Chapter Text
The first thing Luka notices is the smell.
It isn’t the crisp antiseptic of the alien clinics—sharp and sterile, with that faintly sweet undertone of chemical polish. No, this is heavier, earthier. Alcohol that burns even when he only breathes it in. Smoke, faint but stubborn in the air. Damp cloth and sweat, human in a way the aliens never were.
He blinks, lashes sticking together. His eyes sting under dim light, a lantern swinging gently overhead, its flame sending shadows crawling across the warped wooden ceiling.
This isn’t the stage. It isn’t the white rooms of their handlers. It isn’t anywhere he knows.
His chest seizes before his mind catches up. He jerks upright—or tries to. Pain lashes through his ribs and shoulders, sharp enough to force a gasp back into his throat. The thin blanket clings to his skin with sweat, and suddenly there isn’t enough air. His heart is racing too fast, hammering like it’s trying to punch its way out.
He claws at the sheet, ragged breaths scraping raw down his throat. The room tilts, too small and too loud with his own heartbeat.
I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to—
A sound cuts through the panic. Fabric shifting. A low groan of bedsprings across the room.
Luka jerks his head toward it.
Another cot. Another body. Someone sits up slowly, one hand braced against the frame. Pale face, shadowed eyes, hair plastered flat with sweat. Luka’s stomach twists at the sight.
“Till?” His own voice cracks. It doesn’t sound like his voice at all—hoarse, shredded, like it’s been scraped hollow.
Till blinks at him, startled wide, and then he’s moving. The other boy swings his legs off the cot and crosses the room in an instant. Luka tenses, half-ready to flinch away, but Till doesn’t grab him.
Instead, Till kneels beside him and presses a steady hand against Luka’s back. Not pushing, not restraining—just there. Short, firm pats, rhythmic in a way that makes Luka’s frantic lungs stutter and trip, then fall into shaky imitation of that rhythm.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Luka coughs once, twice, dragging air that still tastes wrong into his chest. His body trembles all over, but the edges of panic dull to something bearable. His heart still flails, but it isn’t leaping out of his throat anymore.
The silence between them grows heavy.
Luka stares at Till. At the scar across his throat—dark, puckered, fresh enough to still look angry.
“You—” Luka rasps, breath catching. “Your voice—”
Till’s lips press together, a firm line. He shakes his head sharply. Don’t.
Luka swallows, throat dry.
Till taps two fingers against his own chest, just above his heart. Then against Luka’s. A single nod. Alive.
It’s a statement, not a question. Not a reassurance. A fact.
Luka lets out something like a laugh, though it hurts. “Yeah.”
He isn’t dead. Not yet.
Now that he can focus, Luka takes in more of the room.
It’s small, cramped. The cots sag in the middle, blankets too thin to keep out the chill. The air smells damp, the lanternlight too dim. The side table holds only a chipped pitcher of water and a stack of cloth wraps. No humming machines. No sterile needles. No beeping monitors to track his stuttering heart.
Not alien care. Not even close.
The rebels must have him.
The thought makes his stomach twist tighter, but before it can form into fear, the door creaks open.
Light from the hallway spills in—too sharp, too bright. Luka squints against it, eyes watering, until the silhouette in the doorway resolves.
Her.
Hyuna.
She looks different, and not. Her hair is pulled back in a messy knot, strands sticking to her face. She’s thinner, sharper, her cheekbones cut with exhaustion. But her eyes—dark, steady, and alive—stop him cold.
“Hyuna…” His voice cracks around her name.
She strides into the room, uneven in her steps. The faint clink of metal on wood follows her. Luka’s eyes flick down and catch the gleam of her prosthetic, the way it bends stiffly as she moves.
Something in his chest sinks.
She doesn’t slow until she’s at his side. Without warning, she presses her hand flat against his chest.
Luka flinches. His body jolts, breath catching, but she doesn’t pull away.
Her fingers splay, warm even through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her eyes close, just for a moment.
“Still beating.”
It’s said with the weight of a verdict.
Luka stares at her. His heart trips under her palm, as though eager to prove it, though the effort leaves him lightheaded. A short laugh tumbles out, fragile but real. “Yeah. Guess so.”
Her hand stays longer than it needs to. Luka doesn’t think much of it. Hyuna has always been touchy—nudges, elbows, tugging at sleeves. He assumes this is no different.
