The Captain’s Compass

by PixelD0T

Summary:

Han Jisung just wanted off his father's boring merchant ship. He didn't mean to manifest a pirate raid.
Now he's the "accidentally charming" hostage of The Levanter, a legendary ship crewed by chaos incarnate and captained by Lee Minho. Sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and way too good-looking for someone who technically kidnapped him.

There are cannonballs, secret maps, dramatic sword fights, and unfortunately... Feelings.
Jisung is in way over his head. And worse? He kind of likes it here.

Chapter 1: Welcome Aboard

The sea was too calm.

Suspiciously calm. Like it was trying too hard.

Jisung leaned against the rail of The Morning Light, staring out at the endless blue like it had personally offended him. The view hadn't changed in days. Just glassy water and washed-out sky, stretching on forever in what he was pretty sure was some kind of divine punishment for having dreams.

He tugged at his cravat, which someone had tied far too tightly around his neck that morning. It was supposed to make him look "respectable." Mostly, it made him want to throw himself overboard.

Below deck, his father was probably yelling at someone about ledger margins or cinnamon imports. Riveting stuff. Jisung had tried to care about the trade business once, lasted about twenty minutes before he realized all the ships in the world couldn't buy his father a personality.

Salt stung the corners of his eyes. The wind barely moved. His hair clung to his forehead like it, too, had given up.

He squinted at the horizon. Still nothing. Just blue. And more blue. And a smudge that turned out to be a bird. Probably also bored.

"Any day now," he muttered. "Storm. Sea monster. Spontaneous explosion. I'll take literally anything."

Footsteps approached behind him.

"You know," came the familiar voice of the helmsman, "most people enjoy calm seas."

"I'm not most people," Jisung muttered.

"No kidding," the man replied, and kept walking.

Jisung sighed dramatically and pressed his palm to the sun-warmed rail. Somewhere out there were pirates, sea beasts, and romantic peril. And here he was. The heir to a shipping empire, tragically landless and slightly seasick.

He didn't want trade routes. He didn't want barrels of saffron or twelve kinds of rope. He wanted...

"Literally anything else."

The universe, apparently, had been listening.

The first sound was sharp. Like a whip crack, or some sea god deciding to snap his fingers. Jisung opened his eyes just in time to see the crow's nest wobble violently. A shout rang out. Then the fog appeared.

Not "a gentle mist rolls in" kind of fog. No, this was aggressively dramatic, full of swirling cold and mysterious tension, like the sea had decided to audition for a ghost story.

The Morning Light rocked beneath his feet.

More shouting. Sailors scrambled. The fog thickened.

And then, like something out of a fever dream, or a novel he'd definitely read in secret, a ship emerged.

Black sails. No crest. A figurehead shaped like a wolf with a compass clenched in its jaws. It moved without effort, like it had always been there, waiting for the perfect cue.

It was terrifyingly beautiful.

And, clearly, not here for friendly bartering.

"Pirates!" someone shouted. "To arms!"

Everything exploded into chaos.

Cannon fire ripped through the portside rail. Jisung hit the deck, rolled, and immediately regretted not being more athletic. He scrambled upright just as ropes dropped from the phantom ship above.

Figures descended, silent, fast, far too well-coordinated for comfort. No shouting. No bloodthirsty cackling. Just efficiency. That was worse.

And then he landed.

Not with a crash or a roar. With a soft thud, like the ocean itself made room for him. His coat was a deep navy blue, silver thread along the lapels catching the light, his carelessly half-buttoned black shirt tucked tight at the waist. A rapier hung at his side. Hair just tousled enough to suggest "dangerously stylish" rather than "poor grooming."

He didn't look like a pirate.

He looked like someone you'd write terrible poetry about.

Jisung stared.

The man's eyes swept the deck, taking everything in with cool precision, until they locked with Jisung's.

It felt like being pinned by something quiet but sharp. His breath caught. For some reason, it felt like he was the one who'd just been boarded.

The man's lips curved. Not a smirk. Not quite.

Then, hearing a shout across the deck, the man turned and ran towards it.

Jisung was halfway through planning a bold escape, step one: don't die; step two: improvise, when one of his own crew members sprinted past, flailing with a cutlass that looked suspiciously upside down. "Watch it!" Jisung shouted, just in time to trip over a dislodged bucket, stumble backward, and collide headfirst with the ship's beautifully polished, completely unforgiving mast. There was a dull thunk, a burst of stars behind his eyes, and suddenly everything went black

Minho hadn't planned on fog.

In fact, he'd been planning for sunshine. A dramatic silhouette, maybe a little wind to toss his coat like a dashing villain. Instead, the entire ocean had decided to look like someone dumped a vat of ghost soup into it.

He didn't complain.

Fog made things easier. It muffled sound, obscured movement, gave their arrival a theatrical flair they definitely hadn't earned. It was almost insulting how perfect it looked. The crew were probably counting themselves lucky already.

Minho preferred "strategically blessed."

He stood at the bow of The Levanter, arms crossed, watching the shape of the merchant ship slowly form out of the gloom. The sails were too white, the brass too polished. It was the kind of ship that probably served tea at midday and said things like "good heavens!" when cannonballs came through the hull.

The Morning Light. What a pretentious name.

Behind him, the crew waited, rowdy, chaotic, and loud-mouthed on any other day, but now silent and still. That was the thing about Minho's lot: they might brawl in taverns and argue like brothers, but when it came to a raid, they moved like a single, sharpened blade. They knew exactly when to laugh, when to fight, and, most importantly, when to shut up.

He loved them all.

The ship creaked beneath his boots as he shifted his weight. The compass at his belt had been spinning for days, twitchy and unhelpful, like it was trying to lead him in circles. But this morning, it had finally locked. A single direction.

Straight to The Morning Light.

He had a very bad feeling that meant something. Which, of course, meant he was absolutely going to follow it.

The first cannon fired. Minho didn't flinch. He hadn't given the order, but Felix had a sixth sense for "the right moment." The blast ripped clean through the side of the merchant ship, and almost immediately, a panicked voice screamed, "Pirates!"

Minho raised one eyebrow. "Sharp bunch."

Grappling hooks were already flying. The crew of The Morning Light scattered across the deck like polite, well-dressed termites. Still, he waited. Let the crew soften things up, knock over a few barrels, scream in a few faces. Drama was about timing.

When it felt right, Minho grabbed the rope.

He landed lightly on the merchant ship's deck, one hand brushing his coat into place, the other running fingers through his hair, a final gesture of order before stepping into chaos. It bloomed around him already, sailors scrambling, weapons clashing, someone screaming about saving the tea.

And then, as if someone had hit the pause button, a flicker of stillness.

A man stood just off-centre on the deck. Cravat slightly undone. Expression slightly haunted. A little too clean for someone on a ship. He looked like he'd been waiting his whole life for something to interrupt his boredom, and now he was trying very hard to pretend he didn't secretly love it.

Their eyes met.

Minho blinked. The man blinked back.

Well, that's new, Minho thought.

He took a step forward. The well-dressed man didn't move. Just stared like Minho had stepped out of one of his daydreams and into real life, which was slightly flattering and mostly concerning.

Minho gave the tiniest, most self-aware smirk he could manage.

The man's breath caught.

Yep. This is going to be a problem.

And then someone screamed, "He's headed for the captain!" and the moment shattered into a dozen frantic pieces.

Minho sighed. "Right. Work."

Coming back to consciousness was not, as it turned out, a graceful process.

First came the throbbing in the back of his skull. Then the realization that his mouth tasted like splinters and regret. Then.... Oh, right... Ropes. Strong ropes, tied around his chest and pinning his arms behind him completely.

He squinted up at the sky.

"Oh great," he mumbled. "Still alive."

Someone grunted nearby. He rolled his head to see most of The Morning Light's crew slumped beside him in various states of surrender. A few pirates still stalked the deck, inspecting barrels or poking at the rigging like they were judging the merchant ship's interior design choices.

Jisung wiggled enough to roll onto his side and squinted at the figures standing above them.

Specifically, one figure.

The pirate.

Mr. Hair-Gently-Catching-the-Wind himself.

He looked even more annoyingly perfect up close, in that "I command doom and still moisturize" kind of way. Arms crossed. Coat flowing. Eyebrows raised like he hadn't just raided a ship and tied everyone up for fun.

"Ah," Minho said, calmly. "Sleeping Beauty lives."

"Give me a minute," Jisung croaked, trying to sit up and immediately tipping back over. "I think I left my dignity somewhere over there."

Minho crouched in front of him, expression unreadable but clearly amused. "You took a mast to the head. It was very theatrical. Bit early in the raid for a dramatic faint, but points for flair."

Jisung scowled. "I didn't faint. I was ambushed by a boom. It's called sabotage."

"Of course." Minho nodded solemnly. "I'll have the mast interrogated."

Someone snorted behind them. Jisung didn't even look, he knew it was one of his crew, probably that traitor Seojun who always laughed at the worst times.

"Look," Jisung tried, wriggling dramatically in his ropes. "Clearly you're the... Tall, mysterious captain of that floating doom-ship. And I am a very important hostage... Charming, well-bred... Possibly delicate in the head right now... So if you could just untie me, I'm sure we could come to some... Civilized arrangement."

Minho tilted his head. "You think I'm mysterious?"

Jisung blinked. "That's what you got out of that?"

"I also got 'delicate in the head,'" Minho said. "Which I'm starting to believe."

"Fine," Jisung huffed. "Be piratey. But just so you know, I bite."

Minho stood, completely unbothered. "Good. I could use some entertainment."

There was a pause. The kind of pause where even the wind seemed unsure what to do with itself.

Minho blinked once. "What's your name?"

"Han Jisung," he replied immediately. "Heir to the Han Maritime Trading Company. Terrible at accounting, very good at hiding snacks in formalwear."

One of the pirates behind Minho snorted, golden hair shaking as he tried not to laugh. Minho didn't move.

Then, to Jisung's mild surprise, and rising horror, Minho turned to one of his crew and said, "Bring him aboard The Levanter."

"What?" His first mate squawked.

"What?!" Jisung echoed.

Minho gave him a look that was almost amused. "You wanted a conversation. Now you've got one."

"I didn't mean kidnap me!" Jisung said, wriggling furiously. "I meant like a dialogue! A witty back-and-forth! Something over tea!"

But Minho was already walking away.

And Jisung, still tied up and now being hoisted like cargo, shouted after him, "You can't just... Take people because they annoy you!"

Apparently, he could.

Minho stepped lightly onto the deck of The Levanter, the wood beneath his boots as familiar as breath. The fog was finally thinning, sun slicing through in pale streaks. Everything smelled like smoke, salt, and victory.

Except now, it also smelled like a mistake.

A loud, cravat-wearing, still-talking mistake.

Han Jisung.

Minho didn't know what, exactly, had possessed him to bring him aboard. Maybe it was the concussion. Maybe it was the absurd audacity of someone trying to critique him mid-raid. Or maybe it was the way Jisung had looked up at him, not terrified, not furious, but mildly annoyed, like he had been merely inconvenienced by the boarding.

Most people begged. Or cried. Or tried to stab him with a spoon.

Jisung had called him mysterious.

Minho crossed the deck and braced his hands on the railing, letting the sea wind cut across his face. He needed to think. Recentre. Breathe.

Instead, all he could hear was Jisung's voice from earlier, echoing with outrage: "You can't just take people because they annoy you!"

Minho exhaled through his nose. "Apparently, I can."

Was it a bad idea? Yes. Absolutely. It violated at least three of his own rules: no unnecessary cargo. No noble brats. Definitely no sarcastic, vaguely concussed passengers with the ability to attract attention like a flare.

But it wasn't entirely irrational.

Jisung was the son of a merchant captain, not a nobody. He had connections. Trade routes. Maybe access to documents, or at the very least, insight into how the merchant navy was positioning itself these days. The navy always followed trade. And trade followed bloodlines.

Even if he didn't talk, he could be ransomed. There was coin in a name like Han, if offered to the right buyer.

And if he did talk...

Minho didn't need much. A whisper, a map, a warning, anything that could keep them ahead.

But that wasn't why he'd done it.

Minho knew that.

He had too much experience reading people, weighing risks, counting breath between decisions. He'd made this call without thinking, and that was what unsettled him most.

Han Jisung had looked up at him with fire behind his eyes and no fear in his voice, and Minho's instincts, normally so clean, so calculated, had gone still.

Uncomfortable still.

Dangerous still.

He glanced back just in time to see two of his crew half-dragging, half-carrying Jisung aboard. He was still talking.

Of course he was still talking.

Minho rubbed a hand over his face.

This was going to be a long voyage.

And for the first time in a very long time, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing... Or the beginning of something he couldn't control.

The first thing Jisung noticed was that The Levanter felt different.

Not colder, necessarily. Just heavier. Like the air had weight to it. Like the ship knew things.

He stumbled as his boots hit the deck, caught off balance by the tug of the ropes binding his wrists and the not-so-gentle grip of the first mate leading him forward. There was no crowd waiting, just a few figures scattered across the deck, pausing whatever they'd been doing to watch him arrive.

Seven crew members. Eight if you counted the captain.

They didn't speak. Just stared. Assessing. One leaned against the rigging with their arms crossed; another adjusted a belt of grenadoes without looking up. No one raised a weapon. But no one smiled, either.

Jisung straightened, as much as the ropes would allow. His heart beat faster than he wanted it to. He wasn't sure if it was fear. Or adrenaline. Or something else entirely.

Then he saw him.

Captain Minho stood near the helm, quiet and unreadable, one hand resting lightly on the railing. His coat moved in the breeze, silver thread catching the morning light. His eyes were already on Jisung.

There was no smirk. No threat. Just attention.

They looked at each other for one long second.

Jisung swallowed. "So. Do you do this often? Kidnap people and ruin their week?"

Minho stepped down onto the main deck, his movements controlled and unhurried. "Only the loud ones."

Jisung's mouth twitched, unsure if it wanted to smile or grimace. "Lucky me."

The pirate who'd been escorting him paused and looked to Minho for instruction. The captain gave a small nod.

"Brig?" the man asked.

Minho looked at Jisung again, slower this time. "No. He's not a prisoner."

That earned a glance from one of the crew, a taller man in spectacles, confused, maybe, or just curious, but no one questioned it. Not out loud.

"Then what is he?" The youngest of them asked.

Minho turned back toward the helm. "We'll find out."

The crew returned to their tasks without argument, though a few kept looking Jisung's way as if trying to solve a riddle they hadn't been given the answer to.

Within moments the ship was cutting through the water, and Jisung once again was left trying to find his sea legs.

Jisung stayed quiet as they untied his wrists. The ropes left faint marks, and his shoulders ached, but he didn't say anything. Not yet.

Minho didn't look back at him again.

But he didn't need to.

Jisung had the distinct, unsettling feeling that he'd just been moved on a chess board he didn't know he was playing on.

Jisung was still flexing his sore wrists when someone approached him, not silently like the others, but with the light tread of someone who had nothing to hide.

"Need a hand?" the voice asked, warm, low, and distinctly friendly.

Jisung looked up to find the golden-haired pirate standing in front of him, hands on his hips, a soft smile on his face. He had sun-bright eyes and a dusting of freckles across his cheeks. His black sleeves were rolled up, and he smelled faintly of salt and pine tar.

"Or maybe a snack?" he added. "You look like you haven't blinked in fifteen minutes."

"I might be in shock," Jisung replied. "Hard to tell. Everything hurts and no one's offered tea."

The pirate let out a laugh, genuine, bright. "Sounds about right for your first pirate ship."

He held out a hand. "Felix. I'm the boatswain. Rigging, hull, rope stuff. Also sometimes morale. Depends how we're doing that day."

"Han Jisung," he replied, taking the hand with a grateful squeeze. "Accidentally charming hostage. Possibly doing my best not to cry in public."

Felix grinned, eyes crinkling. "Welcome aboard, Jisung. Can you walk okay?"

"ish," Jisung said. "Mostly just trying not to collapse and add more drama to my record."

Felix stepped beside him, steady and close without crowding. "So... Captain decided you're coming with us."

Jisung glanced toward the helm where Minho had disappeared. "Yeah, I noticed. He didn't exactly say why."

"Minho doesn't really do explanations," Felix said gently. "He just... Does."

"And people just go along with that?"

Felix shrugged. "When he's right more often than not, yeah. But if it helps, he's not usually wrong about people."

Jisung squinted. "So you think I'm... What? Useful?"

Felix gave him a look, fond, but firm. "Not my call. But I think you're someone worth not tying up again, which puts you ahead of some others we've had aboard."

Jisung let out a short breath. "That is... Strangely reassuring."

"Hey." Felix bumped his shoulder gently. "You'll figure it out. Everyone starts out weird around here. Just takes time."

Jisung glanced around at the distant crew, watching but not hostile. Curious. Reserved. Then back at Felix, who was all open warmth and steady footing.

"You're being nice," he said slowly.

Felix blinked. "Yeah?"

"I mean, you don't have to be."

"I know."

Jisung looked at him, uncertain. Then nodded once, almost to himself. "Okay. I can work with that."

Felix's grin widened. "Good. Now come on. You need water, and I'm pretty sure you've got rope marks that need salve. You're not going to impress anyone limping around like a dramatic ghost."

"No promises," Jisung muttered, but followed anyway.

The stars weren't out yet, but Chan stood at the bow, checking the sky anyway.

Minho approached quietly, boots soft on the deck, the familiar rhythm of the sea beneath his feet. The wind had shifted slightly, just enough to carry the sound of creaking rigging and the faint echo of laughter from somewhere aft, probably Felix and the newcomer.

Jisung.

Minho stopped beside Chan, folding his arms. He didn't say anything. He knew Chan would get there on his own.

Sure enough, it only took a few seconds.

"So," Chan said, without looking over. "The boy."

Minho didn't answer.

Chan gave him a sideways glance, brow raised. "You've kidnapped people before, but they usually don't get a tour and a snack."

Minho's mouth twitched. "He's not a prisoner."

"No," Chan said, voice level. "You made that clear. To the crew. To him. Just... Not to me."

They stood in silence for a beat. The waves were calm, the sky streaked in pink and gold. It would've been a peaceful moment, if not for the unspoken tension hanging between them.

Chan finally turned to face him fully, arms crossed, eyes sharper than usual beneath the calm. "So why is he here, Min?"

Minho met his gaze. Steady. Unflinching.

He had answers, of course he did. He always had answers.

"He's the son of a merchant captain," Minho said evenly. "Could be useful. Might have trade routes. Access to names. Leverage, if we need it."

Chan raised an eyebrow. "That's one."

Minho didn't blink. "He's smart. Talks too much, but it's useful talk. People listen to him, even when they shouldn't. You don't teach that."

"Two."

"He can be ransomed, if nothing else. Han's a name with coin behind it."

Chan tilted his head slightly. "That's three."

Minho didn't reply.

Chan let the silence hang for a beat, then added, voice low and even, "You gonna keep listing excuses, or are we done pretending you brought him aboard for the practical value?"

Minho's jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Because they both knew the truth was quieter than anything he was willing to say out loud.

Minho let the list settle in the space between them like something practiced. Clean. Reasonable.

It was all true.

Just not the whole truth.

Because when he closed his eyes, Minho didn't see a name or a value or a future advantage. He saw that moment on the merchant ship, Jisung standing still as fire bloomed around them, eyes wild with barely contained excitement.

Not begging.

Not running.

Just watching Minho like he was a problem to be solved.

And for some reason, a reason Minho still couldn't put into words, that had been enough.

A flicker of something had caught behind his ribs and hadn't left since.

He wasn't ready to admit that.

Not to Chan. Not to himself.

Chan sighed through his nose. "You've never brought a stranger in without reason."

"I have one," Minho said.

"Then say it."

Minho looked at him, calm but firm. "Because I wanted to."

Chan's jaw tightened, but only slightly. That was the thing about Chan, he didn't push unless he had to. He understood the difference between questioning a decision and undermining one. That was why Minho trusted him.

Eventually, Chan nodded once. "Alright."

That was it. No lecture. No warning. Just quiet trust wrapped in quiet concern.

But as Minho turned to walk away, Chan called after him.

"He's not just a stray, Min."

Minho paused. "No. He's not."

He kept walking, boots steady, wind at his back.

And somewhere behind him, Jisung laughed, loud and alive.

Chapter 2: Meet the Crew

Jisung was still trying to figure out how a ship could feel different. The Morning Light had sailed smooth and predictable, like a polite conversation. But The Levanter?

It had rhythm.

Every step thudded with a different note. The deck creaked like it had secrets. The rigging above sang in the wind, and the boards beneath his feet didn't just shift, they responded. Like the whole vessel was a living creature, and Jisung was walking on its back.

Predictably, he tripped. Again.

Felix caught his arm with a smoothness that proved this wasn't his first time doing so.

"You really are committed to face-planting your way through life, huh?" he teased, steadying him.

"I'm still not used to being on a ship full-stop," Jisung grumbled, brushing salt dust off his sleeve.

Felix grinned. "Lucky for you, we're going somewhere more stable. Well. Slightly more."

"Where exactly?"

Tour time," Felix said with an easy grin. "Captain's orders. You don't know port from starboard and I'm not fishing your body out of the powder hold."

Jisung squinted. "That's... Oddly specific. Has that happened before?"

"Only twice" Felix answered cheerfully.

Jisung blinked. "...I'm sorry, what?"

"Long story. Come on."

Felix started walking, and Jisung fell into step beside him. The ship creaked underfoot in its usual rhythm, wood and wind singing in low harmony. Seagulls squawked in the distance, and the faint sound of someone swearing in the rigging drifted down from above.

As they rounded the mast, Jisung's gaze caught on something just below Felix's left ear, a sharp outline of ink, half-hidden by golden hair and sunlight.

A compass.

Simple, but striking. Its lines crisp, bold, like it had been drawn there with purpose.

"You've got a tattoo," Jisung said before he could stop himself.

Felix shot him a look over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth curling up. "I've got several. You're gonna have to be more specific."

"This one." Jisung reached out, fingers brushing the air near Felix's neck. "Behind your ear."

"Oh, that." Felix tapped it lightly, like he forgot it was there. "Yeah. That's the compass. We all have one."

"All?"

"Every crew member on The Levanter."

Jisung tilted his head, intrigued. "How come I've only seen yours?"

Felix grinned, clearly pleased by the question. "Well. We don't all have them in the same place. Captain Minho's is over his heart. Left side. Right above the sternum."

"Fitting," Jisung murmured.

"Hyunjin has his on his ribs, just under the right side. Says it makes him feel poetic. Or dangerous. Depends on the mood."

"Of course he does."

"Changbin? Back of his right shoulder blade. Chan's is in the palm of his hand, right one."

Jisung raised his brows. "That must've hurt."

"Oh, he complained the entire day," Felix said fondly. "Still does. Claims it messed up his writing for a week."

Jisung chuckled.

"Seungmin went for the ankle. Inside left. He liked that it was subtle and easily hidden. Just like him. And Jeongin decided to have his on his forearm. Right side. His is a little newer than the rest."

Jisung was quiet for a moment, his mind flicking through images of each of them, suddenly connecting unseen lines, all of them walking around with the same mark, different places, same design. A shared direction.

"Why the compass?" he asked softly.

Felix looked forward again, eyes scanning the deck like he was seeing something no one else could. "Because we don't always know where we're going. Just who we're going with."

Jisung's chest tightened.

There was a pause before he asked, "When do you get it?"

Felix turned to him, that easy smile softening. "When you earn it."

Jisung blinked. "That's... Vague."

"Intentionally."

"So it's not, like, after a certain number of raids or storms or near-death experiences?"

Felix laughed. "If it was, Jeongin would've had three by now."

"Is it the captain who decides?"

Felix nodded. "Minho makes the call. Always has. It's not about skill. It's about... Alignment, I guess. Loyalty. Trust. Some people join a ship. Others become part of it."

Jisung let that sink in, gaze drifting back toward the compass inked behind Felix's ear. A permanent mark. A chosen one.

And he wasn't sure if the chill in his chest was from the sea breeze...

... Or how much he suddenly wanted one of his own.

They made their way below deck, past open doorways full of crates, ropes, and other supplies. The air grew warmer, heavier, tinged with smoke and something earthy, like salt and iron had started a family.

Felix rapped twice on a thick wooden door and shoved it open without waiting.

"Changbin!" he called into the room. "Brought you a new toy!"

The room beyond looked like it had been punched by a forge and kissed by chaos. Cannons were secured in neat rows along the walls, but everything else was wild, maps, gunpowder barrels, crates of rations, a table covered in ammunition and tools Jisung didn’t recognise. The scent of oil and singed wood filled the air.

Changbin glanced up from where he was cleaning a flintlock pistol. His arms were bare, soot-smudged, and covered in tattoos, black ink, faded and sharp, curling like waves and fire up to his shoulders. He had a build like a cannonball that had learned to walk.

He squinted at Jisung. "Is it flammable?"

Jisung blinked. "Am I flammable?"

Felix patted his shoulder. "Not intentionally."

Changbin grunted. "You look flammable."

"Spontaneous combustion would honestly be on-brand for me."

There was a pause. Then Changbin barked out a laugh, loud, sharp, and unexpectedly delighted. It echoed off the cannon barrels like a blast of sound.

"You're an idiot," he said, grinning as he slung an arm briefly around Jisung's shoulders, rough but not unkind. "I like this one".

Jisung blinked, slightly stunned.

Felix gave him a knowing look. "Careful. That's the highest praise you're getting today."

Changbin smirked. "Nah, if he actually blows up, I'll write a sea shanty about him."

"Please don't," Jisung muttered.

"Too late. Rhymes with 'boom' already forming."

Felix gestured between them. "Changbin, this is Jisung. Merchant's son. Freshly kidnapped. Hasn't screamed yet, which puts him ahead of the last guy. I like him too"

Jisung looked up, surprised. Felix had said it so casually, like it was nothing. Like it was obvious. But something warm flickered low in Jisung's chest, a quiet, unexpected kind of comfort.

"Thanks," he said softly.

Felix just grinned again. "Don't thank me until you meet Hyunjin and Seungmin."

Changbin pointed at Jisung with the end of a rag. "You got steady hands?"

Jisung blinked. "Uh... Define 'steady'?"

"Good enough. You're helping me sort powder cartridges tomorrow. If you drop one, we'll be fishing pieces of you out of the ceiling."

Jisung stared. "That... Is a concerning thought."

Changbin grinned. "Last guy was taller than you. We still haven't found his left boot."

Jisung swallowed. "Great. Love that for me."

Felix clapped his hands. "Okay! That's enough emotional scarring for today. Say bye, Bin."

"Don't touch my cannons."

"That wasn't 'bye,' but I'm taking it."

They climbed back up toward the middeck, gulls crying overhead, sails full and snapping like dragon wings. Jisung squinted into the sun, still adjusting to how alive everything felt. Felix moved like he belonged in this world, feet sure on the wood, every sway of the ship accounted for without thought.

Jisung, meanwhile, grabbed the railing like it owed him money.

They stopped by the main mast. Felix leaned casually against a coil of rope, arms crossed.

"So," he said, nodding upward, "before you meet him... Innie's a little... Much."

"Innie?"

"Jeongin. He's Chan's younger brother," Felix explained. "They're not super obvious about it, but yeah. Different dads, same 'please for the love of the sea stop climbing things' energy. He was born on a ship, raised on a ship. I don't think he's stepped on land more than twice back when he was a kid, he’s only just joined us officially a few months ago. Doesn't really get how the world works outside the waves. You'll see."

As if summoned, a voice rang down from above.

"Is that him?!"

Jisung looked up, way up, and saw a figure perched halfway up the rigging, legs swinging, eyes wide. The next thing he knew, he'd launched himself downward, sliding expertly along the ropes and landing with a practiced thud.

He looked to be the same age as Jisung, but he had a more youthful spirit to him, all bright eyes and wind-tangled hair, with a scarf tied around his thigh and more energy than should be legal.

"You're Jisung!" he blurted. "You're from land! You've lived on it!"

"I... Have, yes," Jisung said, unsure if he was in danger.

Jeongin's hands flew to his head. "That's so cool."

"It's... Not really."

"Yes it is!" I.N bounced on his toes. "Did you really have a porcelain bathtub on your ship?"

Jisung blinked. "...Yes?"

Jeongin's eyes lit up like he'd just found treasure.

"I've only ever bathed in barrels and rainwater! What's it like to sleep in a bed that doesn't move?! How do you tell time without the sun and sails? Have you ever had to tie down your furniture before a storm? Or... Do you not get storms?"

Felix leaned in. "Told you."

Jisung stared as Jeongin launched into a barrage of questions about scented soap, sidewalks, and the concept of mail.

Somewhere inside, despite himself, Jisung felt the tiniest laugh slip loose.

They'd barely left the main deck when Jisung spotted another unfamiliar face.

Leaning against a thick mast beam like he was posing for a painting was a man with flowing, wine-red fabric wrapped around his waist on top of a matching half-corset laced tight over an ivory silk shirt, a black coat with intricate embroidery across the cuffs and edges, and across his back were twin rapiers crossed like wings. His long hair fluttered in the breeze like it had been told to, and Jisung could see a tattoo of a thorned rose peeking above his collar. The man's expression... Was not welcoming.

He was watching Jisung like one might study a stain on silk.
Jisung instinctively straightened his posture.

"That's Hyunjin," Felix whispered. "Helmsman. Duellist. Terrible at subtlety, incredible at drama."

"This is him?" Hyunjin asked, voice smooth and cool as fresh ink.

"Yup," Felix said brightly. "Han Jisung. Freshly raided. Still figuring out how to stand up straight when the ship sways."

Hyunjin pushed off the mast with the kind of grace dancers dream of, every movement controlled, deliberate, like he was floating on his own disdain.

"He's still soft around the edges," Hyunjin said, circling once. "Frills, untied boots, doesn't even smell like the sea. "He looks fragile."

"I'm not made of glass," Jisung muttered.

Hyunjin took a slow step forward, boots making no sound on the wood. "You've done absolutely nothing useful since arriving. You're dressed like a merchant's pet clerk who cries when cargo gets wet.. And I'm fairly certain you flinched when the cannon fired earlier."

"I definitely flinched," Jisung admitted. "In my defence, cannonballs are loud, and I'm easily startled."

Hyunjin stared at him. "At least you're honest. That's rare."

Felix coughed back a laugh. Jisung gave him a betrayed look.

Hyunjin tilted his head. "I give him two days before someone throws him overboard for talking too much."

"I'm right here," Jisung said.

Hyunjin leaned in slightly, close enough for Jisung to smell spice, roses and sea air. "That's the problem."

And with that, he turned and glided away, coat flaring, hair shimmering, rapiers shifting across his back like slumbering snakes.

Jisung exhaled sharply.

"...Was that a threat or a compliment?"

"Hard to say," Felix said, clapping him on the back. "That's just Hyunjin. He doesn't trust easy."

"Fantastic. I've been on this ship for an hour and already made a fashionable enemy."

"Don't worry," Felix said cheerfully. "He judged me too when I got here. Then I saved his life, and he decided I was tolerable."

Jisung blinked. "I have to save him?!"

"Or compliment his earrings. It's a gamble."

The next stop was quieter. Literally. Felix led him down a narrow stairwell tucked between bulkheads and knocked on a door that looked more like part of the wall.

Inside was crisp, tidy, and cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Shelves were arranged with surgical precision, filled with vials, cloth, bandages, herbs. A metal basin gleamed beside a table covered in charts.

At the desk, writing in tight, controlled script, sat a young man with sharp features, spectacles, short dark hair, and a stare that said don't waste my time.

He didn't look up when they entered.

"Seungmin," Felix said, knocking once on the doorframe. "Got a guest."

"I noticed." His voice was even, dry. "He breathes too loudly."

Jisung blinked. "I do not."

Now Seungmin looked at him. His eyes were cold, assessing, like he was already diagnosing a weakness. "Merchant, right?"

"Was," Jisung said, standing a little straighter.

Seungmin's gaze didn't change. "And now?"

"Now I'm... Confused. But apparently having a tour."

Seungmin stood, crossing to the table. "Have you ever held a blade? Dressed a wound? Thrown a punch?"

"No. Yes. Badly." Jisung counted off on his fingers.

Felix smiled. "I'm sure he'll be a fast learner."

Seungmin raised an eyebrow. "We'll see."

Jisung shifted under his gaze. "I'm guessing this is the part where you say I'm a risk to the crew."

"No," Seungmin said, calmly sorting a stack of labelled glass vials. "You're not important enough to be a risk. Not yet."

Jisung flinched, just slightly.

Felix winced. "He's not trying to be mean. He just is."

"Thank you, Felix," Seungmin said mildly. "I can insult people on my own."

As they stepped back into the corridor, Jisung rubbed the back of his neck. "So. That went well."

Felix gave him a sympathetic look. "They'll come around."

"Before or after I'm stabbed for breathing too loud?"

"50/50."

The ship was quiet, just for a moment.

The kind of quiet that crept in after noise, after duty, after the latest round of barely organized chaos that was life aboard The Levanter. The sails snapped overhead in slow rhythm, catching the last of the evening light, and the deck creaked under the soft footsteps of a crew settling into their night routines.

Minho stood in shadow, one hand resting against the railing just beneath the upper deck. He didn't speak. He didn't move.

He watched.

Across the main deck, Han Jisung leaned over the edge of the ship, elbows braced against the rail, staring down at the dark waves below like they might blink first.

He looked ridiculous.

Not in the comical sense. Not in the way rookies did when they got tangled in rope or dropped a plate of hardtack. No, Minho had seen more than enough of those. But Jisung looked out of place in a different way. Like a page torn from a book and slipped in the middle of a different story.

His sea-green coat was too fine, the cuffs still crisp even after being grabbed and dragged. His boots were polished, poorly now, but clearly the kind that had once been shined on purpose. His shirt collar and cuffs were ruffled. His hair was a little too neat for someone who had survived a pirate raid.

And yet... He hadn't cried. Hadn't begged. Hadn't tried to barter or threaten or flail.

Minho had seen all kinds.

But not like this.

Jisung had stared back at him with those wide eyes during the raid, not with defiance, not with terror, but with curiosity, Like he was halfway between panic and mentally writing prose.

It had been enough to make Minho pause.

Now, alone with the dark and the sigh of the ocean, Jisung exhaled.

Minho could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands tightened on the railing. He was thinking, hard, probably about escape. Or survival. Or how not to throw up.

Felix had reported back already. Jisung had stumbled through his first round of introductions, made Changbin laugh, intrigued Jeongin, gotten scorched by Hyunjin, and survived Seungmin. All in one piece. Impressive, if not miraculous.

Minho didn't know what to make of that.

He didn't trust new people. Didn't like new people. They brought mess. Baggage. Secrets. Jisung had the wide eyes of a harmless poet and the last name of a man who ran a trading empire. Minho had been ready to ransom him, toss him, or leave him behind.

But now... He was hesitating.

Again.

Jisung shifted, muttered something to himself under his breath, and tilted his head back to look at the stars. The sky was clear tonight. Full of pinprick light and unanswered questions.

"You're still here," Minho said quietly.

He hadn't meant to speak.

Jisung jumped anyway, nearly slipping. "Holy shit!" He whipped around, one hand on the railing like he might throw himself off for safety. "Do you... Do you lurk for fun? Is that your thing?"

Minho stepped forward from the shadows, one slow movement at a time. "This is my ship. I don't lurk. I exist where I want to."

"Right. Pirate logic. Got it." Jisung cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. "You, uh... Scared the hell out of me."

"Good."

They stared at each other for a beat. The wind pulled at the loose curls at Jisung's temples. His cheeks were pink from the cold, or nerves. Minho tilted his head. "Are you planning to jump?"

"What? No." Jisung blinked. "I mean, not yet. Depends how tomorrow goes."

Minho's lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

Jisung narrowed his eyes. "Wait, was that sarcasm? Are you... Capable of that?"

Minho didn't answer.

Instead, he took another step closer. Close enough to see the silver cross still hanging around Jisung's neck, tucked just under the collar. Merchant-born. Raised with rules. Trained for obedience and decorum.

And yet he stood here now, on a pirate ship, cracking jokes with the man who'd raided his father's vessel.

"You've met the others," Minho said.

Jisung nodded. "Yes. Some of them might kill me. Some of them might hug me. I haven't decided which would be more terrifying."

"They're wary."

"I noticed."

Minho folded his arms. "You haven't earned anything yet. No one owes you trust."

Jisung's smile slipped, just a little. "Right. I didn't think they did."

He didn't argue. He didn't demand a place. He just stood there, hands on the rail, looking small in the dark, yet still stubbornly upright.

Minho hated how much that made him feel.

"You're not part of this crew," he said softly. "Not yet. Maybe not ever."

"I know."

"You don't get to belong just because you're clever. Or charming."

Jisung's brow furrowed. "You think I'm charming?"

"That wasn't a compliment."

"You're really bad at pretending it wasn't."

Minho stared at him. Jisung held his gaze, nervous but steady, like he was daring himself not to look away.

And then Minho said, almost to himself, "You should get some sleep."

Jisung blinked. "That's... Surprisingly gentle advice from someone who boarded my ship with a sword."

"You'll need your strength."

"For what?"

Minho stepped back into the dark. "We start repairs at dawn. And you're not just here for decoration."

Before Jisung could answer, Minho was gone.

The wind rose again. The sails snapped once more. And Jisung, alone now, exhaled a slow, shaky breath, uncertain whether he'd just survived something...

...Or been invited into it.

Han Jisung had never been accused of having good timing.

In fact, as he crept barefoot through The Levanter's shadowy lower deck, he was pretty sure this entire idea fell somewhere between desperate cry for help and a practical demonstration of what not to do when kidnapped by pirates.

Still.

He figured he had three things going for him:
1. He hadn't been locked in a cell. That had to mean something, right?
2. He'd seen at least two rowboats hanging off the stern when he'd stumbled past earlier.
3. Nobody was watching him. Probably. Maybe.

It's not that I don't like it here, he told himself as he padded quietly past barrels marked with painted skulls. It's just that I prefer my shipboard experiences to involve less judgment, fewer knives, and zero threats involving being thrown overboard.

A loose floorboard creaked underfoot. Jisung froze.

Nothing.

Good. Fine. Perfect. He moved on, creeping past a crate labelled "SALT" that someone had also scrawled "NOT SUGAR, BIN." on in vermillion ink.

The ship groaned around him, settling. The lanterns swung gently. The air smelled of rope, oil, and night. It might have even been peaceful, if he wasn't panicking.

After what felt like a solid hour of anxiety-based cardio, he reached the aft deck, where the escape boats were suspended on ropes above the dark water.

There it was. Freedom. Probably. Maybe. Assuming he could get the thing lowered. And also row. And also not get caught immediately.

It's fine. I've read books.

He stepped up to the pulley system and immediately realized he had no idea how pulley systems worked.

There were ropes everywhere, some thick, some frayed, all of them seeming suspiciously smug. He tugged one.

The wrong one, it turned out.

The lifeboat above him lurched, then tilted, and dumped three barrels of what looked to be emergency supplies directly onto his shoulder.

Jisung collapsed with a yelp, buried in salted biscuits and one slightly mouldy potato.

"Ow."

He shoved a biscuit off his face and groaned. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked.

No no no...

He scrambled upright, frantically untangling himself from a coiled rope that had attached itself to his ankle like a sea serpent in training.

More footsteps. Voices.

Panic hit like a wave. He lunged for the closest hiding spot, which, unfortunately, was a barrel.

An empty barrel.

Which he promptly tipped over, crawled inside, and got stuck in.

"Okay," he hissed, legs folded awkwardly under him, head barely tucked inside. "This is fine. Totally inconspicuous. Barrels roll around all the time. This is natural."

The footsteps stopped.

"Why," a deep voice said, too familiar, too amused, "is the hostage in my biscuit barrel?"

Jisung closed his eyes.

Felix.

The barrel rocked as a hand tapped the side. "You okay in there, barrel boy?"

"Define okay."

"You're not dead."

"Then sure. Great. Living my best barrel-based life."

Felix sighed. "Do I even want to know?"

"I was exploring."

"Exploring the concept of shame?"

Jisung groaned. "Help me out before I lose circulation in my legs."

By the time they got him upright, his hair was full of biscuit crumbs and his pride was absolutely dead.

Felix leaned against the railing, arms crossed, grinning.

"You know," he said, "if you'd asked nicely, I would've shown you how to work the boat rig."

"I wasn't escaping," Jisung lied.

"Oh? Then what were you doing?"

Jisung considered his options. "... Exploring alternative housing options?"

Felix raised an eyebrow. "In a barrel?"

Jisung shrugged, deadpan. "Rent's cheap. Great ventilation."

Felix barked a laugh. "Terrible neighbours, though. I think a crab lives in that one."

Jisung sighed. "Honestly? That explains a lot."

Felix patted his shoulder. "You're adjusting beautifully, Barrel Boy."

Felix studied him for a second, grin fading just a little.

"Come on," he said, tapping Jisung's arm with the back of his hand. "Let's get you to bed, yeah?"

There was no sarcasm in his voice. Just a quiet understanding, like he knew the difference between someone who was making jokes, and someone who was making them to keep from unraveling.

Jisung hesitated. Then nodded.

"Yeah. Okay."

He followed without protest, feet heavy, pride dented, and the imprint of barrel rings still faintly marked on his skin.

But even as the lantern light swayed above and the hum of the crew quieted around them, Jisung's thoughts didn't slow. He didn't know when or how, but he wasn't giving up. Not yet.

There had to be a better way off this ship.
And next time, he'd bring better boots. Or rope. Or dignity.

He hadn't figured out how to be a pirate. But he'd already mastered the art of plotting quietly.

Chapter 3: A Pirate Internship

Jisung woke to the sound of bells and something wet being sloshed nearby. His first thought was that he was already drowning.

His second was that if pirates made a sport out of psychological warfare, The Levanter was undefeated.

"Up, Barrel Boy," Felix called from above, his voice far too cheerful for someone who had presumably also slept on a questionably secure hammock.

Jisung groaned and rolled out of his hammock, landing on the floor with a thud that rattled the bucket of clean water beside his bed. His arms protested. His legs whined. His dignity... Was still missing in action.

The sun was brutal. The air already thick with heat and the scent of the sea. Jisung squinted against it, clutching a bruised apple that Felix had shoved into his hand.

"You're being rotated," Felix explained as they walked across the deck. "Think of it as... Pirate orientation. Everyone gets a turn with the newbie."

"Does this involve hazing?" Jisung muttered.

"Only if you complain too much."

"I'm already hazed by existence."

Felix laughed. "Good. You'll fit right in."

The munitions hold smelled like fire waiting to happen.

"Don't touch anything without asking," Changbin barked as Jisung entered. "Especially not that." He pointed at a barrel marked with three big red Xs.

"Understood."

"Also not that."

"Okay."

"Or that."

"Why am I here again?"

"Because you have two working arms and I need assistance," Changbin grunted, handing him a bag of black powder. "Sort shot sizes into the crates. If you sneeze, sneeze upwind."

By midmorning, Jisung had sweat through his shirt, cut his finger on a splintered crate, and briefly hallucinated a rat with an eyepatch.

He dropped a cannonball on his foot. Swore loudly.

Changbin barked a laugh from the far side of the hold. "You'll live, sweetheart."

When Jisung finally stumbled out into the sunlight, he caught a glimpse of Minho near the mast, talking with Chan and Hyunjin. The captain's eyes flicked toward him briefly, expression unreadable, and then away again.

Jisung pretended he hadn't noticed. But the prickle on the back of his neck lingered.

"Sit," Hyunjin ordered, snapping a square of sailcloth between two gloved hands. He was already dressed like a dramatic thunderstorm, corset perfectly laced, hair gleaming in the sun like expensive ink.

Jisung sat.

"You'll repair the tear. Follow my stitch pattern. No, not like that." Hyunjin caught his hand mid-motion. "You're stabbing the fabric and insulting it."

"I'm trying—"

"Sew better. Your tension's uneven."

"Teach better."

"Clearly you need a miracle-worker to teach you. This isn't just stitching. This is art. And you're desecrating it"

He worked in silence for a few minutes, sweat running down his back, trying to remember every half-useful sewing skill he'd ever learned watching his childhood governess fix his torn cuffs. Hyunjin circled like a judgmental swan, correcting him with the flick of a finger or a muttered insult delivered like poetry.

At one point, Jisung glanced up.

Minho was leaning against the rail above, partially hidden behind rigging, watching the deck. Not speaking. Not moving.

Their eyes met for the briefest second.

Then Minho looked away, disappearing below deck without a word.

Jisung stabbed the sailcloth again. On purpose, this time.

By mid-morning, he was back with Changbin. "Welcome to hell," he said, tossing him a knife. "You're in charge of gutting the ones that smell less bad. If it twitches, kill it again."

Jisung stared down at the heap of unfortunate marine life with mounting dread.

"I expected there'd be deck swabbing and brass polishing," he muttered. "Not... Mackerel dissection."

"You want a uniform, too?" Changbin snorted. "You want matching boots and a title?"

Jisung cut the head off something vaguely eel-like. It twitched.

He screamed.

Changbin howled with laughter.

Early afternoon, Jisung was walking across the deck trying not to think about how much he smelled of fish guts.
"I saw you in the barrel last night!" Jeongin beamed, swinging down from the rigging. "That was awesome."

"Thanks. That's not the word I'd use."

"You wanna learn to climb?!" Jeongin shouted down, already halfway up the rigging like a gleeful spider.

No. "Sure!"

The next half hour was a blur of ropes, bruised knuckles, and Jeongin cackling cheerfully as Jisung failed to ascend anything higher than six feet without screaming.

At one point he climbed four feet, froze, and had to be talked down by Jeongin who offered him a small feather "for bravery."

Jisung accepted it with all the grace of a man who'd met his match in gravity.

After his trial by vertigo, Seungmin gave him a list and pointed at a wall of tiny, labelled drawers.

"Find everything marked with a red sticker," he said. "If you misread one and hand me a sedative instead of a stimulant, I'm putting you on rat-chasing duty."

"Do the rats need stimulants?"

"Hurry up." Seungmin answered, clearly unimpressed at his wise-cracking.

Jisung worked in tense silence, aware that Seungmin was watching like a hawk in a surgical apron. At one point, he dropped a vial. It didn't shatter, but the noise echoed in the otherwise silent room.

"Try not to die in here," Seungmin said mildly. "I only clean up blood on weekends."

By sunset, Jisung had salt in his mouth, blisters on both hands, and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that made his eyelids heavy even standing up.

Chan met him near the helm, a quiet, steady presence in the chaos.

"You made it through the day," Chan said. "Not bad."

"I dropped a cannonball, insulted a sail, got attacked by seafood, and nearly cried on a rope," Jisung muttered. "But sure. Let's call that not bad."

Chan chuckled. "You didn't quit. That matters more than perfection."

Jisung blinked. The words landed like a language he didn't speak.

Not perfection?

His mind stuttered. Somewhere, beneath the noise of the ship, he heard the echo of a ruler snapping against skin, his tutor's favourite correction for even the smallest mistake. Miss a number in an account ledger? Crack. Mispronounce a noble client's name? Crack. His knuckles had bruises on top of bruises before his handwriting ever improved.

Perfection hadn't been praised. It had been required.

His father, all stiff collars and clipped tones, had made it clear from the start: Jisung wasn't just a son, he was a successor. The heir to the family's merchant legacy. He was expected to absorb strategy like breath, speak with precision, and never show weakness. Mistakes weren't learning opportunities; they were liabilities. Anything less than excellence was a failure. And his dream of becoming a poet? Completely out of the question.

So he'd trained himself to flinch inwardly, to tighten up when he fell short. He was always waiting, for correction, for disappointment, for the sharp glance that said not good enough.

But now Chan was looking at him with something else. Something steady. Like it was okay that he'd flailed his way through the rigging, nearly drowned in a net, and screamed at a crab.

He hadn't been perfect. He hadn't even been competent. But he'd kept going.

And apparently... That was enough.

He wasn't sure what to do with that. But the knot in his chest loosened, just a little.

He glanced past Chan's shoulder, and saw Minho again.

Leaning on the edge of the quarterdeck, arms folded, expression unreadable, eyes fixed straight on him.

This time, Minho didn't look away.

Jisung swallowed. Straightened up.

And waved.

Minho blinked once, then turned and walked away.

That night, sore and aching and somehow more real than he'd ever felt on land, Jisung lay in his hammock staring at the beams above.

He hadn't escaped.
He hadn't impressed anyone.
But he was still breathing. Still standing. Still here.

And for now, that was enough to survive until he found a better way out.

Jisung had stopped counting days.

He knew it had been at least three since his first full round of ship duties, but time seemed to move differently aboard The Levanter. Everything blurred together into salt-stung mornings and aching muscles, wind-burned cheeks and rope-burned hands. Each day bled into the next, carried by creaking decks, shouted orders, and the occasional creative insult hurled across the rigging.

His palms were heavily blistered now. His boots were scuffed. His shirt, once a fine, crisp merchant-tailored thing, was stained beyond saving.

He still didn't belong. Not really.

But no one had told him to leave.

Of course, no one would.

He was here on Minho's orders, and that made him untouchable in a way that felt more like a blade than a shield.

And that...
That was dangerous.

The second day, he had helped Jeongin with the lookout rotation. Which really meant Jisung sat on the mast platform, clinging for dear life, while Jeongin chattered enthusiastically about cloud shapes and how cool exploding barrels were. At one point, Jisung made the mistake of glancing down.

"You okay?" Jeongin asked.

"I'm mentally composing my will," Jisung croaked.

"Cool! Want to leave me your jacket?"

On the third day, Seungmin tasked him with reorganizing the medical inventory. Again.

"You still trust me with this?" Jisung asked, eyeing the wall of vials nervously.

"No," Seungmin said flatly. "But I'm interested to see how long it takes before you crack."

Changbin made him polish cannon brackets while being peppered with unsolicited life advice. "Never let a shark smell fear, or Hyunjin smell weakness."

Hyunjin ignored him completely, which was somehow worse than his usual biting sarcasm.

Felix kept finding him with perfectly timed cups of water and the occasional "You haven't died yet. Progress!"

And every night...

Jisung collapsed into his hammock with all the grace of a dropped sack of oranges. His muscles ached in places he hadn't known existed. He fell asleep mid-thought, mid-sentence, mid-what even is my life anymore.

But what haunted him wasn't the exhaustion. It was Minho.

Because Minho watched him. Every day.

From the helm. From the quarterdeck. From the shadows just beyond the lanternlight when Jisung was scrubbing deck planks at dusk. The captain's eyes followed him, not always, but often enough that Jisung noticed.

And yet... He didn't say a word.

Not one.

Not since the night on the deck, when he'd startled Jisung into the rail and told him, with infuriating calm, to get some sleep.

Since then, nothing.

At first, Jisung ignored it.

Then he rationalized it. He's busy. He's a captain. He's got maps and weapons and weather patterns to glare at.

But by the third day, it started to gnaw at him.

Why had Minho taken him at all?

He wasn't a threat. He wasn't useful. He couldn't shoot or sail or fight. He'd barely kept the dried fish from moulding. Was this all some kind of twisted pirate punishment? Slow, manual humiliation?

He'd rather Minho yell at him. Or scold him. Something.

But no. Just... Silence. And watching.

Jisung caught him doing it again that evening.

He was scrubbing a section of deck near the forecastle, sweat dripping down his nose, arms trembling from the effort, when he looked up... And there Minho was. Leaning on the rail above, one gloved hand resting on the wood, eyes unreadable in the amber dusk.

They locked eyes.

Minho didn't look away.

Jisung bristled.

"What‽" he shouted up. "Do I have seaweed on my face, or are you just silently judging me to death‽"

A few nearby crewmembers paused.

Minho said nothing.

Then, slowly, walked away.

Jisung threw his brush down. "Unbelievable."

Felix, passing by with a coil of rope, smirked. "Should I start taking bets?"

"On what?" Jisung grumbled, glaring after Minho's retreating silhouette.

"When one of you finally snaps and kisses the other."

Jisung choked. "I... What?! That is not... He's... No!"

Felix shrugged. "Cool. I'll put you down for 'denial.'"

That night, Jisung lay in his hammock, arms aching, heart pounding for reasons he didn't want to name. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the ship's slow exhale as it rocked beneath him.

Minho hadn't spoken.

Jisung rolled onto his side with a huff, scowling into the dark.

Who does that? Who kidnaps someone and then acts like they don't exist? One moment he was being manhandled onto a ship at the command of a stranger with sharp eyes and a sharper mouth, and the next, radio silence. No instructions, no explanations, just this cold, infuriating indifference.

It made his blood boil.

Minho didn't yell, didn't threaten, he didn't need to. He just looked through Jisung like he was furniture. And somehow, that stung more than any shouted insult.

Jisung had been raised to fill rooms, to be noticed, useful, brilliant, perfect. And here was this pirate or sailor or whatever-the-hell he was, tossing Jisung's entire life into chaos and then dismissing him like a smudge on the railing.

He hated him for it.

And maybe, just maybe, he hated how part of him still wanted Minho to see him. To acknowledge him. To explain why.

With a sharp breath, he sat up in the hammock, the motion swaying him slightly. His fingers slipped into the deep inner pocket of his coat, the one that had, miraculously, survived the chaos of the abduction, and drew out a small journal bound in shark leather, the cover scuffed but intact. A scrap of home. Of who he was before.

He balanced a tiny ink pot on the edge of a crate beside him, uncapped it with practiced care, and pulled out a slender quill. Blunt at the tip, worn from use but still serviceable. Lantern light pooled around him, flickering gold across the page as the ship groaned quietly beneath him.

He wrote.

I begged the stars to change my fate,
You answered, and I learned too late.
You call this freedom, but it's a lie,
A different cage beneath the sky.

The ink bled slightly, the motion of the ship lending his lines a subtle tilt.

He scowled and scratched out the last line. Too raw. Too honest.

He tried again.

You dragged me from the burning flame,
Then left me choking just the same.
The air is thick, the sky unclean,
No fire left, just smoke unseen

He paused, hand hovering above the page, chest tight.

This wasn't for anyone else. Not the crew. Not the family who'd wanted him perfect. Not even Minho.

But still, he hoped, in a way that made his throat ache, that someone, someday, might read it and understand.

He capped the ink, tucked the journal away, and lay back down.

Minho wasn't avoiding him.

Not exactly.

He was observing.

There was a difference.

For three days, Han Jisung had moved across The Levanter like something unfinished, tattered around the edges, dripping with discomfort, clearly misplaced. He flinched when sails snapped overhead, cursed at barrels that didn't move fast enough, and tripped over every second coil of rope.

And yet.

He still showed up. Every day.

He worked until his fingers blistered, listened when Jeongin chattered nonsense at him from the crow's nest, bit his tongue when Hyunjin insulted his stitching, which, to be fair, was atrocious, and somehow made Changbin laugh in the middle of a ration count.

He looked out of place. But not useless.

Minho watched from a distance. Quietly. Deliberately.

He had no reason to interfere. Jisung wasn't a threat. He wasn't trying to escape again. He was awkward, but not fragile. Loud, but not stupid. There was nothing in him that screamed "navy spy" or "merchant mole." If anything, he screamed more often about fish guts.

Still, Minho watched.

He told himself it was strategic.

Better to monitor him. He didn't make decisions for no reason, not as captain.

But if he was being honest, Minho still wasn't sure why he'd brought Jisung aboard.

That night during the raid, he hadn't planned to take anyone. Especially not the merchant captain's son, sitting uselessly on deck in silks and lace, clutching nothing but his pride.

He'd told Chan it was because he wanted to.

That was true, in the simplest sense. He'd made the call. No one questioned it.

But he didn't know why he'd made it. Not really.

There had been something in Jisung's eyes, something too steady, too alive for someone caught mid-chaos. Not defiance. Not fear. Just... Presence.

And maybe that had been enough.

Or maybe Minho was still lying to himself.

Minho had made a career out of quiet.

He commanded a ship full of chaos and noise, shouting and laughter and Hyunjin's dramatic sighs, but he was quiet. Still. That was how he led. He didn't have to raise his voice to be obeyed. He didn't need to threaten to be feared.

And yet, this boy, this barely-trained merchant's son with storm-wrecked eyes and a tailored sea-green coat, had shouted up at him like he wanted something back.

"What‽" Do I have seaweed on my face, or are you just silently judging me to death‽"

Minho hadn't answered. Just turned and walked away.

If he'd stayed, he might have said something reckless.

He'd thought Jisung would crack.

They always did, the ones from silk and ledgers. They crumbled under labour or loneliness. Broke apart slowly, quietly, until they asked to be ransomed or begged to be left behind at the next port.

But Jisung didn't ask.

He cursed under his breath. He muttered to himself. He called the mast names that no mast deserved.

But he kept showing up.

Every day, for the last three weeks.

And worse, he was starting to laugh.

He laughed at Jeongin's ridiculous stories, laughed when he dropped a bucket of water on his own foot, laughed when Changbin threw a fish at him and called it training.

It wasn't just survival anymore.

It was something else.

Minho didn't like that.

He wasn't supposed to be watching. Wasn't supposed to care about whether Jisung was thriving or just merely surviving.

But he did.

He watched the way Jisung slumped at the end of each day, bones tired but eyes still sparkling. He watched him start to lean into conversations, banter with Felix, push back when Hyunjin got too sharp. He saw him share stories with Jeongin, and give up the dry spot on the deck without thinking.

Minho didn't say a word.

He wanted to.

He didn't know what he would say.

So instead, he watched from the shadows, behind the sails, from the helm.

The crew had started calling him "Barrel Boy."

Jisung groaned every time someone said it.

Minho caught himself smiling the first time he heard it. That unsettled him more than anything.

By the fourth week, Minho found himself stood outside the crew quarters one night for longer than necessary, listening to the soft creak of hammocks and the low murmur of Felix talking in his sleep.

He didn't go in.

But he looked at the shape curled in the corner, Jisung's limbs dangling over the edge, boots half-off, hair mussed and cheek pressed to his sleeve.

And thought:

He shouldn't belong here.

So why does he look like he's trying to?

The day had been long.

Not in the "what a productive afternoon" kind of way. No, this was the kind of long that lived in Jisung's spine, burned behind his eyes, and threatened to drag him down face-first into a coil of rope before dinner.

He'd hauled crates, cleaned half the galley floor with Jeongin while being told the full, unabridged life cycle of sea barnacles, and then, as a final treat, gotten insulted twice by Hyunjin and elbowed in the ribs by a swinging sail he swore someone had unknotted just to mess with him.

But that wasn't what pushed him over the edge.

What pushed him over the edge was Minho.

Minho, leaning on the rail. Minho, watching from the helm. Minho, present in every moment but never in it. Never saying anything. Never looking away.

Jisung could feel the weight of it, like a hand always hovering just above his skin, never touching, never gone.

And tonight? Tonight, Jisung had had enough.

He waited until the deck quieted. Until most of the crew had disappeared into their bunks or the lower deck. Stars stretched high overhead, sharp and cold against the ink of the sky, and the sails whispered like conspirators.

Jisung moved quietly.

Not because he was trying to be stealthy, but because rage made him precise.

He climbed the short stairway to the quarterdeck. He reached the captain's door. He hesitated once, hand hovering over the brass handle.

Then he opened it.

Didn't knock.

Didn't announce himself.

Just walked into the captain's quarters like he had every right.

And found Lee Minho at his desk, lit by a single oil lamp, reading over what looked like a map drawn entirely in ink and grudges.

Minho didn't look up. "You're brave."

Jisung folded his arms. "I'm tired."

"Then sleep."

"No."

Now Minho looked at him.

Slowly. Calmly. Like a storm realizing it had just been challenged by a candle.

They stared at each other across the room.

Jisung's voice shook, not from fear, but from restraint.

"You've been watching me. Every day. For an entire moon cycle now"

Minho said nothing.

"I don't want a speech," Jisung snapped. "But I want something. A sentence. A word. Anything. Because I'm out there sweating and bleeding and pretending I know what I'm doing, and you just... Look. Like you're waiting for me to snap."

"Because I am," Minho said.

Jisung faltered. "What?"

Minho stood, slowly. "I'm waiting. To see what you do. When you stop pretending."

"I'm not—"

"You're not a pirate," Minho said, stepping closer. "You're not crew. You don't belong here."

The words landed like stones. Hard. Unrelenting.

Jisung swallowed. "Then why did you take me?"

Silence.

Minho's gaze didn't waver. But something in his posture shifted. Barely.

"Because," he said finally, voice lower, "you looked at me like you weren't afraid."

Jisung blinked.

"That night, on the deck," Minho went on. "When I boarded your ship. Everyone else ran. You looked. You didn't scream. You didn't beg."

"I didn't have time to be scared."

"No. You were scared. I saw it. But you didn't run."
He paused, like the words tasted strange in his mouth.
"I don't know if that was brave or stupid. Maybe both."

Jisung exhaled. "So this is a test."

Minho didn't confirm. Didn't deny.

Jisung stepped forward, closing the space between them.

"I'm not your project. Or your prisoner. And I'm definitely not your amusement."

"No," Minho said quietly. "You're not."

Another beat of silence.

Jisung clenched his jaw. "Then why the hell won't you talk to me?"

Minho's expression flickered, so fast Jisung almost missed it.

Because the truth was right there. Behind the eyes. In the line of his shoulders. He was intrigued by Jisung.

But he wouldn't say it.

Not yet.

So instead, Minho said, "Because talking to you feels like handing you a knife."

"And what," Jisung's voice was tight. "You think I'll use it?"

Minho took one step closer. Close enough that Jisung could smell salt and leather and that soft, unplaceable scent that clung to him like smoke.

"No," Minho said. "I think you won't."

And that's worse.

But he didn't say the last part.

And Jisung didn't ask.

Instead, he backed away. Slow. Measured.

"Thanks for the honesty," he said, voice flat. "Really cleared things up."

He turned, walked out before his hands could shake, and shut the door behind him with more force than necessary.

Chapter 4: The Rivals

Notes:

I will do my best juggling 16 people, but I apologise in advance if your bias doesn’t get much “screen time” ❤️

The deck was calm today.

A strange word, maybe, for a pirate ship, but it was the only one that fit. The wind was light, the sails full, the sky open and blue above The Levanter as she cut through the morning sea like she belonged to it.

Jisung stood near the bow, hands braced against the railing, breathing in salt and silence.

No one was yelling. No ropes were tangling. He hadn't been called to haul anything or clean anything or sort anything. Yet.

For once, he was just... There.

And it felt good.

The wind tugged at his hair and the salt caught in his lungs. The sea stretched out in all directions, endless, glittering, alive. He traced the line where water met sky and murmured words to himself, tender-blue, soft-spoken distance, a horizon that hums, a half-formed verse already piecing itself together.

And behind him, somewhere, was Minho.

Jisung didn't have to turn to know it. He felt it like a change in air pressure, like heat against his back. That same slow, infuriating presence that had lingered at the edge of every moment since the raid.

Jisung closed his eyes.

Don't look at him.

He lasted exactly six seconds.

When he turned, it was casual. Or it would've been, if he wasn't already watching.

Minho stood near the helm, one hand on the wheel, talking quietly with Chan. The sun hit his profile just so, catching the silver edge of his earring, the faint gleam of his rapier hilt, the curve of his jaw. His coat moved in the breeze like it had a mind of its own.

He didn't look over.

Of course not. Minho never looked when Jisung wanted him to.

But that didn't stop the pull.

Jisung hated that. Hated how it had snuck up on him, the tension that wasn't just anger, the fascination that wasn't just curiosity. Minho annoyed the hell out of him. He was unreadable and controlling and quiet in a way that made Jisung want to throw something just to get a reaction.

And yet.

God, you're insufferable, Jisung thought.
And I can't stop looking at you.

Minho said something to Chan, then walked away, descending the stairs toward the main deck without glancing up.

Jisung looked away quickly.

Not fast enough.

Their shoulders brushed as Minho passed him.

No words.

Just that brief contact, the edge of a coat, the warmth of a shoulder, and then gone.

Jisung let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Careful," Felix said from somewhere behind him. "You're gonna pull a neck muscle if you keep pretending not to stare."

Jisung nearly jumped out of his skin. "Were you... Have you been there this whole time?"

Felix leaned lazily on a coil of rope, eating an apple. "Since before you started dramatically gazing out to sea like the tragic poet you are."

"I was not—"

"You were."

Jisung turned back toward the horizon, cheeks warm. "He's just annoying."

Felix shrugged. "He's the captain."

"That's not mutually exclusive."

"True."

They stood in silence for a beat.

Then Jisung muttered, "He walks around like the ship belongs to him."

Felix snorted. "It does."

"That's not the point."

Jeongin's shout cut through the salty morning air like a knife.
"Ship on the horizon! Red sails!"

Jisung jolted, adrenaline flooding his system instantly sending him stumbling backwards into a crate. Around him, the crew scattered into action, the calm deck of The Levanter erupting into organized chaos. Bang Chan was already at the helm, barking orders as the wind picked up.

"Battle positions! Ready the port cannons!" he called, voice smooth with control, but tight with anticipation.

Jisung scrambled to his feet, looking around in panic. "Another pirate ship?! Are we being attacked?! Again?!"

Felix, who had been tightening the bolts on a nearby swivel gun, turned with a lazy smile. "It's probably just them."

"Them?" Jisung asked, heartbeat thudding in his throat.

Felix grabbed a small brass spyglass from his belt and looked toward the crimson smear on the horizon. "Red sails. Fancy script on the stern. Yep. Definitely The Crimson Siren."

"That sounds even more pirate-y than this ship!"

"It is," Felix said cheerfully. "But don't worry. Worst case, they flirt you into submission."

Jisung's jaw dropped.

Meanwhile, at the bow, Captain Minho stood still as stone, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, dark feline eyes narrowed at the approaching vessel. The wind tousled his hair, his coat snapping around his legs like storm clouds gathering.

"Red sails," Minho murmured, barely audible. "They're either here to sink us or borrow sugar."

Hyunjin joined him, fixing his long coat with practiced elegance. "If it's San again, I'm not dancing. I told him last time."

Felix stifled a laugh behind a cough. Jisung blinked. Dancing?! What was happening?!

The tension on the deck climbed with every second. The red-sailed ship was approaching fast, the sun glinting off its polished hull and golden railings. The figurehead, a grinning, crimson-painted siren, cut through the water like a blade.

"They're coming in hot," Seungmin muttered, voice cool as ice. "As usual."

Then, a thunk as a grappling hook clanged onto the railing. Another. The crew didn't react, just stood, waiting. Jisung crouched behind a barrel.

A shadow flew across the deck. A cloaked figure swung from one ship to the other, landing in a theatrical crouch, arms wide like a stage performer taking a bow, a golden hourglass swinging from his belt.

"Minho!" the man cried, straightening with a flourish and pushing back his hood to reveal sharp eyes, an ear-to-ear grin, silver hair with undercut, and a cross cut through one eyebrow. "My mortal nemesis! My shadow on the sea! My—"

He paused, eyes falling on Jisung, who was peeking out from his hiding spot like a mouse.

"Oh?" he said, tilting his head. "New hostage? Cute."

Minho sighed, one eyebrow twitching upward. "You're three days late Hongjoong. Did you lose the map again?"

Hongjoong grinned like a cat caught with its paw in the cream. "Time is a construct. Besides, I was busy charming sea witches. You wouldn't believe what they had to say about you."

"You were late last time, too."

"I bring rum this time," Hongjoong said, patting the satchel slung over his shoulder. "And scandalous gossip."

Another figure landed behind him, tall, refined, and looking thoroughly unimpressed. He swept a quick glance across the deck, pausing only to arch a brow at Bang Chan.

"You're still alive," he said dryly.

Bang Chan crossed his arms. "You're still dramatic, Seonghwa."

As more of the crimson-clad crew began boarding with only slightly less flair than their captain, the mood visibly shifted. Weapons were lowered, cannons left unfired. Laughter started to ripple through The Levanter's deck as the crews exchanged waves and sarcastic remarks.

Jisung, however, remained frozen in place.

"They're not... Enemies?" he asked slowly.

Felix patted him on the back. "Oh, they're rivals."

"Right."

"But also our closest allies."

"...What?!"

"Weird, right?" Felix beamed. "They crash our parties, steal our rum, and threaten to sink us twice a year. But when the navy's after us? They're suddenly the cavalry."

Before Jisung could process that, a shadow fell over him.

"Merchant's son, right?" The voice was soft, curious.

Jisung looked up to see a taller figure with feathered dark hair and calculating eyes.

"Yeosang." He said, holding out a hand. "You don't look like pirate material," he said flatly.

Jisung scowled, shaking the man's hand awkwardly. "Thanks"

Yeosang smiled, barely. "But maybe we can change that."

Off to the side, another standoff was unfolding.

A man with wild eyes, hair tied back, shirt half-open, had locked eyes with Hyunjin the moment he stepped aboard.

"San" Hyunjin muttered bitterly.

"You," San declared, pointing. "Destiny calls, you flamboyant coward."

Hyunjin didn't even look up from inspecting his nails. "If I must humiliate you again, I'd like five minutes to stretch first."

Changbin was in the middle of a very enthusiastic explanation, waving a knotted length of fuse cord at a tall pirate whose hair was the colour of a fire hazard. The other man was laughing so hard he had to lean on a barrel to keep upright.

"Seriously," Changbin said, grinning wide, "you cannot tell me that was a small explosion."

"That was barely medium," the redhead argued.

"Mingi," Changbin groaned. "You took out half the dock."

"Only the boring half!"

Jisung raised an eyebrow. So that was Mingi.

Off to the side, Seungmin was sitting with two other pirates on a barrel, one with dark curls, silver earrings, and a smug look that could curdle milk. The other had black & white hair half-tied back, and a smile that looked like it came with a warning label.
The three of them were flipping a coin back and forth between insults, like it was some kind of game. Jisung had no idea what the rules were, but Seungmin looked like he was winning.

"I'm just saying," the curly-haired stranger drawled, catching the coin midair, "if you'd let Wooyoung here handle the charts on that expedition, you'd already be dead."

"I'll take dead over lost with you, Jongho" Seungmin replied coolly.

Nearby, Jeongin was nearly bouncing where he stood, wide-eyed, beside a broad-shouldered man who was talking with his hands and the confidence of someone who knew exactly how to hold an audience.

"Did he really try to flirt with the sea serpent?" Jeongin asked, clutching a crate like it might anchor him.

"Oh, absolutely," the man said. "Hongjoong even combed his hair first. Mid-fight."

Jeongin gasped. "That's amazing."

The man grinned. "I told him it was the wrong kind of serpent. Too many teeth."

Jisung tilted his head slightly. Felix passed by just then and nodded toward them.

"That's Yunho," he murmured. "You'd like him. He tells good stories and bad jokes."

Jisung hummed, watching as Yunho dropped effortlessly into step with Jeongin, the two of them laughing like they'd been born on the same ship.

The so-called rivals didn't feel like rivals. Not yet, anyway.

Just pirates. Loud, dramatic, and apparently one questionable fuse away from blowing up a port.

Through it all, Minho and Hongjoong had drifted to the railing, side by side, quiet for a moment.

"You still owe me a new pocket-watch," Minho said.

Hongjoong raised his hands. "I returned it!"

"It was booby-trapped."

"Lesson in trust."

Minho rolled his eyes, but his lips quirked upward.

Jisung watched from across the deck, caught between awe and total confusion. These people had raided his life, taken him from everything he knew, and yet, here they were, joking, bickering, bonding.

And at the centre of it all: Lee Minho. Calm, unreadable, but not nearly as cold as he had seemed at first. Not when he looked at Hongjoong like that. Like the world had gone to hell, but at least one person knew the punchline.

Maybe, just maybe... Jisung was starting to get it.

Maybe, he thought, he didn't need to escape the ship so urgently anymore.

The barrel game ended with Seungmin flicking the coin into Wooyoung's chest and walking off muttering something about "blinding charisma being a safety hazard."

Wooyoung caught the coin easily, barely glancing after him. He turned, and found Jisung watching from a few feet away.

"Enjoying the show?" he asked, voice bright with challenge.

Jisung startled. "I wasn't... I was just..."

Wooyoung tilted his head, smile widening. "Standing very still and pretending not to listen?"

Jisung opened his mouth. Closed it. "Okay. Fine. A little."

"Good," Wooyoung said. "Means I've still got it."

He hopped off the barrel in one smooth motion and approached, eyes sharp but not unkind. "You're the new stray, right? The one Minho picked up like a particularly dramatic souvenir."

Jisung blinked. "That's... One way to put it."

"Felix said you tried to escape in a barrel."

"I maintain that it was not an escape attempt."

Wooyoung grinned. "You're a terrible liar."

"Yeah, well, I was a merchant's son, not a spy."

"Mm. That explains the cheekbones."

Jisung flushed. "What?"

"Nothing," Wooyoung said innocently. "Just confirming the rumours."

There was a pause. Then, softer: "So. How are you finding life aboard The Levanter?"

Jisung hesitated. The wind picked up behind them, flapping sails and carrying the sharp scent of salt and sun-warmed tar.

"I keep expecting it to get worse," he said quietly. "It hasn't. Not really. But it hasn't exactly... Stopped being hard."

Wooyoung nodded. "It won't. But it gets simpler. Especially once you stop expecting to feel like who you were before."

Jisung looked at him. "Did you expect that?"

"Once," Wooyoung said. "Didn't last. Now I'm just... Me. Louder."

He tapped a finger against Jisung's shoulder as he passed. "You'll get there. Or you won't. Either way, keep your boots dry and don't let Hyunjin con you into laundry duty. You'll never hear the end of it if you ruin one of his precious silk sashes"

And just like that, he was gone, vanishing into a conversation with Yunho and Jeongin like he'd never stopped to speak with him.

Jisung stood there a moment longer, the wind brushing through his hair, Wooyoung's words sitting heavier than expected in his chest.

Stop expecting to feel like who you were before.

He wasn't sure he could ever go back to who he used to be.

But he also wasn't sure he wanted to anyway.

By nightfall, The Levanter was barely recognizable.

Lanterns swung low from the rigging, throwing warm pools of golden light across the deck. Someone had dragged crates and barrels into a rough circle with blankets brought up from the sleeping quarters. The rum that Hongjoong had mentioned earlier was shared generously around everybody.

The Crimson Siren crew had taken over half the space, comfortably loud, throwing arms around shoulders like they belonged here. The Levanter crew matched their chaos beat for beat, louder than usual, rowdier than usual, just drunk enough to make everything feel too warm and too easy.

Jisung sat on an overturned crate, cheeks flushed, half a cup of rum in his hand and zero idea how he'd gotten roped into any of this.

Jeongin was perched on Yunho's shoulders, smiling like gravity had never applied to him in the first place. Hyunjin was dramatically attempting to teach Wooyoung how to sabre-duel using a mop. Felix had already stolen Mingi's coat, and Mingi didn't seem to mind, probably because he was busy trying to balance two chipped mugs on his head while Seonghwa took bets.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Chan clapped his hands, loud enough to momentarily cut through the din.

"Alright, alright, it's time."

"Time for what?" Jisung asked cautiously.

"Truth or dare," Yunho declared, already grinning like he'd invented the game and planned to die by it.

"Oh no," Jisung muttered.

"Oh yes," Wooyoung said, practically purring, sabre-mop suddenly forgotten.

"Rules are simple," said Hongjoong from where he leaned back, drink in hand, boots up on a barrel. "No lying. And no boring dares. If you pass... You take a finger of rum."

Felix turned to Jisung. "You ever played pirate-style?"

"I'm beginning to fear the answer is no."

"You're going to love this," he lied.

The first few rounds of the game were exactly what Jisung had expected: loud, stupid, and mostly harmless.

At one point, someone dared Mingi to arm wrestle Changbin while blindfolded. He accepted with gusto, slapping the barrel between them like it had personally offended him. The blindfold, actually just one of Hyunjin's scarves, slipped sideways almost immediately, but no one stopped the match. Mingi lost in under ten seconds, dramatically collapsing backward into Jongho's lap and wailing about betrayal and wrist trauma. Changbin just flexed one bicep and bowed like he'd won a medal.

A few turns later, Jeongin, now sprawled across Yunho's back like a decorative sea sprite, pointed a finger at him and asked, "Yunho. Have you ever kissed a sea witch?"

The deck fell quiet with collective intrigue.

Yunho grinned, entirely unbothered. "Yes."

Jeongin gasped. "What?"

"For diplomacy."

There was a beat of stunned silence, and then the entire circle howled. Jisung nearly spilled his drink. Hongjoong raised his cup with the deadpan toast: "To Yunho, our ambassador of questionable boundaries."

Then it was Hyunjin's turn. Predictably, he picked Wooyoung. Less predictably, he pointed up toward a dangling rope swing tied to the lower mast beam and said, "Tragic monologue. From memory. While spinning. Now."

Wooyoung didn't hesitate.

He leapt onto the barrel, climbed into the looped rope like he'd done it a hundred times, and let Yunho give him a push. As he spun, cloak billowing and hair flying, he recited, with devastating theatrical clarity, the final scene of The Dagger and the Dove, voice cracking on the final "but I loved you in the end!"

