, “Convenient timing.”
Luka kept eating. Slow, deliberate bites.
A voice from the crowd — too loud, too sharp to be casual — spoke up:
“Funny. Luka was the last one looking at those maps, wasn’t he?”
It wasn’t an outright accusation, but the air changed instantly. Eyes shifted. Conversations stuttered. Nobody said you did it, but the silence said plenty.
Till felt the heat creep up his neck. He glanced at Luka — the man’s fork was frozen halfway to his mouth, but his expression was unreadable.
Isaac started to speak, “Let’s not—”
Another voice cut him off. “If he’s not even helping us, why’s he touching our stuff? Doesn’t make sense unless…” The speaker trailed off, letting the implication hang heavy in the room.
That was it.
Till shoved his chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. The sound made everyone’s heads snap toward him.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Till said, voice low but shaking with fury. “You think Luka — Luka — would sabotage you? For what? For fun?”
No one answered. Someone muttered something about “just saying what we see,” and Till’s restraint shattered.
“He was tortured,” Till snapped, his voice rising, “tortured, and he gave them nothing. Nothing! And you know what he’s done since? Save your asses, every damn time. And you never — not once — thanked him.”
Luka’s hand tightened around his fork. His eyes were fixed on the table now.
Till kept going, louder, angrier, every word like a thrown stone.
“He never asked you for anything. Never. He’s not a burden — unlike some of you who’ve done nothing but screw things up since day one.”
There was a sharp murmur of protest from somewhere in the crowd.
“You’re all so quick to point fingers,” Till snarled, “but you can’t handle your own damn jobs without him. And now that he’s not jumping in to fix your messes, suddenly he’s the bad guy?”
Someone across the table — a tall guy, one of the newer fighters — said, “Maybe you should calm down.”
Till laughed once, short and humorless. “Calm down? No, I think I’ll—”
And then it snapped. The guy smirked, said something under his breath about Luka “hiding behind” Till, and before Luka could move, Till’s fist connected with the man’s jaw.
The table scraped, chairs toppled, voices erupted.
It was chaos — hands grabbing Till’s shoulders, shouts echoing off the metal walls. Till swung again, caught someone else in the cheek. Luka pushed up from his seat, moving toward them, but three people had Till now, shoving him back.
Isaac’s voice cut through like a gunshot. “Enough!”
Till was breathing hard, eyes wild, blood already running from his nose. The other guys were nursing split lips and bruised jaws.
Luka stood frozen a few steps away, his expression unreadable — but his confidence was gone. Shoulders hunched, eyes averted, like he wanted to vanish into the wall.
“Everyone out!” Isaac barked. “Now!”
Till yanked out of the hands holding him and stalked toward the door, wiping at the blood smeared across his mouth. Luka hesitated before following him, the sound of scattered whispers chasing them down the hall.
The door to their room slammed shut behind Till hard enough to rattle the frame.
He paced immediately, still running a shaky hand over his face, smearing more blood from his nose down his chin. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. They—” His words broke off in a sharp exhale. “The nerve of them.”
Luka set his tray down on the desk, untouched. He hadn’t even taken another bite after the first accusation.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said finally, voice quiet.
Till spun on him. “The hell I didn’t.”
Luka’s eyes flicked up, then away again. He looked tired, closed-off — the same way he had in the meeting earlier. “They’re not worth it, Till.”
“They’re worth it to me when they talk about you like that.”
There was silence. Till’s breathing was still heavy. Luka was still standing by the desk, shoulders angled slightly away from him like he wanted the wall at his back.
Till was about to speak again when the door swung open without a knock. Isaac stepped in, shutting it behind him. His eyes flicked from Till’s bloody face to Luka, then back.
“Well,” Isaac said, voice clipped, “you certainly know how to keep things interesting.”
Till crossed his arms. “They were out of line.”
“I’m not saying they weren’t,” Isaac replied evenly, “but punching two people in front of the whole room isn’t exactly… keeping a low profile.”
Till scoffed. “Low profile? They’ve been looking at him like he’s the enemy since the second we walked in.”
Isaac’s gaze shifted to Luka. “And you?”
Luka shrugged one shoulder. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Till snapped.
Luka shot him a brief glare — more tired than angry. “I said I’m fine.”
Isaac sighed, leaning against the wall. “Look, I don’t know who sabotaged the nav, but until we prove otherwise, half the room is going to believe it’s you, Luka. And the other half will at least be wondering.”
Luka gave a short laugh with no humor in it. “That’s nothing new.”
Till bristled again, but Isaac cut him off before he could speak. “So you’ve got a choice — we find the real culprit fast, or you sit back and let the suspicion rot things from the inside.”
Luka finally met his eyes. “You mean play along and pretend I’m not ready to walk out on you.”
Isaac didn’t flinch. “I mean decide whether you want to win this fight or walk away from it.”
The words hung there. Till’s fists clenched at his sides, but Luka just looked away again, jaw tight.
“I’m not asking you to like it, Till,” he said, eyes fixed on him. “But Luka is going to have to help. You can hate the way they’ve treated him, fine. But if he’s the only one who can get certain parts of this done—”
Till cut him off. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“I hear the reality we’re in,” Isaac replied, unfazed. “This isn’t about pride, it’s about survival. He’s—”
“Stop talking like he’s a tool you can just pick up when you need him!” Till’s voice cracked into a shout.
Isaac held his gaze. “Then prove he’s not. Make them see it.”
It was like the words slid straight under Till’s skin. His whole body went tight, shaking. Before he even realized it, he’d grabbed the nearest chair and hurled it across the room. It hit the far wall with a deafening crash, splintering one of the legs.
“Enough of this—” His own voice was ragged now. “I am done with your bullshit! All of you, all the fake concern, all the—”
His words blurred into a growl. His chest heaved. His head swam. The edges of the room darkened, the pressure in his skull pounding.
Isaac’s mouth was moving, but Till barely heard him over the rush in his ears.
And then Luka was in front of him — close, crouching down until their faces were level.
“Till. Hey. Till.” Luka’s hands came up, warm against his cheeks. “Look at me. Just—look at me.”
Till’s knees gave out and he sank to the floor with him, still shaking so hard his teeth almost chattered.
“Breathe,” Luka murmured. “Just breathe.” His thumbs brushed over Till’s jaw, grounding him. “They don’t matter right now. It’s just us. Right here. Right now.”
Till’s chest hitched, his vision swimming between red haze and Luka’s face. Slowly — painfully slowly — the roaring in his ears began to fade.
Isaac was still in the room, but Luka didn’t look away from him once, and didn't give Isaac the satisfaction of being part of the moment.
Till exhaled like he’d been holding the air for minutes. Luka’s hands didn’t move until his shoulders had loosened, just slightly.
Isaac didn’t linger. He cast one last unreadable look at Till, then turned and walked out, his boots echoing in the tense silence.
Luka watched him go for half a second before pushing himself up and following.
The hallway outside was cooler, quieter, but it didn’t take the heat out of Luka’s voice.
“I can’t let people keep doing this,” he said, catching up to Isaac’s side. “Blaming me one moment, then expecting me to magically fix things the next.”
Isaac opened his mouth, but Luka cut across him sharply.
“No. Don’t start. You know I want to help—but not like this. Not while they act like I’m some… liability until they need me. I could’ve stepped in before, maybe kept this from blowing up. But I didn’t. And now they just assume I’ll play along because it’s convenient for them.”
Isaac’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.
“I’m telling you now—if you don’t start controlling your people, and your position as a leader, it’s going to get ugly,” Luka went on, his tone steady but low. “And if I help, it’s because I want the revenge I deserve. Not because I owe anyone in there a damn thing.”
Isaac still said nothing, his gaze fixed ahead. Luka didn’t wait for an answer. He turned on his heel and walked back.
The room felt heavy when he stepped inside again. Till was still on the floor, head buried between his knees, shoulders hunched like the world had folded in on him.
Luka crossed the room in three strides. He dropped down beside him without a word, looping an arm around him and pulling him half into his lap. Till didn’t resist — he just let himself be drawn in, his weight leaning against Luka’s chest.
Luka’s other arm came up, holding him close, the side of his face resting in Till’s hair. He didn’t tell him to calm down. Didn’t tell him it was okay. He just held on.
Till eventually lifts his head. His nose is still bleeding steadily, and the skin along his cheekbone is already darkening from the hit. Luka exhales slowly, brushing a thumb under Till’s nose with the gentlest pressure he can manage.
“You shouldn’t get so angry about them,” Luka says quietly, his voice not accusing, but weary.
Till snorts, winces, and wipes at his nose again. “I’m not letting them talk about you like that.”
“They’ll talk whether you scream at them or not,” Luka replies, still holding Till’s shoulders. “And when you fight, it just makes them think they’re right.”
Till’s gaze flicks up, sharp. “And what, you think I should sit there and let them say you’d sabotage them? You? After everything you’ve done for them?”
Luka doesn’t answer right away. He leans back a little, but not enough to let Till go. “I don’t care what they think of me. Not really. What I care about is them thinking they can pull me into their mess whenever it’s convenient.”
Till wipes at his nose again, frustrated. “It’s not just that. They don’t see what I see.”
Luka gives him a long, unreadable look. “You see too much.”
They sit there for a while longer, Till muttering about ice for his cheek, Luka making a few dry jokes to pull him back from the edge. But when Luka eventually gets up to fetch something for Til’s nose, he sways for a second — just a fraction, but enough that Till notices.
It happens again two days later. Luka’s walking through the cafeteria, half-listening to something Till’s saying, when the noise, the movement, the smell of overcooked food — all of it tilts. He grabs the edge of a table, steadying himself.
“Luka?” Till’s voice sharpens immediately.
“I’m fine,” Luka mutters, brushing him off, but there’s a faint tremor in his hand that Till catches. He sits Luka down before anyone can notice, pretending it’s just to finish their conversation.
The second time isn’t so subtle. Luka’s in the hallway when his vision narrows for a second, the world going muffled. Till’s right there, one hand on Luka’s back, steering him toward the med room.
The doctor listens, checks vitals, and finally says, “It’s just too much stress on your body right now. You’ve been pushing hard after… well, after a lot.”
Isaac’s in the doorway, arms crossed. He hears every word. Later, he mentions it to Hyuna. By the next day, it’s threaded through their entire friend group — soft looks from people Luka hasn’t spoken to in weeks, awkward pauses when he walks into a room. He hates it.
★
The meeting room is packed, the kind of packed where shoulders brush every time someone shifts in their chair. The air is warm, stale, and humming with low voices. Luka sits in the far corner, leaning back, arms folded, expression unreadable. He’s here because Isaac asked — no, told — him to be here.
He doesn’t plan on speaking. He’s here to listen, observe, and leave as soon as the whole thing inevitably turns into another hour-long waste of air.
At first, it’s manageable. Isaac lays out a rough mission outline, Hyuna adds some logistical notes, and the usual back-and-forth begins — predictable debates over routes, supplies, and who’s pulling which shifts. Luka tunes it out, eyes flicking over the people in the room like he’s cataloging a collection of bad habits.
Then someone says his name.
It’s quiet at first — just one voice across the table.
“I’m just saying, if he’s not going to commit, why is he even here?”
Luka’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t look up.
Another voice joins in, sharper. “You all saw what happened last week. He was gone half the night. Now this sabotage mess? We still don’t know who’s behind it—”
“—you think that’s him?” someone interrupts, incredulous.
“I think it’s convenient that trouble shows up right after he decides to start wandering around again.”
And just like that, the room heats ten degrees. Multiple conversations splinter off at once, some defending him, some attacking, others just fanning the flames. Chairs scrape. Fingers point.
Till’s voice cuts through at one point — low at first, then sharper, defending Luka with a ferocity that makes Luka grit his teeth. He doesn’t want that fight again. Not here. Not now.
Luka leans his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The noise is relentless — too many voices, all layered, all pressing in. His chest feels tight. Not in the dramatic, hand-clutching way, but in the slow, steady way that warns him this is going to get bad if he doesn’t focus.
He forces a deep breath, but it barely takes the edge off.
The arguments swell. People stop talking to Isaac and start talking over each other, over him. The air feels too thick, like there’s no fresh oxygen left in the room. Luka drops his gaze to the tabletop, trying to ground himself in something steady.
He can feel it starting — the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his vision edges in just slightly. His body’s been on high alert for too many days in a row, running on adrenaline, anger, and stubbornness, and now it’s making him pay.
Someone slams a hand on the table right in front of him. The sound spikes through his head like a crack of lightning.
“—and why is he even here if he’s not gonna—”
Luka’s grip tightens on the edge of the table. He doesn’t hear the rest of that sentence. It’s just a dull roar now, a jumble of words his brain refuses to untangle.
Till notices first. “Luka?” His voice is closer now, cutting through the noise in a way that almost hurts.
Luka shakes his head, tries to wave him off, but his arm feels heavier than it should. The pressure in his skull builds; the room tilts a fraction to the left.
“I’m fine,” he mouths more than says, but Till isn’t buying it.
Within seconds, Till’s next to him, a hand on his shoulder. Luka feels himself lean into it before he can stop himself — not because he wants to, but because for a split second he’s not entirely sure if he’s sitting upright.
The voices are still there, muffled but loud, like being underwater. He focuses on one thing: staying upright.
“Move,” Till’s voice snaps at someone nearby. Then there’s space, a chair sliding away, and Luka feels the solid weight of Till bracing him.
It’s not a collapse. Not really. More like his body just… gives up the fight for a moment. A blink too long, a sway too far forward. Enough that the noise in the room stutters. Enough that he knows they’re all looking now.
When his vision sharpens again, the whole room has shifted. People aren’t shouting anymore. They’re staring.
It’s not pity — not outright — but it’s something close, and Luka hates it instantly.
Till’s crouched in front of him now, one hand steady on his knee. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” Luka says, even though his voice comes out quieter than he wants. He straightens slowly, forcing himself to sit like nothing’s wrong, even as the room watches with that new, uncomfortable awareness.
For the first time in days, no one says his name.
Till doesn’t waste a second after the meeting breaks. One arm hooked under Luka’s, he guides him through the hall, matching his steps to Luka’s slower pace. Luka keeps insisting he’s fine, voice low, stubborn, but Till can feel the drag in his movements, the faint tremor in his fingers.
By the time they reach the infirmary, Isaac’s already there. Of course he is. He always is. Whenever someone’s injured or sick, he’s standing in the doorway like it’s his job to be the first line of defense. Maybe it is.
The medic on duty takes one look at Luka and gestures to the nearest bed.
“Lie down,” she says firmly, leaving no room for argument.
Luka hesitates, but Till doesn’t. He steers him forward until Luka sits, then lies back against the thin pillow. The doctor checks his pulse, asks questions Luka answers half-heartedly, then disappears briefly to fetch a small cup of water and a couple of pills.
“Dehydration and overexertion,” she says, her tone clipped but not unkind. “It’s stress more than anything. You’ve been pushing too hard too soon. The surgery was a success, but your body’s still playing catch-up. That’s not something you can power through.”
Luka mutters something under his breath and takes the pills without looking at anyone.
Till stays planted on the edge of the bed, his hand resting loosely near Luka’s knee, like he’s ready to catch him if he tries to get up. His expression isn’t angry in the same way it was earlier — not sharp and hot, but heavier. Concern pooling in the corners of his eyes.
He glances at Isaac. The older man’s standing with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed — not in judgment, but in thought. There’s a crease between his brows that Till hasn’t seen in a while.
And in that moment, Till sees something he hasn’t let himself think about: Isaac isn’t heartless. He’s been the one keeping all of them alive this long, holding the pieces together while they’ve all been tearing at the seams. He warned Till from the start — about Luka, about how easily things could end badly. Not because he didn’t care, but because he knew.
Isaac shifts his weight, eyes still on Luka. Till sees it — the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his gaze lingers longer than usual. It’s not a pity. It’s something closer to guilt.
Till wonders if Isaac’s thinking the same thing he is: that they all let this slide for too long. Luka was in a coma for four months, survived surgery, and has barely had a week to find his footing again — and they’ve all been too busy fighting each other to notice he’s still struggling.
He thinks that maybe it is too much for Isaac to take a position he didn’t want to be a leader, Hyuna helps him and yet people depend on him.
Till knows he’s not heartless; he was just consumed by the thought of the mission he didn’t see what really was going on with Luka, even though he was there with Till when they were waiting for Luka to wake up.
But he’s coming to his senses.
The medic leaves to grab a file, and for a moment, it’s just the three of them. Luka closes his eyes, his breathing steady but shallow. Till watches him, then looks at Isaac again.
“You see it soon” Till says quietly, not as a challenge but as a truth.
Isaac doesn’t answer, but his expression is enough.
He’ll get back to his senses soon. Till can feel it. Isaac will make things right — with Luka, with him, with the team. He’s done it before, and he made a promise.
The others will come to the realisation too. If they can’t… if they can’t see that Luka is still fighting his way back from the edge, then they’re no different than the enemies they’ve been bleeding themselves to fight.
Later, when the medic finally lets Luka leave, Till walks him back without saying much. Luka doesn’t protest. His steps are slow, the hallway lights making his skin look pale, shadows under his eyes.
By the time they reach the room, Luka heads straight for the bed and sits heavily, like gravity’s doubled just for him. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, but doesn’t speak.
Till moves around him, kicks off his shoes, and sits down beside him. “Come on,” he murmurs, tugging gently at Luka’s sleeve until he lies down.
They stretch out together, Luka curling toward him almost automatically. His arms wind around Till’s waist, his face pressed against Till’s chest. There’s no heat in him — no biting comment, no forced smirk. Just exhaustion.
“I’m so tired,” Luka says finally, voice flat. “Not just… today. All of it. I can’t even be angry anymore. Can’t even cry.”
Till smooths a hand over his hair, keeping his voice steady. “You don’t have to do either right now. Just rest.”
Luka doesn’t answer right away, just tightens his hold on Till. “…They’ll only listen because they feel bad for me. That’s not the same as trusting me.”
Till exhales slowly. “It’s not about pity. It’s about seeing you for what you’ve been through. They have to understand you aren't okay — and if they can’t, then they’re not the people we think they are.”
He shifts, tilting Luka’s chin up just enough for him to meet his eyes. “We need everyone to make this mission work. All of us as a team. If they don’t see that… then they’re no different than the aliens we’re fighting.”
Something in Luka’s shoulders loosens at that, even if he doesn’t say so. He rests his head back against Till, eyes already heavier.
Till keeps one hand on his back, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, but Luka’s already gone, sleep pulling him under before he can reply.
Till stays awake a while longer, staring at the ceiling, mind racing with what still needs to be done. But he doesn’t move. Not while Luka’s holding on like this.
★
For the next few days, Luka barely leaves the bed. Not because the medics ordered him to, not really — but because everything in his body feels heavier than it should. He spends hours half-buried under the blanket, one arm tucked under his head, watching the light shift across the wall.
Till stays with him most of the time, working quietly at the desk or leaning against the headboard with a book he isn’t reading. But every so often, he has to leave — for food, for meetings, to get fresh air before the walls close in.
And each time Till steps into the hall, he notices it. The subtle shift in people’s eyes when they pass him. They look at him a second too long, or their voices drop just as he comes near. No one says anything outright, but something’s changed.
They’re seeing it now.
Not in the dramatic way Luka feared — no one is falling over themselves to apologise, and no one says his name like a confession. But there’s a difference.
It’s not a pity, not exactly. More like… a cautious adjustment.
When Till comes back from a short errand one afternoon, the room is quiet except for the scratch of pencil against paper. Luka is sitting cross-legged on the bed, sketchbook balanced on his knees. His hair’s a little messy from lying down all day, and his blanket has slipped to his waist.
Till drops into the chair across from him. “What are you working on?”
Luka doesn’t look up right away. “Nothing.” But he flips a page before Till can see.
Till leans forward and catches the corner of a different sheet anyway — quick diagrams, little notes in the margins. Routes. Guard shifts. Equipment lists. All laid out in Luka’s sharp, careful handwriting.
Till feels something twist in his chest. “You’ve been thinking about the mission.”
“Of course I have,” Luka says, almost irritated. Then softer, without meeting his eyes: “…It’s not even about… whatever it was before. Ego. Dignity. Proving them wrong. I don’t even know anymore. I just—” He taps the pencil against the page. “I just want to do something that matters. Before it’s too late.”
Till doesn’t argue. He just nods once, sits down beside him, and looks over the sketches without touching them.
Outside the room, life moves on. But inside, Luka keeps drawing, and Till stays close enough that he can feel the warmth of him through the blanket.
★
Luka is sitting on his bed, blanket around his shoulders, a pencil in his hand but no movement on the paper. His eyes are on the wall, unfocused. The door creaks, and Isaac’s shadow falls across the floor. Luka doesn’t move right away, but eventually he looks over.
Isaac’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze low like he’s thinking twice about being here.
“You’re alone?” he asks.
“Looks like it,” Luka says flatly.
Isaac steps in but doesn’t come all the way to the bed. “I heard you’re resting more. That’s good.”
Luka gives a dry laugh. “Resting sounds nicer than lying around because my body can’t keep up.”
Silence stretches. Isaac’s jaw works like he’s holding back words. Then he exhales sharply and starts pacing, his voice low.
“You know… I’m not good at this part. Talking.” He glances up at Luka. “But I should explain why I—why I’ve been like this with you.”
Luka tilts his head, curious but not letting him off the hook.
Isaac stops pacing. “When I make a call, I have to believe it’s the right one for everyone. Not just one person. Sometimes that means I can’t be fair. Sometimes it means I… end up looking like the bad guy.”
“You’re not worried about looking like the bad guy,” Luka says. “You’re worried about being wrong.”
That earns the smallest smirk from Isaac. “Maybe. But I’ve been wrong before, and people died. I can’t—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I can’t let that happen again. So when you showed up… I thought you’d be another risk I couldn’t afford.”
Luka leans back against the wall. “And now?”
Isaac meets his gaze. His voice drops, almost quiet enough to be a confession. “Now I think… if things were different, you’d make a better leader than me.”
Luka blinks, caught off guard. Isaac doesn’t wait for an answer — he just turns and walks out, leaving Luka staring after him, unsure if it was a compliment, a warning, or both.
The room felt heavier without anyone in it. Luka stared at the notebook in his lap, but the pencil didn’t move. Isaac’s words circled his mind like a stubborn echo.
Better leader than me.
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it lately. Till had said something similar, more gently, more like a compliment. A few others had hinted at it too — in their tone, in the way they deferred to him during tense moments.
And it was exactly what he didn’t want.
Being a leader meant eyes on him all the time. It meant people hanging on his words, blaming him when things went wrong, maybe even blaming him when they didn’t. He could already feel the weight of it pressing on his ribs, and he wasn’t even wearing that title.
No. He liked helping — loved it, even. It was part of his revenge, part of what kept him moving. He could fight, protect, plan missions, keep things running. But standing in front of everyone, being the one they turned to? He’d had enough of that kind of attention for a lifetime.
He shut the notebook, leaned back against the wall, and pulled the blanket tighter.
Leader? No. Not him.
★
The next morning, Till is gone to get breakfast, and Luka’s in the common room sketching mission routes for his own reference. Dewey and one of the younger members are shuffling papers at the map table, sorting them into neat stacks.
Luka isn’t really listening until he hears the younger one mutter, “Should I change this one again?”
Dewey shoots him a look. “Not unless you want Isaac breathing down your neck.”
“But you said last time—” The kid stops when he notices Luka watching.
Luka doesn’t say anything, but his pencil pauses over the paper. He keeps his face neutral, eyes scanning the map table. One of the large printed maps — the same kind used during the last route change incident — has fresh creases, like it’s been folded and refolded recently. A tiny red mark that wasn’t there before dots the corner.
He tucks that detail away, finishes his own sketch, and leaves without a word. But in his mind, it’s turning over and over — the slip-up, the altered map, the fact that whoever did it last time might still be at it.
Till leaned against the doorframe for a moment before stepping inside. Luka was sitting up in bed this time, sketchbook open on his knees, a rough map scrawled across the page.
“They can’t handle the route,” Till said without preamble. “For the city. It’s a mess — half of them think it’s impossible, the other half can’t agree on which streets to avoid.”
Luka’s pencil stilled. “They won’t be able to figure it out without me.” It wasn’t arrogance — just fact.
“Yeah,” Till admitted. “Everyone knows it. It's kinda funny, first they were mad you weren’t there to help, now they won’t come to ask for your help, i think they would be begging soon.
Luka closed the sketchbook slowly. “It’s always the same. They want me there, but they don’t. They want my help, but they don’t want to admit they need it. And yet they pretend to care then they don't at all, it's all just games, and in the end they know i’ll help.”
Till moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to go.”
Luka let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself lately. That I don’t have to. And yet… I keep doing it. Sacrificing myself for people who don’t thank me, who don’t appreciate me.” His gaze dropped to his hands. “I’ll go now, I’ll make the plan, and they’ll all pretend it was a group effort.”
Till frowned. “Then why go at all?”
“Because I’m part of this,” Luka said, voice low but steady. “Because I want to do it. I just wish it didn’t have to be like this.” He glanced toward the far wall, as if trying to see through it. “I really didn’t expect any of this when I woke up from that coma.”
Till didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out, resting his hand on Luka’s knee — not to stop him, not to push him, but to be there. Luka didn’t look at him, but he didn’t move away either.
★
The meeting room felt cramped today — more people than usual, the air thick with body heat and anticipation. The table in the middle was cluttered with papers, half-finished maps, cups of coffee gone cold. The low murmur of voices died down almost immediately when the door opened.
Till stepped in first. Luka followed.
It was subtle, the shift in the room — the way heads turned, conversations halted. Some faces showed open discomfort, others guilt. No one spoke.
Isaac, standing near the far end of the table, straightened. He cleared his throat.
“We owe Luka an apology.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the silence like a blade.
No one moved.
“I mean all of us,” Isaac continued, scanning the room. “Every single one here. And I’m not just talking about a quick ‘sorry.’ I’m talking about looking him in the eye and understanding what we did — and what we didn’t do.”
Luka’s gaze dropped to the floor. Till stayed close beside him, his hand brushing Luka’s sleeve in quiet support.
Isaac’s jaw tightened. “Luka… we’ll understand if you don’t want to help us after this. We’ll understand if you feel disgusted, ashamed — and not just with my people, but with me. Because I let this happen. I let them talk to you, disrespect you, tear you down, and I stood there thinking it was just part of the job. Just part of the mission. And I was wrong.”
A ripple went through the room, but no one dared interrupt.
“We got so lost in chasing the mission that we forgot about humanity,” Isaac said, his voice rougher now. “We forgot what the hell we’re fighting for. Luka, you proved yourself a long time ago — in ways most people here wouldn’t survive for a day. You didn’t owe us anything, and still you gave us everything.”
He paused, just for a moment. “My brother Jacob would be ashamed of me. And of us. Because we’re here, alive, with even the smallest chance of making it out of this, thanks to you. We all know it — we’ve known it deep down for a long time — and we only admitted it when it was almost too late.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably in their seats, eyes darting anywhere but toward Luka.
Isaac took a step forward, his gaze never leaving Luka. “You’ve sacrificed more than you should have. You’ve put yourself in danger for people who didn’t treat you right. And for what? For a group that couldn’t even show you basic respect.” His voice softened, but it only made his words cut deeper. “You’re more of a leader than I am sometimes. More than I’ve been in weeks. You take responsibility when others run from it. You act when others freeze. You keep going even when you have every reason to walk away.”
A heavy silence settled.
“This isn’t about making you help us,” Isaac finished. “We’re not apologizing so you’ll take on more for our sake. We’re apologizing because we were wrong. Because we forgot who we were. And because if we don’t say this now, if we don’t own up to what we’ve done… then we don’t deserve to call ourselves human.”
His words hung in the air. No one moved.
It wasn’t the kind of silence that came from fear — it was the kind that came from shame.
One by one, people began to nod. Some murmured quiet “I’m sorry”s that barely reached Luka’s ears. Others simply looked at him — not in pity, but in acknowledgment.
Till stayed at his side, his presence a steady anchor as the weight of the room pressed in.
Luka didn’t look up when Isaac started speaking.
He just… listened.
He wasn’t sure if the heaviness in his chest was anger or something else. Guilt. Regret. Maybe both.
The words washed over him — “we owe Luka an apology,” “we forgot about humanity,” “Jacob would be ashamed.”
Guilt. That’s what this sounded like.
He’d seen it before.
People could be cruel for weeks, months, years, and then the moment something bad happened, the moment someone collapsed in front of them, they suddenly found their conscience again.
Maybe this was desperation. Maybe it was genuine. He didn’t know anymore.
He felt exhausted. Bone-deep tired — not the kind sleep could fix. Ever since he’d woken from the coma, his emotions had been all over the place. He used to be able to shut people out, to shrug off their words. Lately, everything seemed to cut deeper.
He remembered the last few days before he’d fainted — all the little jabs, the whispers, the blunt accusations. People telling him he’d ruined their chances. That he was selfish. That he wasn’t worth the risk.
Then he passed out, and suddenly they were looking at him like he was fragile glass they’d dropped and couldn’t glue back together.
And now… this.
It was almost funny.
People accused him.
Then they wanted his help again.
Then they accused him again.
Now they were apologizing.
He didn’t know if he should laugh or cry.
His mind was a mess. His emotions, worse.
When Isaac finished, the room waited. Luka didn’t speak right away. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack.
He finally lifted his head, forcing his expression into something neutral — not cold, not warm, just… neutral.
“Alright,” he said, tone steady, almost casual. “Apology accepted.”
There was no speech, no grand gesture. Just that. He even let the corner of his mouth twitch up like he appreciated it — because if everyone here was going to keep wearing masks, then he wasn’t going to let his fall off.
Luka didn’t want to admit it — hell, he hated even thinking about it — but sometimes, the aliens had been nicer to him than these people.
At least the aliens never pretended to like him. At least they were clear about what they wanted from him: perfection, performance, obedience. He knew the rules there. Here, the rules shifted depending on the day and who was talking.
Till's voice suddenly breaks through the silence.
‘’If everyone here realizes that it's not Luka's fault, why are we ruling out the fact that someone here sabotaged the plan and is trying to pass it on to Luka?
Isaac has nothing to say, he looks confused like everyone else in the room, everyone turns around looking at each other.
Hyuna suddenly speaks up. ‘’I did it.’’
Isaac looks as shocked by Hyuna's confession as anyone else, his mouth hanging open, Dewey is scratching his head. Till is about to say something before Hyuna beats him to it.
‘’In order to see where the others' loyalties lie, and I have to admit that Isaac and I are disappointed that you blamed Luka for this, Isaac will forgive me for the fact I did that behind his back but I had to. I didn't say anything on purpose the first time it was brought up, I wanted to see how far you’ll go. and I'm even surprised that Luka even bothered to accept your apologies, pointing fingers at someone for no reason, shame, shame on you, we're a family for fuck’s sake, we're in this together, and blaming one of your own because your ego is too big, I can't allow that. We don't punish our people here, but I've come up with a task for each of you after the meeting.’’
Luka tries to keep his face as expressionless as possible but he can't hide how shocked he is by Hyuna's actions.
He can't find the words right now, but the moment their eyes meet, he nods at her, grateful for what she's done. She nods back, a smile on her face, and that's enough.
Till stayed beside him, close enough that Luka felt the silent support even without looking. Around the table, a few people exhaled like they’d been holding their breath for too long.
Till is also shocked and grateful for Hyuna's action and is glad that the others won't get off so easily.
Inside, though, the storm didn’t settle.
His mind dragged back to his very first mission with them. He’d cracked all the codes, got everyone in safely. People clapped his back, said they were thankful… for maybe a day. Then it was back to the whispers, the sidelong glances, the quiet accusations that never quite made it to his face.
What more was he supposed to prove?
And more importantly… Why should he?
Sometimes, he thought maybe they didn’t deserve him to prove anything at all.
And then, in darker moments, he wondered if he should’ve just stayed at Alien Stage. Maybe that really was his destiny — to be tested, pushed, made to sing and perform until the day he died. At least there, he knew where he stood.
But here… here, he’d found something else.
A purpose.
Love.
Till.
That was enough to keep him here. More than enough, if he was honest.
Maybe he just needed to learn to ignore everyone else again. He’d gone soft lately. He was never like this before. He’d built walls so high no one could touch him — and now, after letting them down, all he’d gotten was spit in the face for being too nice.
Fine. He could grow his armor back. Grow his teeth back.
They’d get the old Luka again — the one who didn’t care if they liked him, the one who never gave anyone the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable.
For now, he just moved forward.
The voices around the table blurred into meaningless background noise. He didn’t hear them. He only caught Till’s voice in the din, warm and steady in a way that anchored him.
But even that faded as his eyes dropped to the map spread out in front of them. The lines, the routes, the red circles — that was something he could focus on. Something solid.
He leaned in, blocking out everything else.
He stared at the map until the lines stopped looking like lines and started looking like problems that could be solved. His pen moved before he even thought about it, crossing out routes, rerouting them through tighter corridors, marking choke points and adding escape options no one had bothered with.
His handwriting scratched across the paper, quick and precise. Little notes bloomed in the margins — short, sharp words, arrows connecting one idea to another.
At first, no one noticed. The room was still full of voices, all tangled over each other. But then the murmurs dipped, like a slow tide going out, until the only sound was the steady tap of his pen against the paper as he worked.
When he finally glanced up, half the table was staring at him.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair, spinning the pen once between his fingers.
“Well,” he said dryly, “you’re all looking at me like I just grew another head. But this—” he tapped the map, “—is what you wanted in the end, isn’t it? This is what you’ve been waiting for me to do.”
No one answered right away.
So he started explaining.
He walked them through the adjustments, pointing out how their original route would’ve trapped them in an open zone, how the change cut the risk in half, how the added supply drop point could save them if they got stuck. His voice was steady, almost bored, but every word was sharp enough to cut.
By the time he finished, the silence in the room wasn’t the same kind of silence it had been when he started. This one was heavier.
By the end of the week they’ll be ready with the plan, then they are heading to the city, if they are not careful it could get messy again.
★
After the meeting they head to Till’s room, he doesn’t have to stay at the infirmary anymore, he just goes there for his meds.
Luka didn’t even bother taking off his shoes.
The second they got back, he crossed the room, let himself fall face-first onto the bed, and stayed there. His hood slipped forward over his eyes, muffling the dim light. He pulled a pillow close, burying his face into it until all he could smell was the faint laundry detergent and something that reminded him of Till.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His whole body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry, and words would’ve just been wasted energy.
The door clicked shut behind him, followed by soft footsteps. Then the mattress dipped.
Till didn’t ask. He just climbed onto the bed, settling over Luka’s back like he was afraid Luka might slip away if he didn’t keep him there. His weight was warm, grounding. For a moment, neither of them moved — the only sound was their breathing, slow and almost in sync.
Luka shifted just enough to make space for him, still hugging the pillow.
“Long day,” he mumbled, voice muffled by the fabric.
Till hummed in agreement, leaning down so his chin rested between Luka’s shoulder blades.
“You’re here now,” Till said quietly, like that was all that mattered.
And maybe that was why Luka didn’t tell him to move.
Till’s presence was the only thing lately that didn’t feel conditional. The only thing that wasn’t some transaction for his skills or his silence. With Till, it didn’t matter if he was useful or broken or angry — he was still allowed to be here. Still wanted.
Till started to shift, propping himself up on his elbows.
“About today—”
Luka rolled onto his back, grabbing Till’s collar and pulling him down before the words could get out. The kiss wasn’t slow this time — it was hungry, almost impatient. Till froze for half a second, like he was checking if this was okay, before answering it just as deeply.
Luka’s hood slipped back, and his hands moved to frame Till’s face, pulling him closer, refusing to let the space return. Every brush of lips and teeth felt like proof — that he was still here, still breathing, still with him.
Till’s hand slid down his side, careful but not tentative. It had been too long since either of them had been able to want like this without guilt or hesitation. Luka tilted his head, deepening the kiss again, his breath catching between them.
“I don’t wanna talk,” Luka murmured against his lips, but his tone made it clear — he wanted this.
Till didn’t argue. He kissed him again, and again, their exhaustion melting into something rawer, more urgent. Whatever tomorrow was going to bring, it could wait. Right now, all they needed was each other.
Chapter 32
Notes:
THIS IS PROBABLY MY FAVOURITE CHAPTER
Enjoy!
Chapter Text
Luka didn’t move at first. He just stayed there, feeling Till’s weight settle comfortably across his back. His hood still shaded his eyes, and the pillow under his cheek was warm from his breath. It was the safest, quietest moment he’d had all day — maybe in weeks.
Till shifted slightly, hands braced on either side of him, and Luka finally rolled beneath him. The motion was unhurried, almost lazy, until their positions switched and Till found himself lying on his back with Luka over him.
For a moment, Luka just looked down at him. The dim light made Till’s eyes darker, softer, like he’d been waiting for Luka to move first. Luka didn’t say anything, didn’t have to — he dipped his head, brushing his lips against Till’s jaw before moving lower, to the line of his throat.
Till’s breath hitched when Luka’s mouth found the spot just below his ear, lingering there, tasting the warmth of his skin. His hands came up instinctively, resting against Luka’s sides, not pulling him closer but not pushing him away either — just holding on.
Luka’s lips moved back up, stealing another kiss to Till’s mouth, slower this time, deeper. It was the kind of kiss that felt like it was trying to anchor him, to tell him they were still here, still alive, no matter how much the day had taken from them.
One of Till’s hands slipped into Luka’s hood, pushing it back, fingers threading into his hair. Luka let him, leaning into the touch, but his own hands were already moving — sliding along Till’s waist, feeling the warmth through the fabric.
They didn’t rush.
The space between each kiss stretched out like they were both memorizing it, letting the world fade out in increments. Luka tugged at the hem of Till’s shirt, his fingers brushing against bare skin, and Till arched slightly beneath him in silent permission.
The shirt was gone before Luka even realized he’d pulled it over Till’s head. His hands smoothed over the newly exposed skin, thumbs brushing lightly along the curve of Till’s ribs.
“Luka…” Till’s voice was quiet, almost like a warning, but the way his legs shifted said otherwise — opening slightly, knees bending until Luka’s hips fit perfectly between them.
Luka kissed him again, slow but firmer now, their breathing beginning to mingle. He let one hand slide down to Till’s thigh, fingers curling just enough to make him shiver.
When Luka leaned back just enough to look at him, Till’s cheeks were already faintly flushed. Luka’s eyes trailed over him, not with hunger exactly — more with the heavy sort of appreciation that made Till feel like he was being seen.
Piece by piece, they let go of the rest of the barriers between them — the quiet rustle of fabric on skin, the pauses to kiss, to breathe each other in. Till’s hands roamed over Luka’s back, slow and deliberate, before they trailed down to his hips.
Then, without much thought, Till’s legs hooked around Luka’s waist, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush. The movement drew a quiet sound from Luka, something low and unguarded, before he dipped down to kiss him again — deeper this time, full of the want they’d both been holding back.
There was no rush, no urgency to finish. Just the slow burn of tension building between them, mingled with something softer — love, relief, and the wordless agreement that this, right here, was theirs alone.
Luka’s mouth drifted from Till’s lips, trailing down the line of his throat again — slower this time, leaving faint, open-mouthed kisses against the warm skin. Till tilted his head back, giving him more room, fingers curling in Luka’s hair as if to keep him there.
By the time Luka reached his collarbone, Till’s breathing had gone uneven. Luka didn’t stop, he traced a lazy path lower, tasting the salt of skin and the faint thud of Till’s pulse under his mouth.
He pressed a kiss to the center of Till’s chest, then shifted slightly, his mouth finding one of Till’s nipples. The first touch was light — just his lips brushing, barely enough to make Till’s breath catch — but then Luka’s tongue flicked over it in slow, teasing circles.
Till’s back arched involuntarily, a quiet sound slipping past his lips before he could stop it. Luka hummed low in satisfaction, the vibration making Till gasp.
He sucked gently, then harder, just enough to draw another quiet, desperate noise from him. Luka’s hand slid up Till’s side, holding him steady as if he might wriggle away from the sensation.
Till bit his lip, but it didn’t stop the soft moan that escaped him when Luka switched to the other side, giving it the same attention — slow kisses, warm tongue, a steady pull that made Till’s thighs tense around his hips.
Every sound Till made seemed to push Luka further into the moment, each breath and shiver feeding the slow heat between them. He didn’t rush back to Till’s mouth — instead, he stayed there, taking his time, letting his lips and tongue work over every inch until Till’s hands were clutching at him like he couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away just to breathe.
When Luka finally looked up again, Till’s lips were parted, his chest rising and falling quickly, and Luka’s own breathing had gone ragged.
Luka’s lips didn’t just wander — they claimed every bit of space they touched. He moved between kisses and soft drags of his teeth, as if tasting the sound of Till’s breath catching was more satisfying than anything else. His tongue swept over the same spot again and again until Till’s skin felt sensitive to the faintest brush.
He alternated between lingering on one nipple, letting it swell under his mouth as he sucked gently, and then switching to the other again, keeping Till caught in that slow rhythm that felt endless and deliberate. His hand stayed at Till’s side, thumb stroking idly, grounding him even as every pull of Luka’s mouth made his chest tighten and his thighs draw in closer around Luka’s hips.
Till’s head fell back against the pillow, his breathing already unsteady, but Luka didn’t let up — he pressed another kiss, lowered this time, then returned upward as if he couldn’t quite stop himself from tasting the same places again. The heat of his mouth and the scrape of faint stubble along Till’s skin sent sparks down his spine.
Luka finally trailed back up, reclaiming Till’s lips in a kiss that was just as slow but heavier now, his weight pressing down enough that Till could feel every line of him. The kiss deepened in stages, their tongues brushing in unhurried passes, breaths mingling.
Till shifted under him, hips arching without thought, a soft whimper catching in his throat. Luka caught it with his mouth, swallowing the sound, one hand sliding into Till’s hair while the other roamed down his side, pausing at his waist.
He broke the kiss just to move lower again — this time not in a straight path, but in lingering detours: a warm press under the jaw, a nip at the curve of his shoulder, a lazy lick across his collarbone that made Till gasp.
Till’s hands clung to him now, fingertips pressing into his back, restless with the need to keep him close.
When Luka returned to his chest, kissing and sucking until Till’s nipples were slick and flushed, Till’s moans grew less restrained. They spilled out freely now, breathy and urgent, each one tightening the coil of need in his stomach. Luka looked up once, catching the sight of Till biting his own lip and blinking rapidly — a telltale sign that the sensation was pushing him close to the edge of something raw and unspoken.
Luka’s mouth left his skin only to press back against his lips, the kiss rougher this time, less about savoring and more about claiming. His hips pressed forward, the slow grind making Till shiver and gasp into his mouth.
Till’s hands slid up into Luka’s hair, holding him there as if letting go wasn’t an option. His chest felt tight — not in the way that hurt, but in the way that came when emotions pressed too close to the surface. It was want, but not just that; it was everything Luka was giving him in this moment, all the warmth and closeness and love that made the air feel too heavy to breathe.
By the time Luka pulled back just enough to look at him, Till’s eyes were glassy, his lips trembling around the breath he was trying to catch. His voice came out rough, almost breaking.
“I want you—” He stopped, swallowed, his hands sliding down Luka’s back like he needed to anchor himself. “So much it—” His breath hitched. “—it hurts.”
Luka’s expression softened, but the heat in his eyes didn’t fade. He leaned in, resting his forehead to Till’s, his lips brushing over them without sealing the kiss.
“You have me love” Luka murmured, voice low and steady, as if promising more than just the moment.
Till closed his eyes, and for a heartbeat, he swore he might cry — not from sadness, but because wanting someone this much, and knowing they wanted you just as much in return, felt like too much for his chest to hold.
Luka didn’t make him wait. That quiet promise — you have me — was still warm in the air when Luka kissed him again, deep and unrelenting, swallowing the faint sound Till made as if he couldn’t bear to let it escape.
Hands moved with purpose now. Luka’s fingers hooked in Till’s waistband, tugging them down inch by inch, the drag deliberate, his palm brushing over bare skin with every movement. Till helped without thinking, shifting to let the fabric slide away, his breath shaky as Luka’s hand lingered at his hip, thumb pressing circles into the bone there.
When Luka moved to undress himself, Till reached for him, impatient but still trembling, palms skimming over every stretch of newly revealed skin like he was trying to memorize it all over again. Luka caught his wrist gently, pressing a kiss to the inside before guiding it lower, letting Till feel exactly how much he wanted this too.
The moment Luka settled between his thighs, Till’s legs closed around his hips instinctively, locking him in place. Luka’s hand cradled the side of his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone as if to steady him.
Luka’s mouth left his lips only long enough to trail lower, across his jaw, down his neck, tasting the quick pulse there. Till shivered when Luka’s hand slid between them, cupping him gently before moving lower still.
“Relax,” Luka murmured, his voice a low, steady hum against Till’s skin.
He kissed his way down Till’s chest, pausing to take a nipple between his lips again, sucking just enough to make Till moan and arch toward him. Luka’s free hand stroked over his thigh, coaxing it higher, until his body was spread open, vulnerable, trusting.
Luka grabbed the lube from the nightstand, pouring a great amount of it on his fingers.
Fingers traced along him before circling back, testing with a slow press. Till’s breath caught, but Luka didn’t push too quickly — he soothed him with kisses and soft murmurs, letting him get used to the sensation. The first finger slipped in gradually, Luka’s touch unhurried, patient, working him open with gentle movements.
Till clung to the sheets at first, but Luka kept distracting him — his mouth on Till’s chest, his tongue teasing, his other hand rubbing slow circles on his hip. By the time Luka added a second finger, Till was already trembling for a different reason, hips pressing into the touch instead of away from it.
“You’re doing so well,” Luka said, voice almost reverent. He curled his fingers slightly, searching until he found the spot that made Till gasp and grip him harder. Luka lingered there, brushing it again and again, his eyes fixed on Till’s flushed face.
When he finally drew his hand back, Till felt both relief and disappointment, his body already aching for more. Luka kissed him again, deep and grounding, and only then did he settle between Till’s thighs, guiding himself into place.
Till’s cock was already throbbing, pre-cum leaking onto his stomach.
The first push had them both shuddering — Luka holding still to let Till adjust, his forehead pressed to Till’s, breaths mingling.
Luka stayed inside him without moving for a moment, one hand cupping Till’s cheek, the other pressed into the mattress beside his head. His chest rose and fell fast, the feel of Till surrounding him pulling a low, involuntary groan from his throat.
Till’s legs tightened around Luka’s hips, silently urging him to move, but Luka shook his head just slightly. “Not yet,” he whispered, voice rough. He leaned in to kiss him again, slow and deep, his tongue moving lazily against Till’s until he felt the tension in him melt away.
Only then did he start to move — pulling out just enough to push back in, deep and deliberate, his pace almost agonizingly slow. Every thrust had weight to it, pressing Till further into the bed, making his breath hitch in uneven bursts.
Till’s hands found Luka’s shoulders, nails digging lightly into the muscle there. Luka caught his wrists and pinned them above his head, lowering himself until their bodies were flush. His mouth hovered over Till’s, brushing against it with every shallow breath.
“You feel so good like this,” Luka murmured, rolling his hips in a way that made Till gasp. He kissed him again, swallowing the sound, his pace still steady but gaining a subtle rhythm that had Till arching against him.
Their bodies aligned, heat pressing to heat, and the first slow thrust had Till’s head falling back, a quiet gasp spilling out before he could bite it back. Luka bent forward, lips grazing his neck, his own breath coming heavier now, though his pace stayed measured — deep, deliberate, savoring the way every movement drew another sound from Till.
Till’s hands roamed restlessly — over Luka’s back, down to his hips, up into his hair — unable to decide where to keep him. His eyes stayed on Luka’s whenever he could manage it, but the pleasure kept tugging them shut, each roll of Luka’s hips stealing his focus.
Luka kissed him through it, pausing only to catch his breath against his jaw before returning to his mouth, each kiss messier, wetter, more desperate. His hand slid down Till’s side, holding his thigh higher around his waist, the shift making every movement hit deeper.
Till’s moans grew less controlled, rawer, and Luka drank them in like they were the only thing that mattered.
“Look at me,” Luka murmured, voice thick.
Till obeyed, eyes glassy, mouth parted. Luka’s gaze softened even as his rhythm deepened, and for a second, Till felt that same overwhelming rush as before — the kind that made his chest ache, that made his throat tighten with more than just pleasure.
Luka shifted slightly, angling his hips until he found that spot again — the one that made Till’s eyes flutter shut and his lips part in a soft moan. Luka kept hitting it, over and over, his own breathing growing heavier as the pressure built between them.
He pulled back just enough to look at him. Till’s hair was messy against the pillow, his lips red and slightly swollen from Luka’s kisses, his chest rising and falling quickly. Luka’s gaze dropped to his chest, and he dipped his head to suck at one nipple again, dragging his tongue across it before giving it a gentle bite.
Till’s moan broke into a shaky laugh, quickly chased by another gasp when Luka’s hips pressed harder into him.
“You drive me crazy,” Luka said, voice low against his skin.
Till’s answer came in the form of wrapping his legs even tighter, forcing Luka deeper. Luka groaned, his control slipping just a little, his thrusts becoming stronger but still not rushed.
The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, broken only by the occasional sharp breath or muffled moan. Luka’s hand trailed down Till’s side, gripping his thigh as he moved faster, chasing that heat curling low in his stomach.
Till’s head tipped back, his eyes closing, and Luka leaned in to kiss along his jaw and down to his throat, his lips and teeth marking a path. He pressed in deep, holding there, making Till whimper with the fullness of it.
When Luka finally let go of his wrists, Till’s hands immediately cupped his face, pulling him into another kiss — desperate, messy, all teeth and tongue. Luka groaned into it, his hips losing their slow precision, moving harder now, the bed creaking faintly beneath them.
Till could feel himself teetering on the edge, his whole body wound tight with need. Luka’s hand slid between them, wrapping around him, stroking in time with his thrusts until Till was trembling beneath him, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
Till’s breathing had turned ragged, each inhale trembling as if it might shatter him. Luka’s hand was still on him, stroking slow but firm, matching the deep, steady drive of his hips. The rhythm was unbearable — not fast enough to give release, not slow enough to let him breathe.
“Luka…” Till’s voice cracked around his name. He didn’t know if it was pleading for more or begging for mercy.
Luka’s gaze snapped up to meet his, and for a moment he almost stopped — because Till’s eyes were glassy, his lashes wet. “Hey…” Luka murmured, leaning down to kiss away the tear slipping over his temple. “I’ve got you love.”
But Till shook his head quickly, his lips parting with a shaky, breathless laugh. “I want you so much it hurts,” he whispered, the confession breaking something loose in his chest. His arms wrapped tight around Luka’s shoulders, clinging like he might disappear if he let go.
Luka’s jaw clenched, and something in his expression shifted — soft and fierce all at once. “Then take it,” he said low, and suddenly his pace changed again.
He drove into him with controlled power, each thrust hitting deep enough to make Till’s toes curl, the pressure spiraling so fast it was dizzying. Luka’s hand worked him faster now, his thumb pressing just right, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through him.
Till’s voice broke again, a half-moan, half-sob muffled into Luka’s neck. His body trembled, his nails digging into Luka’s back without thought. Every movement, every sound, every breath felt too much, too good.
“You’re perfect like this,” Luka murmured into his hair, his own voice strained. “I could stay inside you forever.”
The words hit Till like a spark to tinder. His entire body went taut, pleasure flooding him so hard it stole the air from his lungs. He cried out, his voice cracking with the force of it, his release hitting so strong it left him shaking.
Luka didn’t stop — he kept moving, slower now but still deep, riding it out with him, kissing his damp cheeks, his lips, his jaw. Till clung to him, still shivering, his breath broken and uneven.
Only when Luka followed him over the edge, groaning low into his shoulder, did the room finally fall quiet — just the sound of their heavy breathing and the faint creak of the bed settling beneath them.
Luka stayed there, still buried inside him, holding him close. “You okay?” he murmured against Till’s skin.
Till let out a soft, breathless laugh, the tears drying on his cheeks. “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Better than okay.”
Luka kissed him again — slow, lingering, tasting of everything they’d just shared. “Good,” he said simply, like that was all that mattered.
The air between them was heavy with heat, but not the suffocating kind — it was warm, grounding, like the aftermath of a storm when the world felt clean again. Luka didn’t move right away. He stayed inside Till, chest pressed against his, their breaths gradually finding the same rhythm.
Till’s legs stayed looped loosely around Luka’s waist, not ready to let him go yet. His fingers traced idle shapes on Luka’s back — a half-hearted spiral, a shaky line — until his touch stilled completely. Luka could feel the steady thump of his heart through his skin.
When Luka finally pulled out, it was slow, careful, and Till winced softly at the loss of him. Luka’s hands immediately smoothed down his thighs in a soothing stroke, whispering, “Easy, I’ve got you.”
He reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled it over them, tucking it around Till like he was something fragile. They lay side by side now, facing each other. Luka’s hair was damp with sweat, his breathing steadying, but his eyes stayed fixed on Till like he was making sure he was still there.
They didn’t speak for a long while. Luka’s thumb brushed over Till’s cheekbone, down to his jaw, then to the corner of his mouth. Till caught it and kissed the pad of his thumb, his lips soft and deliberate.
“You’re staring,” Till murmured, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
“Can’t help it,” Luka replied, voice low and warm. “You’re… here. You’re mine. Feels like I should keep looking, so I don’t forget this.”
Something in Till’s chest ached at that — not in the painful way, but in the kind of ache that made him want to press closer until there was no space left between them. He scooted forward, resting his forehead against Luka’s, closing his eyes.
For a while, they just breathed like that — foreheads touching, Luka’s fingers rubbing small circles against Till’s hip,
“I’m tired,” Till finally whispered.
“I know,” Luka said. “Sleep.”
And Till did, right there, feeling Luka’s arm slide securely around his waist. Luka stayed awake a little longer, listening to the soft breaths against his collarbone, his own eyes heavy but unwilling to let go of this moment.
★
Luka lay on his back, eyes open in the darkness, the faint light from outside tracing the outline of the ceiling. Till was curled into him, head resting over Luka’s chest, breathing slow and even — utterly peaceful. Luka had one arm wrapped securely around him, the other bent so he could lazily comb his fingers through Till’s hair.
He was exhausted — bone-deep, heavy-limbed exhaustion — but sleep refused to come. His mind kept spinning, dredging up pieces of the past like unwanted guests: flashes of the stage, the blinding lights, the weight of every performance, the suffocating silence afterward. The sharp sting of accusations, the faces that looked at him with suspicion one week and praise the next.
And then, like a softer echo, the more recent memories — the hospital bed, the beep of monitors, the taste of air that finally didn’t burn when it reached his lungs. The strange, fragile reality that his heart and lungs were fine now, something he still couldn’t quite believe. He kept expecting to wake up back there, with wires in his veins and oxygen at his side.
But here he was. Alive. Holding Till.
He looked down at the boy in his arms, the rise and fall of his chest, the faint furrow in his brow that never fully smoothed out even in sleep. Luka’s chest ached with a warmth so sharp it almost hurt — love, raw and unfiltered. He didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky, or why he still felt like he didn’t deserve it.
A quiet sigh left him. He tried shifting to his side, hoping a new position might trick his body into rest, but he moved too much and felt Till stir.
“Sorry,” Luka murmured.
Till let out a low, sleepy groan, his eyes barely cracking open. “Can’t sleep?”
“Yeah,” Luka admitted, voice low so it wouldn’t disturb the quiet too much.
Till blinked at him, still heavy with sleep. “Are you in pain?”
Luka shook his head. “No… just… my brain won’t shut up.”
Till hummed softly, his gaze lingering on him for a moment. “You should rest.”
“You should rest,” Luka countered with a faint smirk.
“I can help,” Till said, already sounding more awake.
Luka’s smirk grew, slow and deliberate. “What, are you offering a second round? ’Cause I’m too tired to—”
Till slapped his chest lightly, making Luka chuckle. “Dumbass,” Till muttered, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Luka kissed the top of his head in response, tightening his hold just a little. “Go back to sleep, pretty boy. I’ll be fine.”
Till didn’t look convinced, but he relaxed against Luka again, his breathing evening out after a moment. Luka stayed awake, listening to it, letting it be the only sound in the room until his own thoughts finally began to quiet.
★
The morning light was pale and watery, barely seeping in through the blinds. The room was still, warm with the kind of silence that only existed before everyone else was awake. Till stirred first, blinking against the dim glow. The air felt a little cooler against his bare skin, and he realized the blanket they’d dragged over themselves in the middle of the night wasn’t doing much — more draped than tucked.
He shifted slightly, still lying on top of Luka’s chest, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat under his cheek. Luka’s arm was heavy around his waist, his breathing deep. For a moment, Till just stayed there, soaking in the weight of him, the warmth.
He used to do this all the time, before everything — before Luka’s body had given up on him, before the coma, before the endless days and nights of wondering if he’d ever open his eyes again. Back then, he’d watch Luka in the mornings just to memorize him — the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips parted slightly when he was deep in sleep, the stubborn shadow of stubble on his jaw.
Four months of that. Every day. Staring at someone who couldn’t stare back.
But now… Luka was here. Alive. Warm. The rise and fall of his chest under Till’s palm proof of everything Till had prayed for.
“You’re staring,” Luka’s voice came low and gravelly, eyes still closed.
Till smirked faintly. “No. I’m admiring you.”
That got Luka to open his eyes, lids heavy, and with the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned up just enough to kiss Till, slow and lingering.
“Im freezing,” Till murmured against his lips.
“I can warm you up,” Luka said, the smirk audible in his tone.
Till snorted, brushing his cold nose against Luka’s cheek. “Is that so?”
“Mmhm.” Luka’s grin widened, and they both laughed softly, the sound muffled in the early quiet.
They were still tangled together when a knock came at the door.
“Uh… are you guys decent?” Isaac’s voice, hesitant, hovered on the other side.
Till’s smirk sharpened instantly. Without missing a beat, he raised his voice just enough to carry. “No! I’m about to suck his cock, actually!”
Luka burst into laughter so hard his chest shook, eyes going wide as he clapped a hand over Till’s mouth, shocked but grinning.
Through the door, there was a long pause — long enough for them to picture Isaac standing there, staring into the abyss and rethinking his entire morning. “Ah… uh… meeting in ten. Just… you know.” The last words were muttered before footsteps retreated down the hall.
As soon as Isaac was gone, Till pried Luka’s hand away from his mouth, both of them dissolving into laughter.
“You’re unbelievable,” Luka managed between breaths.
“You love it,” Till shot back, smirking as he curled closer.
Luka kissed the side of his head, still chuckling. “Yeah. I really do.”
★
By the time the laughter finally faded, they had to force themselves out from under the blankets. The air outside the bed was cooler, and neither of them moved quickly — the unhurried kind of pace that came after a night of little sleep and a lot of warmth. Clothes were pulled on in half-hearted motions, Luka raking a hand through his hair while Till stuffed the wrinkled shirt over his head.
They didn’t speak much while getting ready, trading only small smirks or lazy brushes of fingertips when one passed the other. It was a quiet rhythm they’d fallen into, the calm before the day swallowed them.
By the time they stepped into the meeting room, the air was already heavy with the smell of coffee and paper. A few people were scattered at the tables, notebooks open, heads bent in murmured conversations. Others were still drifting in, chairs scraping lightly against the floor.
Till knew the drill — when the meeting was this early, it wasn’t going to be quick. The kind of session where they stayed all day, breaking only for food, planning every detail until the sun went down.
Luka slid into a chair beside him without a word, slouching low and pulling his hood over his head like he was settling in for the long haul.
A few minutes later, once the stragglers had arrived, Isaac straightened and tapped the table with the end of his pen.
“Alright,” he began, his voice cutting clean through the background noise, “it would be good if we can finish the official plan for this mission today. No more drafts, no more guesswork. Everything — routes, targets, fallback points — has to be locked down before the end of the day.”
He gestured toward the central map, a sprawling print of the city with thick black marker lines cutting across it. “We need confirmation on the safe routes through the outer districts, especially for moving larger groups. The alleys near Blackstone are still questionable — yesterday’s intel says there’s increased patrol activity there, but we need someone to double-check before we commit to them.”
Hyuna leaned forward, tapping a point on the east side. “We also need to mark the black markets — not just their main entrances but the supply drop points. If we know where goods are moving, we know where rumors and information are moving.”
“Right,” Isaac nodded. “And while we’re on that, we need to map every place they’re spreading the news. Posters, messengers, even word-of-mouth hubs. Find their network, we choke it off. If they can’t rally people against us, that’s one less problem to worry about.”
Someone down the table — Luka didn’t bother catching who — added, “What about publications? Places printing for the city?”
Isaac nodded again, flipping to another sheet. “There are two confirmed presses still in operation. Both have their own security. We need eyes on them — not to hit yet, but to see if there’s an opening for later.”
That was when Luka leaned forward, flipping the map toward himself and dragging a pen across it.
“West route here—” he drew a quick arrow, “—is a bad call. Patrols cut through twice a day, and they’ve added checkpoints at both ends. You’d be stuck before you even got halfway.”
A little ripple of murmurs went around the table as he kept marking. He scratched out another section near the east markets. “These alleys? Dead end now. They’ve bricked one side. But—” he tapped the pen on a thin stretch behind it, “—there’s a warehouse wall you can climb. It’s rough, but if you’re moving light, it works.”
Isaac gave a short nod. “Alright. Make it part of the official route.”
The conversation shifted. Someone mentioned the clubs — small, privately run places where high-paying guests went for entertainment. The tone in the room cooled slightly.