He doesn’t see the way her jaw tightens, or how her thumb shifts minutely, pressing harder, like she’s memorizing the rhythm. Like she’s making sure she’ll remember what it feels like.
For the first time since waking, Luka feels the weight of it—the fact that they’re alive. That he is alive.
“You finally decided to wake up,” Hyuna mutters, withdrawing her hand at last.
Luka swallows, throat dry, words tangled somewhere between sorry and I didn’t think I would. Nothing comes out.
The silence stretches too long. Luka turns instinctively toward Till, who is still crouched beside him. Till’s expression doesn’t change, but his look is grounding, steady.
Breathe.
Luka does. Or tries to.
For the first time, it feels like maybe he can.
The second time Luka wakes, it feels like drowning.
Not because he can’t breathe—not exactly—but because every breath is thick and heavy, his chest dragging against itself like rusted gears. His head aches behind his eyes, sharp pulses of light stabbing whenever he shifts. For a moment, he thinks maybe he’s slipped back into the alien infirmaries, the white rooms where silence hummed louder than any machine.
But when his lashes part, he sees rough wooden beams, low and uneven, with cobwebs dangling in the corners. The lantern has been replaced—burnt low, only a stub of wax left. It smells faintly of oil and wet cloth.
He rolls to his side, every movement a grind of bone on bone. The blanket clings damp to his skin. His mouth tastes of metal and dryness.
And voices seep through the wall.
Muffled, indistinct. He catches them not by volume but by rhythm—the low murmur of a group too tired to argue but too restless to sleep.
He turns his face toward the sound, straining to catch fragments.
“…too weak. You saw—”
“…not the point. He knows things.”
“…dragging a liability…”
“…worth the risk.”
Luka squeezes his eyes shut.
They’re talking about me.
His pulse kicks up again, too fast, too shallow. He presses a hand to his sternum, as though holding it in place might calm the storm beneath. He doesn’t need to hear the whole conversation; he’s heard enough.
They shouldn’t have brought him here.
He’s known it since the moment he woke up.
There’s no guarantee that anyone except Hyuna held malice in their hearts. They probably gossipped about him while he was still asleep, unable to defend himself. Most likely while Hyuna couldn’t hear. They wouldn’t want to find out what would happen to them if she knew..
At least Till hadn’t left his side. Yet. He hasn’t said anything close to unfriendly, but Luka knew what silence could hide.
His breath stutters. He pushes himself upright, dizzy with the effort. His chest aches, but he forces his feet to the ground, trembling as they take his weight.
If he can move—if he can prove he’s not useless—maybe…
The door opens before he can finish the thought.
The voices spill into the room with the bodies that follow. Hyuna first, balancing carefully on her prosthetic, her jaw set like iron. Ivan lounges in behind her, arms crossed. Sua closes the door softly, while Mizi lingers near the wall, half-shadowed, pale eye catching the lantern’s glow.
Till is last, slipping back to his cot across from Luka’s, though his eyes never leave him.
The silence lands like a blow. Luka clutches the blanket around his shoulders, staring at them all. His throat burns.
“Why,” he croaks, voice breaking in two. He swallows, tries again, louder. “Why did you even bring me here?”
Hyuna freezes mid-step. Ivan’s smirk falters.
Luka pushes the words out before he can lose his nerve. “I heard you. Outside. Talking about me. You shouldn’t have—” His chest heaves, words tumbling faster, harsher. “I’m not like you. I can’t run missions, I can’t fight, I can barely breathe without—” He cuts off on a gasp, his heart hammering too fast again.
The silence stretches sharp enough to cut.
Then Till moves.
He rises so suddenly the cot creaks, crossing the distance in three strides. Luka jerks back, but Till doesn’t grab him. Instead, he slams both hands into the mattress beside Luka, glaring down with a ferocity Luka hadn’t seen since before the stage ended.
Till shakes his head hard. Once. Twice. His hand snaps up in a sharp gesture—Stop.
His lips move, though no sound comes. Luka reads the word anyway.
No.
The heat behind it makes Luka flinch.