By the time he finished, there were tears in at least three people's eyes. None of them were Wooyoung's.

He bowed from the rope swing. "You're welcome. I accept applause, fruit, and your undying admiration."

Felix tossed a half-eaten pear at his head. It missed. Barely.

Jisung stayed quiet. Laughed when everyone else laughed. Let the heat of the moment blur the edges of the world.

Until Chan turned to him, smiling just enough to be dangerous.

"Jisung. Truth or dare?"

Jisung blinked. "Is exile an option?"

"Nope."

He sighed. "Truth."

Felix leaned in, mischievous. "Who on this ship do you absolutely not trust?"

The group quieted just enough to make Jisung want to fall overboard.

He considered lying. Then considered the rum. Then said, "Minho."

A few people raised eyebrows. No one looked shocked.

"Because he's terrifying," Jisung added quickly. "And vague. And possibly part cat."

"Fair," Wooyoung said with a grin.

"Captain's not even here," Mingi added, glancing around.

Which was true. Minho hadn't joined the circle. Hadn't touched the rum. Hadn't said a word all evening. He'd been near the helm earlier, watching from a distance.

Jisung looked up, and his breath caught.

Minho was leaning in the shadows near the railing, arms crossed, eyes on him.

He didn't speak.

He didn't smile.

Just watched.

As usual.

Jisung's pulse kicked.

"Your turn," Felix said, nudging him. "Pick someone."

Jisung dragged his eyes away, forcing his voice to sound normal.

"Hongjoong," he said. "Truth or dare?"

Hongjoong's grin widened. "Dare."

A dozen bad ideas flashed through Jisung's mind. He finally settled on, "Dance. On the barrel. Dramatically. Right now."

Hongjoong didn't even blink. He leapt onto the barrel, flung out his arms, and began to pirouette like he was possessed by a theatre ghost and a very drunk ballerina.

Applause broke out. Yunho shouted something about "best use of rum energy in a confined space."

And Jisung laughed. Really laughed.

Even if Minho was still watching.

Even if he couldn't stop noticing.

Even if part of him wondered what it would take to get Minho to sit in this circle. Drink. Speak. Smile.

The dares got worse after the rum hit full saturation.

Gone were the playful little tasks and dramatic recitals. Somewhere between Changbin's second cartwheel and San daring Seungmin to actually smile (he bared his teeth like a shark instead), the mood turned sharp, still fun, still loud, but edged now. Leaning toward reckless.

"Changbin," Mingi slurred, leaning over a barrel with a grin too wide to be legal, "I dare you to fire a powder cap from the crow's nest."

Felix made a choked noise. "Absolutely not."

"I'll do it," Changbin said, already standing.

"No, you won't," Chan said firmly, pushing him right back down. "New rule: no dares that involve explosions, heights, or Bin unsupervised."

"Cowards," Changbin muttered.

"Yup," Felix replied cheerfully.

Next came Hyunjin, of course.

Jongho narrowed his eyes. "Truth or dare?"

Hyunjin barely blinked. "Dare."

Jongho's smile sharpened. "Then I dare you to kiss someone. Anyone. Right now."

Hyunjin didn't hesitate. He stood, crossed the circle, cupped Seungmin's face in both hands, and planted a kiss squarely on his cheek.

Seungmin, entirely unflustered, took a sip of his drink. "Bold of you to assume you're my type."

"I am everyone's type," Hyunjin replied, returning to his spot with a dramatic coat flourish.

Laughter broke out again.

And then, it was Jisung's turn. Again.

Felix raised his eyebrows. "Truth or dare?"

Jisung hesitated.

The circle was watching now. Not just the Levanter crew, but the crew of The Crimson Siren, too. Yunho was smiling. Mingi was drumming his fingers against the barrel. Wooyoung looked like he was hoping for trouble.

Minho wasn't in the circle. Not even close. But Jisung could feel him near, behind him maybe, or at the edge of the quarterdeck. Watching. Always watching. And the thought came unbidden to him.

You want to survive here, right? Then stop flinching.

"Dare," Jisung said.

Felix's grin was slow. Not unkind. But definitely unwise.

"I dare you to steal Minho's dagger."

The circle erupted.

"Felix!" Chan barked.

"What?" Felix said, hands up. "It's not like I said stab him with it."

Hyunjin was already fanning himself. "Finally. Something entertaining."

Jisung stared. "You mean like... Now?"

"Before the game ends," Felix clarified. "And he can't see you do it."

Jisung looked down at his cup. Then back at the circle. "I'm going to die."

"Probably," Wooyoung agreed. "But imagine the bragging rights."

It only got worse.

Or better.

Depending on your tolerance for chaos.

After Jisung's death-wish dare was declared, the circle launched straight back into mayhem.

Yunho was dared to let Jeongin braid his hair while blindfolded. He accepted with an enthusiastic, "Make me beautiful!" and ended up looking like he'd been adorned with a bird's nest. Jeongin beamed with pride.

Then Wooyoung dared San, tall and broad-shouldered, to do a lap dance for the person to his left.

Which happened to be Hyunjin.

Hyunjin didn't blink. He crossed his legs and leaned back against a crate like a man awaiting tribute.

"Give me your best."

To San's credit, he didn't hesitate. He launched into a hip-roll so committed it made Wooyoung spit his drink, while Hyunjin calmly rated the performance out loud.

"Six for technique. Seven for confidence. Bonus point for the handwork."

Chan threw a arm over his head. "I'm too old for this."

"You're twenty-seven," Felix muttered.

"Too old."

But Jisung wasn't laughing anymore.

Not really.

Because somewhere between Wooyoung fake-proposing to Mingi and Jeongin getting dared to prank Seungmin with a fish, he'd made a decision.

He was going to do it.

He was going to steal Minho's dagger.

And the worst part?

He had a plan.

A very, very bad one.

Minho still wasn't in the circle, but he was close enough that Jisung could sense him. Standing near the edge of the quarterdeck, watching the madness from his usual quiet distance.

Arms folded. Coat neat. Expression unreadable.

You're going to regret this, Jisung thought, and then stood before he could talk himself out of it.

The circle jeered and whooped as he moved.

He didn't look back.

Minho noticed him before he reached him. Of course he did.

His eyes lifted, sharp as always. "You're feeling brave again tonight."

Jisung gave a breathless laugh. "Or drunk. But let's pretend it's the first one."

Minho didn't smile, but something flickered in his eyes, amusement, maybe. Or suspicion.

Jisung stepped closer.

"Truth or dare," he said quietly.

Minho tilted his head. "I'm not playing."

"Too bad." Jisung's voice softened, almost teasing. "Because I dare you to let me get close."

Minho's breath hitched.

Just a little.

And Jisung stepped in.

Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off the captain's body. Close enough that he could see a faint line between Minho's brows.

Jisung raised his hand and rested it lightly on Minho's chest, right above the dagger sheath.

"Still terrifying," he murmured.

Minho didn't move.

Didn't speak.

So Jisung leaned in.

Slower than he needed to.

Close enough for breath to catch. For his heart to hammer in his chest so hard he thought it might give him away. And then...

Their lips met.

Not hard. Not dramatic. Just enough.

Just long enough.

Long enough for Jisung's fingers, delicate, precise, to slide under the edge of Minho's coat. To find the dagger hilt. To pull.

He didn't know how he managed it without shaking.

He just knew that when he pulled away, lips tingling, heart thudding...

The dagger was already tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket.

And Minho...

Minho was still frozen.

Like the world hadn't caught up yet.

Like he didn't know whether he'd been kissed or conned.

Jisung smiled sweetly. "Thanks, Captain."

Then turned.

And walked back to the circle.

Holding it together by sheer will alone.

Minho didn't join the game.

He didn't need to.

That wasn't his place, not really. Not here, not now, with the deck soaked in rum and light and laughter that echoed too easily in the night.

So he watched.

From the shadows of the quarterdeck, one hand resting lightly on the railing, coat buttoned clean, expression unreadable.

Below him, the crew of The Levanter had sprawled into a chaotic ring of bodies and barrels, half of them perched where they shouldn't be, the other half yelling across the circle like volume determined the rules.

And mixed among them, loud, flushed, grinning wide, was Jisung.

Minho's gaze lingered there.

He couldn't help it.

It had crept up on him slowly, over days. Like a rising tide. Like something he couldn't quite name, until he saw it with too much clarity:

Jisung fit.

Not because he was strong. Not because he was skilled. But because he kept showing up. Because he laughed with Jeongin and argued with Hyunjin and caught Changbin's thrown apple without flinching. Because he looked alive here, more than he ever had on that first day in silk and fear.

Minho hated how much he noticed.

He hated more that he didn't want to look away.

The sound of laughter rolled up toward him. Felix flung an arm around Wooyoung. Jeongin was on Yunho's shoulders again. Hyunjin was shouting. Seungmin was purring insults like poetry.

Jisung, in the middle of it, was smiling.

Really smiling.

He couldn't hear what they were saying. The words were drowned in laughter, shouting and the creak of the ship shifting on gentle waves. But he saw the way Jisung leaned in toward Felix. The way he laughed so hard he curled in on himself. The way he relaxed like he belonged.

And maybe that was what dug under Minho's skin the most.

How quickly it had happened.

How easily the rest had accepted him.

How badly Minho wanted to stay removed, and how impossible it was to stop watching.

Then Jisung stood.

Minho noticed instantly. His eyes tracked the movement like instinct.

He was walking toward him now, leaving the laughter behind, face still flushed with drink and mischief.

Minho straightened, subtly. Just a little.

His eyes lifted to meet Jisung's.

"You're feeling brave again tonight."

Jisung gave a breathless laugh. "Or drunk. But let's pretend it's the first one."

Quietly amused, Minho didn't expect the next thing out of Jisung's mouth to be:

"Truth or dare?"

Minho blinked. "I'm not playing."

"Too bad."

The air shifted. Something tilted.

Jisung was close now, closer than anyone usually got. Not the way crew leaned in to whisper information. Not the way strangers tried to intimidate. This was something else. Light. Dangerous. Intentional.

"I dare you," Jisung murmured, "to let me get close."

Minho's breath caught before he could stop it.

What game is this?

He should've pushed him away.

Should've said something sharp, something final.

But instead, he stood still as Jisung's fingers rested lightly on his chest, just beside his heart. His eyes flicked down. His pulse ticked.

"Still terrifying," Jisung whispered.

And then, before Minho could speak, he kissed him.

It wasn't a hard kiss. Not deep. Just real.

Soft. Measured. Infuriatingly confident.

Minho didn't move.

Didn't let it happen... But didn't stop it, either.

Because somewhere between breath and surprise, between instinct and reaction, his brain short-circuited under the simplest truth:

He wanted it.

Only when Jisung pulled back, smile sweet, eyes bright, voice too soft, did Minho realize his hands hadn't moved. That he was still standing there, stunned.

"Thanks, Captain," Jisung said, and turned away.

Minho watched him walk back to the circle.

Watched how the others whooped, how Felix grinned like he knew something.

And that was when he felt it.

The dagger sheath under his coat, light. Empty.

He looked down.

Slowly.

Then back up at Jisung, just in time to see the boy settle on a crate, jacket folded tight.

Minho exhaled through his nose as a slow burn ignited low in Minho's chest. The fire of controlled, pressurized fury. His jaw clenched tight as the sting of the kiss lingered, not on his lips but deeper, under the ribs, right where the absence of the dagger was already pressing.

He'd let his guard down for one moment. One.

And Jisung had slipped past him like water, like smoke, like a goddamned thief.

Minho's fists curled at his sides. His breath came hard. He wasn't sure what angered him more:

The theft.

The kiss.

Or the fact that he hadn't stopped either.

Chapter 5: Regret

Jisung made it three steps into the circle before Felix saw the look on his face and straightened, eyes narrowing.

"What did you do."

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

Jisung blinked, all mock innocence. "Nothing."

"That's not a 'nothing' face," Chan said from across the circle. "That's a 'you've done something catastrophically stupid and think it was clever' face."

"It was clever," Jisung muttered, then immediately regretted saying it.

Hyunjin turned so fast he nearly knocked over Wooyoung. "Wait. No. No way."

Jisung hesitated.

"Did you actually get it?" Wooyoung asked, eyebrows shooting up. "You didn't."

Jeongin nearly fell off Yunho's back trying to twist around. "What did he get? What's happening? I wasn't paying attention!"

Jisung glanced toward the quarterdeck where Minho had stood before, watching. The shadows were still there. But the captain was gone.

And in Jisung's coat pocket...

The dagger sat like a second heartbeat.

He sighed and slowly reached inside, fingers curling around the hilt. Then, with an unnecessary amount of dramatic flair, because he couldn't let Hyunjin hold the monopoly on drama, he pulled it free and held it up.

The group exploded.

"YOU DID NOT—"
"That's his actual dagger?!"
"No way, there's no way—"
"You're either fearless or deeply unwell."
"Both!"

Mingi stood up and pointed like Jisung had just revealed a hidden weapon in a diplomatic meeting. "That's Minho's dagger!"

"No shit," Seungmin said dryly.

"Do you want to die?" Yunho asked, half in awe, half in concern.

"He'll forgive me," Jisung said, a bit too confidently.

"Are we talking about the same Minho?" Felix laughed, grabbing the dagger to inspect it. "This is the one he keeps on him at all times. The one he never lets anyone touch."

Hyunjin squinted at Jisung. "How?"

"Yeah," Wooyoung said, eyes sparkling. "You were only up there for like... Thirty seconds. What did you do... Sneak behind him and yank it?"

Chan frowned. "That sheath is buckled in under his coat. No way you just grabbed it. Tell us what happened."

Everyone leaned in.

Even Seungmin, who usually rolled his eyes at drama, looked curious.

Jisung hesitated.

He could lie. Say Minho turned his back. Say he slipped it loose while the captain was distracted.

"Wait... Did you do something to him?" Jeongin asked, voice full of something akin to suspicion.

Half the circle went still.

Jisung's ears burned.

"I didn't.. I mean, it was just—" He groaned. "It was a tactical kiss."

Hyunjin shrieked. "There is no such thing as a tactical kiss."

"It was that or distract him with a dance, and I'm not flexible."

Yunho looked genuinely impressed. "You kissed Minho and walked away with your life. And his dagger."

Jeongin clapped. "You're gonna die, but I'm so proud of you."

Chan dragged a hand down his face. "Oh my god."

Felix was still laughing as he handed the dagger back. "You know you've just started a war, right?"

"What, between us and the captain?" Jisung said, slipping the blade back into his pocket.

"No," Felix grinned. "Between his dignity and whatever that was you just did."

Jisung rubbed the back of his neck, heart still pounding. "He didn't stop me."

That quieted the group for a beat.

Not entirely, there were still whispers and stifled snorts and Wooyoung muttering 'tactical kiss' under his breath like it was the funniest phrase he'd ever heard, but the edge of disbelief softened into something else.

Recognition. Realization.

Minho had let it happen.

And that, somehow, was the strangest part of all.

Minho left the quarterdeck faster than he meant to.

Not a run, he didn't run, but his strides were tight, sharp, and far too fast for someone supposedly unbothered.

His coat snapped behind him as he descended the stairs. Laughter still rang from the circle on the deck, echoing with the metallic pulse of disbelief and voices shouting something about "his hands" and "oh my god, he KISSED him—"

Minho didn't want to hear it.

He pushed open the door to his quarters, shut it behind him with more force than necessary, and let the silence settle like a blade across his shoulders.

The dagger was gone.

So was Jisung.

But the kiss, the kiss.... Was still there. Branded in his skin like a burn.

He shoved away from the wall, pacing once, then again, then a third time. Each pass tighter. Angrier. The fury wasn't clean, and that made it worse. If it had been about the dagger, the principle, the embarrassment, he could have handled it. He'd been stolen from before. He'd had rivals, traitors, thieves.

He had never been caught off guard.

Not like this.

Not by someone with honey-slick words and wide-open eyes, who got under his skin without even trying, who kissed him and slipped his blade away like it was nothing. Like Minho was nothing.

That...
That was what burned.

Because he'd let it happen.

He hadn't even flinched.

Minho slammed a drawer shut just for the sound of it. Cold fury twisted through him like rope drawn too tight.

What are you doing?

He had rules. He had systems. He didn't let people get close, didn't keep risks on board longer than necessary.

And Jisung... Jisung was the walking epitome of risk. Loud, infuriating, clever enough to be dangerous, and pretty enough that Minho had started noticing the shape of his mouth when he should've been noticing the threat.

He could still fix it.

Send a ransom to the Han Company. Take the money. Cut the loss.

Or no ransom at all. Just drop him at the next port and be done with it. Somewhere with too many ships and not enough laws. Let him charm someone else into chaos.

Minho clenched his jaw.

It would be cleaner that way.

Safer.

He wouldn't have to feel this tight pull in his chest every time Jisung smiled like he knew something. Wouldn't have to look at those stupid wide eyes and wonder what it would feel like to be kissed like that again, but with meaning.

He gripped the back of his chair hard enough his knuckles went white.

Because that was the truth buried beneath it all, wasn't it?

He wasn't angry because of the dagger.
He wasn't even just angry because of the kiss itself.
He was angry because he wanted more.

And Minho didn't know what to do with that.

So he told himself lies. He wrapped them in strategy and control and clean lines of protocol.

But the truth still sat in his chest, heavy as an anchor.

He got to me.

And that... That was the one thing Minho didn't forgive.

The light flickered low now, lanterns swinging in the breeze and casting golden ripples across the deck.

The worst of the chaos had passed.

Yunho had fallen asleep half-under a crate and Wooyoung was attempting to balance empty cups and rum bottles along his prone body. The yelling had softened into pockets of conversation, little clusters of laughter, shared secrets, clinked cups.

Jisung exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the rum settle into his shoulders.

He sat cross-legged on the deck now, still warm from earlier bodies. The dagger, Minho's dagger, rested inside his jacket, feeling heavier now than it really was. He hadn't brought it back out. Not since the kiss. Not since the noise.

He wasn't sure what he should do with it.

So instead, he turned toward the people still awake, still talking, and let himself drift closer.

Changbin was crouched near the base of the mainmast, sleeves rolled to the elbows, smudges of soot streaking his arms like war paint. Half of a toolkit had spilled across the deck, wrenches, oil-stained cloth, copper coils, a dented flask, and a couple of things Jisung didn't even recognize.

The whole mess looked like it had been shaken loose in an explosion. Which, considering who it belonged to, was entirely possible.

Jisung ambled over, curiosity tugging him in, and dropped into a cross-legged sprawl beside him.

"Is it weird," he asked, "that some of those tools look more dangerous than your pistols?"

Changbin didn't look up. "That's because they are."

He picked up a small metal cylinder that hissed faintly when he tapped it.

"You ever seen a spring-loaded fuse primer jam, misfire, and catch fire while you're stuck below deck with six crates of powder and one exit?"

Jisung blinked. "No?"

"Good. Keep it that way."

He jabbed a finger at a jagged metal coil. "That? That's the worst thing I've ever built. Tore a hole in my boot. Nearly broke my toe. Still don't know what it does."

Jisung leaned a little farther away from it. "Why do you keep it, then?"

"In case I figure it out."

"That's terrifying."

Changbin finally glanced over and grinned. "Welcome to life in the weapons bay."

Jisung smiled back. "You know, you're way more talkative than I thought you'd be."

"Only when people listen," Changbin said with a shrug, then tossed him a small, suspiciously greasy wrench. "Here. Hold this. Makes you look useful."

Jisung stared at it. "I've never even held a wrench before."

Changbin barked a laugh. "You have to stop saying things like that out loud on a pirate ship."

"Why? You gonna throw me overboard for it?"

"Nah. Just makes you a bigger project."

Jisung raised an eyebrow. "Project?"

"You're like a half-built cannon right now. Flashy, loud, full of potential, but you misfire if someone looks at you wrong."

"Wow. Thank you. I feel seen."

Changbin smirked. "You're not bad, though. You've stopped flinching every time something explodes."

"I've stopped showing it. Big difference."

"Still progress."

He leaned back on his heels, wiping his hands with a strip of cloth. "Honestly, I thought you'd be gone by now."

Jisung's smile faded slightly. "Yeah. Me too."

Changbin looked over at him, really looked. "We're not the easiest crew to win over. But... You're doing alright."

Jisung blinked. "Is that... Approval?"

"That's as close as you're getting. Don't get used to it."

Jisung grinned. "Thanks, Bin."

"Don't call me that."

"I will absolutely keep calling you that."

Changbin sighed like a man who'd made a fatal error in judgment. But he didn't argue.

He just passed Jisung a clean rag and nodded toward the spanner beside his knee.

"You wanna help, or are you just here to flirt with my tool collection?"

"Depends. Is the tool collection single?"

Changbin groaned. "You and Wooyoung are going to be the death of me."

Jisung laughed and finally reached for the rag, the wrench still sitting loosely beside him. Maybe he would learn something about weapons after all.

And maybe, just maybe, Changbin wasn't half as intimidating as he'd seemed at first.

After he'd helped Changbin finish with his tools, Jisung spotted Seungmin near the port-side rail alone, sitting with one leg stretched long and the other bent, an old and dented tin mug cradled loosely in one hand. Seungmin's face was turned toward the horizon, eyes unreadable, mouth drawn in the usual line that always looked vaguely unimpressed.

He almost didn't approach at all.

But something about the quiet air between them didn't feel as sharp as it once had. And maybe, just maybe, Jisung was tired of pretending he didn't care what Seungmin thought of him.

He stepped closer, clearing his throat softly. "Mind if I join?"

Seungmin didn't look at him. Just gestured vaguely with his mug to the open stretch of deck beside him. Jisung took it as permission and sat, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his arms across them.

They were quiet for a long minute.

The wind was gentle today, the sea unusually calm, like it was listening.

"Do you ever miss land?" Jisung asked, keeping his voice low, like a secret.

Seungmin was still for a beat. Then said, "No."

"Not even a little?"

"I miss some things," Seungmin replied. "Chairs that don't move. Food that isn't salted within an inch of its life. Baths that don't involve a bucket and an audience."

Jisung huffed a soft laugh.

Seungmin glanced at him then, just a flicker, before looking away again. "But I've never really belonged anywhere that didn't move."

Jisung didn't answer right away. He turned that over in his head.

He wasn't sure he belonged anywhere at all. But something about that line 'that didn't move', settled in his chest like a piece of a puzzle he hadn't known he was missing.

"I think I used to," he said eventually. "Belong somewhere."

Seungmin said nothing, just sipped his drink.

"And then I started to hate it so quietly that I didn't even notice until I wanted to scream every time someone said my name like it was an asset."

That got a blink from Seungmin. Not shock, just... acknowledgment.

"You're not exactly subtle," Seungmin said after a pause.

"No," Jisung said. "Subtle gets you stuck."

Another beat.

Then Seungmin said, "So... Kissing the captain. Bold strategy."

Jisung groaned and let his head fall back against the railing. "Are we talking about that?"

"Apparently."

"Is this a judgment or a eulogy?"

"Undecided," Seungmin said. "Depends if he stabs you in your sleep."

Jisung glanced sideways at him. "You say that like it's likely."

"You say that like it's not."

"...It was a tactical decision."

"That's the most dangerous kind."

They sat in silence for a moment, both watching the sea rock under them.

Seungmin finished his drink and set the empty mug beside him. "I didn't like you, at first."

"Shocking," Jisung said flatly.

"You talked too much. Smiled like you hadn't figured out we're all armed."

"I had figured that out. It just made you more interesting."

Seungmin rolled his eyes. But he smiled. Just barely.

"You were chaos," he said. "Still are. But..."

"But?"

"You're useful chaos."

Jisung blinked. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Don't let it go to your head."

Jisung laughed. A real one this time. Then added, quietly, "Thanks."

Seungmin shrugged. "Don't make me regret it."

"I'll try," Jisung said.

They lapsed back into silence, but this time, it felt different. Not tense. Not cold. Just... Shared.

Like maybe, finally, Seungmin had stopped seeing him as an intruder.

And started seeing him as part of the crew.

Jeongin found him after the worst of the noise had faded. The light had burned low, the stars spilling down across the sails, and most of the crew were scattered, some asleep, some slumped in conversation, some too drunk to know the difference.

Jisung was curled up near a crate, wrapped in a blanket that Felix had dropped over him an hour ago without asking. His fingers idly traced the edge of the hem.

Jeongin didn't say anything at first.

He just walked over, blinked once, and collapsed directly into Jisung's lap with a dramatic sigh that knocked the air from both of them.

"Gods," he groaned. "Why is your lap the warmest one? You radiate heat like an overworked lantern."

Jisung grunted. "I'm full of regret. That generates heat."

"That explains so much."

Jeongin curled against him without ceremony, soft and familiar, like he'd been doing it for years. Jisung tensed at first, instinct, but relaxed quickly, letting the weight ground him. The warmth wasn't unwelcome.

The younger man let out a pleased hum and nestled deeper into the crook of Jisung's arm.

"You're staying," he mumbled.

Jisung blinked. "What?"

"You're staying," Jeongin said again, voice muffled against his shoulder. "You're not just surviving anymore. You're settling in. I can tell."

Jisung looked away.

Up at the rigging. The stars. The dark, endless sea beyond them.

He wasn't sure if it was the rum, or the quiet, or just Jeongin's certainty, but something in him cracked open like a pressure valve.

"I don't know what I want anymore," he said quietly.

Jeongin didn't answer. Just listened. The kind of listening that didn't need noise.

"I hated my life before," Jisung said. "Back on land. On my father's ship. I wasn't... Built for it. All numbers and trade deals and polite conversation. Every day felt like wearing a coat three sizes too small."

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Sometimes I used to stand at the edge of the deck, just looking out, thinking: I can't keep doing this. I was angry all the time. Bored and tired and pretending not to be. I asked the universe for something different. Anything else."

He swallowed.

"And then you guys showed up."

Jeongin shifted a little, but didn't pull away.

Jisung gave a bitter laugh. "Be careful what you wish for, right?"

Jeongin was quiet for a moment. Then he said, softly, "Doesn't mean it wasn't the right thing. Even if it started as the wrong one."

That landed somewhere deep. Unexpected.

Jisung blinked hard at the stars.

"I keep thinking I'll figure it out. That I'll wake up and know if I want to go or stay or... Something. But I don't. Not yet."

Jeongin tilted his head to look up at him. "You don't have to know yet."

Jisung huffed. "Is that legal?"

"Captain hasn't outlawed confusion. Yet." He paused. "Although, if you keep kissing him like that, he might."

Jisung groaned. "Please let that be forgotten by morning."

Jeongin just smiled.

"You're not the only one trying to figure yourself out, you know," he said. "Ships like this are full of people who ran, or stayed, or got swept up in something bigger than they planned. You're not weird for not knowing. You're just... Early in the story."

Jisung went quiet.

Then, slowly, he rested his head back against the crate and let Jeongin stay exactly where he was.

He'd survived the raid.

He'd survived a whole moon cycle with the crew.

He'd kissed the captain and walked away with his dagger.

And now, somehow, impossibly...

He was starting to feel like part of the storm instead of just being lost in it.

Jisung woke to a dull ache behind his eyes, the familiar scent of salt and spiced rum in his nose, and the distinct realisation that he was not, in fact, alone.

Jeongin was still curled up against his side, snoring softly, one arm slung around Jisung's waist like a stubborn cat refusing to let go. His hair was a wild, tangled mess. One of his boots was half-off. And his face had been squished against Jisung's jacket for so long it had left a faint wrinkle across his cheek.

Jisung blinked slowly.

Right. The rum.

He shifted just slightly, enough to ease Jeongin off without waking him, and sat up, stretching carefully so he didn't disturb him. Someone had draped another blanket over them in the night. The deck around him was a graveyard of empty cups, half-eaten stale bread, and bodies in various states of recovery.

Felix was face-down on a coil of rope. Changbin was muttering in his sleep about fuse length. Hyunjin had one boot on and one boot being used as a pillow. Someone had tucked a feather behind his ear.

It was chaos.

But it was quiet chaos, at least.

The morning light was gentle, grey and hazy, and no one seemed inclined to shout yet.

Minho, he noticed, was still nowhere to be seen.

Jisung wasn't sure if that was a blessing or an omen.

He stood, wobbled slightly, and made his way toward the far edge of the deck, where the Crimson Siren was moored alongside The Levanter. The ship rocked gently beside them, its dark red sails fluttering faintly in the breeze.

And waiting at the rail the other side of the gangplank, far too alert for someone who'd definitely been drinking the night before, was Hongjoong.

Jisung had only seen him in flashes. During their initial arrival, during the laughter, always surrounded by half his crew and an aura that felt like velvet-wrapped steel.

Now, he was alone, sipping something that definitely wasn't water, watching Jisung with an expression too polite to be disinterested and too focused to be casual.

"Good morning," Hongjoong said, voice smooth.

"Barely," Jisung rasped.

"You look alive."

"Give me five minutes and that might change."

Hongjoong smiled, slow and sharp.

He took a step closer along the gangplank between the ships, boots quiet.

"I've known Minho a long time," he said, not quite a non sequitur. "Long enough to know he doesn't let people touch his weapons."

Jisung stiffened. "Right."

"He also doesn't let people get close."

"Noticed that, yeah."

Hongjoong tilted his head. "And yet, here you are... Slipping into his crew like you were always meant to be here, his dagger tucked in your coat, and not the faintest idea what you've just gotten away with."

Jisung crossed his arms, more out of instinct than defiance. "Is this a warning?"

"No," Hongjoong said. "This is curiosity."

That threw him a little.

"You intrigue him," Hongjoong added. "That's rare. Most people just annoy him."

"I do that too," Jisung said.

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

He leaned casually against the railing, watching the morning sun sparkling on the water.

"Minho's... Careful," he said after a moment. "You already know that. But what you might not know is that careful, for him, is survival. Everything he does is calculated. Cold when it needs to be. He plays the long game. So when he breaks pattern—"

"—it means something," Jisung finished.

Hongjoong gave him a sly glance. "See? I knew you were clever."

Jisung shifted his weight. "I didn't do it to mean something."

"Did you do it because you wanted to?"

Jisung didn't answer.

Hongjoong didn't press. Just smiled again, slow and knowing.

Then he reached out, adjusted the collar of Jisung's jacket like they were old friends, and said, "Careful, darling. You're in the eye of something, whether you know it or not."

And with that, he stepped lightly back onto the main deck of The Levanter with a swish of his coat and not another word.

Minho stood at the small writing desk in his quarters, back to the door, hands clasped tight behind him. His coat was already buttoned, boots laced. He hadn't slept. He didn't need to.

A knock came.

"Come."

Chan stepped inside, quiet and composed, but with that wary look he always got before saying something Minho didn't want to hear.

"They're preparing to cast off," he said. "Hongjoong's crew. He asked if you were coming up."

Minho nodded once. "We'll do the same. Raise anchor within the hour."

He heard Chan shift behind him, linger.

"About last night..."

Minho turned slowly, expression carved from stone. "I want Jisung off the ship."

Chan blinked. "What?"

"There's a port south of here," Minho said. "Five days. Off-grid. We leave him there with coin. Let him decide what happens next."

Chan's brow furrowed. "You want him gone because he stole your dagger? Because he hasn't given it back? Or is it something else?"

Minho didn't answer right away.

Didn't move, either.

Just stood there, staring past Chan like the air itself had tightened around his throat.

Because he knew what Chan meant.

It wasn't about the dagger.

It was never just about the dagger.

It was about the kiss.

That stupid, ridiculous, calculated kiss, done like a trick, a dare, a punchline. And yet it hadn't felt like any of those things. Not in the moment. Not to Minho.

He'd let it happen.

Worse, he'd wanted it to.

And when it was over, when Jisung had pulled away all pink-lipped and smug, Minho had stood there disarmed. Not just of his weapon, but of every carefully constructed wall he'd built over the years.

And now here was Chan, standing in his quarters, looking him dead in the eye and saying it without saying it.

Minho's jaw clenched hard.

He wanted to deflect. Lie. Reach for some cold-blooded captain's logic about discipline and protocol. But nothing came.

Because Chan had cut too close to the truth.

So instead, Minho gave the only answer he could. Quiet, low, and dangerous.

"Drop it."

"Min," he said carefully, "you didn't bring him aboard because he was useful. And if you're being honest, you're not sending him off because he's a threat."

Minho didn't move. "You think I'm wrong."

"I think you're afraid."

That cut closer than he liked. Too close to something real. Something unspoken.

He stepped past Chan, nodding sharply toward the door. "Get the crew ready."

The deck was already half-stirred by the time Minho emerged. The sun had climbed, pale but steady, and both ships were stirring with the quiet energy of parting: empty rum crates being packed, ropes pulled taut, crew exchanging hungover farewells and exaggerated retellings of the night before.

Minho walked through it all with the practiced ease of someone untouched by it. His expression blank. His stride steady. But he felt the shift in every stare, every voice dipping as he passed.

Jisung stood off to the side near Felix and Jeongin, laughing at something Yunho said. Minho didn't look at him.

Didn't have to.

He felt him like gravity.

Hongjoong appeared at his side like smoke, always quiet when he wanted to be, and matched his pace with practiced familiarity.

"Ah," Hongjoong said pleasantly. "Before I go."

Minho glanced at him. "Something else?"

"The gossip I mentioned hearing yesterday," Hongjoong said. "Thought you might find it interesting."

Minho waited.

Hongjoong's smile widened, eyes glinting like he already knew how this would land.

"Apparently," he said, voice light, "the Han Trading Company is offering a rather pretty penny for the return of their golden son. Of course, I didn't realise he was with you until I arrived. Seems odd it took them this long to do something about it"

Minho stopped walking.

Hongjoong didn't.

He just stepped forward, one hand brushing down the edge of his dark red cloak, and added, almost as an afterthought: "seems like someone's finally feeling the loss."

And with that, he strolled away, light, casual, dangerous as a lit match.

Minho stayed still.

The deck moved beneath his boots, the ship groaning faintly as it settled on the tide. Voices rose and fell in the distance, laughter, farewells, ropes being hauled up.

And yet, everything in Minho had gone unnaturally still.

Seems like someone's finally feeling the loss.

He should have been pleased.

He'd spent all night trying to justify Jisung's presence. Trying to chart a course that ended with his departure. A ransom changed the game. It gave Jisung weight, worth, purpose beyond the distraction he'd become. A tidy solution.

Clean.

Logical.

Profitable.

He should've felt relieved. Vindicated, even. The universe had handed him the out he'd been grasping for since the moment Jisung stepped onto The Levanter deck with fire behind his eyes and chaos clinging to his boots.

But instead?

Minho felt... Nothing.

No, that wasn't true.

He felt worse.

There was a pressure in his chest he couldn't name. Something cold and heavy and restless, like the slow twist of a knot just behind his ribs. It sat there like regret, but sharper. More dangerous.

Why wasn't he satisfied?

Why did the thought of Jisung stepping off the ship, not looking back, make his throat go dry?

Why did the words 'golden son' sound more like a brand than a commendation?

And why, above all, did Minho suddenly want to shove every coin offer into the sea and tell the Han Trading Company to rot?

He turned, slowly, gaze sweeping the deck.

Jisung was still standing by the railing with Felix and Jeongin, head tilted toward something Jeongin was saying. The breeze toyed with his hair. His jacket hung loosely around his shoulders, most likely with Minho's dagger still tucked inside, as if it belonged there.

Minho's hand curled at his side.

There were a thousand reasons to send him back.

Minho had rehearsed all of them. On paper, in silence, in fury.

But none of those reasons quieted the part of him that burned when Jisung smiled. That remembered the heat of a kiss. That hadn't asked for this connection, but couldn't seem to sever it cleanly.

He'd made space for Jisung on this ship.

He just hadn't meant to make space for him anywhere else.

Minho's gaze lingered for a moment longer.

Then he turned away, not from Jisung, but from the storm inside his own chest.

You can't keep him.

He told himself that again, like a mantra.

You can't keep him.

But he didn't completely believe it anymore.

And that, more than anything, was the problem.

Chapter 6: The Storm

The Crimson Siren had disappeared over the horizon by midmorning, sails sharp against the pale blue sky.

Jisung watched it go from the bow, arms braced on the railing, chin tucked into the collar of his coat. The sea was calm again today, cruelly so, like it didn't care they were leaving.

He hadn't expected it to sting this much.

They'd only been aboard The Levanter a short while. Barely 24 hours of shared meals, traded jokes, late-night laughter and drunken games that blurred the lines between stranger and friend. But it had been real, bright and chaotic in a way that made it hard to ignore now that it was gone.

He'd liked them. He'd liked being liked by them.

Wooyoung's theatrical dramatics. Yunho's easy storytelling. San's quiet grins and Yeosang's insistence on tidiness even as he poured rum down his friends' throats. Mingi, still a little intimidating, had slapped him on the back hard enough to bruise when saying goodbye, and somehow, Jisung had felt weirdly proud of that.

Even Hongjoong had offered him a small nod as he left. Like he knew something Jisung hadn't quite figured out yet.

Now the deck felt a little too big. A little too empty.

He exhaled through his nose, pushed away from the railing, and did the only thing he knew how to do lately: he worked.

He started with Felix, helping recalibrate a tension pulley in the main rigging that had been slipping with the weight shift from cargo. Then to Seungmin, who handed him a stained map and told him to re-ink three labels "without destroying the coastline in the process." Then Jeongin, who made him clean out a rope locker and only offered a single smirk when Jisung coughed up dust for five solid minutes.

He wasn't just being humoured anymore.

They actually needed him.

Somewhere between the morning repairs and helping Changbin hammer a rusted cannon hinge back into shape, Jisung paused long enough to glance at his hands.

They looked different.

The skin across his palms was calloused now, not deeply, but noticeably. His fingertips were rough from rope work. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled high, exposing forearms that had gained definition. Not bulky... But strong.

His back didn't ache the same way it used to after scrubbing the deck.

His balance on a moving ship had stopped feeling borrowed.

And for the first time in a long time, his breath didn't catch with the panic of wondering where he was going next.

He just... Was.

Moving. Working. Living.

Belonging.

He blew out a slow breath and leaned back against a barrel, watching as Jeongin darted past with a coil of rope and Hyunjin shouted something sharp at Changbin that got shouted right back.

And over it all, steady, quiet, always watching, was Minho at the helm.

Jisung didn't let himself look too long.

But he felt it. That quiet gravity that still pulled at him whether he wanted it to or not.

Later, as the sun dipped low and the crew fell into their usual rhythms, Jisung let himself sit by the rail again, hands stained with grease and ink and salt.

The Crimson Siren was gone. The sea had swallowed its wake.

And he didn't know when, or even if, he'd see any of them again.

But somehow, that didn't undo what they'd given him. Especially the advice Wooyoung had given him.

He was still here.

Still part of this.

Still changing.

And somehow, it no longer felt like a loss.

It felt like a beginning.

The moon hung low and wide over the water, a pale coin skimming the surface of the sea. The sails above caught the silver light like wings. All was hushed except for the low creak of timber and the occasional snore drifting from belowdeck.

Most of the crew had turned in by now, bellies full, shoulders sore, voices rasped from laughter or argument or both. The ship rocked gently, a slow lull underfoot. Only a few figures remained scattered across the deck: Jeongin napping in the crook of a cargo net, Seungmin scribbling something indecipherable by lantern light, and Jisung, alone by the stern rail.

He didn't know why he was still out.

His body ached. His fingers were ink-smudged and tar-streaked. His back hurt in three distinct places and he had a bruise forming on his hip from slipping against the lower hold ladder earlier.

But something in him wouldn't let him go to bed yet.

Jisung sat cross-legged near the stern rail, back pressed lightly against a coil of rope, his shark-leather journal balanced against one knee. His head was bent, brow furrowed in concentration, dark hair falling forward as he scrawled in cramped, slanted handwriting. Every few moments he paused, tapping his abused quill against his chin, then continued writing, fast, like if he stopped, the words would vanish.

He wasn't even sure what it was anymore. Poetry, maybe. Or a letter he'd never send. Or just lines for himself, so he could name the ache in his chest and pretend it made sense.

He didn't notice Minho approaching until the boards of the deck dipped slightly beneath his boots.

"You missed dinner," Minho said quietly.

Jisung's head snapped up, eyes wide. His fingers tightened reflexively around the journal, like he'd been caught stealing secrets from the sea.

"I... Didn't mean to." His voice came out rough. "Just... Got caught up."

Minho didn't answer right away. He stepped closer and held out a cloth-wrapped bundle. "Salted fish. Bit of bread. Last of the roasted onion."

Jisung blinked. "You brought me food?"

Minho's expression didn't change. "You've been working since dawn. I'm not letting you pass out because you forgot to eat."

Jisung hesitated a second longer, then accepted the bundle. His fingers brushed Minho's, warm and calloused, and the moment was so brief it should've meant nothing.

But it did.

Jisung cleared his throat, offering a sheepish half-smile. "Thanks. I was... Kind of in the middle of something."

Minho's eyes flicked to the journal. "I know. I read over your shoulder."

"You what?!"

"Only one line."

Jisung narrowed his eyes. "Which one?"

Minho's gaze slid away, faintly amused. "The one that rhymed salt with fault. A bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"I'm dramatic by nature," Jisung muttered, cheeks pinking. "You kidnapped a poet, what did you expect?"

Minho huffed something dangerously close to a laugh and leaned a hip against the rail beside him. His arms crossed loosely. "Felix says you've been pulling more weight than some of the veterans. He said you were everywhere today," he added after a beat. "Helping with the rigging. Working on that busted pulley. Fixing canvas tears. Even sat through Seungmin's chart lecture without trying to jump overboard."

"I'm not useless," Jisung said with mock offense.

"No," Minho said, quiet. "You're not."

That silenced him more than any sarcastic retort could've.

Jisung looked down at his hands, still ink-smudged from writing, but rough now too. The soft skin of his merchant days was long gone, replaced by callouses and small healing cuts.

"I'm trying," he said.

"You're succeeding."

Jisung glanced up.

Minho was watching him. Not staring, not in that overwhelming, predatory way he sometimes had, but observing, like he was trying to line up the person in front of him with the one he'd first pulled aboard this ship.

"You've changed," Minho said simply.

Jisung raised an eyebrow. "Everyone keeps saying that like it's a warning."

"It's not," Minho replied. "It's a map."

Jisung blinked. "A map?"

Minho tilted his head slightly, like he was half-surprised by his own words. "It tells me where you're going. Who you're becoming."

That settled between them like a stone dropped into still water.

After a long moment, Jisung said, voice quiet, "Do you like who I'm becoming?"

The moonlight etched silver across the space between them. Their shadows brushed.

Neither of them moved.

Then Minho straightened, the moment folding back into itself like paper.

"Finish your dinner," he said, low and warm. "You'll need the strength. We're due a storm any day."

Jisung nodded, still not trusting his voice.

And when Minho walked away, he opened the journal again with trembling fingers, quill to page.

He didn't write about the moon.

He wrote about him.

Minho didn't return to his quarters right away.

He paced the deck once the air had cooled, boots thudding softly against the planks, each step heavy with thoughts he couldn't quite name. Below, the ship rocked in a slow, lulling rhythm, water lapping gently at the hull, a rare moment of peace on open sea.

He needed air.

Not the kind that filled your lungs, the kind that scraped against your skin, sharp and salt-bitten, to remind you were still alive.

The kind that hurt.

He walked the perimeter of the deck in silence, boots soft on the planks, coat tugged close around him as the wind curled in from the east. The night was calm, but his mind wasn't.

Behind him, Jisung sat at the stern rail, still bent over that journal like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Like if he could just write it all down, it wouldn't hurt so much.

Minho had seen that look before. On soldiers. On orphans. On himself, in a mirror cracked by stormlight.

He didn't feel peaceful.

Minho hadn't meant to say anything earlier.

Hadn't meant to bring him food, either.

But there Jisung had been, hunched in the dark, too caught up in his own world to notice the ache in his back, the hollowness in his cheeks. The same way he'd been throwing himself into work these past days. Climbing rigging. Scrubbing decks. Helping Jeongin with knots and letting Seungmin talk him into pointless errands.

Minho saw it all.

He noticed.

And that was the problem.

Because the closer Jisung pulled himself into the rhythms of the ship, into the crew, the harder it was to remember that he didn't belong here. That Minho had never intended for him to stay.

This was supposed to be temporary. A delay. A complication with a price tag.

A problem to be solved.

And Minho had solved it.

The message would go out as soon as they arrived at Bartholomew's Reach: a quiet missive, passed to a discreet courier who owed him favors. He'd word it carefully "Han Jisung safe. Will deliver to neutral port for negotiated return." No emotion. No warmth. Just business.

They should arrive in just under a week.

He'd hand Jisung over. Walk away with coin and leverage. Wash his hands of it all.

That was the plan.

Clean. Logical.

Necessary.

Minho had told himself it was the smart move.

Keep the ship funded. Keep the crew afloat. Secure leverage with one of the most powerful trade dynasties on the sea.

He'd told himself that returning Jisung also meant protecting him, in the long run.

That he'd be safer.

And yet.

Why did his chest ache like he'd already made a mistake?

The image burned behind his eyes: Jisung smiling through bruised knuckles, eating dinner on the deck like he hadn't spent the day working himself into the bones of the ship.

Writing poetry like he belonged here.

Like he'd grown roots in salt and sails and the sound of the tide.

Minho leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the rail, staring out into the dark sea that stretched endless ahead of them.

He leaned against the railing, breathing in salt air and moonlight, eyes drifting once more toward the man with the journal and poetry in his veins. The one who had the gall to flirt with pirates, laugh with strangers, and smile like he hadn't yet learned what the world could take from him.

He's not yours, Minho told himself.

He was never meant to be.

Minho closed his eyes, jaw tight.

He hadn't asked for this, this slow unraveling. This softness he didn't know what to do with. This want.

He'd spent years building walls. Commanding loyalty. Taking only what was owed.

And now here was Jisung, unpredictable, stubborn, honest, sliding under his skin like seawater through cracked wood.

He couldn't afford this.

Not when the world was watching. Not when the Han Trading Company already thought of people as assets and betrayal as tradition. Not when one wrong move could sink everything.

He had to stay ahead.

And that meant following the plan.

No matter how Jisung smiled at him.

No matter how the crew had started calling him ours.

So he held fast to the plan, to logic, to rules, to the order he'd spent his whole life building. The plan was already set. The rendezvous should be simple enough to arrange, and once the ship was docked, it would be done.

Clean.

Quiet.

Final.

He'd deliver Jisung.

He'd collect the gold.

And then he'd pretend that none of this, the kiss, the nights on deck, the steady pull in his chest, had ever happened.

Jisung hadn't thought about land in two days. And the realization hit him like a wave, slow, then all at once.

It was a clear afternoon, the wind sharp and clean in the sails, the sun casting long gold bars across the deck. Somewhere overhead, Hyunjin was humming a mournful ballad as he adjusted the rigging with theatrical flair, and the scent of tar and citrus oil drifted from where Seungmin was re-coiling a line with near-obsessive precision.

Jisung had just finished helping Felix secure a patch to the foresail, nothing huge, but enough to make him feel competent. His hands didn't fumble the knots anymore. He didn't have to ask what tool was what. Felix had even nodded when they finished, like he was genuinely pleased.

Not indulgent.

Not patient.

Pleased.

That was new.

He sat cross-legged near the base of the mast now, sipping water from a canteen and enjoying the brief lull in tasks. Jeongin flopped down beside him, boneless and smug from having beaten Chan at knife toss (with a little help, though no one could prove it), and dropped half a loaf of burned bread in Jisung's lap.

"You didn't screw anything up today," Jeongin said, biting into his own piece with noisy satisfaction. "Miracles do happen."

Jisung rolled his eyes, but he smiled. "Keep talking and I'll mess up your hammock."

"You tried that already," Jeongin mumbled through a mouthful of bread. "I sleep with my legs hanging now. I've adapted."

Jisung laughed, a real one, not the nervous half-laugh he used to carry with him like armor. He leaned back against the mast, chewing slowly, feeling the warm ache of used muscles and salt-cracked lips. He was tired in the good way, the way that told him he'd earned the food, the rest, the satisfaction curling low in his stomach.

And then it struck him.

A quiet thought.

I haven't thought about land in days.

He blinked.

Sat up slightly straighter.

It had been... What? Two days? Maybe three? Time blurred on the sea, stretched and folded and rewound depending on the wind and the work. But he was sure it had been that long since he'd pictured the city. Since he'd imagined his father's estate. Since he'd heard the clink of silver cutlery in his mind, or remembered the smell of polished floors and lavender water.

He'd used to ache for those things.

The certainty. The comfort.

But now?

Now he wasn't sure when the ache had stopped. Only that it had.

And not because he was miserable here. Not because he was resigned to it. But because, somehow, the ache had been replaced by something else.

By Hyunjin's singing above the rigging.

By the steady rhythm of Changbin hammering out a bent pin near the cannon deck.

By Felix's quiet laugh and Seungmin's sharp sarcasm and Jeongin's unrelenting chaos.

By the feel of salt-stiff gloves on his fingers, sun-warmed rope under his palms, and the solid weight of Minho's gaze at the helm, steady, unreadable, watching.

He looked down at his hands again, he'd already noted the layered over callouses that hadn't been there before. The skin across his knuckles had also thickened. He flexed them, slowly, watching how the light caught on faint scars and darker lines.

His legs were stronger. His balance was getting better and better by the day, like his body had finally stopped resisting the motion of the ship and simply learned to sway with it.

He was part of it now.

He hadn't even realized it had happened.

And maybe that was what made the realization so powerful.

He wasn't counting the days anymore. He wasn't plotting a return. Wasn't fantasizing about his old bed or his favorite tea or the muted opulence of the Han estate.

A shadow passed over him, and he looked up to see Minho cross the deck, tall, composed, unreadable as ever. His coat flared slightly in the breeze, and he paused only briefly to adjust something near the helm before continuing toward the stairs to the quarterdeck.

He didn't say anything.

But he didn't have to.

Jisung's gaze lingered just a moment longer than it should have.

Then he looked back out over the sea, where the sky met the water in a line that shifted with every breath.

And instead of wondering when he'd go back...

... He wondered how long it would take before someone asked him to stay officially.

The storm Minho had predicted rolled in fast, the kind that didn't bother to whisper first.

By the time the sky turned that sickly, unnatural green, the crew was already in motion. Sails were half-reefed. Tarps tied down. Buckets lashed. The clouds were thick and seething overhead, and the wind howled across the deck like it was trying to tear the masts straight from their sockets.

"All hands on deck!" Chan's voice cut through the chaos like a cannon blast. "Batten the hatches, now!"

Thunder cracked, sharp and violent, and the deck tilted hard to port as the first sheet of rain slammed down upon them.

Jisung didn't wait for someone to tell him what to do.

He ran.

Felix tossed him a coil of rope without looking. "Lash the barrels!" he shouted. "And keep your head down, the foremast's flexing!"

Jisung ducked low, boots slipping slightly on the drenched deck, but his balance held. He threw his weight against the barrel rack, roped them together with shaking hands, then scrambled toward the mainmast as the sails groaned above.

Water sluiced across the deck in waves now, not spray, but tide, surging high enough to lift any unsecured tools and send crates skidding. Above them, the rigging snapped like a whip in the wind, some of the men clinging to the lines like spiders as they tried to reef the sails further.

Jisung didn't have time to think about fear.

It was all motion. All instinct.

Move, pull, tie, run.

Minho's voice rang sharp from the quarterdeck. "Cut loose the upper canvas, if the mast goes, we go with it!"

Jisung turned in time to see Hyunjin slashing the main upper sail free, hair plastered to his face, blood from a forehead cut streaking down his jaw like war paint. One of the smaller sails snapped clean off its yard and tumbled into the storm like a ghost.

Another wave hit the starboard side, hard.

The ship bucked, hard, and Jisung heard someone yell just behind him.

Jeongin.

He spun.

He had lost his footing, sliding fast across the deck toward the edge, toward open air and churning water and the jagged shape of the hull below.

"No—!"

Jisung lunged without thinking.

One knee hit the deck with a crack, pain flaring up his leg, but he caught Jeongin's arm with both hands just as his boot slipped off the edge.

The force nearly dragged them both over.

Jisung gritted his teeth, heels digging into the slick wood, muscles straining as Jeongin's weight dragged at him, terrified, flailing.

"Got you... I've got you!"

His fingers ached. His palms were raw. The rope burn on his wrist screamed as Jeongin finally found footing, scrabbling, kicking, and they tumbled backward in a heap, breathless and soaked, but on the deck.

Jeongin gasped against his chest, shaking.

Jisung didn't speak for a moment, wrought with shock.

Then he grabbed Jeongin by the shoulders, looked him dead in the eye, and said, "No dramatic exits today, okay?"

Jeongin nodded, too breathless to speak.

"Good. Now move."

They scrambled up, still clutching each other, and threw themselves back into the fray.

Time blurred after that.

Jisung wasn't sure how long the storm raged, ten minutes? An hour? Three? All night?

He only knew the sound of Minho's orders, barked across thunder. The burn in his arms from hauling ropes. The slick feel of Felix's hand grabbing his arm to steady him as the deck pitched sideways again. The blur of faces in the rain, Seungmin, bloodied and stoic; Changbin, roaring into the wind as he dragged loose cargo into place; Hyunjin laughing like a man possessed as he climbed a mast that groaned under his boots.

And in all of it... Minho.

Always there.

At the helm. Sharp-eyed. Solid. Watching the compass in his hand intently and throwing the ship at right angles to the wind and waves. Moving with the ship like it was an extension of his body.

Their eyes met once, across the chaos.

And Jisung saw it, just for a moment, pride.

Then lightning struck too close, and they both moved again.

By the time the winds died and the sky began to lighten, the deck looked like a battlefield.

Lines frayed. Sails torn. Buckets floating in shallow pools. Bodies slumped everywhere, exhausted, bruised, but breathing.

Jisung dropped to sit beside the mast, drenched and shaking and utterly, completely spent.

Jeongin collapsed beside him, wheezing.

Above them, someone whooped, Felix, swinging down from the rigging like the storm had been a casual inconvenience.

And Jisung sat there soaked, bruised, and shaking, but he'd earned every scrape. And for once, he was proud of that.

The silence after the storm was almost worse than the noise.

Not true silence, not really. The sails still flapped, torn and fraying. Lines creaked as they were pulled back into place. Wood groaned. Someone was coughing. Someone else was laughing, not a full laugh, but the kind that slipped out when your heart was still hammering and you weren't sure if you were glad or just stunned.

The storm had passed.

They were still afloat.

The crew were all alive.

And Jisung's hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He leaned his head back against the mast, breathing in short, raw gulps. Salt stung his nose and rain soaked through every layer he had on. His knees ached. His palms were scraped open. His body hurt in places he didn't know he had.

But Jeongin was safe.

Alive.

He saw him a few feet away now, half-collapsed on the deck, legs splayed, soaked to the bone and looking like someone had wrung him out by hand. He met Jisung's eyes, then gave a crooked, breathless smile.

"Nice catch," he rasped.

"Ten out of ten form if I say so myself" Jisung croaked back.

That got a laugh. Actual laughter.

Felix barked out something that might've been a cheer. "You pulled him back on deck? In the middle of that?!"

Jisung was too tired to be humble. "Sure did."

"Bloody hell," Changbin muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. "No wonder you look like someone used you to mop the deck."

"He nearly was the deck," Hyunjin added, limping past with a rope over his shoulder and a split lip. "But I'll admit, not bad, Merchant."

Jisung blinked. "Was that... A compliment?"

"Don't make it weird."

Seungmin dropped beside him with a thud, holding two water flasks. He handed one over, then nodded once toward Jeongin, who was now being bossed gently but firmly by a fretting Chan.

"Felix says you didn't hesitate," Seungmin said. "That true?"

Jisung took a sip of water and shrugged. "Didn't really think. Just saw him go."

Seungmin gave him a long look, not suspicious, not skeptical. Just weighing him.

"You're definitely one of us now," he said at last.

"Oh," Jisung said, blinking. "Great. Do I get a sash, or—"

"Nope. You get blisters and responsibility."

"Sounds about right."

There was a slow ripple through the crew as repair tasks were handed out, ropes coiled, torn sails gathered for patching. Everyone moved stiffly. Carefully. But no one looked scared anymore. They'd ridden it out.

They'd survived.

Jisung glanced around, at bruised smiles, muttered jokes, tired shoulders bumping into one another on instinct. And when eyes landed on him now, they didn't slide away like they used to. They nodded. They stayed.

Felix passed by, reached down, and gently ruffled his soaked hair.

"You did good, barrel-boy" he said, quiet.

Jisung smiled, tired and a little dazed. "You say that like I didn't almost die."

"But you didn't. That's the part that matters."

He moved off again, humming.

Jisung leaned back against the crate, the ache in his spine dulling now beneath the warm, buzzing knowledge sinking into his bones:

They saw him.

They trusted him.

And it wasn't because of his name. Or his father. Or the weight of some empire behind him.

It was because he'd earned it.

The sun was slipping below the horizon when Jisung found a quiet corner on the mid-deck, just far enough from the clatter of repairs to breathe. His muscles still throbbed, and his damp shirt clung to his back, but the worst of the shaking had stopped. He was sore, spent, and still vaguely amazed the ship had held together, that he had held together.

He was just starting to doze when footsteps approached, heavy but slow. Familiar.

Chan.

Jisung sat up a little straighter. "Hey."

Chan nodded in greeting and didn't speak at first. He lowered himself onto the crate across from Jisung, settling his elbows on his knees and letting out a long breath, as if just sitting down had taken more effort than it should've.

For a while, they said nothing.

The wind had calmed, tugging gently at the rigging above them. Somewhere nearby, Jeongin was complaining about saltwater in his socks, and someone else was laughing too loud at something that wasn't funny.

Chan rubbed the back of his neck, then finally said, "Jeongin told me what happened."

Jisung looked at him."Oh." He scratched at his wrist. "Right."

Chan nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the deck. "He told me you caught him. Said you pulled him back when he was basically already overboard."

"I mean, yeah," Jisung said, trying not to sound too flippant. "Wasn't gonna let him fly off. He still owes me a rematch of liar's dice."

Chan huffed a soft laugh at that, but his expression didn't quite lift.

"Still," he said. "Thank you. For real. That's my kid brother. I..." He paused. "I can't imagine if—"

He didn't finish.

He didn't have to.

Jisung nodded. "You're welcome."

Chan looked at him then, properly. The smile he gave was faint, but genuine. Still, something in his posture felt... Off. Too stiff. Like he was working too hard to keep his tone light.

Jisung noticed, but didn't press.

Chan wasn't being cold. Just... Awkward. Like someone holding a secret in his mouth and trying not to choke on it.

But Jisung was too tired to wonder what it might be.

"You've got a good crew," he said instead, voice quieter now. "They're... Rough. But they pulled together when it counted."

Chan nodded again. "They're the best I've known."

Another pause.

Jisung tilted his head, playful again. "You don't seem thrilled."

"I am thrilled," Chan said, but his voice was too even. Too controlled. "You've been good for morale. And you've proven yourself."

"Is this the part where you officially welcome me aboard?"

"Don't push your luck."

Jisung laughed softly, and so did Chan, but the weight still lingered beneath his words. Like he was about to say something else. Something heavier. But in the end, he didn't.

He just stood slowly and said, "You should rest."

"I will."

Chan paused again, like he wanted to add more. His mouth opened, then closed again.

And he walked away.

Jisung watched him go, then looked back out at the soft, dark water. The ship creaked and groaned beneath him like it, too, was finally exhaling.

Something about the conversation tugged at him.

But he brushed it off.

Chan had a lot on his mind. They all did.

And he was just grateful to still be here, still standing, after everything.

Chapter 7: Conflicted

Minho stood alone in his quarters, hands braced on either side of the navigation table, head bowed over the map like it might offer him a way out.

The candle burned low in its sconce, its flame steady in the absence of wind, but everything inside him still felt like it was swaying.

He'd plotted this course days ago. Memorized the tide schedule. Rechecked the approach path to Bartholomew's Reach until the paper nearly tore from overuse. He knew every contour, every marker, every margin of error.

He'd done all of it with the precision he was known for, the cool-headed, efficient kind that made his men follow him without question.

And still, here he stood, gripping the table like it might save him from drowning in his own uncertainty.

The door opened behind him.

Minho didn't turn.

"Is Jeongin okay?" he asked.

Chan stepped inside, quiet. He didn't answer right away. Just shut the door behind him and let the silence settle like fog.

"He's fine," Chan said eventually. "Shaken. A little embarrassed. Already milking it for sympathy."

Minho nodded once. Still didn't look up.

"And Jisung?" he asked, quieter.

"Bruised. Bloodied. Looks like hell."

Another pause.

"He saved my brother's life."

Minho's fingers curled tighter against the edge of the table.

Chan stepped further inside, boots thudding softly on the wooden floor. He stopped a few paces behind Minho. Gave him space.

"He didn't even think," Chan continued. "Just dove. Hit the deck hard enough to crack his knee and still got Jeongin by the arm before he went over."

Minho shut his eyes. "I know."

"Felix saw the whole thing. So did Hyunjin. It wasn't luck. It was instinct."

Minho said nothing.

"He's part of the crew now, whether you want to admit it or not."

"I never said he wasn't."

Chan raised an eyebrow. "You haven't had to. Not with that plan you're clearly still going through with"

That finally made Minho turn. His jaw was tight, shoulders stiff, eyes sharp, but tired. Not from the storm. From this.

"You think I wanted this?" he said. "You think I planned any of it? That I looked at some sarcastic merchant's son mid-raid and thought, 'yes, I'd love to upend everything I've built over someone who talks with his hands and flinches at seaweed?'"

Chan folded his arms. "No. But you're doing it anyway."

Minho looked away. "The message is already written ."

"Bartholomew's Reach."

"Yes."

Chan was silent for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You know he's earned it, right?"

Minho didn't answer.

"You know he's more than a bargaining chip. More than an accident."

Still, nothing.

"He's one of us," Chan said, softer now. "He works harder than half of us, bleeds without complaining, and the crew actually likes him. And today—"

"I know what he did today," Minho snapped, louder than he meant to.

Chan didn't flinch.

Chan's voice lowered again, rough. "He could've died."

"But he didn't."

"That doesn't make it better."

Chan's tone was gentler now. "Min... He didn't just save Jeongin. He chose us. In that moment, without hesitation. Isn't that what we're all looking for out here? Someone who chooses us?"

Minho's hands trembled where they rested on the table, and he balled them into fists.

"I'm not punishing him," he said. "I'm protecting the ship. The crew. All of you."

Chan stepped closer, his voice suddenly sharper. "By handing him over to the same people who didn't even bother trying to get him back for over a month?"

Minho didn't move.

"You're scared," Chan said. "Not of the Han Company. Of him. Of what this means. Of how much you'd risk if you admitted how you feel."

That hit like a punch.

Minho looked up sharply, but Chan was already backing off, stepping toward the door.

He reached for the handle, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

"If Jisung hadn't saved Jeongin today..." he said quietly, "would this plan of yours feel easier?"

Minho didn't respond.

Because he couldn't.

Chan opened the door and slipped out, leaving the candle flickering and the storm echoing in Minho's chest.

He stared at the map again, the inked path to Bartholomew's Reach twisting beneath his gaze.

A captain was supposed to keep course. Keep calm. Keep control.

But Minho didn't feel like a captain.

He felt like a man who'd already lost something, and was trying desperately not to see just how much it was worth.

The candle burned low beside him, its flame flickering with the gentle sway of the ship, casting warm golden shadows over the pages of his journal. Jisung sat cross-legged on a coil of rope, back pressed against the wall of the quarterdeck cabin, the shark-leather book open in his lap.

With his quill finally past the point of use, his charcoal stick replacement moved slowly, not like before, when words came out frantic and rushed like they'd outrun his thoughts. This time, he wrote deliberately. Carefully. Like he wanted to get it right.

The lines weren't poetry. Not yet. Just fragments.

Salt on my tongue and blood on my smile,
I gripped the rail and breathed for a while.
No fear in my chest, no plea to stay—
Just knowing I wasn't done that day.

He stared at it, brows furrowed. Then scrawled a line through the last two sentences and rewrote:

No fear in my chest, no cry, no sound
Just a pull in my gut not to go down.

He sat back and let out a long breath, the tension still lingering in his shoulders from earlier. His hands were sore. His thighs ached. His ribs twinged when he breathed too deep. And still, he felt okay.

Better than okay.

Proud.

He remembered Jeongin's weight in his arms, the terrible tilt of the deck, the scream of the wind. The cold slap of water as they both hit the boards, and then the quiet laughter afterward. The way the others had looked at him. Not like a liability. Not like dead weight.

Like crew.

He blinked hard, then smudged the corner of the page with the side of his hand.

He wasn't sure when he'd started thinking of them like that. We. Us.

It had slipped in somewhere between the bruises and the rope burn.

He didn't hear the footsteps until they were almost on top of him.

A boot nudged his shin.

He looked up to see Changbin towering over him, arms crossed, brow raised. He had a bandage wrapped around one forearm and a grease stain across his cheek. Somehow, it suited him.

"You writing another poem about your feelings?" Changbin asked.

Jisung squinted up at him. "Are you here to critique meter?"

"Nope." Changbin leaned forward, plucked the journal from his lap without warning, and held it up like he might skim it. "I'm here because dinner's almost gone, and you're pulling a classic poet move by missing it for brooding."

"Hey—!" Jisung lunged up, snatching the journal back. "It's not brooding. It's creative processing."

"Uh-huh. Tell that to your stomach. It's louder than your poetry."

"Rude."

"Hungry."

Jisung let out a soft laugh and tucked the journal under one arm, brushing charcoal dust from his palms. "Thanks for the warning."

Changbin shrugged. "You earned it. Might even sneak you the last decent biscuit."

"You're such a softie," Jisung muttered as they started walking.

"Say that again and you're getting splinter soup and a dented spoon."

Jisung grinned as they made their way toward the galley, the warm scent of stew and firelight growing stronger with each step.

The galley wasn't much, wood-panelled, dimly lit, slightly crooked on the port side, and one of the ceiling beams had cracked during the storm and was now bound in three ropes and one prayer. But after a storm like that, it might as well have been a palace.

The long table was cluttered with dented bowls, half a loaf of bread someone had rescued from the chaos, and a stew pot that still had steam rising from it. The lanterns swayed with the motion of the ship, casting flickering shadows across tired faces.

But everyone was there.

Felix was perched on a barrel, legs criss-crossed, eyes soft as he passed out spoons with exaggerated care like they were golden artifacts.

Changbin thumped a ladle into bowls like he was loading cannon rounds. "This is God's menu lads," he declared, voice gravel-thick. "If you don't like it, tough luck. It's the only hot thing on the ship besides Hyunjin's drama."

Hyunjin, lounging across two stools with his hair still damp and a scarf tied fashionably around his wrist, rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry you fear beauty, Bin."

"Fear's not the word I'd use," Changbin muttered.

"Envy, then," Hyunjin replied smoothly, examining his reflection in a spoon.

Seungmin sat nearest the stew pot, elbows tucked in, spoon raised with a surgeon's precision. "Is it actually edible this time?," he murmured.

"I only singed it a little," Jeongin said from the other end of the table, dramatically flopped sideways in his seat with a bandage peeking out beneath his sleeve. "Cooking while nearly dying is hard, okay?"

"You stirred it twice and then set a towel on fire," Seungmin said flatly.

"It was a very flammable towel."

Bang Chan chuckled, passing a hunk of bread to Hyunjin and shaking his head. "You're lucky you survived the storm, Innie. Now you've just got to survive yourself."

That got a round of snorts and smirks, even from Minho, who had been sitting at the far end of the table, quiet as always.

Jisung watched him for a moment, unsure what surprised him more, that Minho hadn't left yet, or that he looked so... Relaxed. The lines at the corners of his mouth hadn't disappeared, but they'd softened. His coat was off, sleeves rolled, rapier hung loose at his side.

And when he caught Jisung's eyes, he didn't look away.

He just raised one brow.

Jisung flushed and looked down at his soup.

"Eat," Chan said from beside him, nudging his shoulder with a smile. "You earned it."

"I think the soup's earned a warning label," Jisung muttered, but he dipped his spoon in anyway.

"Don't worry," Felix said, leaning in "there's no weird secret ingredient or anything"

A sudden clang made everyone jump. Jeongin had tried to balance his spoon on his nose and dropped it into his bowl instead, splashing stew across the table.

"Oh for God's sake," Seungmin sighed.

Changbin was cackling now, tears in his eyes as he elbowed Felix. "I give the kid a week before Hyunjin throws him off the bow."

"Rude," Hyunjin said sweetly. "He'd go over stern-first. Gotta keep the drama intact."

"That's horrifying," Felix murmured, barely suppressing a giggle.

"I like it," Jisung said through a mouthful of bread. "Feels like family dinner if your family was, you know... Well-armed and completely unhinged."

Everyone laughed, even Minho, though his was soft and short and barely there.

But Jisung saw it.

Felt it.

Bang Chan, leaning against the far wall with his bowl in hand, just shook his head and smiled. "And somehow we've managed another day where this mess of a ship stays afloat."

Jisung was wedged between Felix and Seungmin, legs curled beneath him, cradling his bowl like a victory trophy. His arms ached. His back was a single sore muscle. He was still damp. But the food was hot, the crew was alive, and someone had handed him a hunk of bread with minimal judgment. It was the best night he'd had in weeks.

Across from him, Minho sat at the edge of the table, one elbow on the wood, watching.

He hadn't said much.

But when Jisung's gaze flicked his way, Minho didn't look away.

He just nodded. Slight. Subtle.

Felix elbowed Jisung gently. "You're smiling."

"Am I?"

"Yeah. Big accomplishment for a guy who used to flinch at shadows."

Jisung shrugged. "Guess I got tired of being scared all the time."

"You stopped waiting to be told what to do," Chan added from across the room, tone light. "Started acting like you belonged here."

"I still don't know how to tie half the knots."

"Neither does Innie."

"Hey!" Jeongin said, affronted. "I know at least three knots."

"You named them after your emotions," Seungmin deadpanned.

"Yeah. 'Mild Panic.' 'Sudden dread.' 'Unbearable agony"

"Truly," Hyunjin sighed, "a master of his craft."

Jisung laughed, low and tired. He pressed his spoon to his lips and looked around, at the battered wood and crooked beams, at the people slumped in their chairs and passing bread like it was treasure. No one was mocking him. No one was waiting for him to slip up.

And in the gentle clatter of bowls and spoons, laughter and teasing, Jisung felt something settle deep in his chest.

Not joy.

Not even safety.

Just something like home.

The sea had calmed, but the tension hadn't.

Bartholomew's Reach was only two days out now, maybe less if the wind kept favouring them, and every shift of the sails felt like time pressing forward on a fuse Minho had already lit.

He stood near the helm, one gloved hand resting lightly on the rail, eyes fixed on the horizon. The wind was low, the sun was high, and the crew... Were laughing.

It grated in a way it shouldn't.

Not because he didn't want them happy. But because he could hear Jisung's voice in the middle of it. Again.

Down near the port stairs, Jeongin was attempting to tie a rope bundle one-handed and narrating it like a tragic epic. Jisung leaned against a barrel, coaching him through it, mostly with commentary like "wrap once for heartbreak, twice for denial."

Hyunjin, not to be left out, had declared himself a "knot critic" and was rating each attempt on a scale of flair.

Seungmin muttered under his breath about the decline of seamanship while still passing them extra line.

Felix just grinned, adjusting a pulley overhead. His hair had lightened in the sun again. His bruises were fading into paler yellow and greens.

Everyone was healing.

Except maybe Minho.

He exhaled through his nose and glanced to the side.

Chan stood several feet away, arms crossed, posture rigid. Not tense, Chan never looked tense, but distant in a way Minho hadn't seen in years. Cold shoulder, lowered eyes, shorter answers.

He hadn't said a word to Minho that didn't directly involve weather, sails, or steering.

And even then, only what was absolutely necessary.

Minho didn't blame him.

That, somehow, made it worse.

He turned back to the sea.

He didn't regret the plan. Not really.

Bartholomew's Reach, as the locals called it, was the best place to make the exchange. A neutral trade port. Isolated. Easy to slip in, make contact, and slip out again. No navy presence. Minimal witnesses. Exactly what he needed to hand Jisung over, collect the reward, and be done with this.

It was clean. Strategic. The right move.

He'd told himself that a hundred times.

But every day that passed... It got harder to believe it.

Jisung didn't act like a hostage anymore. Didn't carry himself like cargo waiting to be reclaimed. He worked. Ate. Laughed. Trained with Hyunjin until he could almost hold his own in a spar. Helped Changbin clean gun casings and had recently won a round of cards against Seungmin with nothing but a bluff and a wink.

He'd integrated. Effortlessly.

And the crew had let him in.

Even Hyunjin. Even Chan.

Minho swallowed against the tightness in his throat and looked back at the deck.

Jisung was balancing on the edge of the cargo hatch, arms out like a tightrope walker, grinning as Jeongin tried to heckle him into falling off. Someone shouted "fifty silver says he sticks the landing" and someone else shouted "he's gonna faceplant into the flour barrel."

Minho watched the way the sun caught in Jisung's hair. How he grinned with his whole face now, not the guarded, wary smirks he'd arrived with.

He looked happy.

And Minho felt sick.

Because he was the one about to take that away.

Because this was the part that should've felt like relief. The plan was working. The destination was in sight. The payout was near.

And all Minho could feel was a growing, aching pressure in his chest.

Regret.

He shoved it down.

The sea didn't care about feelings. The trade lines didn't forgive sentiment. And the Han Trading Company wasn't going to forget a stolen heir just because Minho had a moment of weakness in a storm.

This is what has to happen, he told himself.

And then, as if summoned, Jisung turned, still balancing, still laughing, and spotted him watching.

Their eyes met.

Minho didn't look away.

And Jisung didn't smile.

Not this time.

He just tipped his head, a question Minho didn't have the answer to, then hopped down lightly and joined the others again.

Minho's hands clenched on the rail.

Two days.

Jisung stood near the starboard rail as the Levanter skimmed across open water, the sails full and the sky mercifully clear. The morning sun painted long shadows across the deck, and the breeze was just strong enough to tug at the loose strands of his lengthening hair.

It was, by all accounts, a beautiful day.

But Jisung couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting on the horizon.

Minho had mentioned docking at Bartholomew's Reach a few days earlier. "Resupply," he'd said, with the same offhand tone he used when declaring a shift in heading or correcting someone's grip on a blade. Nothing had seemed unusual. No extra tension in his voice. No storm brewing in his expression.

Still... Jisung felt something tightening. Like a knot that had started small and was now slowly cinching tighter.

He just didn't know what it was.

He shifted his weight, leaning forward to watch the waves break along the hull. It was strange, how familiar it all felt now. The deck beneath his boots. The smell of salt and wood and wind. The distant creak of the rigging. He'd stopped thinking of it as strange days ago.

Maybe even longer than that.

Maybe this is just... Life now.

He could still remember the version of himself who had first stepped, no, been dragged, aboard the Levanter. The silks. The ruffled lace cuffs. The mirror-shined boots.

Now his coat was frayed, stitched, and re-stitched again. His boots were scuffed and always damp, and he carried Minho's dagger tucked into his belt at all times, just in case.

And it hadn't made him harder. Not in the way he'd feared.

It had just made him real.

"Careful," a deep voice said nearby. "You've got that storm-in-your-ribs look again."

Jisung turned to see Felix stepping up beside him, rolling his sleeves as he scanned the horizon. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Jisung lied. Then shrugged. "Just... A little twitchy."

"Too much stillness after too much chaos," Felix said, nodding. "I get it. Makes you start hearing things that aren't there."

"Like what?"

Felix tapped his own temple. "Old fears. New doubts. Ghosts of people you used to be."

Jisung stared at him. "You always this poetic when you're on rope coil duty?"

"Only for you."

They grinned, bumping shoulders. And just like that, the ache in Jisung's chest lightened a little.

The next two days passed like that, slow, steady, uneventful.

Almost suspiciously so.

Jeongin taught Jisung a new knot he decided to call "the low-stakes betrayal", then proceeded to tie it around his own boot and declare it art. Hyunjin spent an afternoon dramatically braiding his hair in the sun while reciting lines from a tragic monologue, and Jisung actually volunteered to help him pin it in place.

Seungmin roped him into reorganizing a set of maps and insulted his handwriting every six minutes like clockwork. Changbin offered him a bite of dried fruit with the air of a man proposing a truce, then immediately threw a spoon at him when Jisung said it tasted like regret.

Even Chan had thawed a little. He didn't avoid Jisung anymore. Didn't watch him the way he had right after the storm. Whatever tension had hung between them seemed to have shifted, settled into something closer to quiet acceptance.

The only one still keeping space?

Minho.

He was present, of course. Always present. At the helm. Checking repairs. Whispering low over navigation charts with Chan. But he didn't speak to Jisung unless it was necessary. And even then, it was short. Distant.

Like he was holding him at arm's length.

It wasn't new. Not exactly. But it hurt more now than it used to. Maybe because Jisung had started to crave that attention. Those glances. The quiet, rare conversations that left him thinking for hours afterward.

He tried not to let it show.