Isaac’s expression hardened. “We’re not planning rescues for the kids yet. Not this run. It’s too dangerous without knowing exactly where they’re being kept.”
A pause hung in the air. Luka could feel the weight of it — people shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
Finally, Hyuna spoke. “Then maybe we just check. Quietly. If any owners have… brought in kids for entertainment, we take note. No action, not yet.”
After a long moment, Isaac gave a slow nod. “Fine. We’ll add a sweep of the clubs to the recon list. Strictly observation.”
Luka stayed leaned over the map, writing in shorthand only he understood, finishing the last of the route adjustments. His hand smudged black ink across the edge of the paper, and by the time he finally sat back, the lines looked clean — a web of paths only he could’ve stitched together from memory.
Only then did he let his mind drift a little, the hum of the meeting fading into white noise. He didn’t even notice Till’s hand brushing against his under the table until he glanced sideways and caught the faintest, knowing smile.
The first hour passed slowly, everyone still shaking off the cold bite of the early morning. Steam curled from mismatched mugs on the table, the scent of stale coffee mixing with the faint tang of ink and paper. The big map in the center was already crowded with marker lines, arrows, and smudged notes from previous drafts, but Isaac still tapped a fresh pen against the edge as if starting from zero.
“Routes first,” he said again, voice steady. “We confirm them today. No more changes after this unless something major happens.”
Hyuna leaned forward, tucking her hair behind one ear. “The northern approach is fine if we cut around the tramline, but the depot itself is too risky. It’s got at least two guards posted at all times.”
“We can go around the depot entirely,” Luka said, sliding the map toward himself. He angled it so he could write without blocking anyone’s view. “If you cut across here—” he marked a zigzag, “—there’s a fence. Broken panel on the west side. You get through it, you avoid the whole checkpoint.”
A few people scribbled the change onto their copies.
“South route,” Isaac prompted. “What’s the latest?”
Someone from the far end replied, “Clear if we go before sunrise, but after that, traffic builds. Too many eyes.”
“Then we mark it for early movement only,” Isaac decided. He circled the section on his own map. “No exceptions.”
The conversation drifted into back-and-forth over distances, guard schedules, and which streets could handle a full group versus just one or two moving quickly. At least twice, Luka leaned in to correct small details — a street name here, a building description there.
By mid-morning, the first sheets were already covered in overlapping ink, coffee stains blooming in pale brown rings.
“Black markets next,” Isaac said, flipping a folder open. “We’ve got confirmed points at Dockside, East Quarter, and the Glass Arcade. Anything new?”
“One more,” Luka offered without looking up from his notes. “West Gate. They’ve been using an old pawnshop for drops. It’s quiet. No one pays attention to it.”
Isaac made a note. “Mark it.”
They talked about access points — rooftops, back alleys, service corridors. Hyuna brought up possible sentries stationed near the bigger markets, and Luka quietly penciled in alternate paths that skirted the hot zones without cutting the teams off from each other.
The hours crept. Someone fetched more coffee; someone else ran out to grab a few stale pastries from the kitchen.
The talk shifted to information hubs — where posters were going up, where public criers were stationed, where small crowds gathered for gossip.
They moved on to printing presses. One was near the central district, another on the far west. Security was moderate on both, but the west press sat near an open square that made approaching without being seen difficult.
The group broke for a late lunch without leaving the room — plates of bread, cheese, and dried fruit appearing at the table, eaten between map consultations.
Afternoon bled in quietly. They started in on the clubs, the atmosphere shifting a little heavier. The list was short, but no one liked the implication behind it.
Isaac’s tone was clipped. “We’re not going in after the kids now. It’s not safe without confirmed locations.”
The silence stretched until Hyuna spoke. “We can at least check them. Just eyes. See if anything’s… off.”
A murmur of agreement passed around the table. Luka was the one to mark the club locations, drawing faint dotted lines from nearby routes so they could be added without disrupting the main plan.
The rest of the afternoon became slower, more meticulous — checking every single connection between routes, weighing if fallback points were spaced well enough, reassigning tasks to balance the workload.
The light outside shifted toward dusk before anyone noticed. Isaac finally leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms until his shoulders cracked.
“That’s it,” he said, voice rough from talking all day. “Routes are locked. Observation targets locked. Black markets mapped. Everyone take your copies. You know your parts.”
Chairs scraped against the floor as people stood, gathering their papers, folding maps into worn pockets. Luka lingered over the main map, tracing one of his marked lines with a fingertip like he was making sure it stayed there.
Till waited by the door, a small, tired smile pulling at his mouth. Luka finally looked up and gave him one back — the quiet kind, like the day had drained him but left him content.
The door clicked shut behind Till, sealing out the last traces of voices from the hallway. The room felt different without the steady hum of conversation — still, a little heavier, the air tinted with the faint scent of paper and coffee that had settled over the long day.
Luka stood by the main map, one hand braced on the table’s edge, eyes tracing the lines they’d carved into it over the hours. Till walked over and, instead of pulling a chair, hopped onto the edge of the table just beside him.
“By the way,” Till said after a moment, his voice low in the quiet, “I never asked. How do you know the city that well?”
Luka didn’t look at him right away, just let out a short breath through his nose, like the answer was tangled somewhere in his head. “Heperu used to take me to all kinds of places,” he said finally. “Sometimes because he liked showing me off. You know — the pet all humans were to aliens.” His tone was flat, but not without an edge. “Photoshoots. Interviews. We went to markets, fancy streets, back alleys. I’ve seen more of this city than I ever wanted to.”
Till tilted his head, listening quietly.
“And I’ve got a good memory,” Luka went on. “Sometimes, out of curiosity, I’d read about the city when I was bored. Sometimes I even asked questions. They trusted me enough.” He shrugged, a small, bitter smile ghosting over his lips. “Guess it paid off.”
Till nodded slowly. “Makes sense. You do remember every damn shortcut.” There was a flicker of something softer in his voice — not quite admiration, but close.
Luka gave a quiet hum in acknowledgment, still looking at the map for another beat before finally letting out a sigh. He gathered the scattered papers and folded them, stacking everything with an absent precision until the surface was clear.
When he turned back, the room was dim — only the low light spilling from a wall lamp in the corner, the rest falling into shadow. No one else lingered; the hallway outside was silent. Luka stepped closer, his boots quiet on the worn floorboards, until he was standing between Till’s knees.
His hands came to rest on Till’s thighs, thumbs brushing absently over the fabric there. The position felt deliberate — close, but not rushed, like he was testing how far the quiet would let him go.
Luka’s gaze lingered on Till’s face for a beat too long, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Then he leaned in.
The kiss wasn’t tentative — not this time. His hands tightened on Till’s thighs as he drew him forward into it, mouths meeting with a kind of hunger that felt both urgent and careful, like he’d been holding himself back all day and couldn’t anymore.
Till exhaled sharply against him, fingers curling into the back of Luka’s neck as if to anchor him there. His legs shifted, muscles tightening, and then he hooked them around Luka’s hips in one smooth motion, pulling him closer until Luka’s body pressed firmly against the inside of his thighs.
Luka made a low sound into the kiss, one hand sliding higher on Till’s leg, thumb pressing into the muscle there. The table beneath them creaked faintly with the shift of weight, but neither of them seemed to care.
Till’s arms looped fully around Luka’s neck now, his chest rising and falling faster, lips parting just enough for Luka to deepen the kiss. There was no rush in their mouths, though — just slow, deliberate pressure, the heat building with each pass of breath between them.
But then, Till broke the kiss. His forehead rested against Luka’s for a moment, his breath uneven.
“What if someone walks in?” he murmured, voice low, but the way his legs stayed tight around Luka’s hips betrayed just how much he didn’t want him to stop.
“They won’t,” Luka replied without hesitation. His voice was deep, a little rough. “Door’s closed. Everyone’s gone.”
As if to seal the reassurance, his hand slid over Till’s thigh again — this time slower, the curve of his palm dragging over the line of muscle, thumb brushing just inside where the seam of his pants ended. The gesture made Till inhale sharply, a tiny twitch in his fingers where they gripped Luka’s shirt.
“Luka…” Till started, but his voice faltered when Luka’s mouth brushed along his jaw, tracing the edge to the soft skin beneath his ear.
“Mm?” Luka murmured there, not pausing the slow trail of his lips.
“You’re… you’re distracting,” Till said, but the words didn’t carry much protest.
“That’s the point,” Luka breathed against his skin. His mouth moved lower, catching at the base of Till’s throat, the faint scrape of teeth just enough to make him shiver.
Till’s hands slid down from Luka’s neck to his shoulders, gripping there as his hips tilted forward instinctively — the smallest movement, but enough to press them together more firmly. Luka’s breath caught at the contact, his hands tightening just slightly on Till’s thighs before one drifted higher still, edging toward dangerous territory.
The room was silent except for their breathing, the faint creak of the table under them, and the muted hum of the light in the corner. Every sound felt amplified.
Luka pulled back just enough to look at him — eyes dark, lips faintly damp from the kiss — and his fingers flexed once more against Till’s thigh, slow and deliberate. “Tell me to stop,” he said quietly, even though his body language made it clear he wasn’t planning on it unless forced.
Till didn’t tell him to stop. Instead, he shifted forward, closing the gap again, mouth catching Luka’s in another deep kiss, his legs tightening just a little more around his hips. Luka responded instantly, pressing in, one hand sliding along the inside of Till’s thigh while the other braced on the table beside him.
The world outside the room didn’t matter in that moment — only the warmth between them, the way every small movement made the air feel heavier.
Till’s head tipped back, his breath shuddering out between parted lips. “Luka…” His voice was low, almost desperate now.
Luka hummed against his skin, his hand still sliding higher, fingertips brushing along the edge where heat gathered.
Till’s grip tightened in his shirt. “Fuck me,” he breathed, the words spilling out before he could think better of them. “Right here. Right now.”
For half a second Luka stilled — not because he was unsure, but because the way Till said it knocked the air right out of him. Then he pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes, something wild and sharp there. “You sure?”
Till nodded once, jaw tense, and that was all Luka needed.
Buttons came undone one by one, Luka’s knuckles brushing the skin beneath with every flick. It wasn’t neat—nothing Luka ever did was neat—but that only made Till’s heartbeat stumble harder. By the time Luka pushed the shirt off his shoulders, Till’s skin was alive with goosebumps, the fabric sliding down his arms like it had been waiting to be shed.
“God, you’re—” Luka cut himself off, kissing the words directly into Till’s mouth. The kiss was hungry, all tongue and heat, until Till’s fingers tangled in Luka’s hair and pulled him closer, answering with a desperation that left no space for air.
Hands skated lower, over his waist, tugging impatiently at belts and zippers. Luka pressed him back harder against the table, forcing a grunt from Till as the edge bit into him. Every sound he made only seemed to fuel Luka, who kissed down his chest now, leaving a trail of open-mouthed heat before stopping to nip at his ribs.
Till sucked in a breath as Luka’s fingers hooked into his waistband, tugging sharply. The sound of the zipper sliding down felt loud in the empty room, obscene. His trousers loosened, slipping down his hips with a push, and Luka didn’t bother hiding his satisfaction at the sight of bare skin revealed inch by inch.
Till shifted, half a protest, half surrender, but Luka caught his chin and kissed him again—slower this time, almost cruel in the patience of it—before letting the kiss break with a soft, wet sound.
“You look better on this table than any briefing ever could,” Luka said, voice roughened by want.
Till’s answer was another kiss, his hands finally moving to Luka’s clothes, tugging at his jacket, pulling until fabric hit the floor. The air between them was thick now, hot with the smell of sweat and cologne and paper dust, every sound—the scrape of buttons, the thud of discarded boots—echoing louder than it should.
Piece by piece, they stripped each other down until there was nothing left between them but skin and breath. Luka guided Till backward, laying him against the table’s surface, scattering pens and folders to the floor.
Till’s chest heaved, flushed and bare under the harsh lights, his lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark with something he couldn’t bring himself to name. Luka hovered above him, braced on his hands, gaze devouring every inch.
And for a moment, just before the world tipped into something unstoppable, time seemed to hold still—just the two of them, burning up in the silence of a room meant for strategy, not surrender.
The table was cold against Till’s back, a stark contrast to Luka’s heat above him. Papers slid to the floor, forgotten, the only thing that mattered now was the weight of Luka’s hand pressing into his hip.
Luka kissed him again, slower this time, drawing out every second until Till was gasping into his mouth. “Easy,” Luka murmured between kisses, his voice a low growl that seemed to settle in Till’s chest. “We’ve got time.”
Till swallowed, nodding even though his body was tense, wired like a bowstring. Luka noticed—it was impossible for him not to—and his hand moved softer, fingertips tracing idle circles over Till’s skin. Down his ribs. Across his stomach. Lower. Each touch coaxing, undoing tension thread by thread.
“You’re trembling,” Luka said, and there was something dangerously tender in it.
“I’m not—” Till tried, but the lie fell apart when Luka’s mouth closed over a spot just below his collarbone, sucking until Till arched up helplessly.
“Mm. You are,” Luka smirked against his skin. “Beautiful like this.”
He shifted, dragging his palm slowly down Till’s thigh before easing it apart, making room. Till’s breath hitched, and Luka’s eyes flicked up, searching, holding him still. There was no need for words; Luka could read the answer in the flush of Till’s face, the way his hand clutched at the edge of the table as if it would anchor him.
So Luka kept going. His mouth traced downward, deliberate, unhurried. He kissed across Till’s stomach, nipped lightly at his side, let his tongue linger where skin was most sensitive. His hands worked in tandem, soothing and teasing, sliding over hips and thighs, kneading the muscle like he was staking a claim and worshipping at the same time.
By the time Luka’s fingers brushed lower, Till was already shaking with anticipation. He tried to lift his hips, to chase the touch, but Luka pinned him back with a firm palm.
“Not yet,” Luka whispered, voice wrecked with restraint. His thumb stroked lazily, just enough to make Till squirm. “I want to take my time with you.”
The jacket was somewhere in the mess on the floor, half-buried under discarded folders. Luka broke from the kiss just long enough to crouch, rummaging through the fabric until he found what he wanted. The familiar click of a cap made Till blink, chest heaving as realization hit.
“…Are you serious?” His voice cracked between disbelief and a breathless laugh. “Why the hell do you just—carry that around?”
Luka glanced up at him, hair falling in his face, smirk sharp as a blade. “Obviously for moments like this.”
Till flushed scarlet, torn between rolling his eyes and choking on another laugh, but the look Luka gave him stole any chance of witty comeback. That smirk deepened into something darker, promise and hunger twined together, as Luka shook the little bottle casually like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“God, you’re impossible,” Till muttered, though his hands tightened on the edge of the table, betraying him.
“Mm,” Luka hummed, standing again, leaning over him until their foreheads touched. “And you love it.”
The slick sound of the cap twisting open punctuated the air, louder than it should have been, the weight of what was about to happen settling heavy between them.
Luka’s fingers pressed against him, firm and knowing. There was no hesitation—Luka knew exactly what Till could take, what made him shudder, what made his breath break unevenly against Luka’s mouth.
“You’re already ready for me,” Luka murmured, pressing his forehead to Till’s. “Always are.”
Till clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as his hips jerked in spite of himself. “You talk too much.”
“Mm. And you love it.” Luka’s smirk widened as he pushed deeper, stretching him with practiced ease. His other hand slid up Till’s chest, pinning him to the table when he tried to twist away from the overstimulation.
Every sound Till made was swallowed by Luka’s mouth—grunts, bitten-off moans, the catch of his breath when Luka twisted his fingers just so. There was no fumbling, no drawn-out patience. Just the steady, relentless rhythm of someone who knew exactly how to unravel him.
His touch was deliberate, precise, curling just enough to pull a gasp out of Till’s throat. He kissed him through it, grounding him with lips that dragged heat back into his body, one hand braced beside Till’s head as though he’d never let him move an inch away.
“You’re so loud,” Luka teased when Till broke into a groan that carried across the room. His smirk ghosted over Till’s ear, teeth grazing.
Till shuddered, his breath stuttering. The thought was terrifying that someone could walk on them, and yet—he couldn’t deny the way his pulse spiked at the risk of it. Luka, of course, knew exactly what that meant.
“Don’t think about them,” Luka whispered, pressing deeper, his free hand sliding up Till’s chest until he could feel the pounding of his heart. “Think about me. Right here. Right now.”
Till’s eyes squeezed shut as another finger pressed in, stretching him further. The sting was brief, lost quickly under the molten wave of pleasure Luka dragged out of him with each steady movement.
By the time Luka worked in another finger, Till was gone, head tipped back, lips red and swollen from too many kisses. Luka kissed down his throat again, tongue dragging across the pulse hammering there, before whispering, “You’re so damn perfect like this. Open for me, waiting for me.”
Till’s answer came out in a broken moan, cut short as Luka’s thumb swept across him in a way that made his entire body jerk. Luka hushed him immediately, another grounding kiss, another press of his forehead against Till’s like he could physically hold him together.
Till’s hands slid down to grip Luka’s arms, his nails raking against bare skin now, leaving angry red lines as if he needed to mark him back. Luka only groaned, kissing him harder, swallowing every sound.
The tension hung thick in the air—every moment too loud, too dangerous, the chance of discovery twisting into another layer of heat. But Luka never wavered. His touch stayed steady, his lips never leaving Till’s skin for long, grounding him even as he dragged him further into the fire.
And Till, trembling and undone on the cold table, could do nothing but give in.
“Hold on,” Luka murmured against his lips.
Luka pulled his fingers free with one last slow curl inside that made Till’s breath hitch. He leaned down, catching Till’s lips in a kiss that was deep enough to feel like a promise, but over far too soon. When Luka pulled back, there was something dangerous and hungry in his eyes.
His hands came to Till’s hips, and with an easy, unspoken force, he pushed him flat onto the table. Till’s back hit the cool surface again, papers and maps scattering beneath him in a chaotic rustle. A few files slid right off the edge and hit the floor with a muffled thud, but neither of them cared.
Luka stepped between his spread legs, the sound of slick skin meeting skin already loud in the quiet room as he lined himself up. He guided himself forward, pressing in with one long, deep thrust that made Till arch off the table with a sharp gasp.
The position left him completely open — Luka standing over him, hips grinding forward, eyes locked on him like he was trying to burn the image into his brain. Luka’s gaze roamed greedily over him, drinking in every shift of muscle, every twitch, every sound.
Luka’s hands slid from Till’s hips to grip his waist harder, hauling him closer across the table until their bodies met with each snap of his hips. Till, needing the anchor, hooked his legs around Luka’s hips again, locking his ankles behind him so he could meet every thrust.
Luka’s hands shifted again, moving lower to grip under Till’s thighs — no, almost cupping his ass — lifting him slightly to drive in deeper. The angle had Till’s mouth falling open, his head tipping back as a choked sound escaped him. Luka didn’t let up; he drove forward with a rhythm that was both desperate and precise, each movement harder than the last.
Till instinctively clapped a hand over his own mouth, trying to stifle the moans that kept spilling out, but Luka noticed instantly. His thrusts slowed just enough for him to lean forward, voice dropping into that low, rough tone that Till swore he could feel in his spine.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” Luka murmured, each word hot against his lips. “I want to hear you.”
Till’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Luka’s, and the heat there made it impossible to resist. Luka’s hips snapped forward again, harder, and the sound Till let out was raw and unrestrained, filling the room.
‘’Ah…fuck, Luka.’’
The pace picked up — rushed, messy, shameless. The slap of skin against skin echoed off the walls, mingling with Luka’s low groans and Till’s breathless cries. Papers crumpled beneath them, the edge of the table digging into Till’s back as Luka drove forward again and again, chasing that perfect point where pleasure blurred into something overwhelming.
Luka’s grip was almost bruising now, pulling him onto each thrust, the table rocking slightly under the force. Every movement was a little rougher, a little hungrier, as if neither of them cared how loud or reckless they were anymore.
At first, Till didn’t know what to do with his hands. Luka was standing over him, his grip locked tight on his thighs, driving into him with that unrelenting rhythm that made his mind blank. Till tried reaching for him, but the angle was wrong — Luka was bent forward only when he wanted to kiss him, and the moment his hips snapped back, the distance returned.
So his hands ended up falling back to the table, fingers spread wide, pressing against the scattered papers under his head. It wasn’t intentional — but the sight of Till like that, chest rising and falling, arms spread out, wrists brushing the maps and files like he was pinned there for Luka’s use, did something sharp and primal to Luka.
His eyes darkened, breath catching as his hips slammed forward harder. The sound was filthy now — skin on skin, the wet drag, the muted crinkle of paper crushed under them.
Till’s moans got louder with every thrust, his voice breaking when Luka hit that deep spot just right. “F–fuck, ah—more,” he gasped, head tipping back, mouth falling open.
And Luka gave him more. He gave him everything. His thrusts turned harder, faster, like he was chasing the words, like he couldn’t stand the thought of giving Till anything less than what he was begging for.
Till’s moans became unrestrained, completely beyond control — high, breathless sounds, choked-off curses, gasps that made Luka’s vision blur. “Oh—ngh—fuck” He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, his body moving helplessly with Luka’s, gripping him tight, dragging him deeper.
It spun Luka’s head. Every noise, every twitch of muscle around him, every desperate arch of Till’s back was gasoline to a fire he couldn’t — wouldn’t — put out.
He was close. They both were. Luka’s pace faltered for a fraction of a second as the pleasure tightened low in his spine, but then he recovered, planting his feet and cupping Till’s ass in both hands, hauling him up and forward in one motion so he could slam into him even harder.
The new angle was devastating. Till’s head rolled back, his voice breaking into a sharp cry as his whole body tensed. “L–Luka—ah—!”
Luka groaned deep, the sound guttural, and kept pounding into him, the table shaking under them.
The slap of skin against skin was already too loud in the echoing room, but it was Till’s voice that made Luka’s rhythm falter.
Every thrust tore another sound out of him—half-gasp, half-moan, each one dirtier than the last. It wasn’t polite, it wasn’t restrained. It was raw, shameless, the kind of noise that didn’t belong in a place like this.
Luka groaned, burying his face in Till’s throat as if he could escape it, but he couldn’t—those sounds vibrated through Till’s whole body, into Luka’s, until it was all he could hear.
“Fuck—” Luka hissed, thrusts growing harder, rougher, chasing the noises that spilled from Till with every push. “Do you even hear yourself?”
Till barely managed to shake his head, lost in the rhythm, his back arching off the table as another guttural moan ripped out of him. It sounded like surrender, like need, like he’d stopped caring entirely about who might be outside that door.
And Luka—God, Luka couldn’t get enough. He pulled back just enough to watch him, eyes locked on the way Till’s lips parted, on the hoarse cries that slipped free no matter how hard he bit down.
“Say my name,” Luka ordered, his voice rough with desperation.
“Lu—Luka—ah—” The sound cracked, filthy and broken, and Luka swore viciously, slamming his mouth down on Till’s to swallow the rest, teeth clashing, tongue desperate.
It didn’t help. He could still hear him. Every moan vibrated into Luka’s chest, into his spine, until it was driving him half-mad.
“God, you sound so fucking good,” Luka groaned against his mouth, dragging him closer, pounding into him harder like he could wring more out of him. “You’re gonna kill me with those sounds.”
Till only cried out louder, shameless and perfect, spread out on the table like he was made to be unraveled.
And Luka, wrecked by every filthy moan echoing through the sterile room, couldn’t do anything but give him more to scream for.
The table shook under the rhythm, pens and folders long scattered across the floor, but Luka hardly noticed anymore. He was too focused on Till—on the way he writhed, the way every filthy moan slipped out louder than the last.
And then Luka couldn’t stand it anymore—being up and over him, but not on him. He lowered his body, pressing Till down into the table with his full weight, one hand braced hard against the surface, the other gripping Till’s waist like he’d never let him go.
The change made Till cry out again, a wrecked, broken sound that Luka caught with his mouth. Their chests pressed together, slick with sweat, every thrust grinding them harder into each other until there was no space left between them.
“Fuck, Till—” Luka gasped against his lips, the words dissolving into another groan as he slammed forward. “You’re so tight—so loud—God, you’re gonna ruin me.”
Till clawed at his back, nails raking over skin like he couldn’t get enough either, like he needed Luka closer, deeper, everything at once. His voice cracked on Luka’s name, filthy and unrestrained, echoing off the walls until Luka thought it would drive him insane.
“Say it again,” Luka demanded, his voice rough, his lips brushing Till’s jaw, his ear, desperate to hear it. “Say my name when I fuck you like this.”
“Lu—Luka—” Till moaned, almost a sob, almost a scream. His body arched helplessly beneath him, clinging, clenching, begging without words.
Luka nearly lost it. He buried his face in Till’s neck, panting hot against his skin, biting down hard enough to leave a mark as his hips snapped faster, harder, chasing that sound, chasing the end he could feel hovering so close.
“God, you’re perfect—perfect like this,” Luka growled, every word ragged. “Fucking spread out for me—taking me so good—don’t you dare stop making those sounds.”
Till’s answer was another filthy moan, high and wrecked, cut off only by Luka crushing their mouths together again, swallowing it down like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
The table creaked, Luka’s grip on Till’s waist bruising now, his thrusts ragged and desperate. Every noise Till made pushed him closer, dragged him over the edge until Luka could barely think past the heat, the sound, the overwhelming need to finish with him.
They were both shaking, both gasping, so close it was unbearable. And still Luka pressed closer, chest to chest, forehead pressed to Till’s, whispering broken praise between filthy curses, grinding every word into his mouth with another kiss.
Luka wrapped his hand around Till’s cock, only a few strokes — and he was gone white heat exploding through him, his release spilling across his stomach and the mess of papers beneath him. His moans turned almost into sobs, the pleasure overwhelming, body clenching so tight around Luka it dragged him over the edge instantly.
With a strangled sound, Luka thrust deep one final time, spilling inside him, his fingers digging into Till’s skin like he couldn’t let go. His hips slowed, stuttering through the aftershocks, forehead pressing briefly to Till’s chest as they both tried to catch their breath.
The room smelled like sweat and sex, the table was a wreck of maps and files, and neither of them moved for a long moment — still tangled, still shaking, still riding out the last shivers of it.
If they’d been in their own room right now, it would be fine. They’d just collapse on the bed, leave everything for tomorrow, and pass out still tangled together. But no — they were in the meeting room. The same room everyone would walk into tomorrow morning like nothing happened. The same table that was now a wreck of maps, files, and… other evidence.
Till let out a breathless laugh, the sound breaking halfway into a groan. “Fuck… I can’t feel my ass.”
Luka groaned too, resting his hands on the edge of the table like he needed it to stay upright. “Good. I can’t feel my legs.” He was still breathing hard.
He finally pulled out, slow, a hiss escaping him at the sensitivity. Till stayed exactly where he was, sprawled on the table, legs still parted, chest still rising and falling too quickly. Exhaustion kept him from even trying to move.
Then he felt the brush of Luka’s lips against his own. It was slow and unhurried, nothing like the way they’d been moving minutes ago. Till sighed into it, a quiet moan slipping out as Luka’s mouth lingered.
One of Luka’s hands slid up, wrapping loosely around Till’s neck — not squeezing, just resting there, thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw. Then Luka started trailing kisses lower, down the line of his throat, across his collarbone, and further still.
Till frowned weakly and huffed out a scold. “Don’t tell me you’re starting something again.”
“I’m not,” Luka murmured, voice low, lips brushing his skin with every word. “I’m cleaning you.”
Before Till could even ask what the hell he meant by that, Luka was kissing down his chest… and then licking over the mess on his stomach.
Till froze, his breath catching. Usually, when they were too tired to shower right away, they’d at least grab a cloth, wipe each other down, maybe stumble to the bathroom. But this—this was different. This was deliberate.
It was hot. Way hotter than it had any right to be.
He opened his mouth to say something, to ask if Luka was really doing this, if he didn’t find it disgusting—
“Nothing about you could ever disgust me,” Luka said before Till could even voice it, like he’d read his thoughts.
The words hit harder than they should have. Till groaned, eyes fluttering shut, his head falling back against the table. “God…” His fingers twitched against the wood, resisting the urge to pull Luka up and kiss him again.
When Luka finally stopped, his mouth glistening faintly, he pressed one last kiss to Till’s hip and straightened. Neither of them said anything for a moment, just breathing.
Eventually, the reality of their location crept back in. Luka’s legs felt like they might give out completely as he bent to grab his clothes. Till made a low, protesting noise when the warmth left him, but he didn’t move until Luka tossed his pants onto his stomach in silent insistence.
They dressed slowly, like the act itself was taking more energy than they had left. The thought of showering in their own room still sounded like climbing a mountain, but they knew they’d feel worse if they didn’t.
When Luka finally slung an arm around Till’s waist and guided them toward the door, his legs were barely keeping him steady. Till’s were only marginally better. Together, they made their way down the hall, every step reminding them of exactly what they’d done in the room they’d be sitting in again tomorrow.
★
The second they stepped into the room, their clothes were thrown away and they made their way to the shower.
The steam curled around them, thick and heavy in the air, blurring the edges of the world until all that existed was the slow beat of water against their skin. Luka leaned back against the cool tile, head tipped just enough for the stream to roll over his hair and down his shoulders. His eyes stayed on Till — always on Till — watching the way the water made trails over his cheeks, across his throat, down the curve of his collarbone.
Till had told him not to start anything. Luka had agreed, because he knew they were both wrung out from earlier, their bodies already aching in that deep, spent way. But now, standing here in the heat and quiet, Till was the one moving closer, fingers skimming down Luka’s sides, lips brushing against his jaw before finding his mouth in a kiss that started soft and then pressed deeper, more insistent.
“I want to try something,” Till murmured against his lips.
Luka blinked at him, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “Something?”
Till gave a small nod, his eyes holding Luka’s like he was trying to anchor him there. Luka’s lips curved into a faint, skeptical smile. “You’re… not about to—”
“I am,” Till interrupted gently. “Don’t you trust me?”
Luka’s expression softened, but there was still that protective edge in his voice. “You don’t have to do this. Not for me.”
“I want to,” Till said simply.
That was enough to silence Luka for a moment. He let out a low breath, one corner of his mouth twitching up like he couldn’t decide between smirking or biting back a nervous laugh. His eyes, darkened by the steam, never left Till’s face. “You’re going to kill me,” he muttered under his breath.
Till smiled faintly and shifted, lowering himself with deliberate slowness, his hands still warm on Luka’s hips as he sank to his knees on the slick tile. Luka’s breath caught at the sight — not just because of what was happening, but because Till was looking at him like he meant it. Like this wasn’t just curiosity or impulse, but something he’d thought about.
The water streamed down over both of them, plastering Luka’s hair to his temples, dripping from his jaw. His head tilted back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, as Till’s fingers traced light circles against his skin — a touch that was almost shy in contrast to the charged air between them.
Till's hand went to the base of Luka's cock, gave it a few strokes. He started with kissing the head, just a small touch of lips, Luka's cock was already throbbing from the sensation.
His tongue moved along the length, and without warning he took the whole thing into his mouth, the sensation making Luka moan.
It was slow. Deliberate. Till’s movements weren’t rushed, like he was learning by memory, each reaction from Luka guiding him further. Luka’s hands hovered in the air for a moment, as if unsure where to put them, before finally settling — one against the back of Till’s head, the other braced weakly against the wall.
A quiet sound escaped Luka — not the sharp groan Till was used to, but something lower, almost dazed. It startled him, the way that single sound felt like it reached right into his chest. Luka’s jaw tightened, his breath coming faster, but his gaze stayed locked downward, watching through the thin veil of steam.
“God, Till…” Luka’s voice was rough, his shoulders pressed into the tile as if he needed the support.
Till felt the way that tension coiled through him, how much Luka was holding back from simply pulling him close. He worked slowly, carefully, and every now and then he caught the tiniest twitch of Luka’s mouth, the quiet curse under his breath, the way his legs shifted slightly as though he couldn’t stand still.
By the time Luka’s hand threaded fully into Till’s damp hair, his head tipped forward, their eyes met again — and there was something raw in Luka’s gaze, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold on or let go. The water kept running over them, but neither seemed to notice anymore.
Till’s rhythm shifted, his pace quickening with intent — not for himself, but for the way it pulled sounds out of Luka that he’d never heard before. Low, guttural, broken in places. Luka’s hand tightened in Till’s damp hair, his grip firm but careful, fighting the urge to guide him faster or deeper. His head fell back against the tile, eyes squeezed shut as his chest rose and fell sharply.
Till can't deny that Luka is quite big, but he's already familiar with the technique of not choking, he moans around his cock. The vibrating around Luka’s dick makes him groan, and Till enjoys every sound that Luka makes, the feeling of his mouth being filled, Luca's hand in his hair is just so...
A sharp, half-swallowed curse tore from Luka’s throat, his breathing rough and uneven. Till could feel the tension building in him, the way his muscles locked for a moment before the heat spilled down his throat. Luka’s hand trembled slightly as it slid from his hair, his head tipping forward just enough to watch him with wide, stunned eyes.
Till swallowed, straightening slowly. Before he could even fully stand, Luka had reached for him, dragging him into a fierce, breathless kiss.
Luka curse breathless “fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me love”
They were both exhausted, water still running over them in a steady curtain, but neither seemed ready to pull away. Luka’s hands were already moving — one braced against the wall beside Till’s head, the other firm around his waist. A moment later, Till was pressed back against the slick tile, breath stolen from him again as Luka lifted him, holding him there. There wasn’t much to say after that — only the muted sound of water, their bodies moving together, the low mix of groans and sighs filling the steam-heavy air.
By the time they were done,the “shower” had lasted far longer than either of them intended. They eventually stepped out, skin flushed and water-warmed, toweling off without much energy for words. Soft cotton shirts clung to damp skin as they pulled them on, both of them moving on instinct more than thought.
When they finally collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion wrapped around them instantly. Luka tugged the blanket over them while Till turned toward him, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips, then another softer one. Luka returned them both with a quiet hum, and that was the last thing either of them remembered before sleep took them.
★
Morning came slowly; neither of them made any move to greet it. The room was still heavy with the warmth of sleep, the air quiet except for the steady sound of their breathing.
Till stirred first, not to get up, but to shift closer — though there was barely any space left between them. He was already draped over Luka, but it wasn’t enough. With a quiet sigh, he buried his face against Luka’s neck, inhaling the faint scent of soap and warm skin.
Luka chuckled low in his chest, the sound rumbling against Till’s cheek. “You’re already crushing me, you know,” he murmured, but his arm tightened around Till’s back anyway. He brushed his fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
They didn’t rush into talking, just letting the stillness stretch until Luka spoke again. “We should probably get up.”
“No,” Till mumbled against his skin.
“We have the final meeting today. They’re deciding when we’re heading out to the city.”
Till made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “So? Same old shit.”
“Yeah.” Luka’s smile was faint, but there was something sharper beneath it.
Till shifted a little, propping his chin on Luka’s chest so he could look at him.
Luka kisses Till’s nose, brushing his thumb over Till’s jaw, then he chuckles asking. ‘’Are you sore?’’
Till smirked, though it faded into a wince. “Maybe a little.”
Luka’s laugh was soft, genuine. “A little?”
“Fine. A lot.”
They lay there for a while longer, ignoring the slow creep of time, before either of them thought about actually facing the day.
★
Eventually, the weight of reality — and the faint ache in both their bodies — pushed them toward getting up. Clothes were found and pulled on lazily, hair was half-tamed at best, and they dragged themselves through the corridors toward the meeting room.
The moment Till pushed the door open, both of them froze.
The long table was still scattered with the aftermath of yesterday — papers bent, maps crumpled, half the supply lists shoved to one side, and one unfortunate chair tipped awkwardly against the wall. It was a disaster.
Isaac, already inside with a mug of coffee in hand, lifted his eyes from the mess and raised a brow. “What the hell happened here?”
Before Till could come up with a safe answer, a few more people wandered in, exchanging confused looks at the scene. Someone muttered, “Looks like a storm hit.” Another asked, “Did someone break in?”
Luka pressed his lips together, trying — and failing — to hold back a laugh.
Till’s face went red instantly, heat crawling up his neck. He smacked Luka’s shoulder under the table, but that only made Luka hunch forward, shoulders shaking as his laugh threatened to spill out.
“Stop,” Till hissed under his breath.
“I’m not—” Luka choked back a snicker, failing miserably.
From across the room, Dewey had been watching them with narrowed eyes. His gaze flicked from Luka’s barely-contained grin to Till’s crimson face, then to the mess on the table. Slowly, a knowing smirk tugged at his mouth.
“I think I know,” he said aloud, leaning back in his chair.
Till buried his face in his hands. Luka, on the other hand, looked like he was going to choke on his own laughter.
Isaac cleared his throat, clearly deciding to pretend the disaster of the table wasn’t worth asking further about. “Anyway,” he said, tone sharp enough to pull attention back, “teams going into the city. Till, you’re in.”
Till nodded.
“Luka…” Isaac hesitated. It was a pause just long enough for Till to notice, his stomach tightening. “…you’re in too.”
Till glanced at him sideways but said nothing. The last time they’d argued over whether Luka should be going on missions, it had spiraled into a fight neither of them wanted to repeat. He just exhaled and let it go.
“Two days,” Isaac continued. “Be ready.”
The rest of the meeting was surprisingly short, wrapping up in less than an hour. They all drifted toward the cafeteria, the smell of fresh coffee and something vaguely resembling eggs pulling them in.
By some unspoken agreement, Dewey, Mizi, Hyuna, and Isaac ended up at the same table with Till and Luka — the first time in a while all of them had sat together like this.
They were halfway through their food when Dewey, leaning back in his chair with that too-innocent smirk, piped up. “You know…” he began, “I was thinking about how that meeting room looked this morning…”
Till froze mid-bite.
“…and I realized,” Dewey continued, “that’s exactly how my desk looks when I’m done fixing it up after it breaks. You know. Because something heavy was being slammed on it over and over.”
Hyuna choked on her coffee. Mizi covered her mouth, eyes wide. Isaac actually coughed like he might inhale his food.
Till went bright red instantly, his fork clattering against his plate. Luka just snorted into his drink, shoulders shaking as if trying not to laugh.
“You—” Till started, glaring at Dewey, but the smug grin on Dewey’s face only grew.
Till’s glare could have cut steel. Unfortunately, Dewey looked immune.
“Relax,” Dewey said, taking another lazy bite of his toast. “I’m just saying… that table didn’t look like it lost a game of chess. More like it lost a wrestling match. With two very… enthusiastic opponents.”
Hyuna was trying — and failing — to hide her laugh behind her hand. “Dewey, oh my god…”
“Don’t ‘oh my god’ me,” Dewey said. “You saw the mess. Papers everywhere. Maps crumpled. That poor table’s gonna need therapy.”
Till’s face was burning so hot he was sure he could cook breakfast on it. “You’re disgusting,” he muttered, stabbing at his food just so he didn’t have to look at anyone.
Luka, of course, had the audacity to look relaxed, leaning an elbow on the table with the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “I mean…” he drawled, “he’s not wrong.”
Till’s fork slammed against his plate again. “You’re supposed to deny it.”
“I could,” Luka said, sipping his coffee without breaking eye contact, “but that would be lying.”
Hyuna laughed so hard she had to push her plate away. Mizi shook her head, muttering something about grown men acting like teenagers. Isaac, meanwhile, looked like he was rethinking his career choices entirely.
Dewey grinned and shrugged. “Hey, just don’t do it on the cafeteria tables, okay? I actually have to eat here.”
Till dropped his face into his hands, groaning. Luka’s hand slid under the table to squeeze his thigh — whether in comfort or to make him squirm more, Till couldn’t tell. Probably both.
Chapter 33
Notes:
I went out for a night two days ago, and I still can't sober up I was trying so hard to finish the fic, but I kept falling asleep lmao. Anyways, though I really want to thank everyone for the kudos and comments! I'm a little disappointed in the direction this fic went. I hadn't thought it through very well, and I lost a little motivation after chapter 30, maybe, probably because I already have plans for another fic and I'm very excited to start writing it. And yet the end is approaching for this fic. As I looked at it, I soon realized it would be over 300k words, and I was in shock. At first, I didn't even expect 100, but while I was writing it, I didn't feel it at all. So I think that's what I wanted to say for now. I hope you're not too disappointed with the way this fic really turned out, but I promised myself that I would upload it, and I won't leave it. For now, I'm posting chapter 33. Enjoy! <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Their room was quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric as Till pulled a clean shirt over his head. He stood by the dresser, fixing the hem, while Luka sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, watching him.
“You’re not gonna say anything?” Luka finally asked, voice casual but eyes sharp.
Till glanced over. “About what?”
“About me being on the mission.”
Till exhaled slowly, the sound more like a sigh than an answer. “Last time we had that conversation… it didn’t end well.” He tugged his sleeve straight, avoiding Luka’s gaze for a beat. “And honestly? I can’t stop you. This is important for everyone. We have to do it.”
He finally looked at Luka, expression softer now. “But I’m keeping you close. No matter what.”
A corner of Luka’s mouth twitched up — not quite a smile, but close. “You always do.”
Till gave him a look that meant I’m serious, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door. Luka’s gaze followed him, that almost-smile still lingering.
Till didn’t look back when he left, but Luka kept watching the door long after it shut. Something had been eating at him for days — weeks, maybe — and he hadn’t told a soul. Not Hyuna. Not Isaac. Definitely not the others.
If he was going to say it to anyone first, it had to be Till.
He stayed sitting for a while, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him the right words. It didn’t.
By the time he dragged himself to the gym, the place was empty except for one stubborn figure. Till — the only maniac who could spend hours in here and call it “warming up” — was at the far end, lost in his rhythm.
Luka didn’t interrupt. He just found a seat against the wall, elbows on his knees again, watching.
It took a few minutes before Till noticed him, pausing mid-set with a faintly amused frown. “What are you doing here?”
Till slowed his reps when he caught the way Luka was staring — not at him exactly, but past him, like he was somewhere else entirely. His movements were loose, distracted.
When Till finally set the weights down, Luka shifted, came to sit right on the floor in front of him. Close enough that Till could see that faint crease between his brows.
“What is it?” Till asked, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
Luka exhaled through his nose, slowly. “Just… something I’ve been thinking about.”
That tone — careful, like each word had to be tested before it left his mouth — made Till straighten.
“They want to spread the news in the city about Alien Stage, right? Expose them. We all know it’s a shot in the dark — no one’s going to care about dead bodies rotting in some underground room, or about the experiments.” He kept his gaze low, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “But the thing is… someone started those rumors at first. Aliens, maybe. Or people. They printed it in newspapers. That’s why we’re even trying now — just to feed into something that’s already there and… push it further.”
Till stayed quiet, sensing Luka wasn’t done.
“And the more I think about it,” Luka went on, “the more I realize… words aren’t enough. Not for something like this. Nobody’s going to believe just a story. They’ll say we made it up.”
He hesitated — just long enough for Till to notice his throat working when he swallowed. “We have the files. Of the bodies. And the photos. The ones from the table. What they did to them. It’s… cruel.” He finally glanced up, his eyes meeting Till’s for the first time in the conversation. “That’s why I didn’t say anything before. I’m not saying we dump everything out there, but… maybe if they saw some of it, they’d believe it.”
Till’s stomach turned slightly at the thought.
“No one dares open those files anymore,” Luka murmured. “After what happened that day in the underground… nobody could. And I get it. I can’t even think about it without feeling sick. But… if we don’t show anything, it’s just going to be another rumor. Another story they can bury.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, gaze darting away again. “I don’t even know if it’s a good idea. Just… needed to tell someone.”
Till didn’t answer right away. His first reaction was a faint tightening in his jaw, his brows pulling in. Luka could read the hesitation there — not rejection exactly, but the kind of discomfort that came from knowing exactly what those files held.
“…You’re right,” Till said finally, voice low. “It’s a good idea.”
He leaned back slightly, bracing his hands on the bench behind him. “But no one’s going to want to open those files.’’
Luka’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze flicked away like he already knew that was the truth.
Till stayed quiet for a moment, turning the thought over in his head. It doesn’t have to be the recent ones, he told himself. Not the faces of people they’d stood beside onstage. Not the people who’d beaten them or the ones they’d beaten. Not friends. Not… lovers. Not family.
They could go further back. Old seasons. Names no one had spoken in years. Faces no one here would recognize. It wouldn’t make the sight any easier, but at least it wouldn’t be them.
Still, his stomach knotted at the idea.
“If we’re going to do this,” Till said, looking Luka in the eye, “we do it properly. Even if it’s ugly.”
★
Later that afternoon, they found Isaac in his office, a stack of reports open on his desk. He looked up when they came in, pen still in hand.
“This about the mission?” he asked.
“Sort of,” Luka said, leaning against the doorway while Till stepped further in.
Till exchanged a glance with him before speaking. “We’ve been thinking about the news we’re trying to spread. If we want people to take it seriously… we can’t just tell them what Alien Stage has done. We have to show them.”
Isaac’s pen stopped moving. “…Show them?”
Luka folded his arms. “We still have the files. Photos. The kind of thing that makes people stop arguing and start believing. I know it’s ugly, but—”
“It’s more than ugly,” Isaac cut in, his tone sharp. “You’ve seen what’s in there. You know what it does to people.”
Till stepped in before the tension could build. “We’re not talking about the recent seasons. We can pull from older ones — people no one here knew personally. It’ll still be proof without hitting as hard… for us, at least.”
Isaac leaned back in his chair, looking between them like he was weighing the cost against the gain. The silence stretched before he finally sighed. “…It could work. But if we do this, we choose carefully. One wrong image and we’ll lose people before they’ve read a word.”
“Understood,” Till said. Luka only gave a small nod, his gaze steady.
Isaac picked up his pen again. “Alright. Bring me what you think will work. I’ll look through it first.”
They both knew what that meant — he would take the first blow so the others didn’t have to.
The storage room smelled faintly of dust and paper, colder than the rest of the building. Metal shelves lined the walls, each stacked with thick folders marked by season numbers in black ink.
Till ran a finger over the spine of one box, hesitating before pulling it down. Luka was already at another shelf, sliding files out without opening them, his expression unreadable.
“Not the recent ones,” Till reminded quietly.
“I know,” Luka said, his voice low. He worked methodically — one or two files from each earlier season, stacked neatly on the table in the center of the room. Till joined him, and together they built the pile without looking inside. The temptation to check was there, but neither of them reached for a cover.
By the time they were done, the stack was thick — thirty, maybe forty files, each one heavy with paper and things better left unseen. Luka’s hands lingered on the top folder for a second before he stepped back.
They carried the stack between them to Isaac’s office. He was still there, now with an empty mug at his elbow and the same tired look in his eyes.
“This should be enough,” Till said, setting the files down. The thud echoed in the quiet room.
Isaac glanced at them, then at the folders, his jaw tightening. “…You didn’t look through them?”
“No,” Luka answered. “But I can go through them with you. Make it faster.”
Isaac hesitated — the pause just long enough to betray his reluctance — before he nodded. “Alright. But you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Luka cut in, already moving to pull a chair beside him.
Till watched him for a beat, then stepped closer, his hand brushing Luka’s arm before leaning down to kiss him — brief but deliberate. “I’ll see you later,” he murmured.
Luka gave him a small smile, one hand catching Till’s wrist for just a second before letting go.
Till left the room quietly, the door shutting behind him, leaving Luka and Isaac alone with the files.
Isaac sat in silence for a moment after Till left, his hands resting on the closed top file. The quiet felt heavier than the air in the storage room had. Luka leaned back in his chair, watching Isaac like he was giving him the first move.
Finally, Isaac exhaled and flipped open the first folder.
The photo was right there — no warning. Luka’s breath caught.
It was a body. Skin pale, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack. The stage clothes were still on them, though torn in places, and there were dark bruises around the wrists. The image had that unnatural stillness that only death gave.
Isaac didn’t speak, but his jaw worked tight. He turned the page.
More photos. Different body, same lifeless stillness. Notes scribbled underneath — medical terminology, measurements, dates, numbered tags. Luka caught fragments like “organ failure” and “specimen disposal” before his eyes shifted away.
By the third file, Luka’s hand was pressed against his mouth. Not to hide emotion — but because the wrongness of it made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. These weren’t just random faces. They’d been singers once, voices Luka had probably heard through speakers or on stage. People someone had loved.
Isaac’s hand slowed on the page, his eyes narrowing. He didn’t cry, but Luka could see the way he blinked more than usual.
“You see why no one wanted to do this,” Isaac said quietly, almost like it was to himself.
Luka swallowed hard. “Yeah. But if they see this—” He gestured to the file between them, unable to say bodies. “They won’t be able to pretend it’s a rumor.”
They kept going.
Some photos were clinical — cold white rooms, numbered tags, lists of experiments. Others were messier, and worse. The lighting was wrong in some, shadows sharp, making the wounds and broken shapes stand out even more. Luka had to look away once, jaw tight, when a face in one photo was just familiar enough to bring a flash of memory — a voice he’d heard in an old recording, bright and alive.
The room stayed silent except for the sound of paper turning.
After a while, Isaac closed the last file they’d chosen to open. He pressed his hand flat on the cover, not looking at Luka. “That’s enough, we don't need that much to make a point.”
Luka nodded. His throat felt dry.
He stepped out of the room where they’d been working with Isaac, closing the door behind him like it might keep the images in. His legs felt heavier than they should have, and the hallway seemed too quiet. He ran a hand over his face as he started walking, trying to shove away the memory of pale skin and still eyes, but they clung stubbornly in his mind.
Tomorrow was the last day.
The day after… they’d be in the city.
He’d been picturing that for weeks — the alleys, the noise, the way the air would feel different after being trapped here so long. But now his mind kept circling back to the change they’d decided on just minutes ago. The plan had always been to get the files and print them in the city, where there’d be bigger presses, more reach. But now…
Luka almost laughed under his breath, but it wasn’t amusement. No one in their right mind would print this. Not with those photos attached. Not even the most desperate, half-legal rags that thrived on scandal. The images were too much — too real. Too dangerous.
So they’d do it themselves.
Tomorrow they’d take every sheet of paper they could find. Every printer they could get their hands on. Write up the story, attach the photos, run the machines until they run out of ink or paper. The next day, all they’d have to do was get into the city, find somewhere to dump the bundles — a place where the right eye might see them. Newspaper stands, yes, but also the black markets. Places where gossip and rumor turned into currency. They’d slip some money to the right people, and maybe — just maybe — the papers would spread.
Whether anyone believed them… that was a different story.
Luka’s head throbbed just thinking about it. It wasn’t doubt — he knew this was worth doing. But it felt like a gamble with the odds already stacked against them. And if it didn’t work… What then?
He shoved the thought aside. Too many what ifs. He just needed to focus on the part they could control. Do their job. Try to live long enough to see if it mattered.
His boots echoed on the stairs as he made his way back to his room. The corridors felt colder now. He caught himself rubbing at the bridge of his nose, eyes closing for a second. The headache wasn’t going away.
When he finally pushed open the door, steam was curling out of the open bathroom. The sound of the shower running was steady, almost hypnotic. The sight made something in Luka’s chest ease — just knowing Till was there, alive, moving.
He kicked off his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The wet sound of water hitting tile filled the room. Luka tilted his head back, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to think about files, or dead eyes, or printing presses. Not right now.
He wanted a distraction.
And Till was very good at being one.
So Luka waited.
He heard the shower shut off after a few minutes, and the soft sound of Till moving inside. Luka stayed where he was, eyes half-lidded, watching the bathroom door. He wasn’t sure yet if he’d tell him what they’d decided with Isaac. Maybe later. Maybe not until they were already on their way.
The door opened, and a rush of warm, damp air spilled into the room.
Till stepped out of the bathroom with damp hair clinging to his forehead, a white towel in hand and nothing on but loose, low-hanging sweatpants. He was rubbing the towel over his head when his eyes found Luka sitting there on the edge of the bed.
“How’d it go?” Till asked, his voice still a little rough from the steam and heat.
Luka just shook his head slowly. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” His tone was flat, but there was a heaviness beneath it.
Till didn’t press. He’d heard that tone before — the kind that meant Luka wasn’t shutting him out, just trying to keep something ugly from spilling into this moment. That was enough for him.
Without another word, Till tossed the towel carelessly onto the chair in the corner and crossed the room. The mattress dipped under his weight as he swung one leg over, settling into Luka’s lap and straddling him. Luka’s hands automatically found Till’s hips, fingers resting against the damp warmth of his skin where the sweatpants hung low.
Till leaned in, his lips brushing against Luka’s in a kiss that was slow, careful, almost reverent. Luka felt the faint taste of heat from the shower still clinging to him, the scent of soap mixing with the clean scent that was just Till.
Luka exhaled against his mouth, his headache still there but fading under the weight of that kiss. One of Till’s hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers curling there as if to keep him anchored in place. The other rested lightly against Luka’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
For a moment, neither of them moved beyond that — just a slow exchange of warmth, the quiet press of lips, the kind of contact that didn’t need to rush.
Till broke the kiss, his lips brushing against Luka’s as he whispered, voice low and almost pleading, “Let me take care of you…”
Luka’s breath hitched, and he gave the smallest nod. That was all the permission Till needed.
They shifted further up the bed, Luka leaning back against the headboard while Till stayed right there in his lap, knees bracketing his hips. The position had Luka looking up at him, and there was something in his gaze — tired, yes, but soft.
Till leaned down again, kissing him with a sudden surge of passion, his fingers curling into the edge of Luka’s hoodie. He pushed it up and over Luka’s head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. Luka’s skin was warm under his palms, his chest still tense from the day.
There had been a thought nagging in the back of Till’s mind before — what it would be like to turn things around completely, to be the one pushing Luka under, to hear him moan in that way Till had only gotten glimpses of before. He’d had that taste in the shower when he was on his knees, hearing Luka fall apart for him.
Maybe some day.
But right now… right now he wanted to feel Luka inside him, wanted to sink down and take him in until they both forgot the world outside this room.
Till’s hands slid over Luka’s shoulders, down his arms, then back up again before settling against his jaw, guiding him into another kiss. His hips shifted, slow at first, teasing, the kind of movement that made Luka’s breath stutter and his hands instinctively grip at Till’s thighs.
Till’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging them down over his hips in one slow drag. The fabric bunched and then slid past his thighs, pooling at his knees before he kicked them away. His underwear followed, the soft cotton clinging for a moment before he pushed them down and off completely.
Luka’s gaze lingered shamelessly, and Till caught it — his own smirk. Luka’s sweatpants were next, Till tugging at the waistband until Luka shifted to let them slide down. The warmth of Luka’s skin met the cool air, and for a beat they just looked at each other, breathing in the closeness.
Till leaned in, kissing him again — no softness this time, just hunger. His teeth caught Luka’s lower lip, biting down just enough to make Luka let out a low, surprised moan.
The sound had Till’s smirk deepening.
“You’re playing dirty,” Luka murmured against his mouth.
“Maybe,” Till breathed, kissing him again, deeper, until Luka’s hand had fisted in his hair.
It was only when Till pulled back slightly that he reached for the bottle of lubricant on the bedside table. Luka’s hand moved instinctively to take it, but Till shook his head, pushing his wrist lightly back.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice low. “I’ve got it.”
Luka’s brow twitched, but he let him.
Till hadn’t done this by himself before — not like this, straddling Luka, one hand braced against his shoulder for balance — but he knew how. He popped the cap open, the slick sound cutting through the quiet, and coated his fingers. The angle was strange, his wrist twisting as he worked himself open, but he stayed steady, supporting his weight with one arm pressed firmly against Luka’s shoulder.
Luka didn’t just sit still — his lips traced along the side of Till’s neck, warm breath fanning over sensitive skin. His mouth moved lower, down his throat, over the line of his collarbone, then further still to his chest. Every press of Luka’s lips, every scrape of his teeth, sent little shivers chasing through Till’s spine.
And even though Luka wasn’t touching him directly, the presence of those hands on his hips and the thought of those long fingers — the ones Till loved so much — lingered in the back of his mind. Luka’s fingers were longer, reaching deeper than Till could right now… but he’d make do.
Till finally pulled his fingers free, the faint, slick sound making Luka’s jaw tighten in anticipation. Without giving Luka time to think, Till reached up and framed his face with both hands, pulling him into another kiss. Luka let him, lips parting immediately, the heat between them flaring again.
As they kissed, Till’s hand slid down between them, fingers curling around Luka’s length. Luka groaned into his mouth — low, almost guttural — the kind of sound that made Till’s stomach knot in heat. He gave a slow stroke, not to tease but to feel the weight and heat of him, and then shifted forward until the head of Luka’s cock nudged against his entrance.
For a brief moment, Till just hovered there, lips still moving against Luka’s, his breathing quickening. Then he sank down.
The stretch made him gasp — not sharp, but full, deep — and the sound spilled into Luka’s mouth. Luka’s grip on his hips tightened reflexively, though he didn’t push, letting Till take him in at his own pace. The slickness eased the way, but the heat and fullness still had Till shuddering by the time he was seated completely.
Neither of them moved. Not yet.
Till pressed his forehead to Luka’s, their noses brushing, and kissed him again. It wasn’t rushed — just slow, lingering, almost grounding. Luka’s hand slid up his back, then around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he pulled him closer.
When Till finally started to move, it was a careful roll of his hips, drawing a soft moan from both of them. Luka met him halfway, lips pressing harder, their breaths mixing.
The rhythm built gradually, each movement a little faster, a little deeper, until the kiss started to break in tiny gasps — only to be pulled back together again, neither willing to give up the connection. Luka’s hands roamed over his back and hips, guiding but not forcing, while Till’s fingers dug into his shoulders for balance.
Every time they had to part for breath, it was only for a second before one of them found the other’s mouth again. The sensation was almost overwhelming — the heat, the slick slide, the way Luka’s chest rose and fell against his, the low sounds he made when Till shifted just right.
And through it all, Till moved — faster now, chasing the pleasure but still keeping that kiss alive between them, as if breaking it would shatter something fragile they both wanted to protect.
Till’s pace faltered for just a second when the words slipped out — a breathless, rough curse tangled with Luka’s name — before he caught it again. Luka answered with a sound just as full of heat, his voice low and deep in his chest, the kind that vibrated against Till’s lips when they kissed.
Till’s pace faltered for just a second when the words tore out of him — “Fuck—! Luka!” — loud, unrestrained, his voice breaking at the edges.
Luka answered with a deep, guttural “Fuck love, you… feel so good,” the words almost swallowed by the way his breath hitched. They moved together harder, every thrust making the air between them hotter, heavier, their bodies clinging like they couldn’t get close enough.
They were both breathing hard now, each kiss breaking quicker, mouths dragging against each other’s cheeks or jaw before finding lips again. Sweat made their skin slick where they pressed together, every shift in movement sparking a new rush of sensation.
Luka’s hands slid down Till’s back and cupped him firmly — one palm on the curve of his ass, the other bracing at his thigh. With each squeeze and lift, he helped guide the rhythm, pulling him down in a way that made Till sink deeper, fuller.
The change in angle drew a sharp gasp from Till, his head tipping back for just a moment before Luka’s mouth found his throat. Till’s next curse was almost a groan, his hips stuttering as Luka’s hold urged him to keep going.
“Ah—” Till moaned again, the sound raw, unfiltered. He leaned forward, chest pressing fully to Luka’s so there was no space left between them. The closeness made every movement feel magnified, each thrust dragging against every sensitive nerve.
Till’s breath hitched, the angle making the sensations flood through him until it was almost too much. “Fuck—! Luka!” he cried out, the sound raw and needy.
Luka’s response came in the same unrestrained passion, his hands clamping harder on Till’s hips. “Fuck… ride me just like that, love… yeah, take it all,” he rasped, voice low and rough with desire.
His lips found Luka’s neck, and he kissed hard, teeth almost catching skin in the heat of it. Luka’s fingers dug in at his hips, and the two of them moved together in perfect, desperate sync, the pace quickening without thought.
“I love this…” Till breathed against his skin, the words tumbling out between gasps. Luka’s hand flexed at his thigh in response, and the noise Till made in return was almost enough to push them both over.
Every thrust now felt heavier, sharper, their breath ragged and uneven. The bed creaked under them, the sound almost lost beneath the moans and curses they kept trading. Their eyes locked briefly, the shared look enough to make the air between them feel like it might ignite.
They were both close — they could feel it in the way their movements got rougher, in the way every kiss was cut short by ragged breaths. Till’s moans had turned high and breathless, his thighs trembling around Luka’s hips. Luka held him tighter, chest heaving.
“Fuck… you’re so tight, love,” Luka growled against Till’s ear, his voice breaking into a groan. “Taking me so well… just like that, don’t stop.” His hands squeezed Till’s ass, pulling him down harder, making Till cry out. Luka’s words came rough and urgent now, like he couldn’t hold them back. “Gonna make you come all over me, love… want to feel you lose it.”
Till shuddered, his head falling to Luka’s shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as if to muffle his own voice. Luka tilted his head just enough to press a kiss to his jaw, then another, then his lips again — quick, almost clumsy — before pulling back to look at him. “Come with me, love… come on, I’m right there,” he urged, thrusting up into him while holding him flush against his chest.
The friction, the heat, the way Luka’s voice wrapped around him — it pushed Till right over the edge, and Luka wasn’t far behind, his own release hitting hard as he groaned Till’s name like it was the only word he knew.
Till slumped forward first, his forehead dropping against Luka’s neck, both of them still catching their breath in uneven gasps. Luka’s arms stayed tight around him, one hand running slowly up and down his back like he didn’t want to let him go yet.
Their skin was damp, breaths hot against each other’s necks, but neither of them moved. Luka pressed a lazy kiss just under Till’s ear, murmuring, “God… love, you’re perfect,” voice low and hoarse. Till let out a small, shaky laugh, still too dazed to answer right away.