Hyuna breaks the silence first. Her voice is sharp, angry, but Luka knows the anger isn’t aimed at him. “Don’t you ever say that again.” She steps closer, her hand already lifting before she seems to think better of it. “We didn’t drag you out of there to listen to you tear yourself apart.”
“You should have left me,” Luka whispers.
Her jaw clenches. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Mizi sighs from the wall. “Hyuna.”
Hyuna whirls on her. “What?”
Mizi doesn’t flinch. Her half-blind gaze flicks back to Luka. “He’s not wrong. He can’t do what we do.”
Luka swallows hard, shame rising hot in his chest.
But then Mizi continues, tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “That doesn’t mean he’s useless. You didn’t see what I saw in the control rooms. He knows how they think. How they move. How they manipulate.” Her lip curls faintly. “That’s worth more than another gun on the ground. And he better be worth more than another gun, because he’s not winning in any other department”
Ivan chuckles, though it’s low, half-hearted. “Yeah. Nobody’s asking you to sprint marathons, prince.” His smirk flickers when Luka stiffens, but he doesn’t take it back.
Mizi steps forward then, quiet but steady, and the room falls still. “You were made by them,” she says, voice calm as water. “That means you understand them better than anyone. That’s why you matter.”
The words sink like stones in Luka’s gut.
Made by them.
Not born. Not raised. Manufactured, piece by fragile piece, until he was the perfect spectacle for their stage. A creature bred for aesthetics, not survival. His pale lashes, his too-light eyes, his weak chest—they’d designed him this way. A porcelain doll to shatter for their amusement.
He laughs, bitter and thin. “You don’t understand. I was built for their entertainment. Nothing else. I don’t…” He shakes his head, fighting the tremor in his voice. “I don’t know how to live outside of it. I don’t even know if I want to.”
The silence afterward is heavy enough to suffocate.
Then the mattress dips beside him. Hyuna sits down, uninvited, steady despite the stiffness in her prosthetic. She doesn’t look at his face. Instead, she places her hand flat against his chest, fingers spread over his racing heart.
Luka blinks at her. “Hyuna—”
“Still beating,” she murmurs.
The same words she’d said when he woke.
Her thumb presses lightly, almost absently, against the frantic thrum beneath his ribs. Her voice is low, fierce, threaded with exhaustion. “You don’t have to earn your place here. You just have to live. That’s enough.”
Luka wants to believe her. Wants to let the warmth of her hand anchor him, to imagine that survival could be reason enough.
But the guilt clings tight. He doesn’t answer.
His body makes the choice for him. Exhaustion drags him sideways until his head finds her shoulder. His eyes close, lashes damp. He doesn’t remember leaning, but she doesn’t move away.
Till lowers himself back to the floor by Luka’s bed, cross-legged, arms folded, his gaze sharp on the door as though daring the world to try and reach them.
The others drift back, silent. Ivan mutters something under his breath. Mizi exhales softly. Sua lingers last, her expression unreadable, before she follows the rest out.
The lantern flickers low. The room grows quiet again.
Luka breathes. Shallow, uneven, but alive.
For the first time, he doesn’t feel like he has to fight for air alone.
When Luka wakes again, the lantern has burned down to nothing but a stub of wax, and the air feels cooler, fresher. For the first time, he doesn’t wake choking on panic.
He still aches all over, his chest a constant reminder of its fragility, but his head feels clearer, the shadows less heavy. His body is weak, but it’s his, and that’s enough to start.
Hyuna notices when he shifts upright. She always does. She’s perched in a chair nearby, arms crossed, chin dipped to her chest in a half-doze. But the second Luka pushes the blanket aside, her eyes snap open.
“You think you’re going somewhere?” she asks, voice rough from sleep.
“I should try,” Luka answers. He’s surprised his voice doesn’t shake. “I can’t stay in this bed forever.”
Hyuna eyes him like she’s deciding whether to scold him or help him. “Fine. But you’re not doing it alone.”
Till is already on his feet before Luka can argue. He crosses the room in silence, expression unreadable, but his intent clear: I’ve got you.
Ivan, sprawled on the opposite cot, lifts his head and grins. “This I gotta see. The great comeback tour of Luka the Invalid.”
Luka flushes but doesn’t rise to it. He grips the edge of the cot, knuckles whitening. His legs tremble before he even stands. Hyuna hovers, one hand twitching like she’s ready to grab him if he falls, but she lets him push himself up.