By the next morning, land appeared on the horizon.

Bartholomew's Reach.

From a distance, it looked like nothing, just a crooked sliver of coastline with jagged cliffs on the southern side and a tangle of mismatched buildings stretching up toward the tree line. The dock was small, but active, already speckled with sails from smaller trade vessels.

The crew leaned against the rail, staring out at it. Seungmin was already grumbling about the "predictable inefficiency of shore markets," and Hyunjin declared he would only step off the ship if they found somewhere with actual chairs.

"Or real soap," Felix added.

"I'm finding a bakery," Jeongin said excitedly. "I want to try pastry, Yunho told me all about it."

Jisung laughed, soft and unexpected. The breeze carried the scent of land now, green things, old stone, and something vaguely sweet on the air.

And still, that knot in his chest didn't ease.

He glanced toward Minho, who stood at the helm, calm as ever.

No tension in his jaw. No crack in the mask.

But something was off.

And Jisung couldn't name it.

Didn't want to.

The ropes creaked. The sails flapped once, then fell slack as they slowed, gliding into the harbour under Minho's practiced hand.

The Levanter docked with barely a jolt.

They'd arrived.

Chapter 8: Bartholomew’s Reach

Bartholomew's Reach smelled like brine, sugar, and secrets.

Minho stepped off the Levanter without ceremony, coat buttoned up, hood drawn just low enough to keep most people from looking too closely. The docks were busy in the way only fringe trade towns could be, organized chaos with rules that changed depending on the mood of the tide.

The crew had scattered behind him, or rather, were being encouraged to scatter. Jeongin was already chattering finding a bakery, and dragging Felix & Hyunjin toward the town with dangerous determination. Chan and Changbin headed toward the chandlery to haggle for powder and extra flint. Seungmin claimed he was going to "inspect the quality of this town's alleged ink" with a suspicious amount of disdain.

Minho didn't stop them.

In fact, he told them to go.

"Take two days," he'd said, voice even. "Eat something decent. Rest your legs. You've earned it."

And it was true.

They had.

They deserved every cup of rum, every pastry, every warm bath they could find.

They didn't know what he was really doing here.

He intended to keep it that way.

Minho took a narrow alley just off the main thoroughfare and stepped into the shadow of a half-sunken building tucked between a dry goods shop and what might've once been a pub. The shutters were sealed, the door unmarked, but it was still here, just as it had been the last time he'd passed through years ago.

He knocked twice. Waited. Then once more, sharp.

The door opened inward without a word.

Inside, it was cool and musty, lit by the low flicker of a lantern hooked to a beam overhead. A woman in a drab brown beaded shawl sat behind a desk, half her face shadowed, the other blank with disinterest.

"Minho," she said without warmth or surprise.

"Quin," he answered.

She gestured to the table. "Letter?"

He pulled a folded piece of parchment from inside his coat. He'd rewritten it three times before sealing it. Now it was pressed flat, signed with a mark that meant nothing to the casual eye but everything to the Han Trading Company.

I have your son. He is alive. Unharmed. We will be at port in Bartholomew's Reach for three days. Respond with haste.

He handed it over.

Quin took it. Didn't open it. Didn't need to.

"Delivery?" She asked, as if Minho didn't already know her talents.

"You already know where."

"I always do."

She tucked it inside a hidden pouch beneath the desk, then poured him a small glass of something that looked and smelled like varnish. Minho didn't drink it.

"You'll get your answer within two days," she said.

He nodded, didn't thank her, and left.

Back on the main street, the light was too bright. The air smelled sweeter.

Minho inhaled through his nose and exhaled slow.

It was done.

He'd sent the message. Set the terms.

All that remained now was to wait.

The Levanter looked out of place at dock, a ship that didn't belong anywhere too long, tethered temporarily by rope and permission. But the crew was already dispersed, laughter trailing down the dock like smoke.

Jisung was leaning near the railing, chatting with Jeongin and Felix. His jacket was open, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair a mess in the wind. He looked like he'd never belonged anywhere else.

Minho didn't approach.

Didn't look too long.

Didn't give himself that permission.

Instead, he crossed the deck to Chan, who stood beside the helm post, checking over the ledger of supplies.

"Message is sent," Minho said.

Chan didn't look up. "Figured."

Minho hesitated. "We'll stay until the reply comes in. Three days. We can resupply some essentials the last day before we raise anchor."

Chan flipped a page in the ledger.

"Let them enjoy it while they can," Minho added.

"I plan to," Chan said, finally meeting his eyes. "You're the only one pretending this isn't going to end badly."

Minho said nothing.

Chan closed the book. "We'll be docked. But I'll keep the anchor ready."

Minho gave a tight nod and turned away.

The crew had scattered.

The missive had been sent.

And now there was nothing left to do but wait, and pretend the weight in his chest wasn't starting to feel like something dangerously close to regret.

He cursed under his breath and turned away sharply.

The movement made something at his side shift, the slight tug of weight at his belt.

The compass.

He hesitated.

Then, with a flick of his fingers, he pulled it free.

It was a beautiful thing. Heavy. Old. Crafted from blackened brass and deep silver, the metal etched with runes no one had ever been able to translate for him. He'd found it years ago, in the wreckage of a ship no one else had dared board. And ever since, he'd carried it.

Trusted it.

The compass didn't point north.

It never had.

It pointed to something else, something deeper. What, exactly, he didn't know. Where you're meant to go, Quin had once told him.

He'd never decided if that was comforting or terrifying, and avoided using it unless he felt truly lost.

Now, standing there in the sunlight with that message already sent and his crew already wandering free, he unlatched the lid and let the needle spin.

It whirled violently at first, trembling as if fighting itself, then gradually began to slow.

Minho watched it, breath still.

One breath. Two.

The needle jerked.

Twitched.

Then stopped.

Dead straight.

Pointing toward the dock.

Minho's stomach dropped.

He turned, slowly, following the invisible line...

And saw Jisung.

Still laughing. Still alive. Still there, unaware that the world had shifted again, that some force had just drawn a perfect line between his heart and someone else's.

"No," Minho whispered.

He stared at the needle.

Willed it to move.

It didn't.

It just stayed there. Steady, silent, certain.

His jaw clenched.

Then, with one sharp motion, he snapped the lid shut and shoved the compass back onto its clip at his belt.

"No," he muttered under his breath. "Not now. I'm not changing course again. I've done enough."

The metal felt heavier now.

As if it were disappointed in him.

He turned away from the rail, walking back toward the stairs with deliberate, clipped steps.

He didn't look again.

Didn't let himself feel it, the way the ache had curled tighter in his ribs, or how the silence inside the compass felt like a judgment.

He had made a choice.

And he would follow it through.

Because if he didn't...

He wasn't sure he'd survive what it meant to do otherwise.

Bartholomew's Reach was the kind of place that smelled like cinnamon and salt, like half-forgotten stories and stolen time. Jisung wasn't sure if he loved it or if it terrified him. Maybe both.

The town stretched uphill in a crooked sprawl, all sun-bleached brick and uneven rooftops. Ladders leaned against buildings forgotten, and lanterns swung from wires overhead. It felt alive in the chaotic, indulgent way only port towns could, loud music from open tavern doors, spice-sellers shouting over the clang of blacksmiths, and somewhere in the mix, a child laughing while chasing a chicken.

It was perfect.

The moment they stepped arrived in the town centre, Jeongin practically buzzed with energy.

"Where do we start?" he asked, eyes wide, arms thrown out like he might take off. "Food? Trinkets? Bar fights?"

"Let's... Not lead with bar fights," Jisung said, catching his arm before he sprinted toward the nearest fruit vendor. "How about something simple first? Have you ever had a pastry that wasn't dried to death with sea salt?"

Jeongin blinked. "You mean like... Bread that fluffs?"

Jisung laughed. "Come on."

Their first stop was a bakery run by a man with no teeth but plenty of sugar. Jisung bought Jeongin something flaky and golden and swore the boy's soul momentarily left his body on the first bite.

"It's so soft," Jeongin moaned, halfway through it. "I didn't know food could be emotional."

They found Felix in a tucked-away stall selling silver charms and tiny glass vials, his sleeves rolled and his gaze oddly focused.

"You good?" Jisung asked.

Felix looked up, smiling. "Just shopping for something to replace Seungmin's broken ink bottle. He won't say it, but he's still mad."

"What broke it?"

"I dropped a hammer on it."

"Of course."

They helped him pick one, a blue-streaked bottle that shimmered faintly in the light, and when they gifted it to Seungmin that evening, he simply muttered, "Acceptable," and moved on.

Which, in Seungmin-speak, was a rave review.

Jisung and Hyunjin visited a seamstress who sold embroidered gloves and hair ribbons from a cart lined with crushed velvet. Hyunjin tried on three different scarves and turned the entire thing into a miniature fashion show in the alley.

"Thoughts?" he asked, spinning in a vermillion sash. "Does this say danger or tragic longing?"

"Both," Jisung said. "But mostly expensive."

Hyunjin bought it anyway. "I'm a walking investment."

Later, Changbin dragged them into a cramped tavern with low ceilings and an actual sword embedded in the rafters. He insisted they try the "burnwater whiskey", and after one sip, Jisung nearly cried.

"You drink this voluntarily?" he choked.

"I like the burn," Changbin grinned.

Jeongin beat a local at a dice game and then lost the next three rounds on purpose to flirt with the barkeep. Jisung watched it unfold like a slow-motion shipwreck and offered no rescue.

Back on the ship that night, Jisung flopped onto his hammock feeling full, not just from food, but from motion. From joy. From belonging.

By the second day, they moved more slowly. The sun hung heavy, and the town seemed to pulse with a lazier kind of energy.

Jeongin tugged Jisung down a cobbled lane toward an open-air apothecary. "Okay, explain this," he said, pointing at a rack of labelled bottles. "Do you know the difference between sea lavender and river lavender?"

"One smells like a romantic tragedy," Jisung said, "and the other smells like regret."

Jeongin stared. "...So that's a no?"

"I have no idea," Jisung admitted.

They wandered past a brass work shop, where Jeongin bought a spinning trinket shaped like a crab and named it Commander Pinch. They watched a fire-eater perform near the fountain and helped Hyunjin politely evade a very dramatic suitor who insisted they'd "met in a dream."

"I haunt dreams," Hyunjin had said, "but yours must be low-budget."

It was all so good. So painfully normal in a way Jisung hadn't known he missed.

And then, sometime just before sunset, it hit him.

They were two days into port. The crew scattered. No chains. No guards. No reason he couldn't have slipped away.

He could've left.

He could've vanished into the crowd, sold the dagger he still carried, and booked passage anywhere else. Anywhere.

But the idea didn't thrill him.

It made his stomach turn.

Because he didn't want to leave.

He didn't want anywhere else.

He wanted the deck creaking under his boots. The smell of Felix's oil. The way Changbin shouted when things didn't explode enough. He wanted Seungmin's grumbling and Hyunjin's hairbrush crises. He wanted Chan's quiet steadiness. Jeongin's chaos.

Minho.

He didn't even let himself finish that thought.

He just stood there, in the middle of the square, surrounded by laughter and coloured awnings and the burn of sun on his face, and realized that he'd stopped being lost.

And started being home.

The letter came wrapped in white.

No wax seal, no personal touch, just a folded square of high-grade parchment bound with a crisp silver ribbon. It was delivered directly to Minho's quarters on the Levanter, handed off by a hooded courier who didn't say a word and disappeared before the echo of his footsteps faded down the dock.

Minho turned the envelope over in his hand.

The paper was smooth, scentless. Businesslike.

He sat at his desk, the ship quiet around him, most of the crew still off in the city, laughing and burning through their allowance with wild abandon. The sunset cast red across the wooden floor. He hadn't lit the lantern yet.

He didn't need to.

He already knew what the letter would say.

He broke the ribbon and unfolded the page.

There were only a few sentences.

To Captain Lee Minho,
We acknowledge receipt of your message.
The reward of 10,000 gold coins will be provided in full upon delivery.
Meet at the Embassy Office at dawn on the third day.
No further arrangements necessary.

— H.T.C.

That was it.

No mention of gratitude.

No inquiry into Jisung's condition.

No hesitation.

No warmth.

Just a transaction.

Minho stared at the page. His jaw flexed. Slowly, he folded the paper once, then again. Creased it perfectly. Pressed the edge flat.

Then leaned back in his chair and exhaled.

10,000 gold coins.

It was more than generous. More than expected.

Enough to fund the Levanter for a year. Maybe two. They could double the powder stores, replace the rear rigging, even consider . It was the kind of reward most captains would kill for.

He should've felt relief.

He felt hollow.

Like he'd opened a treasure chest and found dust inside.

His thumb tapped absently against the table's edge.

Ten thousand coins. For a man whose name hadn't even warranted a single line in their message.

He thought of Jisung's face, flushed with laughter earlier that morning, sun on his cheek, hands full of sweetbread he insisted on sharing with Jeongin. He thought of the storm. The steady grip. The blood on his knuckles. The look in his eyes when he'd pulled Jeongin back on board.

And now: a price tag.

As if that was all he'd ever been.

Minho stood slowly.

He crossed the room, pulled open the small drawer at the top of his desk, and tucked the letter deep inside, under a weather log and a packet of dried flowers from a town he no longer remembered.

He closed it with a soft click.

Then he sat back down.

He didn't reach for the ink to write a confirmation. He didn't send word to Chan. He didn't even move for a long, long time.

Because the deal had been struck.

And now he had to live with it.

The ship was unusually silent.

The sun had gone down hours ago, leaving the harbour cloaked in a soft hush broken only by the lap of water against the hull and the distant din of taverns further inland. A warm breeze skimmed across the deck, stirring the sails just enough to make them whisper.

Jisung hadn't meant to find Minho.

He'd meant to be alone, to return early from the city, wander the deck, maybe write. But there he was, standing near the stern rail, alone, outlined by moonlight, coat unbuttoned and loose around him like a second shadow.

Jisung almost turned around.

But something stopped him.

Maybe the wind.

Maybe the silence.

Maybe the way Minho didn't seem surprised when he spoke without turning.

"You're back early."

"Wasn't in a drinking mood," Jisung said softly, stepping up beside him. "Too many people in too few rooms."

Minho nodded once. "That's ports."

"I thought about getting a tattoo."

That earned him a glance. "Really?."

"Well... I thought about thinking about it."

Minho's lips twitched. "Where would you get it?"

Jisung shrugged. "Behind my ear. Or on my ankle. Maybe my ribs. Somewhere dramatic and easy to hide."

Minho hummed. "All good choices."

Silence again.

The waves lapped gently against the hull.

Jisung leaned his arms on the rail. "I think I forgot what land was supposed to feel like."

"It never stops moving," Minho murmured.

"That's the ship."

"No," Minho said. "It's you."

Jisung blinked, startled by the softness in his voice. He turned, just slightly, to look at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

But Minho didn't answer.

He just stared out over the water, eyes unreadable, the wind playing through his hair. There was something tight in his posture, something braced and quiet, like a man trying not to flinch before a blow.

"You ever get the feeling something's coming?" Jisung asked, voice barely more than a breath.

Minho didn't look at him. "Constantly."

Another long silence stretched between them.

Jisung glanced at the stars. "I used to wish for something like this. Before. When I still wore silk and got annoyed at lukewarm tea."

He let out a quiet laugh.

"I used to think the sea would ruin me."

Minho's voice was barely audible. "Has it?"

Jisung looked at him, really looked at him, and for just a moment, Minho let him. No walls. No armour.

"No," Jisung said. "I think it made me."

The words hovered between them.

Minho turned to face him then, eyes darker than the water. Something unreadable passed through his expression, a flicker of want, of conflict, of something deeper and more dangerous than either of them were ready to name.

And then he looked away.

Back to the sea.

"Get some sleep," he said, quietly.

Jisung didn't argue.

He just lingered a moment longer, trying not to ask what's wrong, even though it pressed against the back of his teeth like a wave trying to break.

Then he nodded.

And walked away.

Minho didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Not until the sound of Jisung's footsteps faded completely into the night.

The world was still grey when someone knocked against the side of Jisung's hammock.

He stirred, blinking blearily in the pale pre-dawn light. His muscles ached in familiar places. His shirt was twisted around his waist, and a piece of rope had tangled itself in his hair again.

He squinted upward.

Minho stood above him, shadowed by the lantern on the beam. Fully dressed. Boots on. Coat buttoned. Expression unreadable.

"Come with me," he said softly. "I've got an errand in town."

Jisung blinked again. "Is it even light out?"

"Almost."

He didn't ask why Minho wasn't taking Chan or Seungmin or just going alone, he didn't have the brain cells for questions yet. He just rubbed his eyes, groaned faintly, and rolled out of the hammock with the grace of a dropped anchor.

"Give me a minute," he muttered, grabbing for his coat.

"Five," Minho said. "Then we go."

They didn't speak much on the way.

Bartholomew's Reach was still asleep, shutters drawn, alleyways hushed. The bakery had started their ovens, and the smell of rising bread floated on the breeze. Seagulls wheeled above the tiled roofs like scouts without orders.

Jisung yawned into his sleeve as they crossed the stone bridge into the merchant quarter. "If this is about tea," he said blearily, "you could've brought Felix."

"It's not."

"What kind of errand needs two people at sunrise?"

Minho didn't answer. He kept walking.

His boots were steady on the cobbles. Every step was precise. Controlled.

Jisung didn't notice the way his fists clenched, or the way he glanced, just once, toward the slim leather pouch tucked beneath his coat that housed his compass.

He didn't notice the way Minho's jaw twitched when he glanced toward the embassy spire rising above the rooftops.

He didn't ask.

Didn't think to.

He just followed.

Because Minho had asked him to.

And Jisung, without realizing it, had already made a habit of saying yes to Minho.

The port city of Bartholomew's Reach in the pre-dawn light stank of sun-warmed fish, seawater, and politics.

Minho hated it already.

They walked in silence. He and Jisung. Just the two of them. No guards, no backup, his choice. His call. Too many eyes on him lately, too much noise in his own head. The sooner he got this over with, the better. And he still didn't trust the Han Trading Company enough to risk putting any of the crew in danger.

Jisung walked beside him, half-asleep and blindly trusting him.

They reached the meeting point, a stone embassy building with arched windows and neutral flags. An old trade house repurposed for diplomacy. Discreet. Impersonal.

Minho hated it more than the docks.

Inside, a Han Trading Company official met them in a narrow side chamber with polished floors and thick glass that blocked out all sea wind. He was flanked by two guards in pale gold livery, clean-shaven, unreadable.

The official didn't bow.

Didn't look surprised.

Didn't even glance at Jisung.

"Captain Lee," he said smoothly. "We appreciate your compliance."

Minho's eyes flicked toward him. "Where's the payment?"

The man raised a brow. "You'll be compensated. After formal verification."

"Verification?" Jisung repeated, confused. "For what?"

There was a pause.

A pause just long enough to feel dangerous.

The embassy official looked up then, not at Minho, but at Jisung.

And this time, he met his eyes directly.

"For the return of stolen property," he said smoothly. "Captain Lee has come to collect the bounty for your safe delivery."

Jisung's stomach dropped.

"What?" His voice cracked around the word. "What are you talking about?"

The official turned back to the papers. "Ten thousand gold, as agreed."

And suddenly, it clicked.

Reward. Delivery. Verification.

Jisung's pulse went cold.

He turned sharply, eyes locking onto Minho.

"Tell me he's wrong," he said, breath short. "Minho, tell me that isn't what this is."

Minho didn't answer.

He didn't move.

Didn't even flinch.

He just stood there, still and sharp and silent as stone.

And Jisung felt something fracture.

A clean, terrible split down the middle of something that had been growing slowly in the dark, trust, or maybe hope. Or something softer. Something worse.

His breath caught in his chest.

"You brought me here," he whispered. "You brought me here."

Still, no answer.

Minho couldn't speak.

Because if he opened his mouth, he knew something would escape, something that wasn't command or calculation, something he couldn't afford to feel, let alone admit in this place.

So he watched instead.

Watched as realization hit Jisung fully, the disbelief draining into shock, the tremor in his hands, the slight step back like he'd been struck and was trying to hold his balance.

Jisung's eyes were wide.

Then narrowed.

Then lowered.

Not in shame.

In something worse.

Resignation.

He looked down at the floor for a long moment, as if something in him had gone suddenly, painfully still.

When he looked up again, the fight was gone from his face.

No more questions. No more pleading.

Only a hollow sort of calm.

"Right," he said quietly. "Of course."

The official smiled, not kindly. "Now if we could proceed ahead, The Company has a duty to collect its property. We don't need to be sentimental about it."

Jisung flinched.

Minho noticed. He didn't let it show.

"You'll hand him over," the official continued. "Then we'll complete the process internally."

"Meaning?" Minho asked.

"Meaning he'll be debriefed, processed, and dealt with as appropriate."

Jisung stared.

Debriefed.

Processed.

Dealt with.

Minho had known, on some level, that returning Jisung to the Han family wasn't going to be flowers and reunion parades. But hearing it like that, flat and administrative, like he was a defective crate of fruit

It still landed like a knife in the gut.

Minho's voice dropped. "You said there would be payment."

The official's smile widened. "We lied."

The silence was thick as fog on a sea bank.

Jisung somehow found his voice first. "You're not serious."

The man didn't even look at him. "Quiet."

"You gave your word—"

"Enough."

One of the guards stepped forward, gloved hand gripping Jisung's shoulder.

Minho moved, sharp, instinctive, but the second guard had already drawn his blade.

"Captain," the official said, tone warning, "you were foolish to come alone."

Minho's jaw clenched. His fists curled so tight his knuckles ached.

It had been a trap from the start.

"You're being detained," the official said coolly, as the guards stepped forward. "For piracy. For interfering with Han property. And for consorting with stolen cargo."

He didn't look at Jisung when he said it. Just the word, cargo, like Jisung wasn't even in the room.

"You'll be held until dawn," the official continued, voice like cut glass. "Then taken to the city square for public execution."

Minho's blood went cold and he heard a sharp intake of breath from beside him.

"Execution," he repeated, low.

"Hangman's noose," the official confirmed, turning away like he was already bored. "It's a clean drop. Consider it a mercy."

The guards moved in.

Minho didn't resist. Not here. Not yet. There were too many of them, and Jisung...
Minho's eyes flicked toward him. Just once.

Brief. Sharp. A thousand things unsaid.

The steel cuffs snapped shut around his wrists.

Jisung lunged. "No—"

A guard caught him by the arm, wrenching him back.

"You can't—!" he shouted, struggling against their grip. "You can't just kill him, not without a trial or... Something!"

The guard shoved him hard enough to stumble. "Silence. You'll speak when spoken to."

Minho didn't look back as they dragged him away.

But he heard Jisung's voice, ragged and furious, echoing all the way down the corridor.

They took Minho.

And Jisung lost it.

"You bastards—!" he shouted, twisting against the guard's grip. "You can't do this!"

The second guard seized his other arm, iron fingers digging in, but he kicked anyway, teeth bared. "Let go of me! Let him FREE!"

Minho had already disappeared around the corner. No noise. No resistance. Just... Gone. And the moment he vanished from view, something in Jisung snapped.

He thrashed. Elbowed. Nearly got a knee free to land a hit, but the guards were too strong, too practiced. They didn't yell back. Didn't react. Just lifted him off his feet like he weighed nothing at all.

"You think putting a rope around his neck makes the world cleaner? You're just replacing one sin with another!" Jisung screamed, voice cracking. "Don't do this! Please! He doesn't deserve this!"

No response.

Not a word.

They didn't even look at him. Didn't answer. Just hauled him up a flight of stairs and down a wide, polished corridor, his boots scuffing and dragging over the marble floor in a way that made his skin crawl.

"You're murdering him—" he gasped, breath catching. "You're going to just hang him and pretend that's justice?"

Still silence.

Only the click of boots on tile. The distant ticking of a wall-mounted clock.

Then: a heavy door. A gold-plated lock. The sound of a key turning.

The guards shoved the door open and tossed him inside.

He stumbled, caught himself on a velvet armchair, and turned back just in time to see the door slam shut. The key turned again. Metal scraped against metal.

He was locked in.

He lunged for the door before he could think better of it, slamming both fists against the polished wood with a crack that echoed through the chamber. "Let me out!" he shouted, voice hoarse, raw. He hit it again. And again. Until the bones in his hand screamed and the skin at his knuckles split open. The pain bit deep, but he didn't stop, not right away. Not until his breath stuttered in his chest and his forehead dropped against the cool surface with a hollow thunk. No answer. No footsteps. No mercy.

Silence followed.

True silence, now.

The kind that pressed against your ribs and asked if it was over.

The room was enormous.

Golden curtains. Silk sheets. A carved bedpost with gilded accents. A sideboard stacked with brandy and fruit. Everything smelled like polished wood and rosewater. There were two decanters. Three mirrors. A large set of double doors leading out to a wrought iron balcony.

It was beautiful.

It was suffocating.

Jisung turned in a slow circle, heart hammering.

The dagger, Minho's dagger, was still tucked in his coat. Somehow, they hadn't searched him. Maybe they thought it unnecessary. Maybe they'd assumed he was broken already.

They weren't entirely wrong.

He stood in the centre of the room, breathing hard, pulse loud in his ears, fists clenched tight enough to ache.

Minho was in a cell.

Minho was going to die.

And he, Han Jisung, son of the Han Trading Company, golden-blooded merchant brat, was being tucked away like a misbehaving heir, locked in a room with brandy and luxury and not a single ounce of freedom.

The absurdity of it hit like a slap.

He sank into the chair without meaning to, chest still rising and falling in uneven bursts. His throat hurt. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

His throat ached from shouting. His eyes still burned, not from tears, but from holding them back with a rage so sharp it had turned into nausea.

He betrayed me.

Minho had walked him into that room like it meant nothing. Hadn't spoken. Hadn't stopped it.

Hadn't looked sorry.

The memory stabbed through him again, the quiet cold of Minho's silence, the way his eyes hadn't even flickered as the official confirmed the trade.

A trade.

A transaction.

Jisung was a name on a paper and a price tag.

And Minho had handed him over.

He clenched his jaw, dug his nails into his palms.

Anger rose in him again, fierce and bitter and hot.

But beneath it, below the bruised fury, the humiliation, the betrayal, something else churned. Something worse.

Minho is going to die.

And that thought...

That thought nearly broke him.

Because even now, even now, after what Minho had done, after that unbearable silence, after choosing gold over him...

Jisung still didn't want to lose him.

Didn't want him in a cell.

Didn't want him hanged.

Didn't want this to be how their story ended.

The storm had been easier than this. Cleaner.

This was grief with the edges still raw, pressed between ribs.

"This is so—" he choked, running both hands through his hair, fingers trembling. "So stupid."

He stood suddenly. Paced the length of the room once, twice, like the walls might give if he hit them hard enough.

They didn't.

He stopped at the balcony doors, chest still heaving. His reflection stared back in the glass, shirt rumpled, hair a mess, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He sold you out.

And you're still thinking of going after him.

Jisung laughed, sharp and bitter. "God, I'm a disaster."

But then he looked down.

At the edge of the balcony.

At the ivy-covered trellis reaching to the ground two floors below.

It wasn't a plan. Not yet. Not really.

Just a possibility.

A promise made of shadows and leaves and a little recklessness.

But Minho was in a cell.

And Jisung wasn't staying in this room.

Not when he still had breath in his lungs.

Not when Minho's time was running out.

The betrayal could wait.

So could the anger.

He pulled the dagger out of his coat pocket and tucked it into his belt with shaking hands.

Then he unlatched the balcony door, climbed onto the rail...

... And began to climb.

Chapter 9: A Question of Loyalty

The cell was stone and iron and nothing else.

No windows. No torch other than lower down the corridor. Just the steady drip of water in the far corner and the faint scent of mildew clinging to everything like a second skin. Minho sat on the edge of the low bench, wrists still bound, ankles chained against the feet of it.

His breathing was steady. His pulse wasn't.

The bruises from the guards were manageable. Bruises healed.

The insult did not.

He wasn't angry at the Han Company. Not truly.

They'd played their hand the moment they called Jisung "cargo." The moment they looked at Minho like he was trash dragged in on a tide and not a man who had, until recently, been the one keeping their so-called "golden son" alive.

He was angry at himself.

For letting it happen.

For thinking, however briefly, that this could be neat. That he could make the handoff, walk away, and carry on. That giving Jisung back to his family, his blood, would somehow be the safer, cleaner choice.

He thought it would be cruel to keep him.

But now he knew better.

Cruel was watching Jisung be treated like freight.

Cruel was hearing his name, spoken like an inventory line item.

And worst of all?

Cruel was seeing Jisung try to fight for him anyway.

He'd tried, loud and furious and so visibly shaken. Minho hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected him to shout. To struggle. To fight. But he had.

No hesitation.

Even when they knocked him aside.

Even when they dragged Minho away.

He'd looked back just once, and Jisung had been there, straining against the guard's grip, eyes wide with something between panic and disbelief.

Like he hadn't realized until that moment just how determined he was to fight.

And now?

Minho didn't know where he was.

Locked in some opulent guest room? Tossed in a carriage? Already halfway home?

And what would happen after that?

Minho pictured it, Jisung returned to his family. Given a new coat, a tidy list of expectations, and a seat at a polished table he didn't ask for.

They'd pretend he hadn't vanished. Pretend he hadn't been nothing more than their bargaining chip.

They'd dress him in gold and call it home.

But it wouldn't be.

Because Minho had seen the real Jisung.
Not the name. Not the bloodline.

The boy who talked too fast. The man who fought with his heart. The writer, the poet, the rogue... The one who made even pirates stop and listen.

The crew had seen him too.

His crew.

And in just over one month, they'd clearly come to care more for Jisung than the Han Company had in his whole life.

They'd laughed with him. Ate and drank beside him. Called him one of their own.

Jeongin had practically adopted him. Hyunjin now only pretended to hate him and failed daily. Chan had defended him in Minho's own quarters.

And Felix...

Felix had given him his blanket, his flask, and that look. That soft, subtle look that meant: we're keeping this one.

And Minho...

Minho...

He sat in silence, jaw tight, and finally let the truth creep in through the cracks.

If he was being honest, and who else was left to lie to now? He might care the most of all.

Not just because of the kiss.

Because of all of it. The quiet moments. The rage. The stupid, shining hope in Jisung's eyes when he talked about stars and storms and stories.

Minho had spent years keeping himself hard and cold and unreadable. But Jisung had looked at him like there was more. Like he wanted there to be more.

And now...

Now he was gone.

And Minho was going to die.

At dawn, they'd lead him to the gallows. Hang him like a picture. Quiet. Efficient.

The crew wouldn't know.

They'd wait, maybe. Wonder.

Then sail.

They wouldn't find his body. Wouldn't hear the truth. No letters. No last words.

Just a gap.

An empty space at the helm.

And Jisung...

He didn't even get a goodbye.

Minho sat still on the cold bench, back pressed to the wall, wrists bruised where the cuffs had sat for too long. The air in the cell tasted like iron and damp stone, and time crawled slow through the dark, like even it was trying to delay what came next.

But there were no more delays.

Not this time.

The gallows were waiting.

And so was the weight of everything he'd broken.

Jisung.

The image of his face was burned into Minho's mind, wide eyes, sharp breath, the way his voice had cracked when he asked "Tell me he's wrong."

Gods, that look.

Minho had faced knives and storms and death before. But nothing, nothing, had ever hit like the moment he saw the light leave Jisung's eyes. Not in fear. Not in pain.

In disbelief.

In betrayal.

He'd trusted him.

That was the worst of it.

Jisung had looked at Minho like he could be something more. Like maybe, just maybe, there was something beneath the cold calculations and quiet walls. Like Minho could change. Could matter.

And Minho had taken that belief and crushed it beneath his boot.

He had watched the storm pass through Jisung's face, shock giving way to a heartbreak so raw it had nearly stopped Minho in his tracks. But he hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken.

He couldn't.

Because if he had, the truth would've come pouring out.

That he hadn't brought Jisung there for money.

That he had been trying to protect the crew. Trying to protect himself.

That he had been scared.

Not of the Han Trading Company.

But of what Jisung had clearly started to mean to him.

And now... Now it didn't matter.

Because dawn would come, and Minho would be led through a back corridor, tied with clean rope, and dropped through a trapdoor like a secret no one wanted to keep.

And the Levanter would sail without him.

Minho exhaled slowly, lowering his head into his hands, the manacles cold against his brow.

He didn't pray.

There was no point.

But in the quiet, in the rot and stone, he thought of one last wish:

That Jisung was still out there.

Free.

Running.

Then—

Click.

The lock on the cell door turned.

Minho stood fast, muscles coiled, the chains jangling angrily against him.

The cell door creaked open.

For a moment, he thought he was dreaming again, trapped in some fevered edge of sleep where hope wore familiar faces just to hurt him worse.

His breath stopped entirely.

Jisung.

Dishevelled. Breathing hard. Clothes stained with sweat and dirt, what looked like an ivy leaf caught in his messy hair. A metal ring of keys gripped tightly in one trembling hand.

He stood at the threshold of the corridor framed in the low torchlight like something pulled from the edge of a memory.

Minho's voice came out low and cracked. "You're not real."

Jisung blinked once. His eyes were steady. "I am."

"You—" Minho took a hesitant step forward, unsure if he'd lost his mind completely. "You're not supposed to be here."

"And yet."

Minho moved closer, almost afraid to. He still couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"How did you get here?" he asked, voice rough, fragile.

"I found a way."

Minho swallowed hard. "They'll kill you if they catch you."

Jisung's hands trembled slightly. "They'll kill you if I don't."

The words dropped like stone in the quiet space between them.

Minho stared at him, this man who he'd handed over like a parcel, like he didn't matter, who had every reason to walk away and let it happen.

And instead, he was here.

Stealing into his cell.

"You don't have to do this," Minho said, barely above a whisper.

"I know," Jisung replied. "I'm doing it anyway."

Minho stepped forward. "You're serious."

"You thought I'd just let them take you?"

"You could've walked away."

"Yeah," Jisung said. "And then I remembered I don't do that anymore."

He dropped to his knees and started working at Minho's cuffs. First his wrists, then his ankles. The lock clicked once, twice.

Freed.

The manacles fell to the floor with a loud clank.

Minho flexed his wrists once. The ache didn't matter. Not when his heart was pounding like this.

Their eyes met, close now, too close. Jisung's knees brushed against Minho's boots, his hands still resting lightly on Minho's ankles as if afraid moving too fast would break the spell.

Minho's hands came down slowly, fingers curling around Jisung's forearms, steadying him. Holding him there. His touch wasn't rough, but it wasn't gentle either. There was tension in it, and heat. A kind of stillness that felt ready to break.

Jisung didn't pull back.

His hands rose instead, finding Minho's arms in turn, barely-there pressure through worn fabric, eyes flicking up to search Minho's face like he was checking he was really here. Really him.

"You okay?" Jisung asked softly, voice barely more than breath.

Minho meant to say yes.

He didn't.

His gaze dropped for just a second, caught on the smear of blood across Jisung's knuckles. Skin split and bruised. Still raw. His chest clenched without warning.

"You're hurt," he said.

Jisung blinked. "It's nothing. I—"

"It's clearly not nothing," Minho cut in, his gaze hardening. His fingers hovered, almost reaching for Jisung's hand, but stopping just short, like touching it would make the damage more real.

Jisung glanced down, flexed his fingers. Blood had dried around his knuckles in uneven smears, the skin cracked and swollen. He turned the hand over once, then back again, like he wasn't sure what Minho wanted him to say.

"I hit the door," he said finally, quiet. "When they locked me in."

Minho's expression didn't shift.

"I thought if I pounded hard enough, they'd open it. Or maybe I could..." He trailed off. Looked away for a second. "I don't know what I thought. I just... I had to try."

He looked up again. Met Minho's eyes, tired but steady.

"I had to stop this from happening."

Minho stared at him, and for a moment something inside him gave a little, just enough to ache.

He didn't speak. Didn't breathe. His eyes dropped again to Jisung's hand, and this time he did reach out, fingers brushing over the scraped knuckles, the gentlest possible touch, like even now he was afraid to hurt him worse.

"You didn't have to do that," he said, but his voice had lost all its bite.

Jisung smiled, crooked and quiet. "Yeah. I did."

And neither of them moved.

Not yet.

Not while the air between them was thick with everything they hadn't said, and everything they'd already shown.

"You shouldn't have come for me," he said, but it didn't sound like a scolding.

It sounded like a confession.

Jisung's expression flickered. "You're welcome."

They stayed like that for a beat longer than made sense. Face to face. Hands on arms. Breathing the same air. Something unspoken and bright and sharp between them.

Then Minho nodded, jaw tight.

"Let's get out of here."

Jisung was already moving, leaving the keys behind on the bench. His hands were shaking. Not with fear, Minho realised, but with adrenaline.

Minho reached for the heavy cell door, cracked it open an inch.

Outside: quiet. One lantern burning low. No footsteps yet.

"Left corridor," Jisung whispered, pointing. "There's a dining room with a storage corridor off the left with a laundry chute at the end. It opens near the Kitchens. If we're lucky, no one's noticed I'm missing yet."

Minho arched a brow. "You memorized the building on your way here?"

Jisung gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I've always been good at retaining information... Especially if my life is at risk"

They moved fast.

Minho kept to the front, eyes sharp, steps silent.

Jisung followed just behind, each creak of wood underfoot making his spine jolt. The corridor stretched long, lined with empty doors and heavy curtains. No sound but their breath and the distant hush of waves.

They turned a corner, and froze.

A guard rounded the opposite end of the hall, lantern swinging, sword drawn halfway from its sheath.

He hadn't seen them yet.

But he would.

"Back!" Minho hissed, already grabbing Jisung's arm to pull him into the nearest alcove.

Too late.

The lantern's light hit them both.

"Hey!" the guard barked, drawing his blade fully. "Stop!"

Minho shoved Jisung behind him, teeth bared, even though he had no weapon to defend them with.

The guard lunged.

Minho moved to intercept, but something flashed past him.

Steel.

The curve of a familiar dagger hilt.

His dagger hilt.

Jisung surged forward, dagger in hand, the very same one he'd stolen, the one he'd kissed him to take, and swung it straight into the guard's chest.
He wasn't elegant. Wasn't practiced. But he was furious and fast and moving like a man who'd already decided who he was willing to bleed for.

The guard hit the stone floor with a sickening smack, limbs crumpling where they fell. The sound echoed down the corridor, then vanished into silence.

Jisung stood frozen, shoulders tight, breath ragged.

The dagger in his hand, Minho's dagger, was slick with blood. It dripped slowly onto the floor, small dark pools staining the stone beneath them.

His knuckles were white around the hilt.

Minho stared at him.

Not the body. Not the blood.

Jisung.

"You brought that with you?" he said, voice low.

Jisung nodded once, stiff. "I've never... I've never been without it. Not since the night I took it."

Minho stepped forward slowly.

His eyes dropped to the blade, then rose again, meeting Jisung's wide, fractured stare.

"You've had it all this time."

"I didn't plan to," Jisung said quickly, the words tumbling out. "Not at first. I was going to give it back, I was. But then things kept happening and I... I don't know."

His voice cracked.

"I didn't think I'd ever actually use it."

Minho said nothing.

Just looked at him.

At the trembling in his shoulders. The way his chest heaved with shallow, uneven breaths. The disbelief, still fresh in his eyes, that he'd actually done it, crossed that line. Not in theory. Not in jest. For real.

"Is he..." Jisung's voice broke off. "Did I..."

Minho stepped closer, and carefully, gently, reached for his wrist.

He wrapped his hand around it, steadying him. Grounding him. Not taking the dagger. Not yet.

"You did what you had to do," he said softly. "You didn't hesitate."

"I didn't know what I was doing," Jisung whispered. "I just saw him raise the blade at you and I—"

"I know."

Jisung's fingers began to loosen, but his whole body was still shaking.

He looked down at Jisung's hand again. Still bloodied. Still holding the blade that, somehow, had saved his life in Jisung's hand, not his own.

The weight of that sank in.

He'd kept it. He'd never let it go.

Minho swallowed hard.

"You were supposed to run," he said quietly. "After what I did. You were supposed to hate me. Leave me. Let them take me."

"I did hate you," Jisung said, voice brittle. "And I still came to help you."

A silence fell between them.

Heavy. Real.

Minho tightened his grip around Jisung's wrist, not in restraint, but in something that felt dangerously close to clinging.

He pulled Jisung's hand down gently, so the dagger was held limply at his side.

Then reached for his other wrist, brushing his fingers down to where the pulse stuttered beneath the skin.

"Your hands are shaking."

"I just... Killed someone," Jisung whispered.

Minho nodded once. "I know."

He paused.

Then added, quietly: "And because of that, you're still here."

And that, somehow, felt more important than anything else.

They didn't have time to linger. Footsteps echoed distantly, someone shouting, the guard's fall not as quiet as they needed it to be.

Minho nodded toward the next turn as he retrieved the guard's sword from the floor. "Let's move."

They ran.

Down twisting halls. Through the unused dining room. Across the half-loaded storage corridor where Minho nearly slipped on a pile of silk. They found the chute, an old laundry shaft barely wide enough for a single person, and slid down one at a time, tumbling into a narrow cobbled alley behind the embassy walls.

They landed hard.

Jisung rolled with a gasp, blinking up at the stars overhead.

Minho hit the ground and didn't stay down.

"We keep moving," he said, already pulling him to his feet. "We don't stop till we're at the docks."

Jisung stumbled once, then steadied.

Still holding the dagger.

Still holding his dagger.

And Minho didn't even care to ask for it back any more.

The port somehow smelled even worse at night.

That was Jisung's first thought as they sprinted through backstreets and lantern-lit alleys, boots slapping stone and blood drying on the edge of a dagger that didn't even belong to him, yet somehow felt completely natural in his hand.

Minho didn't speak as they ran, just pointed and led and glanced back exactly often enough to make sure Jisung was keeping up.

They reached the edge of the dock just before curfew.

Minho signalled once, a noise not unlike an owl, and a soft whistle answered in reply.

A moment later, Felix's face appeared over the edge of the deck, tight with tension. His eyes widened when he saw them.

"What the hell—?"

"Get us aboard," Minho snapped.

No more questions.

Not yet.

When they climbed the rope net back onto The Levanter, soaked, bruised, and breathless, the crew was waiting.

Felix had clearly sent the alert the moment he saw them. By the time they dropped onto the deck, they were surrounded: Chan, Jeongin, Hyunjin, Seungmin, and Changbin all looking somewhere between furious, relieved, and ready to riot.

"You're alive," Chan said flatly.

"Thankfully," Minho muttered.

Felix threw up his arms. "You vanished. No note, no backup. Chan finally told us where he figured you were. We were maybe one hour away from sending half the crew after you."

"You don't send half the crew after Minho," Hyunjin said. "You send all of it. And fire."

"Why didn't you tell us where you were going?" Jeongin asked, eyes wide, voice a little too quiet.

Minho didn't look at him when he answered.

"Because if it was a trap," he said, voice low, "I wasn't about to walk the rest of you into it."

He didn't say it like a boast.

Just a fact.

That shut everyone up.

For a breath.

Then Changbin said, "Okay, but why does he—" pointing at Jisung "have a bloodied dagger in his hand‽"

Every head turned to Jisung.

He froze.

Minho didn't.

"He saved my life," Minho said.

The words landed like a cannon shot.

Jisung blinked. "I mean... Barely—"

"He saved my life," Minho repeated, louder this time, eyes scanning the crew. "The Han Company lied. The ransom was a trap. They locked me up. Jisung broke me out."

Seungmin raised a brow. "How?"

"By climbing out of a second-story balcony using an ivy trellis that definitely wasn't up to code. Snuck past three guards... Stole some keys..." He lifted the dagger, letting it catch the lantern light. "And then there was this."

The blood still streaked the blade.

Hyunjin stepped forward, folding his arms. "You killed someone?"

Jisung nodded once.

"They drew steel. I didn't think about it. I just..."
He looked at Minho. "reacted."

For a second, no one said anything.

Then Jeongin, wide-eyed, said, "That's kind of hot."

Hyunjin rolled his eyes. "Everything's hot to you... But... Yeah"

Felix stepped in, gently tugging the dagger from Jisung's grip to inspect it. "This is the one he stole from you, isn't it?"

Minho nodded. "And apparently decided to keep."

"It's not like you asked for it back," Jisung muttered.

The crew broke into laughter then, shaky, half-hysterical relief. Hyunjin smacked Jisung on the shoulder. Changbin muttered something about needing to teach him proper form for next time. Seungmin offered him a rag without looking.

Chan didn't laugh.

He just stepped forward and rested a hand on Minho's shoulder.

"You good?"

Minho nodded once. "Getting there."

Then he turned to Jisung.

Minho held his gaze a second longer.

Then turned away, barking an order to secure the ropes and prep the ship for immediate departure.

Jisung stood there, blinking under the lantern glow, while the others started moving around him again, brushing past, muttering, calling out new directions.

Felix pressed the dagger back into his hand without comment.

Minho didn't hear half of what the crew said as they scattered.

The moment he gave the order to prep the ship, they moved, instinct and routine. Felix calling for the sails. Chan giving out rotations. Someone swearing in the rigging. It was noise he usually found comfort in.

Now, it barely touched him.

His pulse hadn't fully slowed. Not from the fight. Not from the escape. And sure as hell not from Jisung, still standing there under the lantern glow, face drawn tight, eyes too wide.

Still holding the dagger.

Minho's dagger.

His mind was a tangle. Relief pulsed through him. He was alive, free, back on deck, out of that goddamn jail, not bleeding out in some embassy hallway, or hanging from the gallows. He should've been satisfied.

But over all of it was the deeper, heavier weight of something else.

Jisung had put himself between Minho and a blade.

No hesitation. No plan. Just instinct and heat and something Minho didn't know how to name.

And that terrified him.

Because people who moved like that.... They got killed.

Because he was supposed to be the reckless one. The one who didn't care about risk. That was easier.

But watching Jisung do it?

That was something else.

His eyes found him again, still rooted in place, still gripping the dagger like it might vanish if he let go. His shoulders trembled, barely, and his jaw was tight like he was trying to bite down on the feeling of it all.

Minho moved before he could talk himself out of it.

He crossed the deck and stopped just beside him.

"Come with me."

Jisung blinked up at him. "What?"

"Now."

He didn't wait for an argument.

Chapter 10: Safety

The door shut quietly behind them, muffling the fading sounds of the crew outside, boots on deck, voices too loud, too relieved. They had made it back.

But Jisung wasn't sure he had.

Not fully.

Not yet.

His legs felt numb. His lungs too tight in his chest. His hand still gripped the dagger like it might disappear if he let go, as if the weight of it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

Minho didn't speak.

He just crossed the room in three calm strides, opened a small cabinet near the desk, and pulled out a battered tin and a glass bottle of clear antiseptic. His movements were precise. Careful. Familiar.

Like he'd done this for others.

Or maybe just too many times for himself.

Jisung hovered near the door, watching him, unsure what to do, unsure if he should still be here.

Then Minho turned and said, gently, "Sit."

So he did.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, the dagger still clutched in his hand, blade resting flat across his palm.

Minho knelt in front of him.

He didn't speak. Didn't ask.

He just reached forward, slowly, deliberately, and closed his fingers over Jisung's, curling them away from the blade.

Jisung let him.

The dagger was pried loose, carefully set aside.

Minho took one of his hands in both of his, and for a moment, he just looked at it. At the torn knuckles, the blood, the dirt still ground into the lines of his fingers.

"You climbed a trellis," Minho murmured. "Snuck past three guards. Stole keys to get to me. And killed a man."

He said it without judgment. Without awe.

Just... Fact.

And that made it worse.

Jisung's breath caught.

His voice, when it came, was brittle. "I didn't have a plan."

Minho stayed still, his hands still lightly cradling Jisung's, half-bandaged.

"I didn't know what I was doing," Jisung went on, eyes locked on the floor. "I was shaking the whole time. I didn't even know if I could climb down without falling. I thought I might pass out halfway there. And the guard—"

He swallowed. The memory flared hot again, the way the steel glinted in the torchlight, the way his body had moved before he could think.

"I was so afraid," he whispered. "Of the noise. Of the blood. Of what it meant. Of... Of losing you."

Minho finally looked up.

Really looked.

And Jisung's voice cracked. "You didn't even fight them. You just let them take you. And I thought... I thought you wanted to die."

Minho flinched, just barely.

"I didn't," he said quietly.

"Then why didn't you stop them?" Jisung asked, heat rising now beneath the ache. "Why didn't you run? Why didn't you say something, to me, before you handed me over like cargo?"

Minho's grip on his hand didn't tighten.

But it didn't let go.

"I thought it was the only way," he said. "To keep the crew safe. To keep distance. To... End it before it got worse."

Jisung stared at him. "And did it?"

"No," Minho said. "It got worse the second they took me away and I could still hear you."

Silence pulsed between them, thick and aching and fragile.

Then, finally, Jisung said, quieter this time, "I didn't help you because I forgave you."

Minho nodded.

"I came for you because I didn't want to lose you," Jisung continued, voice barely a breath now. "Even if I hated you for it. Even if I still don't know what this is. I just... Couldn't let them kill you."

Minho's gaze flicked down to the bandages on Jisung's hand.

Then to the dagger, resting beside them.

Then back up.

"You shouldn't have had to do any of it," he said. "Not for me."

"But I did." Jisung's voice caught on the edge of something sharp. "And I'd do it again."

Minho looked like he might break in half under the weight of that.

But he didn't.

He just reached out again, slower this time, and rested his hand over Jisung's bandaged fingers.

The knock was soft.

Barely more than a brush of knuckles against the captain's door, but it cut through the silence like a blade. Jisung's head turned toward it instantly. His shoulders tensed, not in fear, but like a rope going taut again after just starting to loosen.

Minho didn't move.

Didn't speak.

The knock came again.

Three soft taps.

Jisung stood slowly, carefully easing his hand out from under Minho's where it still rested, a little too long, a little too warm.

He looked down at him.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them breathed.

Then Jisung said, gently, "Thank you."

Minho looked up at him. There was so much he could've said. For what? For letting you break me out? For bandaging your wounds after being responsible for them in the first place?

But instead, he just nodded.

And Jisung slipped out, quiet as a tide.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Minho stayed seated on the low stool, staring at the floorboards until he heard footsteps cross the threshold and stop. He didn't have to look up to know who it was.

"Chan."

"Hey."

The door swung shut again. Chan didn't sit. He hovered near the desk, gaze flicking once to the bloodied bandages, then to the dagger on the table. His jaw tightened.

"You should've told me about the meet. Are you alright?" he asked, voice even.

Minho leaned back against the wall. "Define 'alright.'"

Chan gave a faint breath of amusement. "Fair."

He didn't sit. He hovered near the desk for a long moment, hands in his pockets, jaw set in thought. Then, finally:

"I want to hear it from you. What actually happened?"

Minho exhaled slowly.

He stood and crossed to the desk, poured a measure of spiced rum into the tin mug nearby, took a long drink, then set it down.

He didn't pace.

Didn't deflect.

He just told the truth.

"You already know I sent the letter the day we docked," he said. "Straight to the Han Trading Company. I gave them a window. Said I had Jisung. Asked for the payment."

Chan said nothing, just listened.

"They responded. No emotion. No questions about him. Just the sum. A time. A place."

Minho paused, jaw clenching. "Ten thousand in gold. That's what they think he's worth."

Chan's brow furrowed. "And then?"

"I took him there at dawn." Minho's voice dropped slightly. "Didn't tell him where we were going. Didn't look at him on the way."

He sat back down, elbows on his knees, voice distant now. "The official confirmed the trade. Didn't even address Jisung. Didn't care that he was standing there. Called him property. All but offered me a tax receipt."

Chan's expression shifted, from concern to anger, barely contained.

Minho swallowed.

"He looked at me like I'd—" He stopped. Started again. "I watched his face change, Chan. Every piece of trust I'd earned... Gone. And I just... Stood there."

"You didn't say anything?"

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't deserve to."

Chan took a slow step closer. "But you didn't get the gold."

"No."

"What happened?"

"They detained me," Minho said. "Said they were never going to pay. Said I'd interfered with a trade line. Accused me of theft and manipulation of company assets. Then informed me I had a dawn date with the gallows"

"And Jisung?"

"They dragged him off. Locked him in a room like a difficult guest they didn't want to deal with."

Chan let that settle.

"You thought it was the only way," he said after a moment. "Trading him. Protecting the crew."

Minho nodded.

Chan watched him for a long time. "But it wasn't just that, was it?"

"No," Minho admitted quietly. "It was about me. About wanting distance. About being afraid."

Of him.

Chan didn't press it. He just sighed and sat on the edge of the desk.

"And now?"

"I don't know," Minho said. "But he came back. He saved me. Killed a man to do it."

"He's not the same boy you dragged on board."

"No," Minho said softly. "He's not."

Chan nodded once.

"And you thought all that was better than admitting you'd grown attached?"

Minho looked up, sharply.

But Chan's expression wasn't accusing. It was tired. Familiar. Understanding.

"I know what it looks like," Chan said, softer now. "When someone gets under your skin."

Minho's mouth was a hard line. "It was a mistake."

"He's not."

Minho didn't respond.

Chan stepped closer. "You didn't plan for him. I get it. I didn't either. But he's not the kind of storm you outrun, Min. He's the kind that changes your map."

Silence settled between them.

Outside, faint voices called from the deck, Jeongin, probably, already asking what's for dinner even though they weren't safely to sea yet.

Minho sat back slightly.

"I don't know what to do with him."

Chan smiled, faint and tired. "Start with this: don't try to sell him again."

Minho didn't smile.

But his shoulders dropped.

Just a little.

Jisung found them on the deck, where the lanterns were still burning low and the shadows curled like sleeping cats. Jeongin was slouched against a coil of rope, legs stretched out, staring up at the sky. Felix had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, half-asleep until Jisung approached.

Hyunjin was leaning against the rail, his long coat half-open, arms folded tight.

All three of them looked up at once when they saw him.

Jeongin straightened immediately. "You're okay," he breathed.

"I'm okay," Jisung echoed.

"Are you hurt?" Felix asked, already halfway to his feet.

Jisung gave him a small smile. "Not badly."

"You have blood on your sleeve," Hyunjin said quietly.

Jisung looked down. The fabric at his wrist was still dark, dried. The bandages underneath itched.

"It's not mine," he said.

Felix gently steered him toward the nearest crate and sat him down without waiting for permission. He didn't speak, just tugged the blanket from his own shoulders and draped it over Jisung's.

Jisung's throat went tight.

He didn't realize how cold he was until Felix's warmth settled over him.

"We didn't know where you were," Jeongin said, scooting closer. "Minho didn't tell anyone anything. We thought..." He broke off. "Well. We thought a lot of things."

"He kept us completely in the dark," Hyunjin said. His voice was low. Sharp.

Jisung swallowed. "It wasn't that simple."

"Then tell us," Felix said. "We've been waiting. What happened?"

Jisung looked down at his hands.

The bandages were clean, but the memory wasn't.

"It was a trap," he said finally. "He took me to the embassy. Said it was an errand. I didn't know what it was until the clerk started speaking, about a trade, about 'verifying the delivery.' Of course, they were referring to me"

Hyunjin flinched at that.

Jisung went on, slower. "The Han Trading Company didn't care that I was standing right there. They didn't ask how I was. Barely even looked at me. Just handed over the payment terms like I was a crate of copper."

Felix's hands curled into fists at his sides.

"I looked at him," Jisung said, voice quieter now. "Minho. I asked if it was true. He didn't say a word."

Jeongin's face crumpled. "That... That's not... You're not—"

"I know," Jisung said.

He rubbed the heel of his hand against his brow, exhaustion starting to win.

"They arrested him after that. Said he was interfering with trade and stolen cargo. They were never going to pay him. They just wanted me back in a box and him out of the way. He didn't even resist."

"What?" Felix said sharply.

"They said he'd be executed at dawn."

Jeongin let out a breath like he'd been kicked.

"And you went after him," Hyunjin said. "Alone."

Jisung nodded.

"I climbed down the balcony, snuck past guards, stole the keys for the cell, and got him out. When a guard came for us, I—" He hesitated. "I used the dagger."

There was silence at that.

Jisung didn't expect them to speak. Didn't know what he wanted them to say.

But then Hyunjin moved.

He stepped forward, slow, graceful, and crouched beside him.

He reached out and adjusted the blanket on Jisung's shoulders, brushing it tighter around him.

"Do you know," he said softly, "how few people would've done what you did?"

Jisung blinked.

"You went after someone who gave you away," Hyunjin said. "You saved him. You bled for him. You brought him home."

"I didn't do it for him," Jisung whispered. "Not entirely."

Hyunjin gave a small, knowing smile. "You did it for you. And maybe for the rest of us, too."

Felix nodded quietly beside him. "You're one of us now. That stopped being a question a long time ago."

"I don't know what I am," Jisung said. "I just know I'm tired."

"You don't have to know tonight," Jeongin said. "You're here. You're safe. That's enough."

They didn't speak for a long while after that.

Felix stayed close. Jeongin leaned against his side. Hyunjin settled beside the crate, long legs stretched out, not touching, but close enough that it counted.

Jisung let his eyes drift shut.

And for the first time since the gallows had been mentioned, he finally felt peace.

Jisung stirred slowly, blinking against the golden warmth pressing through the portholes of the crew quarters. His body felt heavy in the best way, sore, yes, but not in danger. Not chased. Not hunted. Just... Present.

He turned his head slightly and saw Jeongin curled in the hammock beside his, one arm dangling, mouth open. Somewhere above, the sails creaked. Wood shifted beneath him. The ship was breathing.

And so was he.

For once, there was no shouting. No rush. No alarm bells in his chest.

He sat up, slowly, and the blanket Felix had tucked around him last night slid down to his waist. Somebody must have carried him to his hammock. Changbin, maybe.

He looked around, expecting someone to be awake. But the bunks and hammocks were mostly empty, a few tangled bodies still sprawled in early-morning sleep, the occasional rustle of a shifting boot or exhale through a snore.

He stretched, winced slightly at the pull in his shoulder, then climbed carefully from the hammock and stepped into the corridor, barefoot, his bandaged hands loose at his sides.

The deck was brighter than he expected.

The sea was calm, a glassy blue, dappled in sunlight.

Seagulls circled overhead, crying in lazy loops, and somewhere near the rigging, Seungmin muttered a curse at a bird that had evidently chosen the wrong place to relieve itself.

Jisung smiled.

He was just about to make for the rail when a voice said quietly from behind him, "You're up."

He turned.

Minho stood at the edge of the quarterdeck, coat unfastened, hair slightly mussed like he hadn't slept. His arms were folded, but his posture wasn't tense.

He looked... Tired. And uncertain.

But not cold.

"Morning," Jisung said, voice still hoarse from sleep.

Minho's gaze flicked over him, down to the bandages, up to his face, then away again.

"I didn't want to wake you."

"First time for everything," Jisung murmured.

Minho's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.

A few heartbeats passed between them. Not silence , there was wind, and rope, and far-off crew chatter, but something stiller beneath it all.

"Do you want something?" Jisung asked, not harshly.

"No," Minho said. Then paused. "Not yet."

Jisung nodded.

He didn't push. He just stepped up to the rail and looked out at the water, letting the quiet wrap around them both like sunlight.

The days passed slow and sun-warmed.

Two weeks out from Bartholomew's Reach, The Levanter sailed steady, her sails full of forgiving wind and her crew running like clockwork. The bruises from the storm had healed, the damage had been repaired, and the last sting of salt had been scrubbed from the boards.

But beneath the polished brass and smooth waters, there was still tension.

Not spoken.

Not sharp.

Just there.

Jisung noticed it first in how the others moved around Minho. Not hostile. Not mutinous. But... Cooler. Felix no longer sought him out for quiet jokes. Chan kept his updates strictly professional. Even Seungmin, usually sharp as a blade and twice as fast to cut, said little beyond what the ship needed.

And Minho... Well. Minho seemed to accept it.

He didn't ask for trust. Didn't fight for warmth.

He just stood at the helm when it was his turn. Slept in his quarters alone. Ate in silence.

Jisung hadn't expected the crew to turn against their captain, not really. Certainly not for him. But they had. Not in fury, but in quiet loyalty.

It made something ache in his chest.

Not just the fact that they were defending him.

But the fact that he hadn't even asked them to.

Felix pulled him into card games at night.
Jeongin told him jokes during rope coil duty, all terrible and too loud.
Hyunjin sat beside him on storm watches and said nothing, but didn't leave.
Even Seungmin brought him tea once, muttering something about "needing warm hands to write with."

They didn't treat him like a guest anymore.

Or a project.

Or a responsibility.

They treated him like crew.

Like family.

He wrote poems in his shark-leather journal under the open sky, notes scribbled in the margins between anchor duty and ration counts. They weren't all sad anymore.

One was about Jeongin's snoring. Another about Felix's laugh.

One, unfinished, was titled Feline-Eyed Captain.

He hadn't touched that one in days.

Minho hadn't spoken to him since that morning on the deck.

Not properly.

They passed each other in corridors. At the mast. On supply checks.

Sometimes they exchanged a glance. Once, Minho handed him a rope before he even asked for it. Jisung's fingers brushed his, and the silence that followed was louder than a storm.

He still hadn't forgiven him.

Maybe he wasn't ready.

Maybe he didn't know how.

Maybe part of him wasn't even sure if Minho wanted forgiveness, or just the distance that came with knowing it was too late.

That evening, the sky was painted in streaks of lilac and gold, the kind of sunset that set the sea alight in mirrors. The Levanter sailed quiet, the crew scattered in their usual rhythms, some prepping rope coils, others heading below deck for dinner.

Jisung found himself in the shade near the foremast, notebook open on his knee, words half-formed on the page.

Footsteps approached.

Then, without invitation or preamble, Hyunjin sat beside him, long coat sweeping like a curtain. A moment later, Seungmin dropped down on his other side, nursing a chipped mug of tea, the faint scent of citrus and dried mint curling into the air.

Jisung didn't speak.

Neither did they.

Not at first.

It was Seungmin who finally broke the quiet. "You write a lot more now."

Jisung glanced over. "Not sure if that's a compliment or just an observation."

"Both," Seungmin said, deadpan. "You're annoying. But your metaphors are getting better."

Hyunjin exhaled a soft laugh. "It's true. That one you read last week? The sea being a liar with a soft mouth?" He tilted his head. "Disgusting. I loved it."

Jisung smiled faintly. "I'll put it on a gravestone."

They lapsed into a comfortable hush again. It was strange, how easily this sort of silence sat between them now, no edge, no suspicion. Just quiet company.

Hyunjin spoke again, slower this time. "I didn't like you at first."

Jisung blinked. "Yeah. I noticed."

"You were soft. Ornamental. A liability."

"I was a kidnapped merchant poet," Jisung said dryly.

"You also tripped over a coil line and knocked over an entire barrel of citrus on day two."

"That... I'll allow."

Seungmin sipped his tea and added, "And you cried when you got rope burn."

"I was very moisturised back then."

That earned an actual snort from Hyunjin.

"But," he continued, more seriously, "then you saved Jeongin. And you saved Minho."

Jisung looked down at the dagger resting in its makeshift sheath beside him. The one he'd still not returned.

"You're not soft anymore," Seungmin said. "Not weak, either."

Jisung swallowed, unsure what to say.

Hyunjin turned to him fully. "You've earned your place here. And I hope you know... We chose that. We chose you."

Jisung met his gaze. There was no trace of the cutting, amused arrogance he'd first seen in Hyunjin's eyes. Only sincerity. Steel tempered by care.

"And Minho?" he asked, before he could stop himself. "Do you still choose him?"

A pause.

Hyunjin's lips pressed into a line. "Minho made a mistake," he said. "A bad one. We trusted him. He broke that."

Seungmin didn't speak, but his jaw tightened.

"He hasn't asked for forgiveness," Hyunjin added. "Not from you. Not from us. That's the part I can't ignore."

Jisung nodded slowly. "He thought it was the only way."

"Maybe he did," Seungmin said. "But that doesn't mean it was right."

The light dimmed, the sun slipping lower.

"I don't know if I forgive him," Jisung murmured.

"You don't have to," Seungmin said, voice soft now. "But don't carry it alone."

He stood and stretched, the quiet clink of his mug tapping the deck.

"Come eat," he said. "Jeongin made something that might be soup. Or poison. Either way, it'll be memorable."

Hyunjin lingered a second longer, watching him. "You're one of us," he said again, voice quiet.

Then he stood and followed Seungmin.

Jisung remained seated for a moment, hands limp in his lap, journal forgotten beside him.

He watched the sea, and let their words settle.

Warm. Steady.

Like the ship itself.

The breeze picked up, tugging at the edge of his journal. Below deck, someone laughed too loud, Jeongin, probably. The deck creaked softly underfoot as Seungmin and Hyunjin moved away. Jisung should've followed.

Instead, he called, quietly, "Wait."

They both paused, turning back.

Jisung stood. His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady. "You're angry with him."

Hyunjin arched a brow. "We are."

Seungmin didn't deny it either. "Aren't you?"

"I am," Jisung said. "But I also know what it's like to make a choice you don't know how to explain."

They didn't speak.

He stepped forward, tightening the blanket that was still around his shoulders, the same one Felix had given him that night after the escape. "I don't want to be the reason this crew fractures," he said. "Not after everything we've been through."

"You're not," Hyunjin said, but Jisung shook his head.

"I might be," he replied. "Not on purpose. But if you keep holding Minho at a distance because of me, if this ship starts to tilt because of that... Then what did I even do it for?"

Seungmin's mouth tightened.

"He made a mistake," Jisung said. "He hurt me. But he didn't abandon the ship. He didn't run. And I've seen him carry the weight of it every day since."

"And what about you?" Hyunjin asked, quieter now. "Shouldn't he carry it until you're ready?"

"Maybe," Jisung said. "But that's for me to decide. Not for all of you to hold in my name."

The wind shifted. The lantern at the foremast flickered once.

"He's still your captain," Jisung said. "And you're still his crew. And whatever's between us, I don't want it to turn into cracks that sink us."

Hyunjin looked at him for a long moment, unreadable.

Then, finally, he nodded once, crisp, measured.

"You're a better man than he is right now." he said.

"No," Jisung replied. "I'm just trying not to become worse."

Seungmin exhaled slowly, the fight in him settling like dust. "We hear you," he said. "And we'll listen."

They turned, this time without resistance, and headed below deck.

Jisung stood there for a moment longer, alone again with the sky and the sound of sails whispering overhead.

He still didn't know if he forgave Minho.

But he knew this:

He wouldn't let the ship carry his betrayal like a wound.

Not anymore.

Minho hadn't meant to listen.

He wasn't eavesdropping. Not exactly.

He'd been walking the upper deck, doing what he always did now, avoiding conversations, eyes scanning the horizon like it might give him something to do. A task. A purpose. Anything easier than speaking to the people who used to trust him without question.

But the voices carried on the breeze, low, unmistakable, from near the foremast.

Seungmin. Hyunjin.

And Jisung.

He stopped behind one of the rigging posts just as Jisung's voice rose, quiet but clear.

"I don't want to be the reason this crew fractures. Not after everything we've been through."

Minho stilled.

The words felt like glass under his ribs.

"He made a mistake. He hurt me. But he didn't abandon the ship. He didn't run."

Minho's hands curled around the edge of the railing.

He hadn't expected this. The silence, sure. The distance. Even Jisung's biting humour, carefully measured like salt in a wound. That he could live with.

But this... This defence?

"And whatever's between us, I don't want it to turn into cracks that sink us."

Minho's chest ached.

He didn't deserve that. Not from Jisung. Not after what he'd done, how easily he'd let him be taken.

"He's still your captain. And you're still his crew."

That was worse than being shouted at.

Worse than being hated.

Because it was grace, offered freely. Even when forgiveness hadn't been.

And it cracked something in Minho that he had been carefully, desperately keeping sealed shut since the day he handed Jisung over.

He hadn't spoken to him in days.

Not properly.

Not since that morning on the deck when Jisung asked if he wanted something and Minho had answered not yet, like a coward.

"We hear you," Seungmin said, his voice now fading into the wind. "And we'll listen."

Their footsteps retreated.

Minho stayed hidden in the shadows of the mast, unmoving.

He didn't come down.

Didn't follow.

Didn't speak.

Because for the first time since this all began, Jisung had asked for something on Minho's behalf.

And Minho didn't know if he was ready to face what that meant.

But he wanted to.

God help him, he wanted to.

Chapter 11: The Bounty

It had been almost a week since the conversation with Hyunjin and Seungmin. The air aboard The Levanter had shifted, not entirely healed, but easier. Warmer. The crew had begun speaking to Minho again, not just in clipped sentences or impersonal nods, but with cautious familiarity.

Felix had even cracked a joke to Minho during morning coil duty. That felt like a sign of the world realigning.

But even as relationships mended, supplies didn't.

Rations were dwindling. Canvas for sail patching had run out. Seungmin's sharp inventory notes were getting increasingly sarcastic:

- Salt meat: low
- Rum: suspiciously absent (talk to Jeongin?)
- Lantern oil: burned through by emotional tension, probably

They needed a port.

Thankfully, one appeared on the horizon, a small trade island known more for its fishing boats than its allegiances. Minho had said it should be safe. Neutral. "They don't ask questions, just count coins," he'd added.

That turned out to be... Optimistic.

By midday, the crew had split into pairs and spread across the market. Jisung ended up with Felix, who was a decent barterer and an even better calming presence when stall owners started getting testy.

The docks smelled of drying fish, spice, and seawater. Bright canopies fluttered above uneven crates and planks set up as makeshift stalls. Locals called to each other in clipped, accented speech. But the moment any of them saw Felix's hair and compass tattoo, their tones changed.

Again and again.

"No stock."

"Try someone else."

"We're closed."

Jisung frowned at the fourth such rejection. The stall had clearly been open before they walked up, he could still smell the wax from a fresh shipment of candles.

Felix tried again, gently. "We'd only need half a spool of sailcloth. We've got coin, clean trade—"

The woman behind the counter didn't even look up. "No business for you here."

They backed off.

They tried a fifth. Then a sixth.

Same answer every time.

"What the hell is going on?" Jisung asked under his breath as they walked toward the edge of the square. His hands were shoved in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the rising frustration.

"Someone's put out some kind of warning," Felix said, eyes narrowed. "Has to be."

Jisung looked around. "Minho said this port was neutral."

Felix nodded. "But ports don't always stay neutral when money changes hands."

They returned to the ship two hours later with nothing but three bruised apples and half a bag of flour. The others arrived not long after, all empty-handed, all muttering the same thing: No one would serve them.

"They wouldn't even sell me boots," Hyunjin said, appalled. "Boots. I'm the best thing to happen to boots."

Chan crossed his arms. "It's not coincidence."

"It might be a message," Seungmin added, voice dark. "But from who?"

No one said it aloud.

But they were all thinking it.

That evening, the tension led them, as it often did, to the tavern.

It wasn't the finest place. The ale was lukewarm, the chairs uneven, and a man with one eye had already been thrown out twice for trying to sell "sea witch teeth."

But it was shelter.

Jisung sat beside Felix at a rickety table, sipping slowly from a chipped mug. Jeongin and Hyunjin were across from them, whispering over a plate of undercooked something. Chan and Seungmin stood at the bar, watching the room like dogs on edge.

Then Jeongin froze.

He'd been halfway to laughing at something Hyunjin had said when his eyes caught on the far wall.

His expression dropped.

He stood without a word and walked straight over.

"Jeongin?" Jisung called after him.

But he didn't answer.

Felix stood too. "Something's wrong."

They followed.

And when Jisung reached the noticeboard...

He saw it.

His stomach dropped like an anchor.

It was a wanted poster.

Large. Fresh. Centred on the board in pride of place.

CAPTAIN LEE MINHO
Crimes against the Han Trading Company and Crown Interests

Beneath it: a sketch, accurate, slightly stylized, but unmistakably him. His Feline-sharp eyes. That signature embroidered coat. A cruel tilt to the mouth the real Minho rarely wore, but the image made it look like he hunted children for fun.

The list of charges below stretched long and cruel:

Piracy.
Theft of protected cargo.
Unlawful imprisonment.
Destruction of trade property.
Espionage.
Escape from sanctioned custody.
Conspiracy with foreign threats.
Abduction of Han Trading Company Staff
Known associates include the crew of The Levanter, all considered active accomplices.
Detailed below are individual identifiers, including distinguishing marks such as the compass tattoo worn by each member.

Jisung's eyes scanned the list once, twice, then stopped.
His name wasn't there.
Not under known associates. Not with the crew.
He didn't know why that stung more than seeing the reference to him in the charges.

The words stared back at him.

Burned.

He felt Felix shift beside him, read the last line, and go very, very still.

"No wonder they won't trade with us," Seungmin muttered as he joined them. "This is going to be everywhere, isn't it?"

Jisung touched the edge of the paper. The ink had dried sharp and fast. This was official. Funded. Circulated.

"That's not just a bounty," Chan said from behind them. "That's a declaration."

Jisung's hands curled into fists.

And for the first time since the embassy, he really needed to speak to Minho.

 

The sun was low by the time Minho heard the first boots hit the deck at a run.

He looked up from the crate of gear he'd been reorganizing, mostly as a distraction, just as Chan swung up over the side rail, breathing hard.

A second later, Felix followed, eyes sharp.

Then Jeongin. Then Jisung.

All of them moving fast, too fast, expressions too tight to mean anything good.

Minho straightened. "What is it?"

Chan didn't answer at first. He just marched over and dropped a folded square of parchment onto the crate beside him.

Minho looked down.

His face looked back.

Framed in heavy ink, lined with false severity. A wanted poster.

CAPTAIN LEE MINHO
Crimes against the Han Trading Company and Crown Interests

He didn't flinch. Not outwardly.

He lifted the page slowly, as if it might change the longer he held it.

Then he read the charges.

Piracy. Espionage. Escape from sanctioned custody.

Abduction of Han Trading Company Staff

Minho's jaw ticked.

Jisung stood a few paces away, arms crossed tightly. He didn't speak. His gaze was unreadable.

Felix broke the silence first. "It's posted at the tavern. Prominent. They wanted everyone to see it."

"No wonder the merchants refused us," Chan added. "They probably think trading with us risks their licenses."

Minho looked down the page.

Known associates include the crew of The Levanter, all considered active accomplices.
Detailed below are individual identifiers, including distinguishing marks such as the compass tattoo worn by each member.

A list followed, Chan, Felix, Hyunjin, Seungmin, Jeongin, Changbin.

Minho's gaze lingered.

Jisung's name wasn't there.

Not as a crew member.

Not as an accomplice.

Only vaguely mentioned in the charges. As a possession.

A crime.

Not a person.

Minho looked up, and met Jisung's eyes.

Something pulled tight in his chest. Guilt. Rage. A fierce, coiling grief.

He opened his mouth to speak.

Didn't.

He folded the poster instead, precise and slow, then turned to Chan.

"We're not getting what we need here," he said, voice flat. "We leave at dawn."

Chan didn't argue. None of them did.

Minho looked past him at the others, gathered on the deck, the last of the rapidly fading daylight catching on the edges of their jackets and shadowed faces. They were tense, waiting, but no longer surprised.

Felix ran a hand through his hair. Jeongin kicked at a coil of rope with his boot.

Only Jisung met his eyes.

And held them.

Minho turned back to Chan. "Set course for Wonderland. We won't get a fair price, but we'll get what we need."

Chan nodded once.

 

That night, the ship was quiet.

There was no joking around the mess table, no card game, no off-key singing from Jeongin or Changbin's endless commentary about fish being "weird little guys." Just the sound of boots against wood and the occasional groan of the hull settling in her moorings.

Minho stood at the rail for a long time after dinner, watching the moon crawl up the sky. The wanted poster sat folded in his coat pocket, heavier than it had any right to be.

The list of charges wasn't what haunted him.

It was the fact that Jisung hadn't been listed with the crew.

Just cargo.

Just a crime.

He turned.

Jisung was by the forward mast, alone. He hadn't gone below deck. He was staring out at the water again, arms folded, the wind lifting the ends of his hair.

Minho hesitated.

Then crossed to him.

"Walk with me," he said, voice soft.

Jisung looked at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Suspicion, maybe, or reluctance. But he nodded.

They moved to the side deck, away from the crew, away from the light. It was the same place they'd stood the morning after the storm, back when silence was still safer than words.

Tonight, silence wasn't enough.

Minho leaned against the railing, resting his hands on the worn wood. "You saw it."

"I saw it," Jisung said.

"They made it official."

"They made you a monster."

Minho didn't flinch. He wasn't surprised by the bitterness in Jisung's voice, not angry, either. He deserved it.

"I thought I was protecting you," Minho said. "At the embassy. I told myself that. That giving you back would keep you alive. Out of prison. Out of reach."

Jisung's jaw tightened. "And you didn't think that maybe it would destroy everything else I'd started to believe?"

Minho looked at him then, fully. "I didn't know what you believed."

"I believed I could stay."

Minho's throat felt raw. "Do you still?"

Jisung was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, "I don't know. But I haven't left."