For a long moment, they just sat there — Luka still seated deep inside him, Till’s fingers loosely curled over Luka’s shoulders. Luka rubbed slow circles on Till’s thighs, grounding him. The pace of their breathing began to match, soft and steady, and it felt almost like the room had gone quiet for just the two of them.
Eventually, Luka leaned back just enough to see his face. Till’s hair was plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed, lips still kiss-bruised. Luka brushed the hair back gently, thumb lingering on his temple. “We should probably… y’know…” he started, but his tone was more affectionate than serious.
Till only hummed, leaning in to kiss him once — slow, unhurried, as if to say not yet. Luka smiled against his mouth and kissed him again, because honestly, he didn’t want to move either.
But when they finally did, it was slow — Till shifting carefully, Luka keeping his hands steady at his waist. Neither of them said much as they cleaned up and crawled under the covers, but they didn’t have to.
Luka shifted beneath him, strong arms sliding around Till’s waist as he pulled him fully on top. Till let out a shaky breath, still a little dizzy from everything, but he didn’t resist — just let himself settle against Luka’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.
For a moment, neither spoke, their breathing still uneven, warm air ghosting over each other’s skin. Then Till’s voice came quiet, almost shy in the dark. “Love you.”
Luka’s lips curved into the faintest smile as he whispered back, “love you more,” pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. He pressed a slow kiss to Till’s lips, lingering there, their mouths barely moving — just feeling each other’s warmth.
They stayed like that until the tension in their bodies eased, the rhythm of their breathing syncing. The kiss broke into a soft brush of lips, and before long, they were drifting toward sleep, still wrapped around each other as if letting go wasn’t an option.
★
Luka woke first, though he didn’t open his eyes right away — there was too much warmth to move, too much of Till pressed against him to risk breaking it.
Till was draped over him completely, their bare skin warm where it touched, the slow rise and fall of his chest matching Luka’s breathing. His head was tucked beneath Luka’s chin, hair messy against his jaw, lips parted in quiet sleep. Luka’s hand rested lazily along the curve of Till’s back, fingertips tracing absent shapes over smooth skin without thought.
The room still smelled faintly of them from the night before — sweat, skin, and the faint sharpness of the lubricant they’d used. Luka felt the soreness in his body, but it was softened by the weight of Till above him, heavy in that way that meant he trusted Luka enough to stay like this even in sleep.
For a while, Luka just stayed there, eyes half-closed, listening to the quiet. It was rare for mornings to feel this slow, this safe.
Till stirred faintly, a small shift of weight against Luka’s chest, and Luka caught the smallest warning of him waking. Before Till could open his eyes, Luka leaned in and began pressing slow, lazy kisses — to his hairline, his temple, the curve of his cheek, even the soft skin of his arm draped over Luka’s ribs.
A drowsy, muffled sound slipped from Till’s lips, almost a hum. Luka kept going, lips brushing down the line of his jaw.
“Mm…s’nice…” Till mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
Luka’s mouth quirked into a smile. His hands, warm and slow, drifted down Till’s bare back, fingers tracing along the curve of his spine until they rested at the soft, firm swell of his ass. For a moment, he just smoothed his palms there, slow circles that made Till breathe a little deeper.
Then came another sound from Till — this one softer, higher, just a touch more needy. Luka’s grin widened.
Without warning, he gave a gentle squeeze.
Till’s soft moan was instant. Luka chuckled under his breath, not even trying to hide it.
Half-awake, Till groaned and lifted his head just enough to smack Luka’s chest with the back of his hand.
“You’re such an ass,” he muttered, though his voice betrayed the faintest smile.
Luka laughed quietly, the sound rumbling under Till’s cheek. “Can’t help it. You make the best noises in the morning.”
Till groaned, burying his face into Luka’s neck as if that would hide the faint flush creeping up his skin. “It’s too early for you to be this smug.”
“Mm, I think it’s exactly the right time,” Luka murmured, his fingers dragging slowly over Till’s hips and back up again, tracing lazy shapes on bare skin. “I mean—look at you. All warm and soft and on top of me. You’re asking for trouble.”
Till huffed out a laugh against Luka’s throat, but didn’t move away. “Not asking for anything.”
Luka’s hand slid lower again, squeezing once more just to hear that little intake of breath. “That’s a lie,” he said, his voice dipping lower, teasing. “Your body’s already giving you away, love.”
Till tilted his head back just enough to glare at him, but the expression softened when Luka leaned up to catch his lips. The kiss started slowly, unhurried — just the faint press of mouths, the warmth of morning breath — but Luka’s hand cupped the back of Till’s neck and drew him closer, deepening it until Till was sighing into him.
They stayed like that for a while, tangled and kissing, until Luka finally pulled back just enough to murmur, “We should probably get up.”
Till gave him a stubborn look. “Five more minutes.”
“Five?” Luka smirked. “I can do a lot in five minutes.”
Till swatted him again, but the smile on his face gave him away.
Till barely had time to react before Luka rolled them, a smooth shift of weight until Till’s back hit the mattress and Luka was braced over him, caging him in. “Much better,” Luka said softly, leaning down to kiss him.
Luka’s mouth was insistent, coaxing Till’s lips apart, tasting him like he had all the time in the world. Till’s hands found Luka’s shoulders, fingers curling there as Luka deepened the kiss, letting it stretch, linger.
When Luka broke away just enough to breathe, he pressed small, teasing kisses across Till’s cheek, down to his jaw, then nipped at the corner of his mouth until Till laughed against him. Luka grinned, taking the chance to kiss him again, harder this time, one hand sliding along Till’s ribs while the other kept him pinned in place.
“Now this…” Luka murmured between kisses, “…is how mornings should start.”
Till was already breathing a little harder, but he managed a smirk. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm. And you like it. ” Luka said, kissing him again before Till could protest, his weight settling comfortably on top as their legs tangled together.
Till had been about to shove Luka off so they could actually start the day, but Luka’s persistence was dangerous. The moment Till tried to sit up, Luka’s weight pressed him back into the bed, mouth still moving against his in a kiss that made his head go pleasantly light.
A quiet, needy sound slipped from Till’s throat before he could stop it, and Luka’s lips curved against his. “Thought so,” Luka teased softly. He kissed his way down, slow and deliberate—over Till’s jaw, his neck, lingering there just enough to draw another breathless noise, then lower still, mapping the warm skin of his chest with unhurried kisses.
Till’s heart was already thudding when Luka stopped at the sharp cut of his V-line, his breath hot against sensitive skin. He glanced up once, as if to give Till a second to stop him—then didn’t wait for an answer.
The sudden heat of Luka’s mouth around him made Till gasp, the sound almost a shout. His fingers instantly tangled in Luka’s hair—not to force, just to hold, grounding himself against the rush of sensation.
“F–fuck…” Till breathed, his hips twitching despite himself.
Luka hummed in response, the vibration sending a shiver through Till. He always liked this—liked the way Luka took his time, not just to please but to take care of him, every movement steady, almost reverent.
Luka’s tongue worked with slow, deliberate pressure at first, but then his pace shifted—just a little faster, just enough to make Till’s breath catch in his throat. The sudden change had his hips lifting from the mattress, the involuntary movement dragging a deep moan from his chest.
“F–fuck… ah—” The word came out ragged, almost broken, as Luka groaned low around him. The vibration shot through Till’s body, his thighs tensing, toes curling in the sheets.
Luka’s hands stayed steady on Till’s hips, keeping him right where he wanted him while his mouth worked him with practiced, devastating ease. He knew exactly what to do, the right pressure, the right rhythm—every drag and swirl calculated to pull Till closer and closer to that point of no return.
Till’s head fell back against the pillow, his breathing uneven, his voice spilling in low curses between gasps. “Shit” he panted, feeling the warning coil tightening low in his stomach. Luka’s name tore from him on another moan, the sound unrestrained, desperate, because he knew Luka was going to ruin him in the best way possible.
It only took a few more strokes of Luka’s mouth, a few more groaned curses, and Till was gone—his back arching, his voice breaking around Luka’s name as the pleasure tore through him. Luka didn’t pull away until every last wave had left Till trembling, his hand still gently tangled in Luka’s hair.
When Luka finally moved up, Till’s flushed face was a mess of satisfaction and affection. He caught Luka’s chin, already leaning in. “Let me—”
But Luka cut him off with a kiss, deep and sure. “You don’t have to,” he murmured against his lips, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I just wanted to take care of you.”
Till sighed into the kiss, letting himself melt into it for a long, slow moment before finally pulling back. The warmth between them lingered, but Luka was already sitting up, reaching for his clothes.
“Guess we should…” Luka muttered, tugging his shirt over his head.
Till groaned, rolling off the bed and stretching, still loose-limbed from the aftershocks. He glanced at Luka, a faint smile tugging at his lips before they both quietly started to dress.
The room felt heavier somehow—not from tension, but from the weight of what tomorrow meant. Luka didn’t say it out loud, but the thought pressed at the back of his mind: by this time tomorrow, they’d be in the city. Whatever came next, they wouldn’t be able to turn back.
★
Breakfast was quick and quiet—just enough to keep them going, not enough to linger. No one seemed to have much to say; the air was already heavy with the weight of what had to be done.
By the time they gathered in the meeting room, Isaac was leaning forward over the table, fingers steepled. “Alright,” he began, voice clipped, “we’re going with the idea Till and Luka brought up yesterday.”
He didn’t have to say what it was. The moment the words left him, everyone seemed to stiffen. Dewey’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Mizi shifted in her chair, eyes darting toward the boxes stacked against the wall—the files they’d pulled. Even without opening them, everyone knew what was inside.
“It’s not pleasant,” Isaac admitted, “but it’s proof. And if we want people to believe us, we need proof.”
A slow, uneasy murmur went around the table, but no one argued. In the end, everyone nodded. It was the better plan, even if it made their stomachs turn.
“We’ll split into teams,” Isaac continued. “Team one—write out the information. Clear, concise. Team two—sort through the files and pick out the photographs we can use. Team three—put the pieces together and handle the printing. We use every sheet of paper we’ve got. No waste.”
They moved quickly after that, dragging chairs and crates into separate corners of the room. The sound of shuffling files, scratching pens, and the soft clatter of the printing machine filled the air.
By midday, the monotony had sunk in. Hours of sorting, writing, and fitting images together left everyone stiff and bleary-eyed. The files were still stacked high, but at least now there were neat piles of completed pages waiting for the printer.
When they finally stepped away from the workroom, Till rolled his shoulders with a quiet groan. “I wish I could go to the gym,” he muttered to Luka, running a hand through his hair. “I need some… physical activity.”
Luka’s smirk was immediate. “Oh, we’re very good at that kind of physical activity,” he said, voice dropping suggestively. “I’ll make sure you get plenty of training tonight, love.”
Till gave him a flat look before smacking his arm, which only made Luka laugh.
“But no, really,” Luka went on, still grinning, “you spend half your time in the gym these days. I don’t think you’ve lost form. And besides… it’ll be even better if this little trip to the city goes without needing fists or weapons at all.”
Till didn’t argue, but his gaze lingered, thoughtful. Tomorrow wasn’t going to be simple.
As the last stacks of printed pages cooled on the table, Isaac called everyone together in the common room. People leaned against walls or sat cross-legged on the floor, bags already lined up by the door for tomorrow’s early departure.
Isaac glanced over them with that calm, steady look he had before every big move. “We’re leaving early. Everyone knows their part, and I expect us to move fast and keep a low profile. What we’ve done today… getting all this printed in such a short time—it’s no small thing. We couldn’t have pulled it off without Luka.”
That earned a cheer from the room, followed by a round of clapping. Luka groaned audibly, dragging a hand down his face and shaking his head as if the whole thing were deeply embarrassing.
Till smirked beside him. “You could at least pretend to like the praise.”
“I’m allergic when it's from them,” Luka muttered, but the corner of his mouth was already betraying a smile.
The clapping faded into chatter, the room buzzing with an energy that wasn’t exactly tense, but carried a restless edge. Bags were checked and re-checked. Tomorrow was coming fast.
The meeting broke apart slowly, everyone peeling off into smaller conversations or heading to their rooms. Luka hefted his bag over one shoulder, letting the noise fade behind him as he slipped into the hallway. Till caught up quickly, brushing his hand against Luka’s as they walked.
When they reached their room, Luka shut the door behind them and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling. The muffled hum of the others still reached them, but here it felt quieter, safer. Till set his own bag down by the bed and turned to him.
“You’re really not gonna take the compliment?” Till teased again, voice softer now.
Luka shrugged. “I don’t need a speech to know what I did.” Then, after a pause, “Besides, you’ll have plenty of chances to tell me how great I am tomorrow, when everything works out.”
Till rolled his eyes, but he stepped closer, hands finding Luka’s waist. “Confident.”
“Prepared,” Luka corrected.
They stayed like that for a beat—close enough that Luka could feel the steady rhythm of Till’s breathing. Neither said it, but the weight of tomorrow lingered between them. Luka brushed a thumb along Till’s jaw, and for once, there was no smirk, no teasing. Just a slow, deliberate kiss that carried the unspoken truth: they didn’t know what the morning would bring.
Luka brushed his fingers lazily along Till’s side. “We should get some sleep,” he said at last, his voice low but edged with practicality.
Till hummed in agreement… sort of. “Mhm. But you promised me some physical activity, remember?”
Luka stopped mid-step toward the bed and turned, giving him an incredulous look. Till only grinned.
The corner of Luka’s mouth twitched, like he was debating whether to take the bait—then, without warning, he stepped forward, hooked his arms under Till’s thighs, and lifted him clean off the floor.
“Luka—!” Till yelped, his hands instinctively grabbing at Luka’s shoulders as Luka carried him across the room.
“You wanted activity,” Luka said with mock seriousness. “I’m delivering.”
He dropped him onto the bed—not rough, but with enough of a bounce to make Till’s hair fall into his face. Till pushed it back with an exaggerated glare.
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
Luka only leaned over him, bracing his hands on either side. “And you love it.”
Luka stayed there, looming over him with that crooked half-smile until Till finally gave in and grabbed his shirt, pulling him down into a kiss. It started slow, more like an unspoken challenge than affection, but Luka’s weight settled over him and soon they were tangling together, mouths moving with increasing heat.
Till’s fingers slid up the back of Luka’s neck, tugging at his hair until Luka groaned against his lips. Luka retaliated by nipping lightly at his lower lip before deepening the kiss, one knee pressing between Till’s legs just enough to make him gasp.
They broke apart only to breathe, foreheads still touching, Luka’s smirk back in place. “This counts as training,” he murmured.
Till’s laugh was warm and low, his hands still roaming over Luka’s back. “If this is what you call training, we should do it every night.”
Luka kissed him again, slower this time, but with the kind of deliberate care that promised he wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.
They broke apart for air, both breathing a little harder. Luka’s smirk turned sly as he brushed his lips against Till’s jaw.
“You know,” he murmured, “all those hours you waste at the gym… you could be spending them in bed with me.”
Till laughed against his mouth, giving his shoulder a shove. “That’s not a waste?”
“Not at all,” Luka said, kissing him again—quick, teasing, just enough to make Till chase after his mouth. “Think of it as… targeted muscle training.”
Till rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe,” Luka said, leaning in until their noses brushed.
Till’s reply was lost when Luka’s mouth claimed his again, the kiss deepening fast. Luka shifted, pressing Till back into the mattress, his weight warm and solid. Till’s fingers curled in the fabric of Luka’s shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between them.
Luka’s hands wandered, sliding over bare skin wherever he could find it, memorizing the lines of Till’s body with deliberate slowness. Till let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and Luka felt the muscles beneath his palms twitch in response.
“You started this,” Luka murmured against his lips, nipping lightly before trailing his mouth along Till’s neck.
“Not true,” Till breathed, though the way his head tilted to give Luka better access told a different story.
Luka’s smirk returned. “Guess I’m finishing it, then.”
His kisses moved lower—over the collarbone, down the slope of Till’s chest—until Till’s hands tightened in his hair, a soft gasp escaping him when Luka’s mouth grazed lower still.
The warmth between them grew, kisses turning more insistent as bodies shifted, heat pooling and spreading until every inch of them was pressed together.
One kiss bled into the next, their breathing gradually sharpening, the space between them vanishing entirely.
★
They shifted with Luka easing Till forward until he was beneath him, his chest pressed into the mattress, hips raised and perfectly positioned. Luka’s hands slid up the backs of his thighs, curling around his hips, holding him still for just a moment before pushing forward again. Each movement drove deeper, the sound of it mixing with the rustle of sheets, the air heavy with their heat. Luka’s grip was unrelenting but not rough; every push and pull deliberate, measured, as though he couldn’t get enough.
He leaned over Till, pressing slow kisses down the curve of his back, trailing lower with deliberate intent until his lips met the curve of his ass. The shift in sensation drew a startled shiver, Luka’s mouth lingering, teasing, before showing him exactly what else his tongue could do. Till’s fingers curled into the sheets, his breath catching, the change in pace drawing them both in deeper again.
That wasn’t the end. Not even close. They changed positions again, finding each other in every way they could, chasing that fevered rhythm until their bodies ached and their limbs felt heavy. The night stretched on, blurring together in heat and motion, in the soft collapse after one peak, only to be pulled back into the next. Time seemed irrelevant.
By the time they finally stopped, both of them were utterly spent, their chests heaving, the sheets a tangle beneath them. Neither had the energy to pull away. They shifted only enough to tuck themselves under the covers, the cool fabric a relief against overheated skin. Till lay draped over Luka, his head resting on his chest, the steady beat of Luka’s heart lulling him toward sleep.
Outside, the faintest hint of morning light crept toward the horizon. They had maybe four hours before they needed to be up and ready for the mission — and yet, for now, that felt far away. They let exhaustion pull them under, tangled together, unwilling to part even in sleep.
★
The first thing Till noticed when he surfaced from sleep was that the bed felt bigger. Too big. His fingers curled reflexively in the fabric under them, and he realized he was hugging Luka’s pillow, the faint trace of his scent still clinging to it — warm, familiar, and grounding. He buried his face in it for a moment, breathing in slowly. His whole body felt heavy, muscles sore in a way that was both satisfying and a little punishing. Every movement carried a dull ache that reminded him exactly why he was feeling like this.
The room around him was dim, shadows stretched across the walls in the thin gray of early morning. It was cool in here, that crisp, clean sort of chill that came just before the sun had truly risen. The air smelled faintly of soap and steam — and that was when he heard it. The muffled hiss of water running in the bathroom, steady and rhythmic. Luka was in the shower.
Till blinked slowly, trying to gather himself. He couldn’t even remember Luka moving him— one moment they’d been tangled together, the next he must have rolled over in his sleep and Luka had slipped away without waking him. His head sank deeper into the pillow. He could picture it: Luka sliding carefully out from under him, setting him down gently, and then disappearing into the bathroom. The mental image made him smile faintly, even through the exhaustion.
He let himself just lie there for a while, eyes half-closed, the sound of the shower like distant white noise. His muscles protested when he shifted his legs under the covers, a slow, deep soreness radiating from his thighs up into his back. He groaned quietly into the pillow, curling onto his side. A shower would probably help, maybe even wake him up a little — but the idea of moving right now seemed monumental.
A few more minutes, he decided. Just a few.
Those minutes turned slippery. He drifted, not quite awake, not quite asleep, his breathing evening out without him realizing it. The warmth of the blanket, the lingering scent of Luka’s skin in the pillow, the steady hush of water — it all pulled him under again.
The next thing he registered was the bathroom door opening with a soft click, steam rolling out into the cooler air of the bedroom. The faint pad of bare feet on the floor. Luka’s shadow fell across the room as he stepped out, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends as he rubbed it with a towel. Droplets still clung to his skin in places, catching the faint light. His movements were unhurried but deliberate — towel, shirt, then bending to pull on pants, the kind of readiness that came with routine before a mission.
Till kept his eyes closed, not in a deep sleep anymore but unwilling to break the illusion of rest just yet. He could hear the soft rustle of clothing, the dull thump of a bag being shifted on the floor. Then Luka’s footsteps crossed the room again, coming closer.
A warm weight dipped the mattress beside him, and a familiar hand brushed gently along the curve of his back. The touch was slow, almost coaxing, sliding from his shoulder down to the small of his back in a single, unbroken motion. Then came the soft press of lips against his cheek — brief but warm enough to make Till’s heart stutter.
“Mm…” Till groaned, shifting under the covers. The sound that came out of him was somewhere between a protest and a reluctant acknowledgment. His body still felt drained, every joint and muscle reminding him of last night’s relentless pace. “We… shouldn’t have…” He mumbled against the pillow, voice hoarse and sluggish, “…stayed up that late.”
His complaint was half-hearted. He knew very well that if he could rewind time, he probably wouldn’t change a thing. Still, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
The hand on his back moved in slow, steady circles now, Luka’s fingers tracing idle patterns as though to ease him awake. It was almost too easy to sink into the touch and let his eyes slip closed again. His head turned slightly toward the warmth of Luka’s side, the faint smell of soap and clean clothes replacing the steam-heavy air from before.
Till didn’t know how long they had before they actually had to leave — but right now, the bed was still warm, Luka was still here, and the thought of getting up felt like a problem for later.
Luka had been ready for a while now. Shower taken, hair towel-dried and pushed back, clothes on, gear prepped. He sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed for the mission — the outfit Isaac had insisted they all wear when going into the city. It wasn’t the rough, patched-together rebel gear they usually wore, but something deliberately chosen to blend in with humans under alien control. Dark tones dominated — charcoal and black — but here and there were controlled bursts of color along the seams, like someone had gone to great lengths to make the practical look just stylish enough to pass inspection. The cut was sharp, clean, tailored to move in, and Luka felt almost uncomfortable in how… normal it looked on him. Not the rebel Luka, not the fighter, but another face in the crowd.
Beside him, Till still looked like the complete opposite of “mission-ready.” The younger man was curled around Luka’s pillow like it was a lifeline, a blanket twisted loosely around his hips, hair mussed beyond repair from both sleep and the night before. Luka could see the telltale lines of soreness in his posture even in sleep — a slack heaviness in his limbs, the slight crease between his brows. Last night had been… a lot. More than they’d meant it to be. And while Luka could still feel that lingering satisfaction deep in his bones, the morning-after reality was written all over Till.
Luka leaned over and brushed his lips along the curve of Till’s cheek, letting them linger just long enough for the other man to stir.
“Mmhh…” Till groaned, shifting under the blankets.
“Come on,” Luka murmured, voice low and coaxing, “time to get up.”
Till gave another low, reluctant noise, his eyes still shut. Luka chuckled under his breath and tried again — kissing his cheek once more, then the corner of his jaw, then his temple. The bed dipped as Luka leaned closer, his hand finding Till’s back, tracing slowly along the warm, bare skin.
“You need to wake up,” he said, almost sing-song now, “or I’m carrying you straight to the shower.”
That earned him a small movement — Till cracked his eyes open, blinking against the dim light to focus on him. His gaze drifted down and then back up, taking in Luka’s completely mission-ready appearance. Luka raised a brow.
“Fully dressed, huh…” Till rasped, voice still rough from sleep. He groaned again and let his head fall back against the pillow. “Guess I should shower.”
“You should,” Luka said, but with a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Tell you what — if you get up now and go to the bathroom, I’ll fix your bag for you.”
That got him a faint, sleepy smile in return. A silent “deal.”
Till finally pushed himself upright, stretching in a slow, half-hearted arc before leaning in to kiss Luka. Luka caught it easily, one hand coming up to steady the back of Till’s neck as they shared the unhurried brush of lips. Then Till pulled back, smirking faintly, and slid out of bed without a scrap of clothing in sight.
Luka sat back to watch, unashamed, as Till padded toward the bathroom in absolutely no hurry. He wasn’t above admitting he enjoyed the view — and Till knew it. His pace, the lazy sway of his hips, the deliberate lack of reaching for anything to cover himself… all of it was a show. Luka’s lips curled in a smirk, and when Till passed just close enough, Luka let his palm snap lightly against his ass.
The sharp sound was followed immediately by Till’s startled yelp, and he turned on his heel to glare in mock outrage. Luka, of course, was the picture of innocence — leaning back slightly, one hand resting casually on his thigh, the other busying itself with adjusting a strap on his gear.
“What?” Luka asked, all faux-innocent tone and wide eyes.
Till narrowed his gaze, then shook his head, muttering something Luka didn’t catch before turning away. He disappeared into the bathroom, the faint sound of the shower starting up a few moments later.
Luka exhaled, still smirking to himself, and reached for Till’s bag. If nothing else, having it ready by the time he came out was one less thing to worry about before they headed out. And considering they had less than four hours of sleep between them, Luka figured they’d need every spare minute.
Luka worked methodically, filling Till’s bag with the same care he used for his own. Water, rations, extra ammo, the compact med kit he always insisted Till carry. He double-checked the weight, shifting things so it wouldn’t pull unevenly on his shoulders. The sound of running water in the bathroom was faint under the quiet in the room — steady, almost lulling. For a moment Luka found himself just… listening.
He thought about last night — how they’d promised themselves just once more and then kept breaking that promise until the hours blurred. Till’s laugh muffled into the mattress, his shuddering breaths, the heat between them that had felt impossible to stop. And now, the image of Till curled in bed, hugging a pillow, still warm from sleep…
The shower was cut off. Luka zipped the bag closed, set it on the edge of the bed, and glanced toward the bathroom just as the door cracked open.
Till stepped out, steam curling around him, hair damp and dripping onto his shoulders. A towel hung loose around his hips, but it looked like it could slide off with the smallest movement. Luka’s gaze lingered a second too long, and Till caught it immediately, smirking faintly as he crossed the room.
“Bag’s ready,” Luka said, trying to be casual.
“Mm,” Till hummed, drawing closer. He stopped in front of him, drops of water still sliding down his chest. Luka caught the faint scent of his soap — clean, sharp, familiar.
Till reached out, fingers brushing over Luka’s collar as if adjusting it, then leaned in just enough for their foreheads to touch. “Thanks.”
Luka didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted one hand to the back of Till’s neck, drawing him in for a slow kiss — not deep, not hurried, just steady and lingering, like neither of them wanted to let go yet. When they pulled apart, Luka let his thumb rest against Till’s jaw for a moment before stepping back.
“Get dressed,” he said softly. “Isaac will have our heads if we’re late.”
Till gave a quiet laugh and turned toward the dresser, the towel finally sliding down as he reached for his clothes. Luka shook his head, forcing himself to look away before he got distracted again.
They had a mission. Early start, dangerous ground, too many variables. And yet, for a few more minutes, in this small, warm room, they could pretend it was just another morning.
Till dressed slowly, each movement a little stiff from the night before, Luka’s faint smirk following him the whole time. They gathered their things in silence, not tense but focused, the easy warmth of the room beginning to thin as the weight of the day pressed in. Luka slung both their bags over his shoulder without comment and opened the door, holding it for him.
The hallway outside was alive with footsteps and low voices, the thud of boots against the floor. It all felt familiar — the early-morning urgency, the smell of metal and fuel drifting in from outside, the way people moved in small groups, checking weapons, counting supplies, keeping their voices low.
They stepped out into the cool air. The vehicles were lined up in the yard, their matte sides catching the weak light. A few people were already inside; others leaned against the doors, waiting. Every face was set, some sharper with nerves than others, but no one was joking now.
Till climbed into the back seat of their assigned car, Luka sliding in beside him. The door shut with a heavy sound, cutting off some of the noise outside. He let his gaze move over the others in the vehicle, all dressed in the same dark, sharp clothing meant to blend into the city’s crowds.
It hit him then — this was it. They were really going. Straight into danger again. He’d felt this before, the same tightness low in his stomach, the same restless energy humming in his hands. But there was something sharper this time, maybe because he knew just how easily things could fall apart.
Till looked out the window at the yard one last time, committing the sight to memory. Whatever awaited them in the city, they were ready.
Notes:
I promise that I'll start to write better smut in future fanfictions...
Chapter 34
Notes:
Very messy chapter, a fight between Luka and Till is coming again...And still the angst in this fic ain't enough.
Chapter Text
Till settled into the back seat, the worn fabric and faint smell of fuel wrapping around him like something he’d known his whole life. It was all so familiar — painfully so. The exact same kind of vehicle, the same early-morning chill, the same dim grey light seeping over the horizon. Just like before… on their last mission.
Back when Luka—
He swallowed, his gaze flicking sideways before he could stop himself. Luka sat beside him, one leg stretched out, head tilted so it rested against Till’s shoulder. Alive. Breathing. Here. But the memory of those weeks — months — waiting by his bed, listening to machines and watching for the smallest twitch of his fingers, had carved itself too deep to ever fade. Four months of holding his breath, praying he’d wake.
And now here they were again, heading straight toward another risk. This wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. Just blending in, slipping through unnoticed. No one was supposed to even see them. But if they did… if the wrong pair of eyes caught them… it could spiral so fast. Messy. Bloody. Familiar.
Isaac was at the wheel, hands steady, gaze on the road. He’d driven them last time too, though back then the car had been thick with tension, every movement sharp and jittery. Now, the air felt calmer, almost deceptively so. Dewey was making quiet jokes in the front passenger seat, his voice breaking up the monotony of the engine.
Till caught one mid-sentence. “—we’ll be signing autographs in no time,” Dewey said with mock pride. “You know… local celebrities.”
Luka snorted against Till’s shoulder, voice low and dry. “Yeah. After or before they take our heads?”
That earned a few laughs,
Till leaned a fraction closer to Luka without thinking, the steady weight of him a small anchor in the shifting haze of his thoughts. Luka’s breathing was even, his hair brushing against Till’s jaw whenever the vehicle hit a bump. Outside, the road stretched on into shadow, the sky still holding that fragile pre-dawn glow.
They had left early, knowing the route would be long. The city was still hours away. In the muted hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of tires on the road, Till’s thoughts drifted again — to what waited for them, and to how easily one wrong move could turn quiet into chaos.
It became a back-and-forth after that. Dewey would toss out something ridiculous, and Luka would counter with a sharper, more grounded twist — the kind of truth that should have been sobering, but the way he said it made it impossible not to laugh.
“Imagine,” Dewey said at one point, “we walk in, order a drink, and they just… give us a table by the window.”
“Yeah,” Luka said, “so the snipers don’t have to squint.”
Till couldn’t help it — he laughed, even though part of him wanted to tell Luka to stop tempting fate.
★
By the third or fourth exchange, the whole car had warmed to it, the mood lighter than it had any right to be. The city was still far off, danger still far ahead, but for now it felt distant, muffled by the shared humor.
The sky was soft gray by the time they reached the outskirts, the kind of muted morning light that made the streets look washed out and colder than they probably were. The car slowed, Isaac scanning the way ahead. The city walls loomed not far in the distance — metallic spires glinting faintly, sentry towers humming with the low thrum of alien tech.
They couldn’t go any closer with the vehicle. One wrong turn, one sighting from the patrol drones, and it would be over before they even got in.
Isaac finally pulled into a narrow dirt path that curved behind a low ridge. The car rolled to a stop in the shadow of the hill, almost invisible from the road. The ground was uneven, but it would hide the tires well enough.
“We’re not bringing this in,” Isaac said, stepping out and scanning the area. “Too risky. We’ll go on foot from here.”
Till glanced toward the city again. From here, it didn’t look far — but the distance inside those walls could stretch into hours. They’d be covering a lot, and leaving the car so far behind meant that if things went wrong, they’d have a long, exposed way back.
They didn’t have a choice.
The rest of the convoy began to arrive in staggered intervals, parking their own vehicles under cover. Some teams unloaded supplies and checked their maps, while others stayed behind — the ones assigned to guard duty. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it was necessary. If they lost the cars, they’d lose their escape.
Isaac pulled a folded sheet from his jacket and spread it across the hood of the car. A city map, marked with faint red circles and notes in his precise handwriting. “Listen up. This is our spread point,” he said, tapping several marks around the central districts. “Team Two will handle this cluster here. Team Three, the southern edge.” He glanced up. “Our team has the heavier run. More stops, more ground. If we’re quick, we can cover it before noon.”
No one complained. The plan wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary — and risky.
They broke apart fast, everyone in motion. Maps were folded and stuffed into pockets, bags swung over shoulders. The paper stacks felt heavier than they looked, each one a risk if the wrong eyes saw what they carried.
Isaac’s team — Isaac himself, Dewey, Mizi, Hyuna, Till, and Luka — set off together. Their boots crunched on gravel until they reached the edge of the paved road, then fell quiet.
The city breathed ahead of them.
It wasn’t as crowded as Till remembered, but the streets were far from empty. Figures moved through the main roads, most of them in pairs — one alien, one human. The aliens walked loose and at ease, some chatting idly or checking devices. The humans stayed close to their side, eyes down or fixed forward, their steps measured.
Not a single human walked alone.
Some were led on slim leashes, the kind that looped around a wrist or neck, the cord glinting faintly in the morning light. Till’s stomach turned. He caught glimpses of faces, some expressionless, others worn with the kind of quiet dread you couldn’t mistake. And then, stranger still, a handful of pairs where the alien seemed almost… gentle — touching their human’s shoulder, leaning down to speak softly, guiding them without force.
Till didn’t know which was worse — cruelty out in the open, or kindness that still meant ownership.
He’d never thought much about what happened to the ones who weren’t performers. Not every human was a singer or musician or dancer. But here they were, all of them claimed — pets in one way or another.
Their group kept to the edges.
The shadows of the buildings were cooler, safer, though the air there smelled faintly of damp and waste. They moved in single file when the alleys narrowed, Luka ahead of him, Isaac at point. The bandanas over their lower faces were supposed to help obscure them, but in truth they only made them more suspicious if anyone looked closely.
They had no alien “owner” to disguise them, and walking as a group made blending in nearly impossible.
Till could feel eyes on them sometimes — a lingering glance from an upper-story window, a brief pause from someone crossing the street. He kept his head low, shoulders slightly hunched, trying to bleed into the background.
The easy banter from the car felt like a distant thing now. The sound of Dewey’s laugh, Luka’s sharp-edged jokes — all of it evaporated in the heavy quiet between them.
Every step toward the city center was another step deeper into danger.
They kept moving, sticking to the narrower streets when possible, but the deeper they went, the more the city seemed to press in on them. The buildings rose higher here, sleek glass and steel cutting sharp lines against the pale morning sky. The further they walked, the more the streets filled with alien-made noise — the low hum of transit rails overhead, the faint chime of digital billboards refreshing their displays.
And then, they couldn’t avoid it anymore.
Everywhere they turned, the walls themselves seemed to watch them. Towering billboards climbed up the sides of buildings, vibrant and bright enough to make the air shimmer. Huge, animated letters proclaimed ALIEN STAGE in bold colors, accompanied by sleek shots of the building itself — angles that made it look impossibly tall and untouchable, like it wasn’t a place so much as a monument.
Some billboards listed names and rankings. Others showed flashy clips of past performances, aliens and humans alike frozen in perfect frames mid-song. Till’s chest tightened as he recognized a few of the contestants — some he’d met, others he’d only ever seen under the glare of the stage lights.
It was impossible to ignore. Even if they didn’t look directly, the sheer size of the screens meant the colors bled into their peripheral vision, drawing the eye no matter how much they tried to resist.
One corner of a plaza had an even larger screen, almost the size of a building face. It displayed a panel of alien hosts, speaking rapidly over footage of the Alien Stage building and the streets around it. They gestured with controlled excitement, their voices layered with commentary Till couldn’t quite make out over the noise of the street. From the bits and pieces, he caught mentions of “security upgrades,” “renovations,” and “contestant selection.”
Mizi slowed slightly to watch, her gaze fixed upward. Even Hyuna’s head tilted toward the screen, though she kept her face angled away from the more open parts of the street.
Till’s eyes darted from one glowing image to another. It felt like the city was swallowing them in color and sound — a constant reminder of what this place was, and what it expected from the humans inside it.
Then they reached a side street with a smaller, more modest screen mounted above a shopfront. Luka glanced up briefly, and Till caught the faint, sharp exhale — not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff.
It took Till a second to understand why.
The screen showed an image of Luka.
Not the Luka here beside him, but an old one — clean-cut, dressed in pure white, the styling pristine in that way only stage crews could manage. The photo looked like it had been taken straight from a promotional poster, Luka frozen mid-performance, smiling faintly toward a crowd that wasn’t there.
Across the bottom, bold alien script spelled out words Till couldn’t read, but the translation ran alongside in the city’s common language:
WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR IDOL?
Below it, the image shifted — not a slow fade, but a sharp cut to a different picture. Luka again, but now in the colors of the rebellion, black and muted reds, hair mussed, face sharper, harder. The words beneath it were even bolder:
WANTED.
Till’s stomach knotted.
Pinned to the corner of the display was a series of text comments, each marked with the name of the poster. Several were from Heperu, highlighted so they appeared above the rest.
One read: I told you he was trouble.
Another: This is the truth behind the mask. Don’t be fooled.
And finally: If you see him, don’t engage. Report immediately.
Luka’s mouth curved faintly, almost like he found it amusing, but the set of his jaw gave him away. It wasn’t a smile.
He turned away before the screen could cycle again.
They didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The streets only grew more saturated with the alien-made glow, billboards stacked on top of one another, massive scrolling headlines bleeding into one another until the whole city seemed to pulse with the same rhythm.
Every block had at least one display, sometimes entire building faces lit with advertisements for Alien Stage — countdowns, promotional clips, even pre-recorded interviews with contestants. There were human faces everywhere, some beaming under the spotlight, some barely holding their composure as alien interviewers pressed questions into them.
Every so often, a different kind of image would flicker through — wanted posts, smaller and less flashy but still clear enough to be read from half a street away. Luka’s wasn’t the only one. Other rebels, too. Their names. Their prices. The alien script is bold, the translations sharp and clinical.
The group’s pace didn’t falter, but they all seemed to share the same slight, inward pull — shoulders curling in, gazes fixed a little too firmly on the path ahead.
Till caught movement at the edge of his vision and realized Luka had slipped a few steps behind.
He slowed without thinking, letting Isaac, Hyuna, Dewey, and Mizi drift a little further ahead. When he glanced over his shoulder, Luka was there, just a pace or two back, eyes forward but… not really looking at anything.
Till gestured subtly toward the others, a small wave of his hand that said go on, I’ll catch up . They didn’t question it.
He turned back to Luka, keeping his voice low. “You okay?”
Luka didn’t answer right away. His shoulders lifted in a slow shrug. “Just… feels weird.”
And Till understood instantly. It wasn’t just the screens. It was the city itself — the way it seemed to remember you even when you wanted to vanish inside it. The way it could hold up a perfect image of who you used to be, and right beside it, everything it hated about what you’d become.
Till didn’t press him. Didn’t need to. They just kept walking, the steady rhythm of their footsteps filling the space between them.
They turned off the main street and into another back alley, their boots landing softer on the damp pavement. The light from the city dimmed almost instantly, the massive screens and advertisements reduced to a distant glow above the rooftops. Shadows pressed in close here, and the air smelled faintly of ink and oil — not unpleasant, just… mechanical.
Ahead, the shape of their first stop came into view — a squat, narrow building wedged between taller structures, its front door half-hidden under an awning that sagged slightly in the middle. No signs, no bright colors, just the faint hum of machines audible even from outside.
They paused just long enough to exchange glances. No one said it out loud, but the thought was there in all of them: Here we go.
Inside, the place was cramped — barely six desks squeezed together, with printing machines lined along the far wall. The machines’ low rumble filled the space, masking smaller sounds. Humans worked here, their eyes flicking up when the group entered, but not for long. They looked back to their tasks almost too quickly, as if not wanting to give away they’d seen anything unusual.
Still, there were aliens present. Not working — just sitting or standing in corners, clearly the owners or supervisors. Their gazes were sharper, lingering. A silent weight settled over the group at once.
Isaac stepped forward, calm but deliberate, while the rest of them held position near the doorway. Luka hung back the farthest, almost using the others as a shield, his head lowered just enough to keep his face in shadow.
Isaac placed a small stack of the printed papers on the nearest desk, sliding them toward a human man who glanced at them only once before his hands moved to take them. Isaac explained the deal in short, precise words.
The man didn’t respond much. Just a tight nod, a flick of his eyes toward the corner where one of the aliens sat watching, then back to Isaac. His fingers drummed nervously against the desk as he listened.
The aliens didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.
It made every second feel stretched thin, the air heavy in their lungs.
Finally, Isaac set down the payment. The man’s hands swept the money away without a word, and the deal was done.
They didn’t breathe until they were outside again.
The moment the door shut behind them, it was like a valve released — quiet exhales all around, shoulders loosening just a fraction. It had been intense, far more than it should have been for such a small exchange.
But it worked. The papers were in. One stop down.
If they were lucky, those pages would find their way into every printed run from here on out. If they were really lucky, one could end up on a billboard. That was the real prize — to make it impossible for anyone to ignore.
Whether anyone would care… That was another question entirely.
But they hadn’t come here for certainty. They’d come here to try.
They kept moving, Isaac’s eyes flicking between the map in his hand and the streets ahead. The narrow alleys zigzagged like veins through the city, each turn taking them deeper into places where sunlight barely reached. Somewhere in the distance, music played — sharp beats carried on the air, muffled by walls and the hum of neon lights. It clashed strangely with the mood in their group, a reminder that life here went on, loud and oblivious.
The city was far from quiet. Even in these half-forgotten back lanes, the sound of footsteps, the rumble of machinery, and the occasional alien voice calling out from an unseen street kept them alert.
Their next stop was still ahead. Isaac had warned them it was a longer walk — the black markets lay further out, past a cluster of districts they couldn’t risk walking through openly. They had to keep weaving through alleys, staying low, keeping their heads down.
Luka drifted closer to Till as they walked, his voice low.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he murmured.
Till glanced at him, then around at the walls crowding in on them. “Well, yeah… look where we are.” He tried to lighten it with a crooked smile. “I’ll be more surprised if something doesn’t go wrong.”
But Luka didn’t smile. His eyes stayed sharp, scanning the shadows, and there was a tension in his jaw that Till recognized immediately.
They reached a slightly wider stretch between buildings, their boots crunching on loose gravel. Till slowed without thinking, letting the others pull a few paces ahead. Luka noticed instantly and stopped too, turning toward him with a puzzled look.
Till didn’t explain. He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Luka, pulling him in close.
The reaction was immediate — Luka’s arms locked around him, his grip firm, almost desperate. That was what Till loved most about him: they didn’t need words to know what the other was feeling. They didn’t need to spell out fears to be understood.
For a moment, the noise of the city dulled, the streets and the danger and the mission falling away. Luka’s breath was warm against his neck, steadying him in ways nothing else could.
They pulled back just enough to share a small kiss — fleeting, quiet, but grounding.
Then Till laced his fingers through Luka’s and gave a gentle tug. “Come on,” he said, and together they picked up their pace, jogging a few steps to catch up with the rest of the group.
They walked close together now, Luka just a half-step behind Till, their shoulders brushing from time to time. The deeper they went, the heavier the air felt — damp, stale, carrying the faint metallic tang of machinery and smoke. Light from the main streets no longer reached them; here, the glow came from mismatched signs and flickering bulbs, casting uneven shadows on the cracked walls.
Till could feel it without looking — they were deep in it now.
Every passerby seemed to take notice. Eyes followed them, some openly, others from behind half-lidded stares. Whispers slipped into the air, the kind that made the back of your neck itch. No one smiled. Some stared longer at the bandanas over their faces, others at the fact that not a single alien was with them. In this city, that alone was enough to mark them as strange — suspicious.
This was the black market district. The alley stretched ahead, lined with narrow doorways and stalls crowded with goods that glinted under dim light: old electronics, fabrics in deep jewel tones, glass vials filled with powders or liquids Till didn’t want to guess at. The scent here was thicker — spices, grease, and something sour underneath it all.
Isaac slowed, scanning the storefronts until he spotted their destination. It was small, almost tucked away between two larger shops, its entrance marked only by a hanging strip of fabric that swayed with the draft.
He gave a short nod toward it, then turned to the group.
“Three of us,” he said. “Less attention that way.”
Till’s stomach tightened when Isaac’s eyes landed on him. “Me, Hyuna, Till. The rest of you stay out here. Keep your heads down.”
Luka’s gaze flicked up to meet his, and for a second, Till wanted to argue. But he just gave Luka’s hand one last squeeze before letting go. Luka’s mouth tightened — not quite a frown, but enough to show he didn’t like it.
The group split. Till followed Isaac and Hyuna toward the small shop, the sounds of the market fading behind the fabric as they stepped inside.
The air inside was heavier than the streets outside — thick with smoke, the metallic tang of oil, and the faint, sharp scent of something chemical.
Dim lights hung from the low ceiling, each one flickering faintly, casting uneven shadows over the cramped room. Stalls lined the walls, their shelves packed with mismatched goods: weapons with alien markings, glass vials filled with glowing liquid, scraps of rare cloth folded into neat stacks. Every single item looked like it could either save your life or end it.
The place was busy, but it was quiet. Too quiet. Conversations happened in hushed tones, heads leaned together, eyes flicking up whenever someone new entered.
And here, those eyes weren’t human.
Every single worker, every figure behind the counters and stalls, had the telltale glint in their gaze — alien. Some were tall and sleek in dark coats, others draped in fabrics shimmering faintly under the dim lights. Their movements were slow and deliberate, like they were always in control.
When Till, Isaac, and Hyuna stepped inside, the shift in attention was instant. No one stopped working, but the air around them felt tighter, heavier. They didn’t belong here, and everyone knew it.
At the far end of the room, an alien sat behind a wide metal counter, his long fingers tapping idly against the surface. His eyes followed them the whole way forward.
Isaac was the first to speak, his tone calm. “We’re looking for distribution. We have a shipment ready.”
The alien didn’t reach for the papers Isaac laid on the counter. His gaze drifted over them, then over Isaac, then to Till and Hyuna, studying them with an unsettling slowness.
“And why,” the alien finally said, voice low and smooth, “would I risk my network for… this?” He flicked a finger toward the stack of folded papers like it was something beneath him.
Till’s jaw tightened, but he kept still.
“You’ll be paid well,” Isaac replied evenly, pushing the bundle slightly closer.
The alien leaned back in his chair. “Money’s nothing without safety.” His tone was almost mocking. “And you bring neither.”
A shadow shifted near the side wall — another alien, silent, watching. Then another, further in the back. Till could feel their stares like cold points on his skin.
Hyuna spoke next, her voice clipped. “You’ll be the first to have them. Every other market will follow.”
The alien’s lips curved slightly, though it wasn’t a smile. “Bold promise.” He picked up one of the papers at last, scanning it. His expression didn’t change, but Till thought he saw his eyes sharpen just slightly.
It was quiet for too long. The alien set the paper down again, resting both hands on the counter.
“Double the payment,” he said. “Now. Or I send you back out the way you came.”
Till’s stomach twisted, but Isaac didn’t hesitate. He pulled out another stack of bills and laid them down. The alien counted slowly, as if testing their patience, before sliding the papers to another alien worker with a short command in a language Till didn’t know.
Finally, he looked up again. “They’ll go out with the next shipment. If you cause trouble, they’ll vanish just as quickly.”
Isaac gave a short nod. “Understood.”
They turned to leave. Till kept his eyes forward, resisting the urge to look at the two watching from the shadows. Only when the market door swung shut behind them did he breathe properly again.
The cool air outside hit Till like a wave, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath.
The alley felt narrow after the market — not because it was actually smaller, but because he could still feel the pressure of all those alien eyes on his back. He tried to shake it off.
Luka was leaning against the wall opposite, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the dark mouth of the market door. Dewey was nearby, restless, tossing a small stone from hand to hand, while Mizi kept her head slightly turned, scanning every movement at the far end of the alley.
The second Luka saw them step out, his shoulders eased — but just a little. His eyes flicked from Isaac to Till, lingering on him for a fraction longer.
“All good?” Luka asked, voice low.
Till gave a single nod. “For now.”
Isaac didn’t slow his pace, already gesturing for the group to keep moving. “Next location’s deeper in. We don’t stop.”
“Figures,” Dewey muttered, though he fell in line quickly.
Luka drifted to Till’s side as they walked, brushing their shoulders together. It wasn’t a casual move — not here, not now. It was grounding. A silent way of saying, I’m here. You’re here. We keep going.
Till didn’t look at him, but he let his hand brush against Luka’s briefly before they stepped back into the twisting web of alleys. The city noise grew louder again in the distance — music, shouts, the low hum of alien speech — and the shadows seemed thicker with every turn.
The first stop had gone fine. The second had been harder.
And the next… Till had a feeling it wouldn’t get easier.
The group moved in single file at first, the alley twisting so tightly that sometimes only one person could pass at a time. The further they went, the more the noise of the black market bled into the distance, replaced by the hollow sound of their own footsteps and the occasional drip of water from the pipes overhead.
They’d been quiet for a while, each caught up in their own thoughts, until Dewey finally broke it.
“You think…” he started, his voice deliberately light, but with an edge he couldn’t hide, “you think anyone’s recognised us yet?”
Luka didn’t hesitate. “Maybe.”
Dewey glanced over his shoulder at him. “That’s all you’ve got? Maybe?”
Hyuna, walking ahead, cut in before Luka could elaborate. “They’re not stupid. We stick out. No human in their right mind walks through that part of the city without an owner. And not in a group.” She adjusted the strap of her bag and glanced briefly at the bandanas covering their lower faces. “Even if they don’t know who exactly we are, they know we’re trouble.”
“Yeah, but it’s one thing to think we’re trouble,” Mizi said quietly from the back, “and another if they’ve actually recognised us.”
“Whole other thing if they’ve already called ahead to warn someone we’re here,” Isaac added, kicking a loose bottle cap along the ground. It rattled against the wall before skittering out of sight. “It wouldn't take long for word to travel.”
Till’s gaze flicked to Luka, then to Isaac at the front, before he spoke. “If they knew it was us specifically,” he said, his voice low but steady, “we wouldn’t have made it out of there. Not in one piece. The black markets are hungry for money. They wouldn’t waste the chance.”
No one argued with that.
“Yeah,” Dewey muttered after a beat, “guess being a high-priced trophy has its downsides.”
Luka huffed out a laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “Downsides? You mean apart from the part where they actually want our heads?”
Dewey smirked. “That too.”
Hyuna shook her head. “Keep your voices down. If anyone’s following, no need to make it easier for them.”
Isaac glanced back briefly, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Stay close. We don’t take main streets unless there’s no other option. The next drop is deeper in, but we can’t afford to lead anyone there.”
Till noticed Luka glance at every shadow they passed, every narrow side passage, as if expecting someone to step out. His posture wasn’t just tense — it was sharp, ready. Even when Luka finally slid closer to Till, their arms brushing, his eyes kept scanning.
Till didn’t say anything, but the unspoken thought between them was the same:
It wasn’t a question of if something would happen.
It was a question of when.
The further they went, the narrower the alleys became, the walls leaning in like they were trying to squeeze the group into a single file. Their boots scraped over damp cobblestones, the air carrying the sour tang of rot and the faint metallic scent of blood that never quite left this part of the city.
Somewhere behind them, a sound echoed — not loud, but out of place. A faint scuff, like someone’s shoe dragging against grit. Everyone froze for half a heartbeat. Isaac lifted a hand without looking back, and they all stopped moving.
Silence.
Then a soft rattle — a bottle tipping over somewhere deeper in the shadows.
“Could’ve been a rat,” Dewey said, his voice quieter now, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“Could’ve been,” Hyuna replied, scanning the darkness over her shoulder. “Or someone waiting for us to keep walking.”
Luka’s gaze swept the alley behind them again, lingering on a shape at the far corner. It didn’t move. The longer he looked, the less sure he was if it had been a person at all.
Till followed his line of sight, narrowing his eyes. He thought he saw the faintest glint — maybe metal, maybe just wet brick catching light — before it was gone.
Isaac didn’t turn around. “We keep moving. Same pace. If they’re watching, don’t give them a reason to think we’ve noticed.”
The group obeyed, feet picking up speed but keeping the same rhythm. Luka fell in a step closer to Till, his shoulder brushing his.
After a while, Dewey muttered, “Either that rat’s following us, or we’ve got company.”
Luka didn’t answer, just kept scanning. He didn’t like it — the feeling of eyes on them. Watching. Waiting.
The city around them grew darker, the noise of the main streets fading until only their footsteps and the occasional muffled shout from somewhere distant remained.
Till couldn’t shake the thought: if someone was following, they wouldn’t make their move here. They’d wait. Wait until the group was deep enough that there’d be no way out but through them.
The streets grew wider as they left the shadowed veins of the black market behind, the air less stale but far more exposed. The faint hum of the main road reached them before the light did. It felt wrong to be out in the open like this, especially after keeping to the alleys for so long, but the map left them no choice. The quickest way across was underground — through the old metro line that ran beneath the central district.
They kept their heads low as they stepped onto the broader sidewalk, the glow from giant screens and lit advertisements throwing harsh splashes of color across their faces. The noise here was constant: engines, shouts, the tinny blare of speakers echoing from above.
Then Luka slowed.
It wasn’t the crowd — there wasn’t much of one — it was what covered the walls at their level.
It wasn’t the high, flashy billboards designed to dazzle the aliens walking above; this was lower, eye-level to the street, plastered across panels of reinforced glass like it was meant to be stared at.
ALIEN STAGE – SEASON 50 – THE BIGGEST FAILURE
The words were printed in stark, bold letters over a collage of faces. Not just faces — their faces.
Till stopped too, his chest tightening before he could take a breath.
There was Mizi, her image frozen in the heavy stage lighting, makeup sharp, eyes cold. The girl in the photo didn’t look like the one standing beside him now. She didn’t even look alive, though her chin was tilted up as if she were daring the camera to catch her. Mizi’s real eyes locked onto the panel, but she wasn’t looking at herself. She was looking at the figure just to the right — Sua.
Her lips parted, a barely audible, “Oh…” slipping out, the sound lost to the hum of the street.
Till’s gaze shifted down the line of images, drawn forward against his will. He saw himself in two versions — the cautious one from the second round and the harder, colder one from later — but then his eyes landed on someone else.
Ivan.
The breath punched out of him.
He hadn’t seen Ivan’s face in so long. And now here it was — caught mid-performance, hair damp with sweat, expression alive in a way that clawed at Till’s memory. For a second, the world muffled around him.
Pinned comments ran in bold along the sides of each panel.
“Round 2 — The start of the downfall. Till destroyed a guitar that was clearly above his station. Owner confirmed it was a low class alien”
“Round 5 — Contestant Mizi’s escape. Total humiliation for the stage.”
Till’s eyes skated lower, reading even though part of him didn’t want to.
“Round 6 — Till and Ivan. The betrayal nobody expected. Still debated by viewers to this day.”
The still frame under that caption was worse than the words. It was from the exact moment Till remembered most clearly — Ivan caught mid-step, right before—
Till swallowed hard, jaw clenching, the memory pressing like a weight on his ribs.
He forced his eyes further along the display, though his muscles ached with the effort.
“Round 7 — Luka and Till. Collapse of the season.”
The image that followed showed them both on stage, caught in motion, Luka’s mouth open as if shouting, Till’s arm raised mid-strike. The background was chaos — blurred, impossible to tell if the crowd was cheering or screaming.
The comments were vicious.
“The worst pairing in Alien Stage history.”
“Proof humans should never have been allowed this far.”
“The moment the show lost all credibility.”
They stood there too long, none of them speaking. Even Dewey had gone quiet, his eyes darting over the images like he wasn’t sure if he should look or pretend he hadn’t seen them.
Till felt Luka beside him, but not moving. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Luka watching him, not the wall. And Luka’s expression wasn’t anger — it was something else, unreadable, as if he were waiting to see what Till would do next.
Till’s stare lingered on Ivan’s picture longer than he should have. Luka noticed. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw tightened.
The city kept moving around them, unbothered, but here in front of that wall, the air felt heavier. Like they’d stumbled into a place that had been waiting for them.
Luka was beside him now, still and tense, but his eyes weren’t on his own picture. They were on Till, studying him like he could read every thought going through his head.
Till’s pulse was hammering. His vision kept flicking between Ivan’s face and Sua’s, between the cold captions and the cheap plastic panels holding them in place. The words — failure, collapse, betrayal — scratched at him like claws.
Something in him snapped.
He dropped his bag from his shoulder, unzipped it, and pulled out the can of black spray paint he’d been carrying for tagging discreet signs in the alleys.
“Till—” Luka’s voice was sharp, warning, but he was already moving.
Till stepped right up to the wall, raised the can, and pressed down. The hiss was loud in the narrow street as thick black lines slashed across the headlines. The ugly captions disappeared under fast, jagged strokes. Ivan’s face — Sua’s — even his own — all of it was covered in defiant, messy black until the words and images blurred into nothing.
“Are you insane?!” Hyuna hissed from behind him. Isaac was glancing up and down the street like he expected sirens any second. Dewey was already half-hiding behind Luka.
But Till didn’t stop. He sprayed a single word across the entire panel in huge, uneven letters:
REMEMBER THEM.
The paint dripped, the smell thick in the air, but he didn’t care. His hand was shaking — with anger, with adrenaline, maybe with grief.
A few passersby had stopped to stare. Someone muttered in an alien dialect, their voice low but sharp. Luka grabbed Till’s wrist and pulled him back before anyone got the idea to get closer.
“Time to go,” Isaac said, voice clipped. No arguing, no questions. Just the order.
They left fast, sticking to the shadows again. The black paint still glistened wet under the streetlights as they turned the corner, but it felt like the only thing in the city that was honest.
Luka didn’t even think — the second Till stepped back from the wall with the dripping spray can, he reached for him. Not just his arm this time, but his whole shoulder, pulling him hard enough to make him stumble a step.
“Move.” Luka’s voice was low, urgent. Not loud enough for the whole street, but sharp as broken glass. “Before you do something even dumber.”
Till jerked out of his grip but let himself be herded forward, away from the wet, black mess on the wall. They rounded the nearest corner, Isaac taking point again, and then it started.
“What the hell was that?” Hyuna’s voice was all bite. “Do you want to get caught?”
“Do you think the patrols here are deaf?!” Isaac snapped, checking the map and scanning the roofs at the same time. “That hiss could be heard from—”
“That was stupid and reckless,” Dewey cut in, unusually serious. “Everyone saw us.”
Even Luka, still moving beside Till, muttered, “You just painted a target on our backs.” His jaw was set hard, but he didn’t look at Till when he said it.
Till’s temper, already wound tight, snapped. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he spat, “should I have just walked by? Pretended that, weren't our friends plastered on the wall like trophies? Should I have smiled for the cameras?”
“Till, you can’t just—” Hyuna started.
“Yes, I can!” His voice rose, teeth clenched. “You think they care about rules? You think they won’t do worse than this? They display corpses on the stage for entertainment. They feed lies to anyone who’ll listen. But the second we push back, oh, suddenly it’s too risky—”
Hyuna didn’t flinch. “It’s not about liking it, Till. It’s about surviving. You want to honour them? Fine. Do it without getting all of us dragged into a cell.”
“They’re dead,” Till snapped, voice breaking on the word. “Sua. Ivan. And now they’re just—just images for strangers to laugh at. Like they were nothing.”
He could feel the others watching him, the air thick with tension, but his mind wasn’t here anymore. It was back in Round 6, under the blazing lights, with Ivan’s eyes locked on his. The heat of that impossible kiss still burned in his memory, tangled with the noise of the crowd and the dizzy shock of it all.
Luka was silent beside him. Too silent.
Because Luka knew. Luka had seen it, maybe even known what it meant back then. And he’d assumed — maybe even hoped — that Till had moved on. That whatever Ivan had been to him was just another ghost from the stage.
But now? Seeing the way Till’s gaze had locked on Ivan’s picture, the way his hands had shaken when he reached for the paint — it made something twist ugly in Luka’s chest. He hated the feeling. Hated how stupid it was to be jealous of a dead man.
Till kept going, like he couldn’t stop himself. “If I could, I’d break every single one of these walls. I’d burn this whole city to the ground until there was nothing left to remind them of what they did to us.”
“Careful,” Isaac warned. His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. “You talk like that too loud here, and someone will make sure you get your wish.”
Till’s hands curled into fists. He didn’t answer.
They kept walking, the argument settling into an angry silence, but the tension stayed. Every time Till caught Luka’s eyes, he saw something there he couldn’t name — not just worry, not just anger. Something deeper.
And Luka didn’t know if he wanted to admit what it was.
They walked for a while with only the sound of their boots on cracked pavement. The others had pulled ahead, still close enough to be seen but far enough that the muffled voices of Isaac and Hyuna didn’t quite reach them.
Till’s pulse had finally started to slow, but the silence between him and Luka felt heavier than the noise of the city.
He glanced sideways, then muttered, “Are you still mad?”
Luka didn’t look at him right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, on the littered scraps of paper fluttering in the alley breeze. “Mad? No.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
“Then what?” Till pressed.
Luka’s mouth twitched like he was about to say something and then thought better of it. He shrugged instead, but it wasn’t casual. It was tight, his shoulders still locked. “Just wondering how many more walls you’re planning to paint before we get out of here.”
Till frowned. “I wasn’t—”
“Because if it’s going to be a habit,” Luka went on, finally looking at him, “maybe I should start keeping count.”
The words weren’t sharp enough to be a fight, but there was an edge buried in them, something Till couldn’t quite pin down. It wasn’t just about the spray paint, and Luka knew it.
Till tried to read him, but Luka had already looked away again, scanning the shadows like he was more interested in staying alive than in talking.
Till slowed his pace, watching Luka out of the corner of his eye. Something about that reply—it didn’t fit. Luka could be quiet, sure, but this was different. This was clipped. Guarded.
“You’re not mad about the spray paint,” Till said finally.