The floor tilts beneath him, or maybe it’s just his vision. His heart flutters uneasily in his chest. He sways—and Till is instantly there, a hand at his elbow, grounding him. Luka grips the support gratefully, refusing to look at Hyuna’s worried frown.
Step one. His breath hitches. Step two. His chest is already aching, each inhale ragged. By step three, sweat beads on his forehead.
Ivan claps mockingly. “Bravo. Truly inspiring. Next you’ll be running laps around camp.”
Hyuna shoots him a look sharp enough to slice stone. Ivan only smirks.
By the time Luka reaches the door, he’s trembling from the effort. His vision swims, but he forces himself onward. Till’s grip tightens just enough to remind him he’s not alone.
The hallway is cooler, air tinged with smoke and damp stone. The infirmary opens into a wider space—a converted mine shaft or cellar, rough-hewn walls lined with crates, lanterns dangling from hooks. The low murmur of voices swells into a buzz as Luka steps out.
Dozens of eyes swing toward him. Rebels hunching over maps, sharpening knives, cleaning weapons. Their conversation stutters, then quiets.
Luka’s skin prickles under the weight of their stares.
Then someone whistles. “Well, look who’s finally awake.”
Two figures step forward. One is tall, broad-shouldered, with calloused hands and a miner’s build—Isaac. His dark eyes are hard, watchful, but there’s the faintest curl of a smile on his lips. The other, shorter and wirier, leans casually against a crate—Dewey, eyes sharp and mouth already twisted in amusement.
“About time,” Dewey drawls. “We were starting to think you liked your beauty sleep too much.” He tips his head with a grin. “Sleeping Beauty, right?”
A ripple of laughter spreads through the room.
Luka freezes, heat rushing to his face. His mouth opens, but no words come out. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to laugh with them or shrink under the weight of it.
Isaac doesn’t laugh. But he steps closer, his tone flat but not unkind. “Two weeks out cold. You earned the name.”
Luka swallows, caught between shame and a strange, reluctant relief. Isaac isn’t mocking him—not exactly. It’s almost matter-of-fact, like he’s acknowledging Luka exists at all.
Dewey, meanwhile, isn’t letting up. “Guess the rebellion has its mascot now. Fragile little glass doll with a crown.”
“Dewey,” Hyuna snaps, stepping forward like she’ll knock his teeth out.
Dewey lifts his hands innocently. “What? I’m just saying, if the aliens went through all that trouble to design him, might as well put him on a poster.”
Ivan snorts from behind Luka. “Finally, someone else saying what we’re all thinking.”
Hyuna whirls on him too. “Shut up.”
Till shifts subtly closer, a steady wall of silent defiance at Luka’s side.
The air thickens with tension until Isaac cuts it clean. “Enough.” His tone is final. He glances back at the group, then at Luka. “If the others vouch for you, that’s good enough for me.”
It isn’t praise. But it isn’t rejection either.
The room gradually drifts back into its rhythm, though Luka can still feel the whispers brushing against him like gnats. Fragile. Alien-made. Weak.
Hyuna stays close, her hand brushing his back briefly, steadying him when his knees wobble. She leans down, her voice low so only he can hear. “Isaac doesn’t open up to just anyone. If he’s calling you something—joking, even—that’s a sign.”
Luka blinks at her, startled. “A sign?”
“That he’s starting to accept you,” Hyuna says simply.
Luka doesn’t know what to say. His chest feels too tight, though this time it’s not only from the effort of standing.
“Sleeping Beauty,” Dewey calls from across the room, clearly unwilling to drop the nickname. “Don’t let the crown slip. Wouldn’t want to ruin the fairy tale.”
This time, Luka manages a reply, soft but steady: “Fairy tales don’t usually end well.”
It earns a laugh from Ivan. Even Dewey smirks.
But when Luka sinks back against Till’s support, his legs trembling, it isn’t the laughter that lingers in his chest.
It’s Hyuna’s words. A sign.
Maybe, just maybe, he isn’t entirely unwanted here.
The ceiling is too white.
That’s Luka’s first thought when he opens his eyes again. He squints against the faint lantern glow bouncing off the rough plaster, and the simple act makes his temples throb. His side protests when he shifts, a line of heat dragging across burned skin.