It wasn't his forgiveness. But it was something.

Minho stepped closer, slowly, like any sudden movement might break the moment.

"You weren't listed," he said. "On the poster. Not with us."

"I know."

"I think they meant it as a threat. A reminder. You're still theirs. Legally. Technically. At least on paper."

"I'm not on paper," Jisung said. "I'm on this ship."

Minho's breath caught.

There were still things between them. Wounds. Unspoken truths. But for now, that line settled deep, not as closure, but as permission.

They stood in silence again, wind brushing between them.

Tomorrow, they would head for Wonderland.

They stood side by side at the railing as the moon climbed higher, silver light dusting the sea in fractured ribbons.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them looked at the other.

The wind stirred Jisung's hair, carried the low creak of the hull and the faint scrape of ropes against the mast. The ship breathed around them, tired, steady, familiar.

Minho's fingers curled slightly against the railing.

"I meant to let you go," he said quietly. "Back then. When we raided the ship."

Jisung didn't speak. Didn't blink.

"I wasn't supposed to look at you twice. Wasn't supposed to take you."

"I know," Jisung said.

Minho turned his head just slightly. "Do you?"

"I knew it when you wouldn't meet my eyes the first three days. When you gave orders about me like I wasn't standing there."

Minho exhaled slowly. "I was trying to do what I thought was best."

"You failed."

Jisung's fingers drummed once against the railing before he stilled them.

"I still hate what you did," he said. "You betrayed me."

"I know."

"I trusted you."

"You weren't supposed to."

"That doesn't make it better."

Minho looked down. "No. It doesn't."

They stood in silence again, this one heavier. Thicker.

The kind that settled between people when the hurt didn't have anywhere to go.

Jisung's voice came quieter this time. "You were going to sell me like I was nothing. Like I hadn't risked everything for this ship. For this crew."

"I wasn't thinking straight—"

"No," Jisung snapped, finally turning to face him. "You were. That's what makes it worse. You knew exactly what you were doing."

Minho met his gaze.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't defend.

He just nodded. Once.

"I did."

Jisung's shoulders tightened. "And you don't get to ask me to forgive that. Not yet."

"I'm not asking," Minho said.

Jisung turned back toward the sea.

The moonlight cut sharp across his face, catching the hollow under his cheekbone, the tension in his jaw.

"I don't want to leave," he admitted. "Not anymore."

Minho's voice softened. "You won't."

"I thought you'd try again."

"I won't," Minho said. "I swear it."

"Why not?"

A beat passed.

Minho's hand shifted closer on the railing, not touching, but there.

"Because you belong here," he said. "With the crew. With me."

Jisung's breath caught.

And there it was again, that thing between them. Not yet forgiveness. Not yet an admittance of some kind of want. But the shape of both, sharp and fragile and real.

He didn't answer.

Couldn't.

Minho didn't push.

Instead, he asked, quieter now, "Do you want to know what to expect at Wonderland?"

Jisung nodded.

Minho's eyes stayed on the horizon. "It's not like other ports. It's built into a broken caldera, half underwater, half wood, all dream. You won't know where it ends or what's keeping it standing."

"Sounds... Welcoming."

Minho smirked faintly. "It's a haven. A place for pirates. For the exiled. The damned. It doesn't ask questions."

Jisung let the words settle. "So no laws?"

"Some. The kind you don't break twice."

"And the people?"

"Unpredictable," Minho said. "Brilliant. Dangerous. There's every kind of vice, every kind of temptation. You can lose your ship, your coin, or your teeth before noon."

"Lovely."

"But they'll sell to us," Minho added. "No matter what's on the posters. If you've got coin, they've got cargo. It'll cost more, but we'll leave with what we need."

Jisung looked over at him again. "And you think we'll be safe?"

Minho's voice was low. "No. But we'll be ready."

For a long moment, they just watched the waves.

The quiet between them wasn't peace. Not yet.

But it wasn't war anymore, either.

Lost in the silence, the compass on Minho's hip gave the faintest click, its needle shifting once again toward the place he didn't dare look.

 

It had been three weeks since they'd left the last port behind. Three long, salt-crusted weeks of open ocean, dwindling rations, and the kind of quiet that set your teeth on edge.

Jisung kept count in his journal, even when he wasn't sure why. A tally of passing days in the top margin of each poem, scribbled between half-rhymes about sky, light and tension. The pages smelled like salt now, the pages warped. Like ink that had dried too fast in sun and wind. Like someone who lived on the sea.

They hadn't resupplied properly at Bartholomew's Reach as planned, not with everything that had happened. The embassy. The betrayal. The rescue. The escape.
Then the cold-eyed port town that turned them away without so much as a crust of bread. Every "no" had hit harder than the last.

And now?

They were floating forward on sheer stubborn will and stale water. They were now stretching what little they had, measuring out dried meat in coin-sized slivers, Seungmin grinding herbs thinner each morning, trying to make the scraps last.

The air was hotter now. The days longer. The tension sharper.

The crew bickered more easily these days.

Hyunjin and Changbin snapped at each other over line handling. Jeongin was quieter than usual, still funny, still quick, but drained around the edges. Felix looked like he hadn't slept properly in at least a week, and even Chan had started pacing when he thought no one was watching.

Minho said very little.

He still stood at the helm when it was his turn, silent as ever, one hand always resting on the compass at his hip. Jisung still hadn't asked how it worked. He didn't want to know.

They hadn't spoken much since that night on the rail.

Not properly.

Not about anything that mattered.

But Minho looked at him sometimes. Like he was waiting for something. Or like he was bracing for it.

Jisung wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.

 

He kept to the tasks he was given. He was better at knots now. Better at the rigging. Still terrible at scrubbing decks, Seungmin had banned him from holding a brush after the third bucket spill this week. But he could tie six kinds of lashings and knew when to spot storm-light on the horizon.

The old Jisung of a few months ago would have cried at the state of his hands now.

Jisung was proud of them.

Even when they ached.

 

On the twelfth night out, he noticed Jeongin picking at his food again, slower than usual, jaw tight, cheeks hollowed just slightly more than normal.

The others were distracted, arguing over ration rotation.

Jisung tore off a piece of his own biscuit, the driest, dullest kind of sustenance, and passed it over without speaking.

Jeongin blinked at him.

"It's ok. You eat"

Jeongin smiled, small and tired. He took it with a quiet "thanks," and didn't argue.

It was nothing, really.

But it mattered.

Later, alone on the aft deck, Jisung let the wind tug at his shirt and pressed a palm flat against the railing.

He didn't trust Minho. Not fully. Not yet.

But he trusted the crew.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he still wanted to trust Minho too.

That was the worst part.

Not the past.

Not even the betrayal.

It was the want that lingered.

Even now.

 

The wind was steady, but the mood on deck wasn't.

Two weeks out from the last port, The Levanter pressed west through a wide stretch of open sea, chasing the guidance of a compass Minho wasn't sure he trusted anymore. Wonderland was still days away, nestled somewhere beyond the reef-ringed coast of no-man's waters, where the maps curled blank and pirate myth took over.

Minho had never liked the stretch before Wonderland.

Too much ocean.

Too many days where nothing moved but the ship and your own thoughts.

And now, there was the problem of food.

The crew hadn't been able to fully resupply at Bartholomew's Reach, not with the rushed departure after the embassy. Then came the small coastal town that turned them away outright, spooked by ink and whispers, the wanted poster still folded in Minho's coat like a curse.
Now, it had been well over three months since they'd restocked some essential supplies, and the shortage was catching up with them. Fast.

Rations were down to the bare minimum. Water was being measured out twice a day. Seungmin had officially banned "non-essential chewing."

The result was predictable.

Frayed tempers. Short words. More than a few snapped remarks that were followed by long silences and guilty glances.

Even Jeongin had stopped joking, which meant morale was truly at risk.

Minho felt the tension under his feet. In the way Changbin slammed down the tool box too hard after checking cannon seals. In how Hyunjin rolled his eyes at Felix six times in a single hour-long watch shift, an unofficial new record.

Chan was holding it together, just. But he was tired.

They all were.

Minho moved through it quietly, saying little, keeping the crew busy with whatever repairs or deck work they could manage. Sail checks. Rudder adjustments. Anything to make the hours pass.

He kept his thoughts to himself, mostly.

Until one evening, about ten days in, when he came up from below deck and saw something he didn't expect.

The crew were scattered across the deck, curled in little knots of fatigue and habit. Jeongin sat alone near the stairs, knees pulled to his chest, looking at a tin plate with more suspicion than appetite.

He was thinner. Minho had noticed it, even before today, how he'd started pushing food around more than eating it. Probably rationing for others. Probably thinking no one noticed.

Jisung apparently, had noticed.

Minho watched as he crossed the deck and sat beside Jeongin without a word. He didn't speak. He didn't tease.

He just broke the last of his own hardtack biscuit in half and quietly offered it over.

Jeongin hesitated.

Jisung murmured something to him.

After a second, Jeongin took it.

They sat in silence.

Minho didn't move. Didn't interrupt.

He stayed still in the shadows of the quarterdeck, hands curled loosely over the rail.

He hadn't told Jisung to do that.

No one had.

That night, Minho didn't sleep much.

He went over the charts. Checked the stars. Re-checked the cargo hold inventory as if it might magically grow fuller when counted again.

But really, he kept seeing Jeongin's thin shoulders. Jisung's outstretched hand. The quiet way they'd looked at each other, like care didn't need announcing.

It made something twist in him. Something small and sharp and... Warm.

Because this was what Minho had seen in Jisung from the start, even when he hadn't wanted to admit it. Even when he'd tried to pretend that capturing him had been strategy and not instinct.

He wasn't just surviving out here.

He was making other people want to survive, too.

Three days later, the wind shifted, and Chan spotted the outer edge of the reef system in the distance.

Wonderland was near.

Chapter 12: Wonderland

Jisung had heard a dozen different stories about Wonderland before they arrived.

Hyunjin had described it as "a den of thieves run by actors pretending to be kings."

Seungmin called it "the loudest place I've ever wanted to burn down."

Changbin claimed he'd seen a man lose a ship in a knife-throwing contest, and win it back in a drinking one.

Felix swore someone tried to trade him a live octopus in exchange for a new compass, "and honestly, I thought about it."

Even Chan, usually unshakable, had only said, "Keep your coin close and your friends closer. Everyone's loyal to gold in Wonderland. Until they're not."

Jeongin said the whole port was cursed, that the sea around it changed shape with the moon. And that some people believed the caldera beneath it still rumbled, waiting to swallow the whole thing back into the dark.

Jisung had no idea what to believe.

But as The Levanter sailed through the mist, and the jagged rim of a sunken volcano rose from the sea like broken teeth, he knew one thing for certain:

Whatever Wonderland was...
It was real.
And it was waiting.

The truth was both more and less magical.

It was big.

Not sprawling in the way of cities, but vertical, layered like the wreckage of fifty sunken dreams built up and repurposed into taverns, shops, and brothels. Half-sunk towers leaned out over black water, roofs patched with sails, rope bridges strung across open chasms of sea. There were walkways that shifted underfoot, creaking like bones, and firelight flickering in glass bottles strung above every alley.

And at the centre of it all, nestled inside the caldera's jagged rim like a crown jewel: the docks.

Dozens of ships, some patched and weatherworn, others sleek and deadly.

Some flew the colours of well-known pirates, people Jisung had only heard of in hushed tones or dramatic retellings during crew dinners on The Morning Light.

And there, unmistakable among them, sat The Crimson Siren.

Her red sails were tied and still, but her hull gleamed like wine in the rising sun. A cheer went up from their own crew at the sight of her. Even Minho cracked the barest smile as Chan let out a low whistle.

"Figures they'd be here," Felix muttered beside Jisung, already waving at a figure perched on the Siren's upper rail, probably San or Wooyoung, judging by the reckless way they shouted back.

They docked without incident.

But the moment they set foot on solid (if waterlogged) ground, Jisung knew this wasn't like any port he'd seen before.

Wonderland stank of salt, smoke, and sin.

Not in a metaphorical way.

In a very literal, very bodily way.

The air felt thick. The streets were loud, not with business, but with laughter, shouting, drunken brawling, and music that may or may not have involved a hurdy-gurdy and someone screaming lyrics about a kraken's "tender bits."

Every corner had a card table or a dice game. Every building leaned too far into the street, like it was watching. Jisung saw three different duels happening before they made it ten steps from the dock, and a woman chasing a man with a frying pan while yelling about "debt paid in teeth."

He tried not to breathe too deeply.

"You get used to it," Seungmin said dryly as they passed a man urinating directly into a barrel marked 'dry rum'. "Or you die trying."

The crew fanned out in small clusters, some to the supply stalls carved into old ship hulls, others toward the black-market tent city built on planks over open water.

Jisung, as expected, ended up pulled with Felix and Jeongin toward the nearest tavern.

And if the streets had felt overwhelming, the tavern was a riot of sensation.

The smell hit first, old ale, old sweat, something vaguely fruity and suspiciously burning.

Then the noise.

Then the bodies.

Jisung had never seen this many pirates in one place before. There were sailors with coral woven into their beards, a woman wearing what looked like a stolen military captain's coat with nothing under it, and a man carrying a taxidermy seagull on his shoulder that he insisted was his second-in-command.

They pushed toward the bar.

A barmaid, tall, sun-browned, with gold jewellery and eyes rimmed in kohl, swept past with a tray of drinks and caught sight of Jisung.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

Then she smiled.

And stalked toward him.

"Well now," she purred, "aren't you just a treasure someone left out on deck?"

Jisung froze. "I... What...."

She was already beside him. "I definitely haven't seen you here before. I'd remember a face like yours."

"I... I'm with them—" He gestured wildly at Felix and Jeongin, both of whom were already grinning like cats with cream.

"Pity," she said, finger trailing lightly up his arm. "If you weren't, I'd offer to show you where the real rum is. The kind that bites back."

Jisung opened and closed his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Jeongin snorted. Felix outright wheezed.

The barmaid winked. "Come find me if you change your mind, sweetheart."

She vanished into the crowd like she'd never been there.

Jisung stood, visibly short-circuiting.

Felix patted him on the back. "You're a menace, you know that?"

"I said nothing! I did nothing!"

"That was the problem," Jeongin said, beaming. "She saw a challenge."

It took Jisung a solid five minutes to regain control of his face. Even then, he couldn't quite meet Felix's eyes.

He was still blushing halfway through his second drink.

But beneath the embarrassment, there was something else, a thrill of belonging. Of being seen. Not as a mistake. Not as cargo. But as part of something larger, chaotic, and undeniably alive.

This place was unholy.

It was loud, dangerous, and likely contagious.

But it was also where his crew laughed loudest.

And right now, that was enough.

The tavern was louder now, heat rising, smoke curling between the rafters, laughter thick enough to feel like a language of its own.

Somewhere in the back, a trio of musicians were absolutely murdering a sea shanty on a fiddle, concertina, and something Jisung was pretty sure had started life as a washboard. Someone tossed a coin into the fire and swore it screamed. A group of pirates were playing cards with a deck clearly missing all the sevens.

Jisung didn't care.

His drink was warm in his hands. His heartbeat had finally slowed. And across the table, Jeongin was still grinning like he'd won a fight, a drink, and a bet all in one.

Then the door slammed open.

A gust of warm sea air blew through the tavern, and with it, a voice:

"Well, well, look who didn't get dumped overboard."

Jisung turned just in time to see Hongjoong stride through the doorway, crimson cloak open, salt-tousled hair shining under lanternlight, and a grin sharp enough to cut rope.

"The hostage lives," he announced, dramatically throwing his arms wide. "I'll admit, I had money on you lasting two weeks."

"Rude," Jisung muttered, but he was already smiling.

"Hongjoong!" Felix stood, pulling him into a quick hug.

"Pleasure's mine." Hongjoong clapped him on the back, then turned to Jisung with a playful smirk. "Still aboard The Levanter, huh?"

Jisung raised a brow. "I like living dangerously."

"Clearly." He leaned in, voice low and amused. "Minho must be seething."

"He's adjusting," Jisung said mildly.

Hongjoong laughed and stepped back. "That's the polite way of saying he doesn't know what to do with you."

Before Jisung could reply, a blur of motion flew past his shoulder, and suddenly Jeongin was halfway up Yunho, arms around his neck, legs clamped around his waist like a determined tree frog.

"Yunnie!"

Yunho caught him mid-leap with practiced arms, but the moment he had Jeongin in his grasp, his expression shifted.

"You're lighter," he said quietly, brow creasing as he set him down with more care than before. "Jeongin... have you been eating enough?"

Jeongin shrugged, brushing it off with a tired smile. "Rations have been tight. We've been stretching what we've got"

Jongho followed behind, eyes rolling but fond as ever. "You two are a hazard."

"Jealous I got picked up?" Jeongin teased, still with his arms wrapped around Yunho's side.

"I'd rather be cursed," Jongho said dryly. "But sure."

They settled quickly, drink orders shouted and half-forgotten, flagons passed around in a rhythm only seasoned crews understood. The space buzzed with stories, reunion, and the loud joy of shared survival.

When the chaos had calmed enough for conversation, Hongjoong turned to Jisung, Felix, and Jeongin, brows raised. "So? What brings you here? Didn't think we'd see you again so soon."

Jisung traded a glance with Felix.

Felix gave a slow, serious nod. "We've got a problem."

Jeongin leaned in, voice lower now. "There's a wanted poster."

"Minho?" Hongjoong asked, though he already looked like he knew the answer.

Felix nodded. "Big bounty. Long list of crimes. And the crew's listed, too."

"Well, most of the crew," Jisung muttered.

Hongjoong looked at him, reading too much with one glance, but said nothing.

"Supplies have been impossible to get since," Felix continued. "No port will want to risk trading with us. We came here because... Well. Wonderland doesn't care."

"But it charges," Jeongin said with a dramatic scowl. "We're going to be broke and starving."

"We'll manage," Felix said, but even he sounded tired.

Hongjoong was quiet for a moment, thoughtful.

Then he leaned back in his chair, exhaling. "We'll help."

Jisung blinked. "What?"

"Whatever you can't get here, we'll share what we have. Or get it for you. We've got a few contacts, and The Crimson Siren's still in good standing."

"That's..." Jisung started, then stopped, genuinely surprised. "That's really generous."

"Don't mistake it for charity," Jongho added with a smile. "We're very fond of chaos."

"And besides," Yunho said, clapping a hand on Jeongin's shoulder, "we missed you."

Jeongin leaned into it. "That's because I'm great."

"You are," Hongjoong agreed. "And so's your crew. Even if your captain is a brooding menace with emotional constipation."

"Hey," Felix said, half-laughing, "he's trying."

"Trying what?" Jongho asked, deadpan. "My patience?"

They all laughed.

And Jisung, sitting in the middle of it, surrounded by warmth and noise and people who had chosen him, felt something crack open in his chest.

Something that felt dangerously close to joy.

Jisung nursed what was left of his drink, legs curled up beneath him on the bench, back pressed against the wall. The tavern around him pulsed like a living thing, the music was louder now, the air smokier, and the laughter warmer with the kind of ease that only came when pirates were fed, paid, and off-duty.

Across the table, Felix and Jongho were deep in conversation. Jongho had his arms folded, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile, and Felix was doing most of the talking, quiet and intense, hands flicking occasionally to underscore some point.

Jisung didn't know what they were discussing, weapons, probably, or black-market compass parts, but there was something in Felix's voice that made Jongho actually lean in, like he wanted to hear more.

A few feet away, on the other side of the table, Jeongin and Yunho were in their own world entirely.

Jeongin was draped across Yunho's lap now, shoulder pressed against his chest, head tilted back as he laughed at something Yunho had just whispered. Yunho's arm rested loosely around him, not pulling, not holding, just there. Like it belonged.

Jisung watched them for a moment, heart tugging strangely in his chest.

He hadn't noticed it before.

How close they were. How easily Jeongin melted into Yunho's gravity. How Yunho's hand rested lightly on Jeongin's knee when he wasn't using it to drink. How they looked at each other like they were always half a sentence away from something unspoken.

He frowned, blinking slowly.

It wasn't just friendship.

It never had been.

Had anyone else noticed? Surely someone had. Or maybe no one had said anything because it didn't need to be said.

A quiet part of him wondered whether they'd ever act on it. Or whether they were already living in it, just slowly, wordlessly, the way some people did when the sea gave you more time than answers.

He looked away before he could start projecting.

"Still with us?"

Jisung turned slightly, Hongjoong had appeared beside him, sliding into the seat with a half-smile and two mugs in hand. He set one down between them.

"Brought you another," he said casually. "You looked like you were trying to drink the dregs of your soul."

Jisung huffed a laugh. "Appreciated."

They sat in companionable silence for a few sips, both watching the room. It buzzed with life, unpolished, imperfect, but real.

Then Hongjoong's tone shifted. Still warm, but more careful.

"You want to tell me what happened to earn Minho a wanted poster?"

Jisung stiffened for half a second, not from fear, but from the effort of holding it in too long.

He didn't answer right away.

But when he did, he didn't hold back.

He told Hongjoong about the plan Minho had enacted. About the early morning walk. About arriving at the embassy and realising, far too late, what the errand really was. How the official had barely looked at him. Had spoken about him, not to him. As if he were an object. A line item. A debt.

He told him about Minho's silence. How he hadn't denied it. How the truth had unravelled all at once, cold and cruel and calm.

"He didn't even fight them," Jisung said quietly. "They arrested him. Said he'd hang at dawn. And he just... Let them."

Hongjoong didn't interrupt.

Jisung traced a finger along the rim of his cup.

"I got locked in some ridiculous room," he said. "Opulent. Velvet chairs. Silver mirror. Brandy on the table. And I remember thinking it was the most prison-like place I'd ever seen."

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly, chin in his hand.

"So I left," Jisung continued. "Out the window. Climbed down a trellis. Picked the locks. Found the cell."

"And?"

"There was a guard," Jisung said. His voice was different now, smaller. "I had Minho's dagger. The one I took during that game of truth or dare. I... I used it."

"You killed him."

Jisung nodded once. "It was fast. He would've raised the alarm."

He didn't say the rest.

He didn't say that his hands had trembled for an hour after. That he still dreamt about it sometimes, not the blood, but the choice.

Hongjoong sat back, expression unreadable.

"I thought you hated Minho," he said eventually.

"I do," Jisung said. "I did. I don't know. It's complicated."

Hongjoong's eyes sparkled with something like amusement. "That's the first honest thing anyone's said about Minho Lee in probably a decade."

Jisung huffed a tired laugh.

"I couldn't let him die," he said. "Even after everything. I wanted to, for a moment. I wanted to let him rot. But..."

He broke off. Swallowed hard.

"I couldn't."

Hongjoong reached over and gently nudged the mug closer to Jisung's hand.

"You don't need to justify it," he said. "You did what you did. That's yours. Not theirs."

Jisung nodded, throat tight.

"I'm glad you told me," Hongjoong added.

"Why?"

"Because now I know the story," he said. "And because you're still here. That matters."

Hongjoong's gaze lingered on him, steady, thoughtful.

"You know," he said after a beat, "I don't think even half the crew on The Levanter would've done what you did. Not like that. Not alone."

Jisung blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Hongjoong said, voice low and sure, "you climbed out of a locked room, broke into a fortified embassy, and killed a man to save someone who betrayed you. That's not just reckless. That's loyalty. Or courage. Or madness."

He tilted his head, smirking slightly. "I've seen seasoned pirates run the other way with less reason. And you? You were a merchant."

Jisung gave a small, humourless laugh. "Apparently not a very good one."

"No," Hongjoong said, lifting his mug in a mock-toast. "Apparently something else entirely."

And when Jisung looked away, flustered and unsure, Hongjoong didn't press.

He just clinked their mugs together gently and added, "Welcome to the life of a pirate, Han Jisung."

And meant it.

Minho had never liked taverns.

They were loud, smothering things, too full of sweat and secrets, too easy to mistake noise for safety. But Wonderland's was worse. Bigger. Hungrier. Every board and beam in the place seemed to lean in like it was eavesdropping. Every conversation felt like a gamble you didn't know you were placing until the stakes were blood.

He had planned to go in alone.

Instead, he was currently following Wooyoung, who was sulking like a child denied dessert.

"I swear," Wooyoung muttered, wiping at the edge of his mouth like he'd been insulted bodily, "she looked interested. There was definite eye contact."

"She said she had a knife with your name on it," Minho said.

"It could've been a flirty knife."

"It was in her hand, Wooyoung."

"Passion runs hot in this port."

Minho rolled his eyes and pushed open the tavern door.

The heat hit first, warm and thick, like someone had distilled the ocean and set it on fire. Laughter rose like smoke. Someone slammed a mug down hard enough to slosh ale across the floor. The whole place vibrated with the layered thrum of too much life in too little space.

Minho stepped inside, and immediately scanned the room.

He spotted the rest of his crew quickly, Felix's golden head bent in conversation with Jongho, Jeongin curled comfortably into Yunho's side, laughing at something the taller man had just whispered.

And then, Jisung.

Seated in the booth beside Hongjoong, shadows shifting softly across the table between them, heads leaned in just close enough to sting.

Jisung looked calm. Not neutral, calm. At ease in a way Minho hadn't seen since before the embassy. His posture loose, his face open. The tension he wore like a second coat back on deck had been shed here like old skin.

Hongjoong was watching him with something dangerously close to admiration.

Their mugs clinked softly together.

Minho didn't move. Didn't blink. But something in his chest curled tight, like a rope cinched too suddenly.

He hadn't heard what was said, but he didn't have to.

Jisung was being seen.

And not by him.

Wooyoung leaned in, voice too loud. "I'd say don't be jealous, but you're already scowling like you're about to challenge someone to a duel over a seat."

Minho didn't answer.

Instead, he moved toward the others, slow, deliberate, keeping to the shadows until he reached the far edge of the tavern and leaned against the wall as Wooyoung disappeared in the direction of the bar.

He didn't interrupt.

Didn't announce himself.

Just watched.

Jisung was smiling now, faint and fleeting. The kind of smile that stayed in the corners of your memory longer than it had any right to. It hit Minho harder than he expected.

It wasn't just the smile. It was the ease of it. The way Jisung's shoulders were relaxed for once, not coiled like rigging before a storm. The way his eyes didn't flick nervously around the room, but held steady on Hongjoong like they were tethered there by something more than conversation.

Minho's fingers curled tighter around the edge of his coat.

He hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd seen Jisung smile like that. Since Jisung had smiled at all.

And now he was doing it... For someone else.

Minho tried to bury the sharp tug that bloomed in his chest. Tried to remind himself that he had no claim to that smile. No right to it. Not after everything he'd done. Not when he was the one who had avoided Jisung at every turn since they'd left Bartholomew's Reach, and even before that, offering brief orders and shorter glances, convincing himself that distance would fix what apology hadn't.

It hadn't.

And now Hongjoong was here. With his easy charm and his long-standing loyalty, the kind that didn't fracture under pressure. Of course Jisung would lean into that, into safety. Into someone who hadn't tried to trade him away like a ledger error.

Minho looked away.

Then looked back, because he couldn't help it.

Jisung laughed softly at something Hongjoong said, and Minho felt that laugh in his teeth.

Jealousy rose up in his throat like a tide.

He hated how instinctual it was. How it surged hot and bitter through him before he could stop it. It wasn't fair. He had made the decision to pull back. He had decided that space was the only thing he could offer while he tried to sort through the knot of everything else.

But still.

The sight of Jisung leaning toward someone else, open, vulnerable, trusting, stung in a way he wasn't ready for.

He turned slightly, just enough to fall back into shadow, back against the wall where the lantern light didn't quite reach. He crossed his arms and stared blankly into the smoke curling above the tavern, willing his expression back to blankness.

He didn't want to be that man, the one who clung to something only after it was already slipping away.

And yet... He was starting to wonder if he already was.

Minho's jaw tensed.

He made himself look away again, this time forcing his eyes to the far end of the room, where a one-eyed man was attempting to dance with a broom and losing. He latched onto the absurdity of it, the noise, the mess, the chaotic heartbeat of Wonderland around him.

But the quiet at his centre wouldn't go.

Jisung had carved himself into life aboard The Levanter, that much was clear. He moved like he belonged now. Spoke like a sailor, cursed like one too. His hands bore calluses he hadn't had before. His shoulders were stronger. His voice was steadier.

But that didn't mean he would stay.

It didn't guarantee anything.

Not when The Crimson Siren was docked a hundred yards away. Not when he had Wooyoung and Yunho and Hongjoong, people who welcomed him, understood him, laughed with him without the shadow of betrayal hanging in the air.

What if he chose them?

The thought pierced deep and sharp, like a splintered blade between the ribs.

Minho swallowed hard, jaw locking tighter. His arms crossed over his chest again, tighter now. One hand gripped the edge of his coat sleeve like it might anchor him to something real.

What if he walked away?

What if, when The Crimson Siren set sail, Jisung stepped aboard her without a backward glance? What if he left The Levanter behind, the ship, the crew, the salt-stained weeks of struggle, and never looked back?

What if he left him behind?

Minho hadn't realized how fast his heart was beating until he tried to steady his breath and couldn't.

He didn't want to follow.

Didn't want to beg.

Didn't know if he could survive it if he did.

But the possibility was there now, sharp and cruel and suddenly real. The idea of Jisung sailing off into a horizon Minho wasn't part of. Of him belonging somewhere Minho didn't have a place.

He pressed his back harder against the wall, eyes fixed on the floor now.

And still, from the corner of his vision, that laugh echoed again.

It wasn't directed at him.

Maybe it never would be.

Chapter 13: Close

Notes:

Double update as I was late posting! 🤦🏻‍♀️

Jisung was mid-sip when Hongjoong's eyes flicked past his shoulder and his grin sharpened like a knife.

"Well, well," Hongjoong murmured, his voice pitched just above the tavern's din. "Look who finally slunk in from the shadows."

Jisung turned slightly, heart giving a traitorous thump in his chest.

There, just inside the edge of the lanternlight, stood Minho.

Still as a statue. Half in the dark. Watching them.

Their eyes met, just briefly, long enough for Jisung to see it. The flicker of something raw. And gone again.

Minho didn't move toward them, not at first.

But Hongjoong had never been one to leave tension untouched.

"Captain Lee!" he called, warm and amused. "Don't just lurk like a ghost, come join us. Unless you've forgotten how to sit among the living."

Jisung made a face into his drink. "You're going to start something."

"Hopeful?," Hongjoong whispered, then shifted on the bench with casual ceremony, clapping a hand to the wood beside him.

Jisung expected him to make more room. Instead, Hongjoong scooted approximately two inches to the right.

Then he looked at Jisung with a wicked glint. "Scoot."

Jisung narrowed his eyes. "There's no space."

"Ah it's fine. Go on."

Reluctantly, Jisung shuffled sideways.

The bench was not generous.

It was already a squeeze for two. Now, three was bordering on cruel.

Especially when Minho approached, slow and quiet, like he was measuring each step.

He didn't speak as he reached them. Just glanced at Hongjoong with a look somewhere between suspicion and resignation, then at Jisung, who had very suddenly forgotten how to sit like a normal person.

Minho sat.

The bench groaned in protest.

So did Jisung's nervous system.

Their thighs pressed together. Shoulder to shoulder. Warm, solid, unmistakable contact.

Jisung sucked in a breath, quiet, but sharp.

Minho didn't move away.

Didn't even shift.

Hongjoong, the bastard, took a long drink and said absolutely nothing. He was clearly pleased with himself. That much was obvious from the twitch of his mouth and the fact that he was suddenly very invested in the floorboards.

Jisung focused very, very hard on his mug. He could feel Minho's arm along his side. The heat of him. The tension that radiated off him in precise, contained waves.

It wasn't necessarily hostile.

Just heavy.

And closer than it had been in weeks.

Jisung didn't know what to do with it. Didn't know whether to lean into it or shove it away.

So he sat still. And said nothing.

Because if he opened his mouth, he wasn't sure what might come out, a curse, a confession, or something in between. And somehow, all three felt equally dangerous.

Hongjoong didn't let the silence linger long. He swirled the contents of his mug like a man toasting a private joke and said, far too casually, "So, Minho, Jisung was just telling me all about a dramatic rescue. Very heroic. Apparently he scaled a balcony, stole the keys to the cell, and saved a damsel in distress."

Jisung choked mid-sip.

"I did not say that."

Minho turned, slowly. Jisung could feel the shift of his body beside him, the faint ripple of tension as if he wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused.

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, supremely unbothered. "No? You didn't call him a damsel?"

"No! I said it was strategic—"

"Ah yes," Hongjoong mused. "Nothing screams strategy like climbing down a crumbling ivy trellis and killing someone to save the man who tried to ransom you for gold."

Jisung flushed to the roots of his hair. "It wasn't like that."

Minho hadn't said anything yet.

Which would've been fine.

Except he was still sitting very close.

And he was looking at Jisung now, not with mockery or judgment, but something quieter. Something Jisung couldn't name without losing his balance.

"I wasn't distressed," Minho said at last, voice flat.

"You were in jail," Jisung muttered.

"It's not like you volunteered to be there," Hongjoong added. "That's distress-adjacent at best."

Minho's mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close.

Jisung wanted to crawl under the table.

"It wasn't about him," he said quickly. "Not really. I just... Couldn't let them win."

"Mm-hm," Hongjoong said, sipping his drink like a man who knew exactly when not to believe someone.

Minho didn't interrupt.

Didn't disagree.

But Jisung could feel the slight shift in his posture, the smallest exhale, the loosening of something between his shoulders.

And that made it worse, somehow.

"I should've let you rot," he muttered under his breath.

Minho glanced over again. "But you didn't."

Hongjoong made a pleased little sound. "Well," he said brightly, "this is fun. Shall I get another round?"

Jisung opened his mouth to say something, to stop him, maybe, but he was already standing, already stretching like a cat.

He turned to Jisung and pointed a ringed finger at him. "Don't move."

Jisung blinked. "What?"

"I expect this seat to still be mine when I get back," Hongjoong said sweetly. "I've warmed it."

And with that, he vanished into the crowd, leaving behind the echo of smugness and rum.

Jisung stared after him for a long second.

Then looked down at the newly empty space beside him.

It hadn't felt like much before, just a tight fit, the kind of pirate tavern squeeze that was normal when three grown men tried to sit on a bench made for two.

But now, with that space empty... Everything shifted.

Now it was just him and Minho.

Pressed close. Shoulder to shoulder. Thigh to thigh. Heat seeping through layers of fabric like it had nowhere else to go.

Jisung's pulse jumped, embarrassingly loud in his ears.

He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, determined not to acknowledge the way Minho hadn't moved either. Jisung could've shifted. Could've slid toward the open space. Could've put a hand's width of distance between them, even just for the sake of decency.

But he didn't.

They sat in silence for a moment, not the comfortable kind, but the tight, coiled kind. The kind that pressed against your ribs like waves against a hull.

Jisung swallowed, throat dry.

He was hyper-aware of everything, the faint scuff of Minho's coat against his own, the rise and fall of his breath, the warm scent of salt and leather and smoke.

And under all of it, the memory of that jail cell. Of hands gripping wrists. Of quiet panic, and quiet relief.

Of him choosing Minho.

Of not knowing why.

Minho's voice, when it finally came, was low and quiet. "You okay?"

Jisung blinked. "What?"

"You're tense."

Jisung didn't know whether to laugh or snap.

"Because you're sitting on top of me."

"You could move."

"You could move."

Minho didn't answer.

Didn't shift.

Jisung sighed, staring hard at the table.

"I don't know what this is," he muttered.

Minho was silent again for a moment.

Then, almost too softly to hear: "Me neither."

And... That was the worst possible response.

Because it was honest.

The empty space beside Jisung on the bench yawned like a challenge. But Minho didn't move. He stayed exactly where he was, shoulder brushing shoulder, thigh against thigh, like shifting would make something snap.

The contact had been tolerable when there were three of them squeezed into one cramped seat. But now, with Hongjoong gone, there was nothing between them but shared space and too much unspoken weight.

Minho sat perfectly still.

But his body was traitorous.

Every breath brought the heat of Jisung's side against his. Every subtle movement made him hyper-aware of how close they were, how warm Jisung was, how solid, how real. His heartbeat was steady, but too loud. He could feel it echoing in his jaw, down his spine.

He considered crossing his legs. Then immediately abandoned the idea. Too much shifting would make it obvious. Too awkward. Too revealing.

He tried to focus on anything else.

The warped grain of the table. The faint stick of ale under his boot. The low thrum of tavern noise rising around them.

But Jisung was right there.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to tilt his head and see the line of his jaw, the faint furrow in his brow, the way his lips were slightly parted like he couldn't quite catch his breath either.

"I hate this," Jisung muttered.

Minho's eyes flicked to him. "Hate what?"

"This... Thing. This silence. This—" Jisung waved a hand vaguely between them, not quite meeting his gaze. "This being near you and not actually knowing where I stand."

Minho stared at him.

Then said, carefully, "You stand here."

Jisung let out a short breath. "That's not enough."

"I know."

He didn't offer more. He didn't have more, not yet. The words that clawed at his throat weren't ready to be spoken, and the space between them felt too sharp to fill with half-truths.

Jisung turned to face him, finally. And when their eyes met, it was a blow.

Minho hadn't expected him to look like that, like he was waiting for something. Like he was angry and aching and still somehow willing to be here.

"I never would have dreamed you'd come for me in that cell," Minho said, voice quiet.

"I almost didn't," Jisung replied. No hesitation. Just brutal honesty.

"I know."

And he did. He understood it. Accepted it. It was what he'd earned. What he deserved.

But still.

He hadn't stopped thinking about that night. About the trellis, the clank of chains, the blood on Jisung's hands. The way he'd looked in the torchlight, wild and shaking and alive.

The fact he'd come for him.

Minho's hand twitched against his thigh, tempted toward contact. A brush of fingers. Anything.

Instead, he shifted slightly, barely enough to register, and let their arms touch, full length now.

The contact lit up every nerve.

Minho didn't move away.

He couldn't.

The words burned behind his teeth.

He wasn't sure if they were I'm sorry, or please stay, or something far more dangerous.

Jisung didn't flinch.

Neither of them looked away.

And in the quiet that followed, filled only by the background buzz of laughter and clinking glass, something cracked.

It wasn't forgiveness.

It wasn't peace.

But it was the beginning of something sharp and real, like the breath before a storm, the tilt before a kiss, the moment before the words that would change everything.

And then—

"Miss me?"

Hongjoong stood in front of them, smugness wrapped around him like silk. He set two mugs on the table and smirked.

Neither Minho nor Jisung moved.

They didn't answer.

Hongjoong's eyes narrowed, catching the space between them, or rather, the complete lack of it. His grin deepened.

"Oh. Oh."

Jisung groaned.

Minho said nothing.

But he didn't shift.

Didn't break the contact.

Didn't let go of whatever this was, not yet.

And neither did Jisung.

Hongjoong settled back onto the bench with theatrical ease, mug in hand, eyes sharp despite the strong scent of rum on his breath. He didn't comment further on the lack of space. Didn't say a word about how close Minho and Jisung were still sitting.

But his smirk lingered like smoke.

"I spoke to Felix, Jeongin, and Jisung earlier," he said, tone more serious now. "They mentioned you've had trouble sourcing some supplies."

Minho inclined his head slightly. "Bartholomew's Reach blocked us completely. And word travels fast."

"I figured as much," Hongjoong said. "I already told them, if you need help, equipment, food, repairs, Siren can spare a fair bit. Not much use stockpiling when we're docked in the middle of pirate heaven."

Minho's eyes met his, steady.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Hongjoong tipped his mug in response. "Don't mention it. You'd do the same."

Minho didn't argue.

Jisung said nothing beside him, but his hand hadn't moved. Still close. Still steady.

Hongjoong glanced between them one last time and grinned faintly.

Then, mercifully, changed the subject.

The conversation drifted to safer ground for a while, quiet talk of trade routes, local dock prices, the latest rumours about a pirate captain who allegedly married a sea witch and hadn't been seen since.

Minho let the words pass through him without much weight. He was aware, above all else, of the closeness. The silence beside him that wasn't heavy anymore, just loud. The heat of Jisung's shoulder, still against his. The steady presence of someone who hadn't walked away, even when he had every reason to.

Then Hongjoong downed the last of his drink, thumped the mug lightly to the table, and stood.

"Well," he sighed, stretching his arms over his head, "I should get back to the ship. Mingi's been unsupervised for too long, and the last time that happened we had a hole in the quarterdeck and he had no memory of why."

Minho huffed. "Good luck with that."

"Thanks. I'll need it."

He turned, took a few steps toward the tavern door...

Then abruptly stopped.

Pivoted on his heel.

"Oh. Right." He snapped his fingers, eyes flicking straight to Jisung, then to Minho. "You can move along the bench now."

Minho blinked.

Hongjoong's grin sharpened. "If you actually want to, that is."

And with that, he vanished into the crowd, cloak flaring behind him like a magician exiting his final act.

Minho sat perfectly still.

The bench suddenly felt even smaller. Tighter.

His shoulder still pressed against Jisung's.

And neither of them moved.

Not an inch.

Hongjoong's footsteps faded behind them, swallowed by the noise of the tavern, by laughter, clinking glass, the scrape of chairs, the shrill tug of a fiddle somewhere in the back.

But here, at the edge of the table, there was only silence.

Minho stared straight ahead, jaw locked, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. His drink sat untouched in front of him, but he didn't lift it. His hands were still. His body tense in a way he didn't show, the tension all lived behind his ribs, tight in his throat, coiled down his spine.

He was too aware of how close they still were. Of how neither of them had shifted, not even to pretend at politeness. The warmth of Jisung beside him hadn't dulled, if anything, it burned now, sharpened by the sudden privacy.

Because that's what it was now.

Private.

No Hongjoong, no third voice to keep the moment distracted.

Just them.

Pressed together on a bench that had always been too narrow. With words unsaid between them that had only grown heavier with each passing day.

Minho kept his breathing steady. Barely.

He didn't look at Jisung.

Because if he did, if he let himself, he wasn't sure what would happen.

So he waited.

Silent.

Still.

And slowly, the moment began to tighten, like the sky pulling in before lightning.
He could feel Jisung shift slightly beside him, a breath, a question, a tension, as if he were about to say something.

Jisung didn't move.

Couldn't.

His spine was straight, his palms flat against his thighs, and every part of him was screaming to do something, shift away, say a joke, breathe. But all he could do was sit there, shoulder still flush against Minho's, trying not to drown in the silence.

It wasn't uncomfortable, not exactly.

It was expectant.

Like the space between lightning and thunder.

He could feel Minho's presence like a pressure on his skin. Like heat from a fire he couldn't look at directly. Not when his heart was beating loud enough to rattle his ribs.

Hongjoong's words still lingered, mocking and knowing.

You can move along the bench now.
If you actually want to.

But Jisung didn't want to.

And that was the problem.

Because staying here, so close he could feel every shift of breath, every slight turn of Minho's body, meant something. Something he wasn't ready to name. Something he wasn't sure Minho could name, even now.

He shouldn't be this close.
He shouldn't still want to be.

But here he was.

And so was Minho.

Neither of them budged.

Neither of them spoke.

Jisung's fingers curled slightly on his leg, nails pressing into fabric. He wanted to say something. Anything. Wanted to ask if Minho had felt it too, that almost moment, before Hongjoong had returned. Wanted to ask if he still thought about Bartholomew's Reach, about the night Jisung had climbed down a wall and crossed a line he hadn't even realized existed.

He wanted to ask where they were now.
If they were anything at all.

But none of the words came.

Because even if he hated the not-knowing, the not-enough... He wasn't sure if he was ready to hear the truth either.

Jisung's gaze drifted, finally, if only to give himself something to do.

Across the table, near the far wall, Jeongin was still tucked beside Yunho like gravity had arranged it that way on purpose. They were leaned in close, whispering, again, or maybe just still. Yunho was smiling gently, head tilted like he was listening to music instead of words.

And Jeongin...

Jeongin looked soft.

Open in a way Jisung had rarely seen, even on the Levanter. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes low, his expression so unguarded it felt like Jisung had walked into something private just by looking at it.

Their faces were close.

Ridiculously close.

Still not touching.

But the space between them was so charged it might as well have been stitched with lightning.

Jisung's eyes stayed on them longer than he meant to.

They were sitting so close their noses could brush if either of them so much as shifted an inch. The kind of closeness that wasn't casual anymore. That wasn't platonic.

That was waiting.

Waiting for courage. For permission. For the moment the air snapped and someone finally crossed that invisible line.

Jisung exhaled slowly.

The truth clicked into place before he could stop it.

He wasn't watching them anymore.

He was watching a mirror.

His gaze slid sideways, not far. Just enough to catch the outline of Minho's shoulder, the faint movement of his breath, the hand resting motionless on the leg beside his own.

So close.

So steady.

He asked before he could talk himself out of it. "Are they...?"

He didn't finish.

Didn't need to.

Minho answered anyway, his voice as quiet as it had been all evening. "No. Not yet."

"Seriously?"

"They're waiting."

Jisung swallowed. "For what?"

Minho's answer was slow. Heavy. "For the other to make the first move."

A pause.

Jisung didn't look back at Jeongin and Yunho this time.

He didn't need to.

He could still feel the press of Minho beside him, warm, deliberate, unmoved. Like the bench had narrowed to fit them and neither of them had quite figured out how to leave it.

His chest tightened.

Not painfully.

Just tightly, like something had been pulled taut and tied without his noticing.

"They've been like that since the last time we saw them," he said, quietly. "All wrapped up in each other. Like they're already something. Even if they won't say it."

Minho didn't respond.

So Jisung kept going. He wasn't sure why.

"They look happy," he murmured.

"They are."

"And you think it's worth the wait?"

Minho's answer came after a beat.

"If they get there in the end... Yeah."

Jisung nodded, more to himself than anything else.

Then looked down, at the almost-touching hands on their legs, the half-inch of space between their pinky fingers.

A thousand thoughts warred in his head.

You tried to trade me.
I broke you out of jail.
You haven't said you're sorry.
I haven't asked you to.

I don't trust you.
But I still want to sit next to you.

Still want to hear your voice.
Still want to see if you'll reach for me first.

His throat tightened again.

Not from sadness.

From knowing.

Because this whole time, since the gallows, the cell, the silence between them, they'd been like Jeongin and Yunho. Teetering.

Not saying.

Not touching.

Just waiting.

And right now, Jisung didn't know if he wanted to break that tension or hold it forever.

He whispered, without thinking, "Do you think they'll do it?"

Minho's voice was low. "What?"

"Kiss each other."

Another pause. Another heartbeat.

"I think they're closer than they know," Minho said.

Jisung turned his head.

Finally looked at him.

Really looked.

Their eyes locked, and this time, Minho didn't glance away.

Jisung's chest rose. Fell. Stilled.

He looked back at Jeongin and Yunho, and murmured, like it meant something else entirely...

"Maybe they're just scared."

And this time, Minho didn't answer.

Minho hadn't breathed properly since Jisung turned to look at him.

Not really.

Not since that moment when the air shifted, sharp and quiet, and something in Jisung's voice dropped low enough to mean something.

Minho had seen it coming.

Not the words themselves, but the gravity of them. The ache behind them. The need to ask without asking.

Do you think they'll kiss?
Maybe they're just scared.

That one hit the hardest.

Because Jisung hadn't said it like he was talking about Jeongin and Yunho anymore. Not really.

He'd said it like a question aimed at the space between them.

Minho hadn't answered.

Not because he didn't know what to say, but because he did.

And that terrified him.

The truth was simple, sharp and painful in its simplicity: he was scared too.

Scared of saying something too soon.
Scared of saying something too late.
Scared of reaching out and finding nothing waiting.
Scared of reaching out and finding everything.

Minho's hand twitched against his thigh.

He didn't know what he was allowed to do.

Not after Bartholomew's Reach.
Not after the betrayal.
Not after the rescue.

Jisung had saved his life.

And Minho still hadn't said thank you.

Still hadn't apologized.

But this... This quiet space, this waiting, was asking for something.

And Minho didn't know if he could offer it without falling apart.

He looked back at Jisung.

Took in the line of his jaw. The steady rhythm of his breath. The faint furrow between his brows that always appeared when he was thinking too hard.

And for one fragile second, Minho let himself want.

Not just the bench.

Not just the closeness.

But him.

And maybe he had all along.

He swallowed, throat tight.

Let the want burn quietly in his chest, not hot, not unbearable.

Just there.

Then, when the moment reached its limit, Minho shifted slightly on the bench, drawing in a breath that didn't feel quite steady.

"You ready to head back?" he asked, voice soft.

Jisung looked away from the wall of the tavern where Jeongin and Yunho were still folded into each other's orbit, like the rest of the room had faded to background noise.

He blinked, once.

Then nodded. "Yeah."

They stood together. The bench creaked in relief.

Chapter 14: Maelstrom

For a moment, Minho thought Jisung might step away, put some distance between them as they headed for the door. But he didn't. He stayed close, not brushing, not quite touching, but parallel.

They stepped out into the streets of Wonderland.

The night air was thick with the scent of spilt rum, woodsmoke, and salt. Laughter rang out from alleys and upper balconies. Someone was singing in a language Minho didn't recognize. Someone else was definitely setting something on fire.

It was a world without boundaries. Without rules. Without stillness.

But the silence between them as they walked was steady.

Not uncomfortable.

Just... Careful.

Minho glanced over once, briefly. Jisung's face was unreadable in the firelight from the lanterns they passed, but his shoulders were relaxed. His steps were even. He didn't look like someone trying to escape.

He looked like someone choosing to stay quiet when there was nothing safe left to say.

They reached the docks before either of them broke the silence.

The Levanter rose before them, tall, dark, still. A shape Minho knew better than his own shadow. It felt steadier tonight, anchored in the stillwater bay like it belonged there more than he did.

Jisung walked up the gangplank ahead of him, then stopped a few paces onto the deck, gazing up at the masts.

He still didn't speak.

And neither did Minho.

Not yet.

Minho should've carried on walking. Gone to his quarters. Should've let the moment end in silence like so many of theirs had, quiet, unresolved, safe.

But the words pushed up too fast. Too sharp.

"Are you thinking of leaving?"

In front of him, Jisung stopped short.

"What?"

Minho stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. "With the Crimson Siren. When they leave Wonderland."

Jisung turned fully, brow furrowing. "Why the hell would you ask that?"

Minho should've backpedalled. Should've lied.
Should've said never mind, forget it, it's nothing.

Instead...

"I saw you with Hongjoong," he muttered. "You were close. You looked... Comfortable."

Jisung blinked at him, then tilted his head. "Close?"

"You were laughing with him. Leaned in. You didn't move away." Minho's voice was tighter than he meant. "And you smiled at him like—"

"Like what?" Jisung cut in, sharply. "Like I liked him?"

Minho didn't answer.

Didn't have to.

Jisung's eyes widened, and then narrowed just as quickly. "Oh my god. That's what this is about?"

"No—"

"You think I want to get into Hongjoong's pants?" Jisung's voice rose, incredulous and furious. "That's what this is?"

Minho turned on him, bristling. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to!" Jisung threw his arms up. "You just looked at me like I'd betrayed you just by talking to someone who actually listens!"

Minho stepped forward, chest tight. "I wasn't jealous—"

"Bullshit."

Jisung's voice cracked over the word.

The dock was empty below them, the sounds of Wonderland echoing from down the pier, laughter, shouts, drunken singing. It all felt distant now. Like none of it mattered but this.

"I've risked everything to be here," Jisung hissed, voice low but shaking. "I could have gone home. Safe. Instead, I climbed a goddamned building and even killed a man to save you from execution. And you think I'd just leave? For someone else?"

Minho opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"I don't want him," Jisung bit out. "I've never wanted him."

Then, louder.

"The only pirate captain I've ever wanted is standing right in front of me!."

Silence.

Minho froze.

So did the air.

Jisung's chest was rising and falling like he'd just run a mile uphill. His fists were clenched at his sides, trembling with the weight of it all.

Minho stared at him, every breath burning.

The weight of those words echoed through him like cannon fire, loud, disorienting, undeniable.

The only pirate captain I've ever wanted is standing right in front of me.

It didn't feel like a confession.
It felt like a breaking point.

Jisung's face was flushed, jaw set, every line of his body rigid with tension, but underneath it, Minho saw it. The hurt. The fear. The vulnerability carved into every sharp edge.

Not a challenge.

A plea.

Minho stepped closer, slowly this time. Measured. Like approaching something that might bolt.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Jisung regretted them.

Not because they weren't true, gods, they were too true, but because he couldn't take them back. Couldn't rewind time, shove the heat and rage and want back down where it belonged, buried under safer things.

The only pirate captain I've ever wanted is standing right in front of me.

Stupid. Too much. Too raw.

His chest heaved with the aftershock of it, lungs struggling to remember how to work. His fists trembled where they hung at his sides, nails digging half-moons into his palms. Everything felt too bright. Too exposed. Like he'd just been turned inside out on the middle of the deck.

And Minho...

Minho hadn't moved.

Jisung tried not to look at his face, tried not to see whatever expression was there, disappointment, confusion, pity. He didn't think he could take it if it was pity.

But then Minho took a step toward him.

Then another.

Slow, measured, careful like Jisung was a wild thing that might bolt if startled.

Jisung's throat tightened.

He wanted to run.

He wanted to stay.

He wanted to disappear and never speak again, and also to hear what Minho would say next more than anything in the world.

He didn't move.

Didn't dare.

Just watched as Minho closed the distance, step by excruciating step, gaze locked on Jisung's face like he was memorizing every twitch, every falter.

Jisung tried to hold still.

Tried to breathe evenly.

But every nerve was lit up now, prickling under his skin, screaming with the weight of what might happen next. His heart was thudding in his ears, a painful, clumsy rhythm.

And then Minho stopped, close enough that Jisung could feel the warmth of him, not touching, but near enough that it would take nothing to close the gap.

Minho's voice, when it came, was quiet. Gentle.

"Are you scared?"

The question landed like a spark against dry kindling.

Jisung's breath caught.

His first instinct was to ask what do you mean? To stall, to deflect, to throw up some clever line and laugh it all off like he always did.

But he couldn't. Not now. Not after what he had just said.

Because he knew what Minho meant.

He remembered their conversation in the tavern, the one where they'd both watched Jeongin and Yunho orbit around each other like moons just shy of colliding. The way Minho had said they're waiting for the other to make the first move. The way Jisung had whispered, maybe they're just scared.

He was scared, too.

Still.

But standing here now, so close that Minho's breath stirred the air between them, with the rum from earlier still lending him courage, with the sea humming behind them and the Levanter at their backs, he realized something else:

He was also done waiting for Minho to move.

Jisung's voice was barely audible when he answered. "No."

Minho's eyes didn't move, but Jisung could see it, the soft shift in them, like a held breath being released. Like something uncoiling.

Jisung closed the last sliver of space between them in one step, his hands sliding high up Minho's coat over his chest to grip the lapels.
He surged forward in the next breath, hands fisting in Minho's coat, and pulled him down into a kiss that shattered the quiet between them.

There was no caution in it.

No calculation.

Just heat and tension and weeks of silence bursting apart in one breathless, desperate collision.

Minho staggered back half a step from the force of it, but his hands came up instantly, cupping Jisung's face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, anchoring them both like he'd done this in his dreams too many times to hesitate now.

The wind whipped around them, cold and biting, sending his coat flaring behind him like a storm flag. The edges curled against Jisung's legs as if the ship, the wind, the sea itself wanted to pull them closer.

Jisung's mouth was warm and demanding, lips parted just enough to steal Minho's breath and give it back again.

Minho matched it, pressure for pressure, fire for fire, pouring every word he wanted to say into the space between them. Apology. Longing. Frustration. Relief. Stay.

Jisung made a soft sound in the back of his throat, something between a sigh and a growl, and Minho felt it echo through him like thunder in his chest.

The world narrowed.

No storm. No gallows. No bounty. No warships waiting.

Just this.

Just him.

Minho walked him backward, slow and steady, not breaking the kiss. His hands never left Jisung's face, fingers sliding back into his hair now, holding him like he didn't dare let go. Jisung moved with him easily, willingly, until the door to the captain's quarters met his back with a soft thud, boards solid beneath him.

Still, he didn't pull away.

He just tilted his chin, opening further, letting Minho lead. Like he was giving over the helm in a storm and trusting him to steer.

It undid something in Minho. Something knotted tight beneath his ribs.

Jisung's hands slipped inside his coat, fingers brushing over his sides, searching, sliding higher until they found the top edges of his shirt, brushing across his collar bone. The touch was light, but it set fire in its wake, sent heat skimming across Minho's skin in a rush of awareness.

And suddenly he was remembering the first time those fingers had snuck into his coat. The stolen dagger. The smooth lie. The infuriating, brilliant nerve of it.

A thief from the start.

He felt Jisung's palm flatten over his chest, seemingly intent on stealing from him again. Only this time it was his heart.

And now he was standing there with it pressed right into his palm.
The thought brought a calm fury to Minho, fuelling his movement as his kiss turned punishing.

Jisung sighed into his mouth, a soft, yielding sound that unravelled Minho more thoroughly than any wanton scream ever had.

The door at Jisung's back creaked faintly, the only witness to the way Minho pressed him closer, chest to chest, breath shared in shallow exchanges. The wind was dying down now, just the faint whistle of it through the rigging overhead, but inside this pocket of quiet, there was only heat.

Minho's hands slid from Jisung's hips up under his coat, slow, searching, until they tightened against his waist. The warmth of his skin beneath the fabric made something coil low and hot in Minho's stomach. He wasn't sure if he'd meant to grab him so roughly, or if it had just happened. All he knew was that he didn't want to stop.

Jisung leaned back against the door just enough to look up at him, breathless, pupils wide, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he might say something. But he didn't.

Minho dipped his head again, kissed the corner of Jisung's mouth, his cheekbone, the pulse at his jaw. He felt the way Jisung trembled under him, not from fear, but from holding back.

"Tell me to stop," Minho whispered, lips brushing skin.

Jisung's fingers curled into his shirt.

"I won't," he said. "I don't want you to."

That undid Minho more than anything else.

Minho reached behind him without looking, fingers finding the brass doorknob by instinct. It turned with a soft click, and the door gave way under the pressure of their bodies.

Jisung stumbled with the sudden loss of support, but Minho caught him, steady hands finding his waist again, guiding him through the threshold. The door swung shut behind them with a muted thud.

Minho didn't stop moving.

He spun Jisung gently, firmly, until his back hit the inside of the door, the same door they'd just pressed against from the other side, and in the dim, lamp-lit glow of the captain's quarters, it felt like the world shrank down to just this: the heat between them, the shallow rhythm of their breath, the quiet groan of old wood beneath shifting weight.

Jisung looked up at him, eyes wide, lips parted, unsure whether to laugh or gasp or speak.

Minho didn't give him the time to choose.

He stepped in, one arm braced beside Jisung's head, the other sliding around his waist, anchoring them chest to chest.

The silence between them sparked like flint.

Jisung's hands were already inside his coat again, gripping fabric like it was the only thing keeping him upright, like if he let go now he might fall through the floor. His fingertips brushed against his skin through the fabric, Minho's ribs, his spine, and the touch burned, steady and searching

Jisung made a sound low in his throat, part relief, part desperation, and Minho swallowed it whole, mouth catching his again in a kiss that seared Jisung's lips.
The kind that dragged every inch of tension to the surface and burned it away.

Minho pressed him harder into the door, enough that Jisung gasped into his mouth and Minho chased the sound, hands skimming down to grip his hips, guiding, grounding, until they were flush from chest to knee.

He kissed the hollow of Jisung's throat, the space just above his collar, then lifted his head again, eyes catching the low lamplight that painted golden shadows across Jisung's face.

He looked wrecked.

Hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised, flushed from neck to cheekbone. But his eyes were wide open, full of want.

Minho leaned in, lips brushing his temple as he reached behind Jisung again, found the door's lock, and clicked it shut, the sound seeming to echo unnaturally loud throughout the room.

Jisung's hands slipped further across Minho's chest, sliding across his shoulders to push his long navy coat down.
It pooled onto the floor by their feet, instantly forgotten, Jisung's sea-green coat following it.

Minho's hands were already at his own belt, working the silvered buckle with practiced ease, movements urgent but careful. Jisung didn't stop him, didn't even blink, just reached for the hem of Minho's black shirt and tugged it upward, over his head in one smooth motion.

The fabric caught briefly on Minho's hair, mussing it, before it was cast aside too, leaving bare skin beneath flickering lantern light, lean and scarred and steady.

Jisung's gaze drifted across Minho's chest and landed on the ink just over Minho's heart. The compass.

His breath hitched, just slightly.

Wordlessly, he reached out, fingers brushing against Minho's bare skin, tracing the dark lines of the tattoo.

Minho went still under the touch. Not tense, exactly, but caught. Like something delicate had just been touched inside him, some old wire plucked back to life. Goosebumps followed the path of Jisung's fingertips. His breath stuttered, low and quiet.

Jisung didn't speak. Just kept tracing, the outer circle, the north point, the steady centre. His fingers moved slowly, like he was learning something through touch alone.

And Minho felt every inch of it.

Not just on his skin, but deeper. As if that small, quiet gesture had shifted something inside his ribs, realigned it, somehow. Like the undeniable pull of a strong tide.

Jisung's fingertips skimmed across the inked compass, its lines bold and clean against Minho's skin, just over his heart.

He traced slowly, deliberately. The outer ring, then North. True North.

He wondered if it hurt. The tattoo. The meaning behind it. The story it might carry.
But he didn't ask. Not yet. The question caught in his throat like a shard of something fragile.

His hand stilled, just for a moment, resting lightly over the centre.

He could feel Minho's heart beneath it, not racing, but not exactly calm either. Steady, maybe. Intense.

Jisung risked a glance upward.

Minho was already watching him.

Eyes shadowed in the low light, unreadable... And yet not. Because there was something unmistakable there, something that made Jisung's stomach flip and his breath catch in his throat.

Want.

Jisung let his hand drift from the compass, down the line of Minho's chest, fingertips skimming over skin gone taut beneath his touch. He traced a path across old scars, faint, raised lines that caught the light like whispers of pain long past.

Scars Jisung hadn't even known were there. Scars he was sure weren't just skin-deep.

His fingers followed instinct, memorizing them one by one. And when his touch reached the sharp edge of Minho's waist, brushing the line where fabric met skin...

Minho's hand suddenly closed around his wrist like a band of iron, sudden and firm, an unspoken boundary drawn in the space between breath and impulse.

"Too fast?" Jisung asked, his voice barely audible over the sound of the waves outside.

Minho didn't answer right away.

His grip around Jisung's wrist remained firm, unmoving. Not harsh, not punishing, just still. Anchored. Minho's eyes searched his face like he was reading something there he wasn't sure he wanted to see.

"If you go any further," Minho said finally, voice low and steady, "I won't hold back."

Jisung swallowed. Hard.

The words sank in slow, deeper than he expected. And something in them made his heart trip, fear and anticipation tangled like storm-lines.

He tested it, just barely, pulling gently against Minho's grip.

Minho let go immediately.

Like he expected Jisung to take the opportunity to retreat.

Like he was bracing for distance.

But Jisung didn't pull away.

He slid his hand back, down the line of Minho's torso, to the edge of his waistband again. His fingertips brushed bare skin, feather-light and deliberate.

Minho's breath stuttered.

His eyes fluttered closed for half a second, lashes dark against his cheeks, and when they opened again, they were darker. His jaw clenched tight, and his fists curled slightly at his sides like he was trying to restrain himself.

Jisung felt a small surge of heat and defiance rise up in him, knowing he could do this to him. That he was wanted like that.

"Good," he whispered, "I didn't come this far for restraint."

Chapter 15: Surrender

If Minho's gaze had been dark before, it was pitch black now, storm-thick and bottomless.

In one swift, fluid motion, he spun Jisung around, pressing him face-first firmly against the door. Jisung's palms braced against the wood, chest rising fast, breath knocked out of him from the sudden shift. Minho's body was at his back, solid heat, presence unmistakable.

"You don't want restraint?" Minho murmured low by his ear, voice like smoke, like fire held in gloved hands. Each word ghosted across Jisung's skin, breath hot against the curve of his neck.

Jisung shuddered.

"No," he whispered, voice raw and certain.

You're sure?" Minho growled, the words tight and low, like a trigger pulled halfway. One last warning. One final edge of control before everything else burned.

Jisung drew in a slow breath, then turned just enough to meet Minho's gaze over his shoulder.
"Show me the same restraint I had when I drove a blade into a man to save your life."

Minho froze behind him.

Not because he was shocked, no, they were far past that. But because something in the way Jisung said it hit like a flare to dry tinder. Like challenge and promise and confession wrapped in one wicked breath.

Minho stepped in again, the heat of him pressing full against Jisung's back, hand curling around the curve of his jaw, tilting his head just enough.

"You're playing with fire, Jisung" he murmured.

Jisung's breath hitched. "Then burn me."

It was all the encouragement Minho needed.

His mouth was on Jisung's neck a second later, open, hungry, claiming. He kissed just below the ear, down the line of his throat, where his fluttering pulse beat hot and urgent beneath the skin. Jisung shuddered in response, hands scrabbling for purchase against the woodgrain of the door.

The tension snapped like a rope under too much strain.

Minho's hands sought Jisung's belt, crashing against Jisung's own fingers as they both scrambled to undo the buckle.
Once that was dealt with, Minho shoved Jisung's pants down roughly, just enough so that they rested underneath the curve of his ass.

He took a moment to drink in the sight, letting his eyes roam, every curve etched in golden lantern light and shadow, Jisung prone and waiting for him... Before finally pulling his own pants down and fisting himself, dragging the head of his length down between Jisung's ass cheeks.

Jisung sucked in a breath, sharp and shaky, his muscles tightening as Minho's cock dragged over his skin, hot, heavy, and electric enough to make his legs nearly give out.

One of Minho's hands came to rest at Jisung's hip, fingers digging in just enough to anchor him, possessive and steady, a silent command not to move.

Jisung could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, each beat a thunderclap beneath his skin. His breath caught somewhere in his throat, shallow and uneven, like his lungs had forgotten how to draw in air. Heat pulsed through him in waves, raw, electric, every nerve on high alert. His fingers twitched where they gripped the wood beneath them, shoulders tense, spine arched just slightly, caught between anticipation and the overwhelming rush of sensation.

Minho spat into his hand, coating the head of his rigid cock liberally. Part of him ached to slow down, to savour every inch, every breath, every trembling sound and whimper that Jisung made. But the greater part burned with raw, unrelenting need, screaming to take, to claim, to bury himself in Jisung now, to let go of the control that was already disintegrating like a frayed rope.

Jisung's back was arched beautifully in invitation, and Minho took it.
He lined himself up against Jisung's entrance, his free hand holding Jisung's hip with an almost punishing grip.

Minho pushed forward, and Jisung let out a strangled gasp that was half-pain, half-pleasure.
Minho pulled back again quickly, before slowly sinking himself further into Jisung.
Jisung's breath came in pants, his fingernails scraping against the wooden door.
Minho repeated the motion again. And again. Drawing back quickly before slowly seating himself back into Jisung, further and further each time until eventually, he bottomed out, Jisung whimpering in response.

Minho's hands kept a firm grip on Jisung's hips, holding him in place as his cock plunged demandingly into him over and over again.

Jisung could barely draw breath. Every nerve felt exposed, like his skin had forgotten the difference between pleasure and pressure, between fighting and surrender. His fingers scrabbled at the door, searching for something to anchor him, but it was no use. Minho was the only constant in the storm of sensation. His body was trembling, knees buckling. It was too much. It wasn't enough. And it wrecked him, completely.

Every time Minho's cock dragged against a tender spot inside of him, he felt a new wave of something he didn't even recognise coursing through him.

Minho's fingers were gripping his hips hard enough that he expected to carry the bruises of his fingertips for the next week, and strangely he delighted in the thought of it.
He could hear Minho's ragged breath behind him, a staccato rhythm beating through the air.

Until now he'd been so focused on staying upright, he hadn't dared to try and look behind him.
When he finally did, he was greeted by the sight of Minho watching as his cock sank into Jisung, snapping his hips forward against him. It was enough to make him turn molten inside, the heat pooling in his core, unable to ignore.

Without thinking, Jisung reached up and backwards behind him, his palm coming to rest at the back of Minho's neck.
Minho's eyes suddenly snapped to his, Jisung's touch dragging his attention away from where their bodies were connected.

Jisung leaned his head back sideways against Minho's chest, and Minho crashed his lips down onto his, luxuriating in the feel of their tongues colliding.
He slid one hand away from Jisung's hip, grasping across his jaw and throat instead, Jisung gasping against his mouth.
The other quickly moved too, wrapping around Jisung's chest as Minho's pelvis picked up speed.
Jisung's hand slipped into Minho's hair, holding on as the building waves of heat slammed through him.

Jisung whimpered at the building sensation, a burning he had no control over. His skin felt too hot, sweat sliding down his spine as he desperately tried to struggle against whatever was happening inside him.

"Stop fighting it" Minho's voice came behind him, low and firm.

"I... I can't... It's... Aughhhh!" Jisung cried out as the waves finally engulfed him entirely, the tide cascading out from his core and spreading all the way through his body.
His knees buckled, and only Minho's strong grip kept him from collapsing completely.

Minho felt the moment Jisung's climax took him. The shudder that went through his entire body as he clenched around him, and shattered in his arms, crying out.
Minho held him up against his chest and continued to fuck him through it, seeking his own release.
Within moments, his rhythm stuttered and he cursed out loud as he poured into Jisung, grinding his teeth as Jisung's body still writhed against him.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rush of the wind outside and the uneven cadence of their breathing.

Minho didn't move, just held Jisung there, pressed against him, arms locked around his middle. His forehead dropped to Jisung's shoulder, sweat-damp hair brushing his cheek. His chest rose and fell against Jisung's back, hearts still thunderous, slowly finding a steadier rhythm.

Jisung's fingers gripped Minho's forearm where it wrapped around his waist. His body trembled with the lingering aftershocks, but he didn't pull away. Didn't speak. Just stood there, head tipped forward, letting the silence settle.

Eventually, Minho shifted. He eased back away from Jisung, his fingers brushing across his sensitive skin as his hands finally let go of him. Jisung turned slowly, carefully, and when he looked up, Minho's eyes were wide and unreadable in the low light.

Words hovered on Minho's tongue, something between an apology, a denial, a refusal, though he wasn't sure which one it would've come out as.

The moment felt fragile, suspended. Jisung's skin was still slightly flushed, his breath soft and shallow. Minho could feel the question between them. Not spoken aloud, but there.

Then...

Voices.

Muffled at first, then louder. Boots hitting the deck, the clatter of laughter, someone calling out for water, someone else telling them to shut up or go swim it off.

Minho froze.

He watched it ripple across Jisung's expression, too, a flicker of awareness, of reality crashing back in. The closeness they'd been wrapped in cracked just slightly at the edges.

"We should—" Minho began, voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Jisung nodded. "Yeah."

Neither of them stepped away.

Through the door, the familiar rhythm of the crew returning to their ship began to rise, Chan's laugh, Felix's teasing drawl, the clunk of a barrel being set down too hard.

Minho bent down, picked up his coat from where it lay crumpled on the floor, and shrugged it on in silence.

Jisung hurriedly pulled his pants back up properly, then reached for his coat where it had landed, rumpled and half-forgotten on the floor. His fingers were steady now, steadier than his thoughts had any right to be. He slipped it on in silence, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeves just to keep his hands busy.

His heart was still racing.

He could hear the crew out on the deck, their return washing over the quiet like a tide. Laughter. Boots. Barrels thudding against wood. Normal things. Familiar things.

But nothing about this felt normal.

He straightened, turned toward the door. His hand found the brass handle, but before he could turn it, he felt Minho step in close behind him. Just the shift of air, the weight of presence.

He didn't know what this meant.

Didn't know what came next.

And when he finally stepped out onto the deck, Minho was right behind him.

The night air hit Jisung like a tide, cooler now, touched with the salt of the sea and the scent of portside taverns. The stars overhead were hazy but bright, and the deck was lit in warm pools of lanternlight.

No one noticed them emerge.

Or rather, if they did, no one cared.

Felix was perched on a coil of rope near the helm, swinging a bottle from one hand and laughing so hard he nearly tipped backward. "And then she said... Oh, oh my god, she said, 'You call that a blade? I've got knitting needles sharper!'" He doubled over, wheezing.

Jeongin was slumped beside him, hiccupping with laughter. "Was that the one with the scar across her nose?"

"That was after she threw a mug at Wooyoung," Yunho chimed in from where he leaned lazily against the rail. "Which, to be fair, he definitely earned."

"Unbelievable," Hyunjin muttered, shaking his head but grinning, arms crossed as he leaned against the mast. "That man has no self-preservation instincts."

"Hey!" Wooyoung's voice rang out indignantly from the top of the gangplank. "She said I was charming!"

"She also slapped you across the face," Seungmin said flatly, not looking up from the small pouch he was counting coins into.

"I call that a mixed signal!" Wooyoung declared, striding aboard with the kind of confidence only someone thoroughly tipsy or thoroughly shameless could muster. He had a faint red mark on his cheek and a grin twice the size it should've been.

"She also said," Yunho added helpfully, "'Touch me again and I'll gut you like a fish, pretty boy.'"

"I am pretty," Wooyoung said proudly. "That's the takeaway here."

Jisung snorted before he could stop himself.

Minho, just behind him, made a soft sound that could've been a laugh if you knew him well enough to hear it.

"Ah, the wanderers return!" Changbin called from where he was sitting cross-legged on a barrel near the forecastle, a drink in one hand and a playing card in the other. "You missed a show. There was dancing. Bad dancing. Tears. Three arrests. Not ours, thankfully."

Jisung shook his head, letting the noise wash over him like balm. The chaos, the camaraderie, the sheer ridiculousness of it all. For once, no one was watching him too closely. No one was questioning. No one was asking what he and Minho had been doing in the captain's quarters.

He looked at the way Jeongin was half-asleep against Yunho's side, how Hyunjin had loosened his shirt and was humming under his breath, how Chan was nowhere to be seen, probably passed out somewhere with Seonghwa criticising his lack of ability to hold his rum.

This ship, this crew, they were his.

And as Minho came to stand beside him, close but not pressing, not yet, Jisung realised things between them had suddenly gotten a thousand times more complicated.

The next morning, Wonderland was already awake and louder than it had any right to be. The sun rose sluggishly over the jagged edge of the caldera, casting gold across the dock waters, where pirate ships of all sizes rocked gently in their berths.

The Levanter's deck smelled of salt, sweat, and cheap rum, but the crew were up early, hangovers grumbled through teeth, and bickering echoed across the rigging as supplies were hauled aboard. Sacks of dried rice, small casks of salt meat, crates of citrus fruit, barrels of gunpowder. All painfully overpriced, but they'd managed to get everything they needed.

Seungmin returned carrying half a keg of oil and a dead-eyed warning not to ask how he acquired it.

Jeongin, arm slung over Yunho's shoulders like it was second nature now, tossed a stolen apple up and down with a proud grin.

Jisung caught the apple mid-air and rolled his eyes. "You bought that?"

"Borrowed it indefinitely," Jeongin corrected. "It was overpriced anyway."

Hyunjin snorted nearby. "You just didn't want to admit Yunho had to barter for you."

"Did not."

"Did too."

Before they could start a full debate over the semantics of theft, Wooyoung stumbled down the dock with a fresh handprint marked on his cheek. He looked... proud of it.

"Don't say a word," he warned, holding up one finger. "That woman is a menace."

"Again?" Seungmin groaned.

"She had a pistol this time," Wooyoung grinned. "Which, admittedly, was part of the appeal."

Hongjoong arrived last, flanked by Jongho and San, all of them looking far too smug for anyone's comfort. He clapped Minho on the shoulder and pulled him to one side.

Before anyone could ask what Hongjoong had pulled Minho aside for, the sharp edge to his smile dulled. His voice dropped low enough that only Minho and Jisung, standing nearby, could hear.

"I've got bad news," he said simply.

Minho tensed. "How bad?"

Hongjoong glanced around. Wooyoung was still boasting to Seungmin and Hyunjin, Jeongin was perched on a barrel giggling with Yunho, and then leaned in further.
"Rumours are swirling around Wonderland. The Aurum Guard is hunting for the Levanter."

Minho's eyes narrowed. "The Aurum Guard?"

Before Minho could respond further, Jisung, who had been nearby, stiffened. His face paled as he turned to face them. "Did you say the Aurum Guard?"

Hongjoong nodded solemnly. "Yes. Word is they're asking questions, showing interest in the whereabouts of a ship with a wolf figurehead holding a compass in its mouth. And I did some more digging this morning. It looks like the Han Trading Company are still using Jisung's signature on documents. Him being missing is not public knowledge apparently. Not sure if it was happening before you guys picked him up, but his name is all over forged documents and questionable activity relating back to the Han Trading Company"

Jeongin, overhearing the conversation, looked puzzled. "What's the Aurum Guard?"

Jisung took a deep breath, his voice tinged with apprehension. "They're the elite enforcement arm of the Han Trading Company. Privateers with the backing of immense wealth and power. If they're after us, it's serious."