Luka’s jaw flexed. “Didn’t say I was.”
“Yeah, but you’re acting like it.”
“Maybe I just think it was a bad call.”
“Bullshit.” Till stopped outright this time, forcing Luka to stop with him. “You’ve seen me do worse and you didn’t care. So what’s going on?”
Luka hesitated, eyes flicking toward the rest of the group up ahead, then back to Till. He looked like someone holding back words too sharp to let loose.
“This isn’t just about what I did,” Till pushed, voice low but insistent. “I can tell.”
For a moment Luka said nothing, his gaze fixed stubbornly on some cracked tile on the wall. The city noise swelled around them—distant voices, the hum of alien tech—and in the pause, Till felt it click in his gut. Luka wasn’t angry about the paint. He was… something else.
But before he could put it into words, Luka moved past him. “We should catch up,” he said, his tone shutting the conversation like a locked door.
Till stayed frozen for a beat longer, staring after him, unsettled by the look he’d caught in Luka’s eyes—a flicker of something sharp and complicated that had nothing to do with billboards or reckless moves.
Luka felt the words pressing at the back of his throat, sharp and bitter. He could say it—bring up exactly what was gnawing at him—but he knew where it would lead. They’d be in each other’s faces before the others even noticed they’d stopped walking.
He didn’t want that. Not here. Not now.
So he swallowed it, shoved his hands in his pockets, and fell into step beside Till without another word. The silence between them wasn’t the comfortable kind they’d shared before. It was weighted, stretched tight, every footstep making it a little worse.
Till didn’t push again, but Luka could feel him glancing his way now and then. Looking for a crack, maybe. Trying to figure out what he’d done wrong.
The rest of the group kept ahead, their voices low but urgent as they followed Isaac through another narrow backstreet. No one was joking anymore. No easy smiles, no smart remarks—just the sound of their boots and the faint hum of the city bleeding in from the main streets.
They ducked beneath a rusted sign, slipping into a narrow service corridor that reeked faintly of oil and damp metal. Heads down, shoulders hunched, every single one of them carried the same thought: just get to the next stop.
They were almost there.
And yet, between Till and Luka, the tension walked right alongside them, unspoken and unresolved.
The sound came sharp and mechanical—too rhythmic to be street noise. Luka froze mid-step, head snapping toward the echo bouncing between the narrow walls.
“Drones!” he barked, louder than he meant to, already waving the others forward.
The group scattered instantly, instinct taking over. Isaac swore under his breath as they all broke into a sprint, searching for any sliver of cover. Somewhere to vanish before the machines rounded the corner.
Till’s boots pounded against the cracked pavement, breath sharp in his throat, when Luka’s hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve. “This way!”
They cut down a shadowed side alley just as the hum swelled, ducking into a jagged gap between two warped metal walls. Luka shoved Till back until his shoulders hit cold steel, pressing close to fit them both into the narrow strip of darkness.
The drones swept past the mouth of the alley seconds later, lights cutting across the walls in long, blinding streaks. One hovered for a moment, too close, its sensors angling toward the darkness like it could smell them there.
Till held his breath, heartbeat thundering. Luka’s chest rose and fell hard against his, the space between them barely a sliver.
“This isn’t their route,” Luka whispered, voice almost lost under the electric hum. “They’re not supposed to be here now.”
Till didn’t need to ask what that meant. His mind was already there—someone had reported rebels in the city.
The drone drifted on, its hum fading into the distance. Neither of them moved right away.
They regrouped in a shadowed intersection two streets down, everyone looking a little more rattled than before.
Isaac’s eyes swept over them, counting. “Good. We’re all here. That means we move faster. Last stop, then we get out before someone decides to make another call.”
No one argued. They picked up the pace, weaving through cramped backstreets until the building they needed finally came into view—its cracked stone steps leading to a narrow, dimly lit door.
“Let’s make this quick,” Isaac said, already striding forward. Hyuna and Dewey followed, shoulders squared.
The group filed in, but somewhere in the shuffle Luka slowed, glancing over his shoulder. Till noticed, hesitated a beat, then stayed back with him.
The door swung shut behind the others, muffling the low murmur of voices inside.
Till huffed out a breath through his nose, the sound edged and restless. His eyes tracked the street like he was daring something else to show up.
“You okay?” Luka asked quietly, but it sounded more like a formality than real curiosity.
Till didn’t look at him right away. “Just tired of playing ghost,” he muttered. “Tired of hiding every time they look our way.”
The air between them felt heavier again, like it had been held back by the posters.
The door creaked open first for Mizi, who stepped out fast and scanned the street. She spotted Till and Luka immediately and made her way toward them, her expression tight.
Till straightened, pushing off the wall. “What happened?”
Mizi exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but too thin to be anything but nerves. “They took the info. And the money. Said they’ll print it—just like the last stop.” She shook her head, still catching her breath. “But I saw them. Anakt Corp guards. In the corner. Watching.”
Till’s eyes narrowed. “Here?”
“Inside.” She tilted her chin toward the door. “Didn’t look like they wanted to act yet, but…” Her words trailed off.
The rest of the team burst out of the building before she could finish. Dewey looked tense, Hyuna’s jaw was set, and Isaac didn’t waste a single second—he made a sharp gesture down the alley.
“Run,” he ordered.
They didn’t argue. Feet pounded against uneven pavement, the air around them a blur of rusted pipes and flickering light. The map stayed forgotten for now; Isaac led them by instinct through twisting backstreets, taking every narrow turn that might throw off pursuit.
The sound of their breathing and the slap of boots against wet stone filled the space between them. They didn’t stop until the city noise dulled and the shadows thickened.
Finally, Isaac raised a hand, and they slowed to a walk. The group clustered near a wall streaked with peeling paint, catching their breath. Isaac pulled out the comm, raising it to his ear.
“Status?” His voice was low but clipped.
A moment passed before static cracked, and another team’s voice came through: “We’re fine. Got it done without trouble. Just a lot of stares. Heading back to the vehicles now.”
Isaac’s shoulders eased a fraction. “Good. Keep moving. We’ll meet later.”
The comm clicked off. He slipped it away, but the relief was short-lived. Their team wasn’t done yet.
Hyuna glanced between them. “Are we still checking those places?”
“Yeah,” Isaac said. “That was the plan.”
They gathered around the map again, lit faintly by the dying daylight. Luka leaned over Isaac’s shoulder, tapping a spot just a few blocks away.
“This one’s close,” he said. “Really high-end. If any contestants are being shown off… this is where they’d be.”
Till frowned. “And if it’s that fancy, they’ll have security.”
“Exactly,” Luka replied. “We go in, we’ll stand out. A lot.”
Dewey scratched at the back of his neck. “It’s almost dark.”
Isaac checked his watch. “We were supposed to have this done by noon.”
Hyuna gave a humorless laugh. “We came in early and still burned half the day running around.”
No one argued. The truth was obvious—they’d lost more time than they could afford. But they were here now, and the club was only minutes away.
The city’s noise seemed to shift around them, the high hum of the main streets bleeding into the low thump of distant bass. Somewhere ahead, the lights were brighter, and the air carried that particular tang of too much perfume and too much money.
They kept moving, weaving through narrower streets now that the main road was getting busier. Along the way, they pulled out the remaining posters—thin sheets of paper already curling at the edges—and slapped them against every stretch of wall that would hold them. The glue stuck unevenly to brick, metal, and faded paint, but no one cared. The faces printed there—friends, names, lives—looked back from the grimy surfaces.
Sure, they’d already paid to have the stories printed in the underground newspapers, but this was different. The walls here spoke to people directly.
By the time they reached the corner, the sky had deepened into the blue just before full night. From where they stood, they could see it—the building that drew them here.
The place looked expensive even from a distance. Tall windows glowed gold, music pulsed from somewhere inside, and the entrance was framed by sleek black stone. Two aliens stood guard at the front, their frames tall and inhuman, movements sharp enough to make it clear they weren’t just for show.
Hyuna muttered something under her breath. “Figures.”
“What do we do?” Dewey asked, adjusting the strap of his bag.
Till didn’t hesitate. “Kill them?”
Every single head turned to him like he’d just suggested they cartwheel into traffic.
He blinked back at them. “…What?”
“Not exactly the plan,” Hyuna said flatly.
Till sighed, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Fine. I’ll just… stop talking then.”
But his gaze lingered on the guards. If they ever actually tried to save all the kids—every contestant—they’d face worse than this. Towers of security. Armies, probably. This was just two aliens on an open street. Too easy, in theory. Too exposed, in reality.
Isaac shifted his weight, glancing from the building to the group. “If someone can make a distraction, Dewey and I can drop them before they know what’s happening. Then we’re in.”
The street went quiet for a beat. Then, one by one, every pair of eyes landed on Till.
He stared back, almost offended. “…Why me?”
“Because you’re good at stupid,” Hyuna said.
He let out another sigh—longer this time, heavier. “Right.” His hand went to his bag, already knowing what was in there because Luka had packed it for him earlier. “Guess you’re in luck. I’ve got something interesting.”
From the weight and shape under his fingers, he already knew what he’d use. Something quick, loud—enough to make people look the other way. Enough to give Isaac and Dewey their window.
The idea of a small explosion on an open street didn’t exactly scream subtle, but then again, subtle never really worked for them anyway.
Till crouched near the mouth of the alley, fingers pulling the chosen device from his bag. It was small—flat enough to hide in his palm—but heavy in a way that promised trouble. Luka had packed it “just in case,” and apparently this was the case.
He glanced toward the others. “When it goes off, you’ve got maybe three seconds before every eye is on it. You move fast, or we’re all screwed.”
Isaac nodded once. Dewey cracked his knuckles like he was about to sit an exam he’d been studying for.
Till slipped out into the open, head down, walking like he belonged here. The two guards didn’t look at him—they were watching the street in that unnerving, unblinking way. Perfect.
He knelt by a trash container at the corner, tucking the device just behind it. A flick of his thumb armed it, a tiny red light flashing once before going dark again. Then he turned away, casual, and slipped back into the alley.
Three… two…
The explosion wasn’t big enough to blow anything apart—just a brutal crack of sound, sharp enough to echo between buildings and send a burst of flame licking up the side of the container. Sparks showered the ground. The street snapped to attention.
The guards moved instantly, stepping away from the door and toward the fire. In that same heartbeat, Isaac and Dewey darted out, silent and quick, one to each target. A hit to the back of the neck, a twist of the arm, and both guards were on the ground before they could make a sound.
Isaac waved sharply. “Go!”
Till was already moving, Luka right at his shoulder. The club’s door loomed ahead, still wide open, the warm light spilling onto the street. Inside, the bass thumped louder, a pulse in the walls.
They slipped through first—Isaac and Dewey dragging the unconscious guards into the shadows of the entrance—then the rest of the group followed.
It smelled like perfume and expensive liquor in here, a jarring contrast to the damp, smoke-stained streets outside. The crowd was all alien, glittering eyes turning toward them in curiosity. Somewhere deeper in the club, a voice called out in a language none of them recognized.
Till’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t going to be easy.
The club swallowed them in heat and sound. Music throbbed through the floor, different melodies bleeding together from multiple directions. A small stage sat in the center of the main room, but it wasn’t the focus—doorways ringed the space, each leading to other chambers. From each, a different song drifted out, layered over the pulsing bass that rattled their bones.
They stayed low, crouching when the crowd shifted. Eyes tracked them in brief glances, but the audience was distracted—focused on the stage, the performers, the drinks in their hands.
Till caught sight of the first voice before he even processed the words. A human, dressed in shimmering fabric that caught the light like water, stood on one of the side stages, singing with a hollow sort of smile. He wasn’t alone. In every room they passed, there were more humans—each costumed, each singing or dancing or playing an instrument. It was an echo of the Alien Stage, except there were no cameras, no stage lights that hinted at fame. Only the glassy eyes of people performing because they had no choice.
Till’s stomach twisted. Every doorway was another flash of memory: his own voice raw from practice, the heat of the spotlight, the way the alien audience had stared at him like an exhibit.
Isaac’s voice was low but firm. “We’ve seen enough. We need to remember this place. Layout, entrances, guard rotations—everything.”
They moved quietly, tracing the edges of the rooms, Till counting exits under his breath, Luka scanning for any security changes. But the longer they lingered, the more the walls seemed to close in.
When they finally regrouped near the main entrance, the outside world felt like a threat. The memory of the explosion lingered—out there, it would be guarded by now.
Hyuna shook her head. “No way we hit the other clubs. Not today.”
Dewey exhaled sharply. “We can’t save anyone right now.”
Till hated it, but he knew she was right. “We just confirmed what we thought. That’s all.”
They were turning toward the exit when Luka froze mid-step. His breath stalled in his chest. The rest of the group moved another pace before noticing he wasn’t following.
“Luka?” Till’s voice was quiet but sharp.
He didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on a room across the club—a private lounge, half-hidden behind a sheer curtain. Inside, reclining like the room was his personal kingdom, sat Heperu. Luka’s owner.
The sound of his voice cut through the music like a blade. Luka felt it physically—an icy pressure under his ribs. His jaw clenched, his stomach turned, and for a heartbeat, he thought he might be sick.
Heperu hadn’t seen him yet. Luka wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t make his body move. Then, from somewhere outside, a sharp crack of noise rolled into the club—the sound of something heavy slamming to the ground, or maybe another blast. The curtains stirred, and Heperu’s gaze lifted.
Their eyes met.
Heperu was on his feet instantly, his expression unreadable but his movement certain. Luka forgot how to breathe. His pulse was in his throat, too loud.
“Move!” Isaac barked.
Till didn’t hesitate—he grabbed Luka’s wrist and yanked him hard, breaking whatever invisible chain was holding him there. The group shoved through the crowd, ignoring startled looks and angry mutters.
The moment they burst into the street, smoke slapped them in the face—thick and chemical from the earlier explosion. Somewhere to the left, voices were shouting.
They ran. Fast. The kind of fast that burned the lungs.
But someone was chasing them. Heavy footfalls pounded against the street, closing in.
Above, the whir of drones rose in pitch, their lights sweeping the smoke.
Gunshots cracked through the air, metal ricochets sparking against walls.
“Keep going!” Isaac shouted, his voice nearly drowned out by the chaos.
Till didn’t let go of Luka’s hand. Not once.
They tore down the street, smoke curling in the air like a living thing. Till’s hand was clamped tight around Luka’s wrist, pulling him along whether he could keep up or not.
Gunfire cracked again, closer this time. Drones hissed overhead, beams of light sweeping in frantic arcs. The air felt too hot, too close, like the whole city was tightening around them.
“This way!” Isaac shouted, veering into a narrow alley without checking if it was clear.
They followed, boots skidding on damp stone. Luka risked a glance over his shoulder—figures were in the smoke, moving fast, shapes bending through the haze like predators.
Hyuna cursed under her breath. “We’re too far from the cars!”
“Doesn’t matter!” Dewey snapped. “We need cover now!”
Another burst of gunfire sprayed the wall just behind them, chips of stone stinging Luka’s cheek.
“Left!” Mizi shouted, darting into another turn so sharp they almost slammed into her. The alley narrowed until it felt like the walls would scrape their shoulders, the noise of the street muffled but not gone.
They spilled into an even smaller passage, cluttered with rusted bins and broken crates. Isaac didn’t slow until they were at the dead end—a brick wall half-covered in peeling posters.
“We can’t stay here,” Hyuna hissed, breathless.
“We can for thirty seconds,” Isaac shot back, scanning upward.
Till pressed Luka against the wall, their shoulders brushing as they both tried to steady their breathing. Luka kept his eyes on the ground, though the world still seemed to sway with adrenaline. His lungs felt tight, but not from the run—Heperu’s face was still burned into his vision.
The group went still, every breath measured. Outside the alley mouth, footsteps pounded past, voices barking orders in alien tongues. A drone swept overhead, its light passing like a searchlight through the smoke before fading again.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the faint, muffled music still bleeding from the club.
They had no idea where they were now—no street signs, no map in their hands, no clear path back to the vehicles. Just walls closing in and a city that wasn’t theirs.
The alley felt even smaller now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The air was heavy with the sour stench of old trash, dust, and faint smoke curling from somewhere far off. Isaac crouched over the map with Mizi and Hyuna, their heads bowed close, voices low and urgent. Dewey stood guard at the mouth of the alley, his hand resting on his weapon, shoulders tight.
Luka had slid down the wall the moment they stopped, knees bent, back pressed against the cold brick. His head tipped back, eyes shut, the rise and fall of his chest uneven. His hair stuck damply to his temple, a thin sheen of sweat on his skin.
Till lingered for a second, debating with himself, before moving closer. He crouched in front of Luka, resting his arms over his knees.
“Hey,” Till said quietly, his voice a notch softer than usual. “You okay?”
Luka’s lids flickered open. There was no sarcasm this time, no sharpness—just something unfocused and tired. “I… don’t know.”
Till searched his face. He’d been worried before—Luka’s surgery had only been a couple of months ago, and even though Luka insisted he was fine, running like this through half the city couldn’t be good for him. But this was different. Because Till saw him too, he saw Heperu sitting there. Obviously it was hard on Luka.
He almost pushed, almost asked what “I don’t know” really meant, but Isaac’s voice cut in sharply. “We have to move. Now.”
Till straightened, giving Luka one last look before offering him a hand up. Luka ignored it, pushing himself to his feet against the wall.
They slipped out of the alley, following Isaac’s lead through a maze of narrow side streets. At first, they walked—quiet, heads down, eyes flicking toward every corner. But when Dewey hissed, “Movement,” they broke into a run again, boots slapping against uneven stone.
No one followed. No shouting, no footsteps pounding behind them. Maybe they’d lost them. Maybe the smoke had bought them more time than they thought. The streets here were emptier, just faint lights from shuttered shopfronts and the distant hum of the city’s main arteries.
They turned into a wider path—still not the main street, but open enough to feel exposed.
That’s when Till heard it.
A noise, sharp, like metal grinding and electricity snapping at the same time.
Before anyone could speak, the world tore open with a deafening boom.
The ground lurched under their feet. Heat and pressure slammed into them in the same breath, throwing everyone off balance. Till hit the ground hard, the air punched out of his lungs. His vision burst into white, then black, then a dull, aching blur. His ears rang so loud it felt like the sound lived inside his skull.
He didn’t know how long he was down before he heard his name.
“Till!” Luka’s voice, close and frantic.
He blinked against the spinning blur. Luka was kneeling beside him, hands gripping his shoulders like he could hold him together by force alone. “Come on, get up,” Luka urged, voice rough.
Till tried to move, but his body felt heavy and slow, like he was made of wet sand. Shapes moved at the edges of his vision—the others. Hyuna was clutching her arm, blood seeping through her sleeve. Dewey was wiping at a cut on his cheek. Mizi’s hair was plastered to her forehead with blood from somewhere above her brow.
Till reached up, touching the side of his head, and his fingers came away wet and red. He stared at it dumbly for a second before Isaac dropped into view, grabbing his chin to steady his head.
“He hit his head,” Isaac said, his voice clipped but tight with concern. He glanced at his fingers, now also streaked with Till’s blood. “We don’t have time for this. We need to move.”
“They found us,” Luka said quickly, glancing upward. His face was pale, jaw tense. “It was the drones—too close. We need to run now.”
Till could barely focus on the words, the ringing in his ears making everything feel distant. His stomach rolled.
Luka didn’t hesitate—he grabbed the hem of his own shirt and ripped it with a sharp jerk. The fabric tore unevenly, threads dangling. He wound it tight around Till’s head, his fingers quick but not gentle, knotting it at the side.
“It’ll help with the bleeding,” Luka muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His hands lingered just a second longer than necessary before he pulled back.
Pain still throbbed deep in Till’s skull, the dizziness a constant sway under his feet, but Isaac was already hooking an arm under his to haul him up.
They didn’t have a choice.
“Stay with me,” Luka said sharply, moving to Till’s other side to help bear his weight.
The group stumbled forward, keeping low. Their shadows stretched long and broken in the faint streetlight, the city around them shifting between the suffocating silence of deserted streets and the distant echo of alien patrols. The metallic whine of drones rose again somewhere above.
No one spoke now. The only sound was their uneven footsteps, the ragged pace of their breathing, and the low, constant hum of danger closing in.
They’d been running blind for blocks, the city twisting around them in jagged shapes and shadows, when the narrow street ahead suddenly opened into a wider courtyard-like space. For a second, Till thought they’d made it—they could almost see the street beyond, where the cars would be waiting if they just pushed harder.
Then they stopped.
The others skidded to a halt almost in unison, weapons half-raised but too slow to matter.
The guards were already there.
Not just drones this time—human-sized, armored, weapons gleaming under the dim lights. And standing at the center, composed and still, was him.
Luka froze like the ground had reached up and rooted him in place. The air seemed to squeeze tighter, like even breathing would give him away. Till stayed beside him—half because Luka was still holding him up, half because something in Luka’s body language told him he was seconds from shattering.
Heperu’s eyes found him instantly.
A slow smile crept across his face, not warm, but precise—crafted for effect. He stepped forward just far enough that his voice carried.
“My boy…” The words rolled out soft and patronizing, heavy with ownership. “Look what you’ve turned into. Is this what I deserve?”
Till’s stomach twisted.
Heperu didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll give you a choice. There’s no need for you to die here. Come back to me, and…” He gestured vaguely toward the others. “And perhaps I will find it in my heart to spare the rest of them.”
Luka didn’t move. His jaw was set tight, eyes locked on Heperu like he was bracing for impact, but not a single word left his mouth.
Till’s voice came before he even thought about it, quiet but cutting. “…No. Luka… don’t. Don’t listen to him.”
From behind them, Hyuna’s voice snapped through the tension. “He’s lying. You know he’s lying. Don’t you dare.”
Still, Luka stayed silent.
The moment cracked when Isaac made the call—soft, urgent. “Run.”
They bolted.
But the guards had been ready.
Bodies flooding in from every direction. A gun cracked; someone shouted. The next thing Till knew, rough hands shoved him down hard onto his knees. His head throbbed viciously from the earlier blow, the sudden drop making the world sway sideways.
They’d been so close to the cars.
Till looked sideways. Luka was there, also on his knees, restrained by two guards—his wrists pinned back, shoulders squared but trembling with contained rage.
Heperu approached slowly, deliberately. His boots echoed against the stone.
When he stopped in front of Luka, he reached down and caught his chin between gloved fingers, tilting his face up. “Come back to me. We can forget all of this. You can be what you were always meant to be.” His voice softened, almost coaxing. “The perfect star. My perfect creation.”
The others shouted at once—Dewey’s voice rough with anger, Hyuna’s sharp as glass, Mizi’s shaking but defiant. “Don’t listen to him!” “We’re not letting you go back!” “He’s not taking you again!”
Luka’s eyes flicked toward them for the briefest moment—surprised, maybe, that they would even bother speaking. But he didn’t answer Heperu.
And with the guards’ grips like iron and the street around them sealed shut, there was no clear way out.
Luka’s knees pressed into the cold ground, but he barely felt it. His body ached from the running, from the tight grip of the guards pinning him in place, from the way his chest still burned every time he dragged in a breath. The blood in his ears roared louder than the muffled chaos around him.
He didn’t know what to do.
Not in the simple, passing sense of the words—he didn’t know what to do in the way that makes your bones feel hollow, like your brain has been scraped clean. He stared at Heperu, every inch of him screaming that this man could not be trusted, that the moment he went back, the moment he agreed, it would be over—not just for him, but for everyone.
But he didn’t trust anyone else, either. Not in a way that made a choice seem safe. Not in a way that made this feel like there was any outcome other than failure.
Heperu’s words—his false promises—still hung in the air, but Luka could already see the truth in his head like it was carved there: they wouldn’t let the others go. Not Hyuna. Not Isaac. Not Till. Not Mizi. And Dewey. They were the most wanted rebels alive, their faces on every feed, their lives worth fortunes in bounty. No one in the galaxy was just going to let them walk away.
And yet… all eyes were on him.
They always were.
He looked at the others. Hyuna, tense, glaring at Heperu like she’d rip his throat out if she could move. Isaac, eyes narrowed, clearly calculating but saying nothing. Dewey, Mizi, even the guards—all of them seemed to be waiting to see what he would do.
He was the smart one, wasn’t he? The strategist. The one who could improvise a way out.
So why—why couldn’t he think?
He scanned the edges of the street, searching for something, anything—a weak spot, a gap in their formation, a weapon close enough to reach. Nothing. Just walls, guards, and the narrow sliver of street beyond, so close it hurt to look at.
His gaze caught on Till.
He looked worse than Luka remembered—still pale from the hit to the head, a makeshift bandage already soaked dark. And yet Till was looking back at him, brows drawn tight in worry, like Luka’s safety was the only thing on his mind.
Something in Luka’s throat went tight. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t have a plan. And the more seconds ticked by, the heavier the weight in his chest became, pressing down until it hurt to breathe.
He couldn’t think of a single move that wouldn’t end with someone dead. He couldn’t make himself choose which “what if” to risk. Every path his mind tried to trace ended in another wall, another body hitting the ground.
They were waiting for him to be brilliant.
To have the best answer.
To get them out alive.
And for the first time, Luka realized with a sick, hollow certainty—he didn’t know how.
The crack of the slap came first, sharp and echoing in the air, and then the sting bloomed across Luka’s cheek. His head snapped to the side, breath catching. The sound of it seemed to ripple through the others—Hyuna’s low curse, Dewey’s sharp inhale.
Till’s voice cut through it all, ragged and furious. “Hey—!” He tried to push up from the ground despite the guard’s grip, staggering, still not steady on his feet. Luka saw the flash of red on the bandage again, and his stomach lurched.
Heperu’s hand was already on him again, cold fingers gripping Luka’s chin, forcing his face back toward him. The touch was too familiar, too practiced, a motion Luka’s body remembered from years ago. He forced himself not to flinch.
Heperu almost never hit him in the past, only when Luka screwed up really badly.
“I won’t wait long,” Heperu said, his voice calm in a way that felt more dangerous than a shout. “I can kill all of them right here, and I’ll still walk away richer than you could ever imagine.”
The words sank deep, each one a stone in Luka’s gut. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t think. His lungs ached, his hands were trembling against the ground.
Then Heperu’s lips curled in a half-smile. “Urak will be happy to have your little friend’s head hanging on his wall,” he said almost conversationally, glancing toward Till. “It would make a nice decoration, after the way he betrayed him, too.”
The burn started in Luka’s chest. Anger, sharp and hot, spread until it reached his fingertips. Every word made it worse, every syllable cutting deep.
And then Heperu was done talking. A flick of his hand, and the guard holding Till shoved the barrel of his gun against Till’s head.
The world narrowed to that single image.
Till’s stillness.
The black metal against his temple.
The red soaking through the bandage.
“This one,” Heperu said, his voice heavy with mockery, “means something to my pet.” His eyes flicked back to Luka. “I’ll shoot him right here. Now.”
Something broke. Luka’s breath caught in his throat. The pressure in his chest had nowhere to go but out.
“Okay—” The word came out too fast, too desperate. His voice shook. “Okay. I… I’ll do anything.”
The others erupted instantly. Hyuna’s “No!” cutting sharp, Isaac swearing, someone else shouting his name.
Luka kept his gaze on Heperu. His voice dropped flat, stripped of all feeling until it sounded like someone else’s. “I’ll do whatever you say. Just… don’t touch them. You can do whatever you want to me.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then Heperu’s smile deepened, and he gestured lazily to the guards.
“Let them go.”
The grips on Hyuna, Isaac, Dewey loosened. Even Till was shoved back toward them, though Luka could see him trying to fight his way forward again.
“You could’ve made me a lot of money,” Heperu said, as if he were still weighing it in his mind. “And yet…” He glanced down at Luka, still kneeling, still held fast. “…I’ll let them go.”
Luka didn’t move. He couldn’t. His knees were pressed into the ground, and the weight in his chest was so heavy it made his throat ache. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, hot and unwanted.
He felt sick. The world swayed slightly, his stomach twisting. He didn’t even know if this was really happening or if his brain had finally snapped from the pressure.
The others were free.
And he was still here.
They weren’t moving.
Luka turned, heart pounding in his ears. Why aren’t they running? His chest squeezed. Are they stupid? The street was right there, the cars—freedom—right there.
Heperu had already turned his back, one hand lifted in a casual gesture. The guards yanked Luka to his feet, shoving him forward. The weight of their grips dug into his arms, the world tilting as they forced him toward the other side of the street.
Then the ground shook.
The explosion behind him ripped the air apart. A wave of heat hit his back, and in the split-second afterward, he heard it—the squeal of tires.
Smoke began to flood the street. Heperu was only steps away from his luxury car now, his sharp silhouette cutting through the haze. Around them, the guards raised their rifles toward the rebels.
That’s when Luka saw it—other vehicles, big ones, rolling in fast from the side streets. Floodlights cutting through the smoke. The rest of their teams were here.
The guards barked orders, yanking him forward, but Luka dug in his heels, twisting violently in their grip. His shoulder ached from the force of it.
Then—Isaac. Out of nowhere, slamming into one guard with his whole weight, elbow cracking into another’s jaw. Luka was free before he could even process it.
Everything became chaotic. Muzzle flashes lit the haze, deafening pops of gunfire, more explosions rattling the air. Someone was shouting his name, and all Luka could do was run. He could feel Heperu’s eyes on his back, sharp and searing even through the mess.
They broke into a sprint toward one of the big jeeps, Isaac shoving him forward. Luka stumbled the last few steps, smoke stinging his eyes, barely able to make out shapes. He climbed in, the heavy door slamming behind him, and the world outside blurred instantly.
Isaac was already behind the wheel. Dewey in the passenger seat, leaning halfway out the window to fire behind them. The jeep lurched as they shot forward, the other teams laying cover fire from their own vehicles.
The inside smelled like sweat and gunpowder.
Luka’s eyes locked on the middle seat—Till was there, lying on his side across the worn upholstery, Hyuna and Mizi crouched nearby. His bandage was dark with fresh blood.
Till didn’t hesitate. He reached for Luka instantly, dragging him down beside him with weak but insistent hands. Luka’s chest clenched so tight he could barely breathe.
“You—” Till’s voice cracked, half-sob, half-yell. “You were gonna leave—leave me? Leave us?!” His voice was breaking over the words, rage and fear tangled into one.
“I—” Luka couldn’t get anything out at first. His throat felt scraped raw.
Till kept going, voice rising, breath shaking. “Go back to— to him? Back to that— that nightmare?!”
“I acted on impulse,” Luka blurted, holding him tighter. “I’d do anything for you. I couldn’t—” He swallowed, arms wrapping around Till so tight he could feel his heartbeat. “I couldn’t lose you.”
Till’s fingers curled into Luka’s shirt. His breath hitched again, breaking apart into sobs.
Around them, the jeep was filled with shouting—Dewey swearing as he fired out the window, Hyuna yelling over the gunfire about how Luka was insane, Isaac barking orders. Mizi’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and panicked.
But Luka didn’t hear most of it.
Till’s voice had gone smaller now, trembling. “I was so scared,” he whispered, barely audible over the chaos.
“I know,” Luka murmured, stroking a hand down his back, his own voice thick. “I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of anything else.”
Outside, the city roared. Inside, Luka just held on tighter, as if letting go would make it all happen again.
The shouting outside began to fade. Gunfire was distant now, muffled by the thick, dirty air in the jeep. The vehicle still rocked with speed, but inside, the panic had shifted into something else—a rattled, breathless quiet.
Till still hadn’t let go. His arms were wrapped around Luka’s torso like he was afraid Luka might vanish if he loosened his grip. Luka didn’t push him off. He kept one arm tight around Till’s shoulders, the other hand cradling the back of his head, fingers brushing damp hair away from his face.
Hyuna sat pressed into Luka’s side, knees jammed against Mizi’s. Across from them, Isaac kept glancing into the rearview mirror, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the road and Luka. Dewey leaned against the window, reloading one-handed, muttering under his breath.
“You’re an idiot,” Hyuna said finally, voice low but sharp.
“You’re lucky you’re still breathing,” Isaac added from the front.
“Dumbass,” Dewey chimed in without looking back. “But—” his mouth twitched “—I’m glad you’re here.”
Mizi’s hands were still shaking as she wiped her eyes. “We thought we were gonna lose you.”
Luka didn’t answer them. His eyes stayed fixed on Till, whose face was pale under the grime and blood. “Move over,” Luka murmured, easing Till down.
Till blinked, disoriented, but didn’t fight him. Luka shifted, stretching Till’s legs across Mizi’s lap and pulling Till’s head to rest against his own thighs.
“Just stay like this,” Luka said quietly. His fingers combed slowly through Till’s hair, careful around the blood-matted spots. He tore another strip from his already-ruined shirt, wrapping it gently around Till’s head to slow the bleeding.
Till winced at the pressure but didn’t complain. He was trying to stay awake, his breathing shallow, eyes unfocused. The motion of the jeep made him sway, dizzy.
“You with me?” Luka asked.
“Yeah,” Till murmured, though his voice was thin. His ears were still ringing. His hand found Luka’s without looking, curling around it, grip weak but stubborn.
Luka’s thumb brushed over Till’s knuckles. “Don’t let go,” he said, almost to himself.
★
Around them, the others kept talking—arguing over what happened, going over how close it had been, how insane Luka’s deal with Heperu was, how they’d managed to get him out before it was too late. But their voices felt distant, blurred at the edges, like they were in another room entirely.
Luka’s whole world had narrowed to the warm, trembling weight of Till’s hand in his.
The road stretched on into the dark, the hum of the engine and the occasional rattle of loose gear filling the silence. Outside, nothing but blackness and the occasional flicker of headlights bouncing over the uneven terrain. Inside the jeep, everyone was settling into that strange, tired haze that comes after a fight—half-relieved, half still vibrating from the adrenaline.
Luka kept his gaze fixed on Till, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, his pale face against the dim interior light. Every so often, Till’s fingers twitched in his.
A sudden jolt shook the jeep as they hit a deep rut in the road.
Till groaned low in his throat, eyes squeezing shut. For a moment, everyone froze, waiting to see if it was pain or something worse.
Then Till muttered, voice dry but deadly serious, “Isaac… if you go through one more hole in the road, I’ll fucking throw up.”
There was a beat of silence—then a burst of chuckles from around the jeep. Even Dewey, still watching out the window, let out a quiet snort.
“Noted,” Isaac said, but there was amusement in his tone.
Hyuna smirked, leaning over to glance at Till. “Guess you’re still alive if you’re threatening people.”
Till didn’t even crack a smile, his glare aimed weakly toward her. Luka felt the corner of his own mouth twitch despite everything.
The tension in the air eased just a fraction, the sound of tired laughter mixing with the steady rhythm of the road beneath them.
The laughter faded, replaced by the low rumble of the engine and the muted conversations of the others. The road seemed endless, the world outside nothing but shadows rushing past.
Luka shifted slightly, feeling Till’s weight against his lap. He glanced down—blood had seeped through the makeshift bandage again. Quietly, without drawing too much attention, he tore another strip from what was left of his shirt and unwound the damp cloth from Till’s head.
Till hissed softly as Luka’s fingers brushed his hairline.
“Sorry,” Luka murmured, voice barely above the hum of the tires. He worked carefully, wrapping the fresh fabric snugly but not too tight. His hands lingered afterward, stroking gently through Till’s hair, combing it back from his forehead.
Till’s eyes slipped shut, his body relaxing just a little more with every pass of Luka’s hand.
“Don’t,” Hyuna’s voice cut in from across the seat, sharp but not unkind. “Don’t fall asleep. Not with a concussion.”
Till groaned. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” Mizi interrupted, leaning forward so she could peer at him. “Eyes open,
Till cracked one eye open at her, muttering something under his breath that made Dewey snort from the front.
Luka kept stroking his hair, his touch slow and steady, like an anchor. “Just stay with me,” he said quietly.
Till’s gaze met his for a moment, soft and tired. “M’trying…” he whispered, before letting out another groan as Isaac swerved around a pothole.
The jeep rolled on through the darkness, everyone still watching him, but Luka never once took his hand away.
By the time the base’s gates loomed out of the darkness, everyone was running on fumes. The moment the jeep jolted to a stop, Luka was already sliding out, ignoring Till’s weak protests.
“Don’t—” Till started, but Luka just hooked an arm under his knees and another around his back, lifting him clean off the seat.
“You don’t get a vote,” Luka muttered, his tone firm but the grip careful, protective.
The others didn’t even question it. Hyuna was already barking at the guards on duty to open the infirmary doors, Dewey and Mizi unloading gear from the jeep while Isaac gave a clipped report to whoever was listening. It was routine by now—the rebels coming back battered and dragging trouble in with them. The medics were used to the chaos.
The smell of antiseptic hit them before they even reached the white-lit corridor. Luka’s boots echoed off the floor, his pace unrelenting. Till’s head lolled against his shoulder, his eyes half-lidded.
“You’re ridiculous,” Till mumbled.
“Yep,” Luka said shortly, pushing the infirmary doors open with his shoulder. “And you’re bleeding, so shut up.”
Inside, the doctors barely blinked—already pulling gloves on, snapping instructions at each other. Someone started to usher Luka toward a bed, but he didn’t set Till down until the medics were physically there to take him.
He let go reluctantly, stepping back only when Till was propped up and checked over. His shirt—what was left of it—was stained with dried blood, his hands raw from holding on so tightly.
“Sit,” one of the medics ordered Luka. “You’re getting checked too.”
“I’m fine—”
“Sit,” they repeated, sharper.
The rest of the team filed in behind them, each sporting their own fresh scrapes and bruises. It was like clockwork—one mission down, another night keeping the infirmary staff busy.
But Luka’s eyes never left Till, even as someone pressed antiseptic into a cut on his arm.
One by one, the others were waved off by the medics—patched up, bandaged, and dismissed with orders to rest. The infirmary grew quieter with each departing set of footsteps until only Till remained, perched stubbornly on the edge of the bed.
“I’m fine,” he insisted for the fifth time, voice low and tired. “Just… tired.”
“Yeah, tired and bleeding,” Luka muttered, sitting close enough that his knee touched Till’s. He didn’t move until the medic had finished wrapping Till’s head properly, clean white gauze replacing the blood-soaked makeshift cloth.
Till exhaled, leaning back against the pillow. Luka watched him for a long moment—his pale face, the dark smudges under his eyes, the way his breathing finally evened out now that they were safe.
“You’re an idiot,” Luka said quietly. It wasn’t harsh, more like a sigh pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.
Till didn’t answer, his eyes slipping shut.
Luka hesitated, then took off his boots and climbed up onto the narrow bed beside him. Till didn’t even open his eyes when Luka slid an arm behind his shoulders and pulled him close, just murmured something incoherent and let his head rest on Luka’s chest.
They didn’t talk. There was too much to say and not enough energy to say it. Tomorrow will be messy—full of questions, arguments, and explanations. But for now, Luka’s hand rested over Till’s side, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Within minutes, both of them had drifted off, tangled together under the harsh infirmary lights, the rest of the world shut out.
Chapter 35
Notes:
By the way, the scene in the club where Luka sings ( spoilers ig), I imagine him singing Y Si Fuera Ella by Shinee (Jonghyun solo) . I know the lyrics don't fit at all with the situation or anything in the fic, but it's just the song with his voice screams perfection.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning light was muted. Someone had left breakfast on the small table beside the bed — bread, fruit, and two steaming mugs that had long since cooled. Luka was still half-buried in the thin hospital blanket when Till stirred, stretching his legs with a low groan. His hair was a mess, falling over the bandage around his head, and his shoulders rolled stiffly as if even the air was sore.
Luka sat up too, rubbing a hand over his face.
“How do you feel?” His voice was quiet, not quite casual.
Till shrugged without looking at him. “Fine.”
But the air between them was anything, but fine. The tension hung there — heavy, raw — in the way Till didn’t quite meet Luka’s eyes, in the way Luka’s fingers curled into the blanket instead of reaching for him. Yesterday’s chaos, the reckless deal Luka nearly made, the sight of blood and guns pressed to skulls — it hadn’t left either of them.
The smell of stale coffee filled the space. Neither moved for the breakfast. Both of them probably needed a shower more than food, sweat and smoke still clinging to their skin from the night before. Luka’s mind kept going back to that moment, over and over, the feel of a gun barrel aimed at Till’s head, and Till’s mind kept circling Luka’s voice saying I’ll do anything.
They didn’t speak about it yet. Not here. Not before they had to.
The food tasted like nothing. Till sat cross-legged on the bed, chewing with slow stubborn motions, the fork heavy in his hand. Luka pushed his own plate around, appetite gone before he even tried. He glanced up once, twice, the words balancing on his tongue before finally breaking the silence.
“Till—”
But Till didn’t answer. He kept chewing, eyes on the wall. His jaw flexed once, hard. The fork scraped against the plate.
Luka swallowed down the irritation that rose sharp in his throat, but it slipped out anyway in the way his voice lowered.
“Are you really going to ignore me right now?”
Still nothing. The silence was louder than the music that had haunted the club last night.
Luka shut his mouth. His pulse thudded hot in his neck as he shoved back from the chair, the legs screeching against the floor. He couldn’t sit here, couldn’t suffocate under this cold shoulder when he had nearly ripped his soul apart to keep Till alive. The slam of the infirmary door echoed down the hallway.
★
The shower hissed, steaming up the small bathroom in Luka’s room. He stood with his forehead pressed against the cool tile, water cascading over his shoulders, trying to wash away the grime, the smoke, the blood that had dried under his fingernails. His hands braced against the wall, chest heaving as his thoughts crashed in waves.
He could’ve been gone. Right now, he could’ve been with Heperu — the collar back on his neck, his life shrunk back down to a cage of punishments and commands. Luka didn’t let himself imagine the specifics, but his stomach turned anyway. Everything had happened so fast, spiraling out of control, and his only thought in that moment had been don’t let them touch Till.
And now? Now Till was mad at him. Or hurt. Or both. Luka didn’t even know what he’d done to deserve that cold silence. There had been no way out. No clever plan, no miracle opening. Just him making the only choice he could. And he had made it. For Till. For all of them.
So why did it feel like it wasn’t enough?
He pressed his palms harder against the tiles, water streaming down his face. He was so tired. So tired of choosing, of thinking, of being the one who had to calculate survival while his own chest hollowed out. He shut off the water and stood there dripping, the silence almost too heavy.
When he dressed, hoodie and sweatpants hanging loose on his damp frame, he couldn’t stop pacing. The room felt too small for his thoughts, walls closing in with the weight of everything he replayed in his mind: the gun at Till’s head, Heperu’s voice like poison, his own voice breaking when he said I’ll do anything. Over and over. Every step of it.
And he didn’t know how to fix any of it.
Finally, he stopped. Stared at the door. And before he could talk himself out of it, he turned the handle
★
Back in the infirmary, the silence had teeth. The slam of the door still clung to the walls, and Till sat frozen in its echo. He dropped the fork onto the tray with a dull clatter, staring at his hands.
Why had he done that? Why had he turned cold, silent, when all he really wanted was to grab Luka and shake him, to scream at him, to beg him not to even think about leaving?
He should’ve been grateful. Luka had kept them all alive. Luka had nearly damned himself in exchange for Till’s safety. And yet the thought of him walking toward Heperu — of him giving himself up so easily — burned like acid in Till’s chest.
He had waited for Luka. Four months of waiting by his bed, of talking to a body that wouldn’t wake, of hoping for just one more day with him. And now that he had him back, Luka had been ready to throw it away. To leave.
Till’s throat ached. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to cling. He wanted to stop thinking. But the truth was simple, bare: he just didn’t want to lose him.
He dragged his hands down his face and leaned back against the pillows. The bandage on his head throbbed with every heartbeat, but that wasn’t what made his chest feel raw.
The door creaked open.
Till’s head jerked up. Luka stepped inside, hoodie damp from his hair, exhaustion stamped deep into the lines of his face. His eyes flicked to Till, and for a heartbeat the room was still, as if the air itself waited to see what would happen.
Luka shut the door behind him more carefully this time. The click was soft, but it still made Till flinch. He kept his eyes fixed on the blanket bunched in his lap, jaw tight.
Luka cleared his throat, voice low, almost careful.
“We need to talk.”
Till didn’t answer. His fingers picked at the edge of the sheets, slow and deliberate. Luka exhaled through his nose, stepping closer.
“I get that you’re upset. I do. But ignoring me doesn’t fix anything. I—” he paused, searching for words that didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “I didn’t have a choice, Till.”
That finally made Till’s head snap up, eyes flashing.
“Didn’t have a choice? You were ready to walk away. To just—” his voice cracked, and he forced it sharper, harsher, “to hand yourself over like it was nothing.”
Luka’s mouth opened, then closed. He rubbed a hand across his face, frustrated.
“It wasn’t nothing. I thought— I thought if it kept you alive, if it kept them alive, it was worth it.”
Till pushed himself up straighter on the bed despite the dizziness pulling at him.
“Worth it? You think losing you would’ve been worth it? After everything— after I waited—” His voice broke again, and he bit it down into anger. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“Do you hear yourself?” Luka shot back, voice rising for the first time. “I was trying to protect you. To protect all of you. What the hell else was I supposed to do? Watch them shoot you in the head?”
“You’re supposed to fight!” Till snapped, louder now, eyes bright and wet. “You’re supposed to stay here with us! Not— not go crawling back to him like some—” He stopped, choking on the words.
The silence after that was sharp, both of them breathing hard.
Luka’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His voice was tight, clipped.
“You think I wanted that? You think I didn’t hate every second of it? I would’ve rather died than go back there. But if it came down to me or you—” He shook his head, jaw set. “I wasn’t going to let it be you.”
Till let out a bitter laugh, short and broken.
“Funny. Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were ready to let it be us just so you could play the hero again.”
That hit Luka like a slap. His face hardened.
“You don’t get it.”
“Then make me get it,” Till snapped.
But Luka didn’t. He just stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes dark and unreadable.
The silence stretched until Till threw himself back against the pillows, turning his face away.
“Forget it,” he muttered, voice raw. “Just… forget it.”
Luka’s throat ached. He wanted to shout, to shake Till, to drag the words out until they understood each other, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not when every word was twisting into something uglier.
He dragged a hand through his damp hair, then turned for the door. His voice, when it came, was low and cold.
“We’ll talk when you’re ready to listen.”
The door shut behind him, quiet but final, leaving Till staring at the ceiling with his fists clenched tight in the sheets.
★
With a heavy sigh, he left the room again, wandering down to the common room.
The others were already there—Hyuna, Mizi, Isaac, Dewey—all gathered around the couches, talking in low voices. Luka didn’t bother greeting them. He went straight to the cabinet, grabbed a bottle of something strong, and twisted it open. The smell stung his nose, but he tipped it back anyway.
Dewey let out a low whistle.
Hyuna raised a brow. “Isn’t it a little too early for alcohol?”
Luka swallowed hard and leaned against the wall, bottle dangling from his fingers. His lips twisted into a humorless smile.
“Never.”
Dewey leaned toward Isaac, whispering under his breath, “Lovers’ quarrel again…”
Isaac just shot him a look, but didn’t say anything.
Mizi, on the other hand, sat with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but her eyes full of quiet knowledge. She wasn’t going to ask. None of them were. They all just pretended it was fine, kept the conversation going about other things.
Luka ignored them and kept drinking.
★
Till sat alone in the infirmary, the slam of the door still ringing in his ears. He didn’t even know why he’d done that again. Why did he brush Luka off like that? He cursed under his breath.
He was glad Luka was here. God, he was glad. Because if things had gone differently, Luka would be gone now—dragged back by Heperu, punished, maybe worse. Luka had been ready to sacrifice himself to save them all, and Till… Till had spit it back in his face. He’d said things he didn’t mean, things that burned to admit.
Why was he like this? Why was he so angry, so scared, all at once? He had waited four long months for Luka to wake up, for him to come back, and now… what? For him to throw himself away the first chance he got? Till understood why Luka had done it. He gets it. And yet, the thought of losing him again made him furious.
Later that day, the nurses finally discharged him. His head was wrapped properly now, the dizziness still lingering, but he was fine enough to leave. Till went straight to his room. The shower was bliss, washing away sweat, dirt, and the metallic tang of blood.
When he stepped out, toweling his hair dry, the silence of the room hit him. Luka wasn’t here.
Till sat down heavily on the bed, staring at the floor. His chest hurt. He didn’t mean to be so harsh earlier. Luka had given him everything, told him everything about Heperu, about his past. He’d risked everything to save them. And Till had thrown it back at him with cold words and silence.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his face.
He had to fix this. He couldn’t leave it like this.
Till spent the rest of the day wandering the halls of the base, searching. He didn’t find Luka anywhere. The others, though, were surprised to see him up and walking around.
“Have you seen Luka?” Till asked when he finally stumbled upon the group in the common room.
They exchanged glances with each other, a silent conversation. Dewey scratched the back of his neck, about to say something, but Hyuna cut him off smoothly.
“You might want to check his room.”
Till frowned, confused, but his feet were already moving before he could ask why.
When he reached Luka’s door and pushed it open, he froze.
The room was dark, curtains drawn so tightly it might as well have been night. Clothes were strewn over the chair, boots kicked off in a corner. The air was heavy with the bitter scent of alcohol. And there, sitting slouched on the floor beside the bed, was Luka. A bottle hung from his hand, his head bowed.
Till’s breath caught. His heart dropped straight through the floor.
“Fuck…” he whispered.
Till pushed the door shut behind him, heart pounding in his throat. His eyes adjusted quickly, Luka, slumped on the floor next to his bed, hoodie wrinkled, an almost-empty bottle dangling loosely from his hand. His long legs were sprawled out, one knee bent, his posture screaming of defeat.
He moved forward quickly, kneeling down, grabbing the bottle straight out of Luka’s hand.
“You’re drunk,” Till snapped, more panicked than angry, though it came out sharp. “Why the fuck are you drinking in the middle of the day?”
Luka’s head tipped lazily toward him, eyes glassy, lips curling in something that was half a bitter smile, half a grimace. He muttered, voice thick, “What… Now you want to listen? Now you wanna talk?”
That landed like a punch. Till stared at him, the ache in his chest twisting tighter. He sighed, his hands tightening around the bottle. “Luka…”
But Luka’s eyes, bloodshot and tired, met his, and the anger was there—buried under exhaustion, alcohol, and despair.
The tension snapped.
Words started spilling fast, sharp, cutting both ways. Luka accuses him of giving the cold shoulder, of being ungrateful after what he did. Till firing back that Luka scared the shit out of him, that watching him almost throw himself back into a nightmare destroyed him. The fight circled the same points, louder each time, neither willing to give ground.
“You don’t get it!” Till’s voice cracked, louder than he meant. “You think I’m just mad because you made a choice—no! I’m mad because you were ready to leave. You—” his voice broke off, throat burning, “—you didn’t even think about me, about us! After everything!”
“I did think about you!” Luka yelled back, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, swaying a little but fueled by anger. “That’s the whole fucking point, Till! I thought about you! About them! I thought about every single one of you while Heperu’s hand was on me, while his guards had a gun to your head—what the fuck was I supposed to do, huh?!”
“Not that!” Till shouted. His hands shook as he gestured helplessly. “Not throw yourself away! You think you’re the only one who gets to make sacrifices? You think I can just sit back and watch you give up your life like it’s nothing?!”
“It’s not nothing!” Luka’s voice cracked, rough and raw. His breathing came fast now, ragged, his chest heaving as the floodgates inside him broke open. His hands clenched at his sides, then lifted, raking through his damp hair as if he could rip the frustration out of his skull.
“Every time—every fucking time something happens, I see the eyes. Their eyes—all of them—on me,” he shouted, jabbing his finger at his own chest, his voice shaking with rage and despair. “Waiting. Always waiting for me to decide, to come up with something because I’m supposed to be the smart one, right? I’m supposed to have the answers. I’m supposed to save everyone.”
He laughed, sharp and humorless, and his voice broke again. “But I can’t. I can’t! I couldn’t think of anything, Till! My head was empty—I was scared—fuck, I was so scared. I’m tired. Do you hear me? I’m so fucking tired of being the one they depend on. I can’t keep doing it. I can’t—”
His voice cracked and his whole body trembled, as though something inside him snapped. His eyes shone wet in the dim light, and before Till could speak, Luka’s voice dropped, hoarse and raw, words tumbling out like they were being ripped straight from his chest.
“I’d prefer death than going back to Heperu. I’d rather die. But if it meant saving you—I’ll do it. I’ll do it again and again and again. I’ll let him kill me, I’ll let him take me, I’ll let him do anything—because I love you so fucking much, Till, and you don’t even see it. You don’t even get it. I don’t deserve you—”
His voice cracked into a sob, and his body folded in on itself. Luka sank back down to the floor, knees drawn up, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook violently, breath hitching between half-sobs and half-gasps as the dam finally broke.
“I’m tired,” he whispered, over and over like a mantra, voice hoarse and raw. “I never wished to play the hero. I never wanted this. I don’t want glory, I don’t want the eyes on me, I don’t want to fucking decide everything. I just—” his voice broke into a wail, muffled behind his hands, “—I just don’t want to lose you.”
Till’s knees hit the floor beside him instantly. His chest ached so hard he thought it might split open, watching Luka unravel, watching him break in a way Till had never seen. He reached out, grabbing Luka’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face, and Luka’s tear-streaked expression nearly shattered him.
“Stop,” Till whispered, desperate, shaking his head hard. “Stop saying that. Stop saying if I lose you it’ll be okay—because it won’t. It won’t. You hear me? I can’t lose you either, Luka. I can’t.”
Luka shook his head, choking on his sobs, trying to curl back into himself, but Till wouldn’t let him.
“I’m sorry,” Till whispered fiercely, his voice shaking as much as his hands. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know about your pain, I see it—I’ve seen it— and yet… I should have. I should have—”
His words cut off as he hauled Luka forward, wrapping his arms around him tight, pulling him into his chest. Luka collapsed into the embrace instantly, burying his face against Till, sobbing into the fabric of his shirt like he was falling apart piece by piece.
Till held him, one hand cradling the back of Luka’s head, the other gripping his back with enough force to bruise, as if anchoring him in place. His own tears slipped hot down his cheeks, soaking into Luka’s hair.
“I’m here,” Till whispered into the crown of his head, over and over, voice trembling. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.’’
Luka shook violently against him, clinging back, fingers curling into Till’s shirt with desperate strength, muffled sobs breaking his words.
Till had never heard him cry like this. Not choked-back tears, not angry shouts—but raw, broken sobs of a man pushed too far, of someone who had been holding the world on his shoulders until he finally collapsed under the weight.
It hurt. It hurt more than any wound Till had ever had.
But he only held Luka tighter, whispering into his hair, rocking them both gently as if his arms alone could keep him together.
Luka’s sobs eventually began to quiet, breaking into ragged gasps as his chest rose and fell against Till’s. His fists still gripped Till’s shirt in white-knuckled desperation, like if he let go the world would swallow him whole.
Till pressed his cheek into Luka’s hair, his own face streaked with tears, voice low but firm. “I shouldn’t have said those things,” he whispered, each word trembling with guilt. “I didn’t mean any of it. I was angry, and scared, and I lashed out. But I didn’t mean it. Not for a second.”
Luka’s breath hitched against him. He didn’t speak right away, only pressed his face harder into Till’s chest as if trying to hide from the weight of everything. After a long pause, he gave a small, shaky nod. His voice, when it came, was muffled and hoarse. “I know… I know you didn’t mean it.”
The words nearly broke Till again. Relief and regret twisted painfully in his chest as he tightened his hold around Luka, whispering, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Luka.”
“I know,” Luka murmured again, weaker this time. His body sagged a little, the fight drained from him. The alcohol had dulled his edges, left him raw and unsteady. Being drunk and emotionally torn open was a dangerous mix—he was vulnerable in a way Till had never seen, too fragile to stand on his own right now.
So Till didn’t let him.
They stayed there on the floor, tangled together, Till’s arms wrapped around Luka like a shield. Slowly, Luka’s trembling began to ease, though his breathing stayed uneven. His head rested heavily against Till’s chest, eyes closed, as though the exhaustion was finally dragging him down after the storm.
The room stayed dark and heavy, the silence filled only by the faint sound of Luka’s uneven breathing, the occasional shudder through his frame.
Till’s heart ached, but he didn’t loosen his hold. He wouldn’t. Not tonight.
The minutes blurred together after the storm of Luka’s breakdown. Neither of them moved at first, both too wrung out to do anything but breathe in ragged gasps. The floor was hard, the air thick, but none of it mattered. Till’s arms stayed locked around Luka, because letting go felt impossible.
Eventually, Luka shifted with a weary groan, his body slack with exhaustion. Till adjusted, easing himself back until he could sit against the side of the bed. Luka resisted for a moment, but then gave in, stretching out and lowering himself down, his head finding its place in Till’s lap.
Till’s heart clenched at how heavy he felt, how utterly drained. He brushed Luka’s damp hair back from his forehead, hand lingering there as though touch alone could anchor him. Luka’s eyes were half-shut, glassy, lips parted like he might drift off at any second.
Till’s gaze wandered, and that’s when he noticed the bottle lying abandoned near the bed. His chest tightened. When he’d yanked it out of Luka’s hand earlier, he hadn’t registered just how light it was—how little sloshing there was inside. Now, looking at it properly in the dim light, he realized it was almost empty.
A curse slipped out under his breath. Shit.
That much alcohol, in the middle of the day. On an empty stomach, probably—Till couldn’t remember seeing Luka eat anything this morning. No wonder he’d unraveled like this, no wonder his hands were trembling, his words spiraling, his body sagging like all the strings holding him up had snapped at once.
“Damn it, Luka…” Till whispered, so quietly it was almost to himself.
He looked back down. Luka’s eyes fluttered, lids heavy, but they didn’t open all the way. His lips moved, like he wanted to say something, but no sound came out. Instead, he let out a soft sigh and burrowed faintly into Till’s thigh, as though the only thing he trusted right now was the warmth there.
Till’s chest ached. His fingers stroked through Luka’s hair again, slower this time, a steady rhythm to soothe them both.
“You didn’t even eat,” he murmured, guilt sharp in his voice even though Luka was barely conscious enough to hear. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself…”
The words hung uselessly in the air, swallowed by the silence of the room.
Till leaned his head back against the bed frame, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t stop seeing that nearly empty bottle. Couldn’t stop replaying the sound of Luka’s voice breaking when he said he’d do anything for him, even die, even give up. Couldn’t stop feeling the way his chest had shaken when he sobbed into Till’s arms.
And now here he was, lying fragile and drunk in his lap, tears still drying on his face.
Till’s hand never left him, even as his own eyes burned. He held on, because Luka needed someone to hold him together tonight. And Till wasn’t going to let go. Not when Luka had given him everything he had left.
The room was too still, too quiet for Till’s liking. His back ached where it pressed against the edge of the bed, his legs were starting to tingle beneath Luka’s weight, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Luka’s head was heavy in his lap, his breathing uneven but steady enough to tell Till he was asleep.
Till’s fingers combed slowly through his hair, smoothing the strands damp from sweat and tears. He kept the motion rhythmic, gentle, anything to ease Luka deeper into rest. He told himself it was for Luka, but really, it was for him too—something to ground him, to stop the restless thoughts from tearing him apart.
The bottle glinted in the dim light beside them, mocking him. Till’s eyes kept dragging back to it, jaw tight. He hated that Luka had reached for that, hated that he’d drowned himself in it until there was almost nothing left inside. It wasn’t the first bad choice Luka had made to cope, and it wouldn’t be the last, but watching him spiral like this hurt more than Till wanted to admit.
He sighed and leaned his head back against the bedframe, eyelids drooping. His body begged for rest, for sleep, but he forced himself to stay awake. Luka had drunk too much, too fast, and on an empty stomach. If he got sick, if he choked—Till wasn’t going to risk that.
His hand lingered at Luka’s temple, thumb tracing faint, absent-minded circles against his skin. The warmth there was strangely soothing. Every few minutes, Luka twitched faintly, his face scrunching as though some nightmare flickered behind his eyelids. But he always settled again, breathing evening out under Till’s touch.
Till’s own eyes burned with fatigue. He fought against it, blinked hard, shifted slightly to keep himself alert. His free hand pressed against his thigh, a sharp pinch of nails into fabric to jolt himself back whenever his mind started to drift. He couldn’t afford to nod off. Not now.
At one point Luka stirred more noticeably, a low sound catching in his throat as his body shifted against him. Till straightened immediately, his heart in his mouth. His hand moved from Luka’s hair to his shoulder, ready to push him up, to grab something in case he was sick.
But Luka only groaned faintly, his lips parting as though to speak, and then rolled slightly closer into Till’s lap. His lashes fluttered but didn’t open. Instead, his breathing deepened again, slipping back into sleep.
Till let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He lowered his hand, carefully stroking through Luka’s hair once more, calming both of them.
“Scared me there,” he whispered, voice rough, though Luka couldn’t hear him.
For a moment, Till let his own eyes close, just for a heartbeat. Just long enough to listen to the steady rhythm of Luka’s breaths. He forced them open again almost immediately, jaw tight. He’d stay awake. No matter how heavy his head felt, no matter how tempting the pull of rest was, he wasn’t leaving Luka unguarded.
★
At some point, Till’s body gave up fighting him. The ache in his spine dulled, his head grew too heavy, and despite his best efforts to stay alert, he drifted. His hand had stilled where it rested in Luka’s hair, his breathing falling into the same rhythm as Luka’s.
He didn’t know how long he’d been out before the faintest touch pulled him back. A shift of weight, a muffled sound, then fingers brushing weakly against his arm. Till stirred, blinking through the fog of sleep until Luka’s face came into focus.
“Hey…” Till’s voice cracked with grogginess. Luka was blinking up at him, lips parted, eyes bloodshot and glassy. He tried to speak but whatever came out was barely a whisper, too hoarse to make sense of.