For a second, panic surges. He remembers fire, smoke, the deafening roar of the bomb. The way his lungs had seized when dust filled the air. He remembers nothing else until now.
His chest heaves in uneven bursts before a sharp sound cuts through—knuckles rapping wood. Luka flinches and twists toward it.
Across the room, another cot sits pushed against the wall. Till occupies it, propped against the pillows, hair mussed and face pale. The bandages wrapping his collarbone and chest glow faintly in the lamplight. He raises a hand, gesturing sharply: Breathe.
Luka swallows, forces air into his lungs in stuttering counts. The panic ebbs enough for him to sink back against his cot. He wipes a clammy hand across his forehead. “Guess you’re still here too.”
Till gives him a look that manages to be both deadpan and reassuring, then scribbles something onto a notepad resting on his lap. He holds it up.
‘You sound disappointed.’
A startled laugh bursts out of Luka, short and bitter. “Not exactly. Just… thought maybe I was dreaming again.”
Till doesn’t write this time. He just crosses the room, slow but steady, and pours water from a chipped pitcher into a tin cup. He holds it out.
Luka hesitates, embarrassed by how shaky his hands are, but takes it anyway. The water is lukewarm and metallic, but it cools the desert in his throat. He lowers the cup and whispers, “Thanks.”
Till waves it off, retreating back to his bed.
The room is quiet, save for the scratch of Till’s pencil when he writes again. Luka lets the silence stretch. He’s not used to it—Alien Stage had been nothing but noise. Cameras, producers barking orders, music thundering. Silence feels heavier somehow.
Finally Till flips his notepad toward him again.
‘Burns bad?’
Luka glances down at the bandages wrapping his ribs. His side aches in a constant pulse, tight and itchy. He shrugs. “They’re there. Feels like someone tried to cook me, but I’ll live.”
Till snorts soundlessly, his shoulders shaking. He points to his own bandaged chest, then back to Luka, then holds up two fingers.
“Matching set?” Luka guesses.
Till gives him a thumbs-up.
The absurdity of it pulls a reluctant smile from Luka. “Guess we’re a pair, then. Collect the whole rebellion, everyone’s got something wrong with them.”
Till’s pencil scratches quickly:
‘Doesn’t make you useless.’
The words dig deeper than Luka expects. He stares at the page, his throat tightening. He forces a scoff. “That’s what you say now. I can barely stand up without seeing stars.”
Till doesn’t cross the room this time. He just meets Luka’s gaze, steady and unyielding, like he’s daring him to argue further.
Luka looks away first.
Hours crawl. The muffled bustle of the rebellion drifts in from outside—footsteps pounding, voices low and urgent, the occasional clatter of equipment. Luka presses his forehead against the cool frame of the cot, wishing he could sink through it. Everyone else is doing something. Fighting, planning, surviving. And he’s lying here, weak and shaking, clutching a side that won’t stop burning.
He mutters without thinking, “Why’d they even drag me here?”
The pencil moves again. Till holds the pad up after a moment.
‘Because you belong here.’
Luka lets out a humorless laugh. “Belong? I’m a wreck. They should’ve left me behind.”
Till stares at him for a long moment, then writes with sharp, deliberate strokes.
‘Shut up.’
Luka blinks. Then, against his will, he laughs—real, wheezing, nearly doubling over despite the pain it sparks in his side. “God, you’re blunt.”
Till smirks without sound.
The quiet stretches again. Luka drifts, half-asleep, until his own voice startles him. “They used to stop my heart, you know.”
The air freezes. He realizes what he’s said too late.
His voice is flat now, empty of weight. “The aliens. They’d shock me until it quit. See how long it’d take to start again. Guess it made for good data. Maybe even good TV, if they ever used it.”
When he risks a glance, Till’s expression is unreadable. His knuckles are white against the pencil.
He scrawls furiously. The notepad slams against Luka’s cot.
‘NOT NORMAL.’
Luka stares at the letters, bold and jagged.
He huffs softly. “Yeah. So they tell me.” He pushes the notepad back weakly. “Doesn’t matter. Got used to it.”
Till looks like he wants to argue harder, but instead he just sits there, shoulders tense, jaw set. His silence is heavier than words.