He paused, his gaze distant. "Last I heard, my cousin Suho was in charge of them."

The crew, sensing the gravity of the situation, gathered around. Felix's jovial demeanour faded. "Suho? The strategist?"

Jisung nodded. "Yes. He's methodical, relentless. If he's involved, this isn't just a routine pursuit."

Hyunjin clenched his fists. "So, what's our move?"

Minho looked around at his crew, their faces a mix of concern and determination. "We prepare. We stay alert. And we don't let them catch us off guard."

The crew nodded in agreement, the camaraderie and trust among them evident. The Levanter had faced challenges before, but this was different.

Hongjoong agreed. "You've got a narrow window. You've got what you came for, you should cast off as soon as you can."

He clapped Minho on the shoulder again, this time more firmly, and turned back toward Wonderland, his earlier humour gone.

Jisung didn't say anything else.

But his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

He caught Minho's eye, but the expression he found there was unreadable.

Minho watched Hongjoong disappear down the dock, his easy grin fading as the shadows swallowed him. The air felt heavier now, too still, like the sea before a squall.

The Aurum Guard.

His gut twisted at the name. Not because of fear, exactly, but because of what it meant.

Risk. Chaos. An end to everything they'd ever worked for.

He glanced across the deck, catching a glimpse of Jisung speaking with Jeongin. The younger boy looked pale, alarm etched into every line of his face, while Jisung's expression had gone taut and unreadable.

Minho had seen that look once before. At the embassy.

He turned from them, jaw tight.

This wasn't just about reputation anymore. It wasn't just about the Levanter, or even the bounty. The Aurum Guard's presence meant precision. Power. And a direct line back to the Han Trading Company.

Which meant Jisung's name was on more than just forged papers, it was on a target list.

They couldn't afford to linger. Not with enemies on the move and a fragile thing blooming in the quiet between them. Whatever this was with Jisung... It was delicate. Still full of sharp edges and bruised trust. And it was about to be tested already.

Minho moved fast, letting command drop back into his voice like a stone into water.

"Felix, get eyes on every exit out of port. I want to know if any ships are flying Aurum colours."

"Aye, Captain," Felix said, already moving.

Hyunjin, I want the Levanter unrecognisable by sunrise. New paint, new sail markings, anything that says we're not who they're looking for.

"Understood."

"Changbin, take stock of everything. Weapons, ammo, food. Prioritize what we need most and prep the resupply."

"On it."

"And someone find Chan, tell him we need to set off at first tide."

He turned just in time to see Jisung moving across the deck, no hesitation, no need for instruction. He slipped into the organized chaos with ease, exchanging words with Seungmin, then disappearing below deck, likely heading for storage.

Minho's chest ached.

He trusted Jisung. He trusted his loyalty. But that didn't mean Jisung would stay. Not if things got too dangerous. Not if staying meant blood on his hands. Again.

Minho lifted his gaze to the horizon.

They'd have to move quickly. Carefully. Keep a low profile, sail with shadows at their back and wind at their heels. The Aurum Guard would not hesitate. And this time, there was more than gold at stake.

There was something fragile and new.

There was a possible future, one Minho was suddenly desperate not to lose.

Chapter 16: Two Sides of the Coin

The Levanter creaked gently beneath them, sails taut with the wind, as Jisung and Jeongin perched high in the crow's nest. The sea stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast expanse of blue under a near cloudless sky. Through his brass spyglass, Jisung scanned the horizon, ever watchful for the telltale glint of Aurum Guard ships.

Jeongin adjusted his own spyglass, his face etched with concern. "Jisung," he began hesitantly, "what exactly is the Aurum Guard? I mean... You talked a bit about them earlier, but I still don't really understand."

Jisung lowered his spyglass, his gaze distant. "They're the Han Trading Company's elite enforcers," he said quietly. "Privateers with the authority of a navy and the ruthlessness of pirates. They don't just enforce trade laws... They eliminate threats."

Jeongin swallowed hard. "And your cousin, Suho, he leads them?"

A bitter smile touched Jisung's lips. "Suho is their chief strategist. Brilliant, unrelenting. If he's involved, it means the Han Company sees us as more than a nuisance, they see us as a threat."

"You really think they'll find us out here?" Jeongin asked, flickers of worry darkening his features.
"If they're looking hard enough, they will. Suho isn't one to leave things unfinished. He's determined and ruthless."

"So he's dangerous... How dangerous?"

Jisung thought back to his childhood, and the many occasions that "play time" between them had ended in Jisung on the ground with Suho's foot on his back when he'd decided Jisung had offended him somehow.
"He doesn't fight fair. He doesn't rest. He doesn't forget. And he's highly trained. He’ll have profiles on each of us, every possible tactic and option mapped out, probably spies set up in every possible port we'd be likely to stop at."

Jeongin looked down at the deck below, where the crew moved with practiced efficiency. "But why use your name? What does that mean for you?"

Jisung's jaw tightened. "It means they're framing me. Using my identity to cover illegal operations. If they've been smuggling weapons or contraband under my name... As far as the crown will be concerned, I won't be a kidnapped merchant. I'll be a criminal. A war profiteer."

Jeongin's eyes widened. "But you didn't do anything."

"That won't matter," Jisung said grimly. "If the Aurum Guard catches me, I'll be tried as a traitor. Best case, I rot in a cell. Worst case..." He trailed off, rubbing at his neck, the unfinished sentence hanging heavily between them.

A tense silence settled over the crow's nest, broken only by the rhythmic creaking of the ship and the distant cries of seabirds.

Jeongin reached out, placing a hand on Jisung's shoulder. "We won't let that happen. We're with you."

Jisung nodded, gratitude flickering in his eyes. "Thank you."

They returned to their vigil, eyes scanning the endless horizon, the weight of impending danger pressing down upon them.

The sun was sliding lower, gold burning into red as it kissed the edge of the horizon. The sea breathed gently beneath the Levanter, a false calm that made Minho's shoulders itch with unease. He stood at the helm, hands on the rail, eyes scanning the stretch of open water ahead like it might betray him if he blinked too long.

Chan approached with that familiar quiet step, boot falls just soft enough not to startle but loud enough to be deliberate. Minho didn't turn.

"Enjoying the view?," Chan asked.

Minho let out a breath through his nose. "Not when I don't trust what's behind it."

There was a pause. "How are we going to deal with the Aurum Guard?"

Minho didn't answer immediately. He shifted his stance, then lifted one hand from the rail to gesture vaguely toward the sails overhead, canvas trimmed, cut differently, patched in deliberate patterns to break recognition.

"Hopefully," he said, "we don't."

Chan folded his arms. "That's not exactly a strategy."

"It is when the alternative's suicide."

He turned then, facing Chan properly for the first time since they'd set off that morning. The wind tugged at his coat, and his mind was heavy with the weight of too many possibilities.

"We've disguised the Levanter as much as we can," Minho said. "New canvas, altered rigging. Hull scrubbed and repainted. We've covered our figurehead with spare tarp. The nameboards are replaceable, we've got two more sets hidden below, just in case. If they get close enough to recognise us after all that, we're already too far gone."

Chan nodded slowly, thoughtful. "And the crew?"

"Tattoos stay hidden at all times," Minho said. "If anyone needs to step off the ship, it's gloves, wraps, whatever it takes. Nobody so much as scratches their arm in public. We don't give anyone a reason to look twice."

Chan tilted his head toward the crow's nest. "That why you doubled the watch?"

"Exactly," Minho said. "Jisung knows what kind of sails to look for, the ones that mean run or die. Jeongin's got a good eye. Better than most."

Chan glanced upward, squinting at the twin shapes silhouetted against the fading sky, spyglasses at their eyes, still as statues.

"And if all that fails?" he asked quietly. "What if they find us?"

Minho was silent.

Then he said, low and flat, "Then we run."

Chan didn't blink.

"We don't fight unless we have no other option. Not with them. The Aurum Guard doesn't play by naval rules. They're not after justice. And if Suho is the one giving orders..." Minho's voice trailed off, bitter. "Then he'll burn the ship just to make a statement."

Chan's jaw flexed. "And Jisung?"

Minho's eyes darkened. "He's the statement."

The wind picked up. Somewhere above, the rigging creaked.

"I'll keep him safe," Minho said finally. "Whatever it takes."

Chan didn't speak. He just clapped a hand to Minho's shoulder, firm, steady, then turned away, already moving to pass the orders down the line. Minho stood there a moment longer, watching the sea like it might shape itself into a warning.

He wouldn't let it happen. He'd already betrayed Jisung once. He wouldn't lose him again. Not to the Aurum Guard. Not to Suho.

Not to anyone.

The deck was too quiet. It felt like the calm before the storm, where everybody is just... Waiting.
Laughter never quite reached full volume, Eyes swept the horizon more than the sky. Smiles lasted multiple seconds too short. Even Jeongin, who usually tripped over his own excitement to get everywhere, walked with a more deliberate kind of rhythm.

Nobody mentioned the Aurum Guard by name. But every hand moved faster, every lookout shift was doubled, and Seungmin had taken to triple-checking the ballast levels below deck.

The fear was there, poisonous, crouched between the rigging and wrapped around the masts like sea serpents.

So when Changbin slammed a pot lid down like a war drum and announced "that's it. Everyone on deck. Now. No excuses, we're eating like kings tonight after all this bloody rationing!", nobody questioned it.

The food was rich and heavy, stew laced with real spices and thick enough to break your spoon if you weren't careful.
Warm bread, roasted vegetables, actual sea salt. Jisung hadn't even realised how much he'd missed the presence of flavour until it bloomed across his tongue, leaving him salivating.

They'd all gathered on the deck under swinging lanterns, barrels served as tables, crates as chairs, and the crew were crowded together, not unlike the night they had spent at sea with the Crimson Siren crew.
Jisung sat between Jeongin and Felix, the former practically inhaling his food like somebody might take it away from him if he took too long. It was a far cry from the weeks he'd spent pushing meagre morsels across his plate.
He was laughing at something Felix had said, cheeks flushed and bright again. Jisung couldn't help but think of Yunho, and how pleased he would be to know Jeongin was eating properly again.

Minho sat across the circle from him, nursing a tin mug of something strong, eyes shadowed in the golden light of the lanterns.

They still hadn't spoken since the night before.

Since Minho had taken him brutally against his door, and kissed him like he was drowning.

Jisung had tried not to look. He really had. But his gaze kept drifting, like the magnetic pull of a storm about to break. At least a dozen times, their eyes met, fleeting, electric, and snapped apart again before either of them dared to acknowledge it.

The food helped. The noise. The warmth. It all softened the sharp edges.

But when Jisung looked up again, he caught Felix watching him. His expression was carefully neutral. Which told Jisung he was in trouble.

He looked away, quickly.

After dinner, as people scattered to hammocks and night duties, Felix tugged at Jisung's sleeve, nodding to the far side of the deck.
They stepped into the dark together, the only sounds the creak of the rigging and the gentle waves washing against the hull beneath them.

Jisung leaned against the railing, trying, and probably failing, for casual.
"What's up?"

Felix leaned next to him. "You tell me."

Jisung blinked. "Huh?"

"Don't play dumb,"Felix said gently, but with no room for avoidance. "You've been making goo-goo eyes at the captain since soup was served. Want to tell me what's actually going on, or should I make a well-educated guess?"

Jisung made a strangled sound in his throat. "It's nothing."

Felix tilted his head "oh really?"

"Nothing serious... I mean..." Jisung scrambled to explain himself without... Actually explaining. "It was just... A moment."

"You mean like a 'I snogged the captain' moment?"

Jisung flushed violently "How did you-"

"I didn't. But I do now"

Jisung groaned, dropping his head to the railing "Gods, Felix."

Felix waited a moment before he spoke. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know," Jisung admitted, "it's beyond complicated"

"That's not a no at least"

Jisung let out a breath that trembled on the way out, like something inside him was finally cracking open. "I still haven't forgiven him. I don't even know how. I want to... or at least part of me does, I think. But then I remember what he did. That he just... Took me there. Handed me over. No warning. No explanation. Just..." He broke off, jaw tightening. "He makes me so angry I can't think straight. And then he looks at me like I matter to him. Like I belong on this ship. And I don't know how to hold both those things in my chest at the same time."

Felix didn't speak right away. His gaze was soft, but steady. Waiting.

Jisung ran a hand through his hair, trying to will the heat out of his cheeks, out of his voice. "And now... I don't even know what this is. With him. It... Wasn't just a kiss, Felix."

That made Felix blink. "What do you mean?"

Jisung hesitated, just long enough for the truth to swell up and choke him. Then he said it.

"I mean we... Had... Sex?."

Felix's eyebrows shot up. "You... Wait. You and Minho...?"

Jisung nodded, barely.

"Like-?"

"Yes," Jisung said quickly, voice low and tense. "Yes. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally. Physically."

Felix stared at him. "Oh."

"And it wasn't..." Jisung trailed off, dragging a hand through his hair as his body tensed, the memory flashing through him like lightning across the skin. He could still feel it, the echo of it in his muscles, in his bones.

"It wasn't gentle," he said finally, voice raw. "It wasn't careful or soft. It was... Desperate. Angry. Like we were trying to hurt each other. Like if we just held on tight enough, used each other hard enough, we could make sense of everything else."

His throat worked around the rest of it. "We didn't make love, Felix. We collided."

Felix's face had softened, eyes wide but unreadable.

"And I don't even know what it meant," Jisung whispered, "but I can't stop thinking about it."

Felix gave him a long, searching look. "Do you regret it?"

Jisung hesitated. His gut wrenched. "No. I don't think I do."

Felix's gaze softened again.

"I just don't know what it means. We haven't had a chance to speak since. And I don't even know what I want to say to him. Like I said, I still haven't forgiven him." Jisung felt the beginnings of hot tears threatening to spill.
"I don't hate him. I know that much. It's just... Like I said. It's beyond complicated"

He bit down hard on the emotion rising in his chest, but Felix didn't press. He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him without a word, drawing him in and tucking Jisung's face against his shoulder. One hand moved in slow circles between his shoulder blades as Jisung fought to steady his breath.

"And here I thought the Aurum Guard was going to be the biggest drama this week" Felix jested, Jisung coughing a watery laugh against his chest.
"You'll be alright barrel-boy. Complicated or not, I'm here for you"
"Thanks Felix" Jisung managed to choke out, wiping his eyes as he straightened up.

He took a shaky breath as he stepped back, Felix's arms loosening, but not quite letting go completely.
The warmth of his embrace lingered, settling over him like a warm blanket. It didn't fix anything. It didn't make the tangled knot of feelings in his chest loosen any. But it anchored him just enough that he didn't break down completely.

Felix waited until he was fully composed, before patting Jisung's arm and letting his hands drop fully.
"Probably best we head off to bed. Chan and Hyunjin have the next watch, and you'll need to be up just before dawn with Innie for yours"

Jisung nodded mutely, eyes trained on the woodgrain of the deck as if it might hold the answers to all of his problems.
He let Felix guide him, hand on the small of his back as they moved to go below deck.
He didn't look back. Didn't see Minho watching them intently.

Minho stayed in the staggered shadow of the rigging, one hand braced on the railing, the other clenched loosely by his side.
Felix's arms slid around Jisung in a slow, steady hug. No urgency, no drama, just quiet care. Jisung leaned into it, sagging ever so slightly against Felix like the weight of whatever they were discussing was settling too heavy on him.

Minho didn't feel that sharp, irrational jolt of jealousy that he had with Hongjoong back in the Wonderland tavern.
There was no confusion about what stood between Felix and Jisung. Nothing romantic in the way their bodies curved instinctively toward each other, nothing possessive in the way Felix's hand stayed steady at Jisung's back.

They moved now like two people who had known each other forever, like brothers. Or even something deeper, something less defined.

Still, something twisted in Minho's gut. He wasn't stupid enough to think that one night together would somehow miraculously change their entire dynamic, and Jisung had made it completely clear to him that he still didn't forgive him for betraying him at Bartholomew's Reach.

But the hollow ache of standing on the outside as Jisung confessed words of pain or truth with somebody else?
To not be trusted with it?

He watched as they moved to go below deck, Felix's hand still resting protectively on Jisung's lower back. Jisung didn't look back. Didn't glance toward the quarterdeck where Minho stood shrouded in shadows and regret.

The breeze tugged at Minho's coat, and he shuddered. But not with the chill.
Was it his fault? That slump in Jisung's spine? The hollow look in his expression?

He wanted to believe it was just about the Aurum Guard.
The looming threat on the horizon, faceless, but very real.
But part of him, the part that had grown sharper since Jisung came aboard, knew different.

It was too easy to assume it was about him. Too arrogant to assume it always was.
The truth, was probably somewhere in between.

Their... Whatever it was, had flared like a struck match. Heat, hunger and rage and months of tension exploding in one passionate, but violent encounter. But what came after?
Jisung hadn't spoken to him since. Did he regret it?

Was it just a moment of drunken madness, anger and desperation colliding in the dark, meant to burn hot and fast and vanish just as quickly?
Minho's fingernails scraped against the rail as he considered this, frustration twisting in his gut.
He stared out into the dark water, but his mind was elsewhere.
Was that why he had spoken to Felix? To ask for advice for how to back away carefully? To figure out how to avoid him, to make some neat exit of the tangled mess they'd made of each other?

Or worse... Was he asking for help to leave? To step off The Levanter for good?

The thought landed in his chest heavy as a cannonball. Jisung had said he wasn't going to leave. But that was before they'd...

He didn't have the right to stop Jisung leaving, of course. And with the Aurum Guard on their tail, it would be the smart option.
But that didn't mean Minho could stand the thought of watching him walk away.

"You look like you're about to launch yourself overboard... Should I be concerned?" Chan's voice came from behind Minho, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Not quite that dramatic" he huffed.

"Mm" Chan said, "still, you're thinking very loudly".

Minho hesitated. Unsure whether to offload on his first mate. Then, with a low voice "it's Jisung."

Chan made a non-committal noise and leaned back against the railing next to him. "Figured."

Minho looked down at his hands, knuckles white again. "Something... Happened. Between us."

"Something" Chan echoed, not quite pushing but clearly needing more clarity.

Minho exhaled through his nose, sharp and frustrated. "It wasn't planned. Wasn't smart. We didn't talk about anything before or after. And I don't know..."

Chan didn't interrupt, just waited for him to continue.

"I don't know if he regrets it," Minho said finally, "or if he's trying to forget it. I think it was heat of the moment. Too much tension. Too much pent-up anger and frustration. We took it out on each other. Me perhaps more than him. I wasn't... I wasn't gentle with him, Chan. It was probably meaningless. He probably wants to leave this ship and never come back."

Chan gave him a look that wasn't exactly judgmental, but perhaps the on the edge of it. "Do you want it to be meaningless?"

Minho's throat tightened. "No."

"Then don't treat it like it was."

Minho turned to him, something defensive flickering in his eyes. "I'm not."

"You are," Chan cut in gently. "You're assuming what he feels so that you can protect yourself from it. Classic Minho"

Minho scowled. "That's not-"

"I'm not judging man, I get it." Chan sighed, folding his arms. "But if you're scared he's going to leave, you need to talk to him before he does. Otherwise you're not just risking him misunderstanding how you feel. You're giving him every reason to want to leave."

Minho didn't answer, his gaze drifting blankly back out to sea.
"You've faced far worse than a difficult conversation, Min."
Minho swallowed hard, jaw tight. The waves rolled quietly beneath them, soft and endless. Chan gave his shoulder a quick squeeze just as Hyunjin clattered up the steps to join him for their watch.

Minho stayed at the railing, staring out into the dark as he felt the weight of it all settling behind his ribs.

Tomorrow. He would talk to Jisung tomorrow.

Chapter 17: Parley

It was barely dawn when the alarm sounded. Jisung jolted awake, nearly tumbling from his hammock as Chan's voice rang from above like a bell struck too hard.

"Ship off the port bow!"

All around him, the rest of the crew exploded into motion. Half-dressed, half-awake, but moving with the urgency of knowing exactly what those words could mean.

Jisung threw himself bodily out of his hammock, grabbing his boots, not bothering to fasten them properly, and sprinted up the narrow stairs to the deck two at a time

He burst onto the deck, lungs already burning, heart thudding a frantic rhythm beneath his ribs. The air was sharp and salt-thick, the kind of cold that stung the back of your throat, and he regretted not grabbing his coat. The sky was still pale in the pre-dawn light, but it was enough to sting his eyes.

Around him the crew was already gathered, wide-eyed and silent as they waited, the feeling of urgency buzzing dangerously around them.

From above, Hyunjin was scaling down the rigging, hands moving faster than Jisung had ever seen before. He didn't even bother with the last several feet, opting instead to drop bodily to the deck below him, landing in a crouch before striding across the deck to meet them.

"Ship. Port bow. White sails, golden hull." His eyes met Jisung's alone, the question obvious.

The words fell like a knife to the chest. Jisung's breath caught. His stomach lurched so violently it felt like the deck had dropped out from beneath him. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Hyunjin said nothing further, instead passing Jisung the brass spyglass with a slightly trembling hand, a silent plea for certainty.
Jisung's throat was dry as sand. He took the spyglass with a mechanical nod, then moved slowly to the port railing, each step echoing like a drumbeat in his ears.

He didn't want to look. He didn't want to confirm what his gut already knew. The Aurum Guard had found them.

But he lifted the spyglass anyway, jaw clenched tight, bracing his elbows against the railing as he brought it to his left eye.

The world narrowed into a trembling circle of gold. His breath hitched.

There, on the horizon, slicing through the water like a sharpened blade was a ship. Pristine white sails gleaming with morning dew, a golden hull that caught the dawn light like fire, and a golden lion figurehead, mouth wide and intimidating. Swift. Impossibly fast. And unmistakable.

The Aurum Guard.

Jisung's grip tightened against the spyglass, knuckles gone pale, his heart a frantic pulse against his ribs. He yanked the spyglass away from his eye, his pulse hammering so violently it made his vision swim.

He didn't need to check again. He knew that ship.

The details were etched into his memory, forced into him through family dinners and lectures on pride, legacy and power.
Han Suho's ship, The Imperium, gleamed like a declaration. Spotless, unnecessarily opulent, and utterly merciless.

He turned slowly, lowering the spyglass with hands that no longer felt attached to his body.

"It's them," he said voice hollow. "It's the Aurum Guard."

Chan swore low and sharp. Hyunjin's jaw clenched.

Minho stepped forward from where he'd been frozen by the helm.
"How far out?"

Jisung forced himself to answer. "Three, maybe four miles. But they're closing the fast. They've got the wind at their backs and less weight in the water."

Minho's lips pressed in a thin line. "They're preparing for an intercept."

Tension snapped through the deck like a taut rope pulling tight. The crew moved as one, not frantic, but efficient. Trained. Terrified, maybe, but they weren't letting it show.

Chan turned toward Minho. "Orders, Captain?"

"Clear the deck for manoeuvring. Secure all non-essentials. Arm up"

Chan nodded, and instantly set to work, shouting instructions to the others.

 

Minho stood at the helm, eyes fixed on the horizon as the hostile ship loomed closer. The golden hull glinted menacingly, its white sails billowing with purpose. The weight of command pressed heavily on his shoulders, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Jisung.

He'd planned to speak to him today. Given his word to himself. But now the Aurum Guard was bearing down on them, it was too late. Too late for anything but action.

He gripped the helm tighter, the wood biting into his palms. The crew scrambled around him, preparing for the worst, but Minho's mind was a rampant storm of regret and determination.

He had to hope they could outrun the Aurum Guard. Had to hope they could survive. Because if they didn't, he would never get the chance to make things right.

 

Jisung remained at the port railing, stealing glances through the spyglass to check on the distance. The Imperium edged ever closer, he could make out the more intricate details now. The polished cannons, the disciplined crew lining the deck, the unmistakable lion figurehead mid-roar.

"They're closing in" he reported, voice tight. "Less than a mile out."

Jeongin came beside him, clutching the rail with white-knuckled hands. "Why aren't they firing?" He asked, voice bordering on hysteria. "They have the range, surely. Why aren't they firing‽"

Jisung didn't have an answer. His mind raced through the possibilities. Were they toying with them? Waiting for reinforcements? Or perhaps they wanted to take The Levanter intact?

Then, a sudden movement on The Imperium's deck caught his eye. A white flag was being hoisted, fluttering meekly in the breeze.

"They're signalling for parley" Jisung said, disbelief colouring his tone.
Jeongin stared out across sea, then at Jisung. "Parley? What could they possibly want to talk about?"

Jisung lowered the spyglass, eyes narrowing. "We're about to find out."

A heavy silence fell over the deck at Jisung's words.

Minho stepped forward from the helm, Chan taking over. He looked from Jisung to the horizon, sharp eyes just catching sight of the white flag.
"Lower ours," he ordered, "let them see that we've acknowledged".

Seungmin moved swiftly to the signal post, untying the black Levanter Pennant and raising a scrap of white cloth, the closest thing they had.
It rose sluggishly, catching the breeze awkwardly.

Jisung watched it rise with a knot in his throat.

A parley.

That meant somebody had come to talk. To negotiate. Or, knowing Han Suho... To manipulate.

Jeongin shifted beside him, still gripping the rail tightly. "Do we go? Like... All of us?"

"No," Minho answered sharply, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Just me"

Jisung turned to him aghast. "You can't just go alone!"

"I won't," Minho said, meeting his gaze. "They'll expect you to be there anyway."

What little hope Jisung had that Minho wanted him with him for other reasons, crumbled into dust. Of course. That was his role. A bargaining chip with legs.

His mouth opened, then shut again. The words he wanted to hurl, to spit, tangled like barbed wire in his throat.
Minho hadn't changed his mind after all. He'd just waited. Waited for the right moment to hand him over again. For politics. For strategy. For convenience.

Jisung swallowed hard, his throat burning with fury. When he answered, it wasn't with words. Just a sharp nod, clipped and cold. His jaw locked, his eyes hard.

He turned on his heel before he could give anything else away, the sharp scrape of his boots against the deck louder than it should have been. He didn't look at Minho again. Didn't trust himself to. Didn't trust himself to speak, either. Because if he did, he wasn't sure if he'd scream. Or break altogether.

He heard Minho's voice behind him, sounding far off. "Prepare the rowboat, we can meet them on that islet. Conceal backup weapons. Stay alert."

Chan relayed the commands to separate crew members, his tone sharp. They responded swiftly, their movements a testament to their training. Despite the calm sea, tension hung heavy, each aware of the potential danger Minho and Jisung were walking into.

Jisung stood apart, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He adjusted his gear in silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Jeongin had retrieved his coat from below deck, and he gladly shrugged it over his shoulders.
Felix approached, concern etched over his face.

"Hey barrel-boy," he said softly. "Be careful out there, yeah?"

Jisung offered him a tight-lipped smile, nodding once before turning away. Wondering if he'd even see Felix again after this.

 

As the boat was lowered, Minho and Jisung climbed aboard. The row to shore was silent, the only sounds the creaking of the oars in Minho's hands and the lapping of water.
He rowed with steady strokes, his eyes occasionally flicking to Jisung, who sat opposite, arms crossed, gaze unwavering.

Minho sensed the distance between them, vast and bitter, despite the cramped quarters of the small boat.
It wasn't the kind of silence that came from focus, or nerves. It was colder than that. Sharper.

Jisung sat opposite him, arms locked tight across his chest, gaze fixed on the approaching shoreline like it might swallow them both whole. He hadn't said a word since they set off, hadn't even looked at Minho.
Every inch of his posture screamed tension, not fear, but fury barely leashed.

Minho had seen it on him before. At the embassy. That night in Wonderland.

The betrayal still sat between them like a third passenger, stealing all the available air between them.
And now, layered inextricably on top of that, was the night they had shared in his quarters. The heat, the rawness, the need. It had been fire and fury and something close to desperation, but no words had followed. No aftermath. No closure.

Now all that remained was silence. Cold and tight and aching.

Minho clenched the oars a bit tighter, his jaw ticking. He wanted to say something. Anything. But he knew better than to offer half-hearted reassurances in a moment like this. Jisung would only take it as deception. Or worse, manipulation.

And maybe Minho deserved that.

But it didn't stop the ache rising in his chest as he watched Jisung across from him fold further into himself, shutting Minho out inch by inch with every oar-stroke towards the shore.

 

The longboat scraped against the shore of the islet with a hollow thud, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence that hung over the beach. Jisung stepped onto the soft sand, his boots sinking slightly.
The imperium loomed off shore, the golden hull gleamingly ominously under the overcast sky.

Suho stood tall, spine straight as a blade, every inch of him radiating authority. His eyes fixed on Jisung's with a sharp, unblinking intensity. Not affection, not even recognition. But calculation. Cold. Predatory. He didn't spare Minho so much as a single glance.

"Gentlemen," he raised his hands in a mock gesture of peace, palms up, fingers relaxed. The civility of his tone was thinly veiled, brittle and insincere. "I appreciate your willingness to meet. It saves us all the inconvenience of a prolonged chase."
He smiled then, a sharp predatory thing that didn't touch his eyes. "Because if we're honest," he went on, voice smooth as polished glass, "we all know how that would have ended."

"You know nothing, Suho" Jisung spat, voice low and rough.
Suho's smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened. Slow and serpentine. "Ah. There it is. The defiance." He took a step closer, eyes raking over Jisung with clinical detachment. "You've changed cousin. Sunburned. Leaner. Calloused. Dressed like a vagrant. You've certainly... Weathered."
He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. "But don't worry. Once you're returned to where you belong, we'll smooth all that out. Remove the filth. Remind you where your place is."
His voice dipped into something colder. "After all, rough edges can always be... Cut away."

His gaze finally turned to Minho. "Captain Lee," he started with a winning smile. "Our terms are thus. Return the stolen cargo, and your crew walks free."

"And if we refuse?" Minho's voice was steady, but there was an element of tension underneath.

Suho's lips turned into a cold smile. "Then The Levanter becomes driftwood. I will obliterate your ship along with every last man aboard"

The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Jisung felt a surge of panic. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't risk the lives of those he cared about. Those he... Loved, he realised. His chosen family. All brothers to him now.

Before he could think better of it, before caution or fear could slow his tongue, Jisung stepped forward. "I'll go" he said quietly.
"What‽" Minho voice cracked like thunder beside him, eyes wide as he turned towards him. "No, absolutely not Jisung-"

"I won't risk them dying because of me, Minho." Jisung said louder, steadier now. "Not because of who I used to be. Not because of what I was born into."

 

Minho grabbed his arm, gripping it tightly. "We will figure this out, all of it. We will."

Jisung met his eyes, and the pain there stole the wind from Minho's lungs.
"No, Minho. Not this time. Suho won't stop. You know what he is. If I go, then you can sail free."

Minho's hands clenched tighter, a breath away from shaking. "This is a mistake. You think sacrificing yourself is going to fix this? You think giving in to that bastard is going to make him stop? He wants you in chains, Jisung. He wants to destroy you."

"Better me than all of you."

"Don't say that," Minho rasped. "Don't—"

"Give them my love," Jisung said suddenly, the words tight and raw. "All of them. Felix, Innie, Seungmin, Chan. Hyunjin. Changbin."

Minho's jaw tensed. "You can tell them yourself. When we get back to the ship. Together."

"No." Jisung's voice broke slightly, but his resolve didn't. "I need you to say it. You. Tell them I love them."

The world tilted with the weight of it. Minho was shaking his head, but Jisung wasn't done.

"Not that I said goodbye. Not that I sent well wishes. Tell them I love them. Because I do. And I need them to know that if this is the last time they ever hear from me, it matters."

His voice dropped. "They're my family. My real family."

Minho stared at him, hollowed out. "You can't do this."

"I already am."

Suho tilted his head at the exchange, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes like light skimming over ice.
"How touching," he said dryly, slow and purposeful.
"Truly, it's a wonder you weren't raised in a theatre instead of trade. The dramatics would have made you a fortune."

Jisung didn't look at him. Couldn't. His eyes were locked on Minho's, the storm between them raging in silence.

Suho stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around Jisung's arm.
"Time to leave, cousin" he said briskly, turning slightly as if to lead him like a dog on a leash.

But Minho didn't let go.

His grip tightened, jerking Jisung's arm toward him with more force than Suho expected, causing him to lose his grip. Suho turned sharply, but Minho wasn't paying him any mind.

He pulled Jisung in, chest to chest, arm tight around him like a shield being drawn up. Jisung didn't resist. Couldn't have, even if he wanted to. Minho's breath was hot against his ear, voice low enough that only he could hear it.
"Get out. Whatever happens. You survive this."

Then something shifted against Jisung's chest. A movement against the inside of Jisung's coat. The unmistakable press of steel sliding into fabric, familiar in weight and shape, settling into the inner pocket as it belonged.

Jisung went rigid.

Minho's hand had passed it so cleanly, so purposefully, he might've been tucking a letter into his coat. But it was no letter. It was Minho's dagger. The one he kept at his side like an extension of himself. The one Jisung had stolen and saved his life with. And now he was giving it to him.

Jisung couldn't speak. His throat had closed around something too tight to name.

Minho's hand rose with the weight of something final, something desperate, and came to rest against Jisung's cheek with a gentleness that belied the tension humming in his frame. His fingers curled slightly, thumb brushing along the high point of Jisung's cheekbone. For a second, just one, his expression fractured. Cracks running deep across every carefully guarded part of him. Grief. Regret. Fury. Something raw and unspoken trembled behind his eyes, and Jisung barely dared to breathe.

It was agony. The kind that lived in the bones. The kind that came only when you were forced to let go of something you weren't ready to lose.

Minho leaned forward. Not rushed. Not fierce. Just... Quiet.

Like this was all he had left.

His lips found Jisung's in a kiss so soft it barely existed, barely brushed against skin, but it wrecked Jisung more than anything else ever could. It wasn't a claim. It was a goodbye.

Jisung stood frozen, eyes wide, heart a thunderclap in his ribs. He didn't kiss back. Didn't pull away either. He just stood there, tasting salt and wind and something that might've been love, blinking through the sudden burn in his eyes.

Then Suho's hand landed on his arm like a shackle. And just like that, it was over.
Suho yanked Jisung away, dragging him toward the waiting rowboat on the shoreline. Jisung didn't fight back, couldn't. His limbs moved on muscle memory alone, body still reeling from the kiss, the touch of Minho's palm on his cheek, the weight of his dagger in his pocket once again.

He struggled to look back as he was half-dragged into the boat by two of The Aurum Guard.

 

Minho stood there, alone on the sand, the surf crawling around his boots, watching as Jisung was taken from him all over again.

He stood motionless on the shore long after the boat began pulling away, his boots half-buried in wet sand, the salt wind tugging uselessly at his coat.

He couldn't move.

His body felt like it had been hollowed out. Like something vital had been carved straight from his chest and carried off with the tide.

The sea, endless and restless before him, offered no comfort. No reassurance. Just the fading shape of a boat growing smaller and smaller with each passing second. Until even Jisung's outline blurred into shadow, obscured by distance and grief.

That kiss still lingered on his mouth like a scar. It hadn't been enough. Not nearly. It hadn't said what he needed it to say, hadn't conveyed the storm building inside him, hadn't confessed the truth he hadn't dared speak.

Not I want you.

Not stay.

Not even forgive me.

But something deeper. Something dangerous. Something permanent.

I love you.

And he'd let him go without saying it.

He closed his eyes briefly, swallowing down the scream that sat at the base of his throat. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the phantom feel of Jisung's body still fresh beneath his fingertips. Warm. Real. Present.

Gone.

The dagger was a desperate move. A final tether. A way to say don't go unarmed when don't go had failed.

Minho had meant for it to be symbolic. Protective. A silent prayer.

Now it just felt like part of himself had gone with it.

Just off-shore, The Levanter and its crew awaited their return. They would have questions.

None of it mattered.

Because Jisung was gone. Again.

And this time, Minho wasn't sure he'd get him back.

 

Minho vaulted over the rail of the Levanter like the deck was on fire beneath him. His boots hit the wood with force, and every eye turned to him in an instant.

Only one thing mattered.

"Where is he?" Hyunjin barked, storming down from the quarterdeck, jaw clenched tight. "Where's Jisung?"

Minho's chest rose and fell, each breath like it scraped raw through his lungs. "He's gone," he said.

"What the hell does that mean?" Hyunjin's voice cracked like a whip. "Gone where?"

Minho didn't answer right away.

Didn't want to.

Couldn't.

"You left him behind?" Hyunjin surged forward, voice rising with every step. "You said you wouldn't hurt him again! You promised!"

"I didn't leave him!" Minho exploded, voice ragged and raw and loud enough to still every other sound on the deck. "He chose to go!"

Silence fell like a dropped anchor.

Minho's hands shook at his sides. "I begged him," he said, softer now, but no less furious. "I told him we'd figure it out. That we'd find a way. I told him..." He stopped himself, jaw snapping tight.

But the words he'd wanted to say hung in the air like gunpowder smoke.

Chan's eyes flicked to him, sharp with sudden understanding.

Felix exhaled slowly. Like he'd been waiting for this.

"You love him," Chan said flatly.

"I do," Minho bit out. "And watching him walk away nearly destroyed me. So don't you dare stand there and act like I let this happen. Like I didn't try."

His voice dropped, but the rage was still there, coiled beneath every word.

"Don't act like I'm the villain in this story."

A small, broken sound rose from the side of the deck.

Jeongin.

He was standing frozen near the helm, eyes wide, face already wet with tears he clearly hadn't even realized were falling.

"Y-You're serious," he whispered. "He's really gone?"

Chan stepped to his side, immediately drawing him in, wrapping him in one arm like he'd been ready for this the whole time. Jeongin collapsed into him, sobbing openly now.

"I told him I had his back," he choked out. "I didn't even get to say goodbye..."

Felix moved in, quiet and steady, a hand to Jeongin's shoulder.

Minho looked at them all, his crew, his family, and felt the hollow ache deepen further in his chest.

Minho swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

He hadn't intended to speak again. Not yet. Not like this. But the memory of Jisung's voice just before he left, sharp, sure, and heartbreakingly calm, rose through him like a tide he couldn't fight.

"He wanted you to know something," Minho said quietly.

The crew turned toward him again. Chan's hand stilled on Jeongin's back. Even Hyunjin, still bristling with anger, blinked at him with something closer to grief than rage.

Minho's voice cracked, but he forced it out anyway.

"He told me to give his love to all of you. Not say goodbye. Love. He made me promise you'd hear that word."

He looked around, locking eyes with each of them one by one.

"To say he loves you."

A long silence stretched across the deck. The wind, once a gentle hum in the rigging, now felt like it howled between them, carrying the weight of the words as if the ship itself might remember them.

Felix looked down, mouth pulled tight, his fingers curling hard against the rail.

Hyunjin's jaw flexed. His eyes shimmered, not with tears, but something close to regret.

Chan nodded once, eyes closed, like he was folding Jisung's last words into some part of himself he'd never let go of.

And Jeongin... Jeongin made a sound that cracked right through Minho's ribs. A broken, helpless sob. He clutched Chan's shirt like he was drowning in it.

Minho stood in the centre of it all, the echo of Jisung's voice still ringing in his mind.

He'd said the words so quietly. Like it cost him something.

Like he'd been afraid Minho wouldn't remember.

Minho clenched his fists at his sides and turned toward the helm, the sea ahead stretching wide and merciless and empty.

Chapter 18: True North

The wooden slats of The Imperium's gangplank thudded under Jisung's boots as he stepped aboard, flanked by two silent Aurum Guards. The moment his foot hit the deck, a shiver ran up his spine. It felt wrong. Too polished, too pristine, too... Empty. There was no shouted banter, no barrels being rolled, no familiar footsteps pacing overhead. Just the hollow creak of ropes and the ever-present golden glint of the Aurum Guard's authority.

He didn't look at Suho.

His thoughts were still rooted on that beach. On Minho's hand cradling his cheek like he was something precious, something worth mourning. On the kiss that had caught him so wholly off guard, gentle, steady, devastating. It was day and night from what had passed between them in Wonderland.
Jisung had barely had time to breathe it in before he'd been ripped away. He could still feel the ghost of it on his lips, soft and terrifying in equal measure.

And now...

He turned. Slowly.

Far beyond the rails of The Imperium, The Levanter was already cutting across the water, sails full and billowing. A figure, maybe Minho, stood at the helm, too small and distant to read, but Jisung felt the ache anyway. The kind that burrowed into bone.

Except this time, it was different.

He didn't want to go.

He'd made the choice anyway.

He watched the ship he'd nearly died on, had lived on more fully than he ever had on land, slip further into the horizon. The flag rippled defiantly in the breeze. Every breath twisted tighter in his chest.

He'd told Minho to give them his love.

He hadn't said goodbye.

The wind stung at his eyes, but he wasn't sure if it was just the wind.

A voice cut through his thoughts. Cold. Measured.

"I hope you enjoyed your little farewell performance," Suho said, appearing at his side. "Though I doubt the theatrics will matter much in the end."

Jisung didn't look at him. Didn't flinch. Didn't give Suho the satisfaction of a response. He kept his eyes fixed on the dwindling outline of The Levanter until it was no more than a smudge of sails on the horizon, a phantom on the water.

But Suho, of course, wasn't finished.

"You must understand," he began, his tone infuriatingly calm, as if they were discussing trade routes and not lives, "letting them go was never about mercy."

Still, Jisung said nothing. His jaw clenched, his fists tight at his sides. The deck beneath his feet felt like a cage.

Suho stepped forward, boots clicking softly against the perfect wood. "It's simple strategy. You were their only bargaining chip. Their leverage. Their weakness." He leaned in slightly, and Jisung could feel the cold smile curling on his cousin's lips. "Now we have you. And they have... Nothing."

Jisung turned his head slightly, finally looking at him. His gaze was guarded, but the flicker of unease in his chest was starting to take root, branching out like ice beneath skin.

Suho's smile widened, cruel and polished. "Of course, we'll give them a little head start. Let them think they've escaped. Let them scramble and hide, try to outpace the inevitable." His eyes glittered with malice. "And then, when they least expect it, we'll come down on them like a storm. Wipe that little ship off the sea."

Jisung's stomach dropped.

"You're lying," he said, but the words tasted weak in his mouth.

"Am I?" Suho cocked his head. "Think about it, cousin. Why would we stop now? The Levanter is crewed by pirates and traitors. Criminals. They are an infestation, and I intend to exterminate them. Your coming quietly merely made this..." he gestured lazily between them "... Convenient. Cleaner."

Jisung's vision blurred at the edges. He stepped forward before he even knew he was moving, chest to chest with the man who shared his blood and none of his heart.

"You said they'd be safe," he snarled.

"I said we'd let them go," Suho corrected, unbothered by the fury seething from Jisung's every pore. "And we did. You should feel honoured. Your sacrifice gave them a few extra days."

"You bastard—"

"You chose to leave them," Suho cut in, sharply now. "Don't forget that. You gave yourself up willingly. We didn't take you. You handed us the knife."

Jisung reeled like he'd been struck. Because he had. Not physically, but in the way that mattered more. The truth behind Suho's words hit with brutal clarity.

He had left. He had meant to save them. He had thought it would end the chase.

But it was never going to end.

Suho's smile didn't fade as he turned, giving a curt nod to the two guards still waiting nearby. "Take him below. Make sure the shackles are tight."

Jisung's breath caught. "What?"

Two sets of hands grabbed his arms before he could step back.

"You said I was cargo," he snapped, voice rising with a mirthless laugh. "But locking me up? What the hell do you think I'm going to do, run?"

Suho didn't bother to respond. He simply turned away, already disinterested.

Jisung's feet skidded across the polished boards as he struggled, dragged bodily toward the hatch that led below decks.

"You bastard! At least look at me!"

But Suho didn't.

The last thing Jisung saw before the hatch slammed shut behind them was the vast expanse of sea and sky. The horizon already swallowing The Levanter whole.

He was shoved down the narrow corridor and half-thrown into the brig, a cold, iron-barred cage tucked into the lowest deck. The air was damp. Salt-heavy. Every surface smelled like rust and rot.

The shackles came next, thick iron rings around his wrists, chains bolted to the wall. He hissed through clenched teeth as they snapped into place.

One guard sneered. "Comfortable?"

Jisung didn't answer. Didn't dignify it.

He just turned his face to the cold, damp wall, his pulse still thudding from the adrenaline. From rage. From heartbreak.

He had made a choice. But he hadn't known this would be the cost.

Alone in the dark, surrounded by the groaning creak of ship timbers, Jisung let his head fall back against the wall of the cell.

He could still taste Minho's kiss.

And now, he had no way to warn him what was coming.

The morning broke grey.

Not with a storm, but with something quieter, heavier. Like the sea itself was holding its breath.

The Levanter moved through the water like a ghost ship, the wind catching her sails but not the spirits of her crew. The morning sun rose unnoticed behind a bank of low grey clouds, casting the deck in a dull, bitter light.

Minho stood at the helm, hands gripping the wheel though the Levanter barely drifted on the open water. They'd hoisted the sails again at dawn, but without direction. Without will. Just to move. Just to keep moving.

Around him, the deck was near silent. No one shouted. No one joked. It was the kind of stillness that didn't belong on a pirate ship.

The kind that settled in the bones.

Seungmin was checking lines without speaking, eyes red and jaw set tight. Hyunjin paced the starboard side, boots thudding too loud on the planks as if he was trying to drown out his thoughts.

Jeongin sat hunched beside a barrel, shoulders curled forward like he was trying to fold himself out of existence. His cheeks were stained with tears that hadn't stopped flowing since the night before. Chan hovered nearby, never quite touching, but always present. Watching. Guarding.

Changbin spent his time busying himself with meaningless tasks, claiming that “the gunpowder won’t organise itself.”

And Felix... Felix kept looking over his shoulder.

As if Jisung might be just out of sight. Just below deck. Just late to morning duty. Each time his mouth parted to speak, it closed again. As though the absence answered before he could ask.

Minho watched them. All of them.

His crew.

His family.

And he had no idea how to fix this.

He'd told Jisung they'd find a way. That they'd work it out. That he...

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

He still didn't know how to say it aloud without splintering.

Not with Jisung gone.

The wind caught at his coat. The sails strained gently above. Somewhere, gulls called. But none of it felt real. The world had dulled at the edges.

And he couldn't stop thinking of that last look on Jisung's face. Of the way he'd struggled to look back as he was dragged away. The way Minho had kissed him with a final breath and felt everything fall apart inside.

He ran a hand over his face, scrubbed at tired eyes.

He couldn't afford to break down. Not when the crew would be depending on him to hold things together.

The first day passed like fog. The thick, coastal kind that wraps around your chest and refuses to let go. Jisung didn't know whether it was the hunger curling sharp in his belly, the cold iron shackles weighing heavy on his wrists, or the silence pressing in on him from all sides. Probably all of it.

The food came three times a day, if it could be called that. A tin plate shoved roughly through the small slot at the base of the door. Dry, cracked bread that scoured the inside of his mouth. A strip of jerky that barely softened, no matter how long he chewed. A tin cup of water that smelled faintly of rust. Just enough to keep him alive. Nowhere near enough to dull the ache in his stomach or the fire gnawing in his chest.

He didn't cry. Not once. But sometimes he had to clench his jaw just to keep from making noise. Just to keep from screaming.

The brig was small, low-ceilinged, and stank of damp, mildew, and old blood. Too many memories steeped into the floorboards. Every shift of his arms made the chains clink against the wall. He was already developing a red welt beneath the tight iron cuffs.

But worse than the hunger, worse than the bruises, worse than the stench, was the solitude.

Because solitude made room for memory.

He thought of Jeongin first. Bright, loyal, eager to laugh. Jisung could almost hear his voice echoing in his head: "You'll be okay. You always are." He'd said it once after the storm, patting Jisung's back while water still dripped from their boots. Jisung wondered if he still believed it.

Then Felix. Felix, with his golden smile and unwavering presence. Felix had always known when Jisung needed to be left alone, and when he absolutely couldn't be. Jisung imagined him pacing the deck, twisting the hem of his shirt, turning to speak before remembering Jisung wasn't there to answer.

Chan. Stern but fair. Sharp-eyed. Calculating. If anyone could save them, it would be Chan. Jisung prayed he was thinking three steps ahead, like always.

He thought of them all.

But mostly... Minho.

He tried not to. He told himself not to. He failed.

Because no matter how long he stared at the damp timber wall, no matter how hard he tried to empty his mind, he kept seeing Minho's face. That tight, tortured expression right before he kissed him. The kiss had been soft, like an apology. And in that moment, Jisung had believed it all. Every hope it dared to hold.

And then he was gone.

Had it meant anything? Had it been a promise... Or just a goodbye?

That uncertainty hurt more than the shackles biting into his wrists ever could.

By the second day, the ache in his stomach had become a familiar rhythm. He barely tasted the food. He moved as little as possible. When he needed to think of something other than the pain, he pictured the Levanter. Imagined the groan of her timbers in the swell. The sound of boots on deck. The ripple of the flag overhead. He thought of Minho at the helm, eyes on the horizon. With no clue what was coming.

The groan of the ship around him was the only sound until the hatch above opened with a rusty creak.

Footsteps descended, measured, deliberate, and Jisung stirred from where he lay curled against the wall. His body protested the movement, joints stiff, stomach hollow. But instinct overruled pain.

He pushed himself up, chains dragging like dead weight, and lurched toward the bars faster than he should have. The shackles snapped taut, yanking him back with a violent jerk that forced a cry from his throat. Still, he gritted his teeth, catching the bars with both hands as the guard approached.

The man didn't speak. Just shoved the tin tray through the slot and turned to leave.

"Wait," Jisung barked, breathless. "Is there any sign of the Levanter?"

The guard paused.

"Have they sighted them?" Jisung pressed, desperation sharpening each word. "Is The Imperium gaining on them?"

Then, finally, the guard turned. A crooked grin slid onto his face, lazy and cruel. "You think any of us would share information with you?"
The guard stepped closer, just far enough to let his voice carry through the bars like oil in water. "Rest assured, we will catch up with them. And when we do, we'll blow your heathen, godless friends to kingdom come."

Jisung surged forward against the chains, the iron biting into his wrists. "You touch them-"

"What?" The guard barked a laugh. "You'll what, brat? Preach at me from your shackles?"

Jisung didn't answer.

Couldn't.

The rage choked him.

The guard rose to his feet. "Eat your food. Or don't. Won't matter soon."

He turned and walked away, boots thudding slowly on the stairs, until the hatch slammed shut above him.

Jisung slumped back against the wall, shaking.

The tin tray lay untouched at his feet.

He didn't even look at it.

On the third day since Jisung's departure, The Levanter sailed under the same shroud of silence and sorrow. The crew moved like shadows, their usual camaraderie replaced by a heavy stillness. Jeongin sat at the galley table, pushing his food around the plate, his appetite lost to grief. Chan, ever the caretaker, had been trying to coax him into eating, but his efforts were met with quiet refusals.

Later that evening, Hyunjin and Seungmin approached Minho, their expressions a mix of determination and desperation. They pulled him aside, away from the rest of the crew.

"We need to talk, Captain," Hyunjin began, his voice low but firm.

"Is there any way we can get Jisung back?" Seungmin added, his eyes searching Minho's face for any sign of hope.

Minho sighed, the weight of their question settling heavily in his chest. He looked between the two men, his expression grim.

"The Imperium outguns us in every way," he said, his voice tinged with frustration. "They have more firepower, more men. We don't stand a chance against them in a direct confrontation. We're lucky they let us go at all."

Hyunjin clenched his fists, his jaw tight. "So we're just supposed to do nothing?"

Minho's voice was low, almost a whisper. "There's nothing we can do. But... I left him my dagger. If he's threatened... Well, he knows how to use it. I just hope it's enough."

Hyunjin and Seungmin exchanged a glance, the weight of Minho's words settling heavily between them.

Hyunjin's brow furrowed, his voice tinged with frustration. "You gave him your dagger? That's not just a weapon, Minho. That's a part of you."

Seungmin nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the deck. "We know you're right. The Imperium outmatches us. But it doesn't make this any easier."

Minho looked away, the guilt etched into every line of his face. "I know. I hate it too. But charging in would be suicide. We have to be smart about this."

The three men stood in silence, the creaking of the ship the only sound between them. The weight of their shared helplessness hung heavy in the air.

Finally, Hyunjin spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "We'll find a way. We have to."

Minho nodded, but he knew it was little more than wishful thinking. Suho had made their position painfully clear. Jisung wouldn't just be taken. He'd be erased.

Stripped of everything that tied him to the Levanter.

To freedom.

To them.

The best-case scenario, and even that felt like a cruel joke, was Jisung shackled to a desk somewhere deep inside the Han Trading Company's empire. A puppet in a fine coat, forced to lend his name to forged contracts and blood-soaked ledgers. The heir in the spotlight, smiling for the world while his soul withered behind closed doors.

Every signature he gave would put him in more danger. Every sealed deal would tighten the noose just a little more. And Minho knew how stories like that ended. Not with escape, not with absolution. But in ruin. In silence.

In chains. Or a rope and a trapdoor.

Hyunjin and Seungmin exchanged a glance, the kind that said they both understood but wished they didn't. Without another word, they turned and walked off, the tension still heavy in their shoulders as they moved to resume their tasks.

And just like that, Minho was alone with the silence. With the wind and the creaking of the deck and the ever-present ache in his chest.

He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the railing, eyes on the horizon. But he wasn't seeing the sea.

He was back on the beach.

Back in that moment.

Jisung's face was vivid in his mind, like fire in the dark. Flushed with emotion, brows drawn in fury and heartbreak and something else Minho hadn't dared to name at the time. His eyes had been glassy, but not with fear. With determination. With sacrifice.

Minho had seen a lot of faces twist in pain. In anger. In love. But none of them had ever carved themselves into him like that one.

Still, the thought crept in, quiet, unwelcome.

Would that memory fade?

Would time wear it thin at the edges? Would the sharpness dull, the colours drain, the details slip through his fingers like seawater?

Would there come a day when he couldn't quite recall the exact shape of Jisung's mouth when he said his goodbyes?

That terrified him more than any ship on the sea.

He closed his eyes, but it only made it worse. The memory was too clear. That kiss, desperate, trembling, tender. The way Jisung had looked at him just before being pulled away. Minho had kissed him like it might change something. Like it might anchor him to the shore.

But it hadn't.

Because desperation, it turned out, wasn't enough to stop someone from choosing to burn for the people they loved.

Minho's jaw clenched, throat tight. His hand closed around the railing until his knuckles whitened.

The sea stretched out before him, endless and indifferent.

Above, the moon hung full and swollen, casting its pale, silver light across the water like spilled mercury. The deck of the Levanter was bathed in it, ghostly and silent, every rope and railing painted in soft shadows. It was beautiful, in the way shipwrecks were beautiful: still, mournful, echoing with things lost.

Minho didn't move from his place at the railing.

He watched the moonlight shimmer along the waves, watched how the ship cut through it with barely a sound. The sails swelled gently in the breeze, quiet like held breath.

Minho's hand slipped to his belt, fingers curling around the cold, familiar shape of his compass.

For a moment, he hesitated. It was a foolish thought. Childish, even. But hope made fools of them all. He turned it over in his hand, then flicked it open, the idle hope that maybe it would still echo the connection between them.

The needle spun.

Once. Twice.

Then, slowly, it settled. Steady. Unmoving.

Minho frowned.

It was pointing due north, straight ahead into the moonlit sea, directly behind The Levanter. He glanced up instinctively, following the arrow's path. At first, he saw nothing but open water and starlight, the shimmer of the moon on the waves.

But something shifted.

A darker smudge against the pale silver horizon. A shape.

Minho's breath caught.

He reached for the spyglass at his belt, snapped it open, and brought it to his eye. The world shifted into sharper lines, and there it was.

Not just a shadow now.

The unmistakable silhouette of a ship. White sails. Gilded hull. The Imperium.

He lowered the spyglass slowly, heart slamming against his ribs.

The compass still pointed true.

To Jisung.

Chapter 19: War

Jisung stirred.

At first, it was the distant creak of timber that pulled him from the depths of restless sleep. Then the shouts. Not close, not yet, but raised voices above deck, urgent and cutting through the stillness like a blade.

His eyes flew open.

He sat up too fast, chains clinking against the iron rings bolted to the brig wall. He stilled, heart hammering.

More voices now. Boots pounding overhead. The unmistakable edge of alarm in the tone, though the words themselves were hard to make out through layers of deck and hull.

"—sighted—"

"—closing fast—"

"—signal—"

His blood ran cold.

Jisung scrambled to his feet, the shackles biting into his wrists as he lurched to the bars. "What's happening?" he shouted, voice hoarse from disuse. "Someone! Talk to me!"

Nothing.

Only the thud of feet, shouted orders, the distant clang of a bell.

He gripped the bars tighter, knuckles white. His breathing sped up, fast and uneven.

The Levanter. It had to be.

Of course it was.

And they were being chased.

By the very ship he was imprisoned on.

"No, no, no..." he muttered, voice catching as fear surged like bile up his throat. He pressed his forehead to the cold metal, eyes wide and searching in the dark.

He was useless. Trapped. Chained in the belly of the beast while the crew he loved was about to be caught in its jaws.

And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do.

Minho's voice cut through the night like a blade. "All hands to stations, now!" he shouted, already moving across the deck. He sounded the alarm bell a beat later, its sharp clang echoing across the sails as crew members burst into motion. "Prepare for boarding. No cannon fire unless I give the word!" His boots pounded against the planks as he reached the rail, spyglass in hand, eyes fixed on the dark shape of the Imperium drawing closer with every wave. "This is it," he growled under his breath. "The bastards followed us."

Chan dashed up the stairs two at a time, breath sharp with urgency. "Captain, are you sure? No cannon fire?"

"We don't know where Jisung is on that ship," Minho snapped, eyes still locked on the Imperium. "One wrong hit and we blow him to pieces before we ever see his face again."

That silenced Chan. The tension in his shoulders eased just enough to shift into grim understanding.

Around them, the crew was already moving.

Seungmin and Hyunjin hauled open the weapons chest on the main deck, passing out rapiers and flintlocks, powder flasks and blades sharpened to a gleam. Munitions were handled like fragile cargo, every movement fast but precise. No wasted motion. No shouted commands. Just readiness.

Minho's voice rang out, clear and hard: "No cannon fire. I want every man armed, but tight. Controlled. If they board us, we fight hand-to-hand, and only then. We do not risk him."

Felix was checking the fuses on two grenadoes, brow furrowed as he handed one to Chan. "And if they fire first?"

"Then we return it. But we aim wide," Minho said. "We hit the deck, the sails, the water. We don't go for the hull."

Jeongin approached with an armful of cutlasses, eyes red but steady. "You really think he's still alive?" he asked quietly.

Minho didn't look at him. "He has to be."

The Levanter wasn't built for brute force. But she was fast, agile, and carried a crew with hearts that beat in time with her deck. And right now, she sailed under the weight of desperation and fury.

Minho's fingers curled around the hilt of his rapier as he scanned the dark horizon once more.

If the Imperium wanted a fight, they were going to get one.

The Imperium loomed ahead, its massive sails billowing as it closed the distance with unnerving speed. The moon cast a silvery glow over the scene, illuminating the tension etched into every line of Minho's face.

A sudden thunderclap shattered the night as a cannonball whistled through the air, splashing into the sea just off the Levanter's starboard side. The crew froze, the warning shot a clear message.

Moments later, another boom echoed, and this time the cannonball found its mark, crashing into the bow's railing with a splintering explosion of wood and iron. Shouts erupted as crew members scrambled to assess the damage.

Minho's jaw tightened. The Imperium was bearing down on them, its superior size and firepower evident. He knew they couldn't match it in a direct confrontation.

"Prepare for boarding!" he shouted, drawing his rapier. "Arm yourselves, no cannon fire unless I give the order."

As the Imperium drew alongside, its hull towering over the Levanter, Minho stood resolute at the helm, eyes fixed on the enemy ship. He would protect his crew, and he would find Jisung. No matter the cost.

Jisung jolted upright as the first cannon blast rang out through the hull of the Imperium. The echo rolled through the brig like thunder, a deep, snarling roar that set the timbers groaning and dust raining down from the ceiling. His pulse spiked, blood pounding in his ears. Then came the second. The entire ship shuddered under the force of it, and Jisung's body rocked backward, chains clanking loudly as they tugged him off balance.

He scrambled to his feet, or as close to it as the manacles would allow, his back pressed to the cold wall for support. His breath came fast, shallow. Every instinct screamed that something was happening above, something catastrophic.

"Hey!" he shouted, voice hoarse. "What's going on? Someone answer me!"

Silence. Or at least no answer from anyone willing to speak. Only the sound of hurried footsteps above, boots thudding hard against the deck. Distant shouts. Orders barked. And then...

A familiar voice.

Changbin.

Jisung's heart lurched. He knew that voice, that growl of exertion and fury. The moment he heard it, he was ten feet taller with hope and five inches shorter with terror.

"No, no, no," he whispered, already lunging toward the bars of his cell again. The chains bit into his skin, holding him back with cruel finality. "They caught them"

His words caught as a sudden boom above deck rattled the air. Not a cannon this time. Closer. Sharper. An explosion of a different kind, maybe a grenado, maybe a powder charge. The floor beneath his boots vibrated with the shock.

Then the unmistakable sounds of battle followed. Shouts of pain and warning. The clash of steel. Flintlocks cracking. Screams.

They were fighting.

The Levanter's crew had boarded, or had been boarded. They were here. On the Imperium.

And Jisung was locked below, useless.

"No, no, no!" he gasped, wrenching at the manacles with both hands. His wrists burned as iron scraped over bone and raw skin, but he didn't care. He pulled harder, teeth gritted in frustration. If he could just get loose, if he could fight, help, do something...

The cell bars rattled as he slammed his shoulder into them, roaring out his anger and desperation. But the only reply was the echo of battle growing louder, the ship groaning and shifting with every hit it took.

Jisung's chest heaved as he staggered back, shaking. The taste of rust and bile clung to the back of his throat. He pressed his back to the wall, sliding down to the floor as his heart thundered in his chest. Minho was here. The crew was here. They were risking everything.

For him.

And he couldn't even lift a blade.

Changbin's roar split the night as he hurled a grenado onto the Imperium's deck. The explosion erupted in a flash of fire and smoke, sending enemy sailors sprawling and igniting chaos among their ranks. Minho seized the moment, leading his crew into the fray.

Steel clashed against steel as the Levanter's crew engaged the Imperium's forces. The deck became a battleground, lit by the flickering flames of lanterns and the occasional burst of gunfire. Minho fought with precision, his rapier slicing through the air as he parried and struck with practiced ease.

Minho didn't crave blood on raids. But tonight, he didn't shy from it.

He'd never been the kind of captain to kill needlessly. Precision had always been his creed: controlled strikes, strategic blows. But something had broken loose inside him the moment The Imperium fired its first warning shot. Now, he moved with a kind of focused fury, every swing of his blade fuelled by the image of Jisung in chains.

A feral need burned beneath his skin, not just to win, but to reclaim. To tear this fortress of polished cruelty apart plank by plank until he found the person he'd lost.

His sword cut fast, clean, unrelenting. Those who stood in his way fell, no time to scream, no chance to beg. His movements weren't wild, but they weren't cautious anymore either. They were sharp. Efficient. Final.

Minho had no mercy left for the men of the Imperium. Not tonight.

Minho's boots thundered across the slick deck, his eyes briefly scanning the chaos around him. The Imperium was ablaze with noise and fury, and amidst the madness, he caught glimpses of his crew locked in their own violent rhythms.

Hyunjin moved like a man possessed, or like something older than that. A hurricane in human form. He twirled through the melee with balletic precision, his twin rapiers flashing silver in the moonlight. Each step was a calculated flourish, each slash followed by a brutal, elegant riposte. He laughed as he fought, the sound wild and fearless, echoing above the clash of steel and the shouts of men. His coat flared like a shadow behind him, and both of his opponents, hulking soldiers in polished brass, were struggling to keep up.

Not far from him, Changbin was chaos incarnate. He loaded and fired his flintlock in fast succession, the recoil rocking through his thick frame like thunder. Between shots, he hurled grenadoes into clusters of guards, each explosion sending splinters and bodies flying. The air stank of gunpowder and fire, and still Changbin pushed forward, a grin stretched across his face like he was born for this. One guard lunged at him from the side, and without missing a beat, Changbin smashed the butt of his pistol into the man's temple, sending him crumpling to the deck.

Minho's head snapped around just in time to see Felix spin and drive his blade cleanly into the gut of an enemy soldier, the man crumpling at his feet with a sharp cry. Felix exhaled hard, barely a moment to catch his breath, only for another guard to surge up behind him, arms like iron bands closing around his chest, pinning his arms tight.

"Felix!" Minho barked, feet already pivoting to move.

But he never got the chance.

From above, a shadow dropped like a falcon, silent, swift, precise.

Jeongin.

He landed on the guard's shoulders with the grace of a trained predator, knees driving hard into the man's spine to knock him off balance. His dagger was already drawn, the blade plunging cleanly into the space between neck and collarbone, right down to the hilt. The guard gave a garbled gasp and toppled backward, Felix lurching free and stumbling forward, spinning in stunned disbelief.

Jeongin barely blinked. He yanked the blade free, face a cold mask of determination that Minho had never seen before. Blood splattered across his cheek, but he didn't flinch. He crouched low, already scanning for his next threat.

Felix turned to him, wide-eyed. "You... Where the hell did you come from?"

Jeongin didn't answer. He just flicked the blood from his blade, nodded once, and disappeared back into the chaos like a ghost stitched from shadow and fury.

Minho stood frozen for half a heartbeat, the sheer vicious beauty of the moment locking something tight in his chest.

Minho tore his eyes from the blood-slick deck and spun a quick half-circle, trying to take stock of his crew in the blur of chaos and smoke.

Seungmin emerged near the stern, low and calculated as always, his thin garrotte looped around a guard's neck. The man clawed at it, wild-eyed, staggering backward, but Seungmin didn't let go. He followed the movement, boots gliding over the planks like water over stone, until the fight drained out of the man's limbs and he dropped, slack-jawed, to the floor. Seungmin gave a sharp tug to free the garrotte and faded back into the shadows like he'd never been there.

So far, none of them looked seriously injured, scrapes, bruises, yes, blood streaking across foreheads and coats, but nothing fatal yet. Still, they were badly outnumbered. For every Aurum Guard they felled, another seemed to appear out of the mist and smoke, clad in regulation brass and steel. They moved like a tide, constant and calculated, trained to kill.

Minho ducked as a bullet rang past his shoulder and buried itself in the mast behind him. He dove into a roll and came up behind another guard, driving his elbow into the back of the man's skull. The guard crumpled forward, and Minho yanked his blade across the back of his legs, sending him tumbling. He didn't wait to see the result, he was already scanning the upper deck.

No sign of Suho.

And that made Minho uneasy.

The bastard had to be somewhere. He wouldn't miss the chance to watch this play out, not when it meant a possible end to The Levanter, to the life Jisung had built, and to the only people who had dared stand against him.

Minho's jaw clenched, chest heaving. His rapier was slick in his grip, the tang of blood heavy in the air. He could feel the storm building in his limbs. This wasn't just a skirmish anymore.

This was war.

As the clang of steel and the thunder of boots on deck blurred into a singular roar, Minho's vision swam with smoke, sweat, and the glint of drawn blades.

His muscles screamed with each parry. Blood was already soaking through the tears in his coat, shallow gashes along his ribs and forearm, another burning just below his collarbone, but he couldn't stop. Not now.

Not when the tide was turning against them.

To his left, Felix was locked in a frenzied blur of motion, twin daggers flashing as he fended off three opponents, his movements wild but precise. Next to him, Hyunjin fought like a man possessed, spinning and lunging in a deadly rhythm, but even he was beginning to slow, the weight of exhaustion and injury catching up with him.

Beyond them, Changbin was down.

Minho's stomach twisted at the sight.

Seungmin was crouched beside him under the edge of the rigging, trying to bandage a deep slice along Changbin's arm. Blood was soaking through the cloth faster than Seungmin could press it down. They were exposed. Vulnerable. And the enemy knew it.

Felix and Hyunjin were doing everything they could to hold the line, but the Guards were closing in, disciplined, relentless, and better armed.

Minho's blade clashed again, once, twice, then locked with a heavy broadsword that nearly forced him to his knees. He twisted free, just narrowly avoiding another strike from behind, but it left his side open and one of the guards slashed across his ribs, tearing another howl from his throat.

He staggered, the breath knocked out of him. Pain flared bright across his chest. He gritted his teeth, forced himself upright, blade shaking in his hand. Four against one, and they weren't tiring.

He glanced quickly across the deck again, smoke rising, the screams of battle echoing up into the night.

This was going badly.

Worse than badly.

They were going to lose.

He could see it now, in the staggering steps of his crew, in the blood slicking the deck beneath their boots. In the sheer, brutal force of the Aurum Guard bearing down on them.

And Suho, wherever that bastard was, was going to win.

Jisung was still somewhere aboard this ship, still a prisoner.

Minho felt something white-hot and savage tear through his chest at the thought. The fury surged again, but his limbs were heavy, his movements slower. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep this up.

This couldn't be it.

This couldn't be how it ended.

The air shifted.

No, cracked.

It was like the entire world had sucked in a breath and forgot how to exhale.

Minho blinked...

And everything stopped.

Literally. Time itself stilled.

The Guard who had been mid-swing, blade arcing toward Minho's ribs, frozen in place, the steel caught midair like it had struck invisible glass. Felix, locked mid-duel, his opponent's sword just inches from his throat. Seungmin, hands bloodied, pressing cloth to Changbin's arm. Even the smoke from a nearby grenadoe curled mid-plume, unmoving.

Every sound vanished, smothered in a heavy, unnatural silence.

Minho staggered, breath harsh in the sudden stillness, the only motion on the deck.

"What the hell..."

Then a sound pierced the silence.

Not the sound of battle. Not steel or gunpowder.

A cry. Strange and melodic. Like a battle-horn made of wind and voice.

It came from above.

Minho's eyes snapped upward just in time to see a figure drop from the rigging, hooded, cloaked in dark red cloth, one hand gripping a short curved blade that gleamed like glass in the moonlight.

The figure landed silently in a crouch between Minho and the frozen guard poised to strike him.

And then the blade flashed up once, swift and elegant, slicing across the guard's exposed neck.

The man collapsed in slow motion, blood frozen mid-spray in the air.

Minho stumbled backward, wide-eyed.

The figure stood.

Reached up.

Pushed back the hood.

Hongjoong's familiar smirk greeted him like a sunrise cutting through storm clouds, cocky and infuriatingly calm despite the chaos.

His golden hourglass hung at his hip, glowing like starlight trapped in amber. It pulsed once, dim, then bright.

"Why do you always start the party without me?" Hongjoong said, tone mock-wounded.

Minho didn't know whether to collapse or kiss him.

Instead, he let out a breathless, incredulous laugh and tightened his grip on his sword.

"About time," he said, heart hammering. "We're getting our asses handed to us."

Hongjoong's grin widened as more movement erupted from the rigging and railings, his crew swinging down, weapons drawn, roaring into the fray like demons unshackled.

"Then let's flip the script, Captain." He winked.

Chapter 20: The Hourglass

The world snapped back into motion with a jolt. The clash of steel, the cries of battle, and the acrid scent of smoke surged around Minho as if the momentary stillness had never occurred. But now, he stood back-to-back with Hongjoong, their weapons drawn, ready to face the onslaught together.

Across the deck, Jongho, San, and Yeosang had joined Felix and Hyunjin, forming a protective barrier around the wounded Changbin and the vigilant Seungmin. Their coordinated movements held the enemy at bay, each strike precise and purposeful. Meanwhile, Yunho dashed across the chaos, his voice cutting through the din as he called out for Jeongin, desperation evident in his tone.

As Minho parried an incoming blow, he glanced at Hongjoong. "How the hell are you even here?"

Hongjoong smirked, deflecting an attack with ease. "Quin sent a message to us at Wonderland. Arrived the day after you left. Coordinates and a message that you needed our help."

Minho nodded, a mixture of relief and determination settling over him.

Minho barely ducked beneath the swing of an officer's cutlass before twisting and striking the guard down. The next flash of motion beside him was Hongjoong, blade already swinging in a vicious arc that deflected the next attacker.

"Where is he?" Hongjoong asked, voice taut with urgency. It was obvious who he meant, and there was something in his tone, fear, maybe, that made Minho's stomach twist.

Minho gritted his teeth. "He's on the ship somewhere. The brig, most likely. I don't know exactly. He..." His voice faltered as he parried another blow. "He gave himself up. Said he wouldn't let the crew die for him."

There was a pause. A beat of silence in the middle of chaos.

"Well," Hongjoong drawled darkly, sidestepping another attacker with a practiced flick of his wrist, "that obviously went well." His eyes swept over the carnage, the wounded, the smoke curling from the deck. "Tell him his noble sacrifice was very dramatic. Very honourable. And very fucking useless."

Minho let out a harsh breath. "You think I don't know that?"

Hongjoong reached for the glowing hourglass at his hip, holding it in one gloved hand. "I can buy you ten seconds," he said. "Maybe eleven if you're lucky. That's all I've got with such a short recharge time. So when I say go..."

Minho was already nodding, blade gripped tightly in one hand, the other flexing in anticipation.

"Get below deck," Hongjoong finished. "Find him. Bring him back."

Minho ripped the compass from his belt, knowing it would lead him straight to Jisung.

Minho locked eyes with Hongjoong, the promise already forged between them.

Hongjoong flipped the hourglass.

"Go."

 

Jisung's wrists burned, raw and bleeding, chafed nearly to the bone from where he'd forced the manacles off using every bit of leverage he could find. His breath came in hard bursts, his hands trembling from effort and pain. But the shackles lay uselessly on the floor. He was free of the cuffs.

Just... Not the cell.

The heavy iron bars stood firm, unmoved by his desperation. He'd tried everything including throwing himself bodily against the door, every inch of his body aching from failed attempts to force it. Still, it didn't budge.

His forehead pressed against the cold bars as he strained to listen. The sounds of chaos above had grown louder. He heard it all, gunshots, steel clashing, explosions that made the very wood around him quake. But then... Footsteps.

Rushing, deliberate.

Coming down the stairs.

Jisung staggered back from the bars, adrenaline sparking. His fingers reached instinctively into his coat, finding the hilt of the dagger Minho had passed to him on the beach. The weight of it grounded him, brought clarity to his frantic heart.

He didn't know who was coming.

But he knew they were close.

He crouched low in the shadows, dagger held steady in his blood slicked hands, breath shallow and sharp. Ready to strike, or run, or whatever else it took.

The steps got louder.

Closer.

For a beat, all Jisung could hear was his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears like a drum of war.

"Jisung."

It was barely a whisper. Ragged, disbelieving.

Jisung's head snapped up.

Minho.

His silhouette filled the narrow corridor outside the cell, compass in hand, wild-eyed, blood streaking one side of his face, his coat torn in multiple places, blood at the frayed edges. He looked like a man who had fought through hell, and might still be standing in it.

Jisung didn't move at first. His knees nearly buckled at the sight of him.

"Minho," he croaked, voice cracked from disuse. The dagger hung limp in his hand now, forgotten. "You... What... How are you here‽"

Minho didn't answer right away. He crossed the distance in two strides, hand wrapping around the bars, shaking them once, hard, like he might rip them apart on will alone. "We don't have time. Are you hurt?"

"Not badly," Jisung said, even though his wrists were a mess and his legs were barely holding him up. "Just... Get me out."

Minho tied the compass back to his belt and pulled something from his coat, slim, hooked, shining faintly in the low light. A lockpick.

Of course he had a lockpick.

He dropped to one knee, working quickly, hands moving with practiced precision despite the bruises and cuts across his knuckles. "I thought I'd be too late," he muttered. "Thought... Fuck, Jisung, I thought I'd lost you."

"I thought I'd lost you," Jisung whispered, voice barely holding steady. "Why... How are you even alive?"

"The Crimson Siren," Minho said, not looking up. "They found us. Helped hold the deck while I came below. Hongjoong bought me ten seconds to get down here without being seen."

The lock clicked.

The door creaked open.

And for a moment, neither of them moved. Just stood, staring.

Then Jisung launched forward, no hesitation, and Minho caught him mid-step. Arms closed around each other like they'd always meant to, and Jisung's knees finally gave in as he collapsed against Minho's chest.

Minho's hands closed around Jisung like he was something he'd lost and never expected to find again. He couldn't help it, the tremble in his fingers, the way they moved over Jisung's arms, his shoulders, confirming he was whole, still breathing, still here.

He pressed one palm to the side of Jisung's face, fingers brushing through his hair, and the other stayed locked at his waist, grounding them both. His eyes moved frantically, scanning Jisung's face, searching for signs of injury, bruises, something. Anything. His skin was too pale. There were dark shadows etched under his eyes, and he seemed thinner than he had just three days ago. Worn down. Faded.

He took a half-step back, enough to take in the bloodied gashes on Jisung's wrists and the deep, angry welts carved into his skin. His jaw locked.

"They did this to you?" he asked lowly, voice like thunder before the storm.