Till exhaled, brushing hair from Luka’s damp forehead. “You shouldn’t even try to talk right now. Save your strength.”
Luka only hummed faintly, eyes slipping shut again as if even staying awake was a battle.
With a sigh, Till shifted, muscles protesting from sitting so long in one position. Carefully, he maneuvered Luka upright, steadying him with firm hands as he coaxed him onto the bed. Luka’s body was heavy with exhaustion, resisting every movement, but Till managed to ease him back against the pillows.
“There we go…” Till murmured, smoothing the blanket over him. Luka’s eyes fluttered open just long enough to watch him, a fragile flicker of awareness in his gaze. Till leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
Luka let out something between a grunt and a hum, his head tilting just enough to nuzzle into the pillow. Till lingered a second longer, hand brushing over Luka’s before he forced himself to pull away.
The room was stuffy, the air carrying the faint, bitter tang of alcohol. Till’s chest tightened as his eyes flicked to the empty bottle again. He clenched his jaw, swallowing the anger threatening to rise, and turned for the door.
He needed food. Something to settle Luka’s stomach, to put strength back into him. And maybe—if he was lucky—he could find something in the med stores for the headache Luka would surely wake with, or something to ease the weight still dragging on his body.
When Till closed the door behind him, he paused in the hallway, letting his forehead rest briefly against the cool wall. A sigh slipped out of him, heavy, dragging. He was exhausted too, every inch of him aching, but there was no room for that. Not when Luka was like this.
He straightened, shoulders squared, and set off down the hall. First food. Then meds. Then back to Luka—always back to Luka.
The kitchen was nearly empty when Till got there, just the hum of the fridge and the faint clatter of someone cleaning dishes in the back. He kept his head down, grabbed what he could without thinking too much: bread, some cheese, a bit of fruit. His hands hovered over a pot of soup left warming on the stove—light, easy enough for Luka to stomach—and he ladled some into a bowl, balancing it carefully on a tray with the rest.
On the way back he stopped by the infirmary. The nurse on duty gave him a skeptical look when he asked for something mild for a hangover. Till didn’t bother explaining—just took the little packet of tablets and a bottle of water with a mumbled thanks.
By the time he reached Luka’s room again, his chest felt tight. He pushed the door open slowly, quiet, afraid that Luka might have slipped further under.
But Luka was still there, curled against the pillows, half-asleep but restless. His brows were drawn, his breathing uneven. The blanket had slipped, one hand hanging limply off the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” Till whispered as he set the tray down on the desk. He crossed the room, gently tucking Luka’s hand back under the blanket. “I’m back.”
Luka stirred at the sound of his voice, lids heavy as they blinked open. He mumbled something, incomprehensible, before letting his eyes fall shut again.
Till sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “I brought you food. You need to eat, Luka.” His hand ghosted over Luka’s shoulder, not quite shaking him, just coaxing. “Come on. Just a little.”
It took a while—longer than Till would have liked—for Luka to respond. He groaned, rolling his head toward him, looking more like a stubborn child than the man who carried so much weight every day.
Till’s chest ached. He reached for the bowl, balancing it in one hand as he spooned up some broth. “Sit up for me. Just a few bites. You’ll feel better.”
With effort, and a lot of Till’s help, Luka sat halfway upright against the headboard. His head lolled once, his eyes unfocused, but when Till pressed the spoon gently to his lips, he accepted it.
“That’s it,” Till murmured, voice soft, almost coaxing. “Good.”
They went slowly—spoon by spoon, pause by pause—until Luka had managed enough for the color to return faintly to his face. He sagged back after, utterly spent, and Till set the bowl aside.
“Water now,” Till said, holding the bottle to Luka’s lips. He tilted it carefully, not letting him choke. Then, pressing the tablets into his hand, he added, “These will help with the headache. You’ll need to swallow.”
Luka managed, though his hands trembled so badly that Till kept one steady with his own.
When it was done, Till exhaled, his thumb brushing unconsciously over Luka’s knuckles. “There we go. That wasn’t so bad.”
Luka leaned back again, eyes already half-lidded, the worst of the tension easing from his face. For the first time that day, he looked… not good, not fine, but softer. Less tormented.
Till stayed there, watching him, his own chest tightening with the weight of it all. The bottle still sat on the floor, an ugly reminder in the corner of his eye. He hated it. Hated that Luka had turned to that instead of him. But right now wasn’t the time to scold again.
Instead, he pulled the blanket higher, smoothing Luka’s hair back from his forehead. “Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll stay right here.”
And when Luka’s breathing evened out, Till sat back against the headboard, tray forgotten, exhaustion clawing at him again. He didn’t let himself close his eyes yet. Not while Luka needed him.
★
It was night already when Luka stirred again. Till had dozed off at some point, chin resting against his shoulder, but the smallest shift in weight pulled him back to awareness. He blinked blearily, rubbing at his eyes, then looked down.
Luka was awake. Not fully—his eyes were still heavy, his movements sluggish—but this time, there was recognition behind them. He swallowed, throat dry, and whispered, “Till?”
Till straightened immediately. “I’m here.”
Luka frowned faintly, eyes darting around the room as if to anchor himself. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “Did you… stay the whole time?”
“Of course I did,” Till said, too quickly, too certain. He shifted, brushing his hand against Luka’s hair. “Where else would I be?”
Something flickered in Luka’s expression—shame, gratitude, exhaustion all tangled up—and he turned his face away. “You shouldn’t have to… babysit me.”
“I wasn’t babysitting,” Till said firmly. “You needed me. That’s all.”
Silence stretched between them. Till could feel Luka’s tension, the way his chest rose and fell unevenly, the way his fingers twisted in the blanket.
Finally, Luka whispered, “I didn’t mean to scare you. With the drinking.”
Till’s jaw clenched. He glanced at the empty bottle still shoved half under the bed, then back at Luka. “You did,” he admitted softly. “Seeing you like that—I didn’t know what to do. I just… I hate it. I don’t want to see you destroy yourself like that.”
Luka’s lips pressed together. He shifted, resting his forearm over his eyes, voice muffled. “It’s easier than thinking sometimes. I just wanted it to stop.”
Till’s chest ached. He carefully reached out, tugging Luka’s arm down so he could see his face again. “You don’t have to drown it out. Not with me. You can talk to me. Yell at me. Anything.”
Luka’s throat bobbed. His eyes glistened, though he tried to look away again. “And if I do?” His voice cracked, thin and desperate. “What if I drag you down with me?”
“You won’t,” Till said, without hesitation. He cupped Luka’s cheek, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Luka… I already told you—I can’t lose you. Not like that. Not to Heperu, not to your own head, not to a bottle. You’re stuck with me. Understand?”
That broke something in Luka. His lips trembled, and his eyes finally filled, tears spilling despite the way he turned his face into Till’s palm as if to hide. His voice shook, low and raw. “I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you.”
“Stop,” Till whispered fiercely, leaning closer. “Don’t say that. You deserve more than anyone. You’re allowed to be tired, to be scared, to break down—but don’t you dare say you don’t deserve me. Because I need you, Luka. Just as much as you need me.”
They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, until Luka’s tears slowed and his breathing steadied again. Till kissed the top of his head, not caring how raw it all felt.
★
The night settled heavy over the base, shadows stretching long across the walls. They had slept away most of the day without realizing it, only waking once the world outside was dark. Neither of them felt tired anymore.
Till sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook propped up on his knee, pencil moving in steady lines as he tried to capture something he couldn’t quite name. Luka, meanwhile, picked through the disaster his room had become, muttering under his breath every time he tripped over a jacket or kicked aside another empty bottle. It was the kind of aimless, absentminded cleaning that wasn’t really about tidying—it was just something to keep his hands busy, to keep from thinking too hard.
For a while, the only sounds were the scratch of pencil against paper and Luka opening and closing drawers without much purpose.
Eventually, Till broke the silence. He glanced up from his sketchbook, tapping the end of his pencil against the page. “You know,” he said slowly, “the others were talking about going out. To the club.”
Luka paused mid-step, a half-folded sweatshirt dangling from his hand. “…The club?”
“Yeah.” Till set the pencil down, shifting against the wall. “They haven’t had the time to just… I don’t know, blow off steam. Drink. Dance. Celebrate. And technically…” He gave a small shrug, eyes flicking up to meet Luka’s, “we did survive. We got what we went for.”
Luka hummed low in his throat, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He tossed the sweatshirt aside and leaned against the dresser, arms folded. “Guess that counts as a reason to celebrate.”
Till tilted his head, studying him. Something about Luka’s tone was flat, detached, but he let it go. “You still owe me a song, though,” he said, voice softer now.
That earned him the faintest smile. Luka raised an eyebrow. “How could I forget?”
“You better not,” Till said, trying for lightness. He got to his feet, restless energy buzzing through him, and began pacing slowly around the room. The night pressed cool and quiet against the windows, the kind of stillness that should have felt calm. But it didn’t. Not entirely.
Their words came easily, but every pause between them felt heavy, like both of them were circling around something neither dared touch. They had fought, they had broken open in front of each other, and now here they were—patching themselves back together with small talk and half-smiles, pretending the cracks weren’t still visible.
Till’s steps slowed. He glanced toward Luka, who was watching him quietly now, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.
The silence stretched too long.
Till opened his mouth, then closed it again. The thought lingered at the tip of his tongue—everything he hadn’t said yet, everything he wanted to—but he swallowed it back down. Luka’s gaze was sharp, expectant, as if he knew exactly what Till wasn’t saying.
It felt like standing in the eye of a storm—eerily still, but charged with the promise of what was coming next.
Neither of them said it. Not yet.
Till flipped his sketchbook shut, pacing a little faster as if the motion could keep the pressure from snapping. Luka’s eyes followed him across the room, and for a second, it seemed like he might be the one to break the quiet. But instead, he just leaned back against the wall, humming under his breath, letting the tension sit between them.
The night was too quiet. Too cold. Too calm.
And they both knew it wouldn’t last.
★
The morning after felt deceptively normal.
Till woke to the faint chill seeping in through the window, Luka already stirring beside him. The food Till got from last night was on the table. They sat across from each other as if nothing had happened, as if the night before hadn’t ended with Luka crying in his arms on the floor.
They didn’t talk much. Till chewed slowly, eyes fixed on his plate. Luka stretched his legs out, leaning back like he wanted to say something but couldn’t decide how. Every sound — the scrape of a fork, the sigh of the mattress when one of them shifted — hung heavy in the air.
It was the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful. It pressed down on them, thick and unspoken.
When they finally left the room, the others were gathered in the common room. Dewey was sprawled on the couch, Hyuna flipping through some notes, Isaac half-listening, and Mizi perched quietly with her tea.
The second Till and Luka stepped inside, heads turned. Not in a suspicious way, but in that too-quiet, too-aware way that meant everyone noticed the stiffness between them.
“Morning,” Luka muttered, heading straight for the shelf to grab a mug.
“Morning,” Dewey echoed, drawing out the word. His grin was quick, sharp. He nudged Isaac with his elbow.
Hyuna’s eyes flicked between the two of them and narrowed. “You both look like you didn’t sleep at all,” she said flatly.
“We slept,” Till answered too quickly.
“Right,” Hyuna muttered, but didn’t press.
Mizi didn’t say a word, but her gaze lingered on Luka’s back as he poured himself coffee. She looked like she knew more than she let on, and maybe she did.
The group tried to slip back into conversation, but the situation was different now. Everyone could feel it. Luka sat down at the edge of the couch, mug in hand, and Till stood leaning against the wall, sketchbook tucked under his arm, neither of them looking at each other.
And just like that, the day began — with everything seemingly normal, but everyone knowing it wasn’t.
Dewey leaned forward suddenly, clapping his hands together. “Alright, this is depressing. We’re hitting the club tonight.”
Isaac shot him a look. Dewey just smirked, leaning back on the couch.
Hyuna crossed her arms. “It’s not the worst idea. Everyone needs to release some tension before the next mission. And—” she flicked her eyes toward Luka and Till, “—we haven’t exactly celebrated that we’re still alive.”
Till’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t say anything.
Mizi sipped her tea. “I suppose a night wouldn’t hurt.”
The group lapsed into scattered discussion — who would actually go, whether anyone remembered the last time they danced. Luka stayed quiet, mug warming his hands, gaze fixed on the floor.
It was Isaac who broke away from the conversation, catching Luka’s eye with a small gesture. Luka hesitated, then stood and followed him down the hall, away from the others.
For a long moment, Isaac didn’t say anything. He just stood with his arms crossed, searching Luka’s face with that steady, measuring stare of his. Finally, he spoke.
“You were really going to do it,” Isaac said.
Luka swallowed. His fingers tightened around the mug. “…Yeah.”
Isaac’s jaw worked, something flickering in his expression. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just weight. “That would’ve been the end of you.”
“I know.” Luka’s voice was low. “But it would’ve saved him. Saved all of you.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy but not hostile. Then Isaac reached into his jacket pocket, pulled something out, and pressed it into Luka’s hand.
It was small. Worn. A lighter — silver, scratched from years of use. Luka turned it over in his palm, confused.
“That was Jacob’s,” Isaac said quietly. “He used to carry it everywhere. Drove me insane, clicking it on and off during planning meetings. After he—” His throat tightened, but he kept going. “After he was gone, I kept it. Couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.”
Luka froze. “Isaac, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” Isaac’s tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. “I don’t need it anymore. You’ve proven more than once you belong here. You’ve proven you’d risk everything for the people around you. That’s exactly the kind of person Jacob believed in.”
Luka stared down at the lighter, chest tight. “I don’t know if I deserve—”
“You do,” Isaac cut in. “And I’ll say it again, in case it wasn’t clear the first time: thank you. For what you were willing to do. For being here.”
For a second, Luka thought he might actually break right there in the hallway. His throat burned, but he nodded instead, closing his fingers around the lighter like it might vanish if he let go.
“…Thank you,” he managed, voice rough.
Isaac gave a small nod, clapped him once on the shoulder, then turned back toward the common room without another word. Luka stood there for a long moment, staring down at the weight of the silver in his palm, like it was more than metal. Like it was trust.
Luka slipped quietly into his chair, mug in hand. He felt the weight of the lighter in his pocket like a secret.
Till’s gaze found him almost immediately. There was no question, no words — just that quiet intensity in his eyes, a silent are you alright? Luka gave the smallest nod, like a promise, and Till’s shoulders eased.
No one pushed. No one asked. They just let the day carry on around them. The chatter filled the space, the warmth of bodies and voices wrapping around like a shield. Luka sat there, listening more than talking, the weight in his chest a little lighter than before.
The hours slipped by like that — the group sprawled across couches and chairs, teasing each other, planning half-serious dance competitions, making lists of songs. Till stayed close, not hovering, but present. Every now and then, their eyes met, just a flicker, a reminder.
Luka leaned back eventually, mug resting on his knee, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself breathe. Just for now, this was enough.
★
By the time the sun dipped low, the common room had emptied out — everyone scattering to their own spaces to get ready.
Luka tugged on a clean shirt, the fabric clinging a little too tightly across his shoulders. He caught his reflection in the mirror, frowning at how tired his eyes still looked. A shake of his head, and he pulled on a jacket, brushing fingers through his hair like it might erase the weight still sitting behind his ribs.
When Till showed up at his door, hoodie loose around him, hair damp from a quick shower, Luka felt his chest tighten. He smiled anyway — the same easy, practiced curve of his mouth.
“Ready?” Till asked.
“Yeah,” Luka answered, grabbing his boots.
When they finally regrouped with the others, Dewey was already buzzing with energy, Hyuna was threatening him with something, and Mizi was quietly adjusting her earrings. Isaac stood at the back, calm as ever.
Luka glanced at Till once more before stepping into the noise, into the group. Till’s eyes lingered, searching, and Luka answered with another nod. Fine. Everything’s fine.
For now, they could pretend.
The club hit them like a wave the moment they stepped inside — music so loud it pressed against their ribs, the bass thudding through the floor and up their legs. The air was thick with smoke, perfume, sweat; neon lights cut across the dark in pulsing streaks of red, blue, and violet. For a moment, all of them just stood there, blinking against the sensory overload. It had been so long since they’d set foot in a place like this.
“Holy shit,” Dewey laughed, already half-yelling to be heard over the music. “I forgot how loud this is!”
“Feels like being punched in the chest,” Hyuna muttered, though she couldn’t hide the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.
They moved together instinctively, weaving through the crowd until they found an empty table tucked just close enough to the dance floor. The first round of drinks landed quickly — glasses sweating against the table, bottles clinking as they were dropped in front of them. Luka slid into the booth, leaning back, trying to take it all in. The flashing lights, the sheer pulse of life in this place. For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Dewey was the first to raise his glass, grinning like he’d been waiting his whole life for this. “Alright! First toast. To us—” He gestured wildly around the table. “For not dying! For surviving that hellhole of a mission. And finally doing something fun.”
They all raised their glasses. The clink cut through the noise for just a heartbeat before they drank.
Luka let the burn settle in his throat, exhaling slowly.
“Now—” Dewey slammed his empty glass down with a flourish. “Lesson time. You guys don’t know how to drink until you’ve done it my way. If you thought that was drinking, I'm about to teach you how to do it properly!”
“Oh no,” Hyuna groaned, dragging a hand down her face.
But Dewey was already flagging the bartender for a tray of shot glasses. “You gotta learn sometime!” he said, lining them up like it was a ceremony. “Step one: don’t think. Step two: tilt your head back. Step three: hope for the best.”
He demonstrated with one fluid motion, slamming the empty glass down upside down on the table.
“Easy.”
“Idiotic,” Hyuna corrected.
“Traditional,” Dewey countered with mock offense, shoving a shot toward Luka, then one toward Till.
Luka eyed his shot like it was a dare. The clear liquid caught the neon glow, sharp and inviting. He smirked faintly, lifted it, and tipped it back. It burned just as fiercely as he remembered. His chest tightened, then loosened, a cough slipping out as he set the glass down.
Dewey whooped, clapping him on the shoulder. “Atta boy! See? Natural.”
Till followed a beat later, slower, deliberate — his expression twisting as the liquor hit, but he managed to slam the glass down the way Dewey showed them. Luka caught the grimace, biting back a laugh.
The table filled with laughter, with the sound of glasses clinking, with Hyuna muttering about bad influences while still knocking her own shot back. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of everything else seemed to fade under the noise, under the music, under the haze of alcohol and neon light.
The first round of shots hit their stomachs and warmed their blood, and the music seemed to thrum louder, brighter. Dewey was already trying to drag Isaac toward the dance floor when Hyuna stood, brushing invisible wrinkles from her pants.
“Where are you going?” Isaac called, half suspicious, half amused.
Hyuna just gave him a look over her shoulder. “Where do you think?”
The others followed her gaze, and realization struck all at once — the stage.
“Oh god,” Dewey groaned, laughing. “She’s gonna start the night with that again.”
“Tradition,” Luka muttered under his breath, though the corner of his mouth twitched. He’d seen it enough times to know. Hyuna always opened the night when they came here, always claiming the stage like it belonged to her.
Till leaned forward in his seat, intrigued, his eyes following her as she climbed up, every movement precise, as if she’d done this a thousand times.
The noise in the club shifted, people recognizing her presence, conversations dimming as the spotlight snapped to life and caught her in a pool of violet light. Hyuna took the mic, adjusted it, and with a little smirk said, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Cheers erupted, clapping and whistles rolling from the crowd.
She didn’t waste another second. The music swelled, and her voice cut through the club like a blade — clear, commanding, sharp with emotion. For a moment, even Dewey stopped moving, glass in hand halfway to his mouth. Luka sat back, exhaling, letting himself sink into the sound. He had almost forgotten how much strength lived in her voice, how she could silence a room with nothing but a single note.
The crowd moved with her, swaying, cheering, drawn in as if she’d pulled them all into her orbit. And for those few minutes, their table wasn’t in hiding, wasn’t on edge, wasn’t fractured. They were simply people at a club, watching their friend burn brighter than the neon around her.
When the song ended, the cheer was deafening. Hyuna gave a little bow, smirked firmly in place, and handed the mic off to the next singer before striding back down to the table like nothing had happened.
Dewey raised his glass again. “And that is how you start a night!”
Hyuna slid back into her seat, unbothered, her voice still humming faintly in the air.
The table was crowded now — glasses scattered across it, plates half-pushed aside, their little corner lit by flashing club lights that painted everyone in red, then blue, then green. Dewey was loud, Hyuna smug, Isaac pretending not to enjoy himself as much as he actually was.
Till was quieter, though his cheeks flushed with the alcohol, his smile a little too easy. He’d been drinking slower than Dewey, but even he wasn’t immune — his steps carried a slight sway when he slid out of his seat and rounded the table.
Luka blinked up at him. “What are you—”
Till didn’t answer. He just swung a leg over and settled into Luka’s lap, facing him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Luka froze. His hands instinctively hovered at Till’s sides but didn’t quite touch. “Till…” His voice was low, warning, though it trembled under the weight of the closeness.
The younger only leaned forward, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he pressed a kiss to Luka’s mouth. It wasn’t slow, wasn’t careful — it was tipsy, warm, a little too insistent. Luka had no choice but to catch him, his hands tightening around his waist.
The music pulsed around them, and Till pulled back just enough to let his lips brush Luka’s ear. His voice, husky from alcohol and the music, was a whisper swallowed by the noise.
“You promised you’d sing.”
Luka’s whole body went rigid.
The words sank like ice and heat all at once, memory colliding with the thrum of the club. He pulled back slightly, looking at Till, at the flushed determination in his eyes, the softness underlined by that damned stubborn streak.
“…Till,” Luka started, but his voice cracked, and that was enough to answer.
Till only smiled faintly, still in his lap, still too close. “You owe me.”
The moment stretched maybe a second too long, Till perched in Luka’s lap, their foreheads brushing, Luka trying not to completely combust.
And then—
“No sex in the club!” Dewey bellowed across the table, already halfway through another shot.
Half the heads in the place turned.
Till and Luka both whipped around to glare at him in perfect unison. The look was sharp enough to cut steel. Dewey only grinned wider, leaning into Isaac’s shoulder like a smug child.
Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ignore him,” he muttered.
“Yeah, please,” Hyuna added, though she smirked into her drink.
Till turned back, eyes shining with alcohol and that stubborn gleam Luka knew all too well. His voice dipped low again. “You promised.”
Luka exhaled slowly, staring at him. “Till… I haven’t—” He broke off, pressing his lips together. “It’s been a long time. My voice isn’t—this isn’t—”
“Alien stage?” Till finished for him, tilting his head. “No shit, this is a club where you’re supposed to have fun, and I just want to hear your voice.’’
The words weren’t slurred. They weren’t careless. They were sharp, clear, cut straight through the haze of liquor.
Luka looked away, throat tightening.
“Besides,” Till added, softer, almost a plea, “all your memories of singing are bad. You deserve one that isn’t. Make a new one.”
Luka stared at him, trying to breathe around the weight in his chest. Damn him. Damn him for saying it like that.
Finally, Luka leaned forward and kissed him — short, resigned, as if to say you’re going to be the death of me. Then he pushed Till off his lap gently and stood.
“I’m going to regret this,” he muttered, brushing invisible dust from his shirt. Already, he could feel eyes turning his way, curious, expectant. He hated it. He hated how the air shifted when people noticed him. He thought about all the times eyes had followed him before – on the stage, in moments he’d rather never relive.
And yet… Till was still looking at him like that.
Before he could just climb the stage and get it over with, though, Hyuna darted up like she’d been waiting for this moment. “Oh no, you don’t get to sneak up there,” she said into the mic, grinning like a shark.
The crowd stirred immediately.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she drawled, “ apparently Luka has decided to bless us tonight!”
The table exploded into cheers, Dewey the loudest of them all, pounding the table until glasses rattled.
Luka closed his eyes, sighed deep, and muttered under his breath: “…I hate all of you.”
The mic was warm in his hand, the lights hot on his skin. Luka barely registered the murmurs, the shift of attention in the room. All those eyes.
It didn’t matter.
He wasn’t here to sing for them.
He doesn’t even know when he started to hate being watched. He used to live for that feeling. Now…It’s all so unreal.
His gaze searched, weaving past the crowd until it caught on Till. Even in the haze of colored lights, even with the music buzzing through the speakers, Till was there — sharp, solid, undeniable. Luka anchored himself in him.
The intro played. Luka’s breath caught. His chest ached. This isn’t Alien Stage. This isn’t the weight of survival. This isn’t their eyes wanting to devour me.
This was just a song.
And him.
And Till.
He lifted the mic, his voice spilling out low at first, almost hesitant. The first note trembled — then steadied, threading through the club like smoke.
The song was slow, aching, something meant to be sung from the gut. His voice wasn’t sharp and polished like Hyuna’s; it carried something else — a rawness, a weariness, a warmth. It didn’t belong to stages and competitions. It belonged here, to the way the words fit too perfectly on his tongue.
He was always one for ballads, he simply never tried to sing anything different.
Luka didn’t look at the crowd. His eyes fell shut, and he let the music carry him. He didn’t think. He couldn’t. If he thought, he’d crumble. So he sang instead, pulling every ragged edge, every sleepless night, every moment of wanting and hurting into the notes.
When the melody climbed higher, Luka’s breath caught in his chest — he hadn’t pushed his voice like this in so long. He almost faltered.
He pushed higher, stronger.
And the notes came out whole. Fierce. Alive.
By the time he reached the chorus, his body wasn’t his anymore — it was just sound. The flickering lights blurred into nothing, the crowd dissolved, and the only thing left was the song itself. Luka’s voice tore through the space, soaring, shattering. It filled every corner of the club.
And when he finally let the last note fall, breath shuddering out of him, Luka realized — he wasn’t afraid. Not of the eyes, not of the silence that followed, not even of himself.
The song bled into silence for a heartbeat too long. Then came the claps, whistles, stomping against the floor. The kind of noise Luka used to drink like water, the kind that had once defined him.
Now it only grated.
He snorted under his breath, lowering the mic and stepping down before the cheering could swell further. The lights dimmed, shifting into neon strobe as the club’s usual bass-heavy track took over, swallowing the moment whole. Just another performance. Just another night.
Except it wasn’t.
He wove his way through the crowd, jaw tight, ignoring the people who tried to catch his arm or say something as he passed. He had no intention of basking in anything tonight. All he wanted was his seat. His drink. His silence.
But when he reached the table, silence wasn’t what he found.
Till was crying.
Not the small, hidden tears Luka had seen once or twice before. These streaked down his flushed cheeks, messy, unrestrained, lit up under the neon glow like they belonged there. The others whispered among themselves — Dewey muttering something about him being drunk, Hyuna shaking her head, Mizi watching with wide eyes.
Before Luka could open his mouth, Till was on him. Arms around his shoulders, face pressed into his neck, kissing him like he’d been starved of air and Luka was the only oxygen left. Luka stiffened, blinking fast, caught between shock and a spike of heat that twisted low in his stomach.
“Till—” he started, but the words died when Till’s mouth brushed his cheek, his jaw, his lips.
“You’re wasted,” Luka muttered instead, hands hovering uncertainly at Till’s waist, not quite pushing him away. “That’s all this is. Don’t—”
His throat closed. The taste of the song still lingered on his tongue.
“You—” Till’s voice cracked, raw. He didn’t care who was listening. “You promised we’d sing together too. You—don’t tell me you’re fine. That wasn’t fine, Luka. That was— you were amazing! — I…” He broke off, shaking his head as though the words had abandoned him.
The others exchanged glances across the table, their whispers like static in the background.
“Seriously,” Luka said, forcing out a low laugh, though his chest tightened with every ragged breath Till took. “He’s drunk. Don’t mind him.”
But his voice wasn’t convincing. Not to them. Not to himself.
Till didn’t argue. He just collapsed back into Luka’s lap like it was the only place in the world he wanted to be. Luka huffed, trying to act annoyed, but his arms wrapped around Till almost on instinct, steadying him as the younger boy curled there.
The table came alive again, as if nothing had happened — drinks sliding across, laughter spilling, Dewey already banging his fist for another round.
“To surviving another mission!” Dewey crowed, lifting his shot high.
Everyone clinked their glasses, Luka included, though he tilted his head to check the drink in Till’s hand before the boy could down it. With a small shake of his head, Luka swapped it for water and slid the shot toward Hyuna instead.
“Hey—” Till started, but Luka silenced him with a flat look.
“No.” Luka’s tone was firm but quiet, meant only for Till. “You’ve had enough.”
Dewey, oblivious, was already on to another toast. “To Luka’s voice! Didn’t know the guy could still blow a stage apart like that—cheers!”
Everyone cheered, glasses clinking again, Till shifting in Luka’s lap with a sheepish smile that Luka tried very hard not to find endearing.
Till reached for another shot, and Luka caught his wrist before it touched glass. He slid the drink out of reach and shook his head again.
“You’ll thank me tomorrow,” Luka muttered.
What an irony. Luka was wasted yesterday and today Till was craving to drink as he didn’t scold Luka for it yesterday.
Till just pouted — actually pouted — and leaned heavier against Luka’s chest, his cheek pressed warm against his collarbone.
Luka kept his arm wrapped around Till’s waist, holding him steady while Dewey launched into yet another ridiculous toast. He barely heard the words — something about “to the bravest idiots alive” — when he felt Till lean closer, lips brushing just under his ear.
“I plan to thank you tonight…” Till whispered, low enough that only Luka could hear.
The words, hazy with alcohol but deliberate, burned through him. Luka stiffened, and before he could even process, Till’s hand slid up, fingers tracing the line of his throat, resting against the side of his neck with a pressure that wasn’t quite gentle.
Luka sucked in a sharp breath, every nerve on fire. “You’re drunk,” he muttered, trying to sound unaffected, but it came out rough, unsteady.
Till’s lips curled in a small smile, his thumb brushing over Luka’s pulse like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”
Luka’s jaw locked. Around them, the others laughed, clinked glasses, and shouted over the music. But in that moment it felt like none of them existed — just Till on his lap, hand warm and possessive at his neck, whispering promises Luka wasn’t sure he could survive.
Till’s hand lingered against Luka’s throat, thumb grazing his pulse. Luka could swear the room had shrunk to just that touch, just those words.
“That was enough for tonight,” Till murmured, lips brushing Luka’s jaw before he pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed with alcohol and adrenaline, but his gaze didn’t waver.
Luka scoffed, though his heart was pounding. “That’s the alcohol talking.”
Till leaned in again, their foreheads almost touching. “Maybe,” he whispered. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”
The table erupted in laughter at something Dewey shouted, the noise pulling Luka back to reality for half a second. But then Till shifted on his lap, straddling him again, bold and unbothered by the eyes around them.
“Till,” Luka hissed under his breath, gripping his hips. “We’re not doing this here.”
Till only smiled — slow, teasing, wicked — and pressed a quick kiss to Luka’s mouth, just long enough to taste, before pulling back and tilting his head. “Why not?”
Luka cursed quietly, forcing his voice low. “Because you’re drunk. And because you’re making it very hard to—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, as Till leaned in close enough that his lips brushed the shell of his ear.
“Good,” Till whispered.
Luka’s grip on him tightened, nails digging into denim. He didn’t know how much longer he could sit there without losing it completely — and judging by Till’s smirk, that was exactly the point.
Till’s smirk didn’t fade, even as Luka’s patience did. His hands slid down Luka’s chest, teasing, unbothered by the fact that half their team sat not even three feet away.
Luka finally growled under his breath, grabbed him by the wrist, and pulled him up from his lap so abruptly that Till laughed, breathless. “Come on,” Luka muttered, tugging him through the crowd.
From the table, Dewey’s whistle cut sharp through the music. “YEAH, THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT!”
The others groaned, but Luka didn’t turn around. Till stumbled behind him, laughing like this was the funniest, wildest thing he’d ever been part of, until Luka slammed him into the shadowed corner of the club. Their mouths crashed together, teeth clashing, kisses too rough to be steady.
Till gripped Luka’s shirt, pulling him closer as Luka pressed him into the wall. The bass of the music rattled their chests, their ears ringing, their heads spinning with alcohol. But none of that mattered.
“Fuck,” Luka breathed against his lips, forehead pressed to Till’s.
Till only smiled, dazed, biting his lower lip. “Told you… I’d thank you tonight.”
That was the last thread of restraint Luka had. He pulled him away from the wall, stumbling together through the crowd, bumping shoulders and almost tripping but never letting go. Somehow, through the haze of neon lights and pounding music, they made it out.
The world spun, but they didn’t stop. Their lips met again in a mess of heat and urgency, half-blind, desperate. By the time they reached their room Luka shoved the door open, barely shutting it before he pressed Till hard against it.
The slam of Till’s back against the wood echoed in the dark. Luka’s mouth was already on him, bruising, breath ragged. Till gasped, fingers tangling in Luka’s hair, pulling him closer as Luka kissed him like he’d drown if he stopped.
Till was already moaning into Luka’s mouth, breath hitched as Luka shoved his tongue past his lips like he owned him. It was sloppy, heated, spit-slick and desperate. Till clawed at his shoulders, trying to anchor himself as Luka’s hands slid down—over his waist, gripping hard at his hips, then lower.
A groan tore from Luka’s throat when he grabbed Till’s ass, hauling him closer, grinding him against his thigh. Till gasped, his knees nearly buckling, but Luka didn’t let him fall. He pushed him harder into the door until it rattled, the kiss only growing rougher.
Till’s fingers scrambled at Luka’s shirt, trying to pull him closer, needing more, needing everything at once. Luka’s hand slid down between them and in one swift, careless movement he was shoving Till’s pants down past his hips.
Till broke the kiss with a startled gasp, his head thudding back against the door. “Luka—” he breathed, already flushed, eyes half-lidded.
But Luka didn’t stop. His mouth was at Till’s throat now, biting hard enough to leave marks, his hand rough and impatient as he pushed Till’s boxers down too. “You drive me fucking insane,” Luka muttered against his skin, his voice low, wrecked, slurred with alcohol.
Till whimpered, hips jerking forward helplessly. “Fuck—”
The sound of it snapped something in Luka. He kissed him again, deep and brutal, his free hand still gripping Till’s ass as if he could mold him into his body. Till moaned into his mouth, the sound echoing in the dark room, every bit of restraint burning away as fast as the alcohol in their blood.
Their attempt to stumble toward the bed ended two steps in—Till slammed back against the wall with a gasp, Luka’s mouth already on him again, biting, sucking, not giving him a second to breathe.
Till barely noticed his hoodie getting torn away until fabric hit the floor somewhere. Luka didn’t care, didn’t even pause—he gripped the back of Till’s neck hard, tilting his head back as he swallowed his moans with another deep, hungry kiss. Their teeth clashed, spit smeared, and it only made them groan louder.
By the time their clothes were all over the floor, they were panting against each other, skin hot, flushed, slick with sweat. Luka shoved Till harder against the wall, his hips grinding into him until Till cried out, clinging to his shoulders like he’d drown without him.
Luka tore his mouth away only long enough to grab the bottle with lube from the floor. He poured some of it straight over his fingers, not even caring that it dripped everywhere, then pressed them between Till’s thighs with a low, guttural groan.
Till gasped, back arching, nails dragging down Luka’s arms. “Fuck, Luka—”
Luka’s mouth was at his throat again, kissing, biting, marking. He worked his fingers fast, messy, his other hand gripping Till’s hip to hold him steady. Each sound Till made only drove him crazier.
Till was trembling, head falling back against the wall as Luka covered every inch of his neck in wet, hungry kisses. The prep was quick, sloppy, but neither of them cared—they were drunk, desperate, consumed by each other, and the need was unbearable.
“Can’t wait,” Luka muttered against his skin, voice hoarse, almost a growl.
Till nodded frantically, his moans breaking into desperate little gasps. “Then—don’t.”
Luka yanked Till away from the wall just enough to spin him, pressing his chest flat against it instead. He leaned in close, kissing the side of Till’s face, his ear, his neck, grinding his hips against him in slow, cruel circles.
Till whimpered, fingers clawing at the wall for something to hold onto. “Luka—please—”
But Luka only smirked against his skin, kissing down his shoulder, teasing him with shallow thrusts that never gave what Till was begging for. His grip on Till’s waist was iron, holding him in place as his cock slid against him but never inside.
It was torture, and Till’s voice cracked with each desperate moan, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. His cock was throbbing, pressed hard against his stomach already leaking with pre-cum.
Then, suddenly, Luka spun him back around. Before Till could even catch his breath, Luka’s hands grabbed under his thighs and lifted him clean off the ground again. Till’s legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, arms slinging over his shoulders, clinging hard.
Luka lined himself up in one rough motion and slammed into him.
Till’s back hit the wall with a thud, his gasp breaking into a ragged moan that Luka swallowed with a messy kiss. Their mouths crashed together, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, as Luka drove into him hard and fast.
Every thrust slammed Till against the wall, skin slapping, the sound echoing with their moans. Till’s arms were locked around Luka’s neck, pulling him impossibly close, while Luka gripped his thighs tight enough to bruise, holding him up with raw strength as he pounded into him.
It was desperate, rough, messy—Till crying out into Luka’s mouth, Luka groaning against his lips, both of them lost in the rhythm of pleasure and pain.
They came hard against the wall—Till shaking, crying out Luka’s name, Luka groaning low into his mouth as he thrust through it. Their bodies stayed pressed together, sweat-damp skin sticking, both of them panting raggedly against each other’s lips.
But Luka didn’t let go. He still had Till’s legs around his waist, still holding him up as though he weighed nothing. Their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, Luka’s chest heaving.
“Fuck,” Till whispered, voice hoarse, dizzy with pleasure and alcohol.
Luka pulled back just enough to look at him—eyes dark, hungry. Without a word, he adjusted his grip and carried Till away from the wall. Till barely realized what was happening before his back hit the mattress, bouncing slightly as Luka dropped him onto the bed.
Till lay there sprawled and flushed, hair a mess, chest rising and falling, looking wrecked—and Luka couldn’t resist climbing right over him. His mouth immediately found Till’s neck, biting and kissing down over his collarbone, his chest, the sweat-slick lines of his stomach.
Till arched under the attention, breathless moans spilling out of him. His hands twisted in the sheets, trying to ground himself, but his head was spinning. “Luka…please…” His words slurred, every syllable heavy with how wasted he was.
Luka didn’t answer. He kept kissing lower, lower, until suddenly his mouth wrapped around Till’s cock.
Till cried out, arching sharply off the bed, his hands flying to Luka’s hair. “Oh—fuck—Luka!” His voice cracked on the moan, trembling as Luka’s tongue worked him, messy and wet and desperate.
The sensation was too much, too sudden—Till’s hips bucked uncontrollably, his fingers tugging hard at Luka’s hair while he gasped for air, lost in the feeling.
Till’s thighs trembled as his legs instinctively lifted, heels digging into Luka’s back to hold him there. Luka didn’t need the encouragement—but it only made him growl low in his throat, the vibration sending shivers all through Till’s body.
Till was already falling apart, his hands twisted tight in Luka’s hair, eyes squeezed shut. “Ah—Luka—fuck, please—” His voice cracked, raw with how hard he was moaning.
Luka pulled back just enough to tease—licking the tip slowly, dragging his tongue down the length in a way that made Till whine and thrash against the sheets. Till tried to lift his hips for more, but Luka’s big hand slammed his waist down, pinning him to the mattress.
“Stay,” Luka rasped against him, then swallowed him down again.
Till screamed, his back arching hard, heels pressing desperately into Luka’s skin. Luka sucked him deep, fast, merciless, working him with his tongue until Till’s whole body shook.
It was unlike anything Till had ever felt—messy, intense, Luka taking him apart completely. His moans were high and broken, echoing through the room, his words dissolving into incoherent pleas. He couldn’t hold back—he didn’t want to.
When Luka sucked harder, Till choked on a sob, tears springing to his eyes. His thighs clenched around Luka’s shoulders, heels digging in deeper. “Oh my god—Luka—I can’t—”
But Luka didn’t stop. He wanted Till wrecked, writhing, his voice breaking just for him.
Till came straight into Luka’s mouth, he thinks that maybe after the third time, he’ll be completely sober.
★
Till’s chest heaved, every breath shaky, his skin flushed and slick with sweat. Luka kissed him slowly now, softer, as if he hadn’t just torn him apart. When their mouths met, Luka swallowed every desperate pant, every tremble.
Till’s legs locked tight around him again, pulling him closer, refusing to let go. Luka groaned into his mouth, dragging his tongue over Till’s lips, hungry but patient.
Somewhere in the haze, Till’s head cleared just enough. He clung to Luka’s neck, whispering against his lips. “I want to… try something.”
Luka froze just a little, pulling back enough to look down at him. His eyes were curious, searching, though his chest was still rising fast. “Try what?” he rasped, voice low, hoarse from the strain.
Till swallowed, nerves prickling under his skin. He wanted it, but saying it out loud—letting Luka see that vulnerability—made his stomach twist. His fingers played with the damp strands of Luka’s hair as he looked anywhere but his eyes.
“I just…” Till licked his lips, hesitating, then finally met his gaze. “…I want to switch. Only this time.”
The silence that followed was heavy, charged, Luka’s expression unreadable in the dim light.
The words hung between them, heavy, almost unbearable. Luka didn’t answer right away—he just looked down at him, eyes dark and unreadable. His hand still cradled the side of Till’s face, thumb brushing idly over his cheekbone, but his silence was enough to make Till’s chest tighten.
Panic sparked in him. He rushed to fill the gap, voice tripping over itself. “We don’t have to—I mean, if you don’t want to, then forget I said anything. I just thought maybe—”
His rambling cut off when Luka leaned down and kissed him, slow and steady, nothing like the hungry mess from before. When he pulled back, his lips lingered close, breath warm against Till’s mouth.
“Okay.”
Till blinked up at him. “…Okay?”
Luka nodded once, serious as ever. “Yeah. Okay. Because…” He swallowed hard, his voice softer now, almost shy. “…because I trust you.”
Till’s throat went tight, eyes stinging. For a second he could only stare at him, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Then he pulled Luka into another kiss, desperate, grateful, trembling with the weight of what that ‘okay’ meant.
Till kissed him like he was trying to steady himself, lips softer now but still desperate, and then with one careful motion he shifted, turning them over. Luka’s back hit the mattress, bouncing lightly, and Till hovered above him, their mouths meeting again. His hand slid down the length of Luka’s thigh, squeezing, while the other braced against the sheets beside Luka’s head.
He kissed his lips, then trailed lower, dragging his mouth along Luka’s jaw, down to the hollow of his throat. Luka groaned softly, the sound catching in his chest. He tried to stay calm, but eagerness betrayed him—his hand reached blindly for the bottle, fingers fumbling with it until he managed to pour some onto Till’s hand.
Till’s fingers were slick when they pressed between Luka’s thighs. It felt strange, unfamiliar, but Luka let his arm fall back behind his head, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded. The alcohol dulled his edge, leaving him open, panting, trusting.
Till worked carefully, sliding a finger inside, and the tight heat almost startled him. His lips parted in wonder as he leaned down to kiss Luka again, learning every reaction in real time. Luka moaned into the kiss, breath hot against his mouth, and almost instantly he whispered, “More.”
Till obeyed, pushing in another finger, curling carefully. Luka cursed under his breath, hips arching up into the touch, trying to guide Till deeper. It wasn’t easy, not the way it had been for Till his first time—Luka’s jaw clenched, breath coming in rough bursts, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he grabbed Till’s neck, dragging him down into another messy kiss, teeth clashing.
“More,” Luka hissed again.
Till gave him more, stretching him open, his fingers weren’t that long as Luka’s but he still managed to curl them and hit the spot it made Luka’s moan,until finally he pulled his fingers free. Luka’s lips parted with the loss, but Till was already kissing him again, their mouths sliding together, Luka’s hand tangled at the back of his neck.
Till lined himself up, his pulse racing. He pushed in slowly, and Luka cursed, low and ragged.
“Fuuuck…” The groan tore out of him, deep and raw, making Till’s body jolt. The sound alone almost sent him spiraling, but he bit down on the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stay still.
They both paused, foreheads pressed together, catching their breath as Luka adjusted. Then Luka tugged him closer, kissed him hard, and Till started to move—slowly at first, rolling his hips, every thrust careful.
The first sound Luka made when pleasure finally cut through the burn was a moan, rough and breathless, and it lit Till up from the inside. Hearing him fall apart like that—he couldn’t hold back. His own moans tangled with Luka’s as he moved faster, harder, kissing him between every gasp, chasing that rhythm that belonged only to them.
Till’s pace quickened, hips snapping harder, his breath ragged against Luka’s mouth. He shifted his angle, searching blindly until Luka suddenly broke with a loud, guttural moan.
“Ah—fuck—” Luka cursed, head falling back into the pillow, his body jolting with every thrust.
That sound nearly unraveled Till on the spot, but he clung to the rhythm, one hand braced against the mattress, the other gripping Luka’s thigh tight enough to leave bruises. He kissed him desperately, swallowing every moan, every gasp, their mouths slipping and clashing as the pace built to something frantic, overwhelming.
They were both right there—Till could feel it in the way Luka trembled beneath him, the way his own body screamed for release. His movements turned almost reckless, pouring every ounce of strength he had left into the final thrusts.
And then it crashed over them. Luka’s voice ripped free, raw and broken, as Till buried himself deep and came with him, both of them moaning loudly into the small, dark room.
Till collapsed onto Luka’s chest, their sweat-slick bodies pressed tight together, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. He didn’t pull out—couldn’t, not yet. His forehead rested against Luka’s collarbone, breath hot and uneven.
They lay there in the dark, panting, the echo of it still buzzing in their ears like the ringing from the club.
Luka’s hand found its way to Till’s waist, fingers spreading across his skin, not squeezing, just… holding. Like anchoring him there.
Till closed his eyes, lips brushing faintly against Luka’s throat. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.
The room was heavy with heat and the smell of sweat and sex. Till could barely feel his arms anymore, trembling as he lay sprawled across Luka’s chest. He wanted to stay there forever, pressed into Luka’s heartbeat, but his muscles screamed, and finally he forced himself to move.
Slowly, carefully, he slipped out of him. Luka’s jaw tightened, a faint hiss escaping his lips at the loss, but he didn’t push Till away. Till murmured something soft against his skin—half an apology, half a kiss—before rolling just enough to settle beside him.
For a moment, neither moved. Only the sound of their uneven breathing filled the dark. Till’s hand wandered almost unconsciously, brushing sweat-damp strands of hair from Luka’s face, trailing lightly over the curve of his cheek. Luka turned his head, meeting his gaze in the faint light slipping under the door.
They looked at each other in silence.
Till broke it with a whisper, his voice hoarse:
“…Was I okay?”
Luka blinked, caught off guard. For a second he almost laughed, but the look in Till’s eyes stopped him—it wasn’t teasing, it was searching. Needing. Luka exhaled, his hand sliding up Till’s arm, resting on the back of his neck.
“More than okay,” he muttered, almost shy, though his tone still carried that rough edge.
Till’s lips curved faintly, but it wasn’t his usual grin. It was softer, tired, and drunk. Relieved. He let his forehead press against Luka’s, their noses brushing. “Good…” he breathed, like it was the only word he had left in him.
They kissed again—slower this time, almost clumsy from fatigue. Just lips moving together, no urgency, no fight. Till’s hand came to rest on Luka’s chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath his palm. Luka’s arm wrapped around him in return, pulling him closer, as if they hadn’t just been pressed together minutes ago.
“Don’t get used to this,” Luka whispered against his mouth, trying for a warning, but it came out soft, almost broken.
Till chuckled weakly, kissing the corner of his lips. “Too late.”
That earned him a quiet groan from Luka, but there was no real resistance. Luka’s thumb stroked lazily over the back of Till’s neck, the kind of touch that betrayed everything he wouldn’t say.
They lay like that for a while, tangled up, breathing slowly evening out. Till’s body sagged heavier and heavier against Luka’s side, his eyelids fluttering. Luka tilted his head, pressing one last kiss into his hair before letting his eyes close as well.
They both drifted, clinging to each other, the weight of the night fading into the pull of sleep. The last thing Luka felt before darkness claimed him was the steady rise and fall of Till’s chest against his, anchoring him like a promise.
Notes:
I don't particularly like bottom Luka, but ig i wanted something different. And yet he tops from the bottom!
Chapter 36
Notes:
I have only one thing to say. I'm sorry..
Chapter Text
The room was heavy with silence when Luka stirred. The faint gray light of morning was bleeding in around the curtains, softening the shadows that clung to the walls. He blinked slowly, his body sluggish, the ache in his muscles sharp but pleasant. His head was clear enough—he hadn’t drunk nearly as much as Till.
Beside him, pressed full-length against his body, Till was still asleep. Naked. The heat of his skin seeped into Luka’s chest, his back curved perfectly into him. Luka’s arm was still draped lazily around Till’s waist, holding him like he hadn’t let go all night.
For a while, Luka just stayed like that. His nose buried in the mess of his hair, breathing in sweat and something faintly sweet beneath it. His hand moved without thinking, tracing slow patterns over Till’s stomach, the faint ridges of muscle there, down to his hipbone.
Eventually, Till stirred. A low groan slipped from him, muffled by the pillow. He shifted, trying to bury his face deeper in it.
Luka smirked. “Head hurts?”
“Mmnh…” Till’s voice was rough, hoarse from both singing and last night’s use. He rolled halfway onto his back, squinting at the light. “Feels like someone split my skull open.”
Luka actually chuckled, low and fond. He brushed his knuckles gently over Till’s temple. “You’re cute when you suffer.”
Till cracked an eye at him, groaning again, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t move far though—just reached for Luka blindly until he caught his arm and pulled him closer, pressing his forehead to Luka’s chest with a dramatic sigh.
Luka gave in easily, adjusting so they were tangled again. His hand slid down Till’s back, soothing in slow strokes. The silence stretched comfortably, filled with Till’s uneven breathing and the occasional grumble whenever his headache pulsed too sharply.
Time passed like that until the warmth of their bodies wasn’t enough. A faint chill crept into the air, raising goosebumps along Till’s bare skin. He shivered, grumbling, and finally pulled himself free just enough to fumble for the clothes on the floor.
He didn’t get far. Only tugged on a pair of underwear, then spotted Luka’s hoodie crumpled nearby. With a groan of effort, he dragged it over his head and stumbled back into bed immediately, diving under the covers like a cat retreating into warmth.
Luka leaned back on one elbow, watching him. The sight almost knocked the air out of him. Till, flushed from sleep and alcohol, drowning in his oversized hoodie, curls sticking in every direction, blinking blearily with red-rimmed eyes. He looked ridiculously soft. Vulnerable. Adorable.
And Luka couldn’t move. He was supposed to get up, maybe fetch water or something, but he just sat there in nothing but sweatpants, staring at him.
Till blinked at him slowly, already curling back toward his warmth. “What…?”
“Nothing,” Luka murmured, sliding back down beside him. His hand slipped under the covers, warm against Till’s thigh. “Just… stay like this.”
Till hummed, sleepy, pressing closer. His legs tangled with Luka’s automatically, and his hand found its way to Luka’s chest, fingers splaying against his skin. Luka kissed the top of his head without thinking.
For a while, it was nothing but lazy touches and half-asleep murmurs. Luka’s fingers tracing Till’s thigh, Till’s hand drifting over Luka’s ribs. Their lips found each other more than once—soft, unhurried kisses that melted into little sighs.
The hangover still weighed heavy on Till, his head throbbing every time he moved too fast. But Luka’s steady touch, the warmth of the hoodie, the safe heaviness of blankets and Luka’s body pressed against his—it dulled the ache. Made it bearable.
“Still cute,” Luka whispered against his mouth after another kiss.
Till groaned but kissed him again anyway, deeper this time, letting it linger until they were both breathless. He pulled back just enough to murmur against Luka’s lips, voice still hoarse and wrecked:
“…Don’t ever say that to anyone else.”
Luka smirked faintly, brushing his thumb over his cheek. “Wasn’t planning to.”
Till sighed, satisfied, then buried himself against Luka again. His headache still pulsed, his body still ached—but wrapped up in Luka’s warmth, in his touch, in the softness of the morning, he let himself drift again.
Till’s second awakening was quieter. The throbbing behind his eyes had dulled to a faint pulse, nothing compared to earlier. He blinked at the ceiling for a moment before carefully sliding out of the covers. Luka stirred but didn’t stop him.
The floor was cool beneath his feet as he stood, stretching his arms high over his head until his back popped. The hoodie rode up with the motion, exposing the waistband of his underwear, the sharp lines of his hips. He yawned, hair a wild mess around his face, then padded a few steps across the room, restless energy buzzing through him despite the exhaustion.
Luka sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, watching. His eyes tracked every movement—the long stretch of Till’s back as he bent, the lazy roll of his shoulders, the way his pale legs carried him back and forth across the dim room.
There was no tension in the air, not like before. Something about last night had stripped it away, left them looser, softer. Yet Luka’s chest still tightened, heat coiling low in his stomach. Because Till… looked like this.
Only in his underwear and Luka’s hoodie, pacing without a thought to how the fabric shifted and clung, how it barely covered the tops of his thighs. Every time he lifted his arms, Luka caught flashes of bare skin, a teasing stretch of lean stomach.
Luka’s tongue pressed against his teeth as he dragged his gaze down and back up again, slow and deliberate. He knew it wasn’t intentional—Till was just restless, worn and twitchy from the alcohol still in his blood—but it didn’t matter. It felt like torture.
Till turned mid-step and caught Luka’s eyes. He paused, tilting his head a little, confused by the way Luka was staring.
“What?” his voice was still rough, but softer now.
Luka huffed a laugh through his nose, leaning back on his palms. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
Till frowned faintly. “Doing what?”
“Walking around like that,” Luka muttered, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. His eyes lingered shamelessly on the bare expanse of thigh, on the way the hoodie hung too big on him, sleeves swallowing his hands. “Like… that.”
It took Till a moment to realize. He glanced down at himself, at his bare legs and hoodie, then back at Luka. A grin tugged at his lips, slow and a little wicked despite his hangover.
“Oh,” he said simply. And instead of stopping, he stretched again—arms reaching up, hoodie riding higher, exposing the sharp V of his hips. His eyes flicked to Luka knowingly.
Luka swore under his breath, dragging a hand over his face, but his gaze never left him. The hangover, the fatigue, the ache in his muscles—none of it dulled the sudden rush of want flooding his veins.
And Till knew it.
Till took another slow step toward the window, pretending not to notice the way Luka’s eyes burned into his skin. He was grinning faintly to himself, lips curved in quiet triumph—until Luka’s voice cut through.
“Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. Luka leaned forward on the bed, arm shooting out. He caught the edge of Till’s hoodie sleeve and gave a firm tug. Off balance, Till stumbled, laughing breathlessly as he was pulled between Luka’s knees. Before he could even speak, Luka guided him down, pressing until Till was straddling his lap, thighs snug around his hips.
“Luka—” Till started, cheeks flushed, but the word melted when Luka cupped the back of his neck and dragged him forward into a kiss.
It wasn’t rough like last night. Not desperate. This one was slow, a little clumsy with the lingering taste of sleep and alcohol, but still hot enough to make Till’s stomach flip. Luka’s lips moved against his like he had no intention of letting go, drinking him in, taking what he wanted without hurry.
Till exhaled softly into the kiss, his arms instinctively wrapping around Luka’s shoulders, pulling himself closer until their chests pressed together. Luka’s hands slid beneath the hoodie, finding bare skin, thumbs stroking at Till’s sides. Every little touch made Till shiver, the warmth sinking deeper than the haze of alcohol had ever reached.
When Luka finally pulled back, their breaths mingled, noses brushing. He looked at Till for a moment, eyes heavy-lidded, thumb still tracing his ribs.
“You don’t get to tease me like that,” Luka murmured, voice low and gravelly. “Not after last night.”
Till’s lips curved in a slow smile, dizzy with the closeness. “Wasn’t teasing…” he whispered, though the glint in his eyes gave him away.
Luka huffed, pressing his forehead to Till’s with a faint groan, his arms locking tighter around him as though he couldn’t stand the thought of space between them.
Till smirked faintly at Luka’s complaint, brushing his lips over his again, featherlight. He could feel Luka’s restraint, the way his body wanted to push forward while his mind held him back, still sluggish from sleep. It made something spark in Till.
“I wasn’t teasing,” he whispered against Luka’s mouth. His fingers slipped down Luka’s chest, tracing the firm lines lazily, until they settled on the waistband of his sweatpants.
Luka caught his wrist automatically. His grip wasn’t strong—just a warning. “Till…”
But Till only tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief and heat. “Shh.” He kissed him again, slow and sweet, before gently pulling his hand free. Luka let him.
With a playful tug on Luka’s sweatpants, Till slid down from his lap, settling on his knees between Luka’s legs. Luka’s breath caught. The sight of Till kneeling there, messy hair, hoodie hanging loose, lips already parted—it sent a shiver straight through him.
His hands slid Luka’s sweats lower, enough to free him, and Luka swore under his breath as the cool air hit. Till leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his hip, then down lower until his lips brushed against his cock. Luka groaned, head tipping back, a hand immediately tangling into Till’s hair.
The first hot press of Till’s mouth made Luka curse again. He hadn’t expected this—especially not in the haze of a hangover morning—but it was perfect. Slow, messy, with Till humming softly around him like he was savoring every second.
Luka forced his eyes open just to watch. The sight of Till on his knees, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, cheeks flushed as he worked him—it was almost unbearable. His grip on Till’s hair tightened, a shaky laugh breaking from him.
“Fuck… you’re gonna kill me like this.”
Till only glanced up at him, eyes dark and full of fire, before hollowing his cheeks and sucking harder.
Till didn’t rush. He let the weight of Luka’s hand in his hair guide him, setting a lazy rhythm that was almost cruel with how unhurried it was. Luka’s thigh muscles twitched beneath his palms, and every soft groan above him only encouraged Till to drag it out. His tongue traced deliberate patterns, his lips sealing perfectly, and Luka couldn’t hold still.
“Till…” Luka’s voice cracked halfway through his name. He looked down, breath ragged, watching Till’s messy hair fall into his eyes as he took Luka’s whole cock. “Shit. You—fuck, you’re—” His words dissolved into another groan when Till dipped lower, taking more of him.
Till hummed at the reaction, the vibration making Luka buck his hips before he could stop himself. His head thunked back against the wall, jaw clenched, trying not to lose control too fast. But it was impossible when Till was looking up at him like that—hoodie slipping off his shoulder, lips red and wet, his eyes daring Luka to come undone.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Luka muttered, fingers tightening in Till’s hair. His free hand dropped to the back of Till’s neck, half to ground himself, half because he needed to hold him closer.
Till moaned at the praise, and the sound sent Luka over the edge. He cursed loudly, hips jerking despite his effort to keep still, spilling hot and hard into Till’s mouth. Till didn’t pull back. He took it all, swallowing like it was the most natural thing in the world, before licking his lips with a little smirk as he finally sat back on his heels.
Luka was still gasping, staring at him like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. His sweatpants were shoved low, his chest rising and falling fast, but he still managed to grab Till’s wrist and tug him up onto his lap again.
“You’re insane,” Luka murmured, voice still shaky as he crashed their mouths together. He tasted himself on Till’s lips and groaned, kissing him deeper, messier, like he couldn’t stand even a second of distance.
Till straddled him easily, hoodie brushing Luka’s bare chest as he leaned into the kiss. Luka’s arms locked tight around his waist, pulling him close until their bodies pressed flush together again. The kiss slowed eventually, turning softer, tongues brushing lazily as if they had all the time in the world.
When they finally broke apart, both panting, Till rested his forehead against Luka’s. He smiled faintly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before Luka caught it and kissed his knuckles.
“You taste like trouble,” Luka whispered, eyes still half-lidded with exhaustion and heat.
“Then you must like trouble,” Till shot back, his voice still a little hoarse.
Luka chuckled, low and warm, before rolling them sideways onto the bed so they were tangled up in the blankets again. Till ended up half on top of him, hoodie riding up, their legs a mess of knots. Luka kissed the top of his head, one arm tight around his waist while the other hand stroked lazy circles down his back.
Till sighed against his chest, eyes fluttering closed, and Luka couldn’t help whispering into his hair, too quiet to matter if Till caught it or not:
“I love you.”
Till shifted slightly, humming sleepily, and for a moment, Luka thought he hadn’t heard. But then Till tightened his arms around Luka’s shoulders, pressing closer. His reply was just as soft, slurred with exhaustion, but it made Luka’s heart stumble anyway:
“…love you too.”
They didn’t need more words. Just the warmth of their bodies pressed together, the sweat cooling slowly, the faint ache of overuse in their muscles.
★
It took them a while to finally leave the room. Neither was eager to move, but eventually, Luka dragged himself into sweatpants and a baggy hoodie, his hair refusing to lay flat no matter how many times he ran his fingers through it. Till pulled on loose joggers and one of his oversized hoodies, hood immediately going over his head like he was trying to disappear into it. Both looked equally wrecked—eyes puffy from lack of sleep, movements slow, the faint smell of alcohol still clinging to them.
“Do we really have to face people right now?” Till mumbled, tugging the strings of his hood tighter around his face.
Luka smirked, voice low and rough from last night. “If we don’t, Hyuna’s gonna drag us out anyway. Better to look like we made the decision ourselves.”
Till groaned, but followed him out, the two of them sticking close as they shuffled through the halls. Luka’s hand brushed against Till’s occasionally, their shoulders bumping, and neither moved away.
By the time they pushed into the cafeteria, the rest of the group was already sprawled at one of the tables—coffee cups, half-eaten food, and the exact same hangover expressions stamped across their faces. Mizi looked like she hadn’t slept at all, Dewey’s head was down on the table, and Hyuna was sipping tea with a kind of restrained dignity that screamed she was pretending she wasn’t hungover too. Isaac looked, maybe a bit better than the others.