Later, when the lantern dims to embers, Luka curls on his side, shivering despite the heat of his burns. The cot creaks as Till moves again. A moment later, a hand presses against his arm. Firm.
Steady.
Luka blinks at him, eyes heavy. “What are you doing?”
Till doesn’t write. He just squeezes, once, before pulling his chair closer and sitting beside him.
Luka lets out a shaky breath. “Guess I’m… not waking up alone anymore.”
Till doesn’t respond with words or scribbles. Just stays there, a solid presence in the dark.
For the first time since he opened his eyes in this strange place, he with confidence knew he wasn’t entirely like a burden.
Sleep claims him before he can second-guess it.
The morning smells like smoke and metal.
Luka wakes to the sound of boots pounding against the stone floor and voices pitched sharp with urgency. His side aches as he sits up too fast, burns pulling against the bandages.
Rebels dart around the cavern, tearing down cots, shoving maps and rations into crates. Someone kicks over a lantern and curses as oil splatters. Hyuna’s voice cuts through it all, steady as steel.
“Double check the fuel drums. Don’t leave anything behind.”
Luka blinks, dazed. “What’s happening?”
A young rebel brushing past answers without stopping. “Patrols spotted. We move.”
The words sink in slow. Move. Not just him from one cot to another—everyone. The rebellion itself has to stay one step ahead, never still long enough to be caught.
He finds Hyuna across the cavern, barking orders at three people at once. He tries to catch her eye, but she’s gone before he can. He tells himself not to be hurt—she’s the leader, after all. She doesn’t have time to sit beside him now.
Till is already being helped into the back of a truck by Sua and Isaac. He glances back just long enough to lift a hand in quiet solidarity before the door slams shut. Luka feels the sting of being separated sharper than he expects.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” someone calls.
Luka turns. A rebel he doesn’t know gestures toward the last truck in the line. “That one. Hurry it up.”
Luka grips the edge of the crate for balance as he limps forward, his lungs burning in the cool morning air. He climbs the short ladder into the truck bed, pulling himself up with more effort than he wants anyone to notice.
Inside, three pairs of eyes snap to him.
Mizi. Ivan. Hyunwoo.
Luka freezes halfway onto the bench, the weight of recognition sinking like lead.
Mizi sits with her back straight, arms crossed tight over her chest. The old sparks in her ruined eye catch the weak light, the scar tissue twisting just so. She doesn’t flinch when she looks at him, doesn’t blink, doesn’t give him the mercy of pretending she doesn’t remember.
Hyunwoo is at the far end, broad shoulders hunched, arms crossed. He doesn’t even try to hide his glare. The years don’t soften it. Luka can almost feel the ghost of Hyunwoo’s fists from that fight when they were younger, the way Hyuna had screamed at both of them until her voice cracked.
And Ivan… Luka barely knows him. He sits in the middle, doodling absent lines onto a scrap of paper with a stubby pencil. When Luka climbs in, Ivan glances up once, eyes cool and unreadable, before dropping back to his sketch.
Luka clears his throat. “Great. My fan club.”
No one laughs.
He drops onto the bench opposite Ivan and immediately regrets it. The truck lurches forward, rattling over uneven ground, and the movement jostles every tender inch of him. He clamps his jaw tight to keep from groaning.
For the first few miles, no one speaks. The only sounds are the grinding of gears and the rattle of metal against wood. Dust kicks up behind the tires, seeping through the cracks in the canvas and catching in Luka’s throat.
He coughs, sharp and ragged. It scrapes his lungs like sandpaper.
“Here.”
The voice is flat, not unkind. Mizi holds out a canteen without looking at him.
Luka blinks. “Thanks.”
He drinks greedily, ignoring how his hands tremble around the dented metal. When he tries to hand it back, Mizi has already turned away, staring out the slit in the canvas as though he isn’t there.
Awkward doesn’t begin to cover it.
Half an hour in, Ivan’s voice breaks the silence. It’s softer than Luka expected.
“Do you always breathe like that?”
Luka startles. “What?”
Ivan taps his pencil idly against his knee. “That sound. When you breathe. Like… you’re pulling air through a cracked flute.”
Heat crawls up Luka’s neck. “Congenital heart disease. Asthma. Take your pick.”