Jisung's voice was rough with exhaustion and a bitterness that sounded like defeat. He held his arms up slightly, the blood drying in sticky lines around his wrists. "Technically I did this to me. They had me shackled, and when I heard the fighting above I..." He let out a short, humourless breath. "I couldn't just sit here doing nothing."

His eyes flicked down to the torn skin. "Of course it turned out to be pointless."

Minho's hands were steady as they closed around Jisung's forearms, his touch feather-light but solid, like an anchor in the storm that still raged above them. He didn't flinch at the blood or the welts. He didn't look away.

He bent low, pressing a kiss to the inside of Jisung's right wrist, just above the line where torn skin gave way to bruised flesh. It was gentle, careful, a promise whispered through contact instead of words.

"Seungmin's up on deck," Minho said softly, still holding him like he might vanish. "He'll get you cleaned up. After he's finished with Changbin."

Jisung's head snapped up. "Changbin? Bin's hurt?"

Minho nodded. "Caught the business end of a blade to the arm, but he'll be okay. Looks worse than it is. Especially with the Crimson Siren crew helping now, San, Yeosang, Jongho... Hongjoong's holding the line and the others are up there somewhere. No doubt Mingi will be more than happy to take over Changbin's explosive responsibilities."

Jisung blinked at him, chest rising and falling faster now, the weight of everything beginning to set in. The blood. The sounds of steel above. The smell of fire and gunpowder still drifting down through the ship's planks.

Minho's gaze flicked to the ceiling briefly, jaw tightening. "I haven't seen Suho yet."

The very name was a trigger. Jisung's face twisted, fury slicing through the fog of fatigue and pain like a blade.

"That bastard needs to die," he spat, venom thick in his voice.

Minho didn't disagree. He just met Jisung's eyes with a look carved from steel and grief.

"Then let's find him."

 

The moment Jisung stepped back onto the deck, the world exploded around him.

Smoke curled through the moonlight in thick, greasy coils, tinged with the sharp tang of gunpowder and something darker, blood and the burnt scent of scorched rope and wood. The deck beneath his boots was slick in places, cracked and splintered in others, and his first breath caught on the metallic taste of violence thick in the air.

Chaos reigned.

Figures darted in and out of the swirling smoke, shouting orders or war cries, metal flashing in erratic bursts. Gunfire cracked like lightning overhead, followed by the dull, meaty thuds of bodies falling. Somewhere, steel clashed on steel, the ringing scrape setting Jisung's teeth on edge.

His eyes scanned the wreckage of battle, then locked on a figure slumped near the mainmast.

"Bin..." he breathed, his chest constricting.

Changbin was crumpled on the deck, one leg sprawled awkwardly and his arm twisted across his stomach, soaked in crimson. Seungmin was kneeling beside him, working fast, his hands slick with blood and his jaw tight with focus. Felix hovered protectively, blade ready in one hand, eyes scanning the smoke for threats.

For a moment, Jisung couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Minho had said it wasn't fatal. Had promised. But from this distance, it looked anything but okay.

He took one step forward, then froze.

A wild cackle sliced through the air behind him. That voice, unhinged, gleeful, unmistakable.

Mingi.

Jisung turned, just in time to see a blur of red hair vanish into the smoke, Mingi laughing like the whole world had gone mad and he was dancing with it.

And then...

Boom.

A blast erupted from the stern of the ship. The force of it hit like a hammer, a burst of heat and noise so sudden it punched the air from Jisung's lungs. He was thrown forward, stumbling hard into Minho's side as the deck bucked beneath them.

The world tilted. Fire and debris spewed into the sky, illuminating the sea around them in flashes of orange and gold. Screams followed, some from the Imperium crew, others from their own.

Minho grabbed him instinctively, pulling Jisung back against his chest to shield him from the blast. The railing groaned under the strain as the ship listed slightly to port, and Jisung braced against the wood, heart hammering like it was trying to claw free from his ribs.

Smoke and heat rolled over them, and for a moment all Jisung could hear was the roar of his own blood in his ears.

Then he pushed away, staggering toward Changbin.

He dropped to his knees beside Seungmin, throat raw as he took in the pale face of his friend. Changbin's eyes fluttered open at the movement, and he managed a faint, strained smile.

"Hey," he rasped. "Took you long enough."

Jisung laughed, a ragged, broken sound, and gripped Changbin's uninjured hand tightly.

"Sorry," Jisung said with a strained laugh, I was... A bit tied up"

Changbin, despite the blood smeared down his arm and the makeshift bandage Seungmin was still tying off, let out a sharp, incredulous huff of laughter.

"You're making jokes now?" he barked, shaking his head in disbelief. "You dramatic bastard, you were a prisoner!"

Jisung shrugged, wincing slightly. "What can I say? I've had a lot of time to workshop material."

Changbin rolled his eyes, but there was a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Yeah, well save the comedy routine for after we survive this."

Jisung offered a crooked smile. "Deal."

 

Smoke curled through the broken night like a dying breath.

Minho stood just beside the mast of the Imperium, his boots slick with blood and splinters. The air reeked of powder and burning canvas. The deck was chaos, screams, groans, shouted orders, the clash of steel fading into the deeper toll of exhaustion. But amid the ruin, things had shifted.

Mingi was grinning, his face streaked with soot and glory. "Took out the starboard rudder chain and one of the aft powder stores," he panted, a little wild in the eyes. "They're dead in the water. Suho's not chasing anyone unless he wants to paddle."

Minho ran a hand through his hair, heart hammering with disbelief and relief. "You're sure?"

"I saw the flames myself," Mingi nodded. "She's done, Captain. Not sunk, but definitely crippled."

Hongjoong limped toward them from the far end of the deck, his cloak torn at the shoulder, blood trailing down one sleeve. But the hourglass on his hip still gleamed gold, pulsing like a heartbeat.

"We need to move," he said without preamble. "The hourglass has had plenty of time to charge. But we've still only got maybe 30 seconds. No more. Once I twist the glass, they'll freeze long enough for us to cut the lines and get back to sea."

“What about Suho?” Minho snapped, eyes scanning the deck. He still hadn’t seen the bastard, and the only explanation was the one he didn’t want to believe, that the coward was holed up below deck, hiding.

Hongjoong didn’t flinch. “Your call,” he said coolly. “But ask yourself, do you really want to take that risk?”

Minho scanned the tangle of bodies, his crew, Hongjoong's, all jumbled together in a miracle of survival. San was dragging the wounded Changbin over to The Levanter's deck. Jeongin was helping Yunho shoulder Felix, who looked half-conscious but alive onto the Crimson Siren. Jongho was barking orders at anyone who could still hold a rope or blade.

"Can we even move this many people fast enough?" Minho asked.

Hongjoong gave a grim smile. "We'll make it work. Or we stay and die."

Minho didn't hesitate. "Do it."

Hongjoong stepped toward the quarterdeck, his fingers wrapping around the hourglass. He whispered something into the air, an incantation or maybe just a prayer, and then turned the glass upside down.

The world halted.

It was like stepping outside of time itself. The wind stopped mid-gust. The smoke paused mid-swirling curl. The remaining guards were frozen mid-step, weapons raised, mouths open in half-formed commands. A cannonball hung suspended in midair between the ships like some dark, prophetic moon.

Minho didn't waste a breath.

"Go!" he shouted, already springing to action.

Across the deck, the mixed crews moved like a tide breaking loose. They carried their wounded, hauled gear, scrambled over rails. Minho grabbed Jisung's arm, bloodied but alive, and guided him across the narrow plank bridge precariously connecting the Imperium and The Levanter.

Ropes snapped as Mingi and Yeosang moved through them with axes and blades, severing the last binds holding the ships together. Boards groaned. A sail snapped back into the wind.

"The mainsail's caught!" someone shouted.

"I've got it!" Seungmin's voice rang out, and moments later, the canvas unfurled, catching the moonlight as the mast creaked and groaned.

Time resumed like a thunderclap.

A yell rang out over the gap just as the lines gave way and The Levanter began to drift back.

The two ships, bruised and bloodied, pulled apart like twins severed at last. They limped forward under shared breath and shredded sail, carving into the dark sea with all the strength they had left.

Minho watched as the Imperium slowly shrank in the distance, still burning faintly. He turned then, sweeping his eyes across the deck of The Levanter, a ship now holding too many people in too much pain.

But they were alive.

They had done the impossible.

And as Jisung slumped beside him, silent, bloodied and bruised but free, Minho let the tension bleed from his body in one long exhale.

They weren't safe yet.

But they were alive.

 

The aftermath settled like smoke. Slow to clear, clinging to everything it touched.

Jisung stood amid the scattered bodies of his crew, his family, barely able to breathe around the heavy swell of emotion in his chest. The Levanter rocked beneath his feet, no longer under siege, but the adrenaline hadn't quite drained from his limbs. It thrummed there, low and dissonant, the aftershock of chaos refusing to let go.

Above, the sky was bleeding into dawn, streaks of lavender and ash stretching across the horizon like bruises. The scent of gunpowder still clung to the air, but the strong scent of blood had mostly dissipated.

Changbin was slouched against a crate near the stern, his arm now properly bandaged, held in a rough sling of sailcloth. Mingi sat beside him cross-legged, hands waving animatedly as he recounted the moment he'd sent fire tearing through the Imperium's rear.

"I'm telling you, it was beautiful," Mingi grinned, cheeks smudged with soot. "A plume of flame twenty feet high, easy. The entire starboard side lit up like a bonfire. Suho's men were diving overboard to avoid the blast."

Changbin let out a hoarse laugh, wincing at the movement but clapping Mingi's back with his good arm. "You're insane."

"Maybe, but I get results."

Jisung leaned against the rail, listening. Letting the familiarity of their voices ground him. He wasn't ready to speak yet. Not really. His throat felt raw from the smoke and chaos, and the deeper part of him, the one that had sat in a cell and believed he'd never see this deck again... Was still catching up.

A few paces away, Seungmin was checking each crew member for serious injuries, moving with a tension that hadn't left since the first cannon blast. Hyunjin had his back turned, perched on the rail like a restless bird, cleaning blood from his rapiers in slow, rhythmic strokes.

Jeongin and Felix hadn't made it back onto the Levanter. That knowledge curled tight in his stomach, but he knew they were safe. He'd caught a glimpse of them, Jeongin and Yunho shouldering Felix between them crossing onto the Crimson Siren.

He glanced back at Mingi and Changbin, who had now descended into a dramatic re-enactment, Mingi miming the lighting of the fuse with a flourish. Changbin was smirking, eyes tired but bright with admiration.

They were alive.

They had survived.

And yet, a deep exhaustion weighed on Jisung's limbs, one he knew wouldn't be eased by sleep.

He exhaled, a shaky breath that did little to steady him, and let his gaze drift toward the bow. Toward the horizon.

The Imperium was gone.

But he knew this wasn't over.

Not with Suho still breathing.

Jisung felt Minho shift beside him just as the sound of approaching footsteps drew his gaze upward. Yeosang was striding toward them, weathered scrolls clutched in his hands, the edges fraying from time and salt.

"While you lot were busy saving the day," Yeosang said, a flicker of his usual dry humour in his voice, "I went digging. Thought you might want to see this." He extended the scrolls to Jisung, who accepted them with cautious hands.

Minho leaned in beside him as they carefully unrolled the first one onto a nearby crate. The parchment unfurled to reveal a faded, intricate map, lines and landmarks scrawled in old ink, worn by years but still legible. There wasn't much writing, but what was there made Jisung's breath catch in his throat.

Minho caught the shift immediately. "What is it?"

Jisung stared at the words, his pulse beginning to pound. "A way to destroy the Han Trading Company for good."

Minho's brow furrowed. "How?"

Jisung pointed to a small mark on the map, barely more than a sigil and a single line of script. "This isn't just a map. It's the map. It leads to the Vault."

Yeosang blinked. "Vault? As in... Treasure?"

"Not quite," Jisung said, voice grim. "Something far more important. The Vault is the nerve centre of the Han Trading Company. It holds everything. Every blackmail file, every bribe ledger, every illegal weapons manifest. Trade routes, falsified documents, under the table deals, names of the corrupt and complicit, even details of who owes them what and what leverage they hold over them. All of it."

As he unrolled more scrolls, detailed blueprints came into view, entire sections of the vault, meticulously drawn, alongside notes on guard rotations, patrol timings, and security measures.

Minho leaned closer over the crate, frowning. "You're saying this 'vault' holds every dirty secret the Company's built their empire on?"

He looked up at Minho, eyes burning with something fierce and furious. "This is their skeleton closet, their crown jewel, their greatest vulnerability. If we find this... We don't just hurt them."

Minho's eyes narrowed, the weight of it settling in. "We burn them to the ground."

Jisung nodded once. "Every lie, every secret. Exposed."

Yeosang gave a low, impressed whistle. "Well then. Looks like we didn't just win a battle."

Minho's gaze never left the map. "We might have just found a way to win the war."

Chapter 21: Blueprint

Minho stood near the door of the captain's quarters, arms crossed and jaw set tight, watching in silence as Seungmin worked.

Jisung sat on the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His wrists were a wreck, angry purple bruises blooming across the skin, broken in places where the shackles had bitten deep. Raw patches were coated with dried blood from where he'd torn himself free. The sight made something deep in Minho's chest tighten painfully.

Jisung hadn't said much about his injuries since they'd returned to the ship. He hadn't needed to. The pain was written in the line of his shoulders, the slight tremble in his fingers, the way his jaw kept flexing like he was biting back something sharp.

Seungmin dabbed at the torn skin with a cloth soaked in warm vinegar water, the sharp scent stinging the room. The antiseptic mixture was common on board, vinegar, sometimes mixed with a little salt and boiled water, used to cleanse wounds and prevent infection. Still, Jisung flinched hard when it touched him, teeth gritted against the sting.

"Sorry," Seungmin muttered, not sounding sorry at all. "You did this to yourself, you know."

Jisung gave a weak huff of laughter. "Not my finest decision."

"You think?"

Minho's fingers curled tighter around his upper arms. He hated this, standing uselessly, watching Jisung in pain, unable to do a damn thing. He'd faced blades, bullets, storms, but this kind of quiet, personal hurt was harder to endure. He should've protected him. Should've stopped this before it ever happened.

Seungmin uncorked a small tin of calendula salve, thick, yellowed, and pungent, and began spreading it gently over the worst of the torn skin. It wouldn't fix the bruising, but it would help the skin knit back together over time.

"You'll need to keep it wrapped for a few days," Seungmin said as he reached for strips of linen. "Try not to strain them."

"Not planning on wrestling with shackles again anytime soon," Jisung muttered.

Minho saw him wince as the bandages were tied in place. Every flinch was a small blade in Minho's side.

When Seungmin finally finished and stood, dusting his hands off, he gave Minho a sidelong look. "Keep an eye on him. Change the dressing in the morning, and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Where are you going?" Jisung asked, voice hoarse.

"Back to Changbin," Seungmin said. "I need to make sure he hasn't bled through his bandages."

And then he left, closing the door softly behind him.

Silence lingered for a moment, heavy and close. Jisung flexed his fingers experimentally, wincing again, and Minho couldn't take it anymore. He stepped forward, slow and careful, until he was right in front of him.

"I should've found you faster," he said quietly.

Jisung looked up at him, tired eyes ringed with dark shadows. "I'm just happy you found me at all. That's more than I expected."

Minho didn't answer. He just reached forward and, as gently as he could, took one of Jisung's bandaged hands in his. His thumb ghosted across the linen, just for contact.

Minho stared down at their joined hands, a thousand different thoughts pressing against the back of his throat. The words burned to get out, but not one of them made it past his lips.

He wanted to tell Jisung that he hadn't slept more than an hour since he'd been taken. That every time he closed his eyes, he saw him being dragged up the shore, trapped and silent. He wanted to say he'd never felt rage like he had in that moment, at Suho, at the Aurum Guard, at himself. That he had constantly woke with his heart hammering, half-ready to dive into the sea to go after him.

He wanted to ask what Jisung had been thinking, choosing to go like that. What he'd felt when he looked back at him on the beach. If the kiss had meant something to him when it happened. If it still did.

He wanted to say he loved him. Clearly. With no battle raging around them. No blood in their mouths. No death looming.

But where the hell was he supposed to start?

So instead, he just held his hand. Careful. Steady. Letting the silence be the rigging holding them both upright.

Jisung was watching him, gaze softer now, as if trying to read everything Minho couldn't bring himself to say.

"I'm not sure I've ever seen you this quiet," Jisung said eventually, a faint shadow of a smile curving one side of his mouth.

Minho let out a dry breath, more exhale than laugh. "I'm afraid if I start talking, I won't stop."

Jisung's smile didn't grow, but it deepened, like something inside him had settled. He shifted forward just slightly on the desk, closing the distance between them by a single inch.

"Try me," he said.

Minho looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

And just like that, the tide inside him broke.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking down to their joined hands again. "I've been in love with you since that first week. Back when you still tried to act like you weren't clever, like you weren't watching everything and figuring everyone out."

Jisung blinked, the faint smile fading, replaced by something more open. Listening quietly.

"I thought it was just... Interest, at first. Curiosity." Minho gave a soft, bitter laugh. "But then I noticed I was watching for your reactions before I made a call. That I couldn't sleep unless I knew where you were on the ship. That I was angry at the idea of you leaving before I even let myself consider why."

He hesitated, breath shaky.

"But I kept it in. I didn't want to give it air. Because once it had air, it'd be real. And if it was real... It could break me."

Jisung didn't interrupt, but his other hand came up, bandaged and trembling slightly, and rested atop Minho's where it held his wrist.

Minho stared at that small, impossible touch.

"I was scared," he said. "I am scared. Of how much I feel. Of how fast it happened. Of what it means. Because if I love you, I don't know how to do it halfway. And I've never been good at letting people in without trying to control the outcome."

He lifted his gaze again. "But then I let you go. I kissed you and watched you walk away. And I realised... I'd rather be broken than live in a world where I never said it."

Jisung's lips parted, but no words came. His throat worked silently for a moment, eyes bright and full and so, so human.

"It's... The reason I was able to find you," Minho said quietly, unclipping the compass from his belt and holding it out.

Jisung took it, seemingly testing the weight of it in his hands as his fingertips ran over the runed surface. He began to open it, but Minho's hand gently stopped him.

Jisung glanced up, confused.

"It doesn't point north," Minho said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Though I suspect you've already worked that out."

Jisung nodded silently, eyes flicking back to the compass.

"I still don't fully understand how it works," Minho continued. "But I was told it would always lead me where I needed to go."
He paused, gaze softening. "And in my experience so far... It seems to follow a mix of need... And want."

Minho stepped closer. "I love you. I love you, and I think I've been loving you for so long that I already forgot what it was like not to."

Silence stretched between them like a rope bridge pulled taut.

And then Jisung exhaled, breath catching on a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob. "You picked a hell of a time to figure it out."

Minho gave a huff of a laugh. "I never claimed good timing."

They were close now. Close enough that Minho could see the sheen in Jisung's eyes, the small twitch of his lips as he fought to keep composure.

"I don't know what happens next," Minho said quietly. "But if you let me... I'll fight for it. For you."

Jisung's breath caught in his chest. He looked down for a moment, studying Minho's hands like they held some answer he'd been too afraid to ask for.

"I..." He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know if I was ever going to say this."

Minho stayed quiet, steady, letting him find the words at his own pace.

"I'm still angry," Jisung admitted, softly. "Not in the same way I was. Not like before, when it felt like you'd ripped the floor out from under me. It's quieter now. Like a splinter I haven't figured out how to pull out yet."

Minho's jaw twitched, but he nodded once. Accepting. Not trying to defend himself. Just listening.

"But even then," Jisung continued, "even at my worst, I never stopped caring about you. Not once. And I hated that, because it would've been so much easier if I could just... Just stop." He let out a short breath, shaking his head. "But I couldn't. I still can't."

He looked up finally, meeting Minho's gaze with eyes that burned with truth. "I thought maybe that night in Wonderland... Maybe it was just a release. We were angry, hurt, confused. I didn't know if it meant anything to you."

"It did," Minho said immediately, voice rough. "More than I knew how to say."

Jisung nodded slowly, as if he'd needed to hear it out loud to believe it. "I was terrified that it was a one-off. That I'd wake up and you'd go cold again, and I'd be left trying to figure out how to be near you without breaking."

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. "I've spent so long trying to protect myself from what I felt, from what it might mean, that I didn't know how to say any of this. I still don't."

Minho reached up, brushing a knuckle lightly across his cheek. "You don't have to say it perfectly."

Jisung leaned into the touch instinctively, eyes closing for a heartbeat. "All I know is... When I thought I'd never see you again, something inside me cracked. And not in a way I could ignore."

He opened his eyes again. "I don't know what happens next either. But I don't want it to be without you."

Minho's expression folded inward, like something in him was finally letting go of a tension he hadn't dared to name. "Then we start from here," he said. "Together."

Minho didn't expect Jisung to say it back.

Not after everything. Not yet.

Jisung had been through too much, they had been through too much, for Minho to expect a neat, easy answer to a confession long in the making. So when Jisung didn't say it back, when his eyes searched Minho's face and held something raw, something honest, but stayed silent, Minho didn't flinch.

He just nodded to himself. Quietly. Because love wasn't owed. And he still had so much to prove.

So he started the only way he knew how... Gently.

He let his palm cradle the curve of Jisung's jaw, thumb brushing just beneath the bruise-dark smudge under his eye. The bandages on his wrists made him look smaller somehow, and Minho's heart ached with all the things he couldn't undo.

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward.

Not like before, not fuelled by panic or anger or grief. Not the roughness of a stolen moment.

This was something else entirely.

He gave Jisung the space to pull back. To change his mind. But he didn't. He just tilted his head the tiniest fraction forward, like gravity itself was drawing him in.

Their lips met with a softness that surprised them both.

It wasn't fiery. It wasn't desperate.

Minho's free hand rested gently on Jisung's thigh, steadying himself, and for a breathless moment, everything else disappeared, no deck groaning beneath them, no blood on the sails, no war hanging over their shoulders like storm clouds.

Just this.

Just them.

When they parted, Minho didn't go far. Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling, eyes still half-closed in the space between silence and something new.

He was already promising, without a single word, that he would keep showing up.

Until Jisung could say the words for himself. And even after that.

Jisung's breath caught as Minho's forehead rested gently against his. The warmth of his skin. The steadiness of his breath. The lingering softness of the kiss that still ghosted across his mouth.

It was nothing like the others.

No heat, no bruising desperation, no frantic edge.

Just softness. A touch of something fragile. Something real.

And that left Jisung reeling.

He kept his eyes shut a moment longer than he needed to, like he could hold onto that gentleness if he stayed perfectly still. But the moment still seeped into him like sunlight through cracks. It was too much. And not enough.

Minho loved him.

He'd said it. Out loud. Without hesitation.

And Jisung wanted, God, he wanted, to say it back. The words hovered on his tongue, just behind his teeth, his heart pounding with the need to push them out.

But something inside him held still.

It wasn't fear of Minho. It was fear of himself. Of saying it too soon. Of saying it while there were still pieces of him that hadn't fully knit back together. Pieces that still remembered betrayal like a bruise under the skin.

And if he said it now, if he gave those words and later unravelled, it would feel like a lie.

So he didn't.

He stayed there, forehead to forehead, letting Minho's steadying presence anchor him. His fingers curled lightly around Minho's wrist, not pulling away, not pushing forward, just holding on.

Minho didn't move, his hand still cradling Jisung's jaw, thumb grazing slow arcs of comfort. But his voice, when it came, was quieter now. Careful.

"Are you sure?" he asked, the words almost too soft for the space between them. "About all of this. About... Going after them."

He didn't have to say who 'them' meant. The Han Trading Company loomed like a shadow over both of their lives, one from which Jisung had run, and which Minho had come far too close to losing him to.

Minho's gaze searched his, earnest and open. "We could leave. Go further south, beyond the reach of the Guard. Disappear into the archipelagos for a while. Just... Breathe. Be free."

It was tempting. The idea of safety. Of escape. Of building something far away from the reach of Suho and the cruel empire that had almost taken everything.

But Jisung didn't even hesitate.

His fingers tightened slightly around Minho's wrist, and he leaned back just enough to meet his eyes directly.

"No," he said. "I'm not running again."

Minho blinked, a small flicker of something, respect, or awe, flashing in his expression.

"I may have been born into that name," Jisung continued, voice firm now, the words gathering strength. "But that's all it ever was. A name. They used it to justify everything they've done. All the deals, the lies, the blood. And now they've used it to paint a target on the backs of the only people who've ever really been family to me."

His voice trembled, but it didn't break.

"I won't let that stand. Not when I can stop it."

Minho was silent for a moment. Then he gave the smallest nod.

Jisung added, quieter now, but no less resolute, "The Levanter isn't just a ship. She's home. And the people on her... They're mine. I'm not going to let Suho or anyone else decide what happens to us."

Minho's hand moved again, brushing back a strand of hair from Jisung's temple. His smile was faint, almost sad, but full of something else, too. Pride. Admiration. Something fierce and steady.

"Then we end it," Minho said simply.

Jisung exhaled, and for the first time in days, the breath didn't feel like a weight pressing on his lungs.

He nodded once, and murmured, "We end it."

_____________

The next week passed in a haze of salt and sea, the twin silhouettes of The Levanter and The Crimson Siren carving quiet paths through shifting waters. They kept to narrow straits and open sea alike, always moving, never lingering too long. The threat of The Imperium hung behind them like a distant storm cloud, but with each passing day, that fear dulled, not forgotten, but pushed aside by purpose.

The two ships moved like siblings now, never more than a few nautical miles apart, sometimes within shouting distance, sometimes exchanging quick skiff runs with messages or supplies. It was a strange, comforting rhythm, as though the sea itself understood they were stronger together.

Jisung spent much of that time keeping busy. He helped Chan with the charts. Spoke with Seungmin about communications codes. Sat with Changbin during his recovery, letting Mingi's endless stories wash over them both like background music. He didn't sleep much. Not because of nightmares, not anymore, but because there was just too much to plan, too much to think about. Too much to do.

Minho gave him space. Not coldly, never that again, but gently, respectfully. Like someone giving a wound time to breathe. But he was always nearby. A presence Jisung could reach for, even when he didn't.

When both ships finally dropped anchor in the shelter of a crescent-shaped bay, the quiet relief was palpable. The crews filtered onto the Levanter's deck in twos and threes, pirates and misfits and chosen family, gathering not for revelry, but for strategy. For what came next.

Jisung was checking lines near the quarterdeck when he heard the voice.

"Jisung?"

His breath caught.

He turned, just in time for Jeongin to barrel into him like a wave crashing against a jetty.

Jisung stumbled back a step but caught him, arms closing around him tightly, automatically. Jeongin clung to him fiercely, burying his face in Jisung's shoulder. The younger boy was shaking with sobs, the kind that had clearly been bottled up for far too long.

"You... You idiot," Jeongin choked, voice breaking apart between gasps. "I thought... I thought you were gone for good, you bastard."

Jisung held him tighter. "I know. I'm sorry."

"I didn't even get to say goodbye." Jeongin hit his chest with a closed fist, not hard. Just enough to make his point. "You didn't even say anything."

Jisung's own eyes burned now, throat thick. "I'm sorry, Innie."

They stayed like that for a long while. Until Jeongin finally pulled back just enough to look at him, red-eyed and scowling through the tears.

"If you ever do something that reckless again," he said, "I'm tying you to the mast myself."

Jisung smiled. "You'd have to catch me first."

A few feet away, Minho watched from the railing, arms crossed, expression unreadable, but there was the faintest, unmistakable upward curve to his mouth.

Eventually, Jeongin stepped back and swiped at his eyes with his sleeves. "Alright. Enough of that. I hear we've got a vault to burn down."

Jisung nodded, his gaze drifting toward the collection of captains and crew gathering around a makeshift table on the main deck.

A new fire lit behind his ribs.

One of the blueprints that Yeosang had salvaged from the Imperium was unrolled and pinned at the corners onto a crate by pistol barrels, daggers, and a half-finished mug of ale. Minho stood at the head of the makeshift table, arms crossed, eyes scanning the faces before him, his own crew, and the crew of the Crimson Siren mingled in among them. Weathered, bloodied, exhausted, but alive. And planning something that would shake the foundations of the Han Trading Company to its core.

"This," Minho began, pointing to the centre of the blueprint, "is the vault."

The space quieted, everyone leaning in.

"It's where they keep everything. Trade manifests, blackmail records, ledgers, maps, gold, hell, maybe even the original contracts that built the company. If we destroy it, we don't just hurt them. We unravel the whole damn thing."

"Stealth is the priority," Chan said, stepping up beside the crate. "We're not looking for a war. Just a surgical strike. Get in, plant charges, set fires in the right places, and vanish before they even know what hit them."

"No unnecessary bloodshed," Minho added, his voice calm but ironclad. "We're not there to kill. We're there to end their hold... For good."

The air around the gathered crews felt tense, thick with anticipation. Some of them sat cross-legged on the deck, others leaned against crates or the mast, arms crossed or fingers twitching with nervous energy.

San, crouched over the map, squinted at the eastern edge and tapped it with the hilt of a dagger. "This wall here, east side. Looks thin on guards and there's a maintenance hatch at the base. Small vent slats above. It's a climb, but not impossible."

"That's our entry," Jisung confirmed, eyes narrowing. "We need someone light, fast, who can make it up and slip inside without being seen."

His eyes flicked to the far end of the circle, landing on Jeongin. He sat close beside Yunho, their fingers laced together in quiet defiance of the chaos surrounding them. Their hands rested between them, linked together. They whispered something to each other, nothing loud, just a shared comfort.

Jisung felt a small tug at the corner of his mouth, a brief smile that passed like a shadow. "Jeongin, think you can scale it?"

"I know I can," Jeongin said, already straightening. "I've climbed taller things and I've practically spent my life up in the rigging."

"Good. Once you're in, get the hatch open. That's where Seungmin and Yeosang come in."

Seungmin raised a brow. "I'm assuming I'm not scaling the wall."

"No," Minho said with a smirk. "You two will wait for the all-clear at the side entrance. As soon as Jeongin unlocks it, you're the first wave. Keep it silent."

"Yeosang knows how to spot a trap," Hongjoong added. "He's saved more than one of us from being blown sky high."

Minho pointed to the centre of the map. "That makes team one. Jeongin, Seungmin, Yeosang, and Jisung. Jisung's memorized the vault layout from the stolen documents. He leads once you're inside."

Jisung gave a short nod.

"And the explosives?" Mingi asked, already tapping his fingers on a metal fuse.

"Team two," Minho replied. "Felix and Mingi are on charges. You know how to set them for controlled damage, not complete collapse."

Felix grinned, spinning a matchstick between his fingers. "Two minutes from the last fuse to blow. That's your window."

"Chan and I will go with them," Hongjoong said. "We'll watch your backs and help plant the big ones."

San leaned forward, eyes alight with mischief. "What about the chaos crew?"

"You, me, Wooyoung, and Jongho," Minho answered. "We cause distractions, light fires, pull guards away from the core. But no heroics. Draw attention, don't get caught."

Jongho cracked his knuckles. "We'll make noise without leaving a body count."

That left one team. Minho turned to Changbin, who sat with his arm braced carefully in a sling.

"You're not to fight. Not even a shove."

Changbin rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

"You're command and control. Seonghwa, Hyunjin, and Yunho are with you. Seonghwa's steady, Hyunjin's quick, Yunho's a runner if we need someone fast to redirect or help evac."

Seonghwa nodded once, precise and calm. "We'll hold the fallback point."

"Everyone's got their role," Minho said. "No freelancing."

"And after?" Jeongin asked quietly.

"We all converge here." Minho tapped a spot on the map. "There's a drainage culvert behind the compound. Chan and Seungmin will have it cleared before we breach the vault. It leads back to the sea."

He paused, letting his gaze sweep across every face, his crew, and Hongjoong's. Pirates, smugglers, rebels, misfits. Family.

"This doesn't work unless every one of us plays our part," he said. "And if something goes wrong..."

"We adapt," Felix cut in. "Like we always do."

As the meeting dissolved into quiet murmurs and smaller conversations, Jisung lingered near the map. His eyes weren't on the parchment, though, they drifted once again toward Jeongin and Yunho. They'd leaned back against a crate, Jeongin's head resting lightly on Yunho's shoulder, fingers still entwined. The quiet love between them wasn't loud or showy. It just was, like the tide beneath a ship.

Jisung's throat tightened.

That was what this was for. Not vengeance. Not proving himself to a family that had never truly seen him.

But for them, for every person on these ships who had chosen him, fought beside him, held him up when he could barely stand.

This was for their future.

For home. For freedom.

Chapter 22: Phase 2

The Levanter sliced through the waves at a steady speed, her sails full with morning wind. To her starboard side, the Crimson Siren kept pace, the two ships sailing in tandem across the open sea. The tension on board had settled into something quieter, less frantic than the day after the battle on the Imperium, but no less charged. Every crew member knew what was coming.

Below the surface of it all, there was preparation. A quiet, determined hum that moved through the decks like a heartbeat. But above it, in this rare sliver of peace, Jisung found Jeongin alone by the port rail, leaning into the wind as if it might carry his thoughts out ahead of them.

Jisung crossed the deck quietly and joined him, bumping his shoulder softly in greeting. "So... How are things? With Yunho, I mean."

The blush was immediate. It crept up Jeongin's neck like a rising tide. "You know."

"I know," Jisung echoed teasingly. "But I haven't heard the story."

Jeongin ducked his head, fingers tightening on the rail. "Part way through the battle on the Imperium, I was fighting to keep my footing, but then I got knocked down. One of the Aurum Guard had me pinned, and I thought..." he paused, throat working. "I thought it was over. And then Yunho just appeared. Like he'd torn across the ship just to find me. Threw the guy off me like he weighed nothing. And then..." He hesitated, eyes distant with memory. "He kissed me."

Jisung gasped. "No... Right then‽ In the middle of a fight‽"

Jeongin gave a small, sheepish nod.

"Oh my god," Jisung groaned with a grin. "You're living out some pirate-hero rescue fantasy. Explosions behind you, blood in the air, and a kiss in the middle of it."

Jeongin groaned and shoved him with a laugh. "Shut up, seriously."

"I'm just saying, it's very romantic."

Jeongin gave him a look. "You're one to talk, by the way."

Jisung blinked. "Me?"

"Yeah. You and Minho." Jeongin shifted to face him fully now. "You think I didn't notice how he looked when you were taken? Or how wrecked he was the whole time you were gone?"

Jisung's grin faltered. "...What do you mean?"

"I mean," Jeongin said gently, "he told us. Told the whole crew. That he loves you."

Jisung froze. "He... What?"

"Right there on deck," Jeongin said. "After he got back and you weren't with him. Hyunjin nearly bit his head off, and Minho just... Broke. Told us the truth. That you made the choice, that he tried to stop you. That he loved you and letting you go nearly killed him."

Jisung stood still, wind ruffling his coat, the salt stinging just a little more at the corners of his eyes than he'd expected.

"I didn't know that" he said softly.

"I figured." Jeongin leaned on the rail beside him again. "So... You gonna say it back?"

Jisung turned his head slowly. "What?"

"I see the way you look at him. You think nobody notices, but we all do. You keep your distance, but it's like your whole body is tuned to where he is on the deck."

Jisung huffed out a quiet breath, a small smile pulling at his lips despite himself.

"Maybe," he said. "I'm... Working on it."

Jeongin didn't press, just gave him a knowing look and then turned his gaze back toward the horizon.

"Working on what, barrel-boy?" came a low, familiar voice from behind them, warm with teasing and edged with affection.

Jisung didn't even need to turn. He smiled before Felix had properly joined them, the sound of his boots tapping lightly across the deck of the Levanter.

"Felix," Jisung greeted, trying to sound casual, though he could already feel Jeongin winding up beside him.

"We were just talking," Jeongin said airily, looping an arm around Jisung's shoulder before he could protest, "about how he and Minho are hopelessly in love with each other."

Felix raised a brow, eyes gleaming. "Oh, were we now?"

Jisung made a strangled noise and elbowed Jeongin in the ribs, not hard, just enough to get a grin out of him. "Traitor."

"You didn't deny it," Jeongin sing-songed, entirely unbothered.

Felix chuckled, slipping easily into place beside them and bumping his shoulder lightly against Jisung's. "I knew it'd happen eventually," Felix said, grinning. "Honestly, we all had a running bet. I've lost two days' rum rations to Chan."

"Wait, what?" Jisung turned on him, scandalized. "You were gambling on my love life?"

"Oh, absolutely," Felix said without shame. "Though to be fair, Seungmin's odds were better than mine. He had money on you two snapping and making out during a storm."

Jeongin snorted. "It was the post-parley kiss, wasn't it?"

Felix looked at Jisung with a grin, the only one of course, who knew exactly what he and Minho had gotten up to long before the parley ever happened.

Jisung groaned into his hands. "I can't believe I'm living through this and listening to you two narrate it like it's a stage play."

Felix patted his back comfortingly. "You love it."

"I love you two," Jisung corrected, dragging his hands down his face. "The commentary? Debatable."

Jeongin just leaned heavier against his side. "We're your biggest fans, you're welcome."

The teasing faded for a moment, replaced by a gentler quiet. Felix glanced out to sea, the wind tugging at his coat as the Levanter creaked beneath them. When he looked back, there was something softer in his eyes.

"Seriously though," he said, voice quieter now, "I'm glad things are... Better. With Minho, I mean. Last time we talked about it, you looked like your heart had been carved out with a wooden spoon."

Jisung blinked. The words hit more squarely than he expected.

"Yeah," he said after a beat. "It's... Not simple still. But I think we're getting there."

Felix nodded slowly, then bumped him again with his shoulder. "That'll do for now."

Jeongin hummed. "Besides, if he screws up again, we know where he sleeps."

That got a laugh out of Jisung. Real and full. "Remind me never to cross either of you."

"Too late," they said in unison.

___________

The blueprints laid across Minho's desk in his quarters, held down with miscellaneous tools and a tin mug of rum.
He and Chan had gone through the plan what felt like a thousand times at this point, reviewing routes, floor plans, expected guard postings, options for speedy exits if required.
"I think we've got it Min, unless those blueprints have miraculously changed in the last ten minutes."

He was right, of course. At this point, Minho wasn't revising the plan so much as avoiding everything else clawing at the edge of his mind.
With a sigh, he pushed away from the desk and turned to Chan, who was watching him carefully.

"I told him."

A slightly confused look stole over Chan's features. "Told who?"

"Jisung," Minho continued. "I told him that I love him."

Chan puffed out a short breath, clearly not expecting to hear that from him.
"And? How did that go? Did he say it back?"
Minho's eyes trailed back to the scrolls scattered across his table.
"No."

He didn't need to look at Chan's face to know that his first mate was gazing at him with unabashed sympathy.
"Ah, Min... I'm sorry."

"Chan, it's fine. Really. I didn't expect him to. I didn't tell him because I wanted to hear him say it back. I mean... I do... Want that. Of course I want that. It would be a lie to say I didn't. But I also know well enough that I still have so much work to do to earn his trust. To earn his heart."

He finally looked up and met Chan's gaze. His first mate's expression was as steady and open as ever, honest to a fault.

"I can't say I disagree with you there," Chan said, a wry tilt to his mouth. "I was very clear about what I thought of that idiotic plan of yours at Bartholomew's Reach."

Minho let out a rough laugh, half a cough. "Yeah, you were."

He might hold the title of captain, but moments like these reminded him that on this ship, titles didn't matter much. Not to him. Every member of his crew was an equal where it mattered, especially Chan.

"I've still never said 'I told you so', I think I should be commended for that" Chan said with a light chuckle.
"Ah, but are you not saying it now?" Minho responded, fighting the urge to laugh himself.

"Technically... No?"

Minho scoffed "Technically... Maybe not. But I'm not too proud to admit you were right. You were right from day one in fact. From the second Jisung boarded this ship I've been ignoring what was right in front of me, until it was impossible to continue."

"So do you have a plan?"

Minho looked at him blankly. "Have... We not just spent several hours discussing the plan?"

"Not for the vault," Chan huffed, as if it were completely obvious. "For Jisung."

Minho considered for a moment. Right now, the most important thing was right in front of them. They had to sever the hold that the Han Trading Company had over Jisung completely. Obtain his freedom through any means necessary. Otherwise they would be spending the rest of their lives on the run, always with a target painted on their backs.
And Jisung deserved so much more than that.

"I need to ensure his freedom first. If I can't do that, then nothing else matters."
Chan nodded, understanding Minho perfectly.

"So we do this, then. As long as we follow the plan we've laid out, and everybody does their part..." Chan moved to survey the blueprints again. "I genuinely think we've got a shot at this working, Min."

"I really hope you're right. Because I don't know what else to do if it doesn't."

Just then, a soft knock sounded at the door.

"Come in" Minho called out.

The door creaked open, swinging gently on its hinges to reveal Jisung, stood hesitantly at the threshold.
"Sorry... Are you busy?"

"Not at all," Chan answered for him, grabbing his jacket from the chair next to the desk.
"I was just leaving in fact." He added.

Before he moved however, he leant back to speak low in Minho's ear, one hand on his shoulder. "I'll make sure the others don't disturb you. Maybe you can start work on phase 2." Chan then threw a wink at Minho as he made to leave.
Jisung nodded at Chan as he walked past, Chan clapping him on the back briefly with a warm smile.

Then he was gone.

Jisung stepped inside the room properly, the door coming to a close behind him with a gentle click of the latch.

"I didn't mean to interrupt." Jisung offered, sheepishly.
"Don't worry," Minho answered, "you really didn't. If anything you've probably helped drag me out of aimlessly staring at these plans for the rest of the day."

Jisung finally crossed the room to stand at the side of Minho's desk, eyes flitting across the array of scrolls.
"Do you think we're ready? Do you think it'll work?"
The note of worry was evident in Jisung's voice, and Minho felt a sudden rush of urgency to protect him. He stepped around the desk, coming to meet Jisung at the side.
Before he could second-guess himself, he pulled Jisung against him into a tight embrace.

Jisung tensed, just for a heartbeat, then melted into him, arms sliding around Minho's waist as he tucked his face into Minho's chest.

"I think we're as prepared as we can be, Jisung. I'm determined to earn your freedom, no matter the cost."
Jisung sighed against him, the breath ghosting over the hem of Minho's shirt and leaving goosebumps in its wake.
"But what if the cost is too high? I already said Minho, I don't want anybody dying for me. Bin already got hurt, and I can't bear the thought-"

"Stop."

Minho drew back slightly, his hands firm on Jisung's shoulders as he met his gaze, bright, wet, and searching.

"Every man here made this choice," he said, voice low but resolute. "They're just as committed to your freedom as I am. You're part of this crew, Jisung. You have been for a long time."

He gave a small shake of his head, as if to drive the point home.
"You said it yourself, this is your family. And we protect our own."

Jisung nodded, lip caught between his teeth as his eyes brimmed. The tears didn't fall, not yet, but they were close. Closer than ever.

Minho lifted a hand, just in time to catch the first tear as it slipped down Jisung's cheek, brushing it away with a gentle thumb.
Jisung let out a shaky breath, leaning into the touch, eyes fluttering closed as his arms tightened around Minho's waist.

That familiar ache tugged at Minho's chest, sharp, insistent. The need to keep him safe. To shield him from the weight of the world.
He didn't want Jisung to cry. Didn't want him to hurt. Not anymore. Not if Minho could help it.

Minho's thumb traced slowly across Jisung's cheek, a silent plea for him to feel the comfort in that touch.
Jisung exhaled, a long, quiet breath, as if trying to steady the storm of thoughts racing behind his closed eyes.

Minho watched him, heart twisting. He wanted to pull Jisung out of his own head, to anchor him in something softer, safer.
To take the weight from his shoulders, even just for a moment.
But how? What could he say, what could he do, to make it all feel less heavy?

He didn't have an answer. Only the ache. Only the need.

Jisung's arms tightened around Minho's waist, clinging to him like an anchor. He was trying, truly trying, not to spiral.
Not to drown in the what-ifs.

But the fear clawed at him all the same. The vivid flashes of what could go wrong. Who could be hurt.
Or worse, who might die, just to sever the tie between him and the Company he'd been born into. A legacy he never asked for, yet one that shadowed his every step.

He buried his face deeper into Minho's chest, as if the steady beat of his heart could drown out the noise in his head.

When he felt Minho's other hand come up to cradle his face, Jisung's eyes snapped open, head falling back to meet his gaze. There was something soft and open there, where before Minho had always been closed off or unreadable.
Jisung wasn't sure who closed the distance first, all he knew was that one moment they were stood staring at each other, the next their lips were melded, tongues tangling against each other.

Minho's hands held him steady, and Jisung tightened his fingers against his shirt, seeking the secure feeling he found there.
He sighed against Minho's mouth, some of the weight slipping off his shoulders as he lost himself in the sensation between them.

Minho deepened the kiss, slow but certain. One hand slid to the back of Jisung's neck, fingers threading through the soft hair there, holding him close. The other settled at his hip, warm and steady.

With gentle pressure, Minho walked him backward until Jisung bumped softly against the edge of the desk. He let himself lean back against it, holding himself up above it with fingers curled tight in the fabric of Minho's shirt.

Minho's lips trailed away from Jisung's mouth, brushing a line of heat down to the hinge of his jaw. He paused there, breathing in the soft hitch of air that escaped Jisung's throat, before pressing a kiss to the skin just beneath his ear.

Jisung shivered, head tilting to the side instinctively, giving Minho more space, more permission. His grip tightened on Minho's shirt, knuckles white with the sheer intensity of feeling, raw and aching.

Minho's hand at his hip slid beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers splaying against bare skin, warm and careful. He wasn't rushing.
Jisung answered the touch with a soft, desperate sound, pulling Minho closer until there was no space between them. He chased Minho's mouth again, this time with more urgency, more need.

Their kiss turned hungry, teeth catching, breaths mingling. The desk edge dug into the backs of Jisung's thighs, but he didn't care. Not when Minho was touching him like this.

Without breaking the kiss, Minho reached behind Jisung, sweeping the scrolls and scattered tools off the desk in one clean motion. They hit the floor with a clatter, forgotten, the tin mug rolling across the floorboards.

He guided Jisung back until he was lying across the now-cleared surface, breath shallow and eyes wide.
Minho leaned over him, bracing himself with one hand beside Jisung's head, the other moving to the buttons of his shirt, slow, deliberate, giving Jisung every chance to stop him.
Jisung didn't. He just watched him, lips parted, chest rising and falling under Minho's touch.

One button. Then another. Minho parted the fabric, revealing Jisung's bare skin beneath, glowing faintly in the warm light of the cabin.
He dipped his head, laying a trail of slow, wet kisses across Jisung's chest. Over his collarbone. The curve of his sternum. The centre of his ribs.

Jisung let out a trembling breath, fingers sliding into Minho's hair, holding on, not to stop him, but just for the bliss of freely touching him.
When Minho's lips found one of his nipples, his head knocked off the desk slightly as his back arched up out of his control, fingers tangling tighter in Minho's hair.

Minho's tongue circled the taut bud in slow, deliberate swirls, each wicked movement sending a jolt through Jisung's body, sharp and electric, spiralling low into the pit of his stomach.
When Minho's hand came up to tease the other nipple, Jisung let out a helpless, breathy whine before he could stop himself. The sensation was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.

Minho hummed softly against Jisung's skin in response, a quiet sound of approval that sent another pulse of heat through Jisung's core. His fingers rolled and flicked with maddening precision, coaxing more of those soft, involuntary sounds from Jisung's lips.

Beneath him, Jisung arched further, body caught in the edge between tension and surrender. Every nerve felt lit, exposed under Minho's touch.

Minho lifted his head just enough to meet Jisung's eyes, his breath warm against his chest. His gaze was dark, intense, but gentle.

"You okay?" he murmured, voice rough and low, a thread of careful restraint woven into the words.

Jisung nodded quickly, then caught Minho's wrist and brought his hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm okay. I just... Don't want you to stop."

Minho's mouth curled in the faintest smile, fond and salacious all at once.

"I wasn't planning on it."

And then he was moving again, lips dragging lower, hand tracing a path down Jisung's side. When Minho reached the waistband of Jisung's pants, his fingers made quick work of the buttons, steady and sure. The fabric was eased down with deliberate purpose, sliding over Jisung's hips and thighs before pooling onto the floor in a soft rustle.

Jisung sucked in a sharp breath, heat coiling low in his belly. His chest rose and fell in quiet anticipation, not quite sure what Minho would do next, only that he wanted it, whatever it was. Needed it.

Minho's lips traced a slow, deliberate path across Jisung's skin, kissing just above the crease of his thigh, then further inward, breath ghosting over the sensitive flesh without touching, yet.

Jisung's fingers clenched at the edge of the desk, knuckles pale, toes curling slightly, the solid wood of the desk cool beneath him. His breath hitched, a quiet whimper slipping free as his hips lifted instinctively, chasing more.

But Minho didn't rush. His hands smoothed along Jisung's thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles soothing and teasing in equal measure. The tension thrumming in Jisung's body felt unbearable, hovering between wanting and aching.

Minho looked up again, catching Jisung's eyes.
"This okay?" he asked.

Jisung nodded, too fast, then steadied himself with a shaky breath.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I just... Didn't know it could feel like this before anything even happens."

Minho smiled, slow and mischievous.
"That's because it is happening," he said, and then finally, his mouth closed over Jisung's cock with a wet warmth.

Jisung gasped, head tipping back again, one hand flying back to Minho's hair, the other bracing himself as his body arched into the touch. It was overwhelming, not just the sensation, but the intimacy of it. Jisung felt it in every flick of tongue, every slow, aching pull.

He moaned, soft and desperate, his voice breaking on Minho's name.

Minho moved with a steady rhythm, slow and attentive. His hands anchored Jisung, one firm against his hip, the other trailing slow strokes down his thigh as he lavished his full attention on him.

Jisung's mind swam, overwhelmed not just by sensation but by the gentleness of it. There was no demand here this time, no pressure, just Minho giving, learning him, holding him steady even in the most exposed moment he'd ever known in his life.

He let out a soft, choked sound, fingers tangled in Minho's hair, not guiding, just needing something to hold onto. His legs trembled, breath ragged as the pleasure built, an ache coiling tighter, closer with every slow, devastating pass of Minho's mouth.

"I can't... Minho, I..." he gasped, barely coherent.

Minho pulled back just enough to speak, voice low and reassuring.
"You can," he murmured. "Just let go. I've got you."

And with those words, Jisung finally broke.

His hips bucked wildly, breath catching as the wave crested and crashed over him, warmth spilling out of him in broken gasps and shuddering tremors.
Minho didn't move away. He held steady through it all, his pace consistent and his hands never leaving Jisung's skin, pulling him through the high and gently carrying him through the fall.

When the waves finally subsided, Jisung collapsed back against the desk, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, heart racing.

Minho rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from Jisung's forehead.

Jisung blinked up at him, dazed, still catching his breath, but the look in his eyes was clear. Open. Bare.

"That was..." he started, then stopped, voice cracking around the words. "I don't have a name for what that was."

Minho leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
When he pulled back, he searched Jisung's face for a long, quiet moment.

"Does it need a name?" he asked gently.

Jisung blinked up at him, still dazed, still breathless. The question settled in the space between them, warm and sincere.

He let out a soft huff of a laugh, more exhale than sound. "I suppose not," he murmured. "But I'm meant to be a man of words, aren't I?"

Minho smiled softly at that, then slid his arms around Jisung's waist, guiding him upright with gentle hands. Jisung moved easily, letting himself be drawn in, resting against Minho's chest where he belonged.

Once Jisung was on his feet, Minho wrapped him fully in his arms, holding him close, one hand smoothing over his back, the other cradling the back of his neck.

"You're here," Minho said quietly, lips brushing just above Jisung's temple. "With me."

He pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

"That's all I care about."

Chapter 23: The Calm

The next morning brought with it the salty breath of open sea and the creak of sails stretching in the wind. With farewells exchanged and coordinates settled, the crew split once more, everyone returned to their respective decks, save one.

Yunho remained aboard with Jeongin, his tall figure a constant shadow beside the younger man. Nobody pressed the issue. After what they'd just been through, nobody wanted to. Yunho's loyalty was quiet, but absolute. Jeongin didn't seem to mind.

Changbin's wounds, while still raw in places, were healing well. The angry red gash across his arm had mostly knitted together with the help of Seungmin's steady hands and Jisung's unrelenting watch. He grumbled about the fuss, of course, but even he couldn't deny that he was grateful to be on his feet again, even if only for short bursts.

Jisung threw himself back into the steady rhythm of ship life, pouring his energy into every task he could touch. He helped Changbin with the more delicate aspects of the raid, sifting through crates of powder and slow-burning fuses, carefully packing hand-rigged charges in oilskin to keep them dry. The explosives were simple but effective, sticks of gelignite wrapped tight in cloth, copper wire fuses pre-cut and coiled. Bin, gruff and precise, walked him through the steps.

"You only get one shot at each charge," Changbin warned, knuckles stained with powder. "So we build smart, not fast."

Jisung nodded, hands steady despite the weight in his gut. "Smart, not fast. Got it."

When he wasn't elbow-deep in black powder or sailwork, he found time with Seungmin below deck, taking stock of the medical supplies. The small cabin smelled of alcohol and crushed herbs. They counted bandages, boiled tools, and tucked away every spare salve and suture they could find. Just in case.

Seungmin looked over a rack of morphine ampoules and frowned. "We have enough for injuries. Not for a massacre."

"We're not planning for a massacre," Jisung replied quietly, though they both knew better than to put faith in the clean version of a plan.

Still, the preparations helped. Focus was a kind of comfort.

After a full week, there wasn't much left to organise. Now all they had to do was wait.

And so it was, one quiet night beneath a velvet sky, that the Levanter signalled the Crimson Siren to drop anchor.

Surprisingly, the suggestion had come from Minho himself. With the vault now only a few days' sail away, he'd proposed they take a moment, just one night, to breathe. To let the crew rest, gather their strength, and, if they could manage it, enjoy themselves before stepping into the fire.
Both crews were more than happy to oblige, eager for the distraction from their impending raid on what amounted to a highly secured fortress.

The gangplank was lowered carefully between the two ships, a narrow bridge lit by lanterns swinging gently in the ocean breeze. The sea was calm, the sky a deep velvet canopy sparkling with stars overhead, and for the first time in weeks, something close to ease settled over the deck.

The Crimson Siren's crew came aboard in loose groups, each drawn to familiar faces or unfinished conversations.

Mingi was the first to cross, barely offering a nod of greeting before making a beeline for Changbin.
"Got any of that blasting jelly left?" he asked, already pulling something out of the satchel slung over his shoulder.
Changbin rolled his eyes but looked intrigued nonetheless. "If you're here to criticize my fuse length again, I swear-"
The two disappeared into a quiet corner, voices already rising in animated debate over powder consistency and the proper width of a detonator charge.

Jongho arrived next, trailed by Wooyoung, who had the swagger of a man on a mission.
"Seungmin!" Wooyoung called with a too-bright grin, catching the medic halfway through an attempt to retreat below deck. "You look positively radiant in this light."
Seungmin froze like a rabbit caught in a lantern beam.
Jongho leaned on the rail, smirking. "You'd think he'd be used to this by now."
"I'm not," Seungmin muttered under his breath, cheeks already pink as Wooyoung sidled closer, undeterred.

Yeosang and San, ever the curious pair, found their way to Hyunjin, who was draped artfully against a crate like he'd been waiting for an audience.
"You must stop pairing that coat with brown boots," Hyunjin was saying, flicking a hand at Yeosang's feet. "It's a crime against your face."
Yeosang blinked. "How does that-"
"Let him talk," San said, clearly enjoying himself. "He gave me four scarf knots I didn't even know existed."
Hyunjin beamed like a smug cat. "And all of them better than that disaster of a sailor's loop you wore in Wonderland."

Further down the deck, Chan and Seonghwa were already mid-argument, voices cutting through the hum of conversation.
"I'm just saying your approach to managing a boarding party is painfully outdated," Chan barked, arms crossed.
Seonghwa raised a perfectly arched brow. "And I'm saying I could run your entire crew better than you."
"You want to test that?"
"Only if you want to lose."
The Levanter's crew gave them a wide berth, clearly used to the long-standing rivalry that flared up like clockwork whenever the two first mates were within shouting distance.

At the stern, Minho stood with Jisung, their mugs halfway empty, watching the chaos unfold like two witnesses at the edge of a storm they weren't quite ready to stop.

Hongjoong approached them with his usual calm, hands behind his back, eyes sharp.
"Everything in place?" he asked, glancing between them.

Minho gave a nod, eyes briefly flicking to Jisung before returning to Hongjoong. "Explosives are packed, guards have been mapped, and fallback routes are set."

Hongjoong's gaze lingered. "And the crew?"

"Tense," Jisung admitted. "But focused. We've done all we can. The rest is down to timing and luck."

A faint smile curved at the corner of Hongjoong's mouth. "Then we drink while we still can."

Minho raised his mug. "To vaults, and to whatever waits beyond them."

Hongjoong clinked his cup lightly against both of theirs, the shining ring of metal against metal swallowed by the low hum of conversation and music drifting across the deck. Around them, the two crews had begun to settle in.

Someone passed around another oversized bottle of rum, Yeosang, maybe, or Wooyoung, depending on who you asked later, and before long, mugs were topped off with generous pours.

Laughter came more easily with each sip. At one end of the deck, Yunho was quietly challenging Changbin to a strength competition involving a coil of anchor chain, which Seonghwa immediately declared "pointless bravado," only to be roped into judging it. Nearby, Hyunjin had swapped fashion critiques for actual scarf demonstrations, now enthusiastically looping a length of pale silk around San's neck while Mingi tried, and failed, not to laugh.

Chan, for once, had ceded his post-bickering sulk and was now deep in a spirited debate with Yeosang about which ship had the better figurehead. Yeosang insisted it was the Crimson Siren, and Chan looked personally offended.

Even Minho allowed himself to relax, just a little, his arm brushing Jisung's as they moved through the crowd. The crew swapped stories when asked, vague tales of past raids and near-misses, half-true but wholly entertaining. Jisung found himself laughing more than he had in weeks, the tension in his shoulders gradually slipping away under the weight of drink and camaraderie.

Eventually, the loose clusters of people began to gravitate inward, drawn toward the centre of the main deck like moths to a flame. Someone had set a crate in the middle, and a few crew members perched on it like a makeshift throne while the rest sat or leaned in a loose circle around them.

San, already two drinks past reasonable, stood and swayed dramatically.
"You're all too sober," he announced, sweeping his arm out like a king surveying his court. "This is an outrage!"

"I'm perfectly sober," Jongho deadpanned, not even glancing up.

"Exactly!" San clapped his hands. "Which is entirely the problem. So! We're fixing that. Right now. Gawi-bawi-bo! Loser drinks. No exceptions."

Groans and laughs rippled through the group. A few people exchanged wary looks. Seungmin sighed, already predicting disaster, but didn't object.

They started with the whole group, gawi-bawi-bo shouted in unison, then punctuated by laughter or exaggerated cries of betrayal as the number of participants dwindled with each round. Drinks were downed accordingly. Mingi lost three times in a row and accepted it with theatrical resignation, sprawling dramatically against Wooyoung's shoulder. Yeosang somehow managed to cheat at least once without anyone being able to prove it.

Minho played one round, finally lost to Jisung, who gleefully watched him finish the rest of his mug, and promptly decided that was enough participation for him.

After nearly everyone had been bested at least once, San, predictably still standing, threw his arms wide again. "Now that you're appropriately compromised, it's time for Samyukgu!"

A few of the Levanter's crew groaned aloud. Seungmin, however, straightened.
"Finally. Something that doesn't rely on luck."

Jongho cracked his knuckles. "You ready to carry this team again?"

Samyukgu, a hybrid of verbal dexterity and lightning-fast reflexes, was traditionally played in pairs. One person called a rhythm and three-beat chant, while the other had to shout a correct word or phrase in time with the rhythm, or drink. As the game went on, the pace increased until only the sharpest minds, and tongues, remained.

Seungmin and Jongho were ruthless. Even mildly drunk, they moved like clockwork, predicting each other's choices, never breaking pace. Wooyoung and San lasted longer than anyone expected, mostly due to sheer luck, but eventually got knocked out by Seonghwa and Yeosang after a spectacular fumble involving a miscounted fruit metaphor.

Minho sat back against a barrel, arm draped lazily over Jisung's shoulder as they watched the chaos unfold. Jisung leaned into the touch without thinking, his face flushed from rum and laughter, his eyes shining in the lanternlight.

"You ever play?" Minho asked, nodding toward the circle.

"Once," Jisung replied, "in a tavern in Rosethorne during a port stop. I lost to a woman who drank me under the table and then beat up three bounty hunters on her way out."

"Remind me to hire her."

"I doubt she'd be interested," Jisung muttered. "She called me ‘too pretty to be useful’."

Minho chuckled, gaze softening slightly. "She had some taste, then."

Jisung rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered.

By the end of the game, only Seungmin and Jongho remained, the chant flying fast and sharp between them. The others could barely keep up just listening. Finally, Seungmin cracked a grin, called a nonsense syllable, and Jongho fumbled his reply.

The crew erupted into cheers, some raising drinks, others groaning in defeat. Jongho accepted his loss with good grace and a long gulp of rum, while Seungmin bowed mockingly to his audience.

As the last of the laughter faded into the salty night air, Yeosang flopped dramatically onto a barrel and groaned.
"My brain's melting. Someone suggest a game that doesn't require math."

"We could play 'Never Have I Ever,'" Wooyoung suggested with a sly grin, already holding up his mug. "Good for sharing and shaming."

Seungmin narrowed his eyes. "Absolutely not."

"Seconded!" San shouted, raising his drink. "That means we're doing it."

Within minutes, the entire crew had gathered in a loose circle on the deck, cross-legged on crates, slumped against barrels, or simply sprawled where they could find room. The rum was still flowing, though much slower now, and the mood had shifted into something looser, easier. The laughter still came, but it had softened at the edges, frayed with the kind of affection only long nights and shared survival could build.

Wooyoung sat forward, grinning. "Alright, you know the rules. You say something you've never done. Anyone who has done it drinks. No lying. No dodging."

"Also no crying this time," Seungmin added, pointing at San.

"I cried with dignity!" San protested, scandalized.

"First round's on you, then," said Minho, gesturing lazily. "Make it count."

San leaned in, clearly savouring the spotlight. "Okay, okay. Never have I ever... Kissed someone currently on this ship."

A chorus of cheers and groans followed.

Jisung coughed into his cup, hiding a grin as he drank.
Minho just sipped calmly, expression unreadable.
Wooyoung downed half his mug without shame, sniggering as Seungmin rolled his eyes and sipped at his.
Yeosang pointedly drank while glaring at Seonghwa, who pretended not to notice, whilst Yunho and Jeongin both giggled as they sipped at theirs.

Wooyoung leaned forward. "Okay, Never have I ever... Accidentally blown something up I wasn't supposed to."

Changbin let out a long, suffering sigh and drank immediately. So did Mingi. And, with a resigned shrug, Felix.

Seungmin narrowed his eyes, lowering his mug just enough to stare at Felix. "You? What in the hell did you blow up?"

Felix scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Okay, first of all, it was a small explosion."

"That is never how a good story starts," Jongho muttered.

"So," Felix continued, grinning now as the crew leaned in, "a couple years back, when I was on my last ship, we were docked in Azamara. Nice port, great fish stew..."

"Yes I know the place!" Yeosang interrupted, "it really is amazing stew."

"See?" Felix said, gesturing at him. "Anyway, I was helping with restocking, right? Basic stuff. But I'd just picked up this little tin of something marked 'volatile - keep dry' and I was like, 'Cool, that sounds useful!'"

"That's your first mistake," Minho muttered.

"I didn't read the whole label, apparently," Felix said, laughing now. "Because I was standing in the galley getting everything sorted and I... uh... put the tin on the stove without thinking."

A long pause.

"You cooked explosives?" Seungmin asked, deadpan.

"I warmed them," Felix corrected, holding up a finger. "Lightly."

"What happened?" Jisung asked, already trying not to laugh.

"Well, the good news is, the roof of the galley was already old."

"The bad news?" Wooyoung prompted, grinning.

Felix shrugged, entirely too casual for someone recounting a literal galley explosion.
"I was immediately kicked off the ship," he said, like he was reliving a mild inconvenience. "Wages docked for the roof repairs. Abandoned at the port to find my own way. Though of course... That's how I met Minho. So maybe it all turned out okay after all."

Minho raised his tin mug at Felix with a smile.

The game continued.

Seonghwa straightened primly. "Never have I ever lost a duel."

Chan choked. "Okay, now you're just being rude."

"I'm just being accurate," Seonghwa replied with smug precision.

Chan drank. So did Wooyoung, who muttered something about "being distracted by the shirtlessness," and Yunho, who didn't elaborate but looked proud of it.

Jongho cleared his throat. "Never have I ever... Cried during a fight."

San looked offended. "Crying is not weakness."

"I'm not judging," Jongho said.

San, Jisung, and surprisingly Yunho all took long drinks.

"You cried?" Jeongin asked Yunho, wide-eyed.

"She broke my nose," Yunho said simply. "With a violin case."

The group paused.

"I'm sorry... A violin case?" Hyunjin repeated, aghast.

"It was very heavy," Yunho muttered.

Jeongin, sitting a little closer to Yunho than before, nudged him. "Still kind of hot, honestly."

Next was Hyunjin, who smiled like a fox. "Never have I ever... Passed out drunk and woken up on the wrong ship."

"Define wrong," Mingi said, scratching the back of his neck.

"No," Jongho cut in. "If you had to ask, drink."

Mingi, San, and Wooyoung all drank. So did Seungmin, who immediately looked like he regretted it.

"Wait," Jisung blinked. "You? You don't even drink that much."

"I didn't mean to," Seungmin muttered, ears pink. "They moored beside us on the dock, and in the night I thought... Never mind."

"We thought we'd lost him!" Felix said, scandalized. "You were napping in their galley!"

Seungmin covered his face with one hand. "They made really good tea."

As the night wore on and the rum flowed freer than common sense, Hongjoong leaned forward into the firelight, the flicker casting a mischievous glow in his eyes. He swirled the last of his drink and smirked, not at the bottle, but at Jisung.

"Alright," he said, drawing out each word with theatrical precision, "Never have I ever... Hooked up in the captain's quarters... Of The Levanter."

A beat passed.

Minho lifted his mug and drank. Calm, controlled.

Jisung, face already tinged pink from drink and sea air, let out a quiet groan, but lifted his mug and drank too.

The silence that followed was absolute.

And then it shattered.

Every voice exploded at once, loud, incredulous, overlapping in a wave of pure disbelief and gleeful outrage.

Hongjoong, still seated on his crate, looked entirely too smug, swirling the dregs of his drink like the villain in a play he had just written.

Jongho, who had thus far remained stoically silent, finally raised a hand and asked, with the calm of a man trying to restore order in a tavern brawl, "Is this an ongoing situation? Or just a 'one time and we never talk about it again' kind of thing?"

All eyes turned.

Minho, still infuriatingly composed, looked to Jisung and simply said, "That's up to him."

Jisung, despite the blush still burning across his face, smiled faintly and nodded. "Ongoing."

Cue, complete meltdown part two.

Jeongin, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, looked like he'd been personally struck by lightning. He spun toward Felix, who was still lounging comfortably, sipping the last of his drink with a calm little smile playing on his lips.

"Wait, wait, wait..." Jeongin squawked, pointing an accusatory finger. "How are you so calm‽"

Felix looked up, blinking innocently. "Because I already knew."

"What do you mean you already knew‽" Jeongin nearly shrieked. "How‽ When‽"

Felix tilted his head. "He told me."

Jeongin turned slowly to Jisung, betrayal etched into every line of his stunned expression. "You told Felix? And not me‽"

Jisung burst into laughter, face still flushed from the revelation, but unable to help himself. "I'm sorry, Jeongin, it's not like I was trying to hide it from you, it just..." He trailed off, helpless, caught somewhere between embarrassment and amusement, unable to meet Jeongin's wounded glare.

"You betrayed me again," Jeongin declared, clutching his chest like an amateur dramatist mid-soliloquy.

Before Jisung could respond, Minho stood up from where he'd been lounging with dangerous, deliberate ease, brushing non-existent dust from his coat.

"Alright," he said flatly, loud enough to cut through the rising chorus of bickering. "I am officially done talking about our nocturnal activities."

The crew stilled.

Minho glanced around the circle, face unreadable, until the corners of his mouth ticked upward with the faintest smirk.
"I'd much rather be participating in them."

A wave of scandalized hollering and gleeful screaming tore through the crew like a windstorm.

Jisung's mouth dropped open in a stunned, breathless laugh, only to vanish into a gasp as Minho reached out, grabbed a fistful of his coat, and yanked him up and into him in one smooth, commanding motion.

Jisung stumbled but caught himself against Minho's chest, hands splayed on his coat, heart hammering against his ribs. His ears were burning. His grin, however, was immediate and unrepentant.

Minho wrapped an arm around his waist with easy confidence, dipping his head just close enough to murmur, "You coming, or do I have to carry you?"

Jisung, caught between flustered and thrilled, just nodded, probably too fast.

The crew whooped and whistled and hollered like they were being paid to.
Felix clapped his hands together in unashamed glee as Hongjoong levelled a jaunty salute at them.

As Minho turned them both toward the cabin, he paused, gaze sweeping over the gathered chaos with all the serenity of someone very used to being obeyed.

"And unless the ship is on fire," he said coolly, "no one knocks. Or opens that door. Or breathes near it. On pain of death."

"Yes, Captain!" the crew chorused in unison, still laughing.

"Literal death," Minho added as an afterthought.

Jisung shot one last glance over his shoulder at the rest of the crew, eyes sparkling with disbelief and joy.

And then Minho pulled the door open, guided him inside, and shut it firmly behind them.

Chapter 24: Safe Harbour

The door clicked shut behind them, muting the crew's laughter to a muffled roar of joy and chaos on the other side of the wood.

Inside, it was blissfully quiet by comparison, and Jisung leaned back against the closed door for a moment, breath catching up with him, the heat of the room gentler than the wild breeze outside, but no less intoxicating.

His heart was still pounding, not from nerves, not anymore, but from adrenaline and disbelief. From the rush of Minho's hand around his waist, and the sheer chaos they'd just walked away from.

He looked up.

Minho stood across the room, already shrugging off his coat, movements unhurried, composed, typical Minho. The low lamplight played across the angles of his face, catching the faintest curl of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were on Jisung.

Jisung huffed a soft laugh, pushing off the door and stepping further into the room.

"Well," he said, tone light but warm, "that could've gone worse."

Minho raised an eyebrow. "They could've fainted."

"I think San nearly did."

"They'll survive."

Minho's voice was casual, but there was something in the way he watched Jisung, as if he were already stripping away more than just layers of clothing. As if he could still hardly believe this was real, and didn't intend to waste a second of it.

Jisung's face was still flushed, but it wasn't just the rum now. There was a buzz in his chest, something giddy and bright. He felt merry, yes, his head pleasantly foggy around the edges, but alert, too. Present.

He stepped closer, slow and unhurried, until he was standing right in front of Minho.

"So..." Jisung murmured, reaching up to toy with the edge of Minho's collar, "... Participating, huh?"

Minho's hands found his waist again, easily, naturally, like they'd never belonged anywhere else.

Minho pulled back just enough to look at him fully, eyes dark and fond. "Only if you want it. You're not drunk, right?"

"Just... Warm," Jisung said truthfully, his hand resting over Minho's chest where the steady beat of his heart thudded beneath his palm. "I want this. You."

Minho didn't say anything. He just kissed him. Jisung melted into it, his body already responding, a sigh slipping from his lips as Minho's arms wrapped more firmly around him.

They moved as one, a slow walk backward until the backs of Jisung's knees hit the edge of the captain's bed, and he let himself be guided down, soft sheets beneath him, Minho's weight a comfort above.

Jisung looked up, heart racing, his eyes tracing every detail, Minho's kiss-swollen lips, the flushed line of his cheekbone, the calm intensity in his gaze. He felt utterly exposed in the best possible way.

Minho leaned in again, capturing his mouth with more certainty this time, slower, deeper. His hand slid up beneath the hem of Jisung's shirt, palm splayed against his skin, the point of contact sending heat burning through Jisung's veins.

Jisung gasped softly into the kiss, hips arching just enough to press up against Minho's. The contact sent a jolt through him, pleasure curling low in his stomach. He clutched at Minho's shirt, pulling him closer, fingers tangling in the fabric like he couldn't bear a single inch of space between them.

Minho's kisses trailed from his mouth to the corner of his jaw, then lower, down the slope of his neck, where he paused, mouthing at the skin until Jisung let out a soft, broken sound.

"You're sure?" Minho murmured, breath warm against his throat.

"Yes," Jisung said, almost too fast. Then, quieter, with conviction: "I'm sure."

That was all Minho needed.

He sat back just long enough to strip off his shirt, tossing it aside in one fluid motion. Jisung's breath caught. The golden lamplight flickered over the lean lines of Minho's body, his collarbones, the faint scars at his ribs, the subtle strength in the way he moved.

Jisung reached up, fingers splayed across Minho's bare chest, once again tracing the points of the tattooed compass overlaying his heart. Minho leaned into it, and then dipped down again, hands working with practiced ease to unfasten the buttons of Jisung's shirt, one by one.

With each button undone, Jisung felt more exposed, but not vulnerable. There was no judgment in Minho's gaze, only want, and something deeper.

When the last layer slipped away, Minho bent to press a kiss to his chest, just over his heart, lingering there as though listening to the way it raced.

Jisung closed his eyes, fingers threading through Minho's hair, a soft sigh escaping him as Minho's lips travelled lower, slow and soft, shivers passing through his body with each inch he descended.

They moved together in sync, shedding the clothes left between them, until Minho finally settled over him again, bare skin against bare skin, the contact heady between them.

Jisung's breath hitched as Minho kissed him again, deep and consuming, their mouths moving with more urgency now, their hands growing bolder. Jisung's fingers traced the length of Minho's spine, relishing the way his muscles shifted beneath his touch. He could feel the way Minho's breath caught slightly, the way his body reacted to even the smallest brush of his hands.

Minho's palm skimmed down Jisung's side, curving around his hip, then lower, the skimming of his fingertips electrifying. Jisung arched into it, a low sound escaping him, half need, half anticipation.

"Still good?" Minho murmured against his neck, his voice low and a little rough, like he was holding back.

Jisung nodded, breathless, his hand sliding up to cup Minho's jaw. "Yeah... Please, don't stop."

Minho met his gaze for a beat, something intense and steady passing between them, and then he kissed him again, deeper this time, with no hesitation left between them.

The world outside could have crumbled, the sea could have swallowed the ship whole, and Jisung wouldn't have noticed. All that mattered was this, the weight of Minho above him, the heat curling low in his belly, the press of their bodies fitting together like something long overdue.

Minho's hand finally found its target, and Jisung huffed a breath as Minho's fingers wrapped around him, pulling gentle strokes up and down his shaft.

Jisung huffed a shaky breath, his head tipping back into the pillows as Minho's hand wrapped around him, firm but gentle, every movement purposeful. The first stroke pulled a quiet gasp from his lips, hips lifting instinctively into the touch. It was maddeningly slow, controlled in that way only Minho could manage, like he knew exactly how to pull Jisung apart piece by piece and was in no hurry to finish the job.

Minho's lips found his throat again, brushing soft kisses between breaths. One hand braced beside Jisung's head while the other moved with careful rhythm, slow pulls that had Jisung arching, his fingers clutching at Minho's shoulders, his breath coming faster now.

"You're beautiful like this," Minho murmured, voice low and warm against his skin. "Every sound you make, every time you move for me, gods, Jisung."

Jisung let out a soft, choked laugh, barely holding on to coherent thought. "You're not supposed to say stuff like that while doing this. I'll fall apart."

Minho smiled against his jaw. "That's the idea."

The rhythm quickened, still tender, but more intense now. Minho shifted to press their foreheads together, his own breath beginning to hitch as he watched Jisung unravel beneath him, all flushed skin and bitten-back moans.

"Let go," he whispered. "I've got you."

And Jisung did. With a quiet cry and a shudder, he came undone in Minho's hand, his body tensing then melting into the sheets, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

Minho slowed his movements, drawing him through it gently, his touch never wavering. He didn't let go until Jisung's body softened beneath him, until the only thing left was the faint tremble in his limbs and the afterglow curling around them like warmth from the inside out.

Minho's hand lingered, gentle and steady as Jisung's breathing began to even out again. The rush of release had left him flushed and glowing, his body loose beneath Minho's, a haze of warmth still buzzing under his skin.

He opened his eyes slowly, just in time to see Minho watching him with hunger.

There was movement between them, subtle and unhurried as Minho shifted slightly, letting his hand glide lower along his own body, hand still slick with Jisung's release.
Jisung watched with wide eyes as Minho's coated his cock, before his eyes flicked back to meet his.