The moment Luka and Till appeared, though, all eyes flicked up.
“Well, well,” Dewey croaked, lifting his head just enough to smirk. “Look who finally crawled out of their den. Took you long enough.”
Hyuna arched an eyebrow. “You two look worse than the rest of us combined.”
Mizi snorted. “No kidding. Could’ve sworn you were about to start your own afterparty at the club.”
The teasing landed immediately—Till tugged his hood lower to hide his face, and Luka scrubbed a hand over his jaw, muttering, “Shut up.”
“Oh no, don’t go quiet now,” Dewey said, his grin wicked despite the bags under his eyes. “You should’ve seen yourselves—Till climbing into Luka’s lap like the whole club wasn’t watching? Thought you were gonna fuck right there.”
Mizi cackled, slapping the table. “The bartender didn’t even know whether to bring another round or call security.”
Till groaned, muffled into his hood. Luka sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting not to smile.
Hyuna just shook her head, though there was amusement in her eyes. “You’re lucky no one filmed it. Next time, keep it behind closed doors.”
“We did,” Luka muttered under his breath.
That earned a chorus of laughter, even from Hyuna, and Till shoved his face into Luka’s shoulder to hide his mortified smile. Luka only wrapped an arm loosely around him, steering him toward the empty seats at the table with a little grin that said he didn’t actually care about the teasing one bit.
The cafeteria was loud with clinking spoons and groans about hangovers, but Dewey’s voice cut through it like a knife.
“You know what’s funny?” he said suddenly, pointing his fork at Luka and Till like he was accusing them of treason. “At this rate, we’re gonna have to put up signs because of you! I mean you guys are wild…Let’s not forget that one time on the meeting table!’’
Till immediately yanked his hood lower, nearly dropping his toast. Luka stiffened. Hyuna closed her eyes, already bracing for impact.
Isaac froze mid-chew. “…The meeting table?”
There was a pause. Till didn’t breathe. Luka’s eyes twitched. Hyuna held her breath. Mizi looked like she’s almost scared.
Dewey grinned like a cat catching a mouse. “Oh, don’t tell me you never noticed? That time when we found papers shoved aside, chairs knocked over—”
Isaac blinked, memory flashing back weeks ago to when he’d walked in to find the war map crumpled, markers scattered on the floor, and the table slightly sticky in ways he didn’t want to consider. He never thought about it, but now—-
“…No,” Isaac muttered, color draining from his face before rushing back in a mortified flush. “You didn’t. Not there.”
“Oh, they did,” Dewey said cheerfully, raising his coffee cup like a toast.
Mizi practically spit her juice back into her cup, cackling. Hyuna smacked her forehead into her palm.
Isaac leaned back slowly in his chair, staring between Luka and Till like they had just committed the greatest crime in history. “We… we use that table for strategy meetings.”
Dewey smirked. “Yep. And apparently also for position meetings.”
Till groaned into Luka’s shoulder, muttering something that sounded like “kill me now.” Luka’s jaw was tight enough to crack, but the tips of his ears burned.
“You’re telling me that every time I’ve been outlining plans on that table—” Isaac’s voice pitched higher, almost horrified.
“—you’ve basically been touching holy ground,” Dewey interrupted with a wicked grin. “Sacred battlefield of passion.”
“DEWEY!” Hyuna barked, slamming her mug down.
Isaac sat in stunned silence, his head in his hands, clearly recalculating every meeting from the last month. Dewey leaned back smugly, sipping his coffee.
Isaac groaned louder than his hangover ever could.
Isaac finally dragged his palms down his face, letting out a long, suffering groan.
“You two—seriously? What are you, horny teenagers?”
The betrayal on his face was almost comical, like Isaac had stabbed him in the heart.
Isaac didn’t flinch. He turned his tired, judging stare on Luka instead. “I expect it from Till—
Till’s head snapped up, his hood falling back a little. He pointed at himself with wide eyes, voice breaking. “Me?!”
—But you..” Isaac jabbed a finger at Luka, “you’re thirty-one.”
The table went quiet. Till’s mouth dropped open. Luka’s jaw clenched.
“…Wow,” Till muttered in a wounded tone, slumping back against Luka’s shoulder like his soul had left his body.
Dewey let out a sharp tch, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. “You’re all blind. They’re just in love, and none of you get shit.”
Hyuna groaned, muttering something about stabbing Dewey with her fork. Mizi giggled behind her cup.
Till tugged his hood all the way down to his nose, muttering, “I want to disappear.” Luka reached for a knife on the table, fingers twitching like he’d really use it.
Dewey only smirked and clinked his cup against Luka’s. “To young love.”
“Shut up,” Luka hissed, but his ears burned red.
★
The group gathers in the meeting room, everyone looking a little worse for wear after last night. Isaac stands at the head, stiff and professional, but very pointedly keeps his hands clasped in front of him rather than resting them on the table. Luka notices and smirks, Till has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.
Isaac clears his throat. “Alright. Enough fooling around. We have to start thinking long-term.”
He lays out the reality: saving the kids won’t be a one-and-done mission. It’s going to take years, a network of contacts, and a lot of patience. They won’t be able to save everyone, but their job is to save as many as possible, one step at a time.
Hyuna suggests they start with the city itself—mapping out the performance clubs and identifying where the children might be taken. Dewey, for once serious, points out that if they know who runs the clubs, they’ll have leverage. Luka, after a long pause, admits that he knows where many of the owners live. The room quiets a little at that—because it means Luka’s knowledge comes from darker, personal experience.
Till leans forward, gently brushing Luka’s knee under the table, grounding him without words. Luka doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t pull away either.
Isaac writes on the board:
- Map the city (clubs, stages, routes).
- Owners + contacts list (Luka leads here).
- Supply management (Hyuna + Dewey).
- Recon + scouting (rotating teams).
He emphasizes they need to be smart, precise, and patient. “We’re not rushing in. We do this the right way, or we risk losing everything—and everyone.”
The meeting lasts for hours, with maps spread out, Luka marking places he remembers, Hyuna jotting notes, Dewey occasionally cracking a joke to cut the tension. Till stays quiet, observant, stealing little glances at Luka whenever the heaviness in his shoulders shows.
Isaac ignores them. “We don’t have the luxury of wasting time,” he begins. “Last time, we acted reckless. We barely got out alive. If we want to make this work, it has to be done right. Every time.”
Hyuna nods grimly, tapping a pen against the map spread before them. “Breaking into Anakt Garden again won’t be easy. They’ll be expecting trouble after what happened. Security will be tighter.”
Dewey groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “So we’re really doing that again?”
“Eventually,” Isaac corrects. “Not tomorrow. Not until we’re sure. The problem is…” He pauses, glancing at Luka, then at Hyuna. “The aliens take new kids constantly. Even if we succeed once, it won’t end there. This will take years. Maybe decades.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Till presses his palms together on the table, staring down at the wood, and Luka shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He knows Isaac’s right; they all do.
Hyuna is the first to break it. “Then we save the ones we can. As many as we can.”
Luka exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. His voice is rough, low. “I know where most of the owners live. At least in the city. If we start there, mapping the clubs, the routes… we’ll know what we’re up against.”
Everyone looks at him for a moment—too long. Luka doesn’t flinch, though his jaw tightens. He can feel Till’s gaze brushing against him from the side, steady, quiet.
Isaac nods once. “Yeah. That’s a start.”
Dewey leans forward, elbows on the table. “But what’s the point if no one even cares? The aliens won’t suddenly turn against each other just because we mess with their toys.”
“We’re not hoping for them,” Isaac says sharply. “But the humans—”
“Humans don’t have rights,” Luka cuts in flatly. His tone is matter-of-fact, like he’s just stating the weather. “Owners control them. They can’t say or do anything. Even if they wanted to.”
The truth lands heavy again.
Till finally speaks, voice quiet but certain. “Then we wait. We watch the newspapers. It only happened a few days ago—if there’s even a hint, a sign that someone out there is willing to side with us, we’ll know.”
Isaac nods slowly. “It’s a low possibility. But it’s something.”
Hyuna taps the map again, harder this time, snapping them all back. “So for now, we make plans. Quietly. Nothing official until we see what the paper shows us. We prepare, but we don’t move.”
Everyone murmurs their agreement.
The rest of the meeting is slower, more deliberate. They spread out maps of the city, Luka marking the clubs he knows, Hyuna noting supply lines. No one expects miracles anymore. They’re simply laying the groundwork, brick by brick, for something that might never even succeed.
And yet—despite the hangovers, despite the exhaustion, despite the crushing weight of what they’re facing—they don’t leave the room. Not yet. Because if they’re going to survive this, it starts here.
★
The door shuts with a dull click. The meeting’s noise is gone, leaving only the faint hum of the old light overhead and their breathing. Luka drops into the chair by the desk, dragging his hands down his face. Till stands near the bed, pulling his hoodie over his head, his hair sticking up in uneven tufts. He tosses the hoodie onto the chair but doesn’t sit. He’s pacing, shoulders tense.
It should feel like relief after everything, but the air is thick, charged.
“It’s not enough,” Till mutters, half to himself.
Luka glances at him, tired. “What isn’t?”
“The plan. Mapping the clubs, waiting for newspapers. It’s too slow. We should be out there already.”
Luka leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “You heard Isaac. We can’t rush it. If we screw up again, that’s it. No second chances.”
Till whirls on him. “So we just wait while more kids get taken? While more of them get killed?”
“It’s not about waiting,” Luka snaps back, voice sharp now. “It’s about surviving long enough to make a difference. You can’t save them all in one night, Till.”
“I don’t care how long it takes!” Till’s voice cracks, his hands curling into fists. “If it takes years, then fine. Decades—fine! I’ll keep going until there’s none of those bastards left.”
Luka exhales a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You say that like it’s that simple. You’ll just keep going until what? You’re dead at twenty-five?”
“Better me than them!” Till spits back. His chest is rising and falling too fast, his eyes shining with anger—or maybe desperation.
Luka’s expression hardens. He pushes up from the chair, closing the distance between them. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re not a martyr, Till. You’re not indestructible. You’ll burn yourself out before you even make a dent.”
“And what, you’d rather we do nothing?” Till shoots back, taking a step closer too. “Just stay here, safe, while the kids out there suffer? Is that it?”
“Don’t you dare,” Luka growls, low, dangerous. “Don’t you dare say I don’t care. You think I don’t know what’s out there? I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it longer than you have.”
Till’s jaw clenches. “Then why are you talking like it’s hopeless?”
“Because it is hopeless!” Luka’s voice cracks like a whip. The words hang in the air, bitter and heavy. He regrets them immediately, but it’s too late to take them back. “We can’t tear down the whole system, Till. We’re not gods.”
Till flinches like he’s been struck. His voice is raw when he answers. “If you really believe that, then why are you here? Why not just go back and drink yourself numb and pretend none of it matters?”
Luka’s nostrils flare. His hands are shaking as he rakes them through his hair. “Because I don’t want to watch you throw yourself into the fire and call it victory!”
They’re close now, close enough that Till can feel the heat rolling off him, see the lines of exhaustion carved into Luka’s face.
Till’s voice drops, quieter but sharper. “You think I can just… stand by? After everything I’ve lost?”
Luka swallows hard. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost something?” His tone wavers between fury and grief. “You think you’re the only one carrying ghosts around? God, Till—you don’t even know half of mine.”
Till’s breath catches, his throat tightening. “Then tell me!” he shouts, desperation breaking through the anger. “Stop shutting me out! Stop acting like I’m some stupid kid who doesn’t get it!”
Luka looks away, jaw working, chest heaving. He can’t say it. Not all of it. Not yet.
“You don’t understand,” he mutters.
“Then make me understand!” Till’s voice shakes. He shoves at Luka’s chest, not hard, just enough to make contact. “I’m right here, Luka! I’m not going anywhere! But I can’t—” His voice cracks, the words sticking in his throat. “I can’t do this if you won’t fight with me.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Luka stares at him, eyes dark, his own chest rising and falling too fast.
Finally, Luka’s voice comes low, almost a whisper but jagged at the edges. “You want the truth? If we keep doing this for years, if we keep fighting until there’s nothing left of us… I don’t think you’ll survive it. And I can’t—” He cuts himself off, biting the words back before they can slip out.
Till’s hands are trembling. His throat is raw. “So what? You’d rather I just stay safe and quiet? Pretend I don’t care? Pretend I can just… live with it?”
“I’d rather you live, period,” Luka snarls.
Their eyes lock, the space between them taut and buzzing with everything unsaid.
“We can’t keep this up forever.” Luka pushes off the wall, pacing across the room. His hands twitch at his sides, restless. “What, you want to still be sneaking around clubs and killing guards when you’re forty? Fifty? You think that’s a life?”
“It’s not about us,” Till snaps, standing now, his voice rising before he can stop it. “It’s about them. Those kids don’t get a choice. They don’t get a chance unless we give it to them.”
Luka turns on him sharply, jaw clenched. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t care?”
“You sound like you don’t!” Till’s chest is heaving now, anger bleeding into every word. “You sound like you want to give up before we’ve even started!”
“No, I sound like someone who’s not blind!” Luka barks back, stepping closer, eyes flashing. “This isn’t a story where we kill the monsters and win. We’re not heroes, Till. We’re just—” He cuts himself off, runs a hand through his messy hair, curses under his breath.
Till glares at him, voice breaking with the force of it. “Then what? We do nothing? Pretend it doesn’t happen? I can’t—” He shakes his head, words spilling out faster, louder. “I won’t! I don’t care how long it takes, I don’t care if it kills me, I’m not stopping until every single one of them is—”
He bites down hard on the rest, chest tightening, throat raw.
Luka stares at him, breath ragged. There’s fury in his eyes, but also something softer buried underneath—fear. “You’ll get yourself killed, Till,” he says finally, quieter, but no less sharp. “You’ll throw yourself at this until you burn out and I’ll be the one left to pick up the pieces. You think I want that? You think I can—”
“Stop acting like I’m fragile!” Till explodes, voice cracking. “I can fight! I want to fight! I’m not scared of them, Luka—I want them to be scared of me!”
The room shakes with the silence that follows. Both of them breathing hard, faces flushed, standing only a foot apart. Neither willing to step back.
It’s messy, jagged, and for a second it feels like they might actually swing at each other instead of talk.
Till’s pacing again. He can’t stop. His chest feels too tight. Luka stands near the desk now, shoulders hunched, knuckles white on the wood.
“You’d rather do nothing,” Till says, voice low but sharp, a blade dragging across stone. “That’s what this is. You’re scared, so you’d rather just sit back and let them win.”
Luka’s head jerks up, eyes flashing. “Don’t you fucking dare call me scared.”
“What else is it?” Till shoots back, his voice rising. “We make a plan, and all you can do is poke holes in it. We talk about saving people, and all you see is the risk. That’s not being smart, Luka—that’s being a coward.”
The word coward lands like a slap. Luka’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. He takes a step toward Till, finger pointing at his chest.
“You think I’m a coward because I’m not throwing myself into a suicide mission? You think being reckless makes you brave? Newsflash, Till—it doesn’t. It just makes you stupid.And gues what i had to learn that the hard way and you fucking know it!”
Till laughs, bitter and humorless. “At least I’m doing something. At least I care enough to try. You? You’d rather play it safe, hide in this hole, drink yourself to sleep and pretend you’re not just… waiting to die.”
Luka’s nostrils flare, his face twisting, but Till doesn’t stop—he’s too far gone.
“You think you’re better than me because you’ve been through more? Because you’re older?” Till’s voice cracks with anger. “You’re not. You’re just tired. You’ve given up, Luka. And you know what? Maybe that’s worse than being a coward.”
The words hang heavy between them. Luka’s breathing hard, his fists trembling at his sides. His throat works, rage boiling in his chest. He should walk away. He should.
But he doesn’t.
He looks at Till—at the fire in his eyes, the trembling in his hands, the way he’s still shaking from every wound that never really healed—and something cruel slips out before he can stop it.
“This isn’t about the kids,” Luka snarls. “This is about Ivan.”
Till goes still.
Luka doesn’t stop. He can’t. “You’re not doing this because you want to save anyone. You’re doing this because you couldn’t save him. You still carry that guilt around like it’ll make up for the fact that he’s gone. And it won’t, Till. It won’t.”
The words tear the air apart.
Till’s face drains of color. His whole body goes rigid, as if Luka just drove a knife straight through his chest. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out—not at first. When it does, his voice is shredded, raw.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare say his name.”
But Luka, breathing hard, can’t stop the avalanche he’s unleashed. “You think throwing yourself into all this will bring him back? It won’t. No matter how many aliens you kill, no matter how many times you bleed—you’ll never make it right.”
Till’s vision blurs with hot, stinging tears. His fists clench so tight his nails dig into his palms. He takes a shaky step closer, his voice cracking open into a shout.
“Shut up! You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
Luka’s chest heaves, anger still twisting his features, but beneath it—beneath the fury—he already looks like he regrets it. The words are out there, though, impossible to take back.
Till’s whole body trembles, breath ragged. “You think I don’t know I failed him? You think I don’t see his face when i close my eyes?’’ His voice breaks, raw and hoarse. “You don’t get to use him against me. Not you. Not ever.”
Silence.
Luka’s face crumples just slightly, like a crack through stone, but he doesn’t say anything. He can’t.
Till’s breathing ragged, eyes blazing and wet. His voice drops to a whisper, shattered. “You’re supposed to be the one person who wouldn’t do that.”
And then he turns away, shoulders shaking, every ounce of anger collapsing into something much more fragile, much more broken.
The door shut behind him, and the silence nearly knocked Till over.
He stood there, palms pressed hard against his eyes, but it didn’t stop the sting, didn’t stop the ache clawing up his throat. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear his voice out of his chest and bury it somewhere, because every word he’d thrown at Luka was still echoing, still cutting.
Coward.
How could he? How could he use that word—that word—on Luka of all people?
Till knew every scar carved into Luka’s chest, every jagged breath that rattled through his lungs. He’d sat through the worst of it—through the weeks Luka didn’t even know the world was still turning, four long months of hospital sheets and whispered prayers. He’d been there when the monitors screamed, when Luka’s lips went blue, when they said he might not wake up.
And he did wake up.
He fought. He survived. He clawed his way back when anyone else would have stayed down. And Till had called him a coward.
The only person he loved, the only one he trusted enough to bare all his own wounds to—and he’d slashed him open like that.
Till dropped onto the edge of the bed, hands gripping his knees so tight his nails left half-moons in his skin. His breath came ragged, chest tight in a way that felt worse than any injury.
Why? Why did he do this? Why did he keep screwing it up? Every time Luka reached out, every time he gave Till something fragile, something real—Till ruined it. Like he was too broken to hold it, like everything good slipped bloody through his fingers.
He said it because Luka was right.
That was the truth. That was the ugly, rotting truth in the pit of his chest. Luka was right: this fight would take years, maybe decades. They couldn’t keep doing this until they were old and broken. Till’s plans, his desperate clinging to saving everyone, it was madness. It was delusion.
And he hated that Luka said it out loud. He hated hearing it, hated the reality. So he lashed out, like he always did. A child cornered by truth.
He called Luka a coward because the word belonged to himself.
The sting in his eyes grew hotter. Till shoved the heels of his hands against them, but the tears still slipped out, soaking into his palms. He didn’t deserve to cry. He didn’t have the right. Not after what he’d just done.
And then Ivan.
The name alone made his chest seize. The image of his face, pale and smiling, before it was gone forever. The weight of failure pressing him into the dirt every night since.
He told himself Luka had no right to say it, to use Ivan against him. But that wasn’t it. Not really. The truth was worse.
Because it wasn’t the fact Luka had said it. It was that it was true.
Till hadn’t stopped carrying the guilt. He hadn’t stopped thinking about the moment everything slipped through his hands. If Ivan had lived, none of this—none of this—would have happened. Luka wouldn’t be here beside him. Luka wouldn’t be tangled in his sheets, in his arms, in his heart.
The thought twisted him up until he thought he’d choke on it. Because now he knew Luka believed it too—that maybe Till was just trying to replace him. That Luka was Ivan’s ghost wearing a different face.
It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. He loved Luka. He loved Luka in a way that terrified him, in a way that made his bones ache. But Ivan’s shadow was always there, between them, and they’d never talked about it.
Now the silence had cracked open into a wound.
Till bent forward, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, teeth biting down so hard he thought they’d crack. He couldn’t lose Luka. He couldn’t. But what if this was it? What if this was the last time Luka trusted him, the last time Luka looked at him with anything other than betrayal?
His chest hurt like fire. His lungs clawed for air.
You’re supposed to be the one person who wouldn’t do that. He’d said it, and it was true. But he’d been the first to betray Luka, hadn’t he?
How many times could he break the same person before they were gone for good?
The room was too quiet. The bed too cold. He’d never felt more alone.
Till pressed his palms over his burning eyes, trying to think, trying to breathe. How to fix it? How could he fix something this jagged, this poisoned? An apology wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would be enough. But he’d try anyway, because he couldn’t live with himself otherwise.
He stayed there in the dim dark, trembling, the word coward choking him now—not Luka, but himself.
Luka was the one who—when everyone else whispered, when they shoved and demanded and expected too much—looked at Till and said no. Said they’d do it together.
Back then, after the coma, after the surgery, after Luka could finally walk more than five steps without his body giving out—everyone was impatient. Everyone wanted him to move faster, to be useful again. But Till? Till had stood with him. Till had been his shield, his anchor, the one person who didn’t demand more than he could give.
We’ll do it together. Always together.
And now he’d spit in Luka’s face.
Till dragged a hand over his mouth, shaking his head, sick with himself. How could he betray that? How could he take all the weight Luka already carried and throw more on his shoulders? It made him no better than the rest of them. Worse, even—because Luka trusted him. Trusted that Till would never be the one to call him less, to tell him he wasn’t enough. He screwed for a second time this week…
Ivan’s name lodged in Till’s ribs like shrapnel again. They’d never talked about him. Not really. Not the way they should have. Too much silence, too many ghosts between them.
Because Luka thought—he thought—that Ivan was still in Till’s heart in that way. That maybe Luka was just the stand-in, the second choice, the replacement for someone who was gone.
It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. But how was Luka supposed to know? They’d never talked about it.
Till’s chest felt like it might cave in. Because it was complicated. Too complicated. He hadn’t had the time to even understand Ivan’s feelings before it was too late. He hadn’t had the chance to sort out his own. One kiss, one brief, burning moment—and then Ivan was gone. Snatched away on that stage, leaving Till gutted and confused.
If Ivan had lived… maybe it would’ve been more. Maybe Till would’ve had the time to see what could grow there. But Ivan hadn’t. And Till hadn’t. And there was no undoing that.
So he mourned him. He mourned his best friend. And he moved forward, carrying the weight in silence. Because what else could he do?
But Luka didn’t know. Luka couldn’t know. Luka thought the worst—that Till’s love was tangled up with Ivan’s ghost.
Till dropped his head into his hands, trembling. It hurt. It hurt so badly because Luka couldn’t see. Couldn’t see that Till loved him. That it wasn’t replacement, wasn’t leftover grief—it was raw, terrifying love that caught fire before Till even knew it was happening.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. Not at the end of the world. Not when Luka hadn’t even been part of the picture before. It wasn’t planned. None of this was planned.
But there it was. Unavoidable. Irrefutable.
And they were so damn bad at it.
Because talking about it—talking about feelings—was harder than any battlefield. Harder than killing an alien. Harder than facing down death. Till would rather aim a gun at a dozen enemies than look Luka in the eye and say, you’re everything to me.
So they fought instead. Threw words like knives. Acted like children. Both of them terrified, both of them tangled in silence and ghosts and what-ifs.
And now? Now Till had blown a hole in the fragile thing they’d built.
His chest heaved. His palms pressed to his eyes until stars burst behind his lids. If this was love, he was failing at it. Failing Luka. Failing himself.
★
The room felt too big once Till was gone.
Luka just stood there, staring at the door like maybe he’d come back, like maybe the argument would rewind itself and none of it would’ve happened. But the silence pressed in instead, heavy and unrelenting.
He felt drained, as if all the air had been pulled out of his lungs. Not even in the sick way, not the usual tightness in his chest — just exhaustion. Just bone-deep weariness.
How did it happen so fast?
How did everything go from fine—better than fine—to snapping at each other, again, like they hadn’t learned a damn thing?
Words they didn’t mean. Or maybe words they did mean, deep down, in the ugliest corners. Luka didn’t know anymore.
He let his back slide down the wall until he was on the floor, knees pulled to his chest. He dropped his head against them, burying his face, shutting the world out. He didn’t sob, didn’t shake, didn’t even make a sound—but the tears still slipped free, dampening the fabric of his pants.
Till’s words hurt. That was the truth of it. More than he wanted to admit.
Betrayal lodged sharp in his chest. Because if anyone should’ve understood, it was Till. And yet he had looked him in the eye and called him a coward. After everything Luka had been through. After the heart that betrayed him, the lungs that never quite kept up, the coma, the surgeries, the fight to stand again, to be here. After all the nights Till himself had sat by his bed.
And yet—coward. Like none of it mattered. Like Luka wasn’t doing enough.
He pressed his face harder into his knees. It was hard not to feel like Till had meant it. Hard not to hear the words on repeat.
And then—Ivan.
The guilt rolled in, thick and choking. Because Luka had thrown Ivan’s name at him, cruelly, deliberately. He’d known it would hurt, and he’d said it anyway.
Maybe it was insecurity, the ugly kind that festered when he was alone too long. The thought that he was just… a replacement. That Till had already loved someone else first, someone who’d died before Luka ever had the chance to measure up.
And the way Till reacted—like something inside him had shattered—only made it worse.
Luka hated himself for it.
He just sat there, small on the floor, feeling like a kid again. Weak, lost, powerless.
He wanted Till. God, he wanted him so badly it hurt. Wanted the comfort, the solid weight of him, the steadiness. But what could he even say now? What words were left? He couldn’t apologize for Ivan, not really, because he had meant it, even if he hated himself for it.
And Till—Till thought he always ran for the bottle when it got too hard. Till had said that once, bitterly, and it still clung like tar. If Luka reached for it again now, he’d only be proving him right.
So he didn’t. He didn’t move.
He just sat there on the floor, knees to his chest, wiping at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, crying silently until the tears ran out.
And hating himself for it. Hating all of it.
★
The tension hadn’t gone away.
For days, it lingered like smoke in the air, suffocating in the quiet moments between missions and meetings. Luka went when he was called. Sat at the table, spoke when he had to, explained routes and strategies with that clipped, matter-of-fact tone of his.
Till showed up less. Sometimes not at all. And when he did, he kept his head down, notebook closed on the table, eyes fixed anywhere but Luka.
Sometimes he stole a glance, quick, guilty. And sometimes Luka caught it—and met it with a look so cold, so wounded, that Till’s stomach turned over and he dropped his gaze again. Other times Luka didn’t look at him at all. Which was worse.
Till stayed away. Luka stayed quiet.
It was Isaac who broke the spell one afternoon, dropping a heavy stack of newspapers onto the table with a thump that echoed through the room. Dewey followed right after, arms full of more.
“Hot off the press,” Isaac said dryly, flipping one open. “Our masterpiece.”
On the front page—there it was. The poster. Bold, ugly, undeniable. And beside it, headlines from the exposé they’d scraped money together to publish: ALIEN STAGE: WHAT THEY DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW.
The table went still. Even Luka leaned forward, his jaw tightening, scanning every word.
Then Isaac cleared his throat and read aloud, almost mocking:
“‘Have the rebels really exposed Alien Stage?’” He flipped to another paper.
“Some don’t believe it,” Dewey said, rifling through another. “Think it’s fake. Think we’re desperate humans spreading propaganda.”
“Not surprising,” Hyuna muttered. “They’d rather be blind.”
But then Isaac tapped the page again. “‘Alien Stage isn’t what it used to be.’ ‘Maybe it should be shut down before it gets worse.’” He looked up, and for once there was something sharp in his grin. “That’s more than I hoped for.”
It wasn’t support for the rebels—not even close. No one was praising them. No one was saying the deaths mattered.
But they were questioning Alien Stage.
That was enough.
The room slowly filled with voices—arguments, ideas, cautious excitement. They spread the papers across the table, reading every column, every bitter comment. Even Luka’s voice joined in, steady and practical: how they might use this, how to push further, what to plant next.
It went on for hours. A rare day where planning didn’t feel like drowning.
Till sat at the edge of it, quiet, listening. His eyes kept straying to Luka across the table, his voice, his profile under the harsh light. The distance between them felt unbearable.
But he didn’t speak. Not to him. Not yet.
By the time the last of the papers were folded up and stacked away, the sun was sinking, the room dim except for the lamp above the table. One by one, chairs scraped back and people drifted out, still murmuring about headlines and strategies.
Luka gathered the pages closest to him, slid them into a neat pile. He didn’t look up once.
Till stood slower, his hands restless at his sides, heart beating too loud in his chest. He watched Luka’s back as he turned toward the door. His throat tightened. It had been days—days of silence, of glances that hurt worse than words. He couldn’t keep standing in it.
“Luka—” he said, low, almost pleading.
Luka froze for half a second. Just long enough for hope to flicker in Till’s chest. But then he straightened, still facing the doorway.
“Don’t,” Luka said, his voice flat, cold. Not angry. Worse. Tired. Wounded. “Not now.”
He didn’t wait for Till to answer. Didn’t even glance over his shoulder. He just walked out, the door shutting softly behind him.
The silence that followed pressed hard on Till’s ribs, like all the air had been stolen from the room. He hadn’t even gotten the words out.
Till didn’t move. His hands hung useless at his sides, his mouth half-open around words that hadn’t made it out. He could go after him—he knew that. He could follow Luka down the hall, stop him before he locked himself away, just…say sorry. Say something.
But his feet stayed planted. His throat locked up.
And so he stood there, frozen, watching a door that wasn’t opening again.
★
Days bled together.
They’d fought before, yes. Harsh words, slammed doors, Till’s temper flaring and Luka’s sarcasm cutting deep. But never like this. Never to the point where silence became the weapon. Till couldn’t decide if that silence hurt worse than the yelling.
The others didn’t press. If they noticed—and of course they noticed—they let it sit unspoken. Missions, supplies, planning; there was too much else to focus on. Isaac especially didn’t have the patience to referee whatever had gone wrong between them, and Dewey…well, Dewey just raised his brows sometimes and bit back a joke.
When Luka left one afternoon with Isaac and Dewey for supplies, Till didn’t follow to the door. He didn’t wish him luck. Didn’t even say goodbye. He told himself Luka wouldn’t have wanted to hear it anyway. But when the sound of footsteps faded from the hall, his chest ached with something bitter and tight.
In the quiet, Till wondered if this was the worst it had ever been between them. He thought of Luka’s face that night—the flash of betrayal, the crack in his voice. He thought of Ivan’s name, the way it had snapped something inside him. And he thought of his own words, sharp and unforgivable, the kind you couldn’t just take back.
He rubbed his hands over his face and sat alone in his room, staring at the wall. He could get up. He could knock on Luka’s door. He could try.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
★
The doors opened with a bang.
Luka stepped in first, shoulders tense, hair a mess, blood streaked from his nose down over his lip. His jacket hung half-unzipped, clinging damp to bruised arms. Behind him, Isaac and two others carried the boxes of supplies, all of them looking equally battered and pissed.
Till froze where he sat in the corner, hands clenched between his knees. For a second it was like déjà vu—like those nights when he had been the one stumbling back bruised and sore, and Luka had been there watching, waiting, arms crossed in the shadows. When had their positions switched?
Luka didn’t even glance at him. He unbuckled his belt, dropped the weapons onto the table with a sharp clatter, then shrugged out of the jacket. Underneath, his shirt was plastered to his back, and angry purple mottled his arms.
Hyuna sucked in a breath. “What the hell happened?”
“Supply run turned to shit,” Isaac muttered, easing into a chair with a wince. He looked like he’d taken a hit to the jaw. “The store was gone—leveled. They’re wiping out the whole damn chain. Had to drive farther out, down the worst fucking road I’ve ever seen.”
Mizi appeared with a kit of alcohol wipes and bandages. “Sit. Don’t go to the infirmary, you’ll just scare the nurses.” She pulled Luka’s wrist down before he could protest and began cleaning the blood.
Luka flinched once, then went still, jaw locked. He hadn’t said a word yet.
Isaac went on. “We got ambushed there. Nothing serious—”
“Nothing serious?” Luka’s voice was hoarse, sharp. “They were aiming for you, Isaac.”
Isaac shot him a look, half annoyed, half tired. “And I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Because I shot them.”
“Yeah,” Isaac admitted, leaning back, “and almost got us killed in the process, because you pissed off the rest.”
They bickered like that, back and forth, the kind of argument that sounded almost habitual by now—snapping without heat, as though underneath it ran some unspoken trust. Still, Luka’s face was hard, his frustration plain. He had the look of someone barely holding himself together.
Till couldn’t move. He watched from the corner as Hyuna dabbed antiseptic at Luka’s temple, as Mizi wrapped Isaac’s knuckles. Every instinct screamed at him to get up, to help, to do something. No one would stop him if he crossed the room.
But he didn’t. He sat frozen, biting his tongue until it hurt.
When they were patched enough to walk without dripping blood on the floor, Luka was the first one up. He muttered something sharp under his breath, shoved his jacket back on, and stormed toward the hall.
Till’s chest clenched. He knew he should stay put. He knew Luka didn’t want him, not right now. But when the door slammed and the sound of Luka’s boots echoed down the corridor, Till finally pushed himself up.
Not the best idea.
But he followed anyway.
★
Luka slammed the door behind him so hard the frame rattled. He didn’t even think about it—he just needed the sound, the jolt of impact, something to match the storm building inside his chest. His jacket came off first, hitting the floor in a heap. Then the empty mug on the desk shoved hard until it shattered against the wall. He didn’t stop to watch the pieces scatter.
He’d never, been like this. He wasn’t supposed to be like this. All his life he had been the calm one, the collected one, the perfect one. Anger was undignified, rage was weakness.
For years he’d held it all in, wrapped himself in poise and control until it suffocated him. And yet, ever since the rebels, ever since he’d been dragged into this bloody war, anger seemed to bleed out of him in ways he couldn’t contain.
He hated it. He hated how good it felt to break something.
His breathing was harsh, uneven. He paced a short path across the room, hands dragging through his hair, tugging until it hurt. The bruises on his arms throbbed with each movement, a reminder of the fight, of the gunshots, of the look Isaac had given him when he’d lost it out there.
Finally he dropped down onto the floor, back against the bedframe, and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, though he forced the sound down, swallowing it hard. He wasn’t going to cry. Not now. Not over this.
The door creaked.
Luka’s head snapped up, and there he was. Till. Standing in the doorway like a ghost who had lost his way.
Luka’s stomach clenched. The last thing he wanted right now was him. He let out a sharp sigh, dragged his hands down his face.
“Spare me,” he muttered. The words came out brittle, exhausted.
For a moment, Till hesitated. His eyes flickered like he’d almost retreat. But then he stepped in, slowly, closing the door behind him with the softest click. He moved forward like every step was heavy, until he lowered himself onto the floor across from Luka. He didn’t look at him—he stared down at his hands, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.
Luka clenched his jaw. He could feel the anger still boiling, mixing with something heavier, more dangerous.
“I’m sorry,” Till said, quietly.
Luka’s throat tightened. He looked away instantly, fixing his eyes on the floorboards. He wasn’t going to give him that—wasn’t going to look at him and soften.
Till tried again, voice rougher. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I… I screwed up.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Luka pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, willing himself not to react. “I don’t want to do this right now.” His voice cracked in the middle of it. He hated that.
Till said nothing. For a long moment the silence stretched, heavy. Then Luka felt it—the shift of weight on the floor, Till’s body moving closer. Before he could stop it, Till was straddling his lap, knees braced on either side of his hips.
Luka froze. His hands curled into fists against the floor. The warmth, the weight of him—it was too much.
“Don’t.” His voice was low, tight, warning.
But Till just looked at him, finally daring to meet his eyes. There was something raw in his gaze, desperate but steady. “Then we won’t talk.” His tone was almost a whisper. “Like before. We’ll deal with this our way.”
Luka’s chest ached. This felt like a trap, he thought bitterly. A trick, a point Till wanted to prove. And yet… the nearness of him, the way he was looking at him—it unraveled Luka in seconds.
He huffed, jaw tight, but his eyes betrayed him as they flicked to Till’s mouth.
Till’s hand slid up his arm, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing over the bruises like he wanted to claim them, soothe them, burn them all at once. Luka shivered despite himself.
His fists loosened. His hands lifted, hesitating, then finally landed on Till’s waist. His touch was careful, tentative, as though he didn’t trust himself not to crush him.
Till leaned closer, voice low against his ear. “Go on. Release it all. Do whatever you want to me.” His breath was hot, words drawn out, leaving Luka trembling. Then, softer still, almost like a dare: “I’m all yours.”
Luka’s heart slammed against his ribs. Every part of him screamed to push Till away—to end this before it consumed him, before he hurt him. But his hands tightened instead, holding him there, pulling him closer.
The anger hadn’t left him. It burned still, fierce and dangerous. But Till was offering himself up like an answer, like a release, and Luka was too far gone to resist.
Luka didn’t waste time. The moment the words left Till’s lips, the tight coil of anger inside him snapped. His hands gripped Till’s sides, lifting him with a force that surprised even himself, before he all but threw him down onto the bed. His mouth was on Till’s immediately — not tender, not searching — but desperate, rough, angry, as though kissing was the only way to silence the fire tearing through him. Till’s lips parted beneath his, caught between shock and surrender, and Luka didn’t slow down long enough for either of them to think.
It wasn’t like the other times. There was no lingering, no warmth, no pauses that stretched into something soft. His mouth was hard, biting, almost bruising, and when Till’s breath hitched against him, Luka didn’t soothe — he pressed harder, chasing something nameless and burning in his chest.
Clothes went flying. Not carefully slipped away, but torn, yanked, discarded in frustrated motions. Luka didn’t bother with patience. He wanted no barriers, nothing between them, as if skin alone could be the only proof that Till was still here — still his. His own jacket hit the floor, followed quickly by his shirt, and then he was back on Till, not stopping, not letting space breathe between them.
Till tried to keep up, tried to ground himself in Luka’s weight, Luka’s heat, Luka’s presence — but it was rougher than anything before. Luka’s touch didn’t linger; it grabbed, clutched, left fingerprints in its wake. His jaw clenched, his breath came ragged, and every movement screamed fury more than desire.
Till felt it, every ounce of it. The way Luka rushed, the way he cut corners, the way his hands pushed and pulled without rhythm. It wasn’t about gentleness, or even pleasure — it was about release, about Luka pouring every frustration, every wound, every unspoken word into him. And Till let him. He had promised. He had said Luka could do whatever he wanted, and he meant it. Even when the roughness burned, even when his body ached to adjust, even when his chest tightened with something that felt too close to fear.
Luka prepped him fast, using only two fingers, it burned, and yet when he hit the spot Till couldn’t help but moan, but still couldn’t ignore the fact the way Luka is not careful at all, he always took care of Till with preparation even when they hurried, it was never like this, he was telling himself it’s fine, it’s fine because it’s Luka, because he trust him.
When Luka turned him over, Till didn’t resist. He understood. Luka didn’t want to be seen right now. He buried his face in the pillow, gripped the sheets, and told himself — over and over — it was fine. It was Luka.
The world became sound and weight and force. The mattress shook beneath them with every movement, Luka’s low curses spilling into the air, Till’s own voice breaking between moans and stifled whimpers. His hips were gripped hard enough to bruise, pressed down until he felt small, pinned, helpless — and yet he didn’t push away. He took it, let the sting of it wash through him, and tried to twist the pain into something else. Into proof that Luka needed him. Into proof that Luka still wanted him, even if this was how he showed it.
The way Luka thrusted into Till, the way the bed shook. Till moaned and yet the pain didn’t stop.
Tears stung at his eyes, hot and unwelcome. He buried them in the pillow, trying to smother the sound, but his body betrayed him — soft broken noises slipping out, muffled and trembling. Behind him, Luka’s groans grew sharper, more ragged, like he was burning himself alive and dragging Till through the fire with him. His thrust became more rushed, his grip on Till’s waist almost bruising. Till’s face was pressed into the pillow; he's not sure if the sounds he’s making are from pleasure or the fact he can’t breathe.
And then — all at once — it was over. Luka collapsed beside him, chest heaving, sweat dampening his hairline, eyes closed tight as though he couldn’t stand to see what he’d done. The room went still, except for their breathing.
Till lay there, face still pressed into the pillow, body aching, mind racing. He could feel the bruises blooming already where Luka’s hands had held him too tightly. His throat felt raw from the sounds he hadn’t meant to make. But beneath it all, in some complicated, terrible way, his chest was full. Because Luka had chosen him. Because Luka’s anger, his pain, his breaking point — all of it — had come to him.
He told himself that was enough.
Till stayed as he was, face pressed into the pillow, body heavy against the mattress. He didn’t move, not even when Luka collapsed beside him. His body shook in small, uneven tremors, chest rising too quickly, too sharply. He told himself to breathe, but the breaths came broken, shallow. Silent tears slid down into the fabric, soaking through until the damp pressed cold against his skin.
He didn’t even know why he was crying. Not really. The pain, maybe. His hips throbbed, the sharp ache spreading through him until it was impossible to ignore. He knew there’d be bruises by morning — Luka’s hands had been unrelenting, leaving behind imprints that still pulsed. And the soreness was worse than usual, deeper, like something in him had been scraped raw. He could barely keep still without flinching, but he didn’t dare move.
It reminded him of something he didn’t want to remember. Something from before, long before Luka, before any of this. He shoved it down, forced it away. This wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. Because this was Luka. Luka loved him. Luka cared about him, even when his actions were a mess of contradictions. Luka wasn’t like that. Till knew that this could happen. He came to Luka who was angry.
And yet — his body wouldn’t listen. His shoulders trembled, his fingers clutched the sheets like he was bracing for something more, and he stayed buried in the pillow as though hiding from Luka’s eyes would make the ache in his chest quieter.
It’s fine, he told himself, over and over, a desperate mantra. It’s fine because you told him it was. You told him to. You wanted this. You said he could do whatever he wanted. So it’s fine. It’s fine. You can’t be upset. You can’t—
But the tears kept coming, hot and shameful, and his body shook harder.
★
Luka lay beside him, his chest heaving as the fire of his anger slowly ebbed away, leaving nothing but ash and silence. The haze in his mind cleared bit by bit, and clarity rushed in with the weight of something unbearable.
What did he just do?
His gaze trailed down before he could stop himself — to the marks on Till’s hips, darkening bruises where his hands had gripped too hard, too long. He didn’t even remember pressing that much force. He hadn’t been thinking, hadn’t been careful. Till had told him he was his, told him to let go, and Luka had—
He swallowed hard, his stomach twisting. He had lost control. On Till.
He was never supposed to. Never him.
Not Till, who trusted him more than anyone else. Not Till, who gave himself so freely, who carried his love in silence but with a devotion that Luka could never deserve. Luka had promised himself, even in the unspoken ways, that no matter what, he’d take care of him. He’d keep him safe. And now—
Now he hurt him.
Luka’s throat tightened. He turned his head, saw the faint tremble in Till’s shoulders, the way his body shook in small waves. He heard the faintest sound — not a moan, not a breath — but a sniff, broken and fragile.
His chest cracked open.
Slowly, hesitantly, Luka moved closer. His hand hovered before it dared to touch. With trembling fingers, he brushed Till’s damp hair away from his face, his knuckles grazing temple and skin wet with tears. His voice came out so soft it was almost a ghost of itself.
“Till…”
The sound made Till stiffen, just slightly. He sniffed again, shoulders curling inward.
Luka’s hand drifted lower, to the bare line of his back. He laid his palm flat against the trembling skin, slow, careful, as if afraid Till might break further under his touch. Till didn’t flinch, but he didn’t ease either — caught somewhere between trust and wound.
“I’m sorry,” Luka whispered, the words rough against his throat. They spilled out again, quieter still, as if saying them enough might undo what he’d done. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Till turned his head then, finally, his face streaked with tears, eyes red, lashes damp. He shook his head weakly.
“It’s fine,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’m okay.”
Luka’s chest ached at the sight. “You’re not okay.”
“I wanted this,” Till insisted, the words trembling even as he forced them out. “I told you I did. I told you to—”
Luka cut him off, voice breaking sharper than he meant. “That doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have lost control like that. Not with you. Never with you.”
Till blinked, more tears slipping free. He shook his head again, stubborn, but softer this time. “You didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“That’s not the point,” Luka said, his jaw tight, his hand still trembling against Till’s skin. He leaned closer, unable to stop himself, pulling Till gently into his chest even though part of him thought he didn’t deserve to. His arms wrapped around him with a hesitation that betrayed the storm inside. “I’m supposed to take care of you, Till. Not— not this.”
Till melted weakly against him, still shaking, still hurting, but clinging just the same. His words came muffled into Luka’s chest. “You do take care of me.”
Luka’s arms tightened, his eyes closing as guilt burned behind them. “Not tonight. Not like this. I should never—”
“You’re overthinking,” Till tried, his voice breaking. “I told you… I wanted this. I wanted you.”
Luka pressed his forehead against Till’s hair, his voice raw. “You don’t have to want me like this. Not when I’m like this. You deserve better.”
The back-and-forth carried on, tangled between them, Till’s quiet insistence and Luka’s stubborn self-condemnation clashing until the words blurred into each other. But Luka never let go, not this time. His arms stayed around Till’s trembling frame, pulling him tighter with every broken whisper, every shaky breath.
And for all the ache and guilt between them, they held on — because that was all they could do.
Luka was still angry. The burn of it lingered, though not in the way it had before. Earlier, his anger had been fire, wild and reckless, and it had spilled out in the worst way possible — onto Till. Now it was different. Now it was a cold, suffocating weight that settled in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He was still hurt by Till’s words from earlier, words that cut deep, words an apology hadn’t erased. And now this. Now he had done something he couldn’t take back.
He stared at Till, at the rise and fall of his chest as he finally drifted off into a fragile sleep, and he wondered—did he even have the right to be angry anymore? After what he had just done?
His hands trembled when he pulled the blanket over Till’s shoulders. He dressed him quietly, carefully — sweatpants, hoodie, something warm and soft. He smoothed cream over the bruises on his hips with shaking fingers, unable to look too long at the darkening marks he’d left behind. Then, when it was done, Luka sat there for a long time, watching the boy he loved sleep, the guilt a steady roar in his head. Eventually, he slipped away into the bathroom, needing to be anywhere else, needing to breathe.
★
Later that night, Till stirred. He blinked against the dark, disoriented, and reached for Luka out of instinct — only to find the bed empty. His body ached when he moved, soreness deep in his muscles, but it was the strange weight of the clothes on his skin that caught him off guard.
He sat up slowly, sweatpants loose around his legs, hoodie warm against his chest. Luka’s doing. His eyes drifted down, his hand brushing over his hips. They hurt, yes, but not nearly as bad as he feared. His fingertips caught the faint tackiness of something soothing spread over the skin. Cream. Luka had… taken care of him after all.
Till’s chest squeezed.
He sat there, knees pulled tight to his chest, listening to the silence of the room. No sound of running water anymore. Just the faint hum of the night beyond the walls. He swallowed hard, pressing his forehead to his knees, unsure what to do with the mess of emotions tangling inside him.
Minutes later, the door creaked open.
Till’s head shot up. Luka stepped inside quietly, and even in the dimness Till saw it — his red eyes, shadowed and raw. He wasn’t any better than before. Maybe worse. He’d changed too, into a hoodie and sweatpants, his shoulders slumped as though he carried the weight of both their guilt at once.
They froze when their eyes met.
Till wanted to say something, anything — but the words stuck in his throat. Luka didn’t speak either. The silence pressed heavy between them, almost unbearable, but neither dared to break it.
Luka crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Not close. Not far. Just enough space between them that the absence of touch screamed louder than any embrace. Slowly, Till shifted until they were facing each other, knees drawn up, hoodies bunched between their chests.
Two shadows in the dark, staring at each other like strangers, like lovers, like both at once.
And the silence stretched.
The silence pressed so hard Till almost wished Luka would yell instead. Anything would have been easier than this quiet, where every unspoken word weighed between them like a stone. Luka sat across from him, hunched, eyes low, hoodie sleeves bunched around his fists. He looked like he’d fold in on himself if Till so much as breathed wrong.
At last, Luka spoke, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“…I’m sorry.”
Till blinked at him, chest tightening. Luka’s gaze stayed fixed somewhere on the floor, as if looking at him might make the apology shatter.
“Luka—”
“I mean it.” Luka’s voice broke sharper this time. “For what I did. I shouldn’t have— I lost control, Till. I promised myself I never would. Not with you. Not ever.” He dragged in a rough breath, shoulders trembling. “And I broke that.”
Till stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted as the words sank in. His first instinct was to argue, to reach for him. But Luka’s expression—guilt carved into every line of his face—stopped him cold.
Finally, Till shook his head. “No. Don’t.” His throat felt tight, but he forced the words out. “You shouldn’t be the one apologising.”
That startled Luka enough to look up.
Till’s chest ached. He hugged his knees tighter, fumbling for words he’d been holding back far too long. “I should be the sorry one. For what I said to you that day.”
Luka frowned, about to protest, but Till pushed on, voice shaking. “I had no right. I was angry and I wasn’t thinking. I lashed out. Like a kid. And you were right, Luka.” His breath hitched as guilt washed over him. “You were right about everything, and I just… I didn’t want to believe it. So I threw those words at you, like they could make you smaller, like they could undo everything you’ve been through. But they didn’t. They just hurt you. And you didn’t deserve that. Not after everything.”
He swallowed hard. His eyes burned. “You’re not a coward. You’ve never been. You’ve been through more than anyone should, and I… I watched it. These almost two years, I’ve seen everything you’ve become, everything you’ve fought to survive. And then I called you that.” His voice broke. “I’m not proud of it. I hate that I said it.”
For a long moment Luka just stared at him. Then his jaw tightened, his lips pressed thin. “…I still stand by what I said.”
Till’s stomach twisted. But he nodded slowly. “And I agree.”
The words were quiet, but they left something heavy between them, a truth Till didn’t know how to bend or fix.
Except—there was still Ivan.
The name sat like a stone on his tongue. He shifted, restless, picking at the sleeve of his hoodie. He could feel Luka’s eyes on him, waiting, suspicious. But Till couldn’t leave it there, not when Luka still thought he was the second choice.
“Luka,” he said softly, the name breaking the silence. He hesitated, then lifted his gaze. “You were wrong about only one thing.”
Luka blinked. “About what?”
Till’s chest squeezed. He took a shaky breath. “About me… about Ivan.”
Luka stiffened.
“I love you,” Till said, firm this time, the words tearing out of him before fear could stop them. “And you can’t possibly think you’re just a replacement for something that never even happened. Because you’re not. You’re not.”
Luka’s expression flickered, guarded but brittle. He didn’t interrupt, so Till pushed forward, slow and clumsy as he tried to put feelings into words he’d been avoiding.
“Ivan was my best friend. Always. That’s what he was to me.” His throat tightened, but he pressed on. “I… I only realized everything after Round Six. And then—” his voice cracked, “—then he was gone. I never had the time. It never had the chance to be anything more. And yes, I feel guilty. Because I couldn’t save him. And for me Ivan will always be my best friend.”
He looked down, knuckles white where they gripped the fabric of his knees. “I don’t know if things would have been different if Ivan had lived. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we wouldn’t be sitting here like this. But Luka—” his voice steadied, firm with honesty, “—I don’t care about the ‘what ifs.’ I don’t want to. Because I love what I have now. I love you. Every second of it. And I don’t regret any of it.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Luka’s jaw flexed as though he wanted to say something, but the words stuck. His hand twitched on his knee, not reaching out, just trembling there.
Finally, Luka exhaled. “I hear you.” His voice was low, rough. “And I… I believe you. But it doesn’t change what I did tonight.” His eyes flicked briefly to Till’s hips before darting away in shame. “I hurt you, Till. I left bruises on you. I made you cry. I don’t get to shrug that off just because you say it’s fine.”
Till’s lips parted, panicked. “But it is fine—”
“No.” Luka cut him off, sharp, almost desperate. “That’s the problem. It shouldn’t be fine. If I let myself think it is, then what’s the difference between me and them? Between me and the monsters who use us like we’re not even human?” His voice cracked, eyes burning. “That’s not who I want to be. Not with you.”
Till shook his head quickly, words tumbling out, messy with urgency. “I don’t think of you that way, Luka. Not once. You’re not like them. You never will be. I let you because I wanted to, because I trust you. That’s different. You’re different.”
But Luka didn’t look convinced. He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping hard like he could claw the thoughts from his head. His chest heaved with every breath. Till leaned forward, reaching out hesitantly until his fingers brushed Luka’s sleeve.
And the tension snapped taut again, thick between them, ready to pull them apart or bind them closer depending on who dared to move first.
The silence stretched long enough that Till’s eyelids began to grow heavy. The warmth of Luka’s sleeve lingered under his fingers, but neither of them moved closer, neither of them gave in to the pull.
Luka shifted first, sitting back, rubbing his hands over his face as if he could scrub away everything that had just happened. He didn’t say another word. Neither did Till.
Eventually, Luka lay down on his side of the bed, facing away. Till hesitated, staring at the tense line of his back, at the rise and fall of his shoulders. The ache in his chest begged him to cross the space, to press close until Luka believed him. But something inside whispered that this wasn’t the night for it.
So he curled up on his side, hoodie pulled tighter around him, tears drying quietly on his cheeks. For the first time, they fell asleep without tangling into each other, without the comfort of touch. Just two heavy silences facing opposite directions, breathing the same air, carrying the same hurt.
It wasn’t fine. Not yet.
But somehow, Till knew—they’d find a way. They had to.
Chapter 37
Notes:
lmao, I was losing it, so I had to pull a Vampire Diaries reference for a sec. Anyway, I guess at first I thought the fic could end here, the next chapters are more mission planning and smut. But I'll be happy if you stay till the end. I'm sorry if not everyone is pleased with the way it ended and the way it just became cheesy. Maybe I should have ended it a long time ago, and I just stretched it a lot (I'm not exactly pleased either). I just didn't have time to plan this fic much. I just felt the need to start to write, so I got a little lost, then I didn't even know what I should do with the rebels, since in the canon story we don't know much, but now I have so many new ideas for the next fanfictions. I'm gonna announce I have one or two more Luka/Till fic, Ivan/Till a lot of them, and of course I have a few on Hyuna/Luka since there are no alien stage fanfictions I have to feed myself, haha. I want to thank you for the comments ( while they lasted) and the kudos. Enough yapping, this feels like it's a last note. It's not, there are three more chapters, but they won't be so focused on actions anymore.
Chapter Text
Till woke first. For a moment, in that hazy stretch between sleep and waking, he expected warmth at his side, Luka’s weight pressed against him, an arm thrown lazily across his chest like so many other mornings.
But the space beside him was empty. Luka was there, only a breath away, but lying stiff on his own side, still deep in sleep. The hoodie's hood had slipped down, exposing the curve of his neck, strands of hair falling into his face. He looked so close. And yet, Till had never felt him so far.
Till sat up slowly, hugging his knees against his chest. The room was dim, quiet. He thought about slipping out, about leaving Luka to wake alone. Maybe it would be easier that way. No awkward words, no silent reminder of last night’s sharp edges.
But something in him refused to move. As much as he wanted to escape the weight in his chest, the idea of Luka opening his eyes to an empty bed felt worse. So he stayed, legs folded, gaze wandering across the floor
Minutes bled together before Luka stirred. He blinked awake, groggy, rubbing at his eyes. For a second, his gaze found Till’s, and the quiet in the room thickened.
They didn’t speak.
The silence was louder than anything they could have said.
Till’s throat tightened with words he couldn’t force out. Luka sat up too, resting his elbows on his knees, his face unreadable in the pale morning light. They breathed the same air, but it felt like they were on opposite sides of something invisible.
Nothing had broken. But nothing had healed either.
Till clears his throat. “I should be going.”
Luka doesn’t answer at first. His jaw works, gaze fixed on the floor. Then, flatly, he mutters: “You could stay. If you want to.”
The words hang there, an open door Till doesn’t step through. He forces a nod, fumbling for the safest excuse. “We’ll see each other later. At the meeting.”
And then he leaves, heart hammering with the same thought that’s haunted him since yesterday: running away, again.
★
Everyone gathered later in the meeting room — Hyuna, Isaac at the head, Dewey slouched low in his chair, Mizi drumming her fingers, Luka leaning back like he didn’t care, and Till slipping into a seat across the table, notebook under his arm.
The air felt thick even before Isaac spoke.
“Alright,” Isaac started, voice brisk. “We’ve got confirmation of another supply run scheduled tomorrow. Same route as last time, heavier guard. This is our shot — we miss it, we’ll be short on meds for a month.”
Hyuna added, “It’s risky, but doable. We go in fast, grab the crates, and get out before they can reinforce.”
Heads nodded. Till kept his eyes on the map, trying not to think about how close Luka sat — just a table length away, hoodie sleeves pushed up, fingers tapping restlessly against the wood.
Isaac continued: “Hyuna and I will take the front line, draw their fire. Dewey, you’ll handle comms. Mizi, cover fire from the ridge. Luka, Till—you’re the recovery team. You’ll be the ones hauling the crates. If anything goes wrong, we can’t afford hesitation.”
Luka raised a brow. “You’re really pairing us up again?”
“It’s practical,” Isaac said flatly. “You two work better together than apart. You’ve proven it before.”
Till’s jaw clenched. His throat worked as if he wanted to object, but instead he muttered, “Better until we don’t.”
Luka’s head snapped toward him. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” Till said quickly, eyes still on the map.
Isaac cleared his throat, sharp. “This isn’t optional. You’re partners for this one. End of story.”
Hyuna shifted, uncomfortable. The room felt smaller suddenly, everyone trying to look anywhere but at Luka and Till.
Isaac pushed on. “We’ll set up at point A—” he tapped the map— “and move south. Timing is critical. No one goes off-script, no improvising. We can’t afford mistakes.”
It was meant as a general warning, but Luka’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, voice low and edged: “Is that supposed to be directed at me?”
“No,” Isaac said evenly. “It’s for all of us.”
Till, almost under his breath but not quiet enough: “Maybe some people should actually listen for once.”
Luka froze. The room went utterly still.
Slowly, Luka turned his head. “You got something to say to me, Till?”
Till kept his eyes on the map, but his voice shook when he answered: “Not here.”
“Then say it later,” Luka shot back, leaning back in his chair with a bitter laugh. “Like you always do.”
Isaac cut in, steel in his tone: “Enough. We’re not doing this right now.”
Hyuna glanced between them, jaw tight. Dewey raised his hands awkwardly, muttering, “So…uh…do I get, like, a code word if the comms get jammed, or—?”
The tension broke only slightly, a ripple of nervous chuckles, but the atmosphere stayed strained. Luka shoved his chair back just enough to lean against the wall, arms crossed, refusing to look at Till. Till scribbled something in his notebook, pretending focus, but his hand trembled.
Isaac ignored it, pressing forward. “Back to the plan. We’ll need to time this with the patrol shift at 1400 hours. Luka, Till—you’ll have less than five minutes to grab what you can. No slip-ups. Understand?”
Both answered, “Yes,” at the same time.
The meeting dragged on with logistics, fallback signals, escape routes. But the words barely stuck. Everyone could feel the undercurrent, the silence that screamed louder than shouting.
By the time Isaac dismissed them, the group scattered fast, eager to get out of the room. Only Luka lingered, glaring at the floor. Till slipped out without looking back.
Isaac rubbed his temples. “This is going to be a problem.”
Hyuna murmured, “It already is.”
Dewey says. “ I dont get them one second they almost fuck in that club the next they are ready to kill each other.”
★
The moment Isaac dismissed them, chairs scraped back fast, everyone spilling out of the cramped room like they’d been holding their breath the whole time. Till grabbed his notebook, stood quickly, and made for the door. Luka wasn’t far behind.
In the hallway, Luka caught his sleeve before he could vanish.
“Wait.”
Till froze, back still turned. Luka’s voice was low but sharp, the kind that cut through silence.
“What was that in there?” Luka pressed. “We were supposed to be okay. Last night we—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “But clearly we’re not.”
Till didn’t answer at first. He stared at the scuffed floor, throat working, then muttered, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to say something,” Luka snapped. His grip tightened on Till’s sleeve. “Anything other than running away again.”
Till flinched, eyes darting anywhere but Luka’s. He pulled his arm free. “We’ll…talk later. Not now.”
“Right.” Luka let out a bitter laugh, stepping back. “Not now. Never now. Always later with you.”
Till’s face twisted like the words hit, but he said nothing. He just turned, walked away down the hall, notebook hugged tight against his chest.
Luka stood there a moment, staring after him, fists clenching and unclenching. Frustration burned hot under his skin, an anger he didn’t know where to put. He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, “Yeah. Run away, Till. That’s what you do best.”
The sound of boots echoing down the hall swallowed the words.
★
They geared up quickly, pulling on dark jackets and tightening belts, weapons strapped tight. The mission was simple: in and out, grab what they needed, no mistakes. That was Isaac’s voice echoing in their heads the whole time — no mistakes, no improvisation.
The motorbikes waited just outside the gates. Cold air brushed Till’s face as he tugged his helmet on, the weight heavy on his still-tired body. He glanced up—and stopped.