Ivan studies him, not unkind, but not pitying either. Just curious, like he’s cataloging him for a sketch. “Sounds painful.”
“Sounds annoying,” Luka mutters, sinking back against the bench.
Hyunwoo snorts. He hasn’t spoken yet, but now his voice cuts sharp. “Annoying’s one word for it. Dead weight’s another.”
Luka stiffens. “Excuse me?”
Hyunwoo doesn’t even look at him. “You think Hyuna’s got time to babysit you while she’s trying to keep all of us alive?”
The words land like fists. Luka’s chest tightens. He wants to lash out, but Mizi’s silent stare from the corner pins him down. He remembers too vividly how he’d twisted her during their round on Alien Stage—words sharp as knives, manipulation masked as strategy. He can’t bring himself to defend himself now, not when both of them know exactly how cruel he can be.
So he says nothing.
The truck jolts violently over a rut, sending everyone lurching. Luka’s balance slips, his shoulder colliding with Mizi’s. Pain sparks through his ribs.
“Watch it,” Hyunwoo snaps.
Something snaps back in Luka, sharp and bitter. “Maybe if the road wasn’t a minefield, I’d have better control of my limbs.”
Hyunwoo leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Always an excuse with you, isn’t it?”
“Funny,” Luka shoots back, “coming from the guy who threw the first punch ten years ago because I bruised his ego.”
Hyunwoo’s jaw flexes. Mizi’s hand twitches toward her knife but doesn’t draw it. The tension thrums like a live wire.
Then Ivan speaks, voice low but cutting through the static.
“We’re all broken,” he says, pencil still moving idly. “Easier if you don’t try to hide it.”
The words hang in the air.
Hyunwoo leans back, muttering under his breath. Mizi’s gaze shifts to the canvas again, unreadable. Luka stares at Ivan, caught off guard.
Ivan doesn’t look up, doesn’t clarify. He just keeps sketching.
The hours drag. Dust coats Luka’s tongue, his lungs burn, and the silence between them stretches taut, filled with too many memories and not enough forgiveness.
When the convoy finally halts, Luka stumbles out of the truck, legs shaky. The sun glares overhead, stabbing at his eyes until they water. He presses a hand to his chest, feeling the stutter of his heart, the rhythm that might give out at any moment.
He glances back at the truck. Mizi is already gone, Hyunwoo striding after her. Only Ivan lingers, stuffing his paper into his pocket. For a heartbeat, Luka thinks Ivan might say something else.
But he only gives Luka a brief, assessing look before walking off without a word.
Luka exhales shakily. Being awake might be worse than the coma.
But at least it’s real
The convoy slowed to a crawl before it stopped altogether. Luka jolted awake in the backseat, his forehead bumping the window. His chest ached from the movement, a dull heat where the burns stretched, and he swallowed against the dryness in his throat. The hum of the engine cut, replaced by voices outside — boots scuffing against gravel, orders called low, the heavy scrape of crates being shifted.
They’d arrived. Another safehouse.
When the truck door slid open, Luka blinked against the sudden stream of light. The warehouse looming beyond looked gutted and tired, its windows boarded from the inside, roof patched with mismatched sheet metal. It smelled faintly of mildew even from the truck bed, damp stone and rust.
Hyuna was already out, directing people with the crisp authority that seemed to spill from her naturally. She didn’t even glance at him — too busy wrangling everyone else into order.
“Luka,” someone called. It was one of Hyuna’s lieutenants, sharp-eyed and harried. “You’re on unpacking duty. With Sua.”
Luka stiffened. He’d expected to be shuffled out of the way like before, left to hover in the shadows while the real work got done. His eyes flicked automatically toward Sua. She was already hefting a canvas bag over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. Her hair caught the afternoon light, halo-like. She looked angelic — and thoroughly unimpressed.
Great.
By the time he climbed down from the truck, Sua was waiting, tapping her foot like she’d already been kept too long. She didn’t say hello. Just pointed to a stack of crates.
“Take the light ones. Don’t make me drag you when you collapse.”
Luka blinked at her. “Wow. That’s… friendly.”
She shot him a look over her shoulder, sharp enough to cut. “You want a welcome party? Wrong rebellion.”
His jaw tightened. He knew he was fragile, knew everyone whispered it behind his back, but having it shoved in his face still stung. He grabbed the nearest box — lighter than he’d like, stuffed with medical gauze and bandages — and followed her inside.