"Do you want..." Minho began, voice low, barely more than a breath against Jisung's skin.

"Yes."
The answer came without hesitation, quiet but certain, full of want, of trust, of readiness.

Minho exhaled slowly, deeply, his forehead resting against Jisung's for a moment as if steadying himself. His hand slid down, slow and deliberate, guiding them closer as he positioned himself at Jisung's entrance.

As Minho shifted, positioning them with practiced care, Jisung felt his breath catch, just slightly, but enough to notice. A rush of warmth bloomed in his chest, spiralling low through his stomach in fluttering waves, like butterflies set loose in a storm. It wasn't fear. It was anticipation, sharp and bright and utterly consuming.

His fingers curled instinctively in the sheets beneath him, muscles tightening with the intensity of sensation building beneath his skin. The heat that had barely begun to settle after his last release was already coiling back up again, stronger now somehow.

Jisung exhaled shakily, hips tilting up in welcome, need surging to the surface in a heady wave.

And through it all, his eyes never left Minho's, even as his pulse thundered in his ears.

Then, slowly, carefully, Minho began to push into him.

Not like the first time, when everything had burned too hot, too fast. This time, he let it unfold with intention. He took his time. Savoured it. Each movement was measured, drawn out in slow, deliberate strokes that had Jisung trembling beneath him, gasping softly with every shift of his hips.

Minho felt each reaction in real time, the way Jisung's fingers gripped at the sheets, the way his thighs quivered, the way his body responded instinctively, rolling up to meet him. He chased the contact with such raw, unguarded need that it nearly undid Minho instantly.

But still, he kept the pace steady.

His hands held firm at Jisung's hips, even as every inch sank deeper, slow and unrelenting. The heat between them built with each movement, curling through Minho's core like a fire stoked by breath and tension and trust.

He rolled his hips again, slow but deep, watching as Jisung's body arched and opened for him, every line of him so willing, so devastatingly his.

Minho's breath caught.

Gods he was beautiful.

Minho exhaled slowly, trying to hold himself together even as his own body ached with the strain of going slow. Every muscle in him wanted to give in to the heat building between them, to match the rhythm Jisung's body was urging him toward.

But not yet.

He pressed in deeper with a slow, languid stroke, watching Jisung's face for every flicker of sensation, the parting of his lips, the flutter of his lashes, the breath that stuttered in his chest.

Minho drank it in, all of it. The way Jisung's eyes fluttered closed, the way his fingers gripped the sheets like they were the only thing tethering him to the world. The way his breath caught on every push, every retreat, like Minho was pulling the sound right out of him.

It was intoxicating.

He shifted his weight, one hand leaving Jisung's hip to brush through the sweat-damp hair at his temple, a gentle stroke meant to soothe but also to steady himself. Because there was something about seeing Jisung like this, open and vulnerable, that rattled every quiet place inside him.

"Jisung," he breathed, barely more than a whisper.

Jisung's eyes cracked open, glazed and shining. He looked up at Minho like he felt every inch of him, not just in body, but in heart.

Minho kissed him then. Deep, lingering. Not hurried. Just there. Just them.

And still, he moved, slow, careful, drawing out every second, every sigh. He was learning Jisung by feel now, the way his body responded to pressure, to angle, to care. Every roll of his hips a question, every soft gasp from Jisung an answer.

The tension between them wound tighter with each stroke, but Minho didn't rush it. He didn't want to end it. He wanted to exist in it, as long as Jisung would let him.

He shifted his weight just enough to lean in, their foreheads brushing, their breath mixing. Jisung's eyes were half-lidded but focused entirely on him, pupils wide and unguarded. He looked wrecked. He looked radiant.

Minho rolled his hips again, deeper now, more sure, and was rewarded with a sharp inhale, Jisung's mouth falling open in a soundless moan. His hands gripped Minho's back, not pulling, just holding. Like if he let go, the world might tilt too far and never right itself again.

"You're doing so well," Minho murmured, the words slipping out low and raw before he could filter them. "You feel... Gods, Jisung..."

Jisung's answering smile was soft, almost shy, but it wavered as another wave of sensation hit him. His hips lifted instinctively, chasing friction, and Minho met him there, his rhythm picking up slightly, still slow, but deeper, more intentional.

The air between them thickened, heat curling tighter and tighter, every movement fanning the fire already smouldering between their bodies.

Jisung buried his face against Minho's neck, breath hot and uneven against his skin. "Don't stop," he whimpered, barely audible. "Please, don't stop."

Minho's chest tightened at the sound. He wouldn't. Couldn't. Not when Jisung asked like that, so open, so honest, so beautiful.

So Minho gave in, a little.

He adjusted his grip, one hand sliding beneath Jisung's thigh, lifting it slightly, angling him just right. And then he moved, deeper, more purposeful. The strokes came quicker now, but still controlled, still his. He didn't lose himself. He anchored himself, in the way Jisung gasped his name, in the tremor of his legs, in the heat pressed between them like a heartbeat.

Jisung arched, a sharp cry slipping free before he could muffle it, his fingers tightening on Minho's shoulders. The sound went straight through him, both damnation and salvation at once.

Minho pressed his forehead to Jisung's, panting softly, breath catching as the pace quickened. He couldn't hold back anymore, not fully. Not when Jisung was moving beneath him like that, meeting him with every thrust, his face flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure.

"Look at me," Minho breathed.

Jisung did. And in that look, dilated eyes, shining skin, complete trust, Minho felt something snap inside him. Not like a break. More like a release. A letting go of everything except this.

He moved faster now, chasing the end he knew was near, but never leaving Jisung behind. Every stroke still anchored in connection. Every sound between them feeding the fire already burning bright.

Jisung whimpered, head falling back, his body trembling as he clung to Minho like he was the only thing keeping him together.

Minho kissed him again, deep, hungry, whole.

Minho was close, he could feel it, the tension coiling tight in his core, every muscle straining as the rhythm between them grew more frantic, more desperate. His breathing turned rough, laboured, as he thrust into Jisung with increasing intensity, each motion driven by instinct and need, yes, but also by something deeper. Devotion.

Jisung writhed beneath him, overwhelmed, breath hitching on every exhale, and Minho could tell he was close too, so close, right there on the edge.

But Minho reached it first.

With a sharp gasp, he buried himself one final time, the wave crashing over him so fast and fierce it nearly stole his breath. His body shuddered against Jisung's, every nerve alight, his fingers digging into Jisung's skin as pleasure tore through him like lightning. He groaned low in his throat, head bowed, chest pressed tight to Jisung's as he rode it out, the feeling almost too much... Almost.

Even through the haze, he didn't stop moving. He kept his hips rolling, gentler now but still steady, chasing Jisung's release like it was his own.

"Come on," he murmured, voice rough, breathless. "I've got you."

Jisung clung to him, his hands fisting in Minho's hair, eyes glassy and wide. His body arched, hips stuttering, and with a broken sound, part gasp, part sob, he finally let go. Minho felt the exact moment it happened. The sharp tension in his limbs, the clenching of his body around Minho's cock, the way his breath caught and then spilled out in a shudder as his release painted the space between them. The pure, unguarded sound of it.

Minho held him through it, kissed him through it, tender and caring. He didn't move away, not yet. He stayed close, their bodies still locked together, sweat-slicked and spent, their hearts pounding in the same rhythm.

When Jisung finally exhaled, a long, trembling breath, Minho touched their foreheads together and closed his eyes.

Jisung lay there, chest heaving, still tangled in Minho's arms, the sheets twisted beneath them like the remnants of a storm. Every part of him felt raw, in the best possible way. His limbs were heavy, his skin still buzzing from the aftershocks of what had just passed between them.

Minho hadn't pulled away. He remained pressed close, their bodies flush, his breath warming the curve of Jisung's neck in steady waves. One of his hands rested over Jisung's heart, as if to feel the rapid flutter of it for himself.

Jisung closed his eyes.

His body was still trembling faintly. Not from exertion, not entirely, but from the overwhelming rush of it all. The closeness. The care. The quiet devotion in every touch. The way Minho had held him close through it, never letting go.

His throat tightened.

It was too much. It wasn't enough. It was everything.

Jisung turned his head just enough to look at him. Minho's eyes were already on him, tired, soft, unreadable.

He was so beautiful like this. Unshielded.

And Jisung couldn't keep it in anymore.

"I love you."

The words escaped before he could second-guess them. Quiet, but sure. Solid as the beat of his heart beneath Minho's hand.

Minho blinked.

It was the first time Jisung had seen him look truly stunned. For a moment, Minho didn't moved, didn't even breathe.

Then, slowly, as if the weight of the words was still settling in his chest, he swallowed and whispered, "You... You mean it?"

Jisung nodded, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. I do. I have for a while. I just wasn't ready to actually say it"

Minho's gaze searched his face like he was trying to commit every detail to memory.

And then, Minho laughed. Just once, breathless and bright. Not mocking. Joyful.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to Jisung's, his fingers sliding gently through Jisung's hair.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that."

Jisung's breath caught again, but this time for a different reason.

"You didn't think I would?"

Minho shook his head with a quiet smile. "I hoped. Every day. But hearing it... It's different."

He kissed him, slow and sweet, like a seal pressed to the moment, before finally settling on the bed next to him.

Minho didn't move.

Even with Jisung curled against him, even with the warmth of his body still radiating through every inch of Minho's skin, he couldn't shake the trembling in his chest. It wasn't fear. It wasn't even exhaustion.

It was the weight of finally hearing the words he'd dreamed about for so long.

I love you.

And Jisung had meant it. There'd been no hesitation in his voice, just honesty, pure and open, like it had been waiting to come out for days. Maybe longer.

Minho held him tighter, hands brushing gently up and down the bare line of his spine, trying to anchor himself in the sensation of him. Of this moment. Of the fact that it was real.

But something stirred beneath the joy, an ache, a fear he hadn't put into words yet. Not even to himself.

"Jisung," he said quietly, not pulling away. "I need you to hear something too."

Jisung blinked up at him, wide-eyed and soft, still breathless from all of it. "Okay."

Minho swallowed. His throat felt tight.

"I would do anything for you," he said. The words came slow at first, heavy. "There is nothing I wouldn't do to protect you. If it came to it, I'd give everything. My ship, my name, my life. No hesitation."

Jisung's expression shifted, surprised, moved, but Minho wasn't finished.

"I've lived most of my life not needing anyone. Not letting anyone close enough to matter. But you..." he broke off for a moment, exhaling hard, eyes dropping to Jisung's collarbone, his own voice low and unsteady. "You're not just part of my crew. You're not some passing chance. You're it. You're the person I'd burn kingdoms for. The one I'd rebuild everything for from ash."

He looked back up, and the emotions he saw flicker through Jisung's face nearly undid him. Gratitude. Love. Wonder. All of it.

But still, Jisung whispered, "I don't deserve you."

And something tightened in Minho's chest.

"Don't," he said, firm but gentle. "Don't say that. You don't have to deserve anything. Not my protection. Not my love. You already have it. Whether you think you've earned it or not."

He cupped Jisung's cheek, brushing a thumb under his eye where tears had started to gather again. "You are not alone anymore. Not ever."

And when Jisung leaned into his touch, when his eyes fluttered shut and a broken little smile cracked across his lips, Minho finally let himself breathe again.

Because the truth was out now. The vow had been made, not with a blade or a flag, but with his whole heart.

He would fight for Jisung.

He would die for Jisung.

But more than that, he would live for him too.

And for the first time in years, Minho wasn't afraid of what that meant.

Chapter 25: Interlude

Notes:

Wow. Let’s not talk about how the Hollow EP dropped today, and the lyrics translation for Never Alone fits this fic disturbingly well 🙃

Minho woke slowly.

Not with a start, not from some nightmare, but with a quiet, steady awareness. The soft rhythm of waves lapping the hull beneath them. The subtle sway of the ship as it floated at anchor. The filtered morning light brushing through the panes of the windows.

And warmth.

Real, solid warmth curled against his side.

Jisung.

He was still there.

Minho blinked his eyes open fully, turning his head just enough to see him. Jisung was pressed into his chest, arm draped across Minho's ribs, one leg tangled with his own. His face was relaxed in sleep, lips parted slightly, hair a sleep-mussed halo against the pillow.

He looked young like this. At peace. Like the weight he always carried in his shoulders, too heavy for someone so vibrant, had lifted for just a little while.

Minho didn't move. He didn't want to move. He simply stared, letting himself take in the miracle of it. The rise and fall of Jisung's chest, the warmth of his skin against Minho's, the way his fingers twitched faintly now and then, like his dreams were gentle.

He breathed in slow, steady. Let it fill him.

This wasn't something he'd ever thought he'd have. Not really. Not after everything, his years at sea, the blood on his hands, the cold, hard choices he'd made just to survive. Love had always felt like a distant thing. Dangerous, even.

But here it was. Curled against him, peaceful and real.

Minho let one hand drift to Jisung's back, fingers moving in small, lazy circles between his shoulder blades, not to wake him, just to feel him. To remind himself that this wasn't some dream. That Jisung was here, with him.

He'd finally said it.

He exhaled slowly, head tilting back against the pillow, eyes drifting to the wooden ceiling of his quarters. They'd be moving again today, toward the Vault, toward danger. The plan would unfold soon. Timing, coordination, risk. There was a lot that could go wrong.

But here and now, in this small stretch of quiet before it all began again, Minho allowed himself to simply feel.

The calm. The warmth.

The rightness of it.

He looked back down, brushing a bit of hair from Jisung's face, careful not to disturb him.

Minho couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his mouth as Jisung shifted closer in his sleep, fitting perfectly against him like a long-lost puzzle piece. He let his hand drift lazily along Jisung's back, fingers tracing idle, winding shapes across his warm skin, spirals and waves, the outline of a star, the path of a map only he could see.

There was no need to rush. No knock at the door. No call from the deck. The crew most likely all still passed out in varying degrees of destruction.
There was just this, the slow creak of wood around them, the hush of the sea, the weight of Jisung's body pressed so trustingly against his own.

He followed the curve of Jisung's spine, the dip just above his waist, the slope of his shoulder. His skin was soft here, unmarred in places Minho hadn't yet memorised, and he took his time doing so now.

It filled his chest with something unbearable and quiet, that someone like him could have this. Could wake to the feel of Jisung breathing gently against him. Could lie here and touch, not in hunger or desperation, but in peace.

"That tickles."

The voice was sleepy, slurred with the edge of a yawn, but it startled Minho all the same.

He looked down to find Jisung squinting up at him, one eye barely open, his lips curling into something too close to a smirk for someone just waking up.

Minho chuckled under his breath, not stopping the slow trail of his fingers as they lazily swept across Jisung's shoulder blade.

"That's because you're too sensitive," he murmured, voice still husky from sleep.

Jisung made a low sound, somewhere between a protest and a sigh, and buried his face in Minho's neck. "You literally just said last night that I was perfect."

"You are," Minho agreed, eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his chin slightly to rest against Jisung's hair. "Especially when you're ticklish."

A half-hearted groan. "I take it back. You're the worst."

But Jisung didn't pull away.

If anything, he held tighter.

And Minho? He just smiled into the top of his head, perfectly content to lie there a little longer, tracing constellations no one else would ever see, across skin that had finally found its way home next to him.

Time passed as the ship rocked gently beneath them, steady and soothing, the kind of motion that made it far too tempting to stay in bed all day. Sunlight had begun to filter through the high window above the captain's desk, the beams stretching long and golden across the wooden floor.

Minho lay still, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other draped across Jisung's back. His fingers had settled at the curve of Jisung's waist, idle and warm, stroking warm caresses. Jisung was nestled into his side, cheek resting over Minho's heartbeat, legs tangled, the blankets a haphazard mess around them.

Neither of them had spoken in a while. They hadn't needed to. The quiet was easy.

Outside, the ship was slowly waking.

Footsteps padded across the upper deck. Someone laughed, probably Changbin, loud even at this hour. A gull shrieked overhead, and ropes creaked as sails were adjusted. The day was starting.

But inside the captain's quarters, time felt slower.

Minho turned his head and found Jisung already watching him, his gaze soft, a little sleepy, a little fond. Their mouths met in a kiss that started gentle, just lips brushing, tentative and sweet, but deepened almost immediately, all warmth and want and memory of what they did the night before.

Minho's tongue searched into Jisung's mouth as his hand slid lower, tracing over Jisung's hip, his thigh, then higher again, fingertips skimming toward the apex between his legs. Jisung let out a quiet, hitching breath, arching into the touch, their legs tangling more firmly beneath the sheets, his fingers carding into Minho's hair.

Minho shifted his mouth to Jisung's neck, dragging open-mouthed kisses along the column of his throat, pausing to suck gently just below his jaw, nothing too rough, but enough to leave a mark.

Jisung gasped, nails digging lightly into Minho's shoulder as he tilted his head, giving Minho more space, more access. "Minho," he whispered, voice low and already frayed at the edges.

Minho traced his fingers up between Jisung's thighs, just barely skimming the underside of his cock, drawing a breathy whine from his mouth. He finally wrapped his fingers around Jisung's shaft, slowly pulling strokes against him.

And then...

Knock knock.

Both of them froze.

Then the door opened without waiting for an answer.

"Rise and shine, lovebirds... Oh." Wooyoung stopped short in the doorway, a large jug in hand, grin spreading like wildfire. "Well. I see someone had a productive night."

Minho groaned.

Jisung made a strangled noise, buried his face against Minho's chest, and then promptly dove beneath the blanket in pure, instinctive shame, curling into Minho's side like he could disappear entirely.

Minho gave Wooyoung a look so flat it might as well have been carved into stone.

"Get. OUT."

Wooyoung didn't move. "I brought fresh water. And I'm emotionally invested in the aftermath of last night's confession slash scandal. This feels important."

Jisung's muffled voice came from under the covers: "Why are you like this?"

Minho sat up slightly, the sheet sliding down to his waist as he raked a hand through his hair, clearly done with everything. "You're lucky I don't keep a pistol under the pillow."

Wooyoung clutched the water jug dramatically to his chest, eyes wide with faux outrage. "Minho! You'd shoot me? After everything we've been through?"

"Yes," Minho said flatly. "If you ever interrupt me again while I'm in bed with Jisung, I absolutely will."

Under the covers, Jisung let out another mortified groan, burrowing deeper like he could dissolve into the mattress.

Wooyoung put a hand to his heart. "Wait, you, me Jisung and a bed? Ooh, that might actually be worth getting shot over."

Minho didn't dignify it with a reply. Instead, he reached over to the small cabinet next to his bed, grabbed the first object his hand landed on, a heavy pewter mug, and launched it.

Wooyoung yelped and ducked just in time, the mug clattering off the doorframe and rolling harmlessly across the floor.

He peeked back up, grinning ear to ear. "Okay, okay, I can take a hint. Lovers' privacy. Sacred, I get it."

Minho glared.

Wooyoung started backing out the door, hands raised in mock surrender. "Just... Come topside when you're done." He waggled his eyebrows. "And don't blame me if all the cooked food's gone by then and you're left with hardtack."

Then he winked at Jisung, who immediately rolled farther under the blanket with a muffled, "I am never showing my face again" and vanished, pulling the door shut behind him.

The room fell quiet once more.

Minho let out a long, suffering exhale and slumped back onto the bed, one hand running down his face. "I am going to shoot him one day."

From beneath the blanket, Jisung muttered, "I'll help you throw the body overboard."

Jisung stayed buried in the sheets, face flaming, heart still thundering from the whiplash of it all. One moment, Minho's hands had been skating over his skin, mouth coaxing him into something soft and slow and utterly consuming, and the next, Wooyoung was standing in the doorway like some unholy spectre of chaos and poor timing.

He could still feel the warmth in his body, not just from embarrassment, but from desire. It hadn't gone away, not really. His skin still tingled where Minho had touched him, where his mouth had pressed. There was a pull inside him, low and lingering, still aching for more. But on top of that, mortification.

So, no, he was not coming out from under the blanket. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He felt the bed shift. Then fingers nudged at the edge of the covers.

"Come on," Minho coaxed, voice low and amused. "You can't hide from me."

"Watch me."

Minho huffed a laugh, and the next thing Jisung knew, the blanket lifted, and Minho ducked beneath it, dragging the sheet up and over both of them.

"Seriously?" Jisung blinked at him through the dim space, still flushed. "You're joining me under here?"

Minho shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. "Figured if you won't come out, I'll just come to you."

Then, without giving him a moment to recover, Minho leaned in and started kissing him.

Not on the mouth, but everywhere else.

His lips pressed along Jisung's jaw, his throat, the dip between his collarbones. Warm, open-mouthed kisses, slow and deliberate. His hands slid across him too, roaming in tandem with his mouth, mapping the shape of him like he was something to be claimed.

Jisung let out a shivery breath, the embarrassment starting to burn away beneath something hotter, deeper, stronger. His hands reached up instinctively, fingers tangling in Minho's hair again as the kisses kept coming, shoulders, chest, stomach. Every inch of skin that Minho could reach, he covered with his lips.

"You're ridiculous," Jisung whispered, voice catching.

"Mm," Minho hummed against his skin. "And yet here you are, trembling for me again."

And Jisung was. He could feel it, the tension winding back up in his body, the heat blooming from his core outward as Minho continued his slow, purposeful onslaught of affection.

The teasing, the fluster, the heat, it was all too much.

When Minho brought his hand to him again, Jisung canted his hips wildly, feeling almost over-sensitive after the interruption.

Minho wasted no time picking up speed, a clear urgency in his movements, as if determined not to give the world another chance to interrupt them.

Jisung already knew Minho was going to drive him over the edge far too quickly. Desperate to hold on, he slipped a hand between them, pressing gently to slow him.
"Wait," he gasped, breathless. "What about you? Can I... touch you too?

Minho met his gaze with a faint, knowing smile, something amused, but undeniably sincere. "Jisung... You can do whatever you want to me."
Jisung drew in a sharp breath, heat rushing through him at the implication of those words.
He withdrew his hand from Minho's, swallowing hard, only to gasp as Minho immediately resumed the same unrelenting pace as before.

With fingers that trembled just slightly, Jisung reached down, seeking Minho's length. He'd never touched someone like this before, but he knew what pleasure felt like in his own skin, knew the rhythm of want. He could start there.

Minho exhaled sharply at the first touch, hips stuttering just enough for Jisung to feel the tension coiled beneath his skin. That tiny reaction sent a thrill down Jisung's spine, proof that he wasn't fumbling blindly in the dark. That he could make Minho feel like this.

He curled his fingers, adjusting his grip, and began to move, slow, careful strokes at first, learning Minho's shape, his weight, the way his breath caught and teeth grazed his bottom lip. Jisung watched him, captivated by every flicker of sensation that crossed his face.

Minho's rhythm faltered briefly, a groan low in his throat. "Gods, Jisung..."

The sound of his name, wrecked and awe-filled, only spurred him on.

Jisung leaned up, brushing their lips together again, mouths open and wanting, while his hand continued its slow, leisurely work. Their bodies moved in sync, press and slide, touch and grind, each of them giving and taking in equal measure.

There was heat everywhere now, on his skin, under his fingertips, curling low in his belly. Every stroke built it higher. Every breath pulled them closer.

Minho's head tipped forward, a quiet, ragged breath escaping his lips as Jisung continued to touch him, finding a rhythm that made Minho's body arch and shiver. The way he responded, so open, so utterly his, filled Jisung with a kind of boldness he hadn't known he possessed.

He pressed closer, their chests brushing with every breath, mouths meeting again in a kiss that was less precise now, more desperate.

Jisung could feel it, both of them hovering close to the edge. The rising urgency in every movement, the way Minho's breath grew rougher against his cheek, the way their hips moved together with increasing need.

It was overwhelming and beautiful, a slow, burning wave that built and built until Jisung was shaking with it, chasing something inevitable, with Minho right there with him, mirroring every sound, every gasp, every frantic touch.

Then suddenly, Minho shifted, drawing them even closer, their bodies flush as his hand wrapped around them both.
Jisung followed instinctively, his own hand moving to match, and the sensation was electric, overwhelming, unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

The contrast between them was striking, softer, sensitive skin pressed between the slightly rough edges of calloused fingers, their hands moving in sync. It was a study in opposites, in perfect tension, tender and raw, gentle and overwhelming.

And then it hit, fast and full, crashing over them like a wave breaking on the shore.

Minho was first, a choked groan against Jisung's skin as his body tensed and shuddered, pulling Jisung tightly against him. The feeling, the sound, the intimacy of it was too much, and Jisung followed seconds later, breath caught in his throat, clinging to him as the world tilted out of focus.

They stayed like that, entwined, breathless, shaking slightly in the aftermath.

Minho's hand found the back of Jisung's head, cradling him close as their bodies slowly began to settle, the heat between them fading into a softer warmth.

Jisung lay there, heart still pounding softly beneath his ribs, cheek pressed to Minho's shoulder, limbs heavy and content. The warmth between them was quieter now, something softer and more settled, but no less powerful. He felt wrapped in it. Consumed by it.

And as the minutes stretched in quiet, steady breaths, he found himself wondering.

Will I ever get used to this?

The safety. The closeness. The way Minho touched him like he was something precious, not breakable, but worth keeping.

He didn't think he would. Not entirely. And maybe that was okay.

Then Minho shifted slightly beneath him and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. "I love you," he murmured, voice low, almost shy in contrast to everything they'd just shared.

Jisung's breath caught again, though this time, it wasn't from the heat still lingering under his skin. He looked up, eyes meeting Minho's, and felt something in his chest pull tight.

"I love you too," he whispered, his voice soft but steady.

Minho smiled, really smiled, and for a long moment, it was just the two of them again, suspended in that private warmth, that impossible certainty.

Then, with a reluctant groan, Minho let his head fall back against the pillow. "As much as I'd love to keep you here," he said, tone fond but slightly exaggerated, "in this bed, all day... Hell, all week, maybe even the rest of our lives..."

Jisung raised an eyebrow, amused.

"... We should probably go get food," Minho finished with a sigh. "Before those rabid animals up there eat everything that isn't nailed down."

 

By the time they finally emerged from the captain's quarters, the sun was well up, the sky clear and sharp with sea salt and late morning heat. Minho's hair was damp from a quick rinse, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, and despite his best efforts to play it cool, there was no hiding the looseness in his step, the kind that came from too little sleep and too much satisfaction.

Jisung walked ahead of him down the short steps to the main deck, pausing briefly to squint into the light. And Minho... Well.

He tried not to stare. He did.

But he was useless at it.

His gaze kept catching on the curve of Jisung's smile as he greeted Mingi, the way his fingers tapped absently on the rail while he listened to San and Hyunjin argue over rope tension, the way the breeze caught at his shirt, pulling it just slightly tighter across his back.

There was a quiet ease to him this morning, something Minho hadn't seen so clearly before. He moved with more confidence. Laughed more freely.

Minho's chest pulled tight with something fond and utterly helpless.

You're really mine, he thought, almost in disbelief. And I'm yours.

He shook the thought off, moving toward the galley crate where breakfast was being doled out. Thankfully, Wooyoung's threat had only half come true, there was still food left, if not much. Minho managed to scrape together a decent tin plate of fried potatoes, dried sausage, and a hunk of bread, warm from sitting near the stove hatch.

He carried it across the deck and handed it to Jisung without a word.

Jisung looked up, blinking at him with sleepy, warm brown eyes, and smiled.

It was a smile that hit Minho like a fist to the ribs. Not because it hurt, but because it felt like too much.

"Thanks," Jisung said, soft and genuine.

Minho just nodded, turned quickly, and went back for his own portion before anyone could comment on the heat rising to his ears.

He ended up perched on a large barrel near the helm steps, his plate balanced on one knee, slightly apart from the main bustle of the crew. It gave him just enough distance to keep an eye on everything, the food line, the sails, the horizon.

And of course, Jisung.

Always Jisung.

He was halfway through his breakfast when footsteps approached and stopped beside him.

"I take it phase two is going well?" Chan's voice came from just over Minho's shoulder, light and maddeningly knowing.

Minho didn't even try to suppress the huff of laughter that escaped him. He kept his eyes on the horizon, chewing the last of a too-crisp sausage. "Is this your way of asking if I'm getting laid or if I've completely lost my mind?"

"Can't it be both?" Chan said cheerfully, stepping around to lean against the rail beside the barrel, arms folded. "Though from where I'm standing, it looks like the answer's yes."

Minho snorted but didn't disagree.

Chan glanced over his shoulder toward the bustle on deck. Jisung was crouched near one of the crates with Felix and Jongho, laughing as they passed something between them, looked like a repaired flint striker, likely part of the detonation prep.

Minho's gaze lingered on Jisung, a quiet fondness in his features that he didn't bother to hide.

"He finally said it," he murmured.

Chan didn't need to ask what it was. His brow rose just slightly, then his expression softened. "Yeah?"

Minho nodded, still watching him. "Last night."

He paused, then added, more quietly, "And again this morning."

Chan exhaled through his nose, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Well, damn. Look at you. Our captain, fully domesticated."

Minho rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. His silence said everything.

Chan bumped his arm lightly against Minho. "I'm happy for you, you know. Really."

Minho turned his face slightly, enough to meet Chan's eyes, and saw the sincerity behind the teasing.

"But," Chan added, tone sharpening just a touch, "don't let your head float off into the clouds just yet. We're only a few days out now. Vault's not going to crack itself, and the Company sure as hell won't roll out the welcome wagon."

Minho's smile faltered, just a fraction. The warmth in his chest cooled slightly under the weight of reality returning. The raid. The risk. The lives he was responsible for. Jisung.

"I know," he said quietly.

Chapter 26: Tide & Starlight

The morning light on deck was golden as it filtered through the rigging. Jisung had tucked away most of his embarrassment by now, mostly, but there was still a telltale pink to his cheeks as he made his way across the deck, exchanging lazy greetings with the crew.

Yeosang had offered him a cup of something vaguely tea-like, insisting it was for "clarity of spirit." Chan and Seongwha were arguing about the best way to coil spare rigging, so Jisung slipped past them quickly before they could rope him into a demonstration.

Changbin was elbow-deep in a crate of what looked like black powder canisters, calling over his shoulder for "more cloth wraps, the good ones, not the fraying crap," which prompted Seungmin to shove a roll into Jisung's hands with a deadpan, "You're his favourite. You deal with it."

It was when Jisung ducked below deck, arms full of wraps and a flask of antiseptic Seungmin had also foisted on him, that he was ambushed.

"Oi," came a whisper from behind a storage crate. "Barrel boy."

He turned, and immediately spotted them both.

Felix, crouched like a cat about to pounce, eyes practically glittering. Jeongin, arms folded, one brow arched high, like he already knew what he was about to hear.

"Don't even try to run," Felix warned, stepping out with the biggest grin Jisung had ever seen. "We waited until you had your breakfast. Now we want the goods."

Jisung blinked. "What?"

"You know what," Jeongin cut in. "You and the Captain. You snuck off, emerged looking like you'd had an entire religious experience, and we're supposed to just pretend that didn't happen?"

Jisung groaned, leaning back against a beam as if it might swallow him whole. "I swear to god, is everyone on this ship completely incapable of minding their own business?"

"Yep," they chorused.

He laughed despite himself. "You two are unbelievable."

"And you love us," Felix beamed, scooting closer.

Unfortunately, he did.

Jisung hesitated, but only for a moment. Because the truth was he wanted to talk about it. He wanted to spill everything, to someone, to anyone. His chest still felt too light and fluttery, like he might float straight off the deck if he didn't let a little of it out.

So he told them.

Not quite everything, not the everything everything, but enough. The kisses. The confessions. The morning warmth. The way Minho had looked at him when he told him that he loved him. All of it tumbling out in excited, slightly bashful sentences.

Felix was practically vibrating. Jeongin looked like he might combust.

"Han Jisung," Jeongin said, voice low and reverent, "you absolute menace. You're in love."

Jisung smiled, helplessly, hopelessly. "Yeah. I really am."

The next second, he was being crushed from both sides. Felix wrapped him up in a full-bodied hug, and Jeongin leaned in too, arms snug around his waist, all three of them laughing into the small, dim corridor.

"You deserve this," Felix murmured. "Both of you do."

In the warmth of their hug, in the hush of the lower deck, surrounded by friends who knew him and still stayed, he felt something almost like peace.

And it was beautiful.

The days blurred.

The sea stayed calm, but the energy aboard The Levanter grew more tightly coiled with every nautical mile they closed toward the island that housed the vault. Everyone was busy, scaling rope, checking powder stores, rechecking maps and blueprints that had already been read a hundred times. No task was too small, no risk left unconsidered.

Yunho had finally agreed, grudgingly, to return to the Crimson Siren, after far too long hovering protectively over Jeongin. The decision had been mutual, practical, and well overdue. The raid groups needed to spend more time divided by ship, tightening coordination, covering worst-case scenarios.

Jeongin, to his credit, did a good job of not letting it show. He threw himself into prep, focused, sharp-eyed, mouth often quirked in a little smirk whenever he got the upper hand in sparring practice or found a flaw in someone's proposed vault breach path. But even so, Jisung could see it, subtle moments where his gaze lingered just a moment too long on the other ship. Or when he got quiet at night, fingers fidgeting with the worn leather edge of Yunho's gloves that he hadn't stopped carrying.

Explosives were carefully packed, their timing mechanisms, volatile, triple-checked by Changbin and Seungmin. Felix coordinated signal flags. Chan and Minho sparred and barked orders at their respective teams with precision. Hyunjin, for some reason, took it upon himself to redecorate the med kits with colourful ribbons "for morale," and Seungmin didn't even argue. Much.

And through it all, every night, Minho found Jisung.

Sometimes it was late, after hours of raid prep. Sometimes it was just after sunset, as the sky dipped into gold and violet and the stars began to emerge. He'd find him on deck or already waiting in his quarters, and always, without fail, Minho would draw him close and kiss him like the world might end the next day.

They talked sometimes. Whispered things they hadn't had time for by daylight. But more often than not, they didn't speak much at all.

They'd lose themselves in each other for hours, until the sky began to pale and the first hint of dawn crept through the high window above Minho's desk.

And Jisung still felt like he could never get enough of it.

It was the night before landfall that Jeongin finally broke.

Jisung found him below deck, tucked into one of the crew alcoves that wasn't technically private, but which everyone knew better than to disturb when someone needed space. He was sitting on the floor, back to the wall, legs drawn up with his chin resting on his knees.

He didn't look up when Jisung sat beside him.

"You okay?" Jisung asked softly.

A pause. Then Jeongin shrugged. "Not really."

Silence settled between them again, quiet but not uncomfortable.

Eventually Jeongin spoke. "I just... Don't know what's going to happen. After this."

Jisung waited.

"I mean, the vault raid. Once it's done. The Crimson Siren doesn't usually stay with us this long. They'll leave. And I don't know if Yunho..." He stopped, voice cracking just slightly. "I don't know if he'll go with them. Or if he'll want to stay. Or he'll want... Me to go with them... Or anything"

Jisung's heart ached.

Jeongin went on, his voice hushed and raw. "I don't even know what we are, really. I don't know if this thing with us was just because we were in the same place long enough. I don't know what to ask of him. I don't want to make him choose between the Siren and... Me."

The tears came quietly. He didn't sob, didn't break. Just sat there, quietly crumbling, as though some intense pressure inside had finally worn him too thin.

Jisung didn't speak. Didn't offer hollow assurances. He didn't have any answers, how could he? So instead, he simply reached out, pulled Jeongin gently against his side, and let him cry.

They sat like that a long time.

Eventually, Jeongin's breathing steadied, and he whispered, "Thanks."

Jisung squeezed his shoulder. "You'll figure it out. I promise. It'll be worth it."

Jisung gave Jeongin a little nudge, guiding him gently up from the alcove floor. "Come on," he murmured. "Let's get you into your hammock."

Jeongin didn't argue. He moved slowly, like his limbs had turned to lead, eyes glassy from exhaustion more than tears now. Jisung walked beside him, steadying him with a hand at the small of his back until they reached the hammock slung low between the beams.

Jeongin climbed in with a soft sigh, the canvas swaying gently beneath his weight.

Without thinking, Jisung sat down beside him and reached up, fingers threading lightly through Jeongin's hair, smoothing it away from his damp cheeks, brushing along his temple in long, rhythmic strokes.

"You're not alone," he said again, more quietly this time. "Not ever."

It didn't take long. The gentle sway of the ship, the warmth of Jisung's hand in his hair, soon, Jeongin's breathing evened out, his features slackening into sleep.

Jisung stayed a moment longer, just watching.

He looked so young like this. It reminded Jisung all over again how fragile these moments were. How easily they could vanish.

With a soft exhale, Jisung stood and crossed quietly to the nearby supply crate where Seungmin kept the medical tools and charcoal for marking supplies. He plucked one of the sticks free, then sank into a quiet corner with his weather-worn journal in hand.

It had been weeks.

He hadn't written since before the night Minho kissed him for the first time.

But now, the words were there. He didn't need to think, didn't even hesitate. He let his hand move.

Pushing further, pulling closer,
A song by a conflicted composer,
Choices to be made, decisions loom,
A fragile flower, slow to bloom

A connection that defies definition,
The distance only sharpens the contrition,
Yet still they dance, both hope and fear,
Paranoia serving as mutineer

He sat there a moment longer, the last line marring the page like smoke. The charcoal smudged his fingertips, and the journal's worn spine creaked softly as he pressed it shut.

Jisung glanced over at Jeongin, still curled in his hammock, his breath even now, lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks. The flickering lantern nearby softened the boyish lines of his face, made him look even younger. Innocent, in a way none of them truly were anymore.

Jisung let out a quiet breath, heart tugging with something gentle, something tired.

He reached for the corner of the worn blanket and tucked it more firmly around Jeongin's shoulders. Then, careful not to make a sound, he stood, brushed the charcoal dust from his palms, and slid the journal back into his pocket.

The deck of The Levanter was quiet under the weight of night, the stars overhead sharp and brilliant against the inky sky. Just a few nautical miles separated them from the island. From the vault. From whatever was waiting.

Jisung moved quietly through the shadows, needing the walk, needing to breathe. He stopped when he spotted two familiar figures near the quarterdeck, Seungmin kneeling beside Changbin, who sat with his shirt half-open, his side exposed as Seungmin carefully peeled away the old dressing.

"Again?" Jisung said softly as he approached, voice carrying only a thread of amusement.

Changbin rolled his eyes but didn't argue. "Apparently I can't be trusted not to pop a stitch while lifting a barrel."

"You can't," Seungmin replied flatly, eyes fixed on the healing wound. "And you still have swelling."

"It's fine-"

"It's not fine," Seungmin cut in smoothly. "And I'd like you alive when we storm the vault. Preferably not bleeding out halfway through."

Jisung sat cross-legged beside them, the wooden deck cool beneath his palms as he leaned back on them. "He's been like this all day," he said with a small smile. "Hovering over the supply crates. Grumbling about explosive placement. I think you like the attention, Bin."

Changbin scoffed but his ears flushed slightly. "I like not getting blown up because some amateur put the powder too close to a load-bearing wall."

Seungmin's hands were practiced, methodical, but there was an undeniable gentleness to his touch, something that softened his usual sardonic edge. "I'm changing your dressing again tomorrow morning. Try not to re-injure yourself again before then."

"Can't make promises I might break."

Jisung shook his head, resting his arms on his knees. "We're close now. This time tomorrow..."

They all fell quiet for a beat. No one had to say what came next.

"We'll be in," Jisung finished, softer. "One way or another."

"I've gone over the blueprints so many times I think I'm dreaming in ink and paper," he added, running a hand through his hair. "I could redraw the entire vault from memory, blindfolded, and still get the damn ventilation shafts right."

"Obsession," Seungmin muttered. "Healthy."

"I'd call it preparation," Jisung shot back lightly. "Besides, someone has to be compulsively detailed to balance out the rest of you."

Changbin huffed a laugh, then winced slightly when Seungmin pressed around the edge of the wound. "Just don't let your head get too far up those diagrams. You'll need it tomorrow."

Jisung stood up and looked out over the dark water, where the distant silhouette of the island was just beginning to take shape in the moonlight. He nodded once. Firm.

"I know," he said. "And I'm ready."

Minho had been leaning against the mast, half in shadow, watching the quiet conversation unfold near the quarterdeck. He hadn't meant to linger, but then again, he often didn't mean to do a lot of things when it came to Jisung. His eyes always found him. Tonight, as the stars cast silver light across the deck and the sea whispered softly beyond, Jisung looked calm. Focused. Steady in a way Minho found impossible not to be drawn to.

So he moved.

His boots made no sound on the worn planks as he approached, slipping up behind Jisung without a word. Then, arms sliding low around his waist, Minho folded himself around him, fitting against his back like it had always been this way.

Jisung let out a soft breath and immediately melted into the embrace, his hands coming to rest over Minho's forearms. He leaned back without hesitation, the warmth of his body settling against Minho's chest like it belonged there.

"Evening, gentlemen," Minho said smoothly, eyes flicking toward Seungmin and Changbin. "How's our resident gunpowder addict?"

"Still alive," Seungmin muttered, not looking up as he began re-packing the medical kit beside him. "Despite his best efforts."

Changbin rolled his shoulders, testing the tension in his side. "He says that like I've been rolling around on the cannons for fun."

"Have you not?" Minho asked dryly.

"No I haven't," Changbin snapped, then added under his breath, "... Today."

Seungmin let out a sigh so deep it bordered on philosophical despair. "The wound's healing. Slowly. Because someone-" he cut a glance at Changbin, "-won't stop overexerting himself. But he'll be capable for tomorrow's purposes."

Changbin grumbled, sitting up straighter. "I'll show you capable, Kim Seungmin."

"You already did," Seungmin replied coolly. "And that's how you got stabbed."

Minho huffed a quiet laugh against Jisung's shoulder. He felt the gentle shake of silent laughter ripple through Jisung's body, and he squeezed his arms a little tighter around him.

"Well," Minho said, resting his chin lightly on Jisung's shoulder, "as long as he doesn't blow his stitches tomorrow before the vault explodes."

Changbin flexed his arm experimentally, rolling the shoulder again as Seungmin packed up the last of his supplies. "Feels better than it did yesterday," he announced. "I could probably haul a barrel one-handed if I had to."

"You won't have to," Seungmin replied without missing a beat. "Because if you so much as look at a barrel tonight, I'm sedating you."

Jisung chuckled. "Pretty sure we used the last of the sedatives on San after the rope-burn incident."

Seungmin raised an eyebrow. "San tried to climb the mizzenmast with a bottle of rum tucked into his waistband and three scarves tied around his eyes. I think the rope burns were the least of his concerns."

"I won that bet, though," Changbin added with pride.

"You lost the bet," Seungmin snapped, "because the wager was that he'd fall into the water, and he landed on Hyunjin."

Minho's laugh rumbled against Jisung's back. "I still can't believe he cushioned San's fall and didn't even wake up."

"Oh, he woke up," Jisung said with a grin. "He just played dead so he didn't have to be part of the fallout."

Seungmin shot all three of them a weary look, then pointed sternly at Changbin. "Enough. Bed. Now."

Changbin grinned, wide and wicked. "You gonna take me there yourself, Doc?"

That earned him a very distinct flush across Seungmin's cheeks, barely visible in the low lantern light, but visible enough.

"Don't tempt me," Seungmin muttered, gathering up his kit and standing stiffly.

"Oh, now I have to tempt you," Changbin called after him as Seungmin stalked off with impressive dignity.

Jisung dissolved into laughter, pressing a hand over his mouth.

Minho leaned in, murmuring against his ear, "Tomorrow we face Company guards, explosives, and a fortified vault... But I think Seungmin might actually be the most dangerous man aboard."

Jisung smirked, tilting his head to kiss Minho's cheek. "And the most flustered."

They watched Changbin disappear below deck a moment later, still grinning to himself, clearly far too pleased. Around them, the crew moved through final checks and quiet goodnights. Tension hummed beneath the surface, but for now, at least, the laughter lingered.

The sea stretched before them like liquid glass, the moon casting a long silver path across the waves toward the dark smudge of land barely visible on the horizon. The night was quiet, eerily so, for a ship full of people preparing to risk everything come morning, but Minho welcomed the hush. It wrapped around him like a blanket, made warmer still by the weight of Jisung in his arms.

They stood together, nestled in the crook where the railing curved, the breeze gentle and cool against their skin. Jisung leaned into him without resistance, head resting on Minho's shoulder, hands twined together for warmth.

Minho's eyes stayed fixed on the distant shore. "Are you sure?" he asked, voice soft but serious. "It's not too late. We could change the plan, walk away, do something else."

Jisung shifted slightly, enough to look up at him, the corners of his mouth pulling into something wry and resolute. "Minho. The vault is right there. Everyone's in position. We've rehearsed the raid a hundred times. There's no turning back now."

A beat of silence stretched between them before Minho exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Didn't think so. Just had to ask."

He tightened his arms around Jisung a little, pressing a brief kiss to the top of his head.

The waves lapped gently below, and for a few long minutes they simply watched, unmoving, feeling the weight of what was coming settle around them like mist.

Minho's thoughts drifted, not to the vault, not to the danger, not even to the crew, but to the man curled against him. To the laugh that had become his favourite sound. The eyes that never stopped searching the world, even when they were tired. The steady resolve that had led them both to this moment.

He would follow Jisung anywhere.

He'd give him anything.

Whatever happened tomorrow, whatever they gained, whatever they lost, Minho already knew where his heart would land when it was over.

Right here.

"I meant what I said the other night," he said quietly. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

Jisung turned then, pulling back just enough to look up at him, eyes shining under the moonlight with something fierce and unshakable, equal parts affection and fire.

"Then shut up and kiss me," he said, voice low and certain, no hesitation in it.

Minho didn't need to be told twice.

He leaned in, one hand rising to cradle Jisung's jaw, and kissed him like he meant it, with all the quiet desperation of a man who knew the future was uncertain, and all the steady warmth of someone who intended to stay, no matter what waited on the other side of dawn.

Jisung kissed him back with equal force, fingers curling into the front of Minho's coat, holding him close like an anchor.

The ocean rolled gently beneath them, the stars scattered above like sparks in the night, and for a few perfect seconds, the world fell away.

"You know," Minho murmured against the shell of Jisung's ear, voice low and deliberate, "if it weren't for the miscreants aboard this ship, I'd have you right here, under the stars."

Jisung swallowed hard, breath catching in his throat.

"I can already see it," Minho continued, his tone slipping into something darker, silkier. "Your skin glowing silver in the moonlight... Laid out for me like something sacred."

As he spoke, he dragged a single knuckle down the side of Jisung's neck, slow and featherlight, tracing the line to his collarbone, a path that left a trail of heat in its wake.

Jisung shivered, helpless under the weight of the words and the promise they held.

"You really are insatiable, aren't you?" Jisung asked, though he could feel the amused curl of his lips that betrayed how little he minded.

Minho grinned against his skin, pressing another slow kiss just beneath his jaw. "Hopelessly," he murmured. "At least where you're involved."

Minho's breath was warm against his neck, lips lingering like he had all the time in the world. Jisung's fingers curled into the fabric of Minho's shirt at his back, clinging despite the calm in his voice.

"You make it very difficult to think straight," Jisung murmured, though his tone lacked any real protest.

"Good," Minho replied, tilting his head to mouth along the curve of Jisung's throat. "Thinking's overrated."

Jisung laughed, breathless and low, the sound catching somewhere between affection and want. "That's rich coming from you."

Minho pulled back just far enough to look at him properly, the moonlight catching in his eyes like something drawn from myth. "I've done plenty of thinking. About you. About this. About every possible way I can show you how much I-"

Jisung kissed him before he could finish, a hand rising to cradle the side of Minho's face, thumb brushing his cheek. It wasn't frantic or rushed, just firm, and full of feeling.

When they parted, Jisung's voice was quiet. "Then stop talking and show me."

"Oh, fuck it," Minho muttered, voice rough with want.

Before Jisung could respond, Minho was already moving, retreating toward the shadows beneath the helm stairs and tugging Jisung along by the hand. The air changed instantly, quieter here, more charged, and Jisung barely had time to register it before he was spun into Minho's arms.

The kiss that followed stole the breath from his lungs, hot, searing, and immediate. It lit a fuse beneath his skin, every nerve alive with anticipation as Minho pressed him back into the wood, lips and hands both demanding and familiar.

Then Minho was turning him, guiding him down until his chest met the cool wood of a conveniently placed crate. Jisung's breath caught, his pulse spiking as anticipation surged, his body already understanding what his mind was only just catching up to.

Minho made quick work of his pants, pulling them down to rest around his thighs. Then, just as Jisung craned his neck to try and look behind him, Minho's fingers landed on his lips.

"Suck them."

The demand wasn't harsh, but definitely commanding. Jisung's mouth fell open before he could even put thought into the action, and Minho slowly slipped two of his fingers against his tongue.
Jisung laved at his fingers, surprised by how much his mouth was suddenly watering. When Minho finally pulled his fingers away, a glistening trail pulled from his mouth with them.

Minho's hand disappeared from his vision, and Jisung gasped as he felt their slick presence at his entrance. Minho's other hand laid against his spine, pinning him firmly in place on top of the crate.
Jisung was already so tightly wound he couldn't even find it in him to care that this was happening on the relatively open deck where any one of the crew could stumble across them.

He found himself holding his breath, trembling as he waited for Minho to move. And he finally did.
Jisung's body tensed as he felt the first moment of contact, Minho's slicked finger slipping tentatively inside him. His movements were steady but pressing, clearly aware that this wasn't something he could take his time with. After just a few pulls against Jisung's walls, he felt the stretch of Minho adding a second finger, and groaned before clapping a hand over his mouth, remembering exactly where they were and who could hear them.

Minho continued his steady movements, and Jisung fought the urge to press back against him and take his fingers deeper.
Unexpectedly, minho crooked his fingers and brushed a particularly sensitive spot inside of him. Jisung's hips bucked off the crate wildly, and he whimpered through his fingers, still tightly clamped across his mouth.

Minho repeated the movement, and Jisung squeezed his eyes shut, tears forming at the edges.
Then Minho's fingers withdrew, and Jisung whimpered at the loss.
"Oh... So needy Jisung." Came Minho's voice, low and ragged behind him, clearly just as affected even as he teased him.

"Fuck... You." Jisung stuttered out between his fingers.

"No," Minho responded, the tip his cock already nudging at Jisung's entrance "fuck you."
As he said the words, he pushed forward and Jisung let out a cry, fingers gripping the edge of the crate.

"Shhhh baby." Minho soothed from behind him, rubbing his palm along Jisung's spine.

It took all the self-control Jisung had not to cry out again as Minho drew back, before plunging himself into him again, harder, deeper.
The roll of Minho's hip against him was both hot pleasure and agony all at once, and the tears he'd tried to hold back leaked out of his eyes.

Minho continued to roll against him, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Jisung experimentally let his hand drop from his mouth, and when he'd finally caught his breath enough to speak, he did.

"More Minho... Harder"

A hum of satisfaction came from behind him, and Jisung had to brace himself against the crate as Minho's hips now snapped into him with a more brutal pace.
Minho's hand crept up his back, coming to rest at the base of Jisung's neck as he fucked into him, the bundle of nerves inside Jisung being brushed wickedly with every stroke.

Jisung choked a gasp as the heat in his core started to burn him, spreading throughout his entire body, his legs feeling boneless beneath him.
Without warning, Minho's angle changed slightly, and the dam broke.
Jisung keened out high and loud as waves of pleasure crashed through his body, shuddering against the crate, fingernails biting into the wood beneath them.

Minho continued to thrust into him, chasing his own release. His rhythm started to falter, and a strangled gasp came from behind Jisung, before he felt Minho's body collapse against him, almost crushing him against the crate.

Jisung's heart crashed against his chest, a frantic rhythm that pulsed against the rough wood beneath him. His breath came in shallow bursts, the sea air cool against his flushed skin. Above him, Minho remained close, their bodies still pressed together, Minho's own erratic heartbeat pounding against his back.

Minho's head dipped to the crook of Jisung's neck, his breath hot and staccato against his skin.
"Beautiful." He murmured, nuzzling against Jisung's neck.

Minho pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of Jisung's neck, lips soft and grounding. Then, with slow, careful movements, he straightened and gently pulled Jisung up with him.

The moment Jisung's feet found the deck, his knees nearly buckled, but Minho was there, steady and sure, wrapping both arms around him before he could stumble. He held him close, strong hands splayed across his waist, anchoring him with quiet certainty as he pulled his pants back up.

Jisung exhaled a shaky breath against his collarbone, and Minho murmured, almost teasing, "Still standing, huh?"

"Barely," Jisung muttered, his voice low and breathless.

Minho's answering smile was pure satisfaction, but his hold remained tender, unwavering.

"I think we need to get you to bed."

Jisung managed a nod, still a little dazed, but as he took a step forward, his knees gave a sharp wobble, and buckled completely a moment later.

He let out a soft, startled sound, but before he could hit the deck, Minho was already there.

Wordless. Calm.

He bent with smooth, practiced ease and scooped Jisung up into his arms.

Jisung blinked, wide-eyed, hands instinctively curling into Minho's shirt. "I can-"

"No," Minho interrupted gently, not unkind, just certain. "You really can't."

And that was that.

Chapter 27: Infiltration

Morning arrived heavy with anticipation, the kind of tension that coiled tight in Jisung's chest making every breath feel like it had to fight its way free.

The island appeared as a shadow first, rising like a jagged tooth from the sea mist. From a distance, it looked uninhabited, harmless, even. But everyone aboard The Levanter and The Crimson Siren knew better. The vault lay nestled somewhere within its cliffs and forested interior, surrounded by Company infrastructure and guards who wouldn't hesitate to kill first and ask later.

They didn't take the ships closer than a mile from shore. Risking visibility this close to the target was out of the question. Thankfully the weather was on their side, and the fog had been steady from pre-dawn onwards.

Instead, the crew silently lowered skiffs into the water under the cover of the early morning fog. Rowing the final mile felt longer than any voyage they'd ever undertaken. Every splash of the oar, every shift of weight on the narrow boats, seemed amplified. Jisung’s heart beat hard in his ears, outpacing the rhythm of the waves.

Jisung's fingers clenched tight around the edge of the skiff, the lack of speech from his fellow crew seeming to magnify the silence blanketing them.

The skiffs scraped against sand and rock as they landed on the island's eastern shore, tucked in a crescent of beach sheltered by cliffs. Without needing instruction, they dragged the skiffs into the underbrush and buried them under the larger leaves and broken limbs. Every hand moved with quiet, trained urgency.

Once secured, the crew broke into their assigned groups.

They gathered in a low dip in the terrain, partially obscured by trees, crouched in a half circle as Chan viewed them all with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

"You know your assignments," Chan said lowly, voice clipped. "You know the contingencies. Keep your comms to hand signals unless absolutely necessary."

Jisung crouched low with the others, nodding along, already knowing the words by heart. They'd gone over the plan until it was carved into his spine. But even now, he felt the prickle of unease low in his stomach. Not doubt. Not fear, exactly. Just... The knowledge that this was it.

Each group checked their gear, tension winding tighter as the plan was repeated one last time. After a final check of weapons, medical gear and explosives, the group began to disperse into their routes.

But Minho caught Jisung's wrist just before he could move.

Wordlessly, Minho pulled the compass from his belt, placing the familiar cold weight into Jisung's hands.

Jisung blinked. "Minho..."

"Take it," Minho said, voice low.

"I don't need it," Jisung said quickly, defensively. "I know the vault layout better than anyone. We've drilled it a hundred times. I'll be fine."

"This isn't about knowing the plan," Minho replied, slipping it firmly into his palm and curling Jisung's fingers over it. "This is about knowing that you can find your way out, any way out, if something goes wrong."

Jisung hesitated. "You really think I'll get turned around?"

"No," Minho said. "I think you'll put everyone else first. And I need to know that you'll find your way back to me."

The weight of the compass in his hand suddenly felt heavier than just the brass it was made of.

Jisung didn't have a response. Just stared at him, eyes dark and wide.

"I need to know you'll make it out," Minho said softly. "I can't go ahead with this not knowing that."

Jisung exhaled shakily, then nodded, slipping the compass into his jacket. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

Minho didn't speak again. He just leaned in and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to Jisung's lips, slow and steady, leaving Jisung's heart skittering in his chest like a bird ready to take flight.

When Minho pulled back, he didn't go far. He stayed close, their foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the cool morning air. Jisung's eyes fluttered closed, his fingers still curled around the weight of the compass in his jacket, trying to commit the feel of Minho, this moment, this calm, deep into memory.

Somewhere just behind them, he was vaguely aware of Jeongin going through a similar moment with Yunho, low voices exchanged and fingers entwined. The quiet crack of a twig and the hush of movement marked Seungmin's approach, and after one last glance between them, he gently tugged Jisung's sleeve, wordlessly drawing them both toward the trees.

Minho's hand slipped from Jisung's wrist.

The warmth of that touch lingered as Jisung turned and followed his group into the trees. The branches closed behind them like a gate.

And the last mile toward the vault began.

The forest pressed in on all sides.

Every footstep felt loud, even when it wasn't. Jisung kept to the rear of their formation, Seungmin in front, all sharp eyes and silent signals; Jeongin and Yeosang between them, steady and alert. Jisung's pulse was high in his throat, thudding like a war drum, but he matched their pace, boots careful on the uneven terrain.

Nobody spoke.

They couldn't risk it. Only hand signs and nods, the occasional sweep of a spyglass to check the ridge line or spot through the trees. The others they'd accounted for, Company guards patrolling the perimeter or positioned closer to the vault's entrances. Still, even the ones they couldn't see felt like ghosts nearby, waiting to materialise the moment someone exhaled too hard.

Jisung's fingers itched with nervous energy, kept brushing against the pocket where Minho's compass sat heavy and warm, its unfamiliar weight a strange kind of anchor. His shoulders were tight. Every part of his body thrummed with anticipation, like lightning coiled beneath his skin, searching for a place to strike.

They moved in rhythm, up slopes, across narrow outcroppings, beneath thick tangles of leaves and vine. The path got steeper the closer they drew to the ridge that overlooked the vault compound, the trail thinning out to a precarious scramble of earth and rock.

Jisung's boot hit loose gravel. It skittered, slid. His balance pitched hard left.

For one terrifying second, the world tilted.

His heart stopped.

Then Yeosang's hand shot out like a lightning strike, fingers locking tight around his forearm. Jisung's other hand scrabbled against a root, just enough to stop himself from tumbling backwards off the ridge. The pull jolted through his body like a slap of cold water, and he gasped, more from the shock than anything else.

Yeosang didn't say a word. Just held him firm, eyes wide but steady.

Jisung gave a tight nod, breathless, and Yeosang tugged him upright before letting go.

His limbs felt shaky. His stomach twisted. He didn't want to imagine what would've happened if Yeosang hadn't reacted in time.

But he couldn't afford to dwell.

They pressed on.

The forest changed around them. Thinner trees. More stone. The shape of the vault compound was beginning to show through the gaps ahead, small windows with metal bars glinting dully beneath climbing ivy, the edges of reinforced stone half-sunken into the landscape.

The last stretch narrowed again, a tight curve between two boulders that marked the outer limit of where they could move unseen. From there, they'd have to drop lower, to where the hidden access path wound behind the main vault wall.

They paused just before the turn, crouched low in the underbrush. Jisung wiped his hands against his coat, heart still racing.

His gaze flicked forward to Seungmin.

And he nodded.

It was time.

The air around them pulsed with tension.

Jisung crouched low behind the thick ferns, one hand steadying himself on a root while the other hovered near the hilt of his dagger blade. Ahead, Seungmin pressed himself against the rock wall, still as stone, watching the treeline like a hawk. Jeongin knelt beside him, silent, his eyes flicking between Jisung and Yeosang. Nobody moved.

Then, distant and sharp, a sound ripped through the morning air.

A muffled boom echoed across the landscape, low and guttural, the kind of explosion that carried weight. Seconds later, a rising plume of black smoke unfurled against the pale sky from the west. From this distance, It surged like smoke from a cannon blast, thick and churning low, tapering into the clouds above.

The distraction had worked.

Within moments, the forest shifted. Shouts rang out, brief and scattered, alarm in voices not their own. Then footsteps, quick and heavy, beat across the packed dirt trail.

Two guards came into view, weapons drawn, sprinting westward toward the explosion. Their backs were turned. They didn't even glance toward the trees concealing their group.

Jisung didn't move, didn't breathe.

He counted in his head. One, two.

There should've been three.

A faint rustle ahead confirmed it. Just off to the right of the entrance, standing alert with his back to the side door, the third guard remained at his post. His stance was tense, weapon held tight across his chest, eyes scanning the treeline.

Still watching. Still waiting.

Seungmin eased backward into a crouch. His hand slipped into one of his inner coat pockets and emerged with a slim wooden cylinder, thin bamboo, carved with precision.

Without a word, he selected a dart from a narrow leather sleeve on his bandolier and slid it inside the tube. The others stilled completely. Jisung's pulse thudded in his throat. Jeongin leaned forward slightly. Yeosang didn't blink.

Seungmin crept into place, lying low against the rocks, bracing his elbow on a flat stone to steady his aim. He waited a beat, then another, until the guard shifted just slightly, enough to expose the side of his neck.

Seungmin took a slow, measured breath.

And blew.

The dart sailed cleanly through the still air, nearly invisible against the branches, until it embedded itself in the guard's neck with a faint thnk.

The reaction was immediate.

The guard startled, slapping a hand to the sting, confused. He turned in place, staggered once, his mouth moving as if to call out, then his legs gave way. He crumpled into the moss with a soft thud, his weapon slipping from his grasp.

Unconscious.

The silence that followed was sharp-edged.

Seungmin lowered the blowgun and turned his head slightly, meeting their eyes. He gave a short nod.

Clear.

Jisung let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. His fingers were still clenched around the hilt at his hip, knuckles white. His entire body felt too hot, too tight, coiled like it might snap from the inside.

They moved fast.

The moment Seungmin nodded, the four of them broke from the cover of the underbrush in a low, urgent sprint, keeping close to the ground. The side of the vault loomed up ahead, stone and steel woven together in a brutalist knot of architecture, the service door exactly where it should be, tucked between reinforced piping and narrow stone channels meant for runoff. The guard lay crumpled nearby, unmoving.

Jisung and Yeosang reached him first. Without speaking, they each took a side, Jisung at the shoulders, Yeosang by the legs, and hauled the unconscious body into the underbrush they'd just vacated, carefully dragging him behind a thick growth of fern and roots. Yeosang stooped to collect the man's fallen weapon, tucking it into the brush beside him, while Jisung swept a handful of loose moss and leaves over the disturbed ground.

By the time they returned, Jeongin was already inspecting the wall.

The small vent flap, roughly the height of two full grown men above eye level, was barely visible from a distance, disguised well among stone panels and a patchwork of rusted joints. It was the only non-reinforced access point, a maintenance feature from an older generation of construction. The plan was to use it as their point of entry, but only Jeongin was small and agile enough to reach and slip through it alone.

Seungmin raised a brow as he adjusted the strap of his satchel and tilted his head wordlessly toward the vent, expression dry as ever. Can you manage it?

Jeongin didn't dignify it with a verbal answer. He just shot Seungmin a sharp look, equal parts disgust and determination, then turned back to the wall. His fingers brushed over the weathered stone, finding the shallow ridges and notches almost imperceptible to the rest of them.

Jisung squinted, trying to follow the boy's movements, but even now, knowing they were there, he couldn't see the holds Jeongin was using.

With slow precision, Jeongin began his ascent.

Jisung and Yeosang took up position on either side of him next to the wall, crouched low, eyes scanning the tree line, the ridges above, the narrow trail behind them. Every heartbeat felt too loud in his ears. The memory of the guard crumpling played over again, as if it hadn't worked, what if the toxin wore off too quickly? What if another patrol rounded the corner?

Breathe. Focus.

Meanwhile, Seungmin positioned himself below Jeongin, arms half-raised, ready to catch him if anything went wrong. His brow was furrowed, but not with worry, just a hyper-focused attentiveness that Jisung recognised all too well.

Jeongin moved like a whisper, fingertips barely touching each hold, feet gliding from ledge to ledge. He paused once, adjusted his grip, and continued. Each step was calculated, every breath silent.

Jisung didn't dare speak.

The entire world had narrowed to the sight of Jeongin climbing, the cool weight of Minho's compass pressing against Jisung's ribs from inside his coat, and the pressure of time ticking mercilessly in the back of his mind.

Jeongin reached the vent without so much as a scrape. He paused, fingers hooked into the rim of the narrow opening, his silhouette outlined briefly against the faint light filtering through the grate. Then, with a final glance down at the three of them below, he hauled himself upward and began to wriggle through.

It wasn't graceful, his boots scraped once, shoulders twisting awkwardly to fit through the narrow passage, but he managed, limbs disappearing one by one into the shaft until only the soles of his boots were visible. Then those too vanished.

And they were alone.

Jisung stepped back into place beside Seungmin and Yeosang, eyes never leaving the grate.

The forest around them was still, unnaturally so. The plume of smoke from the explosion to the west still stretched high into the sky, curling thick against the lightening blue of morning, but the echoes of alarm were far off now.

None of it near enough to distract from what Jeongin had just stepped into.

Jisung's pulse thudded loud and unforgiving beneath his ribs. He could feel the echo of it in his throat, in his fingertips, in his ears. The silence pressed in all around them, made worse by the fact that he couldn't see, couldn't know. Was Jeongin stuck? Caught? Lost in the ducts or cornered in some unexpected passage? Or worse, had he been discovered?

Each second dragged longer than the last. He focused on his breathing, slow and deliberate, though it didn't stop the sweat that gathered at the nape of his neck or the heat prickling his palms. One of his hands clenched unconsciously at the compass tucked beneath his coat, grounding himself with the weight of it, the memory of Minho's steady eyes as he had passed it to him.

Beside him, Seungmin was still as stone, only the faintest twitch of his fingers betraying his readiness to move. Yeosang knelt with his back to the wall, peering through a narrow sightline with a spyglass, watching for patrols, still utterly calm.

Even the explosive shake of the second planned distraction detonation didn’t distract him.

And just when Jisung thought he couldn't bear it another second...

Click.

The door.

It eased open with a soft groan, hinges newly oiled but still old, the sound enough to make Jisung's heart seize for just a moment before his eyes met Jeongin's.

He stood there, grinning like a boy who'd just pulled off the world's greatest prank, cheeks slightly flushed but entirely unharmed.

"Well?" he whispered. "Coming or what?"

Jisung exhaled sharply, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a curse, and a matching grin broke over his face without permission. The relief that surged through him nearly knocked him off his feet. His knees almost buckled from it. All the planning, rehearsals, tension, and yet it was this, the simple sight of Jeongin's face, alive and whole, that nearly undid him.

He stepped forward first, Yeosang close behind, and Seungmin last, sparing one last glance at the tree line before slipping through the door after them.

They were in.

Minho didn't flinch as the first explosion tore through the stillness.

It wasn't the sound that made him tense, it was the timing. The exactness. The delayed, thunderous crack that echoed down the valley from the compound's edge, followed by the low whoomph of fire catching.

The black smoke rose thick and fast, just as planned. Whale oil had soaked into the undergrowth for nearly half an hour, the viscosity ensuring that even damp leaves would catch and hold. The smoke belched skyward like a dark signal flare, and with the wind travelling East from behind them, it would sweep across the island, drawing every trained eye and nose in the wrong direction.

"First one's clean," San murmured, glancing sideways at Minho. His grin was sharp, teeth glinting in the dim morning light. "Guards'll be swarming that flank."

"Then we move now," Minho said. "Next one goes off in six minutes."

He turned on his heel, fast and low, darting back through the brush along the narrow trail they'd cut through earlier. Wooyoung was already ahead, long strides eating up the distance with barely a sound. Jongho brought up the rear, always watchful, already clutching a thick coil of rope laced with netting weights, non-lethal traps for any unlucky enough to intercept them.

They were ghosts in the trees. All the days of careful planning had turned this stretch of forest into familiar territory, and Minho's body moved on instinct. His senses were razor-sharp, heart steady despite the chaos they'd just lit behind them.

He wasn't worried about the fire.

He was worried about the people walking straight into it. The guards. Uniformed, underpaid, probably told they were guarding a supply depot or an old fort, never knowing that what lay beneath their boots was something infinitely more valuable, and infinitely more dangerous.

They had a rule. Unspoken, but absolute. Incapacitate when possible. Avoid lethal force. These guards were Company, yes, but they weren't murderers. They were just men doing a job.

Still.

Minho's hand brushed the hilt of the side dagger strapped to his thigh.

If it came down to it, if anyone threatened his crew, threatened Jisung, then mercy wouldn't factor into the equation. Not for a second.

By the time they reached the second site, Wooyoung had already broken open one of the whale oil canisters and was dousing the base of a wide-rooted tree with it. The roots spread like fingers, creating natural channels for the oil to run, and Minho began lining the outer edges with dry brush and saltpetre-soaked cloth.

"Two minutes," Jongho announced after a glance at his pocket watch.

Minho didn't reply. He crouched, lit a match from his belt-tin, and held it steady for a single heartbeat.

Strike.

Flame kissed oil. It caught fast. Hungry.

He stepped back just as Wooyoung tossed in the fireseed packet, a compressed pod designed by Changbin that would combust in ten seconds flat. They all ducked low behind a fallen log.

Ten... Nine... Eight...

Another explosion, sharper this time. Less echo, more pressure. Minho could feel the concussion in his ribs. The fire flared white for a moment before settling back into smoke-blackened flame.

Second distraction deployed.

He glanced skyward. The smoke columns were spreading fast. Any guard commander with a functioning brain would start pulling personnel off the compound doors to investigate.

Which meant Jisung would have his window. They would have their window.

"Time to move," Minho muttered, already rising.

They didn't linger. They were shadows again in seconds, melting back into the trees, hearts pounding in sync with the rhythm of destruction they'd orchestrated.

This part of the plan, this was theirs. And so far, it was going exactly as intended.

The moment Jisung slipped through the vault's side entrance, the silence pressed in like a second skin. Every footstep from their group was calculated and quiet, the sound of boots against stone hushed by worn cloth and practiced caution. The four of them, Jisung, Jeongin, Yeosang, and Seungmin, moved in tight formation, alert to every echo and distant murmur. Somewhere above them, the third explosion had gone off not five minutes ago, and the resulting chaos had clearly rippled through the compound. Jisung could hear it, faint shouts, hurried footsteps, orders barked and lost in the distance.

The vault interior was a maze of low-lit corridors and sharp turns, but Jisung knew it well enough to lead them without hesitation. Eventually, they reached the heavy second door deep in the east wing. Jeongin crouched immediately, drawing out his tools with deft hands, and within seconds the lock clicked open. The door swung inward on silent hinges, and on the other side, Felix, Mingi, Hongjoong, and Chan were waiting, bags of explosives ready. They moved inside without a word, the door eased shut behind them. Yeosang's voice was barely a breath. "Any trouble?"

Hongjoong shook his head, eyes sharp. "No. Guards cleared out after the second blast. Door was left wide open."

With the second door now unlocked, they had two possible exit points should things go south. A small comfort, but a significant one.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Jisung took a steadying breath, letting the dim interior swallow them whole. The air inside the vault was cool and still, heavy with dust and the faint tang of oil. A different kind of tension wrapped around them now, no longer the exposed anxiety of open terrain, but the claustrophobic press of being inside enemy walls.

Jisung took point, one hand on the map he'd already etched into his memory, the other resting lightly on the hilt at his side. Behind him, the full team moved in a tight formation. Nobody spoke more.

The only sounds were the soft shuffle of boots, the occasional clink of gear, and the distant echo of raised voices from elsewhere in the compound as guards scrambled toward the fires and explosions the others had set.

The corridors were narrow and winding, like a maze built to confuse and delay. But Jisung moved with certainty, counting turns, marking low corners with chalk. He could feel the pulse in his throat, the pounding in his ears, but he kept moving.

Twice, they had to duck into alcoves to avoid passing guards. And twice, they emerged unnoticed, adrenaline pushing them forward.

Yeosang's sharp eyes were invaluable, he caught two pressure traps and a tripwire before anyone had even come close. He disengaged all three with a surgeon's precision, giving the group silent nods before urging them onward.

"Stay tight," Jisung murmured as they pressed deeper into the heart of the vault.

The blueprints had been accurate, almost unsettlingly so. They found the records room exactly where expected, thick steel doors hanging open, likely abandoned in the guard's haste to investigate the chaos outside. Felix and Mingi moved in quickly, laying the first round of explosives with practiced efficiency. Chan and Hongjoong followed behind, checking the rooms for anything of strategic value.

One chamber held exactly what they'd hoped for. Crates and large cabinets full of damning Company records, blackmail, transaction logs, and ledgers, enough to dismantle entire operations.

Then, further in, a locked steel door. It wasn't marked on the plans.

Jeongin's eyes lit up the moment he got it open.

Gold. More than any of them expected. Both piles of coins and bars stacked in tight rows, gleaming under the flickering gas lights.

Jeongin turned to Jisung with a grin that was half-joking, half-feral. "Come on. We're taking some."

Jisung hesitated, gaze flicking between the treasure and the path ahead. "It'll slow us down."

"It'll feed us for years."

Hongjoong stepped forward, already stuffing a few bars into his pack. "We don't need all of it. Just what we can carry."

Jisung groaned, muttered a curse under his breath, and finally nodded. "Fine. Fast. Small bags only."

Jeongin looked like he might kiss him.

With that, the clock was officially ticking.

The charges were nearly set. The escape paths were mapped. And they had what they came for.

Now they just had to make it out.

Chapter 28: Ash & Blade

Of course things wouldn't go exactly as planned.

Minho had known it the moment they set the last fire, thick whale-oil smoke curling into the sky like a dark signal flare. The blasts had gone off perfectly, each one staggered and precisely timed, sending shockwaves and chaos rolling across the island. The guards had scattered in disarray, exactly as they'd hoped. That part had gone well.

But they hadn't counted on just how many guards would come their way. Or how quickly. There seemed to be far more than the Vault documents had accounted for.

Now, amidst the trees just north of the vault's perimeter, things had descended into something far messier.

Hyunjin moved like liquid fire, his twin rapiers flashing in the dappled morning light as he danced between enemies, always just out of reach before striking with practiced elegance. Yunho fought with a different rhythm, grounded, heavy, unyielding. His broadsword cut through attackers like he was carving paths through stone, each strike calculated, brutal.

Minho himself kept low, weaving between tree trunks and shadows, his own rapier and side dagger quick and silent. He didn't enjoy this, fighting people who were, for the most part, just doing a job. But if the choice was them or his crew, the decision wasn't difficult.

They'd managed to incapacitate nearly twenty guards at first, most caught in the traps Hyunjin and Yunho had rigged hours earlier, snare wires, swinging logs, pitfalls dug with alarming speed. Some had been stunned, some tied and left for retrieval. But it wasn't enough. The fourth wave was already bearing down.

Behind a fallen log, Changbin cursed as another guard ducked behind cover. He was braced awkwardly, left arm tight against his ribs, clearly still guarding the wound that should have had him on bed rest. But that hadn't stopped him from hurling grenados.

He launched another now, his good arm snapping forward with lethal precision. The explosion that followed threw two guards off their feet, sending birds shrieking into the sky from the treetops.

"Still got it," Changbin muttered, panting, sweat sticking his curls to his forehead.

"Don't get cocky," Minho snapped, ducking behind a rock as a shot tore through the bark above his head.

Changbin only grinned wider. "I'm always cocky."

Minho rolled his eyes but didn't argue. A beat later, he surged forward again, blades glinting as he rejoined the fray. All they needed was time, just enough to keep the guards out here, distracted and occupied, long enough for Jisung and the others to finish inside.

So he kept moving, kept fighting, heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. Because if everything inside was going to plan, then it was on him to make sure it stayed that way.

Changbin's voice cracked through the chaos like a cannon shot.

"Where the hell are all these bastards even coming from?"

Minho barely ducked in time as another musket ball splintered the bark beside his head. He gritted his teeth, slicing low at the legs of a soldier who lunged past him, then rose, breath ragged, blade slick with sweat and blood.

"I don't know," he answered, voice tight. "There shouldn't be this many. Not according to the documents Yeosang took."

And then the thought hit him. Heavy. Cold.

Of course.

His stomach twisted as the realisation locked into place. Suho. That bastard. The Imperium may have been crippled in the battle, engines ruined, hull torn, command shattered, but the men aboard had not been.

It was only logical.

The blueprints. The map.

They'd gone missing after the battle. Suho had to have noticed. And if he had... Then of course he would've assumed someone would try something. Would've gotten word to the Company. Warned them. Told them to tighten security around the vault. Hell, with enough determination, he could've even come himself.

Minho's entire body went still, the edges of the world narrowing around that single thought.

Jisung.

He felt it like an anchor made of ice dropped straight into his chest. A cold, crushing grip that seized around his heart and didn't let go.

If there were more guards out here, then there were more inside.

If Suho had warned them, then the vault was a trap waiting to be sprung.

And Jisung... Jisung was walking right into it.

Minho's vision blurred for a second, a sick heat rising in the back of his throat. He clenched his fists so tight he barely noticed the pain.