Luka swung one leg over the bike like he’d been doing it for years. The machine roared beneath him, the glow of headlights cutting across his sharp profile. He didn’t even hesitate, just adjusted his grip on the handles, eyes fixed forward, jaw hard.
Till blinked. When did he even learn? Who taught him?
The thought spun uselessly in his chest, tangled with something far more distracting: Luka looked unfairly good sitting there, dark hoodie stretching across his shoulders, breath misting in the cold as if he was made for nights like this.
“Eyes forward,” Isaac barked.
Till snapped out of it, tightening his own helmet, kicking his bike to life.
The group split when they reached the first checkpoint. Isaac, Hyuna, Dewey and Mizi disappeared into the shadows toward the building. Luka and Till stayed back on patrol, keeping their bikes running in case of trouble. Engines hummed, the silence between them louder than the rumble beneath their feet.
Minutes dragged.
Luka’s voice cut through suddenly, cold and sharp.
“You gonna talk now? Apparently you have something on your heart.”
Till froze, staring at the ground, pretending the sound of the engine was enough to drown him out. He almost let it slide again. Almost. But Luka didn’t give him the chance.
“I thought we made everything clear last night,” Luka went on, each word measured, exhausted. “Didn’t we?”
Till clenched the handlebars tighter, leather gloves creaking. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say we did. But his chest twisted, and the words caught in his throat.
“…I have nothing to say,” he muttered finally. “And we’re not talking about this here.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before. For a second Till thought Luka would let it drop. But then Luka stepped off his bike, boots crunching against gravel, and moved right in front of him. Before Till could look away, Luka’s fingers closed around his chin, forcing his face up.
Luka wasn’t angry like last night. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted, searching. “So what now, huh?” His voice cracked low, bitter. “At this point, I think you’re searching for a reason to piss me off. Do you try to hurt me on purpose? Do you want to prove something?”
Till’s breath hitched, heat rushing up his neck. He shoved Luka’s hand away, snapping before he could stop himself.
“I don’t want to do anything! I don’t even know why you’re reacting like this!”
“Don’t lie to me.” Luka’s voice dropped to a whisper, dangerous. “Obviously you’ve got a reason to make those comments.”
“And obviously you’ve got a reason to act cold,” Till shot back, chest heaving. His voice cracked in the middle but he didn’t care.
Luka’s eyes flashed, jaw tightening. “You’re acting like a coward.”
The word stabbed deeper than it should’ve. Till’s throat closed, but his voice still rose. “Fine. Maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m—”
“Till! Luka!” Isaac’s voice exploded through the comm. “You two idiots left your post—what the hell are you doing?”
Both froze, adrenaline burning. They glanced around fast, hands moving automatically for weapons—
Nothing. Just shadows. Just silence.
Till cursed under his breath. Luka dragged a hand over his face, muttering something low and furious.
“Back on the bikes. Now.” Isaac’s tone was sharp enough to slice through the comm static.
They didn’t argue. They didn’t look at each other either. Luka climbed onto his bike, eyes forward, knuckles white against the handles. Till followed, throat tight, heart hammering too fast.
Engines roared back to life, carrying them toward the next stop. The air between them stayed just as sharp as the wind cutting across their faces.
Isaac’s voice still echoed in their ears when they pulled up to the abandoned store, headlights flicking off one by one. Everyone moved fast, engines shutting down, boots hitting the ground in unison.
Isaac shot Luka and Till a look sharp enough to cut steel.
“You two,” he hissed, pointing between them, “sort your shit out—not here. Not now. You wait until we’re back at base. Right now, you’re on my clock, and we do this fast. Got it?”
Neither of them answered. Luka only gave a stiff nod, helmet under his arm. Till looked away, jaw tight.
“Go,” Isaac snapped, already signaling Hyuna and Mizi toward the other side of the lot.
They ran. Boots pounding broken pavement, breath fogging in the night air. Till and Luka ducked inside through shattered glass doors, the smell of dust and rot slamming into them. Shelves stood half-empty, but enough supplies glimmered under their flashlights—cans, boxes, bottled water.
Till shoved items into his bag, fingers moving automatically. The silence was suffocating.
Then, under his breath, he said it.
“…I admit I was wrong.”
Luka froze mid-reach, a box of canned food in his hands. He turned slowly, narrowing his eyes.
“But yet you have to be so proud that you were right,” Till added, voice strained.
Luka blinked, disbelieving. “What the fuck? You agreed with me last night.”
“Yeah, I did!” Till snapped, louder this time, shoving another can into his bag. “And I’m not blaming you! I’m just saying—we’re both stuck in this situation, and I’m pissed. I’m pissed at this. At all of it!”
Luka stared at him, chest heaving, bag half-packed. “You’re guilt-tripping me for something I didn’t even—” He cut himself off, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”
“You don’t get it,” Till said quickly, voice cracking. “I don’t even know anymore what I want—”
“Yeah, no shit,” Luka interrupted bitterly, slamming his bag closed. “Decide who you’re gonna be mad at, Till. Me? Yourself? Or the world?”
Till’s throat closed. He swallowed, forcing it out. “…I’m not mad at you. I’m pissed about your behavior.”
Luka’s laugh was short, humorless. “And you think you’re being some kind of angel right now?”
Till’s hands froze around the zipper of his pack. He looked at Luka—really looked—and the fight in his chest turned into something desperate. “This is stupid. What we’re doing right now.”
Luka stepped closer, eyes sharp in the dim light. “You started it. I’m just trying to understand—what are you even trying to prove?”
Till’s voice rose, unsteady but firm. “I want to fix it!”
The words hung heavy between them, echoing louder than their shuffling bags. Luka’s expression faltered for a second, but he didn’t soften.
“You won’t fix anything by running away from the truth,” he said quietly, almost tired.
Till looked down, chest burning, hands trembling around his bag straps. He wanted to argue. He wanted to yell, or maybe to say nothing at all. But there wasn’t time.
“Now!” Isaac’s voice cut through the comm, sharp and urgent. “We’re moving. Get back to the bikes.”
Luka and Till both cursed under their breath, slinging the heavy bags over their shoulders. The tension didn’t fade—it thickened, stuffed down into silence as they ran back out, boots pounding glass and dirt.
Engines roared back to life, cold wind slapping their faces as they sped into the night. But Till’s thoughts wouldn’t stop spiraling.
He wanted—needed—to blame something else. The world. The mission. The situation. Anything but Luka. But even if he’d admitted he was wrong, even if Luka had admitted it too, nothing felt fixed. Words had been said, but they didn’t stitch the wound closed.
The road stretched out dark and endless, and Till’s chest ached with the weight of what he couldn’t run from.
The ride back to base was brutal in its silence. Engines roaring, night air biting, headlights carving through the dark. They rode close, but not together—never together. Luka was a blur just ahead of him, and Till couldn’t take his eyes off the way his shoulders were set, rigid and unyielding. He knew Luka was seething. And maybe he was too.
By the time they rolled into the yard, the sky was already dimming into indigo, a heavy hush settling over the base. Engines cut one by one, replaced by the scrape of boots on gravel and the shuffle of supplies being unloaded.
Till barely had time to remove his helmet before Luka was storming off, heavy strides carrying him straight toward his room without a single word. Isaac barked something after him, but Luka ignored it, disappearing inside.
Till hesitated only a moment before following. His chest ached with all the words that hadn’t been said, each one pressing tighter until he couldn’t breathe.
He found Luka in the middle of his room, shoulders tense, back half-turned. The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly the world narrowed to just the two of them.
Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Luka stood still, hands clenched at his sides. Till stood just as still, watching him, the quiet pounding louder than any argument.
And then Till broke it.
“You know…” his voice was low, unsteady, “I didn’t even say anything about last night. I could’ve. But I didn’t.”
Luka’s head snapped up, sharp eyes flashing.
Till swallowed, forcing himself to go on. “You hurt me, Luka. You really did. But I forgave you—for two reasons.” He lifted a hand, shaking with the effort of keeping his voice level. “First, because I chose this. I knew this was an option.” His breath hitched. “And second… because you were mad at me. And I know you didn’t forgive me for what I said.”
The words cracked the air like glass shattering. Luka’s face twisted, anger mixing with something pained, raw.
“What the fuck, Till?!” Luka’s voice rose, sharp enough to rattle the walls. He stepped forward, every word shaking. “What do you mean you knew this was gonna happen? I regret it so much—so much—because I hurt you, Till! Physically!” He jabbed a finger at his chest, voice breaking. “What you said to me can’t even compare to what I did. I regret it every second, I regret it so fucking much… If you knew, you shouldn’t have let me—”
“I trust you!” Till snapped, cutting him off, words bursting out like they’d been shot from a gun.
Luka froze, chest heaving, eyes wide.
Till’s fists clenched. “I trust you, Luka.”
Luka’s voice came low, bitter, ragged. “…Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Bullshit!” Till roared, stepping closer, his face flushed, veins straining in his neck.
Luka laughed, sharp and humorless, more broken than amused. “You’re doing it again. You circle around it, throw the problem somewhere else—on the mission, on Isaac, on yourself, on anything—just not me!” His chest heaved, his hands shaking as he jabbed a finger at him again
“You want me to blame you so fucking bad? Fine. Done. You screwed up Luka!” Till snaps at him.
“Thank you!” Luka spat, voice cracking with fury, but his eyes were wet, raw.
“But so did I!” Till’s voice rose, desperate, breaking apart as it spilled from him. “We both screwed up! But I can’t put this on you—I won’t! I can’t do that to you—”
“Yeah, out of guilt!’” Luka shot back, chest trembling with each word. “That’s the only reason you’re even saying this—”
“That’s not true!” Till cut him off, shaking his head violently, like he could deny it hard enough to erase it. “That’s not what this is!”
Luka’s voice dropped, sharp and guttural, every syllable a knife. “Do you even fucking hear yourself, Till?!” He pointed between them, eyes blazing. “This—this thing between us—it isn’t working.”
Till’s entire body jolted, like Luka had driven the words straight into his chest. His face twisted, anger and pain tearing through every line of it.
“Don’t fucking say that,” he snapped, the words low and furious, but shaking like he was barely holding on.
And for a moment, they just stood there, breathing hard, the space between them thick with everything they couldn’t take back.
Till’s chest was heaving, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Luka’s words—this isn’t working—still rang in his skull like a blow, but instead of shattering, something inside him burned hotter.
“You think I’m running away?” Till’s voice cut through the silence, sharp, trembling. He stepped closer, eyes locked on Luka’s. “You think I do this because I’m weak? I’m doing this because of you, Luka. I bend my morals, I twist myself inside out, because of you. I call you a coward, but maybe I’m the one who’s running.”
Luka blinked at him, stunned for a second, then his mouth curled in a bitter laugh. “…Yeah. Maybe you are.”
That set Till off. “Don’t—don’t you dare throw that back at me!” His voice cracked with rage, his hands shaking. “I’ll do anything for you! Do you hear me? Anything!”
“That shouldn’t be okay!” Luka snapped back, voice raw. He moved forward until they were almost chest to chest. “You can’t just agree with me on everything out of guilt, Till! You can’t make yourself smaller just because you’re scared of what you did—”
“It’s not out of guilt!” Till shouted, cutting him off, his whole body trembling. “How many times do I have to say it?!” His breath hitched, his voice breaking as he forced the words out. “I know I was wrong. I just didn’t want to believe you. But… fuck, Luka, you’re always right, aren’t you? And I just have to learn to shut up and listen to you—”
Luka’s eyes narrowed, his hands balling into fists. “No. Don’t you twist this.” His voice rose with fury. “You wanted to defend your precious morals, your delusions, but you spat in my face, Till!”
“I apologised!” Till roared, his voice cracking with desperation. “I apologised until my throat was raw!”
“I forgave you!” Luka shouted back, his chest rising and falling sharply. “But I don’t want to be the only one to blame here—I don’t want you throwing all of it on yourself just to make me feel better!”
“I can’t,” Till rasped, shaking his head violently, his voice low and furious.
“Why not?!” Luka demanded, the question tearing out of him like he didn’t even want the answer.
Till’s lips parted, his face contorting as the words tore free. “Because I love you!”
Then Luka voice came, raw, breaking. “Then stop loving me!”
Till’s jaw clenched, his whole frame trembling, and he stared at him like he’d just been gutted. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “…I can’t.”
The words lingered, heavy and unrelenting, filling every corner of the room. For the first time since they stormed in, neither of them spoke. The silence was deafening, both of them standing there with their chests heaving, hearts pounding, the world collapsing into the space between them.
Luka’s chest was heaving, jaw tight, eyes flicking everywhere but Till’s face. His voice came out low, rough, like it hurt to say it.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” he muttered. “This… us… it won’t work.”
The words punched the air out of Till’s lungs. His vision blurred, his throat burning, tears threatening to spill before he could stop them. He swallowed hard, but his voice still cracked.
“Please,” he whispered, almost begging. “Don’t say that.”
Luka’s eyes flicked to him, then away again, like even looking hurt too much. “If we don’t sort this shit out on our own,” he said hoarsely, “we’re just going to keep hurting each other.”
Till shook his head, violent, refusing to hear it. He stepped forward, trembling, and before Luka could pull back, Till’s hands cupped his face. Luka stiffened, tried to turn away—but he didn’t push Till off. His breathing came sharp and uneven, caught between anger and surrender.
“I’m sorry,” Till breathed, his forehead almost touching Luka’s, his voice breaking on the words. “I’m sorry, okay? Please…” His thumb brushed Luka’s cheek, desperate. “You promised me. You promised me it was us against the world.”
Luka’s throat bobbed, his fists clenching at his sides. Till’s voice kept unraveling, low and fierce.
“I’ll make this right. I’ll do whatever it takes. We can fix this—but not if you walk away now. Not if you give up.”
Finally—slowly—Luka’s hand rose, covering Till’s trembling one against his cheek. His eyes lifted, dark and searching. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“And what if we can’t?”
Till’s breath hitched, and for a moment it looked like he might break down completely. But he forced the words out, steady and raw.
“We have to, because I don't know what I would do if I lose you.”
The silence pressed in again, heavy, suffocating, both of them staring at each other with everything unsaid burning between them. Luka’s jaw trembled, his chest rising and falling fast. His grip on Till’s hand tightened like he was trying to hold onto something before it slipped away. Because Luka knows he couldn’t walk away from this, he loves Till too much, whatever stupid argument they got themselves in, they’ll fix it, they have to, because Luka can’t lose Till either, not for something stupid like this, not after everything they’ve been through just to walk away when they have a disagreement…no.
And then something cracked. Maybe it was the desperation in Till’s eyes. Maybe it was Luka’s own fear twisting into anger. But suddenly Luka shoved Till back against the wall, their mouths colliding—hard, messy, all teeth and desperation.
Till’s gasp was swallowed in the kiss, his fingers tangling in Luka’s hoodie like he couldn’t stand even a millimeter of space. Luka’s hands were already at his jacket, yanking it off his shoulders, clumsy and urgent, like if he didn’t feel Till right now he might break in half.
There were no more words—only the sound of their ragged breaths, the scrape of teeth, the press of bodies too close to separate. Every unfinished argument, every swallowed apology, poured out in the violent press of their mouths, in the way Luka dragged Till closer, in the way Till clung like he’d drown if he let go.
Luka slammed Till against the wall so hard the frame rattled, his mouth crushing against his like he wanted to bruise. Till gasped, the sound lost in Luka’s teeth scraping his lip, in the way Luka’s hands fisted in his shirt and pulled.
Till pushed back, fingers tangled in Luka’s hair, dragging him down harder, like he needed more, always more. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t forgiving—it was punishment and confession all at once. Every shove of their mouths was another unsaid word, another wound reopened.
Luka tore Till’s jacket off his shoulders, throwing it somewhere he didn’t care. His palms slammed against Till’s chest, not pushing him away but pressing him closer.
“God, you drive me insane,” Luka spat against his mouth, breath hot, furious, shaking. “You don’t even know—”
“Then show me,” Till snapped back, voice breaking, and dragged Luka down into another kiss, biting hard enough to taste iron.
Luka’s belt buckle clattering to the floor. Their hands shook, but not from hesitation—just from too much, from wanting and hating and needing all tangled into one impossible knot.
They stumbled toward the bed, Luka shoving Till onto it. Till bounced against the mattress with a grunt, propping himself on his elbows just in time to see Luka climb over him, eyes dark, jaw clenched like he was fighting himself. Till arched up, pulling Luka down, legs wrapping tight around his hips like he’d never let him go. Luka kissed him like he was angry, like he hated himself, like he couldn’t stop even if he tried. He kissed his neck, his jaw he made sure to leave marks.
Their mouths crashed together again, rough and urgent, Luka’s hands tearing at Till’s clothes like he couldn’t get them off fast enough. Fabric tugged, seams stretched, and Till laughed breathlessly into the kiss even as his shirt was yanked over his head.
Luka froze. His palms pressed flat against Till’s chest, shaking. His forehead dropped to Till’s collarbone, and for a moment he just stayed there, trembling, panting.
“I can’t—fuck—I don’t want to hurt you again.” His voice was rough, broken. “I can’t risk—”
Till cupped his face with both hands, dragging Luka’s eyes back up to his. “You won’t,” he whispered, steady despite the fire in his chest. “You won’t hurt me. I’m telling you—it’s okay. I want this. I want you.”
Luka swallowed hard, searching his face, like he needed to believe it. Till pulled him down and kissed him slowly this time, nothing rushed—just deliberate, lips lingering, a promise. And Luka broke, his body sinking down onto Till’s, mouth pressing again and again like he finally meant every single kiss.
Their hands roamed again, shaking, needy. Luka tugged Till’s pants open, fumbling with the button until Till shoved his hands down to help, laughing breathlessly against his mouth. Luka groaned, pulling them down in one rough motion. Till hooked his legs around Luka’s waist, dragging him closer.
Luka broke the kiss just long enough to reach for the bottle on the nightstand, his hand slamming against the wood until his fingers closed around it. He stared at it for a second, chest heaving, then looked down at Till—still beneath him, flushed, lips swollen, eyes shining with something between defiance and need.
That was all it took. Luka kissed him again, slower, more reverent now as he opened the bottle, slicking his fingers. His hands trembled, but his touch was careful, deliberate, easing Till open with a gentleness that made his throat tighten.
With shaking fingers, and moving carefully, every motion deliberate.
The preparation was slow, careful, Luka pausing to check Till’s face at every shift, like he was waiting for him to flinch, to pull away. But Till never did. He clutched at Luka’s shoulders instead, gasping but nodding, whispering his name like a mantra. “It’s okay,” he said more than once.
Luka pulled out his finger making Till gasp, gripping Luka’s shoulders, nails digging into skin, but he didn’t pull away. He whispered Luka’s name like a tether, grounding him. Luka kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, down his throat, murmuring apologies against his skin as if every kiss could make up for everything.
When Luka finally pushed inside, Till arched against him with a sharp cry, clutching him closer. Luka’s forehead pressed against his, eyes squeezed shut, trying to hold back.
“Look at me,” Till whispered. Luka obeyed, meeting his eyes, and Till smiled faintly through the flush and sweat. “You’re not hurting me. Im okay.”
That broke Luka completely. He thrust forward, messy, desperate, and Till moaned, pulling him down harder. Their mouths crashed together again, sloppy, teeth clashing. Luka moved with raw need, every snap of his hips like he was trying to drive out all the anger, all the guilt, all the words they couldn’t say.
Till met him just as fiercely, grinding up, nails raking down Luka’s back. The room filled with gasps, curses, their bodies slamming together, until neither of them could think.
It built fast, overwhelming, Luka’s voice breaking against Till’s mouth, Till moaning into his ear, everything too much.
Till dragged him closer, nails digging into his skin. “Don’t stop,” he begged. “Please.”
Something inside Luka snapped again, and this time he moved. Slow at first, then harder, desperation bleeding into every thrust. Their kisses turned frantic, hands clutching and pulling, bodies colliding with sweat-slick heat. Every groan, every cry, every whispered curse tangled between them until neither could tell where one ended and the other began.
It was messy and rough and too much all at once, but it was real. Raw.
And when it finally broke, when release ripped through them both, Luka collapsed against Till’s chest, shaking, breath ragged. Till’s arms wrapped around him instantly, holding him tight, even though his own body trembled from the intensity.
The room went quiet except for their breathing. Luka’s forehead rested against Till’s collarbone, his body heavy, like he couldn’t move if he tried. Till’s hand slid weakly into his damp hair, stroking through it, grounding himself in the weight of Luka pressed against him.
Minutes passed. Neither spoke.
Luka lifted his head at that, eyes raw, searching Till’s face. Till looked back at him, cheeks flushed, lashes wet. And for a moment, both of them just stared at each other—messy, wrecked, but tethered by something neither could break.
Till swallowed hard, whispering, “Don’t you dare tell me to stop loving you again.”
Luka’s breath caught, his lips parting, but no words came. He leaned down instead, pressing a slow kiss to Till’s mouth—nothing rushed now, just steady, almost fragile.
When he pulled back, Till’s hand was still in his hair, holding him close. Neither of them moved to get up.
The room was still heavy with heat and the faint rustle of sheets when Till finally let himself collapse, cheek pressed to Luka’s chest. He was still trembling faintly, skin slick, lungs working too fast, but Luka didn’t push him off. Instead, Luka’s arms came up slowly, almost hesitantly, before wrapping around him and holding him there, keeping him anchored against his heartbeat.
For a while neither of them spoke, just the sound of breath—Till’s uneven and Luka’s deeper, steadier now. Then, with a voice rough from everything, Till murmured, “I missed this…i missed you” His fingers curled lightly against Luka’s side, as if afraid to let go.
Luka exhaled through his nose, his hand brushing up and down Till’s back in lazy, almost unconscious strokes. “Me too…” His voice was low, softer than anything he’d said in days. There was no sarcasm, no bite. Just the truth.
Till’s eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to believe that this—this closeness, the warmth of Luka’s arms tight around him—was enough to quiet everything else.
Luka tilted his head slightly, pressing his lips into Till’s damp hair. Not a kiss, not quite, but close enough that Till felt it. The kind of small, thoughtless intimacy Luka never allowed himself when they weren’t tangled up like this.
Till’s chest ached with how much he wanted to stay here forever.
The night had bled into sleep before either of them realized it, exhaustion pulling them under where words couldn’t reach. When Till stirred again, it was still dark. The faintest light seeped through the curtains, a pale blue that made the room look colder than it was. The air carried a morning chill, raising goosebumps across his skin.
Careful not to wake Luka, Till slipped off the bed, gathering his clothes in silence. His movements were slow, deliberate—pulling the shirt over his head, dragging on his pants. The floor was icy under his bare feet.
But when he turned back, Luka was already awake. He’d pushed himself up against the headboard, sheets pooled around his waist, hair mussed and sticking in every direction. His expression was unreadable, shadowed by the early light, but he didn’t say anything. Just watched.
Till froze for a beat, then sighed, grabbing Luka’s shirt from the floor and tossing it onto the bed. Luka caught it lazily, muttering something under his breath before pulling it over his head. Neither of them broke the silence.
When Till climbed back under the covers, Luka shifted to make space without being asked. The chill faded with their bodies pressed close again, Luka’s arm draping instinctively over Till’s waist, Till’s head settling against his shoulder.
And then—nothing. No words. Just breathing, the faint creak of the old bed, the lingering weight of everything unsaid.
They stayed tangled together, both waiting for the other to break first.
The silence stretched until Luka finally huffed out a breath, almost like he couldn’t stand it anymore.
“…We can’t keep going like this,” he muttered, his voice low but rough, carrying the weight of last night.
Till shifted against him, cheek brushing Luka’s shoulder. “I know.”
Another pause. Luka’s hand tightened briefly at Till’s waist, as if grounding himself. “If we don’t… sort this out, it’s just gonna keep eating us alive.”
“I don’t want that,” Till whispered. “I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”
Luka shut his eyes, his jaw tense. His thumb moved in small circles against Till’s side. “You won’t. I’m not going anywhere, Till.’’
That admission hung heavy in the air, both of them feeling the weight of what it meant.
Till’s breath caught, he leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to Luka’s jaw. Luka didn’t stop him—instead, he turned slightly, catching Till’s mouth with his own.
It wasn’t heated, not desperate like last night. Just steady. A quiet promise passed between them.
Another kiss followed, then another, smaller ones scattered between murmured breaths, like neither wanted to let go just yet.
★
The week that followed passed in a blur, as if the storm that had nearly torn them apart had been folded neatly into silence. Till and Luka slipped back into something like their old rhythm. Not perfect—never perfect—but enough. They trained together, patrolled together, and in the quiet moments, they were tangled in bed together as always.
The others noticed too. Meetings were no longer weighed down by tension, no sharp words hanging in the air. Isaac didn’t have to step between them. Hyuna stopped giving Luka those pointed looks, and even Dewey—oblivious as he often was—seemed relieved to see things “back to normal.”
Back to normal was good. Back to normal meant they could focus.
And there was plenty to focus on. The plan to infiltrate Anakt Garden had been drawn out across the table for days. This time, they weren’t going in blind. They had maps, stolen schedules, and just enough insider whispers to string together a workable plan. Luka sat through it all in silence, nodding when necessary, offering clipped advice when Isaac asked—but inside he kept his truth buried deep.
Because he knew.
Saving everyone was impossible. It would take years. Years they didn’t have. The system wasn’t something they could shatter with raids and good intentions. Luka could see that. He had always seen it. But he said nothing, because the room was full of hope, and he didn’t want to be the one to crush it. Not now. Not when they needed momentum.
So he played along, biting his tongue, and when Isaac looked to him for confirmation, Luka only said, “It’ll work.”
The week was more training than talking. Muscle memory was sharpened, every member drilled until they could move as one. Even Luka pushed harder than usual, his body aching by the end of every night. They had been in Anakt Garden before, but this time would be bigger. This time would matter.
And when the day came, it mattered.
The approach was cleaner than their last raid. More people meant they could cover more ground, cut down patrols before alarms could spread. Luka and Till moved together like shadows, slipping between the polished, sterile halls of the Garden, the faint hum of machines always under their boots. The guards went down fast—silent, efficient. The aliens that lingered near the transport docks didn’t stand a chance against Isaac’s coordination.
Six. Six children. Small, terrified, their eyes wide in disbelief as they were pulled out of their holding rooms. Six wasn’t nearly enough—but it was something. More than nothing. Till carried one in his arms the whole way back, the child clinging to his shirt, too shaken to walk. Luka covered them, rifle ready, eyes sharp on every corner. He didn’t think. He didn’t allow himself to.
They got out. No losses. A clean success.
When they returned, the group counted it as a victory. They had won time, and that mattered. A week from now, they’d return for more. The children were handed over to people in the base who could care for them, safe hands, gentler hands than theirs.
But sometimes, when the safe hands were busy, Till and Luka were pulled in as substitutes.
Till didn’t mind. In fact, he lit up around them in a way Luka hadn’t seen in a long time. He would sit with the rescued kids for hours, sketching clumsy animals for them, letting little fingers tug at his hair or climb into his lap. He laughed with them, patient and soft in a way Luka had never thought possible in a place like this.
Luka… wasn’t the same. He tried—he really did—but the children looked at him with the same wide, frightened eyes, and something in his chest always clenched. He kept his distance when he could, letting Till take over, offering protection instead of comfort.
It was enough. At least for now.
And in the quiet hours, when the children were asleep and the base finally settled, Luka would catch himself watching Till—how easily he could still find gentleness in a world that had given them none. Luka didn’t understand it. He didn’t know how to carry it. But he knew one thing:
For however long they had left, Till was the only reason Luka hadn’t already walked away.
He found his reason.
Chapter Text
They still hit the club when they could. Not the same way as before—not just to blow off steam—but to celebrate the victories they had earned, no matter how fragile they felt. Music pounded through cracked speakers, lights flashing over bruises and laughter. For a night, they let themselves pretend the world wasn’t falling apart.
Till had learned to keep himself in check. He still raised a glass with the others, still laughed into Luka’s shoulder when the songs got too loud, but he didn’t lose himself in it anymore. He had promised himself that. That night, watching Hyuna and Dewey argue about whether or not Dewey could dance, he realized he didn’t need to drink himself sick to feel alive.
The plans, however, never stopped. They didn’t have the luxury of celebration for long.
The goal was clearer now: save the contestants of the never-happened Alien Stage season. Season 51—the one that was meant to begin before they shattered everything. Eight young people, meant to be paraded onstage, caged like the ones before them. Eight people whose lives had been placed on hold by the rebellion.
They knew where at least some of them were. Luka’s intel, stitched together with scraps from the underground, was enough to push them forward. The city was dangerous—always—but they had numbers now. More bodies to move as shields, more firepower to rely on.
Still, Luka felt a shiver crawl down his spine the night before. He hadn’t told anyone, but his dreams had taken him back to Heperu—the owner who had almost dragged him under again, who had made his skin crawl and his breath stop. Walking back into the city felt like stepping into the same nightmare, every corner a reminder of the hands that once reached for him. He kept his mask on, rifle slung at his shoulder, and didn’t let it show. But the unease was there, coiled tight in his chest.
The raid hit harder than they planned. Clubs again—underground spots where owners dragged their contestants, places Luka knew too well. This time, the firefight was merciless. Gunshots echoed through the walls, shouts swallowed by basslines and sirens. The group split, Isaac’s orders sharp in their ears, and Luka fought with teeth bared, dragging Till behind him whenever he tried to cover too much ground.
Five. Five contestants pulled out alive, five who stumbled into the cold night air gasping like they’d been underwater too long. It was more than they had expected, more than Luka had dared to hope.
In Alien Stage, there had always been eight. But Luka knew not all of them were in cages waiting to be saved. Some would be rotting in mansions, “owned” like pets, suffering behind doors they couldn’t yet reach. They’d go back again. They had to.
The news were silent. No whispers about rebuilding the Arena. It was as if the city had swallowed the ruins whole and decided to pretend none of it had existed.
Their base, though—thank god—was large. It had to be. Every week it seemed fuller, more voices in the halls, more footsteps echoing through the underground rooms. Rebels. Survivors. Faces that carried the same fire.
Jacob would have been proud. Sometimes, when they spoke of him, Isaac would go quiet. They knew he was fighting tears, though he’d never admit it. He’d glance away, jaw tight, pretending he wasn’t moved at all. But they knew. They all knew.
For Till and Luka, the victories meant something else too. They had started working on themselves, even if no one else noticed. Anger management, Hyuna had called it once, half-joking. But it was true. They were learning to breathe before they snapped, to step back before they cut each other open again.
Not that it was perfect. Luka had blown up one afternoon when someone called him “old man.” He was thirty-three, not ancient, but the jab hit deeper than it should have. His temper went off like a fuse, voice raised sharp enough to silence the room. Till had laughed until his ribs hurt, grinning as he leaned against the wall.
“Old man Luka,” he teased later, smirking as Luka glared at him.
“Shut the hell up,” Luka muttered, but Till’s laughter softened the edge.
They were learning. They were better.
For now, everything felt steady. Normal, even if such a thing existed for them. They gave themselves a break before the next push back into the city.
But it was exhausting.
There had been nights—quiet ones, when the noise of the base had dulled and the adrenaline of fighting wore off—where Luka and Till talked about this. Not missions or strategies, not weapons or plans, but what ifs.
What if one day they just stopped.
The thought had started in Luka’s head—his pragmatic streak whispering that they couldn’t keep this going forever. Sooner or later, exhaustion would win. Their bodies weren’t unbreakable. The rebellion was strong, yes, but it couldn’t last decades
Sooner or later, they would have to rest. He said it once, offhandedly, and Till hadn’t argued. Instead, he’d simply nodded, as if the truth had been resting in his chest all along too. Because they had a fight about this, and Till accepted the truth.
If someone reached their limit, they’d stop. And that would be okay.
Because Luka’s logic was cold but true: this wouldn’t end. The aliens weren’t going to vanish. They weren’t going to hand freedom back to humanity. The cycle of children taken, of blood spilled, would not cease in their lifetimes. They couldn’t move to another planet. They couldn’t escape.
But they could choose how they carried the fight while they were here.
And if they couldn’t finish it? Then every kid they freed, every body they pulled out from the shadows, would be proof that they had tried. That their purpose mattered. The ones after them would continue it. The little ones they saved would grow into fighters who remembered the faces that risked everything to reach them.
That was enough.
Sometimes, Luka and Till let themselves be proud. Even if they didn’t like saying it out loud, they could feel it in their bones. They thought of their younger selves—scared kids locked in Anakt Garden, treated like subjects in tests, punished like they weren’t even human, watching friends die beside them. They thought of being dragged onto the Alien Stage, shoved under lights to perform like animals. They thought of the countless times they had no reason to believe in tomorrow.
And now? Now they are here. Alive. Together. Fighting back.
If the children they had been could see them now, they would be proud.
They didn’t like talking much about the future. As kids, they hadn’t dared to picture one. A future was something stolen from them before they even knew what it was. But now… now they had the fragile beginnings of one. And only they could decide what to make of it.
For now, pride was enough. For now, the purpose kept them steady.
And then the thought would fade, and life would continue as it always did.
★
Till was sprawled out on the floor, too tired to bother with the bed. He hadn’t moved in minutes, his chest rising and falling in steady exhaustion. The quiet of the room pressed around him, heavy and comforting. His sketchbook was off to the side, pencil abandoned mid-thought. He didn’t even know when his eyes had closed.
The door creaked open.
Luka stepped inside, boots dragging slightly against the ground. He paused in the doorway, staring down at Till’s limbs thrown out like he had been dropped there by gravity. The corner of Luka’s mouth twitched, half a smile, half disbelief.
Luka snorted, shaking his head as he stepped closer. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. For a moment, he just looked at Till, breathing the same tired air, the kind that hung between people who had survived another day.
Till groaned from the floor, throwing an arm over his eyes like the light itself was attacking him. “The whole day… chasing after kids.” His voice dragged with mock misery. “Not even one hour for myself.”
Luka raised an eyebrow, leaning back on his hands. “You say that like you didn’t enjoy it.”
“I didn’t,” Till mumbled dramatically. He peeked through his arm to catch Luka’s expression, then gave up the act with a small huff. “…Fine. Maybe I did. A little.”
Luka smirked. “A little?”
Till shifted onto his side, propping his head up on his palm, curls sticking out in every direction. He tried to look serious, but his mouth betrayed him with a crooked smile. “It’s… nice, okay? Makes me feel like…” He paused, searching for the right words. “…like a big brother. Someone they can count on. Someone older, stronger.”
Luka tilted his head, watching him carefully. He wasn’t used to Till admitting things like that so easily. The kid had grown—more than Luka ever gave him credit for. “Mm,” Luka said slowly. “Big brother Till. Never thought I’d hear that.”
Till sat up halfway, glaring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just… didn’t think you’d fit the role.” Luka shrugged. “You’re reckless, stubborn. You sulk when things don’t go your way.”
Till’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked ready to snap back, but instead he dropped onto his back again with a thud. “Whatever. I’m still good with them.”
“Yeah,” Luka admitted, quieter this time. “You are.”
There was a pause. Luka didn’t look away, his elbows on his knees as he studied Till sprawled on the floor. The faint scowl on Till’s face, the way his hair fell over his forehead, the exhaustion tugging at his body—yet still, there was something light about him. Around those kids, he laughed. He protected without hesitation. And Luka… Luka couldn’t deny he liked watching him that way.
“Don’t get too attached,” Luka muttered finally.
Till rolled his head to the side, meeting his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because… it’s easier.” Luka’s gaze flickered away, toward the wall. “…When you don’t.”
Till sat up fully now, frowning. “You don’t believe that. Not really.”
“Maybe.” Luka’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “Maybe not.”
Till studied him for a long moment, then sighed and leaned back on his hands. “Well… I don’t care. Attached or not, I’m not stopping. They deserve at least that much.”
For a second, Luka almost told him he was right. That he agreed. But the words stuck, heavy and stubborn, and instead he leaned back on the bed, lying down across it without warning.
Till blinked. “You’re taking my spot?”
“Floor’s yours. Bed’s mine.” Luka closed his eyes like that ended the conversation.
Till huffed, dramatic as ever, before finally dragging himself off the floor. His legs felt heavy, his back sore from lying on the hard ground, but he didn’t care. Instead of taking a proper spot beside Luka, he simply collapsed on top of him, pressing his whole weight into Luka’s chest.
Luka grunted, startled. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“No,” Till murmured against his collarbone, voice muffled. “Just… don’t wanna move anymore.”
Luka sighed, but his arms wrapped around Till anyway, one hand finding the small of his back. They stayed like that for a while, breathing each other in, letting the silence fill the cracks that words couldn’t.
It wasn’t like before. They used to have hours to themselves—long nights when the world felt far away, when they could get lost in one another without rushing. Now every day was packed tight, schedules and missions and kids tugging at their sleeves. Nights still belonged to them, technically, but they were always too exhausted to make use of it. Sometimes Luka wondered if this was how the rest of their lives would feel: stolen moments, always on the edge of burning out.
And yet, somehow, they always found a way. A corner of the base, a dark hallway, an empty storage room. He never said no to Till when he looked at him like that.
Once, though… they hadn’t been careful. Till had been straddling his lap in the common room, kissing him like they had the place to themselves, when two kids walked in. Luka could still see their horrified faces. Till had practically fallen off his lap, ears red, and Luka hadn’t known whether to laugh or apologize.
The next morning, Isaac’s voice had rung in their ears like a gunshot. “If you two can’t keep it behind closed doors, I swear—” Luka hadn’t even looked at Till through the whole scolding, because if he did, he would’ve laughed.
Now, lying here with Till’s weight pressing into him, Luka thought about that and shook his head. “You’re trouble,” he muttered.
Till didn’t lift his head. Instead, he shifted, pressing his mouth against Luka’s throat. The first kiss was soft, almost hesitant. Then another, and another, trailing upward until Luka finally caught the corner of his mouth.
“Till…” Luka tried to sound warning, but it came out weaker than intended.
“Mm?” Till’s lips brushed his jaw as though he hadn’t heard the protest at all.
“You’re exhausted.”
“You are too.” Till finally lifted his head, eyes half-lidded, hair falling into his face. His smile was small but daring. “So let’s be exhausted together.”
And before Luka could argue, Till kissed him full on the mouth—slow, lingering, carrying all the hunger they had no time to show in the daylight.
Luka gave in like he always did, one hand sliding up Till’s back, the other tangling in his hair.
Till had barely gotten the words out before Luka moved. With one sharp shift, Luka flipped him onto his back, pressing him down into the mattress. Till gave a surprised laugh, breath catching as Luka leaned over him, his weight steady and grounding.
“You’re not getting away with it this time then,” Luka said, voice low. “You’ve been running on me all week. Tonight, I’m finally taking care of you.”
Till swallowed, his heart jumping at the certainty in Luka’s tone. He opened his mouth to protest—out of habit more than anything—but Luka silenced him with a kiss.
It wasn’t rushed. Luka kissed him slowly, deeply, savoring every second. His lips pressed firmly to Till’s, holding there like he wanted to memorize the shape of him all over again. Till melted almost instantly, hands finding Luka’s shoulders and pulling him closer.
Their mouths moved together with ease, familiar and natural, like this was exactly where they belonged. Luka tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue brushing lightly against Till’s until he parted his lips with a quiet gasp. The taste of him made Luka groan, low in his throat, and he kissed him harder—hungry but still unhurried.
Till arched into it, hands sliding up into Luka’s hair, tugging lightly. He could feel Luka’s smirk against his mouth, the warmth of his breath fanning across his cheek. Every kiss dragged heat through him, curling in his chest, sinking lower.
Luka shifted his weight just enough to press closer, chest against chest, thigh slipping between Till’s legs. Till’s breath stuttered, but Luka didn’t move faster—he pressed another lingering kiss, then another, down the corner of Till’s mouth, to his jaw, to the curve of his throat.
“Luka…” Till breathed, head tipping back to give him room.
His lips moved slowly down Till’s neck, tasting the line of his pulse, and Till shivered. His fingers curled into Luka’s shirt, tugging at it as if he couldn’t stand the barrier. Luka caught the motion and chuckled, pulling back just enough to peel the shirt over his head.
Till’s eyes swept over him, chest tightening. He reached up, tracing the familiar lines of Luka’s torso with a touch that lingered longer than it needed to. Luka leaned back down, capturing Till’s lips again, deeper now, the kiss wet and messy and unbearably good.
Till fumbled with Luka’s waistband, but Luka caught his wrist gently, pressing it back into the mattress. “Not yet,” Luka murmured, brushing his nose against Till’s.
Till blinked up at him, breathless, then huffed out a laugh. “Bossy.”
But he obeyed. He tugged his own shirt up and off, tossing it aside, and Luka’s hands were immediately there—splayed across his chest, fingertips dragging slow paths down his ribs. Till trembled, heat coiling in his belly, every nerve lit.
Luka bent down to kiss him again, slower this time, tongues brushing in a way that made Till moan into his mouth. His hand slid lower, catching at the hem of Till’s pants, teasing. Till lifted his hips in silent plea, and Luka finally eased them down.
One layer, then another. Skin against skin. Every kiss grew hotter, every brush of fingers more desperate.
By the time Luka finally pulled back to look at him, Till was flushed, lips swollen, chest heaving. Luka smiled faintly, brushing the damp hair from his forehead.
He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t letting instinct drag him too fast. Tonight wasn’t about hunger. It was about Till.
He kissed him again like he had all the time in the world, deep, wet, messy—until Till was breathless beneath him, squirming against the sheets. Luka pulled away just enough to murmur against his lips, “Relax. I’ve got you.”
Then he went lower.
He pressed his mouth to Till’s jaw, trailing slow kisses down his neck. Not gentle ones—no, Luka wanted to leave reminders behind. He sucked hard at the tender spot just under Till’s ear until Till gasped, arching up against him, fingers fisting in his hair. Luka smiled into the bruise forming under his lips before moving on, dragging his teeth lightly down the slope of his throat.
“Luka…” Till’s voice cracked, half whine, half plea.
“Shh. Let me take care of you,” Luka breathed, kissing lower.
His lips found Till’s collarbone, tracing the sharp edge, sucking at the skin until Till trembled. Then he moved to his chest, covering him in slow, unhurried attention. He teased one nipple with the flick of his tongue, circling it lazily until Till’s back arched off the bed. Luka switched to the other, pinching lightly, biting just enough to make Till moan.
Every sound Till made went straight through him. Luka was already burning, but he forced himself to hold back. This wasn’t about him.
Till’s hands roamed restlessly, sliding down Luka’s back, digging into his shoulders, pulling at him as if he wanted him closer everywhere at once. Luka caught both wrists, pressing them down into the mattress for a moment, lips hovering over Till’s.
“Stay still,” he whispered, voice dark. “I’m not done with you yet.”
He kissed him again, slow and dirty, before breaking away to continue his path. Down his chest, across his stomach, tongue teasing the line of muscle there. Till’s breathing grew ragged, hips twitching, but Luka deliberately ignored the obvious. He kissed everywhere else instead—down the dip of his stomach, the sharp curve of his hipbones, sucking a mark there too.
Till’s thighs were next. Luka spread them, pressing firm kisses to the inside of one, then the other. He lingered there, dragging his mouth along sensitive skin, nipping lightly. Till squirmed, whining, trying to guide Luka higher with a desperate roll of his hips, but Luka only smirked against his skin.
“Patience,” he muttered, lips brushing the inside of Till’s thigh. “I said I’d take care of you. That means everywhere.”
He proved it, kissing and sucking along every inch he could reach. His mouth left wet trails, his teeth scraping lightly. Till was trembling now, his whole body hot and restless under Luka’s hands. He couldn’t stay quiet—every touch dragged more sounds out of him, gasps, moans, broken whispers of Luka’s name.
And Luka drank in every bit of it.
When he finally moved back up, he pressed kisses to Till’s stomach again, then his ribs, then reclaimed his mouth. Till clutched at him like he was drowning, kissing back hard, desperate. Luka swallowed every sound, every plea, before pulling back just far enough to murmur, “You’re mine tonight.”
Till’s eyes fluttered open, dazed, lips swollen. He nodded wordlessly, chest heaving.
And Luka kept going, determined to worship every inch of him before giving in to the fire burning in his own body.
Luka dragged his mouth back up to Till’s lips, kissing him deep again, tongue sliding against his until Till whimpered into it. But he didn’t stay. Luka pulled away, leaving Till panting, and ducked back down to his chest.
He licked at one nipple, slow and deliberate, then blew over the wet skin until Till shivered. His other hand pinched the other bud between rough fingertips, rolling it lazily. Till writhed, his back arching hard off the mattress.
“Fuck—Luka,” he gasped.
Luka only chuckled against his skin.
By the time his mouth trailed lower again, Till was already a mess. His cock lay against his stomach, flushed and leaking, smearing wet across his skin. Luka deliberately avoided it, pressing his lips everywhere else instead. He dragged his tongue down the sharp line of Till’s hipbone, nipped at the inside of his thigh again, even kissed the hollow just beside the place Till needed him most—then pulled away like it was nothing.
Till groaned in frustration, both hands clutching at Luka’s hair, trying to tug him closer.
“Please,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Please, Luka…”
Luka smirked up at him, dark eyes glinting. “Please, what?”
Till’s chest heaved. “Please touch me—just—do something—”
“Something?” Luka drawled, licking slowly across his stomach, deliberately just shy of what Till wanted. “That’s not very specific. Do you want my hands on you? My mouth? My cock?”
Till let out a strangled moan. “I don’t care, just—fuck—Luka, I’m going insane.”
“That’s not an answer,” Luka said, cruel and amused, his lips brushing just barely against the base of Till’s cock without touching. Till’s hips bucked desperately, but Luka’s hands pressed him down, pinning him to the mattress.
“Beg me properly,” Luka whispered, voice rough with control. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
Till squeezed his eyes shut, face flushed deep red, words tumbling out. “I want you to touch me—fuck, Luka, I need you, i want you- to fuck me, fuck me please!”
The sound of his voice—raw, needy—made Luka’s restraint nearly snap. His own cock ached, but he forced himself to stay slow. He leaned up, kissed Till hard, swallowing the broken whimper that escaped him.
When Luka finally pulled back, his voice was low, dangerous. “That’s better.”
He shifted then, reaching toward the nightstand. Till’s dazed eyes followed him, his breath catching when Luka grabbed the bottle of lube.
“Good thing I was prepared,” Luka muttered, shaking it once before flipping the cap open. He poured some over his fingers, watching as the slick dripped down over his knuckles. The sound alone made Till’s stomach clench with anticipation.
“Eyes on me,” Luka ordered, and Till obeyed instantly, staring up at him wide-eyed, pupils blown.
Luka pressed his slick fingers to Till’s entrance, circling lazily, not pushing in yet—just teasing. The sensation made Till gasp, thighs trembling.
“Relax,” Luka coaxed, kissing his inner thigh again as his finger pressed a little more firmly. “I told you, I’m taking care of you tonight.”
Till’s hands clawed at the sheets, his body twitching helplessly between need and overstimulation.
And Luka, finally, finally, started to push the first finger in—slow, steady, watching every reaction on Till’s face as he stretched around him.
Luka slid the first finger deeper, slow, deliberate, feeling Till tense around him. He kissed at his thigh again, soothing the way his body clenched, and murmured low, “That’s it. Breathe, Till. Just let me in.”
Till forced a shaky breath through his teeth, clutching Luka’s hair with one hand and the sheets with the other. His head tipped back against the pillow, mouth falling open as the initial burn eased into something else—something that made his toes curl.
When Luka’s finger started to move—curling, pumping gently—Till let out a broken moan.
“You’re already squeezing me so tight,” Luka said with a rough little laugh. “And this is just one finger…”
“Don’t—don’t say it like that,” Till panted, face burning hot.
“Like what?” Luka teased, pressing in deeper before pulling out, then sliding back in again. “Like you’re desperate already? Because you are.”
Till whimpered, hips twitching helplessly. His cock was hard and leaking against his stomach, untouched, every pulse making the wait unbearable.
Luka didn’t hurry. He added more slick, making sure his finger moved easily before finally pressing a second inside. The stretch made Till cry out, his back arching off the mattress, but Luka soothed him with his mouth, sucking hard at his throat until the sting melted into heat.
“That’s it,” Luka whispered against his skin. “Take it for me. You’re doing so fucking good.”
Till gasped, his fingers digging into Luka’s shoulders now, pulling him closer. “More,” he begged, voice cracking. “Please, Luka, I can take more.”
Luka chuckled darkly. “Greedy, aren’t you?” He scissored his fingers, stretching him open, brushing that spot inside that made Till cry out sharp and loud. “God, listen to you…”
Till shook his head, desperate, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from how badly he needed more. “I’m begging you—I need it—need you—”
“You’ll get me,” Luka promised, voice low and rough, kissing along Till’s jaw. “But not yet.”
He kept working him open, twisting his fingers inside, curling just right. Every time Till thought he’d finally give him what he wanted, Luka pulled back slightly, slowing the pace, dragging it out until Till was nearly sobbing with frustration.
By the time the third finger pressed in, Till’s thighs were trembling, slick sounds filling the room with every thrust of Luka’s hand. Luka groaned low at the sight of him—flushed, panting, begging.
“You feel that?” Luka rasped, pushing his fingers deep and spreading them just enough to make Till shudder. “That’s me opening you up…all for me. So when I finally fuck you, you’ll take every inch and love it.”
Till moaned, a sound so raw it nearly undid Luka’s control. His cock was throbbing, untouched, smearing more pre-cum across his stomach. He tried to reach for it, but Luka caught his wrist midair, pinning it down against the mattress.
“Uh-uh,” Luka warned, smirking. “You don’t touch. You just take what I give you.”
Till let out a helpless whine, tears threatening again as he dropped his head back. “Please, Luka…I’m begging—”
“And I’m enjoying it,” Luka cut in, voice husky, his fingers thrusting deeper now, curling to hit that spot over and over until Till nearly screamed. “God, look at you fall apart…haven’t even given you my cock yet and you’re losing your mind.”
Till sobbed, hips jerking helplessly, every nerve ending on fire. “Please—please—I can’t—”
Luka kissed him hard then, swallowing his cries, still moving his fingers deep inside, relentless and slow at the same time.
Till was gasping, his voice raw from begging, his whole body trembling under Luka’s slow, merciless hand. “Luka, please,” he panted, his thighs shaking, sweat beading across his chest. “Just—fuck me, please, I need it—”
Luka dragged his fingers out, slick and shining, and Till thought finally. His breath hitched, chest heaving, bracing himself—only for his eyes to snap wide when Luka’s mouth wrapped around the head of his cock instead.
“Oh—fuck!” Till cried out, his hips jerking off the mattress. It was so sudden, so intense, his head slammed back into the pillow. “Luka—”
The wet heat of his mouth swallowed him deeper, tongue sliding along the underside, lips sealing tight around him. Till’s whole body arched off the bed, one trembling hand immediately tangling in Luka’s hair, tugging without thought.
But Luka pulled back just enough to growl, “Don’t.”
Before Till could even register, Luka grabbed his wrist and pushed it hard against the mattress. Till tried to protest, but Luka already had his other wrist too, pinning them both above his head. His voice was low, dangerous. “You think you get to touch me when I’m working on you? No, baby. You just lie there and take it.”
Till’s chest heaved, his cock twitching, aching. “Luka—” he whispered, almost breaking.
Luka smirked dark, reaching blindly for his belt at the edge of the bed. A second later, the leather wrapped tight around Till’s wrists, buckled against the headboard. Till yanked instinctively, the restraint holding him firm.
“Perfect,” Luka murmured, licking a slow stripe up his shaft. “Now I don’t have to worry about those pretty little hands getting in my way.”
Till whimpered, arching helplessly as Luka swallowed him down again—this time all the way. Till cried out, voice breaking, as Luka’s throat tightened around him. The sound of wet sucking filled the room, obscene and overwhelming.
“Oh god—Luka—fuck—” Till moaned, pulling uselessly at the belt, wrists straining against it. His hips tried to thrust, but Luka’s strong hands pinned him flat, forcing him to take whatever pace Luka set.
Every time Luka pulled off, his lips were red, spit trailing down his chin, and he’d mutter filth just to watch Till unravel. “So sweet like this. You’re dripping down my throat, baby. Begging for me. You love being ruined, don’t you?”
Till choked on a moan, his thighs trembling violently. “I—I can’t—fuck, I’m close, Luka, please—”
The admission made Luka groan low around his cock, the vibration sending Till over the edge. He screamed, arching so hard the belt bit into his wrists, spilling hot down Luka’s throat. His whole body shook, every muscle spasming, vision going white at the edges.
Luka swallowed everything, not wasting a drop, and when Till collapsed back against the sheets, panting and ruined, Luka crawled up over him. His lips brushed Till’s ear, his voice husky and dark.
“Good boy.”
Till’s eyes fluttered half-shut, chest still heaving. “I—I can’t move…” he whispered, exhausted, head lolling to the side.
But Luka wasn’t finished. His mouth trailed kisses down Till’s damp chest, sharp bites along his collarbone, his words seeping into his skin. “Oh, you think we’re done? I promised you I’d fuck you, didn’t I? You’re not getting out of it that easy.”
He unbuckled the belt with a flick, freeing Till’s wrists, then pressed a kiss to the red marks left behind. “Look at you,” Luka murmured. “Already fucked-out, but you’ll still take me.”
And god—Till would. His body knew it before his mind caught up. Because as Luka’s mouth moved over his skin, whispering filth against his throat—about how good he looked begging, how tight he was going to be around him—Till felt his cock twitch back to life.
Less than two minutes after his release, he was already hard again, leaking, helpless. He let out a desperate whimper, hiding his face against Luka’s shoulder, but Luka just grinned dark, kissing his jaw.
“Mm,” Luka hummed, pleased. “That’s my boy. Hard again already…you’re going to keep me busy all night.”
Luka didn’t rush. Even with Till already trembling, cock flushed and leaking again, Luka kept his control, dragging the moment out as if he could carve it into eternity. His mouth lingered across Till’s chest, tongue flicking at his nipples, teeth catching at his collarbone until Till’s head tipped back with another broken gasp.
“Luka…please,” Till whispered, voice already ragged from moaning. His thighs twitched around Luka’s sides, body arching up desperately.
Luka hummed low, reaching for the bottle of lube again. The slick sound of him pouring into his hand made Till shiver, anticipation flooding him all over again. Luka spread it slowly over his cock, his fist stroking from base to tip, groaning as he worked himself up.
Till couldn’t tear his eyes away—watching Luka stroke himself, slick sliding down his cock, the muscles in his arm flexing with every pass. It was too much.
“Look at you,” Luka muttered, voice thick, eyes burning into Till’s. “Spread out for me. Shaking. You want me that bad?”
Till whimpered and nodded, arms reaching to drag Luka down, but Luka stayed just out of reach, rubbing the head of his cock over Till’s entrance, smearing lube against his hole without pushing in.
“Say it,” Luka whispered, hovering there, his lips ghosting over Till’s ear. “Tell me what you need.”
Till’s nails dug into Luka’s shoulders. “I need you—inside me, Luka, please—”
That broke the last of Luka’s restraint. He pressed forward, slow at first, stretching Till inch by inch. Till’s breath caught, his head falling back, the sound that left him nothing short of wrecked.
“Fuck—” Till moaned, his arms immediately winding tight around Luka’s neck, legs locking around his hips as if he could drag him deeper. His chest rose and fell frantically, eyes squeezing shut. “God, I waited—so long—for this—”
Luka kissed him hard, swallowing his moans as he bottomed out, staying still for a moment to let Till adjust. His hand slid along Till’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. “Breathe, baby,” he whispered against his lips. “I’ve got you.”
Till’s nails raked down Luka’s back, his hips rocking impatiently. “Move—please, Luka—”
Luka pulled out slowly, almost torturously so, before pressing back in with a groan. The stretch made Till gasp, his whole body clinging tighter, legs hooked around Luka’s waist. Their lips met again, softer this time, Luka kissing him through the slow grind of their bodies.
But patience didn’t last. Luka’s pace quickened, his thrusts coming sharper, harder, until the headboard rattled against the wall. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, Till’s cries spilling into Luka’s mouth with every deep roll of his hips.
Till clung tighter, kissing back desperately between moans, his voice high and broken. “Luka—fuck—mm—-harder—”
Luka groaned, slamming into him harder, his pace brutal now, rocking Till into the mattress. He kissed along Till’s jaw, his throat, his chest—everywhere his lips could reach, leaving marks in his wake.
“You feel so good—” Luka panted, hips snapping faster, deeper. “So fucking tight around me, baby. You love it, don’t you?”
Till could barely breathe, his voice fractured. “Yes—fuck—yes—”
Luka’s lips caught his again, swallowing his sounds, but when he pulled back, his voice was rough and commanding. “Come for me.”
Till shook his head weakly, gasping. “I—I can’t—”
“Oh, you can,” Luka growled, thrusting harder, hips rolling with devastating force. “You’re close. I can feel it.”
Till cried out, his body trembling violently under Luka, his hands clutching at Luka’s shoulders like a lifeline. “No—I—fuck—I can’t—”
But Luka wasn’t having it. His hand slid between their slick bodies, wrapping around Till’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. His grip was tight, practiced, pulling every sound from Till’s throat.
The sensation was overwhelming—Luka filling him deep, stretching him with every brutal thrust, while his cock was stroked mercilessly. Till’s back arched off the bed, his voice breaking into a scream as his body gave in.
“Luka—!”
He came hard, spilling hot across both their stomachs, his thighs trembling uncontrollably as his orgasm wracked him. His nails carved red lines down Luka’s back, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes from the sheer intensity.
Luka groaned deep, fucking him through it, watching him unravel. “That’s it, good boy—fuck—you’re perfect—”
His own pace faltered, hips stuttering as the tight clutch of Till’s body pushed him over the edge. With a strangled moan, Luka buried himself deep one last time and came hard, spilling inside Till, his entire body shuddering as he collapsed forward.
Their chests pressed together, skin slick with sweat, both of them gasping for air. Luka’s face pressed into Till’s neck, his arms trembling as he barely managed to roll onto the bed beside him.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing. Till lay limp, utterly wrecked, still trembling from aftershocks. Luka’s hand found his fingers threading lazily together, their knuckles sticky with sweat.
Till turned his face toward Luka, whispering hoarsely, “You’re insane.”
Luka chuckled weakly, pressing a kiss to Till’s damp hair. “Maybe,” he muttered, voice slurred with exhaustion. ‘’But you love me.’’
And then he let himself collapse fully, chest still heaving, their legs tangled under the sheets.
Both of them were still gasping for air, chests heaving as the sweat cooled on their skin. Luka stayed close, his lips brushing slowly over Till’s, softer now—an unspoken apology for how rough he’d been. But Till only leaned into it, humming faintly against Luka’s mouth, his hand sliding lazily up to cup Luka’s jaw.
When Luka finally pulled back, he caught Till’s hand instead, lacing their fingers together. His thumb stroked across Till’s knuckles before he bent down and pressed a kiss there, tender in a way that made Till’s chest ache.
They shifted under the sheets, tangling their legs until they were pressed together again, Luka’s forehead resting against Till’s temple. The room was quiet except for their uneven breaths, the sound of the world outside muffled and far away.
Till was the first to break it, his voice hoarse but teasing. “I wouldn’t mind…going again.”
Luka gave a short, tired snort, shaking his head against Till’s shoulder. “You’re insane now,” he muttered, though there was a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Keep talking like that and I’ll keep you up all night.”
Till smirked, eyes closing as he squeezed Luka’s hand. “Wouldn’t complain.”
Luka huffed softly but kissed him again, slower this time, sinking into the moment as if he could stretch it out forever. They both knew the truth—times like those were rare, stolen between battles, stolen from exhaustion. But for now, it was theirs, and it was worth everything.
Even though their bodies ached, they didn’t stop at just lying there. What began as Luka’s lazy kisses turned into something deeper. Till shifted over him, pressing their mouths together again and again until Luka felt him move—straddling his hips, sliding down until he was sitting right on top of him. Luka’s hands instinctively gripped his waist, steadying him, and a low groan escaped his throat when Till rocked against him.
It didn’t take long before kissing gave way to more. Luka lay back and let Till take the lead this time, watching the younger man ride him with a need that made Luka’s chest tighten. Moans spilled freely into the room, echoing in the dark, and the sound of skin meeting skin filled the silence between them. Luka couldn’t keep his hands still—he stroked Till firmly in time with every movement, his other hand trailing down to squeeze his ass, sometimes smacking lightly just to hear the gasp Till gave in return.
The pace quickened, neither of them bothering to hold back anymore, every sound tumbling out until Luka felt Till shudder and spill hot across his chest and stomach. Luka followed soon after, his head pressed back into the pillow as he groaned out Till’s name.
When the haze cleared, they were both catching their breath again, a mess between them. Till laughed faintly, shaking his head, and Luka only muttered something under his breath that was half a curse, half disbelief. The bed was ruined, and after a few moments of staring at it in silence, they exchanged a look that made them both grimace.
They forced themselves up, sluggishly dragging the sheets off, and headed to the bathroom. The hour was late, their bodies sore, but Luka couldn’t resist once more. The steam rising from the shower, the sight of Till bent to turn the water on—it was too much temptation. Luka pressed him against the tiled wall before the water even hit, kissing him hard, his body caging Till’s. It didn’t matter how tired they were—Luka needed him again, and Till let him have it, clutching at his shoulders while the sound of their bodies carried even louder in the small bathroom.
By the time the shower actually happened, they were drained beyond measure, leaning against each other under the warm spray. Cleaning up turned into laughter and clumsy kisses, until finally they shut the water off and staggered back into the bedroom.