The warehouse was cavernous, shadows layered thick along the ceiling beams. Someone had set up lanterns in the corners, their light yellow and weak. The floors were littered with dust and old nails, and every step echoed too loudly. Rebels moved through the space with practiced efficiency, stacking, shouting, organizing.
Sua led him to a corner and dropped her bag with a dull thud. She moved like she’d done this a thousand times — swift, precise, closed off. Luka set his box down and straightened, wincing at the pull in his ribs.
“Faster,” she said, already halfway back toward the truck.
Something in him snapped. Maybe it was the ache in his chest, or the exhaustion of being treated like a breakable ornament. Maybe it was just her tone.
“You know,” Luka said, picking up another crate, “for someone who looks like she should be singing hymns in a cathedral, you’ve got the bedside manner of a brick.”
Sua froze. Slowly, she turned back, eyes narrowing. Luka braced himself for a cutting remark. Instead — to his shock — she let out a short, startled laugh.
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even mocking. Just sharp and bright, like she hadn’t meant for it to slip out.
“You’re not too bad,” she said, a grin tugging at her lips for half a second before she smoothed it away. “Guess the coma didn’t eat your tongue.”
Heat rose in Luka’s face, though he wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or relief. “Sleeping Beauty has claws,” he muttered, hauling the crate past her.
She giggled again — quieter this time, but real. “Alright, fair enough.”
The tension eased, just slightly, and for the first time since he’d woken in the infirmary, Luka felt like he wasn’t being handled like glass.
They worked side by side, shuttling crates back and forth. Sua moved quickly, efficient but not unkind. She didn’t offer him pitying glances, didn’t hover when he paused to press an ice pack against his temple or catch his breath. She just adjusted — took the heavier load without fanfare, handed him lighter bundles without commentary.
At one point, as they set down a crate of dried rations, Luka muttered, “Place smells like wet dog.”
Sua huffed, wiping her brow with the back of her wrist. “That’s generous. I’d say dead wet dog.”
“Comforting.” Luka’s lips twitched, surprising him.
“Get used to it,” she replied. “Most of these places are worse. Last one had mold climbing the walls like it was trying to escape.”
He snorted softly, the sound foreign in his throat.
They lapsed into quieter work. Luka’s muscles burned faster than he’d admit, chest tightening in warning whenever he pushed too hard. But the rhythm of unpacking — crate, stack, return, repeat — steadied him. And Sua didn’t make a show of compensating. She just filled the gaps, no complaints.
It was… normal.
That realization hit him harder than he expected. He hadn’t had a normal conversation — about smells, or jokes, or anything outside of survival and suffering — in years. Decades, even.
Alien Stage had been all flashing lights and forced performances, every moment steeped in pain or calculation. Even in the infirmary with Till, his words circled trauma and survival. This — trading remarks with Sua about warehouses and dead wet dogs — felt bizarrely new.
And it made something in his chest ache in a way no burn ever could.
Halfway through, Luka tried to grab a larger crate. His arms strained, breath snagging in his lungs, a sharp pain spiking down his ribs. The box wobbled in his grip, threatening to slip.
Before he could drop it, Sua’s hands closed firmly around the other side. She steadied it easily, her expression flat.
“Idiot,” she muttered, but there was no heat in it. She guided the crate down to the floor. “Don’t bother proving anything. You’re here. That’s enough.”
Luka stared at her. No one had said it like that before. Not like a concession. Not like pity. Just fact.
He swallowed, throat tight. “…Thanks.”
Sua only shrugged and went for the next box.
By the time the last crates were stacked, Luka was slumped against the wall, sweat dampening his collar. His head throbbed with the kind of migraine that pulsed behind his eyes, but he forced his gaze up when Sua set a canteen beside him.
“Drink,” she said simply.
He did. Cool water slid down his throat, soothing. When he handed it back, she was smirking faintly.
“You know,” she said, “Sleeping Beauty’s got some teeth after all.”
Luka blinked at her, then let out a small, surprised laugh of his own. He hid it quickly, ducking his head, but his chest felt a little lighter.
For the first time since joining the rebellion, he didn’t feel like an intruder. He felt — tentatively — like he’d made a friend.