"Minho," Changbin's voice cut in, sharp and grounding. He was staring at him, brow furrowed, face streaked with smoke and dirt. "What is it?"

Minho's voice came low, fast. "Suho. The map. The plans. He had to know. He could've warned them. Told them to send backup, maybe even made it here himself."

Understanding dawned in Changbin's eyes. And then, without hesitation, he exhaled hard through his nose and said, "Go to him."

Minho blinked. "What?"

"We can hold the line here," Changbin repeated, already turning to hurl another grenado into the undergrowth. "You've got maybe a mile or so between here and the vault. Go."

Minho didn't argue. His legs were already moving before his brain caught up, shoving past branches, darting between tree trunks, ignoring the sting of leaves and thorns against his skin.

The vault lay a mile ahead.

Jisung was already inside.

Minho ran with fear clawing at his lungs, not for himself, but for the one person in the world he couldn't lose.

The gold room was quieter now, except for the metallic clink of bars being loaded into canvas sacks, the muted rustle of movement, and the sharp, deliberate breaths of everyone inside. Jisung's heart was still hammering in his chest, the adrenaline burning low and hot beneath his skin, but so far... So far, everything was going to plan.

They moved with precision, honed by all their preparation. Only what could be reasonably carried. Only what wouldn't slow them down too much. Still, when Jisung hefted one of the bags, the weight was significant. Real enough to change lives. Heavy enough to kill someone if dropped from a high enough place.

Mingi and Felix were already pulling out fuses from their packs, crouching low as they moved to opposite sides of the room. Each charge was placed with careful precision, knowing the risk if it went wrong. There would be no drills. No do-overs.

Felix lit the fuses caught his eye as he and Mingi lit the fuses, and gave him a single nod. Ready.

They left the vault room behind, not with triumph, but urgency. Jisung led them back into the winding corridors, hands still white-knuckled around the strap of his satchel, mind already ahead of his body, counting turns, remembering angles.

They reached the original side door within minutes.

It didn't open, blocked from the other side.

Yeosang reached out, testing it with careful fingers, but the tension in his shoulders told Jisung what he already knew. They were sealed in. Someone knew. Someone had barricaded them in.

Jisung's stomach dropped.

He turned slowly, ears ringing.

Chan and Yeosang exchanged a glance, then lunged forward together, shouldering the door with all their weight, once, twice. It didn't budge. The entire frame groaned but didn't splinter. Sealed tight.

Jisung's breath felt too short. His lungs were full of ash already, and he hadn't even realised it.

He clenched his jaw. "They know we're here."

It was the first thing to go wrong.

The first sign that the vault wasn't as unguarded as they'd believed. That the explosions outside had worked, but only to a point. That maybe, just maybe, the Company had known this was coming.

And then the world shook.

The blast from the charges they had set ripped through the structure like thunder made solid. The ground jolted beneath their feet. Smoke burst through the corridors in a rush, rolling in with the stench of burning powder, stone, and hot metal.

Mingi and Felix gave each other matching looks of grim satisfaction, but there wasn't time to appreciate it.

"Other door," Jisung barked, already moving.

Minho ran.

He tore through the underbrush like a man possessed, no longer concerned with silent passage or strategy. He barely registered the thorns clawing at his sleeves, the sharp snap of twigs underfoot. His boots pounded the forest floor, lungs dragging air in sharp and ragged. The scent of smoke followed him, thick and oily, laced with the sting of sulphur and sweat.

The mile and a half to the vault stretched like an eternity.

Every few yards, another obstacle. Another guard. The traps Hyunjin and Yunho had rigged now lay waiting for him just as they had for the Company, twisted noose lines, wire nets, makeshift spike pits dug into the forest floor. Minho leapt over them, ducked beneath, ignored the sting in his muscles and the burning in his calves.

A guard came at him from the right, Minho didn't hesitate. The blade flashed once, clean and quick. No warning. No mercy. He didn't have time.

Two more burst from the trees near the ridge. Minho ducked the first swing, slammed the hilt of his dagger into the nearest skull, and drove the blade into the gut of the second before either could recover. He yanked it free with a breathless grunt, barely slowing down.

Every heartbeat was a countdown.

Every moment a possibility that he was already too late.

His mind kept flickering with images he couldn't shake. Jisung trapped beneath falling stone. Jisung outnumbered, outgunned, calling for help that would never come. Jisung alone in a room with Suho, and all that malice curling behind his smug smile.

Minho's legs screamed. His lungs burned. His shirt clung to his back with sweat. But he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

When a group of three emerged from the brush, blocking the narrow pass toward the southern slope, Minho didn't even think. He barrelled through them with a ferocity that startled even him. His rapier was a blur, driven more by instinct than precision now, carving a path forward in a haze of silver and red.

He took a blade to the shoulder in the scuffle, narrow, shallow, but the pain was just a flare in the background. Another guard fell beneath his boot as he surged past, panting, cursing, praying.

Let him be safe. Let him be okay. Just let me get to him.

The trees thinned as he neared the clearing, the jagged spires of the vault's upper vents just visible through the smoke. He could see it now, see the stone walls of the compound, the curve of the entry slope, the shadows of figures darting along the edges of the structure.

There were still too many guards. More than there should've been to begin with, let alone after the amount that had been drawn away. Minho ducked behind a ridge and counted at least six posted at the rear, shifting uneasily in the swirling smoke from the last explosion.

They knew someone was inside.

They were preparing for someone to come out.

Minho felt something inside him crack open. He was still too far away.

The smoke was thick. It clung to Jisung's clothes and crept into his lungs. Every hallway now looked identical, washed in grey, streaked with soot and shadow. The path twisted, each corridor a deeper limb of the labyrinth, and the panic clawed at the edge of his focus like something feral. He snapped the compass open in frustration, watching as the needle span erratically before settling on a direction.

They didn't make it far before the first guards appeared.

Six. Then eight. Then more.

The air filled with yelling, steel, and chaos. Mingi was the first to throw a punch. Chan cracked a man's jaw with the butt of his pistol before slamming his head into the wall. Felix, quick and surgical, tripped one into another before landing a savage stab of his twin daggers to the man's chest.

Jisung didn't have time to think, just react. A hand grabbed him from behind, and he spun, elbow colliding with soft tissue. A grunt, and the man staggered back. Jeongin moved beside him, wide-eyed and brilliant, swinging one of the gold-stuffed satchels like a club. It collided with the guard's skull with a brutal crack.

"Oh my god," Jisung wheezed, ducking as another guard swung wide. "You just weaponised gold."

"Shut up and move!"

They fought like men who had no other option. Every inch forward was earned in blood, bruises, and black powder. Hongjoong caught a blade with the edge of his shoulder, gritting his teeth through it as he jammed his knee into his attacker's gut. Chan fired his pistol at another guard, wheeling to fight another with his short sword before the first had even met the floor.

The further they went, the worse the smoke became. Their clothes were soaked with sweat, skin streaked with grime and ash, and more than one of them bore a bleeding gash or two that would need seeing to, if they got out.

The second side door loomed ahead, framed in smoke and streaked with blackened soot, like the maw of something ancient and waiting. Jisung reattached the compass to his belt, no longer needed.

"Please," Jisung muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to anyone listening. "Please be open."

Felix lunged first. The handle turned. The door groaned.

It opened.

And the night air hit them like a wave, cool, damp, clean.

Jisung barely made it two steps out into the open before his knees gave out beneath him.

The cool air rushed into his lungs like water into a cracked hull, sharp and shocking, and just as quickly, his body rebelled. He dropped to the ground with a harsh, racking cough, ash clinging to his tongue, his throat raw. His eyes watered furiously, vision blurring as he doubled over, arms braced on the grass-streaked stone.

Behind him, the others spilled out in staggered bursts, dragging each other clear of the door, coughing and gasping, eyes wide and reddened. The sound of it all, the wheezing breaths, the distant crackle of fire and more explosions still echoing from within the vault, blurred at the edges of Jisung's mind. All he could focus on was the burn in his chest, the trembling in his limbs, the overwhelming relief of open air.

"Hello, cousin."

The voice was low. Calm. Cool in a way that made his blood freeze.

Jisung's head snapped up, and through the sting of smoke and tears, he made out the silhouette, tall, composed, standing just beyond the lip of the cliff path that framed the vault's hidden exit. Behind him, shadows shifted, the unmistakable outline of Aurum Guard rifles glinting in the bright sunlight.

Suho.

His coat was buttoned cleanly, his gloves spotless despite the chaos around them. And his face wore the faintest smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. One that never did.

Before Jisung could scramble back or even think to reach for a weapon, two pairs of rough hands gripped his arms and yanked him to his feet. His knees buckled again, but the grip didn't loosen.

Around him, the others stilled, frozen in place as more of Suho's men emerged from the smoke-thick treeline, flintlocks raised, cocked, and trained with terrifying precision.

"Don't," Suho said mildly, almost amused. "I've no interest in killing anyone yet. But I do find it better to start conversations when one side is at a disadvantage, don't you?"

Jisung's heart was slamming against his ribs. His lungs still burned, and he could barely see straight, but his mind was already spinning.

How?

How had Suho known?

How long had he been here?

His gaze flicked to his crew. Felix was stock-still, muscles coiled like a spring despite the rifle aimed squarely at his chest. Mingi's hand twitched minutely near his belt pouch, but he didn't dare move. Chan's jaw was locked tight, his gaze flicking between the barrels pointed at them and Jisung's slumped form. And Jeongin... Jeongin looked like he was ready to bite through steel, but his eyes were wide, darting between Jisung and Suho.

Trapped.

They were trapped.

Jisung's gaze swept across his crew one last time, committing their faces to memory as Suho stepped forward and gave the order, cold, clipped, final.

"Take the rest. Move them down the ridge. Separate holding. We'll deal with them later."

The guards surrounding them didn't hesitate. With curt gestures and hard shoves, the rifles herded his crew away from the clearing. Jisung saw Jeongin's jaw tighten like he was seconds from lunging, but Chan subtly stepped in, resting a firm hand against his younger brother's shoulder, guiding him back with quiet force. Felix locked eyes with Jisung as he was pushed past, the fire in his gaze burning bright. Mingi offered the barest shake of his head, telling him without words - Don't do anything stupid.

It was over too quickly.

They were taken.

Except...

Hongjoong stumbled as though tripping over a root, falling hard beside Jisung. In the motion, his hand shot out, subtle and precise, slipping something under Jisung's coat beneath the guise of steadying himself. His voice was a whisper in Jisung's ear, almost lost in the wind.

"Don't drop it."

And then he was gone, hauled to his feet, dragged back toward the path with the others.

Jisung's hand instinctively moved to his side, feeling the familiar contours of fabric give way to something solid, something delicate.

The hourglass.

His heart jumped. What the hell is he thinking? I don't even know how this works.

Still, he tugged his coat tighter, folding the edges inwards until the hourglass was shielded from view. He didn't look down. Didn't give anything away. He couldn't afford to.

Now he was alone.

Well... Not alone.

The two guards flanked him, one on either side, gripping his shoulders with no gentleness at all, keeping him on his knees. And ahead of him, Suho stood like the devil incarnate, framed in smoke and firelight, coat immaculate, expression unreadable.

"You always did attract the dramatic," Suho said, voice silky as he stepped closer. "Smoke, fire, near escapes. Your flair for the theatrical really hasn't dulled."

Jisung didn't answer, chest still heaving with exertion and leftover smoke, throat raw and stinging.

Suho tsked softly. "Not going to banter, cousin? You used to be better company."

"What do you want?" Jisung rasped.

Suho gave him a look that might've passed for pity if not for the amusement flickering behind it. "You know what I want. What I've always wanted."

"You're too late," Jisung said. "The vault's destroyed. Everything's gone. All those lovely Company records? Up in smoke. It's done."

Suho's expression didn't falter. He just laughed. Quiet. Almost fond.

"Oh, Jisung. You really think I care about the Company?"

The words made Jisung still.

"You think this was ever about preserving them? That I've been hunting you across oceans just to do their bidding?" Suho's voice grew sharper, eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "You may have sought freedom from the Company, cousin. But I..."

He spread his hands wide, like a man presenting an empire.

"... I outgrew it."

Jisung stared, breath caught.

Suho stepped closer, low voice curling with venom and pride. "I built something better. My own network. Trade, territory, mercenaries. I have captains under my name in three ports across the Eastern Sea. The Company was always a ladder. And when it rotted beneath me, I stepped off it. Unscathed."

He smiled then. Cold and beautiful.

"No name to stain mine. No evidence to tie me to their filth. Even if the Company burns, I'll survive it. Prosper. Thrive. I can go anywhere in the world."

His gaze sharpened.

"But you... You cost me the Imperium. You stole what was mine. Turned my crew against me. Forced my hand." He stepped closer still, until their faces were nearly level. "This isn't just business anymore, Jisung. This is personal."

Jisung didn't flinch. Didn't look away. "So what? You're just going to kill me?"

"Oh, no." Suho's smile deepened. "Not yet. First, I want you to watch. I want you to see what it looks like when your plan falls apart. When your crew is scattered. When your captain dies in front of you... Or maybe it would be crueller to make him watch you die."

A chill snapped down Jisung's spine.

"Minho's not here," he said quickly, bluffing, voice sharper than before. "He's back on the ship over a mile away waiting for us to return."

Suho's laugh was soft. Almost pitying.

"Ah. That's where you're wrong, cousin." His eyes glittered. "He is here. On this very island. And he's already on his way."

Jisung's blood ran cold even as a further explosion from deep in the vault sent the ground shaking beneath him.

"My guards have already informed me. In fact, I'm just waiting for him to arrive..." Suho stepped back, smiling again as he gestured toward the path. "Before we get started."

Then with a soft chuckle, he walked towards Jisung, drawing his sword.

Minho pushed off the ridge and sprinted the final incline.

His body protested every step now. His legs dragged. His shoulder throbbed with the fresh wound. But nothing compared to the ache in his chest, the desperate, clawing need to see Jisung's face, to know he was safe, to lay eyes on him just once and know that he wasn't too late.

He burst into the treeline beyond the vault, just as another roar from deep within the compound shattered the air.

The walls trembled.

Minho ran faster.

The smoke was choking now. Gunpowder, flame, burning paper and stone, all of it crashing into the night sky.

The treeline blurred around him.

Minho's lungs were burning, breath tearing in and out of him in ragged bursts, but he didn't stop. He tore through the undergrowth, leapt roots, shoved past low-hanging branches that clawed at his face and coat. His legs screamed in protest, but he barely registered it, only the sound of the last explosion ringing in his ears, and the thunderous panic in his chest driving him faster, harder.

Almost there.

Another roar split the night, this one closer. The earth beneath him seemed to flinch. Most likely the final charge, Mingi's timing is still good. That meant the vault's interior was collapsing, or close to it.

But where was...

Minho crested a ridge, expecting the vault to come into view, but the terrain had shifted. The smoke was denser here, thick with ash and burning parchment. Flames licked the lower edges of the compound wall. The path was no longer visible, obscured by the dense line of trees and the wreckage strewn from the blast.

He cursed, scanning the perimeter. Nothing. No movement. No sign of the crew. No Jisung.

His feet hit the gravel path before he even realised he'd turned. His boots skidded against soot-slick stone as he ran down the narrow incline, pulse hammering.

Then he saw them.

And everything in him stopped.

Jisung.

On his knees in the dirt, shoulders heaving from smoke and effort, his head tilted back at an unnatural angle, because Suho stood behind him, one hand cruelly tangled in Jisung's hair, forcing his chin up, exposing the line of his throat.

And there, gleaming in the firelight, was the sword, resting at that vulnerable place just beneath his jaw, the point pressing close enough to draw a single bead of blood.

Minho didn't breathe.

Didn't move.

Suho looked up.

"Ahhh," he said smoothly, voice carrying across the clearing like a serpent's hiss. "You've finally arrived."

Chapter 29: Execution

Notes:

I feel the need to remind you here that there is ALWAYS a happy ending…

The smoke from the vault still hung in the trees like a curse. It burned the back of Minho's throat, made every breath a struggle. Embers drifted lazily in the air, glowing flecks of orange against the soot-streaked dark, beautiful, in a way that only dying things ever were.
Beneath it all, the vault still groaned, stone straining, timbers warping, something deep inside cracking apart.

Minho's world narrowed to the line of Jisung's throat beneath Suho's blade.

Everything else, the smoke still curling from the ruined vault, the pounding of blood in his ears, the guards surrounding them, the ache in his sword arm, the slashes along his skin, all of it blurred into the periphery.

All he could see was Jisung, on his knees in the dirt.

His coat was half-fallen from his shoulders, the sleeves scorched and soot-stained. His curls clung damply to his forehead. His chest heaved from the smoke he'd inhaled and the run he'd made to the door. But it was the position that turned Minho's blood to ice. Suho's hand fisted in the back of Jisung's hair, holding his head back with cruel ease, the other hand resting his sword's edge flush against Jisung's throat. One wrong movement, one breath too deep, that blade would open him from chin to collarbone.

Minho didn't realize he'd stepped forward until a rifle slammed into his shoulder, halting him in place.

"Don't," said one of Suho's guards at his side, voice bored, like Minho was nothing more than a wayward child. The barrel of the musket jabbed into his ribs for emphasis.

Minho didn't look at him. His gaze remained locked on Jisung's face.

Jisung wasn't looking back. His eyes were on the sky, unfocused, smoke-stung and too wide. His chest still rose and fell in panicked bursts. His mouth trembled, not with fear, Minho knew, but with rage. Jisung wasn't afraid to die. He never had been.

But Minho was.

He was terrified.

There was no escape route. No signal. No plan left to enact. They were surrounded. Jisung was pinned. The rest of the crew had been dragged away. All that remained was this clearing, the sting of sulphur in the air, and the gleam of Suho's sword where it kissed the skin Minho's lips had traced with such devotion.

"Let him go," Minho said, hoarse.

Suho didn't even glance at him. His eyes remained fixed on the man he held in his grip.

"You know," Suho said, voice like polished stone, "I'd always wondered what it would take to break you, cousin. Turns out it's not betrayal. Not fire. Not even pain. No... It's him."

His fingers twisted tighter in Jisung's hair, forcing a gasp from between his lips as his head was pulled further back, further exposing his neck to the sword in front of it.

Minho surged again, snarling, but the second guard caught him from behind, slamming the butt of his rifle into Minho's side. He collapsed to one knee with a grunt, breath knocked out of him, vision flaring white at the edges.

Still, he looked up.

Still, he didn't look away from Jisung.

"Touch him," Minho growled, voice raw, "and I swear to you, I will tear you apart with my bare hands."

Suho laughed.

Not a deranged laugh. Not manic or loud.

Just a soft, delighted chuckle, as if Minho's threat was the most charming thing he'd heard all week.

"You really think you’re still walking away from this?," he asked.

Then he finally looked at Minho, and Minho felt it like ice water down his spine, that slow, calculated gaze that commanded fleets. A man who traded in blood and masks, who smiled while handing down death orders like they were pleasantries.

Suho wasn't dishevelled like the rest of them. Not a thread out of place. He stood at the centre of the carnage like a man who'd never touched dirt in his life.
Minho hated that about him. That control. That distance. The ability to destroy things with perfect posture.
Now, with Jisung kneeling before him and the light catching his blade just so, Minho saw it clearly. Suho didn't just want to win. He wanted to watch them lose.

"I've been waiting for this moment longer than you know," Suho said. "And now, you're both right here. Just where I want you."

Jisung stirred, rasping, "Let him go. This is between us."

But Minho cut across him, louder, more forceful. "Don't, don't talk. He wants that. Don't give him anything."

It didn't matter.

Suho had already turned back, refocusing on Jisung, that smile back on his face like a man admiring a chess game he'd already won.

And the sword dipped, just enough to make Jisung flinch.

Minho's scream caught in his throat. He tried to rise, only to be shoved back down, the steel muzzle of the rifle pressing against the base of his skull now.

He didn't care.

He would have crawled through fire to reach Jisung. Would've ripped through the guard's throat with his teeth if it meant getting even a step closer.

But he couldn't move.

He could only watch as the man he loved knelt in the dirt, a blade at his throat, with death just a breath away.

And it was killing him faster than any wound ever could.

The blade at his throat didn't tremble. Neither did Suho's hand.

Jisung could feel the sharp kiss of the edge, cool against sweat-damp skin, close enough that every shallow breath threatened to press him further into it. But it wasn't the blade that made his stomach churn, it was Suho's hand, tangled in his hair, forcing his head back just enough to rob him of control. To leave him exposed. To make it look like submission.

His knees dug into the stone. Every muscle in his body screamed with the effort not to lash out, not because he feared the pain, but because Minho was watching. Because Minho was still alive.

And if he moved wrong, if he slipped even once, he'd lose him again.

"You should have died along with the rest of your mutinous little fleet that day on the Imperium," Suho murmured at his ear. His voice was too close, silk over poison, and Jisung flinched as breath grazed his skin.

"But instead, you ran. You stole from me. You humiliated me. Used some form of heathen witchcraft to escape."

Jisung's jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He didn't speak. Didn't give him the satisfaction.

Suho let out a slow, breathy chuckle. "Do you know what I lost that day?"

You lost control, Jisung thought viciously. You lost the right to call yourself captain.

But aloud, he rasped, "You lost a floating prison."

That earned him a sharp tug backward. His scalp burned where Suho's fingers tightened, his breath caught in his throat, and then the blade pressed in closer. Not enough to cut deep, not yet, but enough to threaten.

Suho didn't move the blade. Just stood there behind him, calm and composed, like he had all the time in the world. Jisung could feel the rise and fall of his own chest against the tension, how his pulse roared in his ears, louder even than the fire crackling behind the vault.

"You did more than damage a ship," Suho said quietly. "You threatened my name. My command. The fear I had earned. You made me look like a fool."

Jisung breathed through his nose, slow and deliberate, even as his fingers twitched against the gravel beneath him.

"Don't worry," Suho continued, his voice now cool, composed, rehearsed. "You'll pay for the insult. Both of you."

Jisung's eyes darted to Minho, still kneeling opposite him, still flanked by two guards, his face bloodied and furious, jaw tight like he might shatter teeth from sheer restraint.

And then Suho stepped slightly away, like a showman surveying his stage, his grip still tight in Jisung’s hair.

"Now the only question," he mused aloud, "is who dies first."

Jisung stilled.

The words rang out between them like the crack of a pistol, too clean, too final.

"Do I take your little captain first?" Suho said with faux curiosity, tilting his head. "Make you watch, cousin? Or perhaps it would be more poetic to let him see you bleed. To watch you fall and break with nothing he can do about it."

Minho made a low, broken noise, somewhere between a snarl and a plea, and Jisung's stomach turned over.

He couldn't look at him. Not like this. Not with his knees in the dirt and Suho's blade waiting like a noose.

Suho paced, slow and unhurried. "As for your charming little crew," he added, "the ones we've already captured will be tried for treason. They'll hang. One by one. And once we find the rest, they'll join them. I'll burn the ships myself. Nobody sails free from my reach."

Jisung snapped.

He surged forward, muscles screaming in protest, and tried to twist out of Suho's grip, even though it was useless, even though he had no leverage. The movement earned him a brutal yank backward, stars bursting behind his eyes as his scalp seared with fresh pain.

The blade pressed in harder. He gasped, sharp, unbidden, and felt a thin line of warmth trail down his neck.

"Still so stubborn," Suho hissed above him, more annoyed than angry now.

Jisung's chest heaved. Fury coiled inside him like a blade unsheathed, hot and breathless. He couldn't move. He couldn't fight. All he could do was burn from the inside, blood roaring, shame crawling down his spine like acid.

And then, something changed.

A sound.

Sharp. Distant. A crack, then a shout. Another sound closer, a splinter, a scuffle, the unmistakable rhythm of conflict in the distance.

Suho's head jerked toward the trees, shoulders tightening.

"What now?" he muttered, low and irritated.

He didn't loosen his grip on Jisung, not even slightly. But the tension in the air shifted, just enough for Jisung to feel the hair on the back of his neck rise.

Suho turned to one of the guards. "Go," he snapped. "Find out what the hell is happening. Report back."

The man nodded and ran.

The air felt thinner suddenly.

Suho's breath ghosted past his ear as he spoke again, louder now, angrier. "Your heathen friends are more trouble than they're worth."

Jisung's heart stuttered, the words themselves were enough to send fresh panic racing through him.

And then Suho's voice dropped to a mocking lilt. "Still. You shouldn't be surprised that you'll pay for this little stunt. You always were far too proud for your own good."

He yanked Jisung upright by the hair, forcing a strangled cry from his throat, then shoved him forward with brutal force. Jisung barely caught himself on his hands before Suho's boot slammed into his stomach, once, twice, three times in vicious succession. The air wrenched from his lungs in a sharp, choking gasp, pain flaring white-hot across his ribs.

His ribs crunched under the first blow, the world tilting sideways with the second. By the third, he wasn't even breathing, just wheezing against the earth, the taste of ash and copper coating his tongue.

The pain was instant, shocking. It punched the air from his lungs and left him gasping on the dirt, vision swimming with black spots. He couldn't breathe, couldn't even scream as he doubled over, his body curling instinctively to shield his midsection.

Before he could recover, Suho stepped in again. This time, he didn't aim for his torso.

The final kick landed hard against Jisung's right leg, just below the knee. Something gave with a sickening crack.

Jisung screamed, the sound raw and involuntary as he collapsed sideways, clutching at his leg. Agony shot through him like lightning, cold sweat beading instantly on his forehead.

The world blurred. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just pain, blinding and absolute, the bone unmistakably broken.
He curled instinctively, fingers clawing at the dirt, but even that small motion sent fire screaming up through his leg. And worse than the pain was the shame, the knowledge that Minho was watching. That he couldn't protect himself. That he couldn't stand.

Suho didn't even look down. Just turned away as if he'd swatted a dog, leaving Jisung writhing in the dirt, his breath ragged and shattered.

He heard Suho move, the deliberate scrape of boots across stone as he turned his attention elsewhere.

"No more delays," Suho announced. "If I can't have the pleasure of making this slow," his voice turned vicious, "then I'll at least take satisfaction in knowing you watched him die."

Jisung's blood ran cold.

"No..." he rasped, still breathless, reaching out blindly. "No, please!"

He could hear it, even without seeing. The sound of Suho approaching Minho. Of his boots halting. A pause, then Suho's voice, cruel and slow.

"I truly hope it was all worth it, Captain Lee."

Jisung forced his head up through the haze, eyes burning with smoke and pain and tears. He saw Minho still held in place by the last guard, chest heaving, teeth gritted. His sword was gone. His arm hung limp, blood-streaked. But his eyes, his eyes were still fire.

"Fuck you," Minho snarled, his voice hoarse. "Do it, then. I'm not afraid of you."

Suho laughed softly. "You should be."

And then, with terrifying ease, he drew his sword and, and the. drove it forward, thrusting it down roughly.

The sound it made was wet and final. A sickening lurch of steel into flesh.

Jisung screamed.

His voice tore through the air, raw and useless.

Minho's eyes went wide, breath catching as the blade slid home into his gut. Suho didn't let go immediately. He held it there, watching him closely, like he wanted to see the exact second Minho's resistance faltered.

It didn't, not right away.

Minho knelt for a second longer, a tremble running through him. Blood spread quickly across his shirt, a deep crimson flower blooming at his sternum.

Then his body buckled, and he dropped.

Jisung tried to crawl toward him, dragging himself forward despite the fire in his lungs, the ache in his belly. He couldn't feel his legs, couldn't think past the noise in his head. All he knew was that Minho had fallen.

"Minho!"

The guard holding Minho released his grip at Suho's command and turned to follow the other down the ridge, rifle still in hand.

Suho crouched beside the fallen body, brushing dust from his glove before reaching down to twist the blade free. Minho gave no reaction. His chest barely moved. His face was pale, too pale.

"That's the thing about love," Suho said lightly, as though explaining something simple. "It makes you weak. Predictable. You'd have made it out if you'd just stayed away."

Jisung didn't respond.

Couldn't.

He had nothing left. His breath came in shallow bursts. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the dirt.

"Still," Suho continued, rising to his feet. "He was beautiful in the end. Quiet. Tragic. You'll remember that part, won't you?"

He didn't walk away.

Instead, he lingered a few feet off, arms folded behind his back, watching.

Watching Jisung break.

Jisung didn't register him anymore. The world had narrowed to the shape of the man he loved bleeding out on the stone, to the dark stain spreading beneath him, to the limp hand that had once held his own with so much certainty. So much warmth.

He dragged himself across the dirt, broken leg trailing uselessly behind him. Every breath was a gasp. Every movement sent new waves of agony through his ribs and spine. But he didn't stop. Couldn't. Not when Minho was lying there. Not when he could still see his chest rising in shallow, struggling breaths.

Each inch forward felt like miles. His palms slipped in blood, his or Minho's, he couldn't tell, and the broken leg still dragged behind him, leaving a jagged line in the soot.
His arms shook with the effort, elbows scraping stone, but still he didn't stop.
Get to him. Just get to him.
His thoughts pulsed with the rhythm of it, over and over again, a chant to block out the pain.
His vision swam, but there, there was Minho's shoulder, still just barely rising and falling. Still alive. Please, still alive.

"Minho..." Jisung's voice was hoarse and cracked. He reached out, hands trembling, and cradled the side of Minho's face, tilting it gently toward him. "Minho, please, stay with me. Please."

Minho blinked slowly, lashes trembling against the soot clinging to his skin. His breath came shallow and thin, each exhale more laboured than the last. Jisung hovered over him, trembling hands pressed to Minho's chest, desperate to keep him here, grounded, alive.

Then Minho's gaze shifted, lower, toward Jisung's coat, just over his heart. His brow creased faintly.

"What's that...?" he rasped quietly.

Jisung glanced down, startled, and only then realized the edge of the hourglass had slipped partially into view, tucked inside the folds of his coat. He moved to cover it again, but Minho's hand lifted, fingers brushing against the fabric with barely any strength.

"The hourglass," Minho whispered, eyes widening just enough to glint in the dim light. "You have it..."

Jisung swallowed hard. "Hongjoong gave it to me, just before they dragged him away. I don't know what it does. I didn't-"

Minho coughed, a wet, broken sound. But his eyes locked onto Jisung's with sudden, fierce clarity. "Together. With the compass, that's how you can escape" he said, voice hoarse and cracked. "Turn it. The hourglass will freeze time for you. Think of what you need. Where you need to go. The compass will guide you."

Jisung was already crying, silent and shaking. "Minho, no. Don't say this. We're going to get out of here, together. You're going to be fine."

But Minho just smiled, so softly it nearly destroyed him. "You always were the only thing I ever needed."

His hand slipped from Jisung's chest. His body sagged, the last of his strength gone.

"No, no, no!" Jisung choked, gathering him close, one hand gripping the back of Minho's coat, the other clutching desperately at his face. "Minho, please, please, stay with me!"

But Minho didn't speak.

Didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

The fire still raged behind them, painting the sky with smoke and ruin. And Jisung knelt there in the ash, heart shattering in his chest, clutching the man he loved, already turning cold as the world burned around them.

And Suho just stood there, watching him fall apart.

The sky was burning.

And Jisung was alone.

Chapter 30: Confluence

Time had always been cruel.

It stole the people you loved. It burned everything you built. It dragged you forward, bleeding and broken, and never once looked back.

But maybe, just maybe, it could be made to listen.

Jisung's hands moved without thought. One into his coat, closing around the hourglass, the other grasping the compass Minho had placed in his hands just a few short hours ago.

The metal of the compass was still warm, blood-slick from his hands. The hourglass was cold. Almost impossibly so. A strange chill crawled up his wrist as he brought them both forward, his breath ragged, shallow.

Smoke hung frozen in the air like suspended ghosts. Suho stood only a few paces away, half-turned, hands slick with Minho's blood, watching him. Relishing the sight of Jisung in pain, both physical and emotional.

Jisung could still feel it, the shattering of something inside him, the moment the world ended.

And so he tipped the hourglass.

At the same moment, he snapped the lid of the compass open.

The world screamed.

Not aloud, not with sound. But in feeling, in pressure, in a sudden stillness that dropped over everything like a veil. Suho froze mid-step. The flames held perfectly still. The wind stopped. Even the embers suspended in the air no longer drifted.

Jisung's breath hitched.

The only thing moving was the compass.

It spun violently, anticlockwise, the needle pulling hard in every direction like it couldn't decide where it was supposed to land. And beneath his fingers, the hourglass began to glow, just faintly, a pulse of light from the centre where the sands met.

Then, it moved.

The hourglass turned again, on its own, flipping slowly back to its starting position. The sands, once nearly spent, began to rise instead of fall. Grain by grain, they lifted, pulled backward in defiance of gravity.

Jisung watched, frozen.

And then something stranger happened.

The world shimmered.

A ripple passed over the clearing like heat off stone. At first, he thought it was another hallucination, the product of blood loss and grief.

But then he saw them.

Figures, faint and blue and only half-real. Ghostlike. Transparent.

Minho.

Suho.

Flickering into existence like reflections on rippled water, step by painful step.

Jisung's heart lurched.

The ghost-like version of Minho's body, the one he'd just held, still and cooling, rose from the ground, pulled upright by invisible strings. The blade slid out of him in reverse, no wound left in its wake. Suho stepped away, backing into his previous position. Jisung saw his own form as well, crumpled on the ground, leg broken, and even that began to change. He felt a sharp spike of pain tear through his thigh, bright and blinding...

And then it vanished.

The bone knitted back together.

The bruises on his ribs faded. His lungs filled properly for the first time since the kicks. His vision cleared.

Time wasn't just frozen.

It was reversing.

Faster now.

The ghost-forms jerked, movements becoming more fluid, Minho rising, Suho retreating, his sword back by his side, as it was before he struck Minho. The only thing different was the missing guard. Presumably because his real body was outside the area that the hourglass was able to affect.

Jisung stared.

His fingers clenched tighter around the hourglass and compass. They were burning now, cold and hot at once, vibrating slightly like they were alive.

And then...

Stillness.

Everything stopped.

The ghost images froze mid-motion, translucent echoes of what had just been.

Minho, kneeling, eyes wide, spine straight, just before Suho struck.

Suho, sword drawn back ready to thrust forward, cruel smile fixed on his face.

It was the moment before death.

And Jisung knew.

This was it.

The hourglass had carried him back. The compass had brought him here. Not just where he needed to be. But when.

And for the first time since all this began, Jisung wasn't powerless.

He stood, legs steady beneath him, Minho at his back. The dagger in his belt felt inevitable in his hand.

He didn't wait.

Didn't think.

Didn't breathe.

He lunged.

The world was still dreamlike, the ghost images warping around him like smoke, but he broke through them like glass, into the space where the real Suho now stood, just beginning to move again, just starting to react.

He didn't have time.

Didn't need it.

Jisung plunged the dagger into Suho's chest, all the way to the hilt.

Suho's mouth opened in a silent scream.

And the world roared back into motion.

From Minho's eyes, the world had narrowed to ash, to the pain in his side, to the shaking rise and fall of his chest. But mostly, to Jisung.

Jisung, broken on the ground, curled around a mangled leg, gasping in pain, eyes wide with horror. His coat was torn, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs as if trying to keep himself from falling apart.

And Suho was raising the blade.

Minho felt it coming. The stillness in the moment before a storm broke. The pressure in the air, like the world was holding its breath.

So was he.

He didn't scream. Didn't fight. He just watched Jisung's face, and let his heart break.

I'm sorry.
The words echoed through him, though he didn't speak them aloud.

I'm sorry you have to see this. Sorry I wasn't fast enough. Sorry I ever dragged you into this world.
Sorry you loved me.

He braced for it, for steel through flesh, for the end.

And then the air... Shivered.

That was the only word his mind could give it. It shimmered, like heat over stone, like the ripple of disturbed water. For a split second, light fractured around him, gold and blue and white, and something shifted deep in his chest, like time itself had drawn breath.

Then Jisung was gone.

No... Not gone.

He was suddenly stood in front of him, but not as he had been.

Not crippled, not cowering.

He was upright, fierce, glowing with fury, his face twisted with something feral and desperate. His hand was firm around the dagger he had somehow plunged straight into Suho's chest, straight and true, to the hilt.

There was no sound at first. Just the way Suho's mouth opened, lips shaping disbelief more than pain. His blade clattered noisily from his hand to the floor.

Minho flinched as if the air had cracked like thunder. The trees shook. Somewhere distant, a bird shrieked into flight.

But all Minho could see was Jisung, stalking forward, eyes locked on Suho as the man stumbled backwards, Jisung's hands trembling not with weakness, but with raw force. He kept the dagger buried deep and twisted.

Suho staggered, breath wheezing out in a wet gurgle. His hand came up as if to grab Jisung's shoulder, to fight, to retaliate, but there was no strength left in him. Blood soaked the front of his uniform, spilling down in thick rivulets.

Minho was frozen. He couldn't process it. Couldn't breathe.

Jisung, who a heartbeat ago had been broken and helpless, was standing, radiant with vengeance, eyes locked viciously on the man who had haunted them both.

Suho finally dropped to his knees.

Then to his side.

And then, he moved no more.

Jisung swayed where he stood, one hand still clenched around the blood-slicked hilt, the other braced at his side. He was pale. Shaking. His breathing came fast and shallow.

But he was alive.

Minho let out a sound, half-gasp, half-sob, and reached for him without thinking, every nerve in his body screaming in disbelief.

"Jisung...?"

Jisung didn't answer right away. He stared down at Suho's body, as if unsure he was really gone. Then, finally, he looked up, and when he saw Minho, his entire face crumpled.

He stumbled toward him, knees buckling, and Minho caught him as best he could, dragging him into his arms despite the pain. He didn't care. Nothing else mattered.

Jisung was alive.

And so was he.

Somehow, impossibly, they'd turned the tide.

And Suho...

Suho was dead.

Minho's arms were around him, strong, solid, alive, and for a moment Jisung couldn't breathe.

He clutched at the front of Minho's shirt, burying his face in the soot-stained fabric, overwhelmed by the warmth of him. He was alive. Breathing. Holding him.

Then Minho pulled back slightly, one hand cupping the side of his face, eyes wide and wild with confusion.

"What the hell just happened?"

Jisung broke.

Tears spilled over in a rush, his shoulders wracked with sobs before he could even form words. "You were dead," he choked. "Minho, you were dead, he killed you... Right in front of me!"

Minho's expression shattered, and he pulled him close again, cradling the back of his head like he could shield him from the memory.

"I saw it..." Jisung gasped. "I held you. I felt you go cold, and I-" His breath stuttered. "I didn't know what else to do. I just, I had the hourglass and the compass and I... I used them-"

Minho stiffened slightly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes again. "You what?"

Jisung's hands fumbled beneath his coat, producing both objects, the hourglass, still cool in his palm, and the compass, its needle trembling faintly though it had stopped spinning.

"I didn't know what they'd do," he said, voice breaking. "But you told me to turn the hourglass, and to follow the compass. To escape."

Minho reached for the hourglass, fingertips brushing its surface. "But it didn't just freeze time, did it?"

Jisung shook his head. "No. It reversed it. I saw everything happen backwards, like the world had unravelled. Like time itself was folding up and stitching itself closed again." He looked down at the objects in his hands. "I think... Together, it changed something. The compass showed me where to go, not just where, but when. And the hourglass let me get there."

Minho stared at the items, brow furrowed. "They're linked," he murmured. "The way they reacted to each other... Like one was the lock and the other the key."

Jisung nodded, wiping at his eyes with the back of one trembling hand. "I think we can do more with them. But we don't have time to figure it out."

Minho blinked, as if remembering the world again, and sat back. "The others-"

"Still in trouble," Jisung said grimly, pushing himself to his feet. "Suho sent those guards ahead, if we're not quick they may not even make it to the gallows. We have to move."

Minho stood beside him with a grimace, one hand pressed briefly to his side, but his eyes were burning again with purpose.

The sound of fighting grew louder as they crested the ridge, the clash of steel, the crack of flintlocks, shouts and cries echoing through the smoke-hazed night.

Minho didn't hesitate. He broke into a run, Suho's sword gripped tight in his hand, Jisung right at his side, boots pounding over ash and blood-slick earth.

The clearing below was chaos.

The remnants of the crew were locked in brutal combat with the remaining guards. Bodies littered the ground, some unconscious, others worryingly still. Blood streaked the dirt. Sparks flew where blades met. The air stank of sweat, metal, and scorched powder.

His eyes swept the scene, searching.

Felix.

He lay sprawled beside Seungmin, who knelt protectively over him, trying to pull him further out of harm's way with a knife in one shaking hand and panic in his face. Mingi was duelling two guards at once, wild and furious, and Chan was backed up against a half-toppled supply crate, keeping three more at bay with a broken cutlass.

They were holding the line, barely.

Minho didn't think. He just moved.

He and Jisung plunged into the fray like a storm hitting shore.

Jisung's dagger flashed, fast, precise, his strikes aimed to wound and disable, not kill. He was a whirlwind of movement, sliding past blades, catching wrists, slicing tendons. A ghost in the smoke, impossible to pin down.

Minho followed in his wake like a shadow, driving Suho's heavy broadsword into every opening Jisung left behind. It wasn't elegant, it was nothing like the swift, balanced weight of his rapier, but it was devastating. Brutal. Effective.

There was an irony in it, one he couldn't ignore.

This blade had ended him. Had carved a future in blood that Jisung had undone.

Now it was his.

Now it protected him.

Minho gritted his teeth and ducked a swing from a club-wielding guard, countering with a savage upward slash that split the man's arm open to the bone. The scream was short, drowned in the noise, but Minho didn't slow.

He and Jisung moved together like they'd been forged in the same fire.

Every pivot, every strike, every shift in rhythm, instinctual. When Jisung dropped low to hamstring one attacker, Minho caught the man's stagger and drove the sword up into his ribs. When Minho blocked a wild lunge from behind, Jisung was already there, blade sinking into the man's side with barely a glance.

Their eyes met across the battle for half a second, and Minho grinned.

Jisung, panting, blood streaked across his cheek, grinned back.

They didn't need words.

And then...

Thunk.

A high-pitched whistle, then a boom, as a grenado tore through the enemy's back line. Dirt and fire sprayed into the air, sending three guards flying and cutting a clean path through the chaos.

"'Bout time," Minho muttered, and sure enough...

Changbin came charging in through the trees, wild-eyed and yelling, the rest of the crew at his back. Hyunjin, Yunho, Wooyoung and the rest, all of them cut through the smoke with weapons ready and fury carved into their faces.

Minho didn't pause.

He surged forward with a roar, Suho's blade sweeping out like judgment.

They weren't losing anyone else tonight.

Not while he still drew breath. Not with Jisung beside him.

Not again.

Jisung didn't stop moving.

Not until the last of the guards fell, a final, gasping cry swallowed by smoke and steel. He drove his dagger up under the man's ribs and twisted once, clean and silent. The soldier crumpled without ceremony, his blade clattering uselessly to the ground.

And then... Silence.

No more shouts. No more gunfire. Just the soft rustle of wind through burning leaves, the crackle of embers, and the groans of the wounded.

Jisung froze, chest heaving.

It was over.

He turned slowly, eyes scanning the clearing. The crew was scattered across the battlefield, cut and bloodied, leaning on each other, patching wounds with torn sleeves and belts. Seungmin was crouched over Felix again, pressing fingers to his throat with trembling hands.

"He's breathing," Seungmin said, when he noticed Jisung watching. His voice cracked with relief. "Just unconscious. Bastard with the club got him."

Jisung's knees nearly gave out from under him.

Not dead.

None of them were dead.

He stumbled forward, dropping to his knees beside Felix. Seungmin moved aside just enough to give him space. Jisung pressed a hand to Felix's forehead, then his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the soft gusts of air from his nose. The relief hit him like a wave, hard and cold and shaking. His vision blurred.

"Thank the stars," he whispered, voice wrecked.

Felix didn't stir, but he was still here.

Across the clearing, Minho limped toward him, Suho's sword dragging just slightly in his hand now. He looked like hell, bloody, bruised, one side of his shirt nearly black with drying blood, but his eyes met Jisung's, and they were bright. Alive.

Jisung exhaled shakily.

Chan shouldered Felix carefully, the unconscious weight balanced against his back as the rest of the crew slowly gathered, clutching injuries, leaning on each other. Hyunjin had a gash running down one temple. Yunho held his side with one arm, soaked through. Wooyoung was limping heavily but still grinning, some awful joke probably forming on his lips even now.

Jisung pushed himself to his feet. His body screamed in protest. His ribs throbbed. His leg, though whole again, remembered the pain of being broken. But none of it mattered.

They had survived the Imperium. The fire. The vault. Suho.

And despite everything, every cursed twist of fate, they were walking out of this.

Together.

They started moving slowly, like ghosts in the fog, toward the treeline where the skiffs waited. The path was lit with faint moonlight now, scattered between the smoke. Someone laughed, high and cracked, maybe out of shock, and someone else cried softly as they leaned on one another for support.

Jisung kept walking, one foot in front of the other, his arm brushing Minho's as they moved side by side.

"We made it," Minho murmured, voice so low it might've been a breath.

Jisung nodded, staring straight ahead.

His fingers curled around the compass in his coat pocket.
The hourglass, still cold, nestled just beneath it.
He didn't know what magic had saved them, only that it had.

They made it back to the beach just before sunset, the horizon streaked with bruised purple and faint orange. The skiffs remained where they'd left them, waiting like faithful hounds. Exhausted hands hauled them into the water one by one. No one spoke much after that.

The camp they'd set up earlier now resembled a battlefield's edge, bloodied packs, discarded weapons, bedrolls unrolled in a hurry.

Jisung didn't rest.

None of them truly did.

He, Seungmin, and Seonghwa moved immediately among the wounded, washing out cuts, binding broken limbs, staunching bleeding as best they could, and handing out the precious few morphine ampoules. The makeshift infirmary was a quiet, grim patch of sand near the far edge of the trees, where the tide wouldn't reach and the firelight could offer some warmth.

They had no proper medicine. No antiseptic beyond what they carried. But Seonghwa's hands were steady, and Seungmin's sharp eye didn't miss a thing, no matter how exhausted he looked. Jisung worked in silence, jaw tight, sleeves rolled high, hands slick with blood, most of it not his.

It wasn't until dusk was beginning to creep across the sky that he heard the voices.

Bickering.

Strange, sharp , and more than that, unexpected.

He turned his head and blinked through the haze of exhaustion.

Jeongin and Yunho stood a short distance off, near a pile of salvaged supplies. They were facing each other, low-voiced and visibly tense.

"No, you're not listening," Jeongin was saying. "I'm not saying we rush in blind-"

"Oh, forgive me," Yunho cut in, tone uncharacteristically bitter. "I forgot you were the expert on risk."

"Don't be an ass," Jeongin snapped. "You know damn well I'm right."

That, more than the words themselves, gave Jisung pause. He'd known these two for long enough now to know this was out of character for them. Jeongin rarely snapped, and Yunho never spoke like that unless something was very wrong.

He stood slowly, brushing bloodied palms on his trousers, and made his way over. The ache in his body screamed at him to lie down, but curiosity, and unease, pushed him forward.

Yunho noticed first.

"Oh, come on," he sighed, throwing up his hands. "Jisung'll talk some sense into you."

Jeongin crossed his arms, but didn't turn away.

"What's going on?" Jisung asked.

Jeongin was the first to answer. "There's still gold in the vault," he said. "More than half of it, probably. We didn't get everything."

Jisung frowned. "And?"

"And now that the guards are gone," Jeongin said, "we could go back. There's nothing stopping us. Just ash and rubble."

Yunho stepped in again, arms folded. "Except the fact that the place nearly buried us. Except the roof was caving in. Except half of us are barely standing upright."

"We'd take a smaller team," Jeongin insisted. "Just the strongest left. No fighting. Just lifting."

"And if it collapses while you're under it?" Yunho demanded. "What then? We got more than we planned for already. Risking lives for more gold is a fool's errand."

Jisung exhaled slowly. He saw the tension in both their stances, Jeongin's dogged stubbornness, Yunho's thin-lipped worry. And frustratingly, they were both right.

The vault had been a death trap. But there was still more wealth waiting beneath its broken shell, more than most of them had ever dreamed of.

Jisung raked a hand through his hair, looking between them. "We'll put it to a vote," he said finally. "That's the only right way."

The vote was held in the flickering firelight, one hand raised at a time. There were murmurs, debates, but no shouting.

When the count was finished, only Yunho, Chan, Seungmin, and Jongho voted against.

Everyone else voted to return.

The return to the vault was done in near silence, the dawn casting long, pale rays over scorched stone and ash-streaked ground. The damage was worse than most remembered, the walls blackened and buckled in places, deep cracks spidering across the floor like veins. But somehow, the main structure still stood, stubborn and solid.

Where once the hallways had been winding and reinforced, now shattered portions of the walls exposed shorter routes to the vault's heart. The six of them, Jisung, Wooyoung, Seonghwa, Hongjoong, Minho, and a grumbling but ultimately compliant Chan, moved carefully through the ruin, stepping over collapsed beams and fractured tiles until they reached the treasure chamber.

The air inside was hot and stale, thick with dust and smoke, but the gold waited undisturbed, glittering faintly in the morning light. No traps. No guards. Just the slow, deliberate work of gathering the gold. They filled heavy canvas bags until their shoulders ached, stacking them neatly in rows to haul back to the skiffs, one by one.

They returned to the skiffs hunched under the weight of the final bags, arms trembling, boots scuffing through the ash and churned dirt, and were met with a sound that struck like sunlight after weeks of rain. Cheering.

Loud, raw, unrestrained.

The crew surged forward to help unload the gold, clapping backs, slapping shoulders, laughing like they couldn't believe it was real. Jisung saw Jeongin throw his arms in the air and spin in a full circle, hollering toward the sky, while Wooyoung let out a whoop that echoed over the treeline. Even Chan cracked a tired grin as he dropped his burden and rolled his shoulder with a grimace.

The bags piled up in the sand beside the skiffs, dull canvas bulging with gleaming weight, and for a moment, nobody moved. They just stared at it, the full measure of their survival, their sacrifice, their defiance.

By mid-afternoon, Seungmin finally straightened from where he'd been crouched by one of the wounded and gave a terse nod. "They're stable enough," he said. "We can move them."

That was all it took.

The crew organized with practiced ease, pain or not, they were sailors first. The strongest loaded the gold into the skiffs, distributing the weight evenly. Those uninjured or lightly scraped took up the oars, while the more battered and bloodied were helped gently into position. Chan lifted Felix with care, his now conscious but still battered form curled against his chest, and settled him across the floorboards like something precious. Jeongin and Seungmin moved together, checking bandages and murmuring reassurances.

One by one, they clambered back aboard. As Jisung's boots hit the deck, a deep breath rushed from his lungs. The familiar creak of timbers beneath him, the smell of salt and sun-warmed wood, it hit like safety. Like truth.

Felix was carried belowdecks on a makeshift stretcher, Chan shadowing every step. Seungmin trailed behind them, already barking orders and checking pulses. There were scrapes and cuts, bruised ribs and twisted ankles, but still, they were all here. All of them.

Minho stood near the helm, Suho's sword still strapped at his hip. He looked over the rail toward the second ship where the rest of their allies were assembling. Jisung moved to his side, their shoulders brushing as the sails were unfurled and the anchors lifted. Together, the two ships began to drift out with the tide, the wind catching their sails and pulling them back into the open sea.

Hours later, with the sun low and golden across the water, the crew gathered in the galley, bruised, exhausted, but triumphant. The gold had been brought aboard under heavy guard and laid out across a long table and several barrels. Thick bars of it, cool and shining, stacked in neat rows beside sacks that clinked and bulged with loose pieces.

Seungmin crouched beside the largest pile, chalk in hand, muttering calculations under his breath. Jeongin hovered nearby, eyes wide as dinner plates. Everyone else leaned in, holding their breath.

Finally, Seungmin straightened. He looked tired. Disbelieving.

"Well?" Wooyoung asked, voice barely a whisper.

Seungmin ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. "There's about a hundred and fifty bars here. Maybe more. Judging by weight and quality..." He hesitated, then gave a short, stunned laugh. "At least two hundred and fifty thousand gold pieces' worth. And that's not counting the loose coinage we pulled."

Silence followed.

Then someone let out a long, low whistle.

And then, chaos.

Cheers broke out. Someone whooped loud enough to shake the beams. Jeongin actually leapt onto a crate and shouted something entirely incoherent but joyful. Even Chan let out a breath that might've been a laugh.

Jisung sat down hard on a bench, his head in his hands, and laughed until his eyes stung.

They were battered, bloodied, and bruised.

But they were free.

They were rich.

And they were alive.

Chapter 31: Epilogue

Notes:

We’re finally at the end of the story! My thanks for everybody who has stayed through to the end :)

The needle bit in sharp, precise.

Jisung sucked in a breath through his teeth and glanced down at the skin between his chest and right shoulder, already pink and reddening under Minho's steady hand. The ink glistened faintly, black lines forming the familiar shape of a compass, elegant and weatherworn, the same design etched on the rest of the crew.

Minho didn't speak at first, eyes focused, mouth set in concentration. The ship rocked gently beneath them, the midday sun slanting through the open hatch above. Around them, the crew had gathered like moths to flame, perched on crates and barrels, crowded into the room with far too much excitement for something that objectively looked like torture.

Finally, Minho said, deadpan, without looking up, "You guys do remember this takes a while, right? You're not actually planning on sitting here the whole time, are you?"

"I am," Jeongin said immediately, arms crossed. "This is the first time I've gotten to see someone else get theirs. I was the last one, remember?"

"Emotional support," Felix chimed in from beside him, chin propped on his arms, grinning brightly. "Barrel-boy's got a low pain threshold."

"Hey," Jisung muttered.

Seungmin, seated on the other side of the room with a mug of tea, didn't even look up. "I just came to listen to him whine."

Minho dipped the needle into the ink, and Jisung hissed softly through his teeth when he brought it to his skin again. But he didn't complain. Not really. The sting was grounding, almost comforting. And the noise of the others filled the room like warmth.

"I'm getting new boots," Jeongin declared proudly, arms still crossed over his chest. "Real ones this time. None of this second-hand market-leather garbage. And a better hammock. One that doesn't throw me out like it's haunted."

"I'll come with you," Hyunjin offered with a flourish. "I know boots. We'll get you a pair that actually match the rest of your clothes for once."

Jeongin narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing," Hyunjin said sweetly. "If we're trying to offend every tailor in the Southern hemisphere."

Felix snorted and leaned back on his elbows. "Forget boots. I want fish stew. The one from that stall in Almazar. With the black pepper and the lemon slices? I dream about that stew."

Seungmin set down his tea with a quiet clink. "Before anyone buys fish or fashion, we're going to need to restock rigging, gunpowder, salt meat, tar, sailcloth, and three barrels of drinking water. Minimum. And that's before repairs."

A collective groan went around the room.

"You're such a buzzkill," Changbin called from somewhere near the stairs.

Seungmin didn't bother to respond.

Jisung smiled, letting their voices wash over him, soft and familiar. It wasn't just noise. It was them. The Levanter crew, his crew, arguing about boots and hammocks and stew, even after fire and death and miracles. As if none of that had broken them. As if they were still whole.

And maybe, in a way, they were.

His family.

Bickering like families do.

He winced slightly as Minho hit a tender spot near the curve of his shoulder, but didn't complain. He could take the sting.

The noise around him began to dim, softening into a distant murmur, the sound of laughter, boots creaking on old wood, the clink of Seungmin's mug. But it all faded like the shore disappearing behind a ship's wake. Jisung let it, his focus narrowing to the burn of ink and the rhythmic press of Minho's hand.

He drew in a slow breath, sharp at the edges, as the needle bit in again.

Minho worked with a simple needle affixed to a slim wooden haft, lashed tight with linen thread. The ink was handmade too, soot and alcohol mixed down with clean water, thick and dark and a little smoky in scent. He dipped the needle into the inkwell, then tapped it carefully into Jisung's skin with a short stick, like a chisel, one dot at a time.

It was precise, patient work. Each puncture a small bloom of pain. Not unbearable, but steady. Constant. A low thrum just beneath the skin, like a fever that never quite broke.

Jisung could feel every point of it, Minho's careful hand at his shoulder to steady the skin, the faint pull each time Minho stretched it tight, the tap-tap-tap of the haft striking home. A line here. A curve there. Ink set beneath the surface, meant to stay forever.

Time slowed. Became defined not by minutes or words, but by the steady rhythm of pain and pressure, of ink working its way into flesh.

It should've been maddening.

Instead, it grounded him.

The fire was behind them. The vault. The gold. The blood. All of it felt suspended now, caught in the stillness between each strike. As if this moment, this mark, was carving something deeper, not just into his body, but into the story of who he was. Of who they were.

He let his eyes drift shut.

Minho didn't speak. Didn't need to. His hands knew what they were doing. Knew this design by heart, the compass, matching the one over his own heart.

He'd inked this same shape into every member of the Levanter crew. Each time, it had meant they were fully a part of the crew, a tether to something greater than any one of them alone. He remembered each of them clearly, the way Jeongin had winced and cursed under his breath, trying not to look, how Felix had grinned through it, talking too much just to keep from sitting still, Seungmin, stone-faced but grateful, his thanks quiet and sincere.

But this one was different.

Jisung sat in front of him, spine straight, breath controlled, his shoulder bare beneath the afternoon light. And Minho... Minho felt everything.

He tapped the stick gently against the haft of the needle, guiding the ink beneath Jisung's skin. One dot at a time. The ink bloomed in neat black lines, the beginnings of the compass taking shape. North first, always north, then the slow, careful arc of the outer ring.

Minho kept his expression composed. Calm. But inside, the swell of emotion pressed tight behind his ribs.

He had done this before.

But never like this.

Not with hands that had once gone cold in Jisung's arms. Not with the memory of that blade still lingering in the back of his mind. Not with the ghost of death itself still retreating behind them.

Jisung had dragged him back from the edge, torn time open and rewound it just to save him.

So this ink wasn't just a mark of belonging.

It was a vow in return.

Every line he placed felt heavier than the last, not in weight, but in meaning. This compass would sit on Jisung's skin. A twin to his own. A promise that, wherever they ended up, storm-tossed or sunlit, they would find their way back to each other.

Minho paused for a second, letting the inkwell settle. His eyes drifted up to Jisung's profile. There was a slight crease between his brows, his jaw set tight, but he wasn't flinching. He was bearing it, quietly, like he always did. Like he had since the very first time Minho met him, too clever for his own good, too loyal for his own safety.

Minho looked down again and kept working.

A few more lines.

A final ring.

He tapped in the last dot, precise and steady.

Done.

But he didn't pull away right away. He sat there for a moment longer, hand still resting on Jisung's shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin, the slight tremble beneath it. He could feel Jisung breathing, shallow, steady, and he knew that Jisung could feel the weight of it too. The truth behind the ink.

Minho didn't need to say it aloud.

He was here. Still here.

Because Jisung had brought him back.

Minho sat back slowly, wiping the last of the ink from Jisung's skin with a rum-soaked cloth. The compass gleamed stark and perfect, its lines crisp despite the redness already beginning to swell around them. It would scab, then heal, and by the time it did, Jisung would carry a piece of their bond in flesh and blood, something more permanent than even the gold they'd claimed.

As Minho cleaned his tools and reached for a fresh cloth, his thoughts drifted, not to the moment itself, but to everything that had led to it. And everything they had chosen not to say.

The crew didn't know. Not really.

They knew Suho had been waiting for them. That he'd tried to kill them. That they'd fought, and bled, and won. But the truth, the full, heart-splitting, time-shattering truth, was something he and Jisung had kept to themselves.

Because what could they even say?

"Minho died, but Jisung turned back time."

Even Minho could hardly wrap his mind around it, let alone try to explain it to others. What mattered most, in the end, was that they were all alive. That they were free. That the future was theirs again.

So they hadn't told them how close it had come to falling apart. How close they had come to not making it out at all.

The only person they had confided in was Hongjoong.

It had been a quiet conversation, away from the others, late one night on the deck of The Crimson Siren while the two ships drifted side by side. Hongjoong had listened intently as Jisung explained, turning the compass over in one hand while the hourglass glowed faintly on a crate between them.

He hadn't doubted them. Not for a moment.

Instead, he'd grown quiet. Then thoughtful. Then intrigued.

"There's more to these than luck or chance," he'd murmured, voice low. "Artifacts like this... They don't just fall into our hands without purpose."

It hadn't taken long for the two captains to come to an agreement. Until they could find the answers, and maybe even after that, the Levanter and the Siren would sail together. Two ships, one alliance. A shared goal that neither of them could name yet, only feel in their bones.

And no one had been more thrilled by that than Jeongin.

Minho allowed himself a faint smile at the memory of the boy's relieved grin, the way he'd practically skipped across the deck when Yunho confirmed he'd be staying. Their argument about the gold had faded into dust, forgotten like so many other worries that no longer held weight.

Now, they were exactly where they needed to be. Together.

Minho glanced down at the compass etched into Jisung's shoulder, still fresh, still gleaming.

"Is it done?" Jisung asked quietly, eyes cracking open, voice a little hoarse from the hours of stillness and pain.

Minho smiled down at him, soft and tired but full of warmth. "Yeah," he said. "It's done."

Jisung exhaled like he'd been holding that breath for days.

The others had gone quiet by now, their earlier bickering and chatter fading as they leaned in to see. Jeongin was the first to scoot forward, eyes wide with anticipation.

"Move your arm, let me see!"

Jisung shifted slightly, letting his shoulder angle toward the group. The light from the lantern above caught the fresh ink, the compass gleaming faintly against the red, irritated skin. Its lines were bold, clean, exact. A perfect match to Minho's own.

There was a brief, reverent silence.

Then...

"Oh, come on," Seungmin groaned. "Why does his look better than mine?"

Minho, still crouched behind Jisung, rolled his eyes. "It doesn't."

"It absolutely does," Seungmin replied, completely ignoring him. "Look at the linework on the outer ring. That wasn't there on mine."

"That was there on yours," Minho muttered.

"I'm gonna need proof."

Felix snorted. "You just want a reason to take your pants off."

Jeongin made a strangled sound of protest and quickly shielded his eyes. "Please don't start stripping. I just ate."

The room burst into laughter, Jisung smiling through a wince as the motion tugged at sore skin. The ache in his shoulder was sharp, insistent, but it was a grateful sort of pain, one that told him he was here, alive, and surrounded by the people he loved most in the world.

His family.

Minho placed a gentle hand over the tattooed skin, protective despite the teasing around them. "You'll need to keep it clean for the next few days. No rolling in dirt. No bloodbaths. No knife fights."

"So... Nothing fun," Jisung said.

Minho's mouth twitched. "Exactly."

The warm, briny breeze of Alzamar carried the familiar scent of salt, spice, and the distant sweetness of citrus trees along the shoreline. Jisung stood on the deck of The Levanter, his hands resting on the railing as he looked out across the vibrant, sun-washed port town.

They hadn't attempted to dock at a port town since Wonderland.

But now, there was no more danger.

It had been a month since the vault. A month since time turned itself inside out in his hands. Since Minho had died, albeit briefly, and come back. Since Suho had bled out on blackened stone, and the Han Trading Company had begun to crumble from within.

Their ships had burned. Their ledgers seized. Their remaining captains had either vanished into the smoke or turned on one another like dogs over scraps.

And just last week, word reached them that the bounty on Minho had been officially withdrawn. No more bribes passed under darkened tavern tables. No more bristling tension when they entered a neutral port. The price on his head had disappeared like dust in the wind.

They were free.

Truly, finally, undeniably free.

And now, The Levanter was docked proudly beside The Crimson Siren, both ships gleaming with fresh paint and full holds. Felix was already halfway down the gangplank, animatedly talking about the fish stew again, just like he had since dawn.

"I swear it's the best thing I've ever eaten," he was saying, already dragging Wooyoung and Jeongin behind him by their sleeves. "Something about the bay leaves, or the pepper, or... I don't know, just trust me, it's life-changing."

"Everything's life-changing when you haven't eaten fresh food in weeks," Jeongin muttered, but he followed without protest.

Seungmin stayed behind, perched cross-legged on a crate with a half-open ledger balanced on his lap and a piece of charcoal tucked behind one ear. "Bring me back a bowl," he said, not looking up. "No onions."

"Extra onions, got it," Chan called back as he jumped to the dock.

The tavern in Alzamar was all weathered beams and crooked walls, a patched roof that somehow withstood storms and bar brawls alike. They claimed two long tables near the back, half the crew crammed together in a chaos of boots and elbows, the rest spilling into nearby seats.

Plates arrived piled high with roasted bread, fish stew thick with spice, citrus-brushed rice, and fried root vegetables. Pitchers of pale ale followed, and soon the entire place was filled with the sound of the crew's laughter, mugs clinking, and the rise and fall of overlapping voices.

Jisung sat wedged between Minho and Hongjoong, the pair deep in discussion about charting a route east for the monsoon season. Minho had one arm slung loosely over his shoulders, fingers curled against the edge of Jisung's collar.

It was a casual touch. Natural.

And it made Jisung's chest ache in the best way.

He leaned into it, letting his head rest briefly against Minho's shoulder as the noise around them ebbed and flowed like the tide.

Hyunjin was teasing Jongho about his new waistcoat. Felix was already halfway through his third bowl of stew and demanding a fourth. Jeongin had somehow talked two of the tavern staff into playing cards with him at the next table, and from the way Wooyoung was hovering nearby, a prank was almost certainly underway.

It was loud.

It was messy.

And it was home.

Jisung tilted his face up toward Minho, who looked down at him just in time to catch the soft smile curling on his lips.

"Everything alright?" Minho asked, voice quiet, only for him.

"Yeah," Jisung said, and meant it.

He looked around the table again, at the faces lit with laughter and warm light. At Hongjoong laughing so hard he nearly spilled his drink. At Felix waving a spoon around like a sword. At Jeongin shouting "that's cheating!" even as he palmed a card.

At Minho, beside him. Alive. Whole. His.

As the evening wore on and the tavern grew louder, voices rising in song, mugs thudding against tables in rhythm, someone stood from the far end of the table, stretching with a theatrical groan.

"I'm not staying long enough to become a permanent part of this chair," Wooyoung announced, patting his stomach. "One more bite and you'll have to roll me down the dock."

"You already roll like a barrel when you drink," Hongjoong called after him.

Wooyoung gave an exaggerated bow and ignored the cackling as he made for the door, muttering, "bring me back some dessert. But only if it's that candied orange thing again."

He vanished into the night, the door swinging closed behind him with a creak and a thud.

The mood at the table remained warm and content, but slowly, the energy began to dip. Bellies full, cups emptying. The crew leaned back in their chairs, heads lolling, voices turning low and lazy.

Jisung's eyes had slipped shut at some point, head tucked into the crook of Minho's shoulder. The hum of conversation had faded into something pleasant and distant, and he might've dozed there until morning if Minho hadn't nudged him gently.

"Hey," Minho said, voice soft, close to his ear. "Wanna head back?"

Jisung blinked blearily up at him. He was already smiling. "Yeah," he said, voice a little rough with sleep. "Yeah, let's go."

Minho helped him up, one steadying hand at his back as they excused themselves from the table. Felix raised a hand in a loose wave without looking up from his fourth bowl of stew. Jeongin glanced over from his card game and grinned when he saw them walking out together, no comment needed.

The air outside was cooler now, the scent of the ocean sharper, tinged with seaweed and woodsmoke. The cobbled streets were slick with dew, quiet save for the occasional bark of a dog in the distance or the creak of rope from the ships bobbing gently in the harbour.

They walked in easy silence, side by side. At some point, Jisung's hand found Minho's.

Minho laced their fingers together without hesitation.

The tavern was only a stone's throw from the dock, and the sea air grew stronger as they stepped off the main street and onto the wooden planks of the harbour. Lanterns swung gently on their hooks, casting golden light across the slick boards.

They moved in unison up the gangplank, the gentle groan of the wood beneath their boots familiar and welcoming. A few sails rustled in the night breeze, and somewhere below, the gentle lap of water against the hull was steady and soft.

Neither spoke as they crossed the deck, hand in hand, their steps instinctively turning toward the captain's quarters.

And then...

Clatter.

A muffled thunk and the sound of something metallic rolling against the planks near the bow.

They stopped in unison, eyes snapping toward the source. It was darker up front, where the lanterns didn't quite reach. The shadows were deeper. But movement flickered just beyond the coiled ropes.

Minho tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.

Jisung squinted.

Then blinked.

Then froze.

"Oh my stars," he whispered, and slapped both hands over his mouth to catch the sound that wanted to burst out, a mix between a laugh and a gasp.

Because there, partially obscured in the shadows but very much clear once your eyes adjusted...

Wooyoung. And Seungmin.

Kissing.

It wasn't hesitant. It wasn't experimental. It was warm. Familiar. Seungmin's hand was curled into Wooyoung's shirt, pulling him closer. Wooyoung leaned in like he'd done it a hundred times before.

Minho blinked.

Jisung made a sound behind his hands like a kettle just about to boil over.

The kiss ended slowly, with a soft brush of foreheads, the kind that spoke of quiet things shared over time.

Wooyoung said something low, too faint to hear, but Seungmin rolled his eyes in that very specific way that still managed to look fond.

Minho reached out and very gently tugged Jisung by the sleeve, pulling him backwards.

Jisung nodded rapidly, still trying not to laugh.

They tiptoed, actually tiptoed, back a few steps, both of them suppressing the gleeful chaos threatening to explode from the moment.

Once they were out of earshot and halfway down the deck toward their quarters, Jisung finally let out a wheezing breath and hissed, "We're not telling anyone, right?"

Minho raised a brow, lips twitching. "Not yet," he said. "I want to see how this plays out."

The door to the captain's quarters creaked quietly open, familiar and warm in its welcome. The scent of salt and old wood lingered in the air, mingled now with the fainter traces of wax, and ink, things Jisung had come to associate with safety, with home.

It wasn't even a question anymore, where he belonged. His hammock had gone unused for weeks.

Now, Jisung stepped inside like he always did, first, toes nudging his boots off near the door, eyes still dancing with laughter from the scene they'd just witnessed.

Minho shut the door behind them, took his coat off and leaned against it for a moment, watching him with that quiet sort of affection that made Jisung feel a little bit light-headed.

Jisung turned slowly and reached for the hem of Minho's shirt, fingers brushing over the fabric before curling and tugging it upward. Minho allowed it, arms lifting, skin warm beneath Jisung's hands as the fabric peeled away. Jisung leaned in, pressing a kiss just below his collarbone, lingering there for just a moment.

Minho exhaled softly and returned the favour, hands moving to Jisung's coat and peeling it off, then working at the buttons of his shirt with deliberate motions, not hurried, just gentle. For each layer they shed, they stole another kiss, one to the curve of a shoulder, one beneath a jaw, one low on the ribs.

It was slow, familiar and devoted.

When Jisung finally stood, skin bare other than the now-healed tattoo, he shivered, not from cold, but from the look in Minho's eyes.

Minho cupped Jisung's face with one hand, his thumb brushing tenderly across the curve of his cheekbone as he leaned in, kissing him with a slow, steady intensity that left no space for doubt. His other hand slid to Jisung's waist, fingers splaying there with quiet possession, holding him in place.

Jisung responded in kind, his own hands rising to frame Minho's jaw, drawing him closer, deeper. The kiss unfolded with a kind of aching familiarity, the kind born from going through hell together and coming out the other side. Not untouched, or even unchanged, but stronger.
They melted into it, into each other, as if the rest of the world had finally been quieted.

When Minho gently guided him backward toward the desk, Jisung followed without hesitation, arms looping around Minho's shoulders in one fluid motion. Minho's hands slipped beneath his thighs, strong and sure, and with practiced ease, he lifted Jisung onto the desk.

Jisung settled there effortlessly, knees bracketing Minho's hips, their bodies drawn together like tide to shore. His fingers threaded into Minho's hair as their mouths found each other again, hungry and persistent now.

Jisung's breath hitched as Minho stepped in closer, the heat of his body seeping into every inch of skin they touched. His pulse beat wildly where their chests pressed together, and he could feel the lingering soreness in his limbs, echoes of old bruises. But it all faded beneath the slow burn of Minho's touch.

Minho's hands roamed across his skin, fingers brushing lightly across the base of Jisung's spine, tracing the curve of his waist. Jisung shivered, tilting his head back as Minho kissed a path along his jaw, down his neck, each one slow and sure, deliberate in a way that made him ache.

"You're trembling," Minho murmured, voice low, lips brushing his skin.

"I'm fine," Jisung whispered, the words catching slightly. "Just..." He broke off, breath catching again when Minho's hand splayed flat over his chest, right above his heart. "You."

He traced the lines of the compass inked into Jisung's skin with the tip of his fingers, sure and steady, before leaning in to press a kiss at its centre. Jisung's fingers tightened where they curled against Minho's skin.

Every motion between them was familiar now, mapped and memorised, but never routine. There was always something electric in the quiet way Minho touched him, like he was rediscovering him again and again. When Minho's lips found the hollow of his throat, Jisung arched instinctively, a low sound catching in his throat.

When Minho placed his fingers by Jisung's mouth, he gladly took them in, sucking against them as he flicked his tongue against the pads. Minho groaned slightly against his throat, before slowly straightening up and taking them back.

He shuffled Jisung towards the edge of the desk, holding him against him with his free hand as he positioned his slicked fingers underneath him. Before long, Jisung was taking ragged breaths, Minho's fingers inside him sending his toes curling.

Minho scissored his fingers, stretching Jisung slightly before he went any further, and Jisung moaned at the sensation.
Minho finally withdrew his fingers, spitting into his palm before covering his length with it, kissing Jisung deep, unrelenting, at the same moment he pushed forward, sinking into him with a slow, deliberate press.

Jisung gasped, the sound catching in his throat, his fingers digging into Minho's shoulders hard enough to leave crescent-shaped imprints behind, holding on like he never meant to let go.

Minho's hands rested at Jisung's hips now, holding him steady at the edge of the desk as he rolled his hips into him agonisingly slowly, each movement sending him across the soft bundle of nerves inside Jisung.

Heat was already blooming low in Jisung's belly, spreading fast, curling tight in his muscles. He squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the closeness, the weight of Minho's hands, the slow, measured way they moved together. It was too much, too good, and yet not nearly enough.

Then Minho's voice cut through the haze, low and steady, right against his ear.

"Look at me."

It wasn't a command. It was a tether.

Jisung opened his eyes.

Minho was already watching him, gaze steady, dark and warm with something fierce and quiet. Not just lust, though that was there, but something deeper. Something that settled beneath the skin and stayed there, a tattoo in human feeling.

Minho shifted his hands, one coming to rest behind Jisung's lower back, the other between them to grip his hard cock. Jisung let out a whine as a Minho palmed a stroke up, then down, matching the same pace he'd set with his hips.

"Oh... Oh fuck... Min..." Jisung stuttered out, losing the capacity to speak as his whole body shuddered with the sensations.

Minho didn't respond, instead leaning forward to catch Jisung's mouth in a kiss, his tongue searching to meet his as he continued to roll his hips forward and stroke up and down.
Jisung choked a gasp as the thread inside of him snapped, his body arching and hips bucking forwards as the waves of searing pleasure cascaded through him, a broken sound spilling from his lips.

Minho continued his movements, and he snapped his hips a bit faster, Jisung starting to feel overstimulated with sensitivity as he did so. Minho's hips finally stuttered as he let out a moan of his own, sagging forward against Jisung as he spilled inside him.

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of their ragged breaths mingling in the warm air. Minho didn't pull away immediately, just stayed where he was, forehead resting against Jisung's, their hearts racing in tandem.

Jisung's hands, trembling slightly, traced slowly over Minho's back, solidifying himself in the press of their bodies, the heat of skin on skin. Every part of him still thrummed, too sensitive, too full, but also utterly content.

Minho finally shifted, pressing one last kiss to Jisung's mouth before easing back, careful and slow. He grabbed a piece of cloth from the desk, cleaning Jisung up before helping him down from the desk with steady hands, keeping an arm around his waist when he wobbled slightly.

"You okay?" Minho asked quietly, brushing sweat-damp hair from Jisung's forehead.

Jisung nodded, leaning his weight into him, chest still rising and falling a little too fast. "Yeah. More than okay."

Minho eventually guided him to the bed, tugging the sheets back and pulling Jisung down beside him. Jisung went willingly, curling against his chest, their legs tangling beneath the blanket. Minho's hand found his again under the covers, fingers slotting together with familiar ease.

Outside, the ship rocked gently with the tide, the night quiet around them.

Inside, everything was calm. Safe.

Jisung let his eyes drift closed, Minho's heartbeat steady against his ear.

And as Minho's breaths slowed, easing into the gentle rhythm of sleep, a quiet memory surfaced, Felix's words, spoken so long ago they felt like a different lifetime.

He hadn't understood them fully then. Not really.

But now, with Minho's chest warm beneath him and the creak of the ship around them, he did.

Maybe he didn't know exactly where the tides would take them.
Maybe he didn't need to.

Because he knew, without doubt, without fear, who he was going with.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of TCC Universe