They tugged on loose clothes—whatever was closest—and collapsed into bed at last. Tangled together under fresh sheets, they exchanged only soft kisses now, whispers slipping between them. Quiet ‘I love you’s, a touch to the cheek, a squeeze of the hand. Neither had the energy for more, but neither wanted to let go, not when the night already felt fleeting.
It didn’t take long before exhaustion claimed them both, lips still brushing faintly against each other even as sleep pulled them under.
★
The morning crept in slowly, a dull grey light filtering through the curtains. Luka stirred first, though not by choice—what woke him was the weight sprawled across his chest. Till lay draped over him, his head buried into the crook of Luka’s neck, lips parted just slightly as soft snores escaped him. His hair was a mess, tickling Luka’s skin, but Luka only tightened his arms around him, pulling him closer.
He pressed his face against the crown of Till’s head, breathing him in, savoring the quiet. For once, the room wasn’t filled with tension or noise—just Till’s slow breaths, the steady thump of their hearts pressed together. Luka almost wished time could stop here.
But the shift in his hold made Till stir. A faint sound left him, something between a sigh and a whine, and his eyes cracked open groggily. He yawned against Luka’s throat, body heavy, and muttered something incoherent before letting out a second, longer breath.
“You’re awake,” Luka murmured, voice low.
“Mm… barely,” Till answered, words muffled against his skin. He didn’t move, just let his body sink into Luka’s hold. A wince tugged at his face a moment later. “God, I’m sore…”
Luka smirked faintly but didn’t say anything. Instead, he just rubbed a hand up and down Till’s back, soothing, grounding.
They both knew they didn’t have long. The base was alive with new recruits, new missions to plan, meetings to attend. Their responsibilities would catch up with them as soon as they stepped out that door. But for now—for this short stretch of morning—they let themselves have it.
Till shifted slightly, his hand finding Luka’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like he didn’t want to let go. Luka held him closer in answer, their breaths syncing, silence stretching comfortably between them.
They stayed like that, tangled in the sheets, enjoying the rare peace before the day would drag them both back into reality.
Luka’s hand moved up, brushing back the messy bangs that had fallen into Till’s eyes. The gesture was so simple, yet it made Till’s chest ache. His gaze caught on Luka’s fingers—still tinted that deep purple. The doctors had said the color would take years to fade, even though Luka’s heart now beat strong and steady. The important part was that it worked normally. He was alive.
Till thought often about that—how close he had come to losing him, how hard those days had been with Luka’s asthma and his fragile heart. Back then Luka had been fighting just to breathe, and now here he was, warm and whole beneath him. Alive. Till didn’t think he’d ever get tired of watching him like this, existing, breathing, stubborn as always.
They had gone through so much together. Sometimes Till wondered how they’d survived it all.
He remembered the other day, catching one of the rescued kids staring at Luka with wide eyes. He had to hold back a laugh. Luka always had fans, always had that pull—even the contestants who were supposed to be part of Season 51 of Alien Stage knew who he was. And of course some of them couldn’t help but admire him now that they were safe here. Luka brushed it off like it was nothing, but Till knew better. Sometimes Luka enjoyed it, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
Till loved seeing him like this—loved seeing the connections Luka made. Isaac and Luka especially… They were like brothers now. Till had once told Luka that, but Luka just shook his head, saying he never wanted to feel like a replacement for Jacob. He could never be a replacement. Nobody thought of him that way. Isaac’s fondness for Luka was obvious, as natural as breathing.
It was the same for Till and Dewey, in their own way—loud, teasing, chaotic. Brothers in the most energetic and ridiculous way possible.
Looking at all of them now—their little group of survivors, fighters, kids-turned-adults who never had a family or had lost one long ago—it almost felt like they’d built one together. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. And that was something worth holding onto.
Luka noticed it first in the weight of Till’s body against his own, how the blond had gone very still, his gaze turned inward. Luka’s arms were still loosely around him, and when he shifted just enough to brush his lips over Till’s hair, he asked softly,
“What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Till stirred, blinking himself back to the present. He hesitated, then sighed. “Just thinking… how insane all this is. Three years. How much has changed since the day we first stepped into this base. And now…” He trailed off, almost laughing at the impossibility of it.
Luka let the words hang between them, because they were true. He thought about it often himself—how if he turned back time and told his younger self about this moment, he wouldn’t have believed a word. Back then he hadn’t believed in much at all. He would’ve stared, scoffed, maybe walked away without listening. But if he had known… if he had seen himself now—alive, whole, not just surviving but living—he would have thought it was impossible.
“Yeah,” Luka murmured at last. “If I told the old me about this… he’d laugh in my face. No way he’d believe it.” A quiet pause, then he admitted, “Hell, even now, some days I don’t believe it.”
Till smiled faintly. “You’ve come a long way.”
“So have you,” Luka answered, meaning it.
They let the words settle there, not wanting to weigh the morning down with too much sentiment. Neither of them liked clinging to nostalgia—it was too easy to drown in. Better to stay here, in the present, in the warmth they still had.
But Luka’s thoughts didn’t stop turning. He couldn’t help remembering.He hadn’t thought he’d get this far, and sometimes the weight of that hit him when he least expected it.
Till shifted against him, pulling Luka out of his thoughts. He looked up, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “You zoned out,” Till said.
Luka smirked, squeezing him a little closer. “Guess I was just thinking the same thing as you. How far we’ve come. And how insane it all is.”
Till huffed a laugh, burying his face into Luka’s neck again. Neither of them wanted to linger too long in the past. It wasn’t their style.
Eventually, though, the cold in the room crept back in. Till groaned as he sat up, stretching his sore body before dragging on a different shirt and pulling his hair out of his face. Luka watched him for a moment before following suit, tugging on his own clothes.
A few months ago they’d finally moved into one room together—no more sneaking back and forth at night, no more deciding whose bed to claim. It freed up space for the new recruits, which was convenient, but it also meant they had a corner of the base that was theirs. Private. Comfortable.
Now, as they finished dressing, the weight of reality started to sink back in. They had a meeting to get to. Another trip into the city to gather the contestants. The others would already be waiting. And in just a month, they’d be heading back into Anakt Garden.
Every week there were teams sent out for supplies. Every week the routine repeated. Missions, planning, exhaustion. It had become a rhythm, one Luka had almost grown used to. Almost.
He glanced at Till, who was tying his boots with that focused little frown of his, and he thought—not for the first time—that whatever came next, whatever impossible road they had to take, they’d find a way. Together.
Chapter 39
Notes:
Ahh, it's almost over 🥲
Chapter Text
That week, they went to the city again. Another mission, another fight for lives that weren’t their own but that mattered all the same. This time, it was different though — because they managed to bring the rest of the contestants back with them. Every last one. Eight of them, bruised, frightened, carrying the same kind of hollow look they all once had when they first stumbled out of the Garden and into this war. It hadn’t been easy. None of it ever was. The streets still burned with resistance, and the aliens’ presence in the city seemed sharper every time they went back. But after hours of running, shooting, bleeding, and dragging each other by the wrist, they had all eight contestants alive.
That night, for once, they let themselves celebrate.
The club roared louder than it had in years — music spilling over the crumbling walls, laughter carried across the floor, bottles passed from hand to hand until no one remembered who bought the first round. They drank too much, every one of them, but no one seemed to care. It wasn’t about drowning anything out. It was about the fact that for the first time since this all began, they had everyone they were supposed to have. All eight contestants were safe, huddled together at one table like they didn’t quite believe it themselves, like they might vanish if someone looked away. Till remembered standing in the corner with Luka’s arm slung around his shoulders, watching them — young, trembling, alive — and feeling something crack open in his chest. A sort of pride, a sort of disbelief.
Because now, all that was left was Anakt Garden.
That place wasn’t just a mission. It was everything. The thing that had shaped them, caged them, broken them. The place they had sworn to destroy again and again, because it kept creating the same story — children dragged from their lives, forced into the stage, into experiments, into survival games. That was their future, the rest of their lives probably: going back every week, sending different teams, pulling more kids out, one by one, until the base overflowed with voices and memories.
Sometimes they wondered if this place could even hold so many people. The walls already felt stretched thin, every new recruit another bed shoved into a hallway, another laugh echoing down a corridor that wasn’t built for joy. But there wasn’t anywhere else to go. This base was all they had. Their last ground, their fragile miracle carved out of concrete and desperation.
And the strangest part was how far they had come to reach this point. Insane, really. Unbelievable if they thought about it for too long. None of them had believed they’d live long enough to stand here. It felt like yesterday when the arena of Alien Stage had gone up in flames behind them, the fire turning night into day, their breaths ragged as they ran without looking back. That night had felt like an ending. In some ways, it had been. But it was also the beginning of everything else — this war, this family, this fight that refused to end.
Now, three years later, here they were. Not children anymore. Not contestants, not experiments, not broken toys on a stage. Something else entirely. Survivors. Leaders. The ones who had taken the role no one gave them and kept running with it anyway.
★
The night had burned itself out by the time Luka and Till finally made it back to their room. The air still smelled faintly of alcohol and sweat from the crowded club, laughter and music lingering in their ears like echoes. Till’s hair was damp against Luka’s shoulder, sticking to his temple, and Luka pressed his face there, breathing him in like he always did when the world outside felt too loud.
Neither of them bothered to undress much. Boots kicked into a corner, jackets half-on the floor, they simply collapsed into bed, bodies folding together instinctively, like they were made to take up the same space. Luka lay on his back, arms wrapped securely around Till’s waist, while Till sprawled across him, cheek pressed against Luka’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.
For a while, silence was enough. Luka traced idle shapes across Till’s back, the pads of his fingers moving lazily beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. Till’s breathing was uneven, heavy from exhaustion but not close to sleep, and Luka could feel him thinking.
“You’re zoning out again,” Luka murmured, his voice low, threaded with amusement.
Till hummed without lifting his head. “Just… thinking about how insane this is.”
Luka smiled faintly into the dark. “You’ve said that a lot lately.”
“Because it is.” Till finally shifted, chin resting on Luka’s chest so he could look at him. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, and Luka brushed it away gently. “Three years ago we were locked up, treated like—like experiments. I didn’t even think we’d survive, much less blow up the whole arena. And now we’re here, rescuing the kids we used to be.”
Luka’s chest tightened at the words. He stared at Till, at the raw honesty in his voice, and pressed his lips briefly to Till’s forehead. “Yeah. It doesn’t feel real.”
“It doesn’t,” Till agreed softly. “And tomorrow—or next week, or the week after—we’ll go back to Anakt Garden again. And again. Forever, probably. This… it doesn’t end.”
There was no bitterness in his tone, just a quiet acceptance. Luka tightened his hold around him, pulling Till closer until there was no space between them. “It doesn’t end,” Luka echoed. “But… at least it’s us doing it. Not them. Not the aliens deciding who lives and who doesn’t. We’re deciding. That’s something.”
Till let out a long sigh, curling his fingers into Luka’s shirt. “Do you think we’ll actually make a difference?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Luka tilted his head down until Till had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Look at what we’ve already done. Every kid we pulled out—every single one—that’s someone who’ll never go through what we did. That’s the difference. And it’s not small. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
Till gave him a crooked smile, though Luka could see the emotion flickering behind his eyes. “You always know what to say.”
“No, I don’t,” Luka said honestly, brushing his thumb along Till’s jaw. “I just… mean it.”
They were quiet again for a stretch, listening to the hum of the base outside, muffled voices down the hall, the soft whir of the heater kicking in. Till shifted, sliding up enough to kiss Luka slowly, their mouths moving together in that lazy, unhurried way they had when they weren’t desperate, weren’t rushing. When they were just alive and together.
Luka adjusted them both under the blankets, tucking Till securely against his chest, chin resting in his hair.
Till murmured something Luka didn’t quite catch, too quiet, but he felt the shape of the words against his skin. Maybe it was “I love you.” Either way, Luka smiled into his hair, holding him tighter, listening to his breathing finally start to slow as exhaustion pulled him closer to sleep.
And for the first time that night, Luka let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—they’d be okay.
★
Luka couldn’t sleep.
The base was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy, pressing down through the walls. He could hear Till’s breathing, soft and steady against his shoulder, but Luka’s own chest felt too full for rest. His thoughts kept circling back, not to tomorrow’s mission, not even to the celebration they’d had earlier, but all the way back—to Anakt Garden.
He tried not to think about it too often, but nights like this, when there was nothing else to distract him, the memories came creeping back in.
He saw himself as a small, fragile boy again. Thin wrists, weak lungs, eyes that never seemed to shine like the others’. He remembered how he used to follow Hyuna everywhere, like her shadow. She had always walked ahead of him, steady, unafraid, and he had clung to that presence like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Maybe it was. Without her, he probably would’ve crumbled sooner.
Sometimes, in flashes, he thought of Hyunwoo too. His smile. His laugh. Small moments—sharing food, whispering in the dark, brushing shoulders in the hallways when they weren’t supposed to. Hyunwoo had been a comfort he didn’t realize he needed until it was already gone.
And then there was Heperu. His owner. Luka hated the word. Hated that it fit. The one who kept him alive only to test his limits, to watch him drown in tank after tank, to measure how long his lungs could hold, how many times they could stop his heart and bring it back. Luka remembered the water most of all—the way it closed over him, heavy and suffocating, pressing against his skin until panic set in. He had been so terrified at first, every muscle screaming for escape, nails scraping at the glass, throat raw from swallowed screams.
But they taught him not to be scared. Slowly. Relentlessly. Every time he flailed, they held him under longer. Every time his body shook with fear, they made him do it again. Until the fear dulled, until the struggle faded, until he learned to accept it. Until they turned him into their perfect angel.
He hated that part most of all—not the pain, not even the purple stains on his fingers that never went away, but how they had reshaped him. How they’d taken a boy and carved him into something they could use.
And yet… Anakt Garden hasn't always been the worst place. That was the cruelest part. There were days where it had almost felt… safe. Normal, even. They gave him a bed, food, and clothes. They gave him Hyuna. And when he panicked—when he woke from nightmares, lungs burning, heart racing—she was there. Always there. She held him together when everything else tried to tear him apart.
But Luka regretted so much, even in those days. He regretted the way he clung to Hyuna, the way he threw himself at her, too desperate, too obsessed. He hadn’t known what love was, not really. He only knew he didn’t want to be alone, and she was the only one who made him feel like maybe he wasn’t. Looking back now, he winced at it. He wished he could take it back.
That regret twisted deeper when he remembered Hyunwoo’s death.
The memory was fractured, like broken glass, but sharp all the same. He had fallen to the floor that day, pain tearing through him like fire. His chest had seized, his vision had gone white. He barely remembered what he’d done—his body had acted before his mind caught up. And then it was over. Hyunwoo was gone, and Luka’s hands were stained with something he couldn’t wash away.
He remembered almost nothing, just the pain. The way his fingers started turning purple in the aftermath, the way his body wouldn’t stop trembling.
And then sitting beside Hyuna. She was crying, shoulders shaking, tears spilling silently. Luka had sat there, stiff and hesitant, not knowing how to comfort her. Not knowing how to say anything at all. He should have cried with her. He should have felt it the way she did. But he didn’t—he was too swallowed up by what he thought was love for her. Too consumed by his own need to be seen, to be held. He hadn’t understood the weight of it then. Not like now.
He regretted it all.
When the days in Anakt Garden were finally over, when they moved into the Alien Stage, it was like stepping into a different nightmare. But the old one never really left him. The tanks, the tests, the pain—they had shaped him too much to forget. Even now, years later, lying in bed with Till warm against him, Luka could still feel the ghost of that cold water on his skin. He could still hear Heperu’s voice, still smell the sterile walls of the labs,
Stepping into Alien Stage had almost felt like a dream. Or at least, that’s how they wanted him to see it.
In Anakt Garden, they had whispered it into his ears over and over—that everything, every test, every tank of water, every moment his heart stopped and restarted, it was all preparing him for the big stage. For the lights, the crowd, the glory of entertaining the world. This was what he had been made for. Not to live, not to grow into whoever he might have become on his own, but to stand on a stage and shine for the people who owned him.
And for a while, Luka believed it.
At first it was dazzling, almost blinding. The lights above him, the sea of faces below, the roar of cheers that shook the ground under his feet. He had never seen so many people in his life, never imagined a world that stretched beyond sterile labs and white walls and cold water. Alien Stage had been overwhelming, terrifying—and intoxicating.
They told him to smile, and he did. They told him to cry, and he did. They told him to win, and he fought until his body broke.
Looking back now, Luka hated that person he became. He could almost spit at the memory of himself: polished, obedient, beautiful. A puppet dancing on invisible strings. But at the time? That performance had kept him alive. And when survival was all you knew, you didn’t stop to ask what it cost you.
Season 49. His first.
He could still feel the way his stomach had twisted that first time the stage floor went red beside him. The contestant next to him crumpled, blood pooling fast, and the crowd roared. Not for the dying boy, not for the life that had just ended, but for Luka—still standing, still singing. He remembered glancing down, heart pounding, waiting for someone to help, for someone to care. No one did. The cheers swallowed everything. The body at his feet became part of the scenery.
It took time for him to get used to that. Time for him to harden to the sight of people being cut down just a few feet away. He had flinched at every fall, every scream, until slowly, he stopped reacting at all. He had to. That was the only way to stay alive.
And so he became what they wanted. The idol. The princel. The face plastered on posters, the name chanted in stadiums. The perfect act.
But the cost was written all over him.
He remembered the sorrow like a sharp ache in his chest when Hyuna went out on her round. He had watched her perform with a pit in his stomach, fear clenching so tight it was hard to breathe. They had said her voice was good but her visions weren’t enough. Luka hadn’t agreed—he’d never agreed. But he hadn’t said anything. He never said anything back then. He’d just watched her fall, her body hitting the stage, her presence snuffed out from his world.
He could still see her on the ground in his mind. And then—gone. Disappeared. They told him she was out, finished. And for years he thought that was the end of her, until much later when he learned Jacob had found her, rescued her, carried her into the rebels where she had carved a new life. A different life. One Luka hadn’t been able to imagine for himself at the time.
Season 49 blurred in his mind when he tried to piece it together. He didn’t remember much of the songs, the battles, the endless cycle of rehearsals and pain. What he remembered was winning. Standing alone at the end, ‘crown’ forced onto his head, a smile frozen on his face while his chest felt hollow.
Winning hadn’t saved him. It had only chained him tighter.
The aftermath had been worse. The endless interviews where he sat under hot lights and answered the same questions again and again, smiling until his cheeks hurt. The photoshoots where they posed him like a doll, draping him in clothes he didn’t choose, putting words in his mouth he didn’t mean. The constant tests in between, because he was too valuable to let break. Too fragile to let slip. They had to keep him alive, after all.
Luka huffed bitterly against the quiet air of the room, almost laughing at himself. Back then, he had thought the inhaler was helping him. He had believed it when they told him it was medicine, something he needed, something that kept him breathing. He had clutched it like it was salvation. Looking back now, he wanted to throw the memory against a wall. It hadn’t been medicine. It had been another chain. Another way to keep him dependent, to remind him that even his breath didn’t belong to him.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, forcing his heartbeat to settle.
The boy in Anakt Garden. The puppet on Alien Stage. The winner of Season 49.
He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forgive that version of himself. But he couldn’t deny he owed that boy his life.
His thoughts shifted, almost reluctantly, to that part of his past. The place Heperu had taken him after the crown was forced on his head.
If Alien Stage had stripped him of his innocence, that place had stripped him of his humanity.
He hadn’t even understood what was happening until it was already happening. One moment, he was a winner being paraded as the angel of the season, and the next, he was being led into a room where nothing made sense anymore. They called it a promotion. He remembered Heperu’s hand heavy on his shoulder, the way the word reward had been thrown around like it was some kind of blessing. As if turning a boy into a commodity was something noble.
The aliens had touched him. Cold hands, strange textures, eyes on him like he was a piece of art they could consume. His first time—stolen, used, forced into something he hadn’t chosen. Even his first kiss hadn’t belonged to him; it had been ripped away, another act he had no say in. The memory made his skin crawl even now, and Luka had to squeeze his eyes shut to push it away.
Sometimes they paired him with humans. It was supposed to make things feel more “natural,” he guessed, though nothing about it had been natural. Still, it had been easier. A little more bearable. Human warmth at least resembled something real, something normal. But even then, there had been no privacy. The aliens always watched. The first time, there had been an audience. Always someone observing, dissecting his reactions, teaching him how to please, how to move, how to use himself as if his body was a tool to be sharpened.
They had taught him everything he knew now, everything he instinctively did with Till without thinking. Every kiss, every press of his hands, every way he knew how to guide someone—it all came from those lessons, those performances.
And yet when he did it with Till he learned that it could be beautiful, and more enjoyable, he relaxed more, with the person he loves, it felt normal, and right.
They had fucked him whenever they wanted, of course. Sometimes rough, sometimes casual, as if he were no more than a toy pulled off a shelf. But the ones in charge seemed to enjoy it most when he was the one to lead. When he looked like he was in control. So they taught him how to take control. How to push someone down, how to ride, how to command. It was all a performance, but they wanted him to own it. And in time, he did.
Eventually, the audience disappeared. They stopped making him perform in front of others. They started leading him into single rooms, one-on-one. More often than not, they brought humans. Strangers, faceless at the edges of his memory now. He had taken all the lessons he was taught and used them. He had played the part, used his body, his smile, his skill. He had done what was expected. Again and again.
And slowly, shockingly, Luka had realized he liked it.
Not all of it. Not being dragged around, not the loss of choice. But he liked the part where he was the one in control. He liked the way it felt to use his body without crumbling, to take what had been forced on him and twist it into something he could claim. He had learned that sex didn’t have to break him. That he could stand proud in it. That he could enjoy it—not as their victim, but as himself. It had been liberating in its own twisted way, and compared to the endless experiments, the water tanks, the suffocating tests, this had almost felt like freedom.
For a long time, he thought he was just another victim in that system. Another body chewed up and spit out. But with every encounter, every time he chose to stand tall instead of collapse, Luka reshaped it. He refused to let it reduce him. Instead, he made it his weapon. He learned to carry it like armor, to use it properly. To be the one holding the reins, even if the reins had been placed in his hands by someone else.
He remembers Till telling him what they did to him, it surely wasn’t any different than Luka’s but he learned how to control it, while with Till they used him, it broke something in Luka when he learned that, and the fact that Till learned to zone out while they were doing it. It surely wasn’t like this when Till and Luka did it the first time, he tried his best to keep Till calm, he saw how tense and unsure he is, because he hasn’t been with a human only aliens, and Luka made sure to make it good.
By the time Season 50 began, he had mastered his mask.
What confused him was why they sent him back at all. He’d already won. He’d already played the role perfectly once. No one was supposed to win twice—once you were crowned, your life shifted into being a puppet, a commodity, something to be used behind closed doors. But Luka wasn’t given that fate. They threw him back onto the stage. And he learned, quickly enough, that the plan was worse than he thought.
They were going to put him in every season. Over and over, endlessly. He wasn’t just a winner—he was to be their eternal champion, their showpiece, their flawless angel who would shine forever.
It was stupid. Cruel. Maddening. Luka had hated it with a bone-deep fury that words couldn’t capture. He hadn’t even known what the point was anymore.
And yet, part of him still loved the stage. That was the most confusing thing of all.
Singing… he didn’t know how to feel about it. Sometimes, when it was just him and the music, he felt alive. He felt joy ripple through him, real and undeniable. There were moments where he could lose himself in the sound and believe it was his. That it belonged to him. But most of the time, it had been forced out of him like everything else. Songs shoved into his mouth, visions manufactured for him, emotion wrung from him like blood.
Still—Luka had written songs of his own. Little scraps, little fragments. Melodies that came to him in the quiet. Lyrics that had burned in his chest until he wrote them down. And those—those he had been proud of. In a world that gave him nothing, those songs had been his.
So when Season 50 began, he stepped onto that stage again. Not as the terrified boy of Season 49, but as something sharper, harder, older. His start was powerful. The crowd erupted, the lights blinded him, and Luka performed as if he had never left.
Only this time, he wasn’t just their angel. He was his own.
His mind wandered deeper into the stage, into the haze of Season 50.
He remembered the first rounds. Mizi. Sua. He hadn’t cared much back then—he barely watched anyone else’s performances. He’d been too wrapped up in himself, strutting around like the arena belonged to him. Every hallway, every spotlight, he walked through with his chin high, like he was untouchable. Confidence was too light a word for it. It was arrogance. It was pride swollen so large it blinded him. Looking back now, Luka felt the sting of shame. That wasn’t power—it was pathetic. He thought he owned the world when really, he was just playing the fool on their leash.
The first rounds didn’t shock him. They didn’t reach him. But then came the news—he’d be facing Mizi in Round Five. And suddenly, something shifted.
Because by then, he had studied Sua. He had studied her technique. No one had forced him to. No handler, no alien trainer, no order from above. It had been all him. Luka had chosen to watch closely, to break down her gestures, her poise, the particular way she bent her voice, her subtle hand movements. He memorized them, dissected them, absorbed them until he could bend them into his own arsenal. It had been his idea. His doing. And that—he realized now, with a sour taste in his mouth—was even crueler than if someone had pushed him into it.
When the round came, he wrote Ruler of My Heart. His song. His composition. And he designed the stage himself too. That had shocked him—how they had allowed it. Maybe because they wanted to see what he would do with it. Maybe because they knew it would cut Mizi to the bone.
Messing with her mind wasn’t difficult. She was broken, shattered in the wake of Sua’s death. The pain clung to her like a second skin, and Luka knew how to press his fingers into the cracks. On that stage, he moved like Sua, caught fragments of her poses, twisted his voice to echo hers. It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t meant to be. Just enough. Enough to remind Mizi of what she had lost. Enough to haunt her.
And it worked. Of course it worked. Every time he slipped into Sua’s shadow, Mizi faltered. The crowd roared, the judges approved, and Luka stood above her in victory.
But he hadn’t expected the fists.
The aliens had hurt him in countless ways, but never like that. Never raw, physical, human. He remembered the blur of it—Mizi’s weight slamming him onto his back, her fists raining down on his face. The sting, the dizziness, blood in his mouth. His body screamed, but his voice kept going. He sang the final words of his song through the haze of pain, stubborn and unrelenting. He couldn’t stop, even then. He wouldn’t.
Smoke filled the air. The chaos of the stage blurred. And when he blinked through it, the rebels were there. He saw their clothes, saw them dragging Mizi out, whisking her away from the arena.
And in that mess of smoke and confusion, he caught Hyuna’s gaze. Just for a second. But it was enough. Enough to shake him, to stick in his memory like a brand.
It was too much. Too much for one night. Too much for him to pretend it was just another victory.
Thinking of Round Five now hurt in a way Luka hadn’t expected. Back then, it had been about victory. About performance, manipulation, survival. He hadn’t thought beyond the stage. But here, with the rebels—hearing Mizi speak of Sua—those memories cut differently.
She had told him about Sua’s choice. That it wasn’t just a death, wasn’t just a loss. It was a sacrifice. Sua had been preparing for it, carrying the knowledge that she wouldn’t last. She hadn’t fought only for herself—she had fought for Mizi, trying to shield her even in her last moments. And when Mizi shared this, she hadn’t done it to burden Luka with guilt. She hadn’t said it to make him bleed for his cruelty. But still—he had felt it. He couldn’t stop himself. The guilt slid under his skin and stayed there.
Mizi had confessed, voice trembling, that she wished she had clung to Sua’s body. That she wished she hadn’t let go. The way she had clung to Till later in Round Seven—desperate, unwilling to lose again—was the way she wished she had held on to Sua.
Luka closed his eyes against the memory. Sua’s death had been… wrong. Cruel in a way that went beyond the ordinary cruelty of Alien Stage. Normally, they shot them. Quick. Brutal, yes, but simple. Sua had been different. Her collar had exploded. The sound, the flash, the way her body fell—it had been sickening. A spectacle. Luka remembered it vividly, the crowd’s gasps, the horror painted across Mizi’s face. Mizi, who had never witnessed death before, who had only known competition and performance, suddenly thrown into the rawest violence of it.
Now, looking at her among the rebels, Luka understood her more. Understood why she was the way she was. And he almost envied her—because despite all that pain, despite what she had seen, she was surviving. Healing. Growing. She was better here. Stronger. And Luka wasn’t sure he could have done the same if it had been him.
Healing took time after that. More time than he admitted to anyone. His face, his body, his pride—they all ached. And while he lay there recovering, he found himself watching Round Six with a sharper eye.
Ivan and Till.
Till… he didn’t know much about him then. Only the whispers. That Till was too much of a rebel, too angry for his own good, that they had to restrain him more than once. That he wouldn’t bow, wouldn’t break, not the way Luka had. He was fire contained in a small, fragile body, and Luka hadn’t known what to make of him.
Ivan, though—he knew. Not a friend, no. Luka couldn’t claim anyone had been his friend back then. But close. Close enough. Everyone loved Ivan. His presence, his smile, his voice—he carried something Luka could never fake. The two of them had been favorites, darlings of the crowd, idols born from the same machine. They shared that bond, thin and unspoken.
And before Alien Stage, back in Anakt Garden, they had shared the same classrooms too. The same stale lessons, the same songs repeated until they lost meaning. Luka remembered Ivan at the edge of his vision back then—warm where Luka had been cold, kind where Luka had shut down. They had been shaped by the same cage, but they had come out of it so differently.
He shook his head, forcing himself forward in his thoughts. To Round Six.
He had watched that one carefully. His body was still healing from Mizi’s fists, but his mind was sharper, restless. And the round had confused him.
At first, he couldn’t understand why Till wasn’t singing. The silence felt heavy, wrong, like something was missing. But then—then Ivan had crossed the stage. He had leaned in and kissed Till, shocking everyone. And the moment shattered when Ivan’s hands moved from Till’s face to his throat.
Luka had sat upright in disbelief. Violence wasn’t allowed on stage. Not like this. Not this raw, desperate act. Ivan choking Till, Luka thought he might actually die there in front of everyone. The guards opened fire, shots cracking against the stage, and finally Ivan’s hands slipped away.
When Ivan’s body collapsed, there were no bruises on Till’s neck. No marks on his skin. No proof of what Ivan had done, of how close he had come. And at that moment Luka understood. Another sacrifice. Another choice made with purpose. Ivan hadn’t been trying to kill Till. He had been trying to shield him. To give him something. And Luka, watching, had filed it away coldly. Because even then, some part of him knew he could use it.
He had studied Ivan’s technique the same way he had studied Sua’s. He had taken it, carved it into himself, prepared to wield it in Round Seven.
The waiting was endless. Months stretched between the rounds, every day spent rehearsing, preparing, suffocating under the weight of the finale. Round Seven was everything.
And during those months, he and Till worked together. Close, though Luka hadn’t known what to make of him. Till wasn’t what the whispers had said. He wasn’t wild with rage, wasn’t uncontrollable the way they’d warned. He was quiet. Withdrawn. Luka had assumed at first it was mourning—for Ivan, for the sacrifice on that stage.
He had thought there had to be something between them. He had believed it, so much so that he’d felt like a replacement in Ivan’s shadow. And back then, that had twisted him further, made him sharper, crueler.
He was glad now that he and Till had spoken about it. That the truth had settled differently between them. But when his mind dragged itself back to Round Seven, to the performance itself, Luka felt the sharp pain return.
His head ached just thinking about it.
Because Round Seven wasn’t just another stage. It wasn’t just another game. It had been the breaking point—for him, for Till, for all of them.
Round Seven.
Just thinking the words made Luka’s stomach twist. It had been the finale, the culmination of everything they had been working toward—and at the same time, the night that ripped the floor out from beneath him.
Working with Till on it had been strangely easy. Easier than he’d expected, easier than anything before. Till wasn’t like Mizi—sharp, reactive, full of defiance. He wasn’t like Ivan either—always smiling, soft-spoken but carrying that quiet strength everyone adored. Till was quiet, but not in a fragile way. He absorbed everything, carried himself with this weight that Luka couldn’t quite measure. Back then, Luka had thought it was grief. Later, with the rebels, he had learned the truth—that Till had admired him.
That revelation haunted Luka. The idea that Till, who had seemed to stand so firmly against everything Luka represented, had once looked up to him. He remembered it vividly now—the moment during practice when Till had let the word “hyung” slip. The honorific had hung in the air between them like a fragile thread. Luka had frozen, unsure how to respond. His throat had gone dry. Till’s face had flushed red almost immediately, panic flashing in his eyes, and then he’d bolted from the room before Luka could say a thing. Luka had stood there, violin still in his hands, staring after him in disbelief.
Maybe that was the cruelest part. That somewhere beneath all of it, Till had seen something in him worth admiring. And Luka had shattered it.
The finale came faster than he’d expected. Months of preparation dissolved in a blur, and suddenly it was here. The clothes, the lights—everything was brighter, bolder, more colorful. They wanted spectacle, and they got it. The audience roared, and Luka felt it reverberate in his chest as he took his place at the edge of the stage, violin poised, heart hammering.
Till began the song. His voice, low and steady, carried over the crowd as he strummed the guitar. Luka joined in from the opposite side, his violin cutting through the air, the two sounds weaving together in a careful, deliberate harmony. For the audience, it was a breathtaking duet. For Luka, it was a hunt.
As the song built, Luka crossed the stage, every step calculated. He closed the distance between them until he was right in front of Till. His hand rose, cupping Till’s face with deliberate intimacy, his lips dangerously close to his ear as he sang. And then he did it—he shifted. He mimicked Ivan. The tone of his voice, the rhythm, even the subtle way Ivan used to move. He had studied it for months, practiced until it was flawless. Now he wielded it like a blade, pressing the memory of Ivan into Till’s skin.
He felt Till stiffen under his touch. Saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. Till’s singing faltered, the notes losing strength. His body swayed ever so slightly, dizzy, unsteady. Luka had to bite down on his own grin. It was working. The audience roared louder, clapping, cheering, their energy feeding him as Till’s performance weakened. Luka nearly laughed at how perfectly it was unfolding.
But then—
Something shifted. Till looked out into the crowd, and Luka followed his gaze. Mizi. She was there, eyes locked on them, her presence burning through the haze of lights and sound. Luka’s singing sharpened, anger seeping into his voice. Why wasn’t it working anymore? Why wasn’t Till breaking the way he was supposed to?
And then everything collapsed at once.
Till reached out—his hand stretching toward the crowd, toward Mizi. Luka didn’t even realize what was happening until the crack of a gunshot split the air. The bullet tore into Till’s side, and his body crumpled.
Luka won.
But there was no victory in it. Only chaos.
Till collapsed on the stage floor, blood staining the boards beneath him. The audience screamed. Rebels surged forward, climbing onto the stage, Mizi among them. She dropped to her knees beside Till, cradling him in her arms, her sobs audible even over the panic of the crowd. Luka stood frozen, his chest heaving.
His eyes found Hyuna.
She was standing a little further off, clutching her stomach. Blood stained her clothes, her expression twisted with pain, but her eyes—her eyes were sharp, unwavering, locked on him. For a moment, everything else fell away. The rebels, the chaos, the fire beginning to spread in the distance—none of it mattered. It was just Hyuna’s gaze pinning him in place.
Then it all moved too fast.
Mizi and Till were gone, dragged away into the dark. The rebels scattered, climbing into waiting vehicles. Luka stood on the stage, prepared for the aftermath, ready to be left behind, consumed by the flames licking higher in the background. That was what he deserved. That was the fate of a puppet once its strings had been cut.
But then Hyuna lifted a hand. A small gesture, but enough. Luka’s legs moved before he even understood why. He stumbled toward her, toward the exit, his body following an order his mind hadn’t processed. The night air hit him hard—cool, smoky, filled with shouting. Rebels were climbing into trucks and vans, engines roaring to life. Someone shoved him hard from behind, and he stumbled forward, into the back of one of the vehicles.
The door slammed shut.
He was alone.
The darkness inside the vehicle wrapped around him, suffocating and disorienting. His hands shook where they rested in his lap. He didn’t understand why he was there. Why did they take him? Why Hyuna had gestured for him to follow instead of leaving him to burn with the rest of it.
He wanted her at that moment. Desperately. He wanted answers, wanted the solidity of her voice, her command. But she didn’t come. She didn’t speak to him. He was just… left there, in the dark, the world spinning out of his control.
And he hadn’t realized it then. Not when the vehicle lurched forward, not when the lights of the stage disappeared behind him. But that moment—the moment he sat alone in the back of a rebel transport, confused and terrified—was when his life truly began.
Luka broke from the spiral of memories when he felt the faintest shift against his chest. Till stirred, his breath catching as though he was fighting through some half-dream before his eyes cracked open.
“…Why aren’t you sleeping?” his voice came out hoarse, still thick with sleep.
Luka blinked, dragged back into the present. “I’m just… thinking,” he murmured, his own voice low, cautious. He smoothed a hand across Till’s back, feeling the steady rise and fall. “Can’t sleep.”
Till let out a quiet hum, a sound more vibration than word. His lids were already heavy again. “Mm. Don’t think too much,” he mumbled, his tone so warm, so drowsy, that it almost stung. Before Luka could answer, Till burrowed closer, burying his face into the curve of Luka’s neck. His breath was hot against his skin, and in another few seconds his weight went slack again—completely surrendered to sleep.
Luka froze for a beat, staring into the dark above them, then finally tightened his arms around him, pulling him closer. He rested his chin lightly against Till’s hair, inhaling the faint scent of smoke and something softer beneath it. His chest ached.
Should he sleep? He didn’t know. His mind was a tangle of noise, one thought bleeding into the next, all the memories clawing for space inside his skull. He couldn’t shut it off. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw fragments—the stage, the lights, the gunfire, Mizi’s cry, Hyuna’s bloodied hand. The way Till’s voice had cracked.
But here, in the quiet, Till’s warmth pressed against him, steady breaths brushing his skin, Luka almost wanted to believe it was enough to ground him. Almost.
He swallowed hard, hugging Till tighter, as if by holding him close he might be able to silence the noise for even a little while. But sleep didn’t come. Not yet.
Luka’s mind refused to quiet. It felt almost like his whole life was unraveling in front of him, frame by frame, as if someone were holding up a reel of memories and forcing him to watch it. He tried to focus on Till’s weight against him, the steady rhythm of his breathing pressed into his throat, but it wasn’t enough. His chest felt too full, his brain too loud. Life flashing before his eyes—yeah, that’s what it felt like.
He thought back to the very beginning, when the rebels had dragged him out of that arena and into their base. He had sat in that small, dim room alone for days. Four walls, silence, nothing but the ache in his ribs and the echo of Hyuna’s face turned away from him. He hadn’t come out to eat, hadn’t spoken to anyone. What was the point? He wanted Hyuna. She was the only one he thought he could lean on, but she didn’t want to talk to him—not then. So he shut himself away, and for a while, that was enough. Isolation was familiar.
When he finally did step outside, blinking against the lights of the base, everyone treated him exactly how he expected. Wary glances. Short answers. A wall of cold shoulders and distrust. He told himself he didn’t care, that he could keep his distance. That was what he was good at.
He doesn’t even remember, now, how he and Till started talking. It just… happened. The old base had that cracked balcony with rust on the railings, and late at night, when the noise died down, they’d find themselves out there with a bottle, passing it back and forth. At first it was nothing—just filling the silence. But then it became longer, heavier conversations, spilling out pieces of themselves neither of them had shared with anyone else. Luka had never talked with someone for that long in his life.
It was absurd, he thinks now. He and Till hated each other—or at least acted like they did. But they sat there like friends. Like something more.
He remembers watching Till from afar, too. How he’d go down to the gym and burn his anger out against the punching bag until his knuckles were raw. How he came back from missions, battered and bruised but still burning with energy, eager for more. Luka would linger in the corner, pretending not to watch, but his eyes always followed.
The night he collapsed in the hallway—his lungs giving out, his chest seizing—it was Hyuna who found him. She had stood over him, furious and scared, and that was the first time he had forced the words out: “I’m sorry.” She forgave him, and he remembered thinking afterward how strange it was. He didn’t feel that way with her anymore. And that was fine. He was learning something then—he didn’t need someone else to make him feel alive. He could stand on his own feet. But slowly, almost against his will, he started realizing something about Till.
He’d been in denial, of course. The whole thing was new, strange, unwelcome. He observed Till all the time, not just watching but thinking. Admiring him, in a way he couldn’t admit to himself. Till was stubborn, ridiculously stubborn. Such an idiot sometimes, throwing himself into danger without hesitation. And yet, Luka found himself laughing at the things Till said, at his clumsy determination, at the small ways he kept fighting no matter what.
There were supply runs together, tense moments on missions where they had to trust each other, times when they came back bruised but alive, adrenaline running so high Luka thought his heart might explode. Their first kiss happened on that balcony, the same place their voices had filled the night with secrets. Luka could still feel the shock of it—the warmth of Till’s lips, the way it startled him down to his bones. Till ran immediately, red-faced, and they circled each other after that, denying what they wanted, until finally they caved. Fell into each other. Into bed. Luka would never forget that night.
But nothing stayed simple. It got messy fast. Lying to themselves, telling each other it didn’t mean anything, that there were no feelings involved. And yet every time, they went back. Every time, it hurt more. Falling in love but refusing to admit it—it nearly destroyed them. But in the end, it came together. Hard, brutal, bloody. But it was worth it. Luka carried every moment with him: every kiss, every touch, every sound that slipped from Till’s throat, every laugh that broke through the darkness. He never thought he’d get to experience any of it.
Blowing up the Alien Stage arena had been the breaking point. Everything messy, tangled, falling apart. Before that, he’d been kidnapped, dragged away and left to rot. He’d gone through hell. He and Till fought constantly during that time, especially when Luka made the choice to stop using his inhaler. He can still feel the ache of it in his chest, the way his lungs burned, how hard it was to breathe. He wore the mask well, pretending he was fine, when inside he was suffocating.
It all unraveled with one bullet, one inhale of smoke too many. He never even saw himself falling—just the plunge into cold water, then blackness.
And then waking up. The wrongness of it. The disbelief. Pain in his body he couldn’t place, the fog in his mind, until Till told him the truth: it’s been four months… then the surgery. He hadn’t believed it at first. Thought it was some dream, some trick. Days passed before he accepted he was alive. Alive when he shouldn’t have been.
And what awaited him when he woke? Not peace. Not care. But demands. Arguments with the others who needed his help but never thought to say thank you. He remembered the bitterness, the resentment, how sharp the air felt in those weeks. It took nearly a month before things smoothed over, before Isaac and the rest came to him, heads bowed, apologies offered.
After that, things became steadier. Normal, in a way. Him and Till sticking together, side by side, through missions and nights alike. He was almost taken by Heperu on that misssion—dragged to the edge of losing everything. Arguments followed. Till’s stubbornness clashing with Luka’s own. Sex complicated it further—denial layered over desire until it tore both of them apart more than once. It was messy, always messy.
But now—here they were. After all of it. Blood, sweat, tears, mistakes. And somehow, they managed. Somehow, they were still standing. Luka could admit it now, in the quiet: he was proud. Proud of what he’d done, proud of surviving when survival had seemed impossible.
He had learned something here that the Stage never taught him. The concept of family. Not the audience, not performance, not victory. Family.
His mind slowly began to drift from the jagged past toward the present. Till’s warmth was still there, pressed against him, grounding him. The tension in his chest eased bit by bit, his thoughts slowing down. For once, he let himself feel the weight of it—not guilt, not denial, but a strange, fragile kind of peace.
And with that, Luka finally allowed his eyes to close. His arms tightened once around Till, and he let himself sink into the dark, into the quiet, into sleep.
★
The days that followed blurred together into a rhythm of danger, adrenaline, and relief. Each week, they returned to Anakt Garden. Each week, the security grew tighter—more guards, more checkpoints, more brutal reinforcements meant to deter them. And yet, every single time, the rebels left with children in their arms. It was as if Anakt Garden had yet to learn the simple truth: they weren’t going to stop. No matter how high they built the walls, no matter how many guns they stationed, no matter how thick the chains—they were never going to stop coming back.
It was exhausting work, of course. Every mission was a gamble, a risk of life and blood, but each time a child clung to them—frightened, but alive—it felt worth it. They returned to the base with tired eyes, bruised ribs, scraped knuckles, but their arms were full, and that was what mattered.
Within a few weeks, whispers and news clippings started reaching them. Someone brought back a crumpled newspaper, and the headline hit them like a punch: ALIEN STAGE ARENA — REBUILDING IN PROGRESS.
The words looked surreal on paper, printed in neat ink as though nothing had ever happened. As if hundreds of lives hadn’t been lost, as if the arena hadn’t been drenched in blood, as if their sacrifices could be washed away with bricks and mortar. Some said the project was uncertain, that the higher-ups weren’t sure if the show could be revived—after all, the contestants who should’ve been trained to perform were gone, taken right out from under their noses by the rebels. It was almost laughable. Almost. If the history of Alien Stage wasn’t so cruel and real to them all, they might’ve found it funny.
But it wasn’t funny. It was depressing. Cruel. A reminder that the world outside still had no idea, or maybe didn’t care, what Alien Stage had cost them. The friends they lost, the ones who’d never returned from their rounds, the ones who had been broken and discarded like props after a show. The arena wasn’t just a stage—it was a graveyard.
And yet, in the face of all that grief, the rebels found ways to keep living.
One night, in the club that had become their rare haven, Luka finally fulfilled the promise he had once made. Long ago, after their round in their season, he had promised Till they would sing together—not as rivals, not as pawns, not with guns aimed at their heads, but as themselves. For a long time, Luka avoided that promise, half-afraid of what it meant, half-drowning in the guilt of how he had played dirty against Till. But now, with everything behind them and everything ahead, he owed Till.
They stood on the stage side by side, the low lights of the club washing over them, and when they began to sing, it was nothing like Alien Stage. There was no looming countdown, no threat of a bullet when the last note faded. This was freedom, the sound of voices unshackled. Till’s voice carried steady and warm, Luka’s sharp and emotive, and together they wove melodies that felt alive in a way they never had before. They switched between styles, laughing as they tried things that would’ve never been allowed in the arena—folk songs, old rebel chants, even silly upbeat pop numbers just to make the kids in the audience giggle. Their voices blended, collided, soared.
And one night, Luka swore he caught Dewey wiping at his eyes when he thought no one was watching.
That was how much it meant. To all of them.
Slowly, rituals began to form. Traditions. At first, birthdays had been ignored—time had been slippery in the base, days blending into missions and exhaustion. They didn’t celebrate, because no one expected to live long enough to see the next one. But when the rescued kids began to fill the base, they demanded it. They wanted candles, cake, clumsy singing, and a reason to laugh. They deserved it.
So the rebels learned how to celebrate.
They scavenged flour and sugar from supply runs, strung decorations out of scrap paper and old ribbons, and turned birthdays into loud, messy, chaotic affairs. It didn’t matter if the cake was lopsided, if the icing dripped unevenly, if the presents were just handmade trinkets—everybody clapped, sang, and shouted as if they had won a war. The walls of the base, once echoing with only gunfire practice and tense meetings, now carried laughter, the pounding of music, the shrieks of kids playing tag down the halls.
Life was returning, little by little.
Even Mizi began to heal, though it was a slow, fragile process. Her hair had grown long again, falling past her shoulders the way it had before Alien Stage, and though her face was still shadowed at times, she no longer seemed like she was drifting away. For a while, they had feared they were losing her—she had been too quiet, too withdrawn, her eyes too hollow. But when she finally spoke of Sua, she said the words that anchored her: she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t betray Sua’s sacrifice by giving up. Sua had given her life so Mizi could live, and though that truth hurt, it also tethered her to the present.
It wasn’t fair. It was never fair. Sua’s death had been cruel, like so many others. But Mizi carried her in every breath, and the rebels surrounded her so she would never have to carry that weight alone.
It was hard. It was tough for all of them. The memories still haunted their nights, still pressed into their bones. But they managed. They had to.
And somehow, they were building a life out of the ashes.
Chapter 40
Summary:
The end.
Notes:
Ah, well, it's officially over. I'm not good at writing endings lol. I feel bad that toward the end maybe after chapter 30 i kinda lost the story it went into a way i didn’t want to and i didn’t even know how to finish thia fic i never thought i’ll get here so fast…and what i planned i did wrote, until i realise i have to get this fic somewhere to make sense but im sure i lost it a bit toward the end which im sorry for, maybe its because i lost ambition cuz im focusing on university and other fanfictions and yeah...But to those who left me kudos and comments, I thank you very much; you don't know how much you encourage me. I'm really glad you liked this story. They fill my heart. For the future fanfics, maybe I'll try to write the whole fic, and then I'll make a schedule for when to post it. I have so many things planned ahead, and I'm really excited. I am proud of the length of words in this fic cuz wdym it's so close to 400k??! I dint even think there would be 100k, but again, as I said in a previous note, when I write, I get lost in it like rn im yapping lol. Again, thanks to those who supported me. And enjoy the last chapter of Echoes between us. XOXO.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Till found himself awake long before the others. The base was quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that made his mind wander. Luka was still asleep beside him, breath warm against Till’s shoulder, and for a long time Till just lay there, staring at the ceiling. His body ached from the last mission, but his thoughts weren’t focused on that. They were circling, looping, wandering back through the years.
It was strange to think about how far he’d come—how far they’d come.
Till’s thoughts wandered again, drifting past Luka, past the base, past everything that felt recent. They carried him further back—back to places he didn’t like to linger. Childhood. Or what passed for it.
He barely remembered his mother. Just shapes, warmth, a voice that soothed him in ways no one else had. A hand brushing his hair back when he cried. Then nothing. The memory dissolved into the sterile walls of Anakt Garden, where he had been taken.
They all called him talented there. Whispered it with pride, like a badge pinned to his chest. “He’ll be a singer one day.” He was too young to understand what it meant, only that everyone’s eyes were on him, expecting something. When he cried, they restrained him. When he screamed, they noted it down like a test result. The fear of those years had never quite left him—being strapped in, small body shaking, wishing for someone who wouldn’t come.
But even in that place, he hadn’t been completely alone.
Mizi.
The thought of her cut through the cold like light. She was the first real piece of family he had found, someone who looked at him like he wasn’t just a project, a performer in waiting. For a long time, he thought she would be the one he’d spend his life with. Her laugh, her stubbornness, the way she always tried to keep Sua out of trouble. Sua, who was always there beside her, the two of them inseparable.
And Ivan.
Till’s chest tightened at the memory of him. Ivan, who had lingered close, who had wanted something more than friendship, something Till had never given. Till had chosen to watch Mizi instead, pretending not to notice the quiet yearning in Ivan’s eyes.
They had been a little group—four kids in a garden that wasn’t really a garden. Exploring wherever they were allowed, drawing together when they could sneak paper and pencils, inventing games in the corners when the aliens weren’t watching too closely. Little things, small rebellions against the weight of what was being done to them. For a while, Till had almost been happy.
Almost.
He remembered the time Ivan nearly got him out. He had planned it so carefully, whispered to Till when the guards weren’t looking. For one terrifying, exhilarating night, Till had believed they might really make it. The door had been open, freedom almost close enough to taste. But Till had turned back. Fear, hesitation, a voice in his head saying you’ll never make it out there. He had gone back inside.
Sometimes he still wondered how different his life would be if he hadn’t.
He shook the thought away before it sank too deep. Childhood was a wound he didn’t want to keep reopening. He’d learned a long time ago that thinking about it too much only made the ache worse.
What came next was just as surreal. Being thrown into the Alien Stage. Thrown onto a stage that wasn’t really a stage—it was survival, dressed up with lights and music. He remembered the shock of it, the disbelief that this was really happening. He remembered Round Two most clearly.
He had composed that song himself, his hands trembling as he wrote it, heart heavy with grief that wasn’t only his own. He had sung it for Mizi, for the loss of Sua that had hollowed her out. He had wanted to give her something, anything, to hold onto. Standing there under the lights, his voice shaking but steadying as the music carried him, he had poured all of it into the performance.
It had been for her.
And yet, Till knew… Mizi would never acknowledge him the way he sometimes caught himself thinking about her. The idea of it now felt almost childish, like something he should’ve grown out of long ago. He still remembered how naive he was back then—wanting her eyes on him, wanting to matter in her orbit the way Sua always had. It made him cringe a little now, remembering that boy.
What he remembered more clearly was the punishment. He had been punished a lot as a kid. For being too loud. For crying when they told him to be quiet. For refusing to follow orders exactly as they wanted. Every tear, every crack in his voice, had earned him restraints or something worse. After Round 2, though, the punishment had been the worst yet.
He had sung for Mizi in Round 2—poured everything he had into the song—and for a moment, just a moment, he had thought it was worth it. But the aftermath taught him otherwise. They made him pay for it. And when they finally decided to send him to that club, after Mizi’s disappearance in round 5, his world shifted into something uglier. He remembered the stench of smoke and sweat, the stage that wasn’t a stage but a cage, the hands of aliens waiting for him to open his mouth and sing.
And he hadn’t.
He had refused.
He would take any punishment they threw at him rather than sing for them there. He would take fists, blows, the cold sting of restraints, the emptiness of hunger. Anything. He would rather give up his body than his voice, and they knew it. Luka, later on, had told him it wasn’t okay. Luka had said, again and again, that he shouldn’t have accepted it, that he shouldn’t shrug it off like it was normal. But Till never wanted to feel like a victim. He had made his peace with it then—told himself he wasn’t broken, that he had chosen his silence, chosen his suffering.
The truth was harder to admit: most of it he didn’t even remember anymore. He had locked it away. What stayed with him was Ivan.
Ivan was always there. Always pulling Till back from the brink, saving his ass before he could fall too far. And Till had been too blind to acknowledge it. Too stubborn, too wrapped up in his own storms. He never gave Ivan what he wanted, not even a real thank you.
Round 6 had been the breaking point. He could still feel the way the stage lights had burned into him that night, how every word caught in his throat like glass. He hadn’t been able to sing. Not properly. And all the while, Ivan’s eyes had been on him, steady, unwavering, almost pleading. Till hadn’t looked back once. He hadn’t dared. He thought ignoring it would make it go away.
But the song Ivan sang… the words… they had always been toward him. It was only later he understood, too late, when the pieces fell together in his head like knives instead of answers. He remembered the confusion, the shame, the desperation of that round. He remembered not being able to stand tall, and then—
Ivan kissed him.
The memory hit too sharp. Till’s breath caught, and he shook his head as if he could throw it off. He didn’t want to stay there. Didn’t want to drag himself back through that pit. If he thought too hard about it, he would start to remember the things he had forced himself to forget. He would rather keep Ivan where he belonged—in his mind as his best friend. Not the boy who kissed him onstage, not the boy who had confessed through every lyric, but the friend who had dreamed of something bigger.
Ivan would have loved to be a rebel. That was the thought Till clung to. If Ivan had made it out, if he had lived long enough to escape the grip of Alien Stage, he would have thrived in the chaos of the rebellion. He would have been stubborn and fearless, right there beside them.
Round 7 came after, and with it Luka.
Till didn’t even remember most of it clearly. His mind blurred it on purpose, he thought. He already had his thoughts about Luka from that time, already wrestled with what it had meant, how it had poisoned him and freed him all at once. He didn’t want to go back there again. The point wasn’t the details—the point was what they had endured.
If someone had gone back to tell him, just a little before Round 7, that something would happen between him and Luka, Till would have laughed in their face. Luka had been an idol to him, someone to look up to. Someone untouchable, larger than life, his rival and his standard. The idea of standing beside him as anything more had been unthinkable.
Then Round 7 happened. Then everything cracked open.
He had wanted to hate him. He really, honestly thought he did. He had clung to that hatred like it was the only thing that could keep him steady. Luka was the reason for everything wrong in his life—he convinced himself of that. And then…
Then there was that night on the balcony.
And he was kissing him.
And from there… it had been a spiral. Circling around each other, sometimes like predators, sometimes like something softer neither of them had the courage to admit. Denial. Anger. The nights they screamed at each other. The nights they threw fists until their knuckles split. And then the moments when it all cracked open and there was nothing but heat and closeness and mouths finding each other again.
Kissing until they were breathless. Losing themselves in sex—good sex, the kind that left Till shaking, the kind he had never thought he’d allow himself. Then pretending the next morning that it didn’t mean anything, that feelings weren’t there. That had been the hardest part, the pretending. Accepting it… that had taken them longer than it should have. But in the end, they had.
Till had learned to carry his anger differently. The gym had become his sanctuary. The weight of fists slamming against the bag, the rhythm of his muscles burning—he liked what it turned him into. He was proud of the strength he had built, proud of surviving in a body he had once hated, proud of what he and Luka had carved out together.
The missions… Till didn’t even want to think too hard about them. The fear, the blood, the times they came too close to losing everything. One memory stood out sharper than the rest—Luka getting hurt. The sight of him broken, unmoving, tubes and wires keeping him alive. The endless months of waiting for him to wake up, the surgery that could have gone either way. Till had never prayed before, not really, but he had then. He had begged for Luka to stay.
And Luka had.
Now Luka was here, whole and breathing beside him. All good. All healthy. Till never forgot to be grateful for that. Their relationship had gone through hell and come back out, scarred but stronger. Sometimes Till still couldn’t believe they’d made it this far. Couldn’t believe how many children they had pulled out of the same nightmare they once endured, how many lives they had touched. And they were still going, saving more each week.
Three years. Three years of fighting, surviving, building something out of the ruins. It was insane when he thought about it. Everything they had endured, everything they had lost, everything they had found.
And it wasn’t the end. Not even close.
It was just the beginning.
★
The night was still when Till found Luka. They had just come back from another raid, the kids safely tucked in, the base finally quiet. Luka was leaning against the balcony rail, the same way he always had back at the old base. Some things never changed.
Till stepped out, the cold air biting at his skin. Luka glanced over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“You should be asleep,” Luka murmured.
“So should you.” Till leaned beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The silence stretched between them, comfortable, not like the old days when every quiet moment felt like a battlefield.
Luka’s hand found his, hesitant at first, then firmer. Their fingers laced together. Till didn’t look at him—he didn’t need to. He could feel him there, solid, warm, alive.
“You ever think about it?” Luka asked softly. “How did we even get here?”
Till let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “All the time.”
Luka finally turned, studying him, his expression unreadable in the dark. Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss against Till’s mouth, slow and unhurried. No urgency, no desperation. Just steady, like they had time now. Like they’d earned this.
When they parted, Luka rested his forehead against Till’s. “Whatever comes next… We’ll figure it out. Yeah?”
Till closed his eyes, holding onto him tighter. “Yeah. We will.”
The world outside was still broken, still dangerous, still uncertain. But here—here was something whole. Something worth holding on to.
And for once, Till wasn’t afraid of what tomorrow might bring.
The balcony air was cool, carrying the faint scent of smoke from the city far below. Till leaned on the railing, his eyes following the distant lights, and felt Luka’s presence settle beside him. For a while, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.
It was Luka who broke the silence first, his voice low. “You’re not tired?”
Till shook his head. “Not tonight.”
A quiet hum from Luka. Then the brush of his hand, warm against Till’s. Fingers lacing together like it had become second nature. Till turned, met his gaze, and Luka leaned in without hesitation. Their lips touched again—unhurried, steady, a kiss that didn’t need to prove anything anymore.
They kissed again, softer this time. Luka pulled back just enough to smirk faintly. “Guess we made it this far.”
Till huffed a laugh through his nose. “Guess we did.”
The silence after wasn’t awkward, but heavy with everything unsaid—everything they had survived. And yet, Till realized, for the first time in years, he wasn’t afraid of what would come next. Not of tomorrow. Not of the next mission. Not of the fight that never seemed to end. With Luka by his side, he wasn’t scared.
They sat down together on the cold balcony floor, shoulders pressed, legs stretched out. Luka’s head tipped against Till’s shoulder, his hair brushing his cheek. They stayed like that, trading a few more kisses, quiet words in the spaces between. No declarations, no dramatics. Just the steady knowledge that they were here. That they were still standing.
And as the night stretched around them, it was almost possible to believe that things could get better.
Because they had made it through worse. Because even broken, they had learned to hold each other together.
Because the rebels were growing stronger. Every week, another raid, another child pulled from the grip of Anakt Garden. Every month, more voices join their side. The scars of the past were carved deep, but they were no longer fighting just to survive—they were fighting to live. To give others the chance to live.
Till and Luka had come full circle: from strangers, to rivals, to something neither of them had dared name. Now, they were more than just survivors of Alien Stage. They were proof that there was something beyond it—something worth bleeding for.
And in the quiet of that balcony, with the weight of years behind them and an uncertain horizon ahead, one truth remained unshakable.
They would be fine.
Together, they would endure the nights. Together, they would sing again, fight again, heal again. Together, they would raise a world from the ruins.
This wasn’t an ending.
It was the beginning of whatever came next.
They had lost so much along the way. Ivan, Sua, and friends who never made it out of the stage. Even now, their absence was sharp as glass. But they weren’t gone—not really. They lived in every child the rebels saved, in every voice raised against the aliens. They lived in Jacob’s legacy, in the way Hyuna still stood tall even after bleeding, in the way Mizi kept going when grief could’ve drowned her.
The rebels had become more than just fighters. They were a family built from ashes, carrying forward every memory, every sacrifice. They had broken through Anakt Garden’s gates again and again, carried children out in their arms, and promised them a future. A future that Till and Luka had once thought they’d never see for themselves.
And here they were. Together. Alive.
Till kissed Luka one last time that night, lingering, unhurried, sealing something that had taken years to build. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against Luka’s, breathing the same air, steady and certain.
Whatever came next, they weren’t afraid.
Because this wasn’t an ending.
It was every step they’d taken from the stage to here. Every song, every loss, every fight. It was Jacob’s dream carried forward, the rebels’ defiance burning brighter, the voices of the fallen echoing in every chorus.
It was the beginning of something larger than them both.
Notes:
<3